My yearlong retreat from the world having begun in earnest several weeks ago, keen-eyed readers may be asking themselves how an essay with the title affixed to this one is consistent with such a goal. They would be correct in asking that, and it is in fact, inconsistent with the goal. I am not pleased with myself for writing this, and my only defense for doing so is that I purposefully gave myself a year to ease into this gentleman farmer gig, and so technically, this rant is still allowable.
We are not a serious country. We are perhaps, ungovernable, through our own choice(s). Politics, always partial farce, has become professional wrestling on a grand scale, as what everyone understands to be fakery is regarded as legitimate, with the audience split evenly behind their chosen fabulists.
A political system custom-designed to encourage compromise and consensus is administered by human weather vanes without principles from which to argue. Rather, political stances are the dim reflections of whatever populist impulse emanates from the Ring Masters, with spineless legislators acting as frictionless pipes for those impulses moving in either direction.
We are treated more recently to the presence of super-empowered private citizens whipping up the masses, and the unstable nature of this political isotope augurs disaster when Messers Trump and Musk are inevitably estranged, as is the sad future of all unions of the pathologically narcissistic.
In the past, one could gaze upon the American political spectrum and quite logically assess it as being defined by left and right, with those entering arguments having generally well-agreed upon meanings. The further (farther?) one moved away from the extremes, the closer one got to the “middle”, which always seemed like an odd place to me, but which many seemed comfortable in claiming as their own.
But these terms—left and right—have lost all meaning in a country where all that matters is what one feels, the latest example of which is suggested by this gem in the Washington Post “Conservative activists press big companies to buy bitcoin”. Pardon my French, but YGTBFSM. Or perhaps, the latest icon of the “right”, the daft, hyper-sexualized spawn of America’s foremost formerly left-wing family.
The Goose Blind Beckons
Just outside the window of the ManCave is a field of some 20 acres latterly lush with soy beans but now hosting some grassy cover crop that I believed was “winter wheat” but which looks suspiciously like grass. I could interrogate the Mistress of the Manor (who is much better educated about these things) as to the identity of the cover crop, and I just may. But not before this is written.
About a third of the way down the rectangular field I have placed a portable goose blind, there to accommodate my inconsistent practice of sitting in the early morning cold watching uninterested geese fly overhead. I am made particularly aware of said blind by the sound of shotgun blasts emanating from adjoining properties, and a quick look into my calendar reveals that it is indeed goose season here in Talbot County, but poor planning has me in my office typing this rather than sitting out there as the geese mock me from far overhead. It looks like I will not take to the blind until Christmas Eve morning, which also gives me a little more time to “dress” it with some marsh grass, as I am told this is part of the process.
I have a very busy few days leading up to Christmas ahead of me, all of which frustrate my mild desire to be in the blind. My first obligation was to rise early and create this bit of literary gold, as I do not wish to disappoint those who favor me with their subscriptions to this humble Substack. I must then perform a series of errands, to include ordering the Feast of the Two Crustaceans (whole lobsters and crab cakes) for my family Christmas Eve dinner. This is one of the traditions I love most about the season, and it is capped off by a late afternoon trip to the local seafood market, where my presence as an annual Christmas Eve customer is recognized by the observant staff. Most years, I run into at least one or two repeat customers and we reminisce about the year that is ending.
We are at full strength, or something resembling full strength, as both girls are technically “home” for the holidays, with one currently in the greater New York City area and the other ferreted away in her room working on a paper for her graduate program for which she has received an “extension”. Later today, I will grab my best girl and head into the Nation’s Capital for a fancy French dinner followed by a holiday performance of the Navy band/choir etc. I’ve already briefed my inamorata on the fact that there will be a bit of walking to be done on this sojourn, and she feigned cheerful assent.
We’ll drive back home late, and then I’ll turn around tomorrow and sorta do it all again, this time meeting up with my friend and annual “Messiah” co-listener Rob, there to catch a performance at the Kennedy Center. I am as a matter of faith, metaphysically certain of the existence of God, but I am never more physically aware of the presence of God than I am when listening to Handel’s masterpiece.
I am reliably informed that we will ACTUALLY be at full strength tomorrow (Sunday), and the lighted but undecorated main tree in the living room will be addressed. Not a moment too soon, as The Lady of the House will be hosting a “Holiday Tea” on Monday for local family, which, when your people have lived in a county for approaching 400 years, is no small group.
Messiah, 2024
Among the annual Christmas rituals I observe is to attend a performance of Handel’s Messiah, something that started in 1997 at the Kennedy Center with she who two years later would apply a flamethrower to my tender heart.
I have gone the last few years with my friend Rob who drives up from Richmond for the event in which we rendezvous at Pentagon City Mall in Arlington, wolf down a little Popeye’s and then Metro over to Foggy Bottom. First class, that.
You get three general things from this work—a symphony orchestra, four soloists, and a choir. I’m partial to the choir, ESPECIALLY the soaring sopranos, and when those ladies soar, it sends shivers down my spine. To get a sense of what I’m talking about, feast your ears to the clip below:
When my Dad died earlier this year, my sister Kelly—who was with him when his heart beat its last—had Frank Sinatra playing in his room. My Dad was a lifelong Sinatra man, and I cannot think of a better way for him to go out. Me? I want Handel. I want Messiah.
Though outwardly a bit dyspeptic and with winnowing hope for the stability of the Republic, I am quite content this Christmas Season. I wish you and yours love and peace in this wonderful time.