The Handwriting on the Wall
January 20, 1999
There are usually early warning signals that go ignored. And the
handwriting on the wall is washed off before it sinks in.
It was about thirty or thirty-five years ago that I had a good
laugh over the California woman who took on the state because
smoking in the elevator offended her. The sand-filled cannisters
at the entrance to every elevator were merely there as a courtesy
to smokers, making no demand that the butt be parked.
"Is
she kidding?" I laughed. I, who blew smoke in my partner's face
in the same glamorous and seductive stream as Lana Turner, Ginger
Rogers might -- I, should not smoke in elevators? Ho, ho, ho.
That woman was writing what we are living today. Of course, I
quit smoking -- 20 years ago this November -- but it wasn't because
of the Surgeon General's report. It was that lady whose handwriting
on the wall etched policy that moved closer and closer into every
area of my life.
In every state there are ordinances against smoking, forcing the
rest of us to witness the degradation of those hard-core addicts
leaning against brick walls to smoke, hovering together smoking
under awnings in a rainstorm, dropping cigarettes casually from
their hands as they walk instead of flipping them skyward with
controlled abandon as we did.
See the old movies. In today's movies, cigarettes are used to
create images. It used to be black hats vs. white hats for good
or evil. Now, the short cut to an image is smoking vs. non-smoking.
Watch a black and white film and you'll see the Hotel Concierge
smoking, the Doctor lighting up, the lawyer, the judge and the
wife lighting up. The pimp and the trollop; the priest and the
penitent all smoked. Everybody did -- in elevators, in stores,
on buses, in theatres. Only if in an oxygen tent could you not
smoke in a hospital. Nobody complained. Ever.
The handwriting on the wall brought around adjustments both personal
and civic.
The Civil Rights Movement started with handwriting on the wall:
Rosa Parks said, "I'm tired." And that etching on the wall became
engraved into the heart and soul of her community and then into
the nation's law books and finally into the fibre of our nation.
That's my preamble tonight. I see the handwriting on the wall
as it starts -- right now. People are getting very vocal about
dogs and their excrement. The situation in New York City with
eight million people pounding the pavement can be intolerable.
I can feel the pain of the guy in his shiny brown cordavans. He's
heading for a job interview on Madison Avenue and has to scrape
his shoe on the curb before swinging through the revolving door.
I can feel that. Something had to be done.
The pooper scooper laws allow the citizens of that city to walk
dogs and carry shovels. In New York, if you have a dog and not
a shovel, someone will follow you all the way home to see if Fido
leaves his mark -- and exactly what you plan to do about it. Citations
come on winged feet!
I saw it coming at the St. Simons Island Town Hall meeting this
week when the subject of dogs on the beach came up. One woman
spoke tearfully about walking on the beach for spiritual enlightment
and counting 21 piles of evidence that crass dog owners had frequented
the beach. I wanted to suggest she look up for enlightment but
I was too busy reading the handwriting on the wall.
A speaker got up with a solution to the problem. Gingerly folding
and unfolding a Zip Lok bag, she illustrated how one turns the
bag inside out, lifts the feces from the sand, and voila! "just
flip it right side out and ZIP!" Whew, and all the time John and
I were covering it with a pile of sand, hoping environmental forces
would do their thing.
During the days of hiding my smoking habit, I could manage a fast
smoke. With cigarettes deep in my pocket and lighter concealed,
I could pull it off with some aplomb. I tried to escape the sneers
and dirty looks of those who too often said: "Don't tell me you're
still smoking."
These days, however, I can't escape the dirty looks of those looking
at my Old English Sheepdog. Her name is BoPeep and she's bigger
than I am. She does have to have a walk. Often. It used to be
that people would run up to her and nuzzle in her shaggy coat.
Not now.
"Where
do you walk her?" they'll ask.
"Oh,
we might take a run on the beach," I'll say.
"Ummmm,
fun. Watch out for the beach patrol," they say sneering with mock
smiles.
It's coming. I see how things work. If you embrace a cause, like
no smoking, every agency is on your side. If you embrace a cause
like no dogs relieving themselves anywhere, well, the cause will
catch on. Meetings will be held. It will happen. I will have to
keep 100-pound BoPeep in the garage, paper trained so only I can
deal with what she leaves behind. Time will tell. Just watch the
papers. Follow the news. A dog's days are numbered.
Admittedly, I haven't read all the handwriting. Perhaps doglovers
will unite. (Cigarette smokers tried but failed; Rosa Parks' people
united and conquered.)
I've heard of a scraped oil painting revealing a Rembrandt hidden
beneath. I believe we should scrape this new grafitti from the
wall and reveal the old handwriting still speaking the wisdom
of the ages. It says household pets instill compassion, responsibility,
devotion, unconditional love, joy, laughter, caring and appreciation.
In exchange for that, families feed them, walk with them and clean
up after them.
Some dogs do expect just a little bit more. Right now, BoPeep
is lying on her back (taking up half the room) expecting me to
rub her belly. Oh, well, I've been using her as a footstool for
an hour.
"C'mere,
you big baby."
