WHAT'S GOING TO BE LEFT FOR MARY

                                    

 What’s going to be left for Mary? That’s a question that haunts me as I look at the world around me, and all of the problems we have. ‘”Who’s Mary,” you say? She’s my six-year-old granddaughter, and she starts first grade this year. “Significant” you ask? Well, it is for me and Mary, and all of the other Marys’ and Marks’ who start first grade this year. They’re not worried about the same things we are right now.  They, in their innocence, have placed their trust in us and in all of the leaders of this country. They trust that we will take care of our land, and leave them something useful to build on and live in.

As time goes on, they’ll realize how badly we have betrayed their trust and instead of building on what we have done, they will have to rebuild on what we abused and destroyed through greed and misuse. It’s not just material things I am talking about. It’s our way of life. It’s what we have done to honesty and decency, and all in the name of what we felt was our freedom to do so. But it was actually greed, and an effort to make us feel good, with little regard for the generations to come. It will have to be rebuilt, because what we have now isn’t sustainable, and we know it.

I used to watch the potato farmers, back in Brooklyn Park, where we lived. Each year, after they harvested their crop, they replanted the fields with rye grass. An added expense for sure, because they just plowed it under in the spring. But if the snows didn’t come to cover their fields, they knew that the good topsoil would blow away and before long, the crops would suffer in years to come. They were always looking to next year, and for them, their land was sacred. I walk my dog down our little country road most days, and each day I find the road and ditches littered with trash. I, and other concerned people, pick it up but it keeps right on coming back. Every gas station and grocery has a trash refuse can, but these people who litter are too lazy and self-centered to use that route. I doubt they even think it’s wrong.

When I was a kid, no parent had to worry about what his or her kids were watching on television.  At the uptown theater, movies were shown that were made for families to enjoy. You could go outside and play without being accosted by some pervert. Police officers and teachers were respected. You learned the ABC’s in school and not about social issues that seem to dominate the news and are best discussed at home. Now, we worry about chemicals in our water and our soil. Mercury and lead, herbicides and pesticides. Invasive species, brought here by man, are ruining our lakes and rivers. Drugs are everywhere and our prisons are full. Everyone knows someone who has died of an overdose or fried his or her brains. Nothing is safe, even in your own home. Stupid, senseless wars, which accomplish nothing but kill people. Did I mention 16 trillion dollars in debt? I could go on but won’t.

I am so sorry, Mary. We have failed you, and every one of your classmates and first graders all over this land. I only hope you can rise above the mess we have made and turn this world back to what God intended it to be. That’s right, I said, “God.” Remember him? I doubt you will hear it in school.

AUTUMN'S SAD STORY

                                               

It starts with just a few dead leaves, blowing lazily around in the middle of your otherwise green yard. The tree must be sick you reason, its still the middle of summer. You look up at the host tree and see the yellowing top and then you notice a few others and you know its not any disease but a summer that is fast running its course. The geese on the lake are all the same size now and that lovely auburn color the deer once had on, is fading into winters tan. That old buck that was in your yard last night eating acorns, now has shiny antlers and that ugly velvet moss that looked so crummy on his regal head has finally gone away.

Out in the countryside combines labor in the farm fields surrounded by clouds of dust and big round bales of hay lay scattered like tiny huts of grass on the Serengeti. It’s been three days now without a humming bird at your feeder and the apples on the trees by the garden are getting red. It seems like just yesterday they were blossoms, drooping like snowflakes in the soft spring breezes. You sit on the deck in that old porch swing and look out over the still lake in the autumn sun and you wish you could freeze this moment in time, before the last of your so-called innocence fades away. You remember the words of an old song that said, “Summers going fast, Nights getting colder. Children growing up and old friends growing older.”  But like sands through the hourglass the minutes tick softly away and there is little you can do to alter its course.

Soon the roads will once again be sprinkled with motor homes and trailers, captained by old white haired men with stern looking wives, both putting their faces towards the fading sun. Heading south like the birds of the air, to their winter grounds. Sadly like the birds of the air, not all will return. The lake grows quiet once more except for the sound of the guns during hunting season. The small town you live in goes into its survival mode and cafes that had full house’s and waiting lines in summer from tourists now have a few tired old men around three tables warming their hands around cups of coffee and trying to make the best of it.

 But for today, the old man sits quietly on the porch swing with his old sweat stained hat now off his head and in his lap, held tightly by his wrinkled sun burnt fingers and his thoughts turn to her who left him so suddenly. Two things have not changed, his love for her and his faith in his creator. Winters were more bearable then when they were together and even though most others went away for winter you always had each other. Then as if on cue another old song filters slowly through his mind.  “Since you went away the days grow long and soon I’ll hear old winters song. But I’ll miss you most of all my darling when autumn leaves began to fall.”

STATE FAIR

                                                          

I went to the State Fair last week, and I had a great day. The State Fair means many things to many people. It celebrates the end of another summer, and the opportunity to see the many fruits and vegetables, animals and poultry, which keep our larders full of food—something that gets lost in our world of fast food and supermarkets. I came from a rural community and the horses and cows, sheep and goats always bring me back to my roots. But more than that, it’s a time to just get together and socialize with other people, and to listen to their stories.  It’s a chance for those of us from “Up North” to see the other side of life.

