Halloween, About Forty-Five Years Later

Trick-or-Treat, Plus Forty-Five

“Trick-or-Treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat!”

This was the code phrase in its entirety.  Although it was not necessary to say the whole phrase every time, it was a good idea to throw it in among the abbreviated “Trick-or-Treat” from time to time, just to be sure. 

At age seven, I was susceptible to the rumor mill owned and operated by my older brother Mike.  I was just in second grade, what did I know?  He was in fourth grade; his classroom was on the other side of the hall in our elementary school.  He told me that sometimes, people did crazy things to you instead of giving you candy.  They were allowed, as long as they shouted “Trick!” when they did it.  He told me to expect a bucket of water over a door, or for someone to creep up behind me with scissors to cut a hole in my candy bag.  Of course, nothing like this ever happened.  As I remember, we covered about twelve suburban blocks, both sides of the road, where most of the houses had lights on, signaling us that the grown-ups had treats on offer.  Chocolate bars were what I prized the most.  After that, there was a list of candy which was on the “good” list:  malt balls, candy corn, circus peanuts (big orange sugary things), sweet tarts, and many more.  The category of home-made treats was sometimes good, sometimes iffy.  I never really like those balls of carmel popcorn, though I always ate the rice crispy/marshmallow bars.  I also had a “dud” list, of which one comes to mind above all others.  Long after all the candy was eaten every year, practically at Easter, those taffy like chews which were wrapped in black and orange remained among my personal effects.  One of them was maple flavored, but they were so sticky they gave a different sensation than, for example a Three Musketeers Bar.  Dad always came along with his predictable one liner that he used too often on too many subjects:  “When you’re an adult, that one will be your favorite.”  What was with that?  It was like cookies.  I liked virtually all cookies, except fig newtons.  Sure enough, he frequently said, “When you’re an adult, that one will be your favorite.”  I supposed early that being an adult was obviously not a free ticket to the world of always being right.  Fig newtons?  Bah.  Maple chews?  Hah.

One year I let mom dress me in dad’s fishing equipment.  I had his vest, creel, hat (with flies he never used), and net.  Mom stenciled a mustache on my young face and put a garbage bag in the net.  When I went out to neighborhood houses and adults came out to give me candy, I just held out the net.  So many charmed adults took my picture, I am pleased to imagine my eight year old fisherman strangely appearing in so many people’s photographic history.  Forty-five years later, I can almost hear them looking through their parents photo legacies:

“Who is that?”

“I don’t know, but isn’t he just the cutest thing?”

By my fifth grade year already, there were signs that change was in the air.  Dawn came to the school Halloween party in a miniskirt, and Ruth Ann came in a modified cheerleader’s outfit from her sister.  I will reiterate the fact that I was a mere ten years old.  With the exception of Miss Martinson, my teacher for the second grade year, I was previously oblivious to all thoughts of females, except as buddies or enemies.  Of course, there was Sherry Snyder, with whom I shared an interest in the sixties vampire soap opera, “Dark Shadows.”  (I will have the reader know, was for a number of years the second most watched soap in the world.)  Sherry was like Gina in Dennis the Menace, though.  Maybe if she hadn’t moved away, …but on the other hand, I was only in fifth grade.  What a confusing time!  As I’ve written elsewhere, I wasn’t too young to be aware of certain attractive women in my television shows, but that was different, at least for a while.

By high school, of course, Trick-or-Treating was a thing of the distant past.  I didn’t get out much, so Halloween was that day when I hung around to see if the slightly younger teenage girls would come to the door.  Sure enough, one year the girl from across the street announced her budding maturity in pirate gear.  Not the kind of long overcoat and sensible sun-blocking floppy hat that Captain Hook might wear, more like a pirate-themed mini skirt with a lace-up bodice, and …I forget what else.  Some memories should be restricted to my young psyche.  (There’s a switch:  thoughts labeled “for viewing by persons under the age of seventeen only…”)

Finally, Halloween reached its terminus in my life with the singles young adult scene.  As a very shy, introverted type, I didn’t take a lot of social related chances.  Halloween was that special time of year, though, when even I could let loose a little.  For example, I once won seventy-five dollars in a bar because I let Ken Porter wrap me up in two bed sheets worth of cloth strips, and because I was willing to dance around in a bar like a mummy.  My finest hour, however was as Abdul the Magnificent.  (I must pause to apologize for ignorance.  At that time of my life I knew nothing of the Arab world outside of the scant news stories about the oil crisis.  The mention of Abdul the Magnificent is meant respectfully as an adventure character, not unlike Sir Gawain, or Frodo Baggins.)  Anyway, not knowing anything about the head covering of Arab men, and having no internet in those days, I took a bed sheet and fastened it to my head with a black tie, letting the sheet drape down my back.  (Actually, not a bad effect)  I wore white karate pants and socks with no shoes.  I put on a v-neck white t-shirt and dug out an old gold cumber bun for style; it looked rich, especially with nine or ten necklaces which all hung to my belly and a stenciled in mustache.  (See above, some things never change, like my inability to grow adequate facial hair).  Man, was I the life of the party that night!  I still didn’t get the girl, Kathy S---- , because regardless of Abdul’s stylish superiority, my rival showed up that night, and apparently no amount of costume could overcome his six foot-four, muscular frame.  (By “get the girl,” I don’t mean anything shallow or creepy, I had relationship in mind; I was serious business!  It just wasn’t ever going to be.)

