Backyard Adventures: Capitan Steck and Sargent Steel

I was a solider.  Well mostly.  Sometimes I was a pirate or a lone cowboy sheriff defending my small town from a gang of bandits.  Typically I got the girl, though often I died valiantly (This was my favorite because I could orchestrate my own funeral.  Such lovely words were spoken). 

From Caribbean seas and dusty Wild West cattle towns to the shores of Normandy and VC packed Asian jungles, my backyard and childhood imagination took me across the panorama of space and time.  With a simple flexing of will the tri-level landscape of a half-acre transformed into the three decks of a nineteenth century man-o-war battleship.  And, being Commanding General Admiral Over-All-Fleets-Everywhere, it was hard work. 

Capitan Carver Steck, my sea-dog persona, ran from the bridge deck on the top tier of the yard - where I shouted orders, manned a radio that hadn’t been invented yet, and navigated the helm - to the gun decks - where I loaded, aimed, and fired all one hundred cannon by myself - before rushing to the bottom level of the yard to plug holes in my ship.  In times of clear sailing this bottom deck became the party deck.  It housed the galley with its long wooden tables and free flowing spirits.  There, I, the captain, mingled riotously with the crew getting sloshed on 7-up and Root Beer while trading exaggerated stories of holding hands with the Bavarian barmaid our ship held on retainer. 

One time this lower level was the sight of my heroic death; while all my men escaped, I single-handedly held back the in-flowing tides with nothing more than a mop and my grit.  Again, the services were lovely and came complete with a 25 gun salute (I figured the additional guns meant I was extra special), as well as floating wreathes and flowers thrown from the ship and, of course, multiple heartbroken women. It was a grandiose farewell at sea, although drowning really freaked me out so after that all of my naval deaths derived from hand fighting with the enemy or an exploding shell. Why those ends would scare me less I have no idea.

The Academic Benefits of Being Cultured

Quiz day in my Religious History class. Typically a piece of cake, but that day I was stumped on two questions:

1) Name the centurion who received a revelation about Peter at the same time that Peter received a revelation about him.

2) Name the woman whom Peter raised from the dead.

I had no clue other than the centurions name started with the letter “C”. But then the instructor gave two hints that saved me. The first was that the woman's name was also the name of one of the brides in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers and the second hint was that the centurions name is found in Hello Dolly.  “Hmm,” I thought to myself smiling "why that's Dorcus and Cornelius."

Boom baby, growing up with three older sisters finally paid off.

Headless Horseman

Dull yellow light from moth-covered fixtures poured across the barren playground at McSorely Elementary School.  Stars blinked in the night sky and a sliver moon peered eerily from behind wisps of moving clouds.  A dreary autumn breeze chilled metal slides and occasional gusts caused the giant swing set on the lower level to squeak with dry shrills; its foggy shadow casting a skeleton tail across the darkened grass.  Through the breeze a shout was heard, breaking the October evening.  “The Headless Horseman rides again!”

My cousin John was in full gallop, myself astride his back.  We raced past the others and the jungle gym on our way back to the cars.  After a chilly night of games we were heading home.  As had been the strategy all evening, whenever we needed to get somewhere quickly I, who am dreadfully slow, would hop on my much larger and fleet-footed cousin’s back and away we would go.  Being a kid, I equated this to riding a horse, and, it being October, we both equated riding a horse to the Legend of Sleepy Hollow.  Thus, every time John would let me hitch a ride that evening, one or both of us would yell “the Headless Horseman rides again!”

With surging speed John sprinted ahead, the misty autumn air being displaced by our ghostly figure.  Through the dark night we ran in what I am sure would have been a terrifying sight even to Mr. Crane himself.

Caught up in the moment I spurred on my mount with a stiff kick of my heels, pulling myself up as I did so to raise a fist and shout once again “the legend has returned! The Headless Horseman rides . . .” but that was as far as I got.  My poorly timed kick to John’s thigh sent him into a slow descent, his natural lope being thwarted by my interference. 

