Put America Back to Work!

I don’t claim to be an economist, don’t even know one actually, but I have a question for the next politician who says, “I want to put America back to work!” The question is, “doing what?” The fact is, there are no jobs for Americans to do because the jobs we used to do, and the stuff we used to make can all be done and made cheaper someplace else. What we are good at is growing stuff. Start reading the labels on the things you buy and you will soon find out that if it’s edible it’s grown here at home… but, if it’s wearable it comes from someplace else.

So the next time you hear some person standing on a podium somewhere say, “I want to put America back to work” you pull up a big ol’ sign that says, “doing what?” If he/she can name you ten jobs that have nothing to do with the state or federal government, ten jobs that can earn you a living, insurance coverage and retirement, vote for him.

Of course I exaggerate here but you get the point. Having said that I believe Americans will find a way by hook or crook, as they say, to make things better for ourselves. My eighty nine year old mother can still remember watching my grandfather chase the favorite chicken around the yard during the depression years, prior to wringing its neck. She says his reputation for wringing chicken necks was matchless back in the thirties. I guess they ate a lot of chicken.

One way I can always tell we’re in deep financial dodo is when mom starts heading for the chicken. I took her to the grocery store the other day, not looking for anything in particular and sure enough she gravitated toward the wings. This is how it happened. She’s on one of those fixed incomes but she’s healthy (thank you Lord) and still enjoys a few hours browsing through a grocery store. It usually takes that long because once she gets in there she acts like a food inspector, slowly making her way from the veggies to the meats. The woman has to inspect every veggie whether she intends to buy the thing or not, so it might take twenty minutes to get from the celery to the squash and then she’s got to check out the potatoes, which could take forever because they lend themselves to scrutiny.

 She’ll pick one up, bounce it around in her hand, flip it over and either put it in the cart or back on the rack. The other day I got tired of watching her flip potatoes and headed on over to the meats, figuring she’d wind up there sooner or later. There were three fat ranch wings left on the wing island. At one time it must have had them all, ranch, hot, buffalo, salt and vinegar, you name it but here sat these three lonely wings waiting for me. I put those three on a plate and into a bag figuring I might be able to hide them until we got home where I might let her have just one. She must have been watching because sure enough here she comes, straight out of the bell peppers looking for some chicken. “Whatcha got?” “I have some chicken mom, just a few wings.” “Lemme see.”  “Here, see, just three wings.” “Lemme try one.”

She ate that one and had the other two eaten by the time she finished inspecting the ground round. When we got to the check out counter there were three bones left in the plate. The cashier took each item through the scanner and when she got to the wing plate full of bones she took one look at me and said, “Sir, these are sold by the pound!” Mom had left the building and methinks we’re all going to be eating more chicken.

The Scents of Fond Memories-- And Some Bad

There’s no doubt that something stinks in Washington, D.C. We just can’t quite put our fingers on it, but if we go there a trip to the washroom would be needed afterward.

I’m not going there. My sense of smell is too sensitive, plus, it just doesn’t take much effort to write about what could be called Potomac dysentery -- where our politicians are always running either toward an office or away from responsibility.

The sense found in D.C. seems to have evaporated, but some scents stay with us forever. Those that bring back memories of childhood or events, that in some way, made a difference in our lives are the best.

I remember the smell of chlorine at the crystal clear Whittle Springs pool (Knoxville) years ago when Mike Lucci (Detroit Lions linebacker, All-SEC) was the lifeguard and god of the pool.

That pool had two low diving boards and one high dive that seemed, when seen from below, to be akin to cliff diving. Lucci guarded the U.T. cheerleaders and us 10-year-olds from that high dive for several summers. His record was sterling; we didn’t lose a single cheerleader.

I remember the smell of hot pavement after a summer rain in Panama City as we rode our bikes through the puddles trying to kick up a spray. You’d get a good running start at the puddle then pull your feet up and weave through it as long as your speed would allow. There were no sidewalks, so once in a while you’d find yourself sliding into someone’s front yard.

