Christmas Season Can Get Pretty Hectic

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the Minneapolis Tribune editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
December 23, 1954


   MY ONLY quarrel with Christmas is that we're crowding a mite too much into it. The significance of the season gets mired in fun and frivolity and fruitcake--and the frustration which comes with trying to do too much in too little time. The enchantment becomes lost in the welter of entertainment.
   All the comings and goings and social shindigs add up to wear and tear on the body, too. Already I feel about as dead as I ever expect to get and it's still the shank of the evening as far as holiday activity is concerned. And I am not the gay type. I am quite a home body, in fact, a comparative square in the social circle.
   My suggestion would be that the season start earlier, say about mid-October. We could take it more leisurely then and wouldn't have to ram the holiday caper into a couple of weeks.

   THE OLDER I get the more frenzied the pace becomes. The greeting card chore, which I once took in stride, now turns me as green as holly.
   Anyway, add to this all the fancy cooking the season demands, the school and church programs and getting the tree up and the lights strung over the doorway and going out or having relatives, friends and associates in for dinner and soon you begin to creak.
   Things are about as well in hand at our place as they ever are at this stage, which adds up to mild chaos. The Christmas tree has finally been subdued and bedecked, after once crashing to the floor with carnage to colored balls, lights and piano. Every year we are going to get a "small" tree that we can handle and every year we don't. The one now crowding the parlor would accommodate an eagle's nest.
   With the tree crisis resolved, we are trying to skewer in some time to have a few folks in to whom we are socially indebted. I can see no time, save perhaps for a hurried breakfast, and have suggested that the debt ride until February, which would give us a month to rest up. But my wife says it's easier to entertain when evergreens are strewn around to detract the eye from the ink stains on the walls and worn spots in the carpet.

   I WAS talking to a neighbor the other day who already had been worn to a nub by the Yuletide pace. He was driving a couple of friends home to pre-Christmas dinner, he said, when his holiday spirits were buoyed by a blowout on Portland avenue. The car slipped off the jack after he had removed the affected wheel, he reported, and by the time a nearby filling-station attendant had provided succor, one precious hour of a tight social schedule had been consumed and he was fit to eat a reindeer raw.
   After dinner the revelers had an appointment in a suburb to the north for fruitcake and a gift exchange and it was past midnight before our hero had his guests deposited on their doorstep and he and his wife were back home.
   There they were met by the array of dinner dishes on table and sink, which "simply had to be done" (over hubby's stern objections) before bedtime. His wife said she had to devote the morning to getting out the rest of the cards, had a bridge club party in the afternoon, and had to devote a few minutes to planning Junior's birthday party, which unfortunately fell the day after.
   So they did the dishes, my neighbor reported, and sang no carols while they worked. Instead, he said, they snapped at each other like wolves around a fallen moose.

   THIS sort of thing is somehow out of spirit with the season and you can attribute it more to the crowded schedule than to man's frailty. You can attribute it, too, to the fact that people don't come equipped with cast-iron innards. After a dozen or so round of cookies, shortbreads, candy, nuts and other goodies (and for some the added burden of lutefisk), the digestive tract tends to clog and the Christmas ecstasy to sag, especially if you get caught, like me, with a jumpy tooth.
   But don't get the idea that I'm hostile to Christmas. I am for it right down to the finish. By the time I figure out what my wife wants for Christmas, and buy it, my joy will be unconfined.

Copyright 2019 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

 

8-year-old Awaits Thanksgiving Reunion

(Top row L-R) Bob, Dave, Scott, Todd
(Bottom row L-R) Mike, Paul, Mark, Cary

By SCOTT GUTHRIE
Guest columnist for
Charles M. Guthrie
published by the StarTribune
November 23, 1969


   MOM AND DAD told me and my three brothers they had desided to take the bull by the horns as Gramps would say and have all the foks down here for Thanksgiving. They said it woold be a nitemare with eight boys ruffhousing around nocking vases off the tables and banging up the furniture but blood is thiker than water and you half to do your duty to keep the famly together even if you suffer and get gravy on the carpet.

   ALL THE other seven kids have rote the colum for Gramps and now it is my tern except I should of rote before Boby Shoberg did as I am in secund grade and two years older than him and when he rote he had not even got threw kindeygarden yet and did not no how to spell cat. His brothers had to help him.
   My brothers are not helping me which is lucky for me as they are very dum and woold rather tinker with a motorsickle or play hockey or watch TV cartons than get anything in there head.

