Save the US Postal Service

The daily mail delivery is a highlight of my day. Mail is like a treasure to me. There is no such thing as "Junk Mail."

The news reports that the US Postal Service is about to go bankrupt. Postal services are going to be cut back dramatically. Small rural post offices are closing, neighborhood post offices are going if not gone, and Saturday mail is about to be history.

This is unbelievable. How can a country not have a viable postal service? The problem, apparently, is electronic communications. Instant messaging, texting, Face Book, and Twitter are replacing the mail. In all of these services communication is wonderful but mostly meaningless.

On my Face Book page I get items like, "I am eating donuts," or, "At the beauty parlor." Or, other such interesting stuff.

Packed away in some storage area of my house are the letters my wife and I exchanged when I served in Viet Nam. We have letters saved by family members dating back to the 19th century. In my dresser are vintage birthday and Fathers' Day cards I will cherish for the rest of my cognitive life.

Email can sometimes be interesting. Every now and then I get a nice long one from a person telling me a personal story or asking me about something maybe I know about. But, no one saves emails; except me. When my son served in Afghanistan I downloaded every email he sent me and saved it in a ring binder. I want him and his son to have a record of that year; I hope he and his wife did the same (but, I doubt it).

Now, here is my solution to the US Postal Service crises:
     1. Write a letter to someone every month or more often. If you do not like to write letters, send a post card or a greeting card. The point is, use a stamp.
     2. Tell your friends you do not want birthday greetings or holiday greetings via email or Face Book. They take only seconds to compose and are soon forgotten.
     3. Send packages by the Postal Service. I have found the US Postal Service to be as good as UPS or FedEx or better.
     4. Visit the post office and say hello, let the postal workers know you care. I cannot find a FedEx office in my town and the UPS is like visiting the prison. At the post office I get a cheerful greeting and prompt service. Some of the clerks I even know by name and they know me. Not so at UPS or FedEx.
    5. Greet your letter carrier often and let him or her know that what he or she does is important to you.
    6. Start a stamp collection and buy U.S commemorative stamps. They are often beautiful and sometimes very interesting. Stamp collecting can open your eyes to the world.
So, my battle cry is, "Save the US Postal Service!"  Only we can do it.
    

I Want to Buy a Vowel

Recently I told someone that my wife and I have started to watch "Wheel of Fortune." The person I told seemed puzzled by my announcement and reminded me that in my area that program conflicted with really good political stuff on one of the cable channels.

I agreed that there is some good political stuff on the cable channels, but that we (that is, my wife and I) have grown tired of politics. We cannot deal any longer with the duplicity of politicians who at one point are in favor of universal health care but in another bawl about "Obamacare"--as if there were such a thing.

Anarchy seems to be the political rule these days. No matter who is ultimately hurt, maybe even destroyed, American politicians have decided their ideologies are more important than the country. When I retired I felt secure that the promises of the government to cover my medical needs, to help with some additional income, and to assure that when I needed to travel the roads would be safe remained tightly intact. However, anarchy now rules the House of Representatives, senators have decided making the President's term last only four years is the priority.

Many may snarl at me and wonder why I think the government owes me a good health care plan or a foundation to my material security. They will argue that I am just a leach slopping out of the government trough. However, none of that is true. I have contributed to Social Security since age 15, I have contributed to Medicare since the day it went into effect, and I gave over 20 years of my life to the service of the nation. In fact, I have contributed in every possible way to assure that I had a sound financial future. But that future depended on the honesty and good faith of those who have been elected to safeguard our futures.

Therefore, it now appears to me that my future well being is no where near as important as the political ideologies of half-baked know nothings who talked loud enough and lied enough to make the majority of Americans vote for them. I took politics seriously, voted in every election since 1952, but my votes have counted little, my opinions are of no consequence, my future has no silver lining. Politics is over for me. So, I think I will buy some vowels as I attempt to guess the secret phrase on "Wheel of Fortune." Guessing secret phrases is about as inspiring as wondering what the half-baked know nothings will do next.

