I’m on leave just now…a working leave, but I’m taking the time off because we have no childcare through tomorrow, and when i do show up at the office, it’s after-hours because she’s in tow.
Skye’s new schedule will begin on the 30th, and until then, I’m savoring the time with my little flower-power tomboy.
Am I ever. 
A few days ago, I learned of the death of Mr. Peter David, the Washington editor of The Economist. I didn’t post about it here because it was Mother’s Day Weekend, my mother-in-law and I were here celebrating my first Mother’s Day with our darling daughter and granddaughter – and I just thought the weekend could stand as it was meant to be: a happy time.
Now that I head back to work, however – it seems appropriate to recognize Mr. David. He was a wonderful example in my profession.
I met Peter David many years ago, when he came to our U.S. European Headquarters for a meeting with our deputy commander – at the time, a four-star Air Force general. He was hosted very well, and I remember him being a bit bemused by the “rock star” treatment. He took a lot of notes, asked a lot of very intelligent questions, and didn’t do a lot of small talk. I was singularly impressed.
After that meeting, John and I became subscribers to The Economist. (Did you know that it is actually a “newspaper” as opposed to a magazine? Yep, it’s true. For historical reasons, despite being published on glossy magazine paper, the publication is technically a newspaper.) We have been loyal readers since, and I refer to it as the gold-standard in journalism. There are no by-lines, you can count on its sources and the photo captions are wickedly funny. I credit Mr. David as the reason I have a weekly appointment with “The Week Ahead” – a newscast devoted to the biggest stories coming up and The Economist‘s editors’ predictions for their strategic meaning. I also read the publication cover-to-cover…it’s a never-fail source of (sometimes) opposing viewpoints and arguments – always good to read.
Mr. David was only 60. He left behind a wife and children, and his wife was in the car accident that claimed his life (he was the only casualty of the four in the car).
He’s gone too soon, and I will miss his weekly column and insight. His talent as a newsman was expressed very well here, by the newspaper’s media editor in New York, Mr. Gideon Lichfield:
“Peter was a great journalist in the best British tradition. Utterly self-effacing, he liked to wander the corridors pretending he had nothing to do and didn’t really understand anything anyway; but he could take the murkiest issue, see clear through to the other side of it, and write a withering but never vicious critique in prose of wonderful balance and wit. His legacy is a lesson too often forgotten: that it is possible to take the world seriously without taking oneself too seriously in the process.”
I really love Lichfield’s last line – an excellent maxim for a life spent at this profession. It’s always a useful thing to recognize that no matter how “good” you think you are, it is never (and should never be) about you. In these days of celebrity-style media correspondents who really only seem to listen to each other, his character and professionalism stood firm as an example of true and thoughtful reporting, a type of journalism that is fast disappearing.
I’m not a regular reader of poetry.
In fact, I tend to believe that it is an archaic art form. I would rather read the lyrics to a song than poetry.
But, having said that, every now and then, a poem really resonates and I want to share it.
This is from “The Writer’s Almanac” – which you can listen to if you happen to catch it on PRI, or if you want to download the daily podcasts, as I do.
Read on, and hopefully, enjoy.
Finding a Box of Family Letters
~ Dana Gioia
The dead say little in their letters
they haven’t said before.
We find no secrets, and yet
how different every sentence sounds
heard across the years.
My father breaks my heart
simply by being so young and handsome.
He’s half my age, with jet-black hair.
Look at him in his navy uniform
grinning beside his dive-bomber.
Come back, Dad! I want to shout.
He says he misses all of us
(though I haven’t yet been born).
He writes from places I never knew he saw,
and everyone he mentions now is dead.
There is a large, long photograph
curled like a diploma—a banquet sixty years ago.
My parents sit uncomfortably
among tables of dark-suited strangers.
The mildewed paper reeks of regret.
I wonder what song the band was playing,
just out of frame, as the photographer
arranged your smiles. A waltz? A foxtrot?
Get out there on the floor and dance!
You don’t have forever.
What does it cost to send a postcard
to the underworld? I’ll buy
a penny stamp from World War II
and mail it downtown at the old post office
just as the courthouse clock strikes twelve.
Surely the ghost of some postal worker
still makes his nightly rounds, his routine
too tedious for him to notice when it ended.
He works so slowly he moves back in time
carrying our dead letters to their lost addresses.
It’s silly to get sentimental.
The dead have moved on. So should we.
But isn’t it equally simpleminded to miss
the special expertise of the departed
in clarifying our long-term plans?
They never let us forget that the line
between them and us is only temporary.
Get out there and dance! the letters shout
adding, Love always. Can’t wait to get home!
And soon we will be. See you there.
John came home in time to catch at least half of the weekend. We had a late supper when he got back – a simple one of pork pie paired with a leafy salad in my big maple thrift-store-find salad bowl.
The next day was rainy and windy. A perfect setting for Skye taking her naps on John’s chest, Spectre taking his naps at John’s feet, me catching up on filing from my mad dash to get the taxes done last week and Mom Silkman wading into the morass of John’s travel laundry (God Love Her!).
For a lazy Sunday supper it was leftovers with a brand new salad and afterward, a new (delicious!) take on peanut butter cookies while we watched an old movie.
Every once in a while, I love this kind of weekend.
…seems like a really long time for your daddy to be away when you are just eight months old.
Welcome home, Daddy!
I read somewhere a long time ago that “the perfect desk” had a few fixed elements:
A light
A clock
A framed picture
Flowers
By that calculus, I’m missing half of what I “need.”
The clock is easy – I’ll take care of that soon.
The framed picture will be even easier. I know just the two people (and Labradog) who will fill it beautifully.
…our view tonight, Skye’s and mine, from the balcony that faces west.
It seems Spring has sprung.
Right after I took this picture (sorry about Spectre’s eyes…yeesh.) :
…I was feeling very proud of myself for having a newly-vacuumed rug upon which I could safely place my darling baby.
So then I’m heading down the stairs with her and see a stain on the stone floor in the hallway. It’s large, and truly, its origin is unidentifiable – at least to me. Which then leads me to ask Jan: “Uh, Mom? This is a really embarrassing question, given that we’ve lived here since October…but: Do I own a mop?”
Jan just looks down at the stain, takes a drink of her tea, closes her eyes for a long moment, and says: “Not that I’ve seen, no.”
~~~~~
I wish this story weren’t true.
First time for the Bluebird sitting at the Gasthaus table like a Big Girl…and Skye doesn’t let grass grow under her feet – er, hands. John’s away again, but we took our dear friends out and they got a kick out of her industriousness. Don’t worry, the video rights itself after a few seconds. 