Please Leave a Message

8/5/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Please Leave a Message

            Because I’m screening my calls. The phone at one of my line camps doesn’t have caller ID. I’m not there often, and it’s unlikely that anyone who really cares will call that number, but if you do care, and do call, please leave a message; I’ll get back to you sooner or later.

            At the other home, I no longer pick up for numbers that say, Out of Area or Private Caller. My better half will talk to a computer, campaign volunteer, or survey person, but I refuse, just like they often refused to talk when I used to answer. This seems kind of rude, but the circus is back in town, complete with donkeys, elephants, and clowns. I’m not going anywhere near it.

            I don’t mind being polite to a telemarketer. They have to earn a living too; besides, they probably get yelled at a lot. Adding to their dismay won’t brighten my day, but neither will letting them go on with their spiel. They may as well call someone who will bite, rather than wasting time on me, so I interrupt the sales pitch—say, “No thanks,” and hang up. 

            Political calls, and pitches for a particular ideology or organization, are something else. Visitors in my home aren’t allowed to harass me, or my guests, with rants about controversial issues, so why would I permit someone to do it over the phone? Most of those callers are aiming to pick my pocket. Not much difference between them and the Nigerian Prince that emails me every other week, and I have no qualms about hitting delete in either case.

            Let me be clear. We are blessed to live in a country that allows us choices in selecting our leaders. I’ve voted in every election since I reached the appropriate age, and will continue that practice. But basing choices on what is presented in the media, or the persuasion of someone who has been recruited to apply pressure, is at best silly, and at worst, lazy.

Candidates are quick to tell us what they have accomplished in the past, but most of that is a matter of public record, and we are probably only being told the pretty part. Generally, how someone has behaved previously is an indicator of future actions. If they truly have reformed from being a rascal I’ll wait and see how long the conversion lasts before supporting them. Remember that old saying, “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.  

Here’s another tried and true saying. “Anyone who tells you about the faults of his/her relatives, neighbors, boss, or co-worker will talk the same about you when your back is turned.” That kind of circus comes to our doorstep every day, in family gatherings and coffee shops, but we don’t have to buy a ticket, any more than we have to answer the phone.

I’m keeping my eye peeled for a candidate who speaks clearly and courteously, states what he/she would change, and offers solutions without casting blame. He/she won’t make wild statements about what would happen on the first day in office. Those folks either have delusions of grandeur or have bought off enough support so they can rule like King Herod. One other possibility—they believe people are gullible enough to believe empty promises.

Will some better options be offered as the campaign unfolds? We can only hope. The mess will sort itself out, like always. Names will be on a ballot, and we’ll mark a box, hopefully after having shut off the media and done some concentrated research.  Meanwhile, leave a message if you call. A polite one, preferably; there’s enough negativity going around already.

Company for Coffee

7/29/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Company for Coffee

            It’s one of those rare summer mornings with no breeze; a day destined to be hot, but then it’s July, after all. I’m alone on the place, sitting on the deck, drinking in the fragrance of fresh mowed hay along with my first cup of coffee.

            Oh, wait—I’m not alone. The crew is gathering as I speak. Betsy Barn Swallow flicks my hair and scolds, because I’m sitting below the nest where her babies await an early meal. She’s already put out about having to move. Early in the season, my husband put a rubber dragon in her first nest, which was directly above the door. I think she’s come to realize the critter is harmless, but the size of the monster prohibits double occupancy.

            Timothy and Thomas peek out from their hiding place in a pot of petunias, panting already, from the early sun. Unlike Betsy, they haven’t been persuaded to abandon their favorite place, and since the plant doesn’t seem to mind, I guess I don’t either. Perhaps it’ silly to name birds and toads, but when critters come around on a daily basis, one has to call them something, don’t you think? Betsy has a no nonsense personality, and her name fits that, but Tim and Tom seems too informal for the dignified and somber persona of toads.

            A couple of hundred dragonflies flit around shady areas of the yard, gobbling up a breakfast of mosquitos. There’s certainly no shortage in the pantry for any of my companions, and I’m grateful for their appetites because my skin stays pretty much intact.

            The cottontail in the garden, who believes he’s invisible, has no name because he/she may be any one of many that skitter out of the driveway when we approach at night. They don’t eat much, so we have decided to let sleeping, or jumping, bunnies lie.

            Molly didn’t see the garter snake that lives under the deck, when it came out. She’s so deaf and blind now that we have to grab them by the tail and hand them to her, but she still knows how to demolish them with a couple of sharp shakes. I let this one go. He isn’t hurting anything, and Molly is dozing too peacefully to be disturbed.

            Taffy cat has half a mouse hanging out of her mouth, and is eyeing me suspiciously. No idea why she thinks I would desire to deprive her of that prize.

            A cluster of blackbirds flutters and chatters beneath the empty feeder. Everyone seems to have their minds on food, so it must be time to go start my breakfast.

