Over a year ago I stumbled across this description of what it means, and does not mean, to be a friend. I cannot imagine what could be added, or taken away, that would improve the statement. The only thing needed is updating the language to the 21st century.
Friend
"-one who will not censure or mock his friend when absent; who will defend him whenever he hears him being slighted or ridiculed; who will consider friendship more important than his own reputation for being acute, witty, and able to raise a laugh; who will not divulge a secret that has been confided to him either to have a subject for gossip or to show himself off; who will not abuse the familiarity and confidence of his friend in order to supplant and surpass him; who will not envy his good fortune; who will be solicitous of his welfare, obviate and repair his misfortunes; and who will be ready to assist him in his desires and needs-"
-- Giacomo Leopardi 1798-1837
You’d have to be God to be this perfect, but wouldn’t it be a comfort to have a friend as dependable as this, and wouldn’t it be personally fulfilling to BE a friend as dependable as this. It’s worthwhile just to define the role of friend so clearly, but it seems to be an impossible achievement to be this selfless. I can’t imagine ever being this good, but I can imagine trying to be this good.
The only way to have a friend is to be a friend.
-- Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803-1882
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Conduct
Back when I was in elementary school we had to take our grade reports home for our parents to sign. I dreaded grade reports. My grade reports weren’t all that bad. My grades in English, history, and math were okay, but I always got a D in Conduct. That confused me. I remembered the teacher covering all of the other subjects in class, but I couldn’t recall a single session of instruction on Conduct. I didn’t know what Conduct was, or meant, and it seemed unfair to be graded on something that was never covered in class.
When I got home my grades were never good enough. The C’s should be B’s, and the B’s should be A’s, and the A’s, well, I never saw one of those till middle school or later. But it was the D in Conduct that I knew would hurt me. Mom chided me gently about the Conduct grade. “Tom, you HAVE to do better with your conduct!” I’d nod my head, knowing that it was important to remain silent while being disciplined. When Dad got home from work that night I’d get verbally punished for my mediocre grades all over again, and spanked for the D in Conduct. I REALLY didn’t like grade reports.
Still, I didn’t know how I was going to get better at Conduct if I didn’t know what it was. It never occurred to me to ask. Adults were, to me, all-knowing authority figures. I figured they’d tell me what Conduct was when it was time for me to know; kind of like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the over-sized hotdog at the baseball field the other kids snickered about. I could tell there were secrets out there somewhere, but I was confident that all would be revealed to me at the proper time by the proper authorities.
My D’s in Conduct became a regular occurrence over the period of several years. I was pretty excited when the school announced that rather than issuing grade reports 4 times a year, they would only be issued twice a year. I thought, “Awesome; only two spankings this school year instead of 4.”
Concurrent with the D’s in Conduct was a problem I had with talking in class. I had no idea that the two phenomena might be related. From time to time I was given a special homework assignment. I had to write “I will not talk in class” 25 times. The next occurrence was 50, then a hundred, and it went up by hundreds from there. I am certain that I reached 500 before the end of the year, but remain foggy about reaching 1,000. I do know I went through reams of notebook paper every year.
If the teacher was covering something important, like football, maybe I’d have paid attention. The really important subjects to me were tag, baseball, football, basketball, wrestling, and swimming; that’s six subjects right there, and the school was only devoting one hour a day during PE class to those six subjects. The school was wasting my time with reading, writing, and arithmetic, which were completely useless to me during daily recess time and summer vacations. “Yo, teachr mon, give me sumthin I kin use!”
I remember one night I was writing out my punishment of a gazillion sentences in a corner of our family room. Mom was watching me struggle laboriously through the handwriting, and commented, “Wouldn’t it just be easier NOT to talk in class?” I nodded my head in agreement, but inside I was thinking, “Can I stop a cough, a sneeze, or a fart? Can a bed wetter will himself not to wet the bed? Oh Mom, I wish it were so. I so wish I could stop myself, but the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Mother, forgive me, for I know not what I do.” I had no control over my talking in class.
