The title speaks in hyperbole but I can dwell on the many reasons why I hate winter, the flare-up of my seasonal affected disorder, atopic dermatitis, painful arthritis in my hands and hips, the chilly discomfort, static electricity, brutal wind-chill values, snow and ice removal after the city plow deposits a mountain of heavy detritus; shortened daylight hours and a faltering pulse as Lois announces our energy bill total.
I could go on but it would be a pernicious exercise so I'll consider something positive.
In my AA meetings I often hear the phrase "attitude of gratitude" and then I forget it when the rubber meets the road. Thanklessness is an affront to my Lord who rescued me from near-death alcoholism in 1989 which doctors dismiss as a medical anomaly. They haven't experienced this same miracle. To go from craving a drink so badly that I would crawl on the floor for a drink because my legs failed, to having no desire for booze at all. Zero craving! The experience repaired my belief in God, from a divine practical joker or an indifferent detached God to a personal God.
I have another blessing in Lois, my beloved wife who suffered so intensely during the last few months of my drinking. She didn't bail out, but helped me with my recovery after I graduated from treatment. She is a diamond! Women like her ain't available for a dime a dozen. I'm lucky enough to have a jewel in my life.
Another blessing: a beagle and a corgy/Scottish terrier. Their antics frustrate us and amuse us. They give us unconditional love, same as God does, and yes I see a parallel in relations, as my antics must also frustrate and gratify God.
Another blessing: seasonal affected disorder along with a disturbing dream sank me into depression. Depression isn't just a sad feeling or feeling sorry for one's self. It's deep and dark and painful. It paralyzes, incapacitates, and last Monday the 22nd it had me staring into space with internal darkness and despair and free-floating anxiety. I hid it. I'm good at hiding depression, although I did finally tell Lois. It's hard to tell that to somebody.
When I was working the night shift I was lugging this sack of heavy depression. It was difficult to think, to focus. I checked in guests with a plastic smile and I just wanted to be alone. I came to the limit of toleration and prayed out loud (in solitude) for the Lord to take away this horrible darkness, to chase away the demons that were telling me I was worthless, that bad things would happen to me because I had committed so many sins.
Within minutes the depression was gone. My tiredness replaced with energy and joy, I zipped through the shift and praised God for helping His child. I was like Scrooge after his encounters. A wonderful, quiet and simple Christmas week ensued, including Christmas eve service at Woodland Church as well as the community Christmas Day dinner, also at Woodland.
Another blessing: an elderly couple moved into the rental next door in November and I just continued to remove the snow from their garage and the front of their house as I had done for the previous tenants. The woman poked her nose out the front door as I was chopping ice and thanked me profusely with a charming Finnish brogue. "How can ve repay?" Seri lamented.
"Just do something nice for somebody else. I don't want any money, won't take any money!"
The husband, Tim left a full can of gas next to my snowblower during the night.
They will be wonderful neighbors. Little do they know that I'll also cut their lawn this coming summer.
God is good!
Monday, December 29, 2014
Saturday, December 20, 2014
The (not so) Scary No-Man's Land of Math II
I was a scared and confused kid in the tenth grade. I asked the kid behind me in Mrs. Ventrucci's homeroom a question and a booming voice far above the homeroom din shook me, "Turn around and shut up."
I did exactly what Mr. Lugviel, our Career Dayl counselor told us. I stared at Mr. Lugviel incredulously. He was burning me with laser-angry eyes, "Yeah, you! The stupid-looking kid in the glasses." A twitter of laughter arose and the giggles of the pretty girls stung as my face and ears got red-hot. I never heard a word Mr. Lugviel said during Fourth Period English that day, Carreer Day be damned.
I must have thought of at least fifty ways of brutally killing Mr. Lugviel since I was not the only kid talking before class began. Why pick on me? A hot steam iron applied to his face occurred to me.
Mrs. Pavlovich assured me of my intelligence the year before but I didn't feel intelligent. I took failing grades rather than get up in front of the class and give an oral book report. I was disappointed with sub-average work in algebra as a sophomore among freshmen. Mr. Kettula exiled me to the back corner of his World History class for the entire year because I whispered something to Dave across the aisle. I sat next to Tom Yunker, a senior in sixth period study hall. The desks were in pairs and Tom liked to talk. Whenever I responded (whispering) Mr. Hocking made me sit on the raised platform in front of the study hall. He never humiliated Tom.
At home I couldn't do anything right. Girls at school acted as if I were invisible. I was confused, scared, angry. My world was upside down and I increased my smoking of unfiltered Camels to a pace of three packs a week.
Algebra was the biggest disappointment. I got a C for the first marking period, a C-minus the second and a D for the third period at the end of the first semester.
"You better bring up those grades, mister," said Dad, as my grades slipped to a D in world History also, as did my English grade. Mom agreed. No mention that I was doing solid B work in biology. Then Mom jumped in.
"You won't get good grades hanging out at Khoury's and shooting pool and smoking cigarettes. Do the honor roll kids hang around there. No! They're at home, studying. They're not down in Khoury's hole (below street- level.),"
I was thoroughly shamed and more angry. I was also afraid that I was upsetting Dad and that could set off a fatal heart attack.
Everyone else was so happy at school, engaged in sports or extra-curricular activites. I tried that also- joined the ROTC drill team. After one practice session the PMS (Professor of Military Science ) disbanded the team because the team was too small.
Now I didn't feel a part of Ironwood High School, disconnected academically and socially. I was fifteen and a failure already. The friends of the last two years drifted away as David and Jon had girl friends and school activities. In the fall I spent much time in the caves (woods) smoking and brooding. In the cold months Khoury's was my home away from home with the click of pool balls and the cacophony of pinball machines.
Christmas recess descended upon L.L.Wright High School with an accompanying gloom. Final exams loomed the week after New Year's Day.
It was a Christmas gloom that was to become a lifelong personal tradition. I felt like a prisoner on death row.
John Hagstrom called me and asked if I would join him at the Christmas party sponsored by the choir, since he was a choir member and one of the guys I used to hang out with.. I thought that anything would be better than staying home and assembling my model of a '62 Chrysler Imperial.
As the day of the party approached apprehension arose. What would I say? There would be girls there, some of the prettiest in the school. I didn't want the disgrace of chickening out but I prayed that God would make me catch the flu before the party. I always caught the flu at some point in the school year. To have it now would be a blessing.
My prayer wasn't answered so I was stuck with attending a social event. That was something like getting in front of the English class and giving a book report. What was I thinking? I worried and brooded until Mom asked, "What the hell are you brooding about? You look like an old hound dog. Snap out of it!"
What I needed was liquid courage, some of Dad's whiskey that his boss gave him for Christmas. I checked it out but there was a little notch in the label coinciding with the whiskey level. Damn it! A little hooch before the party would perk me up and maybe I would even muster some conversation with those pretty girls. Wait a minute. Check the refrigerator. There it is, a quart of kosher wine that a fellow employee had given Dad. If I break the seal and only take a third of the wine Dad won't notice.
I needed a container for the wine but there was nothing available except an unused goldfish bowl in the storage room upstairs. I poured the wine into the bowl. Maybe I need more. Half the bottle should suffice. I hid the goldfish bowl, filled with wine and put it in an old empty Victrola cabinet and covered it with a book to arrest the fumes. There it would stay until needed.
The party was not formidable, filtered through a goldfish bowl of kosher wine. I talked to a girl and she just giggled. Tried another girl and she walked away. Then I saw Gail. I knew her, a sidekick with Jenny . Gail frowned and walked away. I followed her and from then on I was in a black-out.
I came to lying in the deep snow, shivering violently. I was in the caves and my (bare) hands and feet were freezing . I zipped up my short jacket. Somehow I found my way home. Mom hit the ceiling when I vomited and made me clean it up. I didn't admit to drunkenness but to the side-effect of Copenhagen snuff. Dad noticed the wine he received was somewhat depleted and he asked me if I took any. I confessed and was grounded for two weeks. Dad was also not happy that I didn't admit to being drunk when confronted by Mom.
When school resumed I had found fame. People had noticed me! Even a senior told me, "Chased Gail into the girl's bathroom at the choir party. Way to go, kid!"
Another kid said, "Lucky you didn't get kicked out of school. Mr. Quistorf was pissed at you when he kicked you out." It wasn't as much fun when others filled me in on my drunken antics.
I found a cadre of new friends with whom I would get drunk many times. Suddenly I went from a nobody to a bad-ass and I liked it. My friends and I would laugh at the scrapes we would eventually encounter.
The business of taking finals came and I had put forth much effort into studying for history and English, my weaknesses. Biology would be easy and algebra? I reckoned that you either know it or you don't. I did review the distance and rate problems, but nothing else. If I did a lousy job in the final exams Mom and Dad would probably kick me out. Maybe I could live with Sam Khoury and become a famous pool shark. At any rate my academic confidence was low, save for biology.
Classes resumed and the day of reckoning arrived with report cards distributed. Biology got me a B, English a C, World History a C-minus. I entered Mr. Mattson's algebra class with cold hands and a pounding heart.
Mr. Mattson had written the distribution of all the scores in all four algebra classes, the lowest being 74, which I thought was mine, to the highest score of 195 of a possible 200 points. He settled the class down and drew their attention to the scores. He used a yardstick for a pointer.
Mary asked, "Mr. Mattson, who got the 195?" A chorus of queries arose then ebbed.
"You'll never guess who got the 195," Mr. Mattson wore a smirk and he rested the tip of the yardstick on his shoulder. He sauntered back and forth, obviously amused.
"Ed Tafelski?"
"Nope."
"John Hedin?"
"Nope."
"Ken Talaska?"
"Nope."
Mr. Mattson was coming ever so slowly down the aisle where I sat.
" "Beet" Anderson?"
"I'm looking at the guy with the top score. I looked up to a joyous smile."
"Me?" I croaked.
"Yup!, you got the 195. Notice that the next highest score was 174."
If someone had dropped a pin it would sound like a hammer. The whole class was stunned, myself included.
"George has what it takes to do math. He'll be in Plane and Solid Geometry next year, right?"
I nodded, speechless.
It slowly filtered through Luther L. Wright High School that George was a smart guy. The next year I helped the principal's son (a future lawyer and judge) with chemistry, a future teacher with physics and even a few pretty girls with geometry . I went on to major in math, receiving a bachelor's degree in science for Northland College. Math became one of the things I love about life and I still go to websites and review concepts in linear algebra, calculus and many other topics.
Limitations, self imposed, keep us from successes.
I did exactly what Mr. Lugviel, our Career Dayl counselor told us. I stared at Mr. Lugviel incredulously. He was burning me with laser-angry eyes, "Yeah, you! The stupid-looking kid in the glasses." A twitter of laughter arose and the giggles of the pretty girls stung as my face and ears got red-hot. I never heard a word Mr. Lugviel said during Fourth Period English that day, Carreer Day be damned.
I must have thought of at least fifty ways of brutally killing Mr. Lugviel since I was not the only kid talking before class began. Why pick on me? A hot steam iron applied to his face occurred to me.
Mrs. Pavlovich assured me of my intelligence the year before but I didn't feel intelligent. I took failing grades rather than get up in front of the class and give an oral book report. I was disappointed with sub-average work in algebra as a sophomore among freshmen. Mr. Kettula exiled me to the back corner of his World History class for the entire year because I whispered something to Dave across the aisle. I sat next to Tom Yunker, a senior in sixth period study hall. The desks were in pairs and Tom liked to talk. Whenever I responded (whispering) Mr. Hocking made me sit on the raised platform in front of the study hall. He never humiliated Tom.
At home I couldn't do anything right. Girls at school acted as if I were invisible. I was confused, scared, angry. My world was upside down and I increased my smoking of unfiltered Camels to a pace of three packs a week.
Algebra was the biggest disappointment. I got a C for the first marking period, a C-minus the second and a D for the third period at the end of the first semester.
"You better bring up those grades, mister," said Dad, as my grades slipped to a D in world History also, as did my English grade. Mom agreed. No mention that I was doing solid B work in biology. Then Mom jumped in.
"You won't get good grades hanging out at Khoury's and shooting pool and smoking cigarettes. Do the honor roll kids hang around there. No! They're at home, studying. They're not down in Khoury's hole (below street- level.),"
I was thoroughly shamed and more angry. I was also afraid that I was upsetting Dad and that could set off a fatal heart attack.
Everyone else was so happy at school, engaged in sports or extra-curricular activites. I tried that also- joined the ROTC drill team. After one practice session the PMS (Professor of Military Science ) disbanded the team because the team was too small.
Now I didn't feel a part of Ironwood High School, disconnected academically and socially. I was fifteen and a failure already. The friends of the last two years drifted away as David and Jon had girl friends and school activities. In the fall I spent much time in the caves (woods) smoking and brooding. In the cold months Khoury's was my home away from home with the click of pool balls and the cacophony of pinball machines.
Christmas recess descended upon L.L.Wright High School with an accompanying gloom. Final exams loomed the week after New Year's Day.
It was a Christmas gloom that was to become a lifelong personal tradition. I felt like a prisoner on death row.
John Hagstrom called me and asked if I would join him at the Christmas party sponsored by the choir, since he was a choir member and one of the guys I used to hang out with.. I thought that anything would be better than staying home and assembling my model of a '62 Chrysler Imperial.
As the day of the party approached apprehension arose. What would I say? There would be girls there, some of the prettiest in the school. I didn't want the disgrace of chickening out but I prayed that God would make me catch the flu before the party. I always caught the flu at some point in the school year. To have it now would be a blessing.
My prayer wasn't answered so I was stuck with attending a social event. That was something like getting in front of the English class and giving a book report. What was I thinking? I worried and brooded until Mom asked, "What the hell are you brooding about? You look like an old hound dog. Snap out of it!"
What I needed was liquid courage, some of Dad's whiskey that his boss gave him for Christmas. I checked it out but there was a little notch in the label coinciding with the whiskey level. Damn it! A little hooch before the party would perk me up and maybe I would even muster some conversation with those pretty girls. Wait a minute. Check the refrigerator. There it is, a quart of kosher wine that a fellow employee had given Dad. If I break the seal and only take a third of the wine Dad won't notice.
I needed a container for the wine but there was nothing available except an unused goldfish bowl in the storage room upstairs. I poured the wine into the bowl. Maybe I need more. Half the bottle should suffice. I hid the goldfish bowl, filled with wine and put it in an old empty Victrola cabinet and covered it with a book to arrest the fumes. There it would stay until needed.
The party was not formidable, filtered through a goldfish bowl of kosher wine. I talked to a girl and she just giggled. Tried another girl and she walked away. Then I saw Gail. I knew her, a sidekick with Jenny . Gail frowned and walked away. I followed her and from then on I was in a black-out.
I came to lying in the deep snow, shivering violently. I was in the caves and my (bare) hands and feet were freezing . I zipped up my short jacket. Somehow I found my way home. Mom hit the ceiling when I vomited and made me clean it up. I didn't admit to drunkenness but to the side-effect of Copenhagen snuff. Dad noticed the wine he received was somewhat depleted and he asked me if I took any. I confessed and was grounded for two weeks. Dad was also not happy that I didn't admit to being drunk when confronted by Mom.
When school resumed I had found fame. People had noticed me! Even a senior told me, "Chased Gail into the girl's bathroom at the choir party. Way to go, kid!"
Another kid said, "Lucky you didn't get kicked out of school. Mr. Quistorf was pissed at you when he kicked you out." It wasn't as much fun when others filled me in on my drunken antics.
I found a cadre of new friends with whom I would get drunk many times. Suddenly I went from a nobody to a bad-ass and I liked it. My friends and I would laugh at the scrapes we would eventually encounter.
