I was reminded of this when Brenda Starr replied that she and Basil St. John always drink Sam Adams beer on July 4th, because he was a journalist and an agitator and a signer, albeit, according to USHistory.org, an unsuccessful brewer..
That was as good a reason as any to purchase a Summer Variety Pack for the four of us for dinner on Friday night.
Monsoon is here, in all its peculiar glory. Lightning striping the sky, thunderclaps that startle and remind me why I limp, humidity causing everything to ache just a little more, driving on the highway with people who are terrified of the water bouncing on the newly paved surface.
It's a weird surface, the piece of I-10 around the Miracle Mile exit. The water doesn't pool up, nor does it seem to run off. It jumps off the pavement as if it's shocked, though. There were thousands of clear jumping beans dancing in front of the headlights and it was totally mesmerizing. The surface and the tires were gripping quite nicely, my new wipers kept the windshield clear, and I was as fascinated by the raindrops as were the other Tucsonans on the road, all of them obviously also year round residents because who would come to visit the desert when it's triple digits and so we never really get to practice driving in the rain until it descends from the heavens in buckets.
We all drove 5 miles under the speed limit and felt very virtuous about ourselves. I know this because there was no tailgating, no speeding, no one hogging the left lane. We were all taking care.
Mr. 9 and Mr. 11 went to a medieval themed camp last week. They used power tools to create wooden swords. And these were not ordinary swords. These swords have leather wrapped handles.
I understand the allure. Big Cuter and his friends ran fiendishly through every house we owned, through high school, with real or pretend weaponry in their grasp. Lasers and daggers and blades with handcrafted silver handles avenging murdered fathers and defending the honor of the realm, and always, at some point, this familiar refrain : Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya.....
It was delightfully confirming to hear Amster bemoan the fact that Netflix really doesn't have any movies worth watching. We groused about scrolling through the whole roster of suggestions in all the various genres, about how there are never any new options, about how only the most obscure selections from most actors are available.
HBO Documentaries have ensnared us more than once, but they, too, are few and far between. We've tried the British detective series (series-es? I'm looking for something that seems more plural than series....) but our aging ears are reluctant to pick up the mumbling accented speech. Yes, we could do closed captioning, but then how would I crochet?
Such problems. We've been listening to music and playing backgammon and watching the World Cup. Life is good.
The Supreme Court may assault my sense of what is right and wrong, just as it did those who opposed Brown vs Board of Education or Roe vs Wade. And yet, the world keeps on turning, elections change little if anything, and there is no weaponry in the streets.... unless it is organized by a fringe group, like Open Carry Inc. ...... because, unlike so many other countries, we still manage to solve our problems without resorting to violence... for the most part.... and only around the edges.
I'm always glad to wake up in the USofA. Always was. Always will be, I imagine. I spent all weekend having such thoughts, and smiling as I came to Woody Guthrie's conclusion, that this land is my land, agreeing with Irving Berlin and my grandparents who came here around that same time, that America, land that I love is a pretty wonderful place. .... warts and all.
Hope your weekend was wonderful. Welcome to the rest of the summer.