Has America Run out of Gas?

Posted on October 20, 2010 by nowandthenadays

Among one of the head-scratchers I’ve heard this political season is the notion that Congress should repeal the health care plan passed earlier this year because – whoever happens to be speaking – just doesn’t understand what’s in it!  This has been said so often and for so long a period, you’d think that it had been written in Aramaic and we’re still waiting for the translation.

Analyzing the situation, let’s look at what we do know.  First, the plan provides for covering adult children under their parents’ policy until the age of 26.  In a normal economy, they can finish college and find their first job, which would presumably cover them or provide them the income to buy their own policy.  Second, the bill provides that insurance companies cannot deny coverage because of someone’s pre-existing conditions, including children with asthma, or individuals with prior heart events or cancer.  Those two aspects alone are good things.  And because we’re talking about life, death, and people being spent into poverty to pay health care bills, it’s no small deal!

So, what is the hidden, nefarious thing that might jump out and bite us?  No one has really ever identified what that might be . . . they just keep saying “we don’t know what’s in there.”  The nuclear launch codes, perhaps?

The puzzler is this: isn’t there someone – not counting the monkeys who must have written it – who has had a chance to read the whole bill by now?  Surely, it strains credulity to imagine that it has not been examined by lawyers from insurance companies and hospitals, the AMA, Pfizer, just to name a few?  If there were something truly horrible – so horrible that we’d rather deny coverage to our adult children, sick children, and adults with prior serious illness  – wouldn’t we have been alerted by now?

I suppose it boils down to the unknowable.  Will it help bring down the deficit?  Will the premiums really be affordable?  What other loopholes will insurance companies find to deny payment?   These and other issues cannot be known until the plan is implemented.  After all, with all legislation, the devil is in the details, agency rulemakings, etc.  Moreover, comprehensive legislation of this type is never perfect in its first draft – it is amended and tweaked as flaws reveal themselves . . . you don’t do an Etch-a-Sketch start-over.

And yet, John and Jane Q. Public can complain that he and she don’t know what’s in this legislation and use that ignorance to try and thwart the entire plan.  What is the basis of this position?  If the Publics feel entitled to understand everything in the health care bill, one must surmise that they have already mastered the laws enacting Medicare, Social Security, the Interstate Highway System, and the Federal Communications Act.  If that legislation, too, is unclear to them, why shouldn’t they be repealed?

Or are they complaining that the bill was just too long and that makes it unknowable and just flat-out suspicious?  Are we reaching a point where the words are too big and legislation must be written and presented at somewhere between a 6th or 8th grade reading level, the “sweet spot of readability.”  Or is the complaint simply that laws should be written to a maximum word count or page limitation . . . maybe the length of a short story in Good Housekeeping?

And what about judicial opinions that have the force and effect of law?  Would they want to throw judges out because they were too long-winded, or, heaven forbid, wrote in another language – perfidious legalese!!!  Skimming through a case on my desk from Austin’s own Third Court of Appeals, I see mentions of the following:  full faith and credit, plea to the jurisdiction, severance of a claim,  extrinsic construction aids, specific-versus-general statutory-construction principle, liberally construed, and explicitly preempted.   How many non-lawyers could follow the reasoning of the court with these tidbits?   Should judges and lawyers be forced to write so that the Publics can understand the legal principles the use to resolve every court case?

I once thought the Platonic ideal of a class of Philosopher-kings to head governments was a bad idea, even considering the theory that they would be raised to be moral leaders and would be guided by rationality rather than appetites.  The democratic ideal of citizens participating in the government seemed so much better.   But now, I wonder.

There is a new crop of Americans who glory in their ignorance as if that were sufficient justification for electing them or their representatives to run our government, which, by the way, they will seek to dismantle.

They seem oblivious to our 200 plus years of our history of providing a decent life for all citizens, which began in earnest in 1935 with the creation of the social security system for the elderly, and was later supplemented with programs like  Medicare, Medicaid, Food Stamps, and Head Start, to name a few.  Also worth mentioning is the Guaranteed Student Loan Program which provided an avenue for young people with limited resources to pay for college educations.  A plan for insuring citizens who don’t have job-provided health care  or can’t get health insurance for health reasons is a natural progression in our history.  In fact, considering that we are talking about life and death, it is long overdue.

But these folks don’t want to pay for anything, support anything new, or take care of anyone, all while they pull institutions apart, build walls around our borders, and keep stoking the war machine with our young people as fodder.  Is this the beginning of the end of American progress, and our claim to exceptionalism?   Has America lost its way or just run out of gas on the road to a more perfect union, the one on which our forefathers set us traveling over 200 years ago?

I can’t help but think of the response of Ben Franklin, when he was asked at the conclusion of the Constitutional Convention, “What have you wrought?”  He answered, “… a Republic, if you can keep it.”  If only we can.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

John — at 70 — is Still My Favorite Beatle

Posted on October 14, 2010 by nowandthenadays

Last Saturday, October 9, 2010, marked a milestone for us baby boomers:  John Lennon would have turned 70 years of age.  That automatically makes us pull out our wrinkle cream and flex our arms to make sure they haven’t calcified yet.

John had barely left adolescence when he, along with Paul, George, and Ringo were introduced to us on the Ed Sullivan show.  It was February 9, 1964, and witnessing the Beatles’ arrival on our musical shores was one of the events from childhood that I can recall with particular clarity.  That big box of a black and white television had my complete attention as I watched four young men sing and play so engagingly.  I was equally intrigued by the girls in the audience who seemed to be having screaming fits and nervous breakdowns.  I came to understand the condition as “Beatlemania.”

My grandparents were visiting and I remember my grandfather shaking his head and disparaging their haircuts  as my fifth-grader self was trying to sort out exactly what she felt about the quartet of mop-heads (as he called them).  Part of me wanted to side with my elder, but another part was irresistibly drawn to the four young men, even if I couldn’t quite identify with the Beatlemaniacs in the audience.  The ambivalence, however, would resolve itself as it had with Elvis and his hips in the face of elder disapproval: Long Live the King!

