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The child stood thirty-four inches high, weighed fourteen pounds, was eight years old, and appeared thinner on the slimline screen of Asa and Ava's new TV than he really was - a fact Asa made note of.
"Then he wouldn't have looked so emaciated on our old TV?" Ava suggested.
"No, indeed, he would not have," said Asa.
"I miss our old TV," Ava mused. "It's so sad it had to wear out. Sometimes I dream about it. Do you suppose we should have gone ahead and gotten it fixed?"
"It was more cost effective, therefore more patriotic, to buy a new one. We'll get used to it."
"I just don't like everything being so skinny. I only pray they don't show Kate Smith. I'd simply have to turn her off. I just couldn't stand to see her so emaciated."
"Sometimes I do believe you're too compassionate for your own good," Asa cautioned the little woman.
"I can't help it. It's the way I am," Ava held firm to her altruistic convictions.
Indeed, altruism might well be Ava's middle name, just as patriotism ought to be Asa's; for, just as love of country is Asa's entire reason for being, love of humanity is Ava's - which explains why she is so devout a watcher of TV. She wishes to be as close as possible to humanity. Every evening her heart goes out to the poor wretches she sees battered and butchered and buried under tumbling buildings and burned by flowing lava and in every other conceivable manner brought to a state where, were it not for patriots the world over like Asa, they might well succumb to the seductive wiles of subversion. So legendary is Ava's love for her fellow man, in fact, that the Greater Washington Sewing Circle and Homemaker's Club has nominated her for its Good Little Woman of the Year Award, to be presented on the Mall during Cherry Blossom Week.
The extra early news - Koffee Klatch Klub coming on at 3:45 P.M. - notes that very nomination, right after its feature story contrasting the way a ghetto mother and a society matron change their babies' diapers. The Negro from the ghetto wastes her welfare dollars on Pampers, when cheesecloth would do just fine; whereas the white lady from Georgetown instructs her child's governess to use cotton - something that can be washed and used again and again. It would appear, the story concludes, that Smart Shoppers Shop White. Now a word from our sponsor, after which we'll show you just how good "good" can be.
A little drum roll announces a brand new product: Shpreck n' Shpray, the all-purpose cleaner. "Ladies," a pretty matron is telling you in an intimate voice, "are you bothered by vaginal odors? Is there a yellow build-up on your kitchen floor? Do you hubby's white shirts go limp? Does your dishwasher leave ugly water spots on your crystal? Is your porcelain hard to get clean? Well, if your answer to any - or all - of these questions is 'Yes!' - then you need the new heavy duty all-purpose cleaner, deodorizer, emulsifier and fabric hardner: new Shpreck n' Shpray. It will starch your hubby's shirts, clean your bathroom fixtures and tile floors, prevent your glasses from spotting, and keep you sunshine fresh during those 'difficult times' of the month. New Shpreck n' Shpray. From the makers of Pick n' Spray, the instant pet sterilizer. Another find product of Reelneed."
No sooner had the pretty matron faded than a voluptuous young woman came on. She is Suzzie, and she will keep you women well informed what is going on about town. Her very first item is sure to please everyone. "We are delighted to report," she is telling the ladies, "that the Greater Washington Sewing Circle and Homemakers' Club has submitted the name of Ava to its policy board for consideration as Good Little Woman of the Year. Congratulations go out to Ava, as well as to her fine husband, Asa, a man well known for his soul searching and heart rending patriotism. We know they must be pleased as punch. On the more somber side, it appears, as the annual Cherry Blossom Festival draws near, that for the first time ever the Festival Committee will have no chair. The First Lady, everybody's first choice, has declined the honor, saying that, having chaired the committee for the past six years, she would prefer seeing someone else do it this year. So far, no one of suitable stature has come forth. Might we suggest Ava?" Suzzie says with a sly smile just before fading into a commercial message.
