The New Cannibals

Politics is usually colorful and full of what-were-you-thinking moments. This year’s been one to remember.

It’s been the most interesting race for me since I was aware of what “politics” meant. Between the sheer number of initial candidates and the things they say about each other, I sometimes wonder if either party will be able to look unified in the post-nomination run. I watch the talking heads on Sunday morning (“Washington Week in Review” and “Meet the Press”) religiously, and I think every major candidate has been on one or both of them in the last few months.

They even had Bill Richardson on, for God’s sake.

So far, it reminds me of watching a car wreck in slow motion. Like the time I was a teenager and my older sister and me were sitting at an intersection waiting for the light to change. She was driving and couldn’t turn around to see where the screeching brake and crash sound came from. I turned around to see a car that had just been broadsided spinning around, recovering and heading straight for our trunk.

Well, it was Mama’s trunk, actually. Her car, her trunk.

But it’s an image I’ll never forget. That car seemed to take minutes to hit, and then time speeded up. I don’t even remember much about the aftermath, other than no one was hurt and Mama’s car (an old Ford Galaxy 500—big as a boat) sustained some damage. The trunk got smashed in.

There were three cars involved in that accident: the one that hit the other car, the one that got hit, and the one that hit us. It’s an almost perfect metaphor for the current races and on both sides.

I fear that the degeneration of political campaign tactics that we’re seeing these days will, ultimately, harm everyone, candidates and the electorate alike. When you eat your own alive ever more viciously, it’s hard to maintain a façade of unity.

Shannon and I are trying to decide which Democrat we’re going to vote for in the primary. He thought I had my mind made up, but I keep going back and forth between the two. I may not decide until I actually get to the polling station.

And I was so sad to see John Edwards leaving the campaign today. He’s a fine man with an important perspective: what it means to come from a dirt-poor working family and go forward. He’s from the Southern part of the South (i.e. east of the Mississippi), so I identify with him on a basic level.

And his background is very much like mine. Mama graduated high school, and Daddy got his GED in the Air Force. She worked at Wal-Mart for years, and Daddy retired from Goodyear, where he spent over 25 years as a manual laborer.

I’m not sure that any of the viable candidates from either party really understands what that means. Simple, hard-working people who change our oil or check us out at the grocery or deliver packages to our doors. Those service-workers make up a huge segment of our workforce and deserve a champion.

I’m just not sure any of the candidates left are up to the task.

I’m afraid my decision may be made by balancing which one has eaten less of their own against real policy issues. Things like health care, tax reform, Iraq, a living wage.

As much as I want policy to rule, I don’t have much stomach for cannibals.

Debate This

The health insurance debate has come to a head, yet again. It costs more for the consumer than ever before and the benefits continue to shrink. The cost to benefit ratio is growing more rapidly than I’ve ever seen.

My company kept it’s insurance this year because our insurer doesn’t even offer our level of coverage anymore. The choice was to renew with a price increase or take a cheaper policy that offered much less in benefits. We took it and ate the cost, both the company and the employees, so we could keep our “rich” benefit package.

But even “rich” packages don’t always work out.

Daddy had perfectly good insurance (better than my “rich” package), and when he was diagnosed with a degenerative liver disease, things got out of control. Between the co-pays and travel expenses (often 200 miles to see a specialist), medications, etc., it pretty much bankrupted him and Mama. When he died in July, Mama arranged for the funeral on credit. All their resources had been tapped out, but she knew she had some insurance checks coming.

They didn’t have anything left except for a house that needed $18,000 worth of work to get it back to realistic, a 10 year-old Buick and a butt-load of debt.

How about a health insurance reform debate that centers around stories like that? How a man and a woman work all their entire lives and contribute to greater good of our society and, when they retire, lose everything but the house that needs so much work because all the money to fix it’s going to medical bills?

How about a debate that centers around the reality of health care in this country?

It’s not such an uncommon one to tell.

Blood, Sweat and Tears

When Daddy’s health started to go downhill, he was always cold. So he wore a hooded sweat jacket all the time, even outdoors in the summer. His blood wasn’t circulating like it should have been, so 90 degrees was chilly for him.

It was gray, the jacket. Just a common item that probably came from Wal-Mart. But it kept him warm on hot days.

Clothes smell like people, long after the people are gone.

When Rich died, I didn’t even open the door to the closet for months. Everything smelled like him: saw-dust and cologne. Aramis, I think.

And that special smell that I knew only Rich smelled like.

It was everywhere, but mostly in his clothes.

So in Daddy’s final bout with his failing body, my nephew started wearing Daddy’s old sweat jacket.

It was July, and way too hot to have one on. But Josh just kept wearing it. Smelling it every now and then, keeping it on for months off and on.

Like me, Daddy was the only father that Josh ever knew. He had a different one, biologically, but Daddy was his daddy as much as he was mine. Mama and Daddy raised him since he was about two.

It’s strange the things we do to remember people. Josh has his sweat jacket with the hood, and I have a keyboard. And memories that go back 40 or so years.

I’m glad Josh has his jacket. And I hope he realizes that he also has much more.

He is the heir-apparent to the legacy of a man who got things done and took care of his family, regardless. I won’t be around forever, and I certainly won’t reproduce.

One of these days, maybe he’ll wash that jacket. Maybe he already has. I don’t know.

The important things can never be washed out.

A familiar smell is comforting.

The example of a life well-lived is another thing entirely.

Of Kitties and Old Men

Lucy decided unilaterally today that she is old enough to go outside. We’ve been keeping her in because she’s such a little, naïve thing. She tries to be friends with every person or creature she comes in contact with. Or at least play with them.

We have dogs on the property that might or might not share her playful spirit. While they’re supposed to be on leashes, they aren’t all the time. Dog owners seem to always think that their little baby would never harm a kitten, or an elderly man. They forget the innate urge that dogs have to chase and eat cats.

And then there’s the people holding the leashes of the ones on them: either just got up, hung-over and having a first cigarette of the day or an anorexic girl whose dog weighs more than she does. Kind of makes leash laws irrelevant. A leash is only as good as the person on the other end of it.

So Lucy is exploring the great outdoors for the first time. Shannon and I tried to corral her and bring her in, but two old men are no match for a kitten.

And I’m hoping that no one saw us trying to catch her. She’s smarter than either of us gave her credit for. She managed to evade our every attempt to corner or connive her into being caught.

She’s still out there, exploring the great unknown. And I have no idea when she’ll come back. It’s kind of like sending our daughter on her first date.

Now I know how Daddy felt.