If you
watched the Senate proceedings today and listened to the news or followed it
online, it seems there’s not much left to say. And yet, I can’t help chiming
in. If yesterday was powerful, today was amazing. The House managers are so
organized, so passionate in their delivery, so graphic in their presentations—no
one with a conscience could ever find trump innocent. And yet many of the
Republicans barely paid attention—I read reports of Cruz, Paul, Hawley and
their ilk doing anything but paying attention to what was being presented. That
makes me outraged. How could they? How can they ignore the most graphic videos?
I think the one that is hardest for me to watch is the one showing the law
enforcement officer being crushed and screaming for help—the unbelievable
cruelty behind that scene is appalling.
On a
more rational level, Republicans with a conscience should pay attention to the
heavily armed nature of the invaders—they weren’t going to stop a vote. They
were going to arrest and kill people—complete with body armor, zip ties, a
noose, you name it. One episode I hadn’t seen until today was when Eugene
Goodman, the officer who led insurgents away from Pence, saved the life of Mitt
Romney, turning him around and heading him toward safety and away from the
invaders. Every Senator in that chamber ought to be grateful that they survived—and
yet, I think their fear of trump outweighs that for too many. I have a glimmer
of hope—based really on a column by Heather Cox Richardson, whose judgement I
trust—but it’s only a glimmer.
I took
a day off from writing today, not that I’ve been burning up the computer. But I
was slow getting going, and after I checked email and whizzed through Facebook,
the Senate trial was on, and I was mesmerized, often in horror.
The
reason I was slow to get started is that Sophie for the last three mornings has
decided she has to go out at an increasingly early hour—seven, then six-thirty,
and today, five-thirty. She needs to pee, I’m sure, but then she goes and lies
by the back door to the main house. Nothing I can say or do gets her to come
in, and softie that I am, I won’t go back to bed and leave her out there. Color
me silly, but I am terrified of dognappers, those people who steal dogs to use
as bait in dogfights. So I sit and wait for her to come in—sometimes staring
into space, sometimes starting up my computer.
This morning
at 5:30 I was firm—and probably impolite. I told her “no” a thousand ways in my
harshest voice. When she wanted to be petted, I told her we were not friends at
five-thirty (made me feel awful). She finally decided if she couldn’t go out,
she needed water and banged her dish on the floor. I gave her a bare cup of
water, not wanting to aggravate any potty problem, and went back to bed. We
slept until eight, and I got some of the soundest sleep of the night.
I hadn’t
slept well because of that second vaccine shot—I think I kept waking myself up
to see if I felt all right, which I did. My arm is sensitive to the touch but
not nearly as sore as it was with the first shot. Jordan has had a few more
symptoms—slight fever, etc., and we both feel tired. But I am grateful we’ve
done so well.
When I
was wakeful last night I heard a new sound: a distinct “Whooo” outside the
corner of my bedroom. Loud and clear. I told Jordan it was either an Indian signaling
to his tribe or a really big owl. And of course the latter conjured up new
fears—I couldn’t let Sophie out although at slightly over thirty pounds I think
she’s too much for an owl. The Burtons’ Cavalier King Charles Spaniels,
however, would be fair game, and I heard recently of a small dog picked up by
an owl but accidentally dropped—the dog’s good fortune. Just to be sure, I did
peek out my kitchen door window to make sure we didn’t have night visitors—those
people who try car doors and scavenge during the night. All looked calm.
Little
is remarkable about my life these days, except I do have to confess that I
dumped almost the whole black pepper can on the butcher block I use as a work
surface yesterday. Put it on the shelf above the butcher block, but it fell
off, opened, and dumped. I never realized what a mess black pepper can make—nor
how hard it is to get up. Nor how much it makes you cough.
Tomorrow
I hope to restart my “Gourmet on a Hot Plate” blog—watch for a couple of
recipes from the best country cook I ever knew.
Stay
warm, folks. It’s cold out there and predicted to be wet and icy. Blessings on the
doctor I’m to see tomorrow who said we can do it on Facetime. My kind of
appointment!
