The house next door had been vacant for many months and now I saw an elderly couple going in and out of the house. It was late autumn of 2013 and the couple was to become our new neighbors.I didn't make any overtures, being a reserved Finlander and I really tried to avoid meeting them, silly as that was.
Eventually we met when I was going to move my truck away from our garage doors. "Hi! We're your new neighbors. I'm Jim Johnson and this is my wife Serpa" Jim and I shook hands.
"We lived in Milwaukee for many years and I had a carpet cleaning business that eventually wrecked my back. We've decided to retire in Ironwood. Serpa was born in Finland. We met in Milwaukee and married."
Serpa asked, "How long have you lived in this house?" Her English was superb, wrapped with a charming brogue.
"We moved in when I was five years old so that makes it sixty-two years."
I would later find out that Jim is an artist. I would later see his art hung on the walls in the house. His work is excellent, striking in depiction and form and detail. I admired his depiction of a European cathedral in particular.
Serpa was an interior decorator and she applied her talent to their new abode. I would walk through their house, stunned at her use of contrast to the white walls with dark-colored furniture and the paintings. Her kitchen has Scandinavian appointments, a hutch with an oak stain. The cupboards are all white. Above the stove is a plaque in Finnish, giving glory to God.
With winter fast approaching Sirpa asked if I would remove snow for them since Jim has debilitating back trouble and I consented, with one caveat. I would not take any money. Serpa's face glowed in relief. Actually I would have done it anyway, as I have for the several other families that rented this house. Jim would sneak a five-gallon can full of premium gas into our garage anyway.
Lois and I have dined with them and I was amazed at Serpa's kitchen table covered by signatures of their friends. I was honored that they asked us to sign. We also shared our troubles and triumphs and prayer requests.
I've learned how to handle Jim's rants against democrats in general but he still gets in a word or two. He wears a "Trump" cap and I just ignore it. Jim and Serpa have enriched our lives and we love them.
Wednesday, December 21, 2016
Monday, August 15, 2016
SISU!
My training for the Paavo Nurmi half-marathon began in May. I burned with desire to better last year's personal time. Throughout summer the Paavo was on was on my mind, so I ran the hills in nearby Jessieville during 80 and 90-degree temps with a soaked t-shirt. I did speed intervals in the Iron Belle Trail located on the former Chicago Northwestern railroad bed. It's a new, blacktopped trail.
My goal was to beat last-year's time and I knew I could do it, judging by the weekend runs which exceeded 9 miles. I learned how to regulate my running speed into five levels of progressing speed, keeping my training runs disciplined and without injury. I used a fitness monitor, the Fitbit Zip along with a stopwatch to monitor my training.
I tried to run three times during the week- short runs around six miles and concentrated on a different aspect in each run. The weekend runs started at 4 miles in May and progressed to 12 miles by July 30. The 12-mile run, two weeks before the big event gave me a lot of confidence.
Lining up at the start of the half-marathon I was a little nervous. There were some exceedingly athletic young men and women present but I would not be competing with them. I only wanted to beat last year's time.
When the starting gun went off I tried to avoid the feet of the person ahead of me. My friend, John Hein, a veteran full-marathoner now retired, told me he saw incidents where several people were injured, even trampled just yards from the starting line. He told me to line up at the outside of the pack .
The first leg of the race was a two-mile stretch on Highway 77, mostly uphill. I restrained myself from passing slower runners in order to save 'gas' for the latter part of the run. Lois was on the side, taking pictures with her camera for Facebook.
My right calf cramped a little but I blamed the 62 degree drizzly and foggy weather. Just about all my training was done an at least 80 degree weather. I was much relieved as the cramping stopped when we turned into County C.
This year I slowed to take a little drink of water from each aid station manned by unselfish and encouraging people. I can't give these volunteers enough praise.
Six miles into the run my Fitbit and stopwatch told me I was a little ahead of schedule to beat last year's finish by a half-hour. I slowed slightly at each hill and accelerated a little on flat terrain. I felt good. My stride felt good. My legs had lots of running left in them. Everything was going well. I was probably somewhere in the front one-third of the herd. Occasionally I was passed by a young and fast runner but didn't let it faze me. One young male runner ahead of me ran into the woods and a few minutes later he returned and passed me.
At 6.5 miles I was alarmed at a sharp pain in the outside of my left knee. I knew this pain. Had it once when running in worn-out shoes. My shoes had about 300 miles on them and I noticed some extensive wear on the soles. The life of a running shoe is 300 to 500 miles. What I've heard and read told me not to change anything, stride, gait or shoes before a marathon.
