Thursday, December 26, 2013

Christmas in Tucson

No need to dream this year as it is most assuredly a white Christmas. It’s hard not to hear Bing sing - just turn on the radio, but there are a lot of other choices for Christmas music; everything from the old classics like Harry Simeone and Lawrence Welk to every other musician putting out a Christmas album. Lately, I have been listening to some Christmas blues with a Vince Guaraldi and Ray Charles bent.

I remember in 1971 listening to Top 40 AM radio in the family station wagon during the Christmas season. We were not going to have a white Christmas that year; we were going to a part of the world where Christmas is a different color - brown (Chicago’s “Color My World,” was the 56th most popular song in1971). Dad was driving the family down to my cousin’s home in Tucson, Arizona, and occasionally Mom would persuade him to have the radio tuned to something the kids would like.  

Other than a portable transistor radio, there were no other options for music - no smart phones (the uneducated one was still on the counter in the kitchen), no mp3 players, no CD’s – just the radio. So we talked, played games, looked out the window and asked Dad to turn up the radio. Please.

One of the games we played had us in teams counting cattle on each side of the car. When a cemetery came up on your side you had to bury all your cattle and start over. Another game involved filling in the alphabet (A-Z) with street signs and billboards. “Signs” by The Five Man Electrical Band was popular that year (#24)

My cousins, The Delaney’s, (not be too confused with Delaney and Bonnie and Friends whose song “Never Ending Song of Love”  was #67 that year) lived south of Tucson in the middle of the desert. Since there was no snow and it was warm, we shed our cold weather clothes and played outside in shorts and tee-shirts because as Jerry Reed sang, “When you’re hot, you’re hot” (#74). During the day we played football in the stone-fenced yard (to keep out rattlesnakes), rode mini bikes in the desert, and at night we listened to the coyotes howl.

On Christmas Eve my parents, along with my aunt and uncle, went outside to look at the stars. Then they asked the kids come out to see the bright star in the eastern sky. It reminded them of the one that foretold the birth of Jesus. I said I saw it, but I think it was “Just My Imagination Running Away with Me,” (that song by The Temptations was the 9th most popular in 1971).
                       
After about a week it was time to go home; Mom, Dad and their five children piled back into the station wagon and headed back to Minnesota (John Denver’s song “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” was #8).

On the way back we ran into a snowstorm, the kind of storm where most everyone pulls off the highway, everyone except my dad. There were two things that kept Dad from pulling off the road: He had experience - he had logged hundreds of thousands of miles as a former Greyhound bus and over-the-road semi-truck driver, plus he was too stubborn to be beat by a snowstorm.

So we drove past the dozens of cars waiting out the storm along the shoulder. But soon, one by one they pulled in behind the station wagon with the Minnesota plates and followed Dad as he led them out of the storm (“Riders on the Storm,” The Doors, #99).

The life savers I received as a Christmas gift in the desert lasted the whole way home. I remember savoring each and every one of those round-candies wrapped in 6 rolls and packaged in a book like box. Of all the Christmas’s I had as a kid, the one in Arizona stands out.  I guess it doesn't matter whether it’s a sandy brown or snowy white Christmas; Jesus was born for the whole world (“Joy to The World,” by Three Dog Night, #1, 1971).



Saturday, December 21, 2013

Box of Rocks

I heard a story awhile ago about a young man who was cleaning out his grandfather’s garage.  Having lived through the depression the old man had saved most everything just in case…  One box stood out: “Too Short to Save,” was written in big letters on the side. The box was filled with small pieces of wood that were too small to hang onto, and yet…

Clearly, there are some things worth saving. But what do you hang onto? Most home workbenches have a jar or bin filled with miscellaneous nails, nuts, bolts, etc. One time when my son, Nathan, was still living at home he walked in on me sorting a shiny heap of mismanaged metal fasteners. When I explained what I was doing, he asked if he could help. When I consented, he grabbed the bucket used to hold small metal odds and ends for recycling and swept the entire assemblage into it. He then suggested it would be much easier to start over with a trip or two to the hardware store when I need something. I couldn’t disagree.

Most things we hang onto eventually end up as refuse or recycled. There’s an old story about a man who was startled in the middle of the night by a voice telling him to go outside and fill his pockets with stones and in the morning he would be both happy and sad. He did as instructed and went back to sleep (how I can’t imagine with rocks in his pockets). In the morning he found that the stones had turned to diamonds. He was happy that he had taken as much as he had, but sad he had not taken more.

The other day I was going through some boxes of folders and files expecting to find rocks and refuse, but instead I found some real treasure. When my two kids were little, about five and three, I started to keep a journal of our family life. I wrote down what we did, who we saw and what those funny little kids said. For a brief period of time I had recorded the early years of my childrens’ lives.

As I read through my scribbling, I, like the man with the rocks, was both glad and glum. I was happy that I had written down as much as I did for as long as I did, but I was so disappointed in myself for not doing it earlier and more regularly. But worst of all, I had completely stopped doing it after a few years.  That is a regret I will carry to my grave.

When I read my notes I was reminded when I had given my son and daughter horsey-rides up the stairs after having their teeth brushed by their mother. There was a sentence or two describing when I carried my sleeping son back to bed because he had once again fallen asleep on the floor at the top of the stairs where he could hear his mother and my voice. I was happy to read about when I had given my daughter math problems over the phone because she had called my office excited to tell me she now “got multiplication.”

