The Monkey’s Paw: Revisited?

The Monkey’s Paw: Revisited?
by L. Stewart Marsden

When I was a kid, I watched an Americanized version of W. W. Jacobs classic short story, “The Monkey’s Paw“ on TV. If you are somehow not familiar with the story, it centers about greed, and the underlying moral is “be careful what you wish for.” The TV version I saw was set in the deep south, on the small farm of poor sharecroppers.

Given a monkey’s paw by a stranger traveling through as payment for their kind hospitality, the farmer, his wife, and their young son argued about using the paw for three wishes. They had great need, and buying the farm had been a long-time dream.

But the stranger had warned them that each wish would incur some sort of “settlement,” as it were. A kind of for every action there is a reaction thing.

The wife grabbed the paw and made a wish for enough money to buy the farm free and clear from the owner. The paw moved in her hand and she dropped it with a shriek.

Two days later, in a terrible accident, their son was killed in the combine — his body torn in pieces. They buried him in the family cemetery plot. A week later an insurance agent brought a settlement to the house for their son’s death. It was exactly the amount they needed to buy the farm.

Later that night in her grief, the farmer’s wife wished her son alive again. The paw moved. Thinking on it, the farmer realized that his wife had only wished her son alive, and not as he had been. When they heard a moan and a dragging sound outside the farmhouse front door, he grabbed the paw and wished his son dead again, just as his wife rushed to the door to let her son in. The paw moved. The farmer threw the paw into the fire in the hearth.

When she threw the door open, there was nothing.

* * * * *

A preacher I once knew used to talk about the way monkeys were caught in the jungle. Hunters would take a glass gallon jug and tie the jug to a tree. Then they would place the jug on its side on the ground. The last bit of preparation was to put some peanuts in the jug, then leave.

They would return days later to find a monkey with it’s hand in the jug, shrieking to get away. Problem? Flat, the paw would fit into the narrow jug opening. Once the monkey closed his paw around the peanuts, however, his paw was too big to fit back through. All the monkey had to do was open his paw and let go of the peanuts, but he wouldn’t!

Some jars had only the paw left in it — the monkey had chewed through his wrist to escape the trap. Perhaps this is how the stranger got his monkey paw. It was left behind in a glass jar.

USA Today has reported that the United States is paying the families of the 17 Afghans recently murdered by a US soldier $50,000 per death.

What do you do with that? $50,000? What do you do with the announcement, and what, if you are the family of one of the victims, do you do with the $50,000?

I suppose, in Afghanistan, $50,000 is quite a bit of money.

Maybe one or more of those Afghani families had wished on a monkey’s paw.

I seriously doubt it.

Maybe one of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had a monkey’s paw.

Hmmm.

Please, would you contact your senator or congressional representative and express your feelings about the pittance given to these grieving families? I understand that such a payment is an admission of guilt.

But then, aren’t we? Guilty?

What Lovely Grandchildren!

What Lovely Grandchildren!
by L. Stewart Marsden

My youngest is perched in the kid’s seat of a grocery cart as I turn down the checkout lane. Her older sister is hooked onto the front of the cart, hanging on and leaning back, making the already wobbly wheels wobblier. When it’s our turn, the checkout woman looks us over, smiles kindly and says,

“What lovely grandchildren!”

The three of us grin, and I smile kindly in return, “Yes, they are lovely, thank you, but they’re not my grandchildren.”

A couple of blinks on the checkout woman’s part, and then a slow reddening of her cheeks, and she quickly returns to her duties of scanning our fare.

That used to bother me just a few years ago. That was when I was a tad thinner, my hair a shade darker, and only a mustache adorning my lip. I’d ha-rumph with my answer, look a bit more sternly in return, while the kids, younger, didn’t even notice the interchange.

Now I’m a bit more portly, have a full beard of white, and am accustomed to it.

In their awkwardness, some of the checkout women* (the checkout men never make comments like that of any kind) will add,

“Well, they keep you young, don’t they?”

(See, this is where Ponce de Leon went wrong. He shoulda just had a bunch of kids when he was 50 years old! He’d still be with us!)

“I wish that were so,” I generally respond, feeling older by the second.

It’s the unspoken remarks that I pick up on:

“Better you than me!”

“Still haven’t figured it out where babies come from, have you?”

“Have you tried abstinence?”

“Hope you make it to their graduation!”

Ouch!

Maybe the best thing I could do in these situations, both for the sake of the checkout woman and for my sense of okayness, is to say,

“Thank you!” . . .

