Take a Deep Breath

Several years ago, I heard a sermon. The speaker made many good points, but the one that has stuck with me is the distinction he made between those things which are important, and those things which are urgent. The important things, he said, are always being derailed by the urgent.
Mulling this over, I of course realized he was right. In our “hierarchy of needs,” health comes first, social support--friends, pets and family--usually comes next. These are things that cannot be replaced. Once they’re gone, they’re gone. Wal-Mart doesn’t carry them.
But more often than not, we are “too busy” to really give these things the attention they deserve.
I can think of lots of examples: we don’t have time to exercise, or to sit down to home cooked meals, or to take walks on the beach, or read to our kids, or sit down for a cup of joe with Aunt Greta and Uncle Ben (Good gawd! That would take all day by the time they got out the good china, bickering with each other all the while, and then he’d start telling his stories and before you knew it, you’d have to stay for supper, and watch the evening news--and the car wouldn’t get washed, or the football game watched, or the leaves raked.). These are things that become more important when you can’t do them anymore--when the kids are grown, when the aunts and uncles are dead (and you can’t remember exactly how that story went even though you heard it a million times), when you can’t stand up straight, or drive anymore.
Much of the urgent we pay obeisance to is done to keep up with the Joneses, to look “normal.” We let daycare and television raise our kids so we can work to have the two-car garage, the picket fence and caller-ID. We struggle to feed our families, but we have cable TV.
We drag ourselves to work when we’re “fighting a flu,” or are “under the weather.” “But this project has to get finished,” we argue. Never mind that we, by expending our energies on work, are robbing our own body of the energy it needs to rid itself of whatever “bug” ails us. Never mind that we are probably prolonging our illness. Never mind that we are exposing our (important!) friends and family to our germs. And never mind that we probably are not functioning well enough to do our “project” the justice it requires.
But if we call in sick, we say, we will let down our boss, we will disappoint our clients, we will overburden our coworkers. These sentiments are admirable, but they are putting people over health--and if the people become sick as a result, well we have, in my opinion, negated the good we set out to do.
Just out of college, I was contract teaching at a local college and just wasn’t making ends meet. People were telling me I needed to get a “real” job (and what is teaching?!), and I was increasingly frustrated. Over the Christmas break (out of contract, with NO money coming in), I was contemplating throwing in the towel, and looking for work I knew would be less intrinsically satisfying, but more financially rewarding, when my landlady died. She had had gallbladder surgery five weeks earlier, and they had opened her up to find her riddled with cancer. The whole thing kind of knocked the wind out of my sails. The conclusion I came to was: If that had been me, I’d have been glad I stayed in the classroom.
I refer to this scenario often when I am harried and confused and frustrated. I take a deep breath and say: If I were to die next week, next year, tomorrow, what would be most important today. I won't be a slave to the urgent.

The Homeland

As a graduate student, I spent a month taking classes in England. It was a wonderful place, just like in the pictures one sees--a green carpet framed by low stone walls and decorated with quaint cottages, flower gardens and castles. From the rhododendrons lining the driveways, to Buckingham Palace, England mirrors its press.

During the course of the month, there were trips to London, to Stratford, to Oxford and to Canterbury. One excursion was to Tintagel in the southwestern tip, over Dartmoor, and through the legendary land of King Arthur. We saw Stonehenge, the British Museum, Shakespeare at the Barbican. We visited Jane Austin’s grave and saw the spot in Canterbury Cathedral where Thomas á Beckett was slain. We took a boat along the Thames to Kew Gardens, and visited the ancient Roman baths in Bath that still gurgle and steam after all these centuries.

My favorite trip was one where a friend and I rented a car and "motored" north for a free weekend. It was on this trip, while "oohing" and "aahing" my way through the North York Moors, and along the coast of the North Sea, that it struck me. The thought crossed through me, "This is so beautiful--but, I’ve seen landscapes just as beautiful in America."

It was on that winding roadway I realized: aside from the exhilaration of driving on the "wrong" side of the road, traveling the coast of England was a lot like traveling the coast of New England. And though they sported purple heather and wild horses, the moors were formed by glaciers just like the moraines of Michigan and Ohio and much of the northern United States.

