Frank is Emptiness

November 12th, 2018

Back in the spring, I wandered around the country with a band of Native Americans. One of them talked to me about the importance of being connected with the spirits of our ancestors. I remember telling him that I din’t necessarily want some of those ancestral spirits too close to me.

He laughed and said, “Well, I guess you got a problem there!”

He was right. I do have a problem.

My dad died on Saturday. I didn’t know about it until Sunday night. Karin and I had spent the weekend at a Trappist monastery in Oklahoma, and we had almost no connection with the outside world for two days. Our son, Hans, called us while we driving through Illinois to tell us that he had seen something about my father posted on Facebook. I guess that’s the way people find things out now: informal obituaries on Facebook.

I sat in the passenger seat while Karin drove for the last two hours of our journey. My father’s death was not really a surprise. We knew it was coming. He was nearly eighty-six, and he had just been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I had thought that he would have a couple more months. I thought wrong.

As we drove through the darkness, I realized that I didn’t feel much of anything. My dad was gone, but I didn’t miss him.

Karin and I have been to a few funerals recently. We are at an age where attending a funeral becomes a more frequent occurrence. A couple weeks ago, we were at a funeral for a friend was just a bit older than my dad. His grandchildren went up to the lectern to speak about their happy memories of their grandfather. They talked about all the wonderful things he had done with them and for them. They had genuine affection in their voices.

I don’t have any happy memories of my father. Well, maybe I do, but I can’t find them. They are locked away somewhere in my head, and I have forgotten the password. I can only find memories that are frightening or infuriating. Thinking about my life with my dad is scary. It’s like going to a dark place, and I don’t want to visit there any more.

Karin and I went to talk with my father in the nursing home about a month ago. He was happy to see us, and I was glad to be there with him. At the end, he wasn’t scary any more. He was just old and sad and tired. I was okay with the old man in the room. I’m not okay with man that he was. I don’t want to remember that man.

On Thursday we will go to my dad’s funeral. I will say goodbye.

I hope that God receives and welcomes his spirit. I hope my father’s spirit finds the peace that eluded him on earth.

I also want my ancestor’s spirit to keep his distance for a while.

 

 

 

November 11th, 2018

We pulled into the Waffle House in Joplin, Missouri at around 9:00 AM on Sunday. Karin and I had already been driving for a couple hours along the back roads of eastern Oklahoma, and we were finally on I-44 heading toward St. Louis. We still had a solid ten hours of windshield time ahead of us on our way back home. It was time to stop for some breakfast.

It had been a really long time since I was last inside of a Waffle House. Karin and I have been driving down to Texas and back for almost thirty years, and we have stopped to eat at all sorts of places. I noticed that, once we got south of central Illinois, there was usually a Waffle House close by. Waffle House is a southern thing. I don’t know why. It just is. A Waffle House always has that down home, redneck feel. The restaurant in Joplin was no exception to that.

The Waffle House was tiny, surprisingly so. There was a counter and several booths. The kitchen was right behind/next to the counter. Actually, the cooks slaved away right in front of anybody who chose to sit at the counter. A person could watch their breakfast being prepared. Being as it was so small, the restaurant seemed crowded, even if it really wasn’t.

As we walked into the house, a tall, thin, black man shouted to us,

“GOOD MORNING! Welcome to the Waffle House!”

The man wore a blue Waffle House uniform, but all I could see was his smile. His smile illuminated the cafe. He had one front tooth that was broken and discolored. That didn’t matter. Seeing his smile was like watching the sun rise in the morning.

He asked us, “Where y’all want to sit? Y’all want a booth?”

We nodded, and sat down at one of the very utilitarian booths near a window.

You have to understand that a Waffle House is kind of Zen. The place is stripped down to the bare essentials. People come here to eat. That’s it. Oh, I will grant you that some folks socialize and chat, but there is no ambiance at this stop. The regulars all seem to be local farmers with sweat-stained caps and bad dental work, or they are black folk taking a break on their way to the nearest Baptist revival. However, they are all pretty damn friendly to a couple stray Yankees who happened to wander into their natural habitat.

