Don Timmerman

July 26th, 2026

Don Timmerman died of cancer on July 19th. He spent almost all of his adult life advocating for peace and justice. I am tempted to say that he was “fighting” for those causes, but I’m not sure if that word is appropriate to describe a man who was an absolute pacifist. Based on his understanding of the Gospels, especially the Beatitudes, Don rejected all wars, and by extension all aspects of the military. He was an elder and leader at the Casa Maria Catholic Worker House in Milwaukee, WI. He posted a monthly newsletter, Casa Cry, in which he consistently railed against the U.S. military/industrial complex and the violence and suffering it produces. He used his jeremiads to stir the consciences of those people who bothered to peruse his essays, and he encouraged them to protest against the evils of war. Unfortunately, I suspect that most if not all his readers already agreed with most of his views. He was preaching to the choir.

I did not know Don well. I can’t remember how I met him. Nor can I remember the last time I spoke to him. Up until the time that my wife and I became guardians and fulltime caregivers for our little grandson, Asher, I was often involved in protests of one sort or another. I would see him at these demonstrations. It was his calling to bear witness. In that sense, Don was a prophet, like those in the Hebrew scriptures. If he saw injustice, he had to say something, or at least silently show his opposition to it. He had to be there.

It seems odd that I ever met him at all. Our paths in life were radically different. Don trained to be missionary priest in Tanzania. He was at one time a translator for Mother Teresa. He became deeply involved with the Catholic Worker movement. He repeatedly participated in antiwar protests and was often arrested for civil disobedience. He was passionate about living as a disciple of Christ.

I, on the other hand, graduated from West Point and I spent six years as a commissioned officer in the U.S. Army. I served in a helicopter unit in West Germany during the early 1980’s. My oldest son, Hans, enlisted in the Army in 2009. He went to war in Iraq. He came back damaged.

Don frequently demonstrated against ROTC at Marquette University in Milwaukee. I went there with him once. It was a lonely vigil. I think he was often all alone when he protested, but he felt that it was duty to be there. Don believed that it was wrong for a Catholic school to support ROTC. The administration at Marquette disagreed with him. I stood with him holding a sign to protest the training of military officers at Marquette. At one point, a young, fresh-faced ROTC cadet walked past us nervously. He glanced at me and hurried away. When I looked at the cadet, I saw me, an earlier version of myself. That shook me. I understood why this young man was wearing a uniform and doing what he was doing. I firmly believe that Don did not understand. He saw it all in terms of right and wrong, black and white. ROTC was wrong. Period.

The times when I was demonstrating with Don were educational for me. They also made me feel uneasy. It should be noted that my wife and I did absolutely everything we could to keep Hans out the wars. We used advice from the Quakers to show him as a conscientious objector in the system when he had to sign up for the Selective Service. The irony was that Hans enlisted anyway, and for all the same reasons that I had when I joined up fifty years ago. Hans and I were, and in a way still are, part of the system that Don so intensely opposed. We’re vets and he never was.

Back on May 1st of this year, I posted an essay on my blog, “It’s Still about Iran”. Read it if you want. Don did, and he sent a remarkably long response to what I wrote. I attempted in my article to describe what a disaster the current war against Iran is. I did not write the essay solely for pacifist readers. Actually, this article was also posted on a veteran’s website, The Havok Journal. I did not use moral arguments against the war. Don had always used moral persuasion, with limited success. I tried mostly to explain why the war was so stupid. Thomas Merton once said that a man would rather be considered clever than good. I tried to appeal to a person’s intellect more than to their conscience.

Don sent me a variation of his usual diatribe against war. He apparently assumed that I support war in general, and that I only opposed to this current fiasco. In his response, his last words to me were:

“You have chosen the state over Christ.”—Don Timmerman and Casa Maria C.W. community

That stung.

The fact that is that I agree with almost all that he said. One thing I learned from my time with Don was that people seldom listen to moral exhortations. Prophets are usually ignored, or worse. Maybe I have chosen the State over Christ. Or maybe I see more nuances than Don did. I don’t know about that. All I know is that my son and I have suffered from the effects of war. I think I hate war as much as Don did, and I may have more reason to do so.

I wrote back to Don, and I asked him not to judge me.

