LIFE IN THE BALANCE

Early daylight began knifing its way in around the tattered edges of the shade covering a small bedroom’s east window. Eighty-six-year-old Ralph McIntire awoke and started collecting his thoughts. He was fully aware that just dragging his ancient body out of bed would bring on new aches and pains. But, for him, each new day was still a blessing. Life was for the living, and not moving around was something best reserved for the dead. So he gritted his teeth and got on with it.

Oh, on rare occasions Ralph still enjoyed a few precious moments reminiscent of the best of times. He also endured brief occasions that rivaled the worst of times. But most of his experiences remained about as average and mediocre as an old man living a plain, run-of-the-mill life can expect. He’d decided long ago that good times and bad times more or less resemble a pair of twins on a see-saw. They, too, usually just tend to balance out.

Ralph showered, shaved, and put on a clean blue chambray work shirt and his newest-looking pair of bib overalls, wound his ancient pocket watch, and stepped outside to meet the new day. The red sky in the east was a sure sign of rain. Wet weather is not always kind to people with arthritic joints, but a nice gentle rain would be welcomed by farmers and gardeners. Again, he decided things could always be worse.

Ralph’s old Chevy pickup was a far cry from the best of trucks. It was certainly not a vehicle that would turn the heads of the local young bucks or, for that matter, any females. A two-wheel drive job, powered by a well-used old straight-six engine, it delivered no thundering burst of power. It had no shiny, large-diameter chrome exhaust stacks protruding up vertically through the floor of its pickup box as did some of the new diesel-powered monsters that roared by.

Various areas of the old rig’s fenders and doors told the story of having valiantly fought, and lost, a battle with rust and now only gaping holes remained. But the old “bucket of bolts” was paid for. And it always started and got him where he wanted to go. And gassing it up was doubtless a lot less painful than filling the tanks of many modern larger, faster, more powerful fuel-guzzling models.

Ralph climbed in, started up, drove downtown and parked as near as possible to Red’s Corner Cafe. “Red’s” was not the greatest of breakfast joints. But quality, quantity, and price-wise it was decidedly not the worst. Entering, he found an empty chair at a large table where seven of his cronies were already enjoying their first cup of coffee. These silver-haired retirees didn’t make up the best-educated and most-intellectual group in the world, but they all spoke the same local language. And if a fellow ever really needed a favor, there’s a good chance any one of them would be willing to help out. Oh, a certain amount of whining, complaining, and bellyaching might be expected at first, but eventually the request for help would be granted.

“Red,” herself, came out of the kitchen to take Ralph’s order. She’d owned and operated the place for years. In fact, when she bought the little eatery, her natural hair color was a reddish-auburn. On that particular morning, Ralph thought her new coppery-red hair tone was maybe not the best dye job in the world, but definitely an improvement. The day before, the gray was expanding both ways from the part in her hair, gaining on and threatening to overtake all of the remaining artificial titian-red.

Ralph ate his breakfast while listening to the conversation of his buddies. He was well aware that hard-fried eggs, bacon, and greasy hash brown potatoes were not generally considered the healthiest of items for a breakfast, but he’d been enjoying them for as long as he could remember. And he had outlived a lot of conscientious dieters and more than a few health experts. Maybe he’d somehow developed some kind of immunity or resistance to LDL cholesterol and triglycerides.

The breakfast discussion proved to be fairly flimsy in content and even less interesting than usual. Older men tend to repeat themselves, so Ralph had pretty much heard it all before. The devout optimists remained positive and hopeful, while the confirmed pessimists continued to complain and predict gloom and doom. The Democrats prided themselves on being far-sighted liberals and the Republicans refused to see anything other than the tried and true conservative side of things.

Their breakfasts finished, the discussion group broke up and the diners started to leave, some to begin the usual trivial goings-on of their average day and others, to their customary day of inactivity. It didn’t take much to satisfy some of those old codgers and keep them occupied.

Ralph climbed into his pickup truck and drove out to the Eternal Rest Cemetery to inspect the monument he’d recently purchased for his burial plot. The new granite stone was small but adequate, with his name and year of birth tastefully engraved. Eventually someone would sandblast in the date of his departure. Throughout his lifetime he had never been much of a man for “show.”

His was not the greatest of gravesites, being located in one of the least prestigious areas of the commercial burial ground. The salesperson had tried to sell him a costlier location in an area that offered beautiful shade trees and a
better view. But Ralph failed to see the advantage. He felt confident he would rest as peacefully here as he would anywhere.

