Going, Going, Gone. The Little Things That Counted
I remember well reading this book about the “Lost Boys of the Sudan’. When these rural villages were bombed and men on horseback murdered all the villagers, some children escaped, and now orphaned, began the long trek to find a new ‘home’. This trek took these children over a thousand miles and half of them died en route. Scattered throughout the vast wilderness of northern Africa, these wandering children coalesced into what eventually became an army of 20 thousand, all youngsters, some 5 or 6 years old. The trek eventually took them to a refugee camp in Kenya and three of these ’lost boys’ ended up eventually coming to America—before the number of refugees grew to today’s population of 75 million and now, naturally, no one wants any more refugees. All this aside, what applies here is that one of the boys, now an adult, recalls the worst part of his journey: it was not any of the physical and health problems endured en route (few children survived this trek), but the deep depression he went in when he lost the only thing he had left from his simple family life before the attack—a small blanket his mother had made for him which he lost fleeing from soldiers shooting down as many of these children as they could. That little blanket meant more to him than any of the stuff those of us in more affluent situations means to us. A little raggedy ass blanket meant, and still does mean, more than anything else in the world to him. That trek of little children fits the title above: Going, going, gone—their entire childhood vanished like it never existed. That’s tragedy writ large, my reflections here are simple nostalgia. Little kids surviving a trip like that, over a thousand miles, in Africa no less, with wild animals and warring adults—simply heart rendering and beyond belief. Stuff like that is impossible to get out of my mind, the worst kind of reality with which to deal.
It just seems that real meaning has little to do with wealthy stuff. What is gone, that really matters the most to us, is often many simple things. Of course dead parents in many cases. But these were not purchased objects. All our pets of yesteryears, and these too were non inanimate objects or signs of wealth. Most pets are mutts of some sort, practically free for anyone who will adopt them. For someone like myself who has poor memory for names, I still remember the names of almost everyone who lived within a mile of my boyhood home. And they all knew me or about me to varying degrees. Today we are often lucky if we actually know the name of those living next door, and even if we do, that about ends any meaningful knowledge about them. Our intimacy now is through the internet or smart phones or whatever other gadget keeps us busy in cyberspace. None of this has anything to do with bad or good, better or worse, just reflections of how so many simple things of the past are gone with the wind. Times change without any predetermined or ethical fashion. In the short run, which in evolutionary time can be hundreds, thousands, or millions of years, it may seem disastrous; but in the long run, things rebound better than ever—not because of our prayers, our personal input, but because of the laws which govern the process, laws which were created by my idea of God, but don’t ask me to push this idea further than “wherever there is a gift, there must be a gift-giver. The gift giver is God.
Those lost boys of Sudan, had not a single toy, as we know a toy, but spent endless hours each day, before they lost their childhood, playing games with sticks and a little ball or constructed figurines—what ever. They now live here in America but their minds wax longingly for those simple days back in rural Sudan when they were ‘somebody’ with no baggage of horror stories buried in their psyche. If they could press a button and go back to that simple childhood with their good friends and family, they would do that and leave behind the materialistic items they are surrounded by here in America. The big pictures of life, or the most meaningful things about life, are too often illusional.
But even those of us born here kind of miss many simple things from our life of earlier years, before all the battles to become more affluent, have more social stature, or endless gadgets, or achievements in business that often left us busy sometimes with screwed up priorities. I can remember spending nights with a flashlight sending morse code signals through a window to a playmate a mile away, spending hours carrying pails of maple tree sap to the kitchen where it got boiled down to syrup by boiling off 97% of the liquid. The house was became a steam bath but somehow my parents permitted it. And where have most of the fireflies gone? They used to be everywhere, now seldom seen. And snakes, I seldom see a snake anymore even though I walk miles in forest preserves many times a week. Honeysuckle, used to be everywhere, again seldom seen. Rabbits, they used to be running around in the woods in huge numbers, today I guess the hawks and coyotes or whatever have done them in. Rarely see a rabbit anymore. Deer are rarities, at least where I live. Any creature defenseless, has little chance in a world where the means to kill them is available and used. Wildlife is more a nuisance today than any valued part of our environment.
