Frank is Emptiness

May 23rd, 2019

I love sending postcards. I know that’s an anachronism. In this age of texting and tweeting, who sends cards by snail mail? I do. I like postcards because they are tangible. I like them because they force me to say things in as few words as possible; a postcard makes me concentrate and distill my message. I like cards because I write them by hand, and there is an intensely human aspect to that. During the recent road trip with Karin, I mailed scores of cards, to all sorts of people in all sorts of places. Writing the cards was a way for me to sort through our experiences. I was writing to myself as much as I were writing to the recipients of the cards.

Some places do not have postcards. They aren’t glamorous enough or exotic enough to justify such a thing. However, these places all have stories, and some of these stories should be told. Consider the following paragraphs to be postcards without pictures.

 

McGregor, Texas

The Donald Citrano Coffee Shop is in McGregor, Texas. There isn’t much in McGregor, Texas. It’s a place where two highways meet, and therefore a gas station exists at the crossroads. Otherwise, the town is eminently forgettable.  Yet somehow, it sticks in my memory.

Karin and I had left Hans and Gabi’s house in Bryan early in the morning. We had been driving for a couple hours prior to arriving in McGregor. We had many miles to cover that day. The plan was to get to the San Patricio retreat house in New Mexico by 5:00 PM, and we had all of Texas to cross before we got there. That was a daunting task. We hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, and Karin was interested in doing that soon.

We noticed the coffee shop as soon as we had passed it. I spun the Toyota around, and I planted it in a parking lot full of pick up trucks. Then we walked into Donald Citrano’s.

I noticed something as we strolled into the restaurant. Just inside the door was a rack a Bible tracts. Some of them were in Arabic, just in case we wanted to give one of them to one of our Muslim friends. We had clearly wandered into Jesus Country.

Just to make it clear, Karin and I are Christians. It’s just that we don’t particularly like the hard sell. Donald Citrano’s is not alone among restaurants with regards to having both food and faith on the menu. Sodolak’s Original Country Inn has all of its waitresses wear t-shirts with Bible verses on the backs. In Texas it’s cool to flaunt your religion, at least if it happens to be Christianity.

There was a sign that said, “seat yourself”, which we did. The tables and chairs in the coffee shop were of sturdy wooden construction. We found ourselves a table, and an older woman, who looked tired and who was very much out of breath, gave us menus. A cheerful young woman came to take our order.

“Y’all want to start out with something to drink?”

Karin and I both ordered coffee, and Karin also asked for some orange juice. The girl left and we looked at our menus. I decided to order the Biscuit Sandwich. I thought it would like an Egg McMuffin. Karin wanted pancakes. As we waited for the waitress to return, I looked around the coffee shop.

The place was full of locals. I don’t know that, but everybody there seemed to know everyone else. Lots of windburned ranchers wearing faded jeans and Stetsons. Music was playing on a sound system. It was apparently from a Christian radio station. I couldn’t make out all of the words in the songs, but that didn’t matter. Popular Christian music has a peculiarly cheesy quality that can be both endearing and irritating. The genre is immediately identifiable, at least it is to me.

The girl returned with our coffees, and we placed our orders. Karin seemed very happy with her pancakes and eggs. She asked me to eat some of her bacon. My Biscuit Sandwich was approximately three times the size of an Egg Mcmuffin. It was big, sloppy, and delicious. It was difficult for me to eat the sandwich without wearing part of it.

The older lady came to our table. She moved heavily and painfully. She had short hair and a lot of make up. The woman smiled at us, and said,

“I hope y’all don’t think I’m being unfriendly. I’m just not doing so well today.”

Karin and I made it clear that we did not think she was unfriendly. We asked her how she was.

The woman sighed. Then she said, “Well, it’s been a bit hard. My mama, well, she’s been in the hospital. And I’m not feeling so good lately.”

We nodded.

The woman continued, “But I put my faith in Him”, as she gazed upward. “I know where my strength comes from.”

We nodded again.

The woman thanked us for coming, and she sat down again at a table close by. We finished eating. I went up to pay at the register. A young guy took my credit card. While he rung up the bill, I looked at the sweatshirts they were selling. The shirts proclaimed the glories of nearby Crawford, Texas. Crawford is the “Home of President George W. Bush”.

I didn’t buy a shirt.

 

Coeur D’Alene, Idaho

Karin and I were on our way home. We stayed overnight at a Baymont Hotel. In the morning we drove to the local grocery store to resupply.

The Lakeside Harvest Grocery is not a busy place. I don’t think that there is any store in Coeur D’Alene that qualifies as being busy. The town moves at a leisurely pace, which is rather attractive. Nobody seems to be in a rush.

Karin and I found what we needed for the journey, and we went to the check out. A lady started ringing up our items, and she asked us where we were from. It was obvious to her that we were not locals.

The cashier asked us brightly, “Where are you folks from?”

We replied, “Wisconsin.”

The woman flashed a smile at us, “Really? Ain’t that something? I’m from Rockford in Illinois. That’s not far from you. My father, he was from Racine.”

I told her, “That’s pretty close to where we live.”

The woman smiled again. “That’s wonderful.”

I asked her name.

The woman told us, “Denise.”

Karin and I pushed the shopping cart outside to our car. We unloaded our groceries, and then we tried to find room for it all among the other things we had tightly packed into the vehicle.

Denise came out to us and said, “I’ll take the cart inside for you.”

I fumbled around and told her, “Well, okay, thank you. We don’t really need these plastic shopping bags any more either.”

Denise smiled and said, “You just give those to me. You folks have a safe trip now.”

