fiction – Frank is Emptiness

Little Things that Go Sideways

August 15th, 2025

I came home from visiting a friend on Tuesday afternoon. My wife, Karin, wanted me to be home to care for our grandson, Asher, so she could go to her knitting guild meeting. As I backed into the driveway, I saw my wife standing in front of the garage. The garage was open and the RAV4 was inside of it. Karin looked very upset as I pulled in.

I parked and Asher came over to my car and smiled. He said, “Grandpa!”

Karin did not smile. She said, “The car and the garage door are broken.”

Oh.

To digress for a moment, when I was growing up, the standard reaction to a statement like that in my family was origin was emotional chaos. There was always a lot of hollering. Enormous amounts of energy were immediately expended on finding somebody to blame for whatever bad thing had happened. That was the priority. After an initial burst of rage was directed at somebody, then, maybe, an effort would be made to solve the problem. Sometimes, the issue never really was solved. The important thing was to find a scapegoat.

I used to react like that for a long time when I was younger. I think that my wife still expects me to blow my top when she bears bad tidings. Sometimes, if I am worn out, I do, but I don’t get angry nearly as often. I frankly don’t have the stamina for it. Rage takes a lot out of a person. In any case, I barely reacted at all when she told me that things had gone sideways.

My wife explained that she had been backing into the garage when suddenly the door came down hard on the rear of the car. It shattered the rear window. Neither Asher nor Karin were hurt, thank God. However, the accident terrified them both. It would have freaked me out too.

I examined the damage. Ugly. The rear window in the RAV4 was pratty much gone. The storage area in the back of the car was littered with tiny pieces of glass. The garage door was hanging cockeyed. One of the cables had torn away from the bottom panel of the door. It’s an old door, the original door from when we built the house in 1991. The wood on the bottom panel was rotted out in some places. I don’t know if the cable let go before or after my wife was backed into the garage. It doesn’t matter. The door was now junk.

There was no point in me getting upset. My wife was already stressed out. I went about starting the process to fix things.

It was already late when I stared making calls to our insurance, both auto and home. I called a garage door contractor. They were closed for the day, but I got hold of their 24 hour service guy. He convinced me to wait until the next morning for an inspection (they have a $200 surcharge for after hours service calls). I left the RAV4 in the garage (it rained hard later in the evening). I closed the door as far as it would go. After that, it was completely immobile.

I’m still making calls. For the last couple days, I have been talking to insurance adjuster, contractors, and car rental companies. I will be calling a collision repair shop as soon as they open this morning to find out when I can bring in the RAV. This is all a hassle, but it’s one I can manage. The garage door was replaced yesterday. Eventually, it will all get repaired and life will go on.

The Milwaukee area, where we live, suffered torrential rains and severe flooding six days ago. It was bad. We got lucky, and had no damage to our property. Other people in the metro area got hit hard. A large number of residents had flooded homes or flooded cars. One family’s home in a nearby suburb was hit with so much water that the foundation shifted and the basement wall collapsed. Those people are now homeless. That house is probably a dead loss. Those folks have real problems. Our issues are minor.

We had to wait two days to get rental car that is paid for by our insurance. I initially found the delay to be annoying. We finally picked up the rental car yesterday afternoon. The office manager at the car rental explained to us why he did not have a car for us right away. Apparently, that facility only rents out maybe seven or eight cars per day. Since the great flood, they have been renting out thirty cars per day. They don’t have thirty cars available. Nor do any of their other locations in the area. They ran out of cars, and they still don’t have enough to go around.

I have to admit that I am fortunate. Other people are not.

Oh well, it’s time to make some calls.

