Frank is Emptiness

May 11th, 2019

“We will pray this afternoon at the beach, not in the temple. Today is special.”

Senji didn’t say why the day was special. He just said that it was. It could have been because Karin and I had just arrived at the temple a few hours earlier. We had driven to the Nipponzan Myohoji Dojo from Wisconsin, via Texas. It was an absurdly long journey, with numerous stops along the way. We finally made it to the temple on Bainbridge Island, which sits across from Seattle on Puget Sound.

Bainbridge Island is essentially a bedroom community for wealthy workers in Seattle. The vast majority of the residents of the island have college degrees, and nearly all of them have a great deal of money. The only possible exceptions would be the two Buddhist monks, Senji and Gilberto. They have degrees, but not much money. They maintain their tiny temple with donations, and they spend most of their time working to promote peace. Their home is an island of voluntary poverty situated in the middle of an island of affluence.

Generally, Gilberto and Senji drum and chant in their temple twice a day, at 6:00 AM and at 5:30 PM. Senji decided to take Karin and myself to Gazzam Lake Park for the evening session. As its name implies, the park contains a small lake, but it also has a footpath that leads to the seashore. A branch of Puget Sound called Port Orchard separates Bainbridge Island from the Olympic Peninsula. The footpath twists and turns steeply down a hillside to the edge of Port Orchard channel.

I had been to this park once before. That was in February of last year. Winter on Bainbridge Island is cool and rainy. The forest was damp and wet during my previous visit. This time, as Karin, Senji, and I walked the narrow path down to the sea, the ground was dry and the air was warm. The plants were still lush and green. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the trees, sometimes shining a spotlight on a particular bush or plant.

The trail wound through a forest made up of towering Douglas firs and cedars. There were also maples and birch trees interspersed among the conifers. Some of the trees were covered with lichen, while others had beards of green moss hanging from their branches. Ivy and ferns covered the ground. Occasionally, I could see tiny white flowers scattered here and there.

We took our time walking the path to the shore. It was very steep, and in places steps had been built into the trail. We had to climb over a massive tree branch to get to the beach. The beach had pebbles, but very little sand. The water from the sea lapped softly on to the shore. The afternoon sun beat down on us, and we all sat down on large stones.

Senji reached into his satchel and took out two taikos, handheld Japanese drums. He gave one of them to me. Then the three of us began to chant “Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo” over and over. “Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo” is a chant distilled from the Lotus Sutra. Senji and I drummed as we chanted. I tried to blend my thin tenor with his rich baritone. Karin chanted with her alto voice during the space when Senji and I were silent. We chanted and drummed for at least half an hour. During that time, the sun got closer to the western horizon. Shadows lengthened. White birds flew above us, and motorboats sped through the channel. Sunlight danced on the waves of the water. I could smell the salt in the air. I could also smell incense. The taikos must have absorbed a bit of the smoke from all the incense that was burned in the temple.

We stopped chanting. Senji spoke of the sixteenth chapter of the Lotus Sutra. In particular he talked about our inherent Buddha nature, and about our path to fully expressing that innermost part of ourselves. Then we all stood up and bowed to the West. Then we turned and faced each other, in order to bow to the Buddha that we saw within the  other person.

We were at peace.

 

 

 

 

 

 

April 30th, 2019

“I’m looking for an interruption
Do you believe?
You looking to dig my dreams
Be prepared for anything
You come into my little scene
Hooray, hooray, hip hip hooray
There’s one thing I can guarantee
You won’t have to dig, dig too deep
Said leave me to lay, but touch me deep
I don’t sleep, I dream
I’ll settle for a cup of coffee
But you know what I really need.”

From “I Don’t Sleep, I Dream” by R.E.M.

I was lying on the couch in Hans’ living room. I had been startled from a dream by a noise in his apartment at about 1:45 AM. It was now about 2:30, and I was hovering in that grey space between sleep and wakefulness. I couldn’t let myself drift completely away, because I knew that Hans needed to start work at 3:00 AM, and he needed me to drive him to the concrete company’s yard.