My Childhood Crush

At the insistence of my darling bride I share the following story of my first crush.

I don’t remember when I started feeling nervous around her, but it was long before my first memory that includes her.  In that recollection we were little kids, age five or six to my knowledge, sitting in a small, brown classroom at church suffering through another session of Sunday School.  The room, I remember, had one window in it that constantly teased me with thoughts of escape.  Through it I could see piles of rocks and dirt patiently waiting for someone to come outside and throw them around. 

But on that particular day she was in class so the pull to break free wasn’t as strong.  I did not know why but I always felt confused and anxious when she was around.  When she would talk to me the little Keebler elves who I imagined worked in my belly would stoke small fires that sent heat radiating up through my chest and into my face, causing my checks to burn and turn red. 

That Sunday found me perched on a display table in front of class, all dressed up in my little white shirt and tie, killing it, as usual.  I remember the day in part because of my own pride.  The jokes themselves escape my memory, all but one at least, yet I remember clearly her face looking up at me and laughing.  Giggling at what I can assume was an on day for me. 

She was sitting with the few other students in a row of chairs that spanned our tiny classroom.   The table I sat upon provided somewhat of a stage for what I considered to be my duty to entertain my fellow classmates and to offer something of a relief from the endless religious rhetoric that was heaped upon us during that hour.  My audience was starved for comedy and I provided. 

Our teacher patiently explained, “God caused darkness to cover the land.”  Then sensing an opening I jumped into the lesson yet again with a wave of my arm and an inquiry, “So if they can’t see how do they eat?” 

A quick scan from attentive face to attentive face told me that the other children were waiting to shower me with praise and with the laughter they struggled to keep locked behind gaping smiles, but first needed closure; a follow up statement to warrant their release of admiration.  At this point I realized that my desire for attention had once again outrun my thought process and that I had accidentally stumbled into a joke without yet knowing a punch line. 

This happens frequently so I did not panic, merely bought some more time for my brain to think through it by opening an imaginary fridge in front of me and acting out a blind man searching the shelves for food.  It was then I decided the only way to save the joke was to ignore the fact that one doesn’t need sight to eat.  “I mean, are they just gnawing on their thumbs while trying to eat an apple?” 

A quick demonstration with an invisible apple from my fridge and a sly grin to the others let them know that my witticism was complete and that I was pausing for their approval.  They obliged with an outburst of genuine laughs.  It was then that I stole a quick glance at her to see if she too thought my joke was a little funny and that’s when I saw the laughing and smiling face I remember.  That bright young face that is, to this day, so easily recalled through years of memory.  Round checks, long loosely woven curls of amber brown hair that framed her face in bubbly girlishness, and large, shimmering brown eyes.   Volcanoes, fireworks, and fabled scout water, or maybe all three at once, lit up inside my chest.  She thought I was funny.

             

   To be honest I felt somewhat panicked.  I had never felt so anxiously happy in all my young life and the feeling, while exhilarating, was uncomfortable.  But the uneasiness that made the feeling abrasive still wasn’t enough to make me desire it less.  In fact I craved it.  More than the juice box at the end of my t-ball games, I longed for her attention and admiration.  And yet, now that I had it with a simple Sunday School joke, I didn’t know what to do with it.

My face felt numb but I tried to hold a smile.  If the smile failed then my face would melt into an entranced stare, completely captivated by her subdued charm.  Couldn’t let that happen.  If I did then the whole class would know I liked her and soon that information would get back to the boys at school and before I could have a chance to explain myself I’d be labeled as a girl-liker. Neglect a trial and without representation, I would be found guilty of breaking the cardinal rule of kindergarten—don’t like girls.  The punishment for which consisted of an irrevocable stigma from the fellas and a standing cordon of one’s person as a cootie barrier.   

But I did like her.  And it was more than a “guys, settle down. I only like her so she’ll give me her cookie at snack time” kind of liked her, I mean I actually liked her. I’ll-hold-your-hand-if-you-hold-my-hand type of liked her.  And I knew it the moment she called my name to imitate my joke. 

