THEN AND NOW

                                                            

 As is so often the case, people from my generation make comparisons between how it used to be and how it is now. This is a gesture to match or equate life between then and now that is both unfair and disingenuous. Our world and we have evolved into a far different society than the one we used to know and love. So many things that we now deem essential to our well being didn’t exist back then, but do now, and have to be dealt with. They are here; front and center, and they are real.

I think back to my mother and how she went most of her life without a clothes dryer, and hung her wash outside in the winter to freeze dry them and then bringing them inside to finish on a wooden clothes rack. If she made a cake it took two hours to assemble all of the ingredients and a miracle to bake it in her antique stove.  She baked her own bread spending countless hours kneading and making the dough. She arose in the morning to a cold kitchen and had to make a fire in the stove before the days activities began. She had a huge garden she took care of in the summer and fruit and vegetables that all had to prepared and canned. It is easy to say to today’s women, ‘you don’t know how good you have it’--- but wait for the rest of the story.

Mom never worked outside the home a day in her life. She never had to take kids to soccer or hockey, and she had eight of them. She didn’t have to take time each morning to be perfectly coiffured and dressed. She had no computer, no I pod, no cell phone to take care of. She went grocery shopping once a month for a few staples and dad would take her. She had no car of her own.  Her job was to keep the house in order and be a good mom and wife and she excelled at it but that was ok back then and now it seems it is not. We lived in a small town and very few women worked outside of the home. If she had known about the glass ceiling she would have been content to live under it, because she had no interest in what was on the other side of it.

It isn’t just times that change, but people change along with them. There is a lot more pressure to succeed and to develop into something you may, or may not even want to be. It’s to bad, that to often, there is also a stigma that goes with those who are content not to run with the pack. An almost socially acceptable perception that these people are lazy, and unwilling to make an effort to wring every little bit of creative talent out of their minds, when in essence they are just reasonably happy and satisfied with how they are.

There are many people who have made it all the way to the top, only to give it all up and return to a simpler life. I have known some of them and always they seemed much happier. Maybe they felt they no longer had anything to prove. Sometimes positions of authority can turn you into someone you don’t want to be, Maybe they found they were in a place that was not so nice, or not what they had envisioned, and maybe they went back to their roots because it was just more comfortable there.

MY OCTOBER LAMENT

                                               

I’m a summer person and I see autumn, not as the introduction to winter, but the cessation of another summer. I know it’s not a discontinuation of the time I love so much--and I know that another summer will come—but, for me, it’s a sad one, just the same.

I am standing here today, gazing out over our wind-swept lake through a cold and persistent rain. Yesterday we put the pontoon away and now the dock looks bare and useless. It begs to come out of the cold water, too. The big ash tree by the water’s edge--that shaded the beach all summer--has lost all of its foliage, and its leaves now litter the yard and the lake, while the tree stands skeletal and naked, almost embarrassed. The lily pads by the dock are all ragged, pale and sick-looking from summer storms and gnawing insects, trying their best to still stay afloat. A yellow rope tied to the dock that once was used to secure a paddleboat, now floats in the water, intertwined with dead seaweed and a few snails. A forgotten, faded-yellow plastic pail sits on the beach, half-buried in the cold wet sand. Its matching shovel, once intertwined with a grandchild’s pudgy fingers, now stands, half in and half out of the water like a lonely sentinel.

From across the lake, but far out of sight, a shotgun echoes; the hunt has begun. The water fowl, that swam by the dock so many times this past summer, are due to be harvested like the fruits of the garden, for the purpose God intended them to be. Most of the cabins and homes are shuttered and empty. The squeals of small children playing and adults laughing have vanished with the summer warmth but, if you listen closely, you can still hear them echoing through the annals of time. The aroma of outdoor grills cooking delicious meats has been replaced with the smoky fragrance of burning leaves, wood-filled stoves, and fireplaces. Back yards that were summer ball fields are now a collection of blue and green tarps sheltering all of the now-parked toys of summer.

With their bushy canopies stripped, the trees and bushes that sheltered the dark woods from sight this summer now offer a new glimpse into what had laid hidden from our eyes in their depths all summer long.  Long-forgotten rotting logs, tree limbs and leaves litter the forest floor. Their decomposing bodies returning to the ground from which they came, in a never-ending cycle of life. Unlike mankind, the flora seems to accept their wintry fate as a time to rest and rejuvenate. Time is not an issue for them; they live and die in the moment, somehow knowing they will be reincarnated to do it all over again next year. As for the birds and animals, it’s a time to think of shelter.  Either they go where they can survive or they burrow into mother earth and sleep away the winter.

For me at least, there is a loosely held correlation between the seasons and our own fragile lives and especially this year with the loss of my wife. I remember words from a song by Johnny Mercer that whisper through my mind each and every autumn day as I watch the colors. They go like this, “The falling leaves drift by my window--The falling leaves of red and gold--I see your lips, the summer kisses--The sunburned hands I used to hold.”

GUS

A while back I buried my best friend and canine companion for the last fourteen years. You readers have heard about my buddy Gus, so many times. He died where he always lay--- at my feet. At fourteen his hips were gone and he struggled to breathe whenever he had to walk any distance at all. But in the end he died peacefully, knowing full well he had done his best to be my faithful pet. He will be truly missed.

