It's a Gift

In this season of giving I try to increase what I do to help around the house. In addition to making the bed a couple times a week, placing my dishes in the dishwasher, and putting my clothes away after my wife, Rhonda, washes them, I now look for other ways to help – at least at Christmas time. I guess I should thank Miriam at the coffee shop for this.

Miriam, a pleasant woman a decade or so wiser than me, asked me a few weeks ago if I was ready for Christmas. I knew what she meant; at least I thought I did. She may have meant spiritually, emotionally, or my guess – physically.  I said I was, but then admitted that I really don’t have that much to do because my wife does most of the work preparing for the big day.

She suggested that I could volunteer. I thought she meant I should volunteer at a soup kitchen or some other charitable venture, so I told her that I would be ringing a bell with a few friends for the Salvation Army. 

“That’s nice,” Miriam said, “but I meant that you could volunteer to help your wife get ready for Christmas.”

“Yes, I suppose I could,” I said, surprised by the very idea of it.

So, motivated by my new mission, I began to look for ways to help. Normally, I clear the driveway and shovel the snow off the steps and sidewalk, but this year the warm temperatures have made that unnecessary, so I cleaned the garage instead. Rhonda never even noticed.

This year I carried several boxes of Christmas decorations upstairs from the basement after being asked only once. It’s not quite the same as volunteering – but it does have the same cooperative feel to it.  I did this in between periods of the Wild game.

I also try to keep up on the TV listings to make sure we have an opportunity to watch the Christmas shows. We have Charlie Brown, Rudolph and the other classics on DVD, VHS or 8mm but it still pays to see what else might be playing.  I also make sure to have Christmas music on in the background.  It’s those subtle touches that make the holiday special. It’s another way I help out around the house.

When Rhonda couldn’t find the barn her Grandpa had made for a nativity scene, I volunteered to find it without being asked. I found the miniature barn in our barn; it was near the one my brother-in-law and nephew had made to provide temporary shelter for the ceramic nativity scene my mother had made. My family has a long tradition of displaying the Holy Family at Christmas. I didn’t manage to find the manger however.

One night last week I peered over my newspaper and saw that Rhonda was addressing Christmas cards, so I offered to help. Considering my handwriting and wanting to make sure the addresses were legible, she suggested I help instead by buying stamps. So the next day I stood in line at the post office. There were half-a-dozen people ahead of me, and it took at least ten, maybe fifteen minutes to get my postage. Volunteering is hard work.

I do my share of the Christmas shopping too.  I have already purchased Rhonda’s gift, and have written checks for the two women in my office. I actually got my shopping done early this year. I’m not completely sure what gifts Rhonda has in mind for the kids – I’m sure I’ll find out though when they open them.

It has become obvious to me if it wasn’t for the unselfish nature of women, we wouldn’t have Christmas. Two thousand years ago a young woman named Mary gave birth to the King of Kings, giving us the greatest gift of all.

Annoyance

I spend too much of my time in a state of annoyance. I can do very little about some of the things that put me in a state of disturbance. The pills I get off the shelf to help me deal with my self-diagnosed hypersensitivity are not covered by insurance. But without them I go through the day (and night) quite uncomfortable as the itchiness comes with a vengeance.

Being self-aware and mindful of public perception, I am careful to not scratch and rub when others are in attendance. Other than a thoughtful beard rub, many erratic motions by a person can get that person removed from fine dining establishments and other places of importance.

I am unaware of being allergic to anything, but I am, however, keenly aware of things that throw me off balance. I don’t think loud noises, a drawer left open, or clothing that constricts qualify as allergens, yet they make me uncomfortable for instance.

Most often I am not bothered by an aroma or a fragrance. I also try not to judge a book based on its appearance. But, too often I am less patient with an acquaintance. It’s not that I feel superior or want to be perceived as having a unhealthy dose of arrogance. Rather, I find some traits and characteristics outside my current level of tolerance. I admit it’s not their fault, it’s my own petulance.

Someone who interrupts others in a conversation may be just trying to demonstrate their own significance. Certainly, if I keep that in mind I can exercise some tolerance. Even though it’s easier to change myself than others, occasionally all that is required is a little distance.

Also, I don’t like to hear another complain or speak a negative utterance. Although I pretend to be above such things, if I were to hear my own words, I couldn’t feign ignorance. It’s always easier to offer others suggestions and guidance. But with all our talking I doubt few of us would find any reflection of perfection in the mirror, not even a close resemblance.

