2009-01 GEORGETOWN

Holiday malaise has kept me from the Blogosphere for a bit, but judging from the absence of outcry from my readership I assume all are muddling through despite the dearth of witty pearls and droll commentary.

And the alert will note that I have belatedly realized that I can include pictures, all from before the holidays when we were graced with snow. The "busy" street scene is from the Christmas market. Most days you can walk down the middle without fear of vehicular mayhem. Click to enlarge.

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Boredom has increased my interest in local commerce, and perusal of the local Help Wanted Ads led me to the following: (a) at the local, highly acclaimed community school, “experienced Pre-School teachers, $8-$9/hour”, and (b) at the local motel, “maids/housekeepers, $11 - $13/hour.” Depressing but no surprise that we value clean toilets and hospital corners over the education of our children. Could that be why we have so many more day laborers than innovators?

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My new president continues to make impressive pronouncements, propose stratospheric (if vague) solutions, and surround himself with bright stars and few ideologues, which is already eliciting anguished wails from the left. The plethora of memorabilia on the market is astounding, particularly since so few substantive memories have yet been created. Coins with JFK and BHO side-by-side, sneakers that by some accounts are outselling Air-Jordans, and now a call for an official holiday in his name. It occurs that even Jesus had to perform the odd miracle before he was awarded December 25th.

My own expectations remain elevated. Pols traditionally spend political capital on furthering their partisan agendas. At this early point at least it appears that Barack Obama is cashing his in on the quest for national unity. His expressed “inclination” not to prosecute Bush and Cheney for war crimes, the one great dream of the radical left, is already elevating Pepto Bismol sales to record levels.

I suggested sometime back that the new Chief Executive was likely to receive more heat from the left than the right. From Rick Warren to Robert Gates and Hilary Clinton, to hedges on exiting Iraq, taxing the rich, and closing Guantanamo, our new leader is learning as does every President that there is more than a subtle difference between elocution and execution.

The fear is always that a leader’s heart will refuse to pump blood to his brain, and common sense for the common good with go the way of the 2008 economy. So far, at least, we appear to have a pragmatist, and although it causes some pain in the admission, a pragmatic liberal can sometimes be preferable to a blind conservative. Recent Chief Executive pragmatists include Ronald Reagan and Bill Clinton. Good company!

And by the way, I have always been proud to wear the badge of conservatism, while it appears that liberals in their shame have now shed their appellation in favor of the more politically-correct sounding “progressive.” What was it Shakespeare said about a rose? Proud noveau-progressives are undoubtedly too young to remember the 1960s motto of the quintessential American beacon of private enterprise and its spokesman Ronald Reagan: “At General Electric, Progress is our Most Important Product”.

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My life these days is so dependent on Mother Nature that I should be immune to surprise, yet any celestial institution that can cut a surgical path reducing one residence to rubble while leaving neighbors left and right untouched deserves both admiration and respect. I am barely 10 miles east of the Continental Divide (landmarked by the Eisenhower Tunnel) and the streets of Georgetown are void of snow. Silverthorne, just 10 miles west of the Divide sports 12-foot high drifts in its parking lots and a consistent cover of white – replenished almost daily – that will conceal asphalt until mid-spring.

I long ago discovered that I love snow and hate cold and especially wind, although the east coast damp chill that seeps into bones is infinitely more insidious than its dry counterpart of the west. A cold Paris drizzle can wither the spirit while crisp Colorado nights are bracing and bring comfort. Of course the debilitating Gallic dank drives the populace into warm cafes, toasty bistros, and dreamily olfactory restos. It’s an ill French wind that blows no good, and I have as many happy memories of shedding a winter chill with a “Cotes du Rhone chambray” and a confit de canard as I do of August romps in the Jardin Luxembourg and sweltering in long summer lines at the Louvre or the Musee Hotel de Ville.

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Governor Jindal of Louisiana may be a rising star on the national political scene, but he erred grievously in allowing his minions to cancel a proposed disaster response contract that promised me lucrative employ in the land where les bon temps rouler. And so it looks as though I will be stuck in paradise for some time to come, unremunerated but content.

…the adventure, propelled by a howling Chinook wind, whistles through the trees …

GORGETOWN/BOZEMAN 001

On rare occasions we stumble serendipitously upon the truly special -- seminal moments, priceless glimpses. Less so for me, as I am notoriously anti-social, quite likely to politely refuse social invitations and never known to wangle same.