Hans’ VW Passat is at the dealership for repair. That’s why he needed me to give him a ride to work. The Passat is a black car with a black interior. The air conditioning doesn’t work, and Hans lives in Texas. This means that within a month or two, the car will be unbearably hot to drive. Hans could probably put up with that kind of misery, but his baby boy, Weston, cannot. Getting the A.C. fixed is not optional. It has to be done. We figured that he might as well get it fixed while Karin and I are visiting. That way, Hans and Gabi and Weston have our car available while the VW is in the shop.

I used to work third shift at a trucking company. I did that for almost twenty years. I never got used to it. I always felt a little incoherent, both at work and at home. All those  years of living like a vampire ruined my ability to get any good sleep. Even now, after have been retired for over three years, I still wake up in the wee hours of the morning, and restlessly wait for the sunrise to come.

It’s not a long drive to Hans’ workplace. It takes maybe fifteen minutes to get there. This is a good thing, because my reaction time sucks at this time of the day/night.

I heard Hans getting up at around 2:15. Gabi was up too. Fortunately, Weston, the four month old, was still dozing. Hans took a piss, got dressed, and gathered up his belongings. Once he put on his work boots and his Capitol Concrete cap, we went out to my car. Neither of us spoke. There was nothing to say.

Hans was tired when he got up. He’s always tired, just like I was always tired. He had worked eighteen hours the previous day pumping concrete. He had started his shift on Monday at 1:00 AM, and he didn’t get done until 7:00 PM. Karin picked him up at the end of his shift and brought him home. He looked rough when he got back. He was totally covered with dirt, and completely worn out. He had bought himself a couple Lime-ritas, and he cracked one open as soon as he walked in the door. He warmed up some chicken that he had brought home from Sodolak’s restaurant on Saturday. He ate the food listlessly, more from a sense of duty than from appetite.

Weston was in his swing when Hans came home. Hans looked closely at his little boy, and told him,

“Don’t ever pump concrete.”

Good advice.

As we drove down US 190 this morning, Hans asked me,

“Can we stop at the store?”

The store is in a gas station on the way to his work. Hans goes there to buy Red Bull, bottled water, and smokes. I waited in the the car as Hans purchased the things that would help him to survive today.

When we got to the concrete company, Hans had to get out of the car to unlock and open the gate to the yard. Oh, Sweet Jesus, that brought back ugly memories for me. I used to unlock the gate at my workplace every Sunday night for years and years. I hated that. I suspect that Hans hates it too. So, why did this action carry over to another generation? I worked hard because I thought that my kids would not need to go through the same bullshit. Yet they do.

I dropped off Hans next to his pump truck. It is an impressive vehicle. It has twelve wheels and a 58 meter boom on it. Hans is proud to operate something so large and so complex. He should be proud of his work. He has a very responsible job. It’s not really a bad job. It’s just the hours that are slowly killing him.

We will pick up Hans from work some time this evening. He will be at the ragged end of exhaustion, like he is nearly every day. He works in order to care for Gabi and Weston, but he has nothing left to give them when he gets home. I know how that feels.

 

 

 

April 28th, 2019

Weston is four months old. Hans has plans for him. Big plans.

I guess that is normal for a new father. I probably had big plans for Hans thirty-two years ago. I just don’t remember what they were.

There is the temptation to look at a baby, and see all possible futures in that child. I suspect that is one of the things that we find attractive in an infant. There is a tendency to view a baby as a tabula rasa, a clean slate, a place where we can write down all of our hopes and dreams. That is a mistake. I know this from experience.

What are Hans’ plans for his little boy? Well, I don’t think that even Hans knows exactly. The details are kind of fuzzy. However, I can give you hints from the way that Weston’s bedroom is decorated. For instance, there is sign on his wall that says, “Ducks, trucks, and eight point bucks: that’s what little boys are made of.” Another picture has written on it, “Vegetarian -noun- an old Indian word for ‘bad hunter’.” There is also a stuffed bear’s head on Weston’s bedroom wall. It’s not a real bear’s head. It’s like the head of a teddy bear, but it looks like something that Weston had hunted and then hung up to display.

You get the idea?

