Author: frankisemptiness

October 29th, 2019

“I respect only poverty and great adventures of the mind; between the two there is only a society which is laughable.” – Albert Camus

“Poverty signifies completeness without superfluity, wholeness without luxury: A state of holiness.” – Eric Gill

Ciudad Juarez is a poor city by almost any standard. Anapra is a section of the city that makes the rest of Juarez look prosperous. Anapra is a colonia, a slum. It is a place where people struggle. Some of them work in maquiladoras, the factories that are owned by American companies. The people in these factories earn next to nothing. Think of it this way: my youngest son, Stefan, is an iron worker, and he earns more in an hour than these folks make in a week.

It was Sunday morning. Everybody in our group was going to Anapra to attend Mass at the Iglesia Corpus Christi. We went from Casa Vides in two vans. We all had our passports, and we rolled quickly across the border into Juarez. It’s relatively easy to cross into Mexico. Coming back into the U.S. is an entirely different story.

Juarez looked a bit ragged. It got more so as we drove into Anapra. The houses had metal grates over all of the windows and doors. I don’t think these were for decoration. Many of the homes seemed incomplete. Often walls made of cinder blocks stood naked with steel rods sticking out of them. The rebar extended up above the walls, as if the intention was to build a second story on the house. I never saw anybody doing any construction, but then again it was a Sunday morning. I had the impression that work on these houses had ceased for some reason, maybe a lack of funds, or a lack of interest.

Some streets were paved, and others were just dirt. The dirt roads had major ruts and holes in them. Dust blew around in the wind. Dogs wandered aimlessly in the streets. I saw some chickens. Some of the properties looked well-maintained, and others were in various states of decay. Some houses were painted in bright colors. They had a beauty that was both simple and warm.

As we drove toward the church, we went down the main street in the neighborhood. We had to drive very slowly because the road was clogged with vendors. It looked like a garage sale of epic proportions. The rows of tents and umbrellas went on for blocks. It seemed like most of the merchandise was used. I didn’t notice many new things being sold. Many people were selling clothes or shoes. Some vendors had electronic products for sale. There was a little bit of everything there. One old man had spread a blanket on the ground, and he was selling hand tools that were rusty with age.

We arrived at Corpus Christi. We had time before the start of Mass, so we looked around. The church was simple and austere. It had the standard Catholic accoutrements: the crucifix behind the altar, the stations of the cross. There was a large shrine to Our Lady of Guadalupe. The church had no stain glass in the windows. There were pews in the front, and folding chairs in the rear of the church. At some point work had been done in the church and, like some of the houses I saw, the project wasn’t finished. Corpus Christi had a totally working class feel to it.

The Mass was a celebration, as it should be. The church was full of people who clearly wanted to be there. Music was supplied by two men, one with a guitar and the other with an electric bass. There was a level of enthusiasm that I seldom see in churches. People sang, clapped, and even danced. Families worshiped together, and the kids participated willingly. The liturgy was vibrant and alive. It was joyful.

I am certain that nearly everybody at that Mass was poor. Everyone I met in the church was friendly and welcoming. They were glad that our group was there with them.

We were glad to too.

 

 

 

October 28th, 2019

Casa Vides is hard to find. After an eleven hour drive (mostly on I-10), the three of us arrived in El Paso, Texas. Well, we kind of arrived there. The GPS got us pretty close to our destination. We had to wander around a bit to find the actual house. Casa Vides doesn’t have a big sign to advertise its location. If anything, it tries to stay hidden.

Leon Street has limited parking. When you come right down to it, there is really no parking on that street. I planted my Ford Focus in somebody’s private parking space, and then begged the owner to let me stay there for five minutes. It helped to have Sister Ann Catherine with me when I made my plea. People tend to be a bit more tolerant when a religious sister is involved in the conversation.

After parking the car, I led Sister Ann Catherine and Shawn in the wrong direction. I do that sort of thing. We turned ourselves around and found Casa Vides. It’s a two story brick building with an intentionally nondescript wooden door. The door simply says,”325″.  We rang the bell. Somebody answered.

That somebody was Gustavo. He was a slight, young Latino, with long hair and eyes like Jesus. He welcomed us in. Other people were there. Sister Caroline was on the phone, dealing with a crisis. Apparently, a young migrant woman was trying to fly to New York in order to be with her family. That was not going to happen because the airline refused to take her, due to the fact that she was in a wheelchair and she had nobody to assist her during the flight. The young woman had broken both ankles while crossing the Rio Grande in order to get to the United States from Mexico. The situation was turning into a mess, and Sister Caroline was trying to handle it.

