WORKING MAN

I remember a day on the job when the work was hard. The hours were long and the pay was nothing to brag about. Several of the younger fellows were complaining. They were certain that some people were just sitting in their soft, comfortable chairs and getting rich from this project, while we were performing “slave labor” out in the almost unbearable heat.
A middle-aged fellow showed only a hint of a smile. “Well, that’s the way it always goes. The rich get richer, and the poor get kids.”
That was probably not an original idea. But it was the first time I had heard it. And I suddenly realized how true it was. For him, anyway. The man had a large family. And an old car that ran only part of the time. He was stuck in this low paying job at a time when most material handling and work of that type was still accomplished by “brute strength and sheer awkwardness,” and there was no indication that things would ever get any better.
I have read and heard old stories about isolated mining towns and factory towns that had only one major employer. Workers and their families were completely dependent upon that one company. With no competition, the company usually had free rein in determining wages, hours, and working conditions. And local workers had little choice but to accept what was offered. During slack seasons when the mines and plants closed down, families were forced to buy their food and supplies “on time” at the company owned store. The establishment readily extended them credit, under the agreement that when the factory whistle blew again, they would be ready and willing to come back to work.
In such communities, before there were labor unions to give the workers any bargaining power, the company practically owned the people, and they were, for the most part, at its mercy. There was nowhere else to go and no other jobs available. Nothing to look forward to. No rainbows, no bright light on the horizon, and not the slightest hint that there would ever be anything better in their lives. Nothing but more and more hard work, long hours, and low pay.
As Tennessee Ernie Ford’s song described it: “I owe my soul to the company store.”

WORKING MAN

The big boss man gathers
The day’s receipts, and locks
Them safely away
In the vault.

The shift whistle shrills, and
The long workday grinds down
To a welcome,
Quick, screeching halt.

One day’s like another,
So much so that old “Clint”
Can hardly keep
Track, anymore,

Of all of his troubles
That keep growing, just like
His bill at the
Company store.

This week’s puny paycheck
Won’t quite stretch to cover
Each and every
Family need.

While rich folks get richer
Poor folks just get children,
More hungry mouths
For them to feed.

Each year Clint feels older,
Quite sure one day he will
Work himself right
Into the ground.

There’s no need for dreaming
Or looking for better.
No easy jobs
Are to be found.

He tells younger fellows,
“Don’t expect much sunshine.
Into all lives
Much rain must fall.

“You’ll find that in this world
Nothing comes easy.
We Can’t walk till we’ve
First learned to crawl.

“With each year you’ll notice
The work just gets harder,
Each day brings a
New ache or pain.

“As your hair grows grayer
Your chances grow slimmer
For reaping much
Financial gain.

“My small paycheck barely
Keeps food on the table.
For hunger, there’s
No easy cure.

“The preacher says
I’ll get My reward in heaven,
I only wish
I could be sure.”

DAY DREAMING

Day dreams are sometimes criticized as a useless waste of time. And if they are never acted on, I suppose they can be. But it would be a sad, dull life if we couldn't think about brighter, more positive things from time to time. And if it hadn't been for daydreams, we would most likely still be living without fire, and, instead of pecking away on a computer, I would be etching this message on a cave wall with a sharp piece of flint.
I once read of a fellow who was condemned to one of the worst of prisons. The conditions were so terrible that most of the prisoners just gave up and few lived out their sentences. The ones who eventually were released were white-haired, white-bearded old men who had aged far beyond their years. I can't remember the name of the hero of this story, but he was made of stout stuff. He decided that he would not allow the prison to break him. As much as possible, he kept his mind filled with happy, pleasant thoughts. At night, when he looked out through the prison window, he saw, "not bars, but stars." And when his sentence was finally finished, he walked out of the lockup under his own power. Thinner, I would imagine, but definitely not an aged and broken man.
We all have our troubles and problems, but to just concentrate on them gets us nowhere. Usually we can come up with some pleasant thoughts that make our day seem easier. This kind of thinking is much better for our health and well being than just concentrating on all of the negative, unpleasant conditions around us. A popular song tells us that lighting just one little candle is better than cursing the darkness. Oftentimes changing to cheerful, positive thoughts will give us the answers to our problems. Instead of complaining to ourselves about conditions and secretly blaming other people for our bad fortune, why not try to find some solutions to the problems of the day? At times, we may surprise ourselves with our ability to think and to come up with answers and new innovations, if we just keep our minds in the positive mode and give them free rein.

