WHATEVER YOU DECIDE IT IS: DAY 315

  Imagine living in the Dark Ages, 9th Century, in what is now England. That’s not easy, the imagining part. The ‘Dark’ alludes to an age when a civilization, excluding Catholic priests and monks, could neither read nor write. The Roman Legions had pulled out (410 A.D.) and left local, tribal leaders (almost-kings) to expand their rule if possible and defend what they had. After several hundred years, written histories were few and far between, housed in monasteries. Christianity prevailed across borders which gave the church unchallenged authority but no direct power. 
It gets complicated without Roman troops to protect people and property. Germanic people from the continent (Saxons) began to arrive, establishing themselves where they could. Then Viking raiders (pagans) began their pillage & plunder of the Northeast coast. Britons/Saxons were no match for the Viking warriors who sent word home, “. . . come on down. The weather is great, lots of plunder and the natives are weak.”  There you are, ‘The Dark Ages’. Lots of violence and everybody was a moving target. 
I’ve been watching a Netflix series set in the 800’s, in what is today’s England. With modern technology, earth penetrating radar, etc. there has been a revolution in archeological research there. A different picture of the period is emerging there with more assimilation, more commerce and less warring. Still, treachery was the norm, greed and lust for power were necessary attributes but you wouldn’t like living there, not then. It was a violent time, just not as ‘Dark’ as earlier believed. The series is based on a set of novels written by a leading scholar on the period. Embellishing history with fictional plot twist-&-turns (not altogether made up) is more appealing than creative quirks of an unloosed imagination. 
With politics and Covid still churning up the culture, much of the same corrupt duplicity as 1,200 years ago is still in vogue; still corrupt, forever double dealing. As much as I like to believe that individuals can change their ways, when we get together (collectively) as a force for good, naturally; we are still rat-bastards. Nobody advocates evil when ‘Good’ is whatever you decide it is. If you cast those actors in the present with motorcycles, surveillance drones and assault rifles you wouldn’t have to rewrite the script at all. But I like being entertained and the characters are both believable and for the most part, forgivable. If I were born into that Dark Age, I would hope to be a warrior-priest. That would enjoy the advantage that comes with education, with the Pope’s blessing, with sword skills and my King’s protection. But without toothpaste, hot water, soap and bananas, I would still feel more like the goat brought inside for the winter than the privileged white man I am today. 

WHY DO YOU ASK? DAY 312

  From its beginning in August of 2012 this will be the 571st posting of ‘Stones In The Road’. Let’s see; 484 weeks by 7 days . . . if my math is right that would come out about one entry every six days. When I was active with Peninsula Writers, my writing group in Michigan, we met monthly which included two retreats per year. Within that framework and also informally, we devoured each other’s work. I got regular, constructive, critical feedback on what I was writing. At a week long, summer retreat I shared a cabin with two friends who both wrote novels. When we exchanged work, they gave me a chapter at a time to glean from while I could only manage an offering of a page or two. That seemed unfair as I read slow and in most cases, need more than one repetition. When I begged, “Which pages do I need to critique?” they looked at me bewildered. “All of them of course. . . why do you ask?” After several years it had become canonized ritual for me to take them down that path. Like a responsive reading in church, “. . . of course, why do you ask?” followed by my, “What you have here requires 12-14 pages. If I can’t get my stuff down in two pages, I run out of words.” We would take our homework off to a corner and start our reading. When I was half way into the first piece I found them playing cards in the kitchen. 
That was 25 years ago but I still like to keep my range down to a thousand, not over 1200 words. As it turns out, that’s about as much as the blog reader can stand. My amigo Phil’s story plot was about an old couple, both suffering health issues. The ultimate plot-destination would have them intentionally sinking their sailboat on Lake Michigan, going down with it together. I complained every time; “The writing is fine but the story wears me out. If I want to feel hopeless and beat up I can go lie down in the road. ” 
On the other hand, Rich’s novel was set in the Great Depression. It was about riding the rails with a clever tramp, about hobo jungles, railroad bulls and train yards. I enjoyed the ride, knew the story by heart even before he sent it to his publisher. Ironically, I don’t remember anything about what I was writing at the time, preoccupied with processing the moment rather than creating fiction. Maybe prophetic, Phil suffered a heart attack and died a few years later. Rich and I are still tight friends, we get together when I recycle through Grand Rapids, MI. 
I do miss the critical input from fellow writers. When I revisit old stuff from years past I see it with new eyes. You can get a feel for your own evolution but it’s not the same. Writers groups tend to have a strong, vertical hierarchy where published writers and longstanding members condescend, often with scathing red-ink-baths, knowingly aware of blood-bath imagery. Peninsula Writers never did that. Our operating model, written into the constitution, discouraged insults and negative comments. We favored asking probing questions, “. . . how did you, why did you, did you consider?” noting what worked rather than what didn’t. There was an abiding camaraderie from newest wannabe to the most accomplished veteran and everybody’s work improved. Other groups I’ve explored felt competitive, they neither shared nor encouraged an uplifting attitude.  
I tried writing fiction but years later, rediscover the unfinished first chapter right where I left it, buried in a folder, misfiled with recipes. Maybe there is a thread of subtle insight in this short story. I got in and out of it in three sentences.