The writing was rough and unedited. Many of the sentences of our early family life were short and choppy, but all are worth saving.  I typed out seven pages from these notes and this year for Christmas I am going to give them to my wife, daughter and son. I’m sorry I don’t have more; I must have had rocks in my head.

There is an old Chinese proverb that states, “The faintest ink is better than the best memory.” Uh-huh.


Saturday, December 14, 2013

Company's Coming

Last Saturday morning I got up around 6:00 am, but not because I wanted to. It was still dark and cold (around 10 below) but my wife, Rhonda, was having some neighbor ladies (and a few others) over for coffee, and she had work for me to do. Rhonda doesn’t even drink coffee. Since the first group was scheduled for 7:00, my assigned task was to start a fire in the wood stove so the kitchen would be comfortable and Rhonda could make breakfast on it.

Even though we added some insulation and replaced some windows, the kitchen remains colder than the rest of the house. Maybe it’s because when the kitchen was built they didn’t dig out a basement, above it there is no second floor, it’s exposed to the Northwest, and there are too many windows. But I’m just guessing.

For most of its one-hundred and twenty years this house has had a wood-fired cook stove to prepare meals and provide heat. When we bought the place the old stove in the kitchen didn’t look like it could contain a fire within its walls any more, so we replaced it with a new model (we still have the old one stored in the coop).

Even with a new stove, there is more to it than just striking a match. If everything goes right I can get the stove lit and ready in about 15-20 minutes, but that morning I was a little sleepy and just a bit crabby so it took longer. First, I had to make myself some coffee; the ladies would have to get their own.

The stove’s ash drawer was in need of emptying, for I planned on keeping the stove going throughout the chilly day. I opened the grate and guided yesterday’s remains into the drawer below to top it off. Then I carried the ashes to the garden and cast them to the wind.

Back in the house I hurried to the garage for kindling and newspaper – time was running short and soon I would have to field questions from curious onlookers. A quiet, still stove and a snappy winter night makes for a cold chimney. If the chimney is warm it will draw the smoke up and out, but if it is cold the smoke will take a seat in the kitchen and nobody likes that.

For years I fought with the smoke trying to persuade it to go up the chimney, but too often I was opening windows and running for fans. Until one day Rhonda had an idea (she hates the smell of smoke in the house even though I tell her to pretend she is camping). Through the smoke she handed me an old hair dryer and suggested I use it to blow warm air into the chimney prior to lighting the stove. It worked so well that sometimes I will add a curling iron to give the smoke a subtle swirl as it leaves the chimney. Rhonda declined my offer to give the hair dryer back.

Even though the hair dryer adds five minutes to my task, it saves time and trouble later on. With some newspapers rolled up and some kindling on hand, I am almost ready to go.  I find it to be therapeutic to burn bad news. First, I light a small piece of paper to test the draw of the chimney.  When that is done and the results are promising, I lay newspaper and kindling in the firebox and light a second match.

Just then the ladies hit the room, and I had to dance around them for the next few critical minutes. With the kindling burning, I knew I didn’t have much time to add larger pieces of wood with more staying power.  With the stove warming, I turned the responsibility of feeding the fire over to Rhonda and retreated upstairs.

Having ladies over for coffee sure is a lot of work. I remember my mother used to have ladies over for coffee, but I never remember that Dad had any chores to do. Mom even drank coffee. Things have sure changed.


Thursday, December 5, 2013

Letters to my grandson

My wife, Rhonda, went to a baby shower for our daughter and brought home something that has my head and heart leaping years into the future. At the party Rhonda’s sister had given out blank cards to be given as birthday cards to this yet-unborn baby boy. The idea being that you would write something to the boy or (man) not yet here. Not all the cards were filled by the shower guests, so I agreed to take a couple. I chose ages 15 and 20 because I believe I have something to tell him when’s he those ages, whether I am here or not.

To think that I may not even be here is a bit unsettling – but that’s true for tomorrow as well, I guess. So believing that there will be no such thing as privacy in the future, I share these letters with you now.

Dear Pal,

Happy 15th birthday! I hope you don’t mind that I still call you my pal. One day when your mother was still carrying you she asked what I would call you.  I knew right away: Pal, because I hoped you and I would be close someday.

I wrote this before you were even born, which probably seems kind of crazy to you; it seems crazy to me. So what do I say to my fifteen-year old grandson who isn’t even born yet? I can’t be too specific or I may miss the mark completely; too general and my words are empty of meaning. You see my dilemma. Plus, when you are fifteen you think you know everything; at fifty-four you realize you never will.

I don’t have all the answers, no one but God does – and sometimes he doesn’t tell you right away. But here is what I regard and recommend: Read. Appreciate music. Be a good listener. The Ten Commandments were not just good ideas. Being kind to your neighbor and your enemy will go a long way in making both of them your friends. But, even with that, people will take advantage of you. That’s okay – that’s their sin, not yours.

Have fun, but don’t cross the line. Be strong in your faith, in your convictions, and in your purpose. But allow for some flexibility and spontaneity. Look for options and when possible, compromise and move a little towards the middle. Be true to your word and be on time so people can depend on you. Help others when the opportunity presents itself and always look for those opportunities.

Love your mother – she once was my little girl. If you hurt her you will answer to me. Always remember I love you and nothing can change that. If you need anything, just call.
Your pal,
Grandpa


Dear Pal,
Happy 20th birthday, same thing applies when you were fifteen – this letter was written before you were born, so I may miss something. You are a man now – maybe you don’t always act like it – but a certain amount of silliness is okay. I hope we are still pals, even though that may seem a bit childish – but the little boy in me still lives – may he live long in you as well.  
  
