Slave

I am a slave…a slave to memory…real and imagined.  

I am a thrall to bittersweet realities that I lived, subtly and overtly rewritten the way memories always are over the course of time, and a fool for the more golden remembrances of things which I know never happened but plaintively wished had.

I am a freeman and a slave just the same…a slave to my passions, as fickle and unfocused as they are so often…a slave to wanting the world…no, that’s not true…a slave to wanting MY world to make better sense…to cast me as the sage…the seeker…the lover…the blissful dreamer…the contented soul that I like to imagine myself to be when the moon is low and my scrupulously erected barriers have begun to crumble a little.

I am a slave to dreams…a slave to sorrow and bitterness…a slave to hope and laughter…a slave to the notion that all lost love was the healing love recognized just a heartbeat after it had vanished into the mist of the ever present past…a slave to recrimination, fair and too often unfair, that lingers long after it should have faded into the ether.

I am a child of fleeting light…a child of abiding shadows that I long ago stopped expecting anyone else to truly understand. 

I am a child…I am a man…a freeman of color living in a cool, sometimes cold gray world…dreaming in a warm, always welcoming world of soft, flowing color…blue and gold, red and green, burnt orange and royal violet…black and white…

I am a freeman.  I am a fool.  I am a dreamer.  I am an illusionist.  I am a master of all I imagine. 

I am a thinker.  I am an idiot.  I am a hero.  I am a coward.  I am special.  I am not special at all.

I am a slave.

150 Words: Moonshadow

Darkness lingers later in the morning again…stars twinkling in the waning hours before sunrise due to our hubris in attempting to manipulate time to suit our mortal whims…and the moon, the bright yellow moon, smiles patiently down doubtlessly amused at our illusion of mastery over time and space.

And me, I’m being followed by a moonshadow…in the wee hours, into the bright hours as our stately old world sails the cosmic sea and turns its face to the radiant star that warms and protects us as the journey continues. 

I’m being followed by a moonshadow…I’m being warmed by a sunshower…but, of course, I’m not unique, moonshadows and sunshowers keep us all in our journey back towards the light eternal. 

Darkness lingers…we “save daylight” without irony and the Universe, ever patient, allows us our illusion of mastery over time and space…and I’m being followed, we’re all being followed by moonshadows…moonshadows...moonshadows…

Outside

Outside…in the morning moonlight…in the warm winter sunlight…in the flow of humanity making their way in the workaday world that surrounds…standing outside, looking in, wondering how to bridge the gap.  Wondering, in fact, if he wants to bridge the gap (of course he does…everybody wants to be inside the shelter…he tells himself he doesn’t as proof against the feeling that he never really will.)

As a child he knew that he wasn’t the center of the universe…but that didn’t stop him from imagining he was…didn’t stop him from puzzling over what exactly other people had to do when he wasn’t there to see them. 

As a man he knew that he wasn’t the center of the universe…hasn’t ever been the center of anyone’s universe; but that didn’t stop him from longing, however foolishly, that he could be…even if only for a brief season.  It’s a gentler, egocentric madness.

Outside…standing outside the fire…standing outside the world…shielding himself with words and music and an abundance of self-pity and unvoiced doubt…standing outside, looking in, wondering if he really wants to bridge the gap.  It’s a foolish, wholly unoriginal madness.

word association

Cold sweat…coughing…walking through self-indulgent wildernesses…days melting into one another…alone and angry…resigned and isolated…down on friendship…down on romance…down on fate…down on faith…down on the whole dance…can’t find the exit…can’t find the future…can’t find the light…can’t find the way…

Roadblocks…dead ends…no hands to hold…this is life…this is now…not a hero…not a warrior…not a man…not crying out…not being listened to…nothing worthwhile to say…can’t find no peace…can’t find no magic…can’t find no way…

Whiner…slacker…navel gazer…stupid man…want to scream…want to cry…want to laugh…want to fuck somebody who pretends they care…want to remember…want to forget…want to be forgotten…want to fade away…can’t find the sky…can’t find the hilltop…can’t find the way…

150 Words: The Ghosts Are Quiet

The ghosts are quiet at 5 AM.  They are there to be sure…they are always there…but they respect the sanctity of the predawn stillness and they are quiet. 

