it's just a number

another birthday.


17 was a good year. I had a motorcycle, didn't have to buy groceries, and I spent the summer mowing lawns, riding my motorcycle, and hanging out with my buddies. 17 was good.


Through the magic of Facebook (that Zuckerberg, didn't he look nice in a suit in front of Congress?) I have been reading and seeing my high school classmates (Class of '77, do the math) celebrate their birthdays as we approach or hit the 6-0 mark. 41 years ago we marched to Pomp and Circumstance, heard some speeches about changing the world, or it's all in front of us, or some other semi rhetorical pearls.


Now please leave our school, get jobs, pay taxes, have a life. And try not to get caught.


Save a few experiences with the Dixon Police Department and the California Highway Patrol, I did not get caught. Looking back, I must have had some major luck to get this far. And too many of our classmates have not made it this far. That leaves the rest of us to deal with grief and maybe even some survivor's guilt.


It's pretty sobering to think that I am now older than most of my high school teachers were when I sat in their classes. And didn't they seem old? Yikes. I was born right before Camelot and spent grade school and junior high years in the Vietnam era.  We came of age in the 70's. Remember Watergate, the fall of Saigon (on my 16th birthday), Burt Reynolds movies (who didn't want a Black Trans Am?) and, sadly, disco. I told my cowboy buddies the only reason I went to see Saturday Night Fever was because of the girl I was dating then. 40 years later I say 'I saw that classic when it came out', as if I had some 18 year old insight into pop culture and it's last effects on the American psyche.


Moving on to the 80's it was marriage, having a  kid, hitting 30, losing my dad, and drifting.


The 90's saw another kid, a major upheaval in location (Why did you leave Marin County and wind up in St Paul? Well, this is where the gas money ran out), earning a degree, and the start of my first real career. I've had jobs and I've had careers. It might be said that a career is better than a job. Well, that's bullshit. I've had great jobs, lousy jobs, and career highs and lows. The money spends the same. The kids didn't care if I had a job or career. They just wanted some time with dad. (ok, I'm assuming they did. I think they did, except of course from ages 15 - 19, when parents ceased to exist. A temporary condition.)


The turn of the century brought on my second career right before 9/11, kids growing up, and the loss of a real good friend. Into the 'teens' it was another degree, losing my mom and the kids getting all growed up and leaving the house.


Boys, please get jobs, pay taxes, have a good life. And try not to get caught.


The horizon that masked retirement for so long is now in sight. And, looking damned more inviting than ever. Getting up at 5 to shag my ass into work and tolerate bureaucracy and millennials is not fun anymore. And, who knows, maybe some grandchildren at some point. (no, none on the way that I know of) I was in strict denial about becoming a grandpa for a long time, but now it's beginning to look interesting. Kind of like renting a cool car, then dropping it off before you have to do maintenance. Yeah I can see myself taking a grandkid to a ballgame, movies, motorcycle rides.


A couple years ago, a small group of us from work took an afternoon off and went for a motorcycle ride. A few weeks later, one the guys caught me at work and said '..you ride 20 years younger than you are"


errr, well, ok, thanks. I guess. But inside I was giving myself a major fist bump. There's a 17 year old still inside, and he comes out every once in awhile. Use the Force, Luke, let go.


yeah, it's just a number.  It's getting bigger every year. And before you say it, yes it beats the alternative.


And now, to bring this to a merciful close, a couple song quotes.


"Cowboy in the Jungle" by Jimmy Buffett


Spinning around in circles
Living it day to day
And still twenty four hours, maybe sixty good years
It's still not that long a stay.


"Much too Young to Feel this Damned Old" by Garth Brooks

And the white line's getting longer and the saddle's getting cold
I'm much too young to feel this damn old
All my cards are on the table with no ace left in the hole
I'm much too young to feel this damn old

Lord, I'm much too young to feel this damn old

why I do this

At the end of the movie 'Stand By Me', there is a voice over that says'" although I hadn't seen him in more than ten years, I know I'll miss him forever"

Yesterday was the birthday of the best friend I ever had.  Every year I try to do a little post with some pictures, of my friend Gene. I post some pictures, write a few words, and then watch as people read the words, see the pictures, then make a nice comment about him, or me, as the friend who misses him.

Sometimes I wonder why I do this, as he has been gone several years now. Maybe I should move on, and not succumb to the periods of maudlin behavior. Well, those are fleeting thoughts.

I don't know if there is an afterlife. Maybe yes, maybe no. I'd like to think so, that there is some reward for us when it is all over. What I do firmly believe in, is that Gene will never really be gone as long as we remember him. He lived a good life and deserves to be remembered. There are a lot of people, family and friends, that miss him, I'm not alone in that. So I do my part, I post a picture, I try to find some words to write down, and hope that his memory will never fade.

I was not a easy friend for Gene to have, he said on more than one occasion that I 'stretched the bounds of friendship.'  He was right, I can't deny that. But, he was a true friend, he not only valued friendship and loyalty, he lived it. He would never admit it, but he lead by example.

I moved away from Gene and all the friends I grew up with about 24 years ago, in search of better opportunities and some adventure. As the years passed, I would call Gene now and then to catch up, usually on or around his birthday. I missed the day one year, and called about a week later.

"hey Gene how's it going? I meant to call you on your birthday, but I got busy and forgot."

  .... or some lame excuse like that.

I expected him to let me off the hook. But, his reply was

"...I noticed."

  Oh. Just hang the sign 'world's worst friend' around my neck and parade me through town.

 I'm sure he enjoyed that. I bet he was smiling when we were done talking and hung up.

  I got it in my head that when Gene  hit his 50th birthday, I would show up at his place in a nice rent a car and tell him to pack a bag, we're doing a road trip. What a great idea. The 50th was a few years or more away, and we'd have another adventure. Wow, what a cool idea. Waaaay cool.

But, he didn't make it to his 50th. He fell about 4 years short of it.

What the hell was I thinking? Waiting for some magic number to happen, so we'd have an excuse to have an adventure. What crap. Just wanting to have an adventure is reason enough. Shit.

Now, I'm not going to go on about 'life is short' or some other well worn axiom. I won't do that. No one needs me to tell them that. What I will say, is that regret is a tough thing to live with, as tough as grief. Both very hard to get over, if at all.

What I do say is that Gene's final gift to me was to get past the crap and just get on with what you want to do. Take the road trip. Call your best friend. And if your best friend is no longer on this earth, take him or her on the adventure anyhow.

Because, they are never really gone as long as we remember them.

la vie dasante

it's the season

Kenny Chesney has a song, "I Go Back", and one of the lines goes like this, 'we all have a song that somehow stamped our lives...' This is true for everyone, whether we realize it our not.

There are songs that have stamped my life, some are fun, some sentimental, some just sad.

Included with those songs that have somehow stamped my life are a handful of Christmas songs, songs that evoke images of events past that I will never forget, nor would I want to.

When I hear "Silver Bells" I hear my Dad singing it, with a deep baritone. He didn't know all the words, but he could kill on the chorus. He would sing the chorus, then hum the rest. When he hummed I could hear his mom, my Grandma. She hummed a lot and sang, always always a song in her heart. Dad grew up poor, really poor, and during those years Christmas was probably barely distinguishable from the rest of the year. But you can bet when he sang and hummed Silver Bells as an adult, he thought of those Christmases growing up and hearing his beloved 'mum' singing and humming.

"Away in the Manger" brings back memories so strong that to this day I am at or near tears when I hear it. It was December of 1984, a particularly hard Christmas for the family. My dad died 10 days before Christmas, and then his father, my grandpa, died 5 days later.  Their funerals were back to back on successive days, just a few days before Christmas. At the end of Grandpa's service the Pastor had the congregation sing "Away in the Manger" as the pallbearers carried grandpa out of the church. It was the culmination of some tough days, and I could not sing the song. I know the words, but could not get them out.  To this day, when I hear that song I'm back in the pews in Lund Lutheran Church, sitting next to my sisters and cousin Deb and watching grandpa taking his last journey as his friends, neighbors and family sing "Away in the Manger".

