Sarge and Pringles

SARGE AND PRINGLES by Jay

I’ve worked many jobs over the years.  For a time back in the late 90’s I used to work in a janitorial position.  It wasn’t the most illustrious job I ever had, but it was money in my pocket and helped me pay for graduate school with little responsibility.  Of course, there was the everyday drudgery of cleaning toilets, vacuuming, sweeping, buffing, wiping down windows, and of course, pulling trash. 

I did my rounds at night mechanically with absolutely no stress.  There were hardly any people in the buildings I cleaned except for other cleaners and an occasional stray overachiever who just didn’t know when it was time for him to go home.  It was usually deathly quiet.  Sometimes, I would just stand in a certain spot and look up at the stars or listen to the distant traffic on the street.  I could hear crickets and the peaceful sounds other critters made, and the whole atmosphere was perfectly suited to one who was more or less an introvert such as myself.

Every night, the security guard would come on the grounds around 11:00 p.m. just as we cleaners were about to leave.  He was an overweight man of about 60 years of age with a drawn, ashen looking face and gray, thinning hair greased back and combed neatly off his forehead.  He had probably been much heavier when he was younger and healthier, but then he just looked old, tired, and worn out.  He always wore a thick blue jacket with the white letters SECURITY emblazoned across his back, and when he came in, he always had a lunch pail and a thermos of coffee with him.

I never knew his name.  Everyone called him Sarge.  I don’t know why.  Maybe he was an ex-police sergeant or had been in the military in some capacity.  I never did find out.  Or maybe he just looked like a sarge.  In hindsight, it doesn’t really matter.  Whenever I think of a sarge, an image of him pops into my mind. 

He wasn’t particularly friendly, but neither was he unfriendly.  He was just quiet – a guy who had seen the world and who just wanted to do his job and mind his own business. 

Every night it was the same.  I’d lock up the building in which Sarge would set up for the night and cordially greet him.  Occasionally, a few hollow remarks would pass between us such as, “Looks like there might be some storms” or “It’s a quiet one tonight.”  Usually, it was me who spoke.  Sarge generally seemed too withdrawn into himself to offer any kind of banal conversation, as if some inner demons were tormenting him.  Sometimes, I would just see him in profile, sitting in his tiny cubicle, staring at nothing in particular or reading a magazine or a newspaper – anything to pass the long hours he would have to while away between making his hourly rounds.  Others times, I would see him sitting on his golf cart staring up at the stars through the trees.  What was he thinking about as his gaze lifted skywards?  Perhaps he was thinking that there had to be something better than the mundane routine of this dull existence.  Or perhaps he was thinking about the unfathomable mysteries of the universe.  Or maybe I was the one thinking these things.  For all I know, Sarge was thinking of nothing at all.  In any event, what I’ve related above summed up my sole communication with this individual for over a year, and I knew absolutely nothing more about him on the last night that I saw him than on the first. 

All except one thing.  He liked Pringles.

Yes, if there was one thing in the world that Sarge liked it was a tall can of Pringles.  For every night when I would go in and take up his garbage, there was a can of pringles to be seen in the basket.  Usually, this was the only object in there.  Occasionally, there would be other items as well including napkins or tissues.  But usually, it was just a single, solitary empty can of pringles.  Yes, indeed, Sarge liked his potato chips.

And then one night, I went to lock up the building and there was another security guard in Sarge’s booth.  He appeared to be an unwelcome intruder.  After all, this was Sarge’s domain.  It was as if this other guard was a blemish who had appeared in the night, corrupting the peaceful world of Sarge and his long hours of thoughtful, introspective solace.  I casually asked this invader where Sarge was…  Why wasn’t he at his post?  It was as if some unnatural corruption in the universe had violated the sacred sanctuary of this quiet individual.  I was told with an intrusive flash that Sarge had died of a massive heart attack after his shift had ended.  His wife had found him sometime in the morning lying peacefully in his bed.  

Though I did not know Sarge, not even his name, I felt sad.  And as I stooped to remove the bag of trash in the wastebasket, I was met with the familiar sight of the long, red can of Pringles for the final time.  I stepped outside into the night and gazed up at the stars right where Sarge used to sit in his golf cart doing the same, pouring a hot cup of steaming coffee from his thermos and putting it to his lips or munching a Pringle or two. 

