frankisemptiness

Is It Worth It?

September 23rd, 2025

My grandson, Asher, woke up this morning around 6:00. It was still dark outside. He called to me,

“Grandpa!”

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

I climbed on to the bed next to Asher. He was lying there with his head buried in the pillow. He didn’t bother to look up at me. Asher asked,

“Is today a school day?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t like school days.”

I sympathize with the boy. He will have probably fifty or sixty years of saying, “I don’t like school (or work) days”. Asher has never had to follow a regular schedule before in his life. Now, he is in kindergarten, and his world is topsy turvy. Asher is growing up, and some of that is unpleasant.

I told him, “Sometimes, we have to do things that we don’t like.”

“Grandpa, I don’t like school days.”

“I get it, but you still have to go.”

“I don’t like school days.”

“Asher, get up now.”

The boy remained prone on the bed.

I put my mouth close to his chest and said, “It’s time to get up!”

He giggled, and said, “Stop it.”

I did it again. He laughed and said, “No!”

“Asher, do you want to eat breakfast first, or get dressed first?”

“Breakfast.”

“Do I need to carry you to the kitchen?”

“Yes.”

I lifted him out of the bed to go where Oma was making breakfast.

This sort of thing happens every school day. There are variations on the theme, but it’s always a struggle to get Asher up and running. It is also a struggle to keep him focused once he is upright and moving.

He had Goldfish. a smoothie, and a waffle for breakfast, and then he took his vitamins. We brushed teeth. After that, I got him dressed. Actually, for the most part, he dressed himself: underwear, socks, sweatpants and a sleeveless t-shirt. He put on his jacket on his own, but I had to zip it up for him.

Then we grabbed his backpack containing his water bottle and lunch, and it was into the car. Asher was in his car seat, and I drove. Asher likes to give me guidance from his place in the backseat. I’ve grown used to it.

I find the drive from our house to the Waldorf school to be stressful. It’s 19.2 miles, mostly on the freeway. On a really good morning, we make it to the school in half an hour. On bad days, the amount of time doubles. Class officially begins at 8:00 AM, but we need to be there by 7:50. I try to pull out of our driveway by 7:05.

Timing is everything. If I make it to the Mitchell interchange by 7:20, we are usually okay. The interchange serves as a funnel heading north in the morning. During rush hour, which we always hit, cars from five lanes condense into three. It’s a bottleneck, and traffic inevitably slow down. At 7:20 the cars slow down, but they keep moving. Ten or fifteen minutes later, nothing moves, or the vehicles just barely crawl. I try to hit that sweet spot, so my wife and I are adamant that Asher be in his car seat by 7:00. That has to happen.

Later, when I tried to get off the freeway, a car passed me on the right going much faster than I was. That was disturbing. Asher sensed that. He told me,

“Grandpa, it’s okay.”

I replied testily, “Asher, I don’t like it when I guy blows right past me when I am trying to merge to the right. It scares me.”

Asher said, “Grandpa, it’s okay.“

It takes a kindergartener to calm down an old man.

Finding a parking space near the school is challenging at best. The school is in a densely populated urban area, and parking spaces are rare to nonexistent. I found one today that was a block from the school.

Asher asked, “Why did you park so far away? You should park closer.”

“I couldn’t find anything closer. I’ll try better tomorrow.”

He held my hand as we walked to the school parking lot.

He said, “We have to see if the cones are up. If they aren’t, we have time to take a walk.” (Note: all the students line up in the lot behind numbered cones before class.)

The cones were up, and kids were getting into lines. Asher said, “We got to hurry! I got to be in line before they start singing the verse!”

We hurried. Asher put on his backpack and found his position in the line. A bell rang and the students and faculty members recited the verse together. Then Asher rushed out of the line, hugged me, and found his place again. He told me,

“Grandpa, you can go now”, and he waved.

I left.

Does all this sound like a hassle? It is. Is it worth it? Yes, it is. It’s worth it because Asher’s teacher, Miss Sara, knows Asher and she truly cares about him. So do her assistants, Karina and Chloe. These people have his back. He can depend on them. He can learn from them. Teaching Asher, and his classmates, is a sacred trust for them. They are providing a space for him to grow and become more independent. They let him be a little boy in the best way possible.

For now, Asher is in exactly the right place and with the right people.

So, it’s all worth it.

