Pride - Integrity - Guts

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It was in Those Days that my bicycle was stolen.  A red 3-speed Schwinn, and I was the first one in my family to ever have gotten a brand new bike.  It was so tall that I could barely ride it.  I loved it and oiled the crank and wheel hubs regularly.

I ran what must have been several miles home to tell my mother about my bike.  As we drove the neighborhood talking to the store clerk and anyone else whom would talk, it began to set in that I would never see that beautiful thing I got as a gift for my birthday.  And I knew I would never get another one soon.

It wasn't long after we returned home that Mom found me hiding under my bed, crying.  She coaxed me out, sat me on her lap, and we cried together.  It wasn't long before she shook me a bit, told me to stop crying (although she kept on), and made me stand before her.

And she told me to have Pride.  To be proud.  That proud people never cried for themselves because they could overcome any setback.  She promised that I would recover from any sorrow that could ever happen to me, but that was not so for the suffering others might have.  My Mom was crying only for me.  And I knew she had Pride.

And she told me to have Integrity.  To be honest, to speak the truth, and do the right thing - always.

And she told be to have Guts.  To have the courage to defend the innocent and condemn the guilty. To mean what I said and make good on any promise I might make.  And to admit my wrongs, and correct my mistakes.

Pretty heavy stuff for a boy of ten.  And who would have known that I would encounter those same three words, over a decade later, and in a much different world.  And they stood in my mind as vivid as when that day I first heard them.

Pig.

  

Bottles and Ethics

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In Those Days, we lived in military housing sandwiched between Coney Island and Sheepshead Bay, NY.  At 10, I found it strange because it was a far cry from the small rural towns of Colonial America that I was accustomed to.  Once away from the military reservation, I was amazed at the concentration of wealthy people, who I believed were Jews.  And I quickly learned to siphon off a bit of that wealth.

It all started when I learned to collect discarded soda bottles and return them for a 2 cent deposit.  But I soon learned that the bottles refunded were stored in a cage at the rear of the store.  How easy was that?  So I climbed the short fence, took the bottles, and obtained another refund at that very store.

I loved to watch the crabbers along Sheepshead Bay.  Soon I realized that I could walk below the boardwalk at low tide. reach out and grab a line and tie it to a piling, then cut the crab cage free. A few days later I would then sell the cages to other crabbers in the area.

I'd hide beneath the boardwalk at Coney Island and watch the beach visitors to hide their purses beneath their blankets before hitting the surf.  Then I'd take their purse and remove the money before returning it to the blanket.  Sometimes I'd wait until they returned and discovered the theft.

And then it happened.  Someone stole my bike from outside Woolworth's while I was inside spending my take.  I was devastated, and cried for days before telling Mom.  Of course, not knowing that I was a thief as well, she was very sympathetic to me and promised to find a way to replace it someday.

But while waiting for that someday, my guilt grew until I confessed to Mom about the thefts I had done.  After a switching from her, and a spanking from my Dad when he got home,  And I cried, not for the punishment, but for the sorrow I felt for the people I took from.  And my life changed.

Mom took me to the grocery store and repaid my debt for the bottles.  Then she helped me make signs to post about my lost bike, and ones that we posted near the bay for the victim crabbers to contact us to make amends.  She also informed me that I could earn extra money for raking leaves, shoveling snow, and mowing lawns in the summer.

Soon I was able to pay her back for the bottle refunds she repaid, buy a rake and a snow shovel of my own, save for another bike, and buy my little sister a cheap candy at the soda shop where I returned those bottles.

And so it began for my quest to become ethical.

I taught my children what I had learned from my parents, and they passed down those stories to their children  And their children have the same ethics as their Mom and I.
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End of Days

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Growing up in a military family gave great insight to the world around me.  I recall many conversations with my parents, whom incidentally I perceived were old fogies stuck in the Dark Ages, about what the world was coming to.

Blacks struggling for equality dominated my early memories of conversations with my parents.  They worried about the violence in the South.  We'd watch on our pumpkin screen B&W TV showing the cross burnings, the protests, the marches, and the riots, which caused tears and fear on the faces of my mom and dad.  And they would say, "My God, What's our world coming too?"

Race issues seemed to give way to threats of another war, and assignations of political and religious leaders were on their minds.  Duck tails,dresses trimmed above the ankle, bell bottoms, cigarette packs carried in a T-shirt sleeve, rock stars with gyrating hips, and snipers in bell towers caused them to ask again, "My God, What's our world coming too?"  And at times, they would just surrender their fears and submit to what they believed were the coming of the end of days.

And then it was my turn.  Bell towers evolved to elementary school shootings.  Gyrating hips morphed into grabbing of crotches. Drugs, free love, and Vietnam seemed to consume my thoughts.   Israel struggled to survive, and terror appeared in Europe with the IRA.

And then it was here. On our soil.  And it shocked my world.  The Black Panthers, SLA, Bill Ayers, and Timothy McVeigh,  Serial murderers, organized crime, drug wars, and bombings terrorize our neighborhoods every day. And so enters our most recent evil, Radical Islam.  And I am afraid

And I'm sure my children have heard me say, "My God, What's our world coming too?"  And I'm sure their children will hear them say, "My God, What's our world coming too?"  And perhaps, for generations ahead, the cycle will continue.

But is it really the End of Days?  That question is not what is important.  What is important is that I know that the End of Days is coming, and that I remain alert for the sound of the Trumpet, and ready to be judged, and to be ready if called.

While it might not yet be the End of Days, it is absolutely the End of an Era for me and this blog as most of you know it.  While I'll never really give up spreading my thoughts, and encouraging others to follow my views, you will see the change in future publishings.  Perhaps you'll like it, and perhaps you'll move on to another.  Either way, thanks for listening.

And listen for the Trumpets.
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