EMOTIONS

                                                            

In my years of writing I have met lots of writers and if there is one thing, all the ones I have met and I, have in common, it’s the fact we tend to be very emotional people. Now that’s not restricted just to writers by any means, there are lots of emotional people around. Their tear wells are always leaking be it sadness or pride. It’s not that hard to tug at their heartstrings. Emotions, put another way, are simply feelings and they come to us in very different degrees. I myself think it’s a blessing to have such strong feelings because you get the real meaning of things, good or bad and you want to feel them as strongly as you can to fully understand them. It also helps you to cope with the situation at hand and to heal, both body and mind.

My mom was very emotional when I was growing up way back then. I saw all her tears and snotty noses as a weakness. Later in life I admired that in her because she was just being genuine. My dad was unemotional and somewhat of a curmudgeon. When Mom would start crying he’d say, “Here we go again.” Or pass out the Kleenex.” About the only thing that would tear dad up was a 23lb. or larger Northern Pike, or a box of white owl cigars or if he found a five-dollar bill. I once won a baseball game for our team in school, in the bottom of the ninth inning and my teammates carried me off the field. Meeting my dad at the gate for my ride home he said. “You forgot your glove bonehead.”

As a Fire fighter I knew I would have to leave my emotions at the door when I was at an emergency. When you are sitting in a ditch, holding and comforting a four year old that just lost his parents in a car accident, trying not to cry yourself isn’t easy believe me. Going home and upsetting my family was not the place to do it either. So you went to a park and had your talk with God and then tried get back to life, as you knew it. I wasn’t alone in this and several times after you did your best to comfort the survivors, you found yourself back at the fire station comforting each other.

I think of the people in our lives that deal, day in and day out with this kind of sadness and sometimes I wonder how they cope. Doctors, nurses, clergy and counselors to name a few. Way to many people to mention, who are just like you and I, when it comes to getting your emotions rubbed raw. I’m betting they do the same thing I occasionally had to do-- just on a more frequent basis. Men in particular can be strange creatures when it comes to sadness. It’s been my experience that those who don’t cry will just show their grief in other ways, such as anger and this just  prolongs the sadness and makes the whole thing worse.

But back to the writing and writers. One of my jobs as a writer is to set the scene for you. If its sad I want you crying and if its funny, then I want you laughing and if I can’t do that then neither I, nor any other writer is doing the job we should be doing. Charles Dickens wrote in “Great Expectations” and I quote,” Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, Overlying are hard hearts.”

NATURAL MUSICIANS

I have always admired people who had musical ability—especially the whistlers. Now, I’m not talking about the son of that old bat in the rocking chair, in that old picture we have all seen. I’m talking about people who learned to purse their lips for something besides smooching and blowing smoke rings, and having pretty music come out of their pie hole. I have tried all of my life to whistle, but I have always sounded like a leaky iron lung on its last leg, and it sent my wife dashing for the nightstand—looking for my inhaler. Even my little grandkids come and tell me, “Grandpa, hold your mouth like this,” and they proceed to imitate a sunfish sucking a worm. When I tell them “I just can’t do it,” they say, “That’s just dumb, grandpa.” To them, whistling is like a baby nursing. No one tells them how to do it—they just do it. Over the years, there have been musicians I have heard that sounded like a canary once they got going. I often wanted to tackle them, take my Mag-Light Flashlight, and take a long look down their throats; because there is something in there that I got screwed out of when I was born. Their voice boxes must look like the business end, of a clarinet.

My mother, during my younger years, decided that I would carry the musical hopes of the family into the next century, so she made me sing in the church choir. Now the credentials necessary to sing in our church choir were—that you had to not be a mute, and you must be able to read words out of music books. For those who could sing, it was an enjoyable experience. For me, it was one cut above a colonoscopy—and I may have been better off singing out of that end of me in the first place. I have noticed as I age, and depending on my diet, I can get quite musical down there, but I am getting off the subject here so that’s the end of that. Besides, my friend edits this stuff and her sense of humor is not always like mine. 

During a particular Christmas Pageant at the church, I was goosed by the boy behind me, and I hit a high G that only dogs and the maestro could hear. Shortly thereafter, the choir director told me she had too many Irish tenors already, and maybe it was time to give it a rest for a while. One of the other points of contention for me, in the church choir, was that this was the birth of rock and roll for me. These people were still singing about bringing in the sheaves, and I had no idea what they were.  So I would put my book in front of my face and hum “Rock around the Clock,” while they all swayed and sang their lungs out somewhere on the banks of the River Jordan. Meanwhile, I was singing backup to Bill Bailey and The Comets, immersed in my own little world and cussing out good old Mom. Later—again my mother’s idea—I played in the high school band. I was the only trumpet player with duct tape over the end of his horn. The band director told me he was trying out some new tones. The backpressure of blowing into that muted horn must have done something to me because, even today, just blowing up a balloon gets me lightheaded, and off in the distance I hear John Philipp Sousa saying, “Oh, my God.” I must say though, that I did learn something about music, and even today my rendition of “Danny Boy,” sung in the shower, can bring tears to my eyes and the dog has been known to join in with me.  It’s funny how those animals have an ear for talent.

