MR. SANDMAN BRING ME A DRINK

I still have to have a few drinks of water every night. When I was a wee one and that song was new, I thought the sandman brought drinks rather than dreams. I had no trouble dreaming, but I wanted a drink in the middle of the night. Only after I got into high school did I sleep like the proverbial log and needed no water at night.

Less than five years ago, my wife and daughter accompanied me or the other way around on a trip to Switzerland and Austria and some other European locales. A long train ride from Innsbruck to Zurich cut a path through the Alps which I suppose were beautiful. I probably slept 3 of the 3 1/2 hours. I didn't want to sleep but the motion rocks me like a baby.

"So which one moves at home; the television or the couch?" our daughter quipped when I related the story. While I missed a huge chunk of scenery, what I caught was deep green forests, with an occasional waterfowl and beautiful glacier-green streams running just ahead of us on the train.

I had gone back to one of the sleeper cars since there wasn't a lot of other sleepyheads, but on threat of having to pay for the extra room, I returned. I didn't bother me. I can sleep sitting up just about as easy as a full recline. But it angered the porter on the train. He probably thought I was silly for missing out. I thought he was a little misoneistic, but in Europe change comes slowly. And to miss even a bit of their culture was unforgivable.

I'd write some more about Lake Zurich and the cultural differences, but I'm, ok you guessed it, I'm getting a little sleepy. I've gone to sleep at the computer before. But I'm not going to today. I'll find a better place; one I won't have to pay extra for either.

OMISSION







That's all it took. One word. The operative word. And that word is/was ILLEGAL. Slap that in front of immigration law and Arizona has it right. Our state is not against Hispanics or any other nationality. We're all, I hope, against illegality.





But politicizing as it is distorts and divides. That is what Senate bill 1070 is doing. Nationwide the media wants to paint Arizonans as Wild West bigots. Gun toting, of course. The fact is that the Hispanic citizens have enriched out state so much. Their culture has been embraced without patronization. What I mean in this context is that it's a great blend or melding of twin cultures. Not so in many instances when those immigrating want and expect their new country to be like their old country.





Many in our society reject the values of their own country and try to Europeanize our country, for example. Yes, I'm talking about socialization of government. Including health care. I'm talking about negotiating from a strong position to one that weakens our country. Nuclear weapon reduction is another example. Outsourcing jobs so much that there are fewer and fewer factories in American. The list goes on and on.

But then again, so do I. So get back to the animus of this entry. Illegality is the key. Not nationality. How many of all of us have relatives that came to this country from another? But most did it through the legal process. If there's criticism, that's where it should fall. Expedite the process to citizenship. Hire more people to give it a jump start. Heaven knows we've made enough new government jobs in the name of stimulus, but we've left out some key areas. This is one.

Do I support SB 1070? I sure do. But never think I favor one group of people wanting to become citizens over another.

As far as racial profiling goes, please get over it. I've felt the sting of discrimination based on my dark color on more than one occasion. In fact, the first words out of our current next door neighbor to me were "Do you speak English?"



Is that the same as showing "papers"? What kinds of papers are opponents talking about? A passport? A driver's license? A credit card? Those aren't papers and yes, I've been asked to show all three. It didn't take long. It doesn't offend.

And I've had my baggage looked at numerous times at the airport. Again, it's not a big deal.
If it's for increased safety, then go for it. Same with illegal immigration.

IT'S CALLED AN EARWORM

And I have one all the time. I even wake up with one. Early in the morning is a boon time for mine.

It's simply a tune or lyric that stays in your head. Only yesterday was I informed of its name.

It happens to me a lot after a church service. Maybe because with the modern praise songs, there is so much repetition. At least with the old hymns there were stanzas with a refraining chorus. Now, many songs just repeat and repeat and take longer than the 4 verses of the old songs.

So it's Wednesday and I'm still singing parts of the lyrics and melody in my head. It could be worse: I could be singing "Don't Worry/ Be Happy" or some other moronic song. "The Macarena" is another that could drive one crazy after a brief case of earworm. Inane commercial jingles, too.

When I get an earworm, I find a radio station and listen to another tune. That usually does it, but not always. I used to have an old reliable. Eight Days A Week would get me to stop singing the bothersome song in my head. But lately, after I sing The Beatles' song, the other song returns.

But never fear. I have a solution. I read about it today. I needed it today and it worked. Smell some cinnamon powder. The song or rather the earworm leaves. Don't ask me how. Try it next time, It's a Small World invades your psyche.

YOU CAN TELL AT AN EARLY AGE

What kind of person the little kid will be. No reason for tests, for analyses by experts. Just take them to a carousel. See what they choose to ride on the merry-go-round. That'll be the determiner.

If the kid selects the bench rather than a horse, well, he will be a huge disappointment. A milquetoast. One who never takes a chance. Knows no gusto. His future occupation--something in government service. Feeding at the public trough.

