Calls to my Sister

After more than a week of Governor Sanford’s Mass-like Latin liturgy of crap, don’t you feel like you need to wash a load of clothes, or wash a car? Why is this lunatic performing public surgery on his life? Out, out of my headlines, black spots and all.

I have South Carolina’s Governor and his political ambitions and his strategy all figured out. Governor Mark Sanford is going to crow of his nauseating love from high places because his confessions are his knight’s armor. Governor Sanford’s confessions are veiled-attempts to enamor the world with his larger-than-life love-story.

He offers hope. If this one adulterer has found his soul-mate, and then, you never know who’s next? And remember, love heals all, there are seasons of seed and harvest, etc. etc.

This is the bottom line: Governor Mark Sanford believes that his story of true love makes him a victimless hero. He believes there will be forgiveness when they understand the depths of his true love. Love loves voters and voters love Love.

In the spirit of the Duke of Windsor, Mark Sanford will give up the throne of South Carolina in the same ferry-tale fashion as the Duke of Windsor did for his soul-mate, Wallace…something. He leaves his office to prove to God and voters that his love affair is different. I have heard him compare himself to King David, but I cannot go there.

Sanford departs. He and his mistress forsake all others seeking only sanctuary for their love. Maybe a year or longer, maybe in the year 2011, the divine couple will come home to be met by an enthusiastic crowd of well-wishes. I would take a dollar bet on that happening. Thereby leaving the door open to all political ambitions, In politics there is life after adultery. Mark and Mistress Sanford will return as the American version of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor.

When I begin to conjure up creative scenarios for why people and politician make a fool of themselves with such swagger? I seek a time when I knew there would be supper on the table and homework.

I call my sister, Jill. She holds safe, my north star. There is a family myth that tells that I locked the front door and flushed the key down the commode when they arrived home. So you could say that as sisters we got off to a bad start. Not really. This is us. We are truly undeniably sisters and as the years sweep by…the more precious my little sister becomes.

I dressed her up as a bride in old white curtains. I painted her face, I cut her hair. I loved her like she was my little blonde doll. And there never were two sisters more different than Judy and Jill. As different as we are; we have a connection that no one else on earth shares. It is a core of memories that lives untouched among our collected memories. My sister guards yesterday, for me. She has known me since day one.

We were raised by Mama Jo and we were reared according to the tenants of her German ancestry. Mother taught us to act as if we had good sense and to always dress appropriately. She expected our friends and acquaintances to act accordingly.

I was born cynical, but Jill was born a saint. She raised three unruly boys and made so many trips to the emergency rooms she kept supplies and equipment in her car trunk. If the emergency occurred in the middle of the night, I suspect she broke the land-speed record. Like Mama Jo, she learned a lot along the way, but she held some things true. Jill does not suffer fools lightly. Whatever Jill says, whether it is about an ancient cure, an apple pie, bee bites, or world affairs, her answer will be what Mama Jo would have said. I called my sister and this is what she had to say.

“Governor Sanford, that stupid wimpy man. Can you imagine a man asking his wife’s permission to have an affair? I would chop off a few things and never tell anyone where it was buried.”

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