The journalist was killed 10 years ago today.
The mid-term auction kicked my ass.
The gushers of money, the belly-up Dems, the betadyned Reps, the gloating media, my bummin’ friends.
At first I tried to be cheery, but the jowly seditious Mitch McConnell, Sarah Palin’s Alaska, Michele Bachman’s pretzel logs of thought, the face of W on his book tour, and the fact that people are buying it kicked me to the curb.
As if things weren’t bad enough, I read that NY’s jolly old rabid anti-choice, anti-gay marriage Bishop Dolan got chosen to head the US Conference of Bishops.
My inner Pollyanna was having a really hard time.
And I remembered that my Dad would have been 99 years old this week.
My Dad lived through the Depression and World War II. Because of bad eyesight and extended family obligations, he received a military deferment. His friends all served and he took care of the young wives and families they left behind.
He lived through the revelation of the Holocaust, McCarthyism, the 1960s, Nixon, Watergate, Reagan. He worried about the Reagan deficits and never trusted the Clinton surplus. His dementia prevented him from understanding the Bush stolen election or 9/11, and he died before our reckless entry into two wars.
He was a humble, Golden Rule, just-do-it kind of guy who would have been embarrassed by all the Greatest Generation talk.
He died seven years ago.
I still reach for the phone to call him, though toward the end of his life we mostly talked about the weather.
I miss him.
There’s a front coming, and I need to talk.
If you liked this article by Kate Clinton, a columnist for The Progressive magazine, check out some of her other pieces by clicking here.