Author: frankisemptiness

July 26th, 2022

On our road trip we stopped at numerous gas stations. That’s just how road trips work. There are a lot of miles between Wisconsin and Texas. After a while, we got a feel for where we wanted to stop, and for what places we wanted to avoid.

Let’s first talk about the places to avoid. Some small filling stations are clean and well maintained. Some are not. Due to poor planning on our part, we had to occasionally stop at a tiny filling station in the middle of nowhere. Sometimes, we did this because we were low on fuel. Sometimes, it was because our toddler grandson, Asher, was restless. Sometimes, it was because one of us needed to go to the bathroom really bad. In any case, our choice of vendors was kind of a crap shoot. There was no way to tell the quality of the establishment before we actually arrived there.

It didn’t take long to figure out if we had made a bad stop. Even before we entered the business, there would be warning signs that this was not going to be a positive experience. If three of four gas pumps were out of order, that was a bad omen. It was also a red flag if there was sign that said, “See the attendant inside”. Once inside, if the business was not up to par, we could tell that the food being sold was not ageing well. The clerk would be either half-asleep or surly. The bathroom sink would have permanent stains, and there would be an old school vending machine for condoms in the restroom. Some of the other customers (if there were any) would look suspiciously like meth heads.

Just get back in the car and drive away.

Travel stops, like Love’s, were usually a better choice. They were never fancy, but the quality was consistent. These places catered to truckers, and that was okay with me. I worked with truck drivers for decades before I retired. In the travel center store, you would always hear country music, occasionally interrupted by an announcement, “Number Five, you shower is ready!”. These stops had clean restrooms (usually), and they had food provided by some restaurant chain (e.g., McDonald’s or Subway). Love’s sold standard trucker attire: cowboy hats and belts with buckles the size of dinner plates. They were places where Asher could run around and grab at the trinkets that were on the shelves. He wound up with a pair of Spiderman sunglasses that he has never worn.

Some stops had a local flavor to them. In Bryan, Texas, where our son lives, there is a gas station called “Stripes”. I’m not sure if it is part of a chain. Our son, Hans, goes there frequently for cigarettes and crack in a can (energy drinks). His wife claims that Hans singlehandedly keeps Stripes in business. She might be right.

Stripes is right next to the extended stay hotel where we resided for a week. Early each morning during our stay, I would take little Asher with me to buy a coffee for my wife, Karin. The clientele in the store was strictly working class. They were mostly men who were staying in the hotel for several weeks to do construction jobs. The store had a kitchen that served fajitas and tacos. The shelves were full of Mexican junk food, brands that were not familiar to me. Stripes sold beer, lots of it. At least half of the wall coolers were full of beer, some major brands, but also shelves full of Corona and Modelo. I got the sense in the store that I wasn’t in Mexico, but I was getting close.

My favorite place to stop for gas was Buc-ee’s. Ahhhh, Buc-ee’s. Buc-ee’s is a Texas original (or at least southern), and it is amazing. The facility is huge (like the state). Buc-ee’s has everything, literally everything that a traveler could want. They have signs you can buy that say, “Bless your heart”. They have an endless array of outdoor equipment. They have absurdly large Texas flags. They even sell postcards (of Texas). Buc-ee’s sells freshly made sandwiches. I bought a hot BBQ brisket sandwich which made our car smell like heaven for an hour or more. In front of the gas station is a massive statue of the store’s mascot, Buc-ee the Beaver.

Karin insisted on taking a picture of Asher next to Buccee. Why not?

July 26th, 2022

“Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.” ― L. Frank Baum, author of The Wizard of Oz

Kansas really doesn’t have much of a rep as far as tourism goes. When I tell people that we went to Kansas, the first response is: “Why?”

“Why?”, indeed.

My wife, Karin, is a fiber artist. She can knit, sew, crochet, weave, felt, and dye just about any kind of fiber. She is endlessly creative, always coming up with ideas for new projects. Karin belongs to several online knitting and weaving groups. Most of these people in these clubs are hardcore yarn aficionados. They know the locations of nearly every yarn store in the continental United States. One of these stores just happens to be located in Lawrence, Kansas.

That is why we went drove to Kansas.

