I’m struggling …

There’s a lunatic child monster running amok in the White House. The bare-chested he-man in the Kremlin is determined to destroy democracy, already making some serious inroads. And the crazy little man-child with the huge nuclear arsenal and the itchy trigger finger keeps gleefully demonstrating how serious he is, how close he is to wiping us all out.

Then there’s the rise of the white supremacists — which leaves me wondering if, one of these days, we’re going to start seeing lynchings and yellow stars again.

Why not? El Presidente doesn’t see anything

Day 29. Musical Interludes

Last Friday, Neil Fein posted about Simon and Garfunkel on his WordPress blog, Magnificent Nose.  The next thing I knew, I was re-living my younger days; and, in particular, remembering how much I loved their Number 1 Billboard hit, “Bridge Over Troubled Water” (and still do, for that matter).  Anytime I hear it, I am automatically transported back to those days.  It was the seventies.  When Nixon was forced to resign.  When we saw the end of the Vietnam war.  And when disco music reached its peak.

This little musical jaunt down memory lane reminded me of a man I’d been involved with, but not back then.  Fast forward a bit.  He was a director, and heavily involved in the music industry.  He always used to say, “The memories are in the music”.  And he was right.  They are.  Our time together went on for years and years; and music was as much a part of our relationship as we were.  I’ll spare you the details, but there is a memory of one evening I’ll share:

It was winter, and the snow was falling pretty steadily.  We were downstairs, in the family room.  No one could see in, so we had the blinds open.  It was quite late at night, and it was dark.  And as much as I am not a winter enthusiast, it was a very beautiful sight.  The pure, white snow on the ground was glittering and it was also completely unmarked — no dog or cat tracks or signs of human footsteps.  The snow weighing down the branches of the big, old pine trees looked like scoops of marshmallow fondant, that had just been dropped there, spoonful after spoonful.  And, of course, there was the falling snow itself, drifting slowly down to the ground.  Picture postcard perfect.

We had just finished a long, leisurely dinner, that we’d eaten in front of the fireplace.  ‘The man’ made the most magnificent fires I’ve ever seen and, because he