Frank is Emptiness

September 10th, 2024

It was Asher’s first parade. He’s almost four years old, and this was his initial experience with marchers and banners and floats. I am not a big fan of parades. My time in the Army cured me of any interest in that sort of thing. However, it was the Labor Day parade, and our youngest son, Stefan, was going to march along with comrades in the Ironworker Union. Stefan is Asher’s godfather, and he wants to help raise us the lad. Stefan sees the boy as a budding Ironworker, eager to cheat death up the steel beams. Asher adores his strong uncle, and so we decided to let Asher see what Stefan does and who his friends are.

We got there early and found a place to stand on Chicago Street, near the endpoint of the parade route. The police were blocking off the side streets with some occasional difficulty. A cop who was positioning orange barrels got into a heated conversation with the driver of a minivan who thought he could sneak through the barrier. The officer was livid,

“Don’t you see these barrels?! I don’t care where you want to go! Turn yourself around and go back! TURN AROUND!”

Finally, Chicago Street was cleared out for at least a mile or two. Then the motorcycle cops revved up their bikes and roared up and down their newly opened straightaway. They were having a blast. The police have a union, so this was their celebration too.

Before I go further, I have to explain that, in Milwaukee at least, Labor Day is about the unions. It’s their day to strut their stuff. I know that there are many people who despise unions. I’ve met a few of them. The people marching in the parade have met those kinds of people too (one of the marchers wore as shirt that said, “Proud to be a union thug”). I understand the feelings of those who dislike unions. Years ago, I worked as a supervisor at a trucking company that employed Teamster drivers. It was a painful experience for me. Both sides, management and the Teamsters, spent more time and energy trying to screw the other party than actually get the job done. The work environment was toxic.

On the other hand, I know people, family members and friends, who are in unions, and based on their stories, I have to conclude that there are workplaces that need unions to protect the interests of the employees. Certainly, in my son’s profession as an Ironworker, safety is paramount. People can easily die in his line of work. Stefan’s union forces the contractors to maintain strict safety standards. Corporations, especially large ones, simply have too much power. An individual cannot go to toe with The Man in those organizations. I worked as a supervisor at another trucking company for almost 28 years, and it was a scab outfit, virulently anti-union. There were times during my tenure at that company when people were treated like commodities. I know that I was sometimes guilty of doing that. A union where I worked would have obviously complicated the corporate effort to make a profit, but it would have also given the employers a stronger voice in policy matters. My rule of thumb is: If a company has a union, they deserve to have one.

Back to the parade…

The parade was long. It lasted for over an hour. I was unaware prior to being a spectator of how many unions there were in the metropolitan area. Different groups marched past us in a seemingly endless line. There were unions representing carpenters, laborers, electricians, plumbers, steamfitters, sheet metal workers, operating engineers, teachers, firefighters, nurses, Teamsters, and of course the Ironworkers. There were floats with musicians on board. Asher got his boogie on. The participants in the march smiled and waved. They threw candy to the little kids. Asher scored big. The marchers exuded a feeling of joy and pride, and it was contagious.

The Ironworkers had a float of sorts. It was a long flatbed trailer with several men standing on it. Near the front of the trailer was mounted a large steel beam, exactly like the kind used in construction. Close to the rear of the trailer were a few guys heating up rivets on a charcoal grill. Once the rivets were hot, they gave them to the guys in the front to pound into the holes of the beam. That’s an anachronistic way to secure a beam, but there is tradition at attached to the process. It’s also loud as hell and makes for a good show.

Stefan was marching with his coworkers in front of the trailer. He came over to the us on the side of the street to give Asher a child sized Ironworkers t-shirt. Stefan grinned at Asher, and he smiled back. Then Stefan rejoined his union and finished the march.

I think Asher had a good time at his first parade.

Asher at the parade

Stefan brining Asher his t-shirt

September 6th, 2024

A couple days ago, the Capital Times in Madison, Wisconsin, published a letter from me. It is as follows:

“Dear Editor: I served in West Germany as a U.S. Army officer back in the early 1980’s, when the Cold War confrontation with the Soviet Union was intense.

I always had the feeling while I was there that a nuclear war could start any day. I get the same feeling now with the war in Ukraine. Since the Ukrainian incursion into Kursk began, the feeling has grown stronger. Ukraine clearly has a right to attack Russian territory, but the stakes are incredibly high. The question is: When will Putin get so desperate that he launches a nuclear weapon?

