I swore that I wasn't going to write about politics as often. I made this oath after getting feedback from some of you that "the political stuff goes right over my head but some of your other stuff is okay." Relying in that ringing endorsement and noticing that my family's eyes glaze over when I declare that Birch Bayh was a crook and his son is a sissy crook as I channel my inner grandma, I am truly trying to modify my blogs and keep my political opinions out of these pages. I was well on my way. I was going to write about the beauty of motherhood, daffodils and puppies.
I was going to until I went on my bike ride this evening. About half way through my ride,a big old pick up with high lift shocks and mud tires and lime green letters on the windshield proudly proclaiming that they were "FLAT BROKE" came by and revved the engine and his big ole Cummins deisel belched a huge cloud of black smoke that drifted over into my lane. I must admit that I was bemused. I thought Speedy racer with the black smoke cloud trick; cool. I pedalled through my bemusement and the cloud and went on. Well I found that I acted incorrectly and possibly offended them greatly. It appears that inbred hill jacks have the gift and can read bemusement through smoke clouds.
Five minutes later he had turned about to give me another fly by and his buddy leaned out the window and yelled something like "my mother must have had incestuous relations for me to be this stupid." I am still trying to work on the audio. The quality isn't very good because just as he started his declaration of his love for his mother, the driver hit the gas and I got smoked again.
And I thought to myself that the price of gas wasn't quite high enough if he could waste it as a mosquito suppressant this early in the season.
Then I got to wondering if President Obama had been picked on as a younger man and while he had thought that we should give terrorist trials and told the country that we should give them trials, he just kind of flashed back to high school and a couple of bullies in turbans, robes, beards, and big ole fake hair made fun of his ears, blew cigarette smoke in his face, while chanting "American made? Show us your birth certificate." Then when the general whispered into his ear "(President) Obama; we have Osama." he broke. He forgot what he ran on and ordered the assassination.
For all of the loyalists out there, calm down. Take a breath. It was an assassination. No matter what is actually said to have happened in the end, Osama was killed on orders from the President of the United States. I know it is difficult to admit if one is a loyalist. I still remember my grandma saying "Nixon didn't do anything Johnson hadn't done. He just got caught." God love her.
I don't know if President Obama wishes that he had handled it differently. If he does, he can get his own blog. I for one wish that we would have shown a bit more imagination.
It seems to me that Osama had been in prison for the past seven years. Our courageous Navy Seals had flown in there and secured the facility. What if we would have at that moment taken a breath and called the President of Pakistan? We could have told him that we had found Osama a mile away from the military school. He could have verified it by the caller id proclaiming that the Bin Ladens were on the line. After the verifications were made we could have offered him the Bad Lands in South Dakota in exchange for our new embassy in Pakistan. Of course we would have had to negotiate right of way for the bikers on the way out to Sturgis but diplomacy is the art of the possible.
With the negotiations out of the way, we could harden the facilities. Take away the cable, and internet access and make the walls really thick. Then tell all of the terrorists in the world that if they want him come and get him. I'm telling you that it would be like a bug zapper at a moth convention. You wouldn't be able to shoot the jihadists fast enough.
That's what I would do if I were president. Which reminds me of something else my grandmother told me: "every time a politician promises you something, he's just blowin smoke."
Take Care
Roger
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Quick story
Will post real blog tomorrow but wanted to share a quick story.
Grace got home for summer last night. She is getting ready to leave for Rome and London. She is going to meet Sister Eugenia in Rome. Sister Eugenia is very involved in anti-trafficking work world wide. So Grace is very excited and a little star struck. Bev and I were asking Grace what they would talk about and do. Grace doesn't know. Bev asked if they would eat spaghetti being Rome and all. I asked if they would have marinara sauce with the spaghetti. I had to apologize for my faux paux... I should have remembered that a nunn can't get marinaried.
Take care
See you tomorrow.
