Back in August 2004, Consort had been out doing something at, oh, let's say a hardware store, because that's always a safe bet. He came back after a long time, grinning.

"Were you watching the Democratic Convention?"

"Of course."

He'd gotten to the parking lot just as this candidate for Senate, this guy with a weird name, started giving the keynote. Consort listened for a minute as he parked, then another minute, and then realized he was in for the whole speech, because it was that good.

A minute or so after that, a black teenager left the store, wearing a uniform. He stood in the parking lot, looking around, clearly waiting for a ride. Consort listened another minute, then did the cab-whistle to draw this young man's attention and motioned him over.

Consort turned up his radio and said to the young man, "You are listening to the first black president of the United States." In that hot August night, on either side of that door, Consort and this kid listened in absolute silence.

A few minutes later, a minivan drove up.

The kid loped to the car, got in, said something to his mother, pointed at Consort and then started doing something with the dashboard; I'm guessing he was changing the station. They drove off, the teen waving, the mother looking exactly as confused as I would have looked.

I think about that story all the time because a) It's Peak Consort and b) It was a Capra moment, a Rockwell moment.

It was what America wishes when it blows out the candles every year on its birthday.

It is what we can be.

It's going to take so, SO much work, but it's what we will be.