The tall black man came to serve us. I saw by his name tag that he was called “Kenneth”. He was the lead man on this shift. Karin and I looked cluelessly on the Waffle House menu.

Kenneth smiled at us and said, “I usually recommend the ‘All Star Special”. Most times, folks, well, they just split the order. There’s a lot of food. They get themselves an extra plate. It’s got eggs and toast and grits and bacon and a waffle. It’s only eight dollars, if that’s what y’all would like.”

Then he asked, “Y’all want you coffee while you decide?”

We nodded and he filled our coffee cups.

Karin and I agreed to get the special.

He asked us, “Well, how you want yo’ eggs? Now, it come with two eggs, but you can get more. Each additional egg is forty cents.”

I told him, ” We want four eggs. Sunny side up.”

Kenneth smiled, “That’s fine. What y’all want for meat? Sausage? Bacon? Ham?”

Karin told him that we wanted bacon.

Then he said, “Y’all can have hash browns or grits. What you want?”

Karin and I looked at each other, and simultaneously we said, “Grits”.

Grits is a southern thing. It’s the tofu of the South. You can do almost anything with grits. The truth is that Karin and I cannot leave Dixie without eating grits at least once. It’s mandatory. It’s part of the experience.

The food came to us quickly. One platter held four eggs, some raisin toast, bacon, and a pecan waffle. The other plate was bare. We also got a bowl of grits. Honestly, the meal was more than enough for two people. It was hard to imagine one person wolfing it all down.

As Karin and I waded through the culinary delights, Kenneth came over to refill our coffees. When he was not with us, he was greeting any newcomers with a heartfelt, “Welcome to Waffle House!”

We ate everything on our plates. Kenneth came up to us and asked,

“Y’all want more coffee?”

We shook our heads.

“I can give y’all coffee in some to-go cups for your journey.”

I told him not to bother. The coffee would just make me want to piss.

In the end, it was a cheap breakfast.

I asked Kenneth,

“How should I pay you?”

He said, “Well, come up to the register, and we’ll settle.”

I gave him cash, way more than enough.

I said, “Keep the rest.”

Kenneth nodded, “Thank you, Sir.”

Karin and I left that place full and content.

God bless Kenneth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

November 5th, 2018

I have never felt so useless in my entire life.

Karin and I participated in a baby shower on Sunday afternoon. The shower was the main reason for our journey down to Texas. The baby shower was for Gabi, Hans’ fiancée. Karin went shopping on Saturday with Gabi and her mom to buy decorations and some food for the party.

I did some cooking in preparation for the shower. I made a quiche, and a herring salad. Both of those were rather quirky choices. I made them, first o all, because I know how to make those dishes. They generally turn out well. Also, Hans loves herring, and that has to be attributed to his Milwaukee upbringing. Pickled fish is an acquired taste. Hans, perhaps alone in all of Texas, enjoys herring. The salad itself consists of herring, green apples, raw onions, dill pickles, and mayo. It is crisp, crunchy, send incredibly sour.

On Sunday morning, Karin and I went to Mass, while Hans and Gabi bought more food. The plan was for Hans to grill burgers, and then to have the quiche, herring salad, and deep-fried jalapeños as side dishes. Karin planned to make spaetzle too. Spaetzle is a homemade noodle dish from southern Germany.

It was just after noon that Hans and I realized that we were superfluous to the rest of the operation. Gabi’s mother and sister showed up, and with Karin’s assistance, they took over the decorating process. Hans and I went to Kroger to buy more beer.

Gabi did have one more chore for Hans to perform prior to the arrival of the party guests. Gabi and Hans have three dogs. They spend time in the backyard, where they do their business. Gabi wanted Hans to clean up the dog poop in preparation for the party. He had gone to Home Depot and bought a rake, but he was dragging his feet with regards to the actual yard clean up. I had offered to help Hans, but Gabi was adamant that Hans, and Hans alone, rake up the dog shit.

Gabi gently reminded Hans of his responsibility.

She said sweetly, “Haaaaans, when y’all gonna clean up the backyard?”

