opinion
Battalion/Psfi
August 18,1!
The meter reader
cometh to get ye
Editor’s note: Art Buchwald is recycling
some of his best columns whilst he and his
family soak up the sun and enjoy the soft
sea breeze of the Falkland Islands, other
wise known as “Maggie’s Vineyard.’’
by Art Buchwald
In all the fuss about the energy shor
tage, no one has mentioned the meter
reader. When I say the meter reader, I
mean the person who comes to your
house to read your electric meter.
For years, no one had paid any atten
tion to him. He would ring your doorbell
and yell, “Meter reader here to read your
meter!”, and you’d let him in and he
would disappear, and when he returned,
you’d shout at him rudely, “Shut the door
when you leave!”
But now he has become the most im
portant person in the lives of many of us.
Just the other day, we were all eating
dinner when the doorbell rang. My son
answered the ring, and came into the di
ning room, his face white. “It’s the meter
reader. He wants to read our meter.”
My wife said, “How did he ever find
us?”
“Barbara Walters said it to President
Carter on her show,” I said.
“Oh, yeah,” he chuckled, and he went
downstairs.
The family all waited in the kitchen.
“Why is he taking so long?” my wife
asked nervously) as she twisted the dish
towel.
“Be calm, everybody,” I warned. “Pre
tend nothing has happened. Ask him to
come into the dining room.”
The guy came into the dining room
carrying his route book. “Where’s the
meter?” he asked.
“Would you like to have dinner?” I
asked.
I put my arm around her. “It’s all
right, dear. The man is only doing his
job.”
“What kind of person would sneak
into somebody’s home and inform on
them as to how much electricity they had
used?” she said.
“Nope. I’ve been offered dinner in
every house I’ve been to today. I’m stuf
fed. Just tell me where your meter is and
I’ll be out of here.”
“You don’t want to go into our base
ment,” my wife said. “It’s so messy. We’ll
tell you anything you want to know.”
“I have to check your meter,” he said.
“I checked it yesterday,” I assured
him. “It’s working fine.”
“I have to read it.”
“I’ll send my son to read it,” I said.
“He’s great at reading meters. Here, have
a glass of wine.”
“I’m sorry, but I have to read it myself.
It will only take a minute.”
“Do you have a search warrant?” my
wife asked.
He looked surprised. “I don’t need a
“Hush, he’ll hear you and add a cou
ple of hundred kilowatts just for spite.”
“I can take him, Dad,” my son said.
“Let me use karate on him.”
“Will you all shut up! He’s got us over a
barrel. Electric meters never lie.”
The man came up whistling.
“Give it to us straight,” I said. “We can
take it.”
“You used 1,500 kilowatts of electricity
this month,” he replied.
My wife almost collapsed.
I blanched. “Does the electric com
pany have to know?”
“Yup,” he replied, writing on his route
book. “I’ll see you next month,” he said
cheerfully.
My wife gazed at him. “I just pray your
mother never finds out what you do for a
living.
Governors get no respect
by Arnold Sawislak
United Press International
WASHINGTON — The National
Governors Association demonstrated
again last week why it is the Rodney
Dangerfield of American politics.
The NGA, formerly called the Nation
al Governors Conference, has been in
business since early in the 20th century,
but until recently was regarded as a large
ly social organization.
It held summer meetings at fancy re
sorts and on cruise ships to give gov
ernors a yearly break from the drudgery
of the statehouses and an opportunity to
talk a little shop with their peers between
parties and golf games.
It had little clout as an organization
for several reasons. First, governors were
unaccustomed to collective action. They
were First Banana in their states and
often didn’t take to the idea of letting any
organization speak for them.
Second, there were few issues that
they agreed upon enough tojustify estab
lishing a united front. Finally, the organi
zation was really not geared for political
action. There was an NGA staff, but it
didn’t have the professional expertise
and political know-how to play in the big
leagues.
The situation began changing when
the idea of revenue sharing emerged.
The governors found in it an issue they
could unite on and a reason for devoting
both time and resources to development
of a strong Washington staff. They even
were able to start working together as a
group rather than as individuals.
