It's Been A Long, Long Time

A lot has happened since I posted my last thoughts. I published a book of my "Common Sense at 60" newspaper columns and called the work Life in a Tin Can because that's where I live. The book is available on Amazon.

Here's something to consider on this fine April morning:

Outside my study window is a bird feeder filled with sunflower seeds. The chickadees, sparrows, blue jays, nuthatches, and other birds that stop by provide enjoyment during the winter months, but the squirrels are another story. As uninvited intruders, they gobble up the seeds, jump from the spruce trees to the roof of my trailer, scurry across the roof, jump to the tamarack, run down its trunk, and bury the seeds in the snow. This is their routine all day, every day, and the sound of their feet hitting the trailer’s tin roof is annoying, especially when I’m trying to concentrate.

A few years ago, I was the typical old maid. I shared my trailer with three felines, Sweetie, Smoky, and Little T. By now you’ve probably guessed I’m no more a “matriarch” than you are an astronaut. I chose that word for this column because it carries a ring of authority. My “matriarchal” duties extended only as far as caring for my cats, but they were old and have passed on. Occasionally a stray wanders into my yard.

One freezing cold day last month I took a break from writing. I wrapped my hands around a hot cup of coffee and listened to the squirrels. Jump, scurry, jump. Jump, scurry, jump. The thought came to me those squirrels had more ambition than anyone I knew, including myself. The little mammals chatted with each other as they worked, and they worked from first light until dusk. I knew they worked to keep alive, but isn’t that why most of us work?

I drank my coffee and finally decided to make peace with the jump, scurry, jump. Now when I fill the feeder and find a squirrel’s tail laying on the ground, I pick it up and put it in the garbage, but instead of thinking one less varmint to deal with, I think how busy that little fellow was until he was eaten by a stray kitty. So, if this story has a moral, I guess it would be that busy is good, but awareness is better. Busy keeps you alive for the short run, but awareness will give you pleasure long after the work is done.        

Fourth Of July

Well, it’s the Fourth of July and here we are. Let the parades begin and the bugles blow, we are a nation sovereign and strong. Our forefathers wrestled our freedom from the British, killed off most of the Native population, and drummed the Mexicans out of their land. It only took smallpox and a handful of wars fought on American soil to make us the nation we are today. Let the stars and stripes wave in the gentle breeze of freedom.

I am a patriot through and through. I love this country. If called upon I would gladly take up arms or a pitchfork and defend this great land. I tear up when I hear the Star Spangled Banner, God Bless America, or a rousing John Phillips Sousa military march. 

The struggle for Old Glory could not have been an easy one, so I have only one question. Who decided to hand our flag over to the Chinese? Made in China is on just about everything we purchase. The mantra of modern America is a common one. Those three little words were once a whisper but have turned into a roar.

Red China is a distant memory. Mao is dead and his Little Red Book forgotten. Bloody incidents at Tiananmen Square are mere footnotes in textbooks. We borrow money from the Chinese government as if it were a kind and loving grandpa willing and eager to forgive the debt. We are lulled into a comatose state by cheap Chinese goods, totally oblivious to the high price the Chinese will eventually demand.

Only a fool would think we are free. Today our country is in financial, moral, and ethical bondage beyond anything anyone could ever have imagined. One day, repo man will come calling. He won’t be after our car, home, land, or chattel. He will claim the United States. Whether our government admits it or not, the common man knows we are on our knees to the Chinese.

We were tricked into believing Kim Il-sung, Khrushchev, Ho Chi Minh, and phantom weapons of mass destruction were a threat to our country. Little did we realize the threat was as close as our republic’s capitol. Every time we asked for a handout, we became more indebted to and dependent upon foreign governments. Thirty years from now, we may not have to question the birthplace of our president. Just looking at his face will give us the answer.           

How long before our country’s notes are called in and we surrender our freedom? If financial dependence isn’t bondage, I don’t know what is. 

Happy Fourth of July. It might be the last one we celebrate.           

Garlic From China, Honey From Where?

Sometimes when I’m grocery shopping I throw things in my cart without checking the country of origin. With the exception of exotic fruits and spices, I’m naive enough to think most editables are products of our country. Silly me. You’d think by now I’d have the common sense to check, but you know how it is. You’re in a hurry and don’t bother. Recently I was rushed because I’d left the Aztec running in the parking lot. The starter is iffy, and I didn’t want to be stranded. Maybe that’s a poor excuse, but it’s the best I have.

I don’t know what came over me, but as I shopped I spied a small jar of peeled garlic and put it in my cart. Garlic is supposed to be good for you, so I always buy bulbs and avoid the pre-peeled stuff. I think I was more impressed by the glass jar than what was inside it.

