Spent yesterday, Christmas Eve, with Dottie. She made me a brunch, part of which I could not eat because it was quiche. I can’t eat eggs; hadn’t told her. Took a big bite. Felt ready to gag. Drank a lot of red wine. Smoked a cigarette. We went up to her roof where I photographed her infected trees and then ourselves. I came out old and flabby and very strange looking. I have conquered this before, however. I’m just not working out. Work out, yoga, swim. All week, then you can run.
She is having computer problems. Unwanted notifications, probably trojans and viruses. I bought Bitdefender to use on my laptops, will install it on her Mac Mini. It found 5 infections on the old Mac Air 13.
Greg wants me to get in close with Fredericka. I think Fredericka will be wary. But I’ve sent her a card and letter, dated Christmas Day. (See bottom.) Also something to Laura, and Paul & Anthony, and to A.T. and to someone else. Oh yes, Dottie. I may go see her tomorrow, late afternoon.
Tried to go to Mass at St. P’s today, in the evening, but the crowds were queued all the way around the Cathedral, and the normal side doors weren’t open.
Made a shitload of spaghetti bolognese this evening, and drank a pint of vodka. The Chinawoman’s was open, and son Sean was there.
Very nice call from young Danny in Tarpon Springs, late morning. After he gets the Buffalo Wild Wings franchise outlets set up (20 of them?) for the Adler Group he’s going to retire. He’s 62. He seemed barely 50 when I met him in Palm Beach. We talked about the many ailments his sisters have had. Liz who died in 2016. Liz was 5 mos. pregnant with Evan when she found she had cancer (some lymphoma on her neck). And then she had a fourth son, Sam, before she died. Max got married in Scotland to a wee demure Scottish lass who had no idea what she was getting into. And I asked about Mimi, who has had Covid and myasthenia gravis and kidney failure and COPD and Lord knows what else.
But then it was a delight in the evening to get a call from Mimi, too, in the evening. We talked death and diseases. The sicknesses plaguing her family seem to have come down through her mother, a Cabot and a Lucci.
Letter to Fredericka Yockey.
Christmas Day, 2025
Dear Dr. Yockey,
Having lost my sister and husband just recently, along with a number of friends, I was doing an end-of-year What We Lost roundup. And some kind soul pointed me in the direction of the semi-solved mystery of your sister Isolde.
That must be the most remarkable certified death of the year. Mercifully—I suppose it was—you had the best part of five decades between her actual murder (as I assume it was) and its confirmation. Furthermore you were living in Europe for a long while afterwards, with medical school to focus on.
By the strangest coincidence, when I read the story about Isolde, I was reminded that an acquaintance of mine from 50 years back married your cousin Connie Coyne (Vinette’s daughter) a year or two after I met him. I hadn’t thought of these people in many years, literally. And, Deo gratias, I resisted the temptation to ask them if they heard or knew anything more about the Isolde story.
I’m further attuned to all this because a fiancé of mine died suddenly and tragically 30 years ago, after amassing a trove of correspondence about your father. After he died, the collection went to the University of Oregon. Years later two people eventually produced their biographies of F. P. Yockey. Both were deep and scholarly, but one was didactic-Leftist, the other mildly sympathetic.
I am thrilled to say I made a slight, perhaps insubstantial, contribution to both books but am not listed in the acknowledgments of either. Perhaps that’s for the best.
With kind regards of the season,
I am
Meg Burns
(etc.)
Letter from Greg.