THE GOOD LIFE

I know some folks may think I'm dumb
Cause I march to a different drum
At times, I turn the real world
Off, and I just dream.

Then I help tame the old Wild West,
I've even climbed Mt. Everest,
While cultivating with a
One-row and a team.

In time and space, I make the rounds;
My world has no limits or bounds.
I'm living in the future,
The past and the now.

I've seen the French and Indian Wars,
Walked with the first man up on Mars,
While still at home, milking a
Big old Holstein cow.

If you don't like how your world seems,
Retreat into a world of dreams;
I will guarantee that it
Shall do you no harm.

I've driven Maserati cars,
At times hobnobbed with movie stars,
And, shucks, I've never ever
Even left the farm.

DIFFERENCES SHOULD BE CELEBRATED

Diversity: Some dance to the beat of a different drum

Nature never seems to be seeking perfection. Almost every common plant or animal that we see has at least a few flaws, weaknesses, or strengths that make it different from all others. Nature rarely ever repeats itself. Of all the beautiful sunrises or sunsets we have seen, no two of them have been exactly the same. And we've always been told that no two snowflakes are alike.
We humans, too, have our differences. Many of them. We differ in age, sex, and color of hair, eyes, and skin. We have a wide variety of heredity and backgrounds, and grew up in a multitude of different environments. We have absorbed varied amounts of education, both formal and informal. We have decided differences in temperament and in the subjects that interest us the most.
Looking at humanity as a whole, we suffer from an almost unimaginable number of different diseases, illnesses, allergies and assorted other ailments. We boast of any number of different religious sects and beliefs. On occasion, many of us are ready and willing to argue about world, national and local politics. We disagree on gun control, abortion, tax cuts, the national debt and capital punishment. Some get involved in saving the rain forests, the whales, and the baby seals, all the while keeping an eye out for global warming, while others could not care less. And, whether we are ready to admit it or not, a lot of us have picked up at least a few biases and prejudices along the way.
But, are we proud of this rich mix that makes up our human race? Not on your life. Most of us prefer to look at the world through rose-colored glasses, trying to see all persons as pretty much the same - as mannequins - all cut from the same cloth while using identical patterns. Or as having been cast in the same mold. Which we definitely have not. At times, a lot of our rules and laws seem to have been dreamed up or written to deliberately treat some people differently, in an effort to make us all become more alike.
We never seem quite content until all of the ducks are in a row. Or all of the sheep are in a flock, and following the same shepherd. Too often, an individual, one who marches to his (or her) own drummer, is labeled "different." He (or she) does not share in the most popular interests of the day, and doesn't fall for every new style, trend, or activity that comes along. So, therefore, it is only natural for some of the "sheep of the flock" to look down on that person.
I really admired many of the "Golden People" I met while in Hawaii. They seemed to know pretty well who they were, and were well satisfied with themselves and with their genetic makeup. In that great "Melting Pot," you could feel free to ask anyone about his (or her) ancestry. You might get an answer like, "Japanese, Austrian, Portuguese, Filipino." And then the person's citizenship, "Hawaiian, American," would be added. A special interest was shown in each and every ingredient in the mix. Everyone was an individual. And proud of it.

SIMPLE SIMON

His nickname is "Simple Simon"
(Stolen from the nursery rhyme),
But he's really far from simple –
Seems real bright most of the time.