"Jingle Bells" evokes a happier time, a big family Christmas at my sister's house in California. Nearly every year the whole family would gather for Christmas Eve; aunts, uncles, cousins, sisters, nieces, nephews, cousins, the whole clan. A big expansive meal, then clean up, then presents. One particular year, I was washing dishes with my niece Angela, and we spontaneously starting singing Jingle Bells. Soon most of the family joined in, and it was a joyous time. Ange and I were enthusiastic, if not off key singers, and we really belted it out on the "ho ho ho's", giving the ensemble some kick. Let me tell you, there is nothing better than doing dishes with your niece and singing Jingle Bells. A true Christmas gift I will carry with me forever.

Whatever your favorite Christmas song may be, I hope it is one that brings back strong memories that you cherish and will never forget. The presents come and go, but it's the memories of Christmas past that are true gifts. This year, make a new memory.

feliz navidad

I'll be home for Christmas

Every time I hear "I'll be home for Christmas", a song written about a soldier away from home in wartime, I think of my dad in World War II spending Christmas 1944 in Germany. He was in the Ardennes in Belgium, the Battle of the Bulge. So far away from home, in combat, and probably wishing he was home. He made it home, but not after spending one more Christmas overseas, this time in occupied Germany, soon headed home in a troop ship.

I never spent a Christmas overseas away from my family, but there was one Christmas when I was on my own, and far from where my parents lived. It was 1982, and two days before Thanksgiving I was laid off from my job in construction. At the end of the day on Tuesday, our foreman told us "after tomorrow, that's it. No more work for a while". No severance pay, no vacation, no nothing. That's it alright. I filed for unemployment, looked for work but it was recession time, and winter to boot, so not many jobs for a 23 year old with no degree and not many skills.

I spent a lot of time alone in my duplex, watching TV and lamenting about my life. I lived in Northern California, and my parents had retired to Minnesota. I was looking forward to a pretty dismal Christmas and New Years.

After Thanksgiving, my parents called me and said, 'why don't you come to Minnesota for Christmas, we'll pay for your ticket'. Of course this was way before the Internet and Travelocity, so I had to get a ticket and they would pay me back. I had about $200 in savings, and very little cash in my pocket. I did get a round trip ticket from California to Minnesota for $200 (remember, this is the early 80s), so I headed to Minnesota.

I flew into Minneapolis, then caught a flight to Bemidji in Northern Minnesota. This included a stop over in Brainerd Minnesota. The twin turbopop came in for a landing, slid a bit back and forth down the ice and snow covered runway, dropped off some mail and passengers, and then slipped and slid down the runway, headed for the skies again. I was not sure if I would survive the trip. But I made it to Bemidji.

Dad was there to meet me, sitting in his pickup with the heater on, snacking on malted milk balls. It was cold. Really cold, compared to the warmth of California. I loaded my bags in the pickup and we headed off to home, about an hour away. The roads were covered with ice and snow too, just like the runway in Brainerd. 'The roads are in pretty good shape', dad is telling me. 'As long as you keep one wheel on dry pavement there's plenty of traction'.  We came to a 4 way stop, and a car approaching from the right hit his brakes, did a couple 360s through the intersection, and proceeded on his way. Dad didn't even seem to notice, he kept talking about how good the roads were. My God, these people are insane.

We made it home, a warm cozy house, and in time for dinner. I can almost remember the smell of dinner, and seeing Mom greet me. They were happy to have me home, the baby of the family. I spent the next couple weeks visiting relatives, played a lot of cards with  Great Auntie Alma and Great Uncle Otto, ate way too much food, and spend New Years Eve in Shorty's Place, celebrating with my parents and Auntie Flo and Uncle Floyd. I called bingo for the old folks at the nursing home where Mom worked. (Never, ever miss a call in bingo. Tough crowd.) For a couple weeks I was able to put my cares behind me, and be safe and secure in the family nest. Mom made nice hot meals and Dad made cinnamon rolls and hot buttered rum drinks. Looking back, it was probably just what I needed then. I was home for Christmas. The memory of that Christmas, being with Mom and Dad, is one of the brightest Christmas memories I have.

Dad was quite proud of all the firewood he had cut and put up for the winter. He had installed a wood heater to supplement the oil fired furnace in the basement. Now this would probably be called a 'hybrid home energy system' or something like that. Dad put it in to save money and to have the warmth of oak, maple and birch in the house. Some of the wood he had cut near Auntie Flo's house. He found a curious piece of wood there and saved it. It was a piece of oak, with a 2" hole bored through it. He showed that to me and remarked how odd that was. I said, not so odd, I bored that hole through a small oak tree years ago with Grandpa's wood auger. I would give anything to have that piece of wood now.

Mom was working part time at a nursing home in town, and quite proud of having this job and having earned a Nurse's Assistant certificate from the state. It had been her dream as a young woman to become a nurse, but marriage and kids and life got in the way. In retirement she somewhat realized that dream. She brought me to her job, (several times) and introduced me to her boss, her co workers, and all her patients. When she worked the overnight shift, Dad would bring his cinnamon rolls to Mom and 'the other girls' on the shift. I suspect he liked the attention.

That was the last Christmas I spent with both my Mom and Dad. Two years later, I was home again with Mom for Christmas, along with my sisters and brother, for Dad had passed away 10 days before Christmas. A sad time, but it made me appreciate the other Christmas that much more. Christmas has a way to make us happy and sad at the same time.  It's the human condition. Better to feel happy and sad than to not feel at all. Maybe it's not really sad, but rather looking back and being grateful for the years past and the memories we will carry with us forever.

The years go by, and now I'm the parent, waiting for the kids to come home for Christmas. My youngest is flying home soon, and needless to say I'm awaiting his arrival with great anticipation. I probably won't be eating malted milk balls while waiting for his plane to arrive, but maybe I'll tell him what great shape the roads are in, and try to keep one wheel on the dry track in the road.

 I'll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me...

Merry Christmas.

raising hilda

Several years ago, after much prodding by my Aunt Max, my cousin Jo (Max's daughter) and I raised the headstone of  great Aunt Hilda, who passed away in the early 20th century. With help from my sons and my sister,  we dug, pried, pushed, and pulled by rope to pop Hilda's stone out of the ground. We then put some gravel and dirt in the hole and re set the stone, now level with the grass, more or less. We did a fine job and Max was pleased. On that day we also poured a bit of concrete for a couple other stones and did some general clean up. Max brought enough food to feed an army, and we had a fine time. You see, in many small town cemeteries, the upkeep is pretty much do it yourself, so we did it ourselves.

Two years ago, my sons and I made a trip to the same cemetery to set my mom's stone. We carefully dug out the earth where it would be set, built a form, set the stone and poured some concrete around it. I troweled the concrete smooth, and having finished my work, I stood up and for the first time saw my parent's graves side by side. The grief I felt was crushing, and I fell to my knees and wept. My sister came to my side and comforted me. Our final act for mom and dad, not done out of obligation but rather a sense of caregiving for those who cared for us.

When I was a young boy, my parents and I would travel by car from where we lived in northern California to Minnesota to visit family. Once we arrived in Minnesota and were settled in for our visit my dad would always go to the local cemetery to see his brother Palmer's grave. Dad took me with on these trips, and back then cemeteries gave me the 'willies'. All those dead people, people I never knew, but with familiar names. Palmer was killed in World War II, very close to the end of the war in Europe. After the war, Palmer was reburied in the little country cemetery, and like so many other young men given a granite headstone. Over the years, the stone became discolored and stained by an oil can that someone had placed on it, no doubt in the course of mowing the grass one spring. The stain from the oil can spread, and every year Dad would say that the stone should be cleaned, but he never got around to it. I don't know why he didn't but I suspect one reason could be the never ending grief he felt for losing a brother he was very close to. A brother that he would not grow old with, nor share the joys of  raising children and living lives.

