The Amtrak train that we have taken several times from where we live in Michigan to Chicago has crashed, just outside of Chicago. Details are not complete, but apparently the Pere Marquette (Amtrak) ran into the back of a freight train. Many are injured, some seriously. The Amtrak employees in the engineering car are the worst. No surprise. The photos show the engineering car upon on the freight car like a giant sleek bull humping a particularly boxy- looking cow. Sorry for the image--just reporting it like it looked to me.
In almost simultaneous news, a man has taken hostages at Hilary Clinton's campaign headquarters in Rochester, New Hampshire. He "wants to talk" to the candidate. Oh, yeah, dude. That's going to happen. The latest reports indicate that the man has mental problems. I am just SO surprised. Guns always work to get conversations started. Rational people always use guns to say hello, how are you, can we talk.
I drug out the graduation regalia and tried it on. It fits just fine, but the tam hat still feels silly and looks sillier. Spouse took a picture of me in it (no makeup, hair unwashed), as a preview of the big day coming. I did mention to him that it was a pity that my graduation had to be mixed with Christmas. He said, "Welcome to my world." He was referring to his birthday on Dec. 19, which has always been a source of irritation for him. When he was a child, his birthday gifts would be wrapped in Christmas paper. His cake would be a Santa Claus cake. He suspects that his mother would simply select one of his Christmas gifts to be a birthday gift. Because I knew he felt that way, over our 36 years of marriage, I have taken great pains to make his birthday a separate holiday occasion. I have never used Christmas gift wrap, and I never try to blend the two occasions. I reminded him as graciously as I could of all that and also reminded him that he had a birthday every year. I did not finish a Ph.D. every year. He said, "Well, if I had the money, I'd do something special for you." Teeth clenched. Groan. As the female character in Dilbert says, "Must. control. Fists. of. Death." Or something like that.
Time for Plan B. Subtle hints do not work on this man. I knew that. I knew it was useless to even so much as suggest that I should have a celebration. He also said, "Well, it's not my fault all our friends are so scattered all over." Oh? It was my idea for us to move to Michigan, was it? I know there won't be anyone to celebrate with us except for the sons and their wives (and a couple of cats). I hereby resign myself to the inevitable. I guess that's Plan B. It always is. Dr. S.
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