Shot From A Cannon

Shot from a Cannon

By Jay

Several weeks ago, my brother and I attended an event in the foothills of North Carolina that was hosting a 5k and 10k run.  He had been training for 5k’s and so chose to run the shorter race, and as for myself…  Well, I decided to try the 10k to see how my old legs would hold up.  I have always enjoyed running, more so for the way it makes me feel rather than the competitive side of the sport; however, I have had my fair share of races over the years.  I suppose I could lay some claim to have been rather fast in my distant past, and even as late as four years ago I could post fairly competitive times in my age group.  These days, it’s a hit or miss whether I can even finish a race!  Plagued with health problems, I feel fortunate that I can still get out there and engage in this activity that has given me an inordinate amount of pleasure since I was nine years old. 

On this particular cloudy Saturday morning as my brother and I lingered within the crowd of runners preparing to run our respective races, I couldn’t help but notice a very fit individual dressed in a bright yellow dry fit shirt doing sprints to limber up.  He leaped forward several times from the starting line as if he were shot from a cannon, surged maniacally forward for about forty meters, turned on his heels, and trotted back casually to his former position on the line.  I gazed rather muddily upon the rest of the runners, including my brother and myself and said, “This race is a foregone conclusion.”  They may as well just put the winners medal around his neck and be done with it.  Of course, there were probably only a handful of the runners present that day who perhaps entertained the notion that they could seriously win the race.  Most were running for the simple act of finishing or posting their PR for their respective distances.  As for my part, I had no idea why I was running except that my brother had suggested it.  I hadn’t been training 100%, though not for lack of trying.  One health related issue after another had hindered me from making any progress so that as I was standing there in the crowd, my goal was simply to finish the race in a respectable time without killing myself.  If I could still walk with a somewhat steady gait after I finished, I considered that would be a successful run!     

And so, the gun was fired and off we went, “yellow dry fit” surging forward as expected, my brother moving out at a quick 5k pace, and myself settling in at a comfortable, relaxed 10k stride.  I watched as my brother gradually increased his distance until finally, he disappeared around a bend in the road.  “Yellow dry fit’s” pace seemed supernatural to me  --  phantom-like.  He seemed to have disappeared entirely, as if he had been sucked into some vortex.   I knew I would see him again because the 5k and 10k course was a turn-around.  The cone for the 5k was roughly 1.5.5 miles up, and the cone for the 10k was about 3.1 miles up.  The first runners I saw were the 5k people.  A young guy in a black shirt was way out in front.  Then came a group of about three or four.  My brother was a couple of minutes behind them (He ended up finishing first in his age division.).  As I passed the 1.5.5 mark, I began to wonder when I would see “yellow dry fit”.  Yes, when I saw him…  Because there was no doubt in my mind that he would be leaps and bounds in front of his nearest competition.   

As I ran, I passed the time thinking, The sooner I see “yellow dry fit”, the closer I’ll be to the halfway point in this thing!  I love running, but it can be quite taxing on the body, especially when you are not really conditioned to run any faster than a jog!  Though I was not running fast (for me), my pride would not allow me to jog, so I was essentially running faster than I should have been.  And my pace had now become just a little bit more challenging than comfortable!

At last, I saw a yellow jersey in the distance!  He was charging towards me at a furious clip on the opposite side of the trail.  He pumped his fist with encouragement at one or two runners who were in front of me, and then it was my turn! 

We both pumped our fists and shouted simultaneously,  “GOOD JOB!”  or something to the effect.  And then “yellow dry fit” was gone.  POOF!  I was on my own again, breathing laboriously as my long, stiff legs plodded on and his were carried by the wind of Mercury on to certain victory. 

One day, however, “yellow dry fit” will be like me.  He will no longer have the spring and endurance that enabled him to cause me to question his mortality on this particular day.  His legs, once loose and supple, strong and fast, will eventually begin to crack and creak, and his aerobic capacity will have waned to the point where his once iron lungs will have rusted away.  He will perhaps, be in my situation, gazing with admiration at a form superior to his own, a future quicksilver who will pump his fist and cry out,  “GOOD JOB!”  And he will remember the time when he was the best and the fastest, and which caused at least two who were present that day to remark with awe as if he were shot from a cannon! 

The End

 

 

Jules Verne: Master of the World

By Craig: "It is an Earthquake!" "It is an eruption!" "Whence comes it?" "From the Great Eyrie!" Into Morganton sped the news that stones, lava, ashes, were raining down upon the country...
So writes the great French author Jules Verne in his book Master of the World published in 1904. Actually, this is a translation, as Verne wrote in his native tongue which happened to be French.

