Wednesday, December 26, 2012
The way Christmas S'psed to Be
I still work part-time at a local hotel and when one of my fellow workers asked, "Are you working here at Christmas?" they were sympathetic that I had been scheduled to work the 11-7 shift, starting at 11p.m. Christmas Eve.
"Yeah, I gotta work Christmas Eve but then another person who would have been scheduled is able to have Christmas Eve with family."
"That's really cool that you see it that way," fellow employee observed.
"I have my moments." (I reflected how my serenity blooms when I have such an attitude.)
My shift was uneventful. I tweaked the chemical balance in the hotel's pool and spa. I did the night audit on the computer and prepared the registration slips for the day's arrivals. Downy flakes had settled on the sidewalk so I cleaned all 300 ft. of it. I hauled out the garbage.
I exchanged warm Christmas greetings with Val, who came in for the day shift and then I would go home and sleep. On the way home I reflected that I work with some wonderful people, including the boss.
My wife, Lois was just getting up when I entered our bedroom.She would take the"kids," as we call our two dogs, out for their morning chores. I would drift off blissfully and not be awakened until noon so that I could attend the community church dinner put on by Woodland Church, where both Lois and have been active for many years.
The dinner was a collaborative effort, as several members of our (Baptist) congregation cooked turkeys at home, as well as deserts. I was proud of all the work Lois put into preparing the turkey since she is busy from dawn to dusk on any given day. Several others brought cooked turkeys as well as a ham. There were the traditional mashed potatoes and stuffing and a bowl of turkey gravy and a grand array of desserts. My weakness was for the fudge.
It was heartening that so many people volunteered to make this event a success.
A reporter from the Ironwood Globe interviewed pastor Mike and took pictures.
Most of our guests were not Baptists and I suspect that many didn't share in our doctrinal beliefs but there was no proselytizing. Our only mission was to provide food and fellowship for many people who would not have such a dinner. That is what Jesus would have done and He could have miraculously made the food appear but I suspect that He would defer to allow volunteers
give a gift to the community.
After all, that's the way Christmas is s'posed to be.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Snow-Romantic and Real
It's Not Easy Living in the U.P.
I just re-read Robert Frost's poem, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. He lived in New England so he was used to rugged winters. This poem is on a dog-eared page of his collected works.
It's 8 a.m. and it's still almost dark. I try to associate this with the Christmas season, as I did as a kid. Going to school when it was almost dark was a novelty. The snow was a novelty, as Frost wrote, "the gentle sweep of easy wind and downy flake." This imagery revives that wonder, even when It's 5:30 in the morning and I've got to get Lois off to work after a major snowfall. Mother Nature has done a work of art and transformed the landscape into grandness.
In the U.P. we measure snow not by inches, but by feet. We shovel off our roof-tops in January to prevent collapse. I clear the pristine downy flakes from our woodpile and hit the woodpile with a sledge hammer to loosen the chunks of wood that have frozen together. Then I move the wood into our basement through a little basement window.
My back aches from removing the snow by muscle and machine and tiredness envelopes me. I sit down in my recliner and sleep washes warmly over me. The snow-removal is done, all three hours of it and the wood is in the basement. Lois watches TV while I slumber.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
A Pile of Maple Logs
What insanity! Our yard was full of maple logs, thirty cord's worth,short cords, that is. All of this wood had to be processed, that is, sawn into about 16" chunks and these chunks would be split by me using an 8-pound splitting maul to produce usable firewood. Then I piled the wood in precise stacks which dominated our tiny yard.This project took a great deal of my time for about about three months but it gave me a sense of accomplishment, pride if you will.
It was a hot and sticky August day and I was finishing the sawing of the last few logs with my roaring chainsaw and I stopped because my glasses were full of sweat, effectively blinding me. I wiped my glasses with my shirt-sleeve and went in to refill my coffee mug even though a tall, cool glass of water would have made more sense.
I sat down on a huge maple block, the one that I used for a splitting block and sipped my hot coffee. I reflected how the once mountainous pile of logs that I had purchased from a logger for $280 was transformed into stove-sized wood, quite an accomplishment for someone with a slight build. All of my work would keep our house warm next winter, not this coming winter, as the wood was still green. I had a prodigious amount of dry wood in the basement for the coming winter.
