Author: frankisemptiness

May 26th, 2019

The sun came out today. It’s been gone for a while. That means all of the lawnmowers came out too. It’s been soggy around here, and any chance for a fellow suburbanite to cut the grass is taken up immediately. It’s loud outside. It sounds like the humming of dozens of gasoline-powered bees. I mowed the front yard yesterday, and that was enough for now. The backyard will probably be a swamp until July. It’s best that I leave it alone.

Today is Sunday, so it’s not actually Memorial Day yet. But it feels like it. I can see the American flags popping up all over the place. I have read the ads in the paper for the Memorial Day Weekend sales. There is that noxious faux patriotism that infects everything, at least for the next couple days. It doesn’t matter. By Tuesday, nobody will give a fuck about the soldiers who died defending this country. By Tuesday, nobody will remember the veterans who are crippled and maimed. By Tuesday, people will pretend that we are not a country at war.

That’s just how it is in America.

I walked to church this morning. It’s seven miles from our house to St. Rita Parish. I enjoyed the walk. I was alone, and I could listen to the birds, and I could examine the  flowers of a belated Wisconsin spring. It took a little over two hours for me to walk to Mass. I am very grateful for those two hours.

I got to our church, and I spoke to one of our ushers (greeters). Dan shook my hand and said, “Happy Memorial Day!” He knew that I was a vet. I thought for a moment, and then I told Dan,

“You know, Dan, my son, Hans, sometimes tells me that he doesn’t like it when people say ‘Happy Memorial Day!’ It’s not a happy day. It’s a day to mourn, a day to remember. Hans has told me that he prefers when people say, ‘Have a good Memorial Day.’ That seems to work better.”

Dan considered that, and said, “Yeah, I think I will try that in the future.”

Good.

I served as lector at Mass this morning. That means that I read from the Scriptures in front of the assembled believers. It also means that I read the “Prayers of the Faithful”, the combined petitions of our Catholic community. That part was difficult, very difficult.

Being that it is a national holiday, there were several prayers concerning soldiers, dead or living. Keep in mind that I have skin in the game. I am a veteran, although (through the mercy of God) not a combat vet. Our oldest son, Hans, is a combat vet. He fought in Iraq, and he came back here all screwed up.

One of the communal prayers said, “We pray for all veterans, that they may be healed of any physical and mental wounds.” Since I was at the microphone, I added “and any spiritual wounds”, because all of these poor bastards have spiritual wounds. Every one of them.

The next prayer was for the end of wars. That’s where I nearly lost it. I had not planned on it. It just happened.

I prayed, “Let us pray for the end of ALL WARS!” I damn near screamed that out. The congregation yelled back to me, “LORD, hear our prayer!” I had to pause for a bit. My mind reeled, and my chest heaved. Even now, I feel overwhelmed. I just wanted to cry. I kept going, somehow. I cried later.

In a way, it’s too hard. I can’t stop all the violence. I can’t.

I do what little I can do.

That has to be enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 25th, 2019

Highway 99 runs almost the entire way, north/south, through the Central Valley of California. Karin and I hooked up with the road near its northern end, close to Oregon. We came out of the Sierra Nevadas, and turned on to 99 just south of Chico. Then we drove north on the highway toward Vina. We planned on spending the night at New Clairvaux, a Trappist monastery located near that little town.

We had been on this same highway two years ago, when we visited the monastery for the first time. Highway 99 is mostly just a two lane road that winds through the farm country. It goes past numerous orchards and vineyards. Two years ago, the traffic seemed lighter. Maybe I remembered wrong, but this time the road seemed more crowded and drivers seemed to be more stressed. I certainly was.

We met a friend at New Clairvaux, and she took us to her home in Los Molinos for dinner. Los Molinos is only a few miles away from the monastery. As she drove on 99, she commented on the traffic.

“You see all of the dump trucks? They are hauling refuse away from Paradise. These trucks fill this road all day, every day. They expect to be hauling refuse from Paradise for the next three years.”

I asked, “So, what is it all?”

She told us, “It’s all of their…stuff. Things that burned up in the fire last year. It’s all toxic.”

“So, where are the trucks taking it all?”

Our friend told us that were two dumping sites, one north of Paradise and one to the south. I forget the names of the towns. I asked her,

“What do they do with all this toxic waste at these dumps?”

She didn’t know.

I found out at dinner that our friends had owned a home in Paradise. I never knew that before. They moved to Los Molinos a few years ago, in order to be closer to their work. The house in Paradise stayed on the market for a long time. They finally sold it. Then the Camp Fire hit struck the area and devastated everything. Paradise burned to the ground, and that included their old house.

The talk about the fire reminded me of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. Our friends spoke about how people from the local area had fled to towns like Chico and Red Bluff after the fire, and now these people were unsure of their futures. Can they rebuild in Paradise? The water there is now contaminated. Can they ever go back?

