Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Sorry for the recent silence. Ol’ Robbo’s laptop finally gave up the ghost and I just now remembered my WordPress password to log on from my phone.
This, of course, is not a practical blogging platform. Eldest Gel and I are going over to Best Buy to look at Chromebooks tomorrow, so hopefully Ol’ Robbo will be up and running again shortly.
Meanwhile, have another glass of port, and Ol’ Robbo thanks you for your patience.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Oof! For a while today Ol’ Robbo thought that his laptop was going terminal and that the decanter would be off the table for an extended period of time before he could purchase another, but a hard reboot seems to have done the trick (at least for now). So here we are!
***
Ol’ Robbo was out for his lunchtime walk yesterday down the office – the first really clear and sunny day we’ve had in a while – when I suddenly noticed the change in the light caused by the sun’s ever-climbing angle in the sky. I was delighted, as I always am at this happening (and, of course, at its corresponding change in late summah). I find that I generally seem to notice this phenomenon about three or four weeks before the corresponding equinox. As with the sign of the end of summah, so with the sign of the end of wintah: It fills Ol’ Robbo with hope for better times ahead.
Not that Ma Nature is through just yet. Ol’ Robbo’s task this morning was to deal with a couple of very large branches that came down in the Port Swiller Manor back yard as a result of last weekend’s nor’easter. Not a pleasant task, as it involved, among other things, having to cut up a limb of about eight inches’ diameter with a little handsaw. (Oh, to own a chainsaw!) I’m happy to say that I managed to clean it all up by myself, but as I am no longer young, it was about all I was good for today.
***
On a completely different topic, for some reason or other Ol’ Robbo’s hand has fallen recently on a couple of books given me by my elderly cousin when she cleared out her deceased husband’s old library: A.P. Hill, Lee’s Forgotten General by William Woods Hassler, and Old Jube, A Biography of General Jubal A. Early by Millard Bushong. They both date from the late 50’s/ early 60’s, are highly partisan, and, at least as far as the Hill biography is concerned, decidedly amateurish. But what struck me is that both books cite and quote a fellah named Douglas S. Freeman, who turns out to have been a Virginny writer and historian of a slightly earlier generation.
Because my mind works the way it does, this repetition of Freeman’s name by both authors reminded me of the enthusiasm for an old professor of the hopelessly dweeby protagonist Raymond Midge in Charles Portis’s The Dog of the South:
I had been at Ol’ Miss, too, where I studied the Western campaigns of the Civil War under Dr. Buddy Casey. Don’t talk about Virginia to Dr. Bud; talk about Forrest!
For a long time I had a tape recording of his famous lecture on the Siege of Vicksburg and I liked to play it in the morning while I was shaving….It was one of those performances – “bravura” is the word for it – that never become stale. Dr. Bud made the thing come alive. With nothing more than his knuckles and the resonating sideboard of his desk he could give you caissons crossing a plank bridge, and with his dentures and inflated cheeks and moist lips he could give you a mortar barrage in the distance and rattling anchor chains and lapping water and hissing fuses and neighing horses. I had heard the tape hundreds of times and yet each time I would be surprised and delighted anew by some bit of Casey genius, some description or insight or narrative passage or sound effect. The bird peals, for instance. Dr. Bud gave a couple of unexpected bird calls in the tense scene where Grant and Pemberton are discussing surrender terms under the oak tree. The call is a stylized one – tu-whit, tu-whit – and is not meant to represent that of any particular bird. It has never failed to catch me by surprise. But no one could hope to keep the whole of that lecture in his head at once, such are its riches.
I suppose the fact that this passage tickles me means I’m a bit of a dweeb myself, but Ol’ Robbo has never really denied this. And yes, if you haven’t read Charles Portis (author of True Grit), you should be doing so.
***
Well, anyway. Ol’ Robbo must toddle off to the store in a bit. I do believe that I am going to do my first grill of the year tonight, and Eldest has put in a heartfelt request that I repeat my pulled-pork recipe from a couple weeks ago tomorrow, which I will need to prep this afternoon.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
A red letter day today for Ol’ Robbo as it was the first time this year that I was able to get out into the Port Swiller Manor demesne and begin getting it ready for spring. Woo Hoo! I knew I missed being able to potter around outside, but I didn’t realize just how much so until I started in on it.
