“You Are Not Alone Out There….”
A Barnyard Dialogue
Last night I dreamed I was a turkey named Tom…it was a nightmare.
From whence cometh such visions of horror but from a glut of the fruit of the vine or the dredging up of seething subconscious offal from another time, or life—Yikes, was I once a Hindu? Scary!
Perhaps I had not reconciled the time when, while jogging on a Thanksgiving morning on a country road, some near-sighted Dick Cheney type mistook me for a turkey and loaded me up with # 6 birdshot. Whatever.
In a few days we will all gather with family and friends and gobble through that annual ritual of overeating called Thanksgiving. It’s a 9/11 event in the lives of unsuspecting turkeys, a day that will live in infamy for millions of steroid-stuffed birds that have, co-incidentally, literally been eating farmers out of house and home for weeks. Turnabout is fair play!
I doubt if a gobbler’s attitude is assuaged much by hearing Flintstone the Farmer justify the situation by saying, “Tom, you are not alone.” Surely it would ring hollow, a cruel, mocking slur, even to a bird, and in no way endear Flintstone to his flock. Besides, the axe hanging over the chopping block cast a malevolent shadow as a constant reminder to the birds that something ominous could happen at any time.
The barnyard dialogue that ensued might have gone somewhat as follows:
Tom: “Say, Flintstone, I’m a little confused—why have you been feasting us for months now…what’s the deal?”
Flintstone: “Tom, you are a Royal Bird, bred to be King of the Table, and one day you will lie in state there.” (Flintstone, a bird-psychology major at Auburn University, was head of the turkey debating team and had earned many awards against turkeys…Clearly, Tom was no match for him.)
But Tom, apparently sensing the gravity of the situation, did his best to counter the claims of Flintstone. “Do I have a choice in this matter…can we negotiate?” Tom gobbled.
“Look, Tom”, said Flintstone, “you’ve been gouging yourself for months on my fine Purina pellets, and you strut around the yard like you own the place…why, you have more hen admirers than you deserve, all because of my generosity. It’s time for a payback, Pal.”
“But must it be so severe, what with the bludgeoning of the axe and the embarrassment of the ritual?” Tom cackled.
“Tom,” Flintstone retorted, “you fat, feathered ingrate, consider the luxurious lifestyle you’ve enjoyed for so long…look, there’s a quid pro quo for everything.”
Revolution circulated in the barnyard air as Tom drew a vocal and sympathetic crowd with his logic---anarchy seemed inevitable, and anarchy in the barnyard is never a good thing. Flintstone slipped the noose over Tom’s neck as he led him to the block. Raising the axe high, with one mighty downward thrust the axe fell, glistening in the sunlight as it sliced through the air towards the supple, outstretched neck.
Instantly my eyes opened, the dream ended. Suddenly I was no longer a turkey, about to be beheaded, but myself again. Whew…dodged death again. I must have fallen asleep reading the Wall Street Journal, because when my eyes opened I saw these familiar headlines again: Dow Tanks, $9 Trillion of Wealth up in Smoke, GM Begs for Bailout, $700 Billion a Drop in the Bucket and Investors Beheaded by Fraud.
It’s dangerous being a turkey these days, even an investor-turkey. I don’t advise it. And there’s scant comfort in being told, “You are not alone out there.” In the tradition of Thanksgiving, it is good to know that we can put aside some things for the greater purpose of reunification, even if it’s just for a day, and thank God we are not alone out there…never have been, never will be.
As you prepare for the holiday, remember one important thing: Never dream about turkeys at Thanksgiving!
Bud
November 20, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
The Voice...Reminiscences of the Past
The Voice....
Reminiscences of the Past
The red light on the answering machine blinked rhythmically in the dark room as he entered. It was a cold November night, and something warm was necessary.
“Who’s calling,” he wondered? He pressed the “play” button, and it responded instantly with a Voice...so soft and smooth—its Southern comfort oozed through the ethereal mystery of the wireless air into the answering machine. It was feminine, to be sure.
The voice was one of those that has body—presence, one might say—that fills all the empty spaces of a room. It was the kind of a voice that had kind hands that reached through and grasped--invisible eyes that pierced the hard surface of the soul and melted it as hot butter. It had arms that reached out to hold, to hug, to cling, to embrace.
It was a voice with a growing smile that could be felt deeply in the heart, a smile that mesmerizes the attention and by its gaze holds one helpless as in a trance. In short, it was a voice to which, no matter what the question, could only be answered, "Yes." The voice could soothe the hard creases of the day’s turmoil, lightening the listener’s load with its quiet confidence.
And as though magical, it was a voice that vaporized all barriers and the listener was only to be able to utter a weak and feeble, "Yes," to its plea.
