Last week when I went to the store for cocoa, I thought the $1.99 price
was awfully high. When I got home,
I compared the new box with the not-quite-empty one I had gotten a couple of
months earlier. It said $1.75.
Then I read in Changing Times that in 1972 an urban family of four could
maintain a reasonably comfortable standard of living on an income of about
$16,600. By 1976, they needed $23,800.
Yesterday I heard that lettuce would soon be 80 cents a head.
In light of all this, my husband has decided to grow his "second
annual" anti-inflation garden.
Last year he planted tomatoes, lettuce, carrots, onions, broccoli,
radishes, cabbage, basil, corn, cucumbers, zucchini and cauliflower.
Our neighbor, who has an outstanding garden every year, supervised for as
long as he could stand it. After
laughing hysterically at the canal-sized furrows my husband had prepared for his
radish seeds and at the knee-high "hills" he had shaped for his
cucumbers, our neighbor withdrew from his supervisory role.
The onions rotted, the lettuce was bitter, the carrots were midgets, but
my husband remained undaunted because of the tomatoes and cucumbers, which grew
beyond our wildest expectations.
We gave so many tomatoes to our neighbors that they would give them to
people in the city who would finally say that they had canned enough for the
winter.
My husband would go out in the middle of the night to see if any animals
had gotten into the garden, and he would get up at the crack of dawn to see how
it was doing. He would bring in a
cucumber that looked like a wart for us to admire.
He never let anything get large enough before he picked it.
The tomatoes and cucumbers grew overnight in self-defense.
The zucchini hid, however, and one grew as big as a watermelon before he
discovered it.
My husband heard that the only way to keep raccoons out of the corn was
to leave a transistor radio playing in the garden all night and leave a smelly
pair of tennis shoes nearby.
That advice cost us two radios and my favorite pair of tennis shoes.
We had the only raccoon restaurant in the county that offered dancing in
the moonlight after dinner.
I will say, however, that even miniature broccoli and corn are better
than store-bought, and nothing tastes better than a homegrown tomato, and I do
like for my husband to work in the garden.
It looks earthy, or something.
This year's garden plants are moving along much more smoothly, too, and
that gives me hope. The only
problem my husband is having so far is figuring out where to plant the cocoa.
Back to the top
Owning a new Citizens Band radio in the car is like moving.
One must face new challenges and must find the inner personality which
exists in all of us which lets us be Like everyone else instead of Different
from everyone else.
The only problem with CB's is that, while they improve communications
between cars and trucks, they create communications problems between husbands
and wives.
Since my husband bought a CB, he hasn't said three words to me in the
car. If I start to say something my
husband will tell me to be quiet and watch for Smokey Bears.
Not only am I asked to refrain from verbal communication in the car -- I
also have had to learn a new language.
I called my husband at his office last week.
"You got the Blue Fox here. Come
on back," said my husband.
"We be comin' in to this town to get some motion lotion," I
said. "Would you like to eat
lunch with me?"
"Not eat lunch, Green Apple," he said.
"Whatever," I said. "How
about a 10-36?"
"Twelve-fifteen on that 10-36," said the Blue Fox.
"What be your 20 on that pit stop?"
"It be on that Bypass at that orange piggy-bank."
"Scarlet Pumpernickel, a piggy-bank is a toll gate."
"Oh, yeah," I said. "What's
a 20 again?"
"That's your location, Scarlet Pumpernickel," said the Blue
Fox.
"Rog-O, that's a big 10-4," I said.
"Well, what be your destination 20?"
"How about that red roof at that 29 southbound?"
"That's a 10-4, Good Buddy; this is the Blue Fox clear and
down."
When I hung up, I didn't know whether I was meeting my husband at a gas
station or a restaurant, but I did know that if I drove along the highway and
looked for aerials on tops of cars, eventually I would find him.
I did.
He was sitting in the car, listening.
"Get in," he said quickly.
