Lughnasa Waxing Harvest Moon
Politics. A strange animal. A mixer for a congresswoman at Mancini’s in St. Paul. Milling around, drinks in hand, small plates of meat balls, chicken wings and tomatoes in the other, men in suits talked to women in dress clothes, all vying for a bit of notice, a nod of recognition, perhaps from the congresswoman, or, if not her, then others, the back roomers, the money folks, the union business agents, an environmentalist or two.
These strange rituals collect money and influence, this time in a Char House, a place where a burnt steak and a baked potato, a wedge of lettuce and a Bud chased by Jack constitutes supper. A joint out of the 50’s with naugahyde booths, no sunlight and dark wood.
In such places all across the country the odd beast that is American democracy begins its biennial slouch toward Washington. Those of us with interests to further make sure we show up, run our flag up the pole, shake hands, smile and then flee, glad to go home, back to the family we left behind.
Most folks don’t see these rites of fall, as dependable as high school football teams and marching bands. They think politics consists of the voting booth, then Congress, repeat. Any of us who work political interests come to know at least some of these tribal gatherings and go to play our part.