Then she laughed and said, “Hooray for us Midwesterners!”, as she took the cart into the store.

 

Bozeman, Montana

Karin and I got to the Travel Lodge in the early evening. Karin had successfully made the reservation with Expedia on her phone. At least, we thought she had. We were both a bit ragged from the drive. Karin and I came to the front desk to plead our case.

A young woman checked to see if we actually had a reservation. We did.

The girl asked us, “So, what brings you folks to Bozeman?’

I had an attack of honesty. I told her, “Bozeman is on the way to somewhere else.”

The girl’s smiled stiffened slightly. She got our keys and said,

“Well, you can experience Bozeman while you are here.”

We nodded wearily. I asked the girl,

“Is there a place we can eat…within walking distance?”

She brightened up. “There is the Montana Ale Works. That’s just a few blocks from here. It’s a nice place. They are usually really busy. If you want, I can make a reservation for you.”

We demurred. Karin and I found our room and settled ourselves into it.

Later, we went back to the girl at the desk, and I told her,

“We’ll take you up on that offer. Go ahead and call for us.”

She did. Apparently, the Montana Ale Works wasn’t that busy just then. Karin and I walked slowly toward the restaurant.

Bozeman is a nice town. They have parks. There is money there. You can feel it. There is a lot of new construction, and there are a lot of offices that specialize in “wealth management”. This implies that there is wealth to manage. Bozeman is clean and tidy and obviously on to something. It has a small downtown with a number of chic cafes and shops, all of which require a population with disposable income. Bozeman doesn’t have that sense of desperation that we noticed in other small towns. It is prosperous.

The Montana Ale Works was painfully trendy. It’s a decent place, but it has a totally hipster vibe. That is something I never expected to encounter in Montana. The waiter was cool and up-to-date, and vaguely condescending. Karin and I ordered our food, which came to us tastefully displayed in tiny portions. The best part of the Ale Works was the beer menu. The place specialized in local beers, and I always find that attractive.

I had to mentally compare the Montana Ale Works with the Moon Time Restaurant in Coeur D’Alene. Moon Time was a mom and pop operation. The people there were authentic, and the food came to us in heroic proportions. I could relax when we ate at the Moon Time. The Montana Ale Works tried way too hard, and I felt it. It was corporate. It stunk of money.

Karin and I walked briefly through the downtown after dinner. It was pleasant enough. We were tempted to buy things in the shops, but we decided not to do that. The mountains shown in the distance. They still had a blanket of snow. The town was beautiful in the twilight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 21st, 2019

Southeastern New Mexico is desolate. This is not to say that it is ugly. It’s rugged and dry, and clearly not hospitable to most life forms, but it has a stark and austere sort of beauty. Vegetation is sparse, but the hills and low mountains are impressive nonetheless. The rocks and dirt are a dusty brown, occasionally punctuated by the green of a yucca plant or some cactus.

Karin and I were on our way to the retreat center in San Patricio. We drove all day before we even got close to the place. Most of our ride was through the state of Texas. The journey through eastern and central Texas was okay. The roadsides had plenty of wild flowers: evening primrose, Indian paintbrush, bluebonnets, red buds, and Indian blankets. There were oaks and junipers growing on sprawling cattle ranches.

Western Texas was a different story. New Mexico markets itself as the “Land of Enchantment”. There is some truth to that nickname. West Texas is not like New Mexico. It’s flat, hot, and disenchanting. I am sure that there are good reasons for people to live in west Texas. I just can’t imagine what they are.

We drove along US 70 to get to San Patricio. That road winds through the Hondo River Valley. The valley is deep and almost hidden. It is only obvious to the traveler because everything near the river is intensely green. The contrast with the brown hills is striking. Tall trees, mostly cottonwoods, grow in that valley. They are attractive in an magnetic sort of way. A person is pulled in their direction.

The GPS got us close to the retreat center, but not all the way there. The GPS is like that. Once we got to the winding dirt roads, the GPS gave it up. Fortunately, there were signs that took us the San Patricio. We parked outside the adobe complex, and we heard someone yelling to us. It was Guillermo.

Guillermo is the caretaker. He is a short, wiry Latino with grey hairs mixed in with the black ones. He smiled at us, and then he walked with Karin the short distance to the Casita, a small adobe building nearby. I drove the Toyota down a steep and rugged dirt road. I was careful not to bottom the car out when going over the ruts.

Guillermo showed us the inside of the Casita. It had a kitchen, a bathroom with a shower, a living room, and a bedroom. He showed us how to operate the propane heater, in case it got cold at night. We had brought along food to cook for ourselves, and we put it all into the small fridge. We stood around and talked with Guillermo for a while. Then he gave us the key and let us alone for the evening.

Karin and I decided to go for a walk around the grounds while there was still light. We strolled to the bank of the Hondo River. The Hondo would not qualify as a river anywhere east of the Mississippi. It was shallow, swift, and murky. It was more like a small, fast moving creek than a river. However, in this part of the world, the Hondo was a big deal. I was amazed at how lush everything was in its vicinity. Ancient, gnarled trees stood near the bank. Across the river was some private land where cattle grazed and lowed. There was an open, grassy area a little ways away. That lawn was surrounded by trees, bushes, and gladiolas. The Stations of the Cross marked the perimeter. Evening sunlight filtered through the tree branches as we walked. It was quiet except for the sound of the rushing river water.

Karin and I checked out the rest of the retreat center. It was built in the old, Spanish style with courtyards and gardens. The courtyards had doorways with heavy wooden beams, some of which were rotting out. Blooming rose bushes were everywhere. Most of the facility was locked up, including the chapel. We enjoyed exploring what we could. Some of the buildings were a bit rundown, but they were all beautiful.

