Frank is Emptiness

August 28th, 2022

Our son, Stefan, is getting another tattoo today. I don’t why. I don’t really understand his interest in tattoos. Perhaps it is a generational thing. My wife and I don’t have any tattoos, but all of our kids do.

I suppose it a means of self-expression, of a rather permanent sort. A person with a tattoo shows the outer world part of their inner world. Stefan likes tattoos of animals. Once again, I’m not sure why. There is something inside of him that finds an outlet with a tattoo. It may be something that he can’t even explain in words. Somehow the tattoos tell a story.

Is a tattoo necessary for a person to be recognized as a unique individual? Can others tell who we are without a picture or without words?

I have a friend who is a photographer. She does excellent work, but she is still trying to perfect her skills. She explained to me that she would be soon enrolling in a class on portrait photography, and that she wanted to take a picture of me for her portfolio. I immediately asked her,

“Why?”

She replied, “You have an interesting story, and your face tells that story.”

Can a face tell a story?

The mathematician, Jacob Bronowski, discussed how humans perceive reality in his PBS series, “The Ascent of Man”. In one episode, he said this:

“I am listening to a blind woman as she runs her fingertips over the face of a man she senses for the first time, thinking aloud. ‘I would say that he is elderly. I think, obviously, that he is not English. He has a rounder face than most English people. And I should say that he is probably Continental, if not Eastern-Continental. The lines in his face would be lines of possible agony. I thought at first, they were scars. It is not a happy face.’ “

The old man described by the woman was named Stephan Borgrajewicz. He was born in Poland, like Bronowski was. The man had been a prisoner in a concentration camp during WWII. The blind woman perceived him more clearly and in greater detail than most seeing persons could.

Bronowski’s comments also made me think about scars. Thirteen years ago, my right leg was crushed by a forklift at work. All the bones in my foot and ankle were shattered. The surgeon took two and a half hours to put the jigsaw puzzle back together. I have numerous scars on my leg. They are a constant reminder of that accident, and they also remind me of how lucky I am to be walking again. The scars tell a story.

Several years ago, I went to sweat lodge in Montana with a group of Native Americans. One of them, Chief Kindness, like me, was from Wisconsin. He took off his shirt and I could the rough, ragged scars on his back and chest. They were from his participation in the sun dance. It made me wince to even look at his scars. However, they told me something about the man. They told me that he had courage, fortitude, and a deep spirituality. They told a story.

My wife and I care for our grandson, Asher. Asher’s name means “Happy” in Hebrew. After Asher’s birth, his mother wanted to get a tattoo of his name on her arm. I asked my rabbi about it. He told me about the exact spelling in Hebrew, and the young woman got the tattoo. The people I know at the synagogue had conflicting feelings about the tattoo. On one hand, they thought it was a sign of the mother’s love for her child. On the other hand, it was a reminder to some of them of the Holocaust and how Jews were forcibly tattooed in the camps.

The tattoo tells a story, maybe more than one.

Asher…

August 22nd, 2022

Karin was sick yesterday. She isn’t sick often, but when she is, it means that I need to take care of our grandson, Asher, until she is well again. Asher is a wonderful little boy, but he’s a toddler and a toddler requires constant supervision. Karin and I are Asher’s legal guardians, so we have him 24/7. Usually, Karin and I split up the time needed to watch over the boy. However, when one of us is ailing, then the other has to take up the slack. That’s what I did for most of the weekend.

Karin had hoped to be well enough yesterday to go to church with me. That didn’t happen. She asked me if I could take Asher with me when I went to Mass, so she could rest. I told her that I would care for him.

Yesterday was my turn to serve as lector at the Mass. For those who don’t know, a lector is a person who proclaims the Scripture readings to the congregation during a Catholic service. The lector stands at the ambo near the altar and reads the Scripture passages out loud. The ambo is a Catholic name for a podium. Generally, when I serve as lector, Karin is at Mass with me, and she can handle Asher while I do my job. Yesterday I needed to both read the Scriptures and keep an eye on the lad.

