Skating Through Life

About twenty years ago I decided to take my wife and kids on a different way home from church; instead of the predictable route, I went a completely different direction. After about fifteen minutes of aimlessly wandering along gravel roads we came across a For Sale sign in front of an old farm. Since we weren’t in the market for a new house, I surprised everyone by turning into the driveway. I immediately fell in love with the place, and shortly thereafter my wife did too. A few months later we moved into our new home.

That kind of thing reinforced my adventurous spirit. I will often take a different way home – not really a shortcut – more of a “Let’s see where this road takes us.”

Last week I was driving out of Le Sueur, a Minnesota river town about thirty miles south of Shakopee when I decided to take a different way home. I took a quiet county road that seemed to disappear into the woods. Unlike other times when I explore and experiment, this time I was looking for something.

Many years ago there was a roller-skating rink just outside Le Sueur and I was pretty sure it was on this road. I remember riding a school bus several times during my seventh and eighth grade years to Le Sueur to go roller-skating in a school-sponsored activity. It was a big deal – we didn’t have as many entertainment options available as kids do today.

Kids would pile out of the bus and into the arch-roofed roller-rink. Lines would form for the rented skates (black for boys and white for girls), which were handed out with speed and accuracy. Back in those days there was no such thing as in-line skates – these models featured four wheels on two axels. The street shoes we wore in were placed underneath chairs with confidence that they would be there later.

I wasn’t a very good skater, or at least a very good stopper; to stop I would crash into the walls or the chairs, and sometimes the concession stand. The same people who had handed out the skates staffed the concession stand, and again they did their job with precision and quickness selling fountain pop and candy.

Sometimes the disco ball would sparkle, other times there was just a black-light highlighting white clothes and white teeth. We would skate around and around in a big circle to the music from the fifties, sixties and seventies.

Sometime during the event, and without warning, a woman would announce over the loud speakers that the rotation was being reversed (from counter-clockwise to clockwise). I found this particular skate to be initially awkward and yet refreshingly different; it never lasted long and we returned to the normal way of doing things.

As I rounded a corner I saw the old arch-roofed building. No school buses, no kids running towards the doors. The building was now being used for a warehouse or some such thing; I cringe when I consider the condition of that smooth wood floor and the carpeted walls.

I pause for a minute, close my eyes and imagine what once was and will never be again. Even though those days are gone, I still hold on to the memories, the songs and what I learned  – sometimes you need to change direction before you get home.

Fan Club

I find the steady drone of a fan to be very relaxing. If I have trouble sleeping in my bed I reach behind me and flip the switch on a small fan.  My wife, and I each have our own personal fan; it’s kind of like having a sleep number bed except that instead of adjusting the mattress firmness, you control the air movement and background noise in your own personal space.

In addition to the personals, we have a public ceiling fan – it moves the air just fine, but it doesn’t give off a soothing sound.

It has been a wonderful summer for sleeping with the windows open.

Although I love the soothing sound of a fan, it does tend to drown out the noises of the night and early morning. So, like anything else, there are trade-offs.

If the fan is on I can’t hear the crickets chirping, coyotes yapping, thunder approaching, a cow calling, a lone truck on the highway, or a wren scolding me for sleeping in. Of course, with all that racket who can sleep?

My grandson, Micah, was over for a couple hours Saturday. After an afternoon of him running around inside the house, playing with toys, reading books, riding on the golf cart (outside the house), sitting in the fire truck, chasing the cat and gathering eggs, Rhonda decided it was time for a nap (he or me?).

She has a routine of getting Micah in the mood for a snooze, and he was almost there but at the last minute he decided he did not want her to leave the room with him still in the crib. As she had things to do, she appointed me to lie on the bed next to the crib to show him how it’s done.

With all the up and down of retrieving something Micah had either dropped or thrown from the crib, I was able to stay awake for the first ten minutes. But then the sound of the fan worked it’s magic, and I entered that blissful land of Nod, where I was neither asleep nor awake. I could hear Micah walking and jumping around in his crib as he jabbered to himself or me (I couldn’t tell).

After about an hour of restful babysitting I made an executive decision: This little boy had not only not napped – he was wide-awake. So I got him up and we went downstairs.

