Day 6

It was the truth. Rock of Gibraltar truth. He was on a hunt.  When he told inquisitive strangers that he was seeking awareness he was not lying.  He let them think he was looking for some spiritual awakening. Maybe that was part true but what he was really trying to do is rediscover who he was and who he is and who we would become.  The events of the last year had stretched the fabric of his psyche to the limits. Compared to this, the physical pain as a wrestler and in the army was a piece of cake.

His dad was a Vietnam vet, fighter pilot and one of the few POWs to escape. He was older than most dads. Most of his friends had a dad who met and married their mom right out of high school or maybe at the end of college. His parents married when dad was 35 and mom 25. His dad was loving, but not affectionate. Whatever he needed in terms of instruction or time, his dad provided. Neither poor nor rich, he learned, by his dad’s example and direction how to manage his resources.  To escape the draft his dad enrolled in college and got a degree in economics. He then joined the air force and qualified as a fighter parent. He wasn’t trying to avoid the conflict, he wanted to go on his own terms.  More than once dad told him that economics is the science of managing scarcity. And life is about scarcity. We never have enough of anything we desire, so you must manage your desires so you can get your needs and wants. He thought of dad now as he walked and smiled. His dad would approve of the way he managed the tiny amount of resources and would kick his ass for getting mixed up in this crazy affair on foreign soil.  Handling emotions is not what men are good at. They’ve lost the social mechanisms for dealing with heartfelt pain. Dad taught him to swallow pride, suppress emotion and endure the pain. Buck up, shut up and get the job done.

That worked for him well in junior high and high school. He excelled in wrestling and without sacrificing grades. He loved wrestling, absolutely loved it. He did well too. He wanted to be the next Dan Gable.  In junior high he dominated easily his peers. In high school the competition got more fierce and he loved it. Practice was too short.  Training was interrupted by eating, sleeping and school work. He did find history interesting.  Ms. Stewart was a strong woman and beautiful despite her age. She and her husband owned a farm with horses, on which she did a lot of the work. You could see it in her movements. Strong. Confident. She had muscular arms. She always wore knee length dresses and low heels. You could see her muscular calves anytime she turned to write something on the board.  In high school he had Mr. Giovanni, who, despite the name, was Ms. Stewart’s husband.  He was huge and muscular with only one arm. He lost the other in a war somewhere, he would never say. Every morning he would go to the gym and do rapid fire pull ups. One day, one of the football players, a little high, got mouthy and up in  Mr Giovanni’s face. Mr. G, was cool as ice and told Evan to sit down or go the principal’s office. Evan swore at him and took a swing. Mr. G took a step back and let the swing go wide. Evan got even more angry and tried again. This time Mr. G hit Evan right in the middle of his bicep, temporarily paralyzing his arm.  In one fluid motion he drew back from the punch and grabbed Evan by the letter man’s jacket and lifted him off his feet.  To your desk or the principal’s office!  More swears and an attempted kick. Mr. G turned towards the door and threw Evan to the threshold.  He turned to the class and calmly said “I have to help this young gentleman find the principal’s office. I’ll be back in 10 minutes and we’ll have a short quiz on the House of Medici.  Read quickly.”

Nine minutes later he was back, told us to take out two pieces of paper and asked us to write a paragraph on two aspects of the House of Medici.  No one ever talked back to Mr. G again. Evan, was suspended. He decided he didn’t need school and never returned.  He worked at a gas station on the other side of town.  By the time Brian graduated he had gained 75 pounds.  Evan was a generally good guy. He bullied a few kids from time to time but nothing persistent, more of a nuisance than anything. No one knows what caused him to snap.  Four years after the incident he was found dead in an alley.

Mr. Giovanni taught Brian more than history.  He helped Brian use history to avoid problems.

Some stupid teenagers brag that they want to get out from under their parents thumbs and make their own mistakes. Why?  Let someone else make the mistake so you can avoid the trap.  Find as many people as you can to learn from their mistakes.

This is a small town. I already know most of the people here.

Don’t be a door stop! Books, magazines, movies.  You can let the best minds in the world tell you what they’ve done right and done wrong.  And they can’t judge you from the pages of a book.

Why would I need all that knowledge? I’m going to be a wrestler and then coach.

You have to go to university to get a teaching degree.  And what happens if you get injured?

I’m just not that smart.

Did you read that on a match book cover or a bathroom wall?  You’re as smart as you intend to be. If you focus on learning, you will learn. Hard work; but simple.  Hard work always beats talent.

On the way home that day, he ducked into the grocery store to get a candy bar and a soda. He saw a woman with a fine figure stretching to reach for something on the top shelf. But she could not get enough grip to posses it.  She looked like a model from a 1940’s magazine. Square shoulder, muscled calves and a narrow waist.  Though she looked like a high school girl from the back the dress gave her away as being older.  None of the girls he knew wore knee length dresses. She was about to step on the lower shelf.

Ms. Stewart, stop. I’ll help you.

Gracefully she stepped down and turned.

Brian! You’ve grown so tall.

