Friday, December 27, 2013

CHRISTMAS THOUGHTS



I once saw a picture of a small boy peering into a store window, at Christmas time; his rosy red nose and cheeks were pressed against the cold glass—almost as if it was a scene taken out of one of Norman Rockwell’s paintings. Inside the store there was a Christmas party going on for a group of children. Santa was there, and the tables were filled with lots of sugary food, beverages and gifts. It was obvious from the merriment going on that it was a very happy occasion for those in the party. The look on the little boy’s face, outside that window, was not one so much of sadness, but more of bewilderment. Maybe he had never known celebrations like this existed, but then, maybe he did know they existed but couldn’t understand why he was excluded. He watched for a while, and then went over and turned the knob on the door, but it was locked. Then someone noticed him and went over to the window, pulling the shade down.

A sometimes lavish lifestyle that brings happiness to some can have just the opposite effect to those who are on the outside looking in.  I’m not just talking about material things. I’m talking about being a part of a celebration, too. I remember growing up poor, and although I was never one to envy others and what they had, I could never figure out why they weren’t happier about their wealth. So many of them took it in stride, as if they were entitled to it, and I never saw that spirit of thankfulness they should have had.  Some of the things they took for granted would have made me almost giddy.  But, for the most part, I was thinking as a child would think back then. Yes, I was treating tangible things as important things in life, but something about being excluded made it become even more hurtful.

Way back then, I was on the other side of that glass looking in, and although the door was probably not locked, I never thought I was worthy of going in. Over the years, as I grew both in knowledge and wealth, I was able to open that door and join the party. But, for some reason, my joy of being there was always tempered by the sad looks on the faces of those on the other side of the glass; for I had been there and I knew how it felt, and although I couldn’t pull that shade down, yet I wasn’t asking them in. Two years ago, I was back on the outside of the glass looking in as an adult, not because I wasn’t invited to the party but because I ostracized myself. You see, my reason for going to the party was gone. Oh, she was there in spirit, but my spirits were at a low ebb and I was in no mood for a party. I preferred to be outside with my thoughts. You see, that intricate prescription for the essence of Christmas goes so much deeper than gifts and giving. The basic ingredient for happiness has always been, and always will be, people. I learned that more, at that time, than at any other time in my life.

Both open doors, and open hearts, have something in common. We’ve removed the barriers that separate us—and isn’t that what we always wanted. To belong to someone or something and to be a part of somebody’s life. To be wanted has always been special but to be wanted and needed—that’s special personified. Loneliness almost always imparts feelings of worthlessness, and that’s just one step above having no value to anyone at all. Christmas can go a long way towards fixing that.

Thursday, December 19, 2013

CHRISTMAS 2013


                                               
I have always found it interesting, as we go through the calendar year, all of the holidays and celebrations we entertain at and how Christmas seems to be not so much a Holiday, as a season onto itself. Most of the other days we celebrate are a daylong or at best a long weekend but Christmas has weeks of preparation both commercially and religiously. No day of celebration packs more good will into it then Christmas. It’s a time of the year when people open their hearts and minds to try and make it their best Christmas ever. It’s a time of the year when people are most benevolent and when sharing and caring seems to go hand in hand. Most people could care less if you have a bad Fourth of July but we all want to have a nice Christmas. So the Grinch that rears his head in all of us from time to time seems to be magically put to rest, albeit for a short while. Yes, Christian or not, there is something magical and almost mystical about Christmas.

We live in an increasingly anxious world so those few weeks of good will amongst all of us, are a welcome break from the suspicions and sometimes allusiveness we experience amongst us on a daily basis. It’s a chance to come out of our armor and rub shoulders with our friends and neighbors again.  I’ve had to give Christmas a fresh chance again in my life because for a couple of years after my wife died, it was just too hard, and although I might have fooled a few, I didn’t fool myself. It took the efforts of a loving family and a caring friend to put the Joy back in Christmas for me but it’s back and so am I. But as I speak this year I know there are those who are just starting that same sad journey and my heart goes out to you. God bless you so much.

I write a lot about memories and how important they are to all of us but there are no memories like Christmas memories, are there? I think back to little kids so anxious they could hardly contain themselves, as they sat patiently waiting for the gift-giving extravaganza we orchestrated. The one that led them to that beautifully decorated tree on Christmas Eve. Our kids, our grandkids, our friend’s kids, their smiles are etched forever in my memory but now for many of us elders there has been a subtle change hasn’t there, as life has passed us by. Still though we thank God for the very reason this all came about. The gifts will eventually get used up and discarded but the gift of our lord and our memories will never go away.

Many years ago Elvis sang, “Why can’t every day be like Christmas? Why can’t that feeling go on endlessly? For if every day could be like Christmas. What a wonderful world this would be.” Yes, the sadness that comes when we take the tree down and put away the decorations seems to be saying to us “it’s over for another year, so lets get back to life as we know it.” But if nothing else comes from this Christmas, except the love and caring this world so sorely needs-- even if it was only for a short while-- then it’s been another Blessed Christmas hasn’t it?

