A M RAMBLINGS

An early morning (for your grandma and me) phone call from the piano tuner has left me wide awake and swimming in a stew of random thoughts so here I am trying to capture some of them before they are all gone.  As usual, in wandering through my mind I have stumbled over some of the bits of literature strewn about in there.  I'm just going to put some of those bits down and then see where this essay goes.  The first one was:

                 CROSSING THE BAR

              Sunset and evening star
              And one clear call for me.
              Let there be no moaning of the bar
              When I put out to sea.

 This expression of Tennyson's contentment with his life (he is asking metaphorically that no one mourn for him when he dies) came back to me as I lay in bed with my wife's warm weight pressing gently against my back and one of the dogs snoring quietly on the floor next to us.  The poet, all his accomplishments not withstanding, cannot have been more content than I am.  From there I spun on to a line from the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, "You will comprehend the word serenity and you will know peace." That's from a section called "The Promises," and it is a promise that I have certainly received.

"Now is the winter of our discontent turned glorious summer," floated by next, and I laid there for a few minutes thinking about how we do in fact make our lives "winter," not by being deprived, but by being dissatisfied.  Like most of Shakespeare's protagonists, Richard III was brought down by his ambition and greed.  Had he actually been content he would have escaped his fate.  Someone put it much more plainly with, "Happiness isn't found in having what you want, it"s found in not wanting what you don't have."  I guess that just brings us back to my "The Richest Man I Ever Knew" story.

Next, for some reason I started thinking about an anecdote I sometimes use when someone is railing about what kind of God allows bad things to happen.  This isn't a story that is apropos of anything happening in my life, it is just where my mind went this morning.

       Picture in your mind two college professors strolling across the campus of a great university like Harvard or Cambridge.  They are discussing the philosophies of Nietzsche and Kierkegaard, Bertrand Russell and Teilhard de Chardin.  As they are walking, one of the professors happens to glance down and sees that his foot is about to come down on an ant.  Without thinking about it or interrupting what he is saying to his companion, he twitches his foot to the side just enough to spare the ant's life.  That ant, going on about his business, completely uncomprehending of his narrow escape, knows as much about the philosophies the two professors were discussing as I know about the mind and plan of God.  To tell myself that I know more is simply hubris.

Grandma B says this story is mostly about me trying to show off how smart I am by naming a couple of philosophers.  I expect she is not completely wrong.  I do know the names, but I had to look up the spellings.  No one ever accused me of being a good student.  The story is also a reminder to me that I have a great deal to be humble about.

This post has been sitting in the draft file for a couple of days now because it felt kind of unfinished, so here is one last thought  to end it on.

I woke up again this morning so it's gonna' be another great day!



 

JUST ANOTHER GLIMPSE OF THE PAST

I recently read a humor piece in our local paper in which the writer reminisced about working with her dad.  I could relate of course, because I grew up on a farm where working with Dad (and Mother) started as soon as we were old enough to be of any use at all.  It's sad that the family business/family farm has fallen victim to "progress."  I'm no Luddite who wants to go back to "the good old days," but there are things I miss.

It was a given on the farm that we would begin working as soon as we were able.  The first jobs I can remember were feeding chickens and milking cows.  Not long after, I was steering a tractor as it pulled a baler across the hay field.  Each time we reached the end of the field, Dad would have to jump off the baler, where he was tying the bales, and climb onto the tractor to turn it around because I wasn't strong enough to do it.  I was also too small to reach the pedals used to stop the tractor, but still I was working and contributing to the family enterprise.

A few years later, when I was about 12 years old, Mother took a job to supplement the family income.  Because my brother was two years older than me and big enough to do most of the farm work, he became Dad's helper and I was designated to help Mother.  This mostly consisted of having lunch ready when Dad and John came in from whatever work they were doing.  Oddly enough, I didn't resent this and in fact still enjoy cooking today.  Eventually of course, I was able to work alongside them doing all the different types of work required on a livestock farm.

