Author: frankisemptiness

February 19th, 2019

It had snowed all day on Sunday, and most of the following night. The last few flakes fell at around 4:30 AM on Monday. I was up by then, and I started shoveling out the driveway for the third time in the last twenty-four hours. The street in front of the house was still snow covered. No plow had been through recently.  I had to throw the white stuff high in the air in order to get it over the already tall and substantial snowbanks that edged the driveway. I wanted to at least get the portion of the driveway around Stefan’s truck cleaned up before he went to work. Otherwise, Stefan would run over the snow, and make it damn near impossible to scrape it off the pavement.

I was about halfway done with the driveway when Karin appeared in the front doorway of the house, holding her cell phone. She yelled to me,

“She needs to talk with you!”

I knew that the girl we love was at work, but I couldn’t figure out what she could want now. I had planned to pick her up at 9:00 AM to take her to her mandatory group session, but I had hoped that the roads would be clean before I had to drive to Kenosha to get her.

I walked to the door, and Karin handed me the phone.

“Yeah?”, I asked.

The young lady said, “I can’t get a ride home with Lyft. If I take the bus, I will never make it home in time to get to the meeting in Racine.”

I sighed.

I asked the girl, “What time is it now?”

“It’s five o’clock.”

I told Karin, “I have to get her from work.”

The girl would finish her shift at the hotel at 7:00. Considering the road conditions, I needed to leave our house an hour before that time. That meant I would have just enough time to finish cleaning up the driveway, rest for a few minutes, and then drive south to the hotel. I was not looking forward to this ride.

Let me pause here for a moment. I want to explain, especially to any reader who has never driven in snow, just how important road conditions are in winter. A little snow or a little ice can turn a fifteen minute trip into an hour-long nightmare. It can turn a relaxing drive into a terrifying experience. Often the effect that winter weather has on a commute is dependent on the reactions of local municipalities to the snowfall or icing. Some communities, like Milwaukee County, are usually on top of the situation with trucks ready to plow and salt immediately. Others are not. It is not unusual to drive on a main road that is relatively clean in one town, and then have it turn into an absolute mess as soon as you reach the border with the next locality.

In any case, I left home at 6:00 and drove south on I-94. I was relieved to find out that two of three lanes on the freeway were clear. Only the rightmost lane was snow covered. Traffic was moving more slowly than normal, but at least it was moving. I got to the hotel on time (actually a bit early), and I texted the girl. She texted back that she was going to finish work late. The person from the first shift hadn’t arrived yet to take over from her.

I sat in my Ford Focus and waited. I was parked facing to the east, and I could see the clouds acquire a red tinge as the sun rose behind them. A ripped and ragged American flag fluttered in the wind in front of the hotel. I sat and listened to a CD from “The War on Drugs”, an Indie band that reminded me a lot of Bob Dylan without the rough edges.

The girl came out to the car. She got in. She looked exhausted, because she was. I drove her across town to the sober living house where she currently resides. I told her that I would be back in an hour to drive her to Racine for her meeting.

I had time to kill, so I drove a few blocks to a local coffee shop, Harborside, that was on the edge of Lake Michigan. The side streets in Kenosha were a full of snow. I slid around a bit trying to get to my coffee. I made it to the cafe, and I got a cup of java and two cookies with white chocolate and macadamia nuts. I had thought to do some writing there, but I was distracted by the local customers. Apparently, the coffee shop is a hang out for old men who gather together and ramble on about chronic illnesses, ungrateful children, and a world that is clearly going to hell. I left there quickly, praying that I never become part of that sect.

I returned to the sober living house. I almost got stuck in the snow on that street corner, but I managed to get free of it. After a few minutes, the young woman came out to the car. She got in and remained silent during the trip to Racine. She looked beat. Energy drinks can only take a person so far. Eventually, there is a crash. She was almost there. I was too. I could feel fatigue seeping into every part of my body.

The drive to the meeting was uneventful, at least until we got to the street where the session was to be held. The City of Racine had not plowed any of the side streets. The main roads were okay, but the residential areas were untouched. There was five inches of snow in the street, much of it run over and ground down until it was almost ice. Bastards. I barely managed to slip and slide my way out of that neighborhood.

I took care of an errand for Stefan. I needed to drop off a couple truck parts for him at a local body shop. Then I went to Mocha Lisa for more coffee. It made no sense to go back home, since the girl’s meeting would be finished in an hour or so. I did some writing.

I got a text from the young woman we love. She needed to buy groceries. She was out of food.  Would I take her to a store? Yes, of course. Then another text came. A girl at the meeting needed a ride home. She had walked all the way there from her house. I told our young woman that we could give her friend a ride.

I got to the meeting house at 11:00. I almost got stuck in the snow again. Our girl and her friend came out of the session, and I started driving the other girl home. She had walked a long way, maybe four or five miles. That was impressive. We got close to her house, and she told me at the last minute,

“There’s the driveway! Make left turn now!”

Too late.

I missed the turn, and decided to make a right turn into the next street in order to turn around and get this young lady home.

Fatal error.

That street was clogged with snow. When I tried to make a y-turn into a driveway, I got stuck. I was suddenly, seriously, and totally screwed. It kind of pissed me off.

