Coonridge Digest: Good old American cynicism

Greetin’s from the Ridge.

He’s sickened me for years and it was almost a relief to watch him come back again. Good old American cynicism.

After three weeks of our listenin’ to chest-thumpin’ and pledges of complete trust and unquestioning loyalty, the little bugger poked his little head out into the October air and smiled that unsociable smile of his. Ugly as he was, it was good to see him still alive.

The Late-night comedians started to sneak political jabs into their monologues. Mayor Rudolph Giuliani was beginnin’ to be accused of backroom deals and late-night phone calls to old cronies. The network news began to show the slightest hint of questioning administration policies. Sides were once again taken up in the coffee shop battlefield and Herb and I started disagreein’ again.

New Yorkers report that bit by bit, the furry-headed little weasel of cynicism was returnin’ to the streets as the city that startled and warmed the world by turnin’ into a village of love and carin’ once again began to show rotten spots in the Big Apple. A lady on National Public Radio claimed, "It was nice while it lasted but all the sweet words almost seemed like a foreign language to me." I hate cynicism. It depresses me, brings me down, and upsets my stomach when directed at a land I love so much. Of course, it makes matters worse when I remind myself that I am one myself.

But it’s not like we haven’t changed. Grandma Gebhart, a lady who stepped off the boat from the old country and spent her life remindin’ us of it, would often look at a sickly child and said, "Das kind needs den darm entleeren." I never knew for sure what this meant and it was years before I had the nerve to ask. "Das kind" meant "the child" and "Den darm entleeren" sounded a good deal like somethin’ I’d like to avoid. I not only avoided bringin’ it up around Grandma but I was quick to look healthy whenever she came around.

(I never tried to translate Grandma’s mixture of German and English.

For years I thought she gave the table blessing in German until my mother told me, "No, she’s just speaking English very quickly. She knows the roast is ready.")

Years later a friend told me that she was advisin’ we "purge" a sick child. I would not for a minute speculate just how that was done but I know that it was once a cure that ranked up there on the Joy Scale with blood-letting and bein’ covered with leeches.

Perhaps Grandma’s had her way with our country. We’ve been purged a bit. Flushed out and leaned up a tad. Most of us have been reminded what patriotism feels like. We’ve rinsed away a lot of foolishness and have been asked to realign our priorities. Things we took for granted a few weeks ago are now held a bit more precious. We even find ourselves lookin’ at our loved ones with fresh and more thankful eyes.

But that old weasel of cynicism… he wasn’t drowned out in the purge.

And as much as I dislike the critter, it does make me feel better to have him out and stompin’ around again. To begin with, the little varmint keeps us honest. I’m just ornery and American enough to know that when everybody’s in agreement then somethin’s fishy. Just because we’re all on the same train that don’t mean the engineer has a map. Oh, I’m all for routin’ out the evil scoundrels who’ve so sorely injured this nation, but it’s good to hear some good, old-fashioned argument in the air again.

Pure oxygen sounds like a dandy thing to be breathin’ but it’s highly combustible. It’s nice to have a bit of impurity in the atmosphere to dilute things. Our nation’s obnoxious ability to criticize itself has always infuriated the zealots but it’s kept us nimble and straightforward. The qualities that made the New York Fire and Police Departments so miraculous in their response to the crisis are the same traits that cause them to cuss out a taxi driver in their path and tell the confused tourist to "Get a clue, lady!" The immediate and overwhelming flood of donations came from the same hands that will begrudge every nickel of taxes next April and distrust those who will demand it of us. That little weasel of cynicism continues to keep us free. He’s the grain of sand that irritates us into the world’s most envied pearl.

This nation, conceived in liberty, must continue to nurture it. And that means not only allowin’ a healthy degree of skepticism for gosh sakes encouragin’ it.

You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door, but you’ll enjoy the trip.