Simon's quite a quiet fellow,
Never gets pushy or loud,
Likes marching to his own drummer,
Not influenced by the crowd,

Neither follower nor leader
(Been that way since a small lad),
Prefers to do his own thinking,
Whether it's for good or bad,

He has a liking for people,
And no trouble making friends,
But needs no constant companions
From morning till the day ends.

Simple Simon keeps his focus
On important things of life.
Used both brain and heart in choosing
His friends, companions, and wife.

He has a good understanding
Of what this world's all about,
All its inconsistencies and
Ups and downs, inside and out.

Simon makes his own decisions.
Bravely, bold, and unashamed,
Like Sinatra, "does it his way."
Just he can be praised or blamed.

'Though at times he'd find it easy
To bend and blend with the flock,
He stands behind his convictions,
Firm and solid as a rock.

Like Simon, we might be wise to
Think life's serious problems through,
Finding our own answers as we
Think, "To thine own self be true!"

ALMOST SPRING

Late each winter there comes a time when the huge, deep, pristine white snowdrifts have been reduced to just small, lumpy piles of dirty, rotting snow, areas of mushy slush, and muddy puddles of icy water.
And it is usually about then that most of us realize our patience with the long-dragged-out winter has worn thin. And that we have had about enough of the cold weather and icy roads. Also, that there is no longer any pleasure or thrill connected with going out into the brisk, fresh air to shovel the white stuff out of our paths, and off of our sidewalks and driveways. And if bad roads have kept us at home more than we are accustomed to being there, a mild case of “cabin fever” may have started to set in.
About the only real cure that I know of for that malady is to just do our best and try to be patient. While we dream and make plans for the better weather that we know is just around the corner. Many gardeners are aware of this cure, and use it each year. They gather up all of the seed catalogs that the mail carrier has been delivering since the holidays. They go through them, page by page. There are beautiful illustrations of luscious, ripe red tomatoes. This may be the year to try one or more of the new blight-resistant varieties. And there are pictures of delicious-looking ears of sweet corn. Words printed on the page of a seed catalog can’t even begin to do justice to the flavor of some of the new extra-sweet varieties that have been developed within the past 20 years or so.
This could be the year to set out a small bed of one of the new varieties of ever-bearing strawberries. Or a row of raspberries, or perhaps a new apple tree or two. The colored pictures of some of those big ripe, red beauties can make an apple lover’s mouth water. One of those specially grafted trees that can produce half-a-dozen different kinds of apples would be a nice addition to the back lawn. And on and on.
Some of the real gardeners will accomplish one or more or maybe even all of these ambitious projects. Just as will many farmers and do-it-yourself home remodelers, and sportspeople who have already laid out a number of extensive warm-weather plans. And then there will always be some of us who will be content to just dream. But, what the heck? Even unfulfilled plans and dreams are better than no plans or dreams at all. They surely beat just worrying, fretting, and pacing the floor as we complain about the ugly weather, and how it seems that this long cold winter has been going on forever, and will never come to an end.

SPRING DREAMS

A weak, tired morning sun
Hides behind a gloomy, cloud.
As an old farmyard rooster
Crows, shrill, early, and loud

As he welcomes springtime
To his home on the old farm,
Invites it to replace cold
Days with some that are warm.

Most deep winter snowdrifts
Are now just small piles of slush.
From the fence rows we’ll soon hear
The sweet song of the thrush.

Out behind the farm home
And beyond the small white gate,
The garden lies ready, but
For right now, it must wait

For the old walking plow
And the planting of new seeds.
With warmth and rain,
it will help Fill the family’s needs.

Everyone’s pleased to see
More hours of daylight each day.
Before long we can watch new
Frisky young lambs at play.

Cows penned in the farmyard
Now chew their cuds, as they dream
Of lush green pasture grass, down
By the small, winding stream.

Farm children, this morning
Breathe the fresh air, crisp and cool,
As they wait down by the road
For their bus ride to school.

