Author: frankisemptiness

October 12th, 2019

“Ah, how do you sleep?

Ah, how do you sleep at night?”

chorus from “How Do You Sleep” from John Lennon

I don’t sleep well. I haven’t been able to sleep properly for decades. I know that I have had trouble sleeping since I was in the Army, and I left the military way back in 1986. When I was in the Army, it seemed like we were always on call, always on alert. It’s hard to relax if you don’t know if you will be deployed at a moment’s notice. After I got out, I worked for two trucking companies. Twenty-some years of working third shift didn’t help me much either.

Now I’m retired. I still don’t sleep. It is 3:00 AM and I am typing this essay. Our daughter’s dog, Shocky, is lying on the couch, keeping me company. The dog doesn’t sleep well either. I could walk her, but it’s windy and cold outside, and I am not up for it. Maybe later.

People sometimes give me well-meaning, but useless, suggestions about how get a good night’s sleep. They suggest using melatonin or some other medication. Or they tell me to exercise more, or change my diet. None of that seems to work for me. I still wrestle with bad dreams and night terrors. Sometimes, I wake up in the dark with my heart pounding and my Adrenalin pumping. This doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. At night the dragons and demons come out to play.

Our son, Hans, called me again yesterday. There was an accident at his work site. It scared Hans. It scared him bad. One of the laborers got knocked down by some concrete spraying from the pump. Hans got sprayed with it too. Hans turned away when the concrete was flying toward him. He decided it was better to get hit in the back than in the face. When Hans turned back to look at the laborer, the guy was sprawled out on the ground.

Hans thought he was dead.

The guy wasn’t dead, but he had some minor injuries. Hans was (is) shook up about it all. Hans saw a lot of dead men when he was deployed in Iraq back in 2011. He remembers, and his memories haunt him.

Hans’ employer worked him for almost twenty-four hours again, and and Hans called me after his shift(s), and after the accident on the job. Hans wasn’t at fault for the accident, but he was still there when it happened. That bothers him. That bothers him a lot. It also bothers him that he can’t sleep. He gets called in to work at all hours, and it wears on him.

Hans sleeps fitfully, if at all. He can’t sleep for long because his back is messed up from his time in Iraq. He can’t sleep for long because he has nightmares from the war, and he wakes up not knowing where he is or where his weapon is. Sometimes, Hans has to sleep with his AR-15, as if it was a cold, steel teddy bear. His monsters come to visit whenever he tries to rest.

Hans usually calls me when he is exhausted. A tired young man calls a tired old man. We understand each other, but we can’t do much to help each other. We can only listen.

“How do you sleep at night (brother)?” – John Lennon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

October 5th, 2019

Hans called today.

I answered the phone and asked him, “Hey, Hans, what’s up?”

He sounded rough, really rough. I could barely understand him. He finally told me,

“I worked twenty-three hours on Friday; I mean yesterday. Then dispatch called me, and told me to come right back in for another job.”

I heard the click of Hans’ cigarette lighter over the phone. He was lighting up yet another Pall Mall. He took a drag, and then he exhaled. He finally said,

“I told them ‘no’. I wasn’t coming in again.”

It got quiet.

I asked Hans, “And then what happened?”

I could hear Hans gulp down some of his Lime-A-Rita (God only knows how many he had already slammed before he decided to call me). Hans sighed and said,

“Well, they told me that I had to come in.”

“And you said…”

“I told them ‘NO’. I was working a job pouring concrete for walls. The frames were made out of Styrofoam. You can’t pour the mud fast, or it will bust the frames. It was only 200 yards of concrete, but I had to pump it slow and easy. Two hundred yards usually takes only a couple hours. I was pumping for thirteen hours. I started at 2:00 AM on Friday and I clocked out after midnight.”

“Okay.”

Hans continued, “They told me that were going to call my boss. I called him first.”

“How did that go?”

“Well, Albert wanted to know what the fuck was going on, and I told him.”

“And then…”

Hans took another drag off his cigarette. He drawled,

“Well, Albert called dispatch. They said that they assigned new work off the start times of the operators. I had started before everyone else at the yard, but I got done after they all were done. Dispatch said that I was first man up because I had started so early. My boss told them, ‘You know how the people at our yard always seems to have a bad attitude. That’s because you fuck them all the time’. He told them that.”

I sighed. “So, what happened?”

Hans spoke slowly. He’s a Texan now, so he doesn’t say anything fast.

“Well, they found some other guy to start the job at 1:00 AM. I went there at 5:00. I didn’t get as much sleep as I wanted, but I got some sleep. I worked until noon. ”

Hans said, “I told these people in dispatch that I wasn’t going to run a big pump truck without any sleep. They said that I had to do it, or I’d get fired. I told them that I would find myself a lawyer. They didn’t want to hear that shit. I know that this company has some loophole so they don’t have to follow DOT regulations, but there has to be some kind of law against working somebody over twenty-four hours.”

I replied, “Yeah, there probably is.”

