And so on a soon-to-be-winter's-day. . . . I pause and look around my neighborhood. The house I mentioned in a post last summer is still empty. The last newspapers left for recycling have turned into a mushy pulp. Last July 4th another house right across from it had a serious fire. The old couple who lived there had to move out (temporarily?) and renovations are ongoing. A stuffed Uncle Sam stayed on the front porch through September, when someone put it out of its misery. It disappeared. One day a couple of family pictures in elaborate frames were put out for the trash. Who were they? Who knows. The construction crew has gutted the interior, put on a new roof. . . they are almost finished rebuilding the garage.
In a season where good will toward men is supposed to be happening, the neighborhood seems even more isolated than it did last summer. Few people stir except to go to work. Those who still have jobs. By my reckoning about 50% of my immediate neighbors are unemployed right now. My guitar business hobbles on its last leg. Once I sell the remaining stock it will be gone. I see a horizon ahead with hope, but I can't tell you what the future will bring.
And it's funny because a few years ago I thought there were things you could hang your dreams on. Solid. Home "land-line" telephones. Books. Prime-time dramas presented by the major networks. Rock. Work. Manhattan as a center of. . . something or other. Now I don't feel that there's much one can depend upon. The future never seemed so open. . . and so empty.
I'll shake this mood. But right now the idea of "happy holidays" sounds like some sick, twisted oxymoron.
The sun will rise again tomorrow. And a new generation will grow up and there will be a few that will do unbelievable things. Great things. I wish them well.