Fathers, Follies, and Fables: A memory
Today what bubbled up was a memory of a trip my father took me on to Louisville, Kentucky to Churchill Downs. It must have been in early summer. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t for the Kentucky Derby, but we did go to the horse races. I don’t remember anything about the trip down but I think we took one of his old Ford trucks–back when they were useful because they had beds that could literally hold an elephant.
I had three stories from this memory. I think they stuck, like memories do, because either they form our narrative or reinforce our narrative about the world. As the memories surfaced, I didn’t think they had a connection or at least I didn’t see one at first, but as I reflected–I was doing the dishes at the time–It dawned on me that they were rather formative. So it’s a good time to dust off those old journals and write down a new one.
Story #1
Dad was no gambler. In fact, as I recall, he was generally opposed to parimutuel betting, but what the heck, you know, this was Churchill Downs so I guess when in Rome… I remember the weather as extremely pleasant and the deep greens of the grasses and trees and the blue skies as well. We walked all over the place. Dad is a chatty person and had no trouble talking to the people grooming the horses. I hadn’t realized he was collecting tips and information. Being a kid, I was oblivious to the conversations and I understood very little of what they were saying, but I loved the horses. When he was done he picked up something that looked like a newspaper but it was full of facts, records, and statistics about the races and he decided to place a bet, so we waited in line to book it and I turned around and saw a twenty-dollar bill on the floor. It wasn’t mine and I felt bad for whomever lost it so I tugged on Dad’s pant leg. It took a while to get his attention and then it was hard for him to hear since he had one ear and the place was noisy and when he finally saw what I was pointing at he said, “So, pick it up.” For me there was a bit of a moral conflict. It wasn’t mine. I hesitated a moment but went to pick it up–
A rabbit trail before I finish this first story.
Learning about the adult world is painful and disappointing. Being a self-reflecting individual, I have often wondered about my own moral formation and how much if it is nurture or nature? I’m pretty sure I’m wired for empathy, and empathy forms my moral code. It just so happens that the religion I grew up with reinforced and shaped that basic view of the world. I had a tendency to believe what was taught to me by hypocrites who shared no such innate sensibility. The moral code for them is a book they called the Bible. They kind of missed the point. A generalization about these people I have found to be more true than not. But the painful and disappointing part is the realization that other people are not like me. They do not share my sensibilities. They are out for themselves. There it is: That I would do for others what they would never do for me. It is a terrifying thing to realize. I mean, when, in my religion, Jesus Chose to die for the life of the world, I’m like, “Yeah, of course, that’s what I’d do. If you know that the whole world could be saved, but you had to suffer and die to make that happen. Wouldn’t you?” Silence from the masses, or worse: “Ah…sure…of course…” in very un-reassuring tones.
So I bent down on the floor of Churchill Downs to pick up the twenty. I stretched out my hand and was just about to pick it up, but at the last millisecond my hand was nearly stomped on by a brown wing-tipped shoe owned by a large man in a suit and fedora. He bent down and took the twenty from under his shoe, winked at me and said, “Finders keepers” and walked off into the crowd with the twenty.
There are people in this world who are real jerks–an important life lesson–they are out for themselves. But this lesson is even more shocking when you had no idea that this element of darkness might be in all of human nature. I wonder if we are all born innately moral and then have to learn to be self-centered and to kill off our innate empathy through the bullies and conmen of this world who take advantage of us–just like the man in the wingtips. "It's everyman after himself" goes the quote. But this goes beyond the survival of the fittest. Jean Valjean who stole bread for his family to survive is a very different matter. I can easily forgive that, and have empathy for Jean Valjean, but when a man is prospering and still takes advantage of others in order to prosper even more—that’s the man in the wingtips. And that thinking, unfortunately, is practically an American Ideal.
So Dad finally placed his bet and we went and waited in the stands. It was kind of an exciting thing to see all those beautiful sleek horses flying around the tracks. Dad’s pick was pretty bleak from the start and didn’t do well at all. He seemed genuinely disappointed when he lost and Dad dropped his ticket on the ground like everyone else. I hadn’t realized that young boys, some my age, would scramble all over to pick them up and double check the numbers. I wondered if I should try that too, but it somehow didn’t seem worth it, and--I'd never have been able to put it into words at the time -- something desperate in it, like starving dogs scrambling for a bone just tossed into the cage.
Lesson: Gambling is stupid. At least that is what I took away from this episode as a kid. It made no sense to me after that. A few might benefit, but most just lose their money. Why play the game? Why allow the game? I don’t know, but we do. Why is it, in America, that the big game we like to play is always: prosperity for a few who always find new and innovative ways to take it away from the many. The root of all evil–the love of money–makes us gamble or scramble for discarded ticket stubs in the slim hope that we might get lucky, or makes us beat out a naive kid to take away 20 bucks for ourselves?
The last story is about going out to eat that night. Someone told Dad about a tavern that served great fried catfish and that’s where we went.. Dad never drank, but he did like the food that was often served in taverns, so we went in to get carry out, and sat out on a retaining wall near there, where the road ran down to the river, which must have been the Ohio. While we were sitting there, a large, drunk fellow came out. His buddies were trying to corral him. They were right in front of us when the large drunk got mad at one of his buddies and took a swing at him, missed, and broke the antenna off of a nearby parked car. His swing had enough momentum that he spun around a couple of times and fell to the pavement. His shirt was untucked exposing his hairy belly. His buddies got him back up with some difficulty and managed to get him down the street. Never having seen such a thing, it, of course, made quite an impression. Dad, it seemed to me, shook his head, and I think this is one of those moments that reinforced his views on alcohol and how “you never know, with that first drink, if you’ll become an alcoholic.” Well, I suppose that’s true. But for me, It was one more eye opener about the world I lived in. I didn’t have the word for “folly” but that seems to be the best word for it. The folly of the adult world. Drinking, gambling, being out for self–the human race is full of folly–folly that we are, more often than not, unaware of. I include myself.
While the trip was eye-opening about the human race, I will say that the good I took away from it all, and the most important lesson of all, is that my father loved me, took me with him--just me and him, and shared with me a beautiful day. I have tears in my eyes, even as I write these words. Tears of loss, tears of love, tears of gratitude. I was luckier than the man with the wingtips, luckier than the winners of the horse race, and certainly luckier than the drunk on the street I think. I was very, very rich. I had a good father who loved me well.
.webp)
Comments
Post a Comment