Last week Jo and I made the trip to northern Minnesota and did cemetery maintenance. With the help of my sister and brother in law, we raised the headstones of our great-great grandparents, our great grandfather, and cleaned the headstones for Palmer, his mother (my grandmother), and my other grandmother, the grandma my sister and I shared with Jo. With a pumice stone, clear water and some elbow grease, I was able to get Palmer's stone looking much better, and his mother's stone too. Jo used some simple green, water and a brush to clean up our grandma's stone.

Sometime during the day, Jo remarked, "our moms are proud today". I think so too.

As Jo was scrubbing our Grandma's stone, I had a flashback to when I was  10 years old. On the advice of one of their sons, my uncle "Buster", Grandma and Grandpa went to see the move True Grit. The original with John Wayne, Kim Darby and Glen Campbell, among others. Grandma and Grandpa took me along, and I will never forget sitting in between them, watching the Old Man (Wayne) charge across a mountain meadow on a horse, reins in his teeth, a Winchester lever action in one hand, pistol in the other, taking on Ned Pepper and his gang. To this day, I get a chill when I see that scene. But, I digress.

At the end of the movie we see young Mattie Ross at her family grave site with Rooster Cogburn, tending to the grave of her father who was killed at the beginning of the movie. Mattie tells Rooster that she 'finds comfort in knowing where she will spend eternity'; next to her parents and siblings, and invites Rooster to lay next to her when the time comes.

This is what I flashed back to as Grandma's stone was being scrubbed. It's a little country cemetery, where our family goes back 4 generations or so, surrounded by fields, with the little town in the distance.  I don't get the willies anymore when I visit that cemetery but rather I feel connected to those who came before me, who were born, lived lives, raised families, worked hard and now are spending eternity close to home and the people who mattered most to them. Having departed this life and moved on to the next, all that remains are their headstones and the memories they instilled into their children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren.  They cleared the road for us, made us possible. The least we can do is to pass those memories on, and do a little maintenance on their markers.

Max once told me, that it would be up to Jo and I to take care of the graves and markers. Two years ago, I told my sons that someday they will do this work. They understood.

Rooster did wind up laying next to Mattie for eternity.

I'd like to think that Max and Mom, the  Grandmas and Palmer were looking down and feeling proud. And feeling good that we were not shedding tears of grief, but enjoying being with family, and as our uncle Buster said, 'preserving our common heritage'.

I did, however, miss Aunt Max's macaroni salad. Almost as much as I miss her.

Earl and George

I'm the youngest of 4 kids. I came along later than the rest, by 16, 15, and 11 years. So by the time I was starting school, the others were out of the house living lives, and I was home alone with mom and dad. I kind of missed having brothers and sisters around, and it was quite lonely at times. Later in my high school years I spent a lot of time with my best friend's family, he had 2 sisters and 4 brothers. Looking back, it seems I wanted that family time that I had somehow been denied by being the last born, by a good margin. But no matter, that's the way it was, so that's what we have to work with.  As my great aunt Alma would say, '...buck up', but that is another story for another time.

My brother is 11 years older than me. When I was learning how to play dodge ball and write cursive, he was going through boot camp. When I was learning long division he was in Viet Nam. I was and still am very attached to my brother, but the reality is, for most of our lives it's been over long distance. So what we lack in quantity, we make up otherwise. As my youngest sister says, "it is what it is" . We're brothers. That says it all.

As a kid and a young teen, I spent a lot of time with my sisters and their families, they lived less than an hour away.  In addition to my sisters, I had brother in laws, which was kind of a novelty for a young kid. I was an uncle at 9. Not bad, and it required no effort on my part.

My youngest sister's husband and I spent a lot of time together. His middle name was Earl, which I thought was funny. I would call him Earl, which I suspect he kind of liked. In return, he called me George. Beats the hell out of me where he got George, that's not my middle name (that too is another story), he probably just picked it out of the air and bestowed it upon me. I liked it.  He had a real kid like sense of fun and curiosity about him, and he had the knack to make his own fun. He taught me how to bait a hook, how to skin a catfish. He showed me how to make a home made mortar out of a piece of pipe and firecrackers. Way way before Mythbusters came alone and blew stuff up on TV, we were doing that. But then again, that was before cable. He showed me how to make and fly a kite (cross sticks and box), and how to fix them after they crashed. He had motorcycles, and when I started down that path he would pick up parts for me when he and my sister would come to visit. He taught me to drive a car, if it wasn't for him I never would have gotten my license. He gave me my first set of tools, and lectured me on how to take care of them. Forty some years later, I still have some of them, prized possessions in my tool box.

When I was 14, he took me to see 'Blazing Saddles' when it came out in the theater. My first R rated movie. He laughed so hard during the movie that tears were coming down his cheeks, and days later we would recite lines from the movie and laugh all over again. It was good times. He wasn't my blood brother, but we had a good bond. We got along. He treated me like an adult. I tried to remember that lesson when my boys were growing up. My sister would kind of shake her head at our antics at times, and sometimes I suspect she thought she was raising two boys.

Eventually they had kids of their own, two girls who grew into wonderful, strong, smart women. I was lucky to spend a fair amount of time with them when they were little, and became very attached to them as well. (my nieces, all four of them, rock. So does my nephew. More blogs...) As time moved on I spent less time with them. I was growing up and jobs, cars, friends and school took up my time.

Much later in life, I found myself living close to them again. By then, my boys had come along, and they too enjoyed spending time with my sister and brother in law. The circle completes. My boys discovered his sense of being a kid, creating fun and enjoying life. I hope they will remember that and pass that on when the time comes.

Time has a nasty habit of moving on. Earl passed away some time ago, and my sister has since remarried,  to a terrific guy who makes her laugh and is very attentive to her.  A very good thing, because she deserves it. My oldest sister has been married to a great guy too for many years (we call him The Saint). I'm very lucky to have a great big brother, and two other brothers to boot. Very lucky indeed.

But years ago, there was a guy who kind of took me under his wing, and was a brother to me in every sense of the word. His secret was he treated me like an adult, while at the same time having the courage to still be a kid. I think that is a gift. An early life lesson that I will never forget.

Thanks Earl.

Saving Christmas

My dad always called him Charlie. Grandma called him Charles. But to all of us cousins he was Uncle Chuck. Chuck was larger than life, and sometimes twice as loud. On the outside he was tough as nails, could swear like a longshoreman and spoke his mind. But he treated us kids with fatherly warmth and love. He was married to my dad's youngest sister, Auntie Alice. You couldn't refer to one of them without saying Chuck n' Alice. They raised 3 boys, our cousins, and their house out in the country was a gathering place for the family, a fantastic place for kids to roam, have fun, have adventures. There were hills, trees, ravines, and a swamp. This place had Disneyland beat hands down. When all the young cousins got together it was always an adventure. The grown ups would hang around the house and the kids would roam at will; no one worried about our safety. We were allowed to be kids.

One summer we pitched some tents and camped out on the other side of the big ravine. The fun attraction that year was riding across the ravine on a converted manure bucket (if you don't know what that is, you have lived a sheltered life). Chuck had taken the manure hauler out of their barn, removed the bucket, and attached a platform. He then stretched a cable across the ravine between 2 trees, one side higher than the other. You'd pull the carrier back, jump on while someone held a rope, then they'd let go of the rope. You'd zoom across the ravine to the other side. No safety lines, no helmet, nothing between you and the bottom of the ravine a thousand feet down. (the scale as seen by a 10 year old). This was called having fun. Chuck was a draftsman, a toolmaker, and was an incredibly smart guy. And he didn't do anything small. So, when his boys wanted some fun, he would engineer some fun.

During this camp out someone thought it would be a good idea to smoke mice out of a tree. Again, if you don't know what that means, you have lived a sheltered life. We smoked some mice out of the partially hollow tree, and eventually we all went to sleep in tents. Sometime in the early morning I woke up, stuck my head out of the tent and couldn't help noticing that the tree was on fire. Engulfed. Not smoldering, not smoking. On fire. We tried to extinguish the flames, but you can't control much of a fire with the contents of a thermos. So we did the only thing we could do.

We hiked back to the house and had breakfast. While the tree burned.