But several days past I was invited to a private (privileged but not exclusive) Christmas gathering at the Hamill House in Georgetown, a historic structure built in 1867 and named for its second owner, a British silver mining magnate.

A brisk walk (in truth a labored hobble) in sub-zero weather to the House and what at first appeared to be the quintessential mind-bending cocktail gathering. But the scene quickly warmed with traditionally garbed madrigal singers from the local high school – what some teens do in lieu of drugs – and an enthusiastic if less than philharmonic brass ensemble.

St. Nicholas arrived in traditional regalia, looking more like a Greek Orthodox priest than our modern Santa Clause. Lights dimmed and there followed the lighting of a 12’ Christmas tree, with real candles by an acolyte’s candlestick, the first by an octogenarian who told of the candle she lit in the same room as a 5 year-old, several others in memory of departed local historical figures and firefighters who gave their lives saving residents from fire and pestilence, another for deployed military. Then a particularly poignant offering for the fathers and mothers who sacrificed their sons and daughters in order that we might all remain free.

There followed a reading of “The Night Before Christmas” by a 6 year old in whispered tones that none could hear but all appreciated. Several additional Carols by the madrigals, and just before we departed a local historianne in hushed voice showed me (why me I cannot say) a dark corner where the 1930s restoration team had secretly left their initials. “Not one in 50 of the locals know about this,” she said, “and I suspect a majority of Historical Society members are also unaware.” An insignificant item perhaps, but a Christmas gift I will not soon forget.

Christmas wishes all around, and we dispersed into the night. I walked home under a moon CNN later informed me was the fullest in 20-some years. A friend reading my previous BLOGS commented that I might have found my home. I surely have found “a” home. The final resting place is yet to be defined.

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Year’s end is of course a time for reflection, analysis of the past year and contemplation of the next. Year 2008 brought copious quantities of hope and anguish. The anguish will surely subside and the hope has yet to be fulfilled. Let us trust that Will’s Law of Survival holds: when the world is in the toilet, hold on, it MAY get worse but it WILL get better. The converse is that when the world is all roses and sweet cream, enjoy it to the fullest, as it will not last.

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Departed snowy Colorado, leaving behind a foot of snow and zero degree temps. Arrived in Montana to find 18” and -10 degrees. But the warmth of family more than compensates for Mother Nature’s cold breath.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

GEORGETOWN 002

The Georgetown Christmas Market – note that it is not a “holiday,” “winter solstice,” or “year-end” market – was a truly festive event. I was instrumental in the vending of some $5,250 of wieners and sliders (mini White Castle-ish burgers), coffee, hot chocolate, and spiced cider, for the benefit of the local Community Center. The crowd came largely from Denver, and judging from the number of inquiries whether the hot dogs were “pure beef, not pork,” I gather that those who keep Kosher were not put off by religious implications. There were few African Americans and Muslims, but one Burka-clad young woman with a delightful smile wished me Merry Christmas. I don’t know exactly why that made me feel so good, but it did. She obviously was enjoying my season as surely as I might take pleasure in a Sedar, Kwanza celebration, or Ramadan gathering.

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Weather has been delightful with an 8” snow day followed by several of sun and relative warmth, where white streets return to asphalt and the cycle repeats. Loveland Ski area is pristine and uncluttered, at least on weekdays when my midweek season pass is valid. The plan has been to arrive early and be among the very first to enjoy groomed runs while the few other hardy souls nearby seek the powder my ancient legs abhor. That worked well until earlier this week when I played “67 year old idiot pretending to be a 25 year old hotdog”, bruised a muscle and now hobble about in abject contrition. The family Kenesiologist consulted long distance suggests that absent any further sportive lunacy I should be back slopeside in a week or so.

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I know it must be right-wing paranoia obsessing over alleged media bias, but I have noticed a strong tendency of the media to highlight the party affiliation or political leanings of Republican/conservative miscreants, while ignoring or burying those of Democrats/liberals. The Associated Press story that broke concerning Illinois Gov. Rod Blagojevich’s arrest on corruption charges mentioned that he was a Democrat only in paragraph nine. Googling stories on such malefactors as Congressman Duke Cunningham or Alaska Senator Ted Stevens invariably lead with the word “Republican” or better yet, “Conservative Republican.”

Before the 2006 election, Speaker Pelosi waxed long and loud over Democrat pledges to clear Washington of Republican corruption. Little outrage was expressed over Louisiana Congressman Jefferson’s stash of $100,000 in cash in his freezer (he was not censured by his Party, and it took the people of Louisiana to turn him out), and countless other examples of Democrat malfeasance.