If and when Putin fires a nuclear device, he will cross the reddest of red lines, and it won’t end there. Nukes are like potato chips — one is never enough. The world has a laser-like focus on the war in Gaza. Our attention should be on Ukraine. That’s where the danger lies.”

In my experience, it takes a while for a letter to the editor to filter through the system. I sent this letter, or something very similar, to other newspapers. Maybe another publication will see fit to use it. Even if only one paper used it, it’s a win.

August 27th, 2024

Our youngest son, Stefan, went to work before the sun was up. He’s an Ironworker and he has been busy at a jobsite where they are putting up a big box warehouse. He is doing connecting and welding at the site. He was muttering to himself when he packed his lunch. He told me,

“I don’t think I am going to make it through the day.”

“Oh?”

He said, “It’s already 87 degrees outside!”

Then he reconsidered and said, “Well, it was 87 when I came home last night from teaching the apprentices. The heat index is supposed to hit 105 today.”

He went on, “I can’t wait to hear some office worker to complain about how hot it is.”

He smiled ruefully and said, “Fuck you, Bitch”, to the imaginary cubicle geek.

Stefan’s job is brutal in the heat. He has to wear a long sleeve shirt, thick gloves, and welding helmet much of the time. He comes home after his shift utterly exhausted and more than a little bit irritable.

Taking it to another level, my other son, Hans, pumps concrete down in Texas. His work is physically demanding, and he is in the heat for hours on end. He fills his cooler with water, Pedialyte, and pickle juice. That still is never enough. He’s had heat exhaustion on the job more than once. His body can only tolerate so much. Many employers don’t seem very concerned about that sort of thing.

When I was working, I was a dock supervisor at a trucking company. I spent most of my time outside, Granted, the dock had a roof, but all the doors were open 24/7 while we were transferring freight from one trailer to another. Whatever the weather was outside was the weather we experienced on the dock.

I didn’t have too much trouble with heat on my shift. I worked nights for many years. I had issues at the other end of the temperature spectrum. I hated winter, absolutely hated it. There was usually a week or two at the beginning of February when the temps hovered around zero degrees. That was bad. There is nothing more depressing than working in the cold and the dark. I used to wait for the sunrise. It didn’t get any nicer, but the sunshine gave an illusion of warmth.

Several years before I retired, corporate management decreed that all supervisors had to spend all their time on the dock. The implication was that the supervisors needed to babysit the forklift drivers. In any case, that meant I had to do all my computer work, that I had previously been able to do in the office, out on the dock, which meant I had to take off my thick gloves to type on the keyboard. I would do that until my hands went numb. I then would scurry into the break room until my fingers ached, and then once I had feeling, I would go out and do the same shit again.

It was like with the forklift drivers too. Let me be clear about this: hypothermia sucks, as does frostbite. It doesn’t take long for extreme cold to penetrate, regardless of how many layers of clothes a person is wearing. The guys would work as long as they could and then tell me with their faces beet red from exposure,

“Hey, I need to go in, get a coffee, and warm up.”

Invariably, I told them,

“Go. Do it. Just remember to come back.”

I didn’t let the men go on break because I was a nice guy (I wasn’t a nice guy). It was all enlightened self-interest. Simply for productivity reasons, I wanted them to get a chance to get warm. Working in extreme conditions, be they hot or cold, wears a person down. It just makes economic sense to give these workers time to recover. Yet, the trend in corporate America seems to be in the direction of grinding employees until they drop. That isn’t just immoral. It’s also stupid.

August 26th, 2024

Several years ago, my wife and I stayed in Seattle with a woman who was very hospitable toward us, even though we had just met her. Karin and I had been staying with two Buddhist monks at their temple, but they needed to be away for a couple days, so we were introduced to Myra, and she welcomed us into her home with open arms. Like our two Buddhist friends, Myra was an avid peace activist, and she definitely qualified as a progressive. She showed us around her home city, and she went out of her way to befriend us.

During our short stay in her home, Myra and I had long conversations. We discussed a wide range of topics, and Myra prided herself on being open-minded. At one point, I talked to her about our oldest son, Hans, who had fought in Iraq and who was a gun enthusiast. As I described his love of firearms, she became visibly agitated and blurted out,

“I could never talk with somebody like that.”