I have made no comment on all of this, mostly because it might not have the desired effect. I am almost certain that whatever dreams Hans has for Weston’s future will not come to fruition, at least not in a way that Hans can imagine.

I base my prediction on past experience, which may or may not have any bearing on the situation. The fact is that Hans tried to do the opposite of most everything that I had intended for him. The biggest deviation from the plan came when Hans joined the Army and went to war in Iraq. He knew that Karin and I did not want him to join the military. He knew that we would be angry and hurt. He also knew that we would forgive him, and back him up in his decision.

At one point, years after he fought in Iraq, I spoke with Hans about his choice. I told him how Mom and I felt about it. He smiled a crooked smile and said,

“Yeah, that was kind of a big ‘fuck you’, wasn’t it.”

Indeed.

Will Weston follow Hans’ lead? That depends on how you look at it. Will Weston just be a miniature Hans? I doubt it. Weston will do his own thing. Will Weston be as independent and impulsive as Hans? Yes, I believe that may happen.

One advantage of growing old is that a person can gain some perspective. Some of the patterns in life become more obvious. In many ways Hans is different from me. People often tell me that, and it’s true in a superficial sort of way. I try to look a bit deeper.

Hans is politically my opposite. So what. People key on that sort of thing first, but for me it is peripheral. Who cares if he likes Trump? Who cares if I don’t? What are the things that really do matter?

Now that Hans is an adult, with adult problems and adult choices, I can see some of the things that he might have learned from Karin and myself. Hans has many of my faults. He drinks too much and he pushes himself too hard. He can hold a grudge. He gets depressed and lives on the dark side quite often. On the other hand, Hans is brave and loyal and true. He works hard, and he takes pride in his work. He cares about his family more than anything else in the world. He is willing to take risks.

What will Weston be? He will inherit many of Hans’ virtues and vices. Weston will be a very interesting young man.

 

 

 

April 27th, 2019

We drove along some twisting, winding roads through the Ozark Mountains in Arkansas. There was farm land in the narrow valleys, but we also saw deep forests covering the steep hillsides. The scenery was beautiful, for the most part.

Small houses and trailers peeked through the trees. Some of the homes were neat and tidy. Other houses were in various states of disrepair. A few of them were literally collapsing. Many of them were surrounded by piles of junk. I found that to be both curious and disturbing.

As we drove by these homes, I could see abandoned cars and trucks, broken swing sets, stacks of rotting lumber, rusting bicycles, and other things that had somehow become useless to their owners.  I’ve seen scenes like this before; on the marijuana farms in the hills of Oregon, in the backwoods of Appalachia, on the reservations in Montana, on the farms only a few miles from our home in Wisconsin. The images are always the same. Things are left exactly where they stopped working, or where they fell to the ground. A screwdriver lies in the dirt. A truck sits in the yard, never to move again. Kids’ toys lie on the ground, faded by the sun and half-hidden by the weeds.

Why?

It’s the dark side of consumerism. These people in the woods are most likely poor. They don’t have more junk than anyone else. They just can’t afford to hide it. They can’t haul the stuff away, or put into storage.

We have a big enough house to store all of our crap. Our home is a living example of the Second Law of Thermodynamics: entropy (disorder) always increases. Our house is full of things that are held in an environment of barely controlled chaos. We have all sorts of things that we no longer use, or no longer work.  We hang on to possessions out of sentiment or laziness. Clutter increases. We consider throwing things out, but we never actually do it.

If the folks in Arkansas cleared out the stuff on their property, would it really help? If we threw our things away, would it help? All this debris would just wind up in a landfill somewhere. It wouldn’t disappear. It would become somebody else’s problem.

I don’t want to buy any more stuff.

 

 

April 26th, 2019

Weston was crying. Babies do that sort of thing. Fortunately, Karin was there.

Hans and Gabi went out for the evening. God knows they needed it. They hadn’t had an evening for themselves since Weston was born back in December. They just wanted to go out to eat at a nice restaurant, and then have some uninterrupted adult conversation for at least a little while. It seemed very reasonable.

Weston is four months old. His needs are simple: food, sleep, and a fresh diaper on occasion. His needs are also immediate. When he is hungry, tired, or nasty, he wants attention now.