My Dear

Every now and then an email shows up in my spam list with the message title, "My Dear." To me the title is strange. I wonder to whom I can be dear to other than my immediate family. I look at that email title and wonder, "Should I open it to find out to whom I am so dear a message over electronic media must be sent."

No, I don't open it. I am paranoid about letters from strange people. Sometimes a letter comes in the mail addressed to me by hand. Since it is addressed by someone taking the time to write on the envelope it has to be important. I open it and find it is a diatribe against abortion or a plea for money to halt the criminal behavior of currently elected officials, or something like that.

Also, often I get telephone calls from the police protection league or some such group. I have never heard of the police protection group or the sheriffs' association or the state highway patrolmans' family defense league. So, with some guilt I might add, I say, "I can't help you today." What if there really is such an organization and my help is desperately needed to save the life of some poor police officer and his family? "What if," I ponder, but no its a scam there is no such group; besides, if they want me help let the local police ask.

Anyway, "My Dear" sits in the list of emails unopened. I ask the same "what if" questions. What if that poor Nigeria mother is truly desperate and in need of assistance, or what if there really is $10 million waiting for me in some off-shore bank. All I am being asked to do is give my full name, address, social security number, and bank account number; that's innocent enough, isn't it? But I hesitate and opportunities to help some unfortunates go not taken and I remain a poor man letting riches go between my fingers all because of paranoia.

Maybe one day I will open a "My Dear" email and learn to whom I am so dear time is taken to reach out to me from the ozone or wherever emails come from and I will realize all the opportunities I have let go.

Service Star

The service flag first showed up in World War I. The flag has a large red border on all four edges and in the center is a white field. On that white field is a blue star or stars. If a family has more than one child in a war zone then the number stars reflects that family's commitment to the war. Fortunately, My flag has only one star. If a child is killed in the war the blue star turns to gold as if it is some sort of honor to lose a child to a political mistake.

The flag with one service star flew from a pole set up at the front door of my home for a year. Never in my imagination did I come up with the idea a service star flag would be a part of my home's outward appearance. In fact, I believed in 1989, when the Berlin Wall came down, there would be no more new war veterans and that eventually the Veterans Affairs Department would eventually go out of business. Also I never imagined that Islamic fanatics would fly loaded passenger jet planes into buildings and that George W. Bush would be elected president twice. Further, I never imagined the United States would attack a country that did not attack us first.

Because all of my imaginary ideas failed to materialize, I have decided to stop imagining the good that might be waiting for us and now I imagine only the worst that might be out there. Who knows what climate change will bring? Who knows what will be the unintended consequences of invading Iraq or prolonging a conflict in Afghanistan? Who knows what the consistent official lying of a government will do to our democratic ideals and our republic? I can only hope that the year my son spent in Afghanistand did some good and the sacrifice he made by being separated from his wife and two year old son is worthy of a good cause. But, I cannot imagine it.

Now, don't get me wrong. I cannot be classified as a "pacifist." I am an "old soldier" who served on active duty for more than twenty years. My military career included most of the years of the Cold War including two years in Viet Nam. Early in my military life I served in Asia with a stint in Korea. So, I am not one who can make a blanket argument for no military actions whatsoever, but I do think that the Congress's power to declare war has been usurped, I do think the people in power are too eager to use the military for foolish adventures, and I do think that the Defense Department's function is to defend the country not make war wherever a President wants to.

So, I have taken down the service flag. It is in my hall closet. I may burn it, or I may give to my son so if he has to see his son go off to war, he will have one. The flag, now, is faded and weathered, but if it has to be used again, it will be a reminder that we still haven't got things right.

Learning to Use an iPad

Ipads are not unknown to me. I have never actually seen one or held one in my hand until my two year old grandson arrived for a visit the other day. I did find the device intriguing; however, I am still not certain what it can be used for except providing information. I do not think you can send anything to another person on it. I should admit, however, I have not yet tried to do that. Another shortcoming, it seems to me, is that I cannot write a story on it then have it printed on one of my printing devices. I am certain, however, all those issues will be resolved some day. Probably by doing away with printers and paper. That is a change a septuagenarian may not be able to accept. Holding sheaves of paper in my hand to read the fine print is a habit I probably will not break.

