In those Eisenhower days, society made the individual, unlike Athens twenty-five centuries previous or that brief decade run of the Age of Aquarius in the Woodstock Nation, when individuals made society.
Either way, what did I get from Mater? Well, it's taken me more than six decades to realize, but most everything, though were she here today she'd no doubt invoke the Alford plea.
Her father was a German immigrant, while her mother came from Scotland. Don't ask me how lovers from those two lands ever met or where they met, or how they became a farm couple in Iowa four thousand miles away from the Old World, for I don't know. In fact, I know almost nothing of my progenitors on either side and that's fine; a bit of mystery never hurt anyone. Anyway, it's always seemed to me that people who get wrapped up in genealogy are latent eugenicists at heart.
I appeared late in the brood; Mater was actually in her forties when she had me. What an unexpected treat for both of us! In consequence, I grew up only with my nearest brother -- six years my senior -- while the other two siblings were away at college, clear across the country when I was still in swaddling clothes.
For the sake of completeness, let me mention that in fact there was still another elder, but he perished at birth, the first of the offspring, bearing the rather princely name of Richard. There can be no doubt my father's incipient Anglophilia had something to do with that choice.
But, back to Mater. As a toddler, somehow I found the groove and came to the conclusion she knew what she was doing while instructing me in the various arts, listed here in increasing order of importance:
- Dispense with the diapers? Yes!
- Eat vegetables? Yes!
- Join in with playschool activities and hobnob with other kids? Yes!
- Play with Lincoln Logs, Rig-a-Jigs, Tinker Toys, Erector Sets, and Spirographs, i.e., thinking games? Yes!
- Learn to read by her side before school tutelage? Yes!
- Set me free to take care of myself all day long, away from home? Yes!
Though brought up in an era of definite inequality between the sexes (I suppose nowadays we should say "inequality among the sexes"...) Mater somehow managed to embark on a student career at a decent little liberal arts college. Given that she came of an enormous family -- more than a dozen kids -- I still wonder how she swung that off. By the way, the others carried on the family tradition of farming (except for one sister who married a wealthy jeweler, sort of the Kim Kardashian of President Hoover's Iowa, I gather).
And brushes with celebrity? Well, Mater belonged to the same sorority as Fran. Fran? You know...of "Kukla, Fran and Ollie" fame! Look it up if you're too young.
Anyway, in school her interest lay in the sciences, and she seemed to have learned a little bit about each. Maybe it'd be better to say, she retained a perpetual curiosity about each. As far as I know, though, apart from a couple short temporary stints teaching early on, she never "used" her collegiate background, having married fairly young. In those days, no self-respecting hubby would "allow" his wife to work, of course.
It's often said that just having books around the house prompts kids to become readers, covertly as it were. I wonder if the same applies to curiosity? Because of her own interest in how things work, I grew up believing "a life unexamined is hardly worth living." To wit, a few memories:
We always had lots of aquariums with tropical fish around the house, and various snakes, toads and frogs took up residence there, too. And Mater taught me to feed a leopard frog by dangling a pea-sized ball of raw hamburger on a thread, swinging it pendulum style before the amphibian who eagerly snatched it with an agile tongue.
And then there were the endless exursions into chemistry, one of my earliest passions. Mater gathered some excellent books on the subject for youngsters, and thanks to connections at the nearby university, procured a number of interesting chemicals, the majority of which would be considered controlled substances nowadays. For example, one of the most lively explorations was our joint effort in recreating a volcano by setting light to a heap of ammonium dichromate. Look that up on YouTube to see just how spectacular it is. Those orange crystals still resonate in my mind. Just the sort of demonstration that would get parents arrested for child endangerment anymore.
