frankisemptiness

Cold

December 9th, 2025

I hate the cold. I really do. However, for reasons that even I can’t understand, I live in Wisconsin. Despite the effects of climate change, winter in this state can be brutal. Just an hour ago, I shoveled snow off the driveway. There is probably a good foot of snow on the ground from all the storms that rolled through here in the past two weeks. It’s not even the middle of December yet. We have already had a couple days/nights with temperatures in the teens or single digits (I am talking terms of the Fahrenheit scale). We have months to go before the first hint of spring. I grow weary.

I didn’t always have this aversion to snow and cold. Back in June of 1978, courtesy of the U.S Army, I spent a week on a glacier near Fairbanks, Alaska. Granted, I was there in June, but walking all day on top of a gargantuan ice cube is still kind of brisk. Overall, the experience was fun. It was an adventure of sorts. That week was the only time in my military career when I was required to wear sunglasses. The glare off the ice was intense. I managed to get sunburned under my nose and chin from the UV light reflected off the glacier. I remember distinctly how blue the ice was. When I looked down a deep crevasse, it was as if the ice below me was glowing an azure blue. It was cold up on the ice, but it was something worth doing.

Fast forward a few decades. I worked on the dock of a trucking company for almost twenty-eight years. The building had a roof and well over one hundred doors. The doors were for there for the trucks to back into. That means that these doors were usually open. That means that the ambient temperature on the dock was exactly the same as the temperature outside. In winter it was cold. I mostly worked a night shift, so it got really cold.

Working in the cold is at best miserable. It can also be harmful to a person’s health. Hypothermia and frostbite are not fun. A person learns to dress properly to function in a cold environment, but the truth is that sometimes you simply cannot stay warm. Eight to ten hours in below freezing temperatures sucks the energy out of person. After working my shift in the depths of winter, I often went home, ate supper, took a shower, and crashed in bed. When I woke up, I got dressed to do it all over again. That kind of job wears on a person. It leaves a mark.

Working in the cold is a young man’s game. Now that I am old and retired, I don’t want to go out in frigid weather unless I absolutely must. My body doesn’t tolerate the cold like it did forty or fifty years ago. When my little grandson wants to play in the snow, I go with him, but with great reluctance. I just can’t handle it like he does.

I read once that the Tibetans imagined hell to be a very cold place.

They might be right.

Spiral of Love and Light

December 3rd, 2025

The third floor of the Waldorf school building is a small auditorium. There is a stage on the east end of the hall, and the floor is a wide expanse of hardwood. The space at times doubles as a gymnasium of sorts, but it is primarily used for student plays and music recitals. On the north and south sides of the hall are tall windows. There room is usually filled with light during the daytime.

That was not the case yesterday. The inside of the auditorium was dim. That was partly due to the overcast skies, but it was also because the faculty had hung colored silks over the windows. Each covering had a different hue: red, green, blue. Some light seeped through the cloth, but the room was darkened, and that was on purpose.

Most of the floor was covered with evergreen boughs. Some were pine, but most were spruce. The boughs were laid out to form a large spiral. In the center of the spiral sat a small table bearing half of a hollowed-out geode. Inside of the rock was a candle. On the floor, along the edges of the spiral, were felted stars, seashells, gnomes and fairies. On the outer borders of the evergreen spiral was a circle of folding chairs.

The kindergarteners were standing and sitting in the hallway with their caregivers. They were waiting for the beginning of the ritual of the winter spiral. There were the usual noise and confusion as the children and parents talked and mingled. Then the faculty members began leading the participants into the auditorium. A lone musician played a melody on a flute as everyone entered the room. Without being told to do so, every person fell silent, and each found a seat.

The teacher, Miss Sara, took an apple in her hand from a table contain dozens of them. The apple had a candle inserted into it. She entered the spiral walking slowly. At the center she carefully lit a match and ignited the wick of the candle in the geode. Then she took her candle and lit it from the flame in the rock. She silently walked part way out of the spiral, and then she placed her candle on the floor near the boughs. She came out of the spiral. We all sat there, and a single light struggled to illuminate the room. The musician plucked a song on his Persian oud. No one spoke.

