Even Peanuts might have an Expiration Date

May 19th, 2026

My five-year-old grandson, Asher, loves Peanuts. I am referring to the classic comic strip from Charles M. Schultz, not the snack food, although Asher does like to eat actual peanuts now and then. Asher asks me every day to read to him about Snoopy. He also likes Peppermint Patty and her sidekick, Marcie. I don’t think that Asher gets all the jokes, and honestly, I don’t either.

I grew up with Peanuts ages ago. The comic strip ran for fifty years (1950 to 2000). The Charlie Brown books I read in the 1960’s were different than what I am reading now to Asher. The books I bought for him contain comics from the 80’s and 90’s. The early cartoons from Schultz had a sort of wild imagination and incurable curiosity that is common for little kids. The comics from decades later still have some of that innocence, but it often feels more like the characters in the comic are adults masquerading as children.

It kind of reminds me of the evolution of Calvin and Hobbes. Early on, Bill Watterson wrote stories that were authentically childlike. The tales were silly and madcap, but also true to life for a small child. Watterson remembered what it was like to be a little boy, and his main character, Calvin, showed that. Eventually, Calvin became much more mature and the magic was gone. The difference between Schultz and Watterson is that Watterson knew when to quit.

I am not saying that Schultz’s later comics were bad. He could still be hilarious and often thoughtful. However, some of the comics are definitely for adults. He wrote about Snoopy being a lawyer. How is that relevant to a five-year-old? How do I explain those stories to Asher? A lot of the comic strips are about golf. I have never played golf, so I don’t understand the jokes. If I don’t get them, how can Asher hope to relate?

Even in the old days, Schultz had his cartoon kids, especially Linus, spouting Bible verses in the comic strips. I did not get the jokes back in my childhood and Asher certainly does not get them now. Back in my youth, adults often had some level of biblical literacy, so the big people might laugh at those comics. Now, most of the biblical references are obscure to the general population. Maybe, Bible humor was part of Schultz’s culture, but it’s not anymore.

There are also issues with technology in the drawings. Some of the comics have pay phones in them. Asher has no clue what they are. The televisions look like huge pieces of furniture. Nowhere are there computers or cell phones. These are images of a time that is foreign to my grandson.

There are differences of social etiquette between the Schultz’s times and the present day. The kids in Peanuts always call an adult “sir” or “ma’am”. Who does that now? Unless you live in the Deep South or are in the military, nobody uses those terms. Maybe we should, but we don’t anymore. Asher calls his kindergarten teacher “Miss Sara”, but he would never call her “ma’am”.

Apparently, none of this really matters for Asher. He just loves to hear about the adventures of Snoopy and the gang. In that sense, Peanuts is timeless.

After Fifty Years

May 22nd, 2026

“Sometimes the light’s all shinin’ on me
Other times I can barely see
Lately it occurs to me
What a long, strange trip it’s been.” – Grateful Dead

I was sitting at the kitchen table with my wife, Karin, a few days ago. Our five-year-old grandson, Asher, was watching mindless YouTube videos on Karin’s phone while my wife and I talked and drank coffee. Somehow, the topic of my time at West Point came up in the conversation. Karin asked how I did in that school.

I told her, “I did okay. I think I ranked 203rd out 800-something total graduates.”

She replied, “Oh, you must have been pretty smart. You were in the top quarter.”

I sighed, “If I was really smart, I would have quit and gone somewhere else.”

She looked at me and glanced at Asher, “But, if you had quit, then Asher wouldn’t be here!”

I laughed, “Then it’s good that I’m not that smart.”

Ah, the immutable law of karma strikes again. Karin was obviously right. If I had not graduated from West Point, I would not have gone to Germany and met Karin, and she would not have given birth to our daughter in 1991, and she in turn would not have given birth to Asher during the depths of the Covid pandemic, and we would not be fulltime care givers for Asher now. I can depend on my wife to help me to refocus on what is important.

My sojourn at the United States Military Academy, aka West Point, has been on my mind lately. It was almost fifty years ago that I went there. I think it was on July 7th, 1976, that I reported to the man in the red sash and jumped on to the military roller coaster. It has yet to come to a complete stop. I took the advice of Hunter S. Thompson: “Buy the ticket. Take the ride.” I can’t get my money or my time back. No refunds.

The first day at West Point is an incoherent blur. It is probably better so. I can remember getting a haircut, learning to march (sorta), and taking the Oath on the Plain while wearing a starched white shirt that was quickly becoming damp with sweat. All other memories are mercifully inaccessible.

