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.

Driving Distracted

When my brothers and sisters and I were young we used to play games in the car to help keep us entertained and distracted on long car rides. For his part my dad used to tell a story about a man named “Falling Rock.” A long time ago Falling Rock went on a long journey and never returned. Although he was not seen again his people never gave up looking for him. Once in a while you will still see a road sign that reminds us to watch for him.

In addition to watching for Falling Rock our mom led us through the alphabet by reading passing billboards. We also looked for license plates from the other states (especially the elusive Hawaii plate). Sometimes we would split up into two teams and count cows on each side of the highway, and whenever a cemetery appeared on your side of the car you had to “bury” all of your cows and start over.

The cow game usually went pretty well unless Grandma O’Meara was along for the ride. Then horses became cows and excessive exaggerations were passed off as conservative estimates.

We didn’t have phones, smart or otherwise, no portable DVD players, and the only music in the car came from the AM radio that Dad controlled. The only distraction Dad ever had to his driving came from the back seat and it was easily corrected by pulling over to the side of the road.

Other than the minor disturbances within the car I can’t imagine Dad’s attention ever wavered from the road, but we live in a different age now and the police are cracking down on distracted driving. From what I read in the papers texting and talking on the phone are considered the biggest causes of inattentive driving.

While I avoid those (most of the time) there are so many other possible diversions that adding a couple more seems unnecessary. It’s easy enough for me to get caught up in the conversations of passengers, the radio, my own thoughts, and all that stuff passing by the window.

Auto manufacturers are playing both sides of the game. In addition to the regular instrument panel which shows speed, oil pressure, etc., they give us even more to do with a 5-inch touch screen. It can display maps, dozens of radio stations, song titles (and lyrics), gas prices, movie listings, weather radar, and a bunch of other stuff. Then on top of that they provide a way for others to monitor your driving habits remotely.

Tattletale technology, such as GM’s On Star and Ford’s Sync, while giving drivers in distress a quick and easy way to get help, also makes it easy for others to keep an eye on us.

If you give them an inch they’ll take your miles. At first it will start out as monitoring distances driven, but once they get their foot in the door of your car there’s no telling when they’ll apply the brakes. I believe that if we willingly let others keep track of our driving habits, sooner or later they’ll tell us not only how far we are allowed to drive, but when and where as well. Distracted driving can take many forms.

That’s why we all need to keep our eyes on the road. Driving is a privilege and gives us a great deal of freedom. It should have our full attention; it should not be taken lightly or for granted, otherwise the sign may someday read, “Road Closed – Unauthorized Vehicles Prohibited.”

Questions for God

A couple nights ago I was getting ready to go to bed when a fly started to buzz around the bedroom. It was one of those stupid slow flies that bump into walls and the insides of lampshades. Nobody likes that. It was obvious that he (or she, I don’t care) was going to keep me annoyed and awake as I obsessed about its presence.

I grabbed a fly-swatter and an old t-shirt as I began my quest to vanquish the beast. I seem to have better luck with a shirt than a swatter with this type of fly that never seems to land. Whenever Dad saw me miss hitting a fly with the swatter he would say, “Don’t scare him to death.”

After a few minutes of patient waiting I knocked him (or her, again I don’t care) out of the air. I then finished the job with a generous amount of toilet paper (two-ply I think). I don’t like flies or mosquitoes, but I guess everything has a purpose, even that which I don’t understand.

One-hundred years ago today (April 15) more than 1,500 people died when the Titanic went to the bottom of the Atlantic. One-hundred years ago is a long time, and yet we are still fascinated by it. We know what happened and how, but we don’t know why.

Why would God allow such a thing to happen? On a cold November day in 1975 the Edmund Fitzgerald sank on Lake Superior taking 29 lives with it. Of that tragedy, Gordon Lightfoot wrote, “Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?”

As a man who believes in God and in God’s sovereignty, I try not to question His wisdom when bad things happen. But the closer the stab is to the heart, the more I wonder why.

It seems to me that when a father or a mother loses a child the agony would be unbearable and nightmarish. I have experienced the ache of losing my father and mother, whose passing was perhaps easier to expect and accept in the grand scheme of things because of their age. Still, I miss them.

Of the many strange and silly things I do, one is to put out a chair for Dad when I am barbequing. Whenever there was a fire burning Dad and I were drawn to it. When I was a kid and Dad had the grill going I would go out and watch him and the fire work together. In my head I can still hear the ing-ing-ing-ing-ing of the rotisserie motor.

When I became a father the responsibility of cooking meat in the outdoors fell to me. When Mom and Dad were over visiting he would join me outside. We would sit side- by-side on our chairs and talk about whether the coals were “ready,” the state of the country, old dogs, and the right time to flip the burgers.

He’s been gone for several years, but I still put out a chair for him. I pretend he’s sitting next to me, and I imagine what we would talk about. I would tell him about plans I’ve made and those I’ve changed. I think he would approve (which is still important to me).

Buddy the dog hangs around the grill waiting for a handout. I look at Buddy’s grey whiskers and wonder why God didn’t let dogs live longer. It seems a dog’s life span matches the time from when parents believe their child is old enough to take care of a puppy to when the child is old enough to live on their own. It’s a shame because an old dog knows everything there is to know about being a dog.

In dog years I am 7 ½ , and the things I don’t understand scare me to death. I don’t presume to know God’s will, so I will just have to trust and obey.

