Ghosts of Politics Past

With all the political hullabaloo dancing across the airwaves like sparks from a downed power line, I've been thinking a great deal about how the past affects who a person becomes. For every jump in popularity this political season, another skeleton emerges to wreak havoc on the career of a Presidential hopeful.

Phobophobia - Another Conversation on Fear

My wife is afraid of snakes. My wife is afraid of spirits. My wife is afraid of a diverse number of creepy-crawlers and heebie-jeebies. She's not crazy, paranoid, or irrational. She's just developed an aversion to some of the more culturally nefarious elements of the world.

At first, when I'd come across one of my wife's phobia's, I'd scoff. In my mind, the targets of her reticence are harmless and fascinating. I find a snake in the yard, it's my goal to catch it. A spider scampers across the ceiling, I collect it and deposit the eight-legged critter harmlessly outside.

But as we've learned to live together and compromise, I've stopped and thought more about fears. How do fears develop? What dictates the subjects of our anxiety?

Spiders, Snakes, Raccoons, and Skunks

Ever since I can remember, I have allayed any fears of physical creatures with a scientific perspective. As a camp counselor at Camp Eastman in Nauvoo, Illinois, we had several critter alerts come up. Over the course of my ten years at camp, we had warnings about raccoons, skunks, snapping turtles, cottonmouth rattlesnakes, and even bobcats and mountain lions.

Generally, the counselors would be put on alert to watch out for the appearance of these critters, but no serious action would be taken. As high school and college men, we'd generally take matters into our own hands. On a lazy July afternoon, we'd be lounging in our bunks, evading the searing rays of a Midwestern sun. Suddenly a voice would cut through the humid atmosphere,

“Snake!”

Like firemen to a blaze, we'd launch from our beds, grabbing whatever forked stick we could find, and search out the serpent-warning siren. Upon arrival we'd generally find one or two staff members dancing skittishly around a writhing, black line. If they were younger scouts the drama of the situation would get the better of them, and they'd be bound and determined that this was the most poisonous snake you'd ever seen.

“It's a black mamba!”

“No! It's a Cobra!”

“I think it's a baby anaconda!”

Generally it was a black-rat snake. The species is harmless to humans, but tended to be an inch in diameter and up to three feet long. This made them an exciting find for the staff, and we'd corral the beast for observation in the nature center. Whomever brandished a forked stick would aim for trapping the head of the snake, while the rest of us would use other branches to keep the animal from scurrying into the nearby trees. Clad in ankle-high hiking boots, there was little fear of a bite. But one summer, there were verifiable reports of a cottonmouth snake on camp property. It was a serious threat, as we were working with scouts who could weigh as little as 60 pounds. If they got bit by such a snake, their was a serious threat of death, so the administration developed an emergency snake bite plan. We had weekly drills to simulate such an emergency.

If we heard the words “Snake Bite” over the radio, we all had our marching orders. Some of us were to report to the site of the incident to keep other campers calm and administer medical attention. Others were in charge of pursuing the snake in an attempt to trap and identify the species. My duty was to meet the ambulance at the front gate and lead them to the camper.

After a couple of times practicing snake drills, we'd fashioned ourselves into a well-oiled machine. We hit our marks, radioed confirmation, and saved the mock-victims. But after a few weeks of silence on the snake front, we were itching for some action. Then one day, the nature director's voice crackled over the radio,

“We've got a snake sited down at Pete's Pond. I think she's the one. Anyone above 18 free for some snake wrangling, please report.”

In full sprint, I met two other college-aged staffers in the parade grounds outside the mess hall. We made the 300+ yard dash in seconds, despite the heat and hiking boots working against us. When we arrived, Mike had already gathered several snake catchers – 7 foot PVC pipes with a looped coil at the end for snaring a serpent. When we arrived, he stopped us ten feet from the water.

“She's down there by the reeds. Quiet down so you don't scare her off.”

We divided up and circled the area. The key was getting bodies on all sides of the animal, so as to block any escape. The problem was that the snake could easily duck under the water and disappear, or worse yet, charge one of us and get a bite off before we could stop her. But we were there to end this once and for all.

We jockeyed for position and waited for Mike's signal. When we were all prepared, we all moved in on the creature. We strategically pushed the snake toward the shore and, as she began moving toward the reeds and tall grass, Mike expertly snagged her by the neck. One of the staffers had a five gallon bucket standing by, and slammed down the lid as the last of the beasts slithering body passed the lip. She was not happy. But she was contained.

After the Department of Natural Resources reviewed the animal, they determined that it was in fact a cottonmouth snake, and a big one at that. The snake was over four feet long. 

