Mom

As time has inevitably brought me to middle age, I’ve had an increasing appreciation for the life I was given in my youth. Dad was the bread-earner and taught me the responsibility of an honest day’s work. It was a given understanding that neither my brother or myself would carry on a fourth generation of farming the land and herding the cattle. Owning a farm took an early toll on my Dad’s life. He was great; I love him dearly for his valuable contributions to my life but Mom was the one who has had the most profound affect on my journeys through life. Still today, she is constantly a part of my thoughts with her wisdom and common sense guiding me through difficult times.

It’s a vague memory but there were a few years when I called her “mommy”. For another short period of time “momma” was used to get her attention. Of course, she was called “mom” for most of my life. I’ve never used the word “mother” as it was too formal, and the thought of calling her by her Christian name, Maryon, was never a thought. Saying the word “Mom” has always been a special honor of thanks to the woman who nurtured me from birth.

Mom talked very little about her years of growing up on her Dad’s farm but when a friend lost his own Mom, she was right there with compassion, understanding and emotional concern. She told Dave about the devastation she felt when her dad passed away during her senior year of high school. She was his “favorite” of eleven children. Her dad passed away from a massive heart attack just outside one of the barns while doing his chores. I was surprised and felt a little slighted about the candid feelings she shared with my friend. Mom had never talked about her days as a youth, but it was no surprise that she reached out to help someone in need even though she had known him for just a few years.

Mom was always kind and thoughtful to everyone and, even though some of us kids had friends who were questionable in her opinion, she gave us the benefit of our youth to make responsible decisions of our own. There was never anyone she forbade us to share our friendships with. Even my brother Russ’ Eddy Haskell-type classmate was accepted, which was a disappointment to me because he was creepier than Wally Cleaver’s buddy and treated me no better than what the Beaver had to endure.

My Mom was always there for each of us, making sure we ate a full breakfast before getting on the school bus and filled our lunch bags had the right balance of foods, including some homemade goodies. Occasionally we were given lunch money for the school cafeteria but I still preferred Mom’s meals because she knew what I liked and disliked, although we’d compromise on occasions and I’d get something special if I promised to eat something just shy of being a favorite of mine. She knew there were trade-offs now and then at school but that was between my friends and me.

Mom was a busy person with five children and a husband who depended on her to handle everything beyond tending to the crops and barnyard animals, although we heard stories how she had driven the tractors right along with dad to get the fields ready for planting before the children were born. She prepared all the meals, giving Dad special consideration whenever the main course was fine by us kids but not to his liking. She’d pan-fry one of those over-cooked, knife-bending steaks his Mom had cooked for him.

There was always a desert of one kind or another. Sunday afternoon dinner would be followed with one of a variety of cakes, often made by request, and the rest of the week we’d have other sweetmeats to look forward to. Jell-O was a frequent desert but little Ronnie would have none of it if bananas were one of the ingredients, so a separate, special portion would always be there for me. Mom would usually accommodate our likes and dislikes because she loved each and every one of us. Homemade pies with farm fresh apples, blueberries, huckleberries or cherries were some of my favorite pie deserts, but raspberry was special to nearly everyone. Dad would pass on that one and would usually have a couple of molasses cookies.

Even in wintertime there were canned or frozen fruits, vegetables and meats. Dad would plow and disk last year’s garden to prepare the ground for the spring but it was Mom who oversaw the planting, weeding and the harvesting of the fruits and vegetables of our labors. Most times, she was right out there with us, not so much to keep us kids from fighting, but to make sure we didn’t consume too much of our chores. Still, we’d brush off the dirt and eat as much as we could safely get away with, keeping in mind that she’d know how much there should be compared to what we brought in. Fresh strawberries were a casualty of our desires.

The times when Mom would take us out to the hickory tree in the middle of one of the fields to pick up walnuts are fresh in my mind, as are those summer afternoons when we would sit in front of the TV, maybe watching cartoons or an afternoon variety talk show as we snapped wax beans or husked sweet corn for supper. Those were the times when she bonded with us kids, although back then it wasn’t necessary to put a label on everything. She gave us a close-knit and loving environment, making sure we understood how fortunate we were to have such bountiful gifts of nourishment.

