Author: frankisemptiness

November 29th, 2018

I was sitting upstairs in the humble residence of the Syrian family. Their home always reminds of the house where I grew up. The building has to be at least one hundred years old. This house, like the home of my youth, needs a lot of TLC. The house has the same energy that my childhood home did: lots of kids in constant motion, random yelling, no privacy, and a sort of barely contained chaos.

I had just finished working with Muhamed on his reading assignment. That kid is sharp. He knew the answers. He never guessed. His understanding of English is impressive. He has no accent that I can detect. It is probably because he is so young. He is easily absorbing the language that surrounds him at school. He will do well.

Nizar came up the stairs with his math assignment. He had to multiply numbers with decimals. He smiled as he told me,

“This is easy. It won’t take long.”

He had already done a couple of the problems. I could tell at a glance that the answers weren’t quite right. This homework was going to take longer than Nizar thought.

We went back over his completed problems. In a way, doing multiplication on a piece of paper with a stubby pencil is rather archaic. It took me a minute or two to remember how to do it. Even then, I asked Nizar to find us a calculator, just in case my brain had atrophied.

I showed Nizar how to do one of the problems.

“Okay, you first multiply the number on top by the last digit of the bottom number. You have to remember where to put the decimal point. Both the numbers in this problem have decimal points before the last digit, so when we times them, the decimal point will be in front of the last two digits. You got it?”

He nodded.

I wasn’t fooled by that.

I finished the problem, and then I told him to do the next one. I said,

“Keep the numbers you get in straight columns, so you can up the results. The decimal points need to be lined up.”

“Okay.”

He paused for a moment, obviously unsure of something.

“What’s wrong?.”

He asked me, “What is seven times eight?”

“Well, let’s figure that out.” I held up the fingers of my hands and counted,

“7, 14, 21, 28, 35, 42, 49…”

Nizar interjected, “54?”

“No, not quite. Try 56.”

He nodded, “Yeah, okay.”

As he scribbled on the worksheet, I heard a voice in my head. It was a voice from fifty years ago. It was an angry, impatient voice…

“Goddammit! How many times do I have to tell you the number?! Don’t you pay attention at school? Do you just use your head for a hat rack?!”

“Is this right?’ asked Nizar.

“What?”

I shook my head to clear my thoughts, and looked at his answer. “Yeah, that is good. Check it again with the calculator.”

The voice from my past was suddenly more insistent.

“Jesus Christ! What is hard about this? Are you dumb or just lazy?! Anybody could figure out the answer!”

Nizar’s mother came up the stairs. Her arrival brought me back to the present. She had a plate of food for me: stuffed grape leaves.

She said in her halting English, “I make this today. You eat, Frank. That is yogurt there too.”

I tried some of the grape leaves. They were very good. Nizar struggled through another math problem.

“Frank, what is six times eight?”

“You’re smart, Nizar. Think about it.” Then I counted off,

“6, 12, 18, 24, 30, 36, 42…”

“48?”

“Yes! Excellent!”

The voice screamed in my mind, “What is wrong with you?! You can’t cut the mustard?! I don’t need no dummies in this family!”

My heart raced. I thought to myself, “Shut up. Just fucking shut up.”

Nizar said, “We are done now.”

“Cool. Nizar, you need to work on your multiplication tables. I mean really. You can’t get the right answers if you can’t times the numbers.”

He looked at me seriously and nodded.

“Nizar, what are you good at? In school, I mean.”

He got excited. “Reading and writing. I am very good with that. I write a lot in class.”

I smiled. “Good. I write a lot too. I wrote a book once. It was about my son. He was a soldier.”

Nizar looked at me a bit oddly.

I shrugged and said,

“Nizar, you’re a smart guy. You’ll be okay.”

The voice from my past was silent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

November 29th, 2018

“Here’s your gold watch and the shackles for your chains
And your piece of paper, to say you left here sane
And if you’ve a son who wants a good career
Just get him to sign on the dotted line and work for 50 years”

“Gold Watch Blues” by Donovan

My dad worked for decades as an operating engineer for the City of West Allis (Wisconsin). He retired at the age of fifty-five, or maybe fifty-seven. I’m not sure. I can’t remember any more. He received a full pension for the City. He got checks every month until he died. That’s thirty years worth of pension checks. He was a lucky man.