I tried to use my well-learned tricks to get moving, and nothing worked. I finally got out of the car, and told the girl I love to get into the driver’s seat. I tried to push the car backward as she revved it in reverse. Nothing. I could feel my heart rate and blood pressure reach critical levels. I thought to myself,

“Christ, I’m going to die pushing this fucking car, because these useless mother fuckers in Racine can’t plow their damn streets!”

My mental rant ended when a black lady from the house across the street yelled to me,

“You want a shovel?!”

I said hoarsely, “Yeah.”

“Well, I got one here.” She pointed toward the garbage cans, and then she ducked back inside her house.

I leaned against the hood of the car, trying to catch my breath.

“Okay, thanks.”

I walked over there and grabbed the shovel.

I told our passenger, “You know, you probably should just get out now and walk the last block home.”

She did.

The girl I love tried to get the car moving. I tried to shovel around the right-front wheel to get traction. Things were not going well. The wheel turned the snow to slush and then to ice. I finally managed to scrape down to a couple feet a asphalt in front of the tire. I told the young woman,

“Come forward a couple feet. Stop. Then put it in reverse and floor it.”

She did that. We got moving…a little. She moved over to the other seat, and I tried to drive again.

The problem was that the whole fucking street was just a morass of slush and snow, deep and heavily rutted. We kept getting stuck trying to go forward.

The girl asked me, “Could we just drive in reverse to the next street?”

Not a bad idea. I tried it. Unfortunately, the street starts to go uphill as a person drives in reverse. I was hurting. I had the windows open because I was overheating in the car. I finally drove back far enough to get a running start going forward. I got some traction and just kept going. Not too fast, because then the tires would spin. Not to slow, because then we would stop and be dead in the water (or snow) again. We limped the car to the next main street (which was clear and clean).

Then we went shopping.

The young woman, at this point, clued me in that she had no more food stamps.

I thought for a moment, shrugged, and said, “Well, I guess that I am buying you groceries.”

She nodded.

You know, what the hell? She needed my help. I helped her. It needed to be done. So, I did it. It wasn’t that hard. It just was.

After buying food together, I got her back to the sober living house. I was nervous about having another issue with the snow. The young woman suggested that I just slow down enough for her to grab her bags and jump out of the car. It would be kind of like a winter storm drive by. I actually did come to a complete stop before she left me. I could do that much. She took her stuff and went into her house.

That girl is doing pretty well. She is funny and smart and resilient.

She’s not spinning her wheels.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

February 15th, 2019

Nisrin wanted me to read a book about “Frog and Toad”. Nizar was good with that too. So was Yasmin. I sat in my usual chair in the upstairs living room, and the three kids gathered around me. Nizar decided that he wanted to read, instead of having me do it all. So, he started on the first page of the story. He struggled with some of the words.

Nizar looked at the page intently. He said,

“Frog and Tide…”

Nisrin interrupted her brother, “That’s ‘Toad’, not ‘Tide’ .”

Nizar corrected himself, “Toad”.

He read a little farther and mispronounced the word “along”. Somehow he thought it said “around”.

His sister quickly pointed out his mistake.

I told Nisrin, “Let him read. Just let him work it out on his own.”

She was remained quiet for a few moments.

Nizar successfully navigated the rest of the page. Then Nisrin said,

“Now I read!”

She read the page flawlessly, much to Nizar’s irritation. After that, Yasmin read a page. Then it was Nizar’s turn again. He once again struggled with a few of the words.  From that point, the three siblings took turns reading as we went through a series of “Frog and Toad” tales. They didn’t get bored. This went on for an hour.

I often read to these kids. They are all from Syria, and Arabic is their mother tongue. However, they speak English well, and their reading comprehension improves with every week. The children are smart. More importantly, they want to learn. They are really interested in learning.

That visit to the Syrian family made me remember things from years ago. When my own children were young, I would read stories to them. Hans always found reading to be very difficult. He is dyslexic, or something like that. I would read to him for hours, just so that he would be able to appreciate books. I read to him the entirety of “The Lord of the Rings”. We would lie in bed, and I would read a chapter or two to him every night. Hans would listen to me and gaze into the distance as he did so. Nizar and Ibrahim do the same thing when I read to them. They hear my voice and they imagine the story in their heads.

I read books to Stefan too. He heard me read the story of Middle Earth, just as his older brother did. I read “Of Mice and Men” to him once. Somehow reading a book out loud has an deep emotional effect on me. I felt like crying when I read about the death of Lennie at the end of the novel. I asked Stefan what he thought. He said to me, with a wise sort of innocence,

“Sometimes bad things happen to people.”

Indeed they do.

I came home after my visit with the Syrians. I didn’t want to watch anything on a screen, so I dug out my copy of “The Lord of the Rings”, and started paging through it. I know the tale by heart, but it still appeals to me. I was reading the description of the great battle on the plain in front of Minas Tirith, when Stefan walked into the room.

He stood before me and said,

“I just want to thank you and Mom for all the support you’ve given me. I don’t think that I would have progressed so far with out your help.”

I thought for a moment and told him, “You’re welcome.”