Once the adults were awake they were informed about the tree. Uncle Chuck and my dad decided a burned out tree was a safety hazard, so they set about removing the hazard. They drove Chuck's little AC tractor (if you don't know what an AC is....) around and across the ravine, hooked a chain up to it, and planned to pull the tree over.

Well, that was the plan.

Except, when Chuck started yanking on the tree, the AC headed down the embankment to the edge of the ravine. Of course, all of us cousins were watching this from a safe distance and could hear my dad shouting, "jump Charlie, jump!" But Chuck stayed in the saddle, hit the brakes, and rode it out. Fortunately the chain was still hooked to the tree and the tractor, so it kept the AC and Chuck from going over the edge. The tractor came to a stop, Chuck shut it down, and climbed down.

My dad ran down the hill to Chuck. "Are you ok?" Chuck looked at him, fired up an unfiltered Chesterfield and said, "you know, I was a little scared".

An hour later Chuck dispatched the burned out tree with a few sticks of dynamite. You see, he didn't do anything small or in half measures.

Many years later my dad passed away. Five days later his dad, our grandfather, passed away. We had Dad's funeral one day, and Grandpa's the next. It was just a few days before Christmas and a very sad, hard time. Relatives and friends came from all over for the services. Of course, Uncle Chuck was there. Chuck had lost his beloved Alice a few years before, so he was alone. It had been several years since I had seen Chuck, and gave him  a big bear hug when I saw him. Chuck was there, being his fatherly self. He could be loud, but he also had a low voice, a kind, heartfelt voice that could melt your heart.

After Grandpa's funeral, my brother, sisters and I were at Mom's house, and Chuck came over too. We cleared off the table and played some penny poker. It was a perfect way to relax and ease the tension of some really hard days, and no one was feeling in a holiday mood. We had been playing for awhile, and in between hands Chuck looked around the table and in that low, heartfelt voice, almost breaking, he said, "...by God it's nice to be here with you kids".

You could have heard a pin drop. For at that moment, all the sorrow and sadness of the previous week seemed to fade away a bit. For a moment, the warmth and love of a man, hard as nails on the outside but possessing a true heart of gold on the inside, melted away the winter ice and cold and warmed our hearts and souls. In that moment, our Christmas was saved by Uncle Chuck.

Chuck's been gone now for several years, as are too many of that generation of the family. But everyone in the family has a favorite Chuck story. He may be gone, but he lives on in the memories of everyone he knew. Memories that can warm us on the coldest winter nights.

Merry Christmas Uncle Chuck.

Armistice Day

Several years ago I went to a Giants game with my buddy Eric and his friend Norris (The Reverand). A generous amount of beer was consumed that day, and we talked about many things, and even managed to watch the game a bit. At one point I said to Norris that my brother had served in Viet Nam. His reply to that was, "Did he come home?"

No one had ever asked that before. I replied, ' yes he did'. Norris then gave me a pat on the shoulder. That's what guys do. There was a Beach Boys concert after the game, and Norris and I joined a huge conga line that went around Candlestick Park. I told you, beer was consumed that day.

My brother is 11 years older than me, so we really didn't grow up together. He joined the Air Force about a year after he graduated high school. Viet Nam was raging and his draft number was coming up I suppose, so he joined up. It wasn't long before he was shipped off to Cam Rahn Bay for a 1 year tour of duty. I remember that Christmas, we watched the Bob Hope Christmas special on TV. Bob had stopped in Cam Rahn Bay, and we watched closely to see if we could see my brother. Well, you can guess how that turned out. A sea of young men all dressed in green. I wonder how many families watched the screen to see if they could get a glimpse of their son or brother.

The year he was in Viet Nam my parents were on edge (more than usual). I didn't really think of their well being much back then. I was about 8 years old and all I knew was my big brother was in a bad place. Every night we'd watch the news, and every Friday Walter Cronkite would inform us how many U.S. soldiers were killed in Viet Nam. It was a long year. Every time we got a letter from him, it was an event. Way before email and Skype, there was snail mail. I remember his return address was an APO in San Francisco. I wondered how the post office could get the mail from San Francisco to South Viet Nam. Never did figure that out.

As the end of his tour drew near we all became anxious and were counting down the days. In retrospect I think that as the end of my brother's tour came closer, my dad became ever more anxious. Dad was a World War II combat veteran. He saw things that no one should ever see, and he rarely talked about it. About a month before Germany surrendered, Dad's older brother, a tank driver in the 10th Armored Division of Patton's 3rd Army was killed in action near Trier, Germany. At the time, my dad was just a few hours away. There is an iconic photo of my Dad at his brother's grave at Hamm Cemetery. Just a white cross with a soldier's dog tags hanging from it. My Dad would talk of his brother at times, and he would always say, '...so close, so close..' meaning, that the war was almost over. Just a month. But a German 88 mm gun ended his brother's life in an instant. I can't help but think Dad was thinking of that as my brother's tour of duty was coming to a close.

November, 1968. My brother was on his way home. It was Veteran's Day and Dad had the day off. I was home on school holiday and Mom was working, so it was just Dad and me at home in the morning. Dad gave me strict instructions to stay inside and wait for the phone to ring. We were waiting for a call from my brother at the airport to come get him. Dad, with his usual nervous energy, was out in front of our house painting the white picket fence. Really, we had a white picket fence.

We were living in California at the time. Fall and winter in northern California is the rainy season. Along with rain there can can be fog, the  low hanging 'tule fog' that can linger for days. Dad is wearing his coveralls to stay warm, and is down on one knee lathering on the white paint. At some point in the morning, I heard conversation from the front of the house.  I looked through the large plate glass window in our living room to see Dad in his coveralls, paint brush in one hand, standing up and shaking my brother's hand. My brother was in his dress blue Air Force uniform. He had taken the bus from the airport and walked out of the fog to come upon Dad. Dad always referred to Veteran's Day as Armistice Day. Over the years, when I would hear Dad tell the story of my brother walking out of the fog, it was always on 'Armistice Day'.

I bet Dad thought of the day he came home in January of 1946. The war was over and  he was home again. But when he stepped off that train, I wonder if he thought about the brother he left behind, who would come home 2 1/2 years later for reburial in the hometown cemetery.

When Norris asked me if my brother had come home from the war, I remembered that moment. Yes, he did come home. He walked out of the fog and surprised Dad.

When we were all in the house, Dad remarked, '...now both of my boys are home'.

Armistice Day, 1968.

fathers and sons

I have just returned home from a trip to Washington state, I helped my youngest son move there to attend graduate school. He's 22 years old and on his own, totally on his own, for the first time. All summer long I had been dreading the morning I said goodbye and left him there to his life and drove away. I knew I would tear up and get that knotted feeling in my stomach. I had given much thought to what I would say to him before I left, even practiced it in the car over the two and a half day trip. He was still sleeping as I woke up in his apartment, showered, packed my bags and loaded the car. All ready, I woke him up and said it was time for me to go. After a few minutes he came out of his room, and I got ready to impart my fatherly advice. When that moment came, I hugged him tightly, said goodbye, then pushed away slightly to speak. I could not find the words. Instead, I just held his furry face, looked at my little boy and smiled. I hugged him again, told him I loved him, and then made my way to the door.

I think I had to wipe my eyes every few minutes for the first couple hundred miles.

When I was a kid, we would make a yearly trek to Minnesota from California to visit my father's parents and many other relatives. We made this trip for several years. One year, as we were departing my grandparent's house, my grandfather, in his late 70s, broke down and cried as we were leaving. This was upsetting us as we had never seen him cry before. My father was particularly upset, and after we left the house and were in the car, he started to cry as well. Through his tears he said he never saw his dad cry before. We drove away, and as we did my grandmother, blind for many years, stood at the door and waved to us, not seeing us but knowing she would be seen.

 I did not fully comprehend what this meant until  I was an adult myself. I was saying goodbye to my parents, and as my dad started to hug me, he started to weep. He didn't say anything, he probably could not find the words. Like my father before me, I was moved and started to cry as well.

