If Wishes Were Fishes

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"If wishes were fishes, we'd all cast nets."

Frank Herbert (1920–1986)

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I've been thinking lately of decisions I wish I could be allowed to make again — because I know I would make different choices.

It's that old "if I knew then what I know now" thing. I remember hearing that when I was a teenager and giggling at it the way teenagers do, in their way of making you aware that they are merely humoring you — but, in fact, they don't appreciate the irony and probably can't until they've put on more mileage. I realize now, as I reflect on it, that I knew a lot less then than I thought I did. (I like to think I know more now.)

Another way of putting it was "You can't go home again" — and that is something else at which most teenagers would probably smirk because they know it is rubbish. They think that because most teenagers have experienced time, but few have experienced space, and it is only after experiencing both that you can grasp that concept.

It is only after you have experienced an extended distance from the only home you may have had that you can appreciate the truth of that cliche. In one's absence, the memory of home becomes romanticized. You forget the bad things — and there were bad things because there are always bad things — and you idealize the good.

I think that often plays a role in the difficulties that some soldiers experience when they come home from a war. It isn't the only factor, of course, but I do believe it is one of them. Expectations are raised to a level that is simply unrealistic.

Still, I suppose most people have the inclination to look back wistfully on their youths. I know I do.

If I knew then what I know now, I'd treasure the time I had with friends who are no longer with us even more than I did. There were some friends whose deaths were anticipated, so I had time to reflect on how much they meant to me before they died. Others died unexpectedly; those are the ones who haunt me. I miss both sets of friends equally, but there is a sense of unfinished business with one group.

I feel that with my mother. She died in a flash flood 19 years ago this month — on Cinco de Mayo, as a matter of fact. Since the anniversary is always so close to Mother's Day, that holiday is always a reminder.

As if I needed one.

I've lived with many regrets. I regret the times I didn't tell her I loved her. I made a fatal mistake — I took her for granted.

Well, I made that mistake repeatedly when I was a teenager, not so much later. We had a good relationship, and I'm sure she knew I loved her — mothers usually do. I did tell her that often, as a matter of fact — but not the last time I saw her.

Next year, Mother's Day will fall on the 20th anniversary of her funeral. That's a date I will always remember as well. I lived in another state in those days and couldn't be in Dallas until the evening of the 9th. Arrangements were made for the funeral to be on the 10th.

For the first few days after the flood, it was easy to fool myself into believing that things weren't really as I had been told. Oh, I knew that wasn't the case, but outwardly my life had not changed. Everything was exactly the same ...

Until I arrived in Dallas. I got here late on the night of the 9th. My father had already gone to bed, so no one greeted me. I went into the dining room, fully expecting to see Mom come through the door at any minute. Instead I saw all the tell–tale signs of a death — flowers and cards on the dining table, flowing into the living room, and lots of covered dishes in the refrigerator.

I remember getting something to drink and just sitting in the dining room, looking around at a room that was so familiar and yet seemed so alien to me. I wish I could have a do–over for those moments. I would do a better job of preparing myself for what was to come in just a few hours.

The next day, at the funeral, everything hit me at once. I felt like Indiana Jones getting crushed by the big ball.

Yes, sir, if I had to go through that experience again (and I might have to; my father is still living), there are a lot of things I would wish for. I would wish to be better prepared this time. I guess the end result is no better, but it beats being blindsided.

Most of all, I guess, I would wish to not have to go through it again.

But that isn't how life works, is it?

Farewell, Eleanor

I was looking at the obituary section of my hometown newspaper's website, and I saw that an old friend of the family passed away this week.

Her name was Eleanor Opitz, and she was one of my mother's closest friends. They were community activists together in the central Arkansas town where I grew up. They frequently supported the same political candidates and volunteered in the local campaign headquarters, giving out pamphlets and bumper stickers and buttons and answering phones.

Even though I was quite young, I put in some time with them at the campaign headquarters. I learned a lot from both, and it was from Eleanor that I learned much about people and politics.

I have always thought Mom was the most knowledgeable person I ever knew, but Eleanor was a close second. And I'll tell you something that is funny.

My mother died more than 17 years ago (that isn't the funny part). But ever since I saw Eleanor's obituary, I've had the same thought bouncing around in my head. I have to tell Mom that Eleanor has died. She would want to know.

And then I remember that, of course, I can't tell Mom.

