Author: frankisemptiness

June 3rd, 2019

The Kenosha County Jail has bad energy. I guess it would have to be that way. I mean it’s a jail, for God’s sake. Every person who walks into that building is struggling with some nasty problem, myself included. The entire complex is just a magnet for negative karma. It’s a legal and spiritual black hole.

I went to the intake area of the jail. I needed to pick up the belongings of somebody that I love. This young woman had recently been transferred from the jail to a prison, so all her remaining possessions (confiscated during her arrest) were being released to me. I have been through this process before. It was unpleasant the first time I did it, and the experience doesn’t improve with time.

The intake section of the jail is decidedly ugly. The concrete block walls are painted in a drab, bureaucratic color that probably looked dirty before they even spread the paint. A bulletin board displays a variety of outdated memoranda. There are only a few windows in the office, all heavily tinted, and they allow in an absolute minimum of natural light. There are several rows of uncomfortable plastic chairs. The room has a number of doors, almost all of them locked. To conduct official business, a person has to talk to a police officer through a narrow window, and then slide any required paperwork through a small slit at the bottom of that window. Overall, it is a rather Soviet-style environment. The only thing missing is a picture of Comrade Stalin.

When I got to the intake section, several people were already queued up to do what I wanted to do. So I got into line, and waited my turn. The policewoman on the other side of the glass window was polite and efficient. She dutifully took every person’s information, and then asked each of them to take a seat. We all did.

While standing in line, people engaged in conversation. There was a young couple who were trying to get to the personal effects of a close relative. An older woman in front of me spoke with them.

The young woman in line said, “We just trying to get his stuff, you know. He turned in his slip on Saturday, so we should be able to pick it up.”

The older woman said, “My boy, he put in his slip on Saturday too. I came up here over the line (state line) to get it.”

The young man said, “If he put the slip in on Saturday, it should be here today for you.”

The older woman shook her head and said, “These young folk, they get in trouble and the first thing they call their grandma.”

The young girl laughed and replied, “Or they first call their girlfriend.”

The older woman nodded.

All of us sat down to wait.

The older woman got a call on her phone. It wasn’t to her liking.

She stood up and strode to the front door.

“I’m going out. I expect to be a bit rowdy right quick.”

The younger couple watched her leave, and they heard part of her call.

The girl said, “She got something going on there.”

The man told her, “Shush now, I want to hear the conversation.”

The young woman looked displeased.

“It ain’t none of our business.”

The young man laughed, “Next time, I’m bringing popcorn along. This is a good show.”

Indeed it was.

The older woman came back into the room. She was wound up. She didn’t say much, but it was obvious that her time outside was just a warm up.

She got another call. We all heard it. Everybody in the room heard it.

Now, I don’t like to eavesdrop. However, this lady spoke loud enough during her call that I can only assume that she didn’t much care who heard her talking. A portion of it went like this:

“You don’t touch that money! That money is in the fucking safe, and I the only one with the motherfucking key! I told you! I told you this! You better start fucking listening to me!”

I found it entertaining in edgy, twisted sort of way.

We all waited out turn to get our stuff.

The older woman was called up by the cop before I was.

She opened the little metal door to retrieve her grandson’s possessions.

She was immediately disappointed.

The woman asked the policewoman,

“Where’s his cash?”

The officer replied, “It is in his inmate account. We don’t keep cash. It all goes into an account.”

The woman frowned and said, “I come up here mainly to get that.”

Then the older woman asked coldly, “How much is in his account?”

The officer responded, “I can’t tell you that. The inmate can release the money to you, if he signs a form. We would then send you a check.”

The older woman shook her head and said, “He don’t know none of this. This is all new to him.”

The cop replied, her politeness getting a bit brittle, “He does know this. He would have been told all about it when he was going through intake.”

There was a long, awkward silence.

The older woman said sharply, “Well, how much do he have? You got it on your screen.”

The officer said, “No, ma’am, I am not looking at his account. I am just telling you what happens to everybody who comes through intake.”

Another long, awkward silence.

The older woman composed herself, and she took her grandson’s possessions, and walked out.

The cop called me up next.