     Recently, I had a visit with the "Great Eyrie." Verne's model for the Master of the World's secret hideout was Table Rock, which rises 4,000 feet at the eastern rim of the Blue Ridge mountains in western North Carolina. I live only a hop, skip and a jump from the "Great Eyrie" which has stood for eons waiting for me to behold it's majestic sunrise. I  had crossed the Blue Ridge from Tennessee, and found myself sitting in a corner booth at a roadside mom and pops, dawdling over a cup of steaming coffee and waiting for my french toast. The place was half empty, but the regulars had gathered in a mass at a long table a few feet from my own. Most of these regulars were older, retired men who seemed to enjoy the camaraderie of their own kind. Politics was the topic of the day, and I could not help but eavesdrop on the conversation. Some of the men merely sat there listening to their friends spout off their limited knowledge of national and world events. One of the biggest talkers was a rustic looking, lanky fellow with a pot belly and a giant, red bulbous nose that looked remarkably similar to one of those fake ones that you might find at a dollar store.
"That ole Obama ain't no Christian, I tell yuh, he one of those Muslims"
Another giant of a man wearing bib overalls and a red ball cap like uncle Jesse on the Dukes of Hazzard agreed with bulbous nose, and added "If he's American why don't that rascal show his birth certificate?"
The waitress soon appeared with my plate of french toast, and refreshed my nearly empty coffee cup. My mind drifted from the old timers racist rantings to the "Great Eyrie" Perhaps this planet needed some "Master of the World," some Klaatu type character that would come down in a spaceship and land outside the White House. Perhaps, in some manner known only to them they would purge this world from all hate, evil and greed. Then again, more than likely, they would land here, make a cursory assessment, and determine that this world was beyond all hope of saving.
"Sorry Earthlings but you guys just ain't worth the effort."

                                                              The Great Eyrie
    
      Sometimes I daydream of being my own "Master of the World." How could I, a mere mortal of average intelligence, claiming very little talent in anything, except perhaps an uncanny ability to call up dates and years from my memory, save the world from itself? When I was a kid I  envisioned myself as a Lone Ranger type of hero. I would travel around the country seeking justice, punching out villains and saving helpless women from the clutches of evildoers. I would become a hero with insuperable abilities. Often times I would act out these fantasies by either  play acting, or with a pencil and paper, sometimes even creating cartoon characters. The heroes of these early writings were usually nothing more than different personas of myself. They were sketches of a fictional self that only existed in a mind that wandered precariously on the fringe ridges of reality. When, indeed, I one day came to the full realization that life was not a storybook I lapsed into a period of disillusionment. Perhaps even today I still feel the residual effects. There is a fine line between reality and fantasy. I am no Lone Ranger. I know that now. I am more apt to be punched out than do any punching out.  Oh well, such is the stuff of life.

"A cry leaped from his mouth, and was heard amid the shrieks of the tempest and the howlings of the thunder. "I, Robur! Robur!-The Master of the World!" Jules Verne

I was awakened from my musings by a cackling voice.
"I don't know about that dang Romney," said bulbous nose,  " he's a dang yankee, but I guess he's our only hope of savin our country from them socialists. Ole Sean Hannity thinks so, that's good enuf fer me!"
I had to smile, sitting here listening to these simplistic, moronic conclusions based on other peoples rhetoric. At least I still possessed my own mind. Or, at least I think I do. I am the Master of my own world, though that world exists only in the cavity of my thoughts.
     

                                                       Classics Illustrated
                                          Jules Verne's  Master of the World

The Cynicism of Hamlet

By Craig: Although I am not a huge fan of Shakespeare, there are a few of his plays that I have found myself reading over and over again throughout the years whenever time permits. Richard III is one of them, probably due to the fascinating and somewhat enigmatic character of the main protagonist. Hamlet is the other play that I keep returning to. There is something mystical, and timeless about this play that exalts it above all others in the Shakespeare canon. Perhaps it is the image of Horatio, Bernardo, and Marcellus encountering the ghost of Hamlet's father on the castles ramparts. "Speak to it Horatio!" Whatever it is, it remains one of Shakespeare's most revered works.

 

                                           The Ghost of Hamlet's Father (Henry Fuseli)

     The story of Hamlet Prince of Denmark has seen many varied interpretations over the years. It is the behavior of his character that has caused much controversy, and is often misinterpreted. Hamlet was not a suicidal madman as he is often portrayed. He was a misanthropic cynic that acted on his passions when confronted by the ill-treatment and gullibility that he received from those around him. At some points in the play, Hamlet may have acted with selfish intent, but for the most part his actions were wholly justified.