The saw had cooled sufficiently so that I could refill it and finish all of the sawing and then Mr. Held stopped by. He was my high school chemistry teacher, a stern taskmaster with high grading standards. I recalled the many times I had seen him walk by our house in those days. He was energetic, his gait focused. He distantly bade me 'good morning' or 'good afternoon.'
Teachers were larger than life in the days of my adolescence. They commanded respect and sometimes were cruel, as in the time that Mr. Martell drafted me into 'group two' math because "you're one of the slower students." This was in seventh grade and in high school I would dispel this branding as an intellectual sloth.
Mr. Held was also larger than life. He kept strict command of his classroom and sometimes he was brutal as in the time he stood in front of Julie Pavlovich when she didn't remember the electrovalence of oxygen. Her face face reddened as he demanded the answer and when she appeared on the cusp of a good cry he relented and asked this question of someone else. Sometimes it was Larry Ruschmeyer, whose complexion also became ruddy during his ordeal.
"How can you people hope to solve chemistry problems if you don't know your valences?"
The kid in front of me sat with his hand supporting his head from behind with his arm on my desk, striking a casual pose. He was surreptitiously giving Mr. Held the finger. He did this each time he was in attendance. I don't think he meant this because Steve was not malicious but he was frustrated with Mr. held as a teacher and he dreaded the class.
I didn't recall any of this when Mr. Held stopped by to visit.
His gait was slower and he was affable, conversational.
"Boy, that was a huge pile of logs and now they are firewood. Do you have a wood stove or is it a fur nace?"
"It's a furnace that works along with our gas furnace."
"Does it cut your heating costs?"
"It sure does. Saves us a bundle of money."
"Do you think you'll teach math again?" He surprised me.
"No, I don't think so."
"It's too bad your Dad had to die just when you were launching your career. You would have made a fine teacher."
"I still love math, still go into my college textbooks."
"What are you doing for a living now, George?"
"I work part-time as the night auditor for the Townhouse. I also do the books for the Baptist Church."
"Do you enjoy your work?"
"Most of the time."
"I don't think anyone enjoys their work all the time. At least you've got a job and jobs are at a premium in this neck of the woods."
Mr. Held,s face was lined and his eyes belied a career of hard work at Ironwood High School. He seemed to have gotten frail. He was so friendly now, but in school I saw him as knowledgeable and tyrannical. Now he was a friendly neighbor and a friend. How life had changed for both of us. Mr. Held would eventually die from Parkinson's disease, his son Charlie would die from lung cancer and his wife ended up in a nursing home and I never saw his daughter Ruth since high school. Their house is occupied by retired folks from the city, yet I think of the Held family every time I pass by. I see it as a memorial.
I wonder if there is a scholarship in his honor. There should be.
It was a hot and sticky August day and I was finishing the sawing of the last few logs with my roaring chainsaw and I stopped because my glasses were full of sweat, effectively blinding me. I wiped my glasses with my shirt-sleeve and went in to refill my coffee mug even though a tall, cool glass of water would have made more sense.
I sat down on a huge maple block, the one that I used for a splitting block and sipped my hot coffee. I reflected how the once mountainous pile of logs that I had purchased from a logger for $280 was transformed into stove-sized wood, quite an accomplishment for someone with a slight build. All of my work would keep our house warm next winter, not this coming winter, as the wood was still green. I had a prodigious amount of dry wood in the basement for the coming winter.
The saw had cooled sufficiently so that I could refill it and finish all of the sawing and then Mr. Held stopped by. He was my high school chemistry teacher, a stern taskmaster with high grading standards. I recalled the many times I had seen him walk by our house in those days. He was energetic, his gait focused. He distantly bade me 'good morning' or 'good afternoon.'
Teachers were larger than life in the days of my adolescence. They commanded respect and sometimes were cruel, as in the time that Mr. Martell drafted me into 'group two' math because "you're one of the slower students." This was in seventh grade and in high school I would dispel this branding as an intellectual sloth.
Mr. Held was also larger than life. He kept strict command of his classroom and sometimes he was brutal as in the time he stood in front of Julie Pavlovich when she didn't remember the electrovalence of oxygen. Her face face reddened as he demanded the answer and when she appeared on the cusp of a good cry he relented and asked this question of someone else. Sometimes it was Larry Ruschmeyer, whose complexion also became ruddy during his ordeal.