Soon the flock of sheep will
Be sheared of their winter fleece
Now the farmer cleans his plow
Of last year’s rust and grease,

Changes the tractor’s oil,
Next check’s this year’s seed supply,
While always keeping a sharp
“Weather eye” on the sky.

His wife, always busy,
Patches his old, worn work pants,
Then prepares the hotbed for
Growing new garden plants.

Oh, how dull and how drab
This winter season would seem
If we were unable to
Create a warm spring dream!

PARADISE PAST

Back in a long-lost childhood time

we felt rich if we had a dime

in our world of home-folks,
friends and dogs and cats.

To be poor was no cause for shame.

All families fared much the same

and “good guys” in cowboy movies

wore white hats.

But, as time passed by, our world changed.

Soon our lives were all rearranged

and altered by this strange

new world of today

The fables and fancies of youth

gave way to learning and to truth

and our cowboy heroes
all drifted away.

The Barbershop

There was a time when almost every little “wide spot in the road” community had a barbershop. And villages of 600 people had as many as three or four. There were no written rules, but, like the corner pool hall, a barbershop was generally considered to be “Men Only” establishment. Aside from being just a place to get a haircut or a shave, it was somewhere for males to gather and to exchange news and views. And the wide range of occupations, backgrounds and lifestyles of the shop’s patrons usually furnished ample material for interesting conversations.
Some businessmen, serious about the importance of their appearance, would hit the barbershop every day for a shave. And for a haircut every week or ten days. Most men, though, were satisfied with a haircut once a month. A few came in to get “prettied up” only for special occasions. Most men who worked outdoors disliked getting haircuts in winter because it made “their heads feel too cold.” A few of the old bucks came in only once a year, in the spring, to “get sheared.”
The barber was usually a neat and clean fellow, and highly skilled in the use of a barber shears and clipper, and especially the straight edge razor. Some tell me that, in barber college, they learned to use that keenly sharpened (and highly dangerous) blade by shaving their own faces. Others say that their training required them to be able to shave soapy, foamy lather off an inflated balloon.
The skill of a good barber has always been recognized and appreciated. And many found that it didn’t hurt their business one bit if they became good conversationalists. So they learned enough about farming to be able to discuss that enterprise while they cut a farmer’s hair. They became experts on the intricacies and details of many varied jobs and business ventures. They kept abreast of the sports news, both nationwide and local. And just about anything else that might be of interest to their listeners.
But then progress reared its ugly head, starting with the invention of the safety razor. Previously, barbershop shaves had been a matter of convenience, and for some a “status thing.” Soon the electric shaver came along, making it even easier for a man to hack off the stubble. Next came the cheap, disposable safety shavers. And barbershop shaves became, almost entirely, a thing of the past.
A young man somewhere got the idea that it would be great to wear shoulder-length hair. And that idea caught on. With much help from TV, movies, and the news media, the fad rapidly spread across the land. The demand for barbershop haircuts decreased. Many of the older “purveyors of the tonsorial arts” closed their shops and retired. Some of the younger ones, unhappy with their dwindling income, began seeking steady jobs with good pay and benefits. And our beloved old barbershops (and barbers) continue to become more and more difficult to find.

THE BARBERSHOP

I count up more treasures each day
That I’ve watched slowly slip away.
The one I sadly miss most is
The barber shop of yesterday.

Our old barber was a special
Kind of a gentleman, and wise.
Could make up good weather forecasts
Just by looking up at the skies,




Skilled with clippers, shears, and razor,
Could make a shaggy man look nice.
Whether asked, or not, he’d often
Dispense plenty good, free advice.

His one-chair shop was a kind of
World news and gossip clearing-place.
He would entertain you while he
Trimmed up your hair and shaved your face.

He could quote how much your neighbor
Got for that last big load of logs.
And how well folks’ cows were milking
And the latest prices for hogs.

He knew just whose hens were laying,
And whose wife and kids had the flu.
And which farm bills Congress should pass
And what the President would do.