Merry Christmas.  Love to all. --Mike            

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

THANKSGIVING THOUGHTS


                                               

It’s Thanksgiving morning and although it’s been over two years, it’s still not right. I used to get up on this morning to the sounds of turkey gizzards and all of those other useless bird parts sizzling in a frying pan because she was making her dressing. It was an old recipe that came from her mother and she guarded it like Coke guards their soda formula. She would have a dab of flour on one cheek and a blotch of it on her sweatshirt, as she rolled out that piecrust, proudly made with real lard. It had to be just right and many was the time she sighed with exasperation and rolled it back into a ball to start over again. I would ask, “how can I help?” and she would just say with that impish smile “Don’t bother me.” This was her gift to her family, to make that Thanksgiving Day meal. I was just the nuts and bolts of the family but she was always the heart and soul.

Every bed in the house would be full of sleeping grandkids and their parents. A half put together puzzle was on the dining room table and a monopoly game was still spread out on the living room floor. The entryway was filled with boots and hats and two dogs were whining at the back door to go out. The driveway was full of cars and in the house she would have decorated, with those little paper turkeys, the horn of plenty centerpiece and those special kitchen towels with all the colored leaves and gourds on them. Empty soda cans and dirty cups were everywhere from last nights gathering. The dogs had finished off the half eaten pieces of pizza and busted cookies. That Halloween tablecloth was always there and it always stayed on the table until after the meal when the Christmas one came out like the changing of the guard. It always took three tables to feed everybody and then afterwards the men would do the dishes while watching the football game and the kids and grandma, and their mom’s, would work on their shopping lists for tomorrow.

I think a lot about those days and how I knew someday it would all be different. Oh it’s not just her passing that was a bitter pill to swallow. Kids grew up and moved away. Dogs died and kids found mates and new people came into our family. Always welcomed-- but it did spread things out even more. So now we’re back to today and an empty house and the only noise is my dog breathing and the click of the keys on my keyboard, as I’m trying to paint you a picture of my thoughts and memories. I’ve accepted what’s happened and although I always knew it would come someday, I’m not alone by any means. There are friends and family who have empty chairs at their tables today too, but not empty hearts. They can take a lot away from us but they can’t take that away can they? Somehow we can always bring them back like this, on the holidays and we thank God for that.

Later today I will travel to my friends house where she has graciously invited me to share her family and their tradition. They are wonderful loving people and I’m so blest to have them in my life. It won’t be the same—it will never be the same—the stage may be similar but its a whole new cast and I realize that there is no way to recreate what I had and no one is trying to do that. They are just helping me to move on, by sharing their love and I for one am so grateful. -----Mike

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

THE WAYWARD WIND


                                               
As a young boy, I grew up sharing a bedroom with three brothers on the top floor of an old house in Staples, a block from the railroad tracks. That room—our bedroom--was the only finished off room on that floor, the rest was attic. In the floor was a small register that was supposed to heat the room in the winter. The heat was for all purposes non-existent because my parents heated with wood and at night the fire went out. Even when it was warm downstairs it was at best, tepid in our room. Most of the time we boys slept together in one bed to stay warm. I tell you this not for sympathy or shame because lots of people slept like that back then. I tell you it because it set the stage for me and my life to come.

 In 1956, when I was sixteen, Gogi Grant recorded a song called the “Wayward Wind.” The lyrics were emblematic of what was going on in my life at that time. “In a lonely shack by a railroad track, he spent his younger days. And I guess the sound of the outward bound made me a slave to its wandering ways.” Yes, at night I would lie there and listen to the sound of my brothers breathing, the trains rumbling through town and the winter wind whistling around the confines of that old house and wonder what life had in store for me when it came time to leave. All I knew for sure was, it had to be better then this but I also knew it was up to me to find a better way.

Last night as I laid snug in my bed, some sixty years after Staples, the wind was blowing strong and although it was a muffled wind owing to the sturdiness of my house today, verses that leaky old shack I was raised in, my thoughts went back to those days in Staples. The fears and apprehensive I had back then are probably no different then the fears our young people going out into the world have today We all want to be successful, we all want a better life, but we all have fears that hold us back sometimes. Were naturally somewhat restless-- but sometimes not restlessness enough. It’s that unsatisfaction with our life that makes us look beyond where we are and towards where we want to go. Sometimes we just have to quit listening to the cynics in our minds and believe in our gut.

I started out in life in a job I didn’t like. Why. Because success at the time-- at least for me-- was tied to making money. Fast cars and girls aren’t cheap. Then I got married, settled down and reality set in. I realized that to be happy, I needed to want to go to work each morning, not have to go to work and I took a lot of steps backwards, to go forward again. Fortunately, at that time, I had an understanding wife who believed in me. I ask today’s young people to do some soul searching and think about what you would really like to do with your life and dream big, but be realistic. Dream about what it is within your means and your abilities to do and be honest with yourself? Life is precious and wasting years doing things you hate for  all the wrong reasons is just the breeding ground for a lot of regrets later on There will be bad times in life but fit yourself to them. Don’t be afraid to hitch your sled to that wayward wind that blows in all of us. 

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

THA BEAUTY OF AGE



Have you ever been driving in the countryside and came across old abandoned buildings or farmsteads. I have done this many times and always something urged me to slow down or stop. The sight of those old weathered and dilapidated buildings begged me to know more about the lives that were lived there and if the buildings could talk-- the stories they would tell. There was a time long ago when the occupants, living and working there, were vibrant people with dreams and aspirations like all of us and I want to know if they were happy and if their lives were fulfilled.