Karin and I agreed to watch the little guy while Hans and Gabi got their reprieve. Babysitting is part of the grandparent gig. It’s in the job description. There really is no getting around it.

Weston was sleeping in his sling when Hans and Gabi left. Gabi had fed Weston just prior to their departure. Exactly two hours later, Weston got hungry. Then he got loud.

It’s been a long time since Karin and I cared for a baby. We may have forgotten a few things, but then it all came back to us in a rush. It’s like riding a bicycle: you never really loose your touch. For me it was a little awkward, but that might be because I’m a man. Karin dealt with the situation with the quiet confidence of a grandmother ( FYI, she goes by “Oma”. It’s a German thing).

Gabi had frozen numerous plastic bags of mother’s milk. We thawed a couple of those, and Karin attempted to fill a baby bottle. For some reason that didn’t go well. It took Karin a few minutes to load up a bottle and ensure that it would not leak.

In the meantime, I held on to an increasingly restless Weston. He looked at me with a certain amount of anxiety. Honestly, I do look a bit scary. I have that dark Sith energy that some people find unnerving. So, Weston was a tiny Kylo Ren, and I was Darth Frank. Weston held on to my beard with a death grip. He has remarkably strong hands. He got more and more agitated, and his soft crying turned into a full-throated howl.

At this point, Karin had the bottle ready, and she took over. I gave her Weston. He kept several hairs from my beard. It took a while for him to settle down. Weston had wound himself pretty tight. He slowly calmed down enough to nurse, but then he sucked in a lot of air along with the contents of his bottle. Then he cried again because he was bloated. Karin burped him repeatedly. At long last, Weston exhausted himself, and he slept the sleep of the just.

Hans called. He and Gabi wanted to know how we were doing. We told him that Weston was asleep. Hans said that was good, and that they were going to a dance hall. Nice.

The cycle repeated itself. After exactly two hours, Weston wanted to eat. This time we were better prepared. Karin fed him, burped him, and Weston cuddled with her. Once again he slept in a way that I can only envy.

His parents came home happy and remarkably relaxed. They were savoring this time, as they should. Karin and I were savoring it too.

 

April 25th, 2019

The following essay appeared in the Capital times yesterday. They must like me there.

“Attorney General William Barr recently ordered immigration judges to deny bail to asylum seekers while their deportation cases are being reviewed by the courts. This action is reprehensible for a variety of reasons.

First, on a purely humanitarian level, it is callous to incarcerate people who have fled to our country because they are in fear of their lives. I believe that this decision by the attorney general is designed to be cruel, in order to discourage other asylum seekers from even attempting to come to the United States for help. The message quite clearly is: “We don’t want you.”

Second, it is nearly impossible for an asylum seeker to effectively plead his or her case in an immigration court if that person is incarcerated. It is not enough that the asylum seeker show that he or she is fearful of returning to their native land. The asylum seeker needs to demonstrate that he or she is being persecuted specifically because of “race, religion, nationality, political opinion, or particular social group.” That is a high standard of proof. It is a standard that cannot be achieved if the asylum-seeker is in jail, and therefore has no access to legal counsel or necessary documents. The Trump administration is making certain that no asylum seeker can win their case in court. It is a perversion of due process.”

April 25th, 2019

“Southern man, better keep your head

Don’t forget what your good book said

Southern change gonna come at last

Now your crosses are burning fast

Southern man”

From “Southern Man” by Neil Young

 

“Well I heard Mister Young sing about her

Well I heard ole Neil put her down

Well, I hope Neil Young will remember

A southern man don’t need him around anyhow.”

From “Sweet Home Alabama” by Lynyrd Skynyrd

 

“You’re just a damn Yankee!”, true words spoken to me by Delphia Wallace.

 

I hate Branson. I’ve never actually been to Branson, Missouri, but I loathe the place just from reading the billboards that line Highway 65. They are disturbing. There are signs advertising something called the “Presley Country Jubilee”, which to me simply point out the dangers of inbreeding. Then there is the sign for the Dolly Parton “Stampede”. That appears to have something to do with music, fine dining, horses, and huge American flags. I don’t quite understand the message. For the denizens of the Bible Belt, there is a show titled “Samson”, with amazing special effects. Finally, there are ads for two tribute shows: “Six Million Dollar Quartet” and “Legends”. I guess that these are shows honoring musicians that have been dead long enough to now be considered wholesome entertainment. They might want to rethink the Michael Jackson tribute.

