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by JEAN STEEL VENRICK, Wife of The Wordwright
Copyrighted - October 4, 2002
This sounds like a children’s story but it is not – it’s a true story.
For the background, we need to go back fifteen or twenty years ago when I was in my dieting era. We had gone to the Christian Armory on Morse Road in Columbus, Ohio where I found this delightful small paperback book entitled "Skinnie Minnie Recipe Book" by Frances Hunter, Published in 1976-77, cost only $2.95.
I was delighted with some of the recipes featured, some pared down to really cut the calories, others not to my liking at all. I kept it with my diet cookbooks.
Then one day my diet book came up missing! I was heartsick because I thought I knew what happened – I generously gave a hospital twig book sale a bag of books. Then I knew I would never see my little book ever again for I was sure it was not that widely circulated. I, or we, even went to the Christian Armory to see if they had another copy. I looked and looked at bookstores and book sales wherever we went. No one ever heard of it. In fact I could not even remember the name of the book, author, or what it looked like. I was frustrated. I finally resigned myself to the fact that it was gone FOREVER!
Then, and this is the good part, September 28, 2002, this group was having their annual book sale again. The cookbooks and other health books are always on a table or two by themselves, and that table is crowded when the doors open at 9:00 a.m. It’s a "grab, grunt and growl" situation as my dad would say. If you see a book you only think you might like, you take it now! I went around the table at least twice as the crowd swarmed, grabbing a book when I could see one.
The crowd subsided. There were a few lonely books no one wanted. I had seen this one little book on my previous trips around the table but now I could stop and look at the leftovers. I picked up this book with the big milkshake with a strawberry on top and started through it. To my surprise in the front was the author and her husband’s picture. I recognized her as the author of MY LITTLE LOST COOKBOOK. I nearly yelled outloud, "Eureka, I found it!!" Never could I have been more happy with anything in my whole life. I was ecstatic! "Skinnie Minnie" has been found and I paid all of 25 cents for it. (It was lost for at least ten years!.)
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Being one of the men on a list our church uses in setting up their services, I customarily prepare printed notes for my prayer thoughts. Recently a thought came to mind: Holiness Can Be Handicapping. I just let it swirl around for a few minutes and Jacob came to mind.
Whether it be tradition or perhaps a truth neatly hidden in the Scripture, some have come to believe that Jacob walked with a limp the rest of his life after that occasion when he wrestled with an angel. The story in Genesis 32:24-32 relates this patriarch as a man who was obviously not able to win a wrestling match with an angel, nor was Jacob a pushover for the angel (strange as that may seem). Jacob would not let go until the angel blessed him. In one stage of that wrestling the angel touched Jacob’s hip socket and that is the sum and substance as to why tradition holds Jacob walked with a limp the rest of his life.
Others saints were handicapped as a result of their walk with God. Job has to be one of the most popular of the plagued saints. After a casual discussion of the sons of God and the Devil himself was present as they all "talked with God". The Devil taunted God about Job’s faith by claiming, "No wonder Job is good, you have given him everything a man would ever want!" (A paraphrase of Satan’s comments.) Then came the time that would cause us to say, "God, if you talk with the Devil today, leave my name out of the conversation." The entire book relates an unusual story about a man who had everything taken away from him for no apparent reason — his children, his wealth and his health. His friends came to visit him and it doesn’t take long before we find ourselves thinking, "I sure don’t need friends like that." But Job survived! He not only lived through his handicapped life but somehow God gave him even more than he had lost.
The word handicapped is almost trite when you realize some individuals were ultimately killed for their faith (see the 11th chapter of the book of Hebrews). The Apostle Paul was sorely tried (tempted) in a way shrouded by a vague term, "a thorn in the flesh". We will never know this side of glory exactly what that thorn was but it was as real to Paul as if it had indeed been a thorn constantly sticking his body. It almost seems discomforting to find God did not give Paul any physical relief for that handicap but rather counseled him, "My grace is sufficient for you" – Paul, forget about your problems. Whatever Paul’s handicap, he carried it to his grave!