Not everybody in my father’s generation retired with a pension, but many did. Far fewer people in my generation have pensions, and quite possibly nobody from the Millennials will get one. A person from my father’s time could reasonably expect to retire with some level of financial security. With my generation, retirement is kind of iffy. As for my kids, well, they’re screwed. My children are convinced that they will be working until they die, and they are probably right.

That doesn’t sound quite like the American dream? What happened?

I remember when I got out of the Army, back in 1986, I got hired by a company, and they were so excited to tell me all about the 401k program. They thought it was some sort of miracle. They kept telling me about how taxes would deferred on my account, and how the company would chip in some money. They really pushed the idea that it was “portable”; that it was all my money, and that I could take it with me, if (God forbid) I should leave. Okay. That’s nice.

Shortly thereafter, I quit that job, and then I got hired by a trucking company in the Milwaukee area. That was in 1988. The trucking firm had a pension and they had the 401k. Well, they did for a while. After maybe ten years or so, the company quit offering a pension. Long time employees (like me at that point) were vested, and could get a smidgen of the pension at a much later date. The management of the company blamed government regulations for their decision (because that’s what corporations do), and they promised to pump a bunch of money into everybody’s retirement fund.

They did.

Until the Great Recession of 2008.

Once the recession hit, all bets were off. The company stopped contributing to the 401k, and basically told every employee,

“You’re on your own, bitch!”

Of course, we all knew that already.

At the end of 2015, by some quirk of fate, I was still working at this same trucking company, and I suddenly qualified for the elusive pension. I took it and ran. The pension really wasn’t (isn’t) that much. It just basically covers the cost of the health insurance for me and my wife. Somehow, at that point in time, we were debt-free and we had money saved. I retired.

I would like to say that I was able to retire because of the astute handling of our finances. That would be a lie. For years I never even looked at what was in the 401k. To me, all of that was like Monopoly money, that is, until I actually pulled the plug. I was able to retire because of a combination of frugality, dumb luck, and good karma.

A lot of people don’t have that combination. The dream of a happy retirement can be derailed by a medical crisis, or by the sudden loss of a job (think about all those poor bastards being laid off now by GM). A lot of things are out of an individual’s control. A person cannot plan for everything. Life happens.

Maybe in our time the retirement funds are a better solution than pensions were. However, for the corporations there are unanticipated downsides to 401k’s. The companies told the workers that these plans were portable, and that fact made the employees more likely to leave. And they did. A pension tends to keep an employee with a particular organization. A 401k makes for a transient workforce.

The 401k represents much of what is wrong with corporate America. A pension plan has obvious drawbacks, but it always demonstrated a long term commitment from the company to the employee. It likewise required a strong commitment from the worker. The 401k says, “We don’t care about you, and you don’t need to care about us.” That is the message, loud and clear.

A few weeks before I retired, I was called into HR for a meeting. The company had a chronic morale problem, and the folks at Human Resources wanted to talk to people to find out what could be done. I don’t understand why they wanted to speak with me, especially since I was ready to abandon ship, but they interrogated me anyway.

I remember the woman from HR asking me, in her soothing, singsong voice,

“So, do you feel appreciated here?”

I replied, “No.”

Awkward silence.

She cleared her throat, smiled, and said sweetly,

“Why not?”

I told her, “I have the same value here as a forklift. I am very replaceable.”

Another awkward silence.

She said, “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t give a fuck about me.” That part I did not actually say, but she could read my body language.

My kids job hop. They move from place to place. They sign up with whoever can offer them 50 cents more per hour than their current boss. I have been told that all of their generation does that. The corporations show them no loyalty, and they return the favor. It makes me laugh when management types complain that they can’t keep good people. Really? No kidding? If you treat a person like a commodity, they will respond accordingly. If you treat a person like a person, they might just hang around.

“Here’s your gold watch and the shackles for your chains
And your piece of paper, to say you left here sane
And if you’ve a son who wants a good career
Just get him to sign on the dotted line and work for 50 years

This story that you’ve heard, you may think rather queer
But it is the truth you’ll be surprised to hear
I did not want some job up on the board
I just wanted to take a broom and sweep the bloody floor.”

