Author: frankisemptiness

September 18th, 2023

A week ago, I went with my wife, Karin, and our little grandson, Asher, to the Wisconsin Sheep and Wool Festival at the Jefferson County Fair Grounds. Let me say right up front that there is nothing at the Sheep and Wool Festival that is of interest to me. I am not much interested in sheep, and the only wool that concerns me is in the sweater that Karin knit for me.

For Karin, the Sheep and Wool Festival is an annual pilgrimage. It rivals the Hajj to Mecca in her mind. It’s a big deal. Anybody in Wisconsin who is involved in the fiber arts goes to this festival. It’s the Burning Man for knitters, spinners, and weavers. There are no casual participants at this gathering. The attendees are all dyed-in-wool fanatics about their art.

Karin could have gone to the fair this year on her own, but we had somehow promised Asher that he could watch the dogs chase the sheep around. So, Karin needed me to shepherd Asher while she explored the vendor halls. The halls which usually house pigs, goats, and cows were packed with the kiosks of fiber dealers during the festival. The halls reminded me a bit of the Great Suq in Cairo. There was the chaotic feel of a Middle Eastern bazaar, but one filled with white women wearing handmade shawls and scarves.

Asher and I sought out the dogs and the sheep. We have a border collie at home named Shocky. Shocky is an older lady, thirteen years of age, who likes the quiet life. She used to be quite active, but not anymore. Asher wanted to watch the “Shocky dogs” chase the sheep. We wandered the fairgrounds until we found the west field where they were holding the “Crook and Whistle Stock Dog Trial”. All the participants in the show had a long stick (crook), and whistle, and a border collie that was more or less trained to herd sheep. At the start of every trial, three sheep were released on to the far end of the field, and the border collie was set loose to bring the animals into a small pen at the near end.

The efforts of the dogs and their trainers were entertaining. A few of the border collies were effective in their herding activities. They would get the attention of the three sheep, and then lie down in the grass like a lion tracking prey in the savannah. The sheep would move away the wannabe predator. After much yelling and whistling on the part of the trainer, the dog would sometimes convince the sheep to enter the small corral. That was a win. It didn’t happen often. Usually, the dog would just chase the sheep all over the field, much to the chagrin of the owner. Oh well, there is always next year’s competition.

Asher liked watching the doggies chase the sheep. Even now, a week later, he talks about going to see them. I wasn’t sure what else to do with the boy after he grew weary of observing the amateur sheep herders. There were halls for the sheep and lambs. We walked through them, and Asher enjoyed looking at the animals. There wasn’t much else to do at the fair. It wasn’t a very festive festival. There was no music, no games, and no beer. They had a few food booths, but the gathering was clearly not intended for little boys, or for bigger ones.

The festival had an intensely feminine atmosphere. Yes, there were some men there, but they played a purely auxiliary role in the event. The clientele was almost entirely made up of older women who were on a mission. I noticed that there was line of people waiting for the women’s bathroom, while the men’s restroom was deserted. The few guys who were on the fairgrounds, like me, all looked a bit lost.

Asher and I decided to search the market for his “oma”. That place was sheer pandemonium. Vendors were hawking fiber products of all sorts: raw wool recently sheared from sheep or alpacas, and yarns displayed in a full spectrum of colors. They sold carders, looms, spinning wheels, spindles, needles, and an endless assortment of other craft items. Almost all these products were top of the line. The women thronging the mall were savvy shoppers. They, like my wife, knew all the brands and they could discern the quality of the materials. They recognized the patterns and the styles. These were people who were intimately familiar with all aspects of their art, and they gazed at the wares with keen eyes.

Karin is a fiber goddess. That description may be a little over the top, but she is truly an artist, just as a sculptor or a painter or a dancer is an artist. It is interesting to be married to somebody like that. A spontaneously creative person is always coming up with fascinating new ideas, and that same individual can never find their car keys. Karin has a craft studio where it looks like a grenade just exploded. Yet she seems to know where everything is in that room, usually. Karin’s mind bubbles over with new designs, and she flits from one to another until she at last decides on that unique project. Then she focuses her passion and energy on it with laser like intensity. It is a sight to behold.

