BASEBALL MEMORIES

                                                BASEBALL MEMORIES

Growing up in Staples, I became a nut for baseball at an early age. I loved all kinds of sports, but baseball fit my mentality and my talents better than all of the rest. I say that because I was a small kid, so sports with physical contact left me lying on the ground most of the time. But baseball wasn’t a contact sport, and when the ball was pitched, it was just me and my glove against the hitter, or me and my bat against the fielder. It was a challenge that got my blood boiling, and I played my heart out.

In the summer, we would gather at the field in Pine Grove Park and pick sides. If we didn’t have enough players, we would play workup—where you batted until you made an out, and then you went into the field and rotated through the positions. Everybody pitched, everybody caught and everybody fielded. But many days we had more than enough kids, and we would choose sides, and the game was on. No umpires and no spectators, we played for the love of the game. We drank water from an old steel pump in the park—always filling the can when we were done in case the next user had to prime it—and when we were done with the water we drank, and didn’t sweat out, we left it in the bushes behind third base. The game filled our imaginations, too, and sometimes, if you closed your eyes for a moment, you could hear the murmur of the nonexistent crowd in the old wooden bleachers. 

On many days, we would play the day away and then jump on our bikes for the long ride home, the old mitt hanging from the handlebars with the ball safely tucked inside and the bat tied to the frame of our bike. You went home hungry, sunburnt, and knowing you were going to get it from mom, for the hole you tore in your pants sliding into second base, but it was worth it. The game meant that much to you.

I’m an old man now, and those days are distant memories, but I still remember the names of most of the kids. We never fought or tried to hurt each other; we were brothers of the game. In nineteen fifty-six I broke my leg playing out there, and for the rest of that summer I was on crutches. I felt like a wounded veteran, standing on the sidelines, cheering on my friends. My buddy would give me a ride on his bike, because I couldn’t ride mine, but I had to be there, it meant that much to me. On Sundays, we went out to watch the Railroaders, and I still remember Rev. Ray Ewing walking back and forth in front of the bleachers, selling ice cold pop out of an old galvanized bucket, for a dime. If you turned in a foul ball, you would get a freebie.

Baseball, as we knew it then, taught me a lot about life. It taught me about winning and losing, and getting hurt, and bouncing back. And it taught me the meaning of the word “teamwork.” The most amazing thing about all of this was—we did it ourselves. No coaches, no spectators and no uniforms. No incentive but the love of the game, and the respect of our friends. None of us ever went on to bigger and better baseball. Oh, some of us played baseball in high school, and some of us played for the Railroaders, but our best memories were made out on that old chopped-up field, out at Pine Grove Park.

  

ONCE UPON A TIME

At coffee the other day, one of the guys asked me if I ever started any of my columns out with “Once upon a time.” I don’t remember what I told him, but it got me thinking about the words and what they mean to me. To me, “Once upon a time,” conjures up a story I want to tell. The very word conjure can mean something mystical or magical but it also can mean a reflection brought on by a scent, sound taste or anything that takes you back in your mind to “Once upon a time.” Put another way—it’s just a memory.

I have received some criticism for writing about the past so much. “It’s done and finished,” they say, and now it’s time to move on. But the future for each of us is different—and especially for those people who, to put it bluntly, don’t have a lot of tomorrow’s to draw on. For you see, there comes a time in your life when you’re satisfied with where you have been, and what you have done. You’re not exactly ready to cash it in yet, but when they tell you it’s time to start taking money out of your 401k instead of putting it in—well, the handwriting is on the wall. Old age is a time when many of us are stripped of our titles, dignities and maybe our driver’s license, but no matter how much they try, they can’t take our memories away.

Writers write mostly from their experiences or someone else’s observations. After all, if something hadn’t happened—what would there be to write about? Mark Twain didn’t gain all that wit he shared with us when he was in his twenty’s. He accumulated it over his lifetime. The biggest shame is that he didn’t live to be a hundred, for who knows what else he would have penned. To be smart is to retain what you have seen, heard and experienced—be it “once upon a time.” The only travesty for a lot of us is, just when we have seen and experienced most everything, we lose that God-given ability to remember things. It’s my experience, however, that the memories you lose most often are the things that just happened, and not the memories you cherish and never forget. Those are so ingrained in your mind you will never lose them. Maybe it’s your mind’s way of saying, “I’ll remember the important things. You’ll find your keys eventually.” Years ago, Frank Sinatra sang a song called “Once upon a Time” that says it all for me when it comes to a certain memory I have.

Once upon a time a girl with moonlight in her eyes. Put her hand in mine and said she loved me so. But that was once upon a time, many years ago.

Once upon a time the world was sweeter than we knew. Everything was ours, how happy we were then. But somehow once upon a time, never comes again.

To those of you who are still making most of your memories, those lyrics might not mean much to you right now. Your “once upon a time’s” are just a yesterday away. Your tomorrows seem to stretch out forever, and really, all that is important is the here and now. Believe me, however, time has a way of slip sliding away and before you know it, you too might be sitting at your keyboard and typing, “Once upon a time.”

SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW

                                    

Many years ago a young Judy Garland sang so beautifully. “Somewhere over the rainbow skies are blue. And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true.” The year was 1939 two years before I was born. I grew up hearing that song over and over again and although it’s a melody you can never forget it’s the lyrics I was drawn too, because somewhere in those words came hope that dreams really can come true. Good dreams to me are simply aspirations of things you really like and want to happen. Reality tells us however we must do more than just wish if we want these dreams to come true. We need to act, and make an effort on our part to make them come true. 