Of course, there is more to traveling than scenery and geography. There is no substitute for experiencing another culture, observing how they solve the problems all humans encounter, coming to an understanding of their viewpoints on issues, and partaking of the unique contributions they make to taste and style.

I grew fond of malt vinegar on my "chips," and I haven’t tasted a scone that held a candle to those of England. I enjoyed walking to the "news agent" everyday, and eating Ploughman lunches at local pubs, but I did resolve, right there on the coast highway, to appreciate my own country just a little bit more when I returned.
I guess its a human tendency to get bored by what is too accessible, or familiar, human tendency to look for the thrill. It’s a shame really. We miss a lot, I fear, and waste the precious time life bestows on us, in our frantic pursuits.

A few summers back, I took a trip with my mother to Mackinac Island, coming back through Traverse City and the Leelanau Peninsula. We climbed Lookout Point and toured the Grand Hotel. We rented a horse-drawn buggy to drive around the Island. We drove the 5-mile bridge that spans the Straits of Mackinac, uniting the Upper and Lower Peninsulas. We bought souvenirs and postcards and nutty fudge.
We ate the nectar-like cherries of Kewadin, and toured the wineries of Leelanau County. We watched the sun set over Traverse Bay from a top-floor, glass-walled restaurant.

I’ve never had such good perch as I ate on the Island, and Sleeping Bear Dunes could surely challenge the White Cliffs of Dover. I read about the glaciers that helped form the land and the legend of the mother bear and her cubs who swam Lake Michigan to escape a fire. The “mother” still waits upon the shore looking across the water for her cubs who tired and drowned just short of safety. Small islands commemorate the spots where they were lost.

I stand looking over the lake and could as easily be looking out from the ruined walls of King Arthur’s mythical Tintagel castle. In England or in my own backyard, the lesson is the same. It is the lesson learned from watching the endurance of nature and of human story--it is patience and awe.

I am reminded of Claude Monet, who in his later years retired to Giverny, his home and gardens, on the premise that it would take a lifetime to see everything they contained. He found peace and contentment among the flowers and ponds, and painted some of his most famous paintings there.

I want to return to England someday--to go to places I didn’t before, and to revisit some I did. But until that day comes, I’m going to breathe deeply the Michigan air. I’m going to climb the dunes and delight in the sound of the waves lapping against the sand. I’m going to drink in the purples and the oranges of the sunsets and eat the fruits of local farms. I am going to watch the birds and creatures around me and appreciate the beauty and the people of the land I call home.

Driving Lessons

With all the beauty of spring, the season is, unfortunately, marred by the foolish drivers of winter who now have actual traction. It’s easy, after creeping along all winter, to want to kick up one’s heels, and squeal some tires. But there’s a fine line between spontaneous fun and disaster. And fun becomes very un-fun when disaster strikes. What I’m seeing on the streets isn’t fun, it’s scary.

Maybe drivers should have to take continuing education to renew their licenses, refresher courses to remind us all how to be on our best automobile operating behavior.

These courses could put us nostalgically back into the driver’s ed car with an instructor counting off a three-point complete stop. People seem to have forgotten that one. The stop sign has become a yield sign, requiring a stop only if traffic demands it. I hate to think what the yield sign has become--since the concept of yield itself seems to have become fuzzy.

I was travelling westward along a thoroughfare last week. A group of cyclists filled the other lane, moving east, toward me. A car approached, also travelling east, behind the group of cyclists. Instead of slowing until able to pass the bicycles, the car moved into my lane, forcing me to brake to avoid collision. The driver didn’t seem to give it a second thought--or a first.

Periodic driving tests might help people remember the basic rules of the road: right of way, respect for the center line (and the shoulder line, while we’re at it), and turn signal usage.

The thing is: most of the basic laws are a matter of safety. Yielding the right of way--letting the driver take his or her rightful turn--is designed to prevent accidents and to let traffic move in as smooth a manner as possible.

Yielding the right of way comes into play a lot at four-way stops. People act as if the objective is to come to the quickest possible stop, and then go. They miss that the stop is required to ensure everyone gets a a fair opportunity to advance--that the reason I stop is to let you go, and vice versa.

Another example of not yielding the right of way is often found inregards to turning right on a red light, where people stopped for a red light can turn right if there is no oncoming traffic. The operative phrase in that sentence is “if there is no oncoming traffic.” More and more, people do not yield to the oncoming traffic, but pull right on out into it, reminiscent of their behavior at the four-way stop.

