Author: frankisemptiness

October 31st, 2023

We spent an entire day driving through Arkansas. From Texarkana in the west to Blytheville at the northeast tip of the state, it takes at least six hours of windshield time. That’s all freeway driving. The three of us took frequent breaks along the way. Karin and I needed to go to the bathroom often, and our little grandson, Asher, needed to burn off some of his limitless energy. He gets restless in the child seat.

We planned to find a place to stay once we crossed the state line into southern edge of Missouri. There was a Drury hotel located at Exit 19 in Hayti. We thought we could spend the night there. It was late in the afternoon when we drove along I-55 past the cotton fields. The fields were flat and level as a billiard table, and many of them were covered with puffy white balls of cotton. Some people were harvesting the cotton. Massive machines rolled the white puffs into cylindrical bales that were almost the size of our garage at home. Some people were burning the stubble. We could see pale brown smoke blowing eastward toward the Mississippi River.

We arrived at the hotel at exactly the wrong time. They had just given away the very last room in the place. This was a great disappointment to us. We had taken Asher out of the car seat, and he was not interested in going back into it for any reason. Drury hotels are self-enclosed environments. The hotel provides customers with both a dinner and a breakfast. A person staying overnight at a Drury hotel need not venture forth for any reason. In a town like Hayti that is a great advantage.

Across the overpass, on the other side of the freeway, was a Quality Inn. We forced Asher into the car one last time, and we went there to get a room. There were very few cars parked at the Quality Inn. The lady at the front desk was a middle-aged Black woman. She was very friendly, and she had a pleasant smile, remarkable because of two gold teeth. There was a wide screen TV in the lobby showing reruns of “Family Matters”, a Black sitcom from the 1990’s. The woman got us a room, and we settled in.

The room was okay. It was inexpensive, and there was a reason for that. There was a closet that had a door that wouldn’t close. The curtains at the window wouldn’t close all the way either. They should have had a clasp to keep them shut, but that was broken off. There were just a few small flaws in the room that needed to be fixed but weren’t.

The hotel had a side entrance that was supposed to be locked and only opened with a pass key. The lock was broken, and the door could be opened by anybody at any time. I asked the lady at the desk about it.

She told me, “They were supposed to fix that this week. I guess they didn’t get to it.”

Asked her, “Do you have problems with stray people walking in here during the night?”

She shook her head, and said, “No Sir, we don’t.”

Considering that the hotel was surrounded on three sides by cotton fields, they probably didn’t have too many strangers wandering the halls. It still made me uneasy.

There was a stark contrast between the Drury hotel and the Quality Inn. The Drury was new and fancy. The Quality Inn needed some tender loving care. The population at the Drury was almost exclusively white. Our hotel’s staff and guests, except for us, was all Black, as far as I could tell. Coincidence, probably not.

Karin wanted to get something for supper. As far as we knew, there was only one real restaurant open nearby. There was a McDonalds and Burger King on the main road, but we wanted a sit-down dinner. We drove to the one and only Mexican restaurant about half a mile away from the hotel. I noticed as we drove down the street that at least half of the buildings were boarded up. A lot of small-time entrepreneurs had failed in this little town. One of the few survivors was this Mexican place. It was a Friday night and Los Portales was packed.

We got a booth in the restaurant. I wasn’t hungry, but I wanted a beer. Karin ordered something, but I forget what. We ordered mac and cheese for Asher. The food that was served to us was, well, interesting. Karin got a plate with something wrapped in a tortilla that was submerged in a red sauce. I couldn’t recognize it as any type of Mexican food that I had ever seen before. Asher got a plate with noodles swimming in milk. I never thought it possible that somebody could fuck up mac and cheese, but apparently, I was wrong. Asher refused to eat it. I couldn’t blame him.

As we sat in the booth, Karin did some research on Hayti. She read off her phone,

“Median family income is $24,000 dollars per year.”

I nodded.

“Median home value is about $40,000.”

I said, “Yeah, that sounds right.”

