Author: frankisemptiness

July 12th, 2024

My wife and I took our grandson with us on a road trip last month. We went to visit family in Texas. With the exception of Illinois, we drove through states that would qualify as “red” politically. Missouri, Arkansas, Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, and Iowa tend to be conservative. The GPS took us on a number of back roads through these states, and we got to see a lot of wide-open spaces. Some of these states might have liberal-leaning urban areas, but the rural landscape was definitely patriotic in a traditional way. There was no shortage of American flags waving the breeze.

The areas we traversed were beautiful but often boring. A person can only look at so many corn and wheat fields. I did much of the driving, and I was ever alert for anything that was even remotely interesting. Once in a while, something unusual caught my eye. After some time, I noticed a pattern.

Over the years, my family and I have made this journey numerous times. I notice changes. I was surprised to see a number of solar arrays. Some were huge, covering entire fields, and others were small, private affairs. When we drove down to Texas a year ago, many of these solar electrical systems did not exist. They do now, and I wondered why.

As I mentioned earlier, we traveled through red states. These places are not hotbeds for radical environmentalism. I am betting that eco-warriors are few and far between. Whoever decided to install these solar panels did not do so because of leftwing political beliefs. They did it for hard, cold economic reasons. They crunched the numbers and determined that they could make or save money by using renewable energy. Whatever solar energy systems I saw were there because of the persuasive power of the almighty dollar.

This is amazing to me. We are at a tipping point where it is now more affordable to use renewable energy than to use fossil fuels. Politics play a role in how we produce energy, but that is being superseded by the considerations of efficiency and cost effectiveness.

Years ago, I used to go to annual the Midwest Renewable Energy Fair. The fair takes place in Custer, Wisconsin in June. I didn’t go to the fair every year, and I haven’t gone for the last ten years or so. What has impressed me is how the fair has evolved over the years. Renewable energy used to the domain of visionaries and cranks. No more.

The first time I visited the fair was in the mid-90’s. It was a small, scruffy gathering of mostly hippies and serious tree huggers. I remember some guy giving a demonstration about how to build a functioning solar oven with only a large black box and plenty of aluminum foil. All the demonstrations were like that. The presenter was usually some person who lived off the grid and looked like he or she had stepped directly out of an issue of Mother Earth News. They came up with innovative ideas that actually worked but were often inefficient and definitely inconvenient.

About ten years later, I attended the fair again. It was larger and there was a more eclectic population. There was one building designated solely for solar energy exhibits. I was shocked to see people in the place wearing suits. Ah yes, now there were sales to be made and profits to be earned. There were slick, professional-looking displays. Companies from all over, including some guys from Germany, were showing their wares. Amateur hour was over.

I later purchased a system from a company that had been selling solar hot water heaters. This was back around 2005. The system is simple and efficient. I still have the solar panel on the roof of our house. The panel continues to heat up antifreeze inside of copper tubing and a small photovoltaic pump circulates the fluid into an insulated water heater in the basement. A heat exchanger transfers the warmth of the antifreeze to the water in the tank. This solar water heater works in tandem with our conventional gas water heater. As long as the sun is heating the water, the gas hot water heater never turns on. Our gas bills during the summer are almost negligible. It works.

After that, my wife and I considered installing a solar electric system. We decided against doing that because the startup costs were too high. The money we needed upfront was $20K, and we did not have that kind of cash laying around. Also, it would have been difficult to set up a solar panel array because our roof was already covered with skylights and Solo tubes.

That was then. This is now. The technology available for using solar energy was still crude in the mid-2000’s. Looking at that equipment now reminds me of Fred Flintstone. Advances in solar technology have been rapid. The gear required today to install a photovoltaic system is more efficient and cheaper than it was twenty years ago, and it is likely that trend will continue.

My observations from our road trip are anecdotal, and perhaps inaccurate. I can only tell you what I saw, and what I saw tells me that change is coming and it’s coming fast.

