Frank is Emptiness

April 6th, 2024

My wife and I went on a date yesterday. Generally, this sort of event would not be very newsworthy, but in this case, it is. The fact is that Karin and I have not gone anywhere as a couple for well over year. This lengthy interval between outings has not been entirely voluntary. We are the fulltime caregivers for our toddler grandson, and he is with us all the time. We have never been able to find the time to find a babysitter for Asher, so except for the rare instances when our youngest son and his wife are available to stay with the boy, Asher is in our care.

As it turned out, Asher’s mom was willing and able to watch over her son for a couple hours. There was other adult supervision on hand when Asher visited his mother, so Karin and I were free to go. We did.

We didn’t go very far. Two hours really isn’t that long a period of time when you think about it. We drove a couple miles to the east side of Milwaukee and parked near Downer Street. Downer has a small retail section with a movie theater, a couple restaurants, a grocery store, and a bookstore. There isn’t a lot to do on Downer Street, but then we didn’t have much time available to us. We walked south down Downer and strolled into Boswell Books.

Boswell Books is an old independent bookshop. It’s part of a dying breed. Boswell hosts frequent book talks by authors eager to sell their wares. It is a focal point for both writers and readers. The bookstore has an eclectic selection of titles, and it is a place that invites the visitor to wander about. Karin and I were not looking for much of anything in particular, although I really did want to find a copy of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. I found one. Mostly, we just picked up books at random, and after a short time, each of us had three books to buy. We splurged. We don’t buy much outside of necessities. Of course, for Karin yarn is a necessity, but usually we aren’t eager to make extraordinary purchases. It felt good to do that for once.

From there we walked to the Cafe Hollander. It’s a bar/restaurant that specializes in Belgian food and beer, mostly beer. The food menu is all listed on two sides of a single laminated sheet of paper. The beer menu is more like a pamphlet. Karin ordered a veggie sandwich and a fancy latte. I got a cone of French fries and a beer. It is worth noting that in Belgium the outdoor kiosks sell fries in a paper cone. I remember that from when I was doing Army flight training there back in 1982.

Karin asked me, “You’re only getting French fries? Don’t you want something nicer? We don’t go out much.”

I told her, “I’m getting a beer with it.”

I got a .250-liter glass of Piraat, a blonde Belgian ale with a hint of cardamon and orange peel. It’s truly a sipping beer, partly because of the octane level. A Piraat has a 10% alcohol content. One glass is usually sufficient.

The truth is that Karin and I were both thinking frugally. In a sense, we are like new parents, and the money habits we had thirty years ago are back again. It’s really hard for me to just let go and spend freely on myself. It just doesn’t feel right.

It’s interesting how hard it is for me to begin a conversation with my wife when the little boy is not with us. It was initially awkward. Then it felt good. We talked about family. We talked about politics. We talked about adult subjects. The time went swiftly, too swiftly.

We drove back to pick up Asher. He was happy when he saw us. The boy had a good time with his mom, but he was ready to go home. We packed him into the car. He was asleep before we got to our house.

March 29th, 2024

I have been in contact with a woman who is spending endless hours trying to get Afghan refugees to safe locations. Her years of effort have enabled a trickle of Afghans to leave Pakistan and arrive someplace where they can start a new life. Portugal has been a destination for some of these migrants. It is difficult and expensive to find new homes for these mostly young people. My friend who is organizing all of this sometimes feels frustrated, and rightly so. She wrote this to me,

“I realized my tendency has been to focus on each individual that lands in a safer setting and think, ‘You’ve made it! Good for you! Now you can begin a new set of plans.’ But it seems most of our young friends see themselves as so inextricably linked to their loved ones, their relations, that they can’t imagine getting ahead without trying to help the whole group and so almost no one has saved any money for their own future. What to do? Will they all become homeless? Sadly, most have not made much progress learning Portuguese, and this will hamper them in seeking better paying jobs or entering Universities.”

I had to think about what she said. It made me remember things, and it made me realize that every migrant has the same struggles.