He went on, “I want to pay you all back some day.”

I put down the book, and looked at him more closely. Then I said,

“You don’t need to pay us back.”

“Well, I want do something for you.”

I replied, “Do this: when you have kids of your own, do for them what we do for you.”

He paused and said, “Yeah, when I have my kids I’ll do that. I just wanted to give something back.”

“It’s okay. You will.”

Maybe Stefan will read to his children.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

February 10th, 2019

“If blood will flow when flesh and steel are one

Drying in the color of the evening sun

Tomorrow’s rain will wash the stains away

But something in our minds will always stay

Perhaps this final act was meant

To clinch a lifetime’s argument

That nothing comes from violence and nothing ever could

For all those born beneath an angry star

Lest we forget how fragile we are

On and on the rain will fall

Like tears from a star

Like tears from a star

On and on the rain will say

How fragile we are

How fragile we are

On and on the rain will fall

Like tears from a star

Like tears from a star

On and on the rain will say

How fragile we are

How fragile we are

How fragile we are

How fragile we are”

“Fragile” by Sting

I have visited people in ICU’s three times during the last few months. One of them was a friend from the synagogue. He fell outside of his home, and cracked his skull. Another one was a friend from a Bible study group. His esophagus was clogged like a kitchen drain, and he couldn’t get any food into his stomach. The third man was one of my younger brothers. He suffered a stroke four days ago.

I don’t know why I have been to see friends and family in the intensive care unit so frequently. I suspect that it has something to do with our age. The men in the hospital are my contemporaries. We are all old enough to expect some sort of catastrophic failure in our bodies. We might not die, but each of us will get a chance to see our mortality up close and personal.

To use a metaphor from baseball, we are all up to bat.

Karin and I went to visit my brother two days ago at the hospital. He looked much better than I had expected. He sitting in a chair, and he talked with us. His voice was very hoarse from having had a breathing tube inside of him for two days, but he spoke clearly and coherently. He said that his vision was still a bit blurry, and his balance was not good at all. He was recovering quickly.

My brother suffered his stroke while driving.  His vision went bad, yet somehow he managed to get his truck to the side of the road. That is where the police found him. It is amazing to me that he didn’t get into an accident. It is amazing to me that he is still alive.

A person doesn’t need to be old to have a brush with death. It can happen to anyone, anywhere. My brother, Marc, died in a car wreck at the age of twenty-eight. A moment of inattention and a faulty seat belt put him through his windshield. Death was instantaneous.

Life is so fragile. We are so fragile. I know we pretend to be tough and resilient. We somehow convince ourselves that we are immortal, even when all of the evidence says differently. I know that I can cease to exist at any time. I may not even live long enough to finish this post.

Does knowing this make a difference? Maybe. I find myself caring less about certain things, like money. I find myself caring more about other things, like family. I don’t get angry so often. I find it easier to let things go. I am very concerned with using what time I have left on earth. Every day counts. Every day is a gift.

I just have to remember “how fragile we are”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

February 7th, 2019

I had only been to centering prayer at St. Rita’s with Karin one time. That was a few years ago. I decided then that I didn’t like the program because people tended to ramble on and on about things. I liked that we together sat in silent meditation, but I didn’t like the endless discussion afterward. Perhaps I was too hasty. I might have decided to go to the prayer group again, but I got involved with teaching the citizenship class at Voces de la Frontera, and that is always on a Wednesday evening, the same night as centering prayer. Teaching immigrants always seemed to be more important than silent prayer, so I never went back to the group until last night. Yesterday evening, there was no class at Voces, so I had the chance to go and pray with Karin.

Oddly enough, even after a few years, the group membership was almost exactly the same as when I last attended one of the sessions. There were all the usual suspects (to misquote Claude Rains in the movie “Casablanca”). Fran was there, and Monica, and Tony, and Pam. And, of course, Paul was there.

Paul is the group leader. He started the centering prayer meetings at St. Rita’s, and he continues to be its guiding force. Paul is from Germany. He is old. I understand that “old” is a relative term, but Paul meets the qualifications. Paul grew up in Germany during the Hitler years, so he is old. Paul is a quiet and gentle man. He speaks slowly and deliberately with a noticeable accent. He has a mane of long, white hair. Paul is wise in his own way. His only fault is that he is hard of hearing, so he sometimes fails to hear the voices of the others in the group, and this causes him to keep talking even when he ought to let the others speak. He gets on a roll, as it were.

So, what is centering prayer? It is a form of Christian meditation. In practice (at least at St. Rita’s), it involves reading one of the psalms, then sitting in silence for half an hour to meditate on the words of that psalm. There is a vaguely Eastern feel to the meditation practice. Paul starts the meditation by striking the edge of a singing bowl (that is a classic Buddhist move). He ends the period of meditation by striking the bowl again. After the meditation, people read and discuss a reading from Father Thomas Keating, the priest who started centering prayer. Keating died in October of last year, at the age of ninety-five. He was a Trappist monk, as was Thomas Merton. Trappists are experts with regards to prayer and meditation. They focus their entire lives on those things.

