Peggy Noonan

One of the greatest things about Gerald Ford as a former president was that he didn’t say much. He had no need for the spotlight. He was modest in the old-fashioned way of stepping aside and not getting in the way of the new guy.

He kept a lot to himself. This was in part because he had a self to leave it to.

It must have taken some effort. The man who replaced him, Jimmy Carter, was a kind of non-Ford, offering personal goodness as his main calling card. He carried his own garment bag. He was not imperial. He was awfully proud of his humility. The man who followed him, Ronald Reagan, differed from Ford not so much characterologically as politically, and his success might have grated on his old foe. But it doesn’t seem to have. Ford seemed happy when things turned out well for America. That was apparently his primary interest.

He seemed lacking in vanity. There is no evidence that he was obsessed with his legacy. He didn’t worry and fret about whether history would fully capture and proclaim his excellence, and because of this he didn’t always have to run around proving he was right. He just did his best and kept walking. What a grown-up thing to do. Former, current and future presidents would do well to ponder this approach. History would treat them more kindly. The legacy of a man who spends his time worrying about his legacy is always: He worried about his legacy.

Now we know Ford was not silent but discreet. He granted an interview with Bob Woodward in July 2004, to be released posthumously, in which he shared his views. Mr. Woodward reports Ford told him he would not have gone to war in Iraq based on the public information available at the time. “I don’t think I would have ordered the Iraq war. I would have maximized our effort through sanctions, through restrictions, whatever, to find another answer.”

This is the authentic voice of the American foreign-policy establishment, and it reminds me, among other things, that establishments are not all bad. They rise for a reason. One is an ability to apprehend reality.

By speaking posthumously, Ford gave his words greater weight. He did not insert himself into the current debate, and because he wasn’t in the fight he had nothing to gain or lose, no position to defend or attack. And so he could tell the truth as he saw it.

It is not clear who will speak at his funeral, but it is now unfortunately common practice for politicians to see every eulogy as an opportunity. Invited to reflect on biography, they tend to smuggle in as much autobiography as they can, and advance their personal agendas. If Bill Clinton speaks, one suspects he will laud Ford’s personal tolerance. The text: This was a man who did not judge others. The subtext: He wouldn’t have voted to impeach me! If George W. Bush speaks he will likely laud Ford as an exemplar of the old bipartisanship. In this way he will attempt to confer the bipartisan mantle on himself. And so on. I don’t suppose this is terribly harmful, but it often gives short shrift to the departed. Still, Gerald Ford, a practical man who enjoyed the hit and tackle of politics, would have understood. Would have chuckled, in fact.

*   *   *

There are three points about Ford that I’m not sure can ever be sufficiently appreciated.

The first is that when he pardoned Richard Nixon, he threw himself on a grenade to protect the country from shame, from going too far. It was an act of deep political courage, and it was shocking. Almost everyone in the country hated it, including me. But Ford was right. Richard Nixon had been ruined, forced to resign, run out of town on a rail. There was nothing to be gained—nothing—by his being broken on the dock. What was then the new left would never forgive Ford. They should thank him on their knees that he deprived history of proof that what they called their idealism was not untinged by sadism.

Second, Ford’s personal dignity—his plain Midwestern rectitude, his old-style, pipe-smoking American normality, and his characterological absence of bile, spite and malice—helped the nation over and through the great tearing of the fabric that was Watergate. This is often referred to, and yet it is hard to communicate what a relief it was. Whether right or wrong, hopeless or wise, a normal man was in charge. This was a balm, a real gift to the country.

Third, he did not understand, and so was undone by, the rise of the modern conservative movement. He did not understand the prairie fire signaled by the California tax revolt, and did not see it roaring east. He did not fully understand how offended the American public was by endless government spending and expanding federal power. He did not see the growing estrangement between Republicans on the ground and a leadership they saw as tax collectors for the welfare state. He did not fully appreciate the public desire for a fresher, more candid attitude toward the Soviet Union, and communism in general. He was not at all alive to what would prove to be deep national qualms about abortion. He was not aware of its ability to alarm, to waken the sleepy Evangelicals of the South and the urban ethnics of the North, who’d previously been content to go with the Democratic flow. Ford was oblivious to this. He thought in his own stolid way that abortion was pretty much an extension of the new feminist movement, which he supported. How could a gallant fella not?

*   *   *

In all this he proved that it is not enough in politics to be good. You have to have vision. You have to be able to see. If you can’t, they can tell, and they’ll retire you.
Which Republicans almost did in the great Ford-Reagan primary of 1976, and the electorate did later that fall.

And yet. This must be said and should be said. He was a good man, and that’s not nothing—it’s something. Gerald Ford fought for his country. He didn’t indulge his angers and appetites. He seems to have thought, in the end, that such indulgence was for sissies—it wasn’t manly. He was sober-minded, solid, respecting and deserving of respect. And at that terrible time, after Watergate, he picked up the pieces and then threw himself on the grenade.

We were lucky to have him. We were really lucky to have him. Rest in peace.

Sunday is Christmas Eve. It feels wrong to speak here of small and sentimental things such as politics. The most passionately committed Americans right now, and the most imaginative, are children waiting for a large laughing man with a full white beard. And so a newscast Brian Williams could give on Sunday evening:

Brian Williams: Good evening and welcome to “NBC Nightly News.” Reports this evening that that great symbol of Christmas, Santa Claus, has begun his amazing annual journey and is on his way to the home of every child in the world, bringing gifts, joy and cheer. Our full field report begins with NASA, and news of a successful liftoff.

NASA spokesman: Brian, it was all systems go and A-OK for Santa and his sleigh this morning. We can confirm a successful launch from the North Pole. We picked up, via audio sensors, a great whooshing sound, and then “Ho, ho, ho!” Santa entered the stratosphere just after dawn, did a waving flyby of the space station, and has now leveled off at some 2,000 feet.

Williams: And word also from Norad, in the mountains of Colorado.

Norad spokesman: Brian, Santa is now on our radar. We are tracking him also through satellite and infrared sensors. You can see here on the screen—that blip, or rather cluster, is the sleigh, and the reindeer. And I want to note here on the screen a curious red dot that seems to be both part of the blip and leading the blip.