That item was the last thing she needed. He walked her to the check out lane. She bought his candy bar and soda.  Not the best thing for a competitive athlete so make it the exception not the rule.  As he walked her to her car they talked some more.

How are your studies and how is wrestling treating you?

My studies are good and wrestling is fantastic. I’m going for state this year.

Excellent goal. It will take a lot of work but I think you can do it.  Have you picked a school yet.

When I win state I’ll pick a good school based on whatever I’m offered.  Dad insists that I have a backup plan. If things go really wrong, I’ll join the army and get Uncle Sam to pay tuition.

Your dad is very wise. You probably think he’s a stick in the mud or an old fogy. But it takes only a little more effort to have a plan B in addition to plan A.

I never thought of it that way.

I’m all set Brian.  Have a good evening. Remember, candy bars and soda — exception not the rule.

Yes Ms. Stewart.

He watched as she backed up and pulled out of the parking lot and onto Bannister road.

As he started home he tore open the candy bar and took a bight.  Mr. Giovanni’s words were coming in his left ear and Ms. Stewart’s in his right.  “Learn from the mistakes of others!”  “The exception not the rule.”  After he won state he would have two candy bards in celebration. As he passed by the dumpsters he threw away the half eaten candy bar. He kept the soda.

He read somewhere that muscle is only built during sleep and that good sleep was key to muscle growth. So he became a student of good sleep habits and patterns. School would be out in 2 weeks. He already had a job at the Co-OP grain mill down by the old part of town.  He would ride his bike there and back. On Fridays, his mom would pick him up and they would stop by her favorite bakery across the street from the elevator and get some doughnuts for an after dinner dessert.  His friends’ families had pie, or pudding, or cake for dessert every night. He had always wanted to have lemon chiffon pie. The word “chiffon” made him think that it would be the lightest, fluffiest thing on earth.  One night, at a friend’s house, they had home made lemon chiffon pie.  His imagination was way off. But it is was more delicious than he imagined.  His friends wondered if his family was poor because they only had doughnuts for dessert and only once a week.  One Friday he complained, “Why do we have to have donuts all the time? Why can’t we be like everyone else and have dessert every night and something besides donuts?  Without a sound. Without warning. Without any cross words. His mother reached for his plate and took his doughnut, went in the kitchen and threw it down the garbage disposal.

You don’t need what you’re not thankful for, is all she said.

He went to bed clueless. The puzzle kept him awake. He heard Mr. G’s voice in his head. “Learn from other people’s mistakes. And always, always learn from your own.  When you don’t understand, ask!”  He knew his dad didn’t like complaining. “If you can control it, shut up and take action. If you can’t shut up.” But his mom is the one that threw out the doughnut.  Why?  He was still thinking about it at midnight. He knew part of it was the complaint. He finally dosed off and had dreams about starving in a room full of doughnuts. Every time he reached for one it bounced out of his grasp into a garbage disposal.   He work up tired and hungry.  Fortunately it was Saturday.  He went to the kitchen where mom was already making breakfast.  Mom, I’m sorry about last night. I know I shouldn’t have complained. But, I don’t think I understand all of what I did. We’re always so tight around here. We don’t waste a penny.  I hadn’t even touched my doughnut and you shoved it down the drain.  What am I missing.

She finished cooking the eggs and made him a plate of eggs, bacon and toast with orange marmalade. She put the plate in front of him, stroked his cheek lightly and smiled. Eat.  Then she sat down next to him.

You know your dad was in the air force, right?

Yes.

Did you know he was shot down and captured?

Yes.

Has he told you about his time there?

A little, not much.

It was a horrible time of hardship for him.  The prisoners were abused and killed, one by one for the purpose of instilling fear and getting information.  To survive they shared information and taught each other what they knew. This kept their minds active.  Some men couldn’t keep their minds active. They lost hope. They lost the will to live. They stopped exercising and eating food. Some committed suicide. Some lost their minds. Some goaded their captors; death by captor they called it.  To survive, a man had to care about getting out and reporting back so that the others could be rescued. Sometimes that wasn’t enough. Escape was difficult. Most failed. When caught, they were brought back to camp and killed as an example. Then everyone was beaten to discourage further attempts to escape.  The survivors found another reason to go on, different for each man.  One decided he would see his daughter graduate, marry and walk her down the aisle.  Another looked forward to marrying his sweetheart. Your dad’s dream was to come home and have a chocolate doughnut. For some reason. Chocolate doughnuts represented “the good life”.  You’ve noticed that we’re frugal. I hope you’ve noticed that we’re not just healthy, we’re strong. While other parents are getting deeper in debt and fatter by the week. We’re preparing for that time when you’re out of school and on your own. We’ll travel the world and see God’s good green earth.  You did more than just complain. You trampled on a symbol of life giving hope.

But I didn’t know!

I know you didn’t. We knew that. But we knew you. We knew you would ponder the situation and dig a little.  If we just told you, the lesson might have slid right off your brain. I bet you thought and thought and thought about it last night, didn’t you?

Oh brother did I.

