Saturday, December 22, 2018

CHRISTMAS LETTER

We spend our whole lives making comparisons. Was that the best job I ever had? The best vacation I ever took? The best dinner I ever ate, or the best Christmas ever? As long as we have a memory we will continue to draw an analogy between the past and the present. As an old man my memories are full of moms and dads, uncles, aunts, grandparents, a spouse, kids and friends who once sat around my Christmas tree but now are gone. All of them special in there own way. But today as I contemplate all of this, and as fond as those memories are, I realize the only Christmas that is important to me this year, is the one coming up and the only way to reap the benefits is to get involved. If there is one thing the holidays seem to bring out in people. It is, we quit thinking about ourselves and think of others and how we can brighten their Christmas holiday. I once knew of an old man who had lost his spouse and that first Christmas without her, he told his family that he would not be available for Christmas Eve. He would see them the next day. He was not a rich man but that Christmas Eve, without telling anyone else; he went to his bank and withdrew 500 dollars in 10-dollar bills. Then alone, he went to the local homeless shelter or mission that night and handed each person a bill and wished him or her a Merry Christmas. He didn’t tell them not to spend it on alcohol or other bad things. He simply said “Merry Christmas.” The next day at Christmas dinner when his family asked where he was last night. He smiled and simply said, “It was the best Christmas Eve ever.” I think of all of the lonely people who have nothing but their memories to cling to at Christmas and it makes me sad. It’s this sad part of the holidays, that some are able to push to the back of their minds but not me. In a way, I envy those who can. At the start of this I talked about making comparisons. How about the difference between giving and receiving? How do we become humble in our giving and yet grateful in receiving? You don’t have to be old to experience this. I remember a Christmas when one of my kids gave me a plaster cast of their little hand they had made in school. As I opened the gift I asked my wife out loud, what is this? Before she could answer I saw my child’s face go from glee to sadness. They had made something especially for me for Christmas and all I could say was-- what is this? I tried to make light of it but the damage was done. Oh how I wish I had that plaster cast today to sit on my desk. To see that little handprint, that is today, fifty some years old and wrinkled with age. Pat and I, after six years together, will be spending our first Christmas Day alone together and away from our families. It will be different for both of us but yet we take solace in the fact that we have each other and at least speaking for me, I can’t ask for any more than that. We have no plans for elaborate gifts for each other. Our companionship and our love for each other is our gift. At our age, giving can be as simple as a hug and a smile. It speaks volumes and you can’t buy it on line.

Tuesday, December 11, 2018

HIATUS

By the time you read this, Pat and I will be back in Arizona for the winter. There was a time when I never thought I would ever be a snowbird and the word still kind of sticks in my craw. Yes, I was the consummate Minnesota man who would walk around all winter in my Sorrel boots and Carharts. Icy snot cycles would be hanging from my mustache and beard. My breath forming clouds of steam as I pushed my snow blower, through raging blizzards shouting at the top of my lungs, “Is that all you got? Bring it on Mother Nature you wimp. My dog Molly would be sitting on the porch cheering me on but saying to herself; “I ain’t going out there. I’ll pee right here thank you.” I always had a spear house that I drug out onto the lake in the winter when the ice formed. Back then, my little stove would take the chill off in the fish house and my dog would help me scan the depths for those allusive “Northern’s” and wag his tail when he spotted one. Then successful, I would fire up the snowmobile and head home with my kill. Those fish, fresh out of that cold water never tasted better. I loved to cross country ski and snowshoe. I would watch the ice races on the lake when they plowed the track. I would ride to Crosby on my snowmobile, have a little toddy-- just a wee one—and then head home, warm inside and out. Then Mother Nature took over in a different direction. Lungs that saw to much abuse in my Fire Fighting days rebelled and now I have coughing fits when they suck in cold air. I go nowhere without my inhalers and you don’t have to say it-- I’ll say it for you--. I’m not the man I used to be. Fingers and toes that never got cold now get cold in bed. I live by myself and cold winter nights are lonely winter nights and there is way too much darkness. I need to exercise daily for my breathing and I need someplace warm to do it and I’m not cut out to be a mall walker. Pat takes over the cooking when we are in Arizona so at least for part of the year I eat food that is really good for me. She cleans our house and washes my clothes and laughs at my silly jokes-----well smiles at my silly jokes---sometimes. We go exploring in the desert and have made so many new friends and we also have reconnected with old friends, who too escape the cold down there. Yes, we are happy when we get down to Arizona but when April rolls around and we find our way back up north we are happier yet, because we are back in the land we both love so much and call our home. There will be a few snow banks left when we return but within weeks the rhubarb will be up, the lakes will turn back to water again and like a metamorphous the earth will shed its icy cocoon and spring will be in the air. Baby animals and birds everywhere, green grass and buds on the trees and new stories to tell at coffee. So it’s a hiatus for us from winter yes-- but my ‘Meandering Mind’ will find something to write about and if it sucks you can tell me in April. By the way, my spear house is now my garden shed. I don’t have a garden—just the tools.

Sunday, December 2, 2018

DEER HUNTING

So today is the opening of deer hunting and as I sit by my desk, I hear the gunshots out in the woods across the road and wonder if the boys got one. I hunted for over fifty years but health issues and a lack of the killing attitude that it takes to shoot a deer have left me in the house now. But there is something bigger for me this year that makes me sad. Although I didn’t hunt we were still all together for the weekend. I hunted vicariously through all of them. I helped them put up their stands and we shared a lot of good meals and time together. Next year my plan is to head south before the hunting season, so this was probably my last deer-hunting season. I think back to the years we hunted together and the love and comradely we enjoyed. The year my son and I were the only two hunting and we had spent many hours the day before placing our stands in the perfect place, planning the hunt and filing our packs with snacks, outfitted better then the U.S. army. We both got our deer before 7.30 that next morning and spent the rest of the weekend not knowing what to do with ourselves, so we watched football games. It was almost sad. I think too of the year my son, as a young man, shot a deer at dusk, wounding it and then instead of waiting for the rest of the party to help him, took off on his own and tried tracking it in the dark, until his flashlight wore out and he was hopelessly lost. He stumbled out of the woods late in the evening soaking wet and cold, just minutes before I was going to call his mother back in the cities and also call the police for help. I had no idea what I was going to tell her. I hunted years ago when it was ten below and when it was so warm, if I’d had orange underwear I would have been sitting in it. I hunted in a blizzard once when you couldn’t see three feet in front of you. I have shot deer at a hundred yards and some from a few feet away. I once was in my brother’s field of fire and he didn’t know it and I heard the bullet go by me, inches from my head. Then on that last year that I hunted, on the last day of hunting and not having any luck, a nice doe walked right up to my stand. I watched her looking at me seemingly surprised that I was there and not knowing which way to run. I stood up and yelled at her. “Get out of here.” I knew that day, my hunting days were over. Deer hunting has been a tradition in many families over the years. The woods way up north are dotted with old rotted stands and even some abandoned shacks that have given way to more modern conveniences For me it wasn’t just about deer but about time alone to examine your conscience. Time to come to grips with how much your loved ones meant to you and to be one with God and nature. I have given my rifles and guns to my grandsons. I hope that my example helped them to be good hunters and if not-- well that’s okay too. It’s not for everybody. I’m not a gun advocate but I believe hunting has a way of making families bond together and be responsible gun owners and users. It’s not the guns that cause trouble in this country it’s the people who have them, who have no business having them, and a sick country that makes it far too easy for them to do so.