The pain forced me down to a walk. I watched my stopwatch and when 30 seconds elapsed I ran again. I was okay for a couple of minutes and the pain returned. I was mad. I went injury-free all summer and now this! This would be my method for the rest of the race. My heart sunk as many runners passed me. I couldn't sustain a run.
When I reached Highway 51 a lone spectator was yelling encouragement to each runner.
"Hurtin' ain't ya?"
"Damn!" I shouted this.
"Only 5 miles to go. You'll make 'er."
His encouragement didn't warm my heart as I was passed much less frequently, meaning that I had fallen back in the race. I couldn't make that up even if my knee was healthy. Anger simmered inside me, mostly anger at myself. Yet, who knows how new shoes would have affected me.
A deeply-tanned middle-aged woman stopped alongside.
"Looks like your knee is sore. You have a bandage (on my left knee). I bet you fell and skinned your knee while running."
"Yup."
"It doesn't look swollen but there could be internal swelling."
"It happened to me once. I dropped out and took an ambulance ride back to town. Well, I'm really sorry. Gotta go."
I noticed that she ran about a half mile then turned off on a dirt road alongside an old tavern. Weird!
I took a bag of ice from an aid station and applied it to my knee, to no avail. I ran and walked to the 11-mile mark and tried the ice again, then I threw it to the ground in an explosion of ice and water. Despair had set in. I was limping now during the walk intervals. I thought of giving up and being picked up in an ambulance but I kept going in spite of the excruciating current of pain that even made me miss Chuck and Lil Lundberg, dear longtime friends who were cheering me on. The tanned woman passed me.
You should have joined me. I had enough beer for two people!"
I walked down the highway to Hurley's main intersection. Some people cheered and I wondered what for. No runners passed me and none were in front of me. All I could focus on was running across the finish line so I walked toward the finish line. I would give it one last burst. Lois was there aiming her phone. I thought of how much I love her.
I hoped that I was distant enough so my face, now streamed with tears and contorted with pain would not show in the photo. I started my limping run for the last time and crossed the finish line. I stopped, hands on my knees. I was wobbly and then I felt a gentle arm reach around my shoulders. I sobbed a little.
"Son of a bitch," I cried. "I trained so hard all summer."
The woman was a race volunteer, unknown to me. She said something but I don't remember it. Then Lois came. I regained composure and got a medallion for finishing.
On Sunday morning I awakened refreshed and I tried my knee. It didn't hurt except for negotiating stairs. Then the sharp and bitter taste of defeat returned. Images flashed back but I buried these and insisted on putting yesterday's melancholy behind.
Lois insisted that I wear my new t-shirt that read "Courage to start. 13.1 Strength to finish." I felt silly wearing it but when we got to church John Hein shouted, "You finished." We bumped fists.
"I ran a lot of marathons and I quit three times when the going got tough. Each time I felt rotten about quitting, especially days afterward. It's better to finish than to quit, even if you come in nearly last place."
Jerry Wanink, the guy who does the announcements asked what happened. He is usually at an aid station but he had to work this time. After I filled him in he was impressed and he said he would tell the congregation.
"One person represented our fellowship in the Paavo Nurmi Half-Marathon. That's 13.1 miles. He hurt his knee hafway through and he struggled through the last half of the race in horrible pain but he crossed the finish line. Give George a hand!"
And everyone clapped. I have been blessed by good friends and most of all I have been blessed by my wife, Lois. She's a diamond.
(Sisu is a nuanced Finnish word. Today I found one of its meanings.)
My goal was to beat last-year's time and I knew I could do it, judging by the weekend runs which exceeded 9 miles. I learned how to regulate my running speed into five levels of progressing speed, keeping my training runs disciplined and without injury. I used a fitness monitor, the Fitbit Zip along with a stopwatch to monitor my training.
I tried to run three times during the week- short runs around six miles and concentrated on a different aspect in each run. The weekend runs started at 4 miles in May and progressed to 12 miles by July 30. The 12-mile run, two weeks before the big event gave me a lot of confidence.
Lining up at the start of the half-marathon I was a little nervous. There were some exceedingly athletic young men and women present but I would not be competing with them. I only wanted to beat last year's time.
When the starting gun went off I tried to avoid the feet of the person ahead of me. My friend, John Hein, a veteran full-marathoner now retired, told me he saw incidents where several people were injured, even trampled just yards from the starting line. He told me to line up at the outside of the pack .
The first leg of the race was a two-mile stretch on Highway 77, mostly uphill. I restrained myself from passing slower runners in order to save 'gas' for the latter part of the run. Lois was on the side, taking pictures with her camera for Facebook.