I remember the smell of cooking coming from homes before air conditioning when you could just about tell what was being served for dinner by simply walking down the street. Fried chicken was on a lot of menus.

There was the smell of the leaf pile from the big oak trees in my grandfather’s yard after raking. No one can resist taking a running leap into a pile with that musky smell of leaves and acorns.

His neighbor didn’t like the trees, said they were dangerous, so my grandfather, in a fit of rage, had them cut down. Things were never the same at the big house on the hill after that.

I remember the greasy smell of bacon as it cooked on the docks in the bay. We used it for bait until we caught a fish and then we’d use him for bait. Needle fish made great bait because when you cut them up they looked like links made for a fish hook, and it was great fishing off a saltwater dock because you never knew what you were going to catch. I always had to take my brother when I went fishing. I didn’t like to take fish off the hook.

Then there was the scent of security. Do you remember? For me it was Aqua Velva after shave. Dad put it on early in the mornings before heading for work and it gave us a sense of well being some have never experienced. For some folks it was Old Spice or just a clean smell coming from the bathroom. There’s a lot to be said for that sense of smell if you use it right to bring back the good stuff.

Do you wonder what scents the guys on the Potomac remember? I think maybe Elmer’s glue or Play-Doh would fit their mold. Seems like they’re always trying to put something back together when it gets broken or make something that never lasts long at the “D.C. Fun Factory.”

But who needs D.C. sense anyway? We have great scents, and more important ones right here at home?

The Next Louis Armstrong

 

I received an email the other day announcing the formation of the ORSO or Oconee Regional Symphony Orchestra. Made up of volunteers and designed to bring cultural enhancement to our area, the announcement nearly sent me into a state of what’s known as delayed depression. This is where you forget something for at least 50 years and then, if you live long enough, somebody brings it up and you remember it and it wasn’t good. A lot of old relatives will do this at holidays just to see if anybody remembers bad stuff and it usually ends up with half the families going home early after the “fireworks”. Usually starts with the phrase, “remember when”.

Sometimes I go into it when I remember Mike Walker beating me to the streetlight in 60’ cause he hit puberty before I did but I didn’t know what puberty was and figured he was just faster. Plus he weighed more than me and that made it even worse. But I digress. I have no idea where the hock shop silver trumpet mom and dad purchased in 57’ is today and therefore cannot attend the auditions. This is probably a good thing because if I did to ORSO what I did to that fifth grade band and music director, they’d no doubt use me as a balloon vendor prior to the event instead of last chair trumpet. See, some of us are made to play musical instruments and others the drums. I wanted to be a drummer but got drummed out of that by Tommy Hoskins, the class favorite and since there was only one set of the things and lord knows that was enough, he got to play drums and I got last chair trumpet. Last chair trumpet was not near far enough away from the band director and in an effort to save his and the children’s hearing he placed me at the very back of the stage behind a curtain.

Said it would carry the notes so I would be able to hear them more clearly. Every once in a while he’d peek around the curtain with a look that said, “Are you still here?” I lasted a couple of months, and learned that really good music can often be found on a crystal radio. Well, the keys stuck on the darn thing. And no matter how much of that expensive oil you squirted down the plungers, they still stuck. So when I hit a bad note (which was every other) it hung on like a pair of symbols, reverberating (a word I learned in band) throughout the stage area, reminding everyone I was still behind the curtain.

Mom and dad had invested quite a bit of money in the silver trumpet, a whopping five dollars, hoping I would become another Louis Armstrong I suppose and Mom insisted I practice outside, even though Tennessee winters can be rough. She said the cool air would help carry the notes so I would be able to hear them more clearly. Dad thought I should be held back a grade to perfect that thing before moving on to sixth grade band. He always thought I was the best at anything I chose to do but dad was fallible and in this instance, dead wrong. In the end the oil can was as empty as the notes and even these two wonderful people, who thought they had created at the least the world’s greatest slide flute player, decided there was no way they were going to spend more money on a silver trumpet that, when played by me, always reminded them of a New Orleans funeral procession.