       

Elements of Time: The Chimney

By Craig: Sometimes it is the simple things in life that are remembered. They might exist in the distant past... hazy, foggy images, perhaps distorted somewhat by the passage of time that sit on the periphery of a persons mind. They are impressed there like stone...or in one of my cases, bricks. It is a chimney, perhaps 70 feet tall. I am 7 years old, and I am lying on my back on the grass looking up at the blue sky. I am at my grandfather's house. My brother is with me and we roll down the hill like logs until we get to the bottom of the hill. There are grass stains on my knees, but I don't care and neither does my brother. We climb back to the top of the small hill and repeat the process, until we are tired and merely lie there looking up at the clouds. I see a face with a bulbous nose, and a pursed mouth and watch it become distorted so that it resembles something else entirely. Why does it change? Why do things have to go away never to return? I see a great castle with a knight and a raised sword. It too eventually dissipates into nothingness. I tilt my head back and see the world upside down including the giant smokestack across the street that was built for the boilers that operated the hospital. It stands there towering up into the sky and seems to reach for heaven. Indeed, nothing on the planet could be taller than this chimney. If I could somehow get to the top I would be high enough to see God...If I stare at it long enough in relation to the clouds I can see it moving...falling! I get dizzy and sit up. My mother is calling from the house. She will not be pleased with the grass stains. My uncle leaps down from the steps on the front porch...A porch that no longer exists...he snaps his fingers at us as he hops in his car...a car that no longer exists...except in the guise of a distant memory...from a time that continues to recede farther and farther into the past.

The Dream of Bartolomeu de Gusmao

By Craig: For as long as I can remember I  have always had the same dream. I am flying over a field. Below me I can see the roof tops of houses, and the lush green foliage of tree tops. It is a serene, quiet dream with no elements of surprise, or abrupt deviations that turn and twist a dream from one location to another by means of the minds fragile and whimsical ability to skim the periphery of varying thoughts. No, it is always the same; the dark green grass, the tree tops and roofs of the houses with their open chimneys looking like dark cavities. I might have the dream once or twice a year, perhaps more, but the mind is a very forgetful instrument. In fact, I believe that I have written about this dream in a previous post on this blog. But anyway... I want to fly like the birds, and so too have others throughout the history of the world. Daedalus and his son Icarus created wings like a bird which were held together by wax. Their flight from the labyrinth, however, came with a warning. Daedalus warned his son not to fly too close to the sun or the wax of his wings would melt. Needless to say the warning went unheeded as the impetuous youth soared into the heavens and met his fate. The story of Daedalus and Icarus has been relegated to mythology, but needless to say it is proof that people were thinking about manned flight in ancient times.



In the early 18th century an inventive Portuguese priest named Bartolomeu de Gusmao appeared at the court of King John V in Lisbon. He had a startling proposal to make which, in 1709, seemed preposterous. Gusmao claimed that he could invent an airship that could take to the heavens and fly. He presented the king and his court with a sketch of the craft along with a detailed description. It would be shaped like a boat, with a massive sail to catch the wind. The ship would be held aloft by tubes from which air would be pumped through by way of a bellows. Powerful magnets inserted into hollow metal balls would move the craft through the sky. To today's readers this seems like something from the pages of a 19th century Jules Verne novel. However, Gusmao was totally serious.  It is not known for certain whether a model of his lighter than air craft was ever constructed. According to one account published by a London newspaper decades after the alleged event there is evidence that at least one of his experiments was attempted. Sometime around the year 1720 it is written:



A Brazilian Jesuit, named Bartholomew Gusmao, possessed of abilities, imagination, and address, by permission of John V. fabricated a balloon in a place contiguous to the Royal Palace, and one day, in presence of their Majesties, and an immense crowd of spectators, raised himself, by means of a fire lighted in the machine, as high as the cornice of the building; but through the negligence and want of experience of those who held the cords, the machine took an oblique direction, and, touching the cornice, burst and fell.