Of course there was plenty of time to play too.  The big difference was that there wasn't a gang of neighborhood kids to play with, most of the time I played alone or with my brother, your great uncle John.  Imagination was the best toy we had; we were soldiers, cowboys, pilots, sailors, or anything else we chose to be.  Perhaps the best part was having a three hundred acre backyard to play in. Pastures and creeks, barns and trees were our parks and play sets.  Old farm equipment made as good a jungle gym as ever was, with the added benefit that we had to learn to be careful because no safety engineer had made sure there were no sharp edges or hard landings.  We had a few scars by the time we grew up, but I think we were better prepared for the grownup world than we would have been had we been padded and protected from every hazard.

The creek that flowed through the farm was always a focus for exploration, play , and wonder.  We lived on three different farms while I was between eight and eighteen years old and each one of them had a stream running through it that could go from completely dried up in late summer to a raging torrent in early spring.  Even when I was high school age, I still spent many long summer afternoons poking around along the creek, occasionally still playing some of those imagination games that I "should" have outgrown by then.  

Perhaps the greatest blessing of that way of life  was one I have only come to recognize since raising a family of my own.  Mother and Dad were always there.  Even during the few years when Mother worked "in town" it was part time and mostly while we were at school.  Usually we had two parents 24/7 .  A short walk out to where Dad was working and I would ride on the tractor with him while he worked the field.  There wasn't much conversation because of the noise of the equipment, I was just being with him, sharing our world with him.

Extended family was also part of that closeness. Going to visit or being visited by grand parents or Dad's brothers' families was about our only "social" activity.  At least that's the way I remember it being through my grade school years.  Getting together with cousins was always fun, and aunts and uncles treated one anothers kids as if they were their own.  We were family in the best sense.  I still feel some of that whenever I think about my cousins, even though I haven't seen them for years and only rarely communicate even by email.  A big "social" event of the year was the annual Swartout family reunion.  It was the one time when all the cousins would get together at once.  The reunion was held at a park with a well equipped playground  which was another rare treat for us country kids; swings and slides and teeter-totters were town stuff.  The highlight of the reunion was always the meal.  Every family brought something to the feast and, always, the women who prepared the food wanted to show off their best dishes.  Not only was the food as good as they could make it, but for once we kids were allowed total control of what we put on our plates.  No one insisted that we eat our vegetables that day and taking some of every kind of dessert was practically encouraged.

Dad, his brothers and sister; Mother and all the other spouses, are all gone now.  The cousins are scattered, and a few of them gone too, but those days and the feeling of belonging are still a part of me and, I'm sure, a part of all of us who were there.  I hope that whatever has taken the place of family reunions and Sunday visits will mean as much to you some day.

WE ARE AN ILLITERATE PEOPLE

WARNING!  This is a rant.  I'm going to claim a bully pulpit here for a few minutes.

"We are an illiterate people.  When a person says something, we don't ask where he learned it.  We just believe it."  That quote (printed in TIME Magazine) is from a Pakistani man talking about how he had come to the decision to not allow his daughter to receive a polio vaccination, a vaccination that would have prevented her being a cripple for the rest of her life.  I was struck by the parallel between his statement and what I have been observing in our own country for some time.  We are no less credulous just because we can read;  we accept any statement that supports what we already believe and reject any that doesn't.

A recent school shooting and, even more so, last years presidential campaign released a torrent of words. "All guns are bad."  "All teachers should be armed." "President Obama is not a citizen."  "Romney doesn't care about anyone but the rich."   No statement has been too outrageous and the only defense necessary seems to be "You can't prove it isn't true."  Even the most reasonable, sensible and modest proposals following in the wake of a shooting spree that left 16 children and six adults dead are called threats to the constitution.  One NRA pundit even tried to tie gun control to racism. I've also heard, "We know it won't work, so why even try," from someone I actually respect. Of course, she is right that "It won't work" in the sense that making assault weapons and hundred round magazines illegal will not immediately take them out of, or keep them out of, the hands of people who would misuse them. (Is there any way for a civilian to not misuse an assault rifle?)  Does that mean any attempt to control them is bad or that it is wrong to even offer ideas for consideration?  Is it even remotely reasonable that either presidential candidate was a willing conspirator in a plot to take over the world?