   GRAMPS gives a kid a dollar for riting his colum and I gess he will do no better than that for me. We have not talked about money but there is no use trying to raze the prise as he is tight and always holding the line on inflashun. But it is a lot of work for one buck espeshully with no help from my brothers but Dad said not to wory as he woold look it over and get rid of the bugs.
   I could not hurt his feelings and tell him to keep his mits out of it but that is how I feel. He is good at fixing up sick dogs and cats which is his bisness and he sings good in a quartet but is not much on lititure and speling.

   DAD SAYS this may be the last time we have everybuddy together and Mom says why, yore fokes look good for a while yet. Dad laffs and says heck, they will live for 20 yrs but it keeps getting harder to get the old man out of a chare. Gramps is jumpy about winter driving and afrade he will skid into the dich. Dad says Gramps may have something their being the driver he is, but as long as Tom is around to drive Dad says it is okay but a year from now Tom may of flew the coop. Tom is Dad's kid brother.
   Dad said it is to bad his old man does not have the zip his mother does as she would be game to take off for Timbukto in a blizard even with the old man at the wheel.
   We have a lot of room now which is nice as their will be 15 hear not counting the dog and us kids will get away by ourself and not be board by Gramps and Dad and Uncle Stan talking politics and telling each other the best way to end the war.

   MY DAD thinks things will work out okay and Uncle Stan says any fool can see we are in trouble but we will save ourself in time. Gramps has gave up hope. He says everything is lousy from baseball to politics.
   Grandma gets sick and tired of Gramps always singing the blues and having all the answers. She says things have been bad before such as the civil war and the depreshun but once we get the war over with and quit throwing all that  money at the moon things will be alright particuly if the young bucks get a haircut and shave.

   MOM SAYS I and my brothers will have to be on our best behavor as it will be a big deal and she needs our help. This means no horsing around unless in the basement. But Dad says it is a good bet the turkey will get nocked on the floor, milk will get spilled in the salid and four or five dishes busted.
   This is all there is and I hope it is one dollar's worth.

Charles M. Guthrie in his chare

Copyright 2019 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

Thoughts on Not Getting a Dog

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
March 29, 1964


   THERE HASN'T been a dog in the family for 15 years, but we aren't dog haters. My older son has two Scotties and my daughter has a Poodle. The son and daughter now have homes of their own, which is just as well under the circumstances.
   We had a dog for many years, however, and I'd not say unequivocally that I'd never have another. I'm just not the right age for a dog. A young man and and a pooch go well together, and a dog brings comfort and companionship to an oldster. I like to think that several years remain before I'll have to lean on Old Shep in order to get down the street.
   When I advance that far into the shadows I hope I'll be summoned home. The trouble is, I won't be. It will be just my luck to live 20 years longer than I should and have my heirs see the fortune dissipated on nursing-home care.

   ANYWAY, if and when I get old and live in a lonely room, then is when I'll want a dog. Then is when I'll need a friend and it will have to be Old Shep. Until then, though, I hope the fates permit me to be canine-free.
   I was afraid the other day, though, that I'd have a dog in spite of myself. In remembrance of my birthday, this son who has the two Scotties invited us to his place for dinner. His Scotties are mother and son. There was a litter of six and five had been sold.
   "This is a trap," I told my wife. "They're inviting us there for dinner to give me that pup for a birthday present. What'll I do?"
   "Why not accept it? It's old enough by now to be housebroken. It's a registered dog worth at least $100."
   "Not to me it isn't. To me it isn't worth at least two bits."

   "BUT DON'T you know it's stylish to have a dog? One of the reasons we don't circulate in high society is because we're dogless."
   "Well, we had a dog for 13 years and never got within sight of the country club."
   " I know, but that was before dogs were really in. Today the poor have children and the rich have dogs. I was reading in a magazine about dogs having mink sweaters and sable coats, professional dog-walkers and $1,000 funerals. Do you know how much is spent every year for dog and cat food?"
   "Not counting table scraps, you mean?"
   "Definitely not counting table scraps. Only mutts eat table scraps. What is spent annually for dog and cat food totals $550 million, and that is a lot of hamburger--only it isn't hamburger. Hamburger is for the likes of us. It's gourmet stuff."
   "Well," I said, as we pulled up to our son's home, "no dog of mine will get gourmet stuff, mainly because I won't have a dog--I hope. Keep your fingers crossed."

