THE BORN LESAR
(I'd be lying if I said this is a new column, not one borrowed from the 2013 files. My parents taught me never to lie. Then again, they told me I would amount to something someday, and look how that turned out.)
About 45 days ago, I whined to you about not being able to grow a green bean plant to save my soul. You laughed, or you cried, depending on whether you think of me as an imbecile or just a disadvantaged waif who was dealt a two, two threes, a four and a six in the card game of life. All different suits. No jokers.
Ah, but how things have changed in the last six weeks plus change, my bean patch is now producing more fruit than the Garden of Eden after it's been aerial sprayed with MiracleGro. Me and my son have already canned 44 jars and have two more 5-gallon pails full and more babies on the vine. If they don't quit soon, I'll have to have green beans on my Frosted Flakes this winter just to use them up. No, really. You just toss them in the food processor for a few seconds and sprinkle 'em on top. They're Ggggrrreeeaaatttt!
My story this week is not about beans, though, not really, it's more about persistence, determination, or maybe what my exwives liked to call a Stubborn Sandwich with a side of Obstinance Sauce. When I planted my garden this spring and it failed miserably, I did not give up, but tried again. When it refused to sprout a second time, I didn't question whether or not I could ultimately succeed, but just refocused and planted one more time. Now, while reaping the bountiful harvest not only of the summer sun and rain, but my fortitude, I feel immense pride welling in my gut. Or maybe that's the green bean omelette I had for breakfast. They're fibrous little green devils, you know.
I didn't always possess the stick-to-itiveness it takes to succeed after early failure. As a child, when I'd be building a grand fortress in my sandbox, but it would fall down because I didn't yet understand that wet sand has the architectural support value of pudding, I would not persist and try to rebuild, but would run to my mommy and tell her that my big sister walked by and kicked over my castle. Oh, sure, it was terribly wrong, but it both bought me sympathy and got my sister sent to her room so I could watch Gilligan's Island instead of another stupid episode of I Dream of Jeannie. No, I wasn't stupid, although as soon as big sister caught wind of my sham she'd tie my skinny legs into a pretzel knot and hang me upside down from the clothesline pole. No wonder my knees hurt.
In grade school, I also had not yet learned the principle of perseverance. In fourth-grade math class for instance, after turning in some particularly perplexing assignment and getting eight of the 20 answers wrong, instead of agreeing to rework the incorrect responses to raise my score, I said I was happy with a 'D' because that just so happened to be the first letter of my name. I was just glad Mom and Dad didn't name me after Grandpa Frank.
Eventually, as I sprouted hair in new places as well as a vexing interest in the female gender, I still did not acquire a need to succeed, as it were. At recess, I would feebly attempt to produce the courage to ask some cute little number if she'd care to go steady with a boy who picked his nose but didn't brush his teeth, but as I'd approach her on the playground she'd give me one of those 'You'd better not be coming over here, slimebag' looks and I'd wither in my tracks and retreat to the safety of the shady space behind the bike racks. It was safe there. I considered it home.
Through my teen years, I finally began to develop some pluck, a little backbone, with a hint of grit. As a freshman, I went out for basketball, and even though I knew the coach would have rather taken cash out of his own pocket to pay my parents to keep me at home, I stuck with it. I played hoops all four years of high school, in fact, and by my senior year, the home crowd no longer groaned when I'd come in the game and dribble the ball off my ankles. Well, sure, the principal told the crowd that it was poor sportsmanship to laugh at me, especially since I was on their side, but the point is that I persisted in something for four long years even though an opposing player once thanked me for all I had done to help him in securing a college scholarship. I mean, heck, those are the kind of rewards you just don't get if you quit on your dreams.
Once off to college, I had become such a motivated young man that I told my advisor in out first meeting on campus that not only did I plan to make the academic honor roll every semester, but that one day before I graduated they would actually name the distinction after me. It's a little known fact that the term 'Dean's list' originated from that meeting, and if you believe that, I have some $3 bills in my wallet that I can let you have for 50 cents each. The point is, I had by early manhood matured to the point where I was not just determined to finish what I started, but to ask that cute blonde girl in freshman composition class if she'd go to the homecoming game with me. She wouldn't. Not for any reason. Ever. Under no circumstances.
Boy, you know, it's hard to stay persistent when they petition for a restraining order.
Anyway, here I am now, an emotionally mature man, by some standards, at least, and I have come to possess this dogged determination to get what I want, be it a nice car, a fishing boat, or just a good crop of beans. Once I establish a goal, I chart a course to reach it, and though I may be knocked aside on my way there, I regain my composure and plow straight ahead. If at first I don't make it, as with my first failed bean planting, I just regroup and go after it again. Oh, sure, sometimes I sob uncontrollably for days and hide in my bedroom with the shades pulled down, but gradually I remember that one will never succeed in life if he doesn't try. All those beans in the buckets are proof that persistence pays, and had I not tried again, I wouldn't have any to mix into my chocolate ice cream. No, really. You just slice them into bits and pretend they're mints.
