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Abundance Employment Oct. 17

This is the complete episode from October 17th.

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After Apple Picking by Robert Frost

After Apple Picking

by Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree

Toward heaven still,

And there's a barrel that I didn't fill

Beside it, and there may be two or three

Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.

But I am done with apple-picking now.

Essence of winter sleep is on the night,

The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.

I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight

I got from looking through a pane of glass

I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough

And held against the world of hoary grass.

It melted, and I let it fall and break.

But I was well

Upon my way to sleep before it fell,

And I could tell

What form my dreaming was about to take.

Magnified apples appear and disappear,

Stem end and blossom end,

And every fleck of russet showing clear.

My instep arch not only keeps the ache,

It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.

I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.

And I keep hearing from the cellar bin

The rumbling sound

Of load on load of apples coming in.

For I have had too much

Of apple-picking: I am overtired

Of the great harvest I myself desired.

There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,

Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.

For all

That struck the earth,

No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,

Went surely to the cider-apple heap

As of no worth.

One can see what will trouble

This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.

Were he not gone,

The woodchuck could say whether it's like his

Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,

Or just some human sleep.

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After Apple Picking

Overreached by Edward Sylvester Ellis

Overreached

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

Bushrod, or "Bush" Wyckoff was only twelve years old when he went to work for Zeph Ashton, who was not only a crusty farmer, but one of the meanest men in the country, and his wife was well fitted to be the life partner of such a parsimonious person.

They had no children of their own, and had felt the need for years of a willing, nimble-footed youngster to do the odd chores about the house, such as milking cows, cutting and bringing in wood, running of errands, and the scores of odd little jobs which are easy enough for boys, but sorely try the stiff and rheumatic limbs of a man in the decline of life.

Bush was a healthy little fellow--not very strong for his years, but quick of movement, bright-witted, willing, and naturally a general favorite. The misfortunes which suddenly overtook his home roused the keenest sympathy of his neighbors. His father was a merchant in New York, who went to and from the metropolis each week day morning and evening, to his pleasant little home in New Jersey. One day his lifeless body was brought thither, and woe and desolation came to the happy home. He was killed in a railway accident.

The blow was a terrible one, and for weeks it seemed as if his stricken widow would follow him across the dark river; but her Christian fortitude and her great love for their only child sustained her in her awful grief, and she was even able to thank her Heavenly Father that her dear boy was spared to her.

But how true it is that misfortunes rarely come singly. Her husband had amassed a competency sufficient to provide comfortably for those left behind; but his confidence in his fellow-men was wofully betrayed. He was one of the bondsmen of a public official who made a hasty departure to Canada, one evening, leaving his business in such a shape that his securities were compelled to pay fifty thousand dollars. Two others were associated with Mr. Wyckoff, and with the aid of their tricky lawyers they managed matters so that four-fifths of the loss fell upon the estate of the deceased merchant.

The result swept it away as utterly as were the dwellings in the Johnstown Valley by the great flood. The widow and her boy left their home and moved into a little cottage, with barely enough left to keep the wolf of starvation from the door.

It was then that Bush showed the stuff of which he was made. He returned one afternoon and told his mother, in his off-hand way, that he had engaged to work through the summer months for Mr. Ashton, who not only agreed to pay him six dollars a month, but would allow him to remain at home over night, provided, of course, that he was there early each morning and stayed late enough each day to attend to all the chores.

The tears filled the eyes of the mother as she pressed her little boy to her heart, and comprehended his self-sacrificing nature.

"You are too young, my dear child, to do this; we have enough left to keep us awhile, and I would prefer that you wait until you are older and stronger."

"Why, mother, I am old enough and strong enough now to do all that Mr. Ashton wants me to do. He explained everything to me, and it won't be work at all, but just fun."

"Well, I hope you will find it so, but if he does not treat you kindly, you must not stay one day."

