A Small Victory

Not all victories are wins and not all defeats are losses. Usually there is a little of both in each. When it comes right down to it, it is what you get out of them that matters.

I remember with not a little fondness the time I lost my first real job out of school. The job was with Worldwide Monolith Industries, a vast, unwieldy, international conglomerate which consisted of Dennis, the owner, Sharon the receptionist, and me, the newly minted Marketing Intern. My new employer imported glass and rubber goods from Malaysia and Italy and sold them to drugstores in Canada. The products were as exotic as hot water bottles, eardrop dispensers and measuring cups.

Well, I worked at Worldwide Monolith for about a year until it became evident that:

1.       I had as much talent for sales as a duck has for crossword puzzles, and,

2.       The business would run out of cash before that duck got good at the puzzles.

So, at the appropriate time and armed with these realizations, I slunk myself into Dennis’s office to let him know of my decision to relieve him of his star sales anchor. “You must have been reading my mind” he sighed in relief. “Wasn’t sure how to tell you”.

It was not as difficult as I thought leaving behind the glamourous world of global commerce. But I had to find something else pretty quickly because I hadn’t been smart enough to secure something else before handing in my resignation. The home printing press was never so busy. Every day, ten letters and their accompanying resumes were dispatched to potential lucky employers in Toronto.  Never in the history of that amazing city had so many been offered the rare chance to avail themselves of Walpolian genius.

After three weeks, I had enough rejection papers to start a small bonfire in the modest living room of the basement apartment I was sharing with my best friend Dan. We almost had to start a little conflagration because it was January and the landlord had just cut off the heat on a cold Tuesday morning. She claimed something about a late rent payment which caught me by surprise, having just paid some rent about sixty days before. When you are in the throes of letter writing, time seems to whiz by way too quickly and some obligations tend to get forgotten.

To remedy the situation, Dan and I conducted an impromptu bottle drive the next day to raise the rent money. Luckily, between us and the landlady, who only imbibed on days with a “y” in them, we had enough Labatt Blue/Black Label/Ruby Rouge empties to get us caught up with the pressing monthly housing ransom and then some.

The heat came back on along with the return of our landlady’s smile and, having enough extra cash for pizza, suds and a conciliatory 60 0uncer of Ruby Rouge, we organized a party for the upcoming Saturday. We needed a theme. “The Really Satisfied Landlady Party” seemed a little too risqué so we settled on “Take A Hike, Loser” in honour of all the rejection letters I had been getting.  All the usual suspects were invited and the rejection letters were wallpapered all over the living room, dining room and bathroom. Not only did the insulation factor in the walls double, but we were able to hide an awful lot of the accumulated evidence our less-than-superior housekeeping skills.

The party was a grand success. Condolences were offered in embarrassing profusion and multi-surface dancing was committed. No one peed on the toilet seat and even the landlady came down to share a bit of her bottled enthusiasm. Those who went home, went home happy. Those who stayed had to clean up.

Now, an astute reader may ask what this convoluted tale has to do with the opening premise: victories as losses and losses as victories. Well, it so happened that, while Dan and I were at the Brewers’ Retail conducting our glass for liquid exchange on the Wednesday in question, we had invited the manageress of that august establishment to our Saturday party, after boring her with all the details of our sorry plight. Much to our delight, she showed up with a case of Black Label and three dance-crazy friends from the Ford Modelling Agency. Even better, by midnight, she offered both of us fulltime jobs at the place she managed. Job loss turned into job victory in under four weeks. Makes you want to throw a good party doesn’t it.

Small Joys, Small Victories

You just never know when the crap is going to hit the fan. All you know is the fan is always on and stuff is going to be propelled in its direction. If anyone ever finds the plug, please give it a good yank and beat the whole apparatus into a really good cappuccino machine.

It would be easy  to lay down, curse the universe for your rotten luck and spend the rest of your "daze" in your favourite bathrobe, jamming down Cheetohs and watching reruns of Baywatch. Not that there is anything wrong with that, in small doses. After an appropriate period of moaning, you’ve got to pick yourself up by the bootstraps and carry on.  This is not to belittle the tremendous suffering some have to face.  Here the healing takes a lot longer and extracts a much greater toll.