Someday, perhaps my sons will have sons of their own. And if they do, there will come a day when they need to say goodbye to their sons. When that day comes, I hope they find it hard to say whatever it is they wanted to say, and all they can do is grab their son's faces and smile through the tears.

After all, that's how it worked for Tyler, who was the second son of Kerry, who was the second son of Arnold, who was the second son of Alfred, who was the second son of Peder.

toys under the tree

30 years ago yesterday was the last time I talked to my dad. It was his 63rd birthday, and he was in the Veteran's Hospital in Fargo, undergoing treatment for cancer. Dad was in rough shape, but I'm sure he sucked it up and chatted with me for a bit on the phone. He was optimistic about his chances to beat cancer, and put on a very brave face. But after surviving pneumonia as an infant, living through the Great Depression. front line combat in World War II, and losing half of a lung, Dad's luck was running out. He passed away 3 days later, on the 15th of December. This was his last birthday.

My sisters and I jumped on a plane, my brother got emergency leave and we all headed home. We all made it home to be with Mom and the many relatives and friends that gathered to say goodbye to Dad. Five days after Dad passed, his father, my grandfather, passed away. We had Dad's funeral one day, Grandpa's the next. A bittersweet Christmas.

Growing up, I was aware that Mom and Dad were children of the Depression. Mom was raised on a family farm that was modestly prosperous, so there was enough food, a warm house and the stability that comes with a large extended family. Dad was one of 8 kids, and lived in poverty. The family moved from time to time, from farm to farm, and my Grandparents eked out a marginal existence. The kids were expected to contribute as early as they could to the family survival. Dad left school somewhere in the 8th grade, and worked every day for the rest of his life. Christmas was nearly non existent, often the only cheer for the kids were gifts from relatives, particularly an Aunt who would bring food to the family and simple gifts to the children. Christmas joy would be in the form of a pencil, an apple, some candy. This was the stark reality they lived in. Dad would only sparingly tell me of these things, and he never complained about it. Mom would tell me these stories too, and tell me that Dad never really had a Christmas with gifts under the tree until he was much older, as a married man with his own family. As a kid myself I would have mixed feelings about this, feeling sorry for my dad for the many spare Christmases he experienced, and perhaps a little guilt over the comparatively lavish gifts I received over the years.

These memories later prompted me to get Dad something different for Christmas one year. I was now a young man with a job, so I had some money to spend. Not much, but my resources were now beyond that of a kid. So I bought Dad an electric train set. Getting this for Dad was somewhat of a leap for me, I was not sure how he would react to this. A man in his late 50s getting a train set. But after all, this is the late 70s and we are all now enlightened, so what the hell. It was a simple set, an engine, a few cars, a caboose and an oval track. But it was a real electric train.

I remember when Dad opened the gift. As he used to say, he got a real 'charge' out of the train set. I assumed he would probably set it up once in awhile, run it for the grandchildren, and that would be that. I was in for a surprise. Upon opening the present, he immediately found a room to setup the train, and played or 'monkeyed' around with the train all Christmas Eve, with me, my brothers in law, and my nieces and nephew. He liked it. He really did. Later, he built a wooden box with hinges and a hasp. He took the train set with him wherever he traveled, even to the campground he and Mom were caretakers for in the summer. There was a pavilion there with an electric outlet, and he would set it up on the cement floor to entertain guests and campers.

I still have that wooden box and the train set it holds. I haven't taken it out in years, but I have dreams of setting it up again, and maybe handing it down to a grandson some year, although I am in no hurry to be a grandparent. And maybe then I will tell that child about another kid, who was raised in poverty, worked with his hands his whole life, witnessed the horrors of war, and yet could still find joy in finding a toy under the Christmas Tree. Maybe that is the Joy of Christmas we hear about so often.

Happy Birthday Dad. Merry Christmas everyone.

I won't forget, mom

I just finished closing out my mom's estate. It was a modest estate, we dispersed her possessions to various family members and friends, converted her investments to cash and once I was satisfied that all the bills were paid, I divided up the cash between my sisters, my brother and myself. Mom designated me to be the executor of her estate, and I did my best to follow her wishes. I was kind of dreading the final acts of being the executor. For the last 5 months I was getting regular reminders of Mom, her mail having been diverted to my house. As executor I was obliged to go through everything, make sure the Social Security and pension checks stopped arriving, and pay the few bills she had. Now the mail has stopped arriving. Her possessions have been scattered to the wind, the money she had in the bank is dispersed, and those that survive her continue to grieve in our own ways. I worry that I might drift apart somewhat from my siblings, as some of those ties that bind are gone. I wonder if now I could be called an orphan, as both of my parents are gone. I am sad.

Among those things of mom's I found what used to be a nickel. It's been flattened and curved, and you can just barely make out Jefferson's head and other markings. When I found this, I thought what an odd thing to keep. Then I remembered that I had given this to Mom when I was a kid. Our house was just a block from the railroad tracks, and I would often stack some coins on the rails as a train was approaching. The odds of finding these coins after the train had passed were small I discovered. Maybe it has to do with a train traveling 70 miles per hour, weighing several hundred tons, and the coins are somewhat smaller. Physics I suppose. Never took that class.  I probably lost a fair amount of my allowance money on those tracks, maybe I felt obliged to give some back to Mom, in the warped shape of a Jefferson nickel. Mom kept that nickel for the better part of 40 years in her jewelry box. I was somewhat astounded, as Mom was not necessarily very sentimental, but she certainly had that soft side. That nickel laid next to her rings, jewelry, and other treasures she had. It meant something to her. She never mentioned it to me. It's odd to think of parents keeping little treasures, we forget that they were young and and idealistic, had romances, and collected memories.

It caused me to think, mom did a lot of things that she never called much attention to. She was collecting memories. Growing up, Mom was the disciplinarian. Dad was tough on the outside, very soft on the inside. Mom had some inner grit that kept her going. She could get cranky at times, and sometimes she was a real PITA. Then, she would surprise you. When I was 17, I had a real POS car. But it was my car. I was having a lot of trouble with it, and no money to fix it. Mom and Dad never had much cash, so I was left to my own devices to get things fixed. One day, I was particularly upset with my car, and was sitting on the front porch being miserable about it. Mom came and sat next to me, and starting weeping. I asked her what was wrong, she said she just wanted me to have a good car, and was sad it wasn't working out for me. It made me think that maybe car problems are not so important in the whole scheme of things.

Much later in life, Mom and Dad were retired and living alone in northern Minnesota. Dad had cancer, and it as it turned out, not long to live. Mom didn't have a driver's license, but she got dad moved from one hospital to the next, rented a room nearby so she could be near him during his treatments, and never once complained to any of us kids. She didn't want to worry us. It's the dead of winter, she's lugging suitcases, helping my dad walk around, getting cab rides, dealing with doctors, and keeping my dad's spirits up the best she can. Never a complaint. We would forget about these things when she would be a PITA.

Mom kept things that meant something to her. She did things that she would not call attention to. She was being a mom. When I was little, I wondered how it was that she would always have an answer to my questions, she knew how to treat me when I was sick, how to get to school, what to make for dinner, you name it she had the answer. I thought, I will never know this much stuff. What will I do when I have kids? How can I get ready for that? I was worried. I would fail as an adult. Better to leave society now before I cause any permanent damage.

Well I survived child rearing, they turned out ok mostly. I realized as I was going through those years, we do the best we can and then make it up as we go along. We don't call attention to a lot of the stuff we do, probably because we are too tired. We just do. We collect memories, little mementos and treasures that would not mean much to anyone but ourselves. And without realizing it, we turn into our parents. Sort of. Maybe that is the final revenge of parents. Our kids start channeling us. I hope mine are around to wheel me out in the sun when I'm too feeble to do so. And maybe call me once in awhile.

Mostly, I hope my kids remember me when I am gone. As a parent, I was constantly reminding my boys about this or that. Don't forget I would say, which was just ensuring they would. Mom would do the same to me. Don't forget this or that, remember to do this. Yes mom, I will. No really mom I will. Then I would inevitably forget. She would get after me, tell me I need to be better about remembering things, then she would give me the same reminder in a day or two.

