My bad. In the frantic two weeks that I’ve had, I, for the first time(s) neglected to post the weekly carnival location – which is a loss for everyone since the posts are always so great. This week you’ll find wonderful meditations on road trips, penny candies, in-laws and the Beatles, among others.
OH — and last week’s was at MidLife Crisis Queen, from Roone Arledge to pensions to packing for vacation. Make an honest woman of me and take a look, will you? Sorry compadres; never again!
Do you remember High Fidelity? We woke up early this morning and it was on Showtime. I’d forgotten how wonderful it is, especially if you remember being 28ish, love John Cusack and wonderful witty writing or just plain love music. Like Cusack’s character, I annoy those who love me with at least one song – and often a Top Five — to go with whatever is going on at the time. A friend and I throw songs back and forth all the time; his wife and my husband are, usually, tolerant. So the initial connection is there. But what is it about this film that is so irresistible? Here’s a scene from YouTube:
There’s been a lot of sadness in my life lately, and a lot of anxiety. All the grown-up stuff that High Fidelity’s hero is fighting desperately to avoid. So it was sweet and moving, my husband and I slightly drowsy, just waking up and holding hands, to watch as he struggled to get where he needed to go. The things he says here are all true as me makes his way from the thrill of the new to the warmth and deep meaning of lasting a relationship.
Married since 1971, we’ve been through plenty – personal, medical, parental, political, spiritual and even musical. There were many times when one or the other of us despaired of getting through it. A huge issue haunts us even now. But was what so nice, at this point in our lives was watching this very funny, sweet (and I know, made-up – but still..) young man understand, finally, how much more joyous it is to build a life with someone than "to jump from rock to rock for the rest of my life until there aren’t any rocks left." It was a reminder, in the midst of yet another crisis, of the wonder and power of a life built together, no matter what obstacles may rise up along the way,
I’ve written twice now about Tim Russert, feeling a real loss, and decided I was finished, but this afternoon my son sent this to me with the message "Crushingly moving." As usual, he was right. So if you missed it, here it is.
Shabbat is over.* We had ten people here for dinner Friday night so both dish washers are running and most of the rest of the stuff put away. I want to write a "real" post – I really do – but I’m just beat. Our kids were here last weekend – it was wonderful. I wrote about it on Fifty-Something Moms. It was an incredibly emotional weekend filled with ritual and love. Of course it can’t last; there seems to be some prickly stuff going on with friends of ours and I have to figure out why. But it’s only a month until BlogHer.
We had a great Shabbat. Services, Shabbat dinner and it seems that everyone had a wonderful time, more services this morning, lunch at friends’ house and a birthday party in the early evening. Nice.
A young man we know is getting married next weekend and his parents were at services today; it was so great to get to tell them how wonderful their son is. And mean it.
OK enough inventory. I’m gonna crash and write a real post tomorrow. Gnite.
* Oh yeah, and the picture is just pretty, not part of anything else.
So many people here and on Twitter have been talking about this; I thought I’d just tell you what it was like.
I got there at around four. The line went from the door to a large room at St. Alban’s School just next to the National Cathedral, where the wake was, up the stairs and a long walk to the driveway, around to the Cathedral front lawn. The last little bit was lined with wreaths – some of them very large – of flowers from friends and colleagues. There were several TV trucks and groups of reporters and camera people on folding chairs under the trees.
This had begun at 2PM and would last until 9 — sad, but not dismal. It was a beautiful day, sunny, breezy, not at all humid – just gorgeous. And we were all grateful to be there. It was a generous thing for the Russerts to do in the midst of their own grief — allowing friends, as well as admirers who’d never met Tim but felt that they knew him anyway — to act on their own sadness.
I talked to some random people in line with me: a woman who’d not known Tim at all but just wanted to be there and, happily, an old friend and pollster with whom I waited most of the way down the hill. I hadn’t seen him in a long time, so we caught up on our lives and our kids and our sadness. I started to tell him about all of Tim’s kindnesses to my boys when they were little; he started to tell me about his son’s internship at Meet the Press. Any one of Tim’s friends would have had a dozen stories just like those.
All along the way, very kind staff and parents from the school, where Tim’s son Luke had gone, were there with name tags that said “volunteer” under their names and offers of help, directions, a place to leave a note for the family, ice water – just gracious and kind. I saw, as we arrived in the room itself, that the casket, covered with white flowers with a note that said “Love, Coco and Luke” was being guarded by what looked like young soldiers out of uniform. I’ve since learned that they are high school classmates of Luke’s who will stand guard throughout the night.
We made our way past the casket in two lines, one on each side. Tim’s wife Maureen Orth was there, thanking people for coming. Then we were out, in a hallway, where another volunteer offered us the opportunity to leave a note on paper that would be bound into a book. The line was long, and each person spent considerable time – the comments were anything but brief.
Just at the end, as we made our way out, stood this photo, the one I used yesterday, up on an easel. I was so glad to see it there – not because I’d used it too but because it was a declaration, which I’d felt and clearly his family felt, that the joy and mischief of this man was what we should take with us back into the world.
Tomorrow there is a small funeral and a memorial service at the Kennedy Center which I’m sure will be amazing. And all of it will help those who loved and admired this larger-than-life presence deal with the reality of his absence.
