edioio
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Happiness
Finally, the university has found the
type of symposium that pleases
everyone.
Last week the UNL Institute for
International Studies and the Embassy
of the Argentine Republic cosponsored a
conference on Argenti'ne-U.S. Relation
in the 60s. It is not likely that it will
draw much criticism.
First of all, the promoters should be
pleased. Roberto Esquenazi-Mayo,
director of the Institute and coordinator
of the symposium, should be praised for
his efforts in putting the program
together. Promotion for the conference
was good and, with the exception of a
few speakers who were unable to attend,
the symposium seemed to run smoothly.
Secondly, university alumni, the
Board of Regents, the Lincoln
community and the parents of university
students should be pleased.
There were no obscene films, no dirty
language, no call to arms to overthrow
the U.S. government.
Lastly, and most importantly, the
students should be pleased. Unless they
are experts in international politics,
there would be so little at the conference
of interest to them, it would not even be
necessary for them to attend. Therefore,
they would be free to do nothing,
certainly pleasing to many.
This is not meant to say that the
V Argentine symposium was entirely
uninteresting or a waste of time.
Students could hardly ask for a more
timely program, unless they would like a
conference on American intervention in
Chile. With the recent election of Juan
Peron as president of Argentina, the
future of Argentina has started on a new
road. It would seem that a symposium
on this country would be interesting.
Yet, how many students thought the
Argentine conference, or any recent
conference for that matter, was
interesting? It doesn't seem like many.
Students complained about the
"expert jive" used by some of the
speakers. It seems many times that
experts in a field like to fence themselves
off from the laymen by using a
vocabulary known only to them and a
handful of their associates.
Others complained about the trouble
understanding speakers with strong
foreign accents. This is not much of an
excuse, since a person who speaks
English as his second language
undoubtedly is going to have an accent,
yet it still was a reason some students
didn't attend.
Once again, the Argentine symposium
was good, academically. But if program
organizers would quit bringing programs
that they think students should be
interested in, and start bringing programs
that students actually are interested in,
they might once again draw the large and
enthusiastic crowds this university has
seen in the past.
Tim Anderson
..me Manifestation
may
Life of poet, 60, revolves around polka, beer
Weston, a quiet town of 280
people, is about 30 miles north of
Lincoln. Its sole claim to fame lies in a
tavern and ballroom which sponsors
weekend polka bands. Students fron
Lincolnjiave been contributing to i
business for well over a decade, so, th;
past weekend, a group of friends and I
set out to experience the joys of the
polka.
The evening in Weston was
memorable. In addition to the usual
festivities, a wedding had adjourned to
the tavern for an unscheduled wedding
dance. So among sundry students, old
ladies and an occasional drunk, danced
the new Mr, and Mrs. John Keeler, and
ohn michoel dsheo
distort thunder
their tuxedoed entourage. Uuite a
picture.
Yet the most intriguing aspect of
this particular evening was an elderly
gentleman wh had shvlv ambled his
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THE WRITING ON THE WALL IN THE OLD FOLKS HOME
way to our table. He told us his name
was Joe, and asked if he could sit with
us.
As the evening progressed we
became more friendly. He introduced
us to a fellow named Machobec who
claimed to be the best shimmy dancer
in the Midwest and who promptly gave
us a demonstration to that effect.
Joe also began dancing, giving each
girl her turn. During one of the band's
beer breaks, Joe opened a little black
notebook and began reciting poems to
us. They were neither complex nor
technical poems, but were rather of
the type a fourth grade rural school
teacher might make one memorize. He
recited his poems loudly and with
pride. They were spoken with a heavy
Czech accent, while his clear blue eyes
betrayed few of the 60 years of hard
life.
"Last Call" at Weston came much
too soon for my tastes. As I left I
found myself with pitifully few notes
on the polka, but intrigued by this
elderly poet.
That next day I traveled to Touhy,
Neb., Joe's home, to record some of
his poetry. The poem he was proudest
of was titled Prett Looking Sugar
Plum.
"Hi, ya pretty looking sugar plum,
How about going out with me and
have some fun?
Everything will be just fine and
dandy
And you will be so handy
Yf "don't have to eat any candy
Anct you don't have to drink
any brandy.
I'll take along some good wine
Boy that will make you feel fine."
During my stay, I recorded much
more than poetry. There were jokes,
proverbs, and the tale of a hard life,
which, now in its twilight, is being
spent alone. He told of growing up in a
small town, and of growing old with
only his mother and sister. It was a
tale of suffering: of a three-year
struggle against cancer, and then losses
that leave one so completely alone. He
said he had lived in that same house,
never having left Touhy for more than
a year since his mother's death.
But one day he bought a car,
deciding he must still try and live. It
was then that he first began going out
evenings to polka, and began writing
poetry. Only after this explanation did
I truly understand the significance of
his poems. The poems were more than
a creative impulse, they were an
emotional outlet, a sort of bridge that
enabled him to rejoin the world and
sweep away the long years of suffering
and loneliness.
Joe now goes dancing just about
every weekend, and keeps writing
poetry, He told me that a year ago he
sent some of his work off to three
Hollywood music companies. Each of
the companies responded, "Thank you
for submitting your song to us. We like
it very much and feel that your
material has potential." The letters
then explain fees, incidental expenses,
and company percentages if the song
makes it big.
Joe showed me each of the letters
proudly but said he wasn't able to
afford having the songs published.
"I'm sure they would be big hits
though," he told me. I saw no reason
to tell him differently,
Joe is a simple man. His life
revolves around dancing and innocent
romantic poetry. There are many
things in this complex world that he
wouldn't understand, but then he
doesn't need to.
There are others who have lived
long, hard lives like Joe's. They, too,
are old and don't quite understand,
but they have little to fall back on. I
have seen them in rest homes and at
the City Mission. And when I think of
them it reminds me of how tenuously
each of our lives is balanced. One man
is kept going by being able to
participate in life, while others, for
lack of this, wait out a kind of life in
death.
When I left, he asked if I, or some
of the others he had met in Weston
would write him. I said I would. And
that is a promise I intend to keep.
monday, October 8, 1973
pago A
daily nebraskan