Reflecting upon the proposed government health insurance mandate, it strikes me that the promise is much like that of the famous "A Chicken in Every Pot" . . . except that
You have to buy the chicken
You have to buy a chicken that the government approves
If you don't buy a chicken, the government will fine you
And by the way, you have to buy a chicken for somebody else, too.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Saturday, September 5, 2009
A Ghost Story (Sort of)
Looking at the front lawn, which desperately needs cutting, reminded me of this. I can’t say for sure that it happened exactly this way, but Nana swears it’s true, and Nana doesn’t lie (mostly).
A while after Dad (Papa to the grandkids) died – it must have been spring or early summer of ’81 – Nana was still living in the house on Ozark Road. As the grass desperately needed cutting, (a job Dad had always done) Nana got out the mower and attempted to start it. She cranked and she cranked on the starter. Nothing. She rested a while, and then tried again, pulling the starter rope over and over for all she was worth. Not even a pop. Finally, exhausted, she let her frustration get the better of her. She sat down on the grass in tears and yelled at the heavens, “Damn you, Charles Gibson, why did you leave me alone to deal with all this by myself?” There were some other choice expletives, but I will omit them for the sake of younger readers.
At that point, according to Nana, she quite suddenly felt an air of complete and utter calm come over her. She knew exactly what she had to do. She went to Dad’s old toolbox, got out the proper sized wrench, and used it to remove the spark plug from the mower. She cleaned the plug, replaced it, and yanked the starter cord. The mower fired right up, and she proceeded to cut the grass.
Now those of you who know Nana realize that she normally couldn’t tell the difference between a spark plug and a set of white wall tires. For her, removing and cleaning a plug would be like a Bushman designing a thermonuclear weapon. But she did it, and didn’t think anything about it at the time.
A while later, after Nana had finished and was sitting in the kitchen, my youngest sister Susan dropped by the house. She sniffed for a second, and then demanded, “Who’s been smoking Dad’s pipe?” Sure enough, the aroma of Dad’s pipe tobacco was hanging in the air.
Again, I can’t say it happened exactly like this, but Nana swears it’s true, and Nana doesn’t lie (mostly).
A while after Dad (Papa to the grandkids) died – it must have been spring or early summer of ’81 – Nana was still living in the house on Ozark Road. As the grass desperately needed cutting, (a job Dad had always done) Nana got out the mower and attempted to start it. She cranked and she cranked on the starter. Nothing. She rested a while, and then tried again, pulling the starter rope over and over for all she was worth. Not even a pop. Finally, exhausted, she let her frustration get the better of her. She sat down on the grass in tears and yelled at the heavens, “Damn you, Charles Gibson, why did you leave me alone to deal with all this by myself?” There were some other choice expletives, but I will omit them for the sake of younger readers.
At that point, according to Nana, she quite suddenly felt an air of complete and utter calm come over her. She knew exactly what she had to do. She went to Dad’s old toolbox, got out the proper sized wrench, and used it to remove the spark plug from the mower. She cleaned the plug, replaced it, and yanked the starter cord. The mower fired right up, and she proceeded to cut the grass.
Now those of you who know Nana realize that she normally couldn’t tell the difference between a spark plug and a set of white wall tires. For her, removing and cleaning a plug would be like a Bushman designing a thermonuclear weapon. But she did it, and didn’t think anything about it at the time.
A while later, after Nana had finished and was sitting in the kitchen, my youngest sister Susan dropped by the house. She sniffed for a second, and then demanded, “Who’s been smoking Dad’s pipe?” Sure enough, the aroma of Dad’s pipe tobacco was hanging in the air.
Again, I can’t say it happened exactly like this, but Nana swears it’s true, and Nana doesn’t lie (mostly).
Mr. Louie
Nana’s Mr. Louie Sessions Story
Enterprise in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s was a typical Southeast Alabama town, not much different from its neighbors in the Wiregrass region like Opp, or Geneva, or Samson, although somewhat larger. Fort Rucker was still a Camp, and its economic impact on the area was still in the future, with the expansion caused by the demands of Vietnam not to come for another few years. So, in the main, Enterprise was still just a small rural community. And, as is the case with all rural communities, on Saturdays everybody congregated around Main Street.
Folks would go for groceries at the Piggly Wiggly, shop at Saloom’s and Yancey Parker’s, and stop in at Bryars-Warren Drugs or Joe C. Jones’ Hardware or the Hotel Rawls Barber Shop, depending on what they needed. And, since everybody, black and white, knew just about everybody else, it was always a fine opportunity for the great Southern Tradition of standing around talking with one another and catching up with what had been going on during the week, or simply standing around and watching (and remarking on) what everybody else was up to.