July 14th, 2024

On Friday afternoon, I spent over an hour talking with an old friend. I hadn’t seen him for months, and there was a lot to say and hear. We sat next to each other at a bar and tried to catch up on things. Most of the conversation dealt with personal issues. My friend, Stan, is a church deacon, so we also discussed religion. Eventually, we got around to politics, in particular immigration. Stan made this comment before addressing the subject,

“Now, I know we see this differently.”

We do see the issue differently, based on our backgrounds and experiences. We are both okay with that. I respect his opinion and he respects mine. We are able look at a political topic from different perspectives and have a civil conversation. We don’t need to argue, and we don’t need to agree. The important thing is that we learn from each other.

People like Stan are rare, exceedingly rare. Usually, when I talk with people, even close friends or family, I have to filter what I say. There are subjects that are radioactive, and only elicit expressions of raw emotion. I don’t mind conversing with individuals who are passionate about something. They often speak the truth as they see it, and I appreciate hearing honest words. However, as I get older, I find it increasingly difficult to find people who are willing to listen to me. Sadly, I am also less patient with folks who have drastically different worldview from my own.

A day after my conversation with Stan, Donald Trump was shot. As I read about it, my first thoughts were,

“Game on.”

Political discourse in our country has degenerated for so long, that this event, or something like it, was inevitable. It would have been inspiring to see our country come together after the violence and ease off the endless verbal sparring. Apparently, that is not to be. At this moment in time, we know next to nothing about the shooter or his motivations. Yet, the Internet is on fire with accusations and conspiracy theories. It probably doesn’t matter who the assassin was or why he tried to kill Trump. His body wasn’t even cold, and people were already trying to fit him into their own narrative.

Now, a red line has been crossed, and it will be crossed again. There have been threats of political violence for months. Now, it’s here. Today, the RNC starts its weeklong gathering in Milwaukee, my hometown. I fear that there will be violence. Actually, I expect it. There are no more boundaries. No more taboos.

Game on.

July 7th, 2024

“You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows” – Bob Dylan

We are getting a new roof installed on our house. We had not planned on doing that, but it’s going to happen anyway. It’s a small incident that, at least to me, indicates the direction of the future. I’ll try to explain.

Back on May 7th, we had a nasty thunderstorm roll through the area. We have always had thunderstorms in Wisconsin. They are nothing new. This storm was early for the season, and it was fierce. We had hail, which is also nothing new, but this storm produced hail that I had never seen before. We are used to small hailstones that might be as big as marbles. During the storm in May, we got large chunks of ice that looked like the ice cubes that come out of a machine. They were sharp and angular. For the first time ever, we had some damage. High winds slammed the hail against the west side of our house, and it tore up a couple window screens. After the weather cleared, I looked to see if the skylights were broken. They were intact, and I saw no other obvious problems. I got the screens fixed and thought no more of it.

Later, a young man from a roofing company came through the neighborhood. He was a storm chaser, looking for repair work to do. I let him do an inspection of the house for hail damage. He climbed up on to the roof. I hadn’t been up there. I don’t go on the roof anymore. That’s a bad life choice for an old guy like me. As I expected, he said that he found damage and encouraged me to file a claim with my insurance. I was leery of doing that, but I called the insurance company anyway. They told me that they would send out an adjuster to do their own inspection. I did not anticipate that the adjuster would find anything to fix.

I was wrong. I got a surprise call a week or so later and the person handling my claim told me that the company was paying $22K for needed repairs to the roof and gutters. I was dumbfounded by that. Really? Home insurance companies don’t hand out money like candy. They only make payouts when they have to do so. The fact is that, if I am getting money for a new roof, then probably most of the people in my neighborhood are getting something like that too. There are a lot of payouts being made.

I remember when I made the initial call to my insurance, I spoke with a young man who sounded world weary. He was helpful and polite, but obviously tired. I asked him if he was busy. He sighed and told me that he had been processing an endless list of damage claims from throughout the Midwest and the Great Plains. Extreme weather events were taking a serious toll.

All this makes me think of places like Florida, where for many people it is becoming next to impossible to get homeowner’s insurance. This seems to be the wave of the future. There are many climate change deniers, but insurance companies aren’t part of that population. Insurance companies crunch the numbers and coldly look at the statistics. They are about making money. It’s the free market in action. These corporations don’t think that climate change and the resulting extreme weather are fairy tales. They see these things as being very real.

