“Big Brotherism” is on the tip of many tongues these days. Folks using the phrase have in mind the many ways all levels of government have to watch and monitor the everyday activities of its residents.
They’re talking about such things as cameras that record everything that happens on a street, in a store, at your front door, from above with a drone, etc.
Also, “cookies” and computer memories that keep track of your every keystroke and website visited. You get the picture.
Well, folks, I’m pleased to tell you there is another form of “Big Brotherism” that has been practiced in rural families for generations. Here’s a true story that proves my point.
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My Geezer Gab & Gossip Group friend and fishing buddy, ol’ Castin Crankitt, grew up as one of the youngest of 17 kids in the small rural community of Minneota, Minnesota. Needless to say, as one of the youngest in such a huge family, he suffered sibling trials, tribulations, and abuse. This is a story about one of those trying times.
Riding herd on such a big brood, Castin’s dad wuz a no nonsense kind of guy. His directives were non-negotiable. Obey or there’d be unenviable consequences.
This happened on a hot, muggy summer day when Castin’s dad left the family home to run an errand.
As he got to his pickup, the last thing he said to Castin and two of his older brothers wuz, “You three jokers get to work on this yard. Get the grass cut. Get the trees trimmed. Get the dead limbs picked up. And, get the sidewalks edged.” Then he left.
He’d no sooner got out of sight when Castin’s “bully bro” siblings told him, “Get to work on that stuff Dad said, pronto, or we’ll give you a head-thumping you’ll never forget.”
They left Castin no other choice but to obey. So, he started pushing the lawn mower. Meanwhile, his two older brothers sat in the shade in the porch swing swigging from cold drinks all the while egging Castin to “pick up the pace.”
This sibling abuse went on for some time until a few minutes before his older brothers knew the “old man” would be home. That’s when they ran to the well pump, wet down their hair and soaked their T-shirts and told Castin to “sit down and take a break and cool down. We’ll take over from here.” So, Castin did as told.
When his dad drove into the driveway, he saw the two older brothers slaving away — all hot and sweaty — and young Castin sitting in the shade relaxing.
When he exited his truck, he started yelling at Castin, “What’s your lazy butt doing in the shade? I told all three of you guys to get the yard work done. I ought to tan your hide.
Of course, neither of his older brothers fessed up and told their dad the truth and they even made fun of Castin when the “old man” wuz out of earshot.
That’s the story of “Big Brotherism” — Aggie Style.
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Now some rural humor of the heavenly kind. Thanks to my friend Willie Jay at Mt. Vernon, Mo. for this one.
An farmer dies and goes to hell. Dissatisfied with the foodstuffs he finds in hell, he starts a gardening project. Before long, folks in hell are eating fresh veggies of all kinds. The farmer becomes the more popular guy.
One day, God asks Satan, “So, how are things going down there?”
Satan says, “Why, things are going great.” Thanks to the farmer you sent down we’re now eating nutritious fresh vegetables from a highly productive garden. We’re really appreciative of him. He’s been a literal godsend!”
God is horrified. “What, you’ve got a farmer? That’s clearly a mistake! He should never have gone down there! You know all farmers go to Heaven. Send him back up here immediately!”
Satan replies, “No way, I really like having a farmer in charge of our foodstuffs. So, I’m keeping him.”
God says, “Send him back up here or I’ll sue you.”
“Yeah, right,” Satan laugh. “And just where are you going to get a lawyer?”
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Two wheat farmers friends meet at the local co-op selling their wheat. As one turns to leave, he says to his friend, “I’d tell you to stay out of trouble, but I don’t like to waste my breath.”
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The Short Stop where we old geezers gather has an entire wall with an assortment of bottled cold drinks beyond imagination.
The tables where we sit and gossip has a clear view of these bottled cold drinks. I noticed recently that one popular selection is a product named “Smart Water.”
I have no idea what makes a bottle of Smart Water any better than a bottle of plain water or a drink out of the kitchen faucet, but I do know that it costs a pretty penny per swig.
Which I think proves the point that folks who pay to drink Smart Water may not be so smart after all.
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Words of wisdom for the week: “All my passwords are protected — by amnesia.”
Have a good ‘un.