Grocery Store Waltz

I was shopping with my wife the other day. We were in one of those “big-box,” stores where you can buy shoes, cereal and siding. She was looking for a kitchen sink, I for everything but. One of the things I saw had me wanting a broom to sweep the aisle.

There was an older couple, handsomely dressed, looking at sinks, I guess. Nothing unusual about that, except the man kept dipping his hand into his coat pocket. While his wife was fixated in front of plumbing fixtures he would crack the peanut shells, toss the peanuts into his mouth, and let the shells fall to the floor. He repeated this eating exercise as the couple strolled throughout the store.

I don’t know if this practice of throwing peanut shells on the floor of a store is acceptable, or if it is something new. I don’t remember anyone doing anything like that in any of the stores in Belle Plaine. Other than inside the bars, it simply wasn’t done.

There were many stores in town, but one in particular seemed to have it all. Hahn’s had groceries, clothing and those old standards: notions, domestics and dry goods. The store occupied a building on a downtown corner. It was almost like two stores under the same name; through the north door one got their groceries; everything else was purchased through the east door, and somewhere inside these two retail lines converged.

Sometime in the 70’s the store changed hands, name, and location. It became known as Beck’s, with just five letters and one syllable the name was similar to Hahn’s. I suppose somewhere in the world there is a gentleman named Hans Beck, but that has nothing to do with this story.

One day in response to my dad’s strong suggestion, I hopped on my bike and went to Beck’s to apply for a job. I was hired. Tim Brown, a guy about my age, was hired at the same time for the same type of work, and that summer he and I would spend our days together.

Our duties included sweeping, waxing and mopping floors. We also stocked shelves, bagged groceries and carried them to station wagons and four-door sedans. We also tried to shake out rugs.

Every morning Tim and I would arrive at the store a few minutes before seven and wait for Mr. Beck to unlock the doors. We would then grab one of the two large rugs from the entrance way. I can’t be sure but I believe each rug was about 5 feet wide and 10 feet long. They were thick and heavy with a rubber backing on one side and coarse fabric on the other.

With Tim on one end and me on the other we tried to dislodge the dust and dirt, but the rugs were just too big and clumsy for us to get the job done. Although Mr. Beck was usually patient with us, he could not stand idly by and watch two boys goof up what he considered an easy task.

“Don’t waltz with it,” he said once as he grabbed my end of the rug. Then, with passion normally reserved for hand-to-hand combat, he assaulted the rug until it and Tim were visibly shaken.

When Mr. Beck was satisfied with the rug detail Tim and I swept the grocery section of the store before it opened. One day after we told Mr. Beck we had finished sweeping he said, “Tim, Jerry, come here.” We followed him to an aisle where he proceeded to kick a rock the size of a large walnut from underneath a shelf.

“Boys, I put that rock there to see if you were doing a good job.”

We tried to convince him that we had found the rock earlier but decided to leave it as we figured he must have put it there for a reason. I don’t think he believed us but he let it go.

I wonder what Mr. Beck would have said if he saw a man dropping peanut shells all over his store.

“Tim, Jerry, clean that up and waltz that guy out of here.”

Planting and Picking

Sundays are supposed to be a day of rest, and while writing and playing the banjo (not at the same time and not that well) certainly couldn’t be called work, I seem to find many ways to avoid doing either one. But, I need to do both because tomorrow is Monday. My column/story/article/essay/mess is due to the editor by noon, and I have my banjo lessons on Monday afternoon.

With that kind of pressure those pastimes feel more like work than pleasure, and I am always looking for a distraction or reason to interrupt the work flow. So to while away the hours today I played basketball, read the papers, played some Scrabble and fixed the fence so the chickens would at least have to fly over instead of strolling through the fence (this should help insure that I get a good night’s sleep).

Before I started the fencing project my wife, Rhonda, sensed that I needed something else to do. She had heard about a way to grow vegetables in pallets and she wanted to try it for her strawberries.

She has been frustrated by some stubborn grass that takes over her strawberry beds, so the pallet idea seemed worth a try. The plants are confined within the slats and the bottom of the pallet has a garden cloth stapled to it that allows water to seep out but keeps weeds from coming through.

Thinking that pallets is more my department, she asked if we had any. I was pretty sure we had some somewhere around the place, and without too much searching I located three in the barn. I took the two best-looking ones and relocated them to the garden.

Of course, the two I chose were wrong – too narrow between the slats. I made some modifications on one (removed every other board) and went back to the barn for the one I had left behind. One of the boards was cracked but the spacing seemed just right for growing strawberries. I replaced the board (even I possess the skill set to do that) and carried it over to the garden.

So after I pulled apart pallets and fixed the fence, I went back inside the house to practice the banjo. I need to get quicker with the foggy mountain roll, which is a three-finger movement created by Earl Scruggs.

Earl Scruggs, “The” banjo player, died this last week. Joe Edwards of The Associated Press described his influence.

“The North Carolina native's use of three fingers — instead of the limited clawhammer style that was once prevalent — elevated the banjo from a part of the rhythm section to a lead instrument that was as versatile as the guitar and far more flashy. He is credited with helping create modern country music with a string-bending style of playing.”

His playing technique is known as “Scruggs-Style Picking.” There is some disagreement on whether he was the first – but he’s the one that made it work. So whether it’s planting in a pallet, or using three fingers instead of just two – don’t be afraid to try something new.