One day, when I’m a grandmother — or, you know, one of the nice ones who doesn’t complain about the Reddi Wip at the Senior Luncheon — or, you know, a decrepit lunatic blocking the Coke machine — children will ask me “What did you do in the Great Culture Wars of the late 20th and early 21st century, you crazy old bag?”
And will I tell them of marches, petitions, phone banks, defacing of Yvonne Beckmeyer’s Junior Birchy Birch Society book bag? No sir.
I will tell them of the time I single-handedly prevented a tiny (we’re talking fire hydrant-sized) 84-year-old lady named Harriet from purchasing a Dick Morris book in the summer of 2008.
It called upon reserves I didn’t know I held, yet the struggle, the sacrifice, was worth it to preserve our democracy, give hope to our children and our children’s children, and deprive Mr. Morris of the thirty-nine dollars and forty-two cents or whatever percentage therein due to him from said exchange.
I’ve never been comfortable talking about this dazzling heroism and I don’t tell you this to make your own efforts seem flabby, useless, weak; pathetic in their extreme — but to inspire you forward. Not by trying anything as fearless as this — no, obviously not. But to encourage you on, ever on.
Thank me? No, please — no need. Just knowing I’ve been of help in some small yet perfectly formed way is all the thanks I require.
I shall, with alacrity, take questions below.
Thank you and in the words of Tiny Tim, God bless the people of America (and their superior nutmeat exports), God bless Father Christmas, God bless Mr. Scrooge.
God bless us, everyone!