Hello, My Name Is ____

When I am offered a “Hello My Name Is ___” label I will often politely decline. I don’t live under any delusion that everyone knows who I am – I actually prefer anonymity to recognition – but I just don’t like that whole labeling thing.

I have been told I am “supposed” to stick the label on my left lapel (or maybe it’s my right) so people can read it easily when they shake my hand. It seems rather forced and artificial. Plus, I think I can do a better job on my own without the promptings of a mass-produced, throwaway badge. So I usually put it in my pocket which of course means I will be labeled anyway (non-conformist, trouble-maker, and rebel).

But I think labels are more than just a good idea when it comes to photographs. It is an odd thing – you take a picture to capture the moment, or secure the memory, but what if your memory fades, or the people on both sides of the lens are no longer living?

Rhonda has been sorting through old photographs for our daughter’s upcoming wedding. Normally I look through pictures as if I were dealing cards – but when it comes to old family photos I slow down a bit. While she looks through hundreds of pictures for wedding photos of parents and grandparents (I think we are having a wedding theme for the wedding day) I dutifully sit there and try to answer her questions.

“Is this your Mom’s dad, or your Dad’s dad?”

“No, I think it’s my Mom’s mom’s mom’s dad.” I answer correctly, if not annoyingly.

These are some old pictures. Fortunately, through some careful, albeit amateurish, detective work I am able to name many of the people in the pictures. This is because some of the photos were labeled many years ago by someone who recognized that time fades memories.

“Grandma’s mother remarried after her father died, so I think this is her mother’s second husband’s nieces or nephews, or maybe her half-brothers or sisters. Then again maybe they’re just neighbors or friends.”

“Are you talking about your Mom’s mom or your Dad’s mom?”

“Try and keep up OK?”

But for others their stories may be lost. There are several pictures of a wedding reception held outdoors. Judging from the military uniforms it appears to be take sometime in the mid-1940’s. The happy couple is standing next to a wooden chair. Seated in the center is the wedding cake which is about to be ceremoniously cut. Apparently all the tables were used in the war effort and the chair crop was very good that year. Judging from the pictures, the newlyweds seem very nice, and I would like to claim them as my cousins (removed or distant), but for now they will remain lost – and yet frozen in time.

I have no idea who some of the people in the photos are, so I am taking some liberties and coming up with my own ideas.

“Isn’t that William Strunk and E.B. White looking very stylish in their element?”

“I’m sure that must be Ingrid Bergman behind those sunglasses.”

Rhonda and I have many unlabeled pictures lying around. We know all the people in them (well most of them) so why would we bother to record their names?

Just ask us – we’ll tell you who they are. But hurry up as I’m not as sure as I used to be.

Many photos are recorded digitally and I imagine that there is some way to label them digitally as well. But just to be sure, on the day of the wedding I think it would be a good idea to have people wear some kind of label – not for introductions, but rather for photo identification purposes.

Advice Column

I’m never sure whether to take advice columns seriously. I do read them however, but mostly for the entertainment value. Without ever leaving my home I can get advice and answers on baking, car repair, manners/etiquette, finance, education/career, home maintenance, technology, pets, medical and even what books to read, movies to watch and music to listen to.

Sometimes I wonder, though, if the questions are genuine or just made up by the writer of the column. I would never do that (except for today). In my life I have received advice from some great uncles, and a few pretty good ones. So today I would like to introduce a new feature, “Dear Uncle Sam.” It is only scheduled to run this once, but the way things are going there is bound to be material for more letters.


Dear Uncle Sam: I am 7 old with money problems. Yesterday I asked my dad for some money so I could go the mall with my friends. I get an allowance of $10 a week and that isn’t enough to buy everything I want. My dad told me that money doesn’t grow on trees. Is he right?
Jimmy H., Independence, Missouri

Dear Jimmy: Thanks for writing. Yes, you’re dad is right, money does not grow on trees; we make it ourselves on special machines. Here in Washington, our nation’s capital, when we need more we just make more. I wish you could do the same, but that would be illegal. If you study hard in school, Jimmy, maybe someday you can grow up to be President and make money the old-fashioned way: print it.


