As I most always do, gentlemen, I tender my standard preamble: this post is lengthy, not in a War and Peace way but it’s far from a more easily digestible two paragraph forum post. Those who haven’t the time or constitution for such stretches of reading are better served moving along, no hard feelings on my part. If you’re sticking around then I humbly request your forbearance, as I most always do.
I consider myself—properly or otherwise—to be a romantic sort. I appreciate the ability we have to, with words and/or actions, ever so gently touch and lift another’s heart, to calm or entice their spirit with our own genus of magic. I believe these moments of soulful import most often happen privately, but in American history we have voluminous textual documentation of such a relationship between John Adams and his wife, Abigail. Their relationship was not one of perfection but undoubtedly one of genuine humanity, filled with respect, admiration, a true dearth of intelligence, and absolute, earnest affection. Long have I admired, even been charmed by, Abigail Adams. I consider myself fortunate indeed to have found my own present-day counterpart, but I’ll get to that shortly.
Almost immediately following the American Revolutionary War John Adams was named the newly minted United States’ first Ambassador to Great Britain by the Continental Congress. As you may imagine, having to make nice with the country that just handed you your collective *** isn’t something we humans are apt to want to do, much less be forced by protocol or any kind of unwritten social convention to proffer to your former enemy. John and Abigail had been lamentably separated for quite a long time while he had been posted in France in a frustrating attempt to convince the French Court to officially recognize the revolting colonists as the good guys. Ben Franklin was much better suited to the task and grew to dislike Adams’ direct style of political exercise. Eventually Abigail and their daughter Nabby came to live with him in Paris, and, with the Revolutionary War ended, they all went to London, very much a mixed blessing for John, and as it would turn out, for Abigail as well.
The Britons—especially the general populace—seemed to go out of their way to show the Adams’ the very contrary of genteelism, the aristocrats especially so. In her frequent correspondence with her family back home Abigail didn’t pull punches when describing her dislike of London and its environs. “I shall quit Europe with more pleasure than I came to it,” she wrote, “uncontaminated I hope with its Manners and vices.” The longer they stayed in London the more homesick she became, longing for her more sensible, American life and homestead “…which has more charms, for me, than the drawing rooms of St. James, where studied civility and disguised coldness cover malignant Hearts.”
And there, folks, lies the foundation for this post—civility, and the underlying current of warm comforts that we all sometimes take for granted.
If we were to assess or aggregate lists of what we are most grateful for I daresay we would find much more in common than in difference. Ironically, that may be an inverse truth regarding our shared ‘hobby’—there is much which we hold in friendly disagreement, if only because this is such an individual pursuit. What I find pleasing you may find repugnant, and vice versa.
And this recent DIY project . . .
I know, not shaving related, but if I reeeeaaaaaally stretch it I can say it is made with ‘upcycled’ (a term I’ve yet to come to grips with) wood, just like my shave storage unit. Too far a stretch? Okay, okay.
In case you’re wondering, it’s a homemade Squatty Potty™. If it made you smile then it was worth the post infraction. Besides, we like pictures here, right?
I wish each of you warmth and genuine good will this Thanksgiving and holiday season. It has been a pleasure to associate (if digitally) with you, and I hope that all who may enter into these threads of discourse within our forums do so not with disguised coldness or malignant hearts, but rather with their better angels at their shoulder.
Happy Thanksgiving, all.
I consider myself—properly or otherwise—to be a romantic sort. I appreciate the ability we have to, with words and/or actions, ever so gently touch and lift another’s heart, to calm or entice their spirit with our own genus of magic. I believe these moments of soulful import most often happen privately, but in American history we have voluminous textual documentation of such a relationship between John Adams and his wife, Abigail. Their relationship was not one of perfection but undoubtedly one of genuine humanity, filled with respect, admiration, a true dearth of intelligence, and absolute, earnest affection. Long have I admired, even been charmed by, Abigail Adams. I consider myself fortunate indeed to have found my own present-day counterpart, but I’ll get to that shortly.
