Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

President Obama's ultimately ineffectual farewell address (a fitting end to his presidency) came down to three key elements.

"The next wave of economic dislocations won't come from overseas. It will come from the relentless pace of automation that makes...middle-class jobs obsolete. So we're going to have to forge a new social compact...to update the social safety net to reflect the way we live now."

"Workers of all shades are going to be left fighting for scraps while the wealthy withdraw further into their private enclaves."

"Without some common baseline of facts, without a willingness to admit...that science and reason matter...we'll make common ground and compromise impossible."

These three forces  - automation, wealth inequality, and the rise of brutalism - will shape the course of human history.

"Because, as my mother used to tell me, reality has a way of catching up with you."

Let Freedom Ring

I can just remember the black and white images on my family's old console television. The CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite. The marchers. The attack dogs straining at their leashes, teeth bared in vicious snarls. People shouting at the marchers, teeth bared in vicious snarls. A look of insane fury and hatred on their faces. Water hoses knocking people to the street. The cops stomping and kicking people on the ground.

The riots. Cities burning in the night. I was 10 years old when the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was murdered. It was all adult stuff, and didn't really affect my kid's world of bullies and victims (I was one of the latter), but I could hear the tension in my parents' voices. And although I didn't understand it at the time, I felt that something incredibly wrong had taken place.

Today we take a moment to honor this man. Nobel laureate, pastor, activist, humanitarian, leader of the civil rights movement, receiver of the Congressional Gold Medal and the Presidential Medal of Freedom. We recall his words and deeds with parades and speeches, but as I look around, I can only note how little has changed. The police still beating people down, the dogs still straining at their leashes, and the look of insane rage and hatred still on people's faces.

Of all King's achievements, he may be best remembered for his "I Have a Dream" speech. On a sultry, Wednesday afternoon in August 1963, he spoke before an audience of 250,000 people at the "March on Washington."

"Let freedom ring. And when this happens, and when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children - black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics - will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

And the bells did ring. Not for freedom, because we have not achieved that yet, but for the man who had the courage to stand up and say that a man should not be judged by the color of his skin, but by the content of his character.

His voice rang out to those who stood in the shadow of the Lincoln Memorial and across the National Mall to the steps of the Capitol itself. He spoke of Mr. Lincoln with a timbre and a resonance and a cadence that fired the conscience of a nation. He reminded us that the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation was a promissory note, and that five score years later, America has given the Negro people “a bad check, a check which has come back marked insufficient funds.”

He spoke these words in a time when lynchings were a way of life. When in many states, blacks could not vote or had to pay a "poll tax" to exercise their rights. A time when people of color could not gain lodgings in the motels along our highways. A time when segregation lived more in the hearts of men than in the streets of our cities.

President John F. Kennedy was so worried about what King might say, or the reaction of the crowd, that he had a Secret Service agent positioned by the podium ready to literally pull the plug.

Instead, Dr. King called those in attendance the veterans of creative suffering. He spoke in parables and metaphors, invoking Holy Scripture, the Declaration of Independence, the Gettysburg Address, the Constitution, and lines from "My Country Tis of Thee."

He admonished the gathering that "we can never be satisfied" until justice and freedom were the law of the land. The deep spirituality and rousing patriotism of the seventeen minute sermon appealed to the mind of reason, inflamed the heart of brotherhood, and sent soaring the soul of righteousness.

I was not quite correct when I said those black and white images on our TV had no affect on me. They helped to foster my mistrust of authority, my contempt for humanity.

I still mistrust authority, and my contempt for humanity, in view of current political realities, remains unabated.

But if Dr. King stood for anything, it would be to tell me that peace and love, brotherhood and good will, will eventually triumph.

And until that time, we must continue to march.

This is one of the most iconic speeches in U.S. history. If you've never seen it in its entirety, take the opportunity to watch it today. You owe it to the country as a citizen, and you owe it to yourself as a member of the human race. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H0yP4aLyq1g

And don't forget U2's touching tribute to Martin Luther King, "MLK" - ...may your dreams / Be realized / If the thunder cloud / Passes rain / So let it rain / Rain down on him... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=knPKC-JHT6c

F'ing Asshole

The f'ing asshole about to become president has not even taken office yet, and he is already tearing this country and individual families apart. Including mine.

It is abundantly clear there will be no "coming together." There will be no free exchange of ideas. I do not hold with the far left any more than I hold with the far right, but there is just no reasoning with Trump supporters. They are either idiots or evil, and in the case of the new cabinet, both. I was willing to at least try to give people who voted for Trump the benefit of the doubt. I did not unfriend anyone, and with the holidays, I had better things to think about, write about, and do.

