Yef We Can

Not having a television means I'm totally out of the loop, news-wise. With only an hour at the library, I scan most of the headlines at best, dipping into Salon whenever I get the chance.

So I was nearly undone yesterday at the laundromat, which has a TV, when I learned that Barack Obama has secured the Democratic nomination for President. At least, he's declared victory. Hillary, presumably, will fight on. The newscasters I saw attacked the story from a variety of different angles--will Hillary be asked to be VP? What does she want? What do Obama's supporters think of all this? What do McCain supporters think of all this? Is Michelle Obama the awesome, or is it just me? There were also a few montage-y segments about "how far black Americans have come" that really hit home. A pastor at a church in Ohio pointed out how one of the parishoners was shot seventy years ago for showing up and trying to vote--and now a black man is nominated for president. Is our country ready? God, I hope so. I know I am. I want to show the world how far we've come as a country since 1776, since 1964. Are we there yet? No. But getting so close it's deliciously scary.

We're not supposed to have modern decorations on our houses in the historical area. You can hang a wreath, but it should be natural grapevine or similar. Ditto birdhouses, bird feeders, gazing balls are right off. But I couldn't resist putting a little political sign in my window--not the big blue "OBAMA" yard signs, but a little handmade calligraphied sign on a piece of parchment paper, using old-fashioned type which rendered the Senator's slogan as "yef we can." Teehee.

In other news, it's bloody hot here. I mean--it's ninety-five degrees by nine AM kind of hot. But I now understand exactly where I stand on the Grande Scheme of things: our building has been kept at a cool 68 degrees, not for our comfort, but for the preservation of our racks and racks of period clothing. They would mould and splinter in the heat, apparently. But the air con is pointed right at the stitchers, so while the clothes hang cool and collected, we're all huddled into hoodies and sweaters. And it's ninety degrees outside. Well. Priorities.