I read once that an optimist is someone who stays up until midnight to see the new year in. A pessimist, on the other hand, stays up to make sure the old year leaves. That sounds about right. Think of the people you know. You can probably peg most of them right off.
There may be a few people crossing the aisles this year though. “Optimistic” might have to be reserved for those who think they will not be consigning most of their assets to someone else this year.
Whoever made that observation, however, forgot to categorize the rest of us—the ones who go to bed at 10 p.m. as usual. Something like the nonplayers or the bed-is-better-yet set.
I’m usually one of those people. I might have a drink of sparkling apple juice before retiring, but watching the ball fall down on Time Square is overrated. By the way, I do not get the significance of dropping a ball to bring in the new year. If anyone does, let me know. I guess they can’t drop a baby, but why drop anything?
I pay a price for not staying up to witness the last calendar page of the old year come off the wall though. I apparently need that and any other assistance I can get to help my mind register the fact that we have crossed the great time divide and that it is time to switch years..
Getting my time-warped brain to leave the old year behind is a struggle. Not only will I write “2009” on every date line I fill out for at least six months, but I will write “December” or “12” on everything for at least two weeks. Getting the month switched over is easier. It was only December for a month, and I only used “December” for half of it anyway.
I will spend a while longer trying to figure out “2010.” When a person makes a mistake in writing numbers, he can sometimes save all by altering them—a three to an eight, a one to a seven or a four, maybe even a five to an eight, but it is pretty difficult to change “09” to “10.” You end up with hieroglyphics.
Last year I could start out writing “08” on my check, and if I came to before I got the second digit written or even if it were half done, it could still be changed into a respectable “09.”
But this January, I will have to wake up before I start writing or I will be stuck with something like calligraphy for “dum-dum” instead of “2010.” The term “Chinese New Year” could take on a whole new meaning.
And typing the new year, “10” instead of” 09”, will probably be quite a stumbler. I was typing “09” for a whole year, too (well, not strictly.) Typing the new year is going to require using both hands instead of one. That will take some getting used to and will probably reduce the wpm considerably, especially if I have to think what year it is and then think how to type it right after I think what month it is. Three thoughts in a row without a pause could constitute a total breakdown
Maybe this New Year’s Eve I should try to wait up, bang a few pans, tear off the calendar page, and make sure the old year leaves and takes all of his symbols with him.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
What’s wrong with plastic gifting?
Just so you know, I think that the gift card, when used to replace real Christmas gifts, is an abomination. Well, maybe not quite as bad as that, but close. I have been known to give them myself when I was pressured into it by the men in my life or by the constraints of time, but I didn’t like it.
Mainly, gift cards are boring. I don’t care if they come in a singing card holder, there is only one thing you can do with a gift card after you listen to it, and that is look at it. I am of the opinion that gifts, especially when they are given to children and just about everyone else should be able to be used, worn, played, driven, ridden, of played with the instant they are opened.
If it is new clothes, let’s put them on all at once. If it’s a new bike or four-wheeler, let’s ride it now. If it s a drum set, start drumming. What are we saving these games for? Christmas is supposed to be exciting and fun and have absolutely nothing to do with delayed gratification.
I am simply and mortally afraid that someone I am related to will be having a Christmas like this when he calls his friends on Christmas day:
“Hey James. What are you doing?”
“I just came in from riding my new bike in the snow. It is so awesome. It has front brakes and ten gears. What are you doing?
“Well, I am looking at my gift cards right now. I have taken them out of the box and put them back in a few times, but that’s about it. I think that next I will organize them from most money to least, and then I suppose I could do the opposite. After that I will arrange them by color. That should take a little while.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I could let you ride my bike if you are careful with it. Maybe we could clothespin your cards to the spokes.”
Well, at least they could be generating some instant fun.
So the whole gift-giving process has degenerated into doing the easiest possible thing—ordering a gift card online and having it drop-shipped to the recipient. Couldn’t be more efficient or more impersonal.