Our own bodies are like that as we age. Like those old buildings we weather and turn all gray and lean a little bit. Our exteriors show the ravages and wear of time. The plumbing may leak and the roof covering get’s ragged and thin. Our eyes, the windows to our world, are not so translucent any more. Our frames get crooked and warped. But like those old buildings, it’s what lies inside of us, where the real beauty exists and the real story can be told. For within those often cluttered old minds, lives the genuine truth and the beauty of life.

I was once asked; if I could step into a time machine and was granted one trip, would I like to be eighteen again? My answer was “Only if I knew then, what I know now.”  It took me seventy some years to fill this meandering mind with memories and stories and they are the most precious thing I have right now because in a large part I earned each and every one of them. Were there things I’d just as soon not remember? Yes, many of them, so I have learned to push the delete button more and more as life goes on but sadly you can’t forget anything until, you first remember it. There are things we must forget if we want to go on with life. I learned in life that our hearts memory has a way of doing this itself and magnifying all the good things, if we let it.  Life can be a bit of a paradox for all of us but as we live it, we find out where all the pieces fit together and belong. It would be such a pity to unscramble it and start over again. Eleanor Roosevelt said and I quote. “Beautiful young people are accidents of nature, but beautiful old people are works of art.”

What would life be without our memories and does it take a lifetime for us to really appreciate what has been going on around us? If old people governed the world, I contend most of this animosity and hate we now see would go away. Are we just to old and tired to hate and fight and that is the reason for our passiveness? I think not. It’s just that we been there before and we know the utter futility of it all. Arthur Golden wrote in “Memories of a Geisha,” Sometimes the things we remember are more real than the things we see.” But my favorite was the ever-humorous Mark Twain who said, “My memory is so good that some times I remember things that never even happened.”

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

TAKE CARE OF OUR KIDS


                                                
When I was teenager and uptown with my dad getting groceries one day, we saw three small kids crying in the back seat of a car. It was terribly hot that day and my dad knew who the kid’s parents were and where they were. They were in the liquor store drinking. When we came out of the grocery store, the kids were still there and crying harder. My dad hesitated for a second and then told me to take the groceries to the car. He went into the liquor store and that was confusing for me because dad didn’t drink. A few minutes later dad came out with the couple and he had the man by the arm and he was shouting at him. They finally got in the car and drove away.

My dad was not a big bruising man; in fact he was anything but. However when it came to kids and his own kids, he was their champion and was not afraid to confront people who abused their children. When he died his estate barely covered his bills and expenses but that was fine with him. He had never lived to accumulate worldly things. His kids and grandkids fulfilled his life. Whenever we had a family get- together’s dad was always in his glory. With eight kids and twenty some grandkids he had, what he saw, as the greatest legacy any man could possibly have.

I think back over my life and the things I am most proud of and my family comes front and center. I have been privileged to know many good families and I sense their pride too. But yet day after day I get letters from originations that ask for help feeding and clothing starving children. These are people like my dad trying to do what they can do to help those abused kids. God bless all of them. But always the question that goes through my mind is why does this exist and how can people not feed and clothe their own kids? How many people today will sit on a bar stool and suck down a three dollar beer or a five dollar drink, feeding their own selfish whims while their kids go without.

No one wants to be the beginning and the end of an era in your family tree. No one wants to think that their influence in their family’s history will go to the grave with them. Rather we want to think that we served as a good example, while we here, to help form the lives of our kids and grandkids. There is no greater award in life then to be remembered as a good father, grandfather and husband. To be emulated and appreciated. All to soon our generation will pass away and a new one will take the reigns. We hope and pray they will have learned from our examples and our mistakes and that they will have the God given common sense to know the difference.

I wish I had a looking glass that would let me know how those little kids in that car, that hot day in my home town, turned out. Hopefully their parents had a change of heart and realized how precious those kids were to them and how wrong they were to do what they did. I pray that those kids grew up to be good people who would never do to their kids, what was done to them but I also hope my dads actions made a difference and they learned as they got older to love and respect their parents.


Wednesday, October 30, 2013

MORE MISS MOLLY


                                              
So I’m talking the other day to a friend of mine, about dogs and our relationships with our dogs. You see he too has allowed a dog to be the boss in his house. There is something about the face of a Labrador, when they sit there looking at you out of the top of those eyes and wagging that bushy long tail, ever so slightly, that makes you say “Oh I don’t give a crap. Do what you want to do, just don’t eat my shoelaces anymore.” The fact that my friend and I are both single men and don’t have spouse’s to please, may have had a hand in this newfound freedom for our dogs.

I remember that spring day when Molly first came into my life and how I vowed that for the first time in my long, dog filled life; this one wasn’t going to get the upper hand with me. That I, the original dog whisperer, was a disciplinarian too and this dog was going to toe the line in my house. I was going to show her who was in charge here and people were going to say when they saw us, “What a well behaved dog Mike. I wish my dog was like that.”