The ghosts are quiet but the Universe…the Universe is electric, humming with life and death, light and music, possibility, probability, and regret; disparate threads, everyday wonders, shimmer and sing, muted at 5 AM but there to be sure…they are always there.

The ghosts are quiet…the Universe is alive…and the demons…the demons wait patiently on the sidelines waiting for the night to end and for the morning…with its bright, implacable light…to begin. 

The ghosts are quiet…until a truck engine groans to life, until an angel whispers good morning, until the first shaft of sunlight rouses the first songbird of the day, until the demons stir anticipating another day of mischief, until…until it’s no longer 5 AM and the ghosts begin to speak again.

150 Words: Victor

Victor likes to imagine himself as a victim.  It gives him some pleasure to think of himself enduring great pain and hardship…especially if he’s suffering for the sake of others. 

He knows that it’s not a healthy way to think but he indulges it anyway; it is, he rationalizes, a gentler madness.

Once he wanted to be a hero…heroes save the day and get the girl.

Once he wanted to be a leader…leaders pave the way and make safe the future for those who trust and follow him.

Once he wanted to be a lover…lovers heal the world with their bountiful hearts of love, agape and erotic and sweetly romantic, and everyone loves them just for being.

But now Victor…cognizant of the irony given his name…wants to be a victim, imagining that being a victim will, in turn, make him a lover, a leader, a hero.  It’s a gentler madness.

The First Rule of Fight Club

The first rule of Fight Club is…

I dance with demons and angels and feel, somehow, that I’m not part of any of it…that I am unconnected…that I am loved conditionally and therefore not really loved at all…I dance with demons and angels…I dance on the outskirts of real life…I dance with myself and tell myself that it’s probably not going to be okay…

I am Jack’s rampant ego.

Making kissing noises and smiley faces at the thinning crowd…I tell myself I feel too much…I think perhaps I don’t feel much at all…I paint my face and put on the shows…a clown, a puppet, a puppeteer, a lover, a friend, a wise man, a tortured soul, an unappreciated artiste, a safe harbor, a clueless blowhard in superhero t-shirts and well worn blue jeans…I feel too much…I don’t feel much at all…it’s probably not going to be okay…

I am Jack’s impotent rage.

I look inside for solace…I look inside for freedom…I look inside for protection from the big old scary world…I am a child without a parent…I am a boy without a clue…I am a man without tethers…I am a man without trust…I am a man with love to spare…I am a man who stopped believing in love…in peace…in dreams…in the myth of happily ever after…

I am Jack’s inflated sense of relevance.

I sing the blues because they make me cry…I sing the blues because they make me feel something, anything, even if only for a moment…I sing the blues because no one else will sing the blues for me…to me…about me…I sing the blues because that’s easier than facing the fact that my life has amounted to less than I imagined it would…less than I imagined it had…I sing the blues because…well, because…and it’s okay…and I’m not sure I care anymore…and I’m not sure anybody cares anymore…I am at war and the enemy is me…it’s probably not going to be okay…

I am Jack’s bottomless well of self-pity.

I am…

I…

Damn it.

The first rule of Fight Club is…

Another Summer Sunday

The air is gathering humidity in soft steady increments, capricious August heat seeping over the near horizons and into every nook and crevice of the workaday world. The animals have retreated to the comfort of artificial breezes and the people find comfort in dreams of ocean shores near and far.

Dylan is singing…”Sweetheart Like You”…and the man is singing along in a hazy golden spotlight that teases his whiskers and makes his eyes glisten just a bit more than he would ordinarily allow. He needs to shower. He needs to shave. He needs to shake himself from his reverie and make himself useful for a change.

It’s summer in yet another corner of America…it’s hot and humid and simmering with longing and possibility…it’s golden and gray and every shade in-between…it’s another Summer Sunday in one man’s America.

The Ghosts of Michael

The ghosts of Michael visited me in Dreamtime. They are always with me, of course, but sometimes they appear more vividly than at other times…last night was one of those more vivid times.

I was in my mother’s house…the house where I went from boyhood to manhood (with all of the amazing, confusing, bawdy, wondrous, bittersweet glory that still-unfolding journey entailed)…and the ghosts, the sweet specters of memory, were dancing…dancing for me, dancing with me, dancing all around me.