Now, you’ll never forget the power of a doughnut.  May you always have a doughnut to keep you alive.

[laugh]

You know, I’m not talking about an actual doughnut, right? I’m talking about any dream that keeps you moving forward.

Ya mom. I got the message.

If you can be thankful for what you have, you can always find happiness.

Yes, mom.

School started and he was elated. He went to school with gusto. He chose to take just enough classes to graduate but also ones that would help with college.  On the Friday night before wrestling season was going to start, the grain elevator violently exploded.  They found his mom’s body on the other side of the bakery, naked. The blast had burned much of her clothing off and all of her hair. They believed she had just put the doughnuts in the trunk of the car with the other groceries because they were still there. The car was upside down and pushed partially through the bakery. Everyone in the bakery died. Amazingly, one of the mom’s, that worked in the bakery, had just walked out the back door to check on her little girl playing in the back. They were hurt but not seriously, It was this woman who found mom’s body.

Mom looked peaceful, lying in the casket. But the wig was obvious to Brian. The color was wrong. He hated it. Dad was as stoned-faced as ever.  School became surreal. Nothing sounded right, like listening to a rock and roll band on a set of bad speakers. The highs and the bass were missing. And it was cloudy every day. He couldn’t remember such a gloomy fall.  Like Dan Gable, he through himself, hook, line and sinker into to school, training and wrestling. He wouldn’t go out with his friends.  He wouldn’t eat doughnuts.  He rarely swore.  The occasional “Aw shit!” or “Damn” was it. Now he spent his night throwing every curse and swear he could find at God until he fell asleep.  Dinner time became a monotonous, “Groundhog’s Day” routine. On Monday, Wednesday and Friday they would have a hamburger and steamed or baked veggies. On Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday they had eggs and succotash. On Saturday, they would drive to the next town where grandpa lived and eat dinner with the family.  Brian never saw his dad drink. Now, every night, after Brian went to bed, he pulled out a bottle of whiskey. Filled a tumbler, sat in mom’s rocking chair facing the backyard and drank. He made this wheezing sound, like someone with a lung disease. Brian guessed it was either a low moan or all the cry dad could muster.  Some nights, he woke to find his dad sitting on his bed with his hand on his leg. He wanted to say, “What are you doing dad?” But the touch was oddly comforting. That touch was his only connection to his dad. They spoke almost no words to each other the entire month.

At end of thirty days, dad threw away the whiskey. Went outside and violently smashed the tumbler on the driveway then methodically swept up the pieces.  Brian was studying at the time but got up to see what dad was doing. He wondered at the strange ritual but was glad the whiskey was history.  Dad came into his bedroom and sat next to him.

Sometimes I hate being a man.

Brian’s mind raced. What does that mean? He went to the dark side immediately. He’d heard of men who suddenly decided they wanted to be a woman or become gay.  Where was this going?

They don’t teach us, how to handle our emotions. We suppress them and die from the stress. We drink and die from the liquor. We escape to a bohemian lifestyle and die from the debauchery.  The tribal cultures do much better than we so called advanced westerners. They teach spiritual, physical and emotional development. I have failed you in this area.

You know about my war experience. I came back a man in conflict. Exuberantly grateful that I had survived but tortured by memories of what I did to survive and escape.  I had no clue how to manage my emotional life. I supressed it.  Your mom came along and turned my black and white life into a technicolor production with a full musical score. She pulled out my emotional garbage, laid it out neatly on the driveway and helped me wash it down the gutter.  I am sorry I did not help you do the same. As the sludge left my soul, the training, the old man, the macho man came back and took up residence. Buck up! Shut up! Get the job done!  Valuable lessons indeed when it comes to facing the attacks of life, both literal and physical. But useless when dealing with one’s emotions.  I deeply loved your mother and I miss her.  He looked into Brian’s eyes. Brian could see a tear forming in Dad’s blue eyes. He could see the quivering of a lip. Brian started to weep, then cry, then sob. The two men grabbed hold of each other and just sobbed for an hour. Finally, there came a calmness. Like the quiet of a sunny winter’s day after a heavy snow fall.  They released each other. They looked into each other’s face but didn’t know what to say. The silence became quiet deafening.  Finally, dad said, “I love you, you big cry baby.” He hugged Brian again, slapped him on the shoulder and said “Get back to work, you wuss.” At first Brian didn’t know what to say or feel. But the big grin on dad’s face said it. “It’s ok. We’ll still play this macho game around other men. But we know, yeah, we know that we have feelings and it’s ok.”

The next night was Saturday. Instead of going to grandpa’s they went out to a nice restaurant in town.  They talked about the future, they talked about growing up. They started to cry a few times but changed the subject so they could maintain their composure in public.  The next day they went to church. Mom always wanted to sit in the front on the right. Now they sat in the last row on the left. That Sunday, Brian heard not a word of the sermon. He was too busy apologizing to God for the days of cussing and swearing. He wept. He felt better. After church they went to lunch and settled on a plan for the next year. From now until graduation, it was all about studies and training.