The Bluebird of Happiness

I wasn’t going to let it happen, end 2020, that is – a year universally acknowledged as the worst in recent memory – on a downer. Not if I could help it. The only thing we had planned for New Years Eve was Barbara attending a Zoom funeral. (You see where I’m coming from.) Arnold, one of her second cousins, a man in his mid eighties, had died of, what else, COVID. Once the funeral is over, I suggested, let’s watch something a little more upbeat together and I’ll make us some White Russians (maybe with a little more vodka than usual).

Would it surprise anyone if I reported that the Zoom feed was over-subscribed, and Barbara couldn’t watch the live version? (She settled for watching a replay several days later.) Remember, we were still in the waning hours of 2020, a year when the only direction was downhill. Definitely go heavy on the vodka, while we watch The Maltese Falcon. Barbara had no recollection of ever having seen it, meaning I had fallen down on the job. I am, after all, supposed to be the family film curator.

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