Now the long goodbye is over. I put off writing about this until now, I wanted to save these thoughts and have some closure. I'm still sad, and probably will be for a long time. That's normal, and probably even a little healthy.

Mom, I did learn those lessons. I won't forget. I have a flattened nickel to help me remember. I'll won't forget, Mom.

Goodbye Mom. Say hi to Dad for me. When you see Aunt Max tell her we miss her too. If you see Gene tell him I'm really pissed he's not coming back. You all can have a laugh about that. I won't forget any of you.

Double Nickel

I celebrated turning 18 with my high school buddies, we drank a whole bunch of Budweiser, got sick, told lies, and enjoyed hangovers the next morning. When I turned 21, I was with Gene and Garry, we hit up some cocktail lounges (bars) in the big city of Sacramento, enjoying the free drinks they would give to anyone turning the legal age. I still have the margarita glass I drank from when I actually turned 21, Gene snuck it out of the Peppermill Lounge under his cowboy hat. Really. I took about a month to celebrate my 21st, I was testing the limits drinking, partying, and generally being alive on the planet. It was a good time.

I celebrated my 30th birthday with my oldest son, 5 days old, puking on me and keeping me up for days on end. Despite his making my birthday a sleep deprived, stinky and sticky day, he turned out ok, having graduated college and finding employment. 

When I turned 44, my brother and oldest sister flew in from 'out west' and surprised me. I had to teach that night, so they came with to watch their little brother at work. Later, when I was looking over the practice tests I was going over with my students, I found the one my sister had. On it, she had written a note to my brother "....I didn't know he was this smart"  I assume my brother agreed with her.

11 years later, I am now almost old enough to qualify for the senior menu of most family restaurants. Good grief. I have not really been looking forward to 55. But, I have moved now from denial to acceptance. I'm not ready to embrace 55, that might take awhile. A little at a time, please.

How did I get here? 55. OK, if you have already crossed this bridge, you probably have no sympathy for me. Well, go get your own blog. Knock yourself out. I'll read it.

As for me,  I look back on my life thus far and see a journey that has not been very linear or by the numbers. I have lived, celebrated, mourned, wandered, loved, been fearless and scared. I made and lost friends, lost my dad, my best friend, and too many relatives and friends. I've swept floors for a living, earned some college degrees, picked up some scars you can see and some you can't, and made a fool of myself on occasion. I have witnessed the joy of childbirth, held my nieces as they fell asleep in my lap, comforted some people and scared others.

I have known joy and depression. Loneliness and friendship. I get pissed, dejected, elated and sometimes feel numb.  I marvel at how quickly life changes. 

My mom says that everything happens for a reason. I don't know about that. I just don't. I am convinced that one thing leads to another, and have learned the value of that. The ripple in the pond thing.  I am aware that I cannot change the past but I probably look backwards more than I should. More often than not, I am lead by my heart rather than my head, I believe life is lived in the heart. My intuition may not always be right for others, but it has generally served me well.

 Like most, I do the best I can with what I have. I was raised by loving parents, a mother who was emotionally tender and vulnerable, and a father that was tough as nails with a very sentimental core. They did the best they could. They kept me clothed, fed, and provided a stable home despite the issues they had between them. I tried to apply some lessons learned from them on my sons, and avoided some others. I did the best I could.

So here I am, 55 and looking forward to the next 50 years or so. I still enjoy an occasional beer, am very glad I don't have to change any more diapers, and I can live with being old enough for the senior menu. Out of vanity I'll probably continue to pay full price for awhile though. The driver's license may say I'm 55, but when I'm running down the road on my Magna, I feel 17 again. The wind is at my back, the sun is shining on my face. My heart is leading me down that road. One thing leads to another.

letter to aunt max

Dear auntie em

Well Max the family has gathered this morning and Jo asked me to say a few words. Since you and I have not spoken in a while, I thought I would drop you a line with some of the things I have been thinking of lately.

First of all, I wanted to say how much I miss Thanksgiving out at the farm. Those holidays were really special, and you somehow always managed to throw some food on the table. As you often said, it wasn’t much, but we always managed to get enough to eat anyway. Some of the best naps I have ever taken were on your living 

room floor after eating. I could always count on you to either step on me or, if I was close enough to your chair, to have you use me as a place to rest your feet. Once we had rested up from dinner, we had pie to look forward to. And leftovers. Lots of leftovers.  Once you moved off the farm and we would have Thanksgiving at a restaurant, you would still make a full meal so we could have leftovers. I guess you figured a restaurant could never have a enough food to fill us up………

No matter what the occasion, you made sure the family was fed. Even when we all came to Lund cemetery to raise Aunt Hilda. You had been after Jo and I for years to raise Aunt Hilda’s headstone, so when we finally got around to it, you brought enough food to feed an army. We raised Aunt Hilda, and there is a great picture of you, sitting on the ground with a cup of coffee and doughnut, your feet in the hole where Hilda’s stone was. I guess you found a comfy spot to have coffee…….

The farm. Everyone loved coming to the farm. Knowing that you and Wally built the house yourselves gave it extra meaning. Although, I must admit, I could never figure out why you had a phone in the bathroom but no water in the kitchen………..but it was a great place for the family to gather. 

Max, I loved how you would always keep an eye on me, and how you tried to be so discrete about it. Like when I dropped by the farm to pick you up on my way to Fosston. I was driving my Camaro at the time, and I am pretty sure you were not wild about riding in that car. All the way to Fosston, you were using your peripheral vision to keep an eye on how fast I was driving. I know this, because at one point you said,  “you know, when you are this close to the ground, it seems like you are traveling much faster than you really are…..”

And when we were at April’s wedding in Las Vegas, I had the sneaking suspicion you were keeping track of the number of beers I was drinking. Somewhere around beer number 5 you gave me the look. THE LOOK. I guess it didn’t help that in response I raised my beer in a toast to you. Sorry Max. At the time, it seemed the thing to 

do….

Max, we all loved your wonderfully pragmatic style. I remember one time you told me about a vivid dream you had of Grandpa. You said he was walking across the yard at the farm to you. The dream was so vivid that you awoke from it. I asked you, “were you scared?” You looked at me and said “I wasn’t scared of him when he was alive, why would I be scared of him when he is dead?” 

Well I can certainly see the logic in that, and never forgot it.

Well as I said, the family has gathered today. My boys are here too. Remember how you would read to Arnold, and have him read to you? Now he writes books for children, I think you would like them. And remember how you would hug Tyler with the “Aunt Maxie death grip” around his neck? Well he is well on his way to becoming a teacher. I think that since your birthdays are right next to each other, it kind of bonded you. I see a lot of your personality in him.

I rode to Bemidji with Alison yesterday, we had a wonderful time sharing Aunt Max stories. We wish all the nephews and nieces could be here, because we all have hundreds, thousands of those stories.  You have touched so many lives, rest assured that those stories, those memories will live on for generations in the family.

I know you would not want me to go on and on or worse, to puddle up about all this. Far be it from me to cross SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED.

Max, I’m gonna miss you. But I wanted assure you that

1. The family will be well fed today.

2. Jo will be OK. She is surrounded by a family and friends that love her and will take care of her.

Well it’s time to go. I prefer to think that you have not gone away, but now you are back out on the farm with Wally and Julie. You and grandma are making a big meal, and sitting down at the table are grandpa, my dad, ruthie, manly, stella, cliff, otto and alma, roald, mildred, ed, dave, and all the others we miss so much. You have all of them out at the farm, you’re feeding them, and maybe after dinner you will have time for a hand or two of gully rummy. And pie…

Someday, we’ll all be back out at the farm together.

the gully book

   My family, that is my mother's family and my father's, come from a little tiny town in northwestern Minnesota called Gully. My mom's family help settle the area in the late 1800's, my father's family arrived in the area around the turn of the century. Truly, these were pioneers. They cleared the land, built houses, tilled the soil, planted and raised crops and dairy cattle, and raised families. Big families. When I was a kid, it seemed that I was related to everyone in town. Haugens, Paulsons, Dahls, Ringstads, Soliens, just about everyone was a relative or as Aunt Max would say, a 'shirt tail' relative. This was home for the family. My mom was born there, both of her parents were born there. Her parents were baptized on the same day, in the same holy water, as the story goes. They grew up together, married and started their family there. The aunts and uncles had the farms, and it was on one of these farms where my dad and his dad were working on a threshing crew when my dad met my mom. 