I LOOK TO FESH & BLOOD: DAY 311

  Baseball great Henry Aaron, he died yesterday. My dad shared with me on several occasions, “The curse of long life is that you lose all of your friends.” I would add to that: even your heroes, the ones you admire anonymously, from a distance, they die too. Live heroes are so much more accessible than dead ones. It puts one in a situation where you must raise someone else to fill the void or accept loss as a way of life. It requires placing faith in a rising star more from its trajectory than by its history. Then there are heroes certainly whose names and stories I don’t know but even in that knowledge I can take some comfort, heroes to be sure. They are what they are and they do what they do. Then, one day, they will pass on as well and someone more blessed than I will have to feel the loss. 
The arc of Hank Aaron’s legacy is so far reaching it begs a hero’s story if not an epic legend. Statistics are one measuring rod but evidence is required for fame-sake. The hero’s mantle is a world removed from fame, remarkable as fame may be. What leaps off the page is the racism he overcame in route. From beginning to end his courage, a sense of purpose and dignity were equal to his numbers.
My purpose here is not about Hank Aaron’s hero-hood. It is about me and my need for heroes. When you find yourself at loose ends, who do you look to, think of, who do you trust enough to emulate? Believers look to God but I don’t qualify. I look to flesh and blood human beings who rise to the task, who fail and fall, who get back up, who may be of any faith or no belief at all. By my measure, divine intervention is part of the myth and though I love mythology I do not bow before it. Sometime soon I’m sure, I will lift up another hero. They pass through my life like birds migrating overhead. Mother Theresa has come and gone, so has Nelson Mandela but I keep them hallowed in a culture with a short memory. Still I am anxious for the next coming-out party, the surfacing of an uncrowned hero. 
Today I sat down to write with strong feeling about fair and foul, good and evil. What weighs heavily on me in recent years has been, if not guilt, then a sense of unwitting complicity in this culture of racial disparity. Through writing and an unrelenting conscience I can bear the weight. Condemning manifest destiny as inherent folly, I see my task is to push through it. Not just clever word play; we can not get over it. That’s too much to ask, we can only labor through it.
I will miss Hank Aaron for a while. To be honest, it’s been a long time since I gave him my attention. But neither have I reconciled sins of both commission and omission, presumed to be part of God’s plan. Back in his heyday I followed his assault on Babe Ruth’s home run records. His fan mail overwhelmed the post office but they played down the high percentage of death threats. It would not have been good for baseball.  
I would like to believe we have pushed through that wretched time but Making America Great Again has left us bare-assed, exposed again. Like a grand meal, served under a most noble pretense, in the process it turned to shit. We will smell of that insult for a long time, in ways too gross to ignore. If I need a living, breathing hero right now it would be Dr. Anthony Fauci. He spoke truth to power with convincing poise while a Trump-storm spewed around him. The tempest has blown itself out now and the good doctor’s credibility and reputation have prevailed and that will get me through the day. 

