The Giant JENGA Game

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I know that both of you have played JENGA where a tower is carefully constructed out of blocks and the object of the game is to see how many blocks can be removed before the tower tumbles down in a loud heap.  You might remember at Aunt Bee’s and Uncle Drew-Boo’s wedding this may at Camp Pinnacle, one of their friends brought a huge JENGA set that he had made with blocks about a foot long.  The tower rose to over six feet tall and when the critical block was removed which caused the tower to collapse, the sound was deafening –  like a cannon going off that could be heard all over the camp.  It’s all fun and a great test of analytical skills, touch and just plain luck.

However, right now, I feel like our country is in the middle of a gigantic JENGA game where block after block are being removed without much thought.  Some might argue that many of the blocks in the tower are unnecessary, are not load bearing and, therefore, add nothing to the strength of the tower.  What these blocks might be varies with each individual’s priorities and persuasions.  However, at some point, when someone decides that the foundational blocks must go, the reverberations from the collapse will be so extraordinary that they will be felt for generations to come.  

What might some of these critical blocks be?  You really don’t have to look very far or hard to find them.  They are in the embedded in the constitution of the country – the sacrosanct document upon and around which our system of government is built.  Our collective JENGA tower, if you will.  Let me give you some examples of the ones that I think should never be cajoled, no matter how gently, from their place.

The First Amendment - Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press, or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petitition the Government for a redress of grievances.

The Fourth Amendment - The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

The Fifteenth Amendment – Section 1 - The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude.

The Nineteenth Amendment - The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of sex.

(I know without doubt that some would say the Second Amendment is by far the most important block.  But, I would argue that if we remove all the others and let that one stand, what’s the point of the tower?)

The Arts Are Essential

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I am distressed today with all the talk about diminishing the funding for the National Endowment of the Arts. This isn’t the first time that the endowment has been threatened since periodically it becomes a political piñata cast as promoting moral decay and unnecessary frivolity.  But, I do believe the threat is very real this time.  The constant, simplistic argument put forward for its demise is that it is non-essential in a time when our consolidated contributions to the functions of our government should only be focused on the essential and, therefore, its infinitesimal portion of the country’s expense should be expunged as a prudent measure.  I wholeheartedly disagree.  I think the arts are a most essential element of any society as a tool to move us towards universal peace and understanding - two concepts which require some form of common denominator if we are ever to achieve them. Let me proffer my argument.

There are two forces operating in the world that have the capacity to bring us together - sports and the arts. Every four years, all nations come together to participate in The Olympics. Athletes who cannot even say "hello" to each other because of language barriers nonetheless are able to "communicate" through their common sport whether it be on the field, court, rink, track, pool or gymnasium. Even though they are playing for their country, they can appreciate the talent of their opponents and this recognition by and large fosters good will.  

The very same is true for the arts. An audience can gather in an auditorium with no commonality of culture, but when the symphony plays or the ballet begins, they "communicate" through their common enjoyment and appreciation for what they are witnessing. 

Years ago, your Aunt Bee was cast as the Dew Drop Fairy in the Columbia City Ballet's production of The Nutcracker. She was only ten years old and it was quite a coup because that role had always been danced by one of the senior company members. The artistic director conceived the notion that a dew drop on a flower was diminutive and thus it made sense for such a tiny person to dance the role among the older corps de ballet members dancing the flowers.   Many questioned the decision – that she was too young and would buckle under the pressure, but the director held her ground and rehearsals began.  The choreography was not altered for Aunt Bee in any way.  She was required to execute many difficult steps, including multiple triple pirouettes.

For the role of the Nutcracker Prince, CCB hired a world-renowned danseur from Russia – Stanislav Issaev. This was quite a big deal because of his talent and stature within the dance community.  He arrived, along with a translator, the week before the production opened as the rehearsals moved from the ballet studio to the Township Auditorium.

I will never forget, sitting in the auditorium with other mothers and several dancers, working on costumes and other necessities for the show as the rehearsal progressed on the stage. The time came for the Waltz of the Flowers and when the music started, everyone put down what they were doing and watched in rapt attention. Aunt Bee came out on stage, such a little pixie among the other dancers.  She began her choreography and when she came to the first pirouette, she fell off center and spun in a wobble like a top running out of steam ……and again on the second….and again on the third.  A buzz circulated among the people watching, a verbal referendum, if you will, on the artistic director’s decision to cast her in this role. I was, of course, apoplectic.

When the rehearsal concluded, one of her teachers came up to me and told me to keep her out of the school the next day and bring her to the studio around 10:00. I did this and when we arrived at the studio, only the teacher and Stanislav were there. The teacher told me to leave and come back in an hour. 

