Life Uncommon - Original Prose

Life Uncommon

In the autumn, I watched. I watched my trees, my beloved trees; maple, birch, cherry, pine and others. I watched as they began their slow familiar transformation from vibrant green, to yellow, red and gold. I always watch this drama with a mixture of dread and delight. Delight for the beauty of the scene; delight for the comical way the changeless spruce, the fragile fir, and the towering cedar mock the mightier trees that cannot suffer the fast approaching blight. And delight for the perfect simplicity of creation. But dread; dread for the coming chill, shortened days, dismal nights, and relentless cold. Too long will the barren white blanket my world. The bitter beauty of that scene holds little charm for me. But powerless to avert nature's design, I watched. Slowly the leaves will reach their zenith and die, slowly unless a hard rain or north wind speeds their demise.

I watched till the last leaf had fallen. The wood seemed sparse now without its summer canopy. I spotted a curious sight: a mature maple, with a low limb and a single brown leaf. I drew close to examine the stubborn leaf. It was unremarkable save only in its tenacity. So, I watched. I watched the lonely leaf. Every day, according to custom, I would rise and look for it, expecting it to be gone. But it lingered. The cold rains of October came and it lingered. The killing frost of November and the chilling snow of December came and it lingered. The deep freeze of January and the bitter breeze of February came and it lingered. The long awaited sun of March and the lengthened days of April came and still, it lingered. Finally, the showers of May came and turned to warmth and sunshine, and then, it was gone. Not only fallen, but gone. In its place, I discovered a small green bud…new life.

I had always smiled at the foolish leaf, knowing its battle was futile; the end would surely come. In vain it held to life only to relent in the end. It survived the elements of the harshest season, yet it could not survive nor prevent new life. I wondered; perhaps its quest was not life eternal, but life uncommon.

It is written in the old book that the creator has chosen the simple things of this world to confound the wise. For a season, he sent a simple leaf to confound me. In the end I took comfort, for herein is wisdom. I will not live as other men. I will not bow to convention. I will live, life uncommon.

© 2017 Joseph E. Fountain

A Boy Named Stupid

A Boy Named Stupid

by J.E. Fountain

When I was 8 or 9, I was part of a well-established "gang" of kids in my neighborhood. One summer, a new kid showed up who looked and acted rather odd. When we asked his name, he made an angry expression and shouted "I'm stupid, I'm stupid, I'm stupid!" 

Without fail – every time.

My buddies and I thought this was funny. We didn't know his real name, so we called him Stupid. He responded as if it were his actual name. He didn't get angry if we called him Stupid, only if we asked his name. We loved to make sport of this odd boy, when someone came along who had not yet met Stupid, we’d nudge each other and tell them to ask his name, and we'd have a good laugh.

We were the stupid ones. It wasn’t until years later that I realized how tragic this was. This boy had obviously been told repeatedly he was stupid – possibly by a parent. He lived with foster parents for the brief time I knew him.

He was often close by, but never really one of us. After the novelty of prompting his angry outburst wore off, he was nearly invisible. He spent most days catching frogs.

Then Scott moved to the neighborhood and joined our gang. Scott was "normal" and was quickly accepted into the group. The day came when Scott met Stupid.

We snickered and urged Scott to ask his name. "I'm stupid, I'm stupid, I'm stupid!" the boy predictably said. My buddies and I had our laugh, but Scott didn't laugh. He knelt by Stupid who was sitting on the ground playing with a frog. Scott said, "That’s not your name. What's your name?" but he got the same response. Then Scott asked, "What's your frog’s name?” 

Stupid replied that it didn't have a name, and Scott asked, "Can I call him Jumper?"

Stupid's face brightened. Then Scott said, "Hey, can we call you Jumper too?" For a moment, Stupid's face got the angry look and I expected his usual outburst, but then it softened and smiled.

I was suddenly ashamed.

Stupid became Jumper. He still kept to himself most days. If we’d invite him to join us he would usually decline, but sometimes he joined in. It is only a childhood memory, but I seem to recall he smiled more often. If asked his name, he responded the same as always, but we no longer made sport, and even shielded him from being asked.

I never did learn his real name.

He made a powerful impact on me. They say confession is good for the soul. Perhaps I just wanted to unburden myself for this long ago guilt. I’d never told a soul about Stupid before writing this.

