A Sign From Above

A beautiful Sunday evening. Even got high marks at sunset. Or maybe it's the latter-day Scarlet Letter.

AmerenUE Unveils New Tree Trimming Concept

AmerenUE has introduced their latest concept in tree trimming. Called "Hack 'n Strip", the design is intended to eliminate any and all danger of power outage from heavy snowfall. The above pictured trees in St. Louis County obviously are now in no danger of downing powerlines. They also are in no danger of looking beautiful, providing shade, enhancing property values. Although the tree hackers, employed by AmerenUE, were asked to be careful about denuding the trees, they said they "were just doing our job." This design, which was created by the firm of Dewey, Hackum and Howe, was recently awarded the 2009 Brazilian RainForest Wide-Swath commendation for Residential Ugliness. From a historical perspective, the trees are, in effect, innocent bystanders. Only one problem due to snow occurred in the past twenty years. The operative guidelines here seem to be "Better safe than sorry," "More is more," and "Flowers are for beauty, trees are for chopping." (Photos above: left, work in progress; right, the finished product of "Hack 'n Strip.")

Hey, buddy, got a light?

All right, that’s it. Government is going too far. Not just in Washington but right here in Kirkwood. They’re trying to stop me from smoking in public places. When is this infringement on my personal liberty going to stop? I’m not allowed to drive as fast as I want because there are “speed limits.” My car goes from 0 to 60 in three seconds. I want to use that power. I see no reason why I can’t drive at least 50 on Lindbergh. Let all the slowpokes take Geyer or Taylor. Every October I have dead leaves in my yard. It’s silly to rake them into piles, then stuff them into bag - which I pay for - to be hauled away to who knows where. I want the right to burn them. It’s easier and smells the way Fall was meant to smell. If neighbors don’t like it, let ‘em stay inside. With their windows closed.

There is no end to the encroachment by do-gooders on my personal freedoms. l have to put my dog on a leash when walking her in public places. C’mon, dogs were meant to run free. I can’t shoot fireworks on July 4th to celebrate our nation’s freedom from England. I have to drive out to Wentzville or Sullivan to fire off my Roman candles and bottle rockets. That obviously dampens my patriotic spirit, right?

I had a rude awakening last month. I went to Chicago, to a blues bar. Guess what. No smoking. In a blues bar. In Chicago. The place was packed, the beer was cold, the band was hot - and the air was strangely clear. Gimme a break. How can you listen to blues without breathing in second-hand smoke? I had to leave after three hours, it was so unnerving.

The City Council needs to protect the handful of restaurant owners from the insidious effects of a smoking ban in Kirkwood. This isn’t about serving good food in a healthy atmosphere. It’s about our individual rights as citizens to do what we please. Even if it means exposing our non-smoking citizens to respiratory diseases. Let ’em eat outside. I didn’t move here to be dragged into the 21st century, along with 33 other states and countless individual communities. Don’t enlighten me about health risks. The issue is more than the individual’s right to choose. It’s the individual business owner’s right to make a profit, even if their employees end up wearing oxygen tanks around their neck.

To head off an ugly confrontation between the two factions, here’s an idea. Invoke a temporary, one-year ban on smoking in public places. Give the public a chance to see how awful that is. Let the restaurant owners see how their customers would rather smoke than eat. Then revisit it at the end of the year. Just don’t shove us into the 21st century. Maybe in a hundred years.

Hey, buddy, got a light?

The suburban city of Kirkwood is about to undergo another attempt at smoke prevention. The issue: no smoking in public places. Makes sense, doesn't it? Smoking is bad for you, and bad for the people around you. Smokers are in the minority. Most non-smokers people don't like to inhale cigarette smoke, otherwise they'd be smokers. For some reason, the City Council and the majority of citizens who voted last time to defeat the ban, seem to think that smoking is cool, a right, an economic necessity, and a environmental non-issue. What I find interesting is how a city of 27,000 can be held hostage by 15 or 20 restaurant owners. It's these establishments that most fear a smoking ban. I'll have more to say on this issue in the weeks ahead. For now, I have merely to look at New York City and Chicago, where smoking is prohibited in restaurants, certainly a lot more restaurants than in Kirkwood. If those big cities can make it work, why not a little ol' town like Kirkwood?