If it isn’t obvious by now, let me point out that I have many faults and admit them with great reluctance. Along with the things that bother me I can obsess incessantly about something and get caught in a pattern of redundance. Clearly, I don’t want everyone to be like me, of that you have my assurance. Instead, I write about these things to point out my shortcomings and my need for your assistance.  

We are who we are for reasons that are not always obvious, and we need to celebrate our differences and not treat them as a poisonous substance. If being hypersensitive means that wool and people can rub me the wrong way, then I will serve it as my penance.

For those of you who somehow tolerate me and my uniqueness I offer my gratitude, albeit a small pittance. For those of you who have somehow managed to read this entire essay and have now reached the end I can hear you say, “Good Riddance!”

Santa

Santa waved at me last week, and it made me smile. I had gone to one of the malls a few days before Thanksgiving to check out a new store; I refuse to go shopping on Thanksgiving or the day after, as I can do without the mobs and mayhem. Black Friday is so unlike Santa.

It was during the early afternoon of a weekday, and I was standing by myself on one level looking down at the atrium below. Some festive folks were putting the finishing touches on the North Pole display, while Santa sat in his throne checking over his list.

Not wanting to disturb the seasonal scene, I stood there quietly watching while they worked. Santa, being a crafty old soul, must have sensed my presence. He froze, and then lifting his head he looked right at me. At first I felt a little foolish, as if I had been caught spying on him. Then Santa smiled and waved like we were old friends. He may have recognized me, although I can’t imagine how, as it has been such a long time since we sat and talked. I returned his wave.

Like other kids I had seen Santa in parades sitting in his chair on top of a float or riding on a fire truck. I saw him at malls all over the state and in small shacks in small towns. I have pictures to prove it. He didn’t always look the same though and the logistics of him being in so many places at the same time gave me reason to doubt, but Mom explained that it was his helpers or his elves filling in for him while he attended to other duties and obligations.

He would stop at our house on Church Street shortly after supper on Christmas Eve. Dad would take the kids out in the station wagon to look at the Christmas lights in town, and when we came back Santa had been there, somehow slipping past Mom and Colleen, my older sister. He even took time to eat part of a cookie, drink half a glass of milk, and scribble a quick thank-you before moving on to the next house. He also found us at our grandparents in Faribault and our cousins in Tucson.

As I got older Santa quit coming because I quit believing. But many years later he showed up again on Christmas Eve. This time it was to drop off a few things for my little girl and boy who were nestled all snug in their beds. True to form, Santa crumbled his cookie, spilled his milk and left a note.

I know there are good people who don’t want to share Christmas with Santa, but I am not one of them. I am thankful my parents had fun with me at Christmas, and I have no regrets in passing on that tradition to my children. But make no mistake; I believe that Christmas celebrates the birth of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. It’s just that I feel there is room for a portly, generous elf to brighten children’s lives while they are still young enough to believe in a little magic. Let’s not wave good-bye to Santa too soon.

Roll the Credits

At this time of year we are reminded to be thankful for either our blessings or good fortune (depending upon where your faith lies). If you’re table is so inclined you may hear the grateful phrases from those seated around it. Popular subjects for gratitude at Thanksgiving include the turkey, jobs, and a warm house. Instead of things, try to be thankful for the people in your life and for those who have passed through your life.

What about your first grade teacher? Most likely it was a woman. She was probably your very first teacher. She may have been the one who taught you how to read, how to perform simple mathematics, maybe even how to draw, cut and paste construction paper together. You probably made a turkey hand-print to bring home to mom.

My first-grade teacher was Mrs. Bosard (my own bad guess at the spelling of her last name). She was a tiny little woman, not much bigger than some of her students. In fact Kenny Neisen’s hands were bigger than hers. Her tiny VW Beetle was perfect for her, and she probably wanted to drive away in it the first time she saw her classroom.

It was set up in the basement of an old school, down steep, concrete steps five and six year olds descended into a dungeon-like setting with only a pipe to lean on for a handrail. The room could never have been designed to be a classroom - it must have been a former storage room or a workshop for the janitor instead. All the pipes were exposed on the ceiling, and most likely, wrapped in asbestos. There were only a couple opaque windows on one wall way-up high, which gave a dark, gloomy room little natural light.  On one wall were some metal lockers, and a dark closet used to store paper, paste and other supplies. In the middle of the room was a large industrial sink, where we once bobbed for apples during a Halloween party.

Surrounded by a dark, depressing setting was a happy, pleasant woman who taught little children five days a week. I remember the room, but I also remember how Mrs. Bosard created a bright little world for her students.

I grew up in a neighborhood filled with several dozen kids roaming around. Across the street were the Weldon’s: four girls and one boy - Brendan. Brendan was (and still is) eight to ten years older than me.

