There is no such thing as a dumb question.

We’ve all heard this before.  A respected teacher.  A parent.  A mentor.  Most of us have said this ourselves.  There is no such thing as a dumb question.

I can remember the first time I heard this statement.  I was in the third grade.  One of the kids in Science Class asked a question.  Perry McPherson.  (Holy smokes… I hope Perry isn’t one of my kazillion Facebook Friends who I don’t really know….)

At any rate, Perry asked Mrs. Hammerle one thing or another.  And she said in all earnestness … “There is no such thing as a dumb question.”

I can remember sitting there at my little desk… the ones that have  the flip-up top… with all my books and papers and pencils…. neatly arranged inside.  So there I sat, and pondered this communique’.  No dumb questions…  I was in AWE.

Finally, I thought to myself…. “This teacher is so full of crap it is not even funny.  Perry just asked her the dumbest fool thing I have ever heard in all my eight years.”  And so it began.

Of course there are dimwitted questions… admit it.  We hear them all the time.

Here arefew that bug me.

You are standing in a long line… looking exasperated, with several items in your arms… waiting to pay the cashier.  Dopey walks up to you and inquires… “Are you in line?”

Well no.  I’m working out.  This is a new training exercise I do.  I hold heavy items for long periods of time… standing in a checkout line.  You think I’m looking buff yet?

Or… the next one…

While wearing a watch on your wrist, some good old Buddy walks up and says… “Hey there.  You got the time?”

Ummmm….. do you mean time in general?  Like I am the Grand Keeper of All Universal Time?  Or… do I have the time to “do” something… like a quick game of handball? Maybe you are singing a verse from that old Budweiser commercial?   Or….. perhaps.. you are asking if am I AWARE of the current time?

Then there are the occasions when I am walking my dog.  Someone will inadvertently stop and put forward the following… “Is that your dog?”

No.  It most certainly is not.  I saw a guy at he park, and he had this here dog.  I thought this here dog was a really good looking dog.    So I knocked the guy down.  Yep. I swift kicked him… right at the knees… grabbed the leash…. and ran like hell.  So it is really his dog…. but I just stole it minutes ago.

Statements… same way.

At breakfast this morning, I heard a guy talking to his friends at the next table.  Clearly, they were visitors from out of town.  The man says….  “Yeah, driving on these streets is terrible.  When they laid out this town, they sure didn’t have SUVs in mind.”

Hmmmmmm…. ya’ think?  Let’s see, Charleston was established in 1670.  I’m guessing there wasn’t even a compact car here at that point…. let alone an SUV.

And you all know I love grits.  Well…. you don’t have to be a grit Aficionado to know the next one.  Seriously.  I overheard this one a few days ago.

The gentleman says to the waiter…. “Can you tell me the difference between your cheese grits and your plain grits?”  I sat there, shook my head….felt VERY sorry for the waiter…. I just wanted to stand up and yell…. “Hey Buddy.  Smile and say CHEESE!”

…… and it all brought me back to Perry McPherson in the third grade.

Well, Perry.  Here is the big news of the day.    I’m pretty sure Mrs. Hammerle was wrong.   There is such a thing as a dumb question after all.

“Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I’m not sure about the the universe.” – Albert Einstein

“We’re in a giant car heading towards a brick wall and everyones arguing over where they’re going to sit.” – David Suzuki

And now…. a 188 Coastal Quiz.

Please identify the following.  The following scene depicts….

a. Diving School
b. Sushi Night at the Cooper River
c. An in-depth discussion
d. A sparrow can’t hold much in its beak.  But……. a pelican.

“The truth is that our finest moments are most likely to occur when we are feeling deeply uncomfortable, unhappy, or unfulfilled. For it is only in such moments, propelled by our discomfort, that we are likely to step out of our ruts and start searching for different ways or truer answers.” — M. Scott Peck

I like Superheroes.  Since I was knee-high to a tad pole.  (Minor diversion here…. how the heck did “Knee-High to a Tadpole” ever get started.  I have YET to meet ONE tadpole with knees.  They sort of look like…. well… they look like sperm.  But definitely… no knee cappers.)

Alright.  Back to Superheroes.  Yes.  Since I was a little kid, I have a thing for Superheroes.  I read comic books, and watched the Saturday morning cartoons.  I drew them.  Had posters.  I even pretended I was a Superhero…. on a pretty regular basis.