I haven't had that feeling since the Christmas after Mom died, when I went through the stores and saw all kinds of things that I would have given Mom if she had still been around. And I had to remind myself that, of course, she wasn't around anymore.

There aren't many people in this world — outside of my father and brother — I associate that closely with my mother.

Once, I recall chatting with Eleanor on a primary day.

In those days, you practically had to have sworn affidavits in your possession affirming that you really would be out of town on Election Day in order to cast what was known then as an absentee ballot. Otherwise, you had to vote on Election Day. No exceptions.

Today, early voting periods are commonplace, and no one has to jump through hoops to vote early.

Anyway, Arkansas held its primary in June in those days so I was out of school and I had gone early that day to the headquarters for whichever candidate it was that Mom and Eleanor and I were supporting.

Eleanor wasn't in the office when I got there around 9 a.m. She showed up a few minutes later and explained that she had been voting. I didn't think much about that, and I didn't ask her why she had gone to the polling place in the morning, but she told me, anyway.

"I always vote early in the day," Eleanor told me. "That way, if I get hit by a bus or something in the afternoon, I know my vote will be counted!"

The more I think of it, she may have told me that on the day in 1974 that Bill Fulbright lost the primary for his Senate seat to Gov. Dale Bumpers. Mom and Eleanor and I were supporters of Fulbright, and the outcome wouldn't have been affected if Eleanor had been prevented from voting. My memory is that Bumpers won by a 2–to–1 margin.

But Eleanor impressed on me the importance of showing up. On one of my favorite TV shows, The West Wing, the point was often made that "decisions are made by those who show up." Eleanor was a believer. She made me a believer, too. It's probably why I always vote in the early voting period.

The other memory of Eleanor that stands out probably was from around the same time.

Mom and I were visiting Eleanor one day, taking advantage of her swimming pool on a hot summer day. I brought along a book I had just started reading — a paperback copy of the edited White House transcripts that Richard Nixon hoped would satisfy congressional investigators who had been trying to gain access to the tapes of Oval Office meetings and telephone conversations.

And I read it between dips in the pool.

When Nixon released the transcripts, they only succeeded in re–igniting a debate over executive privilege, supplemented by discussions about the content of the transcripts. A lot of people criticized the frequent "expletive deleted" labels that were inserted to hide Nixon's private swearing from public view, but many others read them more critically — including Eleanor.

Eleanor compared the transcripts to what had been said in congressional hearings and took a pretty even–handed approach to it all. Mind you, she loathed Nixon, but she was nothing if not fair. She wouldn't kick a man when he was down unless she had been given ample reason.

"There are times," she told me, "when I read the transcripts and I am inclined to say, 'Hang him!' But then I will read something else and I will think that, just maybe, his story is plausible."

If you are old enough to remember Nixon, you may agree that that is about the fairest thing anyone could say about him.

(I learned something ironic from Eleanor's obituary. Her birthday was August 10 — which was the day after Nixon resigned.)

I don't know what caused Eleanor's death. Her obituary didn't mention a cause, but my guess is that she had some sort of illness — and that, at some point recently, she knew that she was going to die.

I say that because the obituary explicitly stated that Eleanor asked that anyone who would be attending her graveside service wear casual clothing. She wanted everyone to "be comfortable," the obituary said.

That really was typical of Eleanor. It's supposed to be 104° in my hometown Saturday. The graveside service will be in the morning, but it is sure to be in the 90s by then.

Yet, even with her own mortality staring her in the face, Eleanor's thoughts were of those who would be left behind.

Eleanor was a remarkable woman, an inspiration to me when I was young and I'm sure she was every bit as inspirational to others in her last years.

Rest in peace, Eleanor.

The Human Factor in the Equation

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Randy, Tammy and me in better times.

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These days, discussions about the economy and unemployment and all those issues seem to be handled in the abstract.

That may be the toughest part of it for the people who are affected by the bad economy. And, unfortunately, I am one of those people. I've been out of work for nearly 11 months.

Sometimes it seems like our political leaders — in both political parties — treat it as a big numbers game. And I understand that the bottom line is the main consideration for everyone. The human factor often seems to be ignored.

I guess that is the most frustrating part of being out of work. Of course, I can't speak for the millions of Americans who are out of work or who are working part–time jobs or who have just plain given up looking because they can't find anything. I can only speak for myself.

But I can say, from personal experience, that dealing with this must be more difficult for those who live alone. I hope most of the people who are unemployed have someone who can give them a boost, a pep talk, when they need it.