He replied, “Of course.”

Don was a good man. I admire his courage and his dedication. He lived his faith.

I just wish we had known each other better. I wish we had understood each other better.

It’s only Two Years

July 23rd, 2026

She called this morning to talk with her son. The young woman also took a couple minutes to explain some things to me. As usual, it was all business.

She told me, “I got some bad news.”

I braced myself, “Okay…”

She went on, “I talked to the staffer (DOC official) and she said that I don’t qualify for ERP (Early Release Program). So, my release date is February 4th, 2028.”

Then she said, “The good news is that I will probably be rated for minimum security.”

That’s all that she wanted to tell me. It was more than enough. I am still emotionally sorting through the ramifications. The judge gave her full credit for time served in jail for her two felonies. I mentally added up her time already spent inside and applied that to what she has yet to serve, and it comes up to two years, which is exactly what the judge gave her for a sentence. Because one of her offenses is a violent crime, “truth in sentencing” comes into play. Whatever amount of time the judge gave her is precisely how long she will sit.

It’s only two years. Depending on your perspective, it isn’t really that much time or it is for-fucking-ever. I’m sure for the young woman it is a long time, especially since her five-year-old son will be different in many ways when she is released. She told him on the phone, “You’ll be seven when I get out.” A lot can happen in two years. He will mature a great deal during that time, and she might also change significantly. It’s hard enough keep up with the changes in a small child if you are with him every day. Being away for two years makes it far more difficult to maintain that relationship.

Being designated as a minimum-security inmate means that this woman will most likely be transferred to the prison close to our home. It is only a half hour drive from our house to that facility. We can have more frequent visits with her. Also, the minimum-security prison is far more user friendly than her current location. The visitation area is actually kind of nice, if you can ignore the tall chain-link fences with the razor wire on top. She will be able to do more with her son if she gets sent there.

Somehow, I just can’t wrap my head around all this. Every step in the process feels surreal. My wife and I have been through all this before. The boy has not had this experience. So, in many ways it’s painfully familiar, but it is also alien to us.

We just deal with it.

One Little Mistake

July 21st, 2026

Bad news.

A young woman we love is currently incarcerated in a prison. The thing she wants more than anything else is to be visited by her five-year-old son. The prison is a two-hour drive from our home, which makes a visit to see her a bit of a challenge. A bigger challenge is just getting approval from the Department of Corrections to schedule a visit. The young woman was in this prison seven years ago, and I don’t remember the process at that time being this complicated. However, it’s a struggle to get approval now.

The young woman procured applications for us (my wife, her son, and me) almost as soon as she got to the prison. She repeatedly warned us that the applications had to be filled out correctly, or they would be rejected out of hand. The forms have to be perfect to get through the system. Even if the paperwork is filled out accurately, it takes the DOC three weeks or more to make a decision. My wife and I filled out our forms, and I filled out the application for the inmate’s son. We did it to the best of our ability and promptly mailed them. Then we waited, and waited, and waited.

Yesterday, the young woman alerted me that my wife’s request for approval was denied. Why? Because she failed to write down her maiden name on the form. There is a section on the application for reporting any other names or aliases that a person may have used in the past. My wife asked me about that part, and I told her to write down “none”, because she has always used her legal name. Neither of us noticed that the instructions on the form wanted her maiden name. It never occurred to us that anyone would want that. She hasn’t used her maiden name in the last 42 years. However, that error on the form was enough to get it rejected.

Now, she has to start the process all over again. Another three weeks.

My application and that of her the woman’s son are still pending. It’s been over three weeks. We are anxious about this fact, especially the young woman.

Why does it all have to be this hard?

Thinking of Franz Kafka for some reason.

Update: the young woman talked to a social worker in the prison. The DOC background check for visitors can take six weeks. It makes me wonder if the people running the prison even want anyone to visit.

Unicorn Land

July 19th, 2026

“Grandpa, talk for the stuffies!”

Asher, our grandson, often demands that I speak for his stuffed animals. He has dozens of them, and he will suddenly toss several stuffies at me and then expect me to invent a conversation between them. I do all the voices. He has three unicorn stuffies that he likes to put into the mix. One is white in color and called “Snowflake”. One is pink and known as “Uni”. There is unicorn/llama hybrid that simply goes by “Unicorn Llama”. These three stuffies are the guardians of Unicorn Land, which is the exotic setting for most of these episodes. Asher likes to have other stuffies visit Unicorn Land and I have to include them in the narrative.