It would be easy to dismiss my experience as an isolated incident. It’s not. A vast number of little things are adding up. For instance, I live near Milwaukee, and this part of the world just had its mildest winter ever recorded. I have lived here most of my life, and I know how cold the winters can be. This last winter season was slushy and rainy. I used the snowblower exactly once. That is extraordinary.

The climate changes are obvious to me. The only question is how is do we deal with them.

July 2nd, 2024

Hans called me yesterday from his home in rural Texas. He doesn’t call that often, but when he does, it’s about something he really wants to get off his chest. Usually, he wants to discuss the latest idiocy at his workplace, but not this time. This time, my oldest son had something else to tell me. He started right into it.

“Dad, I did a Good Samaritan thing on the way home today.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I was driving along that feeder road by I-45. You know which one I mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I saw a car stopped on the side of the road. There was this old guy trying to change a tire, and he was struggling with one of the lug nuts. He had all his weight on the lug wrench trying to loosen it, and it wasn’t budging. That old boy was covered with sweat.”

“Is it hot down there?”

“There’s a heat advisory.”

“How long is that supposed to last? Until September?”

Hans sighed, “No, it will be done by seven this evening. We’re in the triple digits.”

He went on, “Well, a bunch of people passed this car. Well, I did too, but I found a place to turn around. I told the old man that I would go back home and get my tools. Then I drove back to the house. It’s not far from there. You know where we live.”

“Yeah.”

“I found my impact drill and made sure the battery was charged. Then I drove back to the car. We broke that nut loose and got the flat tire off. Then we put the spare on. The old guy was trying to tighten the nuts by hand. I told him, ‘Hell, I got the impact drill right here. Let me do it.’ He did.

He seemed awful grateful to me. He and his wife. I told them, ‘This is what Texans are supposed to do.’ You know, help each other out. I was just doing the Christian Texan thing.

The lady in the car, she said that if someone comes to help, it is almost always somebody in a big ol’ pickup truck.”

Note: Hans drives a big ol’ pickup truck.

Hans paused and said, “Dad, I’m not bragging. I just wanted to let you know that you raised me right.”

Maybe I did.

July 4th, 2024

“Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure or nothing. To keep our faces toward change in the presence of fate, is strength undefeatable.” – Helen Keller

I hold Asher a lot. So does my wife. Karin and I are Asher’s grandparents and legal guardians. The boy is three and a half years old. Most of the time, Asher is active, curious, talkative, imaginative, and all the other things that a little boy should be. He can be frightfully independent. Asher is usually confident to the point of cockiness.

And then, sometimes he’s not.

He can suddenly be scared or sad or tired, and he then will confront me and demand,

“Hold me.”

I almost always do. Someone has to do that. Asher has had more than his fair share of trauma in his young life. He was born nine weeks early during the height of Covid. He spent his first four weeks in a hospital NICU. Asher’s father abandoned him shortly after his birth. Asher’s mother has been going in and out of his life repeatedly due to recurring health issues. It’s been a rough start.

Asher has two pillars of stability in his life: Karin and me. That’s it. There is nobody else at this point. We’re old, and these two pillars are crumbling a bit. However, he depends on us for his safety and security. It’s hard on the boy, and it us sometimes a struggle for my wife and me. We try to provide him with some sense of order, and some type of routine. That is difficult. Other factors tend to bring an element of chaos into our lives, and we all have to deal with that.

Admittedly, Asher has it much better than many other children in the world. I need only to think of the little kids in Sudan, Ukraine, or Gaza. We have all the basic necessities in our home, and more besides. Asher does not suffer from material deprivation. He does not need to fear for his own life or the lives of those he loves. Yet, in some ways, he still suffers.

Asher is very concerned about things being done a certain way. To feel safe, he needs to have many small things remain the same. Asher needs to eat out of his lion bowl. He needs to cut his waffle with a specific knife and fork. He only wants to wash his hands in the bathroom sink. There are myriad tiny details that make up his life, and they are all important to him.

