Peggy Noonan Knows All The Causes Of America's Shootings, Except Guns
In which the ghost of a great Republican president drinks Peggy's lunch.
New York City had become so much scarier, such that she never wanted to leave her apartment. Much like the worst days of the pandemic, Sister Peggy Noonan of the Order of the Lithium Contemplation found herself inside at all times, hiding from the criminals, the homeless, the falafel vendors with their swarthy Middle Eastern miens, the very streets of the Big Apple itself. The summer heat rose from the July pavement like swarms of hornets angry at being disturbed.
So she plotted an escape. Just a quick day trip, to give herself a break, to perhaps find some motivation for her next column . The deadline was once again approaching. It always came on too fast, especially when you spent most of your time in a benzoate coma under your dining room table.
Now here she was, a short train ride from her terrifying metropolis, meandering through the sacred halls and grounds of Oyster Bay, one-time home of that great Republican president, Teddy Roosevelt. Ah, it was lovely here at Sagamore Hill! The great rambling house with its shelves of books and richly appointed furniture! The stuffed heads of dozens of the animals Roosevelt had shot in his lifetime standing guard along the walls! The cool breeze off the water! The wooded grounds! The peace and quiet! No wonder TR had loved the place so.
She meandered along, imagining the house full of rambunctious children, the visitors in formal wear making the long trip by horse-drawn carriage from the train station in town to seek TR’s counsel or share food and fellowship with the hero of San Juan Hill. What a time that must have been! She wished devoutly to have known that America.
When she tired of wandering, she found a spot under a great tree at the edge of the lawn. There she spread out the picnic she had brought along, a great repast of Kraft Extra Sharp Cheddar Singles and mango liqueur in a heavy crystal decanter. Full in both belly and spirit, she became drowsy. Her eyes closed and she slipped towards slumber.
“Right you are, madam!” bellowed the deep voice of Teddy Roosevelt, startling her awake. The Bull Moose himself sat next to her in the blessed shade of the tree. He wore trousers, a vest, a heavy greatcoat completely out of season, and an explorer’s hat with a feather poking out of the hatband. His familiar pince-nez glittered and shone, and the eye behind it was filled with good humor.
“How right you are!” Mr. Roosevelt repeated. “New York is my hometown. I grew from a tiny tad into a strapping young man there. I served the city in different capacities. Now I barely recognize it, with its buildings that scrape the sky and the lack of horse manure in the streets. Say, what are these strange orange squares lying in this crinkly packaging? Cheese, you say? Really?”
On Boris Johnson, a bad man met a bad end... I see nothing sad in his leaving but that he was very entertaining and had one of the best political acts -- shambolic upper-class boyo, utterly lost in his personal sphere, just like you and no better than you -- in modern British history.
“Bah! The British!” Mr. Roosevelt sneered from around a mouthful of Kraft Singles. “Our greatest and most annoying allies. Always sending their armies to the Dark Continent to be slaughtered by pygmies. Great empire indeed! The sun couldn’t set on it fast enough.”
But that isn’t our subject, which has to do with crime in America.
“Well then! That’s a bit of a head-snapper of a transition, if I do say. Madam, might you have some refreshment with which I could wash down this infernal cheese? Yes, what is in this crystal decanter? It smells of the tropics. Mango liqueur, you say? What an interesting choice for a spirit.”
Now such measures are less relevant because what you see on the street and in the news tells you that more than in the past we’re at the mercy of the seriously mentally ill. You can’t calculate their actions because they can’t be predicted, because they’re crazy.
“And some of them are in Washington mucking up the Congress. Have you seen some of those people? That woman from Georgia who loves shooting things so much that even I, a lifelong hunter who traveled to the farthest reaches of the Amazon in search of great game, think she’s a bit of a cuckoo.”
You know what was obvious about the shooters in Uvalde and Highland Park? They were insane and dangerous. Anyone bothering to look could see, certainly family members or close friends.
“Bully! This drink is bully!” Mr. Roosevelt shouted. He had turned the decanter upside down and was pouring mango liqueur into his wide-open mouth with impressive speed. “Madam, I understand your point. But might the problem be less their families, and more all the guns lying around? We had people with problems in my day as well, usually thanks to drink or laudanum. But they did not have easy access to guns that could shoot ninety bullets in under a minute. What is the point of that, anyway? If you can’t bring down a buffalo with one shot, you should take up another hobby, like whittling or cribbage.”
This country and its culture aren’t making fewer unstable young men, but more. Maybe we need a conversation about the issues they raise and the loyalties we owe.
“Bah! There is nothing wrong with these young men that going off to war wouldn’t cure. But if we are going to discuss issues, there is the issue of all these guns lying around. It was one thing for a person destined for the asylum to find himself in possession of a derringer or a six-shooter. But again, your people today have wild machine guns lying around that any Tom, Dick or Harry can pick up. That seems like an issue worth addressing, yes?”
We respect the blue here but I am increasingly disturbed by what I see of policing in America… Cops used to be guys in a blue cotton uniform with a holster and gun. Now they’re like bulked-up 1990s cartoon superheroes -- militarized, mechanized, armored up, heavy helmets and vests, all the gear and equipment, the long guns and trucks like tanks.
“Right you are, madam!” Mr. Roosevelt had found the second decanter she had been saving for the train ride home and had once again upended it over his gaping maw. “When I was the commissioner of the New York City police department, we had no need for all this armor and tanks. And not just because none of it had been invented yet. No, our police walked beats, and related to their communities. I made sure of it. But also, civilians did not have these rapid-fire death-dealing machines at their easy disposal. That seems like the biggest cause, you know, all the infernal guns.”
I don’t think people trust them as much as they used to, and this is separate and distinct from the damaging racial charges of recent years.
“Recent years!” Mr. Roosevelt bellowed. Drops of mango liqueur flew from his great mustache like warm rain. “Madam, the Negro has not trusted police for all of American history, with good reason! This is by no means a recent phenomenon. I think this delicious mango liqueur has clouded your judgment.”
It isn’t good. And if I’m seeing it, others are.
“My dear Ms. Noonan, I believe this to be the truest holding you have ever written in your career. The fellows who publish the Wall Street Journal flimsy will surely agree. Now!” Mr. Roosevelt pulled off his clothes and stood before her naked as, well, a bull moose. “We have refreshed ourselves with food and drink. I can think of no better way to celebrate than by swimming across Long Island Sound. Join me!”
Mr. Roosevelt took off across the great lawn of his home, headed for the water. But Peggy did not follow. For one, she had not brought a swimsuit. For another, she needed to replenish her supply of mango liqueur at the liquor store in Oyster Bay before the train ride home. It had already been a long day, and she had a column to deliver.
[ WSJ ]
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