I have so much to be thankful and grateful for. First, my master plan of having the Ds settle in my beloved Miami has come to pass -- we're all together in this beautiful, weird city -- the Ds, and sons in law I like as well as love. Even more so, we're blessed with an absurdly adorable grandson -- a chubbier, male version of D1 who has Wifey over the moon with joy -- more than I've seen since she was, well, mother to our adorable little girls.
Yesterday the little man met my ancient suegra. Rachel has no short term memory, and kept getting confused about who the beautiful baby was, but the two smiled and laughed at each other, and we took videos and pictures. My suegra turns 96 in 3 days, and the little man turns 1 2 days after that. Wow -- 4 generations.
Thus far, the plague has passed over my immediate family, like the Hebrews in Egypt with the Angel of Death. I speak daily with my closest friends, and get to Zoom with them as well.
Just last night, Dana noted that a benefit of COVID was just that -- we have weekly sessions where we compare life tales, and drink together.
And still, today, just one half hour before my beloved Canes kick off in the most important game they've played in years, I am suffused with a bit of melancholy.
I called Maria, one of the prime tailgate hosts, to share my feelings. She understood. Usually by now, I am quite happy on a good or better than good amount of vodka. We're sampled Maria's delicious lechon. Maybe we wandered over to Mike's tailgate, to see what craft cocktails and delicacies he has brought to the stadium.
The sound of dominoes crackles. Music blasts. I'm with my closest friends of decades' duration. The problems of the world fade into great distance.
Often my sister of another mister Mirta is my date. She loves the tailgates and games. She and Maria were Coral Gables High classmates, and have enjoyed reconnecting. Mirta enjoys my friends' company, and they adore her, too. And she isn't a drinker, and so happily is our designated driver after the game.
We typically stop at Pinecrest Bakery, and fetch sandwiches, which we bring home and share with Wifey. Wifey tells me not to, but I bring her something chocolate, too. These are great days.
The best tailgates are for night games, but games that kickoff at 330 are fine, too. And it struck me today that, an hour before kickoff, I was walking through the 'hood, instead of in my happy place.
The other day, my friend Darriel called, sad. Her husband Paul was given a choice: keep his job as a medical instruments salesman, by moving to Virginia, or get laid off. At 58 it can't be too easy to get a new sales job, and so they're putting up the house for sale and looking in Richmond. She's very close to her daughter and son, and will miss them terribly, but they have to follow the career. She'll come to a tailgate or two next year assuming the plague is lifted, but will miss going to more.
Our laughter in the stadium parking lot is with abandon. Somehow our witty comments are sharper. We have so many years of shared tales, it's like being at a Dublin pub. The tales get better with time, as do the great Canes memories of amazing plays, and stunning wins.
About 4 years ago, at a FSU game, I really drank too much. A few days later, Eric called, and said maybe I wasn't being the best role model for the teenaged son of Dr. Barry, who drank too much, too, and puked in the family van on their way to Orlando after the game. I was chastened.
The following week, I abstained. The Canes lost. I had a boring, colorless time. I decided to avoid my very wise friend's counsel, although maybe stopping one or two drinks short. The tailgates and games became wonderful again.
I, like the immediate world, want the damned virus gone. Vaccines have just been approved, and the wizard, Dr. Fauci, thinks by Memorial Day we can be back to near normal.
Tomorrow marks 9 months since we started our quarantine. A full gestation. It appears we're going to need an African elephant's worth of gestation period, at least. We can do it. But that jab, as the Europeans call vaccines, can't come soon enough.
My post plague plans are modest. Maybe a Key West 60th birthday celebration in July. Wifey will want to travel more than I. She'll plan the trip, I'll agree with little enthusiasm, and end up having a wonderful time. That's been our pattern.
And then, next Fall, hopefully the great tailgates can return. Food, and drink, and fraternity and sorority.
Screw you, COVID. May you be long, long gone by next season.
Right now, the couch awaits. If the Canes can win, probably an Orange Bowl berth awaits, and a great springboard to next season. If they lose, it'll be one of those lesser bowls, the ones they play in Tampa and Orlando or Jacksonville. And that'll be ok, too.
So for now, Go Canes! I want the tailgates back.
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