Oh, that good old Pretend World.  I know I’ve told the story here before, but part of it bears repeating.  My sister and I would use safety pins to affix bath towels around our necks.  We never wore shirts when we played Superheros.  Or we would pull our t-shirts up over our heads, and behind our necks.  We would then put on brightly colored tights… and tube socks on top of the tights…. like Superhero Boots….  Styling.

Then we dove off our bunk beds onto a couple of small pillows below.  This might have a lot to do with my mental capacity today … or lack thereof….

Now… AquaMan was one of my favorites.  In the summer, I would go to the pool, swim to the deep end, and make believe I was AquaMan.  I loved being underwater… and pretending I could breathe while swimming in the depths.

This too… may have something to do with the amount of brain cells which I have managed to retain as an adult.

So….. imagine my joy as an adult when the Superhero movies began rolling out.  I sure do love them.  I watch them again, and again.  The Batman series was probably the most compelling and enthralling.

But these days… we don’t have any new Superheroes.  They just keep spewing out the old ones… over and over.

Here’s what I say…. we need a whole new breed of Superheroes.  We should take something common…. and make it into Superhero names… with Superhero Powers.

The thing that comes to mind… the prime candidates… which have a pretty bad “reputation” these days…. are Prescription Medications.

Just listen to their names.  Perfect for a whole crowd of Superheroes.  (You can leave them as is… OR…. put a ‘Captain’ in front… or a ‘Man’ in back…  )  You know…. like…

Cpt. Crestor.  Lunesta Man.   Prilosec.  Boy Ambien….. and on and on.

Let’s break a few of them down, with some highlighted details….

Ambien. – The likeable Super Hero.  Happy all the time.  Wears Blue.

Cymbalta. –  This one is a bad guy.  The Arch Rival…. Cymbalta.  Maybe even the Head Bad Guy.  Foreboding music in the background.

Flomax. – I think this should be a woman.  Maybe liquid…  definitely a Shape Shifter.

Lexapro. – Athletic Super.  Strong.

Lunesta. – Super Hero of the Moon.  Lives there.  Flies like crazy.  His weakness are Moon Pies.

Lyrica. – One of the female Supers.  She is musical… and plays any instrument.  She has a magic flute, and harp…. among other things.

Plavix. – A Water Super.  Skates well too.  Wears silver.

Prilosec. – Bad female Super.  Wears black.  Breaks things with her mind powers.

Prozac. – Not human… more like a dinosaur.  Vegetarian.

Ritalin. – Another Bad Super.  This one looks just like the Joker.  A little bit punchy.

Viagra. – Thinks he is a Super Hero… but he is just a regular guy… with a latex cape.  Organ music plays when he enters a scene…..

They all live, work, and save the day.. in a city called Walgreenopolis.

And of course, watching these Superheroes may cause dizziness, drowsiness;  nausea, vomiting;  warmth, redness, or tingly feeling under your skin;  fever;   headache;  memory problems; blurred vision; skin rash or hives; difficulty breathing; swelling of your face, lips, tongue, or throat;  mood or behavior changes, anxiety, panic attacks, trouble sleeping, or the possibility of  impulsive, irritable, agitated, hostile, aggressive, restless, or hyperactive (mentally or physically) behaviors; depression or thoughts about the dark side of the force….  and more.

As with any Super Hero… consult your doctor before taking….  a walk with one.

Ohhhhhhh……  Holy Magnificent Milligrams Batman……

“Aim not for what you are, but for what you could be.” —Lucas Hellmer

Well…. it is high time we talked about them here.

We’ve talked about everything thing else.  But let’s face it.  This has been that big old ugly white elephant in the room.

I get letters about them all the time.

People have stopped me in the street and asked when I am finally going to get around to “The Topic”

So, we’ve danced around this one long enough.

No.  I am not much of a farter.  I know an awful lot of farters.  And when I say awful…. I mean awful.

But me…. not so much.  I am not sure why.  I tend to burp… if anything.

However, I know you all are out there.  You are my friends and family.  So tonight, I give you gas.

Now…. all farts aren’t considered flatulence.  I guess flatulence equates to an over-abundance of gas.  On the average a fart is composed of mostly nitogen…  about 59%,  and the 21% hydrogen.  Only 7% is methane.   AND…..less than 1% is what makes them stink…. which contains a little hydrogen sulfide.

