Thursday, September 29, 2016

Just Say When

I was in a coffee shop the other day when I saw a dollar bill fall from a woman’s purse as she was paying for her coffee. Because a dollar doesn’t go as far as it used to, it landed right at her feet. Almost immediately, the man behind her pointed out the found money. A noble gesture to be sure, although I submit a gentleman would have retrieved the money from the floor and handed it to her, perhaps affording himself an opportunity for an introduction. On the other hand, a scoundrel would have distracted the woman and pocketed the money.

We are being distracted daily by scoundrels and their ilk who greedily pad their pockets through chicanery and shenanigans.  I have no truck with people motivated by profit who earn an honest dollar, but I have no time for opportunists who extract and extort precious pennies from the vulnerable and weak.

But even the best among us can be drawn to a life of insatiable piggishness. Those that are blinded by greed have not only lost their way, they have lost their balance leaning from what is important to what is not. We have been fooled into thinking that greed, “excessive desire, especially for wealth or possessions,” (Webster) is admirable.

Almost thirty years ago, Wall Street, a movie starring Michael Douglas came out. In one scene, Gordon Gekko, the Michael Douglas character, said “. . . greed, for lack of a better word is good. Greed is right, greed works. Greed, in all of its forms, greed for life, for money, for love, knowledge has marked the upward surge of mankind.”

I reject that. No one would ever suggest that the other six deadly sins (envy, gluttony, lust, pride, sloth and wrath) are good. The movie plays fast and loose with the definition of greed. When anybody ever says, “for lack of a better word,” they are making it up as they go to suit their agenda. I believe you can have a healthy thirst or hunger for life, love and knowledge, but “The love of money is a root of all kinds of evil.” (1 Timothy 6:10)

I am one of those who believe that the best things in life are free (or at least available at a discount). Clearly, there is more to life than making money and accumulating possessions, especially when it only is for selfish interests serving no one but the one who banks it. There can be a limit to material gain, and, of course, it is a matter of degree, but when the desire for wealth and possessions is unquenchable, we end up as scoundrels.

I am not advocating for government intervention to “spread the wealth around.” There are plenty of worthwhile charitable organizations that feed and clothe the world’s poor. If you are fed, clothed, warm, and you have saved for the rainy days, perhaps you can admit you have some extra dollars to share from your purse or wallet that otherwise may drop to the floor.





Thursday, September 22, 2016

Traveling Through Life

When people go on vacation they like to think they are leaving all their troubles behind them. Of course, that’s not true, as most everyone packs it all up to go along with them. This is no truer than with those who pull a camper down the road behind the family truckster.

I grew up in a family that experienced the full spectrum of portable living from small campers to large motorhomes. We started out with a pop-up camper that a determined eight-year old boy could pull around the yard just to prove he could. One day (probably a rainy one at a mosquito-infested state park) dad realized that five kids in a 6 x 8 foot space wasn’t going to work, so instead of leaving half of us (the boys) at home with Grandma, he bought a bigger pop-up and brought Grandma with us on our camping trips.

I learned a lot about myself and how others live together in small confines.
My mother thought we looked like a bunch of gypsies going down the road – and I guess being a family of Irish and Bohemians, she was right.

Mom thought brown paper bags solved all the worlds packing problems. They were light, portable, and strong. The sounds of a paper bag being ransacked, folded over, crinkled and crunched in the early hours can set the tone for almost any day by waking everyone up in the camper and the surrounding park. Now, as an adult, I will involuntarily convulse whenever the checkout clerk asks, “Paper or plastic?”

Mom also took it upon herself to be in charge of who had to go to the bathroom and when. I guess it was about two or three in the morning when she would wake everyone up and make Dad take a few of us across a dark campground to the modestly appointed outhouses that were surprisingly unoccupied at that hour. Dressed in our camp shorts, we made quite a parade, but we were never afraid of being accosted by wild animals during those early morning jaunts – at that hour Dad was a bear and no living thing would dare challenge him.