"How can you people hope to solve chemistry problems if you don't know your valences?"
The kid in front of me sat with his hand supporting his head from behind with his arm on my desk, striking a casual pose. He was surreptitiously giving Mr. Held the finger. He did this each time he was in attendance. I don't think he meant this because Steve was not malicious but he was frustrated with Mr. held as a teacher and he dreaded the class.
I didn't recall any of this when Mr. Held stopped by to visit.
His gait was slower and he was affable, conversational.
"Boy, that was a huge pile of logs and now they are firewood. Do you have a wood stove or is it a fur nace?"
"It's a furnace that works along with our gas furnace."
"Does it cut your heating costs?"
"It sure does. Saves us a bundle of money."
"Do you think you'll teach math again?" He surprised me.
"No, I don't think so."
"It's too bad your Dad had to die just when you were launching your career. You would have made a fine teacher."
"I still love math, still go into my college textbooks."
"What are you doing for a living now, George?"
"I work part-time as the night auditor for the Townhouse. I also do the books for the Baptist Church."
"Do you enjoy your work?"
"Most of the time."
"I don't think anyone enjoys their work all the time. At least you've got a job and jobs are at a premium in this neck of the woods."
Mr. Held,s face was lined and his eyes belied a career of hard work at Ironwood High School. He seemed to have gotten frail. He was so friendly now, but in school I saw him as knowledgeable and tyrannical. Now he was a friendly neighbor and a friend. How life had changed for both of us. Mr. Held would eventually die from Parkinson's disease, his son Charlie would die from lung cancer and his wife ended up in a nursing home and I never saw his daughter Ruth since high school. Their house is occupied by retired folks from the city, yet I think of the Held family every time I pass by. I see it as a memorial.
I wonder if there is a scholarship in his honor. There should be.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Pre-Christmas Slump
Usually my pre-Christmas slump starts with the first commercial surge. Bombastic TV commercials proclaim great savings, selection, deals, etc. and suggest that holiday joy comes from a new Lincoln MKX or a wife's joy will originate from opulent jewelry. The imagery is vivid and the thread of many commercials is often a drumbeat at 120 beats per minute. (I timed the rhythm and 120 is the standard rate.)
Each day the materialistic drumbeat continues, with increasing intensity as Christmas Day approaches. Each day my psyche is beaten down by the sales hype for goods I cannot afford. Each day the volume increases and the mute button affords solace as long as I do not linger on the man (who seems about my age) driving the MKX with a tiny suggestion of a smirk. I always thought I would enjoy my senior age in comfort but such is not the case. I guess that depends on one's definition of comfort.
Other ads portray ideal people, comely and joyful, wearing diamond earrings or sitting on a luxurious leather recliner. This leads to another common thread. The people are joyous. This is my pratfall because I see people in real life, effusive, laughing and I'm not in that space so I think there is something wrong with me and my gloom magnifies with the real or imagined cheer around me.
I know enough not to let this happen but the ads hit me from my blind side, when I am hungry or tired or stressed. Then I compare myself to the guy in the MKX and I come up short.
I have not reached the ideal of luxury or money in the bank but that's okay. I have learned that it is okay when I don't feel okay. The thing is for me to filter my feelings through the attitude of gratitude, in other words I need to count my blessings.
I can look at the dark, negative side of life, then hinder myself with unrealistic expectations and take my eyes off the reason for the season. Jesus did not enter the world to a rich family nor did he become a member of the aristocracy. He rode a donkey, not a chariot. He lived as a working man, not an administrator. His was the life of caring for others.
A sure-fire help for my mood is to give generously to the Salvation Army kettle, or to attend my A.A. meetings, to pitch in and help with household chores, in other words take the advice of local A.A. gurus and get out of myself.
Each day the materialistic drumbeat continues, with increasing intensity as Christmas Day approaches. Each day my psyche is beaten down by the sales hype for goods I cannot afford. Each day the volume increases and the mute button affords solace as long as I do not linger on the man (who seems about my age) driving the MKX with a tiny suggestion of a smirk. I always thought I would enjoy my senior age in comfort but such is not the case. I guess that depends on one's definition of comfort.