We stopped at the Yarn Barn as we were coming home to Wisconsin from Texas. Even a cursory glance at the map would tell a person that the Yarn Barn was not on our way home. It was a bit off route. However, Karin and I (and our grandson, Asher) do not know when, or even if, we will get the opportunity to travel again, so if we were going to visit the fiber emporium, we needed to do it on this journey. For Karin, it was a little like going on a pilgrimage.

The Yarn Barn is rather impressive. They have a number of massive floor looms. They have every conceivable type of yarn. They have spinning wheels and numerous small spindles. It’s place where Karin could easily spend several hours and a few thousand bucks. However, she limited herself to one hour and several hundred dollars. I was good with that.

Asher, our toddler grandson, was underwhelmed by the store. He quickly became restless, as did I. Fortunately, there was a toy store right next door to the yarn shop. The place was aptly named, “The Toy Store”.

There is a scene in the movie “Big” where Tom Hanks runs amok in a New York City toy store. He is an adult who knows how to play. For the most part I have forgotten how to play. Some creative people, like scientists and artists, have jobs where they get paid to play. Their work is literally play. However, I think that most of us in our lives have had others discourage us from playing. We have often lost that playfulness that makes life exciting. Asher is teaching me how to play again.

The Toy Store is two stories of fun. They have a wall full of Ravensburger puzzles. They have shelves full of Lego sets. They plush toys to cuddle. They have puppets. They have scientific toys like telescopes. They have model trucks and trains and boats and dinosaurs, and it just goes on and on and on. Asher was one happy little boy there. I, on the other hand, was desperately trying to keep the lad from dragging toys out from all the shelves. He found a bin of colorful polished stones that he loved. He took great delight in scattering the gems on the floor faster than I could gather them back up. I found it hard to be playful while a young store clerk was giving us the stink eye.

There are many young people in Lawrence, Kansas. This is no doubt due to the fact that the University of Kansas is located there. The youthful population gives Lawrence an odd quirkiness. The town is like an outpost of liberals surrounded by a sea of ruby red conservatives. I saw a lot of folks, both old and young, who did not fit my image of a Kansas resident.

As an example, I saw an older man walking down the street dressed all in black. He was slim with short grey hair. He had on a black t-shirt, along with black latex leggings tucked into black combat boots. He wore a black belt loosely around his hips like he was a gunslinger. Now, somebody dressed like this could probably get away with it in Times Square or in the French Quarter of New Orleans, but in Kansas? Kansas?

Asher and I returned to the Yarn Barn to find that Karin was ready to make her purchases. She bought a few heddles and a weaving board. She was happy. We were happy.

After that, we had supper at the Free State Brewery. Karin thought I deserved it. Any town that has its own brewery is alright with me.

July 29th, 2022

Asher is a good traveler. We took him on a road trip to Texas and he did well. He is about twenty months old, and he is surprisingly comfortable with long drives. Even so, eventually Asher gets restless and fussy, and we need to get him out of the car.

When this happens, we look for a Mcdonald’s with a Play Place. Normally, we would pull over at a rest stop with a playground. However, since most of the South is enjoying sauna-like temperatures (100 degrees+), we decided that we didn’t want Asher to get heat exhaustion on this trip. Asher needed to move around and exercise, but it needed to be an air-conditioned environment. Karin and I did not want to put a sweaty toddler back into the car seat.

Let me say up front, that we did not go into the McDonald’s because of the food. What is served at Mcdonald’s doesn’t really qualify as food. We did order fries for Asher, because he always eats French fries. I would usually get a soda and/or a burger, and Karin got some kind of mocha. We bought food simply to have access to the Play Place and get to use the bathroom.

Asher didn’t actually play that much in the Play Place. There isn’t much there that is toddler sized. Mostly, he observed the other children. He watched them very closely. Asher is a ladies’ man, so he tended to gravitate toward the little girls. One young woman in Arkansas rejected Asher’s advances and pushed him down. He just got up again to follow her around.

Asher eventually got bored with McDonald’s. When that happened, we would check his diaper, and tuck him back into the car for another couple hours on the road. Often, he would fall asleep on his seat once we got on the freeway.

Early one morning in Texas, I took Asher into a Mcdonald’s just so Karin could take a shower without interruption. Asher stood around and ate a greasy wedge of hashbrowns while I sipped some lava hot black coffee. As he munched, I looked around the restaurant and saw four old guys (my age) sitting at a table, slowly drinking their senior-price coffees. These guys were in no hurry to go anywhere (actually, in Texas, nobody seems to be in a hurry).