A consistent theme of this Blog has been that good and evil, right and wrong, sincerity and cynicism, et. al., exist in both mainstream parties, in all political circles, and at every social strata. Yet I am consistently provoked by academic luminaries, social sophisticates, Hollywood personalities, and liberals of every stripe who maintain with haughty certitude that they lay exclusive claim to high moral ground. Horse pucky!

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As I traveled dark night into day some weeks ago, I was reminded of my departure from Galveston earlier this year. I caught the 2am ferry to the Bolivar Peninsula (me and a 50’s-something pickup driven by a chap who looked like he bought it new as a retirement gift to himself). Then along the Gulf road (which no longer exists courtesy of hurricane Ike) swinging due north toward the metropolis of Winnie and Interstate 10 east.

All alone on a narrow country road in a pitch black world until someone came up fast behind, attached themselves to my bumper, bright lights reflecting off my rearview. After several miles I slowed down. He did also. My subsequent acceleration was matched with exactitude. The lady in my GPS told me it was 38 miles to Winnie. I thought she sounded concerned.

A random thought left a tight grip on the wheel as I imagined myself as a young black man returning from college with 2 friends zonked in the back seat, or with my wife cradling our sleeping baby. The image of liquored-up good-ole-boys fondling shotguns in the back of manure-encrusted pickups certainly lingers, and is a favorite of those who sip a crisp chardonnay and smirk at anyone with sunburned arms and fingernails concealing dirt. While such frightening images exist and should never be forgotten, they are somehow never equated with gangs of color that control inner-city neighborhoods and prey on innocents who wander across their imaginary boundaries. Sadly, hate knows no border, and can be found in every corner of our world. Those who believe it exists only on the other side of the philosophical tracks fan its flames as surely as those who roam the streets.

My appendage hung close and as we approached the lights of Winnie and the single track gave way to a four-lane, I hugged right and he swung left. At a stoplight under a street light I spied a geezer, older it seemed than I, and clearly no threat. No harm, no foul, but a ton of perspiration.

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Some months ago in pre-dawn darkness (I used to say running, then it was jogging, now just limping along) I was flagged by two husky individuals who asked if I had any money. I slowed long enough to suggest that I did not work out with the family fortune strapped to my back, then continued on, picking up the pace just a bit. They did not pursue. But such chance encounters do tend to focus the mind.

I have a friend whose philosophy is that if accosted, immediately give up whatever is demanded. She has family members who have experienced some unpleasant confrontations, this in a location that prides itself on the security of its citizenry, certainly in comparison to the mean streets of America. Your wallet is not worth your life, I believe she would say. But I wonder in such a situation when you hand over your tangible belongings you also forfeit your humanity? Of course I have no idea how I would react in such a hostile situation, but I do hope that I would emerge with my dignity intact.

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About 15” and still snowing this morning. The temperature today will not reach double digits, and as the wind in Georgetown can routinely reach 50 MPH, folks don’t much mention the wind chill factor. They simply stay indoors or bundle up and accept Mother Nature without whine or whimper. Christmas lights abound and will be judged this week. The many small bridges that cross Clear Creek and its several tributaries sport lights and holiday greenery. Gives one a warm feeling despite the harshest winter blast.

…the adventure is at speed and gaining momentum…

GEORGETOWN 001

I’m never so content as when I rise before 3am on a crisp morning, leave a bed I have occupied for 6 hours and never will again, wake the night clerk to check out, enter a dark Interstate occupied only by the occasional trucker, find an Oldies station circa 1955, and settle in for a 12+ hour haul. I soon become a Pip or the 4th Vandella supplying Gladys Knight or Martha backup in the “shoo-whop-a-doo” style that defined my youth. The occasional refrain will recall a scene some 5 decades gone – slow dancing with Madelyn Hatz at the Friday night dance, slow dancing with Sandy Smith at the Holy Cross dance, slow dancing with Ruthie Bennett. I lost my interest in dancing when the slow variety ceased currency.

When the station finally fades and static overwhelms the music, I listen as long as possible, and lament the loss of a friend as I reluctantly begin the search for a new strong signal.

At this time of year, rural stations play genuine Christmas carols, not the cutesy tunes that commercialize and secularize the season. At truck stops and rural “filling stations” young girls and old men don white-trimmed red Santa caps, smile and say “Merry Christmas” without guilt. It evokes warm feelings, feelings that don’t come along as often as I recall they used to.