   In May 1979, Grandpa's funeral was there, in December, Grandma's. 5 years later, my Dad's funeral was there, and 5 days later, his dad's. Dad's mom had her funeral there too, in 1975. The cemetery is a regular stop when I visit, as most of the family is now there, dating back to the pioneer days. Relatives who died young, in the influenza outbreak of 1918, World War II, accident, illness, old age. Perhaps someday, a long long time from now, I will be there too, in that quiet place next to the woods and wheat fields. 

   As when I was a kid, my boys loved running around town, exploring the streets, buildings, and meeting people that we may be related to. A quiet little place called Gully.

   So you see, Gully is home to the family, for many reasons. The family has been there for well over 100 years.   Most of the family is scattered across the country now, and the younger ones don't have occasion to visit there very often. But in 2010 a number of us made the trip for a weekend in July to celebrate the Gully Centennial. There was a lot of food, drink, a parade, and plenty of visiting. Everyone had a good time, and it was the event of a lifetime.

And, there was the book.

   A committee was formed, and it was thought a good idea to make a book celebrating Gully, telling the story of many of the families, tons of pictures. Everyone in the family paid $50 apiece for a copy, which we expected to take delivery of sometime in the not too distant future.

   We're still waiting. The trouble is, the book is being produced by volunteers, and clearly it has not been a priority, as we are closing in on year three and still no book. There has been some grumpiness and anxiety about this, and questions about when it will arrive. We have been told we can get our money back. Speaking for myself, I will wait, as I would rather have the book someday than the $50 now, which would only buy me a tank of gas. As long as the gauge is on the quarter mark.

So I hope the book arrives soon. It will be fun to see the pictures, see the story, and to share that with my kids, and grandchildren someday. 

After all, we've been there a long time. There is a lot to tell about this little town, village actually, called Gully.

my nieces, part 4

I met my second niece when she was just a couple weeks old. My parents were very excited about this grandparent thing, so we packed up the car, drove all night to Arizona where my brother was stationed, and saw the new addition to the family. There is a Polaroid snapshot in a book somewhere of me holding her in my hands. I was 11 at the time, by now a 3 time uncle and an old hand at this. I only got to see her a few times a year, as we lived in northern California and my brother was in the Air Force, so they lived in several places, all a long way from us, all over the world. Except for the three years they were in Panama, I managed to see them as often as I could. My niece always loved to sit in laps, so I spent many hours with her there, reading her stories and playing with her. She was quiet, studious, and very very sweet. As she grew older, she retained her sweetness, but left the quiet part behind. She grew into a lovely, fun person, striking off on her own to college and eventually a career in dentistry. "Sucking spit" as she refers to it.  As an Air Force kid, she managed to have friends all over the world. I had the pleasure of meeting a few 'gentleman callers' and giving them the once over. While I enjoyed this immensely, she was probably just a bit concerned that I might scare them away, or at least make them wonder about the family. At her wedding, I met her husband for the first time. As I shook his hand, she told me, 'uncle Kerry, don't do that, I told him all about you'  Rats. Oh well. She made a very good choice, he is a terrific husband, father and person. 

Recently, she became an Advisory Commissioner for the parks and rec department where she lives. Pretty impressive, but she still calls me 'unc'. I hope she remembers me when she is elected to the Senate, the House, or the White House.

Happy Birthday, April Marie.

my nieces, part 3

My oldest niece is a force of nature. Fiercely independent, she has been that way her whole life. As a little girl, she was not the type of kid that would sit in your lap and cuddle up. She would engage in conversation, had an active imagination, and loved to make up silly names. She often called me 'silly billy'. Her dad, my brother in law, would call her silly names and she reveled in that. One such name was 'anglelupepasqualegobaglutchiesmithandjones'. She loved that. She was very much like her dad, and they were very close her whole life.

I spent a lot of time at their house while she and her sister were growing up. During my stays I would read bedtime stories to them. She always enjoyed being read to, and we spent many hours watching PBS in the afternoons: Sesame Street, Electric Company, Carascolendas. She could sit for hours watching these programs. I remember watching her, sitting quiet as a church mouse, watching those shows, and repeating softly the things they were trying to teach kids. Certainly the lesson was not lost on her as she grew up.

As an older child, I would take her shopping to K Mart and short trips to the local A&W on my motorcycle for some root beer. Maybe not exactly bonding experiences, but I have always loved being an uncle. Really. I love being an uncle. Even as an adult woman, she still calls me Uncle Kerry.

I did not get to see a lot of her during her high school years, I was raising kids of my own then. I would go see her play the occasional volleyball game and see her at family gatherings. Our re connection started with her high school graduation. When I went to her graduation and spent a bit of time with her at her parent's house, I discovered the little girl who was my niece was a wonderfully warm, funny, vibrant young woman.

After doing a couple years at a community college, she transferred to a state college not far from where I was living. She would come and see us often then, and she formed a strong bond with my oldest son. True to her upbringings, she soon gave him a nickname, Kemosabe. She and 'kemo' were inseparable. She loved him, and he adored her. Best friends. So much so, that she had a portrait taken of them together. Later, when 'kemo's' brother was born, she would come watch him a couple days a week, better to pay her than a daycare. She doted on the boys like a mother, and they both are the better for it. Patient, kind and giving, she was a positive, loving influence on her little cousins. She read to them, played with them, talked to them like they were adults. History repeats.

She graduated from college, but I missed her graduation as I was at my own going away party, we were leaving California for a new life in the midwest. The details of our lives would become distant, but not the bond. One morning, she called very early to tell me she was engaged. I was so touched that she called to share that. We made the trip and watched her start a new phase of her life.

Now she is a mom to three wonderful kids, has a successful career, and is still a force of nature. She lost her dad a few years ago, and still mourns that loss. Like her uncle, she has trouble letting go, but I know she will learn the same lesson I did: we are not supposed to let go. We move on, not without those we lose, but taking them with us every step of the way. I recently danced with her at her sister's wedding. We laughed, we shared, and we shed a few tears.

And why not? She is my niece. My girl.

Happy Birthday, Angela Lynn.

one giant leap

Recently the nation mourned the passing of Neil Armstrong, the first man to set foot on the surface of the moon. I was ten years old on July 20, 1969 when Neil stepped out of the LEM and stood on the moon. Who cannot feel emotional when we see this, and hear Walter Cronkite say "....Neil Armstrong, 38 year old American, standing on the face of the moon..." Wow. He stood on the moon, looked at his home a quarter of a million miles away, and said something about one small step....

As a kid, I watched this, thought it was cool, and then went back to my comic books, bike, and those things that ten year olds do. It was only later, much later, as an adult, that I began to have a real appreciation for Mr. Armstrong. Not for stepping out on the moon, uttering an historic phrase, planting a flag, gathering some rocks and then blasting off back home. Sure, cool stuff. What made him a hero, a real hero to me, is something else.

Neil Armstrong knew how to hang in there. He could wait until the last second until making a life or death decision. In a training exercise, the LEM trainer went out of control, but he hung in until the last possible second before ejecting out. The trainer crashed, he survived, and flew to the moon. As the mission commander, it was his job to pilot the LEM to the surface of the moon with Buzz Aldrin. As Neil and Buzz were descending, there was a glitch, so the LEM had to be landed manually. Neil guided the spacecraft to a landing spot in the Sea of Tranquility with only a few seconds worth of fuel left. Now we're not talking running around in the Hyundai with the gauge on E. This is serious stuff. Run out of gas on the moon and life gets real pretty quick. The alternative is to abort, fly back into orbit, hook up with the command module and go home. No moon, no historic words, no flag, no rocks. No parade when you get home. No high schools named after you. Well, you get the point. I'm pretty sure Neil was not doing this because he wanted a high school named after him. He was a pilot. Moreover, he was a test pilot. He loved to fly. By some stroke of luck, NASA picked him to be the first on the moon. Probably because someone knew that he could hang in there, not panic, make the call, and do the job.

