November 6, 2019--VA & KY

The big takeaway from yesterday's elections in Virginia and Kentucky, especially KY, is that a goodly percentage of Trump voters were comfortable crossing party lines to vote for Democratic candidates.

Up to this point progressives and independent-minded voters wondered if that was possible. Many saw Trump people as a obdurate cult who would do anything their leader asked of them. In Kentucky yesterday this meant voting for the Republican who was unpopular. Trump made a special trip to KY the night before the election to fire up his followers.

But what did they do in a state that went for Trump in 2016 by 30 points? Enough voted for the Democrat, Andy Beshear, who, as a result, won in a squeaker.

A version of the same thing occurred in Virginia.

These results should not be taken for granted. To defeat Trump, particularly with admittedly weak presidential candidates, Democrats and independent voters will have to work hard, very hard.

But yesterday demonstrated, more voters than assumed are up for grabs.

My hope is that Mitch McConnell had a sleepless night. Wouldn't it be delicious if in 2020 Mitch . . . ?

November 6, 2017--We Need to Get Off Our Butts

All the liberals I know are fulminating about Donald Trump and all the truly destructive things he and his administration are doing to America.

Rather than focusing on what we can do today, almost all are turning their attention to the 2018 midterm elections and the 2020 presidential race in which Trump has already announced he will run for a second term.

But almost all the liberals I know are not paying any attention to an important off-cycle election that will take place tomorrow, Tuesday, in Virginia, where the current governor, Terry McAuliffe is term-limited and thus unable to run for an additional term.

As a measure of the seriousness of the outcome in Virginia Bill Clinton and even Barack Obama campaigned for the lackluster Democratic candidate, Ralph Northam. They also pointed to the political opportunity represented by the down-ballot elections, most importantly races for the state legislature.

I know more than a dozen Virginia residents, all Democrats, and only one two of them have done anything more than talk about how terrible the Republican candidates are. I have not heard from any of them that they are canvasing door-to-door or manning phone banks to help bring out the vote.

All the recent polls show the race for governor and lieutenant governor to be a statistical dead heat. Political professionals from both parties are saying it's all about turnout. The winners will be the ones who can mobilize their supporters to vote.

Knowing this, as my well-informed friends do, there is still little action to speak of among progressives. Except for whining and complaining about how terrible things are. How, for example, if the Republican candidate, Ed Gillespie, wins and enough Republicans are elected to state office, women's reproductive rights will be imperiled and voting rights are likely to be curtailed. 

If that isn't enough to get my friends off their butts I don't know what will. 

Sadly, even the fear of that is not motivating a flurry of action. If I were cynical (and I am), I would suspect that my purple state friends would rather have things to complain about than make the effort to win.

Even sadder, I see this self-indulgent apathy to be endemic to the national Democratic Party. 

We've turned criticizing Donald Trump into an art form--feeling proud about our ability and cleverness to do that--but most liberals continue to look down their noses while mocking his supporters. But in the meantime, his people are mobilized and we are, well, wallowing in petulant passivity. All the while reminding anyone who will listen how smart we are.

You know what? We're not that smart at all. 

We may know our history, we may be more literate, more articulate, better educated, more reasonable, but what we are really good at is losing.

Who are our leaders? Chuck Schumer? Nancy Pelosi? Bernie Sanders? Joe Biden? Harvard professor Elizabeth Warren? Barack Obama?

Not including Obama, their average age is 72.  To make our agony worse, Obama, whom we pine for, is constitutionally unable to run for a third term. And even if he could, my suspicion is that he would lose to Trump who would again enjoy demonizing him.

As Harry Reid's former chief of staff, David Krone, recently told the New York Times, "There are killers and there are whiners. Unfortunately we have too many of the latter and not enough of the former."

If we can't get our act together to win this one--and with the scandals plaguing Trump, it should not be that difficult--2018 looms as a potential disaster. And unless we can come up with better candidates and get activated, we need to get ready for eight years of Donald Trump.

Ed Gillespie

April 12, 2016--Rhonda's Biscuits Concluded

It took awhile for our breakfasts to arrive.

We were sitting diagonally across from Rhonda and had a clear line of site and so could watch her carefully and deliberately cook one order at a time. Unlike other short-order cooks, she took her time.  First, she scrupulously scraped and wiped the grill, then in a mixing bowl, she cracked and beat with a fork two eggs. Two at a time even if she was making eggs for a party of two (like us) or four (like the folks at the table all with biscuits) where more commonly the chef would scramble on the grill all four or even all eight eggs, and then divide them into portions when they were done.

"I can see why this place is so crowded," I whispered to Rona, "Even now, close to 11:00, it's still full. Probably people have been here since 8:30 waiting for their orders to be completed."

Rona punched my arm to shush me. "Keep your voice down," she said, "We're strangers here."

"I'm just finding this fascinating," I said and took to just observing what would happen next.

