A Pearl in the Rough

It struck me as ironic that only a few hours before Barbara Bush passed away I was chatting with some friends about pearls. I own a strand, given to me by my mother long before she gave up on the idea that I would dress properly.

Sad as the news about Barbara was, it was a welcome respite from the endless hours of exaggerated hand-wringing and second-guessing and collective gasping on cable news shows about the latest surreal tidbit oozing out of our fledgling kakistocracy. (My new favorite word, meaning "government by the least qualified or most unprincipled citizens.") Who knew we'd need a word for that? Who knew we'd get to the point here, in America, where the kakistocrats possess all sorts of power, except the power to shock.

Jewel toned suits, a triple strand of pearls, cottony white hair, and sensible shoes. Behind her benignly predictable demeanor, Barbara was sharp and principled and a force to be reckoned with. Her hair went white when she lost her young daughter to leukemia, and she never did anything to change it. There were too many other important things to do. I am kicking myself now for occasionally referring to her as the President's mother, before she actually was the President's mother. Could there be anybody more admirable, more real, more poignant, than a grieving mother whose hair color disappears with the death of a child.

The Bush family has its flaws, as most families do. But the stark contrast between the no-nonsense Barbara and, well, just about everybody who hangs in or near the White House these days seems to embody our precipitous fall from dignity and grace.

I spend a lot of time wondering how we got here, until I realize how little I appreciated things like pearls and white hair and sensible shoes. It's not that I'm ready to change my wardrobe or go gray (I'm pretty sure I would not be blessed with a Barbara-esque fluffy white cloud). But I'm as guilty as the next guy -- or gal -- the ones who fell for the facade and the reality show entertainment and the bullshit. I am part of a culture that often forgets to look deep or dig deep, and, now, here we are.

We live in a world, now, where an aging porn star is one of the most dignified people in a Federal courtroom in New York. Where we have become accustomed to hanging our hats on all sorts of tawdry details in hopes that something will break the kakistocrat's silver spoon. Maybe it will be #identifythethug -- the thug that threatened Stormy, not to be confused with the President. Maybe it will be traces of urine in a Moscow hotel room. Maybe it will be some wag the dog war that finally gets everybody's attention.

Maybe the death of Barbara Bush, a truly great lady, will remind us of the sheer beauty of dignity and grace and truth. And pearls.