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.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Sounds of Spring--"Love" is in the Air
Spring hit here in NW Arkansas, about a week ago--with a wallop! As a nature lover, there are many little signs of spring that are nostalgic for me. Like catching up with old friends. There is something about the predictability and the rhythm of it all. One of the first things is the chorus of Spring Peepers--tiny frogs that come out of hibernation all at once and immediately begin advertising for a mate. It's crazy! It is an amphibian version of a high school prom that lasts for a month. It's a four week spring break at Daytona Beach with males and females clamoring for attention, advertising their wares all night, all at once.
We have three ponds near our house. One is about 150 feet in front of our house; one is a hundred yards behind our house; and another is a hundred yards to the side of our house, across the road. All three sites are crazy with sexual passion all through the month of April. These little guys and gals have been in a self-imposed stupor since late last fall, buried in mud. Suddenly the mud warms, the sun comes out, and buddy . . . when the sun goes down, it's every guy and every gal for him or herself! The males are like hundreds of carnival barkers crying out why they are the best game in town. Check out these links to get an idea of what I'm talking about. To get back to this blog, just keep hitting the left-pointing arrow at the top-left of your screen until you are back to the blog. The first one is poor video, but a good audio of exactly what we hear at 290 O'Neal Lane from three directions every night this time of year: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4SM6leUVorY
The next is a close-up video of one of these little frogs making all of that noise: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uhBsNqF7Hkk&NR=1
A little later on, we will start hearing a slightly different sound--the gray tree frog (which can be either gray or bright green at any one time). They live in our trees and shrubs and love to "pig-out" on the insects that flock to our porch lights in the summer. They leave frog poop on our front window and air conditioner. I posted a blog article last year on them: http://mandobobsblog.blogspot.com/2009/06/tree-frogs.html
Check out this video of a gray tree frog calling raucously for some female company:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2k5CTLNw04w&feature=related
As it happens, your landscape and mine are much like the jungles of the Amazon or Congo, or the Serengeti Plains of East Africa, in this: it is a wild, unnoticed drama of sex, violence, and just making a living, being played out in a myriad of connected ways. The same basic biology is happening in your backyard as is happening on those Planet Earth episodes. And if you can swallow one more thing: God orchestrates it all as a testament to His beauty and creativity.
Take notice of the natural rhythms going on around you. It can bring you a bit of peace and connection--even in your own backyard. I'll leave you with a line from T.S. Eliot:
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Peace . . .
We have three ponds near our house. One is about 150 feet in front of our house; one is a hundred yards behind our house; and another is a hundred yards to the side of our house, across the road. All three sites are crazy with sexual passion all through the month of April. These little guys and gals have been in a self-imposed stupor since late last fall, buried in mud. Suddenly the mud warms, the sun comes out, and buddy . . . when the sun goes down, it's every guy and every gal for him or herself! The males are like hundreds of carnival barkers crying out why they are the best game in town. Check out these links to get an idea of what I'm talking about. To get back to this blog, just keep hitting the left-pointing arrow at the top-left of your screen until you are back to the blog. The first one is poor video, but a good audio of exactly what we hear at 290 O'Neal Lane from three directions every night this time of year: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4SM6leUVorY
The next is a close-up video of one of these little frogs making all of that noise: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uhBsNqF7Hkk&NR=1
A little later on, we will start hearing a slightly different sound--the gray tree frog (which can be either gray or bright green at any one time). They live in our trees and shrubs and love to "pig-out" on the insects that flock to our porch lights in the summer. They leave frog poop on our front window and air conditioner. I posted a blog article last year on them: http://mandobobsblog.blogspot.com/2009/06/tree-frogs.html
Check out this video of a gray tree frog calling raucously for some female company:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2k5CTLNw04w&feature=related
As it happens, your landscape and mine are much like the jungles of the Amazon or Congo, or the Serengeti Plains of East Africa, in this: it is a wild, unnoticed drama of sex, violence, and just making a living, being played out in a myriad of connected ways. The same basic biology is happening in your backyard as is happening on those Planet Earth episodes. And if you can swallow one more thing: God orchestrates it all as a testament to His beauty and creativity.
