(Elisabeth-with-an-S, a known lawyer, and Mac at the Willow Bar, 04 November 2010. Photo Socotra)
Christmas music leaked out of the clock radio on my desk as I looked out the office window. “Not ready. Not yet.” The clouds were low and gray and chill and way down at the bottom of the concrete canyon I could see some of the building guys wrapping the retro-styled lamp-posts with green garlands. Not ready.
It certainly has become topcoat weather, just in time for the Arlington ceremony for the father of a co-worker. I was thinking about how many layers of clothing would be required to show solemnity while maintaining a modicum of comfort.
And the Arlington thing- you know, the physical separation of the event of departure with the orderly internment of the remains, makes these events a two-part deal. I do not know when Mac’s funeral will come around. I am still getting used to the idea that he is not in the unit up there in The Madison.
He was very much in my thoughts as I tried to pull together the latest issue of The Quarterly, which was basically written and ready to go before he left us. The challenge is to honor his amazing life and still get the copy to the lay-out people. I was musing on how to do that when the cell phone went off in the pile of devices to the left of my computer.
I peered at the screen that flashed bright with the incoming call. It was my associate in Stockholm, who had lost her car. It is one of those things I hate, since it can mean the onset of some sort of mental failing, and I am constantly alert to remember where I parked.
“Snow is coming,” she said in that marvelous softened Midwest accent that has been tempered by daily usage of Swedish as her primary language for the last few decades. “Maybe by Saturday. It is dark and has been since two-thirty this afternoon. It is cold rain and is horrible suicide weather here.”
“You need to find your vehicle,” I said.
“I can’t remember if this is the right station. I am sure it was all clear before I went to Amsterdam on this swing. Banking is insane here. I have the sense of impending doom.”
“Is the Euro going down?” I asked. “I am sorry, I am not tracking economics or politics at the moment. I have had it. I need to get with the holiday spirit.”
She agreed, and gave me the inside story of what it is like to be perched in the northernmost tier of a semi-united Europe in a nation with an advanced social welfare system that is so good that many people just stay home. It is that time of year in the High North. The idea of going home and cocooning had a certain appeal at the moment, and as she completed a square search for her vanished Volvo, she told me she had to go and find a cab.
I was looking through the thick pile of annotated interviews I had conducted with Mac. There were sixty or more of them, plus a few for which I had only assorted piles of bar napkins. It looked like a daunting project to sort and re-edit.
I found the one from two years ago that featured the beginning of our friendship with Liz-with-an-S. I marveled at how good Mac looked that afternoon in early November, just two years away from his leaving.
The phone went off again. “Found the car. It was at the train station, not the one I thought. Life is OK, although it cost me $12 bucks for the cab ride.”
“What is that in Kronors?” I asked.
“One hundred,” she said. “Cheap, since it got me my car back.”
“It is a good thing Sweden did not adopt the Euro,” I said. “It might have got more expensive while you were driving.”
“You are crazy,” she said. “As the Swedish krona is one of the least traded world currencies, it is more sensitive to sudden swings. They are saying we are 25% overvalued against the dollar, which means a depreciation could quickly become more severe if institutional investors decide to dump the currency. We have been doing well as a safe haven for those fleeing the Euro.”
“I guess that is why the poor old dollar is still hanging on,” I said. “It may be crazy here but apparently it is better than everywhere else. I heard they were going to put Greta Garbo on the hundred Kronor notes. That is something that couldn’t happen with the Euro.”
“No, we just vant to be left alone,” she laughed. And Merry Christmas to you!” she said before she rang off into the Stockholm night.
I looked at the pile of papers and the pile of devices. I really need to get in the seasonal spirit. My mood brightened immediately. I could start with the lights back at the apartment.
See, it is a lot easier to get with the spirit if you never took the lights down to begin with.
(Plants with lights. Photo Socotra.)
Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com