My mother was known in her later years for her “blue or purple” hair, depending upon the rinse applied to the gray during her invariable visits to the beauty shop each Friday. (You never planned anything or confronted any emergency on Friday before noon. It would interfere with that most rigid weekly ritual. And nothing could be worse.) I once asked her about the seeming sacredness of this weekly appointment. “Why do you do this each week?”
“My public expects it,” she resp0nded without hesitation. Not withstanding her own “treatments,” she would also proclaim when out of the hearing of Mabel Sprayberry, “hair that dark has to come from a bottle.” And she might have been right about that.
She was as focused on her hair as much as John Boehner seems focused on his tan. (Oh John, there is much more to worry about.)
Mother was charitable; especially at Christmastime. She would pack up her car with the sweeping fins (it looked like it was going 90 even chained to a tree) and head up into the “hollow” to deliver food and toys. However, when the kids spied her big car, they rushed towards it in unbridled eagerness. Mother would roll down the window and shout in her southern drawl, “Don’t touch my cah! Don’t touch my cah!”
I told her that it was embarrassing. “If you are so worried about your car, why not go in something else.”
“Everybody expects me in my cah! I represent Christmas.”
Maybe she was right. She did lots of good work in the community both in and out of the big blue monster. She just didn’t want it touched. She loved that is was blue. Years later, when the car had gone the way of older vehicles, she was rebuffed when my Dad bought her a new vehicle. “I sent it back,” she exclaimed. “It didn’t match my hair!”
The Republicans are trying to send healthcare reform back. It doesn’t match their elitist stance toward social programs. They wish to repeal this grand gesture of care for America even though it is almost identical in scope to proposals made and adopted by their own types. They are so lost in their ill-conceived partisanship; they are willing to cut off their noses to spite their face. (Are you listening, Mitt?)
They have totally lost control of their thinking processes. I cannot comprehend that these folks are the representatives of any constituency claiming to be a part of the country I love. Their response to healthcare reform has become downright baseborn tackiness. With the “tea partiers” they are encouraging a group mentality that is frightening. Someone is going to be hurt and when that happens it will be too late.
I would have liked it more had Mother not worried so much about her car. However, she did recognize that she could help those “up in the hollow” and she proceeded, year after year, to do all that she could.
Just like people expected to see Mama in her big blue car, I have expectations of the leaders of our country:
-I expect a concern for the citizens that outweighs your concerns for your re-election prospects. (Hang your head low John.)
-I expect honesty in dealing with all of us and with each other in Congress.
-I expect you to lead with grand ideals and not follow a rabid crowd of ill-informed idiots.
-If someone dirty shakes your hand, have the good taste to wait until you are off camera to do something about it. (Shame on you George!)
-I expect you to remember that if a microphone is in the room, keep your potty mouth shut. (Joe, that kind of thing just doesn’t play well in Peoria!)
-I expect a spirit of charity. There are people in need, help them. Let’s become a country of "Big Shoulders.”
Can we start "reaching" the heart of all that is America rather than rolling down the window and shouting, "don't touch that!"?
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Saving The World
To begin with, I do not have “delusions of grandeur.” Well, not any that I will discuss at this point. But I really ache when I cannot prevent or solve trials and tribulations for my family and friends. I also ache for the wider world.
It is all about growing up. Nobody likes the reality of adulthood. (Do you recall the moment when you received your first electric bill? You were paying for something you didn’t even remember using.) With adulthood come the aches of the aging body and the heartbreaks of the world in which we live.
As a child, you always knew that someone – a grandparent, a parent, an uncle or aunt, or a teacher – would be there to make things all right. Sometimes the problem was as simple as an untied shoelace. Sometimes it was a great as a broken bone. But there was always someone to help fix the situation and find the smiles.
Now, I am the old man of the family – the patriarch. I do not rue the title, but I didn’t campaign for the position either. It happened by attrition. But, it happened.
I feel the aches of my family and those of my friends. But that is ok. What is not ok is the inability to make things “right.” This keeps me awake at night. A million here or there would enable me to say to my children, “go home and get creative.” Spend more time with those great grandchildren. To those who are jobless, I could hire them to work with those in need. The list goes on.
I want to salve the aches.
Those who know me also know of my “leanings.” They also know that I follow certain columnists in the New York Times: Gail Collins, Paul Krugman, Maureen Dowd, and David Brooks, a highly reasoned writer. Often, Mr. Brooks is a bit too conservative for my leanings, but I have always found him extremely fair.
