GENERATION GAP

A while back, the cranky old guy and his son-in-law—all things considered, not a bad sort—got into a discussion about music. The son-in-law—let’s call him “Ben”—waxed lovingly and nostalgic about the music of the ‘80s. The cranky old guy, a product of the ‘60s, asked, “What, the ‘80s had music?”

So for Christmas, Ben gave the cranky old guy a CD of ‘80s music. The CD—incidentally, the cranky old guy still thinks of CDs as some newfangled invention—had 18 songs, assuming one defines the term “songs” loosely. The cranky old guy vaguely recognized several names: Hall & Oates, Duran Duran (because it (he?) sounds like a brand of paint), and Pat Benatar. As for the rest, for all the cranky old guy knows they could have been Australian football teams.

The song titles were totally unknown. “Would I Lie To You,” “Maneater,” “Rio,” “The Safety Dance,” and so on. Playing the songs was no help. None aroused even an iota of recognition.

So you ask incredulously, what was the cranky old guy doing in the ‘80s? Well, he obviously wasn’t listening to then contemporary radio stations. The ‘80s were when the cranky old guy finally discovered the music of his generation, the music of the ‘60s. The ‘80s were the heyday of the oldies stations playing the music of the ‘60s. During the ‘60s, music was just background noise for many youth. The cranky old guy himself could have named only two sources of songs: Elvis and the Beatles, and the King of course was left over from the ‘50s. But in the ‘80s on the oldies stations, the cranky old guy finally heard the anthems of his generation.

And his conclusion after listening to the ‘80s CD several times? The cranky old guy thinks he’s discovered the reason country music became so widespread during the decade.

Every generation is entitled to its own music. If the generation of the ‘80s is fortunate, maybe its music is still to come.

DSH

THE ASSAULT

The cranky old guy’s street came under assault today. Two front-loaders, a convoy of dump trucks, assorted support vehicles, a crew numbering in the double digits, and multiple supervisors descended. Usually a force of this size and complexity indicates a water main break or a major street repair. So what was this army after?

Leaves.

That’s right, leaves. Like from trees. For a number of weeks, the leaves had been in the gutters on the edge of the street, raked and dumped there by residents as they had been accustomed to do for many years. And for many years, the city leaf truck—a truck with a big vacuum nozzle—had, with a crew of two, swept the street clean, usually by mid-December.

But this year was different. One or two early leaf runs had occurred by the latter part of November. But the expected final run, the big run, did not come. Mid-December came and went. Christmas came and went. New Years came and went. The leaves remained.

Maybe the residents of our fair city haven’t been paying enough taxes. Maybe this was cosmic punishment for some unknown offense. Maybe the city authorities just forgot. But whatever the reason, leaves were clogging the street, occupying parking spots, reducing the travel lane to a narrow canyon between towering walls of decomposing detritus.

But today we finally saw our city government in action, in spades. The assault force—the front-loaders, the dump trucks, the support vehicles, the crew and supervisors—arrived and attacked. One front-loader pushed leaves into the other front-loader, which dumped the leaves into a dump truck. As one truck was filled and pulled away, another moved into place. A few of the crew participated in the action. Many helped the supervisors supervise. A lengthy lunch break was taken.

Finally, five hours after commencing, the assault force moved to another street. Many leaves remained. After all, picking up leaves with a front-loader is an imprecise endeavor at best.

And the leaf truck? The truck that formerly swept the street bare in 45 minutes, with a crew of two? It was nowhere to be seen.

DSH