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My Mom passed away at Christ Hospital, Cincinnati in October of 2011. She was 93, and for all but the last couple of years, had a healthy life that she lived to the fullest. Even at the end, when she was struggling to breath, she was still “all there”. We got our “orders”, and all of us got to say goodbye. Here’s what I said at her funeral that Saturday.

We have heard great words of praise for our mom.  We all know her courage, her loyalty, her tremendous personality.  Terry, Pat and I were privileged to have her as our mother.  What did we learn from her?

We learned to be involved with the world.  Mom was from London, she and dad fought in the second great war, they traveled the world and they changed the world by helping to bring the great events of our time to everyone’s family room through television.  Mom and Dad gave us a unique perspective of involvement in what happens,  and a desire to help make the world better. 

We took this into our lives:

Terry through surgery and caring, Pat through her canvas and her political action, I do it one kid at a time at school.  But we all got that drive from Mom and Dad; they cared and they taught us to care.

We learned to care about individuals.  In this church, all of you were touched by Mom, by her compassion, her desire to help, her willingness to give that most important gift…. time…., to her friends.

We learned about grace, the ability to make people feel good in the most difficult times.  Even at the last, when it was time for Mom to go, she was still thanking the nurses, the doctors, and apologizing for causing us to grieve.  

As Dick Neergaard would say, Mom was the queen, with the grace of the queen and the style of the queen, even at 93 years old, even at the end.

We learned to have fun, and value friends.  As we mourn today, don’t forget there was nothing Mom liked more than a party!!!  Even towards the end, no matter how bad the day had been, Mom “turned it on” when it came to  seeing people.  She loved it, she loved them, and she would love what we are doing now.  It is what she wanted.

And most importantly of all, we learned the great gift of love.  There is no greater love story than that of Mom and Dad:  born in the bombing of London, nurtured through the trials and turmoil of the great American television boom; raising kids in the 60’s,  enjoying the life of travel that the 80’s and 90’s brought.  They were inseparable, they were one, they were the epitome of what commitment to each other meant.  ‘”Til death do us part” was only a part of their commitment, “to live life as one” is the greatest gift Mom and Dad had to teach us all.

My father, Don Dahlman, passed away in Cleveland, Ohio on July 22, 2016. It was two days before his 98th birthday. We buried him back home in Cincinnati a week later. Here’s what I said.

Last Friday, after Dad passed away in his room at the Menorah Park, we were waiting for him to go on his final trip back to Cincinnati.   I was surprised to find the staff of the nursing home, lining up outside his door, tentatively knocking, then asking to come in.  There were lots of tears and tender caresses for “Mr. Don”.  Even though by the end Dad had lost most of his memory, and even finally the capacity to finish his sentences – you would never know that Dad didn’t know who you were.  He made you feel special:  everyone felt his humor, felt his gratitude, felt his love.   The staff wanted to say a final goodbye.

Dad was always showing us how to live. 

 He worked harder then anyone I knew.  He went to work at 8, he came home at 8; as a kid I always thought that was a normal workday.  Family was part of the work:  whether we were getting ready for a legendary party, interviewing prospective salesmen, or drinking too much aquavit in Sweden (I was older then) trying to sell Donahue to government television – he made us part of his efforts, and showed us to put our hearts into whatever we did.

Dad was up for a challenge – and he made sure we were too.  When we were kids we went to Hilton Beach in Canada.  There it was the morning “bath”:  getting into Lake Huron with a bar of Ivory soap (of course a P and G product) to start the day.  I don’t think any of us thought there was an “option” of skipping the morning freeze, it’s just how he wanted the day to start.

Dad always pushed us to make the most out of what were doing.  We played tennis together since I was five.  It took until I was 18 to get a set from him, and even much later when I wanted to back down and let him win, he would have none of it.  We were playing doubles in the “walking wounded” tennis group in Florida, and the opponent who kept coming to the net had just had open heart surgery.  I kept soft balling the ball back to him – Dad pulled me aside in between points.  “What are you doing” he asked, and I said I didn’t want to hit him hard – to which Dad said forehand drive him off the net – Dahlman’s rules – if you go to the net you better be ready to hit or duck.  Winning was winning, even in the walking wounded.

Dad made sacrifices for us that we didn’t even realize.  His career would have been even greater if he’d moved to the center of the broadcast universe, New York.  But he wasn’t willing to raise a family in a place where he’d have to spend hours on a train missing out on them, and he wasn’t going to raise us in the city.  We stayed here in Cincinnati, a city Dad loved and a city that, even as we all moved away, we still think of as home.

Dad was crazy proud of his kids:  the neurosurgeon, the artist, the teacher.  But he was even prouder of Mom.  They showed us kids how to love, not just by loving us, but by showing us how two can be madly in love for 67 years.  As Mom got sicker, Dad took on wheelchairs, bathing and oxygen machines.  He did it for the woman he loved.

So Dad always taught us how to live by showing us, even in the end.  With everything else stripped away, Dad still taught us how to exit the stage:  with dignity, and with love.  

A Phone Call

Here’s another mission of interest.  I was sitting in my lovely little bedroom in my parents’ home in Carshalton Surrey, ten miles outside of London, reading some poems by Rupert Brooke.  In university I did a lengthy paper on him and I loved his works with a passion.  The telephone rang and broke the silence.  I heard my mother’s voice answering, “Wallington 4545”, that was our number.  “Babs” she called, “the call is for you”.  I ran downstairs and sat on the old monk’s bench – yes the same one where I kept my Wellington boots, and I picked up the telephone.  I was summoned to Whitehall.

I quickly changed into a Harris Tweed suit – blue heather tweed I think it was.  I popped my rosary in my purse, gave my wonderful mother, who I adored, a bear hug and a sloppy kiss, and with a last remark, “I’m on night duty for a couple of nights,” I was out the door.  At the gate, I stopped and ran back to hug my Labrador Retriever, Danny.

London

The walk to the railway station was about a mile and a very pleasant walk, although there were many times when it was not so pleasant.  My sister Dorry and I had to shuffle through the shrapnel from the fighter planes overhead during the blackout.  Not so pleasant then!  This morning, however, it was clear and bright and the neighbors greeted me as I walked past.  I stopped at W.H. Smith to get a copy of the Daily Telegraph newspaper – it was for the crossword puzzle rather than the news.

The train came in and I settled in the corner—always the same carriage, always the same seat, and had it been a couple of hours earlier, always the same people.  During the air raids, having been up all night, we would all sleep on each other’s shoulders – never saying a world, but all feeling the warmth of each other’s bodies, and how grateful we were to be alive.  But this day I was alone and not having too much success with the puzzle.  Twenty-eight minutes later, the train drew into Platform 11 at Victoria Station and I alighted.

A brisk walk post the Royal Stables and then the Palace and up through St. James Park – beautiful St. James Park with the lake, the ducks and trees.  Nothing ever changed there.  I crossed the road to St. Charles Place and the War Rooms.  The general public in those days didn’t know the location of the War Rooms.  Our group – SOE (Special Operations Executive) had some rooms there too, and this is where I was headed.  If you’ve been to London and visited the War Rooms as a tourist, you know they are fairly simple and not at all what you see on TV.  There was also a big network of underground tunnels connecting all of the other ministries – the Air Ministry, the War Office, the Admiralty, etc., as well as offices, sleeping quarters – a complete underground world.

War Rooms

The girl at the front desk’s name was Gladys and she was always ready with a quick story about the Yank she was out with the last night, or the stunning British Naval Officer who led her astray.  She was a bit of “flotsam and jetsam”, but I know how intelligent, loyal, and courageous she really was.

I sat myself down in one of the offices while I waited for Colonel Richardson to meet me.  I watched the hustle and bustle of Air Force officers and Naval officers, mostly high ranking, go back and forth.  Even Churchill sallied forth in his purple siren suit, smoking a cigar, and I detected a slight smell of brandy as he passed the door.  Soon Colonel Richardson came in and after some chitchat, he told me that my assignment was Paris – that night.  I gulped!  The Germans occupied Paris.  It was a one-man job – or in this case, a one-woman job.  We normally travelled in pairs.  He gave me all the instructions several times in great detail, and I repeated them back to him.  It was all memorized.  The Underground would give me my contact’s name in Paris when I got there – if I got there.

Undisclosed Location

Daphne, my driver, was waiting for me outside to drive me into the country to an 18^th Century mansion that had become a briefing station for SOE and other secret agents.  I changed into clothes there – French clothes, which were made for me with French labels – everything from bra to panties.  The only thing of my own I was allowed to take was my rosary of Connemara marble blessed by the Pope in Rome.  It was given to me on my first communion in the Catholic Church at age eight.

Tea was being served and there were quite a few people around.  They were also going to various places on various missions, but we only talked about other subjects.  Then it was time to leave and Daphne drove me to the airfield.  The time, I was not going to be dropped by parachute, but would be going by Lysander.

I jumped in, said hello to Andrew, the twenty-one year old pilot, and we were off.  We crossed the Channel at a height of about 3,000 feet, then the plane dropped to about 400 feet.  At that height it was almost impossible for the German anti-aircraft guns to hit us.  The Lysander’s speed was less than 200 miles an hour and being very small; it was able to land on a very short field.  Soon, the landmarks were picked up by the aid of the moon, and as it neared the landing ground, an ultra-short wireless set in the plane, called an S phone, would get the directional signal.  We would then see the three or four small pinpricks of light flashed by a member or members of the reception committee carefully spaced out to indicate the size of the field.  The landing ground selected for tonight was about thirty miles outside Paris, hidden among the farmlands.

Making Contact

Suddenly, below us, we saw the dim signaling lights of the electric torches.  With the engines switched off, the plane began to descend cautiously down and down, towards the moonlit countryside, and in a few minutes was bumping gently along the uneven field.  We stopped, I jumped out and Andrew immediately took off:  he was picking up another agent somewhere else.  On my tummy, I squirmed my way across the field where I saw a pinprick of light.  This was always a little dangerous, as some agents had been met by the Germans instead of the Maquis.

Well thank God it was Jacques.  We had met before.  He was about forty, rather old I thought.  I was only twenty-two.  He embraced me warmly and we walked about a half a mile through the woods to his old car, a Citroen, I think.

I got in and we drove to Paris.  Jacques told me about the occupation and how things seemed fairly normal in Paris – no bombings, but the German uniforms were everywhere.  It was very late by the time we got there, and he drove me up to the Sacre Coeur district and dropped me off at a nearby apartment.  It was owned by the old aunt of a French agent I knew.  The concierge let me in and directed me to a small lift that went to the second floor.

Henriette Gauthier met me and welcomed me with jambon sandwiches and glorious French coffee.  We spoke of pre-war days and my education at the Loretto Convent in Liege, nothing relevant of the visit.  She showed me to my room, high above he rooftops, and I thought what a strange visit to Paris this was – certainly not the way I wanted to visit.

I jumped into bed in my cotton underpants and bra – not like the movies – no gorgeous black satin and lace nightgown – no handsome man to sleep with – just me with slightly damp sheets around me.  Then I remembered Henriette had given me an envelope.  I opened it.  It was the name and address of my contact in Paris.  It was in code, and I deciphered it – SLYVIA BEACH – THE SHAKESPEARE BOOK SHOP.  My hand shook.  I graduated from the University of London with an English Literature degree and Sylvia Beach was high on my list of people I wanted to meet.  What a strange circumstance – I would meet her as my contact on a secret mission in Paris.

Notre Dame Cathedral

I awakened after a fairly sleepless night to find Henriette standing by my bed with a steaming cup of coffee and hot rolls.  I ate them, the rolls I mean, and drank the coffee, then proceeded to get dressed.

I left the apartment soon after and walked down the Sacre Coeur steps to Montmartre, then found a bus to take me to the area where I would find my contact.  It was strange to see so many German uniforms, and I must admit I was uncomfortable.  I decided to go into the Notre Dame Cathedral and say a few prayers.  I put my hand in my pocket and found my one familiar possession, my rosary.  I wondered about myself.  Did I look French?  My hair wasn’t piled up high, my complexion was fresh – no makeup, I wasn’t reeking of perfume.  But I was Jeanine Mouret, wasn’t I?  That was my identification.

 I went into the Cathedral, knelt down and began my rosary:  “Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee…”.  I was half way through when I was aware of a figure entering the pew.  He sat quite close to me, and he had on a German uniform.  Am I now going to be arrested I thought – terrified, of course.  “Hail Mary, please help me in my hour of need”.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched a long, slender hand come out of his pocket.  He was a Luftwaffe officer — a sigh of relief – one seldom got picked up by a Luftwaffe officer.  In his hand was an ivory rosary and he began his prayers.  I was compelled to look at him – he was blonde and handsome, and he turned and smiled.  I smiled back.  There we were, both praying to the same God and both of us, without a doubt, would have killed each other in a minute.  What a strange world this was.  

Shakespeare & Co.

I finished my rosary and began to leave.  He smiled again, and I was concerned he would follow.  I went out, walked around for a half-hour, went into a perfume shot and bought some Worth perfume all wrapped in a dainty bad, and made my way to the Shakespeare Book Shop.  I tried not to appear nervous and shop-gazed a lot on the way.  The shops still had gorgeous things in them.

I entered the Shakespeare Book Shop without hesitation.  It was a musty looking old place and seemed deserted.  I went on through the second door and there she stood – Sylvia Beach – the woman who made literary history in 1922 when she published James Joyce’s Ulysses under the imprint of her Paris book shop, Shakespeare & Co.  And it was not only Joyce who visited her bookshop of the Left Bank, but also most of the writers who were to make the 1920’s legendary when they converged on Paris to live and work.

Sylvia Beach

There she stood – the woman I had admired from afar for many years.  My first reaction was disappointment.  She look to be a frumpy old woman – hair pulled back in a bun, spectacles on her nose, a worn old beige sweater, slightly soiled, with pockets sagging down, wool stockings and clumpy lace-up shoes.  Not the Sylvia Beach I had imagined – not the glamorous lady who hob-nobbed with the elite.  But then I looked into her eyes and saw the fire and light and knew that this was she who had challenged the literary world.