   I IGNORED the two Scotties and concentrated on the grandsons. After we'd eaten a bountiful meal and the birthday cake was brought in, I got my present--a book. Only then did I feel free to mention the subject that had bothered me.
   "You haven't been able to sell the pup, eh?"
   My son looked at me in surprise. "Why, sure! We could have sold him three or four times. Why?"
   "Then why on earth don't you?"
   He grinned at his wife. "She wants to keep him. She thinks he's cute."
   So I'd never even been considered for the dog. For some unaccountable reason, it was quite a let-down.


Copyright 2019 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

Death of an "Ordinary Man"

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
Of the editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
April 5, 1970


   MY FRIEND George began the big sleep on the hill east of town several months ago. His death wasn't stirring news and I learned about it several weeks later. His last years were known to me only in a general way, but I do know that visits to the little town hard by the Rockies won't again be the same.
  Why write about George? Many in the town might ask the question. George was just an ordinary man, a fellow of short vistas and small perception, a man hedged by prejudice born of limited knowledge. He lacked aspiration and imagination, was quick to judgment and short of culture.
 
   HE WAS a barber, and before he died in his mid-sixties he had become a town character. Everyone knew George, many befriended him and many were amused or irritated by him. He had an ego to match his girth, an ego cultivated perhaps as a defense for limitations.
   If the typical Westerner is a fellow who likes to eat, drink, talk, hunt and fish, shine up to the ladies and avoid manual labor, then George qualified. Just why he fancied himself as a Casanova is hard to understand but he did, even after time had turned him into a waddling fatty.
   His poundage increased inexorably and it was hastened when his eyesight dimmed. He developed cataracts, had a couple of operations and wore thick glasses which magnified greatly but didn't restore his normal vision. My brother Bud said George was the only barber in the country who cut hair by braille.

   I ASKED George why he'd let himself get so heavy and quickly regretted that I'd asked.
   "These eyes," he said soberly. "I got so I couldn't see to hunt and fish--and that's what I liked to do best."
   So he compensated by eating and drinking more. "Sure I ought to take walks," he said, "but who wants to walk alone?"
   Thus this lonely man, who had no appetite for books, joined his fellows at the bar.

   WHY DO I write about George? Because for years he was like one of the family. I went from first grade into high school with him. We played basketball and baseball together and for years he bragged about how good we had been. He and Bud and I went fishing and hunting, and the memory of shared experiences enriched reunions.
   As a kid, George was at our place as much as he was at home. He always was willing to stay for dinner or wade into the cookie jar.
   But it wasn't an entirely one-sided association. When Dad was finally alone, George made it possible for him to continue living where he wanted to live. George moved in with him and became housekeeper, cook and companion. The arrangement was economical but hardly ideal. Dad was a Tartar and George, besides working at his trade, was sorely tried to keep the household running smoothly.

   IN HIS twilight years George lived alone and life ran between his room and his shop. People would drop in--to get a haircut or to visit--and George would make small talk, reminisce or look at the paper.
   In his shrinking cosmos, he could not drive a car, particularly at night, and anyway, with his weight and high blood pressure, it was an effort to get behind the wheel. Finally he lay down in a hospital bed and drifted into the unfettered beyond.

   SAY THAT his was a life of no contribution and no dreams, that he lacked ambition and evaded challenge. This is all true but George, despite his failings, was free of guile and true to his friends. And when I park there again on Main Street someday and approach the barbershop, that hulk of a man won't get out of his chair, give me a big grin and say, "Well, I'll be damned. Look who's here!"

   I'll miss that.


Copyright 2019 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.




 




 

 

Success Isn't for Everybody

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the editorial/ opinion page staff
published by the StarTribune
June 4, 1967


   THERE'S ALWAYS some zealot dedicated to the proposition that any man who isn't a killer or a sex maniac is capable of reaching the top in whatever field he fancies. And said zealot is eager to take you on his knee and give you the formula for attaining your heart's desire.
   All you have to do is follow his directions faithfully, crank up your determination, not be distracted by liquor and sins of the flesh, and do your morning pushups. Finally will come the day when you have finished your best seller, become chairman of the board, made a million dollars or won the election.