Here’s an example. One day the teacher was droning on about Abraham Lincoln, who happened to be my favorite president. In fact, I already knew that Abe was the sixteenth president, so I‘d made 16 my favorite number to honor him. I was sure old Abe was pleased with this honor even as he lay a-moldering in the grave. Anyway, the teacher wasn’t telling me anything new as I’d recently read a short biography on Abraham Lincoln and knew everything worth knowing, or so I thought.
This permitted me a free moment to ponder the Transparent Man model that my older brothers had assembled from a kit. The model had transparent skin so you could see all the organs inside the man. It also had a door into the abdomen so you could take out all the organs, and then put them back in like a 3-d jigsaw puzzle. As I recalled the placement of the organs it occurred to me that the stomach wasn’t in the location where everyone patted their tummies when they were full. The fools were actually patting their intestines. In a moment of clarity I realized that the stomach is actually much higher in the abdomen than we generally give it credit for. Now here was a fact worth knowing. I bet the teacher and the class didn’t know that! It was much more interesting than what the teacher was saying about Abraham Lincoln.
My attention returned to the teacher who was still droning on about my close and personal hero, Abraham Lincoln. I was sure the teacher and the class would want to know my newly discovered fact. I was so excited. I had incredible news that they were missing out on. I raised my hand knowing that I must not talk in class without permission. The teacher called on me and I said, “Did you know that your stomach isn’t down here (pointing to my belly region) but really is more up here (pointing to the sternum)?”
At that point she put me and my chair in the back of the room facing the back wall, but that was okay by me. She hadn’t said anything important all day, and I had important things to ponder, like where does the white go when the snow melts? Now there is something worth knowing.
When I got home my grades were never good enough. The C’s should be B’s, and the B’s should be A’s, and the A’s, well, I never saw one of those till middle school or later. But it was the D in Conduct that I knew would hurt me. Mom chided me gently about the Conduct grade. “Tom, you HAVE to do better with your conduct!” I’d nod my head, knowing that it was important to remain silent while being disciplined. When Dad got home from work that night I’d get verbally punished for my mediocre grades all over again, and spanked for the D in Conduct. I REALLY didn’t like grade reports.
Still, I didn’t know how I was going to get better at Conduct if I didn’t know what it was. It never occurred to me to ask. Adults were, to me, all-knowing authority figures. I figured they’d tell me what Conduct was when it was time for me to know; kind of like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the over-sized hotdog at the baseball field the other kids snickered about. I could tell there were secrets out there somewhere, but I was confident that all would be revealed to me at the proper time by the proper authorities.
My D’s in Conduct became a regular occurrence over the period of several years. I was pretty excited when the school announced that rather than issuing grade reports 4 times a year, they would only be issued twice a year. I thought, “Awesome; only two spankings this school year instead of 4.”
Concurrent with the D’s in Conduct was a problem I had with talking in class. I had no idea that the two phenomena might be related. From time to time I was given a special homework assignment. I had to write “I will not talk in class” 25 times. The next occurrence was 50, then a hundred, and it went up by hundreds from there. I am certain that I reached 500 before the end of the year, but remain foggy about reaching 1,000. I do know I went through reams of notebook paper every year.
If the teacher was covering something important, like football, maybe I’d have paid attention. The really important subjects to me were tag, baseball, football, basketball, wrestling, and swimming; that’s six subjects right there, and the school was only devoting one hour a day during PE class to those six subjects. The school was wasting my time with reading, writing, and arithmetic, which were completely useless to me during daily recess time and summer vacations. “Yo, teachr mon, give me sumthin I kin use!”
I remember one night I was writing out my punishment of a gazillion sentences in a corner of our family room. Mom was watching me struggle laboriously through the handwriting, and commented, “Wouldn’t it just be easier NOT to talk in class?” I nodded my head in agreement, but inside I was thinking, “Can I stop a cough, a sneeze, or a fart? Can a bed wetter will himself not to wet the bed? Oh Mom, I wish it were so. I so wish I could stop myself, but the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Mother, forgive me, for I know not what I do.” I had no control over my talking in class.
Here’s an example. One day the teacher was droning on about Abraham Lincoln, who happened to be my favorite president. In fact, I already knew that Abe was the sixteenth president, so I‘d made 16 my favorite number to honor him. I was sure old Abe was pleased with this honor even as he lay a-moldering in the grave. Anyway, the teacher wasn’t telling me anything new as I’d recently read a short biography on Abraham Lincoln and knew everything worth knowing, or so I thought.