LIFE WITH MOLLY CHAPTER THREEE

Well, as I go into 2013 and take stock of what happened last year, I want to write a few lines to tell you about Molly. For those of you who don’t get to read my column regularly, Molly is my soon-to-be one year-old Labrador dog. Christmas was pretty bleak for Molly this year. Here in the Holst house, we still subscribe to the old “naughty or nice theory” when it comes to being rewarded at Christmas. Molly is way on the wrong side of naughty and nice. You could run the Sherco power plant down in Becker for a couple of days on Molly’s growing coal pile.

Molly has an affinity for toilet paper. When she finds the door open to the commode, she will go in there and take a huge bite out of the toilet paper roll.  She doesn’t unroll it or scatter it around; she just takes a gargantuan bite out of the side of it.  That leaves whoever is using what is left of the roll, wiping with something that resembles paper dolls.  Needless to say, this makes for other hygiene problems with your cuticles, and things like that, but we won’t get into any specifics here.

I buy Molly a lot of bones to chew on as a way to keep her from eating things, I would rather she didn’t eat, such as my shoes and furniture. She loves bones when they are new, but as soon as she has them chewed into a sharp shard that resembles a Cro-Magnon man’s spear tip, she abandons them—all over the house. In the house, I have to wear engineer boots with steel soles for leisure shoes, or risk lacerating my feet. I tried picking the bone pieces up, but apparently she doesn’t like that and goes to great lengths to reestablish them in my traffic patterns. I drink no water after four p.m. as trips to the bathroom at night, in the dark, are strongly advised against.

Eating time has now become somewhat of a hassle for me because Molly likes to beg for some of my food. Actually, her own food dish, with actual dog food in it, has a spider web over it. She doesn’t flip my arm up, or bark, or cry—she’s subtle and just gently lays her head in my lap—and drools. I am now wearing the bottom half of my fishing wet suit to the table to prevent having this “just wet your pants” look. She does get to lick the plates, which does help with the dishwashing, but my plates are losing their pattern on the bottom because she is quite aggressive with them. I have also found missing dishes in unusual places, like in the traffic patterns in the house amongst the bone shards and on the basement steps—the very ones I walk down, carrying a basket of clothes that I can’t see around.

When my kids were young, there was a kids’ program on television called “Muttley the Snickering Hound.” You know the old “heh, heh, heh” laugh. Now I’m not for sure about this—and she might just be panting—but she has this same sound coming from her jowls every time I injure myself on one of her carefully-placed booby traps. One other thing I should mention—Molly likes to lick your ears. Not up and down or sideways. No, she forms her tongue into a wet corkscrew and tries to get right down to the old ear canal. Water in my ears used to be a summer swimming thing, but not anymore. On the good side, no more earwax. What’s that you say? My pants are wet?

WINTER THOUGHTS

                                                

The other day, I walked through the woods as snowflakes fell softly around me. Winter gives me a glimpse into places in the woods that have always been there, but lie camouflaged in the summer months. The woods seemed so deathly silent in the winter air, and from time to time, I stopped and rested because I needed to silence the noisy crunch of the snow beneath my boots. I thought of the words of Robert Frost, “Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though: he will not see me stopping here. To watch his woods fill up with snow.” My thoughts went back to 1960, when I was living in a suburban community and working in the cities. My heart ached for the woods I used to escape to as a young man back home in Northern Minnesota. I was uprooted and far from the place I loved so much.

“My little horse must think it queer to stop without a farmhouse near. Between the woods and frozen lake. The darkest evening of the year.” My love for nature had been taken from me back then, and replaced with streets and houses and noisy buses. Even the city parks seemed to be bordered with urban sprawl, and a never-ending sea of humanity.  People always rushing from point A to point B. Horns honking and sirens wailing. From Monday through Friday, and for forty years after, I was sentenced to stay there because there was no other way to survive.

“He gives his harness bells a shake to ask me if there is some mistake. The only other sound is the easy sweep of the wind and downy flake.” Today, the trees resemble silent gray and white sentinels, standing at attention and forming an almost impenetrable barrier. They’re resting now, their naked limbs stripped of foliage save for an errant yellowed leaf, clinging stubbornly to its host and waving silently at me, enticing me to come closer, but for too long I refused. “The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.”

It’s different today though. I kept all those promises, to others and me. I lived and loved and rode the wild wind. I went so many places I scarce thought I would or could, but always, this enchanting forest I thought I understood and never did, was tucked back into the recesses of my mind. Now I’m back—drawn to its innermost secrets. I leave the path at dusk and fade into the forest. I touch each tree and bush until I reach the banks of a softly flowing river, and deposit myself in the shelter of a towering craggily oak, in a bed of yellow grass. There are no more secrets that I care to see. No more hills to climb, no more rivers to cross. I’m not ready to sleep yet like so many of my friends and loved ones who went before me. But then, that’s not for me to say, and I can wait. Everything from this day forward is a bonus, and I thank the good Lord for being my chaperone, my constant companion and guardian on this wonderful trip.  I thank Him for the family He blest me with, and all that I possess.

My dog, my constant companion who left me to explore, now comes and sits beside me, looking at me with those sad searching eyes. Let’s go home, she says. We found what you were looking for.