Several of his friends had already chosen cremation as “the way to go,” saying it was the only way to “beat the system.” “Why stick all of that money into the ground?” they would ask. Their funeral ceremonies would be cut to the bare minimum, with their ashes spread over a favorite lake, river, or wooded area. But Ralph preferred to stick with the traditional.

Alone in the quiet cemetery, thoughts and memories of his life came and went. His had not been the greatest of lives, but certainly not the worst. An
un-skilled worker, his efforts had been menial, but employment was steady. He’d acquired no fortune, but managed to save up a tidy nest egg and qualify for a small pension. With Social Security, he would most likely be able to live out the final years of his life in reasonable comfort.

Ralph recalled his ex-wife and what was definitely not the most blissful of marriages. But it could have been worse. At least Rosa had remained with him until their six children finished high school. She said she wanted more out of life. Perhaps she just wanted a different man.

Ralph had never been proud of their split-up, and frequently recalled those age-old words of wisdom: “It takes two to make a marriage, and two to make a divorce.” But, for some unknown reason, he never felt even the slightest twinge
of guilt over their failed union. Both his heart and his conscience continually assured him that he had always done his part.

Their kids had done well. Thinking about them filled his heart with pride. Oh, sure, they all may have made a few mistakes along the way, but Ralph always thought making mistakes is a necessary part of the education that’s required for any youngster to develop and graduate into a real full-grown adult. None of their six ever wound up in prison or went into politics. Eventually they all got their feet on the ground and became solid citizens; loving, caring people who worked hard and made a good honest living for themselves and their families.

Ralph’s thoughts turned again to the future. He knew that before long his time would come to leave the land of the living. His body would rest here beneath the sod. He had paid for Perpetual Care, so was reasonably sure that soon after his passing he would be “grassed over” and the new green sod would always be neatly mowed. Perhaps the children or grandchildren would bring an occasional flower or maybe even plant a rose bush on each side of his small monument.

As for his spirit’s final destination, well, that was another story, an entirely different tale with a completely unpredictable ending. He could only hope and pray that a loving, forgiving Lord might take his hand and lead him to a home that was at least fairly comfortable, and that he would not be condemned for all time to that worst of places. Ralph believed that, at this stage, the die had already been cast, and it was too late now for making any major changes. This was one gamble he felt ready to take. He was confident that, in death as in life, things would, as do twins on a teeter-totter, continue to kind of balance out.

OF TRUTH AND LIES

As youngsters we were all taught to tell the truth. And all about the beauty and necessity of complete honesty. Little children were told that their nose would grow with each lie, just as did that of Pinocchio. If we wanted to eventually go to heaven and see Jesus, then we had better never tell a lie. And there was little Georgie Washington who could not, and would never, lie about chopping down that precious little cherry tree. In church we heard sermons about “truth versus
falsehood,” driven home with expressions like: And the truth shall set you free!

I remember a high school class discussion in which our teacher compared the ease and simplicity of telling a lie to the multitude of difficulties that arise from the act. How untruthfulness usually leads to a multitude of complications that make it impossible to keep the story straight: Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive!

And then, somewhere along the way, we all grew up and viewed the world as it really was. We looked around and found untruthfulness almost everywhere. Unscrupulous horse traders seemed to know thousands of secrets for temporarily doctoring up unsound horses and tranquilizing the mean and unmanageable ones. At least long enough for those early scam artists to make their deals and get out of the territory. Traveling barn painters could make a 5-gallon pail of “brand-name” paint last all week by thinning it with kerosene. Door-to-door salesmen traveled the country roads peddling marvelous new inventions that no homeowner or housekeeper could get along without. Some specialized in sure-cure remedies for just about anything that could ail a family, or their horses, dogs, cats, or other livestock.

And then there was the political world. To our great surprise, we learned that even some of our great leaders and politicians were not above an occasional white lie. Some of our past political conventions and campaign speeches, if scrutinized, almost have to be categorized as comic fiction. One prominent lady, I think it was Clare Boothe Luce, got a lot of publicity and more than modicum of criticism for writing about the creativity and artistic beauty of a “well told lie.” We probably reached low ebb when some of our national leaders went on record regarding testimony before Congress. They seemed to feel that it was perfectly legal and honorable for people representing a presidential administration to deliberately lie to and mislead our U.S. Congress in regard to a blatant breach of our nation’s foreign policy.

