A Hard Teacher

I once knew a sharp-minded old-timer that lived way up in the hills around here. He was a retired schoolteacher (from back in the one-room country school house days) named Carl Van Landingham, or simply, Mr. Carl. Talking about how people learn best, he once told me, "Experience is a hard teacher, but she is also the most effective!" I recently came across a similar quote attributed to Vernon Sanders Law: "Experience is a hard teacher because she gives the test first, the lesson afterwards."

It reminds me of a story my father told me. When he was a little boy, in the 1920's, he once came upon his uncle hunkered over the engine of a car. As the uncle listened to the purr of the motor, little Charles' curiosity brought him up close. The uncle issued a challenge: "Say Charles, I bet you can't pee on that spark plug--I bet you couldn't even hit it." Well, Charles had undoubtedly spent some time learning to aim and shoot as he relieved himself. So he was up to the challenge. It didn't occur to him that it might matter that the engine was running. He climbed up on the fender and soon summoned a stream which he deftly directed straight onto the target.

He suddenly found himself lying on his back--on the ground. Charles gathered himself and stood, shaking his head in dazed wonder. Eventually the uncle was able to stifle his laughter,and he explained to my dad that cars produce electricity that flows through the spark plug when the motor is running. Little Charles also learned that day that water--and pee--are great conductors of electricity. The spark climbed the stream as his poor little unit completed the circuit. It was  "... the test first, the lesson afterwards." I'm pretty sure that my dad never peed on another spark plug in all of his 87 years. He learned his lesson well. I guess he learned something about that uncle as well.

Another Side of Me

This posting is a follow-up to the previous posting, “My Alter Ego?”. Maybe that alter ego—the irresponsible, but harmless vagabond—is a piece of me in an unrealistic dream world, but not in the real world. I was out of work for six months and was not myself. It gives me empathy for anyone in this depressed economy that is looking for work, especially those looking for a career.

There is a side to many of us, I suspect, that stares dreamily into the distance of time and reality at the thought of being irresponsible and self-indulgent and carefree. The vagabond, Mr. Browne, played by Buddy Ebson in one of the old Andy Griffith episodes, tells Andy: “I live the kind of life that most men only dream about because they don’t have the courage to live it.” Well, when you have a wife and especially a wife and kids, all bets are off, Mr. Browne.

The neurobiologist, Robert M. Sapolski, author of Monkeyluv—And Other Essays on Our Lives as Animals (2005) says that behavioral studies of other primates have shown that it is not just the physical studs that attract female monkeys or baboons for mating; or the ones who intimidate other weaker potential male suitors to flee out of the picture (think Biff vs. Michael J. Foxe’s nerd dad in Back to the Future). But often, the males who “get the girl” are the ones who demonstrate relationally that they are the kind of guy who is in it for the long haul. Biologically, that means that a female somehow senses which potential mates will likely be around to help her do the heavy lifting of raising this child, and who will partner with her through the travails of life. Sapolski essentially says that, even amongst monkeys, responsible can be sexy.

As a pastor, I used to counsel young couples who were preparing to be married. One story that I often used was one that I heard on the radio many years before. It goes something like this: the radio show guest said that he was pastor of a church and one of the elderly women in his congregation was incapacitated, living in a nursing home. Periodically the minister would call on her as part of his pastoral duties. One day he walked down the nursing home hallway to her room and found the door slightly ajar. He peaked in, not wanting to enter at an inopportune moment. What he saw was the ultimate love story.

He saw an elderly gentleman leaning over his wife’s bed with a spoon hovering before her blank face. He coaxed, “Please dear, one more bite … you need to take one more bite.” Her unresponsive eyes told him that she didn’t comprehend, or maybe that she had given up on life altogether. He was undeterred. “The doctor says that you need to eat, dear. Please… you can do it … I know you can do it … open up one more time.” She opens her mouth briefly and he shoves the spoon home. Some of the food drips unattractively down her chin and on to her gown. He patiently grabs a cloth and dabs her clean, all the while praising her effort. Then he begins anew: “That was wonderful! … Okay, one more bite … you can take one more bite, just for me …”

She probably didn’t even know who he was--didn’t remember they had been married for sixty years or more. Maybe she had Alzheimer’s disease. I don’t know. But what a love scene! I used to tell the young husbands-to-be the same as I told my two sons-in-law when they asked for my daughters’ hands in marriage: this is the kind of guy that girls ultimately want. This is the kind of guy that I want for my daughter—one who will love her when she is gray and wrinkled and no longer sexy. Who will love her for the long haul, even into the nursing home. (By the way, at the end of the program I finally heard the name of the radio guest and pastor: then Arkansas governor, Mike Huckabee.) My favorite love songs are the rare ones about old people still in love, like Michael Smith’s The Dutchman (from Steve Goodman) and Eva Cassidy singing Anniversary Song.