So true story: my son called last week and told us to watch for our Christmas gift cards. They were coming by mail from the internet clearing house. One for me and one for Mr. B., each for $50. Well, happily, all in the same phone call we were able to instruct him to watch for his gift cards, one for him and one for his wife, each in the amount of $50. Our sets of cards will be singing to each other as they pass in the mail.
Now what is the point of that? We should just have a conference call with the whole family and decide on what amount we will all want to keep in our bank accounts. Then we could all sing a couple of verses of “Jingle Bells” and call it Christmas.
There is one more reason to choose goods over gift cards. With the value of the dollar deteriorating at its present rate, your gift card will likely be worth a good deal less by the time you are able to get it spent.
.
Mainly, gift cards are boring. I don’t care if they come in a singing card holder, there is only one thing you can do with a gift card after you listen to it, and that is look at it. I am of the opinion that gifts, especially when they are given to children and just about everyone else should be able to be used, worn, played, driven, ridden, of played with the instant they are opened.
If it is new clothes, let’s put them on all at once. If it’s a new bike or four-wheeler, let’s ride it now. If it s a drum set, start drumming. What are we saving these games for? Christmas is supposed to be exciting and fun and have absolutely nothing to do with delayed gratification.
I am simply and mortally afraid that someone I am related to will be having a Christmas like this when he calls his friends on Christmas day:
“Hey James. What are you doing?”
“I just came in from riding my new bike in the snow. It is so awesome. It has front brakes and ten gears. What are you doing?
“Well, I am looking at my gift cards right now. I have taken them out of the box and put them back in a few times, but that’s about it. I think that next I will organize them from most money to least, and then I suppose I could do the opposite. After that I will arrange them by color. That should take a little while.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I could let you ride my bike if you are careful with it. Maybe we could clothespin your cards to the spokes.”
Well, at least they could be generating some instant fun.
So the whole gift-giving process has degenerated into doing the easiest possible thing—ordering a gift card online and having it drop-shipped to the recipient. Couldn’t be more efficient or more impersonal.
So true story: my son called last week and told us to watch for our Christmas gift cards. They were coming by mail from the internet clearing house. One for me and one for Mr. B., each for $50. Well, happily, all in the same phone call we were able to instruct him to watch for his gift cards, one for him and one for his wife, each in the amount of $50. Our sets of cards will be singing to each other as they pass in the mail.
Now what is the point of that? We should just have a conference call with the whole family and decide on what amount we will all want to keep in our bank accounts. Then we could all sing a couple of verses of “Jingle Bells” and call it Christmas.
There is one more reason to choose goods over gift cards. With the value of the dollar deteriorating at its present rate, your gift card will likely be worth a good deal less by the time you are able to get it spent.
.
Help-wanted section
I never read the Help Wanted section of the newspaper. Actually I’m not sure they have a section like that anymore. A year ago—maybe. To tell the truth, I never read any of the classifieds since I already have a couple of jobs. If I want to buy anything, I go to Ebay or some other scary cavern of the cybershopping network.
One of those couple of jobs I have is your basic wife-and-mother type of job. You know—I am all of those things that most wives and mothers are—baker, laundress, cook, maid. You’ve read the job descriptions. They tend to be lengthy.
A few things I don’t do. Fixing flats and mowing lawns are two that you may have already read about here. I also don’t do windows, plumb, or feed the dog. Those things are in someone else’s job description, I think.
I have been known to do a few extra-curricular chores such as reupholstering VW buses, making Clone Trooper Halloween costumes, and building furniture.
All of this I do and get paid $0.00 per hour for it. I have feelings of ambivalence about the benefits too.
Back in the day, the wife-and-mother occupation was my only job.
At any rate, there used to be a section in the newspaper that advertised available jobs. Several years ago, when typing was something you did on a typewriter, almost every job listed in the jobs section required the job applicant to take a timed typing test. Do they still do that?
So, I was glad to have my pay-nothing job and not be out looking for the other kind. Those job-available classified ads were intimidating to say the least.