He replied, “Let me just finish my smoke.”

There was an eye roll. Gabi said,

“C’mon Hans! The people will be here soon.”

Hans gave a deep, heartfelt sigh. “Oooookay.”

He took the rake out back, and made a feeble attempt at raking dog poo.

He said, “Ooh…this is disgusting.”

Gabi told him, “Well, yeah….that’s why I want you clean it up. I gave you just one job to do, and…”

“Okay, okay, I’m doing it.” Hans gave her one of his patented pouting faces.

Another eye roll.

Hans managed to clear a zone near the patio that was biologically safe. That’s a good thing, since the grill is on the patio. He muttered darkly that wasn’t going to rake any more. Then he lit a cigarette and cracked open a beer. I opened one too, to show solidarity.

I think about fifteen people showed up. Gabi’s mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother arrived. Gabi’s sister and a high school friend came. Hans’ old boss from the oil fields and his wife showed up. Then Hans’ buddy from work, along with his wife and daughter, drove up in their huge pick up truck. Gabi’s brother came. Hans’ cousin, Rosie came with her daughter, Lani, in tow. The house got pretty full.

The women gathered in the living room. The guys stayed outside and kept their distance.

Hans and I stood on the driveway with Jim, Hans’ old boss from the oil fields. Jim has worked in the oil fields all of his adult life. Jim thinks of Hans as his son. Jim is a couple years older than I am. He’s a good, solid man. He’s conservative in good ways, and completely trustworthy.

As we all stood there with our beers, Jim said in total seriousness,

“Do y’all think we should send the military into the schools to stop these shootings?”

Hans replied, “I think we should just better utilize the law enforcement resources that we have available.”

I said, “I think we need to convince folks that killing people doesn’t solve any problems.”

Jim gave me a hard stare.

Jim said, “I don’t remember this sort of thing from when I was young. Hell, these kids ain’t got any discipline. You can’t even smack on the behind any more.”

Hans nodded. “Parents are afraid to teach their children right from wrong. That’s why they don’t respect their elders.”

Keep in mind that Hans is thirty-one years old. I find it amusing when he bitches about those “young people” not having respect for their elders.

I asked Hans, “So, was I afraid to discipline you?”

Hans shook his head, “You put the fear of death into me.”

Good to know.

All three of us agreed that gun control was not the answer, for differing reasons. Hans is always a bit impressed that I oppose gun control, since he considers me to be a hippie-style liberal. I like to surprise him.

Hans eventually got around to starting the grill. The women were inside as Gabi opened her gifts. Little Weston is going to be a very well-dressed baby. The guys were standing around the grill. Hans was arguing with Colby, his friend from work. Colby is an enthusiastic Democrat. Hans is not. Also, Hans refuses to vote. Hans has strong political opinions, but he won’t cast a ballot. He considers the system to be too corrupt. He might be right.

Everybody ate well. Hans even grilled veggie-burgers for the Texans who don’t like meat. People stayed away from the herring salad. Texans are no more adventurous regarding food than anyone else. Their loss.

The party broke up after six. I helped clean up the aftermath. I think that Gabi had a good time. She seemed happy. Karin was happy too.

Hans seemed a little lost. He might as well get used to that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

November 1st, 2018

The abbot gave the homily at the early Mass. Karin and I were there. We were at Subiaco Abbey, and it was the Solemnity of All Saints. The abbot told a story about how, years ago, he was alone in the church. Even though he was by himself, he had the sense that the church was full of people. He had a vision of being with an invisible multitude. The memory of that vision has remained with him.

All Saints Day is a fitting time to recall that vision, because really that is what the day is all about. It is a day to remember how interconnected we all are. It is easy to feel separate, to feel alone. Our individualistic society actively encourages each of us to go our way. We seldom have a sense of community. We are often unaware of how much we need each other.

