“Crystal Ball”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-17)

I became a news junkie at the feet of Walter Cronkite.

In our household, during my childhood years, CBS ruled the black & white television my parents bought from Sears. Dad would watch the morning news dutifully, with his huge Pyrex cup of coffee. Mom would sing as she prepared family breakfasts in the kitchen. Then, as the day progressed, school studies, chores and weekend play-time filled the day. Until evening arrived. Then, it was time to sit with Grandma McCray and gaze into the screen at he who was called ‘Uncle Walter’ by many millions of Americans.

“Talkin’ ‘bout my-my-my generation!”

This habit of digesting current events as they were delivered continued throughout my life. From newspapers, magazines, television and radio. Then, via the Internet. And through text messages with friends and family. My obsession with information-on-the-fly never waned. I became skilled at predicting political trends. Following an election season was very much like watching professional sports. And a presidential contest provided similar gratification to viewing a Super Bowl. When predicting the outcome of these contests, I felt a bit like a fortune teller peering into their classic ‘orbuculum.’ Able to view the unseen.

But Donald Trump cracked my crystal ball.

When he announced his intention to run for the nation’s highest elected office, in June of 2015, I told my family that it was merely a publicity stunt. The sort of thing one would expect for a businessman and thrill-seeker that had always courted media attention. I reckoned he was trying to up the value of ‘The Apprentice.’ During the following GOP primary season, next year, I assured everyone that his lack of experience would be telling and obvious. Even if he were to garner enough delegates for the convention in Cleveland, I felt sure that the party leaders would scuttle him as a winning nominee.

Trump as a real candidate? The idea seemed patently preposterous.

When the 2016 presidential campaign began in earnest, I declared that the process would merely be a precursor to Hillary Clinton’s coronation as our first female chief executive. When my family pointed out that I had underestimated ‘The Donald’ and his stamina, laughter was my response. And a promise of intrigue. “He will never take the oath of office,” I said with conviction. “Never.” On Election Day, everyone stayed up late. I expected Mrs. Clinton to be showered with confetti and congratulations. Instead, the nation slipped into a mood of shock.

As did I, being wrong once again. My ‘crystallum orbis’ had gone cloudy.

But between that moment of reckoning, and Inauguration Day, I continued to speak like a prophet. “Nothing changed here,” I explained. “He will never reside at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Perhaps a Soviet-style health issue will be announced that ends his quest. Or some malady with the election process. Wait for it! No one wants him in the Oval Office, not even his own party.” As he took the reins of power from President Obama, Antifa protesters were seen tossing bricks and burning vehicles. It was surreal and frightening. But his ascension became complete.

Wrong again I was – wrong, wrong, wrong.

Russia morphed into a useful demon for the press. They carried the story of possible collusion every day. It looked to be the sort of conflagration that would end Trump’s era literally as it was beginning. And murky business details abounded. And family members in power with their sire, something that prompted MSNBC’s Chris Matthews to term them “The modern-day Romanovs.” Cabinet nominees like Betsy DeVos and Jeff Sessions provided more controversy. White House leaks promoted a mood of chaos. His poll numbers plummeted. Every day provided yet another cause to guess that the charade would end quickly. I made such predictions with certainty. No leader could survive such public outrage.

And once more, I was wrong. My crystal ball had cracked and crumbled, into a heap of unrecognizable shards of glass.

In recent days, the tragic events in Charlottesville, Virginia seemed to confirm for detractors that our ‘Cheeto-in-Chief’ was comfortable with dark forces in his camp. As white-nationalist marchers waved the Klan’s familiar emblems, and others displayed the Nazi swastika, most Americans were overcome with a sense of horror. Pundits across the media spectrum were literally foaming at the mouth. Even our military generals each spoke candidly about the awful stain of hatred. I could not restrain my own need to predict Trump’s demise, one last time. His lack of political savvy was laid bare. “This is it! This is it!”

But of course, it wasn’t.

Were ancient soothsayers still alive, they might have more wisdom to impart about ‘45’ and his unexpected rise to prominence. But those in the professional media have reliably proven to be less than prophetic. Just like this writer. armed with nothing more than enduring memories. Of Uncle Walter on television, and the loving nurture of Grandma McCray.

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