   INVOLVED ARE CHARACTER and courage, courtesy, personality development, the will to succeed, the knack of making stepping stones out of stumbling blocks, conquering fear and worry and developing imagination.
   Far be it from me to pooh-pooh personal improvement. I am behind it four-square and, had I stuck with my piano lessons or continued to raise pigeons, life would have been different. There is a crying need for self-improvement, and though the need seems most apparent among the young, the adult could use a big dose of it, too.
   But what irks me about those who peddle the self-improvement nostrums is their failure to make allowances for individual differences. Such differences are the heart of the matter.
   We differ physically. We differ in taste, interests and inclinations. Some are smarter than others and some have more drive and ambition. Some are satisfied to be hewers of wood and haulers of water, some are content to dig holes or herd sheep. They don't want to own a company or be a foreman. They want to put in their day's work, go home, and let somebody else worry about production and payroll.
   I recall a fellow who made an adequate living raising chickens. When a friend of his went broke in the shoe business, he advised this friend to consider a career in chickens. Raising them, he said, was a cinch.
   So the friend bought chickens and went broke again. He was no more cut out for chicken farming than he was for selling shoes. He may not have been cut out for anything but loafing, and all the success books ever written would have given him nothing but eyestrain.

   WE LIVED A MILE north of town on a 10-acre tract when I was a boy, and Jay Cowell, a freewheeling Montana sheepman with a bay window, a bald head and considerable money, advised my father to invest in a few rambouilets. He thought it a shame that our place had nothing on it but a cow and a flock of chickens. "Just buy a little band of sheep," Jay told Pop. "You'll never know you have them."
   So Pop bought the sheep but they never let him forget that he had them. Every time he carried a cold and near-dead lamb in for resuscitation at the kitchen stove he would repeat Jay's remark, grit his teeth and smile grimly.
   He gave up on the sheep after a couple of years, abundant grief and no profits and found it hard to forgive Jay for his bad advice. But it would have been good advice--to the likes of Jay.
   Pop simply marched to a different drummer. Reading books about sheep didn't make him a sheepman any more than reading the labels on seed packets makes anyone a truck gardener.
   Determination has its rewards. Hard study and sacrifice are not to be ridiculed. They produce great men. But every aspiring law student can't become a Clarence Darrow or an F. Lee Bailey. And every kid baseball nut, try as he might, can't develop into a Willie Mays.
   We need the nourishment of hope but must look, too, at the hard face of reality.


Copyright 2019 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

Campaigning Is Weary Business

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
October 8, 1960


   WE'D BE in a sorry mess if nobody had enough public spirit or ambition to run for office.The reason so many want no part of the ordeal, however, should be plain enough to all. It takes a special breed to stand the gaff.
   My heart goes out to all candidates, regardless of party. The physical beating involved in campaigning, particularly for national office, is all but inhuman. The poor souls are jostled by crowds, compelled repeatedly to make speeches, to huddle at all hours with party bigwigs, get adopted by the Sioux Indians, and be forever charming and full of bounce.

   AND PHYSICAL exhaustion is only one segment of the torment. The aspirant must be resigned to having his reputation put through the wringer. His wife and his associates are sniped at, and even his dog comes under the gun.
   Old quotes are dredged up and used against him, in blind disregard of the candidate's right ever to change his mind. What he believed 15 years ago he must believe today. And, if, as a boy, he stole apples and watermelons, look out for him.

   THE TV DEBATE idea poses one of the best hopes of bringing some order to political campaigns, preserving the health and sanity of the candidates and giving the voters a basis for honest judgments.
   It holds the promise of some escape from hero-worshiping mobs, each member of which is bent on shaking the hand of, and exchanging a word with, the next president. Campaigns confined entirely to television, radio and news releases might be a bit too pat, but even if they relieved the candidate of a third of the agony he now feels compelled to expose himself to, it would help.

   IT WAS BAD enough in the whistle-stop yesterdays, but rest was then not denied the candidate entirely. He could cat-nap between rear platform appearances and when he stepped off the train for a major speech he had something to go on besides a cold baked potato and nervous energy.
   Now, whisked from place to place by plane, he barely has time to shave. He must have something catchy to say at every stop for headline purposes, grab food on the fly and be always gay, even when forced to give a push to old Congressman Perkins, who's in trouble in the 13th district.

