Tag: Will Stanton

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The Zoo, by Will Stanton

I was told of a most extraordinary zoo, unique, in fact — the only one like it in the whole world. All of the examples at the zoo were endangered species, some of them right on the verge of extinction. I was warned that, if I did not go to see this zoo soon, some of the specimens might be gone by the time I visited it. So, I made a point of going right away

I spent an entire day at this wondrous zoo from morning to closing at dusk. I could see why my friend warned me that everyone on display was endangered of disappearing. They were all human beings, people of the most admirable qualities, apparently qualities not much valued any longer in our society.
The sign on the first display read, “Statesman.” It did not say, “Politician” or “Congressman,” or some such degraded title. I looked into his eyes and saw there deep knowledge and wisdom. I also perceived empathy and compassion. He did not have that facial affect of hate, rage, or deviousness that we have grown so used to with politicians. I spoke to him for quite some time, and he always responded in calm tones, his words truthful and rational. I then asked him where he came from, and he explained that he once was, what was called a very long time ago, a “moderate Republican.” All the others had died off, and he was the very last one. Lonely and rejected, he accepted his home here at the zoo. Out of compassion, I felt inclined to remain even longer with this lonely soul to give him some comfort, but I knew that I had much more to see and moved on.
I came to the next display, and the sign read, “News Journalist.” At first I was confused because he looked rather similar to the first display. When I spoke to him, he, too, sounded rational and well educated. After a lengthy conversation, I asked him what brought him here. He explained that there still remains a limited number of true journalists in the country, but mostly they had fled their environs because of increasing atmospheric toxicity and decreasing clean, healthful oxygen. Some of them had found new homes with lesser watched, sanctuary broadcast-channels that were attempting to counteract the toxins as best they could. He, himself, once was hired by Fox Noise but was fired after only 24 hours because he did not fit in. The fact that, after a day’s exposure to that environment, he threw up and passed out did not help. He was brought to this zoo as a dying breed.
I came to the third display, and the specimen reminded me of a weary laborer in old, mended clothes. That, in fact, was what he was. I asked him, “Why are you here? There are millions of people just like you.” “Yes,” he replied, “but many of us don’t last long. Affording shelter, food, and health care with such limited funds means that, too often, we find it hard to survive. I countered, “But, this nation has so much wealth.” “That’s true, too,” he said, “but only a tiny number of people control most of it. I met one of them once. He was a Wall Street hedge-fund manager. He reminded me of the most splendorous peacock, so well dressed was he in his five-thousand-dollar suit and thousand-dollar shoes. I stared at him, trying to understand how such a creature could exist. He reeked of smugness, and I perceived a sense of arrogant entitlement. I asked him how he had become so rich, and he answered, “Because I have barracuda blood in me.” The weary man then sighed, “I don’t have barracuda blood,” and hung his head. I moved on.
The fourth exhibit contained an elderly, blue-haired lady with spectacles and neatly pressed cotton dress. The sign read, “Public School Music Teacher.” I looked at her, and she responded with her own sad eyes and a look of resignation. “Why are you here?” I asked. “Because we no longer are wanted and are dying off.” “But, music is such a wonderful part of life!” I exclaimed. “How, can that be?” Patiently, she began to explain. “People have forgotten what quality is, and most schools have eliminated it from their curricula,” she lamented.” “What passes for music these days bares no resemblance to what once was cherished and enjoyed, music that could enhance the lives of the performers and listeners, music that could sooth animals, music that actually can create fresh new brain cells, music that can enhance the ability to learn other disciplines. Most people no longer understand its value and, frankly, don’t care.” I told her, “I care,” and we talked together for a long time, sharing our knowledge and love of fine music. Finally, she said, “Perhaps the people in the next exhibit may interest you. Go speak with them.” She sighed and sat down on a little stool, her eyes taking on a distant look, probably “hearing” in her own mind some beautiful melody. I slowly turned and walked on.

I noticed at the adjoining exhibit a sign that stated, “Singers.” “That’s odd,” I thought. “There are tons of singers out there. Just turn on the radio, the TV, go into an elevator or a restaurant or supermarket. You hear it all the time and all around us. You almost can’t get away from it. There are billboards announcing the imminent arrival of popular singers, and the $300 seats all are sold out. Curious, I walked up to the display. This one contained a young boy along with a man and a woman.

