The Blue Rose Bouquet » essay

Two Rights Make a Wrong?

Pamela Rice Hahn — Mon, 02 Apr 2001 17:09:03 +0000

by TJ Robertson

This is a story of two people, with two different views.

Now different views are something we all profess to not mind, but in reality we resent. Especially if the different view is held by our spouse. Everyone knows this is true, but we rarely will admit to such petty behavior because generally these incidents that tend to be the most irritating, are the ones that are the most ridiculous. Who wants to tell someone about the argument over the toilet paper roll, or the complaint about a spouse’s belief that mowing the grass produces methane emissions in the unacceptable range therefore the lawn cannot be mowed that weekend? You start telling someone about the argument you had with your spouse over these ridiculously silly notions your spouse had, and next thing you know, you end up looking the fool instead of the one deserving to be humiliated. Well, this is a story about two people, two views, and two lessons learned.

My brother Les and his wife Amy were driving to Amarillo down this long straight Texas road. This road is just the type of road people thinking of Texas would imagine. Long, dry, hot with miles and miles of nothing but desert high plains. The only thing imparting a color of life being the occasional mesquite trees and clusters of prickly pear cactus. The only human inhabitants, in transient passing cars seen for 5 miles coming, then passing in a flash before a license plate can be deciphered. Animal life is abundant of the unfriendly type, hidden from the hot glaring sun and rarely seen by the passing motorist except for the occasional rattlesnake or skunk in the road. There, of course, are cattle, too.

But cattle in Texas are not unusual or even noticed for the most part. With so many hundreds of miles of free range, why would the cattle want to be next to a highway? Life is not easy for any animal on the high plains, and especially for the cows. Many acres of range are needed for just one cow with the sparseness of vegetation and water. Basically the cattle are fending for themselves, therefore it is not an unusual occurrence to have a cow consume some loco weed or be attacked by coyotes, or bit by a snake.

So as they drove down this road, my brother saw a dead dog just off the side of the road and he happen to mention this occurrence to Amy. Now there was some tenseness between them from a previous disagreement and therefore what happened following was blown out of proportion. Amy said “What dog? … That was a cow!”

“No! It was a dog,” Les said, as he continued to drive down the road, certain that Amy was just being argumentative and therefore rapidly getting very upset with her.

Amy is likewise perturbed with Les for his refusal to admit it was possibly a cow, for she knew what she’d seen, and it was a big bloated dead cow! “How could anyone miss that?” she thinks to herself.

Well, tempers flared and finally it culminated in Amy insisting that they stop and turn around to prove to Les that she was right. “If you’re wrong,” he said, “you owe me your whole paycheck!!” Amy was determined; he was wrong and he was going to see he was wrong. She knew she was right!

The drive back to the place where the dog/cow had been seemed longer than it was, with anger in the air. Once they finally got to the spot, they got out of the van and sure enough there is this dead dog a few feet away from the white line of the highway. And there … a few feet over, was a huge bloated dead cow on the side of the road. Well, needless to say, they were both right, but both wrong too. Okay, what does someone say in this situation? Exhibiting typical male diplomacy, Les says to Amy, “How could you miss seeing that dog?” Amy looks at her husband, looks back at this huge bloated cow, and then looks back at her husband and asks, “WELL HOW DID YOU MISS THE COW????”

So folks, see there are always two views and depending on your view, you are right. But I’d like to also say you just might be wrong, too, if you saw the whole picture. What are the lessons? Well, first, if you insist on being right, make sure you are right. And second, if you are right, keep your mouth shut, for two rights only make a wrong.

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Author bio:

TJ Robertson is an award-winning poet who now resides in the state of Washington.

Two Rights Make a Wrong? is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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Welcome to Men’s Town

Pamela Rice Hahn — Sun, 02 May 1999 06:31:17 +0000

An essay by Nelson Shogren

We call it “Men’s Town.” Right at noon on Friday, four of us quietly switched off our computers, watched the screens flicker and go black, and headed for the door with no intention of coming back. A few co-workers suspected that the men wearing jeans, flannel shirts, and hiking boots were outbound for adventure, and they were more than willing to let the nut-cases escape.