In his March 15, 2010 opinion column in the Times, “The Spirit of Sympathy,” Brooks writes about the changes in the disposition of our congress. Not the numbers representative of each party, but how the members interact with each other. He discusses how we have always had a “group mentality” in the House and a “person-to-person mentality” in the Senate. The House would work in blocks or groups to make decisions, where the Senate, being a much smaller, much more personal body, would resolve issues with one-on-one discussions.
Everyone knows that much can be lost in the group, whereas in the one-on-one, empathy can survive.
I recall two signal events in my life that changed the nature of who I was. One was an account by Corrie Ten Boom of the loss of family in a concentration camp during WWII. It was during the reading of her story that I became painfully aware that my “walk of faith” had to do with “hurricanes and cancer.” I turned to my faith only in the case of impending disaster. (“God, are you there.”)
The second event occurred when I was an alumni programmer for a major US university. I was running late for a meeting of alumni in a large city. The taxi let me out at the door of the hotel where a luncheon was taking place. As I hurried to get into the event, I brushed past a woman and her young daughter of about 8 years old standing outside on the walkway. They were seeking a handout. I looked and then reasoned, “she will probably use the money for drugs or alcohol.” (Group mentality at work here.)
I went into the alumni meeting and faced a crowd of very successful, upwardly mobile types with their luncheon drinks in hand. Everything taking place in front of me was about façade. Immediately I remembered the woman and her daughter. I was embarrassed at my indifference to them. At my lack of care. I turned around and made my way back to the hotel entrance. I needed to do the right thing.
She was gone. I looked up and down the street; the pair was nowhere to be seen.
At that moment, I made a pledge that I would never be faced with an opportunity to help without offering whatever I could without questioning how it would be used. My role is to respond – to only respond.
Both these events happened one-on-one.
However, as Brooks points out, our Senate is now behaving just as the House: as a group, not one-on-one. In this present climate, he observes, “The remnants of person-to-person relationships, with their sympathy and sentiment, will be snuffed out. We will live amid the relationships of group versus group, party versus party, inhumanity versus inhumanity.”
These are our adults, our Patriarchs. (Grow up! Quit fighting like a bunch of unruly kids.)
To the Congress, I offer this: there will always be abuses of the system. You can count on it because the system is powered by fallible human beings. However, to worry about the “abuses” more than the “uses” is to leave many of those in need unserved. And your job is public service. Become passionate about something more than getting re-elected. Find the humanity!!! (And also see if you can find a way to make the Senator from Kentucky smile. He is scaring the children.)
Recently, my grandson in Texas told me that the “motion m’tector” had gone off in his ear. (Any loud noise always occurs “in his ear.”) Then he said, “granddaddy, how is your m’tector?”
I pray that my m’tector will always be sensitive to my family, my friends, and to my world. I wish that I could solve it all, but perhaps together we can make a dent.
Congress, how is your m’tector?
It is all about growing up. Nobody likes the reality of adulthood. (Do you recall the moment when you received your first electric bill? You were paying for something you didn’t even remember using.) With adulthood come the aches of the aging body and the heartbreaks of the world in which we live.
As a child, you always knew that someone – a grandparent, a parent, an uncle or aunt, or a teacher – would be there to make things all right. Sometimes the problem was as simple as an untied shoelace. Sometimes it was a great as a broken bone. But there was always someone to help fix the situation and find the smiles.
Now, I am the old man of the family – the patriarch. I do not rue the title, but I didn’t campaign for the position either. It happened by attrition. But, it happened.
I feel the aches of my family and those of my friends. But that is ok. What is not ok is the inability to make things “right.” This keeps me awake at night. A million here or there would enable me to say to my children, “go home and get creative.” Spend more time with those great grandchildren. To those who are jobless, I could hire them to work with those in need. The list goes on.
I want to salve the aches.
Those who know me also know of my “leanings.” They also know that I follow certain columnists in the New York Times: Gail Collins, Paul Krugman, Maureen Dowd, and David Brooks, a highly reasoned writer. Often, Mr. Brooks is a bit too conservative for my leanings, but I have always found him extremely fair.
In his March 15, 2010 opinion column in the Times, “The Spirit of Sympathy,” Brooks writes about the changes in the disposition of our congress. Not the numbers representative of each party, but how the members interact with each other. He discusses how we have always had a “group mentality” in the House and a “person-to-person mentality” in the Senate. The House would work in blocks or groups to make decisions, where the Senate, being a much smaller, much more personal body, would resolve issues with one-on-one discussions.