“Gold Watch Blues”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

November 26th, 2018

Milwaukee has a “Christkindlmarket”. The correct German spelling of the word would “Christkindlmarkt” (lose the “e” in “market”), but the local version of the word is close enough. The literal translation of the word from the German into English would be “Christ Child Market”, which is to say that it is kind of an outdoor Christmas fair. Christkindlmarkt is a word used primarily in southern Germany.  In the northern part of the country, they also have these outdoor markets, but they are referred to as a  “Weihnachtsmarkt”, a Christmas Market. The Germans love this sort of thing. Nuremberg and Rothenburg in Bavaria both have wonderful open markets in their town squares. I have been to them. They are especially magical at night, with their lights and music and different kinds of food. The Christkindlmarket in downtown Milwaukee is a weak imitation of the German originals, but it’s all that we have.

Karin wanted to go to the Christkindlmarkt. The fact is that she misses Christmas in Germany, more than she used to miss it. I think she heard about the Christkindlmarkt from a friend in one of her knitting groups. Karin talked to me about going to see it. She became enthusiastic and told me,

“We could eat there. We could have a Bratwurst and a Glühwein!”

She smiled as she spoke of it. For those who do not know, a bratwurst is a sausage found almost everywhere in Germany. Glühwein is hot, spiced wine, usually served in a mug. The two things go well together, especially when it’s cold outside.

The market is located in downtown Milwaukee, near Highland and 4th Street. The booths are set up in a small plaza near the new arena for the local basketball team. The Milwaukee Bucks arena towers over the small collection of kiosks. It feels a little odd. A Christkindlmarkt ought to be surrounded by old, medieval buildings. However, we live in America, and we don’t have any of those.

Karin first wanted to go into the large, framed, heated tent that housed the Käthe Wohlfahrt store. Käthe Wohlfahrt is a famous Christmas store in the old walled city of Rothenburg ob der Tauber in Germany. Karin grew up near Rothenburg. In fact, our very first date was in Rothenburg. The store in Rothenburg has a three-story-high Christmas pyramid. A Christmas pyramid is a wooden tower that rotates. I could further explain what a Christmas pyramid is, but you can look it up online. The point is that Käthe Wohlfahrt holds a special place in Karin’s heart, so that’s where we went.

The tent was filled with ornaments, nutcrackers, and Räuchermännchen. Yeah, okay, so what is a Räuchermännchen? A Räuchermännchen is a small, wooden figurine that looks like he or she is smoking when you burn a bit of incense inside of it. In any case, the store was full of things that Karin wanted to see. There were also Advent calendars, chocolates, and pictures from Germany.

Basically, there was nothing in that store that anybody needed. Well, to clarify, there was nothing there that anybody needed in a purely physical way. The store was full of things that were soulful, and oddly necessary. Does anyone really need a hand carved, wooden tree ornament? A person may need that if it somehow provides a connection with a time and place that are now lost. Karin kept talking about Christmases from long ago as she handled the various trinkets.  She bought a small ornament to take with her on a future trip to Texas. The ornament was tiny, and fragile, and oh so precious. It means something. It is a talisman.

After we left Käthe Wohlfahrt, we wandered past the other kiosks. One person was selling ornaments and crucifixes made from olive wood from Bethlehem. I wonder if anybody made the connection to the fact that Bethlehem is in Palestine, a place that has no peace. These ornaments come from people who are suffering, people who are landless.

Other kiosks sold caps and mittens. Some booths sold roasted nuts or pretzels or natural soaps. One kiosk had gifts from Anatolia (Turkey). One booth had shawls and slippers made from felt that came from Kyrgyzstan. The seller had a vaguely Asiatic look and a Slavic accent, and she haggled like someone from the East. One woman sold Ukrainian decorations and ceramic dolls.

We walked into the sweet store, full of candy and cookies and joy. Karin kept looking at things and saying, “We always had this when we were little! Opa bought it for us!” Karin bought some chocolates (Aachener Dominos and Laetzchen) and some Magenbrot. These confections are difficult to describe. It is best if they are just tasted. Simpler that way. Anyway, buying the treats made Karin happy, and that was the purpose of this excursion.

I wonder if the imminent arrival of our first grandson has anything to do with Karin’s desire to go to the Christkindlmarkt. The baby is due on Christmas Eve. Another Christ Child. Another incarnation of the divine. Christ continually being born into this world.