What transpired during that time should prove my point. Stanislav, a grown Russian man, and Aunt Bee, a ten-year old American, went into the classroom alone together - neither one being able to speak the other's language - and proceeded to "communicate" through their common understanding of ballet. He demonstrated to her what she was doing wrong - throwing her arm too hard in the turn which took her off center. Within minutes, she was able to correct what she was doing and, after that, never missed another turn.  She performed the role confidently and with much acclamation by all who saw it.

In this world where so much is misunderstood simply because people do not have things in common, why, oh why, would we want to eliminate funding for one of the most meaningful ways to connect?  There is no lack of support for sports (and trust me, I am among the supporters) but, it should be exactly the same for the arts….because they are both essential in bringing people together.

Visits with Schaefer

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Even though he has been gone for almost 23 years, I still have a very viable relationship with your great granddaddy Schaefer.  How could that be possible you ask?  I have many tools at my disposal to keep Granddaddy alive for me. Sometimes it may happen through my dreams – the vivid, tangible kind that confuse me as to their reality when I awake. Or, on other occasions, it may occur through recollections triggered by my senses - the smell of something like a pot of collard greens coming to a boil on the stove…...or the sound of something like the Moonlight Sonata wafting from an NPR station on the radio…..or, even better….. the sight of something like a Victoria’s Secret advertisement which conjures the memory of Granddaddy’s befuddlement when he saw his first such catalogue and lamented “I was just born too soon.”   

Of all these methods, however, by far the most essential is my copy of his editorial writings for The Greenville News.  I carry it with me wherever I go and, from time to time, when I feel the need of a good visit with him, I will open up its pages and randomly select an offering to read.  His words never fail to evoke a reaction – usually laughter, but sometimes a prick of the conscience – and I seem to always learn something new even though I must have been over every article dozens of times and the pages are getting pretty tattered at this point from use.

Today was one of those days and the spin of the wheel of fortune presented page 9 to me.  I will let you join in on the visit.  I know Granddaddy would be delighted.

The Barnyard Was a Laboratory of Learning

Schaefer B. Kendrick

Sunday, May 1, 1994

What a shame it is that our children today have never seen a setting hen on her nest of a dozen eggs, patiently waiting to hatch out her chicks by the warmth of her body.  Howe, when she was disturbed by human hands to check the incubating progress, she would fuss in chicken language to let the intruder know she didn’t need any help as she was the expert in the this field.

Then one day 12 eggs miraculously became twelve yellow balls of fluff with two tiny legs.  And Mrs. Hen is parading around the barnyard showing off her new brood, clucking instructions as to their proper conduct.  And when there was a loud clap of thunder the biddies imply vanished under the wings of the mother.

The barnyard was a laboratory of learning.  It didn’t take long to discover that the much maligned mule was far smarter than the thoroughbred gaited horse.  If you didn’t have a safety latch on the feed room door, the mule would find a way to work the latch and have his fill of oats.  You learned that hybrid animals can’t reproduce but some atavistic urge causes them, from time to time, to play like.

This learning laboratory taught the virtue of responsibility, surely one of the greatest of all virtues.  It taught that if you take care of your animals they will take care of you.  That they had to be fed each day; that stalls had to be cleaned, fresh bedding straw provided; hat cows had to be milked twice a day and if you didn’t strip them completely, they would go dry.  You learned that these dumb animals would actually show you affection for the attention and care you gave them. You learned that the personality of Billy goat was different from that of an old sow.

The barnyard offered a 100 level course in sex education.  It gave parents a natural setting in which to talk about procreation, and what the natural results are of copulation.  It provided object lessons of the pain in bringing a new life into this world; which could dampen the ardor of the flash floods of passion that sometimes swamped the young and the vigorous.

Sadly, the urbanization of America with it subdivision restrictions, zoning and health laws, have outlawed the backyard non-feral menagerie, and animal husbandry has become a part of academe’s ivory tower.

A story, maybe true, maybe not, will illustrate the point.  A Flatbush native who had spent his entire life in Brooklyn, graduating from Brooklyn Tech, got a job with a large corporation with plants all over the United States.  After his training period, he was sent to a plant located near Travelers Rest, SC.

This veteran of pavement, stick ball, bagels and subways was an exercise freak of the jogging variety.  It was his habit to jog five miles each day.

Shortly after reporting to his job in these rural surrounds, he was out jogging early one morning.  It was a beautiful spring day which inflated his lungs with virgin air the likes of which he had never breathed before.  Down the road he noticed a farmer and a cow in the pasture and it was a curious sight.

The farmer was tugging at two legs protruding out of the rear end of the cow.  The farmer hollered for help, and out of curiosity as much as compassion, this benighted Yankee heeded his call.  The farmer told the Yankee to grab hold of the two legs and pull while he held the cow’s horns.  This fugitive from Flatbush pulled and pulled with all his might and finally the calf was freed of its mother.

The farmer thanks this new bovine midwife profusely for his help.

The young man, breathing heavily from the effort, said, “Tell me something.  How fast was that calf going when it ran into the rear end of that cow?”