            Many folks who have reached this stage of life gather in the coffee shop to exchange news and get a jump on their day. It’s too far to town for me to do that, even if I wanted to, and I don’t. The crew that joins me here on the deck never gossips, at least in any manner I can comprehend. We’re all minding our own, and that’s as good a way as any to start the day, in my book.

That Never Happened

7/22/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

That Never Happened

            Sometimes, when I’m with folks who have known me longer than any of us care to admit, there’s mention of an incident which I don’t recall.

“Was I there?” I ask, and am immediately assured that I was indeed present, and participated willingly in the folly. I’m never sure whether to blame such mental lapses on age, or the possibility that I was having too much fun at the time the event occurred. Either way, I know better than to question someone who bears witness to our shared history.

There’s no denying that siblings often have different recollections of people and events. That happens because we are individual pieces of the family puzzle, and our ages and roles in the home affect our perceptions. No one’s personal memories should be put down or denied.

Collective history is another matter, because we haven’t personal experience in anything beyond our life span. Granted, the text books were written by people whose opinions slanted the telling, but we know that certain events occurred in a particular time and place, and that the effects of such are evident in our own lives.

            I believe that who we are today is a direct result of who and where we have been. It’s true that we see the world not as it is, but as we are. Finding common ground and moving to a place of tolerance and respect, requires a commitment to honor our own history, even the parts we don’t like. Some families’ motto is, “That never happened, and even if it did, we don’t talk about it.” The things we put our backs to follow us until we finally turn around and face them down. This is true for societies and cultures as well.

            I didn’t participate in the Crusades, nor own slaves, but it’s possible that my ancestors did. Some of them may have fought for the Confederacy. The Holocaust, though not part of my family story, is very real to anyone who is Jewish. A relative on my dad’s side was a scout for Custer, and died at Greasy Grass. The possibility of my ancestral connections to events that were ugly, if not downright evil, doesn’t make me proud. But I can respect the fact that the people who participated in those events were courageous, even when they were wrong.

            What are our children being taught, or not taught, in school? What segments of our culture is our nation unwilling to own? The push to erase all traces of past bigotry, or forbid the display of uncomfortable reminders of our past, seems wrong to me. I’d prefer these things weren’t offered in a manner that implies approval by our leaders, but pretending they never happened is participating in a lie, and prevents us from appreciating, and learning from, the struggles of those who preceded us.

            With that being said, no healing happens when we choose to wallow in blame. Life has never been fair, and we need to get over the notion that we can ever make it so. You and I are not responsible for the mistakes of our ancestors, and those who would burden us with guilt of the past generations are  picking at scabs; keeping the wound open to infection.

            “The problem with extremists isn’t that they are extreme, but that they are intolerant.”

Robert Kennedy

            It’s true that whoever doesn’t learn from the past is doomed to repeat it. That alone ought to scare the bejeebers out of any rational person. We are here, and it is now. Let’s move forward peacefully.

What’s the Difference?

7/15/2015        

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

What’s the Difference?

           

            The speaker was purported to be an authority on her topic, so Bruce looked forward to learning new information at her session, but came away troubled. Turns out, he had studied the subject more than the presenter, and when it became obvious that she was misinformed in several areas, he offered some other versions, but bit his tongue a lot to avoid disrupting the event.

            That has me thinking about how we can really discern who has been there and done it, as opposed to someone who got their information secondhand. Since there’s really nothing new under the sun, here’s another verse of an old song you’ve heard before. I claim no authoritative sources. If you disagree, make up your own.

            You might be a sailor if you know the difference between a ship and a boat. (A boat can be put aboard a ship.)

            You might be a trucker if you know the difference between a pickup and a truck. (See above, and note that country-western singers and urban cowboys drive a tricked out “truck” that would easily load on an eighteen wheeler.)

            You might be a farmer/rancher if you know the difference between a riding lawn mower and a tractor. (The wife will be your go-to person in regard to the lawn deal, but she’s pretty knowledgeable about the 656 too.)

            You might be a rancher in the Sandhills of Nebraska if you never complain about too much rain.

            You might be a farmer if you despair of ever being able to get into the field.

            You might be a gardener if you panic at the sight of baby grasshoppers in early May.

            You might be from the country if you know that dinner is served at noon and lunch is finger food that’s packed up and delivered to the hayfield.

            You might be a small town kid if the report of your misbehavior reaches home ahead of you.

            You might be descended from people who lived through the Great Depression if you refuse to pay $5.00 for a cup of coffee.

You might be over the age of fifty if you believe your parents possessed considerable wisdom.

You might be a parent if you understand why your parents worried about where you were and the company you kept.

You might be a teenager if you think none of those warnings will ever happen to you.

You might be a rancher or farmer if when traveling, you pay more attention to what is growing in the fields, and how the cattle look, than to the tourist attractions.

You might be a workaholic if the mention of vacation gives you heart palpitations.

You might have too much time on your hands if you’re still reading this nonsense!