We come on the ship they call The Mayflower We come on the ship that sailed the moon We come in the age's most uncertain hours And sing an American tune
Oh, and it's alright, it's alright, it's alright You can't be forever blessed Still, tomorrow's going to be another working day And I'm trying to get some rest That's all I'm trying to get some rest
-Paul Simon
Ups and downs this Independence Day weekend, ups and downs.
We barely beat a wall of thunderstorms--by maybe five minutes--getting out of Perry on Sunday morning. I think it's been storming there ever since.
But we climbed out uneventfully, then discovered the autopilot was porpoising once we leveled off. So I had to hand-fly the Columbia for 3 + 30, all the way to Cumberland, Maryland, where we stopped for gas under clear, cool skies with verdant hills brushing the starboard wingtip as we rolled onto final. Peg commented to the two guys working the FBO on the beauty of the place.
"Yeah, but if you live here you take it for granted." Don't we all.
Next was an hourlong hop across Pennsylvania to KELM, and home to the cats. It took a little over five hours, all in. We even had time for brunch downtown and a quick nine holes of golf.
On Monday we blissfully slept in until eight, then crawled into the roadster for a cruise up the western shore of Seneca Lake. This was the day Peg imagined, I suppose, when she brought the Mercedes up from Florida a few weeks ago. Top down, eighty degrees outside, and green hillsides covered in vineyards and fields of hops descending down the edge of the glacial lake.
Our destination (one always has to have a goal) was Belhurst Castle, a spectacular old Victorian mansion perched on the grassy shore of Seneca. We knew Belhurst as probably the only spot that served California cabs rather than solely the insipid New York wannabe reds, as one would encounter in the tasting rooms garlanded every few hundred yards along the roadside. We sat outside at a high top and shopped for sailboats as the occasional vessel drifted by on the light breeze.
Driving back down toward Watkins Glen, we spotted a vegetable stand near a Mennonite farm. They grow the best tomatoes on the planet here, so we had to stop and buy a few, along with some lovely garlic and squash.
And because we're not in the South, there was simply an honor box where you slipped your twenty bucks after loading up on fresh produce. No one seems much inclined to larceny here. We rarely even lock our doors.
We swung through the house for a quick change, then were off to the Corning Country Club for their Fourth of July cookout, where we loaded up on hamburgers, hot dogs, baked chicken (well, P ate the chicken), potato salad and baked beans. I learned that Peg has a deep and abiding love for Ruffles. Who knew?
Now slightly in our cups, we noticed the golf course had cleared now that the temperature had hit a sweltering 83 degrees and the Yankees all fled for the shade. We had the course to ourselves, completely, and I added nine more holes of mediocre golf to my weekend agenda.
Friends down the hill were having their own cookout, so after we cleaned out the golf cart we found our way there to sit outside in big Adirondack chairs in leafy shade, fire pit burning hot and our host's signature cocktail to help us along on our journey.
Then the discussion turned to politics, a sour note in these parts. Someone mentioned euthanizing her daughters if the Republicans manage to ban abortion nationwide, and I did my best to sound lawyerly in explaining how very unlikely that was. Everyone around the fire, with the two of us being the oldest by far, agreed that the country is going to hell in a handbasket, and that this momentous week of Supreme Court rulings has drawn us to the edge of ceasing as a functioning democracy. I watched the three little girls out playing in the yard, giggling in their princess costumes, and wondered what sort of future lay ahead for them.
But there's good news, in that it seems the Ds have finally learned to swing back. Gavin Newsom's new ad running in Florida, apparently just to taunt the Wee Governor, makes some great points about what a majority of Americans see as great about this country while a minority of misogynistic religious zealots wish to take it all away.
He's an impressive guy. Maybe he'll run for president.
Actually, as I wandered deeper into my third Boulevardier--wait, let me cut-and-paste the recipe here, so you have a sense of the deliciousness of that cocktail on a perfect July evening:
Ingredients
1 1/4 ounces bourbon (or rye)
1 ounce Campari
1 ounce sweet vermouth
Garnish: orange twist
Steps
Add bourbon, Campari and sweet vermouth into a mixing glass with ice and stir until well-chilled.
Strain into a rocks glass over fresh ice.
Garnish with an orange twist.
So anyway, there I was, sipping my Boulevardier with the Mets playing on the speakerphone (I had to monitor the Braves surreptitiously on my iPhone), opining that the only way the left has a chance is if it learns to hit back. Otherwise, they're like the Ukrainians fighting the Russians--the good guys getting ground down by the side that will do whatever it takes to win, an inch of territory at a time. Find stuff the right cares about, and start stripping it away. Tax exemptions for churches or church tithes? That steady flow of federal cash from the productive and creative North to the indolent South? Well, erasing those would be a good start. Make the right play defense for once.
Peg, sensing I was ironically starting to get that Yalobusha County "let's all go fight in the parking lot" head of steam, declared it was time for bed because she had a 5:45 wakeup for work. We drove back through this storybook town, streets lined with folks on blankets and in camp chairs awaiting the fireworks over the Chemung, and settled onto our own porch just in time for the first flash and bang at about eye level for us on Southside Hill. We couldn't see much of anything through the thick canopy of trees across at Canfield Park, but that was okay. We were home, living in the very embodiment of the best of what this country once was, and could be again.
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