Loss brings us together again

It happens every time, and I think it’s an encouraging and good sign for our nation. Divided as we are, we come together to face the loss of one of our leaders. George Herbert Walker Bush had many distinguishing credits on his resume—youngest fighter pilot in the armed services, member of the House of Representatives, director of the CIA, ambassador, chair of the Republican Party, vice-president, and finally forty-first president of the United States. With such a varied career, it would probably be hard to find anyone (except maybe Barbara Bush) who supported every decision and move he made.

As a lifelong Democrat, I didn’t vote for him, didn’t like many of his policies—from the war in the Middle East to his treatment of gays. But I recognize, like almost all Americans, that he was a true gentleman, a man of honor and integrity, a man who put loyalty to his country above personal pleasure or profit. A shining example in this day when there is a foul smell coming from the White House. I was as indignant as anybody when the “Me, Too” movement censored him for patting a behind here or there. An old man in a wheelchair—let it be.

Bush was also a dedicated family man—can you imagine a marriage of seventy-seven years? I barely made it to seventeen, and I have a friend who used to say marriage has a shelf life of about fifteen years. Not for George and Barbara. They weathered the loss of a young child, raised a large family, led a huge clan of children, grandchildren, and greats, obviously adoring each other all the time. If anything, Barbara probably had the tarter tongue of the two, but she was also a warm woman, a mother, a dog lover, and probably a consummate politician on her own. We mourned as a nation when she died. We came together.

My favorite deathbed story about Barbara: her husband asked, just days before her death, if she would like a cup of tea, and she replied, “I believe I’d like a martini.”

George’s last moments apparently involved a phone conversation with George W., the 43^rd president. They told each other, “I love you.” Not a lot of grown men are capable of that.

So the national mourning began today with the ceremony accompanying placing the president’s coffin on the catafalque in the U. S. Capitol rotunda. There were the usual words of praise—empty coming from the mouths of Mitch McConnell and Mike Pence, who carry the stench of selfishness and hypocrisy about them. Paul Ryan was marginally better—I think his flaws are that he shares the Republican lack of compassion and he read too much Ayn Rand while young.

I am a pushover for affairs of state. I love the ritual, the measured steps and robot-like actions of men in the armed services (there were no women in the honor guard—oops, an oversight?) and I hung on every minute. The music was beautiful. George W. and Laura looked particularly rough, barely containing their grief, and I wanted to reach out to them.

Donald Trump got one of his wishes—a national distraction. This week, he doesn’t have to tear gas children or announce new tariffs to take our attention away from Mueller. We’re already focused on the pomp and circumstance surrounding Mr. Bush’s funeral, an affair of high state. Collectively, we turn away from the swamp to revel in the memory of a good man.

I hope they bury him in colorful socks.