I suppose I am really angry about this because I recently caught myself holding on to an idea just because I "knew" it was so.  The subject was "Right to Work" laws.  Your dad was for them and I was against.  As he offered reasonable arguments to support his view, I realized that my response was basically knee-jerk; these were bad laws because I knew they were bad laws.  Long ago, I had accepted without question the viewpoint of the union to which I then belonged.  Thirty years later I still had not questioned that viewpoint.  I'm still not certain it was wrong, but I am much less certain that it was right.  I am now examining my willingness to examine my beliefs and finding it wanting.  It's annoying to find out you aren't as reasonable and rational as you think you are.

It was Will Rogers who said, "It ain't what you don't know that hurts you.  It's what you do know that just ain't so."  We need to examine what we "know." Is it fact or at least a reasonable idea based on facts?  Or is it just what we choose to believe?  If we do not challenge ourselves to challenge what we believe we have no basis for challenging what anyone else believes.  Be a skeptic.  Question everything, especially your  own beliefs.  And be willing, but not necessarily eager, to change.

BEHOLD THE TURTLE

I've been stuck.  For almost two months now I haven't come up with anything that I have thought was worth committing to print. I woke up this morning with the beginning of an idea; enough of one that I felt compelled to get to the computer and try to capture it.  That was about an hour ago and as you can see, I am now at the point of idly tapping keys hoping something will come out.

Here's what I have been mulling over.  For Christmas this year your Dad created and gave to me a bound volume of this blog.  It was wonderfully done, filled with pictures of family, with one of me reading to you, Scarlett, on the front.  When I tore the wrapping off and saw what it was, my eyes filled with tears and my heart just filled.  It was a gift in the finest sense of the word because of the emotional impact it had. It wasn't until this morning that I began to understand why it had meant so much to me.  It was your dad saying to me, "I value you." I had, I suppose, something of the same feeling when he asked me to start this enterprise but the book gave it substance, made it real, in a way it hadn't been before.

I have written before about the joy of loving and being loved, but I had not realized (consciously) how much being valued means.  I had particularly not thought about how much it means to me.  I know that I am proud and vain, that what people think of me is of too much importance to me.  If you want to know how true this is, ask me how often I check to see how many times this blog has been read.  Nonetheless, there is a kernel of insight here.  I think this particular character defect of mine is probably common to almost all people and is, in fact, a major driver in most creative activity.  Actors, artists, writers, athletes, and many others continue to work in their chosen fields long after any economic need to work has been met.  Especially people who perform before live audiences seem unable to stop.  I believe it is the need to be valued, to have people appreciate them, that drives them.  I know it has driven me back to this keyboard when I don't think I have anything left to say. "Vanity of vanities;  all is vanity."  The author of Ecclesiastes understood this several thousand years ago.

I'm not just trying to beat my ego into submission here, or even to excuse my hubris in daring to write at all.  (I'm also not saying that those two things don't play a role here.)  Since I am usually trying to moralize in these essays, here is the moral of this one;  if you value someone or something someone has done for you, let them know. Of course, this "moral" is just a restatement of an earlier blog, "You Done Real Good," so I guess I still don't have anything to say.

 Except maybe this.  Perhaps that streak of vanity that runs through us isn't all bad.  We are brought up to honor humility (bit of an oxymoron there) and to view self-aggrandizement as something bad. To be sure, bragging and blowing your own horn is very unattractive, but putting yourself out there, singing your song or telling your story where it can be heard, is the only way anything gets created.  It is the desire to have our performance appreciated that drives us to do our best.  It has taken me all these years to figure out that it's OK to put on the show and it's also OK if it isn't always great. In his Gettysburg Address Lincoln said, "The world will little note nor long remember what is said here..."  Look how wrong he was.