Roger
Grace got home for summer last night. She is getting ready to leave for Rome and London. She is going to meet Sister Eugenia in Rome. Sister Eugenia is very involved in anti-trafficking work world wide. So Grace is very excited and a little star struck. Bev and I were asking Grace what they would talk about and do. Grace doesn't know. Bev asked if they would eat spaghetti being Rome and all. I asked if they would have marinara sauce with the spaghetti. I had to apologize for my faux paux... I should have remembered that a nunn can't get marinaried.
Take care
See you tomorrow.
Roger
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Too much life?
I sit here at the beginning of a blog and the end of a week. This is the grand design for my creative excursions into blogging. I spend the entire week sifting and sorting the events of my life and try to find the one or two good ideas that I can write about at the end of the week that will; one- capture people's imagination, and two- not intentionally denigrate too many of the things that they hold near and dear to their heart.
This creative process works best if I live a relatively boring life. The world reveals a few quirky little tidbits that, with a little creative license, can hold a few people's interest for 600 words or so. Too much going on and there are too many thing to write about. So one gets a meandering trail of mind farts on the way to some conclusion.
That is the problem this fine May day. I have not lived in a boring world this week. We watched as tornados grind and grind away until nothing was left. Trails of devestation so wide and complete that they can be seen from space. We have heard stories of lives spared and other lives taken; some whole, some months of pain remain for wholeness; some a hole will remain to never be filled.
Then the royal wedding. I admit the guilty pleasure of not getting to work the usual 15 minutes early but sauntering in 3 minutes late last Friday. I love the royals. All of that marrying your cousins until the family tree looks like a wreath, makes me believe that if it were not for that Divine Right of the Monarch's thing, the Sharritt's could compete in a meritocracy. Kudo's to Charles and William though, getting some mutt blood introduced into the royal line is a good thing. You can imagine the eyes getting set wider and wider apart for years to come.
Time for a moment of honesty though, how many of you when the ring kind of got stuck on her knuckle thought Cinderella. I did. And I secretly cursed my stubby knuckles. Oh to be a princess for a day. Speaking of princess for a day, I feel sorry for numerous fathers out there who will be having daughters getting married during the 100 years or so. "But daddy, Kate had trees growing in the middle of the church for her wedding." "But daddy, Kate was pulled in a royal coach back her palace." "But daddy, Kate got to leave the reception in a clown car." Yeah what was the deal with that? The clown segment of British society so big that the prince gave a shout out to them?
Finally, the week of simplicity ended with a trip to my niece's for her first communion. It was beautiful. She was lovely. I know that I can rightfully be accused of being a smartalec. This is especially true when describing solemn events, but it was moving. I think even more so because my flavor of Christianity has gotten away from the solemnity and miracle of communion. By and large, we try to fit it in on random weekends. We are told that communion week in and week out makes it too routine. Yet the Catholic church has been doing it for 2000 years and the wine becomes Christ's blood and the bread His body. Things I confess I used to believe in the mystery of, but the belief fails me now from lack of practice.
And in the middle of this busy weekend, was my nephew who had found what was important in life. It appears that over Christmas an uncle (that uncle) had showed him a fart app on the Ipad. Thankfully, the app supports the Iphone and one password later he was armed with hours of fun. For which I recognize and honor his mother's and father's wisdom, hope and faith, that this will not last forever. Over the course of several appropriate moments this weekend he let er rip. At one point for over a half hour straight. And you know something. He's right. In a crazy mixed up world of natural disaster, romance, and mystery, for a young boy and an old uncle, it is always funny.
Take care.
Roger
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Lawn care?
My family has said that I should post the video that last week's blog was based on. So I will put it at the bottom of this week's installment. Then if you didn't read last week's you can watch the video and flow right into the rest of the conversation that you hear in the video. While the point of the blog is to enjoy life without watching in on youtube or tv or whatever. The context does add a little flavor.
