In the Direction of the Spin

There still doesn’t seem to be a sense of urgency, over here, with the war over there, in Iraq.
I suppose that’s just human nature, but it’s not justice.
Justice delayed, is justice denied.
Here, safe in our homes, we feel we have the time, if we wish, to look up that last quote.
We can take that last bite of egg, get up from the kitchen table, and wander off to the study – where we keep the book of quotations.
The change in routine arouses the suspicion of our spouse, but nothing more.
It is not a risky maneuver.
There are no snipers in the house.
Something the matter, she asks?
No, no, we reply, somewhat disingenuously, just wanted to look something up.
If only we could proceed at that pace, and accomplish something positive.
If only, as the car loses traction on the black ice, turns sideways, and hurtles toward the concrete abutment, we could open up the glove box, remove the informative booklet that the original manufacturer placed there – like the Gideon Bible in a hotel room, and leisurely thumb through its pages until we reach the section on how to handle a loss of traction on ice.
“Turn the wheel in the direction of the spin”.
Perhaps the State Police find the glove box open, the booklet open to the right page, lying on the roof of the overturned vehicle.
Perhaps two troopers make a macabre joke about ‘speed reading’.
Catholic philosopher’s believe that, even in a fatal car crash, the occupants are given one last chance to make their peace with God.
In the fraction of a second between the point at which the concrete pillar smashes through the metal door - and our life ends, Elizabeth Kubler-Ross taught that we can choose between good and evil.
Back at the breakfast table though, that decision is not as easy or, rather, not as urgent.
Death is either an abstract concept or a funny pages cartoon character, hooded, carrying an oversized scythe.
On the back of the newspaper there could be a full page advertisement, of sorts: a very large, bold headline, saying “Choose”, and beneath it, side by side, two boxes.
Underneath the first box, on the left, the word “Good”.
Under the second box, on the right, the word, “Evil”.
But there’s no rush.
We look around and, when there is no pencil or pen within reach, we simply turn the page, to the Sports section.
Through with the scores, we turn to the front page.
“President Ford died?” we exclaim, a bit too loudly.
Somehow we missed it.
The ceremony was held during the Meineke Car Care Bowl.
It was a busy week.
We had the family over on Christmas Eve.
We had our older son down from college, for a few days.
He’s a senior.
It’s hard to believe that four years have gone by already. In May he will graduate. The time has flown by or, rather, it has slipped away.
Disappeared.
I suppose, when you think you are doing the right thing, it is alright to let the time slip away: okay, to muse on the meaning of things.
But what if his dorm were on fire?
What if the people in Waterville were busy loading up their used cars with explosives?
You visit the campus during Parents Weekend and are amused at the students sleepwalking through the day: wearing their slippers to breakfast, hardly appearing to wake at all as they go to classes, to concerts, plays, hockey games.
What if the people of Waterville, wearing masks and dressed up as police, kidnapped entire classes of students, and took them off to the woods and beheaded them?
Would that catch our attention, create a sense of urgency?
You have to wonder.
The ‘shock and awe’ is over, and what remains is the clean-up.
We are not very good at the clean-up.
The President took his time too, cutting brush at the ranch, consulting with his advisors, reading his paper.
On TV the cameras caught him greeting the Iraqi Prime Minister. From a distance you could see his lips moving and you may have been able to make out the words: “turn the wheel in the direction of the spin”.
There was no time to waste before the war began, and now – well, now he’s got all the time in the world.
It’s sad.
I am reminded of the scenes from the film Woodstock, as the last revelers dragged themselves away, draped in mud-stained blankets, over a wasteland of trash, to the elegiac accompaniment of Jimi Hendrix’ Star Spangled Banner.
We start off so full of enthusiasm, but then we just seem to lose interest.
I think President Bush is counting on that.