There was the click of of his lighter. Hans lit up another Pall Mall. A couple years ago, Hans bought me a lighter for Fathers Day. I don’t smoke. He bought me a lighter anyway. Maybe he figured that, if his lighter ran out of fluid, then he could use mine. Hans is thoughtful that way.

Hans’ story made me remember things. Years ago, before I retired, I worked as the supervisor on the loading dock of a trucking company. My job was to get the job done, and that often required me to force the forklift drivers to work overtime. We live in the north country, where the winters are long and harsh. That was when we always needed people to stay on the job, after we were already chilled to the bone. I used to put up a sign that said “The gouge light is on!”, which meant “gouge the time clock, earn some overtime”. The guys who worked for me hated for that. They didn’t want the overtime. They just wanted to go home, eat something, take a shower, slam some beers, and sleep the sleep of the just. I couldn’t let them do it. I was the bad guy. They knew it, and I knew it.

One of the men working for me was a black guy, named Mike, who was from Alabama. He was a devout Baptist, a good man, and he and I would talk about religion quite often. I remember in the dark depths of winter, after he had worked almost twelve hours on the dock, he yelled at me,

“Hey, Pharaoh! Yeah, you! Hey, Pharaoh, set your people free!”

I did.

I got in trouble for that shit.

Going back to Hans…

I asked Hans, “Have you slept yet?”

He replied, “No. I had a bunch of Red Bulls. When they wear off, I’ll sleep.”

“Okay.”

Hans told me, “Dad, I stood up for myself. I told them what I would do, and what I won’t do.”

I said, “Okay, good.”

Hans went on, “I did what you told me to do. I stuck up for myself.”

My throat constricted a bit. “Good.”

Hans said, “I’m not going to let them use me. I’m doing what you said.”

“That’s good, Hans.”

Hans paused. Then he said,

“Hey, I’m sorry for venting like this. I just wanted to tell you what’s going on.”

“It’s okay, Hans. I’m glad that you called. Call whenever you need to.”

“I’m sorry, Dad.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s okay.”

“I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too.”

Hans hung up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

September 30th, 2019

Jane greeted me when I came into the synagogue. She smiled and said,

“Shanah tovah!”, which is Hebrew for “Happy New Year!”. It took me a second to process that. I mean, I already knew it was Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year celebration, but somehow that didn’t sink in until Jane spoke to me.

I went upstairs for the service. It had just started. There weren’t many people there yet. They were just getting into praying the psalms. I grabbed a prayer book, and I asked Andrew which page we were on. The prayer book (siddur) was a special one for the high holidays. As I opened it, it had Hebrew prayers on the page to the right, and an English translation of the prayers on the left. After ten years, I have learned just enough Hebrew to follow along with the prayers. I hear key Hebrew words spoken, and then I can read along in the English version. It helps that the gabbai emphasizes the beginning and the end of each psalm. The people in the shul read the psalms for about an hour. Some they sing. Some they rush through.

Karin and I attend morning prayer at our church before daily Mass starts. The morning  prayer mainly consists of reading the psalms. However, our reading of the psalms and the Jewish reading of the psalms are strikingly different. Even though I can’t understand all of the psalms in Hebrew, I can appreciate the rhythm and the cadence of the prayers. There is something powerful in hearing a prayer in its original language. I can’t explain why that is, but it is.

When I arrived, the pews in the synagogue weren’t full yet. The community is small, and it is not often that a lot of people come for the services. If there is any day that everyone shows up, it is on Rosh Hashanah. However, as Ken, one of my friends from the shul, jokingly told me, they operate on “Jewish time”. It’s not like with Catholics, where a service starts at a certain time and people need to be there at that time. In the synagogue, the worshipers get there when they get there. The only goal is to have ten Jewish males there in time to read from the Torah. The show can’t go on unless you have ten guys show up, and they have to be Jewish. They are happy when I come, but I don’t count for the minyan.

The Lake Park Synagogue calls itself a “Modern Orthodox synagogue”. That seems paradoxical. It’s like they are saying that the shul is “New Old”. Orthodox Judaism holds on tight to the traditions of the past. I kind of like that. In their services, they do almost everything in Hebrew. I have been berated at times by my friends at the synagogue because the Catholic Church did away (for the most part) with the Latin Mass. I don’t think that any of them really care that much about the Church. Some of them do care that the Catholic Church let go of part of its tradition.

During the first hour of prayer, there were short breaks. During one of those, Ellis came up to me. Ellis shook my hand and looked me straight in the eye. He told me,

“I hope that you and your family are blessed during this new year.”

I was touched by that. I knew that he meant it with all his heart. Ellis and I come from very different backgrounds, but we have had similar struggles with our children. We understand each other. Ellis wasn’t just spouting a platitude. He was being honest and compassionate with me, and I felt that.