     The first signs of Hamlet's cynicism appear when the king and queen are inquiring about his melancholic disposition (1:2). King Claudius appears uneasy by Hamlet's attitude, probably for fear that Hamlet will find out that he was the one who murdered his father. He has good reason to be fearful, for Hamlet would find out soon enough. Claudius attempts to cheer the depressed prince up, but Hamlet would rather question life itself. Hamlets first soliloquy (1:2) sets the tone for the rest of the play. he is deeply suspicious of human behavior, and is even ambiguous of his mother's motive for marrying Claudius so soon after his father's death. he seems suspicious of everyone, even Horatio,his old friend,who appears before him shortly after the king and queen depart. Hamlet is glad to see Horatio,but assumes that there has to be a reason for Horatio's visit, and that visit is not merely to socialize. Hamlet is correct, and Horatio soon reveals his knowledge of the ghost.

     Although Hamlet is a suspicious person by nature, he accepts Horatio's story of the ghost. He believes Horatio and Marcellus without having actually observed the ghost himself. this attitude gives compelling evidence to the fact that Hamlet is prey to the passions of things that he desires. it is probable that if Horatio had come in and told Hamlet that he had seen the ghost of Hannibal of Carthage instead of his father, that Hamlet would have derided him for being a fool. Misanthropy and cynicism seem to converge on Hamlet as he is suspicious of Polonius who he treats with contempt and disgust (2:2). Hamlet is asked by Polonius if he knows who he is, Hamlet replies, "Excellent well, you are a fishmonger." Hamlet has questioned the man's honesty. Polonius is too daft to understand Hamlet and is confused by his remarks. Indeed, it is obvious that the younger man is more sentimental and philosophical than the older Polonius, when he tells him "Ay sir. To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand." Hamlet's misanthropy and cynicism are plainly seen in this statement.

                                    David Garrick (1717-1779) as Hamlet

     Hamlet's conversation with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern is another good example of his deep suspicion of the human motive (2:2). He talks of the world being a prison, and it is readily obvious that Hamlet is suspicious of both these courtiers. He finally calls them on his suspicion, and he is immediately told a lie. At first they deny that Claudius has sent them, but Hamlet persists and they eventually concede to his correct assumption. He then delivers a pessimistic view of humanity, and concludes with, "man delights not me no nor woman neither." Hamlet's famous soliloquy "to be or not to be" is often thought by scholars like Northrup Frye to be the "kernel of the play." It is also thought to be a speech on self destruction or suicide. However, Hamlet is not suicidal, and this is evidenced near the end of the play when he is dying. Hamlet is merely contemplating the state of death. Hamlet's cynicism runs deep in this soliloquy, and he questions life's motives and there seems to be a duality conflict in his mind. Samuel Johnson the great lexicographer and philosopher did not believe that Hamlet was mad or suicidal when he wrote:
"Of the feigned madness of Hamlet there appears no adequate cause, for he does nothing which he might not have done with the reputation of sanity. He plays the madman most, when he treats Ophelia with so much rudeness, which seems to be useless and wanton cruelty,"
Hamlet possess' a cynical outlook and at the same time a desire to meet his personal needs and wants. He is in no way mad. If anyone is mad in this play it is Claudius. He murders Hamlet's father for no other reason than the lust for power. Hamlet kills Polonius believing him to be Claudius, and it was therefore a murder of revenge. This is a natural response that even the most tame men in the world have sometimes contemplated. If someone were to murder a member of your family, after the initial period of grieving, the next natural step would be to seek revenge, or justice for the murder. In Hamlet's mind, the killing of Polonius, though not premeditated, was justified. Claudius, in murdering Hamlet's father had carefully planned this foul deed and, therefore was definitely an act of madness.

     There are other instances of Hamlet's cynicism that have been falsely labeled for being suicidal tendencies, or acts of madness. G. Wilson Knight in his essay on Hamlet is one of those who believe that Hamlet is cruel. Hamlet is not cruel, he is only defending himself in the only way that he knows how. If it appears that Hamlet is cruel, and that cruelty borders on madness, it is only because of Hamlet's cool reactions to the way people are treating him. Claudius is attempting to control everybody by coercing people into believing that Hamlet is crazy. Claudius has convinced Gertrude that her son is mad, and has succeeded in manipulating Polonius into spreading this false notion. He has even subtly convinced Ophelia, through Laertes, and Polonius that he is mad. Knight says, "That Hamlet is cruel for he murders Polonius, though he did so thinking that he was Claudius." Knight also refers to Hamlet's misuse of his own mother when Hamlet says, "Ay, but to live. In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, stewe'd in corruption, honeying and making love over the nasty sty." It is probable and extremely likely that given the same situation, a mother marrying an uncle a few days after a father's death, and then finding out that the uncle had killed the father, that most people would react the same way as Hamlet.

