SIX
The Equinox of Politics
Here we go again. For those of us who have been busy enjoying the last days of summer and not paying attention to the scientific details of life on earth, there is disappointment in the air. Starting Wednesday, the nights will be longer than the days — again. In fact, not only will nighttime grow longer between now and December 21, the sun (whether we see it or not) will become much dimmer in comparison to its recent summer intensity, leaving us with a bone-chilling void we call winter.
Scientists tell us that there is a moment in late September when the direct rays of the sun cross the equator just as autumn begins in the Northern Hemisphere. At that precise instant, day and night are in complete balance with each other. This year, that point of balance will occur at 1:41 PM, Eastern Daylight Time, Wednesday, the 23rd. But I fear that few of us will be paying strict attention. I for one do not plan to be out observing the sun with sophisticated telescopic equipment to see if it is directly over the equator at that instant. I’m not even sure if the event can be fully appreciated from our distant viewpoint beyond 42 degrees, north latitude. Perhaps one should be in Brazil, for instance, to get the full effect.
To tell the truth, however, I am just not that interested in certain, scientific facts, such as the precise vector of the sun’s rays on a particular day of the year. I trust that the earth and the sun will continue to function normally without any intervention on my part. And besides, throughout nearly a half-century of living, my curiosity has yet to be aroused by the sun’s relative position with respect to our earth. So why bother about it now?
Well it recently occurred to me that I might actually have a stake in the patterned course of our solar light. Now please bear with me while I ignore the fact that the earth revolves around a relatively stationary sun, as I recall from the fourth grade. Because the effects on earth are what really matter to me, and probably to you, too. And so, in practical terms, if the sun were not to return as expected in the spring, I would certainly notice the effects. For instance, the woods outside my house would remain barren. Ice would remain on the Looking Glass River. My wife, Maryanne, and I would surely change our minds about a trip to Mackinac Island in July, though we’ve already planned one in anticipation of warm, pleasant weather. Farmers would lose their livelihoods and school children, their summer dreams.
I hypothesize like this to make the point that we all, more or less, take some very important facts for granted. For example, we simply expect that, as surely as the leaves will fall in October, new ones will sprout again come spring. This is as it should be — and God help us all if it fails.
Politics, on the other hand, is a different story altogether — a rather unscientific one at that and about as predictable as the weather. And, therefore, quite a lot of folks have become jaded by politics, especially when they consider the barrage of meaningless campaign promises made by candidates in the heat of election-time posturing — promises that rarely get fulfilled, even after the victories are won. “Politicians say one thing to get elected, then do whatever they want once they get into office,” people lament. Or, more to the point: “Let’s throw the bums out; they’re only interested in what will get them reelected, not in what’s good for the rest of us.” But, from my experience looking into the souls of politicians, I have learned one thing for certain: You don’t want to stare for very long. Because, much like looking into the sun, you could go blind. Especially during the period of an election campaign when politicians, like the sun, tend to be highly intense, burning balls of gas.
Which brings me to my question for the week: When do politicians, who we daily hear flip-flopping and equivocating on the issues, cross the political equator? Or better said, exactly when and where is the equinox of politics? The point where all of the issues are in complete balance with each other, where neither the sweltering summer of liberal excesses nor the frigid winter of conservative abuses threatens the peaceful enjoyment of life in these great United States.
I’ve actually been looking for that point for some time now. And in the process I have opened myself up for criticism from liberals and conservatives alike for not supporting either of their platforms. Since I do not label myself either Republican or Democrat, people on both sides of the political spectrum have been able to accuse me of having no spine. Otherwise, I would grab a position and stay with it, they say. Well, to all of you who see me that way, I am glad to pronounce that today I am finally adopting a stand. I shall no longer be guilty of spinelessness. However dangerous it may be for a journalist to plight his or her trough, I am doing so — herewith. And the position I pledge to support is that of The Equinox of Politics.
And the platform I will occupy with my position is the point of balance between spending and budget cutting, between social transfer payments and tightfistedness, between criminal justice and individual freedoms, between business and the environment, between public and private education, between secularism and religion, between the right to live and the right to die, between the championing of our young people and the protecting of our senior citizens, between defense strategies and pacifism, between states’ rights and the responsibilities of the federal government, and yes, even between the right to choose an abortion and the right to life.