The first thing I did was establish well-defined boundaries that were carved in stone. The dog would stay in the kitchen, where I had a tile floor that was easier to deal with those little messes puppies make. Bladder control is non-existence in a puppy you know. Come to think of it it’s becoming a problem with someone else but back to the story. Call their name; they wag their tail and pee. Stamp your foot or slam the door they pee. It comes with the territory. So with the aid of a baby gate she was confined and that went well for a couple of days. Then I realized I didn’t want to spend all of my life in the kitchen and she didn’t want to spend any of her life away from me, so a new rule was made. She could be in with me but she had to stay off the furniture and sleep in her kennel. Then a revision to that revision came along and she could be on the couch but not on any other furniture. After all she just wanted to lay her head in my lap and bond a little, what’s wrong with that? Then another revision came along and she could get on any of the furniture but just in the four-season porch, where I generally hang out, but not on the living room furniture or on my bed. Bed you say? Oh yes, she was now sleeping beside my bed because revision C had got her out of her kennel. Not sure where we are with the revisions anymore but right now—you guessed it—she’s sleeping with me and I’m not sure which is my side of the bed anymore. If the kennel was bigger I would---- oh never mind.

My daughter say’s that sleeping with a dog is unhealthy. I disagree. My dog is as healthy as any dog I have ever had, so that shoots that theory down. She asked me, “what about the smell Dad”. I told her Molly would get used to it. She may be the only dog who ever slept in my bed with me but I have to admit that may have had something to do with the fact that where she now sleeps, that space was filled by a woman for many years. This was a woman, who unequivocally stated that there was no room in our bed, for animals that licked their butts and shook their ears all night. Well, at least Molly doesn’t snore, so chalk up one for the home team. Life is good.

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

MOONLIGHT



I came home late from a trip to the cities the other night. Stopping at my mailbox and leaving the truck, the clouds suddenly parted and I was bathed in the light of a full harvest moon. The light shone down on the road as if I was personally being spotlighted by the heavens above me, turning the whole scene into something both mystical and magical. The clouds overhead reflected the sun’s refracting light off their billowing spires surrounding the moon as it glowed down between them, as if it was peeking between fluffy mounds of cotton.

There are times in life when the setting is just too perfect to turn your back on and leave behind. Instead, you are mesmerized and you want to bath in it and soak it up. It’s a time when you feel the pull—the connection—between the celestial world and the one you’re living in. A time when the setting you’re drinking in brings back memories of another time and another place, fifty some years ago, on a moonlit lake when you first met her. For some time now you have been reminded that you have advocates in those heavens above, where that light is coming from, because she and other loved ones are up there; and you’re down here looking up and this picture goes far beyond a moonlit night, on a lonely country road, in the afterglow of another day. I stood there for some time because something in that beam of light made me feel as if we were together again.

I left the road and stepped into the dark forest alongside of it. The woods at night can be a curious place—so different from the day. It’s as if the trees and the bushes have clumped together for protection; not against the menacing beasts we have grown to fear, but against darkness itself. Tonight, however, seems different. There are, here and there sprinkled amongst the woods in tiny clearings, little moonlit islands of emptiness. Throughout the forest floor they lay like tiny illuminated altars in the darkened cathedral of nature. It’s a place made for lovers and dreamers to come to—and to turn the hourglass of time and existence on its side and to, at least for a while, make the world stand still. Oscar Wilde said, “A dreamer is one who can find his way by moonlight and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”

Then, without warning, a dark shadow came over this tranquil place as the moon disappeared behind the clouds. Once again the woods were cold and forbidding and seemed to reek of danger. The bright altars that had been so inviting in the forest clearings went dark, and everything seemed to be impenetrable. Hastily, I made my way back to the road that had been, only minutes before, a ribbon of moonlight; now virtually indistinguishable from the woods, except for the hard surface underneath. In the inky darkness, my truck was just a black hulk. My stairway to heaven was extinguished and it seemed as if the last light the world had to offer me had just gone out.

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

A LETTER TO MY SON


To my readers. I want to share with you a letter I wrote to my son on his fiftieth birthday. I want to share it, hoping it brings you memories and thoughts of your children and what they mean to you. It seems odd that people who are middle aged and have grown families of their own, are still being referred to as kids; but they will always be our kids won’t they?                                                                                                           

So, today my son is fifty years old. I remember so well the night he was born, and how proud I was to have a son and to be a dad. I remember the dreams I had for him as he grew up and went out into the world. My biggest dream was not that he would be rich or famous, but that he would be a good man, father and husband, and that he and I would always be close. Also, that I would not be proud of him just that night, in that hospital, but all the days of my life, and that he would always be there, as my son, until the day I died. Today I say, “Job well done, my son, and you’ve only just begun.” I am sure that somewhere in heaven, your mother is sharing my pride.

Somewhere, back in the dark recesses of my foggy mind, I remember teaching you how to ride your bike without training wheels, and praying you wouldn’t get hurt; how to throw a baseball—and yes, right through the neighbor’s garage window; and that pinewood derby car we made together in scouts, that came in last in the competition, and how disappointed you were. That was the day I realized that coming in first wasn’t important, but building that car together with you was. I hoped you would grow up to realize that, too.

I remember your baseball games, football games, and the fishing trips we took; I remember your graduation from college and how proud I was because you had made it; but sad because I knew it was time for you to go out into the world; I foolishly didn’t want you to forget your mother and I. I say “foolishly” because it wasn’t the end, but just another corner in life that we turned. I remember how nice you looked in your first cop’s uniform, and prayed you would be safe, but mostly, that you would just be a good officer and never have to take a life, but rather, save a few. I remember your wedding and the birth of each of your children. The home you built yourself, and how hard you worked on it; forty some years of deer hunting together. I remember the day your mom died and how you left that afternoon to be alone. I wanted to be with you then, but knew you weren’t alone, and He and you were just sorting out the details because you are a Christian man.

