What's truly creepy and weird is that some people who consider themselves patriots will support a political party whose leaders talk about vermin poisoning the blood of our country and claim that any election they lost or lose was or will have been fraudulent. To them, elections are only valid if they win, and that's a sure sign of totalitarianism in the making should they ever succeed. Only sustained losses at the polls along with enforcement of our laws can bring such a party back to health and reality.
Which is why I'll be writing in President Biden's name on the 23rd. I had not heard about Mr. Trump's comparison of immigrants to vermin - creepy indeed. I recently read that Vermin Supreme lives in NH now. I like him (who doesn't want a free pony?), but I'm still voting for Biden.
If Trump should win in '24, it will be fun to watch some heads exploding and frustrating to witness the complete lack of self-awareness as to why this happened.
Concerning “In 1969, I sold a small humorous piece of writing to a magazine and got $500 for it...”, I assume the magazine was The NewYorker (correct?) but, if you don’t mind my asking, which specific piece was this?
A close call, indeed, Garrison. But perhaps we got the story wrong. Maybe that first being was of that "superior" gender and she made that tinkerer with the whiskers do over his creation of the sixth day. All the others she saw as "Gooood!" But that two legged cannibal with that extra appendage already had the strawberry juice running down his cheek.
Once, in a quest for riches, Patti Fisher and I signed up to pick strawberries for fifty cents a flat. Easy picking as far as we could tell. Our mothers dropped us off, we were each given a flat, and we marched into the field with great determination and purpose. We bent over and started picking, finding out soon enough that it was not easy work. The stems were prickly and our backs started to get sore. We were hungry after a short while so for every strawberry picked, two went in our mouths. We ended up cranky and fratching with one another, and before you know it, we were throwing them at each other. Our shirts were solid strawberry red, as well as our hands and faces. Our mothers must have known exactly what would happen given our dashed expectations, and they were sitting in their cars waiting for us. They didn’t say anything. Patti and I didn’t even say goodbye. That night, I threw up strawberries for the good part an hour.
With money comes work (unless you’re a bank robber, in which case the effort to plan is involved) and for those of us who do work hard for it, it’s earned and rewarding. Even if it won’t pay all the bills. I can’t afford to take a couple of grand out to tip all the people who do service for me, I wish I could, but I tip generously and I always thank people who do something for me. I definitely tip the postman twice a year because he happily takes my outgoing mail in the dead heat of summer and the freezing winter.
And I too keep a hundred dollar bill in my wallet because it gives me some sense of security for some reason.
Lovely column. I look at my wife of 36 years and marvel at my good luck. She turned me around, for sure, and led me to find what Lincoln called my “better nature.” Plus we’ve had a golden retriever or two around the house now for 36 years, and I love that, too.
As for work, I caddied at a golf course in Minneapolis at 14 (six bucks to carry a double bag for an 18 hole loop) and quit to sell shoes at JCPenney for $1.65 an hour in 1968. Later, after moving to California, I thought about robbing a bank but lacked the smarts. Bank robbers, you know, are the intellects of the criminal world.
When I met my wife-to-be in San Diego and found she was an ex-Minnesotan I could converse with for hours, I gave up all my bad habits and criminality.
Which golf course? I never caddied but played a few. Columbia Nord'east was my favorite.
First job (in Christmas season 1956, just turned 16) was working at Roseacker's florist 4 blocks away. $0.80/hr. but time and a half for overtime (of which there was a lot). Although we temps didn't belong to it, it was a union shop because of the truck drivers for deliveries. So punched a clock for only twice in my life. For Easter, I was the runner for one of the delivery drivers, great job.
It was seasonal so I got a part time job at a Mom and Pop grocery store, stocking shelves, sweeping floors, and delivering groceries in those folding wooden crates in the boss's '52 Ford pickup (made for decent upper body strength). 20 hours a week at $0.75/hr to start, $1.00/hr in the Fall. Lasted 3 years, senior year HS and first two years of college (commuter student), until I got a job at the university doing chemical research for pay $1.52/hr. (NSF grant).
My wife’s best friends were gay men, including her oncology nurse. It was a joy to behold her joy and theirs over genuine friendships that endured. The “High-Heel Races” in DC were among her favorite times of year if not mine, but I went along anyhow so as not to miss out on no one missing out!
your essay is insightful and descriptive of the privledge we call "white" in America. In that place called America is a curious Manichaean phenomnon where everything not "white" is "black" and the unique and vibrant colors in between are blurred into a swampy gray. From the board room to the washroom we tribes justify our dominance with the Puritanical right of being the chosen while preaching to those cleaning the toilets their divinely ordered place in the cosmos.