So what is it like when a young man transitions from carefree, unattached player to provider and care-giver and sacrificial partner for life? Here is an interesting poem that I heard on the Garrison Keiller’s Writers’ Almanac on National Public Radio (9:00 am weekdays on 91.3 FM in my part of the world). It is a poem by Thomas C. Hunley called, “Father to a Man”. You can see the transition happening before your very eyes in this young husband’s life, much like it happened to me when my Junius Maltby went into hibernation. But, as it turns out, I’m a much happier man for it. Follow the action:

Father to the Man

The OBGYN said babies almost never
arrive right on their due dates, so
the night before my firstborn was due
to make his debut, I went out with the guys

until a guilt-twinge convinced me to convince them
to leave the sports bar and watch game six
on my 20-inch, rabbit eared, crap TV. After we
arrived, my wife whispered, "My water broke"

as the guys cheered and spilled potato chips
for our little dog to eat up. I can't remember
who was playing whom, but someone got called
for a technical, as the crowd made a noise

that could have been a quick wind, high-fiving
leaf after leaf after leaf. I grabbed our suitcase
and told the guys they could stay put, but we
were heading for the hospital and the rest of

our lives. No, we're out of here, they said.
Part of me wanted to head out with them,
back to the smell of hot wings and microbrews,
then maybe to a night club full of heavy bass

and perfume, or just into a beater Ford with a full
ash tray, speeding farther and farther into
the night, into nowhere in particular. Instead I walked
my wife to our minivan, held her hand as she

stepped down from the curb, opened her door,
shut the suitcases into the trunk, and
ran right over that part of me, left it
bleeding and limping like a poor, stupid squirrel.

"Father to the Man" by Tom C. Hunley, from Octopus. © Logan House, 2008.

My Alter Ego?

There’s this recurring character in several of my all-time favorite movies and stories. I think maybe he is my alter ego: the character, Murray, in A Thousand Clowns ; Junius Maltby, the main character in a short story of the same name by John Steinbeck; a little bit of Doc from John Steinbeck’s Cannery Row; Elwood P. Dowd in Harvey. Maybe some Woody Guthrie thrown in for good measure. There are probably more. The intelligent, thoughtful, pleasant, humble, harmless, humorous, unsuccessful, under-achieving, ‘ner-do-well who piddles away great gobs of time with no regret. In some of these stories, he is a tragic or near-tragic figure as well. Perhaps I see a part of me in them . . .

A Thousand Clowns and Junius Maltby are practically the same story except the former is an urban version taking place in New York City; the latter a rural version in Central California. The Steinbeck story used to be a sort of appendage to Bantam copies of The Red Pony, but is not in any of the ones at our Barnes & Noble. It was originally a chapter of Pastures of Heaven published in 1932. I found it on-line at one time, but not today. Here is a site where you can listen to an audio recording (podcast) of someone reading you Junius Maltby. It will take you 49 minutes, sure. About the length of one episode of “Survivor” or “Biggest Loser”. Do you get my drift? Check it out: http://audiolingo.org/?p=112

Harvey is available from Netflix and other outlets. It was a 1950 film starring Jimmy Stewart, from a Mary Chase play (that my mom saw performed, I think, on Broadway, back in the day). Elwood P. Dowd is as kooky as he can be—his best friend is a six foot three-inch invisible rabbit. But at the same time, he exemplifies all the characteristics of humility, empathy, politeness, consideration, justice, love, and humor that every Christian should live out habitually. It won an Oscar and was nominated for another.

If you ever get a chance to see A Thousand Clowns--a black-and-white movie from 1965, starring Jason Robards, Jr.--by all means take it. I always thought that To Kill A Mockingbird was my all-time favorite. But it’s been a long time since I saw Thousand Clowns. I just happened to catch it recently on Turner Classic Movies on regular TV, and now I’m not so sure anymore about my all-time favorite. Wow … and you can’t rent it on Netflix or buy it from Amazon. There must be some weird contractual thing whereby corporate lawyers keep it mostly out of circulation. It won an Oscar and was nominated for three others. It was originally a play, written by Herb Gardener, which I read when I was in my twenties. It’s good, too.

