Wheels: Part 2

Before those fracases between this boy and his motorized machines, skateboards came on the scene. I don’t know exactly who first thought of the idea; perhaps it began in California. All I know is the big kids on the block started toting pieces of two-by-sixes with roller skates screwed or nailed into them. Us younger kids in my neighborhood found a long two-by-four and affixed a couple of pairs of roller skates to it and the entire block of kids (I don’t remember the actual count) climbed aboard and headed down the street. My friend and I were the last to fall off. Being a child of limited athletic prowess, I saw skateboarding as a new potential competitive advantage. My father may have recognized this too; whatever his motivation, my dad graciously bought me a red steel-wheeled skateboard at the local department store. I’ll never forget the piles and piles of the cloned board on sale there—a clear example of American capitalism at its best. Once in hand, I wasn’t about to test my new board on just any sidewalk; so I asked (whined, bugged, and nagged) my brother to drive me to the infamous Coonsmiller hill—a formidable downhill run in front of the local high school of the same name. My brother had earlier ridden successfully down this same incline on his top-flight rubber-wheeled board carrying a girl on his shoulders; he even got his picture in the newspaper (my brother did all the cool stuff—although our mother didn’t think so). Naturally I viewed Coonsmiller hill as the only acceptable venue for my new skateboard’s maiden voyage. Standing on the top of the precipice kind of took one’s breath away. It wasn’t so much the initial plunge that unnerved me—although it was terrifying--but the right-hand turn at the end that I needed to negotiate into a large driveway where delivery trucks entered to bring supplies to the school. My brother did it with a girl on his shoulders, so a scrawny kid on a brand new piece of equipment should be able to do it—no problem. I would never know because about half way down I hit an eruption in the sidewalk. I vaguely recall seeing, out of the corner of my eye, splinters of red painted wood, ball bearings and screws flying out from beneath my board as I leapt for the safety of the lawn. “Dad’s going to kill you,” my brother intoned as he inspected the damages. But as you can see, my dad didn’t kill me; in fact, he bought me my own top-flight rubber-wheeled skateboard for Christmas that year. I would use that board in many adventures until I grew out of the pastime. It was a fine piece of engineering. However, unlike today’s boards, my old rubber-wheeler couldn’t tolerate even tiny grains of sand on the sidewalk. Even the slightest amount of sand would stop the skateboard dead—the skateboard, that is, the rider kept right on going. But despite its short-comings, my skateboard was fast and relatively agile. All my years of honing my skateboarding skills would eventually come to fruition when I successfully surfed the waves off of Waikiki beach during a college vacation in Hawaii. But that’s another story.
My experiences with skateboarding provide a great metaphor for the price of excellence. It is all too easy for us to skimp on cost for critical tools in our lives, or take short-cuts in our education, or, most importantly, treat our relationship with God as only a Sunday morning fix. We will discover that the price of replacements and repairs of cheap tools far exceeds the initial cost of high-quality products. Trying to learn something by taking short-cuts, avoiding tiresome exercises, or attending schools having poor reputations will leave us uncompetitive and frustrated in our work world and struggling to keep pace with our peers. Treating God as someone we encounter only on Sunday mornings will leave us spiritually dead. Jesus put it this way:

“Everyone who hears these words of mine and does them is like a wise man who built his house on rock. The rain fell, the flood came, and the winds beat against that house, but it did not collapse because it had been founded on rock. Everyone who hears these words of mine and does not do them is like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain fell, the flood came, and the winds beat against that house, and it collapsed; it was utterly destroyed!”

Wheels

[This new story is a slight departure from my usual fair in that it is true. And I would like to dedicate it to my father, Arthur R. Kokko. As always, the reader will have to come back to the blog every Monday to get the entire story. Racers, start your engines!]