Another rule people ignore is the one that requires drivers entering traffic to match the flow of traffic, the reason for freeway on-ramps, so the car has room enough to accelerate to "freeway" speed before entering the freeway. This means, when you run that stop sign to “make the break,” and avoid having to stop and wait for the oncoming cars, you’d better quit fiddling with your drink, step on it, and get up to speed.

Again, a safety issue: When you run the stop sign and proceed down the road at 25 miles per hour, in a 40-mile-per-hour zone, fumbling for your breath mints, the cars behind you all have to break their pace. If cars are travelling in a tight enough line, they may actually have to brake, which leads to many a rear-end accident.

And traffic laws, much like manners, are quite simply common courtesy (not to mention common sense).

Take that turn signal usage. Now, I certainly understand how it would be difficult to signal when your hands are full, like when you’re talking on the phone, lighting a cigarette, or drinking your coffee. And I’d hate to see you take your hand off the steering wheel, but--wait a minute . . . .

When you are behind the wheel of your car, your primary focus should be on commandeering your vehicle safely and efficiently down the road! The automobile is not an extension of your living room, it is a tool we all use to get places--places we all need to go, places equally important to each of us.

It seems so minor, that turn signal, but it is such a simple, effective agent of safety. It tells other drivers what you are doing, and more importantly, it tells other drivers that you know what you are doing--that you are focused on your driving, that you are in control and driving with a plan.

We all make honest mistakes, missing a turn, getting into the wrong lane, forgetting to look before backing up. But failure to use a turn signal is blatant disregard for law and decorum. It is inconsiderate, and downright rude.

Now, I know there are many very good drivers out there--and lest they take offense, I’d like to say: if the shoe doesn’t fit, don’t wear it.

But if the shoe does fit: Please! Get your head out of the clouds, put your mind on what you’re doing--and pay attention to the other idiots around you--you just can’t predict what they might do next--especially now that they have traction.

Life Cycles

Note: This is an oldie--I wrote it in college. But it's still one of my favorites!

There it is again. That spot in the road. I've passed it every day this week and last. It is almost unrecognizable now--almost a pile of dust. But I remember the first time I saw it. Fresh. Twisted--almost alive--still warm?--brilliant, red, vibrant, but dead. An unsuccessful dash across the road--with an especially desirable acorn to store for winter?--in that extra special cache on the other side?

Cringing, I swerved--offering more space than necessary--to avoid any contact. I averted my eyes to avoid seeing the last evidence of life oozing from the tiny mouth of the squirrel that lay across the white line of the road.

Passing the same spot the next day, I swerved a little less--I offered less distance. I averted my eyes more slowly. The bright red liquid coming from the mouth was now frozen--crusty and black. The body still lay twisted across the center line, but something--not swerving away as I had done--possibly swerving to?--had flattened the once bushy tail.

Each day I drove past that spot in the road, I swerved less. I winced less. The legs became flattened against the pavement. The red fur became colorless, blending into the road beneath it.

Gradually, the legs, tail, head became separate entities of their own--disconnected from the whole--no longer a part of the giant red squirrel of that first day.

And now it is a pile of dust. I think nothing now of driving over it--through it! I no longer hesitate to mangle and destroy what little is left of life there in the middle of the road, in that pile of dust.

At some point someone will walk barefoot over this pile of dust, scattering it, redepositing it into the berm where dandelions will use it to germinate their seed. Children will mix it with water and form it into mud pies and "gingerbread" men. Trees will be planted; skyscrapers built. At some point, the pile of dust in the middle of the road, the dead red squirrel, will once again become life.

Brad Pitt is One Fine Hunk

But he has a bit to learn about the way the world operates.

In an hour long interview with Diane Sawyer last year (7 June 2005), Pitt nobly tried to draw attention, as others have before him, to the plight of the impoverished people of Africa. He made the statement that, if we tried, we could wipe out poverty in our lifetime.

I agree with him--all poverty, not just Africa’s. What I think he doesn’t understand is that not everybody thinks that’s a good idea.
World history shows that the powerful marauders and explorers and conquistadors who braved and tamed and conquered Earth did so looking for land and wealth. The people they found inhabiting the places they “discovered,” or claimed, often became slaves--laborers and servants--of the triumphant. The people’s property was duly appropriated.

