a time for every purpose

It’s hard to stop feeling melancholy, remembering and then recognizing that what’s gone is gone for good.
I play Mary Chapin Carpenter’s album with which blogger friend Dave Rogers kindly gifted me through ITunes. It’s melancholy resonates with mine and fills me. And then the melancholy is gone, at least for now. I can think of something else besides what’s lost.
I can think of something like the elections.
I’ve had mixed feelings about Hillary Clinton for the same reasons that many others do. But I’m slowly becoming more and more convinced that she’s the better democratic candidate.
I was particularly interested in the points made in the Washington Post by Geoff Garin, strategist on the Clinton campaign.

So let me get this straight.
On the one hand, it’s perfectly decent for Obama to argue that only he has the virtue to bring change to Washington and that Clinton lacks the character and the commitment to do so. On the other hand, we are somehow hitting below the belt when we say that Clinton is the candidate best able to withstand the pressures of the presidency and do what’s right for the American people, while leaving the decisions about Obama’s preparedness to the voters.
Who made up those rules? And who would ever think they are fair?

[snip]

The bottom line is that one campaign really has engaged in a mean-spirited, unfair character attack on the other candidate — but it has been Obama’s campaign, not ours. You would be hard-pressed to find significant analogues from our candidate, our senior campaign officials or our advertising to the direct personal statements that the Obama campaign has made about Clinton.
The problem is that the Obama campaign holds itself to a different standard than the one to which it holds us — and sometimes the media do, too.

There are no saints in politics. But there are those who can get the job of fixing this country done more effectively than others.
I originally supported John Edwards. Hillary Clinton is my next choice.

life is so confusing

I’m back from another day of helping my daughter clean out her Dad’s stuff. I focused on his clothes, setting aside some that I’ll send to b!X, since they probably will fit him. As it turns out, I took a pair of summer shorts and a pair of cargo pants that fit me because they both have elastic in the waistband. Men’s pants always have lots of pockets. I wish more women’s pants did.
It was so strange going through his things. An invasion of his privacy. Except it doesn’t matter any more. Except it sort of does.
His being gone forever still doesn’t seem real.
I took a Best of Moody Blues CD. A blue pottery bowl. A mortar and pestle. An orange windbreaker. I don’t have a windbreaker. I took the two new deliciously soft bed pillows that he never had a chance to use.
I took five trash bags of clothes, a big box of shoes, and several suits on hangars to the Salvation Army. And there are still clothes left in his closets.
His walls and shelves (except for the full book shelves) are covered with art and crafts. Beautiful stuff that none of us has room for. It will all have to be disposed of.
We keep reminding ourselves that these things are not him, they are not his legacy. They are the things he liked to look at, to think about, to help him remember. They served an important function in his life. He no longer needs them. His legacies are our memories and all that he accomplished through his creativity and passion.
We assess his belongings with great practicality. One or the other of us will make use of his recliner, his couch, the chest of drawers that was part of the first real bedroom set we bought when we were married. (When we divorced, he got the bed and the chest of drawers. I took the dresser with the mirror. The dresser fell apart two of my moves ago. The chest of drawers still looks brand new.)
We go on with our lives.