Canoe trips offered a noticeable change in our quality of life. At camp, you lived worse than you did in the city. On canoe trips, you lived worse than you did at camp.
It didn’t matter. My cabin mates were going, and I wanted to go too. It’s interesting. No matter how terrible something sounds, you don’t want to be left out.
“I can’t eat woims, huh? Gimme dem woims!”
Unfortunately, to qualify to go on a canoe trip, you were required to swim twenty lengths of the swimming area. The closest I got to twenty was nine. After that, I was so exhausted, I needed help being hoisted onto the dock. The reason I was so worn out is that my “stroke of choice” (the only stroke I knew) was the “Dog Paddle”, the most energy depleting of all the swimming strokes.
You’ll never see a “Dog Paddle” competition at the Olympics. This is partly because this desperate flailing in water is not pleasing to the eye. But it’s also because, after engaging in the “Dog Paddle” for any extended period of time, swimmers are obliged to withdraw from further participation, return to the athlete’s compound, and take a nap.
Despite my being only nine-twentieths of my way to qualifying for canoe trips, my brother intervened, and got me what I wanted. He persuaded my counselor to take me along, with the understanding that I would be assigned to the tripper’s canoe, the tripper being the staff being member in charge of the canoe trip.
This resolution reflects two gifts my brother, a future lawyer, possessed to an astonishing degree – the gift of persuasion, and the gift of persuasion by the use of an argument, which, on careful scrutiny, didn’t make any sense.
If, on the canoe trip, I’d been dumped in the water more than nine lengths from shore, I would have drowned, no matter whose canoe I’d been dumped out of. When my brother explained the agreement, I remember telling him, “That doesn’t make sense.” I remember him being annoyed by my ingratitude.
Okay, so I was going. Yay. This made me, according to the program they built around the excursion, an “Indian.” My only cabin mate friend, Shelly, who swam as badly as I did but had a less resourceful older brother, would be a “Settler”, and remain at camp. Shelly kept to himself by choice. I kept to myself as a result of ostracism. Two loners. We were a perfect fit. (And we’re still friends today.)
Camp Ogama canoe trips lasted anywhere from three to seven days. Being Juniors, ours would be the shortest version. Instead of being trucked sixty miles to Algonquin (National) Park, where most of our canoe trips took place, ours would range within a few miles of camp.
A three-day canoe trip. Destination: Antler Island. (I never saw one antler on Antler Island.)
Our tripper came by our cabin to show us how to pack our sleeping bags. You unrolled your sleeping bag onto your bunk and you packed minimum clothing, each item laid out flat on the bag. You then rolled up your packed sleeping bag as tightly as you could, securing its tightness with the accompanying strings.
I followed the tripper’s instructions perfectly, laying my clothes flat, rolling up my sleeping bag and securing it as tightly as I could. When I finished, my sleeping bag was twice as thick as everyone else’s.
Part of that had to do with the sleeping bag itself. The snazzier sleeping bags were made from thin but insulating fabrics. My sleeping bag, I believe, had feathers in it. It also took powerful hands to roll a sleeping bag tightly, and that wasn’t me. The tripper had to roll it over again. I was quickly developing a reputation, or, more accurately, adding to it. I was the “nine lengths” guy who couldn’t roll up his own sleeping bag.
I was an outcast. And we hadn’t even left yet.
Our departure time was six A.M. It was still dark outside. Our party, as Lewis and Clark would call it – numbered twelve: eight campers (two cabin’s worth of qualified campers, plus me), three counselors and the tripper. We ate an early breakfast in an echoey Mess Hall. It would be the last time we’d be eating or going to the bathroom indoors for three days. Was it too late to get out of this?
Yes.
When we finished, I remember our tripper getting up from the table and saying, “As ‘Rocket’ Richard said to ‘Boom Boom Geoffrion (both hockey players), ‘Let’s get the puck out of here.’” It was time to go.
When we got to the beach, four canoes were waiting for us, their front halves bobbing in the water, their back halves resting on the sand. Strapped into each canoe were two large, canvas packs, stuffed with sleeping bags and provisions. Being the “middleman” in my canoe, the pack would also serve as my seat. I took care not to sit on the metal buckle.
I don’t know how much of this you want to know, so I’ll keep it short. Each canoe held three paddlers – the “sterns man”, who sat in the back seat and controlled the direction of the canoe, the “bowman”, who sat in front seat and, besides paddling, served as “lookout” for protruding debris that could endanger the canoe, either by knocking it over, or by piercing the canvas, which, even a non-canoeing person can tell, is a not good thing.
Finally, there was the “middleman”, whom, as I mentioned, had no seat, but sat perched atop a pack. The “middleman”, placed – Duh – in the middle of the canoe, contributed to the paddling that allowed the canoe to glide forward.
Okay, so here’s where the complaining starts. I realize I was fortunate to be included on this canoe trip in the first place, but, like “paper covers rock”, whining obliterates appreciation.
The middle is the widest part of the canoe. That means that, in order to dip your paddle into the water, the “middleman” has to stretch the furthest over the side of the boat. Add to this fact that I’m nine years old. How long are my arms at that point?
So it’s like this. I lean over, to get my paddle in the water, and the “sterns man” (the tripper – I’m assigned to his canoe) yells, “Stay in the middle!” Leaning, you see, causes the canoe to become “tippy”, and that’s not good, so you have to stay in the middle.
Fine, I stay in the middle. But from the middle, I can barely reach my paddle into the water, which leads the tripper to shout, “Paddle!” You can see the problem here. I lean over to paddle…”Stay in the middle!” I stay in the middle…”Paddle!” There’s no way I can win.
I stay in the middle and I try to paddle. And with every stroke in this position, I lacerate the bottom of my wrist, as it scrapes along the edge of the canoe. The result of my efforts is this sound continually emanating from the tripper’s canoe:
Stroke. “Ow!” Stroke. “Ow!”
This adds a third instruction from the tripper, in addition to “Stay in the middle!” and “Paddle!”
“Stop complaining!”
One last…observation. If the water we’re paddling across is rough, adjustments need to be made to keep the canoe from capsizing. One of them is for the “middleman” to drop from his sitting position and kneel directly onto the floor of the canoe.
I won’t bore you with canoe construction, except to say that the bottom of it is comprised of parallel rows of wooden ribs, wrapping around the inside of the canoe. Being in this position places the weight of your body onto your knees, which, in turn, are being dug into by these protruding wooden ribs. As you lean into your padding, every stroke puts increased weight on your knees, which means that the music now emanating from the tripper’s canoe is,
Stroke. “Ow! Ohhhh!” Stroke. “Ow! Ohhhh!”
Or, more completely,
Stroke. “Ow! Ohhhh!”
“Stop complaining!”
This was the ordeal I’d been fighting to experience.
As we paddled away, I looked back at a camp where I’d received virtually no pleasure whatsoever, and sighed. I wondered if I’d ever see the place again.
Tomorrow: A bear eats our salami, and a great philosophical lesson.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
"Saddle Up! - Part Eleven"
Actors who appeared in classic westerns talk about their experiences. As imagined by me.
(Note: Since they always played the same character in one western after another, it is not surprising that, after a while, the actors started identifying strongly with their roles.)
THE CATTLE RUSTLER
“Havin’ played the part for so long, I’ve come to thinkin’ that the negative opinion people have of cattle rustlers is a little unfair. Yes, rustlers steal cattle, and that’s wrong. But put the stealin’ part of it aside for a minute, and consider the effort that goes into the cattle rustin’ itself. If you keep an open mind about it, I think you’ll be impressed.
“First, rustlin’ almost always takes place at night. It’s easier to steal cattle from people when most of them are asleep. The problem is, this kind of ‘night work’ is difficult and potentially dangerous. Unable to see where they’re goin’, your horse could step in a chuckhole and send you a-flyin’. That’s no picnic, believe me.
“Also, in the dark and the dust and confusion, a fellow cattle rustler could easily confuse you with a cowboy he’s tryin’ to rustle the cattle from, and shoot you by mistake. And given the lateness of the hour, there’s always the chance that you’ll dose off in your saddle and miss the whole thing.
‘Or, having fallen asleep, you could slide offa your horse and get trampled by the cattle. I never thought of that one before. That’s worse than missin’ the whole thing.
“Breakin’ it down, cattle rustlin’ is a multi-step operation. Step One – you rustle the cattle. That’s why you’re there. Step Two – you drive ‘em to safety. Step Three – you change all the brands. And Step Four – you sell the cattle as your own.