THROUGH THAT HOOP: DAY 310

  Normally I fall asleep fast. It might register on the conscious meter that I’m still awake several minutes after going horizontal but that is the exception. It’s as if I were human sacrifice, offered  up to the Slumber God on a cushioned alter. Last night was different. When watching a ball game or a good documentary, commercials are rude interruptions. That’s how restless sleep affects me, rude interruptions reminding me that I’m still self aware.
It was early fall, a year after graduating from high school. I was 19 as was my girlfriend. Joining the army was the last straw. I had failed at every job since high school with no indication I would ever succeed at anything. Those three years on a leash were good for me. I grew up, learned how to work and to some extent, how to read people and pick my friends. With my return, by chance, P.J. and I worked at the same large manufacturing company. It was my second job as a new civilian while she was navigating her second divorce. We were friends but certainly, on different trajectories. Over the years we kept in touch with Christmas cards and at class reunions. Last count she was on her 3rd or 4th husband with no looking back.  
She died yesterday after 3 weeks on a ventilator from Covid related complications. If someone had asked me, “Should a former classmate/girlfriend die of Covid would you lose sleep?” I would have thought, “No, I don’t think so.” But last night my sleep was troubled. 
Anthropologist Margaret Mead noted that in every recorded culture, end of life rituals have been about mourning one’s own impending demise as much as any loss associated with the departed. I remember that from an assigned reading in college over fifty years ago. When someone who has been important in your own experience crosses that threshold, even if their part was only for a short time and has long since moved on, it serves as unsolicited notice that we all share the same fate. 
By now nearly everything I do reminds me that my days are numbered. I just don’t know the number and that’s alright, I’d rather not know. I remember when people died at home, my grandmother, my mother. My dad observed when he moved to a senior citizen community at 87, “When you check in here it’s a walk through the front door. When you check out it’s on a gurney out the back loading dock.” We warehouse our elders, out of sight, so a culture in ‘death denial’ doesn’t have to deal with death and dying. It is much more comfortable, watching commercials for lotions and vitamins to look and act young forever. Unlike feeding operations where livestock get fattened up before slaughter, old people are allowed to wither away and succumb at their own convenience. Certainly there are those who like that arrangement but my dad was not one of them. He was too proud to raise the issue but I am not. 
So we’ll see how tonight unwinds. I doubt I’ll lose sleep again. That anxiety diminishes quickly. Even though my pagan/heresy is no secret I am comfortable with talk of mythical afterlife and the scope of what is still unknown. That threshold is the boundary between this life and its aftermath. It truly is a fearful inevitability but never the less, even on the best of days, we all have to jump through that hoop alone. R.I.P. my friend. Her passing changes neither her story nor mine. We all get to live out our stories. “And when I die, and when I’m dead, dead and gone, There’ll be one child born, In our world to carry on.” 

THE HILLS WE CLIMB: DAY 309

  Here it is the day after. The sun came up, coffee maker still works, on the radio the news is mostly yesterday’s new beginning and by my calendar, we are over 300 days, more than 400,000 fatalities into pandemic. I did not watch the inauguration yesterday, I think my vote was sufficient, my attendance unnecessary. America’s heralded, peaceful transition of power stumbled in the home stretch and the potholes I”m sad to say, they are yet to be repaired. The images of helmeted invaders with flack jackets, draped in partisan banners and Confederate flags, searching for hostages; it left me both angry and aghast. As a nation we have always suffered a dark, sinister underbelly but to see it unfolding, brazen in the light of day, through security cameras and at gunpoint; I didn’t think it possible. Still, it’s a new day. I woke from a sound sleep in the wee hours. When that happens I get up, do something that requires focus and energy.
Scrolling back through yesterday’s news I watched the video of Amanda Gorman’s Inauguration poem, ‘The Hills We Climb’. In five and a half minutes she recited what would take me half an hour to process and digest. I loved the youthful confidence and high expectation that marked her poem. Even more, I hung on its relentless pace and remarkable word selections, coming in calibrated combinations that spoke directly to a moral responsibility, one that has been long absent. That’s how truly good poetry works. A great poem is not something you experience like the filling of a cup. At best, it requires an active ear, one that works in earnest at making meaning. The way it works is like a fresh cut flower arrangement, it measures the florist as surely as it does the flowers.
She began with a powerful metaphor; “When day comes we ask ourselves, where can we find light in this never-ending shade?”  A few lines later she adds, “ . . . W’ve braved the belly of the beast. We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace.” I couldn’t keep up so I had to re-begin again. Who other than an uncompromising, young, black woman could cut so deep, so clean? With unmistakable intent she spoke of peaceful resolution, “We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another.” Listening to her was uplifting while reading the text is both enlightening and empowering. A few short minutes later she comes full circle as she must. “When day comes we step out of the shade, aflame and unafraid, the new dawn blooms as we free it, for there is always light, if only we are brave enough to see it, if only we are brave enough too be it.”It was still pre-dawn when I closed my eyes again. 
Over coffee I felt better about due process, the rule of law and a greater good than I have in several years. If you’ve listened to the poem, go back and read the text. The read is as rewarding as the listen. You can reflect on the efficient elegance of her language and the power of her words. To be expected, there is some hyperbole. That is youth’s way of telling us, “You’ve done your best but there is more to do, we can do it, better.” 
I understand that the liar will die and disappear long before the lie is put to rest. Most people, I believe, at some time they accept ideas and embrace leaders who really make us feel good. But they fail the test of truth and time. Then it becomes a hot rock you can’t let go fast enough. Yet those who lack the will or the means, they neither question nor challenge the feel-good, ego-stroking propaganda. They are easy prey for demagogues. If you don’t treat incoming criticism with respect and open-ended examination then you default to blind faith, for which there is no defense. 
Thank you Amanda Gorman. 