On this particular Saturday Mr. Louie Sessions was standing on the corner greeting and being greeted by passers-by, engaging in conversation occasionally, but mostly just standing there being dignified. And Mr. Louie was indeed dignified. Although a thorough Christian gentleman and a fine, quite down-to-earth man, Mr. Louie could be very intimidating. Impeccably dressed in a light seersucker suit, two-tone shoes and a Panama hat, he was the very picture of a Southern banker from an Erskine Caldwell novel. Not a tall man, his lean frame, rather close-set eyes, and large nose gave him the air of a bird of prey sizing up a potential meal. The fact that he owned the largest bank in Enterprise as well as being the principal shareholder in Sessions Peanut Company – the largest business in the area and primary reason that Enterprise was known as The Peanut Capital of the World (at least to folks in Enterprise) -- added considerably to his gravitas. Mr. Louie, all in all, was an imposing and important individual.
Not far from where Mr. Louie, the very soul of dignity, stood on the corner, a rather amply endowed black woman was attempting to nurse a very fussy infant while engaging in a lively conversation with friends and acquaintances who happened by. Every so often she would stop in mid-sentence, attempt to coax the complaining baby to take its nourishment, and then resume her discussion. Each time the infant refused, squirming against her breast and giving vent to its wrath. This went on for what seemed quite a while, the baby becoming more and more recalcitrant, and the mother becoming more and more exasperated. At last, at the end of her patience, her voice rang out in a powerful contralto heard the length and breadth of Main Street:
“CHILD, IF YOU DON’T START SUCKLING THIS MILK RIGHT NOW, I SWEAR ‘FORE GAWD AND ALL HIS DISCIPLES I’M GWINE GIVE IT TO MR. LOUIE!”
There was dead silence for a long second. Then, as the words sunk in, the entire population of Main Street doubled over in hysterics. Mr. Louie did not turn a hair, standing there as if absolutely nothing had happened. But slowly, a flush of color crept up from the line of his impeccable white collar until his entire face blushed beet red.
Without a word Mr. Louie turned slowly, and with immense dignity, walked back into the bank.
Enterprise in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s was a typical Southeast Alabama town, not much different from its neighbors in the Wiregrass region like Opp, or Geneva, or Samson, although somewhat larger. Fort Rucker was still a Camp, and its economic impact on the area was still in the future, with the expansion caused by the demands of Vietnam not to come for another few years. So, in the main, Enterprise was still just a small rural community. And, as is the case with all rural communities, on Saturdays everybody congregated around Main Street.
Folks would go for groceries at the Piggly Wiggly, shop at Saloom’s and Yancey Parker’s, and stop in at Bryars-Warren Drugs or Joe C. Jones’ Hardware or the Hotel Rawls Barber Shop, depending on what they needed. And, since everybody, black and white, knew just about everybody else, it was always a fine opportunity for the great Southern Tradition of standing around talking with one another and catching up with what had been going on during the week, or simply standing around and watching (and remarking on) what everybody else was up to.
On this particular Saturday Mr. Louie Sessions was standing on the corner greeting and being greeted by passers-by, engaging in conversation occasionally, but mostly just standing there being dignified. And Mr. Louie was indeed dignified. Although a thorough Christian gentleman and a fine, quite down-to-earth man, Mr. Louie could be very intimidating. Impeccably dressed in a light seersucker suit, two-tone shoes and a Panama hat, he was the very picture of a Southern banker from an Erskine Caldwell novel. Not a tall man, his lean frame, rather close-set eyes, and large nose gave him the air of a bird of prey sizing up a potential meal. The fact that he owned the largest bank in Enterprise as well as being the principal shareholder in Sessions Peanut Company – the largest business in the area and primary reason that Enterprise was known as The Peanut Capital of the World (at least to folks in Enterprise) -- added considerably to his gravitas. Mr. Louie, all in all, was an imposing and important individual.
Not far from where Mr. Louie, the very soul of dignity, stood on the corner, a rather amply endowed black woman was attempting to nurse a very fussy infant while engaging in a lively conversation with friends and acquaintances who happened by. Every so often she would stop in mid-sentence, attempt to coax the complaining baby to take its nourishment, and then resume her discussion. Each time the infant refused, squirming against her breast and giving vent to its wrath. This went on for what seemed quite a while, the baby becoming more and more recalcitrant, and the mother becoming more and more exasperated. At last, at the end of her patience, her voice rang out in a powerful contralto heard the length and breadth of Main Street:
“CHILD, IF YOU DON’T START SUCKLING THIS MILK RIGHT NOW, I SWEAR ‘FORE GAWD AND ALL HIS DISCIPLES I’M GWINE GIVE IT TO MR. LOUIE!”
There was dead silence for a long second. Then, as the words sunk in, the entire population of Main Street doubled over in hysterics. Mr. Louie did not turn a hair, standing there as if absolutely nothing had happened. But slowly, a flush of color crept up from the line of his impeccable white collar until his entire face blushed beet red.
Without a word Mr. Louie turned slowly, and with immense dignity, walked back into the bank.
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