MY SUNSHINE

                                                           

When I was little boy I used to listen to my mom sing as she went about her housework. I wasn’t sure where all her happiness came from, for in my eyes we had so little. But each day she would just seem to be so content there in her own little corner of the world. She died of cancer at the early age of 57 but I never heard her complain about it or anything else for that matter. In my entire life I never met anyone who was so much at peace with her life and the world around her, even when it was coming to an end. Most of her songs were hymns and old favorites like “You are my sunshine.” I too liked to sing and still do.  Now I didn’t say I was a good singer --I just said I liked to sing. Fifty years later when I was told my wife was going to die I remember coming home from the hospital and sitting on my back steps crying and singing softly but out loud, “You are my Sunshine.” But that day when I got to the line that said, “Please don’t take my sunshine away,” I became like a stuck needle in the record player and I just kept singing it over and over again. At that moment that lyric had become my prayer.

I’m writing this three days before Christmas. Much has transpired in the last year and a half. I’ve healed so much from last year. Last year I think I just went through the motions of enjoying Christmas, to please all of those who were trying to help me. This year I have the holiday spirit in me once again. To those of you who know me more closely, you know I have a new friend, a special friend. I’m sure it has a lot to do with my new outlook. For once again, my life isn’t just about me anymore and believe me, I love that kind of responsibility.

I think about the friends I have that lost someone close this past year, like I did the year before. I think how can I help them find their way out of that valley of grief? How can I help them find peace and happiness again? As a writer I’m constantly giving my views and advice. Not to interfere in others lives but just to say this was what worked for me. It is surprising how in a world of seven billion people; one lone soul can feel so alienated and lonely. But to those of you that are there right now, I’ve been in that spot too and I feel your pain.

It’s a new year for all of us and with that new year can come new hope that maybe we can get it all together this year. That maybe we have finally learned some hard lessons about life, both in a personal basis and in the ills of this country. Life will never be perfect because too many outside things beyond our control influence our lives. My father always said. “Most men are as happy as they make up their minds to be.” There is lot of truth to that my friends. A year and a half ago when I lost my sunshine I questioned it. But the sun shines for all of us from many different places. From another old song mom sang came the line, “Open up your hearts and let the sunshine in.” That’s right because we make too many of our own clouds. We put them there without really knowing it but we can take them away, if we really try.

HAPPY NEW YEAR AND MAY GOD BLESS US ALL----------MIKE

IT DOESN'T NEED TO BE LIKE THIS

                                   

I tried to think, last night, what it must have been like to get a call to go to the elementary school where your child was attending because there had been a shooting. I tried to comprehend what went through those parents’ minds when they arrived on the scene and saw all the police units; fire engines and ambulances. Then being directed to the fire station to frantically search for their child amongst the survivors. Lastly, I tried to somehow imagine what was going through those parents’ minds when their child wasn’t amongst the living; and they were directed to another room to receive the bad news that some homicidal manic had killed their child. Then, at some point, they had to gather themselves together and go home to the rest of their family and share the news. That night they sat in their child’s bedroom—broken-hearted and sobbing amongst their toys and possessions. Hugging their pillow, and perhaps a Tickle-Me-Elmo Doll to their chest, just to smell their child’s scent and to soak up their tears until they could cry no more. Gifts are under the Christmas tree that will never be opened.

I doubt the moviemakers could write a script like this. I don’t doubt that some day they will try. That day will come because what we witnessed yesterday is becoming commonplace in our society. As a Christian man, I live by two sets of laws. One of them, God’s laws, because I want to—and one of them, man’s laws because I have to. God’s laws aren’t open to change and misinterpretation. They are what they are. He is the judge and jury. His laws are final and concrete. Man’s laws once resembled God’s laws in this country when it was first formed. But it was a tough road for some people, and not much fun to live that way, so we changed them—now look what we have. Ah yes, we do have our freedoms but are our freedoms now our curse?

What kind of a creature can kill babies? Who can shoot an innocent child as he cowers in front of you screaming and crying because he just witnessed his teacher and his classmate being killed? Even animals will fight to the death to protect their young. We’re supposed to be ahead of animals on the food chain. I question that sometimes. Mental health experts have said we need to spend more money on mental health issues. How about we stop these people from becoming this way in the first place, by cleaning up the environment they are raised in? They weren’t born this way. Maybe we need to get back to God’s laws. That’s cheaper and easier than new hospitals and more prisons. I’m an old man now, but I do have one up on the younger generation. Every day, all of us make choices between good and evil in life—because we have seen good and evil—and the wisdom of age helps so much in those comparisons that are part of life’s bargaining process. Too many of the younger people today have no benchmark to go back to because all they have known is what we have today. That’s not their fault—that’s our fault. We’re the ones that let it slip away. So now we need them to try and change it before it’s too late.  Why? Because we have passed the torch and they are now in charge. When is it too late? I know twenty-seven families in Connecticut who it’s too late for. How many more times must we go through this before we change?

A NEW CHRISTMAS

                                              

Last year at Christmas I couldn’t comprehend how I was supposed to even begin to enjoy the holidays. For you see, the only thing I once swore I couldn’t live without, was gone. Grief has a way of darkening the sunshine, making the winter feel colder than it is and masking all of the things you used to enjoy. You don’t hear the birds sing or notice the flowers anymore. The Christmas music you loved so much falls on deaf ears, and those old familiar carols might as well be any old song. The very food you eat is flat and tasteless. You drink, hoping it will dull your mind and help you forget, but it only gives you a headache. You just want it all to be over. You feel as if you have been given a sentence to serve out, as your punishment for loving her.