Staying in the Casita was like being in the home of a friend. It had a “lived in” feel to it. It was welcoming in a subtle, silent way. Some of the furnishings were old and worn, but everything was spotlessly clean. We made ourselves supper in the kitchen. We felt comfortable. We felt relaxed. We felt like we belonged there.

It was a little strange to have all of San Patricio to ourselves. However, this is normal when a person stays at a retreat house during the week. Karin and I have often stayed at these isolated, spiritual oases, and we have often been completely alone. It’s amazing how quiet these places are in comparison to any hotel. After nightfall, all we heard was the river flowing past the house. Nothing else.

We went off early the next morning. We left the key for Guillermo, and we waved to him as we drove away. We were going to Christ in the Desert, a monastery with another retreat house.

 

May 20th, 2019

She didn’t look much different. I didn’t expect that she would. Actually, she looked a bit better than before. Her left hand was a little red, but the burn seemed to have healed completely. The girl still looked kind of edgy. She didn’t smile.When she blinked, it almost looked like she was wincing.

Karin and I hadn’t seen the girl for over a month. We had been on the road, traveling extensively throughout the South and the West. Now we were back, and it just happened that we made it home in time to visit this young woman in the Kenosha County Jail. We had been unsure about where this girl would be when we returned from our journey. It was very likely that she would have been transferred to the prison in Taycheedah by the time we got home. As it turned out, she was still in Kenosha.

Karin and I had visited her at the jail many times in the past. We knew the drill. We each filled out a little slip of paper, and we slid that, along with our ID’s, to the guard on the other side of a window. Then we waited to be called, just like everyone else in that hallway.

There weren’t many people there to visit prisoners on that Sunday afternoon. There was a young back man, his ear glued to a cell phone. There was a middle aged white guy, who seemed familiar with the place. An old woman sat in a chair waiting, her eyes tired and her breathing labored. There was an old, emaciated black man there. He had tattoos on his neck, and he wore a baseball cap that a slightly askew.

Each of us got called in to see our favorite inmate. Karin and I could not visit the girl at the same time, so I went in first, and then Karin followed me. Each visitor got only ten minutes with their prisoner. Because Karin and I went in consecutively, our girl got twenty minutes.

The time went quickly, as always. Karin and I walked to the elevator after our visit. The old, thin black man walked along with us.

When we got to the elevator, he spontaneously said,

“This here is a sad, sad place.”

Karin nodded in agreement.

The man went on, “I only got ten minutes to talk with my wife. She is only in here because she violated her probation.”

“Yeah, I hear you”, I replied. Then I said, “Our girl, she is waiting to go to prison.”

The man looked at us and asked, “How long she going in for?”

“Fourteen months.”

He shook his head and said, “That ain’t too bad.”

I shrugged.

The elevator came, and all three of us got into it.

The man said, “You know, it’s like a revolving door. People get out of jail, and then they break some rule, and they go right back in. They get a bad PO, and they right back in jail.”

“Well, our girl, she probably would have killed herself if she was still out. It’s better that she is here, than her being dead.”

The man nodded.

Then he said, “Yeah, maybe so. It’s just a hard thing. My sister, well, she’s in for life. That’s a different thing, you know. My wife, now, she just broke some stupid rule, and she’s here again. It still ain’t right.”

“No, it’s not.”

The elevator door opened.

The man got out. “Y’all have a good day.”

“You too.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 19th, 2019

We stayed in a casino. We didn’t do it on purpose. Seriously. It just sort of happened.

Karin and I were on our way to Reno to see Joseba and his wife, Goretti. Joseba and I are friends because of a brief interaction we had at a peace action two years ago in front of Creech Air force Base in Nevada. The group was getting ready to do some civil disobedience, and Joseba and I struck up a conversation. It turned out that we were both writers. In any case, we talked for at most five minutes before we blocked the entrance to the air force base. When the cops came, I got busted. Joseba didn’t.

By rights, our relationship should have ended there. It didn’t. Somehow, we stayed connected during the next two years. Joseba bought a copy of the book I wrote about Hans and the Iraq War. He sent me a copy of his book, “That Old Bilbao Moon”. (Joseba is a Basque. He has written a great deal about the city of Bilbao and the Basque portion of Spain.) Our correspondence centered on our writing, and on family matters. We often talked about meeting again, but it never seemed to possible.

Until now.

Karin and I had stayed with Hans and his family in Texas, and we were on our way to visit Senji and Gilberto at their temple near Seattle. Reno was kind of on our way between Texas and Seattle. So, Karin and I worked it out to spend a night with Joseba and his wife, Goretti. Both Joseba and Goretti were in the middle of a massive transition in their lives. They were both retiring from the University of Nevada in Reno. They were busy selling their house, so that they could move back to Spain. Karin and I were arriving to see them at a chaotic time. It turned out to be exactly the right time.

We arrived at Joseba’s house around 5:30 in the afternoon, after a long, lonely ride through the length and breadth of Nevada. Joseba was a bit surprised to see us come so early. We had expected to pull into Reno closer to seven o’clock. Goretti was attending a photography class, and she wouldn’t be done until 7:00. Joseba suggested that he take us over to the hotel where he had booked a room for us.

We didn’t stay in Joseba’s house because he had literally just sold it, and the place was half-empty and half in disarray. Joseba and Goretti had insisted on getting a hotel room for us in Reno. Karin and I were okay with that, although it seemed extremely generous on their part. Karin suggested that we offer to pay for the meal that evening. I mentioned to Joseba that Karin and I wanted to buy dinner. He would have none of it.