Then, suddenly, a soft, silent, comforting blanket of truth spread across the land. Someone came up with the weird new idea that a President of the United States should tell nothing but the truth to the people, the courts, and the Congress. Unheard of, but wonderful! Suddenly Washington D.C. became our Nation’s Confessional. Numerous great (?) leaders and politicians couldn’t wait to get in on the act. With a bit of help and nudging and prodding from Larry Flynt, they began admitting to extra-marital affairs and sexual peccadilloes from as many as 20 years previous. Suddenly Flynt, of Hustler magazine, was the unofficial leader of a whole new monogamy and morality sort of thing, practically a spiritual movement. No longer could Larry be considered merely a despised pornographer, but an indispensable national treasure, a patron saint of truth-in-sex, almost.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t object to the new trend toward veracity. I have nothing against the truth…even on the national governmental level…or this current, unprecedented trend toward complete honesty.

OF TRUTH AND LIES

I’m mostly truthful, but tell a
Few white fibs from time to time.
I don’t recall if I’ve ever
Told a falsehood all in rhyme.

But, with paper and pen, I could
Write up quite a “song and dance,”
But that would be foolish, the first
Liar just ain’t got a chance.

I’d like to boast about my past
And how great I used to be,
But who’d believe? Seems too many
Folks all know my history.

As a hunter, I’ve failed to bag
Much large and small game and stuff,
I don’t boast of big fish I’ve caught,
‘Cause my arms ain’t long enough.

I could tell of jackpots I’ve won,
For some, such tall tales are fine.
Casino friends know better, though;
They’ve all heard me gripe and whine.

I could describe my dancing skill,
Way back in my youthful past,
But folks tell me I move just like
My left leg is in a cast.

Lies don’t sit well with lots of folks;
Some are quick to take offense.
Then they want to argue and fight,
Lying makes no real good sense.

Guess I’ll stick to the real truth, but
That has one drawback, I fear,
It’s bound to put the kibosh on
My political career.

TIME ON MY HANDS

Time is our most precious possession – invisible, intangible, unpredictable, fleeting time. Though fragile and flimsy, it is the material of which our lives are woven. Each of us is issued a lifetime supply, but with no definite promises or guarantees.

My first acquaintance with this most important ingredient of life came by way of a mantel clock in the kitchen of my childhood home on the farm. The sturdy, dependable timepiece loudly ticked away each second and signaled every passing hour. From its dial, I learned to “tell time,” and where the “big hand” and the “little hand” had to be for mealtimes and for bedtime. And later, which positions they held when it was time to go to school.

My first personal timepiece was a Mickey Mouse pocket watch – a gift from Santa Claus. Colorful and attractive, it had a smiling Mickey pointing to the proper minute and hour with his cute little white-gloved hands. An old-timer admired the watch and commented, “That’s quite a stem-winder.” When asked what “stem-winder” meant, he explained, “When I was your age, a lot of old fellows still carried watches that had to be wound with a key, much like your mother’s kitchen clock.”

Back then, some gentlemen owned dainty gold “Sunday” pocket watches, each with a gold chain and a front cover that snapped shut to protect the fragile glass crystal. But the most popular pocket timepiece was the “dollar watch,” the working man’s favorite. Purchased for that price (or slightly more or less), these could usually be counted on to do a good job for a year or two. To replace such a watch was usually cheaper than taking it to a jeweler for cleaning or repair. Often a “sick” dollar watch could be restored to proper running condition by prying off the back cover and administering a tiny bit of kerosene to the more important bearing areas.

Some fellows invested in more expensive pocket watches with “jeweled movements,” some with as many as seventeen or twenty-one tiny bearings made of precious gems. Compared to metal bearings, the smooth, long-lasting “jewels” operated with less friction, usually resulting in much greater accuracy. Railroad workers required watches that were extremely accurate. The label “railroad watch,” was almost a guarantee of accuracy and reliability. Many of the very best watch movements came from Switzerland.

Pocket watches were “tethered” to the owner’s clothing with a small chain, strap, or string. Braided leather watch straps could be purchased for a reasonable price, but many working men and farmers settled for a length of used shoe or boot lace. Tied in a loop, this could easily be “lassoed” to the metal ring on the watch’s stem and onto a belt loop. This tether prevented the timepiece from being lost, also from falling out of the pocket and being broken by falling on a hard floor.