The quintessential handicapping holiness was when the perfect Son of God was shamed by our sins and God even turned His back on Christ because such suffering had to be borne alone! Every time we pray expressing our gratefulness for Christ dying on a cross for our sins it ought to be accompanied by a tear washing down our cheeks. Perhaps you experience a similar problem as I when singing certain hymns. There is one hymn in particular (the third verse) that chokes me up to the point of not being able to continue singing, and finally after just standing there with tears in my eyes until the verse is over, I have gained enough composure to finish singing that great hymn. ("When My Love to Christ Goes Weak" by J. R. Wreford.)
I certainly have no right to judge you if your holiness is not handicapping but I urge you to open your heart and mind to God, asking Him to use you in whatever way He sees fit. Perhaps one day you may also find holiness a bit uncomfortable if not handicapping.
THE WORDWRIGHT
January 4, 1999, our daughter, 14 days before turning 35, had heart surgery. Surgery is so far advanced from years past, say just ten years ago. Hers was called a heart ablation; ten years ago it would have been an open heart surgery which would have entailed opening her chest cavity to work on her heart. Today, with laser and other technical methods and procedures, which I cannot explain, the procedure was accomplished by going up through the veins from the groin area. There, the small punctures were made and the instruments (camera and catheter) were inserted into each side and guided to the heart area where a team of four doctors meticulously worked together to cauterize the two extra access ways that were causing our daughter’s heart to race, cause weakness and if left untreated could cause a heart attack and perhaps even death. The procedure was done while she was awake, in fact she needed to be awake to help direct the doctors by comments or reactions during the procedure.
The procedure took six hours; the first three in preparation for the actual surgery. She left her house at 5:15 a.m. the morning of the surgery and was home, walked in the door under her own steam, sat down on he couch and talked about it at 4:45 p.m. that same day. A bit tired and some soreness in the groin area was the extent of post surgical reaction. Two band-aids covered the puncture wounds.
My mind got to thinking about the "good old days" we hear people talk about. Well, I am sure there are some things the good old days may have been famous for, but is it more in our minds (nostalgia) that those days were good than they actually were? When people had to suffer with such a thing as our daughter did with her heart and no way to correct it, no antibiotics or even penicillin to combat deadly infection--no doctors close at hand in an emergency room to go to, these do not conjure up "good old days"!
My grandfather died from a work-related accident when he was struck by a board going through a planer at a lumber mill. It hit him in the abdomen bursting a bowel and gangrene set in. Even though he was in the hospital there were no antibiotics in 1945 to counteract the deadly poison so within a week he was dead.
Thinking back past 1945 to earlier days, say pioneer days, the many people who suffered long years who could now be helped by modern drugs or surgical methods, the prairie women came to my mind. They tried their best to doctor children who had mere colds that easily could turn into pneumonia, bronchitis and severe ear infections leaving some perhaps deaf. Just think of the agony these folk went through in the "good old days".
Such diseases as tuberculosis, known as the white plague, took several members of a family related to me, in the early 1900's. Today these folks could have been cured.
Also, common everyday tasks such as dishwashing, cooking, doing laundry required long arduous hours of work, perhaps with the one doing them not feeling well. It had to be done. A mother cooking three meals a day for often a large family, having to carry the water into the kitchen, catching, killing and cleaning a chicken before even being able to fry it. It took time--lots of time! Fortunately with a large family, children could be put to work also, in fact it was expected.
Yes, there were many joys of the "good old days". Families were perhaps closer, but families were also separated by those who were adventurous and took off for far away countries--perhaps even across the seas. Parents were never to see some of their children again because transportation and roads were not as today where we can be thousands of miles in just several hours; and to think we complain of potholes after a severe winter spell. Patience!
The "Good Old Days" may be fun to dream about but I think I'm satisfied to live today with our modern conveniences.
Written by JEAN STEEL VENRICK, wife of The Wordwright
January 31, 1999
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The above story was originally published in print in a journal, KRITIKOSITY,
circulated in the monthly bundle of the American Amateur Press Association,
Journal #19, May 1999. The Wordwright
"I’d like to buy that scooter you had…" began an otherwise innocuous conversation at a restaurant this past Sunday night. The person was an old acquaintance of mine – truly an acquaintance rather than a close friend but all of a sudden this old acquaintance brought up a subject that heretofore only a few old friends and I could relive.