His instantaneous response to our proposal was, “No, of course you won’t pay! We are Basque! You are our guests!”

End of subject. That’s old school hospitality.

We followed Joseba into downtown Reno. He pulled into the parking lot of The Sands.

We were initially surprised, but not for long. We hadn’t expected to be staying in a room at a casino, but we should have. I mean, we were in Reno. Where else would a visitor stay besides at a casino? If Joseba hadn’t set us up at The Sands, we probably would have been at Harrah’s, El Dorado, or Circus Circus.

Karin and I had a nice room on the 12th floor of The Sands. (A bit of trivia: there was no 13th floor in the hotel. The elevator goes directly from the 12th floor to the 14th. “13” is bad luck and all that). Karin did notice that was impossible to open the room window. She surmised that this was to prevent big losers from flinging themselves down to the pavement below. Suicides are generally bad publicity at a casino.

Karin and I wandered around the casino until Joseba and Goretti came to pick us up for dinner. Karin had never been in an American casino before. I got plenty of experience in casinos last spring, when I was wandering around the country with the Indians. They are all the same: no windows, no clocks, and enough flashing lights to trigger an epileptic seizure. There was no efficient way to get anywhere in the casino. Karin and I got lost repeatedly. Casinos are flashy, gaudy, and designed to keep customers inside. It’s a system that works.

Joseba and Goretti took us to a distant Italian restaurant. La Vecchia sat on a hill and it had a panoramic view of Reno. At night we could see the downtown all lit up with red, purple, and green lights. The restaurant was much fancier than the eateries where Karin and I usually go. I had never been in a place where the waiter offers to grate fresh Parmesan cheese on to your plate. The food was excellent, and the conversation was better.

Karin and Goretti spoke mostly to each other. Joseba and I did the same. We talked about writing, as usual. Joseba is an academic, so he writes all the time. Because of his job, he has to write. He has to produce essays for publication. This is where we differ. I write (as I am now) because I want to write. I don’t have a gun to my head. Joseba, until now, has been required to write, and that can be a curse.

We talked about retirement. I am already three years into my retirement. Joseba, although he is older than me, is just starting this new phase of life. Joseba knows that he will continue to write. That is his great gift. Now he can write when he wants, and he can write what he wants. This is a huge change for him. He wanted to know if he should start a blog. I didn’t have any good advice for him. I could only suggest that he write about his passions. Retirement is a wonderful thing, but the shadow of mortality hovers over it all. Joseba and I are in the last chapters of our lives. We need to make the days and minutes count. We need to do what we love, and we need to do it well.

After dinner, Joseba and Goretti took us back to The Sands. Joseba promised to share breakfast with us before we continued on our journey in the morning. He made mention to us that the gambling industry in Reno had faded somewhat during the last decade or so. Indian tribes in California had opened up their own casinos, and they had siphoned off customers from Reno.

I could see that. The casinos were still brightly lit, but they looked tired somehow. The sign for The Sands had a light burnt out where the “n” should have been. I noticed other things. Nobody was at the crap tables or playing cards. Anybody who was in the casino was sitting at the slots. The Sands had all sorts of posters showing healthy, happy, young people gambling. I saw nobody who looked like that. Everyone in the casino was old. They were not only old, but they looked rough. I remember one woman with an oxygen tank, playing the slots, and never once glancing away from the flashing screen.

Karin and I got up the next morning, and we waited in the casino to meet with Joseba. The bar was already open, and it was already full. I have had an early morning drink in my time, but these people were pros. I listened briefly to customers talk the usual shit that barflies talk. It was profoundly depressing.

We found Joseba, and we went into Mel’s 50’s Diner, which is also part of the casino complex. Joseba noted that this restaurant was odd, in that it actually had windows.

Joseba said wryly, “You are getting the real Nevada experience.”

Indeed.

It was hard for us to say goodbye to Joseba. I think it was hard for him too. We had only had a few hours together, and we were lucky to have even that. Maybe Karin and I will go to Spain, and visit Joseba and Goretti. Maybe they will visit us in Wisconsin. Who knows?

All I know is that we are grateful for the time we had. Truly grateful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 16th, 2019

The Abbey of the Hills is nestled amid farm fields and woods in the northeastern corner of South Dakota, quite close to the Minnesota border. It was the last stop for Karin and myself, as we made our way home from the Pacific Northwest. To say that the abbey is out of the way would be a gross understatement. The abbey’s address uses the town of Marvin as its location, and I don’t recall ever even seeing a town called Marvin. If there is a Marvin, South Dakota, it is carefully hidden, or remarkably small.

The Abbey of the Hills actually sits atop of a hill. There aren’t many hills in that part of the world. Most of the land is flat or nearly so. Cornfields stretch across the prairie for miles upon miles. The home of Laura Ingalls Wilder is not too far away. That might give you a sense of the landscape. After all, she wrote all of those “Little House on the Prairie” books.

Karin and I arrived at the abbey after a long drive from Rapid City, South Dakota.  We had to call Valari at the monastery for additional directions when we got close to the place, because we got confused. There were no landmarks to use as guides. Valari got us on to the right road, and eventually we saw the church steeple in the distance. We came up the driveway and parked. Ours was the only car in the lot.

We got out of the Toyota, and we were grateful just to walk around and stretch. We met Valari inside. She worked as the receptionist. Like many retreat houses, this place was nearly empty during the week. Valari welcomed us, and escorted us to our room for the night.

