Archives for January 7, 2020

If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook, you know that Mrs. T is gravely ill and has been in the intensive-care unit of New York-Presbyterian Hospital for the past three weeks—but that she recently turned a corner.

As I reported last night:

The news about Mrs. T continues to be good. Not only is she walking further each day on the ICU treadmill, but she’s eating more and resting far more comfortably. She still needs those two lungs urgently and is very sick—but much, much better than she was two weeks ago.

Mrs. T is now stable enough, in fact, that I’ve decided to give myself the much-needed caregiver’s holiday I scratched this past weekend when Ian, my nephew, came down with bronchitis and had to cancel a planned visit to New York. My new plan (laugh, God!) is to spend tonight and tomorrow at Bridgeton House on the Delaware, the beautiful riverside hideaway in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, to which Mrs. T and I have escaped a couple of times each year ever since we first got together. (Ecce Bed and Breakfast, our other much-loved vacation retreat, closed its doors last month after a glorious fifteen-year run. We miss you already, Alan and Kurt!)

It will feel strange to stay at Bridgeton House by myself. I’ve only been there once without Mrs. T, back in the summer of 2005:

Before long I was snaking down the Delaware River to Upper Black Eddy, Pennsylvania, the home of Bridgeton House on the Delaware, an inn about which I can’t begin to say enough good things. It’s on the river, the rooms are handsomely appointed, and most even have their own private riverfront balconies. After driving across the bridge to the Milford Oyster House, there to sup on Crab Norfolk and a garlic-laden salad, I retreated to my balcony to watch the river flow and the fireflies blink. It was a hot and humid night, but before 15 minutes had passed the temperature had plunged at least as many degrees, and the fireflies flew off to make way for a thunderstorm. The lightning exploded over Upper Black Eddy as I looked on, delighting in the gaudy detonations far overhead.

As much as I’ll miss her, though, I know I need to spend a couple of quiet nights on my own, free of duties and deadlines, listening to the river and turning loose of the unforgiving moment. Naturally I’m bringing a short stack of books, and I plan to do nothing while I’m there except read, watch movies, eat well, and chat with the wonderfully nice people who run Bridgeton House and who, like me, care very much for Mrs. T. We’ll have plenty to talk about.

See you later.

From 2004:

Blogs are the 21st-century counterpart of the periodical essays of the eighteenth century, the Spectators and Ramblers and Idlers that supplied familiar essayists with what was then the ideal vehicle for their intensely personal reflections. Blogging stands in the sharpest possible contrast to the corporate journalism that exerted so powerful an effect on writing in the twentieth century. Instead of the homogenized semi-anonymity of a mass-circulation magazine, it offers writers the opportunity to practice the old-fashioned art of individual journalism, self-published, unmediated, and interactive….

Read the whole thing here.

“Leisure is a form of that stillness that is the necessary preparation for accepting reality; only the person who is still can hear, and whoever is not still, cannot hear.”

Josef Pieper, Leisure, the Basis of Culture (trans. Gerald Malsbary)