T. S. Eliot wrote that April is the cruelest month, teasing us after the harshness of winter,
. . . breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain,
but ultimately disappointing. "Fear death by water," warns the poet, and do not be tempted by the promise of the new season. He accosts an acquaintance on the street and admonishes him:
"That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
"Has it begun to sprout?
"Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?"
Uncomfortably bleak and morbid is this April Waste Land. My readers can rest easy: I will not be nearly as gloomy, poetic, or dense in explicating my cruelest month: September.
Even though it's been a hot one, with temperatures exceeding 90 degrees every day, it seemed, in August, and hardly a drop of rain to boot, who really wants to see the summer end? And end it will, by the calendar on September 23rd, if it hasn't already done so, practically speaking, with the passing of Labor Day and a sighting of school buses.
It's still warm this September 9th, and as I sit at my kitchen table composing this paean to summer, I am clad in the uniform of the season: a splendidly skimpy tee shirt and pair of khaki shorts, the same two articles of clothing -- in design, that is -- I don every evening after work, starting around May 1st, when I can at last shed my cool weather costume of jeans and sweatshirt.
I gaze pensively through the window at a scene so vivid and clear in the morning air, it might be high-definition TV: the lush foliage blanketing the oak and maple trees; the resilient grass still green in spite of the drought; my shirtless neighbor examining his yard, planning his pruning schedule. Then, with trepidation and restlessness, I turn to the calendar hanging on the wall (only three weeks until October 1st) and ponder: How many more days remain before I must consign to winter hibernation these tee shirts and shorts, not to mention the short-sleeved shirts I wear on dress-down work days, themselves soon to be supplanted by their long-sleeved brethren.
Summer, of course, is the season of vacations, usually of a coastal flavor, but whether that interlude is in June, July, or August, it's over and done by September 1st, and the next one looks as far off as a star seen through the wrong end of a telescope. For our family, two vacations bookend the summer: four days in Myrtle Beach the third week in June and four days in New York City over Labor Day weekend centered around the U.S. Tennis Open, between which volumes of days compress almost instantaneously into a few flimsy pages. The beach in June can be complacently deceptive: viewed from a chair anchored in the sand, book, beer, shades, and sunscreen at hand, Labor Day appears as distant as the hazy horizon where sea and sky merge. You confidently reassure yourself that two full months of summer lie ahead, yet before you exhale, they have evaporated.
As summer draws to a close, so too do the extended daylight hours here in Virginia, where at the summer solstice the sun rises at 5:30 and doesn't set until 9:00, and this September eve graced us with its presence until 7:30, illuminating my entire four-hour journey by car and Metro to Washington, D.C. (which incidentally interrupted the composition I so diligently commenced this morning). How miserable that trip would have been in November or December: the skies dark by the time I reached Vienna at 6:00 PM; undoubtedly, a cold rain falling or a brisk wind blowing, making the 15-minute wait at the open-air train station even more irritating and interminable; and orienting myself after emerging from the McPherson Place underground for the one-block walk to my hotel surely a challenge, because I never ask for directions.
I have mixed feelings about Daylight Savings Time. Since, for one who devours automobile miles like popcorn, late afternoon driving is much more pleasant under nature's light, I do not relish days shortened by both the calendar and the clock. On the other hand, DST's later-rising sun leaves early-morning runners -- like myself -- enshrouded in darkness, although I can't deny a stab of delight at watching the skies gradually lighten -- from star-studded blackness, to gray, to violet, to red-orange -- during a chilly outing in late fall or early spring. It's an easy choice, really: who would sacrifice those long, lazy, sun-drenched evenings for an earlier dawn?
Another somber signature of September is the rapidly approaching finale of the baseball season, after which aficionados of the game like myself sink into a deep slough of despond and an endless wait for spring and a rebirth of the box scores. In my book, the October playoffs and World Series are irrelevant appendages, although they do generate some interest for casual observers of the game (who don't deserve to be designated fans): only eight teams are left playing, and when you are an Athletic supporter or a Cub diehard, chances are both teams have already been banished to the golf course; those intriguing statistics, which, with their daily recalculations, enslave us statheads over the course of 162 games, are now cast in stone; and a glance at the scoreboard exposes its fulsome nakedness, only two or three scores on display, an embarrassing dilution from the full slate posted daily during the regular season.
A. Bartlett Giamatti, Renaissance scholar, President of Yale University, and Commissioner of Baseball -- whose brief tenure (September 1988-September 1989) was highlighted by his banning of Pete Rose from the Hall of Fame -- famously lamented the end of a baseball season when his beloved Red Sox were eliminated from playoff contention in an 8-7 loss to the Orioles on October 2nd, 19??.
"It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then, as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it the most, it stops. Today, a Sunday of rain and broken branches and leaf-clogged drains, it stopped and summer was gone."
The last out silently shatters the writer's poignant illusions: "School will never start, rain will never come, sun will warm the back of your neck forever."
By the second week in September, football, mighty football, has eclipsed baseball in the minds and hearts of the American sports fan. How sad. Just when a handful of teams are fighting for their playoff lives, when one or two pitchers are stretching for that elusive and increasingly rare twentieth win, when a 50 home-run or 15o-rbi plateau is in sight, the air waves are saturated with the imposing, inaugural college and professional football games of the season. Analysis begins three days prior and continues three days after each weekend festival, consuming every hour of the intervening period with pigskin talk. And if you want to catch a baseball score on Saturday, forget it. You must wait for the ESPN Bottom Line to scrawl through fifty college football games between teams as obscure as a Slippery Rock.
I can't wait for the Super Bowl. Spring training starts thirty days later.
While I, an empty nester whose grown children have taken flight to make their way in the world, bemoan the passing of summer, untold numbers of younger parents are rejoicing: School's in. I will concede that it's more than a little selfish of me to express regret at this seasonal ritual, but consider these two exasperating phenomena: first, the ubiquitous school bus, as tenacious as a bloodhound, impeding my progress by its own lumbering pace or by its flashing red and yellow lights and retractable stop sign; and, second, the intrusive traffic congestion on the road where I run two mornings a week, a main thoroughfare for three neighborhood schools.
Admittedly, my self-serving attitude has taken a 180-degree turn since my rambunctious brood of five was stationed at home; back then I was promoting twelve months of school and packed highways. Today, like the students -- and presumably the teachers -- I'm rooting for more workdays, snow days, and holidays.
In truth, this anti-Septembrist diatribe has contradicted a fundamental philosophical conceit of mine: embrace enthusiastically the glory of each passing day, especially at the age of 59, when so many more have been left behind than lie ahead. And there are some redeeming qualities to cruel September.
After all, is not seasonal change refreshing, a rhythmic reminder of the cycle of life, providing us with something to anticipate (as well as complain about)? Winter around here seems hardly a threat, with temperatures regularly reaching the fifties in January and February in recent years and the minimal accumulation of a lonely snowfall gone in a few days.
Beyond that, the predictable abatement of the current tropical weather pattern should produce favorable conditions for the Virginia Ten-Miler two weeks hence. My closet is overflowing with long-sleeved shirts and wool jackets and slacks (many of them hideously outdated) just itching to be worn. As baseball ends, basketball begins, a poor substitute, but at least offering a modicum of media competition for that other sport. I could alter my running and driving habits to accommodate the spate of automobiles and buses clogging the arteries (not likely). And, on a materialistic note, September launches the fall selling season for retail home furnishings after the summer doldrums.
Finally, of course, as fall and winter approach, one can always sneak a guilty peek forward to one's favorite month: April.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Adventures in Boating
In 1988 I bought a boat; in 1994 I sold it. In affirmation of a sentiment articulated by thousands of other disillusioned boat owners, they were two of the happiest days of my life.
Science teaches us that life originated in a water habitat. History reveals that man, ever since he emerged from the swamp and discovered the principle of buoyancy, driven either by nostalgia or necessity, has been eager to return.
The first boats were undoubtedly utilitarian -- designed to transport people and products more efficiently than could pack animals or their own two feet, to facilitate the gathering of edible water-dwelling creatures, or to carry the curious and courageous into uncharted territories. But it probably wasn't long before the recreational allure of boating asserted itself, as pleasure-seekers were enticed aboard by sun and spray -- by the prospect of a freedom, tranquility, and escape they could not find on dry land.
My own motives were strictly pragmatic. Recently divorced, I was seeking a weekend activity to engage three lively children and one that might exhibit to single ladies my sportive nature and add some romance to a budding relationship.
My observation of boat owners back then had led me to conclude that, for them, their boats were more than recreational or sporting vehicles; they morphed into those toys so many men of means like to accumulate, revisiting their childhoods on a grander scale, or served to express a pure maleness (hardly any boat-owners were female) and, by extension, masculinity and virility. Viewed either way, bigger was better: the bigger the boat, the bigger the toy, or the bigger the you-know-what. And every boating enthusiast I knew was always trading up.
Actually I didn't buy the boat myself. My father, homebound by the cancer he would succumb to eight months later, brightened noticeably at my new-found interest and volunteered to finance the purchase. Whether this offer stemmed from generosity or perversity is a question for my readers to decide. Fifty years ago, before Smith Mountain disappeared into the lake of the same name, I dimly recall that my father shared ownership of a houseboat he and his partners kept anchored on the James River at Reusens. This experiment was apparently short-lived and not altogether satisfying, since, in later years, I don't remember my father ever setting foot on another boat, even a cruise ship. In more ways than one, I guess, I was destined to relive his misadventures.
Flush with cash, brimming with anticipatory excitement, yet unable to suppress entirely a nagging apprehension, I hastened to the nearest reputable boating establishment, and, upon the advice of an expert friend, drove off with a shiny blue-and-white 21-foot Baybreeze runabout. Foreshadowing an inauspicious future, shortly thereafter the boat store unceremoniously shuttered its doors, while my friend fell prey to a messy divorce, losing his wife, his house, and, most grievously, his boat.
Within days, I was rudely awakened to the pitfalls of boat ownership by the sudden realization that the operation and performance of this machine was not at all analogous to that of an automobile, as I had naively and erroneously assumed. With the simple turn of a key, cars start 99.9% of the time. You steer them through clearly delineated traffic lanes where other drivers observe generally accepted rules of the road. When you are finished using it, you park your car at your destination, lock the door with a remote control, and walk away. And, in spite of constant exposure to sun, snow, sleet, and rain, cars do not rust, deteriorate, or require any special maintenance, other than an occasional oil change and filling the radiator with antifreeze once every five years.
A boat, on the other hand, demands as much coddling as a newborn child. Why this piece of equipment, built for water travel, is best preserved when taken out of the water remains a mystery to me. It collects dirt, grime, and mildew with amazing rapidity and regularity. There are no rules of the road, other than yield to a bigger boat or get crushed. Twice a year you must put your boat (and yourself) through an expensive and bothersome process known as winterizing (and dewinterizing), unless you want to freeze (or burn up) your engine block. And, regardless of the level of tender-loving care lavished on your boat, you nervously approach it each time out with bated breath and one crucial question burning in your brain: will it start?
Most of my boating history has conveniently faded into oblivion. But, in fact, the tantalizing samples I am about to present will more than suffice for you to glean the full flavor. To appreciate these delights, you must know that, for the first two or three years I owned my boat, I dry-docked it on the trailer, a foolish exercise in false economy. Consequently, every time I used my boat, I had to attach the trailer to my boat hitch, maneuver it down a steep incline, back it into the water, unhook the boat, get back in the car, and pull the trailer up from the ramp. This meant that by the time I was ready to get in the boat and start it up, I was thoroughly exhausted. It also meant that the sophisticated stereo equipment I (or my father) had paid extra for was stolen within a month.