We asked her about the abbey. Valari explained,

“This abbey was run by the Benedictines for many years. At one point, there were over eighty monks in this monastery. Their numbers dwindled. Five years ago, they were down to fourteen monks, the average age of which was eighty. They just couldn’t do it any more. So, we took over. We are part of a non-profit that handles the property and provides retreats here.”

Our room was down a long corridor in the “monks’ wing”. It was nice room, with a queen-size bed, and a vanity with a sink. Our window faced to the east. There was a separate shower room, and a separate restroom. Karin did not like the restroom because it had urinals. Well, the building was designed for monks. Monks are men, and they often use urinals. Maybe, at some time, they will redesign the bathrooms, but not yet.

We made our own supper in the kitchen. Karin and I ate alone in the dining room. Everything there was clean and well-organized, and abandoned. I kept imagining how that dining room would have been when it was full of monks. It was probably noisy and chaotic and alive. When we were there, it was not alive  We ate quietly in a museum.

After supper, Karin and I went for a walk. We did some exploring. We went outside and looked over the grounds. We found an old handball court, and a tennis court. We found sheds and outbuildings that clearly had not felt the hands of men for years and years. We walked past a small lake (or pond). It was cold and windy, with the threat of rain. The bells in the clock tower rang every quarter hour. We heard nothing else, and we saw no one else.

Karin and I returned to the abbey. We went into the church. It had choir stalls for the monks, monks who would never, ever return to fill them. The church felt empty and forlorn. Karin said that it was because the chapel no longer held the Blessed Sacrament. The Eucharist no longer resided in that space. so, in a way, God no longer resided there. I didn’t stay in the church very long. There was there nothing for me.

I went back to our room. Karin found a nice meeting room with a fireplace and a portrait of Our Lady of Guadalupe hanging on the wall. Karin stayed there to knit and do her evening prayer. I walked around. The rooms were all immaculate, and they all had a donated quilt as a bedspread. The corridors were eerie, a bit like the hallways in the hotel from the movie, “The Shining”. I never quite felt alone. I felt the presence of the spirits of the monks, or at least of their memories. ‘

Karin and I had breakfast in the dining room near the kitchen. We were on our own. I made some coffee. There was cereal, yogurt, fruit, and bread available to us. We ate mostly in silence. We cleaned up after ourselves.

As we packed our things after breakfast, We met the caretaker, Sylvia. She is our age (i.e. old), and she is tall with grey hair and eyeglasses. She was wrapped up in a shawl. Sylvia apologized for not being there early enough to make coffee for us.

I told her that it was okay. We know how to make coffee.

Sylvia asked about our stay.

I told her, “It’s a nice place, but it’s full of ghosts.”

Sylvia gave me a stern look, and she asked,

“Were they bad?”

“No, no. They were okay. They were just here.”

“Who were they?”

“The monks.”

“Sylvia nodded, “I know what you mean.”

We talked for a bit. Sylvia told us about how empty it was here during the winter. They had had a brutal winter here, much like that in Wisconsin. Sylvia and I talked about Native American rituals. She seemed to know a lot about them. Eventually, the conversation faded, and Sylvia said,

“I want to go to the lake and pray.”

Fair enough.

We said our goodbyes.

Karin and I went home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 18th, 2019

“A little bit of this town goes a very long way.” – Hunter S. Thompson

Nevada is a big state. It is an amazingly long drive from the Las Vegas to Reno. Karin and I did not actually start from Vegas (thank God), but we were in the vicinity. We began our day’s journey from Zion, Utah, and the GPS took us through some obscure corner of northwestern Arizona in order to get us into the great state of Nevada. Keep in mind that I have some personal history in Nevada. Two years ago, I got busted at a protest in front of Creech Air Force Base, and I was able to spend some quality time in the CCDC (Carson County Detention Center). Nevada has weird energy for me.

Well, I should talk a bit about the Great Basin, since that is the title of this essay. Nevada resides almost entirely within the Great Basin. The Great Basin is a place where rivers never meet the sea. That is the definition in a hydro-graphic sense. Nevada is surrounded by high, snow covered mountains. In the spring and summer, the snow on these peaks melt, providing streams and rivers of fresh water that flow into small lakes. Eventually, all of the snow melt, and the streams dry up. Then these lakes and ponds turn into dusty salt flats. They become places where dust devils go to play.

Karin and I had the opportunity to see both the sweet lakes and the forbidding salt flats. The lakes were small, but life-giving. They were often surrounded on their edges by cottonwoods with deep roots. Enterprising ranchers irrigate fields with the water to keep their cattle alive and well. When we drove through places where the snow melt had been exhausted, Karin asked me why the ground was so white. It was salt, all of it. We saw tiny tornadoes of dust dance over these salt flats. It was desolation like that of St,. John’s Apocalypse.

There are very few towns in the Great Basin. A person learns quickly to take advantage of every opportunity to refuel. It is not unusual to drive two hours and not find any kind of service. It is not unusual to drive for over an hour, and not see another vehicle going in either direction. This can be disconcerting to some people.

There are stretches of road that are utterly deserted. These highways are in flat valleys and they are straight as a die. It is impossible for a driver to determine the distance through these level areas between the mountains. One hundred miles looks like twenty.

It is tempting to exceed the posted speed limit. Generally, the roads are posted at 70 mph. A driver is a damn fool if he or she drives at less eighty. On these highways there is often the sense that you are hardly moving at all. Correspondingly, there is an intense desire to pass slower-moving vehicles, even if they are already going at a reckless speed. It is extremely difficult to estimate the speed of oncoming traffic, little though there is. Any car or truck coming from the other way seems to be either too close or too far, depending on a person’s perspective. Passing in the left lane can become a dangerous pastime.

