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In the Shadow of Sacrifice Thoughts on Life and Success
1st Edition Howard Calhoun Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Howard Calhoun
ISBN(s): 9781938348037, 1938348036
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 1.82 MB
Year: 2013
Language: english
 In the Shadow
of Sacrifice
Thoughts on Life
and Success

HOWARD CALHOUN

Librika Publishing LLC

Pikeville, NC 27863
Copyright © 2013 by Howard Calhoun/Librika Publishing LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system
without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief
quotations in a review.

For more information contact:

Librika Publishing
PO Box 1176
Mount Olive NC 28365-1176
librikamedia@gmail.com
www.librikamedia.com

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication
(Provided by Quality Books, Inc.)

   Calhoun, Howard.
    In the shadow of sacrifice : thoughts on life and
   success/Howard Calhoun.
     p. cm.
    Essays.
    Includes index.
    LCCN 2013937379
    ISBN 978-1-938348-00-6 (hardcover)
    ISBN 978-1-938348-02-0 (softcover)
    ISBN 978-1-938348-01-3 (ePUB)
    ISBN 978-1-938348-03-7 (ePDF)

    1. Calhoun, Howard. 2. Counselors—United States—

   Biography 3. Success. I Title.

   BF636.6.C35 2013       361’.06’092

QBI13-600062

Dust Jacket/Cover Design: David Cain, Cain Galleries, Goldsboro NC

 Acknowledgment

FPO

Tessie Mae Morrison Calhoun

June 12, 1919–February 19, 1983

I write in honor of my mother whose quiet example provides

the motivation for my enduring purpose.

This tribute to my mother is offered as an inspiration to all

my nieces and nephews in her memory.
 Most people don’t grow up. Most people age. They find parking
spaces, honor their credit cards, get married, have children, and call
that maturity. What that is, is aging.

­—Maya Angelou
 Contents

Preface. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix
Introduction. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi
Soft Negatives®. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
Lessons to Learn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
To Be or Not to Be . . . What Is the Position?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
Principal Lesson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Are You Smarter Than a Sixth Grader?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Principles. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
Don’t You Dare . . . Call It Puppy Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
Hog Wild. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Respect. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
Just An Observation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
Childhood Dreams: Bringing a Stick to a Gunfight. . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
Teacher’s Pet. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
Head Sister in Charge (HSIC). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
Bee Encounter. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
Toys Are Us. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
Too Close to Call. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
Information Age. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
Uncommon Rats . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
Stealing Gas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
Got Milk?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
My First Wheels. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
Intelligence. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51
Hoop Dreams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53

v
 E Howard Calhoun E

Bike Week or Nike Week. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55

Work . . . a Humbling Experience . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
Burning Bridges. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58
Business as Usual. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
A Crushing Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
A Leg Up. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
307.0. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
Simon Said. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
Fame or Shame. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81
Self-Preservation: The “Big” Question . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85
Me and Mrs. Jones. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87
Missed Education. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88
Kids Will Be Kids . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
Tobacco Row. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92
Hey, Little Walter. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95
Indecent Proposal. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
Things That Make You Go Hmm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
Drunk on the Job. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
Before the Glory Days. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103
Punk-a-Phobia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
Grudges. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
The War of the Sexes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109
From Girl2Woman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111
Business 101. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112
Business 102. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113
Business 103. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115
Developmentally Significant. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117
Developmentally Significant: The Next Generation. . . . . . . . . . . . 119

vi
 E In the Shadow of Sacrifice E

Happiness Ever After. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122

Perfect Call. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123
Tiger Blood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124
What’s in a Dropout?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125
Poverty: Blessing or Curse?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128
How Great Thou Are. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129
Man Up. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131
A Structured Settlement. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133
Is It Right or Is It Fair?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135
The War Against Drugs/Medication. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137
Youthful Indiscretion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142
Traditional Marriage. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 144
Wanting. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149
My College Days. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150
Opportunity 101. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158
Name the Brand. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160
Education Anyone? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162
Tragedy Hits Home. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163
The Village Concept. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 166
A Child’s Last Stand. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169
The Golden Rule. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 170
Field of Dreams. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 174
Criminal Interest or Criminal Intent?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175
Invest in Those Who Invest in You. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178
A Deeper Inheritance. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181
To Sir With Love: Giving Honor To My Uncle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182
Hijacked. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184
When Helping Hurts. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187

vii
 E Howard Calhoun E

A Person of More Than Interest. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190

The Relationship Value. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 192
The Relationship Value II. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196
Life. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198
Success Is . . . ?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199
Conclusion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201
Final Thoughts. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203
Index. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 204

viii
 Preface

I just didn’t want to think about it but it kept coming back

into my mind. My reasons to continue resisting got weaker and
weaker. Finally, I was cornered and out of alibis.
I had to tell my story. To relive the journey. To write it down. To
share it with those on journeys of their own.
This book is the culmination of experiences carved out of the
benefit of my mother’s marathon sacrifice. My disposition and how I
process life are straight from my mother’s textbook on living. Although
I vacillated and fought hard against writing it, it was my mother’s
sacrifice—and the sacrifice of many generations before her—that won
out in the end. It is from her that I derived the courage and resilience to
step forward. It is because of her I am afforded the opportunity to share
my stories and thoughts as healthy anecdotes, despite the harmful con-
stants of poverty, abuse, and insecurity that underscore my memories.
I am convinced that—while paying tribute to my mother’s life—
this book will enrich the lives of many and take them on a ride through
the innermost hopes and fantasies of a young, challenged child sur-
rounded by a large, tight-knit family, and an even tighter community
of freewheeling disciplinarians. Amidst backwardness, illiteracy, and
underemployment, it will plow through the anxieties and fears of the
teen years and capture the hopes, aspirations, disappointments, and
successes of adulthood. Readers will get a picture of naiveté, straightfor-
wardness, and complexities—all sorted and distilled in an orderly maze
called life and traversing a broad range of topics and ideas.
At its core, it is a loving homage to my mother’s epic sacrifice.
She knew and accepted that her situation didn’t have a silver lining
and yet, in the shadow of her unearned suffering, nestled a cocoon
worthy of her laying it all on the line. Without her sacrifice, I most
likely would be too disturbed to assemble any stories, especially those

ix
 E Howard Calhoun E

without anger, bitterness, and hatred. Her sacrifice and the manner
in which she sacrificed spawned these wholesome stories. From my
father’s moods and actions, I was hit with endless challenges. It is my
mother, however, who taught me not only how to handle his moods
but the moods and challenges of the world as well. She provided the
inspiration and the remedy.

x
 Introduction

A lifetime is but a series of moments woven into slices of

­human-interest stories known only to the person who is doing the
telling. The storyteller flashes in and out of scenarios, adding and
deleting characters and venues without a clear understanding of
time’s allowances or purposes for a wider audience. Owing ir­
redeemable sacrifice, I am compelled to entrust a bit of me in a lot
of you. My thoughts and views are offered as an integral part of my
narration; however, they are not presented as authority. They are
accessible to promote and encourage contrast, thoughtfulness, and
an assessment of your own life.
I believe our thoughts are as much a part of our story as any physi-
cal aspect. In fact, I consider our thoughts to represent the truest essence
of who we are and—once buried in the hearts and minds of those left
behind—they become the only burials worth mentioning. My stories
will encourage you to think critically about the significance, purpose,
and nature of your own experiences and why I consider stories to be a
central part of life.
“We are our stories” is a statement attributed to the ancient Greeks.
We all have stories. Although the venues may be unrelated, our similari-
ties emerge and differences trivialize as we start to sort and extrapolate
what really matters. By presenting my stories from an environment of
sacrifice, I am able to remove myself just enough to assemble a clearer
and more meaningful picture of how it all fits. I believe that the more
we understand about the developmental aspects of our stories, the bet-
ter we are able to discern our purpose and contribution to the ongoing
story of life.
My father was an aggressive and towering figure who shared many
of his thoughts with the rest of the family and me, albeit sometimes
in a coercive manner. His thoughts were more of the surface type, and
they come through in a lot of my stories. My mother’s thoughts and

xi
 E Howard Calhoun E

behavior provided the deep, introspective understanding that has

guided and shaped me and my interpretations throughout the years.
Her love for all was deep and sacred. Her constant meditation often
confounded and transfixed me. When I would question her, she would
often reply, “I was just thinking.” Her deafness sought to make her a
casualty in a world defined by sound. Although her level of deafness was
severe and noticeable when others attempted to communicate with her,
all her children were perfect translators in an unexplainable phenom-
enon that went well beyond lip reading. In her presence, I always sensed
enormous wealth and depth in her perception of the world around her.
I often found myself trying to go there with her. She showed im-
mense courage and faith in how she handled the many adversities that
confronted her. In her long bout with cancer, she explained in her usual
soft voice that she knew she was not going to beat it, and it was okay.
She was basically alerting the family and me that we did not have to
keep up the charade of trying to protect her from what she knew.
Her unusual calmness and ease in times of difficulties amazed and
comforted me. I never heard her complain, feel sorry for herself, or refer
to herself as a victim. No matter what was going on with her, she always
greeted others with a warm gesture, pleasant smile, and sincere thank-
fulness. My mother was the silent mover and shaker in our household,
and even Pop stood down on the rare occasions she stood up.
When my father would lose sight of the degree of pain he was
inflicting on us, she would say, “That’s enough, Gary.” And although he
would say something like “Stay out of this, woman”—because it was the
man thing to say—he would bring the beatings to an immediate halt.
She seemed comfortable in the background and cared little about get-
ting her dues when it came to credit for her contribution to the family’s
welfare. If her love and quietness lured you into misdeeds or you got it
twisted, you would abruptly feel her presence. I know this because she
had to “get hold of ” me a couple of times. She always did it with no
additional amps.
As a final thought, I am a little concerned about being in the
limelight and out from under the radar. I guess I just can’t calm the

xii
 E In the Shadow of Sacrifice E

mother in me. This book is also a commentary and mouthpiece for all
the mothers and other caregivers who have made, and are continuing to
make, tremendous sacrifices for others. Because of my challenges, I may
have needed the shadow to hide just as much as I needed the sacrifice
to sprout. You are me, and I am you. You are a product of sacrifice.
I invite you out of your shadow. “Thanks, Mom, for the sacrifice and
the shadow.”

xiii
 Soft Negatives®

Life is blistered with many common toxic occurrences, events,

and ideas over continuums and across countless venues. Yet they are
treated by many in a nonchalant manner, viewed as routine and ac-
cepted as the way it is. Consequences are received as necessary tol-
erances or the price of living. These occurrences, events, and ideas
are what I call soft negatives, and they are scattered throughout the
stories in this book.
Soft negatives are everyday happenings in life and may be per-
ceived as harmless. Oftentimes they may not be appraised as negatives
at all even though they produce negative outcomes. It’s that little lie
that becomes common, whether told by an individual, the family, the
government, or an institution. The cumulative effect over time can be
devastating, yet it is never fully accounted for by the many sprinkles
that make up its toll. Soft negatives are imbedded in almost every facet
of life in such a subtle, nonthreatening, and insignificant manner that
in their single form they are almost undetectable. Killing someone
using a drop of poison so small that it would require fifty years as op-
posed to an amount taking only fifty seconds is an example of how soft
negatives work. It could be something as simple as that “must-have”
barbecue promoted as the best in twelve southern states, or the award-
winning education program that only delivers half of a rainbow, yet is
endorsed by the federal government and subsidized by the taxpayers.
On February 27, 2013, author Michael Moss, appeared on MSNBC
and introduced his book Salt Sugar Fat. He explained a neurological
connection on how the food giants hook us on junk food. It is another
classic example of a soft negative.
So many soft negatives envelop you and me that soft negatives and
life appear to be one. I have examined many of them in my stories. As a
former schoolteacher and a former school counselor, I was—and I am
still—opposed to handouts (i.e., worksheets and answer sheets) because

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I believe they hamper initiative, resourcefulness, and innovation. My

stories are told in the same manner as I taught and counseled. There is
meaning in every story. There are no handouts; you must ponder and
probe for that deep, introspective understanding often exhibited by my
mother. If the many surface stories of my father, siblings, and friends
cause you to lose perspective of whose sacrifice I honor the most, then
this story is presented to bring you back to the meditative mission of
this book. Also, let us not forget the value of meditation, because all the
great prophets, including Buddha, Jesus, and Muhammad spent days
and even months in meditation.
Our mindless indulgence and our unfamiliarity with the nature
and complexity of soft negatives have needled away from the pursuit of
success and happiness in life for many. For others, it has sent and kept
them on the wrong ladder in search of success. Included in my stories
are many of your stories and, of course, your soft negatives. If you are
angered by life’s soft negatives, or see soft negatives as impediments
that won’t show their faces, or as obstacles with two or more faces, you
are encouraged to embrace the energy produced by anger and use it as
motivation to pursue success as the best revenge. It is as the crow flies,
out of my mother’s textbook on life.