Nevertheless, I persevered.
Not long after acquiring my boat, I was smitten by a lady to whom I began to devote serious energy and attention. Since she was, in her words, "a hard-working country girl," I thought a relaxing, peaceful, nautical tour of Smith Mountain Lake might appeal to her sensibilities. I chose a weekday afternoon -- to avoid any intrusive boat traffic -- purchased some cold cuts, cheese, and bread, and brought along a little wine to kindle the romance.
It was a glorious day, the kind that makes a man think all his struggles with his boat just might be worthwhile. The cloudless blue sky formed a perfect canopy over the bottle-green lake expanse and distant shoreline. The sun warmed our upper bodies, yet the heat was moderated by a gentle breeze which ruffled the water's surface, adding a rhythmic element to the idyllic setting.
The day progressed nicely into late afternoon. Overcoming my natural clumsiness, I handled the boat quite well, guiding it about the lake, pointing out significant landmarks (the few that I knew, lying about the others), and locating a quiet, sheltered cove where we could partake of food and beverage and engage in lighthearted conversation. Since I had agreed to get her home to her two boys by a certain hour, we had just begun to cruise across the lake to the boat landing when the engine emitted an ominous cough, sputtered, and then meekly expired, leaving us adrift, in silence, solitude, and suspended animation.
Mechanically challenged as I was, there was no hope of my figuring out a way to restart the engine. Out of stubbornness or stupidity, I had neglected to equip the boat with paddles. Frustrated and despondent, I cursed, fussed, stammered, and appealed hopelessly to the heavens, while my more self-possessed companion exhibited admirable patience and jocularity.
Fortunately, after an hour of hand-wringing, came the deus ex machina, another boater who, grasping our predicament but not wanting to risk either boat on a longer journey, volunteered to tow us to the near side of the lake -- the Franklin County side. He then offered to take me back across the lake to get my trailer.
If you think Smith Mountain Lake is big, try semi-circumnavigating it -- twice. The road was narrow, twisting, and uneven, the ride endless and harrowing, made even moreso by the rattle of the empty trailer on the way out and the unstable weight of the loaded one on the way back. More than once during that trip I entertained thoughts of abandoning the boat where it rested and taking up some less strenuous form of relaxation, but I couldn't bear the thought of allowing it to conquer me.
Shortly after sunset, weary and dispirited, we deposited the boat at the Marina and headed home, my nerves as frazzled as that sputtering motor, the romance of a perfect date evaporating in the wind like the smoke from a burnt-out engine.
I hadn't learned my lesson, however. A few months later I went back for more punishment -- and took my children. Already familiar with their father's manual ineptitude -- at the tender ages of eight, eleven, and fourteen -- they were justifiably skeptical of these marine excursions. Having repaired the motor and coped with a major crisis, I had gained a new level of confidence and was anxious to showcase my proficiency.
The day was somewhat overcast, with lowering clouds on the horizon, but having made the one-hour journey to the lake and packing more sandwiches and beverages (of the non-alcoholic variety), I was undaunted by any threatening weather. We executed a successful launch, motored around the lake for an hour, and were ready to break out the food when we noticed the boat listing precariously and water collecting at our feet. About this time a light rain began to fall, dampening our clothes and our spirits but hardly enough to fill the boat with water.
In a matter of minutes the boat was riding low, rocking unsteadily, and becoming difficult to handle, while the water continued to rise, although at a very slow rate. "This is not looking good, kids," I brilliantly concluded. "I think we need to bring this boat in." Naturally, they were disappointed, but faced with a choice of sinking or going ashore, they finally concurred. Much to my surprise -- and gratification - -the motor started up promptly, and, barely afloat, we crawled towards dry land.
By the time we reached the boat ramp, I was in a state of panic, knowing full well that we had narrowly escaped disaster. I jumped out of the boat, dashed to the car, and, probably on the third try, backed the trailer far enough into the water to enable us to hook up the boat, which had almost swamped. As the rain's intensity increased, further jarring my nerves, I frantically jerked our towels and food supplies out of the boat, threw them in the trunk of the car, and slammed down the top.
I rushed around to the driver's side, reached into my pocket for the car keys, and came up empty-handed. Oh yes, standing there in the thickening rain, with a boat full of water sitting on a trailer halfway up the ramp, I had locked the keys in the trunk of the car. I slumped dejectedly onto the the front seat, pounded my fists on the steering wheel, and let out a stream of curses which were only drowned out by the rain beating on the car's roof.
The rest of the story -- and its embarrassing denouement -- can be swiftly told. My resourceful lads attacked the back seat, which, this being an ancient two-door Cutlass, did not fold down, managed to detach it from its moorings, crawled into the trunk, and retrieved the keys. Slowly, very slowly, as my rear wheels strained against the weight and gripped for traction, I was able to pull the boat far enough up the ramp to allow the water to empty out -- through the bolt hole, which I had forgotten to plug the last time I drained the bottom of the boat, and the root cause of our sinking spell.
I wasn't savvy enough to sell my boat, even after that painful episode. No, I continued to pour more money into it, renting a lift berth, winterizing and dewinterizing it, and paying for miscellaneous service to keep it functioning for the half-dozen times I used it over the next twenty-four months. And every voyage was as tiresome and cheerless as the one before.
At last, mercifully, dawned the second greatest day in this boat-owner's life, when, with a rush of exhilaration and a surge of joy, I was able to relieve myself of this floating albatross. I sold it for a pittance, but it was worth every penny lost. And my psychic remuneration more than compensated for any material shortfall, for I found solace in the thought of having served up a double dose of happiness to the proud new owner, the first being his day of purchase and the second, of course, the day he decides he can suffer no more and sells my boat again.
Science teaches us that life originated in a water habitat. History reveals that man, ever since he emerged from the swamp and discovered the principle of buoyancy, driven either by nostalgia or necessity, has been eager to return.
The first boats were undoubtedly utilitarian -- designed to transport people and products more efficiently than could pack animals or their own two feet, to facilitate the gathering of edible water-dwelling creatures, or to carry the curious and courageous into uncharted territories. But it probably wasn't long before the recreational allure of boating asserted itself, as pleasure-seekers were enticed aboard by sun and spray -- by the prospect of a freedom, tranquility, and escape they could not find on dry land.
My own motives were strictly pragmatic. Recently divorced, I was seeking a weekend activity to engage three lively children and one that might exhibit to single ladies my sportive nature and add some romance to a budding relationship.
My observation of boat owners back then had led me to conclude that, for them, their boats were more than recreational or sporting vehicles; they morphed into those toys so many men of means like to accumulate, revisiting their childhoods on a grander scale, or served to express a pure maleness (hardly any boat-owners were female) and, by extension, masculinity and virility. Viewed either way, bigger was better: the bigger the boat, the bigger the toy, or the bigger the you-know-what. And every boating enthusiast I knew was always trading up.
Actually I didn't buy the boat myself. My father, homebound by the cancer he would succumb to eight months later, brightened noticeably at my new-found interest and volunteered to finance the purchase. Whether this offer stemmed from generosity or perversity is a question for my readers to decide. Fifty years ago, before Smith Mountain disappeared into the lake of the same name, I dimly recall that my father shared ownership of a houseboat he and his partners kept anchored on the James River at Reusens. This experiment was apparently short-lived and not altogether satisfying, since, in later years, I don't remember my father ever setting foot on another boat, even a cruise ship. In more ways than one, I guess, I was destined to relive his misadventures.
Flush with cash, brimming with anticipatory excitement, yet unable to suppress entirely a nagging apprehension, I hastened to the nearest reputable boating establishment, and, upon the advice of an expert friend, drove off with a shiny blue-and-white 21-foot Baybreeze runabout. Foreshadowing an inauspicious future, shortly thereafter the boat store unceremoniously shuttered its doors, while my friend fell prey to a messy divorce, losing his wife, his house, and, most grievously, his boat.
Within days, I was rudely awakened to the pitfalls of boat ownership by the sudden realization that the operation and performance of this machine was not at all analogous to that of an automobile, as I had naively and erroneously assumed. With the simple turn of a key, cars start 99.9% of the time. You steer them through clearly delineated traffic lanes where other drivers observe generally accepted rules of the road. When you are finished using it, you park your car at your destination, lock the door with a remote control, and walk away. And, in spite of constant exposure to sun, snow, sleet, and rain, cars do not rust, deteriorate, or require any special maintenance, other than an occasional oil change and filling the radiator with antifreeze once every five years.
A boat, on the other hand, demands as much coddling as a newborn child. Why this piece of equipment, built for water travel, is best preserved when taken out of the water remains a mystery to me. It collects dirt, grime, and mildew with amazing rapidity and regularity. There are no rules of the road, other than yield to a bigger boat or get crushed. Twice a year you must put your boat (and yourself) through an expensive and bothersome process known as winterizing (and dewinterizing), unless you want to freeze (or burn up) your engine block. And, regardless of the level of tender-loving care lavished on your boat, you nervously approach it each time out with bated breath and one crucial question burning in your brain: will it start?
Most of my boating history has conveniently faded into oblivion. But, in fact, the tantalizing samples I am about to present will more than suffice for you to glean the full flavor. To appreciate these delights, you must know that, for the first two or three years I owned my boat, I dry-docked it on the trailer, a foolish exercise in false economy. Consequently, every time I used my boat, I had to attach the trailer to my boat hitch, maneuver it down a steep incline, back it into the water, unhook the boat, get back in the car, and pull the trailer up from the ramp. This meant that by the time I was ready to get in the boat and start it up, I was thoroughly exhausted. It also meant that the sophisticated stereo equipment I (or my father) had paid extra for was stolen within a month.
Nevertheless, I persevered.
Not long after acquiring my boat, I was smitten by a lady to whom I began to devote serious energy and attention. Since she was, in her words, "a hard-working country girl," I thought a relaxing, peaceful, nautical tour of Smith Mountain Lake might appeal to her sensibilities. I chose a weekday afternoon -- to avoid any intrusive boat traffic -- purchased some cold cuts, cheese, and bread, and brought along a little wine to kindle the romance.
It was a glorious day, the kind that makes a man think all his struggles with his boat just might be worthwhile. The cloudless blue sky formed a perfect canopy over the bottle-green lake expanse and distant shoreline. The sun warmed our upper bodies, yet the heat was moderated by a gentle breeze which ruffled the water's surface, adding a rhythmic element to the idyllic setting.
The day progressed nicely into late afternoon. Overcoming my natural clumsiness, I handled the boat quite well, guiding it about the lake, pointing out significant landmarks (the few that I knew, lying about the others), and locating a quiet, sheltered cove where we could partake of food and beverage and engage in lighthearted conversation. Since I had agreed to get her home to her two boys by a certain hour, we had just begun to cruise across the lake to the boat landing when the engine emitted an ominous cough, sputtered, and then meekly expired, leaving us adrift, in silence, solitude, and suspended animation.
Mechanically challenged as I was, there was no hope of my figuring out a way to restart the engine. Out of stubbornness or stupidity, I had neglected to equip the boat with paddles. Frustrated and despondent, I cursed, fussed, stammered, and appealed hopelessly to the heavens, while my more self-possessed companion exhibited admirable patience and jocularity.
