Looking Back Brightly - An Embarassment of Blessings

 These Blessings, Reader, may Heav’n grant to thee;
A faithful friend, equal in Love’s degree;
Land fruitful, never conscious of the Curse,
A liberal Heart and never-failing Purse;
A smiling conscience, a contented mind;
A temp’rate Knowledge with true Wisdom join’d;
A Life as long as fair, and when expir’d,
A kindly death, unfear’d as undesir’d.

Poor Richard’s Almanack
 1745

With Thanksgiving approaching Poor Richard's blessing came to mind the other day when I called my childhood neighbor, friend and early coconspirator to check in.  I told him I was I was reminded of our youthful adventures, as I read Mark Twain's (Samuel Clements') Autobiography.  I should be quick to point out that the venerated Dr. Franklin and Dr. Clements (each had an honorary degree) shared both wit and wisdom, with wisdom favoring Franklin, wit Twain.


Franklin's autobiography made a great impression on me as a youth.  It now appears Twain's may make a similar one on me in my autumn  years.  More on Twain's autobiography later.

"A true friend is the best possession "

Poor Richard's Almanac, 

1744

What specifically prompted the call to my "Huckleberry" friend, was Twain's recollection of his youth in the woods of Kentucky.  It was as vivid and colorful as my own.  I imagine most of our favorite childhood memories are sharp and vivid, especially when you have someone to recount them with, as my friend and I  often do.  When we wax nostalgic, we are transported back to a long-ago time in early summer morning, when we would both dash out our backdoors, with the dew still wet on the grass, and our mother's admonition of, "Be home in time for dinner.", ringing in our ears.   We would rendezvous at a giant pine tree between our houses.  It was the finest climbing tree for miles.  There much like our literary heroes Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, we would plot our adventure for the day.  It may have been a foray to Mitchell's Pond to throw rocks at the snakes. Or an arduous hike to the "Boulders", which were a massive towering jumble of giant rocks piled up on one another, left behind as a souvenir from the last Ice Age.  Our missions varied according to seasons and friends available for recruitment for our expedition.  All in all, an idyllic time.  I was blessed, though at the time I didn't know it.  We enjoyed a freedom and independence that in time we would deny our own children, for the sake of safety.  Independence is an exhilarating gift that brings with its own responsibility.  It is an experience that perhaps our children may one day enjoy again.  (Note to the Media, stop scaring everyone.)  


Thanksgiving being a time for reflection, allow me a few moments to range through a few thoughts, on bounty and blessings.


Reading Twain's autobiography, which was written in his final years, brought me to the realization that people, as well as nations, often do not appreciate how fortunate they are, until the blessings they were granted, begin to wane.  Or as Joni Mitchell sang, "That you don't know what you've got till it's gone."   Which brings to mind the observation:
"Youth is wasted on the young."


Mark Twain's literary greatness lay with the fact that his childhood memories never left him.  He was a man who wrote with a boy's heart.  He never lost his sense of wonder, as was evident in "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer".  The foundation for the novel and his exceptional gift of observation, can be seen in this description of his Uncle's farm he visited as a boy.  Its youthful enthusiasm is an apt description of a boy and a country coming of age in the early 19th century.

"I can see the farm yet, with perfect clearness. I can see all its belongings, all its details; the family room of the house, with a "trundle" bed in one corner and a spinning-wheel in another--a wheel whose rising and falling wail, heard from a distance, was the mournfulest of all sounds to me, and made me homesick and low-spirited, and filled my atmosphere with the wandering spirits of the dead: the vast fireplace, piled high, on winter nights, with flaming hickory logs from whose ends a sugary sap bubbled out but did not go to waste, for we scraped it off and ate it; the lazy cat spread out on the rough hearthstones, the drowsy dogs braced against the jambs and blinking; my aunt in one chimney-corner knitting, my uncle in the other smoking his corn-cob pipe; the slick and carpetless oak floor faintly mirroring the dancing flame-tongues and freckled with black indentations where fire-coals had popped out and died a leisurely death; half a dozen children romping in the background twilight; "split"-bottomed chairs here and there, some with rockers; a cradle--out of service, but waiting, with confidence; in the early cold mornings a snuggle of children, in shirts and chemises, occupying the hearthstone and procrastinating--they could not bear to leave that comfortable place and go out on the wind-swept floor-space between the house and kitchen where the general tin basin stood, and wash.