“Are you all singers?” I asked. “Yes,” they replied. Puzzled, I then posed the question, “You can’t possibly be rare and endangered. Why are you here?” They smiled at me sadly, and the woman spoke up. “It’s all relative. There are so many people who claim to be singers, but really who are not, that those of us who truly are singers are in a small minority.” “What do you mean?” I asked. She explained, “The human voice can be used in many ways to make a sound, but to produce a sonorous, beautiful tone and a controlled technique is special. You must have a good voice to begin with; then it helps to have the voice trained properly. In the past, more people, from popular singers to opera professionals and boys choirs, used to sing well; but that art is being lost with most people these days. Now they scream, which is a different vocal mechanism. That’s not singing.”

I stopped to think about what she said and realized that it is true. It seems that, everywhere we go these days, we are held hostage to hearing screaming. At first, I thought that perhaps district managers chose recorded screaming because it could force restaurant-goers to give up their seats and leave more quickly. Then I remembered that a waiter told me that the restaurant chain was paid by the distributor of that noise with the hopes that the listeners would be so enthralled with it that they would rush out to buy or download that atavistic noise. It all came to money. Having been given food for thought, I slowly turned and continued on my way. As I left, I heard the man, woman, and boy begin singing in harmony some sublime melody. I felt a very pleasant sensation growing inside me.

The next exhibit had a sign that read, “English Teacher.” “Now how does that make sense?” I wondered. “Every school has an English teacher. How can they be rare?” I introduced myself and asked her. “Oh yes,” she replied. “There are a lot of people out there called ‘English Teachers,’ and some of them really try hard to do a good job. But, it’s difficult when the students and parents no longer read and often don’t really care about literature and well spoken language, when the English teachers take a back seat to the math and science teachers and even the football coaches. Also,“ she continued, “many of the people who go into teaching no longer have a solid base-core of knowledge, read very little, and cannot even speak well themselves. People may have heard of Shakespeare, but how many of them actually have read any? Listen to newscasters speak, to people with advanced degrees and those with professional positions of importance, even professors. Apparently, it never has occurred to them that having a good command of English is of any importance, for their constant errors in diction, grammar, and style are egregious.” Tears began to roll down her cheek. She quickly picked up a small, hardbound volume of poetry and began reading one of them aloud, trying to console herself. I left her in peace.

I began to notice that, as I walked through the zoo, my shadow had grown longer, and the sky was losing its intense blue. I looked at my watch, startled to find how much time I had spent with the first exhibits. Evening and closing time were approaching. So much more of the zoo’s endangered species remained for me to see. I looked at the zoo signs erected ahead of me along the path. The first one read, “Honest Businessman and Honest Contractor.” I saw that there were two people in that exhibit. The sign beyond that read, “Faithful Husband and Faithful Wife.” Two people were in that exhibit, also. There actually was a small group in the next exhibit marked “Good Fathers and Good Mothers.” I stopped to think about that. Perhaps the most difficult and important task in the whole world is raising children to be happy, healthy individuals who constructively contribute to society. And, whether the child is raised by a father and mother, two fathers or two mothers, or a single parent, that daunting task remains before them. With so many failed families, perhaps, after all, that small group was rare enough to be in the zoo.

As I strained to see farther down the zoo path, I saw what appeared to be an endless series of signs, far too many for me to explore in just one day. I never realized until then how much was endangered in our society. I promised myself that I would soon return to explore further; however, I better have a solid breakfast and get an early start. I knew then that there was far more to see and to think about at that unique zoo than I had anticipated.

© 29 July 2015

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Horseshoes, by Will Stanton

Who in the devil came up with this topic “horseshoes?” What am I supposed to do with it? I know that people for generations have tossed horseshoes at metal stakes as a game. My dad used to many years ago. Washington Park even included a brand new horseshoe pitch as part of recent renovation. Apparently, my great-grandfather was a skilled farrier, although I heard mention of it only once. I am not an equestrian nor a Western cowboy, so I don’t hang around horses or blacksmiths.

It seems that we non-rural folks occasionally use the odd horseshoe or two as decoration, sometimes nailing them over doors for supposed good luck. I’m told that the shoe must point up; otherwise, all the good luck will run out. So, how did that old custom of good-luck horseshoes come about? Apparently, the horseshoes keep the Devil and witches away.