Her comment stunned me. She had never met Hans, and she only knew about him what little I had told her. However, she decided on that limited amount of information that Hans was a person whom she couldn’t tolerate. Based on her visceral opposition to guns, Hans was a persona non grata.

A few years later, Karin and I were back with the Buddhist monks. We were with them participating in an activity sponsored by Ground Zero, an antiwar group located right next to a nuclear submarine base. A young woman from New York showed up. I greeted her and started a conversation. As I introduced myself, I mentioned that I was a vet. Her reaction to my comment was swift:

“I feel sorry for you!”

End of conversation. She wanted nothing to do with me based on my military experience, and at that point, I wasn’t very interested in talking to her either. However, this young woman lent Karin a shawl later in the day when the weather turned cold, so she had a generous heart. She just couldn’t stand to talk with a veteran.

Several years ago, I attended a national conference about immigration rights. For some reason, Planned Parenthood had a booth set up at the meeting. I am a Catholic, but I decided to stop and talked with the young lady at the booth. We had an honest and open discussion about abortion and the other things that Planned Parenthood does. I found it to be very interesting. When I got home, I spoke with a member of our church about it. The man was a conservative Catholic completely opposed to abortion. He told me,

“I’ve never talked with anyone from Planned Parenthood”, and the tone of his voice made it clear to me that he had no intention of ever talking to somebody from that organization.

Recently, the pro-Palestinian students at a nearby university built an encampment. I went to talk with them. I didn’t actually get to talk with the students, but I spoke to an older woman who was apparently their acting den mother. I mentioned my visit to members of the synagogue that I attend, and some of them made it clear that they would never interact with the people there.

I think it is unwise to ignore people because their views are abhorrent to me. It is good to understand another person even if they are your adversary, or especially if they are.

I find it useful to talk with people who hold viewpoints different than my own. I learn new things that way. I don’t necessarily find that to be easy. I may not like them or their opinions. However, I often see better the flaws in my own thinking. I try not to dismiss somebody sight unseen and voice unheard. If I do that, I miss out on something., maybe something important.

August29th, 2024

I care for our three-year-old grandson, Asher, most mornings. My wife, Karin, generally watches over the boy in the afternoon. Karin is often busy in the morning with her knitting groups or with her fiber projects at home. I try to give her at least a couple hours of quiet time when she wants to spin on her wheel or weave on her floor loom. So, Asher and I go places. Sometimes, he wants to go to one of the local playgrounds. Sometimes, he wants to hang out at the library. It doesn’t much matter to me where we go as long as the boy gets some exercise and stays away from videos.

A week ago, I asked Asher if he wanted to see the alpacas.

He quickly replied, “Yes! I want to visit the alpacas.!”

We drove a few miles south to the Eco-Justice Center in Racine. The Eco-Justice Center is a farm in a semi-rural area that for many years was operated by Dominican Sisters. Now, it’s run about a non-profit composed mainly of young women. The farm raises alpacas, goats, and chickens. In addition, the place is a testing ground for organic farming techniques and renewable energy. The farm is well on its way to being 90% energy self-sufficient. Asher and I go there to see the animals, and to check out any new projects.

When we arrived, Alex, the volunteer manager, and one of the young women were getting ready to move the alpacas. Alex told us,

“We’re going to take the alpacas to the north pasture. Do you want to walk with us?”

Asher grinned and said, “We’re going to walk with the alpacas!”

And we did. We walked close to the animals, but not too close. Alex had clued us in that they like to kick if a person gets too close to them. Alex and the young woman slowly led the alpacas down a trail and into a corral. I noticed that much of the pasture was covered with baby trees in tall blue plastic tubes. I asked Alex about the trees.

He told me, “We got a grant to plant trees to reduce soil erosion in this area. We planted 400 of them, mostly willows and poplars that grow fast. Later, we will plant some disease-resistant elms.”

I was interested. Asher was not. However, Asher was fascinated with the wind turbine that was spinning high up on a pole. He decided that he didn’t want to see the goats or the chickens, so we went back to the car.

I asked Asher, “Do you want to go to the lighthouse?”

He smiled and said, “Yeah!”

We drove a couple miles to the lighthouse at Wind Point. It’s over 100 years old, and it sits a few yards from the Lake Michigan shore. It was cool and there was stiff breeze coming off the lake. The wind whipped up the breakers and the water near the beach was brown from the churned-up sand. The sun shown on the water further away. It was a deep blue color that sparkled in the light.