"Might we suggest Ava?" Suzzie planted this tiny seed in her viewers' minds. And, indeed it may be a perfectly wonderful suggestion. Ava is quite fond of her new home in the nation's capital; she simply adores festivals, because she knows how truly American they are; and, besides, Ava knows cherries like no other woman alive. Back home, in Highland Park, she was affectionately known as The Cherry Queen, for her rich, wholesome, all-American pies (she also made apple, of course, but could not always get Granny Smiths, so she relied mostly on cherry). So important to the general well-being of her little Michigan community were her pies, in fact, that they became the cornerstone of Highland Park's new city charter. Let's go now to a pivotal newscast to show how this came about.
Action-Reaction. The late breaking news. Brought to you by Fruits of Speech, the fruit stand where how you ask for it is as important to us as how you pay for it. "That is correct," Farmer Brown is reminding you. "We are fully as much about the quality of your diction and syntax as we are about the quality of our produce. For that reason, we will sell no foodstuffs, be they fruit or vegetable, until they are properly addressed. You will find neither 'taters' nor 'nanners' at our stand; nor do we truck any 'limeys' or haul any 'pomergranites.' We sell only the best, to only the most eloquent. You say 'tomäto'; we say 'tomáto.' And if you have to ask which is correct, you cannot afford it. Fruits of Speech. Where sound meets taste. And language meets its match."
Beefjerky Chase, the newest member of the Action-Reaction news team, comes on with a special report. Beefjerky is a former Texas Ranger and one-time Green Beret; he decided to break into the news business when he failed to meet the tenderfoot requirements for hosting the Blimpton Dude Ranch in Waco, Texas.
"The body of a small man was found just moments ago along Highland Avenue," Beefjerky is informing you in his rich Texas drawl. Here he is interrupted by the anchorman, Lance Knewyew.
"Beef," asked Lance, "was that the body of a small man, or the small body of a man?"
"Either and neither," Beef replies cryptically. "Actually, it was a hermaphrodite. The coroner spent an hour looking for traces of sex organs."
"Then would you say this was sex related?" asks Lance.
"There's strong evidence it is," Beef admits.
"No clues yet, Beef?"
"No clues yet, Lance. However - and this is unconfirmed at this time - we have heard from eye-witnesses who discovered the body that a vehicle seen leaving the scene bore a city government license plate. As we said, this is unconfirmed at present."
"Would you say then, Beef," asks Lance, "that there may be political overtones?"
"It's shaping up that way, Lance," admits Beef.
"Shaping up that way": quite an understatement, in light of subsequent developments - developments which embroiled both Asa and Ava in international politics involving Washington, Moscow, Peking, Katmandu and Kuala Lumpur - developments which led directly to Asa and Ava's move to their nation's capital.
An ice storm - the biggest ever to hit Highland Park, Michigan - brought trees, power lines and road signs down; and felled a felon on his way to a rendezvous with a master spy. His car skidded and he crashed into a culvert; his head was severed by the windshield. In his pockets were telltale signs of his intent: a computer chip, a miniaturized camera, and the secret code for disarming all nuclear warheads west of the Mississippi.
Ava discovered the body. Actually, it was the curious expression on the dead man's face which drew her to the accident scene. She had gone outside to feed the birds that winter on the shores of Lake Michigan; she had never seen them - no one had; but all her life she had heard tales of these strange, elusive creatures, and from the time she was big enough to open the back door, she had taken cherries to a special place to leave for them. Through the years the environs surrounding her "special place" had changed: where once a thick forest now a super highway. But the spot itself had been preserved, by special act of the city government, so that Ava could continue laying out winter stores for the renowned Birds of Highland Park. Twice a week, no matter the weather, Ava would set out cherries. So it was that the fiercest ice storm in recorded memory saw this brave, dedicated soul making her appointed rounds.
