Raindrops in my Eyes

Raindrops in my Eyes

            My congressperson, the honorable Adele Pate, shattered my world…I don’t know…recently.  She said her future is unfolding, and therefore she wasn’t running for congress again.  It ranked right up there with her best previous explanation, “I have a meeting.”  She’s a member of the Climbing Rose faction of her Party—they’re the ones whose prescription for every problem seems to be, “Grab my thorns!”  We have to raise the debt ceiling or our country will be internationally shamed: “Grab my thorns!”  We can’t permit the sequester or millions will suffer: “Grab my thorns!”  Obama’s health care program is what we wanted eight years ago: “Grab my thorns!”  Why did you do all that damage?  “I have a meeting!”

            It’s clear now that Adele is thinking about sharing her thorny philosophy with even more lucky people.  She’s surely got Imelda Marcos, ‘the shoe lady’, spinning with jealousy in her grave.  Adele’s future is blossoming!  I had to call her office and congratulate her.  First I had to wipe the water from my eyes.  Fortunately it was ‘towel day’ all over the galaxy, so I had my eyes dried in a twinkle.  Somebody named Clod answered the phone, and promised me he would convey my sobs to her honorable self.

            I asked if I might send roses.  He replied, “She already has plenty of thorns.” 

            “I know,” I said, still sniffling, “I thought she could use something that smelled nice, for once.”

            “Right,” he said, and hung up.

Summer Canning

            Time is nearly here to gather all the vegetables around us and start putting things by.  It’s a wonderful, bountiful activity that monopolizes our attention, except for the lawn, the occasional glass, and devouring the pablum of reality TV.

            Tearing away for a moment, we notice how quiet the air waves have been concerning the FBI’s passion for Associated Press reporters’ telephone call logs.  What should have produced an ‘Occupy’ movement barely garnered a whimper from us vegetables.  The agency’s review of two months of AP call records is chilling.  In the name of ‘National Security’ it seems no intrusion on privacy rights is too great. 

            Don’t misunderstand.  Our national security is vital.  But this comprehensive scrutiny of what is supposed to be (and occasionally is) an independent watch dog entity will make every patriot have second thoughts about blowing the whistle on government abuse of its power, its ability to hide misdeeds, and its natural tendency to lie.  Why? Because this administration has prosecuted more whistle blowers than all previous administrations combined! 

           The FBI’s important work must go on, and it would seem admirably patriotic for Washington to be more forthcoming.  But the fourth estate is our ticket to transparency.  More than any other influence on the three branches of government, transparency, provided by rigorous investigative journalism, keeps government miscreants in check.  That’s why it hurts every one of us when it is discouraged. 

           Around here, we notice that some ‘re canning, and some ‘re preserving secrets.

Moron congress And The IRS

            It’s breathtaking when a member of congress has the nerve to complain about an IRS employee being “in limbo…on the taxpayers’ dime” because she was put on paid administrative leave when she refused to resign prior to any determination of guilt.  It is just cheek up to here.  What about “innocent until proven guilty?”  And wasting the taxpayers’ dime has been perfected to an art form by members of the US House and Senate.  Can you say, “Pork?!”

            Lois Lerner is on paid leave pending an investigation into IRS stupidity.  It’s being done by the government, of all people, including the smear circus by congress.  Her paid administrative leave is appropriate, and the sooner we get past congressional obstruction inflicted for the purpose of partisan pandering, the sooner we might find out exactly what happened at the IRS.  THEN congress has a role in crafting preventive action.  The problem is, congress is the least effective piece of government work in existence, and probably won’t be able to agree on anything useful.  The 112^th “Do Damage” congress set the usefulness bar about shoe high, and the 113^th ”Save The Rich” congress, trying as it is, keeps leaping into that bar.  If anybody in government is wasting our dimes, you can be sure he or she was elected to congress.  

            Around here, it seems some pseudo-statesmen want to look like hecklers from the cheap seats.  It’s working.  We think they should get themselves busy with our country’s important bipartisan work.

Art and Irene

            It’s hard to describe the feeling you get when you are far away from home and you  discover the blinking oil light on your car’s instrument panel…or the relief that arrives with the realization that you are right by the exit leading to a small city, it’s still daylight, and you, your spouse, and the dog could get a motel room if you needed to.  Not bad—one curse and three blessings.  But the blessings didn’t stop there.

            We crept into town and turned in at the first gas station.  I checked the dipstick.  Bad news—the oil light was telling the truth.  A couple walked by and we exchanged greetings.  Art is a truck driver and Irene drives the pilot car announcing the oversize cargo he is hauling.  He asked if everything was OK, and I told our tale.  We went inside the station and discovered they didn’t have the oil I needed.  Without hesitation, Irene said, “If you need a ride over to Wal Mart, I’ll drive you there.” 

            She handed her keys to Art and he took me to get oil.  I thanked him and he said that was how people were supposed to treat each other.  I told him I agreed, but that it was still nice when it happened.  They would not accept any payment.  The oil temporarily solved my problem, and we both thanked these kind people who were such blessings to us that day.

            Thanks again Art and Irene!

The Whackemal Chop Shop

            My barber Ernestine is an absolute love despite also being a smart-alice.  She told me once she thought she’d never see me again because I had so many hare-brained ideas, my hair was growing in, not out. So I decided to nickname her ‘snippy’.  She ended that right now by threatening to snip my ears.  She’s all business, that woman—said she grew up on a farm where nonsense usually had negative consequences.

            “Nonsense,” I said.  “Tell me a joke or I won’t sit still—the one about the seven-year-old who threw his tricycle through the drugstore window—it’s my favorite!”

            She finished cutting my hair and held up the mirror.  Her work was flawless.

            “Great,” I said, “now, I’m off to the State Fair!”  I handed her a fist full of crumpled bills.

          “Thank you,” Ernestine replied with a grimace.  “You know I learned to cut hair by grooming chickens for the State Fair.” 

          “Ernestine Whackemal,” I exclaimed, “you are lying through your dazzling white teeth!” I always try to throw in a compliment when I accuse people of things.

          “You’re a city boy aren’t you,” she retorted.

          “I know you don’t give a chicken a haircut!  You…you fluff it!

          “Yeah, well don’t wander too close to the chicken judging when you leave here.  Somebody’s liable to stick a blue ribbon on your shirt!”

           I gave her the usual twenty cent tip and left the Whackemal Chop Shop feeling pretty gritty for a city chicken.