Mom would have turned 83 this past Wednesday. Couldn’t help but miss her. A bit pointless, I know.
Like Saturday mornings with a regular golf gang, Mom is a mere memory, someone I can conjure up when looking at our world.
What would she have thought?
Course there’s no way of knowing for sure. I guess I could ask a pollster. But after their collective performances recently, it’s a fairly safe bet they would have missed by more than 5,280 feet.
It’s also a no-brainer that if she had any say in the matter, those knuckleheads protesting the election would be smack-dabbed in the middle of a flower bed prison, doing a stretch pulling weeds until you knew you would hate anything botanical for the rest of your life.
Except if it was at Augusta National in April.
Protesting? Crying? Over an election?
Grab that hoe and maybe it’ll give you some grief therapy for the next two hours, she would have said.
I’m pretty sure my social studies teachers, who I guess I listened to after all, would have flunked anyone who thought a new president took office the day after an election.
I guess these imbeciles who are protesting the peaceful selection of our new leader should take a step back and rethink this whole anarchy stance they have adopted. Very seldom do anarchists get respected.
In fact, other than a group of guys who’d had enough of having no say in the way they were being governed and hurled crates of tea into Boston Harbor, anarchy is on a longer losing streak than the Chicago Cubs had been on until that glorious October night in Cleveland.
The Lipton-flingers wanted to be able to do things their way, among other items, to have their vote counted.
Hmmm. So what exactly are the “Not My President” sign wavers protesting?
I was taken aback after speaking with a local high school administrator who said there had been grief therapy sessions being conducted at his school.
Only these sessions were being held for students who had recently lost loved ones. No arguments there. The death of a parent or sibling does indeed, trump an election when your candidate loses.
There is a consensus that perhaps too many years of handing out participation trophies has come home to roost in the form of childish behavior and entitlement.
Whether it be sports, war or poker, you can pretty much bet that there is a winner and a loser. Someone gets more medals, land or chips.
Anyone who participates and comes up short deals with it.
As an individual who has voted in every Presidential election since 1976, I have a record of 6-5. That’s a .545 winning percentage in case there are any anarchists protesting having to go to math class.
In the weeks before the election, my line was that there would be a lot of surprised people waking up that Wednesday morning. In retrospect, there were too many Trump signs, too many packed rallies, but the real, obvious telltale sign?
Our new president never once resorted to enlisting the concert support of a foul-mouthed rapper.
His lyrics were a message of making America great again. And despite what the media tried to cram down the voters’ throats, the man and his dreams resonated with previously unheard of results.
But I do have a job for any protester in the market for a worthy cause: Start raising Cain along Buford Dam Road. The timing for your outrage would be impeccable. Most everyone would join your army.
It looks like the clock is about to strike midnight for Lanier Golf Club, as evidenced by those dreadful yellow signs touting a public hearing.
Despite unbearable traffic on a road where expansion doesn’t appear to be an option, it looks like the club owners are going to get what they have been angling for.
And that gorgeous golf course will become extinct, just like the dodo bird.
So many great memories of Saturday mornings laughing with friends will be like those Mom memories. Covered with dirt, no physical evidence of what used-to-be.
So get those placards ready, kids. Do your part to get behind a cause that will do some good. Stop the obliteration of some gorgeous greenspace.
Get back to class and put on your thinking caps. Pay a visit to the biology department. Maybe one of those professors could take a break from post-election grief therapy and find us an animal in danger of extinction.
Mike Tasos’ column, published every other Sunday, still hasn’t won an award. He’s not real sure if he saw a nest of bald eagles or herd of Black Rhinos while driving by Lanier Golf Club. Or maybe he was dreaming. Comments can be sent to firstname.lastname@example.org.