   MY FATHER, who had about as much business in politics as a Percheron has in the derby, was a county treasurer in Montana for a couple of terms. At campaign time he was about as easy to live with as a rattlesnake and made small effort to hide his contempt for the business. It is a good thing for public relations men, speech writers, reporters and campaign strategists that he is not alive today and seeking major office.
   Pop had a low boiling point, detested backslappers, wanted no part of simulated joviality, and when he went without sleep was a rugged adversary. After 24 hours of today's type of campaigning he would have knocked down any photographer who asked him to smile, and anyone who requested him to put in a plug for Congressman Perkins would have been told to go to hell. Pop was not an organization man.

   NIXON and Kennedy, as they whip around the country, cannot be immune to fatigue and outrage either. They could somehow control their grief, I suspect, if a few dozen of the handshakers and fame-by-association boys dropped dead. I admire them for their ability to keep taking it. It's too bad, after all the effort expended, that one of them has to lose.


Copyright 2019 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.
 

Don't Expect Husband to Plan Meals

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
January 26, 1957


   COOKING represents one of the finer art forms. It's easy to see why so much newsprint is devoted to recipes and ways to jazz up hominy grits and macaroni so they will get eaten.
   Cooking is a challenge to ingenuity and experimentation and to achievement of balanced diet. It is one of a woman's most accessible avenues to distinction. No wonder so many of them enjoy it.

   AND YET, if you asked a representative cross-section of adult females what the most irksome housekeeping detail was, the answer of the majority would concern food. They would agree with my wife, I'm sure, that meal planning was the chief bug.
   I know from experience gained in two-and -three-day stretches that even a modicum of meal planning goes far. When you realize that many women do it day after day, year after endless year, it's ghastly to contemplate.

   BREAKFAST and lunch are somewhat standardized and present no great problem. But even here some variety is mandatory. No family could endure for long being steadily stoked with stewed prunes and oatmeal. Fruits, juices, bacon, eggs and pancakes must get on the menu occasionally. And while kids have a remarkable tolerance for peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches, this luncheon standby can be overworked.
   But dinner is the big barrier. It is, or should be, a gastronomic event. And since it has become general practice to purchase a week's supply of groceries at once, the housewife must plan ahead for seven dinners. She must, that is, unless she can dragoon father into taking the brood out occasionally or they can sponge off grandma.

   FATHER and the kids sometimes give an assist but normally they are ciphers at meal planning. All Junior can suggest is cereal and his interest is more in the compass ring, the tattoo kit or the picture punch-outs than in the edible contents of the box. Father, when asked what he'd like to eat, says, "Oh, anything." Or he comes up with beef stew and dumplings or meatloaf, which was the main dish last night.
   The cook cannot call for a vote on what to eat after the family is gathered at the close of the day. It is too late then for anyone to propose liver and onions or hog hocks, cabbage and cornbread. To get such things on the table requires planning. (More to the point, as far as I'm concerned, is how to keep such stuff off the table.)

   AS MUST happen in all families, we sometimes come into the twilight of a lazy day wondering what to eat. My wife figures it's her right to goof off occasionally and I'm inclined to agree. In this extremity we fall back on waffles and bacon. This will sustain life until morning and is quite lordly eating if you can work an egg or two into the act, limitless amounts of coffee and a slab of cake.
   There are times, too, when a husband must assume the burden. His wife will fall ill or go home to see mother, or attend Uncle Ben's funeral in Dubuque.

   A HUSBAND was telling me recently that his wife never left home for more than a day without having a bulging larder and leaving detailed menus for every dinner.
   "She might as well save her strength," he said. "I start off by mislaying the list, but always assume that things are under control as long as there's food around. I forget to plan until it's time to eat. Then it's too late."
   Too late is right. There are preliminaries to execute even if you have a written menu. For best results, you should look at it an hour before eating time and then get into action. And if food from the freezer is called for, look out.

   ONE 6 P.M. when milady was away I went to work on a batch of pork chops undismayed that the mass was hard as a rock. But dismay was not long in coming.
   Five minutes exposure to hot tap water failed to break the bond. So did diligent application of a screwdriver and pliers. Long boiling finally brought thaw but dinner was an hour late and I was years older.