Asher and I somehow located Karin amidst the tumult. That was sheer luck, since Karin had her phone on silent. She had one shopping bag full of treasures. She spent a total of $100, but in small amounts at six different vendors. She was frugal. I was impressed. This is the same woman who just the week before dropped four grand when ordering an eight-shaft floor loom for her weaving projects. The floor loom was a good buy. It will get plenty of use, once we figure out where to put it.

As the three of us walked out of the fair, Karin spotted a stranger wearing a sweater with a particularly intricate design. Karin smiled at the woman and said,

“I love your sweater!”

The woman thanked Karin, and they engaged in shop talk for a few minutes. I understood none of it. The lady told Karin,

“The design will be all over Instagram!”, as she walked away.

Karin indicated to me that she wanted to find that pattern.

September 18th, 2023

Karin and I took our toddler grandson, Asher, with us to Holy Wisdom Monastery. One might ask at this point:

“Why would you do that?”

Well, we didn’t necessarily do it for Asher’s benefit. The fact is that my wife and I had been watching Asher 24/7 every day, and we hadn’t gone a trip for well over a year. We just wanted to get away from home. In the past, we had made a habit of staying at religious retreat centers on our journeys. In fact, we did just that with Asher last summer when we stopped at Subiaco Abbey in Arkansas. That visit worked out quite well. Asher was cooperative, and Karin and I took turns caring for the boy while the other spent some time soaking up the peace and quiet. We were hoping that this particular stay would be the same.

I had also thought that perhaps I could arrange to have somebody give me spiritual direction during our short stay at the monastery. Maybe a priest or a religious sister could talk with me, or at least listen to me bitch. I was hoping for something like that.

Not.

A year in the life of a little boy makes a huge difference. Asher is almost three years old, and he is much more active and headstrong than he was when we sojourned at Subiaco last summer. He wants to be on the move, and he wants our full and undivided attention. Before we made reservations at Holy Wisdom, I asked specifically about the whereabouts of the nearest playground. This was crucial information. Fortunately, there was a fancy playground/splashpad only a couple miles away. The playground was a lifesaver. We spent hours there with the lad. Actually, my best memories from this trip are from the playground.

Alas, the time at the playground was not sufficient to get rid of Asher’s restlessness and seemingly boundless energy. At the retreat house he was in unfamiliar environment which he wanted to explore. Also, because he felt out of his natural habitat, he wanted both of us to be with him. The end result was that Asher was both clingy and hyper, and neither Karin nor I got a break.

Asher makes his own schedule. Toddlers do that. Sometimes his schedule does not match those of the adults. We were set up to have supper at the monastery at 5:15 on our first evening there. Asher ran out of steam and feel asleep at 5:00. So, Asher did not have supper, nor did his hungry grandparents. This was a source of frustration to us.

Early the next morning, I walked over to the kitchen of the retreat house. The retreat center supplied a “continental breakfast” for the guests. What that actually meant was the guests had access to everything in the kitchen, and that included a fully stocked refrigerator. What the guest did with all that was up to him or her. So, I went on a scouting mission to see what was available to us.

I was in a foul mood as I walked to the kitchen. Another early riser was walking toward me. He smiled and gave me a cheery “good morning”. I growled something back at him. The man looked at me with concern and asked,

“Are you doing okay?”

I replied wearily, “No, not at all.”

He paused momentarily, and asked, “Do you want some weed?”

For some reason, I have never in my life tried marijuana. The guy made the offer to me with the best of intentions. I am sure of that. I just couldn’t imagine trying to keep track of Asher while being high. That prospect seemed disastrous.

I told him, “No. That’s the last thing I need.”

The guest was a bit nonplussed. He was certain that he had offended me somehow. He quickly said,

“I apologize for that! Sorry. It’s like I never said anything. Okay?”

I assume he wandered off to find someplace to smoke a blunt in peace. I shook my head and moved on.

Later, after Karin and Asher had gone to the kitchen to forage for food, I found this same guy in the room with them. He was offering Asher some berries and having a lively conversation with the boy. They were smiling and laughing together. Karin was listening to them banter while she made Asher some toast with honey and peanut butter.

Karin and Asher went into the dining room to eat and conversed with the guest. The discussion was wide-ranging. He told me some things about himself, and he asked me to talk about our situation. The guy was a good listener. He was happy and good natured. He apparently was deeply involved with the religious community at the monastery, and he encouraged me to get to know the people. I declined to meet with the members of his group, mostly because it was unlikely that we would be coming back to this place any time soon.

