© 2022, the Institute for Applied Common Sense
Six hours ago, I returned to my temporary home of Carlsbad, California, fresh from a productive day dealing with my 3 week transition. I had become a resident of the Golden State, once again. When I woke up at 4:30 am, Pacific, I was consumed with the notion of cyberterrorism, prompted by Putin's desire to accomplish "something," although elusive it may have been from my personal perspective. (I will not comment on our former President's emotional support). Despite the relative youth of the day, I found myself shelling out cash for VPN software (free being deemed inadequate), and sharing my internet concerns with many a friend, and a thousand or so strangers.
As the day wore on, despite an absence of CNN input,
I became increasingly concerned about the future of humanity. As the day wore
further on, I realized that I had transformed myself into an itinerant
preacher, proselytizing far and wide about how we citizens might collectively seek a better future for all.
I must have struck a chord since, much to my surprise (and perhaps dismay),
roughly 99% of people who I engaged took the time to listen.
Of course, the more prudent side of this
tradition - based Negro suggested I exercise care to avoid being labelled
paranoid, over reactive, out of sync with the prevailing mood, or what was
perhaps, trending. I managed to get home on the last bus, using a new route, at
9:38 pm (having inattentively missed the preceding 3). I soon found myself 1/4
of a mile from the vast Pacific, while waves beat peacefully against the shore.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Although the shore itself was hauntingly quiet, I
heard youngsters partying at the local bars, having a good time, perhaps as
they should have been. As I walked the remaining 3/4 of a mile to my temporary
home, I thought how this time it might be different, and how the giant moats
called oceans, just might not be enough to protect us.
I crossed the street to my old reliable haunt
(which I had not visited during my 14 years back in North Carolina), the local
7 – 11. It was my place of refuge following the Northridge earthquake of 1994, at 4:30:55 am. I remembered how I was thrown out
of my bed onto the floor, stepped on my glasses trying to stand up, and that
lights disappeared all over Southern California. I spent 37 minutes perusing
bottles of red wine (which I had not consumed in the preceding 18 months), cost
be damned. I grabbed some bacon jerky
strips (which I had never previously consumed), before approaching the clerk,
who exhibited a strained smile, wondering whether I was Michael Brown and this
was Ferguson, Missouri.
And this I said, without the least bit of
hesitation, and no introduction or segue following the usual transactional
conversation: "I'm 70 years of age, and will soon turn 71 in a few months,
and this s _ _ _ is serious. THIS is the most unsettling time of my entire
life after having endured a 3 – ½ day Amtrak journey across the country just
three weeks ago, today." I
suggested that we all might consider discontinuing doing business as usual, and
start getting prepared.
He looked at me with a responsive demeanor and
degree of seriousness which suggested that he knew exactly what I was talking
about, and implicitly appreciated that I had not even opened the bottle of
wine. Any smile or even grimace, which he might have possibly entertained,
suddenly disappeared.
As I exited my refuge, which had comforted me
during many an earthquake during my 30 years in Los Angeles, I wondered,
"How many other people are as afraid on a basic, visceral level as I
am?" I'm frigging scared. You can call me a weakling if you want. I prefer
honesty and being a realist.
And then I recalled one of the most comforting
conversations I ever had with my Father, a World War II veteran, D - Day plus
6, and a great man, and not just because he was my Father. Prior to that time,
I could not ever recall him
discussing his experiences in the war. He called me a few hours later during
that morning, and said that everything was going to be alright. He imagined
that the earthquake was similar to when he was in London, when Hitler was
tossing V - 1 rockets (not even close to those of the Francis Scott Key
variety) across the Channel. He said the percussive nature of the bombs made
the buildings shake in a way that he had never envisioned. Although he was
terrified, he said that he got through it, and that I would also.
Here's hoping that my Dad is right this time
around, although he is no longer with us....