Then something happened amongst all of those sad times. The days gradually grew longer, and all of that self-centered pity you yearned for didn’t seem that important any more. Slowly, the sun rose higher in the sky and its radiating warmth seemed to take your troubles and wash them away with the melting snow. For the first time, you sensed this was a process you needed to get through if you wanted to go forward again, and although there were no shortcuts, you could make it better if you just helped out a little. For the first time, you noticed others who had gone down this same lonely dark sacred trail, and they seemed to smile more often than they used to. You sensed the worst part of their journey, through this valley of grief, was coming to a close. By their example, they were urging you on and helping you get through it.

I went to the store the other day and bought a small Christmas tree. I needed to have a Christmas again, but it needed to be more subdued for now. So I purchased just a small tree with all of the lights already on it. In a closet, I found the box with all of the ornaments we had collected over the years. I picked out a few special ones—they all seem to have a story behind them. Then I found the nativity scene she loved so much. Each tiny figurine wrapped in little bubble wrap bags she had sewed to keep them safe. I set it up under the tree. Last year this would have brought a gusher of tears, but this year…well…it’s all right. I know she would have liked what I did and that’s important to me. I still need her approval-- even now.

I wrote a lot about her this last year—thanks for your patience with me. But this New Year is a kind of new beginning for me, so that part of my life is best left to fade a little. Not forgotten—just tucked away in my memory bank. A new day is dawning, and a new world is taking shape. What better time to launch it than at Christmas. One of the things that made her so happy was to make me happy, and now I need to take her example and make others happy. As old as I am, I’ve learned that you can’t run away from your grief. You just need to face it, use it all up and when it’s gone—in its place there will, once again, be new love and smiles. Yes, even a few giggles scattered there amongst all of the happy things that just can’t coexist in a sadly broken heart. So from my pup Molly and me, I wish you a Merry Christmas and may God bless all of you—and next year— well, let’s have lots of happy stories.                                                                                                                                          

IT WAS C-DAY AGAIN

                                                 

Well this year was the year, when it was time once more for the dreaded colonoscopy. As each day before my appointment ticked off the clock I felt more defeated and apprehensive beyond my wildest fears. I said to myself “You did it once you can do it again so suck it up big guy”-- but it didn’t help. It’s not the loss of dignity that bothers me. It’s not the fact people are going where no one has ever gone before, except my mother and with a camera. It was the dreaded prep I feared.

I admit I was better prepared this time. Fresh glade roll ups in the bathroom. Tape over the cracks in the linen closet doors. Twelve new rolls of the softest tushy paper money could buy. A new magazine by the commode and I took the brick out of the water tank. We need all the water we can get. I had the septic pumping truck on standby and because you can have only clear liquids, a bottle of tequila on ice in the shower. Just to be safe I re-torqued the bolts that hold that appliance I would be sitting on, down to the floor. Bring on the bowel prep.

I am not sure what constitutes a lethal dose of bowel prep but I think what they prescribed for me was pushing the threshold. In fact I wasn’t sure I could safely get it all in the top end-- let it pass through the system and then-- out the back door. There was only one answer. A beer bong and standing on my head and hopefully nothing would emerge before I consumed it all because now down was up and up was down and gravity would---Aw you get the picture. The last time I drank 64 ounces of anything at one setting was a night at the Tickle Toe Tavern outside of Staples some fifty some years ago. Fortunately I passed out and don’t remember what happened. That unconscious bliss was not going to happen to me this time drinking spiked Gator-aid. If the Army at Guantanamo had used this procedure instead of water boarding, we would probably know a lot more about terrorists organizations then we know today.

They have done wonders today making artificial flavors that can make almost anything taste good. I once ate a raspberry Popsicle that that was pure white in. color. With that in mind, and knowing you can only have clear liquids before this procedure, the next time around I am hoping that they will have a glass of colorless liquid that will taste like a bacon double cheeseburger. It’s over now and for the next five years, I’m a free man. Once again I can sneak one out without worrying about soiling my clothing. Once again I can hook up my trousers and have my dignity back.

But now in all seriousness, I encourage all people to have this simple test. Dying from colon cancer is a thousand times worse than this. Though I like to jest about things like this, I want you all to be healthy and safe.

SOMEONE TO LOVE

                                              

There comes a time, after you suffer the loss of your soul mate, where you start to temper a little. Now you see more clearly, the hurt that consumed your every thought, and you just couldn’t conceive of ever getting hurt like that again. So you went into this little shell where no one could get at you. You put blinders on, and just concentrated on getting through each and every day. Only your friends and family could break through this circle, and even with them, you were somewhat guarded—making statements like “Never again.” You didn’t say that because it wasn’t good, for it was—maybe too good, and you thought with a bar that high, would I ever be happy again with someone else.

If there is one thing that can leave a gaping hole in the human heart, it’s not having someone to love and care for. Nurturing seems to come secondhand to us. At nursing homes, I have seen the blank faces of those who are all alone in the world; faces that were long ago filled with smiles, now filled with hurt and loneliness.  Yes, we do have our families and friends to love, but they have families and friends of their own, too, and try as you may to love them and socialize with them, in the end, they always go home. The door closes once more, and then it’s just you and your thoughts, and no one to share them with.