It is said that the Inquisition got wind of Gusmao's experiments, and believed that he might have been experimenting in a sort of wizardry.  He fled to Spain where he died at a relatively young age in 1724. Gusmao had a dream that one day mankind would take to the skies and soar through the clouds like birds. These days the dream of Gusmao is realized and people have even been into space. There has even been talk of a manned mission to Mars in the near future. What might Gusmao think of this? It is hard to say. The Inquisition is no more, but there is still the age old threat that keeps science and progress from attaining the evolution of Gusmao's dream ,and that is the inability of people to get along. There is a cultural divide that slows the advancement of technology due to the distractions and resources that are needed to fight them. Maybe one day reason will prevail over the petty squabbles of nations that inhibit the growth of Gusmao's dream.



I find myself standing in an open court. There is a slight breeze as I mingle with the crowd that has gathered in front of Ribeira Palace in Lisbon. I gaze to my left and see the harbor filled with merchantman and caravels. A large man-o-war with 56 guns sits idle, its crew also mingling with the throng of people that are here to witness a marvel never before seen in the annals of time. A raised platform covered by a large canvas canopy holds the young king and his courtiers who are here to witness this unprecedented event. In the center of the court is the magician himself, wearing a chocolate brown robe made of the finest eastern silk. He stands next to his machine that is bedecked in a material known only to the inventor. It is shaped like a large bird the bow carved into the likeness of a hawk. He salutes the crowd and then the king, and climbs aboard with two assistants who are similarly clothed. Gusmao bends down and does something to the large magnets that causes a humming sound to burst forth from the craft. There is a startled emanation from the crowd as fingers point to the object of interest. Suddenly it is aloft! The two assistants work the bellows as the unfurled sail catches a northerly breeze from the harbor and the airship is soon moving slowly higher up over the palace and into the sky. The inventor can be seen working the sail, his soft hat askew. The crowd is shouting with mixed emotion, some of them cheering, others laughing and crying, while the most pious of the lot are on their knees praying to their savior for the wizardry that they have just been witness to. A man screams and flees the palace yard in terror taking a horde of the superstitious rabble with him. I watch in silence until the mighty airship disappears behind a cloud. When it emerges again it is but a speck in the sky...drifting...sailing into the dreams of an unknown future.

Classics Ilustrated # 141: Castle Dangerous

By Craig: There are three types of people. There are those who live for the present, while others live for their future. The ones who live for the present are usually of the hedonistic variety. They live for  pleasure, and for the most part do not think of the future or ever reflect about the past. They typically are the television watchers, bar patrons, and fine dining epicureans who attempt to find ways to make their lives more agreeable in the here and now with superficial tendencies. The people who live for the future are more apt to live an ascetic lifestyle, or at least one that consists of being economically sound. They shun the extravagant lifestyle and engage in frugality with the hope of a more comfortable and secure retirement. Finally there are the people who are always looking behind them. They may also belong to one of the former types, but are different in the sense of sentimentality. I could give a flying leap about climbing the so-called ladder of success that is typically associated with the first group. I also do not care to live a life that abstains from life's simple pleasures. This removes me from the second group. After all, life may end tomorrow or the day after. There are no guarantees. This leaves me with the unenviable position of being cast into the third group. A group that consists of poets, dreamers, procrastinators and people who would rather watch the world from a vantage point far from the center of activity, or the hub of popularity.

I first became acquainted with the works of Sir Walter Scott when I was a young boy. At sometime my brother and I  acquired a tattered copy of the Classics Illustrated comic book Castle Dangerous. I have forgotten where and how we managed to obtain it but it was probably at the flea market that we would frequent every Sunday. The comic was 20 years old when it came into our possession and had not been taken care of. Not that this mattered to us. We were intrigued by the story that was told inside. The cover shows a fierce looking knight in black armor standing on a siege ladder. His sword is raised behind him as he is getting ready to slash at his adversaries while attempting to break over the castle walls. The story takes place during the English-Scottish border wars in the early 14th century. The black knight depicted on the cover is the Scottish Douglas. Sir James Douglas (1286-1330) also known as the "Black Douglas" because of the colour of his armor was one of Robert The Bruce's chief allies in the Scottish war of Independence. The story in the comic book is of course semi-fictional. It takes real historical personalities and mixes them with fictitious ones to create a fluid tale that culminates in a small battle between the English and the Scots outside of a church. This eventually leads to a single combat between Douglas and his English counterpart Sir John De Walton which ends in a mutual truce.