I am a stranger to rural poverty. I didn’t realize until that moment that we had landed right in the middle of it. I am very familiar with urban poverty. I have seen enough of it, and I experienced a taste of poverty as a kid. Urban poverty is blatant, in your face. Rural poverty seems to be more hidden. That doesn’t make rural poverty any less painful. It’s just that the folks speeding along on the freeway don’t notice it.

When I was a kid, I really didn’t realize that we were poor. I thought we were normal. We had enough food. We had enough clothes, although sometimes hand me downs. My six younger brothers and I had what we needed, but often nothing extra. For a while our family was without a car. There was no money for one. When we went shopping, we pulled a coaster wagon to the grocery store. The fact that we didn’t have much money didn’t completely register until I wanted to go to college, and my father made it clear that I was on my own regarding tuition. That was a major reason for me going to West Point. It was pure economics.

Poverty means a lack of everything. It means a lack of choice, a lack of opportunity, a lack transportation. Why was the Mexican restaurant so busy on a Friday night? It was because the locals had no other choice. Why do the locals make so little money? Probably because the only work is in the cotton fields. Why don’t they move to another city? Maybe because they don’t have the means to do so.

We left Hayti the next morning and drove the rest of the way home to Wisconsin. Karin, Asher, and I left poverty. The residents of Hayti didn’t.

October 26th, 2023

The following is an excerpt from the dialogue of Steven Spielberg’s movie “Munich”. The film is a story, based on actual events, of Israeli assassins who track down and kill the terrorists who murdered Israeli athletes at the 1972 Olympic Games.

Robert: We’re Jews, Avner. Jews don’t do wrong because our enemies do wrong.

Avner: We can’t afford to be that decent anymore.

Robert: I don’t know if we ever were that decent. Suffering thousands of years of hatred doesn’t make you decent. But we’re supposed to be righteous. That’s a beautiful thing. That’s Jewish. That’s what I knew, that’s what I was taught and I’m losing it. I lose that and that’s everything. That’s my soul.

The following are two excerpts from a recent essay by Thane Rosenbaum.

“Vengeance and justice are really the same things. Too much of the former is unjust, but there is no justice if victims are not made to feel vindicated. That’s why the language of revenge is always framed in mathematical terms: ‘measure for measure’, ‘settling the score’, ‘evening the debt’, ‘demanding payback.’.”

“A mammoth debt was created on October 7, and satisfaction is owed. Settling this score won’t be easy. The wrongdoers committed unspeakable acts. Numbers can’t be assigned. In Gaza, the math of revenge will have no equal.”

Finally…

Deuteronomy 32:35 – “Vengeance is mine, and recompense, for the time when their foot shall slip; for the day of their calamity is at hand, and their doom comes swiftly.”

I find it difficult to write about the current war in Gaza, but I also feel that I need to do so. I have several friends from the synagogue who have resided in Israel. One of them has a son who has served in the IDF. Almost all of my Jewish acquaintances have friends and/or family living in Israel. Likewise, I know several Palestinians. They also have friends and family back in their homeland. For all of these people, Israeli or Palestinian, the war in Gaza is not something theoretical. It is something that they feel in a visceral and deeply personal way. I try to see things from both sides, and I fear that I will only antagonize everyone involved because I refuse to support one group unconditionally.

For me, the situation revolves around the concept of justice. The members of Hamas did in fact commit “unspeakable acts” during their attack on Israel on October 7th. There is no question about that, and these people should be held accountable for their crimes. Have the Israelis treated the residents of Gaza badly over the years? I think that they have, but whatever oppression the Palestinians have received at the hands of the Israelis does not and cannot excuse the crimes committed by Hamas.

Vengeance and justice are not the same things. Vengeance is about getting even with an enemy, and it is something that can never be accomplished. The thirst for vengeance can never be quenched. Revenge does not bring the dead back to life. It does not bring closure. It does not heal any wounds. Vengeance generates an ever more dynamic cycle of violence. It is entirely destructive.

Justice is not so much about retribution as it is about setting the stage for possible reconciliation. Restorative justice is about making things right again. There is a much-quoted statement from Pope Paul VI where he says, “If you want peace, work for justice.” I believe that this slogan, though simple, is absolutely true. The only way for peace in Gaza is through justice, for both the Israelis and the Palestinians.