I introduced myself in French as Virginia – my code name.  She beckoned me to follow her up in a little spiral staircase.  At the top was a shabby couch with an old Indian blanket thrown across the back and a table nearby with two white enamel cups and a white enamel coffee pot and some kind of a burner to heat the coffee.  The room was lined with books and photos, and a simple desk was beneath the window with an Oliver typewriter on it.  I had learned to type on an Oliver, so I recognized it immediately.  I quickly told her of my admiration for her and how I had always dreamed of meeting her and perhaps being a part of her group.  She grasped my hand and patted my face and then we went on to the business at hand.

Mission Completed

She had information for me and on her information I had instructions and decisions for her to pass on to the Underground.  She told me that things were getting more difficult, and that a few days before a German officer had come in and wanted to buy a copy of Finnegan’s Wake by Joyce.  It was her only copy and she wouldn’t sell it to him and he threatened to have the bookshop closed down.  However, she promised to pass the information on.  Incidentally, as a result of our meeting, a German troop train was blown up by the Maquis.  

I had spent almost an hour with her and it was time to leave.  I picked up my little bag of perfume and went out into the street.  I made my way, by walking and bus, back up to the Sacre Coeur Cathedral, went in, lit a candle of thanks, and back to the apartment.  Henriette had found some English tea and had made some little cakes – petit fours.

Soon, Jacques came and we drove in the darkness back to a different blind airfield.  Finally, the Lysander appeared and I climbed in and we made our way back to England.  I spent the night near the coast and then, in the morning, went on into London to my “fake” office at the Ministry of Health where I held a position as a Junior Executive Officer.  Mr. Ferguson looked at me leeringly and said, “Been out with a Yank all night?” Little did he know that I had been doing my bit for the war and I had realised one of my ambitions – I had met Sylvia Beach.

Post Script

I have been to Paris several times since World War II and couldn’t find Shakespeare & Co.  Two years ago I was there and finally found it.  Although it was in a different location, it was identical to the old one.  It looked the same – the same string of small rooms.  I ventured in the back and there was the spiral staircase.  A small card hung by a black silk ribbon – the words inscribed on it said, “In memory of Sylvia Beach”.  I went up the stairs.  There was the couch, the blanket, the coffee pot, the mugs and the old Oliver typewriter.  I waited for Sylvia to appear.  She did not.  I was trembling with emotion.  Someone had recreated the whole place.  I stoop for a moment remembering the hand patting my face and wondered if it was all a dream.

Then I descended and asked a young man if there were any memoirs of Sylvia Beach.  He said, “No, but ask George”.  I asked, “Who is George?”  “George Woodbridge Beach,” he said, “the man over there with the white hair”.  I approached him and told him I was a friend of Sylvia’s and asked if there were any memoirs I could buy.  He was very short with me and said, “Only upstairs, not to be taken away”.  We left soon after, and then George came rushing after us and said, “There will be a reading on Sunday at 3:00.  Will you come?”  Unfortunately, we were leaving that day.  However, whoever George Woodbridge Beach is, he is carrying on the torch for Sylvia.  I hope it always burns brightly.

Old School Republicans

I’m not a Republican, and I’ve never been one.  But my Dad was, as were most of the folks I grew up with.  Here’s what their Republican Party believed.

They believed that capitalism was the best economic form, and that while some government regulation was reasonable, less was better than more. But their Republican Party was the Party of Teddy Roosevelt, the original “Trust Buster”. They didn’t want uncontrolled capitalism. And they believed that America was a land of equal opportunity where all should get their chance to achieve the American Dream.  They were the Party of Abraham Lincoln.  

My father’s Republican Party believed that America had a strong role to play in keeping world peace, and in encouraging democracies throughout the world.  Theirs was the Party of Dwight Eisenhower, and Ronald Reagan.  And my father’s Party believed that the government had no place in “the bedroom” or the “doctor’s office”.  What folks did was their own business.   

Soul of the Party

After World War II, the Democratic Party of Roosevelt did not have the monopoly on moderation or even liberalism.  The Republican nominee for President in 1944 against Roosevelt and again in 1948 against Truman was New York Governor Tom Dewey.  He was a moderate, a “business Republican”.  Dewey’s greatest rival within the Party was Ohio Senator Robert Taft Sr., the son of President William Howard Taft and the leader of the true conservative wing of the Party.

Taft thought that 1952 was his year to gain control. But the “Dewey” wing of the Party, led by Dewey himself, persuaded General Dwight Eisenhower to run against Taft in the primaries, and his popularity swept him to the nomination. Eisenhower then chose a young California Senator as his Vice Presidential candidate, Richard Nixon.  They were moderates and successful in the general election against the “liberal” Democratic nominee Illinois Governor Adlai Stevenson. 

The battle for the “soul” of the Republican Party continued through the 1960’s, with Nixon winning the Presidential candidacy in 1960 and 1968.  But in 1964 the conservative wing finally broke through, nominating Arizona Senator Barry Goldwater as the successor to Taft.  Goldwater suffered the worst Presidential election defeat in history up to that time.  That led to a moderate return with Nixon in 1968 where he eked out a victory over Democrat Hubert Humphrey.

So when did conservatives finally get control of the Republican Party?  In 1980 they found their “Eisenhower”, a candidate who had broad national appeal, California Governor Ronald Reagan.  Reagan cemented the Republican Party into a conservative philosophy.  Even more moderate members like George HW Bush “became” conservatives in order to gain appeal to the majority of the Party.

Party of Trump

So what happened to the “Dewey” Republicans, the moderates?  There was no place for them in the Party of Ronald Reagan, and they were squeezed out.  While a few still remain in New York and Massachusetts, in general the Republican Party became America’s conservative Party.  That is, until Donald Trump.

Trump brought a very different brand of politics to the Party.  He created a raw populism, convincing a traditional Democratic base, non-college educated white men, that he best represented them.  He used Reagan’s slogan, “Make America Great Again”, to pursue a nationalistic agenda that pulled America back from world leadership.  And many of his actions polarized the nation along racial lines.  

He found a core constituency of 35 to 40% of the electorate.  But more importantly, Donald Trump was supported by close to 90% of Republicans, and an even higher percentage of active Republican primary voters.  A word (or a tweet) from Trump could make or break any Republican primary campaign.  This forced other Republican candidates to fall in line with Trump, or be primaried out of office.  

Party of the Future

And even though Donald Trump will no longer be President in a month, he will maintain that “power” over “his” voters.  The battle for the future of the Republican Party will be a battle of inheritance.  Which politician will inherit the Trump “core” voters?  Whether Trump himself runs again in 2024 (Trump will be 78) only delays the crisis.  The maneuvers are already beginning, with figures like Mike Pompeo, Lindsey Graham, Nikki Haley and Josh Hawley all trying to become the “crown prince”.  And of course, there is the actual Trump family, with Don Junior surely having political aspirations.

So where do “regular” Republicans go to get “their” party back?  They don’t.  Steve Schmidt, campaign manager for the 2008 John McCain campaign and founder of the anti-Trump Lincoln Project showed the way yesterday. He stated that he was, “…a single issue voter, and that single issue is democracy”.  

He registered as a Democrat.

Extra Sleep!!!

Lou, our “rehab-foster” dog gave us a present this morning.  He slept until eight.  And the rest of our “pack” slept in as well, so we actually all got in up in daylight for the first time in a couple on months.  Lou is recovering from two broken legs and a displaced hip, so a big part of his rehab is our morning walk.  We started at a few hundred feet, and worked up to over a mile in the mornings.  And since Lou (and the rest of our crew) are generally early birds, most of our walks have been pre-dawn strolls through the dark byways of Pataskala.

But this morning we got to actually see the neighborhood on our stroll.  It’s a “pre-snow” morning, with a few inches predicted before the end of the day.  The snow is already falling, and there is a gray sky, with the gray and dark houses blending into the landscape.  It’s like the town s getting ready.  For some that’s actually true:  there are several neighbors who make a living plowing driveways and parking lots out.  They are quietly getting their trucks and supplies ready – today will be a workday for them.

This is a “working class” town.  Morning rush hour here is between 5:30 and 7:00 – folks working the early shift.  Sure there’s nine to fivers living here as well, and a lot of them are working from home here in COVID world.  But the majority in this town are “punching a clock” somewhere.

And there’s a lot of respect for work, for what Sherrod Brown, our Senator from Ohio, calls “the dignity of work”.  And to further quote Sherrod, Pataskala is a town where folks take a “shower after work,” not before.  

Teaching in Pataskala

I was a teacher at the local school here for thirty-six years.  When I first got a job at Watkins Memorial High School, I decided to live in the town where I worked.  That, by the way, is a big decision for a teacher.  If you live where you work, you are immersed in the “job”.  Going to the grocery store, getting a haircut, buying parts at the auto store (there are four within two miles) you always see parents and students.  It was normal to have a parent/teacher conference between the Chinese vegetables and the Taco section at Krogers.  

Other teachers make a choice to maintain a more private life.  They live outside the district, so they can have a little more anonymity in their lives.   Either choice is correct, but for me, to quote an old teaching friend – “You’re either on the bus, or off the bus”.  I was on the bus.

Generally folks in Pataskala respect the work that teachers do with their kids.  And they also respect the work it took to become a teacher.  Most understand what a college education costs, the effort it requires, and the choices “not made” to finish a degree.  A lot of the time it wasn’t just “Mr. Dahlman” from the kids, it was “Mr. Dahlman” from the parents as well.  Even though the nameplate on my desk clearly said “Marty Dahlman”, it’s how people considered education and teachers, with respect.

Dis-Respect

There is a controversial editorial in the Wall Street Journal this week about Dr. Jill Biden.  Of course that’s President-Elect Biden’s wife, and she’s an educator, a schoolteacher who went on to earn a doctorate in education.  She now teaches in college, instructing the next generation of teachers how to educate our kids.

Joseph Epstein is an instructor and lecturer at Northwestern University.  He wrote the opinion piece demanding that Dr. Biden “drop” the “doctor”.  She’s not a “medical doctor” and she hasn’t “delivered a baby” he said.  And Epstein makes his demand in as condescending a manner possible, even addressing Dr. Biden as “kiddo,” as if somehow she’s kidding everyone about her credentials.  “She is married to the President, she should be happy being ‘Mrs.’ Biden”.

It would be easy to push Epstein off as a “disgruntled” educator.  He is one of the few who made a career teaching at the University level without even earning a Master’s degree.  Most public school teachers these days have one of those, even me.  So it’s likely that there’s a big “chip on his shoulder” about the work he didn’t bother to do, earning the doctorate that is standard for college level professorships. 

After Truth

But I think he’s taking a side on a larger point, one that fits in with our current political divide.  Education, particularly higher education, is based in research and discovering facts.  Whether it’s getting an advanced degree in Medicine or Chemistry or Education or English Literature:  it’s about researching observable facts and drawing conclusions.  

But we live in a “post-fact, post-truth” world.  Our President has spent the entire last year telling us the “fact” that the election is fraudulent – even though it’s not.  Even the simple fact of wearing a mask in public to reduce the spread of COVID is debated. We have a third of our nation that denies “established facts”, from the established media to the established Universities.  So if they deny those facts, they definitely need to deny the “honor and effort” required for success in that establishment.  What’s a doctorate in anything if “we don’t believe in it”?

So Epstein’s opinion is more than just about the “Dr.” before Jill Biden’s name. He’s highlighted our nation’s disrespect for “truth” and those who offer it. And that fits right in with where we are today.

The snow is falling fast, more than an inch as a write this essay.  Some doctor in meteorology figured all of that out, and let the northeastern part of the US know that it’s big storm, with lots of snow coming.  We can deny that truth, but it still piles up at the door.

There’s an old farm saying, “Once the horses are gone, it’s too late to close the barn door”.  And that’s true about a lot of things in life.  Something that might have been easy to prevent before it happened, might be impossible to fix after.  But there is a corollary saying, “Don’t make the same mistake twice”.  So while “closing the barn door” may be foolish once the horses are gone, it’s good to not let the new horses get out the next time.

At least that seems to be the view of the Republican Party in Wisconsin, Michigan and Georgia.  

Gerrymander

Over the past decade (and more) the Republican Party had a national plan to maintain political control.  It started with making a concerted effort to gain control of state legislatures in 2010, in order to be in charge of the redistricting process.  This was when the district boundary lines for state and federal legislative districts were last drawn. And in the old American tradition, dating back almost to the founding of the Republic, the lines were carefully drawn to maximize the number of Republican legislators, and minimize the Democratic representatives.

The traditional name for this is Gerrymandering, named for Elbridge Gerry who as Governor of Massachusetts in 1811, drew a district so convoluted that it resembled a salamander. The newspapers called it a “Gerrymander”, and so a man who signed the Declaration of Independence, was a part of the Constitutional Convention, and served in the House of Representatives, as a Governor and Vice President of the United States, is best known for manipulating district lines for political advantage.

The Republican RedMap project brought modern computer technology to bear, creating exquisitely drawn maps down to the block and address.  The gerrymandered districts maximized the Republican advantage with technological precision.  (By the way, Democrats did this too when they had the advantage, in Maryland for example, but without the national planning of the Republicans).

There was nothing illegal about the RedMap plan, nor gerrymandering, nor using computers to make the districts even better.  It was, to quote Hamilton, “…how the game is played…how the sausage gets made”.  The RedMap project just was better at making this particular sausage than anything before. 

Voter Suppression

But the Republican Party also made another tactical decision that had a more profound impact on America.  After the Presidential election loss of 2012, the Party did a study of why they lost, an “autopsy” of the election.  They determined that unless the voting base of the GOP was expanded to include more minorities and women, they would become a permanent minority Party.  But those that wanted to follow-up the “autopsy” with action to expand their base were also in the minority of the decision makers.

There was a corollary plan to that as well.  If fewer minorities voted, than the impact of those votes would be reduced.  So the Republican Party went on a campaign to keep people from voting.  They called it “securing the vote” but it really was a concerted effort at voter suppression.

