Thursday, October 22, 2015

Things Remembered

The leaves in the churchyard rustled as I shuffled my feet through them. St. Mark’s Catholic Church in Shakopee is only a couple blocks from my office, and I will on occasion cut through the grassy yard between the school and the church when I am out for a walk. Cutting through the churchyard might be considered trespassing, and it could be argued that I should stay on the sidewalk and go around. But I can’t.

The old concrete steps beckon me from the sidewalk, the utilitarian pipe railing guides me, and the quiet – almost holiness of the yard welcomes me.
The church is different, the school is different, and I am older. Yet, so much of it feels the same as when I was a kid in Belle Plaine.

I attended Catholic grade school at Saints Peter and Paul, and I usually walked to school, as it was only a few blocks from my house on Church Street. I even went home for lunch. As I walked through that churchyard the leaves would crunch under my feet or be swept along if I kept my steps short.

My mood is usually not affected by the change of seasons or the weather. I will, however, admit to a melancholy feeling when the autumn winds blow.
Even though I love the fall with its colors, brisk air, and the dead or dying bugs, I cannot help but feel a little sad with this change of seasons.

With each passing day the sun sets earlier – a metaphor for life I suppose.
Being closer to sixty than fifty makes me treasure each passing season a little more than the previous year.

Everyone around here appreciates what a wonderful, warm fall we have had. I think we may be getting set-up for a big disappointment though. All good things must come to an end I am told. We are so used to having these pleasant temperatures that when they do finally do drop it will seem especially nasty.

Fall is more than just a time to enjoy the colors and crisp air; it is also the time to get ready for winter. Even though it’s not here yet we know it’s coming so we prepare. We close the pool, put away the lawn furniture, drain the hoses, til the garden, clean the chimney, and get out our sweatshirts.

The farmers are also getting ready for winter. The trucks filled with this year’s corn harvest rumble down the road in front of our farm. The combines are clearing the fields to make room for the snow.

It seems now I am drawn to things that remind me of something or someone from my past. Autumn leaves remind me of my boyhood home. We raked leaves into piles to jump into; we raked them into the outlines of house walls and played house in them; Dad would burn leaves, and on my walks to school and church I would shuffle through the leaves and listen to them rustle.


Thursday, October 15, 2015

Many Happy Returns

“Many happy returns” is a phrase that is sometimes included as part of a birthday greeting; it means, of course, that there is a wish for many more happy birthdays. It does not, of course, refer to the returning of merchandise.

I am less bothered by returning something I purchased for my own use and enjoyment because it didn’t work out than I am returning something that was bought for someone else because I got the wrong size, color, quantity, edition, brand or model. This bothers me because it demonstrates a gap in communication – usually between my wife and me.

While planning for a party it was brought to my attention that we needed some more lights to replace the ones that were no longer working. I figured forty feet should do the trick. Because I used sloppy math and inaccurate measurements (in the interests of time and convenience) I allowed for a healthy margin of error (within ten feet or so) and headed to the store.

Because I was replacing a string of white “Christmas tree” lights that had proved unreliable in a particular application and location, I decided to upgrade. I had heard good things about LED bulbs and went shopping for them.

 “Can we help you find anything in particular?” two guys dressed like twins standing in front of the unseasonably early Christmas decorating section asked. I quickly concluded that Christmas lights weren’t what I was looking for because they didn’t suggest it.

I had no idea that shopping for lights could be so enlightening (I had considered using illuminating instead). In addition to strength and size, LED bulbs come in various colors and groupings. I was confident I was going to look quite bright when I came home with four lengths of rope lights – apparently enough to hang myself.
 
My wife didn’t like them, saying they would look like a hose hanging on the barn, but to her credit she said I could put them up anyway. I had learned my lesson in the past; if she didn’t like them now – she would grow to hate them later.  It was best to return them now and save myself the hassle of putting them up and them taking them down once her true feelings were known.

When I returned them to the store the next day, the lady behind the counter asked me why I was returning the lights. When I told her my wife didn’t like them she said, “I see this all the time. You guys always get it wrong. I don’t know why you guys don’t just send your wives to get what they want in the first place.”

She’s right. I have made that same mistake too many times. Fortunately (or wisely) my wife offered to shop for the light bulbs a day or two later. She ended up getting several strings of white Christmas lights – exactly what was being replaced, and apparently exactly what she wanted.

My wife’s birthday is coming up.  As is often the case, when I ask her what she wants for her birthday she responds, “Nothing.” I never listen. But I suppose this year I could wish her many happy returns as I hand her the gift with a gift receipt.