I went to a stand to buy some popcorn and I was wearing a cap that says “Up North Minnesota. Crosslake.” The young man who waited on me, asked me, “Do you live up there?” and I said, “I do.” He said, “You must be very happy. I have visited there and I simply loved it.” On the bus, on the way home, I looked at the apartment buildings that line the freeways and the high rises where so many people live out their lives in front of television sets and computers. A place where most forms of entertainment cost money. Where you can hardly see the stars at night in the din of the city lights, and the songs of the birds and the chatter of the small animals are lost to the noise of cars and trucks. A place were the air is heavy with exhaust, and factory pollution, and summer’s sometimes-oppressive heat is absorbed by the asphalt jungle, and then fed back to you slowly, overnight. Yes—I do feel blessed to live up north.

I know if people from some of the urban areas read this, they would say, “it’s not that bad down here and we have amenities, too. One’s that you don’t have up north. We have the Twins and the Vikings and the Mall of America, and we don’t have to drive one hundred and fifty miles to see them.” My daughter and her family lived in Savage, and one day, her husband and I rode the light rail train to a Twins game. We got on at the second stop and the train was already full. At each stop after that, we grudgingly gave up what little space that was left as more people packed in until, if they opened the doors again, someone was going to pop out. My face was in the armpit of a tall man, with bad hygiene, hanging onto an overhead strap. All I could smell and hear was backs, boobs, sweat and crying kids. The trip took over an hour and the return trip home was the same song, second verse. I wouldn’t do that again, even if I were promised a seat in the Twins dugout next to Mauer. I could have come from Crosslake in almost the same amount of time. I have sat in traffic jams, down there, long enough to write this column. The faces of the people, in the cars around you, are expressionless. They can’t wait for Friday.

I lived down there for forty years because there was work for me there. I left a small town to seek my fortune and spent those forty years wishing I was back where I came from. As the naked man explained when caught by the husband, in his wife’s closet, and asked what he was doing there. “Everybody has to be somewhere.” I guess that is true of life itself. I no longer wonder why people live there because it’s for the same reasons I did. I know in their hearts they have the same dream I had. I know because I see them up here all summer long, and yes—they’re smiling.

IIT'S A WHOLE NEW BALL GAME IN THE KITCHEN

                        

The cuisine in our house has changed significantly since my wife passed away. I had done most of the cooking in our house for the last ten years but she had limits to what she would and would not eat. But now the gloves are off and my palate is being tickled once more. My stomach does revolt from time to time but there’s a pill for that and I bought three bottles full. I’m kind of like the drunk who knows tomorrow morning is not going to be good--- but just for tonight ----well who cares.

We used to have chili in our house, which I called bean soup and she called chili. There is no good way to spice up chili after the fact. It’s just not the same to put that old chili powder on it once its cooked. It must be cooked right to start with. If an apple a day keeps the doctor away just think what a couple of jalapeño peppers can do. Cut up and mixed in the chili, they are an almost magical ingredient. If your not sweating when you eat it--- its not done right. Davy Crockett owes them Mexicans an apology for chasing them away.

Corned beef sandwiches’ and pastrami sandwiches should be on any sub shops menu. I’ll share my recipe with you, just this once. Three slices of pastrami and three slices of corn beef on seven-grain bread. Yellow mustard and one spoonful of horseradish spread around on top of the meat. Three slices of Colby cheese and two slices of tomatoes and one thin slice of onion. Go easy on the onion because they can give you a bellyache. Bon appétit my friends.

I love hot-dishes and I think if some one opened an all you can eat hot dish, buffet café, they would have every silver head east of the Rockies eating there. I used to get a free lunch at work once in awhile at the community center when the Seniors had their monthly potluck dinner. A whole table full of hot-dishes. Like a kid in a candy store I was. Once you had your plate full you could throw that slice of hot apple pie on top of it and your saliva glands would be leaking like a tin roof on a shed, in the Bahamas, during hurricane season. Yum Yum.

My grandkids and even their parents to some extent have drifted far away from the world of real food. They subsist on artificial food wrapped in doughy bread or things that look like pizza crust and really would make better mud flaps than food wrap. Their kitchens at home are just used in emergencies, to like, cook a wiener, or warm up a pizza--- Jeez Louise, I’m even starting to talk like them. Their refrigerators have no food in them just bottles of water and the dog’s medicine and packets of left over condiments from places they frequent with drive through dining rooms. If you think driving and talking on a cell phone is risky, try eating a juicy whooper with your good clothes on, balancing a pack of fry’s on one knee, onion rings on the other knee, and a 32oz coke between your legs while trying to keep the dog in the back seat. I figure I’m at least three quarters home from beginning to the end, so I’m not going to get my underwear in a knot over this. But it’s food for thought. No pun intended.

GREAT EXSPECTATIONS

                                              

If there is one thing that is present in all of us it is the desire to have life as easy as we can and to enjoy life, and not have that many hardships or worries. Over the last fifty years we have made great strides in this country when it comes to employers giving their employees benefits beyond a paycheck. Paid health insurance, sick days, vacations, are a few that come to mind and they are needed. But people being what they are, the demand for more and better benefits keeps coming up. Paid leaves for childcare and extended sick leave are a couple up for discussion.  On- going benefits for retirees are another one. These are things that were not on the table years ago.

Each benefit your employer has to finance has to be paid for somewhere, somehow. Bottom line is they have to make a profit at the end of the year, or there is no sense being in business. At the same time they need to be competitive with others in the same business, or they will be simply priced out of business. Either way the employee will suffer along with them if they go down. It can become a parasitic action on the part of the employee to demand too much. Ask your employer sometime what it really costs to have you there. You might be surprised. There are a lot of things you may have never thought about. Think about big bonuses being paid in companies that don’t make a profit. It’s happening right now as we speak.