They say the average Joe produces about a half liter of farts a day.    I am not sure how this is measured, or by whom.  But half a liter seems a little on the light side for some of the folks I know.

I also recently found out that termites are the biggest producers of farts.  Again…. how this determination was made… I will never begin to know.

Farts are flammable.  And contrary to popular belief… women fart as much as men.  And that works out to be about 14 farts per day.

And here is a fast fact for you…..Farts have been clocked at a speed of 10 feet per second.

I am flabergasted at the information I was able to find on this subject… it goes on and on.  Apparently, the readers here aren’t the only ones interested in this.  But here is what really amazes me.  A lot of this information had to be “gathered”… either in a lab setting… or at a bean eating contest… I am not sure which.

But… if you were the guy with this job… what the heck would you say at Cocktail Parties?

“So Kevin.  What do you do for a living?”
“Well… as it turns out… I am a Fart Speed Analyst.”
“Oh Kev.  That is…. uhhhhmmmmm…. very interesting.  Do you like what you do?”
“Most days it is okay.  You know, it’s the job.  But some days, I’ll tell you…. it really stinks.”

And there you have it.

Hopefully, not too many people will get wind of this post….

Well,  Happy St. Patrick’s Day.

An age old tradition… which I suppose I like, well enough.  I have never thought much about it…. really  … one way or the other.  I am not Irish.  I have no Lucky Irish Ancestors.  Nope.  I was born from a long, long line of poor German Dirt Farmers… on both my Mom & Dad’s sides.  All I have found in my genealogical research was 100% German Heritage as far back as we can go.  Sprechen Sie Deutsch?  Ja, oder nein?

One crusty fellow…. on my Mom’s side… claimed he was French.  But he was born in the same German Village as all his brothers, sisters, parents, and grandparents before him.  I guess he thought being French might be a good  pickup line with the ladies.  Sacre Bleu.  It was 1801.  The whole “Baby what’s your Sign?” thing hadn’t caught on yet.

So back to St. Patrick’s day and the Irish.  St. Patrick was a little fella.  Neat, tidy, nicely trimmed beard, and a dapper hat and tie.  He wore a lot of green knickers, and cute knee socks. Shined his shoes to a glare.   He was a great dancer, and was crazy about rainbows, unicorns, and fairy dust.  I’m thinking he was gay.  I mean…. he even liked it when people called him Patty.

But back to this holiday.  St. Patrick is the Patron Saint.  Those wacky Catholics.  (I can say “Wacky Catholic” because I was baptized one. As were all the poor German Dirt Farmers before me.  But I digress.)

Yes, Patron Saints.  The protecting or guiding saint of a person or place.  A saint who is regarded as the intercessor and advocate in heaven for a nation, place, craft, activity, class, or person.  There is a Patron Saint for just about everything under the sun.

This is one Partying Holiday… and one’s Nationality doesn’t seem to divert the majority of people from the celebrations.  From Green Beer to Corned Beef and Cabbage… to more Green Beer.  AND….. If you DON’T cavort and carouse… hold on to your hats while those around you get green and goofy.

And…..if you DO partake in the revelry and festivities associated with this St. Patrick’s Day… the following “other” patron saints may come in handy for you.

Depending on how far you take the partying… of course.

Saint Fiacre  — Patron Saint of Sexually Transmitted Disease (if you are promiscuous when you are tipsy….)

Saint Rene Goupil — Patron Saint of Anesthesiologists (depending on how bluto you get… you may be your very own anesthesiologist)

Saint Dominic Savio — Patron Saint of Juvenile Delinquents (for the young… who SHOULD be at home studying to be Rocket Scientists)

Saint Monica — Patron Saint of Alcoholics  (it could happen… I’m just saying…)

Saint Hubert of Liege — Patron Saint of Mad Dogs (for those of you who can’t hold your liquor)

Saint Edward the Confessor — Patron Saint of Difficult Marriages (if you stay out too late without your spouse)

Saint Casimir of Poland — Patron Saint of Bachelors (what you might BE if you stay out too late without your spouse)

Saint Polycarp — Patron Saint against Dysentery (plop, plop, fizz, fizz)  (…. and this one sounds sort of like Polly Crap…..)

Saint Denis — Patron Saint of Headaches (….this one is THE OBVIOUS).