Yes, son, we’ve come a long way, and hopefully, we have a long way to go. I no longer worry about what kind of a man you’re going to be because you have proven, over and over again, what kind of a man you are and nothing there needs to be changed. One thing has changed, however, and that’s all the advice I used to give you, wanted or not. I now realize that we’ve made a switch in this respect—and I am now going to you for advice. This isn’t just a symbol of love, but a symbol of respect for a man who has nothing left to prove to me. Happy Birthday, son!

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

A MORE SUBTLE LIFE


                                             
I was privileged to meet some of my neighbor’s friends the other day. The reason I wanted to write about these people is that they were not people we get to meet and talk with very often. At least I don’t. Their lifestyle dictates being quiet, reclusive and respectful of others. You see, these people were from Illinois and they are Amish. I think, for a lot of us, we feel that the sort of lifestyle these people choose to live would be boring and mundane, and we ask “why?” But what I found out was, “why” and just the opposite.

I often write about the changes that have come to our world over the years. I write about how distant we have become from each other in a fast-paced world full of drugs, alcohol, loosening morals and disrespect for each other. Of kids married to video games and x-boxes, living in a make-believe world of fast action and violence; movies and television—filled with sex and violence and life in the fast lane. Big changes that are so hard for those of us who didn’t grow up with them to accept, and sometimes we wonder what happened to us and where it’s all going to end.

The Amish try as hard as we do to not let their young people follow the maddening crowd, but I think they are far more serious about it, and better at fighting it, than we are. They have two big reasons for this on their side. First of all, respect for their elders and others is not a recommendation to their children as they grow up, it is an essential rule. For those who don’t comply, there are consequences. I was told from an early age in my life that “rules without consequences are just advice.” I guess this just proves my parents’ point on that. Secondly, they have a deep and abiding faith in their God and they are serious about their children having that faith, too. 

I talked to my daughter last night, after meeting the Amish, and told her of my experience. She lives in the country, with her family, outside of a small Wisconsin town. She said, “Dad, I envy them. I wish I could turn back the clock and be more like them. I would love for my children to be raised like that. I can teach my kids right from wrong, and I do. But they’re in school now, and peer pressure is becoming a problem. Bad things have always existed, and I know that, but there used to be definitive lines between good and bad and it’s just not true anymore. Society is fast erasing those lines and lumping them all together.”

As my daughter alluded to, it’s hard to turn back the clocks of time. I guess, in one sense, the Amish just never went there in the first place because they sensed what would happen. We’re like addicts that have gotten used to a freer lifestyle, and now we’re hooked and there is little chance of turning back. Think of selling your F150 and buying a horse. Some call what we have done to society “progress” and in most cases I have to agree, but with progress comes unintended side effects. Greed and selfishness are not progress, though, and they take us to a lot of places we shouldn’t be. We find this out too often—too late—too much. In the “Prayer of Serenity” we ask God for the wisdom to know the difference. I think we already have that wisdom. We’re just not using it as well as the Amish do.

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

THE LAST DANCE OF THE SUMMER WIND


                                         
I see so many people at our lake this time of the year, taking that last sentimental and somewhat traditional ride around the pond, before they put the pontoon or boat away for the winter. Summer up here is such a delightful season and it seems to quite magically strip off a few years from all of us, if only in perception and if only for a few short months. Friends, relatives and neighbors reconnect and gather to eat and drink and just enjoy the ambience with you, on the heels of the summer wind. But all to soon the nights grow long and colder and old Mother Nature starts to slowly button up this little corner of the world we live in. “Turn down the lights,” she’s saying to us, the party’s over. With the diminishing of the suns heat in the high afternoon and the subsequent shorter days, she does just that. So now we wait for our turn again, while the other half of the world gets their turn at summer. We expect to be a little sad in fall but were not without hope of the coming spring.

It starts innocently enough. Here and there a tawny yellow leaf floats lazily to earth. It may be subtle at first and go unnoticed but before long it will become a crescendo of leaves, striped away by autumn breezes, leaving the trees standing naked, while offering us glimpses into the deep woods we haven’t seen for a while. It seems we love our trees until the leaves fall and then we whisper silently to them; “please come back to us and try again.” I believe that every writer worth his or her salt has been inspired and tried at one time or another to do justice, composing some kind of a written description of fall but sadly most of us fall short of accomplishing it as the sights and feelings often defy description. The animals of the forests are sporting new and thicker coats now as they scurry about filling their larders and finding new shelters. Overhead the birds who once soared on the summer winds are making their plans to fly the coop on the remnants of it as they point their heads toward the setting sun. Before long we too will retreat to our shelters, warm and safe from winters icy blasts.

