A holiday note from an editor

December 23, 2010

Once upon a time, my dad, Stewart Hedger, had a column called “Don’t Point That Thing At Me” that ran in either The Vevay Reveille Enterprise or The Switzerland Democrat. I’ll have to ask Mom about that. This piece ran in place of his regular column 39 years ago today.

Don’t Point That Thing At Me Either

A tearsheet of the original column, including photo of the "author."

I tell you; it’s not as easy being a baby as it used to be. Being 8 1/2 months old is no bed of roses. Today you’ve got to bite and scratch to get ahead in the world and still just when you think you’ve got it licked the Administration goes into another one of its phases.

I’ll put my problem to you and let you decide who’s right.

This is Christmas, right? Christmas is the time for children, right? It’s time for the old folks to sit back and roast chestnuts – or whatever it is they do over an open fire – and let us toddlers enjoy ourselves, right?

That being so, doesn’t it follow that for Christmas we kids should be allowed to run the newspapers?

Well, when I put that suggestion to my father – or “Da-Da” as I jokingly refer to him, you’d have thought I was trying to burn down the White House – or worse, borrow his golf clubs. He went through the roof, which wasn’t a long trip since we have a low ceiling.

Naturally, I got blamed for the lump on his head. We went around and around and I finally had to take my case to Baby’s Lib. They contacted the ACLU (American Child Liberties Union) and we got an injunction against him.

Well, that meant he couldn’t print a paper for 60 days so Da-Da – Father, if you prefer – calmed down but quick. Finally, my attorneys compromised and he agreed to let me write his column.

—

Now down to the serious business of writing a newspaper column. First, I want you to notice the improvements I’ve made in the appearance of the column.

Where Da-Da heads his column with a silly looking mongrel running from his own shadow, I’ve put a picture of myself. You’ll agree, you can’t beat a sweet, adorable little baby if you want to get people on your side.

Da-Da threw a fit when I threatened to change the name of the column, but rather than have to watch a grown man thrash around on the floor biting the rug I again compromised and settled for a takeoff on that silly title of his.

—

Julie's column references Wally the Skunk. He was unstunk, but the neighbors still turned up their noses at him.

Another improvement you’ll notice: not once do I give a weather report I’ve supposedly gotten from some caterpillar or some other equally ridiculous woodland creature. What kind of a rational man talks to woolly worms and invites wild skunks into his home?

And I haven’t once insulted that nice, sweet, kind, generous, intelligent, handsome, debonair Mr. Clemons who writes that other column and who promised me a $75 teddy-bear for Christmas if I said that about him.

—

By now you’re beginning to see the type of things I have to put up with every evening. Weekends are murder. And, I’ve got to put up with it for the next 18 years or so. You folks are lucky, his column only comes out once a week; I’ve got to listen to his stale jokes every evening.

Speaking of his stale jokes, I didn’t appreciate his suggestion that I call my column “Crib Notes.”

—

Julie, 9 months, contemplates the long row she has to hoe with this Stewart fellow.

Listen, his behavior has me really worried. After all, this is the man who’s going to be teaching me manners and moral values, teaching me right from wrong, setting me an adult example.

He’s supposed to teach me about cleanliness and good grooming. Would you believe that this week when my adorable, beautiful, trainable Ma-Ma put up our Christmas tree, my father hung his sock on the tree and the tree died?

I’ve got a long row to hoe with that kind of an example being set for me.

—

And this guy (Da-Da, we’re talking about) has been feeding me this line about some character named Santa Claus who goes around Christmas Eve delivering toys to all the good little boys and girls of the world.

That toy business sounds pretty good to me, really patriotic, but Da-Da also claims this Santa Claus fellow lives at the North Pole, has little elves working up there in a toy shop, and can cover the whole world in a matter of a single evening.

I ask you, what kind of a grown man believes that some fat clown with a long white beard and wearing red underwear with white fur flies through the air in a sleigh full of toys pulled by eight tiny reindeer. He actually thinks reindeer fly?

Even if such nonsense were true the jolly old elf, as Da-Da so quaintly refers to him, would never get through the DEW Line. Conelrad would be beeping coast to coast and SAC would bring down that silly sleigh inside of an hour.

—

Julie and Stewart cut a rug in January 1972.

I’ve been putting Da-Da on pretty good in this column and maybe you’re worrying that I might be asking for trouble at home by letting everybody know about his mental aberrations.

Don’t fret. The old boy’s a sucker for these big blue eyes. I’ll just bat them at him, smile, pop my Binky out of my mouth, get him into a game of peep-eye, and he’ll be as content and as quiet as a new born puppy.

See, bringing up a father is a snap. You just have to know what turns him on and then let him do his thing.

—

Before you get the wrong idea about Da-Da, maybe I’d better set the record straight before closing. After all, anybody who louses up a game of pattycake can’t be all bad.

You’ve heard how he never smiles? That just isn’t true. Admittedly, he doesn’t smile much, be he’s improving. Especially every evening on the living room rug.

Who knows, before long I’ll have him trained so he might even smile at you.

—

And in case Da-Da’s forgotten – and knowing him, I’m sure he has – let me wish all of you a Merry Christmas from everyone at Vevay Newspapers.

The mongrel header that usually appeared on the column.

Tags: photoblog