If you live long enough, there’s a chance you get to see everything. If not everything, then a lot. Sometimes history seems to repeat itself, or, in the words of Mark Twain, if it doesn’t exactly repeat, it certainly does rhyme.
So it goes with society’s idea of how to raise children. I was raised by very strict parents and hardly-doting grandparents. Of course, there’s always a couple of indulgent aunts and uncles, but everybody pretty much walked the walk as far as manners, morals, and integrity were concerned. And they made no bones about the fact that I was expected to follow suit.
Somewhere during my childhood and adolescence, leading experts (?) began to advocate that children should be allowed to ‘express themselves’ and ‘explore without boundaries’. My father was having none of it. My mother, the more lenient one, scoffed at the notion.
Other parents and children could do as they pleased in their own homes. Child psychologists and family therapists could pontificate and hypothesize till the cows came home. Education and etiquette were enforced and encouraged in a very undemocratic but reasonable environment.
It wasn’t that I couldn’t express my opinion or have a difference of opinion. I simply saw how well things had worked with previous generations. We had a comfortable life, my parents were respected in the community, and I had a wealth of options and opportunities.
“If something’s not broken, don’t fix it.” An old saying that resonated at a young age. making me very circumspect when contemplating the idea of rocking the proverbial boat. Exactly what might I be ‘rebelling against’?
NeverthelessI was hardly a conformist, opting to pursue the very unreliable profession of writing when I could have comfortably settled into some sort of career in something, you know, more respectable, like real estate or banking.
Yet as hard as my parents were on me as a young lad, they were equally patient with me as my professional life sputtered and stalled, lurched and leaned, and finally took some shape over the long term.
There was, I realize now, a lot of room to roam within the very high, thick walls of tradition. But make no mistake: a definitive and rock-hard demarcation existed in the world of personal behavior and professional conduct. Based on choices big and small, daily and infrequent, in the world where I grew up, a person was either honorable or dishonorable.
The issue was very black and white. If you had to make a tough choice, you made a tough choice. You paid the price for it, good or bad, and lived with the consequences or rewards without explanation, rationalization, or complaint.
‘Difficult circumstances’ played no part. ‘Potential profit’ was irrelevant. ‘Peer pressure’ was a foreign concept. Your ‘feelings’ didn’t make one ounce of difference. You stood on principle or you gave in.
One dishonorable choice could ruin a reputation. Permanently.
And while I am very reluctant to pass judgment on others–who really knows all the facts?–I am not very tolerant when I witness blatantly dishonorable behavior. I am even less patient when I hear excuses for that behavior.
My father rarely explained his behavior. His choices, motivations, priorities, and guiding principles were straightforward and self-evident. In fact, he actually told me once to ignore everything he said and just watch what he did. It was a very enlightening–and irritating–suggestion.
I suppose I expect the same transparency from others. I know I expect it from myself, even if I fall short on occasion.
We live in a subtle, complex, and often contradictory world. We are often required to navigate the waters, as they say, and do things that we don’t always agree with. Such is the nature of life, but within this quagmire we can find, if we search and feel for it, the foundation of moral behavior: the very simple ‘right and wrong’ we were taught as children.
Honor is a word used more often than it should be. It denotes a constant position, relentless in its demands on us, unforgiving in its price, but worth all the money in the world in its faithful execution.
They say that in life we should choose our battles. Perhaps this is true. It is certain, however, that we must go forward and fight them honorably, even if we risk defeat in doing so.
- BGT
Byron,
Thank you for sharing such wonderful insights.
This is the perfect response for helping us all, and especially young people, tread through increasingly murky moral waters.
Good morning Byron,
‘Shades of Grey’ and you live in France ??
I recall while working for a French company and becoming exasperated by an ‘indecisive situation’ one day. I stated, strongly, ‘guys is this black or is this white,’. To which a Frenchman replied ‘ Not exactly’.
My view is that they always need ‘wiggle room’ and a way out in case there is ‘accountability’ down the road. The current individual, masquerading as a president is an illustrative example. Nothing is ever clear or without an exit. For him, that is.
I feel for you.
Regards,
David.
A Study in Pink and Green Impropriety
Bunny and Muffy were on Bunny’s patio, which was, as usual, a careful combination of coastal charm and subtle competition. The hydrangeas leaned politely toward the ocean as if nodding in agreement with the notion that this afternoon was theirs. They each held a glass of rosé, pale pink and chillingly serious in its role. Bunny swirled hers and fixed Muffy with a look that suggested she had just solved an unsolvable problem.
“I am just saying,” she began, and it was never a question whether Muffy would agree, “Wheat Thins are elegant. Subtle. Refined. They do not announce themselves the way some woven basket does.”
Muffy laughed in a way that suggested she had rehearsed her retort. “Wheat Thins? Sugared cardboard masquerading as sophistication. Triscuits, however, have texture. Integrity. You can feel the loom.”