Fortunately, after an hour of hand-wringing, came the deus ex machina, another boater who, grasping our predicament but not wanting to risk either boat on a longer journey, volunteered to tow us to the near side of the lake -- the Franklin County side. He then offered to take me back across the lake to get my trailer.
If you think Smith Mountain Lake is big, try semi-circumnavigating it -- twice. The road was narrow, twisting, and uneven, the ride endless and harrowing, made even moreso by the rattle of the empty trailer on the way out and the unstable weight of the loaded one on the way back. More than once during that trip I entertained thoughts of abandoning the boat where it rested and taking up some less strenuous form of relaxation, but I couldn't bear the thought of allowing it to conquer me.
Shortly after sunset, weary and dispirited, we deposited the boat at the Marina and headed home, my nerves as frazzled as that sputtering motor, the romance of a perfect date evaporating in the wind like the smoke from a burnt-out engine.
I hadn't learned my lesson, however. A few months later I went back for more punishment -- and took my children. Already familiar with their father's manual ineptitude -- at the tender ages of eight, eleven, and fourteen -- they were justifiably skeptical of these marine excursions. Having repaired the motor and coped with a major crisis, I had gained a new level of confidence and was anxious to showcase my proficiency.
The day was somewhat overcast, with lowering clouds on the horizon, but having made the one-hour journey to the lake and packing more sandwiches and beverages (of the non-alcoholic variety), I was undaunted by any threatening weather. We executed a successful launch, motored around the lake for an hour, and were ready to break out the food when we noticed the boat listing precariously and water collecting at our feet. About this time a light rain began to fall, dampening our clothes and our spirits but hardly enough to fill the boat with water.
In a matter of minutes the boat was riding low, rocking unsteadily, and becoming difficult to handle, while the water continued to rise, although at a very slow rate. "This is not looking good, kids," I brilliantly concluded. "I think we need to bring this boat in." Naturally, they were disappointed, but faced with a choice of sinking or going ashore, they finally concurred. Much to my surprise -- and gratification - -the motor started up promptly, and, barely afloat, we crawled towards dry land.
By the time we reached the boat ramp, I was in a state of panic, knowing full well that we had narrowly escaped disaster. I jumped out of the boat, dashed to the car, and, probably on the third try, backed the trailer far enough into the water to enable us to hook up the boat, which had almost swamped. As the rain's intensity increased, further jarring my nerves, I frantically jerked our towels and food supplies out of the boat, threw them in the trunk of the car, and slammed down the top.
I rushed around to the driver's side, reached into my pocket for the car keys, and came up empty-handed. Oh yes, standing there in the thickening rain, with a boat full of water sitting on a trailer halfway up the ramp, I had locked the keys in the trunk of the car. I slumped dejectedly onto the the front seat, pounded my fists on the steering wheel, and let out a stream of curses which were only drowned out by the rain beating on the car's roof.
The rest of the story -- and its embarrassing denouement -- can be swiftly told. My resourceful lads attacked the back seat, which, this being an ancient two-door Cutlass, did not fold down, managed to detach it from its moorings, crawled into the trunk, and retrieved the keys. Slowly, very slowly, as my rear wheels strained against the weight and gripped for traction, I was able to pull the boat far enough up the ramp to allow the water to empty out -- through the bolt hole, which I had forgotten to plug the last time I drained the bottom of the boat, and the root cause of our sinking spell.
I wasn't savvy enough to sell my boat, even after that painful episode. No, I continued to pour more money into it, renting a lift berth, winterizing and dewinterizing it, and paying for miscellaneous service to keep it functioning for the half-dozen times I used it over the next twenty-four months. And every voyage was as tiresome and cheerless as the one before.
At last, mercifully, dawned the second greatest day in this boat-owner's life, when, with a rush of exhilaration and a surge of joy, I was able to relieve myself of this floating albatross. I sold it for a pittance, but it was worth every penny lost. And my psychic remuneration more than compensated for any material shortfall, for I found solace in the thought of having served up a double dose of happiness to the proud new owner, the first being his day of purchase and the second, of course, the day he decides he can suffer no more and sells my boat again.
Monday, August 27, 2007
The Last Nine Holes
Ten years ago I gave up golf for the fifth and last time.
Saturday night at a Hawaiian luau -- if such an event can be defined by a patchwork of printed shirts and skirts, pastel-shaded paper necklaces, and wicked mai-tais along with North Carolina barbecue -- a casual conversation brought to mind the circumstances of that final renunciation, most painfully when the person I was talking to, a bit player in this melodrama, righteously rebuked me with the rhetorical exclamation: "And just where is my five-iron?"
My struggles with golf began at an early age -- ten, eleven, twelve -- when I took it up as a sport of last resort. You see, if you weren't big or strong or fast enough to play football, agile or quick enough to play basketball, and lacked the hand-eye coordination to hit a baseball, (Soccer and tennis were irrelevant back in those days.) golf seemed the perfect recourse: it was respectable and sociable; you didn't have to run, jump, or hit a moving object; and it had one tremendous advantage for a bookish kid burdened with athletic insecurities: you could practice it alone.
I quickly learned that, much to my dismay, even though the ball was sitting motionless, sometimes propped on a tee, I still couldn't hit it very well, neither far nor straight, rarely breaking 100 -- unless I cheated -- in spite of hacking around on one of the shortest -- only 6600 yards -- and easiest scoring courses in America, Oakwood Country Club. That was fairly acceptable if you were a teenager and playing in a foursome with other athletically-challenged fellows. But after graduating from the academic world and moving into a more mature business and social environment, I suddenly discovered where all the ex-football, basketball, and baseball jocks, and their physical prowess, had migrated: to the golf course. And they could hit the ball 250 yards, reach the green with their second shot, and record scores as unfamiliar to me as the fairway: par.
Lacking the skill of those low and medium handicappers and discouraged by the fact that my golf game consistently produced one decent shot followed by two wretched ones, I laid aside my clubs, permanently, I thought, and adopted an activity less frustrating, rarely competitive, and strictly solitary: running.
I actually like the game of golf. Every time I pass by a golf course, I steal a wistful glance at the placid beauty of the undulating fairways, treacherously seductive sand traps, rippled lakes, and perfectly groomed putting surfaces, all dotted with players in various stages of their game or merrily steering their carts towards their next shot, all the while admiring their passion, proficiency, and perseverance.
Two of the most enjoyable days of my life were spent at professional golf tournaments: the final round of 1999 U.S. Open at Pinehurst, N.C., where my son and I marveled at the controlled power of the game's demigods, watched John Daly post a twelve on a hole, and heard (but couldn't see) Payne Stewart sink an eight-foot putt on the final hole to claim the championship; and the first round of the 2006 Masters, where my mother -- an avid golfer for over 50 years -- and I traversed the rolling hills and lush fairways of this signature golf course and stood ten feet from Tiger Woods as he hit a blind shot into the creek on the perilous par five fifteenth hole.
After initially quitting golf some thirty-five years ago, I can recall picking up some clubs only three times before my last nine holes: during my first honeymoon at the Castle Harbour Resort in Bermuda, where my wife and I were situated so close to the lovely course, part of which overlooked the ocean, that we couldn't resist giving it a futile try; at least once (but no more than once) on our family's annual June trek to Myrtle Beach, where our host, the Spring Air Bedding Company, sponsors a one-day golf tournament and somehow enticed me to participate, much to my regret and to the chagrin of my playing partners, whose round took half again as long to complete as is customary; and a thankfully brief six-hole experiment at Bald Head Island, where the friend we were traveling with insisted I share his clubs since the back door of our condo opened directly onto the third hole, blithely ignorant of how much he was putting those clubs at risk.
When my wife and I returned to Bald Head Island ten years ago for a week-long vacation with three of our children, a round of golf appeared on my radar screen. Bald Head Island is a delightful idyllic resort (or at least it was then), with wide, sandy, almost deserted beaches, a picturesque harbor sheltering a few quaint shops, miles of golf cart paths (no automobiles allowed) and nature trails, and a stately country club. But it is accessible only by ferry, and once one has explored the island's lighthouse, patronized the local grocery store, and dined at Eb and Flo's, there is little else to do, other than consume more books, which I can do voraciously. Realizing that even I might overdose on the printed word, I resolved that I would devote one day to golfing with my fifteen-year-old son Matthew, in preparation for which I purchased a set of used clubs from Play It Again Sports and borrowed a set from a friend, whom you have already met in the second paragraph of this narrative.
Since Matthew had never played before and I wasn't much further along, I decided we should both take a lesson. Our blond, tanned, thirty-something instructor was patient and accommodating as he attempted to impart the basic skills we would need to navigate the golf course: how to stand, grip the club, and swing. He suggested that I adjust my shoulder position, which I did, resulting in a totally uncomfortable follow-through.
It was a typical August day at Bald Head Island: a sweltering 95 degrees with 100% humidity and a heat index of about 107. After ninety minutes of watching practice balls dribble harmlessly off the tee or spray in every direction but straight -- and concluding that he couldn't fit two square pegs in round holes -- our instructor was not sanguine about our prospects. And he was brutally honest. "It's mighty hot out there, guys. Are you sure you want to play?" he said. Matthew and I, equally stubborn, never hesitated. "We made it this far," I replied. "Of course we do." And off we marched -- to Purgatory.
My memory and sanity will not permit me to replay that round of golf hole-by-hole. Suffice it to say that, after the first, it became readily apparent that we were facing some severe obstacles: we weren't very good; it was extremely hot; and the course, having been carved out of a swamp, was cursed with a multitude of water hazards.
When you don't hit the ball very far, you have to swing the club more often, which generates more perspiration, which makes it harder to grip the club properly, which further reduces your distance. When you don't hit the ball straight, you spend a lot of time and energy looking for it, which generates even more perspiration and tires you out, which makes it harder to swing the club.
To make matters worse, it seemed that every hole featured a creek running through the fairway or a lake adjacent to it, and we were finding those oases with relentless frequency. On one hole we ventured close to the water to retrieve an errant ball, only to beat a hasty retreat when a snake slithered ashore. We were losing balls at a pace too rapid for me to calculate; I only knew how many we had started with: twenty-four.
After we had bravely battled the elements and our own ineptitude for close to two hours, the ultimate mortification occurred around the sixth or seventh hole, when I flailed mightily at the ball, only to have the five-iron I was holding slip from my grasp and fly like a wounded bird straight for the nearest lake, where it disappeared in a muffled splash. Already intimidated by a snake sighting and having heard whispers of alligators prowling the neighborhood, we decided to let it lie.
We had embarked with every intention of playing a full complement of eighteen holes, but as we trudged up the ninth fairway, I was patently exhausted. "Let's call it a day, Matt," I implored. Matt looked at me with surprising eagerness and a glimmer of hope in his expression. "But Dad," he said innocently, "maybe the other nine holes will be easier." "They might be," I replied, "but we are out of golf balls."
And so we were. We had played nine holes (well eighteen, if you count the two of us), and lost twenty-four golf balls and one five-iron -- a dubious record surely unequaled in the annals of golf, and one that I do not care to challenge at any future date. Therefore my rusting golf clubs now lie in storage, perpetually dormant, while my enjoyment of this gentleman's game is relegated to spectating and cocktail conversation, during which I often amuse my listeners with the rather pathetic tale of a hot summer day on Bald Head Island when I played my last nine holes.
Saturday night at a Hawaiian luau -- if such an event can be defined by a patchwork of printed shirts and skirts, pastel-shaded paper necklaces, and wicked mai-tais along with North Carolina barbecue -- a casual conversation brought to mind the circumstances of that final renunciation, most painfully when the person I was talking to, a bit player in this melodrama, righteously rebuked me with the rhetorical exclamation: "And just where is my five-iron?"