On Wednesday evening we read two very brief chapters from Keating’s book, “Reflections on the Unknowable”. I will quote one passage here:

“Because we are members of one species, all of whom are interconnected and interdependent, our every thought, word, and deed affect everyone else in the human family instantaneously, regardless of space and time. Hence, we are accountable to each other as well as to God.”

Another quote is: “There are further states of consciousness beyond the rational.”

Those comments are totally Zen. I have been meditating with a Zen sangha since 2005. The other people in my Zen group might not like the concept of God, but otherwise they would have no problem agreeing with Father Keating. Zen considers intuition to be another valid way of knowing reality. Rational thought can only take us so far. Zen considers everything to be one. We are all one.

Keating’s words are similar to those of Richard Rohr, the Franciscan priest. In Franciscan spirituality there is also an emphasis of the unity of all things. The Franciscans, like their founder, Francis of Assisi, see cosmic interconnections. For Keating, for the Franciscans, and for Zen practitioners, there is no such thing as “us and them”. There is only us. All things complement each other. Everything, including good and evil, belong to the same eternal whole.

Not many people meditate. Not many people can imagine a universe that isn’t split into categories of “good and bad”, “black and white”, and “us and them”.

The people at centering prayer can and do imagine that kind of world.

I need to spend more time with them.

 

 

 

 

February 7th, 2019

I drove to Kenosha this morning to pick up someone I love. She needed a ride to get from her apartment in the hood to her probation officer’s workplace. The probation officer is a woman. That doesn’t matter really, but I thought I would mention it so that anybody reading this post wouldn’t confuse the law enforcement official with the person I love. The young woman’s P.O. has an office that is just down the road from the KCDC (Kenosha County Detention Center). I guess that is a convenient location for the probation officer, just in case there is some reason for a convicted felon to be locked up (again). Somebody who violates the rules of their probation can go directly from her office to jail in less than five minutes, if necessary. I am sure that makes an impression on every person who has an appointment to see this P.O.

I got to the girl’s apartment early. I show up everywhere early. It’s a compulsion. I sat in the car and waited until 9:00 to sent her a text. He appointment with the P.O. was at 9:30. I got no answer to the text. I waited a couple minutes and then I knocked on her door. No response. This made me uneasy. It is a bad thing to be late to an appointment with your probation officer. In general, P.O’s have no sense of humor. At 9:10 I called the young lady. The phone rang for a while and then I heard a sleepy voice say,

“I’ll be right out. I just woke up.”

No shit.

I got back into the car and listened to metal rock. Rain drops that were almost ice splashed on the car. I saw the girl come out of her front door and stumble into the passenger seat. She looked tired, really tired. She just got that third shift job, and she was obviously feeling the effects.

She said, “Thanks for picking me up. I would never have made it there otherwise.”

I replied, “You’re welcome. So, how was work last night?”

She shook her head and rolled her eyes simultaneously. Then she said wearily,

“I might be going to jail this morning.”

I said, “Okay.”

My reaction even surprises me. After all this time, nothing shocks me with regards to to this young woman. At this point, jail time is no big deal. It’s kind of normal. I don’t know how to explain it, but arrests are no longer alarming to me. I just go with it.

The girl continued to speak,

“The shift change to days threw me off. I have to do 32 hours of online training for this job, and that is done during the day. I didn’t get my schedule until the last minute, so I didn’t have time to tell my P.O. about the schedule change. My ankle bracelet is still set to show my curfew as if I am working at night. I tried to call Priscilla (the P.O.), and I left her messages, but I don’t know.”

I drove through the rain. “Okay, I guess we’ll find out.”

It is only a ten minute drive to the P.O.’s office. I parked in the lot. As the woman left my car, I said,

“I hope to see you soon.”

No comment from my passenger. She just got out and stoically went to her destiny.

Time dragged. Freezing rain hit the windshield and the other windows started to fog up. I listened to Jack White sing the lyrics to “Seven Nation Army”. That’s a good song. I really want to learn the bass part for that. The girl texted me twice to let me know that she had not been to her interview yet. I got out of the car several times just to look around. Other cars came and left, but I remained in the lot.

I thought about a lot of things. So, what happens if this woman gets busted and goes directly to jail? How do I even know that this happens? Does she just disappear? Do I sit and wait in this parking lot forever? What the fuck?

She came out of the building, looking serious as always. She got into the car, and said with a sardonic smile,

“They had an arrest warrant out for me.”

I answered, “And it’s all okay now?”

“Yeah…for now”, she said abruptly.

I drove her home in the rain. There was very little conversation.

She said, “I need to see Priscilla again at 8:15 on the 21st.”

I thought about that.

“When do you get off of work? 7:00 AM?”

She said, “Yeah.”

“Then I should really pick you up at the hotel. We can go for coffee after your shift, and then go to see your P.O.”

She nodded. “That would save me $12. (for uber).”

We arrived at her house.

“Yeah”. I said, “And it gets you a free coffee.”

She gave me the briefest of smiles. She got out.

I drove away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

February 3rd, 2019

I see my doctor once a year. Maybe twice, if I really need to do so.

Seeing as I am sixty years old, I go for an annual physical. Actually, I have been doing that for several years already. The annual exam is one of the few things that our health insurance covers without requiring massive co-pays or deductibles.