When I was about sixteen my dad was probably one of the more lenient parents a teenager could have but then I had no real inklings about anything close to the subject of parent-child relationships then and this time window was just another day in my life. Background wise, my mother had died when I was fifteen and we were living in a castle-like house on one of the major streets in Lancaster. It was just Dad and me at this big old house. My mother had died in September, just as I was starting my sophomore year in high school and my only brother had joined the Army the preceding summer. In all honesty I can only guess it must have been months, perhaps a year, that Dad and I stayed on in the big house.
But I am straying from my story about a "Box on Three Wheels". Being the gregarious person God made me, I somehow latched onto a town character by the name of Henry Weaver Davidson. How in the world I ever got acquainted with this man I will probably never figure out, but perhaps it was his "shop" that attracted me. He had a place (shop, or whatever) in an alley back of Main Street where he had more STUFF than you could catalog in a year. Stacked, hanging on the wall, in the windows, on the tables, shelving and benches. In one of my occasional visits apparently Henry told me about a couple scooters he had in his garage on Wheeling Street. He wanted to sell one and I became his prime prospect.. How I ever convinced my dad to go along with such a deal is beyond me but maybe because we didn’t have a "family car" had something to do with it.
My odd friend got the scooter out to our house and made it clear he would fix anything that wasn’t working. He came out to our house and sat in the back yard working on this and fine-tuning that. In a few days Henry had the little motor on that 3-wheeler going just fine. This town character was the son of a local drug store owner from back in the early part of the 1900’s here in Lancaster and he was well known all over town. Once he made a trip to California on what he called a motorized wheel-barrow. He was the holder of several patents and the only family he had was a sister with whom he shared a house; and the word was he was being "taken care of" by some kind of trust left by his father. His needs and wants were very Spartan.
My motor scooter (similar to one pictured) was a 1942 Cushman 3-wheel Truckster model, with a single engine and 2 speed transmission with only mechanical brakes (not hydraulic). The steering was controlled by the front two wheels between which was affixed a large square box designed to haul parts and packages delivered on a military base. At that time, 1947-48 military surplus made such items available and Mr. Davidson probably picked up two of these old scooters from the Columbus General Depot in Columbus, Ohio.
Once this scooter was up and running it became our family car – as well as the best teenager’s vehicle among my peers. It was certainly not the most attractive or fancy due to its age but it was unique and close to being "one of a kind" in our town. My travels were quite daring. I thought nothing of driving to Columbus, 30 miles away; Zanesville, 40 miles away and the Buckeye Lake area, about 20 miles away. Two of those trips nearly cost me a friendship but I gained a bit of wisdom. The one trip I made to Buckeye Lake was when accompanied by a buddy, we drove up there towards evening and only as kids would, I thought a dry cell battery would "be good enough" to power the two headlights on the scooter. [The generator kit was not on my model – probably stripped before it got to the government auction.] As most adults could have told me that tall dry cell battery would not last long and two candles would have made more light. I drove along a feeder canal slow enough for my buddy to walk in front guiding me lest my scooter became a three wheeled submarine!
On another occasion the same buddy and I were at Buckeye Lake and were about to return to Lancaster. I pulled out onto the road in low gear, maneuvering into the traffic pattern and shifted into high gear. Letting out on the clutch did not produce the usual higher speed but it stuck in low gear. Not being easily convinced, I tried shifting again. Same response. I drove that poor old single cylinder motor scooter – the box on three wheels – all the way to Lancaster in low gear. "Fast-forwarding" -- the successful fix was easily made after I disassembled the gear case and found the shifting collar had been cut off its shaft as slick as any can opener could do the job. Solution was simple: I ordered the part and fixed it.