Karin and I finally found the kiosk that sold food. We decided to get a some Leberkäse (hot German bologna) and the Glühwein. We sat in a tent with heaters, and ate our lunch. Karin thought that the Glühwein was a bit strong. Maybe it was.

Maybe it just tasted like this coming Christmas.

 

 

 

 

November 24th, 2018

Nobody walks in Texas.

Okay, that is not entirely accurate, but during our visit with Hans and Gabi, I remember seeing only one person walk farther than the nearest parking lot. Texas is designed to be traveled by car. No matter where a person lives, nothing is close. If there is public transportation, it is carefully hidden. I saw no evidence of it in Bryan/College Station. If a person does not have a car, they are screwed.

To be fair, I live in a suburb of Milwaukee where public transportation is also quite limited. However, I often see people walking in our neighborhood. I see people on bicycles. I see people, in the dead of winter, going for a stroll along snow-covered roads. Yes, in Wisconsin we use our cars a lot, but not all the time.

I am a bit prejudiced. I like to walk. I don’t mind going for six or seven miles at a crack. I like it because it gives me time to think and observe. In a car, the world rushes by too quickly. I have to concentrate on driving, and I miss things. I drive past parts of my life. When I walk, I can stop and savor the experience, or at least accept it. I can be there.

When Karin and I were with Hans and Gabi in Bryan, I went for walks. Mostly, I did that alone. I noticed things as I walked along my way. I noticed right off that buildings were spread out in a sort of haphazard way. Land management in Texas is a casual and chaotic sort of affair. I could detect no plan. A structure is built in a the middle of a pasture, with nothing around it at all. Later, other buildings find homes nearby. Even after an area is mostly developed, there are still stray parcels of open land. Those parcels remain empty even as other developments erupt far in the distance. The feeling I got in Texas was that there is a great deal of open space, and there always will be, so just use it however you like.

On one of my walks, I noticed the Boonville Cemetery/Heritage Park. I walked around in the cemetery. I was alone there. The place was empty, even though it contains a number of interesting artifacts from the early years of the Texas Republic. Boonville was originally the county seat back in the 1850’s. When the railroad came through, it was replaced by Bryan as the capital of Brazos County, and this cemetery is all that is left of Boonville.

I mentioned to Gabi that I had wandered through Boonville. She was surprised.

She told me, “I have lived here all my life, and I never even knew that was there. I probably drove past it a hundred times.”

Exactly.

She drove past it. So have thousands of other people: people who were totally focused on getting to work, or going to the doctor, or doing some shopping. Odds are that very few people in Bryan know that the park exists. They just drive past it, maybe every day.

This is why I walk.

 

 

 

 

 

November 23rd, 2018

I’ve long since retired and my son’s moved away
I called him up just the other day
I said, I’d like to see you if you don’t mind
He said, I’d love to, dad, if I could find the time
You see, my new job’s a hassle, and the kids have the flu
But it’s sure nice talking to you, dad
It’s been sure nice talking to you
And as I hung up the phone, it occurred to me
He’d grown up just like me
My boy was just like me.

 

And the cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon
Little boy blue and the man in the moon
“When you coming home, son?” “I don’t know when”
But we’ll get together then, Dad
You know we’re gonna have a good time then.

 

 

Harry Chapin, “Cat’s in the Cradle”

 

Humans are designed to recognize patterns, even where none exist. We constantly seek out signs of order in a complicated and chaotic world. Some patterns are obvious almost instantaneously, and others only become visible after years or decades.

 

With the passing of my father, one of the last representatives of an entire generation has departed from my family. He was born in the Great Depression and grew up during the War Years. His experiences were radically different mine, but I suspect that we had some things in common. Human nature changes very little over time. The basic struggles of one generation are often the same as those of the generations that follow. The stories of the families in the Book of Genesis are still relevant because those scenarios have been repeated over and over through the millennia.

 

Why is there the repetition? Why do people make the same mistakes again and again? We don’t seem to learn from the past. I don’t. Partly, that is because I really don’t know the past.

