Turn Left At The Trojan Horse Part 3

I notice that Stephanie refers to them as her children, rather than her students, and it isn't necessarily just a semantic distinction. She takes them camping and kayaking. She drives all eight kids to Idaho for a week of skiing and to the central Oregon coast for a tour of an aquarium and a lighthouse. The students don't bring an apple for the teacher; they bring a bag of apples because they know she'll bake a couple of apple pies-one for her, one for them. Maybe they'll enjoy a bite or two while they're playing at her house.

"At home, I'm still Mrs. H. I'm not Stephanie. The respect is still there," she says, "but I'll be down on the floor playing games with them."

It is at this point that I hear various voices in my head, my own personal Greek chorus. I suppose I should explain: A few days earlier, on my way out of Seattle, I drove south for an hour to the state capital, Olympia, and an appointment at the Mud Bay Coffee Company. On the second Wednesday of every month, a group of Olympians gather there to sip exotic coffees and teas and ponder mankind's most vexing questions. They call it a Philosopher Cafe, and it is one of many such open forums for inquiry that have sprouted up around the country-actually, around the world-in the past decade. People meet in bookstores, libraries, community centers, even homeless shelters and airport terminals. They aim for intellectual honesty by partic.i.p.ating in critical questioning, as Socrates famously did. They ask questions like: What is patriotism? When is violence necessary? Is human nature constant throughout history? What's wrong with cloning? They talk with each other, not at each other. It is a philosophical jam session-conceptual jazz.

Having discovered Olympia's version, I asked a favor of the partic.i.p.ants. Would they be willing to consider the question that propels me toward Ithaca: What, exactly, is a hero? In contemporary America, what is a heroic life?

We gathered at the coffeehouse in a small conference room, its walls the color of hemlock. Most of the Mud Bay Philosophers were in their late twenties or early thirties, but they were an ethnically diverse bunch-John, who has a job at a blood center as he prepares to return to school in pursuit of his masters in philosophy; Kristy, his girlfriend, who works at a day-care center for elderly people with Alzheimer's and dementia; Pasha, an Iranian-American computer systems administrator; Rebekah, a first-grade teacher of Swedish descent; Maki and Keiko, fourth- and fifth-grade teachers who emigrated from j.a.pan; and Ben and Roz, a retired engineer and his wife.

My initial questions begat many more: What is the purpose of the hero? Is it something we strive for? Is it a standard we can't possibly reach? It is an overused term? Is it about physical courage or moral courage? Can a hero still be morally flawed? Can there be a heroic act without heroic motivations? What if you have heroic motivations, but fail terribly? Does it taint the effort to call attention to your own heroic act? Is the hero defined by the actor or by the perceiver? Is each of us the author of our own criteria? Is there such a thing as a universal hero?

Of course, the questions were easier than the answers. Trying to zero in on an absolute definition of heroic achievement is like trying to find your way to the exit of an unworkable maze. Every supposition leads to more possibilities, so the task becomes exponentially more difficult, and you wind up somewhere near to where you began. Still, for a couple of hours I reveled in the n.o.bility of the attempt.

In discussing the spectrum of the heroic with my Greek chorus in Olympia, we worked our way to the subject of heroic professions. One of the group asked, "What about those people who aren't necessarily at risk of death, but they're constantly, on a daily basis, working toward something greater than themselves? I think when you choose to do something like that, it can be a heroic choice-those things that kind of grind you down, take you piece by piece, that person who gives his or her life away bit by bit until there's nothing left. Isn't that a hero?"

We were talking, in particular, about teachers, and one of the teachers in the group gave a terse reply: "I think we gain more than we give."