On another hair-brained teenager plot we made a trip to Zanesville, Ohio, to see my granddad Keadle. I had been having a little trouble with the chain flying off the rear wheel sprocket but what’s that to a venturous boy and his buddy. My friend, Ronnie, and I were truckin’ along quite well, going up and down the hills on the way to Zanesville when we just went over the last big hill before entering the area of South Zanesville. Having gotten over Moxahala Park’s section of Route 22 East, the scooter responded as if the chain flew off [again]. Coasting off the side of the road, I just pulled up the kick starter and kicked it down. Nothing. In fact there was not even any resistance from the engine – it was more like the engine was spinning easier than a well greased ball bearing. And there was no compression. Problem was simple – it wouldn’t go. Solution: Push it into Zanesville; really Putnam and into my granddad’s garage (weaving shop) and see what was wrong. This was probably about eight miles—quite a test for a friendship. My granddad Keadle wove rugs and his shop was an old garage and there was sufficient room to push my scooter into his shop. Next phase of problem-solving: "Call Dad"– what else do kids do? Well, fortunately Dad had a buddy with a trailer and made the 40 miles trip, picked us up, and rolled the scooter onto the trailer. We had done a small job of diagnosis and discovered the piston had pulled apart in the area of one of the rings and all the way home (in my mind) I worked on what I had to do to fix it. No problem – I just ordered a new piston, put in some new rings and I was back in business again.
I must have given a dozen kids a ride in that scooter box because I have had nearly that many men remind me of that unique vehicle. I rode it in all kinds of weather – except after dark; remember, I didn’t have any generator to make the lights work. We used it as a family car to go to the store, run errands and whatever. Dad even got a chance to solo it one night when I had been on a bike ride and ran into a parked car. I had been gawking at a sign shop and lost my concentration to steer my bike and when I hit the car the door handle poked a hole through my right hand between my thumb and first finger. (Remember, this was in the 1940’s when car door handles had an end sticking out.) I went up onto the porch of a house close by and the lady saw my hand took me in and poured Merthiolate [antiseptic] into the wound. I about dropped to my knees. Someone took me to a doctor. While the doctor was treating me I remember hearing a "putt putt" noise – Dad had gotten on my scooter, threw caution aside and drove that "box on three wheels" (without lights) to see what had happened to his son!
Well, as is the case in all good stories this one had to come to an end. No, I didn’t wreck it or nearly kill myself or got stranded again. I became infatuated with the newer models and talked Dad into trading our family vehicle in on a brand new 1948 2-wheeler Cushman motor scooter. Oh, I enjoyed it but it wasn’t near the fun that "box on three wheels" had been. A dozen or more acquaintances of mine still have memories of that old scooter they once got a ride in almost sixty years ago.
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Written by Jean Steel Venrick,
wife of The Wordwright
I have repeated this story several times and doubtless need to give some details about my plans to acquire a husband. My goals (requirements) in a husband were to marry one of three men – a farmer, a preacher or an undertaker. I was a young church organist and early on I had decided the man I would marry had to meet some stringent qualities. First of all, as these plans went, he had to be a Christian and would have to be from among the men in our church. Not just our church (as a fellowship which might eventually mean wherever our churches might be) but the congregation where our family worshipped every Sunday. A rather narrow resource, but that was my plan and I had faith God could work within such a framework.
Perhaps I was limiting my possibilities for finding a husband; but I had never been the "popular girl" who had endless male companions – in other words I never had a date!
Then the Lord brought a young man onto the scene through my church girlfriend. He really attracted my attention but as long as she was going with him I did not interfere. Then she dumped him because she didn’t like the Army clothes he wore which were handed down from his brother who was in the Army.
I will never forget when I saw him walking down the church aisle and I said to myself, "That’s the man I want to marry."
Back to my prospective choice for a husband and his occupation. A preacher, a farmer or an undertaker. What a wide variety of occupations! The farm life which I would live interested me because I could be a farm-wife and I would not have to work at an "in-town" job – something I never was interested in doing. I wanted to stay at home. Having grown up on a farm I enjoyed the freedom of being your own boss. I doubt I realized the hard work involved in farming for a living but the "at home" part really interested me.
Then there was the funeral director. Why would I ever be interested in that occupation? There would be an organ I could play most any time I wanted – even play for the funerals! I had a piano at home to play but I had to go to our church (Fifth Avenue Church of Christ in Lancaster, Ohio) to play the organ. So my plan was to have one handy. I guess I might have been more interested in the instrument than the man – but there were steps or stages in my plan.
As it turned out I got the preacher because that young man that so attracted me made a decision to go to Bible college to become a preacher! Now the problems began. If he went to Bible college I knew he’d find someone else to date and possibly marry! I desperately had to do something about that so I decided I would go to Bible college too! He checked out a college in Kentucky and one in Cincinnati, Ohio and I went along on both visits. Cincinnati was the choice – not too far from home!