A perfect morning, too. Sunny, coldish but not cold, little wind. The maples and cherries continue to bud and I noticed the daffodils have broken ground while my peonies are just about to.
My task today was to focus on the garden, cutting down the butterfly bush, trimming back the roses, and, noticing that the hydrangea behind the fence were encroaching more than they should, whacking them back as well. Altogether, Ol’ Robbo was at it for about five hours.
All I can say is man, am I out of shape. None of these tasks were exactly heavy-duty, but all that clipping, to say nothing of the squatting, kneeling, bending, and hauling has left me pretty achy.
But a good kind of achy. (Indeed, Ol’ Robbo has an idea he read something recently to the effect that this kind of weekend warrior stuff is in fact more beneficial for us desk-bound paper-pushers than previously thought. Hopefully getting back into the groove will make me feel better than I have most of this wintah.)
Glad I was able to enjoy the day, too, because Ma Nature appears to be serving up another Storm of the Century of the Week for Port Swiller Manor in the form of a Nor’easter which is supposed to hit late tomorrow and into Monday. Five to eight inches is what Ol’ Robbo is hearing at the moment, which is a pretty respectable snowfall for these parts. I don’t doubt I have some shoveling awaiting me in the not-so-distant future. (Believe it or not, there’s still a few patches of snow around the Port Swiller Manor yard left over from the January 25th storm.) Hopefully that won’t interfere with next week’s task, which is to clean up the rayther large amount of wisteria I have about the place and to deal with a couple of yews out front that need a trim.
*** No, not that Spring Training. Having followed his beloved Nationals reasonably closely over the off-season hoping for some sign that ownership is finally going to start taking the team seriously, Ol’ Robbo has absolutely no reason to believe they are going to do any better this year than last year, so has already resigned himself to the seemingly never-ending “rebuilding” two-step. Heigh-ho.
All Is Proceeding As I Have Foreseen UPDATE: Two, maaaaybe three inches, but it’s that nasty, wet, heavy stuff. Couple of big branches down out back, and yes, Ol’ Robbo was out shoveling at zero-dark-thirty this morning. I, for one, am really looking forward to spring.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Once again Ol’ Robbo finds himself apologetic over the dearth of ramblings here. I can only suppose that I have fallen into one of those late winter ruts caused largely by the fact that the “snowcrete,” although finally starting to melt three weeks after first forming, is still pretty thick and slippery on the ground here, and has kept me more or less cabin-bound when not otherwise slogging off to work and back. My Muse pretty generally refuses to cooperate under such circumstances.
That said, Ol’ Robbo is finally going to attempt to take Decanter Dog for a walk later this afternoon for the first time since the big storm. I’ve been in fear of trying to navigate the ice with him, as he’s more than big and strong enough to have me over and break my neck if he lunges at the wrong time. Wish me luck!
Another attempt to break the monotony is Ol’ Robbo’s very first try at cooking pulled pork. At the behest of Eldest Gel, I found a recipe for a rub the other day including spices I’d never heard of before. (What the heck is “cardamom”?) Slapped the stuff on the meat yesterday, refrigerated it overnight, and am about to stick it in the oven for the long, slow session. I’ll let you know if it’s any good. (On the opposite page of the recipe book is one for babyback ribs. Eldest wants me to have a go at those, too.)
Well, here we are. “Presidents’ Day” is one of those pernicious reworkings that thoroughly irks Ol’ Robbo. What was once upon a time a day devoted to celebrating the birth of the Father of Our Country has been cheapened to the point of being a sort of Participation Trophy for everyone who has been Chief Executive, however tawdry, incompetent, corrupt, or just plain evil he was. (Feel free to insert your own examples here.) You might invoke the old military maxim about saluting the rank, not the man, but Ol’ Robbo might say stuff that. Hmph.