My struggles with golf began at an early age -- ten, eleven, twelve -- when I took it up as a sport of last resort. You see, if you weren't big or strong or fast enough to play football, agile or quick enough to play basketball, and lacked the hand-eye coordination to hit a baseball, (Soccer and tennis were irrelevant back in those days.) golf seemed the perfect recourse: it was respectable and sociable; you didn't have to run, jump, or hit a moving object; and it had one tremendous advantage for a bookish kid burdened with athletic insecurities: you could practice it alone.
I quickly learned that, much to my dismay, even though the ball was sitting motionless, sometimes propped on a tee, I still couldn't hit it very well, neither far nor straight, rarely breaking 100 -- unless I cheated -- in spite of hacking around on one of the shortest -- only 6600 yards -- and easiest scoring courses in America, Oakwood Country Club. That was fairly acceptable if you were a teenager and playing in a foursome with other athletically-challenged fellows. But after graduating from the academic world and moving into a more mature business and social environment, I suddenly discovered where all the ex-football, basketball, and baseball jocks, and their physical prowess, had migrated: to the golf course. And they could hit the ball 250 yards, reach the green with their second shot, and record scores as unfamiliar to me as the fairway: par.
Lacking the skill of those low and medium handicappers and discouraged by the fact that my golf game consistently produced one decent shot followed by two wretched ones, I laid aside my clubs, permanently, I thought, and adopted an activity less frustrating, rarely competitive, and strictly solitary: running.
I actually like the game of golf. Every time I pass by a golf course, I steal a wistful glance at the placid beauty of the undulating fairways, treacherously seductive sand traps, rippled lakes, and perfectly groomed putting surfaces, all dotted with players in various stages of their game or merrily steering their carts towards their next shot, all the while admiring their passion, proficiency, and perseverance.
Two of the most enjoyable days of my life were spent at professional golf tournaments: the final round of 1999 U.S. Open at Pinehurst, N.C., where my son and I marveled at the controlled power of the game's demigods, watched John Daly post a twelve on a hole, and heard (but couldn't see) Payne Stewart sink an eight-foot putt on the final hole to claim the championship; and the first round of the 2006 Masters, where my mother -- an avid golfer for over 50 years -- and I traversed the rolling hills and lush fairways of this signature golf course and stood ten feet from Tiger Woods as he hit a blind shot into the creek on the perilous par five fifteenth hole.
After initially quitting golf some thirty-five years ago, I can recall picking up some clubs only three times before my last nine holes: during my first honeymoon at the Castle Harbour Resort in Bermuda, where my wife and I were situated so close to the lovely course, part of which overlooked the ocean, that we couldn't resist giving it a futile try; at least once (but no more than once) on our family's annual June trek to Myrtle Beach, where our host, the Spring Air Bedding Company, sponsors a one-day golf tournament and somehow enticed me to participate, much to my regret and to the chagrin of my playing partners, whose round took half again as long to complete as is customary; and a thankfully brief six-hole experiment at Bald Head Island, where the friend we were traveling with insisted I share his clubs since the back door of our condo opened directly onto the third hole, blithely ignorant of how much he was putting those clubs at risk.
When my wife and I returned to Bald Head Island ten years ago for a week-long vacation with three of our children, a round of golf appeared on my radar screen. Bald Head Island is a delightful idyllic resort (or at least it was then), with wide, sandy, almost deserted beaches, a picturesque harbor sheltering a few quaint shops, miles of golf cart paths (no automobiles allowed) and nature trails, and a stately country club. But it is accessible only by ferry, and once one has explored the island's lighthouse, patronized the local grocery store, and dined at Eb and Flo's, there is little else to do, other than consume more books, which I can do voraciously. Realizing that even I might overdose on the printed word, I resolved that I would devote one day to golfing with my fifteen-year-old son Matthew, in preparation for which I purchased a set of used clubs from Play It Again Sports and borrowed a set from a friend, whom you have already met in the second paragraph of this narrative.
Since Matthew had never played before and I wasn't much further along, I decided we should both take a lesson. Our blond, tanned, thirty-something instructor was patient and accommodating as he attempted to impart the basic skills we would need to navigate the golf course: how to stand, grip the club, and swing. He suggested that I adjust my shoulder position, which I did, resulting in a totally uncomfortable follow-through.
It was a typical August day at Bald Head Island: a sweltering 95 degrees with 100% humidity and a heat index of about 107. After ninety minutes of watching practice balls dribble harmlessly off the tee or spray in every direction but straight -- and concluding that he couldn't fit two square pegs in round holes -- our instructor was not sanguine about our prospects. And he was brutally honest. "It's mighty hot out there, guys. Are you sure you want to play?" he said. Matthew and I, equally stubborn, never hesitated. "We made it this far," I replied. "Of course we do." And off we marched -- to Purgatory.
My memory and sanity will not permit me to replay that round of golf hole-by-hole. Suffice it to say that, after the first, it became readily apparent that we were facing some severe obstacles: we weren't very good; it was extremely hot; and the course, having been carved out of a swamp, was cursed with a multitude of water hazards.
When you don't hit the ball very far, you have to swing the club more often, which generates more perspiration, which makes it harder to grip the club properly, which further reduces your distance. When you don't hit the ball straight, you spend a lot of time and energy looking for it, which generates even more perspiration and tires you out, which makes it harder to swing the club.
To make matters worse, it seemed that every hole featured a creek running through the fairway or a lake adjacent to it, and we were finding those oases with relentless frequency. On one hole we ventured close to the water to retrieve an errant ball, only to beat a hasty retreat when a snake slithered ashore. We were losing balls at a pace too rapid for me to calculate; I only knew how many we had started with: twenty-four.
After we had bravely battled the elements and our own ineptitude for close to two hours, the ultimate mortification occurred around the sixth or seventh hole, when I flailed mightily at the ball, only to have the five-iron I was holding slip from my grasp and fly like a wounded bird straight for the nearest lake, where it disappeared in a muffled splash. Already intimidated by a snake sighting and having heard whispers of alligators prowling the neighborhood, we decided to let it lie.
We had embarked with every intention of playing a full complement of eighteen holes, but as we trudged up the ninth fairway, I was patently exhausted. "Let's call it a day, Matt," I implored. Matt looked at me with surprising eagerness and a glimmer of hope in his expression. "But Dad," he said innocently, "maybe the other nine holes will be easier." "They might be," I replied, "but we are out of golf balls."
And so we were. We had played nine holes (well eighteen, if you count the two of us), and lost twenty-four golf balls and one five-iron -- a dubious record surely unequaled in the annals of golf, and one that I do not care to challenge at any future date. Therefore my rusting golf clubs now lie in storage, perpetually dormant, while my enjoyment of this gentleman's game is relegated to spectating and cocktail conversation, during which I often amuse my listeners with the rather pathetic tale of a hot summer day on Bald Head Island when I played my last nine holes.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
The Solar Boat
Unlike more astute travelers, like my son, who have had the wisdom to describe and interpret their experiences while they retained some degree of immediacy, this nascent blogger, in telling this tale, must summon from the fog of forgetfulness events no less than eighteen months past and as distant as the Great Pyramids seen from 30,000 feet. Thus, your chronicler is compelled to resort to practices often employed by other putative memoirists: studied embellishment (translation: outright lying) and a bit of research (translation: borderline plagiarism).
You see, I wasn't blogging when my wife and I journeyed to Egypt in February 2006 under the auspices of Washington and Lee University, never envisioned any future blogging, and felt no urgency to memorialize the details of this trip for myself or posterity--other than to compose five pages of rhyming couplets--more a half-hearted stab at humor than serious history--which I abandoned in frustration when I got two days behind, and to scratch out some barely legible notes for future reference, a well-intentioned but futile exercise, as the purported epic remained untouched upon my return home.
Looking back at my pseudo-artistry for the first time in, literally, eighteen months, I realize that, as I thought at the time, it's not as good as I wanted it to be, but it's better than I gave myself credit for when I declined to read it at our tour group's farewell dinner in spite of the entreaties of my friend Martha Goodman. And it's probably fortuitous that I quit writing when I did; not only was the subject matter becoming repetitive--one pharoah, tomb, monument, and temple after another--but so were the rhymes.
What I do regret about that trip was not preparing myself better. I hardly imagined the scope of our sight-seeing nor the surfeit of information with which we would be inundated. I remembered nothing of Ancient Egypt from my high school or college studies--where it lay buried among other great civilizations that had risen and fallen--and I stubbornly refused to read our itinerary or peruse the 346-page Discovery Channel Travel Guide provided by Washington and Lee. I deserved to be overwhelmed, and I was.
From our first morning visit to the Cairo Museum, which houses the world's largest collection of Egyptian artifacts (no surprise there), including the treasures of Tutankhamen and the mummies of the mightiest pharoahs, through our midweek tours of the Valley of the Kings and the magnificent temples of Karnak and Abu Simbel, to our last day spent at the massive Pyramids of Giza, which we had first glimpsed in their towering grandeur from the patio of our room at the historic Mena House Hotel the evening before, we were awed by the marvels of antiquity, the amazing constructs of a civilization lacking electrical energy, the intellectual development of a society 4000 years old, and the restorative and preservative powers of modern archaeology. In addition, we were fortunate to enjoy the sevices of a handsome, charming, and brilliant Egyptologist, Tariq El Shabiki, whose knowledge of all things Egyptian--whether Ancient, Middle-Aged, Victorian, or Contemporary--and many things American--particularly music--seemed unlimited.
Some time during that last day, sandwiched between a camel ride (My wife Maggie took two, the first unscheduled, when she was lured aboard by an entrepreneurial driver.) and a viewing of Pharoah Khufu's mortuary temple, we were ushered into a non-descript--but air-conditioned--building in the shadow of his Great Pyramid. Tariq proceeded to explain that we were inside a museum, a boat museum, to be exact, and to point out various artifacts and photographs relating to one particular boat, deemed the Solar Boat. The photographs depicted the discovery and excavation of the boat in 1954 by Kamal el-Mallekh, one of five actually buried in the tomb and one of two unearthed intact.
According to Tariq, in an early case of faulty engineering, upon its completion in 2500 B.C., the boat was found to be too large for the pit which had been built to house it. Consequently, the builders had to break it down or, in Tariq's words, "fold the boat in two," in order to make it fit the burial space.
Among the materials on display were samples of the wood and rope used in construction, cedar wood imported from Lebanon, Egypt's first colony, and rope woven from the fiber of the palm tree. Apparently, panels of wood were tied together with the rope and sealed to make the vessel watertight.
In his inimitable style and polished accent, Tariq gave us an extensive lesson in the boat's mythology. Although some Egyptologists have speculated that the boat was a funerary barge which transported the king's embalmed body from Memphis to Giza, or a pilgrimmage ship in which Khufu himself visited holy places, and buried with him for his use in the afterlife, Tariq subscribed to the theory that it was a solar barge, designed to carry the resurrected Pharoah, with all the possessions and necessities of his second life, across the sky following his father, the sun god Ra. (Wikapedia)
Tariq continued by describing how the archaeologist Mallekh, after his discovery, completely dismantled the boat into 1224 individual pieces in the pit, removed them, and painstakingly reconstructed them over a period of seven years--recreating the original 43-meter vessel. At this point, Tariq held out his hands, palms up, paused, and dramatically raised them and his head skyward, simultaneously exclaiming: "And there it is!"