In short, the billboards highlight the worst of the stereotypes concerning southerners. The operative word here is “stereotypes”, because Southern Man isn’t really like that.

I have a bit of spent time in the South. I was sent to Alabama three times by the U.S. Army. I have made trips to visit family in Texas nearly every year for the last three decades. I’m starting get a feel for the place.

I should point out that there is no such thing as “The South”. It is not a monolithic cultural region. The laid back streets of New Orleans have little to do with the tightly-wound Baptist towns in Mississippi. Florida is much more diverse and urban than Arkansas. Texas is its own little empire.

Over the years, I have met many people in the South. They have been unfailingly polite and courteous. That’s not a bad thing. They put great emphasis on family and church. That isn’t bad either. It is true that we often have different goals and values, but the southerners are not bad folks, and they are definitely not stupid.

It is said sometimes that southerners are prejudiced. That’s true. So, are damn Yankees, like myself. I have seen a number of Confederate flags during my travels in the South. The owners of those flags can make the argument that those nasty pieces of cloth reflect their history and cultural heritage. Yeah, maybe. However, I have also seen rebel flags flapping in the breeze in upstate New York and in Wisconsin. How do those people justify flying them?

I like the South. I like the forests and the farms and the rivers. I like the barbecue and the moonshine and the jambalaya. I like the slower pace. I like the people.

 

 

 

 

April 24th, 2019

Hans likes old pickup trucks. Apparently, he likes them best when they are barely running. At this point, Hans owns three trucks, only one of which is mobile. Two of the vehicles are currently resting in somebody’s field, slowly being camouflaged by the tall weeds growing nearby. One of the static displays has an irreparable transmission. The other one has an engine that overheated to the point self-destruction.

Hans showed me the truck that still is operating condition. It is a 1980 Dodge D150, with a slant six engine. As we were looking at it, Hans lit up a Pall Mall, and told me,

“Yeah, Dad. She needs a little work.”

A little work? Well, let’s see… 

Hans explained to me that the headlights don’t work, but the blinkers do. The truck shifts intermittently. The carburetor is very fickle. The only gauges on the dashboard that work are the engine temperature and the oil pressure. The windshield has a spiderweb crack that looks like it might have been caused by a bullet.

Hans opened up the large and heavy hood to show me the engine. I noted that the engine compartment looked almost empty.

Hans took a drag on his cigarette. He replied,

“Well, the heater’s missing, and so is the power steering. All we got here is the engine, the carburetor and the alternator. It gives me a lot of room to do repair work.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

Hans cracked open a Hella Chela, a local IPA beer with the delicate taste of ghost peppers. The stuff is undrinkable, even for me. Hans took a sip and said,

“All I need is some time and some money to get this thing all fixed up.”

The problem is that Hans has neither time nor money.  He works at the concrete company for seventy to eighty hours a week. He is trying to support his family with his wages. The truth is that this Dodge probably will not get fixed.

Before coming to Texas to visit with Hans, Karin and I spent two nights at Subiaco Abbey in Arkansas. We checked out the gift shop while we were there. Karin wanted to buy a rosary and a crucifix. While in the store, we talked a bit with Donna, who runs the place. I spoke to her about our son’s love of disabled vehicles. With her southern twang, she told us a story.

“My nephew, he bought himself an old Malibu. It was a 70’s model, or maybe 60’s. I can’t remember. He drove that thing for a few months before he fried the electrical system. Then it sat in his daddy’s field forever. Eventually, a maple tree grew up right through the middle of the car. They had to cut down the tree in order to finally remove the car.

I wonder if any trees are growing in Hans’ trucks.

