Author: frankisemptiness

March 30th, 2018

The Amtrak station in Havre, Montana, is underwhelming. It is only open from 10:15 AM until 6:15 PM. The station consists of one small waiting room, with a tiny adjoining office. The waiting room contains several uncomfortable benches, some sickly plants, three vending machines (one of which is inoperable), and a variety of outdated magazines.  When I arrived at the station, there was one woman working in the office. She was accompanied by two small children. Apparently, she doesn’t need daycare. She lets her son and daughter run wild as she attends to her infrequent customers. Only two trains come into Havre each day: the Empire Builder as it rolls west to Seattle, and the Empire Builder that runs east toward Chicago.

I had been on the westbound Empire Builder for twenty-four hours. I was tired and paranoid. I had been texting Tony concerning my arrival time in this godforsaken Montana town, but he had not been responding. That bothered me. When I got off the train, there was no one there to greet me. My immediate reaction was to silently swear, “You fuckers.” I knew that the Longest Walkers were at the nearby Rocky Boy rez, and they knew that I was on my way to join them. So, where were these guys?

I made some calls. Bobby answered, and he told me that Tony was on his way. I relaxed a bit. I went outside of the station and I could feel the bite of the cold wind. I began to regret my decision to rejoin this ragtag group that was wandering from reservation to reservation.

Havre looked uninviting. The was plenty of snow and dirt, and a statue of some forgotten pioneer stood in front of the train station. It’s one of those western towns were every business establishment also doubles as a casino.

I saw a car pull up. It was Jeremiah’s Nissan, but Jeremiah wasn’t driving it. Some other guy was behind the wheel. I recognized Ferdinand (aka Fern) in the passenger seat. Fern saw me and they parked in front of the station. I threw my sleeping bag and other gear into the back of the car. The driver was Tyler, an acupuncture student/carpenter from San Francisco. He had joined the walk the day after I went home. The two of them were on their way to a local Indian craft store. Then they were going to pick up laundry.

I found out from Fern and Tyler that the group had just finished a massive walk/run with about three hundred school children. It was a rousing success, and it had gone on longer than expected. I was relieved that they hadn’t just forgotten about me. I was sorry that I missed that walk. It sounded very cool.

Rocky Boy is a Chippewa Cree reservation not far from the Canadian border. It is about a forty-five minute drive from Havre. The land is hilly with deep creek beds. In the distance are the Bear Paws mountains. The Bear Paws actually look like a bear reclining on the earth, with his head and paws facing to the west. The mountains are partially tree-covered. The rest of the rez is not.

There is a college campus on the reservation. It is called “Stone Child”. The name made me think of Jim Hendrix. I think I was conflating “Stone Free” with “Voodoo Child”. Hey, I hadn’t slept much. Rocky Boy and Stone Child are both translations of the same Indian name. We were staying in a common room in a part of the college building. Another night of sleeping bags on the floor. I was good with that.

The tribe had a party going on that evening in the school gymnasium next to the college. They were planning to honor their outstanding students and school athletes. I met the other walkers at the gym. We quickly caught up on recent events. I had been gone for nearly a month, so I had missed their journey from Puget Sound to central Montana. They had already covered a lot of miles, and they had visited eight more reservations in my absence.

The tribal members started drumming in a circle in the middle of the gym. They sang their traditional songs. People left the bleachers to join together for a round dance. I got up too. I am generally not a dancer, but this was pretty simple. We all joined hands and kind of shuffled around the drummers. There were old people dancing, and little kids, and everybody from the ages in between. Lots of smiles. The children were laughing. It was fun.

The tribe recognized the kids from the school. They also mentioned our visit to their land. Bobby made sure that surveys went out to collect data on drug abuse and domestic violence. Then we all ate fried chicken and noodle salad.

I walked outside just before sunset. The sun was shining on Bear Paws, and making the bear’s head glow gold and green. The western sky was bright orange. The sun dipped below the horizon, and I could just make out the evening star. The mountains still shown in the twilight. The trees were too dark to see, but the white patches of snow were visible. Then the stars came out.