 

As I look back, I am aware that I know very little about my father’s youth, or about the home in which he was raised. He told me some stories, most of them were bitter rants. I never got a coherent image of his family. I got splintered fragments of his memories, usually blurted out in a fit of anger. When I did ask specific questions, I often received evasive answers. My picture of his past is like a jigsaw puzzle with too many pieces missing.

 

I am forced to make educated guesses. To understand my father I have to use my intuition. I know that somehow he was badly hurt. I don’t know why. I just know that when it was my turn to meet him, he was already damaged. He was wounded, and sometimes he wounded others. What was the root cause? I have no idea, and I can’t find out. Almost all the witnesses are dead, and the few who still remain have no intention of talking about it.

 

Would it make any difference if I did know his story? Maybe not. The past cannot be changed. Perhaps, if I understood, I would have more sympathy and compassion for him.  Maybe I would be able to understand me. Maybe.

 

Do my children know my story? Do they know much about my family? Not really. They know bits and pieces. I haven’t told them many things because, frankly, it is too painful to remember a lot of them. Even if I wanted to tell them everything, I don’t know that it would make any sense to them. Much of it doesn’t even make sense to me. When I leave this world, it is likely that I will be as much a mystery to my kids as my father is to me.

 

It just keeps on giving.

 

 

 

November 20th, 2018

I called a good friend on Sunday night. I have known the man for a long time ago. We met when Karin and I were part of a German-language Bible study group. We have remained friends ever since then. The man is just recently retired. He was an ER doctor for many years, and he is trying figure out what he is now. This rather confusing process of  transformation is typical for retirees. I went through, or rather I am still going through, this phase of uncertainty and existential angst. In a way, retirement is like a more mature version of adolescence. Anyway, I called him because I respect his opinion, and I wanted his perspective on my father’s death.

We talked about my dad for a while, and then the conversation drifted toward religion, as it always does. My friend is a peculiar blend of Bible-based, Baptist thought and pre-Vatican II Catholicism. His views are always interesting, and occasionally infuriating.

At one point in our conversation, he remarked that we live in a “fallen world”. I hate that phrase, like really hate it. It’s a classic, born-again kind of comment. It’s short hand for saying, “The world sucks, it’s all our fault, and we can’t fix it.” Nice.

I mentioned that to my friend. To his credit, he responded by saying,

“I hate it too when people use the term “fallen world” as an excuse to do nothing. Clearly, there is sin and evil in the world. That fact doesn’t make it okay to just give up. If a person doesn’t attempt to do good, then he just makes the world that much worse.”

My friend tends to look at the negative aspects of the world, even more than I do.

He said, “The world is full of evil, and Satan is in charge.”

That seemed a little harsh.

He went to say, “Everyone born into this world is destined for hell.”

That comment reflects more than the usual amount of traditional Catholic guilt. It sounded more to me like something that came from Calvin or Luther. The overwhelming emphasis on human sinfulness makes no sense to me. Why would God even create us if we’re that vile?

It is obvious that people are capable of horrific deeds. Most of history is simply a compilation of criminal acts. However, sometimes, maybe often, people rise to the occasion. We can be noble and selfless. That happens too.

I have been impressed at how the Jewish tradition views human nature. There is an admission that people are frail and disobedient, but there is also an acknowledgement that every person has an inherent dignity and value. If God loves us, then there has to be something inside of us that is worth loving. God wants a relationship with us.

I notice the difference in attitude when I compare how Catholics pray as opposed to how Jews pray. Catholics, and other Christians, often pray on their knees. They speak to God from a position of absolute submission. Jews pray while standing. That tells me something.

God is often presented in the Bible as being like a loving father. What loving father would demand that his children come to him on their knees?

 

 

 

November 18th, 2018

Yesterday I posted an essay about my father’s funeral. I have since then deleted that article. It was too bitter, even for me, and I easily go to the dark side. It wasn’t that my words were inaccurate, but they lacked compassion. So, I will try again.

Since my father’s death, I have approached others to get guidance as how I should deal with the event. I have received a variety of responses, and some of them have been very helpful. In particular, a number of people from the Zen sangha have encouraged me to stay in the moment, to stay with what is happening now. That is a good idea, and also one that is difficult to put into practice.

