Author: frankisemptiness

June 27th, 2020

Stefan took me to Sugar Maple. We had just finished eating lunch at Café India on Kinnickinnic Avenue in Bay View. That is what we had wanted to do for Fathers Day. Now that we were full of naan bread and chicken tikka masala, we walked south on KK to get some exercise. We got as far as the intersection of KK and Lincoln Avenue. That’s when Stefan suggested that we stop at Sugar Maple for a beer.

The sidewalks were full of people that afternoon. It was a warm, sunny day, and most everybody wanted to enjoy it. There was some effort to maintain social distancing, but it was half-hearted. Some of the restaurants had set up some outdoor seating near the street. Stefan and I walked past people sitting in front of Sabor Tropical and Centraal. The crowd was eclectic. We saw a wide variety of individuals.

Stefan commented, “Bay View. You see either the weird or you see the people with money.”

That’s true. Bay View is an up-and-coming neighborhood in Milwaukee, and its inhabitants are a little unusual. The population is generally young, and some of it seems to be wealthy. Stefan and I have no problem with weird people. We’ve both grown accustomed to being with folks who are living right on the edge. However, Stefan has some prejudice against young people with money. Stefan has money. He is actually doing quite well as an Iron Worker, but Stefan does not like young people who are spending Daddy’s money. Those kids are pretty obvious. They have nice clothes and nice cars, and it is clear that they have paid for none of those things on their own. Stefan has money, but he’s earned every nickel of it, and he has no respect for someone who is spending somebody else’s cash.

Sugar Maple is a tavern that serves beers from various microbreweries in the Milwaukee are. There is a plethora of these local breweries, so the pub’s beer selection is vast. Stefan and I sat at the bar. Sugar Maple is serious about the social distancing. The bartender wore a mask, as did several of the patrons.

I ordered a “Hazy Galaxy” IPA from the City Lights Brewery. I can’t remember exactly what Stefan got, but he tends toward the IPA’s. It was hard for me to tell what the barkeep was thinking. He seemed friendly enough, but it’s hard to read a person while they are wearing a mask. I could only see his eyes, and they didn’t tell me much. There is a large painting above the bar that only shows a woman’s eyes. I kept looking at it, trying to figure out what those eyes were telling me. I never got it.

Stefan talked about work. He likes to talk about it. Stefan takes great pride in his work, although he bitches about it constantly. Being an Iron Worker is a difficult occupation. It’s very demanding both physically and mentally. Building a steel structure is by its very nature a dangerous undertaking. On the other hand, Stefan can point to a building or a bridge and say, “I made that.” I was never able to say such a thing, not in all the years that I worked.

Stefan spoke to me about how he liked to look at the old photos of Iron Workers from years ago, like the guys who built the skyscrapers in New York back in the 1930’s.

I said, “Yeah, those guys were nuts, sitting on a steel beam, just relaxing and eating their lunch.”

Stefan replied, “It’s not much different now. Yeah, we’re tied on, sort of. I mean a fall from fifty feet up means death. If I’m strapped on and slip off the beam, I won’t hit the ground. I’ll swing, but I’ll swing into something. That something will probably be hard.”

He went on, “Every morning I go to work, and I don’t know if I’m coming back home or not.”

It got quiet for a moment. We both sipped our beers.

Stefan said, “You know how it is. You flew helicopters back in the day.”

I stared into my glass. “Yeah, flying was cool. It was 90% fun, and 10% sheer terror.”

Stefan replied, “Well, most of my job is fun. It’s cool to be up there making it happen.”

He looked at his phone, and found some pictures of the Mohawks who built the bridges and skyscrapers years ago.

Stefan said, “These guys were doing it. They had balls.”

I told him, “Most other cultures have a rite of passage for young men. I know the Indians do. That might have been their rite of passage.”

Stefan took a swig off his beer. “Oh, fuck yeah. And this job is mine.”

I looked at him. Stefan is twenty-six years old. He’s tall and well-muscled. He has a tattoo of a wrench on his arm; it’s the kind of wrench that Iron Workers use. He’s smart, and honest, and he works hard. He’s absolutely fearless.

I’m proud of him.

June 26th, 2020

The following attack occurred in Madison, Wisconsin, on Tuesday night:

 

June 22nd, 2020

I was on the road for eight hours last Wednesday. Most of the journey was made within the boundaries of the state of Texas. The GPS took me mostly along back roads, and it kept me away from places like Houston and Dallas. Instead, I passed though Buffalo, Palestine, Madisonville, Canton, Sulphur Springs, and Paris, Texas. It’s a long way from Bryan/College Station to the Oklahoma border, and I had plenty of time to think and ponder.

