For Shame – To say the least

            I suppose that one could possibly interpret this article as a debate between the “haves” and the “have-nots,” but it is something that I have grappled with for most of my young life;  The issue of MONEY.

            Everyone knows that in this country an election campaign can cost upwards of millions of dollars.  Just where does a person who attempts to venture into the political arena begin in their search for sufficient funds to underwrite such an undertaking?  Right!  They begin with the “haves.”  There is no time to bother with the nickel and dime contributions.  They must secure ample financing long before they even consider their platform.

            Millions are pledged or donated to the candidate for various reasons, not the least of which are promises of support for a favorite act of legislation if the candidate is successful and triumphs in their bid.  Multiply these dollars by the number of prospective contestants and you have a rough estimate of the mind-boggling amount that is spent for each election.  Add to this a high five-to-six figure income for the winner and you can quickly see that the cost is more than an average citizen will realize in their lifetime.

            I am certainly not so naive that I believe a campaign can be successfully administered without the expenditure of vast amounts of money, and that is far from the purpose of this article.

            Possibly the uppermost in my assessment would be that before the candidate can be permitted to perform any work, there must be gala affairs combined with their swearing-in ceremonies at the cost of another million dollars or more.  Other millions are spent encouraging constituents to join in their efforts to bulldoze a promised proposal through the Congress.

            THEN, when the spending runs rampant and it becomes clear that something must be done to balance a budget, ALL heads turn to the livelihoods of guess who.  The “have-nots!” They are the ones who lack the power and the money to resist.

            Not one word is mentioned of curtailing any of the lavish spending during a campaign.  Not one word is mentioned of eliminating the extravagant festivities that presumably are essential for participation in governmental service.  Not one word of reducing the insignificant travel arrangements, which accomplish no more than an extended vacation for the legislator.  No one speaks of reducing the amounts given to countries that have nothing but scorn for us until it’s time for another handout.  AND, heaven forbid, no talk of applying a small percentage of THEIR five-to-six figure income to the reduction of the budget.  To do this could alter the amount of THEIR pension, which is already sufficient enough that they have no need for the negligible amount that Social Security would pay to them.  =Nuff said!

            It is so much easier to sever the lifeline of the poor and elderly.  Giving credence to this line of thinking is the assumption that if these folks have never enjoyed prosperity, there is no reason to believe that affluence will be missed.  After all, the only thing that these people can afford to contribute is one vote, and it is not beyond the realm of possibility that this vote can be purchased with the promise of an insignificant tax cut.

            Obviously, I am not schooled in the field of high finance, but I fail to understand the importance of a tax cut when the country is in such dire need that, after receiving this tax break, thousands will be required to return as much or more to the treasury in the form of reduced subsistence.

            It is truly sickening to hear of all the wasteful squandering of tax dollars and then hear some multi-millionaire member of the congress assert that the only antidote is to take the food from the mouths of people who struggle to survive, their only hope being the paltry checks from Social Security and the equally small assistance that Medicare or Medicaid provides.  I have always been under the impression that we’re ALL in this together.

            Apparently dedicated politicians that possess either conscience or concern are definitely in the minority.

Demijon

 

Uncle Clem – trader of fine dogs

 
            Uncle Clem was known far and wide for his large assortment of bird dogs.  He usually possessed about 15 to 20 dogs of various descriptions at any one time.  He was also adept at making a story about these dogs interesting and did not hesitate to mishandle the truth in the process.  One of my favorites is as follows:

            “Year before last a fellow came all the way from Montana to buy one of my bird dogs, because he had heard that I kept the finest crop of dogs in the country.  I had one female that I didn’t particularly like, and I thought that the time was right to unload this dog since he apparently did not know a whole lot about bird dogs.

            “When I took him back behind the house to the dog pen and called old Bell, I could tell that he didn’t take to her right off.  I began to praise the merits of this fine animal.  I told him that Bell would suit him to a tee because she had been trained better than any of my dogs.  ‘How so?’ the fellow asked me.  I replied, well she has been trained to point a covey of birds and stand rigid until you can catch up with her, and then she will flush them when she is sure that you are in shooting range.  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said the fellow, ‘she can’t be that smart.’

            “Sure she is, she is one of Ruby’s puppies and Ruby was the smartest bird dog I’ve ever owned.  I started telling him about the last time that I took Ruby hunting.

