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”.  

 

  

The Cardiff Giant

By Craig: Since the dawn of recorded history people have been fascinated by giants. The Bible mentions a race of people called the Nephilim who were great warriors of old that were the sons and daughters of the gods. Goliath, the Philistine was said to have stood nearly 10 feet tall. In English mythology, there is the legend of Jack the giant Killer. The Norse speak of the giants from the land of Jotun-heim where Thor walked with his mighty hammer. During the age of Atlantic exploration, giants were said to have been seen by the Portuguese explorer Ferdinand Magellan on the coast of modern day Argentina. Even today giants still roam the earth in the guise of Meh-Teh, or the Yeti of the Himalayas, and Sasquatch in North America.

     In the days preceding and following the American Civil War the traveling carnival became a popular roadside attraction in many American communities. People became fascinated by oddities and what at the time were labeled as "freaks." There was the great American showman P.T. Barnum and his circus who at times would send some of his prize showpieces on tour. These included the famed Tom Thumb who stood only 3 feet 4 inches high, and the Fiji Mermaid, an elaborate hoax promoted by Barnum and created by fellow collaborator Moses Kimball. The alleged mermaid was really nothing but a monkey's head sewn onto the back of a paper-mache fish. The mermaid (which was copied by other hoaxers) was sometimes billed as the missing link, or proof that mermaids did exist.

The Cardiff Giant

       During the summer of 1981 my parents took us on a road trip to New York State. We stopped at Cooperstown and visited the Baseball Hall of Fame. We might have spent a few hours touring this shrine to America's great pastime. However, after we left there, we decided to visited a place called the Farmers Museum. To me, the greatest thrill of this day was viewing an ugly looking stone man displayed in a sort of stable. It was the once famed but now forgotten Cardiff Giant. My brother Jay also stood there glaring at it as if it might move or start talking to us. "Hello there" it would say. "Do you know my story?" I would shrug and look at my brother who would do likewise. "I am made of gypsum, but the dummies who lived back in the 19th century didn't know this, they thought that I was the fossilized image of a giant prehistoric man! Can you believe it? Some guy named Stub Newell and his cousin George Hull created me with chisels and hammers and then charged people 50 cents a whack just to get a peek of me! What do you think?"
I would ponder on this question for a few seconds before respectfully responding to the giant. "I can see that you were a fake,but now, you have become something else." The Cardiff Giant would then raise up on it's elbow and slowly move it's stone head in my direction, all the time,and with every slight movement a grating sound along with a fine powdered gypsum would float through the air. "Something else? What do you mean?" It would say.
"Well Mr. Cardiff, you are now a work of art, a piece of history, I should think. Did you know that P.T.Barnum made a fake of you? "
The giant jumped to his feet in a sudden cloud burst of gypsum which startled us so much that we fled to the barn door.
"Wait! don't leave!" the giant pleaded. "I'm sorry I startled you! It's just that, I have been stared at by gawkers for over a century! Oh look at the fake!, they say. Or Oh, look at the fraud! and now this! Is it true? Am I no longer a fake?"
We returned to our place outside of the giant's stable. He stood towering over us. I shook my finger at him.
"Mr. Cardiff, you have become the real thing."
For a minute the giant stood there dumbfounded, staring at us. Suddenly we heard some people outside of the barn and the giant quickly dove to the ground taking his classic pose which he will perform for all eternity, his right arm resting over his stomach, legs seemingly welded together by gypsum. After the gawking nuclear family had left, the giant turned his head slightly toward us and winked. "The real thing you say?"
Once again I shrugged and my brother too. "Don't you know that all people are fakes? We all have masks that we wear, at least I think we do, but you! you are the real deal because you are made of stone! How can you be a fake?" my brother asked.
The Cardiff Giant seemed to ponder over this lame, juvenile reasoning. Once again he raised himself up in a reclining position resting his bald stony head on his stubby stone hand.
"I like you two, can you come back to visit me often?"
"Perhaps, Mr. Cardiff we will return to visit," I replied, knowing that it would be a long time before I would be able to return.

                                               Cardiff Giant Being Exhumed 1869

     The Cardiff Giant was debunked as a hoax shortly after it's arrival on Stub Newell's farm in 1869. This, however, did not prevent opportunists like Barnum from profiting from it. Barnum was so impressed by the hoax that he offered the hoaxers a princely sum if he could display it. He was rebuffed, but this did not stop him from getting in on the Cardiff Giant mania which had spread across New York and most of the northeast. He created his own Cardiff Giant and displayed it to even larger audiences than the original!