Ohhhhh….. no matter how you spend your Luck of the Irish on  St. Patrick’s Day… remember this…. Keep joy in your soul, a spring in your step… and magic in your heart.

“Be grateful for luck. Pay the thunder no mind – listen to the birds. And don’t hate nobody.”  – Eubie Blake (who was probably not Irish….)

Some nights I have nothing to say.  Other times, like this evening, I am so busting-at-the-seams with my thoughts and emotions.  And it is on nights like these… that I truly have to reel it in.  Otherwise… I am ALL over the place.

It typically happens when I get upset about something.  An occurrence.  Or perhaps a current event or issue.  So I have to take long deep breathes.  Here’s one little piece of it all…..

Our digital age is growing exponentially.  The social networks continue to expand further and wider.  So not a day passes, when I read something, or see something, that I disagree with.  To my very core.

It is then… when I try to remind my self of one of my biggest beliefs.  The thing that I think is incredibly important in life, for all people to practice.  Really…. two things.  Compassion and  compromise.

I think “Compromise” will eventually be the tell all for the human race.  Either we figure it out… or we’ll end up destroying each other.  Eventually.

(I hope you weren’t looking for a big laugh tonight….)

I try very hard not to use this space to promote my political or religious convictions.  I can do that elsewhere.

Yet… with all of that said… I just have question for each and ever person.

“What will you do with your power today?”

Some people reply that they have no power.  I can unequivocally tell them that they are wrong.  We all have power.

The primary definition of “power” is “the ability to do something or act in a particular way, especially  as a proficiency or quality.”  (How about them apples?)

And each one us has a barrage of varying capacities, leverage, influence…. and resources therein.

There may not be huge amounts of monetary gains in your life.  You may not hold a political office.  You may not hold a job of any kind at all.  Makes no difference.

Every minute of every day, we have the power to affect something.  How we assert that energy is totally up to us.  It is called free will.

Here is the other part of it.

When I was out running this morning, it just felt hard.  So hard.  It was like I just didn’t have it in me today.  And then it hit me.  “Well Polly.  If it were easy…. every one would be out running marathons.”  It seems that most things which are worthwhile…. can feel “hard” at times.

We have to really “care” about what we are doing…. and stick with it.  It is then that we press through those “places” that feel hard… and accomplish something worthwhile.  At least that is what I think.

You know, I love that Einstein guy… and he was always thinking big and coming up with neat-o formulas.  That “E=mc2” one really caught on!

So… as I was running… I came up with a cool-io formula of my own.  And since my name is Polly… it has to be all Ps.  (Plus… I pee a lot…. so it is all coming full circle.)  Okay… here is my snappy blueprint.  I like to call it “The Road to Compromise” Principle.

P=p2

Power = passion x persistence

We exact our power when we are passionate about something…. and we care enough to find  the tenacity to see it through… despite the times when it feels difficult… or even impossible.

I’m sitting here chuckling at myself right now.  As I read back over this… I said… “Dang it Polly.  You are ALL over the place.”  But you know what?  I’m going to let it be.  No edits tonight.  That is just how it all came out.

But back to the question… “How will you use your power today?”

Will you call a lonely friend, or relative?  Or let it go?  Will you be considerate to the person answering the phone at the electric company… when they’ve screwed up your bill three times now?  Or not. Will you pick up that piece of trash on the walk… even though you weren’t the one who acted so irresponsibly in littering?  Or will you leave it there because it isn’t your problem?  Will you forgive someone who has offended you… or hold the grudge?

These are little parts of our power.  So as you head out the door today…. I wish this for you….  (My extremely short and wrinkly green friend… said it better than anyone.)

“May the Force Be With You.”

Yep.  I told you I’d be all over the place.  I didn’t even mention my other friend… Superman….  who said…

“With power comes responsibility.”

Oh… the Power of the  Force.  What a thing…. what a thing.

When ever my eyebrows get too bushy, I think of those biggest brows of them all…  on good old Andy Rooney’s face.  However, the unruliness of my eyebrows is not really the point here tonight.

My mind goes from bushy eyebrows to Andy Rooney…. to Andy’s famous bit on the cotton which is stuffed in pill bottles.  I never saw that episode of 60 Minutes.  But that is the one they always use in the “clips” whenever they talk about Old Man Rooney.  I liked that guy and I miss him.