Go back and read the letter I wrote to you for your fifteenth birthday. That stuff should still apply. I also wrote some essays that you may want to slog through if you ever want to figure out who I was/am.

I hope you still find time to read and listen to music. Find an artistic outlet. Try and do work that allows you to be yourself and someone you can be proud of. When you have to decide between money and time, always choose time because you can never get it back. You can always make more money; and it is true money does not buy happiness.

Find a woman who is your true companion and is kind to others. Everything else should follow. Someday if you have children you will learn what unconditional love is. Your mother and your uncle knew that I would do anything for them. I hope you felt the same. 
Love,
Grandpa  


Friday, November 29, 2013

Dear Dan

November 30th would have been my brother’s 58th birthday.  When I first learned of his illness, I wrote this letter intending to send it to him, but instead, I read it to him in the hospital. He asked me to share it.  I condensed it for the newspaper and Facebook

Dear Dan,

I could send you a Facebook message – but what I have to say seems more fitting for a personal letter. I am bothered by the brevity of life.  We have lost friends, grandparents and Mom and Dad. And one day we will say good-bye to each other. Since you’re older, I’ll let you go first.

Recently, I was told I look like Uncle Rich. But often I see you in the mirror, sometimes I see Dad. I’d love to talk to him. 

Much of my musical appreciation I owe to you. You amassed a large music album collection. You taught yourself to play piano, guitar and harmonica, which still impress me. 

We had our pretend band in the basement on Church Street. We played along with Mom and Dad’s Fats Domino record. The A side was “When My Dreamboat Comes Home”, but the B side was our favorite. Dad said he heard “So Long” so often he doesn’t know if he’s coming or going.   You played the piano, and I played the drums on a stool.  Badminton rackets became guitars, and we played along with “Sugar, Sugar”.  I think we got that record from a cereal box. 

Then you started buying records. Derek and the Dominoes, The Beach Boys, The Doobie Brothers, Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airman, Jefferson Airplane, The Mamas and Papas, Abba, etc.   On your stereo was “Hangman,” “Venus,” “In the Year 2525,” B.J. Thomas, Sly and the Family Stone and “Hair” by The Cowsills. Anything from 1969 will always remind me of you.   You would send me tapes of songs from college. I remember “Long May You Run,” “Wish You Were Here” and “Burning Bridges”.

I learned to love animals from you.  I remember our crazy black cat, Smokey, Lady, our Collie, and a fat, black puppy you snuck into the house one night.  Joe, Barney, Patrick (and your other dogs) were all special because the way you treated them.  Instead of commands, you conversed with them.  “Edgar Sawtelle” was you in so many ways.

You taught me how to play Frisbee. We played with pink rubber curlers that became alien creatures. We played with tile samples (probably asbestos); in the winter we built forts in the basement using blankets, books, and tables.  Mom made us take them down in the spring.

You protected me from bullies at school, even if it meant you would get hurt. You and your friends, John and Dan gave me my first beer. We went to parties together – well maybe not together, but we were both there.

When I hear a thunderstorm, I think of calling you and Terry to share the excitement like we used to when we shared a bedroom. When we stretched out our hands we could touch both walls – maybe even beyond.

You were the first one I knew who wore jeans to church – my kids do now, but you dared to do it first.  When you were tired of clothes you had worn for months, you would hand them down to me, and I would destroy them in a few days. 

We learned to read by reading comic books. “Where the Wild Things Are,” “Big Red”, or anything by James Kjellard makes me think of you.

Dan, you see the world through the eyes of an artist – you see all the beauty God created. You taught me many things, and I learned from you. Now, please learn from me.

As a boy I followed you; Jesus asks you to follow Him. You may not have long to decide.  I plan on going to heaven, and I want you there. Pray to Jesus. He may not heal you in this life, but he can give you eternal life in the next.  You just have to admit that you need Him as your savior. See you later.

I love you Dan,

Jerry


Dan died three days after I read him this letter.

Thursday, November 21, 2013

Thanksgiving Eve

I don’t feel that I obsess about food, but often I will call home to inquire about the menu for the evening meal. Sometimes options are given, and I get my choice. Usually though, I am expected to eat what is served, and I usually do. However, it is nice to know ahead of time whether it’s one of my favorites or not. And if not, I can ready myself for the coming culinary experience.

When we are invited over for dinner I will ask my wife, Rhonda, what we will be having.
She rarely knows and yet will never ask.  The closest she gets is asking if she can bring anything. A few questions wouldn't hurt.

On one level, I am merely wondering (but not obsessing). Secondly, I need to know if I should starve myself and go there hungry (or not “spoil my appetite,” as my mother used to say), or should I pack a lunch as I may not like what is offered for dinner. I think it’s just nice to know.

This is true during the holidays as well.  There are some traditional holiday meals where you know with certainty what will be on the table: hors d’oeuvres are a good way to end the year and start a new one; ham is served at Easter; Independence Day is celebrated with a picnic or a barbeque; Christmas and Christmas Eve is anyone’s guess and usually left up to the host and family traditions; Thanksgiving is perhaps the most predictable meal of the year.

For many years, when we were first married and the kids were little we would travel to the middle of Wisconsin to celebrate Thanksgiving with my sister and her family. For a meal away from home you could not do better. Julia Child and M.F.K.
Fisher would have begged for her recipes. I feel like Pavlov’s dog as I salivate at just the thought of sitting at her table.

