We celebrated the welcome demise of 2020 in a manner befitting a plague year — all dressed up with nowhere to go. But we had a good time all by ourselves: martinis before dinner, a fine old vine Zin with filet mignon and roast potatoes, followed by dancing to Ella Fitzgerald,   then watching the ball drop in Times Square on TV. My  hope  is  that  the  new  year  will  at  least  be  no  worse  than  the  old  one,  while  holding  to  the  possibility  that  it  will  be  better.  Perhaps  to  save  me  from  even  that  modest,  very  cautious  optimism,  my  younger  son,  Marc,  texted  me  this  quote  from  King  Lear:  “And  the  worst  I may  be  yet.  The  worst  is  not  so  long  as  we  can  say,  ‘This  is  the  worst.'” Applied to the current situation, the mere turning of a calendar page changes nothing. That said, I am extremely grateful that things are well with us, though we have lost three friends in the past nine months — two from Covid. My wish is that the country’s fortunes improve, that citizens suffering from lost jobs, lost friends and relatives, see their own fortunes and happiness restored, and that this awful pandemic becomes history,

 

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