Dear Uncle Sam: My wife and I are having trouble sticking to a monthly budget. We always seem to spend more than we make. I know from reading the papers and watching the news that the federal government sets a budget every year. I told my wife that if Uncle Sam can balance his budget, then so can we. Please tell me how you do it, or is it a secret? I am looking forward to your answer.
Sullivan R., Bridgeport, Connecticut

Dear Sullivan: First of all, where are you getting your information – the Internet? I’ve got news for you – the government doesn’t stick to its budget. That would be silly. We know every year that we won’t have enough money – that’s why we get to ask for more from you, the taxpayer, and if that isn’t enough, we just borrow more. Don’t worry about spending more than you make – it’s the American way. Remember to file your taxes on April 15th; I’ve got bills to pay.


Dear Uncle Sam: It’s been many years since I was in school, but I seem to remember that the Constitution balanced the power between three branches of government: The legislative makes the laws, the executive enforces the laws and the judicial branch interprets the laws. But lately the whole works seems out of whack. I watch legislators run and hide instead of fulfilling their elected duty, the executive branch ignores laws they don’t agree with, and judges will often make laws from the bench to suit their own agenda. As the musical group Bread sang in the 70’s, “It’s sad to say we’ve lost the way. This isn’t what the government.”
Elizabeth T., Liberty, West Virginia

Dear Elizabeth: Since you seem to have a weak understanding on the founding of this country may I point out that Benjamin Franklin (one of our founding fathers/mothers) said, "So convenient a thing it is to be a reasonable creature, since it enables one to find or make a reason for everything one has a mind to do." You’re forgetting that the Constitution is a living, breathing document that can grow and evolve into anything we want so that we can justify our actions. By the way, it may be time to take a look at your musical tastes. Does your bread have mold on it?

Hitchhiker

Last week I went to the bank so I could fill my truck. It now takes a revolving line of credit to keep the tires turning. My truck gets better mileage than an Abrams tank, but it is not what you could call fuel-efficient. So I have started to consider other options.

Instead of commuting to work every day I could sleep at the office and visit my wife and kids on the weekend. I could pedal my bike everywhere (seasonally modified with a rear snow tire and a ski on the front). I could replace my truck with a small, cool car, or maybe I’ll just hitchhike.

My cousin Kevin and I were attending St. Cloud State University about thirty years ago. Our aunt, Shaun, a nun and professor at St. Benedict’s College, invited us over for church and then lunch one Sunday. It was a conditional invitation – if we expected to eat, she expected us to go church. Since neither one of us had a car, or knew anyone who would let us borrow theirs, we chose to hitchhike.

Church was early (for two college boys) – maybe 8 o-clock, so we began our adventure about 7. We didn’t have that far to go, but we were picked up by three drivers.

The first one was driving a rusty four-door sedan. He told us to get in front with him as the backseat was full. Not only was he kind of enough to pick us up, he also offered us a beer (there were several cases sitting on the backseat and he had already broke into one about three beers ago). Considering our destination, we declined his polite offer. Sensing that we were not going to be the drinking buddies he had hoped for, he soon let us out.

Within minutes another four-door sedan stopped. It was driven by a man dressed in his Sunday best. Kevin got in the front and I hopped in the back and found bibles instead of beer.

“You boys been to see the Lord this morning?” he asked us. When we explained the purpose of our trip he quickly dropped us off too. I guess he was on a mission and figured since we were headed in the right direction he would look for other wayward travelers.

The third and final driver pulled up in a brownish, greenish van. There were only two seats: One for the driver and one for me. Kevin got to share the mattress in the back with a dog. The dog was quiet and well groomed. The man wasn’t. The dog regarded us with a disinterested glance while his driver rambled on and offered us a “hit of the doobie,” he was enjoying. We turned him down too. Within a few minutes we were dropped off in front of the church.