But, eventually other obligations arose and traditions changed.  Even though we no longer go to Wisconsin for Thanksgiving I am still well fed in Minnesota.  And from what I hear even the traditional turkey dinner is no longer a sure thing at the meal of giving thanks.  There are tales where cold soup and lentils are served instead of the big bird trimmed with cranberries (can ridges still imprinted), dressing, smashed potatoes, breads, pumpkin pie (Festal or fresh) and so on.

My friend, Jeff, has developed a means to manage the risk of not getting a proper meal at Thanksgiving, and perhaps the best part of his plan is that no embarrassing situations need arise.  He never makes a fuss by asking the host ahead of time and he’s not disappointed when an eggplant soufflĂ© is set before him.

This is because he celebrates the night before. That’s right – Thanksgiving Eve. I gathered from our phone conversation that his wife is a willing partner in this trend-setting activity. Having the whole meal the night before was born from his desire to guarantee a generous helping of proper leftovers for the following day or two. A wonderful arrangement it seems.

All this talk about food has made me hungry, even at midnight when I am trying to put this column and me to bed.  I am blessed to never have to go to bed hungry. I am aware of how much I have to be thankful for – my family and friends, my health, my home, my job, peace in my own country and peace in my home. But tomorrow I am going to ask Rhonda about her menu plans for our Thanksgiving dinner. Just to be sure.



Thursday, November 14, 2013

Take Two

I am in a play that will open in a few weeks, and I usually have a nightmare at this point in the rehearsal schedule. I am standing behind the curtain and just about to walk on stage when I realize I don’t know my lines. I never find out if I suddenly remember them, as I always wake up at that point.

Plays require numerous practices for the actors to get ready. Sometimes I get impatient and begin to question the necessity of such repetition, but then I remember my bad dream and am thankful for all the practice experience. I have to know my part because there is no second chance.

For a play to be successful practice, practice, practice is required. When everything comes together you know what you and the other actors are going say, when they should say it and to whom. You know when you are supposed to come on stage, where you should stand, who else is going to be with you and what they are going to do.  To the audience, all this should come across as smooth and natural, with no bumps and a dialog that doesn’t sound rehearsed. To the actors on stage and those waiting in the wings there should be no surprises. If there are, the director may pull her hair out.

With my own loss of hair, I have noticed that the parts normally offered to me are going to younger men. A woman in the play who is about my age said to me during rehearsal the other day, “What happened?  We used to get the younger parts – now we play the older folks.”  And then she answered her own question. “We got older, Jerry.”

Well, maybe we did. I have been told I will be a grandfather sometime next year and all signs seem to be pointing in that direction. In fact, it becomes more obvious each time I see my daughter.

But, I’m not sure if I’m right for the part of grandfather. My own grandfathers were  elderly. They wore sensible shoes and suspenders. Their long sleeved shirts were buttoned-up tight at the neck. I suppose I could make that work with the right costume and make-up.

Certainly, playing the part of a grandfather would provide me with certain advantages that are otherwise unavailable to a younger man. Having witnessed similar scenes unfold before, a grandfather knows when to laugh, when to be serious, and what to expect in the next act.

Having learned from my mistakes I will, as a grandfather, have the opportunity to do better this time around. I will have more to give and less to demand. I won’t lose my temper with a young child, I will be a better listener, I will be a better story teller and have more time to use four letter words like play, pray, talk, walk, hold and love.

A young father has many things to learn and there are so many other demands on his time and energy, but a grandfather is positioned to give back – to share his life with his grandchild.

When it came to raising kids my dad used to tell me, “You do the best you can, but you go only get one chance.”

But the way I see it with grandchildren, it’s kind of like a second chance.  And this time I think I know my lines.


Thursday, November 7, 2013

Simple Man

Recognizing some variations of degree, I contend there are two sides of the same road through life: complex and simple. The complex life sounds more exciting, fun and even a bit wild at times; while the simple path at first glance looks to be predictable, boring and far too tame.

In the movie “Harvey,” Jimmy Stewart plays the part of Elwood P. Dowd who is quite content living a simple life. In one scene he says, “Years ago my mother used to say to me, she'd say, ‘In this world, Elwood, you must be’ - she always called me Elwood – ‘In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant.’ Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.”

I am neither terribly smart nor exceedingly pleasant, but since I don’t want to turn into a crabby old man, I will strive to be more pleasant. Hopefully, this can be accomplished without having to pal around with a 6 foot rabbit that no one else sees.

It’s easier to be sour and cynical. I have noticed that the complexities of life have been having their way with me and making me unpleasant to be around; I am currently trying to correct that by simplifying.  “Less is more,” said the writer Robert Browning. His wife, poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning, counted out the ways.

I decided to change lanes about two years ago. I was talking with an old friend on the second floor of a coffee shop, and I was telling him of some great plan I had and how I was going to spend my time to achieve it. Since he had at one time shared a similar dream, I asked him what he thought.

“I only have fifteen or twenty good years left, and I have to decide how I want to spend it; and I don’t think I want to spend it doing that.”

Being 6 months older than me, his perspective may be sharper in that regard, as he has less time to waste than me.  Yet I thought it a good exercise to consider how I want to live my life on “this side of the hill”.

The answer doesn't come easily, as my interests are varied and not always long-lived. Time with family and friends will always be a priority, and I hope to continue to write and read, watch some movies and play music. Then there are places to go, things to do, people to see. And, of course, I need to remain employed for a while, so I can sustain all this silliness.

So to accomplish this, I had to make some changes. I bought an old warehouse and moved my office to it. My large monthly rent payment has been replaced by a smaller mortgage payment.