In his sermon the priest spoke about the Church Triumphant (the souls in heaven), the Church Suffering (the souls being purified in purgatory), and the Church Militant, (those of us who struggle here are earth). Leaving aside the theology, what he tried to emphasize is that we are all connected in a profound way, a way that transcends both time and space. He told the congregation that we are connected with those sitting near us, and those sitting in other churches scattered across the world, and with those who have gone before us. We are linked to souls all across the planet, and all across time. As Paul wrote, we are “surrounded by a cloud of witnesses”.

The idea is deeply moving, at least it is to me. I would extend it beyond the Church. I believe that all life is connected. Everything is connected. That is a very Buddhist perspective. I think it is also a very Catholic one.

There was another Mass in the evening. Immediately afterward, the monks of the abbey sang vespers, their evening prayer. Many of the lay people had remained in the church after the service  to socialize. They laughed and talked. Simultaneously, the monks attempted to pray with Gregorian chant. I think the discordant sounds bothered some people. Somehow, it seemed appropriate to me. It’s part of the communion of saints. Some people strive for a pure spiritual experience. At the same time, others just enjoy each others’ company. All of it is part of a whole.

It is all  one.

 

 

November 3rd, 2018

Hans was sitting in his front porch. He has a folding chair tucked away in a corner, and that js his hiding hole. He goes there when he needs to be alone. There is always a small pile of cigarette ashes on the porch in front of the chair. The ashes are the residue from an endless number of Pall Malls.

I went out to the porch with him. Hans was dead tired. He had worked the day/night before, and he hadn’t slept for at least twenty-four hours. He slumped down into his chair and pulled out his lighter.

He started talking.

“Those guys at Capitol, they wanted me to go out and pump another job this morning at 10:00. I told them to go to hell. I didn’t get home from the yard until damn near seven. I’d been working almost eighteen hours, had no sleep, and they wanted me to go back out.”

He went on, “Dispatch does this shit all the time. They panic and need a driver to pump concrete. I just tell ’em no. That’s unsafe. I know that Capitol don’t give damn about me. I know that much. But they give a damn about that two million dollar rig I’m driving. They care about lawsuits if I have a wreck. They care about all that.”

Hans lit up a Pall Mall, and took a deep drag. Then he took a sip of his Lime-a-Rita.

Hans went on, “I don’t get no sleep. I don’t have a set work schedule. I go in any time of day or night.”

I asked, “You want to go to sleep now?”

Hans shook his head. “No. I’m past that. I can’t sleep now.”

I asked him, “You too wound up?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

Hans took another drag and said, “I don’t know what I’m gonna do when Weston is born. I might have to sleep in a truck at the yard.”

I told him, “Well, when you were little, and I was working third shift, Mom used to take you to the park for a couple hours so I could sleep,”

Hans stared straight ahead. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Gabi will just have to leave the house with Weston for a while”, I told him.

Hans just said, “Yeah.”

I thought back to all those years when I worked nights. I thought about how much stress that put on Karin and the kids. I still don’t sleep at night. Hans doesn’t either.

It’s starting all over again.

 

 

November 3rd, 2018

We got to Hans and Gabi’s house around 5:00 PM. We got to sitting around and talking. Gabi and Karin were watching “Hell’s Kitchen” on the television. Then Hans started telling us a story about one of the times he got pulled over by a deputy sheriff.

“Yeah, this deputy pulled me over one night. I’d been drinking a bit. After he stopped me, he saw the open container in the truck, and he started telling me that he was going to write me up a ticket. Well, I showed him…”

At that point, Hans pulled his t-shirt up high, and rubbed his left nipple. He said to us in the same sultry, falsetto voice that he had used with the deputy, “Are you sure you want to do that?”

Hans grinned, and said to us, “That deputy pulled me out the truck so damn fast. He threw on me on the ground and beat my ass for a while. THEN, he tazed me! He stuck me with that thing, and he asked,

“You  awake now?!”

I didn’t like that much. It’s okay, I got him back later.”

I had to ask, “How?”

Hans told the story.

“Well, I was at Yankee’s, having a beer, and that deputy was there.”

Gabi interrupted, “Just one beer?”

Hans replied, “Well, a pitcher. But that only counts as one.”

Gabi rolled her eyes.