My first stop on the journey was to buy gas and postcards at Buc-ee’s truck stop near Madisonville. There are several Buc-ee’s travel plazas in Texas, and they are all awesome. Each of them has a statue of a beaver in front of the building (the beaver in Madisonville was wearing a COVID-19 mask). Buc-ee’s is a huge place. The store is clean. It’s open all the time. They sell damn near everything.

I had left Hans’ house in Bryan before dawn. It was just getting light out when I was filling my tank at Buc-ee’s. By the time I drove north again, the sun was peaking through the trees. I had a cold Mountain Dew, a plethora of old CD’s, and no air conditioning in the Ford Focus. The morning was still cool, but I knew it would be sweltering hot by the time I crossed the Red River into Oklahoma. I would be opening the windows wide, and cranking up the volume on the stereo soon.

The Texas countryside is beautiful. At least I think so. The blue bonnets are done for the year, but there are other wild flowers to see. I am partial to the Indian paintbrushes and the black eyed susans. Eastern Texas has rolling hills with thick stands of oak and pine. Most of the open space is ranch land, spotted with black cattle. In some ways it reminds me of my home in Wisconsin. It’s just much warmer.

The little towns are all speed traps. I didn’t mind slowing down while going through them. No matter how small the village is, there are always several churches. Some of them look like churches, and some look like old warehouses. Occasionally, I saw a stray Catholic church, but mostly these were all Baptist congregations. I never realized how many types of Baptists there were: Southern Baptists, Primitive Baptists, Free Will Baptists, Missionary Baptists, Reformed Baptists. It’s endless. Occasionally, I drove past a “Cowboy Church”. I want to check out one of those someday.

Jesus is big in rural Texas. So is Trump. The two of them are sometimes co-mingled. On the long road back home, I saw a sign that said “Jesus and Trump: 2020”. That kind of says it all. There must be a primary election coming up in Texas. I saw plenty of signs for people running for office. Some signs indicated the candidate to be “Republican”. Other signs said that the individual was a “conservative Republican”. That seemed redundant, but it means something to the folks working the land.

I did not see any Confederate flags while driving through Texas. Texans don’t generally go for the nostalgic Civil War schtick. Instead, they proudly wave the Texas state flag. The Lone Star flag reminds them, and everybody else, that Texas was once an independent country, and, by God, it might be one again.

I should note at this point that everyone I met on my drive through Texas was unfailingly friendly and polite. Do I agree with their politics? Probably not. Are they good people? I believe that they are.

I listened to music in the car that reminded of people who are long gone. My brother, Marc, turned me on to southern bands like the Indigo Girls and the Reivers. He also introduced me to the songs of Nanci Griffith, a resident of Austin. Nanci Griffith has a twang in her voice that sounds like somebody pulled a bow string tight and then let it go. When I listen to her I remember my brother, and how I would visit him all those years ago. I don’t necessarily recall specific events. I have been making the journey to Texas for over thirty years now, and the trips are all a blur. I only remember feelings. Sometimes, while driving through the fields and forests of Texas, the feelings suddenly rise up and overwhelm me. I’m okay with that.

I especially like Griffith’s song “Gulf Coast Highway”. It’s ridiculously sentimental, but I still like it. Maybe “like” is the wrong word. It moves me, and I’m not sure why.

“Gulf Coast Highway
He worked the rails
He worked the rice fields
With their cool dark wells
He worked the oil rigs in the
Gulf of Mexico

The only thing we’ve ever owned
Is this old house here by the road
And when he dies he says he’ll catch
Some blackbird’s wing

Then he will fly away to Heaven come
Some sweet blue bonnet spring
She walked through springtime
When I was home

The days were sweet
The nights were warm
The seasons change, the jobs would
Come, the flowers fade

This old house felt so alone
When the work took me away
And when she dies she says, she’ll
Catch some blackbirds wing
Then she will fly away to Heaven come
Some sweet blue bonnet spring

Highway 90
The jobs are gone
We tend our garden
We set the sun
This is the only place on earth
Blue bonnets grow
Once a year they come and go
At this old house here by the road

And when we die we say, we’ll
Catch some blackbirds wing
Then we will fly away to Heaven come
Some sweet blue bonnet spring

And when we die we say, we’ll
Catch some blackbirds wing
We will fly away together come
Some sweet blue bonnet spring”

It’s a good song for remembering.

