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

Fallow Times

 
Fallow: land plowed but not planted; land that is resting, waiting; derived from a word for “pale skin”


We have had so much winter this year in Arkansas thanks to El Nino, the tropical condition whereby warmer than usual ocean waters in tropical zones affect temperate regions in unusual ways—for the Southeast USA it is colder than normal temperatures in the winter (by goofing up the normal position of the Jet Stream) and wetter than normal precipitation (warm oceans mean moist air). Our last snow was exactly three weeks ago. And yet, today, in a parking lot, I saw a pile of snow that was about three-and-a-half feet tall and nine feet wide. Still there after 3 weeks because of our extra cool temps. Now they are predicting more snow or sleet on Friday.

Like many fellow Arkansans, I’m ready for spring, when nature awakens from its slumber. And yet, I must appreciate every season for what it is—even a long, cold winter. We need to accept down times.

Rest is a fundamental aspect of life that is built into the universe. Birds rest: most birds sleep at night in protected places; owls "work" the night shift and sleep during the day. Insects rest, many at night, like bees, wasps, flies, beetles, etc. Others are most active at night, like fireflies, moths, and orb spiders that build the big complex webs (most of them tear them down at sunrise and rebuild the next evening). Temperate zone insects "rest" all winter as dormant adults or larvae, as cocoons, pupae, or eggs. Even plants "rest". Plants do not photosynthesize at night (no sunlight), which is the main "work" of a plant: manufacturing the carbohydrates that all nature--including humans--are ultimately dependent on for energy. Most Temperate zone plants also go dormant for the winter. All mammals rest: again some during the night (most humans), some during the day (mice, coyotes, etc.).  

Time-off  is built into the fabric of nature. It's part of the Biblical concept of Sabbath rest. Even the non-religious appreciate their Saturday or Sunday off. Sometimes our rest is forced on us, as when we get sick or injured. There is a sense in which our "fallow time" may even represent an entire season of our life.



Here are the lyrics to a song from the 60’s/70’s folk musician, Judy Collins. Check it out on this YouTube link if you will—it’s beautiful. Drink in the words and be content with your own down times. It is part of the rhythm of life. Let's be content with the fallow seasons of our lives. Maybe I’m in one now. It’s okay. I’ve included a couple of photos I took of some fallow fields in our area. After her lyrics, I’ll leave you with a little wisdom from King Solomon in Ecclesiastes (written while he still had wisdom).  Here’s Judy Collins . . .



Fallow Way
Words and Music by Judy Collins
Universal Music Corp. (ASCAP)/ The Wildflowers Company (ASCAP)
(Administered by Universal Music Corp.)

I'll learn to love the fallow way
When winter draws the valley down
And stills the rivers in their storm
And freezes all the little brooks
Time when our steps slow to the song
Of falling flakes and crackling flames
When silver stars are high and still
Deep in the velvet of the night sky

The crystal time the silence times
I'll learn to love their quietness
While deep beneath the glistening snow
The black earth dreams of violets
I'll learn to love the fallow way

I'll learn to love the fallow way
When all my colors fade to white
And flying birds fold back their wings
Upon my anxious wonderings
The sun has slanted all her rays
Across the vast and harvest plains
My memories mingle in the dawn
I dream a joyful vagabonds

The crystal times the silence times
I'll learn to love their quietness
When deep beneath the glistening snow
The black earth dreams in of violets
I'll learn to love the fallow times

No drummer comes across the plains
To tell of triumph or of pain
No word far off battle's cry
To draw me out or draw me nigh
I'll learn to love the fallow way

I'll learn to love the fallow way
And gather in the patient fruits
And after autumns blaze and burn
I'll know the full still, deep roots
That nothing seem to know or need

That crack the ice in frozen ponds
And slumbering in winter's folds
Have dreams of green and blue and gold
I'll learn to love the fallow way
And listening for blossoming
Of my own heart once more in spring

As sure as time, as sure as snow
As sure as moonlight, wind and stars
The fallow time will fall away
The sun will bring an April day
And I will yield to Summer's way

This reminds me that there is a time for everything and every season … check out Ecclesiastes 3:1-11

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven:

a time to be born and a time to die,

a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time to heal,

a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh,

a time to mourn and a time to dance,

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

a time to embrace and a time to refrain,

a time to search and a time to give up,

a time to keep and a time to throw away,

a time to tear and a time to mend,

a time to be silent and a time to speak,

a time to love and a time to hate,

a time for war and a time for peace  . . .

 I have seen the burden God has laid on men. He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end.”

Another winter storm in NW Arkansas

Here we go again. Winter storms like this used to be rare in Arkansas, but not so over the last couple of years. At least this one was more snow than ice and the power stayed on. At first it was freezing rain which turned to sleet and then to snow. All and all, we received about one-third inch of ice and then five inches of snow. Here are a few pics I took. At the end of the first day we had a pretty blanket of snow that made our patio somehow festive even in January.