So, what was West Point like? It was a mind fuck from start to finish. I like to describe the four years there as being like going to an Ivy League university and doing time simultaneously. I’m not saying there was nothing good about the experience. There were many positive aspects. However, the environment was in some ways deeply twisted, and that didn’t do much good for my mental health. Other people have very different memories than I do. They may be nostalgic. That’s fine. I’m not.

What did I learn? Well, let’s look at West Point’s motto: “Duty, Honor, Country”. Those are fine words, and they can mean damn near anything. I will try to express what they mean to me now, half a century after first hearing them.

What is duty? I would define the word as meaning “doing what needs to be done”. As a case in point, I have a duty to raise our grandson, Asher. I could have refused to be his legal guardian and care for him, but I have a moral obligation to do so. I have to be his father figure at this time in his life. I am simply doing what needs to be done, and I am doing it out of love. Duty performed reluctantly and lovelessly is a dead thing.

What is honor? That is strange word. It seems to be archaic and out of place in our society. I would say that honor means doing the right thing, just because it is the right thing. Have I always been honorable? No, of course not. I’ve screwed up plenty of times. However, I have tried to do the right thing, and maybe just the sincere attempt to do what’s right is in itself honorable.

What is country? That’s a slippery question. To my mind, country is about patriotism, and patriotism is about making sacrifices to promote the common good. That can take all sorts of forms. It might mean that a person puts on a uniform to defend the Constitution. It might mean that a person gets arrested for civil disobedience at a demonstration because of their beliefs. I have done both of those things. Love of country is multifaceted, and rightly so. It requires courage. I believe that both Charlie Kirk and Malcolm X were patriots, and they both died because they loved their country.

Asher will be waking up soon, and I have to help Karin get him ready for school.

He’s the reason that I went to West Point in the first place.

A Sect of One

May 16th, 2026

“It can sometimes seem that each of us is a sect of one.” -from The Lies that Bind: Rethinking Identity by Kwame Anthony Appiah

Note: I will be quoting the Appiah frequently in this essay. Assume the quotes are from him unless I specify otherwise.

Kwame Appiah is a philosopher who writes about how we as humans identify ourselves and how others identify us. His book is not long, but he touches on a large number of topics. He has written individual chapters on certain types of identity. One chapter is just about religious identity. That is a subject that might easily require an entire book of its own, but Appiah manages to make a variety of intriguing observations using relatively few words. This particular chapter interests me because I have noticed some of same things he has in the course of my life.

One of the main points that Appiah makes is that a religion is not primarily a system of beliefs, although we have been convinced that is so. He maintains that religion rests on a tripod of foundations: belief, practice, and community. Each aspect of religion interacts and supports the others. This is not a new idea. The Buddhists talk about taking refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha, and to me that sounds like the same thing. Right belief (orthodoxy) has to be accompanied by right practice (orthopraxy). Right practice can mean all sorts of things: what we eat or wear, what ritual we follow, what moral codes we use to guide us. Right practice is what we do, as opposed to what we believe. The actions of the community are what unifies us. My Buddhist friends would call that “together action”. Oddly enough (perhaps this my Catholicism speaking), this triune set of pillars reminds me of how the Holy Trinity works.

Appiah does not discount the importance of belief. Our beliefs guide our actions and influence who we consider to be members of our community. Almost every Sunday, I go to Mass with my wife and grandson. Everyone in the congregation stands during the liturgy to recite the Credo (Latin for “I believe”). The Nicene Credo is packed with theology, and we all proclaim that we believe everything in that profession of faith. Some of the articles of faith in the creed are honestly a bit of a reach. Was Mary really a virgin? Is Jesus “begotten” of the Father?

If somebody will ask me if I really believe everything in the creed, I would probably reply, “Yeah, sure, why not?” That is not a rousing endorsement, but it all I can muster up at this point. Appiah said that “an avowal of faith is a performance as much as it is a proposition”. In fact, he describes the reciting of the creed as “a pledge of allegiance”. It’s a sign on solidarity. The praying of the creed at Mass is “together action”. It has as much to do with orthopraxy and community as it does with orthodoxy.

Now, if a person does not believe everything that their religion proclaims, is that person not a member of that community? This goes back to identity; I know at least one person who does not believe in the god of the Torah but identifies as a Jew. He would be deeply offended if I told him he was not a Jew. His Jewish identity is grounded in his tradition, his family history, and his moral code. He doesn’t need the theology.

