Fitting In

It’s easy to fit in…you have to be bold to step out. I take Lady Macbeth’s advice and screw my courage to the sticking-place.

**********

I’m reading La Rochefoucauld’s maxims. This one catches my interest:

“In every walk of life each man puts on a personality and outward appearance so as to look what he wants to be thought. In fact, one might say that society is entirely made up of assumed personalities.”

I chew on it while thinking about which is better: fitting in or stepping out. How far out can one step before they cross the threshold of becoming one of the deplorables, avoidables or uninviteables? Worth pondering.

Clearly, fitting in can get boring at times, but being ostracized is a serious matter this late in life. You can run out of time trying to make mid-course fashion adjustments before it gets too late. You have to think about such things as who’ll be pall bearers at your funeral.

My daughter comes in, slides an Austen-Heller shoe catalog across the table.

“Dad, check out these shoes. Think how you’d look with the green ones,” she says. “You would really be stepping out on the island.”

“Hmmm, interesting. But what would I be stepping into? The last guy who tried this was Chuck Berry, and he’s dead. Currently it’s safer taking a cue from Basement Joe, making no societal waves and keeping character assassinations at bay. Besides, wearing green shoes won’t add one cubit to my stature.”

“Come on, dad, get a life. Times are changing. Fashion is moving fast. Don’t be left behind. These are cool shoes.”

Maybe she’s right, they will make a statement. But matching them with my current JCrew wardrobe presents a dilemma. I don’t need to buy another round of clothes just to match the whim of green shoes. So I debate.

“Uh, but suppose you are correct. What would people think? Maybe I should avoid being stoned and pitch the White ones, keep the Black and Brown ones. They’re vogue these days.”

“Right. That’s the point. Step out in green leather loafers and you’ll make a fashion statement and offend no one. It would be your own version of the Green New Deal. ”

I push back and take the defensive position of discussing the merits of fitting in. No waves, no discussions, no critiques. Just part of the herd. It’s safe and harmless. It’s a kind of invisible life. You’re in it, but nobody notices. It’s a place where all men look alike, comfortable in conformity, complacent in status quo.

“Get with it, dad,” she says. “Toss the Cole Haan-khaki pant-blue blazer geriatric generation garb and step out. You’ll be noticed again.”

I remind her that fashion is a fickle, wallet-busting frivolity, better suited for the young who are trying to find themselves. At a certain age we have either found ourselves and approved or given up the search as a hopeless endeavor.

“Look, dad, the green ones are on end-of-summer sale, a bargain at $125. Buy them, and I’ll guarantee you’ll get respect. Cachet will be in your future. Overnight you’ll be a trendsetter, an arbiter of style and politically correct to boot. And who knows but what your pals are just waiting for someone to take the lead. Do it, dad.”

“All right, suppose I do. Just what crowd am I fitting into? Anybody over forty? And there’s your mother to consider. What will she think?”

“Well, it may be a shock at first, but I think she’ll come along. I’ll help you soften the shock of a new you.”

I remind her of my past disastrous experience with the Stubbs and Wooten black velvet loafers, the toes emblazoned with red devils, and the Palm Springs pink flowered silk shirts.

“Yes, that was unfortunate,” she says. “But you made those choices on your own. Now I’m going to help you. These green loafers will be your ticket to freedom in individual expression. Trust me. What credit card do you want to use?”

Like a hungry bear out of hibernation, the primal urge for individuality begins to stir again and waves goodbye to the herd.

**********

W. C. Fields once remarked, “There comes a time in the affairs of man when he must take the bull by the tail and face the situation.” Green shoes will soon be arriving.

So I step out, buy the ticket, take the ride. A promise of freedom for $125 seems like a bargain indeed.


Bud Hearn
July 24, 2020

Goodbye Uncle Ben

A seismic shakeup is happening. Think twice before putting your picture on a box of rice.

Whoever thought it’d happen, having to say goodbye to Uncle Ben? Why, he’s been with our households since 1943, guaranteeing the finest in converted rice. Plus, he’s Uncle Ben to about 3.5 billion people worldwide. How can we say goodbye?

Goodbye Uncle Ben
It’s sad to see you leave
But your time ran out
And now we’re left to grieve.

Now what will we do
Your kindly face no longer smiles
From your orange-boxed home
As we search down all the aisles.

They got to you
Mrs. Butterworth, too
Same as with Aunt Jemima
The identity police and crew.

It was a hatchet job to say the least. Silenced by corporate overwokeness. Overnight in jackboots they stormed in, demanded your overthrow. Customers be damned. You were booted out by the kneejerk reactions of aggrieved identify politics, an uprising bent on righting perceived ancient wrongs. It’s just the way things roll.

You were always smiling. It was warm and friendly. The gray hair added status and stature to your kindly face. I’m not sure why you were called Uncle Ben, but the name fit like a glove. You were part of our families, same as Aunt Jemima and Mrs. Butterworth. Only you were the real deal. Bob’s Red Mill Arrowroot is on thin ice.

Maybe it was time to say goodbye to Aunt Jemima anyway, what with all the focus on healthy eating. Water, corn syrup and food flavoring do not a syrup make. Some even wonder where Famous Amos is these days.