Our youngest son got divorced this week. It was a shock to everyone, especially to him. His wife’s announcement that she wanted to leave him had all the subtlety of a lightning bolt. Things suddenly changed for our son, and for everyone who knows him. As Stefan said, “There is collateral damage.” He has had to move back into our home, albeit temporarily. All this has upended our homelife, and Asher has noticed. Why is his uncle living here? Why does Asher need to sleep in a different bedroom? The boy has all sorts of questions with no good answers.

Several days ago, Asher had a meltdown. I don’t know what caused it. I don’t know if there was any particular trigger. All I know is that things got crazy very quickly. Asher started crying and screaming and would not, or could not, stop. I picked him up. He continued to cry. His piercing voice stabbed at my right eardrum. Karin tried to hold him. Asher wouldn’t let her. She tried all the usual bribes: a YouTube video about Paw Patrol, ice cream, a new toy. Nothing stooped the shrieking. I tried to put him down. He cried out,

“NO! Don’t put me down! Hold me!”

I did, for over half an hour. The boy clung to me for dear life. He would not let me sit. I stood in the kitchen while he wailed.

Eventually, the emotional storm passed. Asher wore himself out. His cries grew weaker, and he ever so slowly relaxed in my arms. He permitted me to sit down in a chair. I cradled him in my arms. The tension in his body ebbed away. His breathing became more regular. He fell asleep.

We took Asher to our pediatrician two days ago. He found nothing physically wrong with the boy. He gave us a referral to a counselor for children. We will follow up on that. I don’t know if it will help.

Asher is experiencing the struggles of life at a tender age. I can’t fix that. I can’t heal all that needs to be healed. I can’t keep Asher safe forever.

There is a song from Vampire Weekend called “Hold You Now”. The final verse says,

“I can’t carry you forever, but I can hold you now.”

I can hold him now.

June 26th, 2024

If your double wide is permanently positioned on the side of a dirt road, then you are by definition “country”. Our son, Hans, and his family bought a double wide on an acre of wooded land, and it is definitely in the country. The closest town to their home is Madisonville, Texas, population is 4420. According to Hans, the municipality has three cops. Hans and Gabby do not live in Madisonville proper. A person needs to drive about five miles away from the town to get to that narrow dirt road that connects to their property.

Hans works in construction. He often operates a pump truck with a 58-meter boom on it. His company does mostly residential slabs for houses. In Texas they don’t have basements, so the slab is the foundation for the home. Hans is very busy pouring slabs in the Bryan/College Station area of Texas, about an hour’s drive from where he and his family live. BCS is booming and many people from Houston are moving there. The Houstonites want some room and some quiet. Paradoxically, they also want the conveniences that are associated with living in an urban environment. This means these newcomers bring the city along with them. There is plenty of open land available in the vicinity of BCS, but it is expensive and soon to be developed.

On the other hand, the land near Madisonville is open and likely to stay that way. Hans has seen no construction activity close to Madisonville. Some of the land may get developed on the future, but not in the immediate future. Hans and Gabby are good with that. They want to live in the country. They don’t care about not being able to get DoorDash. They want a home with trees and pastures nearby. They want a place where their three kids can grow up in safety. It appears they have chosen the right location.

There are only a few homes close to Gabby and Hans. All the neighbors know each other, and they seem to get along well. When Karin, Asher, and I visited a couple weeks ago, I could hear roosters crow in the distance. Hans and Gabby have oaks and cedars growing in their property. There is a tree farm located behind their land. Apparently, the tree farm also has a pipeline going through it, which will probably inhibit future development. Within walking distance is a pasture with cattle lolling under spreading oak trees. There is also a rusting pumpjack in the field. It probably pumped oil in the past, but not anymore. If there is pumpjack, then there must also be underground pipelines, some of which may have leaked over the years. That’s another disincentive to rapid new development.

Hans and Gabby have plans for their little piece of paradise. Gabby wants to plant pecan trees. She wants to have a garden. She is already growing seedlings for it. She wants roses. Hans wants to clear out the dead trees and maybe build a shed. To fulfill their ambitions, they need time and money. Currently, they have neither. However, they have their dreams, and that is a wonderful thing. They have a house of their own now, and they want to transform it into their home.