But sometimes, I used to think he could make TOO BIG of a deal about something.  So I never paid much attention to the cotton in the pill bottle spiel.  It simply had no relevance for me.

Until today.

I had to give Maxine a pill.  They came in a brand new plastic pill bottle.  And when I opened that cap… after pealing plastic wrap from the top… and then finally cracking the safety seal… low and behold….. I found a whole lot of cotton stuffed way down into the bottle.  Overkill in my estimation.  Especially when it comes to Doggy Estrogen.

(Yes, Maxine is going through men-o-paws….  but that story if for another night…..)

Back to the matter of the  cotton. “Well now.  I isn’t that something….”  I thought.  So I stuck my finger down through the top of the bottle to begin the retrieval process of the said cotton.  This was no good, I can tell you.  I began wedging that cotton further down in to the snare of pills below.  I realized I would need a tool.

Since I was in the kitchen, I grabbed a paring knife.  Well as luck would have it… I sliced my finger in the cotton-fetching-process.   I immediately began bleeding profusely from my index finger  (which doesn’t contain an index, by the way).  I’m not exactly sure how I cut myself.  But this I can tell you.  I was glad for all that cotton in the pill bottle….  which was now soaking up a great volume of this blood.

So at that point, I was a bit off my game.  I dropped the bottle, and luckily… with all of the blood soaked cotton in the top… only two pills managed to spill out.  Unfortunately…  the two dogs standing at my feet were NOT Maxine.  Yes, Frances and Ollie, the little piglets that they are… went after the pills.

I had to be quick on my feet here.  So I half-lunged, half-dove… in the direction of the two capsules.  This scared the bejeezus out of both dogs.  They scampered underfoot, totally knocking me off balance… and I crashed into the cabinets, spinning slightly, before skidding along the tile floor.

My lighting fast reflexes allowed me to scoop up both pills, as my face slid across the tiles.  I got a 10 from the  Russian Judge.

When I finally came to rest, I sat up on the floor, propped my back against the lower level of cabinets, and looked squarely into the bloody, dented, cotton-stuffed pill bottle in my good hand.

Now I see what Andy was talking about.  I guess he wasn’t over exaggerating.  Mr. Smarty Pants.

I began cursing cotton profusely.  I cursed the cotton balls, cotton plants, the cotton gin… and every last sappy cotton commercial.  I vowed right there and then.. to never, NEVER EVER, wear cotton again.  I took an oath to always stay hydrated and never be a victim of cotton mouth.  No more cotton anything. Not for me.

So tonight… when I sat down to write…I checked a few different sources for topic ideas.  And what popped up?  Today is the anniversary of Eli Whitney’s Patent for the Cotton Gin.

And once again…. the Universe Speaks.  Ever so subtly… but it speaks.

So as I got all jacked out of shape…. I was then reminded of some timeless words from old Billy Shakespeare.

“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”

And so it goes.  I could either let something like that ruffle my feathers for the rest of the day…. or I could laugh about it… and realize that I came out on the other side just fine.  Just fine indeed.   A few lumps and bumps… but in comparison to the obstacles a lot of people face each day…. this was just a blip on the radar screen.  A tiny thread of cotton.

And thinking made it so.

And tonight… one from the KronyTown Mailbag.

Dear Polly,

I am just curious.  I hope you don’t mind me asking this.   How old are you?

Ticking,
Lawrence, St. Petersburg, FL

Dear Time-Bomb Larry,

There is an old saying that goes… “You should never ask a woman her age.”  I am not sure who started this, but I think it is a bunch of bunk.  I mean, why not ask a woman her age?  Really?

Age is not something to be ashamed of.  No.  We should wear it like a badge.  A Red Badge of Courage, I’ll tell you.  I’ve said it before… but when people are young…. they want to be older.  And when they are wrinkled and creaky, like me, then tend to yearn for their more youthful days and ways.

Why I ask you. Why?  Shouldn’t the present be just the right time for each of us.  I mean, the fact of the matter is…. the present is the only time we really have.

The past is long gone.  And the future?  Well, the future is always the future.

Einstein… the amazing brainiac that he was… tried to teach us that “Time is Relative.”  So very true it is.  It is the same thing as “The Eye of the Beholder.”  It is all in PERCEPTION.

So, Larry (can I call you Larry…  I hope so… because that is how I roll)….  anyway, I do not mind at all that you asked me how old I am.