For me and for many of us older people, we now realize more fully that our future is measured in years and not decades, as the reality of what is happening in our lives bites just a little bit harder in fall. The days of “there are lots more where that came from,” now seen more like a fervent hope and are not anchored in any kind of certainty. We have for some time seen and felt so many subtle bodily hints like aching joints, dimming vision and foggy memories and the not so subtle ones too; like the laying to rest of friends and family who have fallen before us. People that we took for granted for far to long that became second nature to us over the years. We sometimes used to wonder how we could ever live without them and now like it or not, were getting the chance to find out. Life does go on though and in the words of the song maker. “When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame, we don’t have time for the waiting game.”

Maybe old blue eyes said it best it best when he sang. “So the summer winds have come and gone. And guess who sighs his lullabies through nights that never end. My fickle friend. The summer wind.”

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

WRITING ABOUT WRITING


                                                 
Many times people ask me; how do you find something to write about every week? A good question and not an easy answer. But let me say this. Finding something to write about is easy-- but finding something to write about that people want to read--well that’s another story and maybe this column is an example of that and maybe not-- you’re my judge, not me.

I know a fair amount of writers and I think the one recurring theme that best describes them and me, is this. They tend to be passionate about things and they tend to be emotional people. Having the basic tools when it comes to writing, like expressing yourself on paper, or telling a story is part of it yes but a lot people can do that. I think what may set a good writer apart from the others is how you tell the story. I’m a headline grabber when I read but I also lose interest in stories or articles fast, when the writer hasn’t done her or his job. I suspect I speak for a lot of people. But every once in while you’ll find that one thing, you not only read but also read again. You understood it perfectly the first time but something about the way it was written brought you back once more.

The world is full of stories, some sad, some happy and all of them waiting to be told. A couple of years ago when I lost my wife I brought her story to you. Not that it was unique, a lot of people lose their mates in life but I wanted you to know how I felt at that moment. Maybe it was a pity party of sorts but to all of you who have suffered such losses; we deserve a little pity party don’t we? “Blessed are those who mourn.” Then much later along came a good change, and I wrote about a new special friend who came into my life and turned my frown upside down. A few weeks ago our coffee group lost a good friend and I wrote his wife. I wanted her to know how special he was to us and how much we miss him.  Sometimes there are things out there that just have to be said and I’m the guy that has tried to do it. I have written about how our world has changed over the years and not always for the good. From the comments I get back, there are people, who agree. I have written about the uncertain future our kids and grandkids have and I know there are more people then not that agree with me on that too. Often, they are good kids brought up right, but now bumping up against evil things and having to make hard choices. I have shared my love for the great outdoors and the seasons with you. Talked about this beautiful lake country we call home. Talked about my dog, my faith, my music and family and not necessarily in that order. I’m always hoping that in some way. I can tickle your funny bone or touch your heart.

I have all of my past columns in a folder in my computer and they number three hundred and forty. I am toying with the idea of putting them into a book or at least some of the better ones. Let me know if you think that is a good idea. My hope, in the future, is to always have something to write about. I have a new book that will be ready next year for those of you who like fiction. To those of you who have taken time to write or stop me in my travels and say hi, thank you. To those of you who have read my books-- again thank you.  You always make my day and I feel blessed.

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

CROSSLAKE


                                                          
I, in my travels, have on more than one occasion run into complete strangers in other states who said. “So you’re from Crosslake Minnesota. They would say,” I once stayed there for a summer,”or “my uncle had a cabin there and we used to go visit him. But one lady in New Mexico told me something I never forgot. “The thing I remember the most about staying in Crosslake,” she said. “Is for me it was an escape from the harshness and realities of life. It was like this little place in the middle of nowhere that seemed to shut out all of the outside interference in your life. It brought you back to your roots and made a nine year old kid out of everybody.” I am seldom at a loss for words but I was that day. I wanted to turn around and go home.

As summer draws to a close my mind drifts back to the all of the things that have taken place here this year. It seems to begin on St Patrick’s Day when the deserted winter streets, often still piled high with snow, fill with hundreds and even thousands of people. An Irish town you say? I hardly think so. It’s more like a town that has been suppressed indoor’s; way to long by winter and St Pats is just an excuse to have a party. So party they do and have for a long time. That day begins a litany of events and celebrations that make those who live here and visit here, build memories that won’t let you forget Crosslake-- even when you live in New Mexico.

I have often wondered how many people, not only fell in love with Crosslake while they were here but also actually fell in love, in Crosslake. Something in the air makes the heart more receptive here. Her or him, whomever they may be, might have always been somewhere in the plans but a summer in Crosslake was just the last piece of the puzzle. The impetus you might say that made it all happen. Maybe it was a time when you were young and beautiful and you seem to not have a worry in the world. Life was free and easy and you knew what was lying out there waiting for you when you left. I firmly believe that in everyone’s life there is a love you will never forget and a summer when it first began.

Then one day the falling leaves and shorter days signaled the beginning of the end. Crisp mornings and fog over the lakes. Restless waterfowl, booming guns and docks pulled up on shore. Abandoned flowerbeds and wilting vegetable gardens lay littered with the spoils of the crop. No more waiting at the intersections in town, just signal and turn. No more waiting in line at the grocery or café. You cross out 2013 on the things to do list and optimistically write 2014.

So now the beaches are deserted and the toys are all put away. Woodpiles are growing in size and motor homes, freshly dusted off and gassed up, piloted by old silver heads, turn their noses south like the birds of the air. It’s a retreat of sorts to a warmer place for old aching bones; driven by people that know in their hearts they will be back. The door that summer opened in Crosslake is slowly closing for now. It was like the ultimate one night stand. Over before you knew it and now just a memory but your grateful just the same. Celia Thaxter said and I quote.. “There shall be eternal summer in the grateful heart.” She must have visited Crosslake.