Louis Sabin said and I quote. “A dog doesn’t care if you are rich or poor, big or small, young or old. He doesn’t care if your smart, not popular, not a good joke teller, not the best athlete, nor the best looking person. To your dog you are the greatest, the nicest human being that was ever born. You are his friend and protector.” Those words fit Gus to a tee. If I was going somewhere, he had to go with me even if it was just to the mailbox. He would sit in the car for hours watching the door of the building I went in. When I was taking the dock out Gus had to get in the water with me, no mater how cold it was, just to see what I was doing out there in my waders. He would get so excited when we went fishing and had to check out everything I landed. He would get those furrows in his brow when it was only some weeds. If I dug a hole he had to dig with me, and at night Gus took up his place on the floor next to my bed. When my wife passed away, he relentlessly searched the house for her for days. When he couldn’t find her, he abandoned his place in the bedroom and slept where be could watch the back door. Sadly waiting for her to come home. How do you explain such loyalty? Heaven is supposed to be such a happy place and I guess mere mortals can’t really say for sure what is waiting for us there. I’ll be very surprised if there are no dogs.

A good friend, who is also a dog lover, sent me this poem when she heard about Gus’s death.

“So this is where we part my friend, and you’ll run on around the bend.

Gone from sight, but not from mind, new pleasure there you’ll surely find.

I will go on, I’ll find the strength. Life measures quality not its length.

One long embrace before we leave, share one last look before I grieve.

There are others that much is true. But they be they and they aren’t you.

And I impartial, or so I thought, will remember all you’ve taught.

Your place I’ll hold, you will be missed. The fur I stroked, the nose I kissed.

And as you journey to your final rest, take this with you. I loved you best.

                                                                                                Jon Willis

HOME CANNING

                                                        

 With summer slowly winding down, there are signs of fall appearing. One of those signs is the canning kettle coming up from the basement to sit in the corner of the kitchen once more. For many of us, this is a time-honored tradition once used to preserve the harvest from the garden. In my hometown there was a cannery that bustled with business for many years, but it’s no longer there.  Canning, once a necessity, is now more of a habit from a fast disappearing way of life. Each ping of a sealing lid on a jar brings a quick smile to your face and some satisfaction for a job well done.

If we were concerned with the economics of this process, we would stop tomorrow. But if were worried about money, those thousand-dollar fishing trips for three fillets would be out too, wouldn’t they? No, it’s not about the money; it’s about taste and old family recipes you can’t buy in any store. It’s the secret ingredient in the pasta dishes that give it that special zing instead of that watery, tasteless tomato sauce from the store. It’s jelly or jam that tastes like the fruit it was made from, and not some bland, generic, sugary paste. It’s jelly you can’t even buy—like homemade chokecherry. It’s warm rhubarb sauce—long after the snow has come and buried the patch. It’s vegetables that don’t taste like the can they came out of.

Today’s fast-paced life for many women doesn’t give them time to even cook, let alone can or freeze fruits and vegetables. But there are some—my wife was included—that just take the time because it’s that important to them. Oh, I have heard the arguments many times against home preparation. How can you be sure it is safe, they say. I think your chances of getting sick are much higher from that salad you bought at the local deli, than from home-canned fruits and vegetables. I’ve been eating them for over sixty years with no bad effects. I once spent a night in the biffy from eating bad food from a fast food restaurant.

Despite my views and my love for home canned vegetables, I know that home canning will not exist much longer and it has nothing to do with safety or economics. Like so many things from a way of life we grew up in, it’s not being done widely anymore because our values have changed when it comes to our eating habits. The skills are not being passed on from mother to daughter, and in many cases are already lost. My daughters learned to cook from their mother, but my granddaughters don’t have a clue. They think carrots come from the jewelry store and a hot dish is one right out of the dishwasher that somebody else turned on, because their not sure how to. They have a stack of coupons stuck to the refrigerator door of every fast food place in town. Well, at least they are trying to save a buck, are they not?

Both my friend Harry and I lost our wives in the last year or so-- so this year it’s up to us. Come Friday morning, the canning kettles and the jars are coming out and these two old white-haired duffers are going to be canning tomatoes. I, for one, am looking forward to it.---Ping, ping, ping.

TODAY

                                                          

 It was the fall of 1964 and we were welcoming our second baby into the world and moving into our modest new rambler home in a subdivision of Brooklyn Park. The world was ripe with promises back then and we were building a family to fulfill our future, with untold joys yet to come. Somewhere in the background the New Christy Minstrels were singing their signature song “Today” I’ve never forgotten the words to that song. “Today while the blossoms still cling to the vine. I’ll taste your strawberries I’ll drink your sweet wine. A million tomorrows shall all pass away.  Ere I forget all the joy that is mine today. Those words, said so well, what I was feeling at that time.

Today with our babies grown and gone and their babies now going out into the world and my beautiful Kitty gone to her just reward I can only sit and think back to that wonderful era when God was so surely in his heaven and all was right with the world, for her and me-- and yes-- I cannot forget all the joy that was mine that day. All of the tomorrows that have since passed away, and will pass away, will do little to dim my memory of her and that time and that place and now it’s seems that is all I have left of her.

The song went on, I can’t be content with yesterday’s glory, I can’t live on promises winter to spring. But today is my moment and now is my glory. I’ll laugh and I’ll cry and I’ll sing. This is the hard part for me. To put aside yesterday’s glory and look to the future and yes, there is a future as lonely as it seems sometimes and I need to embrace it. I need to embrace it because I need to tell the world that when you let love be your life’s corner stone, life can be so good and even though its been taken away from you, it gave you the great example of how love feels and works. It defines you.

So back to the title of the song,--- Today.--- There are so many cliché’s that come to mind. “Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Today is the day the lord has made,” and many more. They all have merit but for me, today is one more day on my lonely trip into a new world without her. A friend once asked me if the amount of love that goes into a relationship like we had, is commensurate to the amount of grief that exists when it is taken away. I have to say I don’t know the answer to that but it seems to me that grief should subside at some point. I can’t envision the love that I had for her ever going away.