Now, I am out of it.  I don’t infringe on my adult kids in their Halloween celebrations; that’s too weird.  We sometimes join them at more tame events.  We bought some candy, and it was interesting to see that, with the help of the media, all the little goobers were here and gone by seven-thirty (darkness falls).  No smashing pumpkins, because virtually nobody has put them out.  (It wouldn’t do for an old fart to be caught busting up some kids pumpkin, anyway.  Can you imagine the headline:  "Middle Aged Vandal Smashes Child's Prize Pumpkin"?)  It was edgy enough when I was a kid.  Furthermore, I am honestly relieved that there were no young teenage girls in pirate-wench outfits too.  Could it be that the girls across the street had someone specific in mind?  After all, I hadn’t seen the like of that costume anywhere since?  Nah, probably not.  So here I sit with a little bit of a sugar buzz because my lovely wife bought me a package of candy corn, just for me.  Did I ever say I can’t eat a partial bag of candy?  ‘Tis true, wait until Christmas and I get going on what happened to that yearly double decker box of Russell Stover crème filled chocolates from Grampa Rabourn…AND, I can’t help but wonder where I can get my hands on some of those yummy maple flavored chews, that or a nice package of fig newtons.    

Mickey Mantle Hits a Home Run, or So I Am Told

I am not yet nine years old, sitting more or less behind first base in the old Tiger Stadium in 1968.  The game is a double header between the Detroit Tigers and New York Yankees.  I look down and see a scorekeeping pad on my lap.  It doesn’t make sense that I am about to keep score.  I don’t know the symbols and figures, and I only know a few of the players’ names.  My brothers and I all had some baseball cards, but I spend little time looking at them.  I’m pretty sure I have a Tom Tresh card, and I’ve seen the Joe Pepitone, but nobody around has the Mickey Mantle.  These are the only Yankees I know.  I know a few more of the Detroit players:  John Hiller, Mickey Lolich, Denny McLain (Mike has the Denny McLain Magnetic Baseball Game), Bill Freehan, Norm Cash, Dick Tracewski, Dick McAuliffe, Jim Northrup, Mickey Stanley, Norm Cash, Al Kaline, and Willie Horton.  

 I never imagine myself playing professional baseball.  On the whole, I have spent much more time with my microscope.  Still, it is stuff of mortar, one of the several and varied things that holds us together in the sixties, and one of the few ways we try to relate to dad, as my father is a baseball fan.  Clearly, this statement needs clarification.  My father is a Nineteen Sixties Baseball Fan.  This kind of fan is someone who will shout at the television, read every last dot of printed information on the sport every day in the newspaper, will laugh derisively at his children, and consider avoiding adult coworkers who commit baseball blasphemy.  Any mention whatsoever of the name “Ruth” and dad will launch into his spiel on Lou Gehrig, and tell everyone in earshot they are hereby assigned to watch “Pride of the Yankees.”  I don’t really get this, as I am quite certain Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig both played for the Yankees.

 

As the game gets underway, I realize I cannot keep score.  By the time I ask Mike what has happened and how to mark it on every play, the next play is already over and I am increasingly behind.  I am frustrated, and tears well up in my eyes.  Mike gives me a kindly look, and asks, 

“Do you want me to do it?”  
 

I am grateful.  He takes over, and in what seems like seconds, has the score pad in order.  We all settle in for a full afternoon of baseball.  It goes on and on.  At some point, the crowd goes crazy, seething like a restless ocean.  I can actually see movement around the stadium, in spite of how far away everyone seems.
 

“What is it?”  I ask.  

Mike enthusiastically tells me, “Mickey Mantle hit a home run.” 

“Oh, okay.”

It has more impact forty-three years later when I absently read about a guy named Derek Jeter and find out that the great Mantle retired the year I more or less saw him hit a home run.

Paris, 1997

April, 1997 Paris, France

At about 7:00 in the morning, I step off the Eurolines bus from Victoria Station, London.  I know that in a general sense, I am in Paris, but other than my destination, that is about all I know.  I have five words of French, about four hundred American dollars, and a few things stuffed into a backpack.  The next leg of my journey will be successful when I arrive in Munich.

When I check at the Eurolines desk, I find that I can take a bus to Munich, but not for over twenty hours.  Even then, it will be a bus.  I think about the ride from London.  I was on the bus for seven hours, less the time on deck for the ferry ride across the English Channel.  The bus was drafty, noisy, smelly, and uncomfortable.  I am told the distance to Munich is precisely twice the distance. 

After meandering around the small station for about an hour, thinking about my lack of options, I suddenly hear a deep, mellifluous voice behind me.  Most of the voices in the station have been English, but none of them were directed toward me.  I turned to find a friendly looking man in his fifties good naturedly approaching.  He inquired:

“Ah, my friend, I see you are at a loss; you are still here.  Allow me to assist you; I have a hotel nearby where you can stay for a very affordable amount.  You can rest, have something to eat after your long ride, and see Paris when you are ready.”

“Thank-you, but I’m not staying, I have to get to…”

“Ah, but surely you have a few days to see the great city.  Come, come to my hotel.  For a mere sixty dollars American per day you can easily access all of the great sites.”