Miss Sara picked up another apple that held a candle in it, and she handed it to the first child. The boy and his parents stood up. Miss Sara smiled and invited them to enter the spiral. They did. The boy seemed a bit self-conscious, and he marched to the center of the spiral. With the help of his parents, he lit his candle, walked several steps, and then placed the apple on the floor. They all walked out of the spiral. Now there were two lights in the room.

Sara gave candled apples to each child, and each child made the journey to the center. Some were confident. Some were nervous. Some enjoyed the attention. Some were shy. Each one lit his or her candle and left it on the path out of the spiral. The room gradually grew brighter. The musician switched to his Turkish lavta and strummed tunes in minor keys. The children were restless, but quiet.

At one point, Asher saw a girl carrying her apple. He smiled and whispered to me,

“Grandpa, that’s her.”

Her. A little girl in a dress with long blonde hair woven into intricate braids. The apple of Asher’s eyes.

I smiled back at him.

Asher walked up to the flame with Karin and me. He was slow and serious until he set his apple/candle on the floor. Then he hurried out of the spiral. He wanted his anonymity back.

One little girl was there without her parents. They both no doubt had to be at work. Miss Sara walked the spiral with the girl. Nobody made the journey alone.

By the end of the ritual, every child had taken the walk to the center of the spiral and had brought light back into a dark world. The room was still in shadow, but small candle flames made it more joyous, more hopeful.

The world was just a tiny bit brighter.

Five Years Old

December 2nd, 2025

I walked up the staircase to the kindergarten classroom. Martha was at the top of the stairs. She smiled at me and said,

“So, today is the big day! Asher was so excited coming in!”

I found our grandson, Asher, and my wife, Karin standing next to Asher’s school locker. Asher was changing into his indoor shoes, and Karin was exchanging a new set of Asher’s clothes for an older, now too small set that Asher kept in his locker in case he needed to change for some reason. Asher’s classmates were sitting or standing in the hallway waiting for Miss Sara to greet them and bring them into the classroom one by one. She does that with them every school day. It lets the child know that he or she is important to Miss Sara as an individual. Waldorf education puts on emphasis on rituals like that and today was no exception.

Miss Sara told Karin and me that she had set up chairs for us near to her seat. Asher was given a chair right next to Miss Sara today, and only for today. She invited the other children into the classroom, and they all sat in a circle with Miss Karina on a round carpet. Sara brought Asher into the room last of all.

He came in wearing a silk cape and a felted crown that was deep blue in color and studded with stars. She shepherded him up to the front of the room and had him sit next to her facing his classmates. She had a small table in front of her with a wooden platter that held five beeswax candles. She took a match and carefully lit each one. Asher sat in his chair and stared at his classmates.

Miss Sara told the class that today a special day, and she then slowly told them this story:

“Once upon a time, in a place both far away and close to us, there lived a heavenly child. This child worked in the House of the Sun and in the House of the Moon. He was happy in heaven, and he spent time with the angels.

One day, the clouds parted and the heavenly child saw below him a beautiful jewel in the dark sky. He said, ‘What is that? I want to go there!’

His angel replied, ‘That is the earth. You cannot go there yet.’

On another day, the clouds parted again, and the child saw the earth up close. He could see all the different colors and the trees and animals. He could see people. He saw a man and a woman, and he loved them. He said,

‘I want to go down there and be with that family!’

His angel told him, ‘Not yet. First you must work in the House of Dreams.’

So, the child worked in the House of Dreams, and he dreamt of the man and the woman. He also dreamt of grandparents who were full of love. In his dream he told them, ‘I want to be part of your family!’

Woman smiled at him, and the man nodded.

When the child left the House of Dreams, his angel said that he could go to the earth and join the family. The child walked across the rainbow bridge that stretched from heaven to earth. He hesitated for a moment. His angel told him,

‘Go across. I will be at your side.’ “

Miss Sara paused. Then she continued and told the children,

“On that day Asher was born. That was five years ago!”

She told Asher to cup his hands and close his eyes so that she could give him a gift. She dropped two small, highly polished stones into his palms. One was dark green and heart-shaped, and the other had bright, multicolored stripes.

She told him to blow out the candles on the wooden tray. It took him several tries, but he did so.

His classmates cheered.

Asher grinned.