I grabbed the bag with my loved one’s belongings, and I got the hell out of that place.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

June 3rd, 2019

This article appeared today in the Capital Times of Madison, WI. I’m very grateful that they used it, but I have to get into some more mainstream media. I need to reach a larger population, a population that does not agree with me. I need to make people think, and I need them to make me think.

Anyway, it is as follows:

“President Trump and his comrades, Pompeo and Bolton, seem determined to embroil our country in a war with Iran. I don’t understand why they want this conflict. We are already at war in a number of countries: Iraq, Syria, Somalia, and God only knows where else. The United States has been constantly at war for 18 years, and Trump simply wants to up the ante.

It amazes me that so many people in our country are OK with our military engaging in additional violence. They don’t seem to understand the effects of war. Maybe they don’t want to understand.

I was an officer in the U.S. Army, but I never fought in a war. My son did. He fought in Iraq. He killed people there, and he got wounded. I know the costs of war through his experiences. For me, war is something that is up close and personal. It’s real. For Trump, Pompeo and Bolton, it’s just a game.”

June 2nd, 2019

“It is said that no one truly knows a nation until one has been inside its jails. A nation should not be judged by how it treats its highest citizens, but its lowest ones.” – Nelson Mandela

“…you are strong only as long as you don’t deprive people of everything. For a person you’ve taken everything from is no longer in your power. He (or she) is free all over again.”
― Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, “The First Circle”

“An icy wind burns and scars
Rushes in like a fallen star
Through the narrow space between these bars
Looking down on Prison Grove”

Warren Zevon -“Prison Grove”

Our girl called us last night. We had been waiting for her to call. Karin and I had set up a phone account for her so she could call us from Taycheedah. Taycheedah is a women’s correctional facility near Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. It is a basically a place where new prisoners are separated and classified. It reminds me a bit of Hogwarts and the Sorting Hat, except that Taycheedah is not at all magical. Prisoners don’t stay long at Taycheedah. They find a long term home elsewhere in the state.

The girl we love requested that I go online and purchase some personal items for her. I have discovered that there is an entire industry devoted solely to providing products to prisoners (at a premium price). The state approves certain vendors, who then enjoy a monopoly on supplying goods to inmates. It’s a total scam, but there are no alternatives.

The girl’s description of her prison experiences (thus far) remind me a lot of my plebe year at West Point. The institution takes away all of a person’s God-given rights, and then hands them back to that individual, little by little, as privileges that can be revoked at any time and for any reason. A person learns quickly to just shut up and do as they’re told. I think that the main difference between being in the military and being in prison is that, in prison, nobody is actively encouraging you to kill other people. A lot of people in prison don’t need that kind of training.

The young woman has only been at Taycheedah for about two weeks, so she is still learning the ropes. Karin and I are learning along with her. Many of the rules make no sense, and they don’t need to. They just are. There is no arguing with The Man. An inmate, and everybody that cares about her, simply adapts to the new reality.

Taycheedah was on lock down last week. That meant that all the inmates were in their cells almost all of the time. The girl made it quite clear to us that it sucked. She was not able to get to a phone to call us, so she desperately borrowed pen, paper, and and a stamped envelope from another inmate to write us a edgy letter. She filled every centimeter of the paper with her tiny, crabbed handwriting. There was no punctuation in her letter, or in her thoughts. The document was pure stream of consciousness. It was like getting a letter from somebody in a Siberian gulag.

We have not been able to visit the girl yet. She had to send us applications first. Both Karin and I had to fill out separate forms, describing our possible criminal backgrounds. I had to write down that I had been arrested and jailed briefly. That probably won’t keep me from visiting the young woman. If I had failed to note the arrest, and Department of Corrections found out (and they would), then I would be guilty of fraud. It was best just to put it out there.

This is a new adventure. There will be no end of surprises.

May 31st, 2019

There is a low area in our back yard. It doesn’t drain well, and it has been a miniature wetland ever since the snow melted. Fortunately, the plants and trees back there like wet feet. The willows and the chokecherries do okay. The locust tree thrives, and so do the walnuts and the maple. The apple tree has blossoms, and the linden tree looks lush and healthy. Eventually, the land will dry out, but that will take time.

