Frank is Emptiness

July 23rd, 2021

As far as I am concerned, there is really only one place in Milwaukee to go for barbecue. That place would be Speed Queen. Speed Queen has been in business on the north side of town since 1956. It’s current location is on the corner of 12th and Walnut, just west of I-43. The restaurant is easy to miss. It is a rundown building in a rundown neighborhood. The customer base mostly comes from the local Black community. I think there is a sign, but I don’t know where it is. To find Speed Queen, you already need to know where it is. Even then, you could easily drive right past it. I did.

Speed Queen used to have a microscopic dining area. I don’t know why they bothered with that. I don’t recall ever seeing anyone sitting in there. Speed Queen has always been primarily a place to get take out. You order your meal, pay for it, and leave. If you’re an old white guy, you leave quickly.

Speed Queen is peculiar in a number of ways. For instance, they only take cash. They used to have a thick plexiglass window in front of the check out counter. You slid your money under the glass, and they slid your steaming plate of heaven back out to you. Now, since COVID, the restaurant only has a drive thru. It hardly makes any difference. The process is the same.

Speed Queen has an extensive menu. You can get ribs, tips, shoulder, beef slices, chicken, or catfish. They have a variety of side dishes: collards, mixed greens, coleslaw, yams, black eyed peas, etc. You can mix it up.

I generally go for a big pan of ribs. A pan of anything usually costs about $50. That’s a little pricey, but then you get what you pay for. A pan contains a lot of food. Their ribs are excellent. The meat just about falls off the bone, and the sauce has a sharp, tangy flavor that is addictive.

I went to Speed Queen yesterday afternoon, after I visited my friend, Ken, who I know from the synagogue. Speed Queen is kind on my way home from Ken’s house. Ken has never been to Speed Queen, probably because there is absolutely nothing there that would qualify as kosher. Ken prefers to go to a vegan BBQ place that he knows. Vegan BBQ is a strange concept, but I’ve tried it, and it’s really good.

I got to Speed Queen at about 3:30. It wasn’t busy yet. Later in the afternoon, the line of cars in the drive thru is long, very long. I ordered the ribs and slowly moved forward with the other cars. The check out window is like a cylinder. You put your cash into the window, and the window gets turned 180 degrees. A minute later, it gets rotated to its original position, and magically there is a brown paper bag full love covered with BBQ sauce. The aroma from the bag stung my nostrils as I grabbed it. It was hard to leave it closed until I got home.

I gave our son, Stefan, half of the ribs. He picked them up after his shift was done. He truly enjoys Speed Queen food.

We still have a few ribs left in the fridge.

I hear them calling me.

July 22nd, 2021

Asher is taking a nap. He is lying on his back, his mouth open, and his cheeks rosy. His breathing is steady. From a distance I can see the gentle rise and fall of his chest (and his big belly). The chubby fingers of his right hand clutch the edge of his blanket. Asher’s body is near to me, but his mind is far away.

It fascinates me to watch Asher sleep. If I look closely, I notice many things. Occasionally, he will cry out in his sleep, and then relax again. Sometimes, he flashes a smile that fades away almost immediately. He is generally on his back with his arms spread out wide. That position makes him appear like Christ on the Cross. If I am near to him at the right time, I can see the movement of his eyes as they dart back and forth beneath his eyelids.

What do babies dream about?

Karin gets Asher to sleep by holding him in his arms. I lay him down on the bed and put a pacifier into his mouth. Both techniques work.

Asher fights sleep. He struggles to stay awake, even though he’s tired and whiny. When I have him in bed, he kicks his legs and sucks ferociously on his pacifier. He hangs on to a bib or a the edge of a blanket. Asher grasps two fingers on my right hand, and holds them tightly. his hands are remarkably strong.

Slowly he fades. His eyes close by degrees. His breathing becomes more regular. His legs grow still. He hangs on to one of my fingers until the very end. Even after he has fallen asleep, his tiny hand keeps a vicelike grip in the end of my pinkie. It is only when Asher has entered the deepest part of sleep that he finally, slowly, lets it go.

He needs my hand to feel safe. He needs to know that I am with him until the end.