When I got there it felt warm, so I checked the thermostat. It was 81 degrees, which is a little too warm, especially when the air-conditioner is on.  I checked the breaker, the settings on the thermostat, and I would have checked the condenser or the coil, but I didn’t know how.

According to the forecast, the heat and humidity was going to continue into tomorrow night. Great. Realizing that I was not going to expire from heat stroke and that Saturday afternoon of Labor Day weekend is no time to call a repairman, I accepted my temporary lot in life.  I turned on a fan, sat down and let the sweat run, but at least I was relaxed.

Blurring the Lines

There was something wrong with my new GPS system – it looked like the road I was on was the only one available. Recognizing that driving and fiddling with an on-screen display can get you into trouble, my wife, Rhonda, turned to her old friends, Rand and McNally (she has always liked looking at maps).

Eventually, we found what we were looking for - a beautiful State park that was lacking in one amenity. While there was electricity at most of the campsites, water had to be carried from either the bathroom or a spigot further down the lane. I did not consider this ideal, but I rose to the occasion and carried several buckets to the camper without getting too wet.

I was glad for the short distance to the bathroom, but still I felt unsettled about the whole thing. After a hit-and-miss night of mosquitoes and interrupted sleep I rose shortly after six a.m. with the thought of showering at the public restroom. I was confident I would beat the rush – which I did.

I had begun to adapt to the minor inconveniences until a little dog appeared outside our camper later that morning. I have been told that I will, on occasion, obsess over something, focusing so narrowly that I am unable to see or consider anything else. There is, of course, a reason for that - I am trying to correct a problem. The little dog, not wanting to mess up his own campsite had instead decided to leave a mess at ours – right outside the door.

Yelling out the window, which I considered, seemed out of place with so many neighbors. I jumped from window to window inside the camper trying to follow the rude little creature back to its campsite. I pulled on my shoes with the intent of politely, but firmly requesting that the owners clean up after their dog.

When I got outside I couldn’t find the dog and the thought of going door-to-door seemed like that of a crazed man (which I was beginning to feel like). I walked around the immediate vicinity with no luck. Then I returned to our camper and hollered for a bag from ten feet away. It was obvious that I was going to have to care of it myself or risk stepping in it.

After disposing of the bag and its filthy contents I walked to the bathroom to purify myself. Using a generous amount of soap I lathered up only to discover that there was no water - the well had quit.

I returned to the camper with hands that no longer felt clean and hollered for water from about twenty yards away. Still frustrated by the series of events, I snapped and snarled at Rhonda.

After I apologized (some time later) we decided to move past the messy business of cleaning up other people’s messes and to take the long way home using mostly back roads. We set our sights on seeing interesting sites and to enjoy the journey using a slower pace.  Even though it took longer we saw a part of life that is hidden from the highways and freeways.

The afternoon was going much better than the morning. In the truck I had changed the image on the GPS by zooming out the focus. This gave me a much better perspective; I could see the bigger picture now.

In my mind I needed to do the same thing by stepping back and taking a broader view. Looking back on the morning I saw that I had blurred the lines between what was important and what was trivial. Little dogs and minor inconveniences are small matters compared to the feelings of others. Even though we can’t always see it right away there is always a higher road for us to take.

Don't Let the Grass Grow

The grass is growing over the path. I noticed the other day that it’s taking me longer to mow the lawn than it used to because I am now mowing what used to be part of the driveway.

At one time the driveway got a lot more use taking vehicles to the other side of the house. When people would come to visit they would drive and park behind the house.

When both kids were home, we used to park our cars and trucks in various farm buildings and occasionally outside. All this activity happened behind the house. The car that had the low profile had the small car shed to it self. The corncrib could house three vehicles if they were positioned properly, whereas the barn took the overflow with the loft and lower level taking turns with the seasons.

Several years before the kids moved out we had a garage added on to our house. Now we no longer park our cars in the farm buildings and hardly anyone drives past the attached garage anymore, choosing instead to park in front of the house.  What was once a well-worn path behind the house is beginning to disappear.

