Anyone Got a Winch?
When I was small my uncle got a big kick out of taking us out to the pasture to check on the cows and “accidentally” driving into the mud -at which point he would spin his wheels for a while, rather dramatically and declare us ‘stuck’. After we realized our dilemma and before we completely panicked he would say, “Looks like we’re going to have to use the winch”.
Now, when I was six years old I didn’t know what a winch was, but that very day I learned. It’s the fundamental piece of equipment attached to the front of a vehicle for just such times as driving yourself in the ditch due to ice, snow, recklessness, mud, etc. When I hear DC lamenting our current economic status that I agree is “in the ditch” I think to myself, “Well, if it’s in the ditch why don’t you just use a winch to pull yourself out?” What would an economic winch look like? It would look like the American people pulling themselves out of the proverbial mire.
The private sector can no longer wait for the arguing in Washington DC to subside. Investors, consumers, all classes – anyone who is proud to call themselves an American can indeed winch themselves out. My uncle used to drive us into the mud just to show us he had the answer. Every man I know who has a winch loves to show that particular piece of equipment off and Washington doesn’t seem to know what it is. I even know one young man who made hundreds of dollars one night at a concert simply because people were so thankful that he used his winch to pull them out of the mud-soaked parking lot.
Yes, we are in a ditch, but please stop spinning the wheels, cursing each other, and digging us deeper into the mud!
See You Later Alligator
See you Later Alligator
It was the 70s. We were “white”. He was “black”. And I was 4 years old. Every Tuesday he came to collect the garbage along our rural road and I anticipated his visits with a childish glee. I don’t know when it started but I would look out the picture window when I heard the trash truck pull up and watch with wonder as he emptied the metal cans of their contents and smile and wave. I was too “naive” to know of racial tensions or that I should ignore the garbage man because possibly he might not really like his job. I wasn’t even a big talker as a child, but one day Mr. Green spoke on the way back to the truck. He said, “See you later alligator” and chuckled. I was delighted and when my older brothers and sisters came home from school I told them, “See you later alligator” and they responded, “After while Crocodile”.
So, the next Tuesday when Mr. Green arrived I was ready, I giggled when I saw him pass the window the first time and on his way back he said it again, “See you later alligator” and I chimed in, “After while Crocodile”. The easy smile and expression of genuine affection on his face I’ll never forget. This conversation became a Tuesday tradition for us. It was my first memorable encounter with anyone of a different race than me, but I didn’t see it as such then. It was just that Mr. Green was a nice guy that talked to me and for some reason I was fascinated by someone who emptied the trash cans outside. Yes, I was a weird little kid; but from this encounter I remember that racial tension did not occur naturally for me it had to be taught as life went on.
This man never knew what he did for me to make me question from childhood the racial bias that was all around us in the Southern 70s. Heck, I gave it no thought back then, but now I know how fortunate I was to have a good sanitation worker as a child. Mr. Green, in his goodness every Tuesday, disproved ahead of time the stereotypes I would hear in Southern Society growing up. He made me question the status-quo and laid the groundwork to hear the truth in Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s message. Pretty good work for a under-rated profession, don’t you think?
The Road to Kansas City
As you will see as I blog, most of my musings will have a deep-fried southern flavor to them. So, why do I say Kansas City Suzie…Well, y’all, I’d love to share the story of how we became Missourians:
You see, two years ago my family was living in a gated community down south (three cars, five kids, two dogs and a partridge in a pear tree). To sum it up, it was the American dream all wrapped up in a box complete with debt and true to the adage that the average Americans were two paychecks from disaster. Every year at Christmas time the company my husband worked for handed out the bonus of pink slips in paychecks. Suspecting his head was on the chopping block (despite excellent performance and awards from the company) my husband took a Voluntary Separation offer. Then, true to a Communication Workers of America promise twenty years ago, the company gathered all information from qualified workers on computer, sub-contracted to another company, cut 8,000 jobs at once, and hung everyone out to dry. Sure, it’s a slow economy but I honestly think companies were just looking for an excuse to do what they always planned to do. I think this because one year after the corporation did this; the people who stayed lost their jobs and my husband, having submitted his resume on several job search sites, has been offered the same job at a fraction of the pay with fewer benefits three times so far. They actually wanted him to take a pay cut and push his former co-workers out of their jobs at the same time. Moral of the paragraph: Union yes! Corporate audacity…unbelievable.
So, we planned Oregon as our next destination but ended up with our family living in both Louisiana and Arkansas over the course of the next year. We resisted the urge to spray paint the house we lost with “Bush Sucks” in red all over it, but now wish we had so that no one would mistake our misfortune as a result of the current administration. We tried more education and accumulated more debt and discovered one year into this plan that it wasn’t going to work. Wow, that was scary. Next step: Flood the market with resumes. Moral of the paragraph…Home is where the job is.