My people came to America 120 years ago. They left Slovenia, which was at that time part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and took a ship from Trieste to someplace in Canada. Mysteriously, they ended up in Wisconsin. Apparently, there was no razor wire on the borders back in those days. In any case, they started new lives in the United States, and they effectively cut the cord with the folks back in the Old Country.

Did they want to leave it all behind? Probably not, but back then there was no other option. There was no phone service available, much less an Internet. If they wanted to keep in touch with family and friends, they only had snail mail. They had to hope to God that their letter found its way to some obscure little town in the Alps. Then, they had to hope that somebody on the other side of the world wrote back to them. I have experience with overseas snail mail. Even today, I write letters to a friend of mine in Spain. Usually, he gets my mail, but by the time he receives the letters, they are more like historical artifacts than current news. I also write to a friend in the Dominican Republic. He has never received any of my letters, not one of them. So, for my ancestors, the odds of maintaining a relationship with those they loved in Slovenia were low. My people cut the cord as soon as they boarded that steamer.

The young Afghans who managed to get to Portugal or wherever have the ability to be in instantaneous and constant contact with loved ones who are stuck in Afghanistan or Pakistan. They don’t need to cut the cord, and so they don’t. It is completely understandable to me why they want to maintain that connection, but as my friend noted, it is to their long-term detriment. They can’t move forward if they are looking back.

I have a friend whose family came from Palestine. We talked about the Afghans who arrived in Wisconsin after the fall of Kabul. She spoke of her own experiences, and said this to me about refugees:

“They all have one foot in the Old Country, and they all believe that they will get to go home before they die.”

That is true. It cannot be otherwise.

These young Afghans are longing for their homeland, and it will take years before it sinks in that they are not going home, ever. That is simply the migrant experience. Eventually, reality will dictate that they start new lives in a new place. They will adapt to a home that has a culture that is alien to them. Their children will grow up in this new home, and they will have no memories of the Old Country. These children will never understand the sadness of their parents. They won’t understand why their parents cling to old traditions. That’s neither good nor bad. It just is.

My wife is an immigrant. She came here with me in 1985 from Germany. To this day, she considers herself to be a German. To our grandchildren, she is “Oma”. She has not been back to her home village in the last twenty years. My wife has adapted to life in America. There is nothing left for her in Germany. And yet, even after nearly four decades, she still has one foot in the Old Country.

April 1st, 2024

The church was crowded yesterday morning. It wasn’t full, but then it’s never full anymore. Usually, for a Sunday Mass, only about one third of the pews are occupied. Yesterday, being Easter, we were at around three quarters of capacity. I remember when, not too long ago, it would have been almost impossible to find a seat if a person was tardy for the Easter service. Nowadays, there is plenty of room for anyone who strolls in late.

Personally, I would have been okay with blowing off Mass yesterday. Easter is supposed to be joyous, and it is difficult for me to handle all the positive energy. Deacon Greg, who is a good friend, greeted everyone with a hearty, “Happy Easter! He is risen indeed!”

Okay, whatever.

My wife, Karin, got dressed up for Mass. She wore a new shawl that she had knitted, over a white blouse. Our little grandson, Asher, wore black pants with a multicolored button-down shirt. The shirt had a lot of pink in the mix, and Asher likes pink. He also likes to look good, and of course he did.

I wore a dark sweatshirt, blue jeans, and sandals. Work clothes.

Easter is the culmination of a long period of preparation. There are the forty days of Lent and Holy Week. In the Catholic scheme of things, a person is supposed to use the time during Lent and Holy Week to get ready for the celebration of the Resurrection. Lent is there for prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. Holy Week is for meditation on the Passion of Christ. The culmination of it all is Easter, and a new birth, at least in a spiritual sense.

I didn’t do any of that, and so Easter was “whatever”. I would have liked to take the time to prepare myself and get into the groove, but for the most part it didn’t happen. Lent and Holy Week consisted of days filled with chaos and confusion, anxiety and turmoil. I don’t remember there being much time to catch my breath, much less sit quietly to ponder the mysteries of the faith. Easter was not a day of exhilaration. It was a day of exhaustion.