I wept.

Shoveling

December 1st, 2025

The winter storm started early on Saturday morning. It snowed for twenty-four hours straight. It wasn’t a blizzard. There was very little wind, and only a light snow fell most of the time. However, it snowed continuously hour after hour.

I went outside three times on Saturday to shovel snow from the driveway. I didn’t really mind doing that. I needed the exercise and the fresh air. Our grandson, Asher, came out with me twice to “help”. He had on his snow pants and thick winter coat. His knit cap with the pompom was on his head. He wore the scarf and mittens that my wife had made for him. The mittens are felted and look like frogs. Asher pushed around his little shovel until his cheeks got rosy and his hands got cold. He usually spread snow on areas that I had already cleared off. Then he went inside. I went inside with him.

The heaviest snow came during Saturday night. When I woke the next morning there were probably six inches of fresh snow covering the ground. Once my wife was up and ready to watch over Asher, I went back out to clear the driveway one last time.

At this point, it should be mentioned that I have a snowblower. A reasonable person may ask, “Then why the hell don’t you use it?”

There are a couple reasons for that. First, I have a dislike for machines, especially noisy ones. I worked for decades around extremely loud equipment (e.g. helicopters and forklifts). The aftermath of a heavy snow creates a sort of pristine and peaceful outdoor environment. I prefer to keep it that way even if I need to move some of the white stuff in order to drive our car. A snowblower makes a hellacious racket. Yes, it makes the work easier and quicker, but at a cost. A snowblower is only good for rough work. A person still needs to use a shovel to clean up the remaining mess.

My snowblower is an older, used model that was given to me for free. It can be a fickle beast. It often takes several tries to get it started. I do not have the aptitude nor the patience to troubleshoot a problem with a snowblower when it is cold and wet outside. I just don’t want to screw with it. I know how to use a shovel, and it works every time. It is simply less frustrating to grab the shovel and go at the piles of snow.

The driveway is clear until the next storm rolls through. By that time, my shoulders and back will be less stiff, and I will be ready to grab the shovel again. The snowblower can rest right where it is.

Not Home for the Holidays

November 30th, 2025

“All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?” – from “Eleanor Rigby” by the Beatles

Three of us sat at the dining room table for Thanksgiving dinner: Karin, Asher, and me. Our holiday meal was simple. We had chicken, a green bean casserole, zucchini fries, and a yogurt dessert that Karin had dreamed up. I think Asher, our nearly five-year-old grandson, actually ate mac and cheese, but at least he ate with us. Karin and I have three children. None of them were able to be with us on Thanksgiving. Our tiny gathering in no way resembled the Normal Rockwell painting from The Saturday Evening Post in 1943. I suspect that almost no Thanksgiving dinners look like what Rockwell idealized.

Thanksgiving is a strange beast. It is officially a secular event with all the trappings of a religious holiday. It commemorates the first Thanksgiving in 1621 when Pilgrim colonists in Massachusetts shared a feast with members of the Wampanoag tribe. The original gathering has a symbolic and mythical status. The current holiday is supposed to be an occasion for people to share food with others and express gratitude for what they have. It is also an opportunity to overeat, binge-watch TV, and then buy unnecessary consumer goods the following day. Thanksgiving is a day full of contradictions. As such, it is profoundly American.

Karin and I said a Christian prayer before we ate our meal with Asher. Then we recited a Japanese Buddhist verse that we learned from our friends, Senji and Gilberto, long ago. We chanted “Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo” three times, and then we joined hands with Asher and said, “Froelich heisst beim Abendessen: Guten Appatit!” (a German phrase that Karin learned as a child that roughly translates to: “Happy means at dinner ‘have a good appetite'”.

Years ago, before Asher entered our lives, I used to go with a small group of people from the American Legion to visit patients in the psych ward at the local VA hospital. We went there every Tuesday evening for a couple hours to spend time with the vets. Around the holidays, especially Thanksgiving and Christmas, the ward was packed full of patients. Holidays that emphasized being with family and friends were particularly painful for veterans who had no loved ones. The loneliness that these vets could somehow keep in check during most of the year overwhelmed them, and they wound up in a hospital ward loaded up with strangers who felt equally forgotten. I’m glad that I had the chance to spend a few hours with these men and women. We shared our common humanity for a little while, and I learned things from them.