In those days gone by, every pair of men’s pants had a special “watch pocket” that was just the right size to hold a pocket watch. Belted dress pants usually had that pocket on the right front, near the belt line. Work pants often had the watch pocket located just inside the top of the right front pocket.
Overalls usually had a number of handy “bib pockets,” including a narrow pencil pocket and a watch pocket. Many had a special “buttonhole” near the top edge of the bib, solely for the purpose of accommodating a watch chain or tether.

Working men were slow to accept the “newfangled wristwatch.” At first these were considered uncomfortable, in the way, and too fragile to stand up to rough conditions. Eventually a few workers tried them, mostly as “Sunday watches” for “dress up” purposes. And they quickly began to catch on.

The first wristwatches had leather watchbands with metal buckles. Soon various flexible metal expansion and non-expansion bands appeared and became popular. For awhile, a cheap nylon band with a metal buckle was available. Unlike the others, it was made in one piece and when it became dirty, could be easily removed, washed clean. To replace it, one simply slipped the plain end of the band down between the body of the watch and one of the spring pins, across the back of the watch, and back up between the watch body and the other pin. If rough use caused one of the pins to fail, the watch did not fall off the wrist because the remaining spring-pin kept it fastened to the one-piece watchband.

As time went by, we saw the evolution of the “shock proof” watch, with works that had built-in cushioning to prevent breakage of jewels and other fragile parts if accidentally dropped or given a severe jar or jolt.

Another important development was the “waterproof watch.” This made the wristwatch all the more practical and desirable. Anyone accidentally immersing his wristwatch in a liquid did not immediately destroy the delicate instrument. If the wearer washed his or her hands and arms or took a shower without remembering to remove the timepiece, no harm was done.

Many mechanically-minded people marveled at the invention of the “self winding” watch. Someone came up with the novel idea that a tiny weight, or pendulum, inside the watch case would be activated by the movement of the wearer’s arm, and the weight’s motion could be harnessed to wind the watch’s mainspring. As the mechanism was perfected, wearers no longer had to remember to wind their wristwatches. As could be expected, some pessimists grumbled, “I hope the day never comes when I am too lazy to wind my own watch.”

For many years, electricity has been used to power clocks, and later, watches. One of the greatest developments in timekeeping was the invention and perfection of the battery-powered quartz movement. This made possible clocks and watches that require no oscillating balance wheels. Timed by a quartz crystal that vibrates when activated by electrical energy furnished by a tiny battery, they are capable of delivering uniform, almost perfect timekeeping. The only moving parts are the gears that move the hands, with the digital versions having no moving parts whatsoever.

A more recent development in timepiece technology marries the quartz movement to the older self-winding mechanism. Instead of winding a mainspring, the pendulum, or weight, drives a mini-generator that sends electrical power to a tiny conducer, for storage and use by the quartz movement. This eliminates forever the inconvenience of battery failure and replacement.

I understand that some timepieces can now boast perfect accuracy. By receiving a constant signal from a distant satellite, they automatically keep set to the perfect time. That sort of technology is a bit too deep for me. I come from an age when, if the kitchen clock stopped because someone forgot to wind it, and no one had a watch, we called the local telephone central office. The operator there was always ready and willing to tell us the correct time. In those
pre-television days, many families did not have a radio and, if they did not have a telephone, about all they could do was re-set a stopped clock by guess, and go along with that until someone came by with a watch that was running and told the correct time.

Starting with my Mickey Mouse pocket watch, I graduated to a number of the cheap dollar watches. At one point my father gave me an old pocket watch he’d purchased from a door-to-door peddler for five dollars. It had a fine jeweled movement and kept excellent time. The first time I took it to our local jeweler for repairs, he smiled. His records showed that, down through the years, he had cleaned and repaired it a number of times, and for a number of different owners who all lived in the surrounding area. I carried the watch to work for eleven years. When its case eventually began to wear thin, I decided to graduate to a wristwatch.

Since that time I’ve gone through a number of these, mostly cheap work watches and several fairly expensive ones. Currently I own three, all of which were gifts. One is a fairly cheap “no-name” battery-powered quartz watch. Another is an expensive quartz. The third is a counterfeit self-winding Rolex, purchased in China “for a pittance.” A beautiful watch with performance that does not match its impressive appearance – or even come close.

