Almost Home

I live less than a mile from where John McCain delivered his concilliatory concession speech. The media trucks, about forty of them, with their satellite tendrils pointed toward heaven, have been there for days, in the backlot of the elegant Arizona Biltmore resort. Last night, after it was dark, my wife, our dog and I walked along the Arizona Canal to gawk at history. It's been forty four years since Goldwater ostensibly conceded a few miles due right, at the Camelback Inn, and not every day a Presidential race, and possibly a political generation, die in your backyard.

We left the house as Pennsylvania was called Democratic and the national map was still up for grabs. A great bluish beam, eerily similar to the rising spotlight commemorating 'Ground Zero', drew us from a distance, like three empty-handed magi to a star. As we trudged closer, the spotlight was actually six distinct, thinner beams of red, white and blue. A fancy sports car irresponsibly sped on a sandy berm of the waterway, reserved for joggers and bikers, on it's way to a party at the adjacent Wrigley Mansion. Police, in the dark, did nothing. When we reached the same area on foot, a cop half heartedly traced us with a flashlight, wryly asking if we were known terrorists, and allowed us to procede, with canine in tow, farther east toward Republican Ground Zero.

The Biltmore looked timeless last night, it's low, Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired, silhouette trimmed at geometric angles with simple white holiday bulbs. A small traffic jam of fifty private cars edged slowly in line to enter the resort. A particularly impatient Lexus almost hit our dog. A white Republican tent, along the pristine golf course, was deserted in the darkness of early evening. We didnt enter the hotel, but walked along the grounds instead. The mood of people seemed neither rowdy nor downcast, but expectant. People walked briskly, as if anxious tourists at the Louvre.

We had left the teenager at home with his homework, so didnt stay for the speech. We are not that starstruck. President Bush comes by every year or so to raise money and has eaten at the neighborhood hangout. Sandra Day O'Connor frequents our Walgreens. So we passed the policeman on the way out, sidestepped an Ozzie and Harriet family on old fashioned bikes, cheerfully clanging their bells, and headed home along our canal. We passed the nouveau mansions, roofed in fat red tiles, and further on, the electrical substation and water treatment facility. A tree branch sitting in the cataract for ages, impeded the water's flow, but I could not reach to free it. Just above the waterline, concrete panels siding the aquaduct had crumbled into ebony voids. It was very dark now, save for Sara's bouncy flashlight, and one powerful beam at our backs, blue once more, offsetting the stars.

From here we knew our way, toward an unseen future, but we were almost home.