Asher Liked the beach. He insisted on walking on top of the boulders near the water. I held his hand as he stepped from one stone to the next. The wind blew through his hair, and he kept pulling on my hand as we walked.

I looked at Asher and I looked at scenery. I thought for a moment, and then I realized that there was nothing else I would rather be doing.

August 18th, 2024

I drove the old man home after we were done at the synagogue. He doesn’t live very far from the shul, so the trip didn’t take very long. Still, we had time enough for a heart-to-heart conversation about the meeting that had just ended. My friend was upset about a number of things, and he welcomed the opportunity to vent in my car.

The meeting had been held right after Shacharit, the morning service on Shabbat. There was a light lunch set up for everyone. Miryam Rosenzweig was the guest speaker at the gathering. She is the President and CEO of the Milwaukee Jewish Federation. Miryam spoke briefly about what she does at the federation. She discussed security measures that the federation is providing for members of the local Jewish community. She acknowledged that we are living in turbulent times that provoke strong emotional reactions. Miryam indicated that our emotions don’t need to dictate the decisions that we make.

After her initial comments, Miryam threw the meeting open for questions. There were numerous questions, and they tended to be pointed. Most of the queries involved the pro-Palestinian encampment that had been set up during the spring on the campus of the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. The encampment was there for three weeks before a deal was cut between the demonstrators and the chancellor of the university. The site of the encampment was only two blocks away from the synagogue. It was impossible for members of our community to ignore, and for many of the people coming to the synagogue it reeked of antisemitism. There were strong emotional reactions to the signs and slogans exhibited at the encampment.

Let me note at this point that I am not Jewish. I go on a regular basis to the synagogue, and I am close friends with several of the members there. I am fully accepted as part of the community. However, I do not and cannot completely understand the effects of antisemitism on people who are Jewish. I know that the protesters at the encampment adamantly denied being antisemitic. They told me so when I visited their site. Even so, it seems to me that the people who can best determine whether somebody is the victim of prejudice are the ones who are on the receiving end of the bigotry. Several people at the meeting made it clear that they were experiencing antisemitism. I accept their view on the matter.

A question that came up was why the federation has not encouraged counterdemonstrations at the encampment. This is pertinent because the pro-Palestinian protests will resume when classes start in the fall, and the activists plan on being more vocal and more disruptive. They have to up the ante. The activists need to be more provocative in order to remain newsworthy. Miryam did not explain in full the reasons for not having counterprotests, but she indicated that they were not the best possible answer. A couple people from the synagogue wanted the federation to provide a strong response to the words and actions of the Palestinian supporters. Miryam replied that the federation is responding, but not in direct confrontation with the protesters on campus.

The old man in my car was not happy about that answer. He is a refugee from the Soviet Union, and he spent years experiencing old school antisemitism back in the Old Country. He told me,

“We Jews can’t be victims! We can’t let this happen here in this country! We have to show them a fist!”

I thought about that. It’s not necessarily a smart move. A show of strength can cut both ways. As Miryam said, we can’t let raw emotion determine our actions.

I have been involved with a number of demonstrations over the years, and they all have an element of chaos. There is always the potential for things to get out of hand in a big hurry. A successful demonstration requires that the participants be trained and that folks stay on message, even when under stress. I helped to manage a May Day march several years ago. I was a marshal, and I just needed to lead the crowd down the street. The march went from an assembly point to a rally site several miles away. Keeping people on the route was like herding cats. I found the job to be exhausting.

Now, imagine a protest where there is active opposition. During that same march, there were counter protesters at the rally point. There weren’t many of them, but they were there. It was distinctly uncomfortable to stare across a street and see people who probably hated me. It was hard to face these individuals and stay calm, especially if they saw fit to hurl abuse in my direction. Police on horseback were between the two groups, but that was small comfort. I guess they kept the peace. I should be grateful for that.

The purpose of a demonstration is to get someone’s attention. It doesn’t matter if the eye that sees the protest is from the mainstream media or just a curious YouTuber. A protest is a failure if it goes unnoticed. I was told once that any publicity is good publicity. I don’t believe that. A group can get noticed for all the wrong reasons. A shouting match or, worse yet, an act of violence will go viral almost instantly. When that happens, the message is lost. BLM probably had a valid message, but all I can remember from those protests are videos of burning cars.