Physics wasn't neglected either. I still vividly recall Mater buying me a book put out by the United Nations UNESCO on how to explore the rudiments of classical physics (mechanics, light, heat, etc.) at home. For example, the two of us recreated an experiment of Isaac Newton's one night, placing a mirror at a 45 degree angle in a pan of water, and shining a light into it; the result was a vivid spectrum cast upon the wall, thanks to the differing indices of refraction of water and air. More than six decades later, the outcome has stayed with me. Incidentally, when Newton performed it, he noted in his journal that the rainbow thus created was "a most pleasing divertissement." I concur.
When I was aged 4 or 5, one summer the radio blared that a tornado had been spotted near the airport, about three miles south of town. Mater bundled me into the car and we raced off to go see it! Believe you me, that has left an indelible imprint.
A couple years later, the United States (which was still way behind in space technology), launched the Echo satellite. It was really nothing more than an enormous gas-bag in a low orbit, but it was new and it was ours, after how embarrassingly the Russians had trounced us thus far. Best of all, because of its shiny exterior, Echo was brilliant and easily visible in the night sky. I still remember Mater taking me out to see it, stop-watch in her hand as we waited and timed its passing. That may seem dull to more youthful readers nowadays, but remember, rapidly moving objects in the sky (i.e., satellites) were only three years old now. There were but one or two of them then. A rare novelty to witness.
When I was still at a very young age, two or three, Mater belonged to a social group of faculty wives. Calling themselves, the Friday Club, this gathering of six or seven women embarked each Friday for day trips all over Iowa. And I got to accompany them. (They even packed in a tiny portable potty for me to use when I was still mastering the fine art of dainty elimination.)
It was absolutely crazy in many ways. Their curiosity about the natural world was insatiable. Try to imagine a handful of middle-aged women, one toddler in tow, picnic baskets at the ready, traipsing all over the state in search of agates, geodes, arrowheads, the H-tree (two trees with a pair of limbs which had been grafted to grow together, by the Sac and Fox Indians a hundred years previous), fishing, canoeing, seeing the wheel of the train Jesse James robbed, the Kate Shelley house and trestle (look that up sometime...it's an amazing story), and endless hikes to identify birds and wildflowers.
So, it wasn't just from my mother, but also from her friends in that group, that the notion of being interested in everything rubbed off on me. It all seemed perfectly natural to want to know more.
Now, based upon this glowing description, you might assume my mother was a female version of Mr. Spock, living by pure logic alone. Far from it. A curious mystical streak ran throughout her being which she really only ever confessed fully to me, and no others. It probably all began with the incident of the Little Red Man when she was but eight or nine years old.
As a girl growing up on a farm in Iowa in the midst of an enormous family, she was apparently sort of the oddball, more comfortable playing with the livestock, looking for birds' nests, picking wildflowers, and just in general soaking in the atmosphere of a life outdoors. Mater told me often that both her father and mother, as well as the twelve siblings, were convinced she was a daydreamer who would never amount to anything.
So, one hot summer day, on her own as always, exploring the pasture for whatever happened by, she stopped at the stream meandering through it to sit a moment, to rest and dangle her feet in the water. She almost always ran barefooted in those days. (This also led to the incident of leaping from the loft of the barn onto a bundle of hay, lurking beneath which stood an upright nail; it found an easy passage completely through her foot).
Just then, she turned and noticed something odd beneath a nearby apple tree. Screwing up her eyes to focus, she beheld a little ancient man, all dressed in red. He was sleeping, arms folded across his chest, content.
He was around two feet in height, and perfectly formed. In other words, he looked like any other aged male, but scaled down a third, weighing no more than thirty pounds. And he wore trousers and an elegant jacket of pure scarlet.
Now remember, one of the hallmarks of my mother is that she was always given to careful observation, reflection, possessing a logical, even scientific mind. So, she paused long enough to make some mental notes on what she was perceiving. It was definitely a Little Red Man, no doubt about it.
After some scrutiny, she felt the need to alert the others, so without disturbing him, ran back to the homestead a half-mile away, excitedly sputtering of it to her brothers, sisters, father and mother. They were all incredulous, of course, and tried to convince her she'd seen nothing more than an abandoned doll. But according to Mater, she knew for certain it was a living, breathing creature, simply taking a snooze beneath the tree. And then her family suggested perhaps it was a side-show entertainer who had run away from the circus, but again she replied that he was way too small.