I looked up, and my jaw dropped in astonishment. For truly, there it was, a glorious window into the past, a 4500-year-old wooden boat, appearing as seaworthy as any afloat today and proving that boats, at least at first glance, haven't changed that much in 45 centuries. The perfectly formed hull curved up fore and aft like a giant ram's horn. A chamber for the Pharoah and his courtiers was anchored firmly to the upper deck, while spindly oars protruded from the superstructure like antennae from an insect. Ramps and walkways enabled observers to examine all aspects of the boat, and, upon closer inspection, my amazement intensified.
More than the Great Pyramids, or the elaborate crypts, or the priceless treasures, or the intricate hieroglyphics, this solar boat symbolized and encapsulated in one striking revelation the realities of that ancient civilization. It seemed that our entire week of immersion had been pointing to this moment. The majesty and power--the megalomania--of the Pharoahs, the peculiarities and the totality of the religious mythology, the mundane activities of daily life, the crude technological sophistication of these master builders, the reach of the Empire, archaeology as the foundation of our understanding of antiquity--all seemed to sail aboard that solar boat.
Or fly, rather, traversing the heavens like the sun god it chases, an unusual image of Ancient Egypt, to be sure, but one that persists in my consciousness and which, as I reflect on it and its meaning for me, illuminates others more dimly perceived--not enough for me to resume my poetry, but enough to animate memories of a fabulous place. If you ever have the opportunity, go there.
You see, I wasn't blogging when my wife and I journeyed to Egypt in February 2006 under the auspices of Washington and Lee University, never envisioned any future blogging, and felt no urgency to memorialize the details of this trip for myself or posterity--other than to compose five pages of rhyming couplets--more a half-hearted stab at humor than serious history--which I abandoned in frustration when I got two days behind, and to scratch out some barely legible notes for future reference, a well-intentioned but futile exercise, as the purported epic remained untouched upon my return home.
Looking back at my pseudo-artistry for the first time in, literally, eighteen months, I realize that, as I thought at the time, it's not as good as I wanted it to be, but it's better than I gave myself credit for when I declined to read it at our tour group's farewell dinner in spite of the entreaties of my friend Martha Goodman. And it's probably fortuitous that I quit writing when I did; not only was the subject matter becoming repetitive--one pharoah, tomb, monument, and temple after another--but so were the rhymes.
What I do regret about that trip was not preparing myself better. I hardly imagined the scope of our sight-seeing nor the surfeit of information with which we would be inundated. I remembered nothing of Ancient Egypt from my high school or college studies--where it lay buried among other great civilizations that had risen and fallen--and I stubbornly refused to read our itinerary or peruse the 346-page Discovery Channel Travel Guide provided by Washington and Lee. I deserved to be overwhelmed, and I was.
From our first morning visit to the Cairo Museum, which houses the world's largest collection of Egyptian artifacts (no surprise there), including the treasures of Tutankhamen and the mummies of the mightiest pharoahs, through our midweek tours of the Valley of the Kings and the magnificent temples of Karnak and Abu Simbel, to our last day spent at the massive Pyramids of Giza, which we had first glimpsed in their towering grandeur from the patio of our room at the historic Mena House Hotel the evening before, we were awed by the marvels of antiquity, the amazing constructs of a civilization lacking electrical energy, the intellectual development of a society 4000 years old, and the restorative and preservative powers of modern archaeology. In addition, we were fortunate to enjoy the sevices of a handsome, charming, and brilliant Egyptologist, Tariq El Shabiki, whose knowledge of all things Egyptian--whether Ancient, Middle-Aged, Victorian, or Contemporary--and many things American--particularly music--seemed unlimited.
Some time during that last day, sandwiched between a camel ride (My wife Maggie took two, the first unscheduled, when she was lured aboard by an entrepreneurial driver.) and a viewing of Pharoah Khufu's mortuary temple, we were ushered into a non-descript--but air-conditioned--building in the shadow of his Great Pyramid. Tariq proceeded to explain that we were inside a museum, a boat museum, to be exact, and to point out various artifacts and photographs relating to one particular boat, deemed the Solar Boat. The photographs depicted the discovery and excavation of the boat in 1954 by Kamal el-Mallekh, one of five actually buried in the tomb and one of two unearthed intact.
According to Tariq, in an early case of faulty engineering, upon its completion in 2500 B.C., the boat was found to be too large for the pit which had been built to house it. Consequently, the builders had to break it down or, in Tariq's words, "fold the boat in two," in order to make it fit the burial space.
Among the materials on display were samples of the wood and rope used in construction, cedar wood imported from Lebanon, Egypt's first colony, and rope woven from the fiber of the palm tree. Apparently, panels of wood were tied together with the rope and sealed to make the vessel watertight.
In his inimitable style and polished accent, Tariq gave us an extensive lesson in the boat's mythology. Although some Egyptologists have speculated that the boat was a funerary barge which transported the king's embalmed body from Memphis to Giza, or a pilgrimmage ship in which Khufu himself visited holy places, and buried with him for his use in the afterlife, Tariq subscribed to the theory that it was a solar barge, designed to carry the resurrected Pharoah, with all the possessions and necessities of his second life, across the sky following his father, the sun god Ra. (Wikapedia)
Tariq continued by describing how the archaeologist Mallekh, after his discovery, completely dismantled the boat into 1224 individual pieces in the pit, removed them, and painstakingly reconstructed them over a period of seven years--recreating the original 43-meter vessel. At this point, Tariq held out his hands, palms up, paused, and dramatically raised them and his head skyward, simultaneously exclaiming: "And there it is!"
I looked up, and my jaw dropped in astonishment. For truly, there it was, a glorious window into the past, a 4500-year-old wooden boat, appearing as seaworthy as any afloat today and proving that boats, at least at first glance, haven't changed that much in 45 centuries. The perfectly formed hull curved up fore and aft like a giant ram's horn. A chamber for the Pharoah and his courtiers was anchored firmly to the upper deck, while spindly oars protruded from the superstructure like antennae from an insect. Ramps and walkways enabled observers to examine all aspects of the boat, and, upon closer inspection, my amazement intensified.
More than the Great Pyramids, or the elaborate crypts, or the priceless treasures, or the intricate hieroglyphics, this solar boat symbolized and encapsulated in one striking revelation the realities of that ancient civilization. It seemed that our entire week of immersion had been pointing to this moment. The majesty and power--the megalomania--of the Pharoahs, the peculiarities and the totality of the religious mythology, the mundane activities of daily life, the crude technological sophistication of these master builders, the reach of the Empire, archaeology as the foundation of our understanding of antiquity--all seemed to sail aboard that solar boat.
Or fly, rather, traversing the heavens like the sun god it chases, an unusual image of Ancient Egypt, to be sure, but one that persists in my consciousness and which, as I reflect on it and its meaning for me, illuminates others more dimly perceived--not enough for me to resume my poetry, but enough to animate memories of a fabulous place. If you ever have the opportunity, go there.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Searching for Starbucks
Some years ago, troubled by a newly-acquired craving, I asked a colleague on the Randolph-Macon Woman's College Board of Trustees whether she thought excessive consumption of coffee might be harmful. Without a moment's hesitation, displaying the elegant phraseology which I had come to admire during our brief acquaintance, she replied, "That, my friend, is the most benign of vices."
With recent evidence suggesting that one's life expectancy can be extended by ingesting five cups a day and probably not materially affected by indulging in as many as twenty-five, the question arises: what took me so long to appreciate the bean's pleasures?
One can always blame one's parents, whom I never saw leisurely chatting over a morning cuppa joe. Somehow I breezed through high school and occasional all nighters in college with nary a thought of a caffeine-induced energizer, since most peer pressure focused on consuming concoctions made of sterner stuff. I do remember a distaste for coffee originating out of its being the only liquid available at a football game I attended at a neighboring institution and finding it totally unsuitable as a thirst quencher on a hot day.
I don't recall another cup of coffee for thirty-five years -- in spite of innumerable dinner dates, early morning breakfast meetings, and long airplane rides, during all of which gracious servers would display a pronounced quizzical expression in response to my firm "No Thank You," before I learned to upend my coffee cup, thereby politely avoiding any discomforting repartee.
Ironically enough, during this long period of resistance, I did learn to make coffee, from the grounds, of course, not the beans. My former wife required a cup of coffee in the morning before she could function properly, and thus it became my duty as the earlier riser to brew and bring her a bedside cup. One may deduce an ulterior motive to my obsequiousness, as there were many mornings when I wanted her awake, alert, energetic, and responsive to my attentions.
One disastrous experience had me thoroughly convinced that I was destined to live out my remaining days a coffee abstainer. After eighteen hours on an airplane flight from Egypt and a three-hour wait for baggage, my wife and I found ourselves stranded at snowbound JFK airport at 2:00 AM with no hope of a room or a flight out the next day. We rented a car for the eight-hour drive home, and in order to stay awake, at the first convenient rest stop I ordered the largest cup of coffee on the menu. I pulled onto the highway, and, not really knowing how to drink a cup of coffee, I impatiently tilted the cup back and took a healthy swallow. Actually unhealthy, as I spectacularly scalded my lips, mouth, and tongue. I never knew what the coffee tasted like; in fact, I couldn't taste anything for ten days, the time it took for my singed membranes to heal.
But it was only six months later that my life changed forever. I was attending a special called meeting of the Randolph-Macon Woman's College (now Randolph College) Board of Trustees in Washington, D.C., at the Center for Higher Education, when, in the midst of a very important discussion concerning the future of the College, I began to doze. I realized that it would be very embarrassing to fall out of my chair or for my head to thud resoundingly on the table. In desperation my eye was drawn to a large aluminum urn beckoning from the back of the room. I surreptitiously glided that way, and poured myself a cup of coffee. Returning to my seat, I felt rejuvenated, quickened, and infatuated by the flavor, enough to chance a second cup.
What had I been missing all these years? At the ripe of fifty-five, out of the blue, I joined the masses, tantalized by the aroma, hooked by the taste, especially the taste of that first sip, in which are swirled together the incongruous elements of bitter sweetness, chocolate vanilla, and dry refreshment, and then reeled in by the stimulative effect.
I am still a novice. I can't distinguish various beans, roasts, or blends. I just know what I like, and I'm not going to waste my drinking on some dirty brown sludge that's deemed coffee simply because it's hot and "brewed fresh daily." I always drink it black; I don't see the point of adulterating this scintillating flavor with products that, frankly, are not very healthy.
Since my ex-wife had taken her coffee maker upon her departure, it wasn't long before I discovered Starbucks. Purists may turn their noses up, but I like it for the consistency (except at airports) and the fullness. I avoid sweets and dairy products, so I don't partake of cream, sugar, lattes, cappuccinos, frappes, chocolate chip brownies, or two-tone pound cake -- although they all look irresistible -- nor do I understand all the hisses, fizzes, stirring, pouring, and commotion as I wait impatiently for a simple cup of black coffee, although one has to admire the marketing genius who created $5 entrees out of this universal commodity and a chain of lifestyle restaurants to purvey them to eager consumers.
Some of the best coffee I've had is prepared at the White Hart, an unobtrusive cafe located on Main Street in Downtown Lynchburg across from the City Market. While transitioning through three ownership changes, its quality has not been compromised; the founder still supervises the hand-roasting process. When his business acumen failed to measure up to his brewing skills, a local entrepreneur stepped in, and with the help of Crowdfunding resurrected the establishment, put it on sound financial footing, and subsequently sold it to one of his managers.