Thankfully, I have no interest in running for office since history has shown that, with such a political platform, I will not stand much chance of being elected. You see, just as the sun can only be found at its equatorial mid-point twice a year, most successful politicians merely pass through the political equinox on route to wide swings of conservatism and liberal thought. And, though some of us may wish to dwell in a place where all of the elements of politics remain in perfect balance with each other, there appears to be no such permanent place — just a temporary passing though, so to speak.
The more I think about this phenomenon, the more I am inclined to reconsider what I will be doing on Wednesday. Perhaps I should go down to the MSU observatory and watch for that synchronous point when, for a fleeting moment, light will be in perfect balance with darkness. Then maybe I will be better able to imagine a world where liberty and justice can coexist as equals in this great, democratic experience we call the United States of America.
Would any of you care to join me there?
Having finished my column a day early, I log on to my email and send the file to John Harrington, my editor at the Ledger, marking it “urgent” to be sure it gets sequenced near the top of his mailbox. This way, if he flips over the way I have basically editorialized in what is supposed to be a human interest piece, or because I have not used the proper pyramidal form, or for any other reason, however valid or capricious, I will be given ample time to write another article before tomorrow evening. But, knowing John as I do, it is quite likely he will publish this article with only slight editorial modification. He has never asked me for hard-boiled stuff, most likely because he sees me as the king of puff and fluff. And he generally likes sarcasm. So I occasionally employ a satirical tone, especially when writing about a mundane topic. Still, I may have crossed the line with this article. But if John approves it and runs it, I will undoubtedly get letters — probably a whole batch of them — from ideologues on both the left and the right. I have given such people plenty of rope with which to hang me for trying to “sit the fence” and “have it both ways.” But this column was nonetheless written from my heart. And besides, I am a firm believer in centrism and compromise, and the occasion of the autumnal equinox seems an ideal time to illuminate these concepts. So, for tonight at least, as another man more infamous than myself once said, “What I have written, stays written.”
And now, let the weekend begin, or what will have to pass for a weekend — all of about 17 hours, including sleep time. After making a mental note to check my email when Maryanne and I get home tonight, I shut down the PC and leave my small office to the dust bunnies until tomorrow.
One thing I have learned about myself is that I require a certain amount of down time. Though I am not naturally inclined to stop and smell the roses, especially when I am on a productive roll, I must force myself to do exactly that. Otherwise, I will eventually run out of energy and ideas. Besides, it is only when I have cleared my mind of the numerous and sundry details of my work that I can really think creatively. At these times of reflection I catch a glimpse of the bigger picture, a Technicolor view of the world, complete with all the other sensory impressions my mind is normally too dull to perceive. So, for tonight at least, I am free— free to enjoy Maryanne and our private and intimate life that no one else shares or, presumably, cares about.
Come to think of it, I would hate to be a public figure, constantly in the limelight, with my life — public, private, past and present — regularly being examined under the microscope of journalistic doggedness. No thanks, that would not be for me.
In one of my recent moments of reflection, it occurred to me that married life is basically a collection of interests, beliefs, habits and activities with no natural cohesion. And, if that is true, some questions beg to be answered. For instance: Why do Maryanne and I do what we do as a couple? What makes us seemingly want to do things together? Why do we choose certain words and actions over the myriad of other choices of what to say or do at each distinct moment? Do we actually follow a set of mutual goals and ambitions with persistence, or do we stumble along in an unenlightened, fuzzy state, buffeted by one random event after another, lucky to be on our feet acting civil to one another at the end of every wearisome day?
These thoughts lead me to wonder how Maryanne and I have managed to get along for over twenty years, happy to be together, content with what our lives have become and still in love. Neither of us spends time planning and executing strategies to accomplish these goals. In a marriage such as ours, with no children to serve as objects for our love and attention, the arrangement seems doomed to grow old and tired. One might think that we would eventually drift apart to separate worlds, more suited to our independent considerations. After all, how much do Maryanne and I spend time with each other over the course of a given day or week? I’ve thought a lot about this and concluded that what keeps us together cannot be anything other than mutual affection and the power of love.
Consider the alternative. Had our marriage broken apart as so many have, we would be free to pursue our own individual interests without conflict or compromise. We could spread our wings and fly wherever we pleased, whenever we desired, doing God knows what, not requiring the consent of the other party — consent that could probably not be garnered under the constraining power of a marriage union anyway. Not many wild-eyed and fancy-free ideas can even be introduced into the stultifying forum of a marriage partnership, let alone adopted with eager anticipation by the other partner. Let’s face it: Maryanne and I have long since abandoned the quest for freedom to even consider foolish and whimsical ideas. Yet somehow, we are still happy. We are each thrilled to be an inseparable part of the other for all these years since Cupid’s arrow wounded us (for life, it would seem) back there on that bicentennial summer.