July 20th, 2021

I just finished watching the last of six online training modules that the State of Wisconsin requires me to view in order to become certified as a foster parent. CPS is adamant that new foster parents complete this minimum numbers of lessons before certification. I would like to say that these training modules were all useful to me. That, unfortunately, would be a lie.

Timing is important. The six modules are listed on the WCWPDS Caregivers website under the title of “Foster Parent Pre-Placement Training”. The key word here is “Pre-Placement”. The implication is that the prospective foster parent will watch these videos prior to receiving a child into their home. For my wife, Karin, and myself, that has not been the case. We took charge of our grandson, Asher, on February 2nd of this year. We found out about this training requirement on April 7th. I finally found the time to start watching these modules last week. It would have been helpful for us have been able to study these online lessons a bit earlier. However, Asher became our responsibility in an emergency situation, and we are still catching up on the training.

Asher is seven months old. He can be high maintenance. Since this is the case, Karin and I have struggled to find time to do the necessary online training to become certified. We have already raised three kids of our own, but that apparently does not count as training in the eyes of the state. Wisconsin, like the other 49 states, has certain rules that are peculiar to itself. The modules point these out, and give links to the pertinent laws and regulations. These regs are mostly to be found in the Wisconsin Administrative Code, Ch. DCF 56, a truly daunting document. Much of what is in the DCF 56 and the training lessons has little to do with raising the foster children. The material has everything to do with satisfying the state bureaucracy.

I think that these Pre-Placement lessons are designed for people who are seriously considering becoming foster parents, but have not made a firm decision about it. The modules give them things to ponder before they turn pro.

Karin and I did not wake up one morning and decide to spend the rest of our retirement years as foster parents. That was never our desire. The role of foster parent is being thrust upon us. It’s true that we could refuse this duty, but then who would care for Asher? Events caught us off guard and we are still trying to get our bearings. We are committed to caring for Asher as long as he needs us. For us, being a foster parent is not a career, it is a calling.

The first module is a course introduction. Most of it is innocuous, but there was one slide presentation that disturbed me. A veteran foster parent spoke about being “a working professional of 22 years in this business”. His use of the term “business” bothers me. “Business” is generally about profit, about making money. So, are Karin and I going to be part of this “business”? Is profit what this is all about? That seems to be the implication of the foster parent’s poor choice of words.

Module 2 is about what is expected of foster parents. I think foster parents are expected to possess superhuman powers. That’s what I got out of it. Module 3 is about how to care for foster children. Basically, you care for foster kids like you would care for own your kids. Most of material presented is just common sense.

Module 4 is about developing and maintaining family connections. This is an interesting section. The relationship between a foster parent and the biological parents is complicated. It is especially complicated if the foster parent and the biological parent are related by blood. Karin and I are in that particular situation with Asher’s mother. We have to be sensitive to the mom’s needs and feelings. There is often tension. There is a common history with its attendant emotional baggage. We all are walking through a minefield.

Module 5 is about foster family selfcare. That part made me laugh. There is all this emphasis about the foster parents keeping themselves healthy. When are we supposed to do that? We are busy with the baby 24/7. When are we going to do all this selfcare stuff? This module is full of advice, no doubt well-meant. I got to know about a lot of support groups that I will never contact. I learned about great websites that I will never visit. It’s kind of a pathetic joke.

There was information in the training that I did find valuable. There were a few “aha” moments. So, maybe it was worth the six hours of my life.

All I know for sure is that it was mandatory.

July 17th, 2021

Karin and I have a friend in California who has a knack for asking perceptive and penetrating questions. She is our age (60’s), and she is considering the possibility of remarrying. She is wondering what the purpose of a marriage would be at this time of her life. With that in mind, she wrote to us and asked,

“How do you see your purpose as a married couple ?”

After I read the question, I gave her a one word answer:

“Asher.”

We are caring for our little grandson, Asher, 24/7. We became his full time caregivers at the beginning of February of this year. The boy is seven months old. He’s a wonderful baby, but raising him is rather labor intensive. We do almost nothing in our lives now that is not Asher-related.

