For some strange reason, I was downtown when I got the news. My clergy friend and I had a date at Woodstar Cafe for coffee. It was a lovely day, so no problem sitting outdoors. The sun was shining on our table, we were nice and warm, settled in for long overdue conversation.
For a few minutes, my mind was off the election. Seeing my friend was good. It was time to catch up. I was mid-sentence when an annoying car honking made hearing a challenge. “Damn car alarms,” I thought to myself. “Didn’t I leave that behind when I moved away from New York?” The car kept honking. It seemed a bit uneven, and then it occurred to me: This isn’t a car alarm.
I said as much to my friend. It all came back to me in a rush. I grabbed my phone: “Hey Siri, who won the election?” The numbers came up: Biden 290, Trump 214. “He won!” I screamed. Biden won! My friend and I, without forethought or embarrassment, lept up from our chairs, nearly toppling lattes and sandwiches. Out to the sidewalk we went, jumping, dancing, whooping, laughing. Others chimed in. Cars were now passing by, with the same (now beautiful) honking and whooping. Someone at a table said, “Oh my God. I feel I can finally breathe.”
“Let’s walk to Main Street. I want to see this.” “Me, too,” my friend said. We walked up the half block to the main strip of storefronts and spontaneously growing numbers of revelers … seeming to be coming out of the woodwork. We viewed with astonishment all the raised fists, happy dances, jumping up and down, smiles apparent, universal masks notwithstanding. I looked around and noted I had never seen anything like this in my life. When Obama was elected, we had joy, no doubt about it. But that was at night, and we were all huddled together in front of the television. This was very Wizard of Ozzy, it seemed to me. Ding Dong, the witch is dead, I felt like saying, and did. That, and Praise the Lord (less loudly). Today was joy, 99.9% pure.
Tomorrow there would be rancor, maybe protests, for sure the ubiquitous lawsuits and collectively spewed venom and sowing of mistrust. But today was a day for celebrating. Today was a day for a collective sigh of relief and whooping, hollering, air hugs and tears. And we even had weather to match.
Without a car, I felt I needed something like a horn. And I was getting hoarse with all that whooping. At the entrance of Thornes Marketplace, I was directed to Glimpse of Tibet, where I purchased a large bell to ring. On the way, I passed Starbucks and dropped a $20 into the hands of the gal I see panhandling there with her sign quite often. (This was no time to be stingy.)
My husband came down with the car, and we proceeded to the upscale wine/cheese store Provisions, where our daughter-in-law works. Champagne was a must, as was steak, cake and ice cream. It was warm enough for outdoor distance dining, so we breathed in a little more crowd bliss, then headed home to clear the deck for celebration. A southwestern rug was rolled out for a special touch. Bright sunflowers were carefully arranged and placed on a fall-themed tablecloth. Dad prepared the fire pit, kids began arriving. Mom put on her apron and prepped the potatoes. My son got the grill going, expertly preparing the steaks. Effortlessly, dinner was produced. A $30 bottle of champagne was popped. (I had never paid that much for champagne, but darkness had never been defeated so clearly in my lifetime either.)
My daughter belted out to the darkness in dulcet tones: God bless America, land that I love.
More patriotic songs followed, everyone joining in with gusto. Like maybe it’s going to be alright. Like renewed love of country. Like spotting dry land after a long stormy time at sea.
Harbor lights were in sight. Lights below and lights above. Just for a moment, anything seemed possible.
Rev. Julie G. Olmsted lives in Northampton.