Plus, I have to get rid of stuff. I thought I could be entertained by things – but instead I found they must be maintained. My focus needs to be narrowed. 
Take my banjo. Please. Playing the banjo requires the right hand to pick or roll through the strings while the left hand is in charge of the chord selection.  The rolls I’m getting down – but I struggle with the chords.

Lou Reed, who died last week, once said. “One chord is fine. Two chords is pushing it. Three chords and you’re into jazz.” “Ostrich” was a song he recorded where all six guitar strings were tuned to the same note (D-D-D-D-d-d).  Although he took a walk on the wild side he recognized the need to keep things simple.   

I choose the simple path – and you may quote me.




Thursday, October 31, 2013

Early Christmas

I hear it’s not too early to be thinking about Christmas; it may be too early, however, to hear what I’m hoping to get for presents; that can wait another month or so. I used to be one of those who scowled at the sight of holly paired with ivy before Thanksgiving. Not any more.   

It’s not that I’ve given up and gone to the dark side of commercialization. I like Christmas, so why not think about it and stretch the season out a bit. It doesn’t mean I’m going to start flashing red and green or wishing anyone the merriest. I’m just going to get into the Christmas spirit sooner this year.

The reminder that Christmas comes earlier every year usually arrives with the seasonal displays in stores, the ads in the newspapers, and the songs on the radio.  This year it hit me in the middle of August, with the beginning of play practice. Every year the church I attend puts on a play at Christmas, and this year they mistakenly gave me a part. So I’ve been thinking about Christmas for two months already.

Most everyone agrees that Christmas is over before you know it and that it doesn’t last long enough. So why not extend it. And most everyone is in a good mood at Christmas time, everyone except those that have suffered some emotional trauma that is forever linked to the blessed holiday – like getting a potato under the tree because someone thought you had been a naughty boy. I am so over that.

I have many good memories about Christmas: the way the downtown decorations in Belle Plaine swayed in the snow-filled wind, my brothers and sisters looking at Christmas lights with my dad while Santa came to our house, reading to my wife and kids by the Christmas tree and so on. In fact, I keep Carol of the Bells, and Vince Guaraldi’s Charlie Brown Christmas on my iPod.

I know a group of sisters (not nuns) who have already done their Christmas shopping.  That kind of activity requires a good memory; otherwise it might be November of next year before you remember where you hid the gifts.

There are other downsides of starting the holiday season early. For instance, you really can’t be yourself with Peace on Earth and Good Will toward Men hanging over you like so much mistletoe. More than once I have had my behavior corrected with “please…it’s Christmas,” or “Jerry!  Not at Christmas!” One year I was told that I almost ruined the holiday when I took advantage of a year-end sale at my local Ford dealer.

Of course, concentrating on Christmas cheer doesn’t mean we have to skip over Thanksgiving, but Christmas is not just about getting presents. It’s a reminder that we need to give of ourselves by treating each other with love and kindness.  

Is this a crazy idea? Yes – crazy like a box wrapped up with a bow. Would it be so bad to be in the Christmas spirit longer than just on the night before, or the week, or the month? I find it to be so much more pleasant to be around others at Christmas, as most are in a good mood. I think it may be the way to live. So, I’m going to give it a try, I’m going to choose to be as happy as my happiest Christmas memory. What have I got to lose? I may be wrong, but I doubt that I will be eating Crow for Christmas.

Since there is no time like the present, Happy Christmas to all.



Thursday, October 24, 2013

Camping with Lewis and Clark

A couple months ago my son, Nathan, gave me a book about Lewis and Clark, and it finally worked its way to the top of the pile.  I’ve always been intrigued by those two and the 45-50 men who made up The Corps of Discovery (the name that Thomas Jefferson gave the expedition). Their journey across the new nation and back again took place between 1804 and 1806, and it seems impossibly difficult from my 21st century perspective.

The trip covered 8,000 miles and lasted over 2 ½ years. They had to bring most of their supplies and trade with the Native Americans for the remainder.  They had to hunt and fish for their food, and they slept outside or in drafty cabins they constructed. Those guys knew how to camp.

I respect them and their successes, and yet I find no compulsion to duplicate any of it. I’m not shy about my feelings about camping: I don’t like it. But lately I find myself sleeping in campgrounds. 

The problem is with Rhonda, my wife. She likes nature; she also likes taking advantage of my agreeable nature. I have gone on record saying, “I don’t care where I go, I care where I stay.” I enjoy traveling, but I require comfortable accommodations.  She has discovered a weakness in that position and is exploiting it with a travel trailer.

The last two weekends I have been found sleeping in state parks. The purists argue that anyone who does not cook over a fire and sleep on the ground is not actually camping. Fine, but I contend that GPS, Gore-tex, internal-combustion engines and other modern improvements make any present day claims to “roughing it” seem rather tame compared to the early 19th century traveler. I’ve just taken it a step further by pulling my cabin behind my truck.

When we pull up to the camp site I dispatch Rhonda to scout out the area and assist my backing, lest I smash into a boulder or waiver into a neighbor’s tent. She is skilled in selecting just the spot where she is neither visible from any of the truck windows, nor as a reflection in the mirrors. She waves her arms and leaves the utterance of discouraging words to me. Backing the cabin (trailer) into the camp site can be just as tricky as portaging a canoe or keelboat, but at least Lewis and Clark had help.  

Our breakfast is not unlike those of The Corps of Discovery.  It is cooked over a fire, except ours is fueled by gas. The eggs and toast are still prepared in a skillet, and I suspect a Spam-like meat substance was also enjoyed by Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, as Spam lasts forever.

