PATRIOTISM OR PRICE GOUGING

 Times are rough for Americans. As soon as we stick our heads out after two-plus years of Covid, other things knock us sideways. Right now, inflation is choking our economy and causing a great deal of worry for people here and abroad. While I’m not so sure that this is the fault of any one person or any political party, I am sure that decisions and board rooms are carry tons of blame for the situation. 

The first Covid relief package was necessary to help millions of unemployed folks get by. They welcomed the money so that they could pay rent or bills that kept them in their homes. It was a lifeline for so many.  

The second round of money is a bit more suspect. Instead of indiscriminately passing out cash, the second outreach should have been for those most in need. Too many people saw the second check as a windfall that could help them buy things unrelated to getting by in a tough time. Spending the money heated up our economy and reversed the worst unemployment figures in decades. Some people were better off than they were when they were working, so they decided to sit at home or to quit the jobs they had in hopes of finding a better one, maybe even one for which they had no qualifications.  

The inability to move goods from ships to seaports to stores also helped create a rapid rise in prices. Covid kept workers at home, and the goods stacked up on docks or remained hostages of ships carrying them. Shortages of all sorts of items led to hoarding. Perhaps this epidemic that we faced will be best known for the fact that it led to a trickle hoarding of toilet paper. 

Several factors led to the shortage of gas. Refusing to buy oil from a country led by a war criminal has caused us to make sacrifices. However, the pain we feel over prices at the pump is not reflected in the earnings of the oil companies. Check out how many extra billions those companies have pocketed or passed along to their shareholders. Don’t get me wrong: companies should be able to make profits. Yet, when the country and the world work to defend another country from war and takeover, those oil companies might have considered reducing prices at the pumps instead of letting them rise by as much 75%. How is that doing their parts in trying to help? 

The same thing goes for groceries. The cost of products might have risen due to shortages. We understand that, but when everything in the store skyrockets, something else is going on. Drinks used to be 5 sixpacks for $11.00. Now, they can be as much as $6 or $7 for one sixpack. A week’s groceries have double for families. Many people have cut things from their diets simply because they can’t afford them at all. Although I never was a Nixon fan, I appreciated his concern for the people of the country or his own political future when he froze prices. At some point, our entire government must stop being beholding to corporate interests. Members of the House and Senate are in place to support and defend us, not big businesses that fill politicians’ pockets.  

Yes, we in America are suffering through some economic problems that come from soaring prices. Companies whose greed is more important than their support of democracy or obligation to be “their brothers’ keepers” show that we have bigger problems than inflation with which to deal. This country has lost its way, and I’m afraid we might not discover it again. The choice is a simple one: Patriotism or Price Gouging.  

KINFOLK PERFORM AT THE BIJOU

 It had been a while since I’d ventured to the Bijou Theater, and Amy had never been there since we moved back to Knoxville from Cookeville in 1974. The other night, we made a go of it and attended a concert at the theater, and good Lord, it was a different kind of experience.  

In the last century, the Bijou aired what I assume were B movies. While the Tennessee and Riviera theaters ran the big-name movies, the Bijou aired such things as Hercules movies starring Steve Reeves and movies based on Edgar Allean Poe stories that featured scary man Vincent Price. In the 60’s and 70’s, the Bijou ran out of gas and cash and began airing a different kind of movie. That genre appealed to some strange characters and vagrants looking for a place to sleep without being hassled by police. Its doors were boarded up for a while until a group decided to re-open it with a variety of events.  

Amy and I traveled to the theater and ate at the Bistro. The food was good, and the place became crowded with a mixture of young and old patrons. We ate, talked, and, most of all, people watched for a while. After a brief walk on a glorious spring evening, we lined up to enter the Bijou. Other than the airport, this was the first place I’d been scanned for weapons. The man doing the job paused with alarm at my left ankle until I told him that I was wearing an ankle brace. He stood, met me with a frown, and set “Okay.” 

The night’s headliner was Paul Cauthen. Our decision to attend was based on the fact that the singer is my first cousin’s grandson. No, I’d never met the man, but I grew up around his dad and aunts and remember his mom’s visits to our house. I believe in family support, even when I don’t know the relative.  

The opening act was less than entertaining. It consisted of a singer/guitar player and a drummer. I'm not a music critic, so don’t take my word, but the performance might have been titled “Variations on a Key.” That’s because every song the man performed seemed to be in the same key; he hit the same licks on the guitar as his hand slid up and down the neck, and each song ended with an awkward adagio. During his set, I understood a total of about six words he sang. It were as if he sang into a mic covered with a sock. The drummer’s movements reminded me of John C. Reilly in “Stepbrothers.” The biggest round applause came when the man announced he had enough time for one more song.  

