Good Intentions

A long, long time ago people used their word and a handshake to seal an agreement. No need for lawyers, binding contracts, 10 page documents you had to initial 84 times. A person was only as good as their word, that was the saying.

What has happened to the value of our word?

Giving our word means making a commitment, an agreement with another person, group, organization. We give it with the intention of fulfilling a promise. Some folks hold to their word like it is a rare gem, others give their word as freely as they change the channel on their TV and its value doesn't last much longer than a commercial.

Many of us give our word with the best of intentions, but don't keep our end of a bargain. It can be for reasons of economics, such as losing a job or a medical emergency. Or it can be for reasons of time.

When I was a kid, I was blessed to be born into a time of no video stores, no internet, no cell phones, no iPhones, no "i" anything. No cable, no dish satellite, no Netflix.  Watching the Wizard of Oz was a huge event, as it only came on TV once a year. Now, I breeze right by it while channel surfing, I can see it anytime. No longer rare, it has lost its spell. My spare time was spent riding horses at the race horse ranch down the street, fishing, water skiing, swimming, exploring the woods and the cemetery, playing basketball, walking around a little burg with my friends. I had time. Lots of it. No pressure at all.

After school I had practice, volleyball, softball, or basketball, depending on the season. And as I got a bit older I had jobs - a paper route, working at the local Tastee Freeze, a cabinet factory. Still, I had time for the fun things I wanted to do.

I am not sure when it became vogue to pack our lives so full every waking second, scurrying about like ants whose nest has been disturbed by a curious child with a stick. Quantity over quality.

A typical life of a child today involves piano lesson on Monday, soccer on Tuesday and Thursday with a game on Saturday, intro to French on Wednesday, photography on Saturday morning.  That is in the fall.  Then winter comes and said child decides he/she no longer is interested in piano or photography and switches those days to trumpet and tap dance lessons. Then comes spring and they switch up again.

Some might say that all these experiences help a child learn what they like and don't like. Have you ever went to the paint store to find a can of white paint? You leave feeling more confused than ever. Quantity over quality.

By filling our lives so full of scurrying to and fro, our ability to live true to our word diminishes. I see this in the various groups and activities that I have organized over the years. Before we dove into the nest of chaotic ant behavior, people joined a group that was of interest to them and they participated in that group. They attended meetings, they contributed time, energy, and ideas to make the group a living, breathing entity that gave great benefit to its members. My Grandma and Grandpa were loyal members of the Moose Lodge for decades, all the way to their deaths.

In recent years, I find people are very enthusiastic about joining a group and maybe attend one or two meetings, then, just like children who lose interest after 3 months of piano lessons, they stop attending. Maybe they join another group that peaks their interest. Or they simply do nothing. The group loses energy and eventually fades away. And no one benefits. In fact, everyone loses.

There is a special feeling that comes when we belong.

There are other kinds of good intentions, but they often have the same result - a devaluing of our word. Some mitigate this by saying "I will try to...". Which leaves the recipient dangling in mid-air.

Energy exists in the world on a budget. It moves back and forth between all things. We can give energy and we can receive energy. We can lose energy and we can generate energy. If we don't replenish our energy, we become dull and lethargic, uninterested and unmotivated. We can become sad or depressed. There are many who live their lives like this every day, giving away all their energy to another person or persons, a job, a cause, with nothing coming back. They are usually very unhappy people.

Perhaps choosing to slow our lives would be a good thing. We would then have time for cooking good healthy food, spending time with family and friends, resting in a hammock watching the clouds float by. Perhaps we should be teaching a slower way of life to our children, so they don't grow up living in a world full of good intentions.

Perhaps we should choose quality over quantity.

Tales from Edwardsburg - Winstons

In our first house on Hamilton Street we had a basement which was divided into two rooms.  In room one was an unfinished something or another, perhaps a bench or maybe a planter.  Visualize a two foot by five feet wall of bricks that make a sharp right turn, stacked up maybe two feet tall. The perfect hiding place for something small.

I attended junior high school then and was a relatively good kid, unlike the "Hoods" we would see walking down the street in our small town, smoking cigarettes and saying naughty words. No, I wasn't like THEM.  During lunchtime, the Hoods would race out to Smokey Oaks, the forbidden woods next to the school, and smoke their cigarettes and do other unspeakable things. The buzzer would ring and you could watch them sprint across the big field, trying to catch their smokey breaths as they hurried to get to fifth period.