Afghans in the Park

September 14th, 2025

I just took Asher to a new playground. By that I mean I took Asher to a playground that was unfamiliar to him. Asher is a connoisseur of play places. He loves to explore. This place is in Grant Park, close to Lake Michigan. Asher was excited as soon as he saw all the equipment. I wasn’t so excited, because I noticed right away that there was no parking. The area was reserved for a major gathering, and it was already crowded.

We parked some ways down the road. Asher was pumped about checking out the playground. I was curious about who was having the party. I noticed men who looked like they might be from the Middle East. Near the picnic tables they had a huge Afghan flag on display. Some were in traditional Afghan clothing, baggy trousers and a long tunic (shalwar kameez?). Others were in casual American garb. They were hanging out in the part of the picnic area furthest away from the playground. The women, who were also in traditional dress, sat on rugs in the grass close to the playground. Could it be just coincidence that the moms were near to the kids, while the menfolk were as far away as possible? I think not.

The kids were all dressed up for the festivities. The girls were in beautiful dresses in vibrant colors, with intricate embroidery, and plenty of sequins. Some of them had tiny coins hanging from the hems of shawls or long skirts. The girls, even young ones, had on makeup. Most of them had their long dark hair braided. Some of the boys dressed in tunics and loose trousers like the men. Some dressed like Asher did. All the children initially looked clean and neat. That lasted for maybe five minutes.

Asher experimented with different things at the playground. I kept close to him. I tend to hover when there is a crowd. The Afghan adults remained aloof. The men were out of earshot, and the moms were deeply engaged in feminine conversation. Apparently, that worked for them. Their kids raised a little hell, but nobody suffered grievous injury.

Shortly after Asher and I arrived at the playground, an old Mexican pushing an ice cream cart made an appearance. Almost instantaneously, the word went out that there was ice cream. Asher swept past me, screaming,

“Grandpa, there’s ice cream!”

Indeed there, and it was expensive. The younger children had assumed that the old guy was going to just give them ice cream bars. He made it clear that they needed money that they did not have. Asher was jumping up and down, because he knew I had cash on hand. The old man pointed to the side of his cart and told Asher to pick out what he wanted. Asher selected a “Sonic the Hedgehog” ice cream bar. I asked the guy, “How much?”

He said, “Five dollars.”

It was far too late to haggle, so I pulled a twenty out of my wallet. While I was doing so, a little Afghan boy was lying on the ground sobbing uncontrollably because Asher was getting ice cream and he was not. Maybe I was feeling guilty, or maybe I just wanted the kid to shut up, but I told the old guy,

“Give me two of them. One for Asher and one for the boy on the ground.”

Both boys were thrilled. Suddenly, from nowhere, the boy’s mother appeared. She asked,

“Who bought him the ice cream?!”

“I did.”

She told me, “I want to pay you for it.”

“No. Don’t. I just wanted to help the kid out.”

She led her boy and his ice cream away from the playground.

It should be noted at this point that these ice cream bars are uniquely inappropriate for small children. They contain some evil food dye that stains clothes in such a way that the spot can never be removed. If the kid gets this ice cream on their shirt, use the garment as a rag or just throw it away. Asher looks like his lips have been tattooed blue. The ice cream seems to melt instantly upon being taken from the freezer. Asher held his ice cream bar upright, causing it to drip down the wooden stick on to his right hand. His hand is also now blue in color.

While we were dealing with the ice cream crisis, the other kids are finding new ways to create mayhem. One boy figured out how to shake up a can of Coke, puncture the side of the can, and then spray the contents all over the girls on the playground. They screamed loudly and ran.

Some of the older boys started an impromptu cricket match. That gradually degenerated into chaos. Some girls decided to kick empty soda cans around the playground. One boy was playing in the sandbox with Asher. Two of his compadres came up to him and said,

“Somebody pooped here! It’s stinky!”

They laughed at the lad and ran off. Then a herd of boys raced here and there; for reasons that are obscure to me. An older girl, looking inconsolable, sat alone on a bench, clutching her smart phone like it was her baby.

One boy approached me and asked, “Are you old?”

I told him, “Yes, I’m old.”

“How old? Are you over one hundred?””

I bent down and asked, “Do you really want to know how old I am?”

He nodded.

I whispered, “I’m sixty-seven.”

The boy repeated, “Sixty-seven”, and shook his head in dismay.

Asher and I were at the playground for nearly two hours. Before we left, I spoke with a couple of the guys from the Afghan group. I told them that I knew a few Afghan refugees. I mentioned one guy who fled from Kabul and wound up in Portugal. I had worked with an organization to get him and his family there.

They asked if we wanted any food. I declined the offer. I just wanted to get Asher home.