There is also the hazard of cattle on the road. Most of Nevada has open grazing, which means no fences, which means a steer can be on the highway at any time. Hitting a cow at 80 mph would be unfortunate for everyone involved.

There are towns on the route which really don’t qualify as towns. Luning is one of them. The burg is little more than a collection of boarded up buildings and houses that are collapsing of their own weight. Luning is a speed trap that screams of desolation. The entire place is nothing more than a backdrop for another zombie movie.

Weather is peculiar in the Great Basin. We encountered a micro-storm while driving along. Cumulus clouds crammed the sky and raindrops poured down. In most cases, the rain never hit the ground. The moisture evaporated before it could arrive. However, on one occasion, the rain slammed into our car, and I had turn the wipers on as fast as they could go. The shower was done in less than a minute. It did clean the bugs off of the windshield.

As we got closer to Reno, we drove past the Hawthorne Army Depot. There were rows upon rows of ammunition bunkers. Every section of the highway is dedicated to some poor bastards who fought and died in an American war.  I truly feel for the guys who are stationed there. What a hideous place to be.

Was all of Nevada ugly? No. Some of it was beautiful in a rugged, brutal sort of way. Parts of the state were absolutely glorious. There was just too much of it.

 

 

 

May 16th, 2019

South Dakota is boring in a way that is difficult to describe. I don’t mean that the entire state is boring. Some parts of it, like the Badlands or the Black Hills, are quite impressive. Unfortunately, much of the vast expanse of South Dakota is flat and treeless. It is a mind-numbing landscape. Time crawled as Karin and I drove through it today. I can’t even imagine what it must of been like for the pioneers to cross the prairie.

It’s not that South Dakota is boring because it is desolate. Parts of it are green and fertile, and farmers raise cattle and grow corn on this land. Arizona is much more desolate than South Dakota, but its scenery is varied, and often breathtaking. South Dakota is boring because for hundreds of miles nothing changes, nothing at all. A person can drive along I-90 for hours and not notice anything new. Even when moving at a speed of 80 mph or more, there is a sense that no progress is being made.

Being that much of South Dakota is monotonous, people eagerly look for something out of the ordinary. Even a cow or a tree can catch a person’s interest. Towns along I-90 vie for the attention of travelers. For instance, Mitchell takes pride in its Corn Palace. Another place has a 50’s auto museum. But nothing beats the town of Wall, South Dakota.

Wall is home to Wall Drug. There are signs along the highway advertising the glories of Wall Drug as far west as the Wyoming border, or as far east as Minnesota. The signs say: “Free ice water!” or “Five cent coffee!” or “Six foot rabbit!” Eventually, the messages seep into the mind of the sensory-deprived driver. The desire to stop at Wall Drug becomes overwhelming. A person is ready for literally any kind of distraction.

Karin wanted to stop at Wall Drug. We had been there once before, many years ago. I had found the experience to be profoundly disturbing. Well, that was a long time ago. How bad could it be?

At some point in its history, Wall Drug was just a pharmacy in some little town in the middle of nowhere. Now, do to its location (or lack of location), Wall Drug is a tourist mecca. It has no competition. There is nothing else to see for miles in either direction. People, like Karin and myself, stop there because we can’t stand the long and winding road any more. 

Wall Drug is actually a collection of stores and restaurants, all housed under one roof. One shop is linked to another. It resembles a souk or bazaar in the Middle East more than anything else. It is easy to become lost in there, and I believe that is by design. Like a casino, Wall Drug makes it hard for a person to escape without spending money. We didn’t make it out of there without opening our wallets. I don’t think anyone does.

Wall Drug seems to specialize in selling amusingly tacky products. You know, authentic faux Indian merchandise, and that sort of thing. The place is full of pseudo-cowboy kitsch. There is a Travelers Chapel that is almost sacrilegious in its cheesiness. The place is a wholesome, all-American tourist trap, and Wall Drug is proud of it.

After maybe twenty minutes, I had to flee outside the building.

Karin laughed.

 

Wall Drug specializes in selling tacky merchandise. You know, authentic faux Indian blankets, and that sort of thing. The place is filled with pseudo-cowboy kitsch. It’s just hideous. They have a Travelers Chapel that is  

 

May 15th, 2019

The GPS initially was taking us south on I-90 toward Sheridan, Wyoming. Then it told us to turn off the freeway and take US Highway 212 instead. The exit off of I-90 took us right to the entrance of the Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument. Karin wanted to see it. I didn’t. We went to Little Bighorn.

I wasn’t very interested in seeing the battlefield. I have seen battlefields before, and generally they just look like ordinary fields or woods. After a while, all the evidence of violence fades or rusts away. Little Bighorn is like that. The monument covers 765 acres of rolling hills that look just like all the hills that surround them. The land is covered with tall grass and clover. There are occasionally small yellow flowers that keep the butterflies and bees busy. Apparently, snakes like this place too. Far off in the distance, a person can see snow capped mountains.

Little Bighorn is home to a national cemetery. It also has a small visitors center. Most of the monument can be viewed within an hour. The visitors center is located near Last Stand Hill. Karin and I walked up the trail to Last Stand Hill. On top of the knoll is a granite memorial dedicated to the soldiers of the 7th Cavalry. The names of the fallen are inscribed in the stone. Under the massive monument lie the bodies of most of the fallen soldiers and civilians who were part of the 7th Cavalry on that fateful day in 1876. Many of the officers’ bodies were eventually re-interred elsewhere. Custer’s body is lying under the ground at West Point, his Alma Mater and mine.