Other ads portray ideal people, comely and joyful, wearing diamond earrings or sitting on a luxurious leather recliner. This leads to another common thread. The people are joyous. This is my pratfall because I see people in real life, effusive, laughing and I'm not in that space so I think there is something wrong with me and my gloom magnifies with the real or imagined cheer around me.
I know enough not to let this happen but the ads hit me from my blind side, when I am hungry or tired or stressed. Then I compare myself to the guy in the MKX and I come up short.
I have not reached the ideal of luxury or money in the bank but that's okay. I have learned that it is okay when I don't feel okay. The thing is for me to filter my feelings through the attitude of gratitude, in other words I need to count my blessings.
I can look at the dark, negative side of life, then hinder myself with unrealistic expectations and take my eyes off the reason for the season. Jesus did not enter the world to a rich family nor did he become a member of the aristocracy. He rode a donkey, not a chariot. He lived as a working man, not an administrator. His was the life of caring for others.
A sure-fire help for my mood is to give generously to the Salvation Army kettle, or to attend my A.A. meetings, to pitch in and help with household chores, in other words take the advice of local A.A. gurus and get out of myself.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Reality
The glow of Christmas and New Year's and the bowl games are gone. Lois took down the outside decorations during the record-setting warmth. (What global warming? ) We went back to work in the mines and life took on a patina of dullness interrupted by my aching mouth.
Dr. Gresham is a kindly man and I would never have another dentist. His sense of humor takes out the fear of the trauma that will ensue inside my mouth. He is one dentist treating about ten patients at a time and he barks out, "Gas is 3b! I need x-rays on 2a. Come on, come on, lets's keep it moving!" Usually there are dental assistants running from cubicle to cubicle and there is an air of excitement, urgency. Today it is subdued, being the day after Christmas and the clinic is closed. Dr. G. takes emergencies like mine for which I am deeply grateful. Actually I am one of a handful of hurting patients today.
Dr. G. shook hands with me as he set upon relieving my pain, a pain which made life miserable and kept me from being myself. His usually compassionate face was tense as he peered into my mouth. He gave me three shots at the point where my jaw hinges to my skull and looked down at me after he had finished.
"If I'm a little short with you today please forgive me. Damned kidney stones are killing me."
"I understand," I said through my own fog of pain. Dr. G. left me to treat other patients while the Novocaine took effect. There were usually patients in every cubicle but not today. It was the day after Christmas and the clinic was closed. He didn't have to be here, especially when he swimming upstream against his own pain. I said a silent prayer for him.
I took a book along for distraction but found it difficult to concentrate. I went through the motions anyway as the pain ebbed. I listened to the activity in the other cubicles, short, to-the-point exchanges they were. The joy was not in Doctor's voice as it usually is. I heard him drill and that sound does not strike terror in my psyche. I estimated that the other people were hurting worse than I was but that was of no comfort.
After 10 pages of Moby Dick Dr. G. reappeared. The assistant put the gas mask in place and he reassured me, "Let me know if I'm hurting you. You don't have to tough it out. That's why we have Novocaine."
Dr. G. is compassionate but a realist. "The problem is an abscess, caused by a dying nerve. I'll need to drill through your bridge and do a root canal. ." (It turned out to be two root canals.)
I heard the drill whine and I felt the vibrations as I tried to focus on one point of light. then I thought of Euler's limit definition of the constant e. I tried to hear music that I love or think of or things that I need to do. I looked at Dr. G.'s face and saw a mixture of pain, concentration and determination. My concern for him was interrupted. The jolt was exquisite and it must have registered facially. He stopped drilling and held out his gloved hand to the assistant and she handed him a syringe. Three more shots to the hinge of my mouth.
More Moby Dick. My nose itched but I couldn't feel that I was scratching it.since the realm of numbness had expanded. More torture of reading the introduction to Moby Dick. Why do I read introductions? They are usually verbose and numbing, but then that's what I needed. I read about Herman Melville's literary failures and how he turned to satire of the literary critics. and wrestled with poverty and debt. The book fell into my chest and I welcomed the warm blanket of sleep.
Four hours had elapsed since the waiting room. It was dark and I was hungry but it would be hours before I could eat. I made an appointment for three days later as the abscessed area would have to be purged of infection. In the meantime a prescription for pain and an antibiotic.
It was snowing as I trudged homeward and I thought that I am lucky to have such a caring dentist with a gentle and supportive staff. Thank you, Doctor Gresham.