In fact, it brings up a funny story that occurred today.  I was out sweeping the walk in front of our home here in Downtown Charleston…. (one of the greatest cities in the world… which happened to be jam-packed with tourists in black knee-socks and Bermuda shorts today… but I digress ever-so-slightly).

A couple of women stopped me and asked… “Do you work here?”  Now…..What the heck?  Work where???  “Uhhhhhhh…. nooooo…. I live here.”

“You mean REAL people live here?”

Now… what the heck do they think this is…. Disneyworld?   And I am Cinderella in her peasant garb…. sweeping out the fireplace…. waiting for the little white mice and pumpkin to roll down Meeting Street?  Holy smackerels!

So I responded….”Well… what exactly do you mean by real?  I am 85% cardboard cutout, and the rest of me is sort of like Pinocchio. Pretty cool, huh?  Would you like me to sign your souvenir map?”  And then….. back to sweeping.

Larry, I don’t know why I told you that story.  I guess perhaps when they asked if I was real or not…. it reminded my of the whole E=mc2 thing with Einstein.

Oh… but since we are on it….  the tourist stories kept coming today.  So later in the afternoon, I was walking our three most awesome dogs.  This is about the fourth time…. at least … that this particular question has been asked of me.  Yes.  Once again, a small  group of folks wanted to know if I was the Dog Walker.  “Well yes. It appears that I am.  And now…. we are walking… walking the mile… walking the Green Mile.”  Holy, holy, smackerels.  Again.

It is not that any of this necessarily bothers me.  (Okay.  Well.  Maybe just a little.)  But, it is just that I’ve  visited an awful lot of cities, and I don’t recall ever asking a local if they were a real live person… or just some sort of prop.

But that is reflective of life, now that I think of it.  I’ve met people on this big ball of ours.  There are those that seem to be going through the motions like characters at the amusement park.  Sort of fake-ish.   They just sort of flit through each day, in their costumes, and make believe, and never really connect to anyone or anything.  I can think of a couple prime examples right away.

On the other hand, I know a big big bunch of people who are as real as the ground beneath my feet.  The salt of the earth.  The backbones.  The true blue.  And the honest-to-goodness. Dyed in the wool.  Good as gold.  And I like those folks a lot.

So much more than the Mickey Mouses and the Dumbos in life.  Those cardboard cutouts have a tendency to blow over quite easily. They eventually blow away completely.

But the others…. the solid ones….  as solid as solid can be.  They truly are the REAL people in my life.  No additives.  One hundred percent pure.  And right here in the present.  In fact, they are a BIG present…. to me.

Well Larry, I hope that answers your question… You see… I’m getting a little older, and I can’t remember what the crap you asked me.  Plus, it is getting late.  And….Time sure does fly when you are having fun…..

Best wishes,
Polly

“Don’t count every hour in the day, make every hour in the day count.”
-Old Adage

I like chickens.  For a ton of reasons.  There are a lot of chickens to like… I’ll tell ya’!  There are more chickens on earth than there are people, over three billion in China alone.  Do you think they cluck in Chinese?  I’d like to hear this sometime….

But back at it……

First of all, the name is perfect.  Chicken.  You can say it all sorts of different ways, with various inflections.  It is just a happy word….I think.  Chicken.  Chicken. Chicken.  And it is even better  when used in a phrase… “Now there goes one good looking chicken.”

See what I mean.

The next thing.   Chickens are cute.  As babies.  Aren’t we all, really?  But the baby chicken is fuzzy and…. and… fuzzy.  Saying “Baby Chickens” sounds even better than just saying plain old “Chickens.”

Now….. Most people don’t care for the walking around in the barnyard kind of chickens.  But I think they are pretty spry and dapper.  I propose that most of the modern hip-hop dances moves are based entirely on chicken movements.  Groovy  Chicks.  And…..a chicken can have 4 or 5 toes on each foot.  I also think this is why they are such great dancers.

Speaking of dancing…. If you’ve ever been forced to participate in the dreaded Chicken Dance, you have Werner Thomas to thank. The Swiss accordionist wrote the song (originally called “Der Ententanz”) in 1963.  He used to play it to customers in the diner he owned.  Dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah…. Dah. Dah. Dah. Dah.

If you have a fear of chickens you may be Alektorophobic.  My Mom is one.  She got pecked by some chickens when she was little.   That’ll put the fear of chicken in ya’!