All other possible scenarios notwithstanding, I am still enamored with my beautiful wife. I tingle at the thought of her love for me and the wonderful ways she communicates that love each and every day we are together. Loving Maryanne has never become mundane or monotonous, and I trust that she would say the same about me. Sure, we could no doubt make it out there on our own, individually, selfishly, blazing through life in flames of desire, or drifting along near-effortlessly on our natural abilities, our grace and magnetism. We could make other relationships work, pouring in volumes of our effervescent selves to achieve equilibrium and success. But why would we choose either scenario over the happy condition we now possess? Certainly not because either of us is afraid to take risks. Far from it. We have taken many a risk and succeeded with most. We are each well-adjusted, desirable, healthy, educated, fun, interesting, economically stable adults in the prime of our middle lives. We could theoretically have anyone we chose. So why stay bound to each other in this ancient of customs, this arcane institution, this confining and emasculating prison called marriage? Perhaps it is because we promised each other we would do so when we exchanged vows. But I think it is more than that, more than honor and duty. Through time, trouble and circumstances, our love and concern for each other has grown rather than diminished, defying the natural process of death that is at work in everyone and every thing. We have actually become more and more alive to each other with the passing years. In fact, I dare say we have become each other; we are one. And I can no more hate, mistreat, abandon or neglect Maryanne than I can myself. Such is the power of love — a power that turns a binding, restrictive commitment into a singular manifestation of happiness and contentment. Freedom from this union would mean death to us both. As I see it, only a fool would choose independence over what we have together. Based upon my experience, having tasted both independence and the union of marriage, I gladly give up such freedom.
“Did you check to see if the front door was locked?”
For as long as I have known her, Maryanne has worried about such things, just moments after the opportunity to do something about them has irretrievably passed.
“I did.”
“And was it?”
“Actually, I thought I might leave it unlocked.”
“Is that so?”
A flickering of high beams signals me from the opposing lane, the friendly warning of a speed trap that may be set up just around the next bend — a temporary camp where a strapping, young Sheriff’s deputy is likely sitting in crisply pressed khakis beside a wax bag of doughnuts from the QD, head craned back across the bench seat of his cruiser, wielding a timing strobe and aiming to fulfill his daily citation quota. I tap the brakes and slow to within five.
“Yep. That door cost us over five hundred bucks. I’d rather the burglars didn’t bust it up on their way in.”
“Aren’t we in a jovial mood tonight?”
“Got my mojo workin.”
I glide through the next intersection, and sure enough, there he is, the anticipated mounty, out for a night of fun and games. He is, however, otherwise occupied at the moment, no doubt kicking off some poor sap’s evening with pomp and circumstance and a ninety-dollar liability.
“Looks like somebody else has his working as well.”
“Which somebody are you referring to?”
“The one with the gun.” Seated next to me, one leg crossed over the other, Maryanne goes back to inspecting her cuticles in the dim twilight, aided by a solitary beam from above, factory-directed to the passenger’s lap.
“You know, that brings up an interesting point. It’s a bit unfair, I think, that they get to carry guns, while ordinary, unsuspecting, defenseless folks like us have to get by with nothing more than our wits and an occasional radar detector.” I say all this with a stony front, as solemn as I can muster.
“Good thing this car isn’t equipped with a BS detector because it would be going off just about now,” she replies without looking up, clearly proving herself capable of taking me on while engrossed in personal grooming.
“No, I’m serious. Those so-called ‘wackos’ at the Line of Fire hootenanny today made some sense. Suppose we were moving about freely and unencumbered as is our constitutional right, you know, no registration tags, no twelve dollar renewable license in our wallets proving we’ve jumped through all of the ceremonial hoops the state has set up for us to qualify for the privilege of driving, and ‘Sammy’ back there with the badge clocks us on the laser gun doing ten over the limit, switches on his bubble gum machine, sprays gravel all over somebody’s neatly cut lawn, then fishtails across two lanes of happy-go-lucky Saturday evening traffic, runs us down and, with a couple of short siren bursts, squeezes us onto the soft shoulder. Wouldn’t he be a tad more polite if there were a better-than-even chance we were packing some artillery?”
“Chip, have you gone nuts? What did they do to you downtown today, enroll you in the militia?” Now I’m getting her attention.