This brings me to the crux of my story, about the American dream. What is this American dream we talk about and why is it in peril? The American dream has meant many things to many people but always somewhere in its contents was the freedom to go after the things you have always wanted and wished for. That if you worked hard and stay focused and kept your eye on the goal, most of it would come to you. This was all possible because we lived in a country that encouraged you to do so. The old adage “land of the free” meant simply the opportunity to do this and more if you worked hard. Today the “land of the free” means to many people that you don’t have to do much to help yourself because the government will do it for you and for way to many, this has become a way of life.

On the Statue of Liberty there is inscribed. “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breath free; the wretched refuse of your teeming shores.” Were those words to be interrupted to mean come here and we will take care of you? No. They meant come to this land of opportunity and grow with us and they did. My grandfather was one of them. Millions of people came, just wanting to have a chance to succeed in a growing country without government intervention. That dreams that they dared to dream really did come true here. All they had to do was work hard and believe in themselves. It was truly the American dream.

Fast forward to today. Our country is for all practical purposes broke. Not just broke but broken too. Those huddled masses that came here to work, now come here to get free health care, food and rent subsidies. There is little incentive to work and even less opportunity for jobs because we now send our work to those teeming shores they came from. Our tax laws are a muddled mess of loopholes that allow those who make millions, pay almost nothing and keep their money overseas. I read the other day that the flood of illegal immigrants, across our southern borders has slowed dramatically and not because of stepped up enforcement. It has slowed because there are few reasons to come here when the jobs are being outsourced to the very country they were leaving. What a way to promote America & The American dream.

How long before people in this country leave our teeming shores for a less oppressive business climate. How long before the American dream becomes the American nightmare or are we already there?

OBSERVATIONS FROM ITALY

                                              

Buon giorno readers. I was blessed to be able to go with some friends to Italy a while back and for you who have not been there, I would like to offer the following observations about the country. Keep in mind that these are my opinions and may or may not be shared by those who accompanied me, or others who have been there. To start with, I could not substantiate the notion that Italy is the land of delectable Italian food that will wow your palate with perfect pizzas. I like cheese and sausage on my pizzas and neither seemed to exist where I was. The pizzas seemed to be a rather hard crust with a few veggies and some pepperoni on them and instead of cheese they have oil on them that tasted to me like lucky tiger hair oil. To those who like pasta, they have great pasta but I was unable to find a single meatball or a Godfathers pizza shop. When I asked about “Godfather’s” they drew their finger across their throat and said “Sicily.”

There is no coffee in Rome just shots of espressos that come in cups about the size of the ones that are in a Susie Homemaker play dishes kit. The one-ounce or so of sludge that is in them is equal to about six, five-hour energy drinks. You gulp it down in one swig, wait for your eyes to uncross, and your on your way. There is cappuccino for the non-espresso drinkers, which is the same thing with milk in it. Americano coffee, which is sometimes advertised but frowned upon, is not anything that resembles American coffee. I believe it is illegal to have American coffee in Italy.

Nero and Sons built the current roads in Rome out of cobblestones. Not nice smooth cobblestones like we have but little pointed ones that that poke you in the arch of your foot like walking on top of a picket fence, if you have soft shoes. If you have hard soled shoes it’s like walking across a room full of big marbles. They have no lanes marked off in the roads, so the cars-- which are about the size of those bumper cars you used to see at the state fair years ago—just wander nilly wily all over the road at very fast speeds blowing their horns ever few feet and waving their hands. If there were lanes marked, that would change in a hurry because restaurant owners seem to own at least two lanes of the street, in front of their establishments, and they fill them with tables and chairs for patio eating. So all of the traffic goes from four lanes to two lanes and then back to four again and then they repeat the process in the next block and sometimes more than once in any one block.

Nothing that Rome ever built for the last three thousand years has ever been torn down or removed. They just build around it or over it. If you are in an apartment in Rome, there is good chance, if you went to the basement and stated digging, you would find bones and chariot wheels, or the mother of all finds— Caesars sarcophagus full of old wine bottles. If you are Catholic and want to go to a church in Rome simply make a right turn and walk in. There is literally a church in every block. If you are protestant or Jewish, I can’t be of any help. After walking around about twenty square miles of Rome--scusi me—thirty square kilometers of Rome--I did not see any other kind of church. Despite all of this I fell in love with the eternal city and it’s people. For now, arrivederci my friends.

OUR ANCESTORS

                                                

America is a land of immigrants, and outside of our Native American friends, we all seem to have come from someplace else; albeit for most of us, a few generations removed. As a young man, one of the things I remembered happening, was people saying to me, “Holst—is that Scandinavian?” At this point, I would proudly tell them about how my grandfather came over from Norway on a tramp steamer, when he was eleven years old, to this land of milk and honey. Then the conversation would go on to Klub, Lefsa, Lutefisk, Krumkake and every other Norwegian dish you could think of.  By the way, I don’t do Lutefisk, and never have, but I still go to the church suppers for the Lefsa and the Norwegian atmosphere. My father said, “The only difference, between Lutefisk and snot, is that you can get kids to eat snot” and by the way, he was Norwegian. But my point is, those ethnic ties were a sense of pride to them and through interbreeding, it’s something we’re slowly losing.