Speaking of Ol’ George, this week Ol’ Robbo became aware of the Make DC Square Again movement, which is calling for Virginny to cede back the land appropriated in 1846 from his original layout of the District (now, essentially, the People’s Republics of Falls Church, Arlington and Alexandria). This is brilliant. If those Deep Blue people want to be embraced in the cold, iron grip of Collectivism, let them play out their utopian fantasies somewhere other than Richmond.
Well, anyhoo, as I mention the ice is finally melting and there’s a real prospect that I may be able to get out in the garden and start cutting everything back this coming weekend. That, together with this week’s onset of Lent may very well be just what Ol’ Robbo needs to shake himself loose.
Fat Tuesday UPDATE: Whelp, the pork was fantastic. Don’t rely on my word for it: this is Eldest’s verdict. And Ol’ Robbo can’t believe how incredibly easy it was. Definitely will go into the rotation, and should be especially useful when entertaining the various Gels’ Young Gentlemen when they come a-calling. (Those boys do eat some.)
By the way, Ol’ Robbo does not plan to knock off posting here for Lent this year. I’ve been so infrequent about it already that such abstinence would be meaningless. So don’t go away!
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Well, the winter that Our Betters repeatedly assured Ol’ Robbo is now a thing of the past continues to hold Port Swiller Manor in its iron grip. The “snowcrete” as they’re calling it has been on the ground for two weeks now and shows no sign of melting any time soon. (Ol’ Robbo took a fine toss on the stuff the other evening while trying to wrench his garbage can out of its alcove, and it’s Benny Hill-grade comedy to watch Decanter Dog deal with it in his back yard romps.) Today we are expecting howling winds and all their attendant outages and damage. Ol’ Robbo recently read that this has, in fact, been the longest and coldest snap in the area since the late ’80’s, and I can very well believe it. And that it has a direct connection with the recent installation of the White Witch in the Governor’s Mansion I will continue to believe until proven otherwise.
That said, the tips of the maples are definitely starting to turn red, so I got that going for me.
One of the effects of the weather is the increase in traffic at Ol’ Robbo’s bird-feeders. As I glance out the window right now, there must be at least thirty customers of various sorts ** hovering around them. One contingent of note this year is the northern juncos. For some years Ol’ Robbo hadn’t seen many of them. Now, there are about a dozen. Just one of those cycles, I suppose. The juncos make me smile because they remind me of Youngest Gel’s elementary school determination to become an ornithologist and her decision one morning to identify and count the birds coming into the feeder. I recall that she had got to some fantastical number of junco sightings before I had to gently tell her, much to her disbelief and disappointment, that it was probably just the same couple of birds making repeat returns. (I felt kind of awful about that.)
Obligatory glances at the headlines leave Ol’ Robbo asking several questions: If Port Swiller Manor is built on “stolen ground” then why the hell am I paying property taxes? How is attacking Federal immigration enforcement agents any less seditious than firing on Fort Sumter? Why is the Virginny GOPe only now raising a hue and cry over the neo-Communist gummint recently established in Richmond? Where the hell were you people before the elections?
Well, okay, Ol’ Robbo actually knows the answers to all of these. In fact, my biggest frustration is over the last of them: The Virginny GOPe is about as relevant these days as the Whigs were in 1860. There is very, very much work to do. But see about the maple tips above. Dum spiro, spero.
Whelp, enough. What with the weather, any thought of outdoor work today is out of the question, so Ol’ Robbo decided it would be a fitting time to do a really deep clean of the Port Swiller Manor insides. I am almost scared to see how much dust has accumulated under the furniture. Wish me luck!
** Okay, for the extra-nerdy out there: Cardinals, chickadees, crows, goldfinch, jays, juncos, mourning doves, assorted sparrows, titmice, and wrens. They can clean out the larger feeder in about twenty-four hours.
UPDATED: About seven hours worth of hard work, shifting furniture, rolling up rugs, polishing doo-dads (and Ol’ Robbo has many doo-dads scattered about his library and living room). It’s been a couple years since I went this far into it and I collected a lot of dust. Indeed, I took so much pf the stuff into my lungs that I’m contemplating giving a call to that Mesothelioma ambulance-chaser fellah on the teevee to see if I can milk some coin out of it.
