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June 26, 2024
Sublime rambling
By Vicki L. George
The Bandera Prophet
Notice the oxymoron with the words “sublime” and “rambling.” Waxing poetically, I’m liable to swing from the sublime to the inconsequential.
But I will share my thoughts and opinions with whoever wishes to read this column and, of course, whoever can agree or disagree however they like.
Right now, I’m thinking about the upcoming Independence Day, aka Fourth of July or July 4th.
I was never what one would call “patriotic” when I was younger. Actually, I never gave it much thought. Then in 1996, my husband and I started living for short periods of time in foreign countries.
Our first was England. We stayed there about five months in the small Cornish town of Penzance. If you remember the musical, The Pirates of Penzance … well, that’s the one. We stayed at a hotel owned by an older couple and managed by their daughter, Melanie.
Now, Melanie had three kids: Richard, who was 15; Claire, who was 12; and little Katherine, who was 6 and the same age as our first granddaughter.
One afternoon, as Richard and I were in the parlor, and Melanie was at the check-in counter in the next room, I mentioned that our American holiday was coming up. I asked Richard if he knew what the Fourth of July was. His answer, “Uh, July 4th?”
I told him that was our Independence Day. Then I asked him if he knew who we gained independence from. His blank look told me he had no clue. Right then, his mom yelled out from the next room, “Us!”
Yep, we’re the rowdy colonists. She knew her history anyway.
After England, we lived in Argentina for three months, and after that we lived in Chile for another three months.
I joined my husband for one week in Panama, and we’ve been to Israel twice.
I noticed something that bothered me in all those other countries. None of them seemed to have any thought for elderly or handicapped people. There were no ramps or even low-riser steps. The sidewalks are narrow and often steep. Anyone who required a wheelchair or a walker simply could not go anywhere and certainly not shopping. There was no handicapped parking.
In South America, I saw signs in the front of some buildings and held out some hope but, alas, the signs were for pregnant women to park near store entrances. They care about, and help, pregnant people, but not handicapped people.
I found that disturbing and it gave me a lot of thought. When I got home I was so thankful that we do care about our elderly and handicapped more, at least enough to provide ways of helping them to get around, to shop for what they need, and to socialize.
I guess you could say I have found my patriotic side, and will celebrate the birth of our compassionate nation with my traditional watermelon, and I will watch the fireworks show.
But I will share my thoughts and opinions with whoever wishes to read this column and, of course, whoever can agree or disagree however they like.
Right now, I’m thinking about the upcoming Independence Day, aka Fourth of July or July 4th.
I was never what one would call “patriotic” when I was younger. Actually, I never gave it much thought. Then in 1996, my husband and I started living for short periods of time in foreign countries.
Our first was England. We stayed there about five months in the small Cornish town of Penzance. If you remember the musical, The Pirates of Penzance … well, that’s the one. We stayed at a hotel owned by an older couple and managed by their daughter, Melanie.
Now, Melanie had three kids: Richard, who was 15; Claire, who was 12; and little Katherine, who was 6 and the same age as our first granddaughter.
One afternoon, as Richard and I were in the parlor, and Melanie was at the check-in counter in the next room, I mentioned that our American holiday was coming up. I asked Richard if he knew what the Fourth of July was. His answer, “Uh, July 4th?”
I told him that was our Independence Day. Then I asked him if he knew who we gained independence from. His blank look told me he had no clue. Right then, his mom yelled out from the next room, “Us!”
Yep, we’re the rowdy colonists. She knew her history anyway.
After England, we lived in Argentina for three months, and after that we lived in Chile for another three months.
I joined my husband for one week in Panama, and we’ve been to Israel twice.
I noticed something that bothered me in all those other countries. None of them seemed to have any thought for elderly or handicapped people. There were no ramps or even low-riser steps. The sidewalks are narrow and often steep. Anyone who required a wheelchair or a walker simply could not go anywhere and certainly not shopping. There was no handicapped parking.
In South America, I saw signs in the front of some buildings and held out some hope but, alas, the signs were for pregnant women to park near store entrances. They care about, and help, pregnant people, but not handicapped people.
I found that disturbing and it gave me a lot of thought. When I got home I was so thankful that we do care about our elderly and handicapped more, at least enough to provide ways of helping them to get around, to shop for what they need, and to socialize.
I guess you could say I have found my patriotic side, and will celebrate the birth of our compassionate nation with my traditional watermelon, and I will watch the fireworks show.