When Rhonda had four plates with eggs and bacon and grits ready to turn over to the waitress who was hovering patiently, two at a time she brought them to where we were perched on our stools, sipping at our coffee, and slid open a large stainless steel drawer, looked around--it felt like mainly at us--and extracted carefully, one biscuit at a time which she in turn gently placed on each of the plates. Blocking us so we couldn't see what else might be in that draw she slid it shut and only then was she ready to turn the steaming dishes over to Ellie, the waitress, who caught our eye and shrugged, as if to say, "What can you do. It's a living."

Mr, Harris, next to us at the counter said, "Next time you're round these parts I recommend the catfish. Uh, uh," he said and slowly patted his mouth with his perfectly-folded napkin. "If I hada thought, I woulda offered you a taste. I'm 92--don't say I don't look that old 'cause I know I do." He smiled.

"You don't look . . . ," I said but he cut me off before I could finish. At most he looked 75.

"Been coming here for years. Every Saturday morning. Like clockwork. I have to be patient too. Don't take it personal. We're off the interstate here and don't get that many strangers passing though who are in a hurry. I don't mean you're strangers or anything like that," he added quickly. "Old Rhonda takes her good time and treats us all like equals."

He made a point of that as he was the only black person in the teeming restaurant.

A middle-age woman interrupted him as she was heading toward the cash register and said, with what looked like a small bow, "How nice to see you, Mr. Harris. It must be Saturday again," she chuckled. "And how is Mrs. Harris?" She din't pause to hear the answer, "And I trust your granddaughter is doing well at school."

"Yes, thank you, everyone is well."

"What courses is she taking again? I'm losing my memory, wouldn't you know." She sighed.

"She's in her final year and then it will be time for her to do her internship. Still says she wants to be a surgeon. I keep telling her that's not an easy thing for a girl. I mean, a woman. But she's determined. Stubborn too. Just like her mother."

"Well, next time you talk to her, please tell her I was asking about her." Then she turned to us and said, "A lovely family. The best people in town."

"Don't forget your umbrella," Mr. Harris said.

"See what I mean about my memory," she said to Rona.

"What medical school is she at?" I asked.

"Up in Baltimore. I can never remember its exact name. We just call it Hopkins. I know . . ."

"Johns Hopkins," I said. "Half the time I call it John Hopkins. I forget the Johns part. But it's a wonderful place. Good for her."

Another diner who had finished his breakfast was waiting for the women who claimed to be losing her memory to move along so he could say a few words to Mr. Harris.

"My Sally knew you'd be here," he said, pulling on the peak of his Redskins cap. "She said you'd be here like clockwork and there you be."

"Lovely woman, that Sally," Mr. Harris said half-turned toward us. "I trust her treatments are going well."

Sally's husband sighed, "Good as can be expected, I s'pose. It's all in His hands." He looked up toward the ceiling.

"And the doctors, too," Mr. Harris said, reaching out to touch him on the arm.

"She and I too really 'preciate all your concern and how every Sunday you and yours remember to send over a big basket of fruit. You know how she loves fruit. It's 'bout the only thing she enjoys these days. Poor thing." He wiped at his eyes.

Mr. Harris struggled up from his stool and embraced him. "You'll be fine," he whispered, still hugging him and patting his back. "Now, you've go to be strong for her."

"I will do my best," he said, "And thank you again for everything. I'll see you next Saturday. Same time, same place." And with that he headed for the front door

After Sally's husband left, Mr. Harris turned fully to Rona and softly said, "She is a lovely woman. Been good all these years to our family. She was a teacher in the high school where my granddaughter went. She was the one who encouraged her to take all those science courses while many of the others there suggested she be realistic and forget about being a doctor and train instead to be a nurse and stay in town and work in the hospital. And now she's . . . she's struggling against the odds. But if being a good person means anything, there's a better place waiting for her."

By then we were ready to leave, said goodbye to Mr. Harris, and with the check began to make our way to the cash register where Ellie was waiting.

"Hope you enjoyed your breakfast," she said.

"I loved everything," I said, "The food and everything else," I gestured back to where we had been sitting and toward Mr. Harris."

"Isn't he somethin' special? You'd never know how old he is."

"He is remarkable," Rona siad. "How everyone stopped to talk with him."

"Every Saturday he's always here. If you forget, his sittin' over there havin' his fried fish reminds you of that."

Rona was busy extracting cash from her wallet, "Maybe next year on our way south, we'll drive down route 310 and . . ."

"Be sure to do that, honey. We'd love to see you. We'll all be here. And if it's a Saturday . . ."

". . . Mr. Harris'll be having his catfish."

"Sure as the day is long. So be sure to stop by to see us, yuh hear."

We both nodded. And then, as we were about to say something, over her shoulder, Rhonda, still at the grill, working on a couple of sunny side eggs, called to us, "Make sure you do that. Next time you all can have all the biscuits you want."