One night we had no heat and the outside temperature dropped to around 30 degrees. As I lay in bed freezing I wondered what old Meri and Bill would do. So like a good camper I got out of bed and lit a fire Well maybe not a campfire, but a fire just the same.  It’s not easy lighting an oven’s pilot light in the dark. Being true adventures we went against all convention and used the oven to warm the trailer for a while. So that was kind of the same as those early explorers if you stretch it a bit.

In the morning I set out across the chilly campground in search of a warm shower. But I what I found instead was a cold shower that froze me to my core.  

Camping. I bet Lewis and Clark were grumpy in the morning too.


Thursday, October 17, 2013

Guess List

My home has seen its share of guests this fall – some welcome, some not. 

The unwelcome ones are made up mostly of insects and bugs, with some birds, reptiles and small mammals to round out my dance card. They all wanted in; some actually made it. 

The first indication the house was being set up for invasion was a bunch of tiny ants on the sidewalk. There looked to be several thousand of them crawling in fast-forward motion over the top of each other. I was so impressed that I had to share the experience with my wife, Rhonda.  I wasn’t sure she would think the ants were as cool as I did, but I knew she would find them interesting.

“Ick. Any closer to the house and I would have you get rid of them,” she said.

Asian beetles (invaders from the East) and Box Elder bugs are hardly news anymore – still annoying, however. Birds fly into windows ever since Hitchcock introduced the idea. And what house hasn’t entertained a country or city mouse?  More noteworthy is the green tree frog, straight from the pages of National Geographic. Once or twice a year I play a game of catching a leaping one that came in on a plant when it was moved to its winter home. Being a fan of E.B. White, I will tolerate a spider I find in the barn – but not the house; Charlotte’ s relatives stay outside and Stuart’s little cousins best find accommodations elsewhere.

The wasps have been the most challenging.  They mistakenly chose to build a nest in a small crevice created by the second and third edition to the farm house. I sealed that hole and several more, but no matter how many small holes I seal up, no matter how much I hit them with spray from 2-20 feet, they keep coming back and they find their way into the house. So, now instead of hitting them with chemicals I make it more sporting. I outfit myself with high top shoes, long socks, thick canvas pants, a hooded sweatshirt and heavy gloves. I climb through the window onto the roof and engage them in battle. The gloves do not come off, however.

There is a wasp nest the size of a basketball up in the North corner of the barn loft. I plan on attacking that on a bitterly cold Saturday in January. I was sweeping the loft a couple weeks ago for a party when I spotted it. I knew if I knocked it down we may have to cancel the barn dance, but I considered it. What better way to get people moving than to have them run in terror from wasps.

Although I didn’t invite everyone I should have, and everyone who came to the party was not invited by me, but everyone who came was welcome – we even had a sign that said so. When you have a gathering with the band, No Stone Unturned, you can easily lose control of the guest list. One person I didn’t recognize was my sister’s daughter’s husband’s sister’s boyfriend.  Although I didn’t catch his name he seemed very nice, at least I think that was him. Anyone who sticks around to listen to me play the banjo can’t be all bad.

Sometime after midnight everything quieted down.  But I found it hard to sleep – in my head I kept hearing The Animals, Beatles, Byrds, Crickets and Eagles.


Saturday, October 12, 2013

Running out of time

There was a story on 60 Minutes about asteroids and other celestial bodies crashing into Earth and disrupting life – either temporarily or permanently. There was more to it than that, but that’s what I took away from it.  If the timing is just right (or terribly wrong) a half-mile wide rock could smash into Earth and give us all a bad day.

I normally don’t sit down to watch 60 minutes, but it was running about 30 minutes late because of the televised Sunday football games. My family likes to watch The Amazing Race, and it normally starts at 7:00 here on Sunday night, but once in a while it starts later because of a shift in the TV schedule. (I think they call that being pre-empted in TV jargon).

Life is not so easily pre-empted. I had a manager once, known only to me as, “Mr. Shoes.”  He believed that if you weren't fifteen minutes early to an appointment you were late. More than once I had to observe his size 17 shoes pacing the floor as he waited for me to get ready to see him.

I normally like to be right on time or a couple minutes early. Any more than that and I will stay in my truck and read.  I keep three to four books and a pair of reading glasses with me for just such an occasion. Being almost blind without the aid of corrective lenses, I will have either my contacts in or glasses on.  If I am wearing my contacts I will need reading glasses, but if I have my glasses on all is clear.

But lately, my regular glasses have been giving me a headache. For the last year or two (I’m a slow learner) I get a headache on the weekends when I don’t wear my contacts and rely solely on my glasses. I operated on the theory that I would give my eyes a break from the contacts on weekends – kind of a mini-vacation for my eyes.  But it didn't work; after a weekend of living with a man with a headache my wife needed a vacation.

So I went to the eye doctor. I had almost forgotten about my appointment and instead of being early I was...about twelve minutes late. I rushed in to the clinic with a hurried, harried and apologetic approach but was told I would have to reschedule because I was late. The receptionist handed me a bunch of papers saying, “we need these completed before we can see you”, which I felt it unnecessary to explain that since I had been there, oh about twenty times before, they should have everything they need.

“We can reschedule you now,” she said. But I couldn’t as I was only seeing red. I left and had half a mind to go someone else, but there was the matter of insurance and out-of –pocket expense and so on and so forth.

So on my following appointment I was a few minutes early with all my paper work completed, but I still had to wait for fifteen minutes until I was admitted into the next room.  As I impatiently tapped by size 10 ½’s on the floor I guessed I was being punished for my previous tardiness. 