Williams: Is the red dot sign of a problem or malfunction of some sort?

Norad spokesman: No. It’s Rudolph. Rudolph is once again guiding the sleigh. There had been concern—Santa is ageless, but Rudolph was getting old. However he’s here again this year. Gallant old deer.

Williams: It is well known that Santa comes only at night when the children are asleep. So let’s go to London, where it is just past midnight, and our correspondent Jim Macedo.

Macedo: Brian, a light snow is falling tonight, the skies clear and dark. I am standing here in front of 48 Doughty Street, near Bloomsbury Square. This was the home of Charles Dickens, the writer who as much as anyone made the symbols of Christmas famous with his story “A Christmas Carol.” Now as you look in the windows of homes nearby you can see, under the Christmas trees, many gifts, all wrapped in bright paper. So Santa has apparently been here. But I’ll tell you the most amazing thing we’ve seen—if the camera can move in—look here into the Dickens house. It’s a museum now, and an hour ago it was dark and closed. But in the past few minutes lights within began to glow, and people dressed in Victorian garb began to arrive, as if for a party. Suddenly a room lit up and we saw a tree, beautifully lit with candles and red bows. Then a little boy walked in, limping on a crutch. He was holding the hand of an old man with grim lines in his face, but a merry look in his eyes. And together they sat under the tree and began to open presents. We couldn’t hear their conversation, but from the house a moment ago we heard an old carol, and then someone said, “God bless us, every one.” There were cheers and laughter, and—

Williams: Jim, I must interrupt you. We have a report that Santa has been over the Atlantic, where he was seen by travelers on the Queen Elizabeth 2. The QE2 blew its great whistle in his honor, and Santa in response circled low over the ship, and dropped presents. And now I am told he has just flown over Plymouth Rock in Massachusetts, where he dipped his sleigh back and forth. Apparently Santa also goes out of his way to show respect for whatever country whose airspace he’s entering. It is expected that Santa will at some point turn south, and enter the airspace of Washington D.C., where our own Tim Russert has been waiting. Tim, any sign, as dusk envelops our nation’s capital?

Russert: Thanks, Brian, and Merry Christmas. Dusk has turned to evening here, and just now a sound of laughter and sleigh bells seemed to come from the sky. Here at the Capitol itself, on the House side, the new speaker-designate, Nancy Pelosi, came and stood on the broad marble steps and seemed to search the sky. Then all of a sudden she pointed, and waved with great enthusiasm. I followed her eyes and looked up, but I’m afraid what she’d seen had passed. But children in a crowd nearby seemed to see what I could not. They began to point, and some burst into applause. I’m hearing Jim Miklaszewski has more from the White House.

Miklaszewski: Brian and Tim, Santa came by the White House too. And for our purposes most striking was what came from the Residence, the part of the White House where the president and first lady live. When the sleigh bells rang, the lights started going on and off in what appeared to be a pattern. We asked a military aide, and he said the president has been learning Morse code. The message he sent through the lights was, apparently, “Way to go, Big Nick.” Big Nick is the president’s nickname for Santa Claus, who is also called St. Nicholas.

Williams: All right, good reports all. And so we reach the end of our newscast. And we ask: What is the Santa phenomenon? I think Santa comes to remind us that kindness and generosity can be a surprising gift from someone you don’t even know. To remind us that something can be a gift even if it arrives awkwardly, such as tumbling down a chimney. Maybe Santa comes just to touch our hearts. It is also worth noting—and perhaps this was our lead this evening—that children seem to look forward to Santa not only with a feeling of expectation, but of love. And love is a very good thing.

That’s our show tonight. Oh—I am being told now that Santa has issued a statement. He said, “Don’t forget the cookies.” And we have, just now, the first ever audio tape. Air traffic control in Cleveland just recorded these words through the open mike of a Delta airliner en route to Los Angeles. It’s a man out of the darkness saying. “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

We are getting very excited. Barack Obama is brilliant, eloquent and fresh. He is “exciting” (David Brooks), “charming” (Bob Schieffer), “my favorite guy” (Oprah Winfrey), has “charisma” (Donna Brazile), and should run now for president (George Will). Our political and media establishments, on the rebound from bad history, are sounding like Marlene Dietrich in her little top hat. Falling in luff again, vot am I to do, vot am I to do, kont hellllllp eet.

Well, down from your tippy toes, establishment.

He is obviously planning to run. This week he was in New Hampshire—rapturous reviews, sold-out fund-raisers—and before that, Iowa. His second book is his second best seller and the biggest-selling nonfiction title in the nation. The intro he taped for “Monday Night Football”—in an Aaron Sorkin-like setting of gleaming desk and important lighting—showed he is an actor who can absorb the script and knows by nature what a camera is. This is a compliment. All the great presidents of the media age, FDR, JFK and Reagan, were great actors of the presidency. (The one non-great president who was their equal in this, Bill Clinton, proved that acting is not enough.)

He has obvious appeal. I asked a Young Democrat college student why he liked him. After all, I said, he has little experience. That’s part of what I like, he said. “He’s not an insider, he’s not just a D.C. politician.”

He is uncompromised by a past, it is true. He is also unburdened by a record, unworn by achievement, unwearied by long labors.

What does he believe? What does he stand for? This is, after all, the central question. When it is pointed out that he has had almost—almost—two years in the U.S. Senate, and before that was an obscure state legislator in Illinois, his supporters compare him to Lincoln. But Lincoln had become a national voice on the great issue of the day, slavery. He rose with a reason. Sen. Obama’s rise is not about a stand or an issue or a question; it is about Sen. Obama. People project their hopes on him, he says.

He’s exactly right. Just so we all know it’s projection.

He doesn’t have an issue, he has a thousand issues, which is the same as having none, in the sense that a speech about everything is a speech about nothing. And on those issues he seems not so much to be guided by philosophy as by impulses, sentiments. From “The Audacity of Hope,” his latest book: “[O]ur democracy might work a bit better if we recognized that all of us possess values that are worthy of respect.” “I value good manners.” When not attempting to elevate the bromidic to the profound, he lapses into the language of political consultants—”our message,” “wedge issues,” “moral language.” Ronald Reagan had “a durable narrative.” Parts of the book, the best parts, are warm, anecdotal, human. But much of it pretends to a seriousness that is not borne out. When speaking of the political past he presents false balance and faux fairness. (Reagan, again, despite his “John Wayne, Father Knows Best pose, his policy by anecdote and his gratuitous assaults on the poor” had an “appeal” Sen. Obama “understood.” Ronnie would be so pleased.)