A Hero of War

August 3rd, 2025

He said “Son, have you seen the world?
Well, what would you say if I said that you could?
“Just carry this gun, you’ll even get paid”
I said “That sounds pretty good”

Black leather boots
Spit-shined so bright
They cut off my hair but it looked alright
We marched and we sang
We all became friends
As we learned how to fight

A hero of war
Yeah, that’s what I’ll be
And when I come home
They’ll be damn proud of me
I’ll carry this flag
To the grave if I must
‘Cause it’s a flag that I love
And a flag that I trust

I kicked in the door
I yelled my commands
The children, they cried
But I got my man
We took him away
A bag over his face
From his family and his friends

They took off his clothes
They pissed in his hands
I told them to stop
But then I joined in
We beat him with guns
And batons not just once
But again and again

A hero of war
Yeah that’s what I’ll be
And when I come home
They’ll be damn proud of me
I’ll carry this flag
To the grave if I must
‘Cause it’s a flag that I love
And a flag that I trust

She walked through bullets and haze
I asked her to stop
I begged her to stay
But she pressed on
So I lifted my gun
And I fired away

And the shells jumped through the smoke
And into the sand
That the blood now had soaked
She collapsed with a flag in her hand
A flag white as snow

A hero of war
Is that what they see
Just medals and scars
So damn proud of me
And I brought home that flag
Now it gathers dust
But it’s a flag that I love
It’s the only flag I trust

He said, “Son, have you seen the world?
Well what would you say, if I said that you could?”

Lyrics to Hero of War from the band, “Rise Against”. Released in 2008.

I just played that track again on the stereo after not listening to it for a long time. I don’t particularly like the song, even though it is well done. I guess it’s because it’s just too accurate and it cuts too close to the bone. Hearing it makes my heart hurt. It really does.

I can’t listen to the lyrics without thinking about my oldest son, Hans. Hans enlisted in the Army in 2009. He knew when he enlisted that he was going to be deployed either to Iraq or Afghanistan. That was guaranteed. My wife and I did not want him to go to war, even though I am a veteran myself, or especially because I am a veteran. He joined anyway. Hans went to Iraq in 2011.

Hans did lots of things in Iraq. He went on patrols. He cleared buildings. He kicked in doors. He got wounded. He killed people. He came back different.

Hans texted a few weeks ago about his war. He said, “I’m actually grateful for my army experience.” He told me that it made him grow up in a hurry and it taught him what was important in life. I’m sure that’s true, but at what cost?

I’ve written numerous essays on this blog about Hans and things that happened to him in the Army. A few of his stories are funny, but most of them are not. The accounts of his experiences in Iraq are harrowing, at least they are to me. There are things that a father probably does not need to hear, although I am grateful that Hans trusted me enough to tell me.

If you’re curious, you can look up my essays about his war. It’s all here in the blog.

Hans was a hero of war, whatever that means.

The First to Leave

August 3rd, 2025

Mike died on the evening of July 25th. That’s what I was told anyway. I have been thinking about Mike since I heard about his passing. We weren’t close friends, and I last saw him in 1980 or maybe in ’81. During the intervening forty-five years, I have connected with him three or four times, and all of those interactions were relatively recent and brief. They consisted of a couple emails, a snail mail letter, and an aborted attempt at a phone call. We haven’t had an actual conversation in decades. I have no idea what he looked like in the last months of his life.

Mike was in my West Point class. We graduated together in June of 1980. We were in the same company at United States Military Academy. The Corps of Cadets at USMA consists of four brigades, and each brigade has nine companies. Mike and I were in the same company, B-4 (B Company of the 4th Brigade). We joined that unit in the fall of 1976 as plebes (freshmen) and stayed there until we graduated and became 2nd lieutenants. We spent nearly four years in the same barracks, day in and day out. Upon graduation, our paths diverged, and they never really crossed again.

B-4, like the other companies, was in many ways a fraternity (even though there were a few women in each unit). Over time, a cadet gets to know his or her classmates. You make friends. Some people are close, and others not so much. Eventually, a common bond is formed, and in some cases that bond remains intact for years, even decades. I’ve maintained contact with maybe half a dozen of my comrades from B-4. Mike wasn’t one of them. Once we graduated, we separated and stayed that way, that is until I learned that Mike had cancer.

Mike was a stranger to me when he left this world a week ago. I know nothing of his time in the Army or of his career in the civilian world or of his family. That’s why I grieve. I missed out on most of his life. He only died a few days ago, but he has been missing from my life for a long, long time.

I have never gone to a class reunion. Now that I am the legal guardian and a primary caregiver for a four-year-old, I doubt that I will ever go to one. I know that some of my classmates want to attend one of these events, because people are starting to check out of the net. If we don’t reunite now, we might never do so. I don’t know if Mike was the first to go. However, his passing is a wakeup call.

