Snow Job

The snow falling gently, nicely –

A beautiful sight to behold.

But to put it quite precisely,

The snow falling gently, nicely

Turns my mood most awfully icely;

This winter weather leaves me cold.

The snow falling gently, nicely –

A beautiful sight to behold.

Snug beneath a blanket of white,

The world’s quietly snoozing.

OK, the Earth’s a lovely sight,

Snug beneath a blanket of white

But Nature should be quite contrite –

The snow ’sno longer amusing.

Snug beneath a blanket of white,

The world’s quietly snoozing.

Dad at Twilight

Today would have been Dad's 96th birthday.

     On warm summer evenings, Dad would get a folding chair and sit between the house and the willow tree, where it was always shady. But after few minutes, he’d go in the basement and get a ball, a bat and a couple baseball gloves, and yell upstairs for Ed, Jim and me to come out.

      It wasn’t often that all three of us immediately answered the call. But one of us would, and Dad tossed him a glove and a game of pepper commenced. Dad hit a ground ball across the driveway, which the son fielded and threw back and Dad stuck the bat out and hit the ball back. This continued without stop until the guy with the glove let one go through his legs or the guy with the bat failed to make contact.

      In time, the other sons came out, sometimes together, sometimes not. We wandered in and out of the game, playing for a while then going off somewhere and perhaps rejoining the game, or maybe not. There were kids in the neighborhood who sometimes joined in and, like us, played for a while and then went and did something else. Four or five kids might be there during an evening, but there were seldom more than two or three at a time. When the driveway got crowded, Dad sent a few kids into the Creen’s backyard and hit pop flies to them.

      By the time the sun got low, Dad was the only one left outside. And as the air cooled and the shadows faded, Dad, in a pair of erstwhile dress slacks, a T-shirt and a decaying black cap with the orange Bessemer logo above the visor, stood at the basement door. He had outlasted the younger generation, and he had outlasted the sun, and now, with a glove in one hand and a bat in the other, he was reluctant to call it a day.

Auld Lang Whine

The people of England and its North American colonies crawled into their beds on the night of Wednesday, September 2, 1752, and a few hours later rubbed the sleep from their eyes on the morning of Thursday, September 14. This was progress. After 170 years of staunch resistance, fearful that the Gregorian calendar was an insidious Catholic plot designed to weaken the morals and faith of the enlightened its Protestant citizens, the United Kingdom finally adopted the “New Style,” bringing it into sync with most European countries. The Gregorian calendar did a better job of keeping the calendar aligned with the seasons than the “Old Style” Julian calendar. Sadly, in the headlong rush to keep up with their European neighbors, the Brits also moved New Year’s Day from March 25^th to January 1^st.

As days go, March 25^th is often less than splendid, but it comes at a time when splendid days are only days away. January 1^st is not always miserably inclement, but in these latitudes an endless string of miserable days is only days away when December gives way to January.

The start of a new year is supposed to be a time of self-examination and the jettisoning of bad habits. And there is supposed to be hope for the future. But north of the Mason and Dixon line, the days of January are short, dreary, cold and overcast. They are neither hopeful nor inspiring. A man must sin with gusto if he hopes to stay warm in the face of an Alberta Clipper. And those short days would last forever if he didn’t have a slew of bad habits to help him pass the time.

March 25^th, on the other hand, comes at a time of hope. The trees are beginning to bud, the crocuses and daffodils – shyly and with trepidation – are sprouting, the birds are singing as the sun rises, and the sun is rising earlier and staying up later. Winter hasn’t quit, but it is on its last legs and will soon give way to spring. Better days are coming, everyone knows it, and men and women, and boys and girls everywhere are frolicsome, optimistic and ready to get on with whatever needs to be gotten on with.

The foolishness of the January New Year became painfully obvious in the first days of 2012. On the last day of 2011, Nancy and I spent the afternoon in Dahlonega, Georgia. Nestled in the mountains, Dahlonega, which is the Cherokee word for gold, owes its existence to the discovery of gold in 1828. Besides being at the center of the ensuing gold rush, Dahlonega became the site of a United States mint, which ceased operation in 1861 when Georgia seceded. The phrase “There’s gold in them thar’ hills,” was first uttered during the Dahlonega gold rush.