Some say that the horseshoe legend goes back as far as the year 969 CE when a blacksmith named Dunstin supposedly was visited by the Devil. The visitor surprised Dunstin by requesting that he have horseshoes nailed to his feet. Dunstin was even more surprised to discover that, rather than feet, the individual had cloven hooves. Apparently, this was a dead give-away that this was not a man but, instead, the Devil himself. Dunstin quickly stated that the individual had to be placed in the oxen-lift and hoisted up in order to do the shoeing. This was agreed to, and Dunstin began his labors, deliberately making the process as prolonged and as painful as possible. Howling in pain, the Devil pleaded to cease the shoeing.

Dunstin promised to let the Devil go but with one condition, that any home with a horseshoe nailed to a wall or over a doorway was off limits to the Devil. He could not harm anyone living in or visiting that place. The Devil agreed and was released.

The historically known Dunstin became the Archbishop of Canterbury. It is said that Christians were the first to move the horseshoes down onto the center of their front and back doors to be used as doorknockers. The knock of iron on wood was thought to ward away the devil and awaken guardian angels. So, it’s advisable to have a good pair of knockers.

Legend has it that displayed horseshoes also could keep witches away. Of course in this case, we are not talking about the anthropologically accurate nature of these pre-Christian pagans. Historically, they did not believe in, nor engage in, evil. Instead, the later misrepresentation and popular portrayal of evil, old hags is addressed here.

There is a 1666 legend concerning a Goody Chandler of Newbury, Massachusetts, who claimed that her illness was caused by her very unpopular neighbor Elizabeth Morse. Once a horseshoe was nailed above the door, supposedly Elizabeth could not enter the house.

The story goes on to say that her nosy, fundamentalist neighbor William Moody removed the horseshoe, stating that he was opposed to any kind of magic, that it was just as bad as witchcraft. I know how religiously uptight some people can be. My mother’s ancestors are of Puritan stock, arriving here in 1630 with Governor Winthrop; and I suspect that they may have participated in hanging a couple of witches in Salem. Not straying outside the Bible was the official platform of the Puritan church in New England. Cotton Mather wrote in Wonders of the Invisible World that, “The Children of New-England have Secretly done many things that have been pleasing to the Devil. They say, That in some Towns, it ha’s been an usual Thing for People to Cure Hurts with Spells, or to use Detestable Conjurations, with Sieves, & Keyes, and Pease, and Nails, and Horse-Shooes… ‘Tis in the Devils Name that such Things are done.”

Removing the horseshoe from above the door was followed by renewed visits by Elizabeth, whereupon, Goody became worse and eventually died. I am sure that this tale is apocryphal, but it does reflect the mindset of the time.

A horseshoe could also be used to keep a dead witch in her grave. The towns-people of Hampton, New Hampshire, staked the heart of suspected witch Goody Cole after she died. They tied a horseshoe to the stake. Perhaps it was because of the iron, believing that supernatural creatures such as witches fear iron. In the British Isles, witches often were accused of associating with fairies, so peasants nailed horseshoes over their doors to keep fairies out of the house. I was quick to notice that there is no horseshoe nailed over the door here. What would happen if there were? Oh well, as an old Celtic blessing says. “May the charm and good luck of the horseshoe be with you and yours always!”

© 2015

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Depravity, by Will Stanton

[Public Figures]

Herman “999” Cain
Coach Jerry Sandusky
Sheriff Pat Sullivan
Former House Majority Leader Newt Gingrich
Former House Majority Leader Dennis Hastert
Gov. Mark Sanford
Senator John Ensign
Rep. Mark Folly
Rep. John Gibbons
Rep. Don Sherwood
Congressman Anthony Weiner
Senator Larry Craig
Wisconsin State Senator Randy Hopper
CA State Senator Roy Ashburn
Mit Romney aid Matthew Elliott
Florida State Rep. Bob Allen
Prosecutor John Atchison
Judge Ronald Kline
S. Dakota Rep. Ted Klaudt
PA Congressman Joseph McDade
Christian Coalition Chairman Louis Beres
Anti-John-Kerry ad producer Carey Cramer
Christian Conservative Activist Jeff Nielson
NY Committee Chairman Jeff
Patti

FL Rep. and Chairman of John
McCain’s Presidential campaign Bob Allen.
Party Chairman Jim Stelling
Whitehouse religious adviser Ted Haggard
Mayor John Gossack
Mayor Jeff Randall
National Chairman of the Young Republicans Glenn Murphy Jr.
Focus on the Family’s Physician Resource
Council and Bush appointee — W. David Hager
And certainly NOT last or least,
Neal Horsley who (among other things, has called for the arrest and imprisonment
of all homosexuals) admitted in an interview with Alan Colmes on the Fox News
Radio to having engaged in sex with a mule. 
He said, “When you grow up on a farm in Georgia, your first girlfriend
is a mule.” He then credited Jesus with forgiving him and cleansing him of his
“sin.”  
Incidentally, one of the people
named above is a Democrat.
© 9 Sep 2012 
About The Author 