“Those are what you’d call the four ‘Building Blocks’ of cattle rustlin’. I’ll be you thought it was just the rustlin’.
“Let’s take them one at a time. Step One – rustlin’ the cattle – involves shootin’. Shootin’, among other things – like killin’ an mutilatin’ people – spooks cattle. Which means Step One and Step Two are closely related. There’s no use rustlin’ the cattle if, in the process, they stampede all over the place, and there’s none of them left to drive to safety. You come back to your boss, ‘Did you rustle the cattle?’ ‘Sure did.’ ‘Where are they?’ ‘They ran away.’ That would put an end to your rustlin’ career right then and there. Maybe even your life.
“Rule of Thumb: Keep the shootin’ to a minimum, so there’ll be enough cattle left to drive to safety. The most reliable hidin’ place? ‘Box Canyon.’ Rustlers favored ‘Box Canyon’, because there was only one way into it. You post a lookout at the entryway, and that would be that. You’re safe.
“The downside to ‘Box Canyon’ was that there was also only one way out, so the rustlers were essentially “boxed in.” Of course, the folks we rustled the cattle from, at least at first, had no idea where we were, which always seemed strange to me. We always hid the cattle in ‘Box Canyon.’
“While I’m on it, the other good thing about ‘Box Canyon’ was you only had to watch the cattle on one side.
“With the cattle under control, it was now time for Step Three – changin’ the brands. Now lemme make this clear. These wouldn’t be different rustlers who’d be changin’ the brands. We’re talkin’ about the same rustlers who’d rustled the cattle and driven them to safety. You don’t have ‘other rustlers’ who receive the cattle, say ‘Good job’ and send the original rustlers off to bed. These were the same people! After all that they'd done!
“Can you imagine how exhausted they must have been? Rustlin’ the cattle, then, drivin’ ‘em to safety, and they still had to change the brands? And they did have to change them, there was no question about that! Those brands said, ‘These are not our cattle!’ They needed to be altered but quick! And cleverly. As exhausted as they were, those rustlers had to use their imaginations.
“Since the posse eventually wises up and finds us somewhere during or after Step Three, Step Four – sellin’ the cattle as your own – usually gets replaced by another Step Four – shootin’ it out with the posse. This step requires you to be skillful at findin’ good cover, shootin’ skills and, in the end, surrenderin’ skills, which are not really skills, you just throw your hands in the air. But remember, you’re really tired.”
“Would these cowpokes rather not have been rustlers? Of course, they would. Nobody wants to be a rustler. It’s a terrible job.
“But sometimes, you don’t have a choice. Maybe all the honest cowboy jobs were taken and ‘rustler’ was all there was left. Maybe their bosses pretended to be honest in the beginning, and when they discovered they were rustlers, they were in too deep to turn back. So now, either because of an over-crowded job market, or as a result of inferior character-judgin’ attributes, you’re sittin’ on your horse under a tree, your hands tied behind your back, starin’ up at the business end of a noose. Do you really think that’s fair?”
“I never played the rustler as a criminal. No, sir. To me, he was a cowboy whose cattle just happened to belong to somebody else.”
(Note: Since they always played the same character in one western after another, it is not surprising that, after a while, the actors started identifying strongly with their roles.)
THE CATTLE RUSTLER
“Havin’ played the part for so long, I’ve come to thinkin’ that the negative opinion people have of cattle rustlers is a little unfair. Yes, rustlers steal cattle, and that’s wrong. But put the stealin’ part of it aside for a minute, and consider the effort that goes into the cattle rustin’ itself. If you keep an open mind about it, I think you’ll be impressed.
“First, rustlin’ almost always takes place at night. It’s easier to steal cattle from people when most of them are asleep. The problem is, this kind of ‘night work’ is difficult and potentially dangerous. Unable to see where they’re goin’, your horse could step in a chuckhole and send you a-flyin’. That’s no picnic, believe me.
“Also, in the dark and the dust and confusion, a fellow cattle rustler could easily confuse you with a cowboy he’s tryin’ to rustle the cattle from, and shoot you by mistake. And given the lateness of the hour, there’s always the chance that you’ll dose off in your saddle and miss the whole thing.
‘Or, having fallen asleep, you could slide offa your horse and get trampled by the cattle. I never thought of that one before. That’s worse than missin’ the whole thing.
“Breakin’ it down, cattle rustlin’ is a multi-step operation. Step One – you rustle the cattle. That’s why you’re there. Step Two – you drive ‘em to safety. Step Three – you change all the brands. And Step Four – you sell the cattle as your own.
“Those are what you’d call the four ‘Building Blocks’ of cattle rustlin’. I’ll be you thought it was just the rustlin’.
“Let’s take them one at a time. Step One – rustlin’ the cattle – involves shootin’. Shootin’, among other things – like killin’ an mutilatin’ people – spooks cattle. Which means Step One and Step Two are closely related. There’s no use rustlin’ the cattle if, in the process, they stampede all over the place, and there’s none of them left to drive to safety. You come back to your boss, ‘Did you rustle the cattle?’ ‘Sure did.’ ‘Where are they?’ ‘They ran away.’ That would put an end to your rustlin’ career right then and there. Maybe even your life.
“Rule of Thumb: Keep the shootin’ to a minimum, so there’ll be enough cattle left to drive to safety. The most reliable hidin’ place? ‘Box Canyon.’ Rustlers favored ‘Box Canyon’, because there was only one way into it. You post a lookout at the entryway, and that would be that. You’re safe.
“The downside to ‘Box Canyon’ was that there was also only one way out, so the rustlers were essentially “boxed in.” Of course, the folks we rustled the cattle from, at least at first, had no idea where we were, which always seemed strange to me. We always hid the cattle in ‘Box Canyon.’
“While I’m on it, the other good thing about ‘Box Canyon’ was you only had to watch the cattle on one side.
“With the cattle under control, it was now time for Step Three – changin’ the brands. Now lemme make this clear. These wouldn’t be different rustlers who’d be changin’ the brands. We’re talkin’ about the same rustlers who’d rustled the cattle and driven them to safety. You don’t have ‘other rustlers’ who receive the cattle, say ‘Good job’ and send the original rustlers off to bed. These were the same people! After all that they'd done!
“Can you imagine how exhausted they must have been? Rustlin’ the cattle, then, drivin’ ‘em to safety, and they still had to change the brands? And they did have to change them, there was no question about that! Those brands said, ‘These are not our cattle!’ They needed to be altered but quick! And cleverly. As exhausted as they were, those rustlers had to use their imaginations.
“Since the posse eventually wises up and finds us somewhere during or after Step Three, Step Four – sellin’ the cattle as your own – usually gets replaced by another Step Four – shootin’ it out with the posse. This step requires you to be skillful at findin’ good cover, shootin’ skills and, in the end, surrenderin’ skills, which are not really skills, you just throw your hands in the air. But remember, you’re really tired.”
“Would these cowpokes rather not have been rustlers? Of course, they would. Nobody wants to be a rustler. It’s a terrible job.
“But sometimes, you don’t have a choice. Maybe all the honest cowboy jobs were taken and ‘rustler’ was all there was left. Maybe their bosses pretended to be honest in the beginning, and when they discovered they were rustlers, they were in too deep to turn back. So now, either because of an over-crowded job market, or as a result of inferior character-judgin’ attributes, you’re sittin’ on your horse under a tree, your hands tied behind your back, starin’ up at the business end of a noose. Do you really think that’s fair?”
“I never played the rustler as a criminal. No, sir. To me, he was a cowboy whose cattle just happened to belong to somebody else.”
Friday, August 8, 2008
"Too Sensitive To Live?"
As a Canadian by birth, the Olympics do not have the same meaning for me that they do for Americans. They mean less because Canadians rarely win anything. Our greatest achievement during the 2004 Olympics was when it was announced that the American Olympic Team had requested that a Canadian sportswear company, Roots, provide them with their outfits for the “Opening Ceremonies.” I could imagine the super-sized headlines flashing across the country:
“CANADA TAKES THE GOLD IN BLAZERS!!!”
This doesn’t mean that the Olympics have no affect on me whatsoever. Au contraire, to be suddenly bilingual. The Olympics have an overwhelming, some might say, an unnaturally overwhelming affect on me. I’m writing this to determine if that’s true.
This is another in a series of “Is this just me?” posts. Due to my diminished contact with the outside world – and I was never that plugged in at the best of times – I am generally at a loss as to how “normal” people think and behave, and by “normal”, I mean “within the normal range.” This is one of the three continuing inquiries of this blog.