*   *   *

The world is difficult now, unlike those days when America enjoyed “the near unanimity forged by the Cold War, and the Soviet threat.” Near unanimity? This is rewriting the past in a way that suggests a deep innocence of history, or a slippery approach to the facts.

Sen. Obama spent his short lifetime breathing in the common liberal/leftist wisdom, which he exhales at length. This is not something new—it’s something old in a new package. And it is something that wins you what he has, a series of 100% ratings from left-liberal interest groups.

He is, clearly, a warm-blooded political animal, an eager connector, a man of intelligence and a writer whose observations suggest the possibility of an independence of spirit. Also a certain unknowability. Which may account for some of his popularity.

But again, what does he believe? From reading his book, I would say he believes in his destiny. He believes in his charisma. He has the confidence of the anointed. He has faith in the magic of the man who meets his moment.

He also believes in the power of good nature, the need for compromise, and the possibility of comprehensive, multitiered, sensible solutions achieved through good-faith negotiations.

But mostly it seems to be about him, his sense of destiny, and his appreciation of his own particular gifts. Which leaves me thinking Oh dear, we have been here before. It’s not as if we haven’t already had a few of the destiny boys. It’s not as if we don’t have a few more in the wings.

*   *   *

It seems to me that our political history has been marked the past 10 years by lurches, reactions and swerves, and I wonder if historians will see the era that started in the mid-’90s as The Long Freakout. First the Clinton era left more than half the country appalled—deeply appalled, and ashamed—by its series of political, financial and personal scandals. I doubt the Democratic Party will ever fully understand the damage done in those days. In reaction the Republican Party lurched in its presidential decision toward a relatively untested (five years in the governor’s office, before that very little) man whom party professionals chose, essentially, because “He can win” and the base endorsed because he seemed the opposite of Bill Clinton. The 2000 election was a national trauma, and I’m not sure Republicans fully understand what it did to half the Democrats in the country to think the election was stolen, or finagled, or arranged by unseen powers. Then 9/11. Now we have had six years of high drama and deep division, and again a new savior seems to beckon, one who is so clearly Not Bush.

We’ll see what Sen. Obama has, what he is, what he becomes. But right now he seems part of a pattern of lurches and swerves—the man from nowhere, of whom little is known, who will bring us out of the mess. His sudden rise and wild popularity seem more symptom than solution. And I wonder if historians will call this chapter in their future histories of the modern era not “A Decision Is Made” but “The Freakout Continues.”

He stood there at the podium, the kind of podium he’d stood at 5,000 times in a long political life, and talked to the kind of audience he knew well: supporters and loyalists, old friends and new. He knew how to play them, how to use the old jokes and have fun. And suddenly he was sobbing.

He had referred to his son Jeb’s first campaign for governor. He had seen some “unfair stuff,” but Jeb “didn’t whine about it, he didn’t complain.” The old president began to weep. “The true measure of a man,” he then said, “is how you handle victory, and also defeat.” And here a sob tore out of him and he could not continue.

*   *   *

It is not fully right, or fully fair, to guess about another’s emotions. But no one who knows George H.W. Bush thinks that moment was only about Jeb. It wasn’t only about some small defeat a dozen years ago. It would more likely have been about a number of things, and another son, and more than him.

Age exposes us, if we’re lucky enough to be given it. Some say it makes you softer, some tougher, some a mix of both. Some say it just leaves you more so—whatever you were, you are, only more. I thought of that the other day after I saw the news reports of 41’s speech. I went to a private dinner at the old Bush White House once, and the president, as he sprinkled pepper on his food, began to speak of his son Neil and “the pounding” he was taking in congressional investigations on the savings-and-loan scandal. He felt Neil was being abused for political reasons. Tears came to the president’s eyes, sudden and unbidden.

Afterwards I thought about the two presidents I had known. Ronald Reagan was emotionally moved by American history and the Founders, by the long sweep of history. Personal issues and relations left him more dry-eyed. His successor was enormously moved by personal relations, by his love for his children and parents and friends. But to him the sweep of history was more abstract; it didn’t capture his imagination in the same way. It left him dry-eyed.

Different strokes, different folks.

From what I have seen, growing older can leave you more exposed to the force of whatever it is you’re feeling. Defenses erode like a fence worn by time. But what you feel can surprise you.

You’re thinking about what was, and suddenly apprehending for the first time how important it was. You think of your son, age 3, on the lawn when you drove up that time. Once that memory touched you in some way you don’t fully understand, but now it makes your throat constrict because you realize that of all the things that ever happened to you, none was as important as how he looked on the lawn when you drove up that time.

Age reorders. The order is expressed by the mysterious force of a fragment of a moment. And there you are at the podium, mugged by a memory.

Maybe there was some of those things in what happened the other day at the podium. But think of what a loaded moment in history it was for Bush the elder. Barely more than a day after he spoke, the Iraq Study Group’s report would be issued. It was chaired by his old friend, the one with whom he’d discussed serious things years ago only after the kids, George and Jeb and the others, left the room.

*   *   *

Surely Mr. Bush knew—surely he was first on James Baker’s call list—that the report would not, could not, offer a way out of a national calamity, but only suggestions, hopes, on ways through it. To know his son George had (with the best of intentions!) been wrong in the great decision of his presidency—stop at Afghanistan or move on to Iraq?—and was now suffering a defeat made clear by the report; to love that son, and love your country, to hold these thoughts, to have them collide and come together—this would bring not only tears, but more than tears.

And the younger President Bush, what of his inner world? He has been shorn of much—his place in the winner’s circle, old advisers. A man who worked for Richard Nixon reminded me the other night that when Nixon fired Haldeman and Ehrlichman, “he lost his asbestos suit.” He lost his primary protectors and loyalists. President Bush is now without a similar layer. Old staffers gone, Rumsfeld gone, Cheney marginalized, Condi and Karen off representing. And the ISG. And the loss of Congress.