Every year this physical has involved zero drama. Every visit with the doctor has ended with, “Looking good! Keep it up!”

Except for this year.

I went in for the physical on Friday morning. My doctor had good things to say overall. He stared at the lab test numbers on his screen, nodded, and said,

“Frank, you’re killing it!”

Then he thought for a moment and said, “Well, maybe “killing it” isn’t the best way to express that, but you are doing well. However…”

Ah, the “however” came into play.

We talked about my blood pressure. The first reading was 159/90. Not good. He checked it again, and it was 150/85. Still not good, but not as not good as before. He told me get rid of the salt in my diet. This will be interesting since I love sausage, cheese, and other processed food. But, it can be done. He told me to lose ten pounds. I knew that I needed to do that anyway. I own a scale and a mirror. Also, cut down on caffeine. So, I need to ease off the Mountain Dew. He wants me to check my blood pressure weekly, to see what happens. I figure, now the weather is no longer horrific, I can do some long walks. That may help a lot.

The gist of the conversation was: “Stop eating the foods that you love.”

Excellent.

My doctor also noted that my glucose is slightly elevated. It should be 100. It’s at 119. There’s been a slow upward creep over the last several years. I guess I will have to lose the doughnuts and cut back on the beer.

I can do things to alleviate most of this stuff. Some of it is just heredity. I have heart disease on my dad’s side, and diabetes on my mom’s. So, now it’s my turn. My younger brother already has diabetes. Some of this is the aging process. Mortality is rearing its ugly head.

I’m not sure why I felt surprised to learn that I have a couple medical issues. I guess that I had managed to fool myself into thinking that I was exempt from the human condition. Denial is an amazing thing.

Apparently, I am doing better than a lot of other people. A number of my contemporaries are very sick or very dead. So, I should count myself as being blessed.

I walked all the way to church this morning. That is a seven mile hike. When I got home I discovered that I had gained a pound.

Fuck.

How the hell did that happen?

Well, since that moment, I have been cooking Indian food and swilling craft beer. I will eventually lose some weight. It won’t happen immediately. It certainly won’t happen today.

I suppose I will lose weight when I’m dead. I would prefer to do it prior to that time.

The truth is that I am swimming against the tide. I am going to die. My body is very slowly giving up on me. For sixty years I was able to eat and drink whatever I liked, and nothing happened. Now, it’s different. Now, things are falling apart.

I could give up all of my bad habits. I could eat healthy, stop drinking, and exercise all the time. I am still going to die.

So, what now?

Well, some people still need me on this earth. So, I will do what I can to remain here in order to help them. I can’t stop the clock or the calendar. I will eventually lose the game. That’s the deal. It’s okay with me, not that it matters.

Thinking back to Friday…

Outside the doctor’s clinic, I noticed a heavy set man walking slowly toward me. He appeared to be about my age, and he was looking rather fluffy. He had a faint smile on his face, and he kept staring at me. Finally, he got up next to me and said,

“Wicked beard, dude! I love it!”

He lifted up a pudgy hand and gave me a high five.

That made me feel better.

 

 

January 31st, 2019

There wasn’t much traffic on Highway 31 going south. Of course, I didn’t expect there to be since it was already 10:00 in the evening. Almost everything was closed, except for the bars. This bothered me a bit, because that meant that at least some of the drivers sharing the road with me had probably been drinking.

The thermometer on the dashboard showed an outside temperature of -4 degrees  Fahrenheit. The polar vortex was still going strong in our part of the world. Admittedly, -4 degrees is better than the -22 that the thermometer registered at seven this morning, when Karin and I went to morning prayer and Mass at St. Rita. However,  -4 can still be life-threatening for anybody who is outside. For that reason, I was driving to Kenosha in the middle of the night.

Somebody that I love started a new job tonight. She is working the graveyard shift at the front desk of a hotel in Kenosha. She normally would need to take the bus to work. Seeing as mass transit in our area sucks, the bus trip would have taken her an hour. The journey would have involved at least one transfer, and about twenty minutes of walking in the polar wind. This was not the best possible plan in subzero temperatures. In fact, taking the bus in these conditions would have been an excellent way to get frostbite and/or hypothermia.

The young woman needed a ride.

I gave her one.

A slight change of topic…

Being as I am retired, I have time to cook. Today I decided to make baba ghanouzh. I sliced up three eggplants, and broiled them. Then I put them into a blender and turned them into a paste. I added tahini sauce, olive oil, lemon juice, and pepper. Magically, it turned into baba ghanouzh, a Middle Eastern sort of dip. I took some of that, along with some tortillas, when I picked up this young lady. I didn’t know if she would get a lunch, and this bit of food at least qualified as a snack. Maybe it helped.

The woman was  very quiet as I drove her to her new job. I could tell that she was anxious. I know that vibe. I can feel it. I often do the same thing. She stared straight ahead as I drove. Occasionally, she texted on her phone, or randomly changed radio stations.  There was plenty of nervous energy. The atmosphere in the car was electric. After all these years, I know better than to engage in causal conversation with her when she is wound that tight. It is best to remain silent until she is ready to say something.

We got to the hotel a few minutes before eleven.