The Israelis will invade Gaza any day now. They have already been bombing it. They are politically and militarily in a position to do whatever they want. The Israelis have a choice. They can seek vengeance, or they can act justly. Perhaps they are wrestling with this question right now. Maybe that is one reason that the Israelis have not yet started the invasion.

I have always admired the emphasis on justice in Judaism. It seems to me that this focus is not only on justice for the Jews, but for justice for all people. I am deeply impressed by that.

I don’t know what the Israelis will do next. I pray that they act with justice, for the sake of the Gazans, and for their own souls.

October 26th, 2023

Asher was sick. Our grandson started to get flushed and feverish early on a Sunday morning while we were staying at a hotel in Bryan, Texas. The little boy slept all day and then all through the night. Karin, my wife, was also sick. She had been lying in bed for two days already. I texted our daughter-in-law for the location of an urgent care in town. She suggested a hospital that was only a mile or two away.

Early on Monday morning, Asher woke up crying. The toddler was still flushed, but he didn’t feel feverish. We had no idea what was wrong with him. He was hurting and inconsolable. We got Asher dressed and I drove him to the hospital.

When I got there, I did not see a sign for an urgent care facility. I carried Asher inside and asked the receptionist at the counter about it.

She told me, “Oh, we don’t have an urgent care anymore, but we have the ER.”

Asher was crying so much that I could barely understand the young woman. I said, “Okay”, and I dug Asher’s insurance card out of my wallet. I handed it to the woman and said, “It’s Medicaid.”

She hardly looked at the card. She said dismissively, “We don’t take Medicaid. We aren’t federally funded here.” Then she slid the card back over to me.

She continued, “We do take cash payments.”

Asher was screaming in my ear as I held him on my right hip.

I sighed and asked her, “How much?”

She smiled coldly and said, “ER visits start at $385 and go up from there.”

I was stressed and scared about Asher. I shrugged and nodded. “Fine, let’s do it.”

She pulled out a form. “I will need you to sign this.”

While holding a squirming child, I scribbled my name on the sheet of paper. Apparently, I agreed to pay whatever it would cost to help the kid. It was an open-ended question.

We were led into a room and a tech tried to take Asher’s weight, pulse, and temperature. He was totally uncooperative. We guessed at the weight.

Asher continued to cry. He was miserable. I wasn’t much better. The nurse came in and checked on Asher. The ER nurse was friendly and compassionate. She asked if Asher was my grandson. I told her that I was also his fulltime caregiver and legal guardian. She looked at us and said,

“Well, bless your heart.”

In Texas somebody’s heart is always being blessed, but I appreciated her concern.

The doctor came in and examined Asher. He was a good guy. He cared about our grandson. He suspected that Asher had COVID. He wanted to know if I wanted a test taken. I agreed to that. If Asher had COVID, then Karin almost certainly had. I was probably infected too.

Asher’s test was positive. Basically, there was nothing to be done for his condition except to give the kid some baby Ibuprofen and ride it out. I asked the doctor about traveling back to Wisconsin. He said that we needed to quarantine for a few days. We needed to stay in the hotel anyway. We couldn’t drive 1400 miles if everyone was sick.

The woman from the front desk came into the room. She had more papers more papers to sign.

She said smoothly, “The cost of the visit today is $495. We can set up a payment plan if you want…”

I cut her off and flipped her my credit card. “Here. Take care of it.”

She replied crisply, “Right away.”

I signed Asher’s discharge papers. The receptionist gave me my card back. She said smiling, “Here’s your receipt. Thank you.”

I did not respond to her.

I thanked the nurse for her help. Then I took Asher back to the car.

I was upset on the way back to the hotel. When my wife and I became Asher’s guardians, we made absolutely sure that he had health care. Up until this ER visit, we had never had any problem getting treatment for the boy. Now, I had a hospital employee basically tell me that his insurance was worthless to her. That was a shock. It was actually more of a nuisance than anything else because I had money, but finding out that Asher suddenly had no coverage just added an extra layer of anxiety to my already stressed emotions.