Mom usually handled discipline but we got to ages where something other than a hand would have the intended affect. There were times when she told us to “wait until your Dad comes in”. Mom didn’t threaten; we knew we were in big trouble when those words were spoken. We were good kids for the most part but there were times of shame for most of us, including myself. Little Susie was the perfectly behaved child and baby Sally was spoiled by everyone so she could do no wrong.

There was the time I was caught shoplifting. Take note that this was in the ‘60s when stores were a little lenient if the felon showed sincere remorse and terror when a call was made to Mom, forced me to explain what I had done, listen to her yell at me, let her talk to the store Security Officer, listen to her yell at me again, telling me to come straight home to be yelled at once again. And waited for Dad to come in.

There was the time I stole from Mom’s purse. She gave us kids an ultimatum for the thief to make a confession with a thirty-minute deadline. I couldn’t do it but she already knew from the evidence found in the perpetrator’s dresser drawer but even then I couldn’t surrender my guilt. Dad didn’t have to get involved with the situation because Mom’s wrath toward my taking money from the family budget was all it took to make me an ashamed outcast. It took a few weeks for me to redeem myself but her silent reprimand for my dishonesty taught me one of the most important lessons in life.

One other piece of my devilish side that’s followed me through the years was a rather light-hearted moment. I was in the 7th grade and was given an assignment to write a short story for English class. Even today, I don’t know how I got the idea or the knowledge but I was pretty descriptive about life of the Roaring ‘20s. How could I and why would I write about flappers and gin bathes? I don’t remember, but the English teacher called Mom who talked to me about it for a few minutes; I gave her my word to have discretion on what I wrote then she destroyed the product of a creative mind, never to be discussed again. I remember the incident and relish her thoughtfulness.

There are so many great memories of all the things Mom did for me. You may ask, what did I do for her? I never really knew how I could show my love and appreciation for all she’d done. The typical gifts I gave her were always short of what I felt she deserved. I claimed my independence at age 20, moved to Florida, then Chicago and on to Los Angeles before I settled down and bought a home back in Florida. I was extremely naïve when I left the farm yet Mom was the one person who had given me direction and had faith in me to achieve to the best of my abilities, follow her example of ethics, be considerate and understanding of others, and expect nothing other than what I earned in life.

Mom had never flown and swore she could never do it, yet she gave in to the fear to visit wherever I lived. Sea World. Busch Gardens. Catalina Island. The Grand Canyon. Bryce Canyon. Zion. The Atlantic Ocean. The Pacific Ocean. These were special moments in her life as well as mine. She wouldn’t allow me to pay her airfare but it was my pleasure to escort her to sights and wonders she had never experienced. I think she was proud of my abilities to adapt to different environments and maintain successful employment. She traveled with one or more of my Aunts on each of her visits. It was quite an adventure when three of her sisters, Jean, Rooney and Donis came to visit one of their other sisters, Doris, in California. I drove the lot of us to the Hearst Castle and realized too late that there was nowhere to get a dinner after 9 p.m., so we settled on crackers or something, had sodas from a convenience store, played cards and made the experience one of the fondest memories of our lives.

Mom had cancer in her mid-50s and divorced Dad because of his drinking; she “couldn’t deal with both”. She survived and most of her trips were made over the next ten years, when the handicap of surgery of her lower jaw made it difficult to chew and swallow. She was having lunch with my sister, Sally, and her husband of four months; they were about to tell her of her pregnancy and the next grandchild in the family. Paramedics did their best, but by the time I arrived from Orlando the next day I found her life was being extended solely by a support system. She passed away at 4:36 p.m. on February 10th, 1992.

The eulogy was mine to give as I had always intended. I couldn’t keep my voice from constantly cracking but I withheld the tears until the casket was closed. I talked about her love of flowers, sewing and her beloved grandchildren. A script wasn’t necessary.

I think of Mom most days and frequently update her on my thoughts and events in my life.

Mom, I thank you so very much for your love and guidance and so many wonderful memories. I treasure the life you gave me. I’ll always love you, Mom, as only this son can do.

PARCEL POST 2008 @ www.parcelpost08.blogspot.com
A New Year. A New Blog.

