2020-21

The other day two of my youngest neighbors--siblings--negotiated a selling price for my house, property, truck, and Max. Relying on my finely honed business acumen, I talked them down from their billion dollar offer to a more manageable million even. Within a minute or two, I think they rather reasonably concluded a million might not be within their grasp. The discussion derailed when I mentioned I would have to move after the sale. 

The older of the two wondered out loud if I might still be living here when she turned 18. Quick arithmetic--another ten-plus years--so pushing 78? Yes, I answered, perhaps I will. With that conversational arc concluded, off they went to reexamine the winter garden, especially the lavender.

Here in this house a decade hence? On that possibility I would say I am cautiously optimistic. 

Of course, a phrase like cautiously optimistic could be considered jelly-spined, but I would argue I feel cautious optimism with the same vigor that someone might claim an irrepressible optimism or a nihilistic pessimism. 

And so the year 2021? On this matter--fortune-telling really if you think about it--I am of the same mind. Cautiously...cautiously optimistic.

Not sure why I feel this way given the likely-to-happen list so easily generated. Floods, hurricanes, fires, tornadoes, earthquakes. China, Russia, North Korea, Iran, and whomever else might feel the need to set others' heads on fire. Violence, lies, thievery (and on the grandest of scales), ignorance.

And the virus, and all this invasive force has manifested here and abroad.

Cautiously optimistic? Perhaps because I read enough history to crumple the current zeitgeist into a minuscule ball of time. A decade, a lifespan--makes me chuckle. And I can just as easily peer back 400 years and then imagine going forward to 2421. Four hundred years? A piffle.

Or a coping mechanism. 

To the point, I am more attuned to my perennials and trees reawakening than whether the next calendar year will seem somehow lighter than the one passing. April 21st looms larger to me than January 1st or August 11th (my birthday).

Not that I do not wholeheartedly wish you and yours and the wider world well in 2021. We'll see how it goes. Perhaps we can revisit the subject the same time next year. So, I remain yours, cautiously optimistic.

Tuesday Twofer: 5th Anniversary and An Index (8)

 Miscellany marks 5th anniversary with 15 most-viewed posts. You never know what's coming because we don't know either. 

Re: The White House...  (11/15/16)

Where the Greenbacks Roam (6/7/18)

In Memoriam (5/24/20)

Trump Names Arsonist... (12/13/16)

Worry Warts, Unite! (12/7/16)

Party-Pooper (2/6/18)

Notre Dame, 1980 (4/16/19)

Breaking Leaf (4/1/19)

Guilt (12/6/18)

To the Sea (4/4/19)

Crying Man (6/2/20)

Spiritus Monday... (3/14/16)

Not Judging (9/5/17)

Delete Radical, Insert Violent (2/16/17)

Steal the Bacon (5/29/19)

                                    An Index (8)

The mania for the century mark: Just think, turning 100 in...

2025 - Dick Van Dyke

2030 - Clint Eastwood

2042 - Joe Biden, Harrison Ford, and Mitch McConnell

2045 - Helen Mirren

2047 - Emmylou Harris

2049 - Bruce Springsteen

2052 - Vladimir Putin

2053 - Xi Jinping and Scott Kaple

2073 - Rachel Maddow

2074 - Penelope Cruz

2069 - Tucker Carlson

2081 - Alicia Keys

2084 - Kim Jong-Un

2085 - Mina Kimes

2089 - Alexandria Ostasio-Cortez and Taylor Swift

2090 - The Weekend

2092 - Selena Gomez

2097 - Malala Yousafzai

2105 - Gitanjali Rao

Sister Claire (F)

For LCW

“Good morning, Sister,” Fwam called from the bottom of the Grand Staircase.

“Good morning, Fwam. Please tell Chee I will have my tea and biscuit—no, two biscuits this morning—I will have tea in the Solarium.”

“Cold there, Sister.”

“I will get my shawl. I will be warm enough with the sun out.”

“Yes, Sister.”

After Fwam turned back to the kitchen, Sister Claire surveyed herself in the full length mirror on the landing half-way to the ground floor. She wore her grey tunic, white coif, black veil, and a linen cincture with four knots. She retied the cincture a bit tighter, a bit tighter than usual.

“A touch of vanity this morning, Sister?” she could imagine hearing from Sister Agnes. Oh, Agnes, she thought, if only you were here to make this journey with me.

Gathering her shawl from the coat check room, Claire walked slowly down the long hall to the double doors that opened out into the Solarium. How could this be my last morning here, she wondered.

Stepping out into the 2-story enclosure of glass and iron, she blinked, the winter sun just above the tree line across the river. Some snow still here and there on the back lawn, some ice still sparkling on the edge of the river.

Claire pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Yes, cold,” she said. “Well.” She sat down at one of the small tables closest to the windows.

She looked at her watch. Fwam’s younger brother would be along with the van in about half an hour. Of course, most of her belongings were already in Red Wing, but she was being allowed by the property developer to take the bed frame, dresser, writing table, and a rocking chair with her.

She heard the doors swing open. Carrying the tea and biscuits on a tray from the old grand resort’s best silver tray, Chee paced slowly toward Claire as if bringing a jeweled crown for her.

“Oh, Chee, no tears now. No tears.” The younger woman set the tray down opposite of Claire and put the plate with biscuits before her. Sniffling, she poured the tea into a tiny china cup.

“You will be just fine, you and Fwam will be very busy with grounds, the public rooms here. I’m sure the new tenants will be very kind. Generous even.”

Chee wiped her tears with a blouse sleeve. “I don’t like you will be gone. All the sisters gone now.”

“Yes, but you will have a new life and your old life at the same time.”

“Not the same,” Chee said as she walked away from Claire.

No, Claire agreed, life will not be the same, a new life, without the old life. To leave the cloistered life behind after 23 years, to start all over again at 44.

Fulfilling, would her new life in town be one of fulfillment, the job at the library, keeping house in her condo without another’s voice, other voices, calling to her, responding.

The doors opened again. “Sister, Kub is on his way here now. He called.”

“Good, good, Fwam. Thank you. I’ll be ready.” He bowed and shut the doors behind him.

Ready? She wondered, how is one ever ready exactly? For tomorrow, much less the months ahead. Even the next moment. She sipped her tea. The biscuits could be saved for later in town.

Claire stood and rewrapped her shawl about her. Fresh air, the cold, would be a sort of balm for her concerns. She stepped out the back entrance onto the stone patio. The metal chairs and tables empty, the sun umbrellas put away until late spring.

She drew in a long breath, the cold air sharp in her lungs. Walking out midway to the river, she turned so the sun was warm on her back. Still she shivered a bit. Looking back at the main building, she tried to imagine the sounds of the new residents, laughing, gossiping, perhaps the sound of children, surely some families might take the larger apartments.

Would the children run across the lawns, flying kites, maybe teens strolling along the river walkway, splashing stones in the water as she had done so many times.

The thought came to her, in less than two weeks she would return to being Claire, Claire Johnson.

“Kub is here, Sister!”

“Yes, I’m coming,” she called back.

Sister Claire glanced toward one of the rock-lined garden beds.  She looked again. Yes, little white flowers. Jasmine. Another spring comes.

Lyman 2020