But now that 2017 is upon us, those evil idiots who continue to support Trump, after seeing his actions, and his intentions laid bare, are f'ing assholes. I know Trump supporters get riled up (as well they should) about these analogies, but Hitler was an f'ing asshole, and because we do not remember the names of the f'ing assholes who flung live children into blast furnaces, does not make them any less of f'ing assholes.

Unfortunately this includes the younger of my two sons. He carefully, calmly, and rationally explained to me why he voted for Trump. He explained to me why I voted for Hillary, just assuming I had done so. He explained that we were both doing what we thought was best for his children and my grandchildren. I came to the conclusion that he's an f'ing asshole.

Let me interject here with two thoughts. For the next four years, writing about politics will bring me great joy. Toward the end of Colbert's run on Comedy Central, he made an app available that changes the name Trump to Drumpf on my computer screen. Across all news outlets and social media, if someone else writes Trump, if you write Trump, if I write Trump on my own posts and blogs, it appears to me as Drumpf. I think it's hilarious every time I see it.

The second thought is that when I say my own son is an f'ing asshole, many people would quickly point out that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. As everyone who knows me can attest, of this there can be no doubt.

My wife thinks I'm being an f'ing asshole, but she always thinks that. She wants no part of it, and can't fathom how I could let politics divide our family.

I didn't feel it would serve any purpose to mention that politics had a long and healthy history of dividing families - the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, and the Vietnam War coming to mind.

Is this moment any less portentous? I think not, and therein lies the rub.

Best Is Best

I didn't think the recent presidential election would affect me so closely or so soon, but my local independent grocery store has been newly renamed Trump In-the-Hole Foods.

New owner, politician Donald J. Trump, had this to say, "I have food. And it's the best food."

My first stop was the produce department, and I couldn't help but notice that one section had a cement wall around it. I flagged down a man in a black vest with a large picture of Trump on the back.

The orange thing on the photo's head made a striking contrast against the background, which upon closer inspection was actually midnight blue. In fact, I would find nothing black, including fried chicken or watermelon, in the entire store.

"Excuse me, sir," I said. "Why is that area walled off?"

"That's where we keep the produce from Mexico," he said, and turned back to stocking the biggest cucumbers I'd ever seen, each stamped with Trump's likeness.

It was then I noticed there were no apples, oranges, strawberries, or many other things you would typically expect to find in a produce department. Again I interrupted the preoccupied tradesman. "Sorry to bother you, but I was looking for bananas," I said.

"Oh," he replied, "Mr. Trump doesn't like fruits in his stores."

I decided to move on, and when I glanced up, I saw a glowing LED sign that said - PEANUT GALLERY. I assumed that's where they kept the talking heads.

"One last time," I said to the now openly hostile worker. I pointed at the sign. "What do they have over there?"

He stared at me, but then slowly said, "Because of all the lawsuits over allergies, that's where we keep everything made from peanuts."

This was good because peanut butter was on my shopping list. I started to roll away, but saw a clearly disabled employee in a Trump In-the-Hole Foods vest heading towards me. The awkward gait, waving hands, lolling head, and coke-bottle glasses were unmistakable.

I waited patiently, as my first thought was that he was going to offer me assistance because I was in a wheelchair. He approached me, but before I could politely decline the offer, he straightened up into a tall and well-built young man. He removed and folded the glasses, and carefully placed them in his pocket.

"I believe we've taken up enough of this gentleman's time," he said. "The owner is a successful businessman. He didn't become successful by allowing his minimum wage earners to be distracted with such low priorities as customer service."

"Are you mocking me!" I said.

I thought about leaving and going to another store. For a brief moment I beheld the visage of Sam Walton astride a white charger ten feet tall. What was the matter with me?

I figured as long as I was there, I'd pick up the few things I needed, and go home to regroup. I made my way to the PEANUT GALLERY, but was stopped again, this time by a striped crossing gate. A guard stuck his head out of a booth, the now familiar Trump In-the-Hole Foods logo emblazoned on the midnight blue helmet. "State your business!" he barked.

"What's this?" I asked.

"This," he said, "is Checkpoint Skippy. Now state your business!" To emphasize his point he pointed an assault weapon at me (the now ubiquitous Trump head on the matte midnight blue rifle stock).

"JIF, family size, neat," I replied, assuming an experienced nutjobber like the guard would know I meant creamy, not chunky.

He raised the gate with a sharp salute, and I entered the PEANUT GALLERY, totally not expecting the full body cavity search upon my exit.