Everything’s a metaphor. I wasn’t the first to say this. Some wise person, I don’t recall who, once said it. It’s true. We can discover truths about our world, what we are, who we are, and why, by simply uncovering the many allusions that exist with people, places and things. We often overlook this vast resource of wisdom because most of us are too busy striving to be the other guy’s metaphor. I rekindled my own interest in metaphors when I purchased one. I bought a sports car.
The fact that I was middle aged at the time was purely coincidental. You think not? I’ll have you know that I am the poster child of safety. I avoid risky behavior at all costs. I even hate roller-coasters. So how does a sports car with all its pent up mayhem draw a person like me, who is quite at home in the hub, to venture out onto the wheel. I don’t know…. Okay, it was a mid-life crisis. In all fairness, though, I have always loved fast wheels—especially if I’m in control.
My first car was a dull gray peddle-car. I don’t know the specific model of car it was supposed to be, but I didn’t care because it was my first ride. I’ve been told that I had spent hours with a hose and sponge trying to make her shine, but to no avail. There’s definitely a metaphor in there somewhere. I’ll leave it to the reader, though, to ponder what that metaphor might be.
A little later in my childhood, I went through a phase of collecting and coddling Matchbox cars. These were the originals made precisely to scale by Lesney Products in England. I sold my pristine collection for about an order-of-magnitude gain over the initial investment. Not bad, but I should have saved the boxes. I would have profited even more had I saved my meager Hot Wheels collection. But Hot Wheels were my expendable cars that I would paint and crash without mercy; hence I bequeathed to myself only a painful memory not unlike what someone today must experience as they recall the time they traded in their low mileage ’67 Mustang for a new Pinto.
In my Tween years I graduated to gas powered model cars; the first one being a replica of the famous Ford GT. The car was so fast that the only way you could use it was by tethering it and watching it morph into a blue ribbon until the gas ran out. Not much fun, but very visceral. The second was a dune buggy that came with changeable gears. I spent most of our short tenure together cleaning its fickle engine and polishing its blue metal fleck finish, while trying to figure out some way of making it go faster than 0.00001 mph. I later sold it in a rummage sale. I didn’t tell those naive new owners that they could start the buggy going, have lunch, and return an hour later to find it had advanced only about two feet. Perhaps they wouldn’t have cared; not everyone buys vehicles for speed and performance. And doggone-it, the toy looked really cool. I never heard from them, so I guess they were happy.
One could probably glean many profound metaphors from my early exploits with cars. Collectively, I see them as a metaphor for transcendent value. What I mean is this. We have come to believe value is a subjective expedient of the moment. It isn’t. Value is both objective and transcendent. Value is found with a rarified heart, like that of a child. Value is lost to us and distorted by our expectations and jaded cynicism. But value remains true and constant, even though our perception and appreciation of it changes.

NEXT WEEK, Part 2

That Perfect Gift: Part 2

[If this is your first visit to my blog, you need to go back to my Jan 31 posting to start the story that is being continued in the present posting. Have fun!....]