They steered me toward the choir. There I learned I couldn’t sing any better than I could play the trumpet and so gave up everything but the crystal radio. Today I have ITunes. Best of luck to ORSO! We could use some cultural enhancing around here and don’t worry, hopefully that silver trumpet is a chalice in somebody’s silver collection. But, if you’re in need of a drummer……..dreams never die.

Info for Who?

If you’re like me you probably enjoy a good infomercial once in a while... yeah, right! My cable bill runs around $100.00 each month (basic) and lately I’ve found myself wondering why I need it. Paying for a commercial seems almost insane, maybe even masochistic. So, the other day I decided to see what I was paying to see and if in fact I wanted to continue footing the bill for being a patsy. Here’s what I found.

I could buy a professional pocket steam mop, sold by Mark with the dark glasses, I suppose to make me feel less intelligent since Mark knows everything there is to know about this contraption and I’m just the idiot paying to hear about it. He’s been rehearsing this gig for years and shows me just how dirty wherever he’s cleaning is because that thing is black when he finishes. He then suggests washing it in my washing machine. Yeah, right! If my house was that dirty…I’d move.

I could buy something for my joints. It may or may not work but it works for everyone on television so who am I to think it won’t work for me! It’s Arthri-D-Joint Health and it’s not made to treat any disease (uh, like arthritis do you suppose?) only to make your joints feel better. Yeah, right! The “scientist” who came up with this stuff is probably in re-hab.

Then there’s “Dr” Monita Poudyal who says “Supple” can heal everything from joint pain to weight problems. And of course it’s available in a bottle. The FDA won’t touch this stuff but again we find it was “discovered” by a couple of scientists. One has to wonder who these two scientists are and why they aren’t in re-hab with the Arthri guys. So I listen while these two robots discuss how wonderful this bottled fruit juice can be for me. Yeah right! Can you say “snake oil”?

Some five foot tall anorexic comes on and tells me I can lose weight by taking deep breaths when I walk 10,000 steps a day… then tries to sell me something for my flabby thighs. Maybe I should send her money for a Big Mac and fries. Yeah right! I’ll walk myself to McDonalds and save the money. She wouldn’t have eaten it anyway.

If you’re like me you’re probably tired of frying, burning, rolling and waiting for your hair to get right. The Topstyler will take care of that bedhead in four minutes or less if you can figure out where to place the clam shells. Ivey is the girl up front getting her awful pre-Topstyler hair done while eight pairs of breasts watch from behind…just to get your attention. I had no idea men watched these things until I noticed the girls in the rear. Well, to make a long story short, Ivey, who in no way resembles a scientist, actually learned how to use the Topstyler all by herself right there on the air! Yeah right! This girl uses her equipment like a blackjack dealer in Las Vegas. Methinks she’s done it before.

And if you want to go from looking like a cadaver to something slightly better in one day, get the Lifestyle Lift. Guaranteed to defy gravity and make Linda, who is seventy, look at least seventy after she uses it. If you want real change, not the kind the president’s been talking about, get the Lifestyle Lift and remember, it doesn’t work the same for everyone. Just say, “gobble gobble” and watch that sagging neck disappear! Yeah right! I’d be perfectly satisfied if my face was the only thing on this old body that was losing to gravity.

After making all these purchases you might need to seek some financial help from one Peter Popoff. He’s anointed and appointed and will sell you something in an envelope, sent by God himself, to get you the money you deserve. It’s called “miracle money” and it’s just for those dumb enough to continue to purchase cable television. He also has special water from who knows where but I’ve got some of that right here at the house. I call it rum and I know it comes from Puerto Rico. Peter also has a debt cancellation tool for those who just can’t resist being preyed upon by people like him. Yeah right! I think I’ll go back to radio.