THE ASSHOLE

I’m an asshole.   There.  I’ve said it.   Sometimes we just have to come to grips with who we are.   I’m seventy-five years old and have had ample time to practice my asshole-ness. 

You can see people muttering the word when they see me practicing my “special skills”; a) Howling imprecations at anyone caught crying in a television interview (I am amazed at the number of people who can cry AND talk at the same time) b) Refusing to bow my head for anything, save, perhaps, a moment to remember the war dead and c) Holding my arms akimbo when encountering a phalanx of joggers on the trail and watching them scatter (they don’t like sharing the trail and expect anyone they meet to step off the path until they pass, rude bastards), d) Laughing at a politician’s patriotism speech and e) Telling sales reps of all types to “take a hike” before they’re halfway through their smarmy spiels.

It gets worse. Quite often – too often, some say – when I am surprised by something, my response is ‘What the fuck?’    Loudly.  It never fails to gain attention in a place like Costco or Safeway (precipitated perhaps by the price of cheese in a country awash in dairy products. But it could be anything really.  I’m dismayed by a great many things).  I tell myself I am so ill-mannered due to the neuropathy in my hands which leads to many unexpected and unhappy mishaps but it’s really because I am an asshole who doesn’t care much about what people think and is very cynical about the state of mankind.  And, I submit, my expletive is no worse to a listener’s ears than hearing “I’m a proud Chamber of Commerce member” or “Can I give you a testament to what Jesus said?” or “What a wonderful reality TV show!” or “Our insurance company really cares.”

I’m particularly aggrieved by government and corporate misbehavior.  I’m no tea partyer but I cannot tolerate any government organization that defaults on its purpose and focuses instead on itself and not the people it was meant to serve.  But government is not the real bad guy when it comes to abusing people. The corporate shitheads that run our lives would have us believe that Big Government is THE problem but Big Corporations are far more insidious when it comes to robbing people of their rights, their wealth, and their opportunities.  The truth (aah, there’s a concept) is that any organization that gets too big, too powerful, and too set in its ways is, by definition, corrupt and deserving of sudden dismantling.  I love free enterprise but mega-corporations no longer have any connection with a healthy business climate – if you don’t believe me, check your local shopping mall and tell me how many local businesses are in there.   If you’re lucky, maybe three.  If I had to choose, I’d take Big Government over Big Corporation. Both lie egregiously and thrive on insane rules but government does it because they think you’re not listening while corporations do it because they think you’re stupid and their lies and rules will help profits. At least with the former I have the illusion I have a role in controlling it.  The Big Corporation, however, is not my friend and never will be.

I wasn’t always a confessed asshole (Although I’m sure there is a small legion of people who found it easy over the years to associate the word with moi).  No, I grew up bending over backwards to accommodate people, always giving them the benefit of the doubt and attributing the best of motives to everyone’s actions. My generosity of spirit made the Dalai Lama look like Archie Bunker.    

However, it eventually dawned on me that this was a thankless and painful way to live, that the vast majority of people simply interpreted my warm understanding as a potentially fatal mental deficiency.  At roughly the same time I realized my Hollywood notions of right and wrong and good and evil were childishly simplistic, if difficult to discard.   I gave all that up to join a discouragingly small number of earthlings who devote their lives to keeping barbarians from the gates, as it were. Those barbarians come from all ends of the economic, social, and political spectra, their ranks filled with the assiduously stupid, the amoral right wing, and the loutish rich (of whom St Aubyn once said ‘too often they are the shrill pea in the whistle of their possessions’).  

One might think that with a mindset like that I would assume a stoical demeanor, practicing forbearance and levelling baleful looks of dismay.   No, I fight back with my asshole-ness. Being an asshole means you are aware other people see you that way but this is set against your perception of the vast majority of them being barbaric, self-absorbed dolts.  From this, you can understand why my behavior is so much more satisfying than forbearance.

But being an asshole goes deeper.  My finely-honed cynicism works deeply, creating clear lines of distinction between positive and negative influences in my life.  It’s just that I can switch from one to the other with startling speed.   The positive, for me, consists of “the small” – as in small pleasures, unassuming people who ask questions, small groups of friends, and small victories.   Oh, I tell myself I still care about people even if I don’t spend much time showing it – no volunteer work, no reaching out, and only rarely moved by the endless emotional drivel that parades shamelessly through every news broadcast.    My family seems to tolerate my profanity and cynicism, undoubtedly inured by so many years of the old man lashing out at real and perceived injustices, tempered always by my love for them.

So you can see I am not without caring.   If an elderly woman drops her cane, do I reach down to retrieve it?   Of course I do.    If someone slips and falls, do I offer a hand to lift them up?   Without question.   If a toddler topples his mommy into a rack of grapefruit after she slaps him in public, do I help her to her feet?  Hah! I play boxing referee and raise the kid’s arm in the air.  If a beleaguered motorist needs to change lanes in busy traffic, do I slow to let him in?    I dare say I am well known for such consideration.    Do I curse the same driver when he blithely ignores my generosity?    Roundly.   Now this particular shithead represents ALL that is wrong with society today – entitlement, self-absorption, poor foresight, and stupidity.   The switch from benign to malign was seamless – and sudden.     

