c. 2021 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(1-21)
January 6th, 2021.
Dates etched in history are easy to recall. Some thrilling, others evoking fear, heartache or regret. But this most recent of days arrived without warning. I had taken my pickup truck to a local shop for brake repair, and was waiting for a ride from my brother-in-law to bring it home. This happened after a familiar ritual. Pondering the cost of a fix on my rusty beast-of-burden, I looked at entries on various automotive websites. A new vehicle would break this cycle of mechanical fatigue, and restoration. I reckoned the purchase of something fresh would be a smarter investment. But with each new page on my phone, a mood of hopelessness began to take hold. I was broke and disabled. Not a likely candidate for buying an expensive mule to sit in the driveway.
As before, I surrendered to necessity.
While waiting, I turned on my television. Because the final tally of Electoral College votes for our next president was scheduled to occur, I figured there would be live coverage available. And indeed, images from Washington, D. C. filled the screen immediately. Formal, regimented procedures long accepted as part of our national heritage. But then came something more – protesters shouting a familiar name to the sky. That of Donald J. Trump.
Impatiently, I watched with concern, while checking the clock.
Puzzlement filled my head as I saw this crowd storm toward the hallowed Capitol building. I blinked and blinked again. Was this literally possible? They scaled the walls, began to fight their way inside. Trump banners and Confederate flags unfurled and flailing in the wind. I muttered a four-letter word in disbelief. The official counting had stopped. Our elected officials were literally running for their lives! Then, my ride appeared as tear gas clouded the video stream.
Leaving my isolated neighborhood, we passed a weathered, half-ton Dodge with Trump regalia streaming from makeshift poles in its bed. This seemed like an omen of sorts.
On our way to the repair shop in Chardon, I asked if my brother-in-law had been aware of this melee on the Potomac. He nodded without much concern. Though I could imagine the chorus of “Fake News!” that must have been playing in his imagination. The heater in his minivan was turned to its ‘max’ setting. This made the trip uncomfortable and sweaty. Still, I reckoned the beads on my forehead were from uneasiness, not the temperature. America, Land of Liberty, and the hope of those around the globe who were yearning for freedom, was on the brink.
After paying the bill, I turned the radio in my truck to real-time news reports about the situation in Washington. The homeward jaunt was like an excursion to an amusement park. Being carried on a path filled with sights and sounds of fearful fantasies. I listened to reports of mayhem and conflict. And, of POTUS supporters already pushing back on these stories. “Trump supporters claim that Antifa and Black Lives Matter must be involved,” the network feed explained.
At home again, I stood for a moment in the front yard. My Black Lab wandered while I looked up the street. Was there anyone else here who had not voted for ‘The Donald?’ I couldn’t think of a single neighbor who was likely to have shared my choice. This sobering reflection made me seek comfort in the only way that was easily available.
I decided to have a beer.
Though it was only about 30 degrees, I sat on the porch with a cold brew. Inspiration beckoned with each sip of my beverage. Finally, I logged on to Twitter and began to write:
“The thing that frightens me so much about seeing these people ransack our Capitol is that they are not foreign terrorists, invading soldiers, or anarchist malcontents. They are members of my own family. A neighbor on my street who constantly posts about Jesus on social media. A friend I like to see at the bonfire with a 12-pack of Bud Light. My favorite aunt. I know these people well. And I dread the demons they are summoning…”
My thoughts stretched backward in time, to a late relative who had lived by the Ohio River. She would send e-mail messages critical of Barack Obama. Some carried the standard rhetoric of a partisan thinker. Others toyed dangerously with racist themes. I deleted them regularly. But with the advent of Trump, her virtual tone became more enthusiastic. A sermon-in-text for Christ and political action. I did not have to wonder where her loyalties would lie, today.
I then remembered a former neighbor who had visited shortly after Election Day. A blue-collar fellow who became successful through hard work and personal discipline. I always enjoyed his good cheer and habit of bringing adult refreshments on every trip. But when I spoke about Joe Biden surging to win the presidency, he literally looked confused. “Trump won!” he shouted. “Trump won! Trump won!” I imagined that he still had a MAGA banner on display, like others down my street.
Finally, I thought of my own father, who passed away in 2018. A man of much education and experience. As I often called him, ‘my yardstick.’ I could never hope to measure up to his gentleness and steadfast faith. Yet he also cast his lot with the disrupter-in-chief. An act that befuddled me into silence. I had spent decades listening to him preach wise platitudes. Warning about the woes of sin and compromise with evil. His tip toward Trump seemed indefensible. But he explained that this modern figure was a resurrection of the Persian ruler, King Cyrus. A protector for the community of pious people who were loyal only to God.
Thankfully, the day ended with order being restored at our nation’s wheelhouse. Counting of the Electoral College ballots resumed. I sat up late, drinking in the living room, numbing away thoughts of percolating sedition and insurrection. For the moment, this temporary solution worked. My truck had been fixed and worries about the nation could wait until another day.
Yet as I drifted toward slumber in my chair, the images replayed like an endless loop of an avant-garde film. A voice, a hoarse and desperate voice, my very own voice, resounded with drunken abandon. I recited a plea learned in Sunday School as a kid. One that felt oddly appropriate for this inauspicious date in history.
“Forgive them, father, for they know not what they do.”
Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com
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