I suspect these gentlemen were up early, and they wanted to get away from their wives for a bit. I don’t know what they were all talking about, but I can guess: the hot, dry weather, the price of gas, “go Brandon”. If it wasn’t for Asher, I would probably be sitting at a table just like that in Wisconsin, slurping bad coffee and watching the time slip away. Well, at least those old boys had a place to sit and relax. They don’t need to spend much money for what they get.

Thank God for Asher. Thank God for Mcdonald’s.

July 24th, 2022

Asher was restless early on Sunday morning. My 19-month-old grandson wanted to get out of our room at the retreat house and go places. He didn’t want to go very far, but he needed to move around.

We were staying at the Coury House, the retreat center at Subiaco Abbey in western Arkansas. Karin and I have been going there for many years, but this was Asher’s first visit to the place. There really isn’t much at the abbey to entertain a toddler, but it was all new to Asher, so he remained interested in his surroundings.

Subiaco monastery is built on top of a tall hill in the Arkansas river valley. The Benedictine monks run the abbey. It’s off the beaten path, and it has a remarkably peaceful environment. For a person with a spiritual or religious nature, it is an excellent place to rest and recharge.

Coury House is built into the side of the hill. For some reason the first and second floors are located well below the crest of the hill. The third floor and the lobby are on the top of the hill, and that is where visitors first arrive. Our room was buried deep into the first floor. It was a nice room, but its window had a view of a concrete wall. Asher did not like to hang out there.

I had thought that Asher would want to run around the hallways and burn off some energy. No, what he wanted to do was to have me carry him up two flights of stairs to the lobby. with reluctance I did that. It was just as well. Asher is not very good yet with navigating stairs and he wasn’t wearing any shoes.

When we got to the top of the stairs, I stood in the lobby with Asher sitting on my right hip. He gazed around and showed no interest in going down on the floor. I looked down one of the hallways and saw two women walking slowly toward us. Both of them were dressed modestly, wearing long skirts. They appeared to be Latinas. I could hear them speaking Spanish together as they approached us.

Their faces lit up when they met us. One of the women was of medium height with her graying hair pulled back into a bun. She held a Bible in her arm. The other woman was young. She was a tiny lady. She had long, black hair with large dark eyes. The younger woman had a beatific smile. She had an expression of childlike innocence.

The older woman asked me, “¿Hablas español?”

I replied, “Un poquito.”

She nodded. Then both women started talking to me rapidly in Spanish. Apparently, when I told them that I spoke a tiny bit of Spanish, they assumed I was actually fluent. I struggled to follow what they were saying. My Spanish vocabulary has diminished significantly in recent years.

They asked the name of my grandson. I told them “Asher”. Then the smaller woman asked me my name. I told her “Frank”. She looked a little confused until the older lady told her “Francisco”. The younger woman nodded and smiled.

“Si, Francisco.”

They both looked at Asher and me with joy. The two chattered in Spanish and I only caught a few phrases, like: “un niño hermoso” and “muy bien”. I told them that I was Asher’s ” su abuelo”, his grandpa. They smiled again.

The small woman looked lovingly at Asher, who looked back at her with interest. She asked me, “¿Besar? (Kiss?)”

I nodded. She stroked Asher’s leg and touched his right foot. She stooped a bit and with exquisite tenderness kissed it.

Then she asked me again, “¿Besar?”

I thought she wanted to kiss Asher again, so I nodded.

She didn’t kiss Asher.

The woman stroked my left arm gently. Then she reached down to kiss my hand. A tremor ran through me.

The two of them came close to us. The older woman placed her right hand on my shoulder. The younger woman did the same with Asher. They prayed over us. I don’t know what they all said. I heard the word “corazon (heart)” spoken repeatedly. It doesn’t really matter what they said. A benediction can be recognized in any language. They blessed us.

After their prayer, the two women left the lobby and headed toward the church.

I never saw them again.

July 23rd, 2022

Conversations with my son, Hans, tend to follow a familiar pattern. He almost always starts by talking about guns (Hans is a Texan and is by definition a gun enthusiast). By the end of our talk, Hans is telling me about some disturbing and/or absurd experience he had when he was deployed in Iraq. Our last discussion was no different.