Our friend wrote back to us,

“I thought you would say just that. Your purpose is clear.”

It’s good to have a clear purpose in life. It doesn’t happen very often, at least not with me. It seems like I have spent most of my life floundering. I’ve met some individuals who apparently have always had a mission, or a calling. I don’t know many people who are like that. I think that most folks spend their entire lives trying to answer the question:

“Why am I here?”

The various religious traditions try to respond to that question, but without achieving any kind of consensus. Maybe it’s because they try to look only at the big picture. Buddhists look for enlightenment. Many Christians say the goal is to get to heaven. In a way, the cosmic answers don’t really help. I think the question of purpose should be reworked to ask:

“What am I supposed to do here and now?”

The Christian answer to that is: “Love God, and love your neighbor as yourself.”

The Buddhist answer is similar but it doesn’t bring God into the equation. A Buddhist might say the purpose of his or her life is “to save all sentient beings”. It is the same general idea: We are in the world to serve others.

So, how do we love our neighbor? How do we save all sentient beings?

The specific answer to those questions is situational. It changes from moment to moment. In five minutes from now, the answer for me might be to change Asher’s diaper. Right now, the answer for Karin is to feed Asher some mashed bananas. Our purpose in life is often very obvious and very simple. We just need to open our eyes and see how we can help.

July 4th, 2021

“‎Introduce a little anarchy. Upset the established order, and everything becomes chaos. I’m an agent of chaos…”
― The Joker – Heath Ledger

I started doing meditation back in 2005. Usually, it has involved sitting silently on a cushion for an extended period of time in the company of other Zen practitioners. COVID put an abrupt end to group meditation, and the arrival of Asher into my life put an end to sitting quietly in any kind of peaceful setting. Asher is our seven month old grandson, and my wife and I care for him 24/7. He is a wonderful little boy, but my time spent with him is not conducive to any of the standard meditation methods.

Asher is an agent of chaos, albeit a remarkably cute one.

So, have I given up on Zen practice? Actually, no. I just use Asher as my kung-an (koan).

A koan is defined as: “a paradoxical anecdote or riddle, used in Zen Buddhism to demonstrate the inadequacy of logical reasoning and to provoke enlightenment.” The classic example of a kung-an/koan is the question,

“What is the sound of one hand clapping?”

There is no logical answer to that question, and none is intended. I’ve never been any good with these verbal puzzles. Mostly, I don’t have the patience to work through them. After a short while, I just say “fuck this” and move on to other things.

Asher is koan that I can never solve, but I can never stop trying either.

Zen involves a few basic ideas. One of them is the necessity to be in the moment, to be right here right now. When sitting on the cushion, it is often easy for me to let my mind wander to far off places. However, the piercing cry of a baby is an extremely effective way to focus the mind on what is currently happening. A baby in distress brings me back to the present situation much better than the ringing of a bell or the slapping of a stick. With Asher, I am almost always in the here and now. I have to be in order to care for him.

Zen has the basic question: “How can I help?” Asher provides an answer to that question for me continually. Sometimes the answer is “Feed me”. Sometimes it is “Change my diaper”. Sometimes it is “Cuddle me”. Because Asher cannot yet speak, I have to guess at the answer to what he needs. I often guess incorrectly. An action that answers the question “How can I help?” one time may be totally wrong five minutes later. Asher is a constantly evolving riddle. Caring for him has no set solutions, no pat answers.

Zen is all about transience. Everything changes. Asher is always developing and growing. I never wake up in the morning to meet the same little boy. He literally changes before my very eyes. Whatever I know about this little guy is instantly outdated. He is a moving target for my mind. He doesn’t stop, so I can’t either.

Zen is about compassion. I feel nothing but compassion for Asher. He is inherently lovable, even when he is screaming like a police siren. When he suffers, I suffer.

Zen practice is designed to enable a person to know how to act without thinking. Asher teaches me that. I flounder a lot, but eventually I tune in to his wavelength. I now know his “hungry” cry, and his “wet diaper” cry, and his “I’m really tired, but I refuse to take a nap” cry. We can communicate without words.

I will never really understand Asher. That doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I love this little boy.

