SUPER BOWL TUESDAY BLOWOUT

NOVEMBER 5, 2024 – 7:10 a.m. –  Today’s the day, the tipping point in our political history; the day we’ll all look back on as a turning point—one way or the other—in our individual lives and collectively. The stingy November light of daybreak is hampered further by a gray, low-slung sky. Rain pelts the windows on the north side of the house. The gloom outside makes me shudder.

7:30 a.m. – I watch our household’s favorite cable opinion channel—MSNBC. At this point it’s all nervous chatter. To fill the gap, we’re fed a steady stream of what happened in 2020, state by state. After my daily bowl of fruit, nuts, honey and “old-fashioned” oatmeal, I turn away from TV to read some headlines.

8:00 a.m. – I write a reply to an overnight email from our good friend Pavel Šebesta, a heart surgeon in Prague. He says that in Prague they’ve been following the campaign very closely; that they’ll be watching the wall-to-wall TV coverage. He wonders how in the world America could possibly choose Trump for its president. For my reply I summon as much optimism as I can gather under the current weather conditions.

8:30 a.m. – I catch up on the flurry of activity on FB Messenger between my wife and our good friends Joana and João in Lisbon. Joana is a leading journalist at CNN Portugal. She and João are intense students of American politics and know more about what goes on here than most people who live here. They express grave concerns about a potential Trump victory and what it could mean not only for America but for Europe. I do my best to calm their nerves—and my own—by expressing optimism and the reasons therefor.

9:00 to 10:30 a.m. – I distract myself by attending to legal work.

10:45 a.m. – I distract myself further by taking our son Cory to his medical appointment. The weather is extra nasty and widespread over the Upper Midwest, including the battleground states of Wisconsin and Michigan. I wonder what effect it will have on voter turnout. On the way to the appointment, Cory reviews online each and every judicial candidate on our Minnesota state ballot. There are many. I give my two cents’ worth: in contested races, unless you have extensive and reliable inside information, always vote for the incumbent. Most have been appointed by the governor based on thorough vetting by a special commission who can distinguish cranks and incompetents from potential appointees with a proven track record of good character, open-mindedness and legal competence. All too often electoral challengers are single-issue “cranks,” who have no business donning a robe; who wouldn’t know how to dispense justice if it were written across their foreheads, because they lack the self-awareness achieved from looking into a mirror.

11:00 – 11:30 a.m. – While waiting for Cory, I notice the hospital workers scurrying this way and that; providing polite, caring service to patients and family members and treating each other, I notice, with respect and kindness. No one seems worried about the “Super Bowl.” They have more immediate, more important business to attend to. What a beautiful country, I think, as I observe them. I reflect on my own intense medical “expedition” that began nearly three years ago at different health systems (HealthPartners and the U of MN – Fairview; vs. Allina). I summon to the surface my fathomless gratitude for all the wonderful care, and how often I celebrated their miraculous work, especially against all the dysfunctionality in the world.

11:30 – noon – I read more texts from Lisbon and reply to the same, upholding my original optimism. I read an article that Joana appended to one text, about how western Europe supports Harris overwhelmingly; less so in central and eastern Europe.  I notice that in the Czech Republic, Pavel’s beloved land, a recent amalgam of polls revealed a split between Harris and Trump of 51% and 46% respectively.

Noon –  As we start to head through the hospital lobby, I suggest to Cory that we grab some food from the cafeteria. He’d had to fast in preparation for the test he’d just undergone, and he was starving. I treat him to a takeout sushi lunch—the same fare he’d had the day before at the hospital—plus a piece of lemon méringue pie.

“And with regard to the lemon méringue pie,” I say, “don’t say I never do you a favor!”

He grants me a spontaneous smile. We exit the hospital and enter the rain. “I parked on the street,” I say, reassuringly, “just a block away.”

12:15 p.m.: Once we’re inside the car and no longer getting drenched, I ask Cory if he wants me to drive to his polling place so he could vote. “No, that’s okay,” he says. “I’m going to drive over later and pick up [his daughter’s mother] so she can vote too.”

“Good,” I say. Funny how in this era if a person waits until actual Election Day, you worry that they’re slacking off when it comes to their most important civic duty. Until 2020, I don’t think I ever voted much before 7:00 p.m.—with polls closing at 8:00.

1:00 – 1:30 p.m. – While we eat our sushi lunch (and Cory, his lemon meringue pie), we watch more cable opinion on MSNBC. Still just filler, much of it again covers Biden vs. Trump percentages, state by state, back in 2020.

2:00 p.m. – Beth returns from the store, car loaded with provisions for this evening’s celebratory (we hope) gathering of a dozen friends to watch the returns. She lays some festive decorations on the counter for this evening’s party. “Oh good!” I say. “You got a couple of American flags for this evening. I’d wanted to buy some too but didn’t get around to it.”

“Everywhere I went they were sold out,” she says, “but at Cub [our local supermarket] they were handing them out free.”

“Fantastic!”

When Beth joins Cory and me to watch the “filler” coverage, I remark that if Harris loses, no Democrat is likely to say, “If only Joe Biden hadn’t dropped out.” Beth agrees. I continue to receive texts purportedly from Harris, Walz and Obama asking for money. Really? On Election Day? How likely are they to be scams. I delete them all. Cory says he thinks the race will be over tonight. He’s not one to jump to conclusions about such things, but I doubt we’ll know until late Wednesday, at the earliest. Historically, numerous elections took a while before the winner was declared.

2:30 p.m. – The house cleaning crew arrives with their vacuums, buckets and brushes. They mean business—as have all the people of Latina and Latino origin who’ve re-roofed our house, remodeled our kitchen, overhauled our upstairs bathroom, laid brickwork to enhance our driveway. I retreat to closed quarters to conduct legal work while the cleaners prepare the house for our guests.