June 20th, 2020

“He got to his feet, stood painfully, his face drowsy and confused, as if a legion of battles had ebbed and advanced there, over many years. And then, by degrees, he progressed along the route to the bedroom. ‘Okay’, he said, ‘Long deserved peace.’ He stretched out on the bed, dust sifting from his clothes and hair onto the white sheet.” –

from Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (filmed as Blade Runner) by Philip K. Dick

Hans came home from his shift at about 2:00 PM. He had been at work for almost fifteen hours. Hans said “Hi” to his wife, Gabi. He looked briefly at Weston, his 18-month-old son, who was busy watching “The Mickey Mouse Club” on the television. Hans dropped his car keys on top of the counter. He had a couple cans of Lime-a-Rita in a plastic bag. He had picked them at a filling station on his way back from the yard.

Hans just stood in the living room for a minute. It seemed like he was disoriented, like he was just trying to focus. His eyes saw the people in the room, but his mind barely recognized them. He took off his sweat-stained cap, and rubbed his forehead absentmindedly. His face was dark with grime and perspiration. He had been working in the intense Texas heat for hours. Hans looked rough.

Gabby asked Hans a question. He shook his head slowly, and said,

“Maybe, not now. My mind is still at work.”

Gabby went back to checking her messages on the phone. Weston decided that he wanted to check them with her. Hans gazed around distractedly, and then he turned back toward the front door. He went outside.

Hans has his favorite chair right outside of his front door. That is where he sits, and smokes, and drinks, and ponders. He has an old coffee can that he uses as an ashtray, but it’s been full to overflowing for a long time. There is a pile of cigarette butts and bits of tobacco under his seat. He never sweeps it up. The pile just keeps growing.

Near Hans’ chair is his Harley Sportster. It has an oil leak. Hans has it partially torn apart. It’s been that way for a while. He plans on working on it some more when he has time. Also nearby is Hans 1980 vintage Dodge truck. It has a starter problem, and it hasn’t moved from his driveway in over a year. Hans plans on working on it some more, when he has time.

Hans doesn’t have time. A short work day for him is when he only spends twelve hours pumping concrete. Usually his days (or nights) are longer. It is not uncommon for him to work sixty hours in a week; sometimes he works eighty. Hans makes good money, and he needs it to care for his growing family. Money isn’t everything. I know that.

I sat in a chair near Hans. He was burning a Pall Mall, and staring out into the distance. I told him that I worked twenty years on third shift, and I understand that he is exhausted. Hans didn’t bother to look at me, He exhaled some smoke and said,

“Well, at least you had a shift. I don’t even have a start time.”

That’s true. I worked long hours at night, but I did know when I would start each night. Hans is on call. He might work a shift, and then be expected to return to the yard six hours later. When I worked nights, I barely got enough sleep. Hans never gets enough sleep.

We sat next to each other. Hans sipped on a Lime-a-Rita. After a while, he told me about  last night’s pumping job. Each job is different, but somehow each job is the same. He always has problems with the salesmen (they promise the customers things that Hans can’t do). He has trouble with the mixer trucks coming with the concrete (“mud”) too slowly. Hans often has mechanical problems with his pump truck. He has problems with the finishers, who sometimes work too fast or sometimes move too slowly. The finishers smooth out the concrete that he pours. They are almost always Mexican. Hans is convinced that they all know English, but they just play dumb when it suits them. That frustrates him. His job assignments are complicated and time sensitive. A lot of things can go wrong, and they usually do.

As we sat, I could sense Hans’ fatigue. I could see it in his face, and in the way he held his body. He was slumped over in the chair. He was spent.

Hans takes enormous pride in his work. He likes to point out buildings and bridges that he helped to make. But he is doing what I did. He’s pushing it way too far.

I decided to leave him a lone for a while. I went up to him, and put my hand on his shoulder. I told Hans,

“You’re a good man. You’re a good husband and father.”

He looked up at me, shook his head, and replied, “Dad, I’m doing the best I can.”

My throat constricted a bit. I said to him,

“I know.”

Hans came into the house later. He told Gabby that he needed to lie down. He was dirty as can be, with his clothes caked with bits of concrete. He went into the bedroom and collapsed on his bed.

Weston tried to grab my laptop. I fought him for the mouse.

Gabby said, “Well, I guess I will have to wash the bed linen tomorrow.”

I asked Gabby, “Is it hard to get the concrete dust out of the sheets?”

She shrugged, “Not too much.”

Hans slept. He got some “long deserved peace”.

June 18th, 2020

Hans was slouching forward in a chair. He was sitting next to the front door of his house, smoking a Pall Mall, and sipping on a Lime-a-Rita. Hans looked tired, dead tired. He had just come back home from work. He had been on the job pumping concrete for well over twelve hours. He was still covered with dirt and cement. He didn’t have the energy or the inclination to clean himself up. He just wanted to sit for a while, and talk.