I wondered what it would be like for a parent or caregiver to show up at that ER with no insurance at all, and no cash on hand. The ER would have to serve the child, but how would the adult pay for the visit? How would that moneyless parent be treated by this young woman whose sole concern seemed to be the bottom line? I am not a snappy dresser. I tend toward that trendy homeless person look, and I think I was treated accordingly by the receptionist. She didn’t lighten up until she knew I was good for the payment.

I may be too harsh about the young woman. I understand that hospitals have bills to pay, and they aren’t charities. She was just doing her job. She was polite, efficient, and professional. She was also apparently indifferent to our distress. That’s what bothered me.

I got Asher back to the hotel. I stopped at Walgreens and bought him some Ibuprofen. He took it. Eventually, Asher calmed down and relaxed. Karin held him and he fell asleep in bed. Things got better.

October 23rd, 2023

We were just getting over COVID when we had to start the long drive home. It was obvious that we weren’t going to be able to make the trip from Texas to Wisconsin in one 20-hour-long haul. We needed to split up the ride into shorter, more manageable chunks. The plan was to go from Bryan, Texas, to Texarkana on the first leg of the journey. Especially with a toddler on board, that amount of driving would be more than enough for one day. There is no fast way to go between Bryan and Texarkana. It’s all back roads and little towns along the way. That’s a more interesting route than staying on a freeway, but it is rather slow.

Driving when you are feeling ill is difficult. There is a tendency to slip into the drone mode until you are shocked into hyper-awareness by the sight of brake lights flashing right in front of you. Suddenly, you are very alert. That lasts for a while, and then the road lulls you back into the zone.

I did notice some things while we wandered through eastern Texas. One thing that caught my eye was the condition of the guard rails. It wasn’t that they were a little banged up. That’s typical anywhere in the country. What impressed me was how many of these guard rails were peeled several feet back, like somebody had opened the top of a can of sardines. That made me pause and wonder. Whoever struck one of those guard rails hit it hard, really hard. That means they were driving fast and/or drunk. It hurt just to look at that damage. Nobody walked away from those accidents.

We went through a number of little towns: Atlanta, Gladewater, Buffalo, North Zulch, etc. They are all proud Texan communities, and most of them look like they have seen better days. Some of them have downtowns that are half deserted. They didn’t look as bad as Bakhmut in Ukraine, but they are kind of desolate. Windows are boarded up. There are numerous for rent signs. It’s more than a little depressing.

The establishments that seem to be thriving in these burgs are for the most part churches. They are usually Methodist, Baptist, or Apostolic. Occasionally, I saw a born-again startup church, some kind of independent group. I saw one Jehovah Witness Hall that had a curious boxlike shape with dark opaque windows. At first, I thought it was an adult video store. It looked like one.

The other operations that apparently do quite well are the liquor stores. That helps to explain the guard rail situation. There are many of those liquor shops in these towns. Oddly enough, the number of local churches was often equal to the number of alcohol vendors in the area.

As I drove through the countryside, I noticed a stark contrast between those who had money and those who didn’t. We went by large ranches with palatial homes. These places had cattle, horses, and working oil rigs. These huge estates screamed wealth. Close by were shacks and old trailers surrounded by yards overgrown with weeds that half-hid abandoned vehicles. People obviously lived in these dwellings, although I don’t know how. Most of these dilapidated houses could best be renovated with a can of gasoline and a match.

The curious thing about all these communities was the fact that no matter what condition they were in, they all had the Lone Star flag waving from up on a pole. It didn’t matter if they were rich or poor, white, Black, or Latino, everybody had a Texas flag flapping in the breeze.

Regardless of what else they might lack, they have their pride.

October 16th, 2023

I have family in Texas. I have gone south to visit with them almost every year for over three decades. After a while, I started to notice some things about Texans. They have their idiosyncrasies. It is usually a bad idea for me to make generalizations about people, especially about a group of people as massive as the population of Texas. However, I think that there are certain characteristics that distinguish them from most other Americans.

For instance, Texans are respectful toward their elders. I’m not sure that all the older people deserve respect, but down there they get it anyway. When I am in Texas, I am always addressed as “sir”. I didn’t hear the word “sir” that much even when I was an Army officer. What is striking to me is that young people, say folks in their twenties, call me “sir”. They could just as easily call me “boomer”, but they don’t. They don’t seem to do it sarcastically. They genuinely want to show me some level of respect.

