The White Man Label

Yes, it took me a lifetime really understand the resentment that people bear when they are labeled by their race, gender, religion or former national heritage (here in the U.S. it is "former," but I suppose this phenomenon exists in their nation of origin as well).  Anyway, it took the label of "white man" to really drive it all home.  Yes, I am a "white man."  Nowadays, that seems to mean racist, ignorant, blindly loyal to certain personalities, and more.  Even now, I hear it being extended to favoring gun rights and putting jobs and economic growth over the very environment in which all of us as humans must live.  White men, it appears, are thought to be of one mind on all of these topics.

I grew up in a home and with a family whose members at time have wildly divergent views on a host of subjects.  We were taught, sometimes by the example of our parents or, in my case, older siblings,
that having a different opinion doesn't make  you an immutable object of scorn.  Instead, you are to be treated with respect and, the occasional effort to soften or change your position.  I won't tell you we lived up to that idea all of the time, but we learned some things by making mistakes.  We did so in the warmth and safety of a family home,  not shouting in the streets somewhere.

So, guess what?  I don't share the opinions of this newly minted political mass called "white men," and, do you know what else?  I don't vote that way.  Politicians don't win my support by calling their opponents (and others who share their opponent's views) liars.  They earn it by walking their talk much more than their ability to twist the other guy's talk.  Where I live, I am represented by people of diverging views and of differing race and national origin.  While I don't always share their opinions, I respect the fact that they do as they say they will, and are respectful of people who may disagree with them.  In the case of one of these politicians, I disagree with many of his positions, but I also notice that he is respectful of others whose actions earn his respect.  You don't earn his respect by calling him a liar, or by never compromising, but by listening and looking for common ground.

I do accept the label of conservative, though I would point out as my Congressman has, that being fiscally conservative doesn't mean conservative in all ways.  One can be fiscally conservative, yet in favor of protecting the environment.  One can also be fiscally conservative and be socially liberal, or at least moderately so.   I don't mind having to demonstrate those distinctions when I find it necessary.  I also think that people have removed the veil from that "conservative" tag often enough to avoid having it work as a label.

But please don't try out that label "white man."  What does that even mean?  I happen to favor doing something about gun violence in our society, regardless of what group or another the victim has been designated as.  I don't think that is going to fit the label "white man" for very long.  Nor will the moderate or even liberal views expressed above about the label of "conservative."

In my working career, I ran across many who would pin others with labels by race and gender, and I saw the resentment those so labeled talked about.  I thought I understood, but not as well as I do now that I'm being labelled.  

Let me put this strongly--labelling me as a "white man" is just "Baloney!" (or, perhaps some other word that starts with a "B"....)

The Next Message You See Might Just Be A Letter

Lately, I have been giving this some thought.  How long has it been since I wrote a letter?  I thought back to the last time I wrote to my Congressman.  I wrote to both Representative Jim Clyburn and Senator Lindsay Graham   But alas, I sent those via email.  I know it has been some time since either of them have written personally to a constituent.  Each time I have received a reply that starts out something like this--"Thank you for your message to (Congressman or Senator) _______We are sure you understand that he does not have the to personally respond to each and every letter he receive...."

I have decided to actually send a letter next time.  It occurs to me that it won't be as easy to send an email reply, since the person responding won't be able to simply hit the reply button and send their reply (notice I have begun to go along with the now conventional use of the plural pronoun--in this case the possessive plural-- rather than using the old "his or her" when referring to the person responding to my message so as to avoid the insult of any previous stereotypical assumption as to the gender of the person (him), or even the awkward and perhaps condescending use of "him or her."

I am hoping that the onward march of the LBGTQ movement will still allow us to use the plural instead of the singular pronoun.   Even though we know that use of the singular of the third person pronoun would be more grammatically correct, that is, unless we have begun to share responsibility for sending the automated reply between two respondents which would be inefficient to say the least.  Conveniently enough, the plural pronoun is neither gender-specific nor expressive of one's sexual preference, so it is a single "tent" under which all can stand regardless of said gender or sexual preference--as if that matters when corresponding with someone you have never met, nor one you expect to meet.  Frankly, I don't need to know the gender or sexual preference of someone I meet in person.  A simple handshake and "pleased to meet you" will do nicely.