I remember that there was an ad in the jobs section of our hometown (not this hometown) paper that was a full seven inches long, all seven inches devoted to the list of minimum qualifications necessary for a certain managerial position. Hey, the President doesn’t have the qualifications for that job.
Anyway, the applicant needed a specific college degree, specific progressively responsible experience, special computer skills, and of course, had to be able to pass the 60wpm timed test. For all of that, the candidate could start at a salary of $7.83 per hour. Even twenty years ago that was a sad salary. I think that job listing may have been published during one of our other economic recessions.
At that time, you had to be able to type 60 wpm per minute to mow lawns. Job Service didn’t want your name in their files if you were typing-challenged. You might be able to manage a whole floor of typists who could turn out reams of perfect documents, but it didn’t count unless you could type 60 wpm yourself.
Have you heard the story of Phillip John who went into Job Service looking for a position?
“I am an experienced plumber. (Just so you know, I have a lot of respect for plumbers, Joe included.) I need a plumbing job.”
“Can you type 60 wpm?”
“No, but I can unclog a drain in five minutes flat.”
“I’m sorry sir, but all of our plumbers type 60 wpm.”
“What for?”
“It looks good on their resumes.”
“Any plumber who can type 60 wpm must spend a lot of time typing.”
“That’s right.”
Hey Phil, I know of a challenging job with a lengthy description that you can have with only 30 wpm. Of course, the pay is none, and the benefits are questionable.
One of those couple of jobs I have is your basic wife-and-mother type of job. You know—I am all of those things that most wives and mothers are—baker, laundress, cook, maid. You’ve read the job descriptions. They tend to be lengthy.
A few things I don’t do. Fixing flats and mowing lawns are two that you may have already read about here. I also don’t do windows, plumb, or feed the dog. Those things are in someone else’s job description, I think.
I have been known to do a few extra-curricular chores such as reupholstering VW buses, making Clone Trooper Halloween costumes, and building furniture.
All of this I do and get paid $0.00 per hour for it. I have feelings of ambivalence about the benefits too.
Back in the day, the wife-and-mother occupation was my only job.
At any rate, there used to be a section in the newspaper that advertised available jobs. Several years ago, when typing was something you did on a typewriter, almost every job listed in the jobs section required the job applicant to take a timed typing test. Do they still do that?
So, I was glad to have my pay-nothing job and not be out looking for the other kind. Those job-available classified ads were intimidating to say the least.
I remember that there was an ad in the jobs section of our hometown (not this hometown) paper that was a full seven inches long, all seven inches devoted to the list of minimum qualifications necessary for a certain managerial position. Hey, the President doesn’t have the qualifications for that job.
Anyway, the applicant needed a specific college degree, specific progressively responsible experience, special computer skills, and of course, had to be able to pass the 60wpm timed test. For all of that, the candidate could start at a salary of $7.83 per hour. Even twenty years ago that was a sad salary. I think that job listing may have been published during one of our other economic recessions.
At that time, you had to be able to type 60 wpm per minute to mow lawns. Job Service didn’t want your name in their files if you were typing-challenged. You might be able to manage a whole floor of typists who could turn out reams of perfect documents, but it didn’t count unless you could type 60 wpm yourself.
Have you heard the story of Phillip John who went into Job Service looking for a position?
“I am an experienced plumber. (Just so you know, I have a lot of respect for plumbers, Joe included.) I need a plumbing job.”
“Can you type 60 wpm?”
“No, but I can unclog a drain in five minutes flat.”
“I’m sorry sir, but all of our plumbers type 60 wpm.”
“What for?”
“It looks good on their resumes.”
“Any plumber who can type 60 wpm must spend a lot of time typing.”
“That’s right.”
Hey Phil, I know of a challenging job with a lengthy description that you can have with only 30 wpm. Of course, the pay is none, and the benefits are questionable.
Making jokes while the sun shines
The trouble with kids is that they never eat when they have the chance. The better the opportunity, they less they eat. There is something about an abundance of good food that makes their appetites shut down. The example that comes to mind is Thanksgiving dinner.