Give Me Your Arm

July 29th, 2025

Our young grandson, Asher, is a restless sleeper. He’s only four-and-a-half years old, but he has already seen more than his fair share of trauma. He sleeps in my bed. I don’t necessarily want him with me, but he can’t go to sleep unless I hold him. When he is tired, Asher crawls into the bed and nestles in the crux of my left arm. It takes him only moments to doze off once he is comfortable there. He doesn’t want me to cuddle with him. He just wants to be held in my arm.

Lately, Asher has been waking up in the middle of the night. He likes to sleep crosswise in the bed, which means I have little or no room. Last night, around 3:00 AM, he woke up and looked at me. He said,

“Grandpa, give me your arm.”

I did.

He touched my arm and found his sweet spot on my bicep. Asher fluffed it up like a pillow. Then he rested his head on my arm. He grasped my arm with both hands and held on tight. Slowly, gradually, he relaxed. After a few minutes, he calmed down and his breathing grew quiet. Then he was asleep, still holding onto my arm.

I waited half an hour, and then I carefully wrested my arm from under his round head. Asher slept on. I got up to take a piss.

This morning, I took Asher to the playground early. We stayed there until it got too hot for him to play anymore. Then he wanted to go to the library.

We drove to the library. Asher drank a smoothie in the back seat. When we got close, Asher told me,

“I can see the library! We are almost there!”

I replied, “I know.”

“Grandpa, we are there. We can park the car.”

“Yeah.”

After I parked, Asher got out of his child seat and climbed out of the car.

He said, “Give me your arm.”

I said, “I have to lock the car.”

I did. Then we walked toward the entrance of the library.

Asher grasped my right hand. I squeezed his little hand in mine.

He told me, “I’m only holding on to your pinkie.”

I told him, “That’s good enough.”

Fat

July 27th, 2025

I try to take my grandson, Asher, to a playground every day. Sometimes the visit is brief. Sometimes we are at the park for an hour or two. The point is that he is a four-year-old boy, and he needs to be outside and active. He needs to be moving.

I read an article about Dr. Oz, the man currently in charge of Medicare and Medicaid. He recently went on a rant about the nation’s obesity epidemic. It is a bit hard for me to take Dr. Oz seriously considering that his boss in the White House is almost as wide as he is tall. However, Oz has a point. Americans are fatter than we were in years past. It’s a fact.

A couple days ago, I took Asher to a local playground near a Salvation Army center. The Salvation Army has ongoing summer youth programs. Asher and I were at the park when a column of kids and their chaperons walked from the center to the playground. There were probably twenty or thirty children coming toward us. They were of various ages, both boys and girls.

In that group I saw that about 25% of kids were overweight, a few of them morbidly obese. That really kind of bothered me. Once the children arrived at the playground, most of them went directly to the swings and the slides and the monkey bars. They started organizing games among themselves. They were loud and rambunctious. They were doing exactly what kids are supposed to do when they are outside. They were in constant motion and generally having a good time.

Most of the heavier kids did not participate in the horseplay. They found a place to sit or lie down. Asher played with a few other children in a big sandbox. They took turns excavating a buried toy. One overweight older boy helped, but he remained prone the entire time. He laid on his belly while digging in the sand with a small shovel. He didn’t even bother to sit up. When he was done playing, it took enormous effort for him to get back up on his feet.

I was a fat kid. In grade school I was chubby, so I know how it is to be an overweight child. My folks took me to the “husky” section for boys’ clothes at the department store. I often felt embarrassed about my weight. I usually was one of the last kids to get picked for a team in gym class. Life sucked. I know how the heavy kids at the playground feel.

Somehow, once I got into middle school and high school, I became more physically active and I “thinned out”. I was actually in good enough shape in my senior year to get accepted into the U.S. Military Academy. Honestly, I don’t know who or what helped me to get in shape, but I did change. Now, I’m old and I could stand to lose five to ten pounds. I probably won’t, but at this point in my life it might not matter so much.

I think obesity does matter for these children. They are going to have serious health problems in the future, if they don’t already. I don’t blame them for their condition. I’ve been there. They need their caregivers to help them get fit. They need adults to help them get moving.

Asher is fit. He’s strong and agile. I am going to help him to stay like that.