She set her bing cherries against the same tree against which she had set cherries since she was a little girl. It was night, as it always was when she made her rounds. Her pocket flashlight created of her ice-covered preserve a crystalline jungle. Amid the gleam and sparkle she detected a curious light, fleeting, dull in perspective, intrusive to this momentary jewel box. Going to investigate, she discovered a human head. "Now who would leave something like that in this place?" she wondered. "It's as if they're deliberately trying to keep my precious birds away. I won't have it." She picked the head up by its hair to move it, but the hair was a toupee and the head slipped from beneath it. When it tumbled to the ground, the angle of its new perch brought an unusual set to its features. It intrigued Ava. "This looks like the man in the wanted poster I saw yesterday," she said. "I wonder if it is; and if so, what is his head doing posing as a scarecrow in my Special Place? And where there's a head, shouldn't there also be a body nearby?" With this question, she proceeded to search the area. It was then she discovered the body inside the wrecked car. She at once called the police.
"And you recognized the head from that poster?" the policeman asked in amazement. "I just wish all citizens were as perceptive as you. Why, some have trouble picking the man we know did it out of a line-up - and here you go identifying a head just from memory! By the way, where is that head? Anybody seen it? Where the heck -"
"Ah, young man," Ava interrupted, "I don't think that kind of talk is necessary - do you?"
A shamefaced policeman apologized for his off-color remark. "Where is that head? Huh?" he purified his rhetoric.
"That's better," Ava commended the young rookie on his proper choice of words.
Nobody seemed to know where the head had gotten to; it had simply disappeared in the confusion. The police were satisfied with the body - its fingerprints were sufficient for their purposes; but Ava resolved to track the head down, since for all she knew it could end up back here again someday to scare her precious winter birds away.
"Now where do you suppose a lost head would end up?" Ava asked her husband, Asa, upon returning home.
"They have an organization now," Asa explained. "Headhunters, it's called. I'm not certain what they do, other than that they are very useful to employers. But it couldn't hurt to check."
Ava called the next day. "I'm searching for a head," she told the counselor. It belongs to a spy. Can you help me?"
"Industrial espionage?" the counselor asked.
"Very likely," said Ava. After all, she thought, any espionage ultimately hurts industry - which is precisely why it's so terrible.
"We might be able to help you, ma'am. We have friends in very high places. Now what company did you wish to, shall we say, learn more about?"
"Well, actually," Ava explained, "I may need to look into every company."
"Every company based in Highland Park?"
"Why, yes, that would be a good place to start."
"I think you've come to the right place, ma'am."
"Oh, good," said Ava.
"Good" said Ava - how ironic that this dear blessed little woman should use that wondrous word to characterize what transpired on the phone; because, in truth, as we shall presently see, it was anything but "good." But then, the innocent, the pure of heart, the truly good among us never see the evil that men do at first glance: being the best among us, they assume the best in us, and only after much travail discover the sad truth about human nature and their fellow man; for there walk among us very few who may truly be called "good," or patriotic, or God-fearing. So Ava will encounter evil - an evil that would paralyze the sensibilities of a lesser soul; but not this great soul, for Ava's simple beliefs will preserve her from the ravages of sin, all sin - even the unpardonable sin of subversion.
Appointments were made by Headhunters, schedules set, company officials alerted of impending visits by...irony of ironies...by "a master spy - an industrial secrets broker of the highest order": Ava. Irony of ironies, that admitted this darling little woman to places she would never have volunteered to enter had she suspected the extent of iniquity within; for, instead of the buying and selling of fine American made wares, the buying and selling of precious American made secrets was conducted within the snake-pits of subversion. And into the pits went Ava, armed only with her great humanitarian instincts and her determination to protect her fabulous winter birds from an all-too-real scarecrow.
"The problem, quite simply," Ava politely explained, "is decapitation. A head was carelessly left in my park last Sunday, then it vanished. Can you help me?"
This was her message wherever she went. No one answered her directly, but everyone hinted that they might be able to "do business" with her. "Ah, she's a cryptic one," they all said when she left. Each and every contact she made set about at once to decipher her message. The head, they all concluded, referred to a head of state, possibly the President of the United States. This head, being "carelessly left in my park," apparently had arrived at its position - that is: its post - in a less than upright manner. In a word: the election had been somehow rigged. Yet this happened "last Sunday," whereas elections were generally a Tuesday event. This could only mean that the nation had been in a stupor when it elected the President and somehow voted on the wrong day without realizing it. The election then, rigged or not, was totally invalid. But there was more. This "head" of state, elected "last Sunday," had "vanished." What could that mean? Indeed! what else could it possibly mean but that the President, not only not elected properly, was not even the man mistakenly elected!