I’m sure the church service was lovely with a meaningful message, but all I could think about was how we got there and lunch (which still seemed a long way off). Shaun lived with several nuns, one of which was an Italian from New Jersey; the day seemed to be filled with stereotypes. Sister Ralph-Mary prepared a fabulous spaghetti meal – complete with all the garlic bread you could eat. I ate so much I got sick.

Shaun and I have had many lunches together since then. I’m still surprised you can get a glass of wine with lunch at Emma Krumbee’s. She would drive down (apparently nuns don’t hitchhike) from St. Joseph when she would visit my mother (her sister). Often there would be others with us when we would visit Mom, but one time it was just the two of us, or as Shaun put it, “It looks like it’s just thee and me.”

Mom’s now gone and Shaun is a little older and does not make the trip south as often any more. So I make the trip up north. I can make the round-trip on less than a tank, but I would do it even if it was more because the way I see it – it’s pay back time.

Travel Advisory

Today, Sunday, February 20th is one of those days when travel is “not advised.” I usually travel on those kinds of days anyway just because I don’t like taking advice from people who don’t know the first thing about me or my plans for the day. Plus, I think that sometimes the weather people are too easily alarmed.

But today I may actually stay home because the weather people are throwing numbers around that make you get out of your chair and look out the window to check for yourself. There really is not that much to look at as the snowflakes are so thick and numerous it’s hard to see anything else.

So when the weather keeps you inside for another six weeks you have to look at the travel potential for any activity and plan accordingly. I was going to fix some plumbing but thought better of it as that kind of thing can get ugly with one wrong turn of a wrench, and I know from experience any do-it-yourself job can require multiple trips to the hardware store. So I’ll wait.

But sometimes you can’t wait. On our first Christmas as a married couple Rhonda and I were supposed to visit both sets of parents, her grandparents, and her uncle and aunt (as long as we would be in town). This often happens with young couples until old traditions are thrown out, new ones are established and somebody’s feelings get hurt.

With so many stops on Christmas Eve, I had planned on leaving the car running (because it was acting up) and we wouldn’t be at any one place for any length of time as in “Sorry we can’t stay, here’s your gift. Why yes, I would like something to eat thank you.”

Except on Christmas Eve the car wouldn’t start and the weather people were throwing out unsolicited suggestions about staying home. But, we couldn’t stay in our apartment either as the old boiler couldn’t keep up with the holiday heat demand. It was so cold we could see our breath.
So Rhonda called her dad and he drove from Carver to St. Paul to pick us up. Against the advice of the local meteorologists, he also drove us from Carver to Belle Plaine later that night so we could see my folks.

Another time when we were supposed to stay put and didn’t was my Dad’s decision. Rhonda and I had caught a ride with Mom and Dad to celebrate Thanksgiving with my sister, Colleen, and her family in Wisconsin. I think our car was actually working – but they had room in their van so why not? We had only been married a year or two so we had no traditions of our own.

I don’t watch the weather forecast that closely, but back then I was even less interested than I am now, so when Dad woke me up at 2 am on the Saturday after Thanksgiving I was surprised.

“Get up. There’s a big snowstorm headed this way.”

“Um, (trying to make sense of the situation and choose my words carefully), well, so?”
“I want to get on the road now to beat the storm,” he growled.

“Uh-huh,” I said. He was in one of those early-morning moods where you didn’t argue with him. I had learned this in high school when I would come home later than he thought reasonable.

So by 2:30 we were on the road headed back to Minnesota and straight into a blizzard. I sat up front for a couple reasons: I figured Mom and Rhonda would be happier in the back where they couldn’t see all of the cars and trucks sliding into each other or into the ditch, and if we were to crash I wanted to have a front-row seat.

It seems these storms always come on a holiday weekend. As I write this on Sunday night to meet the Monday deadline I have decided to cancel my Presidents Day plans as a travel advisory has been issued.

Wedding Planner

I believe in the concept of life long learning, and not just because of the alliteration. Since there is so much I don’t know it’s not too difficult to pursue a new idea or skill.

