Special Emissary

When Ronald Reagan announced in November 1994 he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, even some of his most ardent political opponents paused to wish him well.-- Cal Thomas

I am considering petitioning the Obama Administration to place me on a citizen's guest list for the ceremonial lying in state when Jimmy Carter passes away. His impending absence is relevant to individuals like columnist George Will and I, in the startling things we discover about the impending loss of time worn adversaries. When the moment arrives I'd like to pay my respects, a genuine sentiment which astonishes me. In an upper track history course, with yet another teacher who aroused my father as first love sexual promiscuity, the essay election choice question for Ronald Reagan over then President Carter served as a bell weather prediction for the 1980 election. Twenty odd essays going pro-Reagan predicted that November evening landslide, just as a grey Cardigan sweater on television with the grooved face of a peanut farmer sparked the dawn of political consciousness, and created the ex-President's trajectory, of which Carter's was tedious, overly long. Habitat for Humanity, which I've contacted, is absolutely no help, and sends pre-formatted emails suggesting the disabled contact Liberty Resources, for which you may picture my wearied and martyred tableau of emotions, but this flags the notion of persistence and maybe I need to persuade Carter's organization that the intake center needs to be closed.

The rise and fall of a peanut farmer in the evolution of liberalism is dynamic; his programs are, in contrast, monolithic, and at least in the fabric of the social safety net, sterile. I little minded leaving Reagan's passing as a video footnote. His was the celebrity artifice, the uneasy realization that ideology merely moves the needle one way or other, unless revolutions implode, and tyranny has its run until succession softens things up. Jimmy's failure as a leader tailgated a certain youthful idealism that spastics could also be whitewashed into a meteoric rise, actually more like that of a portable ramp incline. I find myself wishing to say goodbye, which would involve convincing the Secret Service that I'm not Miriam Carey, and of course, the man hasn't yet been admitted to hospice, but the inevitable has begun. He's 91 this October.