That I can do.

June 26th, 2021

My youngest son, Stefan, took me out for lunch. He arrived at our house at 1:00 on Father’s Day. He immediately took off his sunglasses and handed them to me. He said,

“Here. You need these.”

I put them on and Stefan laughed,

“Oh, fuck yeah! Now you look like you should be flying Black Hawks again!”

That’s Stefan, the Iron Worker, in the picture behind me. I am holding our grandson, Asher, in my arms. Asher is a healthy lad. He’s almost seven months old, with the physique of a sumo wrestler.

Stefan wanted to go to the Centraal Grand Café in Bay View. It’s a restaurant that specializes in Belgian beers. I like beer, especially craft beers.

But Stefan doesn’t drink beer. This is not to say that he doesn’t drink alcohol. He does. He just can’t drink beer. He is allergic to gluten. He told me,

“Yeah, I got tested. My gut gets moderately irritated by the gluten in wheat, barley, and rye.”

That eliminates the vast majority of beers. A few gluten free ales exist. Sprecher Brewery makes a sorghum-based beer called Skakparo. Sprecher uses a West African recipe for it. That beer has a very strange flavor to it. It is at best an acquired taste. I am okay with Shakparo. Stefan would rather drink hand sanitizer.

Fortunately for Stefan, there are other beverage options available. He can have a hard cider (e.g. Angry Orchard), or a hard seltzer (e.g. White Claw). Stefan is quite fond of Old Fashioned cocktails. That surprised me a bit. My parents liked to drink Old Fashioneds. It always seemed like an old person’s drink to me. I guess I was wrong.

A brandy Old Fashioned is a quintessential Wisconsin drink. Most of the inhabitants of the known universe prefer to use whiskey in the cocktail, but not the folks in this state. We only use brandy. I have no idea why that is. I do know that a well-made Old Fashioned is an excellent mixed drink.

So, if Stefan can’t pick anything off of the extensive beer list, why go to Centraal?

Centraal has an eclectic food menu with numerous gluten free dishes. Stefan longs for a burger and fries. Most fast food places only have buns that contain gluten, so Stefan has been burger-less for quite a while. Centraal serves savory burgers on gluten free buns that actually taste good. Sometimes gluten free bakery has the flavor and texture of cardboard. Not this time. Both Stefan and I ordered burgers. They were excellent.

Stefan talked about an altercation he had recently. Apparently, some punk threatened Stefan’s girlfriend and some other young women. Stefan, along with some beefy help, confronted the young man. Stefan was frustrated with the results of the encounter. He said to me,

“That little fucker told that he was going to come over and pump four bullets in my head. What kind of shit is that? I don’t understand these young guys. I am sure that back in the day, when you were young, you guys settled stuff with your fists. Now, all these punks want to go get their gun and shoot you.”

I find it amusing that Stefan, who is all of twenty-seven years old, is complaining about “these young guys”. However, he does have a valid point. It appears that the members of the up and coming generation of men need to prove their virility by owning and using a firearm. It’s like the return of the Wild West.

Stefan continued, “I am going to get a gun for self-protection.”

“Really? what?”

“I’ll get a shotgun. Then if some fucker tries to bust into my place, I can use it after he comes through the door.”

“What about a pistol?”

“No. I don’t want to carry around a pistol. I like to go to bars. I don’t want to be carrying a gun if I’ve been drinking.”

Good idea. That shows some self-awareness and prudence.

I told Stefan about a funeral I attended. For some reason that set him off. He ranted about how fake funerals were. He commented that people go to those affairs and talk about how great the deceased was, even if he or she was a total asshole.

That’s true. It is rare that anyone ever complains about the dead person at a wake. Usually, if there is nothing good to say about the dearly departed individual, then they say exactly that: nothing. I have been to funerals where the attendees never once commented on the person lying in the box. Silence can be more of a damning condemnation than any words.

Stefan took me home. We had a good time, and I look forward to spending time with him again. I think he feels the same way.

I went back into the house, and helped Karin to care for little Asher.