“Really, I don’t have time to stay as I have a meeting in Munich…”

“Son, don’t rush through.  You have much business to do, and many meetings which will wait.  Paris is a city that must be seen!  Come to my hotel; you can refresh yourself, see some of Paris, a city that demands a young man’s attention.  When you have visited, we can take you to Gare de l’Est where you can catch a train to Germany.  Come, come with me, my friend…”

“Thank-you, no.  I’m sorry, I have to be leaving.  Thank-you, I’ll be back some other time.”

I make like I have plans and leave the bus station.  Without a plan, I walk out the doors and give Paris a hopeful look.  As the vernal equinox is almost two weeks past, morning has broken over la Ville Lumière, but I see nothing that suggests romance, architecture, or history.  I am, after all in the périphérique, an obscure metro station labeled Gallieni.

Fortunately, there is an underground stop right at the bus terminal in Gallieni.  I walk down into it and inquire at the window.  Unfortunately, all of my inquiries are met with a friendly but dismayed shrug and raised palms, as if to say, “Sorry, sir, I do not understand what you are asking.”  I try dropping into cave-man lingo, “You schedule?  Munich.  Train.  Germany.  Train?  Ticket?”  I get the same response.  I do not know that none of these words are the same in French, not even the city names.  I thank the young woman and walk back outside.  On the way out, I pick up a subway card.  It has the diagram of the entire system printed on it.  It is not a city map, but a relative location chart of each subway stop, by name.  I wonder if I can figure out where the train station is from the chart.  The gentleman called it Gare de l’Est…There!  The name of the station is clearly marked on the subway chart.  There was a Gare du Nord, so I assume I am heading for the “east train station.”  It is only eight subway stops from Gallieni!  I am suddenly sure that I can easily walk a mere eight stops before dark; it is still morning, but I sense that I had better be somewhere when darkness falls upon the world-sized city.

I set out in the direction I think is correct.  All I have to do is go west for four stops, veer northwest for a couple more, then due north for the remainder.  Sure, the subway is underneath me, and the chart indicates absolutely no surface features, but I figure I will know I am on the right track when I see the next blue “Metro” sign.  I only reverse my direction six times before assuring myself I am going the right direction.

As I walk along the avenue avenue de Gallieni, I look around for recognizable landmarks, of which I know very few.  I see nothing noteworthy.  It is a beautiful day, so I relax and walk.  Oddly, the farther I walk, the more degraded the city seems.  I don’t think the city should get progressively dirtier toward the tourist section.  I have walked for well over an hour though, so I am reluctant to reverse direction.  Finally, I have to stop.  All along the avenue, there are dirty little stalls, as if something is sold from them at times.  Between the stalls are piles of refuse and some garbage.  I think about rats and quickly retreat from the area.  Little do I know I am in the midst of a famous area, the puces sauvages, a rather famous “black market”.  As it is Friday, nothing is happening, but I am glad; I did not want to meet the people who were connected with the area, no matter what they were up to. 

In time I do find some rather picturesque streets; I am especially taken with the side-streets.  In Paris, a person can walk along a main road and find it diminishing with splits and crossroads, until one finds that he is walking along a narrow way, apparently on the very doorsteps of apartment buildings.  This happened a couple of times.  I am happy to find that people are friendly and interested in helping.  Unfortunately, I do not meet anyone who speaks English; stabbing at my subway chart I give a hopeful smile.  With no exceptions, everyone more or less gathers that I want the next Metro.  With no exceptions, everyone spends at least five minutes engaged in highly complicated hand motions, describing the path I need to follow.  I cannot decipher the highly complicated motions at all.  It is more like a set of random dance moves than instructions.  In each case, I can at least discern my general starting direction, along with a couple of major turns.  The subway chart is, of course, extremely simplified. 

I made my way in this fashion until around mid-afternoon.  I must have been averaging at least one mile per hour, considering the stops, inquiries, and wrong direction corrections.  Of these corrections, there were many.  Eventually, I picked my way until I found Porte de Bagnolet, Gambetta, and Père Lachaise.  I had wasted a lot of time walking in the black market direction, and I am worried that the distance to the train station is too great.  Père Lachaise is an interchange with more than one subway line as well as bus lines.  I do not know that within yards begins what is perhaps the most visited cemetery in the world, a hundred acres of above ground stone sepulchers lining cobblestone pedestrian avenues.

I enter the subway station and stop at a turnstile.  I watch other people enter the station.  Some walk up to the turnstile, slip in a ticket, and walk through, retrieving their ticket on the other side.  Others walk up to a vending machine on the wall, insert a coin, punch in five numbers on a numerical keypad, and retrieve a ticket, which they use in the turnstile.  Some people consult a schedule, others seem to already know their number.  I feel desperate.  I have no hope of figuring out any printed schedule.  I look around and wait.  Person after person walks up, inserts a coin, punches numbers, and retrieve a ticket.  I finally think, “oh what the hell…”  I walk up to the vending machine, insert whatever large coin is in my pocket and punch five random numbers.  Zip!  A ticket pops out and I retrieve it.  Sure enough, it goes into the turnstile, I go through the turnstile, and retrieve my ticket on the other side.  I am off at last!

I am able to get a train to Munich (that is a different story) and make my next connection.  As I ride in comfort and relax, I nurse some regrets about Paris.  I know very well that I have only four hundred dollars, and am expected in Eastern Europe, but it does not sit well with me that I have spent the entire day in Paris and have seen no famous sites.  I certainly have seen a lot of memorable things, but probably nothing anyone has put on a post card.

