4.4.23 – there’s a race of men

there’s a race of men
that don’t fit in, can’t stay still
roam the world at will

I had opportunity to enjoy a cigar with my books in the South Carolina sunshine from out on our balcony over looking the parking lot.

I saw a family walking across the to their car.

A young Mom and Dad.

The Dad, skinny with a red baseball cap.

The Mom, carrying a baby in a car seat.

The Dad pushing, with one hand, a small child in a stroller and carrying another car seat with another child in the in the other hand.

They approached their car, set the car seats down and opened all the doors to let the heat out.

Then they packed up the family.

Working the three car seats and the three kids into the back seat of their car took about 5 minutes.

There was a baby crying in that infant-baby squalling tone of cry

The Mom got in.

The Dad made one final check of seat belts, straps and clips then shut the doors and got in.

And they drove off.

A young family.

Just getting starting.

Years of commitment on tap.

I had to wonder.

In a way, more than anything else in the news, here was some small, short, casual message of hope.

A portrayal of folks, perhaps in their proper groove.

In way, I felt sorry for that young Dad.

In way, I did not feel sorry for that young Dad.

As I said, I was reminded of a poem by Robert Service.

The Men That Don’t Fit In.

The first stanza goes like this.

There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,
A race that can’t stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain’s crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don’t know how to rest.

As I said, this poem came to mind as I watched this young Dad and Mom.

The poem was not about them.

######

The complete poem:

The Men That Don’t Fit In

There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,
A race that can’t stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain’s crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don’t know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they’re always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: “Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!”
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that’s dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life’s been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He’s a rolling stone, and it’s bred in the bone;
He’s a man who won’t fit in.

Source: The Spell of the Yukon, and Other Verses (1911)