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.