This recession has caused many employers to rethink their benefit packages. Look at the automakers. Things that were a long time coming, may shortly be going, or are already gone, and may be a long time coming back--if at all. So we are having a little reality check. Employees and their employers’ walk a two way street and they need to help each other stay financially viable. It’s not a contest. Are there greedy employers who take advantage of their people? I’m sure there are a few. But I bet it’s the exception, and not the norm, and I doubt if they are that way, they could find or keep good employees for long.

I worked for a government entity for most of my career. The benefits I had late in my career bordered on ridiculous. More vacation than I could use. Sick days you could take by just calling in and saying you were sick. No proof needed. No incentive not to use them, except the fact you already had more vacation then you could use. Paid health insurance for retires until sixty- five. Many people were able to retire at fifty-five so that was an expensive benefit. At one time we got Columbus Day off for one of our many holidays. No time clocks to punch and very lax accountability. I must tell you most of that has changed where I worked, and despite that existing back then most of the employees were good hard working people, but they didn’t have to be if they didn’t want to be. Lets just say they had a conscience. If—and maybe I should say when this country goes down someday, greed and corruption will be the two biggest contributing factors.

WHO'S GOT YOUR BACK

                                                 

I had a friend ask me the other day how I was doing since my wife’s passing. I sometimes pause for a second when someone asks me that, because I never really know how to answer them. Simply put-- I never know how I’m feeling on any given day. Sometimes things are going fine and then the next minute a subtle reminder comes your way and you hit the pause button to see how you are going to react this time. They told me after her passing to stay busy and not get bogged down with your grief and for the most part that is good advice-- if you can do it. So stay busy I did-- and still do-- but there comes a time each evening when you go to bed and there is not much you can do there to stay busy. It’s a time when you are alone, just you and your thoughts.

I imagine all couples have there own peculiar sleeping habits. I’ve not done much research on the topic because it seems to be a bit personal and not something people want to talk about in any depth. Bedtime for her and I was a time when we talked the most. Maybe it was because there were no kids to interrupt us or phone calls to answer. It was just the two of us, often tired and sometimes just wanting to go to sleep, but if there were things that needed talking out-- that was the time and the place. Once the light went out, however we always found each other in the darkness because she liked to snuggle. She would push herself up against my back, reach for my hand and that’s the way we would spend the night. I used to kid her that she wanted to hold my hand only because, then she knew for sure where it was. She radiated warmth like a little heater and in the winter it was welcome, and in the summer not so much, but the quiet reassurance that she was there still made it all worthwhile--- for you see—she had my back. Figuratively and physically.

“Have your back” was a phrase I first heard when I was actively fighting fires on the fire department. We had a buddy system whenever we were searching burning buildings. You went in together and you came out together and there were no exceptions. Often you would be in complete darkness, looking for a victim or an elusive fire that you had to find, before it found you. As the nozzle man, you had in your hand the means to protect yourself but the man behind you, who had your back, could only hope you didn’t take both of you into the wrong place. Always though there was this quiet reassurance from your buddy behind you, with his hand on your hip. He would try to stay as close to you as he possibly could. You never knew for sure what the outcome would be, but you always knew one thing-- he had your back.

Sometimes at night in my half empty bed, I feel like the child who sleeps down the hall from their parents. They make excuses like “I’m thirsty” or “read me a story”. I say “excuses” because what they really want is just to be near you. You have their back and they know it. Years ago gentleman Jim Reeves sang an old country song that I never forgot and it says it so well for me. “I climb the stairs up to my room but no one meets me in my gloom. The silence tells me you are gone. Just call me lonesome from now on.”

PEACE IS A PERSONAL PROCESS

Remember when you were going out into the world—do you remember what you wanted to achieve? Maybe it was prosperity or recognition, or a place to hang your hat and park your car or cars.  Maybe your goal was to have a title and a corner office, high above the city, and to be someone your folks would be proud of. Or, maybe it was a place to share your life with someone special, and have a family to call your own. For many of us, it was all of the above and more, and I was one of them. Then, you achieved those goals and things seem to settle down. Now you just wanted to maintain the status quo, but one word kept creeping up.  It was not that significant way back when you stated this journey; but it became more important every day, and that word was “peace.”

Many churches have in their hymnals an old song called “Let There Be Peace on Earth” and continues with, “and let it began with me.” Well, it’s not really that old—it dates back to 1955.  If you haven’t heard it, you must be living under a rock someplace. There are not a lot of words to the song, but those that are there are powerful to anyone who is looking for peace. “Let peace began with me and let this be the moment now.” Ah yes, we are getting impatient in our old age, aren’t we. All of the things I mentioned above brought us satisfaction, but somehow, peace has alluded us and the clock is ticking. We need one more thing before we call it a game and drop the curtain. We need peace in our lives. “Let there be peace on earth, the peace that was meant to be.”

I find it baffling that this peace we need so badly, at the end of our lives, has never been that important until now. That all of those other things took center stage and now, when we know that the ball has dropped, and we’re not going to go back there anymore, we want some peace and serenity. I sit in church on Sunday, and as I look around, the thought has come to me, what are all of these people praying for? Are some of them praying for peace in their lives? By peace, I mean personal peace, and not just peace in this troubled world. We will never get peace in this world until we find it in ourselves. We can’t just sing, “Let it begin with me.” We have to sing, “It has to begin with me.” We are part of the ingredients in the process, and it is essential we not be hypocrites. Do as I do, and not just as I say. If we don’t have it ourselves, we are like chocolate chip cookies without the chips. Nothing to brag about, really. We need to find it early in our lives, when we can inspire others and let it spread.

