August 28, 2013--Ladies of Forest Trace: Maureen Shroud

“I’m fed up with her, all the time calling him ‘The One.’”

“I think I know who you mean.”

As usual on Sunday, at the stroke of noon, my more-than-105-year-old mother was calling from Florida. She takes special pride in doing so each week at precisely that time, seeing it as evidence that she, as she puts it, still has her “marbles.” Or, as she has recently come to modify it, in acknowledgement of her very-advanced age, and reality, “at least some marbles.”

“Doesn’t she know what he’s facing? She should know better, that Maureen Shroud.”

“Maureen Dowd,” I corrected her.

“Dowd, Shroud, what difference does it make as long as you know what I am saying.”

“I know who you’re talking about but not what you’re saying.”

“If you would stop interrupting and let me catch my breath you’ll know soon enough.”

I could hear the hiss of her oxygen accumulator, which she has taken to using more than usual, and also in the background the voice of Candy Crowley.

“You shouldn’t be reading the paper and watching CNN at the same time. It’s too much for you.”

“There’s so much happening.”

“I know that but you remember what your doctors say.”

“How many of them are 100? When they get there, I’ll pay attention to what they tell me.” She enjoyed that and I could sense her chuckling to herself.

“But as I was trying to tell you about Obama--half of them hate him for we know why.”

“The public? Republicans in Congress?”

“Them.”

“Again, who?”

“Republicans.”

“Do you think it’s about him or would they hate him even if it was someone else?”

“Him. But now you sound confused.” She was right about that.

“And don’t you think,” I pressed, “the Democrats would do the same thing if there was a Republican president?”

“Some.” I could hear her breathing thickly.

“Do you think,” she continued, “the Democrats would be talking already about infringement?”

“If you’re referring to Maureen Dowd’s column, you mean impeachment.”

“That too.”

“I think Maureen got it right. There are these new Republican members of the House and . . .”

“The Senate too. That one from Oklahoma who is supposed to be his friend. The one with the beard. I forget his name. Heartburn?”

“Close, but no—Tom Coburn. And he is as you said from Oklahoma.”

“Is Maureen right that one of the leaders is Santa Claus?”

“Not actually Santa Claus, but he’s in some sort of Christmas business—Kerry Bentivolio, a freshman congressman from someplace in Michigan. He has a sled with his own reindeer. He apparently spends so much time dressed up as Santa Claus that he talks about himself as ‘we’—him and Santa.”

“I was trying to make a joke about him being Santa Claus. Mainly I wanted to tell you about those crazy people in Congress who hate Obama so much they can’t wait to infringe him.”

Not correcting her again, I said, “I thought Maureen Dowd did a good job of . . .”

“That’s why I called--to tell you that because of this morning’s column I forgive her for what she said about the Clintons. (Though Bill was very bad with that woman). And about Obama and ‘he’s The One’ business. She should know what he has to deal with every day. Worse than Clinton. Who at least deserved much of what she said about him.”

“I agree that often she goes too far, looking to be so clever that she comes off as smug. Though as you said, Clinton deserved to be held accountable.”

“But today, she redeemed herself.”

“You mean with how she concluded her column?”

Over the sound of the oxygen machine I could hear her wrestling with the newspaper. “Let me read to you. The last sentence—‘For some of the rodeo clowns,’” she paused, I thought to catch her breath, “That is going too far, isn’t it? I don’t like name-calling even when it’s deserved, but that’s how they talk these days. Even the best of them.” She sighed.

“’For some of the rodeo clowns,’’” she resumed, “’clamoring for infringement,’ I mean, ‘impeachment around the country’—they’re on vacation again and back in their districts. ‘For some of the rodeo clowns clamoring for impeachment around the country, Barack Obama’s real crime is presiding while black.’”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“And so do the girls who I have dinner with. They may not be such big fans of his, but they can spot prejudice from a mile away. I’ve told you about some of the things they had to experience in their lives.”

“You surely did.”

“So they know. They know it when they smell it.” 

“For certain.”

Her breathing had become more labored and I suggested she lie down and increase the flow from her oxygen accumulator.

“I’m fine,” she said, gasping, trying to reassure me, “but have to . . . lie down . . . This is what it’s like . . . when you’re my age. Hooked up. Sleeping all the time . . . Like being a baby . . . again.”

“Everyone should be like you.”

With that she hung up. And I hoped turned off CNN.