The old adage that “sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never hurt you” should now be filed in the archives, along with “actions speak louder than words.” Both sayings seem obsolete. These days, a couple of words uttered in jest or observation can land a person in court or worse. In the old days, say, the Carter administration, unflattering characterizations could be met with anything from a smack upside the head to laughter. No more. Swarms of lugubrious, histrionic sufferers looking for new sources of stupid stuff by which to be offended have infested the universe. Clearly, we live in the time when the sword might kill you, but the pen might really hurt your feelings, which by all current measures is a fate far worse than death.
Fortunately, being an adult, I have been able to avoid that.
There are clues one can use to identify these folks even before they speak. I’d spell them out for you, but someone would get offended by the truth, sue this paper, and get me fired from a pretty fun gig.
Where are these neurotic tender hearts coming from? And, if their feelings are so easily hurt, why do they keep manufacturing even more ways and words to besmirch and diminish their own self-image? Perhaps if their self-image more often reflected reality, they might see the parallel humor in Mr. H.C. Andersen’s “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” (Think about it, children.) Then again, it wouldn’t surprise me if they don’t find any humor in most of the places I do.
Enough of this; let’s move on to something else.
A sweet young thing asked me for my phone number last week and I was flattered to think I still can turn a head. It happens quite often lately and I mentioned it to my wife. She asked me where this occurs, so I told her, “Tractor Supply, CVS, PetSmart, among others. I can’t seem to go anywhere without some good-looking chica asking me for my number.”
“What were you doing when these women hit on you?”
“Just minding my own business, checking out.”
“Checking out?”
“Yeah,” I said, “just standing there with my stuff, waiting to pay.”
Like just yesterday at Tractor Supply, the cashier said, “Did you find everything?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“May I have your phone number?”
“Thanks, but no. I’m married and don’t have the budget for another relationship right now. I just have enough for these dog treats.”
“These ladies were all cashier clerks at a store?” asked my wife.
I nodded, then she gave me a “Bless your heart,” which is Southern for “You’re an idiot.”
Still, MY self-image remains in pretty good shape, and I don’t mind doing the shopping.
When I wrote this in early May, it was a beautiful Harpswell spring day in the 70s. On my walk I saw a bumper crop of lawn mowers, amateur and professional, chugging around, knocking off the yellow tops of the dandelions to leave an orderly green carpet behind. The roads were busy with cars festooned with luggage racks, bike racks and kayak racks, and families arriving here to get away from it all. Each car is crammed full of all the stuff a family might miss while on vacation here, including at least one dog and a minimum of three “devices” per person. There are caravans of pickups, too, towing Bayliners, sailing craft, motorcycles and camping trailers. I notice that getting away from it all actually means bringing it all with you.
And so the tourist season begins. Yesterday, traffic was surprised on the Orr’s Island bridge by a young lady, thankfully dressed in bright pastels, trying her darndest to climb the hill to Great Island on Rollerblades with ski poles. When gravity overcame her progress, she shifted to the right to get a skate in the gravel for some degree of traction. That display of bad judgment was a reminder that the season of dangerous surprises on the roads is upon us.
They come in all varieties: the aforementioned young lady struggling on Rollerblades, bicyclists, pedestrians busy on their phones, joggers with headphones who can’t hear traffic around them, and whole families, including infants in strollers, slapping along in matching Walmart flip-flops, as if Route 24 were a sidewalk. Oh yes, there’s that unicyclist who crops up now and then. Their safety is not their responsibility; it is ours. Should the worst happen, their trial will be over and we will be the ones in court. So take a deep breath, take your time, take a pill if you must, and remember, for local businesses, this is the season of plenty. You can support them by not running over their customers.
On that note, I bid you a safe and productive summer. You can reach me in my basement until Labor Day.