I shook their hands and told them, “I’m glad you’re here!”

I really am.

Morning Has Come

September 12th, 2025

Asher and I arrived at the school a bit early. I parked down the street and got out of the car to go around and help Asher out of his child seat. As I walked, a Black lady called to me. She was sitting on a chair near the curb. She looked at me and asked,

“Sir, do you got any change?”

I paused for a moment, and then I dug out my wallet. I had a five in there. I pulled it out and handed to the woman. She thanked me. I asked her what her name was. She replied,

“Tiffany.”

I told her, “I hope you have a good day, Tiffany.”

As I went to Asher and unbuckled the harness on his child seat. He asked me,

“Grandpa, what did you just do?”

“I gave the lady some money.”

“Why?”

“Because she doesn’t have any money.”

“Do you have any more money?”

“”No, not any paper money, but I can get some more.”

Asher told me, “That’s good, Grandpa. I want you to have money.”

The lady smiled at Asher as we walked past her. People often smile at Asher.

We walked down the block to the Waldorf school. The teachers and the aides were busy setting up cones in the parking lot. The cones are numbered to indicate the class. Before classes officially start at 8:00 AM, all the students line up by their respective cones in the lot. There is a certain amount of foolishness and horseplay, but the teachers keep the kids mostly in order.

At 7:50, an adult rings a bell (or shouts) for everyone to settle down. Then everyone is supposed to recite a verse in unison. That’s how every day is supposed to begin at the Waldorf school. It doesn’t quite happen that way. I have yet to meet anybody at the school, even among faculty members, who knows the verse by heart. That is not really a problem. Each person knows enough of the verse that it all comes together when multiple persons recite it.

It goes like this:

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

That portion is sung, twice. Then the last part is spoken verse.

“I strive to learn, to learn to give, to give my heart to all I see. I see that I, with heart aflame, am a flame of love that can light the world.”

That’s a damn good verse.

A Bridge to Palestine

September 11th, 2025

There is a pedestrian bridge that crosses over Lincoln Memorial Drive in Milwaukee. It connects Brady Street to Veteran’s Park on Lake Michigan. Two days ago, after dropping off my grandson at school, I walked to the bridge. On it I saw three young people hanging a Palestinian flag over the railing for the oncoming traffic to see. I approached the group and then, on a whim, I stood across from them and leaned against the railing on my side of the bridge. They were busy watching the cars below us and waiting for the next honk of a horn.

I asked no one in particular, “So, is this doing any good?”

I asked that because for many years, I protested in a similar way. I was involved with different causes way back when, but the methods don’t really change. I marched and carried signs, and that isn’t much unlike hanging a flag for all to see.

A young woman with glasses and dark hair looked at me and said,

“Yes, it does some good. Why are you here?”

“I just took my grandson, Asher, to the Waldorf school.”

The young guy next to the woman asked me, “What kind of name is that? It sounds Slavic.”

“No, it’s Hebrew. His name means ‘Happy’.” The young woman smiled. Then she told me her name. It was Arabic.

I told her, “I have Israeli friends and Palestinian friends. The situation is complicated.”

At that moment, she launched into a passionate monologue with various pro-Palestinian talking points. She made it clear that to her the situation was not at all complicated. Her talk was a bit tedious, because I had already heard much of what she was saying many times before. To a large extent, I agree with her. The killing needs to stop. The Israeli response in the Gaza war is grossly disproportionate. But is what she and her compadres doing right now of any real use?

I sighed, and said, “I am not entirely ignorant.”

Then I asked her, “What about the Israelis? What happens to them in the long run? Do they get displaced? 75% of them were born in Israel.”

The young woman snapped back, “But their parents probably weren’t born there! My people have been there for generations. I am Palestinian and I have just been back there, and it is worse than I have ever seen it.”

The young man in her group chimed in, “The Israelis can just move to the U.S. Most of them have family here anyway.”

“Wow,” I said to myself, “I don’t think he has thought this through.”

The three of them told me more about the situation in Palestine. I knew a lot about it. They peppered their comments with words like “Zionist”, “Imperialist”, “Colonialist”, “Capitalist”, and “Racist”. I hate that. Those adjectives are like “woke”: they can mean nothing or anything. They are just emotional triggers that get people wound up.

After they stopped proselytizing, I explained to them,

“I used to do what you are doing now. I was very much antiwar. I used to stand on a corner downtown in the cold in the winter of 2002 protesting the probable invasion of Iraq. Well, we invaded Iraq anyway. And my oldest son enlisted and went to war there.”

