The Ides of Winter

It's pruning time in Virginia, spring is right around the corner. Out with the old, in with the new. Despots are falling around the world thanks to a growing youth movement, and social media sites that make community organizing a cinch. And this past weekend I listened up close to Anderson Cooper speak - rapid fire - about his life as a journalist. And his Mother.

First, he spoke with the conviction of a zealot, in spiritual tones. His major at Yale (political science, mostly Communism) was made moot by the fall of the Berlin Wall. He was drifting. Then his brother committed suicide. He was a young man at loose ends, in pain, who decided to travel to the farthest ends of the earth, on a fake press pass, and report some of the worst atrocities we humans could dream up. He had to "...bear witness," he said. He described seeing what a family of four could dissolve into at the side of the road in Somalia - fluids and a patch of hair. Seeing a woman washing her fifth child for burial, with the last of her water. Gruesome stories about rape in the Congo; "Congo holds the numbing distinction of being home to the deadliest war in the world since World War II - with more than 5.4 million people killed during the past 15 years." And he talked about Egypt. But what he said to this large group of southern businessmen and women, was pay attention. Don't let the media distract you with Lindsay Lohan's dress. And I thought about the Holocaust, and how it happened because the world wasn't watching, because of silence and indifference. And believe me, I wanted to canonize Anderson and his silky grey locks right there on the spot.

I also had to read an essay from my older brother, the psychologist, about his memory of our car accident when I was a baby after our Father died. He was only seven years old and watched his Mother, Grandmother, sister and me dragged off the road and positioned on someone's front lawn, bloody and waiting for whatever served as an ambulance back in 1949. It was hard reading even though I had always said I was "lucky" for being only nine months old and remembering nothing. Imagine that this is one of your first memories? Not picking blackberries or sitting on your Father's foot while he reads the newspaper above your head, or getting stung by a bee under a clothesline of clean sheets bustling in the wind.

I didn't mean to write about such gory stuff, but that was my weekend. In a few days we'll be heading for the French West Indies, to rest and recuperate with the newlyweds but without the rock star and his girlfriend this time. He's in Texas, smack in the middle of dubbing and post-production (whatever that means) on the band's new album. A good friend, who is going through a divorce, will be joining us too. The hardest questions will be, pain au chocolat ou yogurt for breakfast and which beach should we visit today? My daughter the Bride just saved a baby's life, and she's been working nights. The Groom has come down with the flu, after nights of call and traveling for conferences and interviews. They need this vacation desperately.

My days of covering school board and borough council meetings are over, and I'm not about to strap on a bullet proof vest and head to a war zone. But I can still write letters to the editor, op-ed pieces, and post some petitions on my Facebook page. Hey, that little site helped take down a dictator! But for now, I'm packing a bathing suit. Happy Spring everyone and I'll be back here in a few weeks! Oops, almost forgot what Anderson had to say about his Mother, Gloria Vanderbilt. He was embarrassed when he had to proof read her sexy memoir, and she called an ex-lover the "Nijinsky of cunnilingus." He told her he knew nothing about modern dance - and I felt like shouting, "He was a classical Ballet dancer!" But I restrained myself.

February Follies

Hear Ye, Hear Ye - next week, in the local newspaper, our newly married Couple will be featured in their Hook Wedding insert. It seems our photographer knew someone who knew someone who thought they had a romantic story. What a wonderful way to celebrate Valentine's Day, right? Being a true romantic at heart, I had always celebrated the day at home, even sending Valentine's goody boxes to both kids when they flew the nest. My daughter, however, never liked cupid's day, preferring to repeat her Dad's mantra of calling it a "Hallmark Holiday." Smart women who are single through most of their 20's, or may have dated one semi-monogamous-commitment-phobic man after another, are rightfully jaded by cupid's bow. The Groom in fact, knowing my daughter's true feelings about Valentine's Day, ignored the day that first year they became a Couple...much to her dismay. You see, secretly she wanted to be wooed, who doesn't? Instead, he surprised her with flowers, candy and a hand-made card on President's Day! I told you he's a keeper.

Here is a small tease about the featured wedding article; when asked to describe their love story in one sentence or less, this was her reply:
"We met in anatomy lab while dissecting a cadaver, how could we help but fall in love?"

And last night, I fell head over red T-strapped heels in love with the Tango all over again. My husband and I had a much needed night out on the town with good friends. A delicious dinner in a fancy restaurant on the pedestrian mall, followed by an exhilarating performance of the Tango Fire Company of Buenos Aires at The Paramount Theatre. I turned to my friend mid-milonga and said, "This is sex in clothes!" I'm not sure why, but I fell in love with the accordion player (also known as a bandoneon) in the band and made a decision immediately to study the Tango. Years ago, we took some ballroom dancing lessons, which included your basic American Tango, but this is the apex - the supremely divine Argentinian Tango. The women were ravishing and actually smiled with pleasure instead of looking off and away disdainfully while they danced. The dresses were to die for, slit up to here with a touch of Vegas thrown in, and the men. Ah, the men were real men! Dashing and dark, strong and engaging, strutting like peacocks across the floor. It was ballet, with passion and desire, longing and pain mixed with ecstasy. It's hard to describe the Tango, it's something you must feel for yourself. And being an old modern dancer, who was once a student at the Martha Graham Company, I felt reborn.

It snowed last night. On the way to the theatre my husband's cell rang. It was the Bride. She was walking two miles home in a snow storm, since cars were piled six floors back trying to get out of the hospital's parking garage. I knew she was a New Englander at heart. And by the time we left the show, it was snowing here too. Just enough to keep cars in the left lane doing 30 miles an hour in our Southern town. So February, come on, show me what else you've got!

The name of the show was: "Tango Inferno — The Fire Within;” ten dancers, four instrumentalists and a vocalist. http://www.tango-fire.com/COMPANY.html