The young woman said to me, “I am going to wait five minutes before I go in.”

“Okay. How are you?”

She replied quickly, “Fine.”

Yeah. Fine. Somebody told me once that “fine” is an acronym that stands for “fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and evasive”. I’m not sure that is what “fine” meant to her at that moment. I know that “fine” has been that acronym for me many times in the past.

I asked her, “Are they going to train you tonight?”

“Well, they better. I can’t just learn the system by myself.”

I replied, “Some companies spend a lot of time training people. Some just throw you to the wolves.”

I instantly regretted saying that. I backtracked a bit.

“You told me that the people here were nice. I’m sure they will train you right.”

No reaction from the woman in the passenger seat.

We sat in silence for a little while. Snowflakes fell on to the windshield and melted there.

I remembered things. I remembered working nights for a total of twenty plus years. I remember my first few weeks on the pre-dawn shift at the trucking company, and how those bastards did throw me to the wolves. Sure, they trained me for an entire week, and then they expected me to supervise a ten-hour shift all on my own. The key phrase after the training was “handle it!”. Trial by fire. All those years of working in the dark and the cold, with maximum responsibility and minimum authority.

That sounds bitter, doesn’t it? I hate corporate America.

My reverie was interrupted by the young woman.

“I’m going to go now.” She gathered up her purse and other belongings.

“Okay. I’ll pick you up in the morning. It will still be really cold.”

She replied flatly, “Thanks.”

I told her, “I love you.”

She answered as she got out of the car, “Love you too.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

January 31st, 2019

I was driving home a little while ago when I heard a song on the stereo that was written by…me. That is truly a weird sensation. Karin and I have an ipod with over fifteen hundred songs on it. That is what we listen to when we are in the car. A couple of the songs on it are from me, or at least the lyrics are from me. I worked on the songs with Randy Vanvlaenderen, a close friend and an excellent blues guitarist.

I haven’t written any lyrics for a few years. Perhaps that is due to a lack of inspiration, or sheer laziness. I am good with words, but I can’t make music. Well, maybe I could if I worked at it. It’s been easier working with Randy. His whole life is music, and I envy him because of it. He can turn my words into song, and that is an amazing gift.

I am going waaaay out of my comfort zone now. I can’t describe the songs to you. You have to listen to them. So, I have to go beyond words, and use current technology to bring the recordings to you. I hate doing that. However, I will write down the lyrics for you.

There are three songs. They are all several years old.

“PTSD” is a song for my son, Hans. He fought in Iraq, and that changed everything. This song is modeled on “Father and Son” from Cat Stevens. It is the only song where I actually participate in the recording.

“Kiss My Rebel Ass” is a tune about racism and barbecue and southern culture, and it is also about Hans. I mention Ernie in the song. Ernie was a close friend who died of cancer, and I miss him every day. The song is not PC. Not at all.

“A Brand New Buddha” is about Zen. It is also completely blasphemous. The cool thing is that Zen practitioners won’t track you down and kill you for being a smart ass.

The lyrics:

Kiss My Rebel Ass

Son drove his truck, all shiny and black,
Exhaust rumbling out of the back.
Eight-foot whips to use his CB,
Great machine if gas is for free.

The truck looked like a big, black whale.
I saw his sticker on the tail.
Stars and bars, kind of crude and crass,
Words said, “Kiss my rebel ass.”

Son loves barbecue, spicy sweet.
Down South you always find that treat.
We Yankees don’t have it so much.
We just don’t have time or the touch.

Where could I find my boy this meal?
I’ll ask Ernie; he knows the deal.

Ernie said, “Frankie, go to Speed Queen!”
“It’s all down home, meat nice and lean.”
“Speed Queen? Ain’t that down in the Hood?”
“Hell yeah Frankie, food there’s damn good!”

Son was at home, that was good luck.
I told him, “Son, let’s take your truck.”
“Wait”, he said, and swallowed his pride.
“I’m not stupid, We’ll take your ride.”

12th and Walnut; it’s kind of rough.
We weren’t staying long, just long enough.
“Son, you think that they got some beer?”
“Dad, we’re the only white men here.”

I went inside, ordered some pork.
Meat so tender, it melts on your fork.
Son left to smoke, gone in a flash.
Lady said, “Brother, we only take cash.”

Carried out a big plate of tin.
Smelt so tangy; sweeter than sin.
Son smiled crooked, breathed in the meat.
“Dad, so what are you gonna eat?”

Boy went back to his Lone Star home.
Didn’t stay long. He just had to roam.
It was fun, but all things must pass.
Texas can kiss his rebel ass.

 

A Brand New Buddha
Box arrived from some kind of store.
It happened back a month or more.
Inside was something bright and bold.
It was a Buddha made of gold!

Chorus

Strike the moktak! Sing and shout!
Everybody come and gather ’bout.
Slap the chugpi, chant the sutras!
We got us a brand new Buddha!

Up on the altar sat Kwan Yin.
Taking her down, that seemed a sin.
Couldn’t decide where she should rest,
Guess she can keep the closet blessed.

Got no emptiness. Got no form.
Got us a Buddha gold and warm.
That boy smiles so shiny and bright.
Bet his grin glows late in the night.