Your column where you avoided raiding the ATM machine at your neighborhood bank caused me to recall the toll of inflation on my life.
I had a paper route when I was growing up. I was the only child of a widowed mother and never received an allowance. I saved most of the money I got from delivering papers, but my sense of wealth (or fortune) at that time were the soda pop bottles I found while traversing my paper route. I turned these in for pennies at the corner grocery store. I bought mallow cups (this was before Reese's) when my efforts yielded a nickel or a dime. This was my "token of good luck," as you put it.
Later, a crisp folded one-dollar bill in my wallet fulfilled that sense of fortune and good luck. In my early years of employment, a five-dollar bill replaced President Washington. As I entered retirement, a few twenties (I never warmed up to Mr. Hamiliton), provided that piece of mind. Today, I hardly bat an eye when handing over a Jackson for any transaction, no matter how trivial. I must be approaching the acceptance of Ben Franklin now, for all these things. Times change, but hopefully the intentions do not.
For harmony's and women's sake, I suspect Mary Travers gave good advice to Peter and Paul. I still put on their early records to recall, not just the blending of voices, but to wish and hope for today, much needed voices, in support of democracy.
You remind me of the great humorist/philosopher Ashley Montague, who regularly and often touted the superiority of women. I have found myself more often than I like to admit, embarrassed by most of my gender. And like you, all of my friends are women. Which makes it difficult, at times, for my true love.
Back in my teenage ('50s), girls who were "just friends" were a rarity. I had two with whom I'm still in contact, still platonic. Everyone always teased you that you were romantic couple. Things had improved 30years later with my kids (son and daughter), and my HS granddaughters tell me it's even better now.
As an English major, you are excused. ". . .millions of light years old." Light years is a measure of distance, not time. The distance light travels in a year. Almost 6 trillion miles. "Years" makes it confusing, sure enough. You are light years ahead of the rest of us in terms of humor, insight, and entertainment. Thanks.
JH, 2005 Cruise Astronomer here. I don’t relish in correcting my superiors however; in you earlier columnn “A close Call and then Creation” you made reference to :
“the Webb telescope out in space sending pictures back to earth of celestial bodies millions of light years old”.
In reality a light year is not a unit of time measurement, but a unit of linear measurement such as a centimeter, a mile, an astronomical unit (93 million miles) or a cubit.
Options for the phrase could have been either:
“celestial bodies millions of light years away” or “celestial bodies millions of years old”
It is nothing personal…well yes it is. Back on the 2005 cruise, during a workshop on writing that you emceed, you called me up on the stage, handed me the mic, and allowed me to ask a semi serious but tongue in cheek question to you. When I returned the mic to you, you proceeded make light (not light years) of what I asked, and brought down the entire theater laughing at me.
OK, now I consider us even.
BTW, did the Stearns (er uh Mist) County tour this past September, searching for Lake Wobegon, with your advice and book accompanying us as our guide. After visiting the string of towns implicated as your Wobegonian inspiration including a visit to the Sidetrack Tap in Freeport, I still think Osakis most directly fits , at least my imagined picture of your hometown.
And while staying at The Palmer House, in Sauk Center, with Sinclair Lewis’ ghost we were treated to an amazing outbreak of aurora borealis punctuating the grand experience (just to return to an astronomical topic.)
GK, Episcolaians tend to be creationists? News to me (semi-retired scientist and life-long Lutheran). Must be your Plymouth Brethren background shining through.
What's truly creepy and weird is that some people who consider themselves patriots will support a political party whose leaders talk about vermin poisoning the blood of our country and claim that any election they lost or lose was or will have been fraudulent. To them, elections are only valid if they win, and that's a sure sign of totalitarianism in the making should they ever succeed. Only sustained losses at the polls along with enforcement of our laws can bring such a party back to health and reality.
Which is why I'll be writing in President Biden's name on the 23rd. I had not heard about Mr. Trump's comparison of immigrants to vermin - creepy indeed. I recently read that Vermin Supreme lives in NH now. I like him (who doesn't want a free pony?), but I'm still voting for Biden.
Hi Jeannine! Vermin Supreme, hmmm... I'm baffled. Who is that? Hahaha, I just looked it up! I love it!
Vermin Supreme is awesome: Glitter bombs, a pony in every garage, boot hats, what's not to like? 😉
If Trump should win in '24, it will be fun to watch some heads exploding and frustrating to witness the complete lack of self-awareness as to why this happened.