I know there are frequently times when I need that. But I live alone. And, for much of the last 11 months, I have had to deal with it on my own. So I think I know the special kinds of challenges that some people have to face.

When Barack Obama tells us to be patient, I try to be patient. I want to be patient. But sometimes that's easier said than done.

Especially when economists say it's going to be a "jobless recovery" and that the employment picture isn't going to get better until sometime next year — if then.

And then there are those who have been saying that the government should just get out of the way and let market forces do their thing. Seems to me, when I was in school, I read about similar advice being offered during Herbert Hoover's presidency. He followed that advice. It doesn't seem to have worked.

I know, there were different forces at work. And that was a different time, of course. My parents were mere children then. It was my grandparents who had to struggle to come up with the rent money and the money for food and clothes and all the other things that kept body and soul together.

Somehow, they did. I really wonder, sometimes, how they managed. What was their secret? What did they know that I don't? I wish I could ask them. But they've been gone for many years.

As scary as things are today, they seem like they were a lot scarier then. At one point, one–fourth of all adult Americans were unemployed. That makes the 9.5% unemployment rate that we have today seem tame by comparison.

But there were fewer people in America then. It is estimated that there are about 306 million people in this country in 2009. That is about 2½ times as many people as were living here in 1930.

So maybe a 9.5% unemployment rate in 2009 works out to the same raw number of people as 25% represented in 1932.

But that doesn't take into account the fact that perhaps that many additional Americans are not counted because they have part–time jobs or they're working at low–paying jobs for which they are overqualified or they have just given up altogether.

When that number is factored in, I have to think there are more people suffering today than there were more than 75 years ago.

I don't know. What I do know is that this draws us back into the numbers game. And that, as I said before, ignores the human element.

A few hours ago, my best friend since my high school days, Randy, called me up and we talked for nearly an hour. He lives in the St. Louis area, quite a distance from Dallas. It's been a long time since we've seen each other.

But just hearing his voice helped. Things have been difficult for me this month, more difficult than they have been. And I was incredibly grateful to hear his voice, to hear his encouragement.

I've learned that you don't make many true friends in your life. But Randy is probably the truest friend I've ever had. I've known his ex–wife, Tammy, a shorter time, but the two of them made me the godfather to their daughter, Nicole. That was a proud moment for me.

And I had some anxious moments back in the spring. Randy had a heart attack, then he underwent bypass surgery. I think it is safe to say I was not completely focused on looking for a job in those days. Randy is my link to better times.

Today, there were moments when Randy and I were talking and, in my mind, I was transported back to better times in my life — and I couldn't help wondering if all those "better times" are behind me now.

Tammy tells me that isn't so. And I want to believe that. I really do. But it's hard, sometimes. Damn hard.

Do you suppose that, maybe, that was my grandparents' secret for surviving the Great Depression — the love and encouragement of friends and family?

Waiting, Waiting, Waiting

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His hair may be grayer now, he may weigh more
or less. I don't know. I haven't seen him in nearly
20 years. But this is how I always think of Randy.

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It is nearly noon. My friend Randy, with whom I worked in the summers of our high school years and who has been my best friend since we were 16, should be about halfway through his triple bypass surgery.

When Randy comes out of surgery — at approximately 2 p.m. (Central) — his ex–wife has promised to call me.

In the meantime, I've been thinking of old times. I've been thinking of the days when Randy and I worked together in the summers. We were on a summer maintenance crew at a small college. Mostly we painted dormitory rooms. Once, we were dispatched to a tennis court, given sledgehammers and told to break up the surface so a new one could be put in its place.

On one memorable occasion, a truck loaded with fresh manure was brought on campus and the maintenance workers had to get in the truck and shovel the load into the flower beds.

Randy and I did some traveling together when we were teenagers. When we were in high school, we drove to St. Louis and spent a week with his oldest brother. In 1981, when he was a young newlywed with a young son and was living in northeastern Arkansas, I was a college student in northwestern Arkansas, but I traveled across the state to visit him in the summer. Several years later, after his first marriage had ended, he moved to St. Louis and remarried. I drove up to visit him, to meet his new wife and to go to some baseball games at Busch Stadium.

On those trips in the late 1980s and early 1990s, I remember listening to a cassette I had of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers in concert. One of the songs on the tape was called "The Waiting." I guess you'd have to be at least 35 to vaguely remember when it came out, and you'd have to be at least 40 to remember those days well, but younger folks have probably heard the song occasionally on the radio.

