When the Cuckoo Says Cuckoo

Back in the days when Switzerland had the monopoly on cuckoo clocks, my mother brought back two from a stay in Geneva. Hers was a bit over the top. It had a musical box, which played “Never on Sunday” on the hour and had a set of gaily painted dancing figures that came out with the cuckoo. When I inherited it, my son became famous for hiding the pinecone weight from the chain that controlled the music box. Couldn’t blame him since the clock was on the wall not far from his room.

Mine was more traditional. It had the stag’s head and rack, with carved game down the side of the box, all in a shade of dark brown. It did not have dancing figures, but it did have a full-voiced cuckoo. The bird’s voice was ambiguous, however. It didn’t really sound like the bird—more a two syllable bark that could be interpreted in a number of ways. In fact, it took an act of will to make out “cuckoo.”

Of late, I’ve been involuntarily hearing the bird pronounce the word “trouble.” I suppose it must mean I’m in a rather discouraged mood. We’ve been getting the house ready for sale and discovering that we need to correct things that were never right to begin with—like not done properly by the original builders. There was supposed to be a fixed ladder in the window well, for example. The crawlspace was supposed to have insulation installed. I am left to wonder how these things—now corrected—got by the original inspection. But then, considering that a gas stove had been installed in the house without a required safety vent (that was spotted by my house inspector), I’m surprised that the previous owners didn’t gas themselves. Probably didn’t cook much, I guess.

It doesn’t take much for a latent personal cynicism to creep into my thoughts these days. The announcement by Tom Tancredo is a case in point. I’d previously thought of him as a one-issue person (illegal immigration) until I read the platform of the party he has now joined. My heavens: talk about trying to recreate the past—turn back the voting rights act, repeal the endangered species act, remove protection for women seeking abortions, eliminate the IRS (well, I might be tempted on that one) and the Food and Drug Administration (untested food and drugs anyone?), and that's just to name a few.

I find it hard to believe anyone really wants all that—it strikes me more as a type of protest against what the world is becoming. It reminds me of what I had Bill, one of the characters in my novel “The Way to Dusky Death,” say meditatively: “This isn’t the world I grew up in, and I don’t like it.” The world Bill hungers for is predictable because it is familiar. I suppose that is what lies behind the Tea Party movement as well. The world is changing too quickly and the nation is evolving into something very unfamiliar.

Even given the fact that most of us feel displaced in one way or another—I shudder to think what will happen if those who look backwards get back into power. Admittedly, my house is one small example—but if these flaws got past the original inspectors, what would have happened without any inspection at all? Contractors cut corners for profit—that’s well known. Without the threat of inspection, I imagine they would have cut many more. My house might not even be standing. Yes, I’m pretty cynical and I’d send a house inspector through even a new house.

Actually, right now I’m trying not to think about things I can’t do anything about. I need a rest from the panic our media promote. Trouble is, people want to feel panicked about something, in this case, the future.

The nonsense over Obama’s birth certificate is cuckoo (sorry, couldn’t resist) and anyone reasonable would have laid it to rest long ago. The reason it continues is because the birthers don’t like Obama—he’s the minority future and it’s not familiar. Doubting his birth certificate is an insult to Hawaii (where I am from) because the state has repeatedly said the certificate is genuine, and it was reported in the Honolulu newspapers (as was my marriage—that’s how Hawaii does things) and to have fabricated the birth certificate would have meant changing the newspaper archives, where it has been found). Sorry, birthers, you have to get beyond forging an African birth certificate and address the real reasons you hate him.

One of these days, I hope all this craziness will be done. I suppose it can’t happen until people feel more secure and hence more rational. Until then, I’ll try to hear the word “cuckoo” whenever the bird comes out.