I have a thing for calendars….
Every year, around this time, I struggle with which ones to hang, and which to donate to the “extra calendar pile” at the office.
It seems every charitable organization, to which I donate, sends me a calendar. Many of these, especially the ones portraying animals, are hard to resist. One year I didn’t. I hung five different calendars around my office, so that no matter which wall you faced, you were met by a furry visage, or a magnificent vista.
Last year, during a post-Christmas shopping trip, I stumbled upon a kiosk of interesting calendars in a local hobby store. I left with one for my son, featuring unusual, black and white photography, and one for me, decorated in a colorful, quilted pattern. I was enticed by the pocket at the bottom of each page, and the large, pastel-hued butterfly that adorned it. Each month was marked in a different color scheme; one more beautiful than the next. I really enjoyed that calendar.
During a spate of time, since 2004, really, when there didn’t seem to be much to look forward to, my calendars filled a New Year’s void.
The shock of that election changed me. My television went dark, and my radio presets changed. NPR could no longer be trusted. I shut off every media outlet that might remind me of America’s folly. I adopted a mindset of entrenchment. And, if ignorance wasn’t exactly bliss, it was definitely preferable to the panic, and utter embarrassment, which set upon my heart, and mind, at the sound of our president’s bumbling speech, or the sight of his “Aw, shucks” grin.
As 2008 dawned, I had a truly magnificent calendar, and a glimmer of hope, based in the knowledge, that no matter how the upcoming election turned out, one thing was certain; George W. Bush would no longer be President of the United States.
I struggled, for months, with choosing a candidate. There seemed to be so little difference between them. The feminists would have me vote for a woman, for gender reasons, alone. Patriots would have me support a former POW, based upon his years of military service, which ended over thirty years ago. Christian fundamentalists had their man, whose shining moment occurred during an appearance on Saturday Night Live. I was impressed. I would hire him as a straight man, but President of the United States?
And then, there was the tall skinny, big-eared, black guy, with the scary name.
I live in Georgia. I wish I had a dollar for every time, over the last eleven months, I’ve heard the following:
“Well, I just can’t vote for a man named “Obama”. It’s just not right!”
I assume this phrase to be uttered by those who choose their candidate based, solely, on appropriate surname…and their sports teams, by jersey color.
The feminists’ choice floundered, shrilly, when prompted for details. The patriot lost his edge, and the Christian choice threw in the towel, as did many other, less noticeable, candidates.
And, then there was one.
I began to research. I spent hours poring over internet articles. I listened to speeches, I sought highly regarded opinions, and by the time I flipped my calendar over to reveal November’s butterfly, I was content in my choice.
As is my custom, I took my son with me to our polling place. We stood, on a sun-splashed, blustery morning, in a longer than usual line of voters. We conversed with neighbors,rarely seen otherwise, and accepted the offer of a warm beverage from an excited, gray-haired poll worker.
At one point during our wait, my son scanned the affluent, monochromatic, bedroom-community crowd, and stage-whispered, “I don’t think many of these people are voting for Obama.”
I laughed, in surprise, at his insight; reminded, again that he is an old soul.
“You’re probably right!”, I began, before bending closer to him. “But, that’s ok. That’s what makes our country great, the ability to choose. We just have to hope that enough of us make the right choice.”
And, to my thinking, we did.
My television remains, for the most part, dark, but NPR has, once again, become part of my morning commute. The economic legacy, left by Mr. Bush, dampened my Christmas, and continues to spread its pall over the new year. The devastation didn’t come about rapidly, and, recovery will take some time.
My son-in-law was laid off, with a reasonable severance package, two weeks ago. My daughter has made arrangements to support her family by increasing her hours, from weekends, only, to full-time, starting this week. One of my sons has seen his hours cut back, drastically, with the warning that lay-offs could come in January. My next paycheck will reflect a ten-percent salary cut, in an admirable move, made by our administrators, to protect all our jobs.
And, while these events are somewhat disconcerting, they are not devastating. I find myself anticipating 2009 with a sense of hope, based in the fact that, despite our former misguided choices, this time, we, as a people did the right thing; we put aside petty differences, and superstition, and bias, and chose a rather unlikely leader to guide us through, what will surely be, very treacherous times. We dared to hope, we took definitive action, and we showed the world that we can change.
And, the world expelled a long-held sigh of relief…and applauded.
“How do you measure a year? In daylights, sunsets, midnights, cups of coffee…in laughter & strife. Remember the love. Measure your life in seasons of love.”
Jonathan Larson
Are We There Yet? 
