RUGator

I Slept, and Dreamed that Life was Beauty

I slept, and dreamed that life was Beauty;
I woke, and found that life was Duty.
Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?
Toil on, sad heart, courageously,
And thou shalt find thy dream to be
A noonday light and truth to thee.

Ellen Sturgis Hooper

The Dial (July 1840) p. 123

I had hoped to do better.

But that’s the best I could do. For them. I wanted to say something pithy. But I had nothing. And as they looked to me, for answers, I felt inadequate.

1. “On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting. ‘Twas only that when he was off was he acting.” Oliver Goldsmith

2. “I didn’t attend the funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying that I approved of it.” Mark Twain

3. “My parents only had one argument in forty-five years. It lasted forty-three years.” Cathy Ladman

4. “Those are my principles, and if you don’t like them… well, I have others.” Groucho Marx

5. “The gambling known as business looks with austere disfavor upon the business known as gambling.” Ambrose Bierce

This man had saved his life, which was something; but, further, he was the ideal master. Other men saw to the welfare of their dogs from a sense of duty and business expediency; he saw to the welfare of his as if they were his own children, because he could not help it. And he saw further. He never forgot a kindly greeting or a cheering word, and to sit down for a long talk with them (“gas” he called it) was as much his delight as theirs. He had a way of taking Buck’s head roughly between his hands, and resting his own head upon Buck’s, of shaking him back and forth, the while calling him ill names that to Buck were love names. Buck knew no greater joy than that rough embrace and the sound of murmured oaths, and at each jerk back and forth it seemed that his heart would be shaken out of his body so great was its ecstasy. And when, released, he sprang to his feet, his mouth laughing, his eyes eloquent, his throat vibrant with unuttered sound, and in that fashion remained without movement, John Thornton would reverently exclaim, “God! you can all but speak!”

–from The Call of the Wild by Jack London

Flown in from some phantasm and contrasted against the melancholy grey clouds of another Valley like black-cloaked Bedouins on the white sands of the Sahara, came forth the Order. For payment on a line of credit signed by their own hands. Trying to get it right.

With sect-like stature amongst its devotees, The Order of the Horn wrested itself out from beneath the sand scrub fields like some flushed out springtime worm; its membership capped at inception.

And now that the deed’s been done, I don’t know what to do with it. Walking the thin line between friendly embellishment and doing it justice. Wishing I could expand the time we were engaged; knowing right from the start (we even acknowledged it), that it’d be gone in an instant.

Just cut my heart out.

Go ahead and cut it right out of my chest. Cut it out and and just stomp on it.

Might as well.

One: The Mentor. Scratch the surface, and you’d unearth an Orange and Blue before the Treys and Ashelys of Madison Avenue perverted its pill with a callous disregard for historic preservation. Like the others from Neptune Beach, Clewiston, and The Devil’s Milhopper he was a pure breed from the Dickey, Graves, and Pell lineage. He might have been one of Shug’s Plainsmen or perhaps even a Junkyard Dawg. Didn’t matter. Make much difference. He’d outwork you. You do that when you’re from the outside looking in. Not quite good enough. Come up just a yard short. Wait ’till the next year that hadn’t come. Wouldn’t come. Else the story’s end would change. No Hollywood Urban legend here. This was old school. Gimme some Skoal and Turkey and I’ll meet you inside Florida Field (sans Ben Hill Griffin).

He rode in on the Chandler, Reaves, Galloway, Brantley, Hutchinson, and Little steed. It’s all he had.

Given no choice; they’d do. Would be his alter egos on the Sandlewood back lot of his boyhood field of dreams. And he could state with certainty that in Athens and on The Plains was aroused in him the hardened reality that but for some cruel Mephistophelean geographical anomaly, he’d been spared the fate that would forever shackle him to a life he wouldn’t alter for even a sniff of the non chalance that could have been his. That’d be too easy. He had a chip on his shoulder. Gotta want it. Have some pride about yourself. And quite frankly, he was glad for it. Kept it honest. Run hard, run scared. “Oh, look at the sugar falling from the sky! Look at the Sugar falling from the sky!”

And he was just one. And he taught us things. Like caring, pride, and of course, the health benefits of liver.

Two: The Brain. Born as some sort of anachronistic Old Hickory and hamstrung with that same unholy triumvirate of acumen, lack, and tenacity. Back then (in the Valley of our collective youths), he could have gone on to a life of mediocrity. Mailed it in. Become beige. And no one would have blamed him. Cared. He had the built in excuses. Dragging for wayward balls in some non-descript Vedra lagoon (“hush, hush. Here comes T-hop”). For McDonald’s Monopoly tokens? Or maybe even a Big Mac. Take what you can. What was it that would drive him? Carry him forward even after having been dealt an unplayable hand (lie?). Plying his nascent wares on the grasses of Thousand Oaks and the “not so” Tru-Courts of The Fountains, there was an internal boil which festered unnoticed to those outside of The Know.

But he knew.

And so did The Heart.

He knew too because he had returned his serve. Had been on the receiving end of the chip-in par at dusk which squared the match. The dawn’s dusk. When all they had was an eccentric set of unmatched clubs and beat up, cat-gut Donnay rackets, handed down from club members who had no use for them (or maybe filched out of an unknowing locker). Two parts of a whole. And they’d go on in later years, fighting battles within (and without) trying to make some sense too. Just like I’m doing now.

It was the trip to Tallahassee that probably was to blame.