So at last they had deciphered Ava's cryptic message: Someone had substituted an imposter for the man elected by mistake. They had, in effect, decapitated the nation: cut off its "head." But who are "they?" And why had they done this? Clearly, Ava knew - and only Ava knew.
"Ah, she's a slick one," the companies all concluded. "In her hand lies the key to world power. For such a key she will certainly demand a controlling interest. But do we have a choice? If we're to survive and grow in the wondrous climate of international commerce, we must have this woman on our side. Otherwise, who knows, she may go East with her secrets!"
"You mean the Ruskies?"
"Exactly."
"You think they're behind this phantom president?"
"Phantom limb - as it were. I don't think they are. It's not the Ruskies' style to fix an election. That's more like the Third World."
"The Third World?"
"The Third World."
"Any ideas who?"
"I'm thinking of the deposed Dalai Lama. This is something right up his alley. I see his fingerprints all over it. You know: being a Buddhist, he'd be obsessed with illusion and all that."
"But where is he?"
"Nepal, I'd wager. Makes sense, don't it? It's way up there in the Himalayas, just like his old home town in Tibet. It's cold, just the way he likes it - it's a dry cold too. And he can wave at mountain climbers from his front window: got all that crystal clear ice-air up there. Katmandu: that's where you'll find him. The Dalai Lama. Just can't keep his fingers out of power politics. He was well named, gentlemen. Very well named. It's no coincidence his name rhymes with that of the great Surrealist. No coincidence at all."
"Then we're in for a rough time, aren't we?"
'That's why that little lady's got us right where she wants us. She can write her own ticket - name her own price. And I'm sure she will too!"
"I'm sure she will too!" the industrialists of Highland Park, to a man, agreed. They were preparing to offer Ava half their companies when someone leaked the story to the press. It made front page headlines across the nation; it became the lead story on the network nightly news; the Public Broadcasting Network did an in-depth study; but it was station WSSUP right in Highland Park that first broke the news.
Action-Reaction. The late-breaking news. Big Nick the sportscaster pointing out the quintessential difference between jock itch and athlete's foot. Reenie the big-eyed weather girl offering a heartfelt homily on the disappearance of Sky Eye.
Now comes a woman all in white carrying a dead baby. "Hunger hurts," she says. "This little one has gone to meet his maker. Say not that he starved but that he loved too well. He would have only the best. He would eat no food but his own. Simaculak. The infant formula created to please the most discriminating palate. Once they've tasted the finest, they will have nothing else; they will starve first. Isn't the peace of mind knowing your baby will feed worth the few pennies extra you pay? Help safeguard your baby against self-immolation. Give him the gourmet of infant formulas. Simaculak. Your surest cure for starvation. Use only as directed."
Before the anchor can get the first item on, he is interrupted by a special report that cut him short. Thinking he had been somehow negligent, he rushes out into the street and hurls himself in front of a passing motorist; fortunately, he sustains only superficial lacerations and bruises, but his career is over, he will never work in the news business again. He decides to become a stunt man in the movies. Lanky Linda Lanks stole the show from him with a report that catapulted her to national stardom as co-anchor on the Morning News in the A.M.