My wife had a porcelain candy dish that broke and she glued it back together. It still held candy and served its function but the scars of that break always showed. That’s the way my heart is today. I’ll glue it back together eventually and it will still work and it will love once more but the scars will always be there.  As for me and now--I will remain grateful that this heart of mine, once knew such love.

THE DAY THE LILY'S DIED

                                              

 It’s the mid point in September as I write this and already I sense a change in the winds that blow softly across our lake. Last night, I noticed, it was dark earlier than usual. I used to retire for the night when it got dark but last night I looked at my watch and said, “It’s dark all right, but its way to early. You’ll sleep your life away.” But the real turning point for me comes in early fall and it’s the behavior of the Day Lily’s. They seem to be the last of the summer flowers blooming that decorate our yard even though they were the first to poke their heads out of the cold ground in the spring. They’re not that pretty of a flower but they are so tenacious and predictable and they have bloomed for a long time now. But even the lily’s have their life span and I fear the time will be soon when they too will go away. Then the leaves on the trees will change once again and all too soon snowflakes will fall and we will have to wait once more for the lily’s to appear.

How many times in my seventy some years have I witnessed this theater of seasons and how many times has it not had an air of sadness to it? Oh there were times in my life when I paid scant attention to it, because I was so caught up in the day-to-day activities of working and raising a family. Or I was young and full of foolish ideas or lovesick beyond my wildest expectations but that has all changed and so has my demeanor. I was like the lily’s way back then. I too took a long time to bloom and when I did, I showed off my wares for half a lifetime but then they too wilted and it was time for me to rest and reevaluate my life.

“Hope springs eternal in the human breast; Man never is, but always to be blest. The soul uneasy and confined from home. Rests and expatiates in a life to come.’

Alexander Pope wrote this in “An essay of man.” To show us that there is always hope, even in the depths of winter. For me that hope comes from past experience and knowing that some day, the lily’s will bloom again. Knowing that I’m not all used up and when care is pressing you down a bit, rest if you must but don’t you quit. I no longer use or need the talents I once acquired and mentioned before. You see I’ve developed a new sense of being, a new talent, a new love and a new me. It’s within all of us to do that, we only need to try.

 Many seniors have been in an early winter rut for far to long. They thought retirement was quitting time and that resting and dreaming is the norm, when its time to be moving on to bigger and better things. Yes lily’s have lived and died in our lives for all of our lifetimes. Way to many Lily’s, and some of them made up of wives and husbands, children and friends. We must make good use of every day the good lord gives us or waste it. So if metaphorically speaking, it’s October in your life or even late November and if you feel that your three quarters home from beginning to end, remember this. Keep your home fires going and maybe-- just maybe, the Lily’s will come back to bloom again.                                    

COUPON SHOPPING 101

                                               

 Now that my wife is no longer here to do the grocery shopping I have inherited her bag of coupons and I had to swear on bended knee, with my hand on the family Bible, that I would use them religiously-- and get this-- add new ones as time goes along. The only thing that has gone in my mouth in the last fifty years, that didn’t have a coupon associated to it, was a pack of tic-taks I stole and food that was given to me. So yesterday I started out on my first shopping adventure. Keep in mind here I’m not a patient man. My father was not a patient man and my son is not a patient man. It’s in our genes to be impatient and we wear that moniker with pride. We do not like patient men. Women can be patient if they want to be; we have no opinion on that. To not be patient, and clip and use coupons, is akin to listening to someone running their fingernails down a black board. It just give’s you the willies, but a promise is a promise and unless I can find a loophole in what I promised. I gota do it.

Now I was taught, the night before you go shopping you sit down with flyers from all of the area grocery stores and look for bargains we can use. There are about five stores I am allowed to go to and one that I can never go to, because they once sold her an outdated can of black olives, which they would not take back and no one in this house eats them anyway, but it’s the principal of the thing I am told. Coupon 101 says you must match the appropriate store coupon with the manufactures coupon while carefully noting the expiration dates, size and amount requirements. Also make sure because you are going to multiple stores you have the right coupon for the right store. Avoid older lady checkout women because they’re mad at the world anyway and their feet hurt, so they will try to trip you up. Younger boys are the best checkouts because they don’t know what their doing most of the time, and they’re looking over your shoulder at the young ladies butt in the next check out lane and care less about what you gave them for coupons. I once bought six chocolate muffins with a coupon for charcoal briquettes.

When choosing products you must do the quality check. This involves looking at every pack of bacon in a bin, with four hundred packs of bacon in it, because truth be told, they always put the best ones on the bottom. Somewhere in the back room there is a butcher putting all of the good ones aside and reserving them for the bottom of the pile. It also means knocking with your knuckles on fifty-five watermelons because the ripe ones have the best acoustics. Always take your chosen product from the back of the shelf because what’s in the front row front has been there since they opened the store for the first time. Remember those black olives I talked about. Yep front row and my fault. Mea culpa.

Now last, but not least. DO NOT Leave the store until you have checked every item on that receipt for accuracy. They make mistakes and you have a short window of time to run to the courtesy counter and verbally assault the young girl stationed there while pointing out that you were born at night and it wasn’t last night and your five year old granddaughter has a better grip on math then they do. Happy shopping.  

SHARING YOUR LIVES

                                                

 Sometimes, when we drove around the countryside together, she would reach across and lay her soft hand on top of mine and smile. I always drove with my hand on the shifting lever in the console between us, and it was her way to say—we don’t need to talk; we just need to stay in touch. It seemed to me that her simple touch was her way of sharing, even in silence, and her way of saying—we are in this life together and I, for one, am so happy

As I now regroup and try to find my way in life without her, it’s that act of not having someone to share things with that is becoming my biggest obstacle. Sharing goes far beyond the realm of splitting things up with someone. It’s not like “cutting the hamburger in half” we so often did. Especially when it’s grief, joy, love or pride that we are talking about. You can break bread with many people, share a ride or even a drink together, but it takes someone special to truly share your innermost feelings with. Someone special, who knows you better than you know yourself.