Remember when we used to race from the corn patch with the corn to put it immediately in boiling water before it lost it’s sweetness? Hell, today with genetic bred super sweet corn that retains it’s sweetness, eating corn on the cob is no big deal. It became a meaningful adventure when one had to go through all the work of growing the corn, picking it, husking it, and plunging it into boiling water. Yum, yum. I still like corn, but what happened to the yum, yum? Replaced by the ho hm, ho hum. We can purchase all kinds of subways today but when I was young racing down to Ascherman's Deli so we could have a ‘railroad’ sandwich, was a highlight of the day—boy were they good. If I had the same ‘Railroad’ sandwich today I would probably find it deficient and wanting. A beat up old Pontiac that hardly ran, and when so, poorly—meant more to me than my car today with every imaginable device on it, together with a manual over 1000 pages long. Even when I first buy it, the excitement is minimal.
Remember when baring too much flesh was an abomination, a sure tell tale sign of immorality? Each generation flaunted more and more flesh while porno films, hard to come by in my earlier years, had performers who wore masks. Today porn is a big attraction on the internet for millions of people. What does all this mean? I have no idea. What is left for the next generation to flaunt? Maybe they will insist on putting clothing back on and sex will be an activity engaged in with a headset, high definition, 3-D, virtual reality high orgasmic sex with whatever image we dial up on the screen. Perhaps kids will be genetically ordered from Amazon. com after filling out a form describing exactly what the kid will look like, plus the nature of their personality. Perhaps our life long companions will be reselected from Amazon.com as we ourselves change over time and need something different, not the same old, same old, tired ass friends of existence of which we have grown tired. These thoughts are nonsensical. How accurate would Lincoln have been if asked to predict life 150 years after him? And he was smarter than the rest of us.
Remember how exciting it was to go to get ice cream or hear the bells of the good humor man? I Iiked Raspberry (pronounced rasp berry) the best. Swimming was equatable today with winning the lottery. The county fair, an amusement park, bumper cars, and a trip to some relative 30 miles away was a planned out, long awaited adventure. Boredom itself was an adventure and forced endless creative ideas to escape from the boredom. When I was in my productive years I would often long for the carefree days of youth sitting around trying to figure out how best to amuse ourselves. Maybe that is why I am content in my terminational years spending every morning before getting out of bed deciding exactly what I want to do for the day ahead. And then I do it, almost always some sort of simplistic inexpensive hobby. I remember once digging a big hole with a boyhood friend, I don’t remember why, but we kept digging for weeks or months just, I guess, for something to do. But I can remember exactly where we dug that hole. Or the tree hut way the hell out in the woods. Not much of it was ever constructed do to the distance to drag all the lumber. Hide and seek was fun—and when I tired of it, and it was my turn, I would just go home, a sure fire place they would never think to look. Nice game, you could win by going home.
A trip to Ebbets Field to see the Brooklyn Dodgers and Duke Snider at 10 years of age with my neighborhood pals is pure nostalgia. This entailed a train ride, then several subway trains, and finally there we were, at Ebbets Field. Baseball is too slow for me today, but when a child it seemed so exciting. When the World Series started there were radios in every class, every workplace, there were no night games, and every workplace managed someway to know what happened with every batter.
Every generation, when older, could write this kind of musing about those things so long ago, now going, going, gone—being sadly missed. On the other hand, when people suggest I do something exciting these days I reply: "What makes you think I am looking for excitement?" I seek contentment and simple pleasant daily routines. I don’t need a life, I’ve had one. And I am still alive and relatively healthy, I mean enough is enough. Those for whom enough is never enough miss the whole point of life and contentment will be evasive. I am perfectly willing to let the next generation run the show. Change is always the order of the day and will be every year in the future. If we want permanence, then for those my age, this will come soon enough. I don’t think the dead are turning over in their grave about anything. Realistically, the dead really don’t exist anymore. Yes, Elvis is dead, he ain’t coming back. Neither is Lincoln, or any of the Queens/Kings of England, or Roger Bannister to set a new mile record. The original amoeba is still around, still inconspicuous, and popcorn has survived the absence of Terrell Owens on the field stirring things up.
Going, Going, Going—Gone could be the title of any book written as an autobiography by anyone who has ever lived. Just a weird last thought to bring things to a close here, always a difficult task for me.