We grouped at my van, tossed our backpacks inside, and rocketed out of town. Our destination, the southwest sector of Mohican State Forest, is about 40 minutes away.

I was hitting the trail today with Dave the GearMan (he personally owns 300 pounds of the lightest camping gear made), Youngstown Scotty (he engraved the “Men’s Town” moniker for our annual outings), Hikin’ Mike (we’ve hiked and canoed together for 16 years), and Mike’s 18-year-old son, Paul the FireKeeper. And missing-in-action this year is Let’s Do It Dick, the ex-Navy Seal who could slog through three-feet of snow like a tank on a task. Had work to do, or so he claimed.

We strapped on our nylon and Gore-Tex homes-away-from-home and walked away from civilization. Each step jettisoned vast stressloads of excessive e-mail, voicemail, faxes, cell phones, pagers and software that will make us smarter.

The rules of Men’s Town are simple. No women are allowed. Not that any of our women are fool enough to camp in 25-degree weather — the rule merely lets us do manly things like belch and other things that generally upset the ladies. The GearMan puts it this way: “Sometimes you just have to run to the end of your chain and bark.”

We popped our tents in a steep valley carved by a cold stream while hoot owls shrieked obscenities at us. We gathered wood, made a campfire and began to cook our vittles. Dave the GearMan cooked all kinds of fancy freeze-dried stuff over a lightweight, high-tech stove while the rest of us scorched cans of Dinty Moore stew on the fire. The GearMan made lots of friends that night. Not only does he have the best eats, he has all the cool toys.

I put a well-dented, discolored aluminum coffee pot into the hot coals. This pot had traveled with me around most of the continent for a quarter of a century. Through the smoke, it had seen a lot of beautiful wilderness on its many journeys on land and across water. Most Men’s Towners had personal camp friends they drug around with them.

Then the good stuff started. We talked around the fire — trails we had trekked, mountains we had climbed, rivers we had run and characters we had met. We even retold the stories we had heard along the way. Many sagas were epilogued with laughter and Men’s Town was firmly established.

The GearMan shared the experiences of his 47-day camping trip up the Alaska and Dalton highways above the Arctic Circle to Prudhoe Bay. Youngstown Scotty replayed a mishap in mountainous Mexico. Hikin’ Mike told of his recent whitewater trips. Paul talked of losing major skin in a nasty bike spill and kept the fire going. Quite often, the speaker stood to re-enact his role or a victim’s part of the plot.

Through the smokescreen of the fire I could vividly see my comrades as they faced insurmountable odds and met the most amazing creatures. Grizzly bears, conniving raccoons, “freshwater bull sharks” chasing terrified river rafters, the revenge of a resourceful hotel maid, and the hard-nosed Mexican Police all danced to life above the fire.

As the flames flickered in the midst of our laughter, I knew that this is how life should be. The origins of language occurred around a fire — aborigines made guttural sounds to describe their daily escapades, and much later, verbal histories were passed on to younger generations around the campfires of long ago. And here was a bunch of modern engineers, business managers and media professionals continuing that traditional artform.

On the evening of my return from Men’s Town, my wife and I rented some videos and invited some friends over. For what seemed like forever, we watched the standard fare of car chase carnage, exploding helicopters and 9mm-bullet-riddled bloodbaths. Each special effect was loosely tied by a weak plot that gradually threaded its way toward a frayed end. Like the killings, it was totally senseless.

As the credits finally scrolled across the screen, I sensed that the tales told in Men’s Town far exceeded any multimillion dollar Hollywood celluloid. Why? The live theatre of the mind is much better than the images that can be conjured up on cinemascope. The magic of storytelling should be the main substance of our livelihood.

Would someone please light the fire?

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Author’s 1999 Bio:

Nelson Shogren is a 44-year-old writer who considers word art the highest form of communicating entertainment. He is a customer communications specialist at Sprint Corp. You can reach the author at his email address.

Welcome to Men’s Town is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet