GUN CONTROL--IS IT TIME NOW?

Like most people I was sickened by the slaughter of twenty children and six adults at the Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut by a young man yielding a semiautomatic Bushmaster AR-15.  In addition, the perpetrator of this horrendous act killed his own mother and finally killed himself.  To add insult to this terrible injury, Mr. Wayne LaPierre of the National Rifle Association took it upon himself to blame it all on Hollywood, the news media, pop music, "gun-free school zones" and a generalized culture of violence.  Not once did he blame anything on guns.  His solution, put armed guards in every school in the United States.  A local blogger, who is a retired Army Warrant Officer, has stated that he agrees with a great deal of what LaPierre had to say and went one step further recommending that all active duty, retired and honorably discharged military personnel with no diagnosed mental illness be encouraged to arm up and carry a weapon either concealed on in open carry.  

Their whole premise is that an armed society is a civil society.  Their proposal is to answer violence with perhaps more violence.  The Army veteran I mentioned above has gone so far as to claim that anyone with an Obama sticker on their car is fair game for criminals since most of these folks don't own guns.  On the other hand, he proudly claims that anyone with a National Rifle Association sticker on their car is one tough dude and that criminals will automatically steer away from these pistol packin' people.  In all fairness, I should point out that this man is a self-proclaimed RIGHT leaning Libertarian and I am a LEFT leaning old fashioned Franklin D. Roosevelt Democrat but I am not committed to the excessive dogma of the Democratic Party.  Hell, I even voted for Ronald Reagan since I figured with his background, he could at least act like a president.  And he did a pretty good job of it.  

It has been eight years since the Assault Weapons Ban expired.  And the mass killings continue and often assault weapons are not in the picture.  Gun advocates are quick to proclaim, "See, nothing has changed, you can't blame assault weapons for all the killings." But why do we need to make assault weapons and high capacity magazines available to the average citizen?  Is it all because the Second Amendment declares that citizens have a right to bear arms?  Is that it?  

According to Mother Jones, which I must admit is a popular left-leaning magazine, points out there have been sixty-two mass killings over the last thirty years (1982-2012).  In forty-nine cases the killer obtain his weapon[s] legally, twelve did not and one case is not clear.  Sixty-eight semi-automatic handguns, thirty-five assault weapons, twenty revolvers and nineteen shotguns--142 weapons--were used to commit these mass murders.  The killers were lone killers, not part of a gang and the killings were mostly in public places.  The sad part is most of them had some mental illness, often manifesting itself before the killings took place.  

So, most of the killers obtained their weapons legally, because the Second Amendment says they have a right to own the weapons.  But the Second Amendment does not say they have a right to kill people with them and try as I might I can find nothing in the Second Amendment that says anyone has a right to own a semi-automatic weapon, an assault rifle or high capacity magazines  that hold thirty or more rounds of ammunition thus allowing a gun owner to fire many rounds before having to reload.  

I keep asking myself, "Why is it necessary for ordinary citizens to have assault weapons or semi-automatic pistols that can accommodate high capacity magazines or why they even need high capacity magazines?"  Some gun owners claim they like them so they can fire a lot of rounds at target practice.  Some say they simply want to collect all kinds of weapons and accessories.  But I haven't heard anyone say they need these weapons for hunting.  In my opinion, it if takes more than a couple of shots to bring down whatever animal you are hunting, perhaps you should not be hunting.  And how many rounds do you need to fire to know if you are pretty good at shooting at a target?  

While mass killings are the headline grabbers, there are many thousands of gun associated deaths that don't get the 24/7 media coverage that mass killings do.  But nevertheless, a gun is used in many killings--guns are dangerous, particularly so in the hands of someone who is mentally ill.  

Is it possible to ban all guns?  No.  There are over 300,000,000 guns in the country owned by over 100,000,000 people.  We can no sooner ban weapons and high capacity magazines that we can count the grains of sand on a beach.  BUT we can make gun ownership, particularly owner ship of assault weapons and high capacity magazine, much more difficult.  And we can make ownership of guns more  responsible.  We need to immediately reinstate the ban on assault weapons and high capacity magazines--period.  No ordinary citizen should be allowed to possess these--period.  They should be reserved for law enforcement and military personnel.  Just since the Newtown massacre, gun stores have been overwhelmed with the demand for assault weapons and high capacity magazines.  Some stores have sold out their inventory in a few hours.  Why?  Because gun owners are scared to death there is going to be a ban on these deadly devices.  Let's hope their fears are proven to be correct.  