I was sitting with Hans. We were having a conversation about paintball guns. I had only used them one time in my life. That was when I was on a class trip with my youngest son, Stefan, in New Orleans, back in 2008.

Hans asked, “Did you all use the regular paint guns, or did you use the guns that fire those rubber balls?”

I asked him back, “Do you mean the balls that are hard like squash balls, and leave a nasty red bruise?”

Hans replied wearily, “Yeah, those.”

“We used those guns. That shit hurt.”

Hans chuckled, “I bet those balls didn’t hurt like a pepper ball.”

“Pepper balls?”

Hans told me, “Yeah, the balls that contain pepper spray. We fired those during training at Fort hood. We also fired rubber bullets.”

“Oh.”

Hans went on, “It kind of pissed me off when this guy I know wrote on Facebook about how the National Guard was supposed to fire rubber bullets at the ground in front of the crowds during these protests. He also said that the soldiers were firing at the faces of the demonstrators. That’s just ridiculous.”

“Why?”

Hans took a deep drag on his cigarette. Then he said slowly, “Well, first of all, you can’t have any accuracy when you fire a rubber bullet. They go every which way. You couldn’t aim at somebody’s head, even if you wanted to do that. Also, if you shot one at the ground, it wouldn’t bounce up like a ball.”

“What about a pepper spray ball?”

Hans said, “They aren’t accurate either. If you get hit, the ball explodes like a paint ball, just a little harder.”

“How do you know this?”

Hans smiled, “I got hit by one. Actually, I got hit by about twelve of them.”

“Why?”

Hans drank some of his Lime-a-Rita. He swallowed and said, “Well, I was supposed to  demonstrate what happens when you hit by a pepper ball. This new guy was supposed to fire one round at me. He said that he was a professional paintballer. Maybe he was. I don’t know. All I know is that this asshole fired a bunch of rounds at me.”

“That didn’t go well?”

Hans laughed, “I was on the ground, throwing up. I couldn’t see, and I was cursing at my sergeant.”

“Then what happened?”

Hans lit up another smoke. “Well, the sergeant wasn’t all that mad that I was yelling and swearing at him. He told me that he knew I was in incredible pain at the time. Then the sergeant asked me if I wanted to shoot a rubber bullet for the next part of the training. I told him, ‘Yes’, and then he wanted to know if I wanted to have the guy who shot at me as my target. I told him, ‘Yes’, to that too.”

I asked Hans, “So, what did you shoot at the paint ball pro?”

Hans smiled, “A 203 round.”

“Shit. What was that like?”

Hans smiled wider, “It’s like hitting a guy in the chest with a bag of sand.”

Hans looked exhausted, but he went on, “Before I shot the round, I told the sergeant that the paint ball guy seemed a little too close. The sergeant said that he was just fine where he was. And the sergeant said, ‘Besides, he’s got on body armor’. ”

“How did it go?”

Hans smiled even wider, “It lifted him right off his damn feet.”

“Did he take it well?”

“No. The guy got up and came running at me. He wanted to fight. I still had the M4 in my hands, so I hit him with that. I didn’t hit any place that would show. I just butt stroked him across the side of his helmet. Then he went down for a bit.”

Hans paused for a moment, and continued, “The sergeant came over and talked to the troop. He told the guy, ‘Now when you fired all those rounds at Specialist Pauc, he didn’t try to kill you. But you get hit by a rubber bullet, and you come here wanting to kill him. Pauc is a real soldier’.”

I said, “Nice.”

Hans squinted at me with his bloodshot eyes and smiled.

He said, “Yeah.”

June 15th, 2020

Weston only loves me for my laptop. The 18-month-old is eager to crawl up onto my chair, especially if he sees that have I turned on the computer. He usually does this after he has just finished a meal. He holds out his arms, and then he climbs right up next to me, and abruptly pushes my hand away from the mouse. From that point on, he’s using the laptop. It doesn’t take long for fragments of scrambled eggs to litter the keyboard, and for a thin layer of peanut butter to coat the screen. I let him do whatever he wants until he somehow gets to the “settings” screen. Then I gently nudge him off of my lap.

Weston does not take this rejection well. My grandson is a boy who wears his emotions on his sleeve, or rather, on his face. Once I have separated him from the magical device, he reacts to the injustice of it all. His face darkens, his brows furrow, he cries out, and he beats the floor with his pudgy little fists. I don’t know whether to cry or laugh. He is rather young to experience the unfairness of life, but, hey, he has to learn sometime.