Monkey Bars and Morning Glories

July 11th, 2025

We tend to observe certain milestones in life: births, graduations, and weddings. Maybe, we might also commemorate baptisms or bar mitzvahs, if we are at all religious. But we tend to ignore the small events which by themselves seem inconsequential, but in fact are critical in a cumulative sort of way. These mundane achievements are seldom celebrated or even recognized. We don’t usually pay attention to them, and they get lost in the flow of time.

I have a four-year-old grandson named Asher. My wife and I are his legal guardians and fulltime caregivers. We are with him all day, every day. Sometimes, we don’t notice the changes in him. We ofttimes don’t become aware of how much he has grown until we see that his clothes are too small for him. Because Asher is with us all the time, we can’t always perceive his development. He seems like the same little boy until he shocks us with something new and unexpected.

When we suddenly wake up to the realization that Asher is different, we ask questions like, “When did you grow so tall?” or “Where did you learn that?”. It feels strange to get blindsided by his rapid development, but it happens all the time. We wake up in the morning and there is a new kid in the house.

Three days ago, I took Asher to a local playground called Kayla’s Place. There are many types of equipment at the playground for children of various ages to use and enjoy. Asher likes to swing on the “monkey bars”, which are actually a sort of horizontal ladder. I have always needed to lift him up in order for him to grab on to the metal bars. I had to continue to hold him each time so that he could swing from one bar to another.

Our last visit to the park was different. He stood underneath the lowest set of bars and made a little jump. For the first time ever, Asher was able to grasp two bars and hang from them for almost a minute. He isn’t strong enough yet to swing from one bar to the next, but he was able to get up there on his own. That’s a big deal. I congratulated him, and yesterday I mentioned to his therapist what he did. Asher was excited and told her,

“I got on the monkey bars, and I did it ALL BY MYSELF!”

A few weeks ago, Asher and my wife put up a sort of tepee in the yard to grow morning glories. Karin found some old stalks from the elderberry bushes and tied them together with string. She made a scaffolding for the vines to climb. Early yesterday morning, she saw the first flower blooming on a vine. It was near the ground. She alerted Asher that there was something new outside.

Asher put on his Crocs and rushed out of the patio door still wearing his pajamas. I followed him out. He stared at the morning glory blossom in awe. He told me,

“Grandpa, the flower looks like it’s glowing!”

It did look like it was emitting a light of its own. The rays of the sun were striking to flower in such a way that it was luminous. The flower was a deep violet on the edges and that color faded to white near the stem.

Asher smiled as he gazed at the blossom. For a moment he was in love with nature, and that was also a beautiful thing.

Monkey bars and morning glories. Those are simple things, but they are also important.

I need to pay attention.

Dragons

July 3rd, 2025

“There are dragons ahead!”

Thus proclaimed our grandson, Asher, at supper last night. His statement came completely out of the blue. Asher is four and a half years old, and he tends to say things that. He was calmly eating some French toast when he decided to mention dragons. I don’t know why. Maybe he didn’t either.

His comment made me think of the old medieval maps that were based partly on facts and mostly on wishful thinking. The cartographers of that time drew up charts describing the few areas of the world that they knew and then filled up the remaining blank spaces on the parchment by using their imaginations. A popular way of explaining the unknown was to write, “There be dragons”.

Perhaps these old mapmakers were right.

After Asher mentioned dragons my wife, Karin, talked about an old song from Peter, Paul, and Mary called “Puff, the Magic Dragon”. Karin tried to sing the song for Asher but couldn’t remember the lyrics. I could remember most of them, but I didn’t want to sing. Something caught in my throat when I recalled the last verse on Puff. The was a pang of intense sadness.

After supper, I tried to dig up a recording of the song. If I was at all competent with technology, I would have looked it up online. However, I don’t have a smart phone. I do have a sound system with an ancient turntable that I bought back in 1982. I also have a vinyl record from Peter, Paul, and Mary which has the song on it. I dug out the album, pulled the record from the jacket, and played Puff for Asher. Some old, well-used vinyl discs have that crackle and pop that is both endearing and infuriating. This record did. Asher listened to the music, although he was mostly fascinated by how the phonograph player worked.

