Quick Draw McBush

First published in the Camden Chronicle August 22, 1990 

It takes seven days for a copy of the The Chronicle to reach our hearth. While I am reading last week's copy, you are reading this week's copy. I've never experienced jet lag, but the feeling I get reading seven day old news must be something near to a jet lag feeling.

Our postal system claims to be the fastest in the world. I sure am glad it's not the slowest. I just looked it up: in 1860 the Pony Express carried a message from St. Joseph, Missouri to Sacramento, California in just over seven days. One would think that with all the high powered equipment and educated people available to the post office, they could negotiate the distance between Camden and Dearborn a little faster. The ad that was used to recruit Pony Express riders is interesting. It read:

"Wanted... young men and boys, small in stature and wiry. Must be skilled horsemen and good shots."  Apply, etc. 

All we ask of today's postman is to be able to read, write and move. Maybe movement is too much for them.

Produced and Directed by Bill Hanna and Joe Barbera,
1st aired week of January 23, 1961

By the  time you read this, it may all be over but at this moment oil laden war clouds are rising in the Middle East. Iraq has moved into Kuwait and is making threatening gestures towards the Arabian Peninsula. Mr. Bush, like a presidential Quick Draw McGraw, is yelling, "Hold on thar, Mr. Saddam Hussein!" and is rushing into the fray with his rocket tipped Kabongers to stem the tide of the world's best supply of crude. 

Meanwhile, TV and news reports are awash with middle eastern experts who tell us why Mr. Bush is right or why he is wrong. Take your choice. Which brings up a  couple of questions: What do experts do when there's nothing to expert about? And, why is someone an expert when he sees only one side of the question? 

I am enjoying Alma Oatsvall's journey into old time religion. She talks about baptizing in a creek, rather than a church baptistery. I was baptized in a creek, but I don't remember which one. It probably wouldn't be hard to find; there would still be a dirty spot in the water where my sins were washed away. 

Why doesn't someone write a letter to The Chronicle about the old time box suppers and Sunday socials? I attended a couple of these functions but was too small to participate.