Publisher's Desk – Where are my scissors?

I’ve come to the conclusion that I am going to starve. I had this epiphany this past weekend when I tried – tried, mind you – to open a box of cereal. I managed to get the box top portion open with a fair amount of ease – just running my thumb under one end popped the entire box top open.

Easy enough.

Then I went to open the actual pouch that contained the cereal itself. I pulled. And I pulled and I pulled some more. It wouldn’t give. So I twisted the box around and approached the other end. I pulled. And I pulled and I pulled some more. It wouldn’t give.

Determined not to be outdone by a box of cereal, I decided to take the potato chip bag approach.

By this time, of course, I had an audience: Bella was poised beneath me as if she knew what was going to happen. I could see the vision running through her canine head: Cereal rain! Whoopee!

Then there was Rufus and Cody, the cats. Rufus didn’t care – he wasn’t going to expend any energy if he didn’t know 100 percent there would be a treat involved. Cody, on the other hand, was also ready to pounce if there were indeed a shower of cereal. He’ll eat anything.

So I grabbed both side of the pouch and pulled. And pulled again. And again. By this time, I was getting frustrated that I could not open a simple box of cereal. I went back to the ends again.

Well, I must’ve loosened one end because when I tugged, it gave way – everywhere except where it should have. Undaunted, I went to the other end and did the same thing. Same result.

I now had a box of Honey Bunches of Oats with two frazzled ends and a secure middle. I went to the middle again, grabbed both sides and pulled. Lo and behold, it gave way too. Only it didn’t separate at the top where the glue was. Oh, no. The bag ripped down one side.

This should be easy, shouldn’t it?

So here I stood, surrounded by a dog, two cats and a gallon of what was now room temperature milk and a box of cereal that looked like a squirrel had gotten the best of it.

But it was open. I did have that.

I guess the irony of it all was that by now I wasn’t really all that hungry for cereal but decided to go ahead and eat some just on pure principal.

As I lifted the box and began to pour, I immediately realized that I had made a grievous error in judgment: Because of the condition of the pouch within the box, it didn’t pour into the bowl. It missed the bowl. Actually missed is the incorrect word to use. In the words of Bella, it rained cereal.

I swear I could hear her saying in between crunches of those Honey Bunches: Dreams really DO come true!

Now, if I can only find those scissors…

w w w

Tiger Woods decided he wanted to apologize on Friday for his transgressions. Sorry, Tiger, but I just didn’t believe you. I didn’t watch the actual session you held.

Instead I watched the uncut version on the Internet later that afternoon and for more than 13 minutes, I kept waiting to see some inkling that you actually felt remorse for what you had done.

Your excuses were just that – excuses. For a man who plays a game that is driven by rules for the players and the spectators, you certainly seem to have a difficult time following the rules of life.

The whole event seemed contrived to me. There you were in your dark blue suit, open necked shirt and no tie, reading from a script in front of a group you had handpicked for the occasion.

Too bad you didn’t put in any liner notes to indicate when you should actually look like you were sorry or, better yet, sound like you were sorry for what you had done. At least then, it would have been a more effective script.

I felt extremely sad when it was all over. Not for you, though. For your wife, your mother, your kids, the golfing profession, the youth all over the world who have dared to dream that they too could one day be a professional golfer.

And your anger at the news media for hounding your family? Puh-leeze. Get over it.

Your right to become angry at the news media ended during the aftermath of the little incident that sparked this whole ugly chain of events.

Apparently you did believe, as you so succinctly said Friday, that the normal rules didn’t apply to you.

I hate to break it to you, Tiger, but for someone like you – someone who has risen above the mediocrity, someone who has been elevated to role model status, someone who has done so much with his life in such a short time – there is no wiggle room in the rules.

You play the lie, even if there is a huge elephant in the room.

No, I don’t feel sorry for you – at least not in the way you might think. I feel sorry for you in a “what-the-heck-were-you-thinking” way because you had the world in the palm of your hand and you choked on the pearl that it offered you.

But, hey, if golf doesn’t work out for you, you can always try acting. Just ask for better scriptwriters next time around.

w w w

My column last week was about a column that appeared in this newspaper. In my column, I wrote that I had read the referenced column but did not process it as I should have.

Since I apparently wasn’t clear last week, let me make it clear now: I do read everything that goes into this paper before it is printed.

However, on this particular occasion, the spirit of said column didn’t register – not as it should have. That would be the processing I mentioned. That was my error in judgment and my mistake, as I indicated in the headline I placed on it. My mistake, no one else’s.

Do I make mistakes, let errors get by me? Yes. Am I perfect? No. But then again, no one is.

We would all do well to remember that.



Patricia M. Edwards is the editor and publisher of The Randolph Guide. She can be reached at (336) 625-5576 or by e-mail at pedwards@randolphguide.com

Text Only