As I made my way up front to the registers, I saw that the bulk of the store was divided between left aisles and right aisles. Very few people crossed over.

One of the things I do while waiting in the check-out line is check out the impulse items. I refuse to look at the tabloid headlines, but the tchotchkes and candy are all at eye level for me.

The tins of caviar with the picture of Putin naked from the waist up did not appeal to me, but I considered one of the fine selection of airplane-bottle size vodkas, at least to get me through the wait in line.

A couple of candies stood out, and I passed on the ChernoBars (guaranteed to glow in the dark), in favor of a package of Drill Bits - black licorice sticks that left an oily film on your fingers.

I was so disappointed in my overall shopping experience at Trump In-the-Hole Foods, that I told the cashier I wished to speak to the store manager.

"Oh," the cashier responded, "her name is Helen Waite. If you want to speak to the person in charge, go to Helen Waite."

Why Do Good Things Happen To Good People?

I don't know about karma, and in my case, the jury is still out on God, but sometimes good things happen.

Due to a combination of factors, on top of all my other health issues, I'm losing my teeth. I went in to see my dentist yesterday to have a painful tooth extracted. I'm down to four molars I can chew with (two top and two bottom), and this was one of the top ones. So now I am down to one top and one bottom tooth that make enough contact to masticate food.

I asked the dentist where we - I - go from here since the remaining top one is already loose. He pulled up a planning chart, with cost breakdown. What he wants to do is remove eleven more teeth that have to go, and use the secure teeth as anchors for partial dentures. His office assistant showed me that after what my insurance would cover (approximately $2,000), I would be left with a balance of over $4,300 due at time of service!

I just stared at the screen hoping for some kind of answer, but all I saw was a reflection. When my grandchildren look at their grandfather, is this what they're going to see - a scarred, wizened, toothless cripple?

Yesterday was a bitterly cold day, and I caught a chill going outside. Once I had transferred into the dental chair, I asked the nurse for a blanket, expecting one of those white, starched, institutional jobs, but she covered me with a fleece throw from the dentist's private office.

When the dentist came in, I was still shivering a bit, and I explained that the TM (Transverse Myelitis) made it hard for me to regulate my core body temperature. Of course, he knows I'm in a wheelchair, and he has seen me transfer numerous times.

As I lay there numbly, knowing the money was just not there and was never going to be, he sat down and said, "Here's what we'll do. We'll let insurance pay whatever they're going to pay. If you want to cover my lab costs of about $800, I'll waive the balance of the fee."

You can imagine my reaction. The tears came. The tears are coming now.

Mr. DeMille, I will soon be ready for my closeup.

A Partridge in a Pair of Trees

"Where is He who is born King of the Jews, for we have

seen His star in the East, and have come to worship Him?"

Twelfth Night and the Epiphany are often overlooked and misunderstood holidays. As a kid, I assuredly thought the twelve days of Christmas must be the two weeks leading up to the big event because the only thing that happened twelve days after Christmas was having to go back to school.

I also firmly believed, that like a celestial Cecil B. DeMille, God made the stable set appear, complete with manger, whatever that was; called in the angel in charge of animal wrangling (which was no small job with a flock of sheep, lambs, a cow, a donkey, and not one, but three camels); and populated the scene out of Savior Studios central casting (with authentic period costumes and makeup). What can I say? I grew up in the age of television.

Simply put, Twelfth Night is to Epiphany, what Christmas Eve is to Christmas. Twelfth Night is celebrated on the evening of the 5th of January, and since medieval times has served as an occasion for mirth and merrymaking.

The root of the word epiphany translates from ancient Greek as "striking appearance." The word has always held a connection with the divine, for assuredly, such profound leaps in understanding must come from a higher power. It should come as no surprise that the word used to describe such scientific, philosophical, and spiritual enlightenment would come to symbolize the "striking appearance" of the Son of God on earth.

The Feast of the Epiphany, observed on January 6th, commemorates the visit of the wise men to the birthplace of the Christ child. The wonder of God the Son, manifested as a human infant, and the realization that this helpless babe on a bed of straw had come to save the world was the greatest epiphany of all.

Nativity scenes would not be complete without the three colorfully dressed "kings" and their camels. In actuality, it is very doubtful that these men were kings, and were more likely to have been so-called wise men or magi (from whence we get the word magic). These magi would have been keen astrologers, and the Star of Bethlehem, with all its attendant portents, would have interested them greatly.

According to the Gospel of Matthew (the only one that mentions them), the names traditionally given to these travelers are Caspar, Balthazar, and Melchior. The two things I most closely associate with the Magi are the Little Drummer Boy, and the gifts they bore.

