Let me begin this week’s column by stating I don’t anticipate the subject to bring anyone to tears but myself. It is important to me to tell this story, but it will be a bit cryptic in that I will not use any proper names in deference to those involved. In all frankness, it would be my preference to “out” some of the individuals involved, but it will become evident to readers why this would be unfair; and I’ve had enough of unfair.
A little backstory will set the scene. Some 11 or 12 years ago, I cannot really cite a specific date, a friend introduced me to a nonprofit organization, an organization whose aims appealed to me, and as one who over the years found a lot of benefit in being a volunteer, I decided to get involved. I became a member of its elected board of directors, twice was president. I could busy myself at one project or another, this was when I had free time to fill, and enjoyed the company of the two ladies who were running the whole outfit. When the organization held events, there was always the opportunity to become more involved in reaching out to the community, and in some cases playing a character, which has always held appeal for me.
But probably the best part was a three-hour morning session once a week where a group of volunteers got together to do whatever was needed by the ladies in charge (in my time, the place has only had female bosses; at this writing, it still is by a very capable pair). While the personnel have changed over the past decade, there is a small core of us who over the past couple of years have been joined by some very talented guys adding much expertise to this little work crew. (In fact, that is what we call ourselves, the Work Crew; yeah, I know, not very original but ya gotta admit it is descriptive.)
And here is the thing that has made this one day of the week so special: at the present time, there are nine of us who are regular and, with only one exception, none is younger than 72 years old. And that youngster only has a couple years to hit his seventh decade. We are like our own little exclusive senior men’s group with two ladies in charge to keep us in line and get things done. Perfect fellowship set-up for a 73-year-old man who rides a bike; which is what I am. Every week was an opportunity to escape the four walls and for three hours enjoy the camaraderie of a group of single-minded guys your own age and still be involved in projects that benefit your community. I mean, what could go wrong with a dream deal like this?
Let me shift gears here for a minute to explain something. I have been at this writing game for quite some time now, I placed third among over 2,500 essays submitted to a national organization when I was in the fifth grade. I wrote for my high school newspaper, for my community college newspaper, where I also wrote television scripts, and at the university level I wrote for my radio program. Over the course of 30 years, from my first foray into higher education until I achieved a bachelor’s degree, I changed my course of study, my major, four times, which, as any college and university alumni would agree, involved copious writing assignments on myriad topics. Also, in those years I chalked up a fair number of classes dealing with the norms, styles and ethics of journalistic writing; in short, how to be a member of the Fourth Estate.
In the early ’90s I was employed by my hometown newspaper, where I wrote both as a reporter and as an editorialist and columnist. To be in any way part of the Fourth Estate is a privilege and to be given space to voice one’s opinion is a First Amendment right; but a right that is not completely without boundaries. Over the past couple of years, readers have come to know I have definite political convictions and any regard for the present administration in not among those convictions; quite the opposite. And I have stated those opinions knowing full well if any reader disagreed, then the same people who give me space offer them space; letters to the editor space, within guidelines, is always available and in some cases more editorial space is granted. And like any media there is always, for those who disagree, the options to quit reading, change the channel, click on another site, or just switch off.
So, what has this to do with the old guy’s group from above? It is this. You will recall the work crew operates under the umbrella of a nonprofit and there is no guarantee that event ticket sales will bring in enough finances to maintain the level of services offered, which in this case are not only substantial but vital to the area. Nonprofits rely upon grants to add to their coffers, but those are not always a guarantee, so it is from dedicated annual donors that such places receive operational funding. And if for any reason one of the people involved with the umbrella somehow offends a donor that could interrupt, or quench, further funding. Some individuals, offended anyone would speak against their worshipped idol, took a page out of the Trump Revenge Manual, and made their shickenchit position known. That is not good and under such circumstance, the umbrella really has little choice but to capitulate; after all, what is one person’s real worth?
I chose for the First Amendment. And while this voice will still be heard here, it will not be heard by the work crew. And now the tears come.
Take care. Peace.