2
 Lessons to Learn

Measuring the value of what my siblings and I inherited from our

parents according to the size of their wallet, it would lead me to con-
clude that my parents left us absolutely nothing. My father often used
to speak about me “not having two nickels to rub together,” and I often
wondered if he was referring to himself while trying to take a jab at me.
My cousin, Bobby Morrison, wrote a book titled Bama Boy, where he
depicted almost shameful poverty in reverent terms as he paired it with
a genuine, caring, and loving family.
I know you may be saying, “Oh no, not another poor-me story.”
To the contrary, we were poor, but I am not complaining. It’s just a fact,
or at least a fact relative to all the other factual markers I learned were
indicators of poverty . . . in America. We must have been overqualified
for welfare or my father refused to take it, opting instead to allow us to
feel the full brunt of what it was to be poor. I often said to myself, he
must have been so proud of being poor that he saw himself and poverty
as one and didn’t want us to ever disown him.
As I got older, I learned he was doing the very best he knew and
joked for years to cover the choke of tears. My father would often say
he had these kids, and he was going to take care of them. He would say
his father walked out on his mother with eight kids; his promise to us
was we were going to make it or starve together. I don’t know about the
rest of my siblings, but there were times I thought he was going to pull
off the starving part.
I am the ninth child of a mother who birthed eleven and the tenth
child of a father of twelve. I was born in a household that had its origin
about four scores beyond the end of slavery in the United States. Grow-
ing up, I remember the house as crowded, noisy, sometimes funny,
and, oh yeah, smoky. I got a full helping of secondhand smoke a long
time before the research trickled down to reveal the ills of smoking. My

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 E Howard Calhoun E

daddy, being the man of the house, well, he just didn’t put his smoking
up for a vote.
When I was a child I really didn’t have an understanding of the
concept of poverty, but not having electricity, food, running water,
a refrigerator, a television, a telephone, an automobile, a bicycle, or
medical care pretty much summed up our level of wealth. Yet, my old-
est brother, Gary Jr., found it necessary to confuse me even more by
suggesting we had risen out of poverty by the time I came along, and
that we were doing quite well. He went on to explain that when our
brother Albert died, all those living almost perished trying to pay for
his death. He said Albert’s death confirmed to him that we couldn’t
even afford to die.
Furthermore, since Albert died in his sleep, every time someone
fell asleep and it wasn’t bedtime, the whole family got nervous. Being
nine years his junior, I couldn’t argue too much with my brother about
our family economic condition during his childhood. But given the de-
scent we were in when I learned about it, I hate to think how we could
have gotten any poorer. If we had moved to prison, we would have all
sung The Jeffersons’ theme song. As a matter of fact, on one occasion,
my father came to me in the kitchen while I was making a peanut butter
and jelly sandwich and began to scold me about putting two products
on one sandwich. He said, “Now, boy, you know we don’t have food to
waste. You either use peanut butter or jelly, not both of them, and the
bread just needs to be glazed over, not stuffed. I done told you about
trying to go to that schoolhouse acting like a big shot. Now you take
one of them off your sandwich, put it back in the jar, and get out of this
kitchen before I skin you alive.”
I was torn between looking at my father like he was crazy (of
course, I had to use the undercover version of that one) and looking at
him like he was Aristotle or Plato. I was waiting for him to blow the
covers off history by explaining how society got it all wrong by mixing
peanut butter and jelly. I pretended to be in awe and suspected he was
on the verge of issuing some ultra-intelligent statement overlooked by

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 E In the Shadow of Sacrifice E

researchers for centuries. I never got that. However, I also never ques-
tioned his wisdom—I love to smile.
What I did was to use my wisdom. The next day I approached
Frankie, a classmate of mine, to embark on an experiment with me
where he would bring a peanut butter sandwich and I would bring a
jelly sandwich, or vice versa, and we would switch a side of the sandwich
so I could have my peanut butter and jelly sandwich without throwing
our household into bankruptcy.
So, Gary Jr., if we were doing better, somehow the memo never
got to my father; or, during your childhood, the family either hadn’t
risen to such prominence to afford peanut butter and jelly; or, you were
much cleverer than me and never got caught commingling peanut but-
ter and jelly.

5
 To Be or Not to Be . . .
What Is the Position?

How we come into this world is how we go out . . . or is it,

who we come into this world through and spend time around that
determines how we go out?
Discussing this has spawned some interesting conversations over
the years about the developmental aspects of identities and lots in life.
Are identities determined mostly by birth, family, tradition, generation-
ally acquired beliefs, or individually selected beliefs? I will present a few
of these beliefs and positions I have encountered, and I will offer my
views in support or as a counter. In fact, throughout this book, I will
present various topics and positions in a thought-provoking manner.
You are encouraged to chime in with your two or three cents’ worth to
expand the conversations with contributions from your stories.
This first section is an examination in general of what I have
observed about the formation of some core beliefs. Now, of course,
this does not include all beliefs or all the beliefs I have encountered.
Regardless of how these beliefs or positions have been formed, many
undoubtedly have assumed ownership without much forethought and
evaluation. They tend to defend them often at enormous risk, harm,
and grief to themselves. Some vehemently claim they arrived at their
beliefs through their own volition, although the evidence supports a
different conclusion.
These beliefs and positions often become a part of who they think
and believe they are. Just questioning a position can be perceived as
an affront to the individual. Exhorting too closely for thoughtfulness
about their position usually creates an arsenal of rebuffs, followed by
scant explanations. For example, “I am a Democrat because my father
and family are Democrats” or “I was born a Baptist and I am going to
die a Baptist.” If one elects to push further, it may prompt a complete

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shutdown or a loss of a friendship. Now there are many good reasons

to take a stand or hold firm to a particular position, but none avail
themselves through laziness and being spoon-fed.
There are those who hold the position of believing in the negative.
The position they defend is that something bad is going to happen or
it never comes out good or right no matter what they do, say, or try.
Yet, these are generally the same people who are perplexed when more
positive things do not come their way. On more than a few occasions
I have tried to highlight the positive, expecting an affirmation of some
type, only to be met with more negativity. My finding has been that
they are bigger believers and advocates of their skill deficits rather than
their skill assets or potential. Time after time, I have been scolded about
my ignorance of their ability, luck, or calling. This appears to be true
even if they have had more than their share of subpar experiences.
I don’t know how many times I have been enlightened and put
in my place to the facts of their life as they stick to their position. My
lack of shared understanding of this has kept me at odds with this par-
ticular position. This propensity to defend the negative so aggressively
has led me to conclude there must be some greater benefit in it for
the defender since no “slightly” reasonable person would choose self-
destruction over self-construction. It appears this group has lost sight of
the value of their abilities, and they are more apt to rely on the position
and belief that there are more dividends in their disability than their
ability. Could this be the aim of this particular belief and the greater
benefit they desire?
There is another category of people who hold beliefs or positions
that force me to refer to them as “fly-by-nighters,” subject to whatever
social or political whim is deemed “in” by whatever source that is “in.”
They don’t have a fixed position on anything and are waiting for some-
one or something more popular, stronger, or meaningful than they to
give them a position. Hence, they will become defenders of whatever
the popular fad is until the next political or social wave blows through.
Commercial marketers are great at targeting this population. Politicians
are masters at capitalizing on this human frailty as well. Year after year,

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many in this group are taken in by whoever can best package their mes-
sage and corral the most effective delivery system.
I was reminded of this truism when I was working as a program
assistant in the prison system and an inmate attempted to explain that
the world was full of followers waiting for somebody to give them their
opinions and positions. He asked me to observe him while he ascer-
tained two polar positions from a peer in less than five minutes. After
getting the inmate to commit to one position, he went back to the same
inmate and asked him how he felt about the opposite position. After
only a couple of prompts, the inmate changed his position. When I felt
I had been conned, I told the inmate I would choose the person for him
to demonstrate his experiment on. I chose an inmate who was sharp on
many subjects and someone who did not care much about him. I also
chose the subject. It took him more time, but the results were the same.
Finally, there are those who feel cheated in life because they were
not born of rich, famous, or well-connected parents. At birth, they
were victimized or slighted, and, therefore, society owes them. They
believe they are entitled to compensation for that birth neglect. This
becomes the cornerstone of their argument and defense of their belief
and lot in life. Now, of course, there is some level of validity in the
advantages of having powerful family ties and such, but to think of the
absence of these alleged advantages as an eternal and insurmountable
blight only usurps one’s lifetime responsibility at birth. It presupposes
that whatever a person is to have is the absolute result of the doings
or circumstances of someone or something which came before them.
Therefore, all the actions and behaviors of the person from birth and
beyond are pointless.
I have concluded these people believe anything or anybody other
than themselves are responsible for all of their outcomes in life. They
were born pawns and puppets. They are helpless and are being jerked
around by forces superior to them as a result of their birth curse. This
makes all barriers and challenges legitimate scapegoats and fosters ef-
fortless choices and faulty expectations. It makes seeing the light almost
impossible. A person holding this belief can forever curse his condition

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and justify that condition to himself and his family, and go through life
never seeing or knowing the wealth within.
The worst of this tyrant is that this belief becomes a pseudo truth
that is passed through generations as fact. There is certainly enough
evidence to disprove the fallacy of the silver spoon theory, especially
if it is being touted as a prerequisite for success. There is also equally
enough evidence to prove that complete and abject illiteracy and pov-
erty at birth are no sure determinant for failure in life. My further
study of this belief reveals there are more acquired limitations than
innate limitations. Self-imposed personal and generational-induced
limitations account for limited thinking which, in turn, amounts to
limited achievements and, thus, the established reality that is defended
so fervently becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. On the flipside, those
who are born of rich, famous, or well-connected parents may flaunt a
position of entitlement and superiority just as errant and destructive as
those born without those alleged advantages.