Bush never complained to his mother, but he did find precious little fun and plenty of the hardest kind of work. The miserly farmer bore down heavily on his young shoulders. He and his wife seemed to be continually finding extra labor for the lad. The little fellow was on hand each morning, in stormy as well as in clear weather, at daybreak, ready and willing to perform to the best of his ability whatever he was directed to do. Several times he became so weak and faint from the severe labor, that the frugal breakfast he had eaten at home proved insufficient, and he was compelled to ask for a few mouthfuls of food before the regular dinner hour arrived. Although he always remained late, he was never invited to stay to supper, Mr. Ashton's understanding being that the mid-day meal was the only one to which the lad was entitled.

But for his love for his mother, Bush would have given up more than once. His tasks were so severe and continuous that many a time he was hardly able to drag himself homeward. Every bone in his body seemed to ache, and neither his employer nor his wife ever uttered a pleasant or encouraging word.

But no word of murmuring fell from his lips. He resolutely held back all complaints, and crept away early to his couch under the plea that it was necessary in order to be up betimes. The mother's heart was distressed beyond expression, but she comforted herself with the fact that his term of service was drawing to a close, and he would soon have all the rest and play he wanted.

Bush allowed his wages to stand until the first of September, when his three months expired. He had counted on the pride and happiness that would be his when he walked into the house and tossed the whole eighteen dollars in his mother's lap. How her eyes would sparkle, and how proud he would be!

"Lemme see," said the skinflint, when settling day arrived; "I was to give you four dollars a month, warn't I?"

"It was six," replied Bush, respectfully.

"That warn't my understanding, but we'll let it go at that; I've allers been too gin'rous, and my heart's too big for my pocket. Lemme see."

He uttered the last words thoughtfully, as he took his small account-book from his pocket, and began figuring with the stub of a pencil. "Three months at six dollars will be eighteen dollars."

"Yes, sir; that's right."

"Don't interrupt me, young man," sternly remarked the farmer, frowning at him over his spectacles. "The full amount is eighteen dollars--Kerrect--L--em--m--e see; you have et seven breakfasts here; at fifty cents apiece that is three dollars and a half. Then, l--em--m--e see; you was late eleven times, and I've docked you twenty-five cents for each time; that makes two dollars and seventy-five cents."

Inasmuch as Bush's wages amounted hardly to twenty-five cents a day, it must be admitted that this was drawing it rather strong.

"L--em--m--e see," continued Mr. Ashton, wetting the pencil stub between his lips, and resuming his figuring; "your board amounts to three dollars and a half; your loss of time to two seventy-five; that makes six and a quarter, which bein' took from eighteen dollars, leaves 'leven seventy-five. There you are!"

As he spoke, he extended his hand, picked up a small canvas bag from the top of his old-fashioned writing-desk, and tossed it to the dumfounded boy. The latter heard the coins inside jingle, as it fell in his lap, and, as soon as he could command his voice, he swallowed the lump in his throat, and faintly asked:

"Is that--is that right, Mr. Ashton?"

"Count it and see for yourself," was the curt response.

This was not exactly what Bush meant, but he mechanically unfastened the cord around the throat of the little bag, tumbled the coins out in his hat and slowly counted them. They footed up exactly eleven dollars and seventy-five cents, proving that Mr. Ashton's figuring was altogether unnecessary, and that he had arranged the business beforehand.

While Bush was examining the coins, his heart gave a sudden quick throb. He repressed all signs of the excitement he felt, however.

"How do you find it?" asked the man, who had never removed his eyes from him, "Them coins have been in the house more'n fifty year--that is, some of 'em have, but they're as good as if they's just from the mint, and bein' all coin, you can never lose anything by the bank bustin'."

"It is correct," said Bush.

"Ar' you satisfied?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then sign this receipt, and we're square."

The lad sat down at the desk and attached his name in a neat round hand to the declaration that he had received payment in full for his services from Mr. Zephaniah Ashton, up to the first of September of the current year.

"This is all mine, Mr. Ashton?"