Here is a big important fact about chickens.  They taste good. Not that they possess over-developed palettes.  No.  I mean… when I EAT THEM, they taste good.  Sorry Vegans and PETA folks.  I like a good chicken.  Grilled, Fried, BBQed, Fricasseed, Boiled, Saute’ed.  Yep.  I like chicken soup and chicken gravy too.  Apparently, I am not the only one.  Americans consume 8 billion chickens a year. That’s a lot of chicken, Colonel.

Now on to the eggs.  Chicken Embryos.  This might be the best part of a chicken. Good thing they don’t all hatch.  Otherwise, we’d have way too many chickens in the world, and not enough egg salad, Eggs Benedict, fried egg sandwiches, and MOST of all…. eggs over easy to go with my grits.

And since we are on the subject of eating… I was at a restaurant the other day.  A waiter approached a man at a table next to me.  The guy was studying the menu carefully at this fancy-smancy  restaurant.

“May I take your order, sir?” the waiter asked they guy. “Well, I was wondering how you prepare your chickens.” The man replied.

“Oh, it’s nothing too special, sir,” the waiter confided. “We just tell them straight out that they’re going to die.”

That sort of made me feel really bad for the chicken.  So I ordered the duck.

I’ve mentioned this before, on several occasions.  My Dad served in WWII.  My Grandfather’s Brother served in WWI.  I have talked with my parents about how things were in the United States back then.

In that time and place, the entire nation was well aware of the war.  It was present in every day discussions.  There were front page stories,  rations, and people were called to make sacrifices here on the home front.  Mostly everyone got involved.  It was a big, flipping deal, every single day….. for the entirety of the war.  For love of country.

And now.

Now.

We get a blip of a story here.  We occasionally  hear of U.S. soldiers wounded, or killed.  But it seems to me, that with most folks… it goes in one ear, and out the other.   And in the next breathe, the TV News Reporter tells us that “Snookie” was seen drunk with one of the Beastie Boys.

I’m not even sure that a lot of people in the U.S. are aware that we have troops in Afghanistan.  It is only when something totally berserk occurs, like the U.S. soldier killing civilians…. that anyone stops and pays attention.  For a minute.

And then it is off  to the Five Guys Burgers and Fries for dinner.

I’m not sure why it is like this now.  Maybe people think the wars are senseless.  Maybe there is no personal sacrifice which must occur for us.  Unless of course, a loved one is serving overseas.  Then we pay attention.

I have a very good friend who is serving in Afghanistan.  Through the miracle of the Technology Age, we have strengthened our friendship in our adult years.  She is my age.  My age.   Again, I reiterate here, she is serving in Afghanistan.

This morning I got a letter.  She wanted to let me know that she was okay, despite things being all jacked out of shape over there.  There she is… serving our country without question, and she is worried about her family and friends here.  Now that is something, isn’t it?

When talking about the intensity of the situation this morning, she wrote…. “I am just ready. I have always kept in mind that by taking the oath, I have said that I would be willing to lay down my life for our constitution. I know why I serve, and feel confident in my abilities.”

Lay down her life for our Constitution.  How many people do you know who would do that?  And…..  On the other hand…… how many people won’t take the time to get off the couch and vote?

I hear so much disparaging talk about our country, its officials, our President, how crappy it is here in the U.S.  And on, and on.  (I have been known to say such things myself on occasion.)

It is our Right to say these things.  It is one of our Freedoms which are mapped out in the Constitution.  Yes.   The Bill of Rights.   The Right to Free Speech.

But the truth of the matter is…. I don’t know that I would lay down my life for our Constitution.  That is incredibly brave, and noble, and beyond my proportions.

I can not say if any war is right or wrong.  I am not that smart, for one.  And I also believe there is no black and white where such complicated matters are concerned.

But I CAN choose to act responsibly.  Not only as a Citizen of the United States, but also a Citizen of the Planet Earth.  I can show respect for our country, with all its faults and downfalls. I guess I am thinking that  for every glitch, or miscalculation in our system, there are some very good reasons to behave admirably.  Those reasons are mapped out in the Bill of Rights.

Most importantly, I can offer regard and esteem for my fellow human beings. I can show kindness, and willingness toward others.  I can try to offer more understanding…. rather than always trying to be understood.  Compromise.

No. These things are not sacrifices at all.  They are simply the right thing to do.