You don’t get this way just by tying the knot or moving in together. You get this way because, as time goes along, you grow together and form this bond. A bond not built on getting rich or famous together. A bond, instead, built on love and compassion for each other. Your two hearts beat as one and your feelings go way beyond human understanding. For a short while, after you are first committed to building a life together, it’s almost a feeling of pride. “Look at her,” you would say. “Isn’t she pretty, isn’t she nice, and you know what—she’s mine.” But as time goes on and your love grows, she becomes less of a possession and more of a life partner. You have babies together and share all of the joys, and sometimes the troubles, that come with that responsibility. You watch them grow and sometimes you see that, in so many ways, they are simply an extension of both of you. You build your dream home together and fill it full of memories and mementos.  You bury your parents, and the grief seems so bad and you try not to think about your turn, or hers, with the grim reaper. That’s all a long way off, isn’t it? Maybe I’ll go first, you think, and I won’t have to worry about it. But then, that seems selfish of you—heaping the grief on her—and for the first time, you realize there will be no sharing in this part of life.

I drove home alone from a book fair yesterday, and my first real venture out without her. It was a wonderful day in Northern Minnesota and I had, had a great day with my readers and friends. For one afternoon I had put all of my troubles and strife away, and it was almost like old times again.  I say “almost” because now—alone in the car going down that same road we had traveled so many times together—I looked down at my hand, alone on that shift selector, and gazed at the empty seat next to me. The words from a song by LeAnn Rimes came into my head, even though the radio was playing something else. “You’re my world, my heart, my soul. If you ever leave, baby you would take everything good in my life, and tell me now how do I live without you? I want to know........”

   

ABOUT SMOKING

This letter is directed to all of those who smoke, but mostly to those who are considering taking up the habit and are not yet hooked. Most of the people who are already actively smoking, are in some form of denial as to what it will do to their health. They hang their hat on the premise that they will be one of the lucky ones that will get away with it. I am here to tell you, very few people do. For those contemplating starting smoking these are the facts.

You are starting a habit that has nothing to offer you but heartaches down the road. At first it will seem pleasurable but slowly it will take over your mind and you will incessantly crave this drug. In today’s society you will become a social outcast, relegated to standing outside your workplace, restaurants, bars or any public places while getting your fix with a few others with the same addiction. Yes, it is an addiction that is very hard to quit once you are hooked. You may say you can quit anytime you want too but that is not true for most people. Your teeth will discolor, your breath will stink and so will your clothes, your car and your home. You will make your family suffer the ill effects right along with you from second hand smoke. Unlike your friends who can choose to leave, they have to live with you.

Over time as you continue to smoke you will develop some side effects such as a hacking cough, shortness of breath and eventually a potential life ending disease. All of this twenty years before you should have to think about the end. The cost will not just be to your health and the health of your family, because over your lifetime your medical costs will eat away at your pocket book just like the addiction will eat away at your body. Hospitalizations, chemo and surgery are not cheap. Neither are funerals. Just to maintain the habit at today’s prices can be over a hundred and fifty dollars a month. You all know how to multiply. Take that cost for a year and then take it for forty years. Add to that the medical costs and lost work time and you could buy a retirement home and a nice one at that. But then if you choose to smoke all of your life you’re not going to need a retirement home are you?

Many of you will say it’s my life, and my choice, and none of your business but there are reasons it is my business. First of all, your medical costs effect insurance prices for all of us. Secondly unless you are single and have no friends and family, your leaving this earth early will impact everyone who loves you. Look at your spouse and kids right now and think about what your leaving will do to them. The last reason is, I know from personal expiercence. I am one of the lucky ones who quit but I have lost loved ones who couldn’t. You are a good person and lots of people need you in their lives. It takes all of us to make this world go around. We need your ideas, your input and contributions to society. Most of all however we need you at your healthy best and not feeling like an outcast. The tobacco companies hate people like me. They want you to buy their poison and get hooked on it and they care little about what it will do to you. They just want your money. 

THOUGHTS FROM A SAD HUSBAND

I often contemplated, while my wife was sick, what my life was going to be like after she was gone. As I write this, it’s the first week after her funeral. The pain and grief are still as bad as ever, but there does seem to be an uneasy realization taking place. Maybe the week before, with all of the things going on, was just too busy to really grieve. Maybe I just finally got the finality of it all through my thick head. Today, the house seems so quiet, and I find myself walking around it—touching things of hers I never paid much attention to before. So many questions come to mind. What do I do with all of the sympathy cards once I’ve answered them? Is it all right to throw them away? What about her jewelry, her clothes, the bath salts by the bathtub and that little bottle of perfume on her dresser? There’s a bottle of red fingernail polish on the bathroom vanity, and a half-finished crossword puzzle on her nightstand. I can’t stand to open the drawers in her dresser, even though I know what’s in there. Her purse, she kept so private, now invites me to look in it—but I put it on the top shelf of the closet out of sight. It must remain private for now. Our dog paces around the house, so confused and sad, looking for her.

I have, on my dining room wall, a picture called “Peace.” Many of you have seen it over the years. You know the one—the old man praying over his meager meal of soup and bread. When she was alive, I interpreted it as a humble old man who had little to eat, but was still thanking God for it. Today, it has a whole new meaning for me, because I now sense his loneliness, more than what I had perceived then, as his destitute state. He’s alone in the picture and now, as I sit down to eat, so am I. We always talked at suppertime while we ate. We always thought that was so important. The television was off and it was just the two of us. A time set aside to share our meal, yes—but more important, a time set aside to share our thoughts and concerns.