"Of course--what do you mean by axin' that?"

"Nothing; good-day."

"Good-day," grunted the miser, turning his back, as a hint for him to leave--a hint which Bush did not need, for he was in a tumult of excitement.

"That is the queerest thing that ever happened," he said to himself when he reached the public highway, and began hurrying along the road in the direction of Newark. "If he had paid me my full wages I would have told him, but all these are mine, and I shall sell them; won't Professor Hartranft be delighted, but not half as much as mother and I will be."

That evening Mr. Ashton and his wife had just finished their supper when Professor Hartranft, a pleasant, refined-looking gentleman, knocked at their door.

"I wish to inquire," said he, after courteously saluting the couple, "whether you have any old coins in the house."

"No," was the surly response of the farmer, "we don't keep 'em."

"But you “had” quite a collection."

"I had 'leven dollars and seventy-five cents' worth, but I paid 'em out this mornin'."

"To a boy named Bushrod Wyckoff?"

"Yas."

"They were given to him unreservedly?--that is, you renounce all claim upon them?"

"What the blazes ar' you drivin' at?" demanded the angry farmer. "I owed him 'leven dollars and seventy-five cents for wages, and I paid him purcisely that amount, and have his receipt in full. I'd like to know what business it is of yours anyway."

Now came the professor's triumph.

"Young Wyckoff called at my office this afternoon, and I bought a number of the coins from him."

"What!" exclaimed the amazed farmer, "you didn't pay him nothin' extra for that rusty old money, did you? You must be crazy."

"I did, and shall make a handsome thing of it. For instance, among the coins which you gave him was a copper penny, with a liberty cap, of 1793; I paid Bush three dollars for that; I gave him twenty-five dollars for a half dime coined in 1802; twenty dollars for a quarter dollar of 1827; the same sum for a half dollar, fillet head, of 1796; and, what caps all, five hundred dollars for a silver dollar of 1804. There are only five or six of the latter in existence, and I shall sell this specimen for at least eight hundred dollars. Mr. Ashton, sometimes a mean man overreaches himself, and it looks as though you had made a mistake. I bid you good-day, sir."

The numismatist spoke the truth; and when the miserly old farmer realized how completely he had turned the tables on himself, it is enough to say that his feelings may be "better imagined than described."

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110 Percent

Rules of Engagement

110 Percent

We’ve probably all interviewed for jobs we really weren’t qualified to take. But when we see the salary and the requirements, we justify in our own minds we might just be able to fool the interviewer into letting us take the job and see what we can do. It can also sharpen our interview skills, and sometimes just getting out of the house and into the hotseat be a nice change.

The salary was fantastic, and I didn’t have the experience, but I thought I had the skill set, so I made an appointment. It was just after lunch, and I usually can’t eat when I’m nervous, so the next two hours seemed like longer. That’s right. I sat through a two hour interview trying to get a job I really didn’t deserve. I didn’t get the job, but more about that in a moment.

I believe what we give is what we get, and moreover, what we get is what we deserve. I also believe giving more is the real answer.

I am really surprised when people complain about their salaries. There are thousands of jobs available. All kinds of training are available to anyone who wants more skills. But most of us would rather gripe than do anything about it. We want more for less, when that ignores one of the basic laws of the universe. Moving that rock up the hill takes a certain amount of energy, and complaining doesn’t get it done. It seems a basic rule that what we give is what we get, not only in work, but in life. Walk around with a frown and the world seems a very unhappy place. Smile and even the worst of days can have some redeeming value. Work hard, and you’ll get rewarded with more than salary, benefits or satisfaction. You’ll know you’ve done the job you are being paid to do, and you’ll probably get the opportunity to do more. It does remind me of the old joke, “Do more than anyone expects and soon everyone will expect more.”