 

 

 

 

March 26th, 2018

I have to pack a couple bags. I have to run a couple errands too. My train leaves Milwaukee at 3:52 PM, in theory. We are talking about Amtrak, so all times are negotiable. Between now and then, I have to get my stuff together so that I can hook up with the Longest Walk 5.3 again. The walkers are somewhere in the middle of Montana, and I plan on finding them.

I had hoped to leave home with everything organized and settled. I dislike loose ends. I like to have it all neat and tidy upon my departure.

Not.

The sad fact is that there are always loose ends. Always. There is always something forgotten, or something unforeseen. There is never a perfect time to start a new adventure. A person who waits for the perfect conditions never actually begins anything.

Karin and I visited our loved one yesterday afternoon. She had previously told me about her anxiety attacks. She always seems to find something to worry about, as do I. I think it is a genetic thing. It is a hereditary obsession. The mind never stops troubleshooting, so the person never starts living in the moment.

I am just going to go. Karin will drop me off, and I will sever the connection, at least somewhat. I am not capable of completely separating myself from the people back home. Perhaps that is a good thing. I don’t know. It just is.

I heard that it is cold in Montana.

 

 

March 20th, 2018

Hans has a hard job. He has always had difficult jobs. Every place he has ever worked has been physically and mentally demanding: the mail room at the Eagle newspaper, the Army, the oilfields, and now a concrete company. He has always had to push himself to the edge. It shows.

Hans drives a big pump truck for the concrete company. It has a 42 meter boom for the pipe. Hans transfers the concrete from the mixer trucks to the place where the finishers lay the slab. Sometimes he pours seventy yards of concrete for a house slab. Sometimes he pours a couple hundred yards for a larger project. He has to make sure that the work goes fast enough that the concrete doesn’t begin to set up in the pipes on his truck. The clean up at the end of his shift is always arduous. It is not unusual for him to have chip pieces of concrete from in his hopper.

Hans doesn’t have a start time. He is on call every day. He might have to go in at 6:00 AM, or he might need to show up at one in the morning. He might only work eight hours or he might have to work sixteen. He never knows. One day his dispatcher had him working for twenty-two hours straight. Even the corporate management thought that was a bit excessive.

Hans comes back from work dog tired and dirty. He typically slumps into a chair on his patio and lights up a Pall Mall. He cracks open a Lime-a-rita, and he sits there, staring into the distance. Gabby generally leaves him alone for at least half an hour. That’s a wise move.

Overall, Hans likes his work. He has always been good with his hands. He likes machinery; big or fast, or both. He prefers to work outdoors. So, construction is good fit for him. It just takes a lot out of him.

While Karin and I were visiting, Hans would light up and start talking. Usually, work is the initial topic of discussion. Later, he might talk about guns, or the Army, or cars, or those damn liberals. After a few drinks, Hans sometimes tells stories from Iraq. Some of those are funny. Some are very disturbing. He always tells his tales in the same matter-of-fact kind of monotone. He talks about driving a tank in the same tone as he talks about shooting a guy dead. It is like he is remembering things from a distance; as an observer, rather than as an active participant. He often would not look at us as he was speaking. He would look at something far away. Maybe he has to remember things that way.

At some point the dogs come out to the yard. Hans plays with his puppy. Hans smokes one cigarette after another. Fatigue sets in. I can see his shoulders sag. He becomes even quieter than usual. He gets a text regarding the next day’s assignment. He finishes up his last beer, and then goes to bed.

He needs to be up early.

 

 

 

March 20th, 2018

Karin and I saw some bluebonnets growing while we were driving through the Texas countryside. They are just starting to bloom. More often we saw fields of Indian paint brushes. The dogwoods were blooming too. Once in a while, we saw the bright lilac- colored flowers of a red bud tree. The live oaks were just getting their first leaves. Springtime in Texas can be beautiful.

Eastern Texas generally has only two types of weather. Either it is insanely hot with high humidity, or the land is scourged by wicked thunderstorms. The storms are torrential downpours. I have never seen a light rain in Texas. It’s either a sauna or a monsoon.

