Opinions

It was June in 1993, my thirty-seventh year, and beating a path to get movie tickets, I was as fast as a lottery winner making new friends. Having seen trailers of a large green Brontosaurus roaming the countryside, you know, the docile, 70-foot mascot of Sinclair Oil, I was anxious. The early scene when Sam Neill (as Dr. Alan Grant), Laura Dern (Dr. Ellie Sattler), and Jeff Goldblum (Dr. Ian Malcolm) got their first glimpse of live, recreated dinosaurs, Ellie’s jaw drops, she discards her sunglasses and rises through the open convertible roof, sees Dino, and I was smitten. But it was really when Sir Richard Attenborough, playing the antagonistic (at least he was in the novel) Dr. John Hammond, the founder of InGen, explained how they brought the extinct T-Rex and his clan of lizards back to life. It sounded believable. Sort of, well enough for gullible audiences to buy in. The Col. Sanders look-a-like in a Panama hat graphically showed how scientists created dinosaurs by extracting preserved dinosaur blood from prehistoric mosquitoes trapped in amber.

“Why don’t we plan a trip to Maine?” I asked the husband one night, after plying him with steak and potatoes. “Hmmm,” he said. “We could do that.” His fishing buddy called and suggested the Aucilla River. “Let me get my hat,” he said. Weeks passed, and I made a meatloaf. “Have you thought any more about that trip to Maine?” “Hmmm,” he said. “We could do that.” His fishing buddy called and they decided on Herndon Landing. “I’ll pick up some shrimp,” he said, not to me but to the man who needed bait.

The primary election in Ellis County is now behind us. Campaigns bring strong opinions, spirited debate, and passionate supporters, and that is part of the democratic process. But once the votes are counted, something more important must follow - unity. Ellis County has long been a strong conservative community. Republicans here share far more in common than what divides us. We care about our families, our faith, our schools, our local economy, and the future of our county. These shared values should always outweigh the disagreements that arise during campaign season.

When I can find 10 minutes to call my own, I go to the grounds of my church and sit.

If you have wondered what happened to normal discourse, you were likely born before 1990. The advent of social media, which followed the popular Blackberry device that hypnotized young adults to the point they were often incapable of leaving the house, has done great harm to the daily dialogues that drew people together. Separated from their electronic lifeline, the dependence tied to mobile phones has crippled adults, college-age students, teenagers, and even elementary children. The good is that information, music and video have been therapeutic entertainment. Too often, parents have yielded day-to-day conversations to whatever keeps their kids from bothering them.

He is a grandfather, and as such, he wishes to introduce his granddaughters to the simple pleasures of life. Like riding to the dump in the truck. “We’re going where?” the girls asked, with an overabundance of sophistication. “To do what?” they wanted to know, with some impatience. “Hop in,” he said with authority. The truck has no air conditioner so the girls were told, “Roll down those windows so we’ll catch a breeze.” He nearly slammed on brakes when the girls then said, “Do what? How do you roll down a window?”

“Something smells horrible in this room,” I announced as I proceeded from throw pillow to throw pillow, picking each up, and burying my nose deeply in its downy fill.

Thursday was sunny and as warm as a plate of country biscuits. Driving along Ennis Avenue, behind Dairy Queen was a sight to behold. Day Care staff at a church were pushing youngsters down the banked parking lot on four-wheeled skateboards or scooterboards. Not a single kid lacked for a smile. Oh, what fun it is to ride on a modern-day X-Quad. I sat in the drive-thru and reminisced the days of my youth. We did some crazy stuff outdoors, all in the name of fun. To try again at my age would find no room for anything on the mini-cart except for my wide posterior. With nothing to hang on to other than my belt loops, this ample derriere would turn jollification into sheer fear at the thought of stopping short of a trip to ERMC.

Somewhere along the way on my 300-mile journey to Alabama, I lost my voice. By the time I prepared to travel back to Florida, my voice had not returned to me. If you’ve got to lose your voice, I recommend the South for the setting. My heart has been blessed countless times since I began whispering for a living. At the fast-food restaurant, I touched the clerk’s sleeve and said, “I’ve lost my voice.” “Bless your heart,” she said to me, and I had her attention. She focused on me intently trying to interpret my order. “Now you just sit down over there,” she said, “and I’ll bring this to you. Are you drinking plenty of fluids?” she asked. “You know that’s important. If there’s anything else you need, just raise your hand and I’ll come help you.”