Frank is Emptiness

October 16th, 2023

I have family in Texas. I have gone south to visit with them almost every year for over three decades. After a while, I started to notice some things about Texans. They have their idiosyncrasies. It is usually a bad idea for me to make generalizations about people, especially about a group of people as massive as the population of Texas. However, I think that there are certain characteristics that distinguish them from most other Americans.

For instance, Texans are respectful toward their elders. I’m not sure that all the older people deserve respect, but down there they get it anyway. When I am in Texas, I am always addressed as “sir”. I didn’t hear the word “sir” that much even when I was an Army officer. What is striking to me is that young people, say folks in their twenties, call me “sir”. They could just as easily call me “boomer”, but they don’t. They don’t seem to do it sarcastically. They genuinely want to show me some level of respect.

Texans love the 2nd Amendment. I’ve been a lot of places, but nobody likes guns like the Texans. Gun rights are like a religion in that state. My son, Hans, is a gun enthusiast and a transplant to Texas from Wisconsin, which is another state where people are very comfortable around firearms. However, in Wisconsin guns are for hunting. People here like guns in order to go after Bambi in November each year. In Texas it seems like people just like guns. I have never been able to discern a clear and logical reason for this obsession, but it exists.

Texans seem to have an independent streak and a need to be self-reliant. That can be simultaneously both inspiring and irritating. As an example, Texas insists on having its own power grid, the Texas Interconnection. This way, Texas doesn’t need to depend on those lesser 49 states for energy, and it is not burdened by Federal regulations. That sounds like a great idea most of the time. That is, except in an instance like the winter of 2021, when the whole Texan grid froze up and millions of people went without power for days.

Texans love to fly their state flag. The Lone Star flag can be seen everywhere, hanging just below the American flag. In Wisconsin nobody flies the state flag. Nobody even knows what the Wisconsin state flag looks like. For the Texans, their flag is like a national flag. They still seem to consider themselves to be a sovereign nation.

When we were driving home from the last visit to Texas, Karin, Asher, and I stopped at a gas station in Tyler, Texas. Tyler is currently best known for having a Catholic bishop who apparently thinks that Pope Francis is liberal heretic. I chalk that up to the native Texan independent streak. Only in Tyler can a bishop be more Catholic than the pope.

At the gas station was a Church’s Chicken vendor. That was no surprise. There are innumerable chicken establishments in Texas. Chicken, and BBQ. Texans love their BBQ. I’ve seen high class BBQ restaurants in Texas, and I’ve also seen a guy cooking it up in an old travel trailer that was resting on cinder blocks, with a smoker out behind the trailer.

Asher, the toddler, was running amok in the gas station searching for the freezer with the ice cream bars in it. I was trying to keep track of the boy. Over at Church’s Chicken was an old man sitting at a small table, happily gnawing at a chicken thigh. He was about my age with white hair and beard. Next to his seat were laying a backpack and one of those foldable canvas camp chairs.

The old guy smiled at me as I chased Asher, and asked,

“Having fun yet?”

“Yeah, I do this all the time. I have the boy 24/7.”

The old guy kept chewing and smiling. He said through a mouthful of bird, “Good for you.”

Karin and I ordered some food. We got Asher some chicken and fries. He ate the fries. I ate the chicken.

We finished up and walked out to the car. The old man was standing out front with his pack on his back. He talked a bit to Asher and Karin. I thought he was going to hit us up for money. He asked me,

“Are you from Tyler.”

“No.”

He grinned at me, ‘Good for you. Y’all have a good day, now.”

“You too”, I replied.

He smiled at me and said, “I’ll be doing better if I find myself a home.”

He picked up his camp chair and walked away. I thought about him. I’ve met many homeless people, but none like him. He didn’t ask us for money. He didn’t ask us for anything. He didn’t have a home, but he still had his pride.

He was independent and self-reliant. He was a Texan.

October 16th, 2023

We were down in Texas, visiting with Hans and his family. While the four little kids were getting into mischief, the four adults were trying to have a conversation. We were discussing religion. I mentioned that one thing that I like about Judaism is that a person has the right to shake their fist at God now and then.