Likewise, I know Buddhists who are atheists. They have no need to believe in God (or gods). As John Lennon once sang, “God is a concept by which we measure our pain.” That’s an fascinating idea, but not a very catchy song lyric. The point is that Buddhists can engage in right practice without a theology. Especially in Zen, the belief system is minuscule. The goal (if there even is a goal) is to go back to the mind before thinking and just do it. And do it as a community (sangha).

Religious identity looks different from different vantage points. A person who views members of a religion from a distance often sees a monolithic group of people. As the observer gets closer to the group, they can see the differences among individuals. I found that out in a Bible study years ago. Most of the members of the group were Evangelicals. I came to the study with a stereotype in my head of what these people were like. I was correct in a few ways, but mostly I was mistaken. Each person in the group was unique, and each had a particular viewpoint on scripture. In effect, I discovered that “Evangelicals” is a nonsense term, just like “Catholics” really means very little.

I have always been interested in other faith traditions. So, I have spent time with Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, Sikhs, practitioners of indigenous traditions, and a wide variety of Christians. It has often amazed me how I can have friendly discussions with people whose religions are quite different from mine, but I sometimes get into fierce arguments with coreligionists. It seems like the closer people are with regards to belief, the more eager they are to dispute even the tiniest variations of doctrine. It’s like family fights. The intensity of the quarrels increases as the parties share more in common. I suspect it is a conflict about identity. Who is the true believer and how do we decide who is in the group and who is banished?

I think of myself as a Catholic, who has managed to incorporate aspects of Judaism and Buddhism into his practice. (I blame “Nostra Aetate” for my adventures in religious studies). Well, that is my identity. I have no idea how others perceive me, and I really don’t care that much.

Hopefully, I won’t get ostracized at Mass.


Things that Go Slurp in the Night

May 10th, 2026

My bedroom window overlooks the patio in the backyard. Near the patio my wife, Karin, has set up several bird feeders on tall hooks. We get sparrows, goldfinches, cardinals, and orange-winged blackbirds. Karin also put a feeder to attract hummingbirds. No luck there yet.

Asher has his own bed, but he has slept with me during the last few nights. Last night, he rested his head on my left bicep until he dozed off. I managed to pull my arm out from under his rather heavy noggin without waking him, and then I tried to get to sleep. There are always night sounds from outside. I have grown used to them, even the yelping of the coyotes on moonlit evenings. Usually, my mind wanders and I fade away.

Two nights ago, I didn’t fall asleep immediately because I heard a new ruckus outside of my window. It was this hideous, B-grade horror movie kind of sucking/slurping sound. I could not make out what it could be. Was it something wrong with the sump pump? Was it a water leak some place? Was it some nasty animal trying to scrounge bird seed? Animals don’t generally slurp bird seed, so that didn’t seem right. I also heard some sound like barking, but not quite.

I didn’t sleep for a while. I hoped that my ever-increasing short term memory loss would erase the record of this din. By morning I had forgotten the whole episode.

Last night, I heard the slurping again. I was very wound up. I peeked out of the curtains, and in the dim light I saw some furry, fat animal lumber across the patio. That wasn’t really comforting, but I had an idea of who was responsible for the noise.

This morning I walked outside and looked around the patio. Karin had hung the hummingbird feeder on a low hook. It was full of sugar water. To be more accurate, it had been full of sugar water but was now completely empty.

I’m guessing that a raccoon came to the feeder after sunset and wrapped its feral lips around the opening near the bottom. Then it sucked that thing dry over the course of two nights. The evil slurping sound was probably the raccoon getting a massive sugar buzz to start its night adventures.

Karin is getting a much taller hook tomorrow morning.

It should be quieter tomorrow evening.

It’s Finally Gone

May 9th, 2026

There’s just a bare brown spot on the ground where the Lucerne was once parked. That car sat there for sixteen months. It never started and never moved. It sat there like a huge yard ornament, sometimes roasting in the sun, and sometimes covered with ice and snow. I’ve seen other abandoned vehicles rotting in other yards, especially out in the country, but eventually they just become part of the landscape, memorials to ravages of time and the ephemeral nature of manmade objects. This car was an eyesore for me the entire time it was on our property. It upset me every time I looked at it.