But in the balance of the universe, I truly believe what we get is what we deserve. Why would we get more than we deserve? Most times we want to do less and get more. But that just isn’t the way the world works. Just ask Thomas Edison. It may have taken hundreds of attempts, but he didn’t stop until the light bulb worked the way he wanted. Even then, he continued to try to perfect it. What goes into our work is what we get out – it’s what we deserve. But even more serious is when we don’t give what we can. We aren’t just cheating an employer, a spouse or the world; we are cheating ourselves. You know the feeling. We may just be trying to get by without really doing what we are supposed to, and we hope no one notices. And if they do notice, we decide to work a little harder for a little while. Then it’s back to cheating others, and mostly ourselves. What would our true potential be if we were always giving the 110 percent we hear so much about?

So here is the mystical problem. Do more, and you’ll get more. Try and put the universe in your debt, and it will reward your efforts. There really is no rational explanation for it, but doing more than is really required is always rewarded. Don’t ask me why it works. It just does. Don’t believe it? Try it for a few weeks and report back.

So what happened in the two hour interview for the job I didn’t get – and didn’t really deserve? I endured one of the most difficult interviews I have ever been through. The guy played nice, then he turned on me and acted angry. I was subjected to every kind of interview technique I had ever learned about. I was asked how I would decide who to fire if I was the boss. I was given hypothetical situation no one will ever have to face as a boss, but I answered my best. The interviewer even told me it was one of the best interviews he had ever conducted, but I was clearly not qualified for the job.

He then informed me he was getting ready to leave his job and take another higher level job back East. He was just trying all his interviewing skills on me to practice for his new job. He dismissed me and I left the building feeling both good and bad. He said it was a good interview, but he was just using me. But remember, I really wasn’t qualified for the job, so I was also using him.

It’s all right. I have a job I love.

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Abundance Decency -- Oct. 10

This is the complete episode of Abundance from October 10th.  The topic is decency.

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Let It Go by e.e. cummings

let it go ‐ the

smashed word broken

open vow or

the oath cracked length

wise ‐ let it go it

was sworn to

go

let them go ‐ the

truthful liars and

the false fair friends

and the boths and

neithers ‐ you must let them go they

were born

to go

let all go ‐ the

big small middling

tall bigger really

the biggest and all

things ‐ let all go

dear

so comes love

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Dusk by Saki -- H.H. Munro

Norman Gortsby sat on a bench in the Park, with his back to a strip of bush-planted sward, fenced by the park railings, and the Row fronting him across a wide stretch of carriage drive. Hyde Park Corner, with its rattle and hoot of traffic, lay immediately to his right. It was some thirty minutes past six on an early March evening, and dusk had fallen heavily over the scene, dusk mitigated by some faint moonlight and many street lamps. There was a wide emptiness over road and sidewalk, and yet there were many unconsidered figures moving silently through the half-light, or dotted unobtrusively on bench and chair, scarcely to be distinguished from the shadowed gloom in which they sat.

The scene pleased Gortsby and harmonized with his present mood. Dusk, to his mind, was the hour of the defeated. Men and women, who had fought and lost, who hid their fallen fortunes and dead hopes as far as possible from the scrutiny of the curious, came forth in this hour of gloaming, when their shabby clothes and bowed shoulders and unhappy eyes might pass unnoticed, or, at any rate, unrecognized.

A king that is conquered must see strange looks, So bitter a thing is the heart of man.

The wanderers in the dusk did not choose to have strange looks fasten on them; therefore they came out in this bat-fashion, taking their pleasure sadly in a pleasure-ground that had emptied of its rightful occupants. Beyond the sheltering screen of bushes and palings came a realm of brilliant lights and noisy, rushing traffic. A blazing, many-tiered stretch of windows shone through the dusk and almost dispersed it, marking the haunts of those other people, who held their own in life's struggle, or at any rate had not had to admit failure. So Gortsby's imagination pictured things as he sat on his bench in the almost deserted walk. He was in the mood to count himself among the defeated. Money troubles did not press on him; had he so wished he could have strolled into the thoroughfares of light and noise, and taken his place among the jostling ranks of those who enjoyed prosperity or struggled for it. He had failed in a more subtle ambition, and for the moment he was heart sore and disillusionized, and not disinclined to take a certain cynical pleasure in observing and labeling his fellow wanderers as they went their ways in the dark stretches between the lamp-lights.

