Edward Hopper, The Indians, an Irish Pub, and a Death

Saludos Guillermo,

¿Qué tal? Sorry I haven’t written in a few days. Jamie was here. It’s always good to see him, really one of my few true friends. Although, I think we have passed the political arguing stage - it’s too exhausting. The drinking and talking stage is also gone, yet I don’t think Jamie knows that yet. It was good to talk science and politics, and I got him to accept and wear the ‘Impeach Him!’ button. His revulsion at the Bushies is almost as strong as mine. Of course, we all pale in comparison to the venom in your Mother heart for the Republicans. Never accuse your Mother of not taking a position. She gave Jamie a through talking to regarding illegal immigration. You know that story.

We had a good few days with Jamie. I took yesterday off. Jamie and I went to the National Museum of the American Indian and the new Edward Hopper exhibit at the East Wing of the National Gallery. The Hopper exhibit was spectacular – and my fondness for Hopper is not coloring my opinion. It was an experience. I had never seen most of the paintings in the exhibit, only a few really. Nighthawks is famous, I’m sure you have seen it. There is something haunting about his work. It’s all about color, light and loneliness. Enough on art interpretation, you’ll have you own thoughts on the paintings. Sometime when the mood strikes you give Hopper a look – I’m sure you will not regret it.

The National Museum of the American Indian was our second Mall stop; we should have left after the Hopper Exhibit. It was a disappointment; it was so bad that I’m not even sure where to begin. They had very few artifacts, the design was chaotic, and the historical thread non-existent, but why go on. No point in a meticulous description of the bad and ugly. Don’t waste you time; you’ll thank me.

Our last stop was the Dubliner Pub up by Union Station. I had never visited it – it’s been a renowned political hang-out for probably fifty years. Jamie tries to visit it on all his Washington trips. What can I say it was a pub, dark wood, the smell of beer and fried food, the service was good and the beer was cold?

I’ll probably be a year or two before I see him again, but that’s how things go. He keeps me up too late. The night owl in me has retired. I’ve reversed things a bit. I go to bed early, and get up early – usually between three and four. The evening had become a waste, I was too tired to read or write, too tired to even watch decent TV. I would watch crap TV and eat – not a good thing. Now it’s different, I get up, read, write, edit photos, whatever strikes my fancy until it’s time to get Andrew up and ready.

You will still have to be patient regarding your account; I suspect it will still take a couple more weeks to straighten it out. I have had to find a bunch of paper to confirm that the money was yours, and not mine. If we are lucky it will be sooner. I’ve been assure that it will all be resolved. I hope that your money is holding out alright. Please let me know if there is a problem.

Andrew seems to be thriving, he seems to have his nose to the grindstone – well, let’s not go overboard, yet, he does seem to be working. His Eagle project is progressing nicely; he probably will have his project write up done this weekend – if I push. As you can see he did a great poster on Hunter Thompson for his Theory of Knowledge class. He got an ‘A’ on his first AP Stat class of the year. I’m proud of him, he’s working, thinking, and beginning to engage; it’s a pleasure to watch.

I read your last letter to Mom; I empathize with your claustrophobic living situation. As nice as your family seems to be, it’s still a small space and strangers – very different than home and school. Hopefully as the weather improves and the city comes out of the chill of winter you will find some places to hang out and relax.

When I was first in Spain I lived with a woman and her Mother, Conchita and Momma. Conchita reminds me a bit of B****** – she was loud, occasionally boorish; nice but always in your face – a real little Napoleon. Conchita was always trying to get me to pay my traveling companion’s, Mike Sweeny, board – not that he wasn’t paying; she just wanted it in advance. But Mike’s another story, unfortunately he returned from Spain in a box.

Momma could barely hear, one side of her face drooped due to a stroke. I doubt she could see out of her left eye – her left lid only opened a crack. She’d slowly shuffle around the apartment with her walker. You’d hear the bang of the feet of her walker come down on the wooden floor followed by the sounds of her slippers scraping forward.

Hearing and watching them go at one another over the Thursday paella preparation was a sight to behold. Momma’s handicaps didn’t slow her down a bit. It probably was an advantage; she wasn’t distracted by hearing Conchita’s machine gun Spanish at 50 decibels. Two simultaneous tirades going off at full blow – can’t say I understood most of it, but body language is universal, and the paella was great. The thought of paella and un vaso de tinto makes my mouth water.

I was only at Conchita’s for the first summer, after that I paired up with a couple of other students for an apartment at the end of a long subway and bus ride from the University.

We got some bad news yesterday Robin’s mother died. It was expected, she had been gradually slipping away, nevertheless it is hard on them. She had been living in Charlotte with Neil and Robin for the last year or so. Neil had multiple televisions set up in the living room so that she could watch the Steelers while Neil watched the Panther’s. Drop Robin a line - know she would appreciate it; her email is R--@---------.com.

Well, once again it is time to close. Always remember we think of you constantly.

Love you, miss you, and take care down there.

Dad