But, returning to the subject of a personal handwritten or typed (which should be OK if your handwriting is as awful as mine has become), I think it will come as a shock to that person, unless I have to call them to obtain their physical address.  (I'm really getting the hang if this plural pronoun thing, aren't I?).  I realize now that I will have to think long and hard about choosing to whom I send the first edition of my renewed method of communication--the letter.  From where I sit at the moment, I'm pretty sure it won't be my Congressman (I meant to say Congress-person, I really did!).

Someone’s Half Full Of It

There’s always someone talking about seeing the world as a cup that is half full instead of half empty. What are they doing looking at cups anyway?  Glasses have been used to correct vision for a long, long time. That makes better sense.  I could see if it were glasses they were looking at or through, but then what’s in that glass? There are lots and lots of liquids that aren’t very transparent.  You really can’t see much at all through a glass of opaque or even translucent liquid.  

Water, you say?  Oh, but what’s so special about seeing through water?  Surely you aren’t buying the notion that all water is crystal clear.  Not everybody’s water is clear, you know.  Oh, sure, if you’re looking at your feet in the water of the Gulf of Mexico. you’ll see the bottom of the water very clearly.  But in beautiful Hilton Head, the water is murky, and that’s probably preferable there. It’s easier to enjoy swimming and you’ll forget about all those sharks swimming around with you, even in waters less than a foot deep. Our beaches on Hilton Head Island are just around the corner (literally) from the Port Royal Sound, which is reputed to be the world’s largest spawning area for sharks (wait a minute—should I say literally or littorally? —I need to look that up… Yes, I did look it up and littoral is an adjective meaning “relating to or situated on the shore of the sea or a lake.”)

Ah, but back to people seeing cups half full being more than half full of it—why does anyone need to compare anyone’s world-view to a cup or glass half full or half empty?  Isn’t there something missing here?  Shouldn’t we at least mention what the cup has in it? Why assume it’s full of something wonderful?  Couldn’t it be full of something less than desirable?  Maybe it contains some unpalatable wine.  For some wine “experts” that I know that means one that costs less than $100 a bottle.  A wine-loving person we know calls such inferior beverages “patio” wines, meaning they wouldn’t be served at one’s dinner table.  I’m happy to enjoy a glass of wine on my patio on a cool evening, and—do you know what?  A cup or glass of such a beverage usually improves my outlook.  So, it might  just be possible that one’s world view can be influenced by seeing a half full glass of the right something.  Now please don’t get me started on seeing the world through rose-colored glasses!  

The Aftermath of Hurricane Michael

As Michael approached on that early morning,

Some remained in its path despite every warning.

They’d been ordered again and again to leave,

But the grave dangers of staying they didn’t believe.

They died as their houses like trees were felled

They’d hid under roofs they thought could have held 

Against those gusting winds that came along

As accompaniment to Michael’s song.

Some just waited too long and they disappeared

when their cars or trucks rolled as we had feared

Into water far deeper or currents much stronger

And they just could not hold their breath any longer. 

Some stayed disbelieving all those warning voices

And others stayed in the belief they had no other choices. 

Many were lost as surging waters swept in

And washed them away with the beds they slept in.

Now dozens are dead

Who, having not fled,

Having just chosen to remain in their places 

Was that courage or dread that shone on their faces?

In sadness we learned of brave rescuers foiled 

When their valiant rescue attempts were spoiled,

Halted by a downed electrical line or a broken gas main                                                

Thence all efforts to reach those trapped were in vain.

From The Weather Desk (A View of Hurricane Michael FromJust Outside His Cone)

The numerous reports had grown more than grotesque

As meteorologists droned on from their desk.

There were winds that would drive the storm ahead,

With towns and roadways to be left for dead. 

