Ben and Me_ From Temperance to Humility - Cameron Gunn [17]
Had even my mild improvement in Temperance made any difference in my life? Well, I am not sure about it being, as Plato wrote, a cardinal virtue, but I did feel a bit better. Probably psychosomatic.
I certainly think I completed more tasks during the week; thus, I was relatively industrious. I was more aware of Resolution and Justice. Even Order had a greater place in my consciousness. This incremental accumulation of virtue was clearly Franklin’s goal. As others have noted, these virtues are not heroic. Indeed, they are a bit pedestrian. No one will become a hero simply by being temperate or moderate. Saints are not borne of Silence or Chastity (okay, maybe they are . . . but not Industry and Order). Yet there is virtue in his virtues. Franklin, seeker of pedestrian virtues in his twenties, became a Founding Father in his seventies.
Yet as I patted myself on my back and started dreaming of Founding Father-type perfection, I began to feel both guilty and inadequate at the same time. I know the source of both feelings. I think it is time for a little confession and personal pep talk, an admission of intemperance at the end of Temperance. Here goes.
I am a felon.
Okay, well, that’s overstating it a bit . . . maybe a lot (technically we don’t even call felons “felons” where I come from). The truth is that when I was sixteen, I got caught in a bar.
There I was, with several friends, being intemperate in a local pub when in walked several police officers. We tried to escape, only to run headlong into a cop roughly the size of Arkansas. Soon thereafter, my friend and I (along with several other unfortunates) were sent off with a promise of a court date in the near future. I kept the fact of my arrest a secret from my parents.
On the day of my court appearance, dozens of teenagers who had been caught up in the same liquor raid had shown up for court, but apparently none had a surname beginning with A to F. I was the first person called on to plead. As my guilty plea brought the anticipated fine and a stern lecture from the judge, I noticed a man in the front bench of the court house taking notes. This was a concerning development.
After court I approached the note taker and inquired if he was a reporter (the court beat was big in my hometown, there being little other news beyond the 4-H Club and high school hockey scores). When he confirmed that he was indeed a journalist, I asked if he was going to report my name. “What’s your name?” he asked. With the foresight of John McCain choosing a running mate, I said, “Cameron Gunn.” He smiled, scribbled in his notebook, and said, “I am now.”
I thought it best, at this point, to come clean.
It was not a pleasant scene. There was no yelling or screaming. I’m not even sure I got grounded. There were just looks of profound disappointment and ominous promises that the “grandparents” would have to be told. That was worse even than the parental displeasure.
About two weeks after my mea culpa, I was told I was going to help my grandfather (the same one with the cheerful waking ritual) put vinyl siding on a house he was building for my aunt. I had been dreading any contact with my grandparents. The day progressed largely in silence until my grandfather said nonchalantly, “Heard you got in a little trouble.”
“I guess so,” I replied with trepidation.
“Got caught drinking in a bar?”
“I guess so.”
After a little pause and without ceasing his labors, he said, “Well, if that’s the worst sin you ever commit, I suspect there’s still a place in Heaven for you.”
That was it. Nothing else was ever said. Like Bill with Hillary, I was being given a second chance.
I think my grandfather understood that some sins were greater than others and that I had probably beaten myself up enough.
As I reexamined my scorecard for the week, I noticed too many incidents of intemperance. But as my grandfather