Dreams demand taking risks
To this day I still cry for my
grandfather.
Roger W. Paulman was laid
to rest on a bright, cold January day in
Sutherland, his hometown and mine.
In this small town, the cemetery
lay at the bottom of a high hill on
Highway 25, a winding road that cut
its way around the reservoir to my
family’s farm. From third grade
through eighth, I had traveled this
road every weekday on the school
bus. “Hold your breath — hold it Til
we get past the cemetery,” was part of
the game we played.
And in this cemetery were the
stones of names I knew — Reitz,
Fleecs, Baker and Applegate. I had
held my breath past the cemetery with
their children and grandchildren.
Grandpa had known them, too. He
now lay among them, alongside his
own son, my uncle, dead seven years
ago on a day not unlike that one.
Should I cry hysterically,? Should I
look somber? I huddled in my over
coat, feeling the prairie wind rip
through me, feeling lost, feeling a
strange sense of deja vu.
“You’d think one of us would have
the decency to die when it’s warm,”
my father said to me with dry humor.
I couldn’t help but let a small chuckle
escape the ice that seemed to enclose
my heart.
A long lime had passed since I’d
played silly school bus games. The
town and the names were the same,
but nothing seemed right. Then my
father made a sarcastic crack that
eased the pain, and my old world
came together again.
Later that day, my cousins and I,
all grown up, looked through photo
albums and laughed at 20-ycar-oId
memories. We rushed down to the
basement and dredged through the
old toy chest, cooing over things like
broken plastic cars, a tattered woman ’ s
glove and a green Comet bottle.
We had gone back to the old days.
We were almost
children again,
and I could taste
the bittersweet of
nostalgia — the
sweetness of the
good times I’d had
and the bitterness
that life would
never be the same
again.
when wc were content to play with
junk in the cold basement at grandma
and grandpa’s house. Wc were almost
children again, and I could taste the
bittersweet of nostalgia — the sweet
ness of the good times I’d had and the
bitterness that life would never be the
same again.
And I’m sure I will taste it again
soon.
In two weeks my friends and I go
our separate ways for the summer.
Summer is only three months long,
more or less. Summer alone is noth
ing.
But I have a nagging sense that this
summer will be a watershed in my
life, that everything will be incredibly
different when I return in January or
next June or whenever.
Come this summer, my friends
will never have been so far away from
me.Come this summer, we will never
have been so unsure when we would
see each other again.
This summer scares the daylights
out of me.
The friends I’ve found in the past
few years arc the dearest I * ve ever had
and I don’t want to lose them. The
thought of being away from them for
what could be a year or an eternity
paralyzes me to the point where I
could stand in this spot for the rest of
my life.
Like in the small town, where the
names never change but the faces do,
I fantasize about living next door to
my best friends, watching their kids
and grandkidsgrow up, laughing with
them over old memories until I ’ m laid
to rest at the bottom of the hill.
But my dreams are in the way.
My dreams are the only things
more dear to me than the ones I love.
My dreams led hie away from my
hometown, they will take me from
this place and they will separate me
from the best friends I’ve ever had.
What my dreams arc doesn’t mat
ter so much as just having them. Be it
changing diapers or changing the
world, a purpose in life helps us keep
track of what’s important to us.
Half of me doesn’t want to leave.
But I have to go. T need to go. The final
score: 2 1/2 to 1/2. So I’ll go, though
it breaks my heart. This is the price my
dreams demand.
Instead of trying to spend the rest
of my life in this moment in lime, I’ll
hope belter ones come along.
I will cry for my friends, for the
limes we shared and the miles be
tween us. Through bittersweet tears, I
will turn my face to the road and let
out my breath.
Pauiman is a senior news-editorial and
history major and a Daily Nebraskan colum
nist and photographer.
-II
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Conservative effort deplorable
I’m thinking about forming a
new student group at UNL: Stu
dents for the former Soviet
Union. We'd get together, lament the
collapse of communism and dream of
the day when the red menace will be
back in power.
Actually, I’m not. That idea has
already been taken by a group called
Students for America. They get to
gether, lament the fall of conserva
tism and dream of the day when the
Republican menace will be back in
power.
They even publish a nice liulc
newsletter, The Ideal. The first issue
came out yesterday.
The newsletter reminded me of a
publication m y grandmother helps put
out every month for a retircmcntcom
munily in Arizona. Real quality.
Among the incredible insights I
found reading The Ideal was the ques
tion: “Did the staff of the Women’s
Resource Center really head to the
Amazon for spring break?” I think
that pretty much sums up the level of
intelligence, or lack thereof, that can
be found spread throughout The Ideal.
And really, calling this newsletter
The Ideal is loo much. From now on
I will just call it The Joke.
What other wonderful news did I
read in The Joke?
• On the “faculty watch” page, I
see that The Joke awarded Eric Jolly,
director of UNL’s Affirmative Action
Office, with the “Adolf Hiller award
for racism awareness.”
• UNL Chancellor Graham
Spanier “seems to have a rather bi
zarre obsession with promoting ho
mosexuality." Spanicr’s “pro-gay sil
liness,’’according to The Joke,“is just
that: silly.” ,
• A solution to Bill Clinton's presi
dency is to “Change your name to
Matilda Globaski (or any blind les
bian member of the ACLU) so you
may qualify for millions in financial
With Bill Clinton’s
election,
conservatives
have no rallies to
go to. They have
no causes left. If
they are not
careful, they might
become another
lost generation.
aid...."
• “NE SPORTS ROCK!”
•“AIDS activists have bombarded
everyone for a decade with this stri
dent 'sky is falling’ rhetoric; this
double standard reiterates what an
invention their AIDS scare really is.”
The Joke staff needs to brush up on
its editing. I guess being a conserva
tive doesn't mean you can spefl
“falculty” or “wether.”
Overall, the contents of The Joke
impressed me as what some ultra
conservatives might say if they were
drunk and knew they wouldn't have to
be around to stand behind what they
believe in.
But I’m happy to see that Students
for America has formed and is pub
lishing The Joke. I think the group can
serve as a kind of Alcoholics Anony
mous for ultra-conservatives who arc
in withdrawal after George Bush’s
defeat in November.
With Bill Clinton’s election, con
servatives have no rallies to go to.
They have no causes left If they are
not careful, they might become an
other lost generation.
But don’t despair. Conservatives
now have Students for America. They
can get together and plot the return of
Ronald Reagan and publish their
newsletter. They can even hold pot
luck dinners if they get too lonely.
I can almost hear the support group
sessions now:
“Hello, my name is Bob, and...
yes, I voted for George Bush.”
The first step, as they say, is admit
ting you have a problem.
I shouldn’t be so hard on the poor
Students for America. Any group com
mitted to truth, justice and ensuring
they have the right to offend and walk
on anyone they wish can’t be all bad.
And any group that thinks Don
Stenberg will be Nebraska’s next gov
ernor must really know something the
rest of us don’t.
Besides, with budget deficits, in
dustrial decline and more gridlock in
Washington, America needs all the
support it can get. Even from conser
vative groups who can’t spell and
claim Rush Limbaugh as their guid
ing light.
Well, things aren’t that bad yet.
But in 10 years, who knows?
1 think the best argument against
Students for America and its newslet
ter is their own words. If you want to
know what to expect from this group,
just read the “Declaration of Indepen
dence” in the first issue of The Joke:
“Get ready for the campus cultural
equivalent of a drive-by shooting.”
God bless America. The conserva
tive tide is rolling again.
Fitzpatrick Is a Junior political science
major and the Dal; Nebraska opinion page J
editor. 1
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April 26- May 8
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