Conversationalist

Last November I read a story written by Kim Ode of The Star Tribune. The headline read “Taylor Baldry is on a campaign to return conversation to being something that people do while sitting right next to each other.”

 Ms. Ode told about how Mr. Baldry sat in a park nicely dressed at a nicely adorned table with two extra chairs.  He had brought the whole set-up with him along with a sandwich board that proclaimed “Free Conversations.”

People, strangers to each other and Mr. Baldry, would stop and choose “from a menu of options.” They would begin with an ice breaker a “Starter…a book recently read, or the weather.   "Main dishes" were meatier: Politics, religion, love. "Specials" provided a personal glimpse: Advice, dinosaurs, brainstorming, famous American Indians, weird dreams.”

I love the story, and I love the idea because I like to think of myself as a conversationalist. A couple summers ago I left the comfort of this column and, like Taylor Baldry, I began a campaign. Our goals were similar:  we wanted people to talk to us, not just small talk but actual conversations, but we also wanted to listen to what they had to say.

I didn’t have a table or a sandwich board, and I wasn’t dressed sharply. I was on my bike or in my truck going from house to house. One conversation I had that summer started before I could ring the bell.  Almost on cue, a guy came out and introduced himself,

“Tom Melchior, Belle Plaine class of 1954.”

I took his hand and said, “Jerry Kucera, Belle Plaine class of 1977.”

He and I talked for a few pleasant minutes, and I was on my way. That introduction and the pleasant conversation that followed was one of the highlights of my travels that summer.

Tom Baldry, “The Conversationalist,” had a menu of topics for people to choose from.  Even though I had things I wanted to bring up on my travels, I let the other person choose the subject matter. We could talk politics if they wanted, or we could talk about the weather or that bicycling is a great way to exercise. I just never knew what direction the conversation would go and that made it interesting.

I ran for political office that year, and even though I came in a close second, I had a whole lot of fun and I wouldn’t trade the experience, well maybe not all of it.  Being in parades is probably best left for marching bands and young women on floats and convertibles.  And as much as I like dogs, apparently not all dogs like me – I will have to remember that. 

I’m pretty sure I am going to run again, it’s just something I feel I have to do.  So if I do, this will be my last column for awhile.  There are just some things that aren’t allowed: Newspapers don’t run weekly columns written by political candidates, unless they ran one for all the candidates and nobody likes that.

I don’t give up this space lightly, I enjoy writing and the whole process of finding the right word or phrase, and I treasure all of my readers, all 101 of them. Thank you and I hope to write in this space again soon – maybe this fall.

 By this time next week you will know whether Jerry Kucera is on a campaign to return conversation to being something that people do while sitting right next to each other or on a bike or from the cab of a pick-up truck.

Saying "Yes" just in time

 I tried to not be overprotective when my kids were younger, but it was a challenge. I found it easier to say ‘No,” instead of “Yes.” I had not found a need to change.

One summer day when Nathan was about 10 years old he asked if could go exploring in a ravine with some friends of his, brothers Matt & Chris.   The ravine lay beyond our pasture, and he had asked to go there before.  I had always said no. The reasons included too cold, too hot, too far, too late or just no. I looked across the field to the ravine, which was calling to them.

            “OK, but be careful. 

            “Thanks Dad.” 

            Forty-five minutes later the three adventurers returned to the barn excited and out of breath.    “Dad, I think we found an animal – a dog or something,” Nathan said. “It might be dead, but Chris thought he saw it move.”

            “I think I saw it blink,” Chris said. “It looks like there’s a wire tied around its neck.”

            I slipped on my mud boots and followed the boys through the pasture and over the fence. The plowed field was muddy, and I was glad I had my boots. I asked Nathan why he wasn’t wearing his.  “I don’t know,” he said with a shrug.

            “I think he was over here,” Chris said, pointing to the edge of the ravine.

            What I saw was only a mud covered log, but with another step it became a dog entangled in barbwire. I cautiously placed my hand near his mouth to test his reaction.  If he ever had any ferocious tendency, it was gone; he just licked my hand. His long floppy ears and the rest of him were caught in the barbs, and in his struggle to free himself, the wire had become wrapped around his neck and through his collar.          

As I tried to untangle this mess, I sent the boys back for a wire cutter.  Before they left, I was able take the collar off with some minor cuts to my hands. Attached to the collar was a tag with a vet’s name and number. I handed it to Nathan to give to his mother, Rhonda, so she could call the vet. 

            After the boys ran for the house, I worked to free the dog as the barbwire still held him prisoner in a death grip. The way the dog’s head lay he had been able to catch some rain water as it trickled down the ravine.