Thursday, October 8, 2015

Hidden Truth

Sometimes where you are gives you a clear view of who you are. On the night of September 27th we were camping at Beaver Creek Valley State Park in the southeastern point of Minnesota. The park is set in a heavily wooded valley. Because there are no large cities nearby, the sky is especially dark and the only lights that are able to permeate the dense, deep valley come from the heavens.

Other than the soft glow coming from campfires and the few lights from campers getting ready for bed the park was completely dark. There were no streetlights, no neon lights, no floodlights, and no yard lights. There was only the light of the moon and a million stars.

I live in the country, but my home is close to some pretty good size cities. I have always enjoyed looking at the stars, but I had forgotten that I have been only able to see a few compared to the vast number that are visible when not masked by the cast of neighboring city lights.

On that particular night the Blood Moon appeared. The Blood Moon is a total lunar eclipse when the Earth casts its shadow over a full moon and the moon, embarrassed by the attention, blushes. Up and down the campground road people gathered to see the show. They stood on the road to get out from under the canopy of trees that obscured their view.

While the man from a campsite across from ours was standing on the road gazing at the moon, the woman busied herself inside their camper. Either she had seen a Blood Moon before, or she planned on being around for the next one in the year 2033. To think that she stayed inside because she didn’t care about what was going on skyward seemed less likely.

Up at the next place there were four trout fisherman sharing one tent camper. Based upon no more than the perceived ages of the four, I surmised that there were two pairs of elderly fathers and their middle-aged sons out on a fishing trip. Through the darkness I could hear the voices of these four men standing on the road. There they were, fathers and sons looking up at the rare event for the last time together – for most likely the older men would not be around eighteen years from now.

I hope I am around to see the next Blood Moon, and what’s more, I hope to see it at a campground. I’ll be seventy-four the next time it comes around and I don’t plan on parking my truck anytime soon.

The nomadic lifestyle has a certain appeal. While I still disdain much of the hassle of camping and dislike being away from the comforts of home, I have grown fond of the quiet campfires, the skillet breakfasts, the board games, reading by a dim light, hiking, and exploring small towns.

It is experiences like witnessing a Blood Moon from a dark forest floor that makes me realize how small I really am and how very insignificant many of my problems are. Sometimes it takes a big event to overshadow us.
















Thursday, October 1, 2015

Haunted

“This will haunt you; it will not leave you alone until you write about it,” Bill said as he handed me a napkin where he had scribbled these words:
           
                                                         “Just a Minute.”
      You – Birth – Death
   Family – Grandparents

I had sat next to Bill at a meeting last week. He is older than me – not enough to be my father, more like a wise, cool uncle. He and I had just finished eating breakfast when the speaker took the stage. A few minutes later Bill wrote something on a napkin and pushed it towards me accompanied by his commentary. I read it, and for a moment I thought about the message on the napkin and the words he spoke. I smiled and put it in my notebook.

Having considered Bill’s written and spoken words for almost a week, I have concluded that for me the message is both clear and complicated. There is no such thing as “just a minute.” No minute is insignificant, no minute passes by twice; it is here and gone, and with each minute that passes we age and life changes gradually or quickly.

Yes, I know I am only talking minutes, not years, months or even days, but please consider that it is within those brief moments when life happens. People are born, they get married, they raise their family, they become grandparents, and then one day the clock stops ticking and their time is up.

My brother Dan, whose clock stopped a few years ago, told me once that he would rather lose his eyesight than his hearing. My preference seems even more disturbing. I believe I would rather lose my physical health than my mental faculties. Now would be a good time for you to make a joke.

Of my limited attributes I treasure my memory the most and the thought of losing it scares me beyond measure. Memories that are forty years old seem as fresh as yesterday’s rain. A friend of mine is helplessly watching the creeping monster of dementia consume her father. If it continues it will have the effect of taking her father from her though he still lives.

When my daughter was a very little girl she used to say “last night,” as a reference to anything that happened in the past.  She would ask, “Remember lass night?  We were at Grandma’s house?” It didn’t matter that it was last week instead of the night before; she knew it happened sometime in the past and that the past has a way of running into the present.

Last night my daughter was three, and today she is a mother of two boys, and sometimes those boys make me laugh and cry often in the same minute.

It’s after six and it’s dusky – almost dark; another day is about to pass much too quickly. The sun will set in less than an hour, just a minute or two after seven.


Bill gave me a topic he thought I should write about; the message was obvious to him and he didn’t want me to miss out. He may as well have told me that I am losing my hair. No Bill, you don’t have to tell me there is no such thing as “Just a minute,” but thanks for making it so clear.  You are right, it will haunt me for the rest of my days.