Excitedly grabbing a similarly imagined apple from her own invisible fridge, she pretended to munch on both the fruit and her hand as I had done.  She then took it one step farther and tried to build upon the joke with her own addition. Playfully, she bit at her thumb until finally pretending to have gnawed it off completely.  She did a terrible job.  I mean, the premise of the joke had potential, I guess, but her execution was plain awful and no one else in the classroom laughed except me.  I even knew at the time that her gross addition to the joke wasn’t funny. In fact it was more revolting than anything, but her simple interaction with me caused a strange excitement within that I could only express through unstable laughter.  Our gaze held and the class ended.  In a microcosm of what would later be, she smiled and said goodbye while I tried my hardest not to care.

Now, decades later, this simple memory brings to me laughter and nostalgia.  It was the beginning spark of a childhood crush; which affections formed the base whereupon other appreciated memories were shaped.  Like the reminiscence of a middle school ball wherein my thrilled apprehension of her held me captive till when at last she unexpectedly asked me to dance.  Or the remembrance of how the high of that night was sent crashing to the ground when the next day I foolishly stated to gathered schoolmates that I had done nothing of note the previous evening.  She was in the group of students and her saddened countenance and disappointed expression punctuated my error. 

Our shared story, if it could ever be called such, came to an end even before the commencement of our high school years, and yet the lingering memories persist.  Not in a regretful way, but rather in the simple record of what was. As time moves on and childhood evaporates into maturity the shell of one’s past survives entirely in memory.  So while we both found the loves of our lives in persons not each other, the recollections of the first stirrings of romance do not fade easily from the conscious.   

When I Think of Courage

He was the kid that everyone picked on in grade school.  He dressed funny, had shaggy hair, was socially awkward, and his smell was a weaponized friend repellant.  He tried to make fun of the way I walked once, and then I teased him till he cried.

It happened during recces in fifth grade.  A group of us were playing four-square and when I ran to get a stray ball the damage in my knees was made manifest through my gait.  In a moment I’m sure he intended to use as a way to pull his own social status from the gutter, he pointed at me, laughed, and made an attempt in humor at my expense.

But no one laughed.  Even if it had been funny none of the other kids would have laughed because snickering at his joke would have lessened their own popularity.  Yet I still felt enraged; infused with anger at the conceit with which a socially inferior child had made fun of my own obvious disabilities. So I fired back, and I kept firing my seething insults until the poor child retreated in humiliation and in tears.

The others on the playground praised my refutes with approving smiles.  With the innocence of childhood they laughed at my demeaning jokes concerning the boy's personal appearance and egged me on through my harsher criticisms of his family’s poor economic circumstances.  When my tirade of eloquent lies and half-truths concerning his shortcomings had ended I felt appeased.

I felt accomplished in the evil I had done by bullying a child, but now I don’t see why.  Now I see an episode of disgrace when my courage failed me.  I see an instance when I could have included instead of discounted; when I could have uplifted, not corrupted.

That boy and his family moved the following year and by the time I realized my cowardice concerning him it was too late to repair the damage done.  My absence of courage in this thing has haunted me since.

In this instance my courage failed me, or I failed it.  Since then and even before, a deep fascination revolving around courage and its meaning developed within me.  Many of my pondering thoughts of quiet meditation through the years have been occupied with this notion of what makes courage courage and what motivates people into courageous acts.

My well-articulated lies and disparaging observations of another boy in my grade school class reflected cowardice, not courage. But other examples from humanity show that there is true courage among people.  Courage of the quality to do what is right even at the expense of their very lives.

Like the courage of a friend of mine in later life who chose to succumb to the painful distresses of cancer for nine months so as to grant life to her yet unborn child.  She held her newborn once, and then passed away. 