That night, we heard them sing “I Wanna Hold Your Hand,” “She Loves You,” “Till There Was You,” and “I Saw Her Standing There.”   The world as we knew it rocked and rolled on its axis – the earth would never revolve around the sun quite the same way again.  The Beatles had landed and life was forever different.

Soon we were collecting Beatles bubble gum cards making Beatle scrapbooks, and dividing up into favorite-Beatle camps.   Most of my friends were crazy about Paul with his angelic expression,  round eyes, and sweet voice.  But for some reason, I was drawn to John and his insouciant smile.  And the more I learned about him, the more he intrigued me with his wry comments and irreverence.  Maybe it was the report of a John quip during a 1963 Royal Variety Performance for the British Royal Family:  “Will the people in the cheaper seats clap your hands? And the rest of you . . .  if you’ll just rattle your jewelry.”

Before long, I discovered John had written a book, and I had to have it for my collection of all things Beatle with a concentration in things John.  I probably washed a ton of dishes to save up and buy “In His Own Write.”  But having the book in hand, I realized it was easier to buy it than it was to understand it.  In short, literature it was not, and as a collection of allegedly humorous stories, poems, and drawings, funny it was not.  Was it representative of Liverpoolian humor, which was hopelessly beyond me?  The jokes were often dark and the drawings, positively strange.  When I had my own sons, I recognized that what he had written and drawn was mostly “guy” humor and – dare I say it? – immature guy humor (although, to be honest, I’m not exactly sure there exists a division between the two humor zones in men).  But I was not disillusioned –  my John-crush was too advanced.

In fact, next, I bought a cap like the one John wears on the book’s cover.  I have no idea where I found the fisherman’s cap or what I thought I would do with it.   Since I wasn’t cool enough to wear it in public, it never left my bedroom.  As cool as it would be today in the world of fedora/beret/cowboy hat-wearing females, sixth or seventh graders in 60’s Austin would not have been caught wearing anything more than a headband on their head – we were Stepford-like in our desire to not be too different, to fit in.  There’s simply no way to explain that cap but to say that a young girl’s idol worship exhibits itself  in mysterious ways.

As I grew out of my Beatlemania into a less intense relationship with John and the band, I lost the hat, his book, and the scrapbook.   As an adult, I appreciated and supported his interest in the peace movement and enjoyed seeing the direction his songwriting was taking.   He seemed to abandon his bad-boy persona and become introspective and sensitive.  My sensibilities happened to be evolving, too, so it was easy for him to remain my favorite Beatle to the very end.

Many others have waxed eloquently about John, Paul, George & Ringo, and their place in the pantheon of musicians.   These four young men – of hair and song – flew over from Liverpool and infected us with Beatlemania – to greater or lesser degrees – and many of us have never fully recovered.  Disbanding a short six years after rocking our world, they left us wanting more.  Thus, their image was preserved, forever young and pure, in our hearts.  This is particularly true for John Lennon – killed senselessly at the age of 40.

Sometimes I wonder what John would have done if some crazed individual had not had a gun that day in 1980.  What other music would have been created by this song writer extraordinaire who wanted to give peace a chance and to imagine . . . all the people sharing all the world.

No matter how old we are, it’s nice to think that the world would have been a better place.  You may say he’s a dreamer, but he’s not the only one.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 3 Comments

One Man’s Trash is Another’s Treasure

Posted on October 5, 2010 by nowandthenadays

All the StoryCorps segments on National Public Radio are special, but in early September I heard one that I’m still thinking about.

For non-NPR listeners, StoryCorps records and collects conversations between two people who are important to each other: a son asking his mother about her childhood, an immigrant telling his friend about coming to America, or a couple reminiscing about when they met.  StoryCorps has collected and archived more than 30,000 interviews from more than 60,000 participants. One of the largest oral history projects of its kind, each conversation is preserved at the American Folklife Center at the Library of Congress.

Each week, one of the conversations is played on Morning Edition. On September 3rd, the conversation between Eddie Nieves and Angelo Bruno, sanitation workers in NYC was broadcast.   Eddie and Angelo were partners for 10 years – clearing more than 14 tons of garbage from the city streets each day – until Angelo retired at the age of 60 after more than 30 years on the job.

In this conversation, Angelo recollected his first days on the job:

“When I first came on the job, there was one old timer … I remember Gordy Flow his name was. One day, he stopped the truck. He tells me, ‘Angelo, you look down this block first. See all the sidewalks are all crowded up with garbage?’  So I think nothing of it. My father always told me to respect my elders. I get to the end of the block, and he stops me again.  ‘Get out of the truck, look back.  Nice and clean right?  People could walk on the sidewalk.  Guys can make deliveries. Be proud of yourself.’”

It seems that Angelo followed Gordy’s advice and was proud of his work removing the trash from city streets.  He also found pleasure in how “everybody would just come out just to talk to you.”  People along their route in Manhattan’s West Village neighborhood would greet him and his partner, offering them coffee or breakfast.  Nuns on their route would kiss them.  Some of the younger guys would ask why they merited such attentions, and Angelo had a simple response: “It’s just a little good morning, have a nice weekend.   Hey, you look great today!”   Not to mention, carrying baby carriages down some steps or holding a baby when a parent went to get her car.

And over 30 years later, when people along the route found out he was retiring, they came up and said, “You’re crazy. What am I going to do when you leave?”  He cried, they cried, and as Angelo said,  he never thought his last day would be so emotional.  And now he confesses:  “I miss it terribly. I’m like the little kid looking out the window now when I hear the truck.  I think I could have done another 31 years.”