Hans began by telling the story of how he and his buddies went hunting for feral pigs several years ago. To the best of my understanding, there is no season in Texas for hunting these pigs. Actually, the state would prefer that people kill the damn things whenever possible. They are remarkably destructive creatures: strong, vicious, and prolific breeders.

Hans was using a rifle with a red dot sight. He spotted a large, hulking animal about 100 yards in the distance. Hans could not make out what it was. He preferred not to shoot a cow. His friend had a rifle with a telescopic sight, so he asked him what the thing was. his buddy said,

“Well, it’s not a cow.”

BOOM!

Hans turned down the red dot, and the immediately let off a round and hit the beast. Hans’ companion did not appreciate the fact that Hans fired his rifle without warning. Neither of them could see the wounded animal, so they, along with another hunter, drove through the fields to look for the pig. They found the boar in a mud hole where it had been wallowing. Hans had shot it in the spine.

Hans’ buddy took out his 9mm and starting firing at the pig from a short distance. Hans told me, “The guy missed the pig five times. I finally told the guy, ‘Give me the gun, you idiot!’. I don’t know what was wrong with him. I know the pig was still moving around and making a racket, but it was hit in the spine. It wasn’t going to go after the guy. I took the 9mm, went close to the pig’s head, and killed it. I mean, shit, just end it.”

The conversation inevitably drifted from there to Iraq.

Hans told me about being designated as a marksman on the caiman. He took a drag off his cigarette and said,

“We were shooting at these guys coming at us from across a field. One of these poppy-leaf-chewers was so high, he couldn’t feel nothing. I shot the guy in the shoulder, and he just shrugged and kept coming. I shot again and he went down. Then this guy got up again. I hit him one more time, and he went down. He got up again. I thought, ‘What the hell? Is this guy the Iraqi Terminator?’ I kept firing at him, and I was about ready to tell the machine gunner to light his ass up. I finally stopped him. I must have used twenty rounds.”

Hans went on, “I always had a magazine full of tracer rounds for whenever we went on night missions. Then I would take some tracers out and put them in another magazine with regular rounds. I would space them out every three or five rounds.”

“Well, we went on a night mission, and we were firing back at some bad guys. I fired once:”

“Tracer round.”

“I fired again.”

“Tracer round.”

“I fired again.”

“Tracer round.”

“Oops. Wrong magazine.”

“I set that field on fire. I caught shit for that. Well, it didn’t matter, we knew they were bad guys. We could see the muzzle flashes from their guns, and we could hear the ‘thump’. They were firing Ak 47’s. Those things go ‘thump’ when you fire them. You can tell that sound. Our rifles go ‘ptui’.”

Hans took another drag. He said,

“One time, these National Guard boys started firing us up. It was good that we were all in the truck. And it was during fucking daylight. How could they not tell an MRAP from a…a…well, from whatever the bad guys drive around? We couldn’t call them. They had the wrong week’s fill in their radios. “

“The grenadier shot a flare round toward their vehicle. That got their attention.”

Hans put out his cigarette stub and smiled.

July 20th, 2022

“The land here is strong
Strong beneath my feet
It feeds on the blood
It feeds on the heat” –The Rhythm of the Heat by Peter Gabriel

We drove down to Texas a week ago. Yeah, I know that making a road trip from Wisconsin to Texas in the middle of July is utter madness, but circumstances dictated that we go now or not go at all. We wanted to visit our oldest son, Hans, and his family. Karin and I had not been this way for almost two years, and it was high time to see the two grandchildren that we hardly knew. We took along our 18-month-old grandson, Asher, who has turned out to be bold and intrepid traveler.

Basically, the entire United States south of Chicago is a sauna. Texas takes the heat one step further. We are staying in Bryan, which lies in the Brazos Valley in central Texas. It is not only hot here, but also exceedingly dry. The whole region is in the midst of a severe drought. The grass, where it is not watered, is golden brown, and it crackles like kindling under our feet. The trees are still green (mostly), but they are obviously stressed. Their leaves are dull and dusty. The natural world is in pain.

People here keep indoors, if they can. The outdoor temperature regularly tops 100 degrees. Asher and his cousins went into the wading pool a couple days ago. They didn’t stay there long. Asher became flushed in his face after only a few minutes. Hans and Gabby’s kids started to overheat soon after that. They retreated back into the air-conditioned comfort of the apartment.