Gun ownership should require registration of all weapons.  And perhaps, just perhaps, gun owners should be required to purchase insurance specifically aimed at covering damage caused by guns.  Certification of a training course in gun safety with the weapons owned is a must.  Every retail and private sale of a gun,whether at a gun show or an individual sale, must be reported and background checks must be standard.  Failure to report a sale or conduct a background check should give cause for penalties--a hefty fine for first offenders, repeat offenders might possible face jail time.  Since individuals don't have the means to do background checks, those sales must be reported to the appropriate authority who will conduct the background check and the transfer of any weapon[s] will not take place until the background check has been completed.  

But guns are not the only issue.  A large number of the killers involved in these crimes suffer from mental illness.  As noted earlier, this often manifests itself before the actual crime.  It may even include threats of committing killings.  Medical professionals, law enforcement personnel and even teachers need to know what to look for and when they suspect something, they must report it.  Health care for the mentally ill must be readily available and costs must not be prohibitive.  If necessary, it may require that some individuals be institutionalized for evaluation and treatment.  

I realize this may sound very harsh, but murder or more properly massacres are harsh.  They are horrible.  I spent a large portion of my life (39 years) in the Navy Medical Department.  I served alongside Marines.  I have seen what the weapons of war to to human flesh.  I have held dying men and watched the light go out of their eyes as death crept into their bodies.  I believe I can vouchsafe say that none of the gun proponents I have heard have  seen death from gunfire up close and personal.  They claim that all an armed individual has to do is pull his weapon and kill the perpetrator.  Talk is cheap--many law enforcement officers go through a whole career and never unholster their weapon to stop a crime.  And that's not all; in one incident several years ago, police wounded several bystanders in a shootout with criminals.  

This is my Two Cents Worth  

CAR WASH, DOG WASH, DO-IT-YOURSELF DETAILING

     CAR WASH, DOG WASH, DO IT YOURSELF DETAILING

If you are heading east on Route 28 going out of Manassas, you pass a carwash that has the following “billing” on their sign:

CAR WASH  DOG WASH  DO-IT-YOURSELF DETAILING

As my wife and I drove by I began to wonder.  I understand how the car wash thing works, but what about the DOG WASH and the DO-IT-YOURSELF DETAILING? 

Stop and think about it—how do they take the dog through the wash?  Do they simply attach a chain to the dog’s collar, hook them up and let the mechanism pull them through the wash?  How big does the dog have to be?  And what about the water pressure?  Like at Disney Land, is there a sign that says, “Your dog has to be this big to go through the dog wash” or perhaps it says, “Your dog has to be this big and weigh this much to go through the dog wash.”  And the water pressure—if you have a small dog like a Jack Russell, can they dial down the water pressure so it doesn’t just blow the dog away?  Do they charge extra for big dogs like Great Danes, St. Bernards or Bull Mastiffs?  What about long dogs like Dachshunds—do they charge extra because they are long?  And how do you protect their eyes?  Do they put a set of goggles on the dog?  Finally—what about wax and Rain-X?  I can see the Rain-X if you have an outside dog, but I suspect the wax might mat up their hair.  Of course, maybe you could do the wax thing on one of those hairless dogs.  Can you imagine what a St. Bernard would look like after it went through that blow dryer thing?  I just dunno. 

 As to DO-IT-YOURSELF DETAILING?  Well, that certainly is open for speculation.  Do you simply walk through?  If so, do you wear your clothes or do you do this au naturale?  Do they give you a set of goggles?  And if you go through au naturale, what about your Unit?  And again, the questions about Rain-X and Wax. 

 

I ain’t too sure about this DO-IT-YOURSELF DETAILING.  But I do have some questions…

 

A MATTER OF OATHS AND PLEDGES

A Matter of Oaths and Pledges

I wrote  this some time ago when we were holding elections in Virginia.  And this whole idea of pledges has cropped up again.  Several Congressional Republcans who previous signed the Americans for Tax Reform pledge have decided that they will no longer abide by that pledge and about a dozen newly elected Republicans have refused to be conned into signing the pledge.  Needless to say, Grover Norquist is a bit peeved.  