When I see people who are at peace with themselves, it makes me smile—and believe me, it shows. I’m talking about their peace—not my smile. When I see people who are constantly troubled, I want them to find that peace because, when we all find it, then we will truly “walk with our brothers all over this world, in perfect harmony.” There is an old adage that “Familiarity breeds contempt.” In effect, it means the more you know about someone, the more you will find fault with him or her. Not true. When you are at peace with yourself, and your friends and family, there is no room for contempt in your life. This is an axiom we can all live with.

THE KILLINGS

                                                           

 When my grandson was a small boy, one day, I watched him playing video games on what, I assumed, was an X-box. I asked him, “What was the object of the game?” and he told me, “To kill as many people as you can.”

The makers of these games, and the movie and television people have done a remarkable job of bringing this carnage to life on the screens. I must say, it’s very realistic with pieces of bone and blood and gore everywhere. It’s almost a “How to do it” video. But now I would like them to tap into their talents to show their clients the effect that sudden death has on someone. Let’s see how real you can show the emotions that come out when some nut case shoots up a theater or a school. Let’s see if you can make the people viewing your stuff–and that’s being kind–feel the loss and the grief when someone’s brother, sister, mother, father or baby is suddenly killed. Let’s see if you can show us what happens to the person, standing next to the person shot in the head, who survives. We don’t want to just see people killed—we want to see how their friends, family and witnesses feel about it. It’s only fair that you show the other side of the story. I’ve been there countless times as a firefighter, and have seen it up close and personal—it’s made me cry. Let’s see if you can make your customers cry, and then, when and if they put that stuff away in the closet, again being kind, or throw it away, I will say “job well done.” And by the way, none of it is age-appropriate.

I firmly believe that, from the moment of birth, it’s what you do and what you don’t do to teach your children about what’s right and what’s wrong, that preprograms them for life. If you leave this training up to peers and others in society, then you must share responsibility for what happens in their lives. Every time one of these tragedies happens, where some person runs amok and takes the lives of others, it’s not just the victims who suffer but the friends and family of the guilty person who suffer too. All to often they are good people and are just as appalled by what has happened as the families of the victims. They will spend the rest of their lives wondering where they failed.

We incarcerate more people in this country than any other country in the world. Why is our society so vicious and cruel? Maybe it’s because we have freedoms not seen in any other part of the world, and freedoms that were never meant to be what they are today. But litigious people have gone to great lengths to misinterpret them to mean, “almost anything goes” when it comes to freedom of speech and behavior. Blame the guns if you want, I don’t care, but the person pulling the trigger is the real killer and someone made them that way. They weren’t born like that.

Yes, my friends, you reap what you sow. This killing in Colorado won’t be the last one, and I’m betting not that much time goes by before there is another one. There is no stopping them, because the time for stopping them has come and gone. Instead, we have all of these newfound freedoms to show our kids how to kill. Is this the freedom we talk about that our veterans fought for? I think not.

SUMMERS FLEETING MOMENTS

                                    

 And so now the dog days of summer are upon us.  That quiet cove, in the lake you live on, is now overgrown with water lilies and duckweed. The lake seems uncommonly quiet once again, as the energy for playing on jet skies and speedboats amongst the younger set has dissipated, and at least for this year, it’s just not fun anymore. The fishing becomes more difficult with the heat and the bugs and all of the vegetation growing in the lake. People my age are content to just sit in the shade with a cool drink, and watch the last vestiges of summer slide away. We know we can squander the remnants of summer, but we can do little to make it last. Somehow, though, we’re not content to just fritter it away.

My garden is half-picked, and the apple trees are burdened down with fruit. Mowing grass early this spring, which was welcome exercise, has become a chore no one wants to do. You look at the honey-do list you made this spring, and yes, you did get the roof replaced and some new downspouts added, but so many things remain undone. “Maybe tomorrow” you say. Each day you notice that darkness comes earlier and earlier, and you think, wouldn’t it be nice if you lived in a world where every day would be like June 23^rd. A world where daytime and nighttime share the clock equally.

I have struggled for years to find an analogy that does justice to my thoughts—of summer winding down. Maybe it’s because for me, summer is the fun time; and maybe it’s because, at least in my mind, the seasons so closely mimic our own waning lives. Old age only serves to bring that thought front and center. August is the time of the year when the foliage may be bruised by summer storms and drought, but still holds its lovely green hue, the dominant background color that Mother Nature uses so well in her verdant pastures. All of the pretty flowers have long blossomed, and what is left is unexciting and mundane. The host plants live on, but without their colorful blossoms that were their focal point, no one notices them in the garden any more. They are just a silent silhouette of what they once were. I, too, was more attractive in my own springtime; but now I rely on cognition brought on from years of living life, for any recognition that may come my way.

Sometimes, it seems like life begins all over again each summer. It surely does for the flora and fauna. For some reason, it’s a romantic season full of new surprises every day. In the summertime, a soft rain pulls at the strings of your heart. In the fall, it is just damp and disappointing and reminiscent of the cold months ahead. But I feel, if we could hang onto summer forever, its special qualities would soon fade like the setting sun, for we need its “ups and downs” to make life interesting. Natalie Babbitt wrote, and I quote, “The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn. But the first week of August is motionless and hot. It is curiously silent too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons and sunsets smeared with too much color.”