And when I hear it, it always reminds me of my trips to St. Louis.

The refrain of that song has never seemed truer to me than it does today. The waiting truly is the hardest part.

Anticipation

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"We can never know about the days to come
But we think about them, anyway
And I wonder if I'm really with you now
Or just chasing after some finer day.

"Anticipation, Anticipation
Is making me late
Is keeping me waiting."

Carly Simon

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I guess I'm dating myself by referring to this song. It was written in 1971.

But it's been on my mind today. Tomorrow, my friend Randy has triple bypass surgery, and I wish I could be there, but I'm in Dallas, and he's in St. Louis. Well, actually, he lives in a small town outside St. Louis, but I think the surgery will be taking place at a hospital in St. Louis.

So I'll be waiting to hear from his ex–wife Tammy, who has promised me that she will call as soon as he comes out of surgery.

Randy posted a message for all the folks in his life on Facebook earlier today. I guess it was a way of touching base with everyone at once. He observed that heart surgery is commonplace these days — we spoke on the phone several days ago and he told me that, because of his age, his doctors think the chance that the surgery could go badly is only about 5% — but he acknowledged the fact that there's always a risk involved with major surgery.

"Just in case I happen to be one of the unlucky few," he wrote, "I want you to know how much having you in my life has meant to me. I love you all dearly and always will."

I guess it's important to be prepared for whatever may come. But Tammy was having none of it.

In her reply on Facebook, Tammy wrote, "When you come out of the hospital and are back on your feet, I personally am gonna kick your ass for even talking this way. You will be fine. We are not doing any negative talking, do you hear me?"

Randy's son and namesake was more introspective. "I'm not looking forward to tomorrow," he wrote. "Not even close."

I know how he feels. And, ironically, today is the day he graduates from high school.

It's a time of obvious extremes and conflicting emotions for his family. They're understandably happy for and proud of Randall. But they're concerned for his father, even if, like Tammy, they want to keep those thoughts hidden.

I don't know what Randy's daughter — my goddaughter — has been thinking on this day.

But, as I was driving to church today, I heard on the radio that today is the 160th anniversary of a devastating fire that destroyed a considerable part of St. Louis. Not exactly the sort of anniversary I wanted to hear about today.

St. Louis was a busy place at that time. The discovery of gold in California had launched the famed California Gold Rush in 1848, and St. Louis was the last major city where westbound travelers could get supplies.

The St. Louis Fire of 1849 apparently began on a steamboat. The fire burned through the boat's moorings, and the blazing boat drifted down the Mississippi, spreading the fire to other steamboats, flatboats and barges. Flames spread from the vessels to buildings along the shoreline.

The fire raged for more than 11 hours. It was the first time in U.S. history that a firefighter died in the line of duty.

Things were complicated by the fact that St. Louis was experiencing a cholera epidemic at the time. About one–tenth of the city's residents died of cholera that year.

The fire's impact was mostly felt in terms of property loss. Only three lives were lost, but more than 400 buildings were destroyed, along with nearly two dozen steamboats and several flatboats and barges.

Something good did come from the fire. The city enacted a new building code that required new structures to be built from stone or brick, and the city began construction of a new water and sewage system.

One hundred and sixty years later, I was unable to find any mention of the fire on the website for the St. Louis Post–Dispatch. The "hot" news in St. Louis today seems to be the "speed traps" across the state.

I don't know why a fire that occurred more than a century and a half ago was mentioned on a radio station in Dallas, Texas, but apparently received no attention from the newspaper in the city where it happened.

But I'm going to try to follow Tammy's example and think positive thoughts tonight and tomorrow.

And I'm going to hope that, like the St. Louis Fire of 1849, something good will come from this.

A Simple Twist of Fate

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Randy (right) and me standing in front of
a beer garden in St. Louis in 1987.

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Lately, it seems, this blog has been more devoted to personal matters than I would prefer, but I guess it's part of my nature to write about things when they happen. And I am reminded these days of how much is beyond my control.

This is my default position, I suppose.

Anyway, I received word that my best friend since high school, Randy, is in the hospital. He had a heart attack.

His ex–wife tells me his condition is stable, and the doctors haven't decided on his treatment yet.

It is a time of great awareness for me, I guess. The economy has already made me aware — along with millions of others — of my vulnerability. So many of life's events, most of which seemed, for so long, to be the domain of people in my parents' generation, have become part of my life and the lives of the people with whom I grew up.