I went with our son, Stefan, on a class trip to New Orleans in 2008. That was three years after the hurricane, and the city was still devastated. We went there to help, in some small way, with the rebuilding of New Orleans. Nearly half of the city was abandoned at that point in time. Almost half of the population gave up on their homes and simply left, never to return. While in Crescent City, I walked with Stefan and his class through neighborhoods which were empty. I had never seen such desolation.

I thought about the town of Paradise. It struck me that it was the same sort of situation. People had been driven from their homes, and they had lost everything. Most of these people were never going back again. It was just like in New Orleans. The only difference was that it was fire, not water, that destroyed their lives.

Will anybody return to Paradise?

 

 

 

 

May 25th, 2019

Karin and I went to a funeral yesterday. The deceased, Joe, was not really a friend of ours. He was, at best, a friend of a friend of ours. I recall only meeting him once, and that was at his wedding to Anita. Anita is our friend from our old Bible study group. We went to the funeral to show support for her. We tried to share her grief, as best we could.

Joe and Anita divorced eventually,  after Joe was diagnosed with dementia. I don’t know the details of the break up. All I really know is that the marriage ended. Joe and Anita followed different paths.

Joe died.

Karin and I got to the mega-church just in time for the start of the funeral. Traffic sucked, and we barely made it there for the service.

Let me say up front that I do not like this particular church. Not at all. It is a non-denominational, Evangelical, Baptist-tinged community. It has that fundamentalist feel to it. I don’t like the theology that they promote. I don’t like their worldview. I do believe that the people in that church are good folks with good hearts, but I don’t want to ever be part of their organization. This might all simply be ignorant prejudice on my part. Even if it is, it still exists, and I feel it in my bones.

The funeral was held in the chapel. I have been in that chapel before. It’s creepy. The room has no windows. There is a skylight, but it seems to be carefully hidden. The chapel is essentially a naked conference room with a stage and a really good sound system. There is no visual art. None. Zero. There is a bare, wooden cross, maybe four feet high, on the stage, but that’s it. There is almost nothing else in that entire room to indicate that God is present. The chapel is a place where people talk (endlessly) about Jesus, but a person never actually sees Him (or feels Him) there. It’s all in head, but not in the heart.

I found some of the funeral service to be a bit manipulative. The pastor, in his comments, kept saying, “If Joe were here, he would tell you this.” Bullshit. The pastor, who I really think is a decent guy, was using a dead man to promote his own agenda, or maybe it’s  God’s agenda. It seemed unfair. The pastor obviously knew Joe much better than I ever did, but he still does not know what Joe would say. He can guess, but he can’t know. He was putting words into Joe’s mouth, and I found that offensive. The funeral was about Joe, but only to the extent that his life promoted a particular version of Jesus.

A number of people, mostly family,  told their personal stories about Joe. They were honest and loving about the man, and that made it real. However, I found it difficult to listen to these testimonies. There wasn’t anything wrong with what they said. I just contrasted their words to the absolute silence that reigned at the funeral of my father in November. When my dad died, nobody said anything. There was apparently nothing good to say.

The service ended. Karin and I left.

We talked briefly to Anita. The family had a supper ready, but we didn’t want to stay for that.

We drove home.

Karin told me in the car,

“I am glad that I will get a Catholic burial. It’s not so much about the person.”

She’s right.

 

 

 

 

 

May 23rd, 2019

I love sending postcards. I know that’s an anachronism. In this age of texting and tweeting, who sends cards by snail mail? I do. I like postcards because they are tangible. I like them because they force me to say things in as few words as possible; a postcard makes me concentrate and distill my message. I like cards because I write them by hand, and there is an intensely human aspect to that. During the recent road trip with Karin, I mailed scores of cards, to all sorts of people in all sorts of places. Writing the cards was a way for me to sort through our experiences. I was writing to myself as much as I were writing to the recipients of the cards.

Some places do not have postcards. They aren’t glamorous enough or exotic enough to justify such a thing. However, these places all have stories, and some of these stories should be told. Consider the following paragraphs to be postcards without pictures.

 

McGregor, Texas

The Donald Citrano Coffee Shop is in McGregor, Texas. There isn’t much in McGregor, Texas. It’s a place where two highways meet, and therefore a gas station exists at the crossroads. Otherwise, the town is eminently forgettable.  Yet somehow, it sticks in my memory.

Karin and I had left Hans and Gabi’s house in Bryan early in the morning. We had been driving for a couple hours prior to arriving in McGregor. We had many miles to cover that day. The plan was to get to the San Patricio retreat house in New Mexico by 5:00 PM, and we had all of Texas to cross before we got there. That was a daunting task. We hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, and Karin was interested in doing that soon.

We noticed the coffee shop as soon as we had passed it. I spun the Toyota around, and I planted it in a parking lot full of pick up trucks. Then we walked into Donald Citrano’s.

I noticed something as we strolled into the restaurant. Just inside the door was a rack a Bible tracts. Some of them were in Arabic, just in case we wanted to give one of them to one of our Muslim friends. We had clearly wandered into Jesus Country.

