11 December 2010

Babes in Arms



I’m at Refuge Farm this morning. Glad to have arrived safely. I should not have driven from the affair. Fifty-five miles is too far to drive in the dark after an affair that involves an extended and complementary flow of wine.

The legacy of that is a jagged jumble this morning, since the fancy coffee maker on the counter failed again, spectacularly, delivering the internally ground fine Arabica beans not into the basket, but rather into a glorious brown powder coating that drifted across the black Formica, over the edge of the counter and onto the Oriental rug below.

Some interesting developments on all fronts for all of us yesterday, and I can’t begin to figure them all out. That loony Socialist Senator from Vermont, Bernie Sanders, is filibustering in the empty chambers, railing about the continuance of the tax break for the billionaires, holding up a break for the rest of us.

Or am I one of the plutocrats? I forget. They keep moving the goalposts on us.

The antics of the Koreans and the Taliban and the Iranians all cascaded through the day…I stayed plugged into the situation through the ubiquitous laptop/blackberry/droid that accompanies all of us on our official follies and I have absolutely no idea why.

The day derailed early, just as I finished the note to ya’all yesterday. The Senior Center called to offer their opinions about the lack of diapers for my father; that prompted a call to Potemkin Village, and voicemail, and then a call to my brother and sister as I hurtled, late, toward Charlottesville, since the meeting that had underpinned the trip had been canceled due to the fact that two trees had collapsed onto the house of the EVP to whom I report, one bump up.

First things first. Trees off the house. I have been there, and thought of the trees down on the farm after the big snow last year, before we unraveled all the nasty stuff that went down through the year that brought us to here. Sure enough, the white flakes danced on the windshield of the Bluesmobile as I hurtled out through the big construction site at I-66 and the Beltway, where the new train tracks are going to soar out toward Dulles International.

God, please, I thought. Not like last year.

So, unraveling the situation backwards in the car, poking at the Droid and flicking my attention from the road to the device, talking to Alaska and Arizona before actually getting the story from the people at the Village in Michigan, everything is fine, or actually not fine, just more people inserting themselves into the narrative of the decline and fall.

Since the noon meeting had been cancelled due to trees, I stopped to feed Heckle the cat on the way- she seemed ravenous and very happy to see me- and I pulled out enough junk mail to span the issuance of four issues of the New Yorker magazine from the box on the road. Damn, there is not enough time in the world.

Then back to Route 29 and south into the complex where the company has a wing of a building, and are building out more space. One office is apparently reserved for me, to accommodate the activity in the new building my primary customer has just completed to house 800 government and contract employees. Interesting story about that, or not, but suffice it to say that I was part of the conspiracy to get the just-completed structure in The Program in the chaos after 9/11.

I have been involved in three building conspiracies, and it is always with amazement that I see them transformed from the concept to the real concrete.

So it appears I can spend as much time down this way as I can manage around my affairs in Arlington. I am trying to wrap my brain around that, and worked out of the conference room until my co-workers called from the Boar's Head Inn to tell me to get my butt in gear and join the party.

The Inn is a swell place, and the party was family-friendly. Lots of little kids running around in holiday garb.

At one point, I had a newborn in my arms. The Mom handed her over, happy for a break. It was intense, a time trip forward and back to the days when my guys were tiny and brand new, and forward for the events that this little one will see as her dark hair grows out and her eyes open and her tiny delicate hands reach out to clench my calloused fingers,

I  delighted in the gentle peace of the infant as she slept, perfectly contented, unaware of everything that will come to her. The adults were dressed to the nines, the women looking great, which reminded me of the intricate and coincidental dance by which we all arrive in this vale of tears.

I should have thought about the exit strategy better, as usual, but the Bluesmobile stayed generally in the lane I chose in the blackness. Should have stayed at the Inn, but there is not enough world and time to get everything done. Fell asleep on the couch listening to satellite radio and woke in the midst of the night, happy to be alive.

More parties this weekend. Life is evolving around me, but I thought of that little babe, just arrived. Wonder what the New Year has in store for the rest of us?

I would poke at that this morning, since we will all be clueless babes in this mess of an old year transitioning to a new one, but I need to get back to NoVa and the Army-Navy game this afternoon, and more parties tomorrow.

Miss you all. Merry Christmas.

Copyright 2010 Vic Socotra
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