But it is the negative that occupies too much of my thoughts, sad to say.   In my advanced years, I still can’t fathom why we’re unable to achieve any sort of cooperative society (discounting the remote possibility I am one of the reasons).   Growing up in the 50’s and 60’s, I thought society was making progress – and I think we were.  But then the Reagan years appeared and, since then, we’ve slipped back into a cruel capitalistic world discouragingly similar to the late 1800’s and early 1900’s.    The rich, the politicians, the courts, and the banks hold sway in the name of wealth and property and the populace is kept quiet with the numbing bullshit of television and the media.  Public debate is nothing but a shrill exchange of meaningless distinctions having nothing to do with real issues.    Barbarians at the gates?   You betcha.   

So, unless someone can demonstrate to me that they’re not part of this socio-economic-political sewer, chances are they’ll see my asshole persona. It’s obvious I’ve capitulated to the Rude Side and I acknowledge this.  I’ve become what I once deplored.     Still, there’s a modicum of hope lurking in these curmudgeonly bones.   Maybe I’ve just been running into an abnormal glut of people whose batting average of humanity lies somewhere below the Mendoza line.   Unfortunately, every time my Pollyanna soul peeks out to test the winds, a gust of mindless greed sends it scuttling back inside.

One of these days I’m going to be pleasantly surprised when a Walt Disney-ish scenario of some sort comes alive in my community and everyone dances with a collective joy.  But at seventy-five, it had better hurry.  And, either way, I won’t recant.  I may smile and pat everyone on the back, but I’ll be watching.  That’s what assholes do.

Robert Alan Davidson

June, 2016

FARM LIGHT

Is there anything more inviting than a light coming from a farmhouse window late at night in the middle of winter?

Why this is so is, perhaps, an "age-sensitive" reflection.   Motor travel, rural or otherwise, is arguably less interesting today than it was sixty years ago.  The vehicles are more dependable, the roads are wider, smoother and better engineered and the cell phone keeps us moored to a familiar world.   But, there was a time  . . .

Discounting the improvements cited above, the 1950's might have been the golden age for motoring. Major highways were being paved; motels and "auto courts" proliferated, some with swimming pools and vibrating beds; and a middle class was growing with higher paycheques and longer vacations.  Holidays to far away places could be contemplated. It was an exciting time.

But it was a different kind of excitement in rural Alberta.  In this still raw country, the narrow secondary roads were gravel and dirt, well-rutted and notable for yawning mudholes in the summer, treacherous ice in the winter.  Cars, with no AC, were stifling in summer, and, with wonky heaters, freezing in winter.  Gas lines froze quickly and windshield washer was a handful of snow thrown at the window.  Oil needed to be changed to accommodate the lower temperatures but when it turned really cold, as in -30 F or lower, no oil could be coaxed to move. Volatile weather could alter the driving conditions with startling speed. Albertans who traveled these roads to socialize or earn a living were constantly urged to plan for contingencies and, if they were smart, have a passenger with some knowledge of auto mechanics.  Basic knowledge included changing tires, changing fan belts, priming a stalled engine, starting a car with the "push and pop the clutch" method, identifying and remedying electrical shorts, and some experience driving in mud, snow and especially on ice, the latter a high art form.   

All this excitement was magnified for young people driving in winter.  Socializing  with sports or dances involved driving to another community, sometimes a community that was considerable distance.   This was never a deterrent.

As they have since Fred met Wilma, young people will travel great distances to attend a dance.  On the Canadian prairies, country dances were very popular.  I grew up (sort of) in Wainwright in southeastern Alberta and some of the small hamlets and farming districts within a 30 mile radius of town were:  Marsden, Heath, Greenshields, Fabyan, Irma, Kinsella, Gilt Edge, Passchaendale, Ribstone, White Cloud, Ascot, Pelican (Odd, because Pelicans were never seen this area), Rosedale, and Paradise Valley.  They all had their own community hall. A weekend with no dances was rare.

Easily the most popular event was the wedding dance.  How word got out that a couple were to be married was seldom advertised widely, but today's users of social media would be impressed over how fast word got around.  In one's social circle, there need to be only one person with even a nodding acquaintance with either the bride or the groom or their families to warrant a carload dropping in on the festivities.  The newlyweds and their families never knew they had so many friends.  The attraction, of course, was free admittance and free food, often the best food many would eat that entire winter.