The business of taking finals came and I had put forth much effort into studying for history and English, my weaknesses. Biology would be easy and algebra? I reckoned that you either know it or you don't. I did review the distance and rate problems, but nothing else. If I did a lousy job in the final exams Mom and Dad would probably kick me out. Maybe I could live with Sam Khoury and become a famous pool shark. At any rate my academic confidence was low, save for biology.
Classes resumed and the day of reckoning arrived with report cards distributed. Biology got me a B, English a C, World History a C-minus. I entered Mr. Mattson's algebra class with cold hands and a pounding heart.
Mr. Mattson had written the distribution of all the scores in all four algebra classes, the lowest being 74, which I thought was mine, to the highest score of 195 of a possible 200 points. He settled the class down and drew their attention to the scores. He used a yardstick for a pointer.
Mary asked, "Mr. Mattson, who got the 195?" A chorus of queries arose then ebbed.
"You'll never guess who got the 195," Mr. Mattson wore a smirk and he rested the tip of the yardstick on his shoulder. He sauntered back and forth, obviously amused.
"Ed Tafelski?"
"Nope."
"John Hedin?"
"Nope."
"Ken Talaska?"
"Nope."
Mr. Mattson was coming ever so slowly down the aisle where I sat.
" "Beet" Anderson?"
"I'm looking at the guy with the top score. I looked up to a joyous smile."
"Me?" I croaked.
"Yup!, you got the 195. Notice that the next highest score was 174."
If someone had dropped a pin it would sound like a hammer. The whole class was stunned, myself included.
"George has what it takes to do math. He'll be in Plane and Solid Geometry next year, right?"
I nodded, speechless.
It slowly filtered through Luther L. Wright High School that George was a smart guy. The next year I helped the principal's son (a future lawyer and judge) with chemistry, a future teacher with physics and even a few pretty girls with geometry . I went on to major in math, receiving a bachelor's degree in science for Northland College. Math became one of the things I love about life and I still go to websites and review concepts in linear algebra, calculus and many other topics.
Limitations, self imposed, keep us from successes.
Thursday, December 4, 2014
The Scary No-Man's Land of Math Part I
"The following people will be in Group Two Math," declared Mr. Martell, my Seventh Grade math/science teacher. I didn't like him very much- made me feel stupid. I once got an "A" on a science test and his reaction was, "I didn't think you had it in you." I thought the "A" must've been a fluke since I was dumb.
I was declared a member of the Group Two Fraternity of Mathematics, those who were not adept at math. We got easier homework assignments, but there was a stigma attached to Group Two.
I struggled with math. I was bored with it. This was the fall of 1961 and each year we had a rehash of the math of earlier grades, no introduction to algebra, no geometry, just the same old stuff.
Mr. Erickson, the Principal, was my Eighth Grade math teacher. He was affable, yet stern. He was about five- foot six and he wore a suit and tie. His thick glasses hid his eyes.
Mr. Erickson took us into the realm of algebra and I liked it right away. I caught on right away as to solving an algebraic equation. There was an ascent in my math grades. This was such a relief from the same old arithmetic curriculum of the first seven grades. I still wonder why algebra wasn't introduced as early as the Fifth Grade.
At the end of the school year we were given Ninth Grade pre-registration forms and I signed up for algebra since I liked it so much. I was unsure of Latin and took General Science instead.
At the site of the Pioneer Park Apartments was the old Oliver Mining building where the miners got paid. I remember the counter inside the office and the walk-in safe behind the counter. Adjacent to the Oliver Center was Oliver field, not the present-day Little League field with a diamond and a real pitchers's mound and chalk lines. In addition to the baseball field was an area that had two standards to support a crossbar and a pit of coarse sawdust behind the standards.
We kids, practiced pole-vaulting. Pole-vaulting energized me, gave me a challenge and a thrill. My maximum accomplishment was six feet, not bad for a kid who just graduated from the eighth grade. We got sawdust in our eyes but it was great fun.
Dave Hagstrom and I were talking about high school and what sheet metal shop and wood shop and drafting would be like. "In drafting you gotta be good at math. George, are you taking algebra this fall?"
"Yeah."
"Don't do it, man. It's tough. I had a hell of a time with it." Dave was a year ahead of me and a sage at that. He knew the score.
"Can I get out of algebra?" I asked as my algebraic confidence melted away.
"Just go to the high school office and ask Miss Nelson. She'll help you. It'll be easy. Just tell her you want to take General Math instead of algebra.
The entrance to the Luther L. Wright High School was imposing- so many steps to ascend to the battery of main doors, then another ascent to another battery of doors. The smell of the place brought on a melange of school experiences and my fists got tight and I sensed that my teeth were clenched.
Miss Nelson lived just around the corner from us and many times I saw her. She was single- never married, and she had a 1960 Chevy four-door. I remembered her from my tricycle years, yet I'd never had an encounter with her. She dressed conservatively, befitting her position as organist at the Salem Lutheran Church. I'd never heard her laugh or seen her smile.
I rounded the corner toward the administrative offices. Miss Nelson was busy at the counter and I entered softly, wearing my sneakers. It was ridiculous, but I hoped she wouldn't notice me and I could just turn around and run.
"May I help you?" Miss Nelson had a pleasant, almost melodious voice.
"Um," I pressed my lips together and looked down.
"Is there something I can help you with?" This time her voice had lost an increment of melodiousness.
"I, um, you know gotta change a class for freshman year, eh?" I felt so dumb and awkward and silly and stupid.
Miss Nelson reached under the counter and produced a Change of Schedule form. "Which class do you wish to drop?"
"Algebra."
"What would you like to take instead?"
"General Math."
She wrote these particulars in the appropriate boxes. She must think I'm stupid, not taking algebra. Maybe she talked to other teachers who think I'm stupid. Dave Hagstrom told me...
"Look it over and if it's what you want then just sign on the dotted line."
I spent the summer free of the impending doom of algebra
Mrs. Pavlovich was my General Math teacher, at 1:00 each day, room 104, with a view of the traffic of Ayer street. The textbook was incredibly simple. I would just breeze through this!
On the first test I got a perfect score. Then the same thing happened on the second test. Maybe high school wouldn't be so bad after all.
The down side to this was double. The tough guys in Mrs. Krznarich's home room copied my homework. I didn't refuse lest I get a few teeth knocked out after school by Frank Gusman or Jim Siirila.
Then in class one day the clock gave it's last (minute) tick before the bell. Mrs. Pavlovich gave the usual reminders about homework and the next test and she also looked my way sternly.
"George, would you please remain after the bell?"
I tried not to show my visceral fear, the fear of a coming reprimand. My heart raced.
Mrs. Pavlovich's heels clicked on the hardwood floor. She sat down in a desk across the aisle from mine. She was a somewhat attractive woman with red cheeks, bright red lipstick and she smelled nice, but she was stern and nobody messed with her.
"What are you doing in this class?" Her tone was incredulous. "You should be in algebra."
"I changed my schedule this summer because I didn't think I could do algebra."
She rested her chin on her hand with her thin index finger pointing out. Her wedding band and diamond ring caught me eye. Was she going to kick me out of her class and banish me to the no-man's land of algebra?
"Have you thought of going to college, George?"
"No. I don't know. I never thought about it."
"If you go to college you'll need algebra." She sighed and took her pretty hand away from her face. "No matter what, I will not give you higher than a B plus, even if you have a perfect test."
I was crestfallen and she must have read this.
"George, it's not fair to the other kids in this class. You have much more mathematical ability than anyone else in this class."
I didn't think her proclamation was fair, since I thought I would just be an average student in General Math. I didn't see myself as smart and I was surprised at the easiness of the class. I never thought I could survive in algebra. So many smart kids were in algebra.
"George," She paused until I looked up and met her eyes.
Her eyes were compassionate- long dark eyelashes, with a hint of emotional ache, "Do yourself a favor and sign up for algebra next year."
"Better hurry up for your next class."
(to be continued.)
I was declared a member of the Group Two Fraternity of Mathematics, those who were not adept at math. We got easier homework assignments, but there was a stigma attached to Group Two.
I struggled with math. I was bored with it. This was the fall of 1961 and each year we had a rehash of the math of earlier grades, no introduction to algebra, no geometry, just the same old stuff.
Mr. Erickson, the Principal, was my Eighth Grade math teacher. He was affable, yet stern. He was about five- foot six and he wore a suit and tie. His thick glasses hid his eyes.
Mr. Erickson took us into the realm of algebra and I liked it right away. I caught on right away as to solving an algebraic equation. There was an ascent in my math grades. This was such a relief from the same old arithmetic curriculum of the first seven grades. I still wonder why algebra wasn't introduced as early as the Fifth Grade.
At the end of the school year we were given Ninth Grade pre-registration forms and I signed up for algebra since I liked it so much. I was unsure of Latin and took General Science instead.
At the site of the Pioneer Park Apartments was the old Oliver Mining building where the miners got paid. I remember the counter inside the office and the walk-in safe behind the counter. Adjacent to the Oliver Center was Oliver field, not the present-day Little League field with a diamond and a real pitchers's mound and chalk lines. In addition to the baseball field was an area that had two standards to support a crossbar and a pit of coarse sawdust behind the standards.
We kids, practiced pole-vaulting. Pole-vaulting energized me, gave me a challenge and a thrill. My maximum accomplishment was six feet, not bad for a kid who just graduated from the eighth grade. We got sawdust in our eyes but it was great fun.
Dave Hagstrom and I were talking about high school and what sheet metal shop and wood shop and drafting would be like. "In drafting you gotta be good at math. George, are you taking algebra this fall?"
"Yeah."
"Don't do it, man. It's tough. I had a hell of a time with it." Dave was a year ahead of me and a sage at that. He knew the score.
"Can I get out of algebra?" I asked as my algebraic confidence melted away.
"Just go to the high school office and ask Miss Nelson. She'll help you. It'll be easy. Just tell her you want to take General Math instead of algebra.
The entrance to the Luther L. Wright High School was imposing- so many steps to ascend to the battery of main doors, then another ascent to another battery of doors. The smell of the place brought on a melange of school experiences and my fists got tight and I sensed that my teeth were clenched.
Miss Nelson lived just around the corner from us and many times I saw her. She was single- never married, and she had a 1960 Chevy four-door. I remembered her from my tricycle years, yet I'd never had an encounter with her. She dressed conservatively, befitting her position as organist at the Salem Lutheran Church. I'd never heard her laugh or seen her smile.
I rounded the corner toward the administrative offices. Miss Nelson was busy at the counter and I entered softly, wearing my sneakers. It was ridiculous, but I hoped she wouldn't notice me and I could just turn around and run.
"May I help you?" Miss Nelson had a pleasant, almost melodious voice.
"Um," I pressed my lips together and looked down.
"Is there something I can help you with?" This time her voice had lost an increment of melodiousness.
"I, um, you know gotta change a class for freshman year, eh?" I felt so dumb and awkward and silly and stupid.
Miss Nelson reached under the counter and produced a Change of Schedule form. "Which class do you wish to drop?"
"Algebra."
"What would you like to take instead?"
"General Math."
She wrote these particulars in the appropriate boxes. She must think I'm stupid, not taking algebra. Maybe she talked to other teachers who think I'm stupid. Dave Hagstrom told me...
"Look it over and if it's what you want then just sign on the dotted line."
I spent the summer free of the impending doom of algebra
Mrs. Pavlovich was my General Math teacher, at 1:00 each day, room 104, with a view of the traffic of Ayer street. The textbook was incredibly simple. I would just breeze through this!
On the first test I got a perfect score. Then the same thing happened on the second test. Maybe high school wouldn't be so bad after all.
The down side to this was double. The tough guys in Mrs. Krznarich's home room copied my homework. I didn't refuse lest I get a few teeth knocked out after school by Frank Gusman or Jim Siirila.
Then in class one day the clock gave it's last (minute) tick before the bell. Mrs. Pavlovich gave the usual reminders about homework and the next test and she also looked my way sternly.
"George, would you please remain after the bell?"
I tried not to show my visceral fear, the fear of a coming reprimand. My heart raced.
Mrs. Pavlovich's heels clicked on the hardwood floor. She sat down in a desk across the aisle from mine. She was a somewhat attractive woman with red cheeks, bright red lipstick and she smelled nice, but she was stern and nobody messed with her.
"What are you doing in this class?" Her tone was incredulous. "You should be in algebra."
"I changed my schedule this summer because I didn't think I could do algebra."
She rested her chin on her hand with her thin index finger pointing out. Her wedding band and diamond ring caught me eye. Was she going to kick me out of her class and banish me to the no-man's land of algebra?
"Have you thought of going to college, George?"
"No. I don't know. I never thought about it."
"If you go to college you'll need algebra." She sighed and took her pretty hand away from her face. "No matter what, I will not give you higher than a B plus, even if you have a perfect test."
I was crestfallen and she must have read this.
"George, it's not fair to the other kids in this class. You have much more mathematical ability than anyone else in this class."
I didn't think her proclamation was fair, since I thought I would just be an average student in General Math. I didn't see myself as smart and I was surprised at the easiness of the class. I never thought I could survive in algebra. So many smart kids were in algebra.
"George," She paused until I looked up and met her eyes.
Her eyes were compassionate- long dark eyelashes, with a hint of emotional ache, "Do yourself a favor and sign up for algebra next year."
"Better hurry up for your next class."
(to be continued.)
The Dark Side of Christmas
Since grade school I've experienced a melancholy cloud descend, dampening my Christmas anticipation and joy. Mom would ask me, "What are you mooning about now? Stand up straight and quit looking so gloomy! No one likes a gloomy person."
I heard parts of sermons at St. Paul's Church in my youth that touched upon thankfulness and this brought shame because I could not pull myself up by the bootstraps and go around smiling and saying 'merry Christmas' to everyone I encountered. It was the celebration of the Savior's birth! I read it in the gospels with feeble stirrings and more shame.
I had heard the phrase, "he'll outgrow it," pertaining to my allergies and accompanying dermatitis and asthma and hoped that would apply to Christmas season gloominess. I never outgrew any of these.
"Oh, for crying out loud, get over it!" That would be the frequent parental admonition that I was incapable of obeying.
And yet it was a bittersweet experience with a few sublime moments; when the Christmas tree was erected in our living room, when mom's mood elevated to occasional cheerfulness, or the time in eighth grade when I felt the dawn of puberty and thrill of my first crush.
Bittersweet it was because it would lead back to the sadness; sadness I couldn't define or isolate, sadness for which I felt apologetic, ashamed.
As an adolescent I drowned these feelings with alcohol, welcoming the warmth, physical and emotional as well as the blackouts, and stinging reprimands from Mom and Dad. Dad got two bottles of top-shelf whiskey from his boss for Christmas so it was easy for me to get drunk and feel some false Christmas cheer.
A kindly physician, Dr. Gardner, explained that depression has cycles which could occur in the winter when the days are short or even in the springtime when darkness gives way to light. Each person has unique cycles. The Christmas season could very well trigger depression, for example in unfulfilled expectations or fear of the death of a loved one. (I used to fear the death of Dad, since he survived two heart attacks.) The elevated stress of Christmas holidays also contributes to a depressed state in some people. More must be accomplished in less time because during the holidays less work time is available.
I believe many are prone to depression including holiday depression and I'm thankful that this is no longer viewed with scorn or impatience. The intensified depression during the holidays accounts for the increased suicide rate.
I don't believe that God frowns upon depression since it is an illness and not a moral shortcoming or an indication of lack of faith in God.. I no longer feel shame for my holiday gloom. God knows us and he understands from even the quantum level why we suffer from depression.
I am blessed with a wonderful wife, Lois who is sympathetic to depressed people, who doesn't chide me or prod me. She is the greatest gift God ever gave me, second to the Savior Himself.
