Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then of a sudden it — ah, but stay,
I’ll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits, –
Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
Georgius Secundus was then alive, –
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock’s army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on that terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of shaises, I tell you what,
There is always a weakest spot, –
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In pannel or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, throughbrace, — lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will, –
Above or below, or within or without, –
And that’s the reason, beyond a doubt,
That a chaise breaks down, but doesn’t wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as deacons do,
With an “I dew vum,” or an “I tell yeou”)
He would build one shay to beat the taown
‘n’ the keounty ‘n’ all the kentry raoun’;
It should be so built that it couldn’ break daown:
“Fer,” said the Deacon, “’t’s mighty plain
Thut the weakes’ place mus’ stan’ the strain;
‘n’ the way t’ fix it, uz I maintain, is only jest
‘T’ make that place uz strong uz the rest.”

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn’t be split nor bent nor broke, –
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the the straightest trees
The pannels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;

The hubs of logs from the “Settler’s ellum,” –
Last of its timber, — they couldn’t sell ‘em,
Never no axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Throughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he “put her through,”
“There!” said the Deacon, “naow she’ll dew!”

Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren — where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED; — it came and found
The Deacon’s masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hindred increased by ten; –
“Hahnsum kerridge” they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came; –
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arive,
And then come fifty and FIFTY-FIVE.

Little of of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there’s nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it. — You’re welcome. — No extra charge.)

FIRST OF NOVEMBER, — the Earthquake-day, –
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There couldn’t be, — for the Deacon’s art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn’t a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less or more,
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,
And the spring and axle and hub encore.
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!

First of November, fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
“Huddup!” said the parson. — Off went they.

The parson was working his Sunday’s text, –
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the — Moses — was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet’n’-house on the hill.
First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill, –
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half past nine by the meet’n’-house clock, –
Just the hour of the earthquake shock!

What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you’re not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once, –
All at once, and nothing first, –
Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That’s all I say.

—————————————————

It seems a man in Topeka, Kansas, decides to write a book about churches around the country. He starts by flying to San Francisco and working east from there.

He goes to a very large church and begins taking pictures, etc. He spots a golden telephone on the wall and is intrigued with a sign which reads “$10,000 a minute.”

Seeking out the pastor, he asks about the phone and the sign. The pastor answers that this golden phone is in fact, a dirct line to Heaven, and if he pays the price he can talk directly to God. He thanks the pastor and continues on his way.

As he continues to visit churches in Seattle, Boise, Milwaukee, Chicago, New York, Denver, and on around the United States, he find more phones with the same sign, and the same answer from each pastor.

Finally, he arrives in Oklahoma City. But THIS time the sign reads “Calls:25 cents.” Fascinated, he asks to talk to the pastor.

“Reverend, I have been in cities all across the country, and in each church I found this golden telephone, and I have been told it is a direct line to Heaven and that I could talk to God, but in the other churches the cost was $10,000 a minute. Your sign reads 25 cents a call. Why?”

The pastor, smiling benignly, replies, “Son, you´re in Oklahoma now. It´s a local call.”

MCDONALD ET AL. v. CITY OF CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, ET AL.

Our saga begins on October 15, 1971. I was on my way to an accountants’ convention in Spain. This was virtually the last year that the IRS allowed national associations to hold conventions outside the US, and we were not going to let the opportunity pass. I took a flight to Detroit and there I was to join other charter groups going to Spain. We were to board a DC-10 and take a direct flight to Spain. But the weather was bad in parts of Ohio and Michigan and some of the other connecting flights had been delayed. In fact, one of them had been cancelled.

The group that almost missed the flight because of that cancellation was a group of Hadassah women from Columbus, Ohio. Close to 40 of them as I recall. This was the problem: this DC-10 was not a regularly scheduled flight. It was a charter. So when a substantial number of passengers were at risk of missing the trip, they had to find some way to go get them. Otherwise no profit……otherwise no flight.

The solution (concocted about 2 hours after we should have taken off for Spain) was to bus the ladies from Columbus to the Mansfield, Ohio, airport. And the DC-10 would make a quick jump there before heading off across the Atlantic.

It looked good on paper. So the rest of us off took off about 11:00 pm to rescue the women of Hadassah.

Some background now. Hadassah is a Jewish women’s organization. Probably a lot like the United Methodist Women, with a few obvious exceptions. And then there is the matter of my seat on the plane. It was my first (and, as it happens, last) European trip. I was 24 and eager to please. So I indicated no seating preference. I was rewarded with quite possibly the worst seat on the plane. It was on the front row right next to the entrance. My row only had two seats and there was no place to put my attaché case.

The first omen of bad things to come came when the stewardess took my attaché, tagged it, and loaded it on the tiny elevator to send it down to some dark place in the belly of the plane. I was close enough that I heard it fall off the lift and hit the bottom. And I also heard the elevator smash it 15 seconds later. The stewardess soon came back with it, holding it in her outstretched arms like a sacrifice to some Babylonian god. “Perhaps you’d like to tape this up before we put it back,” she said, simultaneously handing me the duct tape and a damage claim form.

Would that the story ended there.

As irritated as I was, I actually had a good seat to watch the story that was about to unfold. We soon landed at the Mansfield airport and I could see the crowd at the terminal. I found out later that Mansfield was chosen because it had a landing strip long enough (and thawed enough) to handle a DC-10. I also found out later that only a few weeks before, a DC-9 had landed and it made the front page of the paper, it being the largest aircraft ever to grace their airport. And now here comes a DC-10. Thus, the crowd at the terminal. In addition to the 40 or so travelers, we had uniformed fire department officers, uniformed police officers, the entire city council and, of course, the Mayor. And all were also accompanied by their respective spouses. And it was about 1:00 am and stunningly cold.

The plane door was opened (the one right in front of me), the stewardess stuck her head out and the terminal crowd waved.

As you might guess, this particular airport did not have those wonderful telescoping boarding ramps. They had one of those rolling staircases (hey, it’s good enough for the President), and they began to roll it out. And I had, literally, a front row seat. I watched it being slowly pushed toward the plane. I watched it as it reached the plane. And I watched the faces of all concerned when they realized it was a full story short.

One by one, the Captain and all his crew came to the door and looked down at that staircase, shaking their heads. And then they looked at the group of Hadassah women gesticulating furiously.

What happened next is almost unbelievable, but you really can’t make this stuff up. Some genius (and compared to that shining star that decided to take us to Mansfield, he WAS a genius) figured out how they could strap a ladder onto the top of the stairs. And that’s what they did. I don’t know if they used rope, string or rubber bands, but soon the upper rungs of that ladder appeared at the open plane door. A hale and hearty airport official made the first trip up the ladder to check things out. He did not fall to his death, so they decided to proceed.

Now comes the march of the Hadassah women. Single file, snaking from the terminal to the staircase in the freezing cold. And now also comes the indelicate part of the story. Lovely women, all, I’m sure. But their average age was pushing the highway speed limit and their weight surely averaged, well, ……………….

But up the stairs they came. Then up the ladder. Each was met by two additional hale and hearty types to help them into the plane. Each man reached down and grabbed an arm and then hauled the ladies on board. I will never be able to get those images out of my brain.

These women were braver souls than I. I applaud their courage. But happy campers they were not. As the song says, I heard words I never heard in the bible. And most of them were in Yiddish. Some in Hebrew. The muttering began as each reached the first rung of the ladder and would finally fade only as they marched down the isle to their seats. No doubt, their grandchildren still tell the story.

That all took about an hour. A very long and a very cold hour. I should have known what was coming next, but I was an inexperienced traveler. Unless there’s an emergency, you can’t land a plane that is nearly full of fuel. So on our little junket to Ohio we did not carry the fuel necessary to get to Spain. We had to “filler up” in Mansfield.

Just like there were no telescoping boarding ramps, there were no tankers of any useful size. They weren’t prepared to fuel up a DC-10 going to Europe. And thus began the “bucket brigade”. Every vehicle with a tank and at least three wheels was pressed into service. And each made multiple trips. I didn’t actually see a red wagon with buckets, but I saw just about everything else. So for about another hour, the procession proceeded.

