Congress Remains Broken

The House has gone home for the holidays, but I believe the Senate will do a little business this week before breaking. There will not be resolution of the issue of Ukraine funding, or the issue of Israel funding, or the issue of immigration reform this year. This is deflating.

Look—everyone knows that both chambers have swivel-eyed loons who would gladly grind the machinery of government to a halt in order to have their way. These voices have grown more powerful in the age of the Media Show Pony/Legislator. My venom is particularly reserved for the mouth-breathers on the right, as they have done great violence to a political habit—conservatism—for which I have high regard. Their opposite number on the left are far less concerning for me, as I have ever found them worthy of ignoring.

I’m no Congressional expert, and I surely haven’t a clue how to get bills passed, but I wonder whether the secret to undercutting the trouble-making extremes standing in the way of moving forward on important issues is not simply to…oh, what was the word for it…oh yes, I remember…COMPROMISE.

There is (I imagine) better than a majority in both chambers in support of aid to Ukraine, aid to Israel, and enhanced border protection. Those majorities may differ in magnitude, but they seem there nevertheless. I am decidedly in favor of all three; some are in favor of two of three; some, in favor of one of three. I imagine there are a small number of legislators opposed to all three, but their numbers are unimportant.

We—the voting public who deserve the lion’s share of the blame for the decline of our political institutions—have made it a political liability for our elected representatives to do their jobs—which is to compromise in pursuit of legislation. It occurs to me that the best way to get all three of these goals achieved is to work hard to package them together, such that one piece of legislation gets each into the middle of the channel. I think there are grandees on the Hill trying to do this, and my gut tells me it will just take a little time.

But we—the aforementioned voting public—have GOT to go back to fifth grade civics lessons to realize that compromise—give and take—in legislation is not a “bug”—it is the system. I see this dynamic play out annually in the defense budget, where wags (generally those who would cut defense spending irrespective of its level) will criticize DoD for spending “inefficiently”, as if there were some sort of perfect number available to a philosopher king serving as head of state in some US government possible only under a different Constitution. But we have THIS Constitution, and “waste” and “inefficiency” are the by-products of compromise, the means by which a large and diverse people can effectively govern themselves through consensus.

The problem we have today is that legislators fear legislating, because to legislate means to compromise, and compromise is as anathema to evangelical Christians supportive of a multiple divorcee/serial adulterer/would-be dictator as it is to the kaffiyeh-wearing Ivy League undergraduate woke-a-tariat. Both need to be put in the corner in support of meaningful legislation that advances the defeat of Russia and Hamas, and that strengthens the “table-stakes” of national sovereignty—determining who enters and stays in this country. Congress needs to get back from its break and get to work.

At Full Strength

We are four, here at the farm, full strength. Both girls returned this week from their semi-independent lives, and we are the better for it. Life gains richness, there are additional voices in the background (for me—hard of hearing—everything is kind of in the background), and it REALLY seems like Christmas.

There are complications though, especially to a Kitchen Hoplite such as myself. Meal-planning is more collaborative than one (ok, well…me) might wish, and food storage is pushed to its limits. I struck a blow for logic the other day by inventorying all fruits and vegetables in the house (kitchen, kitchen refer, garage refer) and posting the inventory on the kitchen refer, only to see it ignored by the “on the way home from the airport” trip to the market. Dirty dishes are generated at an alarming rate, and I was forced to start the dishwasher this morning (out of cycle). While seemingly not a big deal (nothing seems a big deal when you are not a Kitchen Hoplite), the virtual certainty with which the dishwasher door will be opened and the cleaning cycle destroyed is anxiety-inducing.

I have been advised that we’ll be making a farm-stomp today, one of the great traditions of this kind family that took me in 16.5 years ago. We live on a little peninsula in the Miles River, much of it field under cultivation, along with a good bit of thick woods. Time, manpower, and deer-power have created paths for wandering, and wander we do, especially at this time of year when devilish tics are less prevalent. Three days of rain will make for quite a muck today, and I hope that the dogs are not included, as they will become mobile mud figures in need of hosing down. Not to mention that one of the two doesn’t move all that well anymore.

The capstone event of the day will be decorating the tree in the living room, another event that these three ladies have been kind enough to invite me into. The Lady of the Manor supervises the girls and me, ensuring that our ornaments and placement choices follow the plan of which only she is aware. There will be music, and the annual attempt to include the two Labradors in some way that their (incredible at their age) restless energy will frustrate.

We will gather at the tree again on Christmas Eve for what is maybe my favorite family practice of all—the reading of a series of Christmas stories—a practice begun before my arrival on the scene. For several years, there was a spirited contest among me and the girls to see whose interpretive dance of “A Visit from St. Nicholas” was most crowd-pleasing, although this spectacle has of late, fallen into disfavor. One of the great benefits of the girls aging has been that Christmas Eve ends earlier than it used to. Let’s face it, nothing worthwhile happens after 9PM, but in the olden days, the story reading happened AFTER church, and then was followed by getting the girlies off to bed before transporting Ali-Baba like bags of Christmas loot from the garage attic where they were prepared (Santa’s Workshop) to be distributed around the tree. I was lucky to collapse by 1AM, which is Guantanamo-level enhanced interrogation.

Christmas 2018

Catherine—the straw that stirs our drink around here—is an amazing, virtuoso Mrs. Christmas. Her level of activity from the day after Thanksgiving through boxing Christmas up in mid January is off the charts. One of her practices is so incredibly labor-intensive that it marks her for special favor in the hereafter. You see, we do not “wrap” presents around here. No—we put presents into beautifully-wrapped boxes that are re-used year after year, and which when stumbling into the living room on Christmas morning—provide the most amazing picture of what it must have been like to celebrate Christmas in Victorian England.