My Love Trods on Ground

My Love Trods On Ground

                                    -- Inspired by something the Bard once taught me.

He firmly clasps her hand and attentively considers her heartfelt words,

as they casually stroll along the warm sand, washed by the endless waves;

they are echoes of countless beaches united by the oneness of water and love,

shared by throngs of lovers in every nation and people.  It’s a greeting card.

My love lies weak and green in the hospital bed following her gall bladder surgery.

I sit quietly on an uncomfortable chair next to her bed, stiffly waiting for her to wake up.

When she stirs and opens her mouth, I know where the smell in the room is coming from,

but when she cracks a wan smile, I am happy; it had been a good idea to wait here for her.

She shifts on the bed with a familiar groan that indicates her need to purge.

The uninterested nurse on the other side of the room points to the cabinet,

“Emesis basins are in there.”  She returns to whatever it was she was doing before.

I open the cabinet and retrieve a very small kidney shaped plastic pan, cheerfully pink.

As I awkwardly try to maneuver toward my love in a cramped space, I must lean toward her,

holding the tiny pan out for her as unseen forces build within the center of her gut.

My love convulses as mightily as a weightlifter, as her head comes toward me fast;

she heaves into the pan, immediately filling it with a bile puke resembling her pea soup.

My love breathes heavily across the pan as I struggle to keep from spilling;

she falls helplessly upon her pillow, her face a mere shadow of herself.

“Yes, I am here, don’t worry,” I assure her, as I worry about the pan of pea soup.

Once disposed, I think about the card I didn’t buy in the gift shop, and smile to myself.

His Hair Is Perfect

His Hair Is Perfect

He is an attractive teen boy,

but he doesn’t know it yet.

His social skills are still in the box they came in.

He wears the uniform of his age and gender;

a nondescript tee shirt with jeans.

He straightens his already straight hair,

preparing for the school sponsored dance.

He tries to picture a teen girl getting ready somewhere,

and rehearses his casual lines with meticulous care

for this chapter test in puberty class.

Dad waits in his chair, not watching the television;

he is aware of his son’s adventure, not his anguish.

He remembers a time…

Then he assures himself that all will be well;

he has no doubt that all the girls want his son.

Mom sees her boy enter the room;

her man rises to give encouragement, recounting his teen years,

so she does not interfere with the tribal rites.

She wonders how they expect to communicate without mentioning the subject,

and turns again to her meditation on girl names for her grandchildren.

Love It To Death

Love It To Death

Recently my mother tells me she gave away her records and roller skates when she got married.  “I thought that’s what a good wife did,” she says.

I think back to the nineteen sixties, to our home on the south west side of Grand Rapids, in the Kelloggsville School District, just about a mile as the crow flies from Home Acres, the small, nineteenth century business district most recognizable by the intersection of Division and 44^th Street.  I wait while my memory catches up to the factual data.  I recall there was a pharmacy called Shippy’s which burned; dad had some indistinct films of the fire.  There was also an old style five-and-dime called Ben Franklin’s where we often stopped, though I can’t remember what we could buy for a dime.  Up Division a little, there was a plaza with two stores; according to neighborhood legend, the helicopter Santa Claus was arriving in tangled in power lines there one Christmas.  Actually, it was Evansville, Indiana in the year 1967, but the neighborhood legends converted many stories into local events.  It seems irrelevant where it happened; these kinds of stories had power over us kids.  The fact remained; somewhere a hundred kids could never believe in Santa Claus again.  Regardless of the attempts to label the poor man as one of Santa’s helpers, kids think in extreme terms.  There was no more Santa, because they saw him crash and die.

I clearly picture mom, lying on her stomach, face in a pillow, on the living room floor, and listening to records on the stereo.  She is motionless as the music plays.  I strain to understand the scene.  Dad is at work, and it is evening, so I am probably in the fourth grade, aged nine, in 1968.  The music is the Everly Brothers hits, “All I Have To Do Is Dream,” and “Cathy’s Clown,” oldies by this time.  The day has come to an end and everything is quiet.  I feel like something is missing, but I don’t know what.  Scarcely more than a decade before, mom was single, riding in cars with boys, and listening to the high energy sounds of the new star, Elvis Presley.  Now, she is the mother of four boys with a part time job scheduled for full time.  Her cruising days are over.  Elvis is hoping to make a come-back after getting lost in Hollywood films mom has hardly watched.

At age nine, I have no idea what is about happen in our home.  Scarcely two years later, in 1970, Alice Cooper releases his album, “Love It To Death.”  It contains the hit song, “Eighteen.”  The shock rocker claims to have driven “a stake through the heart of the love generation.”  My brothers and I have no idea a love generation is taking place.  More correctly, that the entire love generation experience is just winding down to a slow, gasping death.  

My brother Dan launches my family into the future with the purchase of that same Alice Cooper album.  I doubt he understands the full implications, and I am sure if he does, he thinks it’s “cool.”  Dan begins to set up his sub-culture behavior in the home.  He doesn’t attempt to play Alice Cooper on the family stereo, at least not when any other person is home.  He takes to the basement, and occasionally barricades himself in his bedroom.  He owns a portable AM/FM/Record Player, about the size of my history book.  The single speaker is about the size of the top of a pop can.  The key is that it’s Dan’s property, his possession.  No one tells him what to do with it, so long as he doesn’t get in the way with it.  He doesn’t.  He chooses the path of passive resistance.  He begins to fade from view.  I go into his bedroom or the basement, to find him hunched over the record player, with a full sized album on it, nearly covering the entire player.  He calls me over to it.