Hans piped up, “That’s nothing. When I was in Iraq, we had a chaplain. He told us, ‘When you pray, tell God to fuck off!’. This guy was a Catholic chaplain. He told us that we weren’t in Iraq for any good reason, and that things were all fucked up. He said that, if we were mad at God, it was okay to tell Him to fuck off.”

I am not sure if that guidance was theologically sound, but I can completely understand the chaplain’s sentiment. Oddly enough, there are precedents for this sort of thing in Scripture. Both Jonah and Elijah made it clear to God that they did not to hear from Him anymore. And Job, well, he wasn’t very happy with the Lord either. So, at last in the Old Testament, there are some examples of God’s chosen people telling Him off (in a probably highly sanitized version of what they actually said).

Is it good idea to tell God to fuck off? Maybe not. On the other hand, He has big shoulders. He will probably get over it. In some Christian sects, it is expected that people will praise and flatter God, possibly in the hopes that He will dole out a smidgeon of mercy. Prayers and petitions are heard, but they may or may not be granted. If a person is in a really bad way (Hans and his compadres in Iraq were in a bad way), and God does not respond to heartfelt entreaties, then why not tell Him to fuck off? What is there to lose?

I believe that God wants a relationship with the individuals that He created. Relationships are by their very nature rocky and difficult. Being angry with God means that a person is still in relationship with the Deity. There is still some communication. There is still the possibilty of reconciliation.

As Elie Wisel said,

“The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it’s indifference.”

October 9th, 2023

“A moral injury is an injury to an individual’s moral conscience and values resulting from an act of perceived moral transgression on the part of themselves or others. It produces profound feelings of guilt or shame, moral disorientation, and societal alienation. In some cases, it may cause a sense of betrayal and anger toward colleagues, commanders, the organization, politics, or society at large.” from Wikipedia

We were sitting around in Hans’ apartment. Four little kids were running amok, and the adults were vainly trying to manage the children’s chaos while simultaneously engaging in some kind of intelligent conversation. Somehow, the discussion turned to gun control. This is a hot topic, especially with Hans, seeing as he lives in Texas and is also a combat vet. Hans is a self-described gun enthusiast, who has a loaded gun in almost every room of his home. He takes firearms with the utmost seriousness.

The grownups in the room came to the conclusion that effective gun control is impossible in this country. There are just too many weapons, and there is no way of tracking them all. I made the comment that gun control in the United States can’t happen because of cultural issues. I said,

“The problem is that in this country we believe that killing people solves problems.”

Hans immediately took exception to that comment. He looked me in the eye and said,

“I don’t believe that. Killing doesn’t solve problems.”

I was taken aback by that. Hans is a proud combat veteran, and I have always been under the impression that he approved of the use of deadly force.

Hans went on with pain in his voice, “Dad, I killed people in Iraq. You know what it’s done to me.”

I thought for a moment and replied, “Honestly, I don’t know what it did to you. I can’t know. I never killed anybody.”

Hans shrugged and said, “You know what I mean.”

Maybe I do know, at least a little bit. I know that the war changed Hans. There is a Hans who is pre-war, and a Hans who is post-war. The latter version is worse for wear. The damage in him is obvious to me, as it is to some other people.

Hans told me, “Dad, we all carried our weapons, but nobody wanted to pull the trigger. It was all for show. Nobody wanted to kill a guy.”

And yet, Hans did kill a guy. He killed multiple people. He shot some men, and he got shot too. He stabbed a man to death. He did the things that he never wanted to do.

This brings me to the subject of moral injuries.

Moral injuries sometimes sound like some fuzzy “woke” idea. Physical wounds are obvious. Psychological damage is accepted as being real. But “moral” injuries, what the hell is that?

I believe that moral injuries are real, and that they are sometimes lethal. Can a person see the effects of a moral injury? Maybe not. There are no physical scars. How can an individual see the wounds to another person’s soul? I think that can happen only if the individual knows the person well and observes him or her with a keen eye.

Years ago, I was in Chicago to see an interactive presentation about the war in Iraq. Aaron Hughes and Amber Ginsburg created and hosted “The Tea Project”, as the show was called. Aaron was a veteran who served in the Army. It is hard for me to adequately describe The Tea Project. It was partly Hughes’ personal history, and it was partly an ongoing conversation about peace between Hughes, Ginsburg, and the audience. It all revolved around the Middle Eastern tradition of sharing tea, which everyone at the presentation eventually did.

