Living on Eighties Time

Do you remember when every move was calculated and effective, every motion quick and accurate, every deadline fourteen minutes away?  The pace, the pace.  Now! Or better, yesterday.

I don't live that way anymore.  I couldn't live like that even if the desire to do so were present. I have two speeds:  exceedingly slow and can you still see me moving?. Do I still accomplish things?  Not much, but I can still shower and dress myself.  I live in gratitude fo what I can do. 

Will the world, or even the nation or my community be improved if I watch congressional hearings, form biting opinions about the state of affairs in which we are entangled?   They will not, so therefore I do not invest any of my precious remaining time doing that.  Same for most "news" outlets.  I hate this, but I have become so skeptical that I herewith validate my father's opinion regarding reporters and pundits.  "The only thing you can believe in the newspapers is the funnies page."  But that is not all bad; saves me more of that dear commodity called time. 

So what do I have to contribute to the conversation over the coffee mugs at the old coots' gathering?  Pleasant words about the weather.  A cheery, "How're things?" and a firm "Good day!" if someone should steer the conversation toward Washington, the State Capital, the mayor's office.

Seriously.

Think the wain will huht the whubob?      (The "ahh" key quit on me.  Sowwy,)

Christmas Kickoff

The article on the front page of our local newspaper announced Friday's "'Tis the Season" celebration in downtown Perfect.  Many fun things planned for residents of all ages, but the clip about the ice sculptor caught my eye.  I am sure his art work is stunning and to see him work should be entertaining.

But the thing I wonder is Where on Earth did he find "18 odd chickens"?  I know that cats are odd, and I have seen some strange rabbits, but just what makes a chicken odd?  17 chickens would be an odd number of chickens, but eighteen?

I am so confused.  Silly, too.

Well, it is December now, so on with the Christmas celebrations!

Smile

A couple of days ago I was on about my aversion to "take it to the next level."  Last night I was reading the newspaper and came across another cliche that sets my teeth on edge.  This one is heard on a daily basis on tv newscasts, *growl* but now it has crept into the print media.  Is there no hope for us?

The offensive line? 

"We reached out to . . . "  Of course we left a message but the source we wished to contact did not return our call.  Smart source, unless someone wants to be misquoted in the press.

Here's an idea, Ms. Reader, or Mr. Reporter as the case may be.  Why don't you "reach out," grasp your throat firmly with your hand and throttle yourself?

Rant over.

have you smiled today?

News, Opinion, and the Faded Line

 

I subscribe to The Washington Post online edition.  They keep my inbox filled with the latest news and opinions; or as one might accurately say, opinions and opinions.  But I digress.

This direct from the evening edition, June 2, 2016:

The petty things that people shot each over last month

Average Americans routinely shoot each other over minor annoyances, data show.

	One has to wonder how many things an "elite" news source can get wrong in two lines.  The elision of the word "other" in the bold-type headline we can chalk up to typo, i.e., careless error.  But look at the sub-line as an illustration of my "opinion or opinion" shot above.  Ostensibly (just from this slug line) the news is that someone compiled data on shootings in America which found that some (many?) shootings are over "minor annoyances."	The clear thrust of the line is that it is the opinion of the writer and, by extension, the publisher that "Average Americans routinely shoot each other."  Parsing that a bit further, it is the opinion of the WaPo that Average Americans are the perpetrators of shootings in our country, but more they engage in such crimes on a routine basis.	Am I the only person who sees anything wrong with this?  Journalists are often the target of politicians.  As the supposed guardians of truth, the vaunted "Fourth Estate" that will serve to keep us informed and free, it is natural that politicians and journalists will come into conflict.  But I fear that in the moral climate of the day it is a toss-up as to which group deserves our respect.  Full disclosure:  Upon the completion of this diatribe I read the article itself.  It was headed by a full-color photograph of a handgun and several hollow-point bullets lying on a table.  The story itself was pretty much what I expected.  Clicking on the bold line above will take you there.

Dressing Up in the '50s

As we continue riffling through the old newspaper we find some clues regarding the costs of proper attire for the lady and her gentleman.

Dad always wore a fedora.  Sometime in the nineties, I think, he was shopping for a new hat.  He was appalled at the notion of paying eighty dollars for a new Dobbs hat.  This may help us understand why he felt as he did.

