Quotations

Folks who read a lot probably notice many authors quote the words of witty or pertinent sayings uttered by persons of renown. They try to make the quote validate, support, maybe confirm the point they are trying to make with their own thoughts and writing. In some cases it's the jumping off place for their thinking to develop. There's one quote I've found appropriate to my thoughts and actions that has stuck with me ever since I first saw it:

"It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worth cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat." - Theodore Roosevelt

This quote is known as the "man in the arena" quote came from a speech - Citizenship in a Republic - he gave in Paris, France in 1910. How does it apply to me? If I were to give myself credit for anything, it would be that I have not been afraid to try things that were above me. If I had not I would have always wondered how I could rise without the effort. I did not want to be one of those timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat. So easy would it have been to sit back and watch the world go by in some easy job. I never wanted to be the one in old age wishing that he should have tried.

Natural Disasters

I’m old enough to remember significant events that occurred fifty years ago: the tornado that destroyed a part of Fargo being a case in point. Today marks its 50th anniversary. That day from my vantage point fifty miles away, I stood in our farmyard and saw that godawful mound of clouds stacking up and stalling over Fargo. Weather reports at that time never warned of the immediacy of impending storms, and only after the carnage occurred did news begin to trickle out through media outlets.

With that I’m reminded of the tornado that snaked along a rural road near Walcott and destroyed a few lives and several farmsteads. That time, too, I saw those low, churning clouds passing overhead and listening to that rumbling freight train sound.

Natural disasters cut everyone down to size. Our world of cell phones pressed to ears, laptop computers, or any other highly technological gadgets can’t undo or control Mother Nature’s intentions. Floods, hurricanes, mud slides, blizzards, droughts, hail, etc. come and go in a steady progression. Occasionally a religious fanatic selling salvation on his television show says God’s wrath for sinful behavior brings on these events. I’ve never forgotten one voice of reason made by a sensible churchman. The Rev. Schuller of Crystal Cathedral fame was interviewed by Larry King at the time when some California homes were being destroyed in mud slides after heavy rains. When asked if God was responsible for causing the mud to slide, he responded, "I think they built in a place they shouldn’t have." With much of New Orleans built below sea level and expensive vacation homes lining the hurricane-prone Atlantic coastline, I can’t help but think of his words.

The Wind

I was sitting in a quiet farmstead south of Tappen yesterday while my rider went in the house to call on one of her clients. The squeaking and groaning of an old wooden windmill caught my attention, an enjoyable background noise while I sat waiting. Someone said once the only time around here that you notice the wind is when it isn’t blowing. Moving air is invisible in and of itself, but it’s not hard to see its effect on whatever it touches.

Last week Wednesday I drove into a strong north wind on my way to the town of Garrison. While crossing the causeway dividing Lake Sacajawea and Lake Audubon, I couldn’t help but notice the wild wind-whipped waves with their white-capped tips and the deep troughs between them as they broke on the south shore.

On Monday and Tuesday of this week I cut hay in large fields and watched gentle breezes wave the grasses just like the surface of water. Scandinavian immigrants thought this vast, rolling, treeless plain they settled on reminded them of the sea, and literature reflects that. A book named Sea of Grass, the song phrase "Amber waves of grain," plus many other examples bear testimony to the sense these settlers had of the plains.

As I drove home from Tappen my reverie of thoughtful literary contemplation burst like a bubble when I came on a damn turkey buzzard feasting on a dead crow on the highway. The car was almost on him before he decided to get out of the way by unfolding his six foot wingspan and flap away. A large bird, he would have put a nice dent into my state-owned car.

Growing Old (er)

Edgar Lee Masters has his character Samuel Gardner speak from his grave in the Spoon River Anthology, "And how shall the soul of a man/ Be larger than the life he has lived?" All the poems in this volume are written in the voice of the deceased residents of the mythical community of Spoon River. Each time I read from this volume I find scenarios that fit well with contemporary life. There are heroes, cowards, town gossips, unfaithful spouses, community leaders, outlaws, in-laws, youths, elders, etc. The one thing they share is their end - the graveyard in Spoon River.

No matter who we are or think we are, one thing we share in real life is growing older, day by day, each time the world spins on its axis or circles the sun. It probably doesn’t matter if we call ourselves young, middle aged, or old since it’s such a gradual process. I sometimes wonder where I am on this continuum. The age of 65 used to be considered quite old and not much more life could be expected. Now it seems as if the term middle-aged fits better and old age lies somewhere off in the future.

Dylan Thomas in his famous villanelle Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night has probably written of aging and death the best: "Do not go gentle into that good night,/ Old age should burn and rave at close of day;/ Rage, rage against the dying of the light." In other words, give it hell, there will be the eternity to sleep.