Paul Stookey — of Peter, Paul and Mary fame — wrote a beautiful wedding song for his friend Peter Yarrow’s wedding, which became known more popularly as “There Is Love.” In it, he repeats the refrain:
“Whenever two or more of you are gathered in His name, there is love.”
Peter, Paul and Mary
That song popped up as I was scrolling through YouTube the other day, and it reminded me — at this season of the Jewish High Holidays — of a Yom Kippur many years ago, when those lyrics proved true.
I was in my late teens, or perhaps 20-ish. My family had moved several years earlier from Manchester, New Hampshire, to the Washington, D.C. area; but I still had friends in Manchester, and we would visit back and forth from time to time.
On the year in question, I had decided to travel north to enjoy my favorite season — fall — with friends in the land of beautiful foliage and crisp autumn air. Marlene, the friend with whom I was staying, was (and still is) a devout Episcopalian, and invited me to join her at church on Sunday.
In all candor, her main purpose was to introduce me to her minister, fondly known to his parishioners as Father Bill, whom she described as “too cute to be true.” Now, how does one turn down an invitation like that?
So off we went, Marlene for her regular Sunday service, and I for a bit of religious education in another faith — not to mention a glimpse of the famous Father Bill.
And yes, he was every bit as adorable — both in looks and personality — as I had been led to believe. To make the day even more memorable, after a lovely service Father Bill accepted an invitation to lunch at Marlene’s parents’ home.
That would ordinarily have been the end of a pleasant, but not particularly interesting, story. But the next day, I phoned my mother in D.C. to let her know when I would be returning home, and she asked me if I had remembered that the previous day had been Yom Kippur.
Oops!
In fact, in all the hubbub of travel and getting together with my old friends, I had indeed forgotten. But I thought quickly, and fudged my answer by saying, “Yes, I know.” And she then asked, “I don’t suppose you went to services?”
Well, she didn’t say what services. So I was able to answer truthfully, “As a matter of fact, I did.”
She was surprised, to say the least, and couldn’t let it drop, asking where I had attended.
Busted!
So I replied honestly, “Grace Episcopal Church, with Marlene.”
Silence.
A little more silence.
And then, to my great surprise, she finally said, “Well, I guess any service is better than no service at all.”
It was many years later that Paul Stookey wrote his immortal lyrics, declaring that it doesn’t matter what edifice you’re in, or what language is being spoken.
“Whenever two or more of you are gathered in His name . . .”
My mother beat him to it; but he added the poetry and music.
*. *. *
This evening, for the first time in years, I will be attending Yom Kippur services at a local synagogue with my daughter. It is also the 35th anniversary of my mother’s passing, on Yom Kippur 1991 (September 18th that year).
She would still be surprised . . . but I know she would approve.
More than 50 years ago — on September 18, 1973 — then Governor of Georgia Jimmy Carter filed a report with the International UFO Bureau stating that he, along with about a dozen other people, had seen an unidentified flying object (UFO) some four years earlier in Leary, Georgia. He called it “the darndest [sic] thing I’ve ever seen . . . very bright [with] changing colors and about the size of the moon.” He said that “the object hovered about 30 degrees above the horizon and moved in toward the earth and away before disappearing into the distance.” [“This Day in History,” History.com, September 18, 2026.]
During his presidential campaign in 1976, Carter promised that, if elected, he would encourage the government to release “every piece of [available] information” to the public.
We’re still waiting.
President James Earl (“Jimmy”) Carter, Jr. (1924 – 2024)
On September 21, 2023, I offered some thoughts on the subject in a post titled “UFOs: Friends or Foes?” This was followed up by about a half dozen later articles, including one on May 9th of this year, following Donald Trump’s sudden and inexplicable direction to the Pentagon to release certain “never-before-seen files” on its investigations over the past several decades.
That was hardly the first reported sighting of a UFO; the Roswell, New Mexico incident in 1947 had touched off a frenzy of such reports. But it was unusual, to say the least, to hear it from such a well-known, reliable source. And while interest seemed to wane over the ensuing decades, numerous alleged sightings have been reported during the last few years, leading to renewed speculation as to what, if anything, the government has been hiding from the public.
