Grab a chair and a couple of root beers...

So, I was listening to this earlier today. It's President Lyndon Baines Johnson, ordering some custom-made lightweight slacks from Hagger, and while I was cracking up at him saying, "Leave me about an inch from where the zipper ends around under my... back to my bunghole," it was something else that he said that got me all thoughtful and wandering around in my memory.

Ol' LBJ has a very strong Central Texas accent, which is something I've gotten used to hearing since I've lived here, though I think it got softened somewhat during his years in Washington, D.C. It got my attention, though, when he asked that they add about an inch to the side pockets, because whenever he sat down, "my knife and my money fall out." And boy, wasn't that a familiar complaint, because my dad used to say that all the time after he moved out of the oil fields and into the office, a change which required him to wear suits and dress slacks. The pockets weren't deep enough to hold his change, his keys, and his jackknife, and my mom usually ended up at her sewing machine, with his suit trousers over her lap, pinning extra fabric to the pockets to make them deeper. Because in the South that my dad grew up in, a man was never caught without his jackknife in his pocket.

A jackknife was sacred.

What's a jackknife?

Well, I don't know how it is up north, but most men from the southern half of this country used to carry what we called a jackknife or a pocket knife with them everywhere they went, and they weren't used for defense or for cuttin' somebody up bad, etc. They were used to do little things, like... sharpen a pencil, or cut the gordian knot most little kids manage to mangle their shoelaces into when they're first learning to tie their shoes, or pick out a splinter in the same kid's foot because Daddy let them run around barefoot, because they couldn't tie their shoes any more, etc. It could be used to cut string for bundling newspapers together, or the tip of the blade could be used as a makeshift screwdriver when that little screw that holds the ear piece to one's glasses fell out, or to cut a blooming rose from the rosebush in the front yard to give the elderly lady from across the street who'd come over to give the family the cookies she'd just baked. Need a fishing pole? Daddy would whip out his jackknife, cut a tree branch, then cut some string, pry apart a paperclip to bend into a hook, and there you go. Were you misbehaving? Out would come the knife to cut a switch from the hazel bush so Mom could apply it in the way she deemed most effective.

It was sort of an everyman's tool of the trade. You'd see them pulled out in barbecue joints to slice sausage into small pieces for little ones to nibble, or into chunks for chewing. Or to cut a plug of tobacco for chewing (EWWWWW!!!). I remember watching one of my great uncles whipping it out and using it to pry a rock out of a horseshoe when his horse started limping, and then wiping it on his pants before cutting a chunk off an apple to reward the same horse for her patience. You don't see them much any more. Especially in these days of heightened airport security.

My dad got me one for my thirteenth birthday, and I was very proud of it, too, even though I'm not a boy. I guess he got tired of me asking to borrow his all the time when I needed to put a new hook on my fishing line! I still have it, though I don't use it any more, because it's very fragile now. But, I have a Swiss Army Card Knife that the Husbandly One got for me about ten or fifteen years ago, which I keep in my purse. It's not the same thing, but I use it for just about everything when I'm out and about.

It's kind of weird, I admit, to walk by the little shelf where the Husbandly One puts all the things that he keeps in his pocket; wallet, keys, phone... but there's no jackknife. I'm used to it now, but... it just seems like such a husbandly, fatherly sort of item, and it's odd not to see it there.

And I remember after my father had died, and one of the first times I went back to the house where I'd grown up after the funeral, I was walking toward Mom's room, and hesitated, because right there, on the sideboard by the door, behind the photo of my nephew... there was my dad's little pile of things. Wallet, keys, assorted change, odd little items he'd either picked up, or been given by friends... and his jackknife. Yeah, it made me tear up.

And do you know, when I went to Mom's new house, I walked into her bedroom and there on her dresser, in "his" corner, his little pile of things. Wallet, keys, change, odd little objects... and his jackknife.

It seemed kind of right, and made me think that maybe it makes that house feel a little more like home for her. Like he's still there with her, even in the new place.

Whatever works.

It's still funny to think that even when he was president, LBJ carried a jackknife in his pocket. How the world has changed, in ways large and small.

*stares thoughtfully at phone*

Well. That was... interesting. I think I can honestly say that... that was definitely not the result I was expecting from last week's CT scan.

*ponders*

I know I have said this before, but I think this bears repeating.

Election Day is coming up on Tuesday, November 4th. This, more than any other election, is so very, very important. We are standing on the edge, my friends. We are standing on the edge of a very big precipice, and what we do on Election Day will determine whether we plunge over the edge, or survive to teeter on it before being able to step back and heave a sigh of relief.