This story reminded me of the older crowd I hang around with and how often our conversations these days turn to the subject of retirement.  Many of my friends in government jobs — State and local — have seen their retirement eligibility dates come and go, deciding to stay a bit longer.  They enjoy the work they do and feel they are still making a difference, in support of the various functions that keep the trash picked up, the streets safe, and government solvent.

For that reason, Angelo’s is a cautionary tale . . . do we want to be like little kids looking out the window when hearing the truck, wishing we were still on the job?   It’s a leap into the unknown.

Of course, all of us would like to sleep a little later, travel a bit more, and get some closets cleaned up.  But there are accounts I’ve heard of  former co-workers who looked around after many extra hours of sleep-in time, a few trips, and spiffy closets who look up and say,  “now what?”   They miss the satisfaction in a job well done – like Angelo’s clean sidewalk – and it’s hard to replicate it unless you find similar replacement endeavors.

That fear may be counter-balanced as state employees become the target of major budget cutting as the powers-that-be deal with a budget shortfall estimated anywhere from $10 to $20 billion.  Agencies will be forced to cut budgets, since the idea of raising new revenue is verboten in Texas.  The only taxes that might possibly pass legislative scrutiny would be on some unhealthy or loathsome  activity that could qualify as a vice, and thereby be justified.   Maybe all-you-can-eat buffets?

Those teetering on the retirement fence may find their job satisfaction oozing away at the prospect of work furloughs – doing as much as you were doing in fewer days for less money – and finding increasing restrictions on training, janitorial services (we are now required to empty our own trash), and office supplies as the tried and true are deemed too costly.   And it goes without saying that no one has any illusions about future raises.   While potential retirees might be at the top of their earning capacities, our co-workers in the younger generations aren’t going to be happy campers full of esprit de corps!   After all, they want to start families and have houses, just like us.

Gloom and doom aside,  it’s still nice to feel a source of pride in making a difference – with all our years of experience and expertise – until we make that hard decision to empty our desks.  I hope we will be missed when that day comes.  And while I’m thinking of it, it might also be nice if we got kissed by nuns every once in a while!

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 8 Comments

I [Heart] New York!

Posted on September 14, 2010 by nowandthenadays

Once upon a time, New York City was a far-off place, 1,746 road miles from Austin, Texas, to be precise.  On September 11, 2001, the city moved a little closer to Austin, just like 60 years previously when Pearl Harbor moved significantly closer  than 2,500 miles from the western edge of mainland U.S.A.

Both September 11 and December 7 reminded Americans — spread out  from shore to shore and beyond — that we are all a part of this neighborhood called America.  Such events unify us, if not geographically, certainly emotionally.  As the towers crumbled repeatedly on the national news, the 300 million Americans who were not residents of New York watched in a state of shock that will never be forgotten.  It was an assault to our national psyche and we had to wonder. . . what had we done to deserve this?

As for me, I experienced the vaguest whiff of survivor’s guilt.  I had visited NYC for the first time just 3 months earlier, during the week of June 11.  On my list of “must visits” was the World Trade Center.  We arrived in the early summer morning and waited in line to take the elevator to the rooftop.  The elevator whisked us up 110 stories faster than I normally drive, and upon arrival, we took pictures and marveled about seeing almost to “forever.”  Afterwards, we ate lunch in the mall below the plaza which was the largest shopping mall in lower Manhattan. The six basements housed two subway stations and a PATH train stop.  As I recalled the trip, I realized how easy it could have been for us to wait until September to take the trip and be standing on the “top of the world” when the building collapsed under us.

I couldn’t even imagine the guilt of all those survivors who missed work that day or those who let their loved ones go to work as if it were just another work day.  As great as our collective grief as a nation, I know that nothing could equal that of those who lost a loved one, friend, or co-worker.  But time went by and I gradually accepted that things happen when they are going to happen and I just felt fortunate that I didn’t know anyone in New York or anyone who even knew anyone who had perished on that day.

But in 2005, my younger son moved to New York where he’s been living, voting, and working, and my thoughts about the city are different than before.  I have visited on several occasions and seen the city through the eyes of a resident, meeting my son’s co-tenants and the young concierge staff who people his apartment building.  He works in one of the largest office buildings in the city but the security folks know him by sight as he goes to his job every day on the 24th floor.  His co-workers are young and excited about their careers and life in the big city.  Several of his friends from high school and college have also decided to make their fortunes there.  Surprisingly, I am connected to a significant community of folks by way of my son.  New York is now populated with names and faces and memories of good times with them.

Saturday morning, September 11, 2010, my son called while he was observing a ceremony at the British Memorial Garden at Hanover Square, which is a merely steps from the front door of his building.  He was describing the 9-11 ceremony as I caught the whine of bagpipes and the insistent beat of drummers in the background.   This was the garden that the British had built with the motto, “Reflect,  Remember, Rebuild. . . “, to honor the 67 British subjects lost in the towers and celebrate the historic friendship of the United States and United Kingdom.

After we hung up, I contemplated — as I often do — the fact that New York would always be a target for people who would seek to harm us, and that frightened me,  Undoubtedly, it frightens many parents all over this vast nation who have checked their misgivings and waved cheerfully as their children have journeyed off to seek fame and fortune in the city that never sleeps.  And as I often do, I realize that New York City is no longer that city located 1,726 miles away.  It is a place where a part of me now lives . . .  no farther than a heartbeat.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , | 1 Comment

Our Cabo Timeshare Caper

Posted on September 7, 2010 by nowandthenadays

Recently I traveled to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico and had the opportunity to question my sanity.  It certainly wasn’t insane to go on a trip with five girlfriends, having been invited so graciously by our friend Ellen to stay at her family’s timeshare.  It was my willing participation in the Cabo timeshare caper.

Forget restaurants, shops of artisanry, massage and spa businesses.  Selling timeshares to tourists is the commercial lifeblood of this town and it is war!  The call to arms begins at the airport.  As visitors depart the baggage area, swarms of young men with clipboards clamor to greet tourists, luring them with offers of great deals in exchange for visiting a timeshare property and enduring a sales presentation.  Normally, I’d much rather not.