Anyway, when I got home I put the jar in the cupboard and didn’t open it until I was making spaghetti sauce. That’s when I realized the pristine peeled pieces were from China. Well, I thought, now isn’t that crazy. Why would anyone buy garlic from China when we grow the stuff right here in Michigan? So I checked the honey I had purchased that same day. The plastic squeeze bottle said it was from Argentina, India, or Vietnam. Well, if Thrifty Bee didn’t know, I sure wouldn’t venture a guess, but I promised myself from now on it’s local honey for me.

I expect real vanilla to come from Mexico or Madagascar and cinnamon to hail from Sri Lanka, so no surprises there. But when foods as common as garlic and honey are imported, I wondered what else traveled thousands of miles to land on my shelves. Like Inspector Gadget, I got out my magnifying glass and did a little sleuthing in my kitchen cupboards.

What I found was disappointing. Most foodstuffs are distributed by major corporations so it’s impossible to tell their country of origin. A few items proudly proclaimed they were products of the U.S.A. I’m leery about things saying Made in U.S.A. because I don’t know if they’re talking about the packaging or the product within. Corporations fool us every day, not just on April 1^st when we expect a good joke.    

After a few minutes, I gave up and poured myself a glass of water that came straight from the well in my backyard. I thought about the days when food traveled no farther than the distance from the barn or Lake Superior to Mom’s frying pan.

That was a century ago.

      

Democracy or Plutocracy: You Decide

Recently I watched a Hulu documentary entitled “Four Horsemen.” If you’re unfamiliar with Hulu, it’s a free website offering informative and entertaining shows. What caught my eye about “Horsemen” was the brief synopsis stating “there is still hope in re-establishing a moral and just society.” Any documentary making such a declaration in a country infested with lobbyists was one I wanted to see.

           

This is not a video kids will enjoy because they’ll be terrified, not of monsters or zombies, but of our country’s financial or governing system. “Horsemen” is a commentary on debt-based economy, the fiat monetary system, and the practice of investment banks loaning money without reserves to cover the loans. It also warns of plutocracy, a form of government by the wealthy.

The Four Horsemen are described as crooked financial systems, escalating organized violence, worldwide abject poverty, and depletion of the earth’s resources. Interviewees contend legalized corruption in governments and banks creates a form of socialism for the rich ultimately resulting in a plutocratic system, one apparently rampant during the early industrial days of our country. Men like Vanderbilt, Carnegie, Rockefeller, and Morgan were called “Robber Barons.” These men may have been geniuses, but some argue their wealth was built on the backs of impoverished laborers, manipulated congressmen, and figurehead presidents.

Successful zillionaire capitalist Nick Hanauer says: “We plutocrats live incredible lives, surrounded by luxury, insulated from risk and discomfort. We have a long and proud history of controlling human societies. We got a $700 billion rescue of the financial system, and corporate wealth is at a 50 year high. The false belief we are ‘job creators’ is essential to justify our status and power.”

In a Politico article he wrote: “If we don’t do something to fix the glaring inequalities in this economy, the pitchforks are coming for us.” Noam Chomsky, a “Horsemen” participant, suggested plutocrats use their wealth for the betterment of society. Sounds like Hanauer might agree.

Plutocracy creeps into democracies as unnoticed as fiat money crept into our monetary system. It’s interesting to note the term “democracy” is not found in our Constitution or Declaration of Independence. Does that open the door for plutocracy or is it already here? As the divide between rich and poor increases, one might pause and wonder.

What’s going on in Washington and what form of government runs this country?

Retiring My One Speed

Now that morning temperatures are above freezing, it’s time to get out my bicycle and ride like the wind. Well, maybe that’s an exaggeration. I should say pedal like a gentle breeze. Without gears, you won’t see me going up one hill and down the other at a breakneck speed. I coast as far as I can down the hill, then walk the bike up the rest of the way.

My bicycle has been faithful for over 30 years, but I’m thinking of retiring it. My travel route is the same. I go from my sideroad to Six Mile to Birch Point Road, a distance of 10 miles round trip. That doesn’t sound like much but when you’re doing it at one speed, it’s a test of endurance. This summer might be the one I trade in Old Faithful for a slick model boasting a dozen gears.

It’s something I’ve considered for years, but I don’t like change so I’ve been hesitant to retire a bike with so many memories. When my daughter was a toddler, I put her in the carrier seat attached to the handlebars and we explored the neighborhood. At that time, we lived in Ypsilanti Township. Our apartment was surrounded by farms and cornfields. While her dad was at work, Stef and I traveled the country roads.

Once we moved to Brimley, she traded in her bicycle for a horse. As Star trotted down the road, I attempted to keep up with little success. Eventually Stef graduated college and left home. Her horse became a memory, but my bike remained steadfast. Every summer I get it out, squirt a little oil on it, and climb aboard. But now as I apply a dash of liniment to my aching bones, I’m thinking an investment in a fancy new bike might be just the ticket to keep me on the road this summer. 