She was also pregnant.

Apocalypse, Now?

With the relatively recent resurgence of zombie-hype, it seems that we've had an over abundance of end of world, cataclysmic event pop-culture in the last few years. Don't get me wrong, I love this genre. But I consume it with an eyebrow raised and with a large dose of skepticism.

Earlier today, I got a text from Brian, who said,

“do you know about the singularity? have you heard about this? it's the single thing that scares me the most”

Needless to say, I didn't have a clue what he was talking about, but the fact that it had Brian spooked warranted some deeper investigation.

From the Wikipedia entry that Brian sent me, I've gleaned that singularity is when miniscule robots are used to take heal humans, but eventually lead to humankind living forever, as bionic-man like entities.

To some, this might sound like an awesome prospect. If we can live forever, what is there to fear? But to Brian, this was terrifying. To quote:

“...This, to my protestant-raised brain, sounds an awful lot like the devil...think about that: everyone would be forced to choose between a life of faith, which equals death, or a life of certainty, which equals eternal life. Who would be brave enough to choose death? To allow for the possibility of nothingness, when the other side can "promise" everything? To me, that sounds so much like the bible it's not even funny. I hope I die before the singularity so that I don't have to choose sides...”

So basically, this is a theological, philosophical fear. So, like Annie's fear of snakes and spiders, I empathize with Brian’s fear. But I cannot say that I share his fear. It's not that it wouldn't be scary. The actual event of a nanobot takeover sounds downright terrifying. But I am not one to dwell on fear-mongering what-ifs. In the event of a cyber-biological invasion, I'll be one of the first ones hightailing it to a remote part of the countryside. But until then, what's the point of fretting?

The Fear I Fear

I don't want to sound like some butch, uber-machismo, douche bag. I have anxiety. I can be jumpy. But it's things internal, not external, that I fear.

I fear failure. I fear scorn. I fear disdain. It's the feeling that I have let someone down that really gets to me. So yes. I am afraid.

I am intrigued by the idea of fear. Why do we do it? What causes the emotion of fear? Please write in about your fears and phobias. Tell me where you think they came from and what you've done to cope with the things that frighten you.

Hope on a Rope - Scouting out of a Tight Spot

Everything I need to know, I learned from Boy Scouts.

Many people mock the short sleeved, tan shirt with red epaulets. They scoff at olive shorts that land mid-thigh on pasty skin and smirk at knee-high wool socks and hiking boots. But when it comes down to it, the skills and life lessons I gained in the fifteen years as a scout have indelibly left their mark on who I am. The Boy Scouts of America has not only helped me learn to be brave, clean, and reverent, it's also started me on a road toward renaissance status.

Rope and a Tarp Can Solve Any Problem

Two things you become well acquainted with as a Boy scout are the versatile uses of a six foot cord of nylon rope and the endless utility of a blue tarpaulin.

At first, a young scout may sigh at the endless practice of looping, swooping, standing lines, and hitches that are required to advance the ranks of Tenderfoot, First Class, and Life Scout, but knot work has proven to be invaluable, both in outdoors situations and in more mundane activities. As a set designer, My first impulse when working with rigging and lines is to consider what knot would be ideal for the job. What is being held? Who is potentially walking underneath, depending on the knot I tie to keep them safe?

This may seem inconsequential, but a few years ago, my cousins and I took a canoe trip down the Des Moines River. Adam, Casey, Zach and I brought no tents, no air mattresses. With our tarps, paddles, and rope, we fashioned lean-to shelters to provide some cover from the elements. The tarps protected our gear while on the river, both from the water and the heat of the July sun. And when, on the last day of our trip, we came up against a ferocious headwind and a gaggle of angry pelicans, the rope and tarp saved the day.

We had floated by the light of a full moon the night before. With four of us in two canoes, we lashed our vessels together and took turns sleeping in the boat, two of us keeping on course at any given time. It was like Huck Finn and Jim, drifting by the glimmer of an overflowing lunar ambiance. With an extra eight hours on the river, we made excellent time, and ended up at the head of Lake Red Rock, a man-made reservoir that ends with a monstrous hydro-electric dam. It was perfect! We'd make it to the mouth of the dam, where we'd pull out that night and then call our rides to retrieve us.

Avian Bird -- Shoo!

What we did not anticipate was the egregious head wind that pummeled our small, fiberglass boats. Zach and I paddled with great muster, battling against frothy waves that threatened to overtake our canoes. As we got into the middle of the lake, we began drifting nearer to a cadre of huge white birds. We'd seen them from afar as we entered the reservoir, and, despite our intentions of circumnavigation, were pushed into the tempestuous flock with little consideration to the safety of our boats or bodies. We drifted closer, trying to inconspicuously paddle downstream. We could hear the cacophonous chatter of the giant white birds – at first a small din, then increasing to a deafening roar as they realized that there was a non-avian presence in their esoteric meeting.