I have been in this situation before. Several months ago, Karin was not with me, and I had to simultaneously watch Asher and perform my religious duties. I took Asher with me up to the ambo and proclaimed the readings to the assembly. It worked out pretty well. I think that people paid more attention when I had the boy in my arms.

When I took Asher to church, I also took along his diaper bag. The term “diaper bag” is a bit of a misnomer. There is a lot more than just diapers in the bag. I had it packed full of diapers, baby wipes, ointment, toys, food, and an extra set of clothes. If you have ever raised children, you understand what I mean. If you have not dealt with the needs of little kids, then be aware that, when a child goes some place, the adult caregiver has to bring along everything that little person might possibly need. Be ready for anything.

When we got to the church, Asher and I scoped out the lectionary on the podium to make sure I had the pages turned to the correct readings. The ambo and the altar are set on a raised platform. A person needs to walk up two steps to get to the top of the platform. Asher loves to walk up and down steps. That is currently his passion. Asher demanded that I help him to navigate the stairs. He went up and down and up and down and up and down. Jessica, the choir director chatted with me while Asher did his aerobics. Jessica loves Asher. She is always so pleased when we bring him to church.

Mass started with a procession from the back of the church up to the altar. The two young altar servers led the way as they carried lit candles. Then the lector, me, walked behind them holding up the Book of the Gospels. Bringing up the rear was the priest, Father Michael. My task was complicated by the fact that, besides carrying the Gospels, I had to carry Asher. I had Asher in my right arm and the book in my left. Asher was significantly bigger and heavier since the last time I had to do this. We managed to make it up to the altar, and back to our pew, but I was tired when we got there.

The first reading was from the Prophet Isaiah. I carried Asher with me to the ambo. He gazed out at the crowd. They were happy to see him up there. The population attending Mass was old. At least half of the folks in church were over sixty. That’s pretty standard. They were thrilled to see a child at the liturgy. It gave them hope that the Church won’t die along with them.

Asher and I took a break after I read from Isaiah. Jessica and the choir chanted the psalms. Asher snacked on some blueberries and Cheerios. He likes to eat in church. Actually, he likes to eat anywhere, but somehow, he always gets hungry when we are at Mass. We try to be ready for that.

A baptism also took place during the Mass. That is a relatively rare event. There are more funerals than baptisms these days. Asher is not baptized, not yet anyway. Karin and I would be within our rights to have the boy christened, but we want his mom to be on board with the idea. Some people look at a christening as festive family tradition. It can be that. We see it in a more serious sense. If a boy or girl is to be baptized, then somebody needs to nurture the spiritual development of the child. Somebody needs to commit to raising the child in the faith. It’s hard to find people willing to take on that responsibility.

Asher and I returned to the ambo for the second reading. It was a short passage from the Letter to the Hebrews. Asher got squirrelly as I read to the congregation. He became very interested in the lectionary. I had to read from the book while keeping Asher at bay.

I read, “My son, do not disdain the discipline of the Lord…”

At the same time in a whisper, “Asher, don’t turn the page.”

Then, more loudly, “For what ‘son’ is there whom his father does not discipline?”

With urgency, “Asher, leave the book alone!”

We got through it. I finished reading before Asher grabbed at the mike.

The priest read the Gospel passage, and then gave his homily (sermon). Asher and I rested in the pew. Once Father Michael completed the baptismal rite, then we would have to go back up to the ambo to read the Prayers of the Faithful, the petitions of the entire community. Asher was restless in my arms.

I picked up the boy and we once again took our place in front of the congregation. I started reading,

“Let us pray for the Church, that it may…”

Asher started squirming in my right arm. He wanted to get down and he was relentless.

I can’t focus on two things at once. Perhaps other people can. I had to put Asher down to concentrate on the saying the prayers. Asher decided that it was the proper time to go up and down the steps. Go for it.

Jessica got up from her seat at the piano and went to Asher as I spoke to the assembly. She gently helped Asher go up and down and up and down. I finished the petitions and turned toward Father Michael. He was red in the face and laughing. I was okay with that.

Asher and I returned to our pew. I sighed. Then I smelled something foul. I checked the back of Asher’s diaper. Yep, he was packing a load in there.