Kids celebrate this particular holiday by putting a lot of food on their plates and then telling riddles or original jokes. Sometimes they fling peas or make turkey mustaches. The greatest joy of the festivities, though, is show-and-tell.
If you have had the distinct advantage of sitting furthest away from the kid table, you may have missed out on the “entertainment.”
It goes something like this, “I bet you can’t wiggle your ears.” In juvenile language that means, “Watch while I wiggle my ears.”
“Okay, but you can’t shut one eye.” (Like the Thin Man, in case you remember who that is.) “No, it’s not the same thing as winking.”
“Well look what I can do; I’m double-jointed in all my fingers.”
“So can you touch your nose with your tongue?”
“No. Neither can you!”
“I know, but my grandma can.”
“So, who has the biggest muscles?” (Out come all the arms, and up go all the sleeves, knocking over three drinks in the process.)
“You should see my mom’s biceps. They are about this high.” (Apparently Mom comes from the same gene pool as Hulk Hogan.)
Show-and-tell soon degenerates into innovative raw humor.
“Knock-knock.”
“Who’s there…”
“Window.”
“Window who?”
“Window Pane.”
You would think that so much mental exercise would create an energy deficit that would have to be corrected by the consumption of food. But sitting in front of a plate of food while telling tall tales seems to generate feelings of contentment, or maybe it’s self-satisfaction, without the actual ingestion of food.
After they joke truck has run out of gas, they will begin to declare the exact opposite about themselves.
“Mom, I’m full.”
“So am I.”
“Me too.” Superlatives aren’t even necessary anymore. They are full, and full is full.
No amount of reason, like threatening no dessert or no food until the next meal will change the condition of their stomachs. You can’t win. Just try to prove that they aren’t full.
You would think that as many times as their mothers run out of bread and milk, that the budding humorists would have the foresight to take advantage of a good thing. They won’t see that much food again for another year. They should know better than to take their chances.
There is only one thing that will get their appetites functioning again. Just clear the table and put all the food.
Suddenly life isn’t so funny anymore. The absence of nourishment in plain sight becomes a real stressful situation. No child is willing to gamble on there ever being any again.
They don’t realize what the real gamble is; so one of them will saunter into the room where the cooks have just sat down for the first time in three days and ask for a bowl of cereal.
In their hunger, they seem to have forgotten about the existence of gene pools and what kind of traits they just might carry.
Kids celebrate this particular holiday by putting a lot of food on their plates and then telling riddles or original jokes. Sometimes they fling peas or make turkey mustaches. The greatest joy of the festivities, though, is show-and-tell.
If you have had the distinct advantage of sitting furthest away from the kid table, you may have missed out on the “entertainment.”
It goes something like this, “I bet you can’t wiggle your ears.” In juvenile language that means, “Watch while I wiggle my ears.”
“Okay, but you can’t shut one eye.” (Like the Thin Man, in case you remember who that is.) “No, it’s not the same thing as winking.”
“Well look what I can do; I’m double-jointed in all my fingers.”
“So can you touch your nose with your tongue?”
“No. Neither can you!”
“I know, but my grandma can.”
“So, who has the biggest muscles?” (Out come all the arms, and up go all the sleeves, knocking over three drinks in the process.)
“You should see my mom’s biceps. They are about this high.” (Apparently Mom comes from the same gene pool as Hulk Hogan.)
Show-and-tell soon degenerates into innovative raw humor.
“Knock-knock.”
“Who’s there…”
“Window.”
“Window who?”
“Window Pane.”
You would think that so much mental exercise would create an energy deficit that would have to be corrected by the consumption of food. But sitting in front of a plate of food while telling tall tales seems to generate feelings of contentment, or maybe it’s self-satisfaction, without the actual ingestion of food.
After they joke truck has run out of gas, they will begin to declare the exact opposite about themselves.
“Mom, I’m full.”
“So am I.”
“Me too.” Superlatives aren’t even necessary anymore. They are full, and full is full.
