James M. Redwine

Satire

The Source

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Where my boxes of stuff went!

When former President Donald Trump moved out of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C. he took fifteen boxes of stuff with him that he stored at his Mar-a-Lago home in Florida. Someone tipped off the FBI that the boxes were stashed in some closets. Who might that have been is one of the matters the FBI and the Department of Justice wish to keep confidential. That information is most likely part of what was redacted from the Affidavit that was filed with the application for the Search Warrant. We in the general public, therefore, do not know who the source was; I certainly do not. However, I do have a theory for your consideration, Gentle Reader.

It is reported that the 15 boxes contain governmental documents with news articles and magazines interspersed. Who would be concerned with such stuff being left sitting around the house? If The Donald is like most husbands, he probably does not get exorcised over a few extra items thrown into an attic, a basement or a closet. However, if Melania is anything like Peg, she takes a dim view of stacks of stuff cluttering up her house.

I remember when Peg and I last moved she took it as an opportunity to jettison a great deal of what I held dear, such as stories about my youth and old files from legal cases long forgotten. Anytime I was not vigilant Peg would trash my treasures to make room for her new acquisitions in our new residence. Clutter is to Peg as the contents of the Augean Stables were to Hercules and it seems most of what I hold dear as personal history Peg decrees to be stable staples. We are in a perpetual yang and yin of store or shovel when it comes to my inclination to preserve what Peg sees as dross. My guess is Donnie and Melania live a similar dynamic.

Now I do not know what was in the boxes. I do know the stuff sat around Florida from when the Trumps left Washington on January 28, 2021 and the country seemed to chug along okay until August 08, 2022 when the Search Warrant was executed. The stuff in the boxes did not seem to affect America’s decision to send billions of dollars of military equipment to help Ukraine defend the war against Russia’s invasion. It is probably what the psychologists would call my retrogressive inhibitions from the 1960’s, but for some reason visions of Viet Nam and Afghanistan keep muddling around in my brain.  The contents of the boxes may be of no more significance than the contents of the file cabinets I struggled to schlepp down three flights of steps from my attic in our old home and haul to a barn at our new one.

That is not to say Donald should not turn them over to the National Archives. Maybe they are important, or not, but they still belong to all of us. And I wonder if Melania may not have been that unhappy to see the closet doors open for the FBI to haul the offending boxes away so that they have now become the National Archives’ problem instead of hers

Blame Lucy

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Louis and Mary Leakey discovered some early human ancestors in Tanzania, Africa’s Olduvai Gorge in 1959. Donald Johanson discovered who may be our original grandmother in Ethiopia’s Great Rift Valley in 1974. He named her Lucy because he was a Beatles fan and listened to the song “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” right after his discovery. It may be uncharitable to Johanson and paleontology to point out many believe the song was a paean to LSD. On the other hand, those who question Lucy’s bona fides may find solace in this theory.

At the opposite end of those Doubting Thomas’ is the atheistic biologist Richard Dawkins from the University of Oxford who pushed human origins back to as much as five million years ago and posited his meme theory. Dawkins suggests that it is our replicating genes that determine who and what we are and why we behave as we do. One of his famous analogies to explain the evolution of human biology and behavior is to suggest we envision a long line of mothers holding hands all the way back to Lucy. And, as for me, my experiences with my mother and my wife, Peg, convince me there is some credence to the science of the Leakeys, Johanson and Dawkins.

Let’s envision Lucy, our grandmother, in her African cave while our mythical grandfather, call him Adam, goes out to hunt a mastodon for dinner. Adam is struggling with how to trick the massive beast to stampede over a cliff, but Lucy is back home planning for Adam’s return. After Lucy rearranges the lodge pole front door for the tenth time, she surveys the cave’s interior. She is dissatisfied with the position of the bearskin rug she had Adam move just yesterday. She makes a mental note to have Adam shake out the bearskin and figure out a way to attach it to the granite wall of the cave.

Next, Lucy inventories the two stone cooking utensils that Adam carved out for her last week and decides she must have another small one for their new baby’s meals. Lucy switches the positions of the two vessels for the third time. They look better to her now. Lucy gives the baby a bath in the stream running in front of their cave and realizes with only a few days of work with his stone hoe Adam could divert water right to their cave. Lucy resolves to mention her idea to Adam over a handful of fermenting blackberries when he returns.

Meanwhile Adam is full of a sense of accomplishment because he has skinned the mastodon and is hauling the hide, one ivory tusk and a huge chunk of meat back for Lucy to admire. Adam assumes his work is done for a week or two because Lucy will need to tan the hide, process the meat and make sewing needles from the tusk as she cooks dinner and nurses the baby.

Gentle Reader, you may wonder, or you may not care, why we are discussing the lives of Lucy, Adam and baby from thousands of years ago. Well, I will tell you. About three years ago Peg and I moved into our cabin on the prairie. By unspoken agreement Peg took over all space but my barn. This worked out fine until over the two years of COVID Peg had time to organize every inch of her Girl Cave, the Bunkhouse, the Cabin and even the neutral territory of our garage. Last week spring truly arrived and Peg turned her gaze on my barn. It has not been pretty.

As long as she did not have to look at my laissez-faire system of “if it ain’t in my way, why worry about it”, well, she didn’t worry herself with it. But once she opened the overhead doors and found the mother lode of “my stuff”, she focused her female/Lucy type DNA upon my space. It reminded me of when my sainted mother would venture into my room on a Saturday morning and turn it upside down. Peg and Mom and Lucy and all wives and mothers in between have spent about two million years of two X chromosomal fixation with organization of sons’ and husbands’ behavior. I guess my three-year barn reprieve is over.

