Getting Unstressed
It is time for another column, and I couldn't come up with anything last night. Maybe I've got stress. I must have stress. That's about all a person can read about nowadays. The way it seems to work out, rich folks go to psychiatrists, government employees get free stress clinics, and regular folk drink a lot of beer.
The National Park Service and Forest Service offered "stress debriefings" after the big blazes that swept the West in the last few years. In Yellowstone Park, those who wanted, could attend sessions "to relieve critical stress symptoms and to find ways for dealing with stress." The Park's chief Ranger also invited all the well-scorched local residents to come if they wanted.
Similar debriefings are commonly held for police and firemen who have to deal with people who get killed in accidents.
The old Websters says stress means "subject to the action of external forces," and it mentions "tension" and "overstrain."
We all have stress of one kind or another, and have had for eons. There is just more talk about it nowadays, and more study of its effect on people. We reporters observe that condition in most of the men, women and children who appear in the courts in cases involving child abuse and other forms of domestic violence.
I have found the best treatment for me are those weekly hikes and climbs in the mountains with my gray-haired friends, even if I do lose my glasses, gloves, hat, film or whatever. Fishing and golf are both good relaxers until you start taking them too seriously. If a person hiked on Thursday, fished and golfed on the weekend, then drank beer the other nights, he could probably get "under stressed." I have observed those unusual symptoms in several of my personal acquaintences and there are a few role models in the funny papers, like Andy Capp and Hagar.
A darn good stress fighter I've found when the going gets tough is a sense of humor. There are a few times and places where no humor is welcome, but sooner or later, if a person is to get through the stress of personal loss, great mental trauma or physical suffering, there must be a smile.
That's why I am going to retell this old story and fax it to the Starvin' Stud, Bigfork Big Bird and Whitefish Pile-it.
There was this local fella hiding in the brush on a remote lake, and he saw a loon come swimming by. When it got close to shore, he blasted away with a shotgun, fished the dead bird out of the water and crouched back down in the bushes. Two game wardens on a nearby hill witnessed the event and took off toward the lake.
The poacher was readying to fire on another one when the game wardens came running up and ordered him to throw down his gun. One yelled: "You idiot. What the hell do you think you're doing? Why would you shoot a beautiful, protected bird like a loon?"
The fella seemed surprised and replied: "Whul heck! I been doin' this for a long time. I just take 'em home, pick 'um and eat 'um."
The game wardens were furious. They handcuffed the miscreant, walked him to their jeep and headed for the county jail. On the way, one of the game wardens had curiousity get the best of him, and he asked the prisoner, "Just what does a loon taste like?"
The fella thought for a minute and answered, "Ah'd say they taste like somethin' about half way between bald eagle and whoopin' crane."
OK, so that was a really old story. That's the kind I know the most of.
This Indian went to the psychologist and the shrink told him to lie down on the couch. Then the doc asks, "What's bothering you, Chief?"
The Indian says: "Well, it's a recurring dream that I have almost every night. One night I'll dream I'm a teepee, and then the next night I'm a wigwam. It is just driving me crazy."
The psychologist rubbed his chin and replied: "I can see your problem right now, Chief. You're just too tents."
Sorry… . Maybe someone will tell me a new joke this week.