If the lil one opts for a duck or chicken or snake, rather that a steed, then that's the creative sort. Analytical. Choosy. All options open and available. A free thinker and free spirit. All types of creative occupational choices await. Free lance photographer heads the list for future employment.

A tot who selects a boring horse, that is one with little flair, less color, will be just that when grown. Pedestrian. Run of the mill. A trooper perhaps, but a mundane one tied down into the same job in the same town or city. A good provider who looks for road trips rather than any kind of real adventure.

The child who selects the first horse he comes to for fear that he'll have to wait out another turn before getting to ride is the cautious one. The pragmatist. He'll snap up the first job offered and be a valuable, steady employee. He'll be punctual and retire with more unused sick days than anyone else.

Finally, the one who is discerning enough to find just the right horse. One on the outside where he can be in the pictures riding and waving. The horse must look scary, bright colors, nostrils flared--I mean this horse will give him a much better ride than any other. The one will grow into adulthood and be just fine. He may not have the best job in the world, but he may, too. But he won't be married to it. It won't hold him back or hold him down. He is his own man.

Oh sure there are other kinds I've omitted on purpose. But one I must address is the one who changes horses often. He simply won't commit. He may hop on or off half a dozen before settling in. And then he usually picks a loser. By now, you can analyze what he'll be like as a grown up.

Don't try in your adult controlness to influence your child in making his or her selection. Just sit back and observe. Or next time you pass a carousel, just stop and put my theory into practice. We won't be able to see what they will become in later years. Or will we?

I BEAT HIM UP TODAY

Every morning for the past 10 days. He's announced the morning. That it has arisen. That he has arisen. And that it is time to arise.

For some odd reason, the woodpecker finds our fireplace attractive. I'm not sure what he so loudly drills. He can't reach the heatalator that lines the chimney. It must be some metal wrapped around there.

I'm also not sure why he does it. If it reflects his image as I've heard birds mesmerized looking at the window which mirrors them. And that could just be what he sees, for he doesn't stay all that long. Long enough to awaken me. I don't have to tell my wife also awakened, later and deeper sleeper than I.

One early morning I went outside to see what he was doing. Well, that's not quite right; I knew what he was doing. I guess I just wanted to affirm my assertion. Off he flew as if he knew he had been caught behaving badly.

I'm reminded of a friend who lost a friend by telling the story of how he had stopped a woodpecker from tearing up the siding on his house. He had caught it in a rat trap. Angered, enraged by his actions, his former friend chastised him, dressed him down as we used to say in So Il. Somehow, this animal lover never had the same love for him again.

I've seen rat traps that are sticky pads. Maybe that's what he should have used, though I doubt it would have made any difference to his ex-friend.

As for me, I solved the problem this morning. I beat him up. I captured him and... no I mean I got up before his reveille. That's the only way I want to hurt him. So announce all you want Chanticleer. Just as long as you wait till the sun is up just a little higher in that western sky.

ONE COOL CLASSMATE



So a friend of mine from way back was on tv Saturday. I recognized him easily though we haven't spoken since our SIU days.



You know, what's funny is that I can remember our last conversation. It was in front of Lawson Hall at the end of the school year just before our senior year. I was going to Summer
school and he was going to work in St. Louis. For a guy who had horses and liked athletes. That's how an SIU football player got the job.

Evidently he learned a lot more than I did that Summer.

Because he is a co-owner of the horse Super Saver. Winner of the 136th Kentucky Derby!

When he was interviewed by Bob Costas on tv, he thanked God for the bringing him the victory. Thataboy, Kenny!

He's right up there with Kurt Warner and Albert Pujols to me now. Big time winners who give glory to God first. The only difference--I went to high school and college with Mr. Troutt.

WHEN DO YOU TELL

It's always been a rough area of discernment for me. When do you tell someone they look foolish?

My classic example that I shared with a College Prep Writing class concerned a Full Prof, as he let me know when I addressed him as Mr. Vieth on an assigned paper for English Lit. One early morning Winter day after we had walked across campus to get to the beautiful English building back then, a pole barn constructed edifice on the wrong side of the tracks, we talked before class. He took out a handkerchief, blew his nose, wiped his nose, but a little of what came from there remained on his cheekbone.

This incident occurred after I had mistakenly referred to him as Mr. rather than Dr. So I was too intimidated to tell him he had a booger on his face.

Other times I have noticed sesame seeds stuck in teeth, barn doors open, lettuce on chins, pizza on shirts, and just yesterday a little chicken salad on the belly of a bud. And I'm almost always silent, just as I was with Mr. Vieth. Oh, did I just refer to him as Mister again? Good.

The one exception is family. If I catch any wayward food or clothing malfunction (thanks for the term Justin), I let them know immediately. Not that I want the control. I just want to save them any embarrassment.

But even with the best of friends, I have trouble saving them from the same fate. So if you're not related, and you're around me when something like that happens, you're on your own. Better check a mirror now and then just to be on the safe side.