This permitted me a free moment to ponder the Transparent Man model that my older brothers had assembled from a kit. The model had transparent skin so you could see all the organs inside the man. It also had a door into the abdomen so you could take out all the organs, and then put them back in like a 3-d jigsaw puzzle. As I recalled the placement of the organs it occurred to me that the stomach wasn’t in the location where everyone patted their tummies when they were full. The fools were actually patting their intestines. In a moment of clarity I realized that the stomach is actually much higher in the abdomen than we generally give it credit for. Now here was a fact worth knowing. I bet the teacher and the class didn’t know that! It was much more interesting than what the teacher was saying about Abraham Lincoln.
My attention returned to the teacher who was still droning on about my close and personal hero, Abraham Lincoln. I was sure the teacher and the class would want to know my newly discovered fact. I was so excited. I had incredible news that they were missing out on. I raised my hand knowing that I must not talk in class without permission. The teacher called on me and I said, “Did you know that your stomach isn’t down here (pointing to my belly region) but really is more up here (pointing to the sternum)?”
At that point she put me and my chair in the back of the room facing the back wall, but that was okay by me. She hadn’t said anything important all day, and I had important things to ponder, like where does the white go when the snow melts? Now there is something worth knowing.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Jockstraps
When I was in the third grade my folks signed me up for little league baseball. What is that, 8 years old? I was a big fan of Ron Santo with the White Sox and Ernie Banks with the Cubs, so I was looking forward to it.
I showed up for the first game with the full uniform on and came prepared with my bat and glove. The coach had the team line-up on the third base line and asked “Who has a jockstrap”? I looked down at the ground and thought through my inventory of gear: hat, shoes, socks, shirt, pants, underwear, belt, bat and glove, but no jockstrap. By the time I looked up every kid’s hand was up but mine, and the coach was looking at me. I shook my head “no” sorrowfully, as I was pretty sure I didn’t have one, even though I didn’t know what a jockstrap was.
I was surprised that all the other kids knew what this arcane piece of gear was, and to top that, they all had one. When I went to the local park for pick-up baseball games we all brought our bat, ball, and glove. One time a kid brought a catcher’s mitt, and that was new and different. I didn’t know these specialty gloves existed. Another time a kid brought a first baseman’s mitt. I’d never seen one of those before. But I couldn’t recall a single instance of someone bringing a jockstrap to a pickup baseball game. Nobody ever said, “Hey guys. Wanna see my new jockstrap? With this jockstrap I can play right field like nobody’s ever played right field before!”
But getting back to my first organized baseball game, when I looked at all the other kids I noticed they all had a belt on, as did I, and perhaps I’d made a mistake in answering “no” to the jockstrap question. Sometimes sports had strange names for normal pieces of equipment. Maybe jockstrap was baseball’s code word for belt. Anyway, I didn’t dwell on the word jockstrap for more than a moment or two and quickly forgot about this strange and apparently useless piece of equipment.
I didn’t play a single inning of that first game. It didn’t bother me in the least. At the end of the game they gave each of us a ticket that was good for a hot dog and a beverage at the concession stand. I couldn’t have been happier in my life. “A free hot dog and a grape Nehi? There’s nuthin better in the world than that!” Little did I know; I still thought girls had cooties.
At the second game it was pretty much the same routine all over again. This time when the coach lined us up on the third base line he looked directly at me. “Is anyone here NOT wearing a jockstrap?” This time I knew the answer immediately even though he’d changed the form of the question. I’d been through my entire room, looked on all the shelves, pawed through all the drawers, and even looked under the bed. I knew the name of everything in my room and everything I was wearing. There wasn’t a single thing on me I couldn’t name, so I couldn’t possibly be wearing a jockstrap, whatever that was. My hand shot up confidently as I knew the answer this time, but it did not generate a positive response from the coach. The coach scowled. Once again I did not play a single inning, but I did get a free hot dog and a grape Nehi. Baseball was great!