In the Belly of the Beast

We hoped the birds might join us in our attempt to avoid collision. Instead, they looked at us as if we were barefoot hobo's at the Ritz Carlton. Finally, we could evade no longer. As we braced for what was sure to be an unpleasant confrontation, the pelicans opted for an aerial maneuver. They took to the heavens, revealing wings that dwarfed our vessel and shrouded our view of the baking sun. The ebony pin-feathers launched the beautiful birds over our heads, showering us with the water that adamantly clung to their underbellies. Terrified, yet in complete awe, my Zach and I covered our heads and peeked through our arms like children at the Circus. As quickly as they'd begun, the entire community had uprooted and found a new place on the lake several hundred yards away. With that, we decided that it was time to get to shore and reconsider our options for Red Rock dominance.

Zach and I met up with Casey and Adam on the north shore of the lake around noon. The shoreline of Lake Red Rock is not comprised of the supple sand that made up our previous landings. It is exactly as it sounds – small red shale rocks, like opaque shards of glass, dumped onto the earth, searing from prolonged exposure to the hot Iowa sun. There were no trees. There was nothing but some dead wood and scrub brush to huddle against. And it was hot.

We quickly scampered up the bank to a flat area, approximately ten feet square. We hoisted up a tarp with our paddles and a few pieces of driftwood, and glumly ate cold Ramen and Spaghetti-O's. Then we conferred.

“How the Hell do you get out of this shit-hole of a lake?”

We weighed the options. Finally, we decided that there was no way to go downstream. Not today. We'd passed a small makeshift boat drop at the head of the lake, but paddling upriver? This seemed equally folly. We sat in silence, the tarpaulin whipping in the gales that beat down on us.

Adam & I, Manning the Poop Deck

That was it! If the wind can exert that force on a tarp, surely it can push us upstream to the load-in! With Adam's basic nautical know-how, we lashed the canoes together and attached a tarp to the bows. Using long, forked poles we'd found, we hoisted the tarp high and caught the wind. Using the little rope we had left, we angled the tarp to and fro to catch the changing gusts. Sure enough, we were sailing!

In no time, we'd reached the ramp, pulled our canoes onto the shore, and dropped our dilapidated carcasses on the gravel.

Without our trusty ropes and tarps, we'd still be in that bog of a lake, eating pelican and skipping rocks.

Confrontation Consternation

Confrontation – A face to face meeting. The clashing of forces or ideas.

Merriam-Webster Dictionary

Growing up, I watched my father haggle with car dealers. I watched my mother engage door-to-door encyclopedia salesmen. I saw my grandfathers verbally combat arrogant landowners and indignant baler-buyers. And as I ventured out from behind the towering figures of my elder role models, I began to realize how important it was to stand strong against opposition. Whether that consternation is caused by a smarmy salesman, licentious landlord, or berating boss, I've found it eternally difficult to absorb the abuse, stand my ground and give a concise, firm response that protects and respects.

Baler Bullshit

There seems to be a vengeful pleasure found in some established professionals. As if some form of initiation into the adult cohorts, these seasons businessmen and women take pride in looking down their noses at perfectly competent, incredibly intelligent, young professionals. This phenomenon first happened to me in college, working on my grandfathers farm.

A commercial hay man, probably in his mid-forties, brought in his Model XL baler for repairs. The baler looked like crap. It was full of dents, had rust showing around the edges, and was in general disrepair. I took notes on the main concerns for the equipment, and was preparing the paperwork, when the man made some snide remark about my hair.

To provide some context, when I was working for my grandfather, I had stick-straight hair that fell to my shoulders. I generally kept it under a hat and behind my ears, out of sight and mind. This man decided that, rather than assuming that I was a competent employee, it'd be better to make assumptions about my masculinity, penchant for illicit drug use, and overall lack of usefulness, based on my hair.

I brushed off the mans jeers, and cordially sent him on his way, pretending that his remarks didn't bother me.

That day still brings back feelings of rage. I wanted to sock the man in the jaw. I wanted to do what I'd seen my grandfather do many times before to this same farmer – I wanted to zing him with a one liner that would put him in his place and shut him up tighter than an oil drum. But instead, I balked. I clenched my jaw, and let him pummel me with insults that I'd done nothing to deserve.

At what age do you gain the ability to retort? At what level can you successfully return the bullshit and retain your dignity in these situations? A few years later, I had a memorable experience that spoke to this question.