That's why he was a hero to me. Not for doing the glamorous thing, but for doing something only a very few can do. Stay calm. Process information. Trust your intuition. Make the call. Do your job. He set an example for me. I don't think I will be flying to the moon or testing the latest suborbital space plane, but I do make decisions every day. I try to live by Neil's example and not panic, process the information, trust my intuition, and make the call.

Rest in peace Neil. I hope that I will live to see someone like you step out on the planet Mars one day. Why? Because like you, it will capture the imagination of an entire generation, and because we can.

595 Walnut Park Avenue

   I grew up in the same town my grandparents, my mom's parents, lived in. We lived on the south end of town, grandma and grandpa more to the north. They had a little house with two bedrooms (one for grandma, one for grandpa), and converted the garage into a little guest house with a bedroom and bathroom. In California you can do that and park your car on the street without living in fear the snowplow will bury it in the wintertime. When my parents and I moved to California in 1966, we stayed for a short time in that little garage guest house.       After a month or so, my parents rented their own house on the other side of town but we saw my grandparents almost every day. Grandma and grandpa had fixed up their little place quite nicely, in addition to the guest house, they built a screened in porch that connected the house and garage. The porch had a couch, chairs, refrigerator, and was a great place to play cards. Year in and year out, there were many family gatherings at this house, and you could count on card games at these gatherings. In the porch the men would play poker. Here is where I learned to play 2 and 22, 7 card no peekie, 5 and 7 card stud, 5 card draw and other variants of poker. In the house, the women would play canasta. Grandma was a fierce, and I mean fierce, canasta player. She called 7's "meat axes" and red 3's "red treys", and if you made a play she did not like, she would call you a "dret sek" ....look it up.
   Grandma loved to have company. She loved to feed us, and she would always have several kinds of homemade cookies on hand. When the weather was nice (remember, this is California) we would eat outside, in their backyard. My grandparents took particular pride in their backyard. They had many lawn chairs, lounges, tables and lawn ornaments decorating the yard. They built a playhouse for the great grandchildren to play in, complete with little wooden refrigerator and oven. Gotta have some place to make those pretend cookies. The centerpiece of the backyard was a large weeping willow tree, which they trimmed like a  huge umbrella, giving us shade from the hot summer sun. My cousins and I would climb the willow and explore it, and sway back and forth in the breeze. Under the weeping willow tree was an old yard swing, a heavy metal frame and springs that supported a couch like seat. Grandma would recover the seat every few years to keep it fresh. On Sundays you could find Grandpa laying in the swing, reading the Sunday paper or a paperback book, he was a voracious reader. He loved his Charley Pride and Merle Haggard records, and was not afraid to turn up the stereo loud and play them.
   When there were family gatherings, we would all  gather at Grandma and Grandpa's house: Aunts, uncles, cousins, my sisters, their husbands, my nieces and nephew, and the occasional  visiting relative from Minnesota, who would marvel at us parading around in shorts and t shirts while the mid west would still be under a blanket of snow. Christmas time would find us all there, having Christmas Eve dinner, then a frenzy of gift giving, followed by pie and coffee. Christmas Day, back to the house for leftovers and cards. Grandma was her happiest when the house was full.
   Their house was not fancy or expensive; it was just a simple house that they bought and fixed up when time and money would allow. The front door had a tendency to stick, so once in awhile I would crawl under the house and turn a screw jack until the door opened and shut properly. I was usually rewarded with some cookies and milk. You could not be at their house without having something to eat. Don't even try to get around it. Just sit down and enjoy it.
   As the years passed on, the large family gatherings were taking a bit of a toll on my grandparents; the preparation, the event, the clean up were wearing them out.  The end of an era was approaching. To reduce the wear and tear on grandma and grandpa, the gatherings would be shorter and fewer would attend. Grandma did not like this, but she knew that it was tougher on them to do it too. She insisted that it was more fun to be at her house for gatherings, with all the family.
   In May of 1979, Grandpa passed away. He became terminal with cancer, and rather than spend his last days in a hospital, the family wanted to take him home. He died in his own room, in his bed, surrounded by his family. The house that he worked so hard to fix up, the place that his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren gathered in, had one last gathering for his passing.
 Now that Grandma was alone, I tried to see her every day, dropping in to say hi or to stop by with some A&W root beer to share. She still baked cookies, so we would sit and have some root beer, cookies, watch some TV and talk, then I would go home. My uncle would come by to do yard work and whatever else Grandma needed. The city needed to rebuild a storm sewer that passed right under their beautiful back yard, so the willow tree and yard were all dug up. A new tree and grass were planted, but it was not the same. Losing her back yard was hard on Grandma, being a Norwegian she would not say so, but it was tough.
In the Fall of 1979 Grandma left for a trip to spend the holidays with one of her sons on the east coast. A cousin came to pick her up, so I drove over to say goodbye. As I walked out of the house with her, Grandma shut and locked the front door, turned to me and said "I'll never come back here again. Don't you dare tell your mother." I told her that was silly, that I would see her after the holidays, but she repeated "no, I won't ever be back"
   We said our goodbyes, Grandma got in my cousin's car, and left.
The day after Christmas, early in the morning, we got a call that Grandma had passed away during the night. She never did come back to the house where she hosted so many family gatherings, to the kitchen that she made countless dozens of cookies, doughnuts, lefsa. Somehow, she knew she would not return. Why she decided to tell only me this, I will never know.
   After Grandma passed, the house sat empty for a few months, then my mom and her brothers had the sad duty of going through the contents of the house, the personal possessions, distributing to various family members, and then selling the house. The house finally sold, and over the years has changed appearance. The porch is gone, the yard is gone, and the neighborhood has changed. I drive by the house whenever I visit the area, but I don't take pictures. I would rather remember it the way it was, Grandpa laying in the yard swing, Grandma baking in the kitchen, the men playing poker and the women playing canasta.
There is an old country song, it's never heard on the radio anymore, but I remember hearing it when I was a kid. Whenever I think of 595 Walnut Park Avenue, I think of this song, and vice versa.

This old house once knew my children 
This old house once knew my wife 
This old house was home and comfort 
As we fought the storms of life 

This old house once rang with laughter 
This old house heard many shouts 
Now it trembles in the darkness 
When the lightning walks about 

Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
Ain't gonna need this house no more 
Ain't got time to fix the shingles 
Ain't got time to fix the floor 
Ain't got time to oil the hinges 
Nor to mend no window pane 
Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
I'm gettin' ready to meet the saints

This old house is gettin' shaky 
This old house is gettin' old 
This old house lets in the rain 
This old house lets the cold 

On my knees are gettin' chilly 
But I feel no fear or pain 
'Cause I see an angel peepin' 
Through the broken window pane 

Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
Ain't gonna need this house no more 
Ain't got time to fix the shingles 
Ain't got time to fix the floor 
Ain't got time to oil the hinges 
Nor to mend no window pane
Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
I'm gettin' ready to meet the saints 

This old house is gettin' shaky 
This old house is gettin' old 
This old house lets in the rain 
This old house lets in the cold 

On his knees he's gettin' chilly 
But he feels no fear or pain 
'Cause he sees an angel peepin' 
Through a broken window pane 

Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
Ain't gonna need this house no more 
Ain't got time to fix the shingles 
Ain't got time to fix the floor 
Ain't got time to oil the hinges 
Nor to mend no window pain 
Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
I'm getting ready to meet the saints 

This old house is afraid of thunder
This old house is afraid of storms
This old house just blows and trembles
When the night cames after dawn
This old house is getting fragile
This old house is in need of paint
Just like me it's starting to die
I'm getting ready to meet the saints

Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
Ain't gonna need this house no more 
Ain't got time to fix the shingles 
Ain't got time to fix the floor 
Ain't got time to oil the hinges 
Nor to mend no window pain 
Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
I'm getting ready to meet the saints