And we can’t forget about the VIPs. While fuel was being loaded into the plane, so too were the firefighters, policeman and political dignitaries. And their spouses. And they all began their unforgettable 15 minutes of fame right in front of me. (By this time I had my own blanket, my own tissue box and my own cold.) Oe by one, two by two, four by four, the crew showed them around the plane. Heard more than once: “Goooolly, Martha, look at the size of this thing.” Up the ladder, through the plane, down the ladder. All with that open plane door. I always suspected that one or two of them just stayed on board. By this time nobody would have noticed and nobody would have cared.

And thus ends the saga, but not the story. Other situations developed concerning Sangria punch, Spanish potatoes, 80 proof accountants, tourist trap nightclubs, Mediterranean beaches, the Casbah, Moroccan rugs, belly dancers, camel rides, cobra thrills, and Bangor, Maine. But it is Mansfield, Ohio, that takes the prize for my most interesting travel experience.

Shalom.

Saturday was my mother-in-law’s 80th birthday and all of Barbara’s siblings came to town with all their sub-siblings in tow.

That is generally enough to make me wish I was on an alien planet, but that’s not the story.

The birthday celebration lunch was held at Ingrid’s Kitchen, a German restaurant and deli located in a not so nice neighborhood around 36th and Youngs Blvd.  We got there early to set up things and as I was getting out of the car I noticed that people were already piling in.  Not just any people.  Old people.  And some REALLY old people.  And those that didn’t drive themselves, were dropped off by their facilities van.

Inside the average age was at least 70.  And I emphasize ‘average”.  At our table there were some 20 somethings.  And that brought the average down.

And at one end of the restaurant, there was a band.  And the average of the band had to be 75.  And when the band started to play, all the old folks got up to dance.  And they danced and danced and danced and danced……..  I though I was in a filming of another sequel of Cocoon.

Funny thing, though.  It was really a lot of fun.  Pretty soon my mother-in-law was dancing.  And Barbara.  And her siblings.  And even the sub-siblings.

Fun though it was, for me, it was surreal.  Even when I could dance, I didn’t.  I danced at my wedding.  That was enough.  So dance halls of any repute are foreign to me.

But the dancers where having fun.  And the band was having fun.  And the singer was having fun (she was also over 70). And the non-dancing crowd was having fun.

So if you live in the city, or are coming to the city, go to Ingrid’s Kitchen at noon on Saturday.

And bring your dancing shoes.

I just can’t take it anymore.  It’s a worse plague than Creeping Socialism!  It’s not enough that Country Western singers, rappers and NASCAR drivers practice this black art……….now it’s the official language of TV.  “Me and my friend did this…….”  “Her and me did that…….”

Watch for it the next time you watch your favorite TV show.  (Reality shows don’t count here.)  It’s built into the scripts.  OK………..it’s no big deal if the street punk that just got arrested on Law and Order can’t put two words together to form a grammatically correct sentence.  That’s just the way it is with semi-literate street punks.  But the police Captains, and the Assistant District Attorneys, and the defense lawyers…………..they should know better.  But the writers are writing sloppy-grammar scripts.  Probably on purpose.  People that make their living from language are perpetuating the destruction of that which feeds them.  It’s insanity.

Recently, I’ve begun watching reruns of Matlock on our local family station (KSBI).  Witnesses get on the stand to testify………..”Can you identify that person?”……….”Yes, it was she.”  Writer’s used to respect the King’s English.  Even secondary characters spoke with correct grammar.  Nominative Case Abuse was simply not tolerated.

In past decades we’ve seen public pressure on Hollywood to produce TV shows that showed less drinking.  And that showed everybody (even the bad guys) using their seat belts.  Why?  Because it’s in the public interest to stay sober and to buckle up.  But it’s also in the public interest to exhibit high standards in other things.  Such as language.  Using sloppy language is a slippery slope that leads to hell in a hand basket.