The Palestinian woman said, “I’m sorry.”

“Are you really?” I had pain in my voice.

“Yes, I am. Nobody should get sent to fight this country’s wars.”

I went on, “I got busted for civil disobedience. I went to jail in protests. I did all this. I did not get what I wanted. My point is that all you’re going to get here is maybe five seconds of a driver’s attention. You might get a few honks of a horn. Maybe one out of a hundred drivers will remember your demonstration and maybe write their congressman. Maybe one out of a thousand will get involved. We may all be long dead before there is peace. It might take three generations before things are better. What you are doing is an act of faith.”

The young woman replied, “It’s more than an act of faith. I owe this to my family, to my people. I am living here in the heart of the empire, with all these privileges, and this is the least I can do for the Palestinians.”

I had to respect her. She was sincere. She was standing up for her belief in justice. She was an honorable person.

I told the young woman that I had tutored the kids in a Syrian refugee family. I told he how a Tunisian friend took me to Iftar during Ramadan. She smiled about that.

An older woman came across the bridge. She walked slowly between us. The woman wore an olive drab sweatshirt that said, “Israel Defense Forces”. I had to smile. It was a subtle and silent counterprotest.

I told the young woman, “I donate money to SAMS, the Syrian American Medical Society. I wanted to help the people in Gaza without getting anybody killed.”

She nodded.

Then I said, “I also give money to Magen David Adom, the Israeli version of the Red Cross.”

She frowned. “You know, a lot of the money that is given to these humanitarian organizations flows directly to the Israeli government.”

I rolled my eyes. What she said was the mirror image of what people told me about Palestinian aide groups: “It all goes straight to Hamas.”

I asked her, “Would you prefer that I only donate to Palestinian groups?”

“YES.”

“Well, this is all I can do. I’m not willing to wave a flag.”

She shrugged.

She paused and said, “You’re an empathetic and thoughtful person. We come here a couple times a week. Come over and talk with us some more, if you like.”

“I don’t know if I will. I have to care for my grandson. You know, I believe that names have meaning. A person becomes their name. My name is Frank, and it means ‘Free’, although I don’t know if I match the name yet. What does your name mean?”

She said, “It means ‘A gift of God’.”

“And that you are…and so is everyone else.”

They got ready to leave.

I said to the woman, “Be blessed.”

She replied, “You too.”

Yesterday morning, I returned to the bridge. There was a different team with their flags and banners.

I saw a little blonde girl on her tricycle at the far end of the bridge. A woman, apparently her mother, was kneeling on the bridge drawing with chalk.

I looked down at what she was writing. She had written,

“LOVE, LOVE, PALESTINIAN RESISTANCE”

Below that she wrote,

“DEATH, DEATH TO THE IDF”

I have a friend whose son was in the IDF. I said to the woman,

“I don’t think that helps much.”

She didn’t bother to look up at me. She chanted slowly and softly,

“Death, death to the IDF.”

Then she said, “Oh, this does help.”

I just walked away.

What Does Minnie Say?

September 10th, 2025

Our grandson, Asher, has been in kindergarten for an entire week. It seems like much, much longer. I take him to school every day, and then I usually hang around in the school’s neighborhood, because it makes little sense for me to drive all the way home and then make the arduous journey across town a second time. There is plenty for me to do while Asher is in class. He is at school from 8:00 AM until 12:30 PM. While he is busy learning, I can write letters, drink coffee, take long walks near the lake, and engage with impromptu conversations with strangers. The first conversation of the morning is often with Asher as we fight rush hour traffic. Asher doesn’t really want to know what I have to say. He wants to hear from Minnie.

Asher has a toy, one that looks like Minnie Mouse. It is a large object, and Minnie rides shotgun in the passenger seat as I drive Asher to the Waldorf School. Asher insists that Minnie wears a seatbelt. He also insists that I answer any questions that he might have for Minnie. For almost the entire trip, Asher is asking me,

“Grandpa, what does Minnie say?”

Asher is relentless in his interrogations of Minnie (me). It just goes on and on and on. He’ll ask,

“Grandpa, what does Minnie say about the weather?”

“Minnie says, ‘It’s cool, but the sun burning off the fog on the fields, and the trees are starting to turn color.’ “

Then Asher cries out, “The leaves on that tree over there are already bright red!”

Then he asks again, “What does Minnie say?”

When I needed to merge into heavy traffic, I told Asher,

“Minnie says that Grandpa needs to watch out for the other cars so that we don’t get in an accident and die.”