During the exam the doctor pointed a light into my eyes that was so bright he must have got it from a lighthouse surplus store. While I was being tortured I told him everything – about not eating enough carrots, rubbing my eyes too hard and the headaches.

He thinks that because of my slight astigmatism my eyes are having a tough time adjusting between the contacts and my glasses on the weekends. He suggested I order new glasses to correct the problem. Not what I had in mind, but neither is it the end of the world.





Friday, October 4, 2013

Ghost's Chance

I was talking with a friend of mine last week about ghosts. The dormitory their child is living in has a reputation for being haunted.  Radios being turned on and off and the sounds of footsteps in the hall when no one is there are reported as common nightly occurrences.

Real or imagined, it doesn’t matter whether you believe in ghosts or not, their existence is not dependent upon your belief. As for me, I’m not so sure because I could argue for either side, but for a moment I thought I saw and heard a ghost the other day.

It’s been a whole year since we buried Buddy, our black Labrador/Great Dane mix. At the height of his health he was almost 120 pounds, and sometimes I think I see his large frame in the shadows. Big and clumsy, he would make for a corner at full speed and slide right through as he would lose footing on all four feet.

Buddy’s happy, hurried gait was very recognizable, especially on the deck. The claws and heavy paws told you he was coming before you saw him.  I heard that same sound last week as I walked out the door.

I turned to look for Buddy and saw a big black lab sliding on the deck. I wanted it to be him, knew it couldn’t, hoped it would, and realized he was gone just as the dog with the different colored collar turned and ran off.

Up until then, I hadn’t realized how much I miss Buddy. But the sight of that visitor brought it to life. I still think about Max, the large German shepherd that preceded him, but not as much. The other dogs, first Winnie then Jessie, have come and gone, and that’s all right. So it appears the void left by Buddy can only be filled by another dog.

I’ve mulled this over in my head and looked at it from several different angles. In that internal discussion I am at once the boy who wants a dog to walk and play with and the grandfather who wants to give him one. Then I am the father who sees things pragmatically and says no we don’t need one.

This lopsided tug of war was played out superbly in Episode thirty-five of the TV show, The Wonder Years. Thirteen year old Kevin is surprised with a dog by his grandfather.  The problem is that Jack, Kevin’s father, wasn’t in on the surprise. Jack and Grandpa (Jack’s father) argued about the merits of giving Kevin the dog.

In this adaptation of a scene from that episode I will play the part of all three characters. It’s kind of a one-man, one-act play.

Father:              Dogs are too much to handle
Son:                 I can handle it, I know I can handle it.
Grandpa:          You can handle it, you’re fifty-four.
Father:              I know how old I am, and I know what having a dog means. A dog chews things. A dog needs to be walked.
Son:                 I promise I’ll walk him…
Grandpa:          Give yourself a chance. You need a dog.

So yes, I need a dog. I need a dog to walk, to play fetch and tug of war with. The farm needs a dog to guard it. I haven’t had any one dog for more than seven years at a time (we gave one away, one ran away, and two died too soon) so at my age I only have enough time left for six or seven more dogs.

In the Wonder Years, Jack, the father, lets Kevin, the son, keep the dog.  In this episode of my life I am not entirely sure I have a ghost of a chance in convincing all the players in my life that getting a dog is a good idea, but seeing is believing.

Friday, September 27, 2013

Good-bye Summer


There are people in my family who find it hard to say good-bye to summer. Summer is their preferred time of year; they’ve even offered to trade my summer birthday for theirs, so they can have their birthday party pool side instead of inside. I don’t share their enthusiasm. In fact, you’ll find me inside when it’s hot, humid, buggy, sunny, sweaty, and uncomfortable outside.

But when obligation calls, I will work outside and sweat like a swine with little complaint (I complain some, but not too much). I accept those conditions; but to stand outside minding my own business and feel perspiration run down my back toward my beltline is not something I like.  When the sun is beating down I will run for cover, seeking even shadows for shade to escape its death rays.

But as the temperature cools and the bugs leave on a south bound bus, I find myself wanting to be outside.  I love wearing my Eddie Bauer zip-up hooded sweatshirt (a birthday gift from my daughter, Jennifer), watching the leaves get whipped up by the wind, and even “seeing my breath,” on a snappy morning.  I think I may be in the minority, however.

Someone once said to me “I hate fall – I know what’s coming . . . winter.”  That’s as true in June as it is in October.  The only time winter is not coming is when it’s here. You may as well say “I hate middle-age – I know what’s coming. . . death.”

Many people seem to treasure their spring and summer more than their fall and winter. As Don Henley sang “…there’s just so many summers…and just so many springs.”  Of course, the same is true for fall and winter; there are only so many of each.  Each season holds it own charm, its own place.

We run outside in the summer without a jacket. A sport coat can be comfortably worn in the fall, satisfying both form and function. In the winter, the ground is covered with beautiful snow. Then spring comes, and we throw off the heavy blanket of winter.

So now, officially, fall is here (or autumn if you prefer). Soon I can enjoy a Saturday afternoon of guilt-free reading with not too many outside chores calling me. Soon I can swing the splitting maul in cool weather, fill the wood box, light the stove and grab a book.