But n’er mind. The thing is done, the Port Swiller Manor insides look quite a bit more ship shape, and Ol’ Robbo is gratified that, even at his advanced age, he still rocks his Naughty French Maid outfit.
What? As Mal Reynolds said, you can’t open the book of my life and jump in the middle.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
As usual, the mice have been fairly active this winter here at Port Swiller Manor. They mostly confine themselves to scurrying about in the walls and ceilings, but every now and again one will break cover. I can always tell when this happens because I will come across the Decanter Cats staring fixedly at some spot under the oven or perhaps behind the refrigerator. I simply shrug and smile, and usually mumble something about “fine jobs you lot are doing” and leave it at that.
Yesterday afternoon, however, one of the mice appeared out in the open and went to ground behind Decanter Dog’s food dish. What is worse, it did so in front of Mrs. Robbo. Mrs. R’s attitude toward mice is just about half a click behind those women who stood on tables and screamed in early sixties sitcoms, the reference to whom so baffled Slartibartfast.** She didn’t actually scream, but she did start squeaking and dancing about, calling on Ol’ Robbo to do something.*** “Shoo it outside!” she said.
Well, when I moved the bowl, the thing of course immediately vanished.
Some time later, I happened to be coming up the basement stairs when I noticed the mouse (I assume it was the same one) cowering in the corner of one of the steps and pretending to be invisible. I picked it up by the tail and took it outside. When I reported to Mrs. R what I had done, her first words were, “Oh, but it’s so cold out! And how will it eat? Oh, and wash your hands!”
You can’t win. You really can’t.
I mumbled something about all the birdfood on the ground out back and the warm insulation that mice have, all the time strongly suppressing visions of foxes and owls. As a matter of fact, the answer is likely that the little blighter has already found a way to get back indoors.
But I’m not telling Mrs. R that.
** For all you hoopy froods out there.
*** Ol’ Robbo does not mock. All of us have our irrational bugaboos. I behave exactly the same way around snakes.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo is pleased to report that we (I say “we” but it was really all Mrs. R’s doing) finally found somebody to come out and remove the large sheet of ice blanketing the driveway of Port Swiller Manor and preventing anyone getting out. Cabin Fever had started to set in among some of the inmates. The crew are at it even as Ol’ Robbo bloviates, and we should be free relatively shortly.
Lest you friends of the decanter get any funny ideas about Ol’ Robbo lolling at ease on soft pillows, eating grapes and sipping wine while hired minions toil out in the cold, I would mention that were I not under some tight work deadlines, I’d have taken a day off and tackled the mess myself (despite what I might have posted below).
That is if my family had let me. Over the last couple days Ol’ Robbo has got a distinct vibe to the effect that Mrs. R and the Gels think him too feeble to take on such labor anymore. Mutterings about age and heart attack statistics. Nothing point blank and to my face, but I know what they’re thinking. Indeed, it’s all part of an increasing pattern of solicitude I’ve begun to notice, the general theme being that we need to start getting the old boy ready to be put out to pasture. I suppose I should appreciate it, but in fact I find it highly irritating.
Humph.
Well anyway, back to normal now and the chance to have a real meal this evening instead of the scrapings and dregs of the pantry and fridge. (We were caught on the hop by this storm and really didn’t stock up sensibly in advance.) At least for the moment, that is: those who like to do so are already hyping the next Storm of the Century of the Week which may hit this coming weekend in the form of a nor’easter.
I suppose we shall see, but I’ve got my own shovel ready just in case.
Humph.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Certainly by now all you friends of the decanter have heard about the big wintah storm moving across the country and now headed for the neighborhood of Port Swiller Manor. Big wind starting this evening, with heavy snow arriving tomorrow night. The last prediction Ol’ Robbo saw a while ago was for 7 to 14 inches, an amount we haven’t seen in some years now.