Being mid-March, the temperatures were not yet extreme. We had a couple days up in the 80’s. Those were like summertime conditions for Karin and myself. We could sit out in Hans’ patio, and watch the dogs chase each other on the ragged remains of his lawn.

Hans and Gabby have three dogs. Gabby owns two of them. She has male German shepherds, named George and Elvis, Hans has a pit bull terrier puppy named Hank. Hank is white with a couple black patches. His eyes don’t match. One eye looks brown and the other is sky blue. (It reminds me a little of David Bowie). Hank does puppy things. He demands attention, runs around like crazy, and he pees and poops everywhere. Hans asked Gabby if she wants a baby. She replied, “Not any time soon.”

Hans is good with dogs, and dogs are good for him. He is considerably more relaxed when he has his puppy with him. He cuddles and plays with Hank. Hans occasionally cleans up after the dog, usually at Gabby’s urging. Dogs are good for unconditional love and affection. God knows that Hans needs that sometimes.

 

 

 

March 19th, 2018

Karin and I saw a shirt in a store window when we were wandering around Navasota, Texas. It was a woman’s t-shirt, almost long enough to be a dress. There was writing all over the front of the shirt. At the very top, it said: “In the South, we…”. Below that phase was a long list of things that people do in the South. There are as follows:

“We praise Jesus.”

Oh yeah. Churches litter the landscape in Dixie. Most of them are some kind of Evangelical denomination. The region has an intensely Calvinist vibe. Even the Catholic churches, rare though they are, seem to have incorporated this kind of single-minded, vocal devotion to Christ. There is nothing wrong with this, although I can see how the religious atmosphere would be disconcerting to non-Christians. I’m cool with praising the Lord, but I don’t expect other people to share my fervor.

“We own guns.”

That is God’s truth. It seems like damn near everybody owns a weapon, or several. I have heard people explain to me why they own guns. Their reasons tend to be unconvincing to me. The fact is that many of the folks just love guns. It’s not a logical thing. It is a visceral connection with firearms. It isn’t necessarily good or bad. It just is.

“We sweeten tea,”

Yes, absolutely. Especially in Texas.

“We wave at strangers.”

True. It’s a little weird, but it is kind of cool.

“We fly the flag.”

Definitely. The question here is which flag. The Stars and Stripes fly almost everywhere you look. However, you can also see the Stars and Bars quite often. The Confederate flag is all over the place, especially in the countryside. To be fair, I have seen the rebel flag up North too, but its home is down here.

“We fry chicken.”

Yes, and they do it quite well.

“We say, ‘Hi, y’all’.”

I love that.

“We drive trucks.”

So do those damn Yankees.

“We say ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’.”

I like that too.

“We respect our elders.”

Right on, bro.

“We wear pearls.”

Can’t relate to that one.

There was more written on the shirt, but this is all that I can remember for now.

Karin looked at the shirt and said, “I would sooooo wear that.” then she laughed.

 

 

 

March 18th, 2018

Hans and I were sitting on his patio, sipping beer, and looking at his backyard.

Hans said, “Look at the fence. See that squirrel there?”

“What squirrel?”

“The squirrel on the fence, on the white fence.”

I looked. There was a grey squirrel lying motionless on top of a wooden fence. He was staring at us.

“Hans, that squirrel is giving you the eye.”

Hans took a drag off his cigarette. “I know. I was attacked by one like that.”

“A squirrel assault?”

Hans nodded and flicked ash from the end of his cigarette.

He said, “Yep. I was with my buddy hunting. I was walking through the woods when this squirrel jumped from a tree on to my shoulder. I must have pissed him off somehow. He was fast.”

“Really?”

“Hell yeah! It was like if I was dead drunk fighting Chuck Norris. I couldn’t get hold of the thing. He was biting me and scratching my head and shoulders.”

Hans went on, “My buddy wanted to shoot the squirrel. I told him, ‘No! You’ll hit me!’ “. Finally, I grabbed on to the squirrel’s tail and I flung him into the woods like a bag of potatoes. He bounced and rolled a couple times. He didn’t come back.”

Hans continued, “The worst part was going to the hospital after that. I told my buddy that I was fine, but he insisted that I go to the ER. The rabies shot hurt worse than all the scratches and bites.”