The Buick was not actually a bad looking car. It was old and used, but still quite stylish, when the young woman originally bought it. However, each time I saw it in the yard, I was overcome by a rush of ugly memories. There was a smashed rear window with bits of broken glass on the seat. The woman had somehow lost track of her vehicle for several days, and by the time she located it, someone had used a brick to break into it and steal whatever there was of value inside. For months the car was full of trash. She never cleaned it out. The handle on the inside of the driver’s door was broken. How that happened I have no idea. The Lucerne found its home on our property after the young woman ran into serious legal problems that precluded her from driving her car. Those issues have never been resolved so that she operate the vehicle. All in all, the Buick was a constant reminder of things that went bad in a big way.

The young woman had for a long time maintained the forlorn hope that she could get her license reinstated and drive again. So, she was never willing to sell her car. Months and months went by, and other issues took center stage in our lives. The Lucerne sat on the lawn and waited patiently for somebody to make a decision. A week or two ago, the woman learned that she would not be driving anything for at least a decade. She also learned that she would be physically absent for a couple years. It was at that point that she told me to get rid of her car. Easier said than done. Fortunately, she had the forethought to sign the title of the Buick before she became unavailable. That helped.

Now, a man who has the time, tools, parts, aptitude, and knowhow to fix a car could have repaired the Lucerne and sold it at a profit. I am not that man. I couldn’t even find the keys for the damn thing. I had them at one time, and I had put them away for safe keeping, but like most things in our home, they disappeared without a trace. Seiling the car was a fool’s errand. I couldn’t even start it without a key, and the odds were good that it would never start anyway.

I decided to give it away. There is a public radio station in our local area that accepts vehicle donations. I was good with giving them the Buick. They offered to pick it up free of charge, and that was all I really wanted. Just get it out of my yard and my life.

The donation process turned out to be more complicated than advertised. It always seems to be that way. I never actually spoke with anyone from the radio station. They had another organization that dealt solely with people giving away vehicles. I had a long phone conversation with a lady about the Buick. I explained in detail the situation. I told her that I was not the owner, but that I had a signed title and permission to dispose of the vehicle. I enumerated the many problems with the car. I emphasized that the Lucerne would not start and that I had no keys for it. She still wanted the Buick.

The donation organization worked with another company that did the pickup. I had another long talk with a representative from that broker. She set up a pickup time and her driver showed up at our house with a long trailer that already had two cars on it. I pointed out the Lucerne to him.

He asked me in broken English,

“The car, she start?”

“No.”

“You have keys?”, and he made a hand motion like he was turning a key in an ignition.

“NO, I don’t have keys.”

“No keys?” and shook his head.

He got into the Buick and, after a quick inspection, decided to call his dispatcher. They had a long and enthusiastic discussion in a Slavic language that I don’t understand. He handed me his phone, and I talked with the lady in English. She told me that she would have to talk with their broker, and they might need a winch or a forklift or something to drag the Buick out of our yard. I told her, “Fine, do whatever you got to do.”

The next morning, I got a call from the dispatcher. She was going to send a guy with a winch. He had another pickup in Chicago before he could come to my house. His ETA was maybe 8:00 PM. Whatever. Just get the damn thing.

At 8:15 the new driver showed up with a massive pickup truck and a long, low trailer attached to it. The trailer had a winch. The sun had already set, and it was twilight. He looked at the Lucerne doubtfully. A rear wheel was partially sunk into the ground. He asked me,

“This car, how long it is sitting here?”

Note: English was not his first language and probably not even his second.

I told him, “Sixteen months.”

He raised his eyebrows and said, “Sixteen?”

Then he went to work. He managed to make several sharp turns and jackknife the trailer over a ditch and across our driveway to get it lined up with the car. I was impressed. He knew how to maneuver his rig even in the dark, and it was getting dark. Stars were coming out.

The next hour was frustrating for the driver. It was extremely difficult for him to get the Buick lined up exactly right to winch up the ramps and on to the trailer. The fact that the car had a flat tire probably didn’t help at all. He made repeated adjustments and always found out that he was still a couple inches off. It was getting cold and the guy put on his jacket. He lit up a cigarette and stood on the trailer lost in thought. I could see the end of his cancer stick glow red in the gloom as he took a deep drag off it.

I felt a deep compassion for the guy. I used to work long shifts at work, and without fail, the hardest job was the last one. This driver was tired, cold, and pissed off. I know that feeling well. He just wanted to load up the car and go home.