Everyone knows that much can be lost in the group, whereas in the one-on-one, empathy can survive.
I recall two signal events in my life that changed the nature of who I was. One was an account by Corrie Ten Boom of the loss of family in a concentration camp during WWII. It was during the reading of her story that I became painfully aware that my “walk of faith” had to do with “hurricanes and cancer.” I turned to my faith only in the case of impending disaster. (“God, are you there.”)
The second event occurred when I was an alumni programmer for a major US university. I was running late for a meeting of alumni in a large city. The taxi let me out at the door of the hotel where a luncheon was taking place. As I hurried to get into the event, I brushed past a woman and her young daughter of about 8 years old standing outside on the walkway. They were seeking a handout. I looked and then reasoned, “she will probably use the money for drugs or alcohol.” (Group mentality at work here.)
I went into the alumni meeting and faced a crowd of very successful, upwardly mobile types with their luncheon drinks in hand. Everything taking place in front of me was about façade. Immediately I remembered the woman and her daughter. I was embarrassed at my indifference to them. At my lack of care. I turned around and made my way back to the hotel entrance. I needed to do the right thing.
She was gone. I looked up and down the street; the pair was nowhere to be seen.
At that moment, I made a pledge that I would never be faced with an opportunity to help without offering whatever I could without questioning how it would be used. My role is to respond – to only respond.
Both these events happened one-on-one.
However, as Brooks points out, our Senate is now behaving just as the House: as a group, not one-on-one. In this present climate, he observes, “The remnants of person-to-person relationships, with their sympathy and sentiment, will be snuffed out. We will live amid the relationships of group versus group, party versus party, inhumanity versus inhumanity.”
These are our adults, our Patriarchs. (Grow up! Quit fighting like a bunch of unruly kids.)
To the Congress, I offer this: there will always be abuses of the system. You can count on it because the system is powered by fallible human beings. However, to worry about the “abuses” more than the “uses” is to leave many of those in need unserved. And your job is public service. Become passionate about something more than getting re-elected. Find the humanity!!! (And also see if you can find a way to make the Senator from Kentucky smile. He is scaring the children.)
Recently, my grandson in Texas told me that the “motion m’tector” had gone off in his ear. (Any loud noise always occurs “in his ear.”) Then he said, “granddaddy, how is your m’tector?”
I pray that my m’tector will always be sensitive to my family, my friends, and to my world. I wish that I could solve it all, but perhaps together we can make a dent.
Congress, how is your m’tector?
Friday, March 5, 2010
Aubergine Bovine
My family had one of the first television sets in our neighborhood. My father purchased it on a Saturday with the understanding that it would be installed and working properly by the start of the Arthur Godfrey Show on the following Monday evening. There was also an understanding, mostly on his part, that having a television would not interrupt the normal routine of our lives. “Preparation for bedtime is still at 8:30 with ‘lights out’’ at 9.”
In those days, the stations that sent television signals via a very tall tower on top of some respectable mountain were not so powerful nor plentiful, so each residence had to have their own antenna perched “searchingly” into the air. Installing a television set meant creating some type of signal receiving tower alongside a window of the room where the big console with the “tiny” screen would reside. It was much more complicated than placing a box from Best Buy inside the luggage compartment of your Honda. (Neither of which – Best Buy or Honda - existed in those days. Luggage compartments did exist but on Chevrolets, Fords, Oldsmobiles, and Buicks. There were also Plymouths, Dodges, DeSotos, and a couple of Packards in our town. Lucille Brown drove an older black Cadillac.)
While the Japanese had aggressively attacked our Navy, they and the Chinese had yet to go after our home entertainment business, so televisions were made by Philco, Magnavox, Zenith, and RCA. There were three networks, CBS, NBC, and ABC. There was no such thing as “cable” and PBS along with the National Endowment had yet to spark the ire of the conservatives. There was no “remote control” to lose in the cushions of the sofa. Programs were found by turning a large round knob located prominently on the front of a large bulky wooden box. In time, a small booklet called TV Guide hit the market to help you know what to expect.
The television day lasted from about 6 a.m. until around 11 p.m. You could gain an extra couple of hours if you were bored enough to watch the “test pattern” that was broadcast before and after the close of regular programming. The beginning and end of regular programming was always “announced” by the playing of the National Anthem, and yes, most people stood up in the darkness or the dawning.
I am not working on a history of the late forties and early fifties here. I am merely attempting to set the stage for the events that transpired on the first night of television at our house.