The Elvis and Sassy Show-off

My adopted boys both turned two years old this month and the term “terrible twos” has already proven aptly decreed. The period has just begun and I suspect my confidence that it won’t be as bad as everyone portrays it to be will quickly bring me to rational acceptance. As they have become more inquisitive, I’ve had to either put items out of reach or remove them entirely. Although no harm has been done, it was wise of me to view candles as a possible tragedy in the making and a lesson to be learned at another time.

Their contrasting features actually make each of them more endearing. As one has jet-black hair and will grow to be of a small, slim frame, my other boy is blond and full-bodied and may have the potential of being overweight, so I’ll have to maintain a watchful diet and promote exercise through the years. It’s a bit reassuring when I see him being playful and how responsive he is to rolling one of the toys on the carpet. The other guy is content to watch and show facial expressions of interest or confusion.

They’ve gotten along so well with each other from the beginning but there’s a hint of jealousy from time to time. Neither of them is aware of, nor comprehends, my words when I tell each of them he’s my favorite, always supplemental the statement with assurance “except for the other”.

They have learned the word “no” very well and I’ve taken great care to make it a positive learning experience by saying it in a firm, low tone. I have no problem repeating it a few times, if necessary, but an occasional loud, firm voice is used only to gain their attention if they are at risk of harming themselves. They fear nothing in the house, including brooms and the vacuum cleaner; I’ve never found it necessary to go to such extremes.

My personal possessions are of little concern; my boys’ safety is always first and foremost.

They love to be nurtured, almost demanding to be held to the point where it may become a concern of dependency, not just for them but for myself as well. As long as I’m aware of that possibility and take corrective action if warranted, they should become independent and confident as they grow. They will always be assured that they can count on me to put their interests and well being above my own.

One of the most treasured times are in the morning as one or the other of my boys will get my attention to be fed. There are days when it’s untimely but I’m never in doubt of waking up at a more than respectable hour. As their day begins, so does mine. The only annoying period in the morning is when they decide to play with my newspaper. True, I don’t want them to get ink print on themselves, but it’s a major misdemeanor when either of my boys rips my reading material. Why does it seem that I’m the one to adjust to them? I was here first!

They never fight, or so I thought for the longest of time. Occasionally I would hear a thump somewhere in the house but by the time I checked it out they were calmly lying on the floor. At other times I’d find a vase knocked over on the floor but just figured one or the other, or both, were playing. It was by chance I saw their bodies entangled, roughing each other up, tossing and turning, feigning injury or exposing themselves in a vulnerable position. They were fighting! But not a sound came from either’s mouths. There was total silence as they tried to outdo the other. I chuckle with delight every time I see them at play-fighting. It happens quite often and they often look to make sure I’m aware of their entertaining antics. Precious.

As Auntie says, “You don’t own them; they own you.” There is surely some truth to the statement but they’re under my protection, not possession.

As you can imagine, these little guys mean the world to me. They keep me on my toes, give me a sense of tranquility and make me appreciate yet another wonder of nature in life. They won’t be with me forever and, although I’m in my mid-50s, I’m prepared as much as possible to lose them before my own life comes to an end. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Elvis, named after The King, is Burmese and the smaller of the two. Sassy, so aptly named within moments of being in my life, is Siamese. Cats and other pets are meant to have one parent figure. I’ve adjusted my diet and corrected some vices to do all I can to outlive them. It’s up to me to accept their inevitable future, to understand grief, shed tears and carry on through life, knowing I have done all I could to provide a safe, secure and healthy environment for all three of us.

They are daddy’s boys through and through. We belong to a Mutual Admiration Society of three. Elvis, Sassy and me.

PARCEL POST 2008 @ www.parcelpost08.blogspot.com A New Year. A New Blog.

Of George and Mitt

I first heard of Mitt Romney when he announced his bid for the Republican nomination for President of the United States. As a son of a Michigan farmer, it was the name of George Romney that immediately came to mind. Of course, shortly thereafter I was to learn that Mitt is indeed the son of the former Governor of Michigan.

Upon that revelation, I came to the rational conclusion that “Mitt” is a nickname, you know, like the shape of the State of Michigan: the mitten? I thought it a little odd but it still made sense. I was actually a little disappointed that his full name is Willard Milton Romney and that “Mitt” is in reference to a relative who played for the Chicago Bears. I’ll stick with my original thought. Anyway, the idea makes for better conversation.

