A TRUE SURVIVOR

                                           

Many years ago, I went on a fishing jaunt up by the border with some friends in northern Minnesota. We came upon this little resort that looked all run down and in need of attention and after stopping and meeting the old lady that ran it by herself, we found out why it didn’t have any modern conveniences. She told us it was the way she wanted it and the way she was going to keep it. She had some bait boxes at the end of the dock and some pop or beer for sale. A couple of old basic cabins sat on the hill where you could stretch out for a night. No reservations though. If they were available, and most likely were, you could get one for a cheap price. The place did have electricity and a phone line for emergencies in the main house.  It was not the kind of place the females in my family, at that time would have stayed at. The toilet was out back and there was no place to plug in a hairdryer. You see this place was so far off the beaten path that to go there, meant you wanted to go there. It was hard to find the place by accident, there were no roads into it that I saw and it looked like you had to come by boat. For years she had run the place with her husband until he passed away and now in the last years of her life she was trying to hang on to what they once had together and she was going to do that until her earthly life was over. She admitted that not that many people came any more, because she lacked all but the basic necessities. All she had to offer was pretty much right there at the end of the dock selling bait and drinks and her hospitality. I’m not going to mention where this was, because by now I’m sure she has passed away and so has her business. Although the remoteness was for me at the time the allure, I’m sure it isn’t that way anymore. There’s just not much true wilderness left.

I couldn’t help thinking about that lady after I returned to what I called civilization. I tried to picture what it was like for her in the winter, all-alone in that wilderness. But then I would rationalize and think you know what? She never knew about the threats we all face everyday in this world. The pressures and responsibilities of work, and caring for a family. Taxes and pension funds, health care, cars and traffic. She was just one with nature out there and it was her living and maybe her religion. I’m sure I didn’t know the whole story. There were other resorts fairly close by and I’m sure she knew about them and they about her. But a part of me left that day envying her and the way she lived.

I see people today walking around with their phones in their faces all the time. Then I do a little self-examination and I try to think about how often I too watch the news, read the paper, surf the Internet and talk with others about the sad state of affairs this world is in. My God look at what I write about sometimes. Then I think, the most peaceful times of the day for me are the times I lace up my boots, take Molly and head for the woods. For its there, that I find myself, one with nature. I used to go longer and farther into the woods then I do today but now I think about falling and maybe getting hurt so I stick to the trails because it’s easier walking and easier for someone to come and find me if I can’t make it out. Oh yes I do have my cell phone but its in my pocket. What I am really interested in-- is right there in front of my eyes.

SOMEONE TO CARE FOR

                                              

A while back Pat and I went to the cities to attend the celebration of life of a dear friend. There were many memories and deserving accolades shared amongst the friends and family gathered there that day. But as the ceremony progressed I couldn’t help thinking that as nice as this was, why can’t we do this for people before they leave us, so they too can enjoy the love and respect they so richly deserve.

My father-in-law was disabled and after his wife died we had to put him in a care facility. The guilt, my wife and I felt about having to do this was only tempered by the realization of how ill equipped we would have been, to care for him in our home. So for thirteen years we made the long trip through the cities, from north to south, to visit grandpa almost weekly. When he passed away, as sad as it was, we took comfort in the fact that we had done our best to not forget him.

One of the things I witnessed in all of those trips to that home was the many people who lived there forgotten. Many times we would take grandpa out to a café for Sunday dinner and the looks on the faces of those who had been forgotten, sitting in their wheelchairs, was akin to visiting a pet shelter and seeing those mournful eyes of the animals no one wanted, looking from behind those wire cages. The holidays were especially bad.

My companion Pat goes once a week to visit the shut-ins at a care facility as a volunteer ombudsman. She has dedicated much of her life to caring for the sick or teaching others how too. Now retired from teaching and nursing she still feels the call to do something. The official term Ombudsman is someone who has been appointed, to be an advocate for the people who live in these facilities. Listen to them and confidentially help resolve their problems. I know she does do that but I know also from listening to her, her real intent is to provide an extra level of comfort to the residents.  I am so proud to see her dedication. 

As I have aged I too am feeling my limitations. My son has told me, “Dad don’t be doing things you shouldn’t be doing. We can be there in two hours and take care of it for you.” Pat is constantly reminding me how to take care of myself and we talk every day. I have thought of how maybe it would be easier if I moved closer to my family so they wouldn’t be so far away but my children tell me they understand how important is to me to live here. This is my home and once I leave it, I close a door I will never be able to reopen. I don’t just leave the buildings and friends behind. I leave my life behind.

We are our brother’s keeper. It’s up to all of us to not only care for each other but to say those nice things that are in our hearts and minds to those people who need us in their lives now--and not over a casket.

MOLLYS BED

                                              

So I bought a new dog bed over the Internet for my dog Molly. And today, three weeks later, it finally came in the mail. It’s called a calming bed and Molly can use a little calming. They gave me a tracking number so I could watch its daily journey to my house and please don’t tell the president, but the trip started out in China. Each stop on the way was carefully recorded. It made five stops before it finally made it its way out of China. There is an old adage about a slow boat to China but this appeared to be a slow boat from China. At last though it was on an airplane and on its way here and it got in the good old U.S.A, where it took six days to get to Crosslake Minnesota. Seems China isn’t the only place with slow boats.