I should try to make more of an effort to fit it at the shul, or maybe I shouldn’t. I don’t know. I wear my yarmulke (kippah) whenever I go to the synagogue. Karin knitted it for me years ago, so it is precious to me. I don’t dress well when I go to pray. I don’t have many good clothes. When I prayed there today, I was wearing jeans and sandals. I wore a black sweatshirt (hoodie) that I had bought at the Monastery of Christ in the Desert. It has a Benedictine emblem on the front and a Latin prayer on the back. Nobody cared. They just seemed glad that I was even there.

The rabbi gave a short derasha (sermon). He explained that Rosh Hashanah was “Judgment Day”, a day where we all ask for a job review from God. The scripture readings are about Sarah and Hannah, and they ask God to remember them. It is a dangerous thing to ask God to remember you. There is the chance that God will give you more responsibility. It is easier to fly under the radar.

Rabbi Dinin told us all that we ask God for our review at the blowing of the shofar. That is our wake up call to God. It is true that God never forgets us, but the blowing of the shofar is our way of reminded the Almighty that we are still here.

The synagogue is in a part of town with rather ruthless parking restrictions. I stayed in the shul during the first Torah reading, and then I left. I missed the blowing of the shofar. I had already been there for two hours, and I didn’t want to get a parking ticket.

And, to be honest, I wasn’t ready for my review.

 

 

 

September 26th, 2019

We have a loved one in prison. She has been in Ellsworth for several months now. The girl that we love called Karin yesterday to ask that we buy her a new toothbrush. Apparently, this girl cannot get a decent toothbrush through the prison commissary system (no surprise there). I went online this morning to check with the authorized prison vendors, and found that I could not buy a toothbrush for this young woman. The vendors do not sell toothbrushes. Why not? I have no idea. Even if I knew the reason, it would make no difference. I would still be unable to get this girl a toothbrush.

It’s madness. All of it. Every step of the way.

I was listening to the girl in the car this morning. She wasn’t physically with me, but I could hear her.

Almost ten years ago, this young woman made me a CD of the songs that she loved. I listened to that CD in the car today. The last song on the recording is from the group Shinedown. The song is called “Her Name is Alice”, and I believe that it was used in the movie, “Alice in Wonderland”, the one with Johnny Depp.

This song is strange and trippy. It is also this woman’s song. It was her song ten years ago. It is her song now. You just have to listen between the lines.

The song is only three minutes long, but it is intense. It starts off quietly with a simple piano theme. Then a girl speaks these words:

“If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense.

Nothing will be what it is, because everything will be what it isn’t.”

At that point, the song kicks into gear. A bell tolls. The drums roll, and there is a dark and sinister bass part. The singer has a raw voice that only gets more rougher as the song goes on. He says:

“I invite you to a world where there is no such thing as time,

And every creature lends themselves to change your state of mind.

And the girl that chased the rabbit, drank the wine, and took the pill,

Has locked herself in limbo to see how it really feels,

To stand outside your virtue,

No one can ever hurt you,

Or so they say…”

Then the screaming starts.

“HER NAME IS ALICE!

SHE CRAWLS THROUGH THE WINDOW

SHAPED IN SHADOW.

ALICE!”

Then more quietly,

“And even though she is dreaming, she knows.”

The song continues:

“Sometimes the curiosity can kill the soul but leave the pain,

And every ounce of innocence is left inside her brain.

And through the looking glass we see she’s thankfully returned,

But now ‘off with her head’ I fear is everyone’s concern.

You see there’s no real ending,

It’s only just beginning,

Come out and play…”

Then the screaming returns:

“HER NAME IS ALICE!

SHE CRAWLS THROUGH THE WINDOW

SHAPED IN SHADOW.

ALICE!”

Then the last verse…

“And even though she is dreaming

She’s a locked for meaning for you

This kingdom, good riddance

Her good freedom and innocence

Has brought this whole thing down!!!”

One last scream:

“HER NAME IS ALICE!

SHE CRAWLS THROUGH THE WINDOW

SHAPED IN SHADOW.

ALICE!”

Then the noise stops, and finally there is only the piano and the girl’s voice:

“In contrary wise, what it is it wouldn’t be,

And what it wouldn’t be, it would be.

You see?”

After almost a decade of emergency rooms, rehab clinics, mental institutions, jails, and prisons, I think I get it.

Yes, I see.

The song has a link.

YouTubelalder959595

 

 

 

 

 

 

September 21st, 2019

Pulaski Park is tucked away in a corner of the lower east side of Milwaukee. It is a tiny city park, barely big enough to hold a baseball field and a tennis court. There are chain link fences that are nearly three stories high near the baseball diamond. The fences are there to keep home runs from smashing into the windows of the neighboring houses. The park has a number of large, mature trees that provide welcome shade.

Oh, and Tamarack Waldorf School has a garden there too.

The Tamarack Waldorf School is only a couple blocks away from the park. Karin and I know it well. Tamarack is housed in the old St. Hedwig school building on the corner of Humboldt and Brady, on the Milwaukee’s lower east side. That neighborhood has a history. St. Hedwig’s is a still an active Catholic church. It was founded by Polish immigrants. There were Italians in that area too. Peter Sciortino’s bakery is across the street from the school. The bakery is a good place to buy cannoli.

