When the going gets rough, stand your ground

We Americans are getting soft. The nation of doers, achievers, strivers and explorers has become, like the funny TV commercial for whatever it is advertising, a bunch of settlers.

I first noticed our flabby fiber -- something we used to call backbone -- in one of the first seasons of the TV show called "Survivor." I watched one episode and saw how truly mushy the participants and producers and crew really were. I have not watched a single episode since then.

Here's what happened on that particular episode:

The contestants were gathering together, torches and all, for one of the confabs that is a highlight of each show. During this solemn parley, one of the contestants would be "voted off the island."

Pretty serious business.

As the contestants gathered, the sun had set and there were ominous storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Flashes of lightning appeared. Thunder boomed.

You could tell the contestants were uneasy. They kept looking toward the storm. Fear crept into their eyes.

Finally, as a lightning bolt struck close to the campfire, the host, whatever his name is, shouted, "Head for shelter! Get out of the storm!"

And they hadn't even voted on which contestant should be canceled. End of episode.

Really? "Head for shelter?"

These folks had vowed to survive, no matter what obstacles were thrown in their paths.

We true-blue Midwesterners know a thing or two about thunderstorms and lightning and hail and tornadoes. We don't run for cover every time we hear a rumble or two off to the southwest.

No, we wait for one of the crack weather people on TV to tell us a tornado is going to kill us right now. That, of course, is our signal to go outside and take a gander.

"Head for shelter?" It doesn't even cross our minds. We wait for the real thing: the roar of a Diesel locomotive or jet plane in full throttle, or the neighbor's car sailing into the oak tree down the street. Then we start running for shelter, providing it's still standing.

See, that's how tough we used to be. Now we have all kinds of electronic devices that warn us when the weather is about to kill us. We don't even have to go outside to see the storm. We can watch it on live radar from the comfort and relative unsafety of our family rooms.

Now, here's another case of creeping weakness on the part of red-blooded Americans.

A few days ago the annual ice festival was scheduled for Central Park in New York City. It's a pretty big deal, and any second-grader can tell you there is one thing you need for a successful ice festival: freezing temperatures. Otherwise, your ice festival is pretty much going to be a big, wet flop.

But a cold snap -- a really, really cold snap -- was headed for the Big Apple. All along the eastern seaboard record low temperatures, some well below zero, were forecast.

Perfect for an ice festival, right?

Hold your horses, pal. That's old-style thinking. Today's New Yorker has grown completely dependent on central heating. And, since today's New Yorker might experience some frigid tootsies in a sub-zero Central Park, the whole ice festival was canceled.

I'll bet if you had left it up to those New Yorkers who care anything at all about ice festivals, they would have found a way to carry on. They would have used fire the same way the first upright humans did. They would have carried large flasks of hot drinks, some of them laced with high-proof spirits. They would have bundled up -- some with two pairs of socks even.

My point is this: How can we maintain our national pride as a smart, bold people if we cancel things like an ice festival because it's too cold? Our old way is to find solutions, not avoid adversity.

Let's buck up, America. Let's use those front yards for their intended purpose: watching storm clouds roll in from the west. Let's take advantage of cold weather when we want to play with ice.

And let's don't head for shelter every time we see a bit of lightning over yonder.

Unless we're on the golf course, of course. Then we run like crazy.

That's different. I don't know why, but it is.

Joe Sullivan is the retired editor of the Southeast Missourian.