My sister-in-law has a blog with many Catholic readers. In the days before the holiday, she sent an email with Easter greetings to all and sundry. I read her message on a day when I was in a particularly dark mood. I replied to all, and said,

“I don’t believe that God gives a fuck.”

I really didn’t believe that God cared at that moment. In retrospect I can see that it was inappropriate to send that message, but it came from the heart. Most of the time I can grudgingly accept the idea that God loves humanity. More to the point, I can usually buy the notion that He loves me and mine. But probably once a day, especially in recent days, I conclude that God is not all that interested in human suffering. The evidence is for that is mixed. Ask Job.

I spent most of the Easter Mass chasing Asher around the church and narthex. That’s what I do. Years ago, I would have been shocked to see kids running around in church. Those days are gone. Over the years, Karin, and I have gone to a variety of services, and we have discovered that this need to have children passive and silent during a liturgy is more cultural than Catholic. We have gone to Latino Masses where the kids run amok and swarm near the altar, and the priest is okay with it all. Actually, our pastor is okay with it too, so Asher is mobile and so am I.

There was a baptism during the Easter Mass. Two little girls got baptized. The congregation renewed their baptismal promises along with the godparents of the girls. It’s curious that during this recitation people solemnly promise to believe all sorts of things. It’s basically like reciting the Creed at Mass. We say that we believe in a variety of theological doctrines, but we never, not once, say that we believe that God loves us. But that’s the whole point. None of this has any meaning if God doesn’t care for each and every one of us. If we don’t believe that, then why not just close up shop?

Do I believe that God loves us?

I believe it when I hold Asher in my arms.

March 26th, 2024

We had a house guest this weekend. That was a little unsettling. My wife and I haven’t had somebody stay overnight at our house since before the pandemic. It was nice to have the young woman come to visit us, but it kind of disrupted our routine. Perhaps that was good thing. Karin and I sometimes get into a rut.

I met Sarah, our recent guest, several years ago in Chicago. She was working with a small peace group at the time. Her organization was deeply involved with helping young people, especially young women, in Afghanistan. Members of Sarah’s outfit would frequently go to Kabul to meet with these idealistic Afghan peace activists. The goal at that time was to encourage the new generation of Afghans to build a future without war and violence.

That goal was never achieved.

The last time I saw Sarah was in 2019. Then things radically changed in our lives. Covid struck our home hard, as it did in homes all over the world. Then Karin and I became primary caregivers for our little grandson, Asher. Sarah moved south and became a member of a Catholic Worker community in Alabama. Sarah and I stayed in contact, but there was no opportunity for us to get together, until now.

Things also changed radically in Afghanistan. The United States withdrew its forces from the country in disarray. The Taliban roared back into Kabul, and chaos reigned. The work that Sarah’s organization had been painstakingly doing among the Afghans was literally destroyed overnight. Her group no longer could promote peace in that country. She and her coworkers were suddenly tasked with getting their young Afghan friends to safety. After almost three years, they are still trying to do that.

Sarah spent part of Sunday at our kitchen table sorting through emails on her laptop. I asked her about that. She told me that she got numerous messages from members of what she called “the Afghan diaspora”. These were often cries for help. Sarah told me how careful she had to be in responding to these requests. she said,

“I have to choose exactly the right phrase or word. I have to really think about what message I send and how they interpret it.”

I get it. It’s hard. She wants to give these people hope, but not false hope. No, never that. The Afghans who write to Sarah are often grasping at straws. They want to good news. They want to read a response that says, “Help is on the way!”, even if that message says nothing of the sort. Sarah has to be cautious not to inadvertently mislead anyone. Some of these people who write to her might be stuck in a bad place, or perhaps they are trying to get family or friends to safety. In any case, Sarah has to be honest with them, and that’s a bitch.