Monday evening television was dominated by two very popular shows: Arthur Godfrey and “I Love Lucy.” Both lasted only 30 minutes, so there were other shows that have escaped my memory. I do recall the news with Douglas Edwards. It was sponsored by Oldsmobile Automobiles and featured a “rocket” blasting off – a metaphor for the power of their engine. (Our local Oldsmobile dealer featured a large red rocket attached to the hood ornament of their 88 model. They almost lost a sale when they attempted to remove the “advertising gimmick” from the vehicle following its purchase. The new owner insisted it was a part of what he had paid for. He proudly rode about town with the curiosity for years.)
Back to “television Monday.”
During dinner, which we hurried so as to not miss any of the precious television time, my Dad again reminded us of our family commitment to a normal evening routine despite the “one-eyed” monster that now sat in our living room. This meant that once Lucy had been caught tricking Ricky and received the “now Lucy” reprimand, we would turn the set off and prepare for bed.
My Dad laughed his curious way at everything Arthur Godfrey said. My mother commented that she also could play the ukulele. (I knew she played a great piano, but was not aware of her ability on the uke.) Lucy, Ricky, Fred, and Ethel kept us all in stitches until 8:30.
Then it happened.
The television was “clicked” off.
My mother gave us a look when my father’s back was turned which said, “don’t complain, things may improve.”
As soon as my father was deep into his sonorous snoring, we were all reassembled in front of the big box and deep into a sitcom that featured Stu Erwin. It is probably prophetic that the show was called, “Trouble With Father.” (You do the math!) Anyway, in this first “not supposed to be watched episode,” the younger daughter played by Sheila James, was involved in detective intrigue. In the course of the show, she leaves a cryptic message – the intended recipient I forget – which reads, “the frost is on the pumpkin! Run, little girl, run!”
Because seeing the show was a direct violation of my father’s “Television Rules,” the Erwin daughter’s message became the code phrase within our family to keep something a secret from Dad.
Anytime, in the years following that fateful Monday night breach, that someone was about to reveal something to my Dad that another did not wish to be known, you would hear, “the frost is on the pumpkin.” Yes, even in the middle of July.
When my sister was about to reveal that I had put a dent in the back fender of the pickup truck. I voiced so that she could hear; “the frost is on the pumpkin.” The same happened from her end of the dinner table when I almost spilled the beans that she, as Treasurer, had cleaned out the coffers of her school club.
We had many other code words. Someone not so bright was “a bubble off plumb.” Even in college, when a guy was dating a very plain girl, she would be referred to as a “woman of rare beauty.” A response of “really?” for my crowd was the ultimate mark of total boredom with a topic of conversation. (Did I hear someone say "really?")
So why am I thinking about code words”
My grandchildren in Dallas love a restaurant called “The Purple Cow.” It is bright, noisy, kid-friendly, and serves great burgers and fries. However, because of their young age, to mention the possibility of a lunch or dinner at their favorite spot, elicits an immediate impatience to go. So, in order to avoid triggering their wails of want, and because “P-U-R-P-L-E C-O-W” takes so much longer to convey, my daughter recently mentioned they may have lunch with friends at the Aubergine Bovine.
It took me a second, but then I burst into laughter. Thankfully, I knew Robert Harling’s play or the color of the cow would have been lost on me. “Now tell me, Bob, would you call this color grape or aubergine?”
Many years removed from the first Monday of television, my father was driving me to Birmingham to catch yet another flight back to Chicago. For whatever reason, I decided to come clean with our long-used code.
“Dad, there is a code that we use when we don’t want you to know about something that has happened.”
“Do you mean, ‘the frost is on the pumpkin?’” he replied with a wink.
In those days, the stations that sent television signals via a very tall tower on top of some respectable mountain were not so powerful nor plentiful, so each residence had to have their own antenna perched “searchingly” into the air. Installing a television set meant creating some type of signal receiving tower alongside a window of the room where the big console with the “tiny” screen would reside. It was much more complicated than placing a box from Best Buy inside the luggage compartment of your Honda. (Neither of which – Best Buy or Honda - existed in those days. Luggage compartments did exist but on Chevrolets, Fords, Oldsmobiles, and Buicks. There were also Plymouths, Dodges, DeSotos, and a couple of Packards in our town. Lucille Brown drove an older black Cadillac.)
