Years ago, back when Eisenhower was running for President against our sixth cousin Adlai Stevenson, mother advised us three kids, “Don’t ever argue politics or religion.”

I remember Mom betting friend of the family Tom Allnut a dollar that Ike would beat our own kin. Mom, like Dad, was a Roosevelt Democrat turned Eisenhower Republican.

When we visited our family in Mississippi and Missouri, I remember hearing the heated and humid discussions of parents mixing opinions with bourbon.

Sometimes we were sent to bed early so our parents could yell louder further away.

Isn’t it funny how parents think the kids don’t know what is really going on?

And, isn’t it funny how we all seem to vote the way that our parents did?

Why is that?

Why do we still give power to our parents after we are old enough to be parents?

For me, it is because of respect.

I like to think that our Mom and Dad knew better than us about which political persons were most like Superman or Roy Rogers, our childhood precinct idols.

Truth, Justice and the Hardy Boys.

What else does a 12-year-old need?

So, here I am, an almost five times 12 year old still voting by political party because of my parents’ political preferences from the 1950s.

Why do we give our decision making power to our past?

Are we honoring the ignorance of our youth or the best that we knew at the time?

I recall arguing with my eighth grade English teacher,

Mrs. Freeman, no relation, when she refused my essay theme, “Why Labor Unions Are Dumb.”

“Jim, does that mean that labor unions cannot hear?”

“I don’t know, it’s just what my Dad said at dinner last night.”

I ended up writing about mother’s recipe for her always-popular Presbyterian baked beans.

Of course, it had to be Van de Camp’s brand canned beans, probably reciped by Methodists or Lutherans.

My college fraternity brother Skeeter’s Texas style chili called for a rare find of Hormel brand beans garnered with a sufficient percentage of bean grease.

I have another friend who still will not eat Hormel products because the company allegedly mistreated Hispanics more than twenty years ago.

What, no Cinco de Mayo bonuses?

I also know people who will not eat at some of our local restaurants because of some culinary experience that occurred back when President Woodrow Wilson fathered the father of Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys.

And if you believe that, you’ll vote for or against proposition 933 because it adds up to 15, which adds up to six, which when triplicated is 666 and we all know what that means upside down.

My mother always used to offer the same three words as I ran out of the kitchen, happily toward freedom, swiftly pushing open the back porch screen door in pursuit of the days’ adventures.

“Be careful, Jimmy.”

I realized some 40 years later that what Mom really meant was to be care-filled.

So this past weekend, when some of our friends and family members started challenging each other in decibels of division regarding political candidates, religious preferences and appropriate relationships, I was taken proudly back, once again, to the advice from mother.

“Don’t ever argue politics or religion.”

Relieved and restrained, I opened another 12-ounce bottle of Vernor’s Ginger Soda and walked out of the house to the sounds of cows mooing.

Life is what we make it.

Trick or Treat!

Jim Freeman can be reached at fun@whidbey.com.