I’ve wondered how I might have responded if a parent or authority figure had sternly corrected me for making fun of Stupid. I suspect my behavior would have changed, but quite possibly, NOT my heart.

Instead, providence sent a kind example in one of my peers – and my heart broke before my will.

A broken heart can be good for the soul as well.

© 2017 Joseph E. Fountain

The Ancient Man (original prose)

When I was young I met an ancient man. I do not recall precisely how young I was, and I never learned exactly how old he was, but I knew – there was a vast difference between us.

There was a house across the street and down a few doors that held no interest to me. It wasn't an unfriendly house; there was no snarling dog or even a fence. If my baseball found its way to the yard, there was nothing to fear in retrieving it, but there was no other reason to visit. There were no children, no trees fit for climbing, no pond, no stream, no snakes, nothing.

Until the ancient man appeared: He sat in the front yard, in the summer heat, covered from head to toe, wearing a straw hat and sunglasses. He was a curiosity to my friends and myself briefly, until we remembered our World Series baseball game had been interrupted the night before by someone's dinner. The ancient man, like the house that sheltered him was of no concern.

A few days after the conclusion of the World Series I was left to amuse myself without my friends for a few hours. I might have disowned them briefly for some offense that surely warranted such treatment. I don’t remember for certain. I was playing with a superball, a baseball size ball of hard rubber that bounced incredibly high. I was playing in the street in order to bounce it off the pavement in attempting a new world superball bouncing record. I'm certain I succeeded on several occasions but record of the feat seems to be lost. Eventually, my ball landed in the yard of the ancient invisible man.

When I ran to reclaim it he spoke to me. "How are you?" It startled me because it had never occurred to me he might speak. He barely ever moved. In this startled condition I answered what he did not ask. I said, "I'm Joe". I'm not sure why. Maybe my brain was going too fast, and I anticipated he was going to ask "Who are you?" I don't know, but as soon as I answered I knew my answer was stupid, but I didn't know how to recover and so my stupid answer was all he got. He smiled and laughed.

As I write about it now, I think I could have been insulted by his laughter but at the moment, somehow I knew it was no insult. He was just amused, and maybe in my little mind it seemed like it might have been a long time since he last laughed. I couldn't begrudge him.

In the midst of his chuckling he repeated his original inquiry, though now, a bit more intimately, "Well Joe, how are you?"

"I'm OK" and we chatted. He was interested in my superball. He'd never seen a ball that could bounce so high. I suppose this was new technology to him. We talked about other things but I don't remember what they were.

I never learned his name, but from that day on, if I was playing nearby, I'd wave to him and he'd wave back. Occasionally, I'd visit him. If I caught a snake I'd show him. If I had some new-fangled toy surpassing the wonders of a superball I'd impress him. Sometimes one or more of my friends would accompany me when I visited him, but I was always the most honored guest of the ancient, invisible, nameless man. Sometimes I made him laugh. I usually didn't understand why he laughed, but it pleased me when he did.

I only saw him one summer and part of the next. I never knew the other inhabitants of the house, so I have no idea what became of him. I hadn’t thought of him in years until a friend asked me recently, “How are you?”

I’m Joseph.

© 2016 Joseph E. Fountain

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Pretense (Wanderer's original prose)

PRETENSE

by J.E. Fountain

On my way to work one winter morning, I found myself walking behind a young girl. Young woman would be more precise; she was pretty and trim, dressed smartly, and walked femininely without being provocative. But in spite of these charms my attention was drawn by more innocent feelings, and so, she remains a girl.

I first joined her at a crosswalk, but when the light changed, her quicker pace soon left me behind. When she was 10 paces or so in front of me she began kicking a chunk of snow and ice that was in her path. In her path, would be excuse enough for the first kick, but it became an impromptu rendition of a familiar, but nameless, childhood pastime. She continued kicking the ice for nearly half a block. At times it would go far to one side or the other and she would adjust her track for another kick to continue the game. This inefficient route slowed her pace considerably, and I slowed my own to avoid intrusion upon her field of play and to protect my privileged vantage point.