No amount of reason, like threatening no dessert or no food until the next meal will change the condition of their stomachs. You can’t win. Just try to prove that they aren’t full.
You would think that as many times as their mothers run out of bread and milk, that the budding humorists would have the foresight to take advantage of a good thing. They won’t see that much food again for another year. They should know better than to take their chances.
There is only one thing that will get their appetites functioning again. Just clear the table and put all the food.
Suddenly life isn’t so funny anymore. The absence of nourishment in plain sight becomes a real stressful situation. No child is willing to gamble on there ever being any again.
They don’t realize what the real gamble is; so one of them will saunter into the room where the cooks have just sat down for the first time in three days and ask for a bowl of cereal.
In their hunger, they seem to have forgotten about the existence of gene pools and what kind of traits they just might carry.
I may need a tree to be out of
I am just as concerned about the environment as the next person. I have to be. I am stuck between a couple of generations of ecologists.
My mother never throws anything away. She could give Green Peacers lessons on conservation. She reuses paper napkins. She can shower in about a quart of water.
When she was younger and gardening at her best, she was the green-growers counterpart to the Native Americans who used every part of their bagged game. She used every part of everything she grew and she grew everything. We used some things that came up on their own too.
She was ecology when ecology wasn’t cool. Only it wasn’t called ecology. It was just a simple matter of “waste not, want not.”
So then, the generation after me is the recycling generation, although no one of them can hold a candle to my mother. And they should not waste candles trying. Most of them waste a pound to save a pinch, to make use of another old cliché.
Anyway, I don’t have much chance of wasting or polluting my way through life. I will hear about it from one direction or the other.
But from the rest of the world, I just get a lot of mixed messages. The department store sends goods home in paper bags which will biodegrade and not pollute the local city dump. But the grocery store uses plastic so we can save a tree, while the education establishment thinks that paper grows on trees. I remember times when our stack of school papers was as high as the newspaper pile.
So which is it? I can tell you that I haven’t felt enough of the generational squeeze to motivate me to bring my own bags anywhere. Besides, carrying those things around in my car could cause me to use more gasoline and be crazy.
When I graduated from shopping in the “baby needs” aisle at the grocery store, I was able to eliminate one of life’s dilemmas. And should you parents of the diaper set be tree-conscious enough to use cloth diapers, do you really think you should be using all of that water for washing them?
As for recycling, if I am going to sort and recycle garbage, I am going to need more space for all of those bins. That means a new house which means using several trees I guess. Even if I keep the sorting bins in the middle of the garage and put the car outside, I am going to have to rinse out all of the glass and plastic. That means more water.
And keeping the car outside means more gasoline to warm it up and more water to keep it clean.
So just as ecological studies consider the relationships between systems and point out how one action leads to another, the same is also true with the application of certain practices designed to alleviate or minimize those actions. Saving a tree is well and good, but using plastic instead may contribute to the immortality of landfills.
I know all this because I have many times seen the same principle in action when I buy a new dress. It follows that now I need new shoes. And I may need a new bag as well. To my relief, I can choose something other than paper or plastic. Choosing leather ought to help out, right?
So I muddle along. Some days I use paper. Some days I use plastic. Some days I stay out of the stores, but I haven’t been able to do it for any extended period.
But the more I think of it, using plastic might be more to my good than I care to admit.
My mother never throws anything away. She could give Green Peacers lessons on conservation. She reuses paper napkins. She can shower in about a quart of water.
When she was younger and gardening at her best, she was the green-growers counterpart to the Native Americans who used every part of their bagged game. She used every part of everything she grew and she grew everything. We used some things that came up on their own too.
She was ecology when ecology wasn’t cool. Only it wasn’t called ecology. It was just a simple matter of “waste not, want not.”
So then, the generation after me is the recycling generation, although no one of them can hold a candle to my mother. And they should not waste candles trying. Most of them waste a pound to save a pinch, to make use of another old cliché.
Anyway, I don’t have much chance of wasting or polluting my way through life. I will hear about it from one direction or the other.