By the time Paul stepped on stage, the seats had filled magically, and the noise level was up a notch. I was surprised at the dedicated and excited fans that greeted the group. By then, I’d also noticed that the place had only a handful of “gray-hairs.” This crowd of fans were more the age of my own kids. My wife and I looked more like chaperones for this group, but no one could ride herd over this bunch. The most obnoxious fan sat behind our balcony seats and let out inebriated squalls and yells.  Others added the same as the night went on and the alcohol flowed. 

The longer I listened to the music, the more I liked it. Each song was unique; tempos varied; key changes were introduced, and musicians showed their mastery of the instruments. Oh, some of the lyrics, which I could understand this time, were a bit raunchy, but they were nothing I’d never heard after 30 years of teaching and years of playing in a church softball league.  

Amy and I passed on the encore performance. My hearing wasn’t functioning, and I just wanted a bit of fresh air. I’m glad to have seen kinfolk perform. Paul Cauthen gained two new fans that night. My ears are about back to normal now, and I thoroughly enjoyed a night on the town. One thing is for sure: this event was nothing like a Mighty Music Monday at the Tennessee Theater.  

 

 

 

LIVING THROUGH CHANGES

 Eight years ago, Amy and I sold one condo we had in Bellevue and followed our daughter’s family to Hendersonville. After looking for a place in which we could comfortable, our realtor found a condo that was perfect except for the fact that it was in Gallatin. We decided that being seven miles from Lacey wasn’t that bad and purchased the place.  

To say the place was in poor condition was understatement. Dogs had ruined the carpet and base boards with “accidents. I tore it out, scrubbed the concrete slab, and installed vinyl plank flooring throughout, the first time I’d ever attempted any major renovation. I next painted the place and resurfaced the counter tops. The foul smells were gone, and we came to enjoy our time with our kids and grandson. 

Whenever we made a trip to our condo, we tried to find something for Madden to do. On spring breaks, we spent time with him while his parents were working. Madden liked having his days filled with activities and being able to sleep in his own bed at night. We were just glad to have time with him. Of course, sharing a meal and talking with Lacey and Nick were bonuses.  

Something strange happened during every visit. I’d sit down after unloading the car and find my eyelids almost impossible to keep open. Before long I’d be napping in the recliner. Even during times that I was awake a sense relaxation washed over me. Our trips to this condo were the same as vacation trips. The hubbub of daily life never entered the days. Amy felt the same way and bought a sign that declared the condo as “our beach house.”  

We made friends first with Lois, whose condo was directly across the street. She was helpful when we needed a repairman and friendly when we saw each other. At some point, Fred and Laura moved into the unit across an open area. It was with their becoming neighbors that this place became special. Fred and I hit it off immediately. He always has had great stories to tell, and he keeps up with the current affairs of Gallatin. Our political views aren’t exactly in line, but that never has driven a wedge between our friendship.  

Covid hit Fred hard. He lost his hearing from the damn virus. His most recent problems are due to a terrible year of allergies and a cold. I worry about him and say a prayer for his recovery. He’s tired of feeling bad, and I know how that feels and how it affects life.  

The one thing we all can count on is change. Over the last eight years, Madden has grown up and is now 14. He still loves his grandparents, but friends and video games are more interesting. We don’t need a place when we visit Lacey anymore. A motel room or B&B are good enough. We pay HOA fees and utilities and upkeep for a place we visit once a month, not necessarily a wise financial move. 

We’ve had good memories in this condo, and I’m proud of the work I’ve done on it. The worst part of this move, besides having to strain every muscle in my body in packing and loading a truck, is leaving Fred and Laura. Good friends are hard to come by, and saying goodbye is full of hurt. We’ll travel to see Lacey and family, and we’ll make a special effort to stop by to see our friends as well. I do hope this is the last move I have to make. I’m too old to hoist furniture and pack boxes and lose friends.

DISCIPLINE

 snotted and sniveled and sometimes squalled. Do you recall what your dad or mom said? I bet it was something along the lines of, “You stop that crying or I’ll give you something to cry about!” Can you remember how you tried to stop the tears and the other signs that you were brokenhearted?  

I remember most of those things overcoming me at one time or another. In every case but one, I deserved the spanking that I received. During them, my job was to cry and run in a circle; my parents’ job was to hold one of my arms and pivot in a circle. After that dance, I was sent to my room or outside. The entire event was over. Oh, I was plenty mad about it, and the enforcing parent might have taken a bit to time to calm down, but in the end, life returned to normal.  

