Column: Sometimes irony is funny, and sometimes it's just ironic

(Sarah enjoys a relaxing evening in her favorite recliner)

By Margi Washburn


The store on the south side of town many of us still refer to as The Book Emporium had it right.

There were books, of course, including new releases, paperbacks and used. The lottery was available there, and I’m not sure if that was a good or bad thing, but it was popular. Folks could get greeting cards, ornaments and other knick-knacks. I’m convinced, though, that the most popular attraction was the wide variety of magazines.

Along with weekly news magazines, one could find subject matter of all kinds. Titles pertaining to astronomy, dogs, cats, crafts, TV, celebrities, hunting and dozens more filled the display alongside an entire wall.

My favorites were the writing magazines. Writer’s Digest and The Writer were always available, and they were positioned where I could reach them. The reasons I bought a new edition every month were many, but the main one was that I wanted to learn how to write better.

Friends and family had their own special interests. An uncle always checked out the latest news about car races, hunting and guns. Hubby loved the astronomy section, and our youngest perused the music magazines.

Those days are gone, but our craving for special reading materials is still alive and well. The local library carries quite a few magazines, but they can’t afford what we became used to.

It’s funny, but if you’re a published writer or a budding one, I don’t think you’ll find what you need around here. And here’s one time I hope I get corrected about something; if I’m mistaken, call or write and let me know where I can find my two favorite writing magazines for sale in Kewanee.

Know what else is funny? I’ve stopped in at several Waldenbooks stores and stood staring at their magazine selection. My eyesight leaves a lot to be desired, but I could not find a single writing magazine in their racks. Occasionally a clerk will ask if they can help me find something, and here’s how that goes:

Me: “Do you have any writing magazines?”
Clerk: “Right here.” This is when they point to the motorcycle and car section.
Me: “No, writing, not riding.” And this is where I pretend to write something on the palm of my hand, which leads the clerk to shake their head and walk away.

See how funny that was? Here you have an entire bookstore that is soundly based on people writing what they’re selling, and they have no magazines to inspire and teach us.

Oh, here’s another funny example of irony. I once worked in a library, and their hours were a tad odd. There were many ideal hours that the place could be used to hold writing seminars, critique groups, that sort of thing. I decided to approach one of my bosses and ask if I could set something up. Her answer left me dumbfounded.

I was told that the library could not be used for a writer group of any kind, but she was certain that a building down the block would be fine. She pointed out that the $10 per-use fee could be collected from any participating writers. Isn’t that special?

As the door clicked shut behind her, I picked my chin up off the front counter and sat down. Thousands of books lined the walls all around me, written by men and women from all walks of life, writers who poured their hearts out onto pages that our grandparents, parents, children and grandchildren read. If writers were not allowed to meet in a library, of all places, then where?

I did end up renting a building, and I paid the fee, but we only met once. It was too discouraging to continue and impossible to explain to everyone why we weren’t in the obvious location.

So here I am, in my mid-50s, and I want to continue learning. We should all aim to improve our minds, keep our skills sharp and up-to-date. I happen to gravitate toward writing, but I’ll bet there are a whole lot of folks reading these words who would love to see the selection we used to have in that nifty little store on the south side. Until something changes, I guess we can always fill out that handy subscription card, but it won’t be the same.

Sarah says howdy to her teacher and buds

Margi Washburn

Let me say upfront that I have the deepest respect and trust in our doggy obedience class instructor. Peg Roginski is much more than that; she’s a dear friend and wise in many ways. That said, when she told our class that our pooches would get used to coming every Tuesday night I had serious doubts.

After all, we were only looking at a five-week course. Sarah the pup is one smart cookie, and yes, she knows the word cookie now, but I didn’t believe she’d miss class.

That first night, Sarah and I went and left hubby home. I never thought to ask if he’d like to come, but when we arrived and there were guys holding the leashes, I hoped the next week would be different.

Sarah found her soul mate in another lab, this one a purebred by the name of Kaya. There was also Daisy the Great Pyrenees, and Bonnie, a cute little fuzzy dog that obviously adored her master.

Daisy was a hoot. She’s getting close to three years old, and that first night she pretty much sat on her rump and stared at Peg and her owners. Her response to initial commands seemed to be, “Who, me?” She was content to watch everyone else, and it was so warm I couldn’t blame her.

Bonnie wanted to stare at her master, and she’s a smart one, too, eager to please and full of pep.