Every few years or so I pick up this comic book and read it. It is the epitome of the days of chivalry. Knights defending the honour of a lady... single combat between knights, and the solid walls of an impregnable castle. It takes place during a time of adventure and romance. Of course, in reality, it is all hogwash. The reality of the times that this romantic adventure took place were quite different than what most folks see in books and movies. It was for most people a time rife with disease and pestilence. Life was short and harsh. The only solace coming from the monks and priests who spoke of another life in the hereafter. But I don't give a damn about the reality. I deal with reality everyday. Sometimes I choose to live in the land of illusion...the land of the distant past. For a short time I become the all powerful Black Douglas possessing the strength of 10 men climbing to the top of the castles ramparts and delivering mortal blows with my broadsword to usurpers that have stolen my ancestral home. A damsel locked in a tower beckons from an airy window for my protection which of course is forthcoming. When I first read this comic book nearly 40 years ago I imagined that the future held an unimaginable amount of goals and achievements none of which were insuperable. There was a castle waiting for me, an army of knights in my employ that would do my bidding, and a lady love that was provided with all the finery of life. Today, the illusion is gone, but somehow remotely persists in the inner chamber of my mind where it resurfaces time and time again amidst the insipid  reality of what is now.

Danny's Sunset

By Craig: The other day a good friend of mine passed away. It was a shock because he was in such good shape physically for a man who was nearing 70 years old. We were in the same running club, and he was the type of person who would give you the shirt off his back. When I was attempting to qualify for the Boston Marathon a few years ago, he gave me some good advice that helped me to succeed in my endeavor. We ran an Ultra-Marathon together in South Carolina back in December. It was a 24 hour race that turned into a mud fest on slippery rain soaked trails. The course was along a narrow path that crossed creeks, and it seemed that every lap around the trail I would encounter a new root that seemed to have sprung up like some target in an arcade game. It was a mess! My goal had initially been to finish 100k, but after assessing the conditions I quickly adjusted that. About mid-afternoon I was seriously beginning to think about quitting. Because I was 20 years younger, and faster than Danny I turned a bend in the trail and saw him in front of me. I had lapped him, but he was plugging along with his head down,  and I came up beside him. He had a big grin on his face, and was thoroughly enjoying himself! We had a lengthy discussion and after giving me encouragement my attitude quickly changed. I no longer felt like quitting, and ended up finishing 40 miles that day! That was the type of person he was.

I found a photograph that Danny had taken a few months back, and because I really like it I saved it on my phone. It is the sunset over a lake. A simple image. There it is... a leafless tree with its outstretched arms that seems to beckon the sun as it disappears on the horizon in the western sky. The serenity of the lake is captivating and surreal. The image is poignant because it captures the truth that we will all one day face. A sunset...A simple sunset... This sunset belonged to my friend.

Elements of Time: The Last WheelWright

By Craig: The sun was setting in old Halifax when the lonely, forgotten man brushed off his apron, hung it on an iron hook, and emerged from the wheelwright shop. There was a slight breeze, and although it was July, he felt the cool New England evening air hit his leathery bronzed neck. It had been an unseasonably cold day with an overcast sky, but 64 year old Isaac Barker was use to the fickle weather of the region. He had spent his whole existence here. It was his land. His forbears had come over on the Mayflower seeking a new beginning. They chose this cold, barren land and over the 250 years since their arrival little had changed...but change was coming, it was in the wind and the old bachelor could sense it. He sat down on a wooden bench outside of his shop and lit his pipe.



His thoughts began to ramble and he went back to the beginning. He had been born with little fanfare in Lynn a few miles to the north. He spent his early years here living with his parents and siblings, but when he was 12 his father; Ephraim, passed away. This left his mother; Lucy, with the care of the 8 children. His mother was pregnant with her last child at the time of his father's death, and a month later child # 9 arrived, a boy. She naturally named him Ephraim. She needed help and it was decided that she would return to her hometown of Halifax where she knew people. Since he was the oldest boy he took charge of the move. He packed the families personal belongings into a wagon and the 40 mile journey began.