It's cold today, less than ten degrees, but I will suit up for a run of four or five miles in the snow and ice. (I have ice-grippers on my running shoes.) Running invariably helps- it's one of the gifts God has given me, along with compassion for those who suffer the darkness of depression during the holidays.
Merry Christmas and happy New Year, everyone!
I heard parts of sermons at St. Paul's Church in my youth that touched upon thankfulness and this brought shame because I could not pull myself up by the bootstraps and go around smiling and saying 'merry Christmas' to everyone I encountered. It was the celebration of the Savior's birth! I read it in the gospels with feeble stirrings and more shame.
I had heard the phrase, "he'll outgrow it," pertaining to my allergies and accompanying dermatitis and asthma and hoped that would apply to Christmas season gloominess. I never outgrew any of these.
"Oh, for crying out loud, get over it!" That would be the frequent parental admonition that I was incapable of obeying.
And yet it was a bittersweet experience with a few sublime moments; when the Christmas tree was erected in our living room, when mom's mood elevated to occasional cheerfulness, or the time in eighth grade when I felt the dawn of puberty and thrill of my first crush.
Bittersweet it was because it would lead back to the sadness; sadness I couldn't define or isolate, sadness for which I felt apologetic, ashamed.
As an adolescent I drowned these feelings with alcohol, welcoming the warmth, physical and emotional as well as the blackouts, and stinging reprimands from Mom and Dad. Dad got two bottles of top-shelf whiskey from his boss for Christmas so it was easy for me to get drunk and feel some false Christmas cheer.
A kindly physician, Dr. Gardner, explained that depression has cycles which could occur in the winter when the days are short or even in the springtime when darkness gives way to light. Each person has unique cycles. The Christmas season could very well trigger depression, for example in unfulfilled expectations or fear of the death of a loved one. (I used to fear the death of Dad, since he survived two heart attacks.) The elevated stress of Christmas holidays also contributes to a depressed state in some people. More must be accomplished in less time because during the holidays less work time is available.
I believe many are prone to depression including holiday depression and I'm thankful that this is no longer viewed with scorn or impatience. The intensified depression during the holidays accounts for the increased suicide rate.
I don't believe that God frowns upon depression since it is an illness and not a moral shortcoming or an indication of lack of faith in God.. I no longer feel shame for my holiday gloom. God knows us and he understands from even the quantum level why we suffer from depression.
I am blessed with a wonderful wife, Lois who is sympathetic to depressed people, who doesn't chide me or prod me. She is the greatest gift God ever gave me, second to the Savior Himself.
It's cold today, less than ten degrees, but I will suit up for a run of four or five miles in the snow and ice. (I have ice-grippers on my running shoes.) Running invariably helps- it's one of the gifts God has given me, along with compassion for those who suffer the darkness of depression during the holidays.
Merry Christmas and happy New Year, everyone!
Saturday, November 22, 2014
Aging Marches on
I had visited the ophthalmologist in the Shopko store in Rhinelander (an insurance network thing.) After the preliminaries of having my eyes assailed by bursts of air, bright lights and other ophthalmic voodo I was bade to wait in the reception area for my turn with the ophthalmologist.
The weather was on my mind, since we encountered blizzard conditions from Ironwood to the south of Mercer. Then sunshine and dry roads the rest of the way. After a brief interlude the doctor welcomed me.
I explained my astigmatism seemed to be worse and I was generally having trouble seeing computer text, especially the (insanely) low contrast print. Several vision tests ensued. I performed poorly at reading random letters of all sizes except the largest. The doctor, an affable Asian dilated my pupils and sent me out to await the third phase of my exam.
Lois said I should look at frames, but many similar searches in past exams have proven difficult since I can't see worth a hoot when my pupils are fully dilated. Anyway, the frames that I picked were always the most expensive. who, in their right mind would pay $250 for frames! Just because the Harley-Davidson logo appears on them?
Lois found out that we can have old frames outfitted with a new prescription. This is good news since I have a pair of unused glasses and I happened to like how I looked with the frames.
Back into the exam room to see more bright lights as the doctor peered into my retinas.
"You just aren't seeing very well. The problem is your cataracts have worsened over the last year. You have the worst kind, in the center of your lenses and I'll bet you that when you drive at night the oncoming headlights look like fireworks displays."
"That aptly describes it."
"It would be pointless to prescribe new lenses since they wouldn't help. You need surgery, George."
My pulse quickened, recalling the surgical procedure Dr. Stempihar did to relieve my insanely excessive tearing. Primal fear overtook me when the hypodermic needle approached my eye. Micro scissors were used to open my tear ducts closed by my atopic dermatitis (eczema.) "Never again," I vowed out loud after the procedure while trying to open my painfully clenched fists.
Dr. Stempihar will perform the cataract surgery and I'm going in on faith inspired by others who who have had the operation and claimed that it was 'nothing.' I'm hoping this surgery will make my life easier. The ophthalmologist said that I won't be nearsighted anymore, but I may need reading glasses.
That makes me anticipate the surgery! I can't imagine what a blessing that would be, to basically have the eyesight that I had as a little kid before nearsightedness set in.
I asked Lois to drive on the way home and I walked into Culvers a la Ray Charles. It was the only way I could stand the bright lighting.
When we got to Woodruff I took over behind the wheel and the blizzard resumed just as we passed Highway 70 intersection. It was tough and my eyes were still a little dilated, making oncoming lights difficult to bear. We did lots of praying, "God, keep us safe." Oncoming semis intensified the blizzard as did the one idiot driver who passed us with a Chevy Monte Carlo, blinding us for a long time.
It took two hours to drive from Woodruff to Ironwood at about 30-40 m.p.h.The blizzard was much worse as we approached Hurley. The Nissan handled it well, with God's protection. We would live so each of us could have our cataracts removed. Lois had the same diagnosis during her appointment with the asian doctor. The blind leading the blind.
The weather was on my mind, since we encountered blizzard conditions from Ironwood to the south of Mercer. Then sunshine and dry roads the rest of the way. After a brief interlude the doctor welcomed me.
I explained my astigmatism seemed to be worse and I was generally having trouble seeing computer text, especially the (insanely) low contrast print. Several vision tests ensued. I performed poorly at reading random letters of all sizes except the largest. The doctor, an affable Asian dilated my pupils and sent me out to await the third phase of my exam.
Lois said I should look at frames, but many similar searches in past exams have proven difficult since I can't see worth a hoot when my pupils are fully dilated. Anyway, the frames that I picked were always the most expensive. who, in their right mind would pay $250 for frames! Just because the Harley-Davidson logo appears on them?
Lois found out that we can have old frames outfitted with a new prescription. This is good news since I have a pair of unused glasses and I happened to like how I looked with the frames.
Back into the exam room to see more bright lights as the doctor peered into my retinas.
"You just aren't seeing very well. The problem is your cataracts have worsened over the last year. You have the worst kind, in the center of your lenses and I'll bet you that when you drive at night the oncoming headlights look like fireworks displays."
"That aptly describes it."
"It would be pointless to prescribe new lenses since they wouldn't help. You need surgery, George."
My pulse quickened, recalling the surgical procedure Dr. Stempihar did to relieve my insanely excessive tearing. Primal fear overtook me when the hypodermic needle approached my eye. Micro scissors were used to open my tear ducts closed by my atopic dermatitis (eczema.) "Never again," I vowed out loud after the procedure while trying to open my painfully clenched fists.
Dr. Stempihar will perform the cataract surgery and I'm going in on faith inspired by others who who have had the operation and claimed that it was 'nothing.' I'm hoping this surgery will make my life easier. The ophthalmologist said that I won't be nearsighted anymore, but I may need reading glasses.
That makes me anticipate the surgery! I can't imagine what a blessing that would be, to basically have the eyesight that I had as a little kid before nearsightedness set in.
I asked Lois to drive on the way home and I walked into Culvers a la Ray Charles. It was the only way I could stand the bright lighting.
When we got to Woodruff I took over behind the wheel and the blizzard resumed just as we passed Highway 70 intersection. It was tough and my eyes were still a little dilated, making oncoming lights difficult to bear. We did lots of praying, "God, keep us safe." Oncoming semis intensified the blizzard as did the one idiot driver who passed us with a Chevy Monte Carlo, blinding us for a long time.
It took two hours to drive from Woodruff to Ironwood at about 30-40 m.p.h.The blizzard was much worse as we approached Hurley. The Nissan handled it well, with God's protection. We would live so each of us could have our cataracts removed. Lois had the same diagnosis during her appointment with the asian doctor. The blind leading the blind.
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
My Twenty-Fifth A.A. Birthday
I am an alcoholic. I haven't taken a drink in a long time. (My sobriety began on Oct. 1, 1989, the day I tearfully left the rehabilitation center at Memorial Hospital in Ashland, Wisconsin.) I was also full of trepidation for the future, rooted in lectures by counselors, "After five years only one in five will still be sober. Alcoholism is a disease characterized by relapses."
I arrived at the aforementioned facility, in a state of tremors and a mental blackout. I remember the tremors, holding a styrofoam cup (filled with coffee only halfway) with both hands. I was brought there directly from Grand View Hospital by my wife, Lois who had saved me from swallowing my tongue and by a dear friend, Judy Schulze.
My brain began to operate beyond the reptilian level the next day and I was astonished at my surroundings. The windows were reinforced and the place was spotless.I had no idea how I had arrived or where I was. The nurse came in to monitor my hand tremors, take my temperature and blood pressure and watch me wash down several pills with a glass of water. "Relax,George. No one is going to harm you," the nurse said in a soothing voice. I had heard the term, 'detox' and thought this must be where I was.
Boredom set in and I had a book about the Twelve Steps of A.A. I had read it and it was boring at the time. It would come alive later as I progressed in recovery. At the end of the book were several blank pages. I was thinking about an algorithm to get me out of this mess. The whole universe is defined by mathematics and the solution was there! I just had to solve it. I went to the desk and asked for a pen.
I wrote what I thought to be profound mathematical discoveries revealing the process of becoming sober. I would come to dismiss these great 'discoveries as delusional scribbling.
After being released from detox and integrated with the 17 other treatment patients my thought processes began to clarify. I no longer dismissed the treatment program as a foolish waste of time. God had removed the hostility and fear that had held me hostage.
One day I came to the realization that the awful, grinding craving for booze had left me. Was this possible?
Other patients confessed that they still had cravings. I declared that the cravings had left me, bringing a sharp rebuke from one of the counselors. I yielded to this counselor but I knew that the cravings were gone.
Before the dawn of my recovery I could not go without a drink of vodka for more than about two hours. That meant taking drinks during the night to ward off the poison dreams that would have me sit up screaming.
It also meant that I would need several hearty swigs from a pint bottle when my legs failed to work. I couldn't move them. I would crawl to my stash of booze and with shaking hands put the bottle to my lips. In a few minutes I could walk again. It also meant furtive trips to the liquor store, driving while I was drunk.
I told a doctor that I had been the recipient of a miracle and the doctor dismissed this, saying, "The alcohol must have burned out the brain cells that caused your addiction." This postulate that I had cured myself by drinking was laughable, I thought, but out of respect I did not argue with the doctor.
On October 1, 2014 twenty-five years will have passed since the dawn of my recovery. I have not had a craving for a drink in all that time. I still attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, which help me to remember that I am still an alcoholic and will be until they shovel dirt on my coffin. The meetings also help me remember the power of alcoholic craving, the hopelessness that I felt, and the welcoming spirit and acceptance of Alcoholics Anonymous.
Psalms 18:17-20 came to be my favorite Scripture, "He delivered my from my strong enemy, from those who hated me, for they were too strong for me. They confronted me in the day of my calamity, but the Lord was my support. He also brought me out into a broad space." Verse 20 is the amazing part, because I had thought the Lord was through with me, a quivering booze hound who passed himself off as a born-again Christian. "He delivered me because He delighted in me."
My twenty-five years of sobriety have been 'God stuff.'
I arrived at the aforementioned facility, in a state of tremors and a mental blackout. I remember the tremors, holding a styrofoam cup (filled with coffee only halfway) with both hands. I was brought there directly from Grand View Hospital by my wife, Lois who had saved me from swallowing my tongue and by a dear friend, Judy Schulze.
My brain began to operate beyond the reptilian level the next day and I was astonished at my surroundings. The windows were reinforced and the place was spotless.I had no idea how I had arrived or where I was. The nurse came in to monitor my hand tremors, take my temperature and blood pressure and watch me wash down several pills with a glass of water. "Relax,George. No one is going to harm you," the nurse said in a soothing voice. I had heard the term, 'detox' and thought this must be where I was.
Boredom set in and I had a book about the Twelve Steps of A.A. I had read it and it was boring at the time. It would come alive later as I progressed in recovery. At the end of the book were several blank pages. I was thinking about an algorithm to get me out of this mess. The whole universe is defined by mathematics and the solution was there! I just had to solve it. I went to the desk and asked for a pen.
I wrote what I thought to be profound mathematical discoveries revealing the process of becoming sober. I would come to dismiss these great 'discoveries as delusional scribbling.
After being released from detox and integrated with the 17 other treatment patients my thought processes began to clarify. I no longer dismissed the treatment program as a foolish waste of time. God had removed the hostility and fear that had held me hostage.
One day I came to the realization that the awful, grinding craving for booze had left me. Was this possible?
Other patients confessed that they still had cravings. I declared that the cravings had left me, bringing a sharp rebuke from one of the counselors. I yielded to this counselor but I knew that the cravings were gone.
Before the dawn of my recovery I could not go without a drink of vodka for more than about two hours. That meant taking drinks during the night to ward off the poison dreams that would have me sit up screaming.
It also meant that I would need several hearty swigs from a pint bottle when my legs failed to work. I couldn't move them. I would crawl to my stash of booze and with shaking hands put the bottle to my lips. In a few minutes I could walk again. It also meant furtive trips to the liquor store, driving while I was drunk.
I told a doctor that I had been the recipient of a miracle and the doctor dismissed this, saying, "The alcohol must have burned out the brain cells that caused your addiction." This postulate that I had cured myself by drinking was laughable, I thought, but out of respect I did not argue with the doctor.
On October 1, 2014 twenty-five years will have passed since the dawn of my recovery. I have not had a craving for a drink in all that time. I still attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, which help me to remember that I am still an alcoholic and will be until they shovel dirt on my coffin. The meetings also help me remember the power of alcoholic craving, the hopelessness that I felt, and the welcoming spirit and acceptance of Alcoholics Anonymous.
Psalms 18:17-20 came to be my favorite Scripture, "He delivered my from my strong enemy, from those who hated me, for they were too strong for me. They confronted me in the day of my calamity, but the Lord was my support. He also brought me out into a broad space." Verse 20 is the amazing part, because I had thought the Lord was through with me, a quivering booze hound who passed himself off as a born-again Christian. "He delivered me because He delighted in me."
My twenty-five years of sobriety have been 'God stuff.'
Monday, August 18, 2014
A Saved Vacation- Part 3
As I sat on the bed with the bottle of cold water held to my swollen knee I heard voices through the open door. Women milling around, talking, admiring the decor, probably. Darryl wasn't home at the time. I heard people climbing the first stairs and soon recognized that it was Lois, Michele and Kenlyn.
They ascended to the third floor and admired our room.
"The room is so tiny, "Kenlyn said.
"Still, it's the best room I ever stayed in."
"Did you fall and skin your knees?" Lois asked.
"I did a little more than that. I stood and Lois could see the extent of the swelling."
"We'll take you back to Michele's and she can give you a cold compress. Did you take anything?"
"Tylenol- two pills."
"Can you make it down the stairs?"
"I did before to get the bottle of water but the swelling has increased since. I'll try."