He made a few more tweaks and finally got the Lucerne up the ramps. He secured the vehicle and then tossed his equipment into his pickup. I went inside the house for the title.

He came up to me and asked, “You got title?”

“Yeah. Here it is, all signed.”

He took it and said, “Good.”

Then I reached for my wallet and handed him three twenty-dollar bills.

“Here. This is for you. Thanks for working so hard.”

His hands were greasy, so he gave me a fist bump and thanked me.

He walked to his truck, lit up again. Then he made some careful turns to avoid hitting my mailbox. He pulled away.

It’s finally gone.

It’s Still about Iran

May 1st, 2026

We’re two months into America’s latest Mideast predicament and there does not appear to be any quick resolution to our war of choice. There are already thousands of Iranians dead, along with thirteen U.S. soldiers. The situation is fluid, so I what I write now may be out of date before I even push the send button. However, I want to write about this fight because I have a personal connection to our “forever wars”. There is a strong sense of deja vu.

In general, wars in the Middle East have unintended consequences and often do not achieve the goals set forth at their beginnings. Let’s start with an American war that actually went rather well. Operation Desert Storm was started by George H.W. Bush in early 1991 to drive Saddam Hussein from Kuwait. The elder Bush had his ducks in a row before the shooting started. He had an international coalition assembled, he had the backing of the UN, and he had popular support both in the U.S. and other countries. Most importantly, Bush had a plan with clear, limited, and attainable goals. He drove the Iraqis out of Kuwait and wisely fought the urge to push all the way to Baghdad. His son, George W. Bush, was not so sagacious.

Now, let’s look at Trump’s war against Iran. I defy anyone to explain what the plan was when we attacked on February 28th besides the idea that we should blow stuff up until the Iranians did everything we wanted them to do. What is our ultimate goal? Is it regime change? Is it unconditional surrender? Is it the destruction of a culture? Is it opening the Strait of Hormuz? Is it to get the Iranians to promise that they will never, ever build a nuclear weapon? Is it to push a short leash on Iran’s proxies in the Mideast? Does anyone actually know what we are trying to do?

Let’s say that what the United States really wants is regime change in Iran. How do we do that? Economic sanctions? We have been using those for almost half a century, and the Iranian economy keeps limping along. The Iranians have developed a high tolerance for economic pain. We Americans have not. We are squealing about gas that is $4.29 a gallon. If governments can be toppled by economic hardship, then it is an open question which regime will collapse first, ours or theirs.

It is obvious that the current government in Iran is vile and hated by the citizens of the country. That does not mean the mullahs and the IRGC are ready to give up. People in Iran loathe their regime, but they also hate and fear us. Popular uprisings sometimes bring down governments, but they often do not. The Iranian authorities have a tight grip on all the levers of power. They will not let go of them until forced to do so.

A useful comparison could be made with the final days of the Third Reich. My wife’s father and her uncles all fought in WWII on the side of Germany. I know from their stories that they did not stop fighting until it was physically impossible for them to continue to do so. The German government did not collapse until the Soviets had occupied Berlin and Hitler put a bullet in his head. There were no uprisings in Nazi Germany. No mutinies. No mass desertions. Do we expect that the soldiers in the IRGC will be any less fanatical than the SS troops were?

Do we want the Iranians to promise “cross my heart and hope to die” that they will never seek nuclear weapons. We assume that by punishing them they will learn to forego those weapons. Well, maybe not. The Iranians might actually decide that they really need nukes. They have only to look at North Korea. The government there is at least as odious as that of Iran. Is anybody attacking Kim Jong Un and his regime? Why not? Because they have nukes! Those people are bulletproof and the Iranians (along with other countries) can see that.

This war looks like it will drag out. That depresses me. My oldest son fought in Iraq, another American forever war. Nothing he did there made any sense to me. Nothing we are doing in Iran makes any sense to me. My son came back damaged, as did many other vets. Are we going to maim another generation of young people? And for what?


Ellie the Elephant

April 28th, 2026

It was hard to get Asher up and out of bed this morning. My grandson laid there on the mattress limp as boiled pasta. After some ineffective coaxing, I sat him on my knee and asked if he could walk to the kitchen where Oma was making breakfast.

Barely opening his eyes, he commanded, “Carry me”, and then he added, “Bring Ellie with you and talk for him.”

