They also serve who only stand and save a seat for your sorry self

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Recently we attended a graduation. Not a cast-of-thousands ceremony with tickets more coveted than invites to Windsor Castle. Nope. Bible College commencement. Still, I was relieved when we arrived early ( say Whaaaaatt?) at the venue—a large church. Plenty of seating. Relief lasted until we saw the long line of cars turning into the parking lot.

“We have to save seats for the rest of the family!” I shouted over my shoulder to my husband, and sprinted for the building. An elderly man saw me coming and tapped along furiously ahead of me but I put on some speed and beat him, along with a little lady in a wheelchair and the pregnant couple with a toddler.

In the lobby, several clueless types stood around chatting, either going on faith that the best seats would wait for them, or because they already had their placeholder on duty.
I’m a self-appointed placeholder. Vivid mental images drive me to it. Ones involving Standing Room Only, anterooms with a fuzzy video feed, or balcony seats so high that George Jetson might buzz by and wave. So if no one else volunteers, I take it on myself to save seats. Sometimes I conscript my husband to help.

Prime seats chosen and the prospective number in our party tallied, my husband and I set to work spreading two humans to cover twelve chairs. We did the One-Bun-on-Two-Seats trick. That was four. My purse saved another spot, my makeup case was commissioned to reserve #6. Our respective programs saved seats Seven and Eight but that left four seats we couldn’t figure out how to reserve. Necessity is the mother of contortion. We leaned forward (uncomfortable in our seat-straddling posture) and draped arms over the seat backs in front of us. It was the perfect position to watch the methods of other placeholders.

Across the aisle from us a young lady tried vainly to make her size 2 sweater cover three chairs. She arranged and rearranged and twisted and finally, in an act of desperate self-sacrifice, yanked on the sleeves and extended their reach by a good seven inches. With brave tears she turned from the ruins of her cardigan and went in search of her people.

Requiring less martyrdom but more coordination is the Stand, Seek and Shoo method. This allows one to mark territory not by physical procurement, but by shooing away any and all approachers. One remains on location, scanning all three entrances. You’ve seen these people. They keep weight balanced on the balls of the feet and regularly sweep a searchlight gaze across the doors to watch for their latecomers. They flap vaguely menacing hands at anyone who casts a sideways glance at the unpeopled seats. When they spot incoming, you’ll see them call, wave, and sometimes whistle at their people, and you know you are watching the elite multi-taskers of placeholders.

The ones that scare me are the Sit and Scowl types. Most of them, I’m pretty sure, were born pre-Baby Boom. They sit smack dab in the middle of a section and glare at passers-by. In times past I’ve had the temerity to point questioningly at the seats surrounding these dour and forbidding folks. And scurry away with a clipped and authoritative “These seats are saved” ringing in my ears.

Our own pragmatic adaptation of various methods doesn’t really have a name. My husband is the more relaxed of us. I try to look serene and at ease, facing the front. I attempt to read the program I have spread open two seats to my left and one row ahead—it is difficult to look at ease when sprawled over multiple seats in two separate rows. I try to avoid anxiously cranking my head over my shoulder looking for the rest of our group because for pity’s sake people are giving us dirty looks. Here I employ the apologetic upward glance, at least 50% insincere because it is mixed with “Maybe if you’d gotten here earlier you, too, could be spilled over all these seats.”

Finally my husband, stretching so his muscles don’t seize up, says, “They’re here.”
We wave casual hands and smile graciously at their thanks and collect up our personal effects. Then we settle down as if this whole placeholder thing were nothing, absolutely no big deal. And inside a smug little portion of our brain is saying “If it wasn’t for me you’d be watching this entire ceremony on a twelve inch screen in the overflow room.”

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Big sisters are always right

When my older sister (or my much older sister, as I like to call her when I think she needs to be taken down a peg or two) was born, she got every single ‘ability to organize’ gene from our mother. By the time my younger (not all that much younger) sister came along, some of those depleted  genes might have built back up and passed to her.
Sadly, instead of the gene that helps me sort and collate and coordinate and prioritize, I got an extra several thousand molecules of ‘just read a book and drink coffee.’

So when Older Sister pointed out that my blog is called ‘The Tuesday Prude’ but my sporadic posts are often on any day but Tuesday, I put down my book, took a fortifying swig of coffee, and explained:
“‘Tuesday Prude’ was chosen because I like the way it sounds.”
Such a delightful internal assonance. And I had great intentions of posting every Tuesday. Just like this morning I had great intentions of beginning a paleo lifestyle. Once the loaf of bread is gone.
For some inexplicable reason, Tuesdays are SO HARD for me.

