The Use of Reason

The Use of Reason

As a Catholic, the use of reason is a term I grew up with many years ago. The Church set it at the age of seven, when a child knew the difference between right and wrong. Throughout my life, the use of reason has had a much broader application. In the 21st century the term and its meaning have little or no currency. Somewhere between Abraham Maslow, Carl Rogers and Alfred Kinsey, the powers that be, removed reason from its paramount position and replaced it with feelings. They loosely construed this as the right to whatever a person wanted to do. Psychological humanists divorced a person’s personal behavior from tradition, conscience, and shame became the new voice for subjective feelings.

I owe my ability to think and act reasonably to the good sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary and the Jesuit fathers and laymen that taught me at Xavier and Holy Cross. My ability to think and reason clearly has helped me to no end in an age that, not only frowns on any real thought but denies its importance for a happy human life. This is not to say that my emotions don’t often get the better of me when I become angry, frustrated and upset because my reasonable actions did not always turn out the way I thought they would.

A case in point revolves around the third major storm to hit Florida in two years. My wife and I watched the first two, Ian and Helene from afar. For Milton, we had front row seats at Ground Zero, though off to stage right, in Naples.

When Governor Ron DeSantis ordered a mandatory evacuation for all Floridians on the coast of Naples and other locations, we were faced with a very difficult decision. First of all, where would we go? Shelters? No thanks! We have no close friends outside the danger area and did not relish the idea of trying to outrun the storm, especially when it covered almost the entire state.

On the positive side, we had plenty of food, water, and three flashlights with lots of batteries. The most important thing was what to do with our car. I had made a thoughtless decision during Ian when I left my wife’s car, only two-years old, in harms way and it promptly drowned 1000 yards away from the Gulf. It was three weeks before anyone found her body. So, this time, I tried parking it at the four-story parking lot near one of the malls, however I was thwarted by one of the Security people who had posted a sign: No Overnight Parking. A friend offered a big parking lot at his daughter’s home three miles east of the Gulf. Our car would be safe there.

The storm was supposed to be Tuesday late afternoon but did not arrive until early evening on Wednesday. Both Anna and I had a strong sense of resignation. We were not afraid… well maybe just a little. We trusted that God would get us through it. We had planned our best. The rest was in His hands. Our families agreed that we had made the best decision possible. 

Shortly after it hit, we lost our power. We were in total darkness but at least we each had our own flashlights. I went promptly to sleep because without any hearing apparatus, I am legally deaf. My wife was not so fortunate as she encountered the power, force and wind of a Cat-3 hurricane. 

The many meteorologists said during the eight hours I watched them during the previous day and a half, that the storm surges would be the most life-threatening. We were in a condo on the third floor, about 20 feet off the ground. Not exactly the penthouse but higher than all the wildest estimates on the board.

I had expected that we would get four feet of raging water pass under us but as I opened the front door the next morning. What a surprise…almost shock. There were just a series of midsize puddles, more akin to a heavy summer rain. I am not saying I was disappointed but… like the old Peggy Lee song, I thought Is this all there is? I later saw videos of Gulf Shore Drive, which did have four feet of water which seemed to run parallel to the Gulf and not away from it.

Surprisingly, the worst damage came from, not Milton but from a busload of tornadoes which tore through counties to the east of us. This news reenforced our decision to just stay put. We did feel a sense of exhilaration since we had survived the storm. We later learned that the three other families had bugged out and left before the storm hit. Anna and I were the sole survivors of a not-too deadly hurricane. I later learned that the HOA had to hire a watchman just for us since the fire alarm was not working correctly. 

Thanks to the Florida governor’s presidential performance before touchdown, I was reminded of one of my favorite Hemingway quotes, courage is grace under pressure. This is the perfect definition of a leader. Neither Biden, nor Harris has this trait. DeSantis was a stark contrast to most of the pretenders to the throne. We had to laugh at Kamala Harris when she tried to interject herself into what was a tragedy for millions of people.

When the governor refused her call…he was kind of busy trying to figure out what to do for 3.1 million Floridians without power. In the end his leadership ability shone brightly. It reminded me why he had always been my first choice. But it is just not his time. Harris gave a lasting perception of being a petty, vain and narcissistic candidate. 

In contrast to his Vice-President, as was his place, President Biden did talk with DeSantis and praised him for his job in managing the tragedy. The Governor accepted his praise and thanked the president for the help he had sent, proving that politics, especially in the time of tragedy, can be civil and even cordial. 

Permit me one digression on the name Milton. I know the weather bureau is running out of flashy names for storms. Personally, they were better when named after females. After all, they phonetically have a her, not a him or them. Sounds like the speech police at work. The entire politically correct, Woke and all its derivatives are anti-intellectual and illogical. To feel is to not think. It also abrogates our existence. As the philosopher and mathematician Rene Descartes said: Cogito ergo sum! (I think, therefore I am.)