Even the Nazis confiscated the valuables of the Jews, and others, they exterminated--to the point of removing teeth containing gold. Healthy Jews were of course put to work.

For these practices to be carried out requires the perception that there is a type, or types, of people who are unworthy to participate in the pursuit of happiness, if you will. People unworthy of proper food, proper shelter, a fair living. Disposable people. People worthy only of doing the dirty work of the people who are “worthy.”

The key word is “perception.” The “worthy” people are, more often than not, just like the “unworthy,” with a bit more luck, or strength (as in brute strength) or inherited wealth. People, over time, have banded together, joined forces, created treaties in order to attack and overthrow and oppress the “others.”

If they didn’t do this, they would have no one to do the undesirable work of living: the trash collecting, the ditch digging, the emptying of the chamber pot. To avoid doing this work themselves, they need an “underclass.” To avoid feeling guilty about using others to do their dirty work, they must deem them unworthy.

To do away with poverty would put everyone on a more equal footing. To actually pay members of the underclass what they’re worth would be to acknowledge that they are worthy. If the poor could actually make fair and decent livings, who would do the dirty work? Who would fight the wars?

Thomas Jefferson, and other founders of America’s governmental system, tried to build equal “worthiness” into its constitution. They envisioned an educated self-sufficient population, with members who did their own dirty work, or at least respected the people who did it for them. As these men were also slaveowners, I realize they had some bugs in their “vision!” In fact, that makes my argument somewhat stronger--these men had the best of intentions, and couldn’t pull it off.

And the America they created becomes increasingly stratified: the wealthy get wealthier, the poor get poorer.

So, I applaud Pitt’s efforts, and understand how meeting the children he met, and learning their stories, in his words, “broke his heart.” It breaks my heart. I can’t imagine watching my children bloat with starvation, flies feasting on the pus in their eyes. I just think the issues are bigger than he realizes, and the answers more complicated.

Until he convinces the upper class to do its own dirty work (I wonder who swishes his toilets . . . .), or to pay a truly living wage to have it done, there will continue to be oppression and poverty.

Christ Himself said the poor would always be with us. Christ understood that the issues were too big for even Him. He also understood that the poor and oppressed were not unworthy. He told them to be glad they were poor--that they would inherit the Earth.

I think what he meant was: it is morally and ethically better to be oppressed than to be an oppressor. Though this is little comfort, I’m sure, to those watching flies feed in the corners of their baby’s eyes.

For the Bulls of the PBR!

It happened quite by accident really. I was flipping through the channels, looking for something to watch on TV, when I stumbled upon bull riding.
Thinking it might be a rodeo, I decided to watch a bit of it. I was hoping they’d show barrel racing. That had always been my favorite at the annual rodeos I attended as a teenager at the local fairgrounds (in Dayton, Ohio).
I’d never seen the attraction to bull riding. It has no function other than sport. The bull is bred strictly for the event. It is not a dairy bull, nor a beef bull, only a bucking bull. I find it an arrogant sport at that--the epitome of “small man syndrome” (and by this I refer to smallness of ego, not stature).
The bull is put into a “chute” so he can’t move--it’s the only way to get on his back. A rope is tied around his groin to ensure his annoyance, and a spur-sporting cowboy climbs onto his back. Said bull is then released into the arena, twisting and bucking, trying to throw the cowboy off his back before the eight second buzzer signals a successful “ride.” Who thought of this?!
I envision a bunch of rowdies sittin’ ‘round the campfire drinking grog, when one of ‘em says, “Hey! Let’s make a bull mad and try to ride him!”
You’d think that the first broken rib, or dislocated shoulder--not to mention hitting the hard ground upon “dismount”--would have put an end to this idea, but no-o-o! They just tied themselves on tighter and had at it.
It’s now a Ford sponsored, Las Vegas-big, event. And so, disappointed, I reached for the remote.
But then it happened. The camera zoomed into the chute, where the next cowboy was boarding a bull named Chili Pepper. He was a white bull “peppered” with red spots. “Aptly named,” I thought.
Then the camera caught his eyes. A chill went through me--the kind of chill that goes through me when they show Charlie Manson on TV--the chill of confronting sheer madness. I froze.
Well, they opened the chute and that bull exploded in a fury of bucking and twisting like I’ve never seen. The cowboy was thrown so fast, he might as well have just stayed in the chute--and that part of me that appreciates poetic justice cheered.
I spent the rest of the summer watching PBR bull riding--not for the eight second ride, mind you, but for when the cowboy loses his rope, or his balance, lands in the dirt, and the bull wins. It’s especially exciting when the bull wheels around and chases the limping would-be rider out of the ring. Sometimes it gets serious and the “clowns” (now called bullfighters) have to step in, distracting the bull so the guy can get away.
Do I have any sympathy for the participants in this sport? Who suffer the broken bones and torn muscles, the sprains and dislocated joints? Who risk getting stomped on and gored by maddened animals? Nope. Anyone fool enough to attempt riding a ticked-off, two thousand pound creature reaps what he sows. I have no sympathy--I root for the bulls!