Hans didn’t say anything more. He just kept watching the squirrel lying on the fence.

 

 

 

 

March 17th, 2018

There isn’t much in Snook, Texas. It is a farming community outside of Bryan/College Station. There are level fields with rust red dirt and the first green shoots of the spring crops. A few working oil wells dot the landscape.

There is a shooting range in Snook. It’s called “Gunsmoke”. Hans had been to the place years ago, when he used to go skeet shooting. The range is at the end of a dusty, gravel road. There are actually four ranges there: a skeet range, a pistol range, and two rifle ranges (one with targets at 100 yards and one with them at 25 yards).

Four of us were going shooting. It was Hans, Karin, myself, and Hans’ fiancée, Gabi. Hans wanted to zero his new MSR-15. He also brought along his bolt action, hunting rifle and his 1911 semiautomatic .45. Gabi wanted to try the .45 pistol. I was willing to shoot any of the weapons. Karin was planning to observe. She had never seen Hans fire a gun, and she wanted to know what that was like.

We walked into the shack that served as the administrative building for the ranges. We all had to show our drivers licenses. Maybe they do a very quick background check. I don’t know. All I know is that I signed a waver that said the people running the range were not to be held responsible for anything. Fair enough.

The two guys working in the shack were obviously former military. They had full beards and shaggy haircuts, but they had that well-muscled, hard ass look. One man had a t-shirt that said  “USNA”. I asked him if he had been at the Naval Academy. He told me that he had been a Marine weapons instructor, and he had been at Annapolis temporarily to teach the midshipmen how to shoot. I was not surprised at all.

We went to the 100 yard rifle range first. We all put in our earplugs. Karin was not aware of how loud firearms can be. We put up a couple targets. Hans tried to zero the assault rifle. The sight was too far out of adjustment for him to get an accurate shot at that distance. He couldn’t hit the target, so he couldn’t tell how to move the front sight on the rifle. We took out the hunting rifle. Hans and I both shot a few rounds. I am not sure what I hit. I never used a scope before, so I couldn’t get steady. Hans nailed the targets.

The other rifle range was busy, so we stopped at the pistol range. Hans shot the .45 first. He did well, as expected. I shot nine rounds at maybe twenty yards. I had a couple good hits, but I didn’t have very tight shot group. Gabi went to shoot with Hans. It was her first time with the pistol. She had told us that the boys in her family had all learned to shoot, but the girls never had the opportunity. Hans patiently showed her how to aim and fire. He seems like a good instructor.

Karin went up to shoot. It was the first time that Karin had fired a weapon in her life. Hans put only one bullet into the magazine.  He told her how to hold the pistol, and how to aim it. Karin fired off the round, and then she was done. Karin doesn’t like guns, and I doubt that she ever will. However, I think it was good for her to at least try it once.

I talked with Gabi about how she felt with the gun.

Gabi said, “It was okay, but I only hit the target once.”

I told her, “With a .45, you only need to hit your target once.”

From the pistol range we went to the 25 yard rifle range. We set up a target. Hans got out the AR and started to zero it. He initially kept hitting the target low and to the right. He adjusted the front site repeatedly. He asked Karin,

“Mom, do have a pin or something?”

Karin piped up, “I have a knitting needle! Will that help?”

Hans shook his head. “Never mind.”

As we watched Hans carefully aim his weapon, I told Gabi,

“I like to see a professional at work.”

Gabi smiled and nodded.

Karin laughed and said, “You don’t watch me like that when I knit!”

True.

Hans got the AR sighted to his satisfaction. He fired off some rounds and hit the bulls eye with consistency. Then he looked at Gabi and said,

“Ready?”

She replied, “I don’t want to shoot that!”

Hans laughed. “Come on… it’s calling to you.”

“No.”

Hans shrugged. “Okay…”

Hans handed the gun to me. I used up the rounds left in the magazine. I had a good shot group, but it was a little low and to the left. Oh well, I only shoot when we visit Hans. It’s just as well. I like it, but shooting is an expensive hobby.

I don’t own any guns. I don’t want any.

But I had fun.