I lost my mother when I was four. Her maiden name was Cromie, which is an old Irish name. I also know they came from the Belfast area. My father said she was mostly Irish so that’s the other half of me. Right near the top of my bucket list is a trip, someday, to both Norway, and Ireland. I have to admit, a pot of corn beef and cabbage makes my mouth drool like a sprinkler head in a burning building; and in the shower, my rendition of “Danny Boy” is a real tearjerker—especially after a couple of Jamison’s. I remember visiting my wife at the cemetery a while back, and those lyrics from “Danny Boy” came filtering through my mind. “And I shall hear, tho’ soft you tread above me. And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be. If you’ll not fail to tell me that you love me. I’ll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.” Yes, somewhere the simplicity of that old Gallic life style still stirs my soul, and yes, it’s been said “If you’re lucky enough to be Irish—you’re lucky enough.”

When I was first married I would go to family get-togethers, on my wife’s side of the family, down in Stearns County. They, like most of their neighbors, were of German heritage. We ate pig hocks and sauerkraut, and drank mugs of beer from New Ulm breweries, no less; also German sausage and hot potato salad. We danced the polka and the schottische, and old-time waltzes at places like the New Munich Ballroom. In every town, the centerpiece of the town seemed to be the steeple of a Catholic church—where most of them had been baptized, confirmed, confessed their sins and were eventually laid to rest in cemeteries behind the church where the tombstones read like a “Who’s who of the countryside.” It was always “Guten Morgan” when you arrived and “Auf Weidersehen when you left—her ninety-year-old grandma, with tears running down her face when we departed, extending her arms to heaven and saying, “mag Gott Segnen” or “may God bless.”

Yes, in everything I’ve talked about above, these were simple people who lived simple lives, never forgetting their roots. It’s not that way, anymore, and it’s sad. Sad because they’re gone, yes, but sad because gone, too, is the food, drink, traditions and the language that meant so much to them at the time—replaced by a different life, in a fast-paced American world that has no place for these, anymore.

LONELYNESS

My friend is a retired nurse who graciously and generously still volunteers her time and talents at a nursing home. She spent her whole life carrying for people and teaching others how too, and I think she doesn’t know how to quit and that is good. But the reason I’m writing about this is, we talked a while back and she said the one thing that seems to standout in nursing homes is the loneliness of the people. My Father –in –law lived in a home for many years and each time my family would go to visit grandpa we too would see the vacant looks on the faces of people who never saw anyone but the staff. Christmas, Easter, and holidays were always the hardest and although you wanted to bring them all home to dinner you knew you couldn’t.

Each and every day the medical people in this country tell us how to take care of our selves in one way or another. “Eat this and you’ll feel better. Don’t smoke and get out and walk or exercise,” they tell us. “If you don’t use that body you will lose it. Your body doesn’t necessarily wear out but like an old car it slows down and unless you keep it up it will rust away.” They talk about your mind too and how you need to challenge it with conversations, reading and crossword puzzles. It, like your body and that old car, can deteriorate with of lack of use and your mind is a terrible thing to waste.

But back to the nursing home. For so many of these people the world has ceased to exist beyond the confines of the front doors. The staffs work hard to keep them busy and occupied but there are only so many things you can do with so few people. What the people really need is someone from the outside to talk with. Someone to take them shopping or to the Dairy Queen. Someone to take them to the cemetery on Memorial Day to say hi to the one they spent the better part of their lives with. Someone who will tell them they are still needed and loved. Many of them do have some family that visits and cares and that is good but those who don’t, feel the loneliness twice as bad when they’re left behind alone.

Our bodies cannot survive without food, water and medicine. Our minds cannot survive without love and interaction from people who care. We remember when we were kids and we used to whine to mom, “I have nothing to do. I’m bored.” Yes even then we needed to be occupied. Think how it must be now at the other end of your life. As kids we never thought about death and dying but for the old and shut-in’s you couldn’t help but dwell on it because there is little left to think about when you are all alone like that.

Maybe I should take this a step farther because there are shut-in’s and lonely people in their own homes who suffer too.  On July 4^th 1939, Lou Gehrig, sick with A.L.S. said in his farewell speech. “I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.” He wasn’t talking about money or fame. He surely wasn’t talking about the disease that would go on to bear his name. He was talking about his fans and friends. For a lot of people in the twilight of their lives that’s all they have left, family and friends. If your one of them, try hard to be there for them.

114 3RD AVE NO.

                                                

The house I grew up in, in Staples doesn’t exist anymore. It’s just an empty parking lot now. But on the corner of that lot is a lonely survivor. A lilac bush, that was there when I was living there.  It was the one my baseball always got caught up in when the front yard was a ball field. It was the last thing I passed on my way to school and the first thing I passed on the way home. It bloomed for a few weeks in the spring but otherwise there was nothing significant about it when I lived there. Now it’s all that is left to remind me of the dozen years or so it was part of my home.

It’s been over fifty years since I walked down that dirt driveway and caught a bus to Minneapolis and five times as much time has passed, as when I lived there. Fifty years of working and raising kids of my own with my loving wife. Something still draws me to that place more than anywhere else I ever lived. I go stand by that bush when I’m in Staples and close my eyes and I can still picture that old house and all of the people who called it home.