All of the ghosts…the tender ghosts of Michael…were visiting, lingering, haunting. They always haunt I supposed…lingering soft in the ever expanding realms of memory, fancy, and the heart.

The ghosts danced…caressed…laughed…kissed…slapped…mocked and comforted and cursed me…so many ghosts. They spoke of the past…they sang of the future. As always, they were my memory…my fantasy…my conscience…my mirror…my heart, my soul... my universe writ in broad flourishes and in fleeting, poignant snippets.

The ghosts of Michael…blue, gold, and green in the shimmering dreamscape…stayed with me until the dawn called me back to the waking world…they stay with me even into the waking world…they stay with me, keeping safe the past, opening doorways into the future….the ghosts…the always lingering, always welcome ghosts.

Crazy

He sat in the oppressive, welcoming solitude of his room staring at the wall and holding back acid tears. Maybe I’m going crazy, he thought, finding some solace in the contentment he imagined that being mad might bring; maybe I’m already crazy and just am the last one to know.

He woke with light flowing through his being…full of energy and purpose…but, seemingly out of the blue, the light faded and the grayness consumed him before the morning was done. He was tired. He was achy. And he was sad…profoundly, unfathomably sad…and he couldn’t put his finger on why. Or, more likely, he didn’t want to put his finger on the many reasons why. Didn’t matter, it was what it was…and it had no outlet.

There was no one to talk to…no one who would really listen…only those who would hear just a little and then turn the conversation back to their own concerns. That was okay most of the time…his life was filled with attentive listening, it was the one thing people both loved and resented him for…but in that moment he just couldn’t bear it.

So he sat…in the oppressive, welcoming, bitter solitude of his room staring at the ceiling and holding back self-pitying tears. Maybe it would be more peaceful being mad…being freed from the shackles of his life, blissfully unaware of nothing more portentous than the passing of days and the songs of windborne birds…maybe crazy people had no communion with sadness…with isolation…with self-doubt and self-pity.

Maybe.

But I’m not crazy, he thought ruefully, and I guess I don’t really wish I were. But sometimes…sometimes…

He sat in the oppressive, welcoming, bitter, safe solitude of his room staring out the window and holding back un-manful tears…maybe he needed to hit something…maybe he needed to kiss someone with passionate abandon…maybe he needed to let slip the tears and let the sadness wash out of him…maybe he needed to go a little bit crazy so he could return to being a little bit sane.

Maybe…

He shrugged and chuckled at his hubris. With a sigh he closed his eyes and sat back. This too, he knew from experience, would pass. This too would pass.

Believe in Humanity

(This post...along with the previous two posts...was inspired by reading Girls Like Us by Sheila Weller, a book about Carole King, Joni Mitchell, and Carly Simon)

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I fold into my solitude…fumbling, fading, fencing with life from a distance…and I don’t find it to be disagreeable. It’s easy in fact to be beyond anger…beyond connection…beyond trusting that anyone will be there just because I want…just because I need…them to be there.

My faith wanders looking for new places to plant itself and start reaching for the sun again and I let it go, never truly imagining that it will find safe purchase in scorched fields of broken dreams, foolish fancies, and the naïve belief (sorry, John) that love is all you need.

And still…and still…and still…despite my cowardly hubris…my self-protective hubris…my rational dispassionate hubris…my faith soldiers on and I believe.

I believe in the sureness of the sunrise and the magic of little girls laughing…the magic of kisses from beautiful strangers and the comfort of awkward bear hugs from reticent men who don’t know where to put their feelings they can’t…they won’t…call love.

I believe that every day is gift from the universe…that every day is something that belongs to me just because I claim it…I believe that true love is exceedingly rare but always…always…always worthy of being sought out and embraced.

And still…and still…and still…despite all evidence to the contrary…I believe in possibilities that love is real…that friendship exists beyond mere convenience and happenstance…that pretty lies are always trumped by beautiful truths. I believe…even folded into my solitude…that I am not alone…never alone…never completely alone.