They were getting ready to pray the Sanctus (Holy, Holy, Holy). I grabbed the diaper bag and the boy. We went to the restroom. I laid him down. Asher was not loving it. He was a bit of a mess. As I cleaned him up, an usher came to take a piss. He looked and said,

“I see you got your hands full.”

“Uh, yeah”, I replied without looking up from my work.

“Are you training him to be a future lector?”

“That’s not my choice. At least, he’s in church.”

“Amen to that.”

Asher and I got back to the sanctuary in time to line up for communion. I had a pyx with me to bring back the Eucharist for Karin. The minister gave me the host, and she blessed Asher.

After Mass, we packed up. Asher and I were both tired. He slept in the car on the way home. I waited until we arrived.

August 17th, 2022

I’ve been thinking about my paternal grandfather. I am trying to remember what he was like. He died in October of 1971 at the age of sixty-seven. I was thirteen when he passed away. After all these years, it is nearly impossible to recall events from our time together. Maybe those specific moments aren’t so important. Maybe the overall impressions are what matter.

What I mostly remember is a collage of images and feelings. These memories are disjointed and seemingly random. They flash into my mind and then they disappear again. I don’t even try to make sense of them. They just are.

My grandparents lived within walking distance of our house. We would visit with them at least once a week. My dad’s folks lived in a small bungalow, a house they had bult back in 1928. They had no garage, mostly because my grandpa never owned a car. He either took the bus or walked everywhere he went.

I remember, when we would visit my grandpa in the evening, that he would often be sitting in his armchair, wearing a sleeveless t-shirt (the old “wife-beater” style). He almost always had an open beer and a lit cigar next to him. The beer came in a brown bottle that was part of case he had bought. Back in those days, all beer bottles were returnable. When a person purchased a case of beer, they just swapped out the twenty-four empty bottles for full ones. He smoked in the house. In those days everyone did that. There was kind of a bluish fog around him. I still remember the scent of the cigar smoke and the smell of the beer. He had an ashtray on a stand, and that is where the smoldering cigar rested when he wasn’t puffing on it. He usually only smoked one while we were there. He made them last.

My grandfather was an immigrant and the child of immigrants. He was born in Slovenia (then part of Austria-Hungary). He had only a minimal amount of formal education. His parents were poor, and he spent his whole life as part of the working class. He raised his own family during the Great Depression, and he was usually either laid off or on strike. He struggled. They all struggled.

My grandfather worked in a foundry. His work was physically demanding, and he was exhausted after his shift. I’ve been in foundries. They are without exception hot, dirty, and dangerous. Foundries were and are places that devour the lives of men. Those who work there, if they survive, leave battered and broken. That’s how my grandfather left when he retired. He only lived for two years after he stopped working.

My grandpa liked to joke. He played with me and my younger brothers when he wasn’t too tired. He liked to watch boxing on his black and white TV. He would get excited during the matches. We would get excited with him.

I remember one occasion. When I was a small boy, my parents took us tobogganing on a bitterly cold night. Afterward, we visited my grandparents. I was half-frozen. I was shivering and I couldn’t feel my toes. My grandpa put me next to the hear duct and took off my boots and socks. He held me in his arms and rubbed my feet to get the circulation back. His hands were rough, but warm. He was gentle with me. He held me close. I felt safe with him, and I was sleepy. I felt like I could have stayed with him all night, but we went home after that.

Grandpa’s gone, and now I take his place in the scheme of things. My wife and I are raising our little grandson, Asher. He is with us all the time. I am the boy’s grandpa, and I am also his surrogate father. I fill a role that my grandfather never needed to play. I don’t mind doing it. I just wonder what Asher will remember years from now. I wonder what impact I am making on his life.

We have other little grandchildren, Weston and Maddy. They live far away from us, down in Texas. I see them rarely, maybe once or twice a year. I am a stranger to them, and they to me. I wish that I could be a bigger part of their lives, but I don’t know how to do that. It grieves me.

August 16th, 2022

Last Thursday was our thirty-eighth wedding anniversary. Karin and I didn’t do anything very exciting. We went out for lunch (with Asher). Asher, our toddler grandson, devoured a pile of fries drowning in ketchup. He seemed happy. Karin and I both had beers with our meals. I had a Belgian ale and Karin had a pilsner. We toasted each other’s health. Asher raised in sippy cup in solidarity.