The lower level of Casa Vides is split into two halves. One part is set up for people to sit and relax. There are several old, overstuffed sofas covered with cracking and crumbling Naugahyde. The other half of the first floor is set up as a dining area, with folding tables and folding chairs. In the back is a kitchen, and there is also the Romero Room, a bedroom with bunk beds for children.

The upper level has bedrooms, bathrooms, and showers. The bedrooms are set up to shelter migrants, and to house the volunteers at Casa Vides. To get to the upper level a person has to use an outside staircase. Seeing as El Paso generally has fair weather, this is not a problem. I wound up sharing a small room with four other men. This was not an issue for me. I grew up with six younger brothers. I have experience with this sort of thing.

How can I adequately describe Casa Vides?

First, Casa Vides is a home, albeit a temporary one. I felt at home there, even though I was a total stranger. I felt like I belonged there. That is a rare experience for me. I almost never feel like I belong.

There is a mural inside of Casa Vides. It shows the images of Gabriel and Gladys Vides. They were a married couple from El Salvador. Both of them were murdered by the death squads in that country. They were murdered by people who most likely trained by the U.S. at Fort Benning in the School of the Americas (SOA). The children of Gabriel and Gladys came to the U.S. and were eventually granted asylum. Those kids were in this house. They were at Casa Vides.

On the mural is a quote from Saint Oscar Romero, It says,

“Si me matan, resucitaré en mi pueblo.”

“If you kill me, I will be resurrected in my people.”

Flowing from the mural are streams of names on the walls. There are thousands and thousands of names on the walls. These are the names of people who were murdered in El Salvador and Honduras and Guatemala, and God only knows where else. In the basement are more names. Those are the names of the people who died trying to enter the U.S. from other countries. Many of the names are unknown because bodies were found in the desert. For those unknown dead, it is simply written, “Desconodido.” That Spanish word is everywhere in Casa Vides.

There is also a mural in the basement. It is tribute to a young man named Juan Patricio. Juan Patricio was not documented. He was staying at Casa Vides. The Border Patrol came for him. He ran. They killed him, not far from the house. They killed him because he was “illegal”, whatever that means. Juan Patricio is a martyr. He is a saint.

In the very early morning, I often sat in the dining area, and I read the names of the people on the walls.

I was surrounded by a cloud of witnesses. I was surrounded by saints.

I was never alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

October 27th, 2019

Chris took us all to the memorial of the Walmart shooting in El Paso. He drove us there in the van late in the afternoon. It was kind of surreal. The memorial is right next to Hooters, which was clearly open for business. Cops have closed off the street, but everywhere else life and commerce go on uninterrupted.

The memorial is huge. Just huge. It extends for almost a city block. It is simultaneously sacred and tacky. I guess that is a lot like life in general. There is an endless array of plastic flowers, stuffed animals, and Bible quotes. Votive lights and other candles are everywhere. There are a variety of flags flying: Israeli, Kuwaiti, German, British, Japanese, and Mexican. There are many Mexican flags. One flag is an amalgam of of the American flag and the Mexican flag. That one I liked.

The place also has many random notes. There are posters with quotes from St. Teresa of Calcutta. People from Colorado, Ohio, Puerto Rico, San Diego, Pittsburgh, Alabama, Utah, San Antonio, Tijuana, and even Nicaragua have left messages. There is a poster on the fence from the 82nd Airborne at Fort Bragg in North Carolina. The hopes and prayers are endless.

But, what does it all mean?

When people say that they are sending you their “thoughts and prayers”, that usually means that they aren’t going to do anything to help. That is the standard translation.

This is not to say that people don’t care. They do care. They simply do not know what to do. This is a problem.

I was very disturbed by my time at the memorial. I am sure that everyone else was disturbed too. We were all torn apart in some way. We recognized the hurt, and we were all wounded in turn. It was good that we went to Walmart, but we left that place damaged.

When we got back to Casa Vides, we wandered into the basement for a period of reflection.

That kind of sucked.

Being who I am, I chose to speak my piece during the reflection. This was probably unwise.

I don’t remember if I was the first to speak during the reflection, and it really that doesn’t matter.

I said that it bothered me that we prayed for the victims and their families, but we never bothered to pray for the shooter and his family.