I don’t know what this all means--that I somehow identify with these goofy characters. Those of you who know me can draw your own conclusions, especially if you've been able to see any of these movies/plays/books . Do you have fictional characters that you identify with? Who? Why? You can comment at the bottom of this blog just for kicks …

Here’s a Wikipedia synopsis of Steinbeck’s short story:

Junius Maltby

The short story concerns a man named Junius Maltby, who, unsatisfied with his life as an accountant in San Francisco, finally breaks with that life on the advice of his doctor, who recommends drier weather for his respiratory illness. Junius, in fairer climate, takes boarding with a widow and her children in his convalescence. After some time, with the townsfolk beginning to talk about the single man living so long with the widow, Junius promptly marries his landlord and becomes the head of the well-kept, profitable ranch/farm. The widow releases her working man and tries to put Junius to work on the farmstead, but Junius, having become accustomed to a life of leisure, ignores his duties. Eventually the farm falls into disrepair, the family goes broke and without enough food or clothes, and the widow and her own children succumb to disease.

Only Junius and his lone son by the widow survive. Junius, with his barefoot child and a hired servant as lazy as he, spends his time reading books and having fanciful discussions with his companions, never actually working. Because of this, his son is raised in rags, though well trained to independent thought and flights of the imagination. Despite his appearance and the intentions of the other children to torment him, the child is well-received at school and indeed becomes a leader of the children. So influenced by him are they, the other children begin to spurn their shoes and tear holes in their clothes.

Except for the teacher, who finds the man and his son to be romantically dignified, the rest of the community has nothing but scorn for Junius and sympathy for his child. The story ends with members of the school board attempting to give the child some shoes and new clothes as a present. Upon realizing the regard in which he is held by society, he loses the last of his innocence and becomes ashamed, realizing for the first time that he is poor. The last scene has the sympathetic teacher see Junius and his son, cleaned and well dressed though painfully so, on their way back to San Francisco where Junius will go back to dull work and ill-health in order to provide for his unwilling son.

Now, lest you get an incomplete picture of me, tune-in to the next installment:  http://mandobobsblog.blogspot.com/2010/03/another-side-of-me.html

Snow

It’s January again and we are experiencing, in NW Arkansas, our third or fourth snow of the winter. I’m already losing track. Not a big deal for Northerners, but significant for us. Even more significant is the temperature and windchill: At 7:08 AM right now on a Thursday, it is 9^o F, with a wind chill of -7^o. It is projected to be -1^o when I awake tomorrow, with a high of 9^o. Pretty chilly for the mid-South. I’m glad of two things right now. First, that I am not experiencing temperatures like those in Minnesota and the Dakotas. Secondly, that we are not under a layer of ice, as we were this time last year—see last January’s blog.

We had a pretty, 3-inch snow on Christmas a couple of weeks ago—the first white one here since 1983, the year I moved into this house. Here is a poem from a contemporary poet, named George Bilgere. He writes poetry I can digest. Google him and check it out. Some of you may be put off by this poem, especially wives, and perhaps grown children, but it is sweetly philosophical for me.

Snow

A heavy snow, and men my age
all over the city
are having heart attacks in their driveways,

dropping their nice new shovels
with the ergonomic handles
that finally did them no good.

Gray-headed men who meant no harm,
who abided by the rules and worked hard
for modest rewards, are slipping

softly from their mortgages,
falling out of their marriages.
How gracefully they swoon—

that lovely, old-fashioned word—
from grandkids, pension plans,
winters in Florida.

They should have known better
than to shovel snow at their age.
If only they’d heeded

the sensible advice of their wives
and hired a snow removal service.
But there’s more to life

than merely being sensible. Sometimes
a man must take up his shovel
and head out alone into the snow.

George Bilgere's latest book, Haywire, won the May Swenson Poetry Award in 2006, and he received the Ohioana Poetry Award in 2007. He lives in Cleveland, Ohio, and teaches at John Carroll University.

Where Geometry, Biology and Poetry Meet

Here is a little poem about lost love from Robert W. Service that should be a humerous brush-up in geometry (and biology) for you . . . enjoy.

Maternity

There once was a Square, such a square little Square,
And he loved a trim Triangle;
But she was a flirt and around her skirt
Vainly she made him dangle.
Oh he wanted to wed and he had no dread
Of domestic woes and wrangles;
For he thought that his fate was to procreate
Cute little Squares and Triangles.