Modern Times Defroster

   I suspect that husbands would do as well if thrown upon their own resources, that the cause might be better served if the wife, on departure, simply said, "Okay, Buster, take it from here until Friday."
   Then the old man, rather than relaxing in the knowledge that his wife had eased the way for him, would know he was under the gun and bestir himself. He also might gain greater appreciation for his lady.

Copyright 2019 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

 
 

It's Time to Inventory Spring Work Tools

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the Minneapolis Tribune editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
April 28, 1956


   THIS IS the time of year when the solid citizen takes inventory of his yard and garden tools, insecticides, weed killers, fertilizer, paints, hammers, saws and ladders so as to be ready for a fast getaway when the mood to shore up and beautify the estate seizes him.
   In fact, unless he is a laggard, he already has taken preliminary steps. In the main it is to the laggard that this prose is pointed. There should be no shilly-shallying. The cleanup-paintup business must go forward.

   BY NOW the snow shovel should be stashed away (if you are an optimist), the yard raked and the refuse burned, with care being taken not to ignite the garage. In a careless moment the other day I started a small conflagration in some mulch protecting a flower bed and now fear for the future of a couple of rosebushes in which I had set big store. But in the spring work program you cannot let fear of disaster dissuade you. Timidity has no place.
   Also you should have the garden hose out of winter quarters, affixed to the faucet and clear of the driveway. This erases the risk of backing over it with the car.
   By now, too, you should be glaring at the storm windows with an eye to their removal, wondering if you can talk your wife into the glass-washing job, and thinking about the screens that didn't get painted during the winter.

   THE OTHER DAY I went into the basement to appraise my work bench. Any man worth his salt has a work bench. It is the heart of the efficient household. During the winter it provides parking space for accumulated magazines and newspapers, fruit jars, string, abandoned toys, croquet sets and picnic jugs. In summer, if you are a do-it-yourselfer, you can even use it for what it's for.
   After clearing the debris from mine, I was happy to find my tools in fair shape for action. Three of the five two-bit paintbrushes were ready to go and one of the others, I think, can be made pliant with half a dozen hammer strokes. The fifth had to be discarded, its bristles being welded forever to the bottom of a tomato can.
   My chisel and putty knife, without which I would feel helpless, were where they belonged. Usually they do not emerge until June. I find a chisel the ideal tool for horsing lids off paint cans. A putty knife is good for scraping purposes and can also be used as a putty knife if you have mastered the art of drawing it along the repair area without the putty curling up in pursuit.

   MY INVENTORY also uncovered a glass cutter and pipewrench. These should be included in every man's work kit. Both are beyond  my ability but are nice show pieces. They set you up as a craftsman. One costly fiasco soured me permanently on the glass cutter. The pipewrench is almost as useless but not quite. In a pinch it can be used for cracking filberts.
   One should also have a screwdriver and wire nippers. You never know when you will be called on to put a fresh washer on a faucet or replace the gizmo on an extension cord. You will save face by being prepared.
   One spring chore that impends involves installing a new light fixture in the kitchen. Everyone tells me there is nothing to it but I am skittish. I have tackled nothing-to-it- jobs before, and find I have a nice flair for ineptitude.

   A WORD of caution before you start your spring work. Do only one thing at a time. Never try simultaneously to rake the yard, clean the garage and paint the back stoop. You will find yourself wandering aimlessly about wondering where you left the rake or hunting for the paint brush or being distracted by discovering in the garage a sack of nails you mislaid in October.
   My wife and I were cleaning the attic recently and I went below for a dust pan. I grabbed a wastebasket en route and took it out back to burn the refuse. While doing so I noticed a broom in the garage, which reminded me of a long-delayed chore. Twenty minutes later my wife found me sweeping out the car, oblivious to my original mission.
   Since then I have been a single-purpose, all-business operator. This curbs the pleasant, rambling fancies that spring inspires but it cuts down the cracks about senility.
   And after all, a man must put pride above dreams.


Copyright 2019 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

You Cannot Always Be Cheerful

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the Minneapolis Tribune editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
March 26, 1954


   NOBODY, unless he has a twisted mind or a chronic backache, derives satisfaction from being in the dumps. And while it should be every man's privilege to sink into occasional despond, the fellow able to lift your spirits is a noble soul indeed.
   But the fellows who don't lift mine are the Happiness Boys, the brash cheer-er-uppers, the Pollyannas who go around with set smiles, convinced that they are ordained to spread gladness in the land and sell one and all on the absurdity that nothing is as bad as it might be. If you break an arm they tell you to be glad it wasn't your neck. This is cold comfort.