            “It was way down in the fall when I took Ruby out to hunt quail.  I had seen several coveys in the broom sedge field just over the ridge from the barn, and me and Ruby headed over there.  Ruby worked that field back and forth, and the broom sedge was so high that I could hardly see her tail as she kept sniffing for those quail.  She sniffed every inch of that field until it began to get dark.  I called her back but she didn’t come to me.  Waiting for almost an hour, I decided to go back to the house.  Bless Pat, she never did come back to the house.

            “The next spring I burned that broom sedge off that field so that I could plow it. Lo and behold, over in the far corner of the field was Ruby’s skeleton, and I swear there was the skeletons of six quail right under her nose.

            “Well-sir, that fellow bought Bell right on the spot and gave me a $10.00 tip to boot, so it appeared that the telling of Ruby’s last hunt was what done the trick.”

            Uncle Clem continued to buy, sell and trade dogs for the rest of his life, and I can’t remember anyone knowing of his ever getting cheated.  His skill at trading was only exceeded by his proficiency at telling a tall tale when it suited his purpose.  Even now, when someone is buying or selling something in our neck of the woods, someone is sure to ask, “Are you sure that this is not Uncle Clem’s RUBY?“

Jay Henry

An important lesson

 

            You meet a friend whom you have not seen in some time and immediately the question is asked, “Whachew bin up to?”  Now, this is not that the person asking the question is trying to probe into your personal business.  Rather, it is more of a statement of inquiry.  “I have not seen you in a month of Sundays, and I was wondering if you have been ill or if anything exciting has been happening in your otherwise monotonous lifestyle.”

            Along the same lines is another inquiry into the state of your health.  “Howya bin?”  You explain that you were hospitalized for a period of three weeks and this will prompt yet another question, “You bin sick?”

            In order to appreciate these methods of greeting, you must be well versed in the state-of-the-art language that is commonplace in the southernmost parts of this great country.  There are no courses offered in any school that can prepare you for these encounters.  You are strictly on your own if and when you venture anywhere below the Mason-Dixon Line.

            Only a few of these innovative expressions are included in this article in order to prevent complete shock and your first response of, “DUUGGHH.” 

            If you are a total stranger in the South, you may even become lost and require directions.  Before asking, you should familiarize yourself with who lives where and who used to live where.  This could prove invaluable in deciphering the directions, i.e., “Ye go down this heah road ’til ye git to th’ Hylton place an’ turn to’ard th’ Jenkins’ old place.  When ye git to th’ big tree ’bout a mile frum they barn, take a right-han’ turn lak you’re headed fer th’ creek, but you don’t go that fur.  They house is on th’ lef.”  It really couldn’t be any clearer, provided you know all of the specified persons.

            If, in fact, you did require directions, do not be surprised if you are asked the question, “Y’all nevah bin down heah afore, has y’all?”  This is simply to gain an explanation for your rather unusual appearance rather than to seem nosey.

            It would be a wise individual that refrains from suggesting that appropriate road signs should be erected in and around this utopia.  Doing so will surely bring about the response of “We ain’t lost!”

            Another important item that should be mentioned here is; Even if you do not understand, never, EVER, raise your voice or show anger.  You must remember that these gentle souls are concerned about your welfare, and it would grieve them tremendously to waste a 12-gauge shotgun shell on the likes of you…

            And besides, they’re home and you ain’t.

Demijon

Revival of the grease pit

Often it was no more than two ramps constructed of heavy timbers that allowed an automobile to creep up onto the raised scaffolding, and gave the attendant access underneath to the many grease fittings situated at strategic points in the steering mechanism, springs, and wheels. This raising of the car was also necessary to drain the oil when changing. If the service station grounds were of the proper elevation, a pit was dug in close proximity and covered with an extended roof, thereby allowing service during inclement weather. Shelves were installed in the concrete walls of the pit to hold the necessary tools; and, of course, stop-blocks were required in order to prevent the vehicle from traveling too far and falling from the ends of the ramps.

Armed with a lever powered portable grease gun, the attendant would first remove the plug from the oil pan and allow the thick, black oil to drain into the bucket that was always present. While the oil was draining, he would clean and pump a sufficient amount of grease into each fitting, being careful to wipe away any excess. Finally, after checking for any worn or damaged parts, he would replace the drain plug and emerge from the pit and raise the hood. Any fittings that could not be reached from underneath were greased and belts, hoses and wires were checked for wear. New oil was poured into the crankcase, and the car was carefully backed from the pit and parked on a concrete slab by the side of the station.