3:30 p.m. – I resurface and descend to the first floor. The cleaning crew is now whipping the kitchen into shape. I can hear them scrubbing—is it the floor or the countertops? The odor of disinfectant wafts through the house. I think we’ll need to air things out a bit before company arrives. Perhaps, I muse, we could use that disinfectant on the political system that the Duly Defeated has so brazenly infiltrated with his impulsive ignorance, incivility, and contempt for competence. In any event, once he’s off the political stage we’ll need to “air things out.”

4:00 p.m. – The sky holds no promise of opening before the sun goes down—wherever the sun might be. Everything outside looks drenched. As gloomy as this fifth of November presents itself, we desperately need the rain. Recently, I read that all but two of the 50 states are currently in drought. A sign of things to come? This train of thought reminds me of how the biggest issue of our day, our lives, our millennium—anthropogenic climate change—has garnered next to zero attention in the campaign. One thing is certain, though: The Harris Administration will address it; a Trump Administration would ignore it.

4:41 p.m. – The northside windows are still covered with vertical rivulets of rain, and the driveway and ally are slick with water. Soon the day’s marginal light will diminish further, then disappear altogether. My hope of a “dry walk” to Little Switzerland is waning—as my hope for a positive outcome for the Harris/Walz ticket is waxing. I accumulate a quick 10-flights of stairs to boost my day’s total so far to 45. It’s still 30 short of my quota, but without trying very hard, I should be able to manage 10, 20, maybe 30 more. Perhaps each time a state is called for Harris I’ll get two flights in. The math is definitely in favor of my logging—strike that; exceeding—the quota and Harris capturing 270 electoral votes.

5:42 p.m. – For election night inspiration, Kerri, our California cousin-in-law, sends a beautiful poem, Holding Vigil by Alison Luterman. She recalls the night in 2008 we called the night Obama won.

5:56 p.m. – Joana calls from her CNN desk in Lisbon—approaching midnight her time. She wants to know how we were doing. Beth and I bolster our enthusiasm with . . . enthusiasm. Joana says she’ll be at her post all night.

7:15 p.m. – Our first guest arrives—my sister Jenny. Vermont for three has just been called for Harris. Yay! First points on the board. Trump jumps to 27 thanks to bright red states. Good for him. He’d better enjoy his lead. It’s not going to last.

9:27 p.m. – Trump has broken the 200 mark. Iowa has been called for Trump, despite the promising Selzer poll published over the weekend that showed Harris up by 3%.

9:32 p.m. – Joana texts, “Eric, what’s the feeling over there? I have to confess I’m feeling demoralized by the early counts.” I reply, “More subdued than a few hours ago, but we’re reminding ourselves that it’s not over yet, and so far, no surprises.”

10:10 p.m. – Our disheartened guests begin to leave. I remind them that it’s not over yet.

10:50 p.m. –Trump has 235 electoral votes. He’s leading in each of the battleground states, though CNN insists each is “too early to call.” We commiserate with our remaining guests. None of us can believe how victory is slipping away. None of us can understand how millions could vote for a guy so bereft of decency and so lacking in character as this guy so frightfully enamored of himself. We step onto the slippery slope of imagining what will follow a Trump victory in conjunction with a Republican sweep of House and Senate: Ukraine will fold within weeks; a national abortion ban will be imposed; RFK, Jr. will be appointed to blow up public health; Elon Musk will be retained as a self-styled “efficiency expert” and eviscerate federal bureaucracies of all who aren’t loyalists of the Emperor—no corner will be safe from the Musk-ax, compromising the public safety and welfare in ways we can’t fully imagine until it’s too late; the marginalized will be further marginalized; the economy that isn’t broken will be broken, first by tariffs, then by deficits; inflation will soar—as will unemployment, while the bottom falls out of the bond market, then equities. With the fear-mongering having worked to elect Trump, immigration will vanish as a pressing issue. Instead of fixing what isn’t broken, Trump will “fix our wagons” with a deep recession that Republicans will—watch for it—blame on Democrats; the rich will get ever richer, the poor will grow poorer, and the middle class will wonder what happened to their 401(k)s. Putin will party in Pyongyang with his favorite bro, Kim Jong Un, and the newly elected American president (of all people) will be invited to join the merry-making, as South Korea and Japan worry the same way Poland and the Baltic states do.

11:00 p.m. – Our last guests bid us farewell. I say “Keep the faith,” on their way out, but we all know where this is headed.

11:15 p.m. – “I don’t feel as upset as I feel just sad,” says Beth, as we pluck the American flags from the potted plants where they’d been stuck so hopefully a few hours ago. “Sad,” she continues, “for this country, sad for our kids and our grandchildren.”

“Yes,” I say, “that’s how I feel too. Tremendous sadness and disappointment.”

I can’t listen to any more of the coverage. I repair to the sitting room next to Beth’s office and listen to a recording of the Berlin Philharmonic perform my go-to piece of late, Bruckner’s Symphony No. 7. At the crack of dawn tomorrow, I’ll leave for the Red Cabin and Björnholm to install protective fences I’ve made for two dozen hemlocks; then I’ll staple bud-caps on as many young white pine as I can before dark—all against browsing deer in the coming winter. Time in nature will help soften the blow of this election, which I was convinced Harris would win. But I have to be honest: I’m terribly disappointed in the collective judgment of so many of my compatriots, especially when I hear their explanations for having voted for Trump. I’m worried very worried about the future of this country, now that it had decided to hitch its fate to someone with no map, no compass, no plan, no character, no aptitude for strategy, analysis, learning or leading. And marching in lock-step behind him is a man all too ready to sell his soul in exchange for power.

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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson