Who Noticed the Diseased Soul First?

"...You know, there's something missing in you people.  I'm not sure what it is.  It's not enough to call you mean-spirited, or hypocritical, or manipulative, or demagogic.  It's more than that.  First you ride to power by fanning hatred of the poor, blacks, immigrants, and just about everybody else who isn't white and middle-class.  Then you work to actually throw all those people overboard.  . . . What the hell's the matter with you?"  These words were spoken by Robert (Mongo) Frederickson, hero of Dream of a Falling Eagle, speaking to a fictional, though remarkably authentic, Southern conservative Congressman.  The book was written by George C. Chesbro, copyright, 1996


Ever notice how some things seem meant to be?   On Saturday, July 27, I checked out several mysteries from the local library.  The intent was to celebrate my seventy-fifth birthday week in style.  It's quite remarkable how much we can learn even from media meant to entertain.  I'd never read any Mongo mysteries and find it so curious that I selected this particular one just when I was writing articles about Paul Krugman's column claiming there is something wrong with the soul of the Republican Party.

I wrote the article for my religious blog a few days ago.  Today, after I read page 30 of Chesbro's book, I wrote the article for my political blog.  Now here I am on page 84 of the same book, finding that a fictional detective has already spoken the words as well or better than Mr. Krugman and myself -- and Mongo said it first.

Please read all three articles.  Information is as follows:

"Feeding the Poor" at lousdevotes.blogspot.com

"Cold Blooded Rich Men"  louhough.blogspot.com

Then, please reread the above article.

"Who Noticed the Diseased Soul First?"  lousissues.blogspot.com.

Then, note that the current trend is to teach hatred of everybody who is not upper class rather than middle class.

I rest my case -- for now anyway.

It's Open to Interpretation

Oprah Winfrey once told a story about entering a store to shop and noticing signs that said "We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone."  She was offended that, black belt shopper that she is, anybody would exhibit such signs in her presence.

About the same time, Wal-Mart was advertising the friendly greeting program that they had used for years.  We would be welcomed by an old person each time we entered the store.

It occurred to me right then that the most welcome I had ever received from one of these kindred old people was when one of them shoved a shopping cart in my direction while he/she kept right on chatting with another clerk.

As is my usual trend, I began analyzing.  I had retired by this time, so entertained the thought that they were offended by my pastel sweat suits.  That couldn't be it.  I had stopped at Wal-Mart stores numerous times on the way home from work.  My customary "uniform" was dress slacks, fancy blouses, blazers, jewelry and dress shoes.  Not the stuff of lower class people, enticing the contempt of the upper crust.

If I were African American, I might be prone to cry racism.  But I am not.  I'm the palest of blue-eyed whites with a mop of curly Irish-style hair. 

One day I entered the nearest Wal-Mart to be greeted with a friendly smile and the promised welcome.  I took time to thank her and tell her she was the first person I could recall actually greeting me. "Oh, I try to treat everyone alike," she said. Even that comment held a sting.  Was she implying I was chump change who should be delivered a charitable greeting?

The lady was dressed to the nines.  Her bleached blonde hair was a classy color and pulled up in a French roll, like those I had worn many times.  She wore a dressy suit and heels, a great overkill for the job.  Her companion, she could not have known, was quite familiar to me.  He was a well known wealthy businessman for whom I had actually worked.  What they were doing slumming that day, I have no idea.

My point with this narrative is that I shall never know in this life why these greeters consistently ignored my entrance into the store when their paychecks were contingent on making customers feel welcome.  As I said, if I were African American, I would probably assume racism, which was not a correct analysis in my case.  But it is the knee-jerk response with which the people of color in our country do view interactions with everyone.

I don't know how Oprah dresses for shopping or whether she entered that posh store with a smile on her face.  If she looked and behaved as she did on her daily show, I'm sure nobody would have resented her presence.  But, what if she entered with four or five friends, dressed down, and acting like Sophie in The Color Purple?  That would be a frightening scene to see.

We need to ask "What else can it be?" before we make assumptions.  In the case of the Wal-Mart greeters, were they bored?  Did their feet hurt?  Were they too old to stand all day?

There could be a number of causes for each situation we face.  Maybe we could adopt an "it is what it is" attitude and not analyze and blame everything to death. It's open to interpretation.

High Maintenance People

As I approach the high speed end of that slippery slope toward my seventy-fifth birthday (July 29, 2013), I plan on becoming a high-maintenance chick.  Not only do I expect to be coddled, catered to and pampered, but my overly stiff joints and my girth, are going to force me into getting pedicures.  Now, if I get a pedicure, should I not also have a manicure?  It would be a crying shame for my feet to look better than my hands.  While I'm at it, I had better get more frequent hairstyles.  It has probably been three years since someone other than myself touched my "coif".

Plus, I'm having a really hard time keeping up with housework these days.  I remember the olden days when as a single parent I worked forty to sixty-five hours per week.  I did the cleaning, yard work and ran errands in my spare time.  Sadly, my home looked better then than it does now.  In one of those blanked if you do, blanked if you don't situations, leaving it dirty aggravates my allergy to dust.  Think what that's like when I move the dust cloth around and stir it up. 

My balance problem, caused by my faulty Eustachian tube, which swells shut around dust and smoke, caused me to have to hire help with yard work about three years back.  I willingly sacrifice whatever small luxury, like food, that I would buy with the $20 I pay the man who weed eats the yard (as well as does his laundry, while he raids my fridge).  He is a son.

Do you remember those "How to tell you are old" e-mails that were so popular before Facebook?  One of my favorites was "Remember when you cleaned three rooms in one day and now it takes three days just to clean one?"  Today, I cleaned nothing.  Does anyone know how much Merry Maids would charge for four rooms and a bath?  Better still, do you know how I can wring the funds for just one cleanup a month of out my income?  Yeah, yeah, I've heard about elderly cleaning services sponsored by the government, but I believe you have to be ill to qualify for those.  Besides, I'd have to get over a serious aversion to having strangers in my home.  I would probably spend as much time going around afterward putting the décor in its proper place.

But you think this is bad?  My ex (Phyllis Diller called hers Fang, how about I use Dang?) was one of those people persons who preferred being around a crowd.  Entertaining was one of his "things".  When I started my doctoral program it was like a Special United Nations Summit negotiating him down to one dinner or party per month.  Dang never recovered from the shock.  Getting his commitment to help with preparations was easy by comparison.

Prior to this, the preparations required for entertaining his colleagues, a boss or out-of-town guests seemed endless.  Usually there was a room that needed painting.  Isn't there always?  After I completed this, I shopped for curtains, etc. and made a major grocery store run.  The day of the event, I cleaned the entire house -- eight rooms, one and three quarter baths -- including scrubbing all the vinyl and tile floors.  Who would need help with this, you ask?

When the house was clean and the three kids bathed and dressed as well as dinner in the oven, it was my turn.  You do understand that however tired a Leave it to Beaver-era housewife got, she was supposed to look like she stepped from the pages of Vogue with a friendly, welcoming smile for the guests.  I won't put you through the usual critique of my performance once it was over.  Well, maybe a little.  It included stuff like I should have sat up straighter and I should "couch" my opinions in a manner he never used.  Oh, yes, I should get my God-given curly hair straightened so it would be neat and smooth.   (And Southern Baptists are supposed to stick together until death do us part.  Oh, yes, we are not allowed to hasten his death, either).

But all humor aside, when the fantasies are over and reality sets in, I realize that handicapped as age has made me, I'm still better off than many.  I have a roof over my head, food to eat, a dilapidated vehicle to drive and I don't have to take care of some high-maintenance dude any more.  Take that and lump it Dang!

This Is My Life, Go Get Your Own

So, what's the deal?  Is there some big sign on my back that says, "I was born to serve, so to heck with my own needs?"  Just get in line and state your wishes.  I'll be happy to cut you down to size at once. 

Jesus Christ of Nazareth did a number on a whole bunch of Christians.  We took his admonitions to be meek and to serve others too much to heart.  I'm sure Jesus didn't mean to turn so many of us into foot rugs, but that was the result for a lot of people over a number of years.

As an undergraduate, I unthinkingly did the bidding of others.  My roommate needed posters for her run for class officer, I took time out to make them.  The Southern Baptists around me thought I should go to church instead of studying for finals, I went to church.  Somebody asked me to write her paper, I taught her how to write.  My goal of graduating from college was severely threatened by my initiation to the "servants of the world club."  I wised up just in time.

This kind of behavior is a problem for many people.  Self-help experts write articles and give speeches meant to help people learn to say no.  And hear this, they say it's even okay to do so.

The time wasters really came out of the woodwork as soon as I retired.  Several people were searching for volunteers.  No less than four individuals asked me to do their housecleaning.  Two of these wanted me to move into their homes as an unpaid housekeeper.  One of these expected me to contribute toward expenses. 

Several people wanted me as their personal taxi service.  Most of them didn't want to contribute gas money, at least not every time.  I'm not talking about just family here.  I even have a casual acquaintance wanting my car service. 

A friend strolled down to ask me to fix her computer.  Is she crazy?  I'm a computer user, not a techie. 

Two people have asked me to write their books.  One didn't mention money at all.  The other wanted me to work for a share of the profits on a book that wouldn't have sold a handful of copies.

A group asked me to design a garden for them -- for free.

Let me bottom line this for everyone.  I have my own agenda, so I don't need yours.  For every minute I spend meeting your goals, I lose a minute on my own.  I'm not making and decorating your cakes unless you are family.  I'm not editing your writing for free.  I'm not researching your project for you.  I'm trained in these skills.  You can't afford me. 

I'm not taking over your sales responsibilities so you can go off and do crafts.  You may have been joking when you asked, but I don't think you would have turned me down if I'd said yes.

If I'm lucky enough to live to be 107, my life is almost three quarters gone.  That doesn't leave much time to finish the great American novel or to read the thousands of dollars of nonfiction I bought when I didn't have time to read.  I have crocheting and quilting in process.  I have roses to smell.  I can't have that many years left to do my thing. 

All those years that I was working, I was building dreams of my own.  My kids are grown.  My grandkids are almost grown and now it's my turn. I get to fulfill my own wishes now. 

I don't want to write your stuff, I'm writing my own.  I don't want to clean your house.  I need someone to clean for me.

Keep in mind my Mama didn't raise any dummies and I, for sure, didn't go through all those torturous hours of education to end up your mark.

So do you understand?  I need you to go and live your own life and keep your mitts off of mine.  I'm sure others feel the same.

And now is the time the guilt should set in because I have protected myself.  Jesus, whatever were you thinking?

A Certain Kind of Memory

For several weeks, I've been unable to remember the second of Rudolph Dreikurs' four reasons for misbehavior -- usually, but not always, in children.  Today I decided to look it up.  As I ascended the stairs to my "extra" room, I was getting set to look for a black and orange spine with a used book sticker, resting flat upon the top of other books.  I went to the bookcase with four shelves full of education and psychology books, but failed to see it.  I proceeded to the bookcase where my education/psychology section begins, but could not find it there either.  Back at the first case, I moved a couple of obstructions and found an orange and black book by Dreikurs, bearing a used book sticker, resting flat upon the top of other books.  Perhaps everybody has this kind of memory, I don't know.

Had I learned the four reasons for misbehavior from this book, I would have remembered whether it began on the left or the right page and whether at the top or bottom.  As it happens, I see the reasons listed on a blackboard in a specific classroom, a specific professor standing to the left and below it.

Once more I tell the good Lord how much more helpful it would be if I could also see all the words, in correct order, written on a page.  Then I would not need to buy and store, as well as reread, so many books.  I know there is that kind of memory, because I had a long-term best friend who had one. 

To further explain the difference in our recall systems, I have a favorite example.  I ran across a description of a god with many arms while researching a topic for a novel.  I wanted more information.  In my mind's eye, I saw myself in my parents' living room, reading one of the encyclopedias they had bought and taught us to use.  I vividly saw a beautiful picture with a somewhat feminine individual with several arms.  The arms were poised as though they should be carrying heavy trays.

I remembered lotus blossoms in this picture.  I also remembered the word Siam.  I simply knew no name, that important label essential for looking up information in encyclopedias and dictionaries.  Not to worry, Fred will know.  I called Fred and had not finished my query before he said "Shiva".  Now it all made sense.  The picture had been at the top left of the page.  Siam I remembered at bottom left.  Shiva I had not seen because it was on the previous page.

Criminal Minds, a television drama, has an FBI team member, a veritable fount of knowledge who professes to have an eidetic memory.  I reached for my encyclopedias to find that World Book states there is no such thing as Fred's "photographic" memory.  When they define eidetic memory, they define mine.  They tell of someone who can look briefly at a scene and describe it with only a few errors, but they say the scene fades soon.  They do not describe the Fred's of the world who can recall all the words from the first read until death.  And they do not know that my kind of memory, almost without fail, lasts a long time.  I read my parents' encyclopedias between 1952 and 1956.  I remembered the multi-handed figure and the word Siam in February of 2000.  Siam's name had been changed to Thailand by the time I was in college, which I remember because we had two delightful girls from there living in our dorm.

It is my belief that many scientists negate the experiences of others because, they, themselves, and nobody they know have had them.  This attitude is also why the more unobservant of us do not believe others when they can detect "clues" that something has gone on around them.  A person with and eidetic memory can tell at a glance if someone has disturbed his belongings.  Others are reluctant to accept this kind of skill.  This is especially so if they don't want to acknowledge a truth.  I believe this is called selective memory.

