What Generation Gap?

I've been running my mouth enough lately.

Try this for a breath of fresh air:

www.margaretandhelen.wordpress.com

Another 40 years...

Here and there, as I've caught bits on radio or television or scanned blogs and print, I've seen references to the presidential election of 1968 and the George Wallace campaign in particular. Readers, I'd been thinking those same thoughts but had not voiced them. To prove that I am not recycling content, I'm going to share another elementary school memory.

1968, for you pretty young things, was not a pretty year.  1968 is why protesters are now contained in fences far away from political conventions. Why you don't see coffins come home on CNN.  People were dying abroad and on American soil for the issues in play in that fall's election.

I grew up in a Texas suburb that had "desegregated" by writing a policy. The policy was "school choice."  Students could attend any school in town, but they could only ride a bus to their neighborhood campus. Again, for younger readers, this was not the open door shindig it may appear. Many families had one car, and that car was used for one person to drive to work. Most elementary children got to school on foot or bike or on the bus.  This policy remained in place until my graduation, as far as I know. In 1977, my graduating class of 626 was "integrated" by perhaps ten African-American students.  I never sat a class with one of them. Our school song was "Dixie." The confederate flag flew at football games. Yet we were, for the most part, good kids. 

But I digress.

At the Blue house, politics veered pretty darn far to the right, at least where my father was concerned.  My mother never said much, which I now know meant she spoke volumes. But "hippies," "liberals," "communists," and "Humphrey" all pretty much added up to the same thing in the paternal lexicon. I honestly don't remember which of the other two candidates he actually supported. I suspect I'm afraid to remember.

But I digress yet again.

Even in elementary school, it was impossible to escape the campaign.  All most of us had in our homes for entertainment was a single television, so we all saw the same news. At least our input was fairly consistent. 

Every day at lunch, in the School Cafetorium, we'd peel the tops off our "ice milk cups" and start politicking. Amid a fair amount of trash talk (always within acceptable volume limits, lest the red-yellow-green traffic light of silence glow crimson), nine- and ten-year-old Americans would vote with their wooden spoons.

N

H

W

The letters were carved into the pristine surface of our dairy-ish confections. I will admit, right here and now, that I did not commit firmly to Humphrey, a fact I now regret. I like many others vacillated between the N and the H, depending on the mood of the day or the friend of the moment. 

But you know what?

The W kids never wavered. They knew. They sat together, and they never changed the letter they carved. 

The cafeteria contained nothing but white faces*. Those kids (well, most likely their families, but still...) may not have known what Wallace was for, but I'm pretty sure they knew what he was against.

And that is exactly what I remember when  I watch those clips of angry, fearful faces at McCain/Palin events. 

The Wallace Kids.

* I no longer live in the town mentioned above. Out of curiosity, I visited the school's website. Its population now appears to be significantly made up of children of color, which suggests that the same de facto segregation policy is still in place.

Gone Too Far.

I'd like to stop posting these.  But this one, from a Pennsylvania Palin rally, is truly awful.  You can find the accompanying article here. I have such mixed feelings. I want to share my outrage by letting people know this poison is out there. But I also worry that I'm spreading toxin merely by posting it. Troubled.

What's more, McCain held a rally in Davenport, Iowa yesterday.  At that rally, a minister gave an invocation including the following language (you can find the full story here,):

"I would also pray, Lord, that your reputation is involved in all that happens between now and November, because there are millions of people around this world praying to their god - whether it’s Hindu, Buddha, Allah - that his opponent wins, for a variety of reasons,” Conrad said.

"And Lord, I pray that you would guard your own reputation, because they’re going to think that their god is bigger than you, if that happens. So I pray that you will step forward and honor your own name with all that happens between now and Election Day.”

The racism is frightening. But these words scare me much, much more.

My leaves aren't golden; silence isn't either, you know.

Greetings from persistently green though increasingly scraggly NoTex. 

I know you are out there, readers. I see your hits on Google Analytics although I have no idea who you are. 

My blogfriend, Molly, announced recently that her amazing site had garnered its 3000th comment. This fact has awakened the competitor in me, the one I have been secretly dosing with Ambien for a couple of decades. If you know me, you are aware that this could be a very scary situation indeed. Spending a fall afternoon walking near Dick Cheney with a bird dog and a gun will seem like a walk through Portland's Japanese Garden.

Perhaps I exaggerate. Or not.

Anyway, friends, I am comment hungry. Starved.  I refuse to believe that, of all the things I've written, something hasn't pissed you off or made you think. So flog me with your brilliance, even if it is anonymous. 

Don't make me resort to giveaways. 