And still…I believe in myself…I believe in my dreams….not matter how silly and extraordinary and crazy they sometimes are…I believe in my friends and my neighbors and my countrymen…yeah, despite having so many reasons not to, I still believe (thanks, Carole) in humanity…

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MKW Pop Culture Stuff (including a review of Girls Like Us):

Neverending Rainbow

150 Words: Idyll

The breeze dances around, mischievously trying to tease me out of my stillness, but I pay it only passing heed. I’m under the tree…the big one that stretches over the roof of my suburban home and reaches humbly for the sky…reading about Joni Mitchell and finding poetry in the expanse of the azure sky. Perhaps, I wonder fleetingly, I am becoming too comfortable in my solitude…but I let that go (if it’s true it’s not a bad thing…for a lingering soft season anyway…and if it’s not there’s no point in letting grayness in on such a glorious summer’s day.)

And so I breathe, the wind tickling the new growth on my recently shaved cheeks, and read about Joni and soak in the sunshine and find poetry and soft symphonies in the cloudless summer sky…and so I breathe, comfortable in my solitude, and let the moment linger as long it will.

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MKW's Pop Culture stuff: Neverending Rainbow

Another Monday Morning

My feline overlords were waiting impatiently outside my bedroom door. 5:31 was, it seems, past the time when they would have preferred to break the fast. Already put out because I no longer leave my bedroom door open at night (I used to but their nocturnal habit of walking on me at 2 O’clock in the morning put an end to that) they are barely tolerant of my tardiness but I ignore it until I have finished my morning absolutions in the bathroom.

Fed and happy (for the moment anyway) the overlords (actually two lords and one lady) drift off to places in the house (in the now open bedrooms mostly) and give me space to savor my first mug of tea, to glance through the paper, to delete a majority of the newly-arrived e-mail (spam filters are not nearly as effective as I would like.)

I did my household chores yesterday so I finish the latest research project (gotta make that coin) and clear the decks to work on my novel.

A shower and a second mug of steaming tea and I’ll be good to go. The morning clouds are clinging to the sky petulantly but the guy on the radio assures me that they will lose the struggle by mid-morning. It’s going to be a good day. It’s another Monday morning.

(Today’s soundtrack: “Michael Keith’s Summer Mix ‘09” and Bob Marley & The Wailers’ B is for Bob)

Where the Heck is my Flying Car?!?

There were supposed to be flying cars.

There were supposed to be bustling cities on the Moon.

And other cool stuff like that.

For those of us of the “boomer” generation, the world of the 21^st century was supposed to be a wonderful full of things that we could indeed imagine (heck we had 2001: A Space Odyssey and The Jetsons…we knew what was coming up by the time we reached a year with a number like 2009.)

But here we are…2009, almost a tenth of the way through the 21^st century…and we ain’t not got no flying cars! What’s up with that?

What we do have are wars and the portents of wars in far-flung corners of our world. What we do have are bleak financial clouds roiling from one end of the planet to the next. What we do have are people who seem bound and determined to hold fast to that which separates us…borders, languages, slights both perceived and imagined…instead of celebrate that which makes us all part of the same terrestrial family (which, of course, is nearly everything that is really important in our existence as living beings in the grand scheme of the boundless and wondrous universe.)

That said, what we also have is a world that glides gracefully through the cosmos as surely as it as for eons…what we have is the ability to embrace hope, to celebrate love, to dream of peace…what we have is everything that makes us magically, infuriatingly, incredibly, undeniably human. What we have is the wisdom of the past, the surety of the present, and the amazing possibilities of the future.

We still have the voice of the people making their desires known. We still have the laughter of children and the sighs of lovers and the soul-affirming majesty of music created and art of all kinds shared. We still have time to dream and hope…to laugh and to cry…to make love and to make peace. We still have time to…be.

It’s 2009…and, all things considered, I think we’re getting the best part of the deal.

I still want my flying car though...

a summer's snapshot

There's a soft breeze making the stately trees in my front yard dance languidly...the sky is bright and blue...the doves and other birds are taking seeds from the feeders and water from the fountain.

In my backyard the tomatoes are ripening and the plum tree has given up its tartly-sweet bounty...the rosebushes are in bloom once again, colorfully celebrating their perfumed glory before they rest for the autumn and the winter.

I breathe deep the summer's air...I breathe deep the summer's magic and music...I breathe deep and smile acknowledging, for the upteenth (but most certainly not the last) time that it is a beautiful old world.

Namaste, y'all.

We Are

We are laughing…in the boisterous way that children do…sharing secret comedy…in the earnest way that best friends do…and it is a good moment. And then the moment passes and we go on with our carefree day bolstered by healing mirth and undying kinship.