The Tea Project isn’t the thing that I remember most about that evening in Chicago. Prior to the show, I had a conversation with a young man who was also a vet. This guy had been in the Military Police and had been stationed at the Abu Ghraib prison. He was there after the torture scandal, so he had not been personally involved the war crimes committed there. However, he had witnessed or participated in other activities that left him scarred. I never knew what all his specific experiences were. I recall him mentioning that he had watched Apache helicopters fire up some Iraqis that were trying to assault the prison. I think that event tore him up, but all I knew for sure was that he had been damaged.

This young man introduced me to the concept of moral injury. He told me explicitly that he had sustained a moral injury. How did he deal with this wound? He smoked weed. In fact, he had moved to Colorado because, at that time, he had legal access to marijuana in that state.

It seems to me that other veterans who have sustained a moral injury deal with the it in a similar way. Some of them drink, some smoke, some throw themselves into work. They try not to feel. They do whatever they have to do in order to avoid touching the wound that won’t heal. These behaviors are not healthy, and for some vets they amount to a passive sort of suicide.

I don’t know how veterans with moral injuries can deal with their pain. I suspect that the answer is unique for each vet. I doubt that there is solution that will work for all of them.

Hans has a moral injury. He will have to find his own path to healing.

October 8th, 2023

Karin is sick. Asher is sick.

Oddly enough, I’m not, at least not yet.

Karin is my wife. Asher is our toddler grandson.

We are currently staying in an extended stay hotel in Bryan, Texas. We have spent a week here while visiting our oldest son, Hans, and his family. We planned to head home tomorrow. That’s not going to happen.

Traveling for long distances with sick passengers is never pleasant. It’s not necessary for everyone on the car to be in perfect health, but it’s unwise to make a road trip from Texas to Wisconsin if people are feverish and clearly unwell. It’s a three-day-long ride in the best of circumstances but is impossible if members of the group are hurting.

Asher seems to be doing a bit better right now. He has been feverish all morning, and he has been sleeping almost the entire day. Now, he has had some baby Tylenol, and he looks less flushed in the face. He had some Pedialyte and a butterfly bread (raisin bread with peanut butter and honey). He ate a few grapes. He is watching/listening to insipid children’s songs on Karin’s phone.

I think he will be okay.

Karin has a bad cough and a nasty head cold. She has been alternately sweating and shivering for the last two days. She recovers slowly from illnesses. She might be ready for the ride the day after tomorrow. Even if she is, I will be doing all the driving. She will be resting and comforting Asher if the boy is not feeling well.

There has been a break in the action. Karin is napping. Asher decided that he didn’t want to watch crude videos on his Oma’s phone, and he started whining. I went to the bed and held him for a few minutes. I saw his chubby cheeks sag and I felt his body relax into slumber. Now, both Karin and Asher are asleep.

I just finished drinking a Voodoo Ranger Imperial IPA, so I could probably use a nap too.

Oh well, we’ll get home eventually.

September 23rd, 2023

Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, was last Saturday. It is now the year 5784 on the Jewish calendar. I’m glad because 5783 was kind of a bitch.

Generally, I am not a big fan of New Year’s celebrations. Most of the time there is no discernible difference between December 31st and January 1st. The biggest change between one year and the next is that I write the wrong year on checks for several weeks. The New Year’s Eve parties hold no attraction for me. They always seem like forced gaiety. I am often asleep in bed well before midnight strikes. When I wake up early on the first of January, I sense that I didn’t miss anything important.

Somehow, it’s different with Rosh Hashanah, at least it was this year. This time I was longing for the end of the old year, any old year. The last twelve months, on anybody’s calendar, have been difficult for me. I am happy that they are over, and that there is the possibility of a new start. Rosh Hashanah seemed like a suitable beginning.