Now, long-retired, I have little real need for a watch or, for that matter, an alarm clock. With few appointments or deadlines to meet, I rarely have to know the exact time of day, yet find myself constantly checking it out. So often that, if I forget to put on my watch before I leave home, I feel almost naked. And embarrassed at the frequency with which I examine my bare, watch-less wrist.

At eighty-four years of age, fleeting time still remains a most precious possession. I feel extremely fortunate that, for me, it is still ticking by, and that I can still hear that reassuring “tick, tock, tick” of an old spring-powered clock.

Philo

Old Philo always appeared content with his life and the world around him. Although his 80-plus years must have dealt him the normal share of aches, pains, and misfortune, he never seemed to feel any need or obligation to burden others with his problems. And, as I listened to him talk, I appreciated the fact that I did not have to sort fact from fiction. He never boasted of all of the wonderful things he had accomplished in his life, or listed all of the even more wonderful things he could have done if only he had received a few good breaks along the way.

This older neighbor and I often sat and in the shade of a large maple tree. As we talked, he taught me a lot of the history of our area. Was I familiar with the Wyalusing State Park? He remembered when it was known as “Glen Park,” because all of that high woodland above the confluence of the Wisconsin River and the mighty Mississippi was once owned by Sheriff Glen. He told of a time when that property was the home of hundreds and hundreds of goats that had been shipped in by rail from Texas. The tough, wiry little animals slept in large open sheds at night, and then at sunup would move out, single file, to feed. Their primary purpose was to eat and thus destroy the tangled mass of wild brush and weeds that flourished among the thick stand of tall trees that covered those hills.

Philo talked of people who had lived in the area before my time. Once he mentioned a lady who had resided in the North Andover area, and wondered whether I had ever known her. I told him I had only heard of her but knew the location of a farm she once owned. And that some of the older neighbors referred to the place by one name, while others used another, depending on whether they were best acquainted with her first or with her second husband.

The old man smiled. “When she was a young girl she lived in our neighborhood. One evening my sister and I were going to drive to Cassville to attend a dance, and she asked to ride along. When I pulled my horse and buggy up to her parents’ house she came out carrying a neatly-wrapped package, but when we asked, she wouldn’t tell us what it contained. Later in the evening she informed us that she would not be leaving with us. She and the young man of her choice eloped that night. My sister and I decided that her small package must have held a homemade wedding dress.”

When asked what his boyhood life was like he answered, “Well, my friends and I were all farm boys, so there was almost always work to do. But we still found time to play. In the summer we played baseball and swam in the Grant River. In the winter there was sleigh riding and skating. Most farm boys built at least one homemade sled. There was no TV or radio. Unlike today’s young fellows, we didn’t dream of the day when we would be getting a driver’s license and a car. But each of us looked forward to the time when he would have his own shiny black buggy and at least one fancy high-stepping horse.

“My best friend’s family owned the next farm down the road. Tommy and I were together whenever we could find the time. Sometimes in the summer we would do up our Sunday morning chores early and walk up to the Pleasant Ridge community. We would attend church with the folks there, and could always count on one of the families to invite us to their home for the noon meal. Then after dinner, we would play baseball.”

My old neighbor’s memory was amazing. After all of those years he could still remember the names of all the Grimes lads, and the Greenes, and the Shepards, and which ones could really hit or field a ball or throw a sharp-breaking curve.

He went on to tell me the history of Pleasant Ridge. “Back in 1848 a white Southern plantation owner purchased some farm land west of Lancaster, the county seat here in Grant County, Wisconsin. He divided the property and sold parcels to some of his slaves. Later they were joined by others who had been freed or had escaped from their owners in various parts of the South. “That’s in the ‘Slabtown’ area,“ he continued, “but I don’t think you’ll find that name on many maps. There isn’t really a town there anymore. The official name for that area is ‘Flora Fountain.’

“Right from the start, the Pleasant Ridge folks got along well with their neighbors. In fact, in many cases the local white farmers helped the newcomers get their small farming operations set up and started. Back then almost everyone was poor and worked hard, and farmers exchanged work and helped each other out whenever they could. At harvest time, at least a dozen men or more were required to keep the threshing machine busy and get the job done. A number of adjoining farms would make up a ‘threshing ring’ or ‘threshing run.’ When the job was finished on one farm, the big steam engine and grain separator would move on to the next, until everyone’s grain was threshed. When people are busy and working that hard, the color of a man’s skin is unimportant.

