Sunrise
HOPE
Disfunctionality
By Stephen L. Wilmeth
I remember
exactly where it was.
My granddad
and I were parked on the eastern slope of the Little Mulies waiting for sunup.
The pickup was running and the heater was winning the assault against cold air
from outside. Soon enough we would face that cold, but, for the moment, the
magic of a November sunrise would dominate our attention. Little was said as
the crimson glow grew into a crescendo of light and a spear of direct rays
exploded over the Treasure
Mountains thirty miles to
the east.
Over the
next seven to eight minutes, the magic of the predawn display emerged as a new
day. It was to be a day of a hunt that was matched with the smells of cured
grass and juniper berries, the sound of rocks rolling, clear visibility that
only New Mexico
mornings can produce, and a shared day with the single man most influential in
so many things that would endure for my lifetime.
I don’t
remember what all was said, but the impression of that particular sunrise left
me with a permanent preference for early mornings. It isn’t any one particular
thing. It is the combination of all the senses rolled into a cacophony of
impressions. All the subsequent days might not have been good, but, left in
unitary suspension, mornings have never failed to offer me hope.
Dysfunctionality
Kate was
tossing and turning at 2:30 AM,
Wednesday, November 9, 2016,
when she finally announced she was going to go face the reality of who our
newly elected president was. We had avoided the TV all Tuesday evening with its
tedious, unending negativity toward the candidate of our choice. So, there we
were just before the witching hour clinging to each other with dread of what we
expected to discover. Certainly our mood was affected by the overwhelming bias
of the American press from nearly all quarters.
In the hour
before, I had dreamed in dreary stupor that Mr. Trump had triumphed. The
conclusion was the result of murky logic in the kaleidoscope of unconscious
thought. At least it seemed logical. Standing there waiting for the outcome,
though, cast suspicion on any such expectation.
When it
came, the message left us suspended between disbelief and elation. Mr. Trump,
President Trump, our choice in what we view as the most critical American election,
prevailed against the combined forces of the Establishment. It wasn’t just the
Democrats who were expected to crucify any Republican candidate and it wasn’t
just the press that has become the real loser in this entire sordid affair of
deceit, gross incompetence and bias. The most perplexing antagonists were the
Republicans who had demonstrated they really don’t understand the destructive
implications of our country’s condition. They would rather “focus on a campaign
(their) families deserve” than support the candidate the constituents of their
party selected to become their leader.
We all had
to wonder what that meant.
What were
the issues of concern for their families? Was it the looming $20T debt they
seemingly play tiddlywinks with? How about the homage they pay to a sitting
president that has gotten everything he has been programmed to destroy by fully
funding his ambitions? Was it the continued, bombastic display of offense they
project through a litany of political transgressions and constitutional
fornication they crow about but can’t fix? The list of those offenses can no
longer even be arrayed because of the frequency and the expansion of horrors
that have been heaped upon our nation. One has run into the other, and all they
seem to be able to accomplish is pass continuing spending resolutions and
schedule committee hearings.
Name one,
ONE, committee hearing that has led to resolution.
The
Republican family dog fight started with the Bush bunch. They were offended by
the street fighting, and, besides that, coronated little brother, Jeb, was
stiffed by the sweaty minions.
Former puff ball candidates McCain
and Romney joined the crew of the jeering peanut gallery. The former in his own
foul mouth, womanizing prominence and the latter in his holier than thou
inability to actually fight for this country. McCain’s little South Carolina
buddy didn’t catch any fancy in his quest for presidential glory so he started
throwing spit wads at the process, and the list of fair weather conservatives
followed his lead and added their voices. Ohio governor and presidential sore loser
Kasich put self and family ahead of country and simply couldn’t understand the
stupidity of the American voters for not sending him and all his important bureaucratic
experience on a golden charter directly into the White House. Idaho Senator
Crapo was next. He was offended by the bad words. He had never smoked much less
cussed behind the barn. New Hampshire’s
Senator Ayotte could no more utter a bad word than she could pass up the latest
spending package.
Sally
Jewell’s sister separated at birth, Alaska’s
Lisa Murkowski, announced with authority that the Donald had “forfeited any
right to be nominated” even though the tax paying subjects had tallied more
primary votes for him than any candidate in history. Maine’s Susan Collins displayed her
underlying communistic tendencies by vowing “to write in someone else”. Alabama’s stately
governor, Bentley (the Forgetable) “cannot, will not vote for Trump” as did his
state’s Representative Martha Roby. Ohio’s
Senator Portman was going to do the really novel thing by voting for Vice
President Pence and Utah’s
incessant congressional talker, Jason Chavitz, vowed to vote against the
Trumpster before he grimaced with a gas pain and concluded it best to vote for
the Trumpster.
And, then
there was the distinguished gentleman from Wisconsin, House Speaker Ryan, he who had
never signed any business check on the front side before becoming the ruling
cheese head from the great north. His instructions were for Americans to “vote
your conscience” as he disappeared into a white out to prepare for his speaker
duties.
With such
leadership, is there any wonder self, oh, I mean family honor is elevated above
unity and party function?
HOPE
The dawn of
Wednesday morning was like the retrieval of that dawn of so long ago on the
side of the Little Mulies.
Our street fighter had won, and we
stood there clinging to one another in near disbelief when incredulity gave way
to exhilaration. Our emotions ran the gamut. Maybe there will be relief for us.
Who knows? Maybe we can make plans for future capital projects on our federal
lands ranch. Maybe we can actually structure opportunities for the succession
of our children into the business. Maybe there is hope for Constitutional
revival, but it comes with no real leadership from the Republican system. It is
going to take a street fighter with a constitution of steel that has been
absent in the hierarchy of the golden thrones of this party.
That character, though, does exist.
It exists down here in the muck and the mire of the real American world and in
the mind and the soul of one Donald Trump.
Stephen
L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New
Mexico. “Despite the concerted effort otherwise, … We,
the people prevailed.”,
2 comments:
Thank you Mr. Wilmeth!
This story should be published in a national publication so that more of the people who voted for Mr. Trump can read it. I'm happy to make the first positive comment!!
Best regards,
Emmit Brooks
It's especially gratifying that he named names -- the Republican ones!
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