I am the father of a killer. I know how this feels. Granted, Hans did what he had to do to survive in Iraq, but he still killed people. I think that I might understand how the parents of this Walmart murderer, this idiot, feel. I know the pain and the guilt. These parents are in agony, and they cannot fix anything.

I need to pray for the shooter. I need to pray for his family. The members of his family also qualify as victims.

I pray for Hans. He killed people, and he is convinced that he can never be forgiven.

When I was with our group in the basement, I asked about the shooter,

“Is this guy damned? Is he beyond redemption? Shouldn’t we pray for him? I’m just asking.”

The response was noncommittal. Some of the group could not pray for a killer.

I understand that. I wouldn’t pray for Hans either, except that I love him.

As a final note, Chris mentioned that there were 22 deaths at the Walmart shooting in El Paso. El Paso’s sister city, Ciudad Juarez, has ten murders every day.

Just sayin’.

October 27th, 2019

I rested for a day in Bryan, Texas, on the way home from El Paso. Sister Ann Catherine and I had just finished the Border Awareness Experience, and we were both a little ragged. Sister Ann Catherine spent the day with Shawn, my sister-in-law. Shawn had also been in El Paso for the five-day immersion program.

My son, Hans, had the day off from work, so I hung out with him and his family. Hans and I talked together, while we drank a six pack of beer. Somehow, the conversation turned toward our respective military experiences. We tend to end up on the topic.

It doesn’t happen very often, but sometimes Hans tells me something about Iraq that is truly disturbing. I am never prepared for that. His stories seem to come out of nowhere, and they hit me hard.

I mentioned to Hans that drone pilots (the uniformed men and women who kill people overseas with those weapons) suffer from PTSD. I told Hans that the difference between the drone operators and him is that they knew the people that they killed, because they tracked them for months, while Hans killed people who were strangers to him.

Hans stared at me for a moment.

Then he shook his head.

“Dad, that’s not true. I knew some of the people I killed.”

Then Hans told me a story.

“There were these farmers in Iraq. We knew them for months. They would bring us tea. Sometimes, they would give us food. We were friendly with them. There was the father and his sons. The mother was there too, with her daughters. Daughters don’t count for much over there.

Then somebody got to them.

We would always drive by their clay house, and they would wave at us. Then, one day they didn’t wave. There was AK-47 fire coming from the house. I was up in the turret of the CAMIN when they started shooting. We weren’t supposed to fire back until the turret got hit with a round. Well, I took a round (Hans pointed to his left shoulder). The bullet got stuck in the body armor, and it slammed me back against the turret. I was on the 240 (machine gun). I fired back.

The sergeant yelled at me about that, but, hell, I got hit! Fuck ’em. We tore that place up. That clay house just collapsed under the fire.

They were all dead. That whole family.”

Hans paused. His eyes blazed behind his glasses. Then he said,

“These drone guys, well, maybe they got ‘PTSD’, or something. Maybe they are messed up because they watched a scary video game. Those guys didn’t have to dig through a house to identify bodies. We found damn near a million dollars in cash under one of the beds. Somebody got to them.”

I walked over to Hans and hugged him. He’s taller than I am, and I just rest my head on his chest. I could smell the tobacco smoke. His body remained rigid. I let him go.

Hans’ eyes softened a bit.

He told me, “I learned to fight dirty. That’s how I survived.”

He shook his head. Then he said,

“Dad, it’s all about the Benjamins ($100 bills). That’s what it’s all about. Somebody got to those people.”

Hans sighed, “I’m sorry, Dad. I should have told you before.”

I shrugged.

“It’s okay. I’m glad that you told me.”

Hans, it’s okay.

It’s okay.

Okay…

October 27th, 2019

Sister Caroline and I are early risers. During my short stay at Casa Vides in El Paso, I would wake up at three or four in the morning, shave and wash myself, and then wait for Sister Caroline to open up the common area on the lower floor. She came down the steps promptly at 5:00 AM each morning. I usually met her as she was opening up shop.

She told me once in her Irish brogue, “We ought to give you your own key, young man.”

It is rare that anyone refers to me as a young man, but then Sister Caroline is pushing eighty.

Casa Vides is a shelter for undocumented immigrants. I was there with a group of people from a Catholic organization to learn about what was actually happening on the southern border. We had been back and forth across the border several times during the last five days. The experience was emotional  intense. There was a lot to process.