And yet the president presents himself each day in his chesty way, with what seems a jarring peppiness. A person who saw him in the White House a few days ago described him as “perky, seemed happy.” At the modest dinner for outgoing U.N. head Kofi Annan—one participant called it “stinting”—the president joshingly approached a guest. “I don’t see many friendly faces here!” he said, leaving the guest deadpanning later, “He mistook me for a friendly face.”

*   *   *

Unlike anguished wartime presidents of old, he seems resolutely un-anguished. Think of the shattered Lincoln of the last Mathew Brady photographs, taken just weeks before he was assassinated. He’d gone from a bounding man of young middle age who awed his secretaries by his ability to hold a heavy ax from his fully outstretched arm, to, four years later, “the old tycoon.” Or anguished Lyndon B. Johnson sitting in the cabinet room by himself, literally with his head in his hands. History takes a toll.

But George W. Bush seems, in the day to day, the same as he was. It is part of the Bush conundrum—a supernal serenity or a confidence born of cluelessness? You decide. Where you stand on the war will likely determine your answer. But I’ll tell you, I wonder about it and do not understand it, either what it is or what it means. I’d ask someone in the White House, but they’re still stuck in Rote Talking Point Land: The president of course has moments of weariness but is sustained by his knowledge of the ultimate rightness of his course . . .

If he suffers, they might tell us; it would make him seem more normal, which is always a heartening thing to see in a president.

But maybe there is no suffering.

Maybe he outsources suffering. Maybe he leaves it to his father.

We’re going to need grace. We are going to need a great outbreak of grace to navigate the next difficult months.

America is turning against a war it supported, for the essential reason that no one is able to promise a believable path to a successful outcome, and Americans are a practical people. It is not true that Americans are historical romantics. They are patriots who, once committed, commit on all levels, including emotionally. But they don’t wake up in the morning looking for new flags to follow over old cliffs. They want to pay the mortgage, protect their children, and try to be better parents in a jittery time. They are not isolationist. They want to help where they can, and feel called to support the poor and the sick wherever they are. They are also, still, American exceptionalists, meaning they believe the creation of America—the long journey across the sea, the genius cluster that invented the republic, the historic codifying of freedom—was providential, and good news not only for us but the world. “And the glow from that fire can truly light the world.”

Much has been strained. We were all concussed by 9/11—we reeled—and came down where we came down. For the administration, extreme events prompted radical thinking. American exceptionalism was yesterday. They would be universalists, their operating style at once dreamy and aggressive: All men want the same thing, and we’re giving it to them whether they want it or not. Now the dreamers hope to be saved by men—James Baker, Vernon Jordan—they once dismissed as cynics. And the two truest statements on Iraq are, still, Colin Powell’s “You break it, you own it” and Pat Buchanan’s “A constitution doesn’t make a country, a country makes a constitution.” Iraq has a constitution but not a country.

When history runs hot, bitterness bubbles. Democrats who should be feeling happy are, from what I’ve observed in New York and Washington, not. The closest they come to joy is a more energetic smugness. Republicans are fighting among themselves—or, rather, grumbling. They haven’t, amazingly, broken out in war, and if they did, no one would be debating if it were a civil war. It would be like Iraq, like a dropped pane of glass that is jagged, shattered, dangerous.

We will need grace to get through this time: through the discussion of the Baker-Hamilton report, through debate on the war, through a harmonious transfer of legislative power in January, through the beginning of the post-Bush era.

*   *   *

People often speak of an absence of civility in Washington, but that’s not quite the problem. Faking civility is a primary operating style: “My esteemed colleague.”

What is needed is grace—sensitivity, mercy, generosity of spirit, a courtesy so deep it amounts to beauty. We will have to summon it. And the dreadful thing is you can’t really fake it.

A very small theory, but my latest, is that many politicians and journalists lack a certain public grace because they spent their formative years in the American institution most likely to encourage base assumptions and coldness toward the foe. Yes, boarding school, and tony private schools in general. The last people with grace in America are poor Christians and religiously educated people of the middle class. The rich gave it up as an affectation long ago. Too bad, since they stayed in power.

The latest example of a lack of grace in Washington is the exchange between Jim Webb and President Bush at a White House Christmas party. Mr. Webb did not want to pose with the president and so didn’t join the picture line. Fair enough, everyone feels silly on a picture line. Mr. Bush approached him later and asked after his son, a Marine. Mr. Webb said he’d like his son back from Iraq. Mr. Bush then, according to the Washington Post, said: “That’s not what I asked you. How’s your son?” Mr. Webb replied that’s between him and his son.

For this Mr. Webb has been roundly criticized. And on reading the exchange I thought it had the sound of the rattling little aggressions of our day, but not on Mr. Webb’s side. Imagine Lincoln saying, in such circumstances, “That’s not what I asked you.” Or JFK. Or Gerald Ford!

“That’s not what I asked you” is a sentence straight from cable TV, from which many Americans are acquiring an attitude toward public and even private presentation.

Our interviewers and anchors have been taught, or learned, that they must show who’s in charge, who’s demanding answers, who’s uncompromising in his search for truth. But of course they’re not in search of truth; they’re on a search for dominance.

Interviewers now always, as you have noticed, interrupt the person they’re interviewing. Yes, they are trying to show who’s in control of this conversation, and yes, they’re trying to catch the interviewee off guard in hope of making news. They are attempting to keep trained and practiced politicians from launching unfruitful filibusters and boring everyone.

But interviewers also interrupt their subjects because they don’t want the camera on the subject. They want the camera on themselves. They interrupt to keep the camera where it belongs. If they don’t, the camera will stay on the interviewee and not the journalist, which will not help the journalist rise. They know their bosses, after all. They do not want the boss to say, “What an enlightening interview, who did it?” They want him to say, “You looked great, you were all over that guy, you grilled him!”

The Dominance of the Face leads to the inevitability of the interruption:

“Why did you vote ‘no’?”

“I felt—”

“But why’d you do it?”

“Well, the implications of the question, and the merits of the arguments seemed—”

“That’s not what I asked you!”

*   *   *

Because of this style, no one in America has been allowed to finish a sentence in the past 10 years. And it is not confined to cable but has spread to the networks, to government, and is starting to affect regular people, encouraging in them a conversational style that is not friendly or graceful, but depositional.