I suspect she forgot anyone was behind her. It was early; there was little pedestrian traffic, and I have a habit of treading lightly. There was carelessness in her efforts. Her head, which had been high but not proud, was slightly bowed. She seemed lost to the world, concentrating only on the challenge before her.

I suppose if there had been another spectator, watching me rather than the girl, I might have been a curious sight as well. Doubtless, I wore a bemused smile.

As I said, I suspect she had forgotten me. It would be delightful to think she simply didn't care, but subtle clues would indicate otherwise. After half a block or so, she gave the ice her final kick. Suddenly, her body made the slightest, almost imperceptible change. She stiffened. Her head returned to upright, her hands were thrust a bit deeper into pockets, and her next step became more purposeful. She remembered – she was not alone. In the next few steps she bypassed the chunk of ice and abandoned her purposeless game, intent now only upon her destination. Innocence was gone and my smile was gone. There was a fleeting temptation on my part to "pick up the baton" and give the ice an effective kick, but I had no idea who might be walking stealthily behind me. I have my dignity after all.

Oh, I know I am far too philosophic over the uneventful event. I may have no dignity after all. It seems pointless even to tell the tale, but perhaps – the pointlessness of simple pleasure should not be mitigated by dignity and decorum. The dreamers will wonder what the world would be like if we acted on conviction rather than acquiesced to convention.

Maybe people would smile more.

© 2016 Joseph E. Fountain

Posted to The Once Lost Wanderer on 3/1/2016

The Game Ignorance Would Not Allow (Wanderer's prose)

Less than a week ago, the Kansas City Royals won the World Series, beating the New York Mets in five. And now Kauffman Stadium and Citi Park are quiet.

How can you not be romantic about baseball?

The Game Ignorance Would Not Allow

by J.E. Fountain

The Champions celebrate, though with less verve each day. The runners up, replay their errors, nurse their wounds, and dream of spring. The pilgrims seek new idols, leaving the great shrines quiet for a season, quiet but not unattended. If the veil were lifted, perhaps our eyes could see the revenants emerge from the shadows. Quickly and quietly to assume the old familiar haunts: Cobb in center, Wagner at short, and Ruth of course at the plate. Other specters are tentative to tread the hallowed and once forbidden ground. Oscar Charleston, Cool Papa Bell, and Josh Gibson take the field that was denied them in life, and the great Satchell Paige takes the mound. Paige vs Ruth: the contest ignorance did not allow. What price would they bring, tickets to such a duel? Something less I think, than the price already paid.

(Oscar Charleston aka the Black Ty Cobb, was just as mean and possibly a better player. James Bell was probably the fastest man in either the Negro or Major leagues. Josh Gibson aka The Brown Bambino probably hit more home runs than Ruth or Aaron but Negro League records were not well kept. Satchell Paige is perhaps the greatest pitcher ever.)

© 2015 Joseph E. Fountain

The Beauty of Slight Decay

The Beauty of Slight Decay
by J.E. Fountain

Somewhere once, I read a curious phrase. A poet, a philosopher, a drunkard, I cannot recall, spoke of “the beauty of slight decay.”

The creative within me thrilled at this phrase; the analyst wondered at its meaning.

In my youth I spent many hours exploring the hills and woodlands that adjoined my home. Deep in the woods were the decayed remains of a small cabin. The roof was completely gone. Portions of the walls still stood but time was taking its toll. Only the stone fireplace and chimney remained fairly well intact. There was no other sign of prosperity or possession. It was one of my favorite spots. I would halt my patient mare and survey the crumbling trace of humanity. Other times I might climb down to sit on one of the logs, or kick the leaves and debris on the floor hoping to discover some token of the souls that once called this home. Hoping but never finding.

I could never discover the history of the homestead. It may have been shelter for a sole pioneer, but I prefer to imagine a young and growing family. I hope the mantle once held stockings on Christmas Eve; that the fire warmed a meager stew which was received thankfully; that the woodland creatures timidly watched and wondered at the strange sounds of laughter and song that sprang from the curious new object of their realm.

I would like to say I could hear their echoes, but my senses are not so keen. They tell me only that some manner of life passed there. Someone with a name, with hopes and dreams, with fears and disappointments, called this home. It may be that elsewhere they left a mark. They may have achieved some distinction and posterity has duly honored them. It may be their names and perhaps even their faces are cherished in family lore; that their story is passed by the very old to the very young.