I wanted to go to the service at the synagogue. It’s a big deal. The shofar is blown and there are special prayers. I didn’t make it. That morning I was at several different playgrounds with my toddler grandson, Asher. By the time I got the boy home, I was exhausted. I was tired, but content. My time with Asher was my blessing for Rosh Hashanah, and what better way to start a new year than to be with somebody you love?

We’ll see what 5784 brings. I hope only good things.

If not, well, I can start another new year in 2024.

September 15th, 2023

Kayla’s Playground is one of our favorite places. Asher and I go there quite often, usually early in the morning before the place gets crowded. The place is actually divided inro two playgrounds: one for toddlers and one for the older children. Asher isn’t quite three years old yet, but he prefers to challenge himself with the equipment on the “big kids” side of the park. There are plenty of things on which children can climb, slide, spin, and jump. The playground is specifically designed with disabled children in mind. That makes it unique in the local area. The play area is named after a little girl, Kayla, who had cerebral palsy and died quite young. It was dedicated in 2015.

A couple days ago, Asher and I were at the park just after sunrise. There had been a heavy dew overnight, so everything was damp. Asher insisted on going down the big slide anyway. The result of that was that backside of blue jeans got wet. He didn’t care. He was having a good time. Asher and I had the playground almost all to ourselves. A maintenance guy from the city was cleaning up before the crowds came. Otherwise, Asher and I were on our own.

There was one other person there. A woman was wandering through the play area, examining plaques on the fences and making an inspection of sorts. I asked her,

“Cleaning?”

She smiled shyly and said, “Oh no. We have a volunteer group coming here next week, and I am looking for things they can do.”

She paused for a moment, and said, “I’m Kayla’s mom.”

Oh.

Then she looked at Asher and smiled again. She asked me, “He’s so cute. Do you come here often?”

“Almost every day. Asher likes it here.”

Kayla’s mom replied, “That’s wonderful. It really is a wonderful playground. Enjoy!”

Then she walked away, looking for things to clean or repair.

Asher tried all the equipment. He climbed ladders and went on the swings. He walked along the balance beam and the rope bridge. Then he went into the area where there was a swing designed for kids in wheelchairs. It is quite an interesting set up, and all children gravitate toward it, just to see how it works. Asher fooled around with some chains that are used to secure a wheelchair in place. As he was investigating, Kayla’s mom walked over to us.

She asked me, “Do you know where this came from?”

“No.”

She smiled and said, “Australia. There are only twenty-five of these in the world, so if you hear about one of them, it is something very special.”

I nodded and said, “Your daughter was special too.”

She nodded. Then she said, “Kayla taught me so much. In eight years, she gave me the perspective to know what this place needed. And she was nonverbal!”

“Asher teaches me a lot too.”

We talked for a while. Asher was busy exploring and I kept one eye on him as I conversed with Kayla’s mom. I mentioned to her that Asher was my teacher. She remarked that he taught me patience. That’s a fact. I told her that for years I had been a student of Zen meditation, and now Asher was my instructor. He keeps me aware and in the moment.

I explained that my wife and I are Asher’s fulltime caregivers. I told to her that our lives revolved around this little boy. She understood that completely. It was comforting to me. Many people don’t understand.

Kayla’s mom talked about her prayer life and her relationship with Jesus. It became clear to me that her faith kept her going. Somehow, she was able to care for her disabled daughter, deal with the girl’s untimely death, and then help to create this playground in her honor. That’s impressive.

She commented that as Asher grows up, I would pray with him, and he would learn about Jesus from me. I shrugged and said,

“Words don’t mean much.”

She was shocked. She asked, “You mean the words of prayer?”

“I mean the words of anything. Asher will watch my actions. He will learn about God from what I do. If my words are congruent with my actions, then he will listen to what I say. Otherwise, not.”

Then I quoted Francis of Assisi, “Preach the Gospel always, Use words if necessary.”

She countered by reciting the Prayer of St Francis from memory. She grasped what I meant. It had been unnecessary to for me to even talk about it. Her whole life is faith in action.

I mentioned to her that “Asher” means “Happy” in Hebrew. Then I told her that Asher’s mother has his name tattooed on her arm in Hebrew.

She asked, “So, she’s Jewish?”

“I don’t think so, but then, it’s hard to tell.”

I said, “Well, I go to a synagogue on Saturdays.”