Well, this is Northern Virginny, and we take our tradition of storm-related freak outs pretty durn serious around these parts, don’t we just? On his way home last evening, Ol’ Robbo could already see the signs of panic-buying at the stores he passed. I’ve also been hearing all day stories of shelf-clearings and unscrupulous hordings. I believe things are going to be that much goofier than usual in the next 24 hours, given how out of practice we are. (In fact, not that it’s actually goofy, but I just saw where our Bishop has already given dispensation from the obligation to attend Mass on Sunday during the worst of it, something I don’t recall happening for a very long time now.) I imagine the next steps will be cannibalism, self-immolation, and calls for more Socialism.
As it happens, Ol’ Robbo has a court hearing way down yonder in the Southland on Monday. In order to beat the storm, I had arranged to fly out of here at zero-dark-thirty tomorrow morning and was most thoroughly not looking forward to it. But this afternoon the court decided that us out-of-towners could attend via Zoom, which has now put Ol’ Robbo in a most excellent mood. Friends of teh Decanter will know that Ol’ Robbo is no great fan of modern technology, but in this instance I’m content. (And if the innertoobs are down on Monday, that’s not my fault, is it?)
Apart from all that, nothing to do now but ensure a goodly amount of drink is on hand, hunker down in front of the fire, and hope that we finally get some real value out of our very expensive generator. Yes, Ol’ Robbo knows that he’ll likely have to spend many hours shoveling out and salting in the next few days, but I’m not going to let that worry me at the moment. As the song says, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!
UPDATE: See? The lovely and talented Sleepy Beth knows exactly what Ol’ Robbo is talkin’ ’bout!
UPDATE DEUX: Baybee, it’s COLD outside! Well, so much for Snowmaggedon. Maybe four or five inches here. No real wind, no tree damage, no power outages. On the other hand, the snow was topped by at least an inch of sleet, the result of which being that the Port Swiller Manor driveway is covered over with a couple inches of solid ice, well beyond Ol’ Robbo’s capacity to clear just by hammering it with a shovel. The punch line is that we’re not supposed to get above freezing for at least the next week. Heigh, ho. Might have to eat the pets after all.
Funny how all this happened just after the White Witch was installed as governor. “Always winter but never Christmas.” Coincidence? I think not!
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Sorry for the dearth of postings hereabouts recently. Almost immediately after our Noo Year’s jaunt Ol’ Robbo was struck by the Soooooper Fluuuuu and I’ve been battling it off and on ever since. I think I’m finally on the rebound but am still pretty worn out. Between that and being continually drained by the frantic pace of work down to the office, well, you can see why.
Also, lots of things Ol’ Robbo would like to talk about, Ol’ Robbo really shouldn’t talk about. Perhaps some day I’ll write a book. (Working title: FAFO.) One thing I would note with horror is that the now solidly-Left Virginny Legislature has already passed four proposed constitutional amendments – wall-to-wall abortion rights, automatic felon vote restoration, arbitrary and ad hoc redistricting….. I warned here some posts back that things were going to turn sour for the Formerly Great Commonwealth, and damme if I ain’t right. (I shall have to start referring to the place as California East.)
Speaking of, yesterday Ol’ Robbo received an email from an old law school classmate reminding me that our 35th reunion is coming up this year. I probably didn’t say half a dozen words to this fellah during our time in school, mostly because he was a notoriously arrogant jackass. The tone of his email was at once smarmy and faux-hearty, with just a hint of condescension. Ol’ Robbo really hadn’t been planning on attending the reunion anyway since I already keep up with those who I wish to, but the thought of having to endure this sort of thing (and to pay for it, too) pretty much sealed the deal for me. I’m too old for all that.
Well, indeed, Time proceeds apace. Ol’ Robbo will shortly transform for “sixty” to “in his sixties”. Meanwhile, all the Gels are now thoroughly in their mid-twenties. (Thank Heaven that Mrs. R also remains in her mid-twenties.) I would not be the slightest bit surprised if Middle Gel gets engaged to her Young Gentleman this year.
What else? Our latest Storm of the Century of the Week amounted to a scattering of flakes this morning. Ol’ Robbo believes he begins to see the days starting to get a little longer now, which gives me hope. (It flashes on me even now as I’m typing this that I had better start thinking of my plans for late-winter pruning around Port Swiller Manor.) I’d also had said that the thought that pitchers and catchers report in less than a month now added to this hope, but now I’m not so sure. Not only do Ol’ Robbo’s Beloved Nats look not that much better than they did last year, I recently read that the expiration of the League’s CBA makes it likely that there will be a strike affecting or even cancelling the upcoming season. Bah!