     Hamlet's alleged madness is spread even further by Claudius through the two sycophants, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. (3:3) Claudius has drawn up orders that will send Hamlet to England. Hamlet is aware of Claudius' scheming and realizes that there is a conspiracy against him. it is at this point in the play that he breaks into a soliloquy. he affirms his cynicism and natural suspicion of human nature. However, we see another side of Hamlet, one that is sympathetic. He is about to approach his mother and reveal the news of his father's murder to her, when he says, "Let me be cruel, not unnatural, I will speak daggers to her, but use none. my tongue and soul in this be hypocrites." Here, Hamlet admits being cruel, but is he really being cruel? Or is he merely acting on his nature? He says, "Let me be cruel, not unnatural." Hamlet has every right in the world to be mad at his mother. He is full of suspicion and doubt. She is most certainly a gullible and naive queen. If Hamlet were really cruel and twisted by nature, it would surely show by his actions. He would kill his mother for betraying him, and kill Claudius outright for the murder of his father. Instead, Hamlet gives his mother a good tongue lashing, and the killing of Polonius is done in the heat of the moment. He has plenty of opportunities to kill Claudius, but he chose not to do so. Hamlets conscience bothers him throughout the play. While he is praying, Claudius is spared an ignominious end when Hamlet sneaks in and observes the hypocrite in meditation. Claudius is unaware that Hamlet is in the room, and confesses to his brother's murder. Hamlet could have killed him at this time, but instead lets him finish his prayer. This is convincing evidence that Hamlet is not mad, but in complete control of his faculties. If Hamlet was crazy, he would have killed the king on the spot. Instead, he rationalizes the folly of this would be impetuous act. Hamlet believed that by killing the king in prayer, he would send him straight to heaven, instead of the eternal bonfire that he hoped would be his fate. Let God be the judge!

     Hamlet seems to have acted with unnecessary cruelty only once during the play. It is his treatment of Ophelia. (3:1) Hamlet tells her to place herself in a nunnery, after Ophelia has been cordial to him. There seems to be no rational explanations for his actions here. He does not believe himself to be acting with cruelty, only that he is once again acting on his passions. Hamlet can never be misconstrued for being reserved in his nature. He is definitely outspoken, and it seems that offending someone does not bother him in the least. Hamlet can be rightly accused of lacking tact. He even has the audacity to curse Ophelia by telling her, "If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shall not escape calumny, get thee to a nunnery." This seems to be an isolated incident, and can be seen as a quarrel between friends. Ophelia is the victim in this scene, while Hamlet shows the duality of his nature.

    As the play nears it's end Hamlet seems to become more cynical of life in general. More than once he ponders it's purpose. A good example of this takes place in the graveyard, (5:1) wher Hamlet is shown the skull by the gravedigger. He is told that it is Yorick's skull, the king's old jester. Hamlet is fascinated by this, and breaks into a tirade about the futility of existence. Although he ponders over death, he is acutely aware of his own mortality, and seems to be resigned to this inevitability. Hamlet's obsession with death is more a fascinating curiosity than an actual longing for that eternal state. It took the death of his father to actually impress upon him the mortality of the human species. At this time in his life he is full of suspicion, which inevitably leads to misanthropy. He thinks nothing of dumping the corpse of Polonius in the hallway in the castle. To Hamlet, Polonius might well have been an animal's carcass rather than a human corpse. His disgust with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern leads to their demise on the open seas. hamlet regards these men as mere interlopers that get in the way of his means to reach an end. In these two scenes it might seem that hamlet lacks a conscience. he is portrayed as an unfeeling brute to the people around him. Hamlet's anger is what makes it seem so, and his anger is a direct result of his cynicism. Hamlet is a complicated individual. He is a misanthrope that becomes more skeptical of the human motive as the play nears it's end. Hamlet's story has been open to many interpretations in the four hundred years of it's existence. However, one thing is clear. Hamlet is no madman. Rather, he is a desperate man coming to terms with death and the issue of his own mortality. His behavior during the play is merely a response to the actions of others.

Brontosaurus or Apatosaurus?