When I was six or seven, I broke my wrist at a family picnic on my mother’s side. They were Irish. It was the summer-time and a little boy with a cast from his fingers to his elbow had very little to do. I couldn’t ride my bike, play ball, wrestle with my brothers, or do anything that required both arms. One day Brendan walked across the street with a wiffle ball. I don’t know how long we played, but I will never forget it. Brendan, a star-baseball player on the high school team took the time to play with a little boy. He pitched the ball to me, and I swung my arm and hit the ball with my cast. He laughed and pitched it to me again and again.

Gary Krant, and old friend from Belle Plaine, called me the other day to tell me he enjoyed one of my essays he had read in the paper.  I thanked him for being so thoughtful and taking the time to call me. He then said something quite simple, yet very profound. “You have to take the time to tell people they did a good job.” He’s absolutely right. 

We are far too quick to criticize and correct, it’s time now for the pendulum to swing the other way. Go out of your way, take the time and make the effort to let someone know they did a good job or they did something well. Make them thankful that you were in their life.

This Thanksgiving you may want to thank the cook or the host and then reflect on who else you are thankful for, maybe even a former neighbor or teacher.

Front Row Seat

Sometimes when seating is limited and the attraction promises to be entertaining, we are advised to get there early so we can get a good seat. I’ve always felt a little guilty though on being the early one for something with a limited supply, as I cannot help but think of the poor fellow who is turned away and doesn’t get anything for his time and effort. However, with some things a delay is desired. For instance, with winter there’s plenty to go around and everybody gets their fill, sometimes even a face full before the show is over.

Winter comes every year without any effort on our part, and this year everyone seems to agree it came too early – especially the cold (others say it’s the snow). Either way we are driven indoors where it’s warm and dry. Outside the un-raked leaves and plump garden hoses are left to fend for themselves.

This year winter slammed the door on camping, golf, walks, and other fall activities that can usually be carried into November. To say winter came without warning is silly, as it comes every year, but this year most of October was so pleasant that the end of fall was abrupt and cruel.

Of the four, autumn is my favorite season, and I prefer a gradual change to the winter-like feeling over several weeks: Somewhere in the upper 60’s, changing to 50, then to 40, and then down from there. I may be wrong, but it seems that this year we were flirting with the fifties and a couple days later the cold north wind slapped us in the face.

The holiday season is looming and soon will overtake us. There will be talk of going here and there, and people will show up at the door laden with odd-shaped bags cleverly concealing crocks and pots. The noise level will increase and people will sit in my chair without hesitation or invitation.

I can already feel the pull from the private quarters of our house drawing me to safety and solitude. I usually don’t close the door behind me, as I don’t want to give our guests the wrong idea. My perceptive daughter will usually come looking for me and ask, “What are you doing?” or “Is everything all right?”  I will mumble some incomplete phrase assuring her that everything is fine and that I just needed a break. She will smile and suggest I rejoin the group.

I wasn’t always like this. I grew up with two brothers, two sisters, over three dozen cousins and a generous helping of aunts and uncles. Thanksgiving had plenty of people, Christmas was crazy, and picnics were parties. Now it’s just the six of us and whoever else my wife invites over.

I feel a dose of neurosis is settling in with the cold. In a letter to his brother Stanley, E. B. White wrote, “A doctor last spring told me that I would be all right if I quit writing. He said most writers were neurotics – if they weren’t neurotic they wouldn’t go to the trouble, the enormous trouble. I find that Not Writing is very soothing, but I haven’t figured out yet what I will use for money.”

Not writing would leave me with no hobby, so I keep trying. A short time ago daylight savings time ended and the darkness settled in. Even though the calendar says it’s still autumn – we know better. It’s winter.

At least at this time of year I can sit guilt-free with a book in my chair before 10:00 pm. Since there are plenty of good seats still available, I suggest you get comfortable and settle in – it could be a long winter.   

Tracking the Days

I have been at my present office location for two and a half years, and in that time I have watched trains come and go. The railroad tracks are approximately thirty feet from the front door, so to ignore them is impossible. I have decided to enjoy them instead.

It occurred to me about two years ago to keep track of the different engine companies and their numbers. I jot down the numbers, and my capable staff watches in my stead when I am absent. Before this year has passed two-thousand different engines will have gone by, and that’s just when the office is open.

I have seen trains that come from the North and South, Old and New Mexico, Canada and Texas, Kansas and Missouri, and the Union and the Southern. The tracks have been there for about one-hundred and fifty years, so I think I may have missed a whole bunch of them.