"Lin Lanks here, outside the headquarters of Highland Parking and Trucking Consortium, where a bizarre plot to overthrow the government of the United States was uncovered just moments ago. We have just learned that there will be an attempt to substitute an imposter for the President. This is said to be set for the President's scheduled visit to the annual Business for Fun and Profit Luncheon, which will take place tomorrow at noon at the Shoreham Hotel in downtown Washington, D.C. It now appears that at least one member of the Cabinet knew of the plot. As the story unfolds, it goes like this: the Dalai Lama, deposed in a bloodless coup some twenty years ago, has surreptitiously replaced the leaders of at least two Third World nations in a bid for world dominance. Apparently he has operatives in this - and every other - country. A small body recently discovered along Highland Avenue, in a bizarre twist to this already bizarre incident, has been identified as being of Buddhist orientation. Furthermore, a link has been discovered between this body and a newly severed head found in a small grove along the new interstate highway - both pieces in an ever-growing mosaic of international espionage, terrorism and subversion. As we now understand it, the small, sexless body was that of a surrealist painter commissioned by the Dalai Lama to create a likeness of the President. He was apparently murdered when his penchant for subconscious representation produced a portrait so unrealistic as to be meaningless. Traces of acrylic paint were found under his finger nails. Meanwhile, in yet another related development, the leaders Sri Lanka, Kuala Lumpur, India and Bhutan voted to suspend diplomatic relations with Nepal, China and Russia, on the grounds that their relations with Uncle Sam were being jeopardized. Word from Washington is that Peking and Moscow may be working with the Dalai Lama to de-stabilize the free world's economy. Congress is said to be considering severing diplomatic relations with 'all nations in any way involved with the Dalai Lama.' Finally, a mysterious woman has surfaced in our city who seems to hold the key to this entire matter. No one seems to know who she is, but all signs point to her being a master spy and the leader of an international terrorist ring. We will have more as developments unfold. We will keep you informed of every new twist to this truly bizarre story, no matter how insignificant it may seem. Reporting from downtown Highland Park, this is Lanky Linda reminding you to pledge your allegiance and say your prayers - while you still can!"
Ava, who, with her husband Asa, had watched the special report, was enraged by the slip-shod reporting. "It was more lost than found!" she insisted. "Otherwise I wouldn't have had to go to headhunters. Why do they allow such biased reporting?"
"My dearest," Asa replied, "the liberal press has no more concern for the truth than the man in the moon. Truth, by its very nature, being conservative, it follows that the liberals would have no concept of it."
"Then they should stop giving the news and let only the conservatives do it," Ava proposed.
"You and I know that, Ava. I can only hope the rest of the world wakes up before it's too late."
"But what do we do?" Ava persisted. "I can't just leave it like this. I feel personally responsible for the proper disposition of that head, since I found it. Why, it could be a subversive - and just the sight of it might cause people to dishonor this great land. Besides, shouldn't we do something to help protect our President? At least warn him. He's been so kind to us."
"You are quite right, of course. In the abstract, anyway. At least, so far as the President goes. The head, however, could serve as well to deter as to promote un-American activities. Nor do I see you as personally responsible. You found the head, yes, which might confer a temporary custodianship on you; but the primary responsibility would have to belong with whomever commissioned the individual in the first place, thus placing him in the position to lose his head. In a word, dearest, I believe you have done more than enough to execute any duty you may have incurred toward that head. I suggest you leave sleeping dogs lie now, and let's get on to more important things."
"Like what?" asked Ava.
"I've been thinking," replied Asa. "It may very well be time for a move."
"A move?"
"A move."
"Where to?"
"To our nation's capital."
"But they have so many of...you know: those kind of people there...don't they?"
"It may be time to change that."
"And what of my winter birds? Who will take care of them?" an anxious Ava inquired.
"The Lord will provide for them," replied Asa.
"But won't He also provide for the President?"
"Well, the President may have some little sin or two lurking in his heart that we don't yet know about."
"We could ask the First Lady?"
"Even she may now know."
"Oh dear, the poor woman. She'll be so hurt when she finds out - as she must in time. I suppose we'll have to tell her, dear, won't we?"
"In time, dearest. All in good time."
"Maybe I'll have her in for tea," Ava speculated. "I could tell her then. And after she's had a good cry, the poor dear, perhaps we could go see the cherry blossoms - I've always wanted to see them, and having the First Lady for a tour guide would be so nice, wouldn't it? And it'll take her mind off her problem, too."