Texans love the 2nd Amendment. I’ve been a lot of places, but nobody likes guns like the Texans. Gun rights are like a religion in that state. My son, Hans, is a gun enthusiast and a transplant to Texas from Wisconsin, which is another state where people are very comfortable around firearms. However, in Wisconsin guns are for hunting. People here like guns in order to go after Bambi in November each year. In Texas it seems like people just like guns. I have never been able to discern a clear and logical reason for this obsession, but it exists.

Texans seem to have an independent streak and a need to be self-reliant. That can be simultaneously both inspiring and irritating. As an example, Texas insists on having its own power grid, the Texas Interconnection. This way, Texas doesn’t need to depend on those lesser 49 states for energy, and it is not burdened by Federal regulations. That sounds like a great idea most of the time. That is, except in an instance like the winter of 2021, when the whole Texan grid froze up and millions of people went without power for days.

Texans love to fly their state flag. The Lone Star flag can be seen everywhere, hanging just below the American flag. In Wisconsin nobody flies the state flag. Nobody even knows what the Wisconsin state flag looks like. For the Texans, their flag is like a national flag. They still seem to consider themselves to be a sovereign nation.

When we were driving home from the last visit to Texas, Karin, Asher, and I stopped at a gas station in Tyler, Texas. Tyler is currently best known for having a Catholic bishop who apparently thinks that Pope Francis is liberal heretic. I chalk that up to the native Texan independent streak. Only in Tyler can a bishop be more Catholic than the pope.

At the gas station was a Church’s Chicken vendor. That was no surprise. There are innumerable chicken establishments in Texas. Chicken, and BBQ. Texans love their BBQ. I’ve seen high class BBQ restaurants in Texas, and I’ve also seen a guy cooking it up in an old travel trailer that was resting on cinder blocks, with a smoker out behind the trailer.

Asher, the toddler, was running amok in the gas station searching for the freezer with the ice cream bars in it. I was trying to keep track of the boy. Over at Church’s Chicken was an old man sitting at a small table, happily gnawing at a chicken thigh. He was about my age with white hair and beard. Next to his seat were laying a backpack and one of those foldable canvas camp chairs.

The old guy smiled at me as I chased Asher, and asked,

“Having fun yet?”

“Yeah, I do this all the time. I have the boy 24/7.”

The old guy kept chewing and smiling. He said through a mouthful of bird, “Good for you.”

Karin and I ordered some food. We got Asher some chicken and fries. He ate the fries. I ate the chicken.

We finished up and walked out to the car. The old man was standing out front with his pack on his back. He talked a bit to Asher and Karin. I thought he was going to hit us up for money. He asked me,

“Are you from Tyler.”

“No.”

He grinned at me, ‘Good for you. Y’all have a good day, now.”

“You too”, I replied.

He smiled at me and said, “I’ll be doing better if I find myself a home.”

He picked up his camp chair and walked away. I thought about him. I’ve met many homeless people, but none like him. He didn’t ask us for money. He didn’t ask us for anything. He didn’t have a home, but he still had his pride.

He was independent and self-reliant. He was a Texan.

October 16th, 2023

We were down in Texas, visiting with Hans and his family. While the four little kids were getting into mischief, the four adults were trying to have a conversation. We were discussing religion. I mentioned that one thing that I like about Judaism is that a person has the right to shake their fist at God now and then.

Hans piped up, “That’s nothing. When I was in Iraq, we had a chaplain. He told us, ‘When you pray, tell God to fuck off!’. This guy was a Catholic chaplain. He told us that we weren’t in Iraq for any good reason, and that things were all fucked up. He said that, if we were mad at God, it was okay to tell Him to fuck off.”

I am not sure if that guidance was theologically sound, but I can completely understand the chaplain’s sentiment. Oddly enough, there are precedents for this sort of thing in Scripture. Both Jonah and Elijah made it clear to God that they did not to hear from Him anymore. And Job, well, he wasn’t very happy with the Lord either. So, at last in the Old Testament, there are some examples of God’s chosen people telling Him off (in a probably highly sanitized version of what they actually said).