Fortunately, Weston is also a young man who does not dwell long on perceived slights and offenses. His attention span is similar to that of a fruit fly, and he is easily distracted by the parade of new events. This is not to say that Weston does not remember things. He may be led away by shiny, new things for a moment or two, but he always returns to his original goal. By the time I have read even one email, Weston is standing at my side, arms extended, waiting for me to raise him up to the world of the Internet. The lad is relentless. Eventually, he wears me down. Somehow, he knows that I am an old man with limited stamina.

It does not hurt Weston’s cause that he is so ridiculously cute. One loving look from Weston turns my heart to melted butter. I mean, really, who can refuse a little, round-headed kid with a cherubic smile? I can’t do it. Maybe his father, Hans, can be a hard ass with the boy, but not me. It’s not my job any more to be a disciplinarian. I’m more of a non-threatening Gandalf figure.

It would be unfair to say that Weston only wants me for the computer. He also wants me for my damn cell phone. That is pathetic, because I only own an old flip phone. However, he can hear me open the thing and type on it. It’s scary in a way. Weston has excellent hearing. He wants that phone. I don’t know why. He just does.

Okay. Now comes the truth. Weston asks me to hold him even if no electronic devices are involved. If I am standing in the room with him, he will look up at me and raise his hands, and he won’t stop until he is in my arms. He might get a bit squirrelly there, but he wants me to hold him. Just hold him. I think he feels safe with me. Weston will get restless after a while, and want to go back down. Kids are like that. They need to explore. They need to move.

Eventually, he comes back to me. He will latch on to me, and rest. We hug for a moment.

That moment lasts for an instant. It lasts for all time.

 

 

 

 

 

June 12th, 2020

Weston is asleep. So are Gabby and Hans. The sun isn’t up yet, but the sky in the east is just starting to get light. I let the three dogs outside when I got up half an hour ago. Then they started howling and scratching at the door, so I let them back inside. They immediately burst into the bathroom and started drinking water from from the toilet. I tried to move them, but they would not be deterred. Now they are back in the yard, and I am sitting at the kitchen table with a large cup of coffee. Thank God for Keurig.

I spent most of yesterday with Gabby and Weston. Hans worked a long, ugly shift, so I didn’t see very much of him. I had plenty of time to learn more about Weston, my 18-month-old grandson. Gabby fed Weston and changed him, but the little guy did come to me occasionally when he was feeling unappreciated. He crawled up in my lap, and then he left when he realized that I wasn’t appreciating him either.

Weston is a toddler. He walks all around the house, but his motor skills are not yet finely tuned. He keeps his right arm raised when he walks in order to maintain his balance. He still tumbles occasionally. Weston tends to break his falls with his forehead, which leads to unpleasant scenes of pain and sorrow.

Weston is solidly built. Nobody would accuse him of being fragile. The young man is remarkably strong for his age, both in body and will. An uncharitable person might say that Weston is stubborn. Of course, I would never say that.

The lad is inquisitive. He likes to explore, and that can sometimes be a hazardous activity. Gabby and Hans have done their best to child-proof their apartment, but that is impossible to do completely. Weston loves to open cabinets and doors. Nothing is safe and nothing is sacred. The whole world is new to him, and he plans on seeing all of it.

The little guy takes food very seriously. That is a family trait. Gabby makes him a hearty breakfast: fruit, pancakes, juice, bacon. Yesterday Weston was shoveling pieces of pancake into his face with both hands. He couldn’t eat fast enough. When the pancakes ran low, he grabbed slices of banana. For Weston dining is a messy process, conducted more with gusto than precision. At the end of the meal, it is not unusual for his face to be smeared with fragments of food. I can tell what was on the menu by picking through his tangled, reddish-blond hair.

When Weston is not hungry, and that does occasionally happen, he carefully picks through his food and casually drops it all, piece by piece, from his high chair on to the floor. As I mentioned, there are three dogs, so clean up is efficient and thorough.

Weston is a Lausbub. That is a German term for “rascal”. He has a clever and agile mind. He can’t use words yet, but he is quite capable of expressing himself.  He does not deal well with disappointment. He cries out in a high pitched voice, and his face gets beet red. A small vein in his forehead pulses ominously. That lasts for about five seconds. Then he notices that Mickey Mouse is doing something funny on the TV, and life goes on. His mood swings are blindingly fast. He is not one to wallow in melancholy. There is simply too much to see and do.

Weston would be a good Zen master. He is always in the moment. He moves from one thing to another rapidly, but he doesn’t forget much either. He loves to play with cell phones, computers, and other electronic devices with buttons. Gabby and Hans bought him a toy cell phone, but Weston knows the difference between the baby toy and a real cell phone. He can be discouraged from fooling around with somebody’s cell or the TV remote…for a while. Eventually, stealthily, he comes back to the scene of the crime and tries to grab the magical play thing. He tries to be all cute and innocent, and then, when you aren’t looking, his little hand grabs the prize. So far, he hasn’t dialed 911.