The protocol of country dances leaned toward the rigid:  smiles, handhakes, and backslaps upon entry; nervous shuffling as people worked out whether or not they should even be there; three couples on the dance floor for whom dancing was life; covert drinking out in the car; awkward approaches to members of the opposite sex after the alcohol loosened the reserve; a break around ten for lunch, and constant male strutting displays that often ended in a brawl, preferably outside.  But, no brawling at a wedding dance.  Fistfights at such a celebration were considered bad form.  

When midnight arrived, the last waltz was played, and the band began packaging their equipment.  Dreamy couples slowly broke their embraces and dispersed for the long trip home. Everyone agreed, it had been great.

Sometimes the trip home was interrupted. Sometimes, a little bad luck, a nasty change in the weather, a mechanical breakdown, or an act of colossal stupidity prevented a car from making it home directly.

When a car broke down or a ditch was driven into, or a snowstorm halted any movement, or a gas tank coughed to say it was empty,  a carload of young people was suddenly immobilized out on the bald prairie. Cell phones were still 40 years in the future so there was no calling for help or roadside assistance. They were on their own.   In winter, this could be dangerous.

Once the severity of their situation was assessed, the suddenly-sober car inhabitants would start walking.  Staying with the car and hoping another would appear at that hour of the morning was seldom a good idea.  Depending upon how cold it was, the sense of urgency ranged from "Oh, we'll find something" to "There better be a light on over that next hill or we're in trouble."   Too often the clothing was less than adequate for winter trekking. This was the great winter-dance conundrum:  Dress for the worst OR look your best?  The former was such a distant second in this debate that emergency clothes were seldom even considered.  Trust to luck, instead. The boys were likely in oxfords and the girls in mary janes.

Shivering would start immediately and everyone's eyes would strain to discern a light.

By the late 1950's most farmers had a power supply and a party line telephone.  A few of the well off farmers installed yard lights, a brilliantly luminous rebuttal to the long dark winter nights.

But the real, warming beacon was seeing the light on in a farm house.   The stranded youth would quicken their pace and thin smiles might appear.

 

On the other hand, if no light was on, the shivering walkers had to hope the owners could be rousted.  The prospect of trudging on to the next farm was almost unthinkable.

If a light was on, the sense of relief was substantial.  Boys would then listen for the dog.  All farms had dogs and some were dogs no stranger wanted to meet.  But in the cold of winter, most farmers let the dog sit by the hearth.

One boy would knock on the door. It was never a timid knock.

As a town person who never lived on a farm, I really can't appreciate how shocking that knock on the door must have been.  A loud interruption in the middle of a dark winter's night out where the nearest neighbor is a half mile away?    No sound of a vehicle entering the yard?  Today, they'd make a TV special out of it.

The dog would bark.  After what seemed a very long time, a man would come to the door.  It always took him so long, a boy's imagination could run amok.  "What if he's going to get his shotgun? Taking the leash off his dog  . . .  Planning to lock the door and turn out the light . . . Calling the police  . . "  But, no, the door was opened.

The heat from the house was magnificent.  Initial thoughts ranged from "How can they keep a house this warm? Thank god the light was on. My feet are frozen.  What's that smell?  What could they possibly eat that smelled like that?  Are those haloes over their heads?  Whatever you do, don't curse. They may be religious.  Are we tracking up her nice clean floor? Where are their kids?  I think I love farmhouses. Is that dog really gentle?  What are they doing up at one o'clock in the morning?"    The girls would check out the kitchen, the worn linoleum floor; the oversized kitchen table with the oilcloth covering; the water hand pump next to the sink, the old wood stove, the faded paintings on the wall.

After an awkward silence the man would take over.  He would invite the girls not to worry about their shoes and go sit at the kitchen table. He let the boys tell him what happened..  

If the car had slid into the ditch, he would offer to fire up the Massey-Ferguson and pull the car back onto the road.   If it was a mechanical breakdown, he would be glad to help them in the morning.  After all, it was bitterly cold and one o'clock.  He would suggest using the phone to call for a ride, although, he would note wryly, anyone answering at the other end wouldn't be too thrilled, not to mention that, with the party line, his neighbours would also be irritated. Or, he could drive everyone into town, assuming they didn't live in Lloydminster or some place 70 miles away. 

Sometimes an especially dense boy would urge the farmer to address the mechanical problem, forgetting it was -15 F. outside, a north wind was blowing and the car was a notoriously fickle Studebaker.  At times like these, it was always cheering to watch the farmer silently eye the boy as if he was from another planet.

One way or another, the farm couple had provided sanctuary for a group of young people and perhaps saved them from real harm.   It's no wonder prairie people go through life often looking back to those cold nights when they were helped by two people who didn't know them, were likely to never see them again and who never asked for thanks.   Small wonder that light in the farmhouse window generates such warm thoughts.

