Bettering the World
By Nathaniel Swearingen
Our host was a glass maker. His father had been the same as was his father before him and so on. He was very proud of the craftsmanship. His home was equally a part of the family. In its heyday it had all the modern conveniences of archer battlements, a draw bridge, moat, and toilets cantilevered off the high exterior walls so as to allow ones excrement to drop into the water below. I used to envision this as how airplane toilets worked. They flushed with such force that your waste would be obliterated into millions of particles shot out the back of the craft. An unsuspecting jogger far below might feel a drop and run his fingers through his hair. Giving them a sniff his face would scrunch, eyes blink, and he would say to himself, “Oh. Yeah. I live in Toledo.” And go about his day. By the time of our arrival modern plumbing and electric had been added, but without the slightest detraction form the original esthetic beauty that was, for one man, his castle.
Though informal, this was not just the coming together of people, but of ideologies. We represented the light at the end of a Cold tunnel. Dignity, professionalism, “Bettering the world: one person at a time”: this was our purpose. All of that would change.
***
In the summer of 1989 the 2 world superpowers finally found a way to end what had become known as the Cold War. “Soldiers” across the globe had been conscripted through 3rd party Warlords. Men who spoke neither Russian nor English had taken sides, fought, and died in the name of defending Communism or Democracy. But far more often they simply defended themselves against their neighbors who had been similarly equipped by the other side. Back home, in the minutia of everyday life, it would have been difficult to tell the difference between Moscow and Washington. Every occupation, no matter how mundane or magnanimous, lay somewhere along an endless “ladder”: every job-holder working their way to the top. But the “top” was just an illusion. Ladder rungs were inevitably replaced with strings of the marionettists. One of the biggest casualties which came from ending the Cold War was that of intellectual knowledge. Some would argue at the same time that such a thing became a prized commodity. In November of ‘89 the most tangible representation of that era also saw its end when Mikhail Gorbachev announced the dismantling of the Berlin Wall. While sections were dispersed to museums around the world, political figures, business leaders, and scientific giants who remained loyal to the Soviet Union uprooted and moved to the Mother Land. In the wake of such a sudden leadership vacuum people who could trace their ancestry back thousands of years found themselves, for the first time, Free. Free from political propaganda. Free from providing for the Central Government first…family second. Free from the hierarchy of a need-to-know based business machine.
There was, however, one glaring problem with this Freedom: No one knew how to fill those upper-level jobs. Few even knew what those positions were. This was the climate in which I found myself after whirlwind introductions and last minute name-tag changes when I took the opportunity to join a group from my home town on a trip to Wraclow Poland. To further map this time in history, Lech Walesa—the first non-Communist President of Poland or any other Eastern European country—had yet to be elected. My fellow Delegates were pillars of the community: Our Mayor, State and local Representatives, architects and contractors from both residential and commercial sectors. There were communication experts including those who ran newspapers, radio and Television stations as well as the people who actually made those systems work on a daily basis. And then there was me: An 18 year old wild-eyed Southern Boy whose biggest contribution to society had been that I had not gotten anyone pregnant.
On our first day in Wraclow we met an elderly gentleman who made sewer pipes. His father did the same as did his father before him and so on. He was very proud of the craftsmanship: All lengths and diameters and all manner of material. Some looking as though they had been made years ago. Some shinny and new. In fact, it became all too obvious that he and his small shop had continued to produce the items most commonly requested by the central Polish government. However, there was no more central Polish government. There were no renewed contracts. There were no sewers being repaired or constructed…anywhere. And what had until recently been a large neighboring goat farm now resembled more of an expansive oddly designed graveyard. We had Civil Engineers to work with such companies.
The hotel had been selected for us mostly from the shiny pamphlet brought back by one of our Crew from a previous trip a few years prior. It advertised “Phones and water in every room”. We checked in. I laid down. Thought I’d call my mother. No dial tone. Got up to use the bathroom only to find the seat heavily wrapped in cellophane. I had played that trick on friends a few times, but the Poles evidently hadn’t figured out you had to stretch it tight to make it all but invisible. Turns out, the wrap was no joke. The plumbing had issues. And since there was no one to fix it (in a town of over 1 million people) the best they could manage was having one operable toilet and shower per floor. Our construction and design people had their work cut out for them.