“What’s ‘normal, and is what I’m doing anywhere close?” (The other two issues are: “How do we know what is truly true?” and “What is it that makes us, an individuals, uniquely us?” If you happen to have the answers on these questions, please pass them along, so I can stop thinking about them and go outside.)
The Olympics telecasts get good ratings. People seem to like watching them. I like watching them. Especially the team events. Not counting the relays, where I sit in a pool of sweat, dreading that somebody’s going to drop the baton during the “hand-off.”
That’s my problem in a nutshell. I can’t stand watching people fail, especially when the failure involves embarrassment and shame. For this reason, I have never seen a single “reality” show. I also look away when they “split screen” the five nominees for the Oscar, and they’re announcing the winner.
World-class athletes. They train to the breaking point for months, maybe years, they beat out their compatriots at the national trials, pointing towards that culminating moment when put it’s all on the line. Everybody’s watching, their country’s pulling for them, their friends and family, screaming their support.
They mis-time their takeoff in the “High Jump” and they knock over the bar.
Finished.
They’re disqualified for repeated “false starts”, losing before they even have a chance to compete.
Out.
Little, Romanian girl, “nails” her program on the “balance beam”, misses her landing, and topples to the ground.
It’s over.
And I’m just sick about it.
It’s not just the human competitors. It’s horses too.
You’re watching an equestrian event. The horse, proceeding confidently over a course laid out with a series of fences. It’s a “clean” ride. A medal is definitely within reach. And suddenly…
Clank!
A rear hoof grazes a bar, which, nudged out of position, drops ominously to the ground.
As I watch these events, every time the horse jumps a fence, I’m suddenly looking at my shoes. When I hear that “Game Over” “Clank!” I feel a gut-wrenching knot in the pit of my stomach.
I feel terrible for the horse. Sure, the rider’s devastated, but can you imagine how the horse feels?
“A quarter of an inch higher. Why couldn’t I do that?”
“Crunch Time” and the animal “short-legged” it. In front of the biggest audience in the world. The biggest audience in the world? It was the world!
Competitors dream their whole lives about participating in the Olympics. And they don’t dream, “I came in twelfth, behind a country that doesn’t have horses.” They dream about winning. And then they don’t. I don’t know how they feel, but I feel devastated. And I’m not even in it.
Yeah, yeah. “It’s an honor just to participate.” But the honor’s going to lose considerable luster when you go into an unimaginably difficult, endlessly practiced dive, and you crack you head on the diving board on the way down.
I saw that. It was horrible. I don’t mean the blood. The blood was everywhere. But the guy! Louganis. He looked mortally stunned.
“That was my dive?”
What do you say to the guy No big deal? Come back in four years?
What if he’s too old? Then, it’s “Come back, never.” Your final memory of the Olympics? Smacking your head on the diving board!
That stuff stays with you for life. You’re in the checkout line at the supermarket:
“Excuse me. Aren’t you the guy who…?”
(BORED) “Yes.”
It goes on even after you’re dead. People hear your children’s last name…
“Didn’t your father…?”
(FOR THE MILLIONTH TIME) “Yes.”
You mess up in the spotlight and you’re marked for eternity. And I’m sitting there, watching it happen.
And as if that torture weren’t excruciating enough, the broadcasters have found imaginative strategies for upping the ante. The now obligatory “Biographical Snapshots” of the athletes intensify my over-active identification with the participants even further.
“Angelo is the youngest of nineteen children. His parents – both deaf – have sacrificed every penny they have, subsidized by contributions from townspeople who are even poorer than they are, so that Angelo could afford an Olympics-caliber trainer. And shoes.”
Angelo runs out of his lane, and is immediately disqualified.
Why do I have to know about these people? I care too much already!
I can’t sit, unmoved, watching lifelong fantasies go up in flames. I can’t stand it! Their disappointment is tearing me apart!
The long jumper, instantly banished for a foot fault. The smooth-striding hurdler, tumbling awkwardly to the ground. The pony-tailed acrobat, missing her triple somersault by an eyelash and landing on her head.
It’s too painful, I tell you! I can’t handle it! I can’t!
Okay, now. Is this just me?
“CANADA TAKES THE GOLD IN BLAZERS!!!”
This doesn’t mean that the Olympics have no affect on me whatsoever. Au contraire, to be suddenly bilingual. The Olympics have an overwhelming, some might say, an unnaturally overwhelming affect on me. I’m writing this to determine if that’s true.
This is another in a series of “Is this just me?” posts. Due to my diminished contact with the outside world – and I was never that plugged in at the best of times – I am generally at a loss as to how “normal” people think and behave, and by “normal”, I mean “within the normal range.” This is one of the three continuing inquiries of this blog.
“What’s ‘normal, and is what I’m doing anywhere close?” (The other two issues are: “How do we know what is truly true?” and “What is it that makes us, an individuals, uniquely us?” If you happen to have the answers on these questions, please pass them along, so I can stop thinking about them and go outside.)
The Olympics telecasts get good ratings. People seem to like watching them. I like watching them. Especially the team events. Not counting the relays, where I sit in a pool of sweat, dreading that somebody’s going to drop the baton during the “hand-off.”
That’s my problem in a nutshell. I can’t stand watching people fail, especially when the failure involves embarrassment and shame. For this reason, I have never seen a single “reality” show. I also look away when they “split screen” the five nominees for the Oscar, and they’re announcing the winner.
World-class athletes. They train to the breaking point for months, maybe years, they beat out their compatriots at the national trials, pointing towards that culminating moment when put it’s all on the line. Everybody’s watching, their country’s pulling for them, their friends and family, screaming their support.
They mis-time their takeoff in the “High Jump” and they knock over the bar.
Finished.
They’re disqualified for repeated “false starts”, losing before they even have a chance to compete.
Out.
Little, Romanian girl, “nails” her program on the “balance beam”, misses her landing, and topples to the ground.
It’s over.
And I’m just sick about it.
It’s not just the human competitors. It’s horses too.
You’re watching an equestrian event. The horse, proceeding confidently over a course laid out with a series of fences. It’s a “clean” ride. A medal is definitely within reach. And suddenly…
Clank!
A rear hoof grazes a bar, which, nudged out of position, drops ominously to the ground.
As I watch these events, every time the horse jumps a fence, I’m suddenly looking at my shoes. When I hear that “Game Over” “Clank!” I feel a gut-wrenching knot in the pit of my stomach.
I feel terrible for the horse. Sure, the rider’s devastated, but can you imagine how the horse feels?
“A quarter of an inch higher. Why couldn’t I do that?”
“Crunch Time” and the animal “short-legged” it. In front of the biggest audience in the world. The biggest audience in the world? It was the world!
Competitors dream their whole lives about participating in the Olympics. And they don’t dream, “I came in twelfth, behind a country that doesn’t have horses.” They dream about winning. And then they don’t. I don’t know how they feel, but I feel devastated. And I’m not even in it.
Yeah, yeah. “It’s an honor just to participate.” But the honor’s going to lose considerable luster when you go into an unimaginably difficult, endlessly practiced dive, and you crack you head on the diving board on the way down.
I saw that. It was horrible. I don’t mean the blood. The blood was everywhere. But the guy! Louganis. He looked mortally stunned.
“That was my dive?”
What do you say to the guy No big deal? Come back in four years?
What if he’s too old? Then, it’s “Come back, never.” Your final memory of the Olympics? Smacking your head on the diving board!
That stuff stays with you for life. You’re in the checkout line at the supermarket:
“Excuse me. Aren’t you the guy who…?”
(BORED) “Yes.”
It goes on even after you’re dead. People hear your children’s last name…
“Didn’t your father…?”
(FOR THE MILLIONTH TIME) “Yes.”
You mess up in the spotlight and you’re marked for eternity. And I’m sitting there, watching it happen.
And as if that torture weren’t excruciating enough, the broadcasters have found imaginative strategies for upping the ante. The now obligatory “Biographical Snapshots” of the athletes intensify my over-active identification with the participants even further.
“Angelo is the youngest of nineteen children. His parents – both deaf – have sacrificed every penny they have, subsidized by contributions from townspeople who are even poorer than they are, so that Angelo could afford an Olympics-caliber trainer. And shoes.”
Angelo runs out of his lane, and is immediately disqualified.
Why do I have to know about these people? I care too much already!
I can’t sit, unmoved, watching lifelong fantasies go up in flames. I can’t stand it! Their disappointment is tearing me apart!
The long jumper, instantly banished for a foot fault. The smooth-striding hurdler, tumbling awkwardly to the ground. The pony-tailed acrobat, missing her triple somersault by an eyelash and landing on her head.
