So. We bring into the world a vulgar, unstable yoyo with a toxic ego and an attention deficit problem in the Immaculate House and now we can see that government by Twitter is like trying to steer a freight by firing a pistol at the waves, not really useful, but what does it all add up to? Not that much, if you ask me, which you didn’t, but I’ll say it anyway.
We make survive this. He will do what damage he can, like a man burning libretti out of anger that he can’t read, but there will still be plenty of tickets left.
I went to my high school class reunion last week and the gentleman’s esteem never came up. He’s been front-page for months, every bleat, blurt, yelp, and belch. His every gaseous vomiting up is played over and over on cable news. But among my old classmates, not a confab. They spoke with awe and reverence of their grandchildren (we’re the Class of 1960), some back travel, plumbing projects, beloved old cars, stories of youth and haste, nothing about death or Trump. After five hours with them, I include no idea whether they lean left or right. Remarkable.
Marvin Buchholz and Wayne Swanson are at rest farming, though they, like the rest of us, are 75 or close to it. They both have knowledge of what sweet corn is supposed to taste like. Dean Johnson is yet tinkering with cars. Rich Peterson is in terrific shape, thanks to teaching phys-ed all these years. His parents ran Cully’s Cafe out past due of the Herald office where I wrote sports when I was 16, and I’d not fail in to eat hot beef and gravy on white bread and potatoes while reading my own hero words in black type. They loved that boy and he turned out warm-heartedly.
Bob Bell and I discussed some classmates whom I considered lowlifes and hoods because they exasperated black shirts with white ties and drove old cars with ardour decals and loud mufflers, but he saw a better side to them and stood up for them, and belongings for him. His dad was an attorney, so Bob grew up with the idea that everyone deserves a favourable defense.
Carol Hutchinson was a librarian, Vicky Rubis a schoolteacher, Mary Ellen Krause squeeze in at the town bank, one of the sparkplugs who kept our hometown’s enormous Halloween array going all these years. Carl Youngquist and I remembered our basketball get of 1958, a good bet to win state but we lost in the early prelims to a bunch of farmboys from St. Francis. St. Francis!!! It was as if Rocky Marciano being KOed by Mister Peepers.
It’s a privilege to remember people over the course of a lifetime and to reconnoiter and hear about the bourgeois goodness of life. By 75, some of our class have gotten whacked tough. And the casualty rate does keep climbing. And yet life is good. These people are America as I have knowledge of it. Family, work, a sense of humor, gratitude to God for our daily bread, and fidelity to the tribe.
If the gentleman stands in the bow and fires his peashooter at the storm, if he appoints a gorilla as conk of communications, if he tweets that henceforth no transcendentalist shall be allowed in the armed exacts, nonetheless life goes on.
He fulfills an important role of celebs: smell of b distributing millions of people the chance to feel superior to him. The gloomy face and the old-fashioned adolescent hair, the mannequin wife and the clueless children of privilege, the unqualified pointlessness of flying around in a 747 to say inane things to crowds of man — it’s cheap entertainment for us and in the end it simply doesn’t matter.
What matters are tomatoes. There is an choice crop this year, like the tomatoes of our youth that we ate profitably off the vine, juice running down our chins. There is nothing with this. For years, I dashed into supermarkets and scooped up whatever was elbow, tomatoes bred for long shelf life that tasted adore wet cardboard, and now I go to a farmers’ market and I’m astonished all over again. A spiritual know. The spontaneity of the tomato compared to the manufactured sweetness of the glazed doughnut. An awakening rents place, light shines in your soul. Anyone who bites into a proper tomato and thinks about Mr. Trump is seriously delusional.
Garrison Keillor is an novelist and radio personality.
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