It was also the kind of a voice that causes a momentary flash of insight, a moment so shockingly revealing that it carries a death sentence to pretense. It was a voice that created moments so brilliant with light that none could endure the full-length feature and be left unchanged. And it was a voice that revealed in that nuclear flash just what and who the listener is, and was...an insight like the flash of lightening that fractures the night’s darkness, revealing the extent of the storm's damage.
The voice was one that had an almost timeless quality in its tone, not of melancholy so much as of the remembrance of a childhood past with its pleasant memories of long days without care , merging both time and place into a cohesive whole.
Immediately the lyrics of an old Eagles tune occurred to him:
“Just lay your head back on the ground
And let your hair fall all around me
Offer up your best defense, but this is the end,
This is the end of the innocence.”
And he knew that innocence had been lost, like the voice, in the layers of things urgent, things real, things necessary.
Yes, he remembered that he had come so far, so fast, and where had the years gone, but then doesn’t everyone wonder? He reflected on the fact that in each of our lives there is that same “small town voice” that was so familiar for so many years. Where had those years gone, he pondered.
Leaving the room dark so as to continue the mood, he sat quietly, replaying the recording of The Voice again and again, seeing in his mind’s eye the very picture of the caller and wishing for more.
But there was no more…only the repetitive playing of the answering machine into the hollow darkness of the room, asking the same simple question each time it played. That voice was somewhere else now, and he knew it was irretrievable. Could he have held it? No, that is the way with voices.
This was a voice from the past, a voice of long ago...it was silent now. But it was not forgotten. For as honey is sweet and smooth to the taste, so the voice was soothing to the soul, and his toil seemed lighter. As he played it one last time he thought, “It’s the voice of unequivocal love that made it so special,” and he knew its words would be etched in his memory forever.
He smiled as he returned to the present time, refreshed as only such a voice can do. The question kept resounding in his mind, and he knew the answer he’d reply. It was, of course, “Yes!”
In its gracious southern drawl, unhurried as was the whole of its life, the voice asked simply, “Will you be home for Thanksgiving, son?"
It was the voice of my mother, c. 1988...a plea from heaven.
Happy Thanksgiving
Bud Hearn
November 18, 2008
Reminiscences of the Past
The red light on the answering machine blinked rhythmically in the dark room as he entered. It was a cold November night, and something warm was necessary.
“Who’s calling,” he wondered? He pressed the “play” button, and it responded instantly with a Voice...so soft and smooth—its Southern comfort oozed through the ethereal mystery of the wireless air into the answering machine. It was feminine, to be sure.
The voice was one of those that has body—presence, one might say—that fills all the empty spaces of a room. It was the kind of a voice that had kind hands that reached through and grasped--invisible eyes that pierced the hard surface of the soul and melted it as hot butter. It had arms that reached out to hold, to hug, to cling, to embrace.
It was a voice with a growing smile that could be felt deeply in the heart, a smile that mesmerizes the attention and by its gaze holds one helpless as in a trance. In short, it was a voice to which, no matter what the question, could only be answered, "Yes." The voice could soothe the hard creases of the day’s turmoil, lightening the listener’s load with its quiet confidence.
And as though magical, it was a voice that vaporized all barriers and the listener was only to be able to utter a weak and feeble, "Yes," to its plea.
It was also the kind of a voice that causes a momentary flash of insight, a moment so shockingly revealing that it carries a death sentence to pretense. It was a voice that created moments so brilliant with light that none could endure the full-length feature and be left unchanged. And it was a voice that revealed in that nuclear flash just what and who the listener is, and was...an insight like the flash of lightening that fractures the night’s darkness, revealing the extent of the storm's damage.
The voice was one that had an almost timeless quality in its tone, not of melancholy so much as of the remembrance of a childhood past with its pleasant memories of long days without care , merging both time and place into a cohesive whole.
Immediately the lyrics of an old Eagles tune occurred to him:
“Just lay your head back on the ground
And let your hair fall all around me
Offer up your best defense, but this is the end,
This is the end of the innocence.”
And he knew that innocence had been lost, like the voice, in the layers of things urgent, things real, things necessary.
Yes, he remembered that he had come so far, so fast, and where had the years gone, but then doesn’t everyone wonder? He reflected on the fact that in each of our lives there is that same “small town voice” that was so familiar for so many years. Where had those years gone, he pondered.
Leaving the room dark so as to continue the mood, he sat quietly, replaying the recording of The Voice again and again, seeing in his mind’s eye the very picture of the caller and wishing for more.
But there was no more…only the repetitive playing of the answering machine into the hollow darkness of the room, asking the same simple question each time it played. That voice was somewhere else now, and he knew it was irretrievable. Could he have held it? No, that is the way with voices.
