Everybody has them, illusions of grandeur, dreams of glory, notions of a t-bar ride to the summit. Success. Wealth. Mansions on the beach. Paramours in abundance. Or, at least, recognition as the best mechanic in the garage. When we were kids, untarnished by reality, we aspired to be ballplayers or firemen or foremen at the textile mills, jobs of high station with good pay and entertaining workplaces. We had merely to make a choice, follow a certain path and—voila!—it would all be accomplished.
We were not necessarily encouraged in these notions by our parents and our teachers, who kept making noises about careers in law and medicine and engineering, practical things which didn’t seem much fun but made a lot of sense to people who had battled through the Great Depression. Play it safe was their motto, but it wasn’t ours. What did we know about depressions?
As life takes its course, plans sometimes change. In the minority are little girls like Siobhan Ellison, who at seven years of age decided she was going to be a veterinarian, then plugged away through twenty-one years of school to become one. Most of us got sidetracked along the way. In some cases, the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. In others, the requisite classroom skills were lacking. Adjustments were made. Backup plans were put into practice. Still, aspirations remained high. We might be supermarket bag boys today but it was only a matter of time until we were store managers. The future was bright.
Time passed. Marriages were consummated. Children suddenly appeared. Mortgages reared their ugly heads. Automobile payments were required. Nobody really wants a job at the used-car lot but, hey, gotta pay those bills. There are responsibilities to consider. Lofty ambitions must be placed on the back burner. But there’s still time. Until, one day, there isn’t. Middle age crises arise. Despair peeks through the curtains. Oh well, there’s always the lottery.
Remember Studs Lonigan? Studs was the subject of James Farrell’s gritty trilogy of life on Chicago’s South Side around the time of the First World War, an Irish Catholic kid, tough but introspective, certainly no genius. You were inside Studs’ head for the duration and you rooted for him, all the while knowing The Fates would not be kind. Studs kept waiting for that one relationship, that one break that would propel him to his notion of success but he never had the intellectual heft to pull it off, to make that critical decision. Farrell, a socialist, was rightly critical of the Catholic Church and other aspects of American society, but you recognized Studs as a potential character from many eras, a guy who battled the odds without the requisite equipment. There are plenty of Studs Lonigans walking around today.
Alternately, a charmed few soar early. They discern the correct path through the mountains, arrive in their own personal Valhalla, enjoy the fruits of their labors. The trick is to maintain. It is easier to reach the base camp than it is to climb to the top of the mountain. Expanding from a limited success to a grandiose phenomenon is a sleight-of-hand known to few and fortunes are lost in the trying.
Then, there are those who ascend to their chosen paradise and find it lacking. This isn’t at all what was expected. What to do now? Is there still time for a mid-course correction? How does one know that the New Plan will prove any better?
And finally, we have the Success Stories, that small cadre of characters either wise or lucky enough to prevail. Some come from Old Money and some rise on their own to the peaks of their various mountains, wilier than their competitors, more determined, perhaps, never sated with their great success and always—always—looking for more. What do you do when you have everything? Well, isn’t it obvious? You chase the Ultimate Dream. You run for President of the United States. After all—even the elite should get a chance to crash to Earth every now and then.
Here They Come Again (written prior to last night’s debate)
The first Republican debate of 2015 featured seventeen contenders. Since then—and as usual—a few ships have run aground, including the always-leaky vessel of Texas Governor Rick Perry. Governor Rick, never the brightest of bulbs, just couldn’t get over his one brief, shining moment in the presidential nominating campaign of four years ago when he briefly led the popular polls, more a product of desperate Republicans grasping at straws than any kind of true charisma. As often happens, he was eventually exposed as an utter fraud during debate and relegated to the scrap heap. Perry apparently thought a little more lipstick on the pig might work but, alas, no sale. Last week, he ran out of campaign funds, couldn’t pay his diminishing crew and opted for the “Flush” button.
Louisiana Governor Bobby Jindal refuses to believe his eyes and ears, choosing to cling to the drainpipe as it separates from the building. Taking note of this foolishness, the debate hosts have locked Jindal and a few other invisible candidates in a dank basement somewhere on the banks of Lake Erie and promised to briefly turn a camera on them for pre-debate entertainment. Pee Wee Herman will be brought in to liven up the dullest moments.
Oh, and would someone please inform New Jersey Governor Chris Christie that he is wasting everyone’s time by carrying on this nonsense. Listen, Chris—Donald Trump already has the Bully Vote and there are not enough extra-large sympathizers out there to carry the day. Kindly exit, stage right. Besides, the state of New Jersey needs your immediate attention. Isn’t there a bridge to blockade out there somewhere?