Aside from that misconception, thoughts came to mind as I recalled articles I had read in the Detroit Free Press during my junior and senior years at Dansville Agricultural High School, home of the Aggies. The country was going through a troublesome period, with racial tension, the Vietnam War, the introduction of the hippie culture and the use of “recreational” drugs, and the assassination of President Kennedy still haunting our conscience.

George Romney, the frontrunner for the 1968 presidential nomination, seemed a perfect fit for the White House through the summer of 1967. He had successfully transformed the American Motors Corporation into a debt-free, competitive automaker, with the line of 1961 Ramblers ranking third in domestic auto sales. His keen business acumen gave him a two-term governorship in Michigan beginning in 1962.

Gov. Romney was born in the Mexican state of Chihuahua. His parents were American citizens, returning to the U.S. when George was 20. During WWII, Romney headed the Automotive Council for War Production, which oversaw the production of automobiles for military use. George did not have inherited wealth; he made himself the man he became.

It was in the fall of 1967 that George Romney made the statement that he had been “brainwashed” by the military after a trip to South Vietnam in 1965. (Those pesky investigative reporters all the way back then were already doing a good job of brushing away dusty coverings.) Prior to this period, he had made statements in support of the Vietnam War. His viewpoint was well stated when he called the war “the most tragic foreign policy mistake in the nation’s history”. (Mitt, take a hint: you could very easily quote those same words in reference to the present war/conflict/occupation in Iraq and the overflow into Afghanistan and other points not yet identified by the current administrator.)

Unfortunately for George, this calamity denied him success as the Republican presidential candidate. He still made the announcement for his election bid in November 1967 but withdrew the following February. Although I wouldn’t be of voting age for another year beyond the 1968 election, I was still disappointed. I had always viewed the guy as something more than your basic politician. I saw him as being a man doing business before the legislature, and getting done what had to be.

Perhaps I am the only person to fully recollect another guffaw that occurred around the same time, but fresh in my mind are the words “swamp gas”. In a marshy area south of Ann Arbor there was a sighting of a moving light, steadily passing along the skyline, but not at an altitude that any Earthly aircraft should be traveling. As is typical with the Air Force and their handling of Project Bluebook (a government project hell-bent on placating the American public that UFOs were not spaceships controlled by toy-sized intergalactic humanoids), they issued the typical official statement that it was a natural phenomenon of terra firma. A weather balloon or planet Venus was often explanations of choice.

George gave his own thought that the phenomenon was of an earthly nature, the glow from a concentration of swamp gas. The statement garnered a few chuckles for a while but eventually he planted his feet back on earth and became Secretary of HUD under President Nixon.

I’m not suggesting Mitt follow in his dad’s footsteps but along the coast of Massachusetts there are some salt marshes. It may be a perfect breeding ground for more swamp gas. This could very well be an opportunity for the former Governor to lay claim to taking part in resolving our dependency on foreign oil.

Swamp gas is real. It is a biogas derived from an “aerobic environment” which means it formed from the fermentation of organic matter but lacking oxygen. If cleaned up sufficiently, it has the same characteristics as natural gas. This form of energy is cleaner than coal, emitting less carbon monoxide than other fossil fuels.

If Mitt were to send his aides to analyze the conditions in swampy Massachusetts, perhaps there could be a bonanza in providing a cache of biofuel to energize his campaign and upstage other contenders. Global warming is a hot topic, not easily ignored when voters judge each candidate’s worthiness. He could redeem the family name and make swamp gas work for him, in contrast how it worked against his dad.

Swamp gas or not, when discussing the politics of the presidential hopefuls for next year, to keep conversations at an interesting dialogue, I’ll talk about how Willard got the nickname “Mitt”.

You know... he was born in Michigan, his dad was Governor of Michigan and the mitten shape of the State of Michigan….


{This is not an endorsement for Mitt Romney’s presidential aspirations. This in memory of George Romney, the first Governor I was consciously aware of and the man whose vote was never mine to cast. Had I been of voting age in 1968, I would not have voted for Nixon or Humphrey. I felt Eugene McCarthy was the man for that time.}

PARCEL POST 2008 @ www.parcelpost08.blogspot.com A New Year. A New Blog.