“There were some mighty good cooks back then,” he continued, with a smile. “Dick Lewis, one of the farmers up on Pleasant Ridge, had a small farm and his threshing job didn’t take long, but somehow things always got timed so the crew was there for a noon meal. The fellow who operated the big threshing equipment was an excellent manager, in that respect. Everyone on the crew looked forward to that meal because Dick’s wife Ollie was the best cook on the whole threshing ring.”

In one of our conversations, Philo told me that The United Brethren Methodist Church was built in 1870 and it served not only the 20 families who then made up the Pleasant Ridge community, but also quite a number of their white neighbors. Also that the Pleasant Ridge School was built about the same time, and was generally believed to be the first integrated public school in the entire United States. And that the community continued to grow until the early nineteen hundreds, when it reached a population of more than 200 ex-slaves and their descendants.

On another occasion, Philo recalled, “The children and young people got along just fine. In grade school, there were close friendships regardless of color. As the youngsters grew older, the friendships remained but there was almost no consorting romantically or anything like that. Such behavior was frowned on by all of the older folks. And two sad events, the only real racial trouble that ever occurred there, continually reminded everyone of potential problems that could arise.

“In 1883, one of the men from ‘The Ridge’ was accused of getting a white girl pregnant. He was arrested, and four members of the girl’s family set out to spring him from jail and lynch him. They wound up shooting and killing him. They were apprehended, tried, and three were found guilty of fourth-degree manslaughter, the other, of assault with intent to murder.

“Then, almost 40 years later, Jack Green warned a white Lancaster man three times to stay away from his young daughter. Ignoring Green’s words, the man continued seeing the girl and he took her for one ride too many. When they returned, the angry father was waiting with a loaded gun. He not only terminated the fellow, but shot his car several times for good measure. At his trial, an all-white jury considered the ‘extenuating circumstances,’ determined it was a ‘justifiable homicide,’ and declared Jack innocent.”

With a hint of sadness, Philo recalled, “At the time of World War I, good jobs in the big cities began to beckon, and the Pleasant Ridge folks started to drift away. At first, only a few moved out, but then more and more, until the only remaining member of the community was Charlie Green. He loved the beautiful, quiet farming country and refused to trade it for the bustling city life chosen by all of his friends and relatives. Charlie died in 1977, the last person to be interred in the Pleasant Ridge Cemetery.”

Time continues to move on, and just as the community of Pleasant Ridge faded away into the past, so did my old neighbor and good friend, Philo. I miss him and our conversations. And as I near my middle-eighties, I can only hope that my memory-generated tales prove to be half as interesting and informative as were his

A FUTURE PRESIDENT ???

This article was written in January of 1999.

As usual, “Lige” Craig opened the day’s discussion: “What do you guys think about those folks up in Minnesota electing a professional wrestler as their governor? Do you think one of those grunt and groan guys can really run a state?”

“Sprout” Brussel, the historian of the group, scratched his head. “Well, a number of successful leaders, even presidents, built their political careers on military, sports, or acting experience. I don’t know whether or not our first president, George Washington, was much of an athlete, but books say he once threw a dollar clean across the Potomac River.”

“And a lot of later presidents broke that record by throwing billions of dollars across the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans,” commented Phillip “Pill” Dougherty, the designated pessimist of the group.

“Some books say good old Honest Abe Lincoln was every bit as well known for his wrestling skill as he was for his story telling and debating ability when he was young. And he turned out to be about as good a president as we’re ever going to get,” Sprout commented.

“President Reagan was said to be a fairly good athlete,” Ed Austin added. “And he announced the Cub’s games on the radio. He was real convincing as George Gipp in the Knute Rockne movie. When Rockne asked them to, the Notre Dame team went right out there and ‘won one for the Gipper.’”

“They say Ex-President Gerald Ford played a lot of college football,” remarked Ed’s brother Jake.

“Some of his worst critics always maintained that he’d played a few too many games without wearing his helmet,” Pill grumbled.

“I don’t know about that, but I once saw him on TV showing some interviewers a big scar he’d received on the gridiron when he made solid contact with a great football player named Jay Berwanger,” Jake replied.

“Maybe he just got the scar from bumping into something. Ford was always known to be kind of clumsy,” was Pill’s observation.

Grandpa Lowther rubbed his chin. “I recall a Dubuque boy named Jay Berwanger. He played a lot of football. Wouldn’t that be something, to always be able to say you’d put a scar on a president? Think of that: A US president carrying around your own personal scar that you’d put on him!”