In January 1951, six months after graduating from high school, we headed for classes at the Cincinnati Bible Seminary. That first night away from home in that big city was a scary ordeal. Loud strange noises from the street were later identified as the large streetcars going up and down Warsaw hill through the night. No such noises occurred on our quiet country roads. With $200 in savings I had put in the bank from working I started down a new road from my quiet country life. I had never been away from home before and my parents did not take too kindly to my leaving so I knew I had to make a go of it! Eventually the $200 ran out and I had to find a job. I went to work in downtown Cincinnati – easily within reach by streetcar and later by bus from the girls’ dormitory in Price Hill.
Bill and I continued to date and stay close together—as close as we could, being in separate dorms far apart. By June 1951 we knew we wanted to marry so June 3rd we took the big step. I had gotten my preacher! We’ve been married now for nearly 55 years! My plan was no problem for God to work out the details.
Details did change somewhat because my husband only preached for about six years when he decided his "church work" was more appropriately to be done as a "layman"—not a professional preacher. Although through the years he did a lot of supply preaching and taught Bible classes for many years.
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This version of Jean’s story was written November 2005. My only postscript to this account written by my wife is that during those initial days of our meeting I had no inklings whatsoever about the background events going on . This country girl, chasing a man? Yes and no – she was just trying to work within a very strict arrangement she had made with her God and whatever that involved (including a move to a big city to attend a Bible college) she had to keep her part of the bargain! I was playing the part of a very naïve young city boy. It’s been a great experience -- fifty-plus years living with this wonderful lady. The Wordwright
VIGNETTES, Episode THREE
TRANSITIONS - continued…
The previous Vignettes, Episode Two, just began to scratch the surface about TRANSITIONS. This episode pries into the concepts of transitions with words as the vehicle of communication.
The study of words and their origins, etymology, is a field all its own – and assuredly has fields of study within its basic approach. In biblical translations and versions of such there are "higher" and "lower" critics. Briefly, and probably unprofessionally, different kinds of details were considered by the assorted research people. In the making up of the canon of the Bible, the authorship of a book would involve extremely minute examination. How many words were "new" or unique to this book, compared to another the author may have written. Right or wrong, some books might have been discarded because the author never used that word before – as if the author could not have picked up a new word for his vocabulary. How was the author’s grammar? What kind of expressions were used? Was the author historically accurate? How was his "style" of writing – English speaking or reading people (such as myself) would never be able to SEE such idiosyncrasies. Unfortunately for us, the nuances and such variances of Hebrew or Greek words would be nearly lost unless commentators along the way TOLD us what meanings were behind a word. Quickly, the word MEEK, is a very strong word if we unplug our culture’s concept of the word. To the Greeks, in the days the New Testament texts were being written, the word meek was used to describe war horses, EMPOWERED and READY to run but WAITING for the right command! They were under control, or meek as it was known approximately 2,000 years ago. The transition of this word today usually finds a much different concept, "Meek as Casper Milktoast!" Certainly not associated with strength.
The internet represents an even further transition in the wonder of words (communication) because the instantaneous display of entire books can be viewed for enjoyment or edification. Books relegated to dusty shelves of libraries can now be viewed with ease. Reprinted, as it were, in a new form for the researcher. Such a transitional concept is so far advanced from mere decades ago that it is nearly unbelievable to many. Beyond providing books electronically, data is transmitted from weather satellites and communication satellites (radio, telephone, and television) as they orbit the planet at an altitude of 22,223 miles (35,786 km) above the Earth. Satellites are constantly and continuously reporting everything from how much the sand dunes in Egypt have changed in 24 hours to the growth rate of wheat in Kansas. Such spies in the sky could be alarming if we had reason to be alarmed – and doubtless the military can well keep us on the alert or standby as a result of being able to do surveillance of the kind only dreamed by science fiction writers.
Today’s society of citizens is probably the most photographed (and without our awareness) than any generation before. Bytes have mysteriously replaced the silver coating on glass negatives of two centuries past; then strips of film became rolls of film which then advanced to color film. The giant steps of digital photography has been interwoven inextricably with the production and display of words as well. The process of imaging words and pictures is more easily observed when the computer processor or the internet source isn’t lightning fast – the faster processors make it look like magic.
