Barney’s day—visiting his father.
Harold spent most of his time in bed reading. First the morning paper, then some scholarly work and, when he woke from his afternoon nap, the
World-Telegram.
After dinner he was usually too tired to do anything but sit up in bed and receive visitors.
Feeling guilty about “not doing anything useful,” he would take the burden of conversation upon himself, discoursing about current events or whatever book he was involved in at the moment. Yet there was always a barely perceptible tinge of apology in his voice.
Barney sensed this and—reversing the traditional roles—tried to give his father peace of mind by reporting the exciting events in his own intellectual world. One evening he mentioned his fascination with psychoanalysis.
“Hey, Dad,” he asked, “ever read any Freud?”
“Why yes, a bit.”
The answer surprised Barney. He had expected his father to be uninformed about such “modern” things.
“When I was in the Army hospital,” Harold continued, “there was a very sympathetic psychiatrist who would visit us and make us tell him—again and again—how we were wounded. He must have done it a dozen times. And it helped. It really helped.”
“How, Dad?” Barney asked with mounting fascination.
“Well, I’m sure you remember how Freud explains the dream process—”
“I know he says that dreams unlock our unconscious mind—”
“Yes. Well, this doctor was helping my psyche to heal by ‘dreaming out loud.’ Every night I had been reliving that explosion, but talking about it again and again finally put an end to those awful nightmares.”
Then a thought occurred to Harold. “By the way, what course are you reading this for?”
Embarrassed, Barney confessed that he was reading psychologyin his “spare time.” They both knew that he didn’t have any, and he fully expected a scolding for neglecting his school-work. But again his father surprised him.
“Well, son, it won’t do your grades any good. But I’ve always thought the real purpose of an education was to stimulate the mind to think. Tell me, have you read any Jung?”
Barney shook his head.
“Well, why not look at
his
theory of dreams and the Collective Unconscious—then perhaps we can chat about it.”
“Sure, Dad, sure. Maybe Mom can bring back a copy from the library.”
“No need for that,” Harold responded, “there’s a copy in my study—on the same shelf as Artemidorus.”
Thereafter, Barney looked forward to these visits with Harold as the
best
part of the day.
It was usually after ten before Barney could sit down and begin studying. By midnight he was often too exhausted to go on and would collapse into bed. Inevitably, he started to fall behind in his classes.
Nor could he catch up on weekends. For Saturdays he had to report to Lowenstein’s at 8 A.M. and work the entire day.
That left only Sunday afternoons. But by now Barney had developed a fatalistic attitude: he would not be going to college on a basketball scholarship. And with his grades at their current level, he would probably not be accepted by Columbia at all.
So what the hell, why not use his one free day to go to the playground, throw himself into a few dozen hard-fought basketball games, and let off steam? He would play so long and so hard that, finally, one by one, the other guys pleaded exhaustion and went home.
His first-term grades were, as he had expected, lower than usual. But his aggregate average still hovered above ninety, and that did not automatically rule out the possibility of Columbia. Especially if he did well on the upcoming College Boards.
The crucial part of this nationwide exam assessed a candidate’s aptitude in the use of words and numbers. Theoretically, it was like a blood test—something you couldn’t study for.
But in practice, during the Christmas vacation, kids attended expensive tutoring courses to improve their “aptitude.” Every family with dreams of upward
Harold spent most of his time in bed reading. First the morning paper, then some scholarly work and, when he woke from his afternoon nap, the
World-Telegram.
After dinner he was usually too tired to do anything but sit up in bed and receive visitors.
Feeling guilty about “not doing anything useful,” he would take the burden of conversation upon himself, discoursing about current events or whatever book he was involved in at the moment. Yet there was always a barely perceptible tinge of apology in his voice.
Barney sensed this and—reversing the traditional roles—tried to give his father peace of mind by reporting the exciting events in his own intellectual world. One evening he mentioned his fascination with psychoanalysis.
“Hey, Dad,” he asked, “ever read any Freud?”
“Why yes, a bit.”
The answer surprised Barney. He had expected his father to be uninformed about such “modern” things.
“When I was in the Army hospital,” Harold continued, “there was a very sympathetic psychiatrist who would visit us and make us tell him—again and again—how we were wounded. He must have done it a dozen times. And it helped. It really helped.”
“How, Dad?” Barney asked with mounting fascination.
“Well, I’m sure you remember how Freud explains the dream process—”
“I know he says that dreams unlock our unconscious mind—”
“Yes. Well, this doctor was helping my psyche to heal by ‘dreaming out loud.’ Every night I had been reliving that explosion, but talking about it again and again finally put an end to those awful nightmares.”
Then a thought occurred to Harold. “By the way, what course are you reading this for?”
Embarrassed, Barney confessed that he was reading psychologyin his “spare time.” They both knew that he didn’t have any, and he fully expected a scolding for neglecting his school-work. But again his father surprised him.
“Well, son, it won’t do your grades any good. But I’ve always thought the real purpose of an education was to stimulate the mind to think. Tell me, have you read any Jung?”
Barney shook his head.
“Well, why not look at
his
theory of dreams and the Collective Unconscious—then perhaps we can chat about it.”
“Sure, Dad, sure. Maybe Mom can bring back a copy from the library.”
“No need for that,” Harold responded, “there’s a copy in my study—on the same shelf as Artemidorus.”
Thereafter, Barney looked forward to these visits with Harold as the
best
part of the day.
It was usually after ten before Barney could sit down and begin studying. By midnight he was often too exhausted to go on and would collapse into bed. Inevitably, he started to fall behind in his classes.
Nor could he catch up on weekends. For Saturdays he had to report to Lowenstein’s at 8 A.M. and work the entire day.
That left only Sunday afternoons. But by now Barney had developed a fatalistic attitude: he would not be going to college on a basketball scholarship. And with his grades at their current level, he would probably not be accepted by Columbia at all.
So what the hell, why not use his one free day to go to the playground, throw himself into a few dozen hard-fought basketball games, and let off steam? He would play so long and so hard that, finally, one by one, the other guys pleaded exhaustion and went home.
His first-term grades were, as he had expected, lower than usual. But his aggregate average still hovered above ninety, and that did not automatically rule out the possibility of Columbia. Especially if he did well on the upcoming College Boards.
The crucial part of this nationwide exam assessed a candidate’s aptitude in the use of words and numbers. Theoretically, it was like a blood test—something you couldn’t study for.
But in practice, during the Christmas vacation, kids attended expensive tutoring courses to improve their “aptitude.” Every family with dreams of upward
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