A healthy array of candidates. Here in no particular order, other than pope first:
Francesco because he shows signs of human warmth, unlike his predecessor papas.
Roger Federer because not to be gobsmacked by his enduring grace is to be alert as celery.
Sister Megan Rice, 83-year old nun, sentenced in February to 35 months in federal prison for breaking into a nuclear weapons facility.
Jon Stewart for being worthy of being full of himself.
Stephen Colbert: ditto and squared.
Benedict Cumberbatch for all the obvious reasons, starting with his name and for recently announcing his engagement to my niece, Kelsey Segawa.
Sherie Rene Scott, Bridget Everett, and Joyce DiDonato. Three native Kansas songbirds who have New York critics at their lovely (sometimes trippy) feet. Take your pick, but I’m leaning toward Joyce, who’s also a Royals’ fan.
In the group category, the Kansas City Royals. Yes, it’s true. The little engine that almost.
Charles Blow for his decency and his poet’s soul and his brave book.
Edith, four-year old brown-eyed doll who came with Marta today when Marta cleaned my house. Edith speaks a mash of Mayan and Spanish, having arrived in the U.S. weeks ago from Guatemala. She’s a word sponge. She was interested in the statue in the garden. Buddha, I said. Buddha, she repeated. Not sure about her but I am besotted. Based on laughter alone, she would be the runaway winner.
The 2014 prize goes to: William Trevor, who does more in one page with greater feeling than a MoFA of scribes. Could I just for a second retrieve the word “awesome?” Awesome. Read The Piano Tuner’s Wives, and enlist in the choir of the grateful.
Happy thanksgiving, all.
*friends, relatives and shrinks not eligible.