The empty nest syndrome seems to come at you in stages. First, it’s the kids moving out one by one. The house, that was once almost chaotic, had a strange quietness about it back then. Yet you still had each other, and so you reverted back to the way it was before the babies came. Now, with her gone, you want to think you could just revert back to where it was before she came into your life—but your mind and your memories won’t let that happen. It seems almost sacrilegious to think of doing that. She means too much, even in death, to just wish away those reminisces and start anew. This is a painful process, but a necessary one, and I can’t try to rush it.  Maybe I’ll never get over it, but that’s okay, I need to learn to coexist with it.

I used to have a small picture of her on my desk, but I seldom looked at it. I didn’t have to, she was right across the room from me and all I had to do was turn around. I now have an eight by ten of her on the desktop and today, for the first time, I talked to it and asked her how she was and told her how sad I was. It helped me to talk to her. “But if the while I think of you, dear friend, all losses are restored and sorrows end.” Shakespeare, I believe. 

KITTYS GIFT

                                                           

 To my readers. Over the past few months I have shared with you some thoughts about Kitty and her fight with cancer. Well, her fight is over, but I want to share some thoughts with you about a remarkable lady and the love of my life.

A while back we finished up with Kitty’s radiation treatments at St Joseph’s hospital in Brainerd. For me, at least, there was a certain amount of sadness to that last trip, because it represented the end of what they could do for her in her cancer treatments. It had been a long and arduous journey for both of us since that day, last September, when she first started her treatments.

We were told from the start that a cure was not possible, and the treatments would make her more comfortable and give her precious time. And for the most part, that has been true. We hoped against hope that someday a doctor would say, “There is no trace of the cancer,” and that a miracle of sorts has happened—but it was not to be.

So we waited for this parasitic disease to make its final assault on her gaunt and weakened body. Each morning I would ask her the same question, “How are you today? Where does it hurt and what can I get you or how can I help?”

Throughout all of the treatments and trips to the hospital, two surgeries and four extended stays, she remained steadfast in the fight. Every day she talked of the future as if there was one for her. She wouldn’t give up. Yet, I knew and she knew what lay ahead. Just a few weeks ago she turned over the checkbook and told me I would have to take care of the bills—something she has done for fifty years. I tried to keep her as independent as I could in her fight, knowing that her pride must remain intact for her to feel good about herself. But, in bits and pieces, it all unraveled and she became more and more dependent on those around her.

For me it was a lesson in courage—her courage—but knowing her as I do, I guess I expected no less of her. She never was a quitter, and no matter what came her way, she was always a survivor. She was the one in the family that picked us all up when we were down. We’re not going to just be without a mother, wife, grandmother and friend. We’re going to be without our leader and it’s not going to be easy.

I have written before about how, when someone passes, it’s human nature to take all of the good things they have done and incorporate them into our lives to make each of us better people. Yes, through emulating we grow and become more perfect. I know, in my family, we have been given a great gift and now we need to take it, keep it going, and not let it die with her. This is her legacy and that is the most precious thing anyone can leave you.

THE THINKING TREE

                                               

 When I was young lad, growing up in a small town, there would be times when I would get out of sorts and confused and have to go straightened my little mind out. It was either that or my Dad would take the time to straighten me out and that was not always pretty. In a small woods, not far from my home there was a path that led to a bubbling creek and on that path there was a spot with a huge old oak tree whose branches seemed to envelope you as you sat beneath it. The tree was to me a symbol of refuge and a place where I could go and mull things over. There were lots of trees in the woods to lean on, but this one was to me, the smart old tree. The tree that had seen it all over the years, and the one that would have the most answers.

It wasn’t easy growing up poor and in a large family. My father worked from sun up to sun down. My mother seemed always busy and there was little time for consoling kids. So when I was having problems, I discovered, through this manner, that I already had most of the answers I needed, using only the God given gift of common sense. I just needed to go and sort the answers out and find the best one. There was no better place for that than my thinking tree. Maybe it was my way of talking with my creator through this giant specimen of nature. All I know is it worked so well.

Many times over the years of my adult life I have searched for similar counseling. It was always just my problems; Mother Nature and me, at attendance at these come to Jesus meetings. There was for me out there a sense of complete trust in the answers that come back. For you see I had taken all of the static out and I was on a clear channel to the solution. Am I talking about the ultimate solution-- maybe not, because it doesn’t always exist—but the logical solution for the moment-- yes.

We were given this pristine earth to live on eons ago and we, as humans, have done our best to destroy it. It’s in our nature to want what is fun for us, no matter the consequences. We can try, but in the end we can’t control ourselves. The world as it was created will never be the same until mankind goes away, but unlike mankind it can and will heal itself. Maybe that’s why I look to it for my spiritual conduit. I feel our creator knew we would do this to this blue planet but he said go ahead and use it anyway, knowing full well what would happen, but also knowing he could fix it. It was us there was few fixes for.

There are pockets on this earth where mankind has not left his mark and there are people who know and respect that. Little oasis’s of hope and places we can go and find our quietness and they’re not always at the base of a tree. For those of you who know me my life has been very troubled lately with my wife’s illness. I yearn to go back to my old thinking tree and try to heal my heart, but that’s not possible anymore. But the tree taught me something else way back then. To except the things I cannot change and change the things I can and have the courage to know the difference. In the end when we are gone, the best thing anyone can ever say about any of us is-- “He or she made a difference.”

EIGHTEEN AGAIN

                                              

I was listening to the radio the other day when they played an old rendition of the late George Burns singing, “I wish I was eighteen again.” Well, singing might be a stretch. Old George sounded more like a combination between a bad auctioneer and a Hindu priest chanting, but the quality of the music is not what I want to talk about. What it really brought to mind for me is, what if there was a magical way to do it--- would I want to be eighteen again?