The first phase was to create an issue with election security.  Traditionally, voter cheating in the United States has been miniscule.  Most of the election fraud in the US has been by the people counting the votes, not the voters themselves.  There have been forty-four voter fraud cases in the US since 2000, out of over a billion votes cast.  That’s a rate of 0.0000044% (NPR).  But if Americans could be convinced that voter fraud was rampant, then restrictive Voter ID laws requiring the presentation of state issued identity cards could be enacted.  

Voter ID laws reduce minority voter participation.  But that wasn’t enough.  In addition, restricting opportunities to vote impacted minority voting, as well as reducing the number of polling places available.  It was logical.  Restrict voting hours, cut the number of poll locations, make sure the lines were long, and folks working a “day job”didn’t have time to vote.  

They Can’t Vote – We Win

And it worked, and is still working.  Georgia was a prime example.  In 2016 lines at the Atlanta inner-city polls stretched so long it took over ten hours to vote.  Many voters left, and many didn’t even try.  This wasn’t an accident, or some surprise.  This was a concerted Republican strategy to keep minority voters from casting their vote.

After the 2018 election, when the same situation resulted in the election of Republican Brian Kemp as Governor, his opponent Democrat Stacy Abrams made it her “life mission” to increase minority participation.  Her “Fair Fight” program registered voters, pressed for more polling locations with extended hours, and relaxed Georgia’s restrictive absentee ballot laws.  And then COVID struck, and Georgia (reasonably) made mail-in voting even easier to make voting safer during the pandemic.

What happened?  Joe Biden won Georgia in the 2020 Presidential election.  And, as states like Michigan, Wisconsin, and Pennsylvania increased mail-in voting opportunities in response to COVID, Biden also won those.  It might have taken a world pandemic to do it, but, from the Republican standpoint, the barn door was wide open.

Try as Donald Trump might, there’s no getting that horse back in the barn.  But Republicans are now moving to reinstate the restrictions that kept their minority party in control.  The Republican Georgia legislature has already tried to change the voting rules for the January 5^th runoff election for US Senator in the state. 

The GOP has made a choice to be a Party of exclusion.  It’s going to take a lot more “barn door closing” in the next couple of years to maintain their power.  And that, combined with the Trump myth of massive voter fraud, is about as anti-democratic as they can get.

Reading “tea leaves” is an ancient art, a way of telling the future.  We already have some real “tea leaves” to judge the incoming Biden Administration.  Here’s what I “foretell”.  

Who Elected Biden?

There are lots of “constituencies” that supported President-Elect Biden in the 2020 election. All of those groups now want to have representation in the Biden Administration.  Women, Blacks, Hispanics, Environmentalists, Progressives, LGBTQIA, younger Democrats:  all can say they had a “piece” of Biden’s victory, and all rightfully want a “seat” at the Cabinet table.  After all, this isn’t tiddlywinks it’s politics.  Quid pro quo is in the air.

The President-Elect already made his biggest choice.  Vice President-Elect Kamala Harris is the first woman, the first Black person, and the first Southwest Asian to have the job.  The oldest man ever elected to the Presidency has a Vice President who shatters multiple barriers.  And a record eighty-one million Americans voted for them.

Cabinet Diversity

And from what we already know about Biden’s Cabinet it will be the most diverse in American History.  Women are at the helm of the Treasury and Housing and Urban Development Departments. A Black man will be Secretary of Defense, and Hispanic men are at Homeland Security and Health and Human Services.   And there are more, an all-woman White House Communications team, a Black woman as Ambassador to the United Nations and Senior Economic Advisor, and women of Asian ancestry at OMB and as Trade Representative.

But there is a more common thread running through Biden’s appointments.  They are seasoned, experienced, and well versed in the jobs they’ve been asked to do.  And that raises the hackles of the Progressive wing of the Democratic Party, many of them young and supporters of Bernie Sanders, Elizabeth Warren and Alexandria Ocasio Cortez.  Where are the young appointees, the “next generation” that Biden promised as a “transition”?  Where is the seat at the table for Pete Buttigieg or Stacy Abrams or Jamie Harrison?

The Biden cabinet may be diverse, but they definitely represent the best of the Obama White House, not necessarily the future of the Democratic Party.  This Administration is no “training cruise”.  These are the seasoned veterans coming back for another try at governance.

Biden’s Goals

So what is Joe Biden thinking?

There is the most obvious answer.  Joe Biden is seventy-eight years old.  If there was a President who looked like a one-term leader, Biden may be the one.  Seventy may be “the new fifty”, but eighty-two is still in the eighties.  If you start from the position that Biden is thinking about four years, not eight, then putting an experienced team in place becomes the preeminent goal.  There’s no time to learn “the ropes”.

And there are multiple reasons to “hit the ground running”.  The United States is living in the middle of a world pandemic.  And there can be no doubt that our country is the worst in the world at handling that crisis.  Almost 17 million are diagnosed with the disease, and over 300,000 have died.  The rate of infectivity, the percentage of the population who test positive for COVID, is growing daily.

The Biden team needs to serve as the “bridge” for the several months required to get the newly approved vaccines into the general population.  It is now a “short term” problem, but a critical one.  How many Americans die from now until June will be determined by how effective a new Biden Administration strategy is.

Norms to Rules

And Joe Biden sees the totality of the Trump experience as a threat to norms that have directed American governments since Washington.  The job is not just to undo all of the “damage” done by Trump. It’s to find ways to institutionalize and regulate those norms, instead of simply depending on the “good will” of future Presidents.  

The historic example is Franklin Roosevelt. George Washington established the “norm” of two terms in the Presidency. 154 years later, Roosevelt “broke” that norm. After his death in office, the Congress and states approved the 22^nd Amendment to the Constitution. That set into law a two-term limit on Presidential terms.

Donald Trump has ignored so many of the “norms” it’s hard to know where to begin. The list of “fixes” is long:  environmental regulation, border and immigration control, the Iran nuclear deal, personal profiting from the Presidency and nepotism rules just to name a few.  If Biden sees himself as the four year “return to normalcy” then he can’t wait for a new Cabinet to find their footing.  There’s too much repair to do.

Won’t Get Fooled (Again)

There are two times in the past year we were “fooled” by the vote counting order.  The second time was when Republican state legislatures prevented the mail-in votes from being processed until Election Day in key swing states.  This intentional decision setup the Trump “scenario” when he could claim he “won” after the count of the “day of election” vote, and before the massive mail-in pandemic vote could be counted.  We are still paying the “price” for that strategy, as a significant number of Americans continue to question the outcome of the election.

But the second time we were “fooled” was by the order of the Democratic Primary elections.  February, the first month of primaries, had three states, Iowa, New Hampshire, and Nevada.  And for that entire month the results of those three states, all made up of mostly white voters, dominated the news.  Pete Buttigieg and Bernie Sanders were the “big” winners, and Joe Biden was absolutely the “biggest loser”.  

For that month, until Biden swept the South Carolina Primary of February 29^th, Progressive Democrats thought the election was “theirs”.  Then on March 3^rd, Biden won ten of fourteen primaries.  A week later, he won five of six.  But the “feeling” that Progressives should have “won” persisted, particularly when only a week after that, the pandemic disrupted the election process.

The reality of the entirety of the primary results is that a moderate “traditional” Democrat, former Vice President Joe Biden, was overwhelmingly elected for the nomination of the Democratic Party.  That “magic Progressive month” of February (in more ways than we realized at the time) melted away with the last of the winter snow.  Biden can legitimately claim a “mandate for moderation” despite the claims by Progressives that Biden won “because of them”. 

Expectations

Regardless of the outcome of the Georgia Senate races, getting appointments through the US Senate will be a near thing.  Either Party will have a narrow one or two vote margin.  Moderate Senators from both Parties will have pivotal votes over the Biden Cabinet appointees.  An appointee too far in either political direction may well get stalled or denied.

So we can expect that Biden will continue to prioritize experience over everything else.  And we can hope that Biden will act as soon as he takes the oath of office.  That’s the Cabinet he’s choosing, one that can get confirmed, and one that knows how to get things done.

High School

I graduated from high school in 1974. It was after the “hippie era” —though many of us had older brothers and sisters who claimed that time. We were the “next generation” – a stop between dropping acid and drinking Mad Dog or whatever else was available – the “Dazed and Confused” era of the later 70’s. 

And while we may have been soberer than those before and after us, we had our own set of issues. Ours was an era of “finding” a place in life.  Some of our friends and classmates became “Children of God”; some would be “Moonies” and some “Hare Krishna”. They gave up everything to their chosen “cult” – their names and credit cards, families and nonbelieving friends. 

They were taught to believe and obey. Prayer and work crowded out independent thought. Continual chanting “Hare Krishna – Hare Krishna, Krishna – Krishna, Hare – Hare,” drowned out any attempts to analyze their situation.   I diet of little more than boiled rice kept them from having the energy to think. Outside influence – family, friends, Media, was strictly regulated. They could talk to their parents: but only under supervision and generally in attempts to get more money for their “new family”.   When they went into public, often to sell their “herbal incense”; more seasoned and trustworthy elder members closely supervised them. 

Programming

We learned vocabulary words taken from the new mainframe computers carefully fed with stacks of punch cards.  Our friends were “programmed” by the cults. Their minds were cleared by lack of sleep, intense work, limited nutrition and constant chanting. Then they were “programmed” with the faith and regulations of their newfound religion.    

And there were the “deprogrammers”:  guns for hire that would kidnap your child from the cult. The cult member was held in a room against their will for days.  The “deprogrammer” would lecture, argue, quote scripture, and after days “break through” the cult’s mental barriers.   For some of us reuniting with our lost friends it seemed more like “re-programming” with middle class American Christian mores replacing rather than returning them to their pre-cult state. 

Flash forwards forty-six years to 2020. The mainframe computers are piles of hazardous waste, and kids think punch cards are something used to score a Mixed Martial Arts contest.  Like those old dialup modems that cradled the landline phones, the cults of old are mostly gone. 

But the concept of programming the mind is sharper than ever. Now instead of a cult member at the bus station offering “family”, the recruiter is on your pocket computer screen. It’s a YouTube video, or a celebrity text: all saying to ignore the “mainstream” media. Like the Krishna “gurus” of old this electronic programming demands loyalty and exclusivity. Any message questioning their conclusions from “outside the box” of the phone is “wrong” simply because of its origin. The “mainstream media” is declared totally corrupted, so none of their “facts” can be real. 

From the Box

But the “programmees” are no longer high school kids. They are twenty and thirty something’s, Generation Y.  And why not, they are the video game generation grown to adulthood that worked together to kill Nazi Zombies and win Call of Duty.  They saw hope in Obama’s “Yes We Can,” but saw those ideals smothered by “the old white guys”.  Bernie offered an alternative despite being an old white guy himself, but when the establishment went with Hillary – their anti-establishmentarianism turned them to Trump (and I got to use that term in a real sentence!).  

Trump was the master of the Twitter message.  An entire mythology was built around him, from QAnon to Alex Jones.  If you throw out the entire Mainstream Media, Fox News included, what remains is only the extreme, all knowing and all inclusive.  They have a universal answer to all of the questions, from class inequality to UFO’s.  Science is an enemy, corrupted by industry.  The guy on YouTube knows more than Dr. Fauci, and the anti-vaxxers lend respectability and even heroism to dodging a needle in the arm.  The failures become the omnipotent victims, from Michael Flynn to Scott Atlas.  They must be right, but silenced by the establishment.  It’s George Soros striking once again.

And perhaps even worse, there is a universal equity in blame.  Mitch McConnell and Joe Biden, John Roberts and Ruth Bader Ginsburg: all are establishment and therefore all are rejected equally.  Republican and Democratic Parties both deny the “revolution”, so both are unacceptable.  If it was on Netflix, or YouTube or anything on the “box” in their pocket, then it must be true.  Anywhere else merits the universal denial – “fake news”. 

Breaking the Box

How to “break the box”? We can’t kidnap Generation Y and lock them in a room to  “deprogram” them.  We can’t convince them that what sounds like the “universal key” to all problems is like almost all singular answers to complex problems – wrong.  They are convinced:  that all of the the vaccines, electoral counts, lower Courts, Republican election administrators, and now the Supreme Court itself are all corrupted – the universal answer.

Reality is there is some corruption in our government, and even in our elections.  The universal opposite isn’t any more valid.  And we must find a way to reach out from inside the box.  Maybe “Trump World” needs to be a Podcast, not an old-fashioned essay.  But that is the way out, after all of the craziness of “Stop the Steal” and “Natural Herd Immunity” fades.  The box is unbreakable from the outside, but from within, it can be breeched. And that’s the way we bring America back to a place where we can work together again.

Names of Treason

They are names from the deepest, darkest parts of American History.  The words are used to describe the acts of John Brown and Edmund Ruffin, Benedict Arnold and Aaron Burr.  They are defined by the US Law and codified in 18 US Code §2381-2385.   And you hear them tossed about today:  treason, rebellion, sedition and overthrowing the government.

John Brown

John Brown and Edmund Ruffin were two sides of the same coin back in the years prior to the Civil War.  Brown believed so strongly in abolitionism, that he attacked a United States military armory for weapons to lead a slave uprising.  It was a long plotted operation with the goal of creating a nation of freed slaves in the Appalachian Mountains, armed with the weapons of the US Army.

The attack on the Harper’s Ferry armory failed with several killed and Brown himself wounded and captured.  He was tried for murder and treason.  He died at the end of a rope, with his death triggering the final polarization that led to civil war.

Edmund Ruffin

Edmund Ruffin believed so strongly in the right to own slaves that he was a leading voice in South Carolina to secede from the Union.  It was Ruffin who at sixty-seven years of age literally lit the fuse on the American Civil War, by firing the first cannon shot at Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbor.

Too old to fight himself, Ruffin spent a good part of the war avoiding Union capture.  He lost a grandson to the conflict, and when Lee finally surrendered, Ruffin wrapped himself in the Confederate flag, put a rifle in his mouth, and committed suicide.

Benedict Arnold

Other than Judas Iscariot there is no other named so linked to treason than that of Benedict Arnold’s.  A rising General in George Washington’s Revolutionary Army, Arnold plotted with the British to open the Hudson River to British expansion. He would be paid £20,000 and given a commission in the British Army.  If he succeeded, the colonies would be split in two, making them easy prey for the Redcoat forces.  It was only through Washington’s spies that Arnold was found out before he could act. He escaped the noose, and became a Brigadier General fighting against the Continental Army he once served.