As I come closer, I sense a change; Dan has done something momentous.  It takes me some time to grasp precisely what he has done.  In short, he has gone outside of our entire paradigm, outside my parents’ sphere of influence, and, like some adventuring tomb raider, has brought back a relic of a wider world.  It is shocking in that the relic is not what I expect.  It is not a token of stability and order, quite the contrary.  It is strange; dark and dangerous, it brings the revelation that the outside world is not safe and good.  Rather, it is a place of monsters and morbidly dangerous agents of evil.  If there is good in the world, we do not discern it from the Alice Cooper album.

“The Ballad of Dwight Frye” is playing.  Until this very moment, my conception of music has included a wide range of bright and hopeful strains, from church hymns to movie themes, popular classics, and the easy tunes of country and western radio my dad listens to.  The sounds emanating from the miniature record player are alien and dark, with difficult rhythm and vocals which imitate an insane captive of an asylum.  It seems wrong.  Dan beams with delight, despite the deeply melancholy song.  He instinctively senses he has made a valuable discovery.  He compels me to listen further, while he puts on a song called “Black Juju.”  I am not prepared for it.  It seems to be the product of dark magic, mesmerizing as it is frightening.  I have little or no frame of reference for the song, and eventually leave the room before it is finished.  I do not understand, but it is too late.  In spite of mom’s best efforts in shielding us from the outside world, successfully obstructing our view of the love generation, drugs, the issues of racism and equal rights, the changing role of women in society, war and peace in the Vietnam era, and new issues on sexuality, we have discovered our own culture.  Dan has opened a window that can never be shut. 

Plato Lectures Ronald Regan on the Media

Allegory of the Media-Prison

[Socrates]                    And now, let me show in a figure how far our politics are enlightened or unenlightened.  Look!  Human beings living in a free society, in which they have movement in the light and freedom throughout their country.  Here they have been from their childhood, and receive their news, which is owned by wealthy private parties, and broadcasts from distant cities, so that they can see only what political and economic policies are on their television.  These events are typically accompanied by dramatic music and videos, and reported in one minute blurbs, in succession.

[Ronald Reagan]           I see.

[Socrates]                    And do you see, images passing across the media stage, all sorts of figures of people and places, with statistical charts, and commentary?

[Ronald Reagan]           You have shown me a strange image, and they are strange prisoners, ah, I mean citizens.
                                            
[Socrates]                    Like ourselves; and they see only the images on the media; the reporters, politicians, talking heads, and statistical charts on their television?

[Ronald Regan]            True, how could they see anything but the images approved by the wealthy media owners, since the only images they see come through the television?

[Socrates]                    And of the real-world sources for the images, the people, places, politicians, talking heads, data for the statistical charts, and even most of his fellow citizens, they would only see the media images?

[Ronald Regan]            Yes, he said.

[Socrates]                    And if they were able to converse with one another, by cell phone, facebook, and twitter, would they not agree that they were seeing real summaries of political and economic proposals, actual debates, and accurate results of current policies?

[Ronald Regan]            Very true.

[Socrates]                    And suppose further, that the media images presented certain interviews with people introduced as ordinary citizens, qualified experts, and professionals.  Would they not be sure to fancy when one of these interviews appears that they are witness to corroborating evidence and proofs of those political and economic assessments?

[Ronald Regan]            No question, he replied.

 [Socrates]                   To them, the truth would be literally nothing but the media images.

[Ronald Regan]            That is certain.

[Socrates]                    And now look again, and see what will naturally follow if the prisoners are released of their error.  At first, when any of them is liberated and compelled suddenly to stop viewing the media only, and travel round and talk with politicians, and court officials, and college professors, not neglecting the mounds of available data, he will suffer sharp pains; the volume of information will distress him, and he will be unable to grasp all of the realities of which in his former state he had seen the media images.  And then conceive of someone saying to him, that what he saw before was a series of illusions, but that now, when he is approaching nearer to truth, he has a clearer vision.  What will be his reply?  And you may further imagine that his instructor is presenting him the sources of the information reported on the media, the court records, economic data, and analysis, and requiring him to study them, will he not be perplexed?  Will he not fancy that the exciting media reports which he formerly saw are truer than the mounds of mundane information, textbooks, and records which are now shown to him?

[Ronald Regan]            Far truer.

[Socrates]                    And if he is compelled to study day and night, will he not have pain in his eyes which will make him turn away to find again the media images which he can deal with, and which he still wishes to be clearer than the things which are now being shown to him?

[Ronald Regan]            True.

[Socrates]                    And suppose once more, that he is reluctantly dragged far and wide, to the third world and held fast until he’s forced into the presence of reality itself, is he not likely to be pained and irritated?  Will he not even now suppose that what he sees is too horrific, too distant from what he was previously shown to be real?  Can he make a transition as such, all at once?

[Ronald Regan]            Not all in a moment, he said.