There are numerous white stone markers scattered on the hill and throughout the local vicinity. These stones show where soldiers fell during the battle. Many of the markers have the name of deceased written on them.

I felt a slow anger welling up in me as I looked at the memorials on Last Stand Hill. It was all about the white guys. There was even a memorial for their horses. I didn’t see anything there that made mention of the Indians who fought and died in the battle.

I told Karin, “I don’t like it here. It feels wrong. It’s just about Custer and the soldiers.”

She said, “I feel that too.”

We walked a ways and saw two red stones near the path. They showed the place where two Cheyenne warriors died in the fight. My mood lightened a bit.

We walked a little further and found the Indian Memorial. I wasn’t even aware that there was such a thing. The Indian Memorial is built into the hill in the form of a circle. It’s not obvious at all, and could easily be missed. This is in stunning contrast to the memorial on Last Stand Hill, which is totally in your face.

We walked into the circle, and we saw the Indians’ story of the battle written on the stone walls. One portion struck me deeply. Carved into the rock is a picture of Custer speaking with the Indian leader, Stone Forehead, in 1869. At that time, Custer promised,

“I will never kill another Cheyenne.”

Stone Forehead replied to Custer, “If you break your promise, you and your soldiers will go to dust like this.”

And so it came to pass.

I suddenly felt sad, sad to the point of nausea. I sat down on a ledge on one side of the circle.

I wept.

I don’t know why. It all felt tragic and pointless.

Karin came back from taking some pictures. She stared at me for a moment. Then she said, “Maybe we should go now.”

Karin drove us back to the highway.

I told her, “It was a good idea to stop at the monument. It was worth doing.”

She kept driving. She said,

“I’m sorry that going there made you cry. But, I’m not sorry that we went there…”

She paused a moment, and continued, “because now I know that somebody cares.”

 

 

 

 

May 14th, 2019

“I remember once in the Holy Land seeing a sign in the shape of an arrow along a road. It said, “Armageddon, 4 kilometers.” If ever there was a sign that made you wonder whether you wanted to continue down a road, this was it.”

― Father Benedict J. Groeschel,  from “After This Life: What Catholics Believe about What Happens Next”

“If Kitsap County was an independent country, it would be the third largest nuclear power in the world.”

– Brother Gilberto Perez

The Ground Zero Center for Nonviolent Action occupies a small piece of land in Poulsbo, WA, that butts up against the U.S. Naval Base Kitsap-Bangor. There is, in fact, a chain link fence with barbed wire separating the two properties. There is a large and intimidating “No Trespassing” on the fence. The imposing fence and sign were not put up by the folks at Ground Zero. They are obviously the work of the U.S. Navy. There is a road next to the fence that is regularly patrolled by Navy personnel. They are eager to protect the nuclear weapons which are on the base allegedly to protect us.

On Saturday, the day before Mother’s Day. Ground Zero sponsored a peace action directed against the Trident submarines that are stationed at Kitsap-Bangor. It was an all day affair that included breakfast and lunch, along with classes, and a demonstration in front of the main gate of the nuclear submarine base.

Karin and I rode to Ground Zero along with Senji, Gilberto, and Ben. Karin and I were staying with Gilberto and Senji at their temple on Bainbridge Island. It is only a short ride to Poulsbo from the Nipponzan Myohoji Dojo. I think we arrived there around 8:30ish in the morning. A few people were milling about. There was a tent set up in front of the peace center with a table for signing in and procuring a name tag.

Karin and I met a man named Michael who showed us around the property. He showed us the stupa that had been built. Then he pointed out a wooded area that covered the ruins of the original peace pagoda. The pagoda had burned down in suspicious circumstances over thirty years ago. The steel rebar from the structure was still there, buried under bushes and trees. A member of the Ground Zero community plans to cut down the woods and removing the rebar. Michael was unsure when that would occur.

A new peace pagoda is scheduled to be built on the site of the first structure. The reconstruction project has been a decades-long process, often hindered by local bureaucracy. Apparently, the last regulatory obstacle is being surmounted, and the new peace pagoda will be built. The monks from the temple have been deeply involved with this effort, and they have shown a very Buddha-like patience.

Elizabeth, who who runs the peace center full time as a volunteer, kept the day’s activities flowing. She gently, but firmly, encouraged people to get with the program. I don’t envy her. It was like herding cats. I would have lost patience within the first hour.

The schedule started with a light breakfast. After that, a video was shown concerning Julia Howe Ward, and the origins of Mothers Day as a day to promote world peace. It was a good video, actually quite moving. Then we all got to hear the Seattle Peace Chorus.

The chorus was tuneful and enthusiastic. They were also out of date. The song list included “Blowin’ in the Wind” from Bob Dylan, “If I had a Hammer” from Pete Seeger, and “This Land is Your Land” by Woody Guthrie. Don’t get me wrong: those are all great songs. However, those songs are usually only meaningful to a particular demographic group, and that group is old. 

Even a casual glance around the room showed that the people assembled for this peace action were up in years. There was a younger family with their children at the site, but they did not seem to be actively involved in the program. Other than that family, the youngest persons I saw were Ben and Ray. Ray is an Air Force veteran. I would guess that Ray was in his forties. Everybody else was old, by any objective standard.

Does this matter? I think it does. All of the people involved with Ground Zero are deeply concerned about eliminating nuclear arms. They all see these weapons as an existential threat to humanity, and to all the other life on earth. They are correct. However, nobody from the up and coming generations seem to share their passion. Younger people care about many other things, although I am not entirely sure what those things are.