"Let's just eat in the car. I
want to find out about the weather from these truckers."
"They pay meteorologists a lot of money to do that on the
radio," I said. "Remember the radio -- the one you had to have, with the
tape deck and stereo? It's that
thing to the right of the steering column."
"Negatory, waste of time -- listening to that," said Blue Fox.
"Who wants to listen when you can talk?"
Back to the top
Our minister tells of a dignified funeral procession at which he and
another minister were walking along engrossed in conversation.
They looked about and realized they had made a wrong turn while talking
and were all alone in another part of the cemetery.
Red-faced, they ran around trying to find the mourners-in-waiting.
When they did, they were almost too breathless to conduct the service.
I hope something funny like that happens at my funeral.
It will be a fitting climax to my life through which I've tried hard to
remain dignified but during which, at the most serious moments, I have a
tendency to burst out laughing.
Part of the blame can rest on my father.
He was the one who gave my mother a "breath mint" during church
which turned out to be one of those foaming mints which cleans your teeth
without a tooth brush.
Mother tried to swallow the foam, but it kept coming.
Finally, she had to leave the service, looking rabid for more reasons
than one. Daddy and I thought it
was hilarious.
Once a lady sitting in front us was wearing a hat which was a large
feather attached to a headband. The
headband kept creeping up during church and finally the hat sprang off.
Daddy made a big show of catching it and trying to kill it.
Again, the lady didn't think it was nearly as funny as Daddy and I did.
My brother wasn't a much better influence.
In the middle of a visiting evangelist's hellfire and brimstone sermon,
my brother took out a white handkerchief and waved it wildly.
I loved it, but even my father pretended not to see the humor in that
incident.
Many times when my family wasn't providing the humor on an otherwise
serious occasion, it was provided for us.
Once a 10-year-old boy who had just been baptized left the baptistry on
the wrong side and opened the door of the women's dressing room.
Horrified, he dove back into the baptistry and swam through the
preacher's legs to the other side, upending the preacher and hopelessly
destroying the somber mood.
There are times, I know, when it is inappropriate to laugh.
One of those was when my husband twisted his ankle when he fell while
trying to walk rolling barrels with the kids.
During church and funerals, however, I think it's okay.
My grandmother, whom I loved dearly, died when I was about 10 years old.
She had a wonderful sense of humor.
At her funeral there was a big spray of flowers with Fanny Matilda
written across a purple ribbon in gold letters.
I never knew my grandmother's middle name was Matilda.
I thought Fanny was bad enough, and I was sure that somehow Grandmother
had seen to it that those names were put on that ribbon so that I would have
something to laugh about at her funeral.
I started to laugh, and I couldn't stop.
My brother poked me, so I tired to make it look like I was crying
instead.
Grandmother would have loved it. In
fact, my grandmother knew what Aristotle knew without ever knowing about
Aristotle. She knew that, "Any subject that cannot withstand the
test of humor is suspicious."
Back to the top
When our oldest daughter was two years old, my husband found her playing
with a packet of his small tools.
He was afraid she would get hurt with them, and he asked her to give them
to him. She refused, saying they were her tools.
He told her they were HIS tools. She
said they were hers.
Finally, he called her by her full name and, in a stern voice, told her
to give him the tools. She knew she
was in a no-win situation, so she held out the tools, but she said, "Well,
they're MY tools, but you can play with them if you want to."
She had realized in that instance the delicate art of giving in while at
the same time preserving her dignity.
Giving in used to be reserved for certain groups of people, like women
and blacks. Now, however, all of us are asked to give in a little on most
issues in the hope of creating a little more equality for everyone.
The trick is to give in with dignity.
Sometimes we make the mistake of thinking that giving in is a sign of
weakness. Strength and superiority
are equated in our minds.
On our honeymoon, my husband pointed out to me a large motel that he said
was the largest in the world. I
laughed (first mistake).
