In truth, with the incumbent president, it's hard these days to do an overall celebration of our leaders - especially given the ongoing and increasingly more rapid debasement of the office that Trump is demonstrating. As I wrote last year: Presidents Day? Just Not This President.
But there are some presidents I've rather liked and admired, my top three being Abraham Lincoln, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and Barack Obama. Even though I recognize that all of the men who've held the office have their flaws, there are other presidents I've held in high regard as well. Just not this travesty of an edition.
Nonetheless, it is a holiday. And holidays are a good thing, especially in the middle of winter - even a winter as benign as this one has been.
So, even though I don't work, I'm happy to have a holiday. And happy for everyone else who's celebrating today. (Just not this president.)
But February 17th means something else to me. Something not holiday. Not in the least.
Today is the sixth anniversary of the death of my husband, Jim Diggins. Even though it's been six years, there are still times when I wake up in the middle of the night and feel his presence. There are still times when I walk in the door and expect him to be sitting there. To this day, if I come across something in his handwriting - especially something written in Jim's signature red ink - I get a lump in my throat. Even before Jim's death, I already knew that when you lose someone you love, you never really stop missing them. It's just that with Jim's death, I know this more deeply than I had in the past.
As I wrote in last year's post:
Seems like just yesterday. Seems like a million years ago.