 

 

 

April 21st, 2019

I like to travel, but I don’t like to pack. Actually, I don’t mind packing my stuff. It is just that it gets stressful when Karin and I are loading the car together. That never goes well. I never seem to load the bags correctly. Whenever I have been foolish enough to take the initiative, Karin has always rearranged our belongings in a way that meets her own requirements. I am now at the point where I just let Karin load everything. If something is heavy, I will place it in back of the car exactly where she wants it. Even then, she usually needs to adjust things a bit.

We loaded the Toyota a few minutes ago. Karin had two suitcases and several other carry on bags. I had a backpack. She asked me about that.

“Is this all you are taking?”

I replied, “Yes.”

“Are you sure? This is all for four weeks? You’ll be stinky.”

I sighed. “Okay. The fact is that all my clothes are little more than rags. Why pack them? I need to get some new clothes anyway. I’ll buy things as we go along. I can also wash things as we go along.”

Karin seemed somewhat satisfied with that answer. The truth is that I seldom buy clothes, and I wear what I have until they are reduced to shreds. More than once, I have mistaken for a homeless person.

Seeing as today was Easter, and I had to read from Scripture in front of the congregation, I wore some relatively new slacks. Karin complimented me on that as we drove to church. I muttered something to the effect that I don’t care how I dress.

Karin thought for a moment and replied, “Well, that’s not quite true. You wouldn’t wear something pink or flowery.”

I sighed, “Yes, that’s true.”

Karin went on, “But you don’t dress to impress anybody with how you look.”

“That is also true.”

I have spent most of my adult life wearing a uniform, both in the military and out. Sometimes the “uniform” simply meant that I had to wear a necktie. For years, I dressed to meet the idiosyncratic requirements of various organizations, and now I am done with that. I’m retired, and I just don’t give a damn. I am no longer part of the system. I don’t answer to anyone, and there is nobody that I need to impress.

I do not own a tie. I think that the last time I wore a tie was when Bill Clinton was in office. I can conceive of no situation where I would even consider wearing a necktie.

There is a story about Dorothy Day, the founder of the Catholic Worker movement. She cared for the poor, and she was notoriously frugal with regards to her own needs. One year, just prior to Easter, she considered buying something nice to wear to Mass. After much soul-searching, she finally decided that she should buy herself some new shoelaces.

Last Thursday, I bought myself some new shoelaces. I needed them.

 

 

 

 

 

April 16th, 2019

“I’m going to prison!”

The girl was sobbing as she told us this over the phone yesterday. She had just finished her conference with the probation officer liaison. It appears that the young woman had run out of second chances, and the judge had run out of patience.

She wailed, “It’s not fair!”

Some people might laugh at that claim. After all, this woman had violated the provisions of her probation repeatedly. According to the law, she should go to prison. She knew the rules and she broke them. A person could easily say that she chose to do the wrong thing. It was her own decisions that got her into this mess.

That all makes sense if a person assumes that this girl is capable of making rational decisions. What if she’s not?

The girl has a long history of mental illness and addiction. This implies that, at least at times, she is not able to make good choices. All these screw ups are not due to any moral failure. She wants to do the right thing. She wants to be happy and productive. But then she sabotages all her good efforts by using.

So, in a sense, she is right. It is not fair that she go to prison. She probably should not be on her own, but prison is unlikely to help her, or help anyone else. At this moment, this young woman can’t function all alone. That much is obvious, even to her. She needs some supervision, but is prison any kind of answer?

In America we use jails and prisons to control people who are sick. I suppose that other countries do that too, but it seems that here we punish people who are mentally ill, rather than trying to heal them. We take people who are desperate and wounded, and we incarcerate them. Out of sight, out of mind. Not all criminals are mentally ill, but many persons who are mentally ill are treated as criminals. We don’t have money to cure people, but we always have money to imprison them.

This girl might well be dead if she wasn’t in jail right now. The sad truth is that jail is a safe place for her, for now. Will prison be a safe place? I don’t know, and I have no influence on future events. Will she get any kind of medical treatment in prison? Probably not. Prison is simply a warehouse for unwanted souls. It’s just a purgatory here on earth.

This girl, along with many others, is in a dark and scary place. It’s a place that doesn’t need to exist. It’s a place that we, as a society, have created and maintain.

It is wrong.