Thirty-eight years feels like a long time. That’s because it is a long time. It raises the question of how Karin and I got this far. The honest answer to that is:

“I don’t know.”

I don’t believe that there is magical way to keep a marriage together. Everybody has a theory about how to do it. Many devout Christians advise couples to pray together, read the Bible together, attend church services together. The idea is that if the two people keep Jesus in their marriage, it will all work out fine. Karin and I participated in a Bible study group for almost a decade. Most everyone in the group was a hardcore Evangelical who held fast to Scripture-based family values. Damn near all of them were divorced. Go figure.

I think one reason that marriages fail is that the parties involved never expect things to get rough. Karin and I had no illusions about that. In fact, at our wedding in her home village of Edelfingen, the old German priest spent his entire sermon talking about the trials and tribulations we would face. He was right.

We have had rough patches. They were mostly my fault. A while ago, Karin casually mentioned that, during one ugly period in our marriage, she seriously considered beating me to death with a frying pan. That doesn’t surprise me.

We had a good friend, Joe, who grew up in a traditional Sicilian family. After his father passed away, Joe’s mother told him,

“I never once considered divorcing your father! Divorce, never! Murder, yes! At least once a week!”

Who say that romance is dead?

Joe also told us a story about his dad. Joe’s parents had a huge celebration for their fortieth wedding anniversary. during the party, Joe’s father raised his glass and proposed a toast. He said,

“I want to thank my darling wife for the best twenty-seven years of my life.”

She caught on.

A couple can work through the hard times. The point is that the two people have to actually do the work. That requires self-sacrifice. That requires loving and forgiving the other person each and every day. It’s difficult.

People change. I suspect that some folks fall in love with a person, and they somehow expect the person to remain the same. Nothing remains the same. Staying in love with a partner is like shooting at a moving target. The two people grow together, or they grow apart. That’s just how it works.

I asked Karin once why she married me. She replied,

“I fell in love with your soul. Your body wasn’t bad either. “

Karin is not the same woman as she was back in 1984. I’m not the same man. Perhaps, we are in a continuous process of becoming who we are meant to be. It helps me to see that growth in Karin. It helps me if I can see her the way that God sees her. Sometimes I can do that.

I hope that she can see it in me too.

August 11th, 2022

I have a reputation as an angry bastard, deservedly so. For most of my life I have been the kind of guy who yells and throws things during an argument. Especially at work, I was known for having a short fuse. I’ve been retired for six years, and people at my former place of employment still tell stories about my outbursts (e.g., I shattered the glass of a copier with the palm of my hand when I was enraged). I am sort of legendary in that way.

I have changed somewhat. I don’t lose my temper nearly as much. I don’t know why I calmed down. Maybe it is partly due to practicing Zen meditation. Maybe I’m just getting old.

Over the years, I have been confronted with a number of stressful situations, and I’ve found that getting upset doesn’t usually help matters. Things that would have made me furious years ago no longer have that effect on me. Getting cut off in traffic? Meh. A loved one in jail? Oh well. Me in jail? Been there, done that. At this point in my life, it takes a lot to get me angry and keep me angry.

So, I find it hard to get irate about political matters. I have been very involved in politics at certain times of my life, and I am still interested in what goes on. However, I can’t really get worked up about it anymore. I used to be active with organizations that were always outraged about something. These groups were constantly having rallies or demonstrating or bitching at their elected representatives. I grew weary of that. Every issue was important with a capital “I”. If everything is important, then nothing really is. There has to be some set of priorities.

As I read the news this week, I saw that the search of Trump’s residence by the FBI is the latest event that was “Important”. Trump lovers see that action purely as a form of political persecution. Those who despise Trump wonder why it took so long for Garland and the DOJ to go after the former president. I yawn.

Politicians and some members of the media thrive on hate and discontent. They want to evoke an intense emotional response. Conflict sells. Any topic that gets people riled up will increase the number of viewers or readers. With any luck, a really controversial situation will even make some money. Hence, the laser-like focus on the Feds invading Mar-a-Lago. It’s all about getting somebody’s attention and then cashing in on it.