Or the courage of a posthumously awarded Medal of Honor recipient in Afghanistan who chose to charge the enemy by himself so that his Special Forces team members could safely retreat from the ambush they had stumbled into.  This action caused every enemy weapon on the battlefield to be directed at him.  At the cost of his life he saved his unit. 

So what causes a mother to give her life for her child or a soldier to sacrifice mortality for his friends?  And will an honest answer to that question provide the answer to what drives real courage?  Philosophy is not my strong point, but I believe there is a fundamental difference between bravery and courage and that that core variance is love.  A brave act can arise from a multitude of motivations, but the courage to uplift, protect, enrich, and defend must all stem first from love.

Les Petit Miserables

The fourth grade classroom rested in tranquil silence, each student but one reading from their favorite book or short story.  I sat stone-faced and defiant at my desk; my little four foot two inch frame shaking from pride, fear, and a concrete conviction.  “Carver, why aren’t you doing your reading?  It’s reading time.”

Miss Kraft’s voice, I always thought, sounded like a repressive dictator’s howl.  Low in tone for a woman, and blubberish, her voice matched her despotic personality and appearance.  Hers was a voice of cruel injustice, demanding far more from her students than I thought prudent.  Assigning homework every day?  What gall and arrogance.  It was more than my fourth grade soul could bear.  And the others were with me, but lacked the courage to resist, to revolt, to rebel.

“Carver?”  Miss Kraft asked again.

A hot fusion of blood rushed to my head, blushed my checks with courage, and with my eyes closed I silently mimicked Kevin from Home Alone, “This is it, don’t get scared now.”

“I’m not reading, Miss Kraft.” I said with my eyes still closed and head bowed. 

A hushed gasp raced through the ranks of my classmates.  I could feel their eyes nervously shifting from me to Miss Kraft and back to me again.  Slowly, deliberately, I started to speak.

“You tell us every day to read and I’ve had enough. I am an agent of my own choice and action.  So today I choose to no longer follow your tyrannical laws of education, but instead to make my own path to freedom!“  Energy surged through me.  Turning in my chair I met Miss Kraft’s burning glares with stiff resolve.  I found myself slowing rising from my chair, fists clasp in haughty disobedience, voice shaking but ever increasing in volume and force.

“Send me to the corner, to detention, to the principal’s office itself, but I am not reading today!  Too long you have reigned over us in prejudice and inequality.  Too long has your despotic arm stretched its stinging shadow of pain and homework over our nights and weekends.  And too long has your undisputed power been left unchecked to ravage and pillage our childhoods!” 

I was no longer shaking.  The fear had dispelled and I spoke clearly while anger wisped from my lips. “Well I say no more!  I say no more reading, no more history, no more science, and for mercy’s sake, sweet heavens above, no more math!”

I was on top of my desk now, all eyes fixed upon me in awe.  Out of breath, chest panting, I scanned the room and saw glimpses of hope and courage in the eyes of my classmates.  Now was the time if ever there would be one.  I gathered what remained of my resilience, looked at Comrade Frau Kraft sitting behind her imperial desk, and boldly shouted to those in my periphery, “Who’s with me!?”

The children were now rising too from their seats.  First to his feet was Ben, my ever faithful colleague and my brother in arms.  Then Alice, my sweetheart to the end, stood beside her desk.  All arose; all threw down their texts of lies, their images of discrimination and deceit, and joined together in united opposition against the secret society of repressive grade school education.

“Carver?  I said, why aren’t you reading?”

Miss Kraft’s voice shook me from my day dream.  Her repeated question slowed Alice and Ben from their flirting just long enough to glance my way before continuing their disgusting display of juvenile romancing.  “I am reading, Miss Kraft, I promise.”  I opened a random book and hung my head in submissive defeat.  Maybe tomorrow I’d find the courage.  Maybe tomorrow I’d find my words.

Authors note:  While the rebellion of fourth grade is a true story, and while I did sponsor many reading-time silent protest as well as outspoken delinquent dissertations, I thought it prudent to change the name of the overly strict teacher.  Oh, and Ben and Alice are completely made up.