Our culture and our technology encourage us to remain isolated. We need to be physically together at least once in a while. I give thanks for Asher and Karin for being in my life every day. I look forward to being with others too.

Crash

November 25th, 2025

“Can we go to the playground?”

Asher asked me that in the car after I picked him up from school. I was tired, but I told him, “Yeah, sure. Which one?”

“Kayla’s Place.”

Asher likes going to Kayla’s Place. It’s a nice playground and he is finally big enough to navigate the monkey bars on his own.

I drove on to the freeway exit to make a right turn. There was a white car in front of me. The driver made a move to turn right into the street. After they did that, I pulled up and glanced left to look for oncoming traffic. I saw none, so I accelerated, turned right, and …

Boom!

The driver of the white car had gone forward maybe ten or fifteen feet and then stopped to check traffic again. I didn’t realize that until I hit the rear of the vehicle.

Asher understandably freaked out.

“Grandpa! Did we hit something?! You got to get out and check if the car is okay!”

I put on the four-way flashers and pulled over to the side of the road. The car ahead of me did the same. I got out.

I was rattled. I hadn’t been in accident in years. The lady from the other car came out too. None of us were hurt. She asked me,

Do you have insurance?”

“Yeah.”

She was in a hurry. She needed to make some deliveries. The woman took pictures of my car and her own. I only have an ancient flip phone, so I didn’t even try to take photos. She had a dent in the back of her car. She looked at my ride and said,

“My car ain’t looking as bad as yours. You got fluid leaking all over the place.”

She was right. There was blue liquid pissing out of the bottom of the right front of my car. That worried me. I figured that it was window washer fluid, but I wasn’t sure.

We exchanged information. I got her license plate number, and her name and phone number. She got all that from me and my insurance information. I never got hers. Maybe she doesn’t have any. It doesn’t matter much. I was at fault regardless.

I got back into my RAV4 with Asher. The lady drove away. I tried to slow down my breathing and calm myself.

Asher asked me from the back seat,

“So, are you still taking me to Kayla’s Place?”

I sighed.

“Yeah.”

Violins of Hope

November 21st, 2025

There is an exhibit currently on display at the Jewish Museum Milwaukee called “Violins of Hope”. The primary focus of the exhibit is on Jewish music and how it flourished prior to the Nazi era, and then how it survived the Holocaust and was revived after WWII. An array of violins from the war years are set up in the museum, and each instrument has its own story. There is also an emphasis on how Jewish music was influenced by the peoples among whom Jews lived. For instance, there is one display that compares Smetana’s “Vltava/the Moldau” with “Hatikvah “, the Israeli national anthem. Both are apparently derived from a Czech folk song. I believe that the event is meant to uplifting and inspiring. However, it is more than that, much more than that.

Now for a disclaimer. I am not a Jew. I need to make that clear up front before I write any more about the show. I have close friends who are Jewish, and I have a strong interest and affinity for Judaism. However, I necessarily look at things as an outsider. I do not claim to understand how the exhibit might affect my Jewish acquaintances. They view the display through a different lens than the one I use. Each person who goes to this event brings along a specific set of experiences, and what they see and hear will have a unique impact. I can only describe what I thought and felt when I walked through the exhibit.

On the surface, the exhibit tells the story of Moshe Weinstein, a Jew who fled Poland in 1938 to go to Tel Aviv in what was then the British protectorate of Palestine. Moshe was a violinist and a luthier (a maker and restorer of violins). Over many years, Moshe and his family have gathered and restored an enormous number of violins that had been played by Jewish musicians. Some of the musicians died in concentration camps. Some migrated to Palestine after the war and sold their violins to Moshe because they could not stand to play on an instrument made by the Germans. The violins came to Moshe from all over the world. Now, a number of the instruments are at the Jewish museum for all to see.

A friend of ours who is a docent at the museum offered to give us free tour of the new exhibit. Karin and I, along with two other friends, went on the tour. Karin was initially hesitant about going to the museum. Karin is from Germany. Her father fought in WWII on the German side. He was a member of the Luftwaffe. He survived the war but was severely wounded. Karin told me about her feelings when I suggested that we see the display. Our little grandson, Asher, overheard our conversation. Asher asked his Oma why she wasn’t sure about going to see the show.

