life – Frank is Emptiness

A Blurry Image

November 2nd, 2026

“It stung like a violent wind that our memories depend
On a faulty camera in our minds”

from the song “Sarah Said”, by Death Cab for Cutie

The young woman wanted a picture of herself and her five-year-old son. That seemed like a simple enough request, but it wasn’t. Due to the fact that the woman is incarcerated, nothing is simple. Everything becomes complicated very quickly.

Women in the prison frequently want to have their photos taken with family members, especially with their children. During visiting hours, there is an inmate assigned to snap pictures and make hard copies for the women and for the visitors. Of course, like everything else having to do with the Department of Corrections, there is a fee involved. Each picture only costs two dollars, but there is a convoluted payment process involved.

Upon entering the visiting area of the prison, friends or family members are allowed to bring with them a credit/debit card or cash, but not both. I prefer to bring a credit card to use in the vending machines. They operate sometimes like slot machines in that you might put in money and not get anything back out, or you might hit the jackpot and receive two items for one payment. If I get burned buy a machine, I can always dispute the charge on my card. If pump cash into the machine and get nothing back, I’m kind of out of luck.

To get a photo, a visitor has to use cash (and that has to be in singles), so a person has to bring in sufficient paper money to purchase a picture and any snacks that the inmate and others might desire. I brought in $25, and that was barely enough to satisfy all demands. Now, I could not pay the inmate with the camera directly. No, I had to pump two singles into a machine that gave me gold-colored tokens that I could then offer to the photographer. The woman wanted a picture for herself and one for her boy to take home, so I had to use the machine twice. Fine, whatever.

When we came to visit the young woman, she informed us that the pictures had to be taken within fifteen minutes of arrival. Why? Who cares? It really doesn’t matter. Just get it done. I paid the tokens and the woman and her boy got up to be photographed. They stood in front of a backdrop that looked like a Winter Wonderland scene. The prison also has a backdrop that looks like the beach of a tropical island. I guess the idea is for the people in the picture to appear to be enjoying life absolutely anywhere that is not that facility. The vacation effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that the young woman was wearing drab green inmate clothing. The boy gave his mama a big hug and a matching smile. They looked happy together.

We eventually received the two photos. They kind of sucked. The images were blurry. That annoyed me. The mom was okay with it. She just wanted a picture to hang in her locker to remind her that she had actually been hugging her boy. She does not plan on keeping the photo after she gets released. She doesn’t want it as a memento of good times. She wants it as a promise of a future reunion with her son.

I am looking at our copy of the picture now. It makes me think of my memories, in particular those from my childhood. I can only conjure up a few images from all those years ago, and they are as blurry as this photo. What will the boy remember? Maybe it would be best if his memories are fuzzy too.

Spirals

November 2nd, 2026

Karin and I went to the Waldorf school last week to talk with Asher’s kindergarten teacher. Asher came along with us because there was/is nobody available to watch him in our absence. I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate for Asher to be at the meeting, but his teacher was okay with it.

Asher sat down at a table in the classroom to do some drawing. He was close enough to listen in to our conversation with his teacher, which of course he did. We were supposed to talk with the teacher for twenty minutes. The discussion went for twice as long. Asher has a complicated history, and it took time for us to give his guide even a short briefing on what his life has been like.

Asher’s instructor is an intelligent young woman who has a background in teaching children who have experienced trauma. Asher matches that description, so she is a good fit for him. His teacher is perceptive and empathetic. She gives off a serious punk/hippie vibe which we like. She handles the students in her class in a way that is both calming and encouraging to the kids. She rocks.

After the initial greetings at the meeting, Asher’s teacher wanted to talk with us about spirals.

Spirals?

Okay, let’s back up here for a moment. At this point, it probably needs to be explained that Waldorf education is based on the tenets of Anthroposophy, a system of beliefs devised by Rudolf Steiner a century ago in Germany. Much of what Steiner proposed is arcane. However, some of the basic notions are incorporated into the Waldorf way of teaching children. Anthroposohy emphasizes a strong connection between humans and the natural world. It also assumes that there is a spiritual underpinning to everything in the universe. There is both a body and a soul, and they both need to be nurtured.

