02 December 2010

The Colors of Night

(Seasonal Lights against the night. Photo Zedomax 2010)

I got a call from Sweden on my cell phone as I trudged through the chill of the gray Arlington day. It had started in the low sixties after the pelting rain abated in the morning darkness, and then the temperature fell of the table.

A few degrees difference and we would have got walloped. I was informed by my sources that it was -20 degrees below zero- I hope that was Celsius- and the Norwegians were acting up.

Akavit and a fight is the way they celebrate the holiday, and then sit sullenly in the corner. At least that is the opinion of the Swedes.

I shivered with the update on the bank bailout of Ireland, and wondered what the hell the best strategy could be to deal with what is to come. It is useful to get updates once the trading day is done in Europe, and I made a note to talk to my associate in Detroit, who is in the day-trading game to supplement the investment portfolio.

It is still nineteen days to the Solstice, for goodness sake, and the winter really has not started in earnest. Black is the color of the night, and we try to beat it back with the colored lights that the workmen were putting up on the lamp-posts around the building, and down Fairfax Drive.

When I got back to the desk Anook called from Alaska with some tidbits, since she just left the little town by the bay in Michigan with her daughter on Tuesday. She says that she has reconsidered her view of Raven. The old man may not be able to speak articulately, but she considers him to still "be there,” responding with laughter when she disparaged a busybody who was inserting herself into Thanksgiving affairs at Potemkin Village

Mom is still very much in the moment, but her memory is assuming the aspect of Swiss cheese. She forgot that Anook had sworn to be at the Village for lunch each day, and panicked one morning, forgetting Anook had been their the day before and asking for an all-points bulletin to be put out when the girls did not show up for breakfast.

Sigh.

The Socotra Villa on the bluff above the Bay is problematic, too. Someone- I hope it was not me- left a casserole in the new stove and the mice had a field day with it. The sump pump has failed and needs replacing, so there is a bunch of stuff that needs to have workmen scheduled for my visit there over Christmas.

I made notes to re-confirm the appointments for the Orkin Man and the Plumber for the 23rd. Joy to the world, I thought.

I sighed and clicked through the itinerary when I got back to my desk.

Flights to Detroit, rental car, then Newport in early January to see my son get commissioned. I wondered if I could find enough bits of the uniform to wear for the second-to-last time.

We also have a challenge with one of Big Momma’s old pals who moved back to Michigan after her husband passed away last year. She can’t drive, but she has managed to arrange some sort of transportation out of her home in East Jordan, and visit Potemkin Village to rile Big Momma up about the house and the car, which Anook informed me now has developed a flat tire.

I put that on the list, along with the notation that we are being characterized as wicked ingrates who have turned our parents out of their hearth and home.

There is no way that they would survive the winter living alone, so what do you do? I paid the bills from Michigan that had come in the mail and drafted a letter to the Veterans Administration to attach to the durable power of attorney we had fortuitously had Raven execute two years ago when he could still write his name.

I shook my head. We will see how this episode of the long sad journey plays out when I visit, right after the Solstice. I am dreading it, but it will be Christmas. The long, cold Michigan nights will, for the first time since summer, be a few minutes shorter.

It was nearing five o’clock and the light was failing in Virginia. I shut down the computer and walked over to Willow, where owner Tracy O’Grady was supervising the installation of the Christmas lights on the patio. Waiters were moving the wrought-iron furniture around to provide access to the trees to wrap the bright white and blue strings of lights around.

They were festive and cheery, though Tracy looked tired.

“It is hard being in the illusion business, isn’t it?” I asked. She shook her head in agreement, her chestnut pony-tail swinging over the collar of her chef’s blouse. She runs her place in the old-school manner, supervising all the line personnel with verbal command, rather than computerized displays of the orders relayed from the wait staff.

“We tried putting last year’s lights up, but of course when we plugged them in they were bad. So, we went out and bought new ones. Half of them were bad, too.” She scowled, since her standards are exacting.

“It’s a shame,” said John-with-an-H. “But you got the LED-ones, so Willow is green this year.” He had a big night the evening before, and had not gone to work that day. Instead of his usual business suit, he was wearing a kaki-colored safari ensemble.

“Green is good,” said Tracy, heading back to take up her position in the kitchen. John saluted her retreating back with his glass of the Willow Happy Hour Red.

Jim-from-Pittsburgh smiled from behind the bar after producing a fresh long-neck Bud for Old Jim.

“So, John, how many elephants did you shoot today?” he asked.

“And what color were they?” asked Elisabeth-with-an-S.

Copyright 2010 Vic Socotra
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