. . . and roll my groceries out of the store. Save that person from a moment of awkwardness. Keep her in the dark regarding some of the realities of life. Let the next “grandfather” respond to the intended kindness with truth.

Yeah. I like that.

That’s a plan.

Next time, for sure.

Which won’t be long.

“C’mon, lovely grandchildren, let’s go home.”

*It’s the over 40 women most inclined to make the comments. The younger ones, and especially the really young ones, are savvy. Maybe because their dads are really old, too!

The No-Show

The No-Show
by L. Stewart Marsden

9:47 am
Starbucks in Hickory. Waiting for a person to show up for an interview for my weekly column. She has my email address and cell number. She’s 17 minutes late.

The patio in front of Starbucks has a few tables crowded by wicker and steel chairs. The table tops are thin wood slats that are weathered gray. All of the tables are round and adequate for two persons, with the exception of the table where I have spread out all of my interviewing tools (a yellow legal pad, some pens, and a Sony cassette voice recorder). My table is square. Two large umbrellas protect the space from really nothing, as the sky is somewhat overcast.

Two other tables are occupied. The patrons are women, three at one table and two at the other.

The threesome are young to thirty-something. White. They are costumed in designer walking/running outfits and wear hardly worn athletic shoes that match their outfits.

Each sips on a tall disposable cup of coffee, or mocha latte, frappes or whatever. Two have expensive sunglasses perched back at the fronts of their heads. The other has a navy kerchief tied at the front of her hair — like a scullery maid. They all smoke cigarettes.
The duo is an older pair, dressed in upscale casual.  All the women seem confident, and on their game.

Conversation from both tables is drowned out by heavy traffic passing a few feet away on one of the main thoroughfares.

9:58
My interviewee has yet to show/call/email. I’ve been stood up. The person who recommended her warned me yesterday, “I heard she might have had a change of mind about being interviewed.”

“She has my contact information. I’m sure she’ll contact me if that’s true,” I replied like the confident professional I am.

10:03
She didn’t. Call or email. It’s time to cut my losses and pack up and get ready for my 1 pm interview at Hamm’s Restaurant.

I’m not going to worry whether or not the next interviewee will show. Honest.

What Is A Shocker?

What Is A Shocker?

by L. Stewart Marsden

Yesterday I posted this on Facebook due to all of the comments about upsets going on in the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament:

The only upset during March Madness are those that get beat. They are very upset!

And that seemed really cute until my team, Duke, was upset by Lehigh in Friday night’s game in Greensboro.

All the sports pundits seemed very surprised. Not surprised — shocked! Shocked! And Duke’s loss to Lehigh was a shocker!

Deep inside there has been this murmuring sense this college basketball season that the Blue Devils were not the same as teams before. When the guards hit on three-pointers, life was grand. But lately, the percentage of baskets on three point shots has been precipitously going down — like my gas gauge.

So, when the Blue Devils got into early foul trouble, couldn’t hit their threes, and were confounded by both the Lehigh defense and offensive blitzkrieg, I was neither surprised nor shocked. I was disappointed. Even Coach Krzyzewski (I now know why they use Coach “K”) didn’t mince words about losing:

“We’re not a juggernaut or anything like that . . . we just didn’t play well offensively the last few weeks of the season.” (theACC.com)

But, like me, Coach K was upset — well, considerably more upset, I’d say.

Did they play their best? I think we both know the answer to that. Was it a shocker? I think we both know the answer to that, as well. No, and no.

My favorite comedian, Bill Cosby, has a bit about comparing what we think are superlatives in life versus  the Biblical account of the creation.

For example, Duane Wade makes a move going to the basket that leaves his defender flat-footed, and the announcers scream, “Awesome!”

Phil Mickelson swings an eight iron from the fairway that hits behind the hole, and spins backward and rolls to within inches of the cup, and the commentators whisper, “INCREDIBLE!”

God, in the meantime, creates the earth, the oceans, the land, the animals and vegetation, AND humankind. What’s the commentary on that? “And God saw that it was good.”

A dunk in basketball: AWESOME!

Creating the universe: good.

Nearly holing out an approach shot to the green: INCREDIBLE!

Creating all of the interdependent networks of life systems on earth: good.

So my point is — what is really a shocker? Duke losing to Lehigh? Or what Staff Sargent Robert Bales did to 16 innocent Afghanis as they slept last week?

What the Blind Man Saw

What the Blind Man Saw

by L. Stewart Marsden

“Fact is, McGee, you hardly see — your glasses are so thick!
And on the day that you called play, you were also kinda sick,”
The old curmudgeon lawyer pounded hard upon the stand;
The hardened ump returned the thump with a waive-off of his hand.