Tuesday, September 10, 2013

SAVING MONEY



Being in my seventies, and having kept house for fifty some years, one would think that there would be little I would need in my household that I don’t already have. The word “bargain” as defined in the dictionary is “something that is offered for sale, or barter, at a price much less than it is worth.” It makes no mention of the fact of whether you need it or not. Greed, which is an inherent urge we all put up with at times, overrules common sense and we can’t help ourselves. Hence, we buy crap we don’t need. My wife would buy things at sales and then resell them at her own annual sale—usually for less than she paid for them. How did I feel about that? Let me just say that “don’t ask, don’t tell” doesn’t just apply to the U.S. Armed Forces.

But this year I had a need for a doghouse; one that I could put out on my deck to shelter my dog when I’m gone, and leave her out there. So when one popped up at a flea market, I was quick to purchase it. Two things didn’t work out for me. First thing, I foolishly thought the word “flea market,” was a euphemism for a rummage sale. I never dreamed you could actually buy fleas, which were in the doghouse I bought, and that have since moved to my dog. The second thing that didn’t work out was the dog wouldn’t go in the doghouse. Yes, she did go in long enough to collect the fleas, but I came home in a rainstorm the other day and she was sitting on top of it—in the rain.

My spouse and I used to go coupon shopping, and by the way, I still use coupons for things I will actually eat because I believe she is watching me from up there and I don’t need any trouble if I get there, too. But sometimes she would have a coupon for something like Pickled New Zealand Termite Eggs, and she would buy them because you just can’t ignore a coupon that big, and by the way, it was always about the bottom line at the checkout counter. You know that line on the bottom of your grocery receipt that says you saved more than you spent, but somehow forty-nine dollars managed to disappear out of your billfold and a Philadelphia lawyer couldn’t make heads or tails of that receipt, but she could.

I once bought a shirt at a clothing store, that I can’t name, that was on a 90% off rack; and then got 20% off because it was senior day; and then got another 15% off for using my store credit card. The clerk had to override the cash register because it couldn’t believe what was happening and refused the transaction. I thought they were going to call the cops on me. Anyway, never mind, the shirt is too ugly to wear—but what a bargain, huh? I felt so bad when I got home that I e-mailed all of the clothing factories in Taiwan and apologized. Not even they can work that cheap.
I bought a music CD off a television ad that was $9.99 plus shipping and handling. Conveniently—at least for them they don’t spell out how much shipping and handling is—but I thought, what the heck, how much can it cost to throw that CD in an envelope and snail mail it here to me. Well, it seems that the people in that warehouse in Lakeville, and the good old United States Postal Service, need to talk to that poor seamstress in Taiwan who bought the cloth, sewed me an ugly shirt and shipped it half way around the world, cheaper because the shipping and handling exceeded the cost of the CD. and the shirt. Who knew? Now I do and so do you.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

FAMILY REUNIONS


                                              
Each summer for the past thirty-eight years our family—not my immediate family, but my parent’s family—has had a reunion. We take a weekend; all of us camp together, eat together and enjoy each other’s company around a campfire on Saturday night. Our parents have long since passed, but the eight kids they raised are all still here. We have grown from a family of ten, to a family of over seventy. My dad, our patriarch, used to say, “You can pick your friends, you can even pick your nose, but you can’t pick your family and don’t you ever forget that.” Like a good recipe, there are always things in the mix that are not tolerable by themselves, but when they become one of the family, you see how essential they are to us.

My siblings and I have remained, for the most part, supportive and concerned for each other’s well-being, and their children’s. Some of us have more than others, and some of us have made greater strides in life, but when we get together like this, the playing field is leveled, and we are once again the children of our parents. For me, it is a unique celebration with brothers and sisters I grew up with, and learned to love sixty some years ago. Each year those feelings rush back at me again as we meet once more, face to face, and we get this little booster shot. The hair is gray or gone, the faces wrinkled, but when you look beyond that—he’s the same brother you shared a bed with just to keep warm on a cold winter’s night. The day will come when the original eight of us will be seven, and that will be a sad day for all of us because it will signal the beginning of the end of a generation. Being the oldest that may well be me, and in a way, that may be the easiest way out—at least for me.

My family’s story is not unique, by any means, and reunions are played out each and every day of the year all over this great country, but the trend in society today has placed less and less importance on it. We have grown into this fast-paced society that has less and less time for each other—family or not. We are greedier with our time and our talents. We are more self-centered and less sharing than we used to be. This is a trend brought on by the idea that we should always look out for number one—a “survival of the fittest” mentality. In the process, we have forgotten that number one is not always you. I saw a quote once, from a Vietnamese monk named Thich Naht Hanh, which said about family, “If you look deeply into the palm of your hand, you will see your parents and all generations of your ancestors. All of them are alive in this moment. Each is present in your body. You are the continuation of each of these people.” Yes, we owe it to our founding family to never let those who taught us and influenced the way we live and conduct our lives today, to be forgotten. To take a vow to carry on their wishes for all of us, even though they may be physically long gone. They passed us an important torch when they left and we need to carry it with pride and dignity. We all have people that have come into our families that don’t quite meet up to our expectations. But we do find out, in time, that the boy, who wasn’t good enough to marry your daughter, has become the father of the world’s smartest grandchild. The stark reality is that we came into this world as part of a family, and in the end, that’s how we need to go out.  In the meantime, we need to enjoy the trip together, as a family.