My wife, Karin, and I had great hopes for the house we built 33 years ago. Some of our dreams came true. Some did not. This house became our permanent home, and it bears our mark. It is also the home of our little grandson, Asher. It is the only home he has ever known, and it might be his home for many years to come. Gabby and Hans will create a space that is uniquely their own. May it bring them joy and peace.

June 22nd, 2024

The three-body problem in classical physics is about taking the initial positions and velocities of three masses that orbit each other in space and then using Newton’s laws of universal gravitation and motion to determine their trajectories. Newton tried to predict the movements of the sun, moon, and earth as their masses affected each other. He didn’t do very well with that. The difficulty lies in the fact that even tiny changes in the initial conditions result in wildly diverging trajectories. The movements and relationships between the three bodies are part of a chaotic system.

If three unconscious physical masses in motion are unpredictable, then how much more chaotic are the movements of three sentient beings. As a case in point, Karin and I visited our three grandchildren in Texas recently, and they were never objects at rest. Weston, Madeline, and Wyatt are five, three, and one year old respectively. They are all energetic preschoolers. They are always in motion, and their movements seem to be completely random. They are constantly interacting, but in unforeseeable ways.

Their mom, Gabby, does a remarkable job of keeping track of them. She too, by necessity, is always in motion. Somehow Gabby is able to satisfy, at least temporarily, to their insatiable needs and desires, and still get other things done. She has an intuitive sense of where and when to respond. She might have to comfort a crying child, or clean up a messy one, or seek out the kid is silently getting into mischief. While she is tracking the three bodies in her care, Gabby is also cooking supper, doing laundry, or attending any number of other chores. It’s rather impressive.

When Karin and I came to visit for a week, we brought little Asher along with us. Asher played with his cousins and effectively created a four-body problem. I’m not sure if our presence in the household was helpful. In some ways we just caused more chaos by upsetting the family routines. On the other hand, Karin and I could herd the four youngsters to give Gabby some breathing space. Decades ago, we raised three kids of our own, so we are familiar with chaotic systems. They tend to be loud, and emotionally intense. Currently, Karin and I are Asher’s fulltime caregivers, so we understand Gabby’s situation. It’s strange, but even though he is one child, Asher still outnumbers us.

Gabby’s household contains smaller nonhuman bodies in motion. There are two cats in the house. Cats are by their very nature inscrutable. There is also a not-quite-housebroken puppy named Bella who explores the premises. Gabby has a handheld carpet shampooer. She gets plenty of use out of that. The floor always has a coating of cracker crumbs, bits of apple, pet food, and toys. This is unavoidable. Since the actions of the various moving bodies cannot be anticipated, there is a constant battle to tidy up after them. I am a compulsive cleaner, so I kept very busy. Gabby asked me once,

“If I told you that you did not need to clean up, would you stop?”

“No.”

She sighed and said, “I wish Hans (her husband) had that compulsion.”

“And the train it won’t stop going
No way to slow down” – from Locomotive Breath by Jethro Tull

This multi-body system is like a runaway train in some ways. It won’t ever stop, but it does actually slow down occasionally. Even the most intensely active children eventually crash. In the early afternoon, little Wyatt conks out and takes a nap with his mama. Weston gets absorbed into the world of Minecraft. Maybe I read a book to Madeline. Asher plays with all of his cousins’ toys and scatters them around the house. It is a temporary respite, but welcome, nonetheless.

Although the thought of predicting the movements of four preschoolers is attractive, there is also some pleasure in just being part of the show. Weston crawls all over his “Oma” as she tries to teach him German verses from when she was a young girl. Madeline breaks out a smile that shines like the sun at high noon. Wyatt consents to me picking him up and rocking him in my arms. It’s a maelstrom of motion, noise, and love.

It’s not really a problem after all.