Funerals are about the past. They tend to focus on the positive moments in the past. At many funerals, including my dad’s, there are boards full or photos and other memorabilia. People who come to funerals are actively encouraged to remember things about the deceased. They are prompted to share good memories with others in attendance. There is usually an effort to celebrate the life of the person who has left this world.

That doesn’t always work. It didn’t work for me. It was nearly impossible for me to remember good things about my father. I tried. I really did. Every time I attempted to recover a happy time, it was overshadowed by some emotional train wreck. I mostly remember people getting hurt, and not necessarily myself. Maybe other people could find those good moments. If they did, I didn’t hear them speak about them.

The strange thing is that whenever I visited my father during the last year of his life, I didn’t have a problem being with him. While I was physically in his presence, I never thought about the old days. I was just in the moment with my dad. Now that he is gone, everything about him is in the past tense. All my memories now are from the old days. Everything is somehow compressed. I can’t be in the moment with him any more. I can only go back to those dark days from years ago.

Remembering my dad hurts. Some hurts are clean and pure. The hurt that I feel now is dirty somehow. I can’t properly explain it.

It feels like the only way for me to be in the moment is to forget the man. That is probably impossible to do. In the long run, it probably isn’t healthy either. However, I need some distance from him. Even in death, he is way too close. He haunts me.

My father seldom spoke about his youth or his family. I believe that his past was traumatic, but I don’t know how. He wouldn’t say. He tried to forget too. That didn’t work for him. He was also haunted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

November 11th, 2018

Our Lady of Clear Creek Abbey is a strict Benedictine monastery tucked away in the Ozark hills of eastern Oklahoma. The abbey was founded in 1999 and currently hosts about fifty monks (there also a few nuns who live separately). These monks are very strict concerning silence and remaining separate from the secular world. To say that this monastic community is conservative would be a gross understatement. On their website, the monks proudly show pictures from the visit of Cardinal Raymond Burke. To those unfamiliar with Cardinal Burke, he is fiercely antagonistic to Pope Francis, and he would gladly return the Catholic Church to the days prior to Vatican II.

Karin and I stayed at the abbey.

We were returning home from our visit with our son, Hans, in Texas. We make a habit of staying at Catholic retreat houses and/or monasteries when we make a road trip. We had never been to Clear Creek before, and it sounded interesting. After viewing their website, we were a bit leery of how we would be treated by the monks. These folks are pretty hard core, especially with regards to their interactions with women. We planned on being at the monastery for only two nights and a day, so even if things were unpleasant, we weren’t stuck there.

Karin and I timed our drive to arrive at the monastery before sundown. These places tend to be far off of the beaten path, and they can be difficult to find in the dark. Clear Creek was no exception to that. We went down some paved country roads outside of Hulbert that eventually turned into dirt roads. It became very rustic very quickly. We found the retreat house as the twilight deepened. It was a welcome sight.

The guest master, Father Bachman, had us stay in St. Martha’s House because we were a family. Men can stay with the monks, and I assume that single women can stay with the nuns. Couples, with or without kids, have to stay by themselves. Also, couples are only allowed to participate in certain prayer services with the monks. It seems a little strict, but then it’s their home, so we had to follow their rules.

St Martha’s is really a gorgeous house. It’s a huge log cabin, able to accommodate up to eighteen guests. There is a living room with a vaulted ceiling, a large kitchen, two bathrooms, and eighteen beds. The house also has a washer and dryer. The logs that serve as beams are massive. There is wood paneling wherever the logs are not. Wood everywhere. The lumber in the house is all stained a maple color; kind of a golden brown, like that of a perfect french fry. It’s a warm color, and very welcoming. There are large overhangs that come off of the roof. These overhangs make the interior unusually dark. I suppose that is a good thing in July, but in November it feels rather dreary. In any case, Karin and I had this entire house to ourselves.

We cooked our own supper. We weren’t allowed to eat with the monks (well, Karin wasn’t). After that, I went outside to look at the stars. It was dark, seriously dark. I love to gaze into the sky when it’s like that. It was hard for me to pick out the constellations because they looked unfamiliar to me. Too many stars.