That evening I ran into the man again. Karin had taken Asher for yet another session at the playground. We talked for about half an hour. He listened to my troubles. I listened to his. He was ebullient when he praised us for how we were raising Asher. He was impressed with the lad. It was good for me to hear that.

We left the retreat house the following morning. We hadn’t had the visit that we had hoped to have. Karin and I were probably more exhausted than we would have been if we had just stayed at home.

On the other hand, God sent me a most unexpected listener and guide. I met the person that I needed to meet.

September 14th, 2023

Asher loves elephants. The little boy plays with a stuffed elephant. He rides around the house on a toy elephant with wheels. He likes it when my wife and I entertain him with an elephant hand puppet. He gets excited if we go to the zoo to see the elephants. Asher is into elephants.

This being the case, we took our toddler grandson to the Circus World Museum in Baraboo, Wisconsin. Baraboo is a quiet place in central Wisconsin with a pleasant small town feel to it. The city of 11,000 people straddles the Baraboo River and gives the impression that not much happens there. Baraboo’s claim to fame is that back in 1884, Ringling Brothers made the town the headquarters for their circus. Life in Baraboo has revolved around a circus ever since then. The museum is the latest manifestation of that fact.

The Circus World Museum has numerous displays of old wagons. It has a hall with exhibits explaining the history of the American circus. The museum also has a big top, where twice a day during the summer, people can watch live performances. We took Asher to the show because, well, they have elephants.

Besides the big top tent, the museum has animal rides. Asher rode on a small pony (five minutes for five bucks). The museum had elephant rides, but the line of people waiting to go atop a pachyderm was endless. We also thought that Asher might be frightened if we were with him riding on such a large animal. Riding an elephant and riding a pony are very different things.

The proprietors of the museum boast a gaudily painted merry go round, one that blasts out vaguely familiar old songs while riders seated on wooden horses go in circles. The loud circus music is both joyous and annoying. The music comes from some ancient mechanical device equipped with horns and drums. I am certain that the manufacturer of this automated music maker closed its doors decades ago. It is probably impossible to buy or even fabricate replacement parts for it. Asher and my wife rode on the merry go round. I held the boy on his steed while the giant wheel turned counterclockwise. The experience made me dizzy.

The museum has a tent with exhibits which describe circus sideshows. That was disturbing. A lot of it was about the attractions in freak shows: skeleton men, bearded ladies, wolf boys, etc. I thought about The Elephant Man. Some of the attractions seem distinctly cruel. Some of them seem, in our day and age, a bit outdated. Who nowadays wants to pay money to see “Lydia the Tattooed Lady”? I can see women with tattoos anywhere. The exhibits in the tent also bothered me because many of them seem so dark. It reminded me of the Ray Bradbury novel, Something Wicked this Way Comes. Once a person has read that book, the traveling carnivals have a definitely creepy vibe.

The show in the big top had a variety of acts. There was a unicycle rider from Argentina, an acrobat/juggler from Spain, and a strong man from Romania. I kind of wonder about their origins. Circuses historically have been notorious for exaggerating the fame of their performers. These folks were good. There is no doubt about that. However, they could all be from Kokomo or Des Moines for all I know. I guess it really makes no difference. They had amazing shows.

Then there’s the clown. The show had a clown. It probably had to have one. That’s a tough gig. Clowns have a rather sketchy reputation in our culture. Think about John Wayne Gacy. Think about Heath Ledger’s portrayal of the Joker in The Dark Knight. And Stephen King has done a rather thorough job of demonizing clowns in his novels. Would any parent or caregiver let their young child within a mile of a stranger wearing face paint?

Not me.

That being said, the clown in the big top show was really quite funny. Chase the Clown dressed up as an old school hobo. He never spoke, but he wasn’t really a mime. He used the ringmaster as his foil, as he did silly tricks to entertain the audience. His act was humorous and wholesome. He was definitely kid friendly. That was somehow a great relief to me.

There were animal acts. They were rather lame. One lady had goats and dogs do tricks. Ho hum. There was no lion tamer putting his head into the mouth of a beast. No scary stuff. The coolest thing was when the animal trainer convinced a goat to ride on the back of a pony. That impressed me.