For a while, I was involved with trying to help an Afghan refugee who had fled to Pakistan, like thousands of others did. He desperately wanted me to help him to get into the United States, and I found much to my chagrin that I could do almost nothing to assist him. This man and his young family were rapidly running out of time and money in a poor and unstable country, and they needed to go someplace safe. Eventually, Sarah’s organization was able to get them into Portugal, a place where they had never expected to go. Karin and I helped to pay for their journey to their new home, but that was all we have ever been able to do to help. Well, I also have tried to keep in contact with this family just to let them know that they are not forgotten. I suppose that counts for something.

Sarah told me that her contacts from the diaspora often hear about new immigration opportunities, or rumors of such, before she does. These people have skin in the game, and they scour the Internet looking for countries that might accept them or their loved ones. The pickings are lean. They want Sarah’s organization to look into any possible lead, not matter how unlikely.

There has probably never been a good time to be a refugee. However, this is a bad time to be a migrant, a very bad time. Afghans want to go to Western countries., preferably places where the population speaks English. These displaced Afghans fled their homeland because they had worked with Americans, so they usually know some English. Unfortunately, racist views and xenophobia are now rampant in Western countries. Just think about the southern border of the United States. European countries are also very leery about accepting more foreigners into their midst. Some of this concern is valid. Nations have to control their borders. It’s just that now many countries are slamming their doors on people who were our friends.

The tragedy here is that, at least in the case of the Afghans, they are homeless because they trusted us. We promised to take care of them, and we didn’t. The United States has a moral obligation to welcome these people into our country. We owe it to them. It is wrong that it falls on the shoulders of people working in small, private organizations to rescue Afghans who still admire America. Our government should be helping them.

The Afghans were our allies. We have forgotten them.

March 22nd, 2024

Wednesday was my birthday. It generally falls on the spring equinox, but this year the changing of seasons came a day early, probably because it’s a leap year and we had an extra day in February. This morning doesn’t feel much like spring. It’s cold outside, and a heavy, wet snow is falling. Winter isn’t quite finished with us yet.

My birthday was uneventful, and I’m okay with that. Last year was a big deal because I qualified for Medicare. Sixty-five is the last birthday where a person wins a prize. This year just seemed a bit odd. I wondered at the fact that I am still in the material world, and I asked myself, “Why?” After all, a number of my contemporaries have gone to the other side. What am I still doing here?

One of the answers is asleep in the next room. Asher, our toddler grandson, is snoozing away. My wife and I care for him fulltime. We are his guardians, and there is nobody else available to watch over the boy. If we weren’t caring for Asher, he would be in the foster care system, and that would be very, very bad. So, I am still here because Asher needs me. At least, that’s how I make sense of the situation.

Other people also need me. My wife, Karin, needs me. To a certain extent, so do our adult children. Just because somebody needs me does not mean I get to live longer. A lot of people die who still have others depending on them. However, being needed give me a reason to keep going. I often think that old folks wither away because they feel superfluous. They are abandoned by the younger generations and see no point in continuing to fight the good fight.

I received a couple gifts on my birthday: a music CD, a book, a card. There was nothing fancy, and there was no need for anything like that. At this point in life, there is very little that I need or even want, at least in a physical sense. I have more than enough stuff. What I want is peace of mind, and that is apparently a scarce commodity.

I asked my youngest son, Stefan, simply to spend some time with me. Time is also a scarce commodity. He’s a busy man, and he has a full and active life. However, he is willing to go to lunch with me this coming weekend. Once again, it doesn’t need to be anything fancy. I just want to sit with him and listen to what he has to say. I don’t need to talk much, unless he has a question for me.

A young woman in our lives has been struggling with health problems. It’s been very hard for her, and also for us. On my birthday, we found out that this young woman had been accepted into a treatment program. My wife and I breathed a bit easier knowing that. The young woman started the program yesterday. I took her there.

Knowing that she is getting the help she needs is the best birthday present I could have possibly received. I am grateful for it.

March 15th, 2024

Yesterday I read some mindless article about an apparent scandal at West Point, my alma mater. I shouldn’t have done that. The whole story was simply annoying. The article featured quotes from Elon Musk, the bazillionaire, and from Jeff Kuhner, some conservative radio show host, and neither of those people had any idea of what they were talking about, which really isn’t that surprising. I doubt that either of them has ever set foot at the United States Military Academy or can even find it on a map.

