Paved in Gold

Today although it rained heavily, there was a short sun-break while Margie and I were together, and I wanted her to see the leaves in Jamison Square. 

She was dazzled, as I knew she would be, and it reminded her of something the old folks used to say. “When people of my parents’ generation dreamed of boarding ships for America, they said the streets were paved in gold. If they had known it meant leaves, they might have given it a little more thought.” 

It was a long walk to the park and back to our usual coffee place, and it was a little too much. She made it, but she was happy to collapse into a booth at Café Umbria. I thought she had forgotten about politics, but as we sipped our cappuccinos, she once again reflected on the old folks. “They thought they were escaping fascism. They wouldn’t believe what this country has come to.” We talked about politics then and now, and she was sharp, astute, clear-headed, perceptive. 

Her sons had been to visit on the weekend, and I asked how that went. "I can't remember a single thing that happened, but I know it was wonderful," she grinned. "We probably just sat around and talked the whole time. I loved hearing them talk to each other. Their voices are music." 

Yesterday I had injections in the occipital nerves in the back of my head, a possible cause of recent unrelenting migraines, and it left me nauseated, dizzy, and sleepy. The day was a complete wash-out. So I postponed our coffee date to today, and now I’m much better. I woke without a migraine, and I can actually turn my head from side to side. Sometimes you don’t realize your privilege until it’s gone, and then when you get some of it back, wow! Waves of gratitude.

Following up on thoughts about what forms of political action might be called for, there's a brilliant essay by Kelly Hayes on effective ways to organize to meet this current wave of fascism. Hint: "Defiance must be woven into the fabric of our daily lives, rather than simply proclaimed at marches or on social media."