The finale came when the ringmaster made the announcement:

“Ladies and gentlemen, now I will say for the last time the words that have been said in the big top for over a century: ‘Hold you horses! Here come the elephants!’ “

Two elephants came through the rear curtain and entered the ring. The crowd went nuts. Asher was sitting on my lap. I couldn’t see his face, but I could tell that he was in awe. I was too. It was astounding when one of the elephants raised its front legs and mounted the rear of the other animal.

The elephant act didn’t last very long. The manager of the museum came into the ring to announce to everyone that the two elephants were retiring. It was their very last show. They were going to Oklahoma to spend their remaining years. They wouldn’t be replaced. No more elephants. Show’s over.

At least Asher got to see them.

September 12th, 2023

I got together yesterday with two former coworkers. All three of us are retired, and we decided to go out for lunch. We met at Hiawatha, a bar and grill next to the railroad tracks in Sturtevant. The tavern is named after the original Hiawatha, a passenger train that decades ago traveled on those tracks between Milwaukee and Chicago. Amtrak still has a commuter train with that name, but it has nothing of the grandeur of the old Hiawatha line.

The bar itself is nothing fancy. At noon on a Monday, it was almost empty. Dan and Danny were there when I showed up. Dan was a driver at the trucking company where we worked. Danny worked with me on the loading dock. He drove a forklift. We had spent nearly thirty years together at the same place. That’s remarkable, even for an old guy like me. Nowadays, nobody works anywhere for three decades. Most people from my children’s generation barely stay at a job for more than a couple years. Dan, Danny, and I share a lot of history.

Over glasses of beer, we started talking about current events. We talked about our grandkids, about sports, and about health issues. The topic of getting rid of mice in the house came up. Each of us had a story concerning that. As time went on, the conversation drifted toward events in our past, as that sort of discussion inevitably does.

I’m not sure of the value of recalling times gone by. It’s not like any of us said, “Those were the good old days”, because they weren’t. Mostly, they were days of struggle, both physical and mental. None of us would go back to that environment, well, not in a material way. However, we went back there in our words and thoughts.

We told stories. Some were funny. Some were sad. Some were both. We had all worked for a corporation that was crazy and ruthless. For my part, I found it difficult to retain my humanity during all those years. I think everyone who worked at that place left damaged in some regard. The money was good, but the work ravaged a person’s body and soul.

We spoke of many people in the past tense. A large number of our fellow coworkers have died. Some made to retirement, some didn’t. Some of them we miss. Some of them we don’t. We talked about other colleagues who are still alive, but disabled from the work they did. For the most part, Danny, Dan, and I are enjoying our retirement. We know some people who aren’t.

Retirement is a funny thing. It is advertised as a golden age, a time when a person can sit back and enjoy the fruits of their labors. To a certain extent that is true. However, even though the old job is gone, other challenges rear their heads. I never expected to be raising at toddler at the age of sixty-five. That wasn’t part of my plan. Danny and Dan have also had surprises come their way. Life still goes on, just with a different set of circumstances.

Danny made the comment before we left the bar that we three had it pretty good. He’s correct. There are many people in this world, probably the vast majority, who can never retire. They will work until they drop. We somehow managed to save enough money to set aside our tools and do other things. By God’s grace, we still have our health. I don’t think it was because we were more moral than others, or smarter than them. I think we just got lucky.

I am grateful for that.

September 4th, 2023

The Cream City Hostel used to be just that, a hostel. It was a place for travelers on a very limited budget to find shelter for the night. I’ve stayed in hostels in Chicago and Flagstaff, AZ. They are usually set up so that a person winds up sharing a room with three other people. The guest staying in a hostel should expect little sleep and no privacy. However, the price is affordable. Hostels generally attract college students and the like. I was often the oldest person in the hostel where I stayed. It was always an interesting experience.

Cream City Hostel is so named because Milwaukee is nicknamed “Cream City, after the buttery color of the bricks used in the older buildings. The former hostel in fact was built with those cream-colored bricks. The building sits on a busy intersection in the Riverwest neighborhood of Milwaukee. Riverwest is a scruffy, working-class section of town with an eclectic population. There are many young people in that neighborhood, and it has diverse ethnic mix. It’s not an economically prosperous area, but it is relatively safe. I was told once,

“If you are traveling in a neighborhood with metal grills on the doors, don’t freak out. If there are iron grills on both the doors and the windows, keep driving.”

There are grills on only some of the doors in Riverwest, and none on the windows.