Random Doodles and Stuff

I keep a clipboard with a pad of 8.5 x 11 paper thereon close at hand, for one never knows when something of critical importance may impinge itself on the consciousness.

Of course, if you know me at all you are aware that "close at hand" means just out of sight or out of reach when the occasion for need arises, and thus my forgetter wins again.

The evidence before your eyes demonstrates that the clipboard is not always out of reach.

I shall look at this with you, lest you attempt to bicycle-analyze me.

This sheet has been in use for about a week.  It reminds me of a random  page in my notebook that I might have used during a class session in college, say Psych 254.  But that is neither here nor there.

In the upper left, there are several notes I jotted as I read the local newspaper.  These are the items that put me in a funk a week or so ago.  Remember?  In an attempt to balance the bad news, I jotted the "good news" in the upper right corner.  Note my conclusion: "Good news is no news."

What annoyed me?  The 63/30 notation is in reference to an article that told us that the tax review board had allowed a reduction in property taxes for a Meijer store in a nearby county.  This was allowed based on the "dark store theory," notwithstanding that the facility is in full operation.  Thus, it will be taxed as though it is an empty and disused warehouse.  Worse, the county may have to reimburse millions to the behemoth that owns the store for previous tax payments, not to mention the perpetual loss of half-million dollars a year in the future.

If allowed to stand, the door is open for builders to demand application of "dark store theory" to new construction, averring that a building is obsolete upon completion.   Grrr and growl.

The next item is in reference to a bill which has been introduced in the state legislature which if it becomes law will allow the construction of enclosed hunting preserves.  You know.  Raise in confinement and hand-feed game animals then enclose them in a pen with high fences and allow the "sports" to hunt them with rifles.

When I resided in the West, we went into the mountains to hunt game.  Surrounding the habitat were hundreds of square miles of wide open spaces.  Also, we were hunting because we wanted to eat.  It would not be appropriate for me to express how I really feel about this proposal, the people who made it, and the people who would exploit it.  Nevermind. I'm mad now.

The house at the bottom you have seen.  It is the sketch of the first house my first bride and I occupied.  The "church," the "dog," and other stuff thereabouts represent the scribbles I made as I was taking a break from organizing my tax papers.

The next morning I scribbled a part of Shakespeare's "He who steals trash," (Iago) and I do know the missing lines in the middle.  That may have been a follow-up to the discovery that someone apparently stole my registration papers for the vehicle which are normally tucked behind the visor on the driver's side.  Now why would anyone do that?

And so on and so forth, enough is enough.

If you embiggen the picture, it is quite legible, but not, alas, enlightening.

Eat Mor Kalekin

According to our Saturday newspaper, a man in Vermont received a letter from Chik-fil-A demanding that he “cease and desist” from using the slogan “Eat more kale.”  Motivated to protect his rights, the man patented the phrase and defied the company.  Enter the lawyers. The ruling has come down, and mirabile dictu, the man prevailed.  He may make all the T-shirts and bumper stickers with the slogan he wishes.  Oh, well.  As the C-f-A spokeslady said, “Cows eat kale, too.”  Which seems to me to be a non sequitur, but what do I know?

Why strange?  Because it is virtually unheard of for an individual to go up against a big corporation and win his case.  I, many decades after the fact, hold a resentment toward a certain purveyor of fast food, think happy meal, and Ronald.  A block north of my father’s residence in a small town not far from here, there was a restaurant called “Mac’s.”  Yes, they specialized in hamburgers and fries and such.  Comes the Oak Brook megachain to town, building one of its eyesores about three blocks to the west of Mac’s, and jumping with all its feet and force on Mac’s, hauling them into court, claiming that Mac’s was operating in violation of the corporation’s ownership of the world, so to speak.  The ugly monstrosity won, and Mac’s has been out of business ever since.

Which is not where I was headed when I started the kale story, but my mind is easily distracted in my old age.

Chik-fil-A does not open on Sunday, a choice they made and of which I approve.  They say, in effect, it allows a day in which their employees may worship or spend time with family.  Christian values, don’t you see?  But on the other hand, suing someone who will not bend to their will is perfectly fine.  It’s the American way, don’t you know?  It probably is just me, but the juxtaposition of these positions seems incongruous.  Yes, that’s it.  It is just me.