This morning’s chapter went like this:

A new character shows up. He is a small, intensely purple elephant named “Purple”. The unicorns welcome him.

Snowflake: “Hi, welcome to Unicorn Land!”

Purple: “Hi. I’m Purple. I live here too.”

Snowflake: “Really? Since when?”

Purple: “I was born here. I’m a unicorn elephant.”

Snowflake: “Oh. That’s odd.”

Purple: “Well, you have a unicorn llama here. Why not an elephant?”

Note: There is apparently birthright citizenship in Unicorn Land.

Snowflake: “Uh, yeah. So, what do you do here?”

Purple: “I’ve been using my unicorn magic to make some improvements.”

Snowflake: “Like what?”

Purple: “I changed the colors on the flowers. I love using different colors. Now, the roses are blue, and the daisies are orange, and the goldenrod blossoms are red.”

Snowflake: “You made the goldenrod red? It’s supposed to be bright yellow. That’s why it’s called goldenrod.”

Purple: “No problem! we can call it redrod, or scarletrod, or crimsonrod!”

Snowflake: “Wait, wait, wait. You can’t just change everything. The animals who come to visit Unicorn Land expect to find things beautiful, but familiar. We welcome guests here and we want them to relax and be happy.”

Purple: “But it’s boring for the guests if it all stays the same. Hey, and you guys have a rainbow waterfall! That’s not normal!”

Snowflake: “Uh yeah, that’s true, but we are magical here, and that is part of our vibe. We try to keep Unicorn Land magical, but not too weird. You know, a few rainbows here and there, and some sparkles and moonbeams scattered around the place.”

Purple: “But I like new colors for things, especially red.”

Uni: “We like new things too, but not too much of them. Change most of the daisies back to white and the orange daisies will stick out more. Visitors will notice the orange flowers better if they are surrounded by a lot of white ones.”

Purple: “Yeah, I guess so. Does the goldenrod have to be yellow?”

Unicorn Llama: “Yes.”

Uni: “You could just brighten up some of the colors that are already in Unicorn Land. That would be magical too.”

Purple: “Aww, I never get to have any fun.”

Snowflake: “How about this? We have a valley in Unicorn Land that we haven’t enchanted yet. It’s all a dull grey. What if you color the rocks to make it look like the Grand Canyon?”

Purple: “Yes! When can I start?”

Snowflake: “Now.”

Purple: “Off I go! It’s magic time!”

There is a short pause.

“Purple: “I’m back! How do you like it!”

Unicorn Llama: “Beautiful!”

Uni: “Nice!”

Snowflake: “You rock!”

Purple: “I didn’t get to use much red. Where can I got use some red color?”

Snowflake: “Ever hear of the planet Mars?”

Haze

July 16th, 2026

The smoke from the Canadian wildfires arrived yesterday. I went outside early in the morning to put some letters in the mailbox. Everything smelled like a campfire. The trees down the street from our house looked hazy and indistinct. I figure the visibility was at best half a mile. Usually, at that time of the day, there are some people walking their dogs or just taking a stroll. There weren’t any yesterday, and there probably won’t be any today.

It’s the same deal this morning. The sky is a dull metallic grey. The sun is rising. It’s like an angry, bloodshot eye peeking through the smoke. The ground is hard and dry. All the lawns are turning from green to brown. It’s been hot and dry for a while. A good rain would probably wash the smoke particles out of the air and help the grass, but rain is not in the forecast.

Our grandson Asher has not been to playground for days. Recently, it’s been too hot for us to go to the playground at the park. If I could get him up and dressed around sunrise, we could manage it, but that hasn’t happened. It takes Asher some time to start his day. Now, with the smoke, my wife and I don’t want him running around and exerting himself outside. He can play in our yard for a while, but he shouldn’t breathe in this crap more than necessary. He’s plays most of the day in the house. He gets bored and asks us to tell him endless stories about his stuffed animals. That wears me out. I wish we could get him outside and moving.