Everything is green. It is that vivid, almost fluorescent, type of green. It’s a springtime sort of green. Photosynthesis kicking into overdrive. Every tree I see as I walk down the road silently screams: “I’m alive!”

Well, almost every tree does that. The ash trees don’t. The emerald ash borers have killed almost all of those trees. The tall ashes stand there, naked and forlorn. Their empty, withered branches reach toward the sky helplessly. I wait for the ashes to fall. It’s just a matter of time. In ten years we will have forgotten that they even existed here. The ashes will be like the elm trees that lined the city streets of my youth. Dutch elm disease killed them off. Now only old men like me remember them. Oddly enough, almost all the elms were replaced with ash saplings. Now it is the ashes turn.

Soggy suburban yards and rain-soaked farm fields are all around me. I have developed an odd appreciation for them. Karin and I spent four weeks traveling through the American West, and we slowly realized how important water is. We drove through the deserts on Nevada, Arizona, and Utah. We were impressed by the desolate beauty of the land, but we also longed for something green, anything green. We missed seeing open water; lakes and streams. We missed the rain. Rain can be grey and depressing, but it can also be comforting.

I love the desert. I love its rawness and its stark images. I love the empty spaces. I love the dark, starlit nights. But I can’t live there. Most things can’t live there. That’s the problem. As we made our journey through the desert, I kept hoping to see a tree. I just wanted to find a tree, and sit under the shade of its branches.

Now we’re home. We can sit under our trees.

 

 

May 31st, 2019

“First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out— because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”

from Martin Niemoeller, a Lutheran minister, and part of the resistance against the Nazi regime in Germany. He spent seven years in concentration camps.

The Racine Interfaith Coalition (RIC) sponsored a vigil on Tuesday evening for Pastor Betty Rendon and her husband, Carlos Hincapie. ICE snatched both of these people from their home in the Chicago area on May 8th, 2019. ICE tore this couple away from family members, and then transferred them to the Kenosha detention center. From there Betty and Carlos were sent to detention centers in Illinois and Louisiana. Finally, they were deported to Colombia, on the day of the vigil.

The vigil was held at Emaus ELCA Church in Racine, Wisconsin. I had never been there before. The church fascinated me. I had never been to a Lutheran church where they prominently displayed an image of Our Lady of Guadalupe and a Catholic-style crucifix. After a while, it became clear to me that this church, and Lutherans that I met, were very involved in supporting the local immigrant community.

Linda Boyle, from RIC, led us all in a walk around the neighborhood to show that we cared about Pastor Betty and other immigrants. I brought along a banner from the New Sanctuary Movement, where I volunteer, and I held it during the walk with a young man named Anthony, who is a student at a Lutheran seminary. Anthony seemed like a good man, somebody who could one day follow in the steps of Niemoeller.

During the vigil, Linda introduced a number of speakers. One of them was Rev. John Freddy Correa, a former pastor of Emaus Church. He spoke passionately, and loudly. He talked about solidarity. He also mentioned that the arrest of Pastor Betty cut close to the bone.

He said, “That arrest, that person could have been me. It could have been you.”

Christine Neumann-Ortize, the executive director of Voces de la Frontera, also got up to talk. I know her, and she speaks very well. She made the point of saying that the actions of ICE were solely because of racism and xenophobia.

Everything that Christine said was true, but I would like to add something.

The Department of Homeland Security is flexing its muscles. ICE has been arresting in deporting people for years, under Obama as well as under Trump. When they busted Pastor Betty, then just upped the ante. Why did they arrest her? I believe that it was to show that nobody is safe and nobody is exempt. They grabbed a religious leader, a community leader, somebody who was important to many people. ICE arrested and deported her to make other people afraid. They succeeded.

I am afraid. I, like many other people, have a family member who is not a U.S. citizen. This family member, although she has been here legally for 34 years, could be deported…just because those people want her gone. That is the threat. They, like the Gestapo, can kick in your door and take away somebody that you love. They took Pastor Betty to make sure we all know that the threat is real.