***
As the sun began to set we were summoned to a “house” just outside of town for an informal meet and greet. Our line of taxis were given the royal treatment with police escort and others stopping traffic at every intersection. After a brief tour of the house we were directed to the Grand Dining Room finely appointed with tapestries, sculptures, chandeliers, and enough silver utensils to fund a coup. My focus, though, was drawn to the immense wooden dining table: Simple and elegant, dwarfing even the room itself. At nearly eight inches in depth, long arching cracks had been expanding imperceptibly over any one year, but after hundreds, one could lose his spoon if he were not careful. Nestled beneath and surly hune from the same tree were thirty chairs fit for royalty; the seats and arm rests wrapped with the finest silk and all the buttons made of gold. There has only been one other occasion when I have sat at a table of its equal. Of course, then, I had not been invited to sit. Just as I had, however, I was escorted OUT of the Biltmore House.Taking my place I began running my fingers across the grain. It showed its age. History lay before me: The deeper the grooves, the darker the stains, the older the party. Kings, Princesses, Jacks of all trades had graced this place. In one moment I could feel their stories flowing through me. In the next, I was terrified for not knowing what mark I would leave for future generations to recollect.
The din of idle chatter within the Great Hall was silenced by the ringing of a crystal clear bell. Our Host stood and addressed his guests. A brief history of his family and home was recited while servants began setting the table with trays of simple meats, cheese, and bread. They also brought to each of us a matching hand-crafted glass bell. “It has been the tradition of my family for generations that at such gatherings as this we try to complete the Toast Circle. And so, I offer you Poland’s finest.” No doubt the staff had seen this play out many times before. Right on cue they placed before us bottles of Polish Potato Vodka. Thirty 5th’s in all and more cases stacked at each end of the room. “I thank each of you for looking beyond yourselves, beyond your country…seeing that we are all here together on this Earth. And together great things are possible. ZA PIĘKNE PANIE!” We filled and raised our shot glasses shouting “cheers”!
For the next hour or so we got to know those around us. We took turns telling stories of past adventures, patting ourselves on the back for assisting people and communities around the world, but never failing to insert the notion that this trip was of upmost importance. A bell would ring. Noise would diminish. A toast would be made. Laughter would ensue. The food was scarcely enough to satisfy a mouse, but the liquor never stopped flowing. As soon as one bottle was upended another was set in its place. My green label was replaced with red. Brief excursions to the Caribbean became magnanimous attempts to combat poverty. Knowing how to change a lightbulb lead to an offer of rewiring a building. Half of the Circle had been completed when our Mayor stood, mistakenly tapping a knife on a glass rather than using his bell. As if the sign had been made, the lady to my right gave me a sharp elbow to the ribs and lifted her bell open-end up. I filled it with blue label then filled my own. We downed our three-shot toast and carried on. A vacation to Paris was described on par with the signing of the Treaty of Versailles. An internship with the local paper became a column in the New York Times.
Rolling waves of laughter gave way to people actually rolling onto the floor. At one point I was asked what the lyrics, “I put the A to the K and my hand shook all day” meant. It is more than a little awkward to describe the action of firing an AK-47 to someone whose family and friends had died at the hand of one. My only hope is that they do not remember that part of the evening. Another bell… Another three-shoots. I had not consumed this much alcohol since my days as an altar boy in the Episcopal Church.
Lights flickered. Walls moved. People were contorted in impossible ways. I stared at my reflection in a silver plate for an hour…or a second. She was once an elderly lady, now fantastically young, and began playing suggestively with her bell. A gentleman’s’ tie landed on my plate--a shoe on the bread. As the first of the party began to show their low constitution the wait staff kindly directed us down the stairs and into the back courtyard.
A bon fire was lit. Chocolate and marshmallows. Hotdogs and skewers. And, of course, more vodka. Two of my brethren tore open the hotdogs and began reliving their past lives as Knights. The fire cast a giant silhouette of their sword fight on the castle wall. Each hoping to avoid, above all, the dreaded wet-weeny-to-the-face that would surely be used against them in the next election cycle. Others began testing their bravery by jumping over the bonfire. Two made it cleanly; the third did not. His feet kicked the top two-thirds of burning logs and sent them sprawling across the lawn. Sparks flew in every direction. Onlookers cheered and applauded. It seemed a wonderful display of color to the over inebriated crowd. What he had not immediately noticed was that our intrepid hero had fallen on top of those logs. How excited he seemed as he leapt off the ground shrieking with joy. “If only he had jumped that high the first time”, I thought. His stop, drop, and roll were replaced with jump, scream, and run as his adoring fans patted him on the back…and chest…and arms…and legs...and head.
We played a game of Cowboy marksmanship, throwing discarded bottles into the air trying to hit them with rocks; succeeding moslty at hitting each other. Anyone who mellowed to the point of sitting sleepily in a chair was rudely awaken to find his shoe strings tied together or the chair itself tied to his waste. Behind every tree, behind every bush we challenged each other to who could empty the most out of our mouths, or bladders, or both at the same time. The giant piss-stained pant suit of our State Representative seemed to faze no one. None of us would bother repacking that night’s outfit for the return flight home. Knee stains from grass could be washed out, but not those left by sticky, burning marshmallows we had thrown at one another.
I did not leave a mark on the table, but as we were driven home I did leave a trail of Poland’s finest along the road at every stop light.
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