No attachments here. None of that.
Cushions are fine, so is a mat.
We sit quiet both night and day.
Just don’t take our Buddha away!

Burn the incense and ring the bell!
Chant those sutras we know so well!
This dharma can’t be bought or sold.
We got a Buddha made of gold!

PTSD

Father: My boy joined up ’bout four years back.
Army sent him over to Iraq.
I didn’t want him to go to war.
He’s here now, but not like before.

Son: My old man. He can’t understand.
He didn’t see the blood or the sand.
He didn’t hear the shouts or the cries.
Don’t look at me with those sad eyes.

Father: What does he feel? What does he think?
That boy just sits there; smokes and drinks.
He won’t talk. He won’t even try.
Just looks at me with empty eyes.

Son: What should I tell? What can I say?
I was ten thousand miles away!
He wasn’t with me. He wasn’t there.
What did he know? What did he care?

Father: Son, I did care. I prayed every day.
I wanted you home safe some way.
Tell me what happened over in Iraq.
Tell me how I can get you back.

Son: Dad, I went some place you can’t go.
What all happened, hell I don’t know.
It’s not simple. Not white or black.
Bye, Dad. I can’t ever come back.

 

Maybe the songs will mean something to you. Maybe not.

Should I write more songs with Randy?

PTSD

Kiss My Rebel Ass

Brand New Buddha

 

 

 

 

January 26th, 2019

Michael is a young novice at our church, St. Rita’s in Racine. He is in training to become an Augustinian priest. He’s a tall, twenty-seven year old, with a very red beard. He comes from Long Island, New York, so he has some experience with winter weather. He certainly has seen more of it than the other novice, Enrique, who was from the Dominican Republic. Enrique was bundled up like an Eskimo as soon the temperature dropped below freezing.

Enrique left St. Rita near the end of December. Michael has remained with us. The weather in December was remarkably mild. Michael got cocky. He said,

“So this is the infamous Wisconsin winter? It’s not so bad.”

My response: “Just wait.”

The fact is that Wisconsin winters are fickle. Some years the cold and snow start right at Thanksgiving. During some years (like this season), Decembers are so warm that there is no white Christmas. But there is always a reckoning. That occurs usually around the last week of January. That’s when we get hit with a monster snowstorm, and that is when the temperatures drop below zero, and they stay there for a while.

I worked for a trucking company for twenty-eight years. I spent most of those years running the early morning dock operation. The loading dock at a trucking company has a roof, but is not really enclosed. There were 179 doors on our dock and they were all open. Essentially, we worked in an outdoor environment. Snow blew across the dock, and the forklift wheels ground it into ice. Gusts of wind blew paperwork around. Whatever the outside temperature was, that was our room temperature. I remember pre-dawn walks on the dock where I could actually see a difference in the air quality. It was so cold that the air seemed thicker, almost fluid. In the intense cold nothing worked. Forklifts and trucks wouldn’t start. People and equipment moved slowly and painfully. A guy ran me over with his forklift during the winter in 2009. The best part of  that experience was going to the hospital so that I could be warm again.

I am convinced that hell is a cold place.

Just as an aside, our son, Stefan, had a teacher named Ann. Ann was in many ways a remarkable woman. In her youth, she worked for a year in Antarctica. She drove the shuttle truck from the helipad to the research facility. Ann told me once that every member of the team at the facility had to go outside at least once a day, regardless of the darkness and the cold. They had to go out, even if it was only for five minutes. Apparently, this rule was in effect to prevent cabin fever and potential homicides. People would dress appropriately, brave the elements, and then rush back into the building before they died. Ann used this experience when she taught at the Waldorf School. The kids in Stefan’s class always went out for recess. Always.

It is now 3:39 AM. I just took my daughter’s dog outside. There is a blizzard out there. Shocky and I decided to return indoors rather quickly. According to the weather report, there will be eight to twelve inches of fresh snow on the ground before this storm ends. After that the temperature will drop like a rock. The day after tomorrow is predicted to have a high temperature of minus thirteen degrees. That is a just a little warmer than the surface of Mars.

Michael, enjoy.

 

 

 

 

 

January 21st, 2019

St. Francis of Assisi Church sits on the corner of Brown Street and Vel Phillips Avenue. Vel Phillips Avenue was, until recently, called 4th Street. Vel Phillips was a noted local civil rights activist, along with being an alderperson and judge in Milwaukee. She also served as the Secretary of State for Wisconsin. Phillips died last year, and this street (which is located in her neighborhood) was given her name.

St. Francis parish is in the Brewer’s Hill area of Milwaukee, just a bit to the northwest of downtown. It’s a working class, black neighborhood that is gradually becoming gentrified. The parish is run by Capuchin priests, who are part of a Franciscan order in the Roman Catholic Church. Capuchins (and Franciscans in general) are deeply concerned with the poor, the excluded, and the unloved. This means that they ally themselves with other people who work to help the marginalized in society. This means that work for social justice. This means that they are political.

The Capuchins would probably agree with this quote from Gandhi:

“Those who say religion has nothing to do with politics do not know what religion is.”