That comment had little or no effect. Asher continued to query Minnie and only stopped when he noticed that I was running out of breath. Then he asked me a question.

“Grandpa, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Grandpa, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Because, Grandpa, you got to be okay.”

He’s a perceptive boy.

Today Asher was okay with going to school. Yesterday he fought it tooth and nail. He screamed as we came to the school building yesterday morning, “I don’t want to go to school!” Fortunately, the early childhood coordinator, Martha, was on hand to rescue me. As I was literally dragging Asher out of his child seat, Martha came to take him out of my grasp. She smiled, sighed, and said, “The honeymoon is over.” Then she carried Asher away in her arms as he cried out to me.

Martha smiled again and told Asher, “Say bye to Grandpa. We’ll see him again after lunch.”

Her words implied that I should make myself scarce as soon as possible. I did. A few minutes later, as Asher waited outside with his classmates for school to start, I caught a glimpse of him. He was just fine, calm as could be. He quit protesting as soon as I was out of sight. I was no longer available for negotiations.

Asher went to class. I walked next door for a black Brazilian coffee and some well-deserved quiet. It seemed like a really good idea.

“What does Minnie say?”

WITS

September 7th, 2025

My friend, Ken, took me to WITS yesterday for the first time. WITS is the acronym for Wisconsin Institute of Torah Study. We walked there early on Shabbat to participate in Shacharit, the main religious service for the day. WITS is a yeshiva; in this case it’s kind of a Jewish prep school. Most of the students are of high school age. There are also some post-high school programs at WITS. According to the website, students come from all over Canada and the Midwest of the United States. This means that these young people live at the yeshiva as well as studying there.

By the way, the school is exclusively male.

That fact is obvious from the moment a person walks through the front door. I don’t know how to exactly describe it, but a place that allows only men and boys to be there tends to have a severely masculine vibe to it. I’m not talking about macho, although that might be part of this particular culture. I only got a glimpse into this world. However, in a universe defined by yin and yang, an organization like WITS is all yang.

I’m at an age where something new always reminds me of something old. WITS reminds me of two other places: Subiaco Abbey in Arkansas and the United States Military Academy at West Point, New York. I’ve spent time at both of those places, but mostly at West Point. I only visited Subiaco a few times, but I studied at West Point for four years. Subiaco Abbey runs a Catholic prep school, and West Point is an institution to train Army officers. Both Subiaco and USMA deal primarily with the education of boys on the cusp of manhood. Subiaco, like WITS, has an entirely male population. West Point started allowing women to join in 1976 when I first showed up there. Still, West Point is a majority men’s school. Only 24% of the student body is currently female. Fifty years ago, the percentage was much less.

The architecture at WITS bears a striking resemblance to the structures at Subiaco and West Point. The buildings are massive stone constructions. There is a heaviness at all three locations: the weight of long tradition. A sense of solidity and physical strength. There is a feeling of permanence. When a person arrives at any of those three campuses, they get the impression that these institutions have always been there, and they always will. The buildings seem to be both schools and fortresses, and maybe they are.

The synagogue at WITS looks like a study hall, which of course it is. The ark for storing the Torah scrolls is at the far end of the hall. The bimah, the table where the scrolls are laid for the reading of the parsha, is in the center of the room. The rest of place is filled with tables and chairs, and books. There are books everywhere. Somehow, when I first walked into the hall, it reminded me of a mosque. I’m not sure why. Mosques are places of study, and the main halls are only for men. Also, both mosques and synagogues eschew most visual art. In particular, images of human beings are shunned. A mosque may have calligraphy and geometric designs. This synagogue had stained glass pictures, but there were no renderings of people.

Ken and I sat at a table, and I looked at the stained glass. One picture immediately caught my eye. Actually, the Hebrew writing is what I noticed. Under an image of an olive tree was written אשר, which translates to Asher, the name of my little grandson. I have only a minimal understanding of Hebrew, but I figured out that the series of pictures on the wall all referred to the twelve tribes of Israel. Each image was a symbol for a tribe. The easiest one to identify was יוסף, Joseph, because it was a picture of his coat of many colors. After a struggle with my memory of the Hebrew alphabet, I recognized Gad, Dan, Benjamin, and Issachar.