MUSIC NOW AND THEN

                                               

Many years after I had been forced to participate in music, in school and in church, I developed a love for music.  When I was in grade school—yes—back in those days, we called it grade school, not elementary school.  We had a “traveling” music teacher, who would pop into the classroom from time to time, and take over the class.  The regular teacher would leave and I don’t know where she went went—but I am betting it was out of earshot! The music teacher had a pitch pipe. She would hit a note, and then we all had to hum that note, which produced something that sounded like a drunken beehive. Then, she would break into a verse of “Some say the world is full of fun and frolic,” all the while waving her arms like she was swatting at deer flies. She had a set of choppers on her that made her wide-open mouth look like an accordion. I always pictured her at a corn on the cob-eating contest—and I’m betting she could do it through a picket fence. Our singing was always accompanied by the slamming of other classroom doors throughout the school. Not wanting to be guilty by association, I was one of the original lip sync artists.

Then my mother made me sing in the church choir. The pastor’s wife was the director, and when it came to directing music, she felt that she was one cut above Leonard Bernstein. She had a vibrato in her voice that sounded like you had put a vice grip on your tomcat’s tail, and then stuck his wailing head in a paint shaker. No one could hear the choir, because she had the microphone halfway down her throat. When we sang the “The Old Rugged Cross,” people in the congregation would cry. It had nothing to do with religious sentiment; it was just that painful to normal ears. She had a very ample bosom that jiggled, and my dad said that was where the vibrato originated. Dad always sat in the front pew, center aisle, grinning and slapping his knee. He told me that some day when her bosoms started sagging, her voice would fall with them, and she would sound more like Tennessee Ernie than Liza Minnelli.

Then, I became a teenager, and along came Elvis and rock and roll. When Elvis would start his thrusting and hip gyrations, my mother would fan herself with her Bible and fluff her skirt, and swear that the world had lost its moral bearings, and Satan himself had possessed the music industry. But I loved rock and roll, and I loved that era and maybe, even though mom thought I was perverted at the time, that music was what made my world go around. I bought a small record player that played forty fives, and my dad called it “the wave of the future” that would revolutionize the music industry forever. By the time the Beatles came around, I was heading downhill again with my love for music, and the only music I ever faced was when I came home from the bar, after the softball games.

So now I am back to the oldies, and the good old songs that would drift, on the soft summer breezes from my car radio, through the trees of Lover’s Lane, north of Staples. I have forgotten what I did in Lover’s Lane back then, but I will never forget those songs.

ONE YEAR LATER

                                               

It’s been almost a year now since she left me and one of the things that has changed dramatically for me is, I see couples in their twilight years, in a whole new light. I guess I never knew what I really had until I lost it. As we age together I think all of us, that have a spouse or significant other, know that our lives can be separated quickly, I guess I just didn’t think it would be me. I’m not sure the thought of dying scares us anymore, at least not me; it’s just the thought of being alone the rest of my life that is troubling. We don’t like change when we get old and we like to be in charge of things but now we aren’t in charge of much anymore and change is inevitable. For so many years we lived, loved and played together and we knew each other better then we knew ourselves. We were what we thought to be an inseparable team that always had each other’s back. We no longer criticized each other when things went wrong but sadly we no longer congratulated each other when things went right. We simply existed each day as one. I read this somewhere, it’s not mine, but I’m going to use it. If I shed a tear for every time I wished we were still together. I would be standing in a puddle of wishes.

Maybe that’s want God meant when he said in the good book its not good for man to live alone. He, in his infinite wisdom, knew that when you have someone to love and care for, you have so much more purpose in life. Maybe I should have just said someone to care for instead of someone to love because you never stop loving him or her. They don’t have to be front and center for that. Distance only matters to the mind, not the heart and its impossible to fall out of love. To those of us who have had children you see a little bit of her or him in each one of them and that bring us some solace. After all that was our purpose in life, was it not. To carry on the family values and traditions and replace ourselves on Gods green earth.

Love for me was making her happy because without that there was no way to achieve happiness for me. I learned that as life went on, because life taught me that in everything I did.  I found it also in what worked in life and what didn’t. Through it all I came to a realization that there is a reason life goes on for you. That God isn’t finished with you here on this earth and you owe it to a lot of people to carry on. Our lives are like books. For some the book is thin but some of the best stories I have ever read were short ones. It was substance, not volume that made the story so great. For others the book is many chapters long and if you were lucky the story was so intriguing you couldn’t put it down. Sadly for many, they can’t wait for the story to be over. For me hopefully there is a sequel. I love sequels because it’s a chance to bring the story back to life. But you do have to be careful because you want to try and embellish the original story and not ruin the whole thing.

So I’ve run the gauntlet and spent each holiday, birthday and anniversary without her at least once. My puddle of wishes is slowly drying up and I’m looking forward to what life still has in store for me and feeling blest. Blest that I had her as long as I did.

THE FOURTH OF JULY

                                              

So, it’s another Fourth of July in Crosslake. For many of us, we get into some kind of a patriotic fervor on the Fourth, and for others, it’s just a time to let off a little steam. My next-door neighbor, who is in his late seventies biologically, and in years about fourteen when it comes to fireworks, will be at it again this year. Over the years, he has burned up more gunpowder than the North did in the Civil War; and for many of us at the lake, it brings back memories of Dunkirk, or the siege of Berlin. After the Fourth, my old Labrador spent the rest of the summer in therapy for many years, until I learned to wrap his head with duct tape and cotton balls. The birds and animals are strangely absent from our neighborhood for two weeks after the Fourth.

Now the neighbors across the lake, not to be outdone, or simply in retaliation—I’m not sure which—have gotten into the act, too, so this year I hung a white sheet out of my bedroom window, put my dog in the truck, and headed for quieter pastures. To celebrate our war victories is one thing—even though we might have to go back sixty years to find one we won—but to reenact the whole dang war is another. I have fresh dirt piles in my backyard now, and it might just be a gopher or then again, it might be a land mine or an IED.  I’m not sure if Crosslake has a bomb squad or not, but my other neighbor has a hungry dog who likes to dig, so I put a few little sizzlers sausages on top of the dirt pile. I should have an answer soon.