At the concession stand after the game the other kids were making comments about how long and fat the wieners were, and everyone seemed to snicker but me. I had no clue what the joke was. I was just trying to wolf mine down before some mean kid could steal mine or knock it out of my hands. While I was at the concession stand my dad was having an agitated conversation with the coach. I wondered why.
When we were walking toward the car to go home Dad was clearly angry. I figured he was either mad at the coach, or was mad at me, but I had no idea why that might be. I couldn’t think of a single thing I’d done wrong.
“Tom! Why didn’t you tell me you needed a jockstrap?”
“I need a jockstrap?”
“Yes. League rules say you can’t play unless you’re wearing a jockstrap.”
“Coach asked me if I was wearing one, but he didn’t tell me I couldn’t play without one. What’s a jockstrap, Dad?”
Dad’s head snapped around to look and me, and he paused before answering.
“A jockstrap is a piece of underwear designed to protect your penis and balls.”
“Really? Never heard of it. Can’t see why you’d need one. Do you know where I can get one?”
“Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”
Dad cooled off as he realized the true nature of the problem.
“Thanks, Dad.”
I was impressed. My dad knew how to obtain this strange piece of baseball equipment I’d never seen or heard of. I just knew he had to be the smartest man on the planet.
I still like baseball.
I showed up for the first game with the full uniform on and came prepared with my bat and glove. The coach had the team line-up on the third base line and asked “Who has a jockstrap”? I looked down at the ground and thought through my inventory of gear: hat, shoes, socks, shirt, pants, underwear, belt, bat and glove, but no jockstrap. By the time I looked up every kid’s hand was up but mine, and the coach was looking at me. I shook my head “no” sorrowfully, as I was pretty sure I didn’t have one, even though I didn’t know what a jockstrap was.
I was surprised that all the other kids knew what this arcane piece of gear was, and to top that, they all had one. When I went to the local park for pick-up baseball games we all brought our bat, ball, and glove. One time a kid brought a catcher’s mitt, and that was new and different. I didn’t know these specialty gloves existed. Another time a kid brought a first baseman’s mitt. I’d never seen one of those before. But I couldn’t recall a single instance of someone bringing a jockstrap to a pickup baseball game. Nobody ever said, “Hey guys. Wanna see my new jockstrap? With this jockstrap I can play right field like nobody’s ever played right field before!”
But getting back to my first organized baseball game, when I looked at all the other kids I noticed they all had a belt on, as did I, and perhaps I’d made a mistake in answering “no” to the jockstrap question. Sometimes sports had strange names for normal pieces of equipment. Maybe jockstrap was baseball’s code word for belt. Anyway, I didn’t dwell on the word jockstrap for more than a moment or two and quickly forgot about this strange and apparently useless piece of equipment.
I didn’t play a single inning of that first game. It didn’t bother me in the least. At the end of the game they gave each of us a ticket that was good for a hot dog and a beverage at the concession stand. I couldn’t have been happier in my life. “A free hot dog and a grape Nehi? There’s nuthin better in the world than that!” Little did I know; I still thought girls had cooties.
At the second game it was pretty much the same routine all over again. This time when the coach lined us up on the third base line he looked directly at me. “Is anyone here NOT wearing a jockstrap?” This time I knew the answer immediately even though he’d changed the form of the question. I’d been through my entire room, looked on all the shelves, pawed through all the drawers, and even looked under the bed. I knew the name of everything in my room and everything I was wearing. There wasn’t a single thing on me I couldn’t name, so I couldn’t possibly be wearing a jockstrap, whatever that was. My hand shot up confidently as I knew the answer this time, but it did not generate a positive response from the coach. The coach scowled. Once again I did not play a single inning, but I did get a free hot dog and a grape Nehi. Baseball was great!
At the concession stand after the game the other kids were making comments about how long and fat the wieners were, and everyone seemed to snicker but me. I had no clue what the joke was. I was just trying to wolf mine down before some mean kid could steal mine or knock it out of my hands. While I was at the concession stand my dad was having an agitated conversation with the coach. I wondered why.
When we were walking toward the car to go home Dad was clearly angry. I figured he was either mad at the coach, or was mad at me, but I had no idea why that might be. I couldn’t think of a single thing I’d done wrong.