Finally, enough heat to cut the grass. I like cutting grass the first time each year. Actually, I like the second time each year. The first time is really just a game of connect the dots using dog poop piles instead of numbered inky spots. It is like a 16 year old shaving for the first time. You know on one level it needs to happen, but it is hard to see where you have gone. I have thought about transfering my dad's advice the first time I shaved ("Just smear some milk on it and get the cat.") to the yard but I don't think I can get the cat to lick milk covered dog poo. They are just so independent.
Sharritts have never been big lawn care providers. We transferred our lessons about fertilization from the dog poo tufts. The rest of the yard is 2 inches tall interupted by 8 inch jungle grass islands. You hit one of those with a mower and you are going to do some damage. So no fertilizer for us. Keep as much of the yard growing slow until the drought of July and you may only have to cut the grass three times a year.
No weed suppressant for the Sharritts either. We like the yellow danelions each spring. It gives you another dot to drive to while waiting for the nutrient starved areas to start growing in late May. Plus I have always enjoyed the smug sense of superiority I have felt telling the following story. When we farmed, we hosted preschools for tours to help out the early spring income. One April at the end of a tour during the question and answer session, one young humanoid asked what are those yellow flowers all over your yard. "Well honey those are danelions." "What are dandelions farmer Sharritt?" "They are the pretty flowers you get when you don't use chemicals on your lawn." "They are pretty. I wish that we had some. Mom can we get dandelions." I must admit that I felt a twinge of pity for the little girl knowing she wound never play "Momma had a baby and its head popped off", or that she had never blown a puff ball launching the little missles of chaos into the neighbor's yard.
Nope, no insect suppression either. We try to grow grubs the size of horseflies. We know that the moles prefer that size. It is also a goal at the Sharritts to have lots of robust moles. Because you go out to cut the grass on an acre of farm yard and you need something to distract you. Hitting a 4 inch tall pile of mole excavations, sending a cloud of dirt into the air will break up the monotony in a hurry. You do it into the wind and you quickly become an expert at planning ahead to avoid trouble. Anyway the grubs ate the grass, the moles ate the grubs, the dogs dug for the moles and randomly caught and killed them, and the dogs brought the moles to the house as a gift for the family, and I would skin the moles and using their pelts to protect the corns on my feet. Circle of life. Everybody is happy.
Then last year the whole circle broke down. It got dry. It got hot. The grubs weakened the root systems of the grass. Crab grass sprung up in copious amounts in the areas vacated by the Kentucky blue. The grubs were small because they don't like crab grass. This made the moles small, sluggish, easily caught and killed by the dogs. A process that happened so rapidly that the dogs had 4 months of nothing to do. They could see me hobbling out to the car every morning on my unprotected corns. Being very empathetic dogs and having ran out of American moles, they started searching for Chinese moles. Not much success yet, but if we have a WWI re-enactment, we will have authentic military grade trenches already provided.
As the spring wore on, I sensed that there was a deeper message in my mess of a yard. I must admit that I contemplated reseeding, getting the Scotts turf builder, putting down some milky spore, and bringing in back-fill to make my ride smooth as silk, but I couldn't figure out what it was. I knew that Nature was trying to tell me some deep mystery. That all of these forces had come together for some higher purpose. My frustration grew and grew. Then at the end of my rope, I decided to go to the place I go to seek out all of the life's deeper meanings. Yep, I went to Google Earth to look at our yard from space and this is what I found.
Happy Earth Day.
Take Care
Don't forget the tornado video.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UgwJfoZ-12c
Roger
Finally, enough heat to cut the grass. I like cutting grass the first time each year. Actually, I like the second time each year. The first time is really just a game of connect the dots using dog poop piles instead of numbered inky spots. It is like a 16 year old shaving for the first time. You know on one level it needs to happen, but it is hard to see where you have gone. I have thought about transfering my dad's advice the first time I shaved ("Just smear some milk on it and get the cat.") to the yard but I don't think I can get the cat to lick milk covered dog poo. They are just so independent.
