I feel like it’s December 7 and the enemy warcraft have lifted from their aircraft carriers

The difference is that on this still, wintry day I’m not caught unaware and I suspect the enemy planes are enroute.

Nearly two decades ago a couple people I knew in Minnesota protested against the political establishment, whereby Mondale and Humphrey descendants seemed to have the inside line for high state office, by protesting and voting for Jesse Ventura. Things got a little weirder when he became more popular in the other 49 states than he was at home. I remember postcards with cartoon portraits of all 50 state governors–the one standing out, of course, was the former professional wrestler.

Both people I knew soon regretted their protest gubernatorial votes. My sense is that the locals grew suspicious of Hollywood as preparatory for the demands of the office, at least up there  prit’near Canada.

I wonder if those who voted for Trump out of similar pique will come to have similar regrets.

On a personal note, my great-grandfather died on Pearl Harbor Day. It was the twin shock on that lightning bolt of a day. My mother was a child, watching as her mother and aunts, who grew up on the farm she had visited so frequently, mourned her grandfather’s death.

My mother’s father was solid Democratic Farmer-Labor, DFL, and outspoken in a congenial way. Much of rural Minnesota was DFL. A kid named Bobby Zimmerman grew up on the Iron Range, which was reliably blue for decades. Bob went on to change his name to Dylan, and I think he lives in Malibu now. But the people he left behind seem to feel they … got left behind.

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