Sprout grinned. “But getting back to this Jesse “The Body” Ventura guy, he just might have the ideal background for politics. He has military, athletic, and show business experience to spare.”

“Well, pro wrestling alone could fit a man for politics,” Lige opined. “We’ve all watched those pre-match interviews where the contestants boast about what they are going to do to their opponents when they get them in the ring. And what they are going to do for the sport once they’ve won the title. A lot of bluff and brag and quite a few ‘half-truths, at best.’ Pretty much the same as your average run-of-the-mill political campaign speech.”

“I remember the matches out at the old Melody Mill,” said Grandpa. “Ken Fenelon was a great wrestler and a big name in the sport at one time. And he was a Dubuque boy, too.”

“I went to see the pro matches in a high school gymnasium on a Sunday afternoon once,” Jake recalled. “Some of those wrestlers were so mean and bitter at each other that they entered from opposite ends of the gym. But they must have gotten their differences settled in the ring. I noticed that when they left, they all rode back to Des Moines in the same van.”

“In the political arena, that’s generally referred to as ‘eating out of the same trough,’” Sprout explained.

“Politics makes strange bedfellows,” Pill reasoned.

THE BIG SHOW

I’m a tried-and-true wrestling fan –
And have been for many years.
I’ve studied all the holds and moves,
Seen the action, sweat, and tears,

I’ve watched the pre-match interviews
With bluff and bluster to spare
Like so many campaign speeches –
Made up mostly of hot air.

I’ve heard those giants grunt and groan
And pull and tug and strain;
I’ve seen many a grimace, when
They could scarcely stand the pain.

I’ve seen them raised, then body-slammed
On hard gymnasium floors.
Some got beat up with folding chairs
And thrown right through hardwood doors.

I watched a “Texas Death Match” once –
Most came through without a scar –
Later those mortal enemies
All rode home in the same car.

Some say a wrestler must depend
Quite a bit on acting skill,
‘Cause he must please us gullible
Paying folks who foot the bill.

But Jesse has me wondering
All about this wrestling game.
I once halfway believed, but now
It will never be the same:

I’ll wonder, as each wrestler goes
Through his bag of dirty tricks:
Is he only preparing for
A career in politics?

TAKING STOCK

At times, it is easy to get “all wrapped up in ourselves.” Especially as we grow older. We begin to worry about all of the things that are wrong with us, as well as with the world around us.

Too often we old geezers arise in the morning and begin checking ourselves out for any possible new aches and pains or other ailments. Instead of looking for the sunrise we turn on the TV and watch the world news, where we too often find more things that steer our thoughts toward the negative.

Get a group of us together, and you’ll likely get the whole load. About the only way for an individual to get attention early at such a meeting is to be the one who is in the poorest health. Or the one who takes the most and costliest medication. Or the one who has had the most complicated and/or life-threatening surgery. Lacking any of these qualifications, one can only hope to find willing listeners by being able to inform the gathering of a good universal home remedy for a common ailment.

After all of the prevalent medical conditions have been addressed, and only then, the talk may turn to the financial. Any rise in taxes makes a popular subject. Any increase in rent, or the costs of electricity, water, sewer, or garbage pickup are popular subjects. Any cheerfulness arising from a boost in Social Security payments is usually doused quickly by talk of an increase in Medicare costs. Without going into a lot of detail, some will admit that the low interest rates currently earned by their retirement investments have not exactly brightened up their Golden Years.

And nothing gets the attention of the entire assembly more quickly than does a hint from a trouble making prankster, indicating that there is a rumor making the rounds that there will soon be a sizable increase in the cost of TV cable service.

TAKING STOCK

I watched the old man

As he trudged down the road

With his thin shoulders stooped,

His aged back badly bowed.

The clothes on his back,

Shabby and far from new,

And the soles of his cheap

Shoes were badly worn through.

I wondered about

Just what places he’d been,

What joys has he’d known, and

What great sights had he seen.

What problems faced him

As he traveled life’s trail?

Was he hounded by fears

That he would always fail?

Was he nagged by thoughts,

Doubting he’d ever cope?

Did each sunrise fail to

Give him new rays of hope?

What had prevented

Him from gaining great wealth?

Had he been hampered by

A lifetime of poor health?