Digital typography is all around us. Such is hardly noticed or realized to be anything unusual because we see it all the time. Billboards once covered with pasted sheets of paper are being replaced with signs resembling vertical venetian blinds that magically display as many as three different accounts. The accuracy of such displays of letters and pictures is phenomenal. The workings behind all this technology is a virtual marriage of whirling gears and digital artistry.
Because of the undisciplined financial indebtedness mentioned in Vignettes of The Wordwright, Episode Two, the kind of society produced by such casual concern for personal responsibility has created a need for security technology measures unheard of ten years ago or less. Next time you are in any kind of store, look around and you will see special devices on both sides of the entrances; special pads are on counters for verification purposes. Miniaturized cameras can be safely disguised in a display monitoring every move we make. Major stores can actually follow a suspect regardless of which or how many aisles they shop. Security procedures have replaced the store detectives once used by major stores. We must realize shoplifting alone has forced the business world to use every tactic they can develop to keep track of their inventory. Such transitions mentioned have not only shown how people adorn their bodies and exposed their undisciplined financial practices, it has developed electronic bloodhounds to track thieves once observed by store detectives.
The precise arrangement of lines, otherwise known as Bar Codes on everything from a candy bar to a garden shovel has not only enabled merchandisers to discontinue individually stamping prices on items but such optical scanning technology moves customers through checkout lanes accurately and speedier. Computerized systems can alert the cashier when more than two checks have been written against your account within a certain time frame just in case your checkbook was lost and found by a criminal. That information ought to be regarded with a breath of thanks instead of an intrusion upon our privacy.
But, now for the bad news. All such contrivances, devices, reports cost money – and we pay for it in the nickels, dimes or quarters proportionally for every item they inventory. Why should this be brought to mind? The transitions we are experiencing cannot be ignored. We are in a global community in case you haven’t noticed and our neighbor isn’t just a state or two away or on the other end of the train line from New York to Los Angeles – it is between the airway terminals of New York to Tokyo! And, one other bit of news – what about the ELEVEN MILLION illegal immigrants in our United States? (Some prefer to call them "undocumented immigrants".) The good news is, TV has shown us not only transitions but how such has affected our society and what is being done about it. But there is a price to pay.
It has been said that the only person who likes change is a baby with a dirty diaper. Transitions are inevitable, but we must take care to recognize such and learn to deal with it. A long range plan of developing stricter personal codes of ethics needs to replace the carefree abandoning of those virtues as the current trends of our casual and undisciplined society. "Church and religion" (and their pertinacious values) are being tossed aside as disposable items and our society has been obviously affected. What was good for society once cannot be disregarded without dire consequences.
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A couple quotes from PATRIOT POST, Chronicle 06-14, dated 05 April 2006, that coincide with some themes in the above comments by The Wordwright:
"More to the heart of most Americans' concerns, how can a nation fighting a war on terror NOT seal its borders?" ---Kathleen Parker
"Because we do not communicate to our immigrants, legal and illegal, that they have joined something special, some of them, understandably, get the impression they've joined not a great enterprise but a big box store. A big box store on the highway where you can get anything cheap. It's a good place. But it has
no legends, no meaning, and it imparts no spirit." ---Peggy Noonan
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The ball is in our court, The Wordwright
Look through the menu for other vignettes episodes of The Wordwright..
Vignettes of The Wordwright - Episode Two
I have not been elected to this office (The Wordwright) but I have simply appointed myself to be a speaker, a builder of words, a critic (I occasionally publish a paper called KRITIKOSITY, which is etymologically Greek for "a critic or critical writer") and, as you can tell from the photo on the banner or masthead of this website I am not a young man (unless you are 95 years old). I was born in 1932 and having this great opportunity of expressing myself in this medium is only one of many areas that my wife and I have recognized as TRANSITIONS.
In the nearly 55 years of marriage the changes we have seen are nearly legion but realistically speaking it might be best to concentrate on a smaller number of transitions. A few items that will be mentioned in this section of THE WORDWRIGHT will most likely take more than one episode so be prepared for a "to be continued" type notation but hopefully these will be honest vignettes of not only our lives as two individuals but perhaps you can substitute your life and claim these observations, experiences and circumstances as your own.