It’s too painful, I tell you! I can’t handle it! I can’t!
Okay, now. Is this just me?
Thursday, August 7, 2008
"Summer Times - 'Sing-song'"
Every morning after breakfast, the campers on one side of the Mess Hall would get up and join to the campers on the other side, leaving the vacated area empty, so the waiters to start cleaning up.
With our entire camp population squeezed into half the Mess Hall, we proceeded to engage in a traditional camp Ogama activity known as “sing-song”, a half-hour or so daily camp-wide sing-along.
I was grateful for “sing-song.” It wasn’t so much that I cared about the singing, but “sing-song”, at least temporarily, put off my participating in the activities of the day, none of which I was looking forward to. I could wait to be inadvertently pierced by an arrow, or get whacked on the shins with a lacrosse racket.
Every day, a different cabin was responsible for “sing-song”, meaning they got to select the eight or ten songs the campers would be singing. It wasn’t like there were a million songs to choose from, more like maybe fifty, but that was enough to give the “sing-song” some variety in its repertoire.
The songs ranged greatly in content. We’d start off with “Rise and Shine” or “O, What A Beautiful Morning.” Something peppy. To paraphrase the Lou Grant character: “I hate peppy!”
Then there’d be a “fun” song like, “Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones…” or “There’s a Hole in the Bottom of the Sea”, whose verses advanced incrementally from “There’s a hole in the bottom of the sea…” to “There’s a log in the hole in the bottom of the sea…” to “There’s a frog on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea…” to “There’s a bump on the frog on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea…” – you get the idea, probably three verses ago.
We also sang competition songs, like “The States Song”, where one team – half the camp – would ask the questions and the other team would respond, all the questions and responses containing the names of one of the United States.
Example:
“What did Dela-ware?”
“She wore a New Jersey.”
“What did Ida-ho?”
“She hoed a Mary-land.”
“What did Tenne-see?”
“He saw what Arkan-saw.”
“What did Missi-sip?”
“She sipped a Minn-i-soda.”
“Why did Cali-fornia?”
“He phoned to say Hawai-ya.”
And on and on, until one side ran out, the last desperate response invariably being,
“I don’t know, Al-aska.”
Then, there were songs specific people were called up to lead. These were considered “their songs”, and they’d lead them for as long as they continued coming to camp.
A counselor of mine, named Mervyn, had permanent ownership of the “Hawaiian Wedding Song”, which went, “A-ua-ua-ahuna-hana-hula-hay”, or something. The “Hawaiian Wedding Song” was tough to sing along to. Mostly, you just marveled at Mervyn’s ability to pull it off.
My brother had a song associated with him, but it wasn’t one he sang. They’d call him up to the front, hoist him off the floor so he could grab hold of an overhanging rafter with both hands, and then, he’d swing from that rafter throughout the singing of, “Swing me in the moonlight, in the moonlight tonight…”, a song that was regularly sung all the way through twice.
That was my brother’s specialty – swinging through a song. I spoke to him about it recently and he claimed that over the years, people who didn’t like him “kept adding verses”, so his swing would be painfully prolonged. I don’t remember that, but I do recall that just as the song was winding down, someone would yell, “One more time”, and he’d have to keep swinging.
I was always proud of my brother. Nobody could swing like he could.
I also had a song. Because my camp had a social work orientation, the staff was always practicing, what they called, “Group work.” Their mission was to, somehow, find something I was good at, so I could feel better about myself. Their intention was that I’d be grateful to the camp for discovering my “special ability” and keep coming back. Or maybe they were just caring people. Let’s go with that.
The song I was given to lead the camp in was called, “We’re In The Same Boat Brother.” This came from a category of “sing-song” songs I truly believe triggered the cultural upheaval that was the Sixties. These camp songs nurtured my generation’s political awareness, fueling our opposition social injustice and the highly unequal status quo.
We sang:
“Lincoln set the Negro free
Why is he still in slavery
Jim Crow, Jim Crow blues.”
“Listen, Mr. Bilbo, listen to me
I’ll give you a lesson in history
Listen while I tell you that the foreigners you hate
Are the very same people made America great.”
“I’m proud to be me, but I also see
You’re just as proud to be you
We may look at things a bit differently
But lots of good people do.”
“The banks are made of marble
With a guard at every door
And the vaults are stuffed with silver
That the workers sweated for.”
“It’s the hammer of justice, it’s the bell of freedom
It’s the song of love between my brothers and my sisters
All over this land.”
And
“We’re in the same boat, Brother
We’re in the same boat, Brother
And if you shake one end,
You’re gonna rock the other
It’s the same boat, Brother.”
Are you getting the flavor of this stuff? Injustice is over. We’re going to be fairer people. And it the Sixties, with these songs pounding in their heads, we went for it. Was that Commie? I would hate to think that equal treatment isn’t democratic; that’s in the Constitution. That’s as American as it gets. And, of course, we were Canadians, so we didn’t care. It just seemed right.
I led, “We’re In The Same Boat, Brother” for thirteen years. A few years ago, when my camp had a reunion, although I was unable to attend, I sent a recorded audiotape, so I could lead my song in absentia.
Did the song have meaning for me? Yer dern tootin’. For twenty-five years, my television production company was called “SBB Productions.” SBB stood for “Same Boat Brother.” For what it's worth, I do believe we’re in the same boat, and I try to act accordingly. But maybe that’s just me, trying to make my song important.
One last “sing-song” song. This one may be the most curious of all, as it’s left me with a question that remains unanswered to this day. I am hoping maybe somebody out there can finally put it to rest.
The song was called “Everybody Loves Saturday Night.” That was pretty much its only lyric:
“Everybody loves Saturday night
Everybody loves Saturday night
Everybody, everybody, everybody, everybody
Everybody loves Saturday night.”
That’s the song. But not the whole song. We then repeated the same verse in a number of different languages.
French: “Tout le monde aime samedi soir…”
Spanish: “Todo el mundo quiere sabado…”
There were also verses in Hebrew and Yiddish. I won’t tire you with the transliterations.
“Everybody Loves Saturday Night.” The same verse, sung in many languages. Including Chinese.
“Ren ren see wahn leeb hi loo.”
The Chinese version of “Everybody loves Saturday night.” That’s what they told us.
The question is, “Is it?”
Does “Ren ren see wahn leeb hi loo” actually mean “Everybody loves Saturday night” in Chinese? Or did somebody at camp simply make it up?
“They’ll never know the difference.”
It’s true. We were kids. Kids will sing anything. But there was always that nagging question.
There was no reason to doubt them; our counselors had never lied to us before. They’d told us there was racial turmoil in Mississippi, and there was racial unrest in Mississippi. Still…
“Ren ren see wahn leeb hi loo”?
Wanting to know, but too embarrassed to ask. That’s where I was. And it was eating me up. How many times have I sat in a Chinese restaurant, wondering if I could muster the courage to interrupt my waiter as he’s refilling my tea cup for the fourteenth time, and say,
“Excuse me. Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, sure.”
“You speak Chinese, right?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Okay. I’m going to say something in what I believe is Chinese – but it may, in fact, not be Chinese. Okay?”
“I don’t understand.”
“There's this phrase I was told was a Chinese phrase, and I want to know if it really is. Would you tell me if it is, or it isn't?”
“Okay. Sure, sure.”
“Okay. Do the words, ‘Ren ren see wahn leeb hi loo’ mean, in Chinese, “Everybody loves Saturday night”?
You can see how embarrassing it would be to ask that question. What if he laughed at me? What if, in Chinese, ‘Ren ren see wahn leeb hi loo’ actually means something, you know, dirty? What if he thought I was insulting him “Borat”-style with fabricated Chinese gibberish?
I have never been able to bring myself to ask that question out loud. Until now.
We sang it in camp. I think I know what it means. But I’d really like to know for sure.
With our entire camp population squeezed into half the Mess Hall, we proceeded to engage in a traditional camp Ogama activity known as “sing-song”, a half-hour or so daily camp-wide sing-along.
I was grateful for “sing-song.” It wasn’t so much that I cared about the singing, but “sing-song”, at least temporarily, put off my participating in the activities of the day, none of which I was looking forward to. I could wait to be inadvertently pierced by an arrow, or get whacked on the shins with a lacrosse racket.
Every day, a different cabin was responsible for “sing-song”, meaning they got to select the eight or ten songs the campers would be singing. It wasn’t like there were a million songs to choose from, more like maybe fifty, but that was enough to give the “sing-song” some variety in its repertoire.