My right calf cramped a little but I blamed the 62 degree drizzly and foggy weather. Just about all my training was done an at least 80 degree weather. I was much relieved as the cramping stopped when we turned into County C.
This year I slowed to take a little drink of water from each aid station manned by unselfish and encouraging people. I can't give these volunteers enough praise.
Six miles into the run my Fitbit and stopwatch told me I was a little ahead of schedule to beat last year's finish by a half-hour. I slowed slightly at each hill and accelerated a little on flat terrain. I felt good. My stride felt good. My legs had lots of running left in them. Everything was going well. I was probably somewhere in the front one-third of the herd. Occasionally I was passed by a young and fast runner but didn't let it faze me. One young male runner ahead of me ran into the woods and a few minutes later he returned and passed me.
At 6.5 miles I was alarmed at a sharp pain in the outside of my left knee. I knew this pain. Had it once when running in worn-out shoes. My shoes had about 300 miles on them and I noticed some extensive wear on the soles. The life of a running shoe is 300 to 500 miles. What I've heard and read told me not to change anything, stride, gait or shoes before a marathon.
The pain forced me down to a walk. I watched my stopwatch and when 30 seconds elapsed I ran again. I was okay for a couple of minutes and the pain returned. I was mad. I went injury-free all summer and now this! This would be my method for the rest of the race. My heart sunk as many runners passed me. I couldn't sustain a run.
When I reached Highway 51 a lone spectator was yelling encouragement to each runner.
"Hurtin' ain't ya?"
"Damn!" I shouted this.
"Only 5 miles to go. You'll make 'er."
His encouragement didn't warm my heart as I was passed much less frequently, meaning that I had fallen back in the race. I couldn't make that up even if my knee was healthy. Anger simmered inside me, mostly anger at myself. Yet, who knows how new shoes would have affected me.
A deeply-tanned middle-aged woman stopped alongside.
"Looks like your knee is sore. You have a bandage (on my left knee). I bet you fell and skinned your knee while running."
"Yup."
"It doesn't look swollen but there could be internal swelling."
"It happened to me once. I dropped out and took an ambulance ride back to town. Well, I'm really sorry. Gotta go."
I noticed that she ran about a half mile then turned off on a dirt road alongside an old tavern. Weird!
I took a bag of ice from an aid station and applied it to my knee, to no avail. I ran and walked to the 11-mile mark and tried the ice again, then I threw it to the ground in an explosion of ice and water. Despair had set in. I was limping now during the walk intervals. I thought of giving up and being picked up in an ambulance but I kept going in spite of the excruciating current of pain that even made me miss Chuck and Lil Lundberg, dear longtime friends who were cheering me on. The tanned woman passed me.
You should have joined me. I had enough beer for two people!"
I walked down the highway to Hurley's main intersection. Some people cheered and I wondered what for. No runners passed me and none were in front of me. All I could focus on was running across the finish line so I walked toward the finish line. I would give it one last burst. Lois was there aiming her phone. I thought of how much I love her.
I hoped that I was distant enough so my face, now streamed with tears and contorted with pain would not show in the photo. I started my limping run for the last time and crossed the finish line. I stopped, hands on my knees. I was wobbly and then I felt a gentle arm reach around my shoulders. I sobbed a little.
"Son of a bitch," I cried. "I trained so hard all summer."
The woman was a race volunteer, unknown to me. She said something but I don't remember it. Then Lois came. I regained composure and got a medallion for finishing.
On Sunday morning I awakened refreshed and I tried my knee. It didn't hurt except for negotiating stairs. Then the sharp and bitter taste of defeat returned. Images flashed back but I buried these and insisted on putting yesterday's melancholy behind.
Lois insisted that I wear my new t-shirt that read "Courage to start. 13.1 Strength to finish." I felt silly wearing it but when we got to church John Hein shouted, "You finished." We bumped fists.
"I ran a lot of marathons and I quit three times when the going got tough. Each time I felt rotten about quitting, especially days afterward. It's better to finish than to quit, even if you come in nearly last place."
Jerry Wanink, the guy who does the announcements asked what happened. He is usually at an aid station but he had to work this time. After I filled him in he was impressed and he said he would tell the congregation.
"One person represented our fellowship in the Paavo Nurmi Half-Marathon. That's 13.1 miles. He hurt his knee hafway through and he struggled through the last half of the race in horrible pain but he crossed the finish line. Give George a hand!"
And everyone clapped. I have been blessed by good friends and most of all I have been blessed by my wife, Lois. She's a diamond.