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An Econo Lodge in Greenville, IL and next door Mabry’s (10% discount for hotel guests, excluding alcohol and specials). A Belgian framboise on tap, and not a single lite beer! Trendy city Sports Bars and yuppie watering holes feature Miller Genuine Draft (in a bottle, of course), 4 lite beers and Becks or Heinekens. But more and more I run into out-of-the-way spots that feature real beer, like the Keg & Barrel in Hattiesburg, MS with 79 world brews on tap, or Cooter Brown’s near Tulane in New Orleans with over 100 in the keg and some 300+ in bottles. Grimbergen Doppel draught. Yum.

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The trip west passed uneventfully until about 5am on November 29, east of Limon, CO on the last leg of the journey. Wet road and snow flurries caused me to back off the accelerator, but all of a sudden I was traveling southeast while the road was paved in a northwesterly direction. Black Ice is something we hear about and are on the lookout for a patch thereof, but in this instance the entire roadway was so anointed.

Even 30 MPH in 4 wheel drive was a challenge, and over the next hour I passed at least a dozen wrecks, some just catawampus off the road, several overturned, all attended by the efficient Colorado State Police and local Rescue Squads. Near Denver the road became snowpacked, a condition certain to drive the Washington, DC driver round-the-bend, but a blessing on the plains of middle America. Traction of any stripe is your friend.

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As the first rays of light crossed the morning sky, I caught a majestic “V” of geese on the wing, and suddenly the lead peeled off and drifted to the back, while another took the leadership role. I wondered if this was some sort of Union guaranteed rest period, and whether those in the back could catch a NASCAR-like draft from their harder worker brethren (or sistern) farther front. The kind of sight that makes me smile.

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Georgetown (the former mining town in Colorado, not the inside-the-Beltway cocktail party haunt of progressive sophisticates), is home to 1,344 brave souls and now, one eastern immigrant. It sits surrounded by mountains some 10 miles from the Eisenhower Tunnel that insures year round transcontinental travel on all but the nastiest of blizzard days. Loveland ski area, the anti-Aspen of the Centennial State is 10 miles away, the stomping ground of down-home skiers and snowboarders with nary a socialite in sight. I join them tomorrow.

Georgetown has 4 restaurants (American, Mexican, Chinese, and Czech!), 3 Motels, 2 gas stations, and Mothers, a local bar in the finest Wild West tradition (happy hour PBR's for $1.50). No Golden Arches, no martini bars, and the lone gallery features “Western” art. I am home! Ensconced in a delightful apartment at the rear of a curio shop, one block from the main (and only) drag. In the mid 1800s the town was famous for its gold and silver mines. Today it achieves some notoriety when I-70 west of the Eisenhower Tunnel is closed due to blizzard, blowing snow, or avalanche threat. Population can near double and beds become coveted possessions that stranded tourists scramble for, and (say the locals) occasionally become aggressive over.

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While securing my membership card at the exceptionally well-appointed local library, I spied a hand-written plea for help at the upcoming Christmas Market. My response evoked a quick and passionate reaction from the volunteer organizer who lamented his annual agony over securing organizational support. “You are in luck,” I enthused. “I have a long and successful history of managing events large and small.” “Can you cook and sell hot dogs?” he asked. I assured him I could learn. My shift begins at 10am this Saturday.

…the adventure is back on track…

VIRGINIA 009

Is anyone out there old enough to remember when pro football players would make a spectacular run, execute a bone-crushing tackle, or catch the impossible pass, then simply return to the huddle or retreat to the sidelines? No crazy dancing, undisciplined gesticulating, or wild celebration. It was their job and they performed it with pride and dedication, and felt no need to incorporate show business into the mix.

This of course was at a time when they were paid pitifully little for the abuse they took, had limited access to rehabilitation, and were absolute captives of their team owners (i.e. no free agency). But now on Sunday afternoon just about every play finds someone on the field morphing from gridiron monster to karaoke queen. You knock someone down and you strut. Catch a pass and do a Jacko Moonwalk. Sack a QB and beat your breast like an unbridled King Kong. And all this restrained by penalties for “celebration.” How far we’ve come from the days of Norm Van Brocklin, Y. A. Tittle, and Jim Brown.