To this day, I wonder why the subject was raised in the first place, whether there actually are files we haven’t seen, and why the matter once again seems to have been dropped. Here again, as a reminder, is my article from June 4th of this year:
*. *. *
6/4/26: ABOUT THOSE ALIEN ENCOUNTERS
On May 9th, I wrote about the U.S. government’s sudden willingness to grant public access to the long-hidden files on UFOs — which are now called UAPs, or Unidentified Aerial Phenomena. At that time, the Defense Department posted on X:
“The American people can now access the federal government’s declassified UAP files instantly. The latest UAP videos, photos, and original source documents from across the entire United States government are all in one place — no clearance rqeuired.”[Kaanita Iyer, Michael Williams and Marshall Cohen, CNN, May 8, 2026.]
Note that they specified “declassified” files. We have no way of knowing what may still be classified.
Then they went on to say that the DoD would be “releasing new materials on a rolling basis as they are discovered and declassified, with tranches posted every few weeks.” [Id.]
But they added disclaimers that the “descriptive and estimative language . . . [reflected the] subjective interpretation” of the person who wrote the report, and therefore “should not be interpreted as a conclusive indication” of actual events. [Id.]
In other words, we should be aware that what they were feeding us was most likely just a pile of
Don’t look so surprised.
So what ever happened to those forthcoming tranches to be posted every few weeks? Well, last week the new website — Aliens.gov — debuted. I didn’t see any fanfare, or even an announcement of its launch. But luckily, CNN did. And here is what they have to say about it.
It started with: a big, neon green header:
“THEY WALK AMONG US”
Then a text scroll began:
“For 60 years, the U.S. government has kept a closely guarded secret. Aliens have been walking among us, living in our neighborhoods, and interacting with us in our daily lives.” [Harmeet Kaur, CNN, June 3, 2026.]
Wait . . . it sounds like they’re talking about Russian spies. But no, because the CNN report continues:
“Along with fake ‘declassified’ labels and a clunky reference to ‘The X-Files,’ the website also features an interactive map tracking ‘alien encounters,’ or purported arrests of immigrants and asks users to report ‘suspicious aliens.’” [Id.]
And there was this AI-generated animation, showing an immigrant earthling — not an outer-space “alien” — being beamed up over the southern U.S. border wall:
The Newest in ICE Technology?
So the DoD seems to be conflating extraterrestrial “aliens” with the more down-to-earth definition, which is — according to Black’s Law Dictionary — “a person who resides within the borders of a country but is not a citizen or subject of that country.”[Id.]
Use of the term “alien” to describe migrants goes back to Colonial times, whereas the science-fiction version dates to around the 1930s. As explained by historian Mai Ngai, author of “Impossible Subjects: Illegal Aliens and the Making of Modern America”:
“When people spoke of beings from outer space, they likened them to foreigners. It’s not like people saw an immigrant and said they look like they’re from outer space. They saw an image of a being from outer space and said they look like a foreigner.” [Id.]
But, as Ngai goes on to say:
“What the White House did was an ultimate association of immigrants with not being human. To say that they came from a spaceship means they’re not human beings.” [Id.]
Actual Humans?
Attempts have been made over the years to differentiate between a migrant and an extraterrestrial, including President Joe Biden’s directive that the country’s immigration enforcement agencies use the terms “non-citizen” and “migrant” in place of “alien” and “illegal aliens.”
But the Trump White House says otherwise. According to spokeswoman Abigail Jackson:
“Identifying an individual as an ‘illegal alien,’ is not demeaning, it’s factual. The Trump Administration will continue deporting illegal aliens without apology.” [Id.]
So it would seem as though the whole “let’s release the UFO files” thing was nothing but another attempt to attack our immigrant population — and an incredibly infantile one at that.
What . . . you expected something different?
*. *. *
So the questions remain: Is this just the product of Trump’s overactive imagination? Did he confuse the term “aliens,” as sometimes applied to immigrants, with visitors from outer space?
Or was it yet another attempted distraction from those other files they’ve been promising us forever? Perhaps, with the greater diversions of a war-that-isn’t-really-a-war in Iran, the threatened destruction of the Kennedy Center, the attempts to take possession of Greenland, and Trump’s sons playing footsie with Russian oligarchs and the Tate brothers . . . well, the UFO/UAP thing just wasn’t needed any longer.
On September 16th, Russian-allied Belarus released 25 political prisoners following talks with U.S. special envoy John Coale. They landed to a warm welcome in neighboring Lithuania — just the latest in a continuing effort to release all of the hundreds of hostages remaining in Belarus.
Leaving Belarus – September 16, 2026
While Coale characterized the release as “a show of goodwill” on the part of Aleksandr Lukashenko’s oppressive government, there was a price to be paid for the lives of the innocent victims: the lifting of U.S. sanctions that had been imposed against two Belarusian companies following Minsk’s agreement to allow Moscow to use its territory as a launchpad for its invasion of Ukraine. [RFE/RL, September 16, 2026.]