During the service, the prayers were said rapidly, way too fast for me to follow. I have been going to Shacharit services for a long time, but at the old synagogue, things were done at a more leisurely pace. At WITS everybody is fluent in Hebrew, so they run with it. Most of the time I knew where we were at in the service, but often I just sat and listened to other people pray. Sometimes, words get in the way of prayer. I have found that listening to others pray in languages I don’t quite understand, like Latin or Arabic or Japanese, brings me closer to God than if I could comprehend the meaning of what is said. Just hearing the sound of Hebrew is a blessing to me. I love the language, although I cannot explain why.

The boys and young men in the synagogue were all in uniform. That was another throwback to my past life. They all wore dark suits with white shirts and ties. They all wore black fedoras. Their tzitzits stuck out from under their shirts. Maybe they were dressed up for Shabbat. I think they are a bit more informal during the week. Also, they were all cleanshaven, even though many of them could have sported beards. When I was a cadet at West Point, I was always cleanshaven. It was a rule.

Why wear uniforms? It is a way of maintaining discipline. I looked at the boys and I tried to remember what I was like back then. I’m sure that they are generally well-behaved, but they are teenagers. How much time do they spend on pondering the wonders of the Torah, and how much time do they spend pondering the mysteries of other gender? I was probably sitting in room full of devout young men with raging hormones.

At one point, I noticed a little boy standing near to us. He was Asher’s age, or maybe a bit older. The boy had sandy hair partially covered by his kippah. He was dressed in a suit like the older boys. The lad was looking confusedly at an open siddur. He seemed uncomfortable as I watched him. That’s understandable as I seldom smile. I suspect he was the son of one of the rabbis and was coerced into being at the service. He was probably eager for the prayers to end so that he could run around and raise hell like any other little boy.

The rabbis sat up front. They all had beards. Each one wore his tallis, his prayer shawl, over his head as he prayed. Each one nodded as he prayed. Some of them had their eyes closed. It felt like they were with us but also somewhere else.

There were many prayers during the service where each individual was praying more or less on his own. At those times, the spoken prayers were like a murmur in the background, audible but not necessarily understandable. At other times, the boys and men suddenly prayed loudly in unison, and that was like the roar of waves of the sea crashing against rocks on the shore. The prayers were powerful, and for me, deeply moving.

The service lasted for two hours. The time went by quickly. There was much that I did not understand.

I will have to go back again.

Funeral

September 6th, 2025

Yesterday morning I dropped off my grandson, Asher, at the Waldorf school. It made no sense to me to drive all the way back home since I need to pick up the boy in four hours, so I wandered around the east side of Milwaukee. I decided to walk from Brady Street south on Van Buren to the Cathedral of St. John the Evangelist. The cathedral is the heart of Catholicism in southeastern Wisconsin. Sometimes the heart seems to be suffering from arteriosclerosis, yet it still beats. Many years ago, when our kids were at the Waldorf school, I would often hike down to the church. Somehow, after nearly a quarter century, the journey yesterday seemed significantly longer.

The doors of the cathedral were unlocked. Way back when, the place was always open during the day. During the winter months, homeless people would huddle in the rear of church, often sleeping in the pews buried in their overcoats and caps, just trying to stay out of the bitter cold for a while. When I walked into the sanctuary yesterday, there were no homeless folks, but there was a funeral Mass in progress. A woman handed me a pamphlet describing the liturgy. I took it and sat down in the back.

The Mass was for Thomas “Tommy” August Salzsieder, a person unknown to me. The priest was in the middle of giving a eulogy. I wondered how well the priest knew Tommy. I have already been to funerals where the presider knew almost nothing about the deceased, and his speech was basically a work of fiction. The priest described Tommy as a man of faith, and that “his life was not ended, just transformed”.

I also wondered about that comment. What does “transformed” actually mean? Looking at the assembled mourners, I noticed a lot of people with grey hair or no hair at all. They were all elderly, my age. We are all in the batting order for this transformation of our lives. The priest talked about heaven, a concept that I simply do not understand. When I was young, I thought heaven was someplace where God pats you on the head and gives you a cookie for being a good boy. Now, I have no idea what it is. Honestly, heaven does not sound terribly inviting. I would be okay if the end of my life was like when they put me under anesthesia for surgery. Nothing. A void. A blank screen.

I thought about Tommy, and frankly I envied him. His work is done. He no longer needs to fight or struggle in life. Life is beautiful and glorious at times, but it also literally exhausting. Tommy can rest now, whatever that actually means.

The liturgy was a work of devotion. I could tell that. The cantor did a soulful rendition of “Panis Angelicus” from Cesar Franck. A funeral can be inspiring if there is love involved, even love that is buried in grief. I have been to funerals where it was obvious that the service was the result of reluctant duty. People went through the motions hurriedly in order to get the dead person deep in the ground as quickly as possible.