This was a voice from the past, a voice of long ago...it was silent now. But it was not forgotten. For as honey is sweet and smooth to the taste, so the voice was soothing to the soul, and his toil seemed lighter. As he played it one last time he thought, “It’s the voice of unequivocal love that made it so special,” and he knew its words would be etched in his memory forever.
He smiled as he returned to the present time, refreshed as only such a voice can do. The question kept resounding in his mind, and he knew the answer he’d reply. It was, of course, “Yes!”
In its gracious southern drawl, unhurried as was the whole of its life, the voice asked simply, “Will you be home for Thanksgiving, son?"
It was the voice of my mother, c. 1988...a plea from heaven.
Happy Thanksgiving
Bud Hearn
November 18, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
Christmas Madness...A Dog's Survival Kit
Christmas Madness…..A Dog’s Survival Kit
The Christmas clock ticks, ticks, ticks…near, nearer … here. The waning seconds scream out the tyranny of the urgent. Santa will have to be prepared for his role, and there is shopping to do, food to cook, family to feed, cards to write, houses to decorate, parties to attend, toys to assemble…Oh, that we had more time.
Christmas is not all that easy to endure, for humans or dogs. Much is written about the joys of Christmas, but what of its travails? Survival kits are plentiful for humans, but what about dogs?
There’s nothing quite like hearing directly from a dog how to enjoy and to cope with Christmas. Of course, Mac, an alter ego, is chewing my leg off for his turn at the computer, so, what the heck…I give him to you for his own story. Mac, it’s all yours, pal.
“Well, finally. Hi, my name is MacDuff, a solid 25 pound ball of snow-white fur and scion of a fine litter with venerable Scottish lineage. I am a 35 year old (dog years, that is) West Highland terrier, bred for fierce rodent hunting and amorous adventures. I must candidly admit to being extremely territorial and curious, especially when it comes to food. My name should have been “Hoover,” since I resemble a small vacuum cleaner, and I practice keeping my nose to the floor, lest any food morsels be left for spiders or other lesser creatures.
I have a live-in girl friend whose name is Sophie, also a Westie. But due to certain procedures early in our lives, we have only a platonic relationship, which really is not all that bad. It solves a multitude of nocturnal notions and makes for an undisturbed night’s sleep. I consult with her on many things, but I am the resident authority on how to survive, and to prosper, during Christmas.
On my first Christmas I was about 3 dog-years old. At that age nobody knows what to expect and neither did my mentor, Trey, himself 6 months old, human-age, that is. We had a lot in common, Trey and I. The first thing we did was to crawl around the house staking out our respective territories by you-know-what method. I claimed the Christmas tree, many times, I might add, certain table legs and a few suspicious packages. He preferred several select spots on the carpet.
More importantly, we could, and did, use the “innocence of age” to our advantage, provoking only laughter and photo ops as we lurched headlong into the gleaming packages under the big tree in the living room. It was a package demolition derby. Trey must have been only curious, but I was hungry…and the only rebuke I got that first year was when I tore into that finely-wrapped fruit cake…believe me, an innocent look overcomes a lot of wrath!
Two lessons remain from that first Christmas: Lesson One, opening packages is great “attack” training for rodents: stalk, crouch and pounce, especially at night when lights are out. One night as I was preparing for the drill, I heard footsteps tiptoe down the stairs. I slinked back into the shadows, and who should show up but Alex, who was 35 years old too…only he’s human. He must have been on a black-ops training mission too, because he began to shake, smell, and peek into packages he thought might hold something of value. After he left, I resumed my secret mission and ripped into many of the more opulently wrapped packages, knowing I could blame it on someone else. A back-up blame plan is always a good thing!
Lesson Two: Name tags on presents are irrelevant if you’re a dog or baby human, simply because neither of us read very well at this age. They’re all “fair game,” and you get yourself into many pictures this way. It is good training for perfecting that innocent, “Who, me?” look, which will get you a long way in life. And you can further “beg off” by licking the hand or face of your tormentor…what a deal if they happen to have food morsels---or have just eaten fried chicken.
I learned that first Christmas also that we had a certain, shall we say, “appeal power.” We were both cute, I guess, but since I had no diapers to soil, I was petted and hugged more often. And if I rolled over on command, I usually received a “treat.” I rolled over often, I might add, from that time on. And I noticed Trey did, too.
