EAST MONTPELIER – Another interesting weekend in Massachusetts. This time it included the wedding of the son of a pair of old friends of Bea’s in Cambridge. Accustomed as I am to the haute couture of Vermont, my Sunday-go-to-meetin’ duds are a pair of chino work pants that look pretty good, a turtleneck and blazer, and a pair of sensible shoes. So I had to raid the dusty side of my closet to dig out my black suit and dress shoes, which turned out to be dusty in not only the metaphorical sense. I picked out two red ties (Bea could choose the one I’d wear), dusted and stuffed everything into a suit bag, and I was ready, except for three and a half hours on the road toward Boston.
It’s an irony, in this age of instant and constant communication, that I travel in silence. I haven’t figured out yet how to turn on and tune my car radio, and the owner’s manual on the subject is well over 150 pages of dense, confusing instructions beyond my geriatric comprehension. So I just say to hell with it and meditate instead, as I thread my increasingly complicated way through the throngs of vehicles streaming into and out of the looming urban presence on the southern horizon.
Thus, when I arrive at Bea’s place on the shore, I’ve missed most of a complete news cycle and have no idea what’s been going on since I left Vermont. You have to admit that, when you turn on the news, you can’t help but wonder what he and his minions are up to now. It’s at least one new thing each day. The president is a master at commanding media attention. Once I’m at Bea’s, there’s no radio or television news, and each morning the Times and the Globe to skim before the business of the day begins. I return home in a couple of days with only a dim notion of what’s going on outside my hearing.
It’s pretty clear what those bozos are up to: they’ve been doing it since way before the second Trump campaign. They “flood the zone,” creating one distraction after another to give their presumed opponents no time to respond before another proposal, executive order or outrageous government decree hits the news.
Steve Bannon and Stephen Miller have, each in his turn, been the chief producers of the distractions. The current bully-boy detainment practices of the masked goons displaying ICE on their camouflage clothing are largely the result of Miller’s years-long obsession with immigration. Only now are citizens of targeted cities beginning to respond in anything like an organized fashion. The administration’s apparent hope is that the resistance will seem organized enough to warrant being given a name, which will “justify” an emergency decree and the use of military forces and techniques of suppression. And while we’re focused on curbing the outrageous behavior of the masked Icemen, something else is happening behind our backs.
This time, as I discovered when I got home Sunday evening (it was a fantastic wedding, by the way, with a reception, hors d’oeuvres and dinner at the Faculty Club at Harvard, which clearly has done that sort of thing before), I discovered that I was about to be two thousand dollars richer, thanks to the billions our country has been raking in through the president’s tariffs. But then I considered the source of the offer and read some of the fine print, which had to do with the limits of eligibility. I should have known: as Longstreet said of Meade after Day Three at Gettysburg, “He ain’t comin’.” But I’ll bet that particular zone flood caused some momentary glee in the single-wides of the deep red states, and diverted attention from the black vehicles cruising the poor neighborhoods for human prey.
The diversions come too thick and fast for my aged brain. I can’t get over the outrage from one before there’s another. I loved the short-lived merriment caused by the charge of assault against the protester who impulsively flung a wrapped sandwich at a flak-jacketed goon who said he felt it “explode” against his chest. But most of the news is much more somber. With regard to all the accusations coming from the administration, I keep firmly in mind my belief that accusation is confession. At the moment (I discovered after getting home to the TV news I watch while cooking and dining) the president has called attorney Jack Smith “a deranged criminal.” Jack is obviously not that, but the accusation speaks volumes of the accuser. If Smith testifies in public (not likely), it may become clear who the deranged criminal is.
Now I understand that the current government shutdown is about to end; may have ended by the time you read this. Everybody with a microphone has an opinion about the subject. I think I’ll just fill the tank with gas and take a long, quiet ride.
Willem Lange is a contractor, writer and storyteller who lives in East Montpelier, Vermont.