Is it good idea to tell God to fuck off? Maybe not. On the other hand, He has big shoulders. He will probably get over it. In some Christian sects, it is expected that people will praise and flatter God, possibly in the hopes that He will dole out a smidgeon of mercy. Prayers and petitions are heard, but they may or may not be granted. If a person is in a really bad way (Hans and his compadres in Iraq were in a bad way), and God does not respond to heartfelt entreaties, then why not tell Him to fuck off? What is there to lose?

I believe that God wants a relationship with the individuals that He created. Relationships are by their very nature rocky and difficult. Being angry with God means that a person is still in relationship with the Deity. There is still some communication. There is still the possibilty of reconciliation.

As Elie Wisel said,

“The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it’s indifference.”

October 9th, 2023

“A moral injury is an injury to an individual’s moral conscience and values resulting from an act of perceived moral transgression on the part of themselves or others. It produces profound feelings of guilt or shame, moral disorientation, and societal alienation. In some cases, it may cause a sense of betrayal and anger toward colleagues, commanders, the organization, politics, or society at large.” from Wikipedia

We were sitting around in Hans’ apartment. Four little kids were running amok, and the adults were vainly trying to manage the children’s chaos while simultaneously engaging in some kind of intelligent conversation. Somehow, the discussion turned to gun control. This is a hot topic, especially with Hans, seeing as he lives in Texas and is also a combat vet. Hans is a self-described gun enthusiast, who has a loaded gun in almost every room of his home. He takes firearms with the utmost seriousness.

The grownups in the room came to the conclusion that effective gun control is impossible in this country. There are just too many weapons, and there is no way of tracking them all. I made the comment that gun control in the United States can’t happen because of cultural issues. I said,

“The problem is that in this country we believe that killing people solves problems.”

Hans immediately took exception to that comment. He looked me in the eye and said,

“I don’t believe that. Killing doesn’t solve problems.”

I was taken aback by that. Hans is a proud combat veteran, and I have always been under the impression that he approved of the use of deadly force.

Hans went on with pain in his voice, “Dad, I killed people in Iraq. You know what it’s done to me.”

I thought for a moment and replied, “Honestly, I don’t know what it did to you. I can’t know. I never killed anybody.”

Hans shrugged and said, “You know what I mean.”

Maybe I do know, at least a little bit. I know that the war changed Hans. There is a Hans who is pre-war, and a Hans who is post-war. The latter version is worse for wear. The damage in him is obvious to me, as it is to some other people.

Hans told me, “Dad, we all carried our weapons, but nobody wanted to pull the trigger. It was all for show. Nobody wanted to kill a guy.”

And yet, Hans did kill a guy. He killed multiple people. He shot some men, and he got shot too. He stabbed a man to death. He did the things that he never wanted to do.

This brings me to the subject of moral injuries.

Moral injuries sometimes sound like some fuzzy “woke” idea. Physical wounds are obvious. Psychological damage is accepted as being real. But “moral” injuries, what the hell is that?

I believe that moral injuries are real, and that they are sometimes lethal. Can a person see the effects of a moral injury? Maybe not. There are no physical scars. How can an individual see the wounds to another person’s soul? I think that can happen only if the individual knows the person well and observes him or her with a keen eye.

Years ago, I was in Chicago to see an interactive presentation about the war in Iraq. Aaron Hughes and Amber Ginsburg created and hosted “The Tea Project”, as the show was called. Aaron was a veteran who served in the Army. It is hard for me to adequately describe The Tea Project. It was partly Hughes’ personal history, and it was partly an ongoing conversation about peace between Hughes, Ginsburg, and the audience. It all revolved around the Middle Eastern tradition of sharing tea, which everyone at the presentation eventually did.

The Tea Project isn’t the thing that I remember most about that evening in Chicago. Prior to the show, I had a conversation with a young man who was also a vet. This guy had been in the Military Police and had been stationed at the Abu Ghraib prison. He was there after the torture scandal, so he had not been personally involved the war crimes committed there. However, he had witnessed or participated in other activities that left him scarred. I never knew what all his specific experiences were. I recall him mentioning that he had watched Apache helicopters fire up some Iraqis that were trying to assault the prison. I think that event tore him up, but all I knew for sure was that he had been damaged.