The first two verses of the song are a story about a boy’s adventure and his fantasy. The child mentioned in the song is Little Jack Paper. The boy reminded a lot of Asher. I can easily imagine Asher having a dragon for a friend.

“Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee,
Little Jackie Paper loved that rascal Puff,
and brought him strings and sealing wax and other fancy stuff. Oh

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee,
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee.

Together they would travel on a boat with billowed sail
Jackie kept a lookout perched on Puff’s gigantic tail,
Noble kings and princes would bow whene’er they came,
Pirate ships would lower their flag when Puff roared out his name. Oh!

The song makes me think of other dragon stories. Dragons are found in oral traditions and in dreams. Despite the fact that these are mythical creatures, they are universal parts of the human history. They do not fly around the skies, but somehow, they still exist.

Carl Sagan wrote a book about dragons, aptly titled The Dragons of Eden. He does not suggest that there were ever physical dragons, but in his study of human evolution, he says that dragons are part of our innermost being. He states that they slumber fitfully in the R-complex of the human brain, an extremely archaic part of the organ that contains “the aggressive and ritualistic reptilian component”. Anecdotally, Sagan asks, “Is it only an accident that the common human sounds commanding silence or attracting attention seem strangely imitative of the hissing of reptiles?” We don’t see the dragons in the material world. We find them in our dreams.

In The Power of Myth from Joseph Campbell and Bill Moyers, the two authors, discuss the topic of dragons. Moyers asks, “How do I slay the dragon in me?” Campbell replies by telling Moyers that slaying the dragon is about a person following his bliss and breaking down internal barriers. Campbell says, “The ultimate dragon is within you, it is your ego clamping you down.”

If the dragon is within each person, it is also part of the humanity as a whole. Campbell also says that “The myth is a public dream, and the dream is a private myth.” The serpent that hides in my subconscious is hissing within every person on earth.

Th last verse of the song is as follows:

“A dragon lives forever but not so little boys
Painted wings and giant rings make way for other toys.
One grey night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more
And Puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar.

His head was bent in sorrow, green scales fell like rain,
Puff no longer went to play along the cherry lane.
Without his life-long friend, Puff could not be brave,
So Puff that mighty dragon sadly slipped into his cave. Oh!

This verse makes me want to weep. But for whom should I cry? For the little boy who must grow up? Or for the dragon who has forever lost a friend?

If the dragon is within us, can we ever leave it behind? Must we always try to slay it? Is it possible to befriend the dragon, fearsome as it may be?

Can my dragon be like Puff?

Fathers and Sons

June 28th, 2025

Conflicts between fathers and sons are inherent in the human experience. Myths from all times and all places tell stories of the struggles between the generations. The Bible, especially in the Book of Genesis, describes fraught relationships between the patriarchs and their children. These tales from various sources are uniformly disturbing and often violent.

They are also very real.

I’m old enough to know how these fights work out, or don’t work out. I’ve been in the role of the son and that of the father. Neither position is pleasant. As I look back, the power struggles were somehow inevitable. That doesn’t make them any less traumatic. It just means that I can accept the results of those episodes.

I had several intense confrontations with my father. They all ended inconclusively. Nothing was ever resolved. We would separate for a while and then make an uneasy truce. There was always a reside of resentment. The issues at the core of our fights were still there lurking in the background. My dad has been dead since 2018. We never really reconciled, not completely. Now we can’t.

In 2009 my oldest son, Hans, joined the Army. He did this knowing full well that my wife and I did not want him to be a soldier. I had been an Army officer in my youth, and I knew to a certain extent what Hans was doing. I also knew that he was going to war, guaranteed. If he joined the military, he would be deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan. Hans knew that too and signed up anyway.

Hans’ decision hit me and my wife hard. I was upset for quite a while, and Hans and I did not communicate for several weeks. My wife and I traveled to Fort Knox, Kentucky, for Hans’ graduation from basic training. I found that to be deeply troubling. Eventually, in 2011, Hans was deployed to Iraq. Most of the things I feared came to pass. Hans was wounded. Hans killed people (plural). He came back a very different person.

Hans became his own man. Doing that had its costs, both physically and emotionally, and maybe spiritually. Reestablishing a relationship with me also has had its costs. We are close again, but on very different terms.

