The Cottonwood Tree
I don’t know if any of you have ever seen actor Hal Holbrook’s one man show in which he portrays the American writer and humorist MarkTwain. If not, check him out on YouTube and elsewhere. Holbrook is brilliant, doing a better Twain than possibly Twain himself. Holbrook performed in this role well over 2,000 times, and the shows you’ll find online are all different. Funny.
For some reason, Holbrook as Twain popped into my head yesternight, and this is what popped out.
Watch Hal Holbrook first. Then pace your reading according to his pace, pauses and inflections. For that’s how it was written.
This is the Tale of the Cottonwood Tree, told in the style of that venerated gentleman, Mr. Mark Twain.
Now, I never had the honor of meeting Mr. Twain as he passed in 1910, which was 46 years before my entry into this glorious world of ridiculosities. Yes, I know it’s not a real word, …but it should be. I mean, there’s enough of them around nowadays.
‘Course, I guess there always have been.
There were certainly enough ridiculosities about in Mr. Twain’s times, and he didn’t hesitate to point them out, …make comments and laugh about them some. He made us laugh at ourselves for our own personal and public embrace of the ridiculous. Oh, we laughed, …but we are enamored of these same ridiculosities still.
Mr. Twain once observed, “Man is the only animal that blushes–or needs to.” He was right on that one.
Mr. Twain himself was not a vain man. He had no cause to be, …I’ve seen his photograph. I’m uncertain if a man can be rightly described as homely. He sure gave it a try.
No one was spared his rapier wit. No sir, from painters to politicians, he loved to hate us all. He wrote and spoke in fictional truisms that cannot be denied by any. That was his gift to us all.
We loved him for that. Old Mr. Twain, I still love him.
Of painters, he once wrote—if you’ll pardon my paraphrase, “The house was as empty as a beer closet where painters had been.”
He possessed a keen sense of observation in pointing out the obvious.
“A gold mine is a hole in the ground with a liar at the bottom of it,” is as obvious as it gets.
This is the Tale of the Cottonwood Tree.
I don’t know if it’s truth or fiction; no Sir, I just know it’s a tale, …and a good one. There ain’t a Cottonwood Tree in it. Not that I can see. Still, there could have been one nearby. Hence the name.
After all, the famed Battle of Agincourt happened near that place, not at it. If you think about it, even our prestigious holidays are inaccurate.
In the US of A, Thanksgiving is on the fourth Thursday of November, so every year we are grateful for and according to an arbitrary system.
Our Canadian neighbors celebrate and give their thanks one month earlier. That is to beat being snowed in and not having a danged thing to be grateful for.
So there is no Cottonwood Tree in this story. Shoot, truth be told I don’t even know what a Cottonwood Tree is, …I’ve never seen one that I could pin a name onto. I don’t even know if there is such a thing. A tree named Cottonwood. But it’s a pretty name, and I’ll keep it in this story.
After all, this is The Tale of the Cottonwood Tree.
Yessir, I like that name: Cottonwood Tree. It is neutral in gender, appealing to both the male and female sexual species found in humans. Oak, hickory, and redwood sound too male dominant. While myrtle, cypress and palm seem more effeminate. Cottonwood seems a fair compromise.
Mr. Mark Twain, he also once said, “Golf is a good walk spoiled.” He was right.
I am not a golfer. Never had the inclination nor the measure for it. Although I did try it a few times to no avail.
A friend had bought a new set of clubs and gave me his old ones and a few dozen old balls, inviting me to join him. I did.
Soon, my friend and his avid golfing partners left me far behind. I decided to drop my bag where I stood and just take a walk. The scenery was beautiful, a good walk. Seeing that they were almost done, I picked up the clubs and met them at the restaurant bar downstairs.
Next morning at sunrise, I was at the lake near home. One at a time, I drove that bucket of balls into the lake. Two kids rode up on their bikes and watched. After the last ball had splashed down, I turned to these tykes and gave them my clubs.
I was done with that sport, and it was done with me.
Mr. Twain had been right.
He certainly was a wise man. I wish he was around today, …just so’s we could have his comments. I wonder what he’d say.
This is The Tale of the Cottonwood Tree.
There was this young schoolboy named Johnny.
What would Mr. Twain say about the media, …the Internet, our modern political leaders, and global warming? I’d like to have a day just sittin’ with Mr. Twain on the veranda under a spinning ceiling fan in our white seer-sucker suits. We’d share a pitcher of mint juleps and our views on such matters of import like the Kardashians and our beloved superheroes who come out of the closet as gay. Yessir, the modern world might leave even Mr. Twain tongue-tied and twisted.
There was a young schoolboy named Johnny. Oh, I’d say about second grade or so, maybe third or first even. In Ms Merriweather’s class. ‘Course his real name might not be Johnny. It might be Fred or Bobby, or Sue even. But when a young boy’s true identity and appellation have been lost in obscurity, he is always referred to as Johnny.
No, I don’t know why, but those are apparently the rules long established and long upheld by our cultural traditions. Therefore, we shall make reference to him as Johnny throughout this epistle.
This is the Tale of the Cottonwood Tree.
In class one morning, I believe it was a Friday. No, …no, …perhaps it was a Thursday. Our anonymous Johnny was telling a story to his classmates. It was none other than The Tale of the Cottonwood Tree.
Mr. Twain once said, “I don’t like to commit myself about heaven or hell–you see, I have friends in both places.”
Personally, I enjoy walking into a place where a lot of people know my name. I do not believe it is presumptuous for me to surmise that the latter is more crowded than the former. Especially toward the bar area. Still, there are citizens there whom I will indeed recognize.
There was this train track running across a shepherd’s land, presumably with a Cottonwood Tree yonder. Amongst this mixed herd was a wily old he-goat, a ram, who well-deserved that designation. For any fool who turned his back got rammed from behind. The lone rule in tending the flock was never to turn your back on Ramie. And never, never stoop over.
A new farmhand had been hired and duly warned. In recognition of this threat, he never turned his back on Ramie, that wily old he-goat.
I note that many of you tonight seem surprised by my cigar. Yes, I smoke. I discovered and took up this luxury at the age of six.
I figure that in several decades I and everyone else here tonight will be dead. But I will not have denied myself of a life-long pleasure.
“Be careful about reading health books. You may die of a misprint.”
Thus spoke Mr. Twain. The lesson to be learned, …reading can be hazardous as well. Especially in the media.
So this new farmhand went out into the pasture one day, keeping his eye and his front to Ramie. At one point, he dropped his left glove accidentally, having to bend to pick it up. But he was a-standing on those railway tracks and the train was coming fast.
Regarding smoking, other habits and vices, Mr. Mark Twain once said this, “Nothing so needs reforming as other people’s habits.” I tend to agree.
As this new farmhand was bending down to retrieve his errant left glove, he kept his eyes firmly fixed on that wily old he-goat. Yet, he paid no heed to that speeding locomotive.
“Wham! Train hit him slam in the ass,” said little Johnny.
In her tutelage, Ms Merriweather corrected him. “Johnny, we don’t use that word in polite company. We say rectum instead.”
“Wrecked him, hell, it killed him!” replied the boy.
Global English Tutor - Paul Cuadrado 