(Sisu is a nuanced Finnish word. Today I found one of its meanings.)
Monday, May 9, 2016
Summer Trip?
Recently Lois and I discussed a trip to Lower Michigan to visit family and maybe do a side trip to Cleveland to see the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. We have a window for doing this since my wife is no longer tethered to a job and I only work part-time. We haven't visited Evelyn and Jack for sixteen years, and that's ridiculous.
We also haven't had a summer trip since 2014 when we stayed at a bed-and-breakfast which I had suggested. Imagine that!
We hadn't discussed this for a while then this morning Lois asked, point blank, "How do you feel about going to Cleveland?"
"It scares the hell out of me."
She received my response in a matter - of -fact way, making me feel that I was talking to an psychoanalyst trying to draw me out.
"How much extra travel and expense would be involved?" I asked.
"Why don't you get the atlas and we can look it up. "
Lois's sister Evelyn and husband Jack live in Lapeer, near Flint so we thought of visiting them for a couple of days and then take the road to Cleveland which doesn't seem formidable on the map in the atlas yet I had qualms of driving in uncharted territory among cars speeding 80-90 miles per hour. We can use our cell phones as GPS guides as we have before and that worked out well. Jack has also traveled extensively in that area so he would probably give us pointers for which routes to take and which to avoid.
If you've read The Hobbit I'm somewhat like Bilbo Baggins. The trip would be an egregious violation of my routine and lifestyle. I like routine and the slow life pace of the sleepy town of Ironwood. Lois is the adventurous one. She loves to go to uncharted waters. She makes it fun. She knows how to smooth my ire when another driver has transgressed the traffic laws or the bounds of courteous driving. Nevertheless I'll probably have to make a dental appointment to have my teeth unclenched.
Lois knows how I think and what appeals to me so she mentioned that we could visit the Museum of Science, also in Cleveland. I love Rock and Roll and I'm a geek. Science and math always had a spell on me so I won't decline the Cleveland trip (I wouldn't anyway.) Instead I'll rely on Lois' traveling wisdom, her knack for finding the right route when the traffic signs and the GPS guidance are misleading.
Lois suggested I search the Web and find out about these places. She knows how to get me hooked. I bet I'll be able to finagle a stop at Ann Arbor and take photos of 'The Big House.' Maybe take a tour of the hallowed grounds of the Michigan Wolverines. Can't wait!
We also haven't had a summer trip since 2014 when we stayed at a bed-and-breakfast which I had suggested. Imagine that!
We hadn't discussed this for a while then this morning Lois asked, point blank, "How do you feel about going to Cleveland?"
"It scares the hell out of me."
She received my response in a matter - of -fact way, making me feel that I was talking to an psychoanalyst trying to draw me out.
"How much extra travel and expense would be involved?" I asked.
"Why don't you get the atlas and we can look it up. "
Lois's sister Evelyn and husband Jack live in Lapeer, near Flint so we thought of visiting them for a couple of days and then take the road to Cleveland which doesn't seem formidable on the map in the atlas yet I had qualms of driving in uncharted territory among cars speeding 80-90 miles per hour. We can use our cell phones as GPS guides as we have before and that worked out well. Jack has also traveled extensively in that area so he would probably give us pointers for which routes to take and which to avoid.
If you've read The Hobbit I'm somewhat like Bilbo Baggins. The trip would be an egregious violation of my routine and lifestyle. I like routine and the slow life pace of the sleepy town of Ironwood. Lois is the adventurous one. She loves to go to uncharted waters. She makes it fun. She knows how to smooth my ire when another driver has transgressed the traffic laws or the bounds of courteous driving. Nevertheless I'll probably have to make a dental appointment to have my teeth unclenched.
Lois knows how I think and what appeals to me so she mentioned that we could visit the Museum of Science, also in Cleveland. I love Rock and Roll and I'm a geek. Science and math always had a spell on me so I won't decline the Cleveland trip (I wouldn't anyway.) Instead I'll rely on Lois' traveling wisdom, her knack for finding the right route when the traffic signs and the GPS guidance are misleading.
Lois suggested I search the Web and find out about these places. She knows how to get me hooked. I bet I'll be able to finagle a stop at Ann Arbor and take photos of 'The Big House.' Maybe take a tour of the hallowed grounds of the Michigan Wolverines. Can't wait!
Tuesday, April 19, 2016
He Delights in Me?
Was it coincidence that I survived the trials of my youth?
In first grade and again in the second grade I should have died from the complications of pneumonia but I lived.