Along outside of the front fence ran the country road; dusty in the summer-time, and a good place for snakes--they liked to lie in it and sun themselves; when they were rattlesnakes or puff adders, we killed them: when they were black snakes, or racers, or belonged to the fabled "hoop" breed, we fled, without shame; when they were "house snakes" or "garters" we carried them home and put them in Aunt Patsy's work-basket for a surprise; for she was prejudiced against snakes, and always when she took the basket in her lap and they began to climb out of it it disordered her mind. She never could seem to get used to them."

Count your blessings, literally

Like Twain, I think most of us have a propensity to remember, "Only the bright moments".  It's why our past is wrapped in a warm nostalgic cover.  Our yearning for the "Old Days" and the appearance of a bountiful past may have something to do with the fact that each year more of us show up for at the same sized world table for dinner.  When Poor Richard's was published in 1750 there were 700 million worldwide pilgrims looking for something to eat, in 1950, 2.55 billion, today according to the United Nations, we had the 7 billionth pilgrim show up looking for grub.  That's a lot of plates on Mother Nature's table.  The mathematic progression should give us pause.

When the original Pilgrims showed up in North America, the natives were only to happy to share what they had with the curiously dressed out-of-towners.  It was inconceivable of the Wampanoag Tribe of Massachusetts to think that these pitiful English settlers could ever need more than the "Great Spirit" had provided for them.  There was land and bounty enough for all God's creatures.  Of course, the Wampanoag's had never met an English lawyer or soldier yet.  Our local aborigines would discover soon enough the people on the far shore had a voracious appetite for land and slaughter.


Even 200 years later it seemed that our North America's bounty was limitless.  Here is a description of a hunting forage out of Mark Twain's childhood back door:

"I remember the pigeon seasons, when the birds would come in millions, and cover the trees, and by their weight break down the branches. They were clubbed to death with sticks; guns were not necessary, and were not used. I remember the squirrel hunts, and the prairie-chicken hunts, and the wild-turkey hunts, and all that; and how we turned out, mornings, while it was still dark, to go on these expeditions, and how chilly and dismal it was, and how often I regretted that I was well enough to go. A toot on a tin horn brought twice as many dogs as were needed, and in their happiness they raced and scampered about, and knocked small people down, and made no end of unnecessary noise. At the word, they vanished away toward the woods, and we drifted silently after them in the melancholy gloom. But presently the gray dawn stole over the world, the birds piped up, then the sun rose and poured light and comfort all around, everything was fresh and dewy and fragrant, and life was a boon again. After three hours of tramping we arrived back wholesomely tired, overladen with game, very hungry, and just in time for breakfast."

It is easy to be charitable when you have much. The trick is to still be kind when things are dear.  As a nation we have often been generous in sharing our wealth with our friends.  Our native North Americans probably felt the same way when they welcomed the European explorers and early settlers.  It would take almost 250 years before they were crowded out of their rich hunting lands and herded westward into oblivion.  I have always been proud of being an American.  Part of that pride stemmed from being blessed by being born in a land of seemingly endless bounty.  Seldom has so much been been protected by so few.  I should also count among my blessing the fact I belonged to a tribe that embraced mathematics and literacy.  The application of which provided our forebears the tools necessary to have their way with the noble but poorly armed native inhabitants, "from sea to shining sea".   Now, I am not suggesting I am proud of how we took title to the land.  Few land grabs are as neat and tidy as the Dutch acquisition of Manhattan, for a handful of beads and trinkets, most are messy and protracted.  Just ask any European, they don't bother drawing the boundaries in ink anymore.  I just feel fortunate that I came from a tribe that appreciated "Gnosis" or knowledge.  It was science and engineering that had our team holding the trigger side of the "fire stick" during our march to the Pacific.  Science and reason will trump witchdoctors and shamans  every time.


While I'm on the topic of taking blessings for granted, a good deal of our greatness comes from passing our knowledge on to our children.   In as much as western common sense (liberal arts), science and logic are currently being called into question by powerful skeptics, I can only pray (curiously ironic) that our belief in mathematics and natural philosophy may continue to serve our tribe in the future.  


As time and mathematics inexorably apply themselves to man's proclivity for reproduction, our tribe and the world, will need rational reasoning and science more than ever to maintain the blessings we have come to take for granted.  Let us hope that as a national tribe we can still count on common sense and our great "commonwealth" as one of our true blessings to be thankful for this Thanksgiving.  


In the meantime, let's look at the bright side of runaway population growth,  it greatly enhances the opportunity to meet new friends and family.  Which brings me back to Ben's idiom: "A true friend is the best possession " and mercifully my conclusion.


Of all my blessings, of which I have many, none do I cherish and am grateful for more than my very own friends and family.  They are a gift and treasure that makes everyday, a day to be thankful.


I pray your days are as blessed.


Happy Thanksgiving.