I made it down the two flights of stairs by holding my left knee stiff and then we got out to Michele's truck. Getting in was painful if I flexed my knee but I made it. I remembered my Kindle.
Conversation centered around Michele'd dining table and Corva was the center of attention. And why not? She's adorable and she's an extrovert. She received Christmas and, I think, birthday presents which would have been too expensive to ship overseas.
We ate steak for supper, prepared by Ken on the barby and later on the family split into conversational groups, one at the dining table and one in the family room. Those of us in the family room viewed TV for a while and I kept my left knee up as per Hadley's instructions. (Hadley is a registered nurse.) Nurse Hadley prescribed Alleve and cold compresses to diminish the swelling.
Lois and I enjoyed the hospitality at Isadora's once more in our luxurious bathrobes. I made coffe for myself on the Kuerig and Lois took tea. We indulged ourselves with Cadbury chocolate bars and once more took in this historic place.
The next day we started with a hearty breakfast. First a strawberry banana split with yogurt instead of whipped cream. We shared breakfast with a woman from Columbus, Ohio, actually a member of the faculty of Ohio State University where she researches the effects of poverty on young children. Lindsay asked where we hailed from and I sensed, from her reaction that the upper peninsula of Michigan was obscure to her, something like the Yukon Territory. We explained the term, "Yooper," which she found delightfully amusing.
The second course consisted of hash-browned potatoes in casserole form and poached eggs, of which I have never had, but enjoyed.
Lindsay told us that her mother resides in West Bend. When Lindsay told her she was staying at Isadora's her mother objected.
"A bed and breakfast is only for couples."
Lindsay was going to take in West Bend with her mother, so we wished her a happy time with her mother.
We reluctantly began to pack for the trip home. I say reluctantly because this was the best and most unique lodging experience we have
ever had. Sure beats the cookie-cutter approach of the national lodging chains. This place was about warmth and historicity and fascination.
After packing and loading up Ken's truck which he generously let us borrow for the evening, we walked the huge veranda and got a sense of how high the mansion rested above Beech Street.
I wondered at how long it must have taken to build this enormous residence and the number of workmen involved, since much of the work was done with muscle power rather than machine power.
We recovered our car and painfully paid the bill. I realized that the car troubles didn't ruin this wonderful visit with family. We returned Ken's truck and said our good-byes, punctuated with hugs. With this visit I realized how much I love our family and how much they mean to us.
The homeward trek had only two minor incidents: Lois forgot the cross-stitching project. We doubled back to get it and we thought we had taken the wrong exit to get on Highway 10. We stopped for gas and coffee and Lois asked the clerk for directions. (We were both wearing t-shirts that we bought from our church. On the back of each shirt was this Scripture: "Show me the right path, o Lord; point out the road for me to follow." Psalms 25:4.) We could see Highway 10 from the gas station, once the nice lady pointed it out.
They ascended to the third floor and admired our room.
"The room is so tiny, "Kenlyn said.
"Still, it's the best room I ever stayed in."
"Did you fall and skin your knees?" Lois asked.
"I did a little more than that. I stood and Lois could see the extent of the swelling."
"We'll take you back to Michele's and she can give you a cold compress. Did you take anything?"
"Tylenol- two pills."
"Can you make it down the stairs?"
"I did before to get the bottle of water but the swelling has increased since. I'll try."
I made it down the two flights of stairs by holding my left knee stiff and then we got out to Michele's truck. Getting in was painful if I flexed my knee but I made it. I remembered my Kindle.
Conversation centered around Michele'd dining table and Corva was the center of attention. And why not? She's adorable and she's an extrovert. She received Christmas and, I think, birthday presents which would have been too expensive to ship overseas.
We ate steak for supper, prepared by Ken on the barby and later on the family split into conversational groups, one at the dining table and one in the family room. Those of us in the family room viewed TV for a while and I kept my left knee up as per Hadley's instructions. (Hadley is a registered nurse.) Nurse Hadley prescribed Alleve and cold compresses to diminish the swelling.
 |
| The front view from Beech Street. |
 |
| Here's where we signed in, as guests would have done in a bygone era. |
The second course consisted of hash-browned potatoes in casserole form and poached eggs, of which I have never had, but enjoyed.
Lindsay told us that her mother resides in West Bend. When Lindsay told her she was staying at Isadora's her mother objected.
"A bed and breakfast is only for couples."
 |
| This is where we breakfasted. |
We reluctantly began to pack for the trip home. I say reluctantly because this was the best and most unique lodging experience we have
 |
| The view from Beech Street. |
ever had. Sure beats the cookie-cutter approach of the national lodging chains. This place was about warmth and historicity and fascination.
After packing and loading up Ken's truck which he generously let us borrow for the evening, we walked the huge veranda and got a sense of how high the mansion rested above Beech Street.
 |
| The front stairs overlooking Beech Street, featuring the babbling fountain on the first landing. |
|
| We will definitely stay here again! |
I wondered at how long it must have taken to build this enormous residence and the number of workmen involved, since much of the work was done with muscle power rather than machine power.
We recovered our car and painfully paid the bill. I realized that the car troubles didn't ruin this wonderful visit with family. We returned Ken's truck and said our good-byes, punctuated with hugs. With this visit I realized how much I love our family and how much they mean to us.
 |
| This prayer opens our AA meetings. I was also saying it silently at times during our vacation. The frame is an antique from the Weiss family and the cross-stitching was done by our talented niece, Kenlyn Knop. |
The homeward trek had only two minor incidents: Lois forgot the cross-stitching project. We doubled back to get it and we thought we had taken the wrong exit to get on Highway 10. We stopped for gas and coffee and Lois asked the clerk for directions. (We were both wearing t-shirts that we bought from our church. On the back of each shirt was this Scripture: "Show me the right path, o Lord; point out the road for me to follow." Psalms 25:4.) We could see Highway 10 from the gas station, once the nice lady pointed it out.
 |
| This vacation had its ups and downs but it was the most unique experience we've had. Always uplifting to visit our family. |
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
The Saved Vacation- Part 2
My groggy eyes opened after what seemed like a long sleep, but it was shortly after seven o'clock and I heard water running in the bathroom- Lois washing up for breakfast. My feet dangled from the high bed as the ghosts of last night began to seep into my consciousness.
It was a sunny day, warm with robins singing outside our window. I parted the curtains and looked outside to see a lovely blue sky and a woman running on the sidewalk past the B & B. and then I thought of the car, the brakes. How much were the repairs going to cost? How would we pay the bill?
Lois entered and we said 'good morning.'
"If you hurry up and get dressed we can go downstairs and have coffee,"
I obeyed Lois and in a few minutes we were slowly descending the two flights of stairs. I noticed the sketch of Jesus with His crown of thorns and the agony in his eyes. I think Michelangelo did this.
The morning light came through a stained glass sun-catcher, brightening the second staircase. The stair walls displayed many photographs of the Mayer family and there was a singular photo of a woman in long skirts, hair done up and she w
standing sideways to the camera. The aroma of French toast beckoned us.
We took coffee right away in the dining room which was dominated by a long table, covered by linen with a plate of thick glass over it. Three candelabra graced the elegant place settings. We sat down and shortly Darryl served us warm grapefruit with the sections all severed so all one had to do was spoon out each bite. I remembered to put the linen napkin on my lap.
Darryl told us about the renovation process that had taken seven years to complete. Plumbing, electrical wiring and drywall were new where required. Three new furnaces were installed, plus central air-conditioning and energy-efficient windows. The dark buffet at one end of the table had a mirror and drawers and magnificent woodwork. Darryl said they tore out a wall that had covered this buffet. It is a deep fixture, as Darryl demonstrated how deep the drawers were, about three feet, I think.
He waited until we were both done with our grapefruit and then brought us our French toast and pork sausages. We have never experienced such an elegant presentation of food. There was a glass rod to the right of each plate for us to lean our forks and knives so we wouldn't sully the meticulously kept tabletop. By the way, the coffee was bold but not overpowering and begged a second cup, which Darryl so thoughtfully poured. He had all the technique and manners of a butler.
After we finished, we lingered over coffee and Darryl joined, standing as he talked.
"Could you please give us the number of Lifetime Auto?" I asked, concerned about getting the car into the shop as soon as possible.
Darryl brought out a phone book and looked it up and gave me a slip of paper and a pen to write it down.
"My nephew's name is Bob and he's a skilled mechanic and honest. The name of the place is Lifetime Auto."
That recommendation satisfied me as I perceived Darryl as an honest Christian man.
I told Lois , "I'll give you a ride to Ken and Michele's and come back."
Darryl said he would then drive out to the shop and I could follow.
Bob was the friendliest, most animated mechanic I have ever met.
"Hi, how are you?" Bob said, smiling a warm genuine smile, extending a soiled hand. I took it and introduced myself.
"Whattya got wrong with your Nissan?" His animation came out strongly, like a doctor asking a patient what's wrong.
"Brakes. they grind when I hit the brakes."
Then his affect changed to one of concern. "That's serious. You're from Michigan?"
"Way up north on the Wisconsin border, next to Hurley. A lot of West Bend people don't know where Ironwood is, but they know where Hurley is."
"I assume you'll want your car fixed sometime today? Were you planning on leaving for Ironwood tomorrow?"
"If at all possible. Looks like you have a lot of cars to fix."
"Yeah, and I'm working alone." He didn't say why he was the lone mechanic but this bit of information put perspective into the situation.
"Hey, where's the little clicker that attaches to this key?" Bob asked.
I took it out of my pocket and handed it to him.
"Why do you carry it around all the time?"
"To lock and unlock the car. Then I take the key out and start the car."
"Did you know that you don't have to use the clicker to unlock your door?"
I must have had an inquisitive look because he became ever more animated.
"I'm walking to my car after a hard day and I don't have to dig the key out of my pocket, or your wife doesn't have to dig it out of her purse, assuming you're married, of course."
I nodded to affirm my marriage.
"I just stand near the car and push that tiny black button on the door handle and..." He dramatically paused and raised his hand in a flourish as the car opened up.
"And, that's not all, George." He got into the car. "I'm sitting here with my key and clicker in my pocket and all I have to do is..." he turned the ignition without the key and the car started. Then he turned the engine off without the key and got out, closed the door, hit the black button and the car locked.
"Aren't these smart keys cool?"
"Thanks for showing me." I tried to hide my embarrassment.
"Okay, don't worry, I'll try real hard to get 'er done today. I'll call you before noon with an estimate."
Darryl drove me back to the B& B as I told him I wanted to take a run before I visited the Knops.
"There is a terrific running /walking trail just beyond the bridge on Washington. It's concrete, twenty-six miles long and well-maintained."
"Thanks, I think I'll try that."
The cool morning had passed by and now it was uncomfortably warm, yet I was determined to go for a run. Running straightens me out when my mind is bent out of shape. I was dwelling on the car and I got my running shoes on. They were the old running shoes; the new ones were back in Ironwood. I sighed, "Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change."
I ran down to the trail and decided to estimate my run based on an easy rate of a mile in 12 minutes. I looked at my watch, which was twenty minutes slow, since the battery was failing. The exertion felt comfortable and comforting.
It is to West Bend's credit, this wide and well-maintained trail. No hazards, just a smooth, attractive trail. I had just broken a sweat when my phone rang. It was Lois.
"Where are you?"
"I was running on the splendid trail that runs by the bridge on Washington."
"Why don't you come and help Ken with the branch on the birch tree?"
"Okay. I'll be there in a little while." I knew about the job.
Sixteen minutes had elapsed so when I arrived at the bridge, making the run was about three miles. Now I ran up Washington to the street that curls around Regner Park up to Greentree Street.
Ken was sawing up a hefty branch that had been a hazard. I went through the gate and waved to Michelle. Ken sawed for a while and shut off the saw. We shook hands.
"How can I help you, Ken?"
"You can pick up the sawed pieces and pile them on the side of the house. There's a woodpile started already."
I started hauling and piling and soon had caught up to Ken and He shut off the saw again. Time for a break in this hot morning. We stood and surveyed the birch tree.
"Where did you take your car?"
"Lifetime Auto. The mechanic is supposed to call me before noon with an estimate."
"Tough when your car breaks down on a trip."
"Yeah, whatcha gonna do? It is what it is."
"Want to saw for a while?"
"Sure," I said. That was like asking Pavoratti if he wanted to sing.
This was great- a run and now I was sawing firewood. Something about a chainsaw clicks with me. I worked for the U.S. Forest service many years ago as a cutter. I also sawed up logs delivered to our house, ten logger's cords each year. Running a good saw is like driving a fast car, sharpens your senses because one little mistake can wreck a lifetime. I liked the power of Ken's new Riobi saw and was disappointed when I ran out of wood to cut.
We finished the job and Ken raked up the mess and then we sat down in the gazebo with refreshments. It was a good time, catching up on each others' lives and having a laugh or two. Ken and Michele Knop make you feel at home. They are good people.
My phone rang again and it was Lifetime. I went away from the gathering to hear what was wrong with our car. My stomach tingled and Bob revealed a litany of automotive woes.
"I'm not gonna pull any punches, George. It's not a cheap date. Your rear brakes were metal-on-metal and the rotors are completely destroyed."
I anticipated that, but I wasn't ready for the rest of the story.
"Your left front wheel was wobbly and I found out that there was nothing left of the wheel bearings. You are real lucky to be alive."
"How about the front brakes," I asked, suspecting them also to be worn out as well.
"Your front brakes have 10% left on the pads. If I do the rear brakes, the front brakes and the new hub assembly the bottom line is just over a thousand bucks."
I felt sick in the pit of my stomach, somewhere between miserable and nausea.
"Can I make it home to Ironwood without doing the front brakes?"
"I can't give a guarantee. that is up to you, George. Do you want us to just do the rear brakes and the front hub? That would come to
$718.00, including labor and sales tax."
"Let's do that, okay."
"It's your call, George. but I'd get those front brakes done in the very near future. I'll try to get it finished since you said you were going home tomorrow."
"Appreciate it," I croaked. I was flattened by the news. I couldn't think or speak or move. In a few minutes I shared the bad news at the gazebo.
Somehow I was cheerful over lunch. I was even conversational. I don't know why. My personal prohibition against spoiling this gathering would not have kept me stable. Something else was working then and I can realize it as I write. It was God stuff.
After lunch when Ken was napping and our nephew Mike and his wife, Hadley, on furlough from their work in Germany arrived. They brought their two-year-old daughter, Corva. We hugged and made such a racket that we woke up Ken. Mike's sister, Kenlyn also joined us.
I remained on the periphery of things as I usually do and when the tenor of the gathering relaxed I recalled that I didn't have my Kindle. I wanted to go outside and read a few chapters of The Wind is not a River. I told Lois that I would run back and get it.
"Take it easy. It's hot out there," Michele cautioned.
I ran around the curve alongside Regner Park again and this time I ended up on Main Street instead of Washington. No problem. I knew how to get back to the B & B. I remember seeing the Toucan custard place just before I sailed through the air, hands before me like Superman, my glasses flying off me head and my left knee bouncing off the concrete. Then I slid on hands and knees. All this seemed to happen in slow-motion.
I got to my feet quickly and retrieved my glasses. Heavy traffic whisked by and I hoped no one had noticed. Both knees were bleeding and I wiped away the blood with some tissue from my pocket. I resumed running as though nothing had happened.
In our room at the B & B, I viewed the damage in a full-length mirror. A piece of skin had been scraped from my right knee, about the size of a quarter. The left knee was also bleeding but swollen twice the size of the other.
A bottle of cold water from the dining room refrigerator would suffice as a cold compress. I judged the swollen knee wasn't broken, else I wouldn't be up here in our third-floor room. I thanked God for that and sat on the bed holding the cold water bottle against the swelling.