So.  Sing your song;  tell your story; dance your dance.  Worry about what people think only to the extent that it makes you want to do your best. Do not let worry about what people will think (or even about how good you think your performance is) keep you from trying. Today's title comes from a line I once heard, "Behold the turtle; he makes no progress until he sticks his neck out."
 

VETERAN'S DAY... AND PRIDE

Veterans' Day is just a couple of days away so "honor the vets" is showing up in newspapers, on Facebook, and in various other places.  I heartily endorse this sentiment, especially toward those men and women who have actually taken part in armed conflicts (even the dubious ones currently winding down in the Middle East).
I'm talking about it here because seeing those expressions of respect and gratitude made me feel proud because I too am a vet.  In one of his requests to me to talk about myself, your dad asked the question, "What is something that you are proud of?"  It isn't that I had a distinguished career in the military; I wasn't a volunteer. I was drafted. I stayed in only as long as I was required to and never had any desire to go back.  I reached the rank of sergeant, but was fortunate enough to never be in combat.  Nonetheless, I am proud that I served.  When I see a soldier in uniform I feel a kinship with him (or her).  I just read somewhere that approximately seven percent of Americans have served in uniform, that makes it a pretty elite group.

I am not advocating that any of you enlist.  I am glad that your grandma and I were spared the fear that comes with having a son or daughter serving in harm's way and I would like to see your mom and dad spared that same fear.  On the other hand, if any of you do choose to serve, know that you will have a proud grandpa saluting your choice.

Your grandfather is no poet, but this is as close as I can come to putting my feelings about being a vet into words. I am part of something.  I am part of a group of men and women who feel they can hold their heads just a little higher than those who have not served.  I share a bond with every soldier who ever lived.  It is that bond that makes me proud.

 

A STORY

Instead of my usual wandering thoughts, here is something from when your dad and his brothers were small.  Usually, your grandmother or I would read a story to them before bed, but once in a while I would make up a story for them. I don't suppose that most of them were very good, but the boys seemed to enjoy them, and I enjoyed making them up. This was probably the first one I did, and about the only one I really remember. Perhaps your dad will read it to you while you are still small and maybe when you are older it will give you a glimpse of your grandpa B.

The Little Doughnut

On a quiet street in a quiet little town, there was a little bakery with a jolly baker who every morning put out trays and trays of delicious doughnuts for people to enjoy with their breakfast.  There were all kinds:  cinnamon rolls and glazed doughnuts, cream filled and jelly filled bismarks, plain doughnuts and powdered sugar doughnuts and many others.  

One morning, as he set out the last tray of powdered sugar doughnuts, all white and fluffy like they were covered with snow, he saw that one was much smaller than the rest.  “Oh dear,” he said.  “I can never sell that one;  it’s much too small and it just wouldn’t be fair.”     He thought for a moment about eating it himself, but after making doughnuts since three o’clock in the morning, eating one just didn’t sound good at all.  “I guess I’ll just toss you out into the street,” he said to the little doughnut, “then some stray dog can have himself a breakfast.”  And that’s just what he did.

     The little white doughnut landed on the sidewalk and rolled a few feet before he stopped.  “I wouldn’t have minded being part of someone’s good breakfast,” the doughnut thought to himself.   “After all, that’s what I was made for, but I sure don’t want to be eaten up by a stray dog!”  But just as he was thinking this, a snarly, gruff sounding, hungry looking stray dog came wandering up the street toward him.  Having decided not to be a dog’s breakfast, the little doughnut flipped himself up onto his side and looked around for a place to hide.  Spying a nearby storm drain, he rolled to it as fast as he could and jumped in.

Out of one scrape and into another!  The little doughnut found himself swirling along in a stream of rainwater and soon felt the last of his nice powdered sugar coating melting away.  “Oh no!” he thought, feeling himself start to swell up and soften up with the rainwater.  “Now I’m starting to melt.  Soon there won’t be anything left of me.  I might as well have let that dog get me!”  But he wasn’t about to just give up.  He spun himself about and hopped up onto a ledge running along the inside of the pipe and soon felt the water begin to drain away.  He rolled along the ledge, rather squishily, until he came to the end of the drain and out into the sunshine once again.