"Take her mind off her problem": in light of what happened the very day the First Lady came calling on Ava at tea time, those words of Ava's turned into the very prototype of understatement; for that ugliest of ugly heads - that Gorgon, Hydra, Sphinx and Cerebus all rolled into one - had reared itself and leaped, full blown, into the limelight, splattering over the President's reputation like a bug against a window; and falling like lees into the First Lady's afternoon tea. Corruption. That deadliest political faux pas of them all, lurking always in the shadows of greatness and heroic achievement. Corruption. That taintiest of taints, that spottiest of spots, that blackest of sins. Corruption. The very mouth of hell, ready, willing and able to swallow up a man's every good deed until nothing but his faults remain. Corruption. The curse of fame, the nemesis of fortune, the spoiler of innocence. The incorruptible corrupter.
"So very nice of you to join me," Ava greeted her afternoon guest.
"So very nice of you to ask me," the First Lady replied.
They sat down to tea, which Ava poured from an Early American kettle into Colonial cups of red, white and blue china. She then served cupcakes and crackers. And, as the piéce de resistance, so as not to disrupt the everyday flow of things, she turned on the television. It was time for News for Homemakers, the mid-afternoon report, which combined helpful household hints with the latest news scoops.
"Helen Louise is with us today with tips on curbing poor children's appetites, tips on dieting, some thoughts on food distribution, and some very very good ways to get food stains out of your clothes. First, a word from our sponsor."
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Another voice comes on, while across the screen is a telephone number. "Call now, toll free, 1-800-UNCLSAM. That's 1-800-862-5726. Operators are standing by. Or write 'Bombs Away, care/of State Secrets, Incorporated, Post Office Box 1776, Washington, DC 21854. Remember, that's $19.95, plus postage and handling. So act now, while there's still time."
The number fades, and up pops a bright, shiny, country-fresh face. "Martha McDonald here, with some down-home news for you ladies out there. Our top story: Guns and Butter. No, ladies, not a new recipe, but a very serious matter indeed. It seems our President is about to trade off guns for butter. Our guns - yours and mine - for someone else's butter. Now I'm a farm girl, from Iowa, and I like butter. But, ladies, I'm an American first; and I know how desperately we need every single gun, missile and bomb we can get our hands on. Hunger may very well hurt the hungry - but not nearly so much as disarmament hurts us all. This is serious business, ladies, throwing our national priorities out of alignment. And if these reports prove true - if indeed the President has diverted funds slated for the Pentagon to the USDA - it were indeed a grievous fault. And grievously must he answer to us. Let's hope - and, yes, ladies: let's pray - he comes to his senses before it's too late. We must not risk our children's future through shortsighted national policies. If they could talk, they would all tell us: 'Give us guns! Give us back our guns!' With an editorial comment, I'm Martha McDonald."
Ava was stunned; her guest, shamefaced.
"My husband is not a bad man," the First Lady tried desperately to explain to her hostess. "I know, deep down, his heart is in the right place. But he has some very bad advisors - how else account for this? He knows better than to leave this nation open to attack from its enemies - just to feed people! I - I simply don't know what to say."
"Reassure me that he's not a subversive."
"Oh Ava: he's not! I swear it. He's not."
"I believe you. And I think I know how to get him out of this terrible predicament."
"Oh anything, Ava. Anything."
"We - you and I - must feed the hungry. That way there will be no pressure on our President. We could bake pies, and distribute them to the hungry. And if we run short on ingredients, we can give them each a bright, shiny new penny. One penny to each hungry family. But only the truly needy. Not the moochers or the welfare cheats or the people who are simply too lazy to go out and get a job. And, of course, not those who speak against this great country. Or commit crimes. Or engage in sinful activities. Only the truly needy. And we must have proof they're serious about their situation. Only those with a good savings account - because if they don't save - if they waste all their money - they don't deserve anyone's help."
"That goes without saying," the First Lady readily agreed.
