The difference between “Gas Bags” and “Blowhards” came up over breakfast last week with my granddaughters, ages 5 and 7.
I was in Gillette for the girls' Spring Break from school.
(We seriously underestimated the magic of having grandchildren, until these two came along. Grandchildren are far superior to actual children, because you get all the enjoyment, and almost none of the pick-and-shovel work involved in raising your own children. When things get tense, Gramps can always disappear. Maybe go for a beer.)
I jumped at the chance to visit Gillette, one of my favorite towns. The 244-mile drive from Cheyenne is pleasant once you get to Chugwater, where the mesas look like the Grand Junction area of Colorado, except smaller, and without all the Coloradoans. The reservoir at Glendo is scenic, and train buffs like me enjoy the long coal trains all the way up to Bill.
I skip fast food in Douglas, and dine at the best restaurant in downtown metropolitan Bill, Penny's Diner, always having the Penny's Cheeseburger. (Two thumbs up.) Then it's coal country the rest of the way up to Gillette. Nice drive.
We were having breakfast the next morning when a U.S. Senate hearing came on TV. When the debate got hot, I figured it could be a valuable teaching moment for my granddaughters.
One senator was all worked up, sputtering about this and that.
“Girls,” I said, “do you know what a Gas Bag is?”
“No Grandpa!” they replied. “What's a Gas Bag?”
“That man on TV is a Gas Bag,” I said. “Look how he keeps talking and talking, and he points his finger at people, and sometimes he never even asks a question. He just likes to talk, and talk, and talk. That, girls, is a Gas Bag.”
The thought of a bag full of gas made the girls laugh.
Then another angry senator started talking. He wanted the witness to give simple “yes” or “no” answers to tricky questions like, “Have you stopped beating your wife, Mr. Director? YES or NO! It's a simple question!”
“That man, girls, is a Blowhard. See how mad he gets when the other man won't answer yes or no? He keeps asking the question, over and over. And then, kind of like when you say, 'I'm telling Mom!' over something your sister did, he tattles to another man who has a little wooden hammer he can pound to make people stop talking.”
“A hammer, Grandpa?” they asked.
“Yes, girls. It's called a gavel, and he's the chairman, ” I replied.
“As you know, girls, nobody likes a tattletale. But, this is how something called 'our government' works. They yell at each other, and they hate each other, and sometimes they even pound their fists on the table. And when they get really upset, they yell, 'Reclaiming My Time! Reclaiming My Time!' to the man with the wooden hammer, like crybabies.”
“That's CRAZY, Grandpa!” they said, rolling their eyes.
I was about to explain how my father used to call politicians “flannelmouths,” meaning “speaking in a tricky or ingratiating way.” But I figured they'd had enough new words for a while.
Words came up again, though, when we took the girls swimming at Gillette's fabulous Rec Center. The seven-year-old told me one of the older boys on the water slide “said a bad word.”
“Which one?” I asked.
Instead of telling me which BOY, however, she told me which WORD, mouthing it in a whisper.
Sounds crazy, but I never heard that word when I was 7, or 10. Maybe even 14. Pretty sad kind of progress, if you ask me.
We also baked cookies, with the girls measuring out ingredients, manning the electric mixer, shaping the dough into balls, and sticking chocolate kisses on each cookie fresh out of the oven. No burned fingers, no mixer injuries. Good cookies.
On the way home, over a truly outstanding BLT and malt at the Soda Fountain in Chugwater (like Penny's in Bill, a mandatory stop), I thought about our valuable teaching moments with the girls.
Next trip, maybe I'll teach them about two more of my father's pet peeves:
“Chiselers and schlemiels.”
(Lots of those where I grew up.)
Dave Simpson can be contacted at davesimpson145@hotmail.com
