The Chair's Chair Virus

Virus

Part 8 of 30

Anyway, as I said yesterday, my once-nice-brown-haired Pa had the virus known as cancer and died. Immediately having gone to heaven, his soul, we later buried him on the hill back home, with his mortal remains remaining there with his hopes of being resurrected someday. My own thought on the religion of it all is that the body will likely remain there till the end of time but that his soul/spirit did indeed majestically flit-flit-flit its way to his reward, a fast flit and more or less instant.

He also had a nasty cough. I seem to remember it was in his lungs, a terrible way to die. Which might be like the virus today, since we’re all afraid of being touched, having the breath of strangers or loved ones on us, I think. I know they put up plexiglass dividers at the grocery store to keep the nastiness of customers off the checkout people. It’s all extremely serious business, and even when the virus is no more, I would guess the plexiglass dividers will remain forever. They're industrially fastened. So no more handshaking even after this is over. The new greeting upon meeting someone will be to step back three feet and bow, but not such a deep bow that we’re breathing on anything that’s settled near the floor.

So Pa died, with his light brown hair, around 20 years ago, leaving behind a bunch of furniture that Mom (still alive at the time) wanted to get rid of. Dad’s personal den had a chair and ottoman that were gorgeous in their time, procured by my family after another guy died and they were on sale at a garage sale where he lived. Dad knew they were used but accepted them anyway, having no scruple at that time about sitting in a chair that a potentially infected person sat in. (These days, with the virus, we’ll avoid all floor models that aren’t sold or even sitting in them for a test.) As for Pa, it was never known definitively whether his lung cancer was a result of a prior infection of his chair or something to do with an old ashtray he used to use.

Once Pa flitted off to his heavenly reward -- my inspiring post yesterday, and I’ve already heard that a few souls have been saved based on it -- that left us with the quandary of what to do with his filthy old chair. You sell it at a garage sale, you’re open to legal action if someone gets lung cancer from it. Or who knows what other kinds of cancer! I do remember one of the dogs sleeping on its back, then wriggling around in a dream, and falling out and getting hurt. The dog's attorney tried to make a federal case of it, but they settled for a few biscuits and a red squeeze toy.

Sorry to tell you now the chair’s gone. We did indeed put it on the curb with a sign, and it was snatched up actually before the ink on the sign was dry! So there’s someone out there -- no doubt now dead -- willing to live dangerously, with basically nothing left to live for.

Empty Sorghum Jars

 
It is beyond all debate, there is nothing more beautiful in all creation than the sight of a full sorghum jar. You see it, jam-packed with delicious, shining, brown sorghum. God bless anyone who agrees with me thus far. And shame on you, if -- the very thought of it is unimaginable -- you happen to disagree. Shame! Shame! Shame!

That is to say, I like it. And perhaps I've gone beyond liking sorghum, to the point of loving it. One night a guy I know who works at the store called me, prefacing his remarks with, "You didn't hear it from me," then he proceeded to tell me the new sorghum would be in around 10:00 a.m. I was glad to get the heads up, and -- this is important -- managed to be in line before nearly every other sorghum hawk in town. Somehow there was a couple who obviously knew higher-ups in the system, if not the delivery guy's family. Because there they were, looking like the cat that ate the canary. Foiled me again, scourges of the earth.

OK, the flip side of the argument -- that there's nothing more beautiful in all creation than the sight of a full sorghum jar -- is the exact opposite: There's nothing less beautiful, or more ugly, uglier, than the sight of a sorghum jar that's spent, empty, down to the nubbins, stripped bare of its payload. Snuff films paint a prettier picture. (For the above photo I tried to downplay the hideousness of it all with an attractive background.)

What good are empty sorghum jars? This is a true fact: I save each and every used sorghum jar. I have a theory, and I've heard from friends that "It's not a bad theory," that the essence of sorghum is still present in empties. And that someday, perhaps, hopefully, scientists will be able to produce a full jar of sorghum from nothing more than its microscopic essence. When that happens, if indeed it turns out to be true, one entire wall of my cellar's going to be well-stocked with sorghum!

I'm about done, but I want to get a jab in on the other sorghum hawks. (Most of them already know what I did, but I'm going to brag on myself for the few of you out there who still haven't heard it.) It was the year 2000. With me so far? When an inside source gave me the incredible scoop, that the Maasdam Sorghum Mills was going to open its gates and barns for a rare tour. This gets good! I didn't say a word to anyone till I nearly reached rural Lynnville, Iowa. Then I told my dad. We were riding together, him and mom and me. Dad was all like, "Where we going?" And finally I told him.

The bad thing here is that Dad had just found out he had cancer. But when I told him we were going to the sorghum plant, he was happy as a kid. That was a bright spot in an otherwise devastating time. He perked right up, and my mom was happy too just looking at the two of us laughing. He couldn't believe it. But it was true! We found the place, out in the country, and headed for the barn, pumping fists. He wasn't thinking of cancer for that day anyway! They showed us around, showed us how they bring the sorghum plants in, how they stack it, etc., etc., and with an old huffing/puffing machine with conveyor belts and all the rest, are able to put out big containers of sorghum.