WHO TELLS THE KING: DAY 302

  I stayed up late last night watching a movie. Near the end a friend called and we talked a long time. Nothing important but sometimes we shake the tree just to see what comes down. With Covid spreading faster than ever and social distance even more necessary, those impromptu conversations fill a large void. 
The vaccine roll out has not been the solution we hoped for. Even in favorable circumstances, bureaucracy barely moves at all. I’ve been living in a virtual bubble. Close proximity to people, especially strangers and I get alarm bells and red flags. With the political turmoil of the past two months the coronavirus hoax has pretty much lost its legs. Redneck radicals and Trump addicts still refuse to wear masks and distance but the myth has lost its allure. It’s not a hoax, it’s real! 
Last night we considered the process of how to reengage in public life. Rationalizing on the phone is easy but after nearly a year of fear and caution, proximity with people is unsettling. I understand that everything we do involves a calculated risk. Still, 375,000 American fatalities in the past ten months is too much to disregard. They are mostly old, mostly people of color, but when you start out in one of those categories it changes the math. When the time comes, my fight/flight reaction should take pause, I’ll be able to shrug and give some time to weighing the odds. But I sense it will still be a brave new world. 
It’s been a week since the president’s failed coup attempt. I wrote about it here but it got so cumbersome I couldn’t manage it so I started over. It is so easy, so natural to dump on him and his moral shortfalls. But none of his ‘Mob-ocracy’ surprises me. The man’s way of having his way is an insult to everything I have learned to value. Being President of a democracy was not what he really wanted. He wanted to be King of an American monarchy. Who after all tells the king, “No, you can’t do that!” It begs the question; What good is power if you don’t destroy your enemies? I think that’s why he so admires Vladimir Putin who is above the law in Russia, who literally can and does murder his critics. 
At first I thought Trump was the cause but I think he’s more a symptom of a deeper wound. In the the last 30-40 years, wide spread resentment has been fermenting over the way cultural diversity undermines ‘White Privilege’. When a class of people who are accustomed to privilege; in housing, in banking, in the courts & law enforcement, in education and employment, (White people) when they have to concede to equality, “. . . and justice for all.” they feel like they are being punished. Systemically integrated into every institution, “MAGA” has never been about Trump but he is certainly its symbol. His appeal is to a disillusioned, white, working class who feel like their American Dream is slipping away. That dream is rooted in ‘White Privilege’. Now he is milking that tit for all it’s worth. In that moment when he put himself above the responsibility of his office, his followers went along as if privilege is a right and that tyranny is honorable.
Before hanging up, my friend and I rehashed conspiracy theory and critical thinking. The idea that a small group of elitists manipulates the culture is readily consumed by people whose sense of ‘Fact vs. Fiction’ is narrow and limited. The doctrines of ‘Fake News’ and ‘Drain the swamp’  provide a comfortable handle for those who prefer a biased anchor to an unbridled compass. Those wannabe leaders (Cruz, Hawley, et. al.) who are attacking ‘elitists’ are themselves, from elite, rich families. They attended prestigious universities and enjoy luxurious life styles. Like Trump, they manipulate and exploit the same working class they pretend to serve. I’ve rambled more than I wanted to. I’ll stop.