Sharritts have never been big lawn care providers. We transferred our lessons about fertilization from the dog poo tufts. The rest of the yard is 2 inches tall interupted by 8 inch jungle grass islands. You hit one of those with a mower and you are going to do some damage. So no fertilizer for us. Keep as much of the yard growing slow until the drought of July and you may only have to cut the grass three times a year.
No weed suppressant for the Sharritts either. We like the yellow danelions each spring. It gives you another dot to drive to while waiting for the nutrient starved areas to start growing in late May. Plus I have always enjoyed the smug sense of superiority I have felt telling the following story. When we farmed, we hosted preschools for tours to help out the early spring income. One April at the end of a tour during the question and answer session, one young humanoid asked what are those yellow flowers all over your yard. "Well honey those are danelions." "What are dandelions farmer Sharritt?" "They are the pretty flowers you get when you don't use chemicals on your lawn." "They are pretty. I wish that we had some. Mom can we get dandelions." I must admit that I felt a twinge of pity for the little girl knowing she wound never play "Momma had a baby and its head popped off", or that she had never blown a puff ball launching the little missles of chaos into the neighbor's yard.
Nope, no insect suppression either. We try to grow grubs the size of horseflies. We know that the moles prefer that size. It is also a goal at the Sharritts to have lots of robust moles. Because you go out to cut the grass on an acre of farm yard and you need something to distract you. Hitting a 4 inch tall pile of mole excavations, sending a cloud of dirt into the air will break up the monotony in a hurry. You do it into the wind and you quickly become an expert at planning ahead to avoid trouble. Anyway the grubs ate the grass, the moles ate the grubs, the dogs dug for the moles and randomly caught and killed them, and the dogs brought the moles to the house as a gift for the family, and I would skin the moles and using their pelts to protect the corns on my feet. Circle of life. Everybody is happy.
Then last year the whole circle broke down. It got dry. It got hot. The grubs weakened the root systems of the grass. Crab grass sprung up in copious amounts in the areas vacated by the Kentucky blue. The grubs were small because they don't like crab grass. This made the moles small, sluggish, easily caught and killed by the dogs. A process that happened so rapidly that the dogs had 4 months of nothing to do. They could see me hobbling out to the car every morning on my unprotected corns. Being very empathetic dogs and having ran out of American moles, they started searching for Chinese moles. Not much success yet, but if we have a WWI re-enactment, we will have authentic military grade trenches already provided.
As the spring wore on, I sensed that there was a deeper message in my mess of a yard. I must admit that I contemplated reseeding, getting the Scotts turf builder, putting down some milky spore, and bringing in back-fill to make my ride smooth as silk, but I couldn't figure out what it was. I knew that Nature was trying to tell me some deep mystery. That all of these forces had come together for some higher purpose. My frustration grew and grew. Then at the end of my rope, I decided to go to the place I go to seek out all of the life's deeper meanings. Yep, I went to Google Earth to look at our yard from space and this is what I found.
Happy Earth Day.
Take Care
Don't forget the tornado video.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UgwJfoZ-12c
Roger
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Just blowing leaves around?
Last week I wrote that spring has sprung. Well it has snapped back shut again and smacked our fingers hard. Cold wet rainy weather has the farmers and gardeners jonesing for warm weather. Tornado alley turned into Tornado Freeway, and has left those of us unaffected watching Youtube videos shot by those less fortunate who were born with out the good sense God gave a goose as Nanny used to say.
My favorite video was in North Carolina
“You what? Looking at a tornado?
“Yep right now. I can take pictures of it too. I happen to be recording it. That’s even better.”
“Video will be perfect. I am so glad that I spent the extra money and got you that I-phone. You can video your little tornado and talk to me in this super calm voice that has always irritated me.” “Now this video quality goes down at long distance. How close is it?”
“Ohhhhh, a half a mile.”
“Half a mile? That’s kind of close hon. But you’ll get good pictures if it isn’t going away from you.”
“I’d say its coming straight towards me.”