June 22nd, 2021

“When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” – John 8:7

Asher is lying next to me in his swing. I just fed him, and Karin just changed him. He is a happy baby now, with a full tummy and an empty diaper. My wife and I have been caring for Asher full time for over four months. We took him to the pediatrician last week for his six moth check up. The boy is strong and healthy.

And loved.

Asher’s mother wanted to have a baby. She was so excited when she found out that she was pregnant with her son. Asher was born nine weeks premature. He was in NICU for a month before he was able to come home. The young woman wanted nothing more than to hold her little boy.

Then she got sick, really sick. That happened at the beginning of February. She is getting better, but she still is not able to be here for Asher. Karin and I made an open ended commitment to care for Asher 24/7. The commitment is open ended because it is not certain that the young woman can get healthy and stay healthy. It is possible that we may become Asher’s foster parents, even though we are in our sixties.

Karin and I love Asher intensely, even when we are exhausted. He is a blessing to us. He is also a lot of work. We are in an enviable position in that we have the time, health, and money to care for Asher. Many people, especially single moms, do not have our resources. They struggle mightily. Some of them may have wondered about how they would ever be able to raise their child.

Abortion is back in the news. The U.S. Catholic bishops seem determined to deny Joe Biden the Eucharist because he supports abortion rights. I understand that the bishops have to be a prophetic voice in the world, and they need to call out sin when they see it. It is part of their job. Can they do it with compassion?

Whenever I listen to Asher speak to me in words that aren’t words, I know abortion is wrong. When he smiles at me, my heart melts. I love him even when I am changing one of his shitty diapers. I can’t imagine life without him.

I know abortion is wrong, but what is right?

I’m an old white guy. Most of the Catholic bishops are old white guys. The difference between them and me is that I have experience in raising a family. They don’t. I know how it feels to worry all night about a son or daughter. They don’t. We call them “Father”, but their actual understanding of parenthood is vicarious. They aren’t fathers. They have chosen not to be.

I wonder what one of these bishops might say to a troubled young woman who is considering abortion.

Would a bishop go to the woman and say, “It will be okay. I’ll help you care for your baby. I’ll raise your son or daughter if need be.”

I’ll take these guys more seriously when one of them does that.

By the way, I’m Catholic.

June 17th, 2021

Asher woke up at 4:20 AM. That is pretty standard for him. He doesn’t cry when he wakes up. He simply starts a quiet monologue of baby talk that eventually rouses Karin and myself.

Karin will usually turn to Asher and greet him in German,

“Guten Morgen, kleiner Mann. Hast du gut geschlafen?”

Asher generally makes no reply to that question. He just keeps babbling. Six month old boys tend to do that.

Karin changed the lad’s wet diaper. I took a piss, washed my face, threw on some jeans, and then started to warm up a bottle of formula. While the bottle was heating up, I let the dogs out. After five minutes the formula was ready, and I grabbed Asher.

Karin went back to bed. It was my shift now.

Asher was ravenous. When he is hungry, he wants to eat NOW. It is unwise to get between Asher and his food. I held the boy on my lap, and watched him inhale the contents of the bottle. After a couple ounces, he slowed down a bit, but he was still totally focused on his meal. He is nearly strong enough to hold the bottle on his own. He kept a tight grip on it until he was finished.

Once Asher was done eating, I sat him up on my lap so he could burp. That took a couple minutes. His burps are impressively loud. Occasionally, they are also wet and messy.

I laid him down after he burped. He grinned up at me. Then I noticed a smell. I got my nose close to his butt. Yep, he was stinky.

“C’mon little buddy. Let’s check out your diaper.”

I laid Asher on his changing table. I carefully opened up the diaper. There was a poop explosion in there. He was covered with feces from the base of his spine to his nut sack. It had the look, smell, and consistency of hummus that has gone rancid. I held up both of his chubby legs with my right hand while cleaning his behind with numerous baby wipes.

Asher gave me this little smile of Buddha-like serenity, as if to say,

“I’m fine. Just keep cleaning up my mess.”

I am stoic about changing Asher’s diapers. I figure that some years from now, when I am in a nursing home, somebody will be cleaning up my mess. Everything comes full circle.