Then there was Kaya and Sarah. The two of them were so excited, Peg pointed to the floor to show everyone how their paws were sweating. Kaya’s owner decided then that they would walk her to class every Tuesday to get her calmed down a bit. For them it was about a mile, for us it would’ve been about four. We’d have to figure out something else.

That first class was all about sitting. Sarah was good at that because we’d taught her, but that was pretty much it. I’m afraid she may have appeared smarter than she was, and I was right.

Hubby came along for the next class, and with a long walk around the park beforehand, we were hoping she’d be a bit calmer. I noticed that Kaya seemed a bit more composed, but guess who was still full of stuff?

To top it off, that night’s lesson was on “sit”, then “down”. Sarah was so far beyond excited, that Peg had to come over and try it herself, because the dog’s behind wouldn’t stay on the floor while the rest of her went forward.

“This is going to take a while,” said Peg, as she sat down to work with Sarah. This pleased the dog so much that from that moment on, Peg was a really special buddy. And, Sarah learned how to go down just like her teacher wanted.

We brought along the proper treats, tasty goodies that wouldn’t upset Sarah’s stomach, but she was always looking to see if someone else had something better. She found Kaya’s stash in the windowsill one night and knocked them onto the floor. I know she found out that Daisy was getting lunchmeat from her master, so when the chance presented itself and Daisy missed a piece, Sarah cleaned it up for her.

All of us appreciated the “stay” command, and most everyone understood and obeyed the “leave it” command, except Sarah still has a problem with that one. We like to call her a Labrador “evader” because she never really retrieves anything; she keeps stuff and tries to eat it.

That last class came too soon. Peg had nothing but wonderful things to say to us, and she gave all of her students a special gift to take home.

I felt the need to apologize for Sarah not being quite as quick a learner as the rest of the class, but Peg told us that Sarah had come a “really, really long way.” Hmmm.

We tried to keep up with what we’d learned, and I know we’ve let things slide a bit. But you know what? The craziest thing happened during the first couple of weeks following that last class.

Hubby and I got ready to go out the next Tuesday night, and instead of running up the foyer steps to watch us leave the driveway, Sarah threw herself at the front door and let out a mangled moan. She sat at the door and refused to budge.

I think we both got it at the same time, yet neither of us could believe it. Sarah wanted to jump into the backseat, toodle on down to class and romp with her buds.

It’s high time to admit it, I guess. When Peg said her students were going to miss class on Tuesday nights, she knew exactly what she was talking about. Just ask the doggy who misses her favorite teacher.

On second thought, please don't grow up

By Margi Washburn

I just saw a news story about a tiny Iraqi baby whose mother and uncle were killed a few weeks ago. The little girl was left outside in the garbage, and the temperature was over 110 degrees. She was being well taken care of by American medical personnel, along with our military men and women.

As I looked into her bright wide eyes, all I could think of was how thankful we all must be that she doesn't know about the tragedies that have surrounded her life so far. And I know it's too much to hope that she won't someday learn to hate those who deprived her of her loved ones.

A couple of days ago I read a comment in a newspaper that sent chills up my spine. Someone had called to leave their thoughts, and usually I don't pay much attention to those who make anonymous gripes, but this caught my eye. This parent was admitting that they were teaching their son to hate America, simply because of something that was happening at their job. Just like that, we have another child growing up hating because their parent taught them to do so.

It would seem that most folks aren't that blatant about teaching their children to hate. Instead, kids learn by observing the behavior and conversations inside their homes, or wherever they happen to have contact with the adults in their lives.

For instance, a friend shared that while they were chatting over coffee at a relative's house, his brother-in-law made an ethnic joke. It was doubly bad because it was two races in one joke, and everyone but my friend and his wife howled with laughter. The wife looked uncomfortable because it was her family that made the joke, something they've done for years, and she knew her husband was awfully close to losing his cool.

The men and women sitting around the table that day all had kids of their own, and one of the parents who had taught the adults there was also enjoying the joke. Worse, one of the children was sitting there too, a grandson learning from the adults that it's OK to laugh at someone just because their skin is dark. Good lesson, and if all goes as they plan, this little guy can pass it on to his friends and his own kids someday.

I know my friend needed to vent; he and his wife may not have what it takes to stand up to her family and tell them that enough is enough. I was thinking about it later though, and smacking myself for not telling him to tell his brother-in-law to grow up already. Then it hit me.
Why should he do that? The guy is grown; in fact, he's almost 50 years old.