“Straight towards you?! Isn’t that dangerous? Half a mile? These storms are traveling 40 miles an hour. Jr. Get in here and bring your math book. Turn to the story problems. An idiot is filming a tornado that is a half a mile away that is traveling at 40 miles an hour how long does he have to live.” No I don’t have a calculator.”
“Hon, does the tornado look very bad?’
“Yeah but. . . But its not one of those I would say devastation four terrible. I mean it’s picking up leaves.”
“Oh a leaf blower tornado. You should be fine. Jr. go out to the garage and see how fast the leave blower blows. Don’t sass me you ain’t going to get that story problem done before your dad gets his come to Jesus moment.”
Is it only kicking of leaves?
“I see stuff in it. It is just twisting. Oh there goes a flash. It’s blowing up some power lines now.”
“A flash? Blown up power lines? Oh my. That’s not safe”
“Speaking of safe. Darling you’re not driving and on the cell at the same time are you?” “You know there are laws against that.”
“No I’m stopped. I’m in a parking lot now. Do you hear the rain now?”
“Hon that sounds like hail. It sounds pretty close.”
“It’s going to pass right over me.”
“Oh thank God.”
Raining and hailing so hard that it is hard to hear what he says next.
“Hon? Hon? Oh my God Jr. Dad just got flattened by a tree in a tornado. It’s terrible. All I can hear is this death and destruction. Oh Jr. what will we do?”
“The nearest tree to me is probably down the road from your house to the corner.”
“Down the road from your house to the corner? What are you talking about?”
“Yep there goes a roof off of a house.”
“Oh no!”
“Yep. Yep. Hang on I love you.”
“You love me? You stopped and took pictures of a tornado that was bearing down upon you and God is about to drop a roof on your head and all you have to say is I Love you?
How about I am a silly damned fool who doesn’t have the sense God gave a goose? How about this was really stupid dear? I will never stop and take pictures of a tornado again. I Love you! You had better be okay Hon! Or I’m going to kill you.”
How about I am a silly damned fool who doesn’t have the sense God gave a goose? How about this was really stupid dear? I will never stop and take pictures of a tornado again. I Love you! You had better be okay Hon! Or I’m going to kill you.”
“I’m okay right now. My truck isn’t but I’m okay.”
“Yep. I’m okay. I’m still good. It’s just I have a problem with what I’m driving. It’s damaged. No ummm. Looks like roofing blew off a building and got me. I mean I’m okay.”
“I’m okay. Don’t worry for me.”
“Well get your sorry excuse for a behind home now. And don’t forget the milk.”
You know this person was a goof ball that had no business being where he was doing what he was doing. It is interesting how society desires to show the tragedies, moments, scenery to our cameras and video recorders. Wendell Berry has a poem that describes a family on vacation going down the Kentucky River voraciously feeding a camera all of the river scenes as if there was no beauty there if the one eyed contraption did not capture what was three dimensional in its two dimensional format. The loss of that dimension often takes away the power, the grandeur, the immensity, of what is bearing down upon us.
There have been thousands of people affected by these storms this past weekend. Our prayers and thoughts go out to those who have lost belongings and more tragically loved ones. Being a generous country, I am sure that we will answer the call that will be coming for physical assistance in the days to come. May those who suffered terribly find comfort and protection. May those of us who were left unscathed understand their plight without pictures.
Take Care.
Roger
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Boring?
Spring has sprung in central Indiana. Today's weather made me painfully aware of that fact. After church, I went to Meijer and saw a large number of pale white folks. That is a large number of white folks who were pale, not a number of large pale folks from Indiana. Given some media bias, I can understand certain jumps to conclusions. Folks who for economic, health, or social justice reasons had shunned tanning beds. Folks stuck in Indiana for spring break while the uppity neighbors had traveled to Florida for sun and warmer tempratures. Folks that were seizing an opportunity to show those neighbors that you don't need to travel 14 hours to get plenty of sun. They could do in in one glorious April day with a high in the low 80's.
