family guy has been one of my favorites for years now. the relationship between the characters of brian and stewie is flawless. :)
“If you’re not prepared to be wrong, then you’ll never be creative,” says Ken Robinson. But, I do not agree. The biggest difficulty for people in the arts is that they never think their work is good enough. Artistic people are perfectionists. Often times they don't want to show or sell their work. Its commonly known that many artists are penniless during their lifetimes because they never sell their art. Just because a person is not "prepared to be [viewed as] wrong" does not mean that their creativity is altered.
I think the emphasis on the usual subjects of math, English, and science over such subjects as art, drama, and dance is commonplace because all children have the ability to learn. Everyone has a preference in subjects, and some may think they are better in some than others, but they can all be studied for and learned to the degree of passing the classes. But the arts are a different situation. The arts take people who are truly gifted in such areas. In order to do well in dance one needs strength, determination, balance. All art forms take certain capabilities that not all possess.
As to the Robinson's proclamation that schools kill creativity, I can agree and disagree at the same time. A major factor is the school itself. Every school is different. I was educated (kindergarten thru 12th grade) at Prue Public Schools. Prue is a very small rural school. My opportunities as a student were very limited. We had no dance or drama programs. Art classes were only offered if the school was able to employ a suitable teacher for it. Other schools vary I am sure. But such generalities cannot be made to cover all schools across the world.
these are some of my best friends in the world at a redhawks baseball game. we like to go on thursdays for "thirsty thursdays". Reflections
Class of ’42, graduation day. Supposed to be one of the happiest days of your life. Supposed to look back upon your high school years and the reward of your success. Supposed to look forward to the bright future that awaits you. Not supposed to find out that the rest of your life has been condemned to a battlefield.
Third grade was hard for me. I’ve never been good at math. Learning the times table was a bitch. In my Podunk little town of Prue, America we had to take what teachers we could get. Ms. Walters. That’s who Prue picked to teach us. Ms. Walters was a cranky old woman who smelled like moldy cheese and mothballs. She loved math and she hated me. Third grade. Had to take the damn thing twice. Two years with Ms. Walters. Two years with the times table. I adjusted. Then I was stuck with a whole new group of kids that already had their friendships formed. I adjusted. For ten years I had to deal with being older than all of my classmates. For ten years I had to feel like the dumbass that got flunked. I adjusted. Then I was nineteen on my graduation day. And March 7th was drawn. Because of the shitty town my parents chose to live in, the shitty teacher we got, and my inability to do math I didn’t have the eighteen-year-old deferment option. And my bright future dimmed.
Barbara was heartbroken. But she said she’d wait. Barbara and I had been going steady since our sophomore year. She didn’t ask for much. Just a sweet, small town girl. She didn’t want a fancy ring or a real big house or nothin. She just wanted to have some babies and cook me dinner every night.
Pa said he’d give me what money he and Ma could spare and the rusty old Ford pickup we used to round up cattle. He said “Son, take the money, the truck, the gal, and see what work you can find in Canada.” I couldn’t do it. Call me chickenshit, but it’s not in me to take a risk like that. Just not a risk-taker. Never cheated on a test. Never went much over the speed limit even though you never see a pig in Prue. Couldn’t do it. I didn’t know what the penalty would be for skippin’ the draft, but I knew it couldn’t be good. I was still holding onto the possibility of living through the war and coming home to my sweet Barbara. If I were in jail for the rest of my life, I couldn’t do that.
So to war I went. First stop was boot camp. As a two-year quarterback of our eight-man football team back in Prue, I always felt like the big shot. Barbara’s ma always called me a “burly boy”. I thought I could handle any ole physical challenge. Basic training was a rude awakening. We did lots of physical trainings and Sergeant Matthews really liked to bust our balls. Big city guy, he was. Hated us few “hillbillies.” My bunkmate, Willis, and me always got the shittiest assignments. Got K.P. on Christmas and bathroom duty when the chow was beans. “Private Bumpkin,” he’d holler. “Go scrub them shit bowls!” Don’t suppose he ever knew my real name. But he had some asshole name for ‘bout everyone.
Mondays thru Wednesdays we’d go out on bivouac. Thursdays were for physical. Fridays were our weekly hikes. Saturdays were inspection. Sunday was usually our time off. Usually. That schedule was engrained in my mind. Up every morning at 5:45, mess every evening at 6:00, and lights out at 9:00. Sometimes they’d change up the times for wake-up call. Just to get us ready for anything, I guess. The fellas loved to play poker before lights out. I never knew how to play, and nobody offered to teach. Always the quiet one, I never got much notice from the other guys. I liked it like that.