The haze and the heat bother me. It’s more of a psychological stress than a physical discomfort. It just feels wrong. The weather is eerie and unnatural, but I’m afraid it is part of the new normal for Wisconsin. Our son in Texas has been telling us about the nearly constant rain they are having down there. That’s weird too. In all the years he has lived in Texas, there has never been so much rain in the summer, except when hurricanes have blown through the state. He and his family are experiencing a new normal there too.

And we keep burning fossil fuels, even though we know that is the primary cause of the new normal.

Collateral Damage

July 16th, 2026

Let me begin by warning you that this entire essay is going to be one big bitch fest. If you decide at this point to click on something else, I will completely understand. Otherwise, here goes…

There is a young woman who is currently in prison. We care about her. She calls us frequently, mostly to speak with her little boy. She talks to me when she needs something, and she often needs help. Being incarcerated means that many of things that we take for granted are unavailable to her, like access to the internet. She is also unable to spend money, unless those funds have been deposited into a commissary account for her by an outside party. Name something that you do every day, and the odds are good that she can’t do it from prison.

This being the case, I spend a large amount of my time dealing with her wants and needs. Her requests are simple. She really doesn’t want much, but somehow it is often a struggle for me to take care of these things. It’s not her fault. It’s the prison system. I don’t know if it is by design, but nothing easy to do.

As an example, the young woman wanted me to set up an account with a telecommunications company so that she could share emails and video calls with us. We would be able to send her photos to her tablet. It sounded like a good thing, especially since it would help her and her son to maintain a close relationship. I followed through until I couldn’t anymore. I set up an account online and deposited $25 in it (I didn’t put in more than that because I we had never used this service before). Then I ran into an insurmountable obstacle. For some reason, I could not designate her as a contact. I don’t know why I couldn’t do that, but without her being named as a contact, we can’t communicate. I kept trying different ways to make the connection work, but I finally gave up.

The next morning, I called the vendor’s customer service, and I never got any service. I was led through a labyrinth of extension menus that never got me to a human who could help me. Actually, I talked briefly to a person once. He took my information, put me on hold, and then when he got back to me, he couldn’t hear me on the phone and hung up. I started the cycle again. Eventually, I got to the point where the recording said that I would be connected to a customer service rep. That didn’t happen. I was never connected to anybody. The recording of menu choices just started all over again. I gave up.

Admittedly, my hassle is not unique. You have probably gone through the same magical mystery tour with some business. My problem is that, although this particular experience was rather extreme, it is not at all atypical. Almost any interaction with vendors that operate with the prison system is like this episode to some degree. It is rare when a transaction goes smoothly. It doesn’t matter what service or merchandise the vendor is providing. It’s always a challenge.

Why is it like this? The vendors are those companies that have been approved by the Department of Corrections to sell to the public. The inmates can’t buy anything. The people on the outside that care about the prisoners are the actual customers. These vendors operate as near monopolies. For instance, there are three companies that can provides goods (clothes, art supplies, health and beauty supplies, etc.) to the folks incarcerated at the prison where the young woman resides. The variety of products is extremely limited. It’s like when Henry Ford was selling Model T’s: you can have the car in any color you want, as long as it’s black). It’s the same sort of thing with these vendors. You can buy from them or not buy at all. The prices are exorbitant because there is no real competition. There is no customer service because there is no incentive to serve the customers.

I suppose an argument could be made that the inmates don’t deserve any better than what I have just described. After all, they’re convicted felons. However, there is collateral damage. The people on the outside, like me, are trying to help folks who they love, and we are the ones getting screwed. The people who are just trying to help others to survive in prison and hopefully become rehabilitated during their stay suffer along with the inmates. We didn’t commit any crimes. We didn’t endanger the public. We are just trying to show some compassion to inmates who aren’t seeing much of that. We are trying to do the right thing, and it’s a bitch. It really is.

Tour de Fleece

July 12th, 2026

Karin is spinning Cormo wool on her wheel. Cormo wool is an excellent wool to spin into yarn. I only know this because my wife told me so. The fiber apparently comes from Tasmania, and the sheep that have been bred to produce it are rather rare. Karin knows nearly everything there is to know about spinning all varieties of fiber. I know next to nothing about the subject, even after we have been married for almost 42 years. The fiber arts are Karin’s domain. She is an expert with regards to spinning, weaving, knitting, crocheting, and dyeing fiber. She is a fiber goddess with an artist’s intuition, creativity, and passion. I encourage her in her efforts or at least stay out of her way.

