An Offhand Comment

 

Hope is needed for the new year, but it begins as a wadded-up mess.

This past week consisted of name-calling, finger pointing and character assassinations over the demise of democracy. Where? Why, in the hallowed halls of higher power where the clown charade performs. Business as usual there. Confusion reigns. Can Hope live again?

The week begins here on the coast as most others, a morning dog walk on the beach. Business must be conducted, temperature notwithstanding. No confusion here. You can either walk north or south. Options are limited. Let the dog choose. Better to follow a dog’s nose than a politician’s odor. Safer choice.

Lynn and Chipper walk by. “Good morning,” she says. “Look at what the wind did to the flag.” She points a frigid finger at the flagpole.

An American flag hangs there, limp, twisted and tangled. The wings of its soaring patriotic spirit have been clipped. It clings powerless to the pole against the vicissitudes of strong winds which blow like the hysterical screams of warped opinions swirling on social media… ”Hear me, hear me, my way.”

“Reminds me of this week’s Congress,” I say.

“Yes, pity. It’s a wadded-up mess, too. Can anyone untangle the flag and the mess in DC? But don’t get me started on that.” I didn’t, but I wanted to.

Women have strong opinions. They can give you an earful in short order. I wanted to hear some scintilla of hope in the seething internecine conflicts, the color-coded turf wars, the impossibility of consensus or compromise.

But politics is contaminating. Why pollute the beach with discussions that lead nowhere, change nothing and often set on fire cordial relationships in small communities? I let it lay.

But her offhand comment of, ‘a waded-up mess,’ sticks with me. Funny, how a comment can lead you off in strange directions. She leaves me gazing at the flag, thinking about democracy.

I feel a twinge of pity for the flaccid, wadded-up cloth hugging the flagpole. It looks tired, worn out. Enduring the winds and rain, it must have said to itself, “Been here before. It’ll soon pass.” And it did.

We’ve heard more offhand comments than we can recall. Some we followed closely, some at a distance.  Some led to action, others to contemplation. Some led somewhere, others, like good intentions, died on the vine. Like a dog’s nose, they do the leading.

Offhand comments are like fine wine. The longer they distill, the better the essence. Fermentation eliminates a lot of impurities.

The next day we pass the flagpole. The flag has come back to life. Somehow, though battered and contorted by the storm’s fury, it remains steadfast and resolute. There may be Hope for democracy yet.

Today it’s sunny and 37 degrees. On our walk we encounter Gennie, an intrepid woman who takes life by the neck and plunges into the glacial Atlantic.

“Are you crazy?” I yell.

Dripping icicles, she shouts, “No, just re-baptized, energized and born again. Bring on the new year.”   

Now there you go. Is Hope still alive? You bet it is. The cortege has not yet formed.  

 

Bud Hearn

January 24, 2022