The little bit of light in the store came from a ceiling fixture over a counter opposite the front door. Behind the counter sat an old man—you know, about your age—with a round bald head and undersized circular bifocals, and his fat face plunged in a small greasy bowl of rice. He shoveled the grain into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in a week; maybe he hadn’t; his little business didn’t look like much of a money maker. The man finally looked up from his meal after I slammed the door to get it to close. Oh, Daddy, what an interesting character—like right out of an oriental version of Dickens. To help you understand just what I mean, as well as explain the bizarre object you now have before you, I will try to relate our encounter verbatim to you.
Initially he seemed disinterested, but soon a large broad grin, complete with some missing teeth, filled his shiny face. Nearly dropping his bowl on the counter, he said, “American, American, hello American! Rich American, come in please. Have many nice things; rich American find many nice things, here—all cheap!”
I told this jocund portly fellow of my dilemma and he slapped his hands together and said, “Yes, yes, yes, understand rich American. Truly, it has been spoken, ‘rich father have very poor daughter.’ Follow me, please--just right thing for rich American. Come, Mister Chen show rich American very great thing—very rare. You see, Mister Chen never wrong; you see, make rich American very happy. This way, please.”
I followed Mr. Chen through a beaded doorway into a disheveled workshop and on to another door and down a long curved stone stairway. A small lantern he had plucked off a cluttered workbench lighted the way.
“Careful, please: very dark until we get to basement,” he said as we descended down the cool, dank and decaying passage. I, of course, felt somewhat disconcerted following this strange man into the catacombs, but, hey, that’s what adventures are all about, right?
When we got to the cellar, Mr. Chen pulled a string attached to a single light bulb in the center of the room. Nothing happened, so he tapped the bulb lightly with his finger until the light reluctantly came on.
“Very tricky, very tricky,” he said. “Must treat like small baby—electrical not so good in Ulaanbaatar.”
“Indeed,” I thought to myself.
“Hold lantern, please,” he said handing me the lamp. Then he left the light and started searching for something by throwing stuff around willy-nilly. I heard the tinkling of glass when some of the boxes hit the stone floor. I wondered how he could afford to be so careless; I reasoned that it might be his way of antiquing. Finally, after things settled into a new state of disorganization, and, I’m afraid, disrepair, he reappeared in the light carrying a medium sized lacquered black box. Gingerly he placed the box on a wooden table and asked me to set the lantern next to it. He wiped away the dust with a handkerchief. The shiny ebony box gleamed in the dim light. Lovingly he twisted the brass latch and opened the box to reveal a lumpy purple velvet bag cinched by a small gold cord. His breathing increased with excitement as he untied the sack and despoiled it of its contents. With a deep sigh of satisfaction, Mr. Chen held up the object for me to see.
It appeared to be a stuffed animal of some kind. The creature had long reddish brown hair, large clumps of which were braided with red, green, and clear jewels hung on the ends. I thought, “What an interesting way to display jewelry.”
“Huh,” I said after examining it for a few moments, “a toy animal.”
“Not toy, no, no, not toy, real animal, not toy!” he said.
“That’s a real animal?” I said.
“Real animal, yes, and very rare,” he replied. “Only in Hangayn Mountains find pigmy musk ox.”
“Pygmy musk ox?” I said taking a closer look.
Sure enough, it had tiny dull dark gray horns, shiny coal black eyes like marbles surrounded by long lashes, a black nose and four little hooves—all in perfect miniature. Honestly, Daddy, I hadn’t seen anything like it since the specimens of Royal antelope at the Field Museum in Chicago.
“Did you shrink it or what?” I asked.
“No shrink, no shrink, as big as gets,” he said. “Hangayn ox very small—even as adult—also very shy; that’s why so rare. You buy ox? Rich American pleased with gift for honorable father?”
“Well,” I cleared my throat, “it is really nice and, well, nice, but you see my father is a kind of a straight arrow type. I’m not sure he would really appreciate such an…ah…unique--”
“Yes, I know. My father, too, what you say…rod in wet ground,” he said.
I told him I didn’t understand.
“Rod in ground, rod in ground,” Mr. Chen repeated as he motioned sticking something into the floor.
“Oh, you mean a stick in the mud!” I said.
“Yes, stick in mud,” he said.
“Well, that’s not exactly what I meant,” I stammered. “I just meant he’s sort of conservative, you know? A two feet on the ground type…ah….”
Mr. Chen didn’t seem to understand me, or, at least, believe me. So what could I do? Really, Daddy, I couldn’t have some perfect stranger half way around the world thinking my father is some kind of an old fuddy-duddy, now could I? So, well, Happy Birthday, Daddy!! Now you know the story behind what you are undoubtedly looking at with great bewilderment, and can now appreciate, and I use the word loosely, its novelty. I hope you and mom like it. Be sure to comb the little darling once a month.
I love you both. See you guys in about seven weeks. You can bet I’ll keep my eyes pealed for a glimpse of the rare Hangayn pigmy musk ox when I return to the digs. And don’t worry about me; I’ll be fine—really. Love, Missy.

THE END

That Perfect Gift Copyright © 2010 by Bruce Jerome Kokko

[Next Week (on Feb.15) meet a quintessential narcissist in the dark story The Second Death.]

That Perfect Gift

[For those of you reading my blog for the first time, you need to know that I am presenting my thoughts and ideas in the form of short stories. But each story will be presented in serial form. Last week I completed my first 4 part story. To read it please go to the Jan. 5 2010 posting and read through the postings to the present. I am beginning a new story with the present posting that I would like to dedicate to my daughter, Larisa. Enjoy!.........]