One of my many shortcomings is tying knots, so I bought a book on the subject; you know, to learn the ropes. The book even came with several ropes of various lengths and widths (no extra charge). I know this may look to some as an unnecessary academic exercise but it’s obvious I need some help.

I can tie my tie, tie my shoe and tie a simple overhand knot (fancy name for the knot when the loops on your shoe laces disappear and you are left with a criss-crossed mess). But anything more complicated and I embarrass myself.

I will usually step back and allow someone else to secure a load. When I find myself alone with a length of rope and loose cargo I will lasso, and loop until only a sharp knife can undo the damage, so I always carry a sharp knife.

After inspecting a tangled web I wove around equipment on a flat-bed trailer one guy remarked, “It’s a good thing you’re not transporting wild animals.”

I was upstairs the other night practicing my new skill. I had just finished tying the chair to the table when I felt a little guilty. Downstairs my wife, Rhonda, was helping our daughter, Jennifer, plan her wedding. Surely I could once again offer some assistance.

I had already given my opinion about the food for the reception. I wanted some bread on the tables and maybe some fancy-flavored creams for the coffee.

One night I even went dress shopping with Rhonda. She really appreciates my opinion in this area. I had selected a couple attractive numbers, and for fun I picked out one that my grandmother might have worn to her funeral.

“What do you think of this one?” I asked as I held up Grandma’s dress.

“Nice,” she said.

“What do you think of these two?” I asked.

“Are you crazy?” She said. “These won’t work with the bridesmaid dresses.”

“Why not?” I wondered.

“You don’t know what color their dresses are, do you?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. They’re kind of a . . . Well they won’t work with these dresses, that’s for sure.

“The bridesmaid dresses are red. The wedding colors are red and white,” she told me as if she was getting tired of repeating herself and had reached the end of her rope.

When I got downstairs Rhonda and Jennifer were discussing the schedule and how to coordinate times for the big day. I listened politely for a few minutes and then concluded the discussion by pointing out the logical times so that the day would flow smoothly. Satisfied that we had made real progress I was surprised that twenty minutes later we were back on the scheduling subject again. When I reminded them we had already decided all of that I was told to be quiet.

Sensing that the evening was about to unravel I retreated to my room to do some more reading. I’m sure everything for the wedding will fall into place with or without my help, and I look forward to that day in May when Jennifer and Adam (her fiancé’) tie their knot on the altar.

In the meantime I need to learn how to loosen the tie with my daughter so that it doesn’t bind her but gives her something solid to start with. I don’t want to cut that knot completely – but I need to let out some more line. I don’t have a book that can teach me how to let my daughter go.

Words Are People Too

Occasionally think I should learn another language. This is usually after feeling embarrassed when I meet someone from another country who is fluent in seven different languages (not counting Vulcan and Elvish).

I did take a full year of French in high school, although the second half was more about the culture (literature, art, cooking etc.) than the language. This was because we pressured the first-year teacher to give us a break from learning the difference between the masculine (la) and feminine (le) – or was/is it the other way around?

But whenever I start to get serious about twisting my tongue around another language, I realize that the English language is often so complicated that it may be enough just to master it (I’m confining my comments to the spoken word as the body of evidence against any claim of me being proficient in writing English is vast and growing).

Slang words come and go – although some words, such as “cool,” survive. My gripe (and I have many) is with people who borrow or change the meaning of words to conceal the truth or mislead their audience. Using words as if they were made of Spandex, they tug and stretch them as they pull the wool over. Except the word, if stretched too often, can no longer be returned to its original shape and we are forced to tell the borrowers, “No thank you, you can keep it.”

Taxes are now referred to as “investments,” not adhering to a scheduled increase in spending is called a “cut,” and “shovel ready projects” may only exist in a fantasy world of political speeches. Clearly the government is guilty of misusing words and definitions, but it is not alone.

Abraham Lincoln is said to have asked one day, “If you call a tail a leg, how many legs has a dog? Four. Calling a tail a leg doesn’t make it a leg.”