Life is a journey through time and for those of us who have the good fortune to live to old age we went through many trials, tests and experiences to get there. These may be bad, good or indifferent, but all of them are a learning experience and if you are paying attention things should get somewhat easier as you go along. But on the way, make no mistake about it; you will have to pay your dues.  The greatest part of this escapade takes place after you are eighteen. Before that you should have had parents or guardians to lean on when things got sticky.

Back to the question would I want to be eighteen again? I really gave this some thought and as much as having my youth back seems so desirable, being eighteen today-- and being eighteen back in nineteen fifty nine—well it was a whole different world back then. When I was going out into the world in 1959 our country was far more prosperous and much more respected then it is today. At least in my mind. Jobs were available for those who wanted to work and working was what people wanted to do with their lives. This was long before the government tried to feed everyone and run their lives. Fresh from the victories of World War II our country was looked upon as a symbol of peace and freedom. We had just won the last war we would win in the next fifty years although we would participate in several more.

Yes, the world has evolved into something most of us old codgers are not sure about. But in the other hand there are those of us who don’t like change at all. We liked it the way it was and we gripe about people who are always trying to reinvent the wheel. But progress always comes with some decent and always has. If it were up to some of us the roads would still be filled with model T’s and the Dodgers would still be in Brooklyn. But there are different kinds of change in the world today that we feel are eating away at our moral fiber and I feel that is where the real problem is. We can cope with new fangled electronics and cars that are homes on wheels. We can’t accept some of the changes that seem to go against Gods laws that we were brought up with.

So would I like to be eighteen again? Well if I could have my youthful body back and all of the knowledge I have accumulated over the last fifty some years—yes. But we’re dealing with a little bit of fantasy here and truth be told it isn’t going to happen To those who are eighteen today and just going out into the world. I envy your enthusiasm and the opportunity you have to make this an even better place then we did. We’ve passed the torch and if it seems somewhat reluctantly-- please understand. Because all to soon your babies will be asking you for that same torch and time will have marched on and you will be asking yourself the question. Would I like to be eighteen again?

THE FOURTH OF JULY

                                              

Last night was not just any Monday; it was the Fourth of July. I turned on the television to watch the Boston Pops and the fireworks from Boston—a yearly ritual for me. For the better part of an hour I listened to the patriotic music, so meticulously synchronized with the fireworks that were spiraling up from the Charles River. For a while, at least, I felt some of the patriotic fervor I always feel on such occasions. Outside my window, you could hear the celebrations going on all around the area in the tiny hamlets that surround Crosslake. Then, in our community, the finale—the fireworks from Sand Island.

Long after the smoke had drifted away, and the silence of the night had enveloped me once more, I sat on the porch swing deep in thought, my eyes still wet. I thought to myself, what a testimony to the people of this country that, for one short evening, they celebrate their freedom as if nothing is amiss in this great nation. At suppertime I had watched the news. I heard about our dysfunctional state government and the looming debt crisis in Washington; I heard about Generals in Afghanistan that want more war, not less; I listened to parts of a presidential news conference where the tone was so rancorous the President spent the whole time trying to explain why we are in the mess we’re in and not moving forward.

I wanted to stand up and scream, “What a charade!” But then I thought—NO! We need this. We need to keep the spirit alive, in spite of what the politicians have done to our country. Because when that patriotic spirit is gone, it will be over. Our battle is two-fold, my friends; it’s the enemies inside, and outside, of our country. I fear that it is the enemy within we need to fear the most. Our enemies outside know this, and they would just as soon we destroy ourselves. It saves them a lot of trouble.

I have heard the battle cry at political rallies, “Take back our nation!” Yes, we are thinking it and saying it—but we’re not doing it. We’re sitting on our hands while our nation heads down this path to ruin. Nero fiddled while Rome burned, and at least they got some music out of it. We get lies, and empty promises, and a mess no one will ever be able to fix. There were state politicians walking the parade routes yesterday—smiling and shaking hands. I wish someone would have told them to go back to the capitol and get the job done and quit raining on our parade. We have no room here today for hypocrites.

When my time on this earth is over, the last hymn to be sung at my funeral must be God Bless America. I want every person in that church to join voices and sing about the country I loved so much. I want people to hear that this great country professes an affiliation with God. That our foundering fathers felt it was important that our faith was mentioned in the formation of our government. One nation, under God – a God who was the cornerstone of the ideals this country was formed under.  Ideals of love, peace amongst your fellow man and liberty and justice for all.  God Bless America.

IN THE GOOD OLD SUMMER TIME

Back in the late forties, there was a Broadway musical called” In the good old summer time.” From that musical came a song with the same title that has always stuck in my mind. I think to be truthful that song has been with us a lot longer than that, but it was made most popular, at least for me, by that musical. But then music is only one of the things that jogs my meandering mind when we talk about summer.

What is it about summer that seems to be so magical and so much more dramatic than all of the other seasons? What makes us have such pensive thoughts about soft summer breezes, singing cicadas and the sweet smell of clover? Of warm days at the beach and star filled nights around a flickering campfire. Precious memories of holding hands in the moonlight, and waking in the morning with the one you love to the music of the songbirds. Ah yes it has been said that a life without love is like a year without summer. Well the analogies abound, but it’s the ambiance of course that inspires us. It was said by Shakespeare “All of the world is a stage.” A stage that in the summer time, more then the other seasons, is so beautifully choreographed that it invokes a treasure trove of memories in all of us that we never seem to forget.