At this point, the Midwest was still nowhere on our radar; but it presented itself in the form of a job offer. Upon arriving to this area of the country we were taken aback by the fact that we never heard much about it. It’s beautiful here and despite all the southern pride and propaganda about how “nice” we are compared to the rest of the United States, I’ve found that the folks from the Heartland far exceeded my expectations. I love this place and I’m adopting it as “home”.
We have very few earthly possessions left, but strangely, it doesn’t really matter. We have possibly the lowest credit score known to mankind, but one thing we have learned is we are Americans. The boundaries that seem to divide us serve merely to make us appreciate one another in our strengths and weaknesses. Moral of the story…In times of difficulty, we grasp what is real, what really matters and that makes me very proud to be an American.
For the Love of a Patriot
I share the following story somewhat timidly for my first post. You see, my mother retired from working in a Nursing Home for thirty years just this past week. During her tenure, 4 of 5 of her children worked there as well – including me. She used to say when I was small, “Suzie, pray for the people in the nursing home” because I was a very religious child back then. And I did. However, after working there, I decided someone needs to do something more than pray. So, I yield a story I submitted in one of my college classes because, not only is it true, I know the subject of the essay wanted me to tell it:
He held a quiet dignity an commanded respect from both those who liked him an those who dislike him equally. Peripheral neuralgia had weakened his tall, stately frame and he had not wanted to be a burden to his wife; therefore, he had checked himself into the local nursing home where his needs could be more easily attended. While I was a secretary at this nursing home, the Colonel visited me at my desk and became my friend and adviser. We would chat about everything from politics to the other residents’ stories. The friendship inspired me to become a nursing assistant in addition to my regular employment at the front desk. After that, I began to accompany the residents, including the Colonel, to their doctors’ appointments so I came to know this wonderful sect of our country and fell in love with them. Now, I’d like to thank this man for teaching me what it means to be a better human, a hero, and a patriot.
During our chats, the Colonel told me of the plight of the Greatest Generation. They were promised health care for the rest of their lives when they had enlisted in the service during World War II. They fought to save the world. As their health fails, they face a shortage of nursing personnel and the lack of an informed citizenry. Very few people know the situation of our Greatest Generation until they visit a nursing home; however it becomes apparent as soon as one walks through the doors. The stench looms; the sound of misery assails the senses; the assistants rush; the nurses pass the medications; the administrator checks his blood pressure; and they all know they are working in a “hell hole.” at least that’s the way former President Clinton’s teacher described it. All are powerless to change the fact that our government has failed to look intently at the dilemma of our elders when tax-paying years are over. The Colonel knew it. He discussed the politics of his circumstances with me hoping that I would vote and tell others what is going on behind those doors.
Then came the day I will never forget. It was Independence Day. I walked past the residents as they ate their breakfast with lukewarm oatmeal. The Colonel, having appealed to the state for the right to do so, was enjoying his eggs over easy and I waved at him as I passed through the dining room en route to my desk. Not knowing what crafty scheme was working through the Colonel’s mind, I performed my morning routine. As I sifted through the papers containing requests for personal days and abuse reports submitted the night before, I waited for my colleague, Andrea, to arrive. When she arrived, the Colonel asked to speak with her privately and shut the door. A few minutes later, Andrea poked her head out and whispered, “Go get the Colonel’s things…He’s checking himself out!” He could not have picked a better or worse day. There was nothing we could do about the paperwork necessary for a discharge on the Fourth of July. And he knew it; and she knew it; and I knew it; but we fell in line with the Colonel’s command that Independence Day. He had spent four lengthy years in a long-term care facility subject to both abuse of his dignity and physical neglect at times.
Finally, the Colonel’s wife arrived and I helped her husband into her car. A secret joy crept and pride in knowing such an individual crept through my being as I closed the door and I noted the same flag that flew over the nursing home every day waving in the breeze. It seemed a little prouder that morning. Its red, white, and blue gleamed against a cloudless sky as one of its staunchest allies exerted his right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. We acknowledged the risk associated with discharge and, although my mood was tinged with sadness at his departure, I jumped for joy inside for the dignity reclaimed by the Colonel. When we read his obituary in the paper four months later, there was silence in the facility as we paused to recognize that we had known a truly great American.
So, in conclusion, we all should know these wonderful Americans and their plight. Without taking much extra time, we could be their friends at the ballot box. We could all become better humans, everyday heroes, and genuine patriots.
Now, my writing style has changed dramatically since I wrote the story…but not much has changed with nursing homes. I would challenge readers to make this an issue because, according to the values handed down to me, we are supposed to respect our elders. I do note that I lived most of my life further south than Missouri and it is a story that took place a good while ago, most certainly not reflecting on my current home state.