I bet that Melville was in Meijer on a bright April morning. "Well call me Ishmehel, Did you see that?"
Saturday was much more conducive to the rest and relaxation that I love so much. In fact, it was a great day to give blood. Cloudy, overcast, rainy and giving blood that will get you some recovery time on the couch every time. My internal guilt meter was turned off. It was nasty outside and I was going to do a good work.
As I was filling out the questionnaire that you have to fill out to give blood, it struck me that I am a very boring person. There are a list of behaviors that you have to answer correctly in order to be eligible to donate. The first few are easy. Do you feel well today? Y. Are you currently taking antibiotic? N. Then the fun begins. Do you have any tatoos? Thank goodness I sobered up that weekend in Panama City. N. Do I have any ear or body peircings? My belly button is precious. Plus that would hurt. N. Been in jail for more than 72 hours? What happens in hour 73? Note to self; don't get busted on the Friday afternoon before Memorial day. N.
Then there is this whole list of questions about who you have sex with. It is a long list and makes one blush when mulling over the permutations upon permutations of the same thing. It appears that you are suspect in certain areas of the country if you have had sex with any thing but a goat. Don't worry, you Idaho boys can still be donors. Unless you had sex with a goat in exchange for drugs or money; then you are out of luck. Beware of gansta goats, spudweisers. Makes me wonder how Bill Clinton answered. "Depends on what is is." wasn't one of the choices. Not that it is any of your business, but I passed because, while very satisfying, my sex life is also lacks partnerial variety.
Then there are all of the places that you can't travel to. You are suspect if you travel outside of the United States or Canada. If you answer yes, they pull out a book and look at what zip code you traveled to in Mexico. If the area you visited is pink, you are good to go. It appears that they will check me for the next two years because the family went to Tijuana last year. So much for living on the wild side. In fact the list of suspect countries is so long that the blood industry could be accused of xenophobia. Xenaphobia for those who don't know that means your blood ain't good enough for us.
In the end, I was able to copy off of this nice nun and get a high enough score to pass. Which is no easy task. They wear those big habits which block most lines of sight. Also it wasn't easy for her to qualify either. It appears that only 37% of Americans are boring enough to give blood and less than 10% do. I am including a link of 56 blood donation facts. If you read it, you have taken a monumental step towards eligibility.
http://www.americasblood.org/go.cfm?do=page.view&pid=12
So think about it. Give blood. It will give you another reason to haul your pale behind around Meijer wearing way few cloths. You wild thing you.
Take Care
Roger
I bet that Melville was in Meijer on a bright April morning. "Well call me Ishmehel, Did you see that?"
Saturday was much more conducive to the rest and relaxation that I love so much. In fact, it was a great day to give blood. Cloudy, overcast, rainy and giving blood that will get you some recovery time on the couch every time. My internal guilt meter was turned off. It was nasty outside and I was going to do a good work.
As I was filling out the questionnaire that you have to fill out to give blood, it struck me that I am a very boring person. There are a list of behaviors that you have to answer correctly in order to be eligible to donate. The first few are easy. Do you feel well today? Y. Are you currently taking antibiotic? N. Then the fun begins. Do you have any tatoos? Thank goodness I sobered up that weekend in Panama City. N. Do I have any ear or body peircings? My belly button is precious. Plus that would hurt. N. Been in jail for more than 72 hours? What happens in hour 73? Note to self; don't get busted on the Friday afternoon before Memorial day. N.
Then there is this whole list of questions about who you have sex with. It is a long list and makes one blush when mulling over the permutations upon permutations of the same thing. It appears that you are suspect in certain areas of the country if you have had sex with any thing but a goat. Don't worry, you Idaho boys can still be donors. Unless you had sex with a goat in exchange for drugs or money; then you are out of luck. Beware of gansta goats, spudweisers. Makes me wonder how Bill Clinton answered. "Depends on what is is." wasn't one of the choices. Not that it is any of your business, but I passed because, while very satisfying, my sex life is also lacks partnerial variety.