Brady Street was an immigrant neighborhood for many years. The demographics changed in the 1970’s, and the area became a haven for hippies. Property values declined. Then things changed again. Now this little enclave is very diverse, in a variety of ways. Brady Street is a home for the blatantly hip and trendy. The street reeks of money and youth. I don’t know if that is good or bad. It just is.

Karin and I went to Pulaski Park on Thursday afternoon. Tamarack participated in the worldwide commemoration of the very first Waldorf school. That school was founded in Stuttgart, Germany, in 1919. So, we all met in park to celebrate one hundred years of Waldorf education.

What is Waldorf education? I don’t have the time or inclination to explain it all. Even if I tried to explain what Waldorf is all about, you wouldn’t really get it. Waldorf is a peculiar pedagogic culture. Unless you’ve spent time inside of the community, you just can’t understand it. You have to first step into the magic circle, emphasis on the word “magic”. Waldorf is a way of educating children that is holistic, spiritual, beautiful, inspiring, and pretty weird. Feel free to look up Waldorf online for further information.

Karin and I have a long and twisted relationship with the world of Waldorf. Hans went to a Waldorf school for a few years, until that school imploded. Then we home schooled our kids. I was involved in the genesis of the Tamarack School, and I prefer to block any memories of that time period. After a few years, Karin and I decided to send our daughter, and our youngest son, Stefan, to Tamarack. Karin eventually became a handwork assistant at the school, which meant that she helped the students to learn how to knit and sew and crochet. She did that for several years until she was told that her services were no longer required. That kind of sucked. We left the community for a while.

Was our experience with Waldorf negative? Not really. The activities at the school often touched the souls of our children. Waldorf is in many ways counter-cultural. The education is not about fitting into the economic system. It’s not about making money and getting ahead. It’s about being human. That means there is an emphasis on music, art, and just being decent to other people. Nothing bad about any of that.

Back in the spring of 2008, I helped chaperon our youngest son’s class trip to New Orleans. This was only three years after Katrina devastated the city. Waldorf schools always have an eighth grade class trip. Part of the trip always involves community service. We did plenty of that in Crescent City. I have no idea how that journey affected Stefan or his classmates. I do know that it deeply affected me.

Karin and I stood in the park at the celebration. The students from the school were all sitting in the grass, restless in their boredom. Karin hooked up with Marcia, her old boss/compatriot from the handwork class. They hugged. They talked. That was a good thing.

People gave speeches. That’s what people do at events like this. I listened, kinda sorta. One speaker talked about the diversity of the school. Yeah, there is diversity with regards to race, religion, and ethnicity. That’s good. However, don’t ever disagree with the underlying spiritual and political assumptions of Waldorf. Diversity only goes so far. I figured that out years ago.

A member of the staff unveiled the new, improved logo for the school. Apparently, the creation of this new symbol required the help of a large number of people, both in the school and outside of it. The whole ceremony reminded me of corporate America. The answer to any problem is to find a new look. Coca Cola and Waldorf have something in common.

There were heroic speeches about the beginnings of the school. Those made me squirm, because I was there for some of that. The folks at Tamarack have found their own mythology, and they are running with it. More power to them. If the school has a story that works, go with it. At this point, the early struggles don’t matter, not even a little bit.

I looked at the children sitting on the grass, and I felt like crying. Our kids were in that place once, and time has been cruel to them. Sitting in front of me was a mass of pure innocence. These kids have no idea what lies before them, and it’s a blessing that they don’t know. Yes, some of them will go on to lead happy, meaningful lives. However, I know, from bitter experience, that some of them will suffer immensely. It’s not their fault. It’s not anybody’s fault. It just is.

The ceremony ended with the children from all of the classes singing a song. It was a round. Waldorf loves a round. They sang about peace in many languages. I could make out the words “padme om”, “shanti”, “shalom”, and “frieden”. It was a good song. I can think of none better.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

September 20th, 2019

Jack is dead.

You probably don’t know Jack. At least, I don’t think you do. He left this world a few days ago, at 93 years of age. He lasted longer than most of us will. However, it should be noted that his last couple years kind of sucked.

Karin and I went to his funeral today. We have been friends with Jack and his wife for the last two or three years. We only really knew them through our church, because we all attended daily Mass together. Jack and Audrey were an inseparable couple, and they had just recently celebrated sixty-five years of marriage. Sixty-five years. I’m not sure that I will even live that long.

Jack hardly ever spoke to me, and I don’t think he spoke much to anybody else, at least not toward the end of his life. Jack had Alzheimer’s disease, and I could see it slowly tearing him down. I noticed, when we first met, that he couldn’t follow along during the morning prayers. Then he started forgetting things in church, like his cap or his walker. He was adamant about turning off the lights in the church after Mass ended, even when the pastor told him to leave the lights on. Jack was clearly frustrated at times. He wanted desperately to understand what was going around him, and he just couldn’t.

