THE DEATH OF A GRANDPARENT

ON THE DEATH OF A GRANDPARENT

Recently the grandfather of a young person I know died.  While the loss of a grandparent is not as devastating as the loss of a parent, it is a significant, life-altering event.  With the passing of grandparents, we lose a connection to a time that existed even before our parents were born.  We lose a connection to a history we can only read about in books, a history that lived in the faces and actions of our grandparents. 

Grandparents come from the time “before”—and in this particular case, the time was before the Great Depression, World War II, before television, before the Korean War, before the Vietnam War, before cell phones, the internet, computers and such things as Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn and all of the other social media.  Some people didn’t have indoor plumbing or telephones and I am certain that their grandchildren wonder how their grandparents got by without the many “modern conveniences” they have today.  They came from a time when gasoline was 29 cents a gallon, and you could buy a good steak at the local butcher shop for 22 cents a pound and everybody’s favorite comfort food, Campbell’s Tomato Soup, was four cans for a quarter.  Still around today, but much more expensive, Kellogg’s Cornflakes were three packages for 25 cents.  Today, those same cornflakes sell for about $3.79 for a 12-ounce box. 

Grandmothers (Granny, Grandma, Nana) were often the ones we turned to for solace, particularly if we were having problems with our parents.  In many instance, Grandmothers raised us or were always there as the fill-in babysitter.  My maternal grandmother lived just doors away for a good part of my life and she was the one my mother often turned to for a home remedy or a recommendation as to how something should be handled. 

Grandfathers (Grandpa, Granddad, Pop-Pop), on the other hand, were often very stoic.  But they might be your fishing partner or the one who took you to a ball game.  And in many cases, they were an early employer if they hired you to cut their lawn.  They might have even have taught you to whittle, or play ball or golf.  Maybe. 

Then one day you look around and your grandparents are old, really old.  Their hair has turned white or, in the case of grandfathers, it may have disappeared altogether.  Their faces are suddenly filled with wrinkles and their gait is no longer strong and steady.  And they may be a little crankier that you remember from earlier days and their hearing is now electronically aided.  And they always seem to be wondering what they did with their glasses.  But they are still our grandparents, our connection to the time “before”.

And then, often suddenly, they are taken from us.  And our connection to their history is broken.  But even this does not mean that they are gone from our memory.  They are there and they are in our genes—they are part of us just as we are part of them.  And although they are gone from our sight, they are with us and they are loved.  On another day, we will be grandparents who are those people from the time “before”.  And we will pass on our memories, our genes and our love before we are also gone. 

THE INVISIBLE PEOPLE

THE INVISIBLE PEOPLE

We see them every day but we never see them.  How can that be?  It sounds like an impossible statement but it happens routinely.

We go to a mall that is all nice and clean, the floors are shiny, there is no trash lying around and the crowds rush to and fro.  We walk into a fast food restaurant and order our hamburger, chicken, smoothie or whatever.  The place is clean, there is no trash around and the tables are wiped down.  Our favorite upscale eatery reflects the same care—everything is in it proper place, no dirty dishes setting around, no crumbs on the floor, glasses, silverware and napkins are all in place. 

None of this happens by accident.  These things happen because of the invisible people.  They are the people who clean the floors, empty the trash, clean the tables, wash the dishes and silverware, set the tables—they clean up the messes we make. 

You know all of the mass mailing stuff you get?  All those catalogs, flyers, letters offering all kinds of credit cards and loans.  In many instances these are assembled and packaged by other invisible people. 

Some speak little or no English, some have developmental disabilities, and for the most part all are paid a minimum wage and probably have few, if any, benefits.  We take them for granted every day because, I suppose, to us they truly are invisible. 

A few weeks back I was in a local mall and watched as an older man walked around the mall with a broom and a dustpan, sweeping up the detritus of the day.  As he walked past me, I said to him, “You are really do a great job keeping this mall clean.”  My statement stopped him in his tracks and a huge smile spread itself across his wrinkled face.  “Thank you”, he said and I went on to ask him how long he had been working at the mall and what other kinds of work had he done.  Come to find out, he had retired after working for many years in industry but his retirement and Social Security just weren’t enough to live on, so he had taken a job as one of the cleaners of the mall.  We talked for several minutes and I know I was keeping him from his appointed rounds but he didn’t seem to mind.  After a few minutes, I thanked him again and he went on his way but there seemed to be a little spring in his step that I hadn’t noticed before.

On another day, my wife and I were in a local bakery/restaurant having lunch.  This particular place asks you to please empty your own trash and put your trays, dishes and silverware in places designated for dirty dishes.  As I was doing this, a young man was emptying the trash and putting in new trash bags.  I simply said to him, “Thanks for what you are doing.  It makes this place a pleasure to come to.”  Again, that same type of appreciative smile spread across his face and again, there was the sincere, “Thank you.”  I told him that if he wasn’t doing his job we would all be knee deep in trash, to which he readily agreed.  I don’t know when the last time was that someone told him important his job was but on this occasion, I was glad I had been the one to do so. 