Aaron Burr

But the “treason” we should look most closely at today is that of Aaron Burr.  We all know the first part of the story.  Burr “took his shot” in the Presidential election of 1800, using the complexity of the American Electoral College system to challenge Thomas Jefferson’s victory.  Jefferson was forced to “make a deal” (“It might be nice to have Hamilton on your side”) to gain the Presidency.  

Burr served as Vice President for four years, but Jefferson made sure the job was only symbolic.  And we all know what happened then:  the animosity between Burr and Hamilton festered to the point of a duel, and Hamilton was killed.

But that wasn’t Burr’s supposed treason.  After the duel, Burr was in danger of prosecution for homicide.  He wandered out west, actually spending some time here in Ohio.  As he moved down the Ohio River, he gathered a group with the avowed purpose of settling on land in Louisiana, then a part of the newly US acquired Louisiana Purchase.  The 40,000 acres would be held by this quasi-military group, and perhaps declare its independence from American control, or even invade Mexico to establish Burr as King.

It wasn’t about ideology.  It was about wealth and power, and though Burr’s treason was never proved, his trial marked the end of the political career in the United States.  He would spend years in exile in Europe, then come back to his home in New York, a shadowy influence on future politicians until his death in 1836.

Treason

Treason is a carefully defined term in law (18 US Code §2381).  It requires the treasonous person to “…levy war against (the United States), adhere to their enemies, or give aid and comfort to them”.

So what is going on today?  Seventeen states, 106 US Congressmen and Senators, and, the current President and Vice President, have the avowed intent to overthrow the results of the 2020 Presidential election.  Whatever that action is legally, it is not, in fact, treason.

Misprison of treason (18 US Code §2382) is to have knowledge of, conceal or fail to disclose any action of treason.  So if what is going on today isn’t treason, it isn’t “misprision” of treason either.

Rebellion and Sedition

Rebellion or insurrection (18 US Code §2383) is incitement of rebellion or insurrection against the authority of the United States of the laws thereof, or giving aid or comfort to those who do.  And here’s a case that might be made.  Those who advocate throwing out the election of 2020 results are essentially rebelling against the law, and those who “go along” with them are “giving aid or comfort”.  For 106 US Congressmen and Senators who have joined the Texas lawsuit to overturn the election, they have lent the stature of office to an attempt to subvert the will of the people, and the Federal election laws.

Seditious Conspiracy (18 US Code §2384) states: “if two or more persons…conspire to…oppose by force to prevent hinder or delay the execution of any law of the United States”.  The key word is “by force”, and while apparently that hasn’t happened yet, it certainly feels like America is on the verge of  “force”.  And if it does occur, who will be held accountable for the “conspiracy”?  Will Joe DiGenova, who threatened that the fired head of election security should be “shot, drawn and quartered”, be found guilty?  What about all the others who have called for “action”?

America Today

There may be John Browns and Edmund Ruffins out in our nation today; folks who through misguided beliefs and loyalties are willing to commit acts of violence and rebellion.  Our polarized information sources, and our knowingly manipulative leaders are willing and able to take advantage of them.  It’s not those confused ideologues that concern me.  What does is the “Aaron Burrs”, our political “leaders” who are taking advantage of the atmosphere they have created for power and money.  

And even worse, I fear the political leaders who can’t find the courage to stand up for American laws and traditions.  They are allowing all of this sedition and insurrection to occur, because of the fear of a “tweet” that could end their political career.  At least Arnold had the courage to don a Redcoat, and Burr to pull the trigger.

And what should the United States do about all of this?  We have now passed the “hot potato” to the Supreme Court, where we hope that finally six Republicans will find the courage to stand for the Constitution.  As for the rest, 18 US Code §2383 has the perfect remedy:

“…And shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States”. 

If they don’t have the courage to uphold their office, they shouldn’t have it. 

Babs Dahlman, my Mom, wrote many stories about her life. She grew up in England, and was an operative for Special Operations Executive during World War II.  She married my Dad, Don Dahlman, during the War and they moved to the United States.  Our family heard many of those stories growing up.  After Mom’s death in 2011 and Dad’s in 2016, the stories went into the files.

As the last of their generation passes, I feel it’s important to share the life and words of my parents.  For those who knew them, it’s a reminder of nights around the dinner table, the remnants of dessert on the table but wine glasses still filled.  For those who didn’t have the opportunity, here’s their story.

Note:  My mother had a degree in English Literature from the University of London.  I have dared to edit her works only very lightly, and almost always for typos that got through her rigorous writing process.  Besides that, these are her words.

January 1946

Dawn broke, and I awoke and realised that this was the day that would change my life completely.  I looked around my room with all its years of familiarity – the oaken chest, the green oriental rug, the cream walls, the latticed windows, the souvenirs of years gone by—the faded pictures.  I quickly put on my fleecy dressing down and slippers and went across the hall to the bathroom.  It was chilly, but the bathroom was warm for the hot water heater.  I took my undies from the top of the hot tank in the linen cupboard where I had placed them the night before.  They were warm, and I ran my bath.  The water soon ran cold, about four inches of warm water, then cold.  I took my bath, dressed warmly, and crept downstairs.  

The house was quiet.  I walked slowly around, caressing the brass bell that had summoned me to meals for all my life, and then came to the carved oak hallstand.  I opened the seat of it. Yes, they were still there; my old rubber Wellington boots. A tear dropped and washed some mud from them.  The door under the stairs was ajar.  I looked in: this was where we sometimes took refuge in air raids.  A doll or two sat there – I fingered them lovingly.  I went out through the kitchen to the garden, past the green house.   Then the tears came pouring down.  The steps – my Dad made them – one for each of his children and grandchildren, our names and dates of birth inscribed.  I stroked my step. I outlined my name with my finger.  My whole life was pictured in that outlining.  I was saying my goodbyes – it was hard.

Back in the house, my mother was preparing breakfast and I could hear my father up in the bathroom, humming as he shaved.  My mother enfolded me in her arms, speechless.  What could be said – a parting, mother-daughter –a love so strong.  Then she went about preparing breakfast and I went into the dining room and hugged and wept with my Black Labrador Danny.  My Dad came down.  He adored me and I him.  We said nothing, just looked.  He was the dearest man in my life, and I was leaving him for another dearest man in my life.  We ate breakfast rather silently, and then it was almost time to leave.  The taxi man rang the doorbell.  The moment had arrived.  I hugged my mother silently.

My father and I took the train to London to meet my husband, Don, who was going to accompany me to the boat for my voyage to the U.S.A.  We talked softly during the train trip of our love for each other, of our hopes for the future.  It was a very emotional half-hour that I will never forget.  Don met us at London Bridge Station and we made our way to Euston, my Dad accompanying us.  The next hour was indescribable.  How many thoughts went through my mind?  I knew I loved this American boy, but could I give up everything for him?  Yes, I knew I could.  We settled ourselves into the railway carriage.  The whistle was about to blow.  There was a final hug, a rush of tears, and the disastrous look on my father’s face as he ran along side the fast moving train.  Tears streamed down this strong man’s face.  Thank God I had Don with me.  He silently comforted me.

We arrived five hours later at a little town called Lostwithiel in Cornwall, my port of embarkation.  Where was the ocean liner one always sailed to America?  What was that shabby fishing-like vessel in the harbour?  Had we come all this way for nothing?  No we were told, that Liberty Ship is the boat you want, the “Francis D. Culkin”.  It was the fishing boat vessel, or so it looked to me.  

Don escorted me onto the boat, and then it was time for our farewells.  He was to leave from Wales on a similar boat, and we were to travel one hundred miles apart across the ocean.  After he left, I went up and sat on the deck.  There were only six passengers and as yet I had only become acquainted to one.  As I sat there I realised there was nobody to wave goodbye to me.  I thought of the poet Rupert Brooke, who on leaving England paid two little boys sixpence to wave their handkerchiefs goodbye.  But I didn’t need this, England herself was saying goodbye.  The rain started:  it was as if my mother country was showing her sadness at my departure.  I sat there in the rain and though about my life.

From the Beginning

I was born in London, England, the youngest of a family of five.  My father was a strong, dark-haired man of Irish descent; hot tempered, loving and loyal.  I adored him and he adored me.  My mother too was a strong-willed woman, beautiful, fair haired and blue eyed, with a passionate love for her children.  My brother Leslie was thirteen when I was born and already away at boarding school.  He was brilliant in every way, sports, academics, languages:  even at that age.  My brother Stan was carefree, loving, equally brilliant but never caring to apply himself to anything else but sports.  To round the family out there were two sisters, Eileen and Doris, whom I loved very much.  However, because there was eight years difference between my sisters and I, I was brought up almost as an only child.

We lived in a townhouse in London until I was six, when we moved to a beautiful suburb in Surrey, ten miles south of London.  There I attended a girls’ preparatory school – a day school.  Then, at nine years of age, I went away to boarding school. This was the aim of every upper and middle class family – to send their children away to school.  Now I look back and wonder why parents made such sacrifices to send their children away.  It wasn’t because they wanted to get rid of them – it was always considered the best education and the best thing for them.  For me it was hard, at first and the first week I cried myself to sleep every night.  I knew my mother was doing the same thing. 

But I soon got into the swing of things and became excited about being away at school, meeting so many new friends and adjusting quite well.  Also, my parents picked my up every Saturday morning and took me home until Sunday night. They always had wonderful things planned for the weekend, visits to museums, picnics, day-trips and always with the family. 

A typical day at school was this.  Awakened at 6:30 by a nun walking through the dormitory with a large clanking bell (the school was the Sacred Heart Convent, Roehampton, one of England’s finest girls’ schools).  We immediately jumped out of bed, more out of shock than obedience, washed, dressed and lined up to be inspected to see if our shantung silk collars and cuffs on our navy blue dresses were crisp and clean and that our black lisle stockings were pulled up neatly.  Then the cod liver oil would be spooned out and off we went to breakfast.  We were only allowed to speak French at meals, no English.  After breakfast Mass in the chapel, yes, every morning.  

Our classes started at nine and finished at two with a break for lunch.  All afternoon we had outdoor sports – hockey, lacrosse, squash racquets.  A break for tea, then two hours of homework, break for supper, more homework, and bed by nine o’clock.  This sounds like a pretty stiff regime, but it worked well and we all seemed to be extremely happy.  The nuns were all very kind and loving and it was a fairly relaxed way of living.  I had friends from all over the world and the last year Kathleen Kennedy, yes, the (future) President’s sister, was my roommate.  Her father was going to be the ambassador to England at that time.

In the summer our family had a house at the seashore for two months and my father would commute to London.  They were marvellous holidays.  All vacations were special because our family was all together.  Christmas was very special to us all and we always had a big gathering.  Then after Christmas was Boxing Day and I remember my mother had an open house and all the tradesmen – the butcher, the baker, the fishmonger, the vegetableman, etc., would come by with their wives to receive their Christmas presents and have a glass of sherry or gingerwine.  It was a rosy world and I loved every minute of it.

At seventeen I matriculated and went to Liege for a year to the Loretto Convent to “finish” my education and polish up my French.  My French became quite provincial however, with a mixture of Flemish.  It was an interesting experience and I enjoyed it very much.  My eldest brother was then living in Brussels and I spent many weekends with he and his wife and they took me on a lot of trips.

Back to England

When I came back to England I was ready for very little, but was interested in joining the Diplomatic Corps – my time with the Kennedys had started me on that trend.  However, I needed a college degree for that and in those days in England, whatever your social or financial status; college was not too common for a woman.  I decided the best thing to do was to get a job and go to the University of London part time.  This I did.  I took an exam and became a junior executive in the Ministry of Health, a fine title, little pay, and short hours. It worked out well and I finally got a degree in History and English Literature.

Social life in London pre-war was dazzling:  parties, theatres and balls.  It was the “last convertible” era.  I was still looking at life through rosy coloured glasses, but my politics were getting to be a little pink too, and I became interested in causes of all kinds.  Meanwhile I met the boy – a golden haired Apollo – in his second year at Oxford, and we became engaged.  My parents gave a large engagement party – twenty boys and twenty girls. Within two years not one of those boys was alive – all killed in the Battle of Britain or at Dunkirk.

In 1938 a cloud came over Britain.  Mr Neville Chamberlain came back from Berlin with a year’s reprieve but we all knew what was in store for us.  Air raid shelters were built, and England’s young men were asked to volunteer – and they did.  All my crowd left universities and volunteered, most of them with the Air Force.

In 1939 war was declared and my rosy coloured world was no more.  The first day of war was terrifying – the air raid alarm went off and we all donned our gas masks and sat in shelters, thinking this is it.  But no, it was a false alarm and actually there were no raids for six months.  The Ministry of Health loaned me to the Admiralty and I worked in their code room, then I went to the Air Ministry to their chart room.  I often slept underground in Whitehall, even in those days.

As the months went by the raids started and my father built an air raid shelter at the top of our garden.  He bragged about it being panelled and carpeted, but it was really a miserable covered trench.  The siren would go at 7 pm until the all clear at 7 am, and the raids would go on all night.  We soon got tired of sleeping in the trench and moved into the house where a room was reinforced with a metal box placed in the middle.  It was about eight foot square, and called a Morrison Shelter.  We all slept there every night.

We lost every window in the house and most of the ceiling came down, but our reinforced room remained intact.  My Air Force friends would return from their missions and victory-roll over our house to let me know how many enemy planes had been shot down.  Sometimes I would watch them leave in formation and count them when they came back.  I would often find several missing and wonder whom it was that didn’t come back.  I had so many friends in the Fighter Squadrons and they were all stationed fairly near us.  My fiancé was stationed at Grantham, and I would go and visit as many weekends as possible. We were always aware that there may never be a tomorrow and we made the most of today.  Too soon I got the fatal words – killed in action.  My whole world collapsed.  It was a sad time.