The news was devoted to dire predictions

With hurricane cones and other depictions

Foretelling events and calamities

Like flooded homes and fallen trees.  

They provided portrayals of people as they fled,

Not knowing which wild disasters lay ahead. 

Storm surges, wind gusts and heavy rains, 

Loomed in the visions in their dark brains.

My sister reached out wondering whether

We’d been offered protection from all this weather

When of a tornado they issued a warning,

She was sure we’d be homeless the very next morning.

Ah, but we were granted much good fortune

Blessing and mercy were both in our portion.

The following morning brought nothing grotesque—

Just a few gusts of wind I’d call Chicago-esque.

Florence Redux

Some things don't remain the way they first appear.
Signature moves can later disappear.
So it is with Florence whose fearsome winds filled us with dread as it grew near
Today they say it's rain, and rising water, not wind that we must fear
And so it goes with Florence redux
Whose rising waters make peoples' homes more suitable for ducks.

Florence is Flying

The NHC
can often be
alarmist in some ways.

It sounds the alarm,
saying it'll do no harm
to awaken where it lays--

the hurricane emergency plan
and cause most every woman and man
to pack up and flee the storm's windy ways.

Only thing is Florence is being fickle
And into the air you might flip a nickel
Choosing heads or tails to plan your days

Even Florence knows not where she's going these days..

I’m Looking For An Equinox

No, not the Chevrolet—the one I want’s no car at all— 

For certain though there is, in fact, a new one every fall,

This long awaited equinox, 

That all my neighbors want so much, 

has less to do with cars and such

And more to do with clocks. 

All of us see them more than once, 

But unlike football they have no punts. 

This equinox of which I speak often is so cool,

It can make the “good ol’ boys” surrounding me just drool

That equinox by Chevy
Which can be so very heavy, 

Some blasts of cool air it may bring;
But we crave cool air from shorter days, not air conditioning

When it offers respite from the sun’s hot rays 

The equinox autumnal is our favorite down here.

You “Yanks” can have those warmer days of vernal spring,

 We’d sooner have some fresh cool air, than almost anything.

Fireworks And Thunder On The Fourth of July

Two nights ago it was the 4^thof July

We watched the fireworks, my neighbors and I

Everywhere the skies would brighten then ease

As the displays of others showed over the trees

Nothing odd about this, it appears every time

But the sounds, when they traveled from so many shows,

Kept striking my ears and led me to wonder 

They  sounded so much like a summer storm's thunder.

No Empty Well

Well you can't leave a well empty

the result looks unkempty

yes that rhyme was a stretch

but it will help me to sketch 

an idea that came to me early today-- 

I wonder have I been so long at play

that I might set out to amass and assemble 

a book of my verse that when piled up might tremble,

but would reach up so high 

that it just might resemble 

a poetry book full of verses

that fell from my brain versus

all that negative stuff that surrounded

me at times and almost confounded

yes a book of light verse just might be the thing

'twould be more like using one's brain to rehearse

these little ditties and block that virtual hearse

that feels at times like it's able to block out and bring 

a halt to all joy and delight that arises

from life at its heights--so full of surprises

How Does Your Chicago Go, Is It Awe or Ah?

How does that old "Chicago" really go?
When I was growing up,
and was just a young pup
(which I admit must've been long ago).

On meeting someone new (this might sound dumb)
You might just ask them "where you from?"
Folks named places using the state and the city,
But in some larger than life places they just named the City.

One of those was Chicago--Whitman's city--  
"City of the Big Shoulders,"
Whose fire still smolders.
Whitman spoke to those who sneered at his city
In a way he told them Chicago wanted no pity.

Was a rough place then and still is to this day,
in the midst of it Ness and Capone made their  play...
But back to Chicago that old Indian name
Yes, Native American, but Indian just the same.

Those proud like Whitman had to be
Pronounced it with pride and a sense of awe
That's why It's still "ChicAWgo" to folks like me,
not like they pronounce it on HGTV.