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Two days before the recent G-20 gathering in Washington, French Finance Minister Christine Lagarde said that “we see friction between Anglo Saxon capitalism on one hand and European capitalism on the other.” D’ya think? Mercifully, Sarko’s attempt at the meeting to fold North America into the EU was received with the healthy suspicion it deserved. For the record, I take no umbrage at Europe’s social and political inclinations, so long as it does not insist that I march to their drummer. Were you aware that in France a shop owner is not allowed to advertise a sale any time (s)he pleases, but only during semi-annual periods when the Government permits.

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I’m thinking of organizing a pool to predict the future date at which George W. Bush will cease being blamed for every planetary deficiency. I would think that somewhere north of the year 2030 would be a good bet. Clearly the Bush Administration has presided over substantial disasters and been directly responsible for some. But even the most rabid partisans cannot attribute 100% of global failure to our 43rd President. Well apparently, yes they can.

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Former Michigan Congressman David Bonoir just appeared on my TV to push for the proposed legislation that would, among other things, abolish the secret ballot for Union organizing campaigns. He maintained that is the only way workers will be able to “attain a living wage.” A quick Google tells me that the average Detroit auto worker today makes $75/hour, never mind the legacy percs and job guarantees. Where do I sign up?

And if abolition of the secret ballot in Union organizing is high on the new Administration’s agenda, perhaps some fears raised by “right-wing crackpots” are not so bizarre after all. How anyone could keep a straight face while advocating the removal of one of the most fundamental tenants of democracy is, well, a bit scary. Democrats in the House just elected their leadership by secret ballot, but Unions shouldn’t be so constrained. Say what?

And yet I choose to believe, unless and until proven wrong, that my new President will keep his promise to “bring us together.” His cabinet choices so far have been spot-on in my view. And my confidence is bolstered by the outrage coming from the far Left. The appointment of Hillary Clinton as Secretary of State has caused blown gaskets all over the radical landscape. In my view it takes a big man to appoint as his global spokesperson a woman who referred to him as “hopelessly naïve” in the area of international affairs. And while the Right takes umbrage at the appointment of the highly partisan and self-described “junk yard dog” Rahm Emanuel as Chief of Staff, my view is that his challenge will be not to contain the Right but to hold at bay the mad dogs of the Left.

…the adventure is coming back to life. Next time we meet I will be somewhere else…

VIRGINIA 008

I was never much of a football player in my youth, but lacking strength and stature, I tried to balance the deficiencies with what was in the day called “pluck.” I remember one Pop Warner coach demanding that I try to block a punt, and as I still recall the terror (not to mention pain) of having a high-velocity pigskin slammed into my unprotected face. My helmet was just that, a head covering and nothing more. Today there are multiple bars and Plexiglas windows that render the face impenetrable from the outside world. Such defensive shield would have been a great help against the kid who tried to gouge out my eye at the bottom of a scrum where I was attempting to recover a fumble.

Nor was I was ever much of an Elvis fan, perhaps because he nearly got my nose busted one dark night back then. Ronnie was a recent transplant from Tennessee to our suburban Philadelphia neighborhood, and his entire family was very partial to “the King,” who had not yet been crowned but was well on his way.

Returning from a Friday night dance at Holy Cross (mass on Sunday and financial juggernaut on all other days), Ronnie had words with a throng of miscreants who slandered Elvis in the process. Upon reaching home, he committed the error of mentioning the scene to his father, who then demanded details of the revenge extracted. Upon learning that no blood had been let, he summarily hustled us, a misbegotten gaggle of 3 weenies plus Ronnie, into his car and we spent the next half hour driving the dark streets of Clifton Heights looking for the offenders. I came closer to my creator that night praying in fervent silence that we would not find the thugs, who in my mind had already gained half a foot and 20 pounds apiece. Alas, my prayers went unanswered, thus beginning a long stretch of ecumenical failure to communicate.

Find them we did, and father ordered us out of the car with explicit instructions as to how we should rearrange the body parts of these damned Yankees, ignoring the fact that all of us save Ronnie were just that. My short life flashed before my eyes as Ronnie went for the purveyor of most explicit slander, who just happened to be the smallest, while one of his chums, larger by half, sidled up to me and inquired “how bout we go a round or two.” Hoping to lighten the atmosphere I answered, teeth chattering, “around where?” But he took my attempt at levity as further provocation, and advanced apace.

“I’ll fight’cha in those woods outta the light,” and I took off on a tear, never stopping until I reached home well over a mile away, then shrinking for a considerable time in the shrubbery lest he see me enter and mark my doorway for a later return and unspeakable retribution. I tried mightily the following Monday to convince my cohorts that I had indeed done battle in those woods, but I was not to be believed, and became thus forever marked as one not to be quickly chosen when gathering resources for a rumble. It was a slight that I have never regretted.