9
 Principal Lesson

I was very glad to get out of R. B. Dean Elementary School

and away from the principal, Mr. McBee. I heard my classmates say
a lot about him, so as a kid, I guess I learned some things that were
not very good and may not have been true. He had a reputation
throughout the school as a hard-nosed taskmaster, and everyone
knew if you were called to his office it almost certainly meant some
type of physical intervention at the end of his paddle or belt.
Although I do not remember him ever getting a’hold of me, I
developed a dislike for him based on my peers’ remarks. Accordingly, I
could not wait to leave his school because I had a few things I wanted
to get off my chest (my classmates put them there). I got my chance in
the seventh grade about a month after I arrived at Townsend Middle
School. Since I was no longer his pupil or under his custody, I thought
it was a perfect time to give him a piece of my mind.
On this particular day, I happened to pass him in the hallway, so I
turned and yelled back to him, “Hey, McBee!” He turned to inquire as
to who was addressing him without a handle on his name. I said, “Yeah,
you, McBee.” I was confident I was out of his jurisdiction and beyond
his reach. I said to myself, “He can’t do anything to me because I am
no longer his student.” Mr. McBee calmly walked up to me, grabbed
me by my arm, and said, “Come with me, boy.”
I immediately thought he was going to take me to the principal’s
office where I was going to get a chance to plead my case (lie) about
what happened. Instead, he ushered me into the nearest open vacant
room, took off his belt, and commenced to whip me as if I had sto-
len something. The entire time he was asking me, “What’s my name?
What’s my name?” I felt like I was Floyd Patterson or Ernie Terrell,
and he was Muhammad Ali trying to beat Cassius Clay out of me. It
happened so fast I could not get my wits about myself, so I just started
stammering and telling him he did not have the right to do what he

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was doing. Not until I called him Mr. McBee did he let up on the
beating. He sent me out like I was a missionary and told me to go
back and tell all my classmates what he did to me. Furthermore, I was
to tell them that we were always to address him as Mr. McBee, even if
we were in college.
Mr. McBee walked out of the school without telling the principal
or anyone what he did to me. Of course, I was so outdone and embar-
rassed that if my classmates did not know, this was one lesson I decided
they would learn as I did. How ironic that I could complete six years
at his school without ever feeling his belt, only to feel its sting for the
first time a little over four months after I graduated elementary school.
I guess I couldn’t leave well enough alone. He has been deceased for
many years, but for all my classmates and others who don’t know, he is
still Mr. McBee.

11
 Are You Smarter
Than a Sixth Grader?

There seems to be a lot of researched-based parenting pro-

grams purporting a high degree of success, although I have yet to
find one offering a guarantee. Many explain that the success rates
are connected to the most appropriate model selected for the indi-
vidual client or family, and it must be implemented with fidelity.
Some claim better maintenance of behavior and sustained gains
after the six-month follow-up. Doctorate or master-level clinicians
develop many of these models.
I have one question and hope it is proper and fitting. If parents
with a sixth-grade education or less reared you and the results indicated
you and your siblings turned out okay, why would you not use your
parents’ model with your children? Harvard graduate Judge Lynn Toler
of Divorce Court wrote a book titled “My Mother’s Rules” where she
cites and credits her mother’s rules of emotional management as a guide
in handling many erratic challenges. According to the research, I must
find the most appropriate program, so while I am going through the
gamut of models trying to find the right one, my child is forced to wait
or go with a model that may not be the most appropriate.
I know one size does not fit all, but from my oldest sister (who
was born in the ’40s) to my youngest sister (who was born in the ’60s),
there is a generational difference, so I suspect you could say they were
born in different eras or different days. Nevertheless, my parents stayed
fast to their way with both of them, and the results are similar. If the
model works, why look away from that model for another entirely dif-
ferent program?
My elementary school principal made a comment once that I never
forgot, even though I was nothing more than a child myself. He said
there was something about those country boys that made them easier to

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manage than those city boys. It was years later in life when I understood
what he meant. He was referring to a parenting model of rearing that
had sustained gains well beyond any six-month follow-up program, and
it was measurable and more prevalent in the rural community. How-
ever, there were no credentials behind the developers of these models
and no money to be made from the duping of the research.
Our structured rearing has made us more amenable to the struc-
tured environment of the classroom. The new day’s technical and legal
scare has forced many parents to back away from tried-and-true meth-
ods of parenting in favor of laboratory and controlled studies. Presence,
love, structure, consistency, and congruence pretty much summed up
the model of rearing for my siblings and me. If, as a child, I pushed and
tried to insert my “new day” approach or affront to my parents’ sixth-
grade education level techniques, I was always reminded, consistently,
that if my place of stay was the same today as it was yesterday, and I
was not the one responsible for the pay, then there was no way my say
was going to get any play.
Yes, things do change and sometimes things that were effective
many years ago may not be as effective or even practical today. So up-
dates can be useful, but not just for the sake of change. It must be
necessary and only in the amount necessary. It should complement
or enhance your parents’ model if that model has a good track record.
If it changes the basic structure of your parents’ model, it is probably
another model and should be viewed with some trepidation. Keep it
simple. Those parents who decided, even before having children, they
would never be like their parents even if they had turned out all right,
left the track and the entire station years before it became necessary.
They are the victims of offspring bias. By committing to “anything but
my parents’ model,” they forced themselves and their families to start
from scratch.
By the time they learned or recognized that their parents may have
had more sense than their former education attested to, irreparable
damage to their children may have already been done. In an attempt
to stay current with the times and not be labeled “old-school” parents,

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these parents, more committed to disproving their parents’ models than

rearing their children, work harder searching the Internet and global
market for answers that may have eluded them in their homes. Profes-
sionals and the media constantly remind parents of their poor parenting
skills, and, in turn, their parenting confidence has plummeted.
Looking for a manual has replaced the standard of enduring nec-
essary mistakes in the effort and growth of becoming a good parent.
Some have succumbed to the suggestions and advice of their children
for the most viable option and model for the rearing of their children.
Good luck with that one. Some parenting models may only be capable
of mimicking structure and congruence; therefore, they may produce
products, unmindful and unfamiliar with real-life structure. Some chil-
dren from these programs have found the schools, workplaces, and
social arena problematic to the point that possibilities and productiv-
ity are unobtainable, or at the least severely hampered. Those who are
inexperienced or have no experience in playing by the rules are forced
out and resort to taking on society using their own rules obtained from
absent parenting or by-standing parenting. The challenges and barriers
for them will be greater and to be fair, if they somehow find a way to
overcome them, their rewards will probably be greater also. However,
the odds of success are against them and the level, magnitude, and
number of failures are potentially greater.
Parents who left the parenting station (lack of presence), left
their children unattended (lack of love), without any guidance (lack
of structure), and in a haphazard manner (lack of consistency) have
provided an example unworthy of comparison to a good sixth-grade
model regardless of their education level. Many parenting models target
the wayward behaviors of children and young adults. Because models
may align themselves with what most insurance and third-party payers
will reimburse for their services, these models, as great as they may be,
become systemic victims, and must overcome the negative effect of a
more ingrained bad model from birth. I have seen too many capable
parents so concerned with the way their children might view or measure
them and their actions relative to parenting that they become hesitant,

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unsure, immobile, and inconsistent. How did their children become

the most qualified agents to evaluate their parenting skills? So, the par-
ents placate and acquiesce, hoping somehow this demonstrates love and
their children will love them more for it and work harder to please them.
This somewhat innocent-appearing parenting style or strategy per-
mits it to linger “as not so bad” for years; hence, there is no need to
examine it for ill effects. The observation of a child in wrongdoing is
by-standing parenting. The failure to qualify the contextual inappropri-
ateness of behavior (e.g., fast running on the track may be encouraged
and praised but fast running in the hallway or in someone’s establish-
ment is discouraged), well, you get the picture. There may be nothing
wrong with an action when paired in the proper venue. Not seizing these
teachable moments are examples of consent and upholding a child in
inappropriateness. Abstaining or defending inappropriate behavior and
renaming it “standing up for my child” nullify the importance of posi-
tions and teach a brand of loyalty that threatens to put the whole family
in jail. Not only does a child deserve to be cautioned on what not to
do, a child also must be taught by example what to do and encouraged
to engage in age-appropriate behavior. The child must be exposed to an
environment that challenges his or her interests, aptitude, and develop-
ment. Boundaries must be pushed in a healthy manner. The guidance of
appropriate parenting is important to healthy growth and development.
I have learned all of this from my sixth-grade educated parents.
Is great parenting synonymous with complex models? Not necessar-
ily. Can a sixth-grader’s model be bad? Yes. It is the content of the
character of the modeler that matters the most. Could it be we have
been intentionally and strategically moved away from the simple sixth-
grader’s model in order to make room for capital investments in a new
area called “Parent Management”? Standards are being developed by
advanced degree professionals to promote these paid clinicians (incon-
gruence) as the new experts to replace even grandma’s parenting. Based
solely on the results and outcomes of today’s parents with the support
and services of the paid expert versus the era of the sixth-grade educated
parent without the expert, are we really smarter than a sixth grader?

15
 Principles

We hear a lot about people having strong principles and tak-

ing tough positions in life like those of the framers of this country.
“Give me liberty or give me death.” Where are these men today? I
say they are still here. I call them principle pretenders. These fram-
ers were men of courage, skills, and cleverness, but maybe not as
principled as one might think.
Now what I am going to say is not inclusive of every framer
of this country and does not negate the fact that they were men of
tremendous courage and vision. Some may argue they were men
of their times and the economics and pressures of that era robbed
these men of some of their character. There were some settlers
of that time who maintained the highest character and were true to
their principles; however, for expediency, some modified or aban-
doned their positions to advance their cause. At the end of the day,
these were the ones who carried the day.
Their greatness now has to be forever confined to the fact
they chose exile to persecution. What greater sacrifice and more
principled position can men take and believe so strongly in than the
willingness to leave the land of their birth and renounce their citi-
zenship rather than to keep living under persecution and tyranny?
Taking such a position makes one want to stand and applaud. That
same group of people who were willing to risk treason and certain
death by the mother country, who shed their blood and the blood
of others to throw off the shackles of oppression, also authored an
attempted genocide of one race, the persecution and enslavement
of another, and the ostracism of a gender. These were learned men
so I don’t think we can chalk this one up to a bunch of illiterates.
What it does say is that maybe they were not as for or as against
a position as we might have thought. Maybe they had only one
position with two parts? They were against being persecuted, but

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the position to oppress and persecute others—well, that was up for

consideration. The reason I concluded they weren’t as principled
as history professes is because of their willingness to establish and
support a system of persecution with the understanding and knowl-
edge of an inherent wrongness imbued with atrocities reminiscent
of their recent history. These principled men, at least in this calling,
shrank from their responsibility.
Men are not strange; they just attempt to placate their ignorance
on the ignorance of others. That action or inaction by our Founding
Framers ushered in one of the greatest periods of hypocrisy known to
man. Yet history, careful not to cast shadows on their greatness, glosses
over it and treats it as blameless and victimless. I have heard it passed
off that both groups were victims of a horrible and terrible system. Even
if it were true, they knew enough about the wrongness of persecution,
being fresh from the persecution of Europe, to say, “no mas, no mas”
for themselves and their families. It was either too bad for them, or they
believed they were too good for it. They passed it on with little or no
remorse, citing their light and plight as part of their inalienable right.
We must assign that blight to their greatness.
Is it plausible for this country to have risen to such greatness
so rapidly without the exact action of its founders given the era and
the precarious nature and conditions inherent by any new nation? I
guess the answer to that question may never be known. What does
seem apparent is this great nation appears to continue to reel to some
degree from that defect in vision as evident by the current division in
Washington, and it may still yet serve as a catalyst to our demise. Some
early sanctioned alignments have contributed to unity along various
other “isms,” i.e., sex, religion, race, and nationality—while concur-
rently ensuring separatism where it concerned Americanism. I will
not keep beating this horse, but I think all of us share and understand
the ramifications in the principle of a house divided against itself that
was issued by a great American who keeps a symbolic shadowy watch
in Washington.