I have had a life-long fascination with people and
their life stories.  I also realize that,
although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have
had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting. 
Posted on

Acting, by Will Stanton

The word “acting” first brings
to mind theater acting or perhaps movie acting. 
I, however, briefly considered delving into a deeper subject.  I always have been fascinated with human
minds, and I have been aware that people often put on acts in front of others
throughout their daily lives.  William Shakespeare wrote, “All the world’s a stage, and all
the men and women merely players.”
The degree of acting varies
greatly from person to person depending upon his perceived situational needs
and depending upon his own nature.  I,
for example, don’t care to engage in artifice; I’d rather be just who I
am.  Acting takes too much effort, and
perhaps I’m just too simple-minded to be clever at it.  Others, however, are like chameleons, saying
and doing anything and everything they deem necessary to attract and influence
other people.  An extreme example of that
is the last three (especially Republican) presidential primaries.  Many people enthusiastically succumb to such
manipulation, but I am repulsed by it. 
So, rather than my being
repulsed and spending time talking about the vagaries of human nature, I’ll
return to the more enjoyable subject of theater acting.  Here are a few snippets of theater
occurrences from my early days.
My first experience being in a
play was at age seven.  My elementary
school was run by the local university, which provided student teachers with an
opportunity to practice by assisting the regular teachers.  One young lady wrote “The Marshmallow
Mushroom.”  I was an elf name
“Muffin.”  I was a very competent
elf.  I enjoyed the experience and still
have the script secreted somewhere with all my keepsakes.
Two years later, the
university was celebrating the sesquicentennial of its founding, and they had
commissioned Alan Smart to write an historical play called “The Green
Adventure.”  I played a pioneer lad.  Ever since that time, I never have looked at
the script, but I have that one, too.
Of course, I participated in
the infamous genre of high-school plays. 
The usual botches and glitches occurred in all of them: forgotten lines,
mixed-up scenes, stiff acting.  I was
sufficiently unimpressed with our productions to remember them today.
I’ll never forget, however,
what happened to my oldest brother.  That
class put on the famous “Annie Get Your Gun.” 
My brother was cast as Buffalo Bill. 
The problem was the audience never did figure out who he was.  That is because the lead actor totally forgot
his first-act lines and kept repeating the lines from the end of the second act
to the point where the rest of actors just went ahead and skipped half the
play.  So by the time my brother wandered
onto the stage wearing a cowboy hat and a quizzical grin, no one knew who he
was.  That role did not lead my brother
to a career in Hollywood.
At the same time, the girl
destined to become my brother’s wife was participating in a high-school play in
Katonah, New York. They were performing “Arsenic and Old Lace.” As you recall, the
loony brother who thought he was Teddy Roosevelt always assumed the responsibility
of taking the supposed “victims of yellow fever” to the basement to be
buried.  The stage was built three feet
above the main floor of the auditorium, and a trap door provided access to the
space beneath.  The play director
decided, having no stairway to a basement that the trap door would suffice as
the apparent entrance to the basement. 
Of course, when “Teddy” dumped his victims down into the basement, they
had learned to bend their knees to simulate descending into a deep
basement.  During the first act, the trap
door was covered with a carpet.  The
problem was that, during the first act, the carpet was there, but someone had
forgotten to replace the trap-door cover. 
So in the midst of the first act, an unsuspecting student-actor walked
across the carpet and immediately slowly sank three feet down into the floor
where he remained standing, torso and head above the floor, and wearing a very
surprised expression.  Fortunately the
play is meant to be a comedy, however, the howls of laughter from the audience
came at an unexpected time.
I tried participating in just
one play as a college freshman.  The
theater department had a good national reputation, so I thought that I would
see what it was like.  I played the
servant “Mishka” in “The Inspector General.” 
I don’t recall seeing any mention of me in any newspaper rave
reviews.  Apparently, I didn’t have the
immediately recognizable attributes of stunning stature, handsome looks, and
captivating voice to merit much attention.  The young stud who starred in “The Fantasticks”
was a corn-fed Kansas boy whose natural talent and good looks guaranteed the
role, even without any prior experience. 
Apparently, I was destined to play character roles such as servants,
extras, or just one of the elves.
There is one charming play
that I sentimentally recall.  Although I
never had the pleasure to be in it, I saw a wonderful production of it by my
university theater department and, later when I arrived in Denver, by the young
students at Arapahoe Community College. 
The play was “Dark of the Moon,” a folk-play about simple back-woods
people living in the Smokey Mountains. 
Although the theme and setting may seem too antiquated for these modern
times, it was remarkably popular for many years from the 1940s through the
1970s, so much so that up-and-coming actors such as Paul Newman eagerly wished
to be part of the play. 
The story in a “nutshell” was
that “John Boy” fell in love with “Barbary Allen,” a beautiful girl previously
never seen in those hills.  It turns out
that she is a witch-girl with no soul and who lives three hundred years, after
which she turns into Smokey-Mountain mist. 
Of course, the story has love, rivalry, and tragedy.  There also were occasional scenes at the
general store with the old folks sitting around the pot-bellied stove with
their musical instruments and singing Appalachian ballads that coincided with
the story.  I became so fond of the story
that I bought the script to read, twice, once because I loaned a copy to a
friend who failed to return it. 
Now that I have reached my
dotage, I recall “Dark of the Moon” with sardonic humor.  That is because I recall the youngsters of
Arapahoe Community College doing their best to imitate the elderly, they
themselves never having experienced the stiffness, pain, and other afflictions
of old age.  They did their best, but
somehow, they just did not look convincingly old.  And, I don’t think that additional experience
acting would have made any difference.
© 2 Aug 2012 
About the Author 
I also realize that, although my own life has
not brought me I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life
stories.  particular fame or fortune, I
too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
Posted on