Just to make it clear, Karin and I are Christians. It’s just that we don’t particularly like the hard sell. Donald Citrano’s is not alone among restaurants with regards to having both food and faith on the menu. Sodolak’s Original Country Inn has all of its waitresses wear t-shirts with Bible verses on the backs. In Texas it’s cool to flaunt your religion, at least if it happens to be Christianity.

There was a sign that said, “seat yourself”, which we did. The tables and chairs in the coffee shop were of sturdy wooden construction. We found ourselves a table, and an older woman, who looked tired and who was very much out of breath, gave us menus. A cheerful young woman came to take our order.

“Y’all want to start out with something to drink?”

Karin and I both ordered coffee, and Karin also asked for some orange juice. The girl left and we looked at our menus. I decided to order the Biscuit Sandwich. I thought it would like an Egg McMuffin. Karin wanted pancakes. As we waited for the waitress to return, I looked around the coffee shop.

The place was full of locals. I don’t know that, but everybody there seemed to know everyone else. Lots of windburned ranchers wearing faded jeans and Stetsons. Music was playing on a sound system. It was apparently from a Christian radio station. I couldn’t make out all of the words in the songs, but that didn’t matter. Popular Christian music has a peculiarly cheesy quality that can be both endearing and irritating. The genre is immediately identifiable, at least it is to me.

The girl returned with our coffees, and we placed our orders. Karin seemed very happy with her pancakes and eggs. She asked me to eat some of her bacon. My Biscuit Sandwich was approximately three times the size of an Egg Mcmuffin. It was big, sloppy, and delicious. It was difficult for me to eat the sandwich without wearing part of it.

The older lady came to our table. She moved heavily and painfully. She had short hair and a lot of make up. The woman smiled at us, and said,

“I hope y’all don’t think I’m being unfriendly. I’m just not doing so well today.”

Karin and I made it clear that we did not think she was unfriendly. We asked her how she was.

The woman sighed. Then she said, “Well, it’s been a bit hard. My mama, well, she’s been in the hospital. And I’m not feeling so good lately.”

We nodded.

The woman continued, “But I put my faith in Him”, as she gazed upward. “I know where my strength comes from.”

We nodded again.

The woman thanked us for coming, and she sat down again at a table close by. We finished eating. I went up to pay at the register. A young guy took my credit card. While he rung up the bill, I looked at the sweatshirts they were selling. The shirts proclaimed the glories of nearby Crawford, Texas. Crawford is the “Home of President George W. Bush”.

I didn’t buy a shirt.

 

Coeur D’Alene, Idaho

Karin and I were on our way home. We stayed overnight at a Baymont Hotel. In the morning we drove to the local grocery store to resupply.

The Lakeside Harvest Grocery is not a busy place. I don’t think that there is any store in Coeur D’Alene that qualifies as being busy. The town moves at a leisurely pace, which is rather attractive. Nobody seems to be in a rush.

Karin and I found what we needed for the journey, and we went to the check out. A lady started ringing up our items, and she asked us where we were from. It was obvious to her that we were not locals.

The cashier asked us brightly, “Where are you folks from?”

We replied, “Wisconsin.”

The woman flashed a smile at us, “Really? Ain’t that something? I’m from Rockford in Illinois. That’s not far from you. My father, he was from Racine.”

I told her, “That’s pretty close to where we live.”

The woman smiled again. “That’s wonderful.”

I asked her name.

The woman told us, “Denise.”

Karin and I pushed the shopping cart outside to our car. We unloaded our groceries, and then we tried to find room for it all among the other things we had tightly packed into the vehicle.

Denise came out to us and said, “I’ll take the cart inside for you.”

I fumbled around and told her, “Well, okay, thank you. We don’t really need these plastic shopping bags any more either.”

Denise smiled and said, “You just give those to me. You folks have a safe trip now.”

Then she laughed and said, “Hooray for us Midwesterners!”, as she took the cart into the store.

 

Bozeman, Montana

Karin and I got to the Travel Lodge in the early evening. Karin had successfully made the reservation with Expedia on her phone. At least, we thought she had. We were both a bit ragged from the drive. Karin and I came to the front desk to plead our case.

A young woman checked to see if we actually had a reservation. We did.

The girl asked us, “So, what brings you folks to Bozeman?’

I had an attack of honesty. I told her, “Bozeman is on the way to somewhere else.”

The girl’s smiled stiffened slightly. She got our keys and said,

“Well, you can experience Bozeman while you are here.”

We nodded wearily. I asked the girl,

“Is there a place we can eat…within walking distance?”

She brightened up. “There is the Montana Ale Works. That’s just a few blocks from here. It’s a nice place. They are usually really busy. If you want, I can make a reservation for you.”

We demurred. Karin and I found our room and settled ourselves into it.

Later, we went back to the girl at the desk, and I told her,

“We’ll take you up on that offer. Go ahead and call for us.”

She did. Apparently, the Montana Ale Works wasn’t that busy just then. Karin and I walked slowly toward the restaurant.

Bozeman is a nice town. They have parks. There is money there. You can feel it. There is a lot of new construction, and there are a lot of offices that specialize in “wealth management”. This implies that there is wealth to manage. Bozeman is clean and tidy and obviously on to something. It has a small downtown with a number of chic cafes and shops, all of which require a population with disposable income. Bozeman doesn’t have that sense of desperation that we noticed in other small towns. It is prosperous.