      It has been 31 years since I last visited with the Cardiff Giant, but I plan on returning one day to see how he is getting along. Perhaps he will wink at me once again and tell me that "being a fake is not so bad after all."

                                            Jay (left) & Craig at the Farmer's Museum 1981
Update: December 26, 2019
Since I last visited this blog post over seven years ago a lot has happened. My twin brother Jay passed away in 2018 after a long battle with cancer. However, I promised the Cardiff Giant that I would one day return to visit & I kept my promise. Since my previous visit which is now 38 years in the past the giant has been moved inside of the museum. I found this to be a bit incongruous as I knew him to be a lover of the outdoors. After all, he was born out there carved from gypsum. As I strolled to the location of his current resting place I was thrilled to see that there was no one else around. After all, he might be shy and would be reluctant to talk to anyone other than myself. But would he recognize me? I was but a 12 year old boy the last time that I had talked to him. I slowly approached and addressed him quietly.
"Mr. Cardiff? Do you remember me?"
He did not respond so I addressed him again, this time a little louder looking over my shoulder to see if anyone was approaching. What would they think if they saw me talking to a man chiseled from gypsum?
Still, he did not respond. For a short time I just stood there looking at him and then I told him who I was. I perceived a slight turn of his head and his gaze fell upon me.
"You promised me that you would return," he said with a hint of melancholy in his voice.
"And here I am. It took me nearly 40 years, but here I stand."
He rose up on his elbow and shook away over three decades of dust.
"Wow. It's been a long time since I moved," he said. "But tell me...where is your brother?"
"He is here with me, but only his spirit," I said.
He did not know what to say. So I started to tell him the news. what had happened in the world since I had last seen him, and what I had been doing throughout the years. I could see him in deep reflection and finally he interrupted me.
"So I see that you have aged since we last met. Do you still latch on to the reasoning that people are fakes?"
"I do, but I have learned to try and be less cynical of human motives. It does no good. It can only lead to misery."
"And your brother? Did he believe this also?"
"He believed what I believe and vice versa. We are twins and it is impossible to think otherwise."
"And what about me? Do you still believe that I am real?" he asked hoping that I had not changed my mind.
"I do. You are as real as the gypsum from which you are carved from."
He smiled and resumed his eternal state of rest.
"That is good. I can rest again. But promise me that you will return in another 40 years to reassure me again," he said.
I smiled. "Well, I will try. I will be about 90 then so there are no guarantees. But if fate decides that I am still a part of the corporeal world I will come again."
There was no response, but as I started to walk away I looked back one last time at my stone friend and could almost swear that I saw a tear running down his cold cheek.

                                                      Craig with the Cardiff Giant today


   

Cardinal Man & The 9-11 Jumpers

By Craig: A few weeks ago I ran into a wino who I immediately recognized was not a native resident. His thick New York accent gave him away, and I wondered what had brought him south. Of course, he might have wondered the same thing about me. He was a chirpy old fellow with a beak-like nose set in between two ruddy cheeks. His eyes fluttered as he spoke,and he had a habit of jutting his head forward, perhaps a nervous tick, or some other medical condition. He reminded me of a Cardinal, not a St. Louis one like Bob Gibson, or Stan Musial, but the bird type. As absurd as this might sound, he may have been one; a mutant perhaps, showcasing his bird-like features and mannerisms, along with a long sleeved red shirt. I almost expected to see him sprout wings and take off into the trees...Cardinal man, a new superhero in the making!

     Cardinal man was a bridge dweller. He was a denizen of the lower order, one who might have reached for the pinnacle, but had slowly slid into the abyss. I was on the railroad tracks when I happened to stumble upon this strange bird. He was leaning against one of the bridge supports, and he saw me coming. I was surprised that there was no sob story before the punch-line. He got straight to business and asked me for a dollar. I believe that he was surprised when I actually pulled a bank note from my front pocket and handed it to him. He did not say "God bless you!" as they often do. no, he merely took the note and smiled showing a set of ugly nicotine stained teeth that had not seen a proper cleaning in years. It was a devious sort of smile as if he were subtly telling me "Ha! I got one!" I asked him where he was from in New york. The way he said "dollar" had given it away. He, in no way seemed surprised that I had pegged him as a New Yorker. He must have been use to the association between himself and that state. Sort of like the association that I have with New England, though I have not lived in that corner for years. He claimed to have worked as an insurance adjuster in Manhattan, but that he was originally from New London, Connecticut. His father had been in the military; the Navy, or Coast Guard, i forget which. I attempted to determine Cardinal man's age, but like most dwellers of the abyss, it is hard to determine. He appeared to be a lot older than me, maybe in his sixties, but could very well have been younger. He told me that he was married, but had no idea where his wife was, or his daughter. His wife had left him shortly after 9-11. He was an alcoholic, a fact that his ruddy complexion and distended belly showed all too well.