But these were not normal times.  Ellen had convinced us in advance that for a 2 or 3 hour chunk of a morning, we would get vouchers for activities such as a sunset cruise, a parasailing outing, and jet-ski rentals. In other words, we would be bribed.  How good the bribe depended on her negotiating skills.

Miguel became our contact and as Ellen rattled off what she expected in exchange, e.g., activities and free airport transport both ways for six, it became clear to him that she knew the timeshare landscape, so he could do little but acquiesce after a minimal amount of negotiation.  He demanded, however, a show of our good faith, which equated to us showing him some money.  It was remarkable how easily we parted with forty or fifty dollars each on his promise that it would be returned to us after the next day’s presentation.

He also required that we bring IDs and credit cards and that four of us should be unmarried.  We looked at each other.  The IDs. and credit cards were no problem.   But, only one of the six was actually untethered by legal bonds.   To my legal mind, however, he seemed to have meant that we should just purport to be single, whether we were or not was irrelevant.  We could play this game!

Loaded up in the van that would transport us to Ellen’s timeshare at Playa Grande (“PG”), we exchanged mutual promises to appear the next morning at the bottom of the hill of PG since he was not allowed on the property.  This was sounding more nefarious by the minute.  I imagined my mother turning over in her grave, knowing that I was ignoring her lifelong advice of steering clear of shady characters and situations.  Had we actually turned into the “Cabo Girls Gone Wild” after less than an hour on its soil?

Our acting careers were, in fact, just beginning.  En route to PG, Ellen briefed us about check-in.  After signing in, we would have to sit down with a “hostess” whose main job it was to book us for a timeshare presentation at PG.  “When she asks whether we signed up with a guy at the airport, just say no.”  This, apparently, would make life easier for us.  Sure enough, Chelli’s first question was whether we had signed up for a presentation.  Ellen said no, as a chorus of five heads shook gravely.  Chelli expressed her concern about the guys at the airport because many guests had had baaaddd experiences with these unscrupulous individuals and she was soooo glad we had not fallen into that trap.  She then tried to sign us up for a presentation at PG, alternately wheedling and cooing, but we eventually managed to extricate ourselves explaining that we just wanted to veg-out.

That night we plotted about who the four “singles” would be,  reconfiguring the foursome when one gal couldn’t remove her wedding ring without the finger.  We hoped the ring indentations on the others of us would subside overnight.

There was only one exit from PG, that being through the lobby and in front of a watchful Chelli.  She would be suspicious that we were off to another timeshare, Ellen had told us.  And again she was right.  As we left the next morning, our hostess followed us down the steps of the portico questioning us about our destination.  Ellen waved her off with a nonchalant  “off-to-town.”

Even while I trusted Ellen implicitly, I wasn’t totally sure about our new friend,  Miguel.  As we traipsed down the hill, I wondered whether the deal would go down as planned or would he flee with our money?   But as we reached the bottom, we saw him waiting, like the loyal family watchdog.

One of the hallmarks of the timeshare caper is flexibility, we learned.  Miguel informed us that we would be going to a different timeshare where only two of us needed to be single.  That was a relief, because by this point we had trouble remembering who was and who wasn’t “single” between us; two was no problem.  But, he would need to hand us off to another guy, Enrique, and we would have to tell the folks at that timeshare that Enrique met us at the airport the day before.  The intrigue was getting ever more tangled, but we were beginning to expect that.

So we piled into the van summoned by Miguel, merrily on our way to meet our new “handler.”  Every once in a while, I considered how bizarre it is to have paid to be possibly kidnapped and held for ransom, after they stripped of us of our IDs and credit cards.  Or would we be sold into the white slave traffic?   And all for some water resort activities.  But, on the other hand, it was a beautiful day in tropical paradise….

We met Enrique at the rendezvous point with Enrique down the road leading to the timeshare we would visit.  Miguel introduced us with a sweep of his hand and he and Ellen did some more negotiating . . . I assumed she was seeking some reassurances about the deal.  So, we said adios to our old friend Miguel (after taking pictures in his cute car), and professed loyalty to our new best friend, Enrique, who reminded us conspiratorially that he had met us at the airport the day before.

He directed the van to take us to the property where he handed us over (as we yelled out “Bye, Enrique” like the old friends we weren’t) to the paperwork gals.  We filled out their paperwork, although I won’t vouch for the honesty of our answers….we were becoming professionals by this time, and besides, truth is such a relative word in the timeshare world.  We went on our tour of this breathtakingly beautiful place and were served a delicious buffet breakfast before being taken in for the kill.  The executioner was a young good-looking guy named Dallas, and the death chamber was their five-star open air restaurant.  To lower our resistance to our fate, they served us mimosas, heavy on the champagne.  And when the sells talk began, we hardly felt it at first.  Eventually, the pressure intensified but it was hard to take Dallas seriously when all you could focus on was this piece of pepper caught between his teeth.   We finally convinced him that, all appearances to the contrary, we were not easy marks and were not going to purchase a timeshare.  A sulky Dallas watched us leave to collect our booty.

Would it be as promised?  We held our collective breaths as Ellen went to the “office” to meet with the folks who would pay us off.  We were all a bit surprised when she returned with six vouchers for parasailing, sunset cruising, jet skis, and a wad of cash to return to us our proportionate “stakes” in the deal.   Right as we were loading up in the van, a gal comes rushing out of the office.  And what could she want?  Talking in hushed tones, she told us her current employers didn’t know she had other “relationships” on the side, but she could sign us up for another timeshare presentation the next day at another property.  When we told her we would think about it, she said she would call us, which she did every morning!

