Blog 1399, 15 January 2018, Monday
It’s been fun to parade around in my new “doo.” Those who read the blogs knew I’d changed my look, they’d walk up snickering and telling me things like the new haircut makes me look younger, more professional, neater, better educated, better whatever; no one but me seemed to miss the hair. One said I was “A bit Mephistophelian” referring to the chin. Another used the lovely phrase, “statesman-like.” That last two have never been used to describe me before. But the truth is this: I’m so lazy I don’t want to think about how I look. I’m married to Jean who is almost always aware of how she looks, what her hair looks like, which earrings she’s wearing, etc. She’s more aware of such things than I can imagine. I don’t think about such things. I tell people that I look in a mirror to see if there’s any twinkle in my eyes and can walk away without noticing my hair needs combing, my face is dirty, and there’s a big, ugly, white pimple on my nose. I am amazed how many people really care how I look. Thank you, and I apologize for my unkempt appearance. My look is probably a remnant of my street days. Also, I really am that lazy about such things.
This is my last blog from my desktop computer for a while; I’m moving to the laptop to make the transition to Africa a little easier. It’s got all the protections we need (we hope), including malware. It’s got no banking information, personal information, and a limited address list on it. I’ll miss the big screen and the wonderfully comfortable office chair in which I can sleep so easily.
This is Martin Luther King Day. I always wanted it to be celebrated on Presidents’ Day, combining holidays, thus it could have had the ironic name “Two Presidents and a King’s Day.” But that would greatly diminish the impact on Dr. King’s legacy. I was heading to Michigan, hitchhiking across North Dakota, when I got word he was shot. I remember the driver who told me was named Joe Schmitt who owned the Dairy Queen in Rugby, ND. For the rest of my trip, every cop, border guard, or customs official who saw me stopped me. In 1968 I still had a Yupper twang in my voice and they all thought I was Canadian coming to join the riots. No, I was going to a suburb of Detroit to pick up a car to drive to Washington State. North of Detroit, in Pontiac, they stopped me for good, I had to call someone to come pick me up and drive me into the Detroit area. Before I left, I drove through the riot scene. It looked like a war zone. I probably wouldn’t do that nowadays.
The struggle is still not over, but the world’s a better place because of him. The “Me, Too” movement is another painful step in making life more open. May we not be afraid of change. That includes my hair, I suppose. Love,