Dr. Gresham is a kindly man and I would never have another dentist. His sense of humor takes out the fear of the trauma that will ensue inside my mouth. He is one dentist treating about ten patients at a time and he barks out, "Gas is 3b! I need x-rays on 2a. Come on, come on, lets's keep it moving!" Usually there are dental assistants running from cubicle to cubicle and there is an air of excitement, urgency. Today it is subdued, being the day after Christmas and the clinic is closed. Dr. G. takes emergencies like mine for which I am deeply grateful. Actually I am one of a handful of hurting patients today.
Dr. G. shook hands with me as he set upon relieving my pain, a pain which made life miserable and kept me from being myself. His usually compassionate face was tense as he peered into my mouth. He gave me three shots at the point where my jaw hinges to my skull and looked down at me after he had finished.
"If I'm a little short with you today please forgive me. Damned kidney stones are killing me."
"I understand," I said through my own fog of pain. Dr. G. left me to treat other patients while the Novocaine took effect. There were usually patients in every cubicle but not today. It was the day after Christmas and the clinic was closed. He didn't have to be here, especially when he swimming upstream against his own pain. I said a silent prayer for him.
I took a book along for distraction but found it difficult to concentrate. I went through the motions anyway as the pain ebbed. I listened to the activity in the other cubicles, short, to-the-point exchanges they were. The joy was not in Doctor's voice as it usually is. I heard him drill and that sound does not strike terror in my psyche. I estimated that the other people were hurting worse than I was but that was of no comfort.
After 10 pages of Moby Dick Dr. G. reappeared. The assistant put the gas mask in place and he reassured me, "Let me know if I'm hurting you. You don't have to tough it out. That's why we have Novocaine."
Dr. G. is compassionate but a realist. "The problem is an abscess, caused by a dying nerve. I'll need to drill through your bridge and do a root canal. ." (It turned out to be two root canals.)
I heard the drill whine and I felt the vibrations as I tried to focus on one point of light. then I thought of Euler's limit definition of the constant e. I tried to hear music that I love or think of or things that I need to do. I looked at Dr. G.'s face and saw a mixture of pain, concentration and determination. My concern for him was interrupted. The jolt was exquisite and it must have registered facially. He stopped drilling and held out his gloved hand to the assistant and she handed him a syringe. Three more shots to the hinge of my mouth.
More Moby Dick. My nose itched but I couldn't feel that I was scratching it.since the realm of numbness had expanded. More torture of reading the introduction to Moby Dick. Why do I read introductions? They are usually verbose and numbing, but then that's what I needed. I read about Herman Melville's literary failures and how he turned to satire of the literary critics. and wrestled with poverty and debt. The book fell into my chest and I welcomed the warm blanket of sleep.
Four hours had elapsed since the waiting room. It was dark and I was hungry but it would be hours before I could eat. I made an appointment for three days later as the abscessed area would have to be purged of infection. In the meantime a prescription for pain and an antibiotic.
It was snowing as I trudged homeward and I thought that I am lucky to have such a caring dentist with a gentle and supportive staff. Thank you, Doctor Gresham.
D-Day, D for Doctor
Rumination is natural for me, the kind that gets hold of something in the future and thinks about it, worries about it, puts it to rest then regurgitates it to worry about it some more, adding a worst-case scenario to the cud. I ruminate when the car makes a strange noise that even my wife can't hear. I ruminate when my body makes a strange noise or I could swear the mole on my chest has changed. The price of all commodities worries me because there is no corresponding increase in income so I ruminate. The GOP wants to end Social Security and Medicare as we know it and I ruminate.
The most fertile field for rumination is the month before a routine visit to the doctor. I used to go once a year and then they changed it to twice a year, ostensibly to rake in more money, but I cooperate, else my prescriptions won't be renewed.
I sat in my portable rocking chair at our campsite last week and gazed at the panorama. Sixty-foot pines in front of a tranquil Wisconsin lake. As I breathed in the pine-scent my mind drifted as it always does and of course it drifted to my medical appointment on August 30. It was so quiet that I could hear my heart beating, and then with the medical thought it increased from sixty to 80. I know because I took my pulse. Again and again.