By Craig: When I was a kid I wanted to be a paleontologist. I don't know what happened along the way, but somewhere between the age of 10 and 18 I strayed down a different path never to return. I was five years old when my brother and I received a giant Marx Dinosaur playset. It came in a big cardboard box complete with white, brown and, green dinosaurs. A trio of anachronistic cavemen, with foliage and a three piece cliff set this toy set apart from anything else we received on Christmas day, 1973. If I recall,one of the cavemen was in a standing position lifting a huge boulder over his head, another one was squatting down as if preparing to discover the magic of fire. My memory is blank as to what the third caveman was doing, as if any of this matters. On the tails of the dinosaurs were their names in raised letters which were incomprehensible to a five year old mind. Somehow, however, we learned the names and began pronouncing them with some difficulty. Tyrannosaurus Rex, Trachodon, Hadrosaurus, Triceratops, Stegosaurus, Iguanadon, and the list goes on. One of our favorite ones was a brown dinosaur with a long neck and a pea sized head, Brontosaurus.

     The history of Brontosaurus is interesting to say the least. In fact, it becomes even more interesting when one finds out that such a creature never even existed. In the late 19th century two prominent American paleontologists; Edward Drinker Cope, and Othniel Charles Marsh engaged in a sometimes contentious rivalry as to their discoveries in the field. Marsh had uncovered a huge sauropod which he named Apatosaurus. He estimated that this creature was about 50 feet long when fully grown. In 1879, a mere two years after his discovery of Apatosaurus, Marsh claimed to have found a much larger species which he promptly named Brontosaurus. For a number of years the two dinosaurs were accepted to be two distinct species. However, in 1903 a few years after Marsh's death, it was found that the Brontosaurus was nothing more than an adult Apatosaurus. In other words, they were the same dinosaur. Due to the way animal species are classified, the first found, Apatosaurus was able to keep it's name, while the name Brontosaurus was relegated to the junk pile. However, for some odd reason this did not happen, Marsh's complete skeleton at the Yale Peabody Museum labeled as a Brontosaurus was so popular, that the name, although disregarded in academic circles, remained popular outside of this inner world. The fraud known as Brontosaurus lasted until recent times. It has  enjoyed quite a history in Hollywood. In the 1933 movie King Kong, it becomes a man eating carnivore. The most recent indignity bestowed upon the Brontosaurus is that Marsh mounted the wrong head on the beast. In the early 1970's it was found that the short squatty head mounted on Marsh's Brontosaurus actually belonged to another dinosaur named Camarasaurus. In other words, the Brontosaurus was a body without a head.

      My brother and I enjoyed our dinosaur play set for many years. Over those years each piece has slowly disappeared into the mists of time. Where they have gone I cannot say. The lime green T-Rex was the first to return to nature when I found the remains of it in my grandfather's garden under a lilac tree. The terrible lizard had been severely mauled by his dog Charlie making it almost unrecognizable. I don't remember what happened to the cavemen, perhaps they somehow found a time porthole in my childhood closet and returned to the Pliocene era from which they belong. I never thought to ask them if they were members of the Australapithecus or Homo Habilis genus of early man, or if they were merely time travelers who had gathered together for a look-see in the year 1973. Yes, they have all disappeared, all of them except for one. The chocolate colored Brontosaurus has withstood the test of time. It has somehow lasted through countless moves across state borders, largely forgotten in some cardboard box along with other treasures from a bygone day. Perhaps it traveled with some of it's companions. I can remember seeing a Trachodon a few years ago in a box in one of my parents many moves. Where it is now I cannot say. I sit here now looking at this piece of plastic that remains of my childhood playset. The tail still shows teeth marks from where my brother and I chewed on it with our baby teeth. It is missing it's right front leg...and remarkably, and quite apropos it lost it's head somewhere along the line...like Marsh's Brontosaurus, Craig & Jay's Brontosaurus has come home to what it really is. A survivor who wants to be remembered, if only for what it wanted to be. As long as I am alive...so lives the Brontosaurus.

Charlemagne and the Meteor

By Craig: Pope Leo III crowned Charlemagne "Emperor of the West" in the year 800 for his services in the name of Jesus Christ. Charlemagne had consolidated the Germanic tribes and put an end to the barbarian incursions into France and what would later become Italy. These barbarian raids had become a thorn in the side of progress. The period of time from Charlemagne in the 9th century until the Norman conquest of England two centuries later was a transitional period in European history. Most western countries had by this time been drawn into the web of the Christian faith. Those who were not were looked upon with scorn and derision. They were considered barbaric infidels who were destined to enter Hell upon death. The medieval era had begun. This was the time of the castle and the moat.It was during this period of history that the Roman church's influence among the populace would attain it's highest level. It was a time of coming to terms with God. Nobleman and peasant alike lived their lives for the sole purpose of attaining eternal salvation. This was also a time when monks recorded strange prodigies seen in the sky. these reports almost always had a foreboding sense of doom written into them, often associated with plagues, pestilence, and war.