Jack’s wife tried to shepherd him as best she could. Sometimes he was cooperative, sometimes not. Toward the end of his life, he struggled to do things his own way, and it never quite worked out for him. It didn’t work out well for his wife either. Alzheimer’s is a disease that affects a large number of people beyond the person who is sick. Jack was hurting, but the effects of the ailment touched his wife and kids, and anybody else who cared about him.

My time with Jack was not my first experience with Alzheimer’s. My mom had it. It’s a slow, hard way to end a life. My mother suffered with the disease for years before I even knew she had it. My dad kept it quiet, and he tried to care for her on his own for far too long. Eventually, it overwhelmed even him. My father, grudgingly, finally put my mom into a nursing home (a good place where people actually care about the residents), and my mom cried for days after he left her there. She knew that she was never going back home. She knew that. It’s not like my dad abandoned her. To his credit, he visited her every single day until she died. He did that for six years. He did that even when he didn’t know if she knew he was there with her. He was loyal to the end.

During that time, I didn’t visit my mom very often. I am not sure why. There was some geographical distance involved with any visit (a three hour drive). Now, after time has passed, I think the emotional distance was even greater. When I did visit my mom, she was usually sleeping fitfully. She was there physically. I could hear her breathing, and I could see her chest rise and fall. But she was not available. I would say, “Hi Mom”, and there was no response, no reaction. I occasionally held her hand, and there was no pressure from her hand against mine. Nothing. Did she know that I was there with her? I have no idea. I could not feel her presence. I was with her, and I was also all alone.  It was hard to make the trip to see her, because all I ever did was see her.

A funeral should provide some kind of closure. Sometimes a funeral cannot do that. My mom’s funeral in 2015 was anti-climactic. She has been absent for so long already. Our family had been saying goodbye to her for years prior to her death. My father’s funeral, last year, was somehow inconclusive. There were many things left unsaid, and many feelings left unexpressed. Death doesn’t necessarily end anything.

I initially sat by myself at Jack’s funeral. I did that on purpose. I have trouble with funerals, in that my emotions are activated in ways that have nothing to do with the situation at hand. Funerals make me remember things, and I need space in order to deal with those memories.

Karin convinced me to sit with her, and with her friends from the church choir. I felt that was a bad idea. I excused myself from the pew early during the Mass, and I sat outside in the narthex, the gathering space. One of the undertakers sat next to me. He remarked,

“We got the good seats, huh?”

I made some kind of neutral comment.

The man talked with his partner after that.

He said, “We counted 117 people in the church.”

His co-worker replied, “That’s pretty good.”

I never realized that these people kept score.

Prior to the funeral Mass, there was a line of well-meaning people, all of them waiting to give their condolences to Jack’s widow. I didn’t join the line.  I didn’t want to go there. What for? What was there to say? What words could I find to make anything better? Maybe if I had known Jack better, I could have said something that might have helped. I had no words.

People often feel pressured to say something at a funeral. Then they sometimes say something lame. I have heard people say things like, “He’s with the Lord now.” So, what does that actually mean? Does it mean anything?

There was a Gospel reading at the funeral Mass. It was about the raising of Lazarus. More specifically, it was about Martha’s comments to the Lord just before Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead. I have always felt ambivalent about the raising of Lazarus. Did Christ really do his friend any favors? I mean, Lazarus eventually had to die again. I would think that once was enough.  

I listened to the priest’s sermon. It was about eternal life, and believing in Jesus. His words were not unexpected. But, seriously, what was he talking about? What actually happens after death? Does anybody know? We believe certain things, but we don’t know anything. I believe in an afterlife, but I have no conception of what that might be like. I will find out when it’s my turn up to bat.

If we don’t know what we are talking about, then it might be best to remain silent. Death is a mystery, perhaps the ultimate mystery. Let’s leave it that way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

September 16th, 2019

I walked Shocky at 4:00 AM yesterday, well before sunrise. It was probably unwise to walk a black border collie/lab for a couple miles on an unlit stretch of road. I did it anyway. Not only was it dark, but it was also foggy. Fortunately, there was only a minimal amount of traffic. I suspect that the motorists I saw were mostly people in a rush to get to jobs that they hate. I used to live like that. I remember playing death metal on the radio to stay alert. Anybody who is up at such an ungodly hour is probably not loving life.

I was up. I am often up that early. I worked third shift for over twenty years, and I can no longer sleep like a normal human. I wake up at two or three or four in the morning, and I can’t go back to sleep. No chance. I stare up at the skylight for a while, and then I crawl out of bed.

The wee hours of the morning are pretty twisted. They are part of a time frame is not quite right. It is too early to start a pot of coffee, and it’s too late to crack open a beer. I can’t begin anything, because then I will wake up Karin. Lying silently in bed is not an option.

What to do?

I tend to latch on to Shocky and go for stroll in the dark. Some nights are glorious, with the stars above us as we hike past subdivisions, farm fields, and marshes. Other nights are not so glorious. However, even with the fog, it was good to walk. It was still good to be outside.