When I was growing up back in Staples one Fourth of July, they invited the National Guard to be in their annual parade. This included a large tank that drove down Main Street, and then for a treat, shot off that big cannon hanging off the front of it while a platoon of soldiers fired their rifles. The tank must have used a blank shell because I went out west of town the next day, and everything seemed to be intact out there. However, the concussion from the big gun took out all of the windows in the Red Owl Store, and shell-shocked a third of the town. Several old vets were seen running out of the VFW, going home to get their uniforms on and grab their rifles. My aunt Bertha, who had been a transcriptionist for the army during WW II, ran home and sent an encrypted message to the pentagon that read, in part, MacArthur lied. It isn’t over. Need help immediately. Under siege as we speak. The local cop, who was a dead ringer for Gomer Pyle from Mayberry, was never seen again—but they did find the squad car, idling in front of the jail, with all four doors open. I was told later they were just airing the car out. I did notice a lot of underwear on the wash lines around town the next day. The rumor mill started the next day, and it was reported that three Japanese zeros had strafed the Staples airport, and Percy Herman’s pontoon had been sunk by a torpedo, in the Crow Wing River, by the golf course bridge. To the youth of today—that feel sorry for my generation because we didn’t have any pot to smoke back then—top that for excitement, guys.

Well, good people, the world war is over. Since then, there have been others and win or not, we should be proud of our military. We live in a great country with a lot of freedoms—even the freedom to write articles like this. Happy Fourth of July!

SOCIALIZING

                                                           

 For years now, I have met with this motley group of old men who I coined, “The Sunshine Boys,” to have coffee and socialize with. It’s the “same old, same old,” every day. The same old people, and the same old stories, told over and over again. But, because our memories are going south as fast as our prostate glands, no one seems to care. I have found that men socialize, most often, by insulting each other, but they really don’t mean it. This, versus women who socialize by complimenting each other, and they don’t really mean it, either.

Men seem to be more blunt about how they talk to each other but you do, occasionally, meet a woman who says her piece. Once, at a book signing, I met a lady who expressed how sorry she was to hear of my wife’s passing. I thanked her, of course, and then she proceeded to tell me that her husband had died two years ago. When I told her I was sorry to hear that, she told me, “Don’t be” and walked away. I can’t help but feel, that someplace there is a cemetery, with a tombstone that says, “Here lies my husband let him lie. He’s at peace and so am I.”

Some women can’t ever take a compliment. My daughter-in-law is a wonderful cook, but every time I tell her that, or compliment her cooking, she says things like, “It’s missing something,” or “I cooked it too long.” Just once, I would like her to say, “Yes, that is good, isn’t it? I nailed it this time.” Then there are the ones who take things too much to heart. I once told my daughter, “Your cinnamon rolls are the best.” Now, if I saw her three times a week, she would have a pan of rolls ready for me every time. Next winter, I plan on staying in Mesa, with her and her husband, for a while. I’ll probably have to say something about all those rolls, or risk looking like the Pillsbury doughboy next spring. My wife would clean house for a week when company was coming, and then the first thing she said to them at the door was, “come on in—the house is a mess.” If someone liked her outfit, she would say, “Oh, this old rag. I didn’t know what to wear today so I threw this on.” Go figure, huh?

But back to the Sunshine Boys. For many of these men and women—yes, we have ladies stop by occasionally—who had productive careers, retirement came as somewhat of a shock. They were used to accomplishing things and working with people; being asked for advice and their expertise. Now, all of a sudden, they weren’t in charge of much of anything any longer, and if they had a spouse, they were probably in charge of a lot less than they claimed to be in charge of. In this group there are former police officers, firemen, business executives, a medical doctor, a pastor and a farmer, to name a few. But if you listen to them, you wouldn’t know any of this because, suddenly, they are all the same. Just a group of old people looking for companionship. Politics and religion are off the table, but every other topic is up for grabs. There is no prerequisite to join, but it helps to not be thin-skinned, because the banter can get pointed, but it is quickly forgotten. If this weren’t a family newspaper, I would share some things I have heard, but I better not.  I would like to remain a member, in good standing, of the Sunshine Boys!

A GLIMPS OF HEAVEN

                                             

 I have often wondered what the climate in heaven must be like, and I can’t help thinking, it emulates a perfect June day in Minnesota. I really believe, in the place where we believe there is eternal life, that it’s eternal summer.  As the old saying goes, “It doesn’t get any better than this.” There are so many things that happen in June that reinforce my thinking this way. Everything is so new and fresh, and the flowers are blooming everywhere. Babies of every species are making their entrance into the world. The days in June are the longest, so we can enjoy them the most. It’s not that warm and not that cold, and those soft breezes we always enjoy, are filled with the smells and fragrances of summer. The world that was so drab and dead in winter, is now cloaked in shades of living, growing, green.

I first fell in love in summer—in a world that was so perfect back then, and she seemed so perfect too. All through our wedded life, it seemed, we endured the cold months—always looking forward to June, when life began anew for both of us. That first summer that we fell in love, a song was born called “Theme From a Summer Place,” and the lyrics still reverberate in my mind today. “There’s a summer place where it may rain or storm. Yet I’m safe and warm. For within that summer place your arms reach out to me and my heart is free from all care.  For it knows, there are no gloomy skies when seen through the eyes of those who are blessed with love. And the sweet secret of a summer place.”  Bern Williams said it best. “If a June night could talk, it would probably boast that it invented romance.”