Slowly, but surely, we poke our heads back out of our shells and look around. All at once, you start to realize that you’re not the only one in this state of mind. If you can find someone to make happy, then you just made two people happy. You’re still guarded though, because families are complicated and you’re not just one carefree person anymore like you were fifty years ago. Now you’re also a dad or a mom, or a grandpa or grandma, and part of a package deal—and so are they. Taking someone by the hand and gliding off to some Shangri-La to live in bliss for the rest of your lives sounds good, but not that feasible because that would be selfish love.

William Purkey wrote, “There comes a time in your life when you have to dance like there is no one watching, love like you’ll never be hurt, sing like there’s nobody listening, and live like its heaven on earth.” Yes, there comes a time when you have to let your guard down, and take those blinders off and be vulnerable once more. You open your heart, knowing there is a chance it might get broken again; and although you vowed it would never happen again, suddenly you’re willing to take that chance. For in your heart of hearts, you know that true love is usually scripted only in the films and when and if it happens to you again, it will be unexpected, and you have to be ready for it or it will pass you by. I think the great waking moment in two people’s lives is when there is no longer an “I” or a “you,” but just an “us.” In his book, “A Walk to Remember” Nicholas Sparks says, “Love is like the wind. You can’t see it, but you can feel it.”

MY LAST BLACK FRIDAY

                                               

Well, Thanksgiving is over, and although I enjoyed it with friends and family, and had the usual amenities, this year there was an empty spot in my memory bank. For the first time in years, there were no Black Friday activities. My daughter and her family moved to Mesa—and with no players—no team. We had been, for years, a well-oiled team and veterans of many Black Friday battles. Our playbook was well put together, and through years of skirmishes, victories and defeats, we were almost unstoppable. After the usual dinner and football games, we would gather at the dining room table. We split into four teams—Alpha 1, Alpha 6, Sky Hawk 3, and my team, Delta 1. The whole mission was called “operation-enduring shoppers.” Missions were chosen carefully. Coupons were passed out along with money and credit cards. Watches were synchronized, cell phones were preprogrammed. We would stat at 0-400 and return to base at 0-600. The younger members of the team were sent where speed and agility were a must. The older members were sent where stealth and craftiness were essential.

 In 2010, my son-in-law Rick, and I, drew the short straw and were sent to a big box store—that will remain unnamed. This is to protect the innocent. We would arrive at 0-200 with the doors to open at 0-400. Our goal was a 32-inch television, with only fifty per store. When we arrived at the scene, there were about 75 people already in line but our sources said, “Not all of them were after televisions.” We had a good shot at success. Our preplanning showed us the TV’s were in the center aisle, just south of the bras and panties, and were on a pallet. I would lead the charge, and Rick would create a diversion, by heading for another aisle screaming, “Give me that big screen television.” At 0-400, the doors clicked open and the rush was on. I survived a hip check from a large lady that would have flattened Adrian Peterson. Rick went down in the doorway screaming, “Save yourself, Chief!” I vaulted over a chain and sprinted for the center aisle. My hamstrings were tightening up but I saw the target ahead. Now I don’t know if you readers knew this, but I was an old baseball player, so I slid into the pallet with a headfirst hook slide, and got the last one. With the box in my arms, I dove under a display of thongs, saying a silent prayer. Mission accomplished

I suffered a hernia, and chipped a tooth, but emerged with my television. Later, Rick would be diagnosed with a torn hibiscus. Hey! Look it up—that’s not just a flower, my friends. At 0-600, we returned to home base victorious. One thirteen year old member of team Alpha 1 broke her retainer, and the sixteen year old from Sky hawk 3 lost a shoe and tore her designer jeans, but otherwise, we were left unscathed.

It’s been two long years since that memorable night in Burnsville. I had my tooth capped, and I wear that hernia like a red badge of courage. Rick says his hibiscus feels better in the warm desert air, but he does mist up talking about it. There is talk of Alpha 6 being reactivated next year, but nothing for certain. I have no idea where that television is. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go adjust my truss.

CHANGING THE WORLD

                                               

I have on my desk a small picture of my parents taken about fifty years ago. I can’t help but think how much I loved them, even though they had nothing to offer me but their love and support. Maybe there was an advantage to being poor because you knew up front they had nothing to give you but love, so from the moment you first went out into the world, you knew its was up to you and you alone to make something out of yourself. Hopefully that would be something they would be proud of. They did give me one thing to take with me though and it was probably more important than anything else they could have given me and that was a good example of how to conduct my life.

The other day on my face book page there was a rant from some college student, that I don’t know, which said. “We just have to wait for these stubborn old baby boomers to die off so we can make things right.” Now to be fair, things the last fifty years have not gone well. Our countries financial condition and failed wars have left us in precarious shape. If that was what he was referring too I would have concurred. But to tell the rest of the story, his tirade was about us trying to impose our moral values on him. Our country is on a slippery slope when we talk about moral values. Somewhere, someplace, someone took the words freedom to mean, “Whatever pleases you” and that is why we are, where we are, today.

If there was a place left on this earth that was livable and as uninhabited as this country was the day the pilgrims came here, I am sure I could fill a boat up in a hurry with people who would want to go there and get back to the values this country was founded on. I think often of the word polluted. We think of it most often in the context of our water or the air or the oceans and land. Intentional or not we have succeeded in polluting our world and to some degree it may not have been avoidable. It’s hard to avoid waste. But when it comes to our values and our character it is avoidable and they too have been polluted.

