Dear Reader:

I started blogging back in February of 2009. I did not include any of the money making features because I thought they were a distraction that did not bring in a significant income even when a blogger is fortunate enough to draw thousands of visitors. I might add that the number of people visiting this blog per day is much less than thousands. I have been posting weekly, hopefully not weakly. I say hopefully not weakly because my self-imposed deadlines mean sacrificing some quality. There are stories posted here that do seem a bit rushed or abbreviated. I regret that to some extent, but I still think it is a reasonable trade off if the quality does not slip too much. No one wants to attach his name to crap.

There are times when I wonder why I impose deadlines on myself or why I bother to blog at all. I do it because I enjoy writing, and I have a large enough ego to think that some of you visit my blog because you enjoy what I write. I am now experiencing some health problems, and the creative part of my brain is lethargic. I do not know if the health issues and the lethargy are connected. If they are, I think it is a matter of the health issues being a distraction rather than a cause. The upcoming doctors appointments are another matter. They are going to eat up valuable time. I may not be able to meet my deadlines, and I may have to skip a week now and then. Please understand that a lapse in activity does not mean I am abandoning this blog or that I will not return to my normal weekly schedule.

Professor Reed

Hollister was a little community that started out as a railroad whistle stop and grew up around a college. This was a sad day for the community. The only local newspaper, “The Hollister Town Crier,” was closing its doors for good. It was about to be discarded as surely as yesterday’s news. The only question was what would be left behind. Old news stories quickly die, and the editions containing those stories are placed in what is aptly called the morgue. Those stories chronicle the triumphs and the tragedies of the town and its citizens. The names of most of the average citizens rarely appear in the more dramatic stories. Most people lead private lives. and their names are only found in the announcements of births, deaths, marriages, and graduations from the local schools. The obituaries essentially repeat the information previously published in the announcements.

As a member of the Historical Society, Glen was compiling an index of the contents of the newspapers, and he was packing up those papers to be stored in archives at the museum. This task had him thinking about our lives and the duration of the memories about us as individuals. He was thinking of the announcements and obituaries as inky footprints that are buried beneath the sands of time, unless or until some member of a future generation becomes curious enough to uncover them. Unfortunately, those footprints merely mark a passage and do not tell a researcher much about the person who left them. What brought this to mind was the obituary Glen had just read. It was written a year ago to announce the demise of Professor Benjamin Reed. It contained the usual information and the almost mandatory platitude about how sorely the good Professor will be missed by his family, his friends, his colleagues, and his students. Unlike a eulogy, it did not present any anecdotes to tell the reader anything about the professor’s personality or why he would be missed. This was a shame because the professor was a very notable and quotable man.

Glen had just transferred from a junior college to begin his junior year at Hollister. On his first day at Hollister, he walked into Professor Reed’s classroom and took a seat near the front. There on the black board was a single word, “Reed.” The Professor’s hair was turning gray. He was plump with age but not fat. His necktie was pulled down and his collar was open. His suit jacket was carelessly draped over the chair at his desk. His half reading glasses sat on his desk. He would not need to use the glasses to read notes during his opening statements.

“I’m Professor Reed,” he said. “I’m not a reed bending in the wind, and believe me, I’ve already heard all the jokes about reeds; so put that nonsense behind you. From your history survey courses, I’m sure many of you have concluded that history is merely a matter of memorizing names, dates and events, but you are mistaken. History is a discipline and an art. The events we study are important because of the conclusions we reach about how they shaped the present and what we can learn from that. Historians will agree on the proven facts but will vigorously argue about the conclusions. Those of you who become interested in the subject will undoubtedly test my patience by espousing theories that have been widely rejected. That’s all right. I know that at your age you are all too eager to find panaceas to solve all of the problems of the world. The events that cause a theory to be rejected do not necessarily invalidate the entire theory. Circumstances can change; we can also change policies and how they are implemented. Furthermore, the basic theory may be sound with a few modifications. What is required is diligent research and careful analysis. Be patient enough to gather all the pertinent facts, my young friends, and I will try to be patient with you.”

The Professor’s patience, however, was limited. One student found this out when he made a ridiculous statement based on ideology rather than the facts presented. The professor’s rebuke was stinging.

“It’s a good thing this isn’t a pop quiz, Mr. Chester, or I should have to penalize you fifteen points for an unnecessary display of ignorance.”