Karin is currently participating in the Tour de Fleece. The Tour de Fleece is an online group event for hand spinners across the world. Karin has hooked up with a number of spinners who hang out at the Fox River Fiber Shop in Big Bend, Wisconsin. The annual event is run concurrently with the Tour de Fleece (hence the name of the event). The spinners ply their trade on the same days as the cyclists are spinning their bike wheels in France. The goal for the spinners to complete a project or maybe use up their stash of fiber (nobody ever actually exhausts their stash). It is also a chance for spinners to gather and compare notes. Spinners are basically members of a rather exclusive sisterhood, although I have heard rumors that there are male spinners.

Spinning is nothing new for my wife. She was spinning fiber before I ever met her. I have a story about that.

I met Karin when I was stationed in West Germany with the U.S. Army back in the early 1980’s. We dated for several months, and then I got up the nerve to propose to her. She said yes when I asked her to marry me, and then I suggested that we go to a jeweler’s shop to buy her an engagement ring. Karin didn’t want to do that. German women, at least at that time, did not get engagement rings. I was at a loss for ideas. I thought I definitely needed to get her something and I told her so. Karin thought for a while and then she told me,

“I want a spinning wheel.”

That’s what she got. We bought an Ashford traditional wheel. She has used it for decades. Karin has found spinning to be a meditative practice (very Gandhi-like). Recently, she upgraded to a SpinOlution Echo model. It is a more complicated machine with two treadles, one for each foot. She loves it.

It’s all about circles. Bicycle wheels. Spinning wheels. Engagement rings.

Our grandson, Asher, helping his Oma with her spinning wheel in the Tour de Fleece

A Phone Call from the Dark Side of the Moon

July 11th, 2026

She called us this morning. I answered the phone and got the usual recorded spiel from the monopoly that provides telephone service to inmates at the prison. The young woman who called can usually talk with us once day for ten minutes. Before she was connected to us, a female voice explained that “this call will be monitored and may be recorded”. Then the person in the recording said cheerfully, “Thank you for using ICSolutions.” It should be noted that every phone call she makes costs money and that money comes from a source outside of the prison, that source being me. It should also be noted that I cannot call the young woman. I don’t think anyone on the outside can. She has to initiate all communication.

The first thing she did after saying “Hello” was to ask if her five-year-old son was in the room. He was. She asked him how he was. He told her that he was okay. The boy was in good spirits this morning and he was happy to converse with his mama. Sometimes when she calls, he is in a foul mood, and flat out refuses to talk with her. On those occasions, I urge him to say something, anything, to his mother. She needs to hear his voice. These brief calls are a lifeline for her, and I am not sure that her son understands that.

She also wanted to talk with me. She only does that when there are serious issues to discuss. It’s a little like in The Godfather when Michael Corleone tells his brother, “It’s not personal, Sonny. It’s strictly business.” In any case, she wanted to explain to me that it might take a while before we can visit her at the prison. We had to fill out forms in order to see her. I had to even fill out an application for her little boy. The young woman wanted me to know that it can take up to three weeks for these requests to be approved, because the DOC only has one person working parttime to process them. That did not surprise me at all. The Department of Corrections does things in its own way on its own schedule. The young woman wanted to be certain that we had filled out every space and checked every box on the forms. I told her that we had. She was very anxious and she kept asking if I was sure. It almost got to the point where I wasn’t sure, but I told her the paperwork was done right.

The young woman badly wants to see her little boy. She told him on the phone that she hadn’t seen him in four months. I was momentarily shocked that it has been so long, but she’s right. For her, four months is an eternity. She asked the boy if he wanted to see her. He gave her an enthusiastic “Yes”. Thank God for that. Once we get permission to visit her, whenever that happens, we will make an appointment to see her. The prison is a two-hour drive from our house. My wife and I visited that place when the woman was incarcerated there back in 2019. It will be different now with her son coming along us. We have no idea how he will react to that environment. He might freak out. We won’t know until we get there.