Oh, just a blast. You could sit back with the popcorn and be entertained.
Oh, I have self-awareness and it tells me that Trump is an ineligible disaster.
Good morning, Garrison
Concerning “In 1969, I sold a small humorous piece of writing to a magazine and got $500 for it...”, I assume the magazine was The NewYorker (correct?) but, if you don’t mind my asking, which specific piece was this?
"Local Family Makes Son Happy" –– an odd one.
Odd but funny—especially her egg recipe!
A close call, indeed, Garrison. But perhaps we got the story wrong. Maybe that first being was of that "superior" gender and she made that tinkerer with the whiskers do over his creation of the sixth day. All the others she saw as "Gooood!" But that two legged cannibal with that extra appendage already had the strawberry juice running down his cheek.
She the Mrs. God poems in Consider the Lillies by Connie Wanek.
Once, in a quest for riches, Patti Fisher and I signed up to pick strawberries for fifty cents a flat. Easy picking as far as we could tell. Our mothers dropped us off, we were each given a flat, and we marched into the field with great determination and purpose. We bent over and started picking, finding out soon enough that it was not easy work. The stems were prickly and our backs started to get sore. We were hungry after a short while so for every strawberry picked, two went in our mouths. We ended up cranky and fratching with one another, and before you know it, we were throwing them at each other. Our shirts were solid strawberry red, as well as our hands and faces. Our mothers must have known exactly what would happen given our dashed expectations, and they were sitting in their cars waiting for us. They didn’t say anything. Patti and I didn’t even say goodbye. That night, I threw up strawberries for the good part an hour.
With money comes work (unless you’re a bank robber, in which case the effort to plan is involved) and for those of us who do work hard for it, it’s earned and rewarding. Even if it won’t pay all the bills. I can’t afford to take a couple of grand out to tip all the people who do service for me, I wish I could, but I tip generously and I always thank people who do something for me. I definitely tip the postman twice a year because he happily takes my outgoing mail in the dead heat of summer and the freezing winter.
And I too keep a hundred dollar bill in my wallet because it gives me some sense of security for some reason.
I know one thing. I hate strawberries.
perhaps too much of a good thing can be bad for you. And perhaps too much "man" or "woman"-hood can be bad as well.
The Smothers Brothers live and in person under the stars at the same venue as where I saw you once in Dayton, Ohio.
Two brothers singing and entertaining me for a few hours was very nice
Lisa
Lovely column. I look at my wife of 36 years and marvel at my good luck. She turned me around, for sure, and led me to find what Lincoln called my “better nature.” Plus we’ve had a golden retriever or two around the house now for 36 years, and I love that, too.
As for work, I caddied at a golf course in Minneapolis at 14 (six bucks to carry a double bag for an 18 hole loop) and quit to sell shoes at JCPenney for $1.65 an hour in 1968. Later, after moving to California, I thought about robbing a bank but lacked the smarts. Bank robbers, you know, are the intellects of the criminal world.
When I met my wife-to-be in San Diego and found she was an ex-Minnesotan I could converse with for hours, I gave up all my bad habits and criminality.
God bless the women of the world.
Good to hear from another man of good fortune. I deflect all compliments by saying, "I've been very very lucky."
Which golf course? I never caddied but played a few. Columbia Nord'east was my favorite.
First job (in Christmas season 1956, just turned 16) was working at Roseacker's florist 4 blocks away. $0.80/hr. but time and a half for overtime (of which there was a lot). Although we temps didn't belong to it, it was a union shop because of the truck drivers for deliveries. So punched a clock for only twice in my life. For Easter, I was the runner for one of the delivery drivers, great job.
It was seasonal so I got a part time job at a Mom and Pop grocery store, stocking shelves, sweeping floors, and delivering groceries in those folding wooden crates in the boss's '52 Ford pickup (made for decent upper body strength). 20 hours a week at $0.75/hr to start, $1.00/hr in the Fall. Lasted 3 years, senior year HS and first two years of college (commuter student), until I got a job at the university doing chemical research for pay $1.52/hr. (NSF grant).
Minneapolis Country Club, I think. Maybe later changed to West St. Paul Country Club, LOL
Yeah, wages were bad back then, but you could buy a cuppa coffee for a dime, too. And presidents would step down when they lost.
My wife’s best friends were gay men, including her oncology nurse. It was a joy to behold her joy and theirs over genuine friendships that endured. The “High-Heel Races” in DC were among her favorite times of year if not mine, but I went along anyhow so as not to miss out on no one missing out!