The songs ranged greatly in content. We’d start off with “Rise and Shine” or “O, What A Beautiful Morning.” Something peppy. To paraphrase the Lou Grant character: “I hate peppy!”
Then there’d be a “fun” song like, “Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones…” or “There’s a Hole in the Bottom of the Sea”, whose verses advanced incrementally from “There’s a hole in the bottom of the sea…” to “There’s a log in the hole in the bottom of the sea…” to “There’s a frog on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea…” to “There’s a bump on the frog on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea…” – you get the idea, probably three verses ago.
We also sang competition songs, like “The States Song”, where one team – half the camp – would ask the questions and the other team would respond, all the questions and responses containing the names of one of the United States.
Example:
“What did Dela-ware?”
“She wore a New Jersey.”
“What did Ida-ho?”
“She hoed a Mary-land.”
“What did Tenne-see?”
“He saw what Arkan-saw.”
“What did Missi-sip?”
“She sipped a Minn-i-soda.”
“Why did Cali-fornia?”
“He phoned to say Hawai-ya.”
And on and on, until one side ran out, the last desperate response invariably being,
“I don’t know, Al-aska.”
Then, there were songs specific people were called up to lead. These were considered “their songs”, and they’d lead them for as long as they continued coming to camp.
A counselor of mine, named Mervyn, had permanent ownership of the “Hawaiian Wedding Song”, which went, “A-ua-ua-ahuna-hana-hula-hay”, or something. The “Hawaiian Wedding Song” was tough to sing along to. Mostly, you just marveled at Mervyn’s ability to pull it off.
My brother had a song associated with him, but it wasn’t one he sang. They’d call him up to the front, hoist him off the floor so he could grab hold of an overhanging rafter with both hands, and then, he’d swing from that rafter throughout the singing of, “Swing me in the moonlight, in the moonlight tonight…”, a song that was regularly sung all the way through twice.
That was my brother’s specialty – swinging through a song. I spoke to him about it recently and he claimed that over the years, people who didn’t like him “kept adding verses”, so his swing would be painfully prolonged. I don’t remember that, but I do recall that just as the song was winding down, someone would yell, “One more time”, and he’d have to keep swinging.
I was always proud of my brother. Nobody could swing like he could.
I also had a song. Because my camp had a social work orientation, the staff was always practicing, what they called, “Group work.” Their mission was to, somehow, find something I was good at, so I could feel better about myself. Their intention was that I’d be grateful to the camp for discovering my “special ability” and keep coming back. Or maybe they were just caring people. Let’s go with that.
The song I was given to lead the camp in was called, “We’re In The Same Boat Brother.” This came from a category of “sing-song” songs I truly believe triggered the cultural upheaval that was the Sixties. These camp songs nurtured my generation’s political awareness, fueling our opposition social injustice and the highly unequal status quo.
We sang:
“Lincoln set the Negro free
Why is he still in slavery
Jim Crow, Jim Crow blues.”
“Listen, Mr. Bilbo, listen to me
I’ll give you a lesson in history
Listen while I tell you that the foreigners you hate
Are the very same people made America great.”
“I’m proud to be me, but I also see
You’re just as proud to be you
We may look at things a bit differently
But lots of good people do.”
“The banks are made of marble
With a guard at every door
And the vaults are stuffed with silver
That the workers sweated for.”
“It’s the hammer of justice, it’s the bell of freedom
It’s the song of love between my brothers and my sisters
All over this land.”
And
“We’re in the same boat, Brother
We’re in the same boat, Brother
And if you shake one end,
You’re gonna rock the other
It’s the same boat, Brother.”
Are you getting the flavor of this stuff? Injustice is over. We’re going to be fairer people. And it the Sixties, with these songs pounding in their heads, we went for it. Was that Commie? I would hate to think that equal treatment isn’t democratic; that’s in the Constitution. That’s as American as it gets. And, of course, we were Canadians, so we didn’t care. It just seemed right.
I led, “We’re In The Same Boat, Brother” for thirteen years. A few years ago, when my camp had a reunion, although I was unable to attend, I sent a recorded audiotape, so I could lead my song in absentia.
Did the song have meaning for me? Yer dern tootin’. For twenty-five years, my television production company was called “SBB Productions.” SBB stood for “Same Boat Brother.” For what it's worth, I do believe we’re in the same boat, and I try to act accordingly. But maybe that’s just me, trying to make my song important.
One last “sing-song” song. This one may be the most curious of all, as it’s left me with a question that remains unanswered to this day. I am hoping maybe somebody out there can finally put it to rest.
The song was called “Everybody Loves Saturday Night.” That was pretty much its only lyric:
“Everybody loves Saturday night
Everybody loves Saturday night
Everybody, everybody, everybody, everybody
Everybody loves Saturday night.”
That’s the song. But not the whole song. We then repeated the same verse in a number of different languages.
French: “Tout le monde aime samedi soir…”
Spanish: “Todo el mundo quiere sabado…”
There were also verses in Hebrew and Yiddish. I won’t tire you with the transliterations.
“Everybody Loves Saturday Night.” The same verse, sung in many languages. Including Chinese.
“Ren ren see wahn leeb hi loo.”
The Chinese version of “Everybody loves Saturday night.” That’s what they told us.
The question is, “Is it?”
Does “Ren ren see wahn leeb hi loo” actually mean “Everybody loves Saturday night” in Chinese? Or did somebody at camp simply make it up?
“They’ll never know the difference.”
It’s true. We were kids. Kids will sing anything. But there was always that nagging question.
There was no reason to doubt them; our counselors had never lied to us before. They’d told us there was racial turmoil in Mississippi, and there was racial unrest in Mississippi. Still…
“Ren ren see wahn leeb hi loo”?
Wanting to know, but too embarrassed to ask. That’s where I was. And it was eating me up. How many times have I sat in a Chinese restaurant, wondering if I could muster the courage to interrupt my waiter as he’s refilling my tea cup for the fourteenth time, and say,
“Excuse me. Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, sure.”
“You speak Chinese, right?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Okay. I’m going to say something in what I believe is Chinese – but it may, in fact, not be Chinese. Okay?”
“I don’t understand.”
“There's this phrase I was told was a Chinese phrase, and I want to know if it really is. Would you tell me if it is, or it isn't?”
“Okay. Sure, sure.”
“Okay. Do the words, ‘Ren ren see wahn leeb hi loo’ mean, in Chinese, “Everybody loves Saturday night”?
You can see how embarrassing it would be to ask that question. What if he laughed at me? What if, in Chinese, ‘Ren ren see wahn leeb hi loo’ actually means something, you know, dirty? What if he thought I was insulting him “Borat”-style with fabricated Chinese gibberish?
I have never been able to bring myself to ask that question out loud. Until now.
We sang it in camp. I think I know what it means. But I’d really like to know for sure.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
"A Story About Jews"
This story is about Jews. But I imagine – and maybe you can confirm this – a similar story could be told about any group, of which you are a member, and with whom, through either impatience or embarrassment or something deeper, you sometimes become thoroughly exasperated, as only one member of a group can with those of his own tribe.
I heard this story from a guy name Lew, who’s moved on, but whom I loved and admired and thoroughly enjoyed. Lew was a self-taught musician, who could sit in comfortably with everything from jazz bands and symphony orchestras. Then, at an age of his choosing, he said, “That’s it” and stopped, never touching an instrument again.
Lew was smart, observant (not in the religious sense, in the “Look at that!” sense), Perelmanically witty, and crusty with a transparently mushy center. We used to watch westerns together. When I’d leave, Lew never failed to remind me to keep my power dry. In every way imaginable, Lew was, in the vernacular of his era – though he’d have a cleverer way of expressing it – aces. I miss him.
The story involves four musicians who happened to be Jewish, carpooling back from a benefit performance at a Jewish Home for the Aged, “benefit” meaning, they did it for nothing.
The musicians were unilaterally irate. The benefit had been a nightmare experience. The worst. And the blame, they all agreed, could be laid squarely at the feet of the audience – a hall full of unruly and obstreperous old Jews.
The postmortem of the disastrous incident went something like this:
“The noise! They just wouldn’t stop talking!”
“And we were performing there for nothing.”
“Shouting across the room. Arguing with their wives. Screaming at the waitresses.”
“’There’s no more cake!’”
“And we were performing there for nothing.”
“The man in the front row was snoring so loud, I could barely hear the music.”
“And they kept walking around the room. Where were they going? We were doing a show!”
“And we were performing there for nothing.”
“I’ll tell you this. I’ve been playing benefits for over thirty years. I’ve worked before every kind of audience you can think of. And, by far, Jewish audiences are the worst.”
