Hole To China
My parents tried to instill in me a work ethic and I'm not saying they failed completely, I do have some relationship with the work ethic, but I have an eye that sometimes wanders too much, we can call it a lazy eye so as to avoid the calling of my whole being as lazy, although people have and I know at the very least that I am too lazy to argue with them.
It was my parents idea to have me mow lawns in my childhood neighborhood of Dallas, and a good thing too or I would still be digging holes to China in the young BC's backyard or crawling through the storm drains with his brother on hot summer days or engaging in other proclivities of the daydreamer. Hey, look at these pieces of metal shaped like the letter H I found on that construction site, let's form a Hercules Club. Well, in truth, I did those things and mowed lawns.
But after the day I stuck the tip of my right index finger in the shute of a running lawn mower, it was, without much discussion at all, or actually, any discussion, decided that my lawn mowing days were over. In those days you mowed and bagged the grass, edged the curbs and walk ways, and swept up with a broom the dirt and grass dug up by the edger. For six or eight dollars a lawn or as much as 12 dollars when people felt sorry for you, you little skinny, drenched in sweat, red headed freckled wisp of a boy. Pushing the mower down the alley to do Miss Connie's yard under the bright afternoon sun, Mr. Hanlin the New Zealander would say--look at how red your hair is Jimmy, I thought your hair was brown. It was both, a package deal, a two for one special.
My lawn mowing fortune amounted to 700 cash dollars and I kept it in my desk drawer. I have never been an avid spender so the money just sat there for a couple of years until my mother found it. She thought my banking habits were a bit reckless so she suggested opening a bank account and I did that. And it sat there for another couple of years until during the Carter administration, with my father's help, I invested in Georgia bank stock. About a year later it was the most active stock on the market, losing half its value. Shortly after that, having dropped out of college in favor of following the wandering eye, I cashed out and used 100 of it to pay back a girl who had bailed out a jail mate of mine, although as it turned out he had already been released, under the condition that he promised to go back to Canada. Mr. BC had put up my bond (it would not be the last time) and I would say it is unlikely that I have ever paid him back, although I'm sure I made some less than steadfast effort towards that goal. The rest of the money I used to finance my next low budget cross-country hitchhiking trip or to purchase cheeseburgers everyday until the mood to roam hit me next.
So how is it that I have ended up on an exclusive 40 acre property with two houses, a swimming pool, tennis and bocce courts, surrounded on every side by the Shenandoah foothills? Did I stare down that bear market and with money saved from collecting cans along the highway ride the next bull market to wondrous oblivion? No, I did not. This is a borrowed lifestyle, thanks again to BC, who on occasion wishes to resurrect the Hercules Club and sees me as the only credible Lieutenant. It is a good thing that with the Internet and highways and jet planes and trains the world can sometimes be shrunk down so that we are all closer to each other, because in that way when I leave here in the spring I can say not goodbye but see you soon.
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2c Victory
All of us second graders sat in the auditorium waiting for something to happen, something was obviously afoot. There was about to transpire a thing so big it was outside our scope to even imagine it. As the teachers of the four second grade classes consulted with each other down front, we second graders restrained ourselves from loading clear plastic Bic pen shooters with gooey spit balls. This uncharacteristic line towing amongst the four classes was testament to the power of belief in a promised future goodness. That we were being duped did not even occur to most of us. We had been threatened by the most foreboding of the teachers and told to sit quietly, face forward, and keep our hands in our laps. On that day I for one had no greater promise from anyone, of an unknown reward, so did exactly as told. The feeling I derived from this bridling of self was one of both satisfaction and uneasiness. I did not know then that the duping went on throughout life, every day if you cared to look, and so tried, pretty successfully on that day, to be good and thus win a vaguely promised prize. After a wait that began to have all the earmarks of punishment, when there was throughout the auditorium the faint sound of ripping paper and a concealment of chewing, one of the teachers told us what the deal was. We were all going to return to our separate classrooms for a contest in which only two of us, one boy and one girl, would be chosen as winners. We were by class, 2a, b, c and d lined up single file and led back to our rooms. There was throughout this process so much wasting of valuable learning time that we all began to feel somewhat, already like winners. So we of grade 2c sat forward in our desks and waited nervously for the contest to begin. I was not then and am not now a classic winner. I was second in spelling contests and could add numbers together and write one page murder mysteries, if someone helped me spell knife. I had guilelessly outsmarted the Grim Reaper once, or maybe twice by then, but had no trophies to show for it. I was surviving the pummeling love of my older siblings but knew not what worth there was in that. The teacher said--we are going to have a smiling contest, and we all smiled. But she wasn't kidding and that's what we did, smiled our best smiles while she walked around the room and inspected us. In the end it was Greg Parker and Emily Rhimes who won, which I begrudgingly admitted to myself later on, as logical, seeing as how they had the exact same smile, and seemed to need no joke or promise of love or tickling of ribs to bring it on. They got to represent the second grade for the newly formed elementary school student council, minor figure heads really, as the seventh graders of course ruled the school. Since that day 40 years ago I am apt to see myself in every forced and awkward smile begging for a reason to be real. I did later in my youth win a trophy or two, for team sport participation, but one of them had my name misspelled.
All of us second graders sat in the auditorium waiting for something to happen, something was obviously afoot. There was about to transpire a thing so big it was outside our scope to even imagine it. As the teachers of the four second grade classes consulted with each other down front, we second graders restrained ourselves from loading clear plastic Bic pen shooters with gooey spit balls. This uncharacteristic line towing amongst the four classes was testament to the power of belief in a promised future goodness. That we were being duped did not even occur to most of us. We had been threatened by the most foreboding of the teachers and told to sit quietly, face forward, and keep our hands in our laps. On that day I for one had no greater promise from anyone, of an unknown reward, so did exactly as told. The feeling I derived from this bridling of self was one of both satisfaction and uneasiness. I did not know then that the duping went on throughout life, every day if you cared to look, and so tried, pretty successfully on that day, to be good and thus win a vaguely promised prize. After a wait that began to have all the earmarks of punishment, when there was throughout the auditorium the faint sound of ripping paper and a concealment of chewing, one of the teachers told us what the deal was. We were all going to return to our separate classrooms for a contest in which only two of us, one boy and one girl, would be chosen as winners. We were by class, 2a, b, c and d lined up single file and led back to our rooms. There was throughout this process so much wasting of valuable learning time that we all began to feel somewhat, already like winners. So we of grade 2c sat forward in our desks and waited nervously for the contest to begin. I was not then and am not now a classic winner. I was second in spelling contests and could add numbers together and write one page murder mysteries, if someone helped me spell knife. I had guilelessly outsmarted the Grim Reaper once, or maybe twice by then, but had no trophies to show for it. I was surviving the pummeling love of my older siblings but knew not what worth there was in that. The teacher said--we are going to have a smiling contest, and we all smiled. But she wasn't kidding and that's what we did, smiled our best smiles while she walked around the room and inspected us. In the end it was Greg Parker and Emily Rhimes who won, which I begrudgingly admitted to myself later on, as logical, seeing as how they had the exact same smile, and seemed to need no joke or promise of love or tickling of ribs to bring it on. They got to represent the second grade for the newly formed elementary school student council, minor figure heads really, as the seventh graders of course ruled the school. Since that day 40 years ago I am apt to see myself in every forced and awkward smile begging for a reason to be real. I did later in my youth win a trophy or two, for team sport participation, but one of them had my name misspelled.