I penned a letter every now and then to Pa, Ma, and Barbara. I could be about near honest with Pa. With Ma, I sugarcoated everything; tried to sound upbeat to keep her from worryin’ so much. With Barbara, it was ‘bout the same as Ma’s letters. I’d write of sunny days and make the shit not sound like it actually was. I’d write of how I was gonna come home with mementos from foreign lands and that kind of romantic mush she loved to hear. It was hard to pen often since most of everything goin’ on during my days was supposed to be top secret. As if Barbara was gonna send my letter to a Jap or somethin. I sure ached for her in those days; missing the warmth of a woman.
Mail call was always an antsy time. Half hopin’ to hear my name and half expecting not to. But boy when I did, it sure gave me the butterflies. Made me feel loved and missed. The letters came in full force at first. Heard from aunts, uncles, cousins, and classmates. As time wore on, there was more and more time between hearin’ my name called during mail call.
Never saw a colored fella until training. They sure look funny with them white eyeballs and teeth and pink hands. Sgt. Matthews would always call ‘em coons. I swear, that prick just loved the power he had. Think it got his rocks off. He’d come in at 5:45 every damn morning and in that booming voice he’d holler “Hit the dirt, you bogans!” I hated that fuckin’ place, but I sure woulda picked it over what was to come.
Never been on a boat before we headed to France. The trip was eventful. Men gettin’ sick all over the place. Chow was terrible. Never got sick myself, but got real close. We got to France alright. Never heard another language before then. Stayed in pup tents for a while.
November of ’44, France. It was colder than anything I’d ever known. Snow and sleet real often. Roads were muddy and slippery. My fatigues never got dry as we made our way through the country into Germany. Sgt. Matthews never stopped his bitchin’ and barkin’. Sometimes I just wanted to take the butt of my rifle and smash his skull. I felt myself changing. I lost weight. I became increasingly bitter. Remained in my withdrawn state.
Battle. Belly crawling for hundreds of yards with machine guns firing rapidly a foot above my trembling, crawling body. There is no feeling like that. Knowing that death is a moment’s notice away from you at all times. I never rested. I’d try to sleep sometimes. Never really slept though. Just rested. A deep sleep could mean death. It leaves you unprepared, jumpy. We took a lot of prisoners. I liked that I didn’t know what the huns were saying. Just hear the constant chatter of their gibberish. Sgt. Matthews would shut ‘em up. He’d yell “Shut the fuck up you sons’a’bitches!!” They didn’t know what he was saying but just his tone of voice and crazy look in his eyes would have made me shit myself if I were against him.
Digging slit trenches. Can’t count how many of them fuckers me and Willis dug. We sat in our foxhole and listened to the bullets whizzing over our heads. He started changing too. Always talked about how to get himself injured to go home. Asked me to shoot him in the foot many times. I’d agree finally. Then he’d back out. Happened quite a few times. I was relieved. Didn’t want some new replacement coming in and takin’ his place. He was an all right guy. I just didn’t wanna meet anyone new. Never been one much for talkin’. That’s why Willis was good for me. He did a lot of talkin’. Kept our minds from the bullshit. He’d chatter about what he’d be doing to his wife if he were home right then.
The letters came to an altogether stop from Barbara. I figured she’d moved on. I didn’t blame her. Just wish I was gettin’ the kind of letters Willis was. He’d share sometimes. His wife, Martha, was a looker. She’d send photos at times. The kind that looked like a pin-up girl.
Seeing the rubble of the towns in Germany made me glad we weren’t fighting the war in America. Willis and I talked sometimes about the probability of that happening. We were pretty uninformed about happenings. Contact got worse and worse to maintain. In letters from Ma and Pa I’d hear that the homefront was being told the war was over. So what in the fuck were we still there for? Was Sgt. Matthews doing it on purpose to fuck with us and because he actually like war?
A day I’ll never get out of mind: Willis, me, and two other boys were making our way back to our foxholes, when one of the other boys was saying something about a plan to go into town to a cabaret when suddenly, boom. The boy was headless. We were smattered with his brain matter and blood. Didn’t even get the chance to be upset. Had to jump in our trenches and take cover. Hoped a litter carrier would come get him soon. Wiped the boy’s blood from my brow with my sleeve, took a deep breath and started firing at the fucking huns.