Clifton Heights, PA was a well established Italian enclave, the residents of which were none too happy with the emergence of a post WW-II community of row houses into which moved all manner of undesirables, including Protestants and Jews, though no African Americans, as integration thereabouts in the early 1950s was as foreign in the Philadelphia of Pennsylvania as to its namesake city in Mississippi. I got a taste there of what it must be like to be a minority, as the horn rimmed glasses Mother chose for me coupled with my slight build won me the nickname Jewboy, a moniker not even perfect attendance at Good Shepherd Lutheran Church could shed.

Entertainment was stickball in the street, Saturday cowboy movie matinees (20 cents admission and 5 cents for Good & Plenty), and running behind the truck spewing a fog of DDT that passed through the neighborhood on humid summer evenings. Sport was boxing at the Police Athletic League on Saturday mornings, plus football and baseball, the advantage being that they were played outdoors on hardscrabble sandlots and didn’t require the extensive buildings and paraphernalia so necessary to modern day youth activity.

My off-and-on best friend was Joey, known far and wide as Pig Eye, so tagged by his admiration for swine, the origins of which were never discussed or long forgotten. For months on end, every Tuesday after school, he would offer “Hey Ritchie, my Mom’s makin tomato pie. Come for dinner.” Pie, I thought, with tomatoes, hmmmm. “Naw, I can’t Joey, I gotta get home.” It was long after he stopped offering that I first encountered pizza at the Holy Cross carnival, made as only Philadelphia Italian mamas could. Adults (and we kids when we could get away with it) washed down the tomato pie with Dago Red wine – in those days the word was a label of pride and not a slur.

Philadelphia and its environs never held much attraction for me and I rarely returned after college, but you ate well there with the best hoagies in the world – with mortadella, capicola, provelone, and projute, as the locals called ham, not a SUBstitute. And while Phillie cheese steaks are served around the world, the only one I ever found beyond the 190 to 192 zip codes that measured up was prepared by a an expat. Ed. Note: The only way you can be sure you’re in a genuine Phillie restaurant is if the waitress asks “Whattle yuz have”?

...the adventure has stalled in naive anticipation of meaningful employ, but will soon move westward, or otherward if opportunity knocks...

VIRGINIA 007

Today I have a new President-elect. For those paying attention it should come as no surprise that the winner was not my first choice, although the runner-up did little to enflame my passions. It is probable that I will disagree with many Obama Administration programs going forward. Yet Bill Clinton emerged, after a shaky start, as a responsible leader of domestic policy, and one can always hope.

But Barack Obama is my president, and I will afford him the dignity and the civility due his office, and accept the judgment of the American people who have elected him, something those on the left have been unable to bring themselves to do these past 8 years.

While there is a strong likelihood of what I will do, there is metaphysical certitude of some things that I will not:

Ascribe to the new President’s every move a diabolical motive.

Revile him, and all who support him, in the most vicious and evil terms.

Trash and demean his wife and children.

Relentlessly ridicule his deficiencies.

Pass around on the Internet crude jokes, stupid cartoons, vile
accusations, demeaning caricatures, or outrageous rumors.

Join any radical fringe of condemnation.

Lie in wait and pounce on his every error (and he will commit a few)
and loudly proclaim his idiocy, ineptitude, or treasonous intentions.

Attend movies or watch TV programs that revile and humiliate him.

I will, in other words, try my best to dissent without abandoning civility, to object without condemning, to support alternatives without trashing the original idea. I will try my best to act with respect, and not as the left has conducted business since the year 2000. I will try to be better than they are.

Most important, I will applaud his successes, even those that spring from programs I do not embrace. I hope his policies fashion a better America and contribute to an improved planet. And if that means I must admit the superiority of some liberal policies to my own conservative values, I will pay that price willingly. Sadly, in this “enlightened era,” convictions and prejudices often supersede our desire for a better world, as in the radical left actively promoting failure in Iraq (General Betrayus!) to further embarrass Bush. That is not progress, but idealistic jingoism.

Like many life pursuits, be it a new job, a personal relationship, even a tangible purchase, the outcome, and in this case the wisdom of the electorate, will not be known for some time. The American people twice elected George W. Bush and in the end did not like what they had wrought. Now the slate is clean and a new scorecard stands ready.

God speed, Mr. President-elect.