It should be mentioned at this point that Ellie is a hand puppet. Ellie is an elephant, grey in color with big floppy ears, a large curling trunk, and an enormous mouth. Ellie is a boy elephant. I’m not sure why Ellie is male, but this is important to Asher. I once suggested to Asher that we call Ellie “Eli”, but he would have none of it. Ellie is the puppet’s name, and he is a boy elephant, and that’s that.

While holding Asher in my arms, I struggled to get Ellie on to my right hand. I told Asher, “Ellie says, ‘It’s time for breakfast!'”

Asher leaned on my shoulder and said, “Talk in Ellie’s voice.”

I am supposed to use a different voice for Ellie, deeper and bit more nasal in tone.

We got to the kitchen and Karin was busy slicing fruit into bowls of Hafer Gruetze (German oat porridge). As I held Asher, he farted. I spoke in Ellie’s voice,

“You farted on my face!”

Asher laughed and replied, “I couldn’t hold it in.”

Ellie gagged and said, “I can’t breathe!”

Asher shouted, “Yes, you can!”

Ellie and I got Asher into his chair. He looked at his bowl of Hafer Gruetze and said, “I don’t like it with oranges in it!”

Oma tried to explain to Asher that we were out of strawberries, and she had to use oranges in the breakfast. Asher gazed at the Hafer Gruetze in disgust.

“I don’t like it!”

Ellie moved closer to Asher and hovered over his bowl sniffing at it.

Ellie said, “Mmmmmm…it smells good. All orangy and fruity.”

Asher looked at Ellie. “It won’t taste good.”

Ellie sampled the Hafer Gruetze, and said, “It tasted great, Asher! Try a spoon of it!”

Asher tried a bite and grimaced. “I don’t like it.”

Ellie said, “Eat a little more. Otherwise, you won’t be strong enough to climb the monkey bars at the playground.”

Asher flexed his arm muscles. “I’m strong!”

Ellie told him, “Hmmmm…a little flabby. Eat a little more of the Hafer Gruetze.”

Asher ate about half of the bowl.

Ellie said, “The bowl was all empty when I ate it.”

Asher replied, “No, it wasn’t! You didn’t eat any of it!”

“What do you mean?”

Asher told Ellie, “You can’t really eat. You’re just a puppet!”

Ellie suddenly turned and stared at me, “Am I just a puppet?”

I nodded to Ellie. “Yeah.”

“Really?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Ellie shook his head and sadly laid on the table.

“I’m just a puppet”, he moaned.

Asher told him, “It’s okay, Ellie. We can still play.”

Ellie yelled, “Yay!”

I said, “Asher, finish your breakfast now.”

Absence

April 26th, 2026

A young man, who is a close relative, cut off all contact with me about ten months ago. I haven’t I heard anything at all from him since he broke the connection with me. I don’t expect to hear from him anytime soon, and maybe that is for the best. As I think back on our last conversation, this separation was probably necessary and inevitable.

I spoke to a neighbor about this young man, and he told me about his son, who had left without a word one day and never communicated with his parents for ten years. It was not clear to me from what my neighbor said if he and his son ever reconciled. He did tell me that his son died.

The discussion with my neighbor made me think about the long estrangement I had with my own family. I left home at the age of eighteen to go to school at West Point and pursue a career in the U.S. Army. I was gone for twelve years. I visited my family when I could, but that was at most maybe twice a year. When I was stationed in West Germany, I think I went a couple years without seeing them at all. We stayed in contact, although at that time it was mostly through snail mail. I believe I was on good terms with my family, but we were far apart and our lives were on very different trajectories. We missed big chunks of each other’s lives. I wasn’t there for my dad’s first heart attack. He wasn’t in Germany for my wedding. During those years, I became an Army officer and a helicopter pilot. I lived all over the United States and spent three years in Europe. I married a German woman and eventually left the military to work in the trucking industry. When I finally returned to my hometown, I was thirty years old with a wife and a baby boy. I also arrived with some trauma and a drinking problem. I was not my parents’ little boy anymore.

Reestablishing family relationships proved to be difficult. I wasn’t ready for all the changes in my family of origin. They definitely weren’t ready for me. At the risk of stating the obvious, things were not the same as before I left. I was a different man, and they were also different from what I remembered. My father and I had a number of bitter arguments, and I am convinced that some of the strife was due to the fact that we were fighting with someone who no longer existed. I couldn’t recognize that the person yelling at me was a stranger to me, and that person couldn’t understand it either.

