The above shot is of Central Park, snapped a few days ago. A pastoral scene in the middle of New York City. I include it at the end of my Impromptus today. It is maybe the only thing in the whole column that’s not controversial. And yet, people can make a controversy out of anything, can’t they?

New York is perking up a little, as I say (in my column). On Wednesday, I think, I waited for traffic, just for a minute. I hadn’t waited for traffic in weeks. I’ve developed the habit of just tumbling into the street, as if New York were Mayberry.

(I realize that “Mayberry” may be meaningless to younger people. I will link to a Wikipedia entry.)

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In Impromptus, I discuss Joe Biden, Donald Trump, China, Lenin, Jordan (Michael), and so on. Among my subjects is Abigail Thernstrom, whom I loved. We have a little obit of her in the May 4 National Review.

I first met her in about 1985, I think, when I was a student of her husband, Steve, the historian. (Abby was a political scientist.) This morning, I have been going over some correspondence with her, from way back. My head is full of memories.

She had come from the left, and by that I don’t mean Walter Mondale and Al Gore. I’m talking about the real McCoy. Once, a prominent legal scholar said to her, “I don’t like debating you, Abby.” (The scholar was left-leaning.) “You know everything I think, all the arguments. You know what I’m going to say before I say it.”

Abby went to “Little Red,” in Manhattan. “Little Red” refers to the Little Red School House and Elisabeth Irwin High School, one institution, despite the two-part name. Who else went there? Angela Davis, Mary Travers, Robert De Niro, the sons of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg.

I once said to her, “A lot of bright kids went to Little Red.” She fixed me with a look — a famous Abby look — and said, “Name two.” I said, “You and Elliott.” She smiled, graciously conceding.

When I reported this to Elliott, he said, “You’re lucky she didn’t say, ‘Name three.’” Ah, but I could have — adding the name of Ron Radosh, to those of Abigail Thernstrom and Elliott Abrams.

I could go on about this lady, as my head is swimming with memories, and maybe I will, one day. For now, however, I’ll close with a familiar verse from John Greenleaf Whittier: “All of the good the past hath had / Remains to make our own times glad.”