The Montana Ale Works was painfully trendy. It’s a decent place, but it has a totally hipster vibe. That is something I never expected to encounter in Montana. The waiter was cool and up-to-date, and vaguely condescending. Karin and I ordered our food, which came to us tastefully displayed in tiny portions. The best part of the Ale Works was the beer menu. The place specialized in local beers, and I always find that attractive.

I had to mentally compare the Montana Ale Works with the Moon Time Restaurant in Coeur D’Alene. Moon Time was a mom and pop operation. The people there were authentic, and the food came to us in heroic proportions. I could relax when we ate at the Moon Time. The Montana Ale Works tried way too hard, and I felt it. It was corporate. It stunk of money.

Karin and I walked briefly through the downtown after dinner. It was pleasant enough. We were tempted to buy things in the shops, but we decided not to do that. The mountains shown in the distance. They still had a blanket of snow. The town was beautiful in the twilight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 21st, 2019

Southeastern New Mexico is desolate. This is not to say that it is ugly. It’s rugged and dry, and clearly not hospitable to most life forms, but it has a stark and austere sort of beauty. Vegetation is sparse, but the hills and low mountains are impressive nonetheless. The rocks and dirt are a dusty brown, occasionally punctuated by the green of a yucca plant or some cactus.

Karin and I were on our way to the retreat center in San Patricio. We drove all day before we even got close to the place. Most of our ride was through the state of Texas. The journey through eastern and central Texas was okay. The roadsides had plenty of wild flowers: evening primrose, Indian paintbrush, bluebonnets, red buds, and Indian blankets. There were oaks and junipers growing on sprawling cattle ranches.

Western Texas was a different story. New Mexico markets itself as the “Land of Enchantment”. There is some truth to that nickname. West Texas is not like New Mexico. It’s flat, hot, and disenchanting. I am sure that there are good reasons for people to live in west Texas. I just can’t imagine what they are.

We drove along US 70 to get to San Patricio. That road winds through the Hondo River Valley. The valley is deep and almost hidden. It is only obvious to the traveler because everything near the river is intensely green. The contrast with the brown hills is striking. Tall trees, mostly cottonwoods, grow in that valley. They are attractive in an magnetic sort of way. A person is pulled in their direction.

The GPS got us close to the retreat center, but not all the way there. The GPS is like that. Once we got to the winding dirt roads, the GPS gave it up. Fortunately, there were signs that took us the San Patricio. We parked outside the adobe complex, and we heard someone yelling to us. It was Guillermo.

Guillermo is the caretaker. He is a short, wiry Latino with grey hairs mixed in with the black ones. He smiled at us, and then he walked with Karin the short distance to the Casita, a small adobe building nearby. I drove the Toyota down a steep and rugged dirt road. I was careful not to bottom the car out when going over the ruts.

Guillermo showed us the inside of the Casita. It had a kitchen, a bathroom with a shower, a living room, and a bedroom. He showed us how to operate the propane heater, in case it got cold at night. We had brought along food to cook for ourselves, and we put it all into the small fridge. We stood around and talked with Guillermo for a while. Then he gave us the key and let us alone for the evening.

Karin and I decided to go for a walk around the grounds while there was still light. We strolled to the bank of the Hondo River. The Hondo would not qualify as a river anywhere east of the Mississippi. It was shallow, swift, and murky. It was more like a small, fast moving creek than a river. However, in this part of the world, the Hondo was a big deal. I was amazed at how lush everything was in its vicinity. Ancient, gnarled trees stood near the bank. Across the river was some private land where cattle grazed and lowed. There was an open, grassy area a little ways away. That lawn was surrounded by trees, bushes, and gladiolas. The Stations of the Cross marked the perimeter. Evening sunlight filtered through the tree branches as we walked. It was quiet except for the sound of the rushing river water.

Karin and I checked out the rest of the retreat center. It was built in the old, Spanish style with courtyards and gardens. The courtyards had doorways with heavy wooden beams, some of which were rotting out. Blooming rose bushes were everywhere. Most of the facility was locked up, including the chapel. We enjoyed exploring what we could. Some of the buildings were a bit rundown, but they were all beautiful.

Staying in the Casita was like being in the home of a friend. It had a “lived in” feel to it. It was welcoming in a subtle, silent way. Some of the furnishings were old and worn, but everything was spotlessly clean. We made ourselves supper in the kitchen. We felt comfortable. We felt relaxed. We felt like we belonged there.

It was a little strange to have all of San Patricio to ourselves. However, this is normal when a person stays at a retreat house during the week. Karin and I have often stayed at these isolated, spiritual oases, and we have often been completely alone. It’s amazing how quiet these places are in comparison to any hotel. After nightfall, all we heard was the river flowing past the house. Nothing else.

We went off early the next morning. We left the key for Guillermo, and we waved to him as we drove away. We were going to Christ in the Desert, a monastery with another retreat house.

