I’ve lived in Peoria all my life, and I’ve yet to find anyone who can answer this puzzle for me: What is so special about Beachler’s Amoco (corner of War Memorial and University) that their gas is always 10 to 15 cents per gallon higher than everyone else in town? And why in the world are there always people there filling up?

Is it a status thing — like wearing the hottest brand of clothing? Is it a full-service station, where a gaggle of grease monkeys run out, ’50’s-style, and start checking your oil, tire pressure, washer fluid, etc., in addition to filling up your tank and making friendly conversation with you? Does a genie pop out of the pump and grant you three wishes? Do they have a special blend of gasoline that smells like a fresh chocolate mocha if you accidentally spill it on you or your car?

Any of these things might make their “special” prices worth it. But, from what I can tell, it’s just like any other gas station. So why the high prices?

“Lindbergh flew the Atlantic without a radio, but we wouldn’t think of going through the produce section without having a little cell phone on our hips.”

–Garrison Keillor

“God made the Idiot for practice, and then He made the School Board.”

— Mark Twain

(Hat tip: Mom)

“I don’t think any of us can do much about the rapid growth of new technology. However, it is possible for us to learn how to control our own uses of technology. The ‘forum’ that I think is best suited for this is our educational system. If students get a sound education in the history, social effects and psychological biases of technology, they may grow to be adults who use technology rather than be used by it.”

–Neil Postman (1931-2003)

I know you’re all wondering when I’m going to write again….

I am back from my weekend in Ohio, but there are some medical issues in my family that are more important than blogging right now.  I hope to be writing again soon, so stay tuned.

I’m blogging from Ohio, where my nephew is graduating from high school this weekend.  I’ll get back to blogging in a couple of days, unless I see something really blogworthy and i just can’t stand to wait.  Have a nice weekend, everyone!

Sorry for the paucity of posts, but there’s really nothing to blog about today.

The big meeting with Ray LaHood, the school board, the park board, and the city was a big bunch of nothing, according to news accounts.  The city council was off this week, so there’s no council meeting to cover.  I asked Randy Ray if there was anything new on the cable franchise renewal front — nope.

*sigh*

I guess it’s kind of nice to have a break, now that I think about it.  I’m sure there will be something blogworthy again soon enough….

“In the final choice a soldier’s pack is not so heavy as a prisoner’s chains.”

–Dwight D. Eisenhower

Thank you to all who have kept and are keeping us free in America.

“Men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of them pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing had happened.”

— Winston Churchill

Today is my mother’s birthday. I thought I would take this opportunity to share one of my favorite poems, written by a son to his mother. It’s called “The Lanyard,” and it was penned by U.S. Poet Laureate Billy Collins. I heard him recite this poem right here in Peoria at Bradley University. I myself never made a lanyard at camp, but I certainly made my share of worthless little trinkets that I gave to my mother when I was younger, so perhaps the lanyard spoken of in this poem can be considered metaphorical.

The Lanyard
by Billy Collins

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

Thanks, Mom, and happy birthday.