February 2006 Archives
In the third grade at Saint Mary's, I sat next to Mary Ellen Stanton. Her Uncle Bill was a Senator in Washington D.C. When he visited our class, he told us government was for the people, by the people. So when I needed a few shafts of wheat for my art project, I called the Department of Agriculture. "Hello. Can you get me a few stalks of wheat for my art project?" I asked politely. The reply was brusque, "We don't do that." She slammed the phone down. Though I was just eight, that didn't seem right. Those government people worked for me, right? I wrote a nice letter in third grade cursive to the Senator. Shortly thereafter, I received a mailing tube with a half dozen shafts of wheat, a letter of apology from the Senator, a letter and telephone call from the local Department of Agriculture and a free ten year subscription to the Congressional Record.
My dad was 17 when his father took him to the factory, “This is my son. Give him a job.” Dad worked at that factory for thirty-six years, always on time and always with great loyalty. He never understood my life choices, and kept his doubts to himself, except during the inevitable separations.
