Lake Memories

Spent some time at our lake cabin. We've been retreating to this property for over 40 years. There are so many memories there, in every tree, every dip in the path through the woods, every morning when the mist rises off the water when the sun breaks through the trees. I read an article in a science magazine to the effect that your memories change every time you visit them. I guess every visit leaves a mark, which asks the question of how much memory is real and how much is all marked up from visits.

Our trips to this spot began with camping, using tents and a VW bus with a mattress in the back. Over the years we added a mobile home (1953 New Moon, furnished with a working kitchen and bathroom, $150 plus towing.) Most of us still preferred the tent, until we added a big room and porch. We put a Franklin stove in the middle. If you stuffed it full of split wood and small logs and got it blazing it would last until about 4 AM. No one wanted to go find more wood at that time, so we shivered and added robes and coats to the blankets. Our memories filter out the mice and snakes that came and went during the night, the cranky toilet, the cranky guests. Our memories still include the whole shebang burning to the ground the night of our oldest son's bachelor party.

After wearing out a new mobile home, we built a little house on the same spot. Heated and air conditioned, same great view of the lake from the screened porch. We walk over to the thermostat, flick the switch to heat or cool, and never miss the wood stove. We don't take these things for granted. We don't miss the mice or the snakes, but we think we miss having noisy kids under foot. They would probably make us cranky now.

White Men Carry Signs

I read "Beyond Pelvic Politics" by Nicholas Kristof in today's New York Times. He skillfully discusses the problems with the current battle between government and the Catholic bishops over including birth control in health insurance plans offered by Catholic institutions. It affects us all, and not just "poor women of dubious morals." Read it at Newyorktimes.com.

This is not a battle over banning contraception, which one of our candidates has hinted at. Nor is it even hinting at forcing contraception on those unwilling to participate, for whatever reason. (98% of sexually active Catholic women practice birth control.) It is balancing the rights of women's health against the beliefs of a few bishops.

Bishops are, or course, of the male persuasion. As are the most outspoken anti-abortion activists. Next time you pass a womens' health facility being picketed, count the number of women carrying signs. Driving at 60 miles per hour, you won't have a problem. What's this all about, guys? I don't understand it.

Cartalk

We drive an old minivan, has 130,000 miles on it. When it talks, we listen. The familiar squeaks and rattles tell us all is well. When the dashboard says "Service engine soon" it means we didn't tighten the gas cap enough. When all the idiot lights come on, it means we drove on a bumpy road. We follow our mechanic's instruction and drive on a bumpy road again until the lights go off.

Very similar approach works for raising kids. When the little ones fret, it means they are hungry, tired, or poopy. The same language works for teenagers, except you also have to listen for silence. Silence is harder to figure out, but sometimes it just goes away. Sometimes they just talk over it.

This morning I read that BMW has installed a sound device to make a pleasant, powerful roar. It seems they soundproofed their cars so well that the roar went away. How will you know if your Beemer meant to wheeze instead of roaring? It makes me uncomfortable to think my car is fibbing. On the other hand, there may be an after-market roar machine that would fit in the glove compartment of the mini-van.

Ellmer Fudd: Darwin's Assistant?

These sandhill cranes were crossing the street in front of the post office, strolling along looking good. Their slightly larger cousins,  the whooping cranes, were almost extinct until a heroic effort was made to re-establish them in the wild. This has involved volunteers dressing in bird suits to hand feed the babies and guiding them in light craft from Wisconsin to Florida every year so they can learn to migrate. After a dozen years, many of them are making the trip on their own.

Some sandhills also migrate, while some just stay in Florida. The migrating ones had better learn to detour around Kentucky. That state has recently legalized these birds as fair game for hunting. I never knew the people of Kentucky were that hungry. I hope our human tourists will also shun Kentucky and avoid spending a dime there.

I know some otherwise normal people who defend hunting as "good sport," even though the game is unarmed. They also justify hunting as helping nature, by getting rid of the weaker of the species. I have a mental image of Elmer Fudd and his friends squatting in the woods, waiting for the weak prey to come in range. "No, Bugs! That magnificent buck looks too strong. If we wait a few hours, we can get a sickly one." Oh, please.