One of the real treats was we got to see alive the guy who started the place! He's no doubt since passed on, like my mom and dad have, since he was practically 100 at the time. He was sitting in a chair, looking around, a nice looking guy. That's enough. I'm getting emotional. It's terrible to recall my dad's failing health and that whole terrible time. And the fact that that tour had to come to an end, and the founder being passed on, etc. If I had a jar of sorghum right this minute, I know I'd overdose and I'm not going to say what would probably happen to me, except I'd no doubt go to Heaven.

The Billionaire Could've Been Anything

It's been a lazy Sunday afternoon. The billionaire's been hanging out at my place. He's usually a fireball of activity, but like everyone he has to cool his jets sometime.

This is what I like. It's what I liked when I was with the Pink Professor, doing nothing in particular, just hanging out like two old slippers. Small talk. Comfortable body language. I looked over at the billionaire, wondering what his dreams must be like. I hope they're not all of exploits and conquests, the next gold-laden rainbow, etc. As much as I like the billions, I'm still a romantic at heart, and like to slow down.

Anyway, there he sat -- the man himself -- a guy with the world on a chain. Even without the billions he'd be a great guy. I can picture him a total success no matter what. Having him asleep gave me time to think over the possibilities.

How about a dashing cowboy hero? Of course he wouldn't be from this generation. We have cowboys, but there's very little call for them to round up rustlers or head off bank robbers at the pass. In which case we would've never met. But he could've been in the Old West. He has his feet on the table at the saloon, dozing off. There's a guy there saying, "Even if he weren't a dashing cowboy hero, he would've been a success at something. Like if he lived in the far-off future, an important mogul in the world of high finance. I'm picturing him as an eccentric billionaire." Then the future goes fuzzy, our cowboy hero wakes up, tips a glass of whiskey, and takes off to protect water rights for the settlers.

Or he could've been a great talent in the arts. Since to be a truly great artist you have to let yourself go, and not be afraid to face the scorn. As for me, I've never let myself go in the arts, so I haven't painted any masterpieces. I've had a blank canvas for the last five year and I'm afraid to touch it with paint. The billionaire might've been born in France, like the guy in the illustration obviously was. He has that look of French insouciance. He's there in France, doing art, with many fans. One fan wonders, "If he weren't such a great artist, I wonder what he might've been. He's too eccentric to ever be wealthy. He'd waste his money in a second and be found drunk or dead in his garret. As it is, he needs a keeper! He'll get knifed in a bar yet!"

I can also see the billionaire as a brave soldier in battle. Brave in the extreme, because he has very little reserve; if he wants something he goes for it. His wealth proves that. It's no stretch to imagine him as instrumental to a major battlefield rescue. The commander says we need someone to run through that minefield and carry out our fallen battalion. He can't do it alone, so he goes to a farmhouse and barters for several stallions. Which he lashes together side by side, then he steps on the middle horse and drives them into the fray. The battalion sees him coming, and they're ecstatic, shouting their admiration like, "That crazy son of a bitch! I never seen such a beautiful bastard!" Even the enemy's beside themselves. Meanwhile, back at the farmhouse, the farmer's telling his wife the story: "That guy could've been anything, dammit, I'm tellin' ya! A cowboy! An artist! In the future, a billionaire!"

Finally, the billionaire could've been an average man of any little town. I have my doubts here, but there's no telling. My dad was an average man in a little town, and he was extraordinary in various ways. He met my mom, and believe me, other guys didn't! So who's smartest? Obviously, my dad. But the thing about the billionaire is, What would he have done as an average man of a town? Even he might not know. He would've paused, thinking, and really going over it: "Is there a place for me in the arts? Or perhaps the military? Anything would be better than this trash route! But it pays the bills, and people like me. They honor me each time as one of the nicest guys they know. And that's success as well.

I was about to go on ... forever ... when the billionaire woke up. Being a genius, he saw I had something on my mind, and goes, "What'd I miss?"

Cancer -- Everything's Gotta Eat

I've been accused of being heartless and cruel, and even rooting for people's suffering and evil, simply because of my realistic recognition that everything's gotta eat. This isn't something I came up with myself, but it's a teaching passed on to me by my dad, who got it from his dad, etc., probably. I haven't actually traced it back multiple generations. But it has nothing to do with rooting for suffering...

My dad, every time we had a complaint about something -- mice droppings in the cupboard, coons at the campsite -- would say, "Everything's gotta eat." Which, he pointed out, was something we depended on when we needed it, and therefore should appreciate. Which is true. If we want to catch a mouse in a trap we take advantage of the fact that it has to eat. And the same for coons. And fish. Imagine going to fish and not wanting fish to eat! You'd have to catch them in a net. And they'd be bone skinny, since they didn't eat.

