When the people of Great Britain hosted the most recent Olympics, they published several papers and magazines to celebrate the event. I kept one such paper because it was designed to inspire England’s athletes. From the punch, it supports the main point of my memoir:
My name is down for all today’s events.
The hurdles and the sprints.
I’ll not stick at the hundred meters flat, the half-mile run.
I’ll take the long jump and the high,
Throw my last ounce of energy in.
To hurl the discus and the javelin.
To pitch the hammer and put the shot.
I will not pick and choose.
I’ll not refuse
The hot team friendship of the relay race
Or the long distance lonelier steeple-chase.
I’ll not complain
Of frost or sun or rain.
I’ll not first ask
Precisely what’s the task?
Whether I’m in the lead or in the ruck,
I am prepared to crawl
Under barbed wire,
To vault a rail
Or scale a 10-foot wall.
Whether I’m first or last,
I’ll not fall out until the post is passed.
Victor lucorum or lso-ran — I will come in!
My name is down for all today’s events!
My good wife Laurie was what you’d have to call a “rock hound.” She liked nothing more than to burrow into the earth in search of geological presents. With pick and shovel and an hour’s time, she was able to dig herself out of sight on some hillside where gemstones were reputed to be. Heat and dirt and hard rock were no match for her zeal.
The zeal exceeded mine. It’s one of those few areas in our wedded life where our interests were different and sharply divided. Once this led to an adventure worth narrating.
Fonda, New York, was the site; Herimer diamonds were the quest. Laurie was quickly lost to the world, scratching and scraping in search of these semi-precious crystals. Woodchucks, moles, badgers — and all other natural earth-movers — must surely have stood in awe as this little woman burrowed and delved toward buried treasure.
My hole in the ground had been chosen with an eye to retreat. I gave maul and chisel a few desultory raps, making sure their steel-on-steel music reached my good wife’s ear. I tuned my tapping to proceed gradually at a reduced rate such that, when I quit, my quitting might go unnoticed. Then, I took to my heels for a hike in a nearby field.
Now — this is more like it. You come along, no value in my going alone. We’ll let those who like to get dirt under their fingernails do so. We’ll see what gems are available under blue sky and bright sunshine.
We don’t get far before we detect a steady and ominous buzzing. Too late we wake to the cause — bees, uncounted hundreds of thousands of them fill the air. Too late we see bee hives that have been vandelized by some creature in search of honey. Through a yellow bee body mist, we barely see a mix of broken boards at the edge of an apple tree grove.
Just long enough we worked at our gem digging to break a sweat. Worker bees and soldier bees alike are quickly on top of us. Maybe they think we are the pirates that ruined their enterprising?
Run, friend! Pick up your heels and run! Grab a branch and wave it around your head! Run — get far away from these pursuers! Run! Never mind your pounding heart and your mounting fear — run and get away!
God willing we have made it. A couple of angry bees chased us up the road, but not a single stinger got to raise a welt on neck or cheek. Say, how long has it been since you used your legs like that? Didn’t know you had it in you, did you!
This bee episode and the poem are related. The poem was printed in the British magazine Punch some time before 1940 — before the war years — and has served as an inspiration ever since.
When those bees got on our tails, we were in full stride after two jumps. Bees, wasps, hornets, not even the devil himself could have caught us. And although my wife and I are a dozen or so years past 50, we’ve got plenty of ginger left for these adventures and excitement. No signs of slowing down over here.
So read that poem again and when the opportunity comes, make sure you put your name down for all the events, too. You can handle it!