It was 1830. The family passed through Chelsea and into Boston where they stopped to look at the magnificent Tremont Hotel which had just been built. It was like nothing that the family had ever seen. The four story granite faced structure, with it's large spacious lobby, and its indoor plumbing was a marvel of engineering by mid 19th century standards. The family moved on and found themselves in the marketplace outside of Faneuil Hall. Here they loaded up their stock of provisions. Isaac found a small confectionary shop and without conferring with his mother bolted into it. He came out with a large pastry which his sisters Ruth and Emma hungrily attacked with much energy and dedication, saving a morsel for him and his mother who chided her son for his impetuous act all the while savoring the taste of it! The wagon rolled out of Boston and made it to Braintree where they stopped for the night at an inn. After a good nights rest they made it to their new home in Halifax that afternoon. Isaac took a good look at his new surroundings. He would never journey so far again...



Over the next few years most of his siblings married and moved on with their lives. Not him, however, he was loyal to his mother. She had her hands full. Ephraim was known as the village "idiot," and her deaf nephew Isaac Waterman came to live with them. Only his older sister Mary, remained. Every day was the same. He would get up before dawn and tend to the fields and work them until mid morning. He would then spend the rest of the day...until dusk...mending wheels. Eventually he gained a sort of reputation for his handiwork and method. Orders came in and he spent more and more time fitting the wooden spokes into the wooden hub than he did in the fields. In 1852,when he was 34, his brother Ephraim took ill. They rushed him to Boston where the doctors diagnosed him with "brain fever." He died within hours. Their once large family now consisted of himself, his mother, and his sister Mary. Eventually Mary went to live in Chelsea, and Isaac was now the sole caregiver to his elderly mother. In 1877, at the age of 89, she too, gave up her mortal cares finally joining her long dead husband in the grave. The years went by...Isaac was now alone.



He sat on the bench puffing on his pipe. The sun finally poked its head from behind the clouds. It was low in the western sky, and he smiled. It was his last sunset, and he was all alone. He must have often wondered how life could have been different. What if he had married? Had children of his own? He would never know. He was, however, aware of the change. People had stopped buying wooden hubs...and wooden spokes. It was iron now. The old village wheelwright was becoming obsolete. He sat there contemplating the vastness of the world, and the cognitive dissonance of his mind was working. Change was good...Or was it? His was a small world. A mere molecule in the cosmic entirety of space and time. He had occupied but a fragment of the lineal line of time...a dot...a pebble on the beach. He knew nothing of mankind's illusion of their superiority and greatness as it related to the natural world, and the culture from which they sprung, whether it be a revolution...a Civil War...Temperance societies...Masonic rituals...religious conformity...He was ignorant of this ostensible arrogance created out of a false sense of importance. A trillion years hence it would be a moot point! If he had been a philosopher he might have agreed with Sartre..."Nothingness, lies coiled in the heart of being, like a worm." What does it all mean? There were the wooden hubs, and the wooden spokes, the lathe, and the chisels. He looked at his once strong weathered, arthritic hands. This was his life... He thought of his mother, his sisters and brothers...The pastry in Boston, oh so long ago! all gone now...And now he too would die in a house fire on this very night, but he did not yet know it. Not that it mattered, for He was enjoying the sunset, and the melodious sound of a distant mourning dove.  He was a lonely man... a forgotten man... My uncle...The last Wheelwright of Halifax.

William McKinley In My Grandfather's Attic

By Craig: I think that I first developed an interest in history before I was 5 years old. some of my earliest memories were of the staircase leading up to the large attic in my grandfather's house. It creaked with every step, even for a young, curious boy like myself who probably only weighed 30-40 pounds. The house was built in the late 19th century, and the attic was filled with stuff from my great-grandparents day. Old newspapers and magazines decaying with age were littered across the floor. Most of the magazines had dates pre-dating the Great War. Edwardian attire with old shoes, hats and other garments still waited for their owners to dust them off and don them. I could almost imagine a late 19th century dandy with outlandish looking whiskers hastily coming through the door to gather his top hat. He would look at me and wink.
"I've been looking for this bloody thing for 80 years!" He would say, before tilting his hat and disappearing in a ghostly mist through the wall.




