Marguerite is an executive for a think tank in Washington, DC. The goal of
this pool of intelligence is to solve the problems of the world.
Once the problem has been identified, it is Marguerite’s job to locate the
best global expert on the subject and to bring them to the United States. So
using her International connections she sifts through hundreds, if not
thousands, of geniuses and decides which brain is larger than the problem. Her
problem is getting the thinker to the tank. Now it doesn’t take a genius to deal
with geniuses, but after listening to Marguerite’s stories it obviously takes a
Like when one worldly whiz kid, after receiving his airline tickets, decided
he needed to cook on Bogatell Beach in Barcelona for a few days before his brain
could stew in a tank in Washington. He told Marguerite he’d come to D.C. after a
couple days of R&R. This was not acceptable, of course, so Margarite used
her skills to get him here ASAP. Whether she used enticement, encouragement,
bribery, threats, treats or womanly wiles, she did not say. She only said she
managed to get the cerebrally gifted playboy on the right continent (minus a
Spanish tan), but that the effort left her pale.
Or the time she battled the Department of Immigrations for several weeks to
get an unscrupulous smarty here and finally out of frustration called the State
Department. The smarty was sitting in the tank the very next day. She said that
experience made her feel like she’d been hired to cook without aid of a spoon or
the convenience of a kitchen.
“Seems like a lot of unnecessary work to me.” I told her. “You only need to
go to Trails End Bar up in Eustis during happy hour. The world’s problems are
solved daily between four and six O’clock.”
“I’m sure.” She said.
We also had a three-year-old sweetie from Regan, Tennessee here. She brought
her entourage: her stuffed toys, her hair ribbons, barrettes, and her parents.
This couple, a southern Baptist minister and his first grade school teacher
wife, stopped hoping for a child after fourteen years of trying, only to have
Madeline in year fifteen. Madeline with a thick Tennessee accent.
“I’m tard.” Madeline said.
“You can sleep in the car” her mother answered.
“I thank ma dawg masses may.”
“Your puppy is having a wonderful time at Grandma’s.”
Madeline doesn’t like to have her hair combed and was rather vocal on the
subject this morning- her southern manners flew out the northern window of her
room and she cried out in unintelligible twangy objections. Her mother swatted
Madeline’s butt and said, “Hold still while I brush! If you have messy hair
they’ll think we all are hillbillies.”
The Preacher and his southern belles sat across the table from the think tank
Now, being a Hillbilly might be a bad thing, but diversity is not and once
again my breakfast table confirms that. No think tank necessary.
L.E. Hughes is a columnist, writer and owner of Diamond Corner B&B in
Stratton, Maine. She welcomes your thoughts and comments: email@example.com.
© October 2005 Lew-Ellyn Hughes. All Rights Reserved and Retained by the