ABCs of Life, by Will Stanton

Some people appear to sail
through life with fair weather all the way…at least that may appear to be so to
us.  Others of us struggle with the
adversities, challenges, slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.  All in all, life can be terribly
complicated. 
The factors leading to
relative ease or discomfort are many. 
Human nature is significant.  Some
people seem from the get-go to be imbued with great courage and fearlessness.  They blithely charge on without much
consideration and seem the happier for it. 
Others of us are more circumspect, a trait that can be useful but also
can inhibit risk-taking skills, skills that are necessary to begin and to
continue action.
Learning is a second,
significant factor; and much that is learned is from the home and parents.  That’s why it is so important that, when you
are born, pick really great parents, parents who themselves are
self-actualized, mature, stabile, educated, cultured, and (not least of all)
very rich.  Any lessening of these
factors already puts one at a disadvantage. 
Thirdly, one must learn for
oneself, learn from experience, good and bad. 
If one does not learn from his experiences, he is condemned to repeated,
unproductive behaviors and stagnation. 
In learning from life, one
develops coping skills.  That term can
apply to rational, practical skills, but it also can apply to irrational,
impractical behaviors.  The trick is to
differentiate between the two.  Sometimes
it takes a good therapist to figure that out if one has difficulty doing
so. 
Repeating realistic coping
skills can lead to practical, productive behaviors.  If one stops to think about his successful
skills and to verbalize them, they can be described as “The ABCs of Life.”  In my many years of observing human behavior,
I often wonder how many people truly know their ABCs.  The answer to that can be disconcerting if,
for example, one is watching the TV show “Cops” and sees a case of a man and
woman drunk and on drugs beating each other up, the cops being called, the man
shooting at the cops, and then engaging in a high-speed chase with police cars
and helicopters in hot pursuit.
Even the best-educated and
brightest are prone to unproductive behaviors. 
My friend Kathy has an IQ of 160. 
Her mind and her lap-top fingers move ten times as fast as most
people’s.  Some of her time on the web is
in useful pursuit of research information; however, much of her time is wasted
by fruitlessly attempting to engage in intelligent dialogues with people who
have oatmeal for brains and opinions that outrageously defy fact, reality, and
simple, decent empathy for humanity.  The
great cartoonist and wit Ashleigh Brilliant once wrote, “One cannot argue with
ignorance: ignorance won’t listen; and if it did, it would not understand.”  Yet for years, Kathy has driven herself to
distraction attempting, but often failing, to help people see the light.  Fortunately after several thousand attempts,
she is beginning to understand the too-often futility of her efforts. 
As for myself, I always have
regarded myself as a slow learner.  My
nature is always to have felt that the world can be an overwhelming place and
its challenges potentially greater than they actually might be.  Having the ability to stop, observe, and
think can be a two-edged sword.  On one
hand, careful analysis of the world and oneself can be informative and
useful.  By now, I gradually have learned
some of my ABCs, and they have been useful to me.  I wish that I had known them starting a long
time ago. 
On the other hand, too much
time spent just thinking about things can preclude action and
accomplishment.  Centuries ago, a great
Taoist, who was much wiser than I, said the following (in English translation):
“A centipede was happy quite
until a toad, in fun, said, ‘Prey, which foot goes before the other one?’  This threw the centipede into such a pitch
that he lay distracted in a ditch, wondering how to run.”
© 27 Dec 2012 
About the Author 

