For my 100th article, I wanted to share something that I wrote the other day. I have been hesitant to share it, because I didn't want to be accused of plagarism by my teacher if she were to find it on the 'net. But, I figured I'm gonna post it with this disclaimer:
MESSAGE FOR PROF. REAGAN: If you find this online, be well assured that this was written by me, Braeden Jones, in February of 2007. If it appears on any other site than JoeUser and the Stardock family of websites, it's been plagarized. But not by me, from me. So don't worry, dammit.
And now, my 100th article ... hope you like it.
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It was a cold January day as I pulled the seat up next to my grandfather's ghost.
“Been awhile since we've talked, son,” was all he said to me as we looked out over the gully.
“Glad you found the new house okay, Gramps,” I replied. “I was a little worried now that we've moved that it'd be a bit more difficult for you to find me.”
“Nah, I'm usually around. You just don't pay enough attention,” came the terse answer. “How can your daddy afford this thing anyway? It's a lot bigger than the old one. Tall ceilings.” He got up and began to pace around the great room, where we sat overlooking the ravine in the backyard. “Is this entertainment center cherry wood?”
I smiled. “Yeah, it is. Pretty nice looking, huh? And I guess you hadn't heard, Gramps, Dad's the president of the bank now.”
I looked over at the translucent figure of my grandfather. It had been fourteen years since he'd passed away, almost to the day. We had a tradition of sitting down on or near his deathday every year, catching up. He'd usually ask questions about the family, how Nana was doing, what was new in my life, the works. I'd ask him questions, usually about what life was like when he was my age back in the forties, what it was like to be a paratrooper in World War II, what his professional life was like.
This year was no different.
His eyes looked distant as he thought about my father's promotion. He finally found his way back into the armchair that had served as his seat for these talks since our first chat, the morning of the day he died. He'd passed away about three that forgotten winter morning, and as I was in the front room later that day all those years ago, he appeared to me and we talked. I thought that was his last goodbye, my last chance to talk with him, my best friend in the world, but yet he came back every year without fail.
Finally he answered, “Well, I guess he's living the American Dream, isn't he?”
I was surprised by this answer. I had never thought of it that way. Is my father living the American Dream? Is that why he has the big house, the motorhome, the tall ceilings, the guitar collection that makes me salivate? I thought to myself.
After a few more moments of pensive silence, I spoke up. “I suppose that he is ... I guess.”
My grandfather looked at me, that wry, lopsided smile on his face. “Oh come on, Braeden. You know that he is. Look at this thing! How tall are these ceilings, anyway? Sixteen, seventeen feet?”
“Sixteen in this room, twenty-one in the high point in the kitchen.”
His eyes widened. “Wow, twenty-one foot ceilings. Hell's bells and an extra value meal, that's a house. That's the American Dream.”
Confused, I followed the ethereal form of my grandfather as he began to walk through the opening into the kitchen, marveling at the height, running his transparent hands along the fine granite countertops, struggling down onto his hands and knees to stroke the smooth travertine of the marble floor tiles.
All around me I saw the splendid baubles of conspicuous consumption. Everything in the new house seemed too big, too nice, too elegant for my down-home tastes. I turned to Gramps and asked him, “What do you mean, this is the American Dream? I don't hope to have travertine marble floors some day ... is that somehow un-American?”
“Naw, son, it's not the marble. Damn fine marble, though, I won't lie there ... how much did this house cost your folks anyway?”
I reddened. “I'm really not supposed to talk to anyone about the price tag, Gramps. They didn't even want me to know how much it cost.”
“Oh come on, you can tell a dead old man, Braeden,” he laughed.
I told him a number, and his eyes widened like dinner plates. “I shoulda been the president of something, I guess,” was all he said.
“But what is the American Dream, then, Gramps? Didn't you live it? I mean, you had your own house in your own name, totally debt free. You owned a car, a boat, a motorhome. You and Nana were happy.”
He looked at me, obviously lost in thought. “Well, I suppose I did live the American dream, didn't I? We had some fun times on that boat.”
I grinned. The memories of the “fun times on that boat”, drifting along the waters of Bear Lake, sitting in the bow with Gramps, our rods out into the water, he and I talking (much like in that moment in the kitchen) resonating through the valleys of my consciousness.
Returning to the moment, I posed another question. “So then, Gramps, define this esoteric concept of 'American Dream' for me. Does it mean increasing what you've got? Does it mean doing better than those who came before?”
“Esoteric? Sometimes I think you forget that your Gramps was a soldier and a meat delivery man, not a university fella like yourself. That's a word I just don't know, son. But no, the American dream is not just doing better than the last generation. That's a part of it, sure. Look at your Grandma and Grandpa Jones – he was a poor carpenter, I was a poor delivery man, and look at where your parents are. Eight hundred thousand dollars of house, with twenty-one foot ceilings. I suspect that someday, your brother Peter will have a house like this, if not bigger, seeing as how he's a doctor and all,” he replied.
I hesitated. “What about me, then? I'm not going to make as much as Dad does, and certainly nowhere near as much as Pete. I'm just going to be a university professor, in Spanish, no less.”
He smiled his grandfatherly smile once again, and said, “Oh, come now, you'll be making plenty. You'll have lots of funny letters following your name, after all.”
“Yeah, but it's foreign language. Foreign language professors are the worst paid of all – trust me, I've asked around.”
“Hold on, now just hold on,” he contested. “I said that doing better than the last generation was only part of it. The biggest, and the most important part of the American Dream, the part that everyone can have, is simply being content. It's finding that serenity, that peace that when you sit down at night, and the world calms, that you're content with yourself and your life.”
All I could answer was an unintelligible grunt.
He continued, “That's the tricky part of the American Dream. Anyone can have it, but nobody seems to get it.”
I looked up at him, slack jawed. “That's it, Gramps? It's finding contentment? That's ... anti-climatic.”
“Yet at the same time, it's ... very climatic. And funny. We try, and try, and try, we run around like chickens with their heads cut off, and for what? What does it say in the Bible? A 'mess of pottage', or something like that? When all we should do, is be content. That's the American Dream – available to everyone, but gained by few.”
I furrowed my brow in thought. “That's kinda ... Buddhist sounding, Gramps.”
He grinned, toothy, and said, “Well, the Buddha's a good guy to hang around with. We play darts on the weekends. Guess he's rubbing off on me. Plus, he's got great aim.”
“Right, man. I believe that.”
We eased back into the front room, and he sat back into the sofa, putting his big hands behind his head, lounging back. “You should, son. The afterlife is like a dream; I sit around with some of the greatest minds this world has ever seen. Think about it – your meat delivery-truck driving grandfather, sitting down with Buddha, Abraham Lincoln, and Gandhi to play a round of five-card stud. It's like a dream all day; hell, this life is a dream.”
I laughed. “That reminds me – I was going to tell you about this paper I wrote the other day ...”