I told him that couldn't possibly be the world's largest motel.
He said it was. I said it
wasn't.
We didn't speak for two hours, but I never gave in to the fact that it
even MIGHT be the world's largest motel. (It was.)
It's a good thing we were on our honeymoon.
Let there be no mistake: Giving in is not always the same as giving up.
Sometimes it takes a very strong person to give in.
When our family is all together, the one who gives in the most is my
mother. She never cares if the
grandchildren eat crackers on the carpet, whether the living room is turned into
a fort, what we eat or what excursions we take.
She will do what anyone else wants to do, and be happy about it.
She gives in because, to her, the most important thing is not to win the
argument. It's to respect other people's feelings.
And THAT'S being dignified.
Back to the top
My friend, Molly, who tries to do the right thing more than anyone I
know, called last weekend and invited us over for a picnic.
"That sounds great," I said.
"I'll bring the hot dogs."
"Oh, we can't eat hot dogs," said Molly.
"They have sodium nitrite in them and that causes cancer."
"Oh," I said. "Well, I'll bring the hamburgers, then.
We'll grill them and it'll be easy."
"We can't grill them," said Molly.
"Charcoal is carcinogenic too."
"Well, we can fry them, then," I said.
"No, no," said my friend.
"Pan-frying hamburger makes mutagens and they produce cancer."
"What about chicken?" I asked.
"Does pan-frying chicken make mutagens, too?"
"They haven't found any yet," Molly said.
"I guess we can risk fried chicken -- if your husband doesn't have
heart trouble."
"He would if he had to plan this meal," I grumbled.
"What did you say?" Molly asked.
"Nothing," I answered. "What
can we drink?"
"As you know," said Molly, "they've discovered sugar is
terrible for you, and the only drinks I know of which don't have sugar added are
orange juice, apple juice and unsweetened tea."
"Why don't we just mix them all together and pretend it's
medicine?" I asked.
"Peggy, you're exaggerating again," she said.
"Okay, I'll bring the meat and the drink and you make the dessert.
I'm all out of granola."
Molly didn't laugh, which led me to believe we were going to have
granola.
When my husband got home, I told him about the picnic.
"Sounds fun," he said. "What
are we going to eat?"
"Chicken without mutagens, hopefully," I said.
"Chicken Without Mutagens Hopefully?" he asked.
"What kind of dish is that?"
"You'll like it," I said.
"Just as long as it isn't fried," he said.
"I've been meaning to cut down on fried foods lately.
Too much cholesterol can kill you."
"So can your wife," I said.
"So can your wife."
Back to the top
Every time I see a mother at this time of year, her tongue is hanging
out.
"How are you?" I asked one as she whizzed past me in the
grocery store.
"I can't talk now," she said.
"I have to make a refugee dress, go on a field trip to Spaghetti
Tree Farm, buy a pair of purple flip-flops for a play costume and attend a
graduation today."
Another shopper banged into my basket from the front.
"I'm sorry," she said. "It's
just that I have to get all these groceries so we can go camping over the
weekend. I don't think I can make
it."
Then she looked at me as if she were grasping for straws.
"You wouldn't know where to get a 9 by 12 trailer awning, would
you?"
"I'm sorry, I don't," I said.
"I didn't think so," she sighed.
"Maybe I can drive to the city and find one, pack the trailer, and
still be ready by 5:00."
"Good luck," I said.
A little farther down the grocery aisle, a lady had her cart crosswise in
the aisle. She was telling a grocery-store clerk, "You're OUT of
powdered sugar and cupcake papers? You have everything in here from pickled
kumquats to caviar, and you're out of powdered sugar and cupcake papers!
"I've got to have 42 cupcakes for my child's class in two hours.
What am I going to do?"
The clerk gently moved her basket as he said, "Why don't you give
them a candy bar instead?"
"They VOTED to have cupcakes," she said. "I can't go
against something they VOTED ON!"
It was too painful for me to watch. I
put my bananas back, left the store and went home and took a nap.
Later, I went to pick up the kids at school.
"They canceled the dance," said the girls as they got in the
car. "Not enough kids were
going to be here. We don't have to have new dresses now."
"Gee, that's too bad," I said.
As our son got in the back seat, he said, "Hi, Mom, our class is
going on a field trip, but I didn't volunteer you because I couldn't remember
which days you work."
"That's okay," I said.
I stopped at my husband's office to get him.
"I have to work Saturday," he said.
"We won't be able to go camping or anything.
I'm sorry."
"That's all right," I said.
"It'll be hard, but we'll try to have fun anyway.
Why don't we just eat out tonight instead?"
"Good idea," he said. "You
pick the place."
It was a lovely weekend.
Back to the top
A few months ago our son was seriously ill in a large hospital.
My husband stayed with him night and day, sleeping in his clothes and for
several days leaving only momentarily to eat in the hospital cafeteria.
He was there giving the reassurance and support that only a father can
give to a son in times of trouble.
The day came when we could take our son home, and as he lay in the back
seat and my husband and I sat in the front, I had never been more proud of the
man I had married.
Believing in "mind over body" the way I do, I felt that he had
played a major role in our son's recovery.
Even the doctor had said as much.
My nerves were raw, admittedly, but sometimes one's nerves need to be
exposed in order to feel Everything more deeply.
As these feelings of pride rushed over me, a man pulled his car up beside
us at the stop light and honked his horn. My
husband rolled down his window, thinking the man wanted help of some kind.
Actually, the stranger wanted to point out that my husband had given a
wrong signal, and that he should never do that again.
My husband said that he was unconscious of his error, that he usually
didn’t do that, and apologized.
I couldn't believe the scene. I
wanted to say," But you don't know what he's been through.
You don't know what he HAS done. You
don't understand!"
The image the stranger saw and the image I was seeing were totally
opposite.
I started thinking about images and wondering if they are important.
The saying, "It not only has to BE right, it has to LOOK
right," came to mind.
I wondered if someone like the stranger had made it up.
Was it possible that the labels had become more important than the
clothes, the cars more important than who drove them, and the houses more
important than what went on inside them?
I wondered if, by some misguided standard, the Looking had become more
important than the Being.
Mirrors, like clock faces, rarely reveal their most important parts to
whoever is looking at them.
Back to the top
Once my father attended one of those male banquets to which each man
takes an underprivileged boy.
Daddy didn't want to go in the first place, feeling that a cowboy banquet
was the last thing both he and the underprivileged boy needed.
He was coerced into it, however, but when my mother insisted that he
dress Western style, he balked.
"No one," he said, "will dress like a cowboy.
No one even knows how a real cowboy dressed."
Mother said that the instructions had been explicit.
"Everyone is supposed to dress Western," she said.
"Do it for the boy."
Finally, Daddy gave in and wore a string tie, a plaid shirt, jeans, boots
and a cowboy hat.
When he came home, Mother asked him how the affair went.
"It was just like I knew it would be," he said.
"Every man and boy there had on a suit and tie.
I felt like a jackass at a quarter horse convention."
Last week, I got the same feeling when my husband and I went to one of
those fancy tennis clubs.
I put on my best tennis outfit, which included a shirt I had bought at a
grocery store and a skirt I got at a Junior League thrift shop.
My red and white tennis shoes had been a bargain, I thought, at $2.
As I looked into the mirror for a final check, I thought that if I could
remember to hold my stomach in for two hours, I would have it made.
My husband was wearing a yellow and white striped shirt, a pair of shorts
that looked like Hawaiian rejects, and a pair of white baggy socks that he had
folded over the way we did it in the 50's.
His tennis shoes had stars on them and our tennis balls were white.
We arrived at the club ready for action.
We parked our car with 130,000 miles on it next to a Mercedes.