It was here that the final service was performed. All windows were cleaned, the tires were checked for the proper amount of air, and the entire car was washed. If requested, it was filled with gasoline before being returned to the owner. Now it is time for the financial reckoning. Five quarts of oil at 30 cents each = $1.50. Grease 75 cents. Labor $1.00. Ten gallons gasoline at 25 cents each = $2.50 for a grand total of $5.75.

Quite a difference from today’s u-pump fill-ups at the mini-mart – $21.65. Driving to the Jiffy Lube for an oil change – $19.95. Inserting two quarters into the air machine to check tires, again do-it-yourself, and then to the drive-through car wash for another $5.00. In today’s world we would spend $47.60 and still would not have the free checks for worn parts.

We have come a long way from the days of the grease pit, and I wonder if it has been for the better. For around eight times the cost, we have received less than one-half the service, and we were not even told about the lightning rod salesman that Mavis Tarlton ran off with last week. To gain this information, we would have to eve-drop on the Cardshark Bridge Club or The Ladies Afternoon Quilting Circle.

Is this progress? Personally, if I could have my “druthers”, I would opt for placing my car in the capable hands of an experienced attendant while I relax and am brought up-to-date on all the local gossip.

The buildings that housed the grease pits were much more than a couple of gas pumps. They were indeed, SERVICE STATIONS and Information Centers.

John

Seasons come & Seasons go

It has to be human nature for us to complain about everything, especially the weather. I suppose that I am one of the worse offenders since there are only a few days each year that suit me to a tee.

It’s either too cold, too hot, too wet or too dry. Even in spring when the world is awakening with budding trees, warm breezes, and gentle rains, we all can find multitudes of things to complain about. The life giving pollen that coats everything with a mantle of yellowish green can provoke us to the point of issuing tirades about the mess it makes, notwithstanding the discernable drip from our noses.

Forgotten are the days when we yearn for the first breath of spring as we sit, wrapped in a blanket, and gripe about the severe cold. If, by chance, the cold was accompanied by rain, our demeanor becomes intolerable.

Ever so slowly, the pollen dissipates and is replaced by a brief period when the plants and flowers begin their display of color. “Trouble is, they don’t last long enough,” we remark. The bleak, seemingly dead twigs now are adorned with vibrant green leaves, but this does nothing to preclude our dissatisfaction.

Bright sunshine and rising temperatures cause not only changes in the terrain, but also in our attitude. “It’s too hot, and we need rain.” is more or less a daily oration while attempting to control the weeds that compete with the lawn and garden. Discomfort with the “sweat of the brow” is foremost in our minds while executing even the smallest chores. There are other times when we cannot perform these chores simply because it is too wet.

Eventually, other changes are evident as the seasons wind down and leaves begin their flamboyant, final spectacle. It is here that another change takes place in our perspective. The raking and disposal of leaves are certainly not our idea of an enjoyable task. “Oh well, it won’t be long before we can sit by a warm fire and read,” we mutter as blisters swell and we apply liniment to our aching backs.

Temperatures rapidly drop and here we sit, wrapped in a blanket and still shivering, longing for the bright sunshine, the rain-cooled breezes and the multicolored array of blooms. Even the beauty of new-fallen snow only increases our disgruntled outlook when our attention is drawn to the shovel and the snow-covered driveway.

Why is it so hard for us to realize that we are promised weather and seasons that we NEED, rather than ones that suit our fancy? We could save ourselves a lot of discontent if only we would accept God’s plan for our world and adjust our attitudes accordingly.

By casting aside our desires and believing that everything that we need will be provided, we can become more content with our voyage through a world of many seasons. The simple act of exercising this strategy would eliminate our need for the words…

HOT, ain’t it?

Demijon

Skinning ignorance

 
In the days before refrigeration was commonplace in stores and restaurants, it was said
that oysters were only available during months that contained an “R.” Whether or not this was
true, I never knew, but took this for granted since they said it was.
Once, while seated on the “Sons of Rest” bench in front of the filling station, Fred I-Jolt
(not his real name) mentioned a desire for a mess of fried oysters. A couple of his peers
reminded him of the “R” rule and stated that it would be impossible to find them at this time of
year.
Until now, B. L. Sloan (also not his real name) had remained silent; but hearing this, he
raised what was, to him, a pertinent question
“Why not?” “It’s Argust ain’t it?”