Well, Ol’ Robbo will leave it at that for now.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers and a Very Happy New Year to one and all!
As foretold in a post below, Ol’ Robbo, Mrs. R, Eldest Gel, and Decanter Dog travelled down to the spacious but secure grounds of Fort LMC on New Year’s Eve, there to revel with the Former Llama Military Correspondent and his family as we have done for the past, oh, 30-odd years now.
In residence at Fort LMC currently are a pair of yellow labs, one ancient and sedate but noisy, the other young and energetic and also noisy. As it turned out, Decanter Dog got on just fine with them but as you might imagine the festivities had a canine theme that, at times, insisted upon itself. (Not that Ol’ Robbo is complaining, mind you.)
As part of the entertainment, Ol’ Robbo saw a couple of films that were new to him. First was Argo, the story of six employees who got out of the American Embassy in Tehran just before the jihadis took it over in 1979 and hid out in the Canadian embassy until the CIA was able to concoct a scheme to sneak them out of Iran. Apparently it’s a true story, although Ol’ Robbo does not remember hearing about it at the time. An interesting film and well-made (if a bit biased about the roots of the Revolution). Second was an HBO series about the Chernobyl fiasco. (Why we watched it, I’ve no idea. It was Eldest’s suggestion.) Ol’ Robbo cannot think of a single more fitting adjective to describe the incompetence, blind politicks, and rigid bureaucracy that led to the accident and haunted the government’s response to it than “Soviet“. (How the USSR lasted 80 years and why in Heaven’s name anyone nowadays would wish to repeat the experiment are mind-boggling questions.***) Again, a very well done show.
Finally, however, for New Year’s Day night Ol’ Robbo insisted on something fun, so we ran off the recent Naked Gun sequel starring Liam Neeson. I was somewhat….skeptical about choosing this, so fond as I am of the originals with Leslie Nielson, and given Hollywood’s current penchant for turning out really rotten reboots of classicks. I’m happy to say, however, that my fears proved groundless: the film was very respectful of its roots, maintained the same type and level of humor in an updated format perfectly well, and didn’t take itself in the least seriously or otherwise try to push some fashionable modern sensibilities. Ol’ Robbo laughed and laughed. You might, too.
On a different note, just before we left for the revels, the new oven was delivered to Port Swiller Manor. (Regular friends of the decanter will recall that our old one finally gave out at Thanksgiving. Its replacement took so long to get here because the sale price we got was so popular that it was back-ordered.) Unlike our previous unit which had only one oven and a sort of warming rack underneath, this one has two ovens one of which is just big enough to hold a roast or turkey. Ol’ Robbo is all set to give it an inaugural run this evening. (Not a roast, but the Eggs Benedict I chickened out of serving at Christmas brunch because of the large number of guests. Yes, that’s stovetop work but now I can do popovers with it.)
Thus, for 2025 we had to replace both the oven and the HVAC. Which major system/appliance at Port Swiller Manor will go boom in 2026? Ol’ Robbo’s money is on the water heater but I may put a side-bet on the microwave. Oh, the joys of home ownership!
Well, that’s that. Yes, Ol’ Robbo has been keeping up with the headlines. The only comment on any of that which I will offer is that while the new Mayor of New Yawk City is shooting off his yap about his plans for the Brave New World, Ol’ Robbo has an idea that the new Governor of the Great Commonwealth of Virginny is going to do the more actual damage. We shall see. Meanwhile, as I haven’t had the chance yet, I’m off to read Dave Barry’s 2025 Year in Review. (See? 2026 is only three days old and already Ol’ Robbo is behind!)
*** Okay, the answer to the second question isn’t all that difficult: The Will to Power which possesses every “leader” on the Left hasn’t changed at all and the young persons seduced by the idea of Collectivism these days are historickally ignorant.
The Port Stands At Your Elbow 
Recent Comments