A while back my therapist gave me an odd question. He wrote and asked,

“What do you want Asher to remember about you — not what you did, but who you were?”

I have no idea. In a way, the question seems irrelevant. I won’t care what Asher remembers when I’m dead. I’m pretty sure of that.

However, what Asher remembers may very much matter to him. His memories might affect the trajectory of his life. Will he remember when I was angry and impatient? Will he remember when I had his back? Will he remember when I failed to listen to him? Will he remember that he received unconditional love from me?

But I’m describing things I do, but not who I am. I don’t know who I am, not really. Maybe Asher will have a better idea of who was when I’m gone than I have right now.

I hold Asher in my arms at night so he can sleep. When I die will a meta-parent hold me in their arms? Will God whisper to me,

“I embrace you now. I have always embraced you.”

Sunshine

September 3rd, 2025

Every Thursday I take my grandson, Asher, to see his therapist. Once we get off the elevator, Asher runs down the hallway and bursts into the waiting room. The office manager grins at Asher from behind the counter and says,

“There’s that energy! There’s that sunshine!”

Other people react to Asher in a similar way. Asher had his first taste of kindergarten today. There are seventeen children in his class. The teacher uses symbols to designate which locker and chair each student has. Most of the kids can’t read yet, so they key on their personal symbol. One child has bunny for a symbol, another has a rainbow, one has diamond. Asher has sunshine. His image is that of a blazing sun with rays flowing out from it.

The teacher picked symbols that somehow capture the essence of each child, or at least what she perceives that to be. She sees an inner light in Asher. When he’s excited, he’s incandescent. He can bring joy to people without any effort at all. It’s just who he is.

This is not to say that Asher is all sweetness and light. He’s not. An angry Asher is a sight to behold. I have a Buddhist friend who described the boy as “a force to be reckoned with”. Indeed. Asher has a strong will and an equally strong intellect. He is often intensely passionate. I can’t recall him ever being lukewarm about anything. The boy isn’t even five years old yet, and he already lives on the edge.

How do you control a kid like that? Well, you don’t. You work with him and try to guide that erratic geyser of energy. A child like Asher has a rare gift, but he is also a person who requires love, patience, and understanding. He is simultaneously lovable and terrifying at times.

That’s our grandson.

Autumn

August 31st, 2025

“Grandpa, when do I start school?”

Asher woke me up at 2:00 AM to ask me that question. He was lying in bed next to me. He had been restless for a few minutes prior to that. I roused myself long enough to answer,

“In three days.”

Asher begins kindergarten at the Waldorf school on Wednesday morning. For him it will be a seismic change in life. New schedule, new friends, a new teacher, a new environment. My wife can still remember her first day of school. She has a faded black and white photo from Germany with her smiling and holding her Schul Tute, a large cone with little gifts inside. I can’t remember my first day of kindergarten, but I can recall my first day at West Point, back in 1976. In some ways that sort of radical change could be similar to what Asher may experience. I moved a thousand miles from home and cut the connection with nearly everything I had done and learned in my first eighteen years of life. I entered a strange new world, and Asher will do much the same thing on Wednesday.

Asher laid his head on my shoulder. He twisted and turned until he made himself comfortable. Then he fell asleep again in the crux of my right arm.

I had an intense and vivid dream. It was from my time in the Army as an aviator. I was in an aircraft hangar and looking out at the sky. A storm was rapidly approaching. Heavy, swirling clouds darkened the horizon. Winds blew and whipped into the hangar. Large objects were thrown about. I dodged them as rain poured outside.

I woke up late this morning. Well, for me getting up at 6:21 AM qualifies as late. It was light already, and I didn’t get up in time to see the morning star. The sun shown through the trees. A heavy dew covered the grass in the yard, and drops of water dripped from the gutters. The kitchen window was open, and cold air blew into the house. It is still August, but it feels like autumn. A few of the trees already have leaves changing color. The goldenrod is in full bloom with tiny bright yellow flowers.

Things are changing, and they are changing quickly.

My wife went to a handicraft store yesterday. She came home a bag full of wool yarn.

She told me sheepishly, “I spent $200.”

I replied, “We have the money. Spend it if it keeps you happy and sane.”