Take notice of the natural rhythms going on around you. It can bring you a bit of peace and connection--even in your own backyard. I'll leave you with a line from T.S. Eliot:
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Peace . . .
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Community
Here’s a little ecology lesson . . . It starts with trees and it ends with you. When you look at a tree, realize this one thing: it is not just a tree—it is a community. Kind of a micro-ecosystem. I have a large Post Oak in my back yard that is three feet in diameter! (I measured it …) Periodically, on a windy day, it drops dead stems and branches. They are absolutely filled with a fascinating (to me, anyway) array of organisms. Various colorful lichens and fungi mostly. This is a fungus on a stem from my oak:
But that is only the beginning—a tree is a vast community of bacteria, viruses, mycoplasmas, fungi, lichens, mosses, liverworts, nematodes, mollusks, worms, insects, mites, birds, mammals, amphibians, and reptiles even—my little friends, the northern fence lizards and lined skinks. Here's another shot with three snails crawling over a fallen stem of my oak tree and scarfing up lichens. Can you imagine literally crawling through your salad--head high--as you eat it?
Probably hundreds of species of organisms interact with my Post Oak tree--each with their own intricate associations with this tree. It reminds me a little of Jesus’ parable of the mustard seed in Matthew 13:31-32: “He told them another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, which a man took and planted in his field. Though it is the smallest of all your seeds, yet when it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and perch in its branches.” That is, the kingdom of heaven is where life happens, and is a haven for those who need God’s shelter and the community of abundant, spiritual life He provides.
I heard a story recently on NPR (a common opening phrase for me …) about Noah Fierer, a University of Colorado at Boulder microbiologist, who immerses himself into the strange world of bacteria—one of the most primitive, yet numerous life forms on the planet. He is trying to develop a method of using bacterial profiles on human skin to identify criminals for CSI investigations. He made the point that our bodies are huge repositories of bacteria—on our skin, in our gut, our hair, under our fingernails, between our toes, in our mouth . . . shall I go on? He even made the claim that there are more bacterial cells in and on our bodies than there are human cells. Now, I’m not sure how to check on the accuracy of that, but that is a rather amazing—and unsettling—statement. In other words, you are more germs than you are you!
Bacterial cells are much smaller than human cells, so perhaps this could be true in terms of number of cells instead of volume. [About 500 average-size human cells would fit inside the period at the end of this sentence; about 25,000 bacterial cells would fit into it.] The point is that, biologically speaking, you are not just you. Your body is a community of species—bacteria, viruses, fungi, mites, and mycoplasmas. Depending on where you live, maybe even a few rikettsia, worm larvae, ticks, etc. But that’s okay, that’s the way it is—like a tree or a mustard plant--you are a community.
Here’s a sideline story: A recent study at San Diego State University, funded by the Clorox Co., tested the assumption known variously as the “Three Second Rule” or the “Five Second Rule”. You know: if you drop some food on the floor, you have a certain number of seconds before it becomes contaminated. Pick it up quickly and you can still eat it. Microbiologists tested microbial activity of baby carrots before and after dropping on a tile floor, a kitchen sink, a carpeted floor, etc. Their results? …. Turns out, whatever “germs” (that is, bacteria and fungi) the carrot picked up was picked up instantaneously—it doesn’t take five seconds. The good news is that nearly all bacteria and fungi that occur on your home surfaces won’t hurt you. (the rim of your toilet is another matter). Of the thousands of microbe species out there, your body has the ability to neutralize nearly all of them. Only a very few have developed ways to overcome our body’s natural defenses. In fact, some medical researchers have suggested that young children of overly fastidious (meticulous, easily disgusted, squeamish) parents--who clean their floors and counter tops like operating tables--may be more vulnerable to infections than those whose parents are less hung-up about it. That’s because our bodies develop defenses early-on against most germs. Children who are not exposed to germs don’t develop the defenses. Or so goes the theory. So, make your own judgment on the Five Second Rule.
If there is a central theme to this rambling blog: community is built into the system—to nature, to your body, to the human condition, to Christian believers. Embrace community.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
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:
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
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.
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
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