And experts have pointed out that Lukashenko is simply continuing to arrest more people to replace those who have been freed. According to Vadim Mozheiko, director of the Krakow-based Kosciuszko Institute:
“For Lukashenko, the most important thing is . . . strengthening his political agency . . . given his lack of domestic legitimacy.” [Id.]
Separately, Mozheiko added that “a significant proportion of those released were forcibly deported from Belarus . . . yet another form of repression.” [Id.]
Further, a United Nations report on September 15th stated that:
“Belarusian authorities are using the country’s criminal justice system as an instrument of repression, systematically targeting and persecuting individuals deemed to oppose the government. Plainclothes officers routinely detain individuals they label as critical of the Government without warrants, subject them to beatings and stress positions, deny access to lawyers, and force them to record humiliating ‘repentance’ videos under duress and threats against their families.” [Id.]
An Arrest in Belarus
While we celebrate the release of every single hostage, we must not lose sight of the continuing use of innocent civilians as pawns in Russia’s — and, by extension, Belarus’ — criminal pursuit of the war against Ukraine.
The fight continues.
*. *. *
So once again, let us again remember the other prisoners still being held hostage by Putin and his cohorts:
Prisoners of War:
The 20,000+ Kidnapped Ukrainian Children The People of Ukraine
Immigrant Detainees in Russia:
Migrants from the Central Asian nations of Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan
Endangered Exiles:
Pavel “Pasha” Talankin Mikita Losik Yulia Navalnaya Oleg Orlov Countless Journalists and Other Dissidents
Political Prisoners:
In Afghanistan:
Mahmoud Habibi (Afghan-American) Paul Overby (American, missing since 2018)
Andrei Chapiuk Uladzimir Labkovich Andrzej Poczobut Marfa Rabkova Valiantsin Stafanovic Yuras Zyankovich
In Georgia:
Mzia Amaglobeli
In Russia:
The “Crimea 8”: – Oleg Antipov – Artyom Azatyan – Georgy Azatyan – Aleksandr Bylin – Roman Solomko – Artur Terchanyan – Dmitry Tyazhelykh – Vladimir Zloba
James Scott Rhys Anderson (British) Aleksandr Andreyev David Barnes (American) Yevgenia Berkovich Gordon Black (American) Hayden Davies (British) Yury Dmitriyev Anastasia Dyudyaeva Antonina Favorskaya Konstantin Gabov Robert Gilman (American) Stephen James Hubbard (American) Sergey Karelin Timur Kishukov Vadim Kobzev Darya Kozyreva Artyom Kriger Michael Travis Leake (American) Aleksei Liptser Svitlana Loi (in Ukraine) Mikhail Loshchinin “Madame Z” (in Ukraine) Grigory Melkonyants Boris Nadezhdin Nika NovakSvetlana Petriichuk Leonid Pshenychnov (in Russian-occupied Crimea) Ilya Remeslo Nadezhda Rossinskaya (a.k.a. Nadin Geisler) Lev Schlossberg Sofiane Sehili (French) Igor Sergunin Dmitry Shatresov Robert Shonov Grigory Skvortsov Eugene Spector (American) Joseph Tater (American, disappeared) Karina Tsurkan Arseniy Turbinin (age 18) Laurent Vinatier Robert Romanov Woodland (American)
You have not been, and will not be, forgotten. Stay strong.
With the Jewish High Holiday, Yom Kippur, starting at sundown tomorrow (Sunday), I’ve been preparing my psyche for the seriousness of the occasion by keeping my writing on the light side for the past couple of days. As many of you probably know, Yom Kippur is what is known as the Day of Atonement . . . or, as we liberals like to call it, Instant Lent.
Despite my obsession with the daily news — most of which is terrible because if it ain’t bad it ain’t news — I have always found it difficult to remain too serious for too long. And I can almost believe that the following was written with me in mind:
“Laugh whenever you can. Keeps you from killing yourself when things are bad. That and vodka.”
– Jim Butcher, “Changes” (The Dresden Files, #12)
Jim Butcher
With that said, I believe I’ve gotten the giggles out of the way and am now ready to face 24 hours of atoning for my sins of the past year — which, I am able to report, have been relatively minor of late . . . not always by choice, but sometimes because I’m too old and too tired for the big stuff anymore.