Once we were back in the camper Mom would lull us to sleep by rearranging the contents of her brown paper bags. Once things quieted down you didn’t dare move in your bed, as that would shake the whole camper and stir Dad to gently remind you to “Lie Still!”

The other day I heard about a couple, presumably retirement age, who no longer live in a building. Now to a large segment of the world’s population who live in tents and huts this is not considered unusual, but I thought it odd. These crazy people live in a genuine mobile home. They drive it around the country staying in parks and campgrounds and occasionally descending on their friends and relatives for what must seem like an eternity for their hosts.

I don’t think I could ever do that (be the hosts or the itinerant travelers); I like my permanent home too much. But occasionally, my wife and I will pack up the camper and search for adventure. I keep one eye on the road and another on the mirror to make sure trouble doesn’t follow us.



Thursday, September 15, 2016

Innocence Lost

Sometimes people will ask if you remember what you were doing when a certain occasion occurred in history. Some events considered pivotal include, when President Kennedy was assassinated, John Lennon was killed, the Challenger Space Shuttle exploded, and September 11th, 2001.

I don’t remember what I was doing on October22, 1989, but I do know I started to look at things differently after that day. Twenty-seven years ago an evil man abducted an eleven-year-old boy near his home in St. Joseph, Minnesota. His mother and father, his family, his friends, and almost everyone else in Minnesota waited for him to come home safe and reasonably sound. Tragically, he never did.

Back in 1989 I was a young father with two little kids to watch over, and the memories of my time as a boy were still very fresh in my mind. I wanted to give my kids the opportunity to have similar (but not identical) experiences.

Belle Plaine, like St. Joseph, was and still remains a small town. As a kid growing up there I probably walked to school a couple thousand times, first to the Catholic school a few blocks down the street and then to the public school about a mile away. Sometimes I was with my brothers and sisters, occasionally with my friends, but often I was alone.

In the summer I biked around town and hiked in the woods for hours with no word as to my whereabouts. I made my way to the swimming pool on the other side of town and back again for several summers. I played down by the river and along the railroad tracks. There was an old brewery cave in the woods below the hill that I explored with other boys.

I spent hundreds of hours traipsing through the ravines that wove like ribbons through and around town. One day, a friend of mine and I came upon a clubhouse suspended in the trees deep in one of the ravines. An older boy, the builder and rightful owner of the clubhouse, found us there and threatened to hurt us if he ever caught us there again. We never were, so he never did. Parks, pastures and creeks were my playground.

Mom had warned me about bad men doing unspeakable things to children, but other than being aware of the darkness that lurked in the shadows, I roamed freely. It was a good way to grow up in a time and place long since gone.

Things changed when that little boy from St. Joseph, riding his bike with his brother and a friend, was taken. Jacob did nothing wrong, nor did his brother and his friend, and certainly not his parents, but evil prevailed over innocence that day.  I honestly don’t know how Jacob’s parents were able to function after that.


As a father, I have worried and my imagination has run wild ahead of reason.  Many times I have been accused of being over-protective. The other day someone asked me if the kidnapping of Jacob Wetterling affected me in any way. I don’t remember what I was doing that day, but it changed the way I looked at all the days after it.

Thursday, September 8, 2016

Lunarcy

In the 1942 movie, “Now Voyager,” Bette Davis says “Oh, Jerry don’t let‘s ask for the moon. We have the stars.” Obviously, she wasn’t talking to me (I wasn’t even born yet), she was replying to her co-star, Paul Henreid.

Considered one of the greatest lines to come from the movies, it has generally been interpreted to mean that since you can’t have it all you should be content with what you do have. I agree, but why leave well enough alone?

There are perspectives that appear to contradict each other suggesting that if you aim for, say the stars (or moon) and hit the moon (or the stars) you have at least reached a goal. The thinking being that if you miss one, you’re bound to hit another. I think NASA might disagree, but we’re not talking about rocket science here, rather the stuff that dreams are made of.

Why does either one hold such promise and pull? As far as goals and desires go, if one is closer or more attainable it gets taken for granted, and if it is more common and plenty then the same conclusions may apply.