I recently met a woman who had two dogs with presumably eight legs between them, but that wasn’t enough for her. She wanted her dogs to be more than dogs. Shortly into our time together our conversation took an odd turn.

“So do you have any children?” I asked her, after she spoke of her husband and their home.

“No, our dogs are our children.”

I had not heard that answer before so I considered a few inappropriate responses: You must be so proud, any grandchildren? How about pet fish, what do you think they are? We don’t have any dogs, our kids are our dogs.

But I just nodded politely with my tongue firmly trapped between my teeth. I understand she may not have children because of some reason (which is none of my business), and I am not going to get into a discussion about adoption. You can if you like, it’s your choice. But my point is that referring to dogs as kids, doesn’t make it so. We need to be clear on that.

Dennis Prager, a clear thinker, stresses “clarity over agreement.” My friend Bob says “you can disagree without being disagreeable.”

I want to be clear, but sarcasm can get in the way so I often find myself being disagreeable without actually disagreeing. So the woman with unattractive, four-legged children has opened up a whole new world for me. I am now considering all sorts of responses to normal questions.

Some weather huh? Oh, I don’t mind, it’s always sunny and warm in my world.

What do you do for work? My life is my work.

Was Santa good to you? I was good to Santa.

Do you live around here? I like to live in the present.

Do you speak any other languages? No, I am still trying to understand English.

Ghost Stories

“Do you believe in ghosts?” is a great conversation starter (or stopper). The Lion from “The Wizard of Oz,” Ebenezer Scrooge and many other famous fictional characters had reasons to believe in ghosts. I have also talked to several real-life people who have had their own afterlife encounters. But, because of my overactive imagination I can’t be trusted as a credible source for any hearsay evidence (“Did you hear that?”).

Apart from seeing a shadow move past a window and a faint image (seen through several panes of glass) of a frail old man sitting at a table waiting for his wife to serve him dinner, I have no scary ghost stories to tell. However, I have found that some memories can be so strong that they come to life.

This summer I had reason to visit some of my old-haunts and stepped into what felt like the middle of an old home-movie. The first stop I made was my boyhood home on Church Street. When my folks moved from there they left behind lost toys and my childhood. When I walked up the driveway the memories hit me so hard my vision blurred and I stumbled.

All the familiar cars were gone, as was the basketball hoop that hung over the garage. As I shuffled through the breezeway I was careful not step on any grasshoppers that may still be there. One summer day my brother Dan and I caught hundreds of them in jars (with holes punched in the metal covers for air) and released them in the breezeway to see how our cat would react. She just sat and stared. After I stood and stared for too long of a time I turned my attention to the screen door.

It appeared to be the same door. Thousands of times I had opened, closed and slammed that door (sorry), now for the first time I knocked on it. I know the current owner and he politely invited me in. He talked about some of the changes he and his wife had made and how happy they were there. As I looked around I struggled with conflicted emotions. I wanted to run through the house and look in the all the rooms but I also wanted to turn and run down the driveway back to my truck.

I thanked him for his hospitality, turned and walked (fast) to the truck. I revisited the rest of the neighborhood with the bike I had with me. Being careful not to trespass, I pedaled up the alleys and coasted down the sidewalks. Mrs. Schultz’s white dog no longer barked at me, Andy McCormick and his one-room house (cot, table, one chair) were both gone as well. I slowed as I went past the Miller’s house. It was on that concrete step that Tommy Miller introduced the world to the idea of putting peanut-butter on toast (at least that’s how I saw it).

The siren used to blow every day at noon –that’s how everyone knew it was time for lunch, now the church bells sounded alone striking 12. I circled back to the truck and had lunch under the shade of a tree Dad had planted. With the windows down I could hear the lawn mowers and I was back at Minnie’s. My brother Terry and I would mow her lawn (using two mowers) for the agreed upon price of $2 each. Later on we picked up the Murphy account as well.

I finished my peanut butter sandwich (not toasted) and jumped on my bike. I went down the block and past the cemetery where I would be sure to have more memories jump out and surprise me.