Yes, June does seem to be a carefree month, and your memories reaffirm this. You think back to your youth, that last day of school, and three whole months of freedom from studies and responsibilities. Long days at the lake swimming, fishing, baseball games and building forts in the woods. Hopscotch diagrams chalked on the sidewalks, and riding your bikes down country lanes—your dog running behind with his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. It was a time when you shed all of your worries—along with most of your clothes. Tan bodies, freckles and sun-bleached hair was the fashion. There was no one waking you up in the morning, but yet, it was so hard to fall asleep at night because you didn’t want to turn your back on another perfect day that seemed to be sliding away too fast. James Russell Lowell said, and I quote, “And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days.”  Yes, it’s been said that “summer is a time when you can be lazy and still be respected in society.”

We here in the lake country are especially blessed. Those who are retired find every day a vacation day. Those who aren’t, flock here to indulge. They, too, need to shed their tensions and worries, and they know that it’s best done on the quiet shores of a sandy lake. It’s been called “heaven on earth” but we will never know for sure until we get there, will we. I, for one, am betting they’re not that far apart.

MORE MISS MOLLY

                                                           

 A few weeks back I introduced you to my Ivory Lab puppy, Miss Molly. I think it’s only fair that I give you an update on how she is coming along, and how I am coping with this new friend of mine. As you may remember, I jokingly named her Miss Poops a Lot. She still fits the name—not so frequently, anymore, but she makes up for that with volume.  There is a natural phenomenon, which few people understand—that being, how a dog can take fifty pounds of dog food, and create fifty-five pounds of poop, and still get fat—but somehow it happens. One of life’s mysteries, I guess.

Labs like to grow hair and then shed hair so, when I got Molly, I selected an Ivory-colored dog because I have an Ivory-colored rug in my living room. She must be shedding because the rug, which was a 10 x 12, is now a 10 & 1/2 x 12 & 1/2. I don’t vacuum enough, I guess. The other day, I had her down to the public landing at the lake, and she waded in to take a drink. Now she is only five months, but already she doesn’t want to bend over to drink, so she wades in until the water is chin deep and then lets it just run into her mouth. A guy at the landing told me, if the DNR saw her do that, I would have to stay until she urinated. Everybody must pull their plugs and drain their tanks, no exceptions.

Deep inside each Lab pup is a coiled-up spring that needs to be released in a spastic, and almost violent, fit of energy. This can go on for several hours, depending on how long your arm will take throwing a tennis ball. It’s best to have several people involved so you can take turns. When the spring is finally unwound, it takes about a fifteen minute nap to recoil the spring, and then they are good to go again. Your only chance to escape is during that timeframe! If you live at the lake and are going somewhere with the dog, in the car, Murphy’s Law says they will go swimming about ten minutes before you are ready to go.

Way back in their ancestry, some Lab, somewhere, mated with a beaver and a goat. This is where they get the urge to eat the legs of your kitchen chairs or chew up a plastic water bottle into a zillion pieces. Leather chew toys take second place to furniture and your shoelaces. I went to the dictionary and I learned how to say “NO!” in fourteen languages and she still does not understand what I am saying. I think “NO” is just too close to “GO” and she knows what that means without being taught. She demands a treat for going potty outside, so just to be fair, I give myself a cookie when I do my own duty. The only difference is I have to clean up after myself.

When I got her, I made a firm rule she would not be allowed on the furniture. So far, she has been everywhere except on top of the hutch and one high dresser and—oh yeah, the refrigerator—but she has been in it. Last Sunday, I went to church and locked her in the kitchen. When I got home, I found that she had tipped over her water dish, and mixed her dog food in it, and had dragged all of her toys and the rug through it. I told my daughter; as soon as Molly is taller, there will be no more water dishes. She can learn to drink out of the toilet like a normal dog. So there is your Lab report and you didn’t have to wait a week to get the results.

FATHERS DAY

                                              

I wanted to say something for all of the dads this Father’s Day. I’m not going to write about my own dad, although I loved him dearly, and he was a good father. But for each one of us that does a good job as a father while on this earth, some credit must go to the mentor who started the whole tradition, and that was my grandfather. I was one of the lucky lads who got to know and enjoy his grandfather through all of my formative years, and although he has been dead for nearly fifty years, his example still lives on in my heart.

I have often been in awe of people who, through their example, influence other people to make the right choices in life, but yet, in describing them you would say they were somewhat quiet and withdrawn. That was my Grandpa. He never tooted his own horn—he just went on living life in his own peaceful way; always leaving a trail of friends wherever he went. If the man had a mean bone in his body, I never saw it. He worshiped his wife, and loved his children, and was the quintessential quiet leader, not only to his family, but also in everything he did. When I graduated from high school he seemed so proud of me, and he took me aside to give me these few words of advice. He said, “The greatest thing you can achieve in life is respect. The recipe for respect comes from being humble and being honest.” That was a long time ago, and it is still the best advice I ever got. I’m not sure how well I lived up to it, but it is emblazoned on the letterhead of my moral compass.

Fatherhood is very important to the family structure. Society has tried to change this with different variations of the family structure but they never will, because the traditional family structure works the best. We have too many fatherless families in our society. I once watched a neighbor lady, who was a single mom, playing catch with her young son. I asked her if she was trying to make a baseball player out of him. With tears in her eyes, she told me. “He needs a dad so much, and it’s not just about baseball. I want him to grow up to be a good man, and I’m hard pressed to be that example. I can tell him what he should and should not do, and yes, I can play catch with him. But he needs an example to follow, not a lecture from his mom.” As men, we are called to be that example.