Today's verse:   And he said, “Woe to you lawyers also! for you load men with burdens hard to bear, and you yourselves do not touch the burdens with one of your fingers.  --Luke 11:46 (RSV)

Probe, Pry and Test

     --Walt Kelly, 1961                  

Little Gem

This little building on the southwest corner of Main and Madison is known as "The Little Gem."

This building was constructed and opened as The Little Gem Restaurant in the early 1920s, as I understand it.  That not only was nearly half-century before I moved to this community, it was also a number of years before I was born.

During my years here, it has operated as a sandwich shop, a soda fountain and ice cream store, under different proprietorships, and most recently as a beauty salon.  It is currently vacant.

The larger properties visible behind the little store and the Gem itself are apparently on the market.  Many people, myself included, hope that whoever acquires the property will preserve the landmark building.

Here is the "news" aspect of this report.  The City of Tipton is currently occupying temporary headquarters as City Hall since the demolition of the previous municipal home.  The city council is considering purchase of this property for use as City Hall and municipal utilities offices.  It has been suggested that should they do this, The Little Gem might well be preserved!  Now there is a reason for me to support this move by our leaders!

Hi, I'm Al of the Daily News #T

Did I tell you about the time your Uncle Alfred become a newspaper man?  Well, you know Uncle Al is your Mama's youngest brother 'n he was still to home after all the others done moved on to they own homes.  He was a bright one, though, an' he loved to read and write.  Now that, he taken after his mama, I reckon.  So when he's about twelve,  thirteen, he gets this idee to become a news reporter.  He start nosin' around the community, keepin' open his eyes and ears.  Whenever he hear somethin' or see somethin' he think is newsworthy, he goes and writes it up.

In the dinin' room is this big ol' oak table and smack in the middle of it, your grandma keep this big ol' marble slab, oh, 'bout a foot wide and twicet as long.  Musta weight twenty-five, thirty pound.  So anyways, Al would skootch the slab to the edge the table and use it as a desk for his writin'.  Grampa tole him, "You break that slab, we use it as a headstone for your new dug grave."  Well, it was a heirloom, doncha know.  Fambly tale was that it was one hunnert percent Eye-talian marble and that it come over from Europe with the first of the Harris settlers to this new land.  Hit had been in the fambly for at least seven generations, if nobody had lost count.

Well, Al keep his pencil sharp with his little pen knife, and after while he decide to contact the newspaper about workin' for them.  Now he din't just write off to the editor, neither.  No, sir.  He write the editor personal by name.  It were Everett Grimes over at the Lamar Daily News back then.  Al say he can keep the paper updated on important goin's on around Holly, and he sent along a sample a his work.

Well, ol' Grimes were some pleased with what he read, and he was impressed by the boy's gumption, so he writes back and tells the lad that if he submit a story each week, hit will be considered "on its merits" an' if it is published he will be paid a dollar.


Whut a deal!  Anyways, there was no holdin' the boy back now.  Soon ever'body in that corner the county knowed that Al was a reporter for the News.  An' bout ever' other week, his stuff got run in the paper.  Hit did.  An' that's how your uncle become a newspaper man.

'Course all good things come to an end, so they say.  Al's news career come to an end when he mail in a story to ol' Grimes about a good time had by local residents over to Coolidge.  The story mention a local school marm and  Banker Wills, whose wife, according to the story, was in Denver at the time of the alleged party.  Needless to say, the story did not make the cut at the newspaper, but it did boil Grimes's blood some.  Not only was Banker Wills the president of the bank in Holly, he was a state representative up to Denver, and he held some paper on a property Grimes had over to Springfield.  But that warn't what got Grimes a goin'.  The afore mentioned school marm was sister to Mrs. Grimes.

Well, Everett Grimes were a gentleman, an 'stead of jus' firin' Al outright, he get in his Essex and drive on over to Holly and look the boy up.  He explain to the lad in quite some detail whut newspaperin' is all about, what a reporter's responsibilities are.  How to tell news from, well, you get the idea.  Suggest maybe someday when he graduate school Al might come on over to Lamar and talk to him.

Then Grimes drive on over to the bank.

© 2014 David W. Lacy