Raising prices, eliminating a self-service option, and distilling a selection that formerly featured beans from Columbia, Peru, Brazil, and Nicaragua into the aptly-named Poplar Forest dark roast have no doubt improved sustainability. Competing against a proliferation of Downtown dining establishments, the White Hart's tasty brew, uniquely primitive atmosphere, wifi availability, and all-day breakfast and sandwich menu have enabled it to attract a steady stream of college students and a handful of loyal local patrons. It's my favorite venue for a lunch tete-a-tete, not only because it's convenient and quiet and serves fare I heartily recommend, but also because I would really miss it were it no longer around.
As my habit rapidly evolved into a compulsion and I increased my dosage from one cup every two days to one a day and now sometimes two or more, usually on weekends or when I'm at the bridge table or on vacation, the White Hart became my regular morning destination for "a small coffee to go." Unlike most other addicts I have encountered, I don't require a caffeine kick immediately upon waking; I prefer to postpone my gratification until after I have worked out and digested my daily double of Raisin Bran or Special K and a banana. I have yet to understand how one can eat a meal and drink coffee simultaneously without the latter cooling to an unpalatable temperature.
I derive the most pleasure from coffee by drinking a cup when I set out on a long drive -- usually in the morning, but sometimes in the late afternoon. I settle in, facing an hour or more on the road, wait ten minutes for the coffee to cool below the scalding level, take that first sip, savor the taste, and feel both relaxed and stimulated, my senses alert to the highway, my mind lost amidst myriad thoughts and musings or soothed by soft rock music or the idle chatter of talk radio.
Imagine the surprise of my two furniture buyers when, after traveling the route together from our hotel in Greensboro to the High Point Furniture Market seven days twice a year for fifteen years with little conversation and certainly no detours, I asked them to pull into the Starbucks at the grandiose Furnitureland South store one crisp October morning. "I need to get my morning cup of coffee," I said, and in short order it became a ritual, so religiously observed that for Christmas a year later they presented me with a Keurig Machine.
Intimidated by the prospect of assembling the thing, I let the box sit it my kitchen unopened for about a month before my son Matt spotted it while visiting me. "I'll never use it," I said to him. "Why don't you take it home?"
"Dad," he said, "if there's any one who needs to be able to fix one cup of coffee, it's you. I'll set it up." Which he proceeded to do in about five minutes. Of course, this wasn't good news for the White Hart (or various Starbucks) as now -- after a trip to the Y Express, a shower, and breakfast -- I'm able to imbibe my not-so-guilty pleasure in the comfort of my home. After sifting through a wide assortment of supermarket brands, I finally settled on Green Mountain Dark Magic as offering a taste the closest to a real cup of coffee.
It's a vast improvement over the erroneously labeled "caffe americano" one finds in European hotels and restaurants, a bland gruel that emerges from the dilution of espresso with hot water. It took me about two swallows to realize that this concoction was intolerable and to convert me into an aficionado of unadulterated espresso (actually double espresso) -- at least for ten days, the length of most of my trips abroad, after which sipping from those miniature cups becomes quite annoying and I begin to yearn for some good old home brew.
With the benignity of coffee an established fact, what inherent vice could my friend have been referring to in her elegant epigram? I never pursued the point, but after reflecting upon it, I believe the answer lies with the term "coffee break." Before the advent of laptops, smartphones, and tablets, was there any more trivial way of deferring an activity, interrupting the work flow, or simply wasting time than slowly savoring that first, second, or third cup of the day?
I am reminded of a tale told by a friend who on one of his first days on the job as a rookie hospital administrator was reprimanded by his boss for bringing a cup of coffee to an early morning meeting. "From now on," he was sternly admonished, "please drink your coffee before coming to work."
That's a prescript more honored in the breach than the observance, as I can personally attest to. When asked by a cable service salesman some years ago what I actually did at my place of employment (Schewels), I responded: "After working out at the Y and scarfing down my breakfast, I drive ten minutes to downtown, walk one block to the White Hart Cafe, order a cup of coffee, go back to my office, sit down at my desk, wait for the phone to ring, and if someone has a question, I try to answer it."
If its leisurely enjoyment is the most severe condemnation we can apply to coffee, I hope to make the case that another benign practice may be even more non-productive than an occasional coffee break and thus more deserving to be labeled a vice. Because what I really want to talk about today is not coffee; it's compulsive reading, especially of popular fiction.
With recent evidence suggesting that one's life expectancy can be extended by ingesting five cups a day and probably not materially affected by indulging in as many as twenty-five, the question arises: what took me so long to appreciate the bean's pleasures?
One can always blame one's parents, whom I never saw leisurely chatting over a morning cuppa joe. Somehow I breezed through high school and occasional all nighters in college with nary a thought of a caffeine-induced energizer, since most peer pressure focused on consuming concoctions made of sterner stuff. I do remember a distaste for coffee originating out of its being the only liquid available at a football game I attended at a neighboring institution and finding it totally unsuitable as a thirst quencher on a hot day.
I don't recall another cup of coffee for thirty-five years -- in spite of innumerable dinner dates, early morning breakfast meetings, and long airplane rides, during all of which gracious servers would display a pronounced quizzical expression in response to my firm "No Thank You," before I learned to upend my coffee cup, thereby politely avoiding any discomforting repartee.
Ironically enough, during this long period of resistance, I did learn to make coffee, from the grounds, of course, not the beans. My former wife required a cup of coffee in the morning before she could function properly, and thus it became my duty as the earlier riser to brew and bring her a bedside cup. One may deduce an ulterior motive to my obsequiousness, as there were many mornings when I wanted her awake, alert, energetic, and responsive to my attentions.
One disastrous experience had me thoroughly convinced that I was destined to live out my remaining days a coffee abstainer. After eighteen hours on an airplane flight from Egypt and a three-hour wait for baggage, my wife and I found ourselves stranded at snowbound JFK airport at 2:00 AM with no hope of a room or a flight out the next day. We rented a car for the eight-hour drive home, and in order to stay awake, at the first convenient rest stop I ordered the largest cup of coffee on the menu. I pulled onto the highway, and, not really knowing how to drink a cup of coffee, I impatiently tilted the cup back and took a healthy swallow. Actually unhealthy, as I spectacularly scalded my lips, mouth, and tongue. I never knew what the coffee tasted like; in fact, I couldn't taste anything for ten days, the time it took for my singed membranes to heal.
But it was only six months later that my life changed forever. I was attending a special called meeting of the Randolph-Macon Woman's College (now Randolph College) Board of Trustees in Washington, D.C., at the Center for Higher Education, when, in the midst of a very important discussion concerning the future of the College, I began to doze. I realized that it would be very embarrassing to fall out of my chair or for my head to thud resoundingly on the table. In desperation my eye was drawn to a large aluminum urn beckoning from the back of the room. I surreptitiously glided that way, and poured myself a cup of coffee. Returning to my seat, I felt rejuvenated, quickened, and infatuated by the flavor, enough to chance a second cup.
What had I been missing all these years? At the ripe of fifty-five, out of the blue, I joined the masses, tantalized by the aroma, hooked by the taste, especially the taste of that first sip, in which are swirled together the incongruous elements of bitter sweetness, chocolate vanilla, and dry refreshment, and then reeled in by the stimulative effect.
I am still a novice. I can't distinguish various beans, roasts, or blends. I just know what I like, and I'm not going to waste my drinking on some dirty brown sludge that's deemed coffee simply because it's hot and "brewed fresh daily." I always drink it black; I don't see the point of adulterating this scintillating flavor with products that, frankly, are not very healthy.
Since my ex-wife had taken her coffee maker upon her departure, it wasn't long before I discovered Starbucks. Purists may turn their noses up, but I like it for the consistency (except at airports) and the fullness. I avoid sweets and dairy products, so I don't partake of cream, sugar, lattes, cappuccinos, frappes, chocolate chip brownies, or two-tone pound cake -- although they all look irresistible -- nor do I understand all the hisses, fizzes, stirring, pouring, and commotion as I wait impatiently for a simple cup of black coffee, although one has to admire the marketing genius who created $5 entrees out of this universal commodity and a chain of lifestyle restaurants to purvey them to eager consumers.
Some of the best coffee I've had is prepared at the White Hart, an unobtrusive cafe located on Main Street in Downtown Lynchburg across from the City Market. While transitioning through three ownership changes, its quality has not been compromised; the founder still supervises the hand-roasting process. When his business acumen failed to measure up to his brewing skills, a local entrepreneur stepped in, and with the help of Crowdfunding resurrected the establishment, put it on sound financial footing, and subsequently sold it to one of his managers.
Raising prices, eliminating a self-service option, and distilling a selection that formerly featured beans from Columbia, Peru, Brazil, and Nicaragua into the aptly-named Poplar Forest dark roast have no doubt improved sustainability. Competing against a proliferation of Downtown dining establishments, the White Hart's tasty brew, uniquely primitive atmosphere, wifi availability, and all-day breakfast and sandwich menu have enabled it to attract a steady stream of college students and a handful of loyal local patrons. It's my favorite venue for a lunch tete-a-tete, not only because it's convenient and quiet and serves fare I heartily recommend, but also because I would really miss it were it no longer around.
As my habit rapidly evolved into a compulsion and I increased my dosage from one cup every two days to one a day and now sometimes two or more, usually on weekends or when I'm at the bridge table or on vacation, the White Hart became my regular morning destination for "a small coffee to go." Unlike most other addicts I have encountered, I don't require a caffeine kick immediately upon waking; I prefer to postpone my gratification until after I have worked out and digested my daily double of Raisin Bran or Special K and a banana. I have yet to understand how one can eat a meal and drink coffee simultaneously without the latter cooling to an unpalatable temperature.
I derive the most pleasure from coffee by drinking a cup when I set out on a long drive -- usually in the morning, but sometimes in the late afternoon. I settle in, facing an hour or more on the road, wait ten minutes for the coffee to cool below the scalding level, take that first sip, savor the taste, and feel both relaxed and stimulated, my senses alert to the highway, my mind lost amidst myriad thoughts and musings or soothed by soft rock music or the idle chatter of talk radio.
Imagine the surprise of my two furniture buyers when, after traveling the route together from our hotel in Greensboro to the High Point Furniture Market seven days twice a year for fifteen years with little conversation and certainly no detours, I asked them to pull into the Starbucks at the grandiose Furnitureland South store one crisp October morning. "I need to get my morning cup of coffee," I said, and in short order it became a ritual, so religiously observed that for Christmas a year later they presented me with a Keurig Machine.
Intimidated by the prospect of assembling the thing, I let the box sit it my kitchen unopened for about a month before my son Matt spotted it while visiting me. "I'll never use it," I said to him. "Why don't you take it home?"
"Dad," he said, "if there's any one who needs to be able to fix one cup of coffee, it's you. I'll set it up." Which he proceeded to do in about five minutes. Of course, this wasn't good news for the White Hart (or various Starbucks) as now -- after a trip to the Y Express, a shower, and breakfast -- I'm able to imbibe my not-so-guilty pleasure in the comfort of my home. After sifting through a wide assortment of supermarket brands, I finally settled on Green Mountain Dark Magic as offering a taste the closest to a real cup of coffee.