This brings us back to spirals.

According to “AI Overview”, this how spirals relate to children in Anthroposophy:

“Anthroposophy teaches that the soul‑body is the bridge between life and inner experience in children. Spiral symbolism, in many traditions, represents growth, cycles, and the inner‑outer connection.

While Steiner does not directly link “spirals” to the soul‑body, the spiral’s meaning aligns closely with its function: a living, integrating process where the child’s body and soul develop together, revisiting and transforming past experiences into deeper self‑awareness. This makes the spiral a fitting metaphor for the soul‑body’s role in a child’s spiritual and physical development.”

The teacher wanted us to know that Asher is creating lots of spirals. He draws them. He arranges his toys in spiral shapes. He sometimes moves around in spirals. It’s not an obsession with him, but spirals mean something to him, and in the Waldorf world that might be important. He is at an age, according to his teacher, when the soul is more actively entering the body of a child. Spirals are symbolic of inner growth and maturing. His teacher did not want to speculate on what exactly the spirals mean, but she wanted us to know that something is changing in Asher. Something is new.

If you have read this far, you might think, “This is all nonsense”. Perhaps it is. I am not a true believer in Anthroposophy, although some of it rings true for me. I believe that the human soul is real, and that there is more to life than just the material world.

It really doesn’t matter to me if the spirals have some deep, mysterious meaning. What matters to me is that Asher’s teacher is observing him closely. She watches what he does and listens to what he says in order to catch a glimpse of what is going on inside the boy. She truly cares about Asher, and she wants to understand who he really is and what he really needs from her.

That is amazing and I love her for it.

A Small Step

October 26th, 2026

“That’s one small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind.”

That’s the quote from Neil Armstrong as he took his first step onto the surface of the moon back in 1969.

“I did it, Grandpa!”

That’s the quote from Asher as he rode his bicycle without training wheels for the very first time yesterday afternoon. He went as far as the length of our driveway. His feat didn’t really remind me of the moon landing when he did it. Actually, I thought about the first successful flight of the Wright Brothers at Kitty Hawk. Their ride was only a little longer than Asher’s, and I am sure those two men felt just as euphoric at their accomplishment as our grandson was with his.

Asher decided on his own that he wanted to try riding without the training wheels. Neither Karin nor I nagged him to do that. He asked me to take the small wheels off his bike, and then he pedaled from the open garage door to the street. It probably helped that there is a mild downward incline from our house to the road. After that, he wanted to ride in the street, and he briefly lost his nerve.

“Grandpa, hold me! No, not like that that! Hold on to the handlebars! I have to balance and pedal and steer all at the same time! This is hard!”

I agreed with him. I felt like that when I was learning to fly a helicopter back in 1981. Somehow, if you don’t think too much about it, it is so much easier. It’s true that you have to consciously practice for a while, and then suddenly you are just doing it. Your brain takes a break and your body takes over. That is a moment of pure joy.

Asher got back his mojo and started pedaling and steering. Then he was off to the races. I was on foot and I followed him at a distance. I did not chase after the boy. Grandpas don’t run. In any case, Asher was a thrill seeker at this point. He did not need mean near him.

My wife, Karin, came out and took a video. In our times, that is what people always do. We need to record the moment for posterity. She also yelled out advice to Asher, which he dutifully ignored. He was too busy doing to have time for listening.

Asher’s mama called him some time after that. She calls him every day, sometimes multiple times. She only gets to see him once a week, so the phone is their main form of contact. Asher told her excitedly about riding the bike without the training wheels. She was thrilled with the news but also disappointed that she had not been there to see him riding. Karin told her that she had recorded the event, and then she added,

“You can watch the video when you get out in a year or so.”

That is a small consolation. Asher’s mama is missing things in his life. I am not talking about the big stuff, like birthdays and holidays. I am talking about small steps forward and little victories. Asher is with me every day and every night, and I still miss out on some of the changes in him. Each day he is like a brand-new boy to me. How much harder it must be for his mother who only sees him briefly each week?