The United States Postal Service was established in the 1970’s. Until that time, the Post
Office was a wholly owned subsidiary of the U.S. Government. One of the popular services it
offered was Postal Savings. Customers could invest and receive a modest rate of interest while
the Post Office used these investments as operating capital.
During the early 1940’s, we were engaged in war against Germany as well as the Empire
of Japan. Everyone was encouraged to invest in war bonds to support our troops fighting to
defeat these aggressors.
One afternoon the “Sons of Rest” convened with the subject of war bonds, as its main
agenda. “Good investment,” said one. “The best,” said another. “Keeps from raising taxes,”
said a third.
Harlow Thurston sat deep in thought throughout this discussion and said nothing. The
sitting chairman of the “Sons of Rest” finally asked his opinion of war bonds and received this
reply.
“I ain’t gonna put my money in war bonds. I’m afraid the government will go broke.
I’m putting my money in the Post Office.”

Many afternoons would find Ben Alsbrooks stretched out on the “Sons of Rest” bench
with his hat pulled over his eyes and apparently in a deep slumber. One such day, a motorist
screeched to a halt at the intersection and yelled to Ben; “Which way is Waretown?” Ben did
no more that point in the general direction. The irate motorist then asked in a loud voice, “Why
in hell don’t you erect some signs around this Podunk town?” Ben raised his hat; glared at the
stranger and replied, “Don’t need ‘em, dumb-ass. We know exactly where we are~”

These are only three of hundreds of true stories gleaned from the minutes of the “Sons of
Rest” club. Of course, names have been changed to prevent embarrassment to anyone.
The “Sons of Rest” club was active for many years when I was a youngster. The charter
was reluctantly surrendered when the filling station ceased operation. It was during sessions
with these masters that I attained my self-assurance, poise and intellect. It is truly a shame that
the authoritative leaders of this club never harbored political aspirations. Under their leadership,
chartered “Sons of Rest” clubs would be nationwide and every American would benefit.
John

Pardon me; I forgot

The strange look on my face is more confusion than anything else. I am definitely not appearing “stuck up.” I have simply forgotten who you are. There was a time when I could memorize an entire book and recite it word for word, and now I have trouble with the days of the week.

Inability to remember is cause for concern for me as well as those around me. Many times I have been conversing with someone only to discover later that we were discussing two entirely different subjects. This may very well be responsible for the shaking of the head and the mouthing of the word “senility.” Rest assured that this attitude is not intentional on my part. It is merely that my attention span is hardly longer than the first “hello.”

In addition, I am prone to mumble a lot. Mumbling tends to mask my forgetfulness somewhat as I make a feeble attempt to appear normal. For instance, when introduced to someone, my reply is usually; “I’m happy to make your acquaintance Ms. *#@!n(?&wv*ly.” For some strange reason, I feel that the sympathy which I receive for enduring a speech impediment is better than the fact that I can’t remember sh*t.

Yes, age has done a number on me. I do not mind so much the sagging muscles or the protruding belly and I really believe that the white hair does carry with it a look of distinction; but the fact that the mind is totally gone really bothers me.

When realization dawned on me that I was beginning to forget things, I came upon the idea that I would write down important information. There was one small problem with this. I could never remember where I put my note pad and pencil.

I have heard that there are three things that happen to someone when they pass the fifty-year mark. Second, the mind deteriorates and I can’t remember the first & third.

Demijon

Way Un-cool

I wonder if there is such a word as UN-COOL. If there is, I suppose it would describe me to a tee. Let’s face it; I belong to a generation that most of today’s youth would characterize as UN-HIPP. In fact, I have difficulty conversing with anyone who is not a recipient of Medicare.

Today’s technology, i.e., television, C.D.’s, cyberspace and even many of the best-selling books have suggested that the use of profanity and especially four-letter words are the norm for modern speech. I distinctly remember a definition for the use of profanity; “Displays ignorance; it illustrates that ones vocabulary is inadequate to express ones-self.” Enough said.

I grew up in an era when children were taught to respect others rather than to rob, maim or even kill simply for the thrill of it. Our mentors were always The good guys. In my day, what little entertainment we were exposed to, (be it radio, newspapers and/or the movies), carefully portrayed our hero’s as always being on the side of right. We understood that the bad guys would be shot or jailed without all the graphic blood and gore that is predominate in most of today’s motion pictures and even in recent comic books.