People in my age group have been married, had kids, been divorced, lost parents. Some have lost siblings. Some have lost children.

And now, although I tend to associate heart attacks with people who are much older than Randy and I, my best friend has had one. Proof, perhaps, that anything can happen to anyone at any time, and preconceived notions mean little — if anything.

My thoughts keep returning to the days when Randy and I were in high school, working on a college campus maintenance crew in the summers. We've had many laughs together over the years, reminiscing about some of the things we had to do when we were 16 and 17. There were many things that we did for $2/hour in those days that we wouldn't dream of doing today, we assured each other — and, if we were coerced into doing those things now, we certainly would not do them for $2/hour!

In those days, our work shifts began at 7 a.m. I had access to a car, so I picked Randy up around 6:50, and we would drive to work. After work, Randy and I would go to his house or to mine. We would listen to the popular music of the day, and we would talk about the kinds of things that teenagers talk about — girls and cars, mostly.

Randy used to accompany me on my weekly visits to an elderly friend of mine, Aunt Bess, of whom I wrote last fall on the 20th anniversary of her death. She always got a kick out of us — two young men about to embark on an uncertain journey into adulthood.

In hindsight, I guess we were like most kids. We didn't think much about the future. We were focused on the here and now. That, I guess, is the great thing about being a teenager. It's all in front of you. You can still be anything.

But, when you get older, you become things — spouse, parent, employee. Choices are fewer. Responsibilities are greater. So are the pressures.

I hope this heart attack will not be debilitating, that it can serve as a second chance for Randy. I hope it inspires him to make wise choices. A couple of decades ago, Randy and his wife made me the godfather to their daughter. She now has a child of her own. I hope he will live to dance at his grandson's wedding — and, if his grandson follows the family tradition, Randy will still be in his 60s when that day comes.

Perhaps adjustments in Randy's lifestyle will make the difference. I don't know. But I hope so.

I still feel too young to lose my best friend.

Life — or Something Like It

This has been a very unusual week for me.

If you read my blog on a somewhat regular basis, you’ve probably read my entries about my 30th anniversary high school reunion, which was held in my hometown in central Arkansas last weekend. You also know I wasn’t able to attend the reunion.

But I feel as if I have attended — in a way. One of my classmates e-mailed a class web address to me, and another classmate e-mailed the contact list that was compiled at the reunion itself.

From the information I’ve picked up from those two sources, I’ve been able to send e-mails to several of my classmates, and I’ve heard back from some of them already.

I’m getting caught up on the news from some long lost friends — how many children they have, which ones are grandparents now, etc. It would have been great to see them (maybe someone will post some pictures!), but communicating with them really is the next best thing to being there, I guess.

Some of them have done me the honor of visiting this blog and reading what I’ve been writing lately. I guess they remember things I wrote for the high school newspaper — when I was young and wordy!

Well, I've got a news flash — I'm not young anymore! (But I can still be wordy at times.)

Anyway, I hope they enjoy what they read here. And I look forward to their input.

I haven’t seen many of my classmates since the fifth anniversary reunion in 1983. Obviously, a lot has happened in 25 years. For me, it’s almost as if it’s all happening now.

It’s kind of a strange sensation.

For example, I heard from one of my classmates who married another one of my classmates. They became parents for the first time 25 years ago. Offhand, I don’t remember if their baby had already been born or if they were still expecting him when I saw them in 1983 — but, in the years that have passed, they added three daughters to their family tree. Four children in all.

I just found out about all that this week — to me, it seems like their little family exploded overnight. But, like everything else, it was a product of time. I just wasn’t there to see it all happen.

Three of their children are in their 20s now — old enough to have graduated from the same high school their parents and I attended three decades ago — and my friends have one grandson.

I e-mailed a picture of my goddaughter to another old friend, and my friend e-mailed a photo of her three daughters to me. I remarked that one of her daughters bears a striking resemblance to her when she was a teenager.

Life’s rich pageant has been coming to me through my e-mail’s inbox this week.

I also learned this week that the mother of two of my classmates (who were my closest playmates in elementary school) passed away last year.

I don’t know much more than that. I don’t know if she had been ill prior to her death or if it was one of those things that happened suddenly. Judging from what I assume was her age when her sons and I were children, I guess she was in her late 70s.