But Milton! I guess my disgust with this choice is not any distaste of the poet, John Milton, but more of comedian, Milton Berle. Why could it have been something of a higher pedigree, like Lance or Cameron? When I was an impressionable boy of 11, Berle refused to give an autograph to me and a friend after a Brooklyn Dodgers game at the Polo Grounds.

I do have to give him credit for his humility, in a joking way and his friendly rivalry with Bishop Fulton J. Sheen. Bishop Sheen’s Life is Worth Living and Berle’s Texaco Star Theatre had the same time slot on the same day on NBC. It was not too long before Sheen was attracting viewers from, not only Berle, but also Frank Sinatra. 

In 1953, Bishop Sheen won the prestigious Emmy as the Most Outstanding Television Personality. Always on with his humor, Berle blamed his loss to the fact that the popular Bishop had much better writers, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Uncle Miltie also quipped that both he and the bishop worked for the same boss, Sky Chief. Not to be outdone, Bishop Sheen once began his program Good Evening, I am Uncle Fultie. 

Back at our storm center: Even reasonable thinking can have serious consequences. What happened after the hurricane passed us, turned out to be the worst part of our ordeal. We did get our car back the next morning so we had wheels again. But we were without power until the following Sunday evening. We each have a cell phone. I have a string of cochlear implant batteries that need to be charged each night. Each day, we had to find restaurants of all kinds which would accommodate our charging needs. 

When this was finally over, we had to resume a construction project that was started in April. We were living in dust, disorder and a shortness of temper even before the hurricane. We felt more like cave dwellers than residents of sunny Florida. 

My stress levels went through the roof when on Monday morning I took our elevator from the second floor to the ground level. I never made it the entire way. During what seemed a slow descent, it seemed to sputter, bounce and finally stop. Then nothing happened. They make serious movies about this but usually the elevators are filled with many interesting and dramatic actors. I was alone! 

I had been in this situation once before. That elevator had a phone and was in a crowded office building. I made human contact in five minutes and was out in ten. This time, I punched the alarm and phone button. Again, nothing happened. I started raising the pitch of my voice, (screaming). Then, I started pounding on the wall and yelling at the same time. 

Fortunately, I was not totally alone! I had gotten on the elevator to let a young contractor into the building. He saw me get in the elevator and when I never came out, he guessed what had happened. He found a manager someplace. In truth, our building manager was only 40 feet away from me in her office, with the door open. She had heard my incessant pounding and yelling. I finally heard her say that help was on the way.

During the wait and maybe before, I had started praying. I tried saying a rosary but could not really concentrate. I resorted to spiritual ejaculations, such as Jesus, Mary and Joseph, help me. There was no place to sit so I studied the walls of my confinement. They looked like something cut out from a disturbed teenager’s room. After all this is the same elevator that had been in two other hurricanes and was not yet ready for prime time.

Soon I heard some strange noises near the doors. It was hard to describe. It was more like someone trying to fit his key in a lock in pitch black with scratching and fumbling. The next thing I heard was this loud announcement that blasted through the whole building that I thought was the evacuation order we had ignored. Please leave the building in an orderly matter seemed to repeat every few seconds. 

When the doors finally slid open, I said to the first fireman who approached me: Was this in an orderly manner? He either did not hear me or politely ignored my attempt at gallows humor. He did ask me if I needed any medical attention. I couldn’t think of anything witty to say that would not have landed me in the hospital or worse. 

At next breath I looked around me. There had to be 15-20 people there, including a half-dozen firemen. They were all smiling at me, though it was nothing I had said. Embarrassment to the point of blushing dominated my response. My only thoughts focused on my fatigue and the thought that my body has just suffered through an emotional trauma. The manager said the cause of my mishap was a power surge.

Now after some time to think about what has happened this past week, I can say I never lost my mind (reason) though I have had many an emotional moments. I thought I would never use our elevator again but because of company I had to. Surprisingly, there is not an official phobia for fear of elevators. It is listed under acrophobia and claustrophobia. The closest I could find to a saint for elevator occupants, is the Christ-bearer, St. Christopher, who is still worthy of veneration, despite a brief controversy during the papacy of St. Paul VI.

Drafting this essay, has just reminded me of a fitting way to end anything about reason and thinking. Shortly after the turn of the century, I became a playwrite. This is a word I could not spell until I had written one. Though my spark was like the brief candle—three plays, each one played in front of a life audience. Fourteen total performances. I had four more plays get readings, but none worked. My gift had expired.

Many of my readings took place in the large loft over a small bar in lower St. Louis. I usually had a friend drive me but for this one he was unavailable. He usually got lost because the street it was on changed directions, about half-way. I called the bar and a young, female voice answered. I am certain she was one of a bevy of attractive barmaids. 

When I tried to explain the problem about directions, she said: How am I supposed to know? I live in Illinois! Before I could say another word, she continued: You know what your problem is? She still had the floor. She finished the conversation with: You think too much!!!

Written by
William Borst

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