Stephanie's dedication to the job in Troy is inspiring to me, and not just on an educational level. It instills much the same warm feeling I get on those rare occasions when I encounter a doctor who takes phone calls at home or a contractor who puts in overtime but doesn't charge for it. For some people, a job is merely a means to an end; for others, it is a means of achieving self-actualization. Call it what you want-conscientiousness, commitment, dependability. But I am convinced there is a heroic quality to not just doing something but doing it to the best of your ability. Individually, it is an affirmation of spirit. Collectively, it furthers humanity. Karma, and all that. It is a driving philosophy of mine, but one to which, I must admit, I don't always adhere.

The students of Troy put on a play last Christmas-The Legend of the Poinsettia. It is the story of a poor Mexican girl who had no gift to present the Christ Child at Christmas Eve services. But her cousin tells her that surely even the most humble gift, if given in love, will be acceptable in His eyes. So as she walks toward the chapel, she kneels by the roadside and gathers a handful of common weeds, fashioning them into a tiny bouquet. As she lays the bouquet at the foot of the nativity scene, the weeds suddenly burst into blooms of brilliant red-a Christmas miracle.

I wonder if the actors in the drama-or even their teacher-fully appreciated how the story applies to them.

After returning along the footbridge, I stop by the lodge and notice a flyer on a bulletin board: WANTED: DEAD, NOT ALIVE...JOIN THE INVASIVE WEED PATROL. WANTED: DEAD, NOT ALIVE...JOIN THE INVASIVE WEED PATROL. It implores folks to get rid of a particular weed that crowds out native plant species. Its name is the medusahead. More irony. It implores folks to get rid of a particular weed that crowds out native plant species. Its name is the medusahead. More irony.

Moments later, I am confronted with an equally impressive coincidence when I stop and chat with another local couple, who overheard me explaining the premise of my journey over breakfast. The man, a fellow named Ralph, informs me that his father was a native of the Aeolian Islands, off the north coast of Sicily. The islands were colonized by the Greeks about two hundred years after Homer's day and named after the mythical figure Aeolus, who kept the winds bottled up in a cave on an island and released them at the bidding of the G.o.ds.

When Odysseus happens by on his long trip home, Aeolus offers him hospitality for a month and then a farewell gift consisting of the bl.u.s.tering breezes tied up securely in a leather bag. But he leaves the west wind free to blow, so that it may carry Odysseus's ships home. And home the weary travelers go, actually to within sight of Ithaka, only to be undone by their own covetousness. Odysseus falls asleep, and his men get to talking. Suspecting that the leather bag must contain a gift of treasures, they open it. Immediately, the winds rush out, driving the ships all the way back to the isle of Aeolus.

Astonished at their return, Aeolus is in an unforgiving mood. "Get off this island at once, you miserable sinner!" he shouts at Odysseus. "It is not permitted to comfort the enemy of the blessed G.o.ds!" Odysseus and his crew are to sail on, disheartened, with no wind to help them now.

If the scene is to be taken as a sort of fable within a legend, the moral might be that while no man can control the winds, we are the authors of our own decisions. Our choices point us in one direction or another, for better or worse. And, to echo Robert Frost, that can make all the difference.

At some point, Ralph's father decided it was time to set off from a Mediterranean isle toward a new world. Sometime, perhaps during a mortar attack in Southeast Asia, Dean E. Dean came to some conclusions about where he wanted to spend the remainder of his days. Somewhere along the line, maybe even at the bottom of a stairway in Yellowstone, Stephanie came to realize that she had it in her to climb higher. They opted for the road less traveled-a life-changing decision for all. And is there not a heroic element to seeing it through?

Odysseus had no desire to leave his wife and family for war, but he remained true to his word, fought valiantly, even conjured up the idea for the Trojan horse. Then he wanted nothing more than to leave Troy and go home.

The folks in Troy, Oregon? They seem to want nothing more than to stay. THANKS FOR VISITING TROY THANKS FOR VISITING TROY, says the sign, as I set off on the next leg of my journey. Y'ALL COME BACK AND VISIT US SOON. DRIVE CAREFULLY. Y'ALL COME BACK AND VISIT US SOON. DRIVE CAREFULLY.

Also by Brad Herzog

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Small World