Early January is the time for looking ahead: goal setting for left-brainers, hopes and fantasies for right-brainers. I missed late December’s time for review and reflection, so I will catch up that before moving on.
Although this blog eschews partisan politics, politics in general is part of our culture. The presidential carnival provides our diet with its necessary fiber if precious little nutrition. A year ago, when the first pre-primary skirmishes were afoot, I encountered someone who, as a professional, had worked on several presidential campaigns. I asked her whether the primaries were political maneuvering or shenanigans.
She replied, “Neither. Primaries aren’t politics at all. They are show business.”
The most succinct and predictive observation of the year was David Gergen’s remark at the end of Romney’s concession speech: “And thus Mitt Romney walks off the national stage.”
Please, dear passengers of the Jolly Swag, offer your own most poignant memory of 2012.
My own life continued trapped in its labyrinth–ever more happily so. Preferring always to awaken with Serendipity regardless of with whom I sleep, I ignore the trick about following the left wall.
I wintered in North Florida, roaming between Sarasota, Weeki-Wachee, and Ocala, then cruising up Florida’s Elbow to wait for spring.
May found me in Atlanta, a most pleasant surprise of culture and diversity: a blue pocket in a red state.
On the 4th of July I got to Maine, quite possibly the best place in the country to spend the summer. Mainers are good people, sturdy, independent stock. They sent Angus King, their Independent ex-governer, to the senate.
The fall found me sailing down the Blue Ridge Parkway for the annual leafy fireworks. Mid-October on the BRP ought to be on everyone’s bucket list.
I spent another month in ATL, testing out its invitation to be this gypsy’s home base for part of the year. I joined the 95-year-old Atlanta Writers Club. Before any final decisions could be reached, family business called me back to Maine. Surprise of surprises this tropical beachcomber will be spending the winter on the southern coast of the only one of the contiguous 48 states that has but one neighbor. Already there has been 18″ of snow, I believe that is as much as I’ve collected in all my years. The outdoor thermometer has not risen to 32 degrees in over a week.
Generous nieces and nephs have raided bottom drawers and showered me with wool gloves, scarves, long johns, and flannel-lined everything.
I am here for six months or so. Beneath the drifted snow is a gift–I will already be in Maine when summer comes.
The Year on the Road topped 200 essays and 2000 comments. It is time for an organizational tune up and a focus overhaul. Come to think of it, so am I.
I am anxious to hear how your year went.