A counterdemonstration is guaranteed to be a confrontation with passionate participants on both sides of the street. Emotions run high, and staying unperturbed is difficult. That’s where discipline, experience, and solidarity come into play. And you don’t want any stray actors showing up whose fondest dream is to bust a couple windows and set fire to a Starbucks. Yet, those are exactly the individuals who are drawn to these events, like moths to a flame. The fact is that a counterprotest is a risky proposition, even when all the people involved have their heads on straight. It doesn’t take much for everything to go south.

So, Miryam is right. A counterdemonstration might make people feel good about themselves (“We showed them!”), but it really doesn’t make the situation any better. It can potentially make it all a lot worse.

August 14th, 2024

A courtroom is a strange place. People do not often go there voluntarily. A courtroom, like a hospital emergency room, is a place where a person only goes when they are forced to do so. However, unlike an emergency room where people are there to help you, a courtroom may not hold anyone who has your interests at heart. A courtroom is where laws are upheld and justice is done, in theory at least. Most of the time, a courtroom is a space where bureaucrats decide the futures of people they do not know.

The Milwaukee County Courthouse was completed in 1931. It is built in a neoclassical style. Like the Roman structures it mimics, the courthouse is designed to be imposing., both inside and out. The courtrooms within are spacious. They have high ceilings and walls with dark wood paneling. The furniture inside the chambers is made from heavy wood. Sounds echo in these spaces. The power and the wealth of the State are manifest in these courtrooms. The individual citizen is made to feel insignificant. I cannot believe that is by accident. Whatever happens in these rooms is deemed to be important simply because of the surroundings.

The Safety Building is next door. It is also imposing, but in a way that is more reminiscent of the Soviet Union than of ancient Rome. The Safety Building also has courtrooms, but not like the ones in the courthouse. I escorted someone to their court appearance two days ago and I was struck by the difference. The courtroom we entered was cramped and crowded. I doubt that the area was originally intended to even be a courtroom. The room looked like it was of ad hoc design, with furnishings from Walmart. The whole place screamed low budget. Lives are changed in this space as much as they are changed in the more elegant courtrooms nearby. The defendants that enter this courtroom are facing felony raps just like the accused persons in the courthouse.

Maybe it all changed after Covid, but I noticed that the small courtroom had screens everywhere. It wasn’t like that years ago. Many of the hearings are done with Zoom. Nearly everyone I saw in the room was staring at a computer monitor. The person who came with me checked in with a sheriff’s deputy who immediately went back to playing Mah Jong on his screen after he checked off the defendant’s name on his list.

I also noticed that most of the people in the room knew each other. The lawyers and the prosecutors bantered. The judge knew everyone. The only folks who were not part of this exclusive club where the defendants whose lives were about to change radically.

Most of the interactions during the hearings were mundane. Usually, nothing of significance was decided. Perhaps an extension of time was granted. Maybe a person got a new public defender. Often, the biggest thing decided was the next court date. The judicial process grinds on for a long time. I think that the person with me had been to court six times already. Next month they will get to go again.

There was one exception to this rule. A young man who was incarcerated appeared in court via Zoom to request a reduction in his bond. Actually, his attorney made the request on his behalf. The state required that he come up with $7500 cash bond for him to get out of jail. The public defender explained to the judge that neither he nor his family had that kind of money. She asked for it to be reduced to $500. She spoke about his desire to live with his mother, and his need of stability. She threw in the fact that he was working on getting a high school diploma. She tried to convince the judge that the young man wasn’t really a threat to the community.

The prosecutor disagreed. She mentioned that the accused had been out on bond before this latest arrest. His previous arrest was for a firearm offense. His most recent arrest was also for a firearm violation. There appeared to be no learning curve. In fact, the second offense was more aggravated than the first one.

The prosecutor had also indicated that the victim of the alleged crime wanted to speak to the court via Zoom. The victim had not logged in at the agreed time, and the court had proceeded without their input.

Then the victim logged in.

Once she was on zoom, the judge allowed her to speak. Boy, did she.

“He don’t have no right to ask me to buy him no firearm! He don’t have no right to whup my ass in an alleyway when I wouldn’t! I got three kids to care for! He’s a hothead. Everybody tells him that. I don’t care what y’all do, but keep that mother fucker away from me!”

The above is a condensed version of what the victim said. Everybody just sat and listened. The accused listened. His attorney listened. The judge listened.