On the bench by his side sat an elderly gentleman with a drooping air of defiance that was probably the remaining vestige of self-respect in an individual who had ceased to defy successfully anybody or anything. His clothes could scarcely be called shabby, at least they passed muster in the half-light, but one's imagination could not have pictured the wearer embarking on the purchase of a half-crown box of chocolates or laying out ninepence on a carnation buttonhole. He belonged unmistakably to that forlorn orchestra to whose piping no one dances; he was one of the world's lamenters who induce no responsive weeping. As he rose to go Gortsby imagined him returning to a home circle where he was snubbed and of no account, or to some bleak lodging where his ability to pay a weekly bill was the beginning and end of the interest he inspired. His retreating figure vanished slowly into the shadows, and his place on the bench was taken almost immediately by a young man, fairly well dressed but scarcely more cheerful of mien than his predecessor. As if to emphasize the fact that the world went badly with him the new-corner unburdened himself of an angry and very audible expletive as he flung himself into the seat.

"You don't seem in a very good temper," said Gortsby, judging that he was expected to take due notice of the demonstration.

The young man turned to him with a look of disarming frankness which put him instantly on his guard.

"You wouldn't be in a good temper if you were in the fix I'm in," he said; "I've done the silliest thing I've ever done in my life."

"Yes?" said Gortsby dispassionately.

"Came up this afternoon, meaning to stay at the Patagonian Hotel in Berkshire Square," continued the young man; "when I got there I found it had been pulled down some weeks ago and a cinema theatre run up on the site. The taxi driver recommended me to another hotel some way off and I went there. I just sent a letter to my people, giving them the address, and then I went out to buy some soap - I'd forgotten to pack any and I hate using hotel soap. Then I strolled about a bit, had a drink at a bar and looked at the shops, and when I came to turn my steps back to the hotel I suddenly realized that I didn't remember its name or even what street it was in. There's a nice predicament for a fellow who hasn't any friends or connections in London! Of course I can wire to my people for the address, but they won't have got my letter till to-morrow; meantime I'm without any money, came out with about a shilling on me, which went in buying the soap and getting the drink, and here I am, wandering about with twopence in my pocket and nowhere to go for the night."

There was an eloquent pause after the story had been told. "I suppose you think I've spun you rather an impossible yarn," said the young man presently, with a suggestion of resentment in his voice.

"Not at all impossible," said Gortsby judicially; "I remember doing exactly the same thing once in a foreign capital, and on that occasion there were two of us, which made it more remarkable. Luckily we remembered that the hotel was on a sort of canal, and when we struck the canal we were able to find our way back to the hotel."

The youth brightened at the reminiscence. "In a foreign city I wouldn't mind so much," he said; "one could go to one's Consul and get the requisite help from him. Here in one's own land one is far more derelict if one gets into a fix. Unless I can find some decent chap to swallow my story and lend me some money I seem likely to spend the night on the Embankment. I'm glad, anyhow, that you don't think the story outrageously improbable."

He threw a good deal of warmth into the last remark, as though perhaps to indicate his hope that Gortsby did not fall far short of the requisite decency.

"Of course," said Gortsby slowly, "the weak point of your story is that you can't produce the soap."

The young man sat forward hurriedly, felt rapidly in the pockets of his overcoat, and then jumped to his feet.

"I must have lost it," he muttered angrily.

"To lose an hotel and a cake of soap on one afternoon suggests willful carelessness," said Gortsby, but the young man scarcely waited to hear the end of the remark. He flitted away down the path, his head held high, with an air of somewhat jaded jauntiness.

