Sure I Knit, but I Wouldn’t Call It a Hobby

Relentless Ron is relentless no longer. It’s not that the Energizer Bunny of letter writers has run out of juice, that’s for sure. I still see Ron Yorke’s name in print enough to know that he’s never stopped writing letters to various editors.

But Relentless Ron has become resentful--resentful toward me, at least.

Ron Yorke and I have some history--almost three years’ worth. It started when Ron took such a dim view of my interpretation of the 2nd Amendment that he wondered what kinds of drugs I’ve used. Regrettably, the accusation startled me into confessing to having inhaled--once in the ‘70s, once in the ‘80s--dashing my hopes for a Supreme Court nomination.

We never met or even spoke. When I tried to track him down by phone, I reached a Ron York who also lived on Newcastle Avenue in Reseda, just a couple of blocks away. This York said he was often confused with his opinionated but unlisted neighbor. At any rate, Relentless Ron seemed pleased whenever I quoted him in an occasional letters column.

Over the years I dropped him a note or two, and when one of his fellow riflemen asked me to forward a note to Ron, I did so. Ron thoughtfully offered to substitute for me while I was on vacation. (Not my call.)

Ron Yorke is one of those people for whom writing to newspapers is an avocation. He used to write me about once a week, often using large, hot-pink envelopes, like the one I just found on top of the monument to disorganization that serves as my desk.

It was postmarked March 11 of this year. On the back of the envelope, he wrote:

DUDE! How rude! What’s wrong wit’ chew?

His letter went on to chastise me for failing to acknowledge several previous missives, but was signed “your friendly nemesis.” Later, on another envelope, he illustrated his escalating displeasure by pasting a photocopy that made it appear as if my picture appeared next to the word rude in the dictionary.

Now, this seemed less than friendly, but he had a point. When not preoccupied, I was neglectful. Ron, after all, had invested no small amount of time and stamps. The least I could have done was drop a note back.

It was just a few weeks back that I received my last letter from Ron, this one concerning Valley secession. What caught my attention was his tone of disgust and his vow to never write to me again.

You know what? I kind of miss those big, pink envelopes and Ron’s friendly, spirited rejoinders.

What got me thinking about Ron was a letter from another reader in Reseda. The writer responded to a recent column that carried the headline, “The Year of the Ambivalent White Male.”

I suggested that I and my Caucasian American brothers, who had so much impact on the elections of ‘94, have since become less angry and more wishy-washy. This might be one reason Mayor Richard Riordan, after ducking Proposition 187, the hot-button illegal-immigration-control issue of ‘94, felt secure enough to announce his opposition to Proposition 209, the measure to abolish state preference policies that advance the education and employment of minorities and women. Bucking the Republican Party line, Riordan voiced his own ambivalence over affirmative action policies, but declared that Proposition 209 is too divisive and would destroy worthwhile programs.

I wonder if Riordan has heard from the Reseda man (not Ron Yorke) who sent a fax to The Times’ editors, which was forwarded to me. It was signed but I had trouble calling the phone number--”crossed lines,” the operator said--and thus was unable to confirm the authorship.

Still, readers might appreciate an opposing viewpoint:

First of all, don’t call me your white brother. If I were you, I would be ashamed to call myself a white male. I’ll bet your mother still dresses you. I bet you still live with your mother. You’re the guy in high school that nobody would show up to watch in an after school fight, because everyone knew that no one would get hurt. You probably have a column because one of your relatives owns the paper. You probably got your first date by telling her you were the editor.

You’re the type that will probably be looking over his shoulder in your private voting booth in November, worrying if there is a woman or minority in the building that might beat you up. I’ll bet you still haven’t learned how to throw a baseball. You probably played with dolls as a boy. I’ll bet your parents never had to spank you. You probably never got dirty, and wore a bow tie every day.

I’ll bet you didn’t stop wetting the bed until you were in your twenties. I’ll bet you skipped to high school. You probably drank all of your milk. I’ll bet you would dodge the draft if you could. You probably won’t go to the ready teller at night. I’ll bet you never fired a b.b. gun as a kid. You probably still throw up when someone steps on a bug. I’ll bet your hobby is knitting.

I’ll bet you have bad dreams after watching “Anastasia.” I’ll bet you still don’t have to shave. I’ll bet you carried a briefcase to school. You should be working in the Commercial Division of the Department of Water and Power. I’ll bet that you still wear rain boots. You’re probably still afraid of spiders. I’ll bet when you have kids, that they’ll be the same way. I’ll bet you don’t even know what affirmative action is.

I didn’t get the “Anastasia” crack. It sounded familiar, and I’ve since learned there was an Ingrid Bergman movie by that name. A colleague suggested he probably meant “Fantasia.”

Whatever. If this is my new pen pal, all I can say is this:

Forgive me, Relentless Ron! Write soon!

Scott Harris’ column appears Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays. Readers may write to Harris at the Times Valley Edition, 20000 Prairie St., Chatsworth 91311. Please include a phone number.