Caspar, believed to be from India, is most often depicted as an aged philosopher bearing the gift of gold. Melchior, a middle-aged scholar, who hailed from Persia, presented the infant with frankincense. Balthazar, from Arabia, a black-skinned young man, offered myrrh.

The gifts themselves hold dual meaning. Gold would have been used as support for the baby's family, but also as a symbol of kingship. Frankincense (not to be confused with Frankenstein) was a perfume that would have been used to mask the smells of the stable, but also as a symbol of deity. Myrrh would have been used as an anointing oil for the child's skin, but myrrh was also used in embalming, and therefore a symbol of death.

"Here we come a-wassailing among the leaves so green,

here we come a-wand'ring so fair to be seen.

Love and joy come to you, and to you your wassail, too,

and God bless you, and send you a Happy New Year."

Food and drink are the center of the celebration. A traditional punch called wassail, which goes back many centuries, is consumed on Twelfth Night.

Wassail

Ingredients

6 whole cloves
6 whole allspice
12 whole white peppercorns
3 cinnamon sticks (for spice sachet)
1/2 inch fresh ginger root, peeled and sliced
1/2 cup (approx) light brown sugar
4 sweet apples (look for such varieties as Braeburn, Cortland, or Ambrosia - a sweet modern apple, from western Canada, similar to Golden Delicious)
2 quarts hard apple cider
1/2 cup brandy
6 large eggs, separated
Freshly grated nutmeg and 1 cinnamon stick per drink, for garnish

Directions

Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Use a melon baller or paring knife to scoop out the cores of the apples from the top without going all the way through the apples. Carefully fill each apple with brown sugar. Place the apples on a parchment paper-lined baking sheet. Bake the apples for forty minutes.

While the apples bake, pour hard apple cider and brandy into a Dutch oven, and warm over low-medium heat. Do not bring the wassail to a boil. You will burn off the alcohol, and what would be the fun in that?

Make a sachet of spices. Place allspice, cloves, peppercorns, and cinnamon sticks into multiple folds of cheesecloth, and tie with white cotton kitchen twine. Float sachet in the wassail as it warms. Add ginger root slices to the wassail as it warms.

In a small mixing bowl, beat egg yolks until light in color and set aside. In a large mixing bowl, whip egg whites until stiff peaks form. Gently fold egg yolks into whites, then temper the eggs by slowly pouring one-half cup wassail into the eggs.

Remove the spice sachet and ginger slices from the wassail, and pour in the tempered eggs. Transfer to a punch bowl. Float baked apples in the wassail (to be eaten for dessert after wassail is consumed). Serve by the mug. Grate a sprinkling of nutmeg over each mug, and finish with a cinnamon stick.

Since the Middle Ages, holiday greenery was decorated with edible ornaments. Treats were rare, and the Christmas tree was lovingly hung with nuts, cookies, and candies. Swags and garlands were adorned with exotic fruits like oranges, pomegranates, and pineapples. When the tree and other evergreens were taken down on Twelfth Night, to the delight of adult and child alike, the goodies were eaten along with the other foods of the feast.

It is considered unlucky to leave Christmas decorations up after Twelfth Night, however, truth be told, we wait until the day after Epiphany to start the lengthy process of taking down our stuff.

In modern culture, the date is best known for the much maligned and universally parodied Christmas carol, "The Twelve Days of Christmas." With its geese a laying, maids a milking, ladies dancing, lords a leaping, and ubiquitous partridge, the version we recognize today was first printed in English in 1780 in a children's book called "Mirth without Mischief."

We celebrate with a Mediterranean menu. We particularly like lamb for Twelfth Night, particularly, Mediterranean Lamb Shoulder, but try incorporating pomegranates, pistachios, pita bread, olives, dates, figs, curries, and exotic spices such as star anise, cardamom, and saffron into your meal. Of course, a camel hump roast is always welcome.

Be sure to enjoy a bright, fruity, semi-sweet wine. Israel now produces some excellent vintages, far beyond Mogen David Concord grape. Your local sommelier will be pleased to help you make a selection.

We move our nativity set to the table as a centerpiece before packing it away. That being said, however, there is one oversight regarding the Nativity which I take personally. There is no cat. Surely, where there are straw, grain, and hay, there are mice, and where there are mice, there are cats. No self-respecting stable cat could curb its curiosity enough to not keenly observe such goings-on. I shall not rest until there is a cat included in every manger set.