Special Operations Executive

Although I was working at the heartbeat of the war in Whitehall I became anxious to get more involved and wondered how to do this.  I didn’t wonder very long, because quite soon I got a call from a Colonel Richardson.  He asked me to meet him in an old Government office near Westminster in an out of the way place.  He asked me many questions – he knew all of the answers – he knew me better than I knew myself.  He then asked me to take the Official Secrets Act oath.  He was setting up a secret agent organisation in France and they decided to use some women.  I was picked – was I interested?  It would be very dangerous – was I willing to risk my life?  

I was willing to do anything to retaliate – my generation was being wiped out before my eyes.  He said I should think about it carefully – nobody must know – my family included.  I was terribly excited and wanted to say yes right away, but I had to be sure and he had some more investigating of me to do.  I could hardly get the whole thing out of my mind and finally he phoned four days later and arranged to meet me at yet another strange place.  I then became part of Combined Operations Special Operations Group – SOE.

A week later I went to another meeting in London, where I met more people involved like me and we were told of the aims of the organisation and the purpose of training.  We were each allotted a distinctive Christian name by which we were to be known.  My name was Virginia.  Later we were taken to an old Manor House in Surrey where our training began.  We underwent vigorous training both physical and mental – the memory course was the worst but happened to be the one in which I excelled.

I was amazed to see some of the men I had known at Oxford and Cambridge and some I knew through the Chart Room and the Air Ministry.  I was taught with photographs, charts and diagrams.  I learned the German military and espionage system and the uniforms of the Nazi Army, Air Force and Police.  I also memorized German division signs and even truck registrations and what ever had been discovered of the methods of the Gestapo, the Abwehr, and other organisations that wore no uniforms.

We were told that passing messages could be done in a variety of ways.  Word of mouth was the most usual, but to supply a diagram or location you sometimes scribbled on the margin of a newspaper in a disguised manner and left it on the table for a recognized agent to pick up.  Much of the training was done on the English streets trying to recognize the right contacts and pass on information without being detected.  Other English comrades, unknown to me, would be the Gestapo.  It was a game we played – but a game that if not played well would eventually mean death.  This stage of training took about two months.

The initial training was mostly brainwork although we were able to take long hikes through the countryside, swim, and some played tennis.  The food was exceptional as most of us were living on rations.  In the evening we played parlour games – lots of charades and many memory games such as enumerating a tray full of numerous articles after just a brief glimpse – as simple as that.  We were also taught a special memory course in which I excelled.

At the end of the six weeks we were allowed to go home.  Then it was difficult to evade and lie to my parents about where I had been or what I had been doing.  Luckily my cover job at the Ministry of Health protected my explanation, but I hated the deception.  Later I had some more training in Scotland at a small farmhouse on the coast.  This was of a more physical nature and included rock climbing, long hikes, parachute jumping and more.  There were other training camps of this nature in the area.  I can remember one evening our group decided to have a lark.  We trudged ten miles at night, and raided another group by taking their supply of gin.  We did it so successfully they had no idea it was gone until the next morning.  Our problem was dragging it back the ten miles in the dark – I think a lot of it was consumed along the way.  Our raid was successful – and we were told that the other was a “very superior” group.  

My parachute training was not too successful as I messed up my ankle the second time I jumped (and this wasn’t even out of a plane).  I was sent back home the rest of the time and never did finish the jump program.  Luckily, but this time we were able to land small planes, called Lysanders, in blind airfields all over Europe with the help of flares placed by the Underground.  I only had to use a parachute a few times.

Two weeks went by and then at least I heard that I had passed all the requirements and I was ready for action.

Tony

The first mission came up and I was ready to go with a colleague.  We would not know our assignment until we landed in France.  I was scared to death, but very excited.  Unfortunately the mission had to be aborted.  Just as we got out over the Channel, a Messerschmitt fighter appeared and began circling us.   I thought that the end had come before the beginning, but our pilot just diverted his course and went back inland while the Messerschmitt went off chasing a Spitfire.

A few days later we were off again and flew high over the Channel – it was foggy – then dipped very low over France to avoid the German anti-aircraft fire.  Our French Underground friends were there to meet us with flares, and led us to a farmhouse where we received our assignments.  I started really scared, but then gradually gained confidence.  How could one think of oneself, when there was so much at stake?  Getting and giving information without using a radio transmitter was a part of this job.  The network of Underground workers was immense, and they were superb.

My teammate was a young man named Tony Eldridge Graham and at this point I think I should tell you something about him, and perhaps a mission we had together.  Tony was a dashing blonde, scion of one of England’s finest families, education at Eton and Oxford University (Magdalen College).  He had degrees in archaeology and philosophy, and was a brilliant young man, only twenty-seven when World War II began.  

We had a deep, deep friendship.  For Tony, it was romantic love and for me, an everlasting friendship.  He loved me enough to continue our friendship despite the rejection of romance.  His sincerity and love for his family and country touched me deeply.  We knew each other for three years before the war broke out.  I met him at Oxford, and it was through Tony that I met my fiancé.  When war broke out all my friends at Oxford joined the RAF (Royal Air Force).  It was Tony who rose quickly in the ranks to Air Commodore.  With his knowledge of Europe and his family’s associations throughout the continent, he quickly became indispensible to Combined Operations.  He formed a network of people throughout Europe whom we could trust and rely on for help, refuge and food during our missions.

It was Tony who was responsible for my involvement.  He knew of my great love for England, and that I would sacrifice the ultimate.  Tony stood by me when my fiancé was killed, and brought sanity back and a will to go on living.  The missions we went on together were the finest and always brought the best results.

Mission to Liege

I can remember one such mission when we were to deliver some sabotage instructions to a group in Liege.  It was very dangerous because it was so near the German lines.  I had the information and instructions in my head – Tony had the equipment and the know-how.  Our Lysander landed and our contacts came out to meet us.  The plane immediately took off and we went with our contacts to a farmhouse.  Tony and I worked as a super team, and as a result an entire German troop train was blown up.  

Because of the proximity to Germany we were issued German clothes from a store in Berlin.  I can still remember the heavy trousers and the sweater and how itchy it was.  We were supposed to be picked up at 6:30 am but we were picked up rather later than planned.  Our plane hardly got in the air when it was hit and started to burn.  I was terrified:  we were to abandon the plane. We were taught how to do that on the ground, but now we had to do it over enemy territory.  No choice – the plane was burning in the front. 

 My parachute was in place – I closed my eyes and jumped, wrenching the chrome stick to release the parachute.  It seemed like years before the beautiful blossom appeared over my head billowing around.  I dare not look down, but gliding swiftly through the air I caught sight of Tony.  Our twenty-one year old pilot was not so lucky – he nosed dived the fiery plane into the earth.  My body was wet the perspiration from fear, and I checked my pockets for my map, fake identity card and money.  As I did my hand came in contact with something warm and sticky.  I thought for a moment it was blood, but it was only those stupid Horlick malt tablets we always had to carry for energy in our escape kit.    Meanwhile, they oozed all over the map. My landing was rather jolty, but safe.  No time to bury the chute; I was having a Hell of a time just getting out of it.  I proceeded to put it down in the bush.  Who was going to fool around digging a hole?  What a stupid idea that was:  it came from one of our “desk” colleagues.

On looking at the map I was some way from a contact.  We had friends imprinted on our minds everywhere.  I knew a little about the area and eventually found the right house.  Tony also found the house a little later.  He landed and was finding his way to our meeting place when a German tank group that lost their bearings stopped him.  In his fluent German he was able to guide them on their way. The lady of the house made us wonderful coffee and hot rolls, and gave me a lovely navy skirt and pale blue blouse.  I felt as good as new.

Within a few hours we were back in Liege and made arrangements for another pickup.  We were also able to get information on several RAF pilots in the area that have been shot down, and got some help to them.  A few hours later and I was back in London at my fake job checking Old Age Pensions.  Mr Baker, the elderly Clerical Officer remarked on my lovely silk blouse.   “Been out with an American?” he said with a leer.  Little did he know the ordeal I had been through.

We had many such missions together and then Tony became more specialised.  He was on his way to the Tehran Conference when his plane was shot down and he was taken prisoner.  We knew he disappeared, but it was much later that we learned that he had been taken to Limburg to a mental asylum where the Nazis did many experimental brain operations.  Immediately after the war I found him in the Dachau Concentration Camp.  

I had to go identify him.  It was the most horrible moment of my life.  Tony – dashing, loving, beautiful Tony – a shell. There was no recognition in those beautiful blue eyes, no colour in that handsome face, no life in that once crispy wavy golden hair.  We took him back to London and then he was flown to South Africa where a neurosurgeon was doing extraordinary operations. Unfortunately his operations were not successful.  Tony was brought back to England – a vegetable – fortunately to die.  I remember the last time I saw him – Tony the magnificent young man – ravaged and abused by the Germans.  He was one of England’s finest, one of “the few” to die for “so many”.  He had called me Virginia – my Combined Operations name.  Virginia died then too.

Yugoslavia

Later on I was assigned to a Yugoslav unit and did a few missions to Marshall Tito’s headquarters hidden in the hills in a cave.  To this day I don’t know where I actually was.  The journey there was much more hazardous but once there the Germans were scant compared to France and Belgium.  My first mission there was different and exciting.  The small plane landed quickly in the rugged terrain of Yugoslavia. We were approached by four men who helped us out of the plane, refuelled it and off it went again into the darkness.  We, meanwhile, were rapidly escorted through the rough undergrowth for about two miles.  No sign of anyone – Thank God.  

We finally came to a heavy bush like area and found ourselves in a large – very large cave area kitted out as an office with some temporary fittings and walls.  There were about seven people there:  English, Yugoslav and Americans.  I had met most of them at one time or another in London.  I was led into a temporary side room and there met this large stone like man known as Marshall Tito.  He knew very little English but our interpreter did a good job of communicating for us.  He asked many questions relating to our background, experiences, and loyalties.  He then got up from his chair and came around – stroked my hair and said, “…So young, so intense, she will live.” 

 Although I saw him several times, this was the only really intimate time I had with him, but often looking across the room at him our eyes would meet and there was always a feeling of trust and warmth between us.  Most of my missions involved sabotaging troop movements.  The danger was not as great as France and Belgium.  However, all of the British and Americans stationed at that headquarters were eventually caught and killed by the Germans.  It tears my heart out to think what happened to that wonderful group.

Don

Meanwhile in 1943 I met an American from Cincinnati named Don Dahlman.  He telephoned me and asked for a date saying that he was the friend of an American officer I knew.  I was dubious. Americans had terrible reputations so I told him to call back later in the day.  After checking and being told he was “okay”, a “gentleman” in fact, I arranged to meet him. 

We had a fabulous time and to make a long story short, fell madly in love with each other.  He eventually was transferred to London and we saw as much of each other as possible.  He did not know where I went or what I did, although he may have had suspicions.  Perhaps he even thought I had another lover?  In March of 1944 we were married and were both recalled from our honeymoon – he to get ready for the invasion, and me for another assignment before the invasion.

Don went overseas with the invasion, and I did not see him for almost a year.  On one of my missions I obtained permission to be picked up twelve hours later.  I hitchhiked across France to spend a few hours with him – only to find out that he was out on the town for the night and no one new where.  I made my way back, frustrated, lonely and MAD. 

By then we were going through the V II rocket bombings in England and Don wanted me to go to the USA.  I was committed to what I was doing and told him I could not leave until after the war was over.  There was never any doubt in my mind that we were going to win the war and that I was going to live.  How lucky I was – only three in my unit were alive at the end of the war.

So the end of the war came, and I arrived in the USA and am living happily ever after.

I have been very happy and I love America. As I would have died for England, I now feel sure I would die for America.  But, I have requested that when I do die I should have a tombstone that reads a quote from my favourite poet Rupert Brooke:

“If I should die think only this of me, there is some corner of a foreign field that is forever England”.

His Legitimacy, the President-Elect

My Democratic friends tell me to just hang on.  On January 20^th, Joe Biden will be inaugurated President of the United States.  Once he’s taken the oath of office, Donald Trump will be out, and everything will be better.  They’re certainly right in one way:  things will be better.  Joe Biden had already demonstrated that his governing goal is something we haven’t seen for the past four years:  competence. 

The Biden cabinet members (so far) aren’t the “radical socialists” that Republicans threatened.  In fact, if you are on the “left” of the Democratic Party, so far you haven’t gotten much.  Even Neera Tanden, Biden’s most controversial nominee for the Director of the Office of Management and Budget, is a “mainstream” progressive.  There was plenty of corporate and even foreign money behind her liberal “Center for American Progress”.  

But the one thing the Biden cabinet “exudes” is the ability to take office and go to work.  They are all experienced and ready to hit the ground running – and all that means they are eminently qualified and competent.

A Loser Baby

Donald Trump has done everything he can to delegitimize the Biden election.  He has gone to court over fifty times claiming that there was election fraud, and lost almost every case.  And if it was just Donald Trump by himself, we could write it off as “sour grapes” and being a “sore loser”.  That’s what would have happened in the past, when the “norms” pushed the losing Presidential candidate to concede the election.

The traditional thinking was:   once a candidate was declared the “loser”, they had to move as quickly as possible to end the contest.  If they didn’t then the nation would look at them as that “sore loser”, and end any future political career. Think about what happened to Al Gore.  By (legitimately) fighting for the 2000 election in Florida, he knowingly risked his future political life.  If he won he was President.  But when he didn’t, he never got the chance to run again. It wasn’t just a matter of “American tradition” to concede quickly, it was a matter of political survival.

But like many other areas of American political life, Donald Trump has thrown all of those “norms” out the window.  

True Believers

There are two key factors that make the actions of Donald Trump so different.  The first is that he convinced a significant minority of Americans that the election was stolen.  “Stop the Steal” is the new “Lock Her Up” chant of the “Trumper” crowd.  And they aren’t being stupid.  All of the information, all of their media reports, everything they see is telling them that “their” America is being stolen from them.  

We can certainly argue that they are getting all of their information from one “silo”.  But that argument isn’t going to fly with them.  Twenty years of high-pressure sales has them convinced that “their” sources are correct, and everyone else is watching “fake news”.  And while that’s a battle for some future tomorrow, it’s not a winnable one today.