I have no easy answers for this never-ending cycle of prejudice, but a part of me insists on seeing hope for each new life, that somehow this little boy or girl will learn at the knees of moms, dads, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents that hatred based on nothing more than skin color is simply not acceptable.

There are far worse problems today than a family sitting around a table and laughing at other races. I know that, yet it makes you wonder if that isn't how some criminals get started, by believing that they're better than some folks, so why shouldn't they be robbed, beaten or worse?

A week or so ago I saw two boys around eight or nine years old pushing each other around. They looked like brothers, and they were gearing up for a showdown. Both were holding sodas and when the taller of the two got close enough, he spit in the other's can. The younger returned the favor, then the cussing started. It seemed as natural to the both of them as breathing. My head was spinning with scenarios inside these boys' home.

It seems only fair to mention that kids don't learn every bad behavior from their family and friends. Let's give credit to television, movies, music and peer pressure too.

This struggle between right and wrong is an old, old one and one person can only do so much in their tiniest of corner of the world. But we should never give up trying, and that is why I saw the hope in that baby Iraqi girl's eyes. Maybe she'll be influenced by the people who see her for what she is, a miracle of life that came from an almost hopeless beginning.

And the next time my friend is sitting at the table when the jokes begin, he won't simply sit there and let it happen, and he won't ask them to grow up. I think he knows better than that now, and I wish him the best when he and his wife have the courage to take a stand. Let's hope they do it soon.

Guys and their selective memories

By Margi Washburn

I found him sitting at the kitchen table watching the Today show go into its third hour. It was going to be another scorcher, so I couldn't blame hubby for preferring the cool house to framing the front door.

His coffee cup was nearly full, and a glance at the pot showed it was as empty as when I'd left an hour before. Odd.

"So," I said, "must be tough working hard on a day like this."

"So," he shot back, "must be tough working those long hours. Were you gone a whole hour?"

That out of the way, I asked if he wanted me to make another pot of coffee. He declined, and added an apology. "I drank the rest of yours, sorry. Hope you didn't want it."

I may not remember things as well as I used to, but I knew I'd poured the last of my coffee from my Bugs Bunny cup down the drain on my way out.

Before I knew it, I was telling him exactly that. "Well, then," he said, then stopped.

We both looked at the counter at the mug by the microwave. "You mean I just drank coffee from yesterday morning?" I found the whole thing hilarious, and he did too, then he stopped laughing. "You know, this reflects on your housekeeping. It shows you don't clean your microwave."

No, it doesn't. It shows me that someone doesn't pay attention to which mug I'm drinking from, or that I stood in front of him pouring coffee down the drain.

This exercise in paying attention and what happens to our memories got me to thinking. While many women fret that men don't remember things, some of us know all too well that there are things they don't forget.

Many moons ago when we lived in Tucson, I was selling some of our furniture. I had one couple almost hooked on a sofa, but the guy was hesitant. I got the brilliant idea to throw in hubby's wet-dry vac for free and the deal was done. The vac hadn't been used in months, so out the door it went.

I have to say, some people get their feathers ruffled when you give away their stuff. It's been well over 20 years, and I still hear about it whenever we see a wet-dry vac. "Remember when you sold mine? Oh, wait, you gave it away," he'll say. I've asked why he doesn't just buy a new one, and he tells me he likes reminding me of what I did.

Another such reminder came up the other night at supper. We were having tomato burgers, as in tomatoes from the farmer's market. These are the deep-red, juicy, aroma-filled kind, not the bouncy, rubber ball variety we get the rest of the year. I asked him to grab a couple of napkins on his way to the table, and he asked if I wanted him to just tear one in half. Ah, another thing he didn't forget.

Again, we were in Tucson. We both had great jobs, a new home, a new car and I was trying to cut expenses. The kids were helping set the table for lunch one day when I had an idea. I suggested they cut the paper plates in half, and you would've thought the world was coming to an end. They couldn't wait to tell their dad about this latest cost-cutting venture, hence today's question on ripping a napkin in half.

It's kind of funny, really, that some guys have the ability to remember goofs so well. Let me tell you, women have good memories too.

Instead of dwelling on those, though, I think I'll wipe out the microwave with half a napkin and brew another pot of coffee. I haven't used microwave popcorn for about a week now, which is probably why I didn't find the coffee mug. So, while the coffee's brewing, I'll take out my new popper and make a big batch of popcorn. He might want a snack when he comes in from working so hard.