I looked around for a car similar to ours.
There wasn't one.
We went in. Bronzed people
in Adidas tennis shoes asked if we needed directions to some place.
"Yes," we said. "Where
is the public tennis court?"
As we left, my husband laughed. "Boy,
did I ever feel out of place," he said.
"I felt like a...a.."
"A jackass at a quarter horse convention?" I asked.
Back to the top
We recently visited a family who had been beleaguered by out-of-town
visitors all summer.
As we started to leave, four-year-old Lanelle came over to us and said,
"You don't have to go. I Know,
'cause that's what we tell Everybody."
Summer wouldn't be the same without company, but one time I was at the
breaking pint. I went to my neighbor's and sat down for a coffee break.
"You look tired," she said.
"I'm just depressed," I said.
"We just had to take out a loan in order to feed the family who's
been staying with us for a week. I
think they like it here. They're
becoming petrified. They look like
part of the furniture. If anyone
ever wrote a book on '101 Ways to Get Rid Of Visitors You Barely Know,' they'd
make a fortune."
"You don't need a book," said Edna.
"All you need is egg salad."
"Egg salad?" I asked.
"Yes," said she. "I
ran across it by accident. Once we
had a family with four teenagers visit for five days.
Finally, all I had left was eggs. We
only had eggs for breakfast and then I made egg salad for lunch.
When dinnertime came, I asked if anyone wanted some egg salad.
They packed within 30 minutes."
"I don't know if it'll work or not," I said.
"These are pretty tough customers.
They have some food in their camper they might fall back on."
"In that case," she said, "you might have to try the
mumps."
"How does that work?" I asked.
"You put a marshmallow in your child's mouth and ask him to walk
through the room. Then you say, 'Gosh, I hope he's not getting the
mumps.'"
Having a game plan made me feel better, and I decided to hold off on the
suggestions.
When we went through two loaves of bread at breakfast the next morning,
however, I reached for the eggs. Sure
enough, by dinnertime they were fixing dinner in their camper and inside we were
eating egg salad and marshmallows.
Back to the top
I got a letter yesterday from my friend Martha who had just moved into a
new subdivision. She said that when
they bought the house, they also had to join the Homeowner's Association, which
saw to it that everyone kept their houses up properly and that the property
value in the neighborhood was maintained so that it could rise beyond everyone's
wildest expectations.
In this neighborhood, Martha explained, they had to get permission for
the color before they could repaint their house.
No one could park a camper there longer than overnight.
No fences could be built without approval by the committee. And, no one could hang out his or her clothes on a
clothesline.
I had seen a letter in a newspaper last month from a lady who said she
wasn't allowed to hang her wash out anymore either.
I think these Neighborhood Clothesline Watch Programs are the answer to
what we have been seeking for a long time.
Who cares if we use more natural resources to dry our clothes?
We have to preserve what we have that's really important: our property.
I would like to be the chairperson of the Clothesline Watch.
I could drive around and see if anyone had pop-up clotheslines hidden
away for a sunny day or, horror of horrors, a permanent clothesline in the
backyard.
If they had patterned Lady Peckerel sheets-on-the-line in shades that
matched their houses, I might let them get by with it once or twice.
But, if they had jeans and ragged undershirts all hung out, I wouldn't
even give them a warning. I would
put a quarantine sign on their mailbox and spread the word that that family had
no community pride or sense of values.
If they complained, I would tell them to love it or leave it.
After all, there must be something sinister about a person who would hang
out her clothes in broad daylight.
Back to the top
While standing in line at an amusement park recently I saw an irate
father yelling at his young children for some minor offense.
The children ducked their heads, their mother was in tears and the sun
beat down upon them all as if they were on center stage.
When the father got out of line for a drink, a lady with older children
came over to the young mother and said, "Don't worry, honey.
The kids don't get any better at these places, but the fathers do."