Now it happened one day on that geometric way
There swaggered a big bold Cube,
With a haughty stare and he made that Square
Have the air of a perfect boob;
To his solid spell the Triangle fell,
And she thrilled with love's sweet sickness,
For she took delight in his breadth and height--
But how she adored his thickness!

So that poor little Square just died of despair,
For his love he could not strangle;
While the bold Cube led to the bridal bed
That cute and acute Triangle.
The Square's sad lot she has long forgot, And his passionate pretensions . . .
For she dotes on her kids--Oh such cute Pyramids
In a world of three dimensions.

-- Robert W. Service (1874-1958)

It's Just the Kind of Day I'm Wanting

There are three things, lately, that I've noticed about myself. And that is that I place high value in these things: beauty, wonder, and contentment. Beauty includes not just the physical beauty of some people (we are inundated with that by the media), but beauty in nature, in art, and in music, for instance. Even fragrances. I try to stop myself and literally "smell the roses" (i.e., any fragrant blossom that I come across)--and if I'm too busy for that, then I'm too busy!

And the wonder of it all. To take the time to be amazed by things, to ponder the intricacies of things, and to see God's hand in wondrous things.

Contentment, however, is a little more tricky. Discontentment plagues us when things do not pan out like we'd hoped--when expectations and reality do not overlap. The way I see it, there are two ways to combat our discontent: we can either reduce our expectations, or we can be philosophical about our disappointments.

An extensive scientific study was done several years ago by some sociologists who wanted to know who were the most happy, contented people on the planet. They studied diverse cultures all over the world--urban, rural, rich, poor, sophisticated, backward, first-world, third-world, etc. The conclusion was that the most happy people were those who had almost nothing, but who expected almost nothing. These were third-world people who first-world people would pity--for their lack of prosperity--but were none-the-less more content than others. Most were in poor, tropical countries like those in Central America.

The key, the researchers found, was that their relatively poor "realities" best matched their relatively low expectations of life. In our 21st Century USA, having genuinely low expectations is not realistic, what with our culture, our media marketing machine, etc. For Americans, contentment is probably more attainable by mentally "taking it all in stride". By putting things in context--in perspective--we can re-orient our thinking so our attitudes do not suffer from the little things that go awry, while forgetting the big things that are still on track. That's why a funeral now and then is good for the soul (someone else's funeral, that is!). Also, why a trip to a third-world country (not the tourist spots) is also good for gaining perspective.

Thanksgiving (focusing on all the good parts of your life), too, is a great means of promoting contentment.

For the Christian, regularly focusing on what the Gospel means to our future is a powerful attitude adjustment. The Apostle Paul told his protege, Timothy, "But godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it. But if we have food and clothing, we will be content with that." And to his friends in the town of Philippi he wrote, "I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through him who gives me strength."

Of course, lack of things or money or food are not the only sources of discontent. It could be our situation (family circumstances, family individuals, job, where we live, etc.). Many of these are things we can't change anyway. Like the weather.

My dad, the late Dr. Charles K. Holland, loved "the people's poet" of his generation, Robert W. Service. He passed that love on to me. Here's an appropriate one for you to chew on. Don't mind the ol' timey language with the Scottish brogue; and don't worry, Service wrote light verse, not the deep, incomprehensible kind.

Contentment

An ancient gaffer once I knew,
Who puffed a pipe and tossed a tankard;
He claimed a hundred years and two,
And for a dozen more he hankered;
So o'er a pint I asked how he
Had kept his timbers tight together;
He grinned and answered: "It maun be
Because I likes all kinds o' weather.

"For every morn when I get up
I lights me clay pipe wi' a cinder
And as me mug o' tea I sup
I looks from out the cottage winder;
And if it's shade or if it's shine
Or wind or snow befit to freeze me,
I always say: 'Well, now, that's fine . . .
It's just the sort o' day to please me.'

For I have found it wise in life
To take the luck the way it's coming;
A wake, a worry or a wife--
Just carry on and keep a-humming.
And so I lights me pipe o' clay,
And though the morn on blizzard borders,
I chuckle in me guts and say:
'It's just the day the doctor orders.' "

A mighty good philosophy
Thought I, and leads to longer living,
To make the best of things that be,
And take the weather of God's giving;
So though the sky be ashen grey,
And winds be edged and sleet be slanting,
Heap faggots on the fire and say:
"It's just the kind of day I'm wanting."

-- Robert W. Service (1874-1958)

Life Is A Fight, But Then . . .

Life on earth is a fight. There are three things about life on earth that we must battle continually: gravity, ecological succession, and human nature. Gravity stoops, creases and sags our bodies; succession erases our efforts for tidy yards and gardens; and human nature degrades our best efforts to live at peace with each other. Heaven is eternal release from all three.