I want to say that, because of all the posts on Twitter and here on in the blogorama, I felt I was representing many of us and left a note that said as much. It was a privilege to be there.
We bought the kite for the four-year-old in this picture, in his father’s arms* We’re right outside Kitty Hawk and all of us are climbing the dune to watch the ("Oh my, it looks just like the very first airplane!") kite take to the air in the same sorts of breezes that aided the real plane 105 years ago in a spot near here. We’ve been here on the Outer Banks of North Carolina for 4 days and have established a lazy rhythm, somewhat altered by Wednesday’s wanderings not only to a "kids day" at a local kite store but also to the very scene of the Wright Brothers’ flight.
Our young friend has been beyond excited. The kite store was festooned with models suspended above our heads. The first airplane! A biplane! Jets and propellers and passenger planes and military planes and photos and puzzle boxes with still more. Small children, particularly, it seems, small boys, love airplanes (and dinosaurs) and our young companion is no exception. It’s wonderful to to watch him explode with joy at the small pleasure of a store display. And then to cross the highway to the dunes and see his own new possession take to the air. Oh – and to reassure him that the aspiring hang-gliding students one dune beyond will not fly over and tangle themselves in our kite strings.
Nearby is the official Wright Brothers National Memorial; we went there, too. It’s remarkable to see, this plain, very effective museum, marking with simple stones the small distances that set off the revolution that enabled us to move from a flight of 120 feet to the landing of a man on the moon in just 66 years. Remarkable too to go with this wonderful, ecstatic 4-year-old and his family and wonder, 66 years from now, what their world will be. How much farther will we have flown and whose ingenuity and inspired curiosity will have taken us there? Perhaps our young friend will lead his own airborne, or space-borne, leap forward. One of the great gifts of sharing days like this with little kids is the reminder of all the possibilities to come, no matter how tough or grim the future may appear. Another, of course, is that it’s just plain wonderful to spend time with gifted parents and their spectacular, curious, eager and lively kids.
Tonight we pack up the food and the clothes and the toys and prepare to drive back to Washington in time for a dinner honoring, among others, my husband and me. Both of the wonderful kite-flying families who joined us here are returning early, surrendering part of their precious beach time, in order to be there with us for the event. And our kids are coming – the biggest treat possible. So right now, at 4:30 on a Thursday morning, I’m just sitting in a deserted living room in a North Carolina beach house, counting the blessings of family and friends and every happy memory past, current or still to come — and wishing, for those children of ours, and our dear friends here, the same pile of wonderful moments we’ve known and hope to know. Good morning to you, too.
*As always, I won’t share his name or anyone’s identifiable photo to respect their privacy.
Blogging boomers are back, this week at our new friend at Dina at This Marriage Thing, a little late this week due to some technical stuff but here nonetheless. Take a look for posts on workforce aging, Karen Allen, attorney advertising and more.
By the time Robert Kennedy decided to run for President, in March of 1968, just days after Eugene McCarthy’s great New Hampshire primary showing demonstrated President Lyndon Johnson’s weakness and the real unpopularity of the Vietnam war, I was already neck-deep in McCarthy’s campaign. I’d been involved since the summer before, in what, before McCarthy agreed to run, we called Dump Johnson. When Allard Lowenstein (himself assassinated in 2000), recruited us for it at the 1967 National Student Association (NSA) meeting, he’d say "You can’t beat somebody (LBJ) with nobody." So he had worked very hard to get Bobby to run, but he refused.
It was Gene McCarthy who agreed to stand for all of us against the Johnson administration and the war. After NSA I organized the Smith campus. We were among the first students to go each weekend to New Hampshire to work for McCarthy and against the war. So when Kennedy announced, just days after our great New Hampshire triumph, that he would also run, we were devastated, and angry.
Over the months of campaigning though, I came to have enormous respect for Senator Kennedy and his campaign. There was no way to watch him without feeling the power of his connection with all kinds of Americans and his compassion, poetry and sense of justice. This moment, just as an inner city Indianapolis neighborhood learned of the death of Martin Luther King, is typical of him at his best:
By June the campaign was tense; such an important issue and the two Senators were running against one another as well as (and sometimes, it seemed, instead of) the war. Kennedy won Indiana. McCarthy won Oregon. We moved south to Los Angeles(one of many places I saw for the first time from a campaign bus) criss-crossing the state from Chico to San Francisco and back to LA. Just before the midnight after the primary, as June 4, 1968, election day, became June 5, we knew we’d lost, so we went to Senator’s concession in the ballroom of the Beverly Hilton and then back upstairs to mourn. We weren’t even watching the rest of coverage. Suddenly, running through the halls of the staff floor of the hotel, one of McCarthy’s closest advisors shouted "Turn on the TV! They’ve done it again!"
Continue reading FORTY YEARS AGO IN 1968: BOBBY KENNEDY AND WHAT CAME AFTER
Blogging Boomers are back at I Remember JFK this week. You can read about everything from saving gas by figuring out the "walkability" of your next apartment, to child-free vacations to prostate cancer. All it smart, unique and useful. Stop on by.
This is Catherine Connors, also known as Her Bad Mother. Mom to a preschool daughter and a brand new son, she’s a former professor of political philosophy and a blogging star. And this week, after the birth of her son, she wrote one of the most powerful posts I’ve ever read about being a mother, bearing a second child and being a woman with a heart and a soul and a body. Read it.