In America We Trust

I Trust Square Knots and Green Knee-socks

I know what you’re thinking. John Griessmayer is an Eagle Scout? The same John Griessmayer who complains when the AC is set above 68 degrees, whose pale skin blisters like a vampire’s in direct sunlight, and who refuses to mow his lawn because it makes him feel all itchy and gross? This is a man, after all, who considers anything less than Johnnie Walker Black to be “roughing it.” He’s an Eagle Scout?

Well, you can call me soft. Or fussy. Or high-maintenance. I won’t deny it. But folded up in a shoebox in my attic, there’s a merit badge sash full of evidence that at one point in my life, I was Grizzly freakin’ Adams.

The names of the merit badges I earned as a scout now seem more like a list of torture techniques designed to make me confess to a murder I didn’t commit: Camping. Hiking. Backpacking. Wilderness Survival. Canoeing. Orienteering. Pioneering. Reading over the requirements for these patches, not only did I know how to improvise a natural shelter, but how to protect myself from bears while doing it. Also, the word “hypothermia” comes up a lot.

Today, my igloo-building and bear-fighting days are behind me. But sometimes at night, I’ll think about my scouting experience and everything it taught me. And I start to wonder if I should dig out the old camping gear and hit the trail again.

That’s usually when the bartender interrupts me. “Another scotch, Mr. Griessmayer?”

Sure, Ken. I’ll have another. And check the thermostat. Feels a little warm in here tonight.

– John

In Citizenship We Trust

I recently had the pleasure of witnessing a swearing-in ceremony for my brother-in-law who became a naturalized American citizen. After moving here almost 30 years ago from England, he finally decided the time was right. He and 67 others from around the world were sworn in at the Federal Court House in Richmond, VA. The climax to a very long and laborious process was surprisingly short. But it was an emotional experience to see all these people from so many different countries (well over 20 - we lost count!) pledge their allegiance to our wonderful country! Sometimes we forget how fortunate we are to be living in a free and democratic country like ours. It made me proud to be an American and proud of my brother-in-law to want to be a part of it!

– Betsy

Made in the U.S.A – Mason Jars

As a kid, Mason jars meant canning season. Canning meant there were gardens, and gardens meant, “Put the kid to work.” Hoe the garden, plant the garden, weed the garden, water the garden—it never stopped. There was even a time when my parents made me pick rocks in the garden so I’d stay out of their hair - no stopping until they were all gone. I won’t mention how long it took me to realize this was an impossible task. Let’s just say there were sizable rock piles.

Every Sunday we’d go to my grandma’s farm. Fun, right? NO. There would be HUGE bags and bowls of beans and I would have to string, snap, and shell anything that contained a bean. It was like the beans never stopped appearing. And when they finally did stop, in came the tomatoes and corn and on and on.

Finally, the actual canning would commence. For days on end, my mom would be all paranoid and lecture me to not go in the kitchen because too much movement could make the pressure cooker blow up and “scald me to death.” I’m still looking for those thousands of kids that met their demise with a pressure cooker in the summer. That cooker confined me to one side of the house for what seemed like an eternity—further fueling my dislike of all things “canning.” Not to mention the smell depending on the vegetable. Old people were so weird. Chicken fingers and French fries were the only way to go!

But I’m older now, and I appreciate the art of canning and fondly remember the gardens, the chores, and shelling and shucking—even the scalding prevention talks. Canned green beans, tomatoes, corn—you can’t beat it. And you haven’t lived until you’ve tried my mom’s salsa. It’s heaven in a jar.

Mason jars remind me of summers when the living was easy—they remind me of being a kid. You better believe when I visit home, I return with armloads of canned goods. Every summer mom gets all flustered and declares, “This is the last year of canning…there’s too much eating and not enough helping!” But we all know she’s crying wolf. My brother and I put in years of child labor to fill her Mason jars with goodness. Now we’re collecting back pay.

– Lorie

The Land of Opportunity

Independence Day is always a great reminder to me that when I was a child I spent a year living in a log cabin with no electricity, running water or plumbing (that cabin still stands on Route 220 in Roanoke near the Franklin County line). Today I’m the CEO of a nationally recognized ad agency with offices in five cities. Trust me – America is indeed the land of opportunity.

– Roger

I Trust in America

I trust America:

-To try to get things right, most of the time

-To strive to figure out what went wrong, and then get it right the next time

-To be the best country in the world at laughing at ourselves

-To value honesty

– Chuck

I Trust Geography Class

Artist Kim Dingle made this oil painting from maps drawn by teenagers in Las Vegas who were asked to recreate the outline of the United States without looking at a map. The only thing they all seem to have in common is Florida.