In Buddhism there is the idea that all aspects of who we are as individuals are transitory. The physical changes in our bodies as time passes are obvious, but people change internally too. We evolve emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually. Fifty years ago, I went to West Point, and I am not much like that scared and idealistic young man anymore. The Buddhists talk about the Five Skandhas, the shifting sands of our being. They are defined as follows:

“The five skandhas are essentially a method for understanding that every aspect of our lives is a collection of constantly changing experiences. There is no one aspect that is truly solid, permanent or unique. Everything is in flux. Everything is dependent upon multiple causes and conditions.” from the Encyclopedia of Buddhism.

Even when living with somebody every day, there are those changes. Sometimes, they sneak up on a person. Our grandson, Asher, is five years old, and he seems to be with me almost constantly. Even so, some mornings I wake and look at him and wonder who this little man is. He literally grows up overnight. He changes as I gaze at him sleeping in bed. His skandhas are very active.

I may meet my young man again, or maybe I might not. If I do see him again, I will be meeting him again for the very first time, because he will be a different person, and so will I.

Tearing it all Down

April 18th, 2026

I tore down Asher’s baby crib a couple days ago. I had been avoiding that particular task for as long as I could. This piece of furniture is actually a combination crib/changing table. It has numerous parts, all of which are held together with hex nuts. I hate hex nuts. The little hex wrenches are always awkward to use and easy to misplace. It would have been okay if all
I needed was one wrench for all the nuts. But nooooooooo, I needed two wrenches and I usually tried to use the wrong one first. There was a lot of swearing going on, which somehow seemed inappropriate.

Asher’s crib has been in his bedroom for over five years. Asher has slept in it a total of one time, and that was for a brief daytime nap. Asher has almost always slept with Karin and/or me, mostly with me. So, the crib is essentially brand new. We are giving it away to a Methodist church in Racine, Wisconsin, not too far from where we live. We are also donating Asher’s stroller, highchair, and anything else that a five-year-old no longer needs. Since Asher came to our house from the NICU back in December of 2020, we have accumulated an enormous amount of stuff that needs a new home. The goal is to get this paraphernalia to people who need it more than we do, and at this point we don’t need any of it at all.

Getting rid of the crib opens a space in Asher’s room for his big boy bed. This bed used to belong to Asher’s uncle many years ago. It has two large drawers underneath that are on rollers for easy access. Asher is excited about having a big boy bed, as well he should be. Now, he can sleep alone if he wants. I expect that he will use his “new-to-him” bed most nights. Sometimes, he will probably find his way into my bedroom when he needs somebody to hold him. I am sure that Asher will get used to sleeping by himself, and then someday, maybe in fifteen years or so, he will once again want to sleep with someone else, albeit for very different reasons than he has now.

It seems natural, although perhaps sad, to tear down something in order to build something new. Things become obsolete and have to be discarded. These things might be physical objects, or they can be habits and routines. Asher has outgrown the crib. As his caregivers, we have to outgrow any attachment we have to his time as a baby or a toddler. Not everything goes away. Hell, we still have child safe electrical outlets from when Asher’s mama was a little girl. Life moves forward and we have to move along with it.

I had to tighten up the frame of Asher’s big boy bed. It’s held together with hex nuts.

The Little Theologian

April 12th, 2026

We were getting ready to go to Mass this morning. As always, it takes Asher an excessive amount of time to get himself dressed. Five-year-olds are easily distracted. He was almost to the last step in the process, that of putting his jacket on. Then he started talking,

“Oma, I hope that you and Grandpa don’t die soon. I don’t want you to die while I’m little. I don’t want to have to find a new family.”

That was kind of morbid, but Asher was thinking exactly what I have been thinking for quite a while. Karin and I are old, and the possibility of one or both of us dying is very real. I just didn’t realize that Asher shared our concerns.

I thought that I could comfort him. I told Asher,

“Oma and I will be here as long as you need us.”

Asher replied fiercely, “You don’t get to decide that!”

He walked up to me and said, “Grandpa, you don’t get to decide to keep living just because somebody else wants you. God decides when you die.”

“Uh yeah.”

He went on, “God is in charge of that. You know?”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

It was time to hustle Asher into the car. I got him in his seat. As I was doing that, I wondered, “Where does he get all this?”

Asher can be shockingly mature. He seems to have no illusions about how death works. I was told once that some children are born with old souls. Asher is apparently one of those kids.