 

May 20th, 2019

She didn’t look much different. I didn’t expect that she would. Actually, she looked a bit better than before. Her left hand was a little red, but the burn seemed to have healed completely. The girl still looked kind of edgy. She didn’t smile.When she blinked, it almost looked like she was wincing.

Karin and I hadn’t seen the girl for over a month. We had been on the road, traveling extensively throughout the South and the West. Now we were back, and it just happened that we made it home in time to visit this young woman in the Kenosha County Jail. We had been unsure about where this girl would be when we returned from our journey. It was very likely that she would have been transferred to the prison in Taycheedah by the time we got home. As it turned out, she was still in Kenosha.

Karin and I had visited her at the jail many times in the past. We knew the drill. We each filled out a little slip of paper, and we slid that, along with our ID’s, to the guard on the other side of a window. Then we waited to be called, just like everyone else in that hallway.

There weren’t many people there to visit prisoners on that Sunday afternoon. There was a young back man, his ear glued to a cell phone. There was a middle aged white guy, who seemed familiar with the place. An old woman sat in a chair waiting, her eyes tired and her breathing labored. There was an old, emaciated black man there. He had tattoos on his neck, and he wore a baseball cap that a slightly askew.

Each of us got called in to see our favorite inmate. Karin and I could not visit the girl at the same time, so I went in first, and then Karin followed me. Each visitor got only ten minutes with their prisoner. Because Karin and I went in consecutively, our girl got twenty minutes.

The time went quickly, as always. Karin and I walked to the elevator after our visit. The old, thin black man walked along with us.

When we got to the elevator, he spontaneously said,

“This here is a sad, sad place.”

Karin nodded in agreement.

The man went on, “I only got ten minutes to talk with my wife. She is only in here because she violated her probation.”

“Yeah, I hear you”, I replied. Then I said, “Our girl, she is waiting to go to prison.”

The man looked at us and asked, “How long she going in for?”

“Fourteen months.”

He shook his head and said, “That ain’t too bad.”

I shrugged.

The elevator came, and all three of us got into it.

The man said, “You know, it’s like a revolving door. People get out of jail, and then they break some rule, and they go right back in. They get a bad PO, and they right back in jail.”

“Well, our girl, she probably would have killed herself if she was still out. It’s better that she is here, than her being dead.”

The man nodded.

Then he said, “Yeah, maybe so. It’s just a hard thing. My sister, well, she’s in for life. That’s a different thing, you know. My wife, now, she just broke some stupid rule, and she’s here again. It still ain’t right.”

“No, it’s not.”

The elevator door opened.

The man got out. “Y’all have a good day.”

“You too.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 19th, 2019

We stayed in a casino. We didn’t do it on purpose. Seriously. It just sort of happened.

Karin and I were on our way to Reno to see Joseba and his wife, Goretti. Joseba and I are friends because of a brief interaction we had at a peace action two years ago in front of Creech Air force Base in Nevada. The group was getting ready to do some civil disobedience, and Joseba and I struck up a conversation. It turned out that we were both writers. In any case, we talked for at most five minutes before we blocked the entrance to the air force base. When the cops came, I got busted. Joseba didn’t.

By rights, our relationship should have ended there. It didn’t. Somehow, we stayed connected during the next two years. Joseba bought a copy of the book I wrote about Hans and the Iraq War. He sent me a copy of his book, “That Old Bilbao Moon”. (Joseba is a Basque. He has written a great deal about the city of Bilbao and the Basque portion of Spain.) Our correspondence centered on our writing, and on family matters. We often talked about meeting again, but it never seemed to possible.

Until now.

Karin and I had stayed with Hans and his family in Texas, and we were on our way to visit Senji and Gilberto at their temple near Seattle. Reno was kind of on our way between Texas and Seattle. So, Karin and I worked it out to spend a night with Joseba and his wife, Goretti. Both Joseba and Goretti were in the middle of a massive transition in their lives. They were both retiring from the University of Nevada in Reno. They were busy selling their house, so that they could move back to Spain. Karin and I were arriving to see them at a chaotic time. It turned out to be exactly the right time.

We arrived at Joseba’s house around 5:30 in the afternoon, after a long, lonely ride through the length and breadth of Nevada. Joseba was a bit surprised to see us come so early. We had expected to pull into Reno closer to seven o’clock. Goretti was attending a photography class, and she wouldn’t be done until 7:00. Joseba suggested that he take us over to the hotel where he had booked a room for us.

We didn’t stay in Joseba’s house because he had literally just sold it, and the place was half-empty and half in disarray. Joseba and Goretti had insisted on getting a hotel room for us in Reno. Karin and I were okay with that, although it seemed extremely generous on their part. Karin suggested that we offer to pay for the meal that evening. I mentioned to Joseba that Karin and I wanted to buy dinner. He would have none of it.

His instantaneous response to our proposal was, “No, of course you won’t pay! We are Basque! You are our guests!”

End of subject. That’s old school hospitality.

We followed Joseba into downtown Reno. He pulled into the parking lot of The Sands.