It’s a pleasant, touristy town these days, with several unpretentious but very good locally owned restaurants and a horde of shops brimming with antiques and knick-knacks. Nancy and I visited two of those shops before I decided that my luck would soon run out and I was bound to cause havoc with my wheelchair if I went in one more. So, when Nancy browsed, I sat outside and enjoyed the warm, sunny afternoon.  We started our trek home the next day, an overcast and sometimes rainy New Year’s Day, making it as far as the northern suburbs of Cincinnati.

Around six the following morning, Nancy peeked out the window of the motel room and gazed upon the snow-covered parking lot. There wasn’t a lot of snow, no more than an inch, but the temperature was somewhere around seventeen and the wind made it feel much colder. The proof that January is the most inauspicious time to start a new year continued to accumulate as we headed up I-71, and dozens of motorists spent the second day of the year waiting for a tow truck to get their cars out of the median. And they were the fortunate unfortunates. Scores of other motorists bumped into one another and were waiting for a tow to the nearest body shop.

That is no way to start a year. And things will only get worse before they get better. Whiteouts, blizzards, raging winds, arctic temperatures and panicked weathermen will be the salient features of the next three months. Even the most zealous tree huggers will be asking, “Where’s global warming when we need it?”

England’s George II deserves his due. He was the last British sovereign to go into battle with his army. How many useless wars would never have been fought if heads of state were expected to endure the rigors and dangers of armed conflict? But the man was on the throne when the British government moved New Year’s Day from early spring, a time of rebirth and rejuvenation, to the dead of winter. George might have been brave and noble, but when it came to New Year’s Day he would have been well advised to remember, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

Tuesday Morning

I spent Tuesday morning waiting for the telephone to ring and keeping an eye on Lincoln Drive. I thought there might be a call from the doctor, but it never came. Still, the phone was unusually busy. There were three calls: one a political message, one a surprise and the other a wrong number.

Senator Sherrod Brown was the first to call. It wasn’t a personal call. It was a recorded message; one of those that doesn’t begin until you’ve said “hello” twice and are about to hang up. As it was, I stayed around long enough let the senator introduce himself, and then I hung up. That is the way I handle most recorded messages, especially those received at before 9:30 a.m., or at dinnertime or at any other inconvenient moment, and there is no convenient moment for an automated phone call. 

Maybe it’s a generational thing, but I prefer junk mail.The unsolicited message in the mailbox probably won’t be read right away, and possibly won’t be read at all. But if it doesn’t get tossed immediately, I’ll probably end up taking a look at it. Besides, the amount of mail handled by the post office has fallen off twenty-two percent in the last five years, and it could use the business, even from those with franking privileges. 

Of course, if I have a message to deliver to a politician – whether he is an upright and honorable public servant or a self-serving scoundrel – I expect his complete and immediate attention. Double standards don’t get a lot of respect, but mine do come in handy now and then.

Mystery was afoot when the phone rang the next time. The call was from St. Peter’s Episcopal Church, and the woman told me I had won a fleece bathrobe. Wow! I had no idea. How did that happen? It was from the concert at the church on Sunday, she told me. But I didn’t go to the concert. Your name and phone number are on the ticket, she said. Strange.

Picking up my prize presented a passel of problems. Being dependent on others for transportation, I wouldn’t be able to get there much before four o’clock. She said she normally leaves the church around noon. She offered to deliver it. Flabbergasted by my good luck, I said that would be great. But, ten minutes later it dawned on me that I don’t lounge around in a bathrobe. It’s been years since I had a robe, and I have never had the urge to go buy one. So, I called back and asked that the robe be given to someone who needs it. The church is helping a family through the Halo program, she said, and the robe will be given to them. That gave me a good feeling, but I’d still like to know how the robe became mine to give away.

Between phone calls, as I sat at the computer allegedly writing, but actually doing little more than staring out the window. A woman who lives up the street walked by, as she does twice almost every day. It was a pleasant Tuesday by December-in-northeast-Ohio standards, but this woman is not just a fair-weather walker. I spotted her going by several times last week while it was drizzling and at least once while it was flurrying. 

