The Coonridge Digest: A part of America the rest of the world never gets to see

Greetings from the Ridge.

My friend Richard is not an authority on global affairs, but he’s the closest thing I have to a world expert. Herb and I met him about 20 years ago when we took a tour of Europe and this smiling young Englishman met our group at London’s Heathrow airport, announcing himself as our guide for the adventure.

At that time Richard still had all his hair and was single. Today he’s bald, married to a Swiss airline attendant and has three little Swedish Brits at his home in Brighton, England.

I’ve valued Richard for his ability to get a crowd of 30 hard-to-maneuver Americans through the Vatican, the Swiss Alps, and the subway systems of Paris, but over the years I’ve come to growing appreciation for his views on the world and the U.S. in particular.

It’s a difficult thing to evaluate your own country when you’re a part of it, so Richard’s visits to what he terms "My Yank Friends" is always enlightening. His infrequent stops usually coincide with the Thanksgiving season so he can bring his wife whom he calls Annette-of-the-MasterCard over here to shop. While Annette burns up the local shopping mall, Richard and I usually plant ourselves in a local coffee bar so I can pump him for what he’s seen. He now flies for Virgin Airlines and gets to view the world on a weekly basis.

On his last trip over to what he terms "your silly rebel shores" we sat and sipped directly across from a Salvation Army kettle with attendant bell ringers. I asked him if he’d rather move to a spot where we wouldn’t be bothered by the constant ding-dong. "No," he said. "I find it rather pleasant. You know, the Salvation Army was a British idea but you Yanks have pretty much taken it over."

I apologized. He answered, "Oh don’t. It would have died in England. I don’t think we have the giving spirit you do."

And this set him off. Richard has kidded me at length over the years about the excesses of the American lifestyle… our need for the biggest, best, highest, and most expensive. But on this chilly pre-Thanksgiving morning in the American shopping mall, swamped in a sea of shoppers, Richard checked his criticism and took a more thoughtful tone. "You know, this is a part of America the rest of the world never gets to see."

"The Vodka bottles shaped like a nativity scene?"

"No. The way you take care of each other. The world doesn’t see that. Oh, it sees the way you tend to murder each other at an alarming rate and most of the world takes note of your generosity toward the struggling nations, but your generosity toward your fellow Americans. That doesn’t make the BBC broadcasts. It’s a pity. It’s your greatest asset."

I was taken aback a bit. This was Richard who has good-naturedly poked fun at the American lifestyle for 20 years. And I must admit, I was flattered.

He continued, "We’re only here for three days and in that time we’ve attended a church bazaar, a festival of trees, a choir concert with canned goods as the admission, and this morning’s paper is full of acts of private philanthropy… even school children getting into the act of giving. It’s really quite astounding."

I asked, "But don’t you… I mean, England is a…"

"Oh we give our token contribution to the poor at Christmas time, but it’s nothing like in the U.S. You Yanks seem to keep it going all year long."

I’m always ready to get in a few digs with my friend so I couldn’t help asking, "You think maybe it’s because the Brits depend a bit too much on your government for all your social needs?"

He bristled slightly over his latte, then said, "You’ll not find people starving or dying from lack of proper health care in England, but still… it makes one wonder if a nanny-government hasn’t stifled our concern for our fellow man. I guess it’s a tradeoff."

We sat and watched the consumers happily consuming, holding desperately to the hands of their children with dreams of "purchase" in their eyes, and generally soaking up the sights and smells of what has become the Christmas season, U.S.A.

I asked Richard if he was ready to move on and try to find if his wife had melted their MasterCard. He said, "No. I think I’d rather sit here a bit. I rather enjoy the sound of the American bell ringing."

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