FATE: DAY 297

  The only way to begin this thing is with a disclaimer. I need a boost from long time hero Elie Wiesel who said, “I write as much to understand as to be understood.” Today is one of those days where I really can not tell if I have something to say or if it’s all process, rearranging pieces, stirring muck with a stick: somehow the latter feels more real. Ten months of pandemic is enough, especially if you are old, if you live alone and conform religiously to social distance. Four years of leaderless government is enough, especially if you are old and if you remember when leaders were able to pursue personal ambition without sacrificing moral integrity. Naive as I may be, I understand that beyond the platitudes, politics is ruthless bloodsport. We get the best government that money can buy. Still, at our worst, what we have is it better than living in Syria or Yemen, in Somalia or Belarus. Even so, America has, in the past few years and especially the last few weeks, been on a trajectory that could change that. I feel betrayed, like a faithful Christian left behind at the Rapture.  
In an editorial from yesterday’s Arizona Republic, E.J. Montini scourged Republicans who ran against DT in the 2016 primaries. At the time, all of them, Cruz, Graham, Rubio, Haley, Bush, Rand Paul, and more: they thoroughly detailed the serious failings and dangerous tendencies of candidate Trump. Their criticism was well founded, detailing the unavoidable high risks that would come with Trump in the White House. Montini went on to urge the public forum, not to let these high profile Republicans rewrite history to remove themselves from the DT legacy. Once sworn in, they all became willing enablers, empowering the President to surpass his own worst self. Politicians feared his retribution in the next election cycle or they caved in to partisan pressure: the things that happen in a partisan showdown can defy logic. Nobody wants to be remembered as the loser who did the right thing. “We didn’t work this hard, this long, to get this far and then shoot ourselves in the foot.” I think it’s the gambler’s syndrome: the worse the odds for success, the greater the urge to raise the ante. I don’t believe that Democrats across the board are more high minded but in this case they do have the moral high ground.
I remember an August night in Grand Haven, Michigan. We sat on the river bank and watched an awesome fireworks display. At the end, all you could sense was the thumping of rockets being launched, of flashing, booming bomb bursts high above. I could feel the compression waves in my chest and the experience is unforgettable. Then it went silent as the last dying sparkler fell into the river and the silence went dark. Now, I wonder if the knee-jerk outrage against the wannabe dictator and his suck-up henchmen will fizzle like the last sparkler. Old news isn’t news the next day and people who wanted to believe, who identified with him will be quick to forgive. Will public attention move on without me or did the wretched man strike a nerve? If the (Donald) has demonstrated our vulnerability to infectious, malignant narcissism, what is to keep a different, new, self worshiping despot from taking us down the same path again? There is no guarantee that Democracy will prevail. It has a fragile, weak link that survives from one breath to the next, just like we do. If that link is broken, how long can you hold your breath; there you are. 
I don’t want to leave it there. I’ve been reading quotes about ‘Fate’, things that were just meant to be. Fate would have each of us fixed with a predetermined, unescapable resolution and history would already be complete, prewritten by a mysterious, all knowing hand. That’s fun talk, a place to go when you've lost your way. I concede to fate as it defines the moment, the interface of backstory and the present. Everything looking back, that's fate. It had to unfold exactly as it has, for me to be as I am, here and now.  It is neither a probability nor a destination. Like Doc Brown said in the movie ‘Back To The Future’ “The future hasn’t been written yet.” 

It’s a long stretch but music has always provided the best metaphors and I’ve been listening to Crosby, Stills & Nash. Their take on ‘Fate’ may be a long reach but I like it anyway: “And there’s a rose, in a fisted glove, And the eagle flies, with the dove, And if you can’t be with the one you love; Love the one you’re with, love the one you’re with.” Fate is more what you bring to the story than what you take from it. 