I'll end by telling of my own worst experience.  Six of us, four boys and two girls were driving home from somewhere near Ribstone,  a small hamlet roughly 30 miles from Wainwright. I was driving my dad's company car, a gorgeous hot 1958 Pontiac.  I took a railway crossing at 50 miles an hour.  Given that the crossing was a sudden rise three feet or so higher than the road, slowing down might have been advisable.  But what kid wants to hear advice at 1 am?   When the car finally landed, it was still on the road but minus a functioning read end.  We rattled to a stop and assessed the situation.  It was bitterly cold and a vicious north wind kept us from taking more than a quick look at the damage.  Seeing a piece of the axle lying on the road more or less confirmed our predicament.  We weren't going anywhere.

Eventually we found a farmhouse occupied by two warm and wonderful people.  The man offered to drive us into town.  But, we protested, it's 30 miles.  Are you sure?  No matter, he replied.  Let me get the truck.

TRUCK?   Yes, the 2 girls in our group rode with him in the cab and we 4 boys huddled in the back of a half-ton truck as it bumped and slid though the snow and ice for 30 miles. Easily the worst ride of our young lives.  It was -20 and the wind was slicing us to ribbons.  After what seemed like hours, we were dropped off at the railway station. Our savior drove away without a word.     We were very grateful, but our limbs were too stiff to wave.  We could barely move our eyes and, like zombies, retired shakily to the warmth of the station's beanery.

For your information, my father took it well.

Robert Alan Davidson

December 2016.

A LITTLE POSITIVE THINKING

Here we are in the middle of 2016.  Ten thousand years or so of recorded history of man, plus thousands more years through which man reputedly evolved, and here we stand today, empty-headed.  Save a discouraging lot of unrepentant troglodytes who see nothing wrong with the world that a humvee and some more greed can’t fix, the rest of us struggle to make sense of a civilization that seems to be unravelling before our eyes.  It gets harder by the hour to find something to pin our hopes to and every day’s newsfront details yet another example of things that don’t work, things that are running out, things that can kill us, and things that, to our detriment,  we abused.

Arguably, the last 100 years has been a relentless exercise to discover just how mysterious and miraculous this thing called life is.   With mixed results. We marvel and scratch our heads and smile ruefully.   How did we get this far and know so little?  Have we asked the wrong questions?  Listened to the wrong answers?

Consider the sum total of human communication and history, written and verbal, proud and profane, that has washed up on the shores of our collective ears and brains over the ten millennia.  If we really are sapient creatures, as we would like to believe, how could so much thought and perceived brilliance produce so little results?  Certainly, we can point with some pride (I guess that’s the appropriate emotion, but I am by no means certain) at our technological advances even if they ring somewhat hollow when placed in the context of how we live with this small planet.  It’s as if we think our production of things can replace our home in this universe. 

The middle of 2016. . . . .    And, we know nothing. 

IF we are the default custodians of this planet (insects, bacteria, and certain marine life might argue this), and IF the time has come for us to begin to take responsibility for living with each other within our means, then a sea change in something/everything? might be something we need to look at.    Maybe we could pin down some absolutes about our existence on this earth?  Or are we doomed to sit forever in this chattering classroom where it’s too often impossible to glean value from opinion, whimsy, and malicious intent?

Is it possible to build a consensus based upon what we do know?  We’re alive.  Life on this little planet is nothing if not precarious.  Species have come and gone with alarming regularity and there is no reason for us to suppose we might be any different.  Recent discoveries tell us we know little about the world of the very small and even less of the world of the very large. We consistently overlook the complex interconnectedness of things.  We’re trapped at present in a very narrow world that we have arrogantly considered the ‘real’ world, only because that’s all our eyes and minds can tell us. 

How do we balance life on this planet?  Get past the idea that bigger is better?  Learn to feed everyone?  Try to figure out if our competitive natures are learned or innate?  Maintain a world succeeding generations can live in?  Realize that war is bad for everyone?  Limit population growth?  Recognize that our respective heritages have little redeeming value but our shared future could be exciting?

Are we doomed to forever ‘nibble’ at these questions?

I have a suggestion.  A long shot, I know but sometimes life moves ahead with long shots.  And we must forge on, mustn’t we?

Without going into the undeniable abuses of wealth, it is also true that many of our most illustrious achievements came as a result of the actions of the rich – from the de Medici’s to the Carnegie’s, great things can happen when those that ‘have’ turn their attention to loftier aims.

One commodity we do have in abundance is the wealthy.  The past thirty years have seen an explosion in the concentrations of great wealth.  There is much to decry about the evils of wealth at the expense of a living standard for the rest, but the sad fact is it’s been a hallmark of every civilization we’ve ever been able to study.    Try as we might, sharing the wealth has never enjoyed anything more than sporadic success.  So if we can’t beat them, maybe we can enjoin them.