It may be. I cannot say. It may be this is their only mark and sadly it is fading. Only a year ago I revisited the crumbling cabin. Credit to the builder, the chimney yet stands, but year by year the walls crumble further. If this is their only mark, then I am glad to have marked it. Very little that is beautiful lasts forever.

The beauty in slight decay lies, I think, in the memory of what once was.

© 2015 Joseph E. Fountain

That Really Gets My Goat

If there’s one thing that really gets my goat, it is archaic phrases that have no sensible meaning in today’s context. Phrases like, well, like “that really gets my goat” We all know that it means something frustrating or annoying, but what is the possible connection between losing your goat and an annoying circumstance? I mean, how many people actually own goats anymore. And even if you transcend the whole goat ownership issue, what is so particularly disturbing about losing your goat as to warrant a whole figure of speech? It is questions like this that I really think people should spend more time considering.

As I implied, it is extremely uncommon to find an actual goat owner these days. It is even less common to find someone who is leasing, renting, or time-sharing a goat, but I defer further discussion of these fringe issues in favor of the primary matter of goat possession. Undoubtedly, the phrase has origin in a pastoral era when many people did indeed own goats, which still leaves a puzzling question: regardless of era, why would anyone own a goat; what are they good for? Are you beginning to see why this curious phrase is so preposterous? It defies logic. Goats defy logic, and goat ownership, well, that’s just silly.

It is at this juncture that I must make an embarrassing confession. I once owned a goat, several goats as a matter of fact. Though I can’t for the life of me tell you why. Actually, they belonged to my parents, but it is a minor technicality. In the mind of a teenage boy, everything my parents owned, I owned, and as I stated possession is the real issue. They were mine to do with as I pleased, and it pleased me to do precious little with them. Mostly, they were the concern of my younger brothers; they milked them. Yes, city dwellers, you can milk goats; why you would want to is another question. But then, I don’t believe my brothers really wanted to. There seemed to be an implied obligation to do so, as condition upon their peaceful existence in my house. I thought it a bit unreasonable for my parents to impose such criteria, but since they held certain sway over my own peaceful existence, I avoided confrontations that didn’t directly affect me. Actually, I avoided confrontations altogether as they always seemed to directly affect me, often with unhappy result. So, milking the goats was my brothers’ problem. They would have to cope. Now back to the original question of why own a goat. The milk might seem the obvious answer. Wrong! Goat milk is by all standards unsuitable for human consumption. We didn’t drink the milk. We all “tasted” it, exactly once. It is difficult to describe the taste, and I have no desire to try. The tasting didn’t include swallowing, which is why I say we didn’t actually drink it. I think mostly, we fed it to the ducks. Don’t get me started on ducks. Their purpose is even more elusive than goats.

It might help to explain, that for a brief period my family experimented with a Thoreau-like attempt at the simple life. We moved from a perfectly sane and sensible life in the suburbs to one fraught with danger, hardship and peril in the country. We planted vegetables, purchased livestock, quit bathing, chewed on pieces of straw, and made a feeble effort to live off the land. This period is what I came to call the dismal years. This ill-advised experiment with the simple life came as a result of two catalysts. First, a quaint, though naïve attempt to simplify our hectic lives, and second as a matter of economic imperative. You see my father was a barber, and the long hairstyles of the 60s and 70s meant hardship and suffering for my family. The sudden drop in my father’s income forced upon us certain inconveniences. We were for the most part unprepared for this sudden and turbulent shift in our existence. My father had some experience with country living, having been raised on a farm, a muck farm to be precise. Now, to this day, I’ve no idea what type of crop muck is, and I’ve always been afraid to ask. Nonetheless, he was not completely ignorant of things living, plant and animal. He was also least exposed to the daily ministrations of our newfound country life. He departed the homestead for civilization every morning, and returned in the evening to inquire if our “chores” were done. Prior to our country retreat, I had little experience with “chores”. They were an enigmatic activity that television shows like the Waltons led me to associate with country life. They always held a vaguely sinister quality. Once I became more intimately familiar with chores, they took on a crystal clear sinister quality. My mother, though not a farmer, had been raised in poverty and knew the sacrifices the dismal years would entail. Having learned as a child how to survive without things like food, she concluded that her offspring could do the same, and that it would probably do us some good. Among my three brothers and myself, only my older brother embraced our new lot in life. He had, just prior to our move, watched the movie Jeremiah Johnson, and this plus 4 years in the boy scouts qualified him as a mountain man. Oh, he still liked his milk homogenized, and from cows, and from the store, but he fancied himself a rugged outdoorsman. I think he mostly enjoyed the not bathing part, which ironically was my least favorite part. I didn’t mind not bathing myself so much, but I had serious issues with my brothers’ hygiene. My two younger brothers and I resigned ourselves to a life of chores, misery and woe. We did the best we could. Fortunately, hairstyles gradually became shorter again and things started to look up. Coincidentally, at about the same time, my parents concluded that we should all start bathing, abandon our hopes of living off the land and start buying edible food. In today’s litigious society the entire ordeal might seem like excellent fodder for a frivolous and highly lucrative lawsuit alleging emotional, physical, and psychological abuse, but remember the era this all took place. It was in those days, not yet illegal for parents to ask their children to help, nor to deprive them of their constitutionally guaranteed right to anything and everything they wanted. Barbaric by today’s standards I know, but no one knew better.

