Topic 4: On Taking Oneself Too Seriously

Carol:

Humble Pie

This morning at 5 a.m, I let the dog out the back door and grabbed the basket of “Daily Theme” topics hoping to get “chewing” on the new subject early. Remember these topics (250 of them) were taken from a book that was originally published in 1923 and the topics range from the mundane (“Hairpins”) to the cosmological (“Pins or Angels”). I pulled out “On Going to War,” not exactly the subject matter of an essay maxing out at a page and too serious a subject for someone standing in the dark waiting for a dog to come back in from the first morning pee. Sooooo, I waited for Megan to wake up and let her draw the topic. I had to chuckle when she announced, “On Taking Oneself Too Seriously.” Everytime I do that, someone or something hands me a really big slice of Humble Pie.

I love animals, but they are a constant reminder of where I fit in the pecking order. There was this little monkey perched at the entrance to a restaurant on the Costa Brava back in the 60’s. After 5 days of enjoying the “special attention” I gave him each morning, on the final day of my trip he gave me the usual little handshake, took my finger in a particular show of our friendship, turned it over very carefully, then bit right into it with his little needle teeth. He showed me how special I was. And every dog we have ever owned lies down “obediently “under my chair at mealtime, or so I like to brag. Fact is that I spill the most food, always have, always will, and it was just more convenient for Annie or Trixie or Milo to get as close to the falling morsels as possible.

I also got plenty of reminders of my place in the world at work. When I taught high school in San Diego, I thought I was a pretty inspiring teacher and looked forward to seeing what students wrote about me for the yearbook under “memorable teacher quotes.” After all, my Shakespeare class had 30 enthusiastic juniors and seniors working on creative projects. So, what was the quote under my picture? “Mrs. Hammond’s gum rule: If I see it or hear it, it goes in the basket.” The first semester I taught at Yavapai College, I agonized over the subject matter for the final day of class. I would wrap up all my own passion for the written word into a single lecture so awe-inspiring that these students would head straight to the registrar’s office and change their majors to English. I wrote, rewrote and poured over those notes, then walked into the empty classroom.. And waited…..and waited…..as two, maybe four students dribbled in over the next ten minutes. When I asked where everyone was, someone replied, “It’s the last day. Most students don’t bother to show up if they have turned in their work and don’t have exams.” I really shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, the only day I skipped high school was the last day of my senior year. As I come up to the end of my page, I am thinking that the best way for me to keep from taking myself too seriously in a very serious world has been to polish my fork, grab a napkin, call the dog, and put on a smile. “Humble pie again? Yummy!”

Megan:

Every time I’ve come home over the years, my mother has suggested that I go through my stored belongings and throw stuff away. “I mean, “ she says, “Do you really need to keep every draft of your senior thesis?”

“It’s for the museum, Mom.“ One day all the drafts will go into an archive, a special collection in a library when I’m a rich and famous Writer of Great Literature. That’s why I spent hundreds of dollars shipping my journals back from England, even though I can barely stand to read them. That’s why I never throw anything away. Anyway, that’s what I say.

The truth is a bit different. Although I like the idea of scholars pouring over an early draft of one of my books, discoursing on the meaning of a slight punctuational shift, I’m not actually that full of myself. What I am is an insecure editor. I’m afraid that I’ll write something brilliant, and in a moment of whatever, I’ll cut it and forget it and then it will be gone forever. That’s why my first drafts are still mostly handwritten. Somewhere in my 42 journals, boxes of letters and files of emails there is a book. I just haven’t found it yet. Michelangelo said that the statues he carved were already inside the marble and he just let them out (I’m paraphrasing), and that’s how I feel about the thousands of pieces of paper stacked in boxes in the back of my closet. One of these days, when I can find some time, I’m going to dive into those boxes and dig out a book. I’m not sure what I mean about finding time, how much more time could I have right now with no job and no responsibility? Or maybe I’m afraid that I’ll dig and dig and never find it. Maybe I don’t take myself seriously enough.