“Tom! Why didn’t you tell me you needed a jockstrap?”
“I need a jockstrap?”
“Yes. League rules say you can’t play unless you’re wearing a jockstrap.”
“Coach asked me if I was wearing one, but he didn’t tell me I couldn’t play without one. What’s a jockstrap, Dad?”
Dad’s head snapped around to look and me, and he paused before answering.
“A jockstrap is a piece of underwear designed to protect your penis and balls.”
“Really? Never heard of it. Can’t see why you’d need one. Do you know where I can get one?”
“Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”
Dad cooled off as he realized the true nature of the problem.
“Thanks, Dad.”
I was impressed. My dad knew how to obtain this strange piece of baseball equipment I’d never seen or heard of. I just knew he had to be the smartest man on the planet.
I still like baseball.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Art
September 02, 2010
Why do I remember this stuff so clearly?
This one comes from my kindergarten days. (1958?) Okay, it might have been first grade, but definitely no later than that. This is creative nonfiction going on here. Give me some space.
One day the teacher set up several painting easels back in the cloak room. It was about the size of a small kitchen. She’d cleared out all the coats and anything else that might get destroyed by errant paint. At the bottom of each easel were a series of large holes in a flat board that held bottles of paint – probably four or five colors. My class took turns painting throughout the day. Each kid got a chance with his own easel, all to himself, a blank sheet of paper, to paint anything he wanted.
She said that she would give extra points for originality, and that art was all about originality. I had a really great idea of what I was going to paint. It was unique and personal. It was special to me and I was confident that the teacher was going to be impressed with my painting. I was pretty sure that no one in the class knew how to do what I knew how to do. I really looked forward to my turn.
No doubt I worked really hard at it. I was fairly sure I had every line down perfectly. There were a couple foggy spots, but mostly it was an accurate depiction. I was really proud of the accuracy of the picture and knew it would impress the teacher.
When our time was up the teacher went around the perimeter of the cloak room to inspect each of our paintings. I was last in line. The teacher had glowing remarks about each painting she looked at, and my anticipation grew. I knew this was going to be great.
When she finally got to my easel she paused, and finally said,
“Tom, what is that?”
I was confused that she had to ask.
“It’s a map to Grandma and Grandpa Lindberg’s house. See, this box here is my house, and this line is the street. You take this street to the stop sign and turn right on Wolf road. This line here is Wolf road. You take Wolf road until . . .”
She cut me off.
“You drew a map?”
“Yeah! See this green box is the park beside the road, and the blue box inside the green box is the swimming pool inside the park. When you see that you know you are not lost.”
“But Tom, you were supposed to paint a picture!”
I heard a tone of exasperation in her voice and had been in trouble enough times before to know it was time to clam up. Arguing with authority figures usually resulted in more trouble. Even so, I was thinking to myself, “You said we could paint anything we wanted!”
She didn’t hear what I was thinking and pulled me over to look at the other kid’s pictures. One was a sunflower that was beautifully done, and I knew I didn’t know how to do that. The next was a colorful fish that was way beyond my stick figure ability. The third was a landscape with all kinds of details beyond my imagination. The teacher went on and on about how wonderful these other pictures were.
By the time we got back around to my easel again I’d decided to leave my personal mute button on. I’d already learned that it didn’t do any good to argue with adults. Adults were bigger than I was, and smarter than I was. I was six and she was ancient. She had power. I had nothing. There was no way to win. I could only make matters worse.
I loved my map. It hurt that she didn’t see how brilliant and beautiful it was. With my map anyone could start at my house and find their way to Grandma and Grandpa Lindberg’s house, or vice versa. No one else in the class had thought to paint a map. There were multiple flower paintings and multiple landscape paintings, but only one map. I wondered why she no longer valued originality, but there was no way I was going to say that out loud. I had thought the teacher was smart, but this was the first chink in her armor. I decided, “If only one kid in the entire class paints a map, and you can’t appreciate it, who is stupid?” I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t see that.
“Why didn’t you use more colors?”
I didn’t answer the inquisition. I thought to myself, “Because I only needed two colors. Why would I waste time cleaning the brush in water between colors I didn’t need?