Hans works in the heat every day. He pumps concrete for a living, and he is outside most of the time. Hans can deal with the heat better than he can handle the cold. He does not find the temperatures in Texas to be too extreme, but that is because he was deployed with the Army to Iraq back in 2011. Hans knows what real heat is.

He came home from work yesterday afternoon looking rough and ragged. I asked him,

“How are you?”

“Hot.”

“How much did you pump today?”

“Ninety-five yards.”

“How did that go?”

“The ground was bad.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it was all sand. You know, it was like that real fine Kuwaiti kind of sand where if you break through the crust with your vehicle, you’re done.”

“And?”

“We only had one mixer get stuck. He didn’t dig into the sand. He just tried to crank the wheels too tight. You have to make slow, gentle turns.”

He gave me a little smile, like he was remembering something else, something from long ago.

Hans’ time in Iraq was hot and dry, and violent. His experiences there have made him impatient with folks who complain about small things. He told me,

“I got no time for people who cry that they can’t find toilet paper in the store, or who whine about not having air conditioning for a day. I was in Third World countries where people didn’t have air conditioning, or electricity…or water.”

Hans’ wife says that his time in Iraq changed him in a fundamental way. She thinks that there he is actually two separate men: the Hans before Iraq and the Hans after Iraq. I think she is right. Hans was different when he came back from the war. He wasn’t the same man. Whatever innocence he had before he deployed to the Middle East was burned away by the sun, and by the suffering he saw.

Hans remembers. He remembers the blood and the heat.

July 2nd, 2022

Several years ago, my wife and I traveled to visit some friends, Senji and Gilberto, near Seattle. We stayed with the two Buddhist monks at their temple on Bainbridge Island for a while, and then we found refuge in the home of an older lady, who was a friend of our friends. Mira, the friend of the monks, owned a home in Seattle proper, and she graciously offered to be our hostess for a few days. She was a sweet woman (sadly, now deceased) who took us all around town and showed us the sights. Mira spent a great deal of time talking with us. She was a highly educated woman, and well-traveled.

Mira was very active with social justice issues and would have easily qualified as a liberal in political terms. As we got to know each other, I told her a lot about our oldest son, Hans. I explained that Hans had served in the Army (like I did), and that Hans had been deployed to Iraq during 2011. In my description of Hans, I mentioned that he was a self-described gun enthusiast, and that he had strong conservative views.

After hearing some of my stories about our son, Mira looked at me aghast and said,

“I could never talk to somebody like that! “

Her outburst disturbed me. I asked her why.

She stammered something like, “Well, I’m sure he’s a nice person, but…”

Mira was emotionally upset with just the idea of dealing with a person whose beliefs were so radically different from her own. I suspect this notion also conflicted with her own self-image as an openminded individual. Mira, in many ways, really was very tolerant and generous. She took Karin and me into her home sight unseen. She had never met us before in her entire life. She only knew us from what Senji and Gilberto had told her about us.

I mention this episode because this situation is not unique. This inability to connect with “the other” is not limited to liberals, or to conservatives. I have met a vast number of people in my life, and I have an eclectic group of friends. I am an outlier in that way. Most people that I know tend to stick with the members of their tribe. It feels safer and more comfortable to interact only with those who share your opinions and values.

Although I know a lot of different kinds of people, that does not by any means imply that I get along with everyone. I don’t. I have my own prejudices. I avoid zealots of any stripe. I don’t mind hanging out with folks who are passionate about certain topics (especially if they are willing to buy me a beer), however I shy away from fanatics. I once read an excellent definition of fanaticism:

“A fanatic is one who can’t change his mind and won’t change the subject.” ― Winston S. Churchill

That sounds about right.

It is amazing to me that with our current technology we can instantaneously communicate with almost anybody on the planet, yet we tend to only connect with those who we already know. People once thought that the Internet would turn the earth into a global village, a world where there would be more understanding through greater interaction. Instead, the Internet has made us more insulated and isolated than ever before in history. Somehow, the web has done more to divide us than to unite us. In earlier times, people had the excuse that they could not travel to learn about alien cultures. Now, with a single click of a mouse, we can learn about nearly every nation, language, or religion that exists. We, at least in America, don’t do that. Apparently, we don’t want to.

How do we get people to learn from each other?