There are certain “indignities” we dogs must endure at Christmas. You would be surprised to see all the goofy paraphernalia that can come in a package. For example, I hear, “Mac, come here.” I know it’s bad news. And what do we have here? Why, a tight-fitting red, blue and yellow Superman suit with a bright red cape….you guessed it, suddenly I’m dressed in that silly costume, hooked to my leash and paraded about. Photographs are made ad nauseam, and I continue to be the brunt of jokes and the laughing-stock of the neighborhood. A simple big red ribbon would have accomplished the same thing, and cheaper, too (I’m a Scot, don’t forget).
Being a boy dog, though, I am saved some of the hideous outfits reserved for Sophie. For example, one year she was outfitted with candy-cane antlers and a red scarf…and she looked none too pleased. Another year was a tight-fitting pink…yes, pink…body suit. Oh, our parents think all this is cute, and I suppose it should be taken in a light-hearted way. Heck, they were babies once themselves, and had to endure similar humiliations.
Another great lesson I learned about Christmas survival is that food flows freely, especially cookies, cheese and chips. But there’s a real talent to getting it from the table into my mouth. Yes, I have perfected that method, too. How? The “pack leader,” that’s my daddy-parent, is a strict disciplinarian, but he is a sucker for my “hang-dog” look. While no food will fall from his hand when mommy is anywhere around, he continues to “buy” our friendship with meager crumbs from multiple sources. I’ll follow him to his grave!
Guests and other family members are easier prey, since, like grandparents, they know they can feed us and go home, leaving the ensuing mess to be cleaned up by someone else...and there will be a mess!
Dogs have some special advantages at Christmas. First of all, we can avoid all the hassles of shopping and decoration that are so critical and that invoke such human distemper. Divorces are mild in comparison. Secondly, we are only expected to remain out of sight and can escape the “drama of cleanup.” But maybe best of all we can sleep soundly when the credit card bills come in the mail, knowing that about half of the stuff will be returned for credit.
No survival kit is complete without instructions of how to avoid the injustice of being shuttled off for days to the yucky “pet hotel” while parents are away recovering from Christmas. First of all, it must be remembered that it will happen. Sickness is the best solution, so the ingestion of healthy doses of green grass, nuts, dried roots or other items found along the sidewalk are mandatory. Rolling in rotted mushrooms or other such perfumed backyard discoveries will help. The object is to invoke a guilt complex so that a suitable in-house dog sitter will arrive…and boy, how easy they are to manipulate!
I could go on, but what’s the use. Experience is the best teacher, and besides, it’s fun learning new techniques. I guess it might be fair to say that Christmas is easier for dogs, simply because it takes so little to satisfy us. Maybe that’s a good lesson for humans…it’s certainly a cheaper way to spend Christmas.
I hear the rustling of food sacks, so I must run. But I think that there’s a certain familial peace about Christmas, like being a part of something big…just to savor the moments is a joy. Dogs don’t try to figure out the science of the improbable, like fat men in red suits who come down chimneys, or reindeer that fly, or sleds that sail through the air…No, it’s superfluous for our enjoyment. Dogs just take it for granted and believe it, not unlike Trey and I did. It just goes to show you that “believing is seeing,” not “seeing is believing.”
“And I heard him exclaim as he rode out of sight, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”
Merry Christmas, 2008.
Mac
The Christmas clock ticks, ticks, ticks…near, nearer … here. The waning seconds scream out the tyranny of the urgent. Santa will have to be prepared for his role, and there is shopping to do, food to cook, family to feed, cards to write, houses to decorate, parties to attend, toys to assemble…Oh, that we had more time.
Christmas is not all that easy to endure, for humans or dogs. Much is written about the joys of Christmas, but what of its travails? Survival kits are plentiful for humans, but what about dogs?
There’s nothing quite like hearing directly from a dog how to enjoy and to cope with Christmas. Of course, Mac, an alter ego, is chewing my leg off for his turn at the computer, so, what the heck…I give him to you for his own story. Mac, it’s all yours, pal.
“Well, finally. Hi, my name is MacDuff, a solid 25 pound ball of snow-white fur and scion of a fine litter with venerable Scottish lineage. I am a 35 year old (dog years, that is) West Highland terrier, bred for fierce rodent hunting and amorous adventures. I must candidly admit to being extremely territorial and curious, especially when it comes to food. My name should have been “Hoover,” since I resemble a small vacuum cleaner, and I practice keeping my nose to the floor, lest any food morsels be left for spiders or other lesser creatures.
I have a live-in girl friend whose name is Sophie, also a Westie. But due to certain procedures early in our lives, we have only a platonic relationship, which really is not all that bad. It solves a multitude of nocturnal notions and makes for an undisturbed night’s sleep. I consult with her on many things, but I am the resident authority on how to survive, and to prosper, during Christmas.