Whatever humans erect or lift up, gravity will eventually bring down--be it a satallite or a house. If it weren't for gravity we could run a marathon and not feel winded. Gravity is why plastic surgeons get paid so well for lifting and tucking the bodies of wealthy, vain ladies. It is to take a break from gravity that we sit down to rest and lay down flat to sleep. When we breath our last we will be lying down with only the earth's surface holding us up. That will be the end of our fight with gravity.

Then there is succession. Back in the 1940's, my grandmother used to keep a formal garden at her 11-acre estate in eastern Mississippi. It was the English-type garden with intricate designs made from manicured boxwood hedges. By the time I was in high school in the 1970's, it was smothered under the local native vegetation. It was located to the left of the driveway near the top of the hill. If you didn't know any better, you would drive by and never guess a formal garden was ever there. All you can see now is a tangle of native grape vines and fallen branches with native trees growing up through it all.

My grandparents loved to travel in their car. Everywhere they visited, they collected a few rocks to remember that place. After many years of this, they used the rocks to build a beautiful waterfall next to their patio. They regularly had friends and their "supper club" visiting on the patio and admiring the water as it cascaded down all those interesting rocks from all those interesting places from all over North America. Today, the ivy and other vegetation has grown thickly over the rocks and--just like the English garden--no one would ever guess what once was there. Now it looks just like the wild brambles at the edge of the field.

I must admit that the thought of this is somewhat discouraging to me as I pull the weeds in my garden beds. A friend of ours who, as far as I know, has no formal training in the science of ecology put it well. She said, "I'm tired of trying to hold back the Ozarks." That's layman's talk for ecological succession.

Before someone cleared my pasture (probably many decades ago), it was Eastern Deciduous Forest--oak, hickory, black gum, red maple, sycamore, dogwood, etc. As long as I brush hog it with my tractor two or three times each year, it remains a tall fescue pasture. But if I hold off for even a few months, I see the blackberries coming in, and the buck brush, and the ash trees. These are all early-succession woody plants in the Ozarks. As they fill the space, they change the conditions so that red maples and other trees come in, until finally it is a deciduous forest again.

So, everytime I pull weeds in my garden or mow my lawn or brush hog my pasture, I am trying to "hold back the Ozarks". I can show you a whole host of tree species growing as volunteer seedlings in the cracks of the vast parking lot of your local shopping mall. In fact, the more artificial we try to keep the land, the more effort it takes to keep it that way--be it a formal landscape or a soybean field. Left alone, ecological succession will inexoribly lead--like gravity--to where it "wants" to go. It's like keeping a heavy ball up in the air trying not to let it touch the ground. That's our fight with succession.

Ahh . . . and then there is human nature! Possibly the strongest force we have to contend with. Human nature makes me selfish, and prideful, and impatient, and worrisome, and demanding, and . . . miserable. It causes me to let other people down and get purturbed at me. It makes me to forever want more things and to be discontent with what is. On the other hand, the Bible says that the Spirit of God empowers us to see these kinds of qualities in our lives: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Because human nature is so strong, experiencing these "fruits of the Spirit" is almost like defying gravity. It ain't natural. It's a miracle of God when we experience it in ourselves. But someday, it will be the norm, the routine. In heaven, there are no wars, no lawsuits, no arguments, no jealous rages, no revenge. Like gravity and succession, the fight with human nature will be over.

Perhaps there is one more fight to consider. Perhaps I should add: time. Time gets away from us and stresses us and ages us. We say that “time is of the essence” and “time is money”. Time is the currency used by the other enemies—gravity, succession, and human nature. Given enough time, all three will undo us. But heaven is eternal because God’s nature is eternal and transcends time. The Bible says that, to God, a day is like a thousand years and a thousand years are like a day—both are true at the same instant. So time has no meaning or relevance in the context of heaven. Heaven is a release from time, and from everything else that wears us down or binds us up. Look forward to it! And make your arrangements . . .

Just The Right Word

I value beauty in the things around me, including really good writing. I aspire towards writing this blog on a regular basis, but tend to shirk it because I don't want to publish anything that is written badly. And good writing requires, not only inspiration, but a lot of work . . . and time.

Here’s a good quote about writing from an email I received last fall from Stephen Caldwell:

"The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter--it's the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning." Mark Twain

Some final advice for my readers: Never turn a cold shoulder to a new word … LOOK IT UP!