I missed out on a lot of things when our own children grew up. It did not help that I worked third shift and my sleep cycle was completely out of synch with the rest of my family. Even when I was home from work, I was often angry or emotionally distant. I could be physically at home, but not really there.

I spend a great deal of time just being with Asher. I am seeing things with him that I don’t remember from all those years when our kids were growing up. I am trying to get things right this go-around.

Sleeping Together

September 27th, 2026

Asher and I sleep together. That’s his choice. He has his own bed in his own bedroom, but he prefers to be with me. When he comes into bed, he insists on “stuffie talk” before he sleeps. His stuffed seal lies next to him, and I have to speak for the Big Blue Seal and tell stories until Asher is ready to doze off. When Asher is ready, he tells me,

“Grandpa, give me your arm.”

Then he finds a place on my left bicep to use as a pillow. Generally, he is asleep within minutes after having laid his head down.

I am prone to night terrors. I don’t know why. The terrors don’t visit me often, but they come with a vengeance. Usually, they arrive early in the night. I have these hellish dreams that I barely remember. They almost always involve some amorphous, shapeshifting being that is darker than black. I get into a fierce psychic battle with the creature, and that fight explodes into the physical world. I scream and flail about. My wife rushes to the bedroom to wake me up. She doesn’t touch me during these dreams because she knows that she might get hit.

Now while I get enmeshed in the nightmare, I am also probably holding Asher near me. During the latest night terror episode, I woke up to find the boy nestled in the crux of my left shoulder. He moaned a little, but he never woke up. As soon as I came out of the dream, Asher was back to snoring. He deals far better with the aftereffects of my night terrors than I do. I feel my heart racing and my throat hurting from screaming for quite a while after I awaken. Asher just rolls over and gets back to his own dreams.

Asher does not always sleep well. He is often restless. He will wake up in the middle of the night and demand my arm again. Then he cuddles up to me and sleeps. He often moves close to me in bed. My wife thinks that it is because the weight of my body creates a gravity hole that sucks Asher toward me. There is probably also an emotional draw.

I had a dream last night about my father. It was unpleasant. At the end of the dream, my dad faded away. I called to him. Asher heard me speak. Asher woke me up by saying,

“Grandpa! Grandpa! It was probably just a nightmare.”

He never opened his eyes while he talked. He said his piece and immediately went back to sleep.

A Million Miles Away

September 14th, 2026

His pickup truck was parked in the driveway across the street from our house. The young man goes to that place occasionally because the parents of his girlfriend/fiancée live there. He never comes here. He hasn’t set foot in our house for fifteen months. I don’t see him coming here again any time soon.

We had a bitter dispute last summer. At the end of it, he cut all ties with me. He made every effort to cut me out of his life. I tried to apologize to him in a letter and explain to him that I am open to renewing our relationship. He hasn’t responded. He won’t.

I saw his truck when I went to the street to pick up our mail. I was tempted to walk over to him and ask how he was. I didn’t. I am not brave enough to face his rage again. His last words to me were in a text. He said, “Burn in hell!”. That’s sounded rather final.

I admire the young man. I admire his strength and his courage and his generosity and his intelligence. But he is an angry young man. I was an angry young man, but now I’m old and, most of the time, not so angry. He has good reasons to be irate with me. I get that. He has trauma and he blocks people in order to block his pain. I have done that too. It’s not a good long-term strategy. A person who shuns others often ends up pretty damn lonely.

I’m not mad at him. I’m just sad. I think he made the right decision to cut ties with me. He has his own issues, and he needs to work them out on his own. I can’t help him. In fact, I am sure that I would be an obstacle to him. I want him to heal and be at peace. I want him to have a good life, and if that can only happen in my absence, then so be it.

When I got the mail, the young man was turned away from me. I only saw his back. He was just across the street, but he might as well have been a million miles away.

Broken Tooth

August 24th, 2026

I woke up on the floor next to the side of the bed. The room was dark and I was spitting tiny pieces of enamel out of mouth on to the carpet. I felt disoriented, but there wasn’t any pain. That made my temporary confusion worse.