She is older than I – probably in her late seventies – has a pronounced limp and uses a cane. She is always accompanied by her dog. It must be tiring for her to walk when the weather is warm and pleasant. And I imagine walking is downright difficult for her when it’s cool and damp. No matter.

 One cold, rainy afternoon last week, her walk was interrupted when the dog stopped in front of a house across the street and used the tree lawn to do his business. When the dog was done, the woman got out a plastic bag, slowly bent down and collected the dog’s business. That’s when I realized that there are times when watching someone do poop patrol can be inspiring.

Let's Go Out to the Lobby

Everywhere you look people are scratching their heads, and not one of them has an itchy scalp. Citizens – well informed and otherwise – are wondering why elected officials, from city council members to members of Congress, are unable to do much of anything. Politicians whine at great length and then do nothing. Why is this?

Well, when it comes to insidiousness, many politicians tell us nothing is more insidious than welfare And why is welfare insidious? Because it is giving a person something for nothing. And what is political lobbying? It is giving money and gifts to politicians and getting nothing in return.

Should a curious person examine the remarks of politicians, from Congressmen to the members of the lowliest municipal board in the smallest village in the country, he will never find one who has been influenced by lobbyists. In fact, every politician vehemently denies that the favors he has received influenced his stand on the issues. And that must be the case because the same politicians constantly assure us they never lie. 

According to an article on stltoday.com, the website of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, lobbyists showered members of the Missouri state legislature with tickets to this year’s National League playoffs and World Series. When the media started prying, which it always does for no other reason than to sell papers and boost ratings, the politicians proudly proclaimed they have not and will not repay the favors.

Missouri state senator Brian Nieves, a Republican, told reporters: "Nobody, no time, nowhere, no how is going to have any influence on me. I have never been influenced — that stuff is a joke." What a depressing commentary on the effect of lobbying on the nation’s elected officials. A man is given tickets to a divisional playoff game and a World Series game and all it does is strengthen his sense of entitlement. Is it any wonder elected officials never accomplish anything? 

Replace government with private enterprise, you say. That seems to be an easy answer. But, like most easy answers, it doesn’t hold up. A chart on opensecrets.org indicates that 2.45 billion dollars was spent last year by those lobbying Congress and various Federal agencies. Not all that money came from organizations promoting American ideals; some of it came from groups spouting immoral, socialist nonsense. But if just half those lobbying dollars came from groups promoting free and unfettered enterprise, then the private sector spent 1.225 billion dollars to buy off people who can’t be bought. The money might as well have been flushed down the toilet. At least then it would have clogged the sewers and revealed another example of shoddy government workmanship. 

Perhaps it’s human nature to try to buy influence, even when those selling it simply take the money and run. If that is the case, we ought to be searching for ways to bring down the cost of lobbying. According to the group Public Citizen, forty-three percent of those who left Congress between 1998 and 2006 became lobbyists, with an average salary of two million dollars a year. That is a lot of money to spend on the impossible task of influencing steadfast, brave and honest politicians who will not be bought nor enticed into changing their minds. And, of course, the costs involved in lobbying are passed on to the consumer.

What is to be done? Why not let the unemployed do the lobbying? Lobbying is a pursuit that those lobbied tell us doesn’t produce results, not even minimal results. But millions of unemployed would be willing to lobby for minimal wages. It’s a perfect match. 

Because an elected official is immune to outside pressures, it won’t matter if the lobbyist who approaches him is wearing a tailored suit or scruffy blue jeans and ratty sneakers. Nor will it matter to the official if the lobbyist takes him to lunch at McDonald’s instead of a gourmet restaurant. The savings realized from lobbying on the cheap could result in lower prices for American consumers. But don’t bet on it.

Wherever Ego, I Go

The trouble with ego is that it must be fed from time to time. I like to think mine is an insignificant thing, a part of me that requires very little attention. Besides, it does better when it is nourished by others. I’m never sure whether people are being sincere or condescending when they say nice things. But who cares? My ego can’t get enough of it.

Recently, my ego has been strutting proudly and taking its lumps. The reason for both is the page on blogspot.com that lets me know how many people are reading my blog and the countries they are in when they access it. The numbers are not earth shattering. On a good day, the blog will have ten or fifteen page views. The good days are the days I post a link on Facebook, which leads me to believe the hits are from friends and relatives. Perhaps they’re reading it just to be kind, but at least they’re kind on a consistent basis. And consistent kindness, whether sincere or not, nourishes the hungry ego.