17
 Don’t You Dare . . . Call
It Puppy Love

The year was 1965. The month was December. The Beatles
released Rubber Soul. Charles de Gaulle was re-elected as France’s
president. “A Charlie Brown Christmas” debuted on CBS. And an-
other Brown named James was belting out the R&B chart toppers
“Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag” and “I Feel Good,” which was pretty
much where I was at the time. However, as Fantasia would say, it
was a little bittersweet because the joy of the Christmas break was
spoiled by its length; therefore, it needed to hurry up and end so I
could be whole again.
Ms. Bullard, my third-grade teacher, had taken a liking to me, and
I was in love with her, too. It always bothered me when a student was
mean to her or gave her a hard time. My job was to love and protect her,
and I always worked hard to do everything I could to please her. She and
I were to get married and live happily ever after. All she had to do was
to wait, let’s see, ten years until I turned 18, and it would all be legal. I
did as much as I could for her. I volunteered to pick up the trash, passed
out papers, etc. I would take on the biggest guy in the class for her.
As I said earlier, I was sort of happy about the holiday break, but I
was also sad because I knew it would be about two weeks before I could
really smile again. Sure, I ran, jumped, and played like all the other kids,
but I was a little different from them because I was in love. Besides, if
I was lucky, the only thing my brother and I would get for Christmas
would be a cap pistol with one roll of caps; once that roll was gone, we
would have to pistol-whip each other to win a gunfight. At least I didn’t
have to worry about a tragedy at the hands of that gun if I felt I couldn’t
take it any longer from being away from the love of my life.
New Year’s came and went, and I was beginning to feel a little
better about 1966. The Beatles album went on to top the chart for six

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weeks, and James Brown collected a Grammy for his brand-new bag.
All U.S. cigarette packs had to carry the warning, “Caution: Cigarette
smoking may be hazardous to your health.” Transit workers were strik-
ing in New York City, and there were protests throughout the United
States and around the world against the Vietnam War, but all I wanted
or cared about was getting back to school to see my future wife.
I believe I returned to school on Monday, January 3, 1966, and it
was one of the happiest days of my life until Ms. Bullard’s announce-
ment: “Class, I have something wonderful to tell you. My name is now
Mrs. Thomas.”
I thought to myself, “Who is Mrs. Thomas and what does that
mean for us?” Then she told us she got married over the Christmas holi-
day. I did not know what to do. I wanted to cry, but I was too angry to
make any noise. I was stunned. I had thought about her all during the
Christmas holiday and could not wait until it was over so I could see
her again, and she spent her holiday getting married! How could she
have done that to me? I refused to call her Mrs. Thomas, and I would
not answer when she called on me.
It was my first exercise in participating in a strike. I was finished
volunteering to help her pick up trash or hand out papers. I said to
myself, “After what she did to me, she does not have to speak to me
again.” I could not believe she wanted me to call her somebody else’s
name. I decided I was not going to do it, and she could not make me.
I was also not going to work hard in her class any more to make good
grades for her because she did not care about me. The last half of my
year was filled with less happiness than the first, because I believed
Ms. Bullard had told me she was going to wait for me and she did not
keep her word. I did not know a lot in the third grade, but I knew
enough to know that Mrs. Thomas did not sound like Mrs. Calhoun.
As for that puppy or mushy love, that wasn’t me, because my love for
Ms. Bullard was solid . . . as a rock.

19
 Hog Wild

Too often when it was my time to feed the hogs, I would

­forget. I guess their eating was not important to me. When my
­f ather learned of this, he came up with a rule: “Whenever you feel
a need to eat, go feed the hogs. Now, if you don’t ever eat, you don’t
ever have to feed the hogs.” I believed this caused me to have some
bias and partiality toward the hogs, because it appeared my father
was putting the hogs and their needs on an even footing with me
and my needs. Of course, the hogs did not have anything to do with
that. On more than a few occasions, however, I thought I should
have gotten more out of them than pork, and I was completely
unaware of what it required of them to become pork.
So, consistent with how this child thought, I concluded a free
ride every now and then was more important than pork and the least
the hogs owed me for me having to visit them early in the morning
and sometimes late at night. Occasionally, my brother Lenwood a.k.a.
Head, Cousin John, and I would try to saddle up (I mean go bareback)
for a little ride. I must say we had some of the most uncooperative hogs
I had ever seen. (“Green Acres” could have never gotten an Arnold from
our bunch.) I used to think that they were so ill-willed, after I had given
them a good meal (slop) from some of the worst leftover garbage I could
find in our house, that they would not stand still so I could get a ride.
This forced me to do it their way. We would lure them (trick them
as if we cared about them being hungry) with a bucket of feed to an
area favorable for a ride, and while they had their heads down, one of us
would sneak up behind and mount the back or come off a banister and
flop on the hog’s back. Now that last feat was a little tricky, especially
if the hog noticed you trying to jump on his back. All I can say is that
missing the hog’s back could mean a painful contact with where the
hog was or an embarrassing introduction to the hog’s lifestyle of slop,
mud, and manure.

20
 E In the Shadow of Sacrifice E

At times, I would find a hog that would allow me to walk up and

pet him. The ride was separate, however, so I would still have to mount
quickly and find myself off just as quick, which was not much different
from a ride after a chase. I never found a hog that really wanted me to
ride him, and sometimes, depending on how I was thrown, he did not
have to worry about me trying to ride him again. I was not in the busi-
ness of trying to tame or break a hog. I was mostly concerned about not
allowing the hog to break me. I guess I should have been satisfied with
the pork chop sandwich.
There were also those occasions when I had to take part in catching
a hog, or at least steer a hog or pig into another section of the pen. I
remember asking my father once why we had to move the hogs from a
sloppy area of the pen to a dryer area. Didn’t they like slop? And besides,
all they are going to do was mess it up again. He asked why I eat, since
all I was going to do was get hungry again. If I wasn’t sharp enough to
read between the lines and get his point, he would follow it up with
something else I needed to decipher, such as, “Son, you shouldn’t have
to eat a whole hog before you know you are eating pork.” Any time I
tried to slip, my father would remind me that he had the book in his
pocket. Well, my father is shooting off one-liners he thinks I should
understand while I was stuck in a hog pen with uncooperative hogs I
didn’t understand. I just wondered if he had anything in that book in
his pocket that would help me get stubborn hogs into a chute so we
could take them to the market. Maybe the hogs had some inside infor-
mation from Milken or Boesky because even the friendly hogs seemed
to fight going to the market.
One time my cousin John got his hands on one and was deter-
mined he was going to hold on no matter what. He did very well until
the hog dragged him into a tree. The next thing I knew, he was a little
groggy and had to be led out of the pen. On another occasion, I was
involved in moving pigs from their mother for their initiation surgery
(neutering). To do this, I had to tag-team and be quick. While a part-
ner distracted the sow, I swooped in and picked up two pigs and was
moving very swiftly. As I was exiting the fence, however, their snouts

21
 E Howard Calhoun E

hit the electric fence. All of a sudden, I had electricity running through
my body and I had to let those hot pigs go.
The adults thought my behavior was hilarious and wondered why
I didn’t hold onto them until I got beyond the fence. I did not know
how long the electricity was going to continue vibrating through my
body, and I was not about to hold on to find out. Besides, the sow was
in hot pursuit and closing fast. She was also acting like she cared more
about her little ones than she did about the electric fence. I felt it best to
give the pigs back to her, clear the fence, and put as much room between
the sow and me as possible. Well, given my shocking and electrifying
experience, I probably should not have dropped those piglets on the
fence. On second thought, these were probably some of the same hogs
I had to get up early in the morning to feed, so you would think after
all the things we’d been through together, they should have been glad
to give me a little ride. Maybe that little jolt of electricity was in order.
Perhaps I still have unresolved issues about the hog ride.

22
 Respect

What is respect? It may be a feeling or attitude of admiration

and deference toward somebody or something. It could be consider­
ation toward somebody or something. Now, of course, there are
many other things that may be included in the definition of re-
spect, but mostly it involves an intangible quality connected to feel-
ings and attitudes that garnish a sense of a person recognizing and
acknowledging another person or thing with honor or regard. The
definition appears simple enough to understand regardless of which
one a person ascribes to. Yet, from day care to senior care, there
seem to be more violators than compliers. The misunderstanding
or reckless disregard for this one word has been the impetus for dis-
solutions of valued long-term relationships, gang afflictions, civil
unrest, and national and world wars.
When I was a school counselor, the first phrase that came out of
the mouths of the students was, “That student (or teacher or admin-
istrator) disrespected me.” When I talked with parents, it would be,
“They disrespected my son (or daughter)” or “They were disrespectful
to me.” Teachers would say that a student was disrespectful. It seems
everyone knew disrespect when they saw it or felt it, but very few
knew much about respect. As a prison and probation official, I heard,
“That inmate/guard/probation officer disrespected me.” All would say,
“Mr. Calhoun, no one is going to disrespect me and get away with it.”
The student would say, “I would rather take a week or year at home
than to have a student or teacher disrespect me.” The inmate would
say, “I will do ten, twenty years, or even life before I have someone
disrespect me.”
From the poorhouse to the White House and whether they
are in the outhouse or the penthouse, there seems to be nothing more
important than respect. Everyone seems to be trying to get that elusive
respect. The student chooses to be sent home over staying in school

23
 E Howard Calhoun E

due to disrespect, and gets home and is disrespected at home and

chooses to be put out of the house rather than be disrespected. When he
is disrespected in the community, he chooses juvenile detention instead
of being disrespected, and finally, he chooses solitary lockup rather than
stay in the regular prison population and be disrespected.
I have had long conversations with this same student-type in an
old grey-headed inmate still fighting for respect. He felt very comfort-
able telling me that respect is all a man has; if he loses it, his life is
not worth living—hence, the justification or cop-out for a lifetime in
prison. My question has always been, do you honestly feel you are any
closer to respect today than you were when you cussed the principal out
in the seventh grade and walked away from school for good? During
this so-called honorable, self-imposed hiatus, you chose to disregard the
responsibility for the rearing of your children. Where is the respect you
owe them? You have had to abstain from a lot of family, community,
and civic duties required of you as a man and a citizen, or you have
had to at least re-frame and redesign them in a manner whereby they
fit with your frame of reference, regardless of how they squared with
the concerns of others.
The other issue just as impregnable as getting respect seems to
be, who must give respect first? For instance, if I am “the man” and
you do not recognize that, then you have disrespected me; therefore, I
owe you no respect, or I owe you disrespect. This is reminiscent of the
chicken and the egg. To my knowledge, the issue of which came first is
still being argued.
I propose a solution. If it is not a solution, maybe it can be viewed
as a stalemate. Kissing your sister is preferable to fighting your cousins
(war). Doesn’t the United States still have a stalemate with Korea stem-
ming from the Korean War? I propose that respect has nothing to do
with anything exterior to you. Respect must emanate from within. Ei-
ther you are about respect or you are not. Everything you do or say must
represent respect, which is not dependent on anybody or anything exte-
rior to you. When your respect is derived from someone or something
outside of you, your respect is open to the whim and capriciousness of

24
 E In the Shadow of Sacrifice E

any and all forces capable of bearing force on that external object. Your
respect is now based on the condition and quality of that object, which
means you must prepare to adjust to the respect afforded you, or you
must prepare to be disrespected. People’s attitudes and feelings change
all the time. And we know things change. So to leverage your respect on
such flimsy factors or to condition your respect in that manner forces
one to settle for conditional respect or to attempt to demand a more ap-
propriate respect when the respect afforded is perceived as inadequate.
If one chooses to demand respect with a gun in the hand, then that
respect is coerced respect, which amounts to another form of conditional
respect. It is conditioned on the believability of a follow-through on an
imminent threat and its duration because once the threat passes, the
respect goes with it. Trying to get respect from someone or something
exterior to ourselves forces us to have to try to get respect from someone
who is incapable of providing it, or to attempt to get respect from some-
one who may be as confused about what constitutes respect as we are. So
the back-and-forth misunderstanding prompts disrespect and becomes
a situation where no respect is known or possible.
It is like getting blood from a turnip; it is impractical. Getting
this type of respect puts one at the apex of the mountain, to be wor-
shiped as a saint or assailed as a target. Either way, there is only one
way to go: down. You were born with respect. No one or no thing can
give it to you or take it away from you. You cannot be disrespected by
anyone. They don’t own your respect. You do. They can be rude, ob-
noxious, and even vicious, which has nothing to do with your respect.
It reveals a lot about them and perhaps about how you need to adjust
your relationship and proximity as it concerns you and them. If they
say your mama is a whore or slut, whatever your mama is or isn’t will
remain unchanged by the words emanating from their mouths. All
you can get from that exchange is an opportunity to copy rudeness
or ignorance.
If you are about speaking and acknowledging others, then do that.
Your position is not predicated on the speaking or acknowledgment
from others, and it is not time limited. You never allow a negative to

25
 E Howard Calhoun E

define a policy change for what you have already determined to be

positive and what best represents the respect in you. Respect cannot be
found in the courthouse, poorhouse, outhouse, jailhouse, penthouse,
White House, or any other house other than the one God gave you. To
look anywhere else for it is to disrespect your Maker.

