the shape of things

Dear Juan,

I hear a lot about the benefits of small government over big government. Is it a size thing? If so, why wouldn’t petite government be preferable to small government? Petite has a better ring to it. When somebody describes a woman as petite, I immediately draw a pleasing mental picture of Audrey Hepburn in “Roman Holiday.” But if a woman is described as small, I envision Linda Hunt in “Dune.” Basically, petite is almost always cute and small can range from mildly disconcerting to physically deformed. It’s like someone saying their female cousin is big. What does that mean, big as in fat or big as in volley ball spiker?

Brandon Bravo
Carterville, Missouri

Dear Brandon,

It’s a small (or petite) world. I knew your father. Back when Junior’s Tavern pushed the envelope of irresponsible drinking, he was known as Rio. Your pop was the mastermind behind replacing cars with riding mowers as the vehicle of choice for avoiding intrusive interest in our blood alcohol content. After an ample supply of Jim Beam, Rio was a genuine problem solver. On any given afternoon the pitted parking lot was full of corroded Snappers. If Junior Madden had maintained sobriety long enough to master small engine repair, he’d have left Birdie Lu financially solvent. I was considered a showoff because I owned Carterville’s only John Deere, complete with working headlights and adjustable seat. The Deere was a family heirloom, the crown jewel of Grandpa White’s estate.

I’ll always remember the August afternoon Marshal Dickman put the kibosh on our unlicensed means of transportation. The day before your father instigated a mass mower exodus. He’d heard Billy Hardy had installed an in-ground pool behind his double-wide, thanks to a fortuitous insurance settlement. So off we went. There were probably twenty mowers snaking down old Route 66. Because we were drunk, the progress was rather disorderly. And then, out of nowhere, the Marshal’s Dodge zoomed past our caravan with lights flashing. Eventually everybody found park, and we idled in place wondering what the fuss was all about. Long story short, we were holding up Mrs. Sample’s funeral motorcade -- and had been for ten blocks. Alas, mowers don’t come equipped with rear view mirrors. Although it wasn’t funny at the time, Jack Cooley, Carterville’s last in-house mortician, was forced to pull his ’64 Caddy hearse into Pearson’s gas station and phone the Marshal into action. No doubt the solemnity of the occasion was marred by an uninvited and intoxicated lawn mower escort.

Because Mrs. Samples died a Baptist, the Marshal saved the colorful tongue lashing for later. Ironically, Billy Hardy didn’t have an in-ground pool. All we found was a shitty Western Auto above-ground. But then what should we have expected from someone who hit pay dirt after having their head aerated by a brush hog? It wasn’t your father’s fault that Billy Hardy blew Liberty Mutual's money on chinchillas. Rio was always the romantic type. He deserved better than cashing out in a wet crawlspace. At least he left this vale of tears doing what he loved best. The Rio I knew would have been pleased knowing he was laid to rest in a sheet metal casket.

Concerning big or small government, who cares? As long as there’s enough electricity to keep the ice machine working, Carpe diem.