So, eventually a couple of her brothers joined her to retrace her steps to the tree and...nothing was to be found. No traces anywhere of anything untoward.
From then on, every member of her family swore she would never be anything other than a dreamer.
I heard this story countless times growing up, and it always remained the same. Mater had no explanation, but very obviously believed in its reality. When I prodded her to relate the tale to a long retired professor of philosophy, one of my older friends at a dinner one night, he responded, "I believe you." And so have I all these years.
Rather surprisingly, Mater also believed in psychic phenomena, at least of the personal kind. After I left home, aged 17, and then started college, finally living on my own a year later, she claimed she could always tell when I was in trouble or needed help. Countless times, when I would call her up, she would know even before picking up the phone that it was I, and that something was wrong on my end. She definitely was what the parapsychologists call a "sensitive."
When I was in the sixth grade and had read the famous George Estabrooks book on hypnotism (courtesy of our fabulous public library), Mater agreed to be my first subject; I think she was as interested in it as I was. Our sessions weren't a roaring success, but by the end of high school, I was frequently hypnotizing friends for various demonstrations.
And, oh, in 1967 she saw a flying saucer, carefully noting how many degrees of arc it traversed in ten seconds. All this while sitting alone on the dock at our summer cabin, in the inky night, fishing for catfish.
So after this lengthy prologue, you're either thinking I exaggerate no end, or that Mater was the epitome of June Cleaver.
Well, as a matter of a fact, she had one huge failing I still find very hard to forgive all these years later.
In particular, she was determined I was to become brainwashed into Presbyterianism. So, from the earliest days (perhaps aged four or so), right on up to the week I fled town, thirteen years later, I was forced to attend summer church school, then during the remainder of the year weekly services at church, Sunday School, and pouring salt into the wound, Wednesday night "fellowship" get-togethers at that House of Pain.
Let me be clear. Forcing religion on a youngster is child abuse. And in those days, it was sanctioned by society, so no parent could be taken to task for this evil. But at least, being Protestant, I retained my rectal virginity.
Even though it's been some 62 years now, I still remember that first summer church school frolic: (a) we made pinwheels with paper, a thumbtack and a dowel...which was okay I guess, (b) I met some raucous friends who would later become part of the Gang, which was even better, and (c) we sang in still innocent high-pitched voices that Jesus loves us yes we know, for the Bible tells us so. That's perhaps the finest example of begging the question I've ever encountered.
I promptly took up apostasy as a hobby. In just a short couple of years, it would become a profession.
I'm not trying to claim it was all clear to me in any intellectual sense then -- my youth prevented that -- but I instinctively understood religion to be humanity's most evil invention, designed solely to prevent people from becoming all they can be, to be a wedge. Christianity seemed the most malignant of all, simply because that was what was being thrust down my throat. It took me a few years to discern there were some decent rivals out there.
So anyway, for thirteen dreary years I suffered twice weekly programming sessions. Anticipating Sundays brought on a severe depression in a very real clinical sense.
By age fifteen the palliative of Mary Jane came along. It wasn't a cure, but it helped. Eleven o'clock or so, I would flee the Presbyterian torture palace, return home, ditch the suit and tie, jump on my Honda Dream 300cc motorcycle and high-tail it several miles south of town on a county road.
There was an old abandoned train trestle which became my legitimate house of worship. Fetching the little brass pipe and snus can, containing weed, from the battery compartment of my cycle, I would sit solitary on the trestle and smoke, meditating on how religion was determined to spoil a perfectly fine world, while wondering what I could do about it.
At first I was simply looking for relief, but by the last year (1970), my thoughts were no longer reactionary, but anticipatory. Marijuana saved me from the foul sentence Mater had imposed. Looking back on it now, it seems pretty clear that with the divine split of conscious and unconscious minds we humans have evolved with, the latter was silently plotting defenestration as a means of escaping the tyranny of my mother's fetish. A month later, and the die was cast.