Can dogs smile? I think she just did!
There
are usually early warning signals that go ignored. And the handwriting
on the wall is washed off before it sinks in.
It was about thirty or thirty-five years ago that I had a good
laugh over the California woman who took on the state because
smoking in the elevator offended her. The sand-filled cannisters
at the entrance to every elevator were merely there as a courtesy
to smokers, making no demand that the butt be parked.
"Is
she kidding?" I laughed. I, who blew smoke in my partner's face
in the same glamorous and seductive stream as Lana Turner, Ginger
Rogers might -- I, should not smoke in elevators? Ho, ho, ho.
That woman was writing what we are living today. Of course, I
quit smoking -- 20 years ago this November -- but it wasn't because
of the Surgeon General's report. It was that lady whose handwriting
on the wall etched policy that moved closer and closer into every
area of my life.
In every state there are ordinances against smoking, forcing the
rest of us to witness the degradation of those hard-core addicts
leaning against brick walls to smoke, hovering together smoking
under awnings in a rainstorm, dropping cigarettes casually from
their hands as they walk instead of flipping them skyward with
controlled abandon as we did.
See the old movies. In today's movies, cigarettes are used to
create images. It used to be black hats vs. white hats for good
or evil. Now, the short cut to an image is smoking vs. non-smoking.
Watch a black and white film and you'll see the Hotel Concierge
smoking, the Doctor lighting up, the lawyer, the judge and the
wife lighting up. The pimp and the trollop; the priest and the
penitent all smoked. Everybody did -- in elevators, in stores,
on buses, in theatres. Only if in an oxygen tent could you not
smoke in a hospital. Nobody complained. Ever.
The handwriting on the wall brought around adjustments both personal
and civic.
The Civil Rights Movement started with handwriting on the wall:
Rosa Parks said, "I'm tired." And that etching on the wall became
engraved into the heart and soul of her community and then into
the nation's law books and finally into the fibre of our nation.
That's my preamble tonight. I see the handwriting on the wall
as it starts -- right now. People are getting very vocal about
dogs and their excrement. The situation in New York City with
eight million people pounding the pavement can be intolerable.
I can feel the pain of the guy in his shiny brown cordavans. He's
heading for a job interview on Madison Avenue and has to scrape
his shoe on the curb before swinging through the revolving door.
I can feel that. Something had to be done.
The pooper scooper laws allow the citizens of that city to walk
dogs and carry shovels. In New York, if you have a dog and not
a shovel, someone will follow you all the way home to see if Fido
leaves his mark -- and exactly what you plan to do about it. Citations
come on winged feet!
I saw it coming at the St. Simons Island Town Hall meeting this
week when the subject of dogs on the beach came up. One woman
spoke tearfully about walking on the beach for spiritual enlightment
and counting 21 piles of evidence that crass dog owners had frequented
the beach. I wanted to suggest she look up for enlightment but
I was too busy reading the handwriting on the wall.
A speaker got up with a solution to the problem. Gingerly folding
and unfolding a Zip Lok bag, she illustrated how one turns the
bag inside out, lifts the feces from the sand, and voila! "just
flip it right side out and ZIP!" Whew, and all the time John and
I were covering it with a pile of sand, hoping environmental forces
would do their thing.
During the days of hiding my smoking habit, I could manage a fast
smoke. With cigarettes deep in my pocket and lighter concealed,
I could pull it off with some aplomb. I tried to escape the sneers
and dirty looks of those who too often said: "Don't tell me you're
still smoking."
These days, however, I can't escape the dirty looks of those looking
at my Old English Sheepdog. Her name is BoPeep and she's bigger
than I am. She does have to have a walk. Often. It used to be
that people would run up to her and nuzzle in her shaggy coat.
Not now.
"Where
do you walk her?" they'll ask.
"Oh,
we might take a run on the beach," I'll say.
"Ummmm,
fun. Watch out for the beach patrol," they say sneering with mock
smiles.
It's coming. I see how things work. If you embrace a cause, like
no smoking, every agency is on your side. If you embrace a cause
like no dogs relieving themselves anywhere, well, the cause will
catch on. Meetings will be held. It will happen. I will have to
keep 100-pound BoPeep in the garage, paper trained so only I can
deal with what she leaves behind. Time will tell. Just watch the
papers. Follow the news. A dog's days are numbered.
Admittedly, I haven't read all the handwriting. Perhaps doglovers
will unite. (Cigarette smokers tried but failed; Rosa Parks' people
united and conquered.)
I've heard of a scraped oil painting revealing a Rembrandt hidden
beneath. I believe we should scrape this new grafitti from the
wall and reveal the old handwriting still speaking the wisdom
of the ages. It says household pets instill compassion, responsibility,
devotion, unconditional love, joy, laughter, caring and appreciation.
In exchange for that, families feed them, walk with them and clean
up after them.
Some dogs do expect just a little bit more. Right now, BoPeep
is lying on her back (taking up half the room) expecting me to
rub her belly. Oh, well, I've been using her as a footstool for
an hour.
"C'mere,
you big baby."
Can dogs smile? I think she just did!
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