Thursday, October 27, 2016

Branson

Sometimes when you want to get somewhere you have to go in the opposite direction. I experienced that sensation dozens of times last week driving around Branson, Missouri with my wife, Rhonda. The road trip down there was circuitous enough; we drove west to Kansas City to visit my niece, and then back to the east to get to Branson. But it wasn’t until we got into the Ozark's that I got completely turned around.

I have been known to forget where I parked my car at the airport, to sit through a traffic light while listening to a song, and to go in one direction when I meant to go the other, but the roads around Branson were enough to make me crazy. I literally had to stop the truck before we left the campground and ask Rhonda, “Which way?” And I did this all week.

To get a picture of what I am talking about you could go on the Internet and view a map of the Branson area or you could cut about a dozen pieces of string and throw them up in the air. The haphazard pattern on the floor will closely resemble the road map I had to deal with. To go south you traveled north, to go west you went east. Fortunately, my truck has a compass and on-screen map – they kept me sane.

Eventually, we got to the proper compass heading – but it took a lot of faith. It took faith that the map was correct, and it took faith that our truck wouldn’t leave the road and go careening down any one of the numerous steep embankments to certain death as I was checking my whereabouts.

You couldn’t go to too many places in Branson where religious faith wasn’t practiced or at least demonstrated. Gospel music is quite common in the area and can be heard at several different venues – even those not specifically advertising a gospel message.

People were patient and kind – I suppose the kind of behavior you would expect in a tourist town, but it was more than that.
The campground we stayed had some seasonal (two or four seasons?) residents that didn’t have many extra possessions, their camper/home could be considered modest at best. But they were content, if not happy with their lot in life.

The owner of the campground went out of his way to help a couple who were living in their minivan find a new home, and he made room for a family who had arrived from Wyoming in their two tired trucks pulling an old boat and even older camper. All they owned was in those two rigs, but they were happy to get a fresh start at their new address.

Patriotism was also a common theme throughout the area. Three of the attractions we took in had a big part of their show dedicated to the flag and those that had served in our military.
One of the shows played the four songs from each of the branches of the military, with veterans from their respective branches standing during their song. It was quite moving to see so many servicemen in their seventies, eighties and nineties stand while their fight song was played.

What I experienced in Branson reminds of the way it used to be in this country. Maybe we will eventually find our way back to that, as we certainly seem to be going in the opposite direction right now.




Friday, October 21, 2016

Boys and Men

I usually shy away from wearing nametags (“Hello, my name is ____”), as I am comfortable with introductions, and I know who I am. Next year I will celebrate the fortieth anniversary of my high school graduation and will be expected to wear a nametag.

Every five years I have faithfully attended the anniversary – 35th, 30th, 25th  . . . all the way back to the early years. The gradual aging of my classmates has been duly noted, along with their marriages, separations, the birth of their children, job changes, grandchildren, death of their parents, and even the untimely passing of some of them.

I have not been as faithful in going to my college reunions – not that they were as tightly organized as the high school ones – still I did not make the effort. I’ve been out of college thirty-five years (maybe thirty-four if you count that last semester) – so this year a couple guys arranged a reunion to coincide with the school’s homecoming weekend.  I learned about this from Doug, a guy I haven’t spoke to since I graduated, but when his name came up on the phone, I knew exactly who it was on the other end of the line.

Doug and I met in the fall of 1977 when we were both freshman at St. Cloud State University (a small religious institution in central Minnesota . . . perhaps you have heard of it). We lived four rooms apart on the fifth floor of Holes Hall.  A lot can happen in thirty-five years.

When I walked into the bar on Saturday night I looked for Doug or anyone familiar.  I roamed around looking lost – maybe even out of place. At first, I saw no one I knew.  Then one guy came up to me and introduced himself and asked if he should know me.  “Thirty-five years ago, maybe,” I replied. He looked familiar – time had been kind to him. He still had a youthful look and a full head of blonde hair.

He had organized the reunion and suggested I put on a nametag, as that would help everyone. I wandered the bar scanning faces for recognition. If the face didn’t exist in my memory I read the nametag. Even after all those years the people that I knew looked pretty much the same once I allowed that the years had done their work. I saw a guy there that I felt I should know, and when I read his name everything clicked – except just in my mind. He had no idea who I was and even apologized for it.

One guy I recognized had been a star basketball and football player during those years.  He told me about a couple pro ball prospects he had during his senior year, but an injury dashed those dreams. I expected him to sound bitter, but he wasn’t. Instead, he talked about his three kids and how thankful he was for them.

I did find Doug with a little effort and some imagination. He no longer wore his glasses, and he had lost his youthful innocence he had worn so comfortably his freshman year. I apologized to him for my part in corrupting him that first year. “No, don’t apologize – that year was the most fun I had in college,” he said.

Life was no longer fun for Doug. He was out of work, single and he explained to me that he is just days away from moving his mother into an assisted living facility. “I just don’t want to rush it,” he said. “I would rather be half-an-hour late than half-an-hour early.”

No one was the same, nor should they be, I guess. I had walked into a time warp. I had expected to see the same guys I knew when I was in college. I knew they would be older, I just hadn’t allowed for thirty-five years of changes (marriages, separations, children, grandchildren, deaths and despair). The exterior was roughly the same, but inside much had changed. These were no longer the young men I knew.  I wore a label that night to tell people my name, but the guy I once was doesn’t exist anymore. 