Not everyone who reads the blog, however, is a Facebook friend. Someone in Russia occasionally drops by. In fact, there have been days when more page views originated in Russia than in the United States, not that there were more than two or three from either country. Once I even got an e-mail from someone in Russia. It was written in the Cyrillic alphabet, and I had to run it through the Google translator. The writer didn’t express an opinion on my writing; he wanted to know if he could advertise in the Star Beacon. 

 That caused me to worry that the Russians might be up to something evil. Maybe they were trying to get into my computer to relieve me of my identity and the paltry pile of cash in my savings account. But on a more egotistical note, I have spent a significant amount time thinking the Russians are stealing the things I’ve written and making trillions of rubles selling them as the work of Ivan Rippenov. That wouldn’t be a bad thing if they shared a few rubles with me, but they haven’t. Still, my ego being what it is, enjoys going to bed believing I’m Russia’s latest literary sensation.

 

But there has also been a worrisome visitor. A week ago, someone looked around the blog from a website with the ominous name getdentalimplantsnow.com. I admit to having some large gaps where teeth used to be, but I don’t think they’re big enough to be spotted from cyberspace. I am convinced it has to do with how I write or what I write about. Every word I put down must cry out, “These are the thoughts of an addled no-longer-young person.”

Do readers see me as a doddering old fool? There would be advantages: all my typos would be overlooked. “Don’t pay any attention to the misspellings, missing words and silly syntax,” the persnickety reader might say. “He’s not as sharp as he used to be, and he wasn’t very sharp to begin with.” Or maybe they picture me – at least the ones who remember Laugh In – as the lecherous character on the park bench who was always hoping to seduce Ruth Buzzi. The guy who defined the hereafter as “If you’re not here after what I’m here after, you’ll be here after I’m gone.”

Giving the impression that I’m a spirited skirt-chasing geezer is better than being thought of as a dispirited fogy. But, getdentalimplantsnow.com sounds like an advertising campaign targeting the old and toothless. And it’s taken a bite out of my ego.

Oodles of Tuna Noodle

Tom emptied a bag of egg noodles into the pot of boiling water, gave them a quick stir, set the oven for 350 and went looking for cream of celery soup and tuna. He wasn't a stranger to the kitchen. Because he got home from work an hour-and-a-half before Debbie, his wife, Tom was the weekday cook. He was a step - maybe two - above adequate at the stove, and most of the meals he prepared were more challenging than tuna-noodle casserole.

He had been looking forward to pork chops all day until Bethany, their eight-year-old daughter, asked for tuna-noodle. How could he say "no" when she begged with pleading voice and imploring eyes? But when he opened the kitchen cabinet, he realized it would have been wiser to make sure all the ingredients were on hand before starting. As Tom's search became more frantic, Bethany, perched on the counter, began to worry. "You promised, Daddy," she said. Fortunately, the soup and tuna turned up behind the box of shredded wheat.

Tom poured the soup into a bowl, added a little milk and a splash of Worcestershire sauce and gave Bethany a tablespoon to stir the concoction. Then he opened the tuna and squeezed out the liquid gunk. When Tom pronounced the noodles done, Bethany got the colander.

He covered the bottom of the casserole dish with a layer of noodles, put some tuna on top of them and put another layer of noodles on top of that. Tom thought it would be easier to dump everything into the casserole and stir, but The Joy of Cooking said to layer the noodles and tuna. Every job needs a boss, and Bethany was delighted to provide the required supervision. As she watched him put the final layer of noodles into the casserole, she said, "Daddy, don't use all of them." He left a fistful of noodles, and then, again in accordance with the rules set down in The Joy of Cooking, poured the soup mixture on top of the noodles and tuna. But not all the soup; Bethany requested he leave some in the bowl. While he put the casserole in the over, she took a noodle, smeared it around in the soup bowl and popped it in her mouth. Then she took another one and repeated the process, and kept repeating it until the noodles were gone.

The greatest reward a parent can get for cooking dinner, Tom thought, was watching his children enjoy the meal, even if they didn't always wait for it to be cooked.