Yes, I know there are remedies to correct this – kill with chemicals, more rock or grade the driveway.  But, to be honest, I find the encroachment of nature to be a gentle reminder of the steady passage of time.

I know this is not the first time this change has happened to our farm.  Back behind the barn there is evidence of an old driveway hidden under the grass and weeds. It keeps appearing I when I move snow early and late in the season. The pea rocks roll with the snow and mud only to be buried again.

It has been suggested that we pave our driveway. I briefly considered it until the lady of the house reminded me that not only would a paved driveway look out of place with an old farm, but also there is a gravel township road that runs right out in front of our place.

Some people would not live on a gravel road. I know of a woman visiting from New Jersey who, upon seeing a gravel road for the first time, asked her driver why anyone would ruin a perfectly good road by putting rocks on top of it.

Bernie Gerold, who lives just down the road, was telling me about two women who used to walk this gravel road. His grandmother and Mrs. Barry, who lived about a mile the other way, were good friends and would often visit with each other. But because neither of them drove and it was long-distance to call even that far back then, they would walk the mile to the other’s farm.

The idea of friends walking a quiet country road to see each other sounds both old-fashioned and charming. It took real effort to maintain a friendship then. This was when being someone’s “friend” meant more than just a shallow social media designation, mailed letters needed stamps, and a text was a passage from a book. And I don’t suppose these two women let any grass grow on the path between them.

Putting the Fun in Funeral

I never really liked surprise parties, as I don’t really like surprises. I have given explicit instructions to never throw me another one.

There have been several parties that were held, at least partially, in my honor: Birthday parties – most notably my 1^st, 30^th and 50^th, high school graduation and, of course, my wedding. I had little or nothing to do with the planning of any of them. Well, perhaps you could say that with my wedding I got to be involved at some level. I believe I was instrumental in selecting the groomsmen.

I was talking with some friends of mine last week and one of them brought up the untimely death of a young man in his early twenties. It seems that this young man had displayed incredible foresight by taking the unusual step of planning his funeral.

So, upon hearing this, I got to thinking about my own funeral. I will be the first to state that many, if not all, of my commentaries are different – some are just more different than others. I don’t plan on leaving anytime soon – but just in case, here you go with my preliminary thoughts.

Now I believe that I will be in heaven in the next life and I will have someone at the service explaining the whys and hows. In some circles it is known as an altar call. As far as I can tell, that could be the most reverent part of the whole service.

I have been known to laugh and joke at funerals, perhaps it’s my grieving style – or maybe it’s because I don’t take myself too seriously. I expect some people will be sad about my passing, but I hope more won’t be glad I’m dead. Rather, I am counting on leaving people with the thought that they we’re glad I had lived. Maybe I could have cards printed out for everyone that say, “Thanks for coming, I was glad to know you. Jerry.”

I believe that a celebration of a life well lived and a new life to come would be preferred instead of a somber and stodgy service – not that there’s anything wrong with that, I just don’t think it’s my style.

I would prefer an open-house feel. As the saying goes, nobody’s invited but everyone is welcome. Regrets only. There should be an open-microphone for people to tell stories without me interrupting with my version. I will have prepared a few remarks for the occasion, perhaps even a video of me talking about the day and the days before. There should be a scripture reading to add some credibility to the affair.

Some music should be playing in the background – not too loud to drown out polite conversation, but loud enough to appreciate the song being played. An eclectic mix would be nice; some bluegrass, classical, country, rock and roll, jazz, and gospel music. I don’t have the list yet – but “Funeral for a Friend” by Elton John, and “Linus and Lucy” by Vince Guaraldi come to mind. Dancing would be allowed – it should even be encouraged. I don’t think I will be taking requests though.

Irreverent? Yeah maybe – but why be serious in a time like this. After all, it’s my funeral. No funeral flowers, just some live plants strewn about. I think there should be food: snacks, hors d’oeuvres, candy, and lots of desserts. The desserts should be eaten first because you just never no. There should be beverages – maybe a cash bar. 

Since I am not yet decided on cremation, I would like to be dressed in jeans, a button-down shirt and a stylish sport coat. My hope and request is that it not look like a normal funeral – maybe I could surprise everyone there with a party instead.