 The pledge of which I speak is the  pledge is developed by Grover Norquist, founder of the Americans for Tax Reform (ATR).  Mr. Norquist, who has never held an elected office, has taken upon himself to promulgate ATR’s no tax pledges to conservatives and now it is almost a rite of passage for Republicans and their Tea Party comrades if they wish to hold office at any level of government.   If you are a Democrat running in a Republican district, you can be assured that not signing the ATR pledge will more than likely cost you the election.  The Americans for Tax Reform have gone so far as to tailor their pledge for governors, state legislators, members of the U.S. Senate and member of the U.S. House of Representatives.

This statement from the ATR’s website pretty much tells the story:

“In the Taxpayer Protection Pledge, candidates and incumbents solemnly bind themselves to oppose any and all tax increases. While ATR has the role of promoting and monitoring the Pledge, the Taxpayer Protection Pledge is actually made to a candidate’s constituents, who are entitled to know where candidates stand before sending them to the capitol.


Since the Pledge is a prerequisite for many voters, it is considered binding as long as an individual holds the office for which he or she signed the Pledge.”

Read more: http://www.atr.org/taxpayer-protection-pledge#ixzz1UXvjDgVU

In perusing the website of one Republican primary candidate hoping to be the Republican senatorial candidate in the next general election, I found that he equates Democrats with socialism and he states this is why he is proud to announce he has signed ATR’s No Tax Pledge.

The pledge for state office legislators is unequivocal in its wording.

“I, ________________________,
pledge to the taxpayers of the _______ District of the state of ____________________
and all the people of this state that I will oppose and vote against any and all efforts to increase taxes.” [Emphasis supplied]  http://www.atr.org/userfiles/StatePledge.pdf

Do you see any room in this pledge to negotiate or compromise?  I sure don’t.

Candidates sign pledges and make promises to groups in order to gain their support, particularly support  in the form of funds to help finance ever costly campaigns.  But there is a price to pay for this.
Every time a candidate signs a pledge or makes a promise to some special interest group, he or she has begun to paint themselves into a corner when it comes to negotiating or compromising on anything to do with the “T” word or increases in revenue.

And should an office holder violate this pledge, it will come back to haunt him or her at the next primary election or the next time there is a fundraiser.  The ATR or special interest group will, “grind his/her bones to make their bread.”  The coffers will be bare and a new candidate highly endorsed by the ATR or some interest group with deep pockets will be the new favorite child, having sold his or her soul for a few pieces of silver.

I can find nothing in the Constitution of the United States or the Constitution of the Commonwealth of Virginia requiring elected official to make such pledges or promises.

The current oath U.S. senators and representatives was enacted in 1884.  It states:

“I do solemnly swear (affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic and that I will bear truth faith and allegiance to
the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation
or purpose of evasion and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter:  So help me God.”  [Again, emphasis supplied]

If they have pledged to the ATR or some other special interest group that they will or won’t do something, then I must ask how do they reconcile their oath of office that states they , “…take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion”?  They have already obligated themselves to someone other than the constituents who elected them and have pledged to do their bidding.  They are no longer free; when they raised their hand they had mental reservations and they surely will evade their responsibility to, “well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office” they are about to enter.

Article II, Section 7 of the Constitution of the Commonwealth of Virginia simply requires that elected officials state,

“I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support the Constitution of the United States and the Constitution of Commonwealth of Virginia, and that I will faithfully and impartially discharge all duties incumbent upon me as _______________ according to the best of my ability (so help me God).”  [Emphasis supplied]

Here again is one little word that says the office holder will be impartial in carrying out their duties, but they gave that ability away when they signed that pledge or made that promise.  They can no longer be faithful to their office and their constituents since they have foresworn their fealty to another group.

I believe that we should demand that any candidate who seeks our support abandon all such pledges or promises and simply honor their oath of office.  They need not sign a pledge; their word will be their bond.  Then perhaps words like compromise and negotiate can return to the lexicons of our elected officials free of any blemish.