Indeed, This part of the house was so isolated and remote from the living that it reeked of age and the long ago dead. I was too much of a coward to venture into this time tunnel without my twin brother at my side. Together we would investigate this room of historical mystery. We would play with the hand painted toy soldiers, and look through the crooked window that overlooked the Worcester skyline. But the window was high, and being only a child I could see nothing but the blue sky and clouds where I would sometimes believe that I saw biplanes from another time performing acrobatic feats that the Red Baron himself would have found astonishing. When I was a little older and able to read I recall going through the old newspapers and magazines and reading about events that had long since been forgotten, or had at least dimmed in the consciousness of the living. For some unexplainable reason when I think of my grandfather's attic today, an image of William McKinley pops into my head. One of the books in my grandfather's bookcase was a memorial tribute to the 25th President which was published shortly after he was assassinated in 1901. I do not know how my grandfather acquired the book. He was born in 1907. Perhaps it was his father's book, or perhaps it was in the house when he bought it. I do not know. Some of the newspapers in the attic were updates on the Spanish-American war. It was as if McKinley's ghost inhabited part of this house.


A few years ago I found a copy of the McKinley Tribute in a bookstore for a relatively cheap price. They must have made tons of them after his death so that it was still relatively easy to find. Like most biographies of that time period, the subject is portrayed as having no faults. In fact he is treated as an almost divine figure. He is referred to as "Our Martyred President."

William McKinley (1843-1901)

William McKinley was born in Trumbull County Ohio on January 29, 1843. He was the son of a manager of a blast furnace. His family was middle class and he therefore was afforded the opportunity of attending college. Shortly after enrolling, however, the Civil War broke out and McKinley enlisted in the 23rd Ohio Infantry Regiment. He saw action at Antietam and shortly thereafter his leadership skills were recognized and he was given an officers commission. He served in various capacities throughout the war and was recognized by Abraham Lincoln for "gallant and meritorious services at the battle of the Opiquan, Cedar Creek, and Fisher's Hill,."

After the war McKinley attended law school in Albany and worked as a lawyer before entering politics. He served in the U.S. House of Representatives and Governor of Ohio before being elected President in the 1896 election. McKinley was perhaps best known for his support of the gold Standard, and the Spanish-American War which was the first large scale conflict in the United States since the Civil War. Six months after McKinley's reelection he decided to attend the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo New York. Inside of a building known as "The Temple of Music" he shook hands with a number of people before an assassin named Leon Czolgosz fired two .32 caliber bullets into him. One of the bullets lodged in his abdomen and was never found. McKinley died of an infection eight days after the shooting. Czolgosz was an anarchist who believed that the American economic system was flawed, and the disparity in income between the rich and the poor needed to be addressed. He was executed in the electric chair less than two months after the assassination.

The years have rolled by and it has now been 114 years since McKinley's assassination. There are only a handful of people alive on the planet today that saw the same sunrise as President McKinley, and they were too young then to remember it now.

I find myself going back in time. It is the 1970s and I am about 8 years old. I am with my brother sitting on the wooden floor in my grandfather's musty attic. I look at an old chaise covered with white linen when suddenly a gust of wind blowing through the open window sweeps the linen from the chair. There is a noise coming from below...it is the stairs!...they are creaking. Someone is slowly coming up. Soon I see what is making the noise. It is a gentleman in a late 19th century black coat wearing a top hat. The gentleman is holding his abdomen and it is all too obvious who it is. He is black and white, for it is a black and white world from which he has come. He pays no heed to us as he sits in the chaise and crosses his legs. His baggy eyes look weary as if he has been traveling for some time and looking for a place to rest. He looks up toward the crooked window and suddenly his countenance changes. A hint of a smile perhaps? Or maybe it is curiosity?

"An aeroplane" He says softly, finally looking at us. "I knew it would come to fruition."

I did not quite understand him. I only knew that it was a changing of the guard...an old world...which was his...and the new world...which was mine. This attic belonged to him...not me. It was his world...not mine. My brother and I stood up as another gust of wind blew through the window and turned some fragile yellowed pages of the Boston Post to dust. The generations come and go, and one day, I too will outlive my time, and someone will be searching the remnants of it left behind for the living. We left President McKinley, who was smiling, and no longer in pain. He had finally found his peace...in his own time...in my grandfather's attic.