The frightening book, “Dark Money”, tells us how the Koch’s, the Coors,  the Mellons and their greedy ilk, successfully lavished hundreds of millions of dollars to influence politics, universities, schools, and the courts.  They dressed up their politics to have it appear as if they were appealing to the need for smaller government and more self-reliance, but the ugly fact was – and is – they craved only that they a) pay little or no taxes and b) operate without any oversight by any government.  If they wanted, say, to let a liquid butane leak fester without dealing with it, well,  that’s just business.  Too bad about those people it blew to bits. What they did was put some lipstick on the pig of greed and America is still buying into it.  As one opponent put it, “their political theory is nothing more than a rationalization for self-interest.”  Their success has been unqualified.  Their efforts to stymie government, influence legislation calling for reduced oversight, and  achieve tax breaks for the rich has paid huge dividends for them.  If you’re wondering how the Republican party could be represented in Congress by so many nitwits who openly thumb their noses at anything designed to benefit the average American, simply remember the Koch’s and the mayhem they sow just to dodge taxes and oversight.

So, if these mentally-deranged billionaires (the vast majority  of whom inherited their money) can influence life on our planet  so easily and so malignly, why couldn’t the sane billionaires (and there are many) achieve even greater results by applying themselves to  saving this planet and our democratic institutions?

For instance, as laudable as Bill and Melissa Gates’ altruistic efforts have been, they could aim higher.  As could their comrades in wealth.  Why not try something REALLY big?  Why not do what the Koch’s are doing, only this time for the good of all?  Instead of buying sports franchises and grotesque toys, why not become a patron of thought?  The super rich are literally beholden to no one (not even the IRS, it seems) and they can/could do what governments cannot/will not.  They could foster yeasty environments in which answers/solutions/new questions could be generated.   Instead of buying a flight on the space shuttle, build a school - next door to Harvard if that’s what is called for - and buy some flights of intellectual fancy that might lead to a safer, more secure future?

Suggestions?   Keeping in mind my bias is perfecting a society in which all can live comfortably and peaceably and recognizing many people don’t buy into that bias, I will nonetheless offer these ideas:  a) Find a way to make democracy work without undue influence from money; b) Reduce bureaucracy and red tape (every additional administrative overlay simply lessens program delivery); c)  Revamp the education system so instead of semi-literate consumers, we graduate independent thinkers who can adapt; d) Reduce the influence of Wall Street in American life (their original role as a source of funds for new ventures has long since disappeared, replaced by a skittish repository for insiders and, alas, pension funds; e) Population control without genocide, nuclear weapons, or plagues; f) Providing enough food, water, and clean air to enable our species (and the others) to survive, and g) Help build a society that cares.    Being rich and successful, I’m sure  my prospective patrons  have their own ideas – keeping in mind we’re talking about spending money for good, not to preserve wealth at all costs.  The Koch’s have cornered that market anyway.

So, all you people who now, through hard work, brains, and luck, truly have more money than you know what to do with, I’m asking you to wake up to new possibilities for your strength and  commitment.  Plan a garden of thought and set up a market for ideas.  Make things better.

Let’s stop wallowing in the dismal realization of how little we have advanced. 

Let’s take our planet back from those greedy shitheads for whom corporate profit trumps EVERYTHING else   Let’s begin the process of becoming what the science fiction writers call an ‘advanced’ civilization.  Go, “Good Moneybags”, go.

And, by the way, when you do come up with some answers, don’t hire a team of spin doctors to pass the news on.  Please.  Too much of that has put us into this mess.  Just tell it to us straight. And, finally, don’t expect an outpouring of gratitude for any good that you do.  My experience has been people are rarely thankful for getting something that benefits them.  Maybe they just see it as their due.  You have to look for those precious few who are thankful and know, from that, that all things are possible.  Maybe we could help out by complaining less about higher taxes and voting responsibly.

Robert Alan Davidson

June 2016

FACT OR NON-FICTION

Some time ago, a media wonk wrote an op-ed piece regarding the reading habits of her friends.  In her experience, men preferred non-fiction while women leaned toward fiction.  Is this true?

Those given to pop psychology can be forgiven for assuming her observations were proof that men are all about facts and reality while women are all about dreams and fantasy – an assumption we know is untrue.  Still, it’s tempting to embrace the notion that the fault lines of reading habits relate strongly to gender.

I submit we can dispense with any biological support for the argument.  Scientists now know that the distinctions between male and female - child-bearing capability excepted - are by no means clear.  The mix of X and Y chromosomes is astonishingly complex and varied (we each have a lot more of the other than we might care to admit). It’s hard to imagine evolution gives a damn about reading habits. Aligning ourselves in this literary dust-up between fiction and nonfiction is foolish and has little real merit.

I know I stand with both feet firmly planted in both camps.  I flip flop like a landed trout, one day awed by the sheer drama of ‘Into Thin Air’, the nonfiction account of a doomed Mt. Everest expedition or amazed by Bill Bryson’s humorous and lucid explanation of a part of this world I should know about;  the next day marveling at Carl Hiassen’s roguish tales of skullduggery and bad behaviour in Florida or shaking my head at the brooding power of Cormac McCarthy’s pen.  