I stumbled up to my feet and walked into the bathroom. I closed the door before I turned on the light to make sure that I didn’t wake up Asher. He was still asleep in our bed. I tried to focus my eyes enough to see my face in the mirror. The image was a bit blurry, but I could tell that my top right incisor was just a little shorter than its partner on the left. Fuck.

I remembered having a vivid dream. I was sleeping on the edge of the bed (Asher likes to take up most of the bed by sleeping sideways on the mattress). I must have rolled to the right and fallen off the side. My mouth hit the corner of the nightstand on my way down to the floor. I recall feeling my head jerk sharply back as my body hit the carpet. Later in the day, I noticed a deep, inch-long gouge in the wood of the nightstand. That was where my front tooth and the furniture kissed.

The incisor now has a sharp, ragged edge. It still works. I can bite things with it. It doesn’t hurt at all. It just looks nasty. I told me daughter-in-law in Texas about the current appearance of my smile. She texted me,

“How redneck of you.”

The broken tooth makes me think about mortality. Do I even want to get the tooth fixed? I have an appointment for a dental cleaning two days from now. I expect that the dentist will have some guidance for me, and probably a cost estimate. The point is that I’m old (68 and 1/2 years). I seldom smile. Is there any pressing reason for me to spend money on repair if the tooth is still functional? I long ago gave up caring about my appearance. I already look like I have a lot of mileage on me.

No more broad, toothy grins.

Feral

August 24th, 2026

While we were in Texas visiting our son’s family, Karin, Asher, and I spent nearly all of our waking hours in their double wide home. The double wide stands on an acre of wooded land, mostly live oaks and cedars. However, since it was the early part of August, the kids were indoors most of the time. The outdoor temps hovered near 100 degrees, and even for children who are Texas natives, that is a little extreme. They might play in the yard for a while early in the morning, but then they get out of the intense heat and retreat to an air-conditioned environment.

During our visit, the air conditioning on the double wide went out. That was a bad thing. Gaby, the mother of our three grandkids, promptly called a HVAC guy to come to the house. Karin and I paid for the repair. I talked with the repairman before he started his troubleshooting. He was a busy man. He had many calls to make that day. Fortunately, the problem was just a bad switch, and it was a quick and easy fix. He hit me up for $300. I told him,

“That’s a bargain.”

The sweating repair guy smiled at me and drawled, “Well, I can charge y’all more if you like.”

“No. I’m good.”

The fact is that getting the air conditioning fixed was a non-negotiable item. It had to be done. It is like what happens in winter in Wisconsin, where we live. If the furnace at our house goes out in subzero temperatures, it gets fixed. It doesn’t matter how much it costs.

Asher’s three Texan cousins are all about his age. Weston, Maddy, and Wyatt are members of a restless crew. They have energy that would be best expended outside, but that would probably risk heat exhaustion. So, they played with Asher inside the house. There was a lot of yelling and laughing and crying and general mayhem. Gaby wisely chooses her battles. She could demand that her kids play quietly and keep the house in order. But at what cost? She lets them make a mess, and at certain points in the day allows them to watch Blippi, which gives her moments of relative calm. Asher engaged well with his three cousins. It didn’t take him long to become one of the Lost Boys (and Girl).

One day, I was sitting in their living room near the youngest boy, Wyatt. Wyatt is three years old, and he is generally a quiet lad. I did not interact much with him. He was shy, and as my wife said, “When he smiles, he does it with his whole body”. At home, both in the house and outside of it, Wyatt was usually only clad in a pull-up diaper and maybe oversized cowboy boots. On that particular day, Wyatt had multicolor streaks of washable marker all over his body, like a mischievous kind of warpaint. He made me think of the boys in the book, Lord of the Flies, although he’s much younger and more peaceful.

I mentioned to Gaby, “Wyatt looks kind of feral.”

She agreed with that. Being feral is not necessarily a bad thing. Innocence and wildness coexist in children. The two attributes complement each other. I’ve come to accept that both are essential qualities and should be seen as blessings. That’s just who they are.

Her First Day of School

August 12th, 2026

Our granddaughter, Maddy, started kindergarten today. Karin, Asher, and I came over to her house at 6:30 to see her to the bus stop. We were early and the sun wasn’t quite up yet. It was hot already, the temps in the upper 80’s.