======== To be continued. Part 3 is coming!==========
It was a sunny day, warm with robins singing outside our window. I parted the curtains and looked outside to see a lovely blue sky and a woman running on the sidewalk past the B & B. and then I thought of the car, the brakes. How much were the repairs going to cost? How would we pay the bill?
Lois entered and we said 'good morning.'
"If you hurry up and get dressed we can go downstairs and have coffee,"
I obeyed Lois and in a few minutes we were slowly descending the two flights of stairs. I noticed the sketch of Jesus with His crown of thorns and the agony in his eyes. I think Michelangelo did this.
The morning light came through a stained glass sun-catcher, brightening the second staircase. The stair walls displayed many photographs of the Mayer family and there was a singular photo of a woman in long skirts, hair done up and she w
standing sideways to the camera. The aroma of French toast beckoned us.
We took coffee right away in the dining room which was dominated by a long table, covered by linen with a plate of thick glass over it. Three candelabra graced the elegant place settings. We sat down and shortly Darryl served us warm grapefruit with the sections all severed so all one had to do was spoon out each bite. I remembered to put the linen napkin on my lap.
Darryl told us about the renovation process that had taken seven years to complete. Plumbing, electrical wiring and drywall were new where required. Three new furnaces were installed, plus central air-conditioning and energy-efficient windows. The dark buffet at one end of the table had a mirror and drawers and magnificent woodwork. Darryl said they tore out a wall that had covered this buffet. It is a deep fixture, as Darryl demonstrated how deep the drawers were, about three feet, I think.
He waited until we were both done with our grapefruit and then brought us our French toast and pork sausages. We have never experienced such an elegant presentation of food. There was a glass rod to the right of each plate for us to lean our forks and knives so we wouldn't sully the meticulously kept tabletop. By the way, the coffee was bold but not overpowering and begged a second cup, which Darryl so thoughtfully poured. He had all the technique and manners of a butler.
After we finished, we lingered over coffee and Darryl joined, standing as he talked.
"Could you please give us the number of Lifetime Auto?" I asked, concerned about getting the car into the shop as soon as possible.
Darryl brought out a phone book and looked it up and gave me a slip of paper and a pen to write it down.
"My nephew's name is Bob and he's a skilled mechanic and honest. The name of the place is Lifetime Auto."
That recommendation satisfied me as I perceived Darryl as an honest Christian man.
I told Lois , "I'll give you a ride to Ken and Michele's and come back."
Darryl said he would then drive out to the shop and I could follow.
Bob was the friendliest, most animated mechanic I have ever met.
"Hi, how are you?" Bob said, smiling a warm genuine smile, extending a soiled hand. I took it and introduced myself.
"Whattya got wrong with your Nissan?" His animation came out strongly, like a doctor asking a patient what's wrong.
"Brakes. they grind when I hit the brakes."
Then his affect changed to one of concern. "That's serious. You're from Michigan?"
"Way up north on the Wisconsin border, next to Hurley. A lot of West Bend people don't know where Ironwood is, but they know where Hurley is."
"I assume you'll want your car fixed sometime today? Were you planning on leaving for Ironwood tomorrow?"
"If at all possible. Looks like you have a lot of cars to fix."
"Yeah, and I'm working alone." He didn't say why he was the lone mechanic but this bit of information put perspective into the situation.
"Hey, where's the little clicker that attaches to this key?" Bob asked.
I took it out of my pocket and handed it to him.
"Why do you carry it around all the time?"
"To lock and unlock the car. Then I take the key out and start the car."
"Did you know that you don't have to use the clicker to unlock your door?"
I must have had an inquisitive look because he became ever more animated.
"I'm walking to my car after a hard day and I don't have to dig the key out of my pocket, or your wife doesn't have to dig it out of her purse, assuming you're married, of course."
I nodded to affirm my marriage.
"I just stand near the car and push that tiny black button on the door handle and..." He dramatically paused and raised his hand in a flourish as the car opened up.
"And, that's not all, George." He got into the car. "I'm sitting here with my key and clicker in my pocket and all I have to do is..." he turned the ignition without the key and the car started. Then he turned the engine off without the key and got out, closed the door, hit the black button and the car locked.
"Aren't these smart keys cool?"
"Thanks for showing me." I tried to hide my embarrassment.
"Okay, don't worry, I'll try real hard to get 'er done today. I'll call you before noon with an estimate."
Darryl drove me back to the B& B as I told him I wanted to take a run before I visited the Knops.
"There is a terrific running /walking trail just beyond the bridge on Washington. It's concrete, twenty-six miles long and well-maintained."
"Thanks, I think I'll try that."
The cool morning had passed by and now it was uncomfortably warm, yet I was determined to go for a run. Running straightens me out when my mind is bent out of shape. I was dwelling on the car and I got my running shoes on. They were the old running shoes; the new ones were back in Ironwood. I sighed, "Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change."
I ran down to the trail and decided to estimate my run based on an easy rate of a mile in 12 minutes. I looked at my watch, which was twenty minutes slow, since the battery was failing. The exertion felt comfortable and comforting.
It is to West Bend's credit, this wide and well-maintained trail. No hazards, just a smooth, attractive trail. I had just broken a sweat when my phone rang. It was Lois.
"Where are you?"
"I was running on the splendid trail that runs by the bridge on Washington."
"Why don't you come and help Ken with the branch on the birch tree?"
"Okay. I'll be there in a little while." I knew about the job.
Sixteen minutes had elapsed so when I arrived at the bridge, making the run was about three miles. Now I ran up Washington to the street that curls around Regner Park up to Greentree Street.
Ken was sawing up a hefty branch that had been a hazard. I went through the gate and waved to Michelle. Ken sawed for a while and shut off the saw. We shook hands.
"How can I help you, Ken?"
"You can pick up the sawed pieces and pile them on the side of the house. There's a woodpile started already."
I started hauling and piling and soon had caught up to Ken and He shut off the saw again. Time for a break in this hot morning. We stood and surveyed the birch tree.
"Where did you take your car?"
"Lifetime Auto. The mechanic is supposed to call me before noon with an estimate."
"Tough when your car breaks down on a trip."
"Yeah, whatcha gonna do? It is what it is."
"Want to saw for a while?"
"Sure," I said. That was like asking Pavoratti if he wanted to sing.
This was great- a run and now I was sawing firewood. Something about a chainsaw clicks with me. I worked for the U.S. Forest service many years ago as a cutter. I also sawed up logs delivered to our house, ten logger's cords each year. Running a good saw is like driving a fast car, sharpens your senses because one little mistake can wreck a lifetime. I liked the power of Ken's new Riobi saw and was disappointed when I ran out of wood to cut.
We finished the job and Ken raked up the mess and then we sat down in the gazebo with refreshments. It was a good time, catching up on each others' lives and having a laugh or two. Ken and Michele Knop make you feel at home. They are good people.
My phone rang again and it was Lifetime. I went away from the gathering to hear what was wrong with our car. My stomach tingled and Bob revealed a litany of automotive woes.
"I'm not gonna pull any punches, George. It's not a cheap date. Your rear brakes were metal-on-metal and the rotors are completely destroyed."
I anticipated that, but I wasn't ready for the rest of the story.
"Your left front wheel was wobbly and I found out that there was nothing left of the wheel bearings. You are real lucky to be alive."
"How about the front brakes," I asked, suspecting them also to be worn out as well.
"Your front brakes have 10% left on the pads. If I do the rear brakes, the front brakes and the new hub assembly the bottom line is just over a thousand bucks."
I felt sick in the pit of my stomach, somewhere between miserable and nausea.
"Can I make it home to Ironwood without doing the front brakes?"
"I can't give a guarantee. that is up to you, George. Do you want us to just do the rear brakes and the front hub? That would come to
$718.00, including labor and sales tax."
"Let's do that, okay."
"It's your call, George. but I'd get those front brakes done in the very near future. I'll try to get it finished since you said you were going home tomorrow."
"Appreciate it," I croaked. I was flattened by the news. I couldn't think or speak or move. In a few minutes I shared the bad news at the gazebo.
Somehow I was cheerful over lunch. I was even conversational. I don't know why. My personal prohibition against spoiling this gathering would not have kept me stable. Something else was working then and I can realize it as I write. It was God stuff.
 |
| Nephew Michael Knop, his wife Hadley , daughter, Corva and beloved dog, Tula. |
After lunch when Ken was napping and our nephew Mike and his wife, Hadley, on furlough from their work in Germany arrived. They brought their two-year-old daughter, Corva. We hugged and made such a racket that we woke up Ken. Mike's sister, Kenlyn also joined us.
I remained on the periphery of things as I usually do and when the tenor of the gathering relaxed I recalled that I didn't have my Kindle. I wanted to go outside and read a few chapters of The Wind is not a River. I told Lois that I would run back and get it.
"Take it easy. It's hot out there," Michele cautioned.
I ran around the curve alongside Regner Park again and this time I ended up on Main Street instead of Washington. No problem. I knew how to get back to the B & B. I remember seeing the Toucan custard place just before I sailed through the air, hands before me like Superman, my glasses flying off me head and my left knee bouncing off the concrete. Then I slid on hands and knees. All this seemed to happen in slow-motion.
I got to my feet quickly and retrieved my glasses. Heavy traffic whisked by and I hoped no one had noticed. Both knees were bleeding and I wiped away the blood with some tissue from my pocket. I resumed running as though nothing had happened.
In our room at the B & B, I viewed the damage in a full-length mirror. A piece of skin had been scraped from my right knee, about the size of a quarter. The left knee was also bleeding but swollen twice the size of the other.
A bottle of cold water from the dining room refrigerator would suffice as a cold compress. I judged the swollen knee wasn't broken, else I wouldn't be up here in our third-floor room. I thanked God for that and sat on the bed holding the cold water bottle against the swelling.
======== To be continued. Part 3 is coming!==========
Monday, August 11, 2014
A Broken Vacation Saved - Part 1
We headed down Highway 51, rolling out of Minocqua, Wisconsin in the Nissan we bought three months ago, sun roof open and commercial-free tunes playing on the Sirius XM radio. We talked and laughed and forgot about the vexations of everyday life. We were relaxing in the soothing sun as we rolled toward our destination which was Isadora's Bed and Breakfast in West Bend, Wisconsin. Neither of us had stayed in a B & B before, but our lodging options had narrowed in the wake of summer activities in West Bend. Lois' sister, Michele already had overnight guests so I had found our new adventure in lodging online and booked it through Priceline.com.
There was no set time for us to arrive and we were in the most carefree spirit in years. We remarked at the urban sprawl and the complexity of overpasses in Appleton, Fond Du Lac and Oshkosh that have appeared since we last passed this way, some two years ago.
Our lightness of mood suddenly halted as we pulled into a gas oasis in Stevens Point. As our car approached one of the gas pumps a horrible, grinding sound emanated from the rear. We looked at each other.
"That doesn't sound good. Not good at all," Lois said, her countenance darkening into concern.
"Shit!" was all I could say.
The car needed fuel and I needed to use the facilities and to refill my coffee mug from the many choices inside. After filling the tank I was at the coffee bar and decided on filling my mug halfway with Colombian coffee. I topped it off with a liquid candy called English Toffee. We paid and went back out to our car. It was after six and there would be no car repair service available. The city was congested and there would probably be no lodging available.
The noise came and went and disappeared when we were on Highway 10, exiting Stevens Point. I kept pace with the flow of traffic but drove conservatively. We didn't hear the noise at all until we got on the ramp to Highway 45. We went through one of those ridiculous things called a turnabout. It routed us around 360 degrees and then some and I lost all sense of direction. I had to slow down considerably to negotiate this crazy, winding menace the highway engineers inflicted on unsuspecting motorists. Must have been insane highway engineers.
The noise came again, wrenching, grinding, frightening, compounded by heavy traffic. When we left the turnabout and accelerated the noise ceased. By now my mind was going wild. I was in three lanes of traffic and four at times, all going one way and looking for overhead signs to be sure I was headed in the right direction. Lois activated the GPS. She is the navigator. I am flying the plane with the unknown mechanical malfunction.
With Lois' skill at using the GPS we got to the last leg of the trip at the Allenton exit on Highway 33. There was a stop sign and when I came to a complete stop it became apparent that it was the brakes as the scraping grind intensified to a shriek that set my teeth on edge. Careful driving would get us there. Nonetheless I prayed non-stop.
Once in West Bend we had to find Isadora's B & B and I thought I knew where it was from the Google map, but the night plays strange tricks on one's senses. Things look completely different. Then the GPS took us to an old abandoned block structure on Main Street. "Make a left turn, immediately'" the female voice said, in and we did. We were routed into a dark alley. A chime sounded and the female voice on the GPS said, "You have arrived!"
We exited the dark alley and the voice said, "Please make a legal u-turn whenever possible." My frustration boiled over and I told the GPS voice to shove it where the sun never shines. On the homeward trip I named her Gertrude.
Gertrude had obviously failed us, so Lois told me to pull over as soon as I could and she would call Darryl at the B & B for help.
As Lois talked I went out with the flashlight to look under the car for anything that might be hanging down or damaged. I didn't find anything so I got back into the car and Darryl stayed on the line with Lois to become our live GPS as it were. In a little while we found our destination and parked the car with tortured sounds reminiscent of the Titanic. Darryl was there to greet us. I was shaken, frustrated and tired. I looked at the rear wheels with the flashlight and saw irreparable scoring on the brake rotors. Now I felt defeated. I was never going to take another road trip again never!
I recalled the trips to West Bend with mechanical failures: the Ford Torino station wagon, alternator failure; the Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera failed Lois on a solo trip, computer failure; the Dodge Dakota needed a sudden tune-up on the day after Christmas and the distributer gear failed; the F-150 blew an alternator on a homeward trip in the winter in the middle of nowhere; the Ford Taurus never failed us.
I followed Lois and Darryl silently fuming and cursing. Yes I curse when my buttons are pushed. I admit it. I'm saved by Jesus through His generosity and grace but I'm human, no better or worthy in the sight of God than anyone else. My old nature takes over at times of my weakness. I confess it to God . I carried some of our luggage down the sidewalk and turned into the path to the front porch.
I was unprepared to step back 120 years through a massive front door. The door squealed loudly as I closed it and I came to the dim foyer. A small desk lit by a small table lamp lay before a staircase adorned with pictures of the
original owner, Stephen S. Mayer. He was the president of West Bend Aluminum company and later he founded West Bend Mutual Insurance Company. This house boasted the first flush toilet in town and utilized the refinements of steam heating. The steam was piped in from the West Bend Brewery.
We ascended a winding staircase to the second floor library with period furniture and a Tiffany lamp overlooking a high-backed chair. Our room was on the third floor, The French Nook. We went up another winding staircase. This one was narrow and carpeted and our room was right at the head of the stairs.
I threw the heavy suitcase on the full-sized bed adorned with pillows of various sizes. I sat down on the bed which was so high that my feet dangled. I was trying to take in all the European ambience but the stress of the drive weighed heavily.
"How many times have we come down here and our car broke down. First it was the Torino wagon..."
"Don't." I looked up at Lois, who had just rebuked me and I deserved it. I desperately wanted to avoid spoiling this family reunion, but I was mad, embarrassed at having our newly-acquired car break down, and ashamed at myself for my anger and inner feelings and my break from fellowship with God.
We went down again and met with Darryl Ziebarth for the guided tour. (His wife was out of town.) Antique furniture graced the massive living room and rich curtains and drapes framed the bay window in the front of the house. A headless mannequin modeled a black wedding dress. The room had a somewhat masculine quality as dark woodwork bordered the ceilings which were painted works of art. I retrieved my camera and tripod and photographed until my eyes wouldn't focus.