“Texture?” Bunny’s voice carried over the polite afternoon breeze. “I do not want to feel like I am chewing a welcome mat. A cracker should whisper, not exfoliate the roof of my mouth.”
“That is because you pair everything with that sad little brie from Whole Foods,” Muffy said, sniffing her glass. “Triscuits are for real cheeses. Aged cheddars. Cheeses with opinions. Cheeses that would stare at you during brunch and silently judge.”
The argument meandered through the late afternoon in the way all important preppy debates do. Bunny insisted that Wheat Thins were perfect for luncheons, events with name tags, and the occasional casual remark about shiplap. Muffy countered that Triscuits were for dusk, when someone’s ex showed up unexpectedly and the cheese board needed backbone. Eventually, they agreed, with the solemnity of women who had already spent three decades judging each other and the world, that both crackers had their moments.
The rosé bottle ran dry, as all things of pleasure eventually do. Muffy produced a bottle of Chartreuse as if she had anticipated the moment. Bunny’s eyes widened, because green liquor is a destabilizing force in any universe that values social cohesion.
“It is green,” Bunny said softly, as if stating the obvious.
“It is Chartreuse,” Muffy replied, breezy. “Very old recipe. Very exclusive.”
“It is also aggressive,” Bunny said, clutching her glass as though it might shield her from impending chaos.
By the time the Chartreuse was gone, the two were imbued with a kind of liquid courage that makes rational adults undertake entirely inappropriate activities. They decided to walk to the L.L.Bean store, a short stroll that somehow became a display of pink and green vision. The combination of rosé and Chartreuse suggested to them that the world needed to match their mood.
Inside L.L.Bean, they selected clothing with a gravity that would make any stylist proud. Bunny held a seafoam sweater to her face, nodding solemnly. It made her look forgiving but firm. Muffy piled hunter green moccasins and a canvas tote with green handles into her arms. The pink puffer vest she handed Bunny was divorce-adjacent in tone, perfect for apologizing without actually meaning it. Each selection was a careful statement of identity, or at least identity as interpreted through the lens of liquid-enhanced preppy judgment.
By the time they returned home, hunger had arrived, sharp and demanding. The kitchen raid was swift, precise, and a little reckless. Pasta in four shapes, olive oil with a story, capers, shallots, a half rotisserie chicken, cream, lemon, and even a couple of anchovies were gathered, sautéed, and plated with what can only be described as reckless competence. They ate at the kitchen island, declaring that Wheat Thins and Triscuits could, theoretically, pair with their improvisation.
Dinner concluded with Sancerre, sharp, celebratory, and perfectly chilled. But calories existed, so they pushed the furniture back and attempted a tango to Ride Like the Wind. Bunny, taking posture far too seriously, led with the kind of determination usually reserved for seating charts and grudges. Muffy spun with reckless abandon, channeling the forest-that-had-been-to-therapy energy of the Chartreuse. By the time the song ended, they had burned at least reputational calories.
Later, grappa was poured, and they settled on the floor by the fire. They laughed hysterically over trivialities with the intensity of people who had completely abandoned restraint. Who was cuter, Michael McDonald or Christopher Cross? Bunny imagined Christopher Cross with eyes that could make soup. Muffy insisted Michael McDonald’s soulful thumb could see into one’s very soul. They collapsed into helpless laughter, clutching glasses, soothed by the warmth of friendship and the fire.
Eventually, sugar and alcohol caught up with them. A package of Chips Ahoy had been opened and thoroughly devoured. Crumbs littered the rug like evidence of a small but decisive battle. Bunny and Muffy fell asleep among them, tangled in laughter, exhaustion, and crumbs.
Hours later, their husbands returned from a long day of golf. Charles and Edward, armed with nonalcoholic iced tea, surveyed the scene. L.L.Bean bags, empty wine bottles, Chartreuse, grappa, and the sleeping forms of two women completely unconcerned with dignity filled the living room.
“Did they bake?” Charles asked, indicating the crumbs.
“No. Worse,” Edward replied. “They gave up.”
They sipped their iced tea, attempting to reconstruct the evening: pasta, capers, tango, yacht rock, laughter, pink and green outerwear, Chartreuse, grappa, and, of course, crumbs. They decided against waking the women. The crumb phase is sacred.
By morning, the kitchen would be cleaned, the fire extinguished, and the women would awaken as though nothing had happened. Some mysteries, like the hierarchy of crackers, yacht rock, and who is cuter between Michael McDonald and Christopher Cross, are best left unsolved.
Bunny and Muffy slept, utterly victorious. The embers faded. The crumbs persisted. And in the memory of a night spent in pink and green, with wine, Chartreuse, laughter, and reckless tangoing, they remained, quietly, entirely themselves.
The End.