The vigil ended with Pastor Freddy leading us all in prayer. We gathered together and held on to each other. For a few moments we were one. For a few moments we were stronger than our fears.

We could go on.

 

 

 

 

May 28th, 2019

“We need shamans, and if society doesn’t provide them, the universe will.” – Joe Lewels

Peter is a shaman. At least, I think that he is. He has all sorts of attributes. He’s got a doctorate (I think in microbiology), and he does massage therapy. Peter qualifies as a Renaissance Man, a polymath, a man whose interests and talents are both diverse and sometimes obscure. It is very interesting to converse with him, although he is often reticent to speak about himself. I know that he knows a lot, and I also know that he knows more than he says. Peter is attractive in a way because it is impossible to really know him.

So, why do I think that Peter is a shaman? He has connections. I am not talking about social connections, or business connections, or political connections. Peter is connected deeply and intimately with a world that I cannot even see. He doesn’t flaunt that, not ever. He is in touch with the spiritual world, at least a Catholic version of it, and maybe that is the only version. I don’t know. All I know is that Peter has a gift from God. I am not entirely sure that he wants that gift, but I suspect it is very difficult to return it to the Divine Giver.

Karin and I first met Peter many years ago. He was/is a close friend of Shawn, my sister-in-law. Shawn also has God on speed dial. She’s a lay Carmelite, and she’s intensely religious in a way that is authentic and compassionate. Anyway, she hooked us up with Peter. I found out that Peter performed spiritual healings. I asked him to do one on me.

The healing was a bit like massage therapy. Peter hovered over me as I laid down on his table. He touched parts of my body. He tugged on things, pushed on things, and did it all with his eyes closed. At the end of the session, he told me about a vision that he had received concerning the activities of my spirit. That was interesting, for a couple reasons. First, it sounded a bit like somebody recalling an acid trip. Second, Peter knew things about me that I had not told him, or told anybody else for that matter. I became a believer.

When Hans was an adolescent, Karin and I turned him over to Peter for a summer to give Hans spiritual and physical direction. Peter worked with Hans. He was his guru. I don’t know what they all did together, but then it’s none of my damn business either. Considering all the bad craziness that Hans experienced later in his life (the war in Iraq, hanging out with the motorcycle gangs, and sporadic violent episodes), I wonder how much good Peter did. On the other hand, if Peter had not been with Hans early on, then maybe Hans would be dead now.

This April, Karin and I were back in Texas, visiting with Hans, Gabi, and their boy, little Weston. I wanted see Peter again. Time had passed. A lot of time had passed. I contacted him, and he agreed, even with short notice, to do spiritual healings on both Karin  and myself.

Karin’s session went well. Peter worked on lifting her energy level. Her energy did, in fact, lift. She felt much better after Peter worked with her. Karin seemed happier and healthier.

I wanted something else. I wanted to consult the Texas version of the Oracle of Delphi. I wanted answers. I wasn’t looking for Peter to predict the future. I just wanted him to tell me what the hell was going on. The last several years of my life have been, well, more interesting then necessary, at least from my stand point. I wanted some guidance.

Peter worked on me for an hour. He never opened his eyes during the entire session. He told me later that he had been balancing my energy. It was way out of whack. I kind of believe that, because he worked on my right ankle and foot repeatedly, and those parts of my body were completely crushed by a forklift ten years ago. I still have six screws and a plate in my leg from that accident. I never told Peter about the accident, or I don’t think I did, but he knew. He knew.

At the end of the hour, he sat down and told me,

“I saw something, but then it was gone. I was told ‘this is not your journey’, and then the vision ended.”

Well, that sucked. On the other hand, if God told him to back off, then I guess it was okay.

Peter also told me, “I balanced the energy in your body, as best I could. There might not be any physical effect.”

Nice. I may not experience anything from that hour with him.

Okay, this is where faith comes into play. Do I believe that all of Peter’s work is real, even if I never get any vindication? I am going to say “yes”. Believing in something is different from knowing something. I believe that Peter helped us. I don’t know that.

Objectively, I’m a damn fool.

I’m okay with that.

 

 

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.