Sister Caroline takes it upon herself to set up things for breakfast. She starts by making a huge pot of coffee (I am eternally grateful for that). She puts out bread and butter, and whatever else people need to make themselves something to eat, in order to begin their day. Once Sister has it all arranged, then she sits down to say her prayers, or to engage in a bit of conversation.

It was on our last morning together that Sister Caroline and I sat and talked. The previous evening, five kids had arrived at Casa Vides to stay for the night. They were the children of undocumented parents. The boys and girls were all U.S, citizens, having been born here. Their parents, for whatever reason, had decided to cross the bridge from El Paso to Ciudad Juarez, and live in Mexico. Ruben, who runs the shelter at Casa Vides, brought the kids back across the border for a few nights of safety.

Sister Caroline spoke about the children. She smiled and said,

“We tucked those little ones into bed last night. They all wanted to sleep in the upper bunks. I told them, (in a serious voice), ‘State law requires that you be at least ten years old before you can sleep in an upper bunk’, and they all replied, ‘We’re ten! We’re ten!’ It was lovely. Sister Bea and I checked in on them after a while, and they were all sound asleep.”

I sipped my coffee. I asked,

“Why did the parents go back?”

Sister shrugged. “Maybe it was too hard here. We don’t know.”

I told the sister about Karin’s history. My wife’s family, on her father’s side, were all refugees. I told Sister,

“My father-in-law, Max, was in the Luftwaffe during the war. He never went home, ever. He was born in Silesia, which is now Poland. His parents and siblings, they all fled when the Soviets came. They could hear the Russian cannons in the distance.”

Caroline nodded.

I went on, “Karin’s Onkel (Uncle) Kurt was in the German Army. He married Tante (Aunt) Aga on Christmas of 1943. He left her a couple days later to go back to his unit in France. Then D-Day happened. Kurt was captured. He was a French prisoner of war until 1948.”

Caroline nodded again.

I told her, “Kurt and Aga went back to their home village in the late 1990’s. They were so disappointed. Nothing was the same. There was nothing German there. It was all Polish.”

Sister Caroline asked me, “Does your wife go back to Germany?”

“No. She hasn’t gone back there for fifteen years or more. Her parents are long dead. There is nothing to go back to. It’s odd. Immigrants always have one foot here and one in the Old Country. Karin is still a German national. She has never wanted to be an American.”

Sister Caroline spoke, “I’ve gone back to Ireland, you know. Oh, it’s all different now. I see some of the same shops, but it’s not the same. When I was a girl, we lived about a mile outside of town. We never locked the doors. One night a drunk came into our house, thinking it was his own. We sat him down, put the kettle on, and gave him a cup of tea. He was all right then. Nowadays, we would have called the police on him!”

She went on, “We were poor, but it didn’t seem to matter. I remember when they brought in the first factory. It was a cannery, you know. My mother was so upset. She said, ‘They are putting our vegetables into tins?! Not in my house!’. She was so upset.”

There was a a pause, and then the sister said, “I’m glad that I was born when I was.”

Sister Caroline and I talked about work.

I told her about my work, and how I often treated people like things. I was a supervisor at a trucking company, and I had to meet deadlines, and hurt people in doing so. I’m ashamed of that, but it can’t be remedied. She didn’t condemn me. Sister told me about how she had worked as a school principal, and how she had tried, as much as she could, to recognize the humanity and dignity of the people there. She would pray with the teachers, and she would never go into their classrooms unexpectedly.

Sister Caroline looked intently at me and said, “It’s all about the money, Frank. That’s the problem. We try to do our best, but people are always after the money.”

We sat in silence for a while.

Later, I left Casa Vides with Sister Ann Catherine and my sister-in-law, Shawn.

Sister Caroline heard me say goodbye. She rushed over to me and said,

“You have such a beautiful spirit! God bless you!”, and she made the sign of the cross on my forehead. She hugged me tight.

I said nothing.

I was too choked up.

October 14th, 2019

Stefan came to the house yesterday. I had gone shopping, and when I came home, I saw his red pick up truck sitting in the garage. The front was up on jacks, and Stefan was struggling to swap out an oil filter. I asked him how he was doing. He replied gruffly,

“Well, I’m try to get this piece of shit off, without getting oil all over the fucking floor, and it’s not going so well. I’m having a hard time here, so if you don’t mind…”

“I’m walking away.”