She gave me a funny look.

Them I said, “And I go to Mass every Sunday.”

She laughed.

She thanked me and my wife for stepping up to care for Asher.

I choked up a bit and said, “What else could we have done?”

She replied, “Like with Kayla, what else could I have done?”

I said, “Some people don’t make that choice. I know that. Some can’t. They don’t have the resources.”

She said with assurance, “A person can always find the resources.”

Maybe she’s right. Maybe faith can move mountains. Sometimes it does.

September 18th, 2023

A week ago, I went with my wife, Karin, and our little grandson, Asher, to the Wisconsin Sheep and Wool Festival at the Jefferson County Fair Grounds. Let me say right up front that there is nothing at the Sheep and Wool Festival that is of interest to me. I am not much interested in sheep, and the only wool that concerns me is in the sweater that Karin knit for me.

For Karin, the Sheep and Wool Festival is an annual pilgrimage. It rivals the Hajj to Mecca in her mind. It’s a big deal. Anybody in Wisconsin who is involved in the fiber arts goes to this festival. It’s the Burning Man for knitters, spinners, and weavers. There are no casual participants at this gathering. The attendees are all dyed-in-wool fanatics about their art.

Karin could have gone to the fair this year on her own, but we had somehow promised Asher that he could watch the dogs chase the sheep around. So, Karin needed me to shepherd Asher while she explored the vendor halls. The halls which usually house pigs, goats, and cows were packed with the kiosks of fiber dealers during the festival. The halls reminded me a bit of the Great Suq in Cairo. There was the chaotic feel of a Middle Eastern bazaar, but one filled with white women wearing handmade shawls and scarves.

Asher and I sought out the dogs and the sheep. We have a border collie at home named Shocky. Shocky is an older lady, thirteen years of age, who likes the quiet life. She used to be quite active, but not anymore. Asher wanted to watch the “Shocky dogs” chase the sheep. We wandered the fairgrounds until we found the west field where they were holding the “Crook and Whistle Stock Dog Trial”. All the participants in the show had a long stick (crook), and whistle, and a border collie that was more or less trained to herd sheep. At the start of every trial, three sheep were released on to the far end of the field, and the border collie was set loose to bring the animals into a small pen at the near end.

The efforts of the dogs and their trainers were entertaining. A few of the border collies were effective in their herding activities. They would get the attention of the three sheep, and then lie down in the grass like a lion tracking prey in the savannah. The sheep would move away the wannabe predator. After much yelling and whistling on the part of the trainer, the dog would sometimes convince the sheep to enter the small corral. That was a win. It didn’t happen often. Usually, the dog would just chase the sheep all over the field, much to the chagrin of the owner. Oh well, there is always next year’s competition.

Asher liked watching the doggies chase the sheep. Even now, a week later, he talks about going to see them. I wasn’t sure what else to do with the boy after he grew weary of observing the amateur sheep herders. There were halls for the sheep and lambs. We walked through them, and Asher enjoyed looking at the animals. There wasn’t much else to do at the fair. It wasn’t a very festive festival. There was no music, no games, and no beer. They had a few food booths, but the gathering was clearly not intended for little boys, or for bigger ones.

The festival had an intensely feminine atmosphere. Yes, there were some men there, but they played a purely auxiliary role in the event. The clientele was almost entirely made up of older women who were on a mission. I noticed that there was line of people waiting for the women’s bathroom, while the men’s restroom was deserted. The few guys who were on the fairgrounds, like me, all looked a bit lost.

Asher and I decided to search the market for his “oma”. That place was sheer pandemonium. Vendors were hawking fiber products of all sorts: raw wool recently sheared from sheep or alpacas, and yarns displayed in a full spectrum of colors. They sold carders, looms, spinning wheels, spindles, needles, and an endless assortment of other craft items. Almost all these products were top of the line. The women thronging the mall were savvy shoppers. They, like my wife, knew all the brands and they could discern the quality of the materials. They recognized the patterns and the styles. These were people who were intimately familiar with all aspects of their art, and they gazed at the wares with keen eyes.