 I have had a life-long fascination with people
and their life stories.  I also realize
that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too
have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
Posted on

Exercising, by Will Stanton

Exercise – – – hmm. Let me think. I guess I’ll start with the many forms of exercise that I did when I was young a few decades ago. Let me count the ways.

Let’s see. When I was a kid and for many years, I engaged in summer games of very competitive badminton and croquet in our side yard.

I swam a lot and rode my bike. I canoed on a nearby lake and at some camps. I did a lot of hiking in the woods and through the hills. I played the normal neighborhood sports like driveway-basketball and games of “horse.” Sometimes, we hiked up onto a hillside and played hide-and-seek or combat. In elementary school, we did kickball and softball. On a few occasions, I tried horseback riding. I tried a little bit of tennis, but it didn’t take.

Around 17 and 18, I did a little Korean and Japanese judo. I took a couple of lessons in Aikido. I might have stayed with judo, but I soon discovered karate; and that interested me a lot more.
Starting at age 18, I did 43 years of intense Japanese karate. That included a lot of self-training. I would get up at 5:30, go to the golf course and run several miles. Then I would do roundhouse kicks the length of a football field, side-thrust kicks back, then front-snap kicks, lunge punches, the whole shebang of techniques. Plus, I did extra training at the gym with other karate students. Of course, I could have spent my time doing something of greater long-term importance, but I did skip three belt-grades on my first karate examination. Karate probably was the most intense and prolonged form of exercise that I ever did.

I still do a little bit of swimming, whenever the pool is open, that is. I occasionally walk in the park. But generally, my exercise consists mainly of getting up out of the recliner in front of the TV, or the recliner in front of my computer, or getting up from the supper table. Yes, I do a lot of social eating, which may exercise the jaw, but that probably is not the way to lose weight.

© 5 August 2015

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

Posted on

Preparation, by Will Stanton

The phrase “be prepared” reminds me of the Boy Scouts. Naturally, my having grown up in the 60s, I then can’t help but be reminded of song-writer Tom Lehrer’s satirical lines,

     Be prepared! That’s the Boy Scout’s marching song,
     Be prepared! As through life you march along.
     Be prepared to hold your liquor pretty well,
     Don’t write naughty words on walls, if you can’t spell.

I seem to have been focused on those songs well enough to remember them; but, unfortunately, I apparently did not have the focus to make all the necessary preparations for — thinking of a few examples — a truly successful career, financial security, and winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I seemed to have spent my time engaging in activities that, at the time, captured my fancy, usually things that had no practical purpose unless one planned to make a profession out of them. Yet, sometimes even those activities can prepare one for later use in a most unexpected manner.

When I was 17 (was I ever 17?), I found myself in Bozeman, Montana for the summer. I did the usual things, such as hiking, exploring, making friends. I even took a summer class in French, quelle qu’en soit la bonne qui a fait pour moi, whatever good that did for me.

What interested me most, however, was taking classes in judo from the Korean Sang Wu Shin. By the end of the summer, I had the basics well in hand. Of course, I could not identify any useful purpose in it. It just was something I wanted to do. I never had to use it for real self-defense, although it did come into play in an amusing way that following autumn.


Back in high school, I was heading down the hallway when someone ran up behind and trapped me from behind in a tight bear-hug. My response was instinctive and surprisingly effective. I took hold of his arms and quickly dropped my body down several inches to place my attacker’s center of gravity higher than mine and so I could spring upward. Then smoothly, I threw him up over my head in a large arc. I didn’t really feel threatened, and I didn’t wish to hurt anyone, so I set him down gently onto the floor in front of me. He wasn’t hurt, but he didn’t move for a while. He simply lay there with his eyes as big as saucers.