Ten minutes is not a long time for a phone call. The young woman asked her son, “Do you love me?”, more than once. He told her that he did. She told him repeatedly how much she loved him, how he was the best thing that ever happened in her life. He kind of laughed about that. I guess he didn’t realize that she meant it. The boy really is the best thing that has ever happened to her. He is the best thing that has happened for any of us.

As time ran out, she told him one last time, “I love you.” Then the phone went dead and the call was over. She isn’t that far away, but she can’t be with him, and he can’t be with her. She might as well be on the dark side of the moon.

In Your Face

July 4th, 2026

There is a busy street that I use frequently to get from Oak Creek to downtown Milwaukee. Traffic has increased significantly over the years, but a half-mile stretch of the street still only has two lanes. Houses are built in close proximity to the road, so there really is not a good way to widen it. The speed limit is set at 25 mph, which feels like a crawl. The local police are relentless about enforcing that speed limit, so I drive slowly and have time to observe my surroundings.

There is one house in particular that I notice every time I drive down that street. It’s an older home with large windows in the front. The owner has placed a number of signs in his window that are in old Gothic script and/or have World War Two Style German eagles on them. The house has a strong Third Reich vibe to it.

The owner also has a portrait of Adolf Hitler proudly displayed in his window. There is a nearly transparent red swastika superimposed on the Fuhrer’s picture. It’s hard for a person to be more blatant than that. It’s totally in your face.

Every time I drive past that house, I say to myself, “Really?”

The house answers, “Yes, really. Deal with it.”

I find the owner’s decor to be deeply offensive, but we live in America, and the 1st Amendment guarantees freedom of speech, even disgusting speech. Are there limits to free speech? Yes, but very few. The homeowner is not inciting violence, or at least it can’t be proven that he is. He is exercising his right to state his opinion.

I don’t know how many other people going past that house even notice the Hitler portrait. I suspect that most drivers are oblivious to that house and the image in the window. That might be the best way of dealing with the guy. Just ignore it and move on.

I don’t know. It seems like there was a time in the United States when it was considered extremely bad taste to openly display Nazi propaganda. What changed over the years? Our values? Our sense of community? Our country?

Happy 4th of July.

I Have No Idea

July 4th, 2026

We haven’t heard from her in four days. She has been a “resident” at the Community Reintegration Center (the county jail) for over three months. The young woman has been waiting to get transferred to a women’s prison called Taycheedah. She was sentenced to two years in prison at a hearing three weeks ago and has been anxiously waiting to be moved (the jail is not as nice as the prison, which is a truly depressing fact). The Department of Corrections (DOC) does not give an inmate any prior notice before a transfer. Actually, from what I have heard, the DOC seldom gives a prisoner a heads up for any changes. Why does the DOC do that? Because it can. In any case, the young woman had told us during a phone call that the DOC generally moves people from the county jail to Taycheedah on a Tuesday. The woman has been calling our house to speak with her son once a day, every day, for weeks. On Tuesday she stopped calling here.

My wife and I had hoped to hear from her during the last four days. Keep in mind that is nearly impossible for anybody on the outside to call or use the internet to contact an incarcerated individual. It is also difficult for an inmate to call out. Communication between a prisoner and the rest of the world is often limited to snail mail. Yesterday, I tried to go online to determine where the young woman was. My efforts came to naught. The website at the jail did not show her as being at that location and the Taycheedah site showed nothing at all concerning her.

I made two phone calls. The guard at the county jail confirmed to me that the woman was no longer there. He had no other information to give me. When I called Taycheedah, the officer there asked me for her DOC inmate number. I didn’t have that. He politely told me that without the number he could not find her whereabouts online. No shit. I had tried the same thing on my computer before I called the prison. If she is not currently in the DOC data base, apparently, she does not exist.

So, now what? I have no idea. Where is she? Same answer.

The odds are good that this young woman is presently in custody at Taycheedah, but I don’t know that, and that bothers me and my wife. We don’t know what her status is, and we have no idea what to tell her son, should he ask us. Mercifully, he has not thought to do that yet.

Kafka would be proud.

Happy 4th of July.

Update: the young woman called. She is at Taycheedah and I have her DOC number now. Thank God.