Consider the stars and moon. The stars are infinitely further away than the moon, yet they are there every night for us to gaze at and wonder about (unless, of course, it’s cloudy or you’re unlucky enough to wish upon one and have it immediately fall from the sky, which I suspect would shake almost anyone’s foundation).

The moon, on the other hand is much closer, so much so that we have landed on its surface (not me personally, but we as the human race). So what makes the moon special? Is it because the man in the moon looks like Jackie Gleason? I think it’s because it only shows its full glory about once a month, and once in a blue moon it shows up twice.

The moon is 100% full for only about a minute – but appears to last three days – still three out of thirty isn’t very much. If it was more common and there was a full moon every night or once a week, it wouldn’t be so special.
Since it’s only here just once a month, we give it a lot of credit and it shows up in songs, movies, plays, etc.

We expect much from our moon. We plant by the moon because we believe the crops will grow better, and the staff at hospitals feel that the night of a full moon will be busier, I have even heard that getting your haircut during a full moon will cause it to grow back thicker. Something to do with the tides I guess; I am willing to try that one.

Some find it’s hard to sleep during a full moon. The night is certainly brighter, if not a little scarier when the moon is full. I have walked home many a night guided by the light of the silvery moon – and when my imagination let loose, I sprinted home.

But almost every night when I step outside I can see the stars; I am comforted and entertained by the slow seasonal rotation of the constellations. So Bette, if you don’t mind, I will ask for the stars and the moon, as there is nothing wrong with being content while dreaming.



Friday, September 2, 2016

Just Add Water

Too much of anything is bad for you and gets tiresome – or so I’ve been told. It seems that we have had more than enough rain this summer; there have been reports of flash flooding and rumors of giant mosquitos.  I haven’t watered the garden in weeks; it hasn’t needed it. The frequent watering has pushed the rain gauge and soil past its limits.

But when the garden is dry I will use a sprinkler instead of a watering can (too many trips). I have used the rotating-spitting kind that has stirred some people to dance in homage to its rhythmical pattern. I also have a donut-shaped one with small holes around the outside that is good for about a twenty-foot span. There’s a soaker hose lazing around inside the garden shed that hasn’t seen much action. It’s hard to get excited about a soaker hose - it just lies there and leaks. I can’t tell if it’s working or broken.

One model that usually gets the job done is the traditional oscillating one.
Its sweeping, back and forth pattern is an old standard – predictable and mesmerizing. It’s good for running through as well.

An even older style is one that travels along while straddling a hose. The rotating head sprays water as it turns a series of gears and the drive wheels. It races through the yard at speeds so slow that snails and slugs take their time getting out of its way. Many of these models look like an old steel-wheeled steam engine.

Last week I became the happy owner of one made by The F.D. Kees Manufacturing Company out of Beatrice, Nebraska. The Model 101 was manufactured in the years 1958 and 1959. This particular sprinkler and I go way back, and we have much in common: We are the same age, we move about the same speed, we have noticeable signs of wear, we spit and sputter, and we resided in the same neighborhood when I was a kid.

We lived across the street from a fine family – four girls and a boy. Julie and I were the same age and often played together. Back then running through the sprinkler on a hot day in the summer was as common as drinking ice-cube cooled Kool-aid.

Julie’s dad owned this sprinkler, and it was passed down to the eldest child, much like a birthright. Julie’s brother most likely soaked his children and their friends for decades as he watered his lawn.

As is often the case, tools and toys are set aside forgotten and ignored. After awhile an inventory is conducted and the surplus is put up for sale and bartered away. Fortunately for me, I have Andy, a friend who has an eye for treasure.

In his on-going quest for the rare and unique, Andy came across this tractor, learned the history and offered it to me, because he knew I would like it. For now I have given it a place of honor, as one does for an old friend, and soon I will find a comfortable home for it in the garden shed.

Someday, maybe next year when the summer sun is high in the sky, I will take it out and run through its spray, remembering the simpler times of days gone by. It’s hard to imagine that could ever get old.