On my first Christmas I was about 3 dog-years old. At that age nobody knows what to expect and neither did my mentor, Trey, himself 6 months old, human-age, that is. We had a lot in common, Trey and I. The first thing we did was to crawl around the house staking out our respective territories by you-know-what method. I claimed the Christmas tree, many times, I might add, certain table legs and a few suspicious packages. He preferred several select spots on the carpet.
More importantly, we could, and did, use the “innocence of age” to our advantage, provoking only laughter and photo ops as we lurched headlong into the gleaming packages under the big tree in the living room. It was a package demolition derby. Trey must have been only curious, but I was hungry…and the only rebuke I got that first year was when I tore into that finely-wrapped fruit cake…believe me, an innocent look overcomes a lot of wrath!
Two lessons remain from that first Christmas: Lesson One, opening packages is great “attack” training for rodents: stalk, crouch and pounce, especially at night when lights are out. One night as I was preparing for the drill, I heard footsteps tiptoe down the stairs. I slinked back into the shadows, and who should show up but Alex, who was 35 years old too…only he’s human. He must have been on a black-ops training mission too, because he began to shake, smell, and peek into packages he thought might hold something of value. After he left, I resumed my secret mission and ripped into many of the more opulently wrapped packages, knowing I could blame it on someone else. A back-up blame plan is always a good thing!
Lesson Two: Name tags on presents are irrelevant if you’re a dog or baby human, simply because neither of us read very well at this age. They’re all “fair game,” and you get yourself into many pictures this way. It is good training for perfecting that innocent, “Who, me?” look, which will get you a long way in life. And you can further “beg off” by licking the hand or face of your tormentor…what a deal if they happen to have food morsels---or have just eaten fried chicken.
I learned that first Christmas also that we had a certain, shall we say, “appeal power.” We were both cute, I guess, but since I had no diapers to soil, I was petted and hugged more often. And if I rolled over on command, I usually received a “treat.” I rolled over often, I might add, from that time on. And I noticed Trey did, too.
There are certain “indignities” we dogs must endure at Christmas. You would be surprised to see all the goofy paraphernalia that can come in a package. For example, I hear, “Mac, come here.” I know it’s bad news. And what do we have here? Why, a tight-fitting red, blue and yellow Superman suit with a bright red cape….you guessed it, suddenly I’m dressed in that silly costume, hooked to my leash and paraded about. Photographs are made ad nauseam, and I continue to be the brunt of jokes and the laughing-stock of the neighborhood. A simple big red ribbon would have accomplished the same thing, and cheaper, too (I’m a Scot, don’t forget).
Being a boy dog, though, I am saved some of the hideous outfits reserved for Sophie. For example, one year she was outfitted with candy-cane antlers and a red scarf…and she looked none too pleased. Another year was a tight-fitting pink…yes, pink…body suit. Oh, our parents think all this is cute, and I suppose it should be taken in a light-hearted way. Heck, they were babies once themselves, and had to endure similar humiliations.
Another great lesson I learned about Christmas survival is that food flows freely, especially cookies, cheese and chips. But there’s a real talent to getting it from the table into my mouth. Yes, I have perfected that method, too. How? The “pack leader,” that’s my daddy-parent, is a strict disciplinarian, but he is a sucker for my “hang-dog” look. While no food will fall from his hand when mommy is anywhere around, he continues to “buy” our friendship with meager crumbs from multiple sources. I’ll follow him to his grave!
Guests and other family members are easier prey, since, like grandparents, they know they can feed us and go home, leaving the ensuing mess to be cleaned up by someone else...and there will be a mess!
Dogs have some special advantages at Christmas. First of all, we can avoid all the hassles of shopping and decoration that are so critical and that invoke such human distemper. Divorces are mild in comparison. Secondly, we are only expected to remain out of sight and can escape the “drama of cleanup.” But maybe best of all we can sleep soundly when the credit card bills come in the mail, knowing that about half of the stuff will be returned for credit.
No survival kit is complete without instructions of how to avoid the injustice of being shuttled off for days to the yucky “pet hotel” while parents are away recovering from Christmas. First of all, it must be remembered that it will happen. Sickness is the best solution, so the ingestion of healthy doses of green grass, nuts, dried roots or other items found along the sidewalk are mandatory. Rolling in rotted mushrooms or other such perfumed backyard discoveries will help. The object is to invoke a guilt complex so that a suitable in-house dog sitter will arrive…and boy, how easy they are to manipulate!
I could go on, but what’s the use. Experience is the best teacher, and besides, it’s fun learning new techniques. I guess it might be fair to say that Christmas is easier for dogs, simply because it takes so little to satisfy us. Maybe that’s a good lesson for humans…it’s certainly a cheaper way to spend Christmas.