As Asher approaches the beginning of his school year, Karin is delving more deeply into her fiber arts. She is weaving more, knitting more, spinning more. On Friday, she will go to the annual Wisconsin Sheep and Wool Festival. She assures me that she won’t spend as much. That doesn’t matter. It matters that she feeds her creativity. She will attend a class at the festival. She can buy whatever she needs while she is there. Once Asher is in kindergarten, Karin will have a small hole in her life where Asher used to be. She has to fill it. Karin loves to care for Asher. She should fill the hole with something else that she loves to do.

New things. Exciting things. Scary things. Fun things.

A change of seasons.

Back on Brady Street

August 25th, 2025

Asher starts kindergarten at Tamarack Waldorf School on September 3rd. This is obviously a big deal, both for Asher and for Karin and me. Going to school will open up a whole new world for Asher. He will get to know his teacher, and he will make friends. He will have to learn how to follow a schedule. He’s never had to do that before. Asher has mostly done what he wants when he wants, and for the most part we, as his guardians, have been okay with that. That all changes in a little over a week. He is going to have to get up early, eat breakfast, get dressed, and go to class for the morning every morning. I’m almost certain he will balk at this, at least until he gets comfortable in his class and starts looking forward to doing things with the other children.

I will mostly likely be driving Asher to class each morning. I am a morning person, unlike my wife. The Waldorf school is close to downtown Milwaukee, which means Asher and I will have a half hour drive to get him to class by 8:00 AM each day. Traffic will suck. My wife did this kind of thing with our own kids twenty-five years ago. We know the drill. Since Asher will only be there until 12:30, it is kind of iffy as to whether it is even worthwhile for me to drive back home once I drop him off. I might as well stay in area around the school while he is in class.

Tamarack is located on Brady Street on the lower eastside of Milwaukee. It’s close to Lake Michigan. Tamarack uses the old school building from St. Hedwig’s Catholic Church. The steeple of St. Hedwig’s towers over the other buildings on the street. It is the anchor for the neighborhood. The school building is ancient. It has classrooms with high ceilings, tall windows, and hardwood floors. The school has a feeling of solidity and durability. If you listen closely, you can hear the voices of previous generations of children laughing and yelling in the halls. For me, there are ghosts in the school. Even if I am surrounded by the new parents and their kids, I can still feel the presence of the people who taught and learned in that place a quarter century ago. The school contains echoes of the past, but it is also vibrant with the energy of the latest generation. It’s like life is coming full circle.

Brady Street is an interesting neighborhood. It always has been. Early on, it was an immigrant community of Germans, Poles, and Italians. St. Hedwig’s is named after a Polish saint. There is still an Italian grocery store (Glorioso’s) a few blocks away from the school. Peter Sciortino Bakery is across the street from Tamarack. During the 60’s and 70’s, Brady Street was a hippie hangout. Now, it’s a narrow road lined with bars that cater to a mostly hipster crowd, young people with money. But the neighborhood is still quirky. The community is very LGBTQ friendly. The area is ethnically diverse. Brady is a good street for walking and browsing. There is a paradoxical sense of permanence and simultaneous upheaval. It’s a neighborhood that is alive.

I came to know that area in the 1990’s. I used to go down the block from the school to the Brewed Cafe for coffee. Sometimes, I went there by myself, and sometimes with my wife. Brewed is not there anymore. They closed down a few years ago, and now the place is a Brazilian coffee shop. The new coffee house is nice enough, but it’s not Brewed. The Brewed Cafe had this scruffy, working-class, antiestablishment atmosphere. Once a person managed to get through the front door, which never really opened and closed very well, they would see numerous pamphlets and posters advertising upcoming shows by local bands or political events or art exhibits. The front counter was small and cramped. At busy times of the day, customers lined up almost all the way back to the door. Once at the counter, a person could order coffee or other beverages. They had beer (it’s Wisconsin-almost every establishment serves beer). There was a tiny kitchen in the back where people made vegan sandwiches and other dishes. The folks working at Brewed all had more than usual number of tattoos and piercings. I’m sure they worked for minimum wage, but they got to pick what music was played in the coffee shop.

Even when there were only a few customers, Brewed seemed crowded. Space was at a premium. The tables were small and wobbly. If you ordered coffee, you got that immediately. If you ordered food, it showed up eventually. The walls were covered with works by local artists. The bathrooms were microscopic in size, and the walls were plastered with graffiti and stickers for bands that I had never heard of. The place was clean, but cluttered. Over the years, it had accumulated a variety of objects that somehow lost their purpose and meaning, but remained there, nonetheless. Brewed was oddly comfortable. Going there for coffee or lunch was kind of like going into somebody’s home.

I miss that place. I will have to find another hangout on Brady Street.