But I’m no zealot.  When caught up a discussion dealing with fiction vs. non-fiction preferences, I am inclined to retire quietly to the conversational coward’s ‘You may be right’ or the even more feckless ‘It does seem that way, doesn’t it?’

I defend myself – albeit to myself – by dismissing the matter as one of those arguments in which neither side is prepared to budge, content instead with their stated preferences that contain more than enough wisdom to damn the opposition to lives of an irredeemable literary darkness. Perhaps it’s a sign of the times, this need to be identified with a camp that absolutely believes it is right (it seems to apply to politics). 

And, in one way, it’s fun to argue an issue where the empirical evidence is so ready to hand.  And it’s a harmless (we trust) debate.  We’re lucky not to be living in a by-gone era when one could lose more than just face for coming down on the wrong side of such an argument (Galileo, your arguments are not only pure fiction but they’re heretical and, if you don’t recant, we may have to burn you at the stake just to prove it!)

So here in the relative (?) safety of the Internet, I wish to broaden the discussion and urge one and all to join my camp.  Loosen that terrier-like hold on the fiction/nonfiction bone and pretend you’re back at a cub-scout/brownie wiener roast listening with a long lost intensity to tales about this world we live in, magical concoctions that set your mind spinning.  Real or fantasy?  Fact or fiction?

And that’s the whole point.   With half-hearted apologies to the polar schools of dogmatic rationalists and devotees of horoscopes and mystical superstition, neither of whom will understand, we live in a world of dimension-less wonder, its enduring lesson being we need all the help we can get to begin to understand it, that we have an obligation, if you will – apologies for using a hackneyed business phrase - to ‘think outside the box’. 

Straddling the worlds of fiction/nonfiction can help.   There is plenty of ammunition.   If Alice Munro or Dennis LeHane announced that their luminous stories were, in fact, fact, how much trouble would you have believing them?   

Conversely, if  “insert-politician/celebrity/corporate thug’s-name-here” suddenly experienced an unwelcome attack of candor and admitted his/her biographical writings were as fantastic as anything written by Lewis Carroll, would we not simply nod our heads in rueful understanding?  

What I am trying to say is that, perhaps without being aware of it, we’ve been in both camps all along.  The nonfiction of Barbra Tuchman gives us the historical big picture, if you will, while the thrilling drama of Alan Furst’s fiction tells us what it was like in the trenches. They’re both looking at the same fount of lore, only with different lenses.  And, as an aside, isn’t ALL written history a fiction, a tale told by the victors?

I leave you with a vivid example of two approaches – one nonfiction, the other fiction – to telling a story in which reading both arguably enriches us more than each on its own.

The subject is the Belgian Congo in the late nineteenth century.  The nonfiction ‘King Leopold’s Ghost , by Adam Hochschild,  is a chronicle of an especially tragic example of western colonialism in Africa.  In the search for ivory and, later, rubber, King Leopold’s private armies and companies (the country, Belgium, could argue little involvement in or awareness of what was going on, at least in the early years) conducted a systematic and wholesale slaughter and enslavement (the former helped in the latter) of perhaps millions of Africans and the eradication of centuries-old cultures.  The book is a well-written, informative treatment of a story too long left untold.   It is not an easy read. 

In the early years of this subjugation a young Polish sailor signed on to pilot steamboats running up the Congo River.   He lasted six months before returning to England to write.  His name was Joseph Conrad.  One of Conrad’s first fictions was ‘Heart of Darkness’, a bleak story, set in the Congo, about the enigmatic Kurtz, a hugely successful ivory trader whose methods in getting natives to gather ivory were the stuff of legend even in a time of government-sanctioned brutality.   Conrad’s interpretation of that world of systematic savagery went far to mark him as one of the greatest writers in the English language.  Consider Marlow speaking of Kurtz:  ‘I saw the inconceivable mystery of a soul that knew no restraint, no faith, and no fear, yet struggling blindly with itself’   Could the same perhaps be said of King Leopold?

Two very special looks at the same subject.  Fact and fiction.   With good writing the lines are blurred.  As they should be.

Robert Alan Davidson

May 7, 2014

THE ROAD TRIP

On a Sunday in January, 1954, the sun barely crawled up over the horizon to watch briefly over a day that was clear, cold, brittle, and brilliant.     A blizzard the week before had turned the prairie countryside into a foot-deep desert of white.   Only the windrows brought up by the snowplows and sidewalk shovels disturbed the astonishing beauty of the wind-sculpted landscape. 

But it wasn’t too cold to cancel a kids’ hockey game in Chauvin, Alberta.   Wainwright 12-year olds versus Chauvin’s 12-year olds.  Game time was one o’clock.   Small town excitement was where you found it and on a sunlit winter’s day like this, half the town of Chauvin would be crowding the boards of their weathered outdoor rink.   But first, the Wainwright team had to get there.  