Maddy was not doing well. Her mama, Gaby, was holding her and trying to comfort the girl. Maddy was crying and didn’t want to get dressed for school. Gaby gently nudged her along. Finally, Maddy was wearing in her fancy pink dress with the strawberry pattern. She had calmed down enough to walk to the bus top with her older brother. At least she wasn’t going on the school bus alone.

Starting something new is often scary. Our grandson, Asher, began his school career last fall when he went to kindergarten. He was good on the first day when my wife, his mama, and I were there with him. Things went downhill after that. Asher is a smart kid and quickly figured out that going to class was not a one-off. He suddenly realized that he had to go to that school every day. One day, I drove to school and almost had to use a crowbar to extract him from his child seat in the car. He cried constantly as I carried him to the schoolhouse. Fortunately, Miss Martha, a seasoned faculty member, came over and pulled Asher out of my arms. He quieted down as she soothed him. Then Martha smiled at me and made it clear that I should go away, like right now. After a week or two, Asher grew accustomed to going to school. I think that might have been after he noticed a cute, blonde girl in his class who stole his heart away.

I think back to when I went to West Point fifty years ago. I arrived at a place where I didn’t know anybody, didn’t understand the rules or the culture, and didn’t even understand some of the language used. The environment was utterly alien to me, and it took probably a year for me to adjust. I sympathize with a five-year-old doing something similar to that.

We walked to the bus stop as a group: Maddy’s mama, my wife, her older brother, her younger brother, Asher and me. The bus travels down a dirt road. The road was being fixed when we got there in the early morning twilight. I am not sure what the maintenance crew was doing besides shoving the dirt around. The bus showed up like a stagecoach in those old western movies. It stopped in a cloud of dust.

Maddys’ older brother got in the bus. Then Gaby held onto Maddy’s hand while she got in. The younger brother, who only clad in a pullup diaper and sandals, started to walk up the steps too. He was almost inside the school bus before his mama snagged him and pulled him out again. That is one impatient little boy.

His turn will come.

Old Vet

August 7th, 2026

Breakfast at the Best Western isn’t bad, but it’s nothing to brag about either. The scrambled eggs remind me of those served in any Army mess hall. The only interesting thing about breakfast is the waffle iron. It bakes waffles in the shape of the state of Texas. I made one of those for our grandson, Asher. He asked me to fill every divot in the waffle with syrup, and then he asked me where on this edible map of Texas we were staying.

After I finished serving Asher his waffle, an old man shuffled past me to make his own breakfast. I’m an old man, but this guy was much further along in years than me. He wore a tie-dyed t-shirt and shorts. He had cloth coverings over parts of his arms and legs. He had some dark bruises on the backs of his hands. He wore his hair in a ponytail, and he had wire rim glasses. He had a beard that had long ago gone white. He wore a baseball cap that had said “3rd Infantry Division” on it. That intrigued me.

I was tempted to tell him, “Thank you for your service”, but I hate that expression. It means almost nothing. It is one of those phrases that a person says when they don’t know what else to say.

Instead, I asked him, “Where were you stationed?”

He didn’t understand me at first, but then he told me that he had been deployed to Germany. He worked in the armory at Kitzingen in Bavaria. He had been in the Army in Europe from 1965 to 68. He never went to Vietnam. I tried to get a word in edgewise, but the man wanted to tell his story, so I listened. He told me in his slow Texan drawl more than I ever wanted to know, but it gave him pleasure to do so. I have to admit that I sometimes I do the same thing.

The old guy emphasized that being stationed in Germany gave him the opportunity to go places he would not have otherwise ever been able to see: France, Spain, England. He told me about arriving by train in some Austrian town during winter and getting a sleigh ride from the Bahnhof over snow-covered roads to wherever he was staying.

As I ate breakfast with Asher and my wife, I thought about the old guy at the next table. Why does a person wear a cap that broadcasts that they served in the military? The answer is probably because they want to talk about it. They want somebody to notice them and then maybe, just maybe, listen to their story. Here is an 83-year-old man who apparently considers his three years in the Army to be a crucial period of his life. That’s interesting. Obviously, this old Texan did many other things in his long life, but he wanted the world to know that he was a veteran. His time in the service must have been a peak experience in an otherwise flat and humdrum life.

