Rejoice, good people, for the coldest, darkest month of the year is ending.
This one’s been a doozy, not for weather so much – daytime temps were mostly in the bearable 20s and 30s and it rained more than it snowed – but for disasters near and far.
Near: My neighbor across the street does the one thing you’re never supposed to do with a snow blower. He reaches in to clear an obstruction while the machine is still running. Without getting too graphic, let us say one of his fingers is shorter than it used to be.
Far: Worst of all, of course, has been the earthquake in Haiti. The latest number I saw is 150,000 dead.
Near: My friend Richie, singer, guitarist, poet, teacher and one of the great free associationists of our time, goes in for surgery. They take his kidney and they won’t give it back. Now he’s home recuperating and thinking perhaps it’s time to find solace in something other than cheesesteaks.
Far: This is what comes of all those Reagan-Bush-Bush years. By a 5-4 vote the Supreme Court decides big corporations have as much right to promote or bash candidates as anyone else. The problem is, they have a lot more money than anyone else. Big money was already the most corrupting influence in politics. This ruling makes a bad situation worse.
Near: My mother, who has enjoyed extraordinary health, even though she smoked for more than half of her 87 years, has cancer. We’re accentuating the positive: 68 years of marriage to my sweet, sweet dad, three – ahem – perfect children, six grandchildren, two great grandchildren, and a lifetime spent demonstrating the psychic benefits of “keeping busy.”
Far: The Democrats begin 2009 with control of Congress and the White House. A year later they have shown themselves to be unequal to the task of cleaning up the mess left by eight years of Bush-Cheney. One year into Obama’s presidency it is hard to find anyone with a good word to say about him. New York Times columnist Paul Krugman declares that he is “pretty close to giving up on” him. Krugman’s readers’ comments range from wholesale agreement to “what took you so long?”
Near: My oldest child, living and working in New York, survives a fearful household accident. She was trying to wrestle a misaligned shower door into place. Instead, the door jumped the track, fell into the tub and shattered, leaving her shaken, cut and bruised.
Far: We’re now into year nine in Afghanistan and in the homestretch of year seven in Iraq. And still the suicide bombings continue.
Near: State College school board President Rick Madore, a good guy by all accounts, dies of a heart attack at the age of 51.
It all adds up to a pretty grim month, even without ice storms and single-digit temperatures. So how to cope? By doing the little one can do, I suppose: console, cheer up, pitch in. At such times I am reminded of the fullness of life, not its emptiness. So much happens! So many opportunities to express love and appreciation!
I don’t even hate February anymore. I used to dislike all the months between October and May. Around here, this California transplant grumbled, winter lasts six months.
Now I take a sunnier view. November is still fairly temperate. April can be maddeningly chilly and damp, but all is forgiven when the forsythia bloom. December is leavened by festival. March is when severe winter fatigue sets in, but the light lingers and snowdrops and crocuses poke out of the snow.
That leaves the party’s-over bleakness of January and it’s dead-of-winter partner, February. But February is mercifully brief. And so I say, rejoice, rejoice. Most of the bad news, as always, could have been worse. Even in Haiti, the outpouring of aid and sympathy gladdens the heart. Even death and dying offer the compensations of love.
Last week in Florida, spending most of my time in a hospital among the old and infirm, I recoiled: I’m not going to let this happen to me! Then the face in the mirror spoke up: I got news for you, pal, it said. It’s already happening.
Crazy, isn’t it? We’re dealt one delicate body in this life. It can be pierced by sharp objects and invaded by voracious organisms. You would think we’d take better care of it, but then there is the solace of cheesesteaks.
When I got back from Florida, I saw Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings at the State Theatre. Sharon Jones is 4-foot-11 and 54 years old. She entered dancing and she belted and boogied nonstop for two hours. It was like watching someone play full-court basketball at top speed for an entire game with no timeouts.
So now I have two role models: I want to keep busy, like my mom, and go full throttle, like Sharon Jones. February, here I come.