I think amusement parks are good because they give families the
opportunity to vent every emotion they ever had for one another all in the same
day. It costs about the same as
group therapy and the kids like the rides -- most kids, that is.
I learned early that the main attraction for me was watching, not riding.
When I was about 10, a carnival came to town and I was taking it all in
-- riding the airplanes and boats -- waving to my mother once upon a circle.
Suddenly a lady I knew came over to me and asked me if I would take her
eight-year-old daughter, a polio victim who had to wear braces, on the hammer, a
monstrous spire with cages on each end which spun its victims into cotton candy.
I knew I didn't want to ride it before I said yes, but the mother had a
heart condition and I was the only one who could take the crippled little girl
on a ride she desperately wanted to take.
During that ride all the laws of gravity were broken, but Sheryl kept
saying, "Isn't this fun?"
I couldn't answer. My tongue
was glued to the roof of my mouth. My
heart flopped from left to right and then upside down.
My stomach and my brain exchanged places and my knees were as useless as
my Raggedy Ann's. I promised God
that if He would let me off alive I would never do anything as foolish again.
I kept that promise until recently, when in the throes of an 'equal
opportunity for housewives' crisis, I decided to prove to my family that I could
ride on a roller coaster.
Having passed through all the psychological trauma amusement parks
produce, I found the roller coaster quite thrilling, actually.
Still, if there is a pot of gold at the end of the roller coaster, it is
simply that it stops.
Back to the top
I was driving along the road on a beautiful morning last week when I saw
a bumper sticker which said, 'Honk If You're Happy.'
I was in a wonderful mood, so I got behind the car and honked.
The man turned around and gave me a dirty look.
I smiled so he would know I was happy, pointed to his bumper sticker and
honked again. He pulled over to the
side of the road and got out to check his car.
I pulled up beside him. "I
just honked because of your bumper sticker," I said, smiling.
"Do you mean you made me late for work because of a bumper
sticker?" he asked.
"But it's Your bumper sticker," I said.
"Stupid women," he muttered, and he got into his car and peeled
off.
I forgot why I was happy but I was determined not to let a bumper sticker
ruin my day.
I drove on to the airport and picked up my brother who was to visit us
for a few days.
We ate lunch and decided to attend an outdoor concert.
My brother has a habit of chewing on an unlit pipe, and he had it in his
mouth. In the middle of an aria, a
lady next to me pointed to her Thank You For Not Smoking button and then to my
brother. He motioned to her that he
was not smoking. She didn't understand the message.
She moved over, got out her handkerchief, put it over her nose and
started coughing.
My brother calmly made his own sign and buttoned it to his shirt.
Then he passed the lady his pipe and pointed to his sign.
It
said, Thank You for Not Coughing while I Am Not Smoking.
Out loud, the lady said, "You men are still setting a bad
example."
As we left, I whispered, "I know how you feel.
It happened to me this morning."
On the way home, we played a game which my husband and kids call the Good
Guy Bumper Sticker Game. In the
game the good guy bumper stickers get the lowest rating and the ones which poke
fun at the good guys the highest.
For instance, a Warning: I Brake For Children (is there someone who
doesn't?) would get a 1 and a Warning: I Brake for Snail Darters would get a 10.
“The best one we saw was on a small child's bike.
It said, “Have You Hugged Your Teddy Bear Today?”
Back to the top
Although the worst happened at our house last week and all of the
children and I had the flu, there were a few bright spots that made the week fit
into the category of "not a total loss."
For one thing, one night my husband fixed canned stew, corned beef hash,
pizza, peanut butter sandwiches and Coke for our dinner.
It was one of those meals I just never think of fixing, and we hadn't had
it since I was sick two years ago.
For another thing, I discovered that, contrary to my doubts, I am
absolutely indispensable. No one
can find anything without me and everyone must be close to me, lying on the bed
with me, if possible.
Also, I found out that clothes get fairly clean without the benefit of
any detergent at all, which is the way the children washed them.