We were initially surprised, but not for long. We hadn’t expected to be staying in a room at a casino, but we should have. I mean, we were in Reno. Where else would a visitor stay besides at a casino? If Joseba hadn’t set us up at The Sands, we probably would have been at Harrah’s, El Dorado, or Circus Circus.

Karin and I had a nice room on the 12th floor of The Sands. (A bit of trivia: there was no 13th floor in the hotel. The elevator goes directly from the 12th floor to the 14th. “13” is bad luck and all that). Karin did notice that was impossible to open the room window. She surmised that this was to prevent big losers from flinging themselves down to the pavement below. Suicides are generally bad publicity at a casino.

Karin and I wandered around the casino until Joseba and Goretti came to pick us up for dinner. Karin had never been in an American casino before. I got plenty of experience in casinos last spring, when I was wandering around the country with the Indians. They are all the same: no windows, no clocks, and enough flashing lights to trigger an epileptic seizure. There was no efficient way to get anywhere in the casino. Karin and I got lost repeatedly. Casinos are flashy, gaudy, and designed to keep customers inside. It’s a system that works.

Joseba and Goretti took us to a distant Italian restaurant. La Vecchia sat on a hill and it had a panoramic view of Reno. At night we could see the downtown all lit up with red, purple, and green lights. The restaurant was much fancier than the eateries where Karin and I usually go. I had never been in a place where the waiter offers to grate fresh Parmesan cheese on to your plate. The food was excellent, and the conversation was better.

Karin and Goretti spoke mostly to each other. Joseba and I did the same. We talked about writing, as usual. Joseba is an academic, so he writes all the time. Because of his job, he has to write. He has to produce essays for publication. This is where we differ. I write (as I am now) because I want to write. I don’t have a gun to my head. Joseba, until now, has been required to write, and that can be a curse.

We talked about retirement. I am already three years into my retirement. Joseba, although he is older than me, is just starting this new phase of life. Joseba knows that he will continue to write. That is his great gift. Now he can write when he wants, and he can write what he wants. This is a huge change for him. He wanted to know if he should start a blog. I didn’t have any good advice for him. I could only suggest that he write about his passions. Retirement is a wonderful thing, but the shadow of mortality hovers over it all. Joseba and I are in the last chapters of our lives. We need to make the days and minutes count. We need to do what we love, and we need to do it well.

After dinner, Joseba and Goretti took us back to The Sands. Joseba promised to share breakfast with us before we continued on our journey in the morning. He made mention to us that the gambling industry in Reno had faded somewhat during the last decade or so. Indian tribes in California had opened up their own casinos, and they had siphoned off customers from Reno.

I could see that. The casinos were still brightly lit, but they looked tired somehow. The sign for The Sands had a light burnt out where the “n” should have been. I noticed other things. Nobody was at the crap tables or playing cards. Anybody who was in the casino was sitting at the slots. The Sands had all sorts of posters showing healthy, happy, young people gambling. I saw nobody who looked like that. Everyone in the casino was old. They were not only old, but they looked rough. I remember one woman with an oxygen tank, playing the slots, and never once glancing away from the flashing screen.

Karin and I got up the next morning, and we waited in the casino to meet with Joseba. The bar was already open, and it was already full. I have had an early morning drink in my time, but these people were pros. I listened briefly to customers talk the usual shit that barflies talk. It was profoundly depressing.

We found Joseba, and we went into Mel’s 50’s Diner, which is also part of the casino complex. Joseba noted that this restaurant was odd, in that it actually had windows.

Joseba said wryly, “You are getting the real Nevada experience.”

Indeed.

It was hard for us to say goodbye to Joseba. I think it was hard for him too. We had only had a few hours together, and we were lucky to have even that. Maybe Karin and I will go to Spain, and visit Joseba and Goretti. Maybe they will visit us in Wisconsin. Who knows?

All I know is that we are grateful for the time we had. Truly grateful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 16th, 2019

The Abbey of the Hills is nestled amid farm fields and woods in the northeastern corner of South Dakota, quite close to the Minnesota border. It was the last stop for Karin and myself, as we made our way home from the Pacific Northwest. To say that the abbey is out of the way would be a gross understatement. The abbey’s address uses the town of Marvin as its location, and I don’t recall ever even seeing a town called Marvin. If there is a Marvin, South Dakota, it is carefully hidden, or remarkably small.

The Abbey of the Hills actually sits atop of a hill. There aren’t many hills in that part of the world. Most of the land is flat or nearly so. Cornfields stretch across the prairie for miles upon miles. The home of Laura Ingalls Wilder is not too far away. That might give you a sense of the landscape. After all, she wrote all of those “Little House on the Prairie” books.

Karin and I arrived at the abbey after a long drive from Rapid City, South Dakota.  We had to call Valari at the monastery for additional directions when we got close to the place, because we got confused. There were no landmarks to use as guides. Valari got us on to the right road, and eventually we saw the church steeple in the distance. We came up the driveway and parked. Ours was the only car in the lot.

