Jewish World Review Jan. 19, 2005 / 9 Shevat, 5765

Rheta Grimsley Johnson

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Out of your sight, into mine


http://www.jewishworldreview.com | FISHTRAP HOLLOW, Miss.   —   I am depressed this cold, January morning, and probably shouldn't write until the daffodils bloom or the mood passes.


But sometimes a deadline bumps hard up against the blues, and there's no way around sharing the pain. If I were Hank Williams, what follows would be a poem. People would be singing my words 100 years after I'm gone. Hank had a way of taking his sorrow and pain and rendering gold.


Depression doesn't make me write poetry; it makes me write self-indulgent prose. So forgive my version of the steadily- depressing- low-down-mind- messin'-picking-up-a-moron's -litter blues.


Trashy people   —   who abound in these parts   —   have dumped their garbage all over my place during my recent absence. I guess they drove by, saw no lights or activity and said: "Hmmm. This will be a good spot to unload the garbage."


I guess I should be glad they are honest litterbugs and not burglars.


It's nothing new. I'm not sure why it even surprises me anymore. It's Mississippi in a pickup truck, living up to its reputation.


So now I'll fill my own pickup and haul the garbage away to the landfill as I've done many times before. I'll tack another ugly "No Trespassing" sign to a beautiful tree. It will stay a week or two before someone rips it down.


This time it's not even catfish heads or a broken television or refrigerator, just several old grills and legless chairs and 21 large sacks of leaves   —   I counted   —   and other miscellaneous things that some family nearby grew tired of or wore out.

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Inside my imaginative head, I see them. Mom, Pop, Junior, all out with the brooms and rakes, making their own yard neat. Never mind that leaves are the best mulch, that trees need the nutrients those rotting leaves would have provided. This is a family of neatniks. Ned Neatnik and his little woman, Nancy.


So they rake those leaves into neat piles and sack them up. When they finish the chore, they step back to survey proudly their handiwork. They even swill a self-congratulatory beer or two   —   or several six-packs, judging from the garbage   —   feeling really good about all they've accomplished.


Then Ned and Nancy load the excess junk from the patio and sacks of leaves into the bed of their truck and start cruising the countryside, looking for a place to dump.


My mood is as foul as the empty cans in the plastic sacks. Today I don't just see another person's trash. The mess seems somehow symbolic of this country.


Bear with me. You've made it this far.


The illegal dumping represents the total disregard we have for one another. As long as the trash is out of sight, it doesn't matter where it lands.


As long as I have health insurance, it doesn't matter that millions of others don't. As long as my child is in a good private school, the peons with kids in public school are on their own. As long as the globe doesn't get too warm while I'm alive, my grandchildren can deal with it. As long as I make a good salary, the working man doesn't deserve a living wage. As long as the leaves and garbage aren't in my yard, never mind the poor soul who must deal with them.


As long as there's a temporary solution for any problem   —   from trash to Social Security   —   a final or wise disposition doesn't matter.


In other words, in a country that supposedly based its most important, recent vote on moral values, we no longer do unto others as we would have them do unto us. That biblical admonition has about as much application in this country at this time as the buggy whip.


The American definition of "morals" seems wrapped up in controlling what the other fellow does, not what we ourselves do. And that other fellow better do exactly as we say or head for cover.


So, to the family with the neat, leafless yard somewhere nearby, I hope you're up to carrying one more load. Because I'm putting all the country's woes right on top of your head.


If you can't be civilized, you can be an illustration.



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Up


01/12/05: The screaming meemies
01/05/05: This year
12/28/04: My yard for a library
12/15/04: FREE MARTHA!
11/22/04: A rare and true comfort
11/15/04: eBay effort gobbled up
10/21/04: And now, representing the United States ...
10/14/04: A day in the life of an ‘undecided voter’
07/29/04: Honorariums from the heart are best
07/22/04: Something cold, something new
07/15/04: The simple life, Cajun style
07/08/04: You simply didn't strike out on family vacation in a dirty Buick
07/02/04: I fuss and cuss but know where my heart is


© 2004, Rheta Grimsley Johnson Distributed by King Features Syndicate