The whole point of the article was that the folks running the academy removed the phrase “duty, honor, country” from the institution’s mission statement. This outraged a number of commentators who insisted that West Point had gone “woke”. That is ludicrous on the face of it. If there is any organization on the face of the planet that is not woke, it’s USMA. The academy has not jettisoned the phrase “duty, honor, country”. That motto is literally engraved in stone on the campus. More to the point, the motto is engraved on the hearts of its graduates.

When I was a cadet, there was an alternative motto for West Point that was used as a joke. I heard this said about West Point,

“175 years of tradition unhampered by progress.”

Indeed.

I haven’t been back to the school since 1980, so I don’t know what the place is like now, but I can’t even imagine USMA being woke. The institution has this deeply ingrained conservativism that makes The Roman Catholic Church look like a hotbed of radical change. Seriously, just look at the cadet uniforms. Those hark back to the War of 1812, for God’s sake. Nothing there changes unless it has to change.

I was a plebe (freshman) at West Point in 1976, the first year that women were allowed to be cadets. Prior to that, USMA was kind of a monastic community with excessive amounts of testosterone. Then it was all different. For many people the acceptance of female cadets was akin to the Apocalypse. A lot of old grads were convinced that their Hudson Highland Home was going to hell in a handbasket. Yet, somehow, the institution survived and managed to churn out another generation of Army officers. We got over it.

“Duty, Honor, Country” will never not be a part of the culture of West Point. It doesn’t matter of it is in the mission statement. Those words are in the DNA of USMA. Even now, after 44 years, the phrase affects my life. “Duty” is part of who I am, maybe not with regards to the military, but certainly in other ways. I have a sense of duty toward my family, especially now that I am raising our toddler grandson. Even though the notion of “honor” is countercultural and seemingly anachronistic nowadays, it’s important to me. Love of “country” is what moved me to teach a citizenship class for years. I want immigrants to feel at home here.

I am not woke. Neither is West Point.

March 15th, 2024

I have been reading articles about how young men are currently choosing to forego a college education. Actually, the number of men going to four-year colleges and universities has been declining ever since 2011, so this is not a new trend. The authors of these articles see the declining number of male college students as being a crisis for the United States. I’m not sure that it is.

Back when I was in high school, fifty years ago, I made plans to go to college. There was never really any doubt that I would go. It was a given at that time that if a person wanted to get ahead in the world, they had to have a college degree. The only question I had was how I was going to pay for college. My parents had no money, so I would need a loan and/or a scholarship. Somehow, I managed to score an appointment to West Point, so money was no longer a factor. Instead of paying for my education with dollars, I paid for it with six years of my life.

Now, a half century later, the cost of higher education is astronomical, and the time needed to pay back student loans is measured in decades. The extreme price tag attached to a college education would be tolerable if there was some certainty that a graduate would find employment that could make the expenditure of money and effort worthwhile. However, that is not the case. There are young guys with bachelor’s degrees who are slinging coffee at Starbucks. The college degree, by itself, does not open doors like it did a generation ago.

So, young men have to find other paths in life. There are careers available to them that do not require a four-year degree. I am thinking about working in the trades. This country is chronically short of electricians, plumbers, ironworkers, mason, and carpenters. These are usually skilled positions, and they have good pay and benefits. Compensation depends on a number of factors, such as geographical location, union membership, and specialization of skills.

My two sons are both in the trades. Hans, my eldest son, pumps concrete for a living. He operates a pump truck with a 58-meter boom. It’s a job that requires planning skills, mechanical ability, and an intuitive sense of three-dimensional space. It is also physically demanding. My youngest son, Stefan, is in the Ironworkers Union. He is a journeyman and mostly does welding high up on tall buildings. He is also the welding instructor for his union local. He trains the new apprentices.

Hans and Stefan both have excellent pay and good benefits. They have no student debt. On the other hand, they both work their asses off. They often work outside in unpleasant weather, and they put in long hours. They earn their money, every nickel of it.