This was the 70s. Post hippie. That confused time between the groovy bell-bottomed, love beaded, velvet chokered 60's and the sweet mullet headed, glam band, Jersey haired 80's. I mean where do you go after a generation of free love, what is left to discover? For me, it was Winstons.

Why is it that TV jingles can stick in your mind for decades? I can sing you every cigarette commercial since 1958. As they say nowadays, OMG LMFAO!

"Come out for the Koooooool taste, the Koolest pleasure every time you smoke."

"You can take Salem out of the country BUT, you can't take the country out of Salem."

"Winston tastes good like a [uh uh] cigarette should."

It was this last one that got me. Cigarettes looked like they tasted good, my Mom and Dad smoked them (Virginia Slims, Kools, Salem), the Marlboro Man smoked them while riding horses, the Hoods sucked them down like I did Slo Pokes. So when I decided one fall day to try these delicious white sticks of tobacco, there was no hesitation. I would smoke the best tasting cigarette in the world. Winstons.

Now, how to get a pack.  Fortunately for me, just one block away was a gas station usually staffed by only one man. Whenever a customer pulled up and the bell rang, he would grab his red mechanics rag, wipe his hands, and walk out to greet his visitor. "Can I check your oil today?" he would ask. He would put the nozzle into the car, lift the hood, and check the oil. Then, he would drop the hood and clean the windshield until it sparkled. The customer would pay him, he would reach into his navy blue, oil stained trousers and pull out a wad of crumbled up bills, and give them their change.  A wave goodbye, and he went back into the station to his cup of coffee, cigarette, and newspaper.

Time from wiping hands to the wave goodbye, 5 minutes, 23 seconds average. Plenty of time for this toe-headed neighbor kid to put 45 cents of her paper route money into the cigarette machine, pull the shiny silver knob, and watch her brand new pack of Winstons drop to the bottom.  Push open flap, grab, place in pocket. Wait for man to start his return into station. Put another 10 cents of paper route money into candy machine, pull shiny silver knob for a Payday, and watch it drop to bottom. Push open flap, grab, tear open wrapper, and eat candy bar loudly to squelch suspicion. Cheerfully say "thanks!", and walk inconspicuously home. Mission accomplished.

Now, where to hide my brand new pack of Winstons. I had two snoopy little sisters, and two snoopy big parents. I know, the brick thingymajigger in the basement. I nonchalantly went downstairs, lifted out a few bricks here and moved a few bricks there, creating a nice little hiding spot. In went the Wintons. Tomorrow would be the day I smoked my first cigarette.

I arose earlier than the rest of the family, and sneaked downstairs to retrieve my new pack of Winstons. I stuck them deep in my coat pocket, ate my breakfast and headed off to school, a good mile away.

Damn, it was harder than I thought, sneaking a smoke on my way to school. Cars kept passing me. My town only had 900 people in it, so everybody knew everybody. "There is Barb Barton," I could imagine them saying. "Look, honey, is that a CIGARETTE she is smoking?". "My word!". Then my Mom and Dad would get a call and I would be grounded for at least two weeks, if not more. But I had no choice. That jingle was playing over and over in my head. "Winston tastes good like a cigarette should".

I made my move. I pulled the brand new pack of Winstons from my coat pocket, took off my mittens, and opened it. Tap tap tap, just like my Dad did. Why do people do that? Anyway, I pulled out my cigarette, put it in my mouth and lit it, hiding all the while behind my very large mittens. Car! Oh, what is that on the ground over there? I pretend to pick up something. They don't suspect. I am safe. I held the cigarette between my lips while putting my mittens back on, then inhaled. The world spinned. I felt, I felt, I felt....dizzy. I coughed. I puked. Winston's didn't taste good, they tasted horrible! What was that commercial talking about?

On my way home from school that day I stopped by the gas station and tossed my Winston's into the trash with the used blue paper towels, empty oil containers, and cigarette butts. I put 10 cents of my paper route money into the pop machine and pushed the button for a Dr. Pepper. I popped the top, tossed the metal ring into the trash next to the Winstons, and walked home, singing.

 "Dr. Pepper, so misunderstood, if everyone would try one they would know it tastes good."