** TV news. ** I don’t give a damn whether the newspeakers are yammering about the Teacher of the Month, a fatal 10-car pile-up on I-35-W or the weather. They merely broadcast these events and create “news” out of them. In fact, while the “weatherperson” attempts to pinpoint the weather details for the following day, not to mention the anchors’ news of murdered people found in out-of-the-way acreage, you could dash outside, take a deep breath, poke a wet finger into the air and examine the sky. By so doing, you may be able to guesstimate air quality, wind direction and obtain a strong clue as to temperature and humidity. Besides, you’d be blessed by a touch of meaningful moments with nature and your lawn. (If incapable of racing outdoors, open a window.) Also, if you imagine you’ll miss the TV maps, isobars and numerals pointed at by the “weatherperson”, you can locate those online, minus the jabber.

** Politics. ** Since November, 1963 I have been a damaged politically-minded citizen and a disabled voter. Not that I couldn’t ferret out the voting localities during an election. I could and did, faithfully for years and years, perpetually hoping the candidate I voted for would be the winner. I actually labored from 6 AM to 10PM at many an election, local and national, as a poll worker.

What happened to forge me into a veritable wreck? A good question. An assassination took place in Dallas, Texas, that’s what happened. John Kennedy, the best thing, in my twenty-three-year-old Democratic opinion, to have occurred in the nation’s capital since Lincoln freed the slaves, met Lincoln’s distressing fate. Two years prior to President Kennedy’s murder I was only 20 which meant I was not permitted to vote. Twenty-one was voting age in most of the country in those years. My heart was bent on voting for him in the next presidential crusade. There would be no next campaign for John F. Kennedy. My grief was profound and long-lived.

I began to suspect that my aims to vote for a president had been voodooed by some sneaky Republican. Richard Nixon, most likely. Every single solitary candidate I voted for between Johnson and Clinton lost the race. Some of them big time. The country, if not the world, had turned against me, the voter, for no high-quality reason that I could determine.

None of this applies to my current anti-politics inclination. I voted for Barack Obama. With joy! Thinking, at last I shall prevail, my choice will win, I marched into the Baptist church, or wherever, sat at the table where the little booths were set up and proudly marked “yes” for every Democrat on the ballot. So what if I live in Texas, which is clogged with berserker, chauvinistic Republicans? I would vote my choice. He would win.

So I did and he did. And for quite some time now I am wondering what happened to the charismatic politician I voted for. I am wondering why he doesn’t take a whip to the Republicans in congress. If he doesn’t feel whipping them would be presidential, he can hand the cat-‘o-nine-tails over to me. I’d be delighted to scourge the deadbeats. See? I get extremely agitated (which can be seen as major-league aggravation) just thinking about those pariahs in Washington, D.C. I feel my blood pressure rising merely contemplating that sleaze John Boehner, new Speaker of the House.

And what does the husband person insist upon talking about over lunch? Politics! By the time he’s finished tearing into the anti-human antics of the federal Government, particularly the Senate, I am ready to commit suicide. Almost. Or murder. In fact, there’s a great well of sympathy in me for those quiet executions that occur in the homes of the elderly. I always hope the perp gets away with it. They may say that their spouse was suffering unbearably from (fill in the blank with disease of your choice). However, I am certain that the “disease” was most likely persistent crankiness, long-running distain, or simple disgust. Think about it.

** Poor Editing ** If you could see me, (luckily you can’t) you would be looking at a dyed in the wool reader. My reading career began at a very young age and has continued no matter what other jobs I’ve lost; going to school, fry cooking, mothering, etc. Reading, in truth, is my first and will be my final love. Words on paper are priceless to me, unless they are stupidly written or badly proofed.

I recently “discovered” a new-to-me author. His name is Greg Iles. He writes crime novels that make you pant to turn the pages. No, really, your tongue hangs out and you breathe fast. Trust me. Greg’s stuff is all I’ve read for the past few months. Can’t put the damn things down. Of course, his books run from 500+ to 700+ pages in small print. So the reader lives with them for quite a while. I’ll not mention Greg’s paperback publisher, mostly because I’ve never paid enough attention to discover who it is. But whoever has the wondrous Mr. Iles’s contract for paperback distribution should really take a closer look at the proof reading.

The book I am digesting presently, The Quiet Game, is the first in a series that follows Greg’s character Penn Cage’s life in Natchez, Mississippi, his birthplace. For a smallish town Natchez night possibly have more murders per capita than any big city in the nation. Of course, Penn, a former prosecutor in Houston, Texas, must solve every bit of carnage committed in his bailiwick. I had already read the second and third installments of Penn Cage’s goings-on, so I figured I’d best backpedal and read the first one.

Accordingly, I pick up a used copy of The Quiet Game and commence to enjoy it. Eventually I arrive on page 418. I’m buried in Greg’s Southern-fried style when I run into the words “Baton Route.” Huh? I say. Now Greg writes often of the city in Louisiana called Baton Rouge, French for “Red Stick.” Baton Rouge is 80 miles from Natchez and is home to the nearest airport. Five words later on the page, there is “Baton Rouge,” standing sturdily on the page, bigger than life.

All I can assume is that the Spell Check and/or the online editor program was out to lunch, as they say, when page 418 came up for proofing. I seriously doubt a human proofreader could make such a glaring error. And I am certain beyond a doubt that the author is innocent of this massacre.

This sort of depredating reality aggravates me immeasurably. It may even agitate me or possibly, acerbate, affront, antagonize, exasperate, irritate, madden and thoroughly offend me.

I just had a thought. It might be well-advised for me to take heed of Henry Brooks Adams’ warning, for my health’s sake, if nothing else. Henry was a well-educated novelist, historian and academic. John Quincy Adams, President, was his grandpa. John Adams, Founding Father and President, was his great-grandpa. The boy had brains as well as an impeccable family tree. His warning concerning power, publicity and aggravation follows:

“The effect of power and publicity on all men is the aggravation of self, a sort of tumor that ends by killing the victim's sympathies” Henry Brooks Adams (1838-1918)

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About the author Cate Lane: Born in Minnesota and raised a temperate progressive, I was carried off to Texas 10 years ago by the tsunami that was my husband's retirement. Texas is not Minnesota, not by a long shot. However, I hear that Minnesota isn't Minnesota anymore either.

Writing was always my first choice in life. I began writing at the age of 8, small books about pioneers heading west. Little did I know then that I would be living in the most "western" of all the states, Texas. No one told the Texans that they are simply Southerners who, like Bugs Bunny, took a wrong turn at Albuquerque and wound up here.

I am sneaking up on 70 years of age and now own a vast store of useless knowledge. Happy to share any or all of it with you all.

Email: CthlnLn@aol.com

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