26
 Just An Observation

As I was leaving work one afternoon, I noticed a huge ­gathering at

a nearby convenience store. I patiently watched patron after ­patron car-
rying various kinds and amounts of alcoholic beverages in a neighbor­
hood that would probably be considered impoverished. My mind
reverted back to an incident I heard earlier on the news about a meth
lab explosion occurring less than six miles from where I worked. As
I tried to connect these two incidents, I thought about how we as a
­society tend to talk about “children gone wild” and yet neither of these
incidents involved children.
Have we grown immune, or have we reclassified normalcy for
adults? Is this a sign of what is to be expected in adulthood? Are inci-
dents such as these too minuscule to warrant attention given the nature
and magnitude of competing incidents? When I study these incidents
in their singular form, I might agree with the former statement. When
I review similar incidents and multiply them by the thousands of times
they occur throughout this nation and the world, it makes me wonder
if we look at these things in isolation for our own sanity. This single
incident becomes even more mentally taxing when I think about the
fact that most of these adults are probably parents of children who we
are quick to ridicule.
Does anyone care whether adults have gone wild? Surely ­others
see the same things I see. Are the professionals already working
on these issues making any progress, or are we losing ground? To
what degree are these professionals embroiled in similar or greater
issues of their own? What’s the big deal? Problems of some kind and
type and at some level as these have existed since the beginning of
time. Most action is futile and is often met with resistance, so why
bother? Why not just press on and enjoy life, as they seem to be
enjoying theirs? What is the cost? Is the cost too high, and who is

27
 E Howard Calhoun E

really paying the cost? These are certainly interesting observations

to me. Has the towel been thrown, or is the fat lady winding down
her warm-up? Is this really an observation worthy of more than
just observation?

28
 Childhood Dreams:
Bringing a Stick to
a Gunfight

My father was an avid hunter, and every Thanksgiving was

a special day of hunting for him. He and about three or four old
friends from out of state who we saw once a year would come to
town for an all-day hunting event. We would often gather around
when he came back to hear how some poor unfortunate rabbit or
squirrel met its last day on this earth. It also seems I would always
hear about the ones that got away from his buddies.
Pop was a World War II veteran, and he often bragged about his
experience as a marksman. I could not argue against this claim because
every now and then, my father would shoot a snake out of the loft just
from seeing the white of its eyes. Other times, he would enforce a no-
fly zone above his house by knocking a few birds out of the sky. I don’t
know if that was legal, but I am pretty sure the statute of limitations
has expired or, at the least, I can’t be held liable for the sins of my father
on this one.
Nonetheless, my father was proud of his guns and kept them on
full display in an open-faced homemade gun rack in the family room,
or smoke-room, as most of the siblings preferred to refer to it. He dared
anyone to touch his guns. He would often schedule a gun cleaning or a
hawk blade filing on my sisters’ dates, just to introduce their boyfriends
to the close vicinity of his weapons of mass destruction and the expe-
diency with which they would be employed from his household. My
sisters would still be virgins if I had to date one of them.
One of my baby sister Linda’s dates was met at the door by my
father one night after a gun cleaning and given the riot act because of
his late arrival—10 p.m. My father thought he should have had better

29
 E Howard Calhoun E

sense not to come at 10 p.m. because he had to leave by 11 p.m. I never

saw that fellow at the house again.
But my father’s love and fascination with guns is probably what
made my first experience so memorable . . . and almost so deadly. I
guess I was about five years old when my brothers Gerone and Len-
wood and I were playing cowboys and Indians, a popular childhood
game at the time. Seeing how we could not afford the latest weaponry,
my brother Lenwood and I probably had a stick for a gun. Somehow
my brother Gerone had no intention of losing, so he was the only one
with a real gun and live ammunition. In the final showdown, he had
Lenwood trapped, forcing him to raise his arms to surrender, but appar-
ently Gerone wasn’t allowing any surrenders and he shot him anyway.
The bullet went through one of the hands Lenwood had up and pierced
the side of his face. It threw the whole family into panic mode.
The nearest hospital was about fifteen miles away and there was no
automobile in our yard, the yards across the road, or a yard as far as we
could see. My oldest sister Julia was about as far from being a track star
as anyone in the family, but suddenly she acquired track shoes and ran
at least a mile nonstop, in a thunderstorm, to Mr. McCrae’s house, not
knowing if he was home but praying he was because there was no telling
where the next vehicle might be. During this time, we could stay home
all day and perhaps only two vehicles would pass our house. There were
very few blacks at that time who owned automobiles, and the whites
whose farms we worked on were not very keen on allowing blacks to
ride in their cars. In this particular case, my brother was bleeding, and
all bets were off that he would get in one of those automobiles without
a tourniquet (on his neck) to stop the bleeding, even though he was a
future field hand. Maybe he would have been allowed in the back of
the truck that was used to carry farm animals if a family member would
lie under him to catch the blood and keep it off the bed of the truck.
These were tough times, and it was tough for the whole family, but
we made it through this crisis. Mr. McCrae was home and was able to
get Lenwood to the hospital where he was treated. My brother is doing
fine today, but he remembers that incident better than I do, especially

30
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
ISRAEL GOW'N REHELLISYYS

Hopeanharmaa, myrskyinen ilta laskeutui seudun yli, kun isä Brown,

harmaaseen skotlantilaiseen viittaan verhottuna, saapui harmaan
skotlantilaisen laakson päähän ja näki edessään Glengylen
omituisen linnan. Se antoi koko notkelmalle tai ahtaalle laaksolle
päätepisteen luonteen ja kulkijasta tuntui siltä kuin olisi hän saapunut
maailman loppuun. Kohottaen jyrkkiä kattojaan ja merenvihreitä
liuskakivihuippujaan taivasta kohti, ranskalais-skotlantilaisten
linnojen tapaan, johti se englantilaisen mieleen keijukaissatujemme
noitien suipot päähineet, ja hongat, jotka suhisivat vihreitten tornien
ympärillä, olivat niin mustia, että ne muistuttivat sankkaa
korppiparvea. Tämä uneksiva, raskasmielinen tunnelma ei ollut vain
maiseman luomaa kuvittelua, sillä koko seudun yllä lepäsi yksi noita
ylpeyden, hulluuden ja salaperäisen surun pilviä, jotka ovat
ominaisempia Skotlannin ylhäisille aatelissuvuille kuin muille
ihmislapsille. Sillä Skotlanti on saanut kaksinkertaisen annoksen
tuota myrkkyä, jota nimitetään perintötaipumukseksi: aristokraatin
syntyperätunteen ja kalviinilaisen aavistuksen kohtalo-opista.

Pappi oli ottanut päiväksi vapautta toimestaan Glasgowissa

tavatakseen ystävänsä Flambeaun, yksityissalapoliisin, joka oli
Glengylen linnassa erään oppineemman virkaveljensä kanssa
tutkimassa, minkälainen Glengylen kreivi-vainajan elämä ja kuolema
oli ollut. Tämä salaperäinen henkilö oli suvun viimeinen edustaja,
suvun, jonka urhoollisuus, mielipuolisuus ja syvällinen viekkaus oli
saanut kuudennentoista vuosisadan karuluontoisen aatelistonkin
kammoksumaan sen jäseniä. Kukaan ei tuntenut niin täydellisesti
tuota kunnianhimon labyrinttiä tai sen valheen palatsin salakäytäviä,
joka rakennettiin Skotlannin Maria kuningattaren ympärille, kuin he.

Heidän juoniensa aiheen ja tuloksen ilmaisee tällä seudulla

tavallinen hokema:

"Niin arvokas kuin puille mehu, multa,

on Ogilvielle punertava kulta."

Moneen sataan vuoteen ei Glengyle Castlessa ollut likimainkaan

kunnollista isäntää, ja olisihan voinut luulla, että nuo mielipuoliset
hurjistelut olisivat loppuneet kuningatar Viktorian aikana. Mutta
viimeinen Glengyle seurasi siinä suhteessa sukunsa perintötapoja,
että hän teki viimeisen omituisuuden, mikä vielä oli koettamatta. Hän
nimittäin katosi. En tarkoita, että hän matkusti ulkomaille. Hän oli
varmasti linnassa, jos hän yleensä oli missään. Mutta vaikka hänen
nimensä oli kirkonkirjoissa ja suuressa, punaisessa
aateliskalenterissa, ei yksikään ihminen auringon alla saanut nähdä
häntä.

Jos oli olemassa joku, joka hänet näki, oli se talon ainoa palvelija,
mies, joka oli puoleksi tallirenki, puoleksi puutarhuri. Hän oli niin
kuuro, että ne, jotka tekivät ripeitä päätelmiä, pitivät häntä mykkänä,
kun taas terävämmät arvelivat häntä hupakoksi. Hän oli raihnainen,
punatukkainen työmies, leuka ja poskiluut karkeatekoiset, silmät
siniset, ilmeettömät. Hänet tunnettiin nimellä Israel Gow, ja tämä
vaitelias palvelija oli, niin kuin sanottu, hylätyn tilan ainoa. Se tarmo,
millä hän hoiti perunamaata ja se säännöllisyys, jota hän noudatti
keittiöön mennessään, teki kuitenkin sen vaikutuksen, että hän piti
huolta esimiehensä aterioista ja herätti sen aavistuksen, että tämä
yhä pysytteli piilossa linnassaan.

Jos taas tahtoi saada vakuuttavampia todisteita siitä, että hän oli
siellä, väitti palvelija, ettei kreivi ollut kotona.

Eräänä aamuna kutsuttiin pormestari ja presbyteriläinen pappi

linnaan. Glengylet olivat nimittäin presbyteriläisiä. Siellä huomasivat
he, että tallirenki-puutarhuri-kokki oli liittänyt muihin toimiinsa
hautajaisasiamiehen viran ja siirtänyt korkeasti-aatelisen isäntänsä
ruumisarkkuun ja naulinnut sen kiinni. Kuinka syvällisiä tai
pintapuolisia lienevät olleetkin ne kyselyt, joiden kautta oli saatu tieto
tästä omituisesta tosiseikasta, ei vielä ollut täysin selvää, sillä laillista
tutkintoa ei vielä ollut pidetty, kun Flambeau pari, kolme päivää sitten
oli lähtenyt pohjoiseen päin. Silloin oli lordi Glengylen ruumis — jos
se todella oli hänen — maannut sangen kauan haudattuna pienellä
hautausmaalla kummulla.