Mike Huckabee should be nicknamed “Bad Penny.” He always turns up, never goes away. Huckabee has been running for President for seven hundred years now and shows no sign of stopping. Mike knows no shame, nothing is beneath him. His newest schtick was to scurry off to Kentucky in support of a county clerk who has personally decided to refuse marriage licenses to gay people on direct instructions from God, known to be a close friend of Huckabee. This is the only county clerk, apparently, in the entire United States to receive this message. Huckabee remains so low in the popular polls that people are using a divining rod to find him.
We’re Number 1! Or Maybe It’s Number 15….
At the beginning of each college football season, the various teams emerge from camp in a tizzy of optimism. The coaches are stunned by the wealth of talent on display, visions of national titles dance in the players’ heads. Great Expectations. After all, noone has lost yet. That happens soon enough, for if there are one hundred winners the first week of college play, there must be one hundred losers. Uh oh, what now?
This year, everything was coming up roses for three Southeastern Conference teams—Auburn, Arkansas and Tennessee. The Volunteers were rising fast after years of ennui and fully expected to annex their first SEC East championship in over a decade. Auburn, noted for its freewheeling offenses, would now solve all defensive inadequacies with the addition of Will Muschamp, recently catapulted by the Florida Gators. Arkansas had finished the previous season on a roll and was certain to take up where they left off. It was all peaches and cream for this trio until a funny thing happened on the way to the title. Three funny things, actually.
One week after dispatching an expectedly tough Louisville team and one week before heading for a knock-down, drag-out at LSU, Auburn was entertaining somebody called Jacksonville State in a laugher. Jax State is one of those cannon-fodder teams which visits bigger schools early in the season, picks up a million-dollar check, and is beaten to a pulp by the home town bullies. But not this time. Late in the fourth quarter, the visitors found themselves up seven and it was no fluke. Jacksonville State was clearly outplaying Auburn. Then, as often happens in these situations, the roof fell in. The underdogs got off a terrible punt, AU took over inside the Jax 35 and went on to score in the last seconds, eventually winning the game in overtime. But dropping drastically in the NCAA rankings.
It was worse for Tennessee. Playing vaunted Oklahoma in Knoxville, the Vols had surged to an early 17-0 lead. The 100,000-plus Tennessee fans were hysterical. Not only were they SEC contenders, a national title loomed on the horizon. Great Expectations for sure. Except. The patient Sooners, rocked early by the pure energy of the home crowd, hung tough. In the second quarter, they solved the UT offense and the Vols would score no more in regulation time. By the fourth quarter, they had also solved the defense, tying the game. In overtime, Oklahoma prevailed, leaving giant Neyland Stadium in a colossal funk. The best-laid plans of mice and men, alas. The band was no longer playing Rocky Top.
If it was bad news day in Knoxville, consider the atmosphere in Little Rock. Arkansas was a monster favorite over little Toledo, always a solid club but not on a par with the SEC behemoths of the world. The Razorbacks, given the way they finished the previous season, were given every chance to finally overtake perennial favorite Alabama in the SEC West. After all, they had lost by but a point, 14-13, to the Tide in 2014. Apparently, Toledo never got the message. Arkansas was bogged down all day by the Rockets’ defense and fell, 16-12. If Little Rock had been hit by an earthquake, the populace could not have been more shocked. Optimism is one thing, but Great Expectations often die hard.
The Golden Years
If thar’s gold in them thar years, some of us old prospectors are having a lot of trouble finding it. One thing, though; we’re no longer beset by Great Expectations. Modest expectations, perhaps, ones more likely to be realized, but no longer the mirages of youth. Thing about youth is, it doesn’t realize there’s only so much room for Governors, Rolling Stones and Ty Cobbs, and even when the potential is there, Luck must be an ally.
Janis Joplin retreated from California to Port Arthur, Texas, nothing bright on her horizon, before being hooked up with a San Francisco band by an old friend. Bingo! Big Brother & The Holding Company appeared. Tom Petty and crew left Gainesville for L.A. and struck it rich. An equally talented band left Gainesville for New York around the same time and never made the jump, its desperately disappointed lead singer winding up in long-term therapy.
The Golden Agers, most of them, anyway, have made their peace with Great Expectations. The wisdom that time brings reveals the correct path to contentment—a loving partner, valued friends, decent health, the ability to be of service. It doesn’t hurt to live in a place where the weather is warm and the ocean is less than an hour away. If we have the means to travel now and then, all the better. And the thoroughbred people always say that nobody ever committed suicide with an untried yearling in the barn.
As for me, well, I’m still looking for the Big Horse….that classics contender that takes me over the meadow and through the woods. If he shows up, great—if not, I can accept the toss of the dice. That little girl, though—the one that grew up to be a veterinarian—she’s still out there, plugging away, developing drugs, devising new inventions. The other day, she told me that given enough time, she thought she could develop a vaccine for Malaria. What’s that again? Malaria has been around forever. “Sure,” she said. “Because the big drug companies can’t make enough money off a solution.” She smiled and went back to her work. “I have some new ideas,” she went on. “And I have Great Expectations.”
That’s all, folks….