To that point, Lew, the carpool’s driver, had remained silent, allowing his fellow band buddies to vent. Finally, he spoke up.
“I completely agree,” he concurred. The band members’ complaints, though ethnically unkind, were unquestionably on the money. “They're was rude, they were disrespectful, totally unappreciative of what we were doing for them.
“But what are you going to do?” he added.
“They’re the only Jews we’ve got.”
I heard this story from a guy name Lew, who’s moved on, but whom I loved and admired and thoroughly enjoyed. Lew was a self-taught musician, who could sit in comfortably with everything from jazz bands and symphony orchestras. Then, at an age of his choosing, he said, “That’s it” and stopped, never touching an instrument again.
Lew was smart, observant (not in the religious sense, in the “Look at that!” sense), Perelmanically witty, and crusty with a transparently mushy center. We used to watch westerns together. When I’d leave, Lew never failed to remind me to keep my power dry. In every way imaginable, Lew was, in the vernacular of his era – though he’d have a cleverer way of expressing it – aces. I miss him.
The story involves four musicians who happened to be Jewish, carpooling back from a benefit performance at a Jewish Home for the Aged, “benefit” meaning, they did it for nothing.
The musicians were unilaterally irate. The benefit had been a nightmare experience. The worst. And the blame, they all agreed, could be laid squarely at the feet of the audience – a hall full of unruly and obstreperous old Jews.
The postmortem of the disastrous incident went something like this:
“The noise! They just wouldn’t stop talking!”
“And we were performing there for nothing.”
“Shouting across the room. Arguing with their wives. Screaming at the waitresses.”
“’There’s no more cake!’”
“And we were performing there for nothing.”
“The man in the front row was snoring so loud, I could barely hear the music.”
“And they kept walking around the room. Where were they going? We were doing a show!”
“And we were performing there for nothing.”
“I’ll tell you this. I’ve been playing benefits for over thirty years. I’ve worked before every kind of audience you can think of. And, by far, Jewish audiences are the worst.”
To that point, Lew, the carpool’s driver, had remained silent, allowing his fellow band buddies to vent. Finally, he spoke up.
“I completely agree,” he concurred. The band members’ complaints, though ethnically unkind, were unquestionably on the money. “They're was rude, they were disrespectful, totally unappreciative of what we were doing for them.
“But what are you going to do?” he added.
“They’re the only Jews we’ve got.”
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
"Who Do You Write For?"
Actually, it’s “Whom do you write for?” just so you know I know, but “Who do you write for?” is the question that was asked at a panel discussion I attended not long ago. It’s the asker’s mistake. I’m merely being accurate in my reporting.
Sic.
Isn’t that what writers say when they’re quoting something whomever they’re interviewing said incorrectly? I have no idea what it means. It’s probably Latin. What it means in English is, “Don’t blame me. I’m just taking it down.”
Okay, so there was this panel discussion on the subject of opinion writing. The panelists involved wrote columns of one type or another, and since that’s what I do sometimes – my very first writing job was a weekly opinion column in a Toronto newspaper – I was interested in what these guys had to say.
I had that newspaper job for two years. When I started, the editor asked me who I wanted to be, as if writing as me wasn’t an option, or at least not a good idea. For two years, I wrote under a pseudonym I’d had rattling around in my head – Percy Neeps. Echoing Sixties jargon, and also reflecting my questionable eyesight, my column was labeled Where’s It’s Near.
Anyway, the first question the column writers on that panel were asked was the aforementioned, “Who do you write for?” The answers divided the columnists, more or less, into two camps: “I write for the readers” and “I write for myself.”
One panel member was my daughter Anna’s friend, a delightful and smart writer named Stacey. Stacey responded, rather courageously, I thought: “I write for myself.” Courageously, because there was a substantial audience sitting there, who might have felt that Stacey’s answer placed them in a downgraded second position, or maybe in no position at all, as in, “I write for myself, and you’re just there, you Bozos!”
This seems a precarious strategy for endearing yourself to potential buyers of your books and readers of your column. But there you have it. Maybe the courage was a selling point. “I speet in your eye and you take eet.”
Who knows?
So, okay, you’re sitting in the audience, and you’re not on the panel, and maybe you’d like to be, until they start discussing “What’s funny?” and then you’re thrilled you’re not on the panel, or at least less disappointed, but still, there’s that question, “Who do you write for?” and its reverberating implications.
“Are you, like, an “I’m all there is” narcissist, who writes exclusively for yourself and the readers can go fly a kite? Or are you a caring communicator, driven to reach out and share your wisdom with the world and perhaps change lives?
Of course, there’s stuff in the middle, but extremes are more interesting, so let’s start with them.
“I write for myself.”
What exactly does that mean? I write because I need to write and the only way to satisfy that need to write is by writing? If you put it that way, I write for myself. It feels good when I write. It’s, like, there’s nothing on the page, and then, there’s something. And I put it there. Sometimes, the stuff you put there is no good. But sometimes, it’s, like, “Look at that!”
I surprise myself with what I write, and that makes me smile broadly. And sometimes, if it’s exceptional, you enjoy that exhilarating, possibly inappropriate, ego charge of “Only me!” as in, “I’m the only one who could have written this!” It’s a silly response, but there it is.
The process of writing – the doing of it – makes me feel useful and productive. After exiting paying employment, I didn’t write for a while. I was punishing the world by withholding my greatness. But, ultimately, it didn’t feel so good. Almost imperceptibly, I was being incorporated into the ranks of “household furniture”, a floor lamp that took extended, afternoon naps.
Aside from enjoying the process, writing, as in this very post, helps me discover, after a thorough going-over of the subject, where I stand. I quoted this line before. “How do I know what I think till I hear what I say?” Replace “hear what I say” with “see what I write” and it’s exactly the same deal.
I am additionally interested in getting my thoughts in writing in case my “Life Lottery” arrow stops at “Memory-Erasing Dementia”, where my mother is currently a big-time winner. I have a lot of stories, and if my brain at some point refuses to pull them up, I want those “story files” backed up somewhere, so they don’t disappear.
I don’t know about you, but I have some family photographs of my great grandparents, and I don’t know anything about them, including their names. That sucks, doesn’t it? For me, because there’s this loss, but especially for them.
“I didn’t get out of Russia so you could forget who I am.”
That’s why I continually drill my kids on the names of the people in the pictures I remember. It’s also why I write down these stories. This point’s not entirely, “I write for myself”, it’s also “Some day they might want to know.” But it’s primarily, “I write for myself”, because it’s, “Some day, they’re might want to know about me.”
I think that exhausts, “I write for myself” – creative satisfaction, feeling useful, and laying down some indelible tracks.
Now…
“I write for the readers.”
I also do that.
If I only wrote for myself, I wouldn’t have to write at all. I could just think the things, and then go watch a ballgame. No need for any actual stenography.
But that’s clearly not what it’s totally about.
I’m excited to tell you my stories. I want to tell you my ideas. I know the stories are personal, but “personal” has the word “person” in it, and since you’re “persons” too, I’m hoping you’ll identify. “Connecting” makes all the difference. Otherwise, it’s just “stuff that happened to me.”
Sometimes, I write as a reality check. “Am I crazy, or do you feel this way too, or at least understand how I could?” Sometimes, I want to encourage you to, “Take a moment to think about this, even though you’ve already made up your mind.” Sometimes, I just want to tell you this:
“I’m a mess in many ways, and I did fine. You don’t have to be perfect to succeed.”
I also seem to need to tell people that, when it comes to success or failure or somewhere in between, it’s not totally them. Timing and luck have an enormous amount to do with how things turn out. So if you made it, be humble, and if you’d didn’t, give yourself a break.
Also, when you're working on a show and things get hard, it may not be you, it may just be hard. People don't talk about these things. I think they're worth knowing. And passing along.
Then, there’s that informational stuff some readers seem interested in. The process – how shows are put together. That’s really not for me. I’d say, “You sit there and you do it.” But people are curious to know more. And I do my best to accommodate them.
Occasional commenters have mentioned that this blog has…well, they read it regularly, and they enjoy it. Don’t ever think that doesn’t matter to me. That’s my nourishment. That’s my fuel.
This may sound like another aspect of “I do it for me”, because it relates to the satisfaction I derive, but apparently, others are deriving satisfaction from it as well, so it’s not just for me.
I’m excited that you’re out there, and I hope it shows in the work.
Still…
Who’s the first guy to read this stuff? Me. Who determines what to leave in and what to change or leave out? Me. Who decides if something’s funny? Me. How do I decide? When I laugh, it’s funny, and when I don’t laugh, it isn’t. Who doesn’t let it go until he’s completely satisfied? Me.
