Image by Suzy Brooks.

From childhood, I think I had some eerie sense of just how bad it could get in America. After all, in junior high and high school, I was riveted by this country’s Civil War. Among all my toy soldiers — cowboys and Indians, British marching troops in red jackets, and plastic Army-green World War II soldiers (from my father’s war) — and those Landmark Books on American history that I piled up on my floor to create hills and valleys where I could play out the cowboy and Indian ambushes and battles I had seen at local movie theaters, my favorites were always the blue and grey lead soldiers of the Union and Confederacy, including Commanding General Ulysses S. Grant on a horse. (He’s still in the saddle on a small shelf beside the computer where, almost 70 years later, I’m writing this.)

In those days, thanks to my parents, I also subscribed to the history magazine American Heritage, whose editor was Bruce Catton, while, in my spare time, I feverishly read the Civil War histories for which he won a Pulitzer Prize. (I still have my ancient copies of Glory Road, This Hallowed Ground, and A Stillness at Appomattox.) At some point in those youthful years, my father even drove me to Gettysburg to see firsthand the site of perhaps the most crucial and devastating battle of that war.

I don’t think I ever truly imagined, though, what it might be like for this country to be at its own throat again, especially in the eerily strange way it is today. I never dreamed that the world I grew up in (despite Senator Joe McCarthy) could truly ever — yes, ever — begin to come apart at the seams. And yet, at this very moment, that very country, the United States of America, is at the edge of who really knows what, but nothing — I can guarantee you — that our children or grandchildren would be thrilled to play out on the floors of their rooms (or even their video screens). In truth, how in the world would you play Donald J. Trump and crew? To my surprise, I find that there are indeed Trump toys and an Elon Musk bobblehead, and even — can you believe it? — a Pete Hegseth action figure (or am I being conned?). Still, tell me how, on the floor of your childhood room, you would sort out Trumpworld and an America that appears to be coming apart at the seams, not in ancient history but right before our eyes on a planet where the same distinctly holds true.

“Drill, Baby, Drill”

I don’t know who the Bruce Catton of the future will be or what he or she (or, yes, in the age of Trump, they) might write, but I do know that there will be no Bull Run, no Gettysburg or Appomattox, no glory on that distinctly unglorious road to… well, who knows what. Count on one thing, though: it ain’t going to be pretty.

No, Donald Trump isn’t Jefferson Davis (and he certainly isn’t Abraham Lincoln), nor is he even, I suspect, a Benito Mussolini or Adolf Hitler........

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