As I mentioned earlier, the Cream City Hostel used to be a hostel. Now it is a halfway house for recovering addicts. The set up remains the same. People still sleep four to a room. There is still a high level of turnover. The house is there to provide shelter for people who don’t require inpatient medical care but are not yet able to find a home of their own. A person can stay at the halfway house for up to six months. That is, if they follow the rules. Many residents don’t or can’t follow the house rules. The fact is that anybody who is staying at Cream City has issues, otherwise they would be living in nicer accommodations.

The first and most basic house rule is: stay sober. This would seem to be obvious, and it is. However, it is also extremely difficult for some people in recovery to obey. The penalty for using drugs of any sort while staying at any sober living house is almost instantaneous eviction. A person using will generally be booted out on the same day or maybe even during the same hour as the offense. It has to be like that. Every person staying in a halfway house is hanging on to their sobriety by their fingernails. A person who relapses has to be promptly expelled. It is a life-or-death matter for the who are trying to stay clean.

This morning, my grandson, Asher, and I went to Cream City to visit someone for whom we deeply care. Cream City has a nice playground set up in the backyard. When we arrived, Asher climbed on the jungle gym, slid down the slide, and stayed active. I sat back and watched as Asher and the person we were visiting spent time together. They both needed that time. They ignored me as they talked and laughed and enjoyed each other’s company. I was fine with that.

In a back corner of the yard is a shrine. It is a small wooden shed open on one side. Above the shrine hang brightly colored flags and banners. The shed itself is painted in neon hues: yellow, orange, and red. The inside of the shed is decorated in a macabre manner, with skulls, flowers, and other items that remind me of Dia de Los Muertos. There is also a small statue of Shiva and an icon of Our Lady of Guadalupe. A Bible is displayed in the shed. Mostly the shrine is full of small photos, some framed and some not. They are snapshots of the dead.

The pictures haunt me. They are almost all unnamed. Anonymous faces of people who were destroyed by their disease. Maybe they had an overdose, or maybe a suicide, or maybe some other medical complication. Almost all of the faces I saw were of young people. Addicts don’t get old (e.g., Jimi Hendrix, John Belushi, Amy Winehouse, et al.). I wonder why these faces are nameless. Perhaps it is because there is a stigma attached to addiction that lasts even beyond death. The people who grieve for these individuals now and who cared for them during their lives already know the names. Strangers don’t need to know who they were.

It is so easy to die. It is often so hard to live.

I looked at the shrine for quite a while. I turned around to see Asher and the other person smiling at each other. They were happy. They are both very much alive. 

September 3rd, 2023

I generally don’t like sermons (also known as “homilies” if you’re Catholic). It is rare when what the priest or minister or rabbi or Zen master says really strikes home with me. In fact, I often suffer from amnesia after walking out of the service. It’s not necessarily the fault the person doing the preaching. It’s all a matter of timing, of saying the right words at exactly the right moment.

Father Michael scored with me at Mass this morning.

Father Michael gave his homily as I was sitting with my wife in the pew, holding Asher in my arms. The little boy was tired, and he snuggled with me. Karin and I listened to the priest as Asher laid his head on shoulder.

The topic of the sermon was about embracing the cross. Christians often talk about emulating Jesus by “carrying their cross”. Father Michael attempted to differentiate between “carrying” a cross and “embracing” a cross. It might seem nitpicky, but as the priest said, “Words are important”.

Father Michael gave the congregation the hypothetical example of a young family who seemed to have everything going for it. Then, the father is diagnosed with a debilitating and chronic illness. He can’t work anymore, and the comfortable life of the family members is shattered.

Enter the cross.

I was told once that when something terrible happens to a person, that event, in and of itself, is not about carrying a cross, much less embracing it. The person has no control over the misfortune. However, the person has a choice about what to do about that crisis. The person might accept it, with reluctance and resentment. In that case, the individual is just carrying the cross. If a person responds to the situation with love and compassion, then he or she is embracing their cross. That makes all the difference.

As Father Michael spoke, I thought back to February 2nd, 2021, when a lady from CPS was at our kitchen table asking if Karin and I would agree to be Asher’s foster parents. The woman was asking us for an open-ended commitment to raise the baby boy. We immediately said, “Yes.” There was no question in our minds about doing that. Did we know what we were doing? No. However, we embraced the cross that day, and we have never looked back.