We are crying…in the way that only true loss can bring on…separated by our shared but unshared grief…and then we closed our eyes to hide our naked tears and held on to each other for a brief eternity…and it is a real moment. And then the moment passes and we comfort each other in self-conscious, self-healing, cathartic and empathic silence.

We are singing…in the unabashed way that only lovers totally comfortable with each other could dare do with each other…making a cheesy love song ours in a way that would linger with us long after our paths had diverged…and it is an amazing moment. And then the moment passes but the smiles and the ardor linger and keep us and our hopeful hearts warm.

We are dancing…soft and languid, passionate and almost ruthless…dancing the carnal dance in the humid sanctuary of our lovers’ bed…we are dancing to a soft symphony of whispered endearments and sweetly profane declarations and reaching for the bright light crescendo as one…and it is a magical moment. And then the moment passes but the tender laughter, shared while catching our breath and setting off sparks on each other’s satiated bodies with the most fleeting of touches, fills the darkness and bonded us as our senses reach for the calm.

We are laughing…we are crying…we are singing…we are dancing…we are sharing the universe and letting the universe share with us…we are dreaming and waking, shouting and whispering, loving and hating…we are accepting and denying, reaching out and holding back, discovering and losing…we are flying and we are falling.

We are being.

We are.

Share Hugs

There is something sublime and amazing about hugs. Maybe it's because they can be shared in so many emotionally intimate and emotionally satisfying ways.

Hugs are democratic expressions of love, friendship, concern, fidelity, celebration, sadness, empathy, passion, grace, understanding...they get through the barriers we erect around ourselves (if only for a few connecting moments) and bring joy and empathy and delight in ways that words often fail to.

So share hugs whenever you can...share them with your parents and your siblings and your cousins...with your children and your grandchildren...with people who who make you smile and with people who need to know that they're not alone. Share them with people you love and with people who've done you wrong but want to atone. Share them with people you know who are blue and with people you've done wrong and you need to atone.

Share hugs with your lovers and with people you want to be your lovers (even if you know they never will be.) Share them with your significant others (even and especially when you start to take your lover for them for granted.)

Share hugs for selfless reasons (most of us need hugs from time to time) and for selfish reasons (most of want to be hugged sometimes even if we pretend that we don't)

Yeah, it's a ditzy, flower power idea but so what? In our sometimes gray and cynical world, maybe we need a little flower power in our lives every once in a while...

So share hugs...they're good for you...they're good me...they're good for everybody.

Namaste, y'all.

Dirty Laundry

I dreamt that I woke up (yeah, I know…just go with it) and heard a raucous commotion in the outer room. Walking out of the bedroom I found my dirty clothes hamper had been dumped out onto the living room floor and Jerry Springer, Montel Williams, Judge Judy, and Maury Povich were furiously digging through my dirty laundry looking for…well actually, I didn’t know what they were looking for.

“A bit on the nose, isn’t it, folks?” I said as sardonically as I could so soon after waking up.

All four of them sprang up and surrounded me. “Laugh it up, buster,” Judge Judy snarled poking my chest with her bony finger, “but when I find the goods on you I’m going to drag your no-good butt into court and let you have it! Just you wait!”

“Ooo-kay,” I said trying to take a step back from the spray of righteously indignant spittle coming from her thin, angry lips.

Maury Povich spun me around and brought his face so close to mine that I could almost taste the turkey sandwich he had for lunch. “There’s a 99.730017792% chance that you’re the father and I’m gonna find the proof!”

Before I could reply to that, Montel Williams spun me around. “My psychic will tell me everything I want to know about you, buddy. Prepare to be smacked down on national television!”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that nobody watched his show any more.

Jerry Springer nudged me and bent close. “Look, if you’re cheating with your alcoholic midget nympho half-cousin who’s pregnant with your priest’s love child, I can make you a star.”

I nodded warily. “Thanks, Jerry, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Do you know what you want?” Judge Judy demanded.

“I want you all to go away…?”

“No!” Montel bellowed. “You want to be on television!”

“Why?”

“BECAUSE EVERYBODY WANTS TO BE ON TELEVISION!” they all shouted as one.

“And if you’re not gonna fess us, then we’re going to keep going through you dirty laundry until we find something,” Maury said portentously.

