Day 104 of Nat'l Emergency: Father's Day Edition

During this time of coronavirus pandemic, Father’s Day is not being celebrated in our household the time honored way with visits with children and grandchildren (for that matter, Mother’s Day fell short as well). Neither is it possible to adhere to our custom of dining out at the preferred restaurant of the honored parent. 

The other day Gilda asked what I would like to do to celebrate. I’d like to be able to play poker with my buddies again, said I. That, too, is not happening anytime soon. 

The silver lining in that is that I have more silver lining my pockets than if the game took place every month. It’s a small consolation.

As for dinner, Gilda is baking fresh hamburger buns to caress her juicy hamburgers. She’s also making fresh potato salad. 

I hope everyone else’s Father’s Day dinner will be as lovingly prepared and delicious as mine.

Down the Rabbit Hole: Stepping outside one morning last week to pick up The New York Times from our driveway, I saw a bit of whimsy I had never witnessed in 36 years in our current home even though our yard is infested with Peters, Flopsies, Mopsies and Cottontails. Four young rabbits were playing a game of tag on our front lawn, scampering this way and that after the leader, not caring at all that I was taking in their playfulness.

The rabbits were clearly family and having fun. Their game of chase was not to be confused with squirrels or chipmunks running after each other. Those pursuits are clashes of territoriality, one animal brusquely shooing off an invader from his or her sphere of influence. 

Farmer McGregor—alias Gilda—spares no love for these creatures. She accuses them of eating her plants just before their flowers are to bloom. She has no proof, of course, though the rabbits do spend lots of time munching grass from our lawn. Guilt by association.

If it were up to me I would snare one and make it a house pet. Before they had kids Dan and Allison had two pet rabbits. Gilda has no intention of humoring my desire.

In case you’re wondering, rabbits are no longer classified as rodents. They are lagomorphs. Has to do with having four incisors compared to two in rodents. 

Promenade: We took a near four mile walk Thursday down Rosedale Avenue. We used to walk before COVID-19 hampered communal activities, but we’ve really picked up the pace since social distancing knocked out most other outdoor pastimes. 

Someone, I’m surmising a young girl and her family, positioned painted rocks on stone fences, at the foot of trees and on the base of a fire hydrant along the way. Each rock had an inspirational message. A turquoise painted rock said, “This will all blow over in time.” A yellow rock with a drawing of a bee intoned, “The bitter comes before the sweet.” Two flower illustrations under a bright yellow sun on a green background accompanied the saying, “Spring has sprung.”

Any passerby could not help but be cheered up. 

Nor could they be anything but dazzled by the life-size moose statue standing guard in the front yard of a recently renovated cottage. 

Camping Ground: Young Judea, our grandkids’ sleepaway summer camp, was cancelled, as most were in New York and New England.

Perfectly understandable given the caution proscribed in this age of coronavirus. Seriously disappointing to anyone who has relished the sleepaway camp experience.

Dagny was to have spent her first such adventure in July, joining Finley for his second season away from home. It also means Dan and Allison will not get to enjoy being empty nesters for an extended period for the first time in 10 years. Ah, well, there will always be next year.

With a little more planning, however, camps could have created a controlled environment, Gilda believes. If campers and staff were tested and screened before arrival in camp, and forbidden to leave the grounds, even for counselor days off, the camp could have been made into a virus sanctuary. Food and other deliveries could be controlled, much the way grocers receive shipments. And there would be no parent visiting day. 

Ah well, it’s too late for this summer, but as sports fans of losing teams are wont to say, “Wait till next year!”

Can You Believe It? I'm a True Progressive

There’s a quiz going around the Internet which asks 10 questions to determine how conservative or liberal you are. Guess what? I’m a “true progressive.”

“You are 19% conservative and 81% liberal, you are a True Progressive!,” according to my answers about such diverse topics as gun control, military spending, social security and welfare programs.

“You believe in truly liberal principles, such as expanding social security, tuition-free education, and free healthcare for all. You view war as a last resort, and would rather see military spending re-directed towards infrastructure, jobs programs, and the middle class. You understand that progress is made through radical, progressive movements, a political truth you embrace wholeheartedly.”

As if readers of this blog needed any confirmation of my liberal beliefs.

Every so often the John McCain we all wish we could admire surfaces. Not the John McCain who chose Sarah Palin as a running mate in 2008, but rather the John McCain who immediately rejected disparaging remarks about Barack Obama’s citizenship and religion when confronted by a female supporter that same year. 

Such a John McCain showed up on the Op-Ed page of The New York Times Friday in a stirring memorial tribute to Delmer Berg, perhaps the last surviving member of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade of mostly American zealots who fought for democracy in the Spanish Civil War in 1937-38 against the forces of fascism led by Generalissimo Francisco Franco. Berg was 100 when he died last month.

To the very end Berg was a devoted Communist, not the type of passion you would expect McCain to eulogize. But the Arizona senator did himself proud by conveying the dedication Berg and his Lincoln Brigade comrades displayed during a time when the world watched as “the three most powerful ideologies of the 20th century—Communism, fascism and self-determination—began the war that would continue, in some form or another, for more than half the century until the advocates of liberty, and their champion, the United States, prevailed” (http://nyti.ms/1XObPoS).

Too bad we don’t see more of this John McCain.

Bird Talk: Lately I’ve been feeding the birds leftover baked goods. So far I can report they have snarfed up with gusto such ethnic treats as bagels, chocolate babka cake from Katz’s Delicatessen, Irish soda bread, a sesame seed flagel (a flattened bagel), a Fresh Direct banana bread and marble cake. 

Speaking of birds, have you ever heard of the Fraternal Order of Eagles? I hadn’t until earlier this month I sat next to two cheerful ladies on the last leg of their Bangor, Maine, to New York to Minneapolis to Omaha trip for the annual conference of chapter presidents and membership chairpersons. As Linda and Laurie informed me, the Eagles have been around since 1898 (the women’s auxiliary since 1927) doing good works, raising money, all of which they donate to mostly medical related charities, usually more than $10 million a year. 

The Eagles claim to have founded Mother’s Day (take that, Hallmark!), served as the driving force in founding the Social Security Program (you too, FDR!), and helped end age-based job discrimination with the “Jobs After 40” program. Among its distinguished members have been presidents Teddy Roosevelt, Warren G. Harding, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Harry S. Truman, John F. Kennedy and Ronald Reagan. Other luminaries included Eleanor Roosevelt, Bob Hope, Gordie Howe, Max Baer and Tony Orlando. The Eagles also sponsor Clint Bowyer, driver of the No. 15 Chevrolet in the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series.

I’d heard of Elks, Moose, Kiwanis, Lions, Masons, Shriners and Rotarians, and even the Raccoons of Jackie Gleason-Honeymooners fame, but never the Eagles despite their having more than 800,000 members in the U.S. and Canada. They don’t have lodges; they meet in aeries, some 1,500 for the men, 1,300 for the women. 

For more info on the Eagles, go to FOE.com.