The urge to purge, disappointment, and surprise

 

Just because I really like this picture.
My gang and me in front of Tiffany elevator doors in Chicago's Palmer House.
That trip was seven years ago right about now.
This morning dawned drearyagain, and I thought we were in for a day of rain. Wishful thinking. I knew theBurtons had plans most of the day—Jacob’s golf tournament, a football gametonight, etc., and I had no plans, so it promised to be a long day. I wasn’teven sure what I wanted to work on. Drifting, you might call it.

I’m not sure what changed the moodof the day, but I found myself purging files. I have a rack of file folders onthe credenza (a much fancier word for what it is) by my desk. It’s overcrowdedand messy, and somehow, I found myself pulling folders, sorting old papers. Ihad a file labeled “Pending” where I stuck everything I didn’t know what to dowith. As a result, there were receipts from 2019 and precious little that Ineeded to save today. Several files could go to the “inactive” file—a disorganizeddrawer in the bottom of a cabinet beyond the pretentious credenza. No, I didnot alphabetize—I just stuck them in wherever they would fit. That’s one thingthe kids will someday have to deal with—I can’t get down on the floor to beorderly about it.

And then there are recipes—fourfolders of them, though I sent one folder, labeled something like “Lean andGreen” into the house for Jordan. And I sorted through the others, some withrecipes I’ve kept since the seventies when the kids were little. It wasn’t theold recipes I purged—they are like treasures—but the countless new ones I printon impulse and then later realize I will never cook. I have now filled twowastebaskets, mostly with culled recipes.

While I sorted and discarded,I had the TV on, watching for a Paxton verdict. When it came, it was at firstagonizingly slow—for each article of impeachment, a clerk read off the way eachsenator voted. Call me Pollyanna, because I honestly thought the vote might goagainst him. But as the words, “the Senate cleared him” came up more often, Ilost heart. At first, I thought maybe the more serious charges would come later,but no. That bunch of cowards acquitted him on all counts, when it is clear toanyone who’s been following the proceedings that he is guilty as sin. Onenational news source called him “impressively corrupt.” Let me right now give ashout-out to my senator, Kelly Hancock of North Richland Hills, one of only twoRepublicans who consistently voted to find him guilty. I quickly wrote Hancocka note of appreciation.

There’s not much consolationto be had, and I won’t rehash Paxton’s corrupt career nor the proceedings,though I thought it impudent and imprudent of Dan Patrick, at the end of proceedings,to blame it all on the House who should have not impeached in the first place.Talk about impartiality.

I am angry. I am furious. I amdismayed that I live in a state where corruption and greed rule. I don’t intendto be silent, but I feel helpless, and I don’t like it.

My day was brightened,however, about two o’clock when the phone rang—a number I didn’t recognize so Ididn’t answer. It quit ringing, but whoever it was called right back, and I sawthat it was a call from Omaha. Normally the origin of the call doesn’t meanmuch, but I answered just in case. And it was one of the people in this world Imost treasure: Martha Andersen, who I’ve known since the early Sixties.

We were in graduate school,working on master's degrees, at Kirksville State Teachers College (now TrumanState University) in Missouri. Our fathers knew each other, which was ourinitial contact. Her fiancé and my soon-to-be husband hit it off, and the fourof us spent a lot of time together, until they left as Dick’s work took him toKansas and then Nebraska and we moved to Texas. But we kept up, and theyvisited. After my divorce, I spent a lot of time on the phone with Martha, andin later years the three of us went to Santa Fe and they made a couple of tripsto Fort Worth. When they sublet a condo in Hawaii, Jordan and I flew out tospend days with them.

It was and always has been onof those friendships that just clicked. We can go weeks, months without talkingand then pick up right where we left off. She is sometimes a beta reader forsomething I’ve written, and she’s good—I take her ideas and comments seriously.Today we talked about my kids and hers and where they are today. For mostpeople, that’s idle conversation, but we really care. She talked aboutgratitude after all we’ve both been through—and I had to stop and think for a moment.I worry about her health, but I don’t think of myself as having been through alot. But then there was divorce and cancer surgery years ago and in recentyears the hip, and I realized she has always been there for me.

Bittersweet: neither of ustravel these days, so I doubt we’ll ever hug again. Makes that phoneconversation all the more precious. I have her number in my computer, and Iintend now to all often and a lot. Email isn’t enough.