The Next Eight Days
IMAGE: The author's parents at Pike's Peak, Colorado, in August of 1961. She was (literally) 29 years old, with him going on 36.
Tonight I'm packing for a trip to (as usual) Ohio. I leave tomorrow morning, on a Wednesday. I return the following Wednesday, unless somebody pisses me off and I decide to return a day earlier.
On the 14th of this month, this coming Thursday, Mom and Dad would have been married for sixty years. On the 20th of February, God had other plans for Dad. (I couldn't find any digitized wedding pictures of both of them, so I had to make do.) Undaunted, the coming of Father's Day the following Sunday gave me an idea, and the siblings agreed. So we thought a little soiree around this time might be in order, and I can open a very special vintage of champagne that I have been saving for just this occasion -- vintage 2000, a good year. It was the last one in which the apocalypse didn't happen.
And speaking of anniversaries, our correspondent Justine, also of Ohio, brought to our kind attention, an event just twenty-five years ago today, the speech that may have tipped the balance to break down the Iron Curtain in Europe, and end the Cold War. Right place, right time, right man for the job.
It doesn't get any better than this. HOO-rah!