Asher said, “Why don’t you want to go?”

Karin replied, “I might feel sad.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a German, and a long time ago the Germans did bad things to the Jews.”

“What kind of bad things?”

“Really bad things.”

How do you explain the Holocaust to a boy is not quite five years old? How do explain it to anybody?

Karin walked through the exhibit carrying her own family history with her. I am not sure what she felt. In the end, she found the visit to be worthwhile.

The exhibit tries to explain what happened during the Shoah, and it was for me overwhelming. In the portion of the exhibit concerning Moshe Weinstein, there is a written comment that 90% of the Jews living in Poland before the war died at the hands of the Nazis. There were over three million Jews in Poland in 1930. The number of people murdered is incomprehensible. There was no way for me to wrap my head around it. There still isn’t.

One of the themes in the show is “resistance and resilience”. That conjures up a number of questions. How does a person resist overwhelming, life-threatening oppression? Resilience implies survival. What is necessary for a person to survive? Jewish musicians in Auschwitz played for the SS officers, and got slightly more favorable living conditions than their fellow prisoners. Was it right for the musicians to do that? I don’t know. I can’t know.

I have friends who are Palestinian or are sympathetic to the Palestinian cause. How would they react to the show? Would they even set foot into the museum? There are things in the exhibit that would clearly trigger somebody who finds the existence of Israel to be abhorrent. The national anthem of Israel is played at the exhibit. There is a quote on a wall from Theodor Herzl, the founder of Zionism. There is an emphasis on the migration of Jews to Palestine, without any mention of the displacement of the local inhabitants. My friends would probably dismiss the presentation as propaganda, and from their perspective they would be right. All history is propaganda to some extent, but that doesn’t mean that it is a lie.

Who should go to the exhibit? Anybody who is willing to open their mind and their heart should go. Parts of the show are inspiring. Parts are intensely disturbing. Every display has emotional dynamite hidden within it.

Nobody leaves that museum unchanged.

Lanterns in the Night

November 17th, 2025

Asher was excited about going on the lantern walk with the other children from the Waldorf school. He had decorated a glass jar in his kindergarten class to serve as a lamp for the walk at night. He had also learned a song in class that he used to entertain us at home during the days prior to the event. He would spontaneously sing,

“Lanterns in the moonlight, by my side. Soon we will return back home!”

Actually, the lyrics are a bit different, but that’s what he sang, and he sounded really good.

The walk was scheduled for yesterday evening. All day, Asher kept asking us,

“When are we going?”

We answered, “Later, when it gets dark.”

He smiled and said, “This is the best day ever!”

Sunset was at 4:26 yesterday, and my wife, Karin, and I hustled Asher into the car at 4:15 to make the half hour drive to the Tamarack Waldorf School. We got there and saw that other young children were gathering in the parking lot with their caregivers. Faculty members handed out lanterns to the kids (each lantern had the child’s name on it). People mingled and waited for the festivities to start. As the sunset faded, we all moved into the basement of the school to gather for a story and some songs.

The basement was dimly lit with a plethora of lamps and tiny electric candles. The lanterns had these little battery-powered lights in them too. Many years ago, when our own children went on the walk, the lanterns had real candles burning inside of them. That gave the journey a much more old-school feel to it, but the flickering flames on the actual candles tended to go out when it was windy, and darkness once again held sway.

The little kids together in front of the adults on a mat. The 4th grade teacher gave a brief explanation of why the school hosted an annual lantern walk. He told the crowd that the lantern walk tradition went back to the celebration of Martinmas, also known as the Feast of St. Martin of Tours (a holy day on the calendar of the Catholic Church that is celebrated on November 11th). He explained that St. Martin was a wealthy man who shared his cloak with a poor beggar. Martinmas was (and is) about caring for those who are in need. It is also about spreading our inner light in a world that is gradually getting darker, physically and spiritually. The teacher did not go into the religious aspects of the story of St. Martin, which is too bad because those parts are both beautiful and meaningful. However, we live in a diverse secular society and many of the children and parents gathered for the lantern walk do not share Christian beliefs. The teacher was still able to make the purpose of the walk clear: we were going outside with our lanterns to bring light to a world that has grown cold and dark.