Was it because it was such a beautiful place? No. By today’s standards it was a shack. Was it because it was so comfortable? No it wasn’t that comfortable.  Not with two adults and eight kids in a three-bedroom house with one bathroom. A wood furnace that went out at night and we left the faucets running to keep the pipes from freezing. I’m not going to bore you with what it was like to be poor, I just wanted you to know that in that house was something money couldn’t buy and something I could never forgot. For you see it’s not the house that mattered at all, it was the family that lived within those walls that I can’t forget. They tore down that house, save for that bush in the corner, but what I remember and what I am writing about will never be forgotten because I remember the home that was there.

House’s are just bricks, mortar, boards and nails. Homes are life it’s self. Every emotion you’re capable of came out of that home. Houses need to be cared for, painted, caulked and reroofed. Homes are with you as long as you live. You emulate the good home you had there no matter where you live. I drive around the countryside a lot and I see people who live in rundown homes and dilapidated trailers. Your first inclination is to feel sorry for them but then you remember that it’s what inside that shelter that is so important and in many ways, they may be happier then those who live in the mansions on the high bluffs of Whitefish Lake.

Mom and Dad are gone now but all eight of us kids are still here. We get together once a year in the summer time and poke fun at each other. I always look beyond the gray hair and wrinkles when we meet and into the eyes. Your eyes never change and they betray your emotions so well. They sparkle when you’re happy and well up and spill over when you are sad. They are the conduit for seeing and storing virtually ever memory we keep. That’s why when I go and stand by that old lilac bush and close my eyes. I still see and feel, what I saw, so many years ago.

HERE COMES SPRINGTIME

                                               

 Spring seems to have a reputation of its own amongst the seasons of the year. Almost always it evolves around the renewal and rebirth of our earth. For way back last fall, before the earth shed its fading summer colors and the cold winds of winter came forth to put the flora and fauna to sleep—and encapsulate us all in ice and snow—the seeds for this year’s summer scene were sown. Not only in and on this earth, but also in the warm wombs of a great many animals, that they might replenish themselves and propagate their species. Mother Nature knows there is only one season for birth in the wild. It’s a season that supplies food for those young, emerging babies, and gentle rains with ample warm sunshine to nurture plants. One, that only happens in springtime and it happens best right here. Even the birds that flew thousands of miles to escape the rigors of winter come back—knowing this is where they need to nest and raise their young.

But beyond all that, something called spring fever happens in the minds of people who have long endured whatever winter had to throw at them. Then, as if on cue, this rebirth comes to fruition. Nowhere is it more prominent than here in the lakes’ country. For nature abounds here, and it is such an integral part of life in this land, and it’s no accident this place was chosen to showcase it all. No accident at all that this is where it all seems to come together like clockwork. Where streams, freshened with melting snow and ice, team with fish looking to spawn; and the sky above is filled with birds looking for a place to nest. Musty burrows and dens are abandoned and creatures that lay forgotten and napping for months now, stretch their legs and show off their tiny replicas that were born in the springtime.

I remember being in school, in the springtime, and how hard it was to keep my mind on my studies. How I would go to the pencil sharpener by the classroom window so I could smell the soft breezes that came in the open windows; how the air outside smelled like freshly turned dirt and lilac blossoms. The maple trees across the street, swelling with buds, would be wet with running sap. The playground was inviting me to a game of marbles and I could almost hear the crack of the bat on the baseball diamond. My daydreams were a brief respite from my studies and from those dreams came a desire to leave the confines of that room to escape to the fields and forest.

I’m older now, and I have cashed so many spring coupons from the book of life. The woods are right outside my back door, and I go there quite often. No more daydreaming at the pencil sharpener. No more trying to reinvent the wheel or feel the pulse of government. Nothing on this earth compares with the beauty, the peace and serenity that is there just for the taking. For Molly, my faithful companion, and me, it’s always been there for us come springtime. New sights for me, new smells for her, and a new season for all of us as we walk the trails in Mother Nature’s own back yard.

ALL MY FRIENDS

                                                          

You know I’ve made a lot of friends in my life and not a day goes by that I don’t thank the good lord for that. There is a big difference between living on and existing on this earth and I truly believe that a man with no friends only exists. But I want to take this story in a different direction when I talk about friends. I want to put my human friends on the backburner, if only for a few minutes and talk about my four legged friends.

I have been blessed with many dogs over my life, just as I have been blessed with uncountable human friends. I do find one small but unforgettable difference however and this is it. When the chips are down the four-legged friends will never forsake you. I have one sitting on my feet right now as she often does. She has no idea what I am doing and you know what she doesn’t care either. She just wants to be close to me. If I get up and leave the room she follows me. If I go away and don’t take her with me, she sits by the back door and her look tells me she is disappointed in me. I’ve disappointed people too in my life. Sometimes on purpose and sometimes not. But the big difference here is when I come home to my dog, instantly all is forgiven and just that fast. Not always true with humans.

Gus my Chocolate Lab of fourteen years died at my feet a couple of years ago. I was already suffering with a death in the family and so this just added to my grief. But you know I was strangely calm that night. As much as I love my dogs I won’t rate them up there with family members or very good friends. I remember putting him in the back porch because it was late that evening when he died. I slept fitfully that night and the next morning when the sun came up I got my shovel and dug his grave where I had already visioned it being. Then I wrapped him in a clean blanket and laid him in the hole along with all of his favorite toys. I knelt there in the dirt and cried and thanked him for all the good times we had together. Oh there were bad times too, but I prefer to remember the good things in life and not just with dogs. I needed to be as forgiving with him as he always was with me. A few weeks later I bought a small rock marker with his name on it.