I'm curious to know, do you believe that you have benefited in your career from unearned white male privilege? I have. I'm 69 now, and retired. I don't expect you to read this essay I wrote, but I put a lot of thought into it: https://viclarson.blogspot.com/2020/07/minority-me-in-life-of-white-privilege.html
When a white male sits down and confronts the blank page, therre is no more privilege and if he imagines there is, it is to his detriment.
your essay is insightful and descriptive of the privledge we call "white" in America. In that place called America is a curious Manichaean phenomnon where everything not "white" is "black" and the unique and vibrant colors in between are blurred into a swampy gray. From the board room to the washroom we tribes justify our dominance with the Puritanical right of being the chosen while preaching to those cleaning the toilets their divinely ordered place in the cosmos.
I love this so much. Love your humor and the love you have for your wife. Thanks for the laugh and bright start to my day!
Garrison - -
Your column where you avoided raiding the ATM machine at your neighborhood bank caused me to recall the toll of inflation on my life.
I had a paper route when I was growing up. I was the only child of a widowed mother and never received an allowance. I saved most of the money I got from delivering papers, but my sense of wealth (or fortune) at that time were the soda pop bottles I found while traversing my paper route. I turned these in for pennies at the corner grocery store. I bought mallow cups (this was before Reese's) when my efforts yielded a nickel or a dime. This was my "token of good luck," as you put it.
Later, a crisp folded one-dollar bill in my wallet fulfilled that sense of fortune and good luck. In my early years of employment, a five-dollar bill replaced President Washington. As I entered retirement, a few twenties (I never warmed up to Mr. Hamiliton), provided that piece of mind. Today, I hardly bat an eye when handing over a Jackson for any transaction, no matter how trivial. I must be approaching the acceptance of Ben Franklin now, for all these things. Times change, but hopefully the intentions do not.
For harmony's and women's sake, I suspect Mary Travers gave good advice to Peter and Paul. I still put on their early records to recall, not just the blending of voices, but to wish and hope for today, much needed voices, in support of democracy.
You remind me of the great humorist/philosopher Ashley Montague, who regularly and often touted the superiority of women. I have found myself more often than I like to admit, embarrassed by most of my gender. And like you, all of my friends are women. Which makes it difficult, at times, for my true love.
Back in my teenage ('50s), girls who were "just friends" were a rarity. I had two with whom I'm still in contact, still platonic. Everyone always teased you that you were romantic couple. Things had improved 30years later with my kids (son and daughter), and my HS granddaughters tell me it's even better now.
As an English major, you are excused. ". . .millions of light years old." Light years is a measure of distance, not time. The distance light travels in a year. Almost 6 trillion miles. "Years" makes it confusing, sure enough. You are light years ahead of the rest of us in terms of humor, insight, and entertainment. Thanks.
Thanks, I needed that. 🖊️
GK,
JH, 2005 Cruise Astronomer here. I don’t relish in correcting my superiors however; in you earlier columnn “A close Call and then Creation” you made reference to :
“the Webb telescope out in space sending pictures back to earth of celestial bodies millions of light years old”.
In reality a light year is not a unit of time measurement, but a unit of linear measurement such as a centimeter, a mile, an astronomical unit (93 million miles) or a cubit.
Options for the phrase could have been either:
“celestial bodies millions of light years away” or “celestial bodies millions of years old”
It is nothing personal…well yes it is. Back on the 2005 cruise, during a workshop on writing that you emceed, you called me up on the stage, handed me the mic, and allowed me to ask a semi serious but tongue in cheek question to you. When I returned the mic to you, you proceeded make light (not light years) of what I asked, and brought down the entire theater laughing at me.
OK, now I consider us even.
BTW, did the Stearns (er uh Mist) County tour this past September, searching for Lake Wobegon, with your advice and book accompanying us as our guide. After visiting the string of towns implicated as your Wobegonian inspiration including a visit to the Sidetrack Tap in Freeport, I still think Osakis most directly fits , at least my imagined picture of your hometown.
And while staying at The Palmer House, in Sauk Center, with Sinclair Lewis’ ghost we were treated to an amazing outbreak of aurora borealis punctuating the grand experience (just to return to an astronomical topic.)
I'm so glad for Biden. I am so grateful to him for "stepping up" to lead the country during this difficult time!
GK, Episcolaians tend to be creationists? News to me (semi-retired scientist and life-long Lutheran). Must be your Plymouth Brethren background shining through.