BACCHUS

THE OLD HOMESTEAD    (WASH. D.C. TO BACCHUS, NEBRASKA 1965)

Eugene Roberts knew he had it made working here at the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) in Washington, D.C.  It was l993; he was twenty-four, had a masters degree in environmental science and had been selected as an intern in the Pesticide Division.  He was in a straight track for his GS-12, a middle government management position, making $50,000.  (GS) was government service and (12) was the pay grade.  Nothing was going to get in his way.  Gene thought this cultured gentleman has what it takes to be a superstar.  All the way to the top.  (Cogito ergo sum) I think therefore I exist.  The correct word from a politician back in Philly, and his GS-13, fourteen and fifteen were in the bag. 

Well, it wasn’t like they were giving him anything.  He had earned it.  Didn’t he compete with all those rich “Main Line” kids at the University of Pennsylvania for grades, number three in his undergraduate class?  Not bad, not bad at all for a Nebraska hick, corn husker or whatever they called him.

He sat behind a medium size professional desk (middle management size).  Gene leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes allowing his mind to ramble over the events which eventually led him from Bacchus, Nebraska to his present position with the EPA.  Gene sat at his desk and allowed his mind to randomly ramble while recalling events of the past that eventually led him to employment with the Environmental Protection Agency.  Gene pictured himself as a bitter calculating professional government employee, but how did he get that way.

 Gene had tried to put the past behind him.  He had been ashamed of the way he looked, sounded and dressed.  With concerted effort he had changed his image.  Although he was not a “Main Liner” by birth he could move easily in their circles.  Gene was an excellent dancer so he had become very popular with the University women.  He was a better than average athlete and he bathed in the light of many activities.  His favorite academic subject was Latin, after four years of Latin in high school he was a natural to become President of the University Latin club while an undergraduate.  Now looking back at his childhood as a country bumpkin, was he a hayseed?  A Bama?  Had he forgotten? 

Not really.  How could he ever forget the reception his family had gotten in Landsdowne, Pennsylvania in 1965?   He remembered traveling from Bacchus, Nebraska to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania in an old blue pick up truck?  All the family belongings were tied to the top and packed neatly into the open back under a canvas.  What a sight that must have been, he laughed to himself, recalling the pain and humor of the past.  On top was a little red radio flyer wagon bought from Sears and Roebuck --or was it Spiegels?  Well, at the time it was his prized possession.

 He and “Goodie Two Shoes,” his ten- year-old sister, Susan, were uprooted for the cross- country excursion to the east coast.   Good old Susan-Do-Gooder; just like his father, Alan-Do-Right.  Mom had given his father the nickname because he always took the underdog’s position and defended it -- to the point of absurdity.