     "I saw the towers crumble" he told me. I asked him if he saw the planes hit. He said that he did not, but he had watched them smoke and burn, and was close enough to see people jumping out of the windows. He said the jumpers looked like little black specks, and at first it did not register with him that they were people. After he realized what he was witnessing he told me that the "specks" turned into "little dolls." I found this to be a rather strange comparison, but who knows what I would have thought had I seen this horror. He told me that after the spectacle had ended he went to a bar and got drunk. I told him that I would have probably done the same had I been a witness. Yes sir! dilute the chaos of irrational madness! the anarchy of the mind and send it to the subliminal world of the tipsy euphoria where dreamers, poets, vagabonds, and drifters dwell. Go ahead Cardinal man! tip the bottle to your lips and take a big swig. it will come out right in the end. He offered me a drink from the paper bag, but I politely declined. Maybe another time I'll join you under this bridge and together we can drink to the goddess of the earth and laugh at the fools who get snared into the trap of idealism, and hate...the realm where the seeds of 9-11 horrors are born. I'm right! your wrong! I'm right! your wrong! What the hell, here you go! Have a drink buddy, come join us in the abyss where nothing is wrong and nothing is right and where you are truly free of the materialism that keeps you captive! I left Cardinal man to his bridge, or should I say, his nest where he seems to have found his peace. I moved along, still searching for mine.

Brownie

Brownie

By Jay

Okay, this is not about the scrumptious sweets that your grandmother baked to perfection.  Though by the title you might be thinking right now about chocolate stained teeth and a gooey center, this particular Brownie was not an edible thing at all.  That is, unless you are a cannibal.  It is about a man. 

Yes, I once knew a man named “Brownie”.  At least, that’s what everyone called him.  I never knew his real name though I’m sure he had one.  He was my next door neighbor  --  an old, balding man with red cheeks who waved to us from various places in his front yard when I was a child.  Now when I say next door neighbor, I mean down the street.  We couldn’t actually see his green house from ours.  We lived in a small New England town out in the country, and from July, 1973 – May, 1979 I saw Brownie nearly every day of my life.  Next to my parents and my two brothers, Brownie was the one person I saw the most often.  I’d be on the school bus, and I’d see Brownie out in his front yard watering the flowers.  Or we’d be driving by and my father would say, “IT’S BROWNIE” as if we didn’t know who he was even though we knew full well, it was indeed, Brownie.  Sometimes, he would say, “WAVE TO BROWNIE” or simply, “LOOK, IT’S BROWNIE.”  The name Brownie took on a majestic air.  Even the thought of Brownie commanded respect though I knew nothing about him.  In my eyes, as well as my brother’s, he was a giant who was on par with the founding fathers, Neil Armstrong, and Sir Edmund Hillary.  He was “BROWNIE” as my parents would say as we waved to him from the car.  And that was enough.  He was an elusive and mysterious figure.  I don’t believe I ever actually met him.  He never came over to the house, and I don’t recall ever going to his except for Halloween.  But it was always his wife who answered the door, a kind elderly woman who graciously dropped some candy in our bags every October 31.  I remember peering inside the house to see what I could see, but it was always dimly lit.  One Halloween, I remember seeing Brownie sitting in a chair, or at least half of him in the shadowy background, his legs crossed.  He may have been holding a magazine or a book, or he may have been taking a nap.  I don’t know.  But I do know that it was quiet.  And I do know that it was an awesome experience to be in the presence of Brownie even if we were just standing in his doorway. 

But for the most part, I remember seeing Brownie in his front yard.  This was Brownie’s domain, Brownie’s element…  Sometimes, he’d be puttering with his flowers.  Sometimes, I’d see him with a spade or shovel in his hand.  Sometimes, he’d be holding some unrecognizable object, and he’d be walking with it.  To where and for what reason, I never knew.  And sometimes…  sometimes, he just appeared to be standing there as if his sole purpose was to stand in his yard and wave to me as I rode by on my bike.  And yes, he waved…  all the time.  I remember quite often he wore a plain white t-shirt in the summer, and a thick coat and muffler in the winter.  But always the arm would raise, and I could see from a distance his red cheeks on a faceless body, a body which to me still has no face, for I only ever saw him from a position of forty yards or more though I knew that sometimes this congenial spirit was smiling. 