The team of 12-year olds and a smattering of fathers met in the schoolyard parking lot; five cars each carrying 3 or 4 players.  To save trunk space for skates and sticks, the boys dressed at home.  Max Purcell, along with his best friend, Andy McGregor, joined Floyd Attwell and Arthur Donleavy in Arthur’s dad’s 1949 Ford for the 40 mile drive to Chauvin.   Max, Floyd and Andy crowded into the back seat.  Since coaxing the Ford to start in an expletive-fllled battle an hour earlier, Mr. Donleavy left the car running and it was now a sauna of stale cigarette smoke, gasoline fumes, and burning oil.    In  addition to being a stalwart, if inexpert, champion of all things Ford, Mr. Donleavy was the town’s patron saint of Buckingham cigarettes, an especially vile product, and devoted a considerable part of his income to allow himself to light one after another, even, his neighbors had little reason to disbelieve, at the dinner table.

‘Jesus Christ,’ exclaimed Max, waving his hand in front of his face.  ‘Forty miles of a smoke cloud?   I forgot about those goddam Buckinghams.’     Max found it easy to express his feelings.  Max was the eldest of six siblings in a family that lived in a converted one-car garage.  Waiting to be asked about how he felt about things got him nowhere in his house.

Mr. Donleavy was used to Max’ candour and snorted.  “Purcell, you should be goddam glad to be getting a ride anywhere, seeing as how your old man don’t look like he plans to take the blocks out from under that sad old Merc any time soon.’

Max winced.  His dad, a trained but unmotivated heavy-duty mechanic had, in late 1951, thrown a tattered brown tarp over an ailing 1948 Mercury and there it sat, taking up garden space in the back yard.  Occasionally, his father talked about the car and what it would take to make it roadworthy again but that’s as far as things ever got.  

‘ Leave my old man out of it, eh?’

Floyd was a last-minute replacement for a player who came down with the mumps.  It was Floyd’s last year of playing hockey or so he said. 

‘My dad makes me play,’ Floyd once said, ‘Says it’ll make me tougher.  I don’t know. Says I can quit after this year.’    He was right to say he didn’t know because Floyd was always the most timid player on the ice.  He seemed to have an exceptional sense of self-preservation and eschewed any contact on the ice, even with the puck.  But, today, the team needed bodies.

‘Whatya gonna do, Floyd?  Hockey’s all we got.’

‘I’m going to take care of myself and when I’m older I want to get married.’

‘That’s it?  Get married?’

‘Uh hum’

Maybe it was just as well that an inner voice was telling Floyd to quit the game.

After ten minutes on the road, the heat and smoke had the players all scratching vigorously.  The heavy felt in the shoulder pads and knee pads now felt like thistle.   Andy poked Arthur and gestured with a hand to his throat.

‘Dad, the boys are kinda warm.   And a little smoky, eh?’

Arthur’s dad glared into the rear view mirror.   ‘Whatta bunch of pansies!  Jesus H. Christ!’    With a twist, he opened his vent window while, with his other hand, taking a drag on his Buckingham.   A shotgun blast of freezing wind flattened Arthur against the seat.   At the same time, the use of both hands for purposes other than driving allowed the Ford to explore some other parts of the road.   The car slewed violently from one side of the road to the other, wiggling down the icy road like a chubby figure skater.  Max and Andy reached for the straps over the windows.  Floyd began to hum.    In the sudden effort to regain control of the Ford, Mr. Donleavy dropped the Buckingham into his lap, swearing vigorously as the car continued to fishtail.    He bobbed his head like a crazed woodpecker in the struggle to steady the car while preventing his crotch from igniting.

 

In the back seat, time was moving slowly.   The boys’ brains raced to fathom whatever it was that was happening and what might happen.  On the one hand, they were fairly sure the windrows would keep the car from sliding into a ditch or gully but what if an oncoming car couldn’t stop in time?   What if the car overturned and caught fire? They lowered their heads behind the front seat to await the outcome and listen to the pounding of their hearts and Floyd’s humming dirge.  Arthur, eschewing a chance to help his father help look for the wayward Buckingham, laid down under the dash.

It all ended quickly.   The Ford turned 90 degrees and brushed against the windrow on the other side of the road.  Mr. Donleavy managed to jam the gearshift back into second.  The car bounced gently along the snowbank until coming to a stop.   Save for the low uneven cough of the motor, Floyd’s humming-turned-sniffling and Arthur’s mumbled swearing, all was silent.  

Mr. Donleavy, a seasoned prairie driver, eased the Ford around to face the proper direction and set himself to find the menacing Buckingham.   The silence and mewling and praying gave way to giggles of relief.   Hoisting himself up with one arm on the steering wheel, Mr. Donleavy began to scrabble for the cigarette.  Smoke was now rising from the shiny seat fabric as his right hand thrashed about.   ‘Yeeoww,’ he yelped.   ‘Goddam it!  Goddam it!  Goddam it!’   The string of ‘goddam its’ continued for a short time until the lit-end of the elusive Buckingham, seemingly impervious to the fetid air supply, found Mr. Donleavy’s fingertip.   ‘Jesus H.  Keerist!’  squawked Mr Donleavy, carefully retrieving the object of his quest and jamming it back into his still curse-infused mouth.  ‘There!  You rat’s ass!’