"A minimum of $500. Less than that, and they're not truly needy; they just don't know how to manage their money. Why should we go to the trouble of baking them a nice, wholesome, all-American pie if they're too ignorant to spend their money wisely?"
"We shouldn't," the First Lady replied. "It would be a very bad precedent. And it would only encourage indolence."
"Precisely," said Ava. "So what do you say? Should we get started feeding every hungry family in America?"
"One more cup of that wonderful tea first," the First Lady replied.
Ava smiled as she poured, relieved that the burden of informing her that her husband had skeletons in his closet had been lifted from her shoulders, for now those skeletons had come to light - the wondrous light of TV - and would be dispelled, along with the terrible onus of trading off the nation's defense for a pat of butter. And when these two venerable ladies emptied their teacups, they rolled up their sleeves and set about feeding America's hungry.
They set up little booths around the nation - one in every major city; on each was a pretty sign which announced "Pies for the genuinely hungry." "Show us your bank book," the ladies who manned the booths demanded. Their $500 minimum balance proving their worthiness, the hungry families were given a nice big pie to take home. However, there got to be so many families with the requisite $500 balance that a strategy session had to be called.
"Even the indigent can save $500," Ava advised the First Lady. "I think perhaps in our effort to feed our fellow man we have been overly generous. I'm just afraid we may be in danger of becoming liberal-minded if we're not careful," Ava cautioned.
"What do you recommend?" a shocked First Lady asked.
"A thousand is a more realistic gauge of hunger," Ava set forth her recommendation - a recommendation unanimously adopted. And none too soon, for in fact the entire store of pies had been exhausted and the ladies of the booths (hungerariums, as these booths had come to be called) had had to begin handing out the bright shiny pennies Ava had been saving for so long. Fortunately, the more realistic criterion - the $1000 minimum - saved the day. Hunger in America soon stopped. The booths were shut down; Ava's troops went home. Ava's Army (as the press had dubbed this monumental effort to aid humanity) had saved the day, in more ways than one. Not only was the nation better fed, it was also better defended, the President finally able to stop diverting precious defense funds to the needy; his reputation was almost overnight restored.
Oh, there were skeptics, to be sure: droll faced individuals insinuating that the real hungry had gone unnoticed - had slipped, as it were, through the safety net set to prevent mooching at the public trough. Some even went so far as to impugn the very criterion so circumspectly applied to detect the truly needy. A team of experts was commissioned by the White House to study the whole matter; these wise men made short shrift of the accusations.
"This is not a true hunger," their White House paper explained. "Rather, it is indicative of a 'pseudo-hunger.' In a word, it exists not in the bellies but entirely in the minds of the indigent. All they need do is commission a good budget analyst to assist them in allocating their resources correctly, and within six months their 'hunger' will have become alleviated. Furthermore," the report went on to point out, "fully three-fourths of the so-called 'malnourished' children we interviewed had had at least a minimum of 13.7 ounces of foodstuffs the day we saw them. The rest were clearly of an anxious persuasion. The one thing, without exception, however, that these children all lacked was their own savings account. The parents of these children are guilty of neglect, yes - but a very special kind of neglect: fiduciary neglect. They are not teaching their offspring the value of money. Shame, shame!"
"How sad," said Ava, listening to the report on the evening news.
"Yes, it is," Asa agreed. "To think there are people out there with no greater sense of parental responsibility than to allow their children to waste their resources on toys and candy and movies when they should be starting their own savings accounts. It makes me fearful for this great nation's future. It's ironic: the liberals are so busy looking for some non-existent hunger pains that they overlook the simple and terrible fact that we are producing a nation of financial illiterates. Something must be done before it's too late."
"And I know you'll think of something, too," Ava encouraged her husband, who smiled in return. Just then the phone rang. It was the President, calling to once again thank this wonderful couple for all their help.
"That's what we're here for, Mr. President," said Asa.
"God love you - and the little woman too, Asa," said the President. "You're what America's all about, you and she."
Asa nodded his agreement, because truer words, as he well knew, were never spoken.