But the second factor is there are so few other Republican leaders who are saying, “Biden won”.  In a Washington Post questionnaire last week, only twelve of fifty-two Republican Senators acknowledged the Biden victory – that’s twenty-three percent.  The rest evade or obfuscate or outright deny the will of the American voter.

Leading from the Rear

So when the Trump crowd chants, “Stop the Steal”, where are the leadership figures telling them the truth?   We know better than to expect that anyone in the direct Trump orbit will do so, but what about McConnell or Portman or Cruz or Scott (South Carolina or Florida)?  

The answer is they are nowhere to be found.  They all have excuses:  we need Trump voters in Georgia, or, Trump will “Tweet” and destroy my political career, or, we can wait until the Electoral Votes are counted, or it won’t matter, everything will be OK on January 20^th.

It won’t.

A large minority of Americans believes they have been robbed.  They are Americans with the same traditions as the rest of us.  I simply ask my Democratic friends: if they shoe was on the other foot, and we believed with certainty (not like 2016) that the Presidency was stolen and the vote of America ignored, what would we do?  To what lengths would we go to preserve our Democracy?  Would we march in the streets  or refuse to obey government orders?  Would revolution be in the air?

And for those who say, just wait until:  the Electoral votes are counted, or Georgia, or the inauguration; I ask, “who’s gonna tell ‘em”?  And why, after months of believing, should they listen?  Does anyone see Mitch McConnell standing in front of the riot, like the man before the tanks in Tiananmen Square, saying go home, it’s all OK?

Me neither.

Friends

In the legal world it’s called “venue shopping”.  If someone’s going to sue, they look for a Court that would be most likely to favor – them.  In a local dispute, it might be to manipulate the Court schedule so that a “favorable” judge decides the case.  Or, if the question could be settled in State or Federal Courts, the Court with the set of laws that most favors their case.

It’s kind of like Major League Baseball.  In the National League, pitchers take their turn at bat every inning.  If the manager wants a better hitter in the pitcher’s slot, then he’s got to change pitchers.  In the American League, there’s a designated hitter that bats for the pitcher, no change required.  If you’ve got pitchers who can hit, National League rules are better.  If not, the American League rules are better.  

Donald Trump and his supporters have gone to Court over fifty times since the November 3^rd election,. They tried in one way or another to change the results of the vote count.  Trump has lost over thirty times, with several cases still in legal “limbo”.  They won one case, in Pennsylvania. It required that Trump observers be allowed as close as six feet from the vote counters instead of ten.

Evidence

But what the President and some of his followers believe, is that if they can get their case to the United States Supreme Court, they can win.  It’s the venue where they actually have had the most success.  He won on the Muslim ban (eventually), on the border wall, and on several other issues where “lower” courts ruled against him.  And, as far as “judges” are concerned, Donald Trump believes as least three of those Justices “owe” him.  He appointed them, and in the “quid pro quo” world of Trump, that means they should rule for him.

The US Supreme Court let the President down yesterday, refusing to take an appeal on the Pennsylvania case to invalidate the voting results.  The Court had no comment, just a 9-0 refusal to hear the case.  But that case was on appeal from a lower court, with all of the evidentiary decisions already made.  

 Mr. Trump and his supporters, including several members of Congress, claim that if they could only get their “evidence” in front of the Supreme Court, then the Court would be “required” to overturn the election results that went for Biden.  They want the Supreme Court to order those states to ignore the “tainted” results, and appoint Trump Electors to the Electoral College.  And Trump has his “quid pro quo” with Justices Bennett, Kavanaugh, and Gorsuch.  It would only take two more.

Jurisdiction 101

A little reminder from high school American Government class here.  There are two ways that a Court hears cases.  The first is “original jurisdiction” That’s when a Court hears the case for the first time and determines both the facts (evidence) of the case, and how the law applies to that case.  After the original court, the facts are “settled” either by a jury or the judge.  If a case is appealed to a “higher” court, it is appealed based on whether the law was applied correctly or not.  Those higher courts have “appellate” jurisdiction, determining the law, not the facts.

The Supreme Court almost always has “appellate” jurisdiction.  But there are Constitutional exceptions where the Court could step in and take “original” jurisdiction. Article III, Section 2, Paragraph 2 of the US Constitution states:

“In all cases affecting ambassadors, other public ministers and consuls, and those in which a state shall be party, the Supreme Court shall have original jurisdiction.”

So if only a State would sue, and particularly if a State would sue another State. Then that case might have a clear path to “original jurisdiction” in front of the US Supreme Court.  They could present the “mountains” of evidence that all of the other Courts, both Federal and State, have rejected out of hand.  The President could “make his case” to the “friendliest” Court he knows.

The Lone Ranger

Enter Ken Paxton, the Attorney General for the State of Texas.  In a 128 page brief to the Supreme Court in the name of the state of Texas, General Paxton claims that the voting process in Pennsylvania, Georgia, Michigan and Wisconsin violates the due process rights of the citizens of Texas.  How did they do that?  Paxton claims those states counted votes in ways that, even though their own state courts approved, violate their own state laws.

That’s right – the State of Texas has determined that Pennsylvania, Georgia, Michigan and Wisconsin don’t know how to judge their own laws.  And since they don’t, they’ve allowed an election where the “wrong” candidate won, not the candidate that Texas chose.  But General Paxton knows how their laws should be judged, and he wants the Supreme Court to take the case directly on original jurisdiction, to present the evidence and prove it. 

And what remedy does the great state of Texas suggest?   From the Texas suit:

“The Court should grant leave to file the complaint and, ultimately, enjoin the use of unlawful election results without review and ratification by the Defendant States’ legislatures and remand to the Defendant States’ respective legislatures to appoint Presidential Electors in a manner consistent with the Electors Clause…”

Or, in plain English, throw out the results of the vote count, and require the state legislatures of Pennsylvania, Georgia, Michigan and Wisconsin to choose electors for the Electoral College.  It shouldn’t be a surprise that all four of those states have Republican controlled legislatures.

Experts Agree

This is an act of desperation.  Can’t we imagine the proud Texas response if those other states demanded that the Lone Star state to throw out their election results?  Almost every “Supreme Court Expert” agrees that this lawsuit is “dead on arrival”.  But it’s the era of Trump:  we’ve learned to our dismay that the word “impossible” doesn’t apply.  Don’t expect the Supreme Court to hear this case – but don’t be overly “shocked” if they decide to give Texas a “fair hearing”.  After all, there are twenty-two days left in 2020.

Update 12/11/2020

• USSC ORDER REGARDING THE TEXAS COMPLAINT
• 155, ORIG. 

             FRIDAY, DECEMBER 11, 2020 

               ORDER IN PENDING CASE 

TEXAS V. PENNSYLVANIA, ET AL.
The State of Texas’s motion for leave to file a bill of complaint is denied for lack of standing under Article III of the Constitution.  Texas has not demonstrated a judicially cognizable interest in the manner in which another State conducts its elections.  All other pending motions are dismissed as moot. 

Statement of Justice Alito, with whom Justice Thomas joins: In my view, we do not have discretion to deny the filing of a bill of complaint in a case that falls within our original jurisdiction. See Arizona v. California, 589 U. S. ___
(Feb. 24, 2020) (Thomas, J., dissenting). I would therefore grant the motion to file the bill of complaint but would not grant other relief, and I express no view on any other issue. 

Wrestling

I coached high school track and field for forty years.  And while track and Cross Country were my “primary sports”, for many of those years I coached wrestling as well.  I started the middle school wrestling program at Watkins Middle School, forty kids on a tiny, hard old mat in the middle of an elementary gym.  We had to take shifts wrestling, with kids doing pushups and sit-ups on the gym floor waiting for a chance to practice on a corner of the mat.

And I couldn’t teach throws, when a wrestler would pick up their opponent and (carefully) put them down on the mat.  The “postage stamp” we were wrestling on was too hard.  In today’s world of lawsuits we never would wrestled on that mat, but back in the mid 1980’s it’s what we had.  And we had a lot of fun.

In those years there wasn’t a “little kids” wrestling program.  The eighth graders who stepped on our “postage stamp” were almost all wrestling for the first time.  And for many of them, their only exposure to “wrestling” was “professional wrestling” they saw on television.  They came to their first wrestling practice looking for the ropes and the turnbuckles, what they saw on TV.

Big Time Wrestling

Professional wrestling has been around for a very long time.  When my Dad went to work in Dayton at WLW-D television station (now WDTN) in 1962, there was still the big “warehouse” area in the back of the station with a full sized ring.  The travelling “Big Time Wrestling” show would come through town and broadcast “live from the studio”.  It was the travelling carnival of television.  

There isn’t much in common between “professional” wrestling and the kind of wrestling we did in middle school.  Professional wrestling is a carefully scripted performance, with the wrestler/actors knowing their opponent’s next move and how they should react for the greatest spectator excitement.  It has to be.  Jumping from five or six feet up in the air and landing on someone, even on a springy mat, would break ribs, crush organs, and make for a very short career.  Hitting someone with a folding chair in the real world is just short of assault with a deadly weapon.  When you know things “went wrong” is when someone actually gets hurt.

On Steroids

Today the spectacle of professional wrestling is taken to the extreme.  It’s called World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE), and it’s not just the wrestling-performance. It’s an entire drama – from entering the arena, music blaring and special effects going off, to “non-ring” fights between managers, girlfriends, and even the guest celebrities.  In 2007, Pre-Presidential Donald Trump got to be “in the ring'” right after he body slammed WWE President Vince McMahon on the sidelines  (WWE). It’s the “good guys” versus the “bad guys”.  The good guys are victimized all season by the cheating bad guys – but usually come back to win at the end of the season. 

For the audience it is a time of suspended disbelief.  Sure, if someone did that “eye-gouge” or “flying pancake” in the real world, ambulances and policemen would arrive on the scene.  Everyone knows there’s a script, but no one knows what the preordained outcome is.  So it’s a show, a performance.  We can cheer on the “good guys” and lustily boo the “bad ones”. 

Trump

Donald Trump learned a lot from his friend, WWE President Vince McMahon.  He got so much from him, that he appointed Vince’s wife Linda as Administrator of the Small Business Administration.   Trump learned the art of spectacle and suspended disbelief.  He understood the clear “black and white, good versus bad” that attracts WWE’s audience.  And critical to understanding his actions today, Donald Trump learned that the “good guys” are always victims, waiting to “win” at the end of the season.

It may come with some surprise, but Saturday night I watched the entire Trump Rally in Valdosta, Georgia.  The President was there to support the Republican candidates for Senate in the January (not June) 5^th runoff.  But the rally really wasn’t about that.  For over one hundred minutes, so long that even Fox News cut him off for Judge Jeanine; Donald Trump performed exactly as he learned from WWE. 

Trump entered to his “theme song” – God Bless the USA!  He was the “good guy”, the victim cheated in the biggest “ring” of all.  He complained about the “refs”, the Republican leadership of Georgia who refused to overturn the election. The President decried his cheating opponent, the Democrats, with their “suitcases” full of ballots and signatures from the dead. And he didn’t forget to talk about the “other” bad guys outside the ring, the media.  There was the “traditional boo and flip off” the press section moment. And in the end, he promised that “next season” he will come back to avenge his loss.

Next Season

Democrats are constantly amazed that the President can stand in front of an adoring crowd (“WE LOVE YOU” was one on the chants) and tell outright lies for hours.   It’s easy to “assume” that the folks there are stupid, or at least deluded. They’re not.  They are suspending disbelief, just like they do with WWE.  It’s not only entertaining; it’s comforting and familiar. 

Want to know what comes next in “Trump World”?  Better tune in to some WWE Smackdown to get the flow.  Trump sees himself coming back in a cloud of smoke, crowds singing “proud to be an American”, and throwing Joe Biden over the ropes and slamming him out of the ring.  Watch out for the folding chairs, Kamala!!  But none of that is funny – because it so very real.

Don Dahlman

Sunday, December 7^th, 1941: it’s seventy-nine years ago tomorrow that the Japanese launched their successful surprise attack on Pearl Harbor.  It began US involvement in World War II, and it was the pivotal event in the “Greatest Generation’s” life.  

My Dad was twenty-three, a Jewish boy from Cincinnati bound to succeed as the nation came out of the Depression. He was on all of the “committees” and graduated from Walnut Hills High School in 1936. He then became a co-op student at the University of Cincinnati, alternating learning how to manage the Bookstore, his studies, and leadership on several university committees for five years. But the clouds of war were gathering well before Pearl Harbor, and Don Dahlman registered for the draft on October 16^th, 1940 in his junior year. He wasn’t drafted though, and remained at UC to earn an accounting degree in the spring of 1941.

Walnut Hills Yearbook – Class of 1936

Dad enlisted in the US Army on November 17^th, 1941.  Maybe, now graduated, he knew that his “draft date” was coming.   Anyway, as least as he told it, the “new boot” managed a pass to Atlanta for the weekend of December 6^th.  The story he told was that he was recovering from Saturday night’s partying when he heard about the attack.  It was one in the afternoon in Atlanta, and Dad quickly headed back to his basic training camp.

Don Dahlman’s Draft Card

The Great Leveler

It was the same experience for all enlisted or drafted: boot camp, the military process and the war.  For an entire generation of American men born between 1905 and 1925, there would always have their “war” experiences in common, whether they actually saw combat or not.  It “leveled” them in many ways.  Jewish boys from Cincinnati and Southern boys from rural Georgia were pressed into common service.  The military was still segregated, so it did not change America’s racial divisions.  But it did create a shared “national” experience.

It was like the radio.  Prior to the spread of radio entertainment throughout the nation in the twenties and thirties, American “English” was strictly divided by accent.  A southerner might not even be able to understand a Minnesotan, much less a man from the Bronx.  But as most Americans listened to national radio broadcasts, a “common” accent emerged. 

Regional accents didn’t disappear, but everyone knew how to sound like a radio “newsman” or entertainer.  A national accent appeared: everyone sounded like they were from Cincinnati. (That might also be because WLW Radio in Cincinnati broadcast at 700 on the AM dial with 500,000 watts.  You could hear it throughout most of the nation, from Iowa to Mississippi to South Carolina to Maine.  And if you lived near the broadcast tower in Mason, Ohio, they said you could hear it on your bedsprings and lose fillings).