That Night, Again (A Christmas Special)

This story was written for the St. Louis Writers Guild.
I post it for your holiday entertainment.

THAT NIGHT, AGAIN
by
Gerry Mandel


Jesse shoved his dead beagle out of the way with his bare foot and set another log on the fire, watched the smoke curl around it for a second, then leaned back in his cracked red leather easy chair. “Ahhhhh,” he said. His favorite word. He reached for the cup of hot cocoa on the tv tray, let the sweet steam waft up into his nostrils, and smiled. “Ahhhhh.” He took a small sip. A bit of melted marshmallow clung to his upper lip. He felt it sitting there, wiped it off with the back of his hand.

“Bet you would’ve liked some hot cocoa, Samson,” he said to the immobile dog. Samson had been dead four days now, but he was the only company Jesse had. Better a dead dog than no one. Even if Samson had still been breathing, Jesse wouldn’t have given him any cocoa. He knew that chocolate was bad for a dog, something about their digestive system not being able to handle it. And he sure wouldn’t have done it with just one more day til Christmas. Ain’t no way to find a decent vet on Christmas day, he knew. All the good ones are at home with family or on a cruise ship in the Caribbean, he figured.

Outside a soft snow began spreading its stark winter blanket across the neighborhood. The first snow of the year, and what better time than on the night before Christmas? He looked out the window. “Ahhhhhh.” Jesse thought about the dogs of his life. His best friends. Dogs that died before they left puppyhood, dogs that trembled and slept into old-age. Samson was one of his favorite dogs, probably the last one he’d ever have. “Got you the year after Emma passed,” said Jesse. He remembered other Christmas eves, when Emma would hang the stockings on the mantle, wrap last minute presents, slide chocolate chip cookies out of the oven. Forty-six years of chocolate chip cookies must be some kind of record, both for baking and eating, he thought. He wondered how many chips of chocolate had melted down on their behalf.

Emma had gone off her meds before she passed, twelve years ago. Except she didn’t know she had. She had become impossible to live with, drove Jesse up one wall and down another with her incessant complaining and whining, her mind melting down like those chocolate chips. So he dumped her meds, all seven bottles of them, down the toilet, replaced them with placeboes. He liked that word “placebo.” It took a couple of weeks, but eventually Emma passed in her sleep. “A peaceful placebo departure,” said Jesse at his most poetic. “Ahhhhhh.”

He lifted Samson by his tail, half off the floor, to reveal the tattered book under his rump. He picked it up and turned to the first page. He always felt a thrill when he read aloud the very first line. “Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house...” What magic, what power, what craftsmanship. Not “It was the night before,” but “Twas.” Not “Christmas Eve,” but “the night before Christmas.” Jesse stretched his legs out to let the fire warm his bare toes. Samson slid across the hearth to the edge of the fire. Outside the snow thickened, swirled, piled along the curbs and bushes. The street lay silent, no headlights, no crunch of tires.

Jesse continued his annual ritual aloud, to deaf, floppy ears. “Not a creature was stirring...” He stopped on that line and laughed. “You can say that again” and looked at Samson. “...not even a mouse, The stockings were hung by the chimney with care.” Jesse looked at the mantle. Yep, the stockings were still there. He had never gotten around to taking them down from last year, although Emma had complained about that until midsummer.

Jesse got as far as “... had just settled down for a long winter’s nap” when he smelled the burning, an acrid smell that was neither oak nor hickory. He looked down at the fireplace. Samson was smoking. Or at least the fur on his backside was, turning the dull brown fur into stringy black ash. “Move away, dog,” he said, and reached over and scooted Samson to the side. Luckily the dog had not burst into flame yet, and as the smoke subsided, Jesse approached the conclusion of the poem. He stopped before the last page. “Not so fast, not so fast,” he thought. “Gotta let the magic last a little longer.” He drained the cup, scooped the remaining marshmallow with his finger and licked it clean. “Ahhhhhh.” He felt his eyes getting heavy. The fire, the cocoa, the snow, his dog. “How lucky I am,” he said aloud. His eyes started to close. But he had to get to the part about “But he heard him exclaim as he rose out of sight ...” and the rest of it. His head nodded and his chin dropped to his chest.