I hear the rustling of food sacks, so I must run. But I think that there’s a certain familial peace about Christmas, like being a part of something big…just to savor the moments is a joy. Dogs don’t try to figure out the science of the improbable, like fat men in red suits who come down chimneys, or reindeer that fly, or sleds that sail through the air…No, it’s superfluous for our enjoyment. Dogs just take it for granted and believe it, not unlike Trey and I did. It just goes to show you that “believing is seeing,” not “seeing is believing.”
“And I heard him exclaim as he rode out of sight, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”
Merry Christmas, 2008.
Mac
Thursday, November 13, 2008
A New Idea...And a Cold Drink of Water
A New Idea…
And a Cold Drink of Water
A new idea is a stick of dynamite. It can get you killed, especially in small towns.
Fond memories of the little town of my youth include this oft-recited myth:
“A new idea and a cold drink of water, taken together, will kill you.”
It swirled in the “dust devils” that transplanted the topsoil and shimmered in the “heat monkeys” that rose from asphalt roads turned liquid in the stifling summer meltdowns. It was preached on every corner and in every church, not so much in words, but in the winks, the nods, the habits and thought patterns inbred into generation after incestuous generation.
Dangerous, you say? Why? Because new ideas step on toes, change things, and tend to upset the status quo, the perceived, predictable and traditional ways of doing things. If anyone were foolish enough to attempt to upset a small-town status quo or the existing power structure, fresh rope would suddenly appear, and the hapless innovator would receive swift recompense administered by local white-hooded vigilantes.
A hot air balloon rose from a field in France, observed by Alexander Graham Bell and a friend. It floated over some trees, coming rest in a field tended by peasants with pitchforks, whereupon it was violently assaulted, collapsing lifelessly in the loess. The friend asked Dr. Bell, “Now what good was that hot air balloon experiment?” Dr. Bell replied, “What good is any new-born baby?”
My mother was always trying new ideas to get me to eat liver. She pleaded in her best logic, “But son, it’s good for you”. She soon learned that logic is not the best motivator of stupid kids. Her last attempt to trick me into eating that foul meat went sideways on her. Its malodorous stench hung in the humid air for blocks in our neighborhood, and people fled their homes, gasping for breath. That episode finally broke her will, and she abandoned all further ideas and efforts of trickery.
My grandmother had better luck with the squash. She had baked it in lemon skins, and it was terrific, to which I said, “Jewel (that was her name, and she was one helluva cook!), this is the best baked lemon I ever ate.” Like I said, kids may be stupid, but good food overcomes logic every time! I love squash to this day, and still hate liver.
One Sunday, my mother in tow, I revisited after some 20 year’s absence the little Methodist Church of my youth. We sat in the second row left, near the altar. After the service, two elderly ladies rushed up to me, saying, “Bud, we barely recognized you…you were not in your usual place.” I guess I still looked stupid, so they said, “Your place was always…always…in the back right, not the front left.” There you have it…the status quo, alive and well…and me, a revolutionary iconoclast!
I suppose I should have told them that while in my Atlanta Methodist Church I had swallowed a new idea, and it seemed to be working. Repentance is one of those “new ideas”, you know, and it always has an Audience. I had changed my mind about some things, so that now I actually enjoy sitting up front, lower left, as close to the action as I can get.
Thomas A. Edison experimented with over 1,000 gas combinations to find one that worked in the electric light bulb. Before success arrived, he was asked, “Dr. Edison, have you failed?” He replied, “No, I have succeeded in finding 1,000 combinations that won’t work.” You are reading this now because his new idea continues to explode in the face of status quo darkness.
Historical events, like our recent election, often do not “create” new paradigms as much as they “reveal” new eras, pregnant with possibilities. Our President-elect took some new ideas, swallowed them with a big gulp of cold water, and burst headlong into history. So long, status quo!
We have the choice: nurture the new, or rot in the ruins of a crumbling status quo…we can’t do both. Do you have a new idea? Then fill the glass, slug it down…and light the fuse!
Bud
November 13, 2008
And a Cold Drink of Water
A new idea is a stick of dynamite. It can get you killed, especially in small towns.
Fond memories of the little town of my youth include this oft-recited myth:
“A new idea and a cold drink of water, taken together, will kill you.”
It swirled in the “dust devils” that transplanted the topsoil and shimmered in the “heat monkeys” that rose from asphalt roads turned liquid in the stifling summer meltdowns. It was preached on every corner and in every church, not so much in words, but in the winks, the nods, the habits and thought patterns inbred into generation after incestuous generation.
Dangerous, you say? Why? Because new ideas step on toes, change things, and tend to upset the status quo, the perceived, predictable and traditional ways of doing things. If anyone were foolish enough to attempt to upset a small-town status quo or the existing power structure, fresh rope would suddenly appear, and the hapless innovator would receive swift recompense administered by local white-hooded vigilantes.
