Back to the Garden [View all]

[H2O Man]

It's a bright, sunny day in rural upstate New York. A bit cold out there, turning yesterday's snow melt into a sheet of ice on my sidewalk and driveway. I carry a bag out to the compost pile near my garden, happy to be beyond the ice. The birds that feast upon left-over cat and dog food call out warnings as my steps make crunching noises as I crush the crust on the snow. After dumping the organic waste on the large compost pile, I turn and look at the snow-covered garden. It glistens in the sun shine.

Today is February 19, I say to myself. The month is two-thirds over, and March is coming up. I'm looking forward to start work on the garden that my son constructed for me last year. Although it is much smaller than the gardens I have had over the decades, it still produces a fair amount of healthy food, and to grow some roses. I love growing roses.

There are large stacks of firewood at the eastern edge of the garden. Oak, locus, pine, maple, and others are stacked near the 7' by 7' fire pit my son built for me. There is a picnic table and benches nearby, which get good use when my children visit me. I also enjoy sitting alone at night, watching a fire, during the warmer months. Because there is no one within hearing distance, I begin to sing “Woodstock (Back to the Garden).”

Back inside, Sam's tail is wagging. A faithful dog, he actually seems to enjoy my attempts to sing. Greater love has no dog than this. Looking out a window, I see a flock of starlings has returned to the clonal colony of sumac, picking through the panicles for seeds. As I turn on the television, Sam pushes his enormous head onto my lap, insisting upon my undivided attention.

As I watch reports on Trump's pardons, I have the sensation of the couch beginning to move. I think that I've left America, and entered the 4th dimension of parasomnia, far beyond night terror. I see Bill Barr grinning as he begins eating the Constitution. Donald Trump has worked himself into a trance-like state as he calls upon the spirits of Adolf Hitler and Idi Amin to make themselves comfortable in the White House. A crowd of people chant, “We must nominate Mitt Romney! Only he can save us!” Then I hear Lawrence Welk singing Jimi's question: “Is it tomorrow, or just the end of time?”

I turn off the television, and instinctively put on Hendrix's version of All Along the Watchtower. “There must be some kind of way out of here, said the joker to the thief. There's too much confusion – I can't get no relief.” I feel myself being hurled through a long, dark tunnel, towards a bright light. Suddenly, I realize I am on my couch, staring out the window at the sun. “Toto, you're here!” I say, as I pet Sam's belly. My eyes search the room for friends and relatives, and then remember I'm here alone with my dogs.

Somewhat grounded into reality, I avoid the risks of watching television for the rest of the day. But at 9 pm/est, I turn on the Democratic debate. I find myself thinking that the panel asking questions are largely characters from my earlier waking-nightmare. Most of their questions have little to do with how we deal with the horrors that Trump has inflicted upon the nation, much less what another four years of his madness would bring into being. Instead, they are baiting our candidates, looking to create petty fights that risk dividing our party.

I take three phone calls during the debate. Each one involves a friend asking, “What the fuck is going on?” By no coincidence, this is the exact question that my son keeps asking as we watch the debate unfold. My response is admittedly sparse: rather than seeking to unite our party in identifying the candidate who is best prepared to defeat Trump in November, this “debate” risks dividing the supporters of the various candidates in a manner that threatens unity in the Democratic Party.

Is that a real risk, you may be asking? Good question. For an answer, read through much of the hostility being voiced on DU:GDP last night and this morning. Keep in mind that a divided Democratic Party is Trump's wettest dream. Read the Senate Committee on Watergate's report, specifically the large section on how Nixon's CREEP infiltrated the various Democratic primary campaigns, seeking to destroy the possibility of party unity before the national convention. Remember what the Russian's accomplished in 2016.

Turn away from that direction. Each and every single candidate we have is far superior to Trump. Each one could beat him in a general election, if we remain united in our purpose. This does not imply advocating for your favorite one. But it does mean not participating in attacking any of the others, or insulting other Democrats who prefer a different candidate. It means making a conscious effort not to repeat or spread the half-truths and outright lies that are being injected into the public debate by our opposition.

We've got to get back to the garden. Together.

Peace,
H2O Man