A CHANCE MEETING

A CHANCE MEETING

I was shopping in a local supermarket recntly when I spotted an elderly gentleman pushing a cart down the various aisles carefully going over his shopping list as he picked items off the shelf.  I had no idea how old he was but I knew he was older than I.  Once as we passed, I said, “I bet you enjoy this as much as I do.  Right?”  He smiled and said, “Oh, it’s not so bad.”  We went on our way but a few minutes later I spotted him again and simply had to ask, “Are you a World War II veteran?”  Although he had been stooped over his cart, he straightened up and said, “Yes, I am.”  My heart lit up since I love to talk to this generation of veterans who are fast disappearing.  I asked him what he did during the war and he told me he had been a Radioman in the Navy.  He said he had spent most of his six years in the Navy on destroyers; those grey wolves of the sea.  He also told me he had been in the invasion of Okinawa and that his ship had been hit by a kamikaze plane and had to be abandoned.  I told him that I had been in the Navy also but never had the privilege of serving in a ship but that I had spent most of my time with the Marines.  He laughed and noted that I must have been a Corpsman.  I said I had been but later on became an officer.  We chatted for a few more minutes and I asked him if he had stayed in the Navy.  He said that he hadn’t because he met his wife in 1946 and after three dates he asked her to marry him.  She accepted and they were married on September 21, 1946—64 years ago.  Between the two of them, they decided that the Navy was not for them.  Somewhere along the way he mentioned that he was 90 years old and that his wife was 88.  But he then told me that she was suffering from Alzheimer’s disease and he was losing her day-by-day. 

I have to tell you that as our conversation progressed, I could not help the tears that began to flow down my cheeks.  As we parted, I told him how much I appreciated his service and the service of all of those folks of his generation.  I told him that if it hadn’t been for their sacrifices, he and I would not be standing there doing what we were doing.  He simply smiled and went on his way. 

God bless this disappearing generation and God bless them for what they did for this nation and the world. 

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This elderly gentleman's comment about losing his wife day-by-day reminds me of a piece I read a few days ago.

An elderly man went to a physician's office to have some stitches removed from a finger that he had cut earlier.  As he spoke with the nurse at the desk, he kept looking at his watch.  This prompted the nurse to ask if he had another appointment and he told her, "Yes, I have to be at the nursing home at 9:00 to have breakfast with my wife."  The nurse knew it would be well past 9:00 before he would be seen so she checked his wound, saw that it was well healed and then went to ask if she could removed the stitches and send him on his way.  She got permission and as she was removing the stictches, she askek the man how his wife was doing.  He told her that she was not doing well because she had Alzheimer's Disease and had been in the nursing home for five years.  He told her that his wife no long knew who he was.  At this point the nurse asked, "Then why do you still go?".  He told her, "Well she doesn't know me anymore but I still know who she is." 

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME...

Recently I wrote a small piece about memories evoked by finding a sixty-year-old penny.  I think it is interesting to discover the things that trigger memories.  Several years ago, Reader’s Digest published an article about the memories and images evoked by our sense of smell.  The article noted that some smells call up the strongest of memories.  I recall that one man picked up his father’s smoking jacket long after his father had died and memories of his father rushed back. 

                         

Last week I was cooking some hamburgers on the grill and decided to fry up some onions for them.  As I was frying the onions, memories more than 70 years old suddenly were there.  When my brother and I were small boys, there was a little diner in our hometown in northern Oklahoma.  As I recall it, it was somewhat like the diners popular many years ago, made from a railroad dining car, but I don’t know if this was the case.  It was rumored that an “old Greek” owned it.  I don’t know the country of origin of the man behind the counter, but he was old (or so it seemed to a 6 year old) and he did have an accent.  The only items I recall coming from that diner were hamburgers—delicious and inexpensive.  So many years have gone by that I don’t know if they were 5 cents apiece/12 for 50 cents or 10 cents apiece/12 for a dollar.  They were fried on a grill; the buns were heated under an old chipped enamel wash pan with an improvised wooden handle, but the thing that made them so special was the fried onions.  Now, 70+ years later I can still smell them and I have a vivid picture of the place.  It was long ago, but the sweet memories remain. 

For years in my hometown there was a small restaurant called simply “Tucker’s”.  The restaurant was wedged between the First National Bank and the F. W. Woolworth store.  Mr. Tucker made the best chili in town or so I thought.  It was red, greasy and full of flavor.  You had to use a bunch of saltine crackers to soak up the grease, but the chili stuck with you all day.  When I make chili, that restaurant pops into my mind along with its 5-cent cup of coffee served in a thick mug and you could get several refills—enough to get you through lunch and a piece of pie. 