No kidding…….break a rule here……..break a Commandment there……break a law…….soon there’s just no difference.  The standards of language are the front lines of social decline.  (I know I need to switch to decaf, but all this just really jerks my chain.)  With language, we have the opportunity every hour of every day to choose between high standards and low standards.  It’s a discipline that crosses over into other areas of life.

Where is Henry Higgins when you need him?

Looking back on it all, one of the most interesting days was the day I was brought out of the coma.  The events of that day, have, in fact, changed my attitude towards mental illness.

After the decision was made to take me out of the hospital and place me in the hospice program, I was brought out of the coma and taken off the respirator.  Some of the doctors didn’t think I would survive at that point, but I did.  I don’t know how long it took me to regain full consciousness, but when I did, I was very much aware of everything around me.  That happened to be the day that Saddam’s capture was announced, so I was glued to the TV reporting.  I was not, however, able to verbalize.  To be conscious but not verbally coherent was very frustrating.

Although I was accurately processing what was said and seen around me, I was also hallucinating.  And those hallucinations added to my version of reality.  My son, for instance, was by my bedside and was communicating with me as best he could.  I understood everything he said and tried to respond as best I could.  But in between our conversations, I was convinced that he was entering and exiting my room through the window.  I watched him do it several times.  At least I thought I did.  I tried to explain to him that the nurses would soon get on his case for doing that and that he should start using the door like everyone else, but what little of that message he could understand only confused him.

But that wasn’t my only delusion.  There was the matter of those self-cleaning walls.  Somehow, the hospital had installed a new system of tiles that would clean themselves on a regular, rotating, basis.  Whenever I got bored with TV, I could watch those ceiling and wall tiles drip cleaning solution on themselves, turn inside out and back again, and then move on to the next group.  I remember thinking about what a great cost reducing invention that was and how excited I was to be one of the first to see it in action.  At one point, even the wall clock moved itself out of the way as the wall behind it was cleaning itself.  I wasn’t exactly a Flower Child in the 60’s, but I did have a few Height-Ashbury type experiences.  But nothing like those walls.

There were other things, too.  I complained to the nurse about a lousy meal that I had just eaten when they had given me no food at all.  I kept asking my son to push the button above me on the ceiling, when there was no button and not even a reason to push the one I thought was there. But the Grand Champion Hallucination was the one when I was ready to be transported out of the hospital.  My leaving the hospital had been delayed two hours (fact).  I believed it was because my orderly had locked the transport people out of the hospital (not a fact).  To make matters worse, another orderly had accidentally closed and locked my door when she left the room (also not a fact).  Then, because I had already been checked out paper-work wise, the hospital’s master computer had changed the security code to my room (so, so much not a fact).  So there I thought I was……..locked in my room, with my transportation people locked out of the hospital.  At that point computer programming code began to appear on the wall near the door.  Clearly, the problem was that their system was an NT system, not a Unix system.  I tried to call out using what could only have been the nurse call buttons, but there were not enough buttons to make a phone call.  It was very frustrating.  Eventually the maintenance crew was able to take off the top of the door.  (Presumably so the computer tech people could see that computer code.)  And then the door opened and there were the transport people.  My rescue was complete.

Life can be very exciting when you supply your own reality.

What was NOT a hallucination, however, was my conversation with the doctor when he came in to give me his CYA speech.  He wanted to make sure that I knew that I was going home to die and not to be treated.  I understand why he had to give me that speech, but I didn’t appreciate it much then.  When he finished, I mumbled as best I could, “suuut uuut”.  He couldn’t understand me, so he leaned in closer.  I tried again, “suuuuuuuuuut uuuuuuuuut!”  I still didn’t get through so I mustered up all my energy and verbal skills and said as best I could, “shuuuuut uuuuuup!”  “Oh,” he said, “you want me to shut up.”  And he did.  Even though I was hallucinating, I was still always able to understand everything that was said TO me, so I really believe that conversation with the doctor happened.  At any rate, it’s too precious a memory so I choose to believe it was real.