Yet, most of our perceived woes fall into what my son calls “first world problems”: the internet goes down temporarily, we get a flat tire, or The  Husband takes too long to empty the dishwasher etc.  The list is endless. So what do we do to counteract our all too human tendency to see the worst in so many things? Well, we do what our mothers and fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers did: suck it up and count our small joys and small victories. Funny, but if we just look, they are as plentiful as our woes and certainly more psychically rewarding to dwell upon.

Here is just one example from this morning.  We woke up to 6 inches of snow in the driveway and two feet where the friggin’ plow kindly deposited its accumulated half mile load. On purpose. At the end  of my driveway. Did I mention ON PURPOSE? I am sure the plow driver backed up at least twice to get as much snow into my space as he could. His wife must have been on him before his shift for taking too long to empty the dishwasher.

With a lot of grumbling, I started to dig. And you know what. It sucked…until I changed my perspective. I gave my head a shake, flicked the dandruff off my collar and thought:  this feels good; I’m out in the fresh air; my dog is having a ball; aha,so that’s where I dropped the leather glove my son gave me for Christmas. Then  a snow-festtoned car pulled up, a frosty window got rolled down and I heard "hey, Bob, when you’re done, come on up to my place for a Scotch!”  Woohoo! Scotch for lunch. Small joy, small victory.

I’d like to continue with this theme for the next few blog postings. It’s very therapeutic.  If you have any small joys or victories you would like to share, use the Comments feature for this posting or email me at

theredcravat@yahoo.com

Just remember, it could always be worse. The fan is always on.

This post is dedicated to L. at Canadore College who so thoughtfully sent to me a lovely book entitled "Don't Forget To Sing In The Lifeboats".

The Case of The Juggled Eggs

This is a story I composed from memory. It is based on a tale written by Wendell Berry, a Kentucky professor, farmer and philosopher. I'm sure his version is much better. But stories need to be passed on, however imperfectly.


1928. Heart’s Content. A clear, crisp afternoon that reminded country folk of apple cider and all too short fall fairs.

It had been five years since Ptolemy Proudfoot had passed away quietly in his sleep, an unfortunate victim of some strange, unknown and indiscriminate infection which had, for months, agonizingly befuddled both Dr. James Perkins of nearby Lansing’s Ford and his friend and counterpart, Dr. Elzevere Grant  of Greensboro.

Ptolemy, or Tol to all who knew him, had been a strong man, in body and in the quiet force of his character. To see him laying limp and lifeless in his bed on the morning of his death had been the saddest moment in the life of Miss Minnie, his greatest love and best friend. He had hopelessly captured her heart thirty one years earlier as a gangly and nervous suitor, unpractised and unsure of himself, yet possessed of a simple kindness which makes a man a real man.

Today, Miss Minnie sat at her kitchen table fondly reminiscing with her neighbor Hank Coulsome. Hank Coulsome, Miss Minnie’s nephew, was a committed lifelong bachelor who owned the farm adjoining his aunt’s. Miss Minnie and Hank were sharing oft-told stories of Tol. They had just returned from their annual three mile pilgrimage to the cemetery where Tol had been laid to rest.

Hank was now a slim man of thirty four, all sinew, muscle and good humour. He loved his life almost as much as he loved he aunt and his departed uncle. Tol was and would always be the most important man in Hank’s life. From the time Hank first came to stay with his only living relatives a long 28 years ago, he would find any reason to accompany his uncle on any journey or to share in any chore, however small; for Ptolemy Proudfout, to young Hank, was his hero, his mentor and his friend all rolled into one. Even after Hank had saved enough money to buy the farm next door, he was always eager to seek out Tol’s company, whether it was to clean harnesses, dig a new outhouse or even to meander through fields of freshly cut hay for the sheer pleasure of breathing the fragrant air.

As he sipped his tea, a slight smile began to decorate Hank's handsome face. But the smile could no longer contain itself and soon blossomed into that joyful laughter with which he always greeted life.

“Aunt Minnie, do you remember the time uncle Tol and I went to the Hanover Cattle Auction in 1919? The time he showed off his juggling skills?” Miss Minnie smiled and began to chuckle. She had not attended the auction but she had heard the story fondly recounted  so many times, that she was sometimes not so sure she had not been there.

“Tell me again Hank. It never fails to bring Tol back to me.”

