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Flummox

The Source

I should be the last person to complain about fundraisers since I spend a good deal of time, as do many of you, asking folks to give to this cause or that. But when you live in a small town, the line of scouts, tiny band members, cute little choristers, pint-sized PTA promoters, baseball/football/soccer/basketball bouncers and youth group groupies can wear out your doorknob. I know that times are tight and that our society is currently not keen on supporting education referendums. I also know that every tiny knock on my door represents a worthwhile cause. But just once I’d love to have someone join the line of supplicants on my porch with something worth buying. I don’t need wrapping paper. I buy one roll a decade. People know when a gift is from me because it’s the same wrapping paper as last year. Mixed nuts are something that I also have in plentiful supply. I live in Arenzville. This week a fair-haired young salesman handed me a catalog full of piffle to finance his school trip. The word is out in town that I’m the easiest touch on the block, so I thumbed through his glossy array of knickknacks searching for something that I could possibly use. I have this theory that these fund raising companies buy up all the junk that Wal-Mart and Amazon can’t sell, then gather them together for a catalog, knowing that somewhere out there is a mother who will buy anything just so her son won’t be labeled as a poor salesman. I’m not a mother but I buy. This week’s catalog out-did itself in uselessness. My favorite item was “The Last Drop Spoon,” a long-handled utensil with a very small spoon on the end. That’s it. It was touted as, “…the perfect thing for getting the last drop out of the jar!” I stand there…aghast at the years of my life that I’ve wasted without an eight-dollar spoon to retrieve the last bit of olive juice. Should I order it and change my life forever or continue in my old jar-licking ways? I pass. The second item is a plastic rack on which your microwave bacon might recline while being zapped. Again, my mind races to the paper towels that have given their lives all because I’d not owned a bacon rack. Next is…and I’m not kidding… “The perfect container to keep things!” It’s a small, plastic container with a snap-on lid. Oh, the agony to imagine the countless “things” that are running loose around my house simply because I didn’t have the foresight to buy a container they could call home! The list of treasures is endless as I thumb through the brochure… Jar openers (I guess for those of us born without hands), “authentic” necklaces (although the description fails to say authentic what), make-your-own bracelets (if I could make my own why would I need this catalog?) Then you turn to the pages of overpriced cookies, candy and bread dough. My life is complete. I shut the catalog and order more wrapping paper. If I may just make a modest proposal: Let’s say I want to give twenty bucks to the local high school band so they can go toot with Mickey and Minnie at Disney World. Wouldn’t they get there a whole lot more quickly if they simply asked me for a donation? When I spend twenty-two bucks on wrapping paper and ten of it goes to the marching Trojans/Crimsons/Tigers/Flashes/Wildcats, and the remain twelve smackers ends up in the pocket of a promotion company, have I spent my money wisely? Bake sales are great! I can eat something. Chili suppers, Sloppy Joe brunches, barbecues and pork chops before a football game are just the ticket and you can charge me anything you wish. But please…please don’t make me stand in front of a sad-eyed little boy trying to finance his band program and making me feel like a jerk if I don’t jump at the chance to purchase a long-handled spoon to get the last drop from the jar. One of my favorite school administrator’s Jim Brim, would gather the senior class in one room at the beginning of the year and introduce the man from the graduation company, the outfit that sells senior announcements, key chains, memory books and other life saving merchandise. Jim would say, “This guy is going to try to sell you some junk, but you don’t have to buy it,” then he’d leave the room. The poor young salesman was flummoxed at that sort of introduction, but he was dealing with a man who knew his flummox.