We're Talking About Bookends, We're Seeing Patterns

  • By Mike Dewey
  • June 24, 2014
  • 428
                        
SUMMARY: No one has to tell Mike Dewey that life's lessons are less than easy to grasp, but that doesn't mean he can't learn along with you, his faithful readers. Every now and then, when you’re looking back on your life, you get zapped by a pattern you never saw before. It’s like what happens to me every time I watch “Once More with Feeling,” the musical episode of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” Or when I listen to anything by Patti Smith; you think, “There can’t be any more surprises on Horses and, then – HELLO! – you hear something in the background vocals on “Land” that bubbles to the surface and everything’s changed. It’s the same for classic literature: Just last week, I dug out my copy of “Alice in Wonderland” to make sure that the Red Queen was as crazy as I remembered but, it turns out, she was as nasty as she was paranoid. This is a lethal combination. You know what I love? She wants the Cheshire Cat beheaded when all there is of him IS a head, his body having faded in the mists. Classic. Patterns. The way you have to stand back, give things time to marinate, listen to your heart and then it’s similar to seeing a masterpiece like van Gogh’s “Starry Night” with a new pair of eyes. Same thing happens when I watch an episode of “The Andy Griffith Show;” invariably, I am struck by the subtle brilliance of Floyd the Barber. “Two chairs … and I have the magazines to swing it.” Howard McNair, take a bow. It’s all about patterns, the way we live our lives, never knowing. Floyd knew, though. His wisdom is a lost art now and there’s no sense mourning what’s gone forever. All we can do is look back and learn. Last week, we talked a bit about human flaws and that’s never a comfortable subject, which is why I touch on it only tangentially. I mean, the universe doesn’t stop simply because I expressed an unpopular opinion about the End of the World Cup. Soccer will soon enough fade into meaninglessness and no one will give a whit who won. No … Just another pattern. But while I have your attention, I can’t help but steer this column over the cliff and confess to a particular character quirk. I only remember the bookends, the pieces of white bread that surround the slices of bargain bologna and cheap cheese. IN THE SUMMER OF 1969, I was 14 years old. Let that simmer for a moment. Couldn’t drive. Couldn’t drink. Couldn’t vote …. About all I could do was play baseball and that I did pretty well. But here’s the first part of the pattern. I was the third baseman for a team that lost only twice in a season that lasted 20 games. You’d think I’d have only positive memories about that summer of Apollo 11, the summer my family witnesses a no-hitter in Wrigley Field, the summer that, against all odds, I got my first real kiss. And yet. And yet. It’s those two losses – the first game and the final one -- that stick with me, all these years later. I know. I know. Why not celebrate that 18-game winning streak? Why not realize that we did something special? Why not polish that championship trophy? It’s something in me, something impossible to erase, a need to sit back and study the failures, rather than revel in the successes. Can’t blame genetics. Mom saw that something was wrong, even as the wins piled up and the title became all but assured. “Michael,” she asked me, “why aren’t you happy? You’ve won 10 in a row. You’re doing well.” When only my silent stare replied, my mother shoved a Banquet roast beef TV dinner (one of a number of pre-game rituals I adhered to) in to the oven. Then she left me alone. Mom was intuitive that way. FLASH FORWARD to the fall of 1973. I’m a freshman at Notre Dame and there are only two things I know for sure. I’m alone. And I have no idea how to study and earn the grades I need to make something of myself. So, when I ended up with a 2.7 Grade Point Average that first semester – including a D in American History, of all things – I staggered down to the Grotto (the holiest place I’ve ever been) – and lighted a candle with the determination of a young man with nothing to lose. “I swear,” I said silently, thinking of how ashamed my parents had to have been of the eldest child’s failures, “that I will make the Dean’s List every semester from now on.” And guess what? I did precisely that. For the next six semesters (that’s three academic years) I kept making the grade. It was so easy, sort of like that 18-game winning streak in Pony League. After a while, the game is too simple. And then, well, I fell in love … A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, but I’ll say this much. By the time I was a senior in college, I was happy, living off campus, with a young lady who actually seemed to like me and my classes faded into the mist. Of course, I was merely following a pattern I’d established in my early teens, though I didn’t see it at the time. At the time, all I saw was fun. Guess what? When I think back on my ND daze, it’s not the six consecutive Dean’s List accomplishments I consider. It’s that first semester … and the last one. Those are the ones that keep me up at night. Of course, I keep vampire hours and that kind of dark thinking is pretty common when all there is to look forward to is a hope that an unlived tomorrow is better, even slightly, than a bruised yesterday. So, if I can offer a bit of unsolicited advice, trust me … to quote Warren Zevon – who, along with Paul Revere and the Raiders, is long overdue for induction into the Rock Hall of Fame – savor every sandwich. It’s better than going hungry. Mike Dewey can be emailed at CarolinamikeD@aol.com or snail-mailed at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560. Check out his Facebook page for more fun.


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