When I began thinking about a topic for today’s post, it quickly became obvious that my choices from the news were all unacceptably depressing: Iran’s none-too-subtle hint at having the leaders of Israel and the U.S. removed from office before they will even discuss a settlement; Russia’s continued missile attacks on Ukraine and drone incursions into NATO countries; Alex Ovechkin’s slap in the face of his U.S. hosts as he stood behind Russian Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov in support of Russian aggression; Russia’s threats against Poland, Lithuania, and others; Donald Trump’s premature celebration of his alleged takeover of Greenland; and so on, and on, and on.
You get the picture. It was all just too demoralizing. Which is why I decided instead to continue my “Life With Walter” series, and lift my spirits — and hopefully yours — with a little humor. So today it’s off to Rome, and the hotel booking that went horribly wrong.
Walter Sterling Surrey (1915 – 1989)
Walter was in the habit of arranging his personal travel by himself; only his business travel was handled by our travel agent. And most of that involved complex reservations to locations like China and the Soviet Union — places where his corporate clients were hoping to do business before their competitors got a foot in the door. Difficult places.
So when a negotiation was scheduled to be held in Rome, both the travel agent and I were in unfamiliar territory. And, unlike his other trips when he traveled solo, he was being accompanied on this one by one of the younger attorneys in the firm, who happened to be female; and Walter being an older gentleman — and the time being the early 1980s — he wanted to be sure that she would have every comfort on her first overseas business trip.
When I asked the agent to arrange an itinerary to Rome, flying business class, with two separate rooms in a first-class hotel, she was somewhat stymied; this was not one of his usual business destinations, and she didn’t know his preferences. Flights were no problem, but did he have a specific hotel in mind?
I had already asked him about that, as I was not familiar with Rome’s accommodations. And he had waved a hand in the air, mumbled some generic name — I think it was “The Palace,” but I’m not sure today — and left it at that.
So that’s what I told the agent.
A few minutes later, she called back with some unsettling news: there were no fewer than five “Palace” hotels in Rome. Did I have any idea which one he meant?
Uh . . . no. I did not, and Walter was out of the office. So I did what I always did: made an executive decision. I told her to book the most expensive “Palace” in Rome.
No . . . a little farther west, please.
A few days later, Walter and the young associate, we’ll call her Pat, took off for their Roman adventure. That being a time before cell phones, when overseas calls were sometimes difficult and always outrageously expensive, I didn’t expect to hear from him for a while. I tracked their flight to make sure it had landed safely, and settled down to catch up on a backlog of paper work during what I anticipated would be a quiet time . . .
. . . until the phone rang, and it was Walter, calling from Rome. Oddly, he sounded a little too cheerful.
The conversation went something like this:
Walter: “How’s everything going?”
Me (sensing trouble): “Uh . . . fine. How are you?”
Walter (chuckling): “Oh, fine. But I have a question. What hotel did you book us into?”
Me (immediately on guard): “The travel agent booked you into The Palace, just as you asked.”
Walter (now with Pat laughing in the background): “Did she say which Palace Hotel?”
Me: “Well, she said there were several, so I told her to choose the most expensive one. I hope it’s not too pricey.”
Walter:“Oh, no, the price is no problem . . . [pregnant pause] . . . but the place is ag**damned whorehouse!”
Me (listening to Walter and Pat now laughing uproariously in unison): “Uh . . . uh . . . uh . . . WHAT??!!!”
Yes, I had booked my boss, and a lovely young associate, into what was apparently the most expensive bordello in Rome.
You didn’t . . . did you?!!
Oh, yes, I did.
As I’ve indicated before, one of the best parts of those ten years with Walter was our shared, somewhat warped, sense of humor. Many’s the time that was all that stood between me and the unemployment line.
This was one of those times. After a good two minutes of a very expensive transatlantic belly laugh, I was finally able to compose myself long enough to ask him what they were doing about a place to stay. He said that, despite Pat’s having received a couple of fairly tempting offers in the lobby of the house of ill repute, he had spoken with the manager, who immediately understood the problem and helped them arrange reservations at the correct hotel, where they were now safely ensconced. Apparently, it was not the first time this had happened.
Needless to say, it took a while for me — and the travel agent — to live that one down. But it was all in a day’s work in Walter’s world.
I’ve never actually had the pleasure of visiting France, although technically I have been there: once, more than 30 years ago, when I changed planes at Charles de Gaulle Airport. I was on my way to Moscow, and had been booked from D.C. on Air France, with a change in Paris.
And I have to say, the food on that flight was the best airline food I’ve ever eaten.