Darkness can be a blessing. We rely far too much on vision. Walking along a lonely road at night requires the use of other faculties, especially when the few things that are still visible are shrouded in mist. The senses of hearing, feeling, and smell sharpen as sight fades. The sounds of crickets, frogs, and an occasional sand hill crane became much clearer to me on our hike. The smell of the marsh was more pungent. The feel of the road under my feet, and the pull of Shocky on the leash was more immediate. A familiar world became strange and fantastic when there was so little light. Our walk was not completely in the dark. Every once in a while I could look up and catch a fleeting glimpse of the waning moon through fog.

I have been thinking about other predawn activities, some from long ago.

Once, I had a friend named Greg. He worked as a truck driver, but his passion was music, all sorts of music. He had a radio program on a local non-profit station. It was called “G.B. and the Neutral Drop”. His time slot was from 3:00 to 6:00 AM on Mondays. That was a truly wretched time to be playing music on the air. He had very few listeners, simply because very few people were conscious at that time of day/night. The only people who ever called into his program were bakers and dairy farmers.

The one upside of being a DJ in those predawn hours was the fact that Greg could play whatever he wanted to play. And he did. It would be a gross understatement to say that Greg’s program was eclectic. His choice of music was diverse to the point of being almost random. He played everything. Greg ran through his selection of artists in a jarring and unpredictable manner. I think he took great pride in that.

Greg invited me to come to the studio with him during those witching hours. We had fun. He even let me speak on the air. What a mistake.

He asked me to do a PSA (public service announcement). I proceeded to make a total mockery of it all. I’m not sure why he would have expected anything else. He did seem a bit alarmed.

Once he switched over to some music, he cut the mikes and gave me a hard stare.

“Hey man, what are you doing? I mean, we are recording all this. What if somebody from the station hears what you said? C’mon, man!”

I mumbled an apology.

He queued up another song, and gave me the side eye. He shook his head, and said,  “Asshole”, as he was laughing to himself.

As I mentioned, Greg’s musical tastes were far-ranging. One morning he started off with some scratchy 45’s of black Gospel hymns. Then he went immediately to some nasty-ass track from Solomon Burke, a soul artist whose musical references to sex would have made Prince blush. After that, Greg went to directly to some western swing, some shit so redneck that any white boy would want to stand up and wave the Stars and Bars.

As far as I am concerned, the best part of Greg’s show was when he played “unheard 45’s”. Greg, in his travels, would stop at garage sales and buy old records. Often, he bought records from artists that were completely foreign to him. He never listened to them prior to dragging them out for his show. These were old vinyl disks. They were recordings from bands that made one or two records, and then disappeared. Greg would pull out the 45’s, and then he and I would play them at random.

The recordings almost always sucked, and we almost always said exactly that on the air. It was kind of an artistic sadism. We ripped on these performers who probably put their hearts and souls into some lame song. I am likely going straight to hell for my active participation in this cruel enterprise. I suppose I should feel regret. I don’t.

At one point, I thought to myself, “What if one these performers actually hears us mocking him?”

Then I thought, “Oh well, he’ll get over it.”

We moved on to the next record.

The wee hours of the morning are times of intense beauty and terrible sin.

It’s best to stay in bed.

 

 

September 13th, 2019

Last week I went to the post office to apply for a new passport. My old passport is way expired. I haven’t used it since 1998.  For two decades, there really hasn’t been any reason for me to cross the border.

Now there is.

As I was fumbling through the application process at the post office, one of the employees on duty asked me if I wanted the passport just to have it handy, or if I had a trip planned.

I told her that I was going on a journey.

She asked me where I was going.

I told her, “Mexico.”

She smiled, and then she asked me, “Oh cool. where?”

“Ciudad Juarez.”

She gave me a funny look and asked, “Where’s that?”

I answered her, “It’s right across the border from El Paso, Texas.”

“Why are you going there?”

That’s a good question. Sometimes, even I am not sure.

I answered her, “I’m going with a group from a Catholic immigration organization. We want to see for ourselves what is happening with the migrants on the border. Since the current administration is not allowing any asylum-seekers to come into the U.S., most of the action is on the other side of the border.”

She looked at me and said, “Wow, that’s awesome. That’s great that you are doing that!”

I sighed, and said, “Well, it’s just something that I think I should do.”

She replied, “No, really, I think that it is great. I see the pictures on the news with those little kids, and it just breaks my heart. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

She went on, “Well, you have a good trip, and thanks for doing this. It sounds intense.”

Yeah, intense is the right word. Nobody yet has told me, “Have a good time!” Everybody knows better than that. Some of the visit will be a disturbing experience. That is guaranteed. I think that some people are glad that I am going there, because then they don’t need to go. Maybe, they actually want to go, but can’t. Maybe they hope to learn things through me, and that is fine. Not everybody can go to the border, and not everybody should go. I believe that those who do make the journey are meant to do so, for some reason.

