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.
Wednesday, December 14, 2016
Thursday, September 1, 2016
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 26, 2016
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 22, 2015
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
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.
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.
Monday, August 17, 2015
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.
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.
Saturday, December 13, 2014
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.
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