Blast from the past

I graduated from high school 20 years ago this year. The reunion party was a few weeks ago, and I did not attend. But because of the event and the nostalgia surrounding it, I have been contacted by several old friends from whom I've not heard in years. One of these is Lara, a longtime friend in St. Louis, with whom I've had absolutely no communication since 1987. Funny that we should suddenly be emailing again after such a break. She lives in LA now as a writer.

When we were 14 she invited me to the Morp. When the girls invite the boys, "prom" gets palindromed, or at least it did that time. In a recent mail, I reminded her of that evening. I was young, and self conscious, and had been too shy to dance with her. And now 24 years later, I have finally had the opportunity to apologize for my bashfulness. Here's her reply:

I didn't realize you remembered going to the morp. What I remember about the evening is not that you didn't dance with me but that while we waited for my dad to pick us up (man, we were young!), you pulled a tiny, pewter penis out of your pocket and showed it to me. I have told that story many times, and it has made many people laugh. So good work.

I must say that it came as no small surprise that, after 24 years of feeling somehow slightly inadequate for not having danced, Lara did not even remember that facet of our evening. Chalk it up to adolescent sensitivity. (By the way, I do dance now. Easily and embarrassingly.) But I must set the record straight about this pewter penis deal. Hmph. Pewter penis indeed. Here's my response:

Um, excuse me, but that penis isn't pewter. It's silver. And It has a noble history.

In the 1950s my dad was in the army stationed in Ulm, Germany. He had been previously stationed in the States, where he continually failed his marksmanship tests. Just couldn't hit the target. In exasperation at his poor shooting, the proctor eventually wrote a very good, if fictional, score down on my dad's report card, just to get him out of there. But a few weeks later, due to his impressive marks, my dad was called up to represent his entire platoon at a national marksmanship tournament. He went to his superior and explained that he couldn't possibly participate, that he would embarrass his unit. "Do you speak any languages?" his officer asked. The next day he was transferred to Germany. But I digress.

During his time in Europe, he had the opportunity to travel. He hadn't been to Europe since he'd left as a child during the war. One place he went was Pompeii. Back then, sales of antiquities was not restricted as it is nowadays, and he bought himself a little silver 2000 year old trinket as a souvenir.

The winged penis was a common symbol in the Roman empire. Originally it was Apollo. God of fertility, dontcha know. Every year during the Apollonian festival, the barren women could go to the temple, where they would be stripped and blindfolded. And then, apparently mystically, the winged penis of the god would fly out from the alter and impregnate them. I guess priests, like the rest of us, take it where they can get it. Later, the significance of the symbol evolved, eventually serving as an icon for the Roman brothel industry. Which is odd, considering that, were I a prostitute, I wouldn't necessarily want so much fertility happening in the course of my work. But regardless, at the brothel gates, over the door in stone would be a carved winged penis indicating the type of trade that a discerning consumer could find within. Such pictographic markers were common then over all sorts of business doorways. And finally, the winged penis became the municipal symbol for the entire city of Pompeii. Whether it was well-known for its brothels, or else it had a simple affinity for Apollo, I don't know.

Anyhow, when I started Latin in 7th grade, my dad gave me his little gewgaw to bring to class. It was there that Mr Radford explained all this to me. That little penis is 20 centuries old.

And it remains on my keychain to this day.