Of Vietnam and Iraqi Wars

It was the protests against the Vietnam War that brought down the Democrats during the 1968 election, at which time Richard Nixon began the pull out of American troops.

It will be the silent protests against the occupation in Iraq and Afghanistan, misnamed the War on Terrorism, that will bring down the Republicans in 2008, at which time a Democrat president will begin the pull out of American troops, or reshuffle their assignments.

Come January 2009, President George W. Bush could very easily have been vacating the White House with a true legacy for American history books.

Once Sadam Hussein had been ousted and executed, and weapons of mass destruction were proven non-existent, a quick victory exit might have lead to committed support from Congress to address the broader goal of addressing worldwide terrorism. Perhaps events would have garnered involvement from the United Nations and NATO and we would not be alone in this Iraqi mess.

That date of triumph should have been May 1, 2003, when President Bush proclaimed "Mission Accomplished" aboard the USS Abraham Lincoln. In honor of President Lincoln's legacy, it should have been a day to celebrate the "emancipation of the Iraqi people". Bush could have had a legacy of his own if only he had a mind to lay claim to the success of a conflict that was accomplished with 41 days (March 19 - May 1, 2003) compared to the 193-days (August 2, 1990 - March 3, 1991) it had taken Bush, Sr. to bring Desert Storm to an end.

Bush was too quick and too fast to do more than what could be accomplished by one nation. Today, most Americans feel he won’t be out of the Oval Office soon enough.

Regardless which political party takes residency in the Oval Office in January 2009, hopefully we will shortly see our borders secured and there will be bipartisan resolve on illegal immigration. At that point, we may also have the opportunity to regain respect from the world community, and the United Nations and NATO will be in alliance with the United States to address global terrorism. The icing on the cake (or the icecap in the Arctic Circle) would find the United States a committed member to resolve global warming without getting all heated up about it.

PARCEL POST 2008 @ www.parcelpost08.blogspot.com
A New Year. A New Blog.

Indian Humor

Did you hear the one about the outsourcing of American jobs? Actually, it is about as funny as if you were to throw a boomerang into the air only to have it come back and hit you in the back of the head. If nothing else, it will surely make you roll your eyes. Or maybe you will roll hysterically in the unemployment line.

Believe it or not, one of the largest import nations of jobs that used to be done by American workers, India, is now outsourcing some of those jobs to Argentina, Brazil, Chile and Uruguay. Right now, the number is approximately 5,000 jobs. In the next few years, another 5,000 software development jobs will be heading for Guadalajara, Mexico.

And now for the below-the-belt punch line: some of those outsourced jobs to India are being outsourced to lesser-developed areas in the United States of America!

Laugh and the world laughs with you; cry and American and Indian corporate executives will turn the other way and count their profits.

A Global Anthem?

Music has always been the light that brings intimacy to love and heartbreak, the right and wrongs of life, the good and bad of people, awareness of life, and the signs of the times through the ages of lyrical expression.

I could go on and on and list artists, groups, composers and other entertainers who have diverted troublesome episodes of my life over the past six decades. Of them all, I candidly claim with certain commitment that Elvis Presley is by far my hero of song.

Another personality whose diverse showmanship and exquisite delivery of musical prowess was Bobby Darin. As a youth, I took pleasure in hearing his performances of rock and roll in the late 50s (such as “Splish Splash” and “Dream Lover”) and easy listening, crooner- styled songs of the early 60s (“Beyond the Sea” and “Mack the Knife”). His “That’s All” remains an all-time favorite album of mine, every song being a testament of his greatness.

If there was ever an entertainer intent on maintaining popularity in the spotlight of show business, it was Bobby who insisted on diversity through the years, perhaps the one person who epitomized the action to “reinvent” himself.

Over the years, he had taken an interest in folk music and in 1962 enlisted Roger McGuinn (of the Byrds) to fill the need of a guitarist for the live acts he was doing in local clubs, trying to make another breakthrough in the music industry. Darin became McGuinn’s mentor. In 1964 McGuinn headed for L.A. to work on his own lyrics and music, which led to his own share of fame.

By 1966 Bobby’s pop idol status had waned as he released albums featuring show tunes and standards (“Hello Dolly!” and “Mame”) that garnered little acknowledgement.