Now today it’s Mollie. I’m seventy-two now so it’s safe to say if she lives a normal life she will probably be the last dog for me. With any luck maybe we’ll both check out at the same time. Dogs are a lot like humans in one other way. They usually grow up to be about as nice as you want them to be or as bad as you let them to be. It’s been said, “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” Now I bet there are some wives out there that can tell you some tales about old boys too.

For now Mollie is a work in progress and I’m enjoying being part of that project. I’ve learned over the years that you want to be careful about teaching your dog something that you might regret because unteaching them is a whole lot harder then teaching them. I don’t like being embarrassed by my dog because I know that smart people see that as a direct reflection of me and you know what? They’re right.

WINTER THOUGHTS

                                                

It was one of those winter days when the storm that had blown through, the day before, coated every tree and bush in a clinging frosting of brilliant white. It was a day when the earth dazzled in this cloak of ice crystals, and black and white became the only colors available. The snow gave a hushness to the forest that even the birds and animals respected, for they were nowhere to be found that morning. It seemed almost sacrilegious for me to walk through it because of the crunching snow beneath my boots—as if I was destroying the serenity Mother Nature had bestowed on it.

Winter has a beauty and a purpose that sometimes transcends our reasoning powers. We spend too much time cursing the cold and ice, and too little time enjoying the things that are only here for a couple of months. As I sat on a fallen tree that morning, enjoying the peacefulness of the forest, a gentle breeze blew through the woods; a crescendo of powdery snow fell from the boughs of the pine trees to the forest floor below, and for a moment, I felt as if my world had tipped and I was a tiny figurine in an immense snow globe. The silence I was respecting had been broken by this, but only for a brief moment. The surrounding snow cover gave me a vision of snugness in the forest around me—as if it and all God’s creatures were tucked in, safe and sound, from the cold winter winds that would surely come.

Yoko Ono said, “In spring we remember our innocence, in summer our exuberance, in fall our reverence. But it’s only in winter, when we remember our perseverance.” Winter can be a cruel thing to those who don’t understand it and who don’t take the necessary precautions. But for those who do, and who learn to live in it, and with it, it’s as much a religious experience as an inconvenience. Each season on this earth has its own form of beauty, and to miss the contrast of winter, from the other seasons, can leave a hole in your heart and a memory that can’t be duplicated in any other way. It’s a wondrous time, when we realize that the sun hasn’t shunned us for no reason at all—it has a purpose indeed.

When I was kid growing up, there was a certain aroma that came from the burning oak and birch in the wood stove at our house. It smelled more like heat than any other explanation for the word. It was a heat that seemed to radiate around the room without any fancy fans or filters. It was as close a match as you could get to the heat from the sun. My father, who cut wood all of his life, said “it always warmed you twice. Once when you cut it, and once when you burned it.”

But back to the woods and my love for nature. I am a Christian man and I go to church because that’s where most people feel the closest to their God. When I am out in nature, however, I have similar feelings. You see, despite the beauty of our churches, nothing can compare to the beauty of the earth. Man has built immense stone cathedrals, with lofty spires that reach high into the sky, piercing the clouds but they pale in comparison to the stark beauty of the earth.

RETIREMENT

                                              

There comes a time in all our lives called retirement and for some of us it seems to be an almost useless time when suddenly we have little or no purpose. When the kids have all come and gone--- and come and gone again. When the staff meetings have all been exhausted and you have your handshake, a hug and a gold watch and    when for the first time since you started on this trip way back then, no one comes to you for direction anymore. Not that you were all that important in the scheme of things anyway but for many years you were part of a team that worked so well and along with the work and responsibility came the rewards and the accolades and atta boys that felt so good and you had so many friends, or at least you thought you did. But then a day came when you sensed it was you’re time, and for the first time since you kissed your mom goodbye, cut the aprons strings, and drove off into the sunset seeking fame and fortune, while still wet behind the ears, you are going to shift gears and change direction. It’s a big step because you sense that once you commit to this there is no going back and you’re technically in the last quarter of life and the curtain is slowly rising on the final act. But some inner voice says it’s just too hard to keep up with the pack anymore and things have changed so much and you’re just sick and tired of that old rat race that used to pump you up and make you feel important. “Oh wow, look at this I got a letter from the scooter store today. I know I limp when I’m tired-- but who knew, they knew.”

You stuff the alarm clock in the nightstand drawer-- under those red silk boxers you’ll never wear again—and say you’ll get up when you want too, or nature calls. You savor your morning coffee now while reading the paper, instead of gulping it while waiting for a red light. You take a long trip out west and you know there is no timeline when you have to be back, but old habits die-hard and you grow restless for home. After all, how many red rocks and gray mountains, and sandy deserts, can one man look at before they all look the same? You long for your own bed and your style of chili and you miss that old coot next door who always bitches about everything and suddenly you realize that sometimes now he makes more sense then he used to and “Oh! My God I’m getting just like him.” You go back to work to visit and for the first few times they all gather around you as if you’re back from the dead, but then slowly the visits seem to make no sense because everyone is busy and you feel like you’re in the way There are so many new faces, and they are all doing it the wrong way anyway, and when you try to tell them that, they smile politely and walk away.