Thursday, August 22, 2013

MARRIAGE AND MONEY


                                                            
I read an article from the Star and Tribune the other day, which in effect said, working class people are being priced out of having happy marriages. That somehow good marriages and happy couples exist only because they come from prosperous roots. It gave an example of a woman who was in a couple of loveless marriages and laid the blame straight on the fact that without money there was no way to succeed. I don’t think I would have to go far in my life, to find people, who have had solid marriages, which were based on anything they were able to buy.

My parents, who by the way had a good marriage, never had squat. We were some of the poorest people in the small town we lived in. They had eight children and out of the eight, over a span of fifty some years there has been one divorce and it had nothing to do with lack of money. I go to church on Sundays and see all sorts of old couples, happy to be living out their old age with partners they have walked the path of life with for many years. I personally know most of them and they are not rich. Not in the sense of riches the newspaper article was talking about anyway. The richness they posses came from hearts that grew close together, working hard, raising families and an admiration they had for each other for what they brought to that marriage. Note I said brought to the marriage not bought for the marriage.

My wise old grandfather, God bless his soul, told me the two greatest thing anyone could give to each other was love and respect. That those two things were the absolute foundation for a good marriage and that’s where you started to build from that day you tied the knot. You can take all of your money and riches and go down to the Mall of America and walk the corridors for days, looking in storefront, after storefront and you will never find a love and respect store. You get respect one way- by earning it and you get love one way too-- by giving it, it’s that simple and there are no shortcuts.

I was married for forty-nine years and except for the death of my spouse I still would be. We were never rich or even mildly rich when it came to money. We ate and paid our bills, bought most things we needed but not many things we viewed as luxuries. When we had troubles in our marriage—and yes, financial troubles too—facing them and solving them together only made us stronger. The happiest moments in our married life didn’t come from buying them. I have many friends who are rich and a lot of them are happily married. But I suspect that those happy bonds they now share were made long before the money was and if the money were gone, they would still exist. The money was only the frosting on the cake.

We have done many things to dumb down and ruin marriages in our society and not make them work. We have developed selfish attitudes about what we should and shouldn’t have to endure in life. Troubles in and out of marriage often become a blame game with couples, because someone isn’t man or woman enough to face them any other way. Children, grandparents’ friends and relatives are thrown beneath the wheels in the aftermath and no one is ever more happy, rich or not.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

ANOTHER MINNESOTA MORNING


                                
I awoke early this morning to a summer thunderstorm and another amazing Minnesota morning. My nineteen-year-old granddaughter from Phoenix, who is visiting and usually sleeps to noon, was sitting by the patio doors watching the rain come down and she said “Grandpa you don’t know how much I miss this.” she moved to Arizona over a year ago, after being born and raised here.

I have a disk of the song ‘Minnesota Morning’ that’s always lying on top of the player and I went over and slipped it in and pushed play. “I open up my sleepy eyes and see. The morning just the way it should be. By the setting of the midnight moon and the rising of the sun and the feeling like I’ve only just begun. The morning mist still lies, upon the ground and it comes and goes but doesn’t make a sound. And the heavy of the midnight air lightens with the day. There’s a Minnesota morning on the way.”

I guess for me, I take for granted all of the intricacies of this beautiful state and I have never been gone long enough to miss all that is going on the way she had. But as a sat drinking my coffee and listening to the song and the soft rain, I thought about all of the things that were going on right now that I had witnessed in just the last twelve hours. Last night we had gone for a boat ride just as the sun was setting on another perfect day. We slowed to watch the loons showing off their new little one, perched on it’s mothers back. I knew when its was born the other day because I heard them celebrating that morning, somewhere out on the lake. We watched a nervous doe down by the river drinking from the lake, her eyes watching us intently and her bushy white tail flicking in the shadows, her spotted fawn hiding behind her, peeking between her legs. Back home, over my back door, tucked back in some old antlers, is a swallow’s nest. I saw all of the little beaks pointing skyward the other morning and I have watched the mother coming and going on her food runs. The humming birds put on their little air show everyday, darting in and out of the feeders as they drink. Yes there is something going on everywhere you look.

But its not just about the animals and birds, its about the vibrant green world summer brings us with grass and trees and flowers blooming everywhere. It’s about the lakes with their clean clear waters, and bass surfacing down by the dock to take a water bug and leaving a ring of ripples to show us where they surfaced. It’s having to drive carefully, while watching for the turtles laying eggs in the driveway. Sitting on the deck in the evening and watching spectacular sunsets across the lake and the mirrored image of the opposite shoreline, in the still waters of our little golden pond. Sometimes at night you need to just close your eyes and listen to the frogs croaking in the swamp and the waves lapping softly on the shoreline. The birds are singing another Minnesota day away and then you know your living in one of nature’s showplaces and you feel like the luckiest guy on the face of the earth. “And I haven’t seen a day like this, since I went away. Minnesota I am here and I’m going to stay.”