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I'm banking on the fables of the far, far better things we do
Today is my mother's birthday. She was born in March 1946, right before the baby boom really took off, when my grandparents were in their last years of graduate school at Berkeley—in wartime, my grandmother had taught a sort of daycare and my grandfather had worked in the mill room of the California Ink Company, where he met my mother's future godfather and learned not to get his fingers caught in the rollers. She was almost named Maud, and when she was born, my grandfather had some idea that a new father should kneel adoringly beside the bed of his exhausted, yet still radiant wife, so that he could admire her and the baby together. So he knelt down, in whatever hospital in Oakland my mother was born in: and he found himself staring at hospital corners and the underside of the bed, and he got up. And admired. You know those Russian dolls, the way they nest them? That's what she looked like. A beautiful Russian doll.
My father and I cooked dinner tonight, which is the usual for festive occasions around here. (Tonight's experiment: beef Wellington improv. It has about ten minutes to go in the oven and our fingers are crossed.) We were on our way back from the supermarket this afternoon, talking politics, when he expressed again his belief that the system of checks and balances had crashed and that it would take a few presidents getting impeached and arrested before anything changed. I replied that I would rather see an example made of this president and the whole problem halted right here.
"You want to see him nailed," my father said, and I realized as I answered, no, I do not want to see George W. Bush nailed. I do not want to see him pilloried in the town square. I do not want him afforded the least illusion of dignity or martyrdom. I want him arraigned before a war crimes tribunal; I want him tried and convicted in criminal court. I do not want him to return to his little ranch in Texas to look back fondly on his days in the White House, or ever allow himself to believe they were his duty, a good run, a success. I want him to wake up every day and know he should never even have put his name down for the primaries. I want him to know he made a mistake. I want his presidency to be the greatest regret of his life.
. . . Can you and your associates arrange this for me, Mr. Morden?
My father and I cooked dinner tonight, which is the usual for festive occasions around here. (Tonight's experiment: beef Wellington improv. It has about ten minutes to go in the oven and our fingers are crossed.) We were on our way back from the supermarket this afternoon, talking politics, when he expressed again his belief that the system of checks and balances had crashed and that it would take a few presidents getting impeached and arrested before anything changed. I replied that I would rather see an example made of this president and the whole problem halted right here.
"You want to see him nailed," my father said, and I realized as I answered, no, I do not want to see George W. Bush nailed. I do not want to see him pilloried in the town square. I do not want him afforded the least illusion of dignity or martyrdom. I want him arraigned before a war crimes tribunal; I want him tried and convicted in criminal court. I do not want him to return to his little ranch in Texas to look back fondly on his days in the White House, or ever allow himself to believe they were his duty, a good run, a success. I want him to wake up every day and know he should never even have put his name down for the primaries. I want him to know he made a mistake. I want his presidency to be the greatest regret of his life.
. . . Can you and your associates arrange this for me, Mr. Morden?
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Ah, that's beautiful. Many happy returns to your mother.
Alas, I don't think that C+ Augustus is capable of insight or regret. Would that he were.
Nine
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I have conveyed them to her.
Alas, I don't think that C+ Augustus is capable of insight or regret. Would that he were.
If made sufficiently miserable, I have faith . . .
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Happy Birthday to your Mom! You have a lovely family. Hope you all enjoy the day, week, year ...
And are you saying up there that your grandparents not only went to college but to graduate school? Do you know how unusual that is? (Well, I know yours are much younger than mine were -- one of mine came over from Belgium shortly after my dad was born; the other was born of someone who came over from Ireland.) But even my parents generation rarely went to college. Fascinating. What degrees did they pursue?
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That's what I want the trial and conviction for . . .
Happy Birthday to your Mom!
I shall convey your good wishes!
What degrees did they pursue?
They were both in graduate school for psychology. My grandmother was an ABD—we still have all her dissertation materials somewhere in several boxes—but my grandfather was a professor until he retired. My mother is also a clinical psychologist. I'm just interested in people.
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The truth is a three-edged sword.
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I am tempted to ask who you are and what you want . . .
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I doubt that'll happen. If the thousands of people killed and the thousands more wounded because of his actions don't make him feel regret, and they don't seem to, I don't think anything can. And I have an awful feeling we'll see a President Jenna Bush one day.
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now that's a thought I wish had never entered my head. *shivers*
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I should have been more specific in my wording. I am not expecting him to wake up one day overwhelmed with guilt and regret and sorrow. But I like to think that profoundly unpleasant personal repercussions could at least make him, in the selfish sense, sorry.
And I have an awful feeling we'll see a President Jenna Bush one day.
Gyah.
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Yeah. I guess like the Bowie song goes, "there is no hell like an old hell."
Happy birthday to your mother, by the way. For yesterday, I mean. I felt bad after my last post when I remembered you'd just posted about your mother's birthday . . .
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So he knelt down, in whatever hospital in Oakland my mother was born in: and he found himself staring at hospital corners and the underside of the bed, and he got up. And admired. _You know those Russian dolls, the way they nest them? That's what she looked like. A beautiful Russian doll._
That's a lovely image, there
I hope the Beef Wellington improv turned out well.
And word re: Dubya.
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It turned out delicious. The homemade 34-fold pastry crust was damascine goodness.