                                                          Charlemagne (744-814)

     A contemporary biographer of Charlemagne named Einhard recorded in his Vita Caroli an event that took place in the year 810. Charlemagne was leading a campaign into Saxony against the Danish King Godefrid. Shortly before sunrise the army set out on the day's march. The king was riding along at the head of his army a fireball appeared in the sky. Einhard writes "Charlemagne saw a meteor flash down from the heavens and pass along the clear sky from right to left with a great blaze of light." This fireball must have been quite a sight for it spooked the king's horse which lowered it's head causing it's rider to tumble to the ground. The force of the fall was so violent that it broke the buckle on his cloak, and his sword and belt were torn off. At the time he was thrown he had been holding a javelin, and this weapon was found nearly twenty feet away. However, Charlemagne was a stoic warrior, and this fall in no way shook his resolve. He continued with the mission as if nothing had happened. Perhaps a more timid ruler would have read some sort of omen in this mishap, but Charlemagne was no ordinary king. According to Einhard he refused to believe that this fireball from heaven had anything to do with the business at hand.

www.fireballhistory.com

Mexico: The Chicklet Lady

By Craig: On one of my many sojourns into Mexico many years ago I found myself driving my beat up 1978 Mazda GLC hatchback across the border. It was a crisp morning with the crimson sun just rising over the desert to the East. My destination was the coastal city of Ensenada. I had heard that it was a nice place to visit, so I made a rather impetuous decision that morning and decided to make the drive. I had a full tank of gas and my recently cashed Marine Corps pay check, which, in those days was not much, and from what I hear is unfortunately still not much today. I guess that the corporatist oligarchs that run this country don't believe that us cannon fodder are worth much. However, we can thank these almighty omnipotent beings for the generosity that they do hand out to us so that we can merely give it back to them in high taxes, fuel costs, and insurance premiums. Oh well, at least we still have our specious freedom!

  My ugly reddish-brown car was a lemon ready to let go of it's juice. I had to stop and let the engine cool down every so often. I had recently changed the thermostat, but I could not afford any major repairs. If the clunker were to lay down, I decided that I would merely abandon it and try catching a bus back, or, if need be, use my thumb as it was intended to be used. I drove across the border without even a nod from the mustachioed Mexican border agent who appeared to be yawning as he motioned me through with a flick of his wrist. So, I was now in old Mexico, the land of Santa Anna and Pancho Villa, the two famous Mexican Generals who are often vilified in some racist American schools. As I drove south and could see the rolling hills in front of me I could not help thinking of Gold Hat and his bandits who might come riding out of the hills on their ponies and surround my overheating lemon. I would roll down the window and ask them " If you are Federales let me see your badges?"
"Ha Ha pelo rojo boy in the clunker car!" Gold Hat would say. "Badges? We ain't got no badges. We don't need no badges. I don't have to show you any stinkin badges!"

   I made it to Ensenada in decent time and found a parking lot near the beach that seemed to be a good place to make a base camp. I had brought along a duffel bag, and a change of clothes and my sleeping bag which I thought that I might need. I planned on sleeping on the beach, or in the car as a hotel did not fit in with my meager budget. I had also brought along a few cans of tuna fish and some bread, but I decided to find a place to eat and walked along the beach road until I found a small cafe where I sat down to a plate of "arroz con pollo" and a steaming cup of coffee which I eagerly relished and subsequently made short work of. I spent the rest of the evening walking around town, and along the beach where I took a swim in the surf. That night it was cool, and I was glad that I had my sleeping bag. I slept soundly in my car, in my parking lot at the marina. No one bothered me, not even the police, who, in the States (California at least) would rudely shine a flashlight in your face and ask you why you were sleeping in your car near the beach. when you inform them that you are tired and very sleepy they make you walk a straight line, and perform acrobatic feats that the Flying Wallendas would be proud of before telling you to move along.

     In the morning I washed up at what I perceived to be a public washroom, and then attempted to find something to eat. It was Sunday, however, and everything was closed. On my way back to the car I stopped in at a church where a short, stubby old priest was giving Mass. I took a seat in the back and listened to the priest give his homily in Spanish. I understood very little, my Spanish being limited to fragments of sentences and certain words. When it was time to take the Eucharist I stood in line with the rest and received the wafer on my tongue. it was at least a little nourishment, although I  confess that it would have tasted a lot better with a piece of chicken wedged between two of them. I was forced to make myself a tuna sandwich when I got back to my car.