Another area that proves my un-coolness is the matter of dress. Men nor women of my generation would never consider appearing in public unless they were fully dressed. Granted, many of the latest fashions were sometimes cost-prohibitive and much of our work clothing sometimes contained patches. However, our dress (or Sunday) clothing was always clean and pressed. No one would EVER purchase a pair of jeans and tear holes in them before the first wearing. And they fit, rather than the crotch hanging around the knees and the legs dragging the floor.

Another little tidbit; In the olden days, underwear was meant to be just that; underwear. Not something to be displayed above or below outer clothing. The statement we old folks made back then was that self-respect was something of which to be proud.
It is never hard to spot all of us un-cool folks. We’re the ones with the bill of a baseball cap pointing forward instead of backwards. AND, generally speaking, we are fully dressed; albeit that the clothing we are wearing was “IN” before World War II.

Demijon

Explain, please

Congratulations, John Sellers. You are the tiebreaker in our eleven million dollar sweepstakes, and we want to give you a one million dollar bonus for your loyalty and prompt attention to our previous requests to “Send It In.”

Basically, this is how the letter read. In only a short time I will be fabulously rich, even beyond my wildest dreams. Their claim is that I will receive one thousand dollars each day for a period of thirty years. I can live with that.

There is one small problem in my feeble mind, however. If I am declared the grand prizewinner, what happens next? Will I be cajoled and yes, even threatened with being dropped if my interest in the wonderful array of magazines which are now included with all the correspondence that accompany my winning numbers falters or wanes?

This is beginning to get serious and I want to know. Will I be allowed to enjoy my riches without being inundated by requests to take advantage of the marvelous savings on selected magazines? If I am a millionaire, eleven times over, I can well afford the newsstand price; therefore, any offers of savings would be a waste of postage, wouldn’t it?

Then there is the matter of what will happen to my wealth in the event that I do not live until the scheduled end of the thirty-year period? Will it continue to be paid to my heirs or will any balance be forfeited? These questions have yet to be addressed in any correspondence, and I believe that you owe your top prizewinner an explanation as to the actuality of such problems arising after my award is finalized.

I suppose that what I am referring to is, if I am indeed the winner of the grand prize of eleven million dollars, will you simply leave me alone or will I continue to be asked to “Send It In” every two weeks for the duration of my life? And if my heirs are the recipients of my fortune, will they be flooded with requests to order magazines at substantial savings over the newsstand price?

Awaiting your immediate response to these vital inquiries, I remain, yours truly,

John, Multi-millionaire.

Overheard

The weekly meeting of the “Cardshark Bridge Club” was just beginning. Eight friends who gathered each Wednesday for a serious round of bridge, and more importantly, the dispensing of news and comments of and about topics of local interest; however, discussions were not limited to the above.

There were times when certain members of the club could not be present; therefore, initiating subjects that heretofore would have been suppressed. One such meeting was held in the living room of our home and I, as luck would have it, was liken unto the proverbial fly-on-the-wall.

The games began on a serious note with the usual, “two diamonds,” “four clubs,” “pass,” etc. Then it settled down and became somewhat more interesting. From my vantage point I could not distinguish between the members; therefore, I will relate only the context of what transpired.  You know;  Important things, such as…

*******
“Do you believe that the cost of gasoline will ever be less than $2.00?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Probably.”

*******
“Does Barbara, (absent member), color her hair?”

“Yes.”

“I think so.”

“Yes.”

*******
“Who was the man with her at the mall last week?”

“She said he was her brother.”

“She is an only child, I’ve heard.”

“It certainly was not her husband. He was at work; he works with Albert”

*******
“Evelyn (a substitute) was in Wal-Mart yesterday wearing that same tacky dress.”

“I thought it looked nice.”

“I saw one just like it in the thrift shop last week.”

“Should we tell her?”

*******
“Did your taxes go up after annexation?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“They didn’t get us this time.”

*******
“Is Mary Anne (a friend) out of the hospital yet?”

“Yes.”

“She is home, but I understand that she’s not doing well.”

“We should call her.”

*******

“Have y’all heard the one about the farmer’s daughter?”

“Yes.”

“You told it last week, remember?”

“Yes.”

*******
Since the ones present were aware that I was in earshot, I suspected that they had toned down their conversation for my benefit since most of them appeared ill at ease. Therefore, I discreetly excused myself and retreated to the relatively calm environment of the service station in order to allow them to open up and enjoy their game with full knowledge that the next subject that would be discussed would be…

John