A Remarkable Day

Spent a chunk of Saturday morning watching Barbara Bush’s funeral. I’m a sucker for affairs of state, but beyond that I liked Mrs. Bush. I am not a Republican (fairly obvious) and not particularly a fan of the Bush family, but I admired Barbara Pierce Bush for what she was when you looked at her without blinders. She was not, as one in my family once said to me, “Sweet.” She was anything but. She had a fierce and wicked wit and often gave voice to it, but she was strong, apparently the glue that held her family together and led them to power; she was loyal, she cared about people, and she had a strong faith. The grace with which that large and cohesive family handled today’s ceremony was the best tribute she could have had. And for the first time I was truly impressed with Jeb Bush, as he delivered a brief eulogy (he said he could hear her telling him, “Keep it short, and don’t get all weepy.”). During his term in office, I was a vocal critic of George W. and his war, but after he was out of office, I thought he became a lot more likeable. And this week I’ve been impressed with his attentiveness to his father.

That majestic Episcopalian ceremony also reminded us, in these dark times that lack sophistication and dignity, of what we can be as a nation—and must be again.

A story I like: Tom Brokaw, NBC commentator for the service, said the night before Mrs. Bush died, former president Bush asked if she’d like another cup of tea. “I believe I’d like a Manhattan,” was her reply. She got it and enjoyed a few sips. After that she said something about how anxious she was to go.

Manhattans are legendary in my mind. I remember that my parents and their friends drank them regularly at dinner parties. I remember the time, years later, that my brother took one sip and said, “Say goodnight to me now.” And I remember the night I had one while out with my daughter—she had to drive home. So yay, Barbara Bush. What a nice way to say goodnight.

And a quick camera shot that won’t leave my memory: Barack Obama smiling and talking to Melania Trump. She’s smiling, even with her eyes, and almost laughing. So different from the demeanor we see in pictures of her with 45.

A remarkable day.

My brother called yesterday. He was thumbing through an Orvis catalog and came across a retro picture of an armed services flight crew, Navy I think. At any rate, he recognized a member of the crew as the son of a family he’d been particularly close to. The son was a few years older than John. I remember him, can picture his face, but doubt I talked to him three times in my life, once on the phone when he was at a university where I considered applying for a teaching position.

John said he was so frustrated that I was the only living person to whom it would mean anything at all that he’d found this picture. (I think there’s a back-handed compliment in there.) I understood that feeling, because a lot of things come up that I want to share with someone who will understand their meaning for me—and there’s no one. Ever since her death, I’ve wanted to have my other on speed dial for cooking questions, identification of old pictures, help in recalling memories.

Strangely enough, the other person I’d like to be able to share news with is my now-deceased ex-husband. I was with him only a quarter of my life (so far) but they were formative years, and now we’re reaching the age where former friends and acquaintances develop health problems and/or die. And there are some stories I know he’d find funny, if I felt like sharing them. I didn’t always feel that way when the hurt and anger were raw.

Unlike my brother, I’ve done a good job of keeping in touch with people, so one person I can turn to with stories and questions is my friend Barbara, who lives in Mississippi. If memory serves, we first met in a Brownie troop and have been friends ever since, including going to college together for two years. I have several friends that I’ve known for over forty years, so there’s a lot of sharing. I just have to remember who comes from which part of my life—TCU, the writing world, the osteopathic community. It’s interesting to have lived such a varied life and met so many different people—and it makes recall fun.

I love Texas weather. We were under thunderstorm alert until 6:00 P.M. Nothing but occasional light rain and dreary skies all day. I swear at 6:05 when the alert expired, a gully-washer hit. But it was soon followed by that strange bright sun that follows a storm. Only in Texas.

Neighbors Night

In Murder at the Bus Depot, neighborliness, of the lack of it, is one of the underlying themes. In fact, toward the end of the book, the mayor calls for a citywide “Celebration of Neighbors.” Well, in my neighborhood, there a small celebration of neighbors every Tuesday night. A group meets at the Old Neighborhood Grill for supper. Sometimes there’s no one, sometimes there are ten or twelve. The core group is about six people.

I used to go regularly and enjoyed it. In fact, when Jacob was younger and before he got too sophisticated, he used to go with me and became a favorite of some of the regulars. I always loved to go because Tuesday night was meatloaf night, and I love meatloaf. But I got out of the habit when I had hip surgery and mobility was difficult, and somehow, I’ve never gotten back into the routine, in spite of Mary Dulle’s frequent kind invitations. Nowadays she often walks, so I definitely can’t go with her.

But tonight, she and her husband, Joe, were driving, along with neighbor Garrett, and I happily joined them, ordered meatloaf, and enjoyed the comfort of old friends. The conversation was good, the food good, the whole thing a pleasant experience. I deliberately wore my T-shirt that says, “Ask Me about My Book,” and they did ask, which was fun. For a brief moment, I felt like a celebrity.

I ate all my dinner but half the meatloaf, deliberately saving it for a sandwich for lunch tomorrow. And I left it in Mary’s car!

Otherwise, a non-remarkable day. I worked on my cookbook and re-discovered a treasure trove of recipes in my now defunct Potluck with Judy blog. My longtime friend, Fred Erisman, brought Caesar salads and chocolate/caramel tarts for lunch, and we had a good visit.

Outside, the weather turned warm—in the eighties—but is expected to cool a bit again tomorrow. I suppose I take a kind of weird comfort in the fact that it’s not just Texas—the weather is strange all over the country and, I suspect, the globe.

And the drama in Washington goes on, actually a bit calmer today. It has gotten so convoluted that trying to figure it out makes my head hurt. But there are some downright funny quotes and things that come out of it. One I like proclaims that Hannity never used Cohen as his lawyer, but he wants to claim lawyer/client privilege; he has nothing to hide, but he wants Cohen not to reveal anything about him; he spent all last week defending Cohen and now calls him a liar. “And that’s why Hilary must be stopped.” Do these people realize how frantic and out of control they are?

The wheels of the gods grind slowly, but they are grinding.

On a sad note, the country has lost one of its shining lights with the death of Barbara Bush. She was the picture of elegant grace, a kind woman who carried herself well as the wife of a diplomat, vice-president, and president. She had her crusty side, which even she admitted, and she was fiercely loyal and protective of her family, but she was sort of everyone’s image of the perfect grandmother. Apparently, her faith was strong, and she believed that she and her husband of seventy-three years, will be reunited again. My she enjoy eternal rest, and may her wishes come true. We will miss her spirit.