Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
An Essential American
Institution
The American people may speak (or shriek) about the three
branches of the government as essential for defending the people and the
Constitution of our Republic, and they’d be right. They may speak of the power
of our Navy and those other services, the pediments of power in our electoral
systems from the precinct to the federal, our various courts, the genius of our
Bill of Rights (ALL of those rights), and the willingness of some, not nearly
all, Americans to sacrifice for the greater good. And they’d be right about all
that too.
I think, though, that we tend to ignore that bastion of
popular sovereignty, the rustic yet majestic institution of the country store.
The senators of Rome met among marble splendor, and the
senators of our nation meet in luxurious offices paneled in expensive wood and
once in a while in their softly-carpeted, well-lit, air-conditioned Chamber.
But at its core our democracy (yeah, yeah, I know, republic,
but the voting is democratic) meets first and most effectively on the
wooden-planked porch of the old-time country store beneath that great symbol of
our freedom, a metal NEHI sign, with a Pepsi-Cola thermometer nailed next to
the door and a solitary gas pump out front.
The wise ones in our capitol meet to discuss raising their
salaries, sending our kids (not theirs) to wars, raising their salaries, the
national budget, raising their salaries, the dispersal of our armies and fleets,
raising their salaries, who gets a new SUV, raising their salaries, spending
taxpayer dollars for votes, raising their salaries, gerrymandering for power,
raising their salaries, who gets a personal Air Force jet plane to swan around
in, raising their salaries, and who gets a free ride to Ukraine for photo ops
and showing off.
But on the porch the farmers and workers meet to chaw a
little Red Man and discuss seeds, their tax burden, crops, their tax burden, the
price of fertilizer, their tax burden, the price of fuel, their tax burden, the
new baby, their tax burden, the price of farm equipment, their tax burden, maybe
getting the dirt roads graded, their tax burden, how’re things down at the mill
/ shop / store, their tax burden, I don’t much care for that boy my baby-girl’s
been talking to, and their tax burden.
Some barefoot kids come by with their fishing poles and
discuss the eternal choices between a Moon Pie (won’t melt in the heat) and an
Eskimo Pie (it’s good and cold, and a Royal Crown Cola (tastes better) or a
Coca-Cola (no it doesn’t!).
“Hey, kids, did y’all catch anything?”
“Nossir, but we seen this snake that was THIS big around!”
In the District of Columbia there are fine buildings and
statues and memorials and reflecting pools (or is that reflecting fools?) and
offices and the fleshpots of the new Babylon, but I submit to you, worthy citizens
of the Republic, that there is more honest discussion about the affairs of
state on the front porch of the old country store than just about anywhere else.
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