We got out of the Toyota, and we were grateful just to walk around and stretch. We met Valari inside. She worked as the receptionist. Like many retreat houses, this place was nearly empty during the week. Valari welcomed us, and escorted us to our room for the night.

We asked her about the abbey. Valari explained,

“This abbey was run by the Benedictines for many years. At one point, there were over eighty monks in this monastery. Their numbers dwindled. Five years ago, they were down to fourteen monks, the average age of which was eighty. They just couldn’t do it any more. So, we took over. We are part of a non-profit that handles the property and provides retreats here.”

Our room was down a long corridor in the “monks’ wing”. It was nice room, with a queen-size bed, and a vanity with a sink. Our window faced to the east. There was a separate shower room, and a separate restroom. Karin did not like the restroom because it had urinals. Well, the building was designed for monks. Monks are men, and they often use urinals. Maybe, at some time, they will redesign the bathrooms, but not yet.

We made our own supper in the kitchen. Karin and I ate alone in the dining room. Everything there was clean and well-organized, and abandoned. I kept imagining how that dining room would have been when it was full of monks. It was probably noisy and chaotic and alive. When we were there, it was not alive  We ate quietly in a museum.

After supper, Karin and I went for a walk. We did some exploring. We went outside and looked over the grounds. We found an old handball court, and a tennis court. We found sheds and outbuildings that clearly had not felt the hands of men for years and years. We walked past a small lake (or pond). It was cold and windy, with the threat of rain. The bells in the clock tower rang every quarter hour. We heard nothing else, and we saw no one else.

Karin and I returned to the abbey. We went into the church. It had choir stalls for the monks, monks who would never, ever return to fill them. The church felt empty and forlorn. Karin said that it was because the chapel no longer held the Blessed Sacrament. The Eucharist no longer resided in that space. so, in a way, God no longer resided there. I didn’t stay in the church very long. There was there nothing for me.

I went back to our room. Karin found a nice meeting room with a fireplace and a portrait of Our Lady of Guadalupe hanging on the wall. Karin stayed there to knit and do her evening prayer. I walked around. The rooms were all immaculate, and they all had a donated quilt as a bedspread. The corridors were eerie, a bit like the hallways in the hotel from the movie, “The Shining”. I never quite felt alone. I felt the presence of the spirits of the monks, or at least of their memories. ‘

Karin and I had breakfast in the dining room near the kitchen. We were on our own. I made some coffee. There was cereal, yogurt, fruit, and bread available to us. We ate mostly in silence. We cleaned up after ourselves.

As we packed our things after breakfast, We met the caretaker, Sylvia. She is our age (i.e. old), and she is tall with grey hair and eyeglasses. She was wrapped up in a shawl. Sylvia apologized for not being there early enough to make coffee for us.

I told her that it was okay. We know how to make coffee.

Sylvia asked about our stay.

I told her, “It’s a nice place, but it’s full of ghosts.”

Sylvia gave me a stern look, and she asked,

“Were they bad?”

“No, no. They were okay. They were just here.”

“Who were they?”

“The monks.”

“Sylvia nodded, “I know what you mean.”

We talked for a bit. Sylvia told us about how empty it was here during the winter. They had had a brutal winter here, much like that in Wisconsin. Sylvia and I talked about Native American rituals. She seemed to know a lot about them. Eventually, the conversation faded, and Sylvia said,

“I want to go to the lake and pray.”

Fair enough.

We said our goodbyes.

Karin and I went home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 18th, 2019

“A little bit of this town goes a very long way.” – Hunter S. Thompson

Nevada is a big state. It is an amazingly long drive from the Las Vegas to Reno. Karin and I did not actually start from Vegas (thank God), but we were in the vicinity. We began our day’s journey from Zion, Utah, and the GPS took us through some obscure corner of northwestern Arizona in order to get us into the great state of Nevada. Keep in mind that I have some personal history in Nevada. Two years ago, I got busted at a protest in front of Creech Air Force Base, and I was able to spend some quality time in the CCDC (Carson County Detention Center). Nevada has weird energy for me.

Well, I should talk a bit about the Great Basin, since that is the title of this essay. Nevada resides almost entirely within the Great Basin. The Great Basin is a place where rivers never meet the sea. That is the definition in a hydro-graphic sense. Nevada is surrounded by high, snow covered mountains. In the spring and summer, the snow on these peaks melt, providing streams and rivers of fresh water that flow into small lakes. Eventually, all of the snow melt, and the streams dry up. Then these lakes and ponds turn into dusty salt flats. They become places where dust devils go to play.

Karin and I had the opportunity to see both the sweet lakes and the forbidding salt flats. The lakes were small, but life-giving. They were often surrounded on their edges by cottonwoods with deep roots. Enterprising ranchers irrigate fields with the water to keep their cattle alive and well. When we drove through places where the snow melt had been exhausted, Karin asked me why the ground was so white. It was salt, all of it. We saw tiny tornadoes of dust dance over these salt flats. It was desolation like that of St,. John’s Apocalypse.