– Tara

I Trust in Martha & Lillian

I trust that no one will be able to create a better Flag Sheet Cake than Martha Stewart:

http://www.marthastewart.com/recipe/flag-sheet-cake-by-martha

I trust that no one will come up with chintzier July 4^th decorations than Lillian Vernon:

http://www.lillianvernon.com/catalog/thumbnail.jsp?parentCatId=1&catId=169&linkref=hero

God Bless America!

– Lois

In Patriotic Speedos I Trust

In the spirit of Independence Day, patriotismand all that is sacred in this country, I feel I would be remiss if I did not pay homage to the hairy and sometimes potbellied men sporting their red, white and blue striped speedos. (Not to be confused with string bikinis or banana hammocks—those deserve a tribute all their own.) You can be sure to spot some of these guys out on the Fourth of July weekend or any summer weekend where there's water and sun chairs nearby, for that matter.

I don't know exactly what it is, but something about them just feels like home to me. (I'm not sure I even fully understand that statement.) Maybe it's the fact that Amir's idea of patriotism is wearing a red, white and blue speedo that has “July 4th” printed on the front and “Let 'er rip” printed across the back — knocking you repeatedly in the side with his elbow saying, “You get it? It's funny because it has two meanings,” laughing because he thinks he just let you in on a big secret.

Or the way Hadad snaps his fingers a little off beat, while he rocks his bikini clad hips (and belly) back and forth singing all the wrong words to “Proud to be an American,” in a not-so-American, middle eastern accent — just happy to be living the dream.

Or maybe it's how Rabi wins the ladies over in his red and white star patterned man-panties and aviator sunglasses smoking a cigarette with one hand while waving a sparkler back and forth with the other.

Or perhaps, on some level, they remind me of my father. My father is an Arabic man who loves his speedos. And what's more American than a hairy Arab man in speedos?? I, personally, can't think of anything and apparently neither could my father. Or his brothers. Or their dad. Or their dad's brothers. Somewhere in between me begging my dad not to wear those speedos at the pool when my friends were around and my mom sneaking them from his drawer to throw away, I got a soft spot for 'em.

I think it might be the way my father really committed to wearing those bikini bottom style bathing suits. Because, even when my mother got rid of them and replaced them with swim trunks, he still found a way to wear what he wanted. Yep. You guessed it. He rolled those suckers up. Not the traditional way you roll things up. No, he rolled them up inwardly. Tucking them under. Where the final product looked like a pair of make-shift puffy speedos. And he wore these shamelessly. Committed to them. Working on his tan. Cooking on the grill. Speaking Arabic. With all his brothers. Listening to country music. In their speedos. So to all the Rabis, Amirs, Achmeds and Hadads who strip down for Uncle Sam, I will always hold a special place for you in my heart.

– Chereen

 I Trust in The Boom

What I trust about the Fourth of July is the continued survival of the American Dream -and the dream is “exploding” like never before. I’m talking about that pure, un-fettered and rapid chemical reaction “dream” that swiftly occurs when certain elements are introduced to one another. Ever since those Chinese monks accidentally discovered gunpowder while searching for an elixir of immortality, we’ve been fascinated by The Boom.

We experience The Boom at concerts in the park where our local symphonies play classical favorites while fireworks resonate in the evening sky, or in summer action movies that teach us invaluable lessons about how to deal with giant alien robots, terrorists, car-tossing drug cartels and/or killer asteroids. (Let’s face it, if the Boy Scouts trained people for these events, their membership would be through the roof, no pun intended.) Sometimes, we experience booms of the homemade variety, like when your neighbor puts down his PBR and says "Hey, watch this!" (Always a good sign) as he packs a paper grocery bag to the rim with leftover fireworks from those fine stands by the interstate. He then sets the bag ablaze while cranking up the “Best of Lee Greenwood” CD he picked up at Wal-Mart that morning. Yes, we love our explosions.

We devote TV programs to the science and effects of The Boom...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rMftsdnFRzE

And some of us even want to be blown up after we die...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v9ReDDDC0Rg

So this Independence Day, it doesn't matter if people don't know the history of the American Revolution, can't name the three branches of government, or can’t find their state capital on a map. On this day, as we celebrate the grand experiment we call our republic, I know that I will bear witness to people in various states of sobriety indulging in one of our favorite national past times - blowing **** up. Frankly, anything less than a fist full of M80s and you’re not a real American. Bonus Patriot Points if they explode in slow motion.

– Grant