He knew which young guys played on the
The local high school’s great baseball team.
They might not make it to “the State,”
But it don’t hurt to try…and dream.

He felt the Chicago Cubs just
Might get one more World Series chance.
He knew which girl each young fellow
Had taken to last week’s big dance.

Saturday evenings were busy,
Men would keep coming through his door.
As he prepared them for Sunday,
Clumps of hair piled up on the floor.

When each “masterpiece” was finished,
He’d splash on a bit of bay rum.
Show his customer the mirror:
“There I have maybe helped you some.”

He’d collect his pay politely,
This grand old master of pretext,
Say, “Hey, the chair’s empty, fellers,
I need the money. Who is NEXT?”

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY

Saint Valentine's Day was a big event in our one-room country school. Several weeks in advance we began devoting our limited "Art Class" time to the making of valentines. Obsolete wallpaper sample books were our main material supply. Our teacher would obtain these from a furniture store and drug store in a nearby small town. We would leaf through these catalogs until we found just the pattern we wanted, then would cut out that page and proceed. The amount of time that was spent on each valentine usually depended on how good a friend the giver considered the prospective recipient to be.
For simpler models, the page was usually folded in the middle, like a greeting card, and on the front, a "To" and "From" were carefully lettered with crayon. On the inside, the message would be simple: "Be My Valentine" or just "Be Mine,” with now and then an occasional "I love you." The shape of a heart might be carefully drawn to enclose the message. We all learned to draw pretty good hearts. We found that we could make a nice looking pattern by folding a sheet of paper in half, then drawing half-a-heart. Cutting this out and unfolding it, both sides of the heart would be symmetrical.
For closer friends, a heart was cut out of red construction paper and pasted to the inside of the back half of the wallpaper valentine. Some of these would have a short rhyme like, "Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you."
For very close friends, a fancier card was made by cutting out a white paper heart, smaller than the red heart, and printing the message on the white heart, then pasting it on top of the red heart. Some were even decorated with white paper "lace." that we learned to make by folding and refolding the paper and then making the proper cuts with our scissors, much the same way the girls often cut out hand-holding multiple paper dolls.
As Valentine's Day approached, our teacher would put out a decorated box with a slot in the top. We would carefully write the name of one of our friends on each of our home-made wallpaper valentines, sign our own name, and then drop them into the box. Usually a few "store-bought" valentines made their way into the collection, but most were of our own making.
At mid-afternoon on Valentines Day (or the nearest school day preceding it), we all took our places at our desks. Several eighth graders were assigned to remove the valentines from the box, one at a time, read aloud the name of the student each was intended for, then distribute it to his or her desk. What a time of anticipation! As each of us wondered: "How many valentines will I get this year?" I once received one of the hand-made valentines that featured a short verse I had never read or heard before, or since: "Red roses say that I love you. Do you love me? I hope you do!" I liked that rhyme. It was different, somehow. I soon fogot about it, but must have filed it away somewhere in my memory.
Fifty years later I sat down at a table in a small restaurant. My day of selling had not gone particularly well. And I did not look forward to another evening and night away from home. I am not usually one to indulge in the luxury of feeling sorry for myself, but at that particular moment my mood was not the best.
As I waited for the waitress to bring my evening meal, I looked over the small vase of flowers on my table. The blossoms were pretty, and looked just real enough to prompt me to feel the leaves and petals to make sure. They were not roses, but somehow, for some inexplicable reason that old valentine rhyme popped back into my mind. And on the blank reverse side of my paper place mat I scrawled this lament:

RED ROSES SAY....

These red roses on the table
Are still in full bloom today.
Seems they've bloomed this way
A million years,
Since that day you
Went away.

They awake an old, old longing;
My love for you lingers on.
They'd have helped me to
Say, “I love you,"
But, though I'm here,
You're still gone.

Tonight I'll watch television,
Perhaps shed one lonely tear,
While I dust off these
Plastic roses,
And wish that you
Could be here.