Hank began his story as he always did.

 It had been as especially bountiful spring. There had been more lambs and foals and calves born in the county than there had been for a very long time. And Tol had been especially blessed.

Of all his farm animals, Tol was proudest of his cattle. He treated them with reverence and always felt a sharp pang of sadness knowing that some of them would have to be sold at summer’s end. It pained him that something so beautiful had to die so that he and his family could live. Another of life’s mysteries.

All summer Tol groomed his herd in preparation for the auction. At last, the day arrived when he and Hank would make the thirty three mile trek to Hanover. It would be a working vacation. For after the auction, Tol would shop for those things not readily available closer to home. He especially enjoyed choosing the fabrics from which Miss Minnie would miraculously fashion her new Christmas dress and her new winter coat. He disliked shopping for himself. He felt he always had everything he needed and, if not, he could make do with whatever his able hands could create.

Hank and Tol left just before dawn after hitching up the two dapple greys to the wagon. The cattle to be sold were tethered to the back, gloriously unaware of their final destination. At 10 am, they pulled into the fairgrounds at Hanover and set up in the small corral they had reserved the summer previous. The auction went well and Tol felt he had received a fair price for his animals. He and Hank then boarded the wagon and headed to the general store to continue their pleasant outing.

Now Hanover is what some would call a proud town, maybe a little too proud. It boasted a small drug store, a large feedlot and even a solicitor’s office. While most of its residents were unassuming folk, not a few others thought themselves quite a bit more sophisticated than their rural cousins. More sophisticated and more vain. The vainest of the vain liked to assemble around the big pot bellied stove in the general store.

Tol approached the counter still basking in the warmth of a beautiful day shared with Hank. As he neared the counter, the owner asked “How can I help you Mr. Turnipseed?”The chorus around the stove guffawed not too quietly into their sleeves. Tol knew right away he was being made fun of but shrugged it off, not wanting anything to ruin the pleasure of his working vacation.

“ I’d like to see any new fabrics you might have. My wife will be sewing herself a new Christmas dress.”

“Well let me see. We have this just in from St. Louie. It's made of a fine cotton they call Hayseed. I would think it would be perfect for her.”

The chorus fell again to giggling and chortling at the magnificent wit of their ring leader. Hank, though, was a little concerned. He knew his uncle to a gentle man, slow to anger, but, still, no fool.  Tol preferred peace to trouble. But the insults hurled would be tough to take by any proud man.

Tol graciously replied.  “Thank you sir. I’ll take three yards. And, oh, have you any fresh eggs?”

“We do. How many would you like Mr. Turnipwagon?”

“I’ll take a dozen, please. What is the price?”

“Twenty five cents a dozen. And I’ll even throw in some Hick….ory sticks to seal the bargain.”

At this, the chorus burst into a cacophony of cruel barking laughter. But Tol was unfazed. He paused a moment and with a slow deliberateness offered:

“Tell you what, kind sir. I’ll bet you a quarter. I can juggle those 12 eggs in the air, all at once, without breaking even one of them.”

At this, the chorus was silenced in disbelief. This kind of feat was impossible.

“Take Mr. Hayseed’s bet, Bert. That feat can’t be done.”

“Alright, condescended Bert.  Twenty five cents it is.”

The store owner handed the eggs to Tol who held them easily in his large hands. He tossed the first 2 high into to air, followed by another 2, and another 2 until all the eggs were in various degrees of freedom between the ceiling and Tol’s able hands. Soon, the first well aimed egg came sliding down to meet an abrupt end on the keys of the cash register. The next splattered on the counter, and the next landed in the candy bin. The avalanche continued until the last egg came to its ignominious end upon the warm stovetop surrounded by the chorus. More than one freshly starched city slicker shirt front bore the evidence of a gelatinous ooze gone awry.

Tol slowly picked a quarter from his wallet and placed it gently into the pocket of Bert’s egg stained apron. “Guess I’m not as good as I thought” he shrugged as he gathered his Hayseed parcel  and calmly strode from the premises, a small trickle of egg white hanging from the edge of his mischievous grin.

A few moments passed as Hank and Miss Minnie made the journey from  a general store of long ago to the kitchen table of the present. Each was momentarily lost in the memory of the proud, kind man they would always miss.

theredcravat@yahoo.com