Luminous Journey

11/18/20 • 4 min

Leon is dead. He fell on Sunday and broke a leg. Two days after his presumed rebound from surgery, he died peacefully in his sleep. He was one hundred years old. Short, Jewish, with a big nose and a huge presence, Leon was a maverick and something of a flirt. He lived in Southern California and until two years ago, drove an immaculate white Buick with powder blue interior.

That he drove a car so late into his 90s was a bone of contention for his family, the family of my dear friend and best yoga buddy, Andy, Leon’s grandson. I did not get to have a vote in the driving dispute, but when Andy called to ruminate and kvetch a little bit about Leon driving, I asked him if the glistening white chariot had any dings or dents. “It’s pristine,” he intoned somewhat deflated as he vacillated about joining the license-revocation camp of the family...

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Around the Bend

During the pandemic I don’t seem to know what day it is. My regular work has become so entirely irregular that the foundation upon which my full catastrophe—as Zorba the Greek would call it—once balanced now rests upon a teeter totter whose lead-based paint flakes off its dried out 2x6 and creaks on rusty hinges in a wind which is very strong today.

Dried out maple leaves fly by my window on unseasonably warm gusts, 35-40 knots out of the Southwest. This is no sultry Nat King Cole Autumn Leaves kind of wind, ‘C'est une chanson Qui nous ressemble’ but a blaster that makes all the apples drop.

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Farm Share

It is the season of bizarre vegetables. Being the thoughtful Vermonter that I am, I subscribe to a local farm share. Every two weeks I get a basket—actually it is a yellow plastic bag—filled with fresh produce. This is the time of year when my “Standard Family Share” gets weird. Red and yellow carrots, entire branches of Brussels sprouts, parsnips, and kohlrabi find their way into my kitchen. Who are these strangers?

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