Later in the day, as we lounged around, drinks in hand, we determined that a drug deal would not have involved as much subterfuge as this timeshare caper.  Did we have a future in crime or undercover work?  Probably not, we decided; it required too much thinking.   Normality resumed as we rambled off to our massage appointments.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

With a Little Help from my Friends

Posted on September 1, 2010 by nowandthenadays

Since I’ve been working on some other matters, including my article about traffic for Austin Post, I thought now would be a good time to spotlight some great comments by readers in response to previous entries.

A wonderful gentlemen who is a friend, as well as an esteemed “hand” at the General Land Office, wrote, “The obituary story, Grand Finales, stirred some memories for me.  As I have probably mentioned to you, my dad was, among other things, a newspaperman.  In this capacity he was called upon to write many obituaries in “olden times,” a chore he thoroughly detested since he often had very little to go on for background material and often no personal knowledge of the individual.  As a result, he wrote his own obituary, placed it in a sealed envelope marked ‘To be opened upon the occasion of my death’ and placed it in one of the top drawers of his desk.  All of us knew where and what it was.  I was acquainted with many of the old hard-bitten newspaper people from San Angelo, Sweetwater, Lampasas, and other places.  These were a different breed . . . .  generally tough, thick-skinned people.  Political correctness would have driven these folks up a tree.  Anyway, upon dad’s death, one of the old friends from the Lampasas paper who had worked with him for many years came by to pay his respects and inquire about information for the obituary.  I walked to the desk, opened the drawer, and handed him the envelope, telling him what the contents were.  This tough old gentleman left with tears in his eyes.  I presume it was published just like dad wrote it… none of us ever looked at the original.”

Another good friend at the Land Office, wrote in response to the “JEESH” award for excellent English-speaking.  She asks that we consider “awesome” and “amazing” as candidates for eradication, except in a few warranted instances.  For example, she decries “those who use the word ‘awesome’ repeatedly as a response to common events such as complimenting a 10-year old for doing what you tell him (after five times of telling him), e.g., picking up his back-pack from the middle of the doorway.  It may seem awesome to some, but the fact you had to tell him five times no longer makes it awesome.”   She continues, “The frequency of the use of ‘awesome’ drives me crazy, but only slightly more than the overuse of the word “amazing,” as in, ‘that chocolate chip cookie was AMAZING!’   ‘This new high school we built is AMAZING!’ (Which I heard on the news this week.)   In my opinion, there are few events that warrant the word ‘awesome’ to describe them.  The return of Jesus . . . now that would be awesome.  Moses parting the Red Sea was awesome.  The Dallas Cowboys winning the Super Bowl in Jerry Jones Stadium, now THAT would be awesome!!”

In response to “Baby, It’s Cold Inside,” my friend Stephanie who no longer swelters in the heat, writing instead from her mountaintop abode not far from Aspen, Colorado:  “. . .  I remember the mesmerizing whir of our attic fan that lulled us all to sleep during those beastly Texas summers.   I remember clearly that, when we finally did get central air-conditioning, it was so quiet in the house that none of us could sleep, so we continued to run the attic fan!”   She also shares a poem by her Uncle Jack called Texas Lament:

Oh, the heat, the heat, the terrible heat
with the blazing sun in the sky!
My lawn’s kaput right down to the root;
and my body’s beginning to fry!
We hope and pray for the wonderful day
when the heavens their bounty will pour,
but resigned we’ve become to inevitable glum
for the aridity, which we abhor!
We wait in vain for the soothing rain;
in conditioned air we hide, as we
gasp and groan and sweat and moan,
and remember cool days gone by!

And finally, I’m inviting everyone to tell me more Bicycle Annie stories, since I’m building quite a repository of information about her.   In response to several blogs where Annie is mentioned, my friend Mandy tells me, “ Years ago I saw Bicycle Annie on the street, but she didn’t have her bicycle.  Her feet were bandaged and looked to be in bad shape.  She was using crutches.  I asked her if she was Annie, and she said her name wasn’t Annie but all the young guys called her that.  She said all those boys laughed at her for riding a bike, but she said I should take a look around at all the bicycles on the streets.  ‘I was a trendsetter!’ she said.”

I love your comments!  Keep those cards and letters coming, folks!

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

No News is Good News!

Posted on August 23, 2010 by nowandthenadays

I’ve been thinking of something truly revolutionary for me:  turning off television and radio news.  I’m not exactly a news-junkie, but on weekdays I listen to and/or watch news from about 6:30 to 9:00 a.m. and often I’ll supplement that with shows on political commentary for two hours in the evening and Sunday morning talk shows.   If there is a such a thing as an information overload or too-much-information syndrome, I may be afflicted.

Call me a stark-raving rationalist, but I don’t do “crazy” well.  The political news and what is euphemistically called “debate” (which is more like two ships passing in a very dark night) is enough to make you want to commit yourself to a mental institution just to get a break from insanity.

Part of my syndrome is undoubtedly related to a lack of preparedness  for a time when American politicians would cease representing “Americans.”  I’ve now realize our country has changed to one of warring factions, like Shias and Shiites, otherwise known as Republicans and Democrats, with some Libertarians and the new kids on the block, Tea-Partiers, thrown in the mix.  Like some other governments that I never thought we’d try to emulate, no one can win a majority.  Hence, it’s impossible for Congress to do anything without alliances.  Now, you might think that Democrats, with a majority of members, would have control of Congress, but that was so yesteryear!  Now it takes a super-majority (60 votes in a 100-member Senate) to pass any legislation.  And when the other major faction refuses to travel down the alliance or compromise road, nothing gets done. They just plant their feet and say no.

Apparently, they are more comfortable governing by taking positions based on the President’s religious affiliation, his birthplace, death panels, or solving the terrorist anchor baby problem.   And, I know I should move on, but I’m still having trouble with the Naysayers’  production of “Terri Schiavo Must Live.”   Poor woman.  In her darkest hour she acquired her 15 minutes (plus) of fame in front of the entire world.  Whatever her wishes might have been in regard to end-of-life decisions, I guarantee you that she DID NOT wish for her poor dying body to be virtually dragged into the U.S. Senate chamber so that her life, her husband, and family, could be dissected piece by piece.  That may have been the moment when the terms human dignity and decency were torn out of the political playbook forever.

