Dr. Fauci | Muriel Murch

Written and recorded by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side

Last week the Wolf Moon rose over the whole world. Shining brightly through clouds and fog, it blazed through the night and our windows while the coyotes howled for mates on the lowlands along with their wolf brethren deep in the forests. It’s a strong moon for the middle of winter that harbors renewal as seal and sea lion birth occurs on the seashores around us, but the ground is still cold and – tempting as the sun can be – it is too soon to start planting a garden.

Coyote looking about the farm. Photo by Walter out West

The predators that come through the farm change through the years and we would do well to take note. For the moment there are no raccoons or foxes tiptoeing up the stairs to our little terrace. They are deeper in the woods, also hiding from the coyotes and the bobcats that are also happy with the local takeaway of pet-fur as chicken feathers. The coyotes are hungry and so are the hawks. Both eye our chickens. From time to time they get lucky and there are raids that end in death cries and feathers to tell the tale. The predators know this small holding lies on the edge of farming country and that we are not always as vigilant as we could be. The hawks fly in silently and the coyote is quiet as he trots up the back driveway, looking here and there for an easy catch or any human activity that precludes it before carrying on through the barn and out, down the front driveway. He is scrawny, this coyote who comes through, hungry and skinny beyond just the needs of winter.

But there are others – in human form – who are searching, looking for some nurturing of the soul. He is young, dark with weathered skin and hair that covers his head and face as if he is risen from the sea, a messenger from Poseidon, and now finding himself on land, is not too sure what to do next. He wandered in, up the back driveway like the coyote, and stood behind the barn looking about him for a while.

Ever the galant host, our son approached the stranger to ask if he is all right? Slowly coming to earth he responds, “This is so authentic man. Your jacket too. It looks like the real thing.” And covetously eyes it. Walter replies, “It is the real thing. I need it. You can’t have my jacket.” They stand in the driveway, as the stranger ponders his situation. He looks again at the farmer before he slowly backs away – like an animal who has stumbled into another bear’s territory.

But the stranger was looking for something, and maybe found it in the grounded feel of this little farm that sits on the knotty edge of what used to be farming country and is now braced between National Park Land and a vacation paradise. It’s a tricky triangle, played out in this tiny corner of West Marin. But enlarge that geography and the mindsets that cherish agriculture, parkland and vacations, and a storm in a teacup doesn’t even begin to cover it. This week – things came to a head and we have seen and heard the outpouring of frustration and grief at the closure of the ranches within the Point Reyes Parks. It’s a pretty brutal execution and one that could have been so avoided a long time ago with bringing all parties to the table for counsel, consideration, and cooperation. In our local paper – the Point Reyes Light – January 16th issue – there are articles beyond articles of the damage these closures will cause to all the Parklands the environmentalists, the tourists, the ranchers, and the ranch workers whose family members also work in the communities. Dewey Livingston added a column, “Point Reyes in Time” laying out the history of Point Reyes since ‘we’ took it over. Sober and sad as it is, it is also a reminder that we are all a part of history. In ‘The Temper of our Time’ Eric Hoffer wrote “Every great cause begins as a movement, becomes a business, and eventually degenerates into a racket.” Putting some of the environmental and conservation organizations into that equation and you might find a good fit.

On the day that I write this letter another historical change is occurring in America. As one administration bows out another is striding in and the world is trembling in happy or fearful anticipation. In a preemptive move, not something the Democratic party do often, outgoing President Joe Biden has pardoned many public servants to prevent false prosecution by the incoming government. The list is too long for this writing but the democratic Chairman Bennie Thompson, and Republican Vice Chair Liz Cheney, leaders of the House Select January 6 committee said on behalf of the committee they were grateful for the pardons. I choke up thinking that Dr Fauci is in need of protection from such harassment. Immediately on taking office the incoming president puts his cards on the table – playing a full flush of pardons for 1,600 people associated with the January 6th riots storming the Capitol. He went on, signing this and signing that and the ‘to do’ list laid out for his administration – the heads of whom – don’t seem to have yet learned how to lay the table – is long.

Meanwhile – after it is over – I study the news, culling from this publication and that TV station. European leaders, some past, some still sitting at their desks, and some not quite there yet I’m seeing a motley crew with their hair and hats and ties as they took their places behind the second generation American Tech leaders of the moment.

Past Presidents Bill Clinton, George W. Bush and Barak Obama with Hilary Clinton and Laura Bush

Then I look particularly at the women who – like our late Queen – know the subtle messages of the clothes they wear and the actions they take. Michelle Obama is absent. Hillary Clinton standing beside her very trim husband is wearing a Peace on Earth broach. Laura Bush has a single strand of good pearls over her dress as she accompanied her husband George.

A universal image probably from Getty or The Guardian.