Men my age may well recall the astringent lotion made from witch hazel and used in barbershops for many years.  I went to the same barbershop until I was 18 years old.  I even worked in that barbershop shining shoes, sweeping the place and refilling the various hair tonic bottles as well as restocking towels and neck papers.  The barbershop was located in the basement of the First National Bank building and did a landslide business since there was only one other barbershop in town.  Farmers came to town on Saturdays to get a haircut and a shave.  When the barber was finished with both, there generally was a liberal application of witch hazel or you could get a fancy tonic for a little more.  Let me smell witch hazel and I am in that barbershop. 

Three other things stick out in my mind when I smell certain things—freshly popped popcorn, hotdogs and oiled wooden floors. 

Saturday nights in my early years were generally spent with my mother’s parents.  My folks, my brother and I would go to my grandparent’s home to listen to the popular radio shows on their big Philco radio.  My grandfather would always pop popcorn in an old black pan.  None of this fancy Orville Redenbacher stuff with “Lite Butter”, but the real stuff—popcorn not too long off the cob.  It was still full of moisture and it popped into big fluffy white kernels.  And it was drenched in real butter and served in newspaper cones that my brother and I rolled up.  If you have never had it this way, you just don’t know what real popcorn is.  After 70+ years, I can still smell and taste my grandfather’s popcorn every time I get a whiff of freshly popped popcorn. 

There was man in our town by the name of Goldy Buttrey.  Goldy owned a gas station and he also owned a hotdog stand that sat out in front of the gas station.  You know the kind, shiny metal with a large umbrella and what I euphemistically call “dirty water hotdogs”.  Goldy brought the foot long hotdog to our little town shortly after World War II.  He would open up the pan where the hotdogs were steaming and serve one upon a long bun—all for a quarter I recall.  Now, when I stop at a hotdog stand in Washington, D.C. or other places, that little hotdog stand in Oklahoma comes to mind. 

Oiled wooden floors almost don’t exist any more—too much of a fire hazard.  But when I was in grade school, the janitor used a sweeping compound composed of scented oil and sawdust.  This sweeping compound kept down the dust, but it also kept the floors oiled to protect them and prevent them from drying out.  The fact that they were a fire hazard didn’t seem to cross anyone’s mind in the late 1930s and early 1940s.  Now if I am in an old building that has been “recycled” for some modern commercial use, I often can pick up the faint smell of oiled wooden floors and I can just see our school janitor broadcasting the sweeping compound on the floor just before he begins sweeping it for the day. 

One last thought.  All the years I can remember my maternal grandfather, Psalter Goodwin Barnes, he smoked Prince Albert pipe tobacco and Prince Edward cigars.  Both were inexpensive but they were what he could afford.  When I smell pipe smoke or when I smoke a cigar, I think of my grandfather, carefully filling his pipe or clipping the end off his cigar, putting it into a holder and lighting a match.  To this day I love that smell.  I can see my grandfather setting in his rocker on the front porch with a wreath of smoke above his head. 

So the next time you smell something familiar, stop and think about what it reminds you of.  Take a journey in your mind and savor those sweet smells.

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO VISITING

I wrote this piece a few years back when my dog Jake and I would take walks in our neighborhood.  And in the process of those daily "constitutionals" we met many folks and, in our own way, we visited.  Sometimes we strolled along with another dog walker and sometimes it was just a momentary meeting and a few words.  My dog Jake is gone and so I don't get out as much as I used to and I miss my visits.  

Whatever Happened to Visiting?

By

George S. Harris

“At your return, visit our house; let our old acquaintance be renewed.”

William Shakespeare (1564–1616), Justice Shallow, in Henry IV, Part 2, act 3, sc. 2, l. 294.

Whatever happened to the concept of people visiting people to renew or continue a long-standing friendship or simply to catch up on the latest news?  

The word “visit” is a very busy word—it is verb, a transitive verb, an intransitive verb and a noun!  A lot to be said for a little five-letter word.  Take a look at the definition. 

vis·it (vĭz'ĭt)

v., -it·ed, -it·ing, -its.

v.tr.

1.      

a.     To call on socially: visit friends.

b.     To go to see or spend time at (a place) with a certain intent: visit a museum; visited London.

c.     To stay with as a guest.

d.     To go to see in an official or professional capacity: visited the dentist; a priest visiting his parishioners.