This has not contributed to the presence of grace in our public life. And too bad, because right now and for the next few months we’ll need grace more than ever.

It is July 10, 1858, a Saturday evening, and Lincoln is speaking in Chicago. The night before his opponent in their race for the U.S. Senate, Stephen Douglas, had referred to him graciously in his big speech, and invited him to take a good seat. Lincoln seized the opportunity and invited Douglas’s audience to hear him the next night.

And so here he was, speaking, as usual, text and subtext, on slavery. But near the end, he turned to who populates America. Half or more of his audience, he suggested, could trace their personal ancestry back to the founding generation, “those iron men” who were “our fathers and grandfathers.” Remembering their creation of the United States, thinking of “how it was done and who did it,” has civic benefits. It leaves Americans feeling “more attached to one another, and more firmly bound to the country we inhabit.”

What of those who could not trace their bloodlines back to the Revolution? The immigrants of Europe are “not descendents at all,” Lincoln said, and “cannot carry themselves back into that glorious epoch and make themselves feel that they are part of us.”

“But” he then said.

“But when they look through that old Declaration of Independence they find that those old men say that ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.’ “ And that “moral sentiment” connects groups and generations and tells America’s immigrants “that they have a right to claim it as though they were blood of the blood, and flesh of the flesh of the men who wrote that Declaration. And so they are.”

“And so they are.” With those four words he told the anti-immigrant Know Nothings that new Americans have an equal place. He was saying: Take That, haters of the Catholic Church, spoofers of foreign ways, nonsympathizers with the beset, bedraggled and be-brogued.

*   *   *

I love those words by Lincoln, and believe them. But it continues to amaze that 148 years after he said them, who populates America is still a matter of urgent argument.

Much of course has changed. Immigration in Lincoln’s day was open and legal. Now it is open in effect because overwhelmingly illegal in practice. If you want to come across the border, you can, essentially, come. You make the decision about what is best for you; America does not make the decision as to what is best for it. Both Congress and the White House, our official deciders, will likely do in the next session what they did in the last: spend a lot of time trying to confuse people into thinking they’re closing the borders without actually closing them. There will be talk again of fences, partial fences, fencelike entities and virtual fences. While they dither and mislead, towns and cities will continue to attempt to make their own immigration policy.

You know the facts. Immigrants are here in huge numbers, unlawfully, in the age of terror. They swell the cost of local life—emergency rooms, schools—which has an impact on local taxes. There are towns and cities that feel, and are, overwhelmed. And no one will help them.

The essential reason, I think, is that America’s elites don’t want America’s borders closed. Businesses want low-wage workers; intellectuals are wed to global visions of cross-border prosperity; politicians want Hispanic loyalty and the Hispanic vote. It’s not convenient for any of them to close the borders. If Americans on the ground are enduring difficulties over this, it’s . . . too bad. This is further eroding America’s already eroding faith in its institutions.

I think there are two unremarked elements of the debate that are now contributing to the government’s inability or refusal to come up with a solution.

The problem is not partisanship. It is not polarization, not really. Sentiments on this of all issues in the nation of immigrants are and would be complicated, nuanced. The problem is doctrinaire-ness. Even as both parties have become less philosophical, less tied to their animating philosophies, they have become more doctrinaire. The people who should be solving the immigration problem are holding fiercely to abstractions—to big-think economic theory, to emanations of penumbras in the law—instead of facing a crucial, concrete and immediate challenge.

The second element is definitiveness. Our political figures say they have to concentrate on an overall, long-term, comprehensive answer to the immigration problem. So they huff and puff about the long-term implications of this move or that, and in the end they do nothing.

They are like people in a burning house who sit around discussing the long-term efficacy of various kinds of water hoses while the house burns down around them.

*   *   *

More and more our leaders forget the common sense of grandma. In most everyone’s family there was a grandma who used to sit quietly in the corner and say nothing. Then someone would ask her opinion just to be polite, and she’d say something so wise, so commonsensical, it stopped everyone in their tracks. And you realized that she was smart, that she’d lived a life and seen things.

In the case of illegal immigration in America I think grandma would say, “Stop it. Build a wall. But put doors in the wall so when the problem is over, you can open the doors.”

America has, since 1980, experienced the biggest wave of immigrants since the great wave of 1880-1920. And we have never stopped to absorb it. We have never stopped to digest what we’ve eaten. Is it any wonder we have indigestion?

We don’t really have to solve the problem forever. We just have to solve it now. One wonders why we don’t stop illegal immigration, now. Absorb, settle down, ease pressures—for now. Why not be empirical, and find out what’s true? Some say stopping illegal immigration will lead to an increase in wages for low-income workers. This is to be desired. Let’s find out if it happens.

And why not give the latest waves of immigrants time to become Americans? Time to absorb our meaning and history and traditions. Isn’t that the way to help them feel “more attached” and “more firmly bound to the country we inhabit”?

I’m not sure we need more globalism, but I feel certain we need more grandmaism. A happy Thanksgiving to all, old and new.

WASHINGTON—A postelection stay in the cool, cloudy capital reveals a sober Republican Party attempting every day in conversations throughout Capitol Hill a rancor-free analysis of why the party lost, and in a way that was so killingly close and yet brutally decisive. There is a general sense the loss was not undeserved—this is an unusual attitude for runners just back from the race—and that it was not so much a vote for something as against something: them. And roiling, rudderless Iraq. And an unpopular president.

There is a sense the nation’s culture and politics are and have been changing, shifting, and agreement that the election was not a realigning one but could yet prove to be if, among other things, Republicans fail to step back, refind and rethink their philosophy, style, priorities and meaning. They must develop a conservatism that speaks for and to the times. And stop being pigs—i.e., earmarking careerists who started with belief and wound up with hunger.

*   *   *

As for Democrats, they have a unique opportunity, one they haven’t had in 14 years, to redefine for the public what their party is. It is their chance to change their public label. Now, with the cameras of the country trained on Capitol Hill, they can throw off the old baggage of the 1960s and ‘70s and erase the cartoon version of their party, which is culturally radical, weak in its defense of America, profligate, McGovernite, bitterly devoted to the demands of its groups as opposed to the needs of America.