How do you get over that? Saw a boy a couple months younger than I have his head blown off as he spoke. Covered in the grit of what was his head. In an instant, went from live to dead. Couldn’t even find the damn dog tags to send home.
Whiskey and Willis were my only companions. I preferred whiskey. Whiskey didn’t bitch and moan. Whiskey kept me warm and dulled the shit. The incessant buzzing of bullets never left my head. Even when there was no firing, the sound still made a hollow echo for me. I thought I heard Barbara’s voice once. I was sure of it, in fact. I turned around to answer her and found no one. Willis, beside me, asked what was the matter. He looked at me like one inspects a crying baby. He looked like he wanted to ask more questions, but didn’t. He was afraid of the answer.
It occurred to me I was crackin’ up. I had made up conversations in my head between a cabaret girl and myself. It was an ongoing conversation. Anytime Willis wasn’t talking, and even sometimes while he was, she and I would resume our conversing. She was the perfect girl. There when I wanted her and she’d shut up when I was busy. She always knew what I wanted to hear. She knew what I liked. I named her Betty. That was all I needed: whiskey, Willis, and Betty. Betty had long legs and short curly hair. She had the softest sweet voice and always wore red lipstick and high heels.
Reality only came in instances when something big would happen, like a bombing or a raid. Other than that, I ran on autopilot with Betty in my head, Willis at my side, and whiskey running through my veins. A force to be reckoned with, I gathered.
Returning home was a blur. We heard news that the war was over and we’d be going home soon. Soon wasn’t quite accurate. But, we eventually boarded a ship to take us home.
Home. Pa was buried beneath the old Sycamore out back. Old age, they called it. Just got too old to live. Whatever that means. Didn’t even know ‘til I pulled in the drive, where Ma met me. She sobbed ‘til her eyes puffed up. So glad to have her only son back home. Numb. All I could feel was numb. Empty. Like Hitler, himself had reached in my body and paralyzed me. I could still move and talk. But so far as emotion and feelings go, nothing. Ma bustled about the house in the weeks after my return. She tried to make me comfortable and make it feel like home again. My non-complacency and silence broke her heart.
I only half heard the things she said. The buzzing of bullets was fainter than it used to be, yet still constant in my ears. Betty still kept me company. She came all the way from Germany to be with me. Couldn’t ask for anything better. Ma chattered on, “You got a letter from a Private Willis. Is that a friend of yours? Oh how nice. You know that Barbara girl married the Johnson’s oldest boy. Oh what is his name? I can’t recall now. But they had themselves a little girl a few months back. Cutest thing you ever did see…….”
I heard bits but mainly just talked to Betty. She had gotten this new little black number for her cabaret performance that night. She worried that I’d be jealous of all the soldiers whistling at her. She’s a good girl like that. But I knew there was nothing to worry about with Betty. I’d never have to share her with anyone.
It’s been two years since my return home. Ma passed away about a year ago. She wasn’t the same without Pa. The only thing that kept her alive after his passing was the hope of my return. Then I finally did come back. Only thing is, I wasn’t the boy I was when I had last been in the family home. And I really never came home. All this time, all these miles and I’m still on a battlefield in Germany. Lost my mind and my life right there.
So here I sit, at my Pa’s old cedar desk writing a little of the history I’ve experienced. Willis is gone. He’s home with his wife and family now. My whiskey has changed to bourbon, but it fills the same role it always has, just like a good friend should. Betty is with me too, as always. She lightly tousles my hair that hasn’t seen a pair of shears in a long while. She caresses my bearded cheek and whispers sweet words of love and happiness. Silly girl hasn’t seen what I’ve seen. Happiness isn’t an option. I don’t even know what the word means anymore. Nonsense.
I believe I am finally finished with my memoirs. If anyone should look for them, they’ll be right here on this desk. My dog tags too. I think of that boy losing his head again. I pick up my glass of bourbon, finish off the drink, and return it to its coaster (Pa wouldn’t be happy if I scarred his desk).
I give Betty a kiss and I pick up my revolver one last time. Click.
We took my nephews to a baseball game while visiting my sister in Texas. We watched the Tulsa Drillers beat the Frisco Rough Riders!