Even the non-political news makes me want to stop the world and get off:   floods,  oil spills, earthquakes, plane crashes, bombings in Iraq, and African famine.  All of these are events that I have no control over and little way to help.  All I do is feel increasingly vulnerable to the fates because, as this all proves, bad things happen to good people.

I remember watching the report about the trapped coal miners in West Virginia.  What can one do but sit here and agonize for them?  Unless I were to give up my job, I can’t run off to Appalachia and organize for increased mine safety, or protest coal production . . .or even help rescue.  All I can do is feel bad for these people . . . and not just those trapped in the mine.  After the first day or so, I’m grieving for the plight of all the generations of men tied to these mines and lamenting the human costs associated with coal extraction.

And then there are the Katrina victims in New Orleans, the earthquake victims in Haiti, the floods in Pakistan and the pain around the world that seems beyond human comprehension.  When confronted with these realities of our existence how can we not bemoan a world that can be so good, but so cruel and unfair at the same time?   As I alternate between survivor’s guilt and gratitude for my survival, I have to wonder if this constant news feed of tragedies du jour is about finding pleasure in the measurement of our own life against another’s tragedy,

And then I wonder, how long do you watch the unfolding of the world’s disasters before we all become inured to the pain and it just becomes entertainment?

In simpler times we heard the news that would get us through the day, that had relevance to us . . . wars, elections, polio outbreaks, etc.  Today, there is no discernment of what is important for me to know.  If it happens it gets reported.  If a child is killed in Minnesota, it might as well be in my back yard.

If I turn off the television and radio news, I won’t give up on print and on-line journalism.  There, the information is not thrown in my face . . . I know what’s coming by skimming the headlines and I can choose to look away.  Maybe I’m too sensitive for the world this has become, but I value human dignity and privacy too much to think we are justified to “eye-witness news” every reaction of people losing their homes, their loved ones, their ways of life.  And I’m pretty sure I value my sanity way too much to hear many more political discussions about what sayeth a ditzy brunette with a rifle, yelling “Reload!”  If that doesn’t define insanity, what does?

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

The Small World of Doris Otero

Posted on August 17, 2010 by nowandthenadays

A long-time friend recently told me she discovered that we shared a mutual friendship with another long-time friend in the course of discussing Austin “characters,” when she referred to my blog entries about Bicycle Annie.  The other friend exclaimed, “I read her blog, too!”  They then explained to each other how they knew me, concluding that this, indeed, was a small world we occupied.   Needless to say, I was delighted to hear how my musings weave people together.

This reminded me of another life event that still haunts me with its possible meanings and the concept of “small world.”  The main character is a woman named Doris Otero who died of breast cancer in Lima, Peru sometime in the 1960s while she was in her mid to late 30s.  She was my husband’s much-loved, older cousin whose image was still fresh in the mind of her family, when I joined the family in the mid-70s, .  From all accounts, to know Doris was to love Doris.  She was an attractive brunette, sweet, and fun-loving woman who was a stewardess (in the days before “flight attendants”) for Braniff International (a Dallas-based international airline).

Fast forward a few years to the late 1970s or early 80s.   My husband and I were then living in Austin.  My former employer, a legislator from South Texas, had mentioned on several occasions that he had a cousin who was married to a man who had grown up in Lima, and that we should meet him some time.  We agreed, but were in no hurry to meet him.  There are so many Peruvians kicking around Texas, you could spend all your free time meeting former Peruvians . . . everyone knows at least one.  And they rarely have anything in common with each other.

But, one day the ex-boss called, saying he and his wife were going to have dinner at his cousin’s home in San Antonio that night and why didn’t we drive down and join them all?  We did.  The cousin and spouse, Alberto, enjoyed life in a lovely and large – maybe 7,000 square feet – home. (Did I mention the cousins are dripping in oil money from their oil wells?)  My husband and Alberto immediately hit it off.   Although Alberto was a bit older, they knew all the same families, grew up in the same neighborhood, and even attended some of the same parties, which they still remembered and enjoyed recalling with each other.

At some point during dinner, I recalled someone else in the family telling me that a younger Alberto had been a Braniff steward who survived an airplane crash in the Everglades.  Without mentioning the crash, I simply asked Alberto, “Didn’t you work for Braniff, Alberto?”  He said he had, and my husband explained that he had had a cousin named Doris Otero who had been a Braniff stewardess.  Did Alberto know her?  At that, he got up from the table, left the room, returning no more than three minutes later with something in his hand:  two parts of a foursome of pictures from a photo booth.  The strip of four had been torn in half.  Presumably, he had two of the poses and the other person in the picture had kept the other two.  Incredibly, it was the younger Alberto and Doris in their Braniff uniforms.  We all sat there agog in amazement, not quite believing this had happened.   I can’t remember anything else that happened that night, but among that group, I doubt whether anyone would ever quite forget it. To this day, I wonder how that picture could have been so handy in that huge house (since I would have had to paw through scrapbooks or my treasure trinket box for 30 minutes at least).  Had Doris herself been instrumental in the photograph’s availability, waiting for us to show up to give us a “signal.”   That may sound preposterous, but before deciding, listen to this.

Fast forward again to the late 90s.  My husband and I drove to Ft. Worth to visit the Kimbell Art Museum.  It rained most of the trip, so we decided to forego lunch on the road and eat at the Kimbell’s cafeteria.  That idea was a popular one because the relatively modest-sized dining room was full of diners.  Looking around, tray in hand, I noticed a 6-top table occupied by two older couples and asked if we could sit with them.  The foursome were friendly and one of the women, in particular, was quite talkative, asking us polite questions about our hometown and other pleasantries.  I detected a slight accent so I asked where she was from.  She currently lived in Dallas but was originally from Lima.  The other woman at the table said she was originally from Lima, too.  When my husband revealed his similar patrimony, we remarked on what a surprisingly small world it was.

