As a writer and a reader, I’ve always had a thing for quotes.
“Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations” has been on my desk since I first had a desk. It was a solid, real wood desk, and like so much of the stuff of my early life, a hand-me-down from one of my older brothers or sister. I cherished it.
I loved having a place for my wide-lined paper, big fat red pencils and rounded safety-scissors and anything-but-safety, metal-edged ruler.
In the big, deep drawer, I kept the first signs of a baseball card collection, destined to include the last of the post-war greats and the beginnings of what would become the vanguard of the “modern” game.
Also kept safe inside that giant drawer was a bag of miniature soldiers made of plastic. I had received them after sending away to Battle Creek, Michigan, with countless box tops and 25 cents.
I was heartbroken when they first arrived, for although there were, in fact, “over 1,000 pieces,” as depicted on the back of the cereal box, they were absolutely tiny. I’m talking WWII army men less than half an inch tall! And the jeeps and tanks were just as small, so no man could possibly have ridden inside.
My father, ever the conscientious consumer, took the opportunity of my disappointment to teach me a lesson in customer satisfaction. With his help, I used one of my big, fat red pencils and wide-lined paper, and composed a letter to “Whom It May Concern” at the General Mills Company.
In no uncertain small boy terms, I told them how mad I was at being “gypped” by them. I liked that the German soldiers were all blue, and the Americans green, so I could tell them apart, but the radioman was so small I couldn’t see his radio!
My father had me add a line about “false advertising,” and loyal customers, and all that. I closed with “yours truly,” followed closely by my full name. Carefully folding my first official grown-up missive, fitting into the envelope it took at least five minutes to address and stamp, I walked it down to the corner mail box and made sure it didn’t stick to the flap. After a brief moment of silence, I went on enjoying the blissful untouchability of my early youth.
A few weeks later, a package arrived bearing the familiar “GM” logo, and inside was yet another set of “real life” characters. It was a collection of teeny-weeny cowboys, Indians, wagons and horses, and an actual frontier fort! Yes, they were awfully small, but they were also all mine, and they were free!
Also inside the package was a letter addressed to Mr. Timothy (!), apologizing for my disappointment, and thanking me for sharing my experiences with them. They said I was a valued customer, and my opinions counted at General Mills. They said they would be looking into the promotion to see if they could prevent other loyal customers from having a bad experience, too. (As it turns, out, a year or so later, I noticed the various “special offers” on my favorite cereal boxes began showing an example of the “actual size” of characters within the gloriously painted scenes.)
Oh, yeah, and my father got a bunch of “cents off” coupons, good for his next General Mills product purchases.
At this point, I continued to believe my father was surely the greatest person in the world, and was convinced General Mills actually cared about yours truly.
Although I would eventually stop worshipping my father, learn to understand him and STILL respect him, somewhere along the line I began to realize most companies really don’t care about any of us… and {{gasp!}}, maybe they never did.
Ah, but that desk, those drawers… they were a kind of magic.
I forgot to mention the Davey Crockett “coonskin” cap, cap pistol, magnifying glass, and other essential paraphernalia hidden inside!
But then, this started as a reminiscence about quotes, and my love of them, after all.
I don’t know where that desk is anymore. I’m pretty sure my mother threw away my baseball cards (along with my “Famous Monsters of Filmland” and “Mad” magazine collections), during some cleaning jag while I was away. The “little men” went wherever “little men” go. Maybe they grew into “big men” and left home like I did. Who knows?
I do know where the “Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations” wound up. Like most of my childhood tomes, I carried it with me through the years, referring to it often, gradually wearing it down, marking it up, and eventually leaving it behind with the remnants of a failed marriage, and a bygone life.
As part of a new, second – or is it third, I can’t remember – life, I’ve steadily acquired later editions of my old favorites, and a whole collection of contemporary standbys.
My current desk isn’t special in any way. I hope some of what I do ON IT, occasionally is.
Among those, is something called “Ben Franklin Blogging,” conveniently located at www.benfranklinblogging.com. The daily focus is a quote attributed to one of this country’s all-time outstanding citizens, and whatever modern twist I happen to apply to it. It isn’t great literature, but then, neither is this here blog 
Often though, when I’m putting a Franklin blog together, I remember that old desk I was lucky enough to call mine for a time. I get a strange sense of never growing up at all. I hear my father’s voice in my head, and picture us together in Battle Creek, fighting for childhood and consumer protection. Then I get to work.
Today I decided to share the actual content with you, my dedicated readers, in honor of quotes; my desk; Ben Franklin, my father and other great men and women; second and third chances; America; and Thanksgiving.
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Giving Thanks For The American Family
Posted by Tim Tyler
Although he only had three children of his own, Benjamin Franklin, the fifteenth of seventeen children, was well acquainted with the trials and tribulations of a large family.
Perhaps it was that disparity, however, which caused him to note:
• “He that raises a large family does, indeed, while he lives to observe them, stand a broader mark for sorrow; but then he stands a broader mark for pleasure too.� •
Many an early American family included ten or more children, and since it was not unusual for little ones, like Franklin’s own son, Francis, to die during childhood, there’s no doubt sorrow was a more frequent visitor back then.
Likewise, however, large families also tended to me more productive, and better able to overcome the economic and personal variables, which visited more regularly than a death in the family.
It may be that as Franklin grew older, and with the Revolution creating a chasm between him and his surviving son, William, he longed for the possibilities inherent in a larger brood.
Looking back on our American history today, I’d like to be able to tell Mr. Franklin that he, in fact, has had many millions of children. As another Thanksgiving Day nears, I’d also like to thank him, and a handful of other singular contemporaries, for helping establish upon the Earth a free, productive, and growing American family.
We have, as he observed, endured a great deal of sorrow, but I would venture to say, we have also known greater pleasure than any other society of which I am aware.
Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!