In 1992 the young Southern moderate Bill Clinton got a chance to erase the cartoon, and he did, for a while. But he quickly slid back, undone by his own confusion as to the purpose of his power, and reinforced the public’s worst assumptions about his party with everything from the health-care fiasco to using the Lincoln bedroom as a comp room for big rollers to horrifying fund-raising and personal scandals. What he did prove—and the area in which he did break away from the cartoon version of Democrats—was that he didn’t dislike money or its makers. He did nothing to harm Wall Street, little to slow the economy, displayed a personal tropism toward the rich. Beyond that he didn’t change his party’s rep.

Can Nancy Pelosi? She looked radiant when she was elected by the Democratic conference yesterday, and she was careful to speak—everyone was careful to speak—of children and grandchildren. No one held up a sign saying “We’re Normal,” but the message was sent.

Can the Democrats spend the next two years showing a moderate, centrist, mature face to the country? Republicans say—this is the big phrase—“It’s not in their DNA.” But betting on the other guy’s inability to change is not, really, a plan. And these Democrats, or many of them, seem a rising generation of pragmatists. They seem to know what’s at stake. If they scare America, they give Republicans a ready campaign theme for 2008: If you liked the crazy Democratic Congress, you’ll love a crazy Democratic White House.

Can they go down the center, or will radicalism of various sorts erupt and gain sway? No one knows. The Democrats don’t know. The answer is going to help shape America’s future political history. And it will help shape George Bush’s. If the Democrats are radical, he will look more reasonable, not only in the eyes of the public but of history. If the Democrats are moderate, I think he will do something surprising, and yet much in line with his personality and nature.

I am taken aback this week at the level of disenchantment with and dislike of the president and his men—not among Democrats, but among Republicans. On the Hill they no longer see the White House as talented and formidable. They see it as shuttered and second-rate. There are bitter anecdotes about the way the White House has rigged and controlled events, only to blame those who followed them when disaster ensues. There are more anecdotes about the president’s refusal or inability to absorb information he emotionally resists: the senator who kept telling him the past year what trouble the party was in only to be ignored, the former congressman who pressed the point with the president and received a tongue lashing. There is increased criticism too of the habit of high White House staffers to muscle critics, silence dissent, force obedience.

It is assumed by everyone, and accepted as truth that hardly needs expression, that the brilliant and independent Michael Steele was not chosen as head of the RNC for the simple reason that he doesn’t look like someone who’d simply take orders. Mel Martinez was chosen for the reason that he will. I heard talk of what is called “the list”—the lengthening White House list of those who are to be treated as enemies. A White House preoccupied with the petty gave too little attention to policy, to the big picture. Thus the history of bungles.

Old affection and regard for the White House and the president have dissipated. But fear remains. They have two more years, they have the power to nominate, they have money. And so a party that might begin the process of refinding itself by thoughtfully detaching from the White House will, likely, not.

*   *   *

But I see a surprise coming.

What is the first thing men do when they’re drowning? They save themselves. With the waters rising on every side the president will attempt to re-enact his first and most personally satisfying political success when, as governor of Texas, he won plaudits and popularity for working hand in glove with Democrats. He accepted many Democratic assumptions—he shared them, it wasn’t hard.

The White House’s reaction to the recent election was, essentially, Now we can get our immigration bill through with the Democrats. That was a clue. I suspect the president will over the next two years do to Republicans what he did to Donald Rumsfeld: over the side, under the bus and off the sled.

He doesn’t need them. They’re not popular. They’re not where the action is. He’ll work closely with Democrats, gain in time new and admiring press—“Bush has grown,” etc.

This is the path he will take to build his popularity and create a new legacy. If the Democrats let him. It would be in their interests, so I think maybe they will.

In a way they never tell the truth until the concession speech. That’s when nothing they say can hurt them anymore. They’re worn to the bone and they’ve been in a struggle and it’s over, and suddenly some basic, rock-solid, dumb knowledge of what they’ve been involved in—a great nation’s life—comes loose and declares itself.

Rep. Harold Ford of Tennessee, who lost his Senate race, said he’d wanted to be in government since he was 4 years old, that people had taken a risk on him, that he was grateful. “I love my country,” he said. “Don’t lose faith in this great thing called America.”

Sen. Lincoln Chafee up in Rhode Island said America is divided; “common ground is becoming scarce.” He’d miss those in the Senate “who take their responsibility to govern more seriously than their personal ambitions.”

From Sen. Rick Santorum of Pennsylvania, a demonstration of patriotic civility. He praised his opponent as a human being—”a fine man, he’ll do a fine job for the state.”

Sen. George Allen, gentleman of Virginia, said, “We are placed here on earth to do something well.” He vowed to do all he could to help Jim Webb come in and serve in the U.S. Capitol.

Oh, that the new ones would carry in what the old ones have finally learned, or finally meant, or said.

*   *   *

It was the first real post-9/11 election, in that it was shaped not by the trauma itself but by public response to decisions taken after the trauma. Turnout was high. America is awake, alive, bristles. In the races for Senate, 25 million said “stay with the Republicans,” while 31 million said “no, move on.”

We have divided government. Good, and for many reasons. One: It confuses our enemies. “Who do we hate now?” they ask in their caves, “the evil woman from San Francisco or the old infidel from Texas? Which do we hate more? And if we hate them both does that…unite them?”

We are in a 30-year war. It is no good for it to be led by, identified with, one party. It is no good for half the nation to feel estranged from its government’s decisions. It’s no good for us to be broken up more than a nation normally would be. And straight down the middle is a bad break, the kind that snaps.

We all have things we would say to the new Congress if we could. We are a country that makes as many speeches in the shower as it sings songs. I would say this: Focus on the age you live in. Know what it is. Know what’s coming. The old way is over; the old days are over; the old facts and habits of mind do not pertain, or no longer fully pertain.

This is the age we live in: One day in the future either New York or Washington or both will be hit again, hard. It will be more deadly than 9/11. And on that day, those who experience it, who see the flash or hear the alarms, will try to help each other. They’ll be good to each other. An elderly conservative congresswoman will be unable to make it down those big old Capitol steps, and a young liberal congressman will come by and pick her up in his arms and carry her. (I witnessed a moment somewhat like this during a Capitol alarm two years ago, when we were told to run for our lives.) I would say: Keep that picture in mind. Cut to the chase, be good to each other now.