I am the guinea pig. I’m the Test Audience. I’m the person I have to please. And I am – when I’m not being paid and, ideally, when I am – the Final Word. When it comes to content, taste and judgment, I write for myself. But if you didn’t matter, and I mean in the powerful and meaningful way, I would never click "Publish Now".
So that’s where I come out.
I write to satisfy myself. But I’m delighted if it also satisfies others.
Ship it.
Sic.
Isn’t that what writers say when they’re quoting something whomever they’re interviewing said incorrectly? I have no idea what it means. It’s probably Latin. What it means in English is, “Don’t blame me. I’m just taking it down.”
Okay, so there was this panel discussion on the subject of opinion writing. The panelists involved wrote columns of one type or another, and since that’s what I do sometimes – my very first writing job was a weekly opinion column in a Toronto newspaper – I was interested in what these guys had to say.
I had that newspaper job for two years. When I started, the editor asked me who I wanted to be, as if writing as me wasn’t an option, or at least not a good idea. For two years, I wrote under a pseudonym I’d had rattling around in my head – Percy Neeps. Echoing Sixties jargon, and also reflecting my questionable eyesight, my column was labeled Where’s It’s Near.
Anyway, the first question the column writers on that panel were asked was the aforementioned, “Who do you write for?” The answers divided the columnists, more or less, into two camps: “I write for the readers” and “I write for myself.”
One panel member was my daughter Anna’s friend, a delightful and smart writer named Stacey. Stacey responded, rather courageously, I thought: “I write for myself.” Courageously, because there was a substantial audience sitting there, who might have felt that Stacey’s answer placed them in a downgraded second position, or maybe in no position at all, as in, “I write for myself, and you’re just there, you Bozos!”
This seems a precarious strategy for endearing yourself to potential buyers of your books and readers of your column. But there you have it. Maybe the courage was a selling point. “I speet in your eye and you take eet.”
Who knows?
So, okay, you’re sitting in the audience, and you’re not on the panel, and maybe you’d like to be, until they start discussing “What’s funny?” and then you’re thrilled you’re not on the panel, or at least less disappointed, but still, there’s that question, “Who do you write for?” and its reverberating implications.
“Are you, like, an “I’m all there is” narcissist, who writes exclusively for yourself and the readers can go fly a kite? Or are you a caring communicator, driven to reach out and share your wisdom with the world and perhaps change lives?
Of course, there’s stuff in the middle, but extremes are more interesting, so let’s start with them.
“I write for myself.”
What exactly does that mean? I write because I need to write and the only way to satisfy that need to write is by writing? If you put it that way, I write for myself. It feels good when I write. It’s, like, there’s nothing on the page, and then, there’s something. And I put it there. Sometimes, the stuff you put there is no good. But sometimes, it’s, like, “Look at that!”
I surprise myself with what I write, and that makes me smile broadly. And sometimes, if it’s exceptional, you enjoy that exhilarating, possibly inappropriate, ego charge of “Only me!” as in, “I’m the only one who could have written this!” It’s a silly response, but there it is.
The process of writing – the doing of it – makes me feel useful and productive. After exiting paying employment, I didn’t write for a while. I was punishing the world by withholding my greatness. But, ultimately, it didn’t feel so good. Almost imperceptibly, I was being incorporated into the ranks of “household furniture”, a floor lamp that took extended, afternoon naps.
Aside from enjoying the process, writing, as in this very post, helps me discover, after a thorough going-over of the subject, where I stand. I quoted this line before. “How do I know what I think till I hear what I say?” Replace “hear what I say” with “see what I write” and it’s exactly the same deal.
I am additionally interested in getting my thoughts in writing in case my “Life Lottery” arrow stops at “Memory-Erasing Dementia”, where my mother is currently a big-time winner. I have a lot of stories, and if my brain at some point refuses to pull them up, I want those “story files” backed up somewhere, so they don’t disappear.
I don’t know about you, but I have some family photographs of my great grandparents, and I don’t know anything about them, including their names. That sucks, doesn’t it? For me, because there’s this loss, but especially for them.
“I didn’t get out of Russia so you could forget who I am.”
That’s why I continually drill my kids on the names of the people in the pictures I remember. It’s also why I write down these stories. This point’s not entirely, “I write for myself”, it’s also “Some day they might want to know.” But it’s primarily, “I write for myself”, because it’s, “Some day, they’re might want to know about me.”
I think that exhausts, “I write for myself” – creative satisfaction, feeling useful, and laying down some indelible tracks.
Now…
“I write for the readers.”
I also do that.
If I only wrote for myself, I wouldn’t have to write at all. I could just think the things, and then go watch a ballgame. No need for any actual stenography.
But that’s clearly not what it’s totally about.
I’m excited to tell you my stories. I want to tell you my ideas. I know the stories are personal, but “personal” has the word “person” in it, and since you’re “persons” too, I’m hoping you’ll identify. “Connecting” makes all the difference. Otherwise, it’s just “stuff that happened to me.”
Sometimes, I write as a reality check. “Am I crazy, or do you feel this way too, or at least understand how I could?” Sometimes, I want to encourage you to, “Take a moment to think about this, even though you’ve already made up your mind.” Sometimes, I just want to tell you this:
“I’m a mess in many ways, and I did fine. You don’t have to be perfect to succeed.”
I also seem to need to tell people that, when it comes to success or failure or somewhere in between, it’s not totally them. Timing and luck have an enormous amount to do with how things turn out. So if you made it, be humble, and if you’d didn’t, give yourself a break.
Also, when you're working on a show and things get hard, it may not be you, it may just be hard. People don't talk about these things. I think they're worth knowing. And passing along.
Then, there’s that informational stuff some readers seem interested in. The process – how shows are put together. That’s really not for me. I’d say, “You sit there and you do it.” But people are curious to know more. And I do my best to accommodate them.
Occasional commenters have mentioned that this blog has…well, they read it regularly, and they enjoy it. Don’t ever think that doesn’t matter to me. That’s my nourishment. That’s my fuel.
This may sound like another aspect of “I do it for me”, because it relates to the satisfaction I derive, but apparently, others are deriving satisfaction from it as well, so it’s not just for me.
I’m excited that you’re out there, and I hope it shows in the work.
Still…
Who’s the first guy to read this stuff? Me. Who determines what to leave in and what to change or leave out? Me. Who decides if something’s funny? Me. How do I decide? When I laugh, it’s funny, and when I don’t laugh, it isn’t. Who doesn’t let it go until he’s completely satisfied? Me.
I am the guinea pig. I’m the Test Audience. I’m the person I have to please. And I am – when I’m not being paid and, ideally, when I am – the Final Word. When it comes to content, taste and judgment, I write for myself. But if you didn’t matter, and I mean in the powerful and meaningful way, I would never click "Publish Now".
So that’s where I come out.
I write to satisfy myself. But I’m delighted if it also satisfies others.
Ship it.
Monday, August 4, 2008
"Summer Times - 'The Necktie Party'"
I don’t really want to write about the time my cabin mates tried to hang me. There are few humorous anecdotes stemming from the experience, and I’m afraid the trauma of the moment has seriously fuzzied my memory. But I said I would write about it, and the last thing I want is for this blog to develop a reputation for “bait and switch.”
“He promised a story about his cabin mates trying to hang him and instead gave us ‘Free Will and Determinism’. What a gyp!” (“Free Will and Determinism” – June 11.)
I will not be “The ‘Bait and Switch’ Blogger.” There are enough disappointments in the world as it is, and I have no desire to be the cause of another one. So here we go.
I just sighed.
As nine-year old Juniors, our cabin rule was that when we received food packages from home, they were to be surrendered and stored in a large trunk, to be doled out by our counselor at appropriate times, and shared equally.
In my brother’s Senior cabin, campers were responsible for their own food, consuming it whenever they saw fit.
So that’s the set-up. The Juniors had to pool their goodies; the Seniors got to keep their own.
Do you know what a wet bar of soap looks like when it falls on the ground? The fallen bar is immediately covered in twigs and sticks and leaves and moss and animal droppings and tree fungus, and it quickly loses any resemblance to a recognizable bar of soap.
The bar of soap’s owner is less than enthusiastic about picking the thing up, because it’s yucky. Once he finally musters the stomach for it, he has his work cut out for him, restoring that bar of soap to anything close to its original condition.