Brokeback Mountain is Not a Gay Movie

In fact, it’s a rather sad movie--the way life is sad when you aren’t true to yourself, when you try so hard to please others that you force yourself into molds that don’t fit, and you end up not only miserable yourself, but making everyone you were trying to please miserable too. That’s the kind of movie it is--with universal lessons for everyone.
Yes, the movie does detail a gay relationship (in a refreshingly real way--not like on Will & Grace, with silly, stylized characters and insider jokes, but as ordinary people--like you find in real life). But, the movie also details heterosexual relationships, and relationships between parents and their children--with all the struggles and hurts and joys that come with them.
Brokeback Mountain portrays real life--up and down, good and bad.
It is a good snapshot of the time periods in which the story takes place, of the social attitudes and realities that led to the actions of the characters, as well as social attitudes and realities that have led us to the times in which we now live (which may not be as different as we think).
If Brokeback Mountain makes viewers uncomfortable, I suspect it has little to do with “gay cowboys” and everything to do with having to look at themselves and the relationships they are involved in.
The study of literature involves talk about round and flat characters--round being three-dimensional, deep, real. Flat characters are two-dimensional, undeveloped. They serve primarily to move the story. Brokeback Mountain makes you examine your relationships in somewhat the same way. Are they real? Or just role-playing?
We should all be so lucky as to experience a Brokeback Mountain--a time and place where we are completely free to be ourselves, a place where we are loved for being ourselves--in our lifetime. The saddest part of the movie is coming away from it wondering if such a place exists, and if you’ll ever be so lucky as to find it.
No, Brokeback Mountain is not a gay movie. It is a moving, thought provoking and inspiring movie, a movie well worth seeing, a movie that deserves its nominations, its awards, and a movie with lessons we could all benefit from learning--about making committments to ourselves, and not putting off until tomorrow that which we are afraid to do today. It leaves all who see it thinking about it long after they’ve left the theatre.

