I had a sudden hankering for the
Spanish Obama campaign song that helped solidify my support, to get back to that point of hope that seems evanescent in the deep snows of the bleak midwinter, and I remembered the brief, brief days of Camelot that we see now only through LBJ's rear view mirror. It was a brief spring that held the Cuban missile crisis like a cold black stone at its heart. It was not a time of only sweetness and light, even on the sere prairies of North Dakota, but it was a brief time of hope brought down by an assassin's bullet and the machineries of war unleashed by LBJ, who built much of the walls of Camelot while simultaneously tearing them down. Kennedy was the dreamer, but LBJ had Congress by the balls. Were it not for a war or two, Camelot might still stand. I sometimes think I can still glimpse it just before the setting of the sun; not as the pile of rocks and bricks it has become, but as the dream of tall, turreted towers with bright banners waving in the winds, flickering in the light of the wanning sun.
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branchandroot