Thursday, October 13, 2016

Go Towards The Light

Up until recently I wasn’t the type of guy who set goals for himself, then I started running. It isn’t that I’ve never run, it’s just that I have never run purposely from here to there just to get in shape.  I realized it was time to do something when the bathroom scale displayed numbers I had never imagined as a younger man would one day be reality for me as an older man.

Running doesn’t require any special equipment other than a good pair of shoes and a place to run, so I bought the shoes and started running on the road in front of our farm, as it was usually quiet. The initial distance I covered was embarrassingly short. In fact, I’ve seen people run farther to the bathroom during commercial breaks. But I kept at it and gradually increased the distance by using landmarks along the road. I figured that if I was able to make it so far one day, the next day I should be able to go just a little further. By setting small, obtainable goals, I gradually increased my distance. At first it was the neighbor’s mailbox, the next day it was a tall weed, then a sign and so on down the road.

I have found the early morning to be the best time for me to run, as I am too sleepy to talk myself out of it. However, lately the sun has been taking its time to rise, and I have found myself running in the dark. It occurred to me that running in the dark on a lonely country road is a good way to get hit by a car and/or eaten by wolves. As neither outcome sounded appealing, I put on a flashlight-headband, so now I can see the wolves before they attack and the drivers will see me before they run me over.

Every time I put on the illuminated headpiece I think of my mother. Mom was no great runner, but I imagine she once had the capability – I just never saw it.  Rather, Mom was a big believer in proper lighting for any occasion, especially for reading.  In fact, if she ever saw one of her children reading without a light she would say, “if you need a light, turn it on.”

Maybe Mom was a strong advocate for shedding light on a subject because she required it herself.  I also remind my kids to turn a light on from time to time. As I have gotten older I have become even more dependent upon proper lighting not only to read, but also to navigate the hallways and stairs of my home.

I plan on living a long time, so I should probably invest in some of those bulbs that have a long life, so I can see what’s going on.  I just read that some scientists believe that 115 years old may be the maximum span of human life. Of course, there are exceptions, such as Jeanne Calment, a French woman who died in 1997 at the age of 122. I plan on being one of those exceptions – just to prove those pesky scientists wrong. The way I see it, I’m almost half way to 116; it’s another new goal I’ve set for myself.




Thursday, October 6, 2016

Bad Behavior

Sometimes I fear my behavior is not what it should be. For instance, the Ryder cup has come and gone, and not once did I drive over to Chaska to see what all the fuss was about. I would have liked to see Bill Murray though – funny guy. Oh well, maybe next year. . .

Frequently, when the temperatures turn cooler and the sky threatens snow, I will stop shaving and let my beard grow in. Initially, I was taken back by all the questions regarding my motivation for the change in my appearance, as it seemed to suggest to many inquisitive people that I was getting ready for deer hunting.  I am guessing that deer may be averse to clean-shaven men and would rather be approached by someone who looked the part of a backwoodsman – gruff ‘n ready.

I’m not much of a fisherman either. Although I will, if given the opportunity, get comfortable with a book, a beverage, some nightcrawlers and a pole rigged with a bobber. I will take my gear and a lawn chair out to the end of a long dock and get set-up. I can think of no better way to spend an hour than having fish steal worms off the end of a poorly baited hook and not know when to give the pole a good pull. Of course, I may be doing it wrong.

I suppose I could blame my dad for not teaching me now to hunt and fish – but he did give it a go.  One time he loaded his three boys and his trusty .22 into the station wagon for an afternoon of squirrel hunting in the autumn woods. None of us were very old (except for dad), and we had never been hunting before, so the whole experience was new with much to learn.

We knew well enough to stay behind dad; we had learned that in shopping malls, walking to church, traipsing through campgrounds and anywhere walking was required. We all knew you didn’t go on ahead of him and you didn’t get too far behind. I don’t believe we saw any squirrels in the woods that day, but we did see a snake, which dad shot for apparently no other reason than his gun was loaded. Shortly thereafter, we went home with no meat for the table, not even snake.

When we got home dad told mom we all cried when he shot the snake. I don’t think that’s true; two of us may have sniffled while the other brother was just visibly shaken.

Fishing wasn’t much better. When I was young, my dad would only take a couple of us out at a time with him in the boat.  I suppose, the thinking was why have all five kids drown on the same trip? Dad caught mostly bullheads in those southern Minnesota lakes. We weren’t allowed to touch them, so as not to get stung. We could only marvel at the way dad handled them, even when he got hit by the stinger he didn’t cry out in pain.

As an adult the hunting and fishing stories entertain me, at least those leading up to the event. I know a woman who had planned her wedding around hunting season. Recently, a friend of mine declined to participate in a family vacation so he could go hunting. When I suggested that his behavior was nothing new and shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone, he took issue with my word choice. He thought the word “behavior” had a bad connation and preferred referring to hunting as an activity instead, which I agree sounds more common and ordinary, except now, in addition to having poor behavior, I feel inactive, uncommon and out-of-the-ordinary as well.