   THESE JOY BOYS are forever circulating about in hail-fellow manner, slapping on the back every solemn-faced character in the place.
   "Chin up, there, ol' boy, ol' boy," they admonish. "What's the trouble? Come on now, it can't be that bad. Give us a big smile!"
   Anyone so assailed should have the inalienable right to bounce a beer mug off his tormentor's skull. I would defend his action to the death. Why should the glad guy assume that "things can't be that bad"? What does he know about your problems?
   Before we'd been parents long enough to know better, we often commanded our youngsters to smile when they were in a pout. We soon abandoned the practice. It worked in reverse, bringing tears and rebellion.

   YOU MAY figure this to be the bleat of a sourpuss. If so you figure wrong. While I sometimes wear the expression of a St. Bernard, I do have moments when I'm glad to be alive--enough of them, I think, to rate par for the course.
   But it's simply impossible for the average mortal to be constantly happy--or even to appear to be. Billousness assails him. He finds himself short of rent money. Fears and frustration rack him. His feet hurt. He misses that promotion. He's beset by traffic jams and flat tires and detours.
   More often, of course, his digestive tract is clear, he has money for the income tax, his wife has sewn the buttons on the shirt he plans to wear to the basket social and life is beautiful.
   When it isn't, however, if you expect him to invariably rise above vexation you expect too much. When he barks at his wife and she barks back there is usually more behind the brawl than innate cussedness. He may have been bawled out by the boss. She may have found ink spots on the new carpet. Life being what it is, a certain amount of waspishness should be expected, and accepted.
   And in fairness to the Happiness Boys, I guess you cannot scoff at them too much. Theirs is an endeavor noble in motive. They fail because they are too obvious, because of their forced heartiness, because they seem to feel that bright moods can be switched on as you switch on a light. But due to this wrong assumption they defeat their purpose. All they do is bring your resentments to a boil.

   HAPPILY, though, there are those individuals referred to in paragraph one. They are the real gloom chasers. Their tribe should increase. They are the true gentility. They are cheerful, accommodating, vital--and genuine. They moralize not, neither do they pound you on the back. Merely by being themselves they make you glad you're here.
   One of them drives a bus which I catch too seldom at Eighth and Hennepin. Another, agonized by arthritis, used to operate the elevator and do janitor work here at the office. You find them in police forces and fire departments, clerking in stores and ushering in theaters. They are in big jobs and on milk trucks, in reception rooms and information booths. Some, serving without frowns or squawks, are in high-tension, exacting jobs that would drive most of us to the bottle in a week.
   I wish I were one of these, that I could rise above travail, headache and athlete's foot and spread joy without apparent effort. But I cannot and shall not try. Some Gloomy Gus would see through the sham and let me have it.

Copyright 2019 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

Alphabetical listing of posted columns (through 1/4/2019)

Dates in parentheses are month/year of blog posting 

A family reunion can be grim    (11/17)

A hobby isn't something you can whip up overnight   (1/16)

A house free of junk just isn't a home   (3/18)

A husbands challenge to science   (8/13)

A layman looks at prayer   (10/15)

A learned discourse on moods   (3/14)

A little mourning is enough   (11/13)

A pair of guys it's nice to know   (6/14)

About docks, high water and tree doctoring   (5/14)

Advertisement for Guthrie's column   (9/13)

Advice to dad's--know carpentry   (4/13)

Age can play queer tricks on One's mental process   (12/13)

An open fire kindles memories   (2/15)

Black bug is freed after these 20 years   (8/14)

Boobs can be a joy in fiction   (6/15)

Bookshelves inspire a builder   (12/14)

By 1990 you may not need a job.  (1/14)

Christmas traditions are worth preserving   (12/13)

Code won't stop political insults   (1/16)

Comes the time to leave home   (9/13)

Complaint of an invisible man   (4/13)

Constitution protects the atheists too  (11/15)

Correspondence for some is a chore   (9/18)

Critics lot is not a happy one   (3/13)

Doubts about the great society   (2/14)Easter joy is curdled by taxes   (3/15)

Economists (home spun) discuss tax cut   (2/13)

Era ends as old house is sold   (10/16)

Exercise is something for oldster to shun   (10/14)

Filling station closing out a dramatic run   (6/16)