I look at it this way: Is there anything I could do or say that could possibly affect the situation with Trump? The answer to that is “no”. Whatever happens next is in the hands of the DOJ and probably the courts. All I can do is watch how things play out.

I will save my moral indignation for the injustices that I might actually be able to change. There aren’t many of them.

August 6th, 2022

Yesterday I went to the Sikh Temple in Oak Creek to pray. I hadn’t been there for quite a while. I used to sit in the temple and meditate regularly. That doesn’t happen much anymore. Since COVID, and especially since my wife and I became the full-time caregivers for our toddler grandson, Asher, I find it difficult to get away from home and sit in the hall of the gurdwara. I don’t remember exactly when I started praying in the temple, but I know it was more than a decade ago.

I walked into the temple around noontime. There were not many people there. I prefer it like that. I had thought that the gurdwara might be crowded, since yesterday was the tenth anniversary of the shooting that occurred there. I remember what a shock the massacre was for me at the time, but now this sort of mindless killing seems commonplace. Before the white supremacist barged into the temple and blew away six Sikhs, the temple was open to anyone any time. I used to just walk straight into the worship space and have a seat on the floor. I can’t do that anymore.

I knew one of the people who were murdered, Satwant Singh. I didn’t know him well. I only met him once or twice. He was a friendly, outgoing man who welcomed me warmly into the temple. He told me to call him “Sammy”, since nobody seemed to be able to remember “Satwant”. When I heard about the killings that happened at the temple, it wasn’t news of some far-off tragedy. It was close and personal for me.

When I entered the temple yesterday, one of the priests smiled and welcomed me. He’s an old man with a flowing grey beard and dark, friendly eyes. His English is minimal. and my Punjabi is nonexistent. We have known each other for years, but we really don’t know hardly anything about each other. I assume that he must be from Punjab, since most everybody there is. He always makes sure that I get a handful of prashad, the food that is offered to each guest who prays in the temple. I can never leave there without the man ensuring that I eat something.

Shoeless and with my head covered, I sat on the floor in the worship area with my back to the wall. The altar covering was bright orange. The Sikhs use a variety of coverings, each of them in vibrant colors. A woman was reading from their holy book. She had started the recitation of the Arhand Path, something that lasts for 48 hours. The reading sounded like chanting, and I didn’t understand a word of it. No matter. The recitation was soothing, and it helped me to pray. I felt at peace.

I left after half an hour. As I left the meditation hall, I saw a young man who obviously was a visitor. He didn’t look Indian. He was tall and fair, with curly blond hair. He had piercing blue eyes.

He was taking off his sandles and putting on a headscarf. I greeted him. He said hi to me. He asked me why I was there. I told him that I used to come to the temple a lot, but now I couldn’t do that very often. I told him that the temple was a very peaceful place.

The young man was edgy. I could see that in his eyes and hear it in his voice. He said to me,

“Yeah, it’s a peaceful place. It’s a holy place. It’s probably the most holy place in Milwaukee.”

Then he asked me, “Are you going to the vigil tonight?”

“No, I don’t go anywhere in the evening. I help care for my little grandson.”

He asked me, “Did you know any of the people who got killed?”

“I knew one of them, but not very well.”

“What do you think the killer was thinking?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there when it happened.”

The man shifted gears and said angrily, “I think that the Bible is all bullshit, you know? My whole family is Lutheran. I think that this Christianity stuff is just something the Roman Empire forced on everybody.”

Then he said, “I’m Scandinavian. Why should I care about the God of Israel?”

I considered telling the young man that I go to a synagogue frequently but thought better of it. It wouldn’t help to tell him I was Catholic either.

He went on, “You know what I like about the Sikhs? The don’t promise anything. They don’t know what happens when you die, so they don’t act like they know.”

I felt like the conversation was going in a bad direction, so I wished the man well. He left me standing near the front door.

I hope that he found peace in the sanctuary. I think that maybe he needs it even more than I do.

