The Art of the Deal - Southern Style

First published in the August 9, 1990 issue of The Camden Chronicle

I can remember exactly when and where it happened, when I acquired an affluent feeling, when I felt like I had left the common herd and had taken my place among the CEOs of this life. Until then, the only claim I had on the upper echelon-ship of everyday comings and goings was as a trustee in the church.

Being a church trustee requires no great amount of talent or training. All you have to do is show up at most meetings, say a short prayer if you are asked, keep your pledge more or less current, and speak well of the pastor in public. I could say something about what it takes to be a deacon or song leader, but I have digressed too much already.

There was this man who owed me a small sum of money. He came by my house while the workmen were building a new garage to replace the old one that was nearly rotted to the ground.  As he stood beside me watching the workmen perform, he explained that ready cash was still in short supply around his house and it would be a while before he could return the loan in the currency of the land.

"By Golly!" he exploded, his eyes lighting up. "I've just come into possession of a new garage door opener!" He gave the brand name and motor horsepower.

"It would sure be the thing to open the door on your new garage! I'll give you the opener and help you install it in lieu of the debt!"

Since I held no collateral on the loan and the amount was not a great lot, the idea appealed to me, but the clincher was his offer to help with the installation. I knew my debtor was skilled in things mechanical and the installation of the door opener would be a snap for him, while the removal and replacement of a light bulb sometimes taxes my engineering abilities.

True to our agreement, the next day my friend brought over the electric door opener and installed it in short order. Debt paid. We shook hands, agreed that both had made a great bargain and parted friends. He promised to keep me in mind if he needed to borrow money again. I thanked him and said I would certainly mention his name if anyone inquired about a garage door installer.

That night, after things had settled down and the woman I consort with was watching television in another part of the house, I stood at the kitchen window with the garage door remote. I pressed the button and watched the door quietly slide up and down. What a feeling of power!

"I am no longer a small time country boy," I told myself. "I have arrived." An automatic garage door opener is the difference between feeling influentially stable and just hanging on with crowd.

The editor (Connie Parker Harrison) beneath the Influentially Stable Garage Door Opener,
August 1986, with Kevin Cornett and friends.

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.