2022 will bring flowers—if we plant them

 

It is still Christmas in the cottage and will be
until Twelfth Night, January 6.
I like Santa Mac with his poinsettias.

It wouldn’t be bad at all, in my mind, if today set the tone for 2022—for me. I speak for no one else. Sophie went out way too early but came back in quickly, and I went back to bed for a nice, long doze. Sometimes I think dozing in the morning is the best part of sleeping, But then I was up, getting ready for the day, finishing cooking my black-eyed peas, making cornbread, and fixing myself a stupendous New Year’s brunch—a baked egg. I put a slice of thin white bread in a greased ramekin, added the spinach left from last night’s supper and then grated sharp cheddar. Then I made a nest, cracked the egg into it, and added salt and pepper. Usually directions for baking eggs suggest covering it with a thin topping of milk or cream to prevent the egg from drying out. I didn’t have that, so I plopped a dollop of sour cream on it. So good.

I got an early nap—note that I always work that into my plans—and then was up and ready for the party that wasn’t. Jean came by for her required dose of peas about four, and just as she left two couples arrived, both of whom had said they’d come if they could sit on the patio. Since by then the temperature had dropped to the mid-forties and the wind was strong, the patio was out. Much discussion—mask or not? We finally didn’t. They are all vaccinated and boosted and pretty careful about where they go. We had happy hour with black-eyed peas and cornbread.

Cooking peas doesn’t come naturally to me. I’d never had them until I moved to Texas, and for years after that I resisted, quite convinced I wouldn’t like them. I may have said this already, but as an introduction, I made Hoppin’ John. Now I like them just plain, with seasonings. Some people claim they taste like dirt but I don’t see that--have they not washed them thoroughly? Tonight my peas received praise, including from one man whose partner had served him canned but individually seasoned peas, and he had rejected them as inferior. He pronounced mine they way they should be—and I did cook fresh peas. The cornbread didn’t fare so well—I made that Jiffy recipe where you add butter, sour cream, and sugar. Subie dismissed it as northern, though I always thought the sugar made it southern. I do remember “up north” making cornbread that had yeast and honey in it—from a Rodale cookbook. (The Rodale Institute in Pennsylvania pioneered research into organic agriculture, and my mom, a fan of Adelle Davis, was all about Rodale stuff.)

It struck me today that all the voices I heard in the two online writing groups I belong to—one small, one huge with 800 members—were about how awful 2021 was and how they couldn’t wait to boot it out the door. I didn’t find it nearly as difficult or scary as 2020, but maybe that’s just me. Despite Delta and Omicron, we got a better handle on the virus and many more of us are vaccinated—is it wrong to say, “a pox on those who won’t vaccinate for the good of the community”? The economy is up, unemployment down, our international prestige recovering. Personally I published two books, had two wonderful get-togethers with my sprawling family, and enjoyed many happy moments. So, yes, I’m glad to welcome 2022, but I won’t besmirch 2021, although I know several who had personal tragedies and lost loved ones and I grieve with them.

Still, for reasons I can’t explain, I feel optimistic about 2022. I have my own ambitions and goals, I think Joe Biden has as steady a hand as possible on the lever of government, I think the crazies are diminishing in number and voice (though the extremism is scary).

The best explanation I’ve seen for optimism comes from a cartoon. One unidentifiable creature says to the next, “Aren’t you terrified of 2022, with all the confusion and evil in the world? What do you think the new year will bring?” (This is a rough re-creation.) The second creature, busily doing something, says, “I think it will bring flowers.” The first demands, “How can you think that?” and the second replies, “I am planting flowers.”

Some things are beyond us—like the pandemic—but we too can plant flowers. We are not just hapless, helpless beings caught on a ship out of control. We can steer much of our future—and one way is to make our voice heard in the upcoming political campaigns and elections. Even beyond that, we can personally work to make sure 2022 is good for ourselves, our families, our neighbors.

Remember Molly Ivins’ words: “Keep fighting for freedom and justice, beloveds, but don't forget to have fun doin' it. Lord, let your laughter ring forth.”

Have a great 2022!