I am human. I am imperfect. I have done things i'm not overly proud of. That doesn't mean I can back my F-150 up to the landfill, broom them all out and be done. No, errors live with us. I/we have to strive for better.
I am bothered by when one is judged as 'butt-hurt'. Is it a bad thing to want good? If I must color myself thin-skinned, huffy, touchy, so be it. I make no apologies for seeking good.
Nelle Belles Diner. A trip back to 1960-something. I have smoked too long, shouldn't, I know, scroll to human. Ostracize if you must, puff puff. Nelle Belles is a real place, in a real small suburban town, and if you walked into the place, I swear you'd look for James Dean, John Wayne or Red Skelton. In a sense, they're there.
Smoking is allowed, puff puff. As I downed my same ole same ole breakfast - two old ladies (my age, ha) were sitting, gabbing, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and watching Captain, Kangaroo.. ok, no, they weren't watching CK, but, it instantly drew me back to as if it were my mother and her sister sitting there. A simpler time.
The Depression had come and gone - but forever not forgotten. Coin purses served as a reminder - as did the noisily scraping, cleaning of the plate as the fork gathered up every last tidbit. Every time I eat, I do the same, and the noise is as if I were sitting next to my grandfather and his delight with encapturing the last morsels.
Nelle Belles is 1960. Oldies 94.9 plays in the background inside, Oldies 101 the Fox in the Parking lot. Double the chances to catch one really fine, fun song. Everyone knows first names. Last names unimportant, ceptin' when visitations and weddings happen. Regular's personal coffee cups are washed and put away on a shelf until the customer's next visit.
Laughter dominates. Business transactions happen - tree limbs to be chopped, a cracked section of sidewalk to be fixed, boards replaced on a deck, yada - all, 'notarized' with a handshake. Tenderloins are bigger'na football, omelettes are outta this world and I'll be darned if your coffee cup, water glass ever gets less than half filled.
People are nice. To anyone. To everyone. It's 1960, again.
"In the nineties, everybody wants to talk about their rights and privileges. Twenty-five years ago, people talked about their obligations and responsibilities." Lou Holtz
At Nelle Belles, fairly close to the door (within 'thieving distance') is a taped up gallon jar with a slot on top for seeking donations for one down on their luck. I meant to read it on the way out, forgot. Probably an assist to aid a customer and their medical bills. It's 1960, no one will ever swipe it.
Us. We 'kids of the 60's', yes, questioned much. "Why?" we replied when asked to do something. Good and bad came from this. Parental authority questioned, in the 50's, brought a belt or a switch.. in the 60's, that changed to squirming of mom and pop. Sure, there are probably hippies somewhere still in their parent's basement playing pong with hair by now certainly to the floor - but, at least the mortgages are surely paid, and there's no great threat to society.
Much good 'work' was done against racism, for elderly parents, for those in poverty, Native Americans, equal work equal pay for women.
"Thanks." (One of Nelle Belles employ just filled up my water glass. One has to watch it. Once I became so entranced with my newspaper, i hadn't noticed that my almost empty milk glass had been refilled, I tiltled it fastly for the 'last swig', and unwittingly drenched myself, the newspaper, the entire booth by taking 'a sip'. Lesson learned.)
Back to now. Not wholly, but somehow, the question of authority in the 60's has slipped, transitioned into assault authority. Not all, sure, but some. This past weekend, at the Fall Festival of our small town, young gents in the back of a pickup truck road around and around "The Square" with a 6 foot by 4 foot flag expousing "F*CK (enter political figure here.)" AND, trust me, I know this can and does happen by both parties. How did we get here though? The moral fibers of our flag are in dire need of a Betsy Ross restitch.
I was on the back deck at work with a female coworker. A gent who'd never been to the clubhouse was visiting with us, and I bet 7 times he dropped F-bombs. Color me butt-hurt if you like. I felt sorry for the coworker. He did apologize, but that's kinda like spitting in one's face, saying "sorry" and wiping it off with a washrag. (Victor? You've dropped F-bombs in your blog. Very true, so I guess I need to apologize. When done, it's moreso for impact, but your message is very well taken.)
I'm complaining and I hate that. I'm sorry.
""You know what makes me sick to my stomach? When I hear grown people say that kids have changed. Kids haven't changed. Kids don't know anything about anything. We've changed as adults. We demand less of kids. We expect less of kids. We make their lives easier instead of preparing them for what life is truly about. We're the ones that have changed." Frank Martin, South Carolina Basketball Coach.
So, I guess in many aspects, we are to blame.
I miss honesty. I miss "self-reported" wrong. I miss the child, parent teacher conference where the folded arms, furrowed brows and toe-tapping are pointed at the child.
Pollyanna still lives at Nelle Belles. 1960 is not so far detached to have wonderful memories.
"Another cup of coffee?"... "No thanks, but mebbe could I get a cup to go? It can be kinda brutal out there." "Sure."
Again, I'm far, far from perfect, but I'm also not afraid to admit my butt hurts. It's my butt and I'll cry if I want to, cry if I want to, cry if I want to, you would cry to if it happened to you. (And again, I don't fear being called butt hurt one simply due to the sometimes sad state of society.)
Before 'foul' is called and a penalty flag thrown, yes, I'm very aware and fully support Freedom of Speech. Is it a crime to add "please use discretion?" I hope not.
There is MUCH good out there. 1960 good. 2021 good. May good win out.
Love, Victurd
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