But from the rest of the world, I just get a lot of mixed messages. The department store sends goods home in paper bags which will biodegrade and not pollute the local city dump. But the grocery store uses plastic so we can save a tree, while the education establishment thinks that paper grows on trees. I remember times when our stack of school papers was as high as the newspaper pile.
So which is it? I can tell you that I haven’t felt enough of the generational squeeze to motivate me to bring my own bags anywhere. Besides, carrying those things around in my car could cause me to use more gasoline and be crazy.
When I graduated from shopping in the “baby needs” aisle at the grocery store, I was able to eliminate one of life’s dilemmas. And should you parents of the diaper set be tree-conscious enough to use cloth diapers, do you really think you should be using all of that water for washing them?
As for recycling, if I am going to sort and recycle garbage, I am going to need more space for all of those bins. That means a new house which means using several trees I guess. Even if I keep the sorting bins in the middle of the garage and put the car outside, I am going to have to rinse out all of the glass and plastic. That means more water.
And keeping the car outside means more gasoline to warm it up and more water to keep it clean.
So just as ecological studies consider the relationships between systems and point out how one action leads to another, the same is also true with the application of certain practices designed to alleviate or minimize those actions. Saving a tree is well and good, but using plastic instead may contribute to the immortality of landfills.
I know all this because I have many times seen the same principle in action when I buy a new dress. It follows that now I need new shoes. And I may need a new bag as well. To my relief, I can choose something other than paper or plastic. Choosing leather ought to help out, right?
So I muddle along. Some days I use paper. Some days I use plastic. Some days I stay out of the stores, but I haven’t been able to do it for any extended period.
But the more I think of it, using plastic might be more to my good than I care to admit.
I'll show you a hitch
When my fifth child was born, an event from the dim and distant past, my first two children, both boys, were in the process of earning their Eagle Scout awards. So when I was introduced to my fifth child, a third boy, did I think of blue buntings, bicycles and basketballs?
No. All I could think was, “In eight short years this person is going to grow up to be a cub scout.”
Don’t misunderstand me. Scouting is great, at least in theory. It turns boys into men and all that. It also turns mothers into maniacs. If it weren’t so wonderful, it couldn’t inspire so much anxiety and guilt in mothers who are anxiously waiting for their sons to grow into men. They just hope they live to see the men.
The years between Bobcat and Eagle are interminable. The words “merit badge” are able to strike sheer terror into the hearts of otherwise fearless matriarchs. You say “pack meeting” and a mother panics. “When was it—when is it—did we miss that again?”
Just so you know, a fourteen-year-old boy is inert. He has no engine, gears or starter. He eats, sleeps and sits and that makes him tired. So it is up to his mother to figure out how to make him want to take five-mile hikes, tie knots, cook his own food or call a merit badge counselor.
The only rank a boy scout ever brought home on his own came with his socks after a week at scout camp, and I’ll bet he couldn’t get home with any of his gear without the help of his scout master.
I personally know a scout who came home without his sleeping bag. I also know one who came home with all his clothes and they were clean! He left his change of clothes in his backpack all week and came home in the clothes he went in. At least he didn’t lose them.
Well, I learned a few things with my first scout who finally got his Eagle at the age of 18. Before that, all I could think to do to motivate him was to get involved. Somewhere between his registration and graduation, I learned how to tie every knot, build a fire without matches, pitch a tent, and find merit badge books in the library.
So with my second son, I was not only prepared, I was a lot smarter. He got his Eagle by age 15. There are quite a few friendly, courteous, and kind mothers out there and they passed on their secrets. (I don’t know where they were when I was a tenderfoot. But all of those secrets come under the umbrella of threats, bribery or blackmail, and resorting to any one of those categories is more practical that becoming a scout yourself.
The most effective motivational tool is used like thin: “You don’t get your driver’s license until you get your Eagle.” Very simple.