A hot air balloon rose from a field in France, observed by Alexander Graham Bell and a friend. It floated over some trees, coming rest in a field tended by peasants with pitchforks, whereupon it was violently assaulted, collapsing lifelessly in the loess. The friend asked Dr. Bell, “Now what good was that hot air balloon experiment?” Dr. Bell replied, “What good is any new-born baby?”
My mother was always trying new ideas to get me to eat liver. She pleaded in her best logic, “But son, it’s good for you”. She soon learned that logic is not the best motivator of stupid kids. Her last attempt to trick me into eating that foul meat went sideways on her. Its malodorous stench hung in the humid air for blocks in our neighborhood, and people fled their homes, gasping for breath. That episode finally broke her will, and she abandoned all further ideas and efforts of trickery.
My grandmother had better luck with the squash. She had baked it in lemon skins, and it was terrific, to which I said, “Jewel (that was her name, and she was one helluva cook!), this is the best baked lemon I ever ate.” Like I said, kids may be stupid, but good food overcomes logic every time! I love squash to this day, and still hate liver.
One Sunday, my mother in tow, I revisited after some 20 year’s absence the little Methodist Church of my youth. We sat in the second row left, near the altar. After the service, two elderly ladies rushed up to me, saying, “Bud, we barely recognized you…you were not in your usual place.” I guess I still looked stupid, so they said, “Your place was always…always…in the back right, not the front left.” There you have it…the status quo, alive and well…and me, a revolutionary iconoclast!
I suppose I should have told them that while in my Atlanta Methodist Church I had swallowed a new idea, and it seemed to be working. Repentance is one of those “new ideas”, you know, and it always has an Audience. I had changed my mind about some things, so that now I actually enjoy sitting up front, lower left, as close to the action as I can get.
Thomas A. Edison experimented with over 1,000 gas combinations to find one that worked in the electric light bulb. Before success arrived, he was asked, “Dr. Edison, have you failed?” He replied, “No, I have succeeded in finding 1,000 combinations that won’t work.” You are reading this now because his new idea continues to explode in the face of status quo darkness.
Historical events, like our recent election, often do not “create” new paradigms as much as they “reveal” new eras, pregnant with possibilities. Our President-elect took some new ideas, swallowed them with a big gulp of cold water, and burst headlong into history. So long, status quo!
We have the choice: nurture the new, or rot in the ruins of a crumbling status quo…we can’t do both. Do you have a new idea? Then fill the glass, slug it down…and light the fuse!
Bud
November 13, 2008
Thursday, November 6, 2008
A Ticket to Ride...Election Closure
A Ticket to Ride….
Election Closure
“…She said that living with me is bringing her down, for she would never be free when I was around…She’s got a ticket to ride…” The Beatles
November 5th dawned dull, gray and dreary on the Georgia coast, and for some still in the fetal position, it augured insight on the “next four years.” But not today, which dawned glorious, sunny, in the 70’s with a promise just as big.
The election was over, votes counted, and a new face emerged victorious. A different face, perhaps, but then they are all different. And after two long years, closure is needed.
Last night Carolyn, Julie, Will, Thomas and I chose the Brunswick Carnival for rides, food and childhood laughs. We walked through the menagerie of lights, sounds, crowds, games and rides. We had tickets to ride, and ride we did: The Yoyo, the Inverter, Bumper cars, Circus Train, Power Surge, Haunted Mansion, and best of all, the Mega-Drop… Oh, yeah, a 150 foot vertical drop, a heart-stopper! Thrills overcame political disgust, and if the faces there were representative, nobody cared who won or lost. It was all a long way off!
Somehow we managed to keep the corn dogs, hot dogs, cotton candy and funnel cakes within us instead upon us. Somewhere during the death-defying excitement, it occurred to me that a Carnival is the perfect metaphor for a political election (Ok, Ok, you have yours, I have mine).
There we all were, Americana egalitarianism living it up:
“…ain’t that America for you and me, ain’t that America, something to see, ain’t that America, land of the free…” J. Mellencamp
We were all getting along, smiling, laughing, screaming, having a good time and forgetting politics.
But that was yesterday. Today we are all as segregated in our individualism as we were united in our enthusiasm last night. That’s not a bad thing. While we can unite in some things, we can disagree in others. It’s a healthy balance.
Voter approval of 51.6% does not a mandate make. And this election, though “historic” by the peculiarities of this nation, will ultimately be judged not by color, or rhetoric, or enthusiasm, but by a cohesive governing policy of inclusiveness for 300 million plus citizens. When future academics or aliens exhume and dissect the trash heaps of has-been republics, what will they find of us? Our “moments” will be assigned their own specificity gravity as history deems merited.