We said good-night to Darryl, who had been a missionary in Somalia. He was, calm, gentle and walks closely with God. He told us about a garage on Highway 33, Lifetime Auto that had a reputable mechanic, none other than his nephew.
We went up the two flights of stairs again and washed up in the adjacent full bathroom with shower. As we settled into bed I turned on my Kindle looked for some guidance from the Radio Bible Class web page, rbc.org.
I went into the section Been Thinking About and chose a story about Jacob. He was bad to the bone, stole his brother's inheritance and lied to his father among many other failings. His son, Joseph was upright and walked closely with his God even though he was kidnapped, thrown into a well, sold into slavery, etc. but the Bible refers to Jacob's God twenty-five times, never to Joseph's God.
Jacob did eventually get in synch with God but he is easier to identify with. I felt like Jacob and I went to sleep asking for forgiveness from Lois and God.
But I still worried about our car.
========= To be continued, end of Part One==========
There was no set time for us to arrive and we were in the most carefree spirit in years. We remarked at the urban sprawl and the complexity of overpasses in Appleton, Fond Du Lac and Oshkosh that have appeared since we last passed this way, some two years ago.
Our lightness of mood suddenly halted as we pulled into a gas oasis in Stevens Point. As our car approached one of the gas pumps a horrible, grinding sound emanated from the rear. We looked at each other.
"That doesn't sound good. Not good at all," Lois said, her countenance darkening into concern.
"Shit!" was all I could say.
The car needed fuel and I needed to use the facilities and to refill my coffee mug from the many choices inside. After filling the tank I was at the coffee bar and decided on filling my mug halfway with Colombian coffee. I topped it off with a liquid candy called English Toffee. We paid and went back out to our car. It was after six and there would be no car repair service available. The city was congested and there would probably be no lodging available.
The noise came and went and disappeared when we were on Highway 10, exiting Stevens Point. I kept pace with the flow of traffic but drove conservatively. We didn't hear the noise at all until we got on the ramp to Highway 45. We went through one of those ridiculous things called a turnabout. It routed us around 360 degrees and then some and I lost all sense of direction. I had to slow down considerably to negotiate this crazy, winding menace the highway engineers inflicted on unsuspecting motorists. Must have been insane highway engineers.
The noise came again, wrenching, grinding, frightening, compounded by heavy traffic. When we left the turnabout and accelerated the noise ceased. By now my mind was going wild. I was in three lanes of traffic and four at times, all going one way and looking for overhead signs to be sure I was headed in the right direction. Lois activated the GPS. She is the navigator. I am flying the plane with the unknown mechanical malfunction.
With Lois' skill at using the GPS we got to the last leg of the trip at the Allenton exit on Highway 33. There was a stop sign and when I came to a complete stop it became apparent that it was the brakes as the scraping grind intensified to a shriek that set my teeth on edge. Careful driving would get us there. Nonetheless I prayed non-stop.
Once in West Bend we had to find Isadora's B & B and I thought I knew where it was from the Google map, but the night plays strange tricks on one's senses. Things look completely different. Then the GPS took us to an old abandoned block structure on Main Street. "Make a left turn, immediately'" the female voice said, in and we did. We were routed into a dark alley. A chime sounded and the female voice on the GPS said, "You have arrived!"
We exited the dark alley and the voice said, "Please make a legal u-turn whenever possible." My frustration boiled over and I told the GPS voice to shove it where the sun never shines. On the homeward trip I named her Gertrude.
Gertrude had obviously failed us, so Lois told me to pull over as soon as I could and she would call Darryl at the B & B for help.
As Lois talked I went out with the flashlight to look under the car for anything that might be hanging down or damaged. I didn't find anything so I got back into the car and Darryl stayed on the line with Lois to become our live GPS as it were. In a little while we found our destination and parked the car with tortured sounds reminiscent of the Titanic. Darryl was there to greet us. I was shaken, frustrated and tired. I looked at the rear wheels with the flashlight and saw irreparable scoring on the brake rotors. Now I felt defeated. I was never going to take another road trip again never!
I recalled the trips to West Bend with mechanical failures: the Ford Torino station wagon, alternator failure; the Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera failed Lois on a solo trip, computer failure; the Dodge Dakota needed a sudden tune-up on the day after Christmas and the distributer gear failed; the F-150 blew an alternator on a homeward trip in the winter in the middle of nowhere; the Ford Taurus never failed us.
I followed Lois and Darryl silently fuming and cursing. Yes I curse when my buttons are pushed. I admit it. I'm saved by Jesus through His generosity and grace but I'm human, no better or worthy in the sight of God than anyone else. My old nature takes over at times of my weakness. I confess it to God . I carried some of our luggage down the sidewalk and turned into the path to the front porch.
 |
| living room with bay window |
We ascended a winding staircase to the second floor library with period furniture and a Tiffany lamp overlooking a high-backed chair. Our room was on the third floor, The French Nook. We went up another winding staircase. This one was narrow and carpeted and our room was right at the head of the stairs.
I threw the heavy suitcase on the full-sized bed adorned with pillows of various sizes. I sat down on the bed which was so high that my feet dangled. I was trying to take in all the European ambience but the stress of the drive weighed heavily.
"How many times have we come down here and our car broke down. First it was the Torino wagon..."
"Don't." I looked up at Lois, who had just rebuked me and I deserved it. I desperately wanted to avoid spoiling this family reunion, but I was mad, embarrassed at having our newly-acquired car break down, and ashamed at myself for my anger and inner feelings and my break from fellowship with God.
We went down again and met with Darryl Ziebarth for the guided tour. (His wife was out of town.) Antique furniture graced the massive living room and rich curtains and drapes framed the bay window in the front of the house. A headless mannequin modeled a black wedding dress. The room had a somewhat masculine quality as dark woodwork bordered the ceilings which were painted works of art. I retrieved my camera and tripod and photographed until my eyes wouldn't focus.
We said good-night to Darryl, who had been a missionary in Somalia. He was, calm, gentle and walks closely with God. He told us about a garage on Highway 33, Lifetime Auto that had a reputable mechanic, none other than his nephew.
We went up the two flights of stairs again and washed up in the adjacent full bathroom with shower. As we settled into bed I turned on my Kindle looked for some guidance from the Radio Bible Class web page, rbc.org.
I went into the section Been Thinking About and chose a story about Jacob. He was bad to the bone, stole his brother's inheritance and lied to his father among many other failings. His son, Joseph was upright and walked closely with his God even though he was kidnapped, thrown into a well, sold into slavery, etc. but the Bible refers to Jacob's God twenty-five times, never to Joseph's God.
Jacob did eventually get in synch with God but he is easier to identify with. I felt like Jacob and I went to sleep asking for forgiveness from Lois and God.
But I still worried about our car.
========= To be continued, end of Part One==========
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
No Sour-Faced Legalism Here!
Sundays at Woodland Church are radically different from church ten years ago. There are no spiritual know-it-alls, those who know the Scriptures as if they wrote it themselves and flaunt this knowledge. There is no sour-faced, self-righteous legalism. People attend while looking for answers to life's heartaches. It is not blasphemous to ask questions.
People attend who are hurting from drug addictions, alcoholism, job loss, chronic disease, death of a spouse and poverty. There are a few looking for answers to setbacks in their careers, expressing anger at God for their plight. Ten years ago such anger would have drawn a sharp rebuke. Now it evokes compassion and practical assistance.
People attend who are hurting from drug addictions, alcoholism, job loss, chronic disease, death of a spouse and poverty. There are a few looking for answers to setbacks in their careers, expressing anger at God for their plight. Ten years ago such anger would have drawn a sharp rebuke. Now it evokes compassion and practical assistance.
And you know what? We accept all the people with open arms, including people who wear old clothes, faded blue jeans (last week I wore (blue jean) shorts and a tee shirt.) People wearing black leather jackets arrive on Harley-Davidson bikes. People with long hair or no hair or tattoos are welcomed. We believe the outward appearance isn't important but the condition of the soul is what really counts, not the car that takes you to Woodland's parking lot but the spiritual condition of the passengers.
Political leanings are not shunned. I am liberal-bent politically, one of a tiny minority in Woodland Church but no-one chides me. I am a lion in a den of Daniels.
People who question the veracity of the Scriptures are not ostracized. Instead, questions during mid-week Bible study are welcomed. Some, myself included believe in a God-directed big bang resulting in a 13.5 billion year old universe and a four-billion year old earth. Others believe the earth is only 6000 years old, but there is mutual respect for diverse opinions.
What counts is whether you walk through life with Jesus, have a relationship with Him. Show His love through your actions. You will sin but fess up. He forgives again and again and again.
We are blessed with Pastor Mike who works with God and people to keep an atmosphere of acceptance.
We are blessed with Pastor Mike who works with God and people to keep an atmosphere of acceptance.
I can truthfully say that church-going is pleasurable and not a downer.
Saturday, July 19, 2014
Slapping the Pavement
"How are you guys?" My boss, Sue sneaked up on us while we were sitting at a picnic table in the Ironwood Festival.
"You goh me wiff I oufull," I was chewing my fish fry.
"That keeps him quiet," Lois said.
"Watch it!" I said after swallowing.
We exchanged some banter which I barely heard over the cacophony of people and the rock band.
It was one of those moments when I feel joy and not worry. Sue's welcoming cheer actually started that. She went back to the table with her family.
It was also one of the few optimistic moments that wash over me and open the door to try something I never did before. (It wasn't dancing.) I had been thinking about running in a local race for a few years and my negative thought processes gave a plethora of reasons why I should not run in a race, but the main thought was 'I can't do it.'
My body is fairly fit for a soon-to-be 67 man with arthritis. I have run regularly the last four years. My routes vary from 2 miles to 7 miles, depending on circumstances.Lois kicks me out of the house when I'm grumpy. "Go for a run. Go on, now. Run out that grumpiness." It works every time. I come home in a much lighter mood.
As I sat and chewed my fish I ruminated about the Saturday run. I'm in great shape, according to my doctor. He encourages my to run and to buy new shoes three times yearly. I even have worked some speed intervals into my runs. My elapsed times have decreased this year and even after a hard run I'm not out-of-gas. I ruminated.
"Whatcha thinking about," Lois asked.
"You know, I betcha I could run that 5 mile race tomorrow."
"Sure you could. You'll have to sign up tomorrow morning. The race is at eight-thirty."
God bless Lois! "You, know, this time I'm gonna do it. Too bad you have to work."
I woke up with excitement and anticipation, visions of Paavo Nurmi, visions of a marathon winner collapsing dramatically at the finish line. Then I thought of the many people from out-of-town who run at marathons all summer. I wouldn't finish in the top ten- maybe the top 40.
The start of the race was at Norrie Park and there were at least a hundred racers. Some in the two-mile and others like me in the five-miler. We were assembled at the entrance to the park and stood with our hands over our hearts as the colors were presented and a man in uniform from the American Legion sang The Star Spangled Banner. I shifted nervously. Couldn't stand still.
All of a sudden this great throng started running. I was careful not to step on someone else. I wanted to accelerate but I was part of a traffic jam. Soon, the two-mile racers separated from us five-milers as we turned to cross the bridge and continue into Wisconsin. I knew there were thirty or so runners ahead and the pack began to thin as racers adopted unique paces.
I could see the guy in the lead way ahead. Must've been in his early 20s. I passed people and some passed me. I resisted the impulse to hit the gas. Any gas I burn early will not be in reserve in the last mile.
My calves burned as they always do in the first two miles, then they feel comfortable as I 'get my legs.' Seemed that it took longer to get my legs because of the steady fast pace. I always run hard uphill then take it easy on the downside. I wasn't out of breath, but I was hoping the burn would ease up soon as I listened to feet slapping the pavement.
An Iron County Sheriff officer encouraged us. I looked at my watch thinking we must be at least fifteen minutes into the race, but it was only ten. I was about a half-mile to the turn-around and there was a guy already running the opposite way. 'What did he eat for breakfast?' He wore goggles and these tights that stop just above the knee. His shoes were phosphorescent green. He even looked fast when I saw him before the race.
About a minute later a spectacularly athletic girl with with bronzed limbs followed the leader, then three more girls. 'How far is the turnaround?' I had forgotten about making a first place finish for my age group when an elderly gentleman passed the opposite way. I was in awe of these athletes! I wonder how they train.
At last the turnaround came and I looked at my watch. Nine minutes to nine. Not too bad. I focused on making my best time, competing with myself. I can make it but it's going to take a lot of push. I realized that I had run too fast earlier and I started to feel it in my legs but I kept an even pace. I passed a few runners who were fading and hoped I wouldn't drastically fade.
Then a friendly sight on the side of the road. A guy holding up a water cup. It was Randy Clemens from Woodland Church cheering me. I slowed and took the cup and poured it on my head. God bless Randy!
"The four-mile mark is just ahead!"
I just nodded then resumed my pace. I thought I could catch the guy about ten yards ahead and worked on that and as the gap slightly closed I was surpassed by a guy pushing a baby in a stroller! 'Are you kidding me! Show-off!' I tried to pass the stroller but he kept creeping away.
The four-mile mark! I could've knelt down and kissed it. There was a police car blocking traffic at the bridge as I re-entered Michigan. "You got 'er made now. Great job," the officer shouted.
As Norrie Park came into view spectators clapped for each of us as we passed, sweaty, legs tired, but we were all determined to finish. The gates of Norrie Park were the gates of heaven to me as I pushed past the parked cars and the people clapping. A race official pointed to the center of a phalanx of people. This was the finish line.
I made it! Euphoria washed over me as I floated to the pavilion and the Gatorade. I drank and walked to cool down. Then I went back to the phalanx to cheer the other runners whom had made it. I appreciated those other runners and their efforts.
I checked the board where the results were posted and found my time to be 48:44. My best time running my own 5-mile course was 55 minutes. Elation set in, tempered by the fact that I finished fourth in the 'male 60-69 age group.'
An arm seized my shoulder, Randy and his daughter. I don't remember our exchange but it sort of put a cherry on top of the whole event. The euphoria escalated. God bless Randy! He's such an encourager. I've seen olympian runners weep as they finished and a friend wrapped them in a congratulatory hug. Now I understand that.
I stayed for the awards and a woman from our church, Gena Abramson won the two-mile female age 40-44 first-place award. She reminds me of someone that excels at anything they do. I clapped and mentally gave her a hug. The youngest participant was a five-year old girl in the two-miler. The oldest was Margaret Bull, 85 years of age!
I'm glad I didn't listen to that nagging, negative voice that says 'you can't do it.'
"You goh me wiff I oufull," I was chewing my fish fry.
"That keeps him quiet," Lois said.
"Watch it!" I said after swallowing.
We exchanged some banter which I barely heard over the cacophony of people and the rock band.
It was one of those moments when I feel joy and not worry. Sue's welcoming cheer actually started that. She went back to the table with her family.
It was also one of the few optimistic moments that wash over me and open the door to try something I never did before. (It wasn't dancing.) I had been thinking about running in a local race for a few years and my negative thought processes gave a plethora of reasons why I should not run in a race, but the main thought was 'I can't do it.'
My body is fairly fit for a soon-to-be 67 man with arthritis. I have run regularly the last four years. My routes vary from 2 miles to 7 miles, depending on circumstances.Lois kicks me out of the house when I'm grumpy. "Go for a run. Go on, now. Run out that grumpiness." It works every time. I come home in a much lighter mood.
As I sat and chewed my fish I ruminated about the Saturday run. I'm in great shape, according to my doctor. He encourages my to run and to buy new shoes three times yearly. I even have worked some speed intervals into my runs. My elapsed times have decreased this year and even after a hard run I'm not out-of-gas. I ruminated.
"Whatcha thinking about," Lois asked.