I say this because, for the last eighteen years, the priests at St Francis have allowed Peace Action of Wisconsin to use the church for its annual commemoration of the birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.  Peace Action is not a religious group. However, many people of faith work with Peace Action. I know. I work with them, and there are people who accuse me of being a person of faith. In any case, Peace Action held its memorial service today, inside the warmth of the church, while the cold and snow of the Wisconsin winter held sway outside.  I have been to this service several times over the years, and my one consistent memory is of cold and snow.

Karin and I arrived at today’s service a few minutes late. It wasn’t a big deal. People straggled into the church long after we showed up. A young, black woman handed us a program as we entered the door. There were musicians playing some introductory music when we took out seats. The group gathered in the church was biracial; an even split between white and black. The congregation was rather grey (in hair color). Maybe a lot of the young folk had to work, so it was mostly older people sitting in the pews.

After we got comfortable, a couple of my friends from Voces de la Frontera came inside and sat a couple rows in front of us (Voces is an immigrant rights organization where I have volunteered for a long time). This was about the time that we were all singing “Lift Every Voice and Sing” (the Black National Anthem). It’s a good song. I found it inspiring, and I don’t inspire easily. After the song ended, I went up to greet Mario and Christine from Voces.

These sorts of services for Dr. King have a pattern to them. There is usually a general greeting. Then the MC will call out people who may have had personal relationships with Martin Luther King. Based on the fact that King died in 1968, there aren’t many of these folks left. However, some still live, and they remember, and we are grateful that they do.

While this was going on, Mario came back to our row, and he sidled up next to me. He asked quietly,

“You been arrested?”

I found his question confusing at first. Yes, I have been arrested for civil disobedience (CD), but I thought he was asking if I wanted to get busted again. I told him,

“Hey, I have to take care of somebody who is on probation. Karin and I are her only life line. I can’t go to jail right now.”

Mario hurried to answer, “No, no, no. I meant ‘have you been arrested in a protest?’ ”

“Yeah.”

Mario went on, “Would you like to stand up with these women from Voces to get recognized for doing that?”

“I got busted, but it wasn’t for anything I did with Voces.”

Mario went on, “Yeah, I know, but you have been with Voces for so long. It would count for us.”

It didn’t feel right somehow. I went to jail for CD in Nevada in 2017 while I protesting against drone warfare. That doesn’t have much of anything to do with immigration rights. Also, even after two years, I don’t know why I did that action. Was it because I was fighting for social justice? Was it because I felt intense loyalty to another guy at the demonstration? Was it because I’m just a fucking idiot?

I told Mario, “I don’t think so.”

Mario said softly, “It’s okay. It’s your decision.” Then he went back to his seat.

I talked to Karin about it.

“Mario wants me to stand up when these other people from Voces stand. They were all arrested.”

Karin asked me, “Do you want to do that?”

“No, not really.”

She looked at me firmly and said,

“Then don’t.”

End of subject.

At this time, a young, black man, DiMonte Henning, started reading from King’s sermon at the Riverside Church in New York City in 1967.

DiMonte recited King’s words: ”

The truth of these words is beyond doubt, but the mission to which they call us is a most difficult one. Even when pressed by the demands of inner truth, men do not easily assume the task of opposing their government’s policy, especially in time of war. Nor does the human spirit move without great difficulty against all the apathy of conformist thought within one’s own bosom and in the surrounding world. Moreover, when the issues at hand seem as perplexing as they often do in the case of this dreadful conflict, we are always on the verge of being mesmerized by uncertainty; but we must move on.

And some of us who have already begun to break the silence of the night have found that the calling to speak is often a vocation of agony, but we must speak. We must speak with all the humility that is appropriate to our limited vision, but we must speak. And we must rejoice as well, for surely this is the first time in our nation’s history that a significant number of its religious leaders have chosen to move beyond the prophesying of smooth patriotism to the high grounds of a firm dissent based upon the mandates of conscience and the reading of history. Perhaps a new spirit is rising among us. If it is, let us trace its movements and pray that our own inner being may be sensitive to its guidance, for we are deeply in need of a new way beyond the darkness that seems so close around us.”

It’s hard to listen to those words. It’s hard to know that what I have done is so little. Sometimes I feel like I’m just playing. It feels like I haven’t sacrificed hardly anything.

George Martin, a leader at Peace Action, got up to the microphone. He recognized all those who had risked arrest and imprisonment for justice. When somebody from the congregation stood up, we all said, “Thank you”. I didn’t stand up. Maybe I should have. I don’t know. Honestly, it didn’t feel right. I’m just a guy.

There were other speakers. Joyce Ellwanger, a long time activist, spoke about her actions to protest at the School of the Americas in Georgia. She did six months in federal prison for her efforts. After her came a young man, Solo Littlejohn, who has been busted repeatedly for his fight to get a $15 minimum wage. He said this:

“As a person of color, I didn’t like getting arrested. I felt scared. But, if had not been for Dr. King and his fight, it would have been much worse for me and for others.”

Right on.

There was some music after Solo spoke. The musicians sang “What’s going on?” from Marvin Gaye. Then we all sang “We Shall Overcome”.

I guess I am just a sentimental fool. That song made me cry.