I backed slowly out of the room as the four of them leapt back into the pile of sweaty t-shirts and used BVDs. “Yeah, good luck with that,” I said softly not wanting to upset them again. “Lock the door when you go.”

Jerry, Montel, Judy, and Maury ignored me as they clawed at different pieces of my soiled clothing.

“Eww, what’s that?” I heard Judy ask as I ambled back into my bedroom.

“I’m not sure,” I heard Jerry reply with no small amount of concern in his voice, “but I hope to God that it’s chocolate…”

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MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

Melting (a brief Spring interlude)

So I was out watering the roses, the tomatoes, the fruit trees, and the irises in my backyard and listening to the song playing in my head (which was, in case you were wondering, “Tears Cry on Their Own” by Amy Winehouse…don’t know why, I’ve long since made my peace with the fact that when a song decides to take up residence in my whimsical psyche it’s best just to let it go rather than trying to fight it) when my mind wandered in the odd ways it sometimes wanders. I felt, for fleeting moment, like I was melting.

The sky was crystal blue and the Santa Ana winds (hot, dry winds that blow in off the desert…as opposed to the cool breezes that usually blow in off of the Pacific) were dancing softly but insistently and thus the day was unseasonably warm (91 degrees) for a San Diego May afternoon.

The sun and the spring/summer winds were competing to impishly caress and tease my shaved head and bare arms and, for a brief little eternity, time stopped and I felt like I was melting…an odd but not really unfamiliar sensation.

The moment passed…Amy started singing again…and the roses, tomatoes, fruit trees, and irises…parched by the withering heat of several days of unseasonable temperatures…got my full attention again.

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More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

Presidents' Day (or President's Day)

Susan loved Presidents’ Day (or President’s Day…she wasn’t really sure which one was correct.) She loved all of the hoopla…all of the pomp and circumstance. She loved the long moments of silence and reflection given to each and every President. She loved that thundering booms of the fireworks that would slash colorfully across the nighttime sky that evening. She loved gathering together with all of her loved ones for the Presidents’ Day (or President’s Day) feast of meat loaf, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and cherry pie.

But most of all, Susan loved the parade. She always got up early to stake out a place right up front on the avenue for the gala Presidents’ Day (or President’s Day) Parade…Susan knew that everyone loved a parade but nobody, she thought just a bit proudly, could possibly love a parade…especially the unimaginably dazzling Presidents’ Day (or President’s Day) Parade.

The crowd had swollen to thousands of excited Americans waiting to hoop and holler as they celebrate the wit and wisdom of their elected leaders. At 8 AM sharp…the parade was ever a model of American efficiency…the Parade started with relatively-reasonable facsimiles of Uncle Sam, Lady Liberty, Benjamin Franklin, a Native American woman (Pocahontas?), and some black guy in overalls (John Henry?) leading the way.

The reasonable facsimiles were shaking hands with men, giving red, white, and blue candy to the kids, and kissing the women. Uncle Sam, who was coming down Susan’s side of the street, was going above and beyond the call of duty by drawing every pretty girl he could get his hands on into lingering embraces. Susan thought to take step back but the wildly cheering crowd behind her kept her front and center.

Sure enough, Uncle Sam seized her and hugged her tightly. Uncle Sam smelled of Scotch and cigarettes and Susan was sure that he was looking at her bosom when he slurred “God bless America”. Susan chose to believe that he his hands cupping her buttocks was an accidental thing. She also chose to believe that he had a firecracker in his front pocket.

The Native American woman (Sacagawea?) pulled Uncle Sam away and Susan took a deep breath and turned her attention to the Washington drill team…20 tall white men wearing white wigs and Revolutionary uniforms performing precision movements with their gleaming, razor-sharp axes…and the wonder of the day flooded back into her.

The grand parade went by her in a grand, celebratory, patriotic blur. Susan was still wondering how long it had taken to blow up the William Howard Taft balloon when, suddenly, the parade was over.

Susan sighed happily as the throng…many of whom had spontaneously starting humming “Hail to the Chief”…drifted away to go enjoy their private Presidents’ Day (or President’s Day) celebrations at their homes.

Susan hugged herself and smiled. “God bless America indeed,” she said as she headed home towards the feast her mother was cooking. She hoped the Presidents’ Day (or President’s Day) meat loaf wasn’t dry this year.