We searched for your obituary, but nothing showed. After all, with your incomparable notoriety one would think you’d have been a full-page writeup in the Sunday New York Times. They seem to get every other important person in there. You got no respect.

We can only hope your demise was sudden, without warning and painless, no dragging of your good name through the streets like the media is prone to do with lesser icons, politicians, perverts and felons.

We had hoped you’d live forever, like Grandma’s Molasses and the Jolly Green Giant and his asparagus. But hey, things change, and even Johnny Harris had to remove his Confederate flag to get his BBQ sauce back on the shelves. Hard to fight culture. Ask Mississippi. Some there even want God’s name off the new flag.

We heard the rumblings for years about your honorific title of ‘Uncle.’ Some uninformed folks north of the Mason Dixon line claimed it was derogatory, a slanderous stereotypical epithet. Down South we never thought much about it.

Look, being Uncle Ben made you one of the family. We thought of you that way. We all have or had uncles, some of whom were upstanding citizens, others simply scalawags of the first order. But you delivered what you promised, delicious rice.

We confess that we took you for granted. We tend to do that to those we revere. We never thought about losing you. But now you’re gone, and have left no trace, no forwarding address except terse responses from your creators saying your special box will be rebranded.

And now, what are we left with? No-name bags of rice from China? After COVID denials, can they be trusted? Grieving cooks will soon take to the streets.

We must close the chapter on your illustrious career among us, Uncle Ben. You have been with us for 76 years, a pretty good run. You will not be forgotten. I think many would like to think that you have transcended, perhaps to reappear at some future time on another box for another generation.

**********

Goodbye Uncle Ben
We’ll see you again one day
Another shelf, another box
‘Cause we’ve all gotta go that way.

Goodbye Uncle Ben. RIP. Check in on Uncle Remus and report back.


Bud Hearn
July 13, 2020

Birth of a Republic...a Remembrance

Nations, like individuals, have birthdays. July 4, 1776 is the date on the birth certificate of America, not 1619. Thomas Jefferson wrote and signed it.

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Revolutions change landscapes. They are not won by ideology but by blood. Without the shedding of blood there is no birth. So it was with the birth of America. The bloody war with England culminated in the advent of a Child of Liberty.

Lincoln harked back to the founding tenets of this nation’s birth when writing the Gettysburg Address:

“Four score and seven years ago our Fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”

It continues: “Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure.” Will he smile today on America’s 244th birthday?

His rhetoric stirred the soul of this new nation, even as it stirs our collective soul today. National and world conflicts continue unabated. Blood of our patriots continues to run red on our soil and on foreign shores. The price of liberty is eternal vigilance, it’s said. It comes at a terrible cost.

In a sense it might be inferred that America was immaculately conceived by the ethereal Concept of Liberty as its Father, and England as its Mother. Like children, maturity comes in ways both similar and different than their parents.

However, there remains always an atavistic and familial resemblance to both parents. This child, America, embodies similitudes of both ‘father’ and ‘mother’ in its struggle to mature. As we wonder what our own children’s legacy will be, so do we collectively wonder the same of our Republic.

There’s a story about Alexander Graham Bell. He and a friend observed a hot air balloon breaking the gravitational pull of the earth in France. It rose slowly, attained a significant height and drifted over a tree hedge. It plunged in a field where peasants worked. In panic they attacked the balloon with pitch forks. Change often evokes such responses.

The friend commented, “Now, what good was this experiment? It ended in failure.” Dr. Bell replied, “What good is any newborn baby?”

J. G. McGee, an American aviator and poet, penned these stirring words:

“I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, and danced with the sky on laughter and silver wings…”

America, the Child of Liberty, has transcended Magee’s inspiring words and now soars into full maturity.

How can we define our Republic today? Descriptions differ. Some depict it a nation impotent, polarized by politics, our leaders drunk on power, occupying chambers of government where civility and compromise no longer exist and where capitalism and socialism grapple in a mano a mano conflict. Others claim its culture is one of excessive commercialism, the aphrodisiac of entitlement.

Some suggest the pervading pursuit of wealth turns us into herds of demon-possessed swine, rushing headlong into the abyss of debt. Others lament the loss of jobs, trade treaties, and the hangover hegemony of Colonialism inherited from our ‘mother’s’ side of the family. No one fails to mention the insidious cycle of poverty, inequalities and a perpetual welfare underclass. Oh, so many voices.

Others remind us of the technological paradigms that are breaking down the walls of order and status quo. So-called social media has aggregated disparate opinions into a massive force for change. Its fallout includes angry mobs marching in streets protesting injustices and demanding changes. America is constantly birthing yet more children who seek liberty.

Lincoln at Gettysburg looked beyond the carnage of a bloody civil War and envisioned the future of America in a larger context. With words he sought to galvanize our concepts of liberty into a more cohesive and nationalized whole. He wrote:

“…(T)hat this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.” Can any words inspire more than these?

Of a truth, no nation on this earth has successfully existed into perpetuity. Perhaps it is just a dream. But, dear Children of Freedom, living ‘under God’ is a legacy of freedom worth passing on to future generations. It is a dream worth embracing.

**********

Tennyson wrote these words in his poem, In Memoriam:

“…(T)hat men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.”

Can we rise to the call of ‘higher things’ in the preservation of our glorious heritage?

Happy Birthday America





Bud Hearn
July 3, 2020