Karin is a fiber goddess. That description may be a little over the top, but she is truly an artist, just as a sculptor or a painter or a dancer is an artist. It is interesting to be married to somebody like that. A spontaneously creative person is always coming up with fascinating new ideas, and that same individual can never find their car keys. Karin has a craft studio where it looks like a grenade just exploded. Yet she seems to know where everything is in that room, usually. Karin’s mind bubbles over with new designs, and she flits from one to another until she at last decides on that unique project. Then she focuses her passion and energy on it with laser like intensity. It is a sight to behold.

Asher and I somehow located Karin amidst the tumult. That was sheer luck, since Karin had her phone on silent. She had one shopping bag full of treasures. She spent a total of $100, but in small amounts at six different vendors. She was frugal. I was impressed. This is the same woman who just the week before dropped four grand when ordering an eight-shaft floor loom for her weaving projects. The floor loom was a good buy. It will get plenty of use, once we figure out where to put it.

As the three of us walked out of the fair, Karin spotted a stranger wearing a sweater with a particularly intricate design. Karin smiled at the woman and said,

“I love your sweater!”

The woman thanked Karin, and they engaged in shop talk for a few minutes. I understood none of it. The lady told Karin,

“The design will be all over Instagram!”, as she walked away.

Karin indicated to me that she wanted to find that pattern.

September 18th, 2023

Karin and I took our toddler grandson, Asher, with us to Holy Wisdom Monastery. One might ask at this point:

“Why would you do that?”

Well, we didn’t necessarily do it for Asher’s benefit. The fact is that my wife and I had been watching Asher 24/7 every day, and we hadn’t gone a trip for well over a year. We just wanted to get away from home. In the past, we had made a habit of staying at religious retreat centers on our journeys. In fact, we did just that with Asher last summer when we stopped at Subiaco Abbey in Arkansas. That visit worked out quite well. Asher was cooperative, and Karin and I took turns caring for the boy while the other spent some time soaking up the peace and quiet. We were hoping that this particular stay would be the same.

I had also thought that perhaps I could arrange to have somebody give me spiritual direction during our short stay at the monastery. Maybe a priest or a religious sister could talk with me, or at least listen to me bitch. I was hoping for something like that.

Not.

A year in the life of a little boy makes a huge difference. Asher is almost three years old, and he is much more active and headstrong than he was when we sojourned at Subiaco last summer. He wants to be on the move, and he wants our full and undivided attention. Before we made reservations at Holy Wisdom, I asked specifically about the whereabouts of the nearest playground. This was crucial information. Fortunately, there was a fancy playground/splashpad only a couple miles away. The playground was a lifesaver. We spent hours there with the lad. Actually, my best memories from this trip are from the playground.

Alas, the time at the playground was not sufficient to get rid of Asher’s restlessness and seemingly boundless energy. At the retreat house he was in unfamiliar environment which he wanted to explore. Also, because he felt out of his natural habitat, he wanted both of us to be with him. The end result was that Asher was both clingy and hyper, and neither Karin nor I got a break.

Asher makes his own schedule. Toddlers do that. Sometimes his schedule does not match those of the adults. We were set up to have supper at the monastery at 5:15 on our first evening there. Asher ran out of steam and feel asleep at 5:00. So, Asher did not have supper, nor did his hungry grandparents. This was a source of frustration to us.

Early the next morning, I walked over to the kitchen of the retreat house. The retreat center supplied a “continental breakfast” for the guests. What that actually meant was the guests had access to everything in the kitchen, and that included a fully stocked refrigerator. What the guest did with all that was up to him or her. So, I went on a scouting mission to see what was available to us.

I was in a foul mood as I walked to the kitchen. Another early riser was walking toward me. He smiled and gave me a cheery “good morning”. I growled something back at him. The man looked at me with concern and asked,

“Are you doing okay?”

I replied wearily, “No, not at all.”

He paused momentarily, and asked, “Do you want some weed?”

For some reason, I have never in my life tried marijuana. The guy made the offer to me with the best of intentions. I am sure of that. I just couldn’t imagine trying to keep track of Asher while being high. That prospect seemed disastrous.

I told him, “No. That’s the last thing I need.”

The guest was a bit nonplussed. He was certain that he had offended me somehow. He quickly said,

“I apologize for that! Sorry. It’s like I never said anything. Okay?”

