24 September—Language loves politics. For instance, in the not too distant past when a person of advanced years (an ultra-grownup, a wrinklie, an old fart) had a memory lapse it was invariably a senior moment; now it’s a Biden moment. (Trump has Biden moments too, mind you, but as a past-master of prevarication he’s adept at trumping his way through them. And everything else.)

Biden moments are not uncommon among people who are afflicted with CRS—people, that is, who, sadly, can’t remember shit. The elite among them—make that us—belong to the CRAFT club; not a craft club, the CRAFT club, founded almost three decades ago by a vivacious Litchfield kindergarten teacher even older than I and since retired out west (but, wisely, not to the Flake State). I was an early inductee into the Can’t Remember A Fucking Thing club and take pride in maintaining its legendary amnesic tradition in Litchfield County. It’s not hard at all.

In fact, I had a Biden moment just this Sunday when, in conversation with the notorious Region 20 Fire Pit Girls who had just picked up a couple of truckloads of cordwood, I couldn’t remember what the little cement thingy commonly painted white outside and sky blue inside and containing a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary that lots of devout Roman Catholics have in their gardens was called. There’s one just outside The Monitor’s editorial office. (Don’t ask. But it was 75 percent off at Agway. And, suffice to say, I’ve been meaning for two decades to paint a bra on the cement Aphrodite of Melos—Venus de Milo—who shares it with seasonal yellowjackets and also was 75 percent off at Agway.)

Sanctuary? Shrine? Temple? Crèche? They all sounded pretty close. But no cigar. Surely Joe Biden, good Catholic that he is, would have remembered—despite his namesake moments. But he wasn’t here. So I settled for shrine, even though it didn’t sound quite right. Settling is an important part of CRAFT club protocol, after all.

Then—mirabile dictu!—yesterday, while washing a salad bowl, epiphany. I don’t know why dishwater brought on the revelation, but did. It’s a grotto! Aphrodite in the Grotto! Beautiful, as Donald Trump would say.

I knew it all along. But I just couldn’t remember . . .