     I returned to the border and was prepared to cross as I had done the previous day. This time, however, I was crossing into the United States. You might have thought I was attempting to pass through the Berlin Wall, when I found much to my chagrin, a swarm of border agents surrounding my puttering little Mazda. They told me to get out and stand off to the side. Two of these agents began rummaging through my duffel bag and checking under the floor mats and such. One soulless looking creature stood glaring at me as if I were some monstrous disease that was attempting to infiltrate the "oh so" innocent American populace. He began interrogating me. "What were you doing in Mexico?" "Where did you go?" as if it were any of his business. I told him that I was a Marine but that had about as much effect as if I were to have told him that I was the Pope on a holiday. Finally, one of them, an insipid looking fellow with a marsupial stomach exclaimed excitedly "We've got something!" I turned to see him holding up one of my cans of tuna fish. Another of these superficial creatures appeared out of nowhere wearing surgical gloves holding a bag in which the can of tuna unceremoniously disappeared. My remaining can soon turned up and joined it's mate in the bag.
"Are you guys hungry or something" I thought of asking, but decided against it for fear of what the gestapo response might have been. Marsupial boy approached me and pointed toward my sleeping bag. "Am I going to find anything in there? The creature asked with a nasally sardonic twang. They finally told me to return to my vehicle and proceed onward. I was glad to be rid of these conservative apes who would return to their moronic soulless lives soon forgetting that such a creature as myself even existed. There was a long wait until I arrived at the border which I could see about twenty cars in front of me in the guise of what appeared to be toll booths. "Would I have to give them money to get in?" I thought with horror, and a cynic mind, believing that some money grubber had found a way to profit through border crossings. Hungry women and little barefoot children hovered around the cars begging. One of them appeared to be more pathetic than the others. She was an emaciated elderly woman. she appeared at my window like a ghost holding a small child which cradled her arms around her sun-scorched leathery neck. This poor creature was missing most of her teeth and held up a box of Chiclet Gum for me to scrutinize.
"Por favor...tengo hambre senor"
I stared at her in disbelief and horror. I would have given her my two remaining cans of tuna fish if they had still been in my possession, but instead I gave her a $5 American bank note which she accepted with many "gracias' " before ambling her way to the next vehicle in line. For some absurd reason I accepted the Chiclets gum  which had now replaced the two cans of "Chicken of the Sea" as being the only edibles inside of my recently manhandled and disgruntled Mazda who was coughing her way to the border. What would be the irony if I got to the last check point and another marsupial boy would relieve me of my $5 Chiclets! But alas, this fellow, when I arrived, merely made a pretense of analyzing my I.D. before returning it to me with a suspicious glare. The Chiclets, my new passenger and companion crossed into southern California unmolested.

    

Time and Paddle Balls

Time and Paddle Balls
By Jay

Every fall for the past seven years (except one when I was seriously ill), I go away for two nights and three days to a camp in the Appalachians on the North Carolina / Virginia line.  It is a good two hour ride from Charlotte  --  scenic and pretty along the way as you near your destination on windy, hilly roads.  Situated and secluded at a high elevation, the view from camp can be breathtaking at various times of the day, especially in the morning when the clouds settle on the trees in the valley below and at night when the setting sun assumes various reddish and orange hues on the horizon.  It is the perfect place for a painter to rest his easel and set about delineating the picturesque views that the area has to offer. 

I attend this camp with nearly fifty middle schoolers as well as my colleagues where we participate in various activities from hiking to canoeing to zip-lining.  The camp has been there many years, and of course, my curious eye is always eager to catch something to spark my imagination.  Usually, it is the majestic views of the foothills during the day or perhaps the dark star filled sky at night unhindered by the bothersome lights and noise of the city.  Sometimes, it is the many deer I see grazing in a distant field.  And other times, it might be watching some tiny piece of driftwood glide smoothly down the Neuse river until it disappears completely from my view.  Mostly, it is nature which gets me to thinking and reflecting and appreciating the tiny and precious amount of time available in this sad but beautiful world.  But this time it was different.  This time it was a small plaque that was hanging in the gym beside the stage which set my imagination whirring. 

I had seen this plaque every year since I first started coming to the camp six years before.  I suppose I read it the first year and gazed upon it every succeeding year I came; however, this year I did more than just give it a passing nod.  I stood before it and wondered just what it was all about and why it was in the gym where  dozens of exuberant and energetic middle schoolers were shooting baskets, tossing footballs, and kicking soccer balls, some screaming at the top of their lungs and others just laughing and running around. 

The plaque read:

 

James Emory Gibson Jr.