While the Japanese had aggressively attacked our Navy, they and the Chinese had yet to go after our home entertainment business, so televisions were made by Philco, Magnavox, Zenith, and RCA. There were three networks, CBS, NBC, and ABC. There was no such thing as “cable” and PBS along with the National Endowment had yet to spark the ire of the conservatives. There was no “remote control” to lose in the cushions of the sofa. Programs were found by turning a large round knob located prominently on the front of a large bulky wooden box. In time, a small booklet called TV Guide hit the market to help you know what to expect.
The television day lasted from about 6 a.m. until around 11 p.m. You could gain an extra couple of hours if you were bored enough to watch the “test pattern” that was broadcast before and after the close of regular programming. The beginning and end of regular programming was always “announced” by the playing of the National Anthem, and yes, most people stood up in the darkness or the dawning.
I am not working on a history of the late forties and early fifties here. I am merely attempting to set the stage for the events that transpired on the first night of television at our house.
Monday evening television was dominated by two very popular shows: Arthur Godfrey and “I Love Lucy.” Both lasted only 30 minutes, so there were other shows that have escaped my memory. I do recall the news with Douglas Edwards. It was sponsored by Oldsmobile Automobiles and featured a “rocket” blasting off – a metaphor for the power of their engine. (Our local Oldsmobile dealer featured a large red rocket attached to the hood ornament of their 88 model. They almost lost a sale when they attempted to remove the “advertising gimmick” from the vehicle following its purchase. The new owner insisted it was a part of what he had paid for. He proudly rode about town with the curiosity for years.)
Back to “television Monday.”
During dinner, which we hurried so as to not miss any of the precious television time, my Dad again reminded us of our family commitment to a normal evening routine despite the “one-eyed” monster that now sat in our living room. This meant that once Lucy had been caught tricking Ricky and received the “now Lucy” reprimand, we would turn the set off and prepare for bed.
My Dad laughed his curious way at everything Arthur Godfrey said. My mother commented that she also could play the ukulele. (I knew she played a great piano, but was not aware of her ability on the uke.) Lucy, Ricky, Fred, and Ethel kept us all in stitches until 8:30.
Then it happened.
The television was “clicked” off.
My mother gave us a look when my father’s back was turned which said, “don’t complain, things may improve.”
As soon as my father was deep into his sonorous snoring, we were all reassembled in front of the big box and deep into a sitcom that featured Stu Erwin. It is probably prophetic that the show was called, “Trouble With Father.” (You do the math!) Anyway, in this first “not supposed to be watched episode,” the younger daughter played by Sheila James, was involved in detective intrigue. In the course of the show, she leaves a cryptic message – the intended recipient I forget – which reads, “the frost is on the pumpkin! Run, little girl, run!”
Because seeing the show was a direct violation of my father’s “Television Rules,” the Erwin daughter’s message became the code phrase within our family to keep something a secret from Dad.
Anytime, in the years following that fateful Monday night breach, that someone was about to reveal something to my Dad that another did not wish to be known, you would hear, “the frost is on the pumpkin.” Yes, even in the middle of July.
When my sister was about to reveal that I had put a dent in the back fender of the pickup truck. I voiced so that she could hear; “the frost is on the pumpkin.” The same happened from her end of the dinner table when I almost spilled the beans that she, as Treasurer, had cleaned out the coffers of her school club.
We had many other code words. Someone not so bright was “a bubble off plumb.” Even in college, when a guy was dating a very plain girl, she would be referred to as a “woman of rare beauty.” A response of “really?” for my crowd was the ultimate mark of total boredom with a topic of conversation. (Did I hear someone say "really?")
So why am I thinking about code words”
My grandchildren in Dallas love a restaurant called “The Purple Cow.” It is bright, noisy, kid-friendly, and serves great burgers and fries. However, because of their young age, to mention the possibility of a lunch or dinner at their favorite spot, elicits an immediate impatience to go. So, in order to avoid triggering their wails of want, and because “P-U-R-P-L-E C-O-W” takes so much longer to convey, my daughter recently mentioned they may have lunch with friends at the Aubergine Bovine.
It took me a second, but then I burst into laughter. Thankfully, I knew Robert Harling’s play or the color of the cow would have been lost on me. “Now tell me, Bob, would you call this color grape or aubergine?”
Many years removed from the first Monday of television, my father was driving me to Birmingham to catch yet another flight back to Chicago. For whatever reason, I decided to come clean with our long-used code.
“Dad, there is a code that we use when we don’t want you to know about something that has happened.”
“Do you mean, ‘the frost is on the pumpkin?’” he replied with a wink.
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