Stefan grunted as he turned a wrench, and mumbled, “Thank you.”

I went into the house, and I let the dogs out. I found Stefan’s mail (he has most of his snail mail delivered to our house). I put his mail aside, and then I pulled a large plastic container out of the refrigerator. It was full of food for Stefan. He’s been working ten hours a day, six days a week, and he generally hasn’t had time to cook.

I went back out to the garage. Stefan was adjusting the hood latch on his truck with a large, blunt object.

“Uh, so, what are you doing?”

Without looking up. Stefan replied, “I’m hitting something with a hammer. I’m good at this.”

As an Iron Worker, I bet he is good at that.

I mentioned, “Hey, there’s beer, if you want some.”

Stefan shook his head, “No thanks. I did some drinking last night, and I really don’t to have any beer. I opened the refrigerator this morning, saw a six pack, and shuddered.”

He finished fine tuning his latch, and he slammed the hood shut on the truck. He came into the house.

Shocky immediately jumped up on him, her tail wagging in a circle like an airplane propeller. The border collie/lab loves Stefan. He rubbed her neck and got her even more excited.

He gazed at her and said, “She looks good with a bit of a trim. Even with her hair combed out, she is still kind of fluffy.”

I pointed to the kitchen counter. “There is your mail and the stuff I cooked yesterday. The sauce isn’t as thick as I wanted it.”

Stefan picked up the container. “I’m sure it’s okay. I know you make good jambalaya. You always have the right ingredients.”

Stefan looked at me, and said, “Well, yesterday was fucking cold and windy. I spent the day 150 feet above the ground on the lift, measuring to see if the beams were straight. I had on four hoodies, and I was still cold.”

Stefan looked tired and windburned. He has been working on the Foxconn project, a monstrous factory being built on some land about twenty miles from where we live. Stefan is working way up high every day; sometimes bolting beams together, sometimes welding, sometimes doing other things. He is always working outside, except when it’s raining. It takes a lot out of him, and it’s only October. Just wait until winter arrives.

Stefan went on, “It’s almost time to pull out the bibs (overalls).”

Then he frowned and said, “But I don’t want to be the first guy wearing them.”

I nodded, “You don’t want to be the wimp.”

“Nope. Don’t need to catch shit for that.”

Stefan told me, “There is a new guy on the job. I mean I’m still a new guy, but this guy is really new. He’s been with us maybe for two weeks. I’ve been trying to give him some tips, like he should be wearing his tool belt all the time. Things like that.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s okay so far, but he hasn’t dealt much with the assholes. I mean, at the Foxconn site, they’re picky about who works there. Nobody with felony raps. That sort of thing. So, we don’t have any of the real assholes there.  Wait till this newbie meets some of the guys on a rebar team.”

“They’re a little harsh.”

Stefan laughed. “I learned to give as good as I get. If somebody ripped on me, I turned it right around and threw it back at the guy. You got be quick with your responses.”

“No doubt.”

Stefan said, “Sometimes, we play the ‘rain game’. Do you know what that is?”

“No. Tell me.”

“It’s when the forecast calls for rain the next day, so you all go out drinking. You’re betting that the job gets rained out, and that you can sleep in. I’ve lost at that a few times.”

“That sucks.”

“Oh yeah, it does. I won last week. We went to the bar. I woke up in morning at five, thinking: ‘God, I don’t want to go to work’, and then the phone rang. They called us off. Yes!”

“What’s up for the rest of the day?”

“Beth is at my place. I think we’ll warm up the jambalaya.”

“It’s good with rice. Do you have any rice at home?”

“Yeah, I got rice. That will be good. I also got a couple rib eye steaks that have been in the freezer for too long. I think those will get grilled later today.”

“Sounds good. Get some rest.”

Stefan grabbed the food and the mail. “I’ll stop by to do some laundry later. Maybe not today, even though the basket is overflowing with clothes. If I can find even one piece of clean underwear, I’ll wait until tomorrow. See you!”

Stefan pulled out of the garage, and drove away.

Stefan is twenty-five. After he left, I thought back to when I was twenty-five. Back then, I was a helicopter pilot in Germany. I did much of my work way up high. I was dating Karin at the time. I was in the Army, hanging around other crude, testosterone-driven young men. I was doing dangerous work, and generally loving it. I drank a lot. I did many things that were, in retrospect, unwise.

I thought about Stefan. His life today is not all that different than mine was.

I smiled.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

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