A few years ago I was privileged to work at a university that was engaged in training physicians, nurses and scientists as well as conducting medical research.  The place was filled with physicians and doctoral level scientists who, on numerous occasions can be very trying if things are not going exactly as they believe they should be.  The university has a large supply department that processes many deliveries of goods and equipment that come across their loading dock on a daily basis.  In addition to routine office supplies, many of the items processed are for various researchers.  On numerous occasions, I heard people complain about how things seemed to take forever to get to them because those “stupid” people on the loading dock were just too lazy to do their job properly.  Those “stupid” people on the loading dock are also some of the invisible people.  They come to work every day, do their job and go home.  Rarely do people notice them or thank them for what they do.  When I would hear these researchers complain about the “loading dock people”, it was easy to remind them that if it was not for those folks, they would not be able to do their job.  They could be as brilliant as anyone but if those people down on the loading dock did not handle their equipment properly, process it and deliver it, then all the brains in the world wouldn’t make any difference.

You also see the invisible people in upscale restaurants—they are the folks who set the tables, fill your water glass, bring you bread, and may even bring your appetizer and main course.  And they are the same folks who clear your table at the end of your meal.  In our area many are immigrants whose native language is not English.  They may know just enough to get by in their job.  They are often part time, low paid without any benefits.  They be given part of your tip at the end of the day but it won’t be much, perhaps 2% or so.  Consider giving them their own tip sometime. 

There are many other invisible people doing the things that make our life more comfortable.  All I ask is that you take time to look for and appreciate them. 

SO YOU BOUGHT A GUN TO DEFEND YOURSELF...

SO, YOU BOUGHT A GUN TO DEFEND YOURSELF…

Recently, a well know blogger in Prince William County wrote that if you wanted to rob someone, you should pick a home that had Obama stickers displayed on their car bumpers.  At the same time he cautioned that those same folks should not come by his place because he had a large National Rifle Association sign outside his home, thus implying that he was ready for all who might wish to do him or his family harm.  He brags about the fact that he is a gun owner, prepared to strike down anyone who choses to do him harm. This particular person is but one of thousands of Americans who own guns all in the name of self-defense.  

There are literally thousand of Americans who believe that the government has battalions of “brown shirt “ troops and squadrons of “black helicopters” just over the hill, waiting to deprive them of their personal liberties and weapons.  There are groups who are purchasing land in the northwestern part of our country with the idea of building fortified zones, prepared to fight off government invaders.  One group has claimed they will build a fortified compound complete with impenetrable walls designed to fend off all invaders.  They have even said this place will be a vacationers’ paradise, much like Disney World—just come packin’ heat. 

While I am not a combatant, I spent 39 years of my life in the U.S. Navy.  And most of that time I spent serving alongside Marines both as an enlisted man and as an officer in war and peace.  I even attended the Marine Corps Command and Staff College and the Industrial College of the Armed Forces.  I really do understand the art of war.  I don’t brag about it because I believe that those of us who “know” just don’t talk about it, we don’t need to.  Others, like the blogger I mentioned above THINK they know about war—they have never been there.  What they know, they got from books and training courses.  They have never smelled blood, they have never known the fear of being under attack, they have never seen death up close.  Yet they brag they are prepared to, “Take out the bad guys.”  It is obvious to me they have watched too much television—to many editions of the popular NCIS, Law and Order or Blue Bloods where the good guys always manage to take down the bad guys with semi-automatic pistols that seem to have unlimited numbers of rounds.  Generally, one or two shots and the bad guys are down.  Even after the Newtown, Connecticut massacre, Wayne La Pierre of the National Rifle Association (NRA) claimed that the only way to take out a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun.  (By the way, LaPierre is well compensated for his work with the NRA, making a base salary of $845,469 a year plus additional incentives often adding up to more than $1,236,101.  Not bad for being the vice president.)  More and more states are beginning to entertain arming our schoolteachers in order to prevent school shootings like the one in Newtown or at Virginia Tech University.  Have we lost our minds? 

Let’s start with the survivalists who believe the government is coming to get them.  Do they really think they could stop the government if the government was really intent on disarming them?  What about the folks in the fortress?  Well, one drone with a fuel-air explosive device could destroy the place and kill the folks in it quite easily.  The impenetrable walls would help contain the blast, thus insuring the death of every one.  Isolated pockets of survivalists could be picked off by one or two well-armed Marine Corps fireteams.  Yes, there would be some bloodshed and perhaps something approaching a small civil war, but well trained military forces would win the day. 