The French have a saying “Laissez faire.” It means to allow to do so, without interference. There are some things where to much interference is not good and government interference comes to mind. But as highly evolved as we are, to allow everyone to just run amok, would be a disaster. Hence we have a constitution and a bill of rights. What has happened however is their original intent has been watered down and misinterpreted and litigated to pieces and they no longer even resemble what they were meant to be and we call that freedoms. Were they perfect to start with? No. But when freedom of the press is construed to mean immoral pictures and writings with no redeeming social value what so ever. When freedom to bear arms means everyone can have assault rifles. When freedom of speech means you can incense people around the world with your views. That’s not freedoms we should have. They only satisfy people who are out to make trouble for someone else. To that college student who wants us to die and get out of the way so he can change the world. Be careful what you wish for my friend. We weren’t and look what it got us.

HOME IS WHERE YOUR HEART IS.

We, as native Minnesotans, know just what to expect as we approach another Minnesota winter—that snow will fall and cold temperatures will come—that heating bills will rise and driving can get treacherous. But we also know that there will be days when the sun will shine, icicles will form, and those snow banks will be a place where children, with rosy red cheeks and snotty noses, will play. It will be a chance to dust off the snowmobiles, and ride through God’s country to places otherwise inaccessible to us; a chance to wax up the ski’s, or dust off the snowshoes and hike across this winter wonderland. The air can be cold and crisp—but it’s clean, pure and invigorating. Tiny villages of fish houses will dot the lakes, and to those who have tried it, we know the solitude that comes your way in those cozy shelters. It’s a chance to have the Christmas season the way it’s almost always pictured in our minds and hearts.

We have here in Minnesota, the optimum in the theater of seasons. We start with spring when the outside world renews itself with flowers and plants that have lain hidden for months, waiting for our stars warm rays to wake them up. Streams run cold and clear with the freshest abundant water on earth. Babies of every species are born, and the birds of the air return home to nest because they know this is the place they want to be and to raise their young.  Summer is the time when the whole world comes to visit us because, well, there is nothing like a Minnesota summer. It’s the world’s playground personified. Then, as the world tilts towards winter again, the trees give us a kaleidoscope of color and warm Indian summer days linger until, at last, the whole country goes to sleep and winter settles softly over us once more.

There is a reason people settled here, and it’s not just because it was where the wagon broke down. It was fertile ground for planting crops in, and an abundance of fresh water to nurture those crops. Timber that shades us, warms us when it’s burned, and shelters us with its lumber. The world outside is a virtual zoo of birds and animals, some of them providing us with food. Yes, a lot of them do rest or migrate in the winter, but you know what? They always come back. I have traveled from the desert southwest to the swamps of Florida and the warmth of the gulf.  I have gone from the Cascades of Washington to the seashores of Southern California. But always, the places that seemed to be closest to my heart, have been the places that most resembled home.

I fully realize that people all over this great country have places that they call home, and they have many reasons for putting down roots where they did. Many people from here have gone elsewhere, looking for something better—and that’s just human nature—but I have seen so many of them come right back here where they started. There is a saying, “Minnesota nice,” and I believe there is a lot of merit to that saying. I think our dispositions are shaped and influenced so much by the world around us; the people we associate with and slowly, but surely, we become a product of our environment. As I look out the window today, I see my world in this slow but sure transformation to winter, but I don’t dread it—I embrace it.

BIT'S AND PIECES

 Well, my columns have been all over the place the last few weeks, so I thought it was time to revisit some old subjects you might be wondering about. First, this update on my new Lab puppy who, by the way, now weighs sixty pounds. She hasn’t eaten any more shoes for some time now, but she is still hiding them. I am down to my sandals and my hunting boots for footwear right now. The sandals are comfortable, but a little breezy when doing yard work, and the cameo boots are too noisy in church, and don’t look good with my suit pants. She has eaten a pint of wood filler, which she did pass through her system. I burnt it in my fire pit and it burned for three days. I did, however, run it through the log splitter first. She also ate a family of mice she found in the garage—and regurgitated them on my feet at suppertime one night. One of them was still alive, so she isn’t chewing her food well enough. No wonder she got sick. She still likes to sit on my lap when the moment strikes her, but it is not a graceful mount. She launches herself from about ten feet away, usually when I am reading the paper, with a cup of coffee in my hand. This sends my recliner into a backward flip, and needless to say, it’s not good. She presents herself at the back door and whines when she wants to go outside, which is about thirty times a day and usually right after I sit down. Otherwise, things are pretty good.

With the elections close at hand, the Sunshine Boys—that intellectual group of old men who live in this town, and who meet each day for the good of all of us—had their annual meeting at an undisclosed location because one of our members may, or may not, be in the witness protection program. The members came up with some new suggestions for the next City Council. The following is from the official minutes of that meeting. First, they would like to see a drive-up window for building permits and ten-minute service at City Hall. In the winter, they want both of the streetlights in town to be on motion detectors to save energy; and they want the Crow Wing County Maintenance Department to drain Adney Lake so we can either prove, or dispel the claim, that Fergie caught a seven pound three ounce Crappie, and then put it back. We also want the city to apply for matching federal funds so we can buy a slightly used Saturn 7 Rocket for the Fourth of July fireworks this year. Think big is our motto. There was also a suggestion that came out of the St. Patrick Day’s parade traffic jam this year—that next year we all park in Emily and Pequot and take shuttle buses. One member wanted to know when we were going to get light rail. There was a motion to require all poachers to have silencers on their rifles in the city limits, because it wakes people up at night, but it died for lack of a second. We will not be able to conduct business this winter when the snowbirds leave, because we won’t have a quorum. There was some discussion about who started a rumor about one of our members. We were not able to resolve it, and now we have a new rumor going around about who started the rumor. By a vote of sixteen to twelve we wished Bob a happy birthday and adjourned. Respectfully submitted.