August 2nd, 2022

We were driving south along I-57, and we were getting close to Cairo and the bridge over the Mississippi River into Missouri. Karin was sitting in back of the car with Asher. Asher was strapped into his child seat and Karin was trying to entertain the boy. I was behind the wheel, listening to some hard-core Gospel music. In particular, I driving to raucous sounds of Reverend James Cleveland and his choir. Good stuff.

I didn’t grow up listening to Black Gospel songs. Far from it. I was raised in a white Catholic family that went to Mass every Sunday at a Croatian church in a working-class neighborhood near Milwaukee. We sang hymns like “Immaculate Mary” and “Hail! Holy Queen Enthroned Above”. I never set foot in a Black church until I was in my forties. I was exposed to Gospel music around that time. It’s an acquired taste.

As I drove through the hills of southern Illinois, I listened to James Cleveland sing about Jesus. He started his songs slow and quiet, and then built up the energy and the volume. By the end of each hymn, the reverend was shouting at the top of his lungs, his voice hoarse and ragged from praising God. I thought about the man who gave me the music recording all those years ago. His name was Mike. I remembered him and I smiled.

Mike worked with me at the trucking company. I was a supervisor. Mike was a driver and a dockworker. Mike was a Black man from Alabama. He was a devout Baptist and a good family man. He put his son through college. We didn’t hit off well at first. Mike thought that I didn’t like him. At that point in my life, I didn’t like anybody, so I wasn’t really picking on him. He saw it as a racial thing.

I remember asking somebody to find Mike so that I could talk to him about a shipment. The guy found Mike. He was in the break room having a coffee. He told the guy I sent to find him,

“Tell Mr. Caucasian I will be right up to talk with him.”

Mike’s religious faith permeated everything he did. He would come back from driving, and we could hear him singing Gospel hymns on his way to the office. He had a good voice. Some people found him annoying, but that never made him turn down the volume.

Mike worked on the loading dock for me during winter. Winters in Wisconsin are brutal, especially for a man from the south. Whatever the weather was outside was what we experienced on the slab. We were often shorthanded, so I had to keep workers on overtime. Nobody wanted to stay on the dock in the freezing cold. I didn’t and Mike sure as hell didn’t.

One particularly frigid morning I let the guys on the shift know that they would have to stick around for a while to load freight. Mike stood a short distance from me and stared for a moment. Then he cried out to me,

“Hey Pharoah! PHAROAH! Set your people free!”

I cut him loose.

Mike could be loud and obnoxious, and he often was. However, he was an intelligent man who asked thoughtful questions. He and I talked about religion. Mike was genuinely interested in my tradition, and I was interested in his. One time he asked,

“Frank, what is with you Catholics and Mary? Why do you pray to Mary? She’s just a woman. Why don’t you pray to God?”

Some questions are difficult to answer. I replied,

“Mike, sometimes, when you are in bad trouble, you want to talk to Mama before you talk to your dad.”

Mike shook his head and laughed.

We eventually got to know each other. I remember one cold January morning. The sun glistened on the snow outside, and the north wind whistled across the dock. Mike and I were standing at the west end talking. I told him about me going to West Point and then becoming an Army helicopter pilot.

Mike looked at me and asked,

“So, why are you here?”

That was a perceptive question. I had often asked myself the same thing.

I shrugged and told him,

“Because God wants us to have this conversation.”

Mike smiled.

July 30th, 2022

We had stayed overnight in a Choice Hotel in Mount Vernon, Illinois. Karin was in our room packing up our stuff for the next leg of our journey to Texas. Asher and I went outside the hotel and left Karin to her task. Things seem to work more smoothly that way. Asher, our 19-month-old grandson, walked around and looked at the people and the cars in the parking lot. I followed him. The sun was barely up, but it was already getting hot. Once Karin had everything organized, we would all eat some breakfast. Until then, Asher and I were just killing time.

I watched a man carrying an overnight bag to his pickup truck. He was tall and fit. He carried himself like a military man. He had close cropped grey hair and was dressed in black. His black t-shirt had “SORT” written on the back of it. The man was into some kind of law enforcement. He was carrying a Glock on his hip. He tossed his bag into his truck and looked at Asher. He said,

“That’s a good-looking young man.”