I hope to heavens that those of you old enough have registered to vote. And that you will vote. That you won't sit at home thinking, "Well, someone else is going to vote opposite of the way I vote and that will cancel me out."

Because that is just plain stupid. That isn't the way it works. Trust me. Every single vote COUNTS.

And before you shrug, roll your eyes, and scroll past this entry to look at something far more interesting, I want you to consider three dates.

February 3, 1870.

August 26, 1920.

June 2, 1924.

And what is the significance of these three dates, you may all wonder?

February 3, 1870 is the date the Fifteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution was ratified. And in case you don't understand its significance, read this:

"Section 1. The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude.
Section 2. The Congress shall have power to enforce this article by appropriate legislation."

This is the amendment that gave African Americans the right to vote following the Civil War and led to African Americans being voted into state legislatures and Congress in never before seen numbers. Of course, it didn't last, because whites found a way to stop them. The "Literacy Laws" were one way. One had to be able to read to vote, and many former slaves were illiterate. However, if one's grandfather had voted, then one was exempt from the test. Of course, very, very few slaves had a grandfather who had voted. Another method was the "Poll Tax" that many states used to keep African Americans from voting. You had to pay a fee to vote. Of course, this also shut a lot of poor whites out of the voting booth, too. It took the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960's to remove the last of the barriers that kept African Americans from voting.

August 26, 1920 was the day women in the United States were granted the right to vote by the Nineteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. That was only 88 years ago, my dears. My grandmother was in her forties the first time she was legally allowed to vote. Try imagining that, ladies. Imagine listening to your husband, your brothers, uncles, friends, all discussing an upcoming election, and knowing that you have no say in it. Unless you could convince them to vote your way. Which you most likely couldn't. They probably would have patted your shoulder and told you not to worry your pretty little head over it. Imagine not being able to vote NOW. Horrifying, isn't it?

And the last date, June 2, 1924. This was the day the Indian Citizenship Act, also known as the Snyder Act, was signed into law by President Calvin Coolidge. This act finally finally gave citizenship to all Native Americans born in the United States, and thus allowed them the right to vote. Not that they all got it right away. Some states, even as late as 1948, still banned Native Americans from voting. In 1948, it took a Native American World War II veteran to file a lawsuit that went to the state Supreme Court in Arizona to allow Native Americans in that state to vote. In 1956, Utah was the last state to grant Native Americans living in their state the right to vote.

Hundreds of people have gone before you, fighting, protesting, being arrested, harrassed, killed to get you that right to vote. They have been hosed, attacked by police dogs, hit with truncheons, been taken away from their families, shamed, and humiliated... all in the name of getting the right to vote, not for themselves, but for their children, and their children's children. You. You, sitting there in your chair, staring at this screen, thinking maybe you will, but then, maybe you won't, maybe it's not worth the bother. Look into their eyes and tell them that. Tell your grandmother, and your great-grandmother that you're going to be too busy to vote. Or taking an extra nap. Or cleaning out the garage. Tell your great great grandfather, who spent hours huddled over a Bible by the light of a candle stump, teaching himself to read so he could pass the literacy test his state had enacted, in order to vote. So that his son and his grandson would be able to vote later. Tell that to your great great aunt who spent three nights in jail without food, being taunted by guards and other prisoners after protesting for a woman's right to vote, knowing that her husband refused to pay her bail to "teach her a lesson."

It isn't so easy now, is it?

There are a lot of people who say patriotism means "My country right or wrong."

They're wrong.

Patriotism means, "My country right or wrong. When she's right, she's great and I love her. But when she's wrong, I want her fixed, and dammit, if I have to, I will roll up my sleeves and do it myself! Who's with me?"

It doesn't mean following our leaders blindly. It means taking responsibility, and knowing when things have to change. It means getting off your butt and going out to vote. It means getting up at the crack of dawn, because the nearest precinct is a two and a half hour drive away. It means sitting down and doing some research, actually taking time to read the voters guides, then going on to check up on it yourself, checking facts, making notes, and voting for the person you think is best suited to do the job, regardless of party affiliation. There are many ways to serve your country. This is just the most basic of them.

Go out and vote. You've got time now to do your research. Not just about the national elections, but your local elections as well. Educate yourself. Be an informed voter. And remember all those people who have gone before you. They're looking over your shoulder, waiting for you to make their sacrifices worthwhile.