And then we moved, and I never saw Brownie again.  There were no more waves.  There were no more “IT’S BROWNIE” from my father or mother.  There were no more sights of Brownie in his yard in all kinds of weather doing what he did best, minding his own business and enjoying the peace and solitude of New England country life.  When we moved, I was ten years old.  Later on, I heard that Brownie had either died or moved or gone off to an old age home…  These reports were given to me so long ago that I can’t say for sure where I heard this information or if, indeed, I heard it at all.  But I do know one thing.  When I passed by the house ten or so years later, Brownie was no longer in his yard.  Most assuredly, Brownie no longer lived there.  There was something that didn’t seem right about the place.   It just didn’t have the Brownie feel to it.

And so, the thought of Brownie was pushed back in my mind.   And as the years passed and I moved to a different part of the country, a bustling city where I fell into the chaos of adult life, Brownie was all but forgotten.  That is, until last Friday.  Brownie exploded into my life once again, nearly four decades since I had seen his last wave. 

Turning forty-four on September 3^rd, I was given a Barnes and Noble Gift Certificate (a classic Craig and Jay gift) from my younger brother and my niece.  Being sentimental and a bit curious, I decided to spend it on purchasing a pictorial book of my old home town from the “Images of America” series.  As soon as I opened up the package, I began devouring the contents, my bookish myopic eyes peering with delight at all the familiar images from a past that had died long ago.  Much to my surprise, I found myself staring at a picture of an old baseball team from 1916.  The old black and white photo showed thirteen men and boys staring at me expressionlessly through the obscurity of decades.  In the front row, two were sitting on the ground indian style.  In the second row, five guys were sitting on a bench or chairs (I can’t tell which) and another was squatting.  And in the back row, most certainly the best of the best,  the last five were standing there with their arms folded, glaring at the camera as if defying anyone to get in their way on the all-American diamond.  But it was the player standing on the far left of the photo that commanded my attention.  Fortunately, the players were named.  All of them had a first and a last name as normal people should.  All that is except the player on the far left, who stood staring at me from nearly a century in the past  --  muscular arms folded, eyes squinting in the sun  --  quiet but commanding presence  --  no question in my mind that he was the captain of the team  --  as if he knew what it was all about.  The name of the player was “Brownie”.  No first name.  No last name.  Just, “Brownie”. 

Could it be?  Could this young man, who looked like he could spank Ty Cobb and send him squealing home to his mother, be the Brownie?  Could this be the same old man with the balding head and the cherry cheeks who waved to me nearly every day for six years of my life?

I began doing the math in my head to see if it would add up.  I knew Brownie was old, but was he this old?  The photo was from 1916.  The Brownie I knew was an old man when I was in my first decade of existence 1973-1979.  If Brownie was eighteen years old in the picture, this would have put his birth about 1898 or so.  He was certainly a young man, perhaps even younger than eighteen.  Even if we were to put his age at twenty in 1916, or sixteen in 1916, this would have put Brownie in his late seventies to early eighties in the years that I knew him.  Definitely conceivable.  Because I never actually saw Brownie’s face up close, and because I was so young myself, he could very well have been that old.  Everyone over sixty may as well be ninety to a child of five or six, or even ten. 

I have no way of knowing for sure whether the Christy Mathewson look-alike in the photo was my old next door neighbor.  Something tells me though that they are one and the same  --  a certain reserved intensity in the face, perhaps  --  something I seemed to understand about the man.  Maybe it’s just the ideal of a legendary figure whose name “Brownie” at one time in my mind’s eye, dwarfed the greatest of American heroes, a time in my life when one has heroes, where the fakers and the letdowns of the world have no business.  I’m quite sure it is him, who has come back to me through the pages of time, telling me that it’s okay to have these heroes again and that myths are real and that everything you imagined in your childhood is true.  Cynics beware.  The message is clear.  Brownie is waving once more, except this time…  I can see him smiling…  And I know that giants still roam the earth.

P.S. Brownie must have been injured as a player, cutting his promising career short.  Because if he had ever made it to the big leagues, Ty Cobb never would have had a chance in hell…