Sometimes, when Weston is tired or frustrated, he sighs. It is always a deep sigh that wells up from the depths of his soul. When is doing some physical activity, something that requires brute strength, he grunts and groans like he is a weight lifter going for the Olympic gold medal. He occasionally growls with a surprisingly low, feral voice. It sounds vaguely reminiscent of “The Exorcist”. I find it a bit disturbing. Then he smiles and toddles away.

He has a very expressive face. He can smile sweetly. That doesn’t happen often. He can also give the death stare. When he is unhappy, he looks at you with cold, unblinking, grey eyes. The message is clear: “Don’t fuck with me”. The Sith energy is all in his eyes. Darth Weston.

Oh well, he will be up soon. Maybe, I’ll take him outside before it gets hot. After all, we are in Texas and it is summer.

I wonder what he will teach me today.

 

 

June 9th, 2020

I am staying in the retreat house at Subiaco Abbey in Arkansas. I have been here many times in the past. One of the joys of being here is the opportunity to pray with the Benedictine monks who live in the monastery. It is always a pleasure to sit in a choir stall next to them, and to listen to the chanting of the psalms. It is a very moving experience.

I probably shouldn’t use the verb “is”. I am actually describing something that “was”.

This is my first visit to Subiaco Abbey since the before the COVID-19 pandemic spread everywhere. Subiaco is in a sparsely populated area of the Arkansas River Valley, not far from the Ozark Mountains. So far, this little section of the world, with its trees, pastures, and old pick up trucks, has been spared the worst ravages of the disease. However, things have still changed at Subiaco.

When I arrived in the afternoon at Coury House, the retreat center, I had to wait at the entrance until somebody took my temperature. Susan came and did that for me, and then she let me inside. She was wearing a mask. So was I. Susan gave me my room key, and asked me how I liked the idea of having a couple more grandchildren. We chatted for a while, but it felt weird. I still find it difficult to have a conversation with somebody if I cannot see their facial expressions. It’s like I’m missing important pieces of emotional information.

I went to supper in the guest dining room. Meals there used to be served buffet-style. No more. When I arrived there, I found that my food was mostly pre-packaged. I took my tray and sat at a table by myself in the little dining area. Four other people showed to eat. They all wore masks, and they all went to separate tables. Almost every person drifted off to a position as far away from the others as possible. Only a married couple sat together. The room was silent.

On impulse I asked the married couple,

“Where are you from?”

My words sounded as loud as a pistol shot in that small space.

There was a brief pause, and then the woman said, “West Palm Beach. And you?”

I replied, “Wisconsin.”

End of discussion.

Now, I will grant you that often people come to the retreat center specifically to get peace and quiet. Idle conversation is frowned upon. However, in this instance, I felt a certain wariness or fear in the room. Nobody wanted to get close to any other guest, physically or emotionally. People were actively keeping their distance.

The following morning I went to Mass. During previous visits to the monastery, my wife and I always sat with the monks in the choir, and we celebrated the Eucharist together. No more. Now the only the monks sit in the choir area. The laity sit in the pews in the nave, and are physically separated from the monks by the altar. The only part of the church which was lit was the choir. With a couple people I sat in the dark. There was no light in our section of the church, except for the lamps in the baldachin. The lights there illuminated the upper portion of the crucifix that hangs over the altar. On the golden baldachin I could read the words “Rex Christe, Redemptor” (“Christ the King, Redeemer”).

The priest said the Mass facing the monks, with his back toward me and the other guests. It was like a throw back to the pre-Vatican II days. It was very difficult to hear the words of the liturgy, especially the Scripture readings. All that was tolerable. However, it really sucked when the priest did not offer any of the guests communion.

That was a big deal, at least to me. Non-Catholics probably wouldn’t understand this, but receiving the Eucharist (the Body and Blood of Christ) is the whole point of the liturgy. Sharing communion is everything to a Catholic. People that go to Catholic retreat centers want to share the Eucharist in an intense and visceral sort of way. Being denied communion, even for valid health reasons, is literally painful.

At one point during my stay, I spoke briefly with Brother Francis. He is the retreat center director, and he is a warm and friendly man. He has a good heart. He told me about their two month quarantine, and he explained to me how all the new rules and procedures were designed to “protect the monks”.