On the long haul, it isn't much to have what World Book calls an eidetic memory.  However, an old school, possibly mislabeled, "photographic memory" such as that of Fred and the young fountain of information on Criminal Minds, is a truly great gift.  My kind of memory generally gets one labeled as paranoid by people who don't know the first thing about psychology.  It may be helpful in finding books and it may lead you to discovering you have had intruders, but it doesn't do much for learning.

 

No Two Alike

At a relatively young age, I decided that anyone who has average to above average intelligence can achieve anything they want.  Because of this snow job, I have tried a variety of studies, jobs (careers), hobbies and activities.  With each, I have acquired some success.  At some I have done fairly well.  It remains for history to decide whether I will achieve greatness in any at all.  I shan't hold my breath.

While in school learning how to be a school psychologist, I learned that there are many ways humans can show intelligence and few of them are evaluated on intelligence tests.  Individual intelligence tests are the best measures.  These include those like the Stanford Binet and the Wechsler Intelligence scales and their revised versions.  Group tests tend not to be very valid or reliable.

Some people are given specific gifts such as a voice, an ability to act or the kind of fire that produces art.  These seem to rise to celebrity with the speed of light.  Others envy and/or revere them.  But as a great opera singer once said, he thought he had a gift, a voice, only to find that the voice had him.

All of us have some strengths, some weaknesses.  Even the most academically challenged can make a difference for others. I once was assigned to reevaluate a young man who had been labeled Severe/Profound mentally retarded.  I sat on the floor with him, trying to assess individual behaviors such as holding up his head, using his hands, walking.  I don't remember the answers to these questions.  What I do remember is his charisma.  I was completely charmed by this little guy and have never forgotten him.

Yes, we are each as unique as our fingerprints and our DNA.  We can each achieve some of our dreams.

In fact, for people like my charming little friend, each little step, little achievement is more precious than the giant leaps made by the creative and gifted.  The latter learn despite anyone's efforts.  The former are where the greatest teaching opportunities reside.

Where we fail the most, I think, is in not trying.  You've always had a dream?  It's never too late to start.  When I was an undergraduate, I had a classmate who was in her eighties.  You always wanted to play the piano?  Buy an inexpensive keyboard and a book that teaches adults simplified techniques for learning to play.  Better still, learn to play by ear, by chords, just picking around.  The musician who can play by ear is the one with the real gift.

Just don't waste your life wishing for what could have been.  Turn those dreams into realities and then turn and encourage your neighbors to chase their dreams as well.

We are all uniquely able to succeed at something, if not everything.  The feeling of success by taking tiny different steps is the stuff confidence is made from and we can use this achievement to help the world.  Yes, I'm talking to you!!!

Introduction

I write under the pen name Lou Hough, a perversion of my real name.  For over a year I have published a political blog in which I present a view from Main Street concerning our economy and our government.  It is located at louhough.blogspot.com.  The title of the blog is Trickle Down Politics.  I am, as you may have noticed, a liberal Democrat. 

I was born in West Frankfort, Illinois, a small coal mining city in the southern part of the state.  There are two younger Houghs, brothers.  My family pronounces our name like How, supposedly because we are of Irish heritage (per one Irishman).  One brother is a financial planner and the other a Southern Baptist minister who works in home missions.  None of us live in our home state at this time.

I've always been interested in writing.  Back in the beginnings, I placed in a couple or essay contests and won a tuition scholarship to study Journalism at Southern Illinois University.  I attended the Carbondale, Illinois, campus, the only one at that time.  I received a Bachelor of Science in Communications, with my only area of expertise Journalism.

Despite being an editor on our high school newspaper, I was shocked to find how grueling a college beat could be.  Everyone enrolled in the program wrote for the newspaper and we all were required to produce a minimum number of words per week.  We didn't always get our products published, but when we did it felt quite good.  Our pieces good enough to earn our byline were especially prized.

I was always slated to go to school.  My mother acted as though higher education was the Holy Grail of success.  I was under no pressure to qualify for Harvard or Yale.  The local institution was good enough for us and, besides, I could go home on weekends.

Grades were never very important to me.  After dinner I would be sent to my room to study whether I had homework or not.  Most of the time I read novels on the sly during this banishment.  I had only mediocre skills in math and none at all in science.  My knack for English and history were better. 

I have three children -- one girl and two boys.  There are five surviving grandchildren and three great grands.  After my third child was born, I returned to school and earned a Master of Arts in Educational Research and Psychology as well as achieving All But Dissertation in School Psychology. 

My soul still feels my major calling is to write.  I hope, no pray, any who read my words will find themselves entertained, changed or inspired to live their own dreams.  For further information, see my religious blog, lousdevotes.blogspot.com.