Hans continued,

“Well, he was all messed up, and was stumbling out the door to get on his Harley and ride home. Well, that was clearly unsafe, so I followed him out there, and when he got on his bike, I took the keys out of the ignition.

He didn’t like that. He started yelling at me to give his keys back, but I told him he was too drunk to ride that bike. He went on hollering, so I told him that I’d go back in the bar and bring us out a couple beers.

I went in the bar and I gave the keys to the bartender. I told him that the deputy was too drunk to ride. The barkeep put the keys behind the cash register.

In went back out to the lot, and the deputy asked about his beer.

I told him, “What beer?”

Then he asked about his keys.

I told him, “What keys?”

He was pissed. He took a swing at me and missed. He fell over when he did that. Then he went inside the bar, raising hell about his missing keys.

The bartender, well, he got mad, and he told the deputy to knock that shit off, or he was going to call the cops.

The deputy yelled at him, “I AM THE COPS!”

The bartender yelled back, “Then I’m gonna call your boss!”

The deputy sobered up a bit, and he got on his phone to his wife. She came to get him in a big, old Suburban. She was pissed. She was so mad at her guy.”

Hans laughed.

 

 

Hans and I were at his home. The women were all gone shopping. They were out buying stuff for next day’s baby shower. Hans and I had just taken a ride to Kurten to look at the beat up, white Ford truck that he planned to eventually raise from the dead. The white whale was sitting in the tall grass on the property of Gabby’s father. Hans plans, once he has some money, to put a new transmission into the truck. First, he has to put the bell housing from the old tranny back into the Ford, just to see if the engine will turn over. Gabby’s daddy came out of his house to talk with us for a bit. Then Hans and I bought some groceries and beer, and we went back to Hans’ house.

Once we got home, I started making quiche. It was kind of like baking a cheese pie. The quiche was to be a side dish for the baby shower. Hans planned to cook up some hamburgers for the party, but he and Gabby needed some other food to go along with the burgers. Hans and talked as I worked in the kitchen. We talked about Weston, the son that would soon arrive. We talked about religion for a bit. I asked Hans if he intended to get Weston baptized at some point. Hans wasn’t sure about that. He and Gabi are both Christian, but Hans wasn’t sure if Gabby’s church did infant baptisms, or if they waited until the person was an adult.

Hans cracked open a can, and started telling me about how he went to all sorts of religious services while he was in Army basic training. He went just to get away from the barracks and to score some goodies that the different denominations offered to young soldiers.

Hans told me, “I even visited with the Muslims for a while. They used to bring food from the local IHOP. Eventually, they stopped doing that, and I got tired listening to their stuff. I spent a lot of time with the Protestants. They always had a ‘meet and greet’ sort of thing. That was kind of nice.”

Hans got thoughtful as he took a pull on his Lime-a-Rita. He said,

“You know, I learned later on that I had a higher purpose. Truck’s dad, he’s a Christian. He told me once that I had a higher purpose. He didn’t know what it was, but he said that he knew I was supposed to be on this earth for a reason.”

Hans went on, “You know, after that, when things were bad, I pulled the trigger. I had the gun to my head. That shitty Russian round never fired. It didn’t go ‘boom’. It just went ‘click’. I was still alive. I knew then that I had a higher purpose here.”

I had the pies in the oven, and Hans and I settled down to watch a movie on Netflix. We settled on watching “Hold the Dark”, which is kind of a murder mystery set in Alaska. Early in the movie, there is a scene set in Iraq during the war. Hans watched it intently. I asked him if it was realistic.

Hans shrugged.

There was a part where an American soldier fires up an Iraqi vehicle with a 50 cal. Then one of the other soldiers takes a selfie in front of the burning wreckage and bloody carnage. Hans laughed.

“Now that’s realistic. We did that all the time. But we never posted those pictures. Well, the idiots did, but they got in trouble for that.”

The movie showed American troops on patrol in the desert with their vehicles. Hans started to reminisce,

“One time we got fired up by some National Guard unit. Our own guys. They couldn’t identify vehicles for shit. We kept trying to call them, and we sent up flares. They wouldn’t answer their radio. Finally, I fired my 50 cal, and sent tracer rounds thirty feet in front of their lead vehicle. That got their attention. They answered the radio then. Damn, I got in trouble for that shit. I almost lost rank because of that.”