Melania is wearing a hat – that fits – her mood, and possibly her need to be hidden as she walks back onto the world stage. And as she controls the gloved touches she exchanges with her husband, she does not let his flesh reach hers. Melania’s hide may not be as thick as she likes us to believe. Only time will tell if the oil of parenthood has softened her skin to embrace the world she comes from and is about to enter once more.

This has been A Letter from A. Broad. Written and read for you by Muriel Murch.

As always supported by murchstudio.com

Recorded and Knit together by WSM

As the wind whips up the autumn leaves along the bottom of the hill children are tossing them over each other as if they are snowballs. Their father stands patiently by the stroller, smiling as he allows his family to cover him with the yellow leaves. The clocks went back, the temperature is dropping, and blue skies struggle to be seen between the grey rain clouds. I reach the bus stop just as the number 274 comes along. I have an appointment with Nick. Following Covid guidelines, the salon remains quiet and his clients come in one by one. Soon a petite, sparrow-sexy lady of beyond my years enters. Socially separated, she settles in beside me for her biweekly shampoo and blow dry. I watch these two old friends sharing the news of the past weeks as best they can through their blue masks. Nick works steadily, caring for her and she relaxes under his touch.

Returning home the weather is squally. Walk, bus and walk again, along an alleyway between Mornington Cresent and Delancy Street, where an old man walks slowly towards me. Politely he stops to give me some distance on the pavement but in truth he has to pause. He is short of breath and is not sure in which pocket he will find his house keys. Then a lithe tabby cat crosses ‘his’ road – slowly – with ownership. At the pavement he leaps lightly to the railing that protects the house, and the stairwell to the basement flat, from the street. A window faces him. He calls – twice – loudly. The lace curtain flutters, the window-sash is raised and he bounds inside and out of the rain. The window closes behind him.

I hurry home to make supper. ‘My Kitchen and I are in good harmony’ wrote a chef, and I understand. One meal leads to another in a simpler way than the frantic cooking of early lock-down. Now there is just a weekly foray into the unknown. Chicken Pot Pie is the challenge for tonight.

Nightly we watch the steep lift in the graph curve of the COVID-19 infection numbers in Little England. Throughout the country hospital staff are still feeling bruised as no-one seems to have caught their breath from the first wave of this disease. This summer the Duchess of Cambridge called for photographs taken during lockdown. Now 100 chosen photos are on display at the ‘Hold Still’ exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery. ’Melanie March 2020’ was photographed by her colleague, Johannah Churchill, and now mural artist, Pete Barber, has painted her for the High Street in Manchester. The picture depicts what no one wants to return to.

Each corner of the country is metered out a different set of government rulings. People are confused, angry and frightened and not always sure of what or at whom. The rulings leave poor people struggling more than before while big businesses find lucrative loopholes.

Half-term has begun which means that school children are home for two weeks. Marcus Rashford, the 22 year-old English Football player, (who may yet have me watching football) petitioned the UK government to continue providing school meals to children whose families are in need over the holidays. The government rejected the petition. But all over the country, local restaurants, big and small businesses are supporting Rashford in providing lunch-meals through this half-term holiday. Speaking to BBC Newsnight, Rashford explained: “Growing up we didn’t have a lot, but we’ve always had the safety net of the community. That community was my family.” For those of us who live in communities we get it. News flashes show Marcus doing the heavy lifting with crates of food and Boris, softer-spoken today, holding a loaf of sliced bread. For now, and long haul, I have my money on Marcus. At least we know he is playing for Manchester and England.

Meanwhile those restauranteurs looking for help have found a ‘Working Lunch’ loop-hole in the regulations for the Tier Two restriction areas, which includes London. One paper wrote ‘You can meet colleagues and people from other firms but you cannot take your mother to lunch. This is a conscious choice by the government to save jobs and livelihoods.’ The following tweets are full of British humor.

Somewhere, buried in this school meals and business lunch storm the Brexit discussions are still taking place. We don’t hear much about them. Fishing rights, like the Irish borders, remains a close-fisted problem of long standing. The French fishermen have fished in the waters of La Manche for centuries and the French government says nothing should change. The UK government is adamant that things will change. This game of chicken could end in a messy chicken salad sandwich.

And then comes Sunday. I confess to be ‘busy in the kitchen’ for some of Andrew Marr’s Political program. The strident tones of host and guest are upsetting and not good for digesting breakfast. But then I hear a calm voice. Andrew too is calmer. It is Dr. Fauci answering questions on the Corona Virus, and, politely sidestepping political jabs, he guides Andrew out of the gutter where he tends to slip speaking with the English politicians at his disposal. There is even a ‘I don’t know the answer to that.’ Politeness, calmness in the face of such needless suffering and death and a gentleman holding his own. Tears come to my eyes at the sight and sound of him. Surely a few good men is not too much to ask for.

This has been A Letter from A. Broad, written and read for you by Muriel Murch.