I assume he wandered off to find someplace to smoke a blunt in peace. I shook my head and moved on.

Later, after Karin and Asher had gone to the kitchen to forage for food, I found this same guy in the room with them. He was offering Asher some berries and having a lively conversation with the boy. They were smiling and laughing together. Karin was listening to them banter while she made Asher some toast with honey and peanut butter.

Karin and Asher went into the dining room to eat and conversed with the guest. The discussion was wide-ranging. He told me some things about himself, and he asked me to talk about our situation. The guy was a good listener. He was happy and good natured. He apparently was deeply involved with the religious community at the monastery, and he encouraged me to get to know the people. I declined to meet with the members of his group, mostly because it was unlikely that we would be coming back to this place any time soon.

That evening I ran into the man again. Karin had taken Asher for yet another session at the playground. We talked for about half an hour. He listened to my troubles. I listened to his. He was ebullient when he praised us for how we were raising Asher. He was impressed with the lad. It was good for me to hear that.

We left the retreat house the following morning. We hadn’t had the visit that we had hoped to have. Karin and I were probably more exhausted than we would have been if we had just stayed at home.

On the other hand, God sent me a most unexpected listener and guide. I met the person that I needed to meet.

September 14th, 2023

Asher loves elephants. The little boy plays with a stuffed elephant. He rides around the house on a toy elephant with wheels. He likes it when my wife and I entertain him with an elephant hand puppet. He gets excited if we go to the zoo to see the elephants. Asher is into elephants.

This being the case, we took our toddler grandson to the Circus World Museum in Baraboo, Wisconsin. Baraboo is a quiet place in central Wisconsin with a pleasant small town feel to it. The city of 11,000 people straddles the Baraboo River and gives the impression that not much happens there. Baraboo’s claim to fame is that back in 1884, Ringling Brothers made the town the headquarters for their circus. Life in Baraboo has revolved around a circus ever since then. The museum is the latest manifestation of that fact.

The Circus World Museum has numerous displays of old wagons. It has a hall with exhibits explaining the history of the American circus. The museum also has a big top, where twice a day during the summer, people can watch live performances. We took Asher to the show because, well, they have elephants.

Besides the big top tent, the museum has animal rides. Asher rode on a small pony (five minutes for five bucks). The museum had elephant rides, but the line of people waiting to go atop a pachyderm was endless. We also thought that Asher might be frightened if we were with him riding on such a large animal. Riding an elephant and riding a pony are very different things.

The proprietors of the museum boast a gaudily painted merry go round, one that blasts out vaguely familiar old songs while riders seated on wooden horses go in circles. The loud circus music is both joyous and annoying. The music comes from some ancient mechanical device equipped with horns and drums. I am certain that the manufacturer of this automated music maker closed its doors decades ago. It is probably impossible to buy or even fabricate replacement parts for it. Asher and my wife rode on the merry go round. I held the boy on his steed while the giant wheel turned counterclockwise. The experience made me dizzy.

The museum has a tent with exhibits which describe circus sideshows. That was disturbing. A lot of it was about the attractions in freak shows: skeleton men, bearded ladies, wolf boys, etc. I thought about The Elephant Man. Some of the attractions seem distinctly cruel. Some of them seem, in our day and age, a bit outdated. Who nowadays wants to pay money to see “Lydia the Tattooed Lady”? I can see women with tattoos anywhere. The exhibits in the tent also bothered me because many of them seem so dark. It reminded me of the Ray Bradbury novel, Something Wicked this Way Comes. Once a person has read that book, the traveling carnivals have a definitely creepy vibe.

The show in the big top had a variety of acts. There was a unicycle rider from Argentina, an acrobat/juggler from Spain, and a strong man from Romania. I kind of wonder about their origins. Circuses historically have been notorious for exaggerating the fame of their performers. These folks were good. There is no doubt about that. However, they could all be from Kokomo or Des Moines for all I know. I guess it really makes no difference. They had amazing shows.

