The Coonridge Digest: Selfish motives, sacred honor

Greetings from the Ridge.

Who hasn’t experienced the guilty pleasure of watching the opposing high school team’s quarterback drop back for a pass, score tied, five seconds on the clock, and cheered insanely as he drops the ball? This kid who’s worked all his young life to achieve this position, spent long hours working on his game after school, giving up weekends of fooling around to condition his body… this young man with such determination and self-discipline lets the ball slip from his grasp and a thousand well-heeled, comfortable, intelligent adults stand to their feet and cheer as if an evil ogre had just been slaughtered in the Roman Coliseum.

Taking joy in someone else’s sorrow… a trait specific only to homo sapiens.

This week I called in early to get my series subscription to a local theatre. Herb and I have been season ticket holders since just after the death of Shakespeare and I want to call early to get season tickets close to the stage. Let the naysayers pooh-pooh the idea of sitting up front. I want to see `em sweat.

Every year I have the same conversation with the ticket lady: "Look, I know we have seats in the front row, but we’re way over on the right side. Have any season tickets opened up in the center since last year?" She’ll scan her screen and tell me, "Sorry, the season pass holders are all coming back."

This has prompted what I ashamedly call The Death Watch. Every year on opening night I carefully scan the patrons sitting front row center. Do they seem to be in good health? Did I hear a cough? Did she limp like that during last year’s Hello Dolly? And most importantly, is there someone in seats A-21-27 who’s older than me? I’ll confess: while others are blithely running out to get a Coke at intermission, I’m sitting in my seat and trying to gauge who’s the slowest getting up. I want their seat.

I used to travel to St. Louis to watch the former Football Cardinals. We had friends who owned season tickets in the end zone and after just a couple of trips I found that season ticket holders for professional football are a family. If you miss a game your fellow season pass holders will be concerned… some even call and send cards. But deep down… deep in the dark blackened soul of the cheery lady in the Cardinal windbreaker, there’s something that wishes you harm. The lady wants your seat. It’s chilling.

And of course these dark thoughts aren’t limited to Les Miserables and professional sports. My grandmother once told me that we all had two groups of friends: those who’ll cry with us in our sorrow and those who’ll take joy in our joy. The first group, she said, is large. The latter is pitifully small and thus all the more precious.

Why else do we get flooded with sympathy cards upon the death of a loved one but no similar outpouring of joy when our disease is declared cured? Why is the crowd larger at our funeral visitation than our child’s baby shower? Break your leg one week and win the lottery the next. Tell me which occasions the most phone calls from friends.

It’s a part of the human condition, I suppose, and I truly do wish that I could cure my own self of the abominable urges. As we approach the celebration of our nation’s birth I wonder where we’d be today if our founding fathers were plagued with similarly selfish motives.

Oh sure, they were men, and being men had plenty of self-interest at stake, but the end result was a purely and beautifully selfless act… to take on the then most awesome superpower in the world and declare themselves free for the sake of their posterity. Few of them benefitted directly from the War of Independence. In fact, many of the signers of the Declaration fell quickly into financial ruin. Benjamin Franklin never spoke to his loyalist son William again.

The very act of signing the Declaration of Independence was an act of treason and treason was punishable by death. Period. Nine of the 56 signers died during the war. Five were captured by the British. Eighteen had their homes looted or burned by the enemy. Two were wounded in the war and two more saw their sons killed. Lewis Morris saw his estate ravaged, his cattle slaughtered and his family sent into hiding. William Floyd and his family lived as refugees for seven years without income, eventually causing the death of his wife. William Ellery’s home was burned to the ground. Richard Stockton was dragged from bed by his own neighbors, and put in prison where he was beaten and starved. The list goes on and on.

The final sentence of the Declaration soars. "And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor."

May we even come close to that sort of selflessness as we celebrate our nation’s birthday.

You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door, but you’ll enjoy the trip.