But I am not quite sure of what I should do in my position as one of the 16 million new poster children for the Crash of 2008. I seem to be having Hope.
This week has been unseasonably warm. No more talk of furnaces or wood stoves.
There was an election. I listened to streamed NPR and broadcast NHPR and window-hopped and read murder mysteries (I am very fond of Donna Andrews. Her plots are good, I like her people and her grammar is IMPECCABLE). I noticed I was still feeling stunned and worried even as I listened to McCain's very gracious concession speech. It wasn't even eleven, didn't elections last for at least a couple of days? I was somewhat relieved to find I wasn't the only one who had trouble feeling, well, anything.
Finally, Thursday, Sarah arrived, pumped out her mind that Terry Gross had referred to "President Obama," and Rob the Lodger moved his second duffle bag in. In the merriment of throwing a double mattress down the stairs (probably the biggest thing I have ever thrown down the stairs; Rob, to his credit, asked from the living room "Am I right in assuming this is the mattress you are giving me?" since lots of people keep one there and he didn't want to be pushy) and I think I finally grasped that the election was OVER, no more fear of Alaskans, and we had elected a black guy (it is so good to be pleased and surprised by one's country) who was also one of the most intelligent-sounding politicians I have ever heard (which, frankly, may have been even less likely than the color of his skin). We opened a bottle of champagne and sat in the living room with our laptops and sent funny election links to one another.
On Saturday Doug and I gave a needle-felting workshop at the Shaker Village. This meant that I spent a lot of Friday reading a murder mystery and then suddenly sprang into needle-felting workshop overdrive. It was successful. Once again we have given members of the public sharp pointy things and they have not used them on us or one another.