The Epitome

Mariane, c. 1950

     GOSH it’s been a nice day.

     Late this afternoon, Teddy and I did as we always do; we walked down to my sister Annie’s place, where we found her tending the plants of her big landscaping project, which involves maybe a thousand square feet of a knoll covered with Live Oak and Eucalyptus trees, plus some cool native cactus. We hang out there a lot, Teddy included.

     Annie dashed over to her studio and got the boy his usual “fish prizes” (pricey cat food); then, she and I sat in some lawn chairs and consumed our official covid-era snack, a few strips of vegan jerky (Primal Spirit) that I buy online.

     So here’s the thing. Annie told me that, earlier, she had called “Tante [Aunt] Mariane” (we pronounce this as Germans do: TAUN-ta Mehr-ee-AH-nah)—who lives, with her husband Hermann (“HAIR-mahn”) in a little seaside town (White Rock) south of Vancouver, British Columbia. Hermann and Mariane moved up there from the city of Orange about thirty years ago, avowedly to “take advantage of far-superior Canadian healthcare.” They never regretted it.

     I always liked the utterly warm and friendly Mariane, who was my mom’s best friend (we only call her “Aunt”). In 1945, when the remnants of my mom’s Pomeranian family—both of my mom’s parents were dead—fled west, via rail, to evade the advancing Soviet Army (the train was strafed by Soviet fighter planes), her little group ended up in a town south of Hamburg. As a “displaced person,” mom and the others were hated by the locals, who did not want to share what little they had; nevertheless, Mom, who was 12-years old, met the very sweet Mariane, also 12, and they became close friends. They remained so until my mom’s death from Alzheimer’s about a year ago.

Hermann and Mariane, Trabuco Canyon, c. early 80s

     That’s a 74-year friendship!

     Mariane, who’s in her late 80s, is as sharp as a tack. (I’ve spoken with her a couple of times in the last year or so.) The dementia-related deaths of my parents really weirded her out. She seemed positively freaked by my mom’s zaniness during attempted conversations over the phone those last few years. Sometimes, I joined in to serve as a kind of intermediary/translator. One of mom’s Alzheimer’s-derived lunacies: she was fond of Donald Trump.

     I’m glad Mariane has felt the need to stay connected to us “kids” after my folks’ deaths. I love that old gal.

     “So, how are they doin’?” I asked my sis.

     “They’re doin’ great!” said Annie. Annie enjoys being the one who has managed something desirable, such as a conversation with an old family friend.

     “How are they copin’ with the Covid thing up there?”, I asked.

     “Pretty well.”

     After a pause, she continued: “–I think they’re really worried about us, though. Turns out, the only thing people talk about in BC is the craziness goin’ on in Orange County!”

     I thought about that. “Wow. Really?”

     “Yep.”

Mariane and my mom, Orange, 1963

     Mariane and Hermann lived in Orange County for maybe thirty years (like my parents, they moved from Germany to Canada and then, finally, to the U.S. circa 1960). They seemed to fit in fine when they were down here, livin’ in rednecky Orange, not far from downtown. Since they’ve moved back to Canada, though, they seem to have adopted the Canadian Weltanschauung. At this point, I think, they see Americans as benighted and dangerous.

     The world is a big place and there’s a lot to try to keep track of. So, inevitably, people embrace simplifications; that is, one embraces caricatures of the realities of “other” places. So lots of foreigners—lots of Canadians, I think—look at the good old U.S.A. as a bunch of slack-jawed rubes. Who else would vote for a guy like Trump? Obviously, we do the same or worse to Canadians.

     “I hate Trump,” declared Mariane, over the phone, talking to Annie, or so Annie said. I don’t recall ever hearing so simple a declarative sentence coming out of Tante Mariane's mouth. She’s way too nice for that.

     “I hate Trump,” she declared, and then added, “He’s a terrible man and an idiot.”

     Well, OK then. One grows tired of explaining to one’s foreign friends and relatives that, no, not everyone in this country approves of Mr. Trump—that, in truth, most people (maybe even most people in OC) view him as a loutish idjit and daily hope for some shred of evidence that his disastrous reign might soon come to an end. For instance, he could just drop dead one day. That would be wonderful.

     Maybe Tante Mariane understands all this. No doubt she knows we're anti-Trumpians.

     But this notion that Orange County, California, is some hot spot of Trumpian lunacy, some hellmouth of stupid and hateful knuckle-draggery—that British Columbians pursue their days with that thought, however simplistic, pleased me.

     It is a curious fact that Orange County often comes up when one traces the origins of the lunacies and idiocies of our times. For instance, I’m told that some of the convoluted financial contrivances that led to the crash of 2008 had their origins in Orange County.

     Seems plausible. I really don’t know.

The grassy knoll

     I do know that the “birther” movement (remember Orly Taitz?) owed a great deal to Orange County. And the notion that it is right and proper to torment “wetbacks” on the Mexican border?—that definitely owes much to Orange County trailblazers. As we all know, the OC was a locus of Bircherism back in the day; John Birch conspiracy theories rival Trumpian contentions for sheer idiocy. And, back in the 1920s, the KKK dominated the Anaheim City Council.
     –You’ve got to admit, that’s pretty special.

     Since 1979, Orange County has been home to the foremost Holocaust denial organization in the country. The no-holds-barred “dirty tricks” tradition in American politics—that, too, depends a lot on Orange County innovators of half a century ago.

     Still, I’M an Orange Countian, and MY FRIENDS are mostly Orange Countians, and we’re not like that at all; we’re sworn enemies of this hideous hayseed right-wingery and this assault on reason and ethics.

     So, anyway, if my Tante Mariane is to be believed, British Columbians see the world like this: Trumpian inanity has a strangle-hold on the USA, threatening to set the world afire, and the epitome of abject Trumpian folly is, in fact, good old Orange County, CA, that shining shit-pile on a hill, where government officials believe that this Covid thing is somehow a Chinese and/or Democratic conspiracy and that surgical mask-wearing mandates are acts of “terrorism” against God-fearing, freedom-loving citizens and their goddam kids.

     Just a little perspective for you.

That's my mom, sister Annie, and me, c. 1958
(British Columbia)

White Rock, British Columbia