Soap Operas Say So Much

I take a lot of guff from friends and colleagues for my devotion to soap operas, or “stories,” as we afficionados call them.
They cite my Masters degree in English, the study of “high” culture, and cannot understand why I would stoop so "low" as to watch such trite melodrama.
It’s true, the plots are predictable, the dialogue unrealistic and the situations people find themselves in completely implausable.
And yet they are addicting. Nor am I the only student of high culture I know who watches them. I won’t blow anyone’s cover, but I know entire English departments devoted to soap operas. In fact, soap operas generate a gargantuan amount of money. What started as a series of commercials has become a fullblown industry. Whole magazines are devoted to the shows. College courses have dissected them, books have been written about them. And just go ahead and google the term.
One English professor along the way explained their popularity saying people are suckers for a neverending story.
I think people just fall in love with the characters. I am particularly fond of the grande dames of shows: Phoebe Tyler (recently deceased in real life) of All My Children (AMC), the Lila Quartermain (also deceased) of General Hospital (GH), Katherine Chancellor of The Young and the Restless (Y&R).
And then there are the characters you love to hate. I remember Victor Newman from Y&R when he had his wife Julia locked in a cell in the basement (a common story theme, by the way). Now how could a guy like that ever be loved? And yet, I’ve ridden the roller coaster. The bad guy becomes the hero, falls into disrepute again, only to become the victim of unfairness, so one can’t help but sympathize. You hate him, you love him, you hate him again. It’s like Michigan weather, just wait ten episodes and it’ll change.
People who watch them seem to get caught up with predicting the outcomes, or giving the characters advice. Watching once with a friend who was less than enamored, I exclaimed to one of the characters, “No! Don’t trust him. You can’t trust him.” The look on my friend’s face prompted me to explain that that’s what soaps were for. She replied she thought that’s what football was for.
And maybe that’s part of it. These are problems we can solve. Next to the problems these people have, our own seem petty.
They let us vent. The dialogue is unrealistic, but the characters often say things we think and would never dream of sharing.
Perhaps they pull us out of ourselves, a bit of fantasy, a bit of entertainment.
But they can also be educative, or at least they put issues on the map and get people talking. Every soap has at one time dealt with alcoholism. Most dealt with AIDS when it was considered the “gay plague.” The soaps put a face to the disease, easing the public panic.
Soaps expose viewers to the latest fashions, hairstyles, music. Ther've been zig-zag hair parts, and “weedwhacker” haircuts, and seventies "retro."
They oil social interaction. I worked in an office where it was almost a duty to watch the “office” soap opera on your day off and report the next day. It provided a topic of discussion, it bonded workers. It is certainly better to gossip about soap opera situations than real ones!
Soap watchers know this isn’t reality. Babies stay babies for years, and then suddenly come on as teenagers. Then there are the plunging necklines worn to the office, and how people can just leave work when they need to.
Even in their implausibility, soaps, like fairy tales, offer lessons in society. A friend of mine started dating a woman of a higher social class than he. I bit my tongue, but thought, “That’ll never work! Doesn’t he watch the soaps?”
They offer lessons in what not to do. Lovers hide things from each other because they love the other and don’t want to “hurt” them. Of course their secrets backfire and create an even bigger mess. You find yourself saying, “Just tell him/her the truth!” (Though whether we apply this to our own quagmires is debatable!)
Soap watchers learn to speak in terms of the “old” Rosanna vs. the “new” Rosanna. Sometimes an actor joins a soap after playing a character on another soap. It can take some time to adjust. Sometimes you never do. Cliff from AMC joined Y&R, replacing Jack. He’s been Jack for a long time now, but to me he’s still Cliff. And I still miss the”old” Jack.
Many famous stars started on the soaps. I remember David Hasselhoff as Snapper from Y&R. Demi Moore’s character helped Robert Scorpio look for the Ice Princess during the height of the Luke and Laura days on GH.
Not all actors move on. Some stay and become stars of soap operas. The most famous of these is probably Susan Lucci who plays Erica Kane on AMC.
And “stories” are just fun, they aren’t too serious, they tap into our fantasies and lift our spirits.
Lastly, a note about "high" and popular culture: Culture gets passed on through time because it reaches the masses, it becomes popular--they pass it on. Because it survives, we call it “art.” Maybe the Shakespearean plays we think of today as “high art” were nothing more than the soap operas of their time.
So, I try not to think in terms of embracing high culture or popular culture, but more in terms of respecting the former, and keeping up with the current. Now there’s the neverending story.