So, on Father’s Day, take time out to tell Dad or Grandpa, or anyone else who has played that father figure role in your life, how much it meant to you—that they made a difference in your life—that they brought things to your life only a Dad can bring.

FOR THE GRADUATES

                                               

This spring, several of my grandchildren took off to exotic places for spring break.  Some of you may be thinking that they come from wealthy families that are pampering their kids, but nothing could be farther from the truth. They went because, for them, it is a rite to passage that has been pushed on them by their peers. Most of them have little money, and in fact, owe other people money. Or maybe they don’t owe anybody any money because, in their minds in today’s way of thinking, mom and dad owe it to them to give them money, not loan it to them. To those kids that have earned their own way, my apologies; however, you are the minority. Now that being said, most young people—and it was this way when I was young, too—can’t hang onto money. The old clique, “It’s burning a hole in their pockets’” was as true then as it is now. When I graduated from high school, I had no money. But, because of the expense of raising a large family on one blue collar salary, my father didn’t have any, either. I’m not sure that, if he did have some, he would have shared it with me, anyway. But that is neither here nor there because, as young people then, we didn’t expect our parents to finance us, and therein lies the difference. The plus to this was, I grew up in a hurry.

When a young wolf pup is banished from the den, he learns to hunt or starve. He has been given his education, and has the tools, now the rest is up to him. The wolf parents know that’s the only way he will learn to survive on his own and this “tough love approach,” has always worked for them—it is essential to the survival of the species.   As humans, we would think that we have evolved beyond the mentality of wolves, but as I look around me at the number of children, in their twenties and thirties, still living with their parents, it gives me concern about where we as a society are going.

Now, if you are a young person reading this, you are probably getting mad at me; so let’s take your side of the story for a while and ask, “Who made us this way?” You’re right to think that. One of my pet peeves is old people, complaining about young people, as if they had nothing to do with it. They complain about the lack of morality in your generation, and your entitlement attitude with homes and cars, and your bad spending habits, but when it comes right down to it, we old people pretty much fostered the whole thing. You know what my hope is? That you will want better for your kids, and take better care of our country and its ideals before we let it all slip away. That you will show us how it should have been done. You know, we are a strange people in some ways, preferring to learn by our own mistakes instead of learning from others’ mistakes, and you now have the opportunity to change that.

Despite spring break, I still believe in you guys, and maybe I’m just jealous I never went. But here are a couple of things you can hang your hat on, and believe me, I speak from experience, Say “no” to tobacco, excessive drinking and drugs. The happiness it might briefly bring will lead to nothing but heartache. When you find that special person, just remember one word—commitment. For out of that will come great things. I want to tell you to “be all you can be, but don’t get talked into being someone you are not.”

OLD AGE BLUES

  Every day I get a plethora of things in the mail that remind me of how old I am. Things from the A.A.R.P Insurance Company, for instance, and their newsletter and magazine. People call and want to sell me a “step-in bathtub,” or a “grabber” for taking things off high shelves. I can just imagine what would happen in that tub if I forgot, and opened the door before draining it. All it would take is the doorbell ringing, or a phone call, and I would be washing my dog out the front door of the house. Today I got my monthly letter from the scooter store. I’m supposed to take this test, and call them immediately if I answered “Yes,” to any of the questions—like, “Have you fallen in the past twelve months?” I fall once a month, and that’s in a good month. I invented the Stop, Drop and Roll and I wasn’t even on fire. A good day is when I don’t fall on the dog, but the dog is safer with me falling occasionally, then getting run over by a scooter chair. My doctor asked me once, how long has it been since I had sex? I asked him if this was a memory test, or a sex test. Either way, I failed.

I’m supposed to eat some kind of new fangled yogurt to cut down on intestinal gas.  I did tell you I live by myself, didn’t I? If I do have company, I’m right back to the dog taking the blame. Besides, in my family, it’s genetic. I once had an uncle who could toot out the first verse of the Happy Birthday Song, in G Minor, without lifting a foot. My dear wife was always cracking me across the back of the head if we drove within a mile of a manure spreader. Miss her—but don’t miss that.

Someone talked us into buying a Sleep Number® bed a while back. Now that I’m alone, I like to sleep in the middle of the bed and the dog—yes, you guessed it—ate the thing that changes the settings. So my right side is sleeping on an eighty-six, and my left side is on a twenty-one. I walk in circles for the first part of the day because I have one limber leg and one stiff one. I tried sleeping on my stomach half the night to balance things out, but then I can’t see the TV, and I drool too much.

Someday, when I’m all worn out, I am going to get a scooter chair with a continental kit and cruiser skirts. It will have a built-in cooler for beverages, and it will recline for sleeping—then I can get rid of all of the furniture in the house. It will have side pockets for my remote controls, and snow tires and four wheel drive, so I can take it to town in any kind of weather. Oh yes, and a heated seat, and it will do fifty-five on the straightaway. It will have a six-rack CD changer, AM-FM radio and radar detectors. It will be dual fuel, electric and methane, but that’s all I am going to say about that. I thought I was done with that methane subject in paragraph two, but I guess not. It keeps coming back up—no pun intended.

Each morning I go through a little test when I wake up. Today it went like this. Wrist hurts from raking leaves. That’s bad. Back hurts from lifting leaves. That’s bad. Finger hurts from dog bite. That’s bad. Asthma today is only a 2 on the 1-10 scale. That’s good. There is one more thing bugging me though today—if I can just think of it.-- Wait for it. -- Oh yeah! I got to go to the bathroom. That’s excellent.