Make believe it’s already happened. That’s the only attitude that will help us get through it when it does. I do not mean think like Rodney King. We can’t all get along, not on this earth. But we can know what time it is. We can be serious, and humane. We can realize that we’re all in this together and owe each other an assumption of good faith.

There are rogue states and rogue actors, there are forces and nations aligned against us, and they have nukes and other weapons of mass destruction, and some of them are mad. Know this. Walk to work each day knowing it, not in a pointlessly fearful way but in a spirit of “What can I do to make it better?”

What can you do in two years? The common wisdom says not much. But here’s a governing attitude: First things first.

Do all you can to keep America as safe as possible as long as possible. Make sure she’s able to take a bad blow, a bad series of them. Much flows from this first thing, many subsets. Here is only one: Strengthen and modernize our electrical grid. When the bad thing comes we will need to be able to make contact with each other to survive together. Congress has ignored this for years.

Make America in the world as safe as possible by tending to and building our friendships in the world, by causing no unnecessary friction, by adding whatever possible and necessary emollients. In your approach to foreign affairs, rewrite Teddy Roosevelt: Speak softly, walk softly, and carry a big stick.

Much flows from this, including Iraq. This involves a huge and so far unanswered question: How to leave and not make it all infinitely worse. America will never accept a long war whose successful end even its most passionate proponents cannot convincingly envision or articulate. And America will never allow a repeat of the pictures of 1975, with desperate people who’d thrown their lot with us clinging to the skids of helicopters fleeing the U.S. Embassy. We will never get over Vietnam. And it’s to our credit that we won’t.

Those to me are the two big things. Much follows them, and flows from them. But to make some progress on these two things in the next two years would be breathtaking.

*   *   *

So that is my shower speech.

At the end of the day, or the end of this day, I look at the new Congress and wish them so well, such luck. Don’t you? I want to say: Go, Nancy Pelosi. Be the speaker of whom historians will write, in 2032, “This was her moment, here was the summit, here she found greatness.” Go, Democrats, be great and serious. Go, minority Republicans, refind yourselves. Go, conservatives.

To the freshmen: Walk in as if you’re walking out. Put your heart on your sleeve and go forward. Take responsibility, and love America. No one will think less of you. They will in fact think more, as they do of politicians after the concession speech.

It has been hard not to experience the election as a brute-force clash between two armies struggling over terrain their soldiers have come to see, inevitably—they are at war, they are exhausted—as the location of the battle, but not its purpose. The nation is where the contest takes place; you can forget, in the fight, that its actual future is what’s being fought for.

But here’s an exception: the state of Pennsylvania, which has been this year a bright patch of meaning. Its U.S. Senate contest has been the great race of the cycle, the one about which conservatives in their hearts most care. And not only conservatives, but those who know, for whatever reason and in whatever way, that there is something truly at stake here, something beyond mere red team and blue.

That would be Sen. Rick Santorum. The sense among so many people—including politicians and journalists—is that the Senate needs his sort, his kind.

The other day I called a former senator, a crusty old moderate Republican, and asked him if he liked Mr. Santorum. “No,” he said, “I love him.” When Mr. Santorum was new to the Senate, in 1995, he, the elder, seasoned legislator tried to mentor him. He wanted to help him survive. Mr. Santorum was grateful and appreciative, “but he kept speaking his mind!” The former senator: “The political scientists all say to be honest and stand for principle, that’s what people want. And he was exactly that, and he’s about to get his head handed to him.” He chuckled then with what seemed the reflexive pleasure of one pol about to see another take a tumble. Then he stopped. It was sad, he said.

*   *   *

Being a U.S. senator is a hard job. I mean this not sarcastically. John F. Kennedy once observed that it carries within it an always potentially conflicting dynamic. He was a senator from Massachusetts, he said, there to look after the needs and interests of his state. “Who will speak for Massachusetts if her own senators do not?” At the same time, look at his title: United States senator from Massachusetts. He was a member of a deliberative body whose duty it was to look, always, to the national interest. Senators could not only be “special pleaders” for “state or section.” He was there, in the end, to speak for America, to address issues greater and higher than those of region, state and party.

Rick Santorum’s career (two Senate terms, before that two in the House) suggests he has thought a great deal about the balance, and concluded that in our time the national is the local. Federal power is everywhere; so are the national media. (The biggest political change since JFK’s day is something he, 50 years ago, noted: the increasing nationalization of everything.) And so he has spoken for, and stood for, the rights of the unborn, the needs of the poor, welfare reform when it was controversial, tax law to help the family; against forcing the nation to accept a redefining of marriage it does not desire, for religious freedom here and abroad, for the helpless in Africa and elsewhere. It is all, in its way, so personal. And so national. He has breached the gap with private action: He not only talks about reform of federal law toward the disadvantaged, he hires people in trouble and trains them in his offices.

Santorum issues are hot issues, and raise passions pro and con.

His style has been to face what his colleagues hope to finesse. His opponent, reading the lay of the land, has decided the best way to win is to disappear. He does not like to debate. Mr. Santorum has taken to carrying an empty chair and merrily addressing it.

Mr. Santorum has been at odds with the modernist impulse, or liberalism, or whatever it now and fairly should be called. Most of his own impulses—protect the unprotected, help the helpless, respect the common man—have not been conservative in the way conservative is roughly understood, or portrayed, in the national imagination. If this were the JFK era, his politics would not be called “right wing” but “progressive.” He is, at heart, a Catholic social reformer. Bobby Kennedy would have loved him.

This week I caught up with Mr. Santorum by phone as his van drove east along the Pennsylvania Turnpike toward Philadelphia.

He sounded joyful. He said this campaign was “the hardest and most wonderful ordeal I’ve ever been through.” He said he’s been taken aback by all the prayers, by all the people who’ve come from so far to help him. “I’ve never had that before. I’ve never had it. I met a guy from Seattle, and a guy from Waco, Texas—they came in for a week just to help me. We have 14 kids coming in from Great Britain!” He said, “Wonderful things are happening.”

He sounded startled. And moved. And hopeful. Which is a funny way for a guy down 10 points to feel.