No ChicAHgo for me like those modern day wonders
claiming they're from my city on that show "House Hunters" 
Not "ah" like the start of some thing odd, 
but "awe" as you walk where giants once trod.

That Doggone Emma Dog is Gone

Even today, remembering Emma

Can present to me quite a big dilemma

Like should I be real happy or be very sad

Because I know at times she could be really bad

and I’d even say to her “Wait‘ll I tell your Dad”

Of those bad things she did, I can’t recall very many

And in Emma’s own eyes there probably weren’t any.

She was pretty darn sure that rewarded she should be

And she’d show me that when she headed toward me. 

She would wiggle her whole self across the room

To nose her clumsy way onto my lap

‘Cause she knew I was really that kind of sap

Who would let her stay there and take her nap

She’d push with her nose until I petted

Or licked me so much that I regretted 

Ever letting her get close enough so she netted

Me neatly as a fish when she wagged that tail 

She had some crazy ideas in her head

Like liking the couch better than her bed.

She would also sometimes grab you by the shirt

or wag her tail in your face which could really hurt

At times she’d bark really hard at a stranger

(Which likely fooled some, but they were in no danger)

I know why that’s so, and you too just might

‘cause her bark was mostly worse than her bite

Emma stayed with us until she was quite old

I’ll tell you where she went, if I may be so bold,

Somewhere where it’s almost never cold

And its lots of fun to grow very old

And everyone there will like nothing better

Than stopping by every day just to pet her.

In The Main It's Vain

This collection of verse to me almost looks
Like enough for one of those self-published books.
But someone keeps telling me "No, No No never
I won't live with a self-published author ever!"

Many self-published authors should stay up in the bleachers
Instead of showing up on the field as one of those dreaded creatures
Whose work would embarrass each one of their teachers
And might be condemned by all sorts of preachers.

They make self-published novels or other collections,
Their work often heads in all sorts of directions.
These unpublished authors at times are called indie,
But more often than not are referred to as windy.

Ah, but continue they must, these helpless writers
Oft-times we wish they'd become entertaining providers
Of delight, instead of just being internet schemers.
And we hope for a gem from these impossible dreamers

Most of those stories listing famous self-published writers
like Stephen King, Twain and Poe are passed on by blighters.
Explanations are found if one only digs,
Self-published authors don't make the bigs.

So printing one' own book--while not a sign of insanity--
My guess is more likely a matter of vanity.

THE SUN AND THE RAIN

This morning it rains but it’s bright

It must be a trick performed by the sun’s light,

Before that sun rises to the darkening clouds

And darkness descends.

It’s like what you see as the sun sets

As the sun ‘neath the clouds slowly begets 

and the simmering brightness is given birth

All brightens briefly ‘til the sun strikes the earth

And darkness descends.

WRITERS AND SPIDERS

Most spiders want to grow up to be spiders,

But some of us humans, we want to be writers.

Spiders with oh so many legs 

Spin little cozies that they call nests

Aiming to capture a few unknowing guests

While the spinners of actual webs are called spiders

Invisible webs are used by wannabe writers

To catch the grand idea that just seems to beg

Commitment to paper to be put to the test--

To find whose attention it might arrest.

Sue Grafton and Kinsey Milhone

Thoughts About Sue That Might Make Us Blue

Is there a day coming when we will all moan

Where on earth have you gone, Kinsey Milhone?

The Alphabet Mysteries were Sue Grafton’s creation, 

Which became a detective story treat for the nation. 

We first met Kinsey with A is for Alibi

From imminent danger Kinsey never did shy,

As the years went by Sue led us along

Through the rest of the alphabet and didn’t do wrong, 

Meaning of course that she never skipped a letter 

Though Sue might have titled some a bit better. 

Which leads me on to a dumb question 

Did she write these books before creating the title?

Or was the title itself really quite vital

In setting the course of each succeeding book,

Which left the rest of the story for the players to cook.

I find myself looking ahead to her grand finale  

Ah, Z is for Zip just sounds right up her alley.

