THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, August 27, 1995 TAG: 9508250280
SECTION: CHESAPEAKE CLIPPER PAGE: 02 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Random Rambles
SOURCE: Tony Stein
LENGTH: Medium: 84 lines
You have heard of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, I assume, so maybe you won't be surprised to learn that I have a dual personality. Mostly, I am my usual warm-hearted, lovable, good-natured self. If you disagree, I'll fetch you a clout.
But every now and then, my grumpy side appears. That's when I duck into the nearest phone booth and change into the suit with the G on the front. Meaner than cat doo, it's GRUMPMAN!
I thought, surely, that the honorable squabble squad, officially known as City Council, would pick up on one of my recent suggestions. I mean the one where I said they should appoint a commission to study the growth problem. Get builders and city officials and plain Joe and Josephine Blows together to cook up sensible notions instead of squaring off like banty roosters in a barnyard battle.
Hey, guys, nobody expects a commission to do anything but hold meetings and create paperwork. But at least appointing one would give the appearance that you care a hoot in Hades about the way the city is headed.
For instance, I see new homes mushrooming on the skinny stretch of Kempsville Road where it nears Battlefield Boulevard. We are talking about a weary way that already seems as over-burdened as a momma changing diapers on soggy sextuplets. Meanwhile, the city that bills itself as Virginia's Future must send a passel of its citizens to designated fire stations to collect drinkable water.
I don't like paying higher taxes any more than you do, but no way am I going to shoot down the bond issue that will pay for an improved municipal water system. It will be a welcome replacement for the way things are now. Which is that I go either to a fire house on Rokeby Road or Freeman Avenue or tote empty jugs to a friend's house in Norfolk.
Moving right along, I have suddenly developed ugly feelings about the regiment of squirrels that bounces and bounds across my back yard. We were at peace with each other after I rigged my bird feeders so the squirrels couldn't stuff their furry guts every five minutes. But they're getting their revenge. They have turned vegetarian. I hear them out there ordering lunch: ``Waiter, bring me another helping of Stein's struggling young azaleas.''
They have massacred at least two and probably mauled others. I'll fix 'em. I'll plant a slew of Venus Fly Traps. OK, squirrels, see how you like it when your lunch bites back!
And in a season when out-of-town visitors are common, I must say I'm glad that Felix was not among them. Nevertheless, Felix-fed breezes buried my yard in pine straw, and I felt like I was shoveling the sea with a slotted spoon. Vacuum yard. Watch wind shower pine straw. Vacuum yard. Watch wind shower more pine straw. The only good part is that I am very popular with my friends who need pine straw.
In another example of looking for the silver lining of a dark cloud, I saw where Virginia Power said they would restore Felix-fractured power lines first in areas with heavy concentrations of homes. That wouldn't have been Great Bridge when I first moved here. Now it is. I shall regard the endless stream of new houses as possible bulbs lighting up after a nasty blow.
And here's a grump that came to me between the last sentence and this one. I thought of something else to complain about in the middle of the last paragraph. As happens with codgers (I was 66 yesterday, thank you) memories sometimes fizzle rather than snap, crackle and pop. I had to stop and grope my mind to get my train of thought back on the track.
What I wanted to say was that maybe people ought to have their names tattooed on their ears like dogs have ID numbers. It is miserable to stand there and think to yourself ``I know this person. This person knows me. But I could not call this person's name if you threatened me with death, destruction and - worst of all - never again being allowed to eat a ripe tomato fresh-plucked from the vine.''
Or we could do it more simply. Like Babe Ruth did. He never bothered with names, just called everybody ``Kid.'' At my age (see above) I'd take it as a compliment.
Finally, those of you who are longtime readers know that I have had a love-hate relationship with a trumpet for years. I wish to report that I have become truly serious about upgrading my musicianship. This has been under the kind and watchful eye of my friend, Bob Gibble, the champion trombone tooter of at least Chesapeake and probably all of Tidewater.
But I have a long way to go and, in the interim, I can blackmail the dickens out of Gibble. If he crosses me, I'll just tell people he's been my trumpet teacher. It doesn't get much meaner than that. by CNB