Once I got a look at who my attacker had been, I recognized him as a student one year behind me. He was pleasant looking, tall, slim, brown hair, and with glasses, hardly a threatening appearance. I didn’t really know him well and wondered why he chose to put me into a bear-hug. Of course at that age, I was even more dense than I am now, and it didn’t occur to me at the time that he simply wanted to touch me, to hug me. After all, most of us hid such feelings through sublimation – wrestling, teasing, depantsing, and pretend attacks.

After his experiencing such a big surprise being tossed to the floor in a judo-throw, there was no more interaction between us. So, I always have wondered, was his attack just a moment of goofiness? Or, did he really want to hug me? I had the preparation to be able to get out of a bear-hug, but apparently I wasn’t prepared to understand human nature.

A post-script: Another guy who witnessed the incident later told me, “I knew you play piano, so I thought you were a wuss. I’ve changed my mind.”

© 28 July 2015

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Grief, by Will Stanton

The emotion of grief, to varying degrees, is natural for humans but potentially very toxic. The causes of grief are both external, that is, events that happen to us, and internal, one’s own nature and how prone we may be to suffering grief.

Throughout history and continuing on through today, some people have suffered extreme traumas that can affect them the whole remainder if their lives. Victims of horrendous crime, violence, war, natural cataclysms, or massive plagues, all such victims are severely tested. As a consequence, shock, loss, grief, anger and bitterness are very hard to cope with.

Just imagine, if you can, Russia’s Empress-Dowager Maria Fednorova, barely escaping with her life to Denmark after her son Nicholas II and his young family all were brutally shot to death by the Bolsheviks and their bodies dumped into pits in the forest. She struggled with her grief for ten years. Her coping mechanism was to hold out irrational hope that one or more of them somehow had survived. Of course, we now know that all their remains have been found and none survived. For most of us, the common loss of a loved one or friend, loss of job, home, or financial security, is hard enough. That certainly has been true with me.

Then, each of us is wired somewhat differently from others. Some people are quite sensitive and vulnerable to prolonged grief. There are several potential causes. Brain physiology and chemistry differ among people. This may be caused by genetics, PTSD, emotional or psychiatric anomalies, drugs or alcohol. Too often, people lack good support systems of family, regular friends or mentors. They feel more alone, vulnerable, and less resilient.

Turning grief into an energizer, a motivator for constructive thinking and behavior, is an important coping skill that people should learn and practice. In contrast, dwelling endlessly upon grief can cause devastating effects upon one’s mental and physical health. A dramatic example of this is the character of Miss Havisham in Dickens’ “Great Expectations.” Once defrauded of all her money by the beau who promised to marry her and then abandons her, she remains for years in her yellowed wedding dress, sitting in a dark, decaying mansion where all the clocks are stopped at the time she learned of her betrayal, and with the desiccated remains of the wedding breakfast and cake lying on the table. Such a mind-set and behavior are obviously destructive to health and happiness.

Like everyone, I have had my share of grief, and for various reasons. Sometimes a sense of grief comes and goes, triggered by remembrances of past times, good or bad. This is true with the loss of my partner more than eighteen years ago. I still have moments. I also still miss my wire-hair fox terrier, who had to be put to sleep two weeks after my partner died.

I’m afraid that I also am prone to a more generalized grief that some others may not suffer. There is much about human beings and the world that is unnecessarily evil and toxic, and I morn humankind’s apparent lack of the ability to feel empathy, to change and improve.

My means of coping apparently is for me to focus upon the positive, associating with loving people, appreciating beauty in all forms. My writing about this topic “Grief” provides me with the opportunity to remind myself to remain focused upon the good.

© 10 August 2015

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Any Writing is Experimental, by Will Stanton