But it never occurred to me that, if I were ever to move to another country permanently, I might choose France as my new home. While the country certainly has a lot to offer, my one year of French language study in the 9th grade was enough to convince me I’d never fit in.
Still, a person can change their mind. And this picture, which someone posted on Facebook the other day, is what might do it for me:
A French Grandmother’s Recommendations
I mean, seriously . . . compare it with this most recent food pyramid issued by the current Secretary of Health and Human Services, Robert F. Kennedy, Jr.:
RFK Jr.’s Idea of Healthy Eating (on the right)
Which one warms the cockles of your heart? Broiled chicken, steamed broccoli, and skim milk? Or a fragrant, slow-cooked cassoulet, warm croissants slathered in French butter, and a vintage French wine?
Okay, the “grandmother’s pyramid” was satirical (I think); and Kennedy’s creation — while regrettably intended to be taken seriously — is a garbled mess. But think about it this way.
Forget cholesterol for the moment. Forget diabetes, your blood pressure, and your kidneys. Think about the rest of your life, however long it may be — something which, by the way, none of us can predict. Do you want to spend those years counting grams of fat and sodium? Or would you rather look forward to a future of sheer, indulgent, downright sybaritic bliss?
For me, there’s no contest; Grandmere’s boeuf bourguignonne wins, hands down.
And if you’re thinking about the prospect of a shortened life expectancy, forget it. Because the average person in France currently outlives the average American by four to five years. There is much to be said for all of that joie de vivre.
“A votre santé!”
Unfortunately, moving to another country is probably not a viable option for most of us, myself included. But I am inclined, at the very least, to begin a search for the best French restaurants in my area.
This is a date I can never forget. First, because it is the anniversary of my mother’s death in 1991, at the age of 84.
And second, because it was my sister Merna’s birthday.
That’s right — our mother died on her older daughter’s birthday.
“Really, Mom?”
It had been a stressful couple of weeks. I was just back at home after a summer spent working overseas in Prague (a whole other tale). And now our mother was hospitalized with congestive heart failure, and the two of us were trying to concentrate on our respective jobs while coordinating our daily visits to the hospital and worrying about what lay ahead.
On the 18th, we had agreed to go to the hospital that evening, before heading out for our customary birthday dinner. As I was getting ready for work in the morning, Merna called to say she had checked in with the hospital, and that Mother had had a restful night. Good news.
But before I could get out the door, the phone rang again. The hospital had called her back to say that, contrary to expectations, Mother had just passed away.
Well, there went dinner.
“Harumph!”
At least, that’s how we joked about it later . . . muchlater. At the time, it was the furthest thing from our minds (although I did remember to cancel our reservation). But first we had to notify our offices, then came the phone calls to family and friends, and finally the funeral arrangements . . . in Rhode Island.
Did I mention that we lived in D.C., but were originally from New England?
And that we’re Jewish, which meant that everything had to be done quickly?
Thanks to a whole lot of help from family members in Rhode Island, it all got done . . . rather smoothly, actually, and without any of the customary sibling disagreements. Sometimes a shared loss can bring people closer together.
It wasn’t without its moments, though. I’ve written about it before: the funeral director who tried to sell us his most expensive casket (did I mention that we’re Jewish?!!); my daughter packing seven pairs of socks and no toothbrush for the trip; the Rabbi in Rhode Island who looked like Mottel the Tailor from Fiddler on the Roof; the rainy day that turned sunny just as we reached the cemetery; and the therapeutic laugh-fest later that night at our aunt’s house, after all the friends had left.
And on the return flight home a couple of days later, there was a party to plan for all of the friends from the D.C. area who hadn’t been able to attend the funeral. And I must say, it was one hell of a party. Mother would have loved it.
Everyone mourns in their own way.
Merna and I grew closer after that. We were best friends, sharing a mutual love of the theater, searching out new restaurants, shopping, and traveling together. We lived just a block apart, yet we called each other a dozen times a day on the slightest excuse, or for no reason at all. After all, who knew us better — or shared a longer history — than we did?
I lost Merna 26 years later, on October 24, 2017, after a two-year struggle with cancer. I was her caregiver during those two years, spending more time at her apartment than my own, until she finally went into hospice and surrendered to the inevitable.
I still reach for the phone to call her sometimes. A lot of times.
Happy birthday, big sister. I miss you.
*. *. *
Thanks to my readers for letting me share this day with you. As I said, we each mourn in our own way . . . and writing seems to work for me.
Around 7:00 a.m. today, I woke up to the strains of “The Star Spangled Banner” . . . and I thought I was going crazy until I realized it was all in my mind.
