Antaeus was the Greek king and giant who fought Heracles and lost. His name is the root of the prefix of “anti,” meaning, “opponent,” or, “I face” or “I oppose.” In fact, people of the day called the guy, “Anti.” But, there’s a deeper meaning.
The huge fellow was king of what today is Libya and Antaeus wasn’t exactly a hospitable fellow, challenging all to a wrestling match. Prior to Heracles, the guy was undefeated. I’m guessing that tourism wasn’t big on The Bedouin Top 10 Reasons to Visit Libya because Antaeus killed every opponent, then used their skulls to build his palace in the North African desert.
“Geez, Antaeus. LOVE what you’ve done with the house! The grinning skulls make it look so homey!” the courtiers must have chirped.
Antaeus was son of Poseidon, god of the sea, and Gaia, goddess of the earth, was his mother. Because of mom’s genes, the pre-Christian bully would get stronger and stronger, each time he touched the ground. When they battled, the madman and Greek demigod, Heracles, finally figured this out in their colossal battle by lifting Anteaus off the ground and crushing him to death in a bear hug.
The important lesson Anteaus left us with today?
We get strong — daily — when our feet touch the ground. Not carpet. Not linoleum. Not faux wood flooring. The ground. You know. That stuff with dirt on it most of us avoid?
This just hit me recently. It’s one of the reasons why I so love Santa Clarita. With the preponderance of the same, Taco Bell/cookie cutter condo design and every home imaginatively built to resemble a little Monopoly green house, it’s nice that the city and various entities have set aside a series of natural gems.
I’ve been hanging around a lot at Central Park lately. Nope. Not renting a metal detector in my dotage to hunt for Spanish doubloons. Not eyeballing potential kidnap victims.
Yet.
I love how Central Park has turned 105 acres from a Poop-&-Hike Coyote Park into a lush, recreational Garden of Eden. They managed to keep those wild, natural and, yes, beige, dry and dusty hillsides as a scenic frame. There’s clean and safe bleachers, picnic tables and basketball courts. There’s hiking trails, hills to climb and wild sage to sniff. Both? Good for the soul.
Almost a year ago, I tweaked my knee and back pretty seriously. It’s been a painful recovery. Central Park and a handful of Santa Clarita scenic gems have been lovingly assisting me in my return to my True & Ferocious Self. At my recovery’s start, I needed a small garage crane to hoist me out of the sofa. Bean bag chair? Couldn’t get out of one to win a million dollars or the heart of a fetching Swedish stewardess. My beloved niece-like substance, the Lovely Stefanie, likes to point out that, in these modern climes, one refers to them as, “Flight attendants.” So. Ready? Stewardesses. Stewardesses. Stewardesses. Inhale. Stewardesses. If I had more room in the column, I’d add “… with come-hither heart-melting smiles and hourglass shapes to ponder.” There.
A marathon for me would be 50 yards of walking, and that’s 25 yards out and 25 yards back, with regular rest stops. But. Who used to be the bronze Polish sun god? Me. Who still could be? Same answer. It just takes a little effort and a dirt path.
With a tall staff, I’d hike a little up Placerita Canyon’s Nature Center, limp, sit, limp to the next bench, sit, repeat. I’m seeing a great chiropractor, Jeff Willis, over on Apple Street in Newhall. Daniella is helping me immensely over at Henry Mayo Newhall Hospital’s physical therapy. I’m lifting weights, swimming, stretching. Just last Sunday? My daughter and I hiked a mile-plus up at Mentryville. Not exactly a super-marathon, but, mind you, that beats limping 20 feet then sitting when your spine, neck, hips and legs have fused into one, unforgiving unit.
There’s trees at my little Santa Clarita Nature sanctuaries. Throw in flowers, shrubbery, endless amounts of blue skies, fresh air, wildlife, and, that blessed stuff called, “dirt.”
Yay. Yay for dirt.
Just walking on ground heals you. Even better? Like Anteaus, just touching it makes you stronger.
Thanks, in part, to dirt, I’m getting stronger. I think if Heracles or Anteaus, heck, the two of them together, should they bump into me along one of Santa Clarita’s many back trails, it would be most wise if they kept their eyes down and hugged the opposite side of the narrow path.
Some things need to be manicured, pruned, watered, fertilized and babied. Some things need to just be jolly well left alone. The city and other Santa Clarita Valley agencies do a pretty good job — most of the time — knowing which is which. You can’t host a softball game in a rattlesnake-infested dry river bed. You can’t enjoy Nature when, in the lyrics of that old Joni Mitchell song, “… they paved Paradise, and put up a parking lot.”
Good hustle, guys and gals in charge of our parks and open spaces. Good hustle for constantly trying to respect the difference. Anteaus would have been proud of you.
I know this will never happen, but in place of some of the mental institution craft projects passing as art, I’d like to see a statue of Anteaus erected in a local park someday. Not because he squished every tourist entering the inhospitable climes of the inner Libyan desert. Not because he couldn’t get a City o’ SClarita permit today for using human skulls as a bearing wall. But, because his story has a never-ending wisdom to it.
We get stronger when we touch Mother Earth.
May our future leaders never forget that.
John Boston, with more than 100 writing awards, is Earth’s most prolific humorist and satirist. Look for “Naked Came the Novelist” his long-awaited sequel to “Naked Came the Sasquatch,” in a matter of days at johnboston-books.com.