This fact will no doubt save us several dollars a month in detergent
costs.
And lastly, while I was sick I had time to read a little book by Alonzo
C. Hall entitled Grave Humor, which is a collection of epitaphs copied from old
tombstones. This book prompted me to write an epitaph of my own, thereby
saving my family the trouble.
It would read:
"Peggy June
While she was lying sick in bed --
Too sick, in fact, to raise her head,
The clothes and dishes went unwashed
The floor, it went unswept;
When she, arising, saw the mess
She fell back down and said,
'Dear Lord, just take me anyway,
I'd rather die instead.'"
Back to the top
Every year at this time I have recurring dreams in which I am part of a
revolutionary band of mothers standing in front of a school.
Our leader has a sword in her teeth and a hand grenade in each hand and
she is very, very tall.
The intercom system of the school is saying," You must have 15
spiral notebooks, each in a different color."
We mothers shout, "NO! The spiral notebooks we already bought will
have to do!"
The intercom says, "You must have matching gym suits and red tennis
shoes."
"We do NOT!" shout the mothers.
"America was not founded on matching colors."
"You will drive your children to Sweat Sisters practice four days a
week in order to promote what should be the most important thing in their lives
-- school spirit," the intercom continues.
"No, Big Brother, we WON'T!" we shout.
"There are other things just as important."
The voice on the intercom becomes unnerved.
"Well, then," it says, "we will give them so much homework
that they will never have time to help around the house."
At this, our leader takes her sword out of her mouth, waves it, and
shouts, "Come out where we can see you!"
"We have a rule against that," says the intercom.
That makes us so mad that we storm the school in search of the intercom.
We go from room to room, but the school is empty.
Finally we find it, but upon inspection it turns out to be only a
recording.
Our leader nibbles a bit of a cookie left on the counter by the PTA,
shrinks like Alice In Wonderland, and gets into her car to drive 30 miles for
graph paper.
I awaken hitting my husband and shouting, "I will NOT eat that
cookie!"
"Honey, you have GOT to go off of your diet," he says.
"You are becoming hysterical about cookies."
I can't even have a decent revolutionary Dream.
Back to the top
When Congress asked some companies doing business in Uganda about their
responsibility for Idi Amin, one reportedly said, "We sincerely feel poorly
equipped to participate in any meaningful discussion."
At least it's a fresh approach. I
can't remember the last time I heard of anyone claiming stupidity.
In these days of political campaigning, it seems to me that everyone
feels equipped to discuss everything. Everyone
claims to have had experience in everything -- and the solutions for everything.
I was listening to a Congressional candidate being interviewed last week
and I wondered if all candidates go to some secret school were they learn to
establish that they have all the credentials they could possibly need to fill
the position in front of the general public, while at the same time avoiding
answering the questions.
For instance, when asked," How do you feel about the policemen
having the right to strike?" the politician answers, "My father was a
policeman and my brother-in-law is a policeman, and so I understand very well
the problems of policemen.
"We all owe policemen a great debt.
They are there when we need them. They
lay their lives on the line for us every day.
The public, at the same time, needs to know that they can be counted on. We need more trust in our policemen...Next question?"
Just for fun, I decided to ask my next-door neighbor a question the same
way I would ask a politician and see if the answer would be
"meaningful" at all.
"Shirley," I asked, "what do you think about the nuclear
carrier?"
"I don't know much about it," she said.
"I've never seen one or anything, but I read that at any given time
only 30 or 40 percent of our planes are usable anyway.
It sounds to me like what they need are more mechanics."
Oh for the blessings of non-experience.
Back to the top
I hit a utility pole while backing out of our driveway last Saturday and
I've been trying to analyze that ever since.
The windows were foggy and the kids were late for practice, but the fact
is that if I had been in the "good" car, I probably would have been
more careful. I'm sure I would at
least have wiped off the rear window.