Gone off to Boy’s State to return to Man’s Country armed only with the standard issued tee-shirt and a roll of quarters (spending money from the sending VFW post). Hearing the Great One speak about commitment, integrity, and hard work. Didn’t have to tell him. Just an affirmation of the storm already burning inside. Some shoeless Guatamalan boys and girls thirty years later grateful for Bowden’s speech and quarters collected from grizzled ex-GI’s.

Three: The Dealmaker. He was the one with the heart of gold. A shirt off his back riverboat gambler. What was his was yours. Nothing less then; today. Rolling the dice. Winning more than losing (like a Mark Twain tale gone awry). Riding on the back of his motorized bike, he took me with him. Gained me access to places I had no right to be because that was what he was about. Showed me that the other half wasn’t as whole as I had been led to believe (they had bad breath, could lay a deuce, and left hair in the sinks too). The Rec-Room of youth. Matches in hand. You were one of his. And I was grateful. Indebted. And perhaps, he never even knew. A big man then; bigger man now. Could give him your keys and carte blanche. Good night Irene, that dog will walk. With a hearty laugh that belied an even heartier heart, he knew no bounds. In all things. And as I write these words now, I wonder how much’ll find its way home.

Four: Finally, The Heart. Equal parts broken and mended; wending his way back and forth on some self-imposed journey of reconciliation; stage right in his mind’s eye. Saw those orange helmets back when the snow covered the ground of some disguised northwestern Jersey town kept him physically inside. That was ‘77 and in El Paso’s Sun Bowl was unleashed his burden.

They’d take a trip along the Valley side of A1A in an attempt to find his father’s dreams which, while never fulfilled, would nonetheless open other doors. Doors to his dreams which lie latent yet primed for torment. And those same dreams would begin to manifest themselves on University Avenue, on the banks of the old Raritan, and even on some open yard in Central Park. In a whiffle ball game played three decades later. During a ruse that would bring them all back to the time when Rams roamed free. And the Order of the Horn could assemble once more.

1. Caddies DO talk about the players they caddy for. And it’s usually NOT flattering. We know you’ve “never played this badly,” that you “shot 75 two days ago,” and that you’re going to “take care of us.” We’ve heard and seen most of it by now.

2. Never pick up a discarded towel on the golf course. It’s laying there for a good reason. You don’t want to be “Squeezing the Charmin” on the golf course.

3. Curse words function as every part of speech.

4. We are not discriminating eaters. Wait up to 6 hours BEFORE your loop and see how good road kill looks. If we drink any more energy drinks, eat another energy bar, and or have any more caffeine, we’ll blow up.

5. Powder, cards, socks, and tobacco are staples.

6. Carnival workers and caddies are not too distant cousins.

7. Personification of body parts and bodily functions define our speech patterns.

8. Truth is stranger than fiction in the caddy yard, i.e., the turd in the cup, the caddy who lives in a tree, and finding “lost balls” are all realities.

Seeking a title for this piece, I only had to look on my desk to find the answer.

It’s what I’ve been reading with my eighth graders for the past few weeks.

And living within since 1963.

From the most recent edition of Rolling Stone, comes the following article written by Matt Taibbi:

http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/story/26793903/the_big_takeover

A man approached me yesterday. He looked Hispanic.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “In my country, you look like the finance minister. I come from Peru. Peru is very corrupt. But the finance minister, I forget his name, he is a straight. Like you. I can see it in your eyes.”

And with that he was gone.

At home I did some research. Sure enough, the Peruvian Minister of Economy is Luis Carranza. Referred to in Peru as “La Puma,” he is known for his forward looking economic policies.

The incident reminded me of one of my favorite quotes, i.e., “what you are speaks so loudly that I can’t hear what you’re saying.”

I was glad for chance.

A dope rhyme has been loosely defined (by me) as a “sick style of rhyming.” And so…

“The ideals which have lighted my way, and time after time have given me new courage to face life cheerfully, have been Kindness, Beauty, and Truth. The trite subjects of human efforts, possessions, outward success, luxury have always seemed to me contemptible.” –Albert Einstein                           

Refreshing isn’t it, to see so many people only now clamoring for a return to service toward others. Now that the state of our nation’s collective health is deteriorating, everyone is having a mutual epiphany.

Yet what about the people who have been living with this mindset for their whole lives?

Nurses, firefighters, teachers, care providers, and other service-oriented people in this country (and around the world) already know this truth.

Found this terrific site for writers. Lots of cool and helpful links, downloads, and worksheets.

Go to: http://www.archetypewriting.com/resources/resources_downloads.htm

Sigma Phi Epsilon fraternity and Delta Gamma sorority members at Rutgers University helped to give something back to their communities: sight.

Please go to:

http://www.dailytargum.com/university/greek_life_gives_focus_to_charity_s_vision_at_u.-1.1352808

to read The Daily Targum article.

As a Sig Ep alumnus (Florida ‘81), I’m proud of their participation.

“ALL ANIMALS ARE EQUAL, BUT SOME ARE MORE EQUAL THAN OTHERS”
- George Orwell, Animal Farm, Ch. 10

Before becoming a teacher, I worked as a tax collector for the IRS. Here’s what I learned during those horrible days:

1. Most people have no idea how many people DO NOT pay their taxes. If they did, they’d bail out too.

2. If you’re going to owe money, owe A LOT of money. You can get away with owing a lot of money. Owe a little? You’re screwed.

3. Most Americans have no idea how LITTLE a government agency like the IRS knows/can do/ or will do. They are master illusionists. And for the most part, it’s worked.

Think about this: the new Treasury Secretary, the person responsible for, among other things, enforcing the tax laws, was a tax delinquent himself. Think about it!

And then read/re-read Animal Farm.

Better yet, open your eyes and bear witness to Orwell’s prognostications coming true