And how about all those folks with personal weapons?  They claim they will take out the bad guys should the need ever arise.  A rather erudite writer posed a question on Facebook recently, asking, “How many lives are saved each year in the United States by armed individuals acting in self defense?” The last time I looked, no one had come up with a definitive number.  I’m talking about ordinary citizens here—gun owners who have ostensibly purchased a weapon for protection.  If you want to add the police to the formula, I think many of us know there are police officers who go through a whole career and never unholster their weapon to subdue someone.  And how about the guy who brags that criminals won’t come around his place because he has visible evidence that he is a member of the NRA and thus has one or more guns at his disposal?  Now if he is a responsible NRA member, he keeps his weapons in a gun safe or at a minimum has trigger locks on them.  He doesn’t walk around his home packin’ heat.  So, it’s late in the evening and suddenly the front door of his home is shattered and his home is invaded by two or three armed and desperate criminals.  What is he going to do?  Where are his weapons?  Why, they are locked up of course.  BANG—you’re dead.  

SPARE THE ROD AND...

Spare the Rod and …

By

George S. Harris

You know the old saw—Spare the Rod and Spoil the Child.  Well, let me tell you—my grandmother, Oceola (Ola) Sutton Barnes, lived by this rule.  At least that seemed to be the case in the early years of my life.  I suppose there were really only a couple of incidents where I got a lickin’, but they have stayed with me all these years. 

When I was about five years old, my parents and their best friends, George and Hattie Brown, planned a night in Tulsa to attend the Ice Follies.  Naturally, I thought I should be included in the affair, even though I probably didn’t know what the “Ice Follies” really were.  I simply thought I should be included—because.  And I proceeded to throw what my mother called a “hissy fit”.  I never have figured out where the term came from, but that what it was.  Today, we would call it “acting out” or a “tantrum” or some other learned psychological term, but then it was just a “hissy fit”—a good old-fashioned mid-western and southern term. 

Innately, kids know that such actions can result in some kind of reward to get them to stop even though there are times when it may result in a sound trouncing (another interesting word of unknown origin).  Kids will take a chance that their actions will lead to a reward—candy, a toy, a movie, an ice cream cone.  Psychologists know that random rewarding is one of the best methods for reinforcing a desired action.  Of course, in this instance, random rewarding only leads to more of the undesired action.  While they are many things, parents just aren’t very good psychologists.  So, it‘s tantrum-toy; tantrum-ice cream; tantrum-etc.—you get the picture. 

The reward I demanded for my stopping my “hissy fit” was every boy’s dream—a 2-bladed Keen Kutter pocketknife.  George Brown agreed and went to the hardware store to buy it for me.  The Browns and my folks were off to the Ice Follies and I had my Keen Kutter.  Life was good.  To test my new possession, I sat on the back stoop of my grandparents’ house and began to whittle away at the edge of the porch.  Everything was fine until my grandmother came out the back door and saw my attack on her porch.  I was always “George Stanley” when I was in trouble with her.  In her sternest voice she said, “George Stanley, cut that out!”  In my five-year old squeaky voice, I replied, “I’ll cut your guts out!”  I am still amazed today that I have managed to live to be 79 years old.  By all rights my life could well have ended at age 5.  Now my grandmother was no small lady.  At age 57, she was somewhere around 5 feet 8 to 10 inches and almost 18 stone or 250 pounds.  But could she move!

When I saw the look on her face, the old “fight or flight” instinct came to the forefront and I ran for my life.  It was down the driveway, up the sidewalk to the end of the block (I wasn’t allowed to go any further), across the street, back down the sidewalk to the other end of the block, across the street again, back up the sidewalk to the house and up on the front porch (my second mistake).  My grandfather, Psalter Goodwin (PG) Barnes, was sitting on the front porch witnessing the race—he simply reached out, grabbed me and held me until my grandmother could take over. 

My grandfather shaved with a straight razor and, therefore, was the owner of a razor strop—a ingenious device for sharpening his razor.  An inherent secondary use was the disciplining of errant children or, in this case, grandchildren.  Needless to say, a liberal application was made to my backside that day.  And my precious Keen Kutter was confiscated, to be turned over to my parents when they returned from Tulsa.  I don’t know if I ever got that knife back, but, needless to say, I have never threatened to cut anyone’s guts out either. 

For lesser crimes, my grandmother’s weapon of choice was a willow switch.  And this was always a humiliating experience since she made you go to the end of the street where an enormous willow grew and pick your instrument of torture.  If you were unfortunate to have the switch break before she had applied the necessary strokes to your little skinny bare legs, you were required to go fetch another switch.  An equal application of strokes would be applied with this new weapon. 

If you believe I have painted my grandmother as a tyrant, you couldn’t be further from the truth.  Our grandmother was a most loving person.  When we were in trouble at home, we would run to our grandmother for protection.  She was our refuge and while my brother and I did get our fair share of whacks from her, when I look at the outcome, two successful men with successful children (many of whom got their fair number of whacks), I think my grandmother did all right.  We were never injured, we never bled, but we did learn right from wrong with probably what was the gentle application of the razor strop or the willow switch.  There was never a malicious stroke. 

So, spare the rod and spoil the child—Dr. Spock, you may have had it wrong all these years!