Dear Daddy, Surprise! That’s mean; I’m sorry, but I did say it would be about six weeks before you would hear from me again. I hope you haven’t been worrying too much. The team and I certainly have experienced some adventures and, yes, misadventures. We have had no lack of visitors since we found the gravesite. So far it’s mostly been government officials making sure that we haven’t touched the Great Khan’s remains or pilfered any of the treasures entombed with him. And there are some exquisite pieces. Apparently word travels fast because a few weeks ago some bandits arrived to try their hand at archeology. Fortunately they weren’t too bright because they showed up a short time after some soldiers. I think the thieves have now decided to pursue some other scholarly endeavor—least wise, they’ll have plenty of time for study. Anyway, the regiment has been garrisoned at our camp, so we are all breathing a lot easier.
As I said, we have cataloged some beautiful and priceless artifacts. Sadly, we haven’t found the log-book we think Genghis or one of his lieutenants kept of their exploits. But what we have unearthed will write volumes of history. The government plans to create a state exhibit that will travel all around the nation free of charge to the citizens. Then it will tour the globe. The proceeds will be used for various programs back here in Mongolia. I am very happy for these wonderful people that they should be given such a super gift. They deserve to profit from the rich piece of their heritage and it looks like they shall. As you might guess, I have many more stories to tell you; too many for me to write about now, though, so I’ll wait to give you the lowdown in person. I’ve recorded it all in my journal so I won’t forget anything.
We arrived in Ulaanbaatar, yesterday. It felt good to enjoy the amenities of a hotel, such as they are, for a change. But, it’s only for a week (sigh) and then it’s back to the Hangayn Mountains for another six weeks and then I’ll be coming home (yea!).
I remembered this morning that I won’t be home for your birthday. And because you can’t have me there to help celebrate, I just knew that I would have to find an extra special gift to help you feel better. The trouble is, as always, what do you get a father who has everything? I mean, CD’s, books, and fountain pens seem so boring and unoriginal. Well, what better place to find a truly unique present than right here in the exotic land of Mongolia. After all, we have wondered if there might be a smattering of Mongol blood in us—being the dark Finns that we are. Perhaps I could find something to stir up in you the ancient passions of the great Khans, or, at the very least, an interesting conversation piece for your mantle. So, with this in mind, I hit the streets earlier today in search of that perfect gift for you.
I wandered around the city for a couple of hours until I got myself completely lost on some narrow old side street. As luck would have it, though, I found some steps leading down to a small overgrown and beleaguered shop by the name of, The Tent of the Red Dragon. At least I think that was the correct translation; I’m still not very good at reading Chinese. I tried to look through the filthy ruddy windowpanes of the front door, but I couldn’t really see anything. When I turned the latch the door sprung open like it was warped and had been forced shut.
The inside of the shop was just as overgrown and cluttered as the outside except with less vegetation and more things. I saw knickknacks of every imaginable shape and color, ivory figurines and animals (illegal, I suspect) old books (nothing in English), and archaic weapons and costumes. A spider monkey ate some fruit nervously in a cage in one corner, and a motley assortment of cages, cartons, and luggage had been piled up in the opposite corner. As I surveyed the hodgepodge, a small mouse skittered along the floor by my feet (no, I didn’t scream). The Tent of the Red Dragon, in all its disarray, definitely held promise for someone in search of the unusual.

The Third Tower of Babel

A dear friend encouraged me to enter the twenty-first century ocean and start a blog. I laughed nervously at the proposition, thought about it, and then sent it to the back burners for possible later consideration. Sensing my reluctance and seeing that my book was finally published, she gently but determinedly coaxed me into the cyber waters. And before I knew it I was swimming; and, well, here I am blogging onwards. We all have my friend to thank for my intrusion into this rarefied world of e-conversation--the third tower of Babel--and I genuinely thank you, Andrea. You're the best.
Perhaps you didn't know there have been two towers of Babel and we have recently built a third. The first tower we learned portended a unified front of an insidious and rogue humanity--extremely dangerous in its unbridled genius. All praise goes to the Sovereign Lord who quenched those sparks before they flared in to a conflagration that, in all likelihood, would have cremated our race. As we know from the Biblical account (Gen 11:1-9), God did this by simply muddling communication.
I never really thought about the second tower of Babel until my wife urged me to try some light reading once and awhile for my own sanity's sake. So I read Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame. In it, Hugo tells of how for centuries the architecture of the cathedrals in every community had all the important stories of Mankind carved into their walls and stained into their window glass so that the illiterate populace could remember who, what and why they are. But large stone edifices don't easily fit into one's pocket, so information remained isolated. Then came the second tower of Babel when Gutenberg invented the printing press. No doubt that new information highway linked vast swatches of both land and cultures and contributed in no small part to the explosion of Scholasticism into the Renaissance, the Age of Enlightenment, and on to the Modern Age. This Big Bang wrought great progress and gains in quality of life along with a vastly disproportionate dose of despair and depravity. It seems that Mankind elevates itself only so it can more easily kill itself off.
At the closing moments of the twentieth century, when the smoke had cleared temporarily and Mankind was able to collect itself, it lost no time in constructing a third tower of Babel. This new structure--the Internet--easily eclipses and exceeds the potential of that first tower of long ago, yet Mankind has changed little in all that time. One can but wonder if the Majestic, Sovereign, Mighty, Eternal Triune God--the Great and Holy I AM--has conferred in the council of the Godhead: "They have begun to do this, then nothing they plan to do will be impossible for them." Lord have mercy; save us from ourselves.
Okay, okay, I'll heed my wife's advice and break out my old Hardy Boys.