And We Got Here How? (Part 3) ~

As I continue this ramble through time, I stopped last just at the Birmingham riots.  As I said, these riots and other events that followed showed us that we were not living the quaint life we all thought we were.  As I said, we knew that the “Leave It To Beaver” shows were far from reality, but it was a “reality” that we seemed to cling to as what could be and, more importantly, what SHOULD be.  The race changes knock a deep hole in that belief.  As I was growing up during that time, a lot of “get back to where they belong” and “they don’t know their place” seemed to crop up in a lot of conversations.  No, those exact words weren’t the ones that were used but the intent was the same.  “Uppity” was also a word I was introduced to …

This whole upset I don’t think has ever really gone away.  Because what seemed to come on the heels of all that was, of course, the Kent State demonstrations and the photograph that still haunts today …. (BTW this photo was taken by John Filo)

Now, the second hit arrives.  This wasn’t a death by a terrorist, by a criminal or an accident.  This was by someone who was a part of a group that we all believed were there to protect us, help us and get us through the tough times.  Now, we had new terms “dirty hippy”, “radical” “peacenik”, idiot sponger” and such.  Also remember, during much of this time Dr. Carl McItire and others like him were causing everyone (including myself) to be frightened of communists everywhere – but especially where you least expected them.  This was actually a “whistle” to be afraid of anyone that didn’t look like/sound like/act like/marry like/eat like/smell like whatever the standard was at that time.

So, this allows folks to easily move back and forth from “not like us” and “not white like us”.  . And this also cemented even further the cynicism and distrust that had bubbled onto the surface of so many lives.

Sunday is the 40th anniversary of the beginning of the events that would (in my mind) show how we got here ….

I Know ~

I said I was going to take a ramble through incivility, etc. It seems that every time I decide to do so, something either gets in the way or something new (who knew?) causes me to re-think some of what I’ve been thinking.

In the meantime, have the kids been pestering your for a vacation to Disneyland this summer? I did the Disney World experience two summers ago – and at times I’m still recovering.  Here’s a simple solution – 30,000 photos taken over the course of a year.  Sit the little (or not so little) ones down in front of a big screen and show them this video.  They’ll experience it all – minus the long lines, long waits and heat …. Problem solved!!

Maturity, A Dish Best Served…(1) ~ Early Morning Thoughts

A dear friend and I had an interesting email discussion today. Along the way the topic of maturity reared it’s hydra-type head – and glared at me. I remembered a story that would be a good way to begin.

Vintage

And to drink, sir?”

“I think I’ll wait and see what goes with Maturity.”

“Very good, sir.”

When the waiter arrived with Greg’s plate, it was thick around the middle, and had gone brittle and gray around the edges. Greg stared at the nutritious but slightly dull servings until the waiter shifted his weight uneasily. At last Greg spoke. “It looks a bit dry.”

“Perhaps some Enlightenment?” the waiter offered.

“Too strong for this early in the evening,” Greg said. And too pricey any time. “How about a fifth of Pride?”

“Good choice, sir,” the waiter said. Greg stared after the man’s retreating back. Good choice, sir. Christ, he’d have nodded approvingly if I’d ordered a split of Androgyny, or a double shot of Psychosis. Very good, sir.

“Your Pride, sir.”

Greg jumped when the bottle’s stylish label appeared in front of his face. Pride, from 1962. Blushing, Greg nodded his approval. A burgundy cascade leapt into his goblet.

Greg sniffed, relishing the heady aroma of vintage Pride. Truth be told, even Pride was a bit much for his budget. He sipped, then spat backwash that almost sloshed over the rim.

“Hey, waiter!” What was the guy’s name anyway?

“Sir?”

“What is this?”

“Pride, sir.”

“Then why does it taste like Bourgeois Self-Indulgence?”

“Is there perhaps a trace of Bitterness?”

“A trace!” Greg’s mouth worked in unpleasant memory. “I can’t drink this.”

“Not everyone has the palate for Pride, sir. May I offer you a bottle of Oblivion to whet your Maturity? Or have the bartender blend you some Nostalgia?”

Greg stared at his desiccated Maturity. Soon it would be too dry to eat. He sighed. “Just bring me a schooner of Wishful Thinking.”

“Very good, sir.”

—Greg Beatty

Greg Beatty’s stories have been published in a number of anthologies. This was published in Cafe Irreal – February 2003 (Issue 9)
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