The judge tried to calm the woman down, but she was on a roll. She finally said to him,

“Are you going to let me continue or are you going to keep interrupting me?!”

Amazingly, the judge remained calm. He thanked the victim for her input. I suspect that is when he hit the mute button.

He turned to the court and said, “I can’t reduce the bond to $500. I will lower it to $5000. I see that the defendant is to have no contact with the victim. I am adding that he is to have contact with her home.”

The accused was not liking this. To me, the judge was telling the defendant, “Make yourself comfortable. You aren’t going anywhere.” I think the young man got the same message.

The accused was eager to speak his peace. His attorney cut him off:

“Don’t talk!”

Sage advice.

The judge explained to the defendant that he could go to a break room via Zoom with his public defender to discuss the decision in more depth. Sometime later, the victim figured out that nobody was listening to her anymore and logged off.

If you want to learn about the American justice system, sit in a courtroom for a while.

August 9th, 2024

Forty years ago today, Karin and I got married in a civil ceremony at the Rathaus in Bad Mergentheim, West Germany. Two days later, we got married in a religious service in the Evangelisch (Lutheran) church in Karin’s home village of Edelfingen. Now is a time to reflect on what has happened during the last four decades. One question that keeps coming back to me is:

“How did we ever get this far?”

My answer is: “I don’t know.”

Karin and I briefly looked at old wedding pictures. I don’t enjoy doing that. I get an overpowering feeling of melancholy when see the photos. Part of that is due to the fact that many of the people in the pictures are dead. That happens after forty years go by. Even the people who have survived to this point are barely recognizable to me. I stare at the images of Karin and me, and I have to ask myself, “Who the hell are they?”

Karin and I have changed. That’s obvious to ourselves and to anybody else who knows us. I don’t just mean in physical appearance. That’s the least of it. Our beliefs, our values, and our attitudes have matured. In a very real sense, the two newlyweds in the pictures are strangers to me. I am not sure what I have in common with the man I was back in 1984.

The beginning of our relationship is still a mystery to me. I know how it happened, but I have never understood why. I was a career military officer. She was a pacifist. I flew helicopters. She was a seamstress. I was American, and Karin was (and still is) a German. The attraction, whatever it was, did not have a rational basis. It was intuitive. It didn’t make sense then, and it probably doesn’t now.

In her song Because the Night, Patti Smith said, “Love is an angel disguised as lust”. That angel visited us early on, but she didn’t stay for our entire marriage. Passion fades over time. There had to be other reasons for us to stay together. I asked Karin once why she married me. She replied that she fell in love with my soul. I guess I fell in love with hers too.

In a long-term relationship (it doesn’t have to be a marriage), there is the potential for each partner to experience personal growth. I think that Karin and I pushed each other to become the man or woman we were always meant to be. Sometimes, we gently nudged each other. Sometimes, we gave the other one a swift kick in the ass. Mostly, we showed each other new things. I learned to speak German by dating her. She introduced me to Waldorf education when our kids were of school age. I took her to mosques and synagogues and Buddhist temples. We had our own interests, but we opened doors for each other. We saw the world through each other’s eyes.

I guess I always knew that Karin was a fiber artist. After all, she requested a spinning wheel rather than an engagement ring before we got married. I was attracted by her creativity. I still am. She can do magic with her hands. She spins and knits and weaves and dyes, and God only knows what else. She has that wild genius that makes her endlessly inventive, but it also keeps her from finding her car keys.

We stuck together. I don’t how we did that, but we did. Our marriage was a covenant. We were committed to stand by each other even when one of us fell apart. Carl Jung once said that in a marriage each partner agrees to hold the leash to the other’s nethermost beast. Karin held the leash to mine many times.

Now, after forty years, our marriage is strong because we have a common purpose. That purpose has a name: Asher. We have to work together to raise this little grandson of ours. We still quarrel at times. We still have disagreements. But we have to work as a team for the sake of somebody else, somebody who needs both of us all the time. Maybe we have always had a common purpose, but we didn’t think to name it.

In his book, The Prophet, Kahlil Gibran speaks of marriage:

“You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore. You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your ashes. Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God. But let there be spaces in your togetherness and let the winds of the heavens dance between you.”

Karin and I are close together, but we let those winds swirl and dance in our midst.