The man made me think about our oldest son. We are visiting him and his family in Texas. He also likes to wear a cap that indicates his time in the Army. He went to Iraq. My son’s experience was traumatic, but still essential to his identity. For my son and for this elderly gentleman, the time in the military was fundamentally different from everything else.

As we got ready to leave the dining room, my wife went up to the man to tell him that she was raised in Germany in a little town n ot too far from Kitzingen. The old guy looked up from his waffle and noticed Asher. He smiled at him and said,

“I wish I had even a bit of that boy’s energy. I can’t even remember being that young.”

Then he wished us all a good day. He was still wearing his cap.

When the Planets Align

June 25th, 2026

Years ago, when I was still working third shift at a trucking company, there was an unusual astronomical occurrence. Three planets (Venus, Mars, and Jupiter) lined up in the predawn sky. I remember taking a break from my work to go outside the building to gaze into the eastern sky and look at the light show. Venus was low near the horizon, a ruddy Mars was slightly higher, and Jupiter was shining just above the other two planets. I thought about what a rare and beautiful event is was. I had never seen anything like that before and might never see anything like again.

I am reminded of the alignment of the planets now because I now find that meeting with a friend has become a rare and beautiful event. It seems like it is getting increasingly difficult for me to get together with other people. Perhaps I am engaging in selective memory, but I recall back in my twenties being able to call somebody on the spur of the moment and then hanging out with that person. Sometimes my friends were busy with work or other commitments, but it was not unusual to hook up with somebody at a moment’s notice. People were more available then. I’m not sure why.

Part of my problem probably stems from the fact that I don’t fit neatly into any particular social group. I have been retired for a decade, but I seldom participate in senior activities. That is because my wife and I are busy raising Asher, our five-year-old grandson, and we don’t generally have time for the things that most old people do. Our schedules are not usually in synch with our contemporaries. On the flip side of that, I don’t necessarily fit in with the young parents of Asher’s classmates at the Waldorf school. I am, like these younger caregivers, focused on raising a child, but the members of their generation are also preoccupied with their careers, domestic relationships, and future plans. My schedule seldom matches with theirs. The planets don’t align.

There are other factors involved. I blame the Internet to some degree. We are able to connect electronically and instantaneously with people all over the globe, yet we are losing the ability to actually talk to another person face to face. Humans are social animals, but social media has paradoxically made us less so. It is far easier to doom scroll than it is to set up a time and date for having coffee with someone, and then actually getting up and going someplace to meet the person. We tend to avoid physical interaction with others. It is more convenient to sit around the house and stare at a screen, which of course is exactly what I am doing now. My wife and Asher are doing something similar in the living room while I am writing this sentence.

I have been trying to set up play dates for Asher with his kindergarten compadres. I have found this to be a frustrating process. Many of his classmates are almost constantly in some kind of summer camp. I understand why that is. Almost all of the parents are working fulltime to pay the bills, and they are not available to watch over their kids. My wife and I are unique in the fact that we are home with Asher. Once again, scheduling becomes difficult. Asher has managed to have a couple play dates since the school year ended, but they have been for only short periods of time. These meetings have often felt rushed, with the adults acutely aware that they need to be somewhere immediately after the play date ends. It is good for Asher to meet with his friends, and it is good for me to get to know the other parents better. However, it is sad that these gatherings seldom feel relaxed. That bothers me.

You might ask, “Why doesn’t Asher just play with the other kids in the neighborhood?” That’s a good question. The answer is that there aren’t any children his age on our street. That is not to say that the area is completely devoid of children, but there are not many of them. It is not like it was a generation ago when our kids could go a couple doors down the block and hang out with their buddies. There simply are not very many kids. Period. It also appears that whatever children are in the neighborhood spend much of their time indoors. The curse of the computer age. Why play outside when you can binge on video games for hours on end?

I am by nature an introvert. That is one reason I write. It requires real effort for me to reach out to others. For me, arranging a meeting with friends is work, but it is necessary work. These planets won’t align on their own.