Like I said, this is truth and it's realistic. If people suffer because something's eating them, they (we, I) need to be more accepting of how things are. If we can eat the source of the problem, or find something else to eat it, that's the same thing, but in a curative way. So we have medicine/radiation to eat it, in a sense. For some things you can get leeches, to get in there and go to town.

I've also been called fatalistic when it comes to this teaching about eating, but really I'm not. Again, it's realism, not that you have to accept it. Just like in another saying, "Eat or be eaten." If you're being eaten by something, in my opinion -- and I'm not expecting contradiction on this -- you have the prerogative and instinct to eat it back. May he with the best appetite and chompers win!

We as men have it in our arsenal to co-opt the eating talents of other agents. Like I said above, medicine, leeches. Or doctors. Doctors are just as good as leeches, if not better. Both bring their natural talents to the task, but doctors, because of their human minds and in-depth training, have additional talents. If it's a job for a leech, I'll go with a leech. If it's a job for a doctor -- and sometimes the doctor has to make this judgment for me -- I'll go with the doctor. In my experience, thinking back, I haven't used leeches as much as I might have.

OK, friends, before you criticize me for my stance on cancer, just remember, I too have suffered this scourge. Yes, I call it a scourge, since it killed my father, my mother, and other relatives, no doubt, many whom I haven't even known. It will probably get me, eventually. But if it does, I will maintain the same truth that I live by today: Everything's gotta eat. If the thing exists and perpetuates itself by eating, then to hope (or deny it) is folly.

The big difference, in our sentiments, is we don't mind doing the eating, but we don't want to be the eaten. Reminding me of the old illustration of the little fish being eaten by a bigger fish that's being eaten by yet a bigger fish being eaten, and on and on. If you're anywhere on that chain, you might not want to be eaten, but you can't deny the guy behind you his prerogative, unless you get out of the way.

When it comes to cancer, there are certain proactive things we can do, at least for a while, to keep ourselves from being eaten. Like don't smoke, don't chew, and don't go with girls who do. That might work. Everyday there's something else being brought forth as another cause of cancer. The best thing you can do, one imagines, is lock yourself in a room and do nothing. Except letting yourself out at certain times of the day to exercise and eat good meals and drink water.

Please, then, the next time you see cancer eating you or someone you know and love, remember, that's the way it is. Everything's gotta eat. If you can eat it back, by all means go for it; you have my blessing. If not, let this philosophical truth be your guiding light and, I might say, your comfort.

Meadow-Gold Ice Cream And My Dad

Family Trivia Question: What is the one thing that my dad couldn't stand to eat? No, let me rephrase that: What kind of ice cream did he absolutely hate? Not what flavor ... what brand? I mean. This is actually a stumper even for some people who knew him pretty well. But not me. Because I know the answer -- it's ingrained in my memory -- Meadow-Gold!

My dad made it crystal clear to us growing up that he despised Meadow-Gold ice cream. Given the choice of Meadow-Gold ice cream or dirt, he would've been a man of the soil every time. He didn't like the stuff, although seriously I can't remember why, or even if he ever said. It seems like he alluded to getting sick from it, which probably came from a bad batch or something.

That would make sense. Because, and this would be through no fault of the Meadow-Gold company itself, if you have thousands of independent ice cream shops and stands, there would have to be one once in a while that wasn't storing it right, or was selling it after its expiration date. I think way back then they probably didn't even have expiration dates on stuff, so it would be a case of keeping it too long, maybe even out of ignorance. I was at a grocery store a couple weeks ago and saw some meat still in the cooler that had an expiration date of three days before. I pointed it out to the meat guy and he immediately removed it. So if they're lax today, what might have happened in 1938?

My dad was born in the early '30s, so I'm just guessing, maybe his bad experience with Meadow-Gold happened when he was somewhere between five and ten. Those are formative years. You get hold of something rotten when you're that age and you don't forget it. To this day I will not touch Jack Daniel's whiskey, although to be fair, the half-full bottle we found at the train-yard might have been pissed in by a hobo.

I found the above ad, the original elements of which come from 1938. We can clearly make out that Meadow-Gold advertised their ice cream as great stuff. Ice cream itself was "The King of Foods," and among ice cream brands, Meadow-Gold "reigns supreme." That's pretty good! You're the King of Kings, the Jesus of dairy. "You're getting the best, the purest, the freshest..." they said. Of course my dad would be lured into eating Meadow-Gold.

But then what? Assuming as we are he got some from a bad batch and the entire brand isn't crap, just going by my imagination of what happened, he ate it, it tasted not terrible, then later he vomited his guts up. It had to be something traumatic for him, to swear off a particular brand even 50 years later. We'd be driving along, see a Meadow-Gold sign, want ice cream, and inevitably he'd say, "I don't like Meadow-Gold."

Now he's dead, so I can't ask him to give me the full scoop. It's one of the biggest regrets of my life. Why, why, why, when he lay a'dying, did I not ask him why he hated Meadow-Gold ice cream so much?