When Stefan teaches the fresh-faced apprentices how to weld, he also gives them the lowdown on what their career will be like. He explains to all of his students what benefits they can expect as an Ironworker. They are generally impressed by those. Then Stefan asks them some pointed questions.

“Are you afraid of heights? At the jobsites, they will be putting you up on the steel the first week. Do you mind being on top of a beam 100 feet up?”

“Do you have clothes for working outside in cold weather? Do you mind welding when the temperature is zero degrees, not counting the wind chill?”

At that point, some of the apprentices choose another line of work. They want the big money, but they want the pain that goes with it.

Hans and Stefan both have solid work ethics. They expect to be well compensated, but they are willing to work hard for that. Some of their contemporaries do not have a work ethic. These other young men somehow expect to make good money without actually earning it. In fairness, I knew plenty of guys in my generation who also lacked a work ethic. They wound up poor.

There are plenty of jobs out there for young guys who are willing to hustle. They don’t need a fancy degree. They just need courage, ambition, and resilience.

March 13th, 2024

She sat on the stoop of the front porch, watching her little boy ride his scooter down the driveway. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she stared at her son as he rolled toward the street. There is a slight bump in the asphalt where the driveway meets the road. That is his hint to stop the scooter. We don’t get a lot of traffic in our neighborhood, but sometimes drivers don’t notice a three-year-old heading in their direction.

It was late in the afternoon, and it was exceedingly warm for the time of year. A strong wind blew through the branches of the pine tree in the front yard, and our border collie sniffed around in the grass nearby. The sun was getting lower in the west. It looked like it wasn’t quite in the right place. It seemed to be slightly too far to the south, but then it’s only early March, and the spring equinox hasn’t even arrived.

Earlier, the woman had been busy packing a bag, while I had been watching over her son. I had to take her to the hospital. They had a bed waiting for her at 6:00 PM.

The young woman continued to watch her boy race around on the scooter, as he occasionally shouted, “Woohoo!”, or something like that. He would glance back at his mama and say, “Look at me! I’m going fast!”

Not taking her eyes from the boy, she asked me,

“How long do I have to stay away before I can come back?’

I replied, “I don’t know. You can’t live here until we can trust that you won’t have a relapse. Maybe a year.”

She exclaimed, “I’ve been blacklisted from all the sober living houses!”, and then she sobbed.

I told her, “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Take one thing at a time. We have to get to through rehab first. Wherever you are, and whatever you are doing, we’ll make sure that you have time together with him.”

She kept looking at the little guy. She nodded. Her eyes were moist with tears.

Her son stopped riding the scooter, and he ran up to her. As she sat on the step, he threw his arms around her, and hugged her close. There was a trace of a smile on her lips, but the tears didn’t stop.

I looked at my phone. I told her, “We have to get ready to go.”

The little boy asked her, “Where are we going?’

She got up to go to the front door. “I’m going bye-bye.”

He asked, “Am I coming too?’

She smiled at him. “Yes, you’re coming.”

We got into the car. As we drove along the freeway, the boy asked his mom where she was going.

She told him, “I’m going away to live somewhere else.”

That answer did not satisfy him. She tried to explain. He still didn’t understand. That’s okay. I don’t understand either. None of us do.

I pulled up to the entrance to the hospital. She turned to the boy in his car seat and asked him to give her a kiss. He was asleep. So, she bent over toward him, and gave him a kiss instead.

She got out of the car.

She said to me as she walked away, “Thanks for taking me here.”

I replied, “I hope it all goes okay.”

She didn’t answer, and she didn’t look back.

I drove way while the little boy slept.

March 11th, 2024

Asher is asleep in my bed. Asher is three years old, and he generally sleeps with me. I usually go to bed quite early. Asher will barge into my room just after I doze off and shout,

“Grandpa! I want a bottle (of oat milk)!”

I mumble from under the comforter, “I’m not getting up to get you a bottle.”

“But I want a bottle.”

“I’m not getting up.”

There is a pause as Asher stands in the darkness at the edge of the bed, then he says,

“I want to cuddle.”