From my desk I have a front row seat to the daily drama on both sides of the tracks. There is a large orange cat that roams the neighborhood (he looks like he could be named Casey). I don’t know if Casey has a place to call home so I have put a blanket and a box in a shed behind the building just in case. I propped the shed door open just enough to let him sneak in and out without a lot of fuss.

I have seen a squirrel scamper right by him without so much as a lift of his paw. There are so many squirrels scurrying about the cat is either not interested or completely overwhelmed as to which way to jump.

One particular squirrel had been storing nuts in one of the flower pots outside the window. The day after I took the pot inside for the winter the squirrel came up to the window and just stared. “Excuse me, where are my nuts?” I never know how to answer that.

We have birds that have built nests in the gutters of the building and then their young fall out onto the pavement.  It seems like a poor plan to me. Once in awhile, after the window washer has left, the birds will fly into the window once or twice before flying on. I tell you I don’t have much hope for this particular breed of bird.

In addition to my daily activities of train spotting, answering the phone, and reading, I will on occasion visit with people, including the mailman or a delivery man. Sometimes I see people walking their dogs, or just walking. Emergency vehicles will go by, grain trucks will come and go, buses will pull up at the quilt shop across the street (housed in the old train depot), cars will park at the law office and classic trucks will leave the old fire station. Sometimes it’s hard to get any work done with so much to watch.

The thing I cannot see, that which I barely notice, is the passage of time. Every day a train goes by and blasts its horn to let everyone know it has come and gone, but the days go by with nary a whisper. It’s a crazy concept, but an older person knows what it’s like to be younger, but a younger person does not know what it’s like to be older. As I have gotten older I have become aware of a pattern that will, I fear, become more common as I age. Friends, in increasing numbers, are becoming ill and being hospitalized.

Life is so fragile and our days on this earth are not long enough. The train blows its horn and another day disappears out of sight. For the past five and a half decades I have watched the years come and go. They seem to be going faster as I get older and there is no way to stop them. I guess I will just enjoy them instead.

Undefeated

One morning I was sharing a cup of coffee and a fried egg sandwich with my daughter, Jennifer, at her house. We were conversing, as we often do while, watching her son, Micah, busy himself with toys and activities. On this particular morning Micah had decided to see what else was inside his toy box. With his eyes on the goal, he moved swiftly across the floor by employing a commando style low-profile crawl.  

When he reached the toy box and found it to be much taller up close, he didn’t stop. Unable to reach the top from the floor, Micah pushed himself up on his knees and reached up with one hand and steadied himself for the next move. Then he brought his other hand to the top and grabbed on tight.  That was all well and good, but what he did next was the most impressive.

As this little boy pulled himself up, he grunted and growled, summoning all his strength. “He’s pulling from within,” Jennifer said. Pulling from within – I immediately loved the phrase and wrote it down.

As I rolled it around, I was reminded of a story my Dad told me. One wet spring he and Mom were visiting my sister and her husband in central Wisconsin. In the field across the township road, a tractor had become stuck in the mud. Soon, a larger tractor was brought in to assist. Soon that tractor became mired as well.

My sister, although not Amish herself, (not that there’s anything wrong with that) has many neighbors who are.  One of the neighbors, hearing of the sticky situation, brought his Percheron horses over to help. As Dad told the story, the team was hitched to the first tractor and waited for the signal from their master. With just a few words of encouragement and direction, the team leaned into their traces and pulled one tractor out and then another.

No tractor or machine has anything beyond its measured horsepower to give, but a living, breathing creature can always reach down within to find a bit more to pull themselves up and out.

The political elections are over for this year, and barring any recounts, almost everyone knows whether they or their candidate won or lost.  I am writing this on the Saturday before the election, and although I can’t predict the results, I know for certainty there will be winners and losers. That’s the way these things work.

Most of us have heard the phrase, may the best man win. That’s a hope, a desire – not a guarantee of results. I don’t pretend to be Zig Ziglar or even Matt Foley, but I offer my condolences and encouragement to those who have lost the election.

The real test after facing any disappointment, whether its love lost, being passed over for a job or losing a race, is to find the invisible inner strength and pull yourself up; to persevere. Speaking from experience, I can tell you that life does indeed go on and that losing does not mean the end. As my friend, Dean, said to me, it only means you were out-voted, not defeated.

I personally knew many candidates in the local races – even opponents in the same contest. My heart goes out to those who lost, but remember the sun does come up and soon things will look better. See what else life has in store for you. Find the strength within, pull yourself up and let out a growl. Then grab a cup of coffee and a fried egg sandwich with a loved one. The battle is over, but not the war.