“Pete, did you throw snowballs at the neighbors house? Mr. Alstrom says he thought he saw you with a group of other boys that were throwing things at his house.”
When we were kids way back in the day, we’d invariably find seasonal mischief to keep us occupied. In summer it was setting off illegal fireworks at all hours of the night, and in the winter it was packing snow into solid ice balls and launching them high in the air so that when they landed on a roof it sounded like a small explosion inside.
I’m eyeballing my old man, trying to figure out on the “dad meter” how upset he’s going to be if he finds out it actually was me with the aforementioned snowball.
I’m guessing by the look on his face that I could be in for it, so I decide to fib. But just as I’m about to tell him a whopper, he looks at me, puts his hand on my shoulder, and says, “You know son, there’s two kinds of folks in this world, those that tell the truth, and those that don’t. In which group do you want to be?”
I’m thinking to myself, “I want to be in the group that doesn’t get paddled,” but I’m also thinking this might be a time when I man up and say I did it.
And I did.
That was almost 60 years ago, and I’ve had the “there’s two kinds of people in the world” conversation a lot since then.
I remember the first time I had a sandwich with Anne. It must have been 33 or 34 years ago, and we were still in the getting to know each other phase. I can’t remember exactly where we were, but it was a lunch spot, and we both ordered sandwiches. When they arrived I slathered mine with mustard, and then turned to hand the bottle for her to use, and she said to me, and I kid you not, ”Ugh, I don’t like mustard.”
“Uh oh,” I thought, “trouble in paradise already.”
You see, I didn’t realize those folks existed in this world. But it’s true, there’s two kinds of people in the sandwich world; those that like mustard, and those that don’t.
It’s a testament to our relationship that we survived the “mustard incident.”
When Donald Trump first burst onto the scene I didn’t know much about the guy. I mean yeah, I knew he was rich, but that was about it. But when he started running for office in a serious way I discovered something very bothersome about the man.
He likes his steaks well done.
I was aghast, appalled, taken aback.
Why? Because there’s two kinds of people in the steak world, those that respect a “medium rare at most” rule, and those that don’t.
(Well done? Just the thought gives me shivers.)
Of course, there are a host of other things that fall into the “two kinds of people” category aren’t there?
Those that prefer sitting at a bar, and those that prefer sitting at a table.
Those that show up and help without being asked, and those that don’t.
Those that think before they speak, and those that don’t.
And of course there’s two kinds of politicians in the world, too.
Those that tell their audience what they want to hear just so that they can be reelected, and those that tell their audience what they need to hear to make the country a better place to live.
I’m thinking there may also be two kinds of readers in this world, those that will enjoy this column, and those that won’t. Lol!
Peace out folks.
Pete Mitchell’s “In America” column appears every other Monday. He lives in Geneva. Contact him at peteinamerica@yahoo.com.
IN AMERICA: There’s two kinds of people in this world
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05.02.2024
“Pete, did you throw snowballs at the neighbors house? Mr. Alstrom says he thought he saw you with a group of other boys that were throwing things at his house.”
When we were kids way back in the day, we’d invariably find seasonal mischief to keep us occupied. In summer it was setting off illegal fireworks at all hours of the night, and in the winter it was packing snow into solid ice balls and launching them high in the air so that when they landed on a roof it sounded like a small explosion inside.
I’m eyeballing my old man, trying to figure out on the “dad meter” how upset he’s going to be if he finds out it actually was me with the aforementioned snowball.
I’m guessing by the look on his face that I could be in for it, so I decide to fib. But just as I’m about to tell him a whopper, he looks at me, puts his hand on my shoulder, and says, “You........
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