Oh, For A Three Point Rib Bloom

To Outback Steakhouse I’ll be sayin' goodbye

My cholesterol count’s flying way too high.

Yet I’m nearly sold on the 3-Point Rib Bloom 

Hope there’s a bed empty in a hospital room.

Shirts

My first choice of shirt did not make the grade

So I hurried to my closet to negotiate a trade

Second time around I actually succeeded

A determined fashionista just can’t be defeated.

The Twilight Of Easter

T’was the evening of Easter and in the backyard

We watched all those golfers not working too hard

No clouds in the sky were there to be spotted.

We saw going by the deer as they trotted

Near our side of the woods they’re headed for home

‘round us neither antelope nor buffalo roam.

Seeing all this wildlife, you might think it funny  

That despite all this watching, we’ve seen not one bunny.

But we’re thankful it’s springtime in South Carolina

And to be here at Easter, not much could be finer.

We somehow wound up here, the causes aren’t clear 

But complaints out of us, you surely won’t hear. 

We set aside part of almost every spring day 

To give thanks to the forces that came into play.

Our kids and our grands are both quite nearby,

And that’s one more reason that we never cry--

“We wish that we lived in northern Illinois!”

But we’ll soon come to visit, cold air to enjoy.

Meanwhile, we’re sending “Happy Easter,” wishes

ta-ta for now, I must do the dishes. 

Number 44--I Can’t Find This Message In Any Hallmark Card

I stood there in the store aisle

Reading cards all the while

It was just really hard 

To find the right card.

One card’s message to convey

All of the things I had to say

Giving up, I composed this rhyme

To save us both some time

And avoid driving on to yet another store

To read cards, it would seem, just forever more.

I wanted you to know I still feel about you

The way that I did when I first said, “I do.”

After forty-four years, I’d guess you’re shocked I remember old feelings like these

When yesterday you watched, as I spent a half hour in search of my keys. 

Of this one thing you can always be certain,

Our wedding day I’ll remember ‘til the final curtain.

And I will love you all the days of my life,

Since that day you consented to become my wife.

One Toasty Mornin'

The lady of the house put out some fine Irish bread

Sayin’—“Sure, if you’d like to try some, go ahead.”

Thus I found a whole loaf set out in the kitchen.

And though I thought the loaf would need no enrichin’

She said the taste might improve with a wee bit of toastin’

I tried it out and she was surely not boastin’

Oats, The Weather and I

Maybe I’m a bit too traditional in some instances, but here it is-I don’t eat oatmeal when the temperature is above forty degrees.  I live in South Carolina, as a consequence, I still have a small canister (18 ounces) of oatmeal in the pantry that I bought in 2016 (don’t worry, it says “best if used before September 22^nd of 2018.”).  

So far this winter, I’ve eaten about four times as much as I did last winter, and it’s starting to look like I’ll be able to use all of it.  That would mean consuming more than 13 servings! In less than two years!  I can see by the forecast for the rest of this month that I will have at least five opportunities to eat oatmeal. (Brrrrr!) Is this a great country, or what?

Retention

I’m not young enough to know everything.

                                                                                                                              -J. M. Barrie

It always seems to have been easiest to think you know everything when you are young.  You get an idea, you think about it a lot, then you come to the conclusion you know everything there is to know about it. This keeps happening again and again.  Soon, you will know it all.

The younger you are, the more likely it seems you have all the answers-you know all about all the “latest things” after all.  Maybe some start out humble, but find they cannot stay that way.   They feel compelled to drop the humble stuff when they learn a few more things.  Knowing more things, they realize they know more than almost everyone they know (especially if most of them happen to be older than they are).    

Is it just one’s youth that leads them to conclude things won’t change, and this day’s success will continue indefinitely?   I can''t answer that, I just don't know. I do know one thing for certain—my memory isn’t what it used to be.  So, if I ever did know many things (never “most things” and certainly not “everything”), it’s too late—I’ve forgotten most of it.