Then there’s the clown. The show had a clown. It probably had to have one. That’s a tough gig. Clowns have a rather sketchy reputation in our culture. Think about John Wayne Gacy. Think about Heath Ledger’s portrayal of the Joker in The Dark Knight. And Stephen King has done a rather thorough job of demonizing clowns in his novels. Would any parent or caregiver let their young child within a mile of a stranger wearing face paint?

Not me.

That being said, the clown in the big top show was really quite funny. Chase the Clown dressed up as an old school hobo. He never spoke, but he wasn’t really a mime. He used the ringmaster as his foil, as he did silly tricks to entertain the audience. His act was humorous and wholesome. He was definitely kid friendly. That was somehow a great relief to me.

There were animal acts. They were rather lame. One lady had goats and dogs do tricks. Ho hum. There was no lion tamer putting his head into the mouth of a beast. No scary stuff. The coolest thing was when the animal trainer convinced a goat to ride on the back of a pony. That impressed me.

The finale came when the ringmaster made the announcement:

“Ladies and gentlemen, now I will say for the last time the words that have been said in the big top for over a century: ‘Hold you horses! Here come the elephants!’ “

Two elephants came through the rear curtain and entered the ring. The crowd went nuts. Asher was sitting on my lap. I couldn’t see his face, but I could tell that he was in awe. I was too. It was astounding when one of the elephants raised its front legs and mounted the rear of the other animal.

The elephant act didn’t last very long. The manager of the museum came into the ring to announce to everyone that the two elephants were retiring. It was their very last show. They were going to Oklahoma to spend their remaining years. They wouldn’t be replaced. No more elephants. Show’s over.

At least Asher got to see them.

September 12th, 2023

I got together yesterday with two former coworkers. All three of us are retired, and we decided to go out for lunch. We met at Hiawatha, a bar and grill next to the railroad tracks in Sturtevant. The tavern is named after the original Hiawatha, a passenger train that decades ago traveled on those tracks between Milwaukee and Chicago. Amtrak still has a commuter train with that name, but it has nothing of the grandeur of the old Hiawatha line.

The bar itself is nothing fancy. At noon on a Monday, it was almost empty. Dan and Danny were there when I showed up. Dan was a driver at the trucking company where we worked. Danny worked with me on the loading dock. He drove a forklift. We had spent nearly thirty years together at the same place. That’s remarkable, even for an old guy like me. Nowadays, nobody works anywhere for three decades. Most people from my children’s generation barely stay at a job for more than a couple years. Dan, Danny, and I share a lot of history.

Over glasses of beer, we started talking about current events. We talked about our grandkids, about sports, and about health issues. The topic of getting rid of mice in the house came up. Each of us had a story concerning that. As time went on, the conversation drifted toward events in our past, as that sort of discussion inevitably does.

I’m not sure of the value of recalling times gone by. It’s not like any of us said, “Those were the good old days”, because they weren’t. Mostly, they were days of struggle, both physical and mental. None of us would go back to that environment, well, not in a material way. However, we went back there in our words and thoughts.

We told stories. Some were funny. Some were sad. Some were both. We had all worked for a corporation that was crazy and ruthless. For my part, I found it difficult to retain my humanity during all those years. I think everyone who worked at that place left damaged in some regard. The money was good, but the work ravaged a person’s body and soul.

We spoke of many people in the past tense. A large number of our fellow coworkers have died. Some made to retirement, some didn’t. Some of them we miss. Some of them we don’t. We talked about other colleagues who are still alive, but disabled from the work they did. For the most part, Danny, Dan, and I are enjoying our retirement. We know some people who aren’t.

Retirement is a funny thing. It is advertised as a golden age, a time when a person can sit back and enjoy the fruits of their labors. To a certain extent that is true. However, even though the old job is gone, other challenges rear their heads. I never expected to be raising at toddler at the age of sixty-five. That wasn’t part of my plan. Danny and Dan have also had surprises come their way. Life still goes on, just with a different set of circumstances.

Danny made the comment before we left the bar that we three had it pretty good. He’s correct. There are many people in this world, probably the vast majority, who can never retire. They will work until they drop. We somehow managed to save enough money to set aside our tools and do other things. By God’s grace, we still have our health. I don’t think it was because we were more moral than others, or smarter than them. I think we just got lucky.

I am grateful for that.