Anno Domini MMXX
Atlanta, GA
January 1, 2020
Do not squander time, for it is the stuff life is made of. – Benjamin Franklin
We tossed 2019 into a bag, carried it to the curb, and watched the truck haul it away. We followed it as long as we could, in hopes of finally discovering where all the years go. But it was soon around the corner, over the hill, and merging into heavy traffic on Memory Lane.
As the years speed past, we enjoy a couple slow weeks. We delved into some books, and caught up on a few movies. We slept-in a bit, and lingered a little longer over morning coffee. We read the whole paper, and savored full meals. We feasted on the fauna of hunters, and washed it down with the fruit of gatherers.
Physical constraints helped slow our pace. We chased a stubborn virus from the head of our younger son, but have not yet thawed his father’s frozen right arm. It is apparently afflicted with a swollen rotator cuff, compounded by Adhesive Capsulitis.
This causes the joint capsule to inflame, and allows only slight movement, at the cost of great pain. I tried shooting a basketball a couple days ago, and collapsed in a heap…as if the ball shot me.
My arm functions with the mobility of the Tin Man after a downpour. So yesterday I returned to the orthopedist, seeking an oil can. And I got one, in the form of a cortisone needle the size of a fountain pen. Next week I resume physical therapy, to remove more rust, and continue loosening the bolt.
The week between Christmas and the New Year is like no other. It flies below the radar and above the fray. It is a period to reflect on where we’ve been, and where we’re going. It is also when, as the heat of daily life subsides, more mundane household chores come off the back burner.
We cleaned several rooms, disposing or shuffling clutter that over the years has entered our house like Moors into Medieval France. We vaguely recall these things infiltrating our home, but are astounded how they have multiplied, and amazed how much territory they still occupy.
And we attacked other tasks. We replaced a car battery, bought a couple new bedroom doors, fixed our basement drop-ceiling, changed the air filters, resealed our granite countertops, grouted some tile, and repaired a leaky toilet.
These activities are dull, and routine. Many are not urgent, but most are important. Not only because they enable our car to start and our toilet to run (those are urgent), but because they are real. They engage our hands in something other than tapping or swiping a glass screen.
When this century began, swiping glass would have implied washing a windshield. Tapping it would have precipitated or concluded a toast. Or conjured images of a young man atop a ladder, hoping the girl would come out the window before her father came in the door.
That seems long ago, yet the millennium is still young. But like all youth, it goes quick, and fades fast. The century is already old enough to be drafted, and has been at war almost since birth. It is just about old enough to buy a drink, and probably needs one. If it were rising floodwaters, it would now be up to our knees. And much of it is fetid. So we strap on our hip-boots, hold our nose, and keep wading.
The earth, as Jefferson said, belongs in usufruct to the living. Still, we must appreciate those who preceded us, and facilitate those who follow. Like Janus at the gate, we must glance back as we gaze ahead.
One of my favorite spots in San Francisco, like many of my favorite spots in San Francisco, is a peaceful homage to another age. The Towne Mansion, like most of Nob Hill, was destroyed in 1906. Only its stately marble entryway survived, and thru it distant views of city hall ruins were visible after the devastating quake.
The columns were relocated a few years later, to the edge of Lloyd Lake in Golden Gate Park. They have stood there since, as solemn “Portals of the Past.” I used to go there with some regularity when I lived in the City, and they still come to mind on New Year’s Day. Visitors can almost see the face of Janus on the architrave, beckoning them back in time.
Even so…Janus is of two faces, and many minds. He peers forward as well as back. What he sees is elusive, opaque, and often disconcerting. As Yogi Berra put it, if we don’t know where we are going, we might not get there.
Janus is a god of duality, as well as of time. Of coming as well as going. Of war and peace…saints and sinners…red and white…Hamilton and Jefferson…Lennon and McCartney…Ginger and MaryAnn…Of Apollo…and of Dionysus.
Dionysus gets around this time of year, and he paid us an unexpected visit last week. As we prepared Christmas dinner, I was seeking a bottle of wine, and found a pleasant surprise.
In our make-shift “cellar”, under several boxes, was a long-forgotten wine crate with a half-case of Silver Oak Alexander Valley Cabernet from the years 1998-2003. Beside it was another small box, with two more bottles, representing the 2008 and 2009 vintages.
We immediately cringed, recalling how often we save good wine for an occasion that never arises, or for people who couldn’t care less. Then we finally drink it and, if it’s not already turned to vinegar, say something along the lines of, “It’s not bad, but…”, and regret not opening the bottle years earlier.
With another year drawing to a close, I realized I have likely begun more years than I will ever again finish. We will no longer wait for good wine, nor make good wine wait for us. Time, and wine, are the stuff of which life is made. We must waste neither.
So we opened two bottles of our re-discovered treasure, let them breathe, and took a sip. Then we breathed… a sigh of relief. They were wonderful. We finished both bottles over successive nights, and returned the six surviving siblings to the cellar, where they now hide in plain sight.
Last night Dionysus returned, this time bearing a couple bottles of fine Champagne. One was obligatory, for midnight…assuming we stayed awake (we didn’t).
The other was for dinner, to share with Rita’s father. New Year’s Eve has always been his favorite holiday. Long before (and for many years after) Rita and I married, he and his wife hosted parties featuring at least a half-dozen sit-down courses, each a full meal.
Rivers of vodka and mountains of dessert separated the successive feasts, between which guests would dance, debate, and digest. The main course, assuming its abundance could be distinguished from the bounty of the others, was eaten several hours into the new year. Starting before the sun fell, the party ended after it rose.
Last night was more modest. Only four of us, a small table, a quiet room. Rita’s father looked well and was in good spirits. We brought some Mexican food, the French Champagne, and three crystal flutes.
It was around seven o’clock. My father-in-law made a couple phone calls to dear Russian friends (essentially extended family) he has known forever. Rita and I listened. Only one of us understood what he was saying, but both knew he was happy saying it. And neither knew how many more New Years he would have to say it. Then again, the same could be said for all of us.
As we enjoyed our quiet festivities, I remembered those parties, and I thought of the portals. But most of all, we enjoyed the moment. And so did he.
We then popped the cork, poured the Champagne…and tapped our glasses.
JD