Mediterranean Lamb Shoulder

Ingredients

3 lbs boneless lamb shoulder roast
3 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
1 tablespoon chopped fresh rosemary
1 teaspoon grated lemon zest
3 tablespoons lemon juice
1 tablespoon honey
6 shallots, quartered
2 teaspoons cornstarch
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper

Directions

Combine garlic, rosemary, lemon zest, salt and pepper; rub all over lamb. Place in slow cooker. Whisk lemon juice with honey; pour over lamb. Add shallots. Cover and cook on low until lamb is tender, 7 to 8 hours.

Remove lamb to cutting board; tent with foil and let stand for 10 minutes before slicing. While lamb is resting, skim fat from cooking liquid. Whisk cornstarch with 2 teaspoons water; whisk into slow cooker. Cover and cook on high until thickened, about 10 minutes. Serve with lamb.

Light some candles. If you haven't already eaten your Christmas fruitcake, now would be a perfect time. Be sure to offer each other a final toast of the season as a sustenance against the darkest days of winter yet to come.

Epiphany is a fitting close to a holiday season that for us starts in September with preparations for the fall and winter festivals - a whirlwind of decorating, cooking, visiting, and activities. A time of special food, special music, special TV shows, special movies, and special memories - old and new.

And remember, no matter what you wind up serving for Twelfth Night, be sure to listen to this droll classic while you are preparing it - “The Twelve Days of Christmas” by the Vienna Boys Choir: youtube.com/watch?v=vXpJ5-OzeHg

Oh, Give Me A Home, Where the Buffaloes... Do Something

Well, it's a new year, and my wife is not a happy camper - literally. Let me explain...

Most of you know my backstory, but allow me the brief history lesson. In late August of 2006, we bought our dream home, the home we hoped to retire, and even die in, an 1890's Victorian farmhouse in a small, rural community.

Almost exactly a year later, I started to develop neurological symptoms. Spinal cord surgery followed in 2008, and despite intensive in- and out-patient rehabilitation, by early spring of 2009, I became paralyzed from the waist down.

Our house is two stories, with the bedrooms and a large bathroom upstairs, and the living areas downstairs, including a smaller, but still good size bathroom, and a parlor off the front room. Even with the paralysis, I managed to maintain enough upper body strength to hoist myself, with the help of my son, up and down the stairs, sitting on my butt, one step at a time.

Life went on this way, then in September of 2013, as if I didn't have enough on my plate, I was diagnosed with cancer (for the second time). The subsequent surgery, chemo, and radiation therapy, exacerbated by the difficulty of transporting me and preparing me for all the treatments, were too much. We had to convert the parlor, which we were using as a home office, into a hastily conceived hospital room.

My wife and son bought a basic twin bed with a metal frame, and drove home with it tied to the roof of the car because we couldn't wait for delivery. They made me as comfortable as possible, and placed a TV on the desk across from the foot of my bed. However, due to digital boxes, signal splitters, and the VHS recording input on our archaic living room entertainment system, I could not change channels.

I could turn my TV on and off, and adjust the volume, but that was it. If I wanted to watch something, I had to get someone else to change the channel on the front room television. This in itself was neither here nor there, but what it really meant was that I could not surf!

Enough of the backstory, now back to the story.

For Christmas we replaced the hundred pound, glass tube piece of crap that stuck out three feet from the wall, in what is now my wife's room, with a brand new, cable ready TV. My son removed some small device that he had attached to the old TV, took ten seconds to pop it onto the TV in my room, and voilà, I was riding the waves.

You have no idea what this means when you're flat on your back, it's 4:30 in the morning, you can't sleep, and there's nothing to distract you from the pain, sickness, and isolation.

I discovered that at that time, the oldies stations - COZI TV, MeTV, and TGC (The Gunsmoke Channel) - showed such scintillating programs as The Real McCoys, Wanted: Dead or Alive, Have Gun - Will Travel, and on weekends, The Lone Ranger. (I'll take kemo sabe over chemo therapy any day.) I have been in bad (or should I say good vs. bad) western TV heaven for the last week.

My wife took off work the week between Christmas and New Year. With her company being closed the Mondays after the holidays, and offering them as paid days, she had a nice little vacation. Today was her first day back, and she was late. Of course, it was my fault.

We have a small fire pit in our back yard, and I have been making my wife prepare all our meals over an open fire. Beef stew, beans and bacon, Indian pan bread, and Dutch oven apple pie. This morning I insisted that she cook the coffee cowboy style. By the time she got the fire going, and boiled the coffee, she was late.

But the burnt grounds in the bottom of my tin cup were worth it. I tipped my hat and said, "Much obliged, ma'am," and as she rode into the sunrise, I couldn't be sure, but I swear her reply had something to do with my head and a horse's rear end.