And then my innate nosiness led me inquire what brought them both to live in Texas.  The answer?   Braniff Airlines.   The second woman had been a stewardess for Braniff, dating a pilot, and had introduced her talkative friend to another pilot.  They two women married their pilots and upon retirement or the airline’s demise, had stayed in Dallas.  Of course, my husband then mentioned, almost in passing, that his cousin, Doris Otero, had been a stewardess for Braniff.  The second woman, who had been a stewardess, gasped and exclaimed softly, something like, “Oh, my goodness!”  She appeared to blink back tears as she put her hand on my husband’s and told us of her friendship with Doris and the hours she spent with her at the hospital as she lay dying.  Much was shared that is not relevant here, but suffice it to say, it was an amazing experience . . . sitting in the Kimbell, reminiscing about a long-dead woman who had been important to these two Peruvian ex-pats-turned-Texans.

While we eventually went to examine the art work we had traveled to see, it seemed like the real trip had been to another world altogether.  That chance encounter was coupled in our minds with the other in San Antonio.  This had to be, we reasoned,  more than just two isolated coincidences.  But if they weren’t just coincidences, what were they?  I had never believed in angels, but for the first time in my life, the existence of angels seemed perfectly plausible, and one of them, my husband’s cousin Doris, wanted people she had touched to know that her spirit lived on in that other world . . . that she was still there . . . that there was something after death.  Over a decade later, I still wonder about angels, about Doris, about the line between life and death . . . and marvel at the small world of Doris Otero.

Posted in Great Lessons | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments

“Fiddle-dee-dee. This war talk’s spoiling all the fun!”***

Posted on August 10, 2010 by nowandthenadays

I’ve always considered the progressive income tax was a fair way to pay for the benefits of a civilized society.   Those who can afford to pay more are taxed more, and those who can least afford it, pay lesser amounts.  Since there-but-for-the-grace-of-the-gods-go I, I have nothing but empathy for those who have the lowest taxes bills…or even those who receive credits because their income is so little.

What I don’t understand, however, is why those who can afford to pay their proportionate share will do almost anything to avoid paying it – and they feel no shame in admitting it.

For the purposes of this article, I will call them the “Lucky  Folks.”  These Lucky Folks seem to approach responsibility to society as if it were a board game, and once they reach a certain level of wealth, it’s over!  They’ve won!  They want to cash out their playing pieces and let the other poor schmucks keep playing and paying.

This attitude reflects a surprising lack of awareness that – even while they may be extremely talented or lucky (or both) – their accumulation of great wealth is due in great part to the fact that they don’t live in a world of chaos and warring tribes, rapers and pillagers.  They fail to realize that their wealth is largely attributable to a government that maintains a legal system, methods of transportation and communication, currency and exchanges, an office of patents and trademarks, various agencies ensuring the safety of foods and medicines, just to mention a small part of the infrastructure for creating and safeguarding markets for their goods and services.  And that’s without considering that our government involves itself in wars that just happen to help our military industrialists join the ranks of Lucky Folks.

But until Congress acts on the upcoming expiration of the Bush tax cuts, we will hear the Lucky Folks (through their reps in Congress and in the media) regale us with stories of the impending disaster that would be caused by a return to the pre-Bush tax rates for the wealthiest taxpayers.  In other words, a return to a 39.6% tax rate from the 35% they’ve enjoyed for the last 10 years would put the brakes on the job creation they’ve been doing for the last decade.  And now, when we need jobs the most, would be most inopportune.

Only one problem with that argument, Lucky Folks.  It’s not true.  As reported in the Wall Street Journal in January, 2009, the Bush administration created about three million jobs (net) over its eight years, a fraction of the 23 million jobs created under President Bill Clinton’s administration.  And as Erin Burnett mentioned on Morning Joe yesterday (Monday), most of the job were in government!  Way to go Lucky Folks!

Not only have they not been producing more jobs while enjoying their tax cuts, they complain about benefits for the unemployed (that they have not employed) because such assistance would add to the deficit (that they’ve been getting a break from alleviating).

And the Lucky Folks maintain this position by casually sweeping aside the reality of two wars that were started and continually pursued during their “tax holiday.”   Of course, our former shopper-in-chief saw no reason for them to pay any extra, since he felt the country’s bills could be paid if we just used our personal credit cards more.   Current officeholders of the same persuasion are now suggesting that future retirees wait to retire for another few years in order to pay for our wars-without-end.

I guess the big question is this: When did “It’s all about me” become America’s prime directive?  When did it become acceptable to suggest that our children, our children’s children, and older folks (needing a fixed income since savings and home values went down the drain) pay for the nation’s wars so the Lucky Folks could enjoy their tax cuts?

Considering that the Afghanistan war costs us taxpayers $2 billion a week, I wondered about tax rates during our major 20th century wars?  Doing a little internet research, I saw a picture of shared financial sacrifice that is quite different from anything we’ve seen recently.

Below is a table including the lowest bracket and the highest with their corresponding tax rates.    Included is the pre-war year of 1941, to show how much it changed with the onset of war.  In 1941, the lowest tax rate was 10% for taxpayer incomes up to $2,000.  Many brackets existed in between, but the highest one was 81% for those folks making over $5,000,000.  For 1942, the first full year of the war, the lowest tax rate almost doubled to 19% at the lowest income bracket, and increased to 88% for those at a much lower income level than before:  The highest bracket that had started with incomes of $5,000,000, was lowered to tax those with incomes of a mere $200,000 or more at 88%..

