Come Wednesday we’ll either have kept the current president
or else we will have chosen a new one.
It’s really that simple.
And the only ones who’ll have the right to feel a funk will
be Mr. Obama and his family or else Mr. Romney and his family.
The rest of us – or about one-half the electorate, anyway –
can express disappointment but it ought not to grow beyond that altitude. And
that feeling ought to live for only a moment, too.
What we will know is that in Cleveland the sun will rise at
7:06 a.m. and set at 5:14 P.M.
Beyond that, what is genuinely important rests elsewhere.
Come Wednesday an elated young couple somewhere will hear the
blessed news that within several months they will become first-time parents.
Maybe even after they’ve been told that for some biological reason they’d never
be able to conceive or sire a child.
That’s what happened with my wife, Bev, and me. And to our
friends, Tommy and Esther as well.
Then again, come Wednesday, a man or a woman will meet with
his or her physician and be given the mind- and soul-numbing news that the
cancer is terminal; inoperable or untreatable.
He – or she – will walk out the doctor’s office, sit in a
car, and let it sink in that this Christmas will be his or her last.
Just like the happy couple, this person has earned the right
to possess and express the sort of emotion that even Mr. Obama or Mr. Romney are
not entitled to own.
As for the rest of us, Wednesday will come like any other
I will take some time shortly before rising and listen for Bev
to hum a refrain from a hymn she has committed to memory.
Then I will roll out of bed, shave and try to put on my
clothes, bushwhacked by my two Labrador retrievers, Berry and Millie. They will
worm their way onto my lap, slowing the dressing process.
I will stroke their
soft, coal-black coats and then send them on their way.
After dressing I will sit in my recliner, prepared (more or
less) to do my devotions.
By then Bev will have finished getting ready for her own job
as the Mentor School’s receptionist.
She’ll plant a kiss, maybe only to the top of my nearly bald
head, and recite – as she always does – “have a wonderful day,” knowing that perhaps
the day’s newsroom pace will almost certainly exclude anything wonderful.
A couple of hours later I’ll repeat my own ritual in kind. I
will call her at the Mentor School’s board office and offer in as best-as-I-can
imitation of a stressed-out teenager “Is there school today?” to which Bev will
respond: “Yes, and you better hurry or you’ll be late.”
Of course the exchange is lame and we each know the others
lines by heart.
It matters not, certainly not in the grand scheme of our
40-plus years together.
As for Election Day, I will have gone through a CAT Scan and
an X-ray or two before conferring with my urologist.
We’ll look at the data, studying to see if the 70 or so
radioactive titanium pellets are doing their job properly in killing off the
two cancerous tumors that were found back in May and residing in my prostate.
I’ll think on these things come Wednesday morning when the
news shows and the political pundits are all in overdrive, engrossed with what
consider of earth-shattering significance.
Tell that to the happy couple. Tell that to the cancer
patient just given his or her death notice.
Tell me come Wednesday, too.
Better yet, ask my five grandchildren on Wednesday if the
selection of the president is more important than hamming it up in front of the
computer camera as we Skype our “hellos,” electronically bridging in a
nanosecond the 250-mile gap between us.
My best guess is that Grace, Hope, Nehemiah, Elijah, and
Humility will have a much different take. And it won’t include the name of
either Mr. Obama or Mr. Romney.
Yes, of course, I reposted my share of pro-Romney Facebook chants and dug sarcastic claws into those who
championed Mr. Obama.
Truth be told, they were supplied only half in seriousness.
Probably less; again, if truth be told.
So to my liberal friends whom I did my best to skewer – David
and Steve, Laura and Donna, Mary Jo and even my own flesh-and-blood nephew,
Michael - sorry if you took me so
But I rather enjoyed playing the part of prankster Puck, who,
in Shakespeare’s “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” said; “Lord, what fools these
mortals be.” (If you want to be specific as to chapter and verse, Puck’s words
are found in Act 3, scene 2.)
No, give me the opportunity to lie in bed and watch my wife
sleep the sleep of a newborn, the chance to chat with my grandchildren, have
one of my oh-so-many physicians generate a medical thumbs-up, or be greeted
with a “good job” electronic message from a boss.
For that matter, a Wednesday sky of honking Canada geese, a
woodlot ground blind from which I can observe a rut-crazed buck, or to hear the
notes of a boss hen wild turkey giving the pre-sunrise instructions to her
troupe would be fine, too.
Fact is, when it comes right down to it who wins on Tuesday
doesn’t even make the list as to what is truly important come Wednesday.
- Jeffrey L. Frischkorn