In one of his classes Professor Reed gave the example of S. I. Hayakawa pulling the plug on the sound truck used by anti-war demonstrators during the student strike at San Francisco State. “How many of you think Mr. Hayakawa was correct when he said demonstrators should not be allowed to disrupt classes or the conduct of ordinary business?”

Roughly sixty percent of the students raised their hands. “I agree with you,” he said, “and I opposed that horrible war.”

This, however, did not mean that Professor Reed considered Mr. Hayakawa a hero. He strongly disagreed with Mr. Hayakawa’s position on the war and his political philosophy. In fact, Professor Reed opposed Mr. Hayakawa’s candidacy for the U.S. Senate.

After his election to the senate Mr. Hayakawa became well known for taking naps whenever he was not interested in the subject being discussed. He also became well known for the absurd statements he made because of his blind ideology. The Senator was much in the news because of his recent comment about the Panama Canal. “We stole it fair and square,” he said. Back in 1973, when there was a shortage of oil and gasoline prices soared to unprecedented heights, Mr. Hayakawa had also said: “The poor don’t need gas, because they’re not working.”

The subject of the lecture the day after Mr. Hayakawa’s statement about the canal was Theodore Roosevelt and the Panama Canal. When the students entered the classroom they saw that Professor Reed had neatly printed on the blackboard both quotations followed by Mr. Hayakawa’s name and the dates on which Mr. Hayakawa had made the statements quoted. The Professor waited for all of his students to settle into their seats.

“The art of diplomacy is saying what you want the other person to believe rather than what you really believe. Needless to say that Senator Hayakawa is no diplomat.” The professor then pointed at both quotations. “Apparently, the only times he can open his mouth without sticking his foot in it are during his frequent naps.”

“Do you think the Senator should have said he didn’t mean those things, and should have apologized for saying them?” a student asked.

“As a semanticist and an expert on language, I think we have to presume that he said exactly what he meant, proving once again that an open mouth can be as unseemly as open trousers.”

‘Depending on what pops out.”

“As usual, Mr. Miller, your statement is overly graphic, but it does demonstrate your comprehension of the subject. And no, I’m not going to add ‘at hand.’”

The professor frequently stated his objection to the use of sarcasm, which was funny because of the fact that he was so good at using it. This was true in his personal life as well as his professional life.

Glen was leaving the drug store when he saw the Professor emerge from the dry cleaners. The professor was carrying an empty, wire coat hanger. The Professor walked over to his car, which was parked in front of the Wells Fargo bank, right in front of the window prominently displaying a picture of the Wells Fargo stagecoach. He then tried to insert the coat hanger between the weather stripping of the front window on the driver’s side. He had obviously locked his keys inside the car.

Glen asked if he could help.

“Please! Do you mind if I leave you while you’re trying to get my car open? I really need to get to the savings and loan before it closes.”

“I’ll bring the keys to you if I get it open before you finish your business there.”

“That’s very kind of you. Thank you!”

“You’re welcome.”

Glen opened the door and retrieved the keys. He looked across the parking lot just as the Professor entered the savings and loan. When Glen entered the savings and loan, he saw the professor sitting in a cubicle bearing the sign “New Accounts.”

“Why are you closing your account at Wells Fargo?” the lady behind the desk asked.

“Let’s just say that the man riding shotgun on the coach should not shoot the passengers.”

The lady behind the desk laughed and so did Glen.

“They charged me an outrageous fee they would not reverse,” the professor explained.

He then turned and looked up at Glen. Glen handed him the car keys.

“Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome.”

Glen turned to walk away.

“If we ever do anything to make you angry, please tell me before anyone else because you’re far too quotable.”

Glen had to resist the temptation to turn back around and agree with her. He did not want to intrude on a conversation that should be private.

On the day before a non-presidential election, Professor Reed was urging his students to vote. “Who is elected to Congress is important, and so is your vote. One of the examples people frequently cite to demonstrate how one vote can change an election is Adolph Hitler’s election as the leader of the Nazi Party. As the story goes there was an anti-Hitler member of the party who was well known for his weak bladder. The time to vote was fast approaching when this member was feeling a strong urge to void his bladder. He turned to a member sitting next to him. ‘Please cast my vote for Herr Drexler if I do not return before the vote is taken,’ he asked. The member he asked to do this, however, supported Hitler. He therefore cast both votes in favor of Hitler, and Hitler one by one vote. I guess we know what the fellow with the weak bladder did with his chance to shape history.”