In a later part of the Iraqi scene, a lone soldier walks through part of a war-torn town. He comes upon another American soldier who is in the process of raping an Iraqi woman. The lone soldier stabs the rapist repeatedly, and then he hands his bloody knife to the woman, so that she can finish the job.

Hans signed and said, “I probably would have done the same thing, but I probably wouldn’t have used my own knife to do it. But we never walked alone in an Iraqi town. Only stupid guys did that. We always at least went in pairs, you know, ‘battle buddies’. Maybe there were 60% or even 90% of the people in a town that wanted you there. That meant here were still other people looking to kill you.”

We sat and watched the rest of the movie.

 

 

November 1st, 2018

There isn’t much going on in Alpena, Arkansas. It has few houses and a gas station that are located at the intersection of Highways 412 and 23. It was about five in the afternoon when Karin and I drove there in the pouring rain. We were looking for place eat something, and there happened to be a tiny sandwich shop right next to the filling station. We stopped.

We went into the sandwich shop and checked out the menu. They could make a variety of wraps, burgers, and sandwiches. At least, that’s what the menu said. We were greeted by a timid young girl who looked to be barely into her early teens. She asked what we wanted. Karin ordered a veggie wrap.

The childlike teenager smiled nervously, and said with a thick southern drawl,

“This my first day at this job. The girl who’s training me hasn’t shown me how to make a wrap yet. She’s in the back right now, but she will be here in a minute. Y’all don’t mind?”

The experienced trainer came into the shop. She didn’t look much older than the new employee. I wonder what the child labor laws are in Arkansas. The older girl told Karin that she would be teaching her young apprentice as they made the wrap together. She cautioned Karin that it might take a while. It did.

I ordered a cheeseburger. The master sandwich maker took care of my order. That went more quickly. The girls were very friendly, and I could tell that they were doing the best job that they could. The older girl was patient as she taught the newbie. I was impressed by that. We left a tip.

Karin and I were tired. Very tired. We had already had eleven hours of windshield time, and we could feel it. It was going to get dark soon, and we still had over two hours of driving left before we arrived at the retreat house at the Subiaco Abbey. The last couple hours were all going to be along the steep, narrow roads that wind through the Ozark mountains.

I took the first stretch from Alpena through Huntsville. The car has a six-speed standard transmission, and I shifted through all of those gears repeatedly. It was raining hard, and fog was starting to rise from the ground in places. It was a white knuckle ride.

Karin told me, “Now don’t wait too long before we switch drivers. Tell me when you’re tired.”

The truth was that I had been tired for several hours already. Now I was just getting scary tired.

We traded seats in some wide spot in the road called St. Paul. Karin had the last leg of the journey, and it was bad. Karin asked me to read the speed limit signs that came just before the tight turns. I called out,

“Thirty miles per hour!”

“Twenty miles per hour!”

“TEN miles per hour!”

Yês, there were hairpin curves that required the driver to slow to ten miles per hour. With the rain and the leaves on the road, it was slick. The grades were steep. Karin’s stomach tightened into a fist. She was not enjoying Highway 23.

We saw some big trucks coming the opposite direction as we came down this slalom course into the Arkansas River Valley. I cannot imagine how it is even physically possible for a tractor pulling a 45′ trailer to handle some of those hairpin turns. The Toyota barely made it.

We made to Subiaco. Karin was exhausted. It’s strange. That trip would be great on a warm, dry autumn day for somebody on a Harley. It sucked on a dark, rainy night.

 

 

 

 

 

October 29th, 2018

The rabbi said, “There is no mitzah, no commandment, that requires a Jew to believe in God.”

Wow.

I was sitting in the synagogue when he said that, and it made me think. The Orthodox Jews follow 613 different mitzvot (commandments), which they derive from the Torah. These rules from God cover almost every aspect of their lives. Yet, somehow, God isn’t all that concerned with their actual beliefs.

