Open Writing

That provocative and unsuccessful demand of Jesus by the Pharisees for some indication from God that He was there, and more than that, cared a toss, has been amply rewarded, though not in the way the ancients intended. Since those questioning times, the USA has been particularly blessed with signs large and small, though it’s hard to imagine God’s hand in it, unless as punishment. In parts of the country where controls are not applied, it’s getting to be impossible to see what is there for the signs telling you what is there.

The late Lady Bird Johnson, President L. B. Johnson’s wife, was one of the very few who spoke out against the billboard eyesores lining America’s highways, and was successful to a degree in banning them on some routes. But banning something in the USA is tantamount to issuing a challenge. Before long, the signs that were prohibited within a certain distance from the highways began to appear on adjacent hilltops; and if there were no hills, on top of pylons that towered above the tallest trees.

There is a trashy retail outlet, almost as large as a small town, just over the South Carolina border on Rote 95, called, wouldn’t you know, “South of the Border.” The billboards, which have unapologetically crass messages, start appearing probably 25 miles from the place, and are sprinkled among some of the most beautiful rural scenery in America.

Such blights on the landscape got their start from a company who, in the 1920’s, marketed a toiletry called “Burma Shave.” The company used simple little limericks for their promotions that were split between successive billboards, spaced a few hundred yards apart. A classic example read “Don't stick…..Your elbow…..Out so far…..It might go home…..In another car…..Burma-Shave.'' The emerging, car-driving public of the time, liked the signs and talked around the office water cooler about new sightings like people today might talk about a novel TV commercial.

As with any form of visual saturation, people have reached a point where the signs of various sorts don’t penetrate their consciousness anymore. Unfortunately, this stage of inurement has been reached at a time when official traffic signs are blossoming like weeds, which is a clear indication that signs are not read. Take the typical example of a traffic light. Depending on its location, it may be preceded by a sign saying “Traffic Signal Ahead.”

Once having reached the signal, the befuddled driver will be faced with a battery of other signs. There will be one with an arrow pointing to a white line on the road. The sign reads “Stop here on red.” The implication being, “Right here, not in the next county, idiot.” Twenty feet before you reach the signal there may have been a sign reading “No right turn on red,” but by the time you’ve stopped at the light and read all the other signs you can’t remember whether you actually saw it or imagined it, and now it’s behind you so you can’t check.

Hanging over your head, just out of your line of sight, are a couple of other tricksters. One reads “Left turn on arrow only,” or the alternative of “Left turn delayed green.” They have to be joking! Here we are, like drivers at the start of the Le Mans or the Daytona 500, revving our engines, determined not to be the last off the starting line. As soon as one car moves an inch, the rest are burning rubber too, and before you know it, you’re in gridlock hell.

Two of my favorite sign stories are from personal experience. For a time I lived near to the city of Rochester in northern New York State. In the pleasant suburb of Pittsford is a park that includes a trout hatchery. The hatchery consists of a number of tanks, each one about 40 feet long by 4 feet wide, with water flowing through it. Successive tanks contain Rainbow Trout in advancing stages of maturity, carefully fed on whatever makes trout plump and delicious. The mature trout later are used to stock the many rivers and streams of the area for the benefit of fishermen. At some point in the past, signs had been erected on each tank stating “Do Not Feed These Fish.” At a later date, judging by their newer appearance, additions had been added, clearly in extreme frustration, stating “ANYTHING!”

My other story involves a small town in New Jersey where the very pretty village pond has been home to increasing numbers of Canada Geese for several years now. The geese learned long ago that the annual fall migration south, though very nice when pictured on Christmas cards, was neither necessary nor desirable. So now they just hang about on rivers, ponds and golf courses all year long.

That would be all very well, were it not that their droppings are generous and considerable, and pollute any body of water the geese frequent; not only the water, but also the surrounding grassy areas where they feed. Golf courses are ruined, and taking a walk becomes a disgustingly squishy experience. Municipalities have tried a number of ways to reduce the populations without success. If you have two geese, soon you’ll have scores.

The New Jersey town I mentioned had resorted in desperation to erecting a number of signs that forbade feeding the geese, and went to some length to explain why. One day, as I was eating my brown bag lunch, seated on a bench near the signs, I watched as a car drew up, and a lady and two small children got out. The lady and each child clutched a brown paper bag. They walked towards me and then saw the signs, which the lady began to read. After some time of studying the chapter of exhortations and explanations, she eventually turned to me and said, “Does that mean we’re not supposed to feed the geese?''

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