            The boys got back remarkably fast. After some agonizing, painful work the dog was free.  I stood him up to test his strength, but he immediately collapsed. I placed him around my neck as a shepherd would a lamb.

            As I started for the house the dog lifted his head for the first time.  It was a long trek through the mud and over the fence, but soon the happy parade of boys, man, and dog made it back to the farm. 

            Rhonda was waiting for us in the barn with water and food; I was glad to see that he was able to lap up some water. Other than his emaciated state and his cuts, he looked in pretty good shape.  The dog calmly lay in the hay and allowed us to clean and dry him.

“The vet wouldn’t give me the name of the owner,” Rhonda explained.  “But they told me they would pass on our name and address.  So I guess we’ll have to wait.”          

            Soon we had visitors.  The sun had set about half and hour earlier so the lights in the barn told the dog’s owners where to find us.  An elderly couple entered the barn and introduced themselves as the dog owners.  The dog let out a cry as soon as he heard them.  It wasn’t a cry of pain; he was happy to see them, and they him.  He had been missing for about two weeks from their home having traveled almost a mile.

            After that night I learned to look for reasons to say “Yes,” when asked because you never know when or where a need might lie.

Two dogs, two young boys, one week.

            I was 9 or 10, my brother, Terry, was 7 or 8 when we got hired for our very first job.  Our neighbor, Mr. Logelin, a teacher at the high school in town, had just finished a year of teaching English.  He was getting ready to go on vacation, and he needed someone to take care of his dogs while he was away.

            He lived across the alley from us in a four-unit apartment building. The four units were usually occupied by young teachers new to town with little money and a need for a home.

             Mr. Logelin had us come over before he left to introduce us to his two Dalmatian dogs.  I don’t remember the dogs’ names (we can call them Spot and Dot or Smokey and Lady if you like), but I had seen them running about on and off the leash, so I knew them to be friendly enough.

             He showed us where he kept the dog food, (a big bag leaning in the corner of the kitchen), what dish the food went in, and what dish the water went in.  He told us the dogs needed to be let out at least twice a day (once in the morning and once in the early evening).

             Mr. Logelin was to be gone for a week starting the very next day, the first day of our first job. He gave us a key to his apartment, and we walked home excited about our new responsibility.

             I don’t know for sure if Mom and Dad were aware of our job or if this was a private arrangement, because I don’t remember talking about it with my parents or being reminded to go over and take care of the dogs.  It’s hard to imagine they didn’t know, but what happened after a few days of dog-sitting doesn’t make sense any other way.

For the first few days things went very well. We would take the short walk over to the apartment and let the dogs out for a little exercise and their bathroom break.  While the dogs were outside we filled the food and water dishes. The dogs obediently came back inside when asked, a simple job for two young boys.

Like most of the summers of my youth, it was great.  We spent our days watching old movies on TV, riding our bikes up and down the streets and through the alleys; we built dams, ate breakfast, lunch and supper, and sometimes we successfully sneaked money out of the house to buy candy from the machine at the gas station in the next block. We played ball, caught bugs, spied on other kids, climbed trees, played hide-and- seek and chased dogs.

Dogs? All of a sudden one morning it dawned on us – we had forgot all about   Mr. Logelin’s dogs for two or three days. We grabbed the key and ran over to the apartment.  We were glad to see the dogs still alive, but we knew we were dead. The apartment looked like the dogs had invited ninety-nine friends over for a three-day party.

 With no one to feed them, the dogs had dragged the big bag from the corner and ripped it open spreading dog food everywhere.  At least they didn’t starve, and with the bathroom door open they were able to drink from the toilet – so at least they had water.

But as self-sufficient as these dogs appeared to be they lacked one necessary skill – they couldn’t let themselves outside. Unable to get outside, they had turned the three-room apartment into a three-room doghouse. 

Fortunately, the mess was confined to the one apartment as the dogs hadn’t yet chewed through the walls to spread the mess to the other three units. Terry and I cleaned it up as best we could, but we did tell Mr. Logelin of the minor mishap when he returned (it was pretty obvious anyway).

Naturally, he was pretty upset (smoke was coming out his ears), and he renegotiated our contract (I don’t think we got paid). I guess you could say our first job was strictly on a volunteer basis.

Serenity in Anonymity

It’s been awhile, but at one time I thought success and happiness hinged on attaining riches and fame. I wanted to be rich and famous – not just one or the other but both. I once told my dad about my dream. “I’m going to be rich,” I said. “No, you will be comfortable,” he said. Was this an admonition, a correction, or a path he set before me?

For most of my life these words tumbled around inside my head. Initially, I thought he had concluded I didn’t have the skills to be rich. Later, I considered that he must have meant something in keeping with the old joke about a guy attending to the needs of his guest. “Are you comfortable?” he asks. “I make a nice living,” his guest replies.