“Not quite. But I did get a line on an M16 automatic. Just like new too.”
“You’re not buying a gun!”
“Well it might not be a bad idea, you know...”
She slaps me hard on the right shoulder, catching me by surprise. The Bravada swerves but I hold her on the road. Maryanne then unfolds the visor and begins a close-up review of her personal cosmos.
I cannot resist going another round with her. “Come on, where’s your sense of adventure?”
“I left it home.” Lips squeeze together in an audible re-application of peachy gloss.
“Then maybe you won’t like what I’ve got planned for tonight.”
“Try me.”
Headlights stream past as we pause momentarily for the traffic light and the turn at Hagadorn Road. A cluster of amber rays from a half-sunken sun breaks through the steel-gray ceiling spreading gold dust along the expanse of colorless grass between the ribbons of roadway. A school of cars floats by heading northeast, perhaps destined for the Cinema-12, out on old 78. We drove by there minutes ago and I peripherally beheld a long queue of dreamy-headed couples, parents with over-revved youngsters and bands of young teens, free from their loving but protective moms for an evening of vicarious adventure, all about to lay down their two-fifty for a second-run flick and two hours in a too-small, sweat-soaked projection room.
“We’re not going to a movie,” I say flatly.
“Why not?” She had her heart set on the latest Grisham book-cum-screenplay.
“I thought of something better.”
“What could be better than a Grisham movie?” She has now completely abandoned the ostensible concern for her appearance.
“Come on, his stuff is so predictable.”
“I like his stuff. It’s exciting without a lot of explicit sex and gore. Besides, there is nothing like a good courtroom drama.”
“There is great courtroom drama in what I’ve picked out, and no explicit sex, and not a lot of gore. It’s right up your alley.”
“Your not going to tell me, are you?”
“Not yet, you’ve got two remaining guesses.”
The limit is posted down to 25 MPH now as we gently slide across Albert Street to the public parking lot, narrowly avoiding a gaggle of MSU students, bobbing about the East Lansing downtown on the prowl for a good time Saturday night.
“It’s a bit early for the parties to begin, don’t you think?” There remains only the faintest crescent of lavender daylight in the western sky as I pull my receipt from the automated attendant and hesitate for the gate.
“Come on, Chip, spill it. Where are we going?”
“To Giulio’s for dinner. You love Giulio’s”
“I know that. I mean afterward.” Her tone has gone from round to pointed. It’s my fault of course, but I love to see Maryanne get steamed up. She never stays angry for long and is never vindictive, so I refrain from giving in just yet and allow myself the indulgence of a bit more harmless provocation.
I snug the Bravada to rest in the crowded lot between two beat up compacts that, by their very presence, threaten to be the cause of a matched set of door dings, port and starboard, applied with reckless abandon while we quietly dine on al dente pasta and veal piccata, as unsuspecting as sheep. “Come on, our table is waiting.” I drop off the running board, shut the driver’s door and pop around to help her out.
Trailing a gentle cloud of my favorite scent, modeling blue jeans, button-down, denim shirt and a fleece jacket, Maryanne takes my hand to dismount the truck, plants her feet squarely on the asphalt and slugs me.
“That’s not going to get it out of me,” I say, resisting the urge to rub my shoulder. “You’ll have to hit a bit harder.”
“No thanks. I might break a nail.”
By the time the first drops of Sangiovese were poured into our glasses, with my shins aching from a couple of well-placed kicks administered under the table, I obliged Maryanne’s curiosity, telling her about the tickets I had purchased earlier for tonight’s performance of Arthur Miller’s “The Crucible”.
We ordered our usual favorites, sopped olive oil from white china with crusty Vienna, and sipped wine with joyous spirits and a buoyant optimism. All in all, dinner, although somewhat hastily consumed, turned out to be a worthwhile gratification. The kitchen kept up with the busy evening’s orders and our food was served hot and delectable. Once my entertainment secret was revealed, Maryanne and I floated off to faraway places in our minds as we talked of trips to Italy and Greece, a Spanish country casita, even a condo on the French Riviera where waves wash over sun-baked beaches and the lilting romance of Francais drifts into open windows on the salty breeze. These are all places we’ve never been but have always dreamed about longingly. Nearby our table in the intimate main dining room, amid the tinkling of glasses, the gentle clatter of utensils and the saucy fragrance of Mediterranean seasonings, other couples spoke of similar fantasies. I was certain of it.