It's a vast improvement over the erroneously labeled "caffe americano" one finds in European hotels and restaurants, a bland gruel that emerges from the dilution of espresso with hot water. It took me about two swallows to realize that this concoction was intolerable and to convert me into an aficionado of unadulterated espresso (actually double espresso) -- at least for ten days, the length of most of my trips abroad, after which sipping from those miniature cups becomes quite annoying and I begin to yearn for some good old home brew.
With the benignity of coffee an established fact, what inherent vice could my friend have been referring to in her elegant epigram? I never pursued the point, but after reflecting upon it, I believe the answer lies with the term "coffee break." Before the advent of laptops, smartphones, and tablets, was there any more trivial way of deferring an activity, interrupting the work flow, or simply wasting time than slowly savoring that first, second, or third cup of the day?
I am reminded of a tale told by a friend who on one of his first days on the job as a rookie hospital administrator was reprimanded by his boss for bringing a cup of coffee to an early morning meeting. "From now on," he was sternly admonished, "please drink your coffee before coming to work."
That's a prescript more honored in the breach than the observance, as I can personally attest to. When asked by a cable service salesman some years ago what I actually did at my place of employment (Schewels), I responded: "After working out at the Y and scarfing down my breakfast, I drive ten minutes to downtown, walk one block to the White Hart Cafe, order a cup of coffee, go back to my office, sit down at my desk, wait for the phone to ring, and if someone has a question, I try to answer it."
If its leisurely enjoyment is the most severe condemnation we can apply to coffee, I hope to make the case that another benign practice may be even more non-productive than an occasional coffee break and thus more deserving to be labeled a vice. Because what I really want to talk about today is not coffee; it's compulsive reading, especially of popular fiction.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Wilburn
In June I attended Wilburn's funeral. He was 99 years old.
I had visited him three years ago when Schewels had opened its new store in Harrisonburg, but until then I had probably not seen him for fifteen years. Although I had heard mention of his daughter Linda many times, I had never met her or any other members of his family. I don't like to go to funerals -- who does -- but I went to this one, even though I had to drive to Harrisonburg and sit in the church as a stranger among people I didn't know.
I went for the reasons we all go to funerals: to grieve with the deceased's family and friends and to celebrate a life.
One is tempted to ask: do we really grieve the loss of a person who has lived a full and complete 99 years? It's surely not as tragic as the deaths of two teenagers killed in an automobile accident -- reported two days ago in the News and Advance. But my reaction to Wilburn's death was not much different from my reacton to hearing of others dying: sympathy for loved ones; the shock of the event, no matter how much we have been conditioned to expect it; a momentary but poignant feeling of personal emptiness; and a lingering sadness that the deceased has lost forever the future experiences of this mystery we call life.
I think that, in Wilburn's case, I was grieving as much for members of my own family and nostalgically for a past Wilburn represented and encompassed as I was grieving for him. And it was a grieving engendered not by his death but by a remembrance and celebration of his life, which, though it intersected with mine only tangentially, made a profound and enduring impression on me. In this sense, the grieving and the celebration became indistinguishable.
I do not know the exact circumstances of Wilburn's hiring. He was only 23 years old, a native of Altavista, perhaps working for the Lane Company, who somehow came to the attention of Mr. Abe Schewel, who saw something in the young man that portended a bright future. Even back in those days, it was difficult to say "no" to Mr. Abe, and so, when offered the position of managing the new Schewel store in Harrisonburg, Virginia, Wilburn really had no choice but to acquiesce. It turned out to be one of the best decisions he or the company ever made.
This was Schewel Furniture Company's first venture outside its founding headquarters in Lynchburg, and it was a risky one. In the early years of the Depression, this fledgling enterprise, owned and operated by three brothers, was going to open a satellite store, three hours from home, and entrust it to this inexperienced youth. Not only the survival of this store but the entire future strategy of the company -- to expand into new markets -- was riding on his performance.
From the outset, Wilburn demonstrated outstanding traits of character and personality which validated Mr. Schewel's judgment. His winning smile, friendly manner, natural graciousness, and innate charm not only yielded sales growth and loyal customers; they earned him recognition and respect throughout the Harrisonburg community. He was the model of a successful businessman: astute, decisive, fair, and creative; a great communicator and motivator; and an inspiring leader. His skill at evaluating and hiring talented, dedicated individuals laid a foundation for the company's growth. He was a man whom I never heard speak ill of another, nor did I ever hear anyone say a negative word about him. And he was a man of the utmost integrity, an indispensable attribute for an absentee owner in an era without computers and instantaneous, sophisticated reporting instruments.
His full name was Wirt Eldredge Wilburn, but I call him Wilburn because that was how my grandfather Ben and my father Bert always referred to him. If an important company decision had to be made or if Ben or Bert was contemplating a special merchandise purchase, I never failed to hear the familiar refrain: "Ask Wilburn," or "Get Wilburn on the phone," or "What does Wilburn think?" As a child growing up in the business, I had constantly heard about "Wilburn," and it was only after I had been working for the company about a year that I realized that "Wilburn" was his last name, not his first.
Actually, his last name should have been Schewel, since he seemed so much a part of the family. Those were simpler times, fifty years ago; the company was smaller; there were fewer rules, regulations, policies, and procedures. To use a cliche, business could be conducted on a handshake and often had to be, in the absence of the checks-and-balances so prevalent today. In such an environment, Wilburn became more than an employee or business associate. There developed a degree of camaraderie, closeness, friendship, and good humor between him and Mr. Ben and Bert that is rarely seen -- and almost impossible to replicate -- these days.
Mr. Wilburn's success in Harrisonburg encouraged the Schewel family to seek out opportunities "in his territory," the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. Mr. Wilburn found the locations, hired the managers -- some of whom he had already "groomed" in the Harrisonburg store -- fixed up the buildings, bought the merchandise, and prepared the ads. Although the sign over the door said "Schewels," these were his stores -- Luray, Winchester, Lexington, Front Royal, and Culpeper -- and he nurtured and supervised them until his retirement in 1976.
I had the dubious honor of succeeding Mr.Wilburn that year. Although he loved Schewels and he loved his work, I got the distinct impression that he welcomed his retirement, since he also loved to play golf. He took me around to his stores, introduced me to his managers, and advised me where to eat and where to stay. "Always ask for a better rate -- and a room on the first floor," he said, closing with: "And Markie," which is what he called me (payback for "Wilburn"), "I'm leaving you some good stores. Keep them that way."
When I last saw Wilburn at the nursing home where he was living out his final years, he was having lunch at a large round table accompanied by three or four female residents. His eyesight was nearly gone and he was in a wheelchair, but he looked the same as he had that day thirty years ago. And he had lost none of his charm. He was regaling his audience with some tale from his past, but when told that I was present, he smoothly transitioned into one -- or many -- about Schewel Furniture Company, Mr. Ben, and Bert Schewel, evoking from me a tear and a smile as I both grieved and celebrated.
I had visited him three years ago when Schewels had opened its new store in Harrisonburg, but until then I had probably not seen him for fifteen years. Although I had heard mention of his daughter Linda many times, I had never met her or any other members of his family. I don't like to go to funerals -- who does -- but I went to this one, even though I had to drive to Harrisonburg and sit in the church as a stranger among people I didn't know.
I went for the reasons we all go to funerals: to grieve with the deceased's family and friends and to celebrate a life.
One is tempted to ask: do we really grieve the loss of a person who has lived a full and complete 99 years? It's surely not as tragic as the deaths of two teenagers killed in an automobile accident -- reported two days ago in the News and Advance. But my reaction to Wilburn's death was not much different from my reacton to hearing of others dying: sympathy for loved ones; the shock of the event, no matter how much we have been conditioned to expect it; a momentary but poignant feeling of personal emptiness; and a lingering sadness that the deceased has lost forever the future experiences of this mystery we call life.
I think that, in Wilburn's case, I was grieving as much for members of my own family and nostalgically for a past Wilburn represented and encompassed as I was grieving for him. And it was a grieving engendered not by his death but by a remembrance and celebration of his life, which, though it intersected with mine only tangentially, made a profound and enduring impression on me. In this sense, the grieving and the celebration became indistinguishable.
I do not know the exact circumstances of Wilburn's hiring. He was only 23 years old, a native of Altavista, perhaps working for the Lane Company, who somehow came to the attention of Mr. Abe Schewel, who saw something in the young man that portended a bright future. Even back in those days, it was difficult to say "no" to Mr. Abe, and so, when offered the position of managing the new Schewel store in Harrisonburg, Virginia, Wilburn really had no choice but to acquiesce. It turned out to be one of the best decisions he or the company ever made.
This was Schewel Furniture Company's first venture outside its founding headquarters in Lynchburg, and it was a risky one. In the early years of the Depression, this fledgling enterprise, owned and operated by three brothers, was going to open a satellite store, three hours from home, and entrust it to this inexperienced youth. Not only the survival of this store but the entire future strategy of the company -- to expand into new markets -- was riding on his performance.
From the outset, Wilburn demonstrated outstanding traits of character and personality which validated Mr. Schewel's judgment. His winning smile, friendly manner, natural graciousness, and innate charm not only yielded sales growth and loyal customers; they earned him recognition and respect throughout the Harrisonburg community. He was the model of a successful businessman: astute, decisive, fair, and creative; a great communicator and motivator; and an inspiring leader. His skill at evaluating and hiring talented, dedicated individuals laid a foundation for the company's growth. He was a man whom I never heard speak ill of another, nor did I ever hear anyone say a negative word about him. And he was a man of the utmost integrity, an indispensable attribute for an absentee owner in an era without computers and instantaneous, sophisticated reporting instruments.
His full name was Wirt Eldredge Wilburn, but I call him Wilburn because that was how my grandfather Ben and my father Bert always referred to him. If an important company decision had to be made or if Ben or Bert was contemplating a special merchandise purchase, I never failed to hear the familiar refrain: "Ask Wilburn," or "Get Wilburn on the phone," or "What does Wilburn think?" As a child growing up in the business, I had constantly heard about "Wilburn," and it was only after I had been working for the company about a year that I realized that "Wilburn" was his last name, not his first.
Actually, his last name should have been Schewel, since he seemed so much a part of the family. Those were simpler times, fifty years ago; the company was smaller; there were fewer rules, regulations, policies, and procedures. To use a cliche, business could be conducted on a handshake and often had to be, in the absence of the checks-and-balances so prevalent today. In such an environment, Wilburn became more than an employee or business associate. There developed a degree of camaraderie, closeness, friendship, and good humor between him and Mr. Ben and Bert that is rarely seen -- and almost impossible to replicate -- these days.
Mr. Wilburn's success in Harrisonburg encouraged the Schewel family to seek out opportunities "in his territory," the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. Mr. Wilburn found the locations, hired the managers -- some of whom he had already "groomed" in the Harrisonburg store -- fixed up the buildings, bought the merchandise, and prepared the ads. Although the sign over the door said "Schewels," these were his stores -- Luray, Winchester, Lexington, Front Royal, and Culpeper -- and he nurtured and supervised them until his retirement in 1976.
I had the dubious honor of succeeding Mr.Wilburn that year. Although he loved Schewels and he loved his work, I got the distinct impression that he welcomed his retirement, since he also loved to play golf. He took me around to his stores, introduced me to his managers, and advised me where to eat and where to stay. "Always ask for a better rate -- and a room on the first floor," he said, closing with: "And Markie," which is what he called me (payback for "Wilburn"), "I'm leaving you some good stores. Keep them that way."