I have been wondering what Hans, my combat vet, redneck son, would say about the folks that were gathered at Ground Zero. I suspect that he would shake his head and mutter, “Bunch of old hippies”. He would be right to say so. This senior crowd working to stop nuclear war is fighting the good fight. Unfortunately, they aren’t recruiting anybody to follow in their footsteps. Ground Zero needs some fresh blood, or the organization will go the way of the dinosaurs and the woolly mammoths. Extinction will not help the cause. I don’t know what can be done to attract young people to this effort, but whatever Ground Zero is doing now is simply not working.

Anyway, back to the meeting.

A lawyer, Blake Kremer, gave an outstanding presentation about how to deal with the police when involved in a protest. He gave us a list of magic words to use with the cops. The first of those were: “Am I free to leave?” Then there were: “I wish to remain silent”, and “I do not consent to a search”. He explained repeatedly that the police are professional evidence gatherers, and should be treated accordingly. He also discussed the legality of making videos of arrests. The bottom line was that a person recording an arrest would probably be charged with something ambiguous, something that basically meant “contempt of cop”. All in all, the information presented was excellent.

After lunch, Kathy Kelly spoke. She is a remarkable woman. She has been involved in peace actions all over the world. She has been arrested repeatedly. She has unlimited energy. Kathy also has the rare ability to recognize the humanity in the persons who are opposing her.  She hates war and violence and injustice, but I have never seen her hate another human being. Her compassion is universal.

The last part of the day involved the preparations for the action, and the actual demonstration in front of the main gate at the naval base. I was truly impressed with how that all went down. These people had trained and prepared for the protest, and everybody knew their role in it. Some people, like Ben, served as peace keepers to ensure the safety of the other participants. Some people planned on carrying out acts of civil disobedience, and thereby getting arrested. I carried a sign.

The demonstration itself went smoothly. There were plenty of cops at the gate, but they knew beforehand what would happen. They knew what we would do, and we knew pretty much how they would react. People from our group broke the law nonviolently. The cops arrested them. Our folks got fines, and were then released. We made our point, and there were no surprises. That’s actually a good thing, a very good thing. I have been to protests that were not well planned, and chaos ensued. It is not a good idea to do things that scare men carrying loaded firearms. Sometimes boring is okay. Drama is often overrated.

Did we close down Kitsap-Bangor? No.

Are there any fewer Trident submarines? No.

Did we make any difference at all? Maybe.

I think that we did make a difference, but one that is difficult to see. We may have made one more person aware of the danger. We may have influenced one person to look more closely at the American war machine. We may have planted the seed of doubt into the conscience of a serviceman who is working at that naval base.

Maybe that is enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 12th, 2019

I seldom experience true darkness. At home there is always some sort of ambient light. Even on moonless nights, the sky always has a hazy glow, and only the brightest of the stars show through it. It’s not that way in the desert.

The monks at the Monastery of Christ in the Desert ring the bell for Vigils just before 4:00 AM. I got up grudgingly on three nights to pray the psalms with the brothers. Karin went along with me once. Each time I left the retreat house, I was astounded by the utter blackness that surrounded me. There was a small light outside the door of the house to guide me, but after a few steps, I walked like a blind man on the path toward the church.

I always looked up at that point, and I stared at the stars above me. Some of the sky was hidden by the high canyon walls, but the visible portion of the heavens was glorious. When I looked to the east, I could see Scorpio and Sagittarius rising. Jupiter was near to  them, blazing with a frozen fire. The Milky Way crossed the night sky like glowing, ragged river. There were so many stars, and they were so bright, and they were so cold. Starlight is a curious thing. The light of the sun brings warmth even on the shortest day of winter, but the stars burn like ice. Their light shines with a jewel-like purity. It is a purity that is brilliant, and yet somehow dead. Stars make the rest of the sky completely black in contrast to them. The stars accentuate a darkness that is already overwhelming.

After Vigils, Lauds, and Mass, I went to for a long walk in the morning. I walked for six miles along the dusty, dirt road that connects the monastery with the rest of the world. The sunlight never completely illuminated the canyon. Portions of it were always in shadow. I came back to the retreat house and sat in a chair on the porch. One of the canyon’s cliffs towered over me. I watched the sunlight play hide and seek on the canyon wall.

The cliffs that surround the Chama River Valley are sandstone, laid down in some ancient sea eons ago. Now the primeval seabed is lifted hundreds of feet in the air, and I could see the various layers of stone as I sat on the porch. At the very top, the sandstone was a dirty grey. Below it, the rocks were bright yellow. The next layer was white. The lowest and largest of the strata was rust red, like the surface of Mars. Each of these layers subtly changed their colors as the sun made its journey through the sky. Greys became darker and dimmer when the sun moved away. The yellow stones became ocher when left in the shade. Whites turned to dull grey until the sunlight returned to brightened them. The rust colored stones turned to blood when the abandoned by the sun.

These changes of hue were rapid and unexpected. I was often distracted by other things: a black beetle crawling near my feet, a butterfly that came to play, a hummingbird flying in every direction at once. When I looked back at the canyon wall, it looked entirely different. New hollows and crevices were illuminated. Other indentations were swallowed up in shadow. I saw trees and bushes that I hadn’t seen before. They clung desperately to crags with their roots, holding on to a paper-thin layer of soil and the slightest bit of moisture. The green of the plants provided a welcome contrast to the red rocks. It showed me the tenacity of life.

I sat for hours watching the canyon wall. It was a wonderful show.