The rest of the morning has been a series of interruptions. That’s just life with Asher. It is pointless for me to begin any task that requires longer than five minutes to complete. For instance, it is extremely unlikely that I will be able to finish this essay before Asher cry for my assistance.

(Note: Just now, as I was writing, Asher woke up from a nap. I went to him, comforted him, and got him back to sleep.)

CPS (Child Protection Service) wants Karin and me to have smoke detectors in every bedroom. I will never get them put up. We already bought the smoke detectors. The installation is not difficult. However, I know that as soon as I attempt to start this job, Asher will demand my immediate attention. I will have to get my son Stefan to install the detectors.

I took Asher outside earlier this morning. We sat on the porch together, and he looked with wonder at his world. I looked with him. I think I began to see things through his young eyes. Life is fascinating. He teaching me to remember that.

He’s up again. Gotta go.

June 12th, 2021

“If you have been brutally broken, but still have the courage to be gentle to other living beings, then you’re a badass with the heart of an angel.”
― Keanu Reeves

I was outside of the house a few minutes ago, cleaning up tiny shards of glass from the ground in the space just below the window sill of a rear bedroom. The slivers of glass have been lying there since the end of January. They were pieces from a storm window that somebody smashed in order to get away from the police. The story behind the breaking of the window is rather long and ugly, and it will not be told here.

It’s June now, and it seems like I took a long time to clean up the broken glass. There are some things that I tend to avoid. Anything that brings back bad memories is radioactive to me. It takes a while for me to revisit places that freak me out, even if they are on my own property.

It feels like I spend a great deal of time picking up pieces, some of them physical and some of them emotional. Most of the pieces are from broken relationships. The pandemic shattered many of my connections with other people, a few of them permanently. Being the full time caregiver for little Asher has also made it difficult to maintain links with friends and family. The baby boy keeps Karin and myself rather busy.

Over the last fifteen months or so, my life has changed radically. So has Karin’s. Actually, everybody’s lives have changed radically. Nobody has been exempt. I somehow had hoped that, once the COVID coma ended, I would be able to start my life again where I had left off. That turns out to be a fantasy. There is no going back. There is no way to un-ring that bell.

The Buddhists have a good handle on this kind of situation. They put a huge emphasis on the transient nature of all things. They say that nothing is permanent. Everything comes and goes. Their advice is not to attach to anything at all; enjoy the experience and then let it go.

This is easier said than done. Friends have died during the last year, and I never got to say goodbye to them. Jim was in hospice for COPD. The best I could do was to write him snail mail letters. Cancer killed Andrea. Over the last year all we were able to do was exchange emails. It’s hard to let go when there is no closure.

I don’t want to sound too negative. Many things have changed, but not necessarily in a bad way. Having a six month old boy in our lives has been a blessing. It’s true that I can’t travel now, and that I can’t meet people like I used to do. However, it’s a joy and a wonder to watch Asher learn something new every single day. To hold him in my arms while he sleeps is a gift beyond compare. Life isn’t better or worse, just different.

My life before COVID/Asher is gone. That is just a fact. I may be able to reconnect with some people some of the time. Some of them will have changed in unexpected ways. Some of them I will only remember.

I’ll try to pick up the pieces.

June 8th, 2021

“My lover’s got humor
She’s the giggle at a funeral”

from the song “Take Me to Church” by Hozier

I did not know Joachim very well. However, I know his widow, Freya. I actually only met “Joe” one time. He and Freya came to our house years ago for a small party. I talked to him for a bit about the city of Berlin. Joe grew up in Berlin during the war years. I went there one time with a friend. It was back in 1982, when the wall still divided the city.

I know Freya from my time volunteering at Voces de la Frontera in Milwaukee. Freya ran the citizenship course, and I was one of her teachers. Freya is originally from Mexico, and she is an expert with the rules for becoming a U.S. citizen. Freya was constantly busy with new students, but she usually found a few minutes to talk with me. Over the years we got to be close friends, and there was nothing that I couldn’t tell her. There are very few people in this world that I trust more than Freya.