This young man introduced me to the concept of moral injury. He told me explicitly that he had sustained a moral injury. How did he deal with this wound? He smoked weed. In fact, he had moved to Colorado because, at that time, he had legal access to marijuana in that state.

It seems to me that other veterans who have sustained a moral injury deal with the it in a similar way. Some of them drink, some smoke, some throw themselves into work. They try not to feel. They do whatever they have to do in order to avoid touching the wound that won’t heal. These behaviors are not healthy, and for some vets they amount to a passive sort of suicide.

I don’t know how veterans with moral injuries can deal with their pain. I suspect that the answer is unique for each vet. I doubt that there is solution that will work for all of them.

Hans has a moral injury. He will have to find his own path to healing.

October 8th, 2023

Karin is sick. Asher is sick.

Oddly enough, I’m not, at least not yet.

Karin is my wife. Asher is our toddler grandson.

We are currently staying in an extended stay hotel in Bryan, Texas. We have spent a week here while visiting our oldest son, Hans, and his family. We planned to head home tomorrow. That’s not going to happen.

Traveling for long distances with sick passengers is never pleasant. It’s not necessary for everyone on the car to be in perfect health, but it’s unwise to make a road trip from Texas to Wisconsin if people are feverish and clearly unwell. It’s a three-day-long ride in the best of circumstances but is impossible if members of the group are hurting.

Asher seems to be doing a bit better right now. He has been feverish all morning, and he has been sleeping almost the entire day. Now, he has had some baby Tylenol, and he looks less flushed in the face. He had some Pedialyte and a butterfly bread (raisin bread with peanut butter and honey). He ate a few grapes. He is watching/listening to insipid children’s songs on Karin’s phone.

I think he will be okay.

Karin has a bad cough and a nasty head cold. She has been alternately sweating and shivering for the last two days. She recovers slowly from illnesses. She might be ready for the ride the day after tomorrow. Even if she is, I will be doing all the driving. She will be resting and comforting Asher if the boy is not feeling well.

There has been a break in the action. Karin is napping. Asher decided that he didn’t want to watch crude videos on his Oma’s phone, and he started whining. I went to the bed and held him for a few minutes. I saw his chubby cheeks sag and I felt his body relax into slumber. Now, both Karin and Asher are asleep.

I just finished drinking a Voodoo Ranger Imperial IPA, so I could probably use a nap too.

Oh well, we’ll get home eventually.

September 23rd, 2023

Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, was last Saturday. It is now the year 5784 on the Jewish calendar. I’m glad because 5783 was kind of a bitch.

Generally, I am not a big fan of New Year’s celebrations. Most of the time there is no discernible difference between December 31st and January 1st. The biggest change between one year and the next is that I write the wrong year on checks for several weeks. The New Year’s Eve parties hold no attraction for me. They always seem like forced gaiety. I am often asleep in bed well before midnight strikes. When I wake up early on the first of January, I sense that I didn’t miss anything important.

Somehow, it’s different with Rosh Hashanah, at least it was this year. This time I was longing for the end of the old year, any old year. The last twelve months, on anybody’s calendar, have been difficult for me. I am happy that they are over, and that there is the possibility of a new start. Rosh Hashanah seemed like a suitable beginning.

I wanted to go to the service at the synagogue. It’s a big deal. The shofar is blown and there are special prayers. I didn’t make it. That morning I was at several different playgrounds with my toddler grandson, Asher. By the time I got the boy home, I was exhausted. I was tired, but content. My time with Asher was my blessing for Rosh Hashanah, and what better way to start a new year than to be with somebody you love?

We’ll see what 5784 brings. I hope only good things.

If not, well, I can start another new year in 2024.