But, because Older Sister is usually right, and because I’m taking cues from the open and transparent and forthright political climate,
I’m turning over a new leaf, and posting on a Tuesday.
(Remember though, in this political climate, new leaves only last a week.)

Here is an old poem from an old book of my dad’s, that my youngest son had newly bound for my Christmas present. I like this poem. Poets always talk of geese leaving in the fall. But here in my neighborhood they are back, and clamoring in excitement over the marsh’s receding ice-line.
I’m squawking and flapping right along with them.

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Wild Goose in Spring

Wild Geese
Robert P. Tristram Coffin

Beauty is coming north again
Slanting eager as the rain;
With necks like arrows on a bow
Across the sky the wild geese go.

Beauty is coming moulded by
High winds of the upper sky
Into shapes that burn to be
In a patterned symmetry.

Loveliness comes like a host
Of lean ships headed for a coast,
Every sail and every keel
Pointed at a common weal.

Comeliness in company,
Every wing where it should be,
Their feathers are communal things,
They help each other with their wings.

Aging Like a Conifer

‘Let me grow lovely, growing old”

is a poem by Karle Wilson Baker, which I’m not sure I can reprint because I’m not sure it’s public domain. (Prudes thrive on assessing and evaluating each potential action they might take, then searching for laws that could prohibit such action.)

The poem goes on to extol other beautiful, fine old things, like lace. Trees make the list.

Oak trees grow lovely, sure.SONY DSCMaples? You bet.

The venerable weeping willow droops gracefully as she sheds her final tears. SONY DSC

Elms, even those untidy, drop-their-messes-everywhere mountain ashes—

hardwoods wear their age well.

 

 

 

 

 

The leaves these old deciduous trees dropped the previous autumn might not all be replaced in the spring. Come late summer, their scant leaves fade into fall hues even as their younger compatriots still flaunt green foliage.SONY DSC

But sparser leaf covering serves only to accentuate the splendid outlines of these trees.

There is dignity in the gnarled, scarred trunks.

Branches, some of them more fragile now, still extend with grace and beauty. More of the basic structure is being revealed, and it is beautiful.

The deciduous tree is stately.

Its oldness has a fine quality.

Even the most elderly of these, naked and alone, can provide a perch for the majestic bald eagle.

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With the exception of the giant redwood, maybe the grand cedars of Lebanon, very few elderly needle-producing, cone-bearing softwoods inspire poets.

SONY DSCA spruce, on exiting middle age, gets all prickly and irritable and begins to drop things.

The ancient fir suddenly realizes he is more bark than bite.

Pines fight a losing battle with needles turning from verdant green to unattractive rust.

Or worse, the needles fall out, never to return.

 

Think ‘Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree.’

 

The tall conifer looks over its shoulder one day and realizes it has developed a distinct dowager’s hump.SONY DSC

Your yew (just let that phrase roll off your tongue), along with cousins cypress and hemlock, realize they are getting bald and spindly.

And the lowly arborvitae is just a bedraggled mass of sepia-colored scales drooping from veiny branches.

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Brittle needles.

Unnatural color.

Unattractive veins and spindly shanks and drooping limbs.

That’s how a conifer ages.

 

 

Some of us, as we wend our way through mid-middle age, mature like hardwood deciduous trees.

Fine, elegant, stately.

And some of us, as we approach our pre-old age years, can’t help but notice we are getting scaly and droopy and rusty and prickly.

None of us have total control over how we’ll age.

It’s built into our DNA.

Plant an acorn and an oak grows.

Plant a scale-covered seed and you get a conifer.

Oak trees, maple trees, birch—they grow lovely, growing old.

Conifers just . . . grow old.

But little birds lighting on the numerous exposed branches of an old conifer don’t care what it looks like.

Their unlovely tree provides rest and shelter and doesn’t mind being swarmed with small bodies as long as the little ones don’t take the prickliness personally.

Old oaks, ancient maples, venerable elms, grizzled birches—still delight the senses with their beauty.

But the  sparrows in the branches of an aging conifer don’t care about dropping needles or sagging limbs or spidery veins.

Like Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree, the conifer might not have grown lovely, growing old,

but it has grown love.

