Obama & My Garden: Willed Oblivion
June 4, 2008
I tried to listen to Obama last night. I sat down with my ear to the radio and more than a feint desire to share in the hope. I figured it was time to stop walking by the party that was going on and, instead, step inside and see what all the buzz was about. So, in I walked, thanks to the static hum from National Public Radio.
It had been a long day spent outside, mostly in the garden. The forecast of steady intervals of rain translated to a personal agenda of getting the rest of the plants and seeds in the ground. And so it happened – tomatoes, peppers, brussel sprouts, cukes, summer squash and one obnoxious zucchini plant all found their final resting place in our ever-expanding garden universe.
The garden put hope in my mind. Face it, there’s nothing more hopeful than putting delicate, greenhouse-raised seedlings into the jungle of the outdoors. Well, other than the hope that we’ll be able to battle the weeds and insects in the long journey toward the point of consumption. Indeed, it’s hard to be a pessimist at the outset of gardening season.
My garden mind, however, is in constant combat with my political mind. It’s an ugly battle, with no compromise offered by either side and a kind of endurance that makes the Hillary/Obama clash seem like the child’s play that it is – or was. I bring the two minds together by rather dopily totting around a radio – tuned to news and talk — in my garden. Ah, let the cymbals collide!
And so it goes, my moments swing wildly from the lightness of securing my freshly harvested maple saplings into the tee-pee structures that will host my coveted Kentucky Wonder beans to the heaviness of hearing one pundit or newscasters after another tell me something inane about our political world (“Hillary really wanted to win” or “McCain spoke in front of an ugly green background.”).
But the worlds also collided while simply making a quick trip to the nursery for the missing plant in my gardening arsenal: cherry tomatoes (“Sweet 100s,” to be precise). The man on duty seemed genuinely sorry that the Sweet 100s were out of stock.
“Everyone’s gardening this year,” he told me. “You wouldn’t believe how this economy is driving people to grow their own food this year. We can barely keep seedlings in stock.”
The collision had just begun, as he continued talking about energy prices, his search for firewood and some of the gut-wrenching experiences he had last winter while selling kerosene to heating-assistance recipients in the area.
“We’re right down the road from the office that hands out the $75 checks for emergency heating relief,” he told me. “And it’s hard – real hard – to watch these women come in here and tell me how little heat $75 worth of kerosene will get them and their families. One woman was literally crying when I stopped filling her containers, pointing to her two kids in the car and telling me how they’re already wearing coats to bed. I can’t even imagine what it’s going to be like next winter.”
So much for the Sweet 100s. Hope met reality. Let the cymbals crash – again.
And so I went, with other seedlings and a shot of reality I didn’t really ask for, back to my little garden of hope and willed oblivion. Ah, hello young plant life, I declared at the gates of the garden, let’s turn off the radio for the afternoon and enjoy each other’s company.
Until nightfall. Until the mental note from the morning’s kaleidoscope of news reminded me that it was going to be the night when the race of all presidential primary races would come to an end. It was going to be the night that South Dakota and Montana mattered. Not because anyone was going to try and remember that Pierre and Helena are their capitals, but because they would be marking an end to the Sartre-like primary season that seemingly had no end and – worse – little meaning. Is this what he meant by “Being & Nothingness”?
Click went the radio. To the “on” position, that is, in order to continue to try and push my rock of hope up the steep hill of reality. Everyone else seems to be hopeful about the guy, why can’t I? I’ll take what they’re drinking, please.
And it seemed like a wise decision at first. The announcer set the scene for me. He didn’t need to tell me that the crowd was cheering wildly – that much was apparent through the radio. But it was nice that he informed me that the crowd was filled with placards declaring that Obama was the “change we can believe in.” Cool. I’ll drink (to) that, even though it sounded a lot like what progressive-minded people chanted for Bill Clinton in 1992 (and we know how that turned out – hint: notice we’re still talking about the same issues?).
I listened. No, make that: I listened hopefully. I wanted to go to sleep with the kind of light-headed happiness that I was hearing from the crowd that cheered Obama wildly in that Minnesota night.
For several minutes I felt the hope. I really did. I heard the cheers. I was told about the scene in which Barack and his “purple-dressed” wife, Michelle, took the stage (and how they kissed). I heard Obama’s many messages of thanks. And I felt the lightness of believing in it all.
But then that bastard reality side of me kicked in. And it asked: What are you believing in? Hah! That’s easy, I told my bastard side, I’m believing in hope and the “change we can believe in.”
I was in the political garden of hope and willed oblivion, where doubt and critical thinking are dispensed with like quack grass. I was in the middle of my day’s last collision, where I wanted to believe in the hope and the change but there was no meaning behind the words accompanying the mood. It was euphoria without meaning. It was faith without action. It was hype without substance. And it was hope without reality.
Then I remembered the chuckle I got when I opened the mail earlier in the day. It came from a letter I got from the IRS – you know, the same one we all get when our tax rebates are tantalizingly close to arriving. But under the headline of “What You Need To Do,” the IRS told me this: “You do not need to do anything.” Hey, thanks for writing!
Ah, of course, that’s also the underlying message of Obama’s hope charade: You do not need to do anything. Just hope. And cheer. And wish. It’s the American Way, damn it.
Sorry, but I’ll keep my hope in the garden.
Comments
2 Responses to “Obama & My Garden: Willed Oblivion”
Got something to say?
Posts
[...] nobody@flickr.com (TjF Photography) wrote an interesting post today onHere’s a quick excerptIt had been a long day spent outside, mostly in the garden. The forecast of steady intervals of rain translated to a personal agenda of getting the rest of the plants and seeds in the ground. And so it happened – tomatoes, peppers, … [...]
Well, there’s still HOPE, Michael, that the Dems will put Hil on the ticket and the vegetables will body-snatch Obama and turn him into a “hard working white country singer–THEN you can light your carrot. Watch out for them seed pods. They might turn YOU into a ‘feel-good’ dude.