As the fog of sleep cleared from my head, I recalled that I had been dreaming of being at some sort of performance in a huge venue where someone began tentatively singing the first lines of America’s National Anthem. Others in the crowd — myself included — joined in, until the person in charge of the program tried to silence us. But we kept singing, louder and stronger, defiantly hitting that impossible high note on the word “free.”
And I recall the overwhelming feeling of joy and pride as the moderator gave up the fight to silence us.
That was just a dream, most likely precipitated by my obsessive immersion in the daily news. But it reminded me of a real event more than 30 years ago in Moscow. (Yes, that Moscow — the one in Russia.) It was July 4, 1993, and I had two tickets to a performance being given by a troupe of American Broadway performers at the historic Estrada Theater. By chance, an American friend was visiting that week, and she was my “plus one” for the evening.
As the performance began to a packed hall, the orchestra struck up the Russian National Anthem, and the crowd respectfully stood up, as was expected. And then we heard The Star Spangled Banner being played — in Moscow — less than two years after the fall of the Soviet Union. Again, everyone stood. But this time, there was singing.
There was a surprisingly large contingent of Americans in the crowd — the U.S. Ambassador and members of the embassy staff, business representatives, and a number of short-term expatriates like myself. And hearing our anthem, in that setting, stirred something in us that I had never experienced before . . . or since. It was pride: the simple pride of being an American — an American from “the land of the free, and the home of the brave.”
I want that feeling back. I had it briefly this morning, in my dream. But I want it back for real. I want the horror show in Washington to end, and the real America to re-emerge. And until that day, I will keep my dream — and that evening in Moscow — alive in my head and heart.
Because, as bad as things are right now, I believe that this, too, shall pass.
I never thought I would have the audacity to argue with the wisdom of the ancient Greek philosophers. But today, I have to call into question the words of one of the most renowned of that ilk:
“Change in all things is sweet.”
– Aristotle
Aristotle (384 – 322 B.C.)
I beg to differ.
Today I have my first appointment with a new internist in my new location. And I really hate having to change doctors. I have been imagining what his first impression of me will be. Most likely, he’ll think I’m cognitively okay, but a total physical wreck. At least, I hope my brain doesn’t suddenly stop functioning when I walk into his office. As for the body, there’s no debate: I am old and decrepit.
That’s not something that happens overnight; it’s gradual, and it sneaks up on you until one day you look at yourself in the mirror and you see . . .
. . . this
I liked my last doctor. She was kind and understanding, and she followed my gradual decline at six-month intervals. But this new guy is going to see me for the first time as I am today, without benefit of having known the younger, active, un-wrinkled me. He’ll get the list I have prepared for him of my known ailments (not too bad for a person of my age), my medications (again, not too many), and then . . . my past surgeries. That list is as long as my arm, but the procedures were not for major health issues. The truth is, I am an orthopedic surgeon’s wet dream come to life.
Over the years, we all change — some of us more than others. It’s inevitable. And, contrary to what Aristotle believed, not all of it is sweet. Some of it is a big fat pain in the ass.
Anyway, I’ll let you know if I pass the Medicare-mandated cognitive test this afternoon. I hope I’m at least as smart as Donald Trump, who, as we all know, has aced it — over and over and over again.
From all indications, a four-way breakup is not imminent . . . but the first cracks are beginning to show.
On September 14th, leaders of the Scottish National Party (SNP), Wales’ Plaid Cymru party, and Northern Ireland’s Sinn Fein — all considered center-left parties — signed a Memorandum of Understanding calling on the UK Government “to prepare for, plan and facilitate constitutional change.” [Geo All Day, posted on Facebook, September 15, 2026.]
While each of the parties has different goals, they have one thing in common: their desire for greater national self-determination.
The agreement does not set a timetable for referendums; and any proposed constitutional change would take time, depending on elections, public opinion, legal processes, and negotiations involving all three regions as well as London. But it raises the question of whether the three movements will remain separate, or unite to bring pressure on the United Kingdom that might result in an eventual breakup.
With all of the problems facing the European continent at present, the last thing they need is a geopolitical and economic trauma of this magnitude. Where would such an event leave England on the world stage? Would they reconsider Brexit, and decide to join the EU after all? Would the other three be strong enough and economically viable enough to stand on their own?
Luckily, these are not questions that have to be answered today. But they do raise the possibility of yet another re-drawing of the world map in the not-too-distant future.
One thing I can state for certain: Life is never dull.