In reality, it’s impossible. As hard as you rub and scrape and pick at it, there will always be some residual non-soap-like material embedded in the bar. Only with continued usage, in its filthy and mutilated state, will the stuff that doesn’t belong there finally dislodge itself on its own.
In summary, a dropped bar of soap is never the same again.
As we returned to our cabin from the washhouse – along a wooded path – my cabin mates would angrily tug at my towel, with my soap wrapped inside it, eventually causing the slippery bar to tumble out and fall to the ground. This “brutalization of the bar” invariably occurred at night, so that not only was my soap permanently “shmutzed up”, it was also difficult to find.
My cabin mates were also in the habit of elbowing me – when I was wearing my spotless, new sneakers – into mud puddles, and body checking me into pine trees, which had thousands of pointy things sticking out of the branches.
In addition, my least favorite cabin mate, Marty, who slept in the lower bunk beneath my upper, regularly spent his post-lunch “rest hours” lifting both feet in the air and kicking me through the mattress.
Relevant Question: Why would I want to share my pretzels, potato chips, chocolate chip cookies and red licorice vines and with people who were mistreating me? Answer: I didn’t.
So what did I do? When I got a food parcel, I’d immediately take it to my brother’s cabin. My brother would hold on to my stash, and whenever I felt like it, I would go there and take whatever I wanted. And wouldn’t have to share it with my tormentors.
Does that seem wrong to you? Withholding my treats from people who were making my life a living hell? I’m not exactly objective on the matter. All I know is I was nine, I was angry, and that’s what I did.
And, one day, I got caught.
As a punishment, my cabin mates decided to string me up.
I don’t know where the rope came from. I don’t know where the chair came from. My only memory is of me, sitting on an unpainted kitchen chair, one end of a rope around my neck, and the other end looped over an overhanging rafter.
I remember making a lot of noise. It’s likely my cabin mates never planned to go all the way with their plan, but, at the moment, I really thought I was going to die.
My primal shrieks ultimately garnered outside attention. To my enormous relief, I could hear footsteps racing furiously towards our cabin. My ordeal would soon be over. I’d be rescued before I swung.
The cabin door flew open, bathing the crime scene in incriminating daylight. A staff member I didn’t recognize quickly surveyed the disturbing scene – me, with rope around my neck, my murderous cabin mates huddled around me. It was obvious what was going on. It was obvious how the staff member would respond.
The staff member did not respond the obvious way. Instead, he responded like this. After all these years, I still remember his exact words:
“Oh. It’s only Pomerantz.”
He then closed the door and headed away.
Their discovery ignited a fierce argument among the lynchers. Some of them believed I’d had enough, others were lobbying to go the distance. I was in no condition to focus on the proceedings, though I unquestionably sided with the faction that thought I’d had enough. Unwilling to sweat out the final returns, as my cabin mates vigorously debated my fate, I bolted out the cabin door to safety.
There would be no hanging that day.
That evening, our counselor, who’d been elsewhere during the festivities, required everyone in the cabin to sit on their beds and engage in an extended form group therapy session known at our camp as a “Good and Welfare.”
Both sides acknowledged their transgressions. I admitted to the infraction of hoarding my goodies. And my cabin mates apologized for trying to kill me.
It seemed as if the air had been cleared. It felt like the “Good and Welfare” would be a turning of the page, the first step in what, hopefully, would be a new beginning.
That feeling lasted until after “Lights out” that night, when Marty’s double-kick jolt through the mattress nearly bounced me out of my bed.
There should be no question that I am – not just in my case, but generally – unequivocally “anti lynching.” “Necktie Parties” – I’m against them. But I feel that this story would not be complete if I didn’t consider this question: Other than candy hoarding, was there anything in my behavior towards my cabin mates that might explain, if not justify, their homicidal retaliation?
No.
Thank you, and good night.
“He promised a story about his cabin mates trying to hang him and instead gave us ‘Free Will and Determinism’. What a gyp!” (“Free Will and Determinism” – June 11.)
I will not be “The ‘Bait and Switch’ Blogger.” There are enough disappointments in the world as it is, and I have no desire to be the cause of another one. So here we go.
I just sighed.
As nine-year old Juniors, our cabin rule was that when we received food packages from home, they were to be surrendered and stored in a large trunk, to be doled out by our counselor at appropriate times, and shared equally.
In my brother’s Senior cabin, campers were responsible for their own food, consuming it whenever they saw fit.
So that’s the set-up. The Juniors had to pool their goodies; the Seniors got to keep their own.
Do you know what a wet bar of soap looks like when it falls on the ground? The fallen bar is immediately covered in twigs and sticks and leaves and moss and animal droppings and tree fungus, and it quickly loses any resemblance to a recognizable bar of soap.
The bar of soap’s owner is less than enthusiastic about picking the thing up, because it’s yucky. Once he finally musters the stomach for it, he has his work cut out for him, restoring that bar of soap to anything close to its original condition.
In reality, it’s impossible. As hard as you rub and scrape and pick at it, there will always be some residual non-soap-like material embedded in the bar. Only with continued usage, in its filthy and mutilated state, will the stuff that doesn’t belong there finally dislodge itself on its own.
In summary, a dropped bar of soap is never the same again.
As we returned to our cabin from the washhouse – along a wooded path – my cabin mates would angrily tug at my towel, with my soap wrapped inside it, eventually causing the slippery bar to tumble out and fall to the ground. This “brutalization of the bar” invariably occurred at night, so that not only was my soap permanently “shmutzed up”, it was also difficult to find.
My cabin mates were also in the habit of elbowing me – when I was wearing my spotless, new sneakers – into mud puddles, and body checking me into pine trees, which had thousands of pointy things sticking out of the branches.
In addition, my least favorite cabin mate, Marty, who slept in the lower bunk beneath my upper, regularly spent his post-lunch “rest hours” lifting both feet in the air and kicking me through the mattress.
Relevant Question: Why would I want to share my pretzels, potato chips, chocolate chip cookies and red licorice vines and with people who were mistreating me? Answer: I didn’t.
So what did I do? When I got a food parcel, I’d immediately take it to my brother’s cabin. My brother would hold on to my stash, and whenever I felt like it, I would go there and take whatever I wanted. And wouldn’t have to share it with my tormentors.
Does that seem wrong to you? Withholding my treats from people who were making my life a living hell? I’m not exactly objective on the matter. All I know is I was nine, I was angry, and that’s what I did.
And, one day, I got caught.
As a punishment, my cabin mates decided to string me up.
I don’t know where the rope came from. I don’t know where the chair came from. My only memory is of me, sitting on an unpainted kitchen chair, one end of a rope around my neck, and the other end looped over an overhanging rafter.
I remember making a lot of noise. It’s likely my cabin mates never planned to go all the way with their plan, but, at the moment, I really thought I was going to die.
My primal shrieks ultimately garnered outside attention. To my enormous relief, I could hear footsteps racing furiously towards our cabin. My ordeal would soon be over. I’d be rescued before I swung.
The cabin door flew open, bathing the crime scene in incriminating daylight. A staff member I didn’t recognize quickly surveyed the disturbing scene – me, with rope around my neck, my murderous cabin mates huddled around me. It was obvious what was going on. It was obvious how the staff member would respond.
The staff member did not respond the obvious way. Instead, he responded like this. After all these years, I still remember his exact words:
“Oh. It’s only Pomerantz.”
He then closed the door and headed away.
Their discovery ignited a fierce argument among the lynchers. Some of them believed I’d had enough, others were lobbying to go the distance. I was in no condition to focus on the proceedings, though I unquestionably sided with the faction that thought I’d had enough. Unwilling to sweat out the final returns, as my cabin mates vigorously debated my fate, I bolted out the cabin door to safety.
There would be no hanging that day.
That evening, our counselor, who’d been elsewhere during the festivities, required everyone in the cabin to sit on their beds and engage in an extended form group therapy session known at our camp as a “Good and Welfare.”
Both sides acknowledged their transgressions. I admitted to the infraction of hoarding my goodies. And my cabin mates apologized for trying to kill me.
It seemed as if the air had been cleared. It felt like the “Good and Welfare” would be a turning of the page, the first step in what, hopefully, would be a new beginning.
That feeling lasted until after “Lights out” that night, when Marty’s double-kick jolt through the mattress nearly bounced me out of my bed.
There should be no question that I am – not just in my case, but generally – unequivocally “anti lynching.” “Necktie Parties” – I’m against them. But I feel that this story would not be complete if I didn’t consider this question: Other than candy hoarding, was there anything in my behavior towards my cabin mates that might explain, if not justify, their homicidal retaliation?
No.
Thank you, and good night.
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