September 15th, 2023

Kayla’s Playground is one of our favorite places. Asher and I go there quite often, usually early in the morning before the place gets crowded. The place is actually divided inro two playgrounds: one for toddlers and one for the older children. Asher isn’t quite three years old yet, but he prefers to challenge himself with the equipment on the “big kids” side of the park. There are plenty of things on which children can climb, slide, spin, and jump. The playground is specifically designed with disabled children in mind. That makes it unique in the local area. The play area is named after a little girl, Kayla, who had cerebral palsy and died quite young. It was dedicated in 2015.

A couple days ago, Asher and I were at the park just after sunrise. There had been a heavy dew overnight, so everything was damp. Asher insisted on going down the big slide anyway. The result of that was that backside of blue jeans got wet. He didn’t care. He was having a good time. Asher and I had the playground almost all to ourselves. A maintenance guy from the city was cleaning up before the crowds came. Otherwise, Asher and I were on our own.

There was one other person there. A woman was wandering through the play area, examining plaques on the fences and making an inspection of sorts. I asked her,

“Cleaning?”

She smiled shyly and said, “Oh no. We have a volunteer group coming here next week, and I am looking for things they can do.”

She paused for a moment, and said, “I’m Kayla’s mom.”

Oh.

Then she looked at Asher and smiled again. She asked me, “He’s so cute. Do you come here often?”

“Almost every day. Asher likes it here.”

Kayla’s mom replied, “That’s wonderful. It really is a wonderful playground. Enjoy!”

Then she walked away, looking for things to clean or repair.

Asher tried all the equipment. He climbed ladders and went on the swings. He walked along the balance beam and the rope bridge. Then he went into the area where there was a swing designed for kids in wheelchairs. It is quite an interesting set up, and all children gravitate toward it, just to see how it works. Asher fooled around with some chains that are used to secure a wheelchair in place. As he was investigating, Kayla’s mom walked over to us.

She asked me, “Do you know where this came from?”

“No.”

She smiled and said, “Australia. There are only twenty-five of these in the world, so if you hear about one of them, it is something very special.”

I nodded and said, “Your daughter was special too.”

She nodded. Then she said, “Kayla taught me so much. In eight years, she gave me the perspective to know what this place needed. And she was nonverbal!”

“Asher teaches me a lot too.”

We talked for a while. Asher was busy exploring and I kept one eye on him as I conversed with Kayla’s mom. I mentioned to her that Asher was my teacher. She remarked that he taught me patience. That’s a fact. I told her that for years I had been a student of Zen meditation, and now Asher was my instructor. He keeps me aware and in the moment.

I explained that my wife and I are Asher’s fulltime caregivers. I told to her that our lives revolved around this little boy. She understood that completely. It was comforting to me. Many people don’t understand.

Kayla’s mom talked about her prayer life and her relationship with Jesus. It became clear to me that her faith kept her going. Somehow, she was able to care for her disabled daughter, deal with the girl’s untimely death, and then help to create this playground in her honor. That’s impressive.

She commented that as Asher grows up, I would pray with him, and he would learn about Jesus from me. I shrugged and said,

“Words don’t mean much.”

She was shocked. She asked, “You mean the words of prayer?”

“I mean the words of anything. Asher will watch my actions. He will learn about God from what I do. If my words are congruent with my actions, then he will listen to what I say. Otherwise, not.”

Then I quoted Francis of Assisi, “Preach the Gospel always, Use words if necessary.”

She countered by reciting the Prayer of St Francis from memory. She grasped what I meant. It had been unnecessary to for me to even talk about it. Her whole life is faith in action.

I mentioned to her that “Asher” means “Happy” in Hebrew. Then I told her that Asher’s mother has his name tattooed on her arm in Hebrew.

She asked, “So, she’s Jewish?”

“I don’t think so, but then, it’s hard to tell.”

I said, “Well, I go to a synagogue on Saturdays.”

She gave me a funny look.

Them I said, “And I go to Mass every Sunday.”

She laughed.

She thanked me and my wife for stepping up to care for Asher.

I choked up a bit and said, “What else could we have done?”

She replied, “Like with Kayla, what else could I have done?”

I said, “Some people don’t make that choice. I know that. Some can’t. They don’t have the resources.”

She said with assurance, “A person can always find the resources.”

Maybe she’s right. Maybe faith can move mountains. Sometimes it does.