When I last saw Wilburn at the nursing home where he was living out his final years, he was having lunch at a large round table accompanied by three or four female residents. His eyesight was nearly gone and he was in a wheelchair, but he looked the same as he had that day thirty years ago. And he had lost none of his charm. He was regaling his audience with some tale from his past, but when told that I was present, he smoothly transitioned into one -- or many -- about Schewel Furniture Company, Mr. Ben, and Bert Schewel, evoking from me a tear and a smile as I both grieved and celebrated.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
The Man We Love to Hate
In preparation for next month's Virginia Ten-Miler, I was running the course last week, stopwatch in hand, striving for eight-minute miles, and, in a word, I was laboring--the same word I would use to describe Barry Bonds' grim pursuit of Hank Aaron's home-run record. Except for HR #754 on July 27th, a two home-run outburst against the Cubs on July 19th has been followed by two weeks of thunderous silence, punctuated by the expectant query: did he, or didn't he? Play today, that is, as opposed to hitting it out of the park.
Baseball holds many attractions for me: the dusk of a summer evening brightened by short sleeves and tank tops; the controlled athletic grace of a pitcher's windup and delivery, a third baseman's sudden dive for a ground ball, followed by an effortless throw to first, and an outfielder tracking down a line drive in the gap; the tranquil nature of a contest not defined by organized violence or intermittent bursts of speed or jump-shooting; the regularity of a season played out day-by-day for 162 games, long enough to separate the contenders from the pretenders, but still too short.
Appreciation for those aspects of the game came with maturity. What lured a cerebral kid who lacked the coordination to catch, much less throw, a baseball were the numbers: the box scores, the batting averages, the ERA's, the won-lost records, the home runs, the RBI--and every day the numbers changed, and the percentages had to be recalculated.
Some numbers were etched in stone, or so we thought: .367--Ty Cobb's lifetime BA; .406--Ted Williams magnificent .400 season; 511--Cy Young's career wins; 56--Joe DiMaggio's hitting streak; 60--Babe Ruth's single-season home-run record; and 714--his career record.
And now another number is about to change: 755.
I don't find Barry or his achievements as tainted as so many others do.
In recounting Barry Bonds' metamorphosis, I reference the Mark Fainaru-Wada/Lance Williams expose: Game of Shadows.
"Packing an unusual combination of speed and power, Barry Bonds considered himself better than any other player he had ever encountered," and most observers agreed, until 1998, when he and they watched Mark McGuire and Sammy Sosa wage an epic struggle for the single-season home-run record. McGuire won it, pounding 5 homers in his last 11 AB'S, to finish with 70, four ahead of Sosa.
Bonds has never admitted "knowingly" to using steroids, nor has it ever been proven that he has used them. But if he did, he began over the winter of 1998-1999, when he undertook a rigorous muscle development and strength conditioning program under the tutelage of Weight Guru Greg Anderson, during which he gained 15 pounds of muscle in 100 days, transformed his physique, and prepared to reassert himself as the greatest hitter of his generation--perhaps of all time.
Although it was illegal to use performance-enhancing drugs without a prescription, baseball had never banned steroids--nor did it start testing for them until 2002. Ken Caminiti, the NL's MVP in 1996, has said that 50% of Major Leaguers were using subsequently banned substances during his playing days; Jose Canseco put that number at 80%. Although these figures have yet to be verified, it is safe to say that a large number of players were using these drugs--while team owners and the sport's governors, who presumably had some idea of what was going on, turned a Blind Eye, thrilled to see juiced baseballs jumping out of packed ballparks.
If he used steroids--and the evidence is overwhelming that he did--I submit that Barry Bonds, jealous of his stature, his reputation, his place in history, and of the millions of dollars being paid to home-run hitters, was treading a slippery slope already well-worn by his peers, with the silent blessing of his employers. And now, for any number of reasons--his arrogance, his abrasiveness, his evasiveness, his feigned innocence, his disdain for the press, his on-the-field success, his off-the-field behavior, his attack on baseball's most hallowed records--he has been made--unfairly, I believe--the poster child of the Steroid Era.
Consider these facts, assumptions, and numbers.
Bonds was already a Hall-of-Fame baseball player before he began his conditionng program. In 1998 he batted .303 with 37 home runs, and made the All-Star Team for the eighth straight year. In 1993 he had signed baseball's most lucrative contract: $43.75 milllion for eight years.
Suppose 100 players used performance-enhancing drugs from 1995 to 2002--and we have no way of knowing what that number is (There are 50 admitted users.)--none put up numbers as grandiose or as consistent as Barry Bonds. You still have to hit the ball. It amuses me how many admitted users--and most of those who have tested positive--are journeymen, whose careers are best characterized as mediocre. The infamous Jason Grimsley, outed last year as an HGH user, played for seven teams over a 17-year period,winning a total of 42 games and losing 58.
Pitchers--like Grimsley--were not immune to the steroid epidemic. Sixteen have admitted use; more have been implicated or are suspected. No one knows how many times Barry Bonds homered--or struck out--against a pitcher who was using steroids.
When Barry Bonds retires--which, mercifully, should be at the end of this year--he will hold the Major League single-season and career records for walks. He has been walked intentionally over 700 times. Exhibiting remarkable patience at the plate, he has set his home-run records while opposing pitchers have been trying to pitch around him at an astonishing rate. Regardless of the drugs he may have been using, it is difficult to hit a baseball when it is nowhere near the strike zone.
Before his pace slackened considerably two weeks ago, Barry Bonds was on track to hit 30 home runs this season, at the age of 43. In his last season in the Major Leagues, at the age of 42, Hank Aaron hit ten home runs. Willie Mays hit 10 home runs in his last season, at the age of 41. And Ted Williams hit 29 home runs in his last season; he was 41 years old.
Bonds played only 14 games in 2005, succumbing to knee problems which required surgery. To come back from an injury like that and play a full season at the age of 41--hitting 23 home runs--is, I believe, a tribute to his willpower and training regimen, which his critics have all but ignored.
As this painful drama slogs towards its inevitable denouement, Bonds-bashers continue to revile him as a cheater, a liar, and the illegitimate usurper of the home-run throne. More objectively, as with other giants of the diamond, I choose to place him squarely in the context of the era in which he played. Viewing him in this light, I marvel at and celebrate the unmatched level of skill, power, and excitement he brought to a game which, however blemished, remains the greatest of all.
Baseball holds many attractions for me: the dusk of a summer evening brightened by short sleeves and tank tops; the controlled athletic grace of a pitcher's windup and delivery, a third baseman's sudden dive for a ground ball, followed by an effortless throw to first, and an outfielder tracking down a line drive in the gap; the tranquil nature of a contest not defined by organized violence or intermittent bursts of speed or jump-shooting; the regularity of a season played out day-by-day for 162 games, long enough to separate the contenders from the pretenders, but still too short.
Appreciation for those aspects of the game came with maturity. What lured a cerebral kid who lacked the coordination to catch, much less throw, a baseball were the numbers: the box scores, the batting averages, the ERA's, the won-lost records, the home runs, the RBI--and every day the numbers changed, and the percentages had to be recalculated.
Some numbers were etched in stone, or so we thought: .367--Ty Cobb's lifetime BA; .406--Ted Williams magnificent .400 season; 511--Cy Young's career wins; 56--Joe DiMaggio's hitting streak; 60--Babe Ruth's single-season home-run record; and 714--his career record.
And now another number is about to change: 755.
I don't find Barry or his achievements as tainted as so many others do.
In recounting Barry Bonds' metamorphosis, I reference the Mark Fainaru-Wada/Lance Williams expose: Game of Shadows.
"Packing an unusual combination of speed and power, Barry Bonds considered himself better than any other player he had ever encountered," and most observers agreed, until 1998, when he and they watched Mark McGuire and Sammy Sosa wage an epic struggle for the single-season home-run record. McGuire won it, pounding 5 homers in his last 11 AB'S, to finish with 70, four ahead of Sosa.
Bonds has never admitted "knowingly" to using steroids, nor has it ever been proven that he has used them. But if he did, he began over the winter of 1998-1999, when he undertook a rigorous muscle development and strength conditioning program under the tutelage of Weight Guru Greg Anderson, during which he gained 15 pounds of muscle in 100 days, transformed his physique, and prepared to reassert himself as the greatest hitter of his generation--perhaps of all time.
Although it was illegal to use performance-enhancing drugs without a prescription, baseball had never banned steroids--nor did it start testing for them until 2002. Ken Caminiti, the NL's MVP in 1996, has said that 50% of Major Leaguers were using subsequently banned substances during his playing days; Jose Canseco put that number at 80%. Although these figures have yet to be verified, it is safe to say that a large number of players were using these drugs--while team owners and the sport's governors, who presumably had some idea of what was going on, turned a Blind Eye, thrilled to see juiced baseballs jumping out of packed ballparks.
If he used steroids--and the evidence is overwhelming that he did--I submit that Barry Bonds, jealous of his stature, his reputation, his place in history, and of the millions of dollars being paid to home-run hitters, was treading a slippery slope already well-worn by his peers, with the silent blessing of his employers. And now, for any number of reasons--his arrogance, his abrasiveness, his evasiveness, his feigned innocence, his disdain for the press, his on-the-field success, his off-the-field behavior, his attack on baseball's most hallowed records--he has been made--unfairly, I believe--the poster child of the Steroid Era.
Consider these facts, assumptions, and numbers.
Bonds was already a Hall-of-Fame baseball player before he began his conditionng program. In 1998 he batted .303 with 37 home runs, and made the All-Star Team for the eighth straight year. In 1993 he had signed baseball's most lucrative contract: $43.75 milllion for eight years.
Suppose 100 players used performance-enhancing drugs from 1995 to 2002--and we have no way of knowing what that number is (There are 50 admitted users.)--none put up numbers as grandiose or as consistent as Barry Bonds. You still have to hit the ball. It amuses me how many admitted users--and most of those who have tested positive--are journeymen, whose careers are best characterized as mediocre. The infamous Jason Grimsley, outed last year as an HGH user, played for seven teams over a 17-year period,winning a total of 42 games and losing 58.
Pitchers--like Grimsley--were not immune to the steroid epidemic. Sixteen have admitted use; more have been implicated or are suspected. No one knows how many times Barry Bonds homered--or struck out--against a pitcher who was using steroids.
When Barry Bonds retires--which, mercifully, should be at the end of this year--he will hold the Major League single-season and career records for walks. He has been walked intentionally over 700 times. Exhibiting remarkable patience at the plate, he has set his home-run records while opposing pitchers have been trying to pitch around him at an astonishing rate. Regardless of the drugs he may have been using, it is difficult to hit a baseball when it is nowhere near the strike zone.
Before his pace slackened considerably two weeks ago, Barry Bonds was on track to hit 30 home runs this season, at the age of 43. In his last season in the Major Leagues, at the age of 42, Hank Aaron hit ten home runs. Willie Mays hit 10 home runs in his last season, at the age of 41. And Ted Williams hit 29 home runs in his last season; he was 41 years old.
Bonds played only 14 games in 2005, succumbing to knee problems which required surgery. To come back from an injury like that and play a full season at the age of 41--hitting 23 home runs--is, I believe, a tribute to his willpower and training regimen, which his critics have all but ignored.
As this painful drama slogs towards its inevitable denouement, Bonds-bashers continue to revile him as a cheater, a liar, and the illegitimate usurper of the home-run throne. More objectively, as with other giants of the diamond, I choose to place him squarely in the context of the era in which he played. Viewing him in this light, I marvel at and celebrate the unmatched level of skill, power, and excitement he brought to a game which, however blemished, remains the greatest of all.
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