Karin and I went to Mass at the oratory the next morning. The monks have a Low Mass at 7:00 AM, and then a High Mass at 10:30. Both of the Masses are in Latin. The main difference seems to be that the monks chant the prayers during the High Mass. In the Low Mass, the priest just says the prayers. Karin and I found the Low Mass to be an underwhelming experience. Being that it was a traditional, pre-Vatican II liturgy, the priest stood at the altar facing away from the congregation. He spoke softly, muttering the Latin prayers to himself. Karin and I, along with the few other members of the laity in attendance, were merely observers. We didn’t participate at all, except when it was time to receive communion. Basically, we were just there for the show, and it wasn’t a particularly good show. Both Karin and I suddenly felt grateful for the Vatican II changes to the liturgy. We could follow the parts of the traditional Mass, but we felt totally excluded from the service. We were superfluous to the entire worship process.

The monks celebrate the High Mass in the large church next to their cloister. The church is not yet completed. It is built in a Romanesque style, with a lot of brick, and with small, high windows. Since the structure is not yet finished, a person can see parts of the church’s skeleton, wooden rafters and steel frames. The interior is austere, almost empty. There are pews, but they look like they were used in another church. They give the impression of being temporary.

The monks gathered into their choir stalls and they first prayed Terce. Then they started the the High Mass. The priest and his assistants were in white robes. All of the other monks wore black.

In all honesty, the High Mass was extraordinarily beautiful. The Gregorian chant echoed in the vault of the church. The ritual was executed with all of its precise movements. The space was filled with the smell of the beeswax candles and the incense. The liturgy affected our senses in various ways, and it also touched our hearts.

It occurred to me, as I watched the flow of the Mass, that I was seeing something that I could have seen a thousand years ago. The priests and the monks were doing exactly what their predecessors had done in the Middle Ages. The language was the same, as was the ritual. To me, the scene was both familiar and alien. There was a direct connection between these men and their counterparts in medieval France. This Mass transcended time and space, and it was truly profound.

It still troubled me that I was only there as an observer. The monks and priests were the only human participants in the divine worship. Karin and I were excluded, and somehow that hurt. The Mass is supposed to be about communion, not separation.

I respect tradition, and I admire those who are loyal to it. I can understand how this Latin Mass allows these modern monks to feel connected with all those who went before them. They have a centuries-old sense of continuity, something that is almost unknown in our world. However, that is something that Karin and I can never be part of. We came to the monastery as strangers and we left as such. I feel sad about that.

 

 

November 12th, 2018

Back in the spring, I wandered around the country with a band of Native Americans. One of them talked to me about the importance of being connected with the spirits of our ancestors. I remember telling him that I din’t necessarily want some of those ancestral spirits too close to me.

He laughed and said, “Well, I guess you got a problem there!”

He was right. I do have a problem.

My dad died on Saturday. I didn’t know about it until Sunday night. Karin and I had spent the weekend at a Trappist monastery in Oklahoma, and we had almost no connection with the outside world for two days. Our son, Hans, called us while we driving through Illinois to tell us that he had seen something about my father posted on Facebook. I guess that’s the way people find things out now: informal obituaries on Facebook.

I sat in the passenger seat while Karin drove for the last two hours of our journey. My father’s death was not really a surprise. We knew it was coming. He was nearly eighty-six, and he had just been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I had thought that he would have a couple more months. I thought wrong.

As we drove through the darkness, I realized that I didn’t feel much of anything. My dad was gone, but I didn’t miss him.

Karin and I have been to a few funerals recently. We are at an age where attending a funeral becomes a more frequent occurrence. A couple weeks ago, we were at a funeral for a friend was just a bit older than my dad. His grandchildren went up to the lectern to speak about their happy memories of their grandfather. They talked about all the wonderful things he had done with them and for them. They had genuine affection in their voices.

I don’t have any happy memories of my father. Well, maybe I do, but I can’t find them. They are locked away somewhere in my head, and I have forgotten the password. I can only find memories that are frightening or infuriating. Thinking about my life with my dad is scary. It’s like going to a dark place, and I don’t want to visit there any more.

Karin and I went to talk with my father in the nursing home about a month ago. He was happy to see us, and I was glad to be there with him. At the end, he wasn’t scary any more. He was just old and sad and tired. I was okay with the old man in the room. I’m not okay with man that he was. I don’t want to remember that man.

On Thursday we will go to my dad’s funeral. I will say goodbye.

I hope that God receives and welcomes his spirit. I hope my father’s spirit finds the peace that eluded him on earth.