"You know, I betcha I could run that 5 mile race tomorrow."
"Sure you could. You'll have to sign up tomorrow morning. The race is at eight-thirty."
God bless Lois! "You, know, this time I'm gonna do it. Too bad you have to work."
I woke up with excitement and anticipation, visions of Paavo Nurmi, visions of a marathon winner collapsing dramatically at the finish line. Then I thought of the many people from out-of-town who run at marathons all summer. I wouldn't finish in the top ten- maybe the top 40.
The start of the race was at Norrie Park and there were at least a hundred racers. Some in the two-mile and others like me in the five-miler. We were assembled at the entrance to the park and stood with our hands over our hearts as the colors were presented and a man in uniform from the American Legion sang The Star Spangled Banner. I shifted nervously. Couldn't stand still.
All of a sudden this great throng started running. I was careful not to step on someone else. I wanted to accelerate but I was part of a traffic jam. Soon, the two-mile racers separated from us five-milers as we turned to cross the bridge and continue into Wisconsin. I knew there were thirty or so runners ahead and the pack began to thin as racers adopted unique paces.
I could see the guy in the lead way ahead. Must've been in his early 20s. I passed people and some passed me. I resisted the impulse to hit the gas. Any gas I burn early will not be in reserve in the last mile.
My calves burned as they always do in the first two miles, then they feel comfortable as I 'get my legs.' Seemed that it took longer to get my legs because of the steady fast pace. I always run hard uphill then take it easy on the downside. I wasn't out of breath, but I was hoping the burn would ease up soon as I listened to feet slapping the pavement.
An Iron County Sheriff officer encouraged us. I looked at my watch thinking we must be at least fifteen minutes into the race, but it was only ten. I was about a half-mile to the turn-around and there was a guy already running the opposite way. 'What did he eat for breakfast?' He wore goggles and these tights that stop just above the knee. His shoes were phosphorescent green. He even looked fast when I saw him before the race.
About a minute later a spectacularly athletic girl with with bronzed limbs followed the leader, then three more girls. 'How far is the turnaround?' I had forgotten about making a first place finish for my age group when an elderly gentleman passed the opposite way. I was in awe of these athletes! I wonder how they train.
At last the turnaround came and I looked at my watch. Nine minutes to nine. Not too bad. I focused on making my best time, competing with myself. I can make it but it's going to take a lot of push. I realized that I had run too fast earlier and I started to feel it in my legs but I kept an even pace. I passed a few runners who were fading and hoped I wouldn't drastically fade.
Then a friendly sight on the side of the road. A guy holding up a water cup. It was Randy Clemens from Woodland Church cheering me. I slowed and took the cup and poured it on my head. God bless Randy!
"The four-mile mark is just ahead!"
I just nodded then resumed my pace. I thought I could catch the guy about ten yards ahead and worked on that and as the gap slightly closed I was surpassed by a guy pushing a baby in a stroller! 'Are you kidding me! Show-off!' I tried to pass the stroller but he kept creeping away.
The four-mile mark! I could've knelt down and kissed it. There was a police car blocking traffic at the bridge as I re-entered Michigan. "You got 'er made now. Great job," the officer shouted.
As Norrie Park came into view spectators clapped for each of us as we passed, sweaty, legs tired, but we were all determined to finish. The gates of Norrie Park were the gates of heaven to me as I pushed past the parked cars and the people clapping. A race official pointed to the center of a phalanx of people. This was the finish line.
I made it! Euphoria washed over me as I floated to the pavilion and the Gatorade. I drank and walked to cool down. Then I went back to the phalanx to cheer the other runners whom had made it. I appreciated those other runners and their efforts.
I checked the board where the results were posted and found my time to be 48:44. My best time running my own 5-mile course was 55 minutes. Elation set in, tempered by the fact that I finished fourth in the 'male 60-69 age group.'
An arm seized my shoulder, Randy and his daughter. I don't remember our exchange but it sort of put a cherry on top of the whole event. The euphoria escalated. God bless Randy! He's such an encourager. I've seen olympian runners weep as they finished and a friend wrapped them in a congratulatory hug. Now I understand that.
I stayed for the awards and a woman from our church, Gena Abramson won the two-mile female age 40-44 first-place award. She reminds me of someone that excels at anything they do. I clapped and mentally gave her a hug. The youngest participant was a five-year old girl in the two-miler. The oldest was Margaret Bull, 85 years of age!
I'm glad I didn't listen to that nagging, negative voice that says 'you can't do it.'
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
The Joy of New Wheels
We recently acquired a 2009 Nissan Rogue (ruffian, evildoer, criminal,badass.) The contrast between our old car and the newer one hits the senses with impact, particularly the smell of the interior and it takes me back to another era.
It was springtime, 1964. The warm spring air bore the fragrance of the newness of life. Neighbors were mowing grass, emitting one of my favorite aromas. It was warm and I was girl-crazy. What a time to be alive!
I didn't realize that we were getting a different car until the Sunday that we got it. I went along with Dad for the bi-weekly ritual of filling the gas tank of our 1954 Chevrolet. Dad drove us down the street to Tony and Pete's Standard Service. He drove up to the pumps and Pete Larson came bounding out of the service station in his pinstriped coat with 'Pete' embroidered under the Standard Oil insignia. He also wore a matching pinstriped skull cap.
"Fill 'er up, George?"
"Just three bucks worth. The summer tires are in the trunk. Will you change 'em?"
"You betcha," Pete was wiping the windshield. "Check the oil?"
Dad nodded.
"Sure is nice to see some warm and sunny weather after that awful winter."
"Yeah, our coal bin is just about empty. Had enough of winter, for sure."
Pete pulled out the oil dipstick from the motor and squinted at it. "Half between 'add' and 'full'. If the motor was cold it probably would be three-quarters." He closed the hood. "when do you want to pick 'er up?"
"My boy can get 'er tomorrow after school if that's all right."
"Okay by me. Thanks, George."
Dad started walking away from the service station. I was baffled by Dad's logistics, as he seldom walked. He had a heart condition and the cardiac benefits of walking had not yet been realized by the medical establishment.
"You coming or not?"
I ran a few steps to catch up and I had no idea what Dad was up to and I lacked the temerity to ask. We passed the Daily Globe and continued to the intersection of McLeod and Lowell, rounded the Allender Motors building and then we went through one of the service doors of this Ford dealership. We went from the spring brightness to the fluorescent gloom of the service bays. The odor of grease and gasoline and the pungent residual of primer and lacquer. The shop was neatly kept. Tool chests on castors rested in front of the inactive workbenches.
An old man emerged from the office (he must have been at least fifty.) I recognized Bill Limaaka from church. He always was chatting and laughing with someone after the service was over. Winsome and easy to talk with, ever maintaining his clientele base. I thought Bill should have been in politics.
Good to see you, George." Bill extended a hand and then turned to me and extended me the same courtesy. "You must be old enough to drive," he said with an avuncular smile. I always liked Bill, but this was my first encounter with him.
"Well, there she is, George," Bill handed Dad the keys to a light blue 1962 Ford Galaxie sedan. "Go and try 'er out for a couple days. I think you'll like 'er. We cleaned 'er up real good, waxed 'er and the inside is fresh and clean. She's just like new and only eighteen thousand miles."
Dad got behind the wheel and I went in the other side. The doors closed with a tight, solid thud. I was used to the rattly doors on the Chevy coupe. The engine was barely audible when Dad started it, another stark difference with the Chevy.
Bill knocked on Dad's window and Dad rolled it down.
"I didn't tell you, George but the brakes are power-assisted, so just a light touch does it."
Dad backed the Ford out of the garage in jerky fashion until he got the hang of the brakes. He headed right back to Tony and Pete's. Pete came out right away. "Holy cow, George! What do we have here?"
"She looks brand-new. I won't even have to wipe the windshield, it's so clean. V-8 engine?"
"Yup, go ahead and pop the hood."
"Yup, that's a 292. That's been a real good motor, George. I've serviced a lot of 'em.Gonna take 'er out for a spin?"
"I'll try 'er for a few days. Put in five bucks regular, ok?"
"You betcha."
I think Dad really stopped at Tony and Pete's to show it off. I wondered if he was going to trade in the old Chevy. It was rusted badly, lacking rocker panels and the front seat rocked slightly because of the rotted floor.The windshield had a crack in it and it's paint was dulled by the severe winter. I had driven it many times already. Dad first took me to the cemetery to get the hang of driving the stick-shift. I killed the motor a few times and ground the gears before my right hand and my left foot got synchronized. I had driven it to the cottage in Mercer once and Mom said she was so nervous that her feet were curled up the whole trip.
"Gonna trade in the old buggy?"
"I don't think I'd get too much for it. Rusted out pretty bad, but the motor runs good. You know what? I'll let my boy have it."
I felt my jaw drop. This was too good to be true! But it was true. I could see that Dad meant it.
"It's a fixer-upper, but you can take care of that," Dad said with a little chuckle. "That's your birthday and Christmas present for the next three years."
We all had a good laugh.
When we were ready to leave Dad launched another jaw-dropper.
"You drive." He handed me the keys.
I got behind the wheel, adjusted the rear-view mirror and located the ignition, to the left of the steering wheel. I almost launched Dad through the windshield with my first touch of the power brakes, but I quickly adjusted to the brakes and the power steering.
It was like driving inside a cloud, no rattles, a responsive motor, easy steering. I had the urge to hit the gas and see how responsive it really was but I played it safe. It was a good time, a time I'll always remember.
The present is not parallel but similar. We had the 1995 Taurus for almost eighteen years. Motor was still running as strong as the day we bought it but a rusted body and underside necessitated a different car.
There's a thrill to turning the key in a crisp used car and a strange challenge to learn how to operate all the bells and whistles that have become vogue in the last eighteen years. For example, the shifter is on the console. The last time I drove a car so equipped was in my 1967 Mustang. In the Nissan I activated the windshield wipers, front and rear when I wanted to put the transmission in Drive. A month later I am still tripping over that. Old habits die hard.
It's the same cycle. The old, faithful sedan rusts to the point of no return, in spite of its strong drive-train. The luster is gone and the luster of newer cars carries us away. We commit to monthly payments that strain the budget. With our loved ones in lower Wisconsin and lower Michigan, that commitment is necessary.
The last time we saw the the Taurus it was in the dealer's lot bearing a sign, "$1599.00. Runs great! Only 102,000 miles!" It also bore a 'hold' sign under a wiper. It wasn't there for long, closing a long chapter in our car ownership. By the way, we got $700.00 in trade and the dealer only told us the negative aspects of our car. Didn't mention that it runs great. That's why he's rich.
It was springtime, 1964. The warm spring air bore the fragrance of the newness of life. Neighbors were mowing grass, emitting one of my favorite aromas. It was warm and I was girl-crazy. What a time to be alive!
I didn't realize that we were getting a different car until the Sunday that we got it. I went along with Dad for the bi-weekly ritual of filling the gas tank of our 1954 Chevrolet. Dad drove us down the street to Tony and Pete's Standard Service. He drove up to the pumps and Pete Larson came bounding out of the service station in his pinstriped coat with 'Pete' embroidered under the Standard Oil insignia. He also wore a matching pinstriped skull cap.
"Fill 'er up, George?"
"Just three bucks worth. The summer tires are in the trunk. Will you change 'em?"
"You betcha," Pete was wiping the windshield. "Check the oil?"
Dad nodded.
"Sure is nice to see some warm and sunny weather after that awful winter."
"Yeah, our coal bin is just about empty. Had enough of winter, for sure."
Pete pulled out the oil dipstick from the motor and squinted at it. "Half between 'add' and 'full'. If the motor was cold it probably would be three-quarters." He closed the hood. "when do you want to pick 'er up?"
"My boy can get 'er tomorrow after school if that's all right."
"Okay by me. Thanks, George."
Dad started walking away from the service station. I was baffled by Dad's logistics, as he seldom walked. He had a heart condition and the cardiac benefits of walking had not yet been realized by the medical establishment.
"You coming or not?"
I ran a few steps to catch up and I had no idea what Dad was up to and I lacked the temerity to ask. We passed the Daily Globe and continued to the intersection of McLeod and Lowell, rounded the Allender Motors building and then we went through one of the service doors of this Ford dealership. We went from the spring brightness to the fluorescent gloom of the service bays. The odor of grease and gasoline and the pungent residual of primer and lacquer. The shop was neatly kept. Tool chests on castors rested in front of the inactive workbenches.
An old man emerged from the office (he must have been at least fifty.) I recognized Bill Limaaka from church. He always was chatting and laughing with someone after the service was over. Winsome and easy to talk with, ever maintaining his clientele base. I thought Bill should have been in politics.
Good to see you, George." Bill extended a hand and then turned to me and extended me the same courtesy. "You must be old enough to drive," he said with an avuncular smile. I always liked Bill, but this was my first encounter with him.
"Well, there she is, George," Bill handed Dad the keys to a light blue 1962 Ford Galaxie sedan. "Go and try 'er out for a couple days. I think you'll like 'er. We cleaned 'er up real good, waxed 'er and the inside is fresh and clean. She's just like new and only eighteen thousand miles."
Dad got behind the wheel and I went in the other side. The doors closed with a tight, solid thud. I was used to the rattly doors on the Chevy coupe. The engine was barely audible when Dad started it, another stark difference with the Chevy.
Bill knocked on Dad's window and Dad rolled it down.
"I didn't tell you, George but the brakes are power-assisted, so just a light touch does it."
Dad backed the Ford out of the garage in jerky fashion until he got the hang of the brakes. He headed right back to Tony and Pete's. Pete came out right away. "Holy cow, George! What do we have here?"
"She looks brand-new. I won't even have to wipe the windshield, it's so clean. V-8 engine?"
"Yup, go ahead and pop the hood."
"Yup, that's a 292. That's been a real good motor, George. I've serviced a lot of 'em.Gonna take 'er out for a spin?"
"I'll try 'er for a few days. Put in five bucks regular, ok?"
"You betcha."
I think Dad really stopped at Tony and Pete's to show it off. I wondered if he was going to trade in the old Chevy. It was rusted badly, lacking rocker panels and the front seat rocked slightly because of the rotted floor.The windshield had a crack in it and it's paint was dulled by the severe winter. I had driven it many times already. Dad first took me to the cemetery to get the hang of driving the stick-shift. I killed the motor a few times and ground the gears before my right hand and my left foot got synchronized. I had driven it to the cottage in Mercer once and Mom said she was so nervous that her feet were curled up the whole trip.
"Gonna trade in the old buggy?"
"I don't think I'd get too much for it. Rusted out pretty bad, but the motor runs good. You know what? I'll let my boy have it."
I felt my jaw drop. This was too good to be true! But it was true. I could see that Dad meant it.
"It's a fixer-upper, but you can take care of that," Dad said with a little chuckle. "That's your birthday and Christmas present for the next three years."
We all had a good laugh.
When we were ready to leave Dad launched another jaw-dropper.
"You drive." He handed me the keys.
I got behind the wheel, adjusted the rear-view mirror and located the ignition, to the left of the steering wheel. I almost launched Dad through the windshield with my first touch of the power brakes, but I quickly adjusted to the brakes and the power steering.
It was like driving inside a cloud, no rattles, a responsive motor, easy steering. I had the urge to hit the gas and see how responsive it really was but I played it safe. It was a good time, a time I'll always remember.
The present is not parallel but similar. We had the 1995 Taurus for almost eighteen years. Motor was still running as strong as the day we bought it but a rusted body and underside necessitated a different car.
There's a thrill to turning the key in a crisp used car and a strange challenge to learn how to operate all the bells and whistles that have become vogue in the last eighteen years. For example, the shifter is on the console. The last time I drove a car so equipped was in my 1967 Mustang. In the Nissan I activated the windshield wipers, front and rear when I wanted to put the transmission in Drive. A month later I am still tripping over that. Old habits die hard.