‘That was interesting,’ said Max, ‘You rat’s ass!’

Soon, the car was back up to speed, with Mr. Donleavy’s left hand in charge. The right hand alternated between waving in pain and ushering the mangled Buckingham in and out of his mouth as quickly as his lungs could absorb a cloud of smoke.   All the while, he scooched back and forth in his seat hoping to stifle any outbreak of fire under his derriere.   Max and Floyd and Andy began to giggle.   Arthur gaped at the road ahead, positive his father’s flailing would send the Ford into another spin. 

Mr. Donleavy took a mighty puff on the cigarette and held it up as if to admire its will to live.   ‘You little buggers back there okay?’    He jammed the butt back into his mouth and waved his burnt finger.

‘You want we should pour some snow on you, Mr. Donleavy?’   

‘Don’t be a wise-ass, Purcell.  It’s a long walk to anywheres from here.’   He flicked the butt out the vent window, pushed in the lighter, and lit another.

Max pressed on.   ‘It’s a good thing we had our hockey equipment on.  You coulda bounced this car down the road for a mile and we woulda been okay?   Right?’    He turned to Andy and lowered his voice.  ‘See why we don’t smoke?  What a dumb-ass habit.’     

‘What’dya say?    Ptoo!.’   With practiced skill, Mr. Donleavy spat a piece of tobacco onto an already littered dashboard.

‘You’re a heckuva driver, Mr. D.’

“You’re goddam right, Purcell   Ptooo!’

Andy whispered to Max.   ‘You see that? Yuk. He scunners me, eh?’

Mr. Donleavy picked a piece of tobacco from his lip and wiped it onto the dashboard.  ‘You talkin’ to me, McGregor?’   Compared to Max and Arthur, Andy was a quiet kid. Unfortunately, Mr. Donleavy interpreted this as being mentally challenged.   Every so often Andy would catch Mr. Donleavy looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and pity.    ‘You can talk to me, boy.  I won’t bite.’

Up yours, thought Andy.

Max kept muttering ‘There, you rat’s ass!’.  Giggles followed.

Mr. Donleavy switched on the radio.  A blast of static filled the car, a Roy Acuff tune struggling to compete.    ‘Shit,’ said Mr. Donleavy and switched it off.  “Ya’d think in this day and age we could get more than one station.  Jeez, there must be ten of ‘em in Edmonton.’

‘Maybe you just need one of them fancy whippy antennas, Mr. Donleavy.  That one out there looks kinda beat up.’  

‘Can it, Purcell.  Nothin’ wrong with that aerial.  Ford does it right.’

‘So does my dad’s Dodge,’ offered Floyd, seeming to have just recently connected to the conversation.

‘No offense, Fred, or whatever your name is, but your dad, who, I admit, I do not know, doesn’t know shit about cars if he drives a Dodge.  And you can tell him I said that, eh?’

“Can I use the word ‘shit’?’

‘Hah. I’m guessing you won’t.’

Floyd sat back, contemplating the implications of using the word ‘shit’ in front of his father.

‘Ya know, Purcell,  that old Merc’ of your pop’s needs about 300 bucks of repairs.   I know.  The ignition system is shot and the transmission isn’t worth the powder to blow it to hell.’    Mr. Donleavy, like most prairie men, considered himself an expert mechanic, conveniently overlooking the fact that his own Ford gobbled oil like it was a fuel, not a lubricant.    ‘Where’s your old man gonna come up with money like that, eh?’

‘I think he plans to get it from Maggie and Jiggs.’ 

‘Who?’

‘New couple in town.  Rollin’ in dough.’

‘Never heard of them.   Push the lighter in for me, Arty.  That’s a boy.’   A spent Buckingham went out the vent window and another took its place.

Arthur was quickly succumbing to the freezing wind and flapped his arms at his sides in a vain effort to get his father to take pity on him.    Mr. Donleavy  concentrated on the road and the latest Buckingham.  Every so often, he would hold the cigarette up before his eyes seemingly impressed with how well he and his cigarettes handled all the excitement.

It took 90 minutes to travel the 40 miles of icy road to Chauvin.    Pulling in behind the dressing shack, the team piled out of the cars and inhaled the fresh air.   Mr. Donleavy remained at the car, tapping a Buckingham ash onto the snow.   

‘Aren’t you comin’ dad?’  asked Arthur.

‘Hey, Arty, can’t be smokin’ in the dressing room.    Be there in a bit.’

Robert Alan Davidson

April, 2014.