As I listened to the homily, Asher nuzzled some more, stroking my forearm with his small hand. It’s hard in a way to think of Asher as a “cross”. He is both a blessing and a burden. Father Michael remarked that, by embracing the cross, a person ends an old way of life and starts a new one. It’s both a Good Friday and an Easter Sunday. Crosses came in all shapes and sizes. Ours is a toddler with a strong will and unlimited energy.

Karin was listening too. She took a long look at Asher. As the priest talked about the cross, she asked me,

“Asher?”

I nodded. Both of us had wet eyes.

August 25th, 2023

I started reading The Kite Runner from Khaled Hosseini a couple days ago. I’m only a few chapters into the book, and already I find it disturbing and upsetting. That really isn’t a surprise to me. The book is about Afghanistan, and there are very few happy stories that come out of that country. Afghanistan has been a land of war and violence for nearly half a century. At this point in history, Afghanistan is almost synonymous with suffering.

I have never gone to Afghanistan. It is unlikely that I ever will. However, I have learned much about the country vicariously. I have unexpectedly heard many stories about that land, none of them happy.

It’s odd, but I got an email from an Afghan friend on the day I started reading The Kite Runner. My friend is a young man with a wife and a small child. His little boy is only a few months younger than Asher, my toddler grandson. He was a helicopter pilot in Afghanistan. He and his family fled Kabul just before the city fell to the Taliban. They wound up in Pakistan for several months. Then, by the grace of God, they were allowed to immigrate to a small European country. My friend and his family have settled down there. They are slowly adapting to a strange land with a strange language and strange customs.

In his email to me, he asked about Asher, and then he wrote this:

“By the way Mr. frank if you know any lawyer there that can favor and help me about the process of my parole case?”

My friend applied for humanitarian parole for his family to live in the United States. A humanitarian parole is a temporary visa. The applicant needs to show that there is a life-threatening reason for them to come to the U.S. If the person proves that such a condition exists, then they can stay in America until that life-threatening situation ends. I read an article in Time several months ago about Afghan refugees seeking humanitarian parole. The article said that USCIS (a component of DHS) is backlogged trying to process thousands upon thousands of applications from displaced Afghans. The estimated wait time for processing an application is basically “whenever they get to it”. Unless I knew some high-ranking individual in DHS, nothing would speed up my friend’s application. I don’t know any lawyers, and even if I did, they wouldn’t do much of anything for my friend.

I feel bad about not being able to help my friend. I can’t get him here. He might not get permission to live in the U.S. for years, or perhaps he never will. All I can do for now is to stay in contact with him and remind him that he is not forgotten. Most of the Afghans who have fled their homeland are forgotten by America. These people trained with us, worked for us, trusted us, and then we burned them. Theirs is not a happy story.

I know a woman, Kathy, who worked for years with Afghans in Kabul. she worked alongside an idealistic group of young people, the Afghan Peace Volunteers. That small organization did what they could for the poor and abandoned in Kabul. They initiated the Duvet Project to get warm bedding to kids who had none. They ran the Steet Kids School to tutor Afghan children, especially girls. Kathy and her friends struggled to provide some peace and stability to Afghan children.

Now, that’s all over. Since the fall of Kabul, Kathy puts her heart and soul into finding homes for her Afghan friends. Many of them are stranded in Pakistan, with little hope of going to a safe haven. Kathy has used her international network of colleagues to get visas for her former coworkers, in particular for the young women involved with the Aghan Peace Volunteers. She has helped a number of people to find refuge, including the family I previously mentioned. My wife and I have contributed whatever money we could spare to get these refugees to new homes. It always feels like we can’t do enough.

This too is not a happy story.

I have a Ukrainian friend from the synagogue. He’s a very old man. His son fought in Afghanistan. He fought for the Soviet Army. The son was severely wounded by an IED. He was the sole survivor of the explosion. The son suffered from PTSD and alcoholism for forty years. We buried him in April. My friend, the father, wept when they lowered his boy into the ground.

Not a happy story.

I know more stories that are not happy. I used to talk with vets in the psych ward of the local VA hospital. A few of them had been in Afghanistan. Our war in that country was just as futile as that of the Soviets. I talked with young people at the VA whose lives had been crushed, just like the life of that Soviet soldier. For what?

Thousands of Afghan lives ruined. Thousands of American lives ruined.

