You know, we used to get letters from The Doublewide in the past, and it warmed the Czar’s twisted, desiccated, black-burnt little heart to see one arrive. JAB, one of our longest-serving minions, has a keen eye for detail and memory, and has some things to say about the ability to remember details.
|Dear Your Czarness:
Thank you for your “I Believer Her. And She’s Wrong” post. It came at a particularly timely moment, because I had been discussing the Kavanaugh media circus, a.k.a. Salem Witch Trials, with my older son. As a recent college grad, he has seen the disgraceful and disgusting way that many young men treat young women, and based on some of these observations, he finds the charges to be entirely plausible, just as your Czarness.
So I shared a story with my son about how memories cannot be entirely trusted, especially as time goes by.
The day my beloved placed a ring on the table next to my plate in a fancy (meaning it had actual cloth tablecloths and napkins!) restaurant, well, it was a wonderful day and in more ways than one. My dad was looking for a suitable horse for my younger sister who was a timid rider even for her age. Having grown up on a farm, I have ridden all my life, and back in high school I had an especially frisky cutting horse who demanded that I become a pretty capable rider, or end up on the ground on a regular basis. My job on this particular day was to “test-drive” potential horses for my sister. At Mr. B. Moore’s farm, I mounted a black quarter horse with a white blaze, and turned him down the farm road, and put him through his paces. A good indicator of a horse’s manageability is to put him into a flat-out run, and see how amenable he is to returning to a …more sedate pace. This I did with gusto! And this spirited horse made it clear that he really was enjoying his morning run, and did not entirely concur my decision to put on the brakes. He would have been a perfect horse for me, but he was too much horse for my sister.
I still remember what fun he was to ride on that crisp December blue sky day.
I still remember coming back to Mr. B. Moore, my dad, my about-to-be-fiance` and my grandfather, all standing together at the end of the farm road.
Except that my grandfather was…simply not there. He had died nine months earlier.
I had told this story to someone a few years ago, and my husband reminded me that he never met my grandfather. I had appended his presence onto that day, probably because he was so instrumental in making me into a good rider, and because he had taken me to “test-drive” other horses. Certainly, had he been alive, he would have been there that day too! Even today, I can still conjure up his figure in my memory of that day. But he was not there.
Then I told another story for my son to ponder. Back in the ’80’s I was an undergrad at New Atlantis Ivory Tower University, where today dwelleth and toileth…the illustrious Dr. J. Back then, it was common practice for the fraternities to host parties, complete with bands and free beer, that were open to all. You didn’t need to be a member or guest of a member to attend, and the drinking age had not been raised to 21, so these parties were often…very well-attended. After one such party at a frat where I had a few friends, I went with a guy I knew back to his dorm room. He was a good kisser, as I recall, until he got waaaaay too insistent and “handsy.” At which point…I left and went home to my own dorm. End of story.
Now, let’s fast forward to today. I don’t remember the guy’s name, but I bet if I went through my yearbook I could identify him. If he’s become someone prominent, he might be pretty easy to find via the internet. Even if he’s a “mere” professional of some sort or another, I’m sure he’s on LinkedIn. Since he probably doesn’t remember any more about me than I do about him, how would he defend himself against an accusation from 30+ years ago, especially since we both were drinking? I asked my son if it would be even remotely fair to ruin someone’s life based on my 30-year-old memories? Nope.
I watched Senator Gillibrand today screeching something about searching for the truth from the Senate floor. All allegations, including today’s Avenati’s charge that Kavanaugh orchestrated a series of “gang-rape parties,” are from 30+ years ago, hang on “spectral evidence.” If history repeats, then we are in for the spectacle of more hangings.
My best to all in the Castle.
I remain, yours from the Doublewide,
And, as is often the case with JAB, the Czar need add nothing to her thoughts.
Божію Поспѣшествующею Милостію Мы, Дима Грозный Императоръ и Самодержецъ Всероссiйскiй, цѣсарь Московскiй. The Czar was born in the steppes of Russia in 1267, and was cheated out of total control of all Russia upon the death of Boris Mikhailovich, who replaced Alexander Yaroslav Nevsky in 1263. However, in 1283, our Czar was passed over due to a clerical error and the rule of all Russia went to his second cousin Daniil (Даниил Александрович), whom Czar still resents. As a half-hearted apology, the Czar was awarded control over Muscovy, inconveniently located 5,000 miles away just outside Chicago. He now spends his time seething about this and writing about other stuff that bothers him.