Do you remember when you cried after a punishment, usually a spanking, from your parents? You

What was it that made us so upset when a punishment was inflicted? Of course, the pain of a spanking caused some of the tears, and our parents’ catching us caused frustration. However, I remember the thing that upset me most was having disappointed Mother or Daddy. I’d let them down. Probably, they too were disappointed. They wondered if their boys could be trusted any longer.   

As we boys grew up, the spankings stopped. Daddy had passed when JIm and I were 13, so discipline was all in Mother’s hands. She’d first tell us that we were grounded. In those days, that meant going nowhere, doing nothing, and seeing no friends. Next came the lecture about the wrong we had done, and in that talk somewhere came that dreaded line. Immediately I began to pray: “Dear Lord, let my mother beat me with a belt or switch or paddle, but pleeeeease don’ let her say she can’t trust me anymore.” Yet, it was there just waiting like a hawk ready to sweep down on its defenseless prey. It cut to the quick and was the most effective of all lines.  

Does that bother teens anymore? Do parents even punish their children? I know that their attempts are less than effective because too many young people keep doing the same things, unaware or unphased by hurt their actions bring to parents. They seem oblivious to anyone but themselves. What works with children as far as punishment these days? Being sent to their rooms seems to be where they want to be in the first place. They have favorite games and other technology at their disposal. Do parents have the strength to stand tall enough to take their children’s phones? I don’t know, but it seems that doing so is the best dsicipline because young people worship that device most of all. 

When we were young, a spanking worked fine. Later the lectures were torture. I’d be interested to hear from folks as to what they think works with their children. Hang in there, parents. Life does get easier. Just remember that all humans need discipline; the earlier they receive it, the easier their lives go in years to come.  

TWO STEVES AND A JOE

 While I mowed the upper lot of the yard, I looked across the road and saw a tractor at the neighbor’s house. Steering it was Steve Cox. We began first grade together, and both have lived within spitting distance of our boyhood homes. I sat on my mower, he sat on his tractor, and for the first time in years, we talked about things that happened and people we’ve known for years.

Steve and I had a few things in common. Both of us were boys who wore husky jeans, the name given for pants that were made for heavier boys. Neither of us ever missed a meal. Steve’s haircut was just like mine, a buzz cut. I’m not sure about his dad, but mine declared he wouldn’t allow me to have long hair nor dirty shoes. Last, both of us needed orthodontic help. While my teeth made me look more like a beaver, Steve’s were just slightly protruding over his bottom lip.

One day during our third grade, Steve came to class late. He sat down in his seat, and I asked where he’d been. He replied, “To the dentist.” Then he opened his mouth to reveal an appliance on the back of his upper teeth. The thing looked like bars coming straight down, and I thought how painful it looked. Still, I was so jealous of him because he had begun the process of having braces put on his teeth. Not until I talked to him the other day did I find out how wrong my assumption was. The painful –looking thing was something inserted to keep him from sucking his thumb. He said the bars were sharp and stuck him when he tried.

Another Steve was in that class. Steve Buffalo and I were in the same classroom throughout elementary school, which ran through the eighth grade back then. He was another big boy. I always had “lunch envy” when it came to him. I’d get a sandwich out of my bag that usually had pink bread from a thin layer of potted meat while Steve withdrew one that had a coating of mayonnaise with pieces of sausage on top. One day he agreed to swap sandwiches since I had bologna. A celebration began as I sunk my teeth into that wonderful lunch.

Steve Buffalo was a fantastic student. We battled for a place in the spelling bee, but I never beat him. Buffalo also had the most perfect handwriting. Mine looked as if someone suffering from arthritis had painfully penned my homework. He was a nice guy who was friendly with everyone and seemed comfortable in his own skin, never worrying what others thought.

We three had our revenge on the more popular guys one time each year. That occurred at field day. One event, the tug of war was ours. Sure, we were overweight and not particularly athletic, but when another class grabbed the rope to oppose us, we turned our “bulk into hulk” and pulled them across the line.

I’m glad Steve Cox stopped by the other day. During that time, he talked more than he’d ever done during our lifetimes. My voting place moved from Ball Camp School to Amherst, so I missed Steve Buffalo, who for years has worked the polls.

It’s funny what memories come back through just a half-hour talk with and old friend. Steve Cox, thanks for stopping by. Steve Buffalo, give me a yell sometime.