Kun isä Brown kulki synkän puutarhan kautta ja joutui linnan

varjoon, riippuivat pilvet raskaina ja ilma oli kostea ja ukkosta
ennustava. Vihreään vivahtavan auringonlaskun taustaa vasten näki
hän mustan haamun piirtyvän. Se oli mies, päässään korkea hattu ja
suuri lapio olalla. Tuo yhdistelmä johti ajatukset vaistomaisesti
haudankaivajaan, mutta kun isä Brown muisti kuuron palvelijan, joka
kaiveli perunamaata, oli ilmiö hänestä aivan luonnollinen. Hän tunsi
sangen hyvin skotlantilaiset talonpojat, hän tunsi tuon
itsekunnioituksen, mikä kai pakoitti miehen esiintymään "mustiin
puettuna" virallisessa kuulustelussa, ja myöskin tuon
säästäväisyyden, mikä ei sallinut hänen sen takia menettää
tuntiakaan kaivamisajasta. Vieläpä miehen hämmästyskin ja hänen
epäilevästi tuijottava katseensakin papin ohikulkiessa, sopeutui
tyypin salaviekkauteen ja epäluuloisuuteen.

Ison portin avasi itse Flambeau, jolla oli mukanaan laiha,

harmaatukkainen mies papereita kädessään: tarkastaja Craven
Scotland Yardista. Halli oli melkein kalustamat on ja tyhjä, mutta
muutamien ilkeiden Ogilvien kreivien pilkalliset kasvot tuijottivat
mustuneilta kankailta mustan tekotukan alta.

Isä Brown seurasi mukana sisempiin huoneihin ja huomasi, että

molemmat lontoolaiset olivat istuutuneet pitkän tammipöydän
ääreen, jonka toinen pää oli kukkuroillaan täyteen tuhrittuja
paperiarkkeja, ja niiden vieressä viskyä ja sikareja. Pöydän muun
osan täyttivät erilaiset, ryhmiin jaetut esineet, laadultaan mitä
merkillisimpiä. Eräs ryhmä näytti kiiltävältä lasisirpalekasalta, toinen
oli kuin läjä ruskeata tomua. Kolmas muistutti tavallista keppiä.

"Teillä näyttää olevan täällä jonkinlainen kivennäismuseo", sanoi

isä Brown istuutuen ja nyökäten päällään ruskeaa tomua ja pieniä
välkkyviä lasikappaleita kohti.

"Ei kivennäis-, vaan psykolooginen museo", sanoi Flambeau.

"Älkää hiidessä", virkkoi poliisipäällikkö nauraen, "käyttäkö niin

mutkikkaita sanoja!"

"Tiedättekö, mitä psykologialla tarkoitetaan?" kysyi Flambeau

ystävällisesti hämmästyneenä. "Psykologia on taito alkaa väärästä
päästä."

"En ymmärrä sittenkään", sanoi poliisi.

 "Niin", sanoi Flambeau. "Minä tarkoitan, että mitä lordi Glengyleen
tulee, olemme keksineet ainoastaan yhden asian. Hän oli hullu."

Gow'n musta olento korkeine hattuineen ja lapioineen vilahti

ikkunan ohi, heikosti piirtyen pimeneviä pilviä vasten. Isä Brown
tuijotti sitä välinpitämättömän näköisenä ja sanoi sitten:

"Ymmärrän kyllä, että hänessä oli jotain kummallista, eihän hän

muuten olisi hautautunut elävältä, eikä hänellä myöskään olisi ollut
niin kiirettä päästä hautaan kuolleenakaan. Mutta minkätähden
luulette hänen olleen hullun?"

"Kuunnelkaapa vain luetteloa tavaroista, jotka mr Craven on

löytänyt talosta."

"Meidän täytyy hankkia kynttilä", sanoi Craven äkkiä. "Myrskypilvet

kokoontuvat ja on liian pimeä lukea."

"Oletteko löytänyt kynttilöitä harvinaisuuksienne joukosta?" kysyi

isä
Brown hymyillen.

Flambeau kohotti vakavat kasvonsa ja kiinnitti tummat silmänsä

ystäväänsä.

"Siinäkin on jotain merkillistä", sanoi hän. "Olemme löytäneet

viisikolmatta kynttilää, mutt'ei jälkeäkään kynttiläjaloista."

Nopeasti pimenevässä huoneessa, mihin kiihtyvän hyrskyn

ulvonta kuului, meni isä Brown ottamaan vahakynttilän kasasta, joka
oli muitten näytteillä olevien tavaroitten joukossa pöydällä.
Sattumalta tuli hän kumartuneeksi punaisenruskean tomu- tai
multakasan yli. Ankara aivastus keskeytti hiljaisuuden.
 "Sehän on nuuskaa!" huudahti hän.

Hän otti yhden kynttilöistä, sytytti sen huolellisesti, meni takaisin ja

pisti sen viskypullon kaulaan. Yöilma tuulahti vetoisan ikkunan läpi,
sai liekin liehumaan kuin lipun, ja linnan ympärillä kuului
penikulmanlaajuisten petäjämetsien humina, joka kohisi kuin laulava
meri korkean kallion ympärillä.

"Minä luen listan", sanoi Craven hyvin juhlallisesti ja otti erään

paperin pöydältä. "Se käsittää kaiken arvokkaanpuoleisen
irtaimiston, jonka olemme löytäneet täältä linnasta. Tietänette, että
talo kokonaisuudessaan on tyhjäksi raastettu ja hoitamaton.
Yhdessä tai kahdessa huoneessa on kuitenkin asunut joku, joka
kylläkin on elänyt yksinkertaisesti, mutta ei puutteessa — tarkoitan
jotain muuta kuin palvelija Gowta. Luettelo kuuluu näin:

"Ensiksi: Sangen huomattava joukko jalokiviä, suurimmaksi osaksi

timantteja, kaikki irtonaisia, ilman kehystä. Onhan luonnollista, että
Ogilviella oli perhejalokiviä, mutta juuri ne ovat tavallisesti
kehystettyjä ja niitä käytetään koristeina. Ogilvien perheen jäsenet
pitivät kai niitä löysinä taskuissaan niinkuin kuparirahoja.

"Toiseksi: Koko joukko irtonaista nuuskaa, eroitettuna kasoihin.

Sitä ei siis säilytetty sarvessa tai kukkarossa, vaan oli sitä pantu läjiin
uunin reunoille, pianolle ja melkein kaikkialle. Näyttää siltä kuin ei
vanha herra olisi viitsinyt vaivautua pistämään kättään taskuun tai
avaamaan nuuskarasian kantta.

"Kolmanneksi: Siellä täällä talossa omituisia kasoja hyvin pieniä

metallipalasia, muutamia yhtä pieniä teräsvietereitä, muutamia yhtä
mikroskooppisia rattaita. Näyttää siltä kuin ne olisivat käyttäneet
jonkinlaista konelaitosta.
 "Neljänneksi: Vahakynttilät, jotka täytyi pistää pullonkauloihin,
koska ei ollut mitään muuta, minne ne olisi voinut pistää. Nyt pyydän
teitä huomaamaan, kuinka paljon omituisempaa tämä on, kuin se,
mitä me olimme odottaneet. Arvasimme edeltäpäin arvoituksen
sisimmän luonteen. Kaikki huomasimme me heti ensi katsaukselta,
että viimeisen kreivin ruuvit eivät olleet aivan paikoillaan. Olemme
tulleet tutkimaan elikö hän tosiaan täällä, kuoliko hän tosiaan täällä
ja onko tuolla punatukkaisella variksenpelättimellä, joka hänet
hautasi, ollut jotain vaikutusta hänen kuolemaansa. Mutta
otaksukaapa, että pahin on tapahtunut, kuvitelkaapa kaikkein
kauheinta ja melodramaattisinta ratkaisua. Otaksukaapa, että renki
tosiaan tappoi isäntänsä, tai otaksukaapa, että isäntä ei ole kuollut,
tai otaksukaapa, että isäntä on pukeutunut rengiksi ja että renki on
haudattu isäntänsä asemesta. Kuvitelkaa mitä murhenäytelmää
hyvänsä Wilkie Collinsin tapaan, mutta sittenkin on vielä selitettävä,
mitä merkitsee jalaton kynttilä ja syy siihen, miksi hyvän kasvatuksen
saaneella herralla oli tapana kaataa nuuskaa pianolle. Asian
sisimmän ytimen voimme käsittää — ulkokuoret ovat salaperäisiä. Ei
kenenkään mielikuvitus riitä, kun pitäisi keksiä yhteys nuuskan,
timanttien, vaha kynttilöiden ja jonkun koneellisen laitoksen pienten
irtonaisten osien välillä."

"Sen minä kyllä otan tehdäkseni", sanoi pappi. "Tämä

Glengylehän toimi raivokkaasti Ranskan vallankumousta vastaan.
Hän ihaili l'ancien régimeä ja koetti pikku piirteitä myöten seurata
entisten Bourbonien perhe-elämää. Hän käytti nuuskaa, koska se oli
ylellisyystavaraa XVIII:lla vuosisadalla, vahakynttilöitä, koska ne
olivat sen ajan valaistusvälineitä. Nuo pienet rautalastut viittaavat
Ludvig XVI:n lukkoseppäinnostukseen ja timantit Marie Antoinetten
kaulakoristeeseen."
 Molemmat miehet tuijottivat häneen pyörein silmin.

"Mikä hämmästyttävä käsityskyky!" huudahti Flambeau.

"Luuletteko tosiaan, että tuo on yhtäpitävää totuuden kanssa?

"En, olen varma siitä, että asia ei ole sillä lailla käsitettävissä",
vastasi isä Brown. "Mutta te sanoitte äsken, ettei kukaan voinut
löytää yhteyttä nuuskan, timanttien, koneellisen laitoksen ja
vahakynttilöiden välillä. Tämän yhteyden keksin minä vain arviolta.
Oikea totuus on kyllä paljon syvemmällä."

Hän vaikeni ja kuunteli hetken tuulen valitusta linnan torneissa. Ja

sitten hän sanoi:

"Tuo äsken kuollut Glengylen kreivi oli varas. Hän vietti toista,
kauheampaa elämää murtovarkaana. Kynttiläjalkoja hänellä ei ollut,
sillä hän käytti vain kynttilän pätkiä lyhdyssä, jota kantoi mukanaan.
Nuuskaa käytti hän samalla lailla kuin villeimmät ranskalaiset
rikoksentekijät pippuria. Hän heitti sitä suuret määrät sen silmille,
joka koetti ottaa hänet kiinni tai ajoi häntä takaa. Ratkaisevan
todistuksen löydämme kuitenkin yhdistäessämme timantit ja pienet
teräspyörät. Jos te ajattelette sitä, selviää koko juttu. Timantit ja
pienet teräspyörät ovat ainoat kelvolliset välineet, kun pitää leikata
irti lasiruutu."

Taittuneen männyn oksa löi kovasti ikkunaan heidän takanaan,

aivan kuin pilkatakseen murtovarasta, mutta he eivät kääntyneet.
Heidän silmänsä tuijottivat isä Browniin.

"Timantit ja pienet pyörät", toisti Craven miettivästi. "Siinäkö kaikki,

mikä johtaa ajatuksenne oikeaan selitykseen."
 "En suinkaan väitä, että tämä on oikea selitys", sanoi pappi
tyynesti. "Mutta te sanoitte, ettei kukaan voisi löytää yhteyttä neljän
esinelajin välillä. Tottahan on, että on olemassa yksinkertaisempiakin
asioita kuin tämä. Otaksukaa, että Glengyle löysi tai oli löytävinään
jalokiviä maatilaltaan. Joku on tehnyt pilaa hänestä ja sanonut, että
linnan maanalaisista holveista löytyisi timantteja. Pienet pyörät on
hankittu timanttien hiomista varten. Hän ryhtyi asiaan alkuperäisellä
tavalla ja pienessä määrässä, apunaan paimenia, tai kukkuloiden
sivistymättömiä miehiä. Nämä skotlantilaiset paimenet eivät tunne
mitään parempaa kuin nuuska, ja se on ainoa, jolla voi houkutella
heitä. Kynttiläjalkoja heillä ei ollut, koska he eivät tarvinneet niitä. He
pitivät kynttilöitä käsissään kellareita tutkiessaan."