Was it just bad luck

That, day after long day,

Good breaks eluded him,

And never came his way?

Did he ever know

The love of a good spouse,

Or the comforting sound

Of children ‘round the house?

His face left no doubt

How the old man did feel.

He looked hungry, so I

Staked him to a warm meal.

He thanked me as we

Ate and talked for awhile.

Finally, I saw at

Least the hint of a smile.

The clouds parted. The

Sun brightened my own day.

Suddenly my own aches

And pains melted away.

My own troubles seemed

Trivial, now, and small,

Almost as if I had

No real problems at all.

I counted up all

The blessings sent my way,

Said a short prayer of thanks

For the gifts of that day.

We never know quite

What the future will bring,

But that one day made me feel

Wealthy as any king.

COUNTRY CONCERT

Lige Craig waited until all his friends had been served their first cup of coffee, then gave his favorite foil, Grandpa Lowther a sly wink and said, “Grandpa, we’ve often discussed all the changes we’ve seen in our time. Tell me, is there any special change that has surprised or impressed you? Something we haven’t mentioned before?”

As usual, the old fellow had a ready answer. “Yes, I’d have to say I find it hard to understand today’s propensity for constant sound and lack of silence. When we were young if we saw someone walking alone on a country lane we just assumed that person was enjoying the solitude, the quiet sounds of nature, and being alone with his or her thoughts. But today you can bet your bibs that solitary stroller is wearing headphones and is listening to music or a self-improvement speech recorded on a CD. Or else talking on a cell phone.

“Some folks don’t seem happy unless they are listening to something. Events such as celebrity court trials will cause them to glue themselves to the TV all day and half of the night, when usually 15 or 20 minutes of national and world news will cover everything of importance that can happen in 24 hours. These viewer-listeners will hear the same news and the same commercials repeated time and again. You can’t help but wonder when they find time to do any thinking of their own.

“In the old days, most of the noise wasn’t as loud as it is now. Any rooster worth his salt would make himself heard each morning, but it wasn’t a disagreeable sound. He would crow and crow until the sun, ready or not, would come up over the horizon. And until his owner would get up out of bed and start a new day’s work.
“When a farmer walked into his barn in the morning, it was not uncommon for a few of the cows to greet him with a “Moo,” and let him know they were ready to be relieved of their milk and fed some hay. Horses, too, would often neigh or nicker a “Good Morning.” A farmer with strong hands could sit down to a good milk cow and make the bottom of an empty milk pail ring out a merry tune with those first squirts of milk. And the farm cats, smelling the fresh milk, would mew pleasantly to let their master know they were ready to be fed.

“Horse-drawn farm machines were not nearly as noisy as those motorized monsters used today. A blacksmith’s hammer and anvil would often ring out a merry tune. And the loose-plank floors of some bridges would rumble out a pleasant song when crossed by a Model T Ford.

“A lot of conditions back then weren’t as pleasant or convenient as things are now. But I’m sure a lot of folks these days are missing out on a lot of precious silence and on a lot of the soft, enjoyable, musical notes of nature.”

COUNTRY CONCERT

Time moves swiftly when you’re busy,

I rush to get each job done.

I like having my work finished

By the setting of the sun.

Sunset sometimes puts on a show

With a splash of colors grand

As daylight slips past the mountains,

And darkness drifts ‘cross the land

My good wife fixes our supper,

Plain and simple country fare.

We always have plenty good food

With a little bit to spare.

Then we sit on the old log bench

Right outside our cabin door.

Content and wondering how could

Wealthy folks have any more?

From our valley’s small lake we can

Hear the cry of a sad loon

And we watch a wispy dark cloud

Drift across the rising moon.

Soon we enjoy the lament of

One lonely, sad whip-poor-will,

Then an old great horned owl’s hooting

From ‘way up on the east hill.

We hear the howl of a gray wolf

Up by the high mountain pass,

And the sounds of coyotes hunting

In the south prairie’s tall grass.

While we thrill to nature’s concert,

The evening ends all too soon,

Twilight surrenders to darkness

As thick, dark clouds hide the moon.

Our valley road’s soon deserted,

Unlit by any car’s light,

A sign our neighbors must all be

Safely at home for the night.

One more day, for us, has ended

As so many have before,

Content here in our small cabin,

We hope there’ll be many more.

We count up the many blessings the

Good Lord has sent our way,

Then it’s “early to bed” because

Tomorrow’s another day.