For males older than sixty the exams can become invasive, starting with the doctor's request that I drop my drawers. Anything involving my sub-equatorial region makes my heart race like an Indy 500 race car.
Recurrent rumination about the appointment stifled my serenity. My birthday was during this vacation and it only made me think that my age beckons the invasive procedure into my one-way "street." I can't tell why I am this way. I only know that panic ensues when the doctor breaches the subject of my prostate gland. I want to bolt right out the door, but that would violate this medical protocol in which I am trapped.
The vacation ended and the day came, D-Day of sorts and I resolved to face this with equanimity, bearing in mind Winston Churchill, "All we have to fear is fear itself," and thus steeled I approached one of the registration cubicles at the clinic.
The registrar was a young man and that threw me because it was unusual. When he asked "How can I help you today," my response was delayed and before I responded he looked at me quizzically and I blurted, "You can do what it is that you do." I couldn't believe I had said that as he beckoned me "please, sit down."
"I'm not finding any appointment for you today, George."
This put me even further off stride, a reprieve. I lifted my foot from the acceleration pedal of my engine and it slowed.
The young man peered into his computer screen as a seer into a crystal ball.
"I see that you changed your appointment to September 10 on May fourth. I'll see if Dr. Gardner has any cancellations for today."
I revved my engine again.
"No. Sorry, he's booked solid."
Again my engine slowed as the young man wrote me a new appointment card. Reprieved!
Now I have to handle another vacation with a latex, I mean medical appointment looming.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Holy Rollers and Roof Stompers
Johnnie Lewinsky and I had just gotten kicked out of Hemacheck's Pharmacy for ogling Playboy magazines. Our feelings hadn't been hurt. There was no righteous indignation from us on this hot and suffocating evening. We were bored.
"Want to go down the caves and smoke?" Johnnie had swiped smokes from his mom when we were out of cigarettes. I used to hide my Camels that I bought from the A&P in my dresser drawer underneath my briefs, forgetting who always put my freshly washed underwear in the drawer. My smoking would remain a clandestine activity, I was certain.
"Naw, I'm already in the doghouse. If Mom smells cigarette smoke on me I'll be sleeping in the garage tonight."
"Whaddya wanna do then?"
"I dunno. Let's go to my place and play baseball." I had a table-top pinball machine, strictly mechanical. No noises or flashing lights. Baseball was one of the games you could play on it.
We pedaled our bikes up to my house and I brought the game out to our front porch.
"Listen," Johnny said, his index finger across his lips.
We listened to the hymns being sung in the Assembly of God church next door. The church windows were open and the service was informal but emotional.
"The front doors are probably open," I said. "Let's go listen to the holy rollers."
Wednesday night servicesat Assembly of God were, well, charismatic and sometimes my mom and I had heard people moaning, some crying, another repeating "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," over and over in a hypnotic cadence. The noise of shoe heels in a non-walking but tumbling noise accompanied the clamor.
The front doors were open and we anticipated some rolling tonight. We wanted to see what the rolling actually looked like.
Johnnie was a Roman Catholic and I was a Lutheran and each denomination thought the members of the other denomination were bound for hell. Church wasn't important to either of us. It was just something we were required to attend. However this kind of church wasn't church to us, being accustomed to a more formal mode of worship. No, this was entertainment to us.
We sneaked over to the front entrance and Johnnie peered around the right side, his fingers clinging to the red bricks and I snooped on the left. The preacher would preach a few sentences and someone would shout, "amen!" and this ignited the congregation in a chorus of amens. We hoped rolling would start soon byt instead there were thumping noises from the top of the sanctuary as though someone was on the roof.
"If the Lord comes through the roof we'll gladly pay for the damages!" Reverend Shotwell proclaimed, in animated fashion. The congregation went quiet and I heard the buzzing of the neon sign above the entrance that said, "Jesus Saves." Johnnie and I listened intently and we heard more noises from the roof, prompting a wave of charismatic shrieks and groans.
Johnnie and I were more worldly minded, however, and we deduced that someone was on the roof and it wasn't the Lord.
We dashed across the street for a view of the roof and saw three teens ambling on the roof, then they jumped, one by one, to the roof of the house next door. It was Donnie Ihlenfeldt, Vick Mattson and Kent Newby.
Mrs. Larson from the house next door chased out of her front door to see who had invaded her roof space but by the time she had a clear view of her roof the agile youths were long gone.