"Onko se mahdollista?" sanoi Flambeau pitkän hiljaisuuden

jälkeen.
"Oletteko vihdoin löytänyt yksinkertaisen totuuden?"

"En, en suinkaan", sanoi isä Brown.

Tuuli sammui pois kuin pilkkaulvonta kaukana metsän sisällä, ja

isä
Brown jatkoi yhtä tyynenä kuin ennen:

"Tuon sanon vain siksi, että te väititte, ettei nuuskan ja koneellisen

kellolaitteen pikku osien, tai kynttilöiden ja jalokivien välillä olisi
mitään yhteyttä. Maailman kaikkeuteen voi sovelluttaa vähintään
kymmenen väärää filosofista systeemiä; vähintään kymmenen
väärää teoriaa sopii Glengylen linnaankin. Me pyrimme kuitenkin
löytämään oikean selityksen sekä linnasta että maailmasta. Eikö ole
mitään muuta ohjetta?"
 Craven naurahti, Flambeau nousi hiljaa ja lähti menemään pitkän
pöydän toiseen päähän.

"Sitten on meillä numerot viisi, kuusi ja seitsemän", sanoi hän.

"Mutta ne ovat mieluummin huvittavia kuin opettavaisia. Omituinen
kokoelma, ei lyijykyniä, vaan kynistä otettua lyijyä. Tarkoitukseton
bamburuoko, jonka toinen pää on osaksi pirstaleina. Se on kai
välikappale, jolla rikos on tehty. Mutta mitään rikostahan ei ole
olemassa. Lopun muodostavat vain muutamat messukirjat ja
muutamat pienet katoliset maalaukset, joita Ogilviet ovat säilyttäneet
keskiajalta saakka, sillä heidän perheylpeytensä oli kai
voimakkaampi kuin heidän puhdasoppisuutensa. Me yhdistimme ne
museoon, koska ne näyttivät niin omituisen kuluneilta ja pahoin
pidellyiltä."

Ankara myrsky ajoi nyt paksuja pilviä Glengylen yli, niin että huone
tuli pimeäksi, kun isä Brown otti pienet, kirjavat lehdet tutkiakseen
niitä. Hän puheli, tilapäisen pimeyden yhä jatkuessa, mutta hänen
äänensä oli aivan toisenlainen.

"Mr Craven", sanoi hän sellaisella soinnulla kuin olisi hän

nuorentunut kymmenen vuotta. "Teillähän on laillinen valtakirja tutkia
tuo hauta, eikö totta? Mitä pikemmin sen teemme, sitä paremmin
pääsemme tämän hirmuisen asian perille. Jos minä oksin teidän
sijassanne, lähtisin heti."

"Nyt heti", toisti hämmästynyt salapoliisi. "Miksikä nyt heti?"

"Siksi, että asia on vakava", sanoi isä Brown. "Tämä ei ole

satunnaista nuuskaa tai löysiä kiviä, jotka saattavat olla täällä
tuhannesta syystä. Minun tietääkseni on olemassa ainoastaan yksi
syy, minkä vuoksi on menetelty tällä tavoin, ja se syy ulottuu elämän
syvimpiin juuriin. Nämä uskonnolliset maalaukset eivät ole tahraisia,
rikkinäisiä tai töherrettyjä, niinkuin ne olisivat olleet lapsien, jonkun
ajattelemattoman teeskentelijän tai protestantin käsissä. Niitä on
päinvastoin pidelty hyvin huolellisesti ja myöskin hyvin omituisesti.
Kaikkialla, missä Jumalan nimi, runsaasti koristelluin kirjaimin, on
esiintynyt tekstissä, on se raaputettu pois hyvin tarkkaan. Muuten ei
ole poistettu muuta kuin sädekehä Jeeuslapsen pään ympäriltä. Ja
siksi sanon minä: ottakaamme esiin valtakirja, varustautukaamme
kirveillä ja lapioilla ja lähtekäämme avaamaan ruumisarkkua."

"Mitä te tarkoitatte?" kysyi Lontoon poliisi.

"Minä tarkoitan", sanoi pikku pappi ja hänen äänensä tuntui hiukan

kovenevan voittaakseen tuulen. "Minä tarkoitan, että se rietas henki,
joka tuulia vallassansa pitää, istuu tällä hetkellä tämän linnan
huipulla niin suurena kuin sata elefanttia, ja ärjyen kuin
Ilmestyskirjan peto. Kaiken tämän takana on mustaa magiaa."

"Mustaa magiaa", toisti Flambeau matalalla äänellä, sillä hän oli

liian valistunut ollakseen tietämättä sellaisesta. "Mutta mitähän nämä
muut esineet merkinnevät?"

"Jotakin, mikä on pahasta, otaksun minä", sanoi isä Brown

kärsimättömästi. "Mitenkä minä sen tietäisin? Kuinka voisin minä
arvata ne juonet, joita alaisissa maailmoissa punotaan? Käy ehkä
päinsä tehdä bambusta ja nuuskasta kidutusvälineitä. Ehkäpä
mielipuolet himoitsevat vahaa ja viilajauhoja. Ehkäpä lyijystä voidaan
valmistaa rohtoa, joka tekee ihmiset hulluiksi. Suorin tie salaisuuden
ratkaisuun käy yli kukkulan haudalle."

Hänen toverinsa tiesivät tuskin itsekään, että he olivat totelleet ja

seuranneet häntä, ennenkuin tuulenpuuska oli kaatamaisillaan
heidät puutarhassa. He olivat kuitenkin totelleet häntä aivan
koneellisesti, sillä Cravenillä oli valtakirja taskussa ja kirves kädessä.
Flambeau kantoi omituisen puutarhurin raskasta lapiota ja isä Brown
oli ottanut mukaansa tuon pienen, kullatun kirjan, josta Jumalan nimi
sellaisella huolella oli raaputettu pois.

Polku kukkulan yli hautausmaalle oli mutkikas, vaikkakin lyhyt,

mutta tuuli oli niin voimakas, että matka tuntui heistä sekä
vaivaloiselta että pitkältä. Niin kauas kuin silmä kantoi, yhä
kauemmas, mitä korkeammalle he nousivat rinnettä pitkin, levisi
petäjämetsä kuin meri, tällä kertaa tuulen samaan suuntaan
taivuttamana. Ja tämä rukoileva asento oli yhtä tarkoitukseton kuin
yleinen, yhtä tarkoitukseton kuin olisi myrsky ulvonut asumattoman
taivaankappaleen ympärillä ilman määrää ja tarkoitusta. Näiltä
sinivihreän metsän peittämiltä loppumattomilta aavoilta nousi
kimeänä ja korkeana tuo ikivanha valitus, mikä on kaiken
pakanallisen pohjalla. Olisi voinut luulla, että tämän mittaamattoman,
laajan maailman äänet olivat karkoitettujen jumalien huutoja —
niitten jumalien, jotka hapuilevat metsän mutkaisilla poluilla
löytämättä koskaan paluutietä taivaaseen.

"Näettekö", sanoi isä Brown matalalla mutta tyynellä äänellä.

"Skotlannin kansa oli kummallista joukkoa, ennenkuin Skotlantia oli
olemassakaan. Ja se on vieläkin omituista. Luulen todenteolla, että
he palvelivat perkeleitä esihistoriallisella ajalla."

"Sen vuoksi", lisäsi hän melkein iloisesti, "miellytti puritaaninen

teologia heitä."

"Hyvä ystävä", sanoi Flambeau ja kääntyi kiukustuneena. "Mitä

kaikki tuo nuuska merkitsee?"
 "Hyvä ystävä", vastasi Brown järkkymättömän vakavasti, "kaikilla
luonnon uskonnoilla on yhteinen tunnusmerkki, nimittäin
materialismi. Paholaisen palvelus on todellista luonnon uskontoa."

He olivat nyt ehtineet kukkulan ruohoakasvavalle huipulle, yhdelle

niistä harvoista paikoista, joita kuohuva ja jyrisevä petäjämetsä ei
ollut vallannut. Yksinkertainen, puusta ja rautalangasta tehty aitaus
kitisi myrskyssä ja ilmoitti, missä hautausmaan raja oli. Mutta kun
tarkastaja Craven oli tullut haudalle ja Flambeau oli pistänyt lapionsa
maahan ja nojautunut sitä vasten, vapisivat he molemmat melkein
yhtä paljon kuin tuulessa tutiseva aita. Haudan ympärillä kasvoi
suuria, korkeita ohdakkeita, harmaita ja hopeanvärisiä
kuihtuneisuudessaan. Pari kertaa, kun loppuun kukkinut oksa taittui
ja ohdakkeen hyödyt pyrysivät Cravenin ohi, hypähti hän kuin
ammutun nuolen tapaamana.

Flambeau tunki lapionsa ratisevien heinien läpi omituisesti

muodostuneeseen saveen. Mutta sitten hillitsi hän itsensä ja nojautui
työkaluunsa kuin sauvaan.

"Jatkakaa", sanoi pappi hyvin hiljaa. "Mehän etsimme vain

totuutta.
Mitä te pelkäätte?"

"Minä pelkään löytäväni sen", sanoi Flambeau.

Äkkiä otti Lontoon poliisi puheenvuoron sanoen korkealla, kimeällä

äänellä, joka oli olevinaan huoleton ja hilpeä:

"Minä kummastelen, miksi hän piiloutui tällä tavoin. Se tapahtui kai

jonkin ruman syyn vuoksi. Sairastikohan hän ehkä spitaalia?"
 "Pahempaa", sanoi Flambeau.

"Ja minkä te kuvittelette olevan pahempaa kuin spitaalin?" kysyi

toinen.

"Minä en kuvittele mitään", sanoi Flambeau.

Hän jatkoi kaivamista muutaman kamalan minuutin ajan

hiljaisuuden vallitessa. Sitten sanoi hän käheällä äänellä:

"Minä pelkään, että hän ei ole sellainen kuin hänen pitäisi olla."

"Sellainenhan ei ollut tuo paperipalanenkaan, jonka muistatte"

sanoi isä Brown. "Ja kuitenkin jäimme eloon."

Flambeau jatkoi kaivamista kaikin voimin, mutta myrsky oli

hajoittanut raskaat, harmaat pilvet, jotka olivat levänneet kukkuloiden
päällä kuin savu, ja nyt aukenivat taivaalla harmaat, tähtien
valaisemat kentät, ennenkun hän oli ehtinyt paljastaa raskaan,
honkapuisen ruumisarkun ja saanut sen nostetuksi ruohokummulle.
Mutta sitten rohkaisi hän mielensä ja kolkutti ja kiskoi hänelle
ominaisella tarmollaan, siksi kunnes kansi aukeni ja arkun sisällys
lepäsi heidän edessään kiillellen tähtien heikossa valossa.

"Ruumis", sanoi Craven ja sitten hän lisäsi: "Mutta hänhän on

aivan oikea ihminen", aivan kuin olisi hän odottanut, ettei hän olisi
ollut sellainen.

"Onko hän?" kysyi Flambeau kumealla äänellä. "Onko hän

sellainen kuin hänen pitääkin olla?"