Here's What I'm Talking About

The kind of thing that's worrying me these days...



and another:



Hat tip to The Huffington Post.

Now I really need a glass of that Strenuous Tongue Cabernet!

I just thought I'd been rendered mute by melancholy. Last night's debate, and the events of the days leading up to it, made me more so.

Tell me why the Secret Service did not arrest the individual who shouted "Kill him!" (calling for, if you have not heard about this, Obama's assassination) during a McCain/Palin rally.

Tell me why McCain felt that a young black man would not have heard of the two largest mortgage programs in America.

Tell me why the man who wants to lead our country into a era of smaller government last night proposed having the government buy up mortgages.

Tell me why the same man could not correctly state the details of his own health plan, suddenly promising a 5K credit per individual American rather than per household.

Tell me why Rush Limbaugh, a man I foolishly listened to this morning, is now blaming the entire "bailout" (the one proposed initially by the current president) on the Democrats, claiming it is an Obama plan to socialize our nation's economy.

Tell me why the same talk show host is saying, many times a day, that Obama and Osama bin-Ladin are the same because they "know terrorists."

Tell  me why fliers are appearing in low income Philadelphia neighborhoods warning people that, "according to an Obama operative," if they have any outstanding warrants (even for traffic tickets) or prior felony convictions they should "take care of them" before voting because police will be at the polls to arrest them. Maybe it would be best to stay home.

Tell me why people are willing to believe in and act on such vitriol.

Tell me why I am supposed to feel pride for my country instead of sadness and shame.

86: Mist, Mellow Fruitfulness

SCENE: Keats’ Café. Early October.

A WOMAN of a certain age, obviously exhausted, walks slowly through the door. She looks around, as if seeking a familiar face. Finding none, She moves to a table near the window, where she places her heavy bag on the floor.

Placing her reading glasses low on the bridge of her nose, she scans the menu.

A waitress, FANNY, approaches. She is smacking gum.

FANNY: Hey. I’m Fanny. What can I getcha?

WOMAN: Just some water for now. It’s been a while since I was in, and I should probably look things over.

FANNY: You betcha.

FANNY exits.

The WOMAN continues to move her eyes over the menu.

WOMAN (to herself): Ah! There it is. I was afraid they’d taken it off the menu.

FANNY (setting down a large glass of water): You ready?

WOMAN: You have no idea how ready. I’ve been waiting for this all year. Let’s see…I’ll have the “Season of Mist” and definitely some “Mellow Fruitfulness.” I’m starved.

FANNY: Sorry. We’re out.

WOMAN (incredulous): WHAT?

FANNY: We’re out. Out of mist. Mellow fruitfulness, too.

WOMAN: You’re kidding, right?

FANNY: Nope.

WOMAN: But your thatch-eves have vines running ‘round!

FANNY: They’re from Hobby Lobby. I had to go pick them up last week.

WOMAN (stunned): Guess I’ll settle for the swollen gourds, topped with plump hazelnuts and sweet kernel.

FANNY (over her shoulder): Yo, Keats, we got any squash yet?

KEATS (offstage): Truck didn’t come.

FANNY: You heard the man.

WOMAN: No. This can’t be happening. My hair was soft lifted by the wind, wind that winnowed, when I got out of my car. And I’m sitting careless… or at least I was until you started telling me you’re out of everything good. I mean, look outside! The day’s soft-dying! Crickets! Whistles and twitters!

FANNY walks over to the jukebox, pops in a quarter, and presses a button. Happy music fills the air.

FANNY: Maybe that “Song of Spring” will perk ‘ya up.

WOMAN: Turn that crap off. Nobody comes to Keats’ Café for spring. It’s October, Fanny. I need autumn. I’ve been coming here every October for years for my favorite dish. And now this nonsense. If you don’t have mist, mellow fruitfulness, gourds, hazelnuts, sweet kernels, or even a real damned vine, what do you have?

FANNY: Well, there’s a great wine special.

WOMAN: God, I could use a drink.

FANNY: We have Strenuous Tongue Cab by the glass. It’s like squishing grapes in your mouth.

WOMAN: Bring me a bottle. And tell Keats to get his sorry ass out here right now.

FANNY EXITS, calling the order.

A moment passes. KEATS, a dark-haired man wearing an apron and a toque enters stage left. He sees the WOMAN, removes his hat, walks slowly to her table, and sits beside her.

She looks up, and into his eyes.

KEATS: So it’s you who ordered the melancholy. How have you been?

FANNY returns with a bottle and two glasses, pours wine for both, and exits. The lights fade to black as KEATS takes the WOMAN’s hand in his, and she begins to answer.