During a Congressional gold medal ceremony, the family of officer who died protecting the Capitol on Jan. 6 decline to shake hands with McConnell and McCarthy, who have shunned them since that evil day. It is stunning that these cold fish "public servants" even showed up.
Jurors in New York found the Trump Organization guilty on nine counts in the criminal tax fraud trial, on Tuesday, the second day of deliberations. The guilty verdict followed a month-long trial by the Manhattan District Attorney that relied on testimony by finance chief Allen Weisselberg, shown here in a photo with two sour-looking men, who just happened to be in the same place at the same time.
The Washington Post reported that Jack Smith, the special counsel, has subpoenaed local officials in Michigan, Wisconsin and Arizona, following reports they had tried to install fake electors favoring Donald Trump in the 2020 election. Smith was appointed recently when it appeared nobody in the Justice Department had any heart for this line of work. I like three things about him – he is listed as having done his undergraduate work at Oneonta State (N.Y.), his Pacino-esque beard and eyes; and his most recent job was in the Hague, prosecuting war crimes. He should feel right at home in this assignment.
OH, AND THEN THERE'S THIS: Sen. Raphael Warnock, minister and follower of the the tradition of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King and John Lewis, ran for a full Senate term against Herschel Walker, who once followed his blockers on a football field. Late Tuesday evening, the new Georgia narrowly chose Rev, Warnock. I like this day.
More and More, I Talk to the Dead--Margaret Renkl
NASHVILLE — After my mother died so suddenly — laughing at a rerun of “JAG” at 10 p.m., dying of a hemorrhagic stroke by dawn — I dreamed about her night after night. In every dream she was willfully, outrageously alive, unaware of the grief her death had caused. In every dream relief poured through me like a flash flood. Oh, thank God!
Then I would wake into keening grief all over again.
Years earlier, when my father learned he had advanced esophageal cancer, his doctor told him he had perhaps six months to live. He lived far longer than that, though I never thought of it as “living” once I learned how little time he really had. For six months my father was dying, and then he kept dying for two years more. I was still working and raising a family, but running beneath the thin soil of my own life was a river of death. My father’s dying governed my days.
After he died, I wept and kept weeping, but I rarely dreamed about my father the way I would dream about my mother nearly a decade later. Even in the midst of calamitous grief, I understood the difference: My father’s long illness had given me time to work death into the daily patterns of my life. My mother’s sudden death had obliterated any illusion that daily patterns are trustworthy.
Years have passed now, and it’s the ordinariness of grief itself that governs my days. The very air around me thrums with absence. I grieve the beloved high-school teacher I lost the summer after graduation and the beloved college professor who was my friend for more than two decades. I grieve the father I lost nearly 20 years ago and the father-in-law I lost during the pandemic. I grieve the great-grandmother who died my junior year of college and the grandmother who lived until I was deep into my 40s.
Some of those I grieve are people I didn’t even know. How can John Prine be gone? I hear his haunting last song, “I Remember Everything,” and I still can’t quite believe that John Prine is gone.
Jan. 30, 2023