But a day comes when you know now is the time to let go completely and you’re going to write a book, or paint a picture or be someone’s day brightener. You’re not going to tell anyone how to do anything anymore and you’re going to learn how to grow a garden and share your thoughts and tales with your grandkids. Your just going to enjoy the life you have left and there is so much purpose if you just look for it. Maybe everyday is Saturday now, but there are still things to do and places to go, and people to see. Before long you are joking that you don’t know when you had time to work, and someday maybe you will retire again, but only on your terms, and when you are darn good and ready, because there is no mandatory age for that. 

GODS LAWS VERSES MAN'S LAWS

                                                                       

 I grew up with the Ten Commandments and I still believe in them. A lot of people today don’t, because they can’t make amendments to change them like they do with man’s laws. They want to write thou shall not kill except in cases of---. Thou shall not steal except when---. Thou shall not commit adultery unless---. I could go on.

God’s laws-- the ones he handed down to Moses-- are still as they were written, way back then. He’s not changing them and no man has the right to either but unlike mans laws we can ignore them, can’t we? Or can we? I guess we’ll find out someday. In the meantime we will abide by mans laws and when they don’t fit our life style we will change them and oh yes--- we have-- countless times. We will change them so we can do whatever we want to do.

I like history. I read it and I watch the history channel often. It intrigues me how people lived, like they did back then and what they accomplished and how innovative they were. But then history isn’t just about good things is it? It’s about times when they messed up and caused wars and people to suffer. Lessons in life my grandfather called them. Webster says lessons have to do with education. But that’s only true if you learn something from them. The people we have in congress today don’t believe in lessons. They want to find out their own way--the hard way. To bad it’s often at our expense. Oh well, still they won’t look bad in the history books. Because no one reads then anyway and if they do they’ll just deny it anyway. Thou shall not bear false witness against----. Wait! That’s the other guy’s laws. We don’t have to do that.

I’m not sure why some people don’t like advice from other well-meaning people and especially if its a deity. It’s free and if you have something better, then by all means do it but be careful on how you define better. Better yet, write about it and share it with the rest of us. But the Ten Commandments wasn’t meant to be just advice. It was meant to be rules God wanted us to live by. If we did, he promised us he’d do something nice for us and the world would be a better place to live in.  In effect he was telling us “this is as close as I can get you to heaven on earth.” God doesn’t have any jails to put you in if you break his laws. Not while your alive anyway. Mans laws however are just the opposites because they will put you in jail and throw your butt out when you’re dead.

In the end history will record something about us however and it’s not looking good. The books will read that mankind had the recipe right in front of them and it was a good one. That people a few centuries back came to this country to escape exactly what we seem to be falling into today and the rules they set up mimicked Gods laws. They will say too that countless other people and countries have failed for the same reason America is failing. Greed does funny things to people and it always has. We think we want something better for ourselves when in reality what we really want is to be totally in charge. Even when were wrong.

THE WEATHER

I have a daughter who moved to Mesa a while back and she lets me know how warm it is down there and especially whenever its unseasonably cold up here. I, in turn let her know what summer is like in Crosslake, when it’s one hundred and ten or better down there. We get about two months of real cold weather and they get about four months of real hot weather so I get the better of that little good natured game-- I think. We both do what is obvious when it is to cold or hot outside and we stay inside, where we can regulate the temperature. She is homebound more than me. We get some summer storms and they get sand storms. We have mosquitoes and they have bugs that make mosquitoes look like dust bunnies. She has a pool to cool down in and I have four hundred acres of water where I can do the same. Plus mine has a dock and fish in it and no chlorine. The dentist tells me that chlorine is good but I have been checking and I haven’t found any fish with cavities yet.

Now if you have enough time and money to live in both places-- opposite the weather extremes-- then that’s a good thing, right. Otherwise you learn to cope. There are reasons people settled in Minnesota –besides the wagon breaking down---and I am sure there are reasons people settled in Arizona too, but you would have to ask them about that and I’m sure it had nothing to do with the weather. When you meet someone in Minnesota, in the winter, stranger or not, the first words out of your mouth are usually “Cold enough for you.” It’s what’s called an icebreaker-- no pun intended. After that you find out, he or she went to school with your sister and you both know the mayor of Merrifield. By the way I was corrected the other day and it is Merr- a- field and not Merryfield. There is no merry in Merrifield and you can take that anyway you want to.

My daughter says nothing piles up in her driveway that needs to be shoveled. True but skiing in sand is a drag. Plus I have a four-wheeler with a blade on it and when it snows, I go play. Then I play in three other driveways that pay me to play in their snow. Try making a snow angel in the desert. You get all dirty and you might have ants in your pants when you get done or worse, a scorpion in your scrotum. Disregarding the St Patrick’s Day parade of 2012, I have never been in a traffic jam in Crosslake. Driving in Phoenix is nothing short of a demolition derby but I have to give them this one. It is warm while you wait for the tow truck and the cops to show up.