The entertainment had exceeded our expectations
"Did you see who was up there?" Mrs. Larson yelled and we both shook our heads.
"Those stupid kids are going to get killed doing that." She said. We nodded.
"They're starting to roll now," I said in an urgent voice just above a whisper. We ran to the front entrance to see the rolling but to our dismay the door slammed shut.
We went to the front porch to listen to the heartfelt utterings but we had heard all that stuff before. Johnnie went home and I went inside, taking my game with me. Then I thought of God watching us and He couldn't be happy with us or the kids on the roof. I thought of lthe Scripture about going through the narrow gate because the wide gate leads to hell. My mind was seized with thoughts of being in some unspeakably horrible place of everlasting torment and I asked God over and over, silently, to forgive my sins. The silent prayers and whispered prayers continued far into the night. I beseeched God's forgiveness with the covers over my head. I was sweating but I dared not remove the covers because the devil was probably sneaking around upstairs just waiting for the chance to pounce upon me.
After all, there were narrow doorways in out house and there were wide arch-ways. I had gone into our garage through the wide entrance. I had gone through the double doors at St. Paul's. To get into the living room one had to pass through the wide arch-way. I had done that and I was headed for hell unless the Lord forgave me. Maybe if I prayed hard enough and long enough I would be forgiven, but then how would I know for sure?
I had seen Oral Roberts on TV and prayed the salvation prayer he exhorted his audience to pray. Immediately after this I passed through the wide arch-way and nullified my salvation.
Maybe God had been in the service next door. I wished He would be in my bedroom. I prayed myself to sleep, uttering, "Please forgive me," over and over. I also tried praying the Lord's prayer over and over.
I was also asking God to forgive me for the unforgivable sin of blasphemy. I didn't recall any specific instances of blasphemy but I was sure that I was guilty.
It was morning and Mom was shaking me. "Are you going to sleep all day"
While I was eating breakfast she asked, w"What were you doing in bed last night?"
"Nothing."
"Sounded like you were mutterjing something over and over."
"Were you crying? I thought I heard you crying."
"No, I wasn't crying. Girls cry, not boys.
"Want to go down the caves and smoke?" Johnnie had swiped smokes from his mom when we were out of cigarettes. I used to hide my Camels that I bought from the A&P in my dresser drawer underneath my briefs, forgetting who always put my freshly washed underwear in the drawer. My smoking would remain a clandestine activity, I was certain.
"Naw, I'm already in the doghouse. If Mom smells cigarette smoke on me I'll be sleeping in the garage tonight."
"Whaddya wanna do then?"
"I dunno. Let's go to my place and play baseball." I had a table-top pinball machine, strictly mechanical. No noises or flashing lights. Baseball was one of the games you could play on it.
We pedaled our bikes up to my house and I brought the game out to our front porch.
"Listen," Johnny said, his index finger across his lips.
We listened to the hymns being sung in the Assembly of God church next door. The church windows were open and the service was informal but emotional.
"The front doors are probably open," I said. "Let's go listen to the holy rollers."
Wednesday night servicesat Assembly of God were, well, charismatic and sometimes my mom and I had heard people moaning, some crying, another repeating "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," over and over in a hypnotic cadence. The noise of shoe heels in a non-walking but tumbling noise accompanied the clamor.
The front doors were open and we anticipated some rolling tonight. We wanted to see what the rolling actually looked like.
Johnnie was a Roman Catholic and I was a Lutheran and each denomination thought the members of the other denomination were bound for hell. Church wasn't important to either of us. It was just something we were required to attend. However this kind of church wasn't church to us, being accustomed to a more formal mode of worship. No, this was entertainment to us.
We sneaked over to the front entrance and Johnnie peered around the right side, his fingers clinging to the red bricks and I snooped on the left. The preacher would preach a few sentences and someone would shout, "amen!" and this ignited the congregation in a chorus of amens. We hoped rolling would start soon byt instead there were thumping noises from the top of the sanctuary as though someone was on the roof.
"If the Lord comes through the roof we'll gladly pay for the damages!" Reverend Shotwell proclaimed, in animated fashion. The congregation went quiet and I heard the buzzing of the neon sign above the entrance that said, "Jesus Saves." Johnnie and I listened intently and we heard more noises from the roof, prompting a wave of charismatic shrieks and groans.