Did You Misspeak, or Was That a Factoid?

People, let’s say what we mean. These political commercials reek of lies of omission, quotes taken out of context, as well as big ole fibs. I wish I could talk back to those spooky-voiced announcers hinting at wrongdoing by all sorts of candidates. I would say “Where did you get that story?” and “Yeah, so’s your Mama.” Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary lists 34 synonyms for falsehood, but only two antonyms (truth, verity.) Are we so polite that we will say that someone practices sophistry or is delusional rather that calling him a liar? Mendacity is one of my favorites, implying repeat offenses of using factoids (my personal favorite synonym for lie.)

Other terms have taken over the political rhetoric and have morphed from our original common understanding. Not exactly lies, but overtones of evil. “Social mobility” used to mean the ability to better oneself, now it implies affirmative action and handouts. “Social inequality” is viewed as the opposite of socialism. “Socialism” has moved from a description of Europe’s economic system to a purely evil accusation. “Transfer of wealth” is used to criticize the graduated income tax, making it sound like a modern Robin Hood scheme. “Restore America” has become a buzzword for defeating liberals, moderates, even conservatives who aren’t quite conservative enough. Restore it to what? “Limited government” means nothing without an explanation. Limit schools, aircraft carriers, food inspectors, pothole fixers? 

I would like to limit government to being run by those who value verity. (When you learn a new word, use it in a sentence.) Shun mendacity, reject the delusional and deceitful, cast aspersions on those who feed us factoids.

Goofy for President

Well, we're in the midst of the Republican primary race, and it's not pretty. Usually it's the Democrats who beat each other up, leaving the Republicans to stand proudly above the fray. There being no Democratic primary this year, the right wing has the mudslinging all to itself.

Besides the usual fibs and innuendos, this season feels different. They are not only casting aspersions on each other, the candidates are competing for goofiness. Gingrich wants to do away with the judiciary, an entire branch of government. Well, it would save on bills for robes and gavels. Santorum wants to do away with homosexuals and abortion. How do you do that? No one wants to be seen as the darling of the Tea Party, not even Perry. Yet they all want to be the darling of the far right. Mitt Romney is seen as weak on immigration and health care, so the true believers don't trust him. Ron Paul is seen as goofy enough, but not electable enough.

As one of the old-time comedians said of the food in the Catskills hotel where he played, "The food stinks, and the portions are skimpy, too.'' It's predictable that Romney will carry the day, and then we can move on to the real race in November. Think Obama needs to add a touch of goofiness?

1940's memories

I was an only child when I was a kid. We moved a lot. Daddy was a Georgia highway engineer so we moved to be near the road job. The three of us and all our stuff fit into our two-door 1939 Chevy. We lived in boarding houses or small furnished apartments.  We never had books or many toys, or a washing machine. Mama never learned to do laundry, anyway, or cook. She would have loved TV dinners. She would find us a cook and wash lady first thing in each new town.

When World War II came, we went to live with my grandmother in Sparta. She subscribed to "The Confederate Veteran." My other grandmother lived in Dublin  so we could visit. she had turkeys and chickens in the yard. Most of my cousins moved in nearby with their relatives when all our daddies went to war. It was a fun time, shooting down enemies and watching for foreign planes. We would catch a ride to town on the ox cart the vegetable man drove.

After the war we moved to Jacksonville Beach,Florida, and lived in nicer furnished apartments. The beach was our back yard. My sister Susan was born with serious birth defects. They patched her up and she thrived. We still moved a lot, but still in the neighborhood, so I got to stay in one school, Fletcher, from grades 7 through 12. I had already been in 5 or 6 schools.

Daddy died of a heart attack when I was twelve. He taught me to drive before he died. That was a good thing, because Mama was kind of a mess, and I could run errands. The Chief of Police, Jimmy Jarboe, knew I was too young to drive, but he would just tell me to be careful. He was actually the only police, and he was loved.