2.     To go or come to: visits the bank on Fridays.

3.     To go to see in order to aid or console: visit the sick and dying.

4.     To make itself known to or seize fleetingly: was visited by a bizarre thought.

5.      

a.     To afflict or assail: A plague visited the village.

b.     To inflict punishment on or for; avenge: The sins of the ancestors were visited on their descendants.

v.intr.

1.     To make a visit.

2.     Informal. To converse or chat: Stay and visit with me for a while.

n.

1.     The act or an instance of visiting a person, place, or thing.

2.     A stay or sojourn as a guest.

3.     The act of visiting in a professional capacity.

4.     The act of visiting in an official capacity, such as an inspection or examination.

[Middle English visiten, from Old French visiter, from Latin vīsitāre, frequentative of vīsere, to want to see, go to see, from vidēre, to see.]

Five hundred years ago visiting was a necessity.  There were no planes, trains or automobiles.  Travelers to distant places were forced to stop at the end of the day to “visit” a hostel or, better yet, spend the night in the home of a friend. 

Today’s electronic forms of “visiting” were far in the future.  Telephones were more than 300 years away and computers another hundred years after that.  The Internet, e-mail, instant messaging and web cameras were simply beyond the imagination. 

The term “visit” has many connotations. 

“Visiting” could also be used by kings to keep their followers in line.  If a lord or a knight became a little obtrusive, the king would simply pay a visit on the errant soul and bring along his entire retinue.  The host was obligated to provide for the visitors during their stay.  It didn’t take long for a large crowd to ea t the host out of house and home or cast as the case may be.  Then he was too poor to be threat to the king. 

As noted in the definition of “visit”, it has a dark side.  Plagues were said to be “visited” on sinful nations or peoples.  Evil spirits “visited” folks and made them ill.  Holy men of all sorts were called upon to exorcise the visiting spirits. 

Years ago, doctors visited patients in their homes.  If a priest or pastor came to visit, it might be because you were expected to be meeting your Maker in the not too distant future.  If you had to visit the principal’s office, chances were you were not there to renew an old acquaintance.  Sometimes if the preacher and his wife came to visit, it was generally for Sunday dinner (what many folks call lunch) which most often consisted of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, peas, green beans or some form of “greens” cooked with bacon or salt pork and, of course, homemade pie or layer cake for dessert. 

When I was young boy growing up in a small town in Oklahoma, visiting was almost an art and took many forms.  Those were the days before television and computers.  Porches, big, deep, shady porches were popular.  Porch swings and rocking chairs were in constant use all through the spring, summer and fall.  People would sit on porches in swings or rockers and visit for hours.  Telephone calls were infrequent and the radio was reserved for daily soap operas and the evening news.  Weekend radio brought popular shows like Fred Allen, Fibber McGee and Molly, George Burns and Gracie Allen, Jack Benny, Bob Hope, Red Skelton, Out, Amos and Andy, Lum and Abner, Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy, Milton Berle, and The Kraft Music Hall.  On weekends, my parents, my younger brother and I would visit my maternal grandparents, P.G. and Ola Barnes.  They had a large Philco radio in their living room where we would gather around to listen to the popular shows much as families used to gather around to watch television in its early days.  My grandfather would pop popcorn and, in the summer, lemonade or sweetened iced tea were always favorites. 

My grandmother had visiting down to a science.  In good weather she would sit in her porch swing and people would stop by to visit with her on her nice shady porch.  My brother and I would often “visit” if we were in trouble at home.  My grandmother had a widowed sister who once “visited” for nearly a year before finding a place to live.  After my grandfather retired, he would go to town and sit on one courthouse square’s benches and visit with other old retired men.  Sometimes he would go down to the river and fish with his cronies.  Catching fish was not so important as catching up on what was going on. 

My grandmother had another sister who lived about 10 miles from my hometown.  I loved to visit her and my cousins in the summertime since it always meant making homemade ice cream.  The ingredients would be put in the hand cranked ice cream maker, ice and salt would be packed in and the kids got to turn the crank until the ice cream became too stiff and then the adults would take over.  Finally when it couldn’t be turned any longer, part of the ice would be removed, the lid would be taken off and the “dasher” would be taken out.  The lid would be returned to the top of the can, the hole would be plugged with a cork and the whole thing would be packed in more ice and salt to await eating after dinner.  Ahhh, but the dasher, now that was a different story.  The dasher was a metal and wooden set of paddles that stirred the ice cream mixture to ensure even freezing.  Although it was scrapped thoroughly when it was removed, there was always a battle to see who got to lick the dasher to remove the last remnants of the ice cream. 