I guess that is blackmail, but there is some wisdom in using it. Since 14-year-old boys are inert, and 16-year-old boys would rather drive and chase girls than run the Snake River, let alone do a conservation project, you are justified in using strong-arm tactics.
You have to get tough while they are still sitting on the couch being tired. At least they are around. If they are too tired to be concerned about driving when they turn sixteen, you can use a gentler method like bribery during the interim: “I will feed you after you pass off home repairs.”
As I said, I was presented with a third boy. By the time he turned eight, neither of us could remember when they held den meeting let alone where they kept the merit badge books. I didn’t want to start over again, even armed with threats, bribery and blackmail
No. All I could think was, “In eight short years this person is going to grow up to be a cub scout.”
Don’t misunderstand me. Scouting is great, at least in theory. It turns boys into men and all that. It also turns mothers into maniacs. If it weren’t so wonderful, it couldn’t inspire so much anxiety and guilt in mothers who are anxiously waiting for their sons to grow into men. They just hope they live to see the men.
The years between Bobcat and Eagle are interminable. The words “merit badge” are able to strike sheer terror into the hearts of otherwise fearless matriarchs. You say “pack meeting” and a mother panics. “When was it—when is it—did we miss that again?”
Just so you know, a fourteen-year-old boy is inert. He has no engine, gears or starter. He eats, sleeps and sits and that makes him tired. So it is up to his mother to figure out how to make him want to take five-mile hikes, tie knots, cook his own food or call a merit badge counselor.
The only rank a boy scout ever brought home on his own came with his socks after a week at scout camp, and I’ll bet he couldn’t get home with any of his gear without the help of his scout master.
I personally know a scout who came home without his sleeping bag. I also know one who came home with all his clothes and they were clean! He left his change of clothes in his backpack all week and came home in the clothes he went in. At least he didn’t lose them.
Well, I learned a few things with my first scout who finally got his Eagle at the age of 18. Before that, all I could think to do to motivate him was to get involved. Somewhere between his registration and graduation, I learned how to tie every knot, build a fire without matches, pitch a tent, and find merit badge books in the library.
So with my second son, I was not only prepared, I was a lot smarter. He got his Eagle by age 15. There are quite a few friendly, courteous, and kind mothers out there and they passed on their secrets. (I don’t know where they were when I was a tenderfoot. But all of those secrets come under the umbrella of threats, bribery or blackmail, and resorting to any one of those categories is more practical that becoming a scout yourself.
The most effective motivational tool is used like thin: “You don’t get your driver’s license until you get your Eagle.” Very simple.
I guess that is blackmail, but there is some wisdom in using it. Since 14-year-old boys are inert, and 16-year-old boys would rather drive and chase girls than run the Snake River, let alone do a conservation project, you are justified in using strong-arm tactics.
You have to get tough while they are still sitting on the couch being tired. At least they are around. If they are too tired to be concerned about driving when they turn sixteen, you can use a gentler method like bribery during the interim: “I will feed you after you pass off home repairs.”
As I said, I was presented with a third boy. By the time he turned eight, neither of us could remember when they held den meeting let alone where they kept the merit badge books. I didn’t want to start over again, even armed with threats, bribery and blackmail
The holidays
Bertha Butterbean
The holidays
Well, I guess now that Halloween is over we have entered that season known as The Holidays. Or maybe the holidays begin a week sooner and include Halloween. Either way it is pretty much all uphill from here, because the holidays come in such swift succession that I am still thinking about the first one when the second one arrives.
By the way, I gained an hour of sleep Saturday/Sunday when we turned the clocks back, but I lost it again the following night.
In spite of the fact that I am chronically behind during the holidays, I am happy to be in them and noting their significance. I happen to be of a political and religious bent that allows me to celebrate all of the holidays with enthusiasm.
Take Thanksgiving for instance. If you happen to believe that Thanksgiving is about giving thanks to God for blessings, then that holiday is worth noting and celebrating. If you don’t, then I guess you just talk turkey.
And take the Fourth of July for another instance. If you are celebrating our country, its constitution and those who sacrificed much for its creation, then you can put your whole heart into its commemoration. If you don’t then I guess it’s just about fireworks.