He told me something is happening. And I hope he’s right. Because the U.S. Senate is both an institution and a collection of human beings, and it needs his kind.

*   *   *

I end with a story too corny to be true, but it’s true. A month ago Mr. Santorum and his wife were in the car driving to Washington for the debate with his opponent on “Meet the Press.” Their conversation turned to how brutal the campaign was, how hurt they’d both felt at all the attacks. Karen Santorum said it must be the same for Bob Casey and his family; they must be suffering. Rick Santorum said yes, it’s hard for them too. Then he said, “Let’s say a Rosary for them.” So they prayed for the Caseys as they hurtled south.
A friend of mine called them while they were praying. She told me about it later, but didn’t want it repeated. “No one would believe it,” she said.

But I asked Mr. Santorum about it. Sure, he said, surprised at my surprise. “We pray for the Caseys every night. We know it’s as hard for them as it is for us.”

Personally I’ll shed no tear for the careerists of either party who win or lose, nor for the BlackBerryed gargoyles in the second row of the SUV who tell them how to think and where to stand. That means this election night will be, for me, a dry-eyed affair.

But if Rick Santorum goes down to the defeat all expect, I will feel it. Like the crusty old moderate Republican, I know a national loss when I see one.

A year ago I wrote a column called “A Separate Peace,” in which I said America’s leaders in all areas—government, business, journalism—were in some deep way checking out. They saw bad things coming in the world and for our country, didn’t think they could do anything about it, and were instead building a new pool or buying good memories for their kids. Soon after I was invited to address a group of Capitol Hill staffers to talk about the piece. When the meeting was over a woman walked up to me. She spoke of what was going wrong in Washington—the preoccupation with money, a lack of focus on the essentials, and the relentless dynamic of politics: first thing you do when you get power is move to keep power. And after a while you don’t have any move but that move.

I said I thought the Republicans would take it on the chin in 2006, and that would force the beginning of wisdom. She surprised me. She was after all a significant staffer giving all her energy to helping advance conservative ideas within the Congress. “Yes,” she said, in a quiet, deadly way. As in: I can’t wait. As in: We’ll get progress only through loss.

That’s a year ago, from the Hill.

This is two weeks ago, from a Bush appointee: “I hope they lose the House.” And one week ago, from a veteran of two GOP White Houses: “I hope they lose Congress.” Republicans this year don’t say “we” so much.

What is behind this? A lot of things, but here’s a central one: They want to fire Congress because they can’t fire President Bush.

*   *   *

Republican political veterans go easy on ideology, but they’re tough on incompetence. They see Mr. Bush through the eyes of experience and maturity. They hate a lack of care. They see Mr. Bush as careless, and on more than Iraq—careless with old alliances, disrespectful of the opinion of mankind. “He never listens,” an elected official who is a Bush supporter said with a shrug some months ago. Along the way the president’s men and women confused the necessary and legitimate disciplining of a coalition with weird and excessive attempts to silence Republican critics. They have lived in a closed system. They now want to open it but don’t know how. Listening is a habit; theirs has long been to suppress.

In the Republican base, that huge and amorphous thing, judgments are less tough, more forgiving. But there too things have changed.

There remains a broad, reflexive, and very Republican kind of loyalty to George Bush. He is a war president with troops in the field. You can see his heart. He led us in a very human way through 9/11, from the early missteps to the later surefootedness. He was literally surefooted on the rubble that day he threw his arm around the retired fireman and said the people who did this will hear from all of us soon.

Images like that fix themselves in the heart. They’re why Mr. Bush’s popularity is at 38%. Without them it wouldn’t be so high.

But there’s unease in the base too, again for many reasons. One is that it’s clear now to everyone in the Republican Party that Mr. Bush has changed the modern governing definition of “conservative.”

He did this without asking. He did it even without explaining. He didn’t go to the people whose loyalty and support raised him high and say, “This is what I’m doing, this is why I’m changing things, here’s my thinking, here are the implications.” The cynics around him likely thought this a good thing. To explain is to make things clearer, or at least to try, and they probably didn’t want it clear. They had the best of both worlds, a conservative reputation and a liberal reality.

And Republicans, most of whom are conservative in at least general ways, and who endure the disadvantages of being conservative because they actually believe in ideas, in philosophy, in an understanding of the relation of man and the state, are still somewhat concussed. The conservative tradition on foreign affairs is prudent realism; the conservative position on borders is that they must be governed; the conservative position on high spending is that it is obnoxious and generationally irresponsible. Etc.

This is not how Mr. Bush has governed. And so in the base today personal loyalty, and affection, bumps up against intellectual unease.

The administration tries to get around this, to quiet the unease, with things like the Republican National Committee ad in which Islamic terrorists plot to kill America.

They do want to kill America, and all the grownups know it. But this is a nation of sophisticates, and every Republican sipping a Bud at a bar in Chilicothe, Ill., who looks up and sees that ad thinks: They’re trying to scare the base to increase turnout. Turnout’s the key.

Here’s a thing about American politics. Nobody sees himself as the base. They see themselves as individuals. And they’re not dumb. They get it all. They know when you’re trying to manipulate. They’ll even tell you, with a lovely detachment, if you’re doing a good job. (An unreported story this year is the lack of imagination, seriousness and respect in the work of political consultants on both sides. They have got to catch up with American brightness.)

*   *   *

The Republican establishment, the Republican elite, is quietly supporting those candidates and ideas they think should be encouraged. They are thinking about whom they will back in ‘08. But they’re not thinking of this, most of them, with the old excitement. Because they sense, in their tough little guts, that the heroic age of the American presidency is, for now, over. No president is going to come along and save us, and Congress isn’t going to save us. Events will cause a reckoning, and then we’ll save ourselves. And in this we will refind our greatness.

The base probably thinks pretty much the same. They go through the motions, as patriots are sometimes called to do. As for the election, it reminds me not of 1994 but 1992. That year, at a bipartisan gathering, I was pressed for a prediction. I said it was a contest between depression (if Republicans win) and anxiety (if Democrats win). I said Americans will take anxiety over depression any day, because it’s the more awake state.

Al Gore was later told of this, and used it on the campaign trail. Only he changed “anxiety” to “hope.” Politicians kill me.