We're Not in Mayberry Anymore

I spent a recent dreary day watching a “Mayberry Marathon”--six hours of reruns of that popular TV show featuring the antics of Sheriff Andy and his Deputy Barney Fife. After laughing my way through the first hour, I realized that--seriously--today’s society could learn a lot about civility, common sense and community from the citizens of Mayberry!
Among the episodes that stick out in my mind is the one where Barney, who can’t sing, takes over the tenor position in the church choir. No one in the community has the heart to tell Barney he is off key--and they go to incredible lengths to cover him up and drown out his solos--but they let him remain part of the group in a collective exhibition of compassion and tolerance.
The show that really got me thinking was the one where Barney decides to run for sheriff because of Andy’s “malfeasance.”
A town meeting is called so the candidates can debate. Barney goes first listing his grievances which include Andy’s lax enforcement of parking and jaywalking laws and the fact that Andy has not stocked the police station with adequate riot gear--tear gas and automatic rifles--let alone the fact that Andy himself rarely carries even a gun.
In a very moving rebuttal, Andy points out that while all Barney’s accusations are true, it just defies common sense to enforce rules when there is no need. He offers as evidence the fact that he can’t remember the last time there was a traffic accident in Mayberry, or a riot. He doesn’t carry a gun, because there just isn’t the kind of crime that warrants it.
In the end, Barney gets up, accepts Andy’s explanations and announces “I’m voting for Andy!” The whole town cheers and applauds and there is a lot of back-patting and hugging.
So many points can be made from this show that I’m sure I’ll miss a few, but here goes: First of all, when the town gathers to hear the candidates debate, the whole town gathers. Not just the “Barney” supporters, not just the “Andy” supporters.
We, the viewers, of course know that Barney is a bumbling fool who would be an incompetent sheriff, at best. Mayberry knows this too--and yet they give him his time and listen to his complaints--they show him due respect.
Barney, in the end is allowed to, and does, come to the conclusion that Andy is the best choice for sheriff himself. He is, in turn, a big enough person to admit that he was wrong. I like to think that he feels secure enough to do this because of the supportive, respectful community he belongs to.
I think what the crowd really cheers, in the end, is that the community has been kept whole. They haven’t had to choose sides. If they had they would probably elect Andy--which would leave Barney feeling rejected, hurt and embarrassed, maybe even an “outcast.”
Or perhaps Barney would have garnered enough supporters to divide the town (he got enough to call the town meeting), pitting neighbor against neighbor. As it turned out, Barney was given an opportunity to save-face and they remained one big happy bunch of people. Community triumphs.
There is victory here, also, for common sense. Andy underscores the true purpose of law and its enforcement--to maintain civility and community, not point out everyone’s every infraction (I’ve only offered examples of Barney’s charges, but if my memory serves me accurately, he had a list of 72 “incidents” of Andy’s “malfeasance.”) With as many laws as are currently on the books, can anyone really be a totally “law-abiding” citizen?
Yes, but the time and place that was Mayberry was a simpler time and place--or was it? Maybe we make things more complicated than they are. Maybe we should take a step back and remember that mutual respect and common sense go a long way in maintaining civility and community.
And a good laugh now and then doesn’t hurt either!

Downsizing the Dollar.

A friend recently purchased a 1976 Sears catalog at a rummage sale, thinking it would be a hoot to see how prices had changed in 30 years. Expecting things to seem ridiculously inexpensive compared to current rates, he was surprised, and perhaps a bit disappointed, to find prices almost exactly the same then as they are now.
And yet, the two of us agreed that the dollar does not go as far as it did in the 70s. What makes the difference?
The price is increasingly being paid in reduced quantity and quality, I fear. From the materials used to the way things are put together, corners are cut, and the consumer pays just a little more for just a little less.
Downsizing and reformulating is a popular trick. Many products charge the same for the “new and improved” carton that contains an ounce or two less (Andy Rooney has been tracking the shrinking pound of coffee on “60 Minutes” for years). Other companies begin using cheaper ingredients and components resulting in diminished quality.
Corporate America has switched its allegiance from the customer to the stockholder. It takes a lot of consumer awareness to keep up with the decisions made by ”the big guns.”
Reading labels is a good start--for ingredients, for volume, for just what company produces the product. I am astounded how many Nestlé products there are! (That’s not necessarily a bad thing--just a surprise.)
Remember good ol’ Ivory Snow--”99 44/100 % pure?” That was then. It has not only lost its purity, it is no longer soap. I am splitting hairs, I suppose, but a soap works differently than a detergent--and in some instances, soap is better. Thinking I’d just switch, I picked up the competing brand--turns out it’s made by the same company that owns Ivory.
That brings me to choice. If choice is freedom, then I fear we’re at risk of losing ours. How can we have freedom of choice when eight of the ten laundry detergents at the store are produced by the same company?
I had a similar experience shopping for scissors. Confronted by an array of scissors with brightly colored handles, I set to determining the differences between each pair. While the scissors were all of the same type (hair cutting scissors), there were two different name brands and a hand full of prices. When I got to reading the fine print, I discovered they were, each and every one, manufactured by the same company. The only difference was packaging--and price.
More recently I switched from using a brand of toilet paper. The maker replaced the regular sized six-pack with a six-pack of “giant sized” rolls. The price more than doubled--from $1.99 for the regular six to $4.59 for the giant sized rolls--but the new giant sized six-pack is about 70 square feet less than if you doubled the size of the original. (Yes, that took some math!)
ISo, it’s not enough to be a consumer, one has to be a good consumer. It is up to the responsible consumer to choose the best of what’s offered, and to research alternatives where products are unsatisfactory. Consumers must determine whether the products they’re buying offer good value for the cost. I could argue that a consumer in a market-driven world has the same sort of duty as a voter in a democratic world.
And perhaps that duty even extends to monitoring the company producing those products, being aware of their employment practices, their pollution records.
If we made sure we bought from companies who were good employers and good environmental stewards, the others, by theory, would cease to exist.
I think Americans have forgotten that as customers--the ones with the dollars businesses are clamoring for--they are the ones who have the power to demand quality product for their hard-earned money.