Mike Holst

DRINKING RESPONSIBLY

                                                

I use Facebook to socialize with my friends and family, and for the most part, it’s good. Oh, once in a while someone will get on a rant and say things they shouldn’t, and use bad language because that makes them appear tough to talk that way. But all the good things that get said seem to far outnumber the trash. Yesterday though, someone posted a YouTube video about crazy drunk moments. Now I’m not a prude, and I do drink socially, but I don’t get drunk because I’ve seen too many sad things that happen with the abuse of alcohol. Puking on your shoes wasn’t one of them. So, here are some of my not-so-funny drunk moments.

As firefighters, we were called to a personal injury accident one dark night. It seemed an intoxicated man, who was driving home from one of the local watering holes, had crossed the centerline at a high rate of speed, and hit a family of four, head on. All were wearing their seatbelts, but the force of the collision pushed the light truck’s engine into the passenger compartment, killing both parents. In the back seat in their car seats were two young children, now orphans, crying and asking for their now dead mother. That was just one of the numerous accidents that I went to where drinking was the cause. There were others just as sad, and some sadder, and the ironic thing was, even though you didn’t want anyone hurt or killed, the drunks usually weren’t the ones who got hurt or killed.

In my own family, out of seven siblings there are three I would classify as alcoholics. One of them drank himself almost to death. By the grace of God, he has quit and is recovering. Out of the grandkids, several of them have serious drinking problems. All of this from a set of founding parents who didn’t drink. What lies ahead for most of them? More not-so-funny drunken moments or personal tragedies. Times are tough right now, and if you talk to any of the drinkers, they will tell you that. But, somehow, there is always money for the booze or beer. My dad always said, “If you want to go in business, make sure it’s one people find essential,” and he said, “Liquor stores are right at the top of the list.” I see all of the trucks and cars parked outside of the local watering holes, and I know there are a lot of people in there being responsible, and having fun, and that’s not what this is about. But there are also some in there who send their wives to the food shelf, and then let them sit home on Friday night with the kids, while they drink. More not-so-funny drunk moments.

We have banned smoking everywhere but in your own biffy. We have a war on drugs. It hasn’t done any good—but we have one. But drinking seems to be something that’s here to stay. We tried prohibition once, and it didn’t work.

The movies and television glorify it; even the University of Minnesota if you can’t stand the team, lets you get pickled, at the football games. The town of Crosslake, where I live, has more liquor stores than any other kind of business, so there is no sense in getting on a soapbox about that. All I am asking is this—that we be responsible. By that I mean, don’t drink and drive. Don’t drink if you are having money problems. Don’t drink if you get mean or abuse your family. You can have fun without drinking. I do. There really are no funny drunk moments.

WHO'S LYING NOW?

                                              

I don’t like to write about politics but just this once I have to say my piece. So here is my problem. I have listened to both of the presidential candidates. They have both accused the other of not telling the truth. To put that in plain language they have both called each other liars, without saying the word liar. But if it quacks like a duck? You know what I mean; somebody’s pants are on fire.  So if they are both lying than am I forced to vote for a liar? Not a good choice.

Romney says Obama care will cost a trillion dollars. So Mr. president prove him wrong. Don’t just say that’s not true. Get a white board and show me the proof. The President says Romney’s tax cuts don’t add up. So Governor show us the proof. Don’t just say they do add up. Why don’t you just both say what you are going to do and let’s let a third unbiased party—if there is such a thing---prove you right or wrong. I need to clarify things here by saying, “if there is such a thing.” Yes that’s what it’s coming to; we don’t believe anybody anymore when it comes to politics. So sad. The president says its been hard to get anything done with a do nothing congress. If you get elected Governor and you get a do nothing congress-- and the odds are pretty good you will -- how would you handle that? I have never heard you say, I will do all of these things I am proposing, if congress lets me. How are you going to take down those legislative roadblocks and specifics please? This isn’t a dictatorship. Yet.

I am baffled that when the votes are counted in congress its always along party lines. Somehow, somewhere, there must have been a good idea somewhere across the aisle. Senators and Representatives, do your party ties preclude you from seeing anything good by the other party? Whom do you represent, the party or the voters? Do you think it would work better if no one had any party ties and we had to judge you on your record and not support you because of your party endorsements? Third parties have tried to be in the race but you’re both against third parties. Why is that? I would think it would help you immensely in congress to not have peer pressure from party affiliates.

This is a young country by world standards and it’s going to be a short-lived country if we don’t get back to some honesty and genuine concern about the good of the people and not the good of political parties. It’s hard I know, to be in a country this diverse and please everyone and maybe that’s where you’re confused. You’re not in congress to please everyone; you are there to please the majority. You are there to say NO once in a while. To leave this nation in better shape when you leave, then it was when you went in. You have by your own admission called yourselves a do nothing bunch of legislators. Erase those lines in the sand and maybe, just maybe, we will believe you again and give you back some credibility and you can quit calling each other liars every time there is a campaign. You all should be ashamed of yourselves.

