Should Have Known Better

I am grieving the results of the election. I should not have been surprised.

During the pandemic, I spent WAY too much time on the internet arguing with people, several of them friends of mine or former friends of mine, who refused to wear masks to protect others while a million of our most vulnerable Americans were dying. Out of all of the arguments I heard at the time, the one most common was “I’m healthy. I don’t need a mask.” My arguments about the health and safety of other people were not persuasive. Many of these same people also thought the pandemic would magically end as soon as the Democrats took office, as they thought it was all some elaborate trick.

Today, we find ourselves with a majority of voters who responded in a strongly positive way to policies and ads targeted at vulnerable populations – immigrants and transgender people. These same voters weren’t moved by the fact of women helplessly bleeding to death following their miscarriages because the doctors didn’t want to go to jail. These people were healthy, they didn’t need reproductive health care. They didn’t know any transgender people. One person argued, “They’re just wearing dresses to get into the girls locker room.”

Yes, I argued with these people on the internet again. I explained that their preferred candidate is a felon, a rapist who was recorded bragging about committing sexual assault. That violent crime is lower now than when he was in office. They didn’t care. Instead, they told me that I must just hate their candidate – that my hate for him had deranged me and that I had taken leave of my senses when it came to him.

I tried to engage further – did they find me to be that type of person? Was I someone who hated so easily and without cause? Was I someone who chose sides without giving it careful thought?

Not previously, I was told, just for this candidate. In this case, for some reason, I was worrying about the wrong things. I shouldn’t hate him or believe the negative things about him. None of these people ever attempted to actually defend any of the things he has done. He will make everything better, they told me.

But, I argued, he had tried to overthrow our government. There is proof. His own staff told us. He called January 6th a “Day of Love” and promised to pardon the people who carried swastikas and smeared feces on the walls of our Capitol while they tried to kill his Vice President. His current VP-elect had previously called him “America’s Hitler.” The television network that supports him, and refuses to report negative things about him, had to pay almost $800 million for lying about the last election being stolen. They were unmoved – it wasn’t productive to discuss such things. It was old news. My candidate has an annoying laugh, after all.

It’s the economy, I was told. The same economy that recovered more quickly than any other in the world from the pandemic? It could be better – prices were too high. I brought up the record-breaking rise of the Dow Jones, and statements from people at corporations who admitted raising their prices for profit reasons and blaming inflation. I talked about how quickly the bridge in Baltimore was rebuilt and the infrastructure bill that their candidate promised but couldn’t get done that had been passed. Don’t worry, they said, our candidate will make it all better.

The night of the election, I tried to sleep for many hours, but every time I would start to nod off, I would think about something else – the strong chance the president-elect will withdraw from NATO and bend the knee to Russia. I would then have another panic attack.

But, despite what I want, and what I think, here we are. I admit that the results show that my candidate should have done a better job talking about the things that white men and women care about. Maybe more ads and discussion about people who had been forced to choose between rent and insulin. Maybe the Justice Department should have moved more quickly to prosecute when there was strong evidence that the president-elect tried to lead a coup. Maybe our compromised SCOTUS wouldn’t have allowed it.

I don’t know. I believed my candidate would win. Clearly I was in a bubble of my own – a bubble where I thought the people who refused to wear masks to protect other people would do what I consider to be the right thing. I didn’t believe they would want the deficit to explode while billionaires got more tax cuts from a convicted felon. I was wrong. I became convinced that there was nothing he could do or say that would convince his followers that he was unfit.

Now I can only hope that these people are right. That it won’t be so bad. That the Supreme Court won’t take away marriage rights, and that we won’t become a country of people informing the government so that immigrant families can be rounded up. That he didn’t mean it when he said this would be the last time people needed to vote, or when he said he wanted to use the military against his political opponents. That he won’t use the immunity the Supreme Court gave him in ways that hurt our country and citizens.

If he was going to break it, he would have done it last time, I was told.

We’ll see.

Fight! Fight! Fight!

I was in 2nd grade when I had my first real fight. My opponent, Mark, was a year older. He was also my best friend.

The whole problem started with one of Mark’s toys. A quick internet search tells me that the toy in question was the Motorcycle Driver from the Fisher Price Adventure People Series. The Motorcycle Driver was remarkable because, unlike the other action figures of the 1970s, its legs bent at the knee to allow it to straddle the motorcycle. The Motorcycle Driver was simply the coolest thing ever – much better than my Fisher Price Adventure People Skydiver – and Mark graciously allowed me to borrow it.

When the agreed upon borrowing period had passed, Mark very reasonably asked me to return his Motorcycle Driver. I conducted a frantic search, but could not find it. That result was not uncommon for me – I still remember a number of my favorite toys from that time mysteriously vanishing. It’s possible that the missing toys were victims of my older brother – legend had it that there was a notch in the handle of the lawn mower for every toy he managed to kill. I tried putting Mark off when he would ask, in hopes that it would show up, but it didn’t. When he eventually pressed the issue, I had to admit that I had failed my best friend.

Mark was understandably upset, but he was willing to discuss a reasonable solution. The most logical option, “Get your parents to buy a new one,” was apparently rejected right away. Telling my parents would probably have gotten me in trouble – there was a general rule against me borrowing toys (for this exact reason), so the whole thing had been done on the QT. Even though he had been clearly wronged, Mark didn’t want that kind of trouble for me.

Looking back, it wouldn’t have been REAL trouble – but getting yelled at or grounded were situations to be avoided.