To the school age kids it’s a respite from the pressures of learning and studying. To the famers it’s time to plant and reap the crops. To the golfers and fisherman the game is on. Like the animals that emerge from their burrows in springtime, we too come squinting out of our shelters to face the suns warm rays and enjoy yet, another summer. As I look across our small lake this morning I see the trees and houses on the opposite shoreline mirrored in the placid waters. From somewhere around the point a loon is calling to its mate and high overhead our resident Eagle pair, silently and seemingly so effortlessly, patrol the shores.

We are blessed here in this heartland to have this performance put on every summer for us. This is a special place on earth where no words can do justice to a perfect June day. Gertrude Jekyll said, and I quote, “What is one to say about June, the perfect time of perfect young summer, the fulfillment of the promises of the earlier months, and with as yet no sign to remind one that its fresh beauty will ever fade.” But fade it will and so with that in mind we tend to overdose on it, while adding yet another summer to our resume of life. Like the growth rings on trees, in the end our lives will be counted more by the summers we have lived, then anything else we have experienced.

Summer has something for everyone in the lake country. There are beaches and warm water for the youngsters and waterskiing, camping, fishing and a chance to get back to nature for moms and dads. For the elderly it’s warm sunshine on old arthritic bones and the sweet aroma of a fresh rhubarb pie cooling on the porch rail. Tulips and daffodils and fragile irises showing off their delicate blooms. They grow, they blossom, and then they quietly fade away, much as we do. But unlike us they have the power to reincarnate themselves and their summers will last for all eternity. 

KILLEBREW

                                                

I remember it as if it was only yesterday and the night John and I went off to a Twins game at the old Met Stadium. We had high expectations for a Twins victory on that warm summer night, but everything went wrong from the start and the Twins fell into a hole and were five runs behind, when the eighth inning came to a close. John said let’s get out of here and we weren’t alone that night. Lots of disappointed people were leaving just like we were. The traffic was slowly snaking its way up Cedar Avenue, trying to thin out and disperse into the dark side streets, when suddenly John reached down and turned on the car radio.

Herb and Halsey seemed to be too excited. Their mood didn’t seem to match the dismal display we had witnessed. The bottom of the order had been due up in the ninth but they were talking about Oliva at bat and the score was now 6-4, with two out. Tony hit a soft liner into center field that fell in front of the center fielder and a murmur was going through the crowd. The killer was up and a new pitcher was coming in. Common sense said they wouldn’t pitch to him, but they did, and they paid. They put the Killebrew shift on with all of the infielders on the left side of the infield daring him to try and go to right filed. They could have put all of the infielders and outfielders too over there –it wouldn’t have made any difference. The ball ended up in the left field bleachers. I’m not sure if the Twins won that night in the extra innings. I’m only sure I was so sad to have not seen that ball go out off the killers bat. I take solace in the fact I saw many more go out, as only he could hit them.

That’s the kind of player Harmon was.  He made you sit on the edge of your seat whenever he came to bat. If you had to go to the bathroom you held it. The odds were that he would strike out more times than he would hit a home run, but it didn’t matter, you could only hope-- not this time. It was the thrill of that mighty swing you came to watch because only Harmon could drill a ball 520 feet into the upper deck of the old Met and who cares if the Twins won or lost, you saw our own great Bambino at his best. He never celebrated his hitting feats, he just calmly set the bat down and circled the bases and even the opposing pitchers would look with awe.

I never forgave the Twins for trading Harmon to Kansas City that last year of his career. He was our hero and he deserved better. But when it was all over and number 3 laid down the hickory or ash for the last time, it was he who forgave and came home from Kansas to be a Twin for the rest of his life. The only other baseball side trip he ever took was to Coopers Town where he was immortalized and enshrined with the other greats. But there was more to Harmon than hitting baseballs. This was a man who epitomized sportsmanship and his love for the game and his devotion to his fans. He was as revered on the day he died, as the day he retired. We’re not used to those kinds of athletes anymore. They don’t come along very often. I cried when I heard of Harmon’s death and someday soon, when I start chipping away at my bucket list, one of my first orders of business will be to drive to the Baseball Hall of Fame and go touch his plaque and cry some more. It’s the least I can do after all he did for baseball, the Twins, and me.--- God bless you Harmon.

COMING OF AGE

COMING OF AGE

Last night we attended our granddaughter’s graduation. Maybe it was the music that brought tears to my eyes—Pomp and Circumstance always brings that out in me. Maybe it was just the fact that our little girl was all grown up, and seemed to really have a glow about her I have rarely seen before.  She looked so regal in that cap and gown and I saw her in a whole new light. I have so many questions that plague me right now about her future. Is she ready for this, or is it just  me, not wanting to let go?  Then my eyes panned the rest of her class, and suddenly, I realized that all of those questions were on a lot of people’s minds about their children. Yes, you cry when they get on that bus for the first time, and you cry once more when they get that diploma. It’s just a conglomeration of emotions, all mixed up with pride and a sense of a loss of innocence, coming at you at the same time. They are so hard for me to separate.

My gaze went to her father—our son. It wasn’t that long ago I remembered him in that same cap and gown, and even farther back through my foggy memory, I remembered me on that stage back in Staples fifty-one years ago. How had I felt that night about going out into the world? How had our son felt? We both did just fine, so why all of this concern about her tonight. I had asked her about her plans and she seems far more organized than I was. She is off to college with a fistful of scholarships and seems to know what she wants. I went to the big city, way back then, to look for a job—any job—with thirty-five dollars in my pocket. She comes from modest means, but has her sights set much higher than that. I came from poverty and only wanted to, somehow, do better than that.

