Dispatches from our hero’s private oasis. From Ben’s monthly print Diary.
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I really cannot get over that I can just open the fridge, take out a bag, get a fresh, delicious bagel, put it in a little shiny box and a minute later it comes out all toasty and brown. Then I can open the fridge again, get out perfectly fresh butter, apply it to the bagel, and enjoy it.
When I think of the work that the farmer has to do to get the wheat, that the utility has to do to get the electricity, that the coal company has to do to get the fuel to run the generators—it’s all a miracle.
This analysis does not even include where the steel comes from, where the eggs come from, where the tile on the counter comes from—or where I come from.
Then, there’s the real miracle: that at any moment, my big wifey will smell the bagel and come downstairs wanting one. Then, I get to spend part of the day with God’s greatest gift, big wifey, with her beautiful face, her smile, her perfect voice, and her charm.
Just the most modest breakfast is filled with miracles.
Lunch later in the day with “M,” a dear pal of many decades who recently lost his wife to natural causes at about age 63. He is permanently depressed and I can see why. He rarely told his wife how much he loved her and now hates himself for it. It is vitally important that you stop doing whatever you were doing just before you picked this up and go to or call up those close to you and tell them how much you love them. That is a matter of life or death.
I do almost everything else in my life wrong, but I do constantly tell the people in my life that I love them and how crucial they are to me.
I did get that little part right.
Now, I have to rest. I am VERY tired. If I do not wake up from this rest, please take my word for it that I love you, too, Spectator readers.
Once again, here I am in my Garage Mahal. I am happy because I have my dog, Julie Good Girl, next to me. She does not like having her picture taken, but imagine a white- and brown-spotted German Shorthaired Pointer of perfect dimensions, and that’s Julie. I really cannot believe my blessings at having this dog next to me, in a big, bright room, in peacetime, with the temperature just right and the air just right in terms of a small breeze, and my computer across the room.
It is PERFECT.
When I think of how the great masses of mankind have suffered and lived in extreme poverty and misery over man’s span on earth—and then I get to live like this—not in extreme luxury, not on a yacht, but better than that: next to my Julie Good Girl…. that is a blessing.
What shall I do today? I have to prepare for my trip east to the Richard Nixon Centenary Dinner at the Mayflower Hotel. That’s the day after tomorrow. I am looking forward to seeing Julie and David Eisenhower, Tricia and David Cox, Aram Bakshian, the DeMuth brothers, Wlady and Joanna. It will be swell.
I have to gather notes for a speech I plan to give to some GOP House members about the deficit. They won’t like what I have to say: We need a lot more taxes and we need fearless aggressiveness in cutting spending. But, as I say, as I have said a million times, we are racing toward default otherwise. We are soon going to have a $20 trillion national debt.
This doesn’t count the debt owed to ourselves for Social Security and Medicare. It counts in some ways the debt we owe to foreign nations because we run such an immense trade deficit. If you add in all of our debts, it’s a bleak picture indeed.