After notching up a goose egg last week, the "You Said It" column rebounded--I guess--with two days of worthy calls.
Tuesday, 5/15, was the best. Some poor starved soul had called in last week to complain that the wind chimes audible from the homes of his neighbors disturbed his peace. A caller who did not leave their locale retorted, "You can have my wind chimes when you pry them from my cold, dead hands." Um...Mom?
Friday, 5/18, gave this gem:
"I read that the divorce rate is down....People are choosing to live together instead of marriage. It's hard to believe, but it makes me think that nobody really wants to commit today."
That was from a reader in Williamsport. I recall an earlier post in my blog archives wherein I had to explain the potential of our friend the brain to a Herald-Mail subscriber from that very city. And here we go again.
How is the increasing number of couples choosing cohabitation over connubial bliss at all difficult to fathom? No doubt many of the men and women involved endured and absorbed the pain of broken homes themselves; maybe they just have an especial self-awareness of themselves as individuals and as one-half of a romance, and felt that taking the step would be disastrous. I myself have been in a relationship for 4 1/2 years. Marriage appeals to me in my most lovestruck moments, those times when I'm in the throes of whatever super-concentrated joy the romance has to offer, but the yen is ephemeral. Without getting into ridiculous detail, both my boyfriend and myself have personal internal dramas that currently make the idea of being husband and wife as bemusing and unfathomable as the concept of renting a rocket to Neptune.
So, weird as this may seem to several, some couples don't need to feel legitimized by papers and rings. If you don't know the emotions involved, the feelings considered, and the scenarios labored over, you can't judge a couple that eschews tradition.
It is easy, though, to make assumptions in life. I did it today, although dare I say my leap was propelled by far surer legs.
A standard Sunday sojourn to City Park was going fine until I stopped to feed some mallards on Heyser Walk. My eyes shot from the gentle sight of ducks nibbling in the water to the railroad tracks that separate Hager Walk from the Park proper. It was a trio of boys, all of whom looked preteen: one sported a mohawk, another was shirtless on this cloudy-yet-warm day, and still another was holding a video camera. My curiousity was piqued when I noted one of the boys was hurling some of the rocks that layer the surrounding railroad tracks at his comrades. My mind harkened back to the swans. It was in the 1990s when the Park received ten gorgeous swans for the lake. It was a notable story, soon to be sadly surpassed by reports of the deaths of six within a short span. The lifeless waterfowl showed clear signs of head trauma. The mystery was solved when police snatched a group of teen boys wandering the grounds at night with a sackful of rocks.
"Leave it alone", my boyfriend advised in a sensible, even tone of voice.
"I'm not gonna make trouble. But all the time we bitch about assholes mistreating the ducks here, how can you stand around if you see it could happen right here in broad daylight?"
"Jenn, that's exactly why they're not gonna do anything. Look at all the people."
Indeed, it was the busiest I have seen the Park in '07. Heyser Walk is a popular spot for feeding ducks, and sports a few benches and swings for those choosing to take a load off, not to mention the number of cars that park at the edge, right where these boys were approaching from Hager Walk.
Any nagging voice that tried to assure me these boys were just rambunctious and harmless caught nasty laryngitis when the shirtless lad ran down into the grass and, all the while letting loose a wordless howl, disrupted several resting/nesting ducks.
"They're just makin' a home video for Mom and Dad," I sneered. Or Grandma, or stepdad, or whoever the hell is half-ass raising you. I continued, then, enjoying the slight breeze and emptying the contents of my little feed bag, confident that if any of those little shits even attempted to physically harm a duck, a concerned fellow parkgoer would raise a voice sufficient enough to scare them off.
We passed a gazebo with yellow "Caution" tape around it.
"That's foreshadowing," I chuckled. "One o' those brats'll get brazen with the main attractions and somebody'll snap and drag 'em right over there and beat 'em down. 'You like hurting defenseless creatures that are smaller than you? Me too!'"
Sure hope those kids nipped their violent impulse; earlier in the vicinity, we were witness to a vicious mallard mating fight: 11 males fighting for the affections of one--yep, one--female. Whew! They took it from the grass to the pavement to the water, and it was not playful ducky shenanigans. Those fellows had enough on their minds without idiot humans harboring sadistic half-thoughts.
Hagerstown
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