The body politick, like the body physical, is not only part unity by nature, but also part divisive by design. Nature has declared it bloody, tooth and nail. The “middle” is its balance, and hence its health. Seismic events shift the balance, but not permanently. We have been taught that “united we stand, divided we fall,” a partial truth…but it is balanced by another truth, “divided we stand, united we fall.” Balance should always have a seat at our republic’s table.
The process of governing will soon begin, and the victors and the vanquished will regroup…the victors in entrenched protection, and the vanquished, re-arming for the next attack. The middle--that small sand spit that divides--is the hallowed battleground. So,
Let those who now gloat remember the tune,
And those who now groan, the pain will end soon
But neither should stay in the condition they’ve found
For what goes around, soon comes back ‘round!
The Carnival---and could we say politics as well?-- is about rides that swing up and down, around and around-- railroads in circles, trains going nowhere, lights that dazzle, fake facades, cheap trinkets for the masses. The illusion…it’s magical at night, but in the light of day just another field full of steel hulks and trailers, waiting for the nighttime illusion and the crowds. And both will come!
Yes, it’s a new day in America, whatever that means…and we have a ticket to ride! “Buy the ticket, take the ride!” HST, R.I.P.
Bud
November 6, 2008
Election Closure
“…She said that living with me is bringing her down, for she would never be free when I was around…She’s got a ticket to ride…” The Beatles
November 5th dawned dull, gray and dreary on the Georgia coast, and for some still in the fetal position, it augured insight on the “next four years.” But not today, which dawned glorious, sunny, in the 70’s with a promise just as big.
The election was over, votes counted, and a new face emerged victorious. A different face, perhaps, but then they are all different. And after two long years, closure is needed.
Last night Carolyn, Julie, Will, Thomas and I chose the Brunswick Carnival for rides, food and childhood laughs. We walked through the menagerie of lights, sounds, crowds, games and rides. We had tickets to ride, and ride we did: The Yoyo, the Inverter, Bumper cars, Circus Train, Power Surge, Haunted Mansion, and best of all, the Mega-Drop… Oh, yeah, a 150 foot vertical drop, a heart-stopper! Thrills overcame political disgust, and if the faces there were representative, nobody cared who won or lost. It was all a long way off!
Somehow we managed to keep the corn dogs, hot dogs, cotton candy and funnel cakes within us instead upon us. Somewhere during the death-defying excitement, it occurred to me that a Carnival is the perfect metaphor for a political election (Ok, Ok, you have yours, I have mine).
There we all were, Americana egalitarianism living it up:
“…ain’t that America for you and me, ain’t that America, something to see, ain’t that America, land of the free…” J. Mellencamp
We were all getting along, smiling, laughing, screaming, having a good time and forgetting politics.
But that was yesterday. Today we are all as segregated in our individualism as we were united in our enthusiasm last night. That’s not a bad thing. While we can unite in some things, we can disagree in others. It’s a healthy balance.
Voter approval of 51.6% does not a mandate make. And this election, though “historic” by the peculiarities of this nation, will ultimately be judged not by color, or rhetoric, or enthusiasm, but by a cohesive governing policy of inclusiveness for 300 million plus citizens. When future academics or aliens exhume and dissect the trash heaps of has-been republics, what will they find of us? Our “moments” will be assigned their own specificity gravity as history deems merited.
The body politick, like the body physical, is not only part unity by nature, but also part divisive by design. Nature has declared it bloody, tooth and nail. The “middle” is its balance, and hence its health. Seismic events shift the balance, but not permanently. We have been taught that “united we stand, divided we fall,” a partial truth…but it is balanced by another truth, “divided we stand, united we fall.” Balance should always have a seat at our republic’s table.
The process of governing will soon begin, and the victors and the vanquished will regroup…the victors in entrenched protection, and the vanquished, re-arming for the next attack. The middle--that small sand spit that divides--is the hallowed battleground. So,
Let those who now gloat remember the tune,
And those who now groan, the pain will end soon
But neither should stay in the condition they’ve found
For what goes around, soon comes back ‘round!
The Carnival---and could we say politics as well?-- is about rides that swing up and down, around and around-- railroads in circles, trains going nowhere, lights that dazzle, fake facades, cheap trinkets for the masses. The illusion…it’s magical at night, but in the light of day just another field full of steel hulks and trailers, waiting for the nighttime illusion and the crowds. And both will come!
Yes, it’s a new day in America, whatever that means…and we have a ticket to ride! “Buy the ticket, take the ride!” HST, R.I.P.
Bud
November 6, 2008
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