After some discussion, Mark and I agreed that the only way to settle the situation was to fight. A fight, much like the duels of old, would fulfill the solemn obligations of honor. Mark and I didn’t have the kind of relationship where we wrestled each other, so this was new ground for us. Being a year older, he was certainly the favorite to win, and I probably deserved the beating. We shook hands and agreed to meet the next day after school, on The Hill.

It was understood that when kids from our neighborhood had a score to settle, they worked it out on The Hill. It was really just a small hill in front of a house near the school, but it was around a corner and far enough away to avoid the prying eyes of school officials. I have often wondered if the family who lived there ever knew that their front yard was the setting for some of the most epic battles in the history of Proctor School.

The funny thing is, I don’t remember being nervous about the fight at all. It might have had something to do with the fact that kids of that age seem to be made of rubber bands. I used to jump off of swing sets at the highest point – something that would send me to the hospital today. Or maybe, I just didn’t believe that my best friend would really hurt me.

News about fights traveled fast. When Mark and I arrived at The Hill the next day, we had to wade through a crowd of excited children. They immediately formed a ring around us and began to chant, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

We circled each other and each got a few shots in before we started grappling. Somehow, I managed to get Mark on the ground. I was sitting on his chest and started choking him. He yelled “Uncle” and just like that, the fight was over. I asked Mark if he was ok, and he told me he was, so we got up, dusted ourselves off, and walked home together as the crowd drifted away.

As we walked, I remember him looking over at me and saying, “I thought we said no choking.” I hadn’t remembered any rule like that. Oops.

Following our fight, Mark and I remained close and hung out almost every day. I clearly remember sitting in his bedroom, giggling while we listened to the swear words on the Grease soundtrack over and over.

But, as the years went by, we started hanging out in different social circles. By the time I finished 4th grade, we barely spoke to each other. Eventually, Mark’s family moved away and we lost touch. We have since reconnected on Facebook, and I am happy to report that he is doing well and that he is a wonderfully talented photographer. Whatever issues drove us apart back then have been long forgotten and he hasn’t mentioned the choking thing once.

The Flight of the Trampoline

A while back, my neighborhood found itself in the path of a strong thunderstorm. I’ve heard that it could have been classified as a “microburst,” but I’m sure my friends in the Midwest would scoff at such talk. No matter, it was a strong thunderstorm with high winds and I was blissfully unaware of its approach. I heard rain, and I heard the wind whipping at the house, and then thunder – I didn’t pay much attention until I heard my children start screaming.
As a parent, screaming children is part of the job – but this was different. There was true panic in their voices. “DAD! DAAAAAD! THE TRAMPOLINE!!”

The trampoline. My wife, The Megger, had spent weeks trying to buy it and had driven 3 hours to pick up, and now, in the face of a thunderstorm, it wasn’t secured. I had been trying to grow grass, and as a result had been moving the trampoline from spot to spot while I watered the lawn. It was a poor decision for someone who neglected to check the weather.

My children were pointing to the backyard and screaming and, sure enough, the trampoline was dancing to the sound of crashing thunder. I quickly sized up the available options and chose the worst one – I sprinted outside and grabbed the big, metal trampoline.

I can envision my father reading the above sentence, shaking his head, and thinking, “I swear, we went over this so many times.”

Once out there, I realized how loud the world around me was – thunder crashing, winds whipping, tree branches and, I found out later, trees themselves falling. Out of the cacophony, though, my ears picked up the sound of my shed door repeatedly slamming in the wind.

A note about the shed – it’s one of those plastic sheds from the big box stores that they complain about in the commercials. It’s a fine shed – we had it installed last year – but it hadn’t even been up for a full day before my sweet little daughter went outside and tried to open the doors. She pulled and she pulled with all her might, completely ignoring the shiny lock that was in place, and managed to bend the plastic doors. As a result, the doors tend to hang open at the top, just a little, and it takes a determined effort to shut them so they stay shut.
As a result, my shed door was not shut. In fact, it was swinging back and forth in the wind to the point that I was nervous about it flying off the hinges. I let go of the trampoline, walked 3 steps to the shed, and made sure that the door was solidly closed.

I then took a step back toward the trampoline. At that moment, the trampoline leapt into the air and took flight, directly away from my outstretched hand. The flying saucer crashed through my neighbor’s fence without a moment’s hesitation and sailed straight for my neighbor’s house.

It’s a shame that there isn’t a picture of my face at this moment, as I stood slack-jawed and terrified, because I was convinced that my trampoline was going to smash into my neighbors’ sliding glass doors.

Instead, my wayward tramp bounced off the neighbors’ trampoline (which, to its credit, never moved), changed direction, and got hung up on their porch. It was at that point that I snapped out of my trance and realized that I was standing outside in the middle of a serious thunderstorm. I ran into the house and we all went into the basement to wait it out.
As soon as the winds died down a little, The Megger and I freed the broken, bent trampoline from the neighbors’ porch and staked it down in their lawn, where it remained for the night. The whole affair had lasted about 15 minutes.

Upon reflection, I was very lucky. Trees and branches came down in the yards next to me and didn’t land on me. The lightning did not take the opportunity to show me how unwise it was to stand in an open area gripping a metal object during a thunderstorm. The trampoline, when it did its impression of the Gale house, flew away from me and not through me. Despite my stupidity, only stuff was injured on the trampoline’s maiden flight.

The fence was fixed, and The Megger found some replacement parts for the trampoline, and I still ignore the weather reports, so things are pretty much back to the way they were. Except, of course, the trampoline is now securely fastened to the ground and can only dream of its short, but exciting, time aloft.