“Why didn’t you paint a picture?
I thought to myself, “Because you said we could paint anything we wanted, and I wanted to paint a map. I wanted to impress you.”
I stonewalled through the remainder of the verbal beating. I refused to cry. I didn’t want her to know she’d hurt me, or could hurt me.
I took my map home and showed it to my mom.
Mom liked it, and gave me a big hug.
Love you Mom.
Why do I remember this stuff so clearly?
This one comes from my kindergarten days. (1958?) Okay, it might have been first grade, but definitely no later than that. This is creative nonfiction going on here. Give me some space.
One day the teacher set up several painting easels back in the cloak room. It was about the size of a small kitchen. She’d cleared out all the coats and anything else that might get destroyed by errant paint. At the bottom of each easel were a series of large holes in a flat board that held bottles of paint – probably four or five colors. My class took turns painting throughout the day. Each kid got a chance with his own easel, all to himself, a blank sheet of paper, to paint anything he wanted.
She said that she would give extra points for originality, and that art was all about originality. I had a really great idea of what I was going to paint. It was unique and personal. It was special to me and I was confident that the teacher was going to be impressed with my painting. I was pretty sure that no one in the class knew how to do what I knew how to do. I really looked forward to my turn.
No doubt I worked really hard at it. I was fairly sure I had every line down perfectly. There were a couple foggy spots, but mostly it was an accurate depiction. I was really proud of the accuracy of the picture and knew it would impress the teacher.
When our time was up the teacher went around the perimeter of the cloak room to inspect each of our paintings. I was last in line. The teacher had glowing remarks about each painting she looked at, and my anticipation grew. I knew this was going to be great.
When she finally got to my easel she paused, and finally said,
“Tom, what is that?”
I was confused that she had to ask.
“It’s a map to Grandma and Grandpa Lindberg’s house. See, this box here is my house, and this line is the street. You take this street to the stop sign and turn right on Wolf road. This line here is Wolf road. You take Wolf road until . . .”
She cut me off.
“You drew a map?”
“Yeah! See this green box is the park beside the road, and the blue box inside the green box is the swimming pool inside the park. When you see that you know you are not lost.”
“But Tom, you were supposed to paint a picture!”
I heard a tone of exasperation in her voice and had been in trouble enough times before to know it was time to clam up. Arguing with authority figures usually resulted in more trouble. Even so, I was thinking to myself, “You said we could paint anything we wanted!”
She didn’t hear what I was thinking and pulled me over to look at the other kid’s pictures. One was a sunflower that was beautifully done, and I knew I didn’t know how to do that. The next was a colorful fish that was way beyond my stick figure ability. The third was a landscape with all kinds of details beyond my imagination. The teacher went on and on about how wonderful these other pictures were.
By the time we got back around to my easel again I’d decided to leave my personal mute button on. I’d already learned that it didn’t do any good to argue with adults. Adults were bigger than I was, and smarter than I was. I was six and she was ancient. She had power. I had nothing. There was no way to win. I could only make matters worse.
I loved my map. It hurt that she didn’t see how brilliant and beautiful it was. With my map anyone could start at my house and find their way to Grandma and Grandpa Lindberg’s house, or vice versa. No one else in the class had thought to paint a map. There were multiple flower paintings and multiple landscape paintings, but only one map. I wondered why she no longer valued originality, but there was no way I was going to say that out loud. I had thought the teacher was smart, but this was the first chink in her armor. I decided, “If only one kid in the entire class paints a map, and you can’t appreciate it, who is stupid?” I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t see that.
“Why didn’t you use more colors?”
I didn’t answer the inquisition. I thought to myself, “Because I only needed two colors. Why would I waste time cleaning the brush in water between colors I didn’t need?
“Why didn’t you paint a picture?
I thought to myself, “Because you said we could paint anything we wanted, and I wanted to paint a map. I wanted to impress you.”
I stonewalled through the remainder of the verbal beating. I refused to cry. I didn’t want her to know she’d hurt me, or could hurt me.
I took my map home and showed it to my mom.
Mom liked it, and gave me a big hug.
Love you Mom.
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