[Socrates]                    He will need to grow accustomed to the sight of the third world, the starvation and oppression, weapons sales and assassinations, genocide and rapes.  At first he will see caricatures of people, and then he will begin to understand, little by little, the accounts of real people from various places in the oppressed world, and will first be able to understand their account, than the meaning of economic data and government records?

[Ronald Regan]            Certainly.

[Socrates]                    Last of all he will be able to understand the economic data and corresponding gaps between it and statements reported in the media by politicians and talking heads, but he will eventually see the proper order of things, and will contemplate things as they are?

[Ronald Regan]            Certainly.

[Socrates]                    And when he remembered his old habitations, and the wisdom of the media prison, and his fellow citizens, do you not suppose that he would congratulate himself on the change, and pity them?

[Ronald Regan]            Certainly, he would.

[Socrates]                    And if they were in the habit of conferring honors among themselves on those who were sharpest to define the passing media images and to remark which of them were most important, and which were the up and coming issues of tomorrow and of the coming election, do you think that he would care for such honors and glories, or envy the possessors of them?  Would he not say with Homer,

“Better to be the poor servant of a poor master, and to endure anything, rather than think as they do and live after their manner?”

[Ronald Regan]            Yes, he said, I think that he would rather suffer anything than entertain these false notions and live in this miserable manner.

[Socrates]                    Imagine once more, such a one coming suddenly out of the real world to be replaced in his old situation; would he not be certain to have his eyes full of darkness?

[Ronald Regan]            To be sure, he said.

[Socrates]                    And if there were a contest, and he had to compete in commenting on the media images and statistical data with the prisoners, ah, I mean citizens, who had never moved out of the media prison, while his wits were still weak, and before he could think of how to relate what he has seen, would he not be ridiculous?  Men would say of him that out he went and back he came without his eyes; and that it was better not even to think of leaving in such a way; and if any one tried to loose another and lead him out into the world, they would shun him as a fool.

[Ronald Regan]            No question, he said.

[Socrates]                    This entire allegory, I said, you may now append, dear Ronald, to the previous argument; the media prison is the world of propaganda and special interests, and you will not misapprehend me if you interpret the journey out to be the ascent of the citizen into the intellectual world, including, but not limited to, direct observation on the condition of his fellow men, mounds of factual data, and interaction at the universities.  Whether true or false, my opinion is that in the world of knowledge and hard information the idea of truth appears last of all, and is seen only with an effort, and when seen, must be the universal object of every man’s duty, and the immediate source of action in the individual as well as society, and that these are the truths upon which he who would act rationally, either in public or private life must have his eye fixed.

[Ronald Regan]            I agree, as far as I am able to understand you.

[Socrates]                    Moreover, you must not wonder that those who experience this troubling and real vision are unwilling to descend to human affairs; for their souls are ever hastening into the intellectual world where they desire to dwell, which desire of theirs is very natural, but compels them to uncomfortable, even dangerous, life-changing actions, if our allegory is to be trusted.

[Ronald Regan]            Yes, of course.

[Socrates]                    And there is another thing, that neither the uneducated and uninformed of the truth, nor those who never make an end of their education, are able ministers of State.  Not the former, because they have no single aim of duty which is self-control, in all their actions, private as well as public. Not the latter, because they will not act at all except upon compulsion, fancying that they are already dwelling apart in the islands of the blest.

[Ronald Regan]            Very true, he replied.

[Socrates]                    Then, the duty of us, who bestow or withhold the consent of the governed, will be to compel the best minds to attain that knowledge which we have already shown to be the greatest of all.  They must continue to ascend until they arrived at the good; but when they have ascended and seen enough we must not allow them to do as they do now.

[Ronald Regan]            What do you mean?

[Socrates]                    I mean that they remain in their own isolated world.  This must not be allowed; they must be made to come again among the media prisoners.

[Ronald Regan]            But is not this unjust?  Ought we to give them a worse life, when they might have a better?

[Socrates]                    You have forgotten that the intention of the legislator should never have aimed at making any one class in the State happy above the rest.  They once held the citizens together by persuasion and necessity, making them benefactors of the State, and therefore benefactors of one another.

[Ronald Regan]            True, he said, I had forgotten.

 [Socrates]                   Observe, Ronald, that there is no injustice in forcefully compelling our politicians and officials to have a care to the provision of others.  Are they self-taught, that they cannot be expected to show any gratitude for a culture which they have never received?  No.  We, the people have brought them, yourself included, along to be rulers of the hive, kings of yourselves and of the other citizens, and have educated you far better and more perfectly than they have been educated, and you are better able to share in the double duty.  Wherefore each of you, when his turn comes, must go down to the general underground abode, and get the habit of seeing in the dark.  When you have acquired the habit, you will see ten thousand times better than the inhabitants of the media prison, and you will know what the distorted images are, and what they represent, because you have seen the beautiful and just and good in their truth.  And thus our State which is also yours will be a reality, and not a dream only, and will be administered in a spirit unlike that of other States, in which men fight with one another about illusions and are distracted in the struggle for power.  The truth is that the State in which the rulers are most reluctant to govern is always the best and most quietly governed, and the State in which they are most eager, the worst.

[Ronald Regan]            Amazing, but quite true, he replied.

[Socrates]                    And will our students and interns, when they hear of this, refuse to take their turn at the labors of State, when they are allowed to live under the benefits of a growing Republic?