A friend asked me if I trusted the manufacture that it wasn’t made with harmful materials. “It is made in China,” she said. Just for the heck of it I looked at the tag in the back of my underwear and it says made in China. Not sure if that’s relevant or not, dog bed-- verses boxer shorts,-- but I’m throwing it out there just for argumentative conversation. Realizing now where this conversation could be headed lets just move on here.

I examined the package and it was about the size of a basketball wrapped tightly in plastic and tape. Inside of there was a 54-inch oval dog bed. I don’t want to meet the person who squeezed that bed into that shape and that size but be that as it may be, he’s hopefully in China and I have no plans to go there. I picked away with my scissors at the tape and plastic and then like the old jack-in-the box or an exploding Claymore mine, out shot Molly’s calming bed. I fluffed it up and then replaced her old bed, which was seven years old with her new bed. Not wanting to have any issues with the old bed versus the new one, I took it downstairs and put it the laundry room. I’d deal with it later.

It’s now three hours later and my dear dog has not so much as given her new bed a cursory glance. In fact she’s now lying on the end of my bed where she doesn’t belong. Things are getting more heated now. I banish her from my bedroom giving her the old sob story about how I grew up sleeping in the attic on a straw bed while my poor dog slept outside under the back steps with the spiders and she should be damn happy with things now days. Ungrateful canine. Dogs now days just have it too easy. I wonder if there’s such a thing as millennial dogs. For sure she’s not part of the greater generation. Good thing I had her fixed she would have been a terrible mother. So for the rest of the day I just dropped the subject. I’ll show her who’s the boss around here. Going shopping tomorrow and there just might be a bag of ‘Old Roy’ in the cart instead of that fancy food she’s been eating. Might take her along and stop at the dog pound and let her see the poor unfortunate pooches sleeping on the wet concrete floor who would give their left canine tooth for a shot at that calming bed. But for now I’m just going to call her bluff and pretend nothings bothering me.

Finally time for bed, so last call for potty time. Can’t find her where is she? You guessed it. Down in the laundry room fast asleep on her old bed.

THE OLD MAN AND THE KAYAK

                                               

As I stated in a previous column I was talked into buying a couple of kayaks for my family to use when they come and visit. I knew nothing about kayaks, so I knew when I went shopping; I had the word sucker written on my forehead. But out I went anyway. Now my budget for these kayaks was not huge, and knowing they could be bought in a price range that went from a couple of hundred dollars, to a couple of thousand dollars I needed to be realistic about how and where they would be used. I was not going to take them off our little lake, not going down the Colorado River or across the great lakes. They were for my grandkids to play in. But before they get here next week, I needed to try them out.

Now during my lifetime I have saddled up to lots of things to ride on, or in, on water. Canoes, fishing boats, duck boats, John boats, speed boats, sail boats, pontoons and a rubber inner tube. Most of them were pretty much self-explanatory as how to get in or on them. This---not so much. The guy at the store had not been to encouraging when I asked him, “If I tip over, am I kind of like a turtle on its back, only with my head under water?”  He explained that most likely I would fall out of the craft and then the best bet was to swim to shore to get back in. if there was a way to get back in the Kayak out in the lake, he wasn’t sharing it.

So off to the lake I went dragging my little plastic craft with me. I was prepared, wearing nothing that I didn’t want to get wet. I set the craft in the shallow water, straddle it until I reached the seat and fell in. Two problems. The kayak was sitting on the bottom of the lake and the paddle was up in the yard where I left it. So I escaped, retrieved the paddle and pushed the kayak out into two feet of water. This time when I fell into the craft, I listed to the left and then to the right and finally it settled down and there I was, sitting in my kayak-- without my life preserver. One more attempt and I was ready to head out. I want to explain something about getting up and getting down at my age. Going down, thanks to gravity is easy, but getting back up requires something to grab onto besides a slippery plastic boat. The guy at the store was right. Lean over far enough and out you go. Now I’m soaked and I still haven’t even left the beach.

At last, we’re on our way. The lake was calm and my paddles dipped deftly into the water, alternating from side to side. I had calculated that fifty feet from shore was as far as I dare venture out and still be able to save myself, if I fell into the lake. I was always a strong swimmer but unfortunately my lungs, not being what they used to be, I’m now like a boat motor with three spoonfuls of gas in the tank-- it still runs but not for long. But I was gliding now and well on my way, until this big wake boat roared by. I know from experience that when you are faced with a monster wave you must turn your craft into the wave or your going to end up like the Poseidon and we all know how that ended. “Hard to port,” I spun her around and even more quickly “hard to starboard,” the wave spun me around again and I’m heading to shore like a wild surfer hanging 10 or whatever they call it. As I waded home pulling the kayak behind me I could only say to myself, “Really-- I bought it for the kids.”