Helpful Hints for Husbands

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Peg’s recent, and successful, hip surgery has been a rewarding experience, for me. I have learned much and feel an almost female need to share. About half of the human race pretty much already knows what has been recently revealed to me but the testosterone half may profit from my force-fed lessons. Okay, class, let’s begin to lift the veil. Wives might be upset if husbands are made aware that the arcane lore of traditional house hold tasks need no longer be shrouded in mystery, But husbands have a right to know there may be more than one way to clean a house. Just as the insane strictures of military basic training have proven to have no relationship to national defense, much of what many wives demand are the only way to clean house should be relegated to the dustbin of history. May we start with dust itself?

Until Peg was rendered temporarily non-ambulatory a normal weekend at JPeg Osage Ranch might begin with Peg saying, “We (she meant me) need to get rid of all this dust! I saw a mote lurking along a baseboard in the back bedroom closet. What if someone from the roving movie production company wants to use our place for a scene? How humiliating that could be.”

I pointed out to Peg that the spic and span movie company covered the streets of Pawhuska and Fairfax, Oklahoma with dirt and horse apples. It does not appear dust is a problem for them. I suggested we could simply follow the movie’s example and set up a couple of green screens and project pictures of constantly clean rooms.  Peg did not see the efficacy of such a modern approach. By the way, the Killers of the Flower Moon (Gray Horse) production uses blue (green) screens.

Anyway, back to dusting lessons. Another rigid requirement for housewives, at least Peg, is that every item in the house must be moved and dusted under. I have found that if one does not move an item it is less likely that anyone can tell where there is any dust. Therefore, husbands, just leave things in place and only address any dead flies that may have accumulated nearby. Those probably should be removed as Peg and most other wives can see dead insects even from their convalescent beds.

Now what about laundry? Peg’s laundry system would put the Nazi army to shame. Each item of dirty clothes must be separated by either white or color, by heavy versus light dirt, by delicate versus hearty material, etc., etc. There is a container for each category and only like items may be washed together with scientific analysis of soap, bleach, and water temperature. I say “poppycock”. Dump ‘em in, turn it on and if every now and then a color runs that’s why there’s a Walmart.

But if washing in lockstep with Peg’s delusional belief that the gods of wash day actually care if a white sock mates up with a dark one, her approach to drying and putting things away is truly in need of some husband rationality. Husbands, do not fold the clothes! No one can’t tell once a tee shirt is in a drawer if it was folded with military creases or stuffed away. And do not waste time on separating items until you want to take something out to wear. You’ll know then what is underwear and what is outer wear.

Well, that’s enough common sense for now. I hope you can see the wisdom of my discoveries but mainly, I hope Peg is still under her meds when this article comes out. By the way, Gentle Readers, thanks for all the well-wishes. Peg is a true trooper and is doing fine.

A Swift Cure

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In 1729 Jonathan Swift (1667-1745) published his two-fold solution to the problems of Irish poverty and a shortage of meat among wealthy British. Swift proposed poor Irish parents could eliminate their cost of feeding their children by selling them to wealthy British for food. The title to Swift’s essay illustrates why he published it anonymously:

A Modest Proposal For preventing the children of Poor People From being a Burthen to Their Parents or Country, and For making them Beneficial to the Publick.

Swift’s satirical cure for the pandemic of his time, the great disparity between the few rich and the many poor, is probably not a reasonable recipe for how America might encourage its youth to self-quarantine until COVID-19 is brought under control. However, other less dire approaches may be worth considering.

The Pond at JPeg Osage Ranch

Jonathan Swift pointed out he could not profit from his idea as he had no young children to sell and his wife was past child-bearing age. In like manner Peg and I are hardly affected by any of the following suggested measures. We are in our seventies, we receive Social Security checks and we live in the middle of nowhere by ourselves. Our nearest beach is the mud around our pond and we have to share it with the cattle. Isolation for us is simply a fact of life. Be that as it may, I submit the efficacy of these ideas should be evaluated on their own merit.

The general topic of discussion in America and the world today is how do we encourage people, especially our youth, to self-quarantine? I say especially the young because Spring Break type activities usually do not involve folks such as Peg and me. And that leads us into my proposed solutions. Perhaps we should look to our own youthful memories to help us understand how we can encourage young people to do the right thing for all of us. And such altruistic behaviors by the young should be encouraged, not demanded. After all, we are Americans. None of us reacts well to someone else ordering us around. A spoonful of sugar is more likely than a threat to get any of us to do what’s best for all of us, at least for a short while.

So, let’s consider how anyone who is young can be encouraged to forego beach parties and similar group exercises. I remember one sure way to get me as a young person to not do something was to have an older person tell me it was for my own good. Maybe first we could have all parents encourage their children to congregate on the beaches so they could get more Vitamin D to help them fight off the virus.

Another sure turnoff was for an old person to tell me how he or she used to do something and how well they did it. We could station kiosks with six foot perimeters on the beaches where old people would loudly and continually regale anyone within earshot of the old person’s one-time youthful exploits.

Of course, the surest way to have younger people not engage in a certain behavior is to have older people offer to engage in such behaviors with the young themselves. So we could have old men and women threaten to flood the beaches, while maintaining six foot intervals, and attempt to cavort with the young as much as arthritis will allow. To complete the program of negative reinforcement we could have the old people wear thongs and fake gold chains and drink prune juice instead of alcohol. You know, something similar to a 1960’s Love-In but without the love or the pot. That should assure young people will voluntarily abandon the beaches and the crowds for the thirty to sixty days we need to flatten the COVID-19 curve.

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