My Life Story
For the past several years every person I have met has asked me why I have not written my life’s story. Although, a few days ago my friend Ed said, “I did not ask you to write your life’s story!”, so I might be wrong about that. Nevertheless, that seems like something to do that no one has ever done before. So, I begin.
I was born on the side of a cotton field in the south. The west side as I remember, although I was very young at the time. It must have been the far west side since I was born in Nebraska.
My first year was difficult because, due to a physical deficiency, I was unable to walk. While I soon overcame that obstacle it seemed that, while I thought I was making myself quite clear, no one was able to understand me. I tried Spanish, French, Hochdeutsch and several dialects of Plattduetsche as well as English but it took several years before I could make my self understood. That was really unfortunate because, while studying the mobile hanging above my crib, I had discovered the cure for several diseases but, by the time I was able to communicate, I had forgotten them. A great loss to the world.
I soon began attending school. Each day I trudged barefoot through whatever it is that one trudges through to get to school. My mother always swore that I was never bare footed but that is simply a difference of opinion between she and I. I did quite well in high school and college, making the deans list several times. I claim it was not me that started it. I was an innocent bystander all three times. Witnesses are often mistaken. Yes, even fourteen witnesses.
I graduated with dual degrees in Microbiology and Nuclear Physics in three years. That is, after three years It was discovered that I could not spell either Microbiology or Nuclear Physics so I was asked, politely, to leave the hallowed halls of wherever it was I was attending.
It was about that time that I became interested in poetry after reading Edgar Allen Poe’s, The Raven. I began gathering information about Poe’s life and found it was strikingly like mine. We were both born, both male and both wrote poetry. Striking.
Poe was born in 1809, exactly 140 years before my birth. Coincidence, I think not. Poe died in a hospital in 1849, after being found drunk in a gutter. He was unknown except locally as his writing had not yet become popular or even known to most of the world. After his death, the hospital gathered his scant belongings, basically his clothes, and sent them to his landlady. Not knowing what else to do with them, she simply put them in a trunk and left them in her attic.
After the landlady died some years later, her son disposed of her house and found the trunk containing Poe’s clothes. By that time Poe’s writings had made him more familiar to the public so the clothes were sent to the Smithsonian Museum where they were immediately stored away in a basement. Poe was known but was not really famous and didn’t rate better treatment.
Several decades later a student doing research about Poe discovered the clothes and examined them closely. He, or perhaps she, found, in an inside coat pocket, a scrap of paper.
At this point we should remember Poe’s greatest poem, The Raven. During the poem the Raven torments the poet for 18 stanzas with the word, “Nevermore”. To get the full effect you should read, or reread, the poem.
Back to the scrap of paper. On it was written the following,
“The end of the Raven.
Then I thought there is an answer, yes indeed there is a chance sir.
If I can only reach that raven with this ancient sword of yore.
With this sword once given to me by the father of Lenore.
One last chance I give you Raven, then I must do something more.
Quoth the Raven, nevermore.
Then I stood, reaching upward, standing on the tiny cupboard,
On the cupboard that is sitting but a few feet from the door,
Hard beside the Bust of Pallas, something that I can’t ignore.
Just one swipe is all it took then, to finally rid me of that bore,
Spake the Raven, nevermore.”
The scrap of paper was not signed. Too bad it was never published for it would have satisfied the yearning of millions of readers for some sort of justice for the poor poet.
That is perhaps why I became a poet; to provide satisfaction for the untold few who might accidentally stumble upon one of my undertakings, a prophetic noun for most of my work. Don’t misunderstand me. I think highly of my body of work. It’s just that that body is, usually, soon buried.
Soon I find myself luxuriating within the security and permanence of a large organization, or disorganization, called the US Army. While absolutely necessary for the safeguarding of American interests everywhere, it can sometimes be defined as a group of bewildered and bemused employees directed by a much smaller faction of leaders who seem to be completely without interest or regard for those who are being led.
I wandered around for several years bumping into things and wondering where I was, why I was there and where I could find a good, hot meal. Further, a return to sanity was still a vague hope lingering in the deep recesses of heart or brain or some other ignominious particle of my anatomy. Therefore, after giving the Army a trial run of 20 years (one cannot say I didn’t try) I returned to the even more stress inducing and daunting civilian life.
The first thing one must know about civilian employment is everything possible to know about computers, their mysteries, secrets, puzzles, enigmas, conundrums, obscurities, surprises, ambiguities, more surprises and incomprehensibilities. After that it’s a piece of cake.
In the Army I was a computer expert. If anyone had a question about a computer problem, they came to me. I could fix anything by simply asking a few questions: “Is it plugged in?”, “Have you tried restarting?”, ”Do you have a backup?”. This was the cure for anything and everything.
As a civilian, things seem to be different. You need a password for anything you want to do. And you should never use the same password for two different systems. You then soon acquire 50 or 60 passwords. Initially, you start with one or two. Anybody can remember one or two passwords; no need to write them down. Then a few more are added at which time the fun begins. What was that first password? No problem, I’ll just change it. Soon you are in the 50 password range and all 50 have been changed at least twice. The Microsoft one at least four times.
Perhaps you want to share files with someone else. Just print out the 20 page document and mail it. That will save about six days and 19 hours trying to figure out how to do it on the computer. Yeah, perhaps not sophisticated but at least you will be able to sleep nights.
And don’t get me started on the cell phone. Woops, too late. Yes, you can carry the little rascal around with you but it comes with annoyances created in Hell by an especially trained devil who devises text messages from every politician in office, retired from office, running for office or thrown out of office. Every charity in the United States will request a contribution and every scam operator, mostly Indian (dot, not feather) will become friends, acquaintances or family members.
Never give your cell phone number to anyone you are not related to by blood or marriage. And do a background check on them. If someone calls and says, “Hi, grandma.” Just hang up. That one is called the “Grandma Scam”. If you bite, you will be told that it is your unnamed grandson calling. He was just in an accident, was arrested and needs you to send his lawyer a check for $2000 for bail. No further explanation needed for that one.
O.K., we’ve lived through computers and cell phones so its time for a little relaxation, civilian style. How about some golf? Start with about $2000 for a new set of clubs, $200 for a bag, $3000 or $4000 a year for membership in a nice club, $6500 for a used golf cart, $400 for lessons and you are ready to go. You will then spend the rest of your life wishing you had never heard of the game. Take up tennis instead, $150 for a racket and you are in business.
The best thing you can do in civilian life, or any life, is to find a companion, wife, husband or other, with whom you can live happily ever after. (Disney, sure, but it’s possible.) I did it, so can you.
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