The Yank Arrives

After basic training, Dad was moved into Army Intelligence.  He told us about concern that the Nazis were trying to encourage the draftees to desert – he called it the Ohio Plan, “Over the Hill in October”.  But as the Army became more aware of Nazi ideology, Dad was transferred from Intelligence to Finance.  Intelligence operatives might to be behind enemy lines, and the Army determined that was a bad place for a Jewish man.  

Dad was an accountant by degree, so they switched him into the Finance office.  It would be almost seven months before he was shipped out, bound for the “British Isles” and arriving on July 12^th, 1942.  His job was making sure the troops got paid.   

Don moved up through the ranks, ultimately becoming a “Warrant Officer”.  And he was always “social”.  On a weekend pass to London, he arranged for one of his former colleagues in Army Intelligence to set up a blind date.  The prospective candidate was wary of Americans, “They had terrible reputations”.   So they met at a restaurant, The Queens Brasserie, where she could eye those coming through the door and decide whether to “make contact” or not.

Babs and Don

She did, and Don Dahlman met Phyllis Mary Teresa O’Connor, known to her friends as Babs.  They hit it off from the very first dinner, and Dad soon found a way to get stationed in London.  Troops need to be paid everywhere anyway.  Babs and Don became a constant pair, walking the streets of blacked out London, and hiking the English countryside.  And while Babs was unable to explain her frequent absences (out of town on her Government job, she said), Dad knew many of the Americans she knew.  They were intelligence operatives, some working behind enemy lines in occupied Europe.

But that’s another story.  Don sent a letter to his family:  this “good Jewish boy” from Cincinnati was going to marry a Roman Catholic girl from London.  They weren’t happy on the home front, but love is love.  The wedding was scheduled for June 6, 1944.   But the war had other plans.

So Don and Babs moved their wedding plans up, having a small civil ceremony in March.  Don’s best man was his first cousin, Bud Levine, representing the whole of Cincinnati in the ceremony.  And after a brief honeymoon, Babs “disappeared” again, dropped in France to help prepare for the invasion.  And Don was “sequestered” with the rest of the invasion force in the South of England.

France

The D-Day invasion landed on June 6^th.  Dad would say, he “went in” with the fifth wave of WAC’s (the Women’s Army Corp) but it wasn’t just “paying the troops” that was important.  An invading Army needs “invasion currency”, and an invaded nation needs to switch from the currency controlled by the Nazis, to one controlled by the Allies.  It’s a big job in the “background” of the battle, but it also has to be won.

So as Babs helped coordinate with the French Underground to cripple Nazi communications and transportation, Don was wading through mounds of currency in the Paris banks, trying to audit the differing monies.  

If not for World War II, they would never have met.  Their “fairy-tale” marriage, that lasted for sixty-nine years wouldn’t have happened.  And, of course, this author and his sisters wouldn’t be here.

Theirs is a story of happiness and success born in a world of tragedy.  While not all of their compatriots of the “Greatest Generation” had that joyful life, they can all say the same thing.  They can tell you exactly where they were in December 7^th, 1941. It was the day that inalterably changed their lives, seventy-nine years ago.

Babs and Don – 2008

“There go the people. I must follow them, for I am their leader. ” – Alexandre Auguste Ledru-Rollin – the French Revolution of 1848

Whispers

You hear the whispers:  maybe the Republican leaders are finally “backing away” from Donald Trump.  And there is some evidence of that. Attorney General Bill Barr announced the truth: the Department of Justice found no evidence of mass voter fraud.   And a very few Republican Senators acknowledge the obvious, that Joe Biden will be inaugurated President in January.  It’s sad that telling the truth is seen as an act of “political courage”. 

Some Democrats and “never-Trumpers” have a wishful “vision”.  They hope that with the grudging departure of Donald Trump, Republican leaders will “regain” their independence, and return to the Party of John McCain, the “Lincoln Project” heroes and the “Rockefeller Republicans” of old.  But there are two facts that stand in the way of this “rebirth” of the Republicanism of my father.

Power

The first:  Donald J Trump received over 74 million votes in the 2020 election, the second most ever.  Sure Joe Biden won with 81 million, but there is incredible power in that 74 million too.  It’s like the Olympic 100 meter dash, where the second place sprinter breaks the world record.  He neither gets to enjoy the gold medal, or the record.  But he can’t wait for the rematch.

Donald Trump must be highly motivated by the loss.  He got more votes than Barack Obama, more votes than Ronald Reagan (yes – I know that the population was smaller then – does Trump?).  To be so close and fail would motivate almost anyone to want to try again.

And those are 74 million votes that EVERY Republican needs to win their own election.  Sure it’s easy for Bill Barr to “stand up” to Trump, if you call telling the truth “standing up”.  Barr was retired before he took the Attorney General job, and he’ll be retired when he leaves it.  And Mitt Romney doesn’t get “brownie points” for “standing up” either.  He’s from Utah, and while it’s a “Red” state, Trump has never been particularly popular with the Mormon Church.  Sixty-two percent of the state is Mormon, so Romney has a “cushion”.  He can vote for Trump’s removal in the impeachment trial, but also must vote for Amy Coney Barrett for Supreme Court Justice.

Who Is Fooled?

And while Democrats and “Never-Trump” Republicans might wish it weren’t so, Donald Trump still wields incredible power over those 74 million.  It’s not just the “Tweets” or the “crazy” Trumpers either.  A substantial number of those who voted for Donald Trump agree with what he did.  They liked the tax cut for the one percent and they liked the border wall. And, “shhhhh”– don’t tell anybody – but they even secretly liked the child separation policy. 

Many, including myself, have quoted Lincoln in regard to Trump supporters:  

“You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can not fool all of the people all of the time.”

But the “fooling” is on us.  Trump supporters aren’t fooled – they agree with Trump.

Money Talks

Need more evidence?  Here’s the second fact:  Donald Trump has raised more than $200 million SINCE the election.  Sure he’s done it under the “umbrella” of challenging election results, but other than re-counting votes in Madison and Milwaukee he really hasn’t spent much on that.  What Trump is doing is creating a whole new fund for “what’s next”.

And “what’s next” for Trump?  Today, and for the next few months, it might well be consideration of a Presidential run in 2024.  But even if he decides that’s too much effort, the $200 million goes a long way towards funding political action.  And political action for Trump means holding other politicians to the fire of what Trump wants. It’s a quid pro quo:  Trump controls the voters, and the others need the votes.  

So don’t expect the Congressional fealty to Trump to change.  Look at some of the Republicans up for re-election in the Senate in 2022: Murkowski (AK), Rubio (FL), Young (IN), Kennedy (LA), Blunt (MO), Burr (NC), Scott (SC), and Johnson (WI). They cannot stray far from Trump.  And in the House, the Democratic margin is narrowed.  The 2020 election showed Republicans doing well everywhere but for President.  And if the House becomes Republican in 2022, it will be Trump influence that does it, and McCarthy and Jim Jordan empowered to put Trump’s policies back in effect.

I’m sad to say that Monday, January 20^th, 2021 will not mean the end of Donald Trump.  And it won’t mean the end of his influence over the Republican Party either.  As Ledru-Rollin said, “There go the people…” and it’s the Republican leadership that must follow them.  And the “people” the Republican leaders must follow are the people of Donald Trump.  

Polarized

We are alive in a divided nation.  We are so divided, we can’t even agree if the almost 160 million votes in the Presidential election were cast accurately.  Illogically, we accept the results from those same ballots for other offices. We are so splintered, the deaths of more than 270,000 Americans in the past nine months hasn’t created a unified front.  And we are so polarized, when offered a “cure” for the pandemic, forty percent of us won’t take it (Gallup).

The experts tell us that by March 1, 2021, another 200,000 Americans will die from COVID (IHME).  That’s at our current rate of “mitigation”. We need to take care of each other by doing the “stupid, simple” things:  wear masks, social distance, don’t travel.   Because of our divisions we simply aren’t doing them, and more people are dying.

If an American President committed to an unjustified war that would cost 200,000 lives in the next four months, we would all rise in righteous indignation.  More Americans will die in this year of COVID than died in all of World War II.  But we are so splintered, we won’t stop it.

Before the War

America was a divided nation before World War II.  Franklin Roosevelt brought the nation together to recover from the Great Depression, but he was unable to unify us to battle Nazi Fascism.  The horror of the trenches of World War I, and the crushing disappointment in the failure of the peace afterwards, convinced Americans to “isolate” behind our ocean “walls”.

Even America’s heroes warned against war.  Marine General Smedley Butler, two-time Medal of Honor winner, denounced intervention.  Charles Lindbergh, the hero of “The Spirit of St. Louis” was against involvement in European battles.  And the US ambassador to Great Britain itself, Joseph Kennedy, was recalled because he didn’t think America should fight.

The radio was the great public medium of the 1930’s. And Father Coughlin spoke to the nation night after night against entering the war.  He broadcast on WJR from Detroit, a “clear channel” station that at the time was so powerful that most of the nation could listen to it directly.  The CBS radio network further spread his voice across the rest of the country. He did not create the divisions, but he knew how to inflame them. He was more popular and more powerful than a Rush Limbaugh or Sean Hannity of today. His power was like a Donald Trump.  Many in the nation listened and believed him.

It wasn’t until December 7^th, 1941 that the tide turned.  The Japanese direct attack on Americans at Pearl Harbor proved to unite Americans in a single effort.   It took the loss of American lives, 2,403 on that December day, for America’s “righteous might” to respond in an all-out effort to save freedom in the world. 

What Now?

Our ocean “walls” did not protect us against COVID either.  In fact we know that the virus was already in the United States before it was “identified” in Wuhan, China in January.  Research now shows that Americans in America were already infected in December of 2019 (NPR). COVID was in the streets of New York before we even knew about the “wet markets” of Wuhan.  It was here before we knew it, and before any efforts to stop it.

So it really no longer matters whether we stopped flights from China, or anywhere else.  What does matter is what America will do now.

Joe Biden has already evoked wartime efforts when talking about the pandemic.  But can any President unite a nation that doesn’t even believe in the same news, the same set of facts, or even the same creed?  In essence, is America ever going to be “unite-able” again?  Have we reached a point where we are in fact two nations, irrevocably divided by the message of our modern-day Father Coughlin, Donald Trump?

After Pearl Harbor Americans lined up to volunteer for the military.  My parents’ generation was willing to give their lives for the cause. What will it take to get us lined up for a simple shot?  Will the cause of saving the lives hundreds of thousands of those at the greatest risk be enough?  Or will the “Father Coughlin” of our time continue to exploit the divisions among us.

Hofbrauhaus

It was in the “before times”, the time before we all could identify a Corona Virus by sight.  Jenn and I met some friends in Cincinnati for a Reds game (they lost, unfortunately).  But, before the game, we wandered across the Ohio River into Kentucky, and had dinner at the Newport “Hofbrauhaus”.   It’s a Munich “beer festival” type place, with long wooden tables; families and strangers all sitting together with large pints of German beer.  

Dinner was schnitzel and spatzle, served by Bavarian dressed waitresses. An “om-pah” band played in the background, and as the beer mugs were drained and replaced, the diners joined in old German drinking songs. By the end of the dinner, many were standing on benches, swaying to the songs, swinging their beer steins and belting out the lyrics. It’s a fun night.

Today it would be called a different name:  a super-spreader event. 

COVID 

It’s been eight months and fifteen days since we last sat down inside a restaurant.  We’ve dined on the patio a few times, but now that winter has set in, that’s out of the question.  Life is different, with political ideology somehow tied to public health.  Who you supported for President last month is reflected by whether you’re wearing a mask or not.  Today’s “butcher’s bill”:  277,017 have died in the United States from COVID, and over fourteen million have been diagnosed with the disease (Covid).  That includes relatives and close friends.  There is no “distance” from COVID:  it’s at the front door.

There is a “light at the end of the tunnel” for COVID. This morning, the United Kingdom approved the use of the Pfizer vaccine. The United States is a couple of weeks behind, but likely both Pfizer and Moderna vaccines will be in use here before Christmas. When the number of vaccinations reaches seventy to eighty percent of the population, life might get back to something that resembles the “before times”.

But in the meantime, we’ve got to “control” an uncontrollably infective virus.  Face masks help, but aren’t a guaranteed protection.  “Social distancing”, maintaining space from those outside your “personal bubble” helps. And being outside with air circulation makes a difference. But the biggest issue is behavior.  Will people avoid “spreader” events?

First Amendment

So what are “spreader” events?  They are large gatherings of folks, crowded together, and often inside.  Add to that physical contact, yelling or singing, and you have all the “fixin’s” for spreading COVID 19.  It definitely would include an evening at the Hofbrauhaus.  Packing the stands for the high school basketball game would fit the bill, and, unfortunately, the high school indoor track meet too.  And the same could be said for the 7:00 pm service at the local church, mosque, or synagogue.

But many, including a majority of the Supreme Court, claim that the First Amendment to the Constitution guarantees “freedom of religion”.  What it actually says is this:  “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof” (First Amendment, US Constitution).

And there we are:  “no Law” prohibiting the “free exercise” thereof (emphasis added).  So if the Third Gospel Church of the River wants to have a packed service with singing and hugging, there can be “no Law” that prohibits it – right?

That same First Amendment also states that the “Congress shall make no law, “…abridging the freedom of speech”.  But we all know the caveat to that “freedom”:  One can’t be “falsely shouting fire in a theater and causing a panic,” (Justice Holmes, Schenk v United States).   So there are limits to free speech.  And we already accept limits to the “free exercise” of religion as well.  Fire inspectors go to churches, and set crowd limits on the building.  Building inspectors look at the structural integrity of the synagogues, and could legally condemn a building that was in danger of collapsing.

Buying Time

So when the local government or the Governor places limits on religious services in the name of COVID, it’s not some incredibly broad expansion of power. Just as we expect that the government will protect us from fires, it’s reasonable action to protect the population from “super-spreader” events.  To be fair, that government better do the same with the local sports, and the dance clubs.  And they are.