June 25th, 2024

Asher’s a good kid, but he is still a kid. He’s three and a half years old, and in some ways mature for his age. However, it is hard on him to go on an 1100-mile-long road trip his grandparents. Karin and I wanted to visit our other three grandkids in Texas, and because we are Asher’s legal guardians, he had to come with us. Flying might have been easier, but flying also entails logistical problems, so we chose to drive. Driving provides for more flexibility. It’s just difficult for a little boy to sit in a car seat for that long of a journey. It’s difficult for the old folks too.

One of the goals on the trip was to keep Asher happy and content, or at least quiet. There is nothing more disconcerting while driving than having a screaming kid in the back seat. Karin and I tried to plan ahead to prevent any meltdowns enroute. There was still some hollering, mostly from me. However, we had some ideas on how to keep the boy settled.

We made frequent stops as we drove from Wisconsin to Texas. If a rest stop had a playground (these things exist in Missouri and Illinois), we pulled over for a while. We let Asher play as long as he wanted just to tire him out a bit. The weather was hot all through the journey, so Asher never ran amok for more than half an hour or so. Then we gave him something to drink and tucked him into his seat. We let the air conditioning in the car and the soothing drone of the motor lull him to sleep. If that happened, then we slammed on the accelerator and put on some miles.

We made a habit of stopping for gas at Love’s travel centers. The reason for that was the fact Love’s had in stock stuffed animal figures from Paw Patrol. Asher is obsessed with Paw Patrol. He says things like “Chase is on the case!” and “Paw Patrol is on a roll!”. If there was new Paw Patrol character at the travel center, we bought it for him. Yeah, it was pretty much bribery on our part, but it gave the kid a burst of dopamine, so it was worth the money.

We packed all sorts of toys, books, and other distractions for the boy. Roughly 50% of our luggage consisted of Asher stuff. We brought his bicycle along so that he could ride around in hotel parking lots. We brought his swim gear so he could go into any open hotel pool. Karin let the lad watch Paw Patrol You Tube videos when all else failed. Even then, there were stressful times. One cannot plan for everything.

One instance of unexpected turmoil came early in the journey during breakfast at our first hotel in Mount Vernon, Il. Asher was being finicky. He wasn’t very interested in any of the food offered to him. Karin had given him a full glass of orange juice and then walked away to get some coffee. As I sat next to Asher, he managed to dump the entire contents of the glass on to the table and his lap. I freaked. After expressing a heartfelt “Goddamit!”, I pulled him away from the table. He was crying. The kid had OJ on his shirt and pants. His Crocks were full of orange juice. He was cold, sticky, and wet. Karin tried to give me advice. I chose not to listen. I just took Asher up the room, stripped him, washed him, and gave him a new set of clothes. This event set the tone for the rest of the day.

On a lighter note, on our way back home from Texas, we stopped in Lawrence, Kansas, so that Karin could go shopping at the Yarn Barn. True fiber aficionados keep track of every yarn store on their route of travel. The Yarn Barn is a pilgrimage destination for people like Karin. The have yarn for knitting, weaving, and almost anything else that a person can do with it. The plan was for Karin to go into the store, savor the experience, and spend money without Asher there to interfere. I was going to take Asher to the massive toy store next door to the Yarn Barn and keep him amused. Alas, it was not to happen.

Asher started crying as soon as we left Karin. Despite my cajoling, he was adamant that he be with his Oma in the yarn store. We found Karin. She was busy making her purchases. Asher was instantly bored and restless. A woman who worked there offered him some crocheted stuffed animals to play with. Those kept him busy for a very short while. Then he complained to me,

“My butt itches.”

“What?”

He yelled, “MY BUTT ITCHES!”

Everybody there heard him, but nobody reacted. The store has classes for knitters, many of whom are young mothers with children. The staff at the Yarn Barn is used to this sort of disruption.

Then Asher’s mother wanted to do a video call with him. Asher would have none of it. He ran through the aisles like a madman with me chasing him with the phone. I think his mom saw the video of him sprinting away from me. It must have looked like a scene from “Cops” where the suspect is fleeing from the police. Asher just laughed as we ran through the store. Eventually, his mother gave up on the call. That was a good thing because I was getting out of breath.

Overall, it was a good trip. I was never bored.

June 16th, 2024

“We need to overthrow this rotten, decadent, putrid, industrial capitalist system.” – Dorothy Day, founder of the Catholic Worker movement.