But here the comparisons must stop, because the world has changed so much in the last half century, and I’m seeing everything through my eyes—and not hers. Life has taught me to be cautious, to worry and be wary. I have lived through wars and political upheaval. I have seen the seamy side of life and learned how to be careful. That is something she isn’t worrying about right now, and neither did I way back then. For eighteen years you are in this transparent cocoon, built of your parents loving arms, and you want out. You want to be you—and parents, grandparents and guardians only muddy the waters from here on in. We understand that, but still we are so reluctant to untie that knot. We want to spare you the same hurts in life we experienced, but somehow, we know that you will have to live though them yourself because it’s all part of the growing-up process. For us to take the bullet for you will not work. It’s like a puppy playing with a bumblebee. The sting isn’t going to kill him, but it will make him a whole lot smarter.

So, just for tonight, I need to believe that your parents and teachers have you primed and ready for this and my foolish fears are unwarranted. That it’s time for all of us to now step aside. That tonight, we took the training wheels off for good, gave you a pat on the back, and a gentle push in the right direction. Now, as we watch you ride away, we will hope and pray for the best. We ask only that you will look back over your shoulder from time to time because, although we have stopped mothering you, we can’t stop loving you. God speed little one.  

FATHERS DAY AGAIN

                                            

 I sat down yesterday and paged though an old album that my wife put together of my thirty years on the fire department. There were pictures of me early on when my hair was dark brown and thick and my face unwrinkled. There were lots of pictures of fires and burned out buildings and terrible accidents.  There were many old newspaper clippings and articles, pertaining to my exploits over the years, but there in the back of the book was a picture of a fire truck my son had colored when he was a little boy. You know the kind that we usually hang on the refrigerator door for a while and then quietly throw it away. She had kept it and put it in this book and for a brief moment I looked at it and tried to imagine what was going through his young mind when he colored it. Oh I’m sure he was caught up in all of the pride small boys have of their fathers and what they do with their lives. It moved me to tears. Tears not for the part of my life that has passed, but tears of love for the son that was given to me and the relationship we have always had.

 How many fathers now days realize that their children are watching every move they make as they grow up. I know I didn’t when my son was that little. I was to caught up in my busy life to be that deeply involved in his life. It took that picture, forty-five years later, to bring to mind how involved my son was in my life, even though I wasn’t always there for him. It’s scary how easily it is to mislead a child. How much we as dads mentor them even when we don’t realize we are doing that. I think of my own father and ask myself what did I take from him? He never did anything that would have got his picture in the paper, because just being a good dad is not that news worthy. But it was his actions that showed me how to try and be a good dad. It has been said, “When you raise your son you raise your grandson too.” For a long time I never knew what that meant-- but now I do.

There have been things in my life I have done that I’m not proud of but I thank the good lord my children were not witness to it.  I’m glad that I had the good sense to keep my failings to myself and try not to repeat them. Today’s world is far different then the one I grew up in. Absentee fathers are commonplace. I’m not talking about guys like me that just weren’t paying attention. I’m talking about guys who felt their involvement ended with the sperm donation and now are out trying to get another woman to trust them so they can do it all over again. It’s beyond me how anyone can father a child and then turn their backs on her and the child. I have seen countless marriages that were forced to split up, for many reasons, but yet there were dedicated fathers who stayed connected and did the best they could under the circumstances. Someday your children will understand why mom and you were not a good fit, but they will never understand why you left them.

So to all of the dads who did their job as fathers and you know who you are. God will reward you even if nobody else does, because you weren’t just a parent. You were a good dad.

To Allie and all of our 2011 Graduates

                                   

Dear readers. As a point of explanation, Allie is our granddaughter, who graduates this year. This letter is for her and all the other graduates.

I have listened to many commencement speeches over the years, and the one recurring theme always seems to be how the future is now yours, and what we would do with it if we had the opportunity once again. I am here to tell you today, that out of all of the teachers you have had over the years, the greatest teacher is yet to come— and that is life itself. You have already had many experiences with this, but believe me, the best is yet to come.

Every time there has been change in this country it was done, seemingly, to make something work better. That is our hope—that you will make this place a better place to live for all of us. Change is not always better, and change is not always easy. We, in my generation, have found this out numerous times sadly, and in many different ways. The good that comes from making these mistakes is only beneficial when we are willing to admit that what we did was not for the best. That maybe, what we had in the first place was simply better to start with. That yes, maybe we went in a wrong direction, and our change was simply for the sake of change. I say this because I am trying to point out that good solutions to problems are made mostly by trial and error. You young people do have one advantage over my generation, and my parent’s generation. We have made most of the errors there are to be made already. So before you look to the future, look to the past, and investigate what didn’t work for us and why. I can show you many examples of how our generation made the same mistakes over and over again and continue to do so. Don’t do that. It’s a waste of time and energy and the clock of life is always ticking.

There is something exciting about a fresh start in life and an almost-clean slate. It’s a chance, for the first time in your life, to show the world what you can do, what you are made of, and to tell the world—now it is your turn. I am here to tell you I am excited for you. As we go through life, personal achievement always makes us feel good about ourselves. I know this because we did do a few things right. You’re an example of that, are you not? I’m not here to steal your thunder, but when you do well, so do we. After all, you were our idea weren’t you, and we’re still trying to get a little credit for something.

I am in my seventh decade as I write this. I don’t think of the future in the same way as you do anymore. I’ve had my chance and history will, someday, tell if I blew it, or made it, or not. In the end, all of us want one thing out of life more than anything else. To go to our maker, knowing we made a difference in this world. That fifty some years ago, we too stood on high school stages, our faces beaming with pride, with our diplomas in hand, just like you are today. That we, too, had all of these dreams and aspirations you have today, and we never lost sight of those things.  Although life didn’t turn out exactly as we wished, in some small way I hope we made this world a better place to live in. That should be your goal in life, too. No, I take that back. Your goal should be to do us one better. To Allie, make us proud sweetheart.