I also want my ancestor’s spirit to keep his distance for a while.

 

 

 

November 11th, 2018

We pulled into the Waffle House in Joplin, Missouri at around 9:00 AM on Sunday. Karin and I had already been driving for a couple hours along the back roads of eastern Oklahoma, and we were finally on I-44 heading toward St. Louis. We still had a solid ten hours of windshield time ahead of us on our way back home. It was time to stop for some breakfast.

It had been a really long time since I was last inside of a Waffle House. Karin and I have been driving down to Texas and back for almost thirty years, and we have stopped to eat at all sorts of places. I noticed that, once we got south of central Illinois, there was usually a Waffle House close by. Waffle House is a southern thing. I don’t know why. It just is. A Waffle House always has that down home, redneck feel. The restaurant in Joplin was no exception to that.

The Waffle House was tiny, surprisingly so. There was a counter and several booths. The kitchen was right behind/next to the counter. Actually, the cooks slaved away right in front of anybody who chose to sit at the counter. A person could watch their breakfast being prepared. Being as it was so small, the restaurant seemed crowded, even if it really wasn’t.

As we walked into the house, a tall, thin, black man shouted to us,

“GOOD MORNING! Welcome to the Waffle House!”

The man wore a blue Waffle House uniform, but all I could see was his smile. His smile illuminated the cafe. He had one front tooth that was broken and discolored. That didn’t matter. Seeing his smile was like watching the sun rise in the morning.

He asked us, “Where y’all want to sit? Y’all want a booth?”

We nodded, and sat down at one of the very utilitarian booths near a window.

You have to understand that a Waffle House is kind of Zen. The place is stripped down to the bare essentials. People come here to eat. That’s it. Oh, I will grant you that some folks socialize and chat, but there is no ambiance at this stop. The regulars all seem to be local farmers with sweat-stained caps and bad dental work, or they are black folk taking a break on their way to the nearest Baptist revival. However, they are all pretty damn friendly to a couple stray Yankees who happened to wander into their natural habitat.

The tall black man came to serve us. I saw by his name tag that he was called “Kenneth”. He was the lead man on this shift. Karin and I looked cluelessly on the Waffle House menu.

Kenneth smiled at us and said, “I usually recommend the ‘All Star Special”. Most times, folks, well, they just split the order. There’s a lot of food. They get themselves an extra plate. It’s got eggs and toast and grits and bacon and a waffle. It’s only eight dollars, if that’s what y’all would like.”

Then he asked, “Y’all want you coffee while you decide?”

We nodded and he filled our coffee cups.

Karin and I agreed to get the special.

He asked us, “Well, how you want yo’ eggs? Now, it come with two eggs, but you can get more. Each additional egg is forty cents.”

I told him, ” We want four eggs. Sunny side up.”

Kenneth smiled, “That’s fine. What y’all want for meat? Sausage? Bacon? Ham?”

Karin told him that we wanted bacon.

Then he said, “Y’all can have hash browns or grits. What you want?”

Karin and I looked at each other, and simultaneously we said, “Grits”.

Grits is a southern thing. It’s the tofu of the South. You can do almost anything with grits. The truth is that Karin and I cannot leave Dixie without eating grits at least once. It’s mandatory. It’s part of the experience.

The food came to us quickly. One platter held four eggs, some raisin toast, bacon, and a pecan waffle. The other plate was bare. We also got a bowl of grits. Honestly, the meal was more than enough for two people. It was hard to imagine one person wolfing it all down.

As Karin and I waded through the culinary delights, Kenneth came over to refill our coffees. When he was not with us, he was greeting any newcomers with a heartfelt, “Welcome to Waffle House!”

We ate everything on our plates. Kenneth came up to us and asked,

“Y’all want more coffee?”

We shook our heads.

“I can give y’all coffee in some to-go cups for your journey.”

I told him not to bother. The coffee would just make me want to piss.

In the end, it was a cheap breakfast.

I asked Kenneth,

“How should I pay you?”

He said, “Well, come up to the register, and we’ll settle.”

I gave him cash, way more than enough.

I said, “Keep the rest.”

Kenneth nodded, “Thank you, Sir.”

Karin and I left that place full and content.

God bless Kenneth.