Finding Problems and Fixing Problems

I worked at a Boy Scout camp for a month or two every summer. These are mostly happy memories of swimming, boating, building monstrous fires and playing pranks on others. But one memory stands out as not so positive.

I was a member of an honor society through the boy scouts and, after a few years of membership, had climbed the ranks and was one of the leaders of the organization. Along with that privilege came great responsibility. With that responsibility came a great potential to screw up, and one week, that is what I did.

We were at an event that was far removed from the main part of camp, at a ceremony for the new members. It was a fairly stressful day, with little sleep and a lot of work, and I had neglected to bring a crucial element for the ceremony. Upon realizing this, one of the adult volunteers pulled me aside, mid-ceremony, and began berating me about this slip up. This man was a well-liked member of the organization, fairly influential, and physically commanding to boot. He towered over me, his temples turning crimson with fury.

I listened to the man go on about my incompetency and inabilities for about a minute, all the while glancing back at the ceremony still in progress. Finally, I had to stop the abuse. I looked the red faced buffoon in the eyes and said,

“Listen, I realize that I screwed this up. I am going to go fix the problem, so that we can have a successful event. When we get back to camp, you can rip me a new asshole. Until then, don't talk to me.”

With that, I stormed off, bent on fixing the error and completing the ceremony. We did and, as I recall, I didn't hear anymore on the subject. In retrospect, I did exactly what I'd seen my father and grandfathers do before me. But not all of my attempts at confrontation have been so positive.

Once You Pop, You Can't Stop

Flash back to the man with the hay baler. We repaired the dilapidated machine, replace the abused parts, and gave it the best face-lift possible. The work was not egregious, but the man had definitely not followed the common sense recommendations for caring for a machine worth more than the truck he drove.

He came by the shop about a week after the initial confrontation. I steeled my nerves as I saw the portly, pompous man approach the shop. He strode into the office and declared,

“So, ya figger out what was wrong with that damned piece of machinery, hippie?”

Without blinking an eye, I glanced up from the manual I was consulting on the desk, adjusted my hat, and just as I'd heard my grandfather retort, I flung the following phrase from the corner of my mouth:

“You ever heard of operator error?”

The man turned seven shades of red under his tanned skin. At first I thought he would jump over the counter and wring my neck. Then I realized that he physically could not jump over the counter, so I was probably safe.

I thought that, as in the movies, my amazing one-liner would shut him up like a steel trap. Unfortunately, my insolence only embroiled his rage, and made his comments worse. After that one moment of shining glory, I closed back up, shut my mouth, and went back to deflecting his jeers with a closed mouth and a determined look.

Lesson learned? Confrontation is more than having the gall to take the petulant route. It's taking that course, then stick with it till the end.

Sales = Constant Confrontation

In my current job, I deal with confrontation every day. It seems that when a 25 year old walks in the door to talk to you about your marketing strategies, it is open season. People have a difficult time looking past my age and my job title to see that I am a person trying to not only further the newspaper I work for, but also help their business succeed.

I walked into a restaurant a few weeks ago, and was met by a business owner who was not only crass, but referred to me by the disdain laden moniker,

“salesman”

The man thought he was a big deal. He dressed snappy, sported designer glasses, and had obviously colored hair. He owned a swanky establishment and knew that, while I was on his turf, I was his mouse. I don't know why, but on that day, I wasn't in the mood to put my head down and wade through the guff. I listened to him talk about his business for a while, listened to his gripes about my paper, and gave him some poignant rebuttals to the scoffs and dismissals he threw my way. At the end of the meeting, he grinned and asked me a heavily baited question,

“So what's your favorite restaurant, salesman?”

I looked him square in his smug grin, and told him about Antonella's Trattoria, a little whole in the wall Italian joint in Davenport. I raved about the authenticity, the service, and the wine. I gave him the address and told him to check it out. It was priceless to watch his face go from smarm to startled in seconds. He actually believed that I would kiss his ass and say that I love his restaurant! As I walked to the door, I turned back to Mr. Bag-o-chips and said,

“You want a salesman response to that question? Ask me again after you advertise with us for awhile. I'll probably say the same thing.”

Just because I sell things, doesn't mean I have no integrity.

So maybe I am learning a little about handling confrontation. I still have times when I fold like a bad poker hand, but I also am getting better at playing it cool, choosing my words, and standing up for myself. I guess it comes with age. To quote a song that resonates with this issue nicely,

"Stand your ground, don't back down, it's the only way to win. And when life throws a punch, son, you've got to take it on the chin."

William Elliot Whitmore, Take it on the Chin