I think the U.S. military provides a possible answer. When I joined the Army, I had previously never been out of my hometown. Suddenly, I was mixing with other young men from all over the country. I was interacting with guys from all sorts of backgrounds. I was forced to work with people who had very different life experiences. My eyes were opened to a new world.

If the citizens of the United States wanted to do so, we could have a compulsory service program for young people. High school graduates (or non-grads) would participate in a year or two of national service. The service would not necessarily have to be connected with the military. There are many civilian projects that need to be done. The program would have to be mandatory for every young person, no loopholes or exceptions.

The potentially positive effect of this kind of universal conscription would be that everybody gets to know somebody that they never wanted to know. They would be forced to leave their tribe. Spending a year with other people from very different histories would require the participants in the program to adjust their world views. Instead of being strangers and adversaries, like many liberals and conservatives, they might actually just become Americans.

It’s an idea.

June 16th, 2022

My son, Hans, called me a couple days ago. He lives down in Texas, and I haven’t seen him for over a year and a half, but we talk on the phone frequently. Hans was deployed with his Army unit to Iraq back in 2011. He got a little banged up while he was over there. Some bad things happened. It seems like when we talk, the conversation always winds up with us recalling our military experiences.

Hans started the call by saying,

“Well, I had an interesting time at Kroger’s today.”

I knew that I would regret asking, but I said, “What happened?”

Hans drawled, “Well, I was grocery shopping and I see this guy wearing an Army uniform. I had to look twice because that kind of uniform went out of service about the time I got out. Nobody in the Army wears that uniform anymore.

I looked closer at this guy, and nothing seemed right. He had no nametag. He had a Texas flag as a patch on his right shoulder. Nothing on his left shoulder. At least, he had his trouser legs tucked into his boots.

People were talking with him and offering to buy him stuff. That kind of bothered me.

I went up to this guy, and I asked him, ‘Where is your unit patch? How come you don’t have a nametag?’

Well, he started talking this shit about being Special Forces, and that he didn’t need the unit patch or a name tag. I told him that I knew Special Forces people, and they wore nametags when they were in country.

The guy was telling people that he was a sergeant. You know what rank he had on his uniform?”

I replied, “No, what did he have?”

Hans answered, “Private First Class.”

I said, “That doesn’t seem quite right.”

Hans went on,

“No, it didn’t. So, I asked the guy if he wanted to see something that he never had in his whole life. He said, ‘Yeah’. I pulled out my wallet and showed him my old, expired military ID card. He didn’t say nothing.”

Hans sighed and said,

“If I had met this guy after I got back from Iraq, or when I got out of the Army, I would have punched him in the throat. But I didn’t. I got a family to care for, so I didn’t do anything to him, even though all these other folks were trying to buy him stuff because they thought he was real. I just walked out of the store.”

I said, “Good move.”

We were quiet for a while. Neither of us spoke, then Hans said,

“Dad, why do people do that stuff? Why make believe like that? It was disrespectful, disrespectful of everything.”

I did a mental shrug and said, “Because they’re assholes.”

Hans asked, “Is it because they want the glory, but don’t want to do the job?”

“Hans, I don’t know. I really don’t.”

Hans told me, “There was an old man there, watching this guy. He was a Vietnam vet. When I got ready to leave the store, the Vietnam vet told me, ‘Son, don’t you worry. I’ll handle this.’ I didn’t stay, so I don’t know what he meant, but he said he’d handle it.”

Hans sounded depressed.

“Well, I just wanted you to know. I love you, Dad.”

“Love you too.”

June 11th, 2022

“A good traveler has no fixed plans
and is not intent upon arriving.” – Tao Te Ching

“My turning point was my pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. It was then that I, who had dedicated most of my life to penetrate the ‘secrets’ of the universe, realized that there are no secrets. Life is and will always be a mystery.” ~ Paulo Coehlo

I know two people who are on a pilgrimage. They are both friends of mine, but they don’t know each other. They are walking along the “Camino de Santiago” in Spain. “The Way of St. James” is 475 miles long and ends up at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. One of my friends appears to be traveling the entire route all in one shot. He will be walking for well over a month, maybe two. The other person I know has been doing the pilgrimage in series of smaller segments, giving himself and his wife the opportunity to rest.