Here is my attempt at depicting the rates during our three major wars (and the aftermath of WWII):

World War II 1941 (December)-1945

Years            Lowest             Ceiling      Highest          Floor
1941               10%         $ 2,000          81%        $ 5,000,000
1942-43        19%            2,000           88%                200,000
1944-45        23%            2,000           94% *              200,000
1946-47        20%            2,000           91%                 200,000
1948-50        20%            4,000           91% **            400,000

*effective rate was limited to 90%
**limited to a 77% effective rate in 1948-49, 87% in 1950 and 87.2% in 1951.

The Korean War 1950-53

Years          Lowest         Ceiling          Highest        Floor
1951             20.4%         $4,000          91%*       $  400,000
1952-53      22.2%            4,000          92%**          400,000

* limited to an 87.2% effective rate
**limited to an 87% effective rate

Vietnam War 1961-75

Years           Lowest          Ceiling          Highest         Floor
1961-75        14%             $1,000           70%*      $  200,000

*War surcharges effectively increased this rate to 75.25% in 1968, 77% in 1969, and 71.75% in 1970.  The tax rate was limited to a 60% effective rate in 1971, and 50% in 1972-76.

The bottom line is that tax rates such as these would have the Lucky Folks rioting in the streets, but it was a different mentality back then.  I think those Americans just wanted to win, bring the troops home, and continue making a better world for their children and children’s children.  Seems like a long, long time ago.

***Quoting Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind.

Sources:
http://blogs.wsj.com/economics/2009/01/09/bush-on-jobs-the-worst-track-record-on-record/
http://staff.jccc.net/swilson/businessmath/taxes/fit.htm

Click to access federalindividualratehistory-20080107.pdf

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Baby, It’s Cold Inside….

Posted on August 3, 2010 by nowandthenadays

Strangely enough, I’ve been missing those long, lazy days of summer during my Austin youth when we got hot and stayed hot.  Those were the days when there was nothing as refreshing as a glass of iced tea, lemonade, or Kool-Aid.

The only thing that rivaled iced drinks was a late-afternoon popsicle.  The chimes of the ice cream truck from a few blocks away was the clarion call of sweet anticipation as you started weighing your options . . . eskimo pie, dreamsicle, or double-barreled raspberry popsicle.  (Does anyone know why raspberry comes out blue when turned into ice?)

But my summer memories of cooling off belong to another world now that we have learned to refrigerate our houses, restaurants, and other public places with meat-locker efficiency.

Today when I’m going out to eat, I think ahead before I dress.  Will I be in a place where the temperature reaches a maximum in the lower 60s?  I almost always take a light jacket or sweater just to be on the safe side.  And as the hostess is guiding me to a table, I’m scanning the ceiling for air conditioning vents.  If I’ve been there before, I usually remember the dangerous spots and suggest more comfortable locations if she heads in that direction.  The worst places are those where the temperature is maintained at arctic levels by the double whammy: central a-c AND whirring ceiling fans.

Do architects actually design buildings with any awareness that people are going to sit down while eating and drinking, rather than engage in jazzercise or ice carving where cold air would be welcome.  I’d like to ask these building professionals, “Why should I order a hot plate of linguini (or even french fries with my burger) while my table is being targeted for freeze-drying?”  And why should I have to order soup to warm my hands by cradling the warm bowl?

The only conclusion I have been able to reach is that a restaurant is not cooled for the patron’s comfort.  No-way.  I have asked many restaurant managers and have discovered that most restaurants do not have separate units for the dining room and the kitchen and it gets hot in the kitchen.  And, as you might guess, the kitchen folks control the thermostats.  Fast food places and a certain chain coffee-house are the worst.  If you even suggest that you are freezing and wearing a coat on purpose, they politely respond by noting that they are perfectly comfortable just the way things are, thank you very much.

I would think that there would be a financial incentive to save on the electricity powering these industrial a-c units, but perhaps it’s more economical to make sure the customer is so cold, she won’t linger.   It’s in the interest of the restaurant and its staff that you eat and run so the table gets turned quicker.  That chain coffee-house, in particular, seems to take an aggressive freeze-out stance, since otherwise, the wi-fi users wouldn’t budge –  tapping away at their laptops, earbuds firmly affixed – oblivious to time and space.

So, what about that refreshing glass of iced tea in August?  It’s not the pleasure it used to be.  Whenever I think of ordering a chilled beverage, I have to consider whether my body can stand a reduction in the internal temperature which is working like the devil to counteract the threat of external frost bite.  Aside from the fact that sodas and cold drinks seem to be the profit leader in the restaurant trade these days, unless I have a parka with me and my teeth-chattering under control, I’m less inclined to order anything but water at room temperature.

And eating joints aren’t the only culprits …. it’s the same in grocery stores.  I don’t dare go out to shop in a sleeveless blouse and shorts, even if I don’t plan on visiting the frozen food department.  These days, I get what I need and scurry out –  no aimless walking of aisles or comparison shopping, no dawdling at the sample tables.  The only exception I sometimes make is at the wine stands.  A few thimblefuls of wine are like the brandy from the cask of the trusty St. Bernard, rescuing me from hypothermia.

My whining, however, would not be complete without mentioning office buildings.  Maybe it’s because I’ve always worked for the State, but I have never experienced an office building wherein the temperature level could be regulated to a comfortable level.  I need to wear layers of clothes for removal in the winter, and bring layers for donning in the summer.   The summer period is the worse, however, except for the fact that my blue lips and I feel so virtuously “green” when driving home at 6:00 p.m. with the breeze of the open windows.  People must think I’m crazy in this weather, but it takes almost the entire trip before I’m thoroughly defrosted.

I’m not saying that we should go back to the days before central air conditioning, but with a pressing need to reduce our energy consumption, wouldn’t it make sense to cut back on some of this refrigeration?  And if it’s beyond our technological abilities to moderate or fine tune the cold air, I’d just like to ask that businesses provide blankets and real hand warmers.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , | 3 Comments