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.

Easter reflections, hysteria—and a bit of matzo

Tonight we hosted happy hour for neighbors. Susan’s sisters were still here, after their father’s funeral, and I wanted a chance to visit with them. My patio is so inviting and comfortable on these spring evenings—temperature just right and, knock on wood, no bugs. We had leftover appetizers—shh! They’ll never know—and a jolly good time.

There is something wrong either with Fort Worth groceries or my children, but after two trips, one to three stores, they could not find matzo. Isn’t is still Passover or has everyone already bought all they’ll need? I wanted it for an Easter dessert—topped with butterscotch sauce, melted chocolate bits, chopped pecans, and coarse salt. In extremis, I suggested graham crackers. So that’s our dessert for tomorrow. But I plan a lesson in Jewish food—my children’s father was Jewish, but he left home when Jordan was six, and I guess she doesn’t remember Seders, Hanukah, or the traditional foods. She needs to know.

Now preparing for early church. Yes, I have my clothes picked out—not the frilly Easter outfit of my childhood, but a chiffon vest that as Jordan says “screams Easter.” And we’ll have guests for brunch—pleasant to look forward to.

Not everyone has the Easter message today. This morning, the first thing I saw on Facebook was a post on nuclear war and did we have our hazmat suits and anti-radiation medicine (is there such a thing? I foresee a run on the market). Had we protected our pets? How do we do that? Tiny gas masks over their faces? The post went on about not wanting animals to die that gruesome death. Then a sensible friend of mine asked, “Will we see Easter or will be wiped out?”

I was somewhat comforted to read in a Washington Post article that China had strongly warned both the United States and North Korea to back off, advising that war costs everybody and does no one any good. Who ever thought that China would be the peacemaker? I hope both parties take the advice seriously, though I realize that our two governments are run by hotheads—a scary thought. And tonight I saw an unsubstantiated post that North Korea’s missiles proved to be duds. “We live!” wrote whoever posted that.

Still I remember the ‘60s and ‘70s when we thought nuclear attacks were imminent—all those school drills in the hall or hiding under your desk, for all the good that would do. The Bay of Pigs showdown when I urged my parents to leave Chicago and come to small-town Missouri to avoid missiles that were surely headed our way. They weren’t, and I have come to take seriously William Faulkner’s words when he declined to accept the end of man, “I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail.”

And that folks, is part of the message of Easter—redemption, salvation, faith in God. Yes, we live in scary times, and there are lots of rants in my mind—about Congress, about Republicans, about Trump—but I believe not only in God but in the resilience of the American spirit. We will survive and prosper.

While I’m at it, I’d like to add a word about Melanie Trump. I certainly hold no candle for her, and I believe she’s made some really bad choices, but she’s paying for them in spades. I suspect she’s one miserable, trapped woman, trapped by the man she married and by her love for her son. But posts blaming her for ruining the White House Easter miss the point.  There’s a whole staff there that could have planned the event, especially if they’d consulted Michelle Obama’s staff, but they didn’t. That’s the folly of the Trump White House, consumed by hatred of all things tainted with Obama. But to call Melanie a soulless commie hooker is uselessly mean.

Many American children, those of servicemen, the underprivileged, and others, will miss the extravaganza on the White House lawn, but hey! This is only one year. As I said above, the American spirit lives on, and there is always next year.

Be of good faith.