Lessons from a long hot summer

Thirty-four years ago, I composed a piece entitled 'A Lesson about History's Lessons' for a publication for fellow teachers. It challenged the popular assumptions that 'history repeats itself' and that 'hindsight is 20/20' and suggested that lessons from the past often mislead and occasionally produce disastrous consequences. Since composing that piece, I glimpsed another 'heresy' that has become more apparent in retirement thanks in part to my regular musings in this space. 'The nearer the past to the present the more likely its lessons will go awry.' Or, more simply, 'the history we know the least is our own!' In the momentary present when past and future fleetingly converge, we are simply too close to the proverbial 'forest to see the trees;'' our biases [and we all have them!] distort what we discern; and we invariably fail to anticipate tomorrow's inevitable surprises. When we consider that those who have best understood our republican experiment overwhelmingly agree that it requires informed citizen-voters, these insights are as important as they are frightening. And today, when access to information might be likened to 'drinking from a fire hydrant' and algorithms can predetermine our 'hydrant,' those concerns should be even greater. Here, I will illustrate these premises by sharing two recent, mundane, and personal stories. At the end of last summer, I knew that my lawncare arrangements had to change. Mowing with my gas-powered, self-propelled push mower was a 3+ hour job. But an aging mower and back led me to reconsider my notion that it was 'good exercise.' I had already installed temporary electric fencing that allowed my two miniature donkeys to graze in about two-thirds of the yard. Over the winter, I upgraded that arrangement and shopped for and eventually purchased a heavy duty battery powered mower that complemented the comparable weed eater I already owned. Both were much lighter and started at the flip of a switch. Good news for my back! By the time this year's mowing season arrived, the donkeys were happy in their new domain. What could go wrong? As a teacher-historian well acquainted with the 'law of unintended consequences,' I should have known that 'avoiding yesterday's mistakes' — no less than 'repeating its successes' — invariably leads one astray. By the time I realized that Jake and Paisano found the bark from my beloved Japanese Red Maple delectable, they had girdled it enough to be fatal. Several other trees and shrubs suffered similar fates. Meanwhile, my raised bed gardens offered similarly sobering lessons. Deer, I assumed, were the culprits in that drama. In response — and at considerable expense of money and energy — I installed heavy duty 4-by-8 foot stockade panels only to learn that lesser varmints continued to feast on my tender plants. For years, our dog Gibbs specialized in deer and groundhog intimidation, but after he died a year ago the groundhogs celebrated. After several costly sprays proved only marginally effective, I borrowed a trap from a friend and relocated four or five groundhogs elsewhere. My most effective remedy, however, was installing mesh wire over the lower 30 inches of the stockade panels. Alas, this barrier impeded weeding my vegetable plants. Moreover July's unbearable heat made me further neglect that essential task. Heck, to justify staying indoors with the AC and TV, I even became a soccer/World's Cup fan! While I was consumed with 'real football,' a host of vines invaded. Some, like wild sweet potato, morning glories, and an assortment of wild grapes and ivies were familiar. Other, particularly woody vines that I couldn't identify mimicked kudzu. Even the groundhogs wouldn't eat them! Only recently did I begin to pick what are no doubt the most expensive tomatoes I have ever raised. As a longtime observer of the human experience I should have known that remedies for one problem invariably morph into new, unforeseen challenges that are often worse than the original problem. If one thinks broadly, this validates my slightly revised version of Mark Twain's assertion that 'history never exactly repeats itself… but it rhymes.' So what 'rhymes' should I discern from this long hot summer's practical, first-hand experiences? And are they applicable to the broader concerns that preoccupy me as a historian and opinion writer? One option might be to intentionally avoid history's lessons. But instinct renders that approach naïve. We humans simply cannot NOT learn from our experiences. An opposite, similarly, extreme and unwise alternative is to become overwhelmed with an overabundance of knowledge. For good reason, skeptics derisively dismiss this as 'paralysis by analysis.' Finally, we might cynically and selectively cherry pick our historical evidence to make such rationales as 'manifest destiny' persuasive even as [in that case] the assertion violates the very [American and Christian] principles it pretends to hold dear. Or, like one presently powerful American, we might allow preferred misunderstandings from the past overcome common sense. Even friendly historians cringe when our President calls for 'America first' or celebrates 'the Gilded age.' The one allowed for the rise of fascism in the 1930s, and the other ridiculed an earlier era's shallowness and superficiality. Rather than end on this rancorous note, I urge you to revisit fellow columnist Matt Cannon's reflections last week on 'making decisions our future selves will [be thankful for].' That wise advice might be applied to practical matters, like lawn care and gardening. And — if one is humble and cautious — life's more philosophical considerations. Awareness that our forebears overcame unforeseen developments that undermined their best laid plans should reassure us that we too can adapt to recent surprises and that our heirs can navigate whatever opportunities and challenges come their way. But that reassurance must not lull us — nor them — into apathy or overconfidence. Mark Banker is a retired teacher and active historian. He can be reached at mtbanker1951@gmail.com.