It's the same cycle. The old, faithful sedan rusts to the point of no return, in spite of its strong drive-train. The luster is gone and the luster of newer cars carries us away. We commit to monthly payments that strain the budget. With our loved ones in lower Wisconsin and lower Michigan, that commitment is necessary.
The last time we saw the the Taurus it was in the dealer's lot bearing a sign, "$1599.00. Runs great! Only 102,000 miles!" It also bore a 'hold' sign under a wiper. It wasn't there for long, closing a long chapter in our car ownership. By the way, we got $700.00 in trade and the dealer only told us the negative aspects of our car. Didn't mention that it runs great. That's why he's rich.
Saturday, June 7, 2014
God's Laws of Physics
The cold weather had been distressing. On January 1, 5:00 p.m. the other night - shift worker called to ask if I could take her place since she has the flu. (You must find someone to work your shift.) Of course I consented, recalling how someone helped me last winter when I was in agony with the stomach flu.
Around 8:30 I took each of the dogs for a short outing. I'm careful of the possibility of frostbite in their paws. After the dogs were squared away I went to plug in Lois' car. I lifted the garage door and flipped the light switch. Darkness!
Next I said a short prayer for my truck which sits outside. I hadn't started it for over thirty-six hours, but I had the heater plugged in.
Didn't matter as the truck only made a zapping, clicking noise.
Now the problem was to restore power to the garage. I checked the fuse panel in the garage and from there I went into the basement and checked for a tripped circuit breaker. Next I started to check each junction box on that circuit. I was in and out of the house several times without success.
The pressure built and I was sending up prayers as I needed the truck to start and I needed electricity so I could try to charge the battery. After checking the connections in each box I went outside to see if the garage lights came on. Frustration set in and anger followed as it was now 9:45 and my shift started at 11:00.
My heart beat faster with the urgency of the situation. I would try Lois' car to jump-start the truck. The old Taurus started like a champ. The truck would not.
"What do you want me to do," I prayed angrily, as I put the Taurus back into the garage.
Back into the basement. I shut off the power to the garage and checked several junction boxes. This time I twisted the wire nuts to ensure a good connection. It was ten o'clock and I knew that I wouldn't make it to work.
Back outside, I found the garage lights were on, so now I would connect the battery charger to the truck. Problem was, I had locked myself out of the truck so I couldn't release the hood. (Expletive) There was another set of keys hanging in the house. I would call work to explain the situation. With phone in hand I punched in the numbers with great difficulty. My arthritis reacts when I work outside, bare handed. My hands were also trembling from anxiety and anger.
I explained my plight and I got some help. The assistant manager would cover my shift, bless her heart. I told the person working the desk to convey my extreme gratitude. I took the extra keys and got into the truck, although it was painful for me to turn the key.
I was shivering violently and it was difficult to connect the charger to the battery, but the connection was made. I set the charger for a slow charge. By the morning this truck would start.
After I was in our warm house for a while I began to warm up and my thoughts quit whirling. I took a cup of hot tea upstairs and I had no sooner changed into pajamas that the phone rang. It was the assistant manager. She needed me to walk her through the computer audit.
First I apologized for not making it and she was gracious and sympathetic to the point of putting me at ease. I walked her through for about the next forty-five minutes and the day ended well. I slept well and the next morning the truck started.
I realized how screwed-up my thoughts were the night before. Why did God let the power fail in the garage? Why did the night turn into a hellish cascade of events?
I realized that God had nothing to do with that. Things happen, following the laws of physics, which He established. I realized how foolish I had been. When there is a negative situation and my mind whirls it, whips it into a catastrophe. The devil whispers, "You can't fix this...God caused this, you know. After all He's in control."
I've fallen into that trap hundreds of times. When will I learn? I apologized to God.
Around 8:30 I took each of the dogs for a short outing. I'm careful of the possibility of frostbite in their paws. After the dogs were squared away I went to plug in Lois' car. I lifted the garage door and flipped the light switch. Darkness!
Next I said a short prayer for my truck which sits outside. I hadn't started it for over thirty-six hours, but I had the heater plugged in.
Didn't matter as the truck only made a zapping, clicking noise.
Now the problem was to restore power to the garage. I checked the fuse panel in the garage and from there I went into the basement and checked for a tripped circuit breaker. Next I started to check each junction box on that circuit. I was in and out of the house several times without success.
The pressure built and I was sending up prayers as I needed the truck to start and I needed electricity so I could try to charge the battery. After checking the connections in each box I went outside to see if the garage lights came on. Frustration set in and anger followed as it was now 9:45 and my shift started at 11:00.
My heart beat faster with the urgency of the situation. I would try Lois' car to jump-start the truck. The old Taurus started like a champ. The truck would not.
"What do you want me to do," I prayed angrily, as I put the Taurus back into the garage.
Back into the basement. I shut off the power to the garage and checked several junction boxes. This time I twisted the wire nuts to ensure a good connection. It was ten o'clock and I knew that I wouldn't make it to work.
Back outside, I found the garage lights were on, so now I would connect the battery charger to the truck. Problem was, I had locked myself out of the truck so I couldn't release the hood. (Expletive) There was another set of keys hanging in the house. I would call work to explain the situation. With phone in hand I punched in the numbers with great difficulty. My arthritis reacts when I work outside, bare handed. My hands were also trembling from anxiety and anger.
I explained my plight and I got some help. The assistant manager would cover my shift, bless her heart. I told the person working the desk to convey my extreme gratitude. I took the extra keys and got into the truck, although it was painful for me to turn the key.
I was shivering violently and it was difficult to connect the charger to the battery, but the connection was made. I set the charger for a slow charge. By the morning this truck would start.
After I was in our warm house for a while I began to warm up and my thoughts quit whirling. I took a cup of hot tea upstairs and I had no sooner changed into pajamas that the phone rang. It was the assistant manager. She needed me to walk her through the computer audit.
First I apologized for not making it and she was gracious and sympathetic to the point of putting me at ease. I walked her through for about the next forty-five minutes and the day ended well. I slept well and the next morning the truck started.
I realized how screwed-up my thoughts were the night before. Why did God let the power fail in the garage? Why did the night turn into a hellish cascade of events?
I realized that God had nothing to do with that. Things happen, following the laws of physics, which He established. I realized how foolish I had been. When there is a negative situation and my mind whirls it, whips it into a catastrophe. The devil whispers, "You can't fix this...God caused this, you know. After all He's in control."
I've fallen into that trap hundreds of times. When will I learn? I apologized to God.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Workouts in Ironwood's Crown Jewel
The latest polar vortex and the mild (single-digit) weather between vortices have curtailed my running. Yesterday the mercury rose to a torrid zero. I observed a woman running down McLeod Avenue against the wind of fifteen to twenty-five miles per hour. The chill was in the minus twenty-five to minus thirty-five degree range. The woman was thinly dressed in tights and some kind of light parka, a ski mask over her face. I don't have any tights and my parka is military surplus survival gear so I don't run when the wind chill has reached insane proportions. My last run outside about a week ago was in sixteen degree weather with light winds, ideal running weather.
My polar vortex running is done inside, in the Memorial Building, Ironwood's crown Jewel. I train in a subterranean gym, constructed in the early 1920s. It has a balcony for spectators and the floor is a regulation basketball court. An adjacent locker room facilitates a change into shorts and a t-shirt and a hoodie until my body warms up. I store my snowmobile bibs and survival parka and heavy Sorel boots in my favorite lockers. Yes, I have a little OCD that makes it important that I use 2 particular lockers, sixth from the end, one locker above the other.
This morning the gym was illuminated by the cloudy day showing through windows on the west and north sides of the gym. The windows are about fifteen feet above the gym floor. The east wall separates the gym from the swimming pool that has been inactive since economic conditions prohibited its continued use. Above the gym and pool, in the first floor is the auditorium with a stage and a hardwood floor. The balcony is wonderfully appointed by stained-glass windows and individual armchair seats.
I had tried to pace off the boundaries of the basketball court but I didn't think that my pacing gave an accurate judge of the distance covered with each workout. I had initiated a routine of running the gym floor seven times, with each run a little closer to the opposite sideline. I judged that if I repeated this nine times (63 sprints the length of the court) I had covered a mile. I finally remembered to take my twenty-foot tape rule along and measured the court which turned out to be 40' by 80'. A little math showed that it took 66 sprints to a mile so my estimate was close. I ran a total of 198 sprints, equivalent to 3 miles. I ran 2 miles , then played basketball, shooting until I made a shot then running to the other end and repeating for fifteen minutes. then I ran another mile and the estimated equivalent was four miles including the basketball interlude.
It was chilly in the gym due to the brutal conditions outside. Even with the overhead heaters blowing it was still cold so had had my hoodie on for the first half-mile.
When the Memorial Building was constructed in 1922, I think, there probably would have been intramural games, as the present high school hadn't been built yet. Maybe the St. Ambrose catholic high school played there. At any rate I envisioned the facilities, pool and gym used with great enthusiasm when this building was new.
The whole building was renovated several years ago and the basketball floor refinished. Modern basketball goals replaced the 1920s goals.
I love the quietness of the gym. The sounds of city administration and the Social Security office do not reach down the two flights of stairs and 33 stairs to the gym. Sometimes I sit on a sideline bench, enjoying the solitude. sometimes I pray. The quietness makes my workout a calming mini-retreat.
Strange that I should find running as one of my passions. As a kid I struggled through gym class with an asthmatic wheeze. Even as a young adult I did not have the stamina for basketball or for running one city block. I'll give science part of the credit in developing medicines that freed me from my asthmatic burden. Working only two or three days a week gives me the time to run.
There's a thrill in hearing my footfalls on the hardwood court as I accelerate and decelerate. I'm challenging myself with more speed bursts and longer runs and I've grown to love the burn in my calves early in each run. This burn tells me I can't go another step and somehow in the first half mile the muscles warm up and oxygenate and I'm in overdrive.
It will probably be brutally cold again tomorrow, so I'll be back, Lord willing.
My polar vortex running is done inside, in the Memorial Building, Ironwood's crown Jewel. I train in a subterranean gym, constructed in the early 1920s. It has a balcony for spectators and the floor is a regulation basketball court. An adjacent locker room facilitates a change into shorts and a t-shirt and a hoodie until my body warms up. I store my snowmobile bibs and survival parka and heavy Sorel boots in my favorite lockers. Yes, I have a little OCD that makes it important that I use 2 particular lockers, sixth from the end, one locker above the other.
This morning the gym was illuminated by the cloudy day showing through windows on the west and north sides of the gym. The windows are about fifteen feet above the gym floor. The east wall separates the gym from the swimming pool that has been inactive since economic conditions prohibited its continued use. Above the gym and pool, in the first floor is the auditorium with a stage and a hardwood floor. The balcony is wonderfully appointed by stained-glass windows and individual armchair seats.
I had tried to pace off the boundaries of the basketball court but I didn't think that my pacing gave an accurate judge of the distance covered with each workout. I had initiated a routine of running the gym floor seven times, with each run a little closer to the opposite sideline. I judged that if I repeated this nine times (63 sprints the length of the court) I had covered a mile. I finally remembered to take my twenty-foot tape rule along and measured the court which turned out to be 40' by 80'. A little math showed that it took 66 sprints to a mile so my estimate was close. I ran a total of 198 sprints, equivalent to 3 miles. I ran 2 miles , then played basketball, shooting until I made a shot then running to the other end and repeating for fifteen minutes. then I ran another mile and the estimated equivalent was four miles including the basketball interlude.
It was chilly in the gym due to the brutal conditions outside. Even with the overhead heaters blowing it was still cold so had had my hoodie on for the first half-mile.
When the Memorial Building was constructed in 1922, I think, there probably would have been intramural games, as the present high school hadn't been built yet. Maybe the St. Ambrose catholic high school played there. At any rate I envisioned the facilities, pool and gym used with great enthusiasm when this building was new.
The whole building was renovated several years ago and the basketball floor refinished. Modern basketball goals replaced the 1920s goals.
I love the quietness of the gym. The sounds of city administration and the Social Security office do not reach down the two flights of stairs and 33 stairs to the gym. Sometimes I sit on a sideline bench, enjoying the solitude. sometimes I pray. The quietness makes my workout a calming mini-retreat.
Strange that I should find running as one of my passions. As a kid I struggled through gym class with an asthmatic wheeze. Even as a young adult I did not have the stamina for basketball or for running one city block. I'll give science part of the credit in developing medicines that freed me from my asthmatic burden. Working only two or three days a week gives me the time to run.
There's a thrill in hearing my footfalls on the hardwood court as I accelerate and decelerate. I'm challenging myself with more speed bursts and longer runs and I've grown to love the burn in my calves early in each run. This burn tells me I can't go another step and somehow in the first half mile the muscles warm up and oxygenate and I'm in overdrive.
It will probably be brutally cold again tomorrow, so I'll be back, Lord willing.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Never at a Convenient Time
The kitchen thermometer read minus 20 and the sign on the Uptown Cafe was swinging. By the arc of each swing I estimated 25 m.p.h. with gusts to thirty. The clanging wind chimes on our front porch underscored the warning. The wind chill was unthinkable. I had finished my outdoor work, walking the dogs, shoveling the snow and stoking the fire. I'd had my supper and reclined in my recliner. The house was at 73 degrees and I had my Kindle ready to sooth my tired bones with music.
The heavenly voices of Benedictine nuns singing chants, which is my kind of Christian music, wrapped my soul in comfort. For years I felt guilt over preferring this music over the kind of worship-team music prevalent in churches, performed at a decibel level at the threshold of pain, all part of the current bombastic style of worship.
The sweet voices of the nuns carried me to the cusp of sleep when the doorbell rang and the dogs exploded into apoplectic barks and howls warning us that Jack the Ripper was at the door. Lois answered the door, closing the inner door keeping the dogs at bay.
After a brief exchange Lois returned, "It's the next-door neighbors. Their car won't start and I told them that you'd come out and help them." I took my headphones off and sat up, thinking of how much work it takes to get bundled up, probably akin to the astronauts when they go outside of the International Space Station to do their repair work. Nonetheless I bundled up in snowmobile bibs, Sorel boots, military surplus parka and choppers.
My faithful F-150 truck rumbled to life and I let it run for a few minutes before heading around the block to the helpless Chevy Trailblazer. I opened the hood of my truck and then took out the sixteen foot jumper cables Lois had given me for Christmas. (There's a story behind that.) The Chevy had a side-terminal battery and I struggled to connect to the battery with my hands protected in choppers with double liners. The cold air made my arthritic knuckles burn.
I nodded at Jeremy inside the car to try it. No heartbeat. The ground cable was connected to a part of the under-hood frame that was covered in plastic. A headlamp was strapped to my Kromer hat and I searched out a suitable metal ground. It started this time but died right away. I told Jeremy to step on the gas when it started and to turn off the radio and automatic headlights.
My hands were now cold inside my choppers and I went inside my truck to slightly rev the engine. I held my burning hands in front of the dash vents.Then I went out again and told Jeremy to try it, reminding him to step on the gas once the motor started. The motor came to life and roared as Jeremy stepped on the gas.
Jeremy and his significant other, Alice a black woman, heartily expressed thanks and I basked in the glow as I took off the cables.
Jeremy has some disorder that makes his hands shake, Parkinsonian-style. In October he asked me if I would do their snow-removal this winter and I agreed. Jeremy offered no remuneration and I don't want any.
I took Alleve for my aching hands. Lois sat at her computer and didn't look up. I returned to my music and thanked God that the Chevy had started.
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