Last week my son-in law sent me a clipping showing that they were having outdoor movies in the park in Mesa and he remarked “that would never happen in Minnesota in the winter.” Then I pick up the Northland press and there it was in the Winter Festival agenda. Outdoor movies. That got clipped and sent back to him the same day. Yaw- sure- you- betcha it did. I giggled all the way to the post office. Am I going to the outdoor movies? Only if I can get my snowmobile fixed so I can sit on it.

READERS CHECK OUT MY NEW WEB SITE.    www.mikeholstbooks.com

Now it’s really all relative isn’t it? So far in this country you can live wherever you want to and everybody has to be somewhere don’t they? What ever rocks your boat or turns your crank and makes you a happy, then that’s what’s important isn’t it

PROGRESS

When I get up each morning I put on my watch and clothing; and the last thing I do before I leave the confines of my bedroom is slip my cell phone in my pocket.  Then I think I’m ready to face the world, for one more day. Seems kind of hypocritical for a guy who writes about, “how life was so much simpler in the world I grew up in as a kid.” Now I’m not some important person, who is going to make an earth- shattering decision, so its imperative I stay in touch—but you not going to win cash call on the radio if your not home. If you can’t lick them you have to join them or get lost in the dust. I know a few people who do refuse to join and they seem to get along just fine. Call me a conformist.

If you ask me, my phone has become my lifeline to the world. In reality, nothing bad ever happened on the days I forgot it but that’s irrelevant. My phone tells me the temperature, but so does the sign at the bank, the thermometer by the back door and my knee. It reminds me when it’s someone’s birthday, but so does the calendar in the kitchen. I can get e-mails—that will still be on the computer when I get home. It has G.P.S if I can ever remember how to use it. I don’t text. I draw the line there as my fingers are too fat, and shake too much, so I can’t type on the dang thing anyway. It keeps my little granddaughter busy playing “Angry Birds” so her mom and I can talk.” There—I found something useful. But then, if I took the seventy dollars a month it costs to have it, I could buy her lots of stuff to keep her busy, couldn’t I.

I go to the woods for peace and quiet, but more than once, a phone call has interrupted my peace and quiet and me. I even got a call while deer hunting, sitting in my tree stand trying to be quiet. I’ve been called when I’m on the “John” and you can’t even flush because who wants them to know where you are and what you are doing. Some things still need to be a little private! I feel sorry for people who are sexually active. Now that’s a decision to make, isn’t it? The other day, I told my friend “make sure you take your phone when you go to the mailbox.” She patronized me.

When I go to church, the first announcement they make is “shut off your cell phones.” The other day in church, the guy behind me was texting while the Priest was talking and it sounded like he was playing Twinkle Twinkle little Star. Sometimes I’m on the house phone—and don’t ask me why I have both—when the cell phone rings. I want to say something classy like “Excuse me, I have a call on another line,” but usually I lose one while I’m talking to the other, and the last thing the person I am talking to hears, is “Oh crap.” What’s that? You were that person and I didn’t say crap.’ Maybe what I ought to flush is this column. I grew up in Staples and we had one basic black phone in our house. No kids allowed on it unless someone asked for you. No dials or buttons on it—you just picked it up and the operator said, “Number please.” It was a three-digit number. If there was a fire, and they blew the whistle on the water tower to summon the fireman, you could pick up the phone and say “Hey, where’s the fire, Susan?” She’d tell you. “What a bunch of backwards people,” you say. I kind of liked it. Got to go…I have a call.

WHAT LIFE'S ABOUT

                                                 

I have always felt that it’s not what you accomplish in your life that is so important, but how you lived your life that counts. For you see, when all is said and done, the thing that will live on the longest after you’re gone is how people felt about you. What you accomplished in life will probably fit on one page or even one paragraph, in your obituary, but what you inspired others to do might well be a book full. It’s the “gift that keeps on giving” long after you’ve left the scene, and in this case, it was my wife that gave the gift.

Last week was Valentine’s Day. Last year, I took out an old weathered Valentine my wife had given me, twenty some years ago. It was one of those with a little battery in it, and when you opened it up, it played the theme from “Love Story.” You remember…that old 1970 movie with Ryan O’Neil and Alli MacGraw. I kept it in my desk drawer all of these years, and the older it got, the fewer times I would open it because I wanted the battery to last. Then, last year after she had passed and Valentine’s Day rolled around again, I opened it once more. The battery was dead. I think the card was telling me something. That being, that lots of things—the battery in this case—only last for a while, but the real message that came with the giving of that card will go to my grave with me. That message being that she taught me how to live and love and she never meant it to stop when she did.

What have I learned in the last year and a half? I learned that you can sit and pine and wallow in your pity puddle, or you can move on…and maybe…just maybe, you will learn that you weren’t at a dead-end in life’s trip down the highway of life. That all it took was to build a new road around the obstructions that were put there, and before you know it, you’re moving forward again. It’s not a matter of betrayal or not caring; it’s a matter of survival and sharing with someone new what you learned back there on that path you traveled. Sometimes, we think we measure strength by holding on, but the true measure comes in letting go and doing the things you feared you could never do.

I saw this on the Internet and wanted to share it with you.

We don’t understand joy—until we are faced with sorrow.

Faith—until it is tested

Peace—until faced with conflict

Trust—until we are betrayed.

Love—until it is lost

Hope—until confronted with doubts.

Life is, and always will be, a series of learning lessons that do us absolutely no good until we use them. What better way to honor your teacher than to emulate him or her, and once again share your love. Love unshared isn’t love. It has to be recognized by others before it’s truly love. I bought a valentine for a special friend this year. One without a battery.