In that same year, Bobby’s producers pitched a song, “If I Were a Carpenter”, which he took with special interest. After three years of mediocre record sales, it became the latest, and last, of his nine Top 10 songs (and 21 songs in the Top 40) last, in his eight-year career. It not only brought to light the never-ending talents of an American entertainment icon, it also introduced the world to the works of yet another gifted entertainer/lyricist: Tim Hardin.

As Bobby fine-tuned his interest in American folk songs, he went on to record music composed by John Sebastian of the Lovin’ Spoonful (“Lovin’ You” and “Darlin’ Be Home Soon”) but putting Tim Hardin as a center of expression (“Don’t Make Promises”, “Reason to Believe”, “The Lady Came from Baltimore”) and making his songs a standard theme on a number of albums from 1996 to 1969.

Bobby became quite a composer in his own right, penning many memorable songs but never achieving the fame he honestly deserved for his creativity. The “the very best of Bobby Darin 1966-1969” is another of those CDs I have a tendency to put on “repeat”. In particular, songs that stand out are “Rainin’”, “Amy”, “I’m Going To Love You”, “Long Time Movin’” and “Long Line Rider”.

Another song written by Bobby Darin that made my mind and heart yearn for peace, love and understanding is “Simple Song of Freedom”. Originally released in 1969 by Tim Hardin, it still evokes a sense of faith, hope and charity for mankind. It attempts to put to rest the politics of governments, racism, religion and the misgivings of war.

As the music and lyrics flow, the feeling of want and desire grow. It strongly suggests it could be an attainable goal, if only those that keep us from achieving the compassion and harmony of human consciousness had no claim to anyone’s involvement.

So, come and read a Simple Song of Freedom:


SIMPLE SONG OF FREEDOM
(Bobby Darin)

Come and sing a simple song of freedom
Sing it like you've never sung before
Let it fill the airTell the people everywhere
That we, the people here, don't want a war

Hey there, Mister Black Man can you hear me?
I won't dig your diamonds or hunt your game
I just want to be, someone known to you as me
and I will bet my life you want the same

So come and sing a simple song of freedom
Sing it like you've never sung before
Let it fill the air
Tell the people everywhere
That we, the people here, don't want a war

Seven hundred million are you listening?
Most of what you read is made of lies
But speaking one to one, ain't it everybody's sun
To wake to in the morning when we rise?

So come and sing a simple song of freedom
Sing it like you've never sung before
Let it fill the airTell the people everywhere
That we, the people here, don't want a war

Brother Yareshenko are you busy?
If not would you drop a friend a line?
Tell me if the man, who is plowing up your land
has got the war machine upon his mind

Come and sing a simple song of freedom
Sing it like you've never sung before
Let it fill the air
Tell the people everywhere
That we, the people here, don't want a war

No doubt some folks enjoy doin' battle
Like presidents and ministers and kings
But let us build them shelves where they can fight among themselves
and leave the people be who like to sing

Come and sing a simple song of freedom
Sing it like you've never sung before
Let it fill the air
Tell the people everywhere
That we the people here, don't want a war

Let it fill the air
Tell the people everywhere
That we the people here, don't want a war


[The SIMPLE SONG OF FREEDOM lyrics are the property of the respective authors, artists and labels, the lyrics are provided for educational and study purposes only. If you like the song, please buy relative CD to support Bobby Darin.]

PARCEL POST 2008 @ www.parcelpost08.blogspot.com
A New Year. A New Blog.

A Chance To Give

“Tis the season to be jolly. ‘Tis the season to give. This year, I’m jolly because I gave.

I’ve spent my entire working life being less charitable than what might be expected by most standards. A large part for my hesitation to give my fare share has been the questionable allocation of what portion would actually end up benefiting the needy. A larger part has to do with the increasing pressure of employers to fill up the gravy boat of one organization or other. We were given many different choices for those tax-deductible dollars through payroll subtractions. Or we could give a one-time out-of-pocket contribution.

Corporate directives to give a percentage of my earnings to those less fortunate was aggressively promoted by requiring employees to attend a seminar with representatives from charities soft-selling their chances of garnishing each of our dollars and cents. Lavish videos, pamphlets and individual testimonies greeting a seasonal charity drive. I always had the impression that a primary goal of the company was to demonstrate how much their contributions benefited the community. I perceived it was more for public relations than any other reason.

