Putting on your best protest

         "A wagon train to Mars"

More than likely, old-ish people like me won’t have the gumption to be the first pioneers to carve out a trailhead to Mars. It’ll be those young astro-folk who will do all the heavy lifting. And once they’ve tamed the Red Planet and created the first frontier settlements, only then will the grandfolks be sent for, us riding in the back of the rocket ship, sitting in our rocketing chairs and wondering how long it takes before a good crop of sweet potatoes is ready to be harvested out of a half-meter patch of Martian soil.

I know I said we old-ish people wouldn’t have the “gumption” to immigrate to Mars, but what I should have said was we wouldn’t have the desire to go there. Why would you want to live in a place that can’t grow trees? No trees, no squirrels. I guess you could transplant some squirrels into a Martian pseudo-forest to make the place seem homey, but they’d be as dumb as Martian dirt, living in their tiny condos and eating vitamin-fortified squirrel kibble.

They say with enough money, humanity could turn Mars into a paradise. I say (I’m just repeating what somebody else said) — I say if we have enough money to turn Mars into a paradise, why not spend that money making Earth a paradise? We all want the same thing, don’t we? Clean air, clean water, clean socks every Monday morning?

But sometimes, what we want is not what we get. That’s when you need to pull up your clean socks and put your shiniest “protest” on. Hate that we’re still addicted to fossil fuels? Horrified that gas prices are too high? Wish we could harvest some national forest lumber? Flabbergasted that anybody would even think about making national forest raccoons homeless? Then grab some poster board and markers, boldly write what’s troubling your mind, and head out to protest whatever you feel needs protesting. 

That’s what makes the United States great. I’m free to say I don’t like a thing, and you’re free to say you don’t like that I don’t like a thing. As long as your elbow doesn’t poke me in the eyeball, and my foot doesn’t collide with your shin, then everything’s good. Vive la America.

I was too young to protest the Vietnam War. The only thing I could protest at that time was having to take a lunchbox to school instead of getting to eat cafeteria food. If I’d owned an “Incredible Hulk” or “Evil Knievel” lunchbox, life would have been peachy. I had a red plaid lunchbox with a red plaid thermos which afforded me a red plaid “hit me now” target on my easy-to-hit red plaid nose.

Oh, I’ve been to a couple of organized protests in my time. Been dragged to them, actually. But I went. Stood next to people who felt the same way I did about an issue. Held up some signs. Made some new friends. Waved at passers-bye. Tried to make out if I just saw an obscene gesture thrown at me, or was that a thumbs up? Did that person driving by say “thank you,” or something slightly more colorful? It might be time for me to get my vision and hearing checked.

I wonder what Martians will someday want to protest? The exorbitant price of imported shrimp from the Gulf of Mexico? Slow WiFi? I won’t be there to tell because I’m staying put. I’d hate never getting to see a hawk dive on a field mouse; to pick and eat an apple straight from a tree; or to watch dandelion seeds scatter on a warm spring breeze.