The bed mattress is thick and high, so I reach over the edge and grab his little hand to pull the boy on to the bed. He clamors aboard.

I ask him, “Do you want to lie on top of the covers or underneath.”

He makes a choice and then I cradle him in my arms. Asher slowly relaxes. His breathing becomes calm and regular. Within minutes the little guy is fast asleep.

I often fall asleep along with him. I wake up hours later with my right hand numb and tingling because his heavy head has been resting on my bicep. I slowly and cautiously slide my arm from underneath his noggin.

Sometimes, Asher sleeps restlessly. He rolls around. He occasionally cries in his sleeps. Sometimes, but not often, he chuckles softly to himself. Amazingly, I have discovered that a toddler can take up an entire Kingsize bed. Sometimes, when he lies on his back spreadeagled, he is absolutely still. I have to place my hand on his chest to find out if he is breathing. Sometimes, I touch his wrist with my forefinger to check for a pulse. He’s alive, but he’s deep in a world I cannot reach.

Asher wakes up at least twice every night. I hear his voice in the darkness.

“Grandpa, carry me.”

“Where are we going?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Why?”

“I want a bottle.”

I carry him into the kitchen. His head lies heavily on my right shoulder. I make him a bottle. We sit in an armchair and he drinks from it. He falls asleep. After several minutes, I rise up and carry him back to bed. The cycle begins anew.

Why does Asher sleep with me? I don’t know. We have much sadness and anxiety in our house. I know that he can sense that. Perhaps, he feels safe with me. Perhaps, I can ease his mind. I don’t know.

All I know is that he wants to be with me, at least at night.

March 3rd, 2024

Stefan came to visit us today. Stefan is our youngest son. He’s tall and muscular. His arms are completely covered with animal tattoos. He has a menagerie drawn with multicolored ink on his biceps and forearms. He sports a short reddish beard and moustache. He shaves his head. He gives people the impression that he is not a man to mess with, and that is accurate. Stefan does not suffer fools gladly.

Our son is a journeyman in the Ironworkers Union. He belongs to a macho culture, one that is perhaps even more so than the military. He is currently the welding instructor for his local, which is impressive seeing as he is only thirty years old. Generally, an older, more experienced member of the union would hold that position. However, he was selected to teach the fresh-faced new apprentices. When he isn’t teaching, Stefan is working at jobsites. Lately, he’s been working on a new high rise that is going up on the Milwaukee lakefront. He’s been working on the Couture.

When he stopped at the house, he talked to me about the project he is going to start tomorrow at that construction site. He is going be working with a crew to dismantle the tower crane that has been used to build the structure. This is a big deal for him. It is the tallest crane in Wisconsin, and this is a type of work he has never done before.

The Couture is 44 stories high. The yellow crane in the foreground of the picture is taller than the building. That tower crane is what Stefan, and the other Ironworkers, will take apart piece by piece. They will be walking on the crane as they dismantle it. Stefan tried to explain the process to me, and he sent me a video to watch. It seems very sketchy. The Ironworkers will remove sections of the tower, starting at the top just under the boom, and then, one by one, take off each section below the first piece to be removed. Essentially, the crane will collapse upon itself in slow motion. This will take days to accomplish. The last thing to be dismantled will be the boom itself.

Stefan is both excited and terrified by the project. He told me how nervous he was, but he also made it clear that he wanted to do it. He will get massive overtime by participating in this project, but he could get overtime in a number of other ways. No, he wants to be part of this particular mission.

I asked him why.

He told me, “It isn’t often that you ever get to take down a crane like this. I will get to say I did it. It will keep me from getting shit from these other guys.”

I asked him, “You get shit from the other guys?”

He replied, “I’m a teacher. Guys go at me because they think the grass is greener where I am. They don’t realize that I have to water the fucking grass every day to keep it green.”

He went on, “Very few guys ever do something like this. It takes fucking enormous balls to go up the crane and tear it down.”

“So, you’re anxious about this job?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“But you’re going to do it anyway?”

“Fuck yeah.”

I smiled to myself.

That’s my boy.