It had been just one hell of a week and I needed more than a simple do-not-much-of-anything Sunday to recover and rehabilitate. I was desperate for serious napping.
Like many folks, I have very set routines and my Sundays—after espresso and a croissant with jam at seven a.m.—are spent opening the week’s mail. I don’t get enough mail these days to warrant daily attention, so I let it pile up and then spend up to ten or fifteen minutes inspecting what is mostly junk mail, the vast majority of it from people who want to lend me money (but not really).
By 7:30, I am on to other activities such as posting this blog and checking on the state of the world as seen through the millions of eyes of Facebook. The world views as presented on FB tend be rather provincial in scope and understanding, but there are enough cute pet videos to compel me to keep hitting the “refresh” key in hopes of finding yet another video of puppies tumbling down carpeted stairs.
Because it is an election year, I had fourteen mailings from candidates seeking political office. The most local of the office seekers promised to fill our town’s potholes, noting that the fact that we don’t have a Domino’s wouldn’t deter progress on this most significant and sensitive issue. The flyer(s) also explained why we should expect 14% fee increases for garbage disposal, water delivery and whatever it is that happens to sewage. The pamphlets promised that both candidates for this office agreed that the fee hikes were both needed and inevitable and that we citizens should just suck it up.
Those seeking even higher office seemed to promise that a vote for either of them was a vote for never having to work again. One promises voters untold riches from the government’s leasing of our public lands to oil-field development; the opposing side seems to think that untold riches will come by leaving the lands a pristine attraction to tourism.
The way I see it, to win in either of these scenarios the average person has either to be a roughneck or the owner of a roadside curio shop—both of which promise hard work.
“I’m fighting for you so you don’t have to fight at all,” one said. Yeah, I don’t understand that either.
I set the political tracts aside and closed my eyes, trying to envision the battle over a Supreme Court nomination that would soon occur. I opened my eyes and shook my head, trying to rid my mind of such a vision.
The couple of bills in my mail stack I set aside for later viewing. I opened a fat envelope from a credit card company explaining some of the new usury fees and collection procedures that had recently been implemented. Although the mention of 137 percent interest rates seemed reasonable in an odd sort of way, the promise of broken knee caps was disturbing. The letter was signed by “Luigi,” and included some BOGO coupons for pizza in Brooklyn.
And finally there was the mailing from a company asking, “Are All Your Affairs in Order?”
I guffawed and took a few minutes to admire the eight examples of granite headstones that this company was offering. I don’t want a headstone. I don’t want to be buried. In fact, I don’t want to die, which I know is not an option.
But I was impressed with the company’s promise to “exceed our customer’s expectation.” Presumably, I, as the customer, wouldn’t be able to recognize a typo by the time the headstone was put in place. However, in this day of nationalist pride, it was comforting to know that these monuments were “American made,” and that the granite was mined from American granite mines which I’m guessing are politically incorrect.
I’ve been being treated as an old person since AARP mistakenly identified me as one when I turned fifty-four. I was incensed, of course, and sent the organization an angry letter, along with a photograph that showed that my hair had yet to turn grey. They responded by sending me coupons for a variety of adult products.
I THOUGHT I HAD FOUND THE PERFECT ANTIDOTE to my state of being when I noticed that a golf match was being aired. The announcers speak in whispers and the game is only slightly more exciting to watch than an untimed chess match…it provides the perfect backdrop for napping.
In desperate need of such activity, I settled in and let my eyes close. I was awakened to an announcer talking about the “dangerous” situation facing Tiger Woods, who was well on his way to winning the Tour Championship. My eyes sprung wide open to discover that the danger facing Tiger was a 35-foot, downhill putt for birdie. My panic ebbed.
I used to play golf and the only danger I ever sensed was that posed by the three-wheeled carts that were guaranteed to tip over with little prodding. Oh, and there was that sense of danger posed when “FORE!” echoed around the course from some unknown point and you had no idea what to do. As you instinctively take cover under your own arms—frequently accompanied by a nervous shuffle of your feet—you realize that if the errant drive doesn’t actually hit you, your reaction will appear as quite comical to onlookers.
Tiger survived the danger of the 35-foot putt and went on to win the tournament, his eightieth victory in a remarkable career. The fawning announcers spoke of his four-year battle with multiple surgeries, ignoring that perhaps Tiger’s biggest battle might have had less to do with his back than his memory.
He survived the scandal and his life of untold fame and riches continues unabated. All of which led me to think about what we might hear from Brett Kavanaugh and to discover a meaningful context. I’m not sure there is one, other than knowing that in this day and age, the rich and the famous can behave as they damn well please.
Senate Bean Soup
2 pounds dried navy beans
four quarts hot water
1-1/2 pounds smoked ham hocks
1 onion, chopped
2 tablespoons butter
salt and pepper to taste
Wash the navy beans and run hot water through them until they are slightly whitened. Place beans into pot with hot water. Add ham hocks and simmer approximately three hours in a covered pot, stirring occasionally. Remove ham hocks and set aside to cool. Dice meat and return to soup. Lightly brown the onion in butter. Add to soup. Before serving, bring to a boil and season with salt and pepper. Serves 8.
Photography by Courtney A. Liska