The Cost of Shopping at Wal-Mart

I used to shop at a little grocery store named Schneck’s, after the family who’d opened and run it for 50 years. My English students once called it the “claustrophobia store” because it was so small. But it was a truly mighty store!
You could find most anything you wanted on their shelves, and they were usually willing to order what you couldn’t. They had the best meat, with a butcher who could tell you how to cook it. They bought their produce locally, fresh and in season. Everyone who worked there was friendly. They knew me by name, and if ever I was short of funds, they just put my groceries “on account.” They closed awhile back, and I miss them.
Several years back I ran into an old boyfriend in Schneck’s. He’s from a rather well-to-do family. He reacted to seeing me with a surprised, “How can you afford to shop at Schneck’s?”
And I answered: “I can’t afford to not shop at Schneck’s.” I went on to give him a lesson in “real” math.
For one thing, prices at Schneck’s weren’t that much higher than the other local grocery stores, especially on “fresh” items like meat and produce. Canned goods were sometimes higher, true, and they didn’t run incredible sales like the bigger stores, but the differences were often within a ten-cent range.
At first, I bought only “good deals” at Schneck's, going elsewhere for the “expensive” stuff--like toilet paper, kitty litter and Campbell’s soup. But somewhere along the way, I realized that it was costing me as much in gasoline to drive to the other stores as I was saving, and it took a lot more time. Little by little, I stopped shopping around and shopped more at Schneck’s.
By the time I ran into my old friend, I was shopping at Schneck’s almost exclusively.
“If I don’t shop at Schneck’s,” I told him, “they will go out of business, and I will be at the mercy of the "big guys." That is what I can’t afford (Sniff!).”
It wasn’t long after that that Martin’s (a bigger guy) came to town. They were tempting at first--a nice bright store--clean and shiny. They beat Schneck’s on prices, and had my favorite gourmet items too! Many of the workers at Schneck’s got jobs there.
I can’t remember who closed first, but the local D & W (another independently owned grocery that had just expanded to two locations) and Schneck’s both went out of business; Martin’s purchased the D & W in a nearby town. Yet another store is showing signs of stress. People whisper that it’s next.
In the meantime, prices have gone up at Martin’s, and the gourmet goodies have disappeared.
Now I’m not naming names to point fingers and tick people off. These stores are just doing business the way business is done. I’m not decrying capitalism either. But I am saying that where you shop has an effect.
Recently Wal-Mart has been in the news because of these same issues. Many communities are voting against new Wal-Mart stores because they tend to suck customers away from the small mom-and-pop businesses. They also practice questionable labor practices, using more part-timers to avoid paying the benefits they would need to pay full-time employees.
The author of one New York Times story suggests that we, as customers, are burning the candle at both ends--our quest for savings creates an impoverished class that will need to rely on government benefits to survive (and "we" fund the government).
When I shopped at Schneck’s, I knew my money stayed in the community. The extra dime I spent on a can of soup bought me friendly service, and let the Schneck family retire comfortably.
The Walton family, who owns Wal-Mart, does not live in my community, nor even near it. They do not know my name. Family members rank quite high on Fortune magazine’s list of the richest people, with worths well into the billions of dollars. Society considers the Wal-Mart story the fulfillment of “the American dream.” Real math says not.
Thomas Jefferson’s vision for America was not of conglomerate Wal-Marts, where a few get rich on the backs of many. Jefferson’s ideal was of a lot of Schneck’s-like stores, where a community supports, and is supported by people who know each other, care about each other and take pride in providing the goods and services they do.
When I make billionaires of a few, at the expense of my neighbors, I’m shooting myself in the foot--that’s real math.