For those of you who know her, here is Talulah in the water garden.

Statues look somehow comical in the snow. We have another one near the upper part of the water garden who is supposed to be blowing something in her hand. I've photographed her before. She had icecycles dripping off her toes..                                                                                                                      How about a nature shot . . . below is a witch hazel tree between our driveway and house. Witch hazel is an interesting small-statured tree. Interesting because it blooms in the winter. There are two species in Arkansas; I think this one is Hamamelis virginiana, or common witch hazel, as opposed to Ozark witchhazel. Here are two pics: one with the flower buds encased in ice and sort of magnified by it. The other is a flower that, I think, bloomed today, because there was no snow or ice on it. The petals are only about a centimeter long (2.5 cm to an inch) and look up close like gaudy Mardi Gras decorations. The woody fruit dries over the summer, winding it's fibers down like a coiled spring. When conditions are right in early fall, the fruit splits explodes open under pressure, flinging the two seeds up to 30 feet away.  Extracts from the stems and bark were used by Indians and later by Europeans as an astringent to stop bleeding or swelling among other things. It is still used commonly in shaving lotions, acne medicine, and hemorroidal creams. We have a bottle of it right now in our medicine cabinet. I have no idea why and have never used any.

 

As I walked around my place, I noticed these speckles on the fresh snow (see below). As I looked more closely, I realized the speckles were freshly dispersed seeds from the sycamore tree in my front yard. Sycamore trees produce round, dangling fruit in the fall that look like brown Christmas ornaments hanging all over the tree. The seeds are crammed into this hard little ball and are not released for a while. In fact, it is oftentimes not until early spring when the seeds are released. I've never really seen them being released and would not have noticed these had it not been for the white background provided by the snow. These seed will seep into the soil surface as the snow melts to be ready to germinate this spring. In fact, the tree that produced these seed itself came from a sycamore ball that I pulled off a tree along the creek at the back of my land. I broke the ball apart and sowed the seed in a flat in the greenhouse. It produced a small lawn of sycamore seedlings. I planted three of these in my yard about 25 years ago. Two were cut down over the years and this is the sole survivor, now producing its own crop of seed.

Here's the seedling grown up about 40 feet tall: 















Seeds are important, not only for making next years seedlings, but also as food for birds and small mammals. These left over seed heads are from Sawtooth Sunflower, a native

perennial that loves the wet, boggy area behind our back yard. Encased in ice, these seeds are unavailable for birds during this rather desperate weather event for wildlife. Fortunately for the birds, there is an ample supply of berries up and down the fence rows of our street--from a rampant weedy shrub called privet (below). This is a European ornamental that has escaped into the American countryside and displaced a lot of our native vegetation. Join me in learning to love to hate this escaped alien plant. But that's a whole other blog . . .
                          

 

 Then there is the native Buckbrush or Indian Currant. This grows along the edges of woods throughout Arkansas and Oklahoma, and planted itself along the back of our house. It is great food for deer, quail, turkey and lots of song birds. The berries are somewhat magnified by the ice.

And check out the frost on these buttonbush fruit (Cephalanthus occidentalis). Buttonbush is native to moist areas along creeks, rivers, ponds, and lakes. But it likes our yard just fine, and is--hands down--our best shrub for butterflies. They flock to the round white blossoms in the summer. So do other insects. I have a photo of a bright green tree frog lying in wait in the green foliage quietly eying its next meal of some unaware pollinator (see post on Tree Frogs in this blog for June 24, 2009) . All of those characters are somewhere laying out the winter right now; summer flowers and insect meals seem far away when you look at this photo.

I also saw Julie's lavender plant that's been growing in that spot for several years now. A really fragrant herb that is incredibly tough--the snow graces the lovely lavendar leaves but does them no harm.



 Here's an old bell attached to our shade house, sharing a post with twining trunks of trumpet vine. This is the very bell that my mother would ring when I was a kid to call me in for meals as I played with my friends in the woods behind my house. The bell is now cracked and doesn't really work. You'll have to ask her if it ever did work in rousting me out of those woods.

We have lots of gray squirrels around our place. They grow fat off the leftover dog food in the dishes and rob the bird feeder. Our dogs seemed to have lost their fascination with chasing them. Every now and then I see a fox squirrel pass through. These are the kind we had where I grew up in southeastern Oklahoma. I think they are more handsome than the grays, what with that big bushy, reddish tail. It seems this one had a close shave with some trouble. Check out the reverse mohawk down his back.

 

 Well, that's about it for now. I'll leave with a moon rise over the snowy Boston Mountains that we saw at the end of the day.

 Check out the beauty in your own backyard soon. Peace . . .








                          

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.