Almost immediately following the American Revolutionary War John Adams was named the newly minted United States’ first Ambassador to Great Britain by the Continental Congress. As you may imagine, having to make nice with the country that just handed you your collective *** isn’t something we humans are apt to want to do, much less be forced by protocol or any kind of unwritten social convention to proffer to your former enemy. John and Abigail had been lamentably separated for quite a long time while he had been posted in France in a frustrating attempt to convince the French Court to officially recognize the revolting colonists as the good guys. Ben Franklin was much better suited to the task and grew to dislike Adams’ direct style of political exercise. Eventually Abigail and their daughter Nabby came to live with him in Paris, and, with the Revolutionary War ended, they all went to London, very much a mixed blessing for John, and as it would turn out, for Abigail as well.
The Britons—especially the general populace—seemed to go out of their way to show the Adams’ the very contrary of genteelism, the aristocrats especially so. In her frequent correspondence with her family back home Abigail didn’t pull punches when describing her dislike of London and its environs. “I shall quit Europe with more pleasure than I came to it,” she wrote, “uncontaminated I hope with its Manners and vices.” The longer they stayed in London the more homesick she became, longing for her more sensible, American life and homestead “…which has more charms, for me, than the drawing rooms of St. James, where studied civility and disguised coldness cover malignant Hearts.”
And there, folks, lies the foundation for this post—civility, and the underlying current of warm comforts that we all sometimes take for granted.
If we were to assess or aggregate lists of what we are most grateful for I daresay we would find much more in common than in difference. Ironically, that may be an inverse truth regarding our shared ‘hobby’—there is much which we hold in friendly disagreement, if only because this is such an individual pursuit. What I find pleasing you may find repugnant, and vice versa.
- I am grateful to my son for introducing me to ‘wet shaving’ last Christmas. He gifted me a Van Der Hagen TTO and a Cremo package containing a tin of their Reserve Blend cream and a horsehair brush. I have moved on from the VDH razor but still have it, and still enjoy the Cremo cream, along with lots of other soap options—it’s been a pretty good rabbit hole to visit, and less expensive than many others.
- I cannot fully express how much it stings to write this, but many times truth does not come without some measure of pain . . . I am, to some degree, grateful for all the fools, idiots, and morons who pollute my external life, for without them I may not fully realize that I am, in some respects, a better person than them and certainly smarter (as a general rule). Yes, I understand that’s a touch absinthian, but I ask you to consider what other positive could you plausibly extrude from the woeful dolts you encounter?
- I am grateful to many of you here who, unbeknownst to you, help to keep my aforementioned simmering hubris in check. You often remind me there are truly many intelligent people around, but I still ply the Universe with queries as to why they don’t coalesce about me.
- Indeed grateful that I can share a DIY project like my shave gear storage unit and you guys just ‘get it’.
And this recent DIY project . . .
I know, not shaving related, but if I reeeeaaaaaally stretch it I can say it is made with ‘upcycled’ (a term I’ve yet to come to grips with) wood, just like my shave storage unit. Too far a stretch? Okay, okay.
In case you’re wondering, it’s a homemade Squatty Potty™. If it made you smile then it was worth the post infraction. Besides, we like pictures here, right?
- I am thankful that I survived another year, still upright and breathing; that I was able to visit Italy and Greece with my son this year and immerse myself in a bit of antiquity—and that I got to share that experience with the woman below . . .
- Forever grateful for my most ardent and heartfelt best friend, Bella Dea—her mortal name is Denise. As of late she has taken to a different kind of forum where folks dealing with a range of pain management issues frequent; her pursuit is one of chasing the very real specter of suffering, while mine, here, one of more pleasurable means. I would give anything for the power to assuage her pain but I know she will get through this. She absolutely must, for she is my true mortal blessing, my Abigail Adams.
I wish each of you warmth and genuine good will this Thanksgiving and holiday season. It has been a pleasure to associate (if digitally) with you, and I hope that all who may enter into these threads of discourse within our forums do so not with disguised coldness or malignant hearts, but rather with their better angels at their shoulder.
Happy Thanksgiving, all.