As the rabbi went on to explain his statement, he indicated that God does not command us to have specific thoughts or intentions or beliefs. God is interested in our actions. He is concerned with what we do, as opposed to what we think. 

This whole idea is in opposition to most of Christian thought. Christians, especially Evangelicals, place a huge emphasis on belief. As just one of many examples:

John 3:16

 

 

 

 

October 26th, 2018

The house was on a quiet street near the corner of 60th and Oklahoma, an intersection that is dominated by the church of St. Gregory the Great. I had never been to the house before. The area is on Milwaukee’s far south side, a part of town that is attractive to firemen and cops. These are people who work for the City, and therefore need to reside within its boundaries. At least, they used be required to be residents of Milwaukee. I don’t know if that is still the case. The far south side of Milwaukee is not quite suburbia, and it is not hip and trendy, and it is definitely not the hood. It is especially not the hood.

Sometimes you wind up in unexpected places. I was there because the parents of the Syrian family wanted to an English-speaker to be present as they shopped for a house. The mother, A’isha, has a friend is fluent in both English and Arabic. However, this friend was unavailable to be present as A’isha and Turki inspected the house. I just happened to be in the family’s home, tutoring Ibrahim on his homework, so I was asked to come along. My Arabic is minimal, but I have known the family for over a year, and they apparently trust me.

The realtor was there to show us the home. He was there to sell. Of course, that’s his job, but it brought back to me a flood of unpleasant memories from when Karin and I were looking for a house back in 1990. I am sure that he is a good guy, but I was suspicious of everything he told us. Just because…he’s a realtor.

Keep in mind the size of the Syrian family. They have eleven children. I am no stranger to large families. I grew up with six younger brothers. I know how much room is required for a big family. This house didn’t quite meet the requirements. There were issues.

The realtor wanted us to look at the basement. Why not? It was a finished basement, and a finished basement always makes me uneasy, because things are hidden. I asked the realtor about any possible water damage, and he stared at his smart phone until he could tell me that the sellers had indicated that there had not been any water in the basement. This told me nothing. The basement had no sump pump. The carpeting and the paneling on the walls hid any problems.

The basement wasn’t very big, and most of its space was consumed by a humongous wet bar. The bar had several stools and a couple built-in beer taps. I found this to be oddly amusing. I said to Turki, who was looking at the bar,

“I don’t think you are going to use this much.”

He gave me a wry smile, and said, “No”, as he shook his head.

I asked the realtor, “Have you figured out that these people are Muslim?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, I don’t think they will be entertaining guests at the bar.”

He shrugged, “They might find some alternate use for it.”

Really?

The deal breaker came when we looked at the one and only bathroom in the house. The place had four bedrooms, but only one bath. A’isha made it clear that one toilet wasn’t going to be enough. Thirteen people and one bathroom? Noooo.

The realtor asked the Syrians what they really wanted.

A’isha blurted out, “Two baths!”

The realtor countered, “How about one and a half?”

A’isha relented, “Yes, maybe one and a half.”

The realtor asked her, “How many bedrooms?”

“Four! No, maybe five!”  (Do the math: thirteen people in the family divided by five bedrooms. That’s still crowded.)

Oddly enough, I live in a house with one and a half bathrooms, and five bedrooms. However, the Syrian family isn’t moving in to our home. There is way too much of my wife’s yarn and wool filling up most of the space.

The realtor asked the Syrian couple how much money the bank had offered to provide.

A painful silence.

Okay, these folks are new at this game. They started by looking at a house. That seems reasonable. Karin and I did the same thing years ago. However, that is the wrong place to start. A person starts by talking to the bank. The bank determines how much of a house a person can afford. The realtor takes that dollar amount and looks for available homes. You start the process with the money, and the process ends with the money. It’s all about the money.

Buying a house is probably one of the most stressful events in a family’s life. It is a huge, long term commitment. It’s scary as hell. It was scary for my wife and me, and we actually understood English. For these people, it’s got to be intense, maybe overwhelming.

Owning your own home is the American dream. Yeah.

Welcome to America.