The Benedictines take the pandemic very seriously. They should. Most of these men are old. By most objective standards, I’m old, but in comparison to these guys, I’m just a young pup. If the virus strikes that religious community, it will likely decimate the population. The monks know this. When they stay separate from the guests, even at Mass, they do so reluctantly. They simply do not want to die. They don’t want their entire community to die.

Subiaco is still a beautiful place. It is still a holy place. Even during this modern plague, there is God’s love in the monastery.

Sometimes pain and love exist together.

 

 

 

 

 

June 11th, 2020

I left my home in Wisconsin at around 12:15 AM on June 8th. There was no good reason to do that except for the fact that a tropical storm was due to hit my destination in Arkansas in about fourteen hours, and my drive required at least twelve hours of windshield time.

“It’s a lonesome stretch out on Highway 9
Just another semi moving up from behind
Eyes are getting heavy, brain’s about to bust
When a light comes shining through the diesel dust

It’s that mudflap girl
Flashing in my headlight beams
That little mudflap girl
Shining like a midnight dream”

from “Mudflap Girl” from the group Timbuk 3 (an appropriate song for a late night road trip)

My made my journey through Illinois mostly at night. It is usually best to drive through Illinois in the dark. I had a surprise when I got on to the tollway. All the cash tollbooths on I-90 were closed down, and I had been so proud of myself for having my exact change ready. The sign at the tolls said, “Pay with I-Pass or online”. The closing of the tollbooths had to have been somehow related to the pandemic. Maybe it was about having less virus-laden money changing hands.

South of Rockford, I-39 was nearly empty, except for a some big trucks. The sky was clear. A gibbous moon shown brightly over a lonely, flat landscape. As the moon moved toward the west, Jupiter and Saturn followed in its wake. I listened to Gregorian chant while I drove. I wanted Jesus along for the ride.

I stopped for gas at a filling station in Bloomington. I walked into the store to buy a Gatorade. The girl at the counter wore a mask. I found during the trip that the clerks in the gas stations almost always wore masks. That seemed to be standard procedure. Somehow that surprised me. I had expected that the social distancing rules would grow more lax as I traveled south. I was wrong.

Dawn came while I was rolling west toward St. Louis. I could see the eastern sky glowing orange in the rear view mirror. I played some songs from George Ezra. That felt good.

“You can try and run and hide
Tearing at the chain
Means I’m coming home again
Means I’m coming home my friend
Oh, Lucifer’s inside
Oh, Lucifer’s inside
Oh, Lucifer’s inside.”

from “Did You Hear the Rain?”

After six hours on the road, I was feeling edgy and tired. I needed music that was a little twisted. I especially wanted to listen to something that would keep me alert while navigating through St. Louis.

I stopped for breakfast at a Denny’s in Sullivan, Missouri. Sullivan is on I-44 as it heads away from St. Louis and toward Tulsa. Most of that part of Missouri is densely wooded and seriously redneck. I passed a billboard that read:

“I am PROUD to be an American. If you’re not, leave.”

There were also many signs proclaiming Trump as savior. Big signs. MAGA.

The Trump signs went well with the numerous roadside ads for the Uranus Fudge Factory. No, I’m not kidding. There really is such a place.

Anyway, I walked into Denny’s, feeling just a little tired and loopy. A friendly waitress greeted me and gave me a big smile. She said,

“You look so tired. You come a long way?”

I mumbled, “Yeah.’

“Well, you sit yourself down, and eat. Then you can go on home and take a rest.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I still needed to drive another five hours.

The Denny’s took the COVID-19 rules seriously. The waitress guided me to my own private booth. The table was completely bare. She brought me a menu, along with salt and pepper shakers. She gave me another smile, and asked me, “Y’all want coffee?”

I said, “Yes”, emphatically.

“What would you like to eat?”

I gazed at the menu with eyes unfocused.

After a pause, she said, “Well, we have a special on the Grand Slam breakfast. Would you like that?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

She walked away, and brought the coffee. It seemed like she returned almost instantaneously with the food: bacon, hash browns, sausage, sunny side up eggs, and pancakes. There was nothing on the plate that was even remotely healthy. I felt grateful for that. I asked her for some ketchup.

She brought me back five little packets.  No ketchup bottles any more.

I-44 goes through miles and miles of forests. It’s pretty country, but after a while, all the trees look the same. When I got close to Springfield, I put on some Tab Benoit. I needed some Delta blues and zydeco to keep going.

