I was planning a Halloween party for tomorrow night. It’s All Souls , Samhain, AND a blue moon. Last weekend we got out all the Halloween decorations and costumes we’ve accumulated since my daughter’s childhood. She loves Halloween; she hung the strings of lights that look like tiny lanterns, like skulls, like floating eyeballs. (I really didn’t know she still loves it so; this is, of course the first Halloween we’ve spent together since …2011! ). She put together a vampire cowgirl costume, while I wavered between Sexy Witch and Knight Templar. And tonight we’re carving pumpkins. Every year I forget how strenuous that is 🥵! Those suckers are tough.
But there won’t be a party. I had to cancel it when a large contingent of my guests, members of the same extended family, turned out to have been exposed to the Sinos’ Infection. Three, at least are sick, with one positive test, so there’s little doubt.
I NEVER cancel parties. I consider it a major catastrophe, a bad omen, a rout. I was sulking and muttering about it all day. I really pitied me.
But what I want to tell you is about one friend I spoke to tonight. I had invited this couple even though I know the wife is very sick. This is one of my schoolmates, a few years older, one of the big boys in the back of the school bus , with whom I’ve gotten to actually be friends since we came back here. A giant of a man who drives gigantic earth-moving machines.
He said they couldn’t have come to the party anyway. How is she? I asked. And his answer was the title of this post. That was all there was to say; he invited no further discussion. Such are our Plateaunian men.
Rough. Dying is rough. Trying not to die is rough. That is, indeed, all. O spare me yet a little! as the Psalmist entreated.
I am ashamed of my petty pique. Every day above the ground is a good day, as a friend of mine (now interréd) used to say.
A blessed All Souls and Blue Moon to you all, Ratty!