1920-1963

Y.M.C.A. Camp Council 1960-1963

“A Friend of Youth”

 

I suppose what really struck me at first was the short life span of Mr. Gibson.  Forty-three is not very old.  I wondered what could have possibly happened to him.  He had hardly entered middle age, and was a year younger than my present number.  I thought of myself and my own cancer of three years, and of course, realized that no one was guaranteed their three score and ten.  I don’t know what caused Mr. Gibson’s early death, but I do realize that I’m fortunate to have cancer in 2012 rather than 1963.  With all the advances in research and technology, what would have been a certain death sentence to me a mere fifteen years ago, has extended my life by at least three years!  Hopefully, as long as my body continues to accept the medication that I’m on, I will live another three years  --  perhaps longer.  As I looked upon the plaque, I could not help but empathize with the late Mr. Gibson, and I soon found myself just wondering what kind of a man he was.  Obviously, I knew nothing about him except for what was on the plaque.  I didn’t even think of asking any of the camp counselors, for they were only kids themselves, most of them born over a quarter of a century after Mr. Gibson breathed his last.  Even the older staff at the camp…  Surely, no one would remember him…  Forty-nine years had elapsed since Mr. Gibson had been declared “A Friend of Youth”.  The youth then would now be senior citizens.  And even if I did ask someone, what kind of a look would I get?  Why do you want to know?  Not too many people would understand my curiosity concerning a long forgotten plaque in an isolated gymnasium deep in the Appalachians. 

So I did the next best thing…  I transported myself back in time  --  to the early 1960’s.  But I wondered if even the gym was that old.  So as I looked out at the sprawling hills and grass and cabins which made up the camp, I could almost see a man: tall and fit, with shorts and white tennis shoes,  a blond crew cut and cotton collared shirt with a whistle around his neck…  Could this be James Emory Gibson Jr.?  Of course, I had no idea what he looked like.  For all I knew, he was short, plump and dark-haired with a scraggly beard.  But this was not how I saw him.  There were several children surrounding him – 1960’s style dress – boys in dress shorts and tennis shoes with short crew cuts  --  girls in dresses and pig-tails, and they all seemed to be in the process of playing kick ball or dodge ball or some ball game  --  the image was not clear.

I was awakened by the sound of “Duck, Mr. Hipkins!”  And I squinted and cringed, hunching my shoulders as a basketball came inches from striking me in the back of the head.  This brought me back to reality, and before I knew it, I was in amongst the kids, shooting sky hooks and jump shots and having a grand old time.  “The Friend of Youth” was forgotten, but not for long.

I decided to do a quick Google search when I got home a few days later, not expecting to find anything in regards to Mr. Gibson.  What I did find surprised me, though perhaps it should not have.  Apparently, Mr. Gibson’s father, Gibson Sr. started a company (Fliback) in the early 1930’s based out of, I believe, High Point, North Carolina, specializing in the production of “simple toys such as spinning tops, yo-yo’s, balloons, rubber balls, etc…”  according to Gibson Sr.’s grandson, Gibson III.  When Gibson Sr. retired, Gibson Jr. took over the company and expanded production adding many other toys.  Apparently, Gibson Jr. was on his way to doubling the size of the company by creating a second plant when he unfortunately passed away.  Their greatest achievement though seemed to be the invention, or at least modification, of the paddle ball.  How many times did I play with one of these as a child in the school yard, Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!   I also remember one featured prominently in the Vincent Price movie The House of Wax  -- a fellow standing outside the museum using one to startle the audience of the time, who would have viewed the original movie in 3-D in 1953.  What fun and enjoyment have millions of children had with these over the eighty odd years they’ve been in existence!  A string, a ball, and a piece of wood…  “simple”…  nothing fancy…  nothing complicated or gadget-like about them…  Do children even play with these anymore?  I haven’t seen one in years, but then, have I really been looking?  It seems that all children like playing with these days have to do with computers or game systems  --  electronics and things that go beep, crash and explode. They even watch movies now when they get in the car and go on trips… Of course, they still like to throw balls around and such, but that seems to be only when the electronic gadgets are not available to them…    

The paddle ball…  a different time…  a different era…  a simpler age…  an age where Gibson Sr. and Jr., father and son, like old St. Nick, set about making all kinds of toys in their factory…  simple…  innocent…  imaginative, and fun! 

I can now see the sun going down on the horizon at the camp.  In the twilight, a dim figure emerges from a path in the woods.  He is tall and fit, and a whistle is around his neck.  Yet, lo!  What is in his hand?  I strain my eyes in the distance…  Is it a paddle ball?...  Yes, it is!   Dozens of children are now following him from the path and onto the field where they surround him in a large circle, each holding his and her paddle ball.  He blows his whistle and alas!...  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!  The deafening sound echoes into the valley below, perhaps just for the evening…  perhaps for all time, or at least as long as this forgotten plaque has a prominent place in this remote gymnasium within the wild of the Appalachians.   James Emory Gibson Jr.: Truly, “A Friend of Youth”.