As with many things that I do, it is difficult for me to believe that this trip will occur. I don’t believe that things will happen until they actually happen. I am old enough to know that plans seldom go as planned, and that reality often gets in the way of my hopes and desires. I expect to go to El Paso, but somehow I will be at peace if it doesn’t come to pass. It’s not really up to me.

Already, events are shifting. Our immigration group had a meeting a week ago. We had a conference call with a man, Chris, from Annunciation House in El Paso. We spoke with him about the logistics of the visit to the border. Some of the conversation revolved around money and travel arrangements. There were other topics discussed.

I asked Chris about how I should describe the experience. I explained to him that I am a writer, and that want to write about the migrants who are stranded in a kind of legal limbo right now. I told him that I wanted to talk with some of the migrants, and (most likely, through an interpreter) hear their stories. Chris threw cold water on that idea. He doesn’t want visitors, like me, asking the guests in the shelters questions about what has happened to them. First of all, they have suffered trauma, and they often they do not want to talk about it. Second, they require a certain level of anonymity. For various reasons, they want to stay under the radar. Chris emphasized that we are primarily concerned with the welfare of the migrants. Any other agendas we might have are not as important.

Fair enough.

So, maybe I won’t be writing about the asylum-seekers who are now utterly lost in places like Ciudad Juarez and Tijuana. These people can’t go back home, and they can’t come to the U.S. I would love to hear their stories, but I don’t need to do so. I can just write about what I observe and about what I experience. That will probably be good enough.

I spent a couple days this week tutoring some Syrian refugee kids. I have been with their family for over two years now. I help them with their homework, and we talk about school. It’s to the point where I am like a crazy uncle who just shows up at their house sometimes. I’m good with that.

It’s odd, but I have never heard anybody in the family tell me the whole story of their journey from Syria to America. I have heard bits and pieces, but never the entire saga. I know that they trust me, but nobody in the family has had the desire or the need to talk about all that happened to them.

That’s all right. I don’t to know everything. I just need to be their friends.

I don’t need to hear the stories from the migrants on the border either.

I would rather be their friends.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

September 8th, 2019

“People will not look forward to posterity who never look backward to their ancestors.”
― Edmund Burke,  from “Reflections on the Revolution in France”

I struggle with my ancestors, which means that I struggle with ghosts. It also means that I struggle with myself. Whether I like it or not, my ancestors are inside of me. They are in my DNA and in my memories. They reach out to me in my dreams. My ancestors are not in the past. They are here with me now.

My parents built a house in Amherst, Wisconsin. It was their dream house. One of the rooms in this house looked like a dining room, but it wasn’t. It was a shrine of sorts. The walls were lined with black and white photos of long dead family members. I knew some of them. They were my grandparents. Most of the pictures were from weddings or other official gatherings. I was curious about the other people in the photos.

I asked my dad about these people. I wanted to know about them. I wanted to know if they were drunks and/or hard-workers. I wanted to know if they were sinners or saints. Did they have hard lives? What did they do? What did they want to do?

My father refused to tell me anything. He was only interested in his past in a very sanitized sort of way. I had heard over the years about how some of my family members had been bootleggers. I had heard rumors of other less than noble activities. But my dad wanted none of that. He wanted to hang on to a glorious past that never, ever existed. So, there was nothing to tell. I just gazed at pictures of total strangers, people who would forever be strangers to me.

Both of my parents are dead. They don’t qualify as ancestors, at least not yet. Our relationships were way too close. Even after death, there is too much baggage. There are too many disturbing memories. I suppose that there are people who have wonderful relationships with their parents. I don’t know many of them. In any case, I don’t have enough distance between myself and my mother and father. I still hear their voices in my head, and that’s not always good.

I have spent a little time with Native Americans. Those people take their ancestors very seriously. They pray to their forefathers and foremothers for guidance. I remember hearing one of the Indians talk about praying to “our grandparents”. Ahhhh, that is the answer, or part of it.

I have good memories of my grandparents. They are my true ancestors. Yes, they had their issues, but they didn’t have issues with me. I know that my grandparents loved me unconditionally. They were wise, partly because they had seen many things, and partly because life had repeatedly kicked their asses. These old people just wanted to love a little kid. They no longer had an agenda. They knew that they had nothing left to prove, so they were just there for me, and for their other grandchildren.

For some reason, I also consider deceased members of my wife’s family to be my ancestors. Karin’s parents, Max and Erika, always treated me like their own flesh and blood. Those people suffered mightily through World War II (on the other side), and still they loved me, even though I was an American soldier in Germany. Karin’s other older relatives, Onkel Kurt and Tante Aga, Onkel Friedel and Tante Maria, were all my part of my history. They are my ancestors too.

I do pray to my ancestors. That may be silly. However, I believe that love is stronger than death. I believe that we are still connected.

 

September 4th, 2019

Sally has a Kia. I don’t know what model it is. I know is that it’s a small four-door. I also know that it is clean and well-maintained. The Kia has a few years on it. I figured that out when I saw the faded sticker on the back that said “Environmentalists for Obama”.