Karin and I had initially planned to go together to Joe’s funeral on Sunday afternoon. However, it was hot and humid, and the service was being held at the South Shore Pavilion near the lakefront. The pavilion lacks air conditioning. It would have necessary for Karin and I to take little Asher along with us to the visitation, and that didn’t seem like a good idea. Sitting through a vigil in a stuffy room with a hot and sweaty six month old boy just sounded like a recipe for disaster. So, I went to the service alone.

The vigil was to start at 1:30 PM. I got there a few minutes early and schmoozed for a while. I saw Freya sitting in the front row of seats, so I went up to talk to her.

Freya is a tiny woman. She was sitting in her chair next to her daughter, Christine. Freya was bent over. I knelt down in order to speak with her. She immediately placed her right hand on my shoulder and cried out,

“Frank! It is too much! I can’t do this!”

Her grief went right through my body. It cut like a dagger. I mumbled something back to her. I think I said that we love her. I tried not to say, “It’s okay”, because it wasn’t okay. Not at all.

Freya looked at me, and without any pause, asked me,

“How is you family?”

That was classic Freya. No matter how much pain she was experiencing, she wanted to know how I was doing.

I told her,

“Karin is home with Asher. The girl is doing well in rehab. We are caring for our grandson.”

Freya gave me a thumbs up.

I left Freya and sat down. The service started at 1:30, or thereabouts. A pastor who I don’t know gave the opening prayer. He was a young man with a hip and trendy look. The minister resembled Jesus, except for the fact he wore eyeglasses.

I was surprised that this minister was there at all. From what Freya had told me, Joe was an atheist. That fact was obliquely referred to later on during the service when a friend of the family said that Joe trusted science instead of superstition. Oh well, one man’s superstition is another man’s faith. A funeral is primarily for the living, not for the dead. In any case, pastor was there and Joe didn’t complain.

Joe’s granddaughter, Livia, read a statement on behalf of the family. Livia consistently referred to Joe as “Opa”, the German word for “Grandpa”. As Livia spoke, Joe’s German heritage came through quite clearly. It was a major part of who he was. It’s the same way with my wife, Karin. Karin insists on being “Oma” with our grandkids. Her mom in Germany were always “Oma”, so Karin is too. I don’t go by “Opa” with little Asher. I am “Grumpa”. A “grumpa” is like a “grampa”, just grumpier.

There was a mariachi band that played during the service. They did a nice job. Laurie sang “Amazing Grace”, and later Shana sang “If I Had a Hammer” and “Un rayo de sol”. Shana had the crowd singing along with her. She’s really good at that sort of thing.

At one point, the pastor had an open mike for reflections by members of the public. That’s always a risky move. There’s no way of telling what a person might say once they are standing at the microphone.

As expected, everyone who spoke about Joe said good things. He was loved and respected. He was a kind and honorable man.

I learned a lot about Joe as I listened to people reminisce about him. I had never known that he was a professor at UWM (University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee). I was impressed that he taught thermodynamics. I had to take that course when I was a student at West Point. Thermodynamics is a bitch. It’s pretty much black magic as far as I am concerned. The fact that Joe could actually teach it amazes me.

Livia mentioned that Joe seldom talked about growing up in Berlin. That makes total sense to me. Joe was fourteen years old when WWII ended. He spent his childhood in a city that had been reduced to a pile of smoldering rubble by Allied bombers during the war. People usually don’t speak about traumatic events unless it is necessary. My father-in-law, Max, didn’t talk much about serving with the Wehrmacht on the Russian front either.

The pastor kept asking people to come up to the mike. Most were hesitant to do so. As I was sitting in my chair, I remembered an incident with Freya that concerned Joe. So, I walked up to the microphone.

I told those assembled,

“I only met Joe once, when he and Freya came to our house back in 2017. Joe and my wife hit it off well. They are both from Germany.

I know Freya much better. I worked with her for a long time at Voces with the citizenship class. She and I would always find time to talk about our families.

One time, as we were talking, I complained about some trouble that I was having with my wife, Karin. Freya just looked at me and said,

‘It’s your own fault. You married a German.'”

Truer words were never spoken.

God bless you, Joe. He believes in you even if you didn’t believe in Him.