I replied, “Yeah, he knows it too.”

The man smiled and said, “They all do.”

Then he asked, “Is he your grandson?”

I told him that my wife and I care for Asher full time. He seemed surprised by that. Then he looked at us thoughtfully for a moment. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a large coin. He handed it to me. He said,

“The little guy can have this. He’s old enough not to choke on it.”

The coin said, “SORT: Illinois Department of Corrections Special Operations Response Team”.

So, that’s what the man did. He was one of the guys who got sent to the prisons in Illinois when all hell broke loose. He was a member of an elite group. It made sense. He told me that he traveled all over the state. Clearly, he did not have a desk job.

We talked for a bit. I asked him if he had ever been in the service. He told me that he hadn’t.

I said, “You didn’t miss anything.”

He smiled ruefully, “That’s what I heard.”

I mentioned to him that we had a loved one who had been in prison.

He nodded and said, “I have family members who have been in prison.”

I had to think about that. That sort of thing must make for interesting conversations at holiday gatherings.

He shook his head and looked away. He softly said, “Drugs.”

Yeah. I get it.

I told the man that I was retired. He said that he had a few years left to go. I mentioned that it is important to have a purpose once you retire. I told him that Asher is mine. He responded,

“I have things I want to do. No worries there.”

He got into his truck and wished us well. I said the same thing to him. He drove off.

Asher played with the coin for a little while. Then he forgot about it.

July 26th, 2022

On our road trip we stopped at numerous gas stations. That’s just how road trips work. There are a lot of miles between Wisconsin and Texas. After a while, we got a feel for where we wanted to stop, and for what places we wanted to avoid.

Let’s first talk about the places to avoid. Some small filling stations are clean and well maintained. Some are not. Due to poor planning on our part, we had to occasionally stop at a tiny filling station in the middle of nowhere. Sometimes, we did this because we were low on fuel. Sometimes, it was because our toddler grandson, Asher, was restless. Sometimes, it was because one of us needed to go to the bathroom really bad. In any case, our choice of vendors was kind of a crap shoot. There was no way to tell the quality of the establishment before we actually arrived there.

It didn’t take long to figure out if we had made a bad stop. Even before we entered the business, there would be warning signs that this was not going to be a positive experience. If three of four gas pumps were out of order, that was a bad omen. It was also a red flag if there was sign that said, “See the attendant inside”. Once inside, if the business was not up to par, we could tell that the food being sold was not ageing well. The clerk would be either half-asleep or surly. The bathroom sink would have permanent stains, and there would be an old school vending machine for condoms in the restroom. Some of the other customers (if there were any) would look suspiciously like meth heads.

Just get back in the car and drive away.

Travel stops, like Love’s, were usually a better choice. They were never fancy, but the quality was consistent. These places catered to truckers, and that was okay with me. I worked with truck drivers for decades before I retired. In the travel center store, you would always hear country music, occasionally interrupted by an announcement, “Number Five, you shower is ready!”. These stops had clean restrooms (usually), and they had food provided by some restaurant chain (e.g., McDonald’s or Subway). Love’s sold standard trucker attire: cowboy hats and belts with buckles the size of dinner plates. They were places where Asher could run around and grab at the trinkets that were on the shelves. He wound up with a pair of Spiderman sunglasses that he has never worn.

Some stops had a local flavor to them. In Bryan, Texas, where our son lives, there is a gas station called “Stripes”. I’m not sure if it is part of a chain. Our son, Hans, goes there frequently for cigarettes and crack in a can (energy drinks). His wife claims that Hans singlehandedly keeps Stripes in business. She might be right.

Stripes is right next to the extended stay hotel where we resided for a week. Early each morning during our stay, I would take little Asher with me to buy a coffee for my wife, Karin. The clientele in the store was strictly working class. They were mostly men who were staying in the hotel for several weeks to do construction jobs. The store had a kitchen that served fajitas and tacos. The shelves were full of Mexican junk food, brands that were not familiar to me. Stripes sold beer, lots of it. At least half of the wall coolers were full of beer, some major brands, but also shelves full of Corona and Modelo. I got the sense in the store that I wasn’t in Mexico, but I was getting close.