After a few minutes, the warm sun began to bake away all the water he had soaked up.  Soon he had shrunk back to his usual rather small size and wasn’t squishy anymore.  In fact, he was rather hard now, and he certainly wasn’t fluffy white like snow anymore.  What with swimming in the drain and then rolling along the ground, he was now coated with hard black dirt.  Seeing his new, very unappetizing look, he said to himself, “Well, I’m certainly safe from stray dogs, but what shall I do with myself?  If I’m not going to be a breakfast what will I be?”  Not knowing the answer to his questions, he decided to just keep rolling along and see what he could see.

As he had been rolling along, drying himself in the sun and seeing the sights, he had rolled into a rather shabby neighborhood with not so nice houses and untended yards.  In one of these yards was a little boy trying to play with an old toy truck.  Trying, but not having much luck because the truck had only three of its four wheels.  The corner with the missing wheel kept digging in to the dirt and made the toy truck very hard to push.  The little doughnut noticed that the wheels still on the truck were just about his size.  He also saw that after his adventures in the drain and the dirt he was exactly as black as a tire.  This gave him an idea.  He rolled into the yard and flopped over onto his side right next to the toy truck.  Sure enough, the little boy picked him up and placed him on the truck where the missing tire had been.

“This is where I was meant to be!” he thought joyfully as the little boy started pushing his toy around the yard.   “I was meant to make someone happy and now I’ve done it!”

A CHILD OF THE SPACE AGE

Willy Ley and Werner von Braun were among my childhood heroes.  I was thrilled by the first faint beeps from Sputnik.  Alan Shepard and John Glenn took me with them into space.  I will remember to my dying day where I was when I watched Neal Armstrong take his one small step.  Those feelings and memories are of enormous importance to me.  They help define me. I am a child of the space age.  If we turn our back on space, what will my grandchildren have to take its place?  We NEED to be explorers!  It is our birthright and our legacy.  Please do not allow it to be taken from us.

I wrote the above paragraph as an attachment to a letter to the president of the United States from the Planetary Society.    http://www.planetary.org/     By the time you, my grandchildren, read this it will be apparent whether or not the efforts of the society and the others who support the space program were successful.  What I want to talk about here is that one sentence, "I am a child of the space age."

The space age is usually defined as beginning on October 4th 1957 with the launching of the first man-made satellite.  I was six weeks shy of my thirteenth birthday.  For me it began even earlier.  Along with cowboy shows like "Roy Rogers," kid's TV at the time included "space operas."  When I was eight or nine years old I was thrilled by the adventures of "Captain Video" and "Tom Corbett, Space Cadet." Never mind how quaint or even silly those names sound today, they evoked a sense of wonder and the belief that there were no limits to what we could do.  Science fiction was by far the biggest part of my pleasure reading for many years.  My ship of imagination didn't just take me across oceans, it took me across the universe.

I grew up in a wonderful, terrible, time.  "Wonderful" because science and technology were making the world a better, richer place every day.  Television was just beginning to bring the world into our living rooms. Terrible diseases like polio were succumbing to the power of medicine.  The commercial jet airplane made travel something anyone could do. "Terrible" because that same science and technology had created the power to end civilized life through nuclear war.  The Cuban missile crisis occurred the same year I graduated from high school, and in grade school I did take part in those ridiculous "duck and cover" exercises.

Through it all, more than anything else, it was the effort to get man into space that held my imagination.  I grew up believing that we would have colonies on the moon and be on our way to the stars.  I have to admit that my belief that those things will happen has diminished, but it still remains a part of me.  I hope that you have a "space race" to inspire you to believe we can still reach for the stars, and that nothing like the threat of nuclear war exists for you.  "Go in peace" is an often heard benediction.  May you have peace, and also the opportunity to "go."