The Lecture Lance

Readers of The Tuesday Prude may come here for real-life advice that addresses real-life issues. (‘What if my child’s eyes glaze over during lectures?’ or ‘Would this be a good time to lecture those in Washington DC who should KNOW BETTER?’) 
Any resemblance to actual expert advice by weapons tacticians, child psychologists or purveyors of world peace is purely accidental.
We want to educate you in the ways and means of prudishness and would love to build our ranks. But please take most of what we say with a grain of salt. Or possibly the entirety of Salt Lake City.

We wrap up our lengthy examination of Prude Weapons with the most potent of arms.
The Lecture Lance (LL)
Today we practice
 How to Use it.
We learned to brandish it only on those over whom you wield authority, or those who should KNOW BETTER. For our purposes we’ll call them Temporary Combatants (TC’s).
But don’t let its limited range deter you from becoming an expert in its use. A single human can and does make a difference. One person ( I’m going to invent something. I think I’ll call it Facebook) can influence one other person (and I’ll ask so-and-so to be my friend) and that person influences someone else (Hey! I can be friends with people I never met!) and soon the entire known universe is connected via status updates.
The same principle applies to The Lecture Lance. If everyone (E) uses one (1)  powerful lecture on each temporary combatant (TC) in their sphere of authority, all of civilization will soon feel the prickles of the it-has-to-hurt-to-make-a-difference Lecture Lance.

Are you skeptical of the LL’s power? We provide an algebraic proof:
If
E (1L x TC) = E (LTC)
And
the sum of E(LTC)  lectures everyTemporary Combatant in THEIR spheres (ETCS),
then:
ETC (1L x TC) = (ETCS) x infinity
which equals—well—you do the math.
We can’t. That’s why we are humor writers.

Remember. The Lecture Lance is your most powerful assault weapon. Drill daily prior to employing it in field combat.

Before a maneuver,  check that every part of the lecture is functioning.
Make sure to include:
Premise:  how fortunate the temporary combatant is to have a parent/authority figure who cares enough to lecture
Examples: how if ________ (ie. Attila the Hun / the neighbor’s drug dealing son / reprobate of your choice) had had an authority figure who cared enough to lecture, he wouldn’t have _______ (died from heavy drinking after battling Rome / currently be sitting in a Turkish prison waiting to find out which, if any, of his limbs the judge will allow him to retain / consequence of your choice)
Persistence:  several reiterations of “Don’t sigh and/or roll your eyes. It just makes the lecture longer”
Application: a recap of the TC’s lapse from good behavior and expectations for future improvement
Binding up the Wounds: fervent, though stern, affirmations of the long-suffering lecturer’s love and/or concern for the temporary combatant

Train diligently, and you can survive and even thrive in the heat of battle. Your can stand firm when the TC’s eyes roll backward and pause under the eyelids long enough to collect an opaque glaze. You won’t lose your focus in the face of sighs deep enough to suck all oxygen from the room.  And you won’t EVER let anyone tell you that you are nagging. Nagging is a battering ram poisoned with nerve gas. Instead of heightening the moral sense, nagging numbs it.

The Lecture Lance is a prude’s refined, humane, and effective means to prick the conscience of our temporary combatants and prod them back onto the path of good behavior. Our dream is that some day, history will point to prudes and say: Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.*

*Winston Churchill, a man who knew the power of words.

The Tuesday Prude is WHERE?

If you are in the mood for the politically correct versions of titles, or what happens when authors forgo a thesaurus when titling a book, head over to The Barn Door. The Tuesday Prude is hanging out there today with a little something we like to call ‘Little Women? or Small Ladies?

http://www.thebarndoor.net/2013/09/little-women-or-small-ladies.html#comment-form

 

Passive-Aggressive Prudes: Let’s not get Physical

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Before we get into the finer points of how to brandish the prude version of a battering ram, let’s take a little side street to visit some personal Tuesday Prude history. We’ll pull back the curtain of personal and familial past and discover why we here have chosen not to engage in fisticuffs to defend and promote our belief system.

When offspring of the Tuesday Prude were small, and driven to various manifestations of their original sin,  the first disciplinary inclination would be to patch their pookets.
According to the Prude Lexicon:
Patchin’ (verb): Application of corporal punishment to a fleshy area of a youngster’s backside.
“If you run into the street again you will get a patchin’ on your pooket.”
Pooket (noun): The well-padded backside of a child. The part of the anatomy required for sitting.
“Of course your pooket hurts. You jumped off the swing and landed on it.”