They got some results, too. Presidents
Nixon, Ford and Carter found the gov
ernors helpful in their struggles with
Congress.
But there was and still is a fatal flaw in
the NGA’s ability to present an effective
political instrument.
Years ago, to keep the organization
from being used as a sounding board for
the political party that had the most gov
ernorships, the NGA wrote rules requir
ing two-thirds majorities to approve the
most routine policy statements and
three-fourths votes to pass anything
brought before their meetings without
having been subjected to a lengthy com
mittee process. This prevented anyone
from sandbagging the minority, but it
also made action hard to achieve.
That’s what happened last week. The
NGA leadership wanted to use a little
muscle in its long and frustrating nego
tiations with the White House over who
gets what in the “sorting out”of
ment programs under New Fed
So the leaders threatened it
the White House and take their
rectly to Congress instead of wain
an agreement with President!
This was a perfectly acceptablep f* J u<t!
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representative at the Oklahoma® the jin
used the NGA’s rules: He "
Republican governors
embarrass the president to endati
two-thirds majority needed forap
of the strategy.
So the leaders had to backoff
attempt to save face, they insisted
NGA would go ahead withdevelo
of a separate New Federalism
agreed to drop the threat to tak
Congress without White Houseenjl
ment. "
But that is like designing a 0 .
out a firing pin, and the NGA can H
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search warrant to read you rmeter.”
“I think you had better check the Con
stitution. You can’t just barge into some
body’s house and look at his electric
meter,” she said.
“Well, if you feel that way, we’ll just
shut off your electricity,” he replied.
“It’s all right, Mother. The man has
not come to do us harm,” I said. “I’m sure
he won’t take advantage of a family that is
probably eating its last meal unless our
food stamps come through.”
“Could you please direct me to your
meter?”
I took him to the cellar stairs. Then I
said, “Be gentle with us. Be good to us.”
“Where have I heard that before?” the
man asked.
ens a
UNmsiJt t'JS
j In the si
Letters: Loss of Estes deeply felt
Editor:
The Battalion
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USPS 045 360
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Second class postage paid at College Station, TX
77843.
The recent death of Charles Estes,
head of the Department of Architecture
at Texas A&M, is a severe loss to the
profession of architecture, as well as to
his immediate family and friends.
I had the good fortune to work with
Charles Estes as a visting professor at
Texas A&M over a period of a year and a
half and grew to admire his quiet com-
petancy in architecture, in teaching and
in administration. After an extraordi
narily successful career in Caudill, Row
lett and Scott, a major national firm, he
came to Texas A&M dedicated to passing
along his quiet, fully professional com-
petancy to young men and women.
Architecture needs his kind of leader
ship and, with the death of Charles Estes,
a leader of the first rank has been lost.
I voice the feeling of architects across
Texas and across the nation in acknow
ledging the contribution of Charles Estes
and grieving at his untimely death. For
tunately, his influence at the University
will doubtless remain for many years to
come.
I am 36 years old, have brown hair and
hazel-green eyes, stand 5’11”, and weigh
200 pounds. My hobbies include reading,
woodcrafting and writing poetry and
essays.
As an inmate laborer, I earn only a
meager 50 cents a day, and couldn’t even
pay for this ad, and that is why I am
asking you if you would please print this
letter in your paper. Surely there must be
at least one person who cares enoal
help me through this experiencebf
ing to me.
Thank you very much.
Clarence Bl
D.O.C. #211
Indiana State Per
Michigan City, Indiana iff
Berrys World
Clovis Heimsath
Fayetteville
Inmate wants letters
Editor:
I am writing you in the hopes that you
will help me in my endeavor to find
someone to write to. I am an inmate in
the Indiana State Prison, and since I am
from Pennsylvania and have no family or
friends, my time here has been very lone
ly and isolated.
Watching the other guys here receiv
ing mail day after day, while I seldomly
get any, sends me to the depths of despair
at times. Even one letter would go a long
way towards lifting me from these depths
and making my life here more bearable.
©1882 by NEA. Inc.
"What is the message today, Mr. President?"
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