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People make a bigger mess

By Al Batt | Austin Daily Herald

Published Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Echoes from the Loafers’ Club meeting

“That’s a nice tattoo.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you have others?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re not sure?”

“There are places on my body where I never look.”

Driving by the Bruces

I have two wonderful neighbors—both named Bruce—who live across the road from each other. Whenever I pass their driveways, thoughts occur to me, such as: It’s difficult to tell how cold it is if we don’t know the temperature.

Learned while shopping

My wife and I were in a large store. Large stores make me uneasy. We headed to the checkout area and chose the lane with the shortest line. Before we reached the checker, he needed to call a manager to the register. That manager apparently was vacationing in Cancun. I learned once again that the shortest line moves the slowest.

Oh, deer!

A friend called lamenting the many deer hit in front of her home. She wished that drivers would slow down.

According to DOT statistics, all but three of us drive too fast. We drive too fast for the laws and for the conditions. We hit deer, we collide with other cars and we skid off the road. Winter bends us to its will, and we take a shortcut through a ditch. Life goes too fast. We need to do ourselves a kindness and slow down.

It was a job

As a college student, one of my jobs was cleaning dormitory restrooms. I was a farm boy who was used to cleaning up after cows, pigs, and chickens, but hadn’t had much experience of sprucing up after humans. I discovered that people make a bigger mess than farm animals.

My work was a minimum wage job. I didn’t complain. At least they weren’t paying me what I was worth.

Being as how I was only slightly overpaid, I looked for ways to augment my income. I put a tip jar in each restroom. I never got any tips, but a number of the jars were stolen. My boss put a kabosh on my enterprise by telling me where I should put my tip jars.

#*&^&%^$%#@ wrench!

My parents didn’t swear. My father used “cheese and crackers” as his oath. I had friends who leaned one word against another to form imaginative cussing. As young boys, we practiced swearing. It sounds inane now, but it was important then.

A farmer in the neighborhood was a master of the swear word. He could weave a tapestry of cusswords that had to be heard to be believed.

I saw him working on a disabled tractor one day. I hurried to his side, not because I wanted to help, but because working on his tractor brought out his most inspired productions. Wisdom is the reward for listening.

This day looked like it would be no exception. He became frustrated with the tractor’s lack of cooperation. He took a couple of steps away from the iron horse and threw a wrench as hard as he could at the tractor. The tool hit one of the large rear tires and bounced. The wrench hit him in the nose, breaking his glasses.

The farmer looked stunned. Unable to see clearly without his glasses, he bent down, feeling around on the ground until he found eyeglass parts and the wrench. He stood up, with blood running down the bridge of his nose.

He didn’t say anything. I was sure that he was trying to think of an appropriate word.

He didn’t swear. He laughed.

I don’t swear. Laughter seems to do a better job of venting frustration.

Nature notes

A reader asks why a group of crows is called a ‘murder.’ A ‘murder’ of crows is based on the persistent but fallacious folklore that crows form tribunals to judge and punish the bad behavior of a member of the flock. If the verdict goes against the defendant, that bird is killed (murdered) by the flock. The basis in fact is probably that crows might kill a dying crow that doesn't belong in their territory or much more commonly feed upon carcasses of dead crows. In addition, both crows and ravens are associated with battlefields, medieval hospitals, execution sites, and cemeteries (because they scavenged on human remains). In England, a tombstone is sometimes called a ravenstone.

Talking to the Holstein

I was talking to the Holstein the other day. The Holstein is a retired milk cow, so she has time to talk. I told the Holstein that I knew it was superstitious, but I liked to wish upon the first robin I see each spring. I asked her if she was superstitious.

The Holstein chewed her cud thoughtfully and said, “Of course, not. It’s bad luck to be superstitious.”

Meeting adjourned

Every kind word, thought, or deed makes the world a better place.

Be kind.

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