Dad had a perspective gained over a lifetime of hard work with a goal to provide and not hoard and hide. Like most of his generation he had known hard times during the depression when money was tight and jobs were scarce.

To provide a comfortable life for his family Dad had worked a variety of jobs. He farmed; for Red Owl and Indianhead he drove truck “over-the-road;” he drove bus for Greyhound and the school district; he was a mail-man; he installed water softeners and he was an insurance man.

For Mom and their five kids he worked to put food on the table, clothes on our backs, and a roof over our heads. Plus he put five kids through school. His goal was never to be rich, and yet our lives were filled with everything we needed. We were comfortable, and therefore he was. Maybe that’s what he wanted for me.

But where does that leave fame in the fame and fortune partnership if being rich is no longer a target or attractive? To be famous means to be recognized. But lately when I introduce myself people gasp and question me.

“You’re not Jerry Kucera. Are you?” “What happened?” “Did you get a haircut?” “Really, I never would have recognized you.” That’s what happens when you don’t update your photo. The picture you see with this column was taken in 2006.

I liked the picture as much as I like any picture of myself, (given the subject matter) so I kept it and never changed it. But during the last six years a lot has happened in my life: both my kids graduated from college (the picture was taken at my daughter’s graduation), my mom passed away (Dad in 2003), I turned fifty, both kids became teachers and my daughter got married.

And somewhere along the line my beard turned grey, and to avoid being mistaken for Larry Fine of The Three Stooges, I keep my hair shorter. I no longer look like I once did, nor am I the man hiding behind the curtain. I am who I am. I am not rich or famous, but I am comfortable with my lot in life. And with that comes contentment, as a man has all he wants when his family has all it needs.

Sawing Logs

Snoring is one thing that is best done in the privacy of your own home. It’s really nothing to be embarrassed about, yet people deny ever having done it. 

“Wake up! You were snoring.” 

“I was not.” 

“Yes you were.  I heard you.” 

“I do not snore, you must have been dreaming.” 

“Dreaming? In order to dream I first have to sleep and how could I possibly sleep with all that noise?”

I’m Jerry Kucera, and I snore. Sometimes I snore so loud I wake myself up. I first started snoring back in …”

Last fall I was talking with a friend of mine named Kim who was participating in a sleep apnea study.  With several sleep disorders to keep me up at night (insomnia, narcolepsy, restless leg syndrome, and delayed sleep phase disorder) I can’t keep them all straight.  

But with a little help from those folks at www.helpguide.org it began to make sense.

“Symptoms of sleep apnea include:

·                     Loud, chronic snoring

·                     Frequent pauses in breathing during sleep

·                     Gasping, snorting, or choking during sleep

·                     Feeling unrefreshed after waking and sleepy during the day, no matter how much time you spent in bed

·                     Waking up with shortness of breath, chest pains, headaches, nasal congestion, or a dry throat.

“Sleep apnea is a common sleep disorder in which your breathing temporarily stops during sleep due to blockage of the upper airways. These pauses in breathing interrupt your sleep, leading to many awakenings each hour. While most people with sleep apnea don’t remember these awakenings, they feel the effects in other ways, such as exhaustion during the day, irritability and depression, and decreased productivity.”

It was also stated that sleep apnea is “potentially life-threatening.” Apparently, it’s possible to fall asleep, stop breathing and not wake up. So Kim wanted to see what she could do to improve her chances of sleeping and waking by participating in a clinical study.

During her visit Kim was outfitted with electrodes that monitored her brain waves while she slept. In addition to the uncomfortable electronic night-cap that she had to wear, a nurse kept interrupting her sleep when she came in to check on her.

It didn’t sound like it was a very successful session. It almost seemed as if Kim had walked into the wrong room and had unwittingly participated in a sleep depravation study instead.

Or maybe it was just one of those things that seem instinctively contradictory, like cutting down trees so new ones can be planted. That’s what I did last weekend.

My family and I planted 50 trees, an even number of spruce and fir. We picked these particular trees for two reasons: One was to supply Christmas trees for the entire family in the not-too-distant future. Nothing against the Boy Scouts, we just like cutting our own tree without leaving the farm. But unless you live on a tree farm you have to replenish your inventory or one December you’ll be standing in a tree lot trying to decide which tree really needs you.

The second reason was for a wind break.  During a normal Minnesota winter it actually snows and blows. When that happens our driveway can get drifted over in a few hours, and this can happen several times a season.

So this last weekend I cut down some dead trees, and one or two live ones to give the new evergreens we planted a fighting chance. After a day of cutting and planting I fell into bed dead tired. I was even too tired to hear myself snore, although I haven’t spoke to the neighbors.