Fond farewell to the balladeer --Bradley Morrison   (5/14)

Fourth of July then and now   (7/15)

Garage job is a smash success   (8/13)

Grandma 87 too busy cutting meat to quit   (6/14)

Grandpa is a weary christmas enthusiast   (12/22)

Hating is easy but devitalizing   (3/17)

High school reunion thoughts   (8/16)

Home from the office after 13 day pause for repairs   (12/13)

Home repair victory and defeat   (5/17)

Homes the place for Christmas   (12/16)

How are the resolutions holding up?   (1/16)

How to keep a party from going dead   (2/13)

How we do love to keep busy   (12/13)

It must be fun to know all the answers   (2/14)

It seemed colder years ago anyway   (2/14)

Its time for more tolerance   (10/17)

Kid disc jockey spreads havoc   (3/14)

Kindergarten ushers in a new era   (9/16)

Lake living doesn't come cheap   (7/28)

Leave married sons and daughters alone   (3/18)

Life of solitude is just no good   (3/14)

Little girls are quite special   (6/13)

Little things have a big payoff   (3/13)

Losing old neighbors is no fun   (6/14)

Marriage isn't every girls dream   (11/13)

Movings both a physical and an emotional strain   (5/13)

Music has turned to noise   (12/18)

Of weeds docks and fatigue   (6/13)

Old fashioned-sure he is (advertisement)   (9/13)

Oldster's vision not good but his head is   (4/13)

On making coffee the hard way   (4/14)

One can live without smoking   (1/15)

One fans beef about baseball   (5/13)

Peanut butter addict tells all   (3/17)

Pets are no great moral force   (3/16)

Pioneer scouting days recalled   (1/15)

Plaint of a bashful parishioner   (4/14)

Politics knows little moderation   (7/16)

Procrastination's fatal in planning Yule cards   (12/14)

Reflections on paper collections   (5/15)

Remembering Charles M. (Chick) Guthrie   (8/15)

Remembering names isn't easy   (7/13)

Running grocery store can be fun   (5/16)

Sad story of christmas savings   (12/17)

Small boy sizes up a vacation   (8/14)

So you think writing's easy eh   (8/13)

Some impressions of the 58 cars   (6/17)

Some thoughts about gratitude   (6/13)

Spring isn't top season for a lover of slumber   (4/18)

Springs a trial for the weary   (5/13)

Springs not a complete blessing   (5/14)

Storms--a pain in the neck (it's time to change 'em gents)  (11/14)

Story of the great hat mystery  (4/14)

Teaching a child manners is a headache   (1/18)

Technical wonders are nice to know about   (2/13)

Ten year work test is charted   (10/13)

Thanksgiving reunions call for preparation   (11/13 & 11/16)

Thanksgiving with grandparents   (11/14)

That barbershop harmony sends you   (2/14)

That summer work pressure   (8/13)

The trial of meeting old friends   (7/14)

There's a sadness about commencement   (6/13)

There's no easy) solution for the problem of adolescence   (1/14)

There's nothing quite like fishing   (7/13)

These are emotional times for baseball crazy fellows   (10/14)

They'll feast with old folks   (11/15)

Thoughts about bomb shelters   (4/17)

Thoughts on being near the kids   (4/15)

Thoughts on high school romance   (8/15)

Thrilling experiences pay off   (5/18)

Time for concern not escape   (6/18)

To be happy forget to regret   (2/17)

To enjoy food less learn more about it   (8/17)

Tomorrow is Father's Day if that means anything   (6/13)

Top grades don't spell success   (3/15)

Travel arrangements can kill you   (7/14)

Trials of a parakeet owner   (8/14)

Tribute to a patient mother   (5/13)

Valentine is a big help in making marriage tick   (2/13)

Views on after death adulation   (9/17)

We have too many organizations  (4/16)

We're shy of English teachers  (2/16)

What have you and spouse got in common   (7/18)

When you're young you're different   (7/13)

Who picks up the dinner check   (10/18)

Why put style above comfort   (1/18)

Why the big urge to keep busy   (7/17)

Why the friendship barriers   (12/16)

Woes of a Yule Correspondent   (12/15)

Worry an incurable affliction   (7/15)

You aren't aging? Look at old photos   (9/18)

You cant dream and save time   (11/13)

You too can fill out a tax return   (3/14)