My favorite place to stop for gas was Buc-ee’s. Ahhhh, Buc-ee’s. Buc-ee’s is a Texas original (or at least southern), and it is amazing. The facility is huge (like the state). Buc-ee’s has everything, literally everything that a traveler could want. They have signs you can buy that say, “Bless your heart”. They have an endless array of outdoor equipment. They have absurdly large Texas flags. They even sell postcards (of Texas). Buc-ee’s sells freshly made sandwiches. I bought a hot BBQ brisket sandwich which made our car smell like heaven for an hour or more. In front of the gas station is a massive statue of the store’s mascot, Buc-ee the Beaver.

Karin insisted on taking a picture of Asher next to Buccee. Why not?

July 26th, 2022

“Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.” ― L. Frank Baum, author of The Wizard of Oz

Kansas really doesn’t have much of a rep as far as tourism goes. When I tell people that we went to Kansas, the first response is: “Why?”

“Why?”, indeed.

My wife, Karin, is a fiber artist. She can knit, sew, crochet, weave, felt, and dye just about any kind of fiber. She is endlessly creative, always coming up with ideas for new projects. Karin belongs to several online knitting and weaving groups. Most of these people in these clubs are hardcore yarn aficionados. They know the locations of nearly every yarn store in the continental United States. One of these stores just happens to be located in Lawrence, Kansas.

That is why we went drove to Kansas.

We stopped at the Yarn Barn as we were coming home to Wisconsin from Texas. Even a cursory glance at the map would tell a person that the Yarn Barn was not on our way home. It was a bit off route. However, Karin and I (and our grandson, Asher) do not know when, or even if, we will get the opportunity to travel again, so if we were going to visit the fiber emporium, we needed to do it on this journey. For Karin, it was a little like going on a pilgrimage.

The Yarn Barn is rather impressive. They have a number of massive floor looms. They have every conceivable type of yarn. They have spinning wheels and numerous small spindles. It’s place where Karin could easily spend several hours and a few thousand bucks. However, she limited herself to one hour and several hundred dollars. I was good with that.

Asher, our toddler grandson, was underwhelmed by the store. He quickly became restless, as did I. Fortunately, there was a toy store right next door to the yarn shop. The place was aptly named, “The Toy Store”.

There is a scene in the movie “Big” where Tom Hanks runs amok in a New York City toy store. He is an adult who knows how to play. For the most part I have forgotten how to play. Some creative people, like scientists and artists, have jobs where they get paid to play. Their work is literally play. However, I think that most of us in our lives have had others discourage us from playing. We have often lost that playfulness that makes life exciting. Asher is teaching me how to play again.

The Toy Store is two stories of fun. They have a wall full of Ravensburger puzzles. They have shelves full of Lego sets. They plush toys to cuddle. They have puppets. They have scientific toys like telescopes. They have model trucks and trains and boats and dinosaurs, and it just goes on and on and on. Asher was one happy little boy there. I, on the other hand, was desperately trying to keep the lad from dragging toys out from all the shelves. He found a bin of colorful polished stones that he loved. He took great delight in scattering the gems on the floor faster than I could gather them back up. I found it hard to be playful while a young store clerk was giving us the stink eye.

There are many young people in Lawrence, Kansas. This is no doubt due to the fact that the University of Kansas is located there. The youthful population gives Lawrence an odd quirkiness. The town is like an outpost of liberals surrounded by a sea of ruby red conservatives. I saw a lot of folks, both old and young, who did not fit my image of a Kansas resident.

As an example, I saw an older man walking down the street dressed all in black. He was slim with short grey hair. He had on a black t-shirt, along with black latex leggings tucked into black combat boots. He wore a black belt loosely around his hips like he was a gunslinger. Now, somebody dressed like this could probably get away with it in Times Square or in the French Quarter of New Orleans, but in Kansas? Kansas?

Asher and I returned to the Yarn Barn to find that Karin was ready to make her purchases. She bought a few heddles and a weaving board. She was happy. We were happy.

After that, we had supper at the Free State Brewery. Karin thought I deserved it. Any town that has its own brewery is alright with me.