The room was restive. Which is to say, the Boomers—whose minor prostate issues have them up early—and some of the Zoomers were trickling in from their parents’ places in Fairfax or Manassas. A few were just returning from their dens in the District.

Some had done volunteer shoveling with the Building crew yesterday, and the sun rose bright under clear skies. We dodged the bullets that drifted over New England.

Vic was seated midway down the long conference table, looking east toward the cupola of the Red Hat building beyond Mr. Tyson’s Corner below. He took a sip of Flat Yank Coffee and raised his tablet.

“They posted the start time for the State of the Union. Nine PM. Supposed to be a long one.”

There were groans around the table. Bedtimes vary at Socotra House. Some begin before Happy Hour is officially over. By the time the Address begins, a few will be en route to the Clarendon Ballroom—or somewhere else in our other County. Or across the currently fetid Potomac from the big- and continuing- sewage spill just downstream.

Miles, Creative Section Lead, was in a quandary. The late start meant assigning someone to stay up and follow a speech that, even under Mr. Clinton, ran well past ninety minutes. Given recent outings—and a somewhat surprising 60% un-favorability in some polls—it would not be shocking to see midnight approach before the applause lines run dry.

Not needing sleep is a useful trait. It is not universally shared here.

Miles looked down the table at Vic. “Buddy, hate to do it—but would you get up early and see what the commentary streams say?”

“What do you mean, get up early?” said Melissa. “Most of the streams are already written. Or written over.”

Vic straightened and produced a tattered green notebook from his shoulder sack.

“I’ll get up and see if anything actually gets said that we need to say something about. I suspect there will be self-congratulation. With a little bombast. Not all of it incorrect.”

“Consider the alternatives,” he added. “First thing the new Mayor of New York and the new Governor of Virginia did when they assumed office was raise taxes in the name of something called “Affordability.”. Recurring theme.”

Miles nodded. “Probably a quiet day until the speech tonight. The last Middle East strikes happened early on Fridays. There’s supposed to be some Iranian response Thursday. So no action by the Armada until the end of the week.”

Relief moved around the table. It is good to have sun after the edge of a bomb cyclone passes without direct impact on our County. Some of us wore Socotra House colors while shoveling at the Corner.

“Any talk about why the Chinese are dumping U.S. Treasuries?” someone asked. “They used to hold $1.5 trillion. Now closer to $600 billion. Taiwan signal?”

“Dunno,” said Miles. “Seems prudent. We’re arguing with them over the ports they own on ‘our’ Panama Canal.”

Vic lifted the Green Book high, then placed it carefully in the precise middle of the polished wood.

“I’ve been working with a small party of our George Mason communicators on a project. This notebook surfaced during the move out of Big Pink.”

Holly leaned forward. “That goes back to the Iranian crisis!”

Her parents had just started dating then. For her, it is history. For some at this table, it was lived.

“Yeah,” Vic said. “Day-by-day notes on how the Carter Administration responded. But also what it was like to do the lifting. Like these.”

He spread the images.

There were sighs. Mutters. The sound of memory.

Life on a gigantic steel ship that hurled jets into vast blue. Monarchies. Religious zealots. The best beverages in East Africa and Down Under. Tranquil home life in Japan—guarded by a Phalanx close-in weapons system on the sponson below.

“It’s all in there,” he said, laughing softly. “And there are men and women out there doing it right now. God bless them.”

Copyright 2026 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com