NO CLOTHES: DAY 294

My Grandpa Roy lived with us when I was a kid. His room was upstairs, across the hall from mine. He was a ‘salty old dog’, a ‘rounder’ as they used to say. By definition that would be someone who frequents bars, likes his booze, whose conduct would be deemed immoral. My parents did not approve of his indiscretions. He might come home under the weather but he did his carousing elsewhere. Wine and women; what can you say! But calling him a ‘Rounder’ would capture just a splinter of his personage. He could be endearing as well and that’s the side I choose to remember. 
We got our first television set in the early 1950’s. Roy was especially fond of football and wrestling. A self anointed authority on both, he believed that wrestling was legitimate, no pulling punches, no fake falls. The idea of a fixed fight was unthinkable. Airplane spins and full body slams after all, that’s how real men fight. Of course I took him to task and he would send me on my way. I was just a kid, what did I know. Football was a little different. He thought the players and coaches were absolutely stupid, absolutely. Why else would they keep running straight ahead into the dog pile? His idea was to run left or right, away from the pile. I tried to explain; the pile will follow the ball wherever it goes. That drew his ire as well. What puzzled me was, how in the world someone as worldly experienced as my Grandpa Roy could be duped so easily? He wasn’t stupid. He knew too much about too many things. But when it came to wrestling or football, the only thing that exceeded his self attributed expertise was a deep well of ignorance. I think that’s what I’m writing about today, presumed expertise and the deep well of ignorance. 
Recently, in the last few days of the Trump fiasco, I’ve been thinking about Trump-aholics who faithfully rally to his cause. To some extent, giving them credit where I can, it’s like the folk tale, ‘The Emperor Has No Clothes’. The Emperor goes about wearing only imaginary clothes, bare naked. The royal weaver (scam artist) convinces the Emperor that the clothes he weaves are made of a magical material that can only be seen by people who are both honest and intelligent. Everybody sees the naked emperor in his birthday suit but are afraid to say anything. Calling attention to his bare butt would be self inflicted admission to both stupidity and dishonesty. The Emperor is snared in the same trap while the weaver laughs all the way to the bank. D.T. would be the weaver in this analogy and his loyal disciples are all afraid to appear stupid or disloyal. With enough motivated denial, one can believe anything so they do, whatever it takes to make them feel important. My Grandpa Roy would have been a full fledged, hang by his tail, Trump monkey. All he required was a drink, he needed to feel important, and to hear simple solutions for complicated problems like (build a wall). 
I taught elementary school physical education for several years when any job was better than substituting. Supervising playground at recess I learned a major life lesson. Playground bullies grow up but they don’t change their ways. The most important, consistent bully behavior was then, still is; ‘if you get caught in a lie, deny, deny, deny!’ Even when everybody knows who is guilty, the bully lies long and loud, it was the other guy, over and over, again and again and again. Everyone is afraid to challenge the bully, it comes at a painful price. At the end of the day, the bully’s words are what people remember. I call it the ‘Playground Bully Principle.’ It can be abusive or subtle but it always follows the same rule, at any age, “Punishment is the greatest motivator in human history; use it.” In as many words, “Promise the carrot, deliver the stick.” D.T. glorifies that strategy every time he opens his mouth. I think Grandpa Roy would have submitted rather than risk the consequence. I understand and agree, one has to pick their battles carefully and in doing so, be prudent. I’m not one to challenge people either but I have a good memory and with the right motivation I can be devious. Not something I would boast but then maybe I get it from Roy; not a bully but not someone you want to provoke either. 

BUENOS DIAS: DAY 289

  New Year’s morning, Buenos Dias: I stayed up last night all the way to the flush. At midnight-minus-15 minutes I made a Face-Time call to my daughter in Alaska. It was only 9:00 p.m. there so we got to hang out for my party ‘whiz-bang’ moment without crashing hers. When I woke up this year I had a text message to answer, wondering how it would be if I had a choice. Do I want the new year or do I want what’s behind curtain #1, or #2? I was thinking, ‘. . .if I could reboot 1998 again I would be 59 and ’98 was really a good year. My friend is still in the ‘Dump Trump’ afterglow and wants to see how that unfolds in ’21. The jury is already in with a verdict as far as I can tell. DT is going ooze along, a slow, loose, superimposed bowel movement. Even if he drops out of sight, the stench will be with us for at least the rest of my life. 
I am doing a short, blog spot today simply to make my mark in the sand: today starts a new year. Even if it is just the day after yesterday, I want to make an error free adjustment with signing dates on receipts and forms. Other than that, I have black-eyed peas in the slow cooker. Another hour and I’ll add ham and cabbage. I still find myself checking vocabulary with Español, a habit I enjoy. I don’t anticipate the deja vu moment, when it comes around it's more like an unexpected commercial on YouTube. Ham is ‘jamon’ and cabbage is ‘repollo’. You never forget the vernacular; ‘caca’ is still poop (shit) and ‘besa mi cula’, kiss my ass. That’s where everything begins. All things being equal and as need be, that would put us in the situation where ‘lo siento’ is called for, I’m sorry. 
We got several inches of snow after I went to sleep, the temperature is down in the mid 20’s, my coffee pot has gone dry and on my shoulders I can sense the outside cold. I don’t know how that works but trust me, it does. I’ll be ready for ham & beans in a few hours. Welcome to my world 2021. I’ve seen lots of years come and go and you have inherited a place afflicted with lots of self righteous stupidity, grief and sorrow. You will need some good luck. I hope you reciprocate some of the same good will and best wishes that I extend to you. Just because you are new and you may require a short shakedown period, don’t stop washing frequently, wear a mask and keep that social distance. Better yet, increase the social distance by a few feet over the 2020 standard. Hasta la proxima vez.