For a minute or two think about the changes (transitions) around you. Body Art – there are few things about my body (as I believe God made it – it is fearfully and wonderfully made) that I would honestly want to change. Surely some exceptions exist. Back to my photo in the banner – that’s really what I look like, or did about five years ago. But why I would want to put an earring on my ear, or poke a piece of metal through my lips, nose, or cheek is just not my "cup of tea". If you have any of these on or in your face – it’s your face and that is where my "business" ends. Tattoos could be included in these personal observations. Women, especially young women, seem to have been caught up in adorning their already beautiful bodies (and what woman is not a beauty to most or certain men?). Putting a very attractive (usually) piece of tattoo artistry on one’s back where you cannot even see it blows my mind – I am used to seeing what I bought or chose to be mine, and unless one uses at least two mirrors, whatever is on our backs is simply not in our range of vision. Again – that is none of my business. All these are simply comments from another generation.
From the personal body we go to the economy or Money Matters. All through my growing up years a customary expression was "so much down and so much a month." Buying our house 41 years ago was the biggest investment in our lives and the longer we paid on our house the more it became ours (that’s deep isn’t it, grin, grin); but the truth in all this is the longer we regularly paid a fixed amount the principal decreased but interest took up most of the payment until the "interest and principal" started changing places. As we neared the end of our mortgage contract we could actually double our payments and get closure quicker – and thus save some money otherwise just being spent on interest charges. In brief, in the beginning of such loans your payments were swallowed up by the interest but eventually, because the interest was based on the amount of principal left, as that was gradually reduced less was paid on interest. Today they want us to believe you can buy something with NO MONEY DOWN! Hummm? How long are the payments going to last? How much are the payments? What is the interest? We won’t talk about that – just buy it and "join the club" of those whose payments are astronomical compared to the $66 monthly payments we made on our house! Buying a car today comes close to double what was paid for a house 41 years ago. And one of the basic philosophies today is "CHARGE!" (and this is different from what Colonel Theodore Roosevelt cried as he went up San Juan Hill on horseback on July 1, 1898!). Maxing out credit cards is routine in some circles. Fiscal responsibility is a mirage today. But people our age were not raised that way. TRANSITIONS – remember, that’s the subject for today.
What other generations have experienced in transitions is hidden in the minds of those who have refused to share such data. Some historians may help us know what was done generations ago but consider communication alone – the printed word. Having been a commercial artist, printer and rubber stamp maker for my "career life" these fields alone have changed so dramatically and drastically that a comparison to the Dark Ages or further back are not out of order. The words you are reading were typed (that’s a euphemism for sure—there were no levers or two reels of a cotton ribbon on the machine used to put these words together) on a Thursday afternoon in the last week of March. When you read them will depend on how long it took to finish this piece and how quickly they were dispatched to the website and how proficiently I followed procedure to "publish". It will take SECONDS more than it will be MINUTES. THINK. Such communications contrasted to ten, twenty, fifty years ago are like "giant steps". How do we adjust to this kind of transition? C-Span enables us to SEE our congressmen and senators (both men and women) as they speak before their respective "houses". We can see their blunders, frustrations and humanity in a way our fathers and grandfathers never dreamed possible.
A man on the moon is old hat. Look around. Nearly every major business has a satellite dish on the roof providing stats, directions, prices changes, market reports, etc. and their home offices can know precisely what amount of merchandise was moved since the previous 24 hour (or sooner) report was made. I saw a postal worker "wave a remote" around the inside of a mail box the other day. Her comment when I asked what she was doing, was "Now, Columbus knows I checked this box." The remote she waved in that box would be placed in a holster or dock and automatically data is electronically sent to their regional headquarters. She said "they know everything we do".
Where do we go with all this transition information? That depends. The family, the church, the city, the state, the country – the whole world needs to be considered and what we make of such transitions or how we deal with them could well affect the way we live or choose the way we live. Has it always been this way? Yes and No. We have always been personally responsible but today’s technology and electronic machinations have changed our lives and society so much that it behooves us to be much more alert than any generation before us. How do you see it? I am all ears. If you have some suggestions (other than "get lost") I would respectfully invite your comments. If no such comments are forthcoming, come back in a few hours or days and hopefully there will be some more helpful specifics about transitions.
See you then, THE WORDWRIGHT.
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