What do we do? How do we make amends to them?

August 19th, 2023

The playground was close to the edge of a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. In the morning light, I could just barely make out the shimmering blue of the water in the distance. Asher and I were at Bender Park, not far from our house. We go there quite often. He likes the place. Asher was an early riser today, and after he ate something, he was ready to go and play. We got in the car, drove a couple miles to the park, and then he went straight to the slide.

The playground is roughly divided into halves. One section of the play area is set aside for toddlers, kids who are Asher’s age. The other half is for the older children. Asher spends very little time in the toddler section. He prefers to try his luck with the more advanced equipment. Some of the structures are simply too big for him. He still tries to clammer on top of them, usually with me holding him up or guiding him.

Asher likes to talk to me while we are at the playground. For a kid who is only 2 1/2 years old, he is loquacious. He struggles a bit with pronunciation. Asher’s L’s sound sometimes like Y’s, and his R’s sometimes sound like W’s. Otherwise, he speaks rather well.

Asher rushed over to the big boy slide. He climbed slowly up the ladder to the top. I reached out to help him, but he said,

“No! I can do it! Don’t hep me! I don’t yike that!”

So, I backed off a bit. I didn’t touch Asher as he climbed, but I close enough to grab him if he started to fall. Asher was in no rush to get to the top of the slide. He was careful where to place his hands and feet. He made sure that he had a firm grip on each rung and kept his balance as he went up. He was like a mountain climber gingerly ascending a cliff face. When he got to the top, Asher grinned and shouted,

“I did it! I did it aw by myseff!”

Indeed, he did. The interesting thing was that two days ago he couldn’t climb the ladder at all.

Asher and I go to a playground, or several playgrounds, every day. Each day he surprises me with some newly developed dexterity. He can walk on a rope bridge now. He can swing from cable to cable that hang off an overhead metal bar. He can climb ladders without my assistance. It seems like one day he is too unsure of himself to scale the jungle gym, and the next day he can do it with confidence. How does that happen? How does this boy, or any child, suddenly know how to do something new?

When I think about it, I wonder how I ever learned to do new things. How did I learn to drive a stick shift? How did I learn to fly a helicopter? How do difficult tasks change from being impossible to being second nature? I don’t know. I guess that is what amazes me when I watch Asher in action.

I know that we learn by doing. Watching somebody else perform a task helps, and sometimes it is useful for somebody to explain how to do something. However, a person has to do it themselves, perhaps dozens or hundreds of times before their body remembers, and the action becomes automatic.

I have sometimes had to relearn things. After my right leg was crushed by a forklift several years ago, I had to learn again how to walk. The muscle memory in my foot and ankle was destroyed in the accident, and I had to consciously think through the steps required for me to even take steps. For a number of months after I was injured, I was effectively a toddler again. That was humbling experience.

I like taking Asher to the playground. It is a joy to watch him learn new things. It is an endless source of wonder to me.

August 16th, 2023

Now that it is fashionable in parts of the United States to ban and/or burn books, it seems like a good time for a booklover, that being me, to make a comment or two. I have also noticed that in Texas school libraries are being closed. I suppose it’s just the next step in keeping dangerous ideas away from innocent children. Or perhaps, Texans have assumed that reading books is an outdated activity, and students are better off using more modern technology. I don’t know. Somehow, it all reminds me of Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. But, of course, that’s a book, and has probably been banned somewhere by now.

I have always been a voracious and omnivorous reader. In my teens I would check out books from the library without any notion what the subject matter was. My father was okay with me having my nose in a book. He seldom bothered to see what I was reading, except for one time when I brought home a copy of Catch 22 from Joseph Heller. He was very upset that I had that book in my possession.

He angrily told me to take the book back and snarled, “Be careful what you read.”

That seemed confusing to me at the time, and it still is. How can I be careful about what I read until I start reading it?

It appears that currently there are many folks in our country who are eager to help young people be careful with what they read. It seems to me that the methods being used to prevent underage individuals from perusing unsafe publications are rather quaint. Banning books has that old school Third Reich vibe that probably appeals to some people, but who are they kidding?

A generation ago, when my own children were young, it was pointless for me to tell them not to read something. That just gave the book or magazine the attraction it needed. Once I condemned a certain type of reading material, it became forbidden fruit. Then they had to read it, just to find out why their grumpy old man didn’t like it.