July 29th, 2024

Yesterday

A few days ago, I took my little grandson, Asher, to the playground. As he was digging in the sandbox, burying some Hot Wheels cars and then promptly forgetting where he put them, I gazed up at the clear sky. It was Sunday, a little bit after noon. As I looked up, I saw the USAF Thunderbirds flying in formation toward Lake Michigan. The Milwaukee Air and Water Show was going on, and the pilots were on their way to thrill the crowd at the lakefront.

I had driven past the lakefront the day before. The Thunderbirds put on a show then too. The beach was packed with people. There was no parking anywhere. Everybody wanted to sit back in their lounge chairs, crack open a beer, and watch the pilots do their tricks.

Well, maybe not everybody was there. I know friends in the peace movement who view the air show with absolute disgust. They say that it is shameful to waste millions upon millions of dollars on aircraft whose sole purpose is to kill and maim human beings. The money could be used to feed, house, and educate people. I tend to agree with their opinion. We spend much more money destroying than creating. I feel certain that some of my friends were protesting the Air Force display in some lonely vigil. They usually do that.

Yet…

I remember flying. I never flew jet fighters, but I flew Army helicopters. I can recall how it felt to be a pilot. Sometimes, not always, but sometimes I had a pure, unadulterated feeling of joy. I use the word “joy” intentionally. I often truly felt joyful when I flew. I remember flying once in the clouds. It was dark and claustrophobic in the cockpit. Then we broke out through the top of them. Suddenly, there was a bright blue sky above me and the purest white below. That moment was like a religious epiphany. It was absolutely glorious.

As I watched the Thunderbirds turn together in formation high above me, I had a hint of that old feeling. I don’t know if the fighter pilots are doing the right thing. I don’t know if I did the right thing all those years ago. I do know that they feel what I felt when I was in the air. That feeling can never be taken away from them. It can’t be taken from me.

July 23rd, 2024

I went to visit our new doctor for the first time. Our previous family physician retired, and we had to get a replacement. My wife and I chose the new doctor basically at random. We figured we would give him a try, and then decide on whether or not to continue seeing him.

After speaking with his assistant and finding out that my blood pressure was through the roof, the doctor walked into the office. His age is probably fortyish. He looks professional in a rumpled sort of way. He gave me the impression of being both competent and approachable. I like that.

As is standard nowadays, he checked his computer after greeting me. Apparently, due to a hack on the system of our previous doctor, the new guy had precious little to read. He turned his screen toward me and said,

“See this? You’re a ghost.”

The screen was completely blank.

I asked him, “Sooooo, what should we talk about?”

He shrugged. “Just start.”

I told him, “Okay, here’s the deal. My wife and I are legal guardians and fulltime caregivers for our three-year-old grandson, Asher. I need to live until eighty. That’s when he becomes an adult. Fourteen years from now. I am aware that you have no control over when I die. However, let’s work on this.”

He smiled. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

Be advised that living until eighty implies more than just mere survival. I have to be functioning both mentally and physically. (I’m thinking of Joe Biden here). It does no good for me to be alive but sitting in a wheelchair stewing in my own juices. I need to be of use to our grandson.

We talked for half an hour. I told him about the medical history of my family: heart disease, Alzheimer’s, alcohol abuse, and a touch of diabetes. I explained our current situation at home: utter chaos.

He made a note, “Major emotional stressors.”

Indeed.

He decided to crank up the dosage on my blood pressure medication and have me take some blood tests. I’ll get a complete physical as soon as Medicare agrees to pay for it.

It’s good to have goals. As it stands now, Asher will need me and my wife for the foreseeable future. That may change, but I can’t see it happening. A lot of old people die because they no longer feel that they have a purpose in life. We have a purpose, and we have that in spades. There is no question regarding what Karin and I need to do with the time we have left remaining to us. It all revolves around Asher.

I am not so naive as to think the world cannot function without me. I remember a story I read about Charles de Gaulle. It was from a time after the end of WWII, when he was out of power. A staunch supporter of de Gaulle strongly encouraged him to take control of France. The man told de Gaulle,

“You must do this! You are irreplaceable!”

Charles de Gaulle replied dryly, “The cemeteries are full of irreplaceable men.”

True.

Asher needs me now. He will probably need me tomorrow. He won’t always need me. I just have to try and be here for him as long as I can. At some point I will leave him, and that vacuum will be filled by somebody else. That’s okay.