March 15th, 2018

When is spending money an actual waste?

The answer to that question differs from person to person. It was also varies according to the situation. I know people who can’t spend their cash fast enough. I know people who are still hanging on to their lunch money from 3td grade. When do you hold on tight, and when do you let go?

While I was walking through Washington State, our youngest son, Stefan, bought himself a used Suzuki Marauder. Did he need a motorcycle? Probably not. Does the bike make him happy? Most definitely. He uses the painting equipment at the body shop to  customize the Suzuki. It is going to look sweet when he has it all done.

When I visited the girl that we love on Sunday, I told her about Stefan’s new bike. She frowned and asked,

“Why is Stefan buying a motorcycle when he should be saving up to move into an apartment?”

I gave her a noncommittal answer. Yeah, Stefan probably should be saving his pennies to get a place with July. That would be the prudent thing to do. On the other hand, the prudent thing isn’t always the right thing.

When we arrived at Hans’ house two days ago, he showed me his new Savage MSR-15 (AR-15). It is basically the civilian version of the rifle he carried on Iraq. He spent $800 on it.

My initial reaction was not exactly positive. I thought to myself,

“Really? I just sent you money, and you pissed it away on a fucking assault rifle?”

Then I looked at how pleased Hans was with the rifle. He wasn’t depressed any more. He was excited about trying it out. He asked me if I wanted to help him zero the weapon on the weekend.

I shrugged, smiled, and said, “Sure, why not?

I had remember that I gave Hans the money. He had spent his money. It wasn’t mine any more. I had given it to him freely, and a gift is only a gift if there are no strings attached.

I pissed away my money so that he could piss away his.

I’m good with that.

March 13th, 2018

We just finished chanting vespers with the monks. The sun set a few minutes ago, and now there is clear, dark sky over Subiaco Abbey. It’s going to be cold tonight. We may be in the middle of Arkansas, but it still feels like we are in Wisconsin. There will be frost on the car windows when we get up 5:00 AM to go to lauds. I expect that I will be able to see plenty of stars in the sky when Karin and I walk from the retreat house to the church.

Karin and I have been coming to Subiaco for years. The abbey is located in the Arkansas River Valley, west of Little Rock. The Ozarks rise up on both sides of the valley. The terrain is rugged, and often wooded. The monastery is 140 years old. It has massive stone buildings, and a peaceful atmosphere. The abbey is nearly midway between our house and Hans’ home in Texas. It makes for a good rest stop when we travel to visit our son.

The abbey was founded by Swiss monks 140 years ago. Arkansas is almost overwhelmingly Protestant; most people being Baptist or some flavor of Pentecostal. There is a thin strip of Catholics along the Arkansas River near Subiaco. These Papists are descendants of German immigrants who decided to become neighbors of the Calvinist locals.

There is a cemetery at the abbey that dates back almost one hundred years. Some of the tombstones go way back. The oldest markers are written in Latin. For the word “born”, they used “natus”. “Ordained” is “ordinatus”. “Died” is “mortuus”. The graveyard is a solemn place, but not depressing. The men who are buried there gave their lives for a cause. Their  lives meant something.

Besides the Benedictine monks, there are usually visitors at the abbey’s retreat center. Most of these folks are older. Monasteries tend to attract a more mature segment of the overall population. However, there is also a prep school located at Subiaco. So, there are scores of high school kids on the campus. To be honest, I prefer to hang out the young folks. Karin and I ate some of our meals in the cafeteria with the students.

I am not sure why all these boys are here. (By the way, the Subiaco student body is entirely male.) Some of the young men are from the local area. Many of them are from overseas, from China in particular. I get the impression that some of the parents just don’t want these teens at home. Nothing says “I love you” like sending your son thousands of miles away.

The Chinese kids are probably at Subiaco because the parents have business interests in the U.S., and they want the young lads to learn English and become familiar with the American culture. These parents also want to ensure that their little boys don’t get into trouble. God knows that there are not many opportunities for mischief around Subiaco. The closest town is Paris, AR. That burg can boast of having a Dairy Queen and a Dollar General store.