My age and lack of technical understanding came back hard on me when my two year old grandson began to show me how he can use and iPad. He knows which "app" he wants, he knows how to move the screen, and he knows how to use the "apps" he has chosen. Using an iPad he already knows how to spell words like mule, elephant, and home. When he has finished spelling those words he wants to move on to "Ant Smasher." This is a game where ants crawl across the iPad screen and he attempts to smash them as quick as he can. This is an amazing hand-eye coordination game that teaches dexterity but not much else.

Being upstaged by a two year old is hard on an old man. Nevertheless, if it were any other two year old, I would be very upset. But, since this is my two year old grandson, I am very proud of him. He is a genius!

Skyscrapers and Thirteen Year Olds or Vice Versa

After conducting some business in the City or undergoing a medical procedure there, my wife and I like to stop for lunch at a well known and by now an ancient hamburger restaurant. Mainly, I like the idea of eating in an establishment that has a history of being around for a long time. Apparently many people do; otherwise, it would not have been there since the days waitresses wore quaint uniforms with headgear that sort of reminded one of nurses. Their appearance had a hygienic look and that made eating there seem safe. We look forward to the large and tasty French fries the milk shakes (actually, I prefer the chocolate malted) and the large onions on the hamburgers. The meat appears to be freshly ground, but the burgers themselves are a little thin, so we have to order a "double" in order to have the sense something of consequence has been consumed.

Two days ago we had the opportunity to visit this restaurant once again. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary when we pulled into the parking lot. A full lot at lunch time is not unusual and the line of cars with drivers waiting to shout their orders into the squawk box (I think this is a relatively new innovation) did not seem out of the ordinary either. However, when we entered the din, the noise, of a hundred or more 12 and 13 year old middle school students all talking at once did shock us. Nevertheless, intent on having lunch at our favorite hamburger place kept us there. We believed that the young people would soon leave and go to wherever their field trip ended. We were mistaken. The group we encountered on entering did leave, but before they departed another hundred or so, and then another hundred or so followed. Hearing ten or 20 excited juvenile voices talking at the same time can be charming (I love young people--I am not a crumudgon), but hundreds and hundreds of them talking at once is a trial.

Ordinarily, we can order and be served in about ten minutes. This time we sat for 30 minutes waiting for two doubles, an order of French fries, a vanilla milk shake, a chocolate malted, and two cups of coffee. I should clarify that a little, the coffee arrived promptly. Looking about I noticed the size of the crowd, the number of lunch time diners, had no impact on the delay. "Skyscrapers" and lots of them caused the delay.

A "Skyscraper" I saw amounted to a giant glass of something pink and frothy. Since the menu had not been returned to our table or never been there, I am unable to tell you what a "Skyscraper" contained. I assume, by its appearance, that ice cream, carbonated water, flavored and colored syrup, and whipped cream made up the ingredients; oh yes, a maraschino cherry topped it off. In all the times we have eaten there a single "skyscraper" has never been served in our sight. But the tasty looking and absolutely decadent dessert is not the reason our lunch hour lengthened. No, the fact that one of these things found its way off the menu and on to a table had nothing to do at all with making us sit for over 30 minutes; the waitresses (to use a quaint term for a quaint restaurant) had to sing an inane and primitive sounding song while beating on percussion instruments of various kinds. I had not expected that such a thing happened at this fine old establishment.

Limited conversation, no impossible conversation, highlighted the lunch of us. Although my wife and I have been married for over 50 years we still like to talk to one another. Between the din of hundreds of 13 year old voices and waitresses singing about "skyscrapers" and beating primitive percussion instruments conversation became impossible. But, we did not want to leave. We saw some potential customers back away when they entered the establishment, but we stayed and stayed.

My supposition is that this place, filled with young life celebrating the end of the school year and waitresses enjoying singing a strange song filled with weird sounds changed the mood of the day for us and woke us up from the lethargy of sitting around in a medical office looking at all the other Medicare recipients who were having a lousy day. They were not in the restaurant so all I can do is guess is that their day never got better.