“Sick enough,” the lawyer ‘llowed, “to set aside your pride
“and take a little bet that day against the Mudville Nine,
“And to pocket, as it were, a comely sum of cash
“and all you really had to do? Make Casey burn and crash!”

A loud reaction filled the room, as all gasped in surprise
O’er an ump who’d stoop and slump while cloaked in honest guise;
“Kill the Ump!” somebody yelled, and then the chorus rang;
And just before the riot grew, the judge’s gavel banged.

“Not in my court!” he cried aloud, and stood, dressed all in black,
“Now all sit down and shut your mouths — let’s get this case on track!”
The room sat down and quieted, the judge resumed his seat
And nodded to the large DA, who returned to drum the beat.

“So, there it was — four to two — the bottom of the ninth –
With only one more out to go, your money was in sight;
But Flynn, he slapped a single — barely beat the throw to first,
And Jimmy Blake made your heart quake, with a nice two-bagger burst.

“There was nuthin’ you could do — both the hits were clean
And next was up no timid pup, but the Mudville Hit Machine;
Big Casey stood at ceiling height, and weighed a half a ton,
With one swing to the left-field fence, they’d win by just a run!

“Up he stepped, and tipped his hat to the ladies in the crowd,
And rubbed his big mitts in the dirt while the fans erupted loud,
Then dug in good and solid beside the old home plate,
And cocked his bat — set to go — and nestled in to wait.

“‘Strike one!’ you called as the old bean ball just missed the outside edge,
And the catcher turned and grinned at you as you honored the money pledge,
Then Casey stood and eyed you down, “That ball was out and away!”
You looked away right and repeated “Strike.” This was to be your day.

“‘Strike two!’ you yelled, and thrust your fist out sideways to the right;
And Casey stepped out of the box — seemed ready for a fight;
‘Low — inside! That was the pitch. Another ball, I say!’
And while he burned you calmly turned, “Strike two. Get back to play.”

“Then the Mudville manager stormed out and threw his hat,
And he and you went nose to nose, pausing while he spat,
Which happened to spatter both your shoes, and you said ‘That was that!’
And kicked him out with one loud shout, announcing “Back to bat!”

“So Casey, Mighty Casey, dug his cleats into the ground,
And gripped his bat behind his head, and peered out with a frown;
The catcher sent his signal, which the pitcher first shook off,
Then nodded with a serious look, sneered at Casey with a scoff;

“Then stood up straight, and glanced to third, where Flynn had stretched a lead,
And pulled the ball up to his chin, hesitating to proceed;
The crowd all sat intently, for the moment had arrived;
The pitcher coiled, then threw the ball — a fast one — high, inside.

“And Casey, Mighty Casey swung his mighty bat at last,
Hoping for the left field fence, the final home run blast;
But all he hit was empty air, and you yelled out ‘Steee-rike Three!’
And Casey turned in great despair, denied the victory.

“Most umps, we think, are really blind. Can’t see a strike or ball.
But on that day for extra pay, you falsified your call.
While Mudville went down with a loss, they’d win others there’s no doubt,
But that one game produced the fame: Mighty Casey had struck out.

“And so I finally rest my case. The truth is plain to me:
That this blind ref is so bereft of pride and honesty;
That he can’t see the vanity of his untruthful calls,
And gains unjust due to his lust is what the blind man saw.”

I’m Sick Today

I’m Sick Today

by L. Stewart Marsden

Today I didn’t feel so well –
My throat was very sore;
And Mama took my temp’rature
And stroked my face and hair;

Then measured out some medicine
Into a silver spoon,
With “down the hatch” she smiled at me,
And then she softly crooned

“I love my girl, my pretty lass,
Who doesn’t feel so well,
You know I would — if I could –
Ring loud the healing bell!”

And up I’d jump and sing straight out,
“My gosh! I’m ME again!”
And dance and play and laugh and shout
Until the long day’s end.

But, sad to say, I’m sick today,
All nestled in the bed,
And I will sleep the day away
And nurse my fev’rish head;

And dream wild dreams of Faerie lands
Of castles, kings and queens;
Then of the prince who’ll take my hand
And fly to lands unseen . . .

Where he and I will rule with care
The lowly and the proud;
And when a subject isn’t well
We’ll ring the bell aloud!

And all’ll jump up and sing straight out
“Oh gosh! We’re US again!”
And dance and play and laugh and shout
Until the long day’s end.
Until the long day’s end.