Although not opposed to corporal punishment, we here at The Tuesday Prude tired of nursing  stinging hands after each patchin’ whilst Prudlings  chuckled and announced that their rock-like pookets hadn’t even FELT the patchin.

A little further back in history reveals where we began to develop our passive-aggressive battering ram.  One particular mother of one particular Prude was an advocate of patchins.  This Prude’s father infinitely preferred The Lecture. (sneak preview-The Lecture IS a prude’s most potent weapon). Perhaps he, also, was a victim of delicate palms.  This particular Prude was only in the embryonic stage of prudish development, and often exhibited infestations of original sin. Her father would sit her down, look her in the eye, and explain in five-to-ten thousand words why that particular sin was wrong. He would add details regarding to whom the wrong was done and their consequent sadness, the sadness of the young Prude’s parents, pastor and the Lord, and why continuation in this sin would only lead to bigger, deeper, stronger, and more serious lectures.

This Prude’s mother, unable to take any more, would exclaim in exasperation: ‘Give her a patchin’ for Pete’s sake and get it over with!”  The Prude heartily concurred.  But her father, determined not to skimp on discipline, and preferring passive-aggressive to physical, would bring the lecture to its full development, complete with a summary paragraph and restatement of his thesis.

The Tuesday Prude has been impressed by the Power of the Lecture. We are only beginning to learn how potent, how life-changing, and how naughtiness-overcoming it can be when wielded correctly.
Please, we beg you, if you haven’t been trained in the use of this weapon, don’t go ramming it willy-nilly! The chance for irreparable harm is great.
Come back next week please. You’ll enter a novice and leave a proud, card-carrying Lecturer.

WEAPONS OF CRASS DESTRUCTION

The Tuesday Prude has spent the last several weeks on various military maneuvers and left you to fight your own prudish battles. You could either cower behind your Squirm shield, or brandish a few small-scale weapons. That is all we’ve provided you with to date, and there is only so much damage a ‘tsk’ can inflict.

It’s a war out there folks. We can’t put this off any longer.
Prudes from all over the world need to unite under the banner of propriety. We must contend with objectionable language, messy morals and churlish misbehavior.
A stern look just won’t cut it.

The offensive weapons we introduce over the course of the next few weeks are not for the faint of heart. One needs training and a healthy sense of respect for their power.

These big guns are not finesse items. They don’t have the subtlety of a defensive blush, the elegance of the ‘tsk’.
The first item in our heavy artillery is especially dangerous. Discharge it without proper caution and it could backfire on you.

Have you ever heard of the medieval blunt instrument called a ‘flail’? Picture a Styrofoam ball, maybe softball size, covered with chopsticks, chained to a child-size cricket bat.
The flail was wielded by gripping the cricket bat and swinging the chopstick embedded  ball at your opponent. Oh, did we mention the entire contraption is made of solid iron?

The obvious danger comes if you miss your adversary and the flail whacks you in the face.

The Finger Wag  (aka Finger Point) is the prudes’ equivalent of the flail.

Like the flail, it loses potency when the offending party isn’t within arm’s length.
It can stop a skirmish in its tracks when used correctly, but could come back to bite you.

Usually the Wag is pulled out when the Look and repeated ‘Do you really want to…?” have failed.
Your teenager lost his/her license.
You’d previously brandished only small weapons. You’ve reminded him/her that posted speed limits are not merely suggestions. To no avail.
Now your trigger finger is getting itchy.
You wag it in front of your licenseless offspring’s nose.
The child knows he/she is in for it. That potent pointer finger carries the weight of not only disapproval, but CONSEQUENCES.

What about the aforementioned danger to the one flourishing it?
Remember. Three fingers are wagging back at you.

That’s right. If your son/daughter knows you sweet-talked your way out of a speeding ticket last month, your Finger Wag could miss the youngster and wallop you.

You don’t need to be perfect to point out the errors of others and impose necessary sanctions. The danger comes when you wag a finger at others while living hypocritically.
This is irresponsible use of dangerous artillery.

A final note of caution.
Although any prude is licensed to use the Finger Wag, there are restrictions on whom it can be employed.
It is not a good idea to point at
-your parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents
-your clergyman
-your spouse
-law enforcement

You are pretty much limited to your progeny, your students, impish children on the playground, and bullies. In dire circumstances however, you may employ it on anyone in the forbidden categories  partaking of behavior that will damage another human or defenseless animal.

This prude version of a flail functions to:
-stop bad behavior in its tracks
-prevent dangerous future hostilities.

It has great power, fellow prudes.
Use it wisely.