Most of these presentations displayed scenes of how moneys are applied to solve illnesses of children that are casualties of life-threatening diseases. Pictures of well-fed, healthy-looking victims of human frailties were less effective than what have been otherwise. Before and after pictures would seem appropriate to pull on the heartstrings of givers.

If companies were to put the same effort of influencing employee involvement for charitable donations to promote the long-term benefits of participating in retirement accounts, where many companies contribute a percentage of matching funds, there would be more people seeing their futures more financially secure, thus more prone to share with others.

I also looked at how many organizations have top-heavy executive salaries and wondered how much I was giving to benefit their professed humanitarianism. I am not suggesting that all organizations are shy on properly dedicating funds to the poor and infirm, but I still doubt some of their distribution processes.

Many employees were just pleased to have an hour or two away from their desks. Some seemed to purposely ask questions of dubious intent just to stay away from the drudges of daily routines. Regardless, in a sales position management still had expectations that everyone attain their hourly quotas.

Although I grew up in Michigan where unions dominated the benefits and salaries of autoworkers, I eventually withdrew my membership in a local chapter because right-to-laws in Florida dilute the effectiveness of representation. I felt guilty for abandonment but was able to redirect some of those dollars toward charities of choice.

I have to admit that supervisors who brow-beated our psyches when we failed to meet their sales expectations were generous in their involvement of community alliances that gave refuge to the homeless and women in half-ways houses because of abusive mates. I felt this was a worthwhile opportunity to make an immediate difference for people going through a low point in their lives. I may have been dealing with an angry customer at the time when the envelopes were passed from desk to desk, I gladly pulled out my wallet to share in the pride these managers displayed for their efforts.

This past summers I assisted a friend with multiple handicaps with transportation to various destinations. I had quite often read or heard about Habitat for Humanity. My friend directed me to the location at 2035 Broad Street, where he has made frequent donations. I was quite impressed with the staff and the variety of items. The venture also introduced me to an area in Hernando County that I wasn’t familiar with. The experience was so positive that I barely grimaced when a moment of indiscretion and poor judgment gave me a traffic citation. The officer was pleasant and offered to let me view a replay of my violation. I knew I was guilty and declined the invitation.

Keeping all this in mind, when I was out a couple weeks ago doing a bit of Christmas shopping, I happened upon a sofa to replace the one that had been in my home for 12 years. It came as an afterthought of selecting a piece of furniture for a relative. The reasonable price offered an limited-time interest-free payment plan for both items.

Although I’m not an impulsive buyer, it took me little time to identify how I could best “get rid” of the old couch. I wasn’t heeding the concerns an aunt has that by having a garage sail I’m inviting shady people from casing the home. I quickly calculated items that have repeatedly floated through my mind that could be given to a charity.

I contacted Humanity to verify they would pick up the sofa, assuring them it was in suitable condition. I took the opportunity to sift through closets and drawers to accumulate slacks, jeans, T-shirts, casual shirts, dress shirts, all of which were taking up space, some of which could no longer accommodate my spreading, middle-age midriff bulge. I also gathered together a few books, shoes that still have plenty of wear left in them, pots and pans and a few other assorted items. I washed some of the clothes and polished the shoes. Everything was in good condition, sure to be of value to someone.

On my initial visit, I had noticed the limited selection of videos, compact discs and DVD movies. I knew they would be of interest to many, sure to be fast movers.

Perhaps it is their general policy, but I appreciated the call to give thanks for my thankful giving. I assured them that I will keep them in mind for future donations.

I have one regret, call it guilt. Just a few months ago Hernando-Pasco Hospice fulfilled my friend’s medical needs. In hindsight, I contacted their local office and was informed that they have a thrift store in New Port Richey that other than cash contributions they gladly accept many donations if delivered. I’ll catch ‘em next time.

If my act of giving to a charitable organization suggests a personable payback as tax-deductible, my current status prohibits the itemization on that 1040 IRS form.

I can specifically attribute these donations to the selfless, less intrusive atmosphere in Hernando County. Two and a half years of residency has not diminished my appreciation for the quaint, small-town character of my new community. It gives me cause for many thanks.