The peace was shattered by a loud rap-rapping at his door. Jesse lifted his head. “Who could that be, Samson?” He struggled out of his chair, shuffled to the door. Another series of rap-rap-rapping, this time louder. “Keep your shirt on, I’m coming, fast as I can,” said Jesse. He opened the door. And what to his wondering eyes should appear, but Santa Claus standing there, with no shirt on.

“Sorry couldn’t keep my shirt on,” said Santa. “Are you named Jesse?”

Jesse nodded. This was wonderful beyond belief.

“Then let’s go for a ride,” said Santa with a hearty laugh, making his stomach shake like a bowl full of jelly. He slipped on his red coat.

“I’ll get my coat,” said Jesse.

“No need to. I’ve got a gas heater in my sleigh. I just wear this because it’s expected.” He laughed again. “Here we go.”

Jesse and Santa walked out to the sleigh and climbed in behind the eight reindeer. “Good looking reindeer,” said Jesse.

“I take good care of ‘em. Thanks for noticing.”

“Bet you never give ‘em any chocolate.”

Santa smiled. “You sure know your reindeer.” He grabbed the reins and gave them a shake. “Hold on, Jesse.”

As they rose above the house, the neighborhood, the town, Jesse heard Santa shout, “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

“Ahhhhhh,” said Jesse.

#

BASEBALL UNDER THE SUN

Here we are in late October, headed for winter, and the World Series is still going on, just about half over. The problem with this is nights are cold this time of year, and a lousy time for baseball. Football? Sure, no problem. But a baseball game, even the World Series, when the temperature dips into the low 40's, just is not much fun. To attend or to watch. I saw one of the infielders for the Detroit Tigers wearing a knit cap the other night. No kidding. His ears were cold, I guess. Other guys were puffing steam as the game wound down in the late innings. See your breath during a baseball game? Come on. When you run the bases, you're supposed to sweat, not see your breath. There was a day when the World Series was played in daytime. So even if the evenings turned cold, chances are you still were blessed with an extra ten degrees under the sun. Better for the players, better for the fans. So what happened? Money. Television. Fat contracts. Money. (I already said that, I know). The networks, including ESPN, make the rules. "Play during the day?" they say. "Don't be crazy. We can get a bigger audience at night." "Sure," say the fans and players, "but think of the fun of listening or watching the game while you're at work, at lunch, taking a break, talking about the game with other people. Now that's America's past-time. The World Series at Night is just another reality show. If we catch an early cold snap in the next few days, The Boys of Summer will become The Boys of Winter.

BAD JUDGEMENT IN THE ST. LOUIS POST-DISPATCH

What's a citizen to do when there's only one daily newspaper in town? The St. Louis Post Dispatch seems to dwell in the muck when there is an opportuniity to say something uplifting. Sure, bad news sells. But why not uphold some higher journalistic principle than selling papers in the tired "if it bleeds, it leads" school of thought? Here's what I mean. This past Sunday (9/24/06) the Post carried a story in the Metro section about a statue of Lewis and Clark that had been given to the City of St. Louis. The story in the paper actually focused on re-enactors of the expedition. They had landed in St. Louis the day before in commemoration of the 200th anniversary of the original landing. The 4-line mention of the statue was buried inside that section. What's the big deal about a statue of Lewis and Clark? It is 3 tons, 24 feet high and - this is the best part - a gift to the City from private individuals who parted with $1,000,000 to have it sculpted by noted St. Louis sculptor Harry Weber, cast in bronze, and erected on a granite and limestone base between Eads Bridge and the Gateway Arch, two world-class landmarks. There were no strings attached. A gift. More than 2,500 people attended the dedication, including the Mayor and a descendant of William Clark and National Park people, and Native Americans. Want to guess what was on the front page of the Post on Sunday? A bold headline and photos about 3 children who had been found dead in a washer and dryer. What else was on the front page? A story about an overweight woman who was complaining she couldn't get by on $16,000 a year. Sad, unfortunate stories, yes. But to leave no room on the front page for an inspiring story, for an act with lasting, postive reverberations to be felt in the city for decades to come... now that's an act of omission that's worthy of supermarket rags and street-corner madmen. Yes, the Post used to be a good paper. It was worthy of the Pulitzer name it carried. Today, I'm afraid, it's lost its way and thinks the road back is via the checkout lanes at the grocery store.