"It was a pity," mused Gortsby; "the going out to get one's own soap was the one convincing touch in the whole story, and yet it was just that little detail that brought him to grief. If he had had the brilliant forethought to provide himself with a cake of soap, wrapped and sealed with all the solicitude of the chemist's counter, he would have been a genius in his particular line. In his particular line genius certainly consists of an infinite capacity for taking precautions."

With that reflection Gortsby rose to go; as he did so an exclamation of concern escaped him. Lying on the ground by the side of the bench was a small oval packet, wrapped and sealed with the solicitude of a chemist's counter. It could be nothing else but a cake of soap, and it had evidently fallen out of the youth's overcoat pocket when he flung himself down on the seat. In another moment Gortsby was scudding along the dusk- shrouded path in anxious quest for a youthful figure in a light overcoat. He had nearly given up the search when he caught sight of the object of his pursuit standing irresolutely on the border of the carriage drive, evidently uncertain whether to strike across the Park or make for the bustling pavements of Knightsbridge. He turned round sharply with an air of defensive hostility when he found Gortsby hailing him.

"The important witness to the genuineness of your story has turned up," said Gortsby, holding out the cake of soap; "it must have slid out of your overcoat pocket when you sat down on the seat. I saw it on the ground after you left. You must excuse my disbelief, but appearances were really rather against you, and now, as I appealed to the testimony of the soap I think I ought to abide by its verdict. If the loan of a sovereign is any good to you - "

The young man hastily removed all doubt on the subject by pocketing the coin.

"Here is my card with my address," continued Gortsby; "any day this week will do for returning the money, and here is the soap - don't lose it again it's been a good friend to you."

"Lucky thing your finding it," said the youth, and then, with a catch in his voice, he blurted out a word or two of thanks and fled headlong in the direction of Knightsbridge.

"Poor boy, he as nearly as possible broke down," said Gortsby to himself. "I don't wonder either; the relief from his quandary must have been acute. It's a lesson to me not to be too clever in judging by circumstances."

As Gortsby retraced his steps past the seat where the little drama had taken place he saw an elderly gentleman poking and peering beneath it and on all sides of it, and recognized his earlier fellow occupant.

"Have you lost anything, sir?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, a cake of soap."

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Dulce Decorum Est by Wilford Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! — An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime. —

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs

Bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, —

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie:

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.

(sweet and fitting it is to die for one's country.)

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Wilford Owen -- Biography Out Loud

Biography Out Loud

Considered to be the leading poet of World War I, he died a week before it ended. A telegram from the War Office in England notifying his mother of his death arrived as church bells were ringing, announcing the Armistice. He eventually became more famous than Sigfried Sassoon, the poet he most admired and emulated. When Sassoon returned from the war, this wounded soldier returned to the front in his place, hoping to continue to document the horrors of war. Who is this famous poet who died when only 25 years old? We’ll find out next on Biography Out Loud.

Wilford Owen is best known for his graphic World War I poetry, which told the story of gas warfare. In “Dulce Decorum Est” the famous line of “Gas! Gas! Quick boys!” is followed by a chilling description of a soldier dying from exposure to the deadly chemicals.

While once a critic of the other soldiers, who he called “expressionless lumps” in a letter to his mother, Owen went through two traumatic episodes which changed his opinion of his brave compatriots. A mortar once exploded beneath him, throwing him in the air. He landed on the remains of a fellow officer. He was also trapped for several days behind enemy lines. Diagnosed with shell shock, he was sent back to England to recuperate. In the hospital in Edinburgh he met the famous poet Siegfried Sassoon. Owen greatly admired Sassoon, declaring he was not worthy to light Sassoon’s pipe. But with encouragement from Sassoon, Owens began expressing his disgust with war in his own poetry, eventually eclipsing the fame of his friend.

When Sassoon returned from the front, Owen threatened to return to continue to document the savagery of war. Sassoon threatened to stab Owen in the leg to keep him from going. Owen notified his friend of his return to France after the fact.

