Habit herds the herd to ‘assigned’ seats
BURTON W. COLE, Editor
By Burton W. Cole
“Cows always return to the same place,” Grandpa said.
Scripture also says that God owns the cattle on a thousand hills.
At church, we’re taught that we must be the sheep of the Good Shepherd. Now I wonder if we’re more like God’s cows, planted on our individual hills, set in our stubborn ways. We aren’t mooooving. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)
The sanctity of the Sabbath can turn into terror if a newcomer walks in and — unknowingly — sits in Old Fred’s seat, the place where he’s taken root since 1982. The wandering sheep have just declared war on the arthritic cattle.
As kids we were lambs, scampering to and fro, from seat to seat, and where we’d land, nobody knew. Every seat was a new adventure, a new view to explore, a different set of grownups to annoy with knock-knock jokes that we couldn’t get right.
Then our cattle training began.
Restaurants with play areas let you sit wherever you want. But if the grownups dragged you to the kind of place that sets four kinds of forks beside your plate, the maître d escorted you to the seat reserved — assigned — for you.
That was only the beginning.
Teachers assigned us seats. Bus drivers assigned us seats. Even the lunch ladies could get carried away and assign us seats.
“Aw, c’mon. I sat there yesterday. I want to sit over here today. And tomorrow, Jimmy and I figure we’ll hang out back there.”
The teacher didn’t go for it. She especially wanted to keep Jimmy and me separate.
We were being herded.
Buy a ticket for the football game — here’s your assigned seat.
Book a flight on the airline — here’s your assigned seat.
Road trip with Mom and Dad — you stay right there, young man, and stop touching your brother.
At weddings, you’re assigned which side of the aisle to sit based on to which side you’re related. This became a big problem when a cousin on my dad’s side married a cousin on my mom’s side. They weren’t related to each other but I was related to both.
The usher asked, “Bride or groom?”
“Yes. I’ll just sit in the aisle between the two sides. Tell Marce to step over me when the wedding march starts.”
Even at Thanksgiving, there came a time when you no longer were permitted to sit at the kids’ table. You were assigned to the grownups table.
(Pro tip: Don’t fall for it. Stay at the kids’ table. Grownups are boring. Ask grownups to pass the ketchup, and they never say, “Plane, train or subway?” then throw the ketchup bottle for plane, or roll it across the floor for subway, or adapt to whatever other transport your imagination creates.)
Before we realize it, we’ve become cattle. We’ve chosen our go-to stanchion, stall, stool or settee, unspoken rules dictate that that’s our rightful turf, and we’re going to have a real beef with anyone who takes it from us.
Call us bullheaded if you like, but being displaced disrupts everything. One simply cannot serenely munch clover if one’s hooves are shuffled off to the wrong chair.
Fortunately, I’ve reached the age when I am regressing into my second childhood. I simply sat elsewhere and enjoyed a new point of view. I detest being a creature of habit. I crave variety, and I was going to relish this like a bull who’s discovered a big new box of grain.
Until the interloper finished her visit with the person who always sits behind me. She moseyed back to the seat where she sits every week.
I quickly reclaimed my carefully contoured portion of the pew. It was good to settle back into my own stanchion of familiarity and comfort.
Moo.
Horn in on Burt’s bench at news@falmouthoutlook.com.