[Ronald Regan]            Impossible, he answered; for they are fair men, and the commands which we impose upon them are just; there can be no doubt that those who follow will take up the challenge as a stern necessity, and not after the fashion of our present rulers of State.

[Socrates]                    Yes, and there lies the point.  You must contrive for your future rulers a different and better life than that which exists under the present status quo incumbents, and then you may have a well-ordered State; for only in the State which offers this, will they rule who are truly rich, not in silver and gold, but in virtue and wisdom, which are the true blessings of life.  Whereas if they go to the administration of public affairs, poor and hungering after their own private advantage, thinking that henceforth they are to snatch the chief good, there can and will be no order.  They will fight about office, and the civil and domestic imbroglio which thus arises will be the ruin of the rulers themselves and of the whole State.

[Ronald Regan]            Most true, he replied.

[Socrates]                    Who then are those whom we shall compel to be the guardians of the Republic?  Surely they will be the men who are wisest about affairs of State, and by whom the State is best administered, and who at the same time, have other honors and a separate and better life than that of politics?  Or shall we choose only those who make politics their one and only profession?

[Ronald Regan]            Nay, the former, they are the ones, and I will choose them.

[Socrates]                    And now shall we consider in what way such guardians will be produced, and how they are to be brought from darkness to light?

[Ronald Regan]            By all means, he replied.

[Socrates]                    The process, I said, is not as simple as turning over a ravioli, but the turning round of a soul, passing from a kind of day which is little better than night to the true day of actual being, the liberation from the darkened prison into the real world around us, regardless of the difficulties?

 [Ronald Regan]           Quite so.

Jonah

“Have You Reason To Be Angry?”

            In the book of Jonah, the titular hero in a third person narrative boards a ship and subsequently embarks on an anti-quest, intending to flee the presence of the Lord.  His ridiculous and ironic behavior immediately draws the reader into an uncomfortable, personal identification with the man of God who has suddenly developed an intense, but unexplained anxiety.  Through the narrative, in which God is able to eventually use Jonah, in spite of himself, to reach the great and wicked city of Nineveh, a powerful and timeless message is conveyed:  The compassion of God is greater than that of his people, who are flawed, and the extent of his mercy is not bounded by the prejudicial limits of his messengers.

            The genre of the book is satire.  Satire exposes foolish human behavior through ridicule or rebuke.  By rebelling against the word of God for no good reason, Jonah exposes himself as foolish.  Jonah’s lack of compassion and mercy for the Assyrians qualifies as the first element of satire, the object of attack.  The second element of satire, in fact the most common form, is the narrative.  The book of Jonah continues in third person throughout.  The third element of satire is tone.  In the book of Jonah, the satirist’s attitude toward his subject is emphasized more than the other three elements of satire.  If it is not foolish enough to try and run from God, his lack of apparent repentance is contrasted with the sailors’ repentant devotion through their nondescript prayers, sacrifices, and vows.  Furthermore, the immense magnitude of God’s grace is not enough to move Jonah’s heart; incredibly, he is displeased.  The fourth element of satire is satiric norm.  The standard of virtue by which Jonah is judged is God himself.  He is portrayed, not only as merciful, but patient with entire people groups as well as with the reluctant individual, Jonah himself.

            The four-chapter book of Jonah has a plot divided into four distinct scenes, not exactly coinciding with the beginning and ending of each chapter.  These scenes have so few visual descriptions associated with them, the cities of Joppa and Tarshish are merely names, and even the object of God’s intended wrath, that is, the city of Nineveh, is described only as “great” and “enormously large.”  In the first part, Jonah tries to take a journey to Tarshish instead of Nineveh, but encounters a storm strong enough to terrify experienced sailors.  Instead of requesting a return to his point of disconnect with God, Jonah instructs the sailors to discard him into the sea.  They comply with his instructions and throw him overboard, and he is swallowed by a large fish.  The belly of the fish is the second part, but no words are spent on a description outside of a mysterious prayer uttered by Jonah.  When the fish spews Jonah upon the shore, the narrative does not indicate where he is, or what the surroundings look like.  The third part of the narrative is in the city of Nineveh itself, since it is completely unclear where Jonah is when God calls him a second time.  The only descriptive phrase is that “it took three days to go through it.”  People in the city are not given names, not even the king.  No dialogue is recorded.  The last part of the narrative takes place somewhere outside the city, but close enough to see it.  The story ends with the open-ended discussion between Jonah and God.  If more description were added, it would only serve to distract the reader from the simple depiction of God’s determination to patiently offer mercy, both to a city-state and to an individual, over the hypocritical reservations of the messenger himself.

            In the book of Jonah, the elements of setting are often implied.  Actual cities are mentioned by name, such as Joppa and Tarshish, but local color is not included in the narrative.  The reader may readily picture Joppa as a coastal city with ships and sailors.  The ship itself is not described beyond the fact that it had a cargo, but the particular crew nationality or shipboard routine do not have bearing on the narrative, only that they are apparently non-Jews, as Jonah must identify himself as a Hebrew.  The essential kernel present is that God wants to use Jonah to show mercy to a people Jonah intends to avoid.  Arrival in Nineveh is described in terms of the size of the city alone, but only the most rural nomads would fail to generate a mental image of a city with 120,000 inhabitants, ruled by a king.  Finally, in the last part of the narrative, weather is described, but only as a simple illustrative tool.  The sun rose, and the east wind blew.  Jonah became faint in the heat, and as a result, considered the plant, which is not identified in the slightest.  Again, the setting is defined more by the lack of visual imagery than the inclusion of it.  Regarding culture and politics of the day, markers are not given to place the story.  In fact, if the name Nineveh had not been a well known name, the story might well be regarded as legendary.