A poster displaying this quote and a picture of Dorothy Day hangs on the wall of Brian’s farmhouse. Brian and his wife, Betsy, are Catholic Workers and quite proud of that fact. Brian and Betsy live in an old house on a small parcel of land in the rolling hills of southern Iowa, only a few miles from the Missouri border. The two of them are my age (old), and they care for goats and chicken, along with a flourishing garden. They are remarkably self-sufficient. They are devout Catholics who practice what they preach, which is something that is both commendable and rare.

I will attempt to very briefly explain who the Catholic Workers are. It’s hard to describe them with any accuracy, but I will try. The Catholic Workers were started in NYC in the 1930’s by Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin. Day was at one time a communist and also an anarchist. She eventually found her home in the Catholic Church, which despite all evidence to the contrary, can be very radical about certain issues. Catholic Workers are essentially Catholic anarchists. That sounds like an oxymoron, but it’s not. They believe in the Beatitudes, and they act on that belief. Because of that, they are peace activists and advocates for the poor and outcast in our society. They live simple lives with a minimum of material goods. Their community has no hierarchy. I cannot call the Catholic Workers an organization because everybody somehow does their own thing while working toward the goal of world that is without war and without poverty.

Brian is a friend of mine, which seems unlikely almost to the point of absurdity. He is two years older than I am. While I was a cadet at West Point, Brian was starting his career path in NYC in a Catholic Worker house. Brian actually had the chance to meet and speak with Dorothy Day. Hanging on another wall in his house is a framed letter from a bishop asking Brian to testify in the process of her canonization by the Catholic Church. As I went on to be an Army officer and a helicopter pilot, Brian became an outspoken antiwar protester. Brian also has in his home a photo of himself carrying a sign that reads, “Support the Troops! Bring them home!”.

I met Brian first in 2014. I joined him for a 165-mile-long peace walk. Later, I was with him for a demonstration against drone warfare at Creech AFB in 2017. We both got arrested at that event. I saw him this week for the first time since Covid hit. Karin, my wife, and Asher, our three-year-old grandson were with me. I had never been to his home before. Karin commented later,

“The house seemed kind of messy.”

Then she added, “But I’ve never been in a Catholic Worker house that wasn’t messy.”

Oh, so true. There are numerous books piled everywhere, along with projects begun but not yet completed. Icons and religious pictures cover the walls. Honestly, Brian and Betsy’s house is no messier than our own. Especially since Asher became part of our household, our home is just barely controlled chaos. I don’t mind a house that is disarray, because often it means that the place is alive with activity. I am always suspicious of homes that are immaculately clean.

Karin and Betsy connected quickly. They are both fiber goddesses. Betsy had two awesome floor looms for her weaving. She and Karin had a lot of shop talk.

Brian and I know a lot about each other’s lives. His father was in the Army when Brian was very young. Brian knows that our son, Hans, fought in Iraq. Somehow, the two of us connect.

Brian and I had long, freewheeling conversations, which for me was the whole point of the visit. Betsy and Karin sometimes joined in. One time we were all sitting outside, Asher included, at their picnic table, eating a delicious meal prepared by Betsy. Brian shared some locally brewed beer with the adults. Betsy asked me about West Point. She had lived in the Hudson Valley for a while. Then she mentioned something unexpected,

“We know a woman who graduated from West Point. She was in the first class with women.”

That got my interest, since she is a classmate of mine.

Betsy continued, “She is a nun in the convent nearby. It was strange, she said that she knew she had a calling, even before she became Catholic. She was only in RCIA at the time. (RCIA is the Rite of Initiation for Adults). I can’t remember her name. It was something Polish. Did you know her? She retired from the Army and then decided to become a sister. Doesn’t that seem odd?”

I don’t know who this classmate is. I told Betsy that it really wasn’t all that strange that this officer would become a member of a religious order. After World War II, the monasteries were overflowing with veterans who wanted to become monks. Those men had seen the worst of what our fallen world could offer, and they just wanted some peace. They were used to following orders, so the discipline involved was no obstacle to them.