Readers. Check out my new web site.---www.mikeholstbooks.com

LIFE GOES ON

Yesterday I journeyed to the cities for a funeral—one of many I have gone to since my wife died. But this one had a déjà vu attached to it. For you see, my cousin lost his loving wife of sixty years. He, like me, had what so many people only dream about. A loving, faithful wife, yes, but beyond that, he too had married his best friend. It’s marriages like this that show the way for many others—namely, your children and grandchildren. The most beautiful dress in the world starts with a simple pattern or idea. Then it is cut out and sewn together to complete it. Until it is finished, it’s just a piece of cloth with no purpose. That’s how good families are built. I have been privileged in my life to be part of one such marriage, but more than that, I have witnessed many others and this was truly one of them.

I wanted to say to my cousin “Where does life go from here? With a broken heart and your spirit like this, how can you go on from here?”  Well, to start with, you simply look around you at the product of your love with him or her; and smile at your accomplishments. Namely, your decedents, for it is in them that life goes on. Yes, they are suffering now too, but it’s not the same. They will go home to their busy lives and their own families and no, they won’t forget about you or her, but time will weigh heavy on your thoughts, whereas they will be preoccupied somewhat with their families, they won’t have the opportunity to feel the pain of loss as much. Common sense tells us we can only think in so many directions at once. Your responsibility has doubled, however, because the matriarch is gone and now it’s up to you to remember each and every birthday, anniversary, to pay the bills, and do the shopping.

For a while, your house will seem like a shrine. Every knick-knack, every dish and couch pillow has a story behind it. You can’t open the picture albums because it hurts too much. The bed that seemed so small—when you were both fighting for blankets in it—now looms like a football field and you’re sleeping in the end zone. You avoid the table where you shared your meals and eat at the lunch counter, or in your chair in front of the television.  Your diet consists of anything you can fit between two slices of bread. When you’re in the car you miss the chatter, even if it was only complaints about your driving abilities or what you listened to on the radio.

But healing will take place, and it seems like the deeper the love you had, the longer the recovery takes, but here is where patience is indeed the virtue. You have to let it all play out. At some point, that big bed becomes normal again, and you find yourself sleeping in the middle. You dig out her recipe box because you’re tired of liver sausage sandwiches and potato chips. You keep the house clean because there is a reason she kept it clean and it’s finally sinking in. When springtime comes, you plant flowers because, although it reminds you of her, for once you want to be reminded. You don’t go to the cemetery as much and you cry less when you do go. For some, another lonely heart may come their way, and if it does, don’t harden your heart. Most of all make no comparisons. We’re all meant to be special in our own way—you just have to search for it. He or she would want you to be happy, would they not? Lastly—remember—pity doesn’t come in a bottomless cup.

THEN THERE IS LOVE.

                                                

As we go through life we experience a lot of emotions. They impact us in a variety of ways including how we act, what we say and how we feel about others. These emotions seem to run the gauntlet from hate and suspicion to laughter, sadness, love and so many more. Most of them we need to control, and some of them we could well do without if only we could—but always we need to deal with them. Most of them involve other people, and then others are just ours alone to deal with. I could write a book about all of them, and how they have impacted my life, but for right now, I want to talk about the one I think is the most important to all of us, and that is love.

It has been said that there is no real darkness—just the absence of light. Using that analogy I would say this. There is no hatefulness or loneliness in our lives, just the absence of love. Love may be gone from your life for many reasons. Some of us have never sought it. Some of us have experienced it and lost it through faults of our own, and some of us lost it because it was taken from us. Love is an essential emotion that needs to be cultured and taken care of from the time it is a tiny seed. It can’t exist without some form of cooperation from you. You give it and you will get it back.

In the lyrics to the song “The Rose,” Amanda McBroom wrote about what it’s like to live with or without love. “Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless aching need. I say love, it is a flower and you its only seed.” How many people have you known that refuse to give himself or herself to anyone? How many people have you known that can’t stand the thought of losing something or someone and for that reason they rob themselves of all the benefits of love. Love doesn’t make the world go around, that’s just a clique—but it does make the ride much more enjoyable.

The word love has been abused over the years. So many times I have heard the phrase “Make Love.” You don’t make love but you do make love happen, and more times than not it doesn’t involve anything physical. Writers are always looking for synonyms or other ways to say things. They don’t like to repeat themselves. Love, as strong as an emotion as it is, has very few synonyms. Fondness comes to mind, and maybe affection, but most people just prefer good old love. Everything else seems to smack of Hollywood’s version of love, which all too often is mostly smut.

Love is the rhythm on the dance floor of life. It’s no fun to dance alone and it’s hard to live alone, and for that reason, life and your feelings are meant to be shared. You can ignore love, but you shouldn’t. You can always close your eyes to things you don’t want to see, but you can’t close your heart to things you don’t want to feel. You have to deal with them. I speak from experience when I say, “love is like a puzzle.” When you’re in love all the pieces fit so perfectly, and the picture makes so much sense, but when your heart gets broken the pieces are meaningless, all in a mess. But if you’re careful and don’t lose any of the pieces, they will all come together again when love comes back. If you let it, it always will. “Far beneath the bitter snows, lies the seed that with the sun’s love, in the spring becomes the rose.”