When crossing a canal with his regiment, his superior officer was killed. Owen took command, manned a machine gun and inflicted many casualties. He was shot and killed almost exactly one week to the hour before the Armistice, and his mother received notice of his death as the local church bells announced the end of the war.

Because of his injuries, Owen could have remained in England but chose to return and fight. Though only 25 years old, his poetry reflects not only the reality of the terrors of war, but illustrate Owen’s dedication to the cause. Only five of his poems were published before his death. Others were later released in a book called “Poems”.

His poem “Dulce Decorum Est” is based on the writings of Horace. The phrase translates into “sweet and fitting it is to die for one’s country.” Unlike Horace, who once admitted to throwing down his shield and running away from battle, Wilfred Owen fought, was injured and returned to fight again, eventually giving his life in sacrifice for his country.

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Not Really Indecent

When I think back to what I wore in college, I’m not really sure why my wife ever married me. Most of us must have looked the same, but I was known around campus as the guy who walked around in Levi shorts with his boxers hanging out the bottom. I know that’s conjuring up a bad mental image, but I also wore a felt fedora. I don’t know why. I just thought I was being original just like all the other original people who looked just like me.

Decency really is a matter of perspective. My wife is a dancer, and the level of indecency backstage at a dance concert would shock most of us, but to the dancers the human body is their instrument. Changing clothes as fast as you can in front of everyone else is standard, because most of the time the dancers have to get right back on stage for the next number.

What is accepted in one part of the world can be vulgar in another part of the globe. Traditions from the past can seem barbaric, and who knows what the future will bring? When you think about what is decent and indecent, it really does come down to what are the accepted community standards.

When we consider what is a decent standard or living, it becomes even more specious. The word decorum is also another way to talk about what is proper or improper.

Decency can also be explained when we think about politeness, civility, modesty, integrity or honesty. It seems as a society we are less decent to each other, and it shows up in public discourse and in the newspapers and on television. There is an extraordinary clip on the Internet of a woman bashing a drive-up window and pulling the hair of the attendant because she couldn’t get what she wanted. It seems there really is no customer service these days, and it doesn’t seem to be a priority with most businesses. I wore a full scroungy beard this summer for a part I was playing at the Sundance Outdoor Theatre. I have never been treated with so much disrespect and unconcern. It makes me feel sorry for those who look different and are treated as inferior. It makes me wonder if Albert Einstein was wandering the streets today if he would be treated as a genius or a crazy homeless man. It really is a sad statement that after all the hate and division we have seen in the few thousand years of human history, we can’t let each other be what we are. Perhaps it just comes down to a basic insecurity with ourselves. We aren’t happy unless we are making others emulate our happiness.

When we apply the word decency to our standard of living, we tend to split into the regular divisions. A decent standard of living for you might be luxurious for someone else. When we think about the gap between the very poor and the very rich, we exist in a society which has begun to view people as disposable, instead of individuals. As a society, we ought to be able to find ways to train, educate, and motivate people to lift themselves from crushing poverty. But when it looks like someone will lose money and someone else gain, then the line has been drawn. I know there is a way to raise everyone, but we really aren’t interested in doing it, because we don’t want our own standard of living affected.

But what does it really take to have a decent standard of living? I think it includes shelter and food. It should include access to medical treatment. Is there really anyone we want to throw out into the street? But I already have a bad attitude about most of what has been proposed. If you don’t believe that, listen to my episode called “Spare Change” from “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred”. Let’s just say I am not the best example of largess and compassion.

So that leads us to decorum. Can’t we at least be on our best behavior, exhibiting good manners and a respect for one another? The word restraint could be used to describe what would be considered proper. Why can’t we all just get along? It seems that these days, the more rude or crass you can be, the more accepted you become. Those who receive the attention today are those who seem to have no manners, no sense of etiquette or what is proper or improper. But then this point seems to contradict what I said earlier about letting people be themselves. Decency is a complicated proposition.

Don’t ask me to fix it. I’m the guy who used to have his underwear hanging out.

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