Uncle Mort, my aged uncle down in The Thicket, has heard the expression since childhood. He’s used it repeatedly since about the time he thinks he became an adult.
“We’re in pretty good shape for the shape we’re in.”
The rancid saying—when fresh and generally applicable—may have warranted a grin or two back when. Nowadays, there’s little evidence that our world is in “pretty good shape,” even if viewed from various angles through lenses of rosiest tint. “Anything goes” seems to prevail in the overall scheme of things, and there are far too many schemes. There’s little to smile about in a world whose axis grows evermore wobbly. …
Thankfully, Mort still tries to find reasons to smile. He pretty much relies on “horse sense” (he calls it “stable thinking”) and visits to the general store nearby to eavesdrop and/or take his seat at the domino table. “Flatland tourists” stop by for gas and snacks or to ask directions. They are amused that Mort and his friends have a lively “42” game underway next to the day-old bread rack.
“We have friendly arguments that usually lead to laughter. None of us would make it with computers. I’m afraid we’d jump right into the ‘pool of the opinionated,’ so we simply quibble among ourselves.”
Anyway, Mort and his bunch cringe at the general state of anger and frustration that permeates our culture. …
“Yeah, I overhear enough conversations at the general store to develop strong opinions without ever turning on the television.”
Concerning governmental quagmires in both Washington, DC, and Austin, he is flummoxed by the “flailing away” of political figures that resembles participants in “Whack-a-mole” games. (When one mole is “whacked” down, another one appears.)
“Truth, ethics, courage, conviction and statesmanship historically marked our government leaders,” Mort claims. Today, not so true. …
He says a recent general store visitor brought “news” of a new health issue purported to be raging in DC and Austin.
It was passed along to him by a guy at a gasoline pump who heard it from the second cousin of a man who married the daughter of his junior high school baseball coach.
The affliction seems to be limited to index fingers of governmental leaders of both parties, and so far is nameless. …
Symptoms in Austin and Washington include reddened, chafed index fingers.
“One doctor claims the condition is inevitable when too many moistened index fingers are hoisted skyward to determine which way the wind blows,” the visitor said.
Mort wonders what they’ll wind up naming this ailment, but he figures it will include broad-brush descriptions of “good government, patriotism, motherhood and/or apple pie.” It seems probable that this condition should be named “get-re-elected-itis,” or something closely akin thereto. …
“Wet fingers lifted to see which way the wind blows is nothing new,” Mort opined. “But this practice shouldn’t carry the day.”
Long a man of prayer, he remembers the country church of his youth. It was comprised largely of farmers who saved money by pooling their orders for new overalls. They always requested double-layered denim in the knees, with quadruple layers in the seat. “We are a praying bunch, so we need double strength fabric for our knees,” a deacon explained. “Unfortunately, we do twice as much back-sliding as we do praying, thus the need for four-layered seat fabric.”
Rank and file Americans need to “think denim,” at least the two-layered kind. …
As Mort motored toward home on his golf cart, he was refreshed by cool air accompanying the recently-arrived fall season. Reflective and prayerful, remembrance of Alfred Lord Tennyson’s famous quote came to mind: “More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.”
Mort prayed that the love of money—the root of all evil—might lose its stranglehold on the world.
“We maintained for years that money talks,” he thinks. “That’s no longer true. Today, it screams.”