And while I haven’t been there, I bet they aren’t standing on the benches and singing at the Hofbrauhaus either.  But six months from now, if we can “de-politicize” the vaccine, maybe we can return to “raise a glass” again.  There’s a Billy Joel concert re-scheduled at the Great American Ballpark in September, and we have tickets.

Trump’s History

As a Democrat, the current actions of Donald Trump seem outrageous. The President of the United States is openly accusing the American electoral system. He says it’s rigged and rotted to the core.  At the minimum that undermining of American democracy is irresponsible.  At the worst, is an open challenge, an attempt to overthrow the will of the people:  in short, an attempted coup.

But from Trump’s standpoint, it is simply an extension of the same theory that has carried him through his political career.  Much of what Donald Trump has done in the past five years was based on the actions of past Republican Presidents.  From the “Law and Order” battle cry of Richard Nixon, to the “Make America Great Again” phrase of Ronald Reagan, the Trump campaign has tried to copy both the successes and failures.  

Certainly Roger Stone was a key influence towards “Nixonian” actions, especially in the 2016 campaign.  Stone, a young “dirty trickster” in the 1972 Nixon campaign, brought that attitude with him as a chief advisor to Trump.  Stone’s “win at all cost” attitude spread itself throughout the senior Trump staff.  One of his close associates, Paul Manafort, became the Campaign Chairman.  It’s why Russian contacts really didn’t seem like a big deal.

Now five years later, it shouldn’t be a surprise that the Trump camp is looking to another Republican predecessor on how to win a contested election.  The Trump team is trying to take George W. Bush’s strategy in the Florida recount of 2000, and apply it “writ large” to all of the critical swing states.

Florida, Florida, Florida

The 2000 Florida count was extremely close, with Bush ultimately declared the winner by 526 votes.  The Presidency hinged on Florida’s electoral vote. The slim difference between Bush and Gore was so small, every single ballot actually mattered.  There were all sorts of real issues:  ballots in Palm Beach where intended Gore votes went to third party candidate Ralph Nader, punch card ballots where the “chads” weren’t completely punched out, and incompetent election officials.

While Florida Democrats controlled the counties of Palm Beach and Miami-Dade, the ultimate Florida elections authority was the state.  And the Florida statewide offices were all controlled by Republicans, led by the Republican Governor Jeb Bush.  As the Presidential candidate’s brother, Jeb “recused” himself from election recount activities.  But the rest of his state government was “all in” to make George W Bush the President.

And as a practical matter, they did.  The Florida Secretary of State waited until a moment when the recount favored Bush, then stopped the count.  The issue was thrown into the Courts, where the United States Supreme Court ultimately ruled for “Florida” and stopped the count.  The Court was split, five Republican appointees to four Democrats.  It was exactly where the Republican state government wanted it to stop.

As a practical matter – either candidate could have won Florida, and therefore the Presidency.  It depended on what ballot – standard was applied to counting the ballots.  Gore wins about as often as Bush (details in this CNN article).

Fealty to the King

So what does Trump want?  He wants what he thinks Bush got in Florida, the complete dedication of Republican state party members to his victory.  It’s why Donald Trump is now attacking Governor Kemp in Georgia, and Republican election officials in Pennsylvania, Michigan and Wisconsin.  Regardless of what the law states, Trump sees their actions as disloyal.  But even more insidiously, he sees them as disrespecting his role as President.

In the background of the last six years of Trumpism, is the “distinction” between Trump and the Republican Party.  Ever since the April 2016 rumors of a Republican revolt at the Cleveland Convention, Trump has been wary of the “mainstream” party.  He’s done everything he can to drag them “into line”.  From McCain to Flake to Sanford to Tillerson, Donald Trump has smacked down any “independent” action or thought in “his” party.

So when Georgia Secretary of State Raffensperger “refused” to “change the vote”, or Michigan State Board of Canvasser member Aaron Van Langevelde voted to approve their results, or Arizona Governor Ducey silences a Presidential call; Trump sees betrayal.  Where is his Jeb Bush, or Katherine Harris, or “Brooks Brothers” riot? 

It’s the reason that other Republican leaders like Senators Marco Rubio or Lindsay Graham or Party Chairman Ronna McDaniel have done everything they can to “uphold” Donald Trump.  Graham may even have crossed the line into criminal election interference with his calls to Georgia, Arizona and Nevada.  But they did it to “prove” their “fealty” to Trump, like a medieval noble to the King:  kneel and kiss the ring.

What’s Lost

In the short run, the Trump strategy won’t work.  Joe Biden will be sworn in on January 20^th, and Donald Trump will head back to Mara Lago. And the doubt that Trump is sowing in the election process may directly impact the Georgia Senate runoffs.  Republicans in Georgia listening to “their” President may well choose not to participate in the “rigged” system he “exposed”.  So the Democrats might win, and gain control of the US Senate as well.

 But in the longer term, there may be devastating effects.  Trump continues his ironfisted control of his ninety percent of the Republican electorate.  A Trump “tweet” can still make or break a Republican candidate – and that’s not likely to change for the next few years.  The Trump strategy will be to insinuate his loyalists into every level of the Party, from Governors to members of the Board of Canvassers.  Whether Trump himself runs in 2024 won’t be as important as being a “Trumpist” with “the Donald’s” support.  And this time, the election system might not hold up against the cries of “foul play”.  Votes may well be denied – and Democracy will begin to die.

Sunday Mornings

If you read Trump World often, it’s probably a surprise that I am a steady Fox News Sunday viewer.  It’s on my “Sunday List”.  I start with Ali Velshi on MSNBC, move onto George Stephanopoulos on ABC, then Chris Wallace on Fox, and finish with Chuck Todd on Meet the Press. But I don’t just sit and watch four hours straight. I usually write a blog, balance the books, get a workout and have breakfast during that time too.

Fox News Sunday is well done, and reasonably dispassionate.  And you can tell why regular Fox viewers aren’t all that fond of Chris Wallace.  He lives up to the “fair and balanced” theme that Fox so frequently fails to achieve.  It helps to “balance” my viewing, and I know what to expect from the Fox commentators  (Brit Hume being the worst).  I need to hear what “the other side” is hearing.

This Week

On Fox this week, US Surgeon General Jerome Adams talked about the transition to the Biden Administration.  He used a track “pass the baton” analogy, talking about how we need to have a “clean” exchange, particularly when it comes to the COVID pandemic response.  

And on Meet the Press Hugh Hewitt was on the panel.  He is a conservative radio commentator on the Salem Network who was a “Never Trumper” until after the 2016 election. Then he swallowed the “Kool Aid” and has been a Trump apologist ever since.  

This week, he rattled off a Trump 2024 (that’s right – 2024) campaign spiel as justification for the President’s failure to offer the common courtesy of a concession.  Hewitt claimed that the future candidacy justified delegitimizing the incoming President.  It’s the first time in a while I’ve wanted to throw something at Meet the Press.

Track 

And it dawned on me:  I am an “expert” in both of those areas.

Let’s start with relay exchanges.  I was a track coach (still one in my head) for forty years.  One of our team’s specialties was in taking solid but not great sprinters and teaching them amazing exchanges to beat more talented teams.  I watched the alternative:  the spectacle of the US Olympic 4×100 Relay team, the most talented in the world, disqualified year after year because they couldn’t complete an exchange.  

As my assistant coach for sprints would say:  “They had one job – make the exchange”.  But they didn’t, and we got to watch the agony of the fastest men in the world sobbing on the field.

So the trick was to set up a simple system that allowed the incoming runner to maintain his speed of almost twenty miles an hour, while the outgoing runner got up to that speed and seamlessly accepted the baton.  The baton never slowed down as it moved from one to the other.  It took a group of talented kids to sixth place in the state meet.

Our National Exchange

And we know that the “exchange” between the outgoing and incoming President should be the same, because the United States cannot afford to “slow down” in the middle.  The rest of the world won’t wait for a “bump and run” or worse, a dropped baton.  Think about what’s happening now in Iran, or Afghanistan, or with the pandemic.

There is a system designed to keep America moving.  But it takes both the outgoing and incoming Presidents to agree to do it.  George W. Bush did for Barack Obama.  And Obama offered the same to Trump, though Trump decided it wasn’t “a thing” for his team.  They took over at a standstill, then managed to go backwards for the first few weeks.  Remember the inauguration count, and the Muslim Ban?

Titles

 I have experience with “titles” as well.  How important is it for the outgoing President to recognize the legitimacy of the incoming President?  It’s all about the 72 million Americans who voted for Mr. Trump.  If they follow his lead in denying the 2020 results, then Joe Biden will struggle to “unite” America – especially when it comes to ending the COVID pandemic.

I was hired as the “Dean of Students” at Watkins Memorial High School.  My job was to be the primary “discipline guy”, the first person a kid in trouble would see.  As that “guy”, I spent a lot of time on the phone with parents, who often weren’t particularly glad to hear from the school.

Two years into the job, the Principal called me in and told me the District wanted to change my job title from Dean of Students to “Teacher on Special Assignment”.  It was a contractual/legal thing he said.  I said no.

What’s in a title?  So let’s say I caught a kid smoking dope in the locker room.  I call the parent.  They’re angry with their kid, angry with the school, and angry to be interrupted at work.  And in all of that anger, I would have to explain what a “teacher on special assignment” was.  It wasn’t going to work. The conversation went to the Superintendent, and included the possibility of me going back to my former life as a Government teacher.  In the end we agreed that I would remain in my current assignment:  as the Dean of Students.

Disqualified

Like it or not, Joe Biden is the next President of the United States.  But it would be a whole lot easier for him to govern, and better for the country, if the current President simply acknowledged it.  It would give Biden a fair shot.  Barack Obama had Trump to the White House within days of the Clinton’s defeat.  And Secretary Clinton herself urged us to support the new President.  

The Presidential “exchange” looks like it’s going to be a disaster.  The future President is going to be hamstrung from the start.  It’s not good for Biden, but more importantly, it’s not good for America.  

Trump’s not just dropping the baton.  He’s throwing it off the track.

Here’s the next in the “Outside My Window” series, chronicling life during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Joni Mitchell – The River

Walking in the Dark

 My routine has changed a bit.  I’m usually an early riser, a habit of decades of teaching, but my recent mornings were coffee, dishes (from the night before) and then onto the keyboard.  But with our “rehab” dog addition, there’s now a thirty-minute or so walk added in.  It brings back memories of “dawn-thirty” workouts over the years, but I can’t get moving that fast anymore.  I’ll work out later, when my sixty-four year old muscles get a little warmer.

So “Louisiana” and I wander the quiet streets of Pataskala.  We start by starlight, but things brighten as we get through our journey, and it’s almost dawn when we return home.  “Lou” feels the early morning stiffness too. As he gets stronger we’re letting him do more.  He’s playing with Atticus and Keelie, two of our other dogs, and Lou’s sore and stiff in the mornings like me.

But we warm along the way.  Lou’s getting the hang of things, no matter which direction I take him, he recognizes when we’re back on our street.  He stops sniffing around, and the pace quickens to a light jog.  Lou knows the way home.

Decorations

The fall leaves are gone and there’s frost on the grass now.  Tomorrow we’re supposed to get our first snow.  I look forward to Lou encountering that; after all, he’s a Louisiana dog.  All the dogs get excited with the first real snowfall, but for him, it’ll be a whole new experience.  And the political season has changed as well:  it took Christmas decorations going up to get some of the Trump signs down. 

There are a lot more Christmas decorations up than usual in our little neighborhood.  It used to be just a couple of us decorated, but this year, most of the houses have lights or inflatable figures.  This was already a “short” Christmas season. Thanksgiving was late this year; it’s less than a month before Christmas Day.  And it’s the Christmas of COVID, the end of the Trump Administration:  there are lots of reasons to get decorations up.  We can’t “Gather Together” like the old Thanksgiving song, but we can demonstrate our togetherness by decorating.

But I am still working on the motivation to break out Christmas lights.  Usually I am a traditionalist:  Friday after Thanksgiving, rain or shine, I’ve got the boxes down from the rafters, plugging in to find out which strings of lights somehow were “healed” over the past eleven months.  It’s such a clockwork thing, that the next-door neighbor checked up on me yesterday, wondering where the lights were.

They’re still in the boxes. 

We won’t pull the “big tree” out of the rafters either this year.  It doesn’t feel like a “big tree” year, and with more dogs there’s more dog “crates” – not much room for a “big tree”.  So for this year we purchased a smaller one.  The “traditional” schedule says that will go up sometime after next week.

Sad Christmas Songs

It’s easy to get in the “sad Christmas song” mood.  After last week, when it seemed like our world “forgot” about COVID, I anticipate that our Thanksgiving “dessert” will be even greater spikes in the disease.  And I watch as Donald Trump seems to be doing everything he can to sabotage the Biden administration.  

Israel assassinated Iran’s premier nuclear scientist yesterday.  It’s not something they would do without clearance from the United States, and it certainly won’t help when Biden tries to reinstitute the Iranian Nuclear Accord.  Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu going to get everything he can before his friend Trump leaves.  And as for Trump:  he can check one more box for future Evangelical Christian support, and mess with Biden in the process.

A small Christmas, walking in the pre-dawn darkness – you’d think Donald Trump is the NEXT President of the United States.  He’s not – and Joe Biden will be the man to lead us through what may be our darkest hours – but just before the dawn  (yep – CSNY reference).  

So I’m going to finish this essay – and get the ladder out.  It’s a short Christmas season – and it’s going to snow tomorrow – so the lights have to go up today!!

Out My Front Window – Part One (4/21/20)

Outside My Window – Part Two (4/23/20)

Outside My Window – Part Three (4/26/20)

Outside My Window – Part Four (5/13/20)

Outside My Window – Part Five (6/3/20)

Outside My Window – Part Six (7/3/20)

Outside My Window – Part Seven (7/31/20)

Outside My Window – Inshallah (8/13/20)

Outside My Window – Part Eight (9/15/20)

Outside My Window – Part Nine (9/25/20)

Outside My Window – Part Ten (10/9/20)

Outside My Window – Part 11 (11/29/20)