            Although the narrative has sailors and a king, they are nameless and unremarkable.  The characters of substance, therefore, are Jonah and God.  Jonah is the hero, especially as he embodies the characteristics of the Jews for whom the story was recorded.  He starts out as a rebellious anti-hero, however, and so starts his journey representing avoidance rather than honor.  The trend is toward the comedic, although no specific positive beginning is indicated for Jonah, and the positive outcome is an implied “yes” to the will of God.  God initiates the action by calling Jonah to a mission in Nineveh, but the entire remainder of the narrative depends upon Jonah.  When he flees, God sends a storm.  When the sailors ask what they should do, Jonah tells them to cast him overboard.  When Jonah prays to God from the belly of the fish, God causes the fish to spew him out.  The people of Nineveh abase themselves after Jonah proclaims their doom.  Finally, God first sends a plant, and then kills it, allowing scorching heat, for the purpose of completing Jonah’s education, tailored to his obstinacy.  Jonah’s quest is to bring God’s message to Nineveh.  He starts out avoiding the quest, but fulfills it in the end.  The only real conflict is in his attitude.  Jonah’s specific problem, be it personal or nationalistic, is not identified.  Nor does God address Jonah’s complaint, whatever it amounts to.  God simply proclaims the rationality of being concerned with the great city.  The implication is plain:  In the God-man relationship, Jonah is the man; he is not the God.  As long as Jonah persisted in his complaint, he found God was his opponent.

            The narrative of the book of Jonah is a work of art, in that the mental and moral construction is not reliant upon the specific culture of the period, but it is complete in itself.  Within the artful design, lies a further emphasis on the gentle nature of God in that the conclusion itself is not forced or even preached, but left for the reader (or listener) to fill it in for himself.  The picture of God’s immense compassion and mercy draw the reader to spontaneously voice the “yes” to God’s invitation.  Year after year, the Jewish community finds the story relevant to their teaching on grace and forgiveness as the book of Jonah is read in the liturgical schedule for Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.  Finally, though the narrative is an ancient Hebrew account of events not necessarily relevant to modern states and nations, the dramatic encounter between God, a distinctly compassionate being, and man, a consistently ambivalent creature, steps out of place in history to provide a valuable encouragement for any who is willing to contemplate it.

            The book of Jonah, in spite of its brevity, illuminates the character and nature of God sufficient to change a person’s fundamental outlook.  It is all too easy to view the laws and principles of God through a man’s perspective of control and domination.  In the book of Jonah, however, God is portrayed as relentless in his determination to extend compassion and mercy, so far as to audaciously include those people who clearly deserve punishment.  Not content to express his greatness by sparing the masses, he reveals himself as one who also has enough presence to care directly and personally for the individual, even one who shirks his responsibility and runs the other way.  God does not compromise his righteous nature.  He does not cancel judgment before recognizing repentance.  Thankfully, neither is he one who dogmatically insists on destruction for those who waver from perfection.  He does not explain why mercy is righteous; he simply states that it is, as if it should already be obvious to all.

Gottcent, John H. “The Bible:  A Literary Study.”  Boston:  Twayne, 1986.  PDF file.

Magonet, Jonathan.  “Jonah, Book of.”  Anchor Bible Dictionary.  Six Volumes.  Ed. David N. Friedman.  New York:  Doubleday, 1992.  PDF file.

Ryken, Leland.  “Hero/Heroine.”  Dictionary of Biblical Imagery.  CD-ROM.  Ed. James C. Wilhoit, Tremper Longman III.  Downer’s Grove:  IVP Academic, 1998

Ibid.  “Jonah, Book of.”  Dictionary of Biblical Imagery.  Ed. James C. Wilhoit, Tremper Longman III.  Downer’s Grove:  IVP Academic, 1998.

Ibid.  Words of Delight:  A Literary Introduction to the Bible.  2^nd ed.  Grand Rapids:  Baker, 1992.  PDF file.

Walton, John H. “Jonah.” Theological Interpretation of the Old Testament.  Ed. Kevin J. Vanhoozer.  Grand Rapids:  Baker Academic, 2008.  PDF file.

My Hypoglycemic ADHD Lover

My Hypoglycemic ADHD Lover

Oh, my love is like a red red rose,

“What’s that, a text message I hear?”

I wait a moment or two, so she won’t be distracted

by the latent fears of motherhood

as I approach our bed with passions and intent.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

I hear her stomach’s urgent reply.

“I was in such a hurry this afternoon, I didn’t eat lunch.”

I know her blood sugar is waning, and time is short.

Unseen currents move me forward with increasing urgency.

She walks in beauty like the night,

I fix my gaze on the subtleties of her expression,

and know, with the experience of a quarter century together,

she is offering herself, a willing sacrifice

on a peaceful bed of duty.

“How would you like to grab a bite to eat, instead?”

She knows better than to demure;

She’s dressed within seconds,

pausing only to hug me with genuine warmth.

I smile, But this from love, not vanity proceeds.