I knew Monday was going to be a historically shitty day. I mean, come on, how often is a convicted felon inaugurated as president of the United States? Note: That will be a future Jeopardy question years from now. Anyway, I knew I had to be proactive in my approach to surviving the coronation of Donald Trump, so I did what any reasonable radical left lunatic would do – I got the hell out of town. Yep, strategery as W would say.
My dear wife and I and two of our besties, Lori and Sue, loaded up the SUV and headed for Augusta, GA. Hold on, I know you’re judging our destination. We wanted somewhere that wasn’t that far of a drive (3:45) and a location that was further south so weather would less likely be an issue. We booked a pretty Airbnb apartment in a renovated house built in 1860 and conveniently located near downtown.
I’m sure Augusta feels different in April when The Masters golf tournament is in town and the azaleas are in bloom and well, there are people everywhere. In the bleak midwinter, Augusta made Winston Salem look like Manhattan. Not a lot was going on over MLK weekend and that was just fine for us. We strolled the Riverwalk along the Savannah River and had two of the best dinners out I’ve had in a long time. And we went to the Morris Museum of Art and heard live music and toured their current collection. And the best part? I didn’t think of Donald Trump once. Mission accomplished.
Actually, that’s not entirely true. My friend Ed lives in Crozet, VA and grew up in Augusta. His wife Chris saw a Facebook post I had made and knew that I was in Ed’s old stomping ground. She texted me the address of Ed’s childhood home and on Saturday afternoon we did a little drive by. I thought it would be cute to take a funny selfie in front of Ed’s house and send it to him. Augusta suffered a lot of damage during Helene and I was afraid the old home place might look really bad. Turns out, it was worse than I could have imagined.
Sunday night, we made pizza and watched football. [Insert lesbian jokes.] And I saw that I had an in-box message from my old pal Kerrie in Greensboro. We aren’t close friends, but I’m always delighted when I run into him. He has a wicked smart political mind and we always seem to get each other. He said that he would be thinking about me on Monday and gave me a humorous pep talk about all the work we have in front of us. He told me that it was going to be a rough few years, but “one day I will wake up to the good news that he is dead, and I’m not and on that day, there will be much rejoicing.” That’s Kerrie and I was so touched that he reached out.
I woke up Monday morning with an undeniable feeling of dread, but before I could go down the rabbit hole of despair, I got a text from my good friend Sue in St. Paul. Sue is 82 and moved to a retirement home in MN a few years ago to be near family. She had a stroke a handful of years ago – not that you’d ever know it – and we have had a daily wellness check-in since then. She texts me when she gets up – which is almost the same time as me, even with the hour time difference. There have been plenty of days, especially during this election year, that I’m pretty sure she was checking in on me. Either way, it’s a lovely way to start one’s day.
Sue told me that she had invited some of her like-minded friends to join her at 10:30 AM to walk 2,029 steps in their high-rise building. Why that number? That represents the year that Trump will (maybe) no longer be president. Folks on walkers and wheelchairs were included and everyone was invited to “walk” as little or much as they wished. They planned to walk the four floors, climbing the stairs or taking the elevator as they got their steps in.
Sue’s Senior March in her retirement home sounds like a great plot for a Netflix movie and my dread disappeared for a few hours. I hope when I’m Sue’s age, I can be a wise owl, too.
I looked at social media a bit on the drive home – no, I wasn’t driving – and saw Melania’s hat and Hillary laughing about the Gulf of America. I couldn’t look at any photos of Kamala because I knew I would cry – well, cry some more. There have been a lot of tears this month.
Our drive home was filled with laughter, 70s music, and M&Ms – girls gotta do what they gotta do. And I saw that I had an in-box condolence message from Walter, my emotional support Canadian that I met on our trip to Spain and Portugal in 2019. Sometimes I think Walter knows more about US politics than I do and I always appreciate his insights and sense of humor – like when he refers to Canada as “not the 51st state.”
Lori and Sue dropped us off in front of our condo and I noticed that my neighbor had finally taken down her Trump yard sign. For a millisecond, I was happy. And then I saw that she had put up a huge Trump flag on the side of her condo – featuring a picture of Trump with some idiotic saying like “We took back our country.” But wait, that’s not all. She also put up one of those garden flags that says God Guns & Trump. Bloody hell! I could feel my face turning red and I was consumed by anger. I can try to not look at Trump for four years, but I can’t not look out my front door.
My wife pulled me inside and I’m fairly certain she was wondering how she could live with me for the next four years. I’m sure she’s open to suggestions. Fostering might be on the table.
That evening we drank wine and avoided the television like it was radioactive. I thought I would stay up and watch the College Football National Championship game, but I just didn’t have the heart or energy for it. So, I dragged myself to bed and was scrolling through my phone and saw that I had an Instagram message from the daughter of one of my best friends from 4th grade. She has two young daughters and lives in VA. She sent a photo of one of her girls watching Kamala be sworn in as vice president four years ago. Her message had no words – just the broken heart emoji.
Even though her message gutted me, it also gave me some embers of hope and comfort. This is how we will get through these next four years – by checking in with each other and lifting each other up when we’re down. Yes, there will be a shit ton of hard work, too, but I hear from a reliable source that hard work is good work.
And when we fight, well, we’re bound to win again one of these days.
Keep fighting, friends. I love us.
Bookends 