Johnnie and I were more worldly minded, however, and we deduced that someone was on the roof and it wasn't the Lord.
We dashed across the street for a view of the roof and saw three teens ambling on the roof, then they jumped, one by one, to the roof of the house next door. It was Donnie Ihlenfeldt, Vick Mattson and Kent Newby.
Mrs. Larson from the house next door chased out of her front door to see who had invaded her roof space but by the time she had a clear view of her roof the agile youths were long gone.
The entertainment had exceeded our expectations
"Did you see who was up there?" Mrs. Larson yelled and we both shook our heads.
"Those stupid kids are going to get killed doing that." She said. We nodded.
"They're starting to roll now," I said in an urgent voice just above a whisper. We ran to the front entrance to see the rolling but to our dismay the door slammed shut.
We went to the front porch to listen to the heartfelt utterings but we had heard all that stuff before. Johnnie went home and I went inside, taking my game with me. Then I thought of God watching us and He couldn't be happy with us or the kids on the roof. I thought of lthe Scripture about going through the narrow gate because the wide gate leads to hell. My mind was seized with thoughts of being in some unspeakably horrible place of everlasting torment and I asked God over and over, silently, to forgive my sins. The silent prayers and whispered prayers continued far into the night. I beseeched God's forgiveness with the covers over my head. I was sweating but I dared not remove the covers because the devil was probably sneaking around upstairs just waiting for the chance to pounce upon me.
After all, there were narrow doorways in out house and there were wide arch-ways. I had gone into our garage through the wide entrance. I had gone through the double doors at St. Paul's. To get into the living room one had to pass through the wide arch-way. I had done that and I was headed for hell unless the Lord forgave me. Maybe if I prayed hard enough and long enough I would be forgiven, but then how would I know for sure?
I had seen Oral Roberts on TV and prayed the salvation prayer he exhorted his audience to pray. Immediately after this I passed through the wide arch-way and nullified my salvation.
Maybe God had been in the service next door. I wished He would be in my bedroom. I prayed myself to sleep, uttering, "Please forgive me," over and over. I also tried praying the Lord's prayer over and over.
I was also asking God to forgive me for the unforgivable sin of blasphemy. I didn't recall any specific instances of blasphemy but I was sure that I was guilty.
It was morning and Mom was shaking me. "Are you going to sleep all day"
While I was eating breakfast she asked, w"What were you doing in bed last night?"
"Nothing."
"Sounded like you were mutterjing something over and over."
"Were you crying? I thought I heard you crying."
"No, I wasn't crying. Girls cry, not boys.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Incapacitated
During the past few months my writing spirit has been encumbered by an illness that causes suicide. I have been fortunate to find a caring doctor who helped me rather than dismiss me.Physical exercise and medicine have helped significantly so I run, play basketball and my body is stronger, says the doctor as he peruses my blood pressure and heart sounds, with enthusiastic approval.
My depression is not event-specific but the spring and the fall actuate it and I have this darkness inside me and I force myself to work, to do domestic chores. I don't wear this on my sleeve. I'm sure no one knows except Lois what's going on
Depression can't be dismissed or ignored because of its inherent danger.It can be treated but not eradicated. Depression is recurrent and stubborn, baffling and powerful, often incapacitating its victims. Treatment is trial and error
Today was a good day. I ran about 5 miles, did yard work with Lois and frolicked with our beagle.I was friendly and outgoing when we went out for a fish fry. I try to embrace the recovery but I'm aware of recidivism inherent in depression.
I'll try to write more posts, now that the world doesn't look so foreboding.
My depression is not event-specific but the spring and the fall actuate it and I have this darkness inside me and I force myself to work, to do domestic chores. I don't wear this on my sleeve. I'm sure no one knows except Lois what's going on
Depression can't be dismissed or ignored because of its inherent danger.It can be treated but not eradicated. Depression is recurrent and stubborn, baffling and powerful, often incapacitating its victims. Treatment is trial and error
Today was a good day. I ran about 5 miles, did yard work with Lois and frolicked with our beagle.I was friendly and outgoing when we went out for a fish fry. I try to embrace the recovery but I'm aware of recidivism inherent in depression.
I'll try to write more posts, now that the world doesn't look so foreboding.
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