Karin and I met Sally the day after the land purification ceremony. Senji had arranged for for the participants to make a day trip to the Olympic National Park. The timing was good, since that day was the birthday of the National Park system, and entrance into the park was free. Most of the people involved in the excursion were visiting Buddhist monks and nuns, and a few stray lay people, like Karin and myself. We loaded up in four or five cars and left the Ground Zero Center at Poulsbo at 9:00 AM.

Karin and I rode with Sally. So did Sawada, the monk from Los Angeles. We drove to Hurricane Ridge in the national park. Poulsbo is close to sea level. Hurricane Ridge is not. To reach that place in the mountains requires a long, tortuous ride along steep, winding roads. The park facility is at an elevation of 5242 feet. At Hurricane ridge a person can have a truly breath-taking view of the Olympic Mountains. I usually hesitate to use the word “awesome”, but in this case, it is the only word that fits. Pictures cannot capture the majesty of the view from the ridge. It can only be appreciated in person.

As we drove up to the ridge, Sally noticed a funny smell coming from the car. Sawada noticed it too. Reluctantly, I acknowledged the odor. To me it smelled like hydraulic fluid. I couldn’t be sure. Sally was understandably concerned. Sally is a consistently upbeat kind of person. She looks at the positive far more often than I do, but I could tell that she was worried that something was wrong with the Kia.

I was sitting in the back seat with Sawada as Sally drove us along the endless uphill road through the park. Sawada asked me,

“This car, does it sound good to you? I don’t know. I do not drive.”

I shrugged and told him, “It sounds okay.”

Honestly, I wasn’t so sure about the car. I was amazed that Sawada, a long time resident of Los Angeles, did not drive. That seemed inconceivable to me.

We had a good visit at Hurricane. Everybody looked around, and took pictures. We had a picnic lunch. Eventually, we packed up to travel to another tourist spot in the park, Sol Duc Falls. Sally was concerned about her vehicle. I looked underneath the car for any obvious fluid leaks. I found none, and I told her so.

We drove to a different area of the park, the section with the temperate rain forest. That is where the Sol Duc Falls are located. During the ride, Sally and Karin talked. They had much in common. Sally is an artist, as is Karin. Sally’s children, as well as our kids, went to Waldorf schools. Our children went unwillingly, and none of them have forgiven us for that experience. During their conversation, Sally also spoke about the Kia. She was anxious, but in a calm sort of way.

Sally kept asking me questions about the vehicle. This was ironic, since I know very little about cars, mostly because I am not interested in them. Karin and I have two sons. Our two sons are both gear heads. They love cars. To me cars are just machines that get me from here to there. In any case, perhaps because of my gender, Sally really expected me to understand something about her Kia.

We got to the parking area near the Falls. There is a mile-long walk from the parking lot to the actual water falls. It was a beautiful walk. We were surrounded by many old trees, covered with moss and sometimes lichen. The forest reminded me of Fangorn, the ancient woods in “The Lord of the Rings”. Everything was green and alive and old.

At the end of the trail is the waterfall. There is a large bridge that crosses over the falls. It was on this bridge that the Buddhists took out their drums and started chanting, “Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo”. The other tourists tried not to take notice of the spontaneous spiritual outburst. These monks and nuns chant whenever they are inspired to do so. It’s what they do. I have gotten used to it.

Kamoshita, the monk from Okinawa, climbed down from the stream to the very edge of the waterfall. I watched him do it from the bridge. He slid down slippery rocks to look more closely at the rushing water that fell at least one hundred feet to the stones below. He stared at the roaring stream below him, and then he found his way back up the rocky path. I was relieved when he returned to more solid ground.

When we left Sol Duc, Sally was still edgy about her car. I told her to pop the hood open. I checked all of the fluid levels in the car. Everything was okay. I told her that. We started the long ride back to Poulsbo.

Sawada did not ride with us on the way back. Instead, a nun, Jun Sen, came with us. Jun Sen is a small, wiry woman. I don’t know how old she is, but she is feisty. She has an inner strength that is amazing. Jun Sen is with the peace pagoda in upstate New York. She knows what she wants, and she gets it.

It took almost two hours to get back to Ground Zero. We had a couple unexpected stops. Jun Sen wanted deep-fried okra. She remembered from a previous visit that there was a gas station near the Indian casino that provided this kind of treat. Sally, as a rule, seems to be accommodating to the needs and/or wants of her friends. So, we went on a long search for this elusive filling station. We found it. The place was closed. Jun Sen pounded on the door of the shop, but she got no answer. We went to Poulsbo without the desired fried okra.

Note: On the very next day, Jun Sen sat at Senji’s table with a plate of fried okra. I was impressed.

When we got to Poulsbo, Sally spoke to me. she said,

“I am so grateful that you were with us, Frank. You made me feel so much more secure and relaxed about the car.”

I was a bit puzzled. I told her,

“I didn’t do anything.”

She replied, “But at least you knew all the right words! You knew that much. That meant everything.”

Sally really has a nice car.