And for the third instance, take Christmas. If you believe that it is for celebrating the birth of the Savior of mankind, then have a joyous one. If you don’t, then it is about presents.
So, here’s the rundown of national holidays: New Year’s Day, Msrtin Luther King Jr’s birthday, President’s Day, Memorial Day, Flag Day, Independence Day, Labor Day, Columbus Day, Veteran’s Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Add to that the list of holidays on which you still have to go to work like Halloween, Valentine’s, April Fool’s and St. Patrick’s days.
Now you go figure.
If you aren’t a little bit patriotic, religious, or conservative (PR&C), you don’t have a whole lot to celebrate in a year. Let’s see, by my count, of the 11 national holidays there are eight patriotic holidays, two religious holidays, and the rest (one) are up for grabs.
If you depend on your holidays to define you, and you aren’t a little bit PR&C, let’s see, you are left with New Year’s, Halloween, April Fool’s and Valentine’s—throw in Boss’ Day, Clean Up Your Room Day (May 10) and Thomas Crapper Day (Jan. 27) if you wish—and you are going to have a really great year.
Remember, if those are your holidays, you will have to schedule time off if you want to celebrate them in any traditional sense of the word. Traditional is sounding more fun all the time.
And if you are not PR&C, you really should not celebrate PR&C holidays anyway, or you run the risk of looking hypocritical.
With that said, may I wish all of you a wonderful holiday season, and I hope that you find meaning, joy, and happiness in your families as you celebrate all of them.
The holidays
Well, I guess now that Halloween is over we have entered that season known as The Holidays. Or maybe the holidays begin a week sooner and include Halloween. Either way it is pretty much all uphill from here, because the holidays come in such swift succession that I am still thinking about the first one when the second one arrives.
By the way, I gained an hour of sleep Saturday/Sunday when we turned the clocks back, but I lost it again the following night.
In spite of the fact that I am chronically behind during the holidays, I am happy to be in them and noting their significance. I happen to be of a political and religious bent that allows me to celebrate all of the holidays with enthusiasm.
Take Thanksgiving for instance. If you happen to believe that Thanksgiving is about giving thanks to God for blessings, then that holiday is worth noting and celebrating. If you don’t, then I guess you just talk turkey.
And take the Fourth of July for another instance. If you are celebrating our country, its constitution and those who sacrificed much for its creation, then you can put your whole heart into its commemoration. If you don’t then I guess it’s just about fireworks.
And for the third instance, take Christmas. If you believe that it is for celebrating the birth of the Savior of mankind, then have a joyous one. If you don’t, then it is about presents.
So, here’s the rundown of national holidays: New Year’s Day, Msrtin Luther King Jr’s birthday, President’s Day, Memorial Day, Flag Day, Independence Day, Labor Day, Columbus Day, Veteran’s Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Add to that the list of holidays on which you still have to go to work like Halloween, Valentine’s, April Fool’s and St. Patrick’s days.
Now you go figure.
If you aren’t a little bit patriotic, religious, or conservative (PR&C), you don’t have a whole lot to celebrate in a year. Let’s see, by my count, of the 11 national holidays there are eight patriotic holidays, two religious holidays, and the rest (one) are up for grabs.
If you depend on your holidays to define you, and you aren’t a little bit PR&C, let’s see, you are left with New Year’s, Halloween, April Fool’s and Valentine’s—throw in Boss’ Day, Clean Up Your Room Day (May 10) and Thomas Crapper Day (Jan. 27) if you wish—and you are going to have a really great year.
Remember, if those are your holidays, you will have to schedule time off if you want to celebrate them in any traditional sense of the word. Traditional is sounding more fun all the time.
And if you are not PR&C, you really should not celebrate PR&C holidays anyway, or you run the risk of looking hypocritical.
With that said, may I wish all of you a wonderful holiday season, and I hope that you find meaning, joy, and happiness in your families as you celebrate all of them.
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