What's the moral?
Lovely! 62 F and pleasantly cool, 96% humidity, lap robe again, though not cold. Same back screen porch. 10/10 is late enough to expect a chilly early morning. Maybe soon. Or maybe not until Thanksgiving. No matter, we’re alive.
Bizarre news, innit. Libyan PM abducted at gunpoint then released. Child 16 ruled too immature to decide for abortion and doesn’t want her foster parents involved to give consent because they’d find out she’s pregnant and might kick her out -- there’s a no win situation. Except for the little one. If they don’t want the baby, here’s my number, call me, I want the baby. Ten year old boy goes to school’s themed Second World War costume day dressed as Hitler and is chastised, required to change, and sent home. You only go as a good guy. Nevermind that without the bad guy there would have been no Second World War. The press named the school authorities who sent him home “politically-correct buffoons.” In the spring, my college fraternity used to have an Old South Ball for which our dates dressed in whirly southern gowns and we dressed in Confederate uniforms, now forbidden by KA national headquarters. In either case, I could go either way. Whom are you willing to offend in order to have freedom? In a Florida elementary school a child -- wasn’t he six years old? -- is suspended because he points a finger at another child and says “bang,” is there a line where PC becomes asinine in a state where every home has firearms and the right to use them both to hunt and to protect but to pretend gets a child abused? Maybe PC should be sent home instead IDK. On the other hand, some years ago I said that a Confederate heritage group must not again display the CSA battle flag on the gate at CoveSchool/HNES during their meetings there and if they did so again they could not use the building again. Where’s the line? When is it OK to throw sand and who decides? What makes a democracy is not so much what you are allowed to do as it is whether you are allowed to argue about it. As long as we can argue, we’re good. And if we don’t like what the deciders decide, next election we can throw the bums out.
For all my rambling into rant, my interest this morning is Pontiac motorcars. During my growing up years, in the blue house around the corner lived the family of the Pontiac dealer, and year after year parked in their driveway beside the house were always two cars: a new Cadillac because they were the Cadillac dealer too, and a new Pontiac. Futile for me to lust after the Caddy, but I always thought hopefully that “stepping up” from our Chevrolet, my father ought to buy a Pontiac. After all, we did have a 1936 Pontiac Silver Streak business coupe he used in his seafood business.
No, that’s a '39 Plymouth.
No, you idiot, that’s a Packard.
That’s the one, that’s it.
My favorite Pontiacs were the late nineteen-fifty models. Similar to the ’57 Chevy that became a highly collectible classic, was the 1957 Pontiac, a long, lithe car
The prettiest Pontiac of all time, which, like the 1958 Chevrolet, GM only made that one year, was the 1958 Bonneville, GM’s classiest looking car that year ...
(did yours have the bouncing dice hanging from the rearview mirror?)
Those were the days ...
... before they came out with the 1959 Pontiac Wide Track that I remembered last week.
... before they came out with the 1959 Pontiac Wide Track that I remembered last week.
“What’s the moral of the story, Papa?” my Kristen would ask me when she was very little, as I finished telling her a bedtime story.
What’s the moral of this blog post?
W