Letter to my Daughter
Sunday, 30 June
Graffiti |
The
Los Angeles Times reported it was 122 degrees in Palm Springs Saturday. Talk about a heat wave – that will get your
attention. If it’s July in Death Valley
and you’re an inhabitant of Furnace Creek then the thermometer topping 110 or
more may be business as usual. Even
there, though, heat registering more than 120 degrees is notable. That kind of heat will clear the streets. Your ice cream will evaporate from the
cone. People start to talk. Is this planet Earth?
Hey,
people – stop acting like Chicken Little here.
We’re in the Mojave Desert, OK? I
mean, duh? So things got a little
carried away; it happens. Everyone’s
getting jittery with all this talk about Global Warming.
Are
you nuts? Get your head out of the
sand. What’s it going to take for you to
wake up and do the math? Record tornadoes, record heat, record drought… it’s all just coincidence, right? Maybe when it becomes too hot for anyone to
barbecue on the Fourth of July you’ll come around. Maybe when we’re all wearing heat reflective
clothing and special headgear that we keep charged in the freezer before going
outside – maybe then you’ll ask yourself, “What’s with the climate these days?”
Some
people argued about cigarette smoking and cancer in the 1960s. There wasn't enough proof to make a
reasonable connection. Some people felt
the government overstepped a line when they ordered car makers to put seat
belts in the family car. You can’t tell
people what to do like that. Besides,
the vehicle may catch on fire in a wreck.
I feel safer being thrown free from the car. In fact, when I sail through the windshield I’ll
be sure to hold a lit cigarette in my hand.
Screw you, Uncle Sam, and your minions of know-it-all, dictatorial
bureaucrats.
People
herding cats have an easy time of it compared with trying to persuade this
society of obstinate voters. At least
cats don’t involve themselves in name-calling or bicker day and night on the
airwaves. From the appearance provided by
televised news it takes a special person to be a politician. Is it that they actually enjoy quarreling or
have they just bit the bullet and braced themselves for the nastiness of it all? Can they turn it off when they leave work for
home or does it carry over to what it is they’re having for supper?
“What’s
this? Are we celebrating ‘I’m in love
with Pasta Month’?”
“Let’s
not start, Stan. Maybe you should have
had a drink before dinner.”
And
they’re off. Is it a natural talent to
be able to compartmentalize your life and not take your work home with you or
is it a skill that can be learned? You've spent the better part of the day
planning for a lovely evening and now you catch a glimpse of your spouse being
lambasted on cable news as a corrupt nitwit.
He wants to overthrow America and strut about the White House wearing no
clothes. Somehow the flowers on the
dinner table have lost their fresh appeal.
The splendid meal is drained of flavor and the delightful dinner
conversation is a no-show because the tongue in your mouth feels like a
misplaced stone.
Oh,
I had such ideals when I went into public service. We were going to accomplish big things. Money isn't everything. We were going to engineer meaningful change
for society. Enriching people’s lives
would be its own reward. Now we’re in an
uphill fight for reelection. The
marriage, the family life seems like every other aspect of my life – a Hollywood
set made for public consumption. Only my
personal assistant, Kelly, knows what I’m going through, understands the real
me.
Is
there ever really a sunrise for this frame of mind? Or is it always just the alarm going off next
to the bed that pulls your chain and your engine stumbles to life? Can you remember what you had for
breakfast? Why? It doesn't matter. You’re driven by a cause bigger than
you. That’s what you tell yourself. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe it’s time to rethink our assumptions. The experiences of our lives, the events that
truly ground us to some kind of personal meaning, have become like the scenery
that blurs by when we’re traveling at ninety miles an hour. Everything beyond the boundaries of our
iPhone or iPad belongs to the realm of peripheral vision. Is this what it means to live the dream? I hope not.
Point me to the porch. Hand me a lemonade. Let’s watch from the shade the freight train
trumbling by, together.
Love,
Dad
Love,
Dad