The Pitchforks of August

        In recent weeks we have seen disruptions at town halls, mob hysteria, arrests, death threats, and remarks that border on treason. Those who should be in control of the GOP remain mute or, even worse, they bless the hordes that take up pitchforks to puncture the idea of health care reform.

        Yes, boys and girls, the anti-government tea baggers are being ginned up anew to squelch the president's health care plan. Sara Palin recently spoke of an “Obama death panel” that would decide when and how her parents and disabled child would die. Newt Gingrich—who knows better—endorsed her nonsense. High Priest of the GOP Rush Limbaugh took time out from rattling the cage of the birthers to compare Obama Health to Hitler Health of the 1930s. Scary stuff.

        All across the country, pitchfork carriers are shouting spoon-fed slogans compliments of GOP pols and insurance big wheels. One distraught woman at a town hall meeting cried out, “I want my country back.” A man in South Carolina told his congressman that “there is not a day that goes by … that I don’t hear talk of revolution in our country.” A GOP nominee in Virginia declared we could “fight this battle at the ballot box” … or “the bullet box.”

        Cenk Uygur is one of those who thinks the current outrage has little to do with health care reform. Writing on Huffington Post, he calls the ugly flair ups “the last gasp of the angry white man.” According to Uygur, the town hall screamers are upset at having a black man in the White House, a Hispanic woman on the Supreme Court, and immigrants competing for the few available jobs. They resent the bailouts, scientists tampering with their firmly held beliefs, and gays and women gaining more influence in society. Like a fomenting volcano their fear and anger erupts, spilling into the public arena, scorching civil discourse.

        If what Uygur says is true, there is little hope of placating their frustrations. They are willing pawns being manipulated by those who find raw prejudice and passion convenient tools in maintaining the status quo.

        But I am by nature hopeful. As I thought about the current pitchfork wielders, I recalled that during the early days of hot air balloon flight, French farmers would attempt to chase away the newfangled contraption to protect themselves and their cattle.  At landing, they would flatten the balloon with their pitchforks, thinking it was a diabolical intruder from outer space.

        Clever balloonist discovered that if they waved a bottle of champagne bearing a label from a nearby town their descent was far more welcomed. (This ancient ritual is still observed by balloonists. Once when I was in a balloon that set down in a field, the farmer’s wife upon discovering that I was the First Lady of Missouri, ran to the house and brought back her best wine glasses so we wouldn’t have to drink from the bottle—but that’s another story.)

        It remains to be seen if lawmakers can dodge the pitchforks of August long enough to land a health care bill safely onto the president’s desk. Somehow, I suspect it will take more than champagne to get the job done.