That was in prehistoric period before the advent of the Internet. Now, damn near every kid has a smart phone and knows how to use it. Any young person can look up any document anywhere at any time. Who needs a library? Banning books might make parents feel like they are doing their duty to protect their impressionable children, but it’s a futile effort. Everything that these parents want to restrict is out there and easily accessible to their kids.

None of my adult children read books for pleasure. I don’t know if any of their contemporaries do. They read, but everything is online. The only young people I know who like to get cozy with a good book are the ones who are doing time in the slammer. I’ve sent books to them. They have been grateful for that, seeing as their options for entertainment are limited.

It’s different for me. I have a love affair with books. I like the fact that they are tangible. I like the ability to read them in bed and lay them aside if I get tired. The authors of the books I enjoy are like old friends. I come back to them over and over. I always like to hear from Steinbeck or Dostoyevsky or Tolkien. I have shelves full of books, some of them yellowing with age. My favorite books aren’t there, because the books that I love most, I give away to people who will appreciate them. Those are books that I want to share.

I once self-published a book. That was years ago. I will never do it again. I discovered that publishing a book is more work than writing it. I don’t want to sell a book that I wrote. It’s like selling myself, and I find that distasteful. The experience did give me a greater appreciation for the books of other authors. Even if I totally disagree with the opinions found in a book, I have to respect the fact that the writer put his or her heart and soul into the work of creating it.

I wish the book banners felt the same way.

August 17th, 2023

I had the room key in my hand. I shut the car door and looked around for the right room number on one of the doors of the motel. There at the end of the building on the second floor was the room I needed. Oddly enough, the room was the closest of all of them to the neighboring liquor store. That seemed convenient.

The motel was old and a bit shabby. Many years ago, when the road was the main transportation artery between Milwaukee and Chicago, this motel probably had a thriving business. Back in the 60’s, the freeway was built, and this highway and all of its cozy motor lodges became part of a sluggish economic backwater. The motel didn’t have any high rollers stay overnight anymore. Now, it was a temporary home for people skidding on a downward path. A room in this place was better than sleeping in the backseat of a car, but not much better.

I got the room key from a person in the ER. They had been brought there by ambulance after a drug relapse. The individual needed me to collect their personal belongings from the motel room and turn in the key to the front office. I asked if the person had left any items in dresser drawers. They shook their head slowly and then rolled over on the hospital bed. They closed their eyes to sleep.

I opened the door of the motel room. The drapes were closed, and all the lights were on. It was utter chaos in a very small space. That was no surprise to me. I have been in other rooms like that one, for similar reasons.

The motel room made me remember when I helped to clean out my brother’s tiny apartment after his death. His apartment didn’t have much in it, but it still seemed to take forever to pack and move everything. The place was a mess, just like his life. The sink was filled with dishes encrusted with dried food. The refrigerator was empty except for a light bulb and some items that were clearly well beyond their shelf lives. I found a disorderly pile of mail. Buried in it was a birthday card I had sent to him four months before his death. It was still unopened.

I had no intention of cleaning the motel room. I was going to find the person’s stuff, and then get the hell out. The room had a bad energy. A relapse is a grim and lonely event, often leaving broken behind broken glass and broken dreams. This room wasn’t too bad, the person had not been staying there for very long. I found clothes scattered on the floor. I found miscellaneous objects on the bed, half-hidden under the crumpled sheets. Next to the toilet was an almost empty case of alcoholic beverages. Empty cans were lying on every horizontal surface. The odd thing was that there was still one full can in the box. It’s rare that a person going on a killer binge will leave anything unopened.

I gathered up all the things I could find. It is likely that I missed something. I don’t care. The person who mislaid it probably won’t remember where it was anyway. A relapse seldom leaves many memories, mostly just bad feelings and a gnawing paranoia.

I threw the bag of stuff into the back seat of the car. Then I walked into the office. There was a sheet of plexiglass in front of the counter, with a thin slot for business transactions. The sheet of plexiglass was partially covered with numerous notices and rules for the guests. The nastier the motel, the more rules there are for the people staying there.

A young man came out after I pressed the buzzer on the counter. He smiled at me. I told him that I grabbed all of the occupant’s belongings from the room. He asked me,

“Are they alright?”

I shrugged. How do you define “alright”?

I told him, “Thanks for the help”, and tossed him the key.