I observed the students in the cafeteria while we dined with them. The scene reminded me of my time at West Point. A lot of the boys were wearing their school colors: blue and orange. Some were dressed in tan-colored slacks, white button down shirts, Navy blue blazers, and fluorescent orange ties. It occurred to me that school uniforms and prison uniforms are similar in many ways, and perhaps serve the same purpose.

I am soooooo glad that I am not their age. They all had that look that told me they were simultaneously cocky and terrified. They have all sorts of things ahead of them, and they have no fucking clue. Sadly, their mentors at the school probably don’t have a clue either. I have already made most of my decisions: worked a job, found a spouse, built a house. As for raising our kids, that is still a work in progress. However, I have played most of my cards in life. Hopefully, most of the drama is in the past.

The church at Subiaco is an impressive Romanesque structure. It contains beautiful stained glass windows. Most of the windows somehow refer to the founder of the order, St. Benedict. Across from each other are two large rose windows: one depicts St. Benedict, and the other shows his sister, St. Scholastica. Under the image of St. Scholastica are three windows that display the three members of the Holy Family: Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. The three windows below the image of St. Benedict show the three members of the Holy Trinity: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. I like that balance.

Karin and I prayed the psalms with the monks four times a day. The monks used Gregorian chant. There is an ancient harmony and beauty to those chants. The voices reach back across the centuries. There is a sense of continuity in the musical tradition.

It was good to be there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

March 10th, 2018

Karin and I were in the courtroom a bit early. Room 205 is not terribly imposing. It looks like most any other office, except for the fact that it has the elevated judge’s bench. People were already busy in the courtroom when Karin and I arrived. The assistant DA was scrolling through documents on his computer screen. A couple of lawyers were in the room, alternately advising and ignoring their clients. Clerks were shuffling papers and sipping Starbucks at their desks. Everybody seemed to know everyone else in the courtroom. It felt like any other work place. It was all business as usual.

I heard an odd sound from outside the courtroom. It was a jangling, metallic sound. It reminded me of the noise that the chain on dog leash makes. Then it occurred to me: it was our loved one coming into the room.

She was wearing handcuffs and leg shackles, just as she did during her previous court appearance. The girl looked grim as she sat down. Her public defender sidled up to her, and started talking with the loved one. The lawyer smiled as she explained things. Our young woman nodded and looked at the attorney with an unblinking stare.

The judge came into the courtroom. We all rose. We all sat down again. The judge lost his reading glasses, and the process stalled until he found them again. Then he started hearing the cases before him. There was a routine and ritual involved with proceedings. Each person working in the courtroom played a familiar role, and they all knew their lines. Only the defendants seemed to have stage fright.

There were several cases on the docket. The girl we love was not at the top of the batting order. The first case involved a young woman who had been busted repeatedly for driving with a revoked license. Her lawyer asked for leniency because the young woman had to care for little daughter and a elderly grandfather. This woman had been in front of this same judge just a few months ago, and he had given her probation. The judge was no longer amused by the situation.

He told her, “I am not impressed that you are here again.  The last time you were here, I gave you probation. I guess you weren’t impressed by me either. Maybe a month in jail will impress you.”

Our loved one listened carefully to what the judge said to this other girl. It got her attention.

When it came time for our girl to plead her case, the judge patiently and thoroughly explained her rights. He made it very clear as to what would happen if she pleaded guilty. She did plead guilty. They had her dead to rights. The only real option for our girl was  to cop a plea and hope for mercy from the court. The DA wanted her to get put away for a year. Our girl accepted that deal, rather than a potential three year sentence.

The judge ordered a pre-sentencing review of the case. The public defender and the DA will give the judge any pertinent facts regarding the young woman’s AODA history, work record, academic degrees, and anything else that is needed. The judge will sentence our loved one on May 10th.

The thing that struck me most about the whole process was how mundane it all seemed. For most of the people in that courtroom, the events were nothing unusual. Our loved one was just part of an endless parade of offenders going through an impersonal and heartless system. For our loved one, the brief procedure was profoundly life-altering. It also radically changed my life and the life of my wife.

How can a single event be simultaneously inconsequential for some people and incredibly intense for others?