Like a phoenix rising from the ashes

Hot Flashes


 

Just weeks before election day, that loveliest time of the year when Americans fling verbal grenades at lightning speed, Mr. Fixit and I escaped the crossfire for a long-awaited trip to Paris. We hauled our sorry old behinds, well-aged like USDA prime, across the pond as fast as our anti-inflammatories would carry us.

Days before our departure, we realized a couple of things. Which is good, because at our age we don’t usually realize diddly-squat. What we noted was we were as stoked to be away from the ugliness of our nuts and grunts political process as we were pumped to go to the City of Lights and cruise the Seine to float, baby, and well, just let it ride.

Which we did, but like all good things they come to an end, and holy cannoli, reentry has been brutal.

The talking heads turned up the volume on election day. I recalled that someone said, “Politics is the second-oldest profession but is beginning to bear a distinct resemblance to the first.” Ain’t that the truth? The lies and the manipulation on both sides of the encampment registered at rock bottom on the horse-pucky scale.

OK, so in 1800, Thomas Jefferson said John Adams was a “hideous hermaphroditical character which has neither the force and firmness of a man, nor the gentleness and sensibility of a woman.”

To which Adams warned, if Jefferson was elected, “Are you prepared to see your dwellings in flames . . . female chastity violated . . . children writhing on the pike? GREAT GOD OF COMPASSION AND JUSTICE, SHIELD MY COUNTRY FROM DESTRUCTION.”

And yes, in 1828, the Federalists criticized Andrew Jackson’s wife, calling her “dirty black wench” and a “convicted adulteress,” and said she was prone to “open and notorious lewdness.”

Not to be outdone, Jackson’s people said Adams had sold his wife’s maid as a concubine to the czar of Russia.

While it might be a given that rottenness in politics is the norm, can’t we do better? Thou shalt not be ugly to thou fellow man and woman.

A few days later, the nightmare we never believed would happen in our sweetest neighborhood of many oaks and many nail salons . . . did. A mass shooting took place at Borderline, a country western bar where all our kids have danced. Twelve innocent souls, 12 hearts with much to give and much to live, 12 dear creatures who wanted to make our world a better place . . . gone. Taken from us.

Unable to concentrate, I left my office in a sad state of melancholy early Thursday afternoon to head home. Funny, there was an odd plume of smoke rising in the west, I wasn’t sure of the source, but I didn’t like it.

In 12 hours, buffeted by Santa Ana winds, half of Conejo and Malibu had been evacuated. Mr. Fixit and I were paralyzed. Where do we go? What do we do? We have two dogs, we have bad backs, we have fallen arches, we need the comforts of home, and now what?

Like you, we watched the horror as the fire marched through our neighborhoods, taking our memories, our shelter and all the things that manage to hold us together, destroying the safe havens where we come together at the end of the day.

Unable to go outside due to the smoke, unable to go to my gym, I had to do something or rigor mortis would set in. I rummaged through old DVDs and found “Dancing with the Stars.” Hello, Ginger Rogers. And no, my performance is not available on YouTube; nor was any seismic activity recorded during my performance.

Beyond my personal silliness, I noticed something pretty incredible over the weekend. Perhaps you experienced the same? For several days, I received phone calls and emails from friends and relatives around the world. Each resident in our neighborhood was looking out for the other.

“Hey, I’ll call you or you call me if you hear anything.” Offering help. Everyone was reaching out, and suddenly, you could feel the love, baby. Love from the kid at Petco, the grocery checker, love from the fella who works at Chevron and a big hug from the dude making bread at Whole Foods.

People were longing to do what they could, offering solace, offering their hopes for a better day. The ugliness of the election had vanished. Wow. Is this what it takes for us to be kind to each other? For us to hold each other in high esteem as loving human beings? Is this what it takes?

Without love, we are birds with broken wings. Can we rise from the ashes of emotional and physical destruction?

Reminds me of a song that asks, “Who stole the soul from the sun in a world come undone at the seams? Let there be love.”

Email her at kirby@theacorn.com or kirby.hanson@verizon.net or go to her Facebook page.