My wife, Karin, and I have often thought about hiking on the Camino. However, that seems to be beyond our capabilities. Karin, since she had COVID in 2020, gets out of breath easily. A walk around the neighborhood is usually all she can handle. I also had COVID, and I find that strenuous activities are sometimes overwhelming. for me. We could potentially walk a short stretch of the Camino, but that would be about it.

My wife and I became the legal guardians of our toddler grandson, Asher last week. This fact is a greater obstacle to the making a pilgrimage than our physical condition. B.A. (Before Asher), we used to travel extensively, sometimes being away from home for a month or more. This is no longer the case. Now, it is a major effort just to get across town with the little boy in tow. I cannot imagine Karin or I going to Spain until Asher is much older, but then of course we too will be much older.

Why go on a pilgrimage? A person who makes a pilgrimage is by definition a seeker. Some seekers have a clear idea of what they hope to find. Some just have an emptiness inside that has to be filled. They know that they need whatever is missing, but they may have no idea what it is. I guess a pilgrimage is a journey to find something, although that something is often difficult to describe. Maybe it is an attempt to find God, or peace, or meaning. Each person seeks something unique, something that they understand intuitively, but perhaps not rationally.

It seems that almost all religious traditions encourage some sort of pilgrimage. Hindus travel to Benares on the Ganges. Muslims are supposed to make a trip to Mecca at least once in their lives. Jews visit the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. Catholics go to Rome.

I’ve been to Jerusalem. That was almost forty years ago. I went there as a tourist, not as a pilgrim. I found the city to be fascinating, but nothing there resonated with me. Other people were in Jerusalem as pilgrims, and that place meant everything to them. In physical terms, Jerusalem was the same for me as it was for the pilgrims. However, our experiences were radically different. The difference was a result of who we were when we visited that city, and why we were there.

A pilgrimage is symbolic of the journey of life. Some people focus intently on the final destination. Some pay attention to the day-to-day experiences. Chogyam Trungpa, the Buddhist teacher wrote a book called “The Path is the Goal”. The gist of the book is that the process is what matters. St Catherine of Siena once said that all the way to heaven is heaven. Some Christians obsess about getting to heaven, when perhaps in actuality heaven is already here.

In my experiences with Buddhists, I have heard the idea that all of us have an essential Buddha nature. We are already perfect, but we don’t realize it. This might mean that going on a pilgrimage is superfluous, because we already have whatever we seek. I’m not sure about that. Sometimes, a person needs to leave home to come home. Sometimes, we have to go through enormous struggles and travel great distances to understand we had it all from the very beginning.

Referring back to our grandson, Asher, it is obvious to me that he is embarked on a remarkable journey. Our toddler is on a pilgrimage. He may never leave this town. He might never go anywhere far away. It doesn’t matter. He is starting on a path that will lead him to new worlds. He is beginning something exciting and wonderful.

I don’t need to go to Santiago de Compostela. I don’t need to go to Rome or Tibet. I can go with Asher on his journey. It will be an excellent pilgrimage. Asher will show me things that I have never imagined.

June 14th, 2022

My son, Hans, called me from Texas a couple days ago. He drawled,

“Hey Dad, our power’s out.”

“That’s no good. Isn’t it stupid hot down there?”

“Yeah, it is. You want to know why the power is out?”

I never know how to answer that sort of question. So, I said, “Sure.”

“A transformer blew up.”

“Wait. Now what happened?”

Hans took a breath and said, “Well, it was one of those small transformers, the kind that sit up on top of the poles. You know, the kind with the ceramic insulation.”

I didn’t know what he meant, but I let him keep talking. Hans was on a roll.

He continued, “I didn’t see it explode, but I heard it. It brought back all sorts of stuff from Iraq when I heard it go bang. I hit the ground.”

“Okay.”

Hans went on, “At first I thought I thought it might be somebody popping off fireworks, but it didn’t sound right. It sounded just like an IED.”

“Okay, so what does an IED sound like?”

Hans replied, “They have a funny noise when they go off. I can tell the sound of flying pieces of metal. I know what shrapnel sounds like.”

We were both quiet for a moment. Then Hans said,

“Well, I just wanted you know what has been going on down here. I’m okay. I didn’t have a heart attack when I heard the explosion.”

“I’m glad.”

Hans was deployed in Iraq over a decade ago. It amazes me that he still remembers the sound of flying shrapnel, and that his reflex is to automatically fall to the ground when he hears that sound.

It makes me sad too.