“We have to stop dreaming about Europe and just go,” I said, knowing full well that I have been the reticent one, the one too absorbed in engineering and, more recently, journalism and politics, to give up the necessary three or four weeks that such a vacation demands.
“Do you really mean that?” Maryanne’s eyes danced like emeralds in the sun. “I’m ready anytime, you know. I was born ready for Europe.”
There is no honey pure enough to rival Maryanne’s sweetness. I could see a hopeful anticipation in her glow that conveyed how the prospect of such a trip might lighten and lift her above the mundane sameness of our daily lives. To give her this pleasure, I realized, would also be my great joy and privilege.
“This time I really do mean it. I’ll take a month off if you want. We can get Eurail passes, shuttle all over the continent, dine in trattorias and bistros and cantinas, and sleep in old stone hotels out in the country.”
“Oh, I really love you, Chip.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I really do.”
“Me too, you know.”
“I know.”
The Lansing Riverwalk Theater is situated on a little patch of Grand River floodplain below Michigan Avenue, just east of the capitol. We’ve not been here for a couple of years. Our last visit was for a performance of “Noises Off,” a comedy about backstage, British, monkey business. We enjoyed ourselves immensely then, laughed out loud as I recall. Tonight’s subject would be somewhat heavier, but it is hard to find better play-writing than that of Arthur Miller.
“What’s with you lately, all this interest in religious stuff?” Maryanne quizzes me as we walk in from the parking lot.
“Pure coincidence, I think.”
“Tonight is no coincidence.”
“Well in a manner of speaking it is. I was downtown for the rally; I stumbled into the box office and voila! Coincidence.” I take her hand as we walk.
“I’m not buying it, buddy.” She shakes loose but then puts her arm around my waist. “You subconsciously have a drive to explore religious issues and themes. That’s what I think.”
“Think whatever you like. I’m just out with my lover for an evening of fun and culture. It’s about time we did something cultural, don’t you agree?” Stepping inside the theater entrance, we stand in a short line to show our tickets.
“I think you are on some kind of religious mission…and you are also attempting to curie favor with me for later this evening.”
“Later this evening? You give me too much credit for planning ahead. That has never been one of my gifts.” Of course, I will gladly accept whatever favors she might think appropriate for later this evening.
Scrutinizing our tickets under the beam of his tiny flashlight, the usher shows us to our seats.
“You have more gifts than you realize, my dear.”
“As do you.” Taking her hand again, I think of some of Maryanne’s particular gifts. The room gradually goes to black and the curtain rises.
“The Crucible” turns out to be a fair metaphor of modern society, even though it is set in the late seventeenth century. Suspicion, lies, adultery, self-preservation, intrigue and false accusation are the thematic elements under study. Of course, the main plot about witchcraft in a small, religious, colonial town is central, but there is much more than witchcraft going on with these Puritans and their families. Saints or sinners, it seems, are not detectable with the naked eye. The truth of a person’s character lies buried somewhere beneath the surface. Outward appearances only camouflage one’s innermost desires and thoughts. Nevertheless, the parallel with modern society is less than exact. It seems to me, for instance, that today we are less inclined than the Puritans were to openly accuse one another of some secret fault, to badger the truth of it out into the field of public knowledge where it can be viewed and examined, criticized and judged, and where reputations can be ruined with or without justification — lives trampled under foot. However sumptuous this prospect may appear to a private investigator, a journalist, the town gossip, a talk show guest or some narrow, religious prig, decent people in society behave otherwise. We are more civilized than our forebears. We allow each other to save face, looking past each other’s faults. To my way of thinking, the hallmark of modern society is simply this: We live in peace and harmony with each other despite our separate faults and indiscretions. And I for one am glad that witches are not being burned at the stake any longer, nor anyone else for that matter. So be it.
I should have guessed that Maryanne would disagree with my theory and application of the lesson. She called me a “hopeless idealist” and offered a different summation, “On the contrary, just turn on the TV; people are getting crucified every day; society has not learned a single thing in three hundred years. That was the lesson of the play.”
Perhaps hers was the correct inference. It’s a dog-eat-dog world. And, thanks to human nature, it may always be so. Whether consciously or not, many find the their way to the top over the broken backs of those who have preceded them.
Such realizations make the escapist’s philosophy all the more appealing. So I resolved to call the travel agent first thing Monday morning. On to Italy, the Appian Way, the Isle of Capri and a hundred bottles of wine.