I have a friend who seems to enjoy every season. Ron Beckman of Jordan is happy whether he’s sitting in a dugout coaching baseball, holding the down marker on the chain-gang for a home football game or watching a basketball game from the bleachers.  But his happiness is not exclusively dependent on sports.  Recently he reminded me of a night seven-years ago where he and I stood outside around a fire and drank hot apple cider while we waited for his wife and her friends to give my house the once-over as part of a holiday home tour.  “It was one of the best times I’ve had,” he said. I agreed,we had enjoyed ourselves on that chilly December night.

So good-bye summer, see you next year; hello autumn, I know what’s coming . . . winter and another gift from Jennifer – the birth of my first grandchild.

 

 

 

Thursday, September 19, 2013

Rain


It’s been dry as of late. The corn has curled and the grass has browned from being baked too long, although today the skies hint of rain. If it does rain I am to rush outside to gather laundry. I dislike those kinds of tasks, as it becomes so easy to forget under what conditions a response is required: If A, then B. So really the task becomes a flow chart with not only one thing to remember, but two or more.

Plus, I have questions. Does a light sprinkle qualify? How about a passing shower or even that beautiful anomaly, the sun shower? 

And that was only part of the instructions left by the lady of the house as she went to town to run some errands.  I prefer she not write the list down, as I want to keep my memory sharp. There was one other thing she wanted me to do and it will be revealed as this writing exercise continues or if it rains. I, of course, have my own list I should attend to.   

I have an old truck that should be prepped to sell.  Although I am not entirely sure I want to sell it. “Pipes” has been a favorite truck of our family, so named because of the dual exhaust which produces a low rumble. All four of us enjoyed driving it, and it was put it in the ditch at one time or another by at least three of us.  The fourth one isn’t saying. 

If I get Pipes out of the barn I can move my brother, Dan’s, VW Bug into the next stage of restoration: more serious consideration. I bought and paid for it, but it will always be Dan’s VW.

Of course, not being mechanically inclined presents certain obstacles. When you are not inclined, well, you are not inclined to do certain things as some activities are favored over others, and the bug just hasn’t hit me yet. 

I would have got an earlier start to my list checking, but I spent a couple hours at the Renaissance Festival with my son, Nathan. Living so close to the grounds gives me the opportunity to pop in for a quick visit about every third or fourth year.  

This time I noticed it has become difficult to tell the players from the visitors, as the period clothing is worn by both sides of the ticket.  Even though my wardrobe has articles from two different centuries, I was immediately recognized as an outsider. This of course, brought on invitations to touch a parrot (a poor model of the winged creature presented as a stuffed animal perched on a shoulder), play chess or buy some orchards for a deer lady. Did she mean a doe or did I hear her wrong?

Another thing I noticed is that most everyone from that period of time was neither shy nor modest; plus they had the same flair for the dramatic. In addition to the numerous scheduled stage shows there were wandering jesters, jugglers tossed about the grounds and side shows on both sides of the wood chip lane. Indeed the world, or at least those acres, is a stage and everyone plays.  

I left feeling fortunate to live during this modern age and to be less than a day’s ride from the festival. I shudder to think what it would be like to be without indoor plumbing and prescription lenses.  

There it is – shudder/shutter. I was supposed to take down the shutters for painting if it didn’t rain.  But now it’s raining; time to bring in the laundry.

Monday, September 16, 2013

Hello again


Yeah, I know it’s been a while.  Let’s just agree it’s my fault and move on, okay? I hope things are well with you.  Much has happened that you may not be aware of.  Let’s start with where we left off.  

As you may remember I tried again for political office.  It was close, but I came in second in a field of two.  Oh well, since I’m not in charge of these things they have to be accepted.  I don’t want you to think I have been dwelling on this for the past year.  I haven’t. It’s only been ten months. 

But much can happen in five-sixths of a year (some fractions for you math fans). I’m not sure if you heard or not, but it seems I am going to be a grandfather sometime in January-February (of next year I think).  Good grief. When did I get old enough for that?  
 
I like the idea just fine if you must know, but babies still make me uncomfortable. Other than to give their head a good whiff (I like the way that end of the baby smells), I never really know what to do with them.

If you don’t hold them just right they’re easily dropped, and nobody likes that.  So unless there’s a couch nearby I prefer to stand back and watch. But even when I am surrounded by a lot of upholstered cushions babies move around sometimes, which can lead to crying. Then I start looking for a qualified person (a female over the age of twelve) to hand them off to, and the quicker the better. 

So I’ll keep you posted on all that stuff. On a sadder note my older brother, Dan, passed away in June. He had lived in Iowa for most of the last forty years so distance separated us. Letters and phone calls don’t make up for a personal visit and there wasn’t enough of that. But now I find that I would gladly accept any correspondence with him, even a post on Facebook that I disagree with.   

Dan had several hundred record albums that he had started buying in the late 60’s. His son offered them to me a few weeks after the funeral so I raced down to Iowa with great anticipation of acquiring Old Dan’s records. Unfortunately time and cats had badly damaged the jackets so I left Iowa unhappy one more time. I’m working on cleaning the vinyl to keep my memory of Dan with me even if it’s only at 33 1/3 (more fractions).

It’s hot today, especially for September – almost 90. I have a phone that tells me the current weather for my location.  Depending upon what room I am in the house I can pretend I live in one of five different addresses as the phone has me in Carver, Chaska, Jordan, Prior Lake or Shakopee. The house has more empty rooms for me to wonder around in as both kids are out on their own now. 

My wife, Rhonda, thinks it may be a good idea to do extend my wondering beyond the house and see some of the country with her as we pull a travel trailer behind us. I like traveling, but I hate camping; I don’t care where I go, I care where I stay. But I won’t go so far as to lose touch with you.  I’ll write soon – promise.