Another teacher told a story about “The Lantern King”. It was different tale of a rich man who helped the poor. It reminded me a lot of the story of the Buddha. After that the music teacher led us in song. I liked “Rise up o Flame” It goes:

“Rise up o flame! By thy light glowing, bring to us beauty.

Vision and joy, out of eternity, into this day is born.

Into eternity, it will return.”

Once the singing was done, we filed out of the basement and started walking toward Pulaski Park, a tiny green space a couple blocks from the school. To get to the park we had to walk past Wolski’s Tavern, a landmark on Milwaukee’s lower eastside. The place was doing a brisk business on that evening. It would have been tempting to stop in there for a beer.

Each child’s lantern had handle made of wool fiber. The handles looked great, but they lacked tensile strength. The handles tore loose on several of the lanterns. Asher’s lantern was one of those.

Asher was extremely upset that the strap was broken on his lantern. Karin tried to repair it, but that just infuriated Asher because we were falling behind the rest of the group. He shouted,

“I want to catch up! I don’t want to be the last ones!”

He darted across the dark street, and I yelled at him for doing it,

“DON’T DO THAT! If you do it again, I’ll be really pissed off!”

Karin fixed the handle, but Asher didn’t want it anymore.

He cried, “Give it to somebody else!”

She did.

We caught up with the crowd of lantern bearers. They had formed a large circle in the green space. Then they all began singing. Being as we were in the city, our small lanterns did not produce much extra light, but they made a difference, and that’s all anyone can do.

After the songs, we all slowly left the park to return to the school. The woman who led the people back to Tamarack sang about “Lanterns in the Moonlight”. Asher softly sang along. He was tired and frustrated. He thought there would have been games or other fun things to do. He told me,

“I don’t want to go to the lantern walk again. All I could do was sing!”

True.

We came home and Asher ate some snacks. A popsicle made his mood a bit better. I read for a while and went to bed.

Asher came into the bed later. He didn’t doze off immediately. He wanted to chat. He looked up at the stars that shown through the skylight and asked me about them.

He said, “Are they little circles in the sky?”

I answered, “The stars are like the sun, but really far away.”

He replied, “So, they are circles.”

“Yeah.”

Then he laid his head on my shoulder. He grew quiet and sang the school’s morning verse to himself,

“Morning has come, night is away. We rise with the sun and welcome the day.”

He paused. Then he sang the verse again. I sang it with him.

He has a lovely voice.

There is Always a First Time

November 11th, 2025

I got a haircut today. In a way, getting a trim is kind of pointless for me. There isn’t much hair left to cut. However, the little bit of hair that is still on my head was looking scruffy, so I decided to a “hair salon”, which is basically a fancy name for a barber shop that pays its stylists low wages.

I wound up waiting quite a while to get a cut. I couldn’t understand why the place was so busy. Then I saw a seemingly endless parade of old guys staggering into the salon to get vouchers from free haircuts. It didn’t click in my mind why the shop was giving out vouchers until I noticed that a lot of old men were wearing caps with military insignia. Suddenly, I remembered that today was Veterans Day. A long line of elderly vets stood in line, many of them leaning heavily on their canes, and waited to get a freebie.

I got out of the Army in August of 1986. I became a veteran at that point, but to the best of my recollection, I have never taken advantage of any of the Veterans Day benefits. I am not sure why I always avoided the handouts. Maybe I was too proud, and or maybe I just didn’t want to flaunt the fact that I had served. It always seemed kind of tacky. It seems like on one day each year, people momentarily recognize that others sacrificed something to serve our country. A few of those people who are aware of the service that veterans gave to them try to give something back. What is given to vets is usually not very much: a haircut, a free breakfast, something that can qualify as a tax write off. I just didn’t want any of that.

I finally got called up for my haircut. The lady that cut my hair knows my head, if not my history. She knows that my needs are simple. All I want is for her to use a clipper with a Number 2 guard all the way around my noggin. I sat down and she put the chair cloth around me. I told her,

“For what it’s worth, I am vet.”

She shrugged and replied, “Thanks for your service.”