There are very few towns in the Great Basin. A person learns quickly to take advantage of every opportunity to refuel. It is not unusual to drive two hours and not find any kind of service. It is not unusual to drive for over an hour, and not see another vehicle going in either direction. This can be disconcerting to some people.

There are stretches of road that are utterly deserted. These highways are in flat valleys and they are straight as a die. It is impossible for a driver to determine the distance through these level areas between the mountains. One hundred miles looks like twenty.

It is tempting to exceed the posted speed limit. Generally, the roads are posted at 70 mph. A driver is a damn fool if he or she drives at less eighty. On these highways there is often the sense that you are hardly moving at all. Correspondingly, there is an intense desire to pass slower-moving vehicles, even if they are already going at a reckless speed. It is extremely difficult to estimate the speed of oncoming traffic, little though there is. Any car or truck coming from the other way seems to be either too close or too far, depending on a person’s perspective. Passing in the left lane can become a dangerous pastime.

There is also the hazard of cattle on the road. Most of Nevada has open grazing, which means no fences, which means a steer can be on the highway at any time. Hitting a cow at 80 mph would be unfortunate for everyone involved.

There are towns on the route which really don’t qualify as towns. Luning is one of them. The burg is little more than a collection of boarded up buildings and houses that are collapsing of their own weight. Luning is a speed trap that screams of desolation. The entire place is nothing more than a backdrop for another zombie movie.

Weather is peculiar in the Great Basin. We encountered a micro-storm while driving along. Cumulus clouds crammed the sky and raindrops poured down. In most cases, the rain never hit the ground. The moisture evaporated before it could arrive. However, on one occasion, the rain slammed into our car, and I had turn the wipers on as fast as they could go. The shower was done in less than a minute. It did clean the bugs off of the windshield.

As we got closer to Reno, we drove past the Hawthorne Army Depot. There were rows upon rows of ammunition bunkers. Every section of the highway is dedicated to some poor bastards who fought and died in an American war.  I truly feel for the guys who are stationed there. What a hideous place to be.

Was all of Nevada ugly? No. Some of it was beautiful in a rugged, brutal sort of way. Parts of the state were absolutely glorious. There was just too much of it.

 

 

 

May 16th, 2019

South Dakota is boring in a way that is difficult to describe. I don’t mean that the entire state is boring. Some parts of it, like the Badlands or the Black Hills, are quite impressive. Unfortunately, much of the vast expanse of South Dakota is flat and treeless. It is a mind-numbing landscape. Time crawled as Karin and I drove through it today. I can’t even imagine what it must of been like for the pioneers to cross the prairie.

It’s not that South Dakota is boring because it is desolate. Parts of it are green and fertile, and farmers raise cattle and grow corn on this land. Arizona is much more desolate than South Dakota, but its scenery is varied, and often breathtaking. South Dakota is boring because for hundreds of miles nothing changes, nothing at all. A person can drive along I-90 for hours and not notice anything new. Even when moving at a speed of 80 mph or more, there is a sense that no progress is being made.

Being that much of South Dakota is monotonous, people eagerly look for something out of the ordinary. Even a cow or a tree can catch a person’s interest. Towns along I-90 vie for the attention of travelers. For instance, Mitchell takes pride in its Corn Palace. Another place has a 50’s auto museum. But nothing beats the town of Wall, South Dakota.

Wall is home to Wall Drug. There are signs along the highway advertising the glories of Wall Drug as far west as the Wyoming border, or as far east as Minnesota. The signs say: “Free ice water!” or “Five cent coffee!” or “Six foot rabbit!” Eventually, the messages seep into the mind of the sensory-deprived driver. The desire to stop at Wall Drug becomes overwhelming. A person is ready for literally any kind of distraction.

Karin wanted to stop at Wall Drug. We had been there once before, many years ago. I had found the experience to be profoundly disturbing. Well, that was a long time ago. How bad could it be?

At some point in its history, Wall Drug was just a pharmacy in some little town in the middle of nowhere. Now, do to its location (or lack of location), Wall Drug is a tourist mecca. It has no competition. There is nothing else to see for miles in either direction. People, like Karin and myself, stop there because we can’t stand the long and winding road any more. 

Wall Drug is actually a collection of stores and restaurants, all housed under one roof. One shop is linked to another. It resembles a souk or bazaar in the Middle East more than anything else. It is easy to become lost in there, and I believe that is by design. Like a casino, Wall Drug makes it hard for a person to escape without spending money. We didn’t make it out of there without opening our wallets. I don’t think anyone does.

Wall Drug seems to specialize in selling amusingly tacky products. You know, authentic faux Indian merchandise, and that sort of thing. The place is full of pseudo-cowboy kitsch. There is a Travelers Chapel that is almost sacrilegious in its cheesiness. The place is a wholesome, all-American tourist trap, and Wall Drug is proud of it.

After maybe twenty minutes, I had to flee outside the building.

Karin laughed.

 

Wall Drug specializes in selling tacky merchandise. You know, authentic faux Indian blankets, and that sort of thing. The place is filled with pseudo-cowboy kitsch. It’s just hideous. They have a Travelers Chapel that is