Betsy asked me if it was horrible at West Point. I had to think for a while. Finally, I said, “Yes”. Some grads are nostalgic about their USMA experience. I’m not. It wasn’t all bad, but some of it sucked mightily.

Then I said, “If I hadn’t gone to West Point, I would have never met Karin.”

Betsy smiled and agreed.

I added, “And Asher would not be here.”

Brian chimed in, “And you wouldn’t be at this table either.”

Brian and Betsy were good with Asher. They loved him. Betsy enthusiastically read a Dr. Suess book to him. We slept overnight at their house. Brian made us eggs for breakfast. They have plenty of eggs. We talked for a while. Asher didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to either, but we had to move on.

We said our goodbyes. Brian gave me a big hug.

I told him, “I love you, my friend.”

He replied, “Thanks for coming. I value your friendship.”

I admire Brian and Betsy. They have integrity. They are as dedicated to their cause as much as any soldier is to theirs. They have devoted their lives to creating a peaceful and just world. They may never live to see it, but they have faith that someday someone will.

I am proud and grateful to have Brian as my friend.

June 10th, 2024

My son, Hans, came home from work. He had been pumping concrete in the Texas summer sun for hours, and he looked rough. He was wearing a t-shirt with jeans tucked into his cowboy-style work boots. His cap had dark sweat stains on the headband. His shirt, jeans, and boots were dusty. Hans’ face had that kind of grime that is the combination of fine dirt and stale perspiration. His face and neck were both tanned and sunburned, a deep reddish-brown color. He was standing upright, but just barely.

I asked him how his day went. He just stared at me and shook his head. He cracked open a cold can of Lime-A-Rita and took a swig. He talked about his job and then we talked about work injuries and health insurance. He mentioned that his left knee bothered him. As is his wont, Hans somehow switched the topic to his time in the military. He told me,

“You know, those VA benefits aren’t that good.”

“How so?”

He replied, “Well, you know I got my knee fucked up in Iraq, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I ain’t never got any help with that.”

“How exactly did that injury happen?”

Hans poured some more of his drink down his throat. Then he told me,

“We were on a patrol. Some guy fired an RPG at us, which didn’t make no sense, since we were dismounted. You know how when the adrenalin kicks in and everything moves more slowly? Well, I’m watching this RPG flying at us. They don’t fly straight. They do this:”, and he quickly moved his left hand around in front of him in a totally random manner.

He drank again.

“They go every which way. I’m looking at it and thinking, ‘Too low! Go up! Up!’ It did, and it went over our heads and then the rocket hit a wall behind us. The concussion knocked me off my feet. They told me after that I flipped twice before I hit the ground.”

“I woke up with the medic on top of me. We were good friends. He was a big ol’ country boy. Not fat, but big. Cornfed, you know. He got me conscious by making some painful move up around my shoulder blade. I said to him,

‘Why am I laying here and why are you on top of me?!’

The medic told me that was fine. Dad, you know what they mean in the Army when they say you’re fine. It means you are not fine. Then the guy tells me, ‘Don’t look down’. I did.”

“Well, I could see my foot and it was all cockeyed.” Hans showed me with his hand that his left knee was bent about ninety degrees in the wrong direction.

“I told the medic, ‘This don’t look right’. That’s when he gave me a shot in the neck with something and I went out. It was something strong. They said that I woke up during the helicopter flight to the hospital, but I don’t remember anything.”

Then Hans asked me, “What was that friendly country over there?”

I replied, “Kuwait.”

“Yeah, Kuwait. They flew me to Kuwait. They fixed up the knee and had me wear a brace on it for a while. When we got back to the States, I asked about the knee. The said that they had no record of me getting hurt.”

“Oh?”

“Dad, we were the last people out of Iraq. We were in a hurry. They left the records behind. Hell, the Iraqis probably got my social security number.”

Hans took another drink. His knee is injured, and the U.S. government will probably never do anything to help him with that. I suppose if Hans had the time or energy, he could pursue the issue to get treatment from the VA. He won’t. He doesn’t think it’s worth fighting about. He’ll just deal with the pain and pop another beer.