THOSE FALLING LEAVES

                                               

Today as I write, it’s a beautiful Indian summer day and a few lonely oak leaves float lazily down from their lofty perches, and settle into the many puddles of leaves that are starting to dot my lawn. For me, they are reminiscent of many things in my own life, but none so strong as the fact that they are in their death spiral; their job is done, and now they rest. For the summer months they were vibrant, full of green color, and part of a vast family of leaves that formed the canopies of the trees that shaded my house and rustled quietly in the summer breezes. They had a  purpose—a place in nature, and a job to do—but now they are relegated to shriveling up and returning to the very earth they came from, their life cycle complete.

Our own lives are somewhat the same, but much more complex, because even when we are gone our accomplishments will live on, and hopefully, we won’t go to our end in someone’s mulch pile. We have this uncanny persona to influence other people who will, in turn, emulate our character, and hopefully, enrich this world and make it a better place. Each year the tree starts with new buds, void of any kind of personality, and they only do what their predecessors have done over and over again, until at last the tree dies and they with it. Each leaf is its own entity and has no dependence on the others. But in our lives, we build on the accomplishments of those who have gone before us, and those who surround us. We don’t have to start from square one, when we begin, because someone else has already done the work for us and left those indelible imprints in our minds and hearts.

All the leaves of the trees perform pretty much the same chore for their host, the tree. But our lives are so different , and a cornucopia of different talents, abilities and aspirations, and when we blend them together with others we have this homogenous result, forming a more perfect union for all of us. I often think, “what would my life have been like without my parents’ influence and their effect on my development…without my beloved wife, who steered me in the right direction and propped me up when I was falling, and then gave me wings to go places I never dreamed of going.” I didn’t want to be like a leaf; I wanted to have some sort of legacy when my life was done, and with her help and the help of others, it has come to fruition, but history will be my judge, not I.

Sometimes at night, when I miss her the most, I think of the words of Nat King Cole who sang so beautifully, “And now the purple dusk of twilight time, steals across the meadows of my heart. High up in the sky the little stars climb, always reminding me that we’re apart.” Music has always been my crutch. I have always felt that it’s such a shame that too many of us die with most of our music still inside of us. “Though I dream in vain. In my heart it will remain. My stardust melody of love’s refrain.”  When I think of her I don’t want to cry because it’s over; I want to smile because it happened.

Wow! To think. All of that came from a few leaves drifting by my window. Life is good in Mike’s meandering mind.

 

DOES "NO" Mean"NO" ANYMORE?

                                               

If there is one word in our vocabulary that we seem not to understand, it is the word “no.” This two letter, one syllable word, is the most abused word we use. It has been replaced all too often by “but” and “maybe” or “why not.” It’s lost most of its meaning and its authority. Why? Because, for many people, they refuse to have someone else tell them they cannot do something they want to do. I was once told that, “rules without consequences are just mere advice.” The word, “no,’ when used emphatically, should have consequences that uphold its meaning. In many cases it does, but in most cases, it’s ignored.

I do it myself. The speed limit on most highways is 55, but I set my cruise on 62. Why? Because in most cases, you will get away with it. I once drove 55 from Brainerd to Foley on Highway 25. Every car behind me passed me. I was more of a hazard on that curvy road than a law-abiding citizen. Maybe they should say the suggested speed limit is 55. Watch people at stop signs and right turns. “Stop” means to them, if the coast is clear, just slow down a little. Maybe the signs should say “stop if you have to.” Who’s got time to stop, anyway? To some people, “no littering” means “don’t thrown stuff out your window when the cops are around.”

I have a new dog, and the first word I taught her is “No.” I taught her this word because I knew she would be doing lots of things she shouldn’t be doing. I gave her consequences, and for the most part, she does stop what she is doing. Will she do it again? Yes, she’s a dog, not a Rhodes Scholar. But, eventually, she won’t if I stick to my guns. It works with kids, too. I know—I raised three of them. The word has to be used seriously—no mixed messages. When your girlfriend says “no,” and then giggles, what does that mean? It sure isn’t “no.” When I tell my dog “no” when she gets on the couch, and then smile when I find her sleeping there so cute a short time later and do nothing, I’ve lost the battle and my “no” means nothing.

When I grew up, my father was a disciplinarian. His “no” meant “no.” If you tested him, you would lose. As I became older there were fewer and fewer “no’s.” Had he changed? No, he was just letting me take the lead for a change. He had put out the lesson plan a long time ago. He was tired of being the judge and jury, and now it was time for me to either take his lead, or learn my own lessons, sometimes the hard way. When I was small, I didn’t always understand what he was talking about. I did it out of love and respect for the man. My life plan today seriously mimics what he taught me. The world is a fast changing world with some of the social beliefs we encounter. For many of us, it’s hard to change our views and beliefs. Our rules in life come from a time when they were deeply rooted in our faith and traditions. We had a set of “no’s” we grew up with, and they worked for us, and for us to change, seriously wears at our moral fabric. I have another saying I remember. “Lead, follow or get out of the way.” Sometimes, to lead is very unpopular, but still necessary. To follow can be a compromise on what we believe in, but to get out of the way is also a hard choice, because it’s not that far from following when you think about it.