A few years after Hans came back from his war, I sat with him and had a couple beers. I told him how hurt his mom and I were when he enlisted. Hans smiled at me and said,

“That was a pretty big fuck you, wasn’t it?”

Indeed, it was, but it was necessary for both of us.

Resilience

June 25th, 2025

I asked the young woman to help me find the building. We were on the northside of Milwaukee and the local area was forbidding. The street had been dug up recently and almost all of the structures bordering the road looked abandoned. Actually, it wasn’t hard for us to locate the recovery center. It was the only property that looked well-maintained. The building was like a welcoming home set among some ruins.

I parked in the lot next to the building. The young woman went into the rehab facility to take a drug screen. I waited for her to come back. If she passed the test, then she would come back, grab her bags, and start residential treatment. If she failed, well, I had no idea what we would do. I would probably have to take her back to some shitty motel until she could get into another recovery program. I didn’t even want to consider that possibility. I would just wait to see what happens.

Years ago, when I was a boy, this part of town was a bustling economic hub. All of these vacant buildings were factories. They made things for A.O. Smith and for Masterlock. Teams of workers filled these places and made money, for themselves and for their employers. These businesses were humming with activity. That was a long time ago.

Now, it’s desolate. The neighborhood has a post-apocalyptic vibe to it. I bet at night it looks very Blade Runner. The car parked next to me had a yellow club on the steering wheel. The owner had placed an open copy of the Bible on top of the dashboard. The pages of the book were water-damaged and stained. I’m not sure what would deter thieves: the Bible or the club. Maybe neither or maybe both.

We drove through the local area in order to get here. On the main drag were many shuttered businesses. Even the liquor stores and the Baptist churches couldn’t make it around here. That’s rough.

I sat in the car and waited. There were trees lining the street, at least part of it. Milwaukee may have severe poverty, but the city keeps things green. I think that makes a difference. No place is truly a wasteland if there are trees growing there.

It’s been hard for the young woman. She has struggled for so long. I have lost count of how many rehab programs she has attended over the years. It is both depressing and inspiring to me. She often relapses, but she never, ever gives up. She wants to get clean and stay clean. She is the most resilient person I have ever met, and I admire her courage.

She came back out of the building with one of the counselors. The counselor was smiling and friendly. They picked up the young woman’s belongings from the car. Then they went back inside.

I sat in the car and sighed deeply. I could relax at least a little bit. She was in the program.

She was safe.

Comrades

June 8th, 2025

My son, Hans, called me a couple days ago. He lives down in Texas close to Madisonville, which means he doesn’t live near much of anything. Anyway, he started telling me about how he went into Brookshire Brothers to buy some groceries, and a couple old boys from the VFW were sitting at the front entrance of the store, taking donations and handing out little American flags.

Hans told me, “Dad, I wasn’t wearing anything that said ‘Army’ on it, but this old vet, probably from WWII, hands me a flag and says, ‘Thank you for your service.’ How did this old boy know I was a vet?”

I replied, “You just look like a vet. A person can tell.”

Hans went on, “The old guy asked me where I was sent. I told him, ‘Iraq’.”

(Note: Hans always pronounces “Iraq” as “Eye-rak”).

Hans continued, “The old guy nodded, and said, ‘I figured that’. “

Hans kept talking. He’s been thinking about maybe joining the American Legion someday. He said that the local post has a bar. That does not surprise me at all. I think that in a place like that a bar would be the very first thing to get set up.

Hans said, “I don’t need to talk with the other vets. I don’t really want to. It would be nice just to sit around with them, listen to music, and have a couple beers.”

That makes to total sense to me. Hans doesn’t want group therapy. He wants to be with his tribe. The point of joining a group like the American Legion or the VFW is to be with other people who “get it”. Hans, or any other vet, could mingle with the other members of the post and not need to explain their military experiences. In fact, it might be less painful for Hans if he didn’t talk about what happened to him in Iraq. He could trust that the other veterans would understand his history without him saying a word. If Hans did want to talk, he could trust that somebody at the post would be willing to listen and not judge him. He would be with his comrades.

Hans was in Iraq back in 2011. He’s had some time for the wounds to heal. He’s had some time for the trauma to fade. Maybe now is the time for him to reengage with other vets. I don’t know. I think it might help.