Any
writing, especially when one first endeavors to write, is experimental.  This is particularly true for those not well
versed or prone to writing.  As one
becomes more accomplished, the need for experimentation is reduced but rarely
eliminated.
The
primary function of writing (and speaking, for that matter) is to communicate
clearly, conveying accurately what is meant to be said.  If that is achieved, the secondary
consideration is to communicate in an engaging manner through a good command of
language and perhaps, when appropriate, with humor.
The
main advantage of writing, versus attempting to speak extemporaneously, is one
is given the chance, in advance of presentation, to organize one’s thoughts and
words.  In that way, the presenter has a
good chance of eliminating pauses or non-verbal utterances while searching for
the next thing to say.  This also
prevents one from repeating or wandering astray onto unrelated and unnecessary
sidetracks.  The presenter also has the
advantage of not droning on, losing the main point or topic meant to be
conveyed and, consequently, driving the listeners to distraction.  The presentation should be no more nor less
than required.
A
colleague of mine, Dr. Hughes, made an in-depth study of well-known
speakers.  He concluded that the most
effective, extemporaneous speaker was, unfortunately, Adolf Hitler.  Winston Churchill found it impossible.  He had to write and re-write his speeches and
then practice them until he felt comfortable presenting them.
Over
the years, I regularly was required to speak extemporaneously in my
therapeutic-group sessions, in lectures regarding some of my other interests,
and even, for fun, spontaneously creating and relating stories.  Apparently, I’ve inherited a modicum of
verbal skills.
I
still find, however, reviewing and fine-tuning early drafts beneficial.  The main reason is that imagery and memories
are clear to me, yet they may not be clear to listeners unless I make sure that
I express them clearly.  As a
consequence, I always begin early thinking through and writing about a topic,
rather than waiting to the last moment or, perhaps, not writing at all.
I
am aware of only one super-genius who never had to rethink or revise what he
wrote, and that was the superlative composer Mozart.  He could perform one of his piano concertos,
then at the same time compose another in his head, and finally, upon returning
home, set the new concerto down on paper without a single change or
correction.  Obviously, that skill is
astonishing.  Most of us, however, are
not so astonishing, and experimenting with our writing still is required.
© 14 July 2015 
About the Author 
 I have had a life-long fascination with people
and their life stories.  I also realize
that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too
have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
Posted on

My Earliest LGBT Memory, by Will Stanton

Five years old (or should I
say, “Five years young?) is very early for such a clear memory.  The experience must have had quite an impact
upon me to remember it so well.   The visual
aspect was powerful enough not to forget, but the excited feeling in my stomach
is what really affected me.
I was five, he was six.  He lived just two houses over from my
home.  To my regret, he and his family
did not stay there very long.  I have no
idea where he went after they moved.
I recall one spring evening
when I tagged along with my older brother to my neighbors’ home.  We didn’t actually play.  There were five of us there, and we simply
sat on the grass and chatted about whatever children of that age talk
about.  That I don’t remember, for it is
what I saw that captured and held my attention.
A traditional belief is that
children that age are not sexual, whatever is meant by that term “sexual.”  Sexual or not, I do know that, from a very
early age, I have had an unusually heightened sense of the aesthetic.  And, at the age of five, that came into play,
big-time.
The first thing that struck me
(and, the word “struck” certainly denotes the impact that I felt) was the
extraordinary beauty of his face.  The
aristocratic, finely sculpted features – – high cheek-bones, arched eyebrows,
narrow, straight nose, ideal line of the jaw and chin, and perfectly shaped
lips worthy of a Cupid.  I was
mesmerized.  As often appears to be the
case with the young, his warm-colored skin was flawless, and his richly colored
locks had avoided the shears and were allowed to flow downward toward his
eyes.  Those shining clear eyes had a
demure expression, not the more intense, self-confident look of the other boys
around him.  The others around him?  I barely remember them, almost as though they
already sat in the shadows of approaching dusk.
As the others talked among
themselves, he sat quietly, his long, lithe limbs side-saddle in the
grass.  I was not used to seeing boys sit
that way.  He seemed preoccupied with his
own thoughts.  Only occasionally did he
speak, and then in very soft tones. 
Those few moments of speech were music to my ears.
The full impact of this vision
raised strange and powerful emotions within me. 
I felt “butterflies” in my stomach, an adrenaline rush that was a whole
new experience for me.  It is that
shivering excitement that I felt which amazed me at the time and was so
indelibly imprinted upon my memory.
That remarkable moment
awakened in me a powerful passion for beauty in the human form that has stayed
with me my whole life.  It has inspired
in me the desire to express that passion through many forms of artistic
endeavor – – music, art, and writing, as I am doing now.  It often has dominated my feelings, perhaps
even plagued my thinking.  I often feel
like Gustav von Aschenbach in “Death in Venice,” overwhelmed by bitter-sweet
sensations each time I encounter beauty in human form.
Now that I am decades older
than that first experience at age five, even a generation older than von Aschenbach,
I sense no evidence that I shall change. 
Like Gustav, I shall be mesmerized by beauty to the very end of my days.
© 14 July 2015 
About
the Author 

 I have had a life-long fascination with people
and their life stories.  I also realize
that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too
have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.