The day after the off term election, Professor Reed admitted that the story of Hitler’s election as leader of the party was apocryphal. The Professor smiled.

“If you wish to penalize me fifteen points, however, it must be for a deception rather than an unnecessary display of ignorance. Although the story is not true, I have used it to demonstrate three points. The first point is that one vote can matter. The second is how capricious human events can seem. We have a strong tendency to think that monumental events are triggered by great actions. Often, like the shout that releases the kinetic energy of an avalanche, the trigger is as mundane as a full bladder. The third reason I used this story is because so many people repeat it without checking the facts, and unfounded rumors are often the mundane cause of riots and such.”

On the day of the Professor’s death, he delivered a lecture on Benjamin Franklin. The professor was having some fun over the reaction to Mr. Franklin’s lightning rod.

“Preachers and other religious zealots objected to the lightning rod because they thought it thwarted God’s will. Never mind the fact that both the righteous and the sinners frequently died from lightning strikes or the illogical conclusion that puny mortals could actually thwart the will of an omnipotent being. I think this illustrates just how far we have progressed in our thinking. A blind faith is not a true faith. Never let your beliefs make you reject reason or facts that can be scientifically proven.”

This was the last class of the day. The sky was dark with clouds when Professor Reed left the building. He was struck by lightning as he approached his car. Glen raced over to the prostrate professor. The professor’s eyes blinked once.

“Where was the damned lightning rod when I needed it!” he muttered.

Those were his last words.

Kid Logic

I have to admit that I have occasionally used the term kid logic. This is a misnomer. The thing is that a large part of growing up is learning logic and rational thought. We learn some of it the easy way by listening to what adults are trying to teach us, and we learn some of it the hard way by not giving enough thought to the consequences of what we want to do before we do it.

The lamps on the pier where I was walking cast a yellow glow. A bare foot child raced up to an object sitting on the pier and proceeded to stomp on that object. He then let out a howl and started crying. Perhaps I should have said he stomped in that object. Stomped in it is probably a more accurate description. I know this because of the information he imparted when his mother asked him what was wrong.

“It’s dog shit!” he wailed.

“Why did you step in it?” his father asked.

“I thought it was mustard.”

“Why did you want to stomp in mustard?”

This seemed like a perfectly logical question to an adult who would not consider mustard oozing up between his toes to be such a good thing. To the child, however, the question must have seemed like a condemnation of him for actions that had already been punished by the object he stomped in, and he cried louder and harder because of the criticism.

I suppose he thought it would be fun to see the mustard splatter. This, of course, is conjecture on my part. I do not have enough information for it to be anything but conjecture. Nor do I have enough information to determine all of the things the child learned from this experience. The connection between his bare foot and the dog shit and his reaction to that connection tell me he learned that stepping or stomping in dog shit was not a good thing. Whether he learned that it is not a good idea to step or stomp in mustard is not as easy to answer. Although I do have to give the child some credit; I am inclined to think that he was old enough to learn a broader lesson. By that I mean he probably also learned that it is not a good idea to step or stomp in something if you do not know what that something is.

The concept of knowing what something is before you step or stomp in it is simple enough. Putting that concept in practice as a rule is not nearly as easy. Few things in this world are certain, and we frequently act on incomplete information. We also get so distracted by what we want to do that we do not always see what we are really getting into. When the consequences of our missteps are undesirable we frequently refer to what we have done as stepping in shit. Older people become more cautious. I do not know if this is because the more years you live the more shit you have stepped in, or if it is because older people feel they have less time and energy to clean up the mess. It may be both. Draw you own conclusions. I am going to have to give the matter more thought before I do that. The one thing I can tell you is that age only reduces your fallibility to a slight extent. Older people have learned to tread carefully, but they also know that standing still is not a good option. There are still times when they have to act on incomplete information.

If you will pardon me now, I am going clean my shoes. For all our rationality and good intentions, we humans are still pretty clumsy creatures. What we step in also impacts others. I hope the people I have inadvertently insulted over the years will forgive me for soiling their emotional carpets.