I said, “I flew helicopters. That was a long time ago.”

She smiled and told me, “It doesn’t matter how long ago it was. The important thing is that you served.”

She mentioned that a cousin of hers had been a military pilot and now flew for Flight for Life as a civilian. We talked about flying for a while. Then I spoke to her about my son who was deployed in Iraq. She told me about her nephew who had also been in Iraq. Her nephew wanted to get into the Rangers, but he got in a serious motorcycle accident and had a brain injury. He had memory loss, but somehow still remembered enough bad stuff from Iraq to have PTSD.

Our conversation was brief. It doesn’t take long for a stylist to give me a buzz cut and trim my eyebrows. She had me check out her work with a mirror and then pulled the cloth off me. I got up and walked to the counter. She did something on her computer and said,

“The haircut was on us. You don’t have to pay anything.”

This was my first time getting anything for free on Veterans Day. I pulled out my wallet anyway. She still deserved a big tip.

At the Dentist

November 10th, 2025

I took Asher to see the dentist on Saturday afternoon. I had been dreading the visit. Asher is not quite five years old, and he still has his baby teeth. At his last check up, his regular dentist found a tiny cavity in between his two upper front teeth. She recommended that Asher see a pediatric specialist to deal with the cavity. This was the first cavity that Asher ever had, and I was worried about how he would behave if the pediatric dentist needed to drill. The possible challenges were daunting. Asher had already been upset and unhelpful during a simple cleaning, so I was a bit on edge.

We got to the office of the pediatric dentist on time, but we had to wait for almost an hour. I asked the receptionist about the delay, and she told me that they had a couple difficult patients that day. Asher ran around the office area. He was bored and restless. That did not bode well. Asher really did not want to be there, and I didn’t either.

When we finally were taken into a back room by a dental hygienist. She got Asher into the chair. Then she went about getting x-rays for his teeth. I was relieved to that Asher did what the hygienist needed him to do without complaint. She had given him a toy (a little plastic digger truck) at the very outset of the visit and had promised him another one if he behaved. That tactic seemed to work well.

She took her pictures and then left to help the dentist in the adjoining examination room. He was working with another young patient. Asher sat in the dentist chair and stared straight ahead.

Another dental assistant came in to do some computer work while we waited for Dr. Mohamed to finish the job next door. As Asher and I waited, we listened to some ungodly wailing coming from the adjoining room. The kid was not having a good time. We could hear the dentist plead, nay beg, the child to relax and settle down. I heard the dentist, who is apparently a man of nearly infinite patience, tell the kid,

“Please bite down on this! Let me do my job!”

The child’s response was a long, intense, high pitched screech. I thought to myself,

“Sweet Jesus, what the fuck are they doing in there?”

I looked at Asher. He was sitting in the chair absolutely stone faced.

I asked him, “Are you okay?”

He replied, “Yes.”

“Uh, you’re looking kind of serious.”

“I’m okay. I just don’t want to move my head.”

I tried to ask Asher something else, but the crying from the other room was overwhelming. I couldn’t hear him answer me.

I told Asher, “I can’t hear you with all the screaming.”

The dental assistant snickered, and said, “Sorry about the noise. The patient isn’t being very cooperative.”

“Is that a professional hazard?”

“Oh yeah.”

Finally, Dr. Mohamed came into our room. He was a tall man with dark curly hair. He smiled at Asher. Asher smiled back. The dentist examined the x-rays and then he had Asher open his mouth so he could look at his teeth.

Asher was very cooperative.

The dentist told me that the cavities (there were actually three small ones) did not penetrate the enamel. This being the case, he could apply a sodium fluoride gel that protect the teeth and avoid any drilling and filling. He advised me that the gel would stain the teeth black. Fine. Whatever. They’re baby teeth and they will come out in a couple years, so I told him to do it. He went on to tell me that Asher should brush, floss, and avoid sweets. We can do that. We set up an appointment for his next cleaning.

At the end, the hygienist gave Asher another little toy as the last part of the bribe to keep him calm during the exam. The dentist seemed happy and relieved that Asher was good during the visit. The man appeared to be emotionally exhausted.

Asher spent the ride back home arguing with me about how often he could eat gummy worms.