Then there are all of the places that you can't travel to. You are suspect if you travel outside of the United States or Canada. If you answer yes, they pull out a book and look at what zip code you traveled to in Mexico. If the area you visited is pink, you are good to go. It appears that they will check me for the next two years because the family went to Tijuana last year. So much for living on the wild side. In fact the list of suspect countries is so long that the blood industry could be accused of xenophobia. Xenaphobia for those who don't know that means your blood ain't good enough for us.
In the end, I was able to copy off of this nice nun and get a high enough score to pass. Which is no easy task. They wear those big habits which block most lines of sight. Also it wasn't easy for her to qualify either. It appears that only 37% of Americans are boring enough to give blood and less than 10% do. I am including a link of 56 blood donation facts. If you read it, you have taken a monumental step towards eligibility.
http://www.americasblood.org/go.cfm?do=page.view&pid=12
So think about it. Give blood. It will give you another reason to haul your pale behind around Meijer wearing way few cloths. You wild thing you.
Take Care
Roger
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Beware?
Bev and I are in the middle of a notification battle these days. The battle lines are sharply drawn. It is us against the machine. What was once trusty and reliable, has turned its back on us. It appears that one of our eight smoke detectors has started to cry wolf at random times during the night. I suppose days in addition to the nights but don't know for sure. We are only home at night and so can only verify the nightly two second wake up calls. Very effective! Sound asleep at 2:49, then sitting upright with a gallon of adrenaline coursing through my veins, using my super Bassett hound senses, sniffing, comparing all molecules. No smells that could be classified as smoke. Back to sleep with the fervent prayer there will be no more detection until after 5:00 a.m.
As this has gone on, we have been paying less and less attention. Sure the shrieking alarm still cuts through you, but there are no 2:00 a.m. walks through the house sniffing and trying not to stub the toes on some foreign object which would produce more sleep killing adrenaline. I might be awake for days with two gallons of adrenaline. We struggle back to sleep hoping that when there is a fire the rest of the alarms will over ride the attention starved alarm and notify us of the danger in plenty of time. This had gone on for a week and Saturday, I took matters into my own hands and got out the vacuum cleaner and tried to suck the offending particles out of all of the smoke detectors, which made it worse. Rather than once every 8 hours, the whiner was going off once every hour. Often enough that it was horribly annoying but not often enough or long enough to isolate the offending alarm. So at 11:30 last night after two jarring wake up calls, I went through the house and unhooked every smoke detector. The plan now is to hook one up each evening until the offender is caught and then replaced.
Hopefully, we will be fire free for the next few nights until we get back online. That is the conundrum; staying vigilant for a disaster against an erratic backdrop of warnings with little or no real danger befalling you. Smoke? Fire. Smoking? Cancer. Seatbelt less? Injury, Sugar? Diabetes. Snow storm? Cannibalism. Talk show? Oprah. We get the initial warning and are scared of the consequence for a while. But it doesn’t stick. Nothing happens. We drive without a seat belt and arrive safely. We light up and enjoy the kick from the nicotine. It snows and we eat French toast with the milk, eggs and bread that we bought the night before. We watch Jerry Springer and then Opr . . . Okay bad example.
But you get my point. The random blasts, from the council to prevent all bad things, wear you down. They are all the same. No matter the real risk, the claxon is sounded with equal ferocity; ratcheting up the ferocity when your attention wanes. Finally when the scared no longer cower at the distant consequence, the council sponsors legislation that will bring the consequence into immediate and sharp focus. So now we have; Smoking? Three dollar a pack tax. Seatbelt less? $25 fine. Cholesterol? Trans-fat free cities.
Why do we go along? Why don’t we say “No, this is broken. I choose not to be frightened by you.”?
Maybe we need to be scared. Maybe life is too tame so we assign the council to prevent all bad things the task.
Take care,
Roger
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