"Siltä näyttää", sanoi poliisi käheästi ja kumartui katsomaan

arkussa mätänevää ruumista. "Odottakaa hiukan!"
 Suuri Flambeau päästi helpotuksen huokauksen.

"Kun oikein ajattelen asiaa", huudahti hän, "niin eihän ole

montakaan syytä, jotka pakottaisivat otaksumaan päinvastaista.
Minä ihmettelen, mikä se ottaa miehen valtoihinsa näitten vanhojen,
kirottujen vuorten keskellä. Luultavasti on se tuo tumma,
merkityksetön yksitoikkoisuus — kaikki nuo metsät ja niiden yllä
ikuisen tajuttomuuden kauhu. Se on kuin jumalankieltäjän uni.
Petäjiä, taas petäjiä, miljoonittain petäjiä…"

"Jumalani", huudahti mies kirstun ääressä. "Hänellähän ei ole

päätä."

Molempien toisten seisoessa kuin kivettyneinä, näytti pappi

ensikertaa eloisan hämmästyksen merkkejä.

"Eikö hänellä ole päätä?" huudahti hän, aivan kuin olisi hän
odottanut tapaavansa jonkun muun puutteellisuuden.

Puolittain järjettömät näyt päättömästä lapsesta, joka oli tullut

maailmaan Glengylessä, päättömästä nuorukaisesta, joka oli
piiloutunut linnaan, päättömästä miehestä, joka kuljeskeli vanhoissa
saleissa tai loistavassa puutarhassa, levisivät kuin panoraamana
heidän mielikuvituksensa eteen. Mutta nuo kuvitelmat eivät edes
tänä hirmuhetkenä päässeet juurtumaan heidän mieliinsä — ne
olivat liian luonnottomia. Nuo kolme miestä seisoivat paikallaan
kuunnellen puitten ryskettä ja myrskyn vinkunaa — tuijottaen kuin
loppuun väsyneet eläimet. Ajatus oli heistä kuin jokin äärettömän iso
hirviö, mikä oli liukunut pois heidän käsistään.

"Tämän haudan ympärillä seisoo kolme päätöntä miestä", sanoi

isä Brown.
 Kalpea lontoolainen poliisi avasi suunsa puhuakseen, mutta se jäi
ammolleen kuin talonpoikahulttiolla, kun ulvova tuulen vihuri samalla
pyyhkäisi läpi ilman. Sitten katsahti hän kädessään olevaan
kirveeseen. Oli kuin se ei olisi kuulunut hänelle ja hän päästi sen.

"Isä", sanoi Flambeau sellaisella lapsellisella, valittavalla äänellä,

jota hän harvoin käytti. "Mitä tulee meidän nyt tehdä?"

Hänen ystävänsä vastaus tuli laukaistun tykinluodin vauhdilla.

"Nukkua!", huusi isä Brown. "Nukkua! Olemme saapuneet teitten

päähän. Tiedättekö mitä uni on? Tiedättekö, että ihminen, joka
nukkuu, uskoo Jumalaan? Uni on sakramentti, sillä se on uskon
toimintaa ja se on ravintoaine. Ja me tarvitsemme sakramenttiä,
vaikka aivan puhtaasti luonnollista laadultaan. Meille on tapahtunut
sellaista, mitä ihmisen lapsille harvoin tapahtuu — ehkäpä pahinta,
mitä heille saattaa tapahtua."

Craven sulki avoimen suunsa ja sitten sanoi hän:

"Mitä te tarkoitatte?"

Pappi oli kääntänyt silmänsä linnaa kohti vastatessaan:

"Me olemme löytäneet totuuden ja asia on sentään yhtä

käsittämätön."

Kiivain ja äkillisin askelin, mikä oli häneen nähden tavatonta, meni

hän nyt takaisin polkua alas, ja kun he palasivat linnaan, heittäytyi
hän pitkälleen kuin väsynyt koira ja nukkui.

Mutta huolimatta siitä mystillisestä määritelmästä, jonka hän oli

unesta antanut, oli isä Brown valveilla aikaisemmin kuin kukaan
muu, lukuunottamatta vaiteliasta puutarhuria. Nyt katseli hän
piippuaan poltellen tuota monitaitoista miestä, joka työskenteli
kasvitarhassa mykkänä kuin aina. Hiukan ennen päivänkoittoa oli
ankara myrsky muuttunut rankkasateeksi, ja päivä alkoi ihanan
raittiina. Näytti melkein siltä kuin olisi puutarhuri ryhtynyt
keskusteluun isä Brownin kanssa, mutta kun salapoliisit lähestyivät,
painoi hän jörön näköisenä lapionsa maahan, mutisi jotain
aamiaisesta, astuskeli tiehensä kaalinpäitten ohi ja sulkeutui
keittiöön.

"Reipas mies tuo", sanoi isä Brown. "Hoitaa mainiosti

perunoitaan."

"Ja kuitenkin", lisäsi hän kuin anteeksipyytäen, "on hänelläkin

vikansa — kelläpä niitä ei olisi? Tämä oja ei ole tasaisesti kaivettu.
Tuossa esimerkiksi — ja hän polki maata näyttämällään paikalla. —
Ihmettelenpä sentään kuinka tuon perunamaan laita oikeastaan on."

"Miksi niin?" kysyi Craven, jota pikku miehen uusi päähänpisto

huvitti.

"Niin, minä ihmettelen, kuinka sen asian laita oikeastaan on",

sanoi Brown. "Sillä vanha Gow näyttää itsekin hiukan epäilevältä.
Hän pisti aivan järjestelmällisesti lapionsa jokapaikkaan paitsi tähän.
Tässä alla on kai komeita perunoita."

Flambeau otti lapion ja työnsi sen voimakkaasti maahan isä

Brownin osoittamaan paikkaan. Raskaan multamöhkäleen alta
ilmestyi kohta sen jälkeen jotain, mikä ei ollenkaan näyttänyt
perunoilta, vaan mieluummin suurelta, pilalle kasvaneelta
jättiläissieneltä. Mutta se kolahti, kun lapio sattui siihen, se pyörähti
ympäri kuin pallo ja irvisti nyt heitä vastaan.
 "Glengylen kreivi", sanoi Brown surullisesti ja katseli kalloa synkän
näköisenä.

Mietittyään hiukan tempasi hän lapion Flambeaulta sanoi:

"Meidän täytyy peittää se jälleen."

Hän multasi kallon taas maahan ja nojasi sitten pienen ruumiinsa

ja mahtavan päänsä lapion suureen varteen, joka seisoi tukevasti
maassa. Hänen katseensa oli tyhjä ja hänen otsansa täynnä ryppyjä.

"Kun vain voisin ymmärtää tämän viimeisen väkivaltaisuuden

merkityksen", mutisi hän.

Ja yhä lapioon nojaten kätki hän kasvonsa käsiinsä, niinkuin

miesten on tapana tehdä kirkossa.

Taivaan kaikki pielet olivat kirkastuneet ja välkkyivät sinelle ja

hopealle. Linnut lauloivat puutarhan pienissä puissa ja tulivat kohta
niin äänekkäiksi, että kuului siltä kuin olisivat itse puut puhuneet.
Mutta nuo kolme miestä olivat hyvin hiljaa.

"Minä luovun kaikesta", ilmoitti Flambeau viimein korkealla

äänellä.
"Minun aivoni ja tämä maailma eivät sovi toisilleen ja sillä hyvä.
Nuuskaa, turmeltuja rukouskirjoja, rikottuja soittolaatikoita —
mitä…?"

Brown kohotti kasvonsa ja löi kädellään lapionvartta hänelle hyvin

tavattomalla kärsimättömyydellä:

"Lörpötystä", huudahti hän. "Kaikki muuhan on selvää kuin päivä.

Nuuskan ja kellonkoneiston osat ja koko roskan käsitin heti, kun
avasin silmäni tänä aamuna. Sitten olen haastattanut Gowta,
puutarhuria, joka ei ole niin kuuro, eikä niin tyhmä kuin on olevinaan.
Noihin kokoonkerättyihin esineihin nähden on kaikki niinkuin olla
pitää. Minä erehdyin rikkonaisesta messukirjasta — siinäkään ei ollut
mitään pahaa. Mutta hautojen häpäiseminen ja kuolleiden päiden
varastaminen! — siinä on varmasti jotain pahaa, vai kuinka? Voihan
sitä sanoa mustaksi magiaksi? Mutta se ei sovellu viattomaan
kertomukseen nuuskasta ja kynttilöistä."

Sitten alkoi hän taas kuljeksia tupakoiden tuumaillessaan.

"Ystäväni", sanoi Flambeau jonkunlaisella hirtehishuumorilla.

"Teidän täytyy käsitellä minua varovaisesti, muistaen, että minä olin
ennen pahantekijä. Sillä ammatilla oli se suuri etu, että minä aina
itse sepitin kohtauksen ja panin sen toimeen niin pian kuin halusin.
Tämä salapoliisin virka, jossa täytyy kärsivällisesti odotella, on liikaa
minun ranskalaiselle kärsimättömyydelleni. Koko elämäni aikana
olen minä niin hyvässä kuin pahassakin ollut ripeä liikkeissäni.
Kaksintaisteluni tapahtuivat aina seuraavana aamuna, laskuni
maksoin päivälleen; en siirtänyt edes hammaslääkärille
menoanikaan…"

Isä Brownin piippu putosi pois suusta ja meni kolmeksi

kappaleeksi hiekkakäytävällä. Hän seisoi pyöritellen silmiään kuin
olisi ollut vähäjärkinen. "Mikä pässinpää minä olenkaan!" huudahteli
hän kerta toisensa jälkeen. Ja sitten alkoi hän nauraa, niin kuin olisi
juonut lasin liikaa.

"Hammaslääkäri", toisti hän. "Kuusi tuntia olen ponnistellut

ajatuksiani vain siksi, etten ole tullut ajatelleeksi hammaslääkäriä.
Mikä yksinkertainen, mikä ihana ja rauhoittava ajatus! Ystäväni,
olemme viettäneet yön pimeydessä, mutta nyt on aurinko noussut,
linnut laulavat ja hammaslääkärin säteilevä muoto virvoittaa
maailman."

"Nyt minä varmasti puserran hiukan järkeä tästä", sanoi Flambeau

astuen eteenpäin, "vaikka minun täytyisi käyttää inkvisitionin
kidutuskoneita."

Isä Brown hillitsi äkkiä heränneen halunsa hyppiä ja tanssia

aurinkoisessa ruohokossa ja hän huusi pyytäen kuin lapsi:

"Antakaa minun nyt olla hiukan vallaton. Ette tiedä kuinka

epätoivoissani minä olen ollut ja nyt tiedän minä, ettei tässä
tarinassa esiinny yhtään suurempaa syntiä. Hiukan hulluutta vain —
sitä en kiellä — mutta kukapa siitä huolisi?"

Hän pyörähti ympäri kantapäällään ja sitten tuli hän taas

vakavaksi.

"Tämä ei ole mikään rikostarina", sanoi hän. "Se on mieluummin

kertomus epätavallisesta ja hiukan omituisesta kunniantunnosta. Nyt
olemme tekemisissä henkilön kanssa — ehkä ainoan maailmassa —
joka ei ole ottanut enempää kuin oli saapa. Tämä on tutkielma siitä
villistä, elävästä johdonmukaisuudesta, mikä on ollut tämän rodun
uskontona.

"Tuon vanhan tällä seudulla kiertelevän hokeman Glengylen

suvusta:

"Niin arvokas kuin puulle mehu, multa, on Ogilvielle

punertava kulta,

"voi selittää kirjaimellisesti, eikä vain kuvaannollisesti. Se ei

ainoastaan merkinnyt, että Glengylet pyrkivät rikkauteen, vaan se oli