A miracle

If I were just a tad more paranoid and prone to conspiracy theories, it would take very little to convince me that the entire saga in Chile was planned, scripted and staged for no other purpose than to steer the world’s attention away from other, more ominous situations. Pakistan, for example, where thousands and thousands of people have died and thousands more are about to, or Haiti, or Afghanistan. Or, closer to home, that little blip of a story about the banks imposing a moratorium on home foreclosures because they screwed up their own paperwork – talk about a story that yields way more questions than answers – and, darker yet, the White House’s objection to it. The White House thinks calling a halt to foreclosures in order to get the forms in good working order will not be good for the economy. The White House also believes, particularly now that the cameras and microphones are no longer in the Gulf of Mexico but are hard at work in Chile, that this is the time to lift the ban on offshore drilling that was put in place, as I understand it, to make sure that everyone was adhering to the same rules and regulations. The timing, of course, has nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with the upcoming elections.

Not that it takes much in the way of talent or intelligence, but I knew this mining story was going to be insufferable from its inception. It was August, and when news broke that there were several miners trapped a half mile beneath the Chilean surface, a blind person could have seen the twinkle in the eyes of the newscasters when they announced that the men may not be rescued until Christmas. Now there, I thought, is a timeline for a reality show. This would not be your garden variety hero story about a dog who miraculously dials 911 as the house begins to fill with smoke, or the baby who falls out of a window and is rescued and saved by an everyday hero who was just waiting for the opportunity to give back. Oh no, this would be something else altogether.

I skipped the news on Wednesday morning. It was bad enough on Tuesday, the excitement, the anticipation, the raw emotion of it all. I was saddened that even the Newshour had a correspondent on, live at the scene. Facebook, however, proved too tempting. There were many status updates about the wonder of it all, this restoration of humanity captured live, in real time, for us all to witness. One of the most prolific status updaters I know – a guy who very skillfully blends, using very few words, smarminess and authoritarianism – wrote that there was something disturbing about CNN posting the number of miners rescued on its ticker. “This is not a sporting event,” he wrote. So I wrote, as a comment, which I rarely do: “Oh, but it is …” To which someone else responded, “This is so kewel!! Realty tv has NOTHING on this!” And there were many, many others who had been posting throughout the night. They were touched, they were moved, they were in tears. Then, many of them, addressing whomever had started the particular comment thread they happened to be on, this: Love you. Love you, Lynn. Love you, Claudia. Colleen, I love you soooooooooo much.

I am sorry – sort of – to be so negative, but mandatory, global group hugs make me squirmy.

But speaking of love, that’s the subject of the one news story I did read about the miners on Wednesday morning. Shortly after reading the miners declared (and I’m surprised it took as long as it did to run into this) “… heroes … Nobel men” on Facebook, I opened up the Huffington Post. I was scrolling down in search of what I can no longer recall when I came across a good one. The wives of the miners are fighting – physically, in some instances – with their mistresses (some have more than one) over who is going to get the compensation from the Chilean government. Which makes me wonder how long it will take for the geniuses at Today or Good Morning America to stage a reconciliation show where they all come on – the hero, the wife, a child or two, and a mistress, or perhaps two – and find themselves so overcome with emotion by how profoundly thankful they are for life’s simple pleasures. I cannot wait to share in the grief and joy, to insert myself into the story as if it were my own, and I probably won’t have to for long.