My hometown main street was Main Street and on Saturday evenings, it was a popular place to visit.  People would park on Main Street and walk around to see who was in town and they would “visit”.  My mother had severe rheumatoid arthritis and walking was very painful.  She would sit in the car and people would stop by to talk and catch up on the latest news of each other’s families.  Some would stay for half an hour, some only a few minutes.  But all parties got some pleasure from the visit.  We kids would play up and the street, perhaps going to the Meadow Gold Ice Cream Parlor for a 5-cent double dip ice cream cone or into the drugstore for a nickel fountain Coke.  Occasionally we would prowl the aisles of the F. W. Woolworth store looking for a bargain. 

My mother’s arthritis soon took it toll by crippling her so much she could not drive to visit with friends and family.  Driving was left to my father on the weekends and to my brother and me when we got old enough.  But Mom loved to visit—particularly if she was not feeling good.  Now that may seem odd, but bear with me.  There was man in my hometown whose arthritis was far worse than my mother’s.  He constantly complained about his problems and did so with little provocation.  When Mom was having a particularly bad arthritis day she would give him jingle to visit.  Almost immediately he would begin to tell her how bad he was doing.  She would listen patiently and when she would hang up the phone she would say, “Man, I feel so much better now!”  Her telephonic visits gave her friend a chance to have his complaints heard and his complaints made her realize that maybe she didn’t have it so bad that day.  Mom had many lifelong friends she would visit with.  They understood the necessity for telephone visits and some of them would be hours long.  Friends would visit our home often and they were always a welcome sight. 

Extended families would gather on summer Sunday afternoons in the city park to visit and enjoy a family picnic.  These were often potluck affairs with each of the women bringing their favorite dish.  I am sure there was some planning since we never seemed to have all desserts or all potato salad or deviled eggs.  These picnics were always a taster’s delight and you would look forward to Aunt So-and So’s fried chicken or Cousin So-and-So’s deviled eggs and Grandmother So-and-So’s homemade pie.  The women would sit and talk about their families and homemaking ideas.  Men would talk about work, fishing, and how to keep to a car running for money was tight and new cars were infrequent.  The kids would play on swings or perhaps sneak down to the river to throw stones or to watch local fishermen fishing for catfish.

For the adults, visiting might involve playing cards or board games.  Contract bridge, canasta, penny poker and pinochle were popular.  In the 50’s a board game called “Wahoo” came along and was extremely popular in the Midwest.  My parents and my mother’s cousin and her husband were virtually addicted to the game.  My mother’s cousin would call and say they wanted to visit, but they only had time for one game of Wahoo before they had to leave.  And so it would go.  One game and they were off. 

But somewhere along the way, the art of visiting got lost.  Air conditioning meant you no longer had to sit outside on a shady porch, seeking a cooling breeze in the heat of summer.  Parents both began to work to make ends meet.  Television came along and brought all kinds of entertainment into the home.  People went inside, closed their doors and visiting began to die.  The computer age came along and dealt the deathblow to old time visiting.  Now people can “visit” across many time zones with instant messaging programs.  Web cameras have made it possible for us to see and hear each other during our electronic visits.  We no longer have to visit the bank to take care of our banking business.  Checks are deposited electronically and we can pay our bills with the push of a few buttons.  We don’t need to visit the local pharmacy—we can get our prescriptions filled on line, even going internationally to get a cheaper price.  We don’t even have to visit the post office to buy a stamp—we can get them everywhere or we can buy them on line or even print them on our home computer.  We can visit museums and far away places simply by spending a few minutes on the computer.  I recently took a virtual visit of Russia’s Winter Palace and Hermitage Museum in the comfort of my own home.  

When I walked my dog Jake this morning, we went up to the corner store.  I took the time to visit with the owner and we spent our laughing about funny events.  We had a genuine good time even though the visit was only a half an hour.  We caught up on what was going on in our lives and some of the events of the day.  On the way back home, I stopped to visit with a friend who has terminal cancer.  Jake and I didn’t stay long, just long enough to see how things were going, to offer any help we could and let them him know we were available if needed.  

Take time out of your day to go and personally visit with someone—a family member, a friend or someone you know who needs help.  It will refresh you and bring happiness to your day.  Trust me on this one.