Thursday after New Orleans
Yes, I'm going with it, I'll come back to the Twelve Days of Christmas, probably later today, but first a kickoff digresssion, maybe into make believe, where things can be as one imagines or wishes instead of as they are. New Orleans, Las Vegas, incredibly Pakistan v Afghanistan, America, my trip first thing this morning back to the dermatology clinic to have more pieces cut out of my face, ...
An appealing thought for the day
I believe in evidence. I believe in observation, measurement, and reasoning, confirmed by independent observers. I'll believe anything, no matter how wild and ridiculous, if there is evidence for it. The wilder and more ridiculous something is, however, the firmer and more solid the evidence will have to be. - Isaac Asimov, scientist and writer (2 Jan 1920-1992)
that showed up while I was checking out Word-A-Day's Lower Slobbovia and reminiscing about Lil Abner's adventures.
Daisy Mae, Sadie Hawkins Day, Mammy and Pappy Yokum. Moonbeam McSwine. Joe Btfpsplk under his personal raincloud of bad luck. The build of excitement when Al Capp decided to show us Lena the Hyena, who had remained behind the scenes because simply seeing her had turned prospective suitors to stone.
We lived in a different age and played outside, nobody sat inside staring at a hand held electronic cellphone. If the telephone rang, we went and answered it, and it might be for you, or not. It might be your sister's boyfriend. Your girlfriend would never think of calling you, you had to call her. You know, maybe America was Greater after all, IDK.
Internationally we were admired not hated, and we certainly didn't all hate each other, nomesane? Everybody had firearms, some for hunting and other sport, nobody for killing innocent people. I ID'd with Ralphie wanting a Daisy BB gun air rifle for Christmas, and I had one myself, with little tubes of BBs to shoot. Every boy had a cap gun pistol and extra rolls of red caps with little bubbles of gun powder that fired, and we played Army and cowboys and stuff. Except for Beach Drive, Harrison Avenue, Cove Boulevard, and a few blocks of Cherry Street and that area, Panama City was all dirt roads, kept fairly smooth by "the tractor" as we called it, a "road grader"
coming round every few days to scrape the street level again, get rid of the washboard road that could ruin an automobile. And you'd likely hear the milkman's truck stopping out front every morning: the milk bottle on your step showed a couple inches of pure yellow cream above the white milk. The newspaper boy delivered the morning and/or evening paper, and the postman brought your mail to the mailbox hanging by your front door.
I remember the fuss when the City Commission passed a dog ordinance and we had to put a fence around the backyard so Happy could no longer roam the neighborhood. And the agony over being billed for paving the road in front of our house, but it was worth it to get rid of the clouds of dust in dry seasons. The expense of abandoning the septic tank in the front yard and connecting to the city sewer system. And of finally connecting to city water and taking out the deep well pump and its tall holding tank outside our kitchen door, with its faucet that continually dripped cool water into the dog's bowl.
Anderson had his own plate and knife, fork, spoon, and glass, don't dare put Anderson's dinnerware out for family when you're setting the table for supper.
I remember the large, black space heater in the downstairs hall that was fueled by a little tank that held a quart or two of kerosene, and later the new floor furnace and its enormous multi gallon fuel oil tank by the side of the house as we went more modern. You couldn't walk across the floor furnace grates in winter because you'd burn your feet, and we missed the old space heater on which our pajamas used to hang warming on winter evenings while we were taking a bath. The same kind of little kerosene tank also fueled the hot water heater in the corner of the kitchen, and I remember watching as the heater was lit and waiting a bit, keeping on feeling the hot water tank beside it as the level of warm water inside it rose, finally indicating I could take a bath now.
I remember when our father had a huge attic fan installed in the ceiling over the upstairs hall at the top of the stairs, and how cool I could be now as air was drawn in across my bed. I remember hanging my tennis shoes outside my upstairs bedroom window because it was impossible to breathe their stench in the room. I remember begging Mama, at the beginning of May every year "Can I go barefoot now?" and her finally giving me the go-ahead but with the warning to watch out for stickers, sandspurs, in the grass.
Early years it was my job to cut the grass with that push mower, the electric mower didn't come until YEARS later. I remember the thick forest of woods behind our house, where later houses were built, there were walking or running trails through the woods that not unlikely had been there since Indian times. Playing in the woods was heaven itself.
Before the alley was cut out back, it was my job to take the garbage can down to the road out front on garbage truck days. The city's garbage trucks were 1930s-era Ford or Chevrolet stake trucks with one driver inside and two garbagemen, one at each rear corner of the truck, walking or running alongside the slowly rolling truck, grabbing garbage cans and emptying them over the top of the truck's wooden stake sides. This was the South, I'll not go into the unchangeable labor force for that level of work.
Afternoon radio programs for us kids, especially Tom Mix. Shredded Ralston for your breakfast starts the day off shining bright. Gives you lots of cowboy energy, with a flavor that's just right. Sunday evening radio programs for the family, Fanny Brice, It Pays to Be Ignorant, The Shadow, Blondie, Amos and Andy, maybe The 64 Dollar Question. Kate Smith singing God bless America. Standing up when you heard The Star Spangled Banner or Dixie.
Was America better? No, but as we tried to get better, what made us start to come apart at the seams? There are psychologists who have answers, it's largely and mainly Fear, fear of being displaced. Populist political appeals opening Pandora's Boxes about deep, unmentionable issues burning just below the surface and it all bursts open, explodes and people say what they really feel, act on it and vote on it and we show ourselves for what we really were all along as the world recoils in disillusioned horror.
Thursday morning, January 2, 2025, starting horribly with the fatalities growing in New Orleans after leaving behind a year that was forgettable for so many. Things are not looking up everywhere, but they never have been, and you are responsible for your own happiness.
Can't nobody else make you happy, nomesane?, you have to find it for yourself.
T