And yet, I did get one good thing from the Presbyterian Church. In 1970 we were assigned a new Sunday School teacher, a Mr. Stuckey. He really understood boys. And he hated what our country was doing in Viet Nam. So, for several successive weeks we learned various ways to evade the draft.
In the meanwhile, life was becoming increasingly intense at home. My mother, being a Scorpio and I, being a Taurus, both dug our heels in and refused to budge. If astrology isn't your strong suit, let me mention those two signs are in opposition, and both are fixed.
She was determined I would be a card-carrying member of Presbyterian orthodoxy, and I, thanks to the wonders of 1969, was determined to be everything I could be instead, untrammeled. I hadn't met Aleister Crowley yet, but inwardly I sensed "Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law."
I mentioned her psychic abilities. One summer day, I'm lying in bed reading. In fact, I remember the book; it was Hunter Thompson's Hell's Angels. All of a sudden she bursts into my room with this artificially solicitous expression, indicating she'd be glad to tidy things up a bit for me. She headed straight to the top shelf on the wall that displayed my red Prussian helmet (spike on top) and was just about to touch it, ostensibly to dust or some such malarkey. With a bark, I let her know that I was trying to concentrate on my book and didn't want to be disturbed.
She ruefully departed, given the legitimacy of my request.
Inside the webbing of my Prussian helmet was a gelatin capsule containing psilocybin, which I had purchased earlier that day on the steps of the Episcopalian church near Campus Town.
Somehow Mater had sensed this key to my freedom and loss of her control lay there. Rather surprising since I was already pretty good at legerdemain and understood the principles of concealment and misdirection. But to be safe, I consumed the hallucinogen that very night while carousing about town, and had an eminently satisfying mystical experience. More about that another time.
Now I will say this. As detestable as her religion was or her unthinking attempt to entrap me in it, she did abide by one decent standard. Not in her words, but certainly in her deeds, it was: it's important to be good first, then religious.
As a consequence, I never, ever, knew Mater to harbor less than respect for anyone, regardless of skin color, sexuality, upbringing, education, social status, and yes, even religion. She treated all as equals who somehow wound up living side by side on this planet. So, everyone else could be self-directed, just not me!
Well, we can't all be perfect and perhaps Mater finally forgave me for being different from what had been hoped for. I don't know. But surely, she fretted, no doubt about that. When I attended her memorial service, her best friend, another Presbyterian lady, approached me at the conclusion and kindly let me know that Mater always worried about me, that I would remain alone my entire life. Now there's an uplifting thought I was grateful to learn!
One final thing, on a philosophical theme. We two were very different, Mater because of her religion which always tugged at her logical/scientific mind, and me because of my belief we only exist briefly and must become all we can become in that spell. The following makes the dichotomy clear.
After I had started college, she and I sat on the shore of Lake Tetonka one night, halfway reconciled, gazing at the sparkling stars and the Aurora Borealis. We both were entranced with the display. Both recognized the constellations, calling them out and the various star names for each other, both understood that the Aurora came from charged particles in the ionosphere interacting with output from the Sun, both recognized the historical importance of the starry heavens.
Then she said, "Seeing the countless stars against the velvety black background makes you feel so small and insignificant, doesn't it."
To which I replied, "No, they make me feel even larger and more important, because we humans can ask difficult questions about them, then go on to find the answers through diligence. Their scintillating light comes from us."
You see, Mater was a Platonist, thanks to her religion, but her son was a Formalist thanks to the belief we only get one chance at this and need to be more tomorrow then we were today.
She was a good mother, unflagging in her love, duty, and constant encouragement to read, learn and think. Wherever the ideals of her synapses may be floating just now, I hope she realizes the outcome of that maternal fidelity hasn't been a total disappointment.
Next installment: Whitey