But, in my mind’s eye, she’ll always be who she was when I was 7 or 8 years old and I had dinner at their house or spent the night. For however long I was in the house, she was my surrogate mother.

She was always very nice to me — she treated me like one of the family, and she expected me to follow the rules. I expected no less.

And, until this week, she was still alive in my mind’s eye — even though, in reality, she’s been gone for more than a year.

In a more immediate sense, I learned that an old friend of the family died this afternoon.

I don’t know what his cause of death was, but he was in his 80s and he had polio when he was a child so I suppose, under those circumstances, even something that might be handled routinely by a younger, healthy person could be too much for an older, compromised immune system.

But I’ve known this man all my life. In fact, there wasn’t a time when I didn’t know him. He and his wife were friends of my mother, originally, and they were there for our family in our darkest days. I’ll always be grateful for that, but I didn’t see much of him in the last year of his life. I think the last time I saw him was at Christmas.

But I will be attending his funeral on Monday.

Life marches on.

Rice For Running Mate Is Not A Good Idea

Today is the birthday of one of my oldest friends.

We've known each other since we were kids. We graduated from high school together. For a time, we were college students together. We lost touch for awhile, but we re-connected last year.

I'm really glad we did, because he's a good friend. Everyone should be fortunate enough to make a few friendships that last a lifetime, and I can honestly say that, if I haven't succeeded at everything I've tried to do, that is one thing I've been lucky enough to do.

Unfortunately, my friend and I grew apart in some of our political views. There was a time when we saw eye to eye on just about everything. There are some things on which we still agree, and in some ways we've evolved in the same direction.

But I'm going to take the occasion of my friend's birthday to say (briefly) why I disagree with him on the subject of John McCain's running mate.

Like many columnists I've been reading lately, my friend believes that McCain should pick Condoleezza Rice as his running mate. Mary Ann Akers reports, in the Washington Post, that none other than Grover Norquist, president of Americans for Tax Reform, thinks Rice "'would be a great president.' "And, yes, a 'great vice president.'"

But I believe it would be a bad choice.

I think it would be a mistake for McCain to select anyone who is connected to the Bush administration, whether it's Rice or Colin Powell or anyone else. Bush's approval ratings have been hovering around 30% for a couple of years, and, unless Bush can deliver Osama bin Laden in chains to an international tribunal (or produce the weapons of mass destruction that no one has been able to find after 5 years of occupying Iraq), I see no reason to expect those numbers to go up between now and November.

McCain's strength in the primaries was his distance from the incumbent administration. It's an image he actively promoted since Bush beat him for the 2000 nomination and went on to win the disputed general election. It has paid off with the apparent GOP nomination in 2008, but McCain could undo all that he's accomplished by putting someone from Bush's team on the ticket.

In state after state, exit polls showed that the Republicans who didn't approve of Bush gave their support to McCain more frequently than to any other candidate. With Bush's disapproval ratings so high, McCain doesn't need someone on the ticket who detracts from his appeal to any voter -- Democrat, Republican or independent -- who disapproves of the incumbent.

Also, I don't see much of a plus in those areas where McCain needs a boost. It's true, Rice adds a more youthful touch to McCain's elderly countenance. And she might attract some female votes and some black votes if the Hillary Clinton-Barack Obama battle isn't resolved amicably.

But, on issues, Rice only seems to reinforce McCain's support for the Iraq War.

McCain needs help on the domestic front. He admits to his weakness on economic issues, and that's at a time when the economy is bordering on recession, if it hasn't toppled over into that territory already. The running mate needs to be someone with experience in economics.

But, as far as I can see, Rice brings nothing on domestic issues to McCain's ticket. Even her foreign policy credentials could work against her. "Condi is too busy floating trial balloons about being John McCain’s running mate to bother about the fact that she was instrumental in two historic blunders: 9/11 and Iraq," says Maureen Dowd in today's New York Times.

And Dowd further points out, in her column about Tuesday's Senate hearings on Iraq, that "we’re spending $3 trillion as our own economy goes off a cliff so that Iran can have a dysfunctional little friend."

The times simply aren't favorable for supporters of Bush's foreign policy.

Rice might very well have a future on a Republican ticket. But I think she needs the benefit of some time and distance. Give history a chance to render its verdict on her tenure at the State Department.

The final verdict won't be delivered for a few decades. But the initial assessment wouldn't hold up well in a political campaign.

The Iraq experience is too fresh in the memory and it hasn't been satisfactorily resolved.