“I’m a night train
Rolling nine hundred mile
I’m a night train baby
Rolling nine hundred mile
Can’t you hear me coming
Ain’t stopping until morning light

Keep it burning baby
Got that fuel for my fire
Keep it burning baby
Got that fuel for my fire
You know smokin’ track thru Memphis
Ain’t stopping until morning light”

from “Night Train”. (the song has a rhythm section that hammers like a steam locomotive)

I drove through the Ozarks on US 65. There were steep, rolling hills on the way to Branson. I saw a lot of signs advertising things like “Dolly Parton’s Stampede” and “Presley’s Country Jubilee”, shows that give the South a bad name. I drove past the Branson Welcome Center. The parking lot there was completely empty. No cars. Zero. That is a very bad sign for Branson, a city that thrives and survives on tourism. The pandemic strikes again.

The last stretch of the ride went along steep, winding, back roads in Arkansas. Some of the turns have a 20 MPH speed limit, and even those speeds are a little scary. The sky got dark and cloudy as I drove through the woods. The wind picked up. After about an hour on the slalom run, I got to the Arkansas River Valley. From there it was just a short ride to Subiaco Abbey.

I pulled into the parking lot of the abbey’s retreat house just as the first raindrops fell.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

June 7th, 2020

Tomorrow is my brother’s birthday. Marc would be fifty-one years old. However, he’s long gone. He only made it to twenty-eight.

By this time tomorrow, I should be on the road. I am traveling down to Bryan, Texas. That’s where Marc lived. That’s where our son, Hans, lives now. I am going down there to see Hans.

Hans and his wife are expecting anther child. They found that out on the Memorial Day weekend. That’s not the main reason I am going south. Actually, there isn’t a specific, logical reason for the journey. I just have a gut feeling that I need to be with Hans. I’m not sure why that is. I know that the recent news reports have had an effect on him. I think that the scenes showing soldiers dispersing crowds of protesters has triggered his PTSD from Iraq. When he calls on the phone, I get sense that something is churning inside of him.

I have no plans for when I visit with Hans. I just want to be with him. We can sit around and talk. I want to listen to whatever he has to say. We can drink some beers. I want to be physically together with him. There are some conversations that cannot happen on the phone or online. Some things have to be up close and personal.

Karin is not coming along on this trip. She is staying at home with a girl that we love. That will feel strange. I have made the trip to Texas many times over the last thirty years, but almost always in the company of somebody else. It’s hard to remember, but I think the last time I went to Texas be myself was in the summer of 1997. That was also the last time that I saw Marc alive.

I drove down there in ’97 to sell Marc and Shawn a car. Karin and I had just purchased a minivan. We needed the room for our three children. Rather than trade in the ’94 Nissan Sentra, we decided to sell it to Marc and his wife. They needed a reliable ride, and the Nissan was a really good car. It was a five-speed, and both Marc and Shawn knew how to drive a stick. The plan was for me to take the Nissan down to Bryan, stay a couple days, and then fly home.

I was young then, so I did the whole 1400 miles in one stretch. I think I slept for an hour or so in some rest stop in Missouri, but otherwise I just drove. It was a little over twenty hours on the road. The road trip is a blur to me now. I know that I went through Chicago, Champaign, Cairo, New Madrid, West Memphis, Little Rock, Texarkana, Longview, Palestine, and a plethora of godforsaken little towns. I called my brother on a pay phone in Texarkana. People didn’t have cell phones then. People didn’t have GPS either. I was reading road maps all long the way.

I got to my brother’s house on Day Street feeling ragged. I crashed for a while. I’m not sure what we all did while I was there. I know that on my last night with Marc and Shawn, I watched “The Wrong Trousers” with Marc. It was a claymation DVD that featured Wallace and Gromit. The movie was hilarious. Marc and I snacked on crackers and pickled herring while we watched the show. Shawn was/is a vegetarian. She was not thrilled that Marc had purchased a jar of herring. She just looked at us and said, “Enjoy your dead fish.” We did.

Marc had to go to work extremely early the next morning. I had a plane to catch later that day. He woke me up at 4:00 AM to say goodbye. We shook hands. I remember his smile, and his voice, and the grip of his hand on mine.

That was the last time I saw him alive.

Marc died in a car wreck in February of 1998. Our family went down to Texas for the funeral. Hans was only ten years old at the time. Hans was unable to stay in the mortuary with everyone else. He was freaked out by it. Karin took Hans outside for a while. Hans told her, when they were standing by some trees, that he felt Marc’s spirit. Then Hans was okay, and he could go back inside the funeral home.

That trip is kind of blur to me now too. I do remember the last time I saw Marc’s face. The undertakers were getting ready to close the casket. Each of us went to the coffin to say a last farewell. I kissed Marc on the forehead. It was like kissing a block of ice. I have never in my life felt anything so cold.

I will have plenty of time to think and ponder as I drive solo on the road tomorrow.

I wonder what I will all remember on Marc’s birthday.