When I drive down Six Mile, I often see a bicyclist zooming down the road. The rider’s head is helmeted and bent over the handlebars. He’s wearing expensive clothing and riding a bike that probably cost more than my Aztec. Usually he’s hogging the road, mindless of cars behind him. Maybe he’s running from the law or escaping an unhappy marriage. Whatever the reason, speed seems to be his foremost concern.

I ride for exercise and enjoyment. I have no desire to go fast and blur the scenery. I like looking at trees and wildflowers. I wave to oncoming cars and folks out for their morning stroll. The only reason I need a new bike is to go up hills without stopping.

Thinking it over, a new bicycle might only be a nuisance.

    

   

Close The Fridge Door

Those four words were as much a part of my childhood as my dolls. Our Frigidaire was a step above a wooden icebox, but it wasn’t the sophisticated piece of equipment found in today’s kitchens. It was roomy, though, and the shelves were sturdy, not like the puny plastic found in modern refrigerators. Vegetables were easily stored in two large crispers. There was no need to bend celery or chop off the top few inches to get it to fit.

In our fridge, the freezer was no larger than a bread box. It was drilled into us to know what we wanted before we opened the door because things would melt. This was particularly true if ice cream had survived the night. It was customary to consume it as fast as Dad brought it home. Anything left in the carton would be soft by morning and fit for nothing but the dogs.

For unknown reasons, Mom was always “saving” something for me to the disgust of my siblings. It might be a piece of pie, an apple, or a serving of Jell-O. “Save it for Sharon” was a chant my sister and brother heard daily, especially during summer months. Chances are I didn’t want the saved item, but that didn’t matter. It was “Saved for Sharon” and eventually landed in the slop pail.

Long before “energy efficient” became buzz words, Mom knew it was a bad idea to open the fridge door and stand there for five minutes, hunting for something good. She also knew we knew there was nothing new on the shelves. Nobody had been to town so whatever was in the fridge in the morning was still there in the afternoon. Maybe one of us had eaten the strawberries or the last of the chocolate pudding so there might be less of something, but there certainly wasn’t more of something else.

But you know how folks are. Even when we know there’s nothing desirable in the fridge, we open the door and gaze at the contents, hoping we missed something the first three times we looked. It’s human nature. It’s part of our genetic makeup. We push aside last night’s lasagna on the outside chance there’s a piece of chocolate cake hiding behind it. We check the crisper for the candy bar we hid there last week, completely forgetting we devoured it ten minutes after we hid it.

I don’t know why we think something enticing will magically appear in our refrigerator, but we do. No amount of common sense stops us from searching, and no amount of drilling will convince us to “close the fridge door” until we’re completely satisfied we really did eat the last of last night’s chocolate pudding.

Hockey Night, Popcorn, & Dad

In days of yore, “Hello Canada and hockey fans in the United States and Newfoundland,” was a phrase heard weekly from Foster Hewitt during hockey season. Every Saturday night when there was a game Dad was in front of the television, a bowl of warm popcorn in one hand, a cold beverage in the other.

When we were young, Jude was the designated popcorn maker, and I was the complainer. I grumbled about everything. There was too much salt, not enough butter, or too many old maids. Dad was satisfied with whatever Jude prepared unless it was Jiffy Pop. He drew the line when it came to popcorn in a tin foil bag.

I was no more interested in hockey than I was in Howdy Doody, but the rest of the family gathered around the TV, eager to watch the Red Wings defeat the Montreal Canadiens. In those days, there were only six teams and everyone knew and could pronounce the names of the players. Nobody wore a helmet or multiple layers of protective clothing, and goalie masks were sniffed at as something for sissies.

Long before the second intermission I retired to bed, but the chances of falling asleep or reading a book were slim as “See the U.S.A. in your Chevrolet” rang through the upstairs. I would yell, “Turn down the TV,” but nobody paid any attention to me except to yell back, “Can’t hear you. The TV’s too loud.” So although I was in bed, I heard every word Hewitt said and knew the words to every advertisement.

Flash got me thinking about hockey night in Canada and the blasting of our television. Flash is a little deaf in one ear. My hearing is exceptional so I’m always asking him to lower the sound. Whenever he’s home I make the same request. The other evening I tried to read while he watched Fox News. I was so frustrated I hollered, “Stick your hearing aid in your ear and turn that miserable thing down.” Well, maybe I didn’t say “miserable” but you get the picture.

Father’s Day and the endless hockey season reminded me of Dad and his love of the sport. In his memory, I usually watch the last game to see who wins the Stanley Cup. With the volume at a moderate level, warm popcorn on my lap, and a Canada Dry Ginger Ale close by, I imagine the old days when Dad cheered as Hewitt yelled, “He shoots, he scores.” 

If your father is still with you and enjoys televised sports, make him some popcorn, bring him a cold drink, and let the television blast as loud as he likes. You’ll miss the noise when he’s gone.