As I say, we were unprepared for country life. This may account for the unqualified disaster of the livestock choices that were made. I remember the Walton’s owning cows and chickens, which made perfect sense: milk, eggs, drumsticks, and steak. We had goats and ducks. I am not certain what used car salesman was moonlighting selling livestock, but I can only conclude that his mother didn’t raise him right. At any rate, we had these goats; it was my younger brothers’ chore to milk them, and eventually, we ate the goats. It is difficult to describe the taste of goat burger and I have no desire to try. Once again, this might seem to answer the now tiresome question of why own goats? As a food source, but I am convinced they were never intended for human consumption. I suppose if I were stranded on a desert island with nothing to eat, but grubs, worms and goat, I might be compelled to dine on goat, after the supply of grubs and worms was thoroughly exhausted. However, we ate them as a last resort to recoup the initial purchase price. I do not recall how much of my money was squandered on the goats, but it seems to me now, as it did then, that it would have been better spent on a swimming pool, current economic crisis notwithstanding. I don’t really think I hated eating them, but I doubt I enjoyed it as much as my younger brothers. They would often laugh maniacally while eating their goat burgers, which is harder than it sounds. Laughing while eating isn’t all that difficult, but choking down goat burger can be a real struggle. I do recall, a certain elation, a euphoria really, when we polished off the last pack of goat burger. I think I may have wept. My older brother sang Rocky Mountain High; one of my younger brothers danced a jig, and the other just laughed maniacally. He’s never really quit doing that, which is a bit disturbing, especially at family funerals. It is fortunate, I suppose, that we all emerged from the dismal years without significant emotional damage. For the most part, I have successfully blocked the events from my memory sufficient to avoid therapy. However, the few memories that do remain, lend themselves to many questions: like why own a goat?

Even more puzzling, if you do own a goat, what would be so all-fired annoying about losing it? I doubt it would have bothered my brothers at all if someone had made off with our goats. I myself would have been monumentally indifferent had they come up missing. I know, “monumentally indifferent” is an oxy-moron, but I’m talking about goats and not stupid bovines. At any rate, of all my parent’s possessions, I could list hundreds that would be more distressing to lose than any of the goats. Why not say, “That really gets my car” or TV, or toenail clippers, etc. In fact, about the only thing less annoying to lose than the goats would be the ducks. Don’t get me started on the ducks. I am willing to concede that not all goat owners have such low regard for the beasts. Presumably, some folks have completely pleasant goat ownership experiences. Maybe they also own skunks or dung beetles, and by comparison the goats make amiable companions. Still, if you mark your goats among your most cherished possessions, then I think you have more in life to be annoyed with than just someone making off with your goat.

Still, we commonly use the phrase. Careful research might reveal a charming story, with a pertinent moral, but I for one am opposed to careful research. It often reveals facts that throw off the whole point and can ruin a perfectly good story. Then I’d have to start all over again, and wouldn’t that just take the cake? See, now that makes sense.

© 2015 Joseph E. Fountain