My seventh grade English teacher almost knocked my block off but I ducked and she missed and fell off her stilettos. She screamed at me to '"get out of my sight!"
To this day I don't know what my transgression was.
I should have been expelled from high school for attending the Christmas party sponsored by the choir. I was inebriated and made a spectacle of myself. Mr. Quistorff just kicked me out of the party. I had violated the sanctity of the girl's restroom when pursuing a girl I liked.
Clad only in a light jacket I blundered into the late December sub- arctic cold into a wooded area where I fell down in the snow. When I awoke I was disoriented but I made it home with an auspicious entrance. Mom made me mop it up.
I was eighteen and drag racing on US-2 while drunk. We had just left Aidelle's Hideout, a beer bar that only sold 7 0z. bottled beer. Then we raced through one of the main thoroughfares in Ironwood, slamming on the brakes when the lights turned.
I thought life was over when my parents died within two years of each other. I was 22 and felt such overwhelming sorrow and grief and God saw me through it.
These events led me to a relationship with Jesus Christ, (not the beginning of perfect sainthood.)
I've had periods of unemployment through no fault of my own and eventually landed on my feet. When I didn't land on my feet I rebelled against God. He didn't answer my prayers. Some job interviews looked so promising I felt I had the job only to feel the bitter sting, of alleged over- qualification, under -qualification , inexperience, etc., etc. I didn't yet know God delighted in me.
When I was in rehab the thirst, the all-consuming drive to drink booze left me. It's been 26 and one-half years since that time and I still do not feel inclined to drink- even when life sucks. I was almost dead from the booze in August of 1989, rebelling against a God who wasn't doing right by me. Yet He restored me and I don't drink because He gives me the gift of sobriety each day. The obsession is long-gone. I'm not claiming it will never return but I receive each day of sobriety, one at a time.
In treatment I was acquainted with the passage of Scripture in Psalms 18:16-19 which ends with "he rescued me because he delighted in me." By the way, Bibles were contraband in the treatment facility. I mysteriously, without intent had one in my room. I was too drunk to even think of smuggling it into detox, but it was there!
The only way I can understand why God delights in me is through our dogs, a beagle, Skittles and a Scottish terrier mix, Snickers. They are cute and sassy and they do sin, like the time Skittles tore off the upholstery from the front of our couch because her bone was stuck underneath. We were out shopping for new carpet then. My wrath was so intense that my hands trembled. My tantrum was an 8.0 on the Richter scale. Poor Skittles slinked away, head down and tail between her legs. She steered clear of me until I simmered down and still she cowered in a corner. I spoke forgiveness softly and tenderly while stroking her head. She, in turn licked my hand. Her tail waged weakly.
I was moved by her contrition and I forgave Skittles. I delight in her! I love her! She is a part of my life and we go on long, sometimes adventurous walks or take naps together.
Snickers committed the ultimate transgression in chewing up one of our remotes. It was the Sony that controls the home theater amplifier. I was so angry that I was stammering and spitting. Snickers sat on the floor looking up at me with the expression, "Is there a problem?"
It took quite a while for Hurricane George to blow out. I was sitting on my recliner and he jumped up on my lap and snuggled into me. "Are you sorry, boy?" He licked my hand. Good enough!
I know God forgives transgressions but the only way I can wrap my mind around God delighting in me is the parallel with the dogs. Snickers has riled me repeatedly and I still delight in him, "a good boy, a fine boy," I often say. Skittles wanted to rumble with a golden terrier walking down the other side of the street. She created quite a commotion and I had all I could do to control her. (Beagles are very strong!)
I say "good-night" to each of them each night, reminded that I delight in them.
In first grade and again in the second grade I should have died from the complications of pneumonia but I lived.
My seventh grade English teacher almost knocked my block off but I ducked and she missed and fell off her stilettos. She screamed at me to '"get out of my sight!"
To this day I don't know what my transgression was.
I should have been expelled from high school for attending the Christmas party sponsored by the choir. I was inebriated and made a spectacle of myself. Mr. Quistorff just kicked me out of the party. I had violated the sanctity of the girl's restroom when pursuing a girl I liked.
Clad only in a light jacket I blundered into the late December sub- arctic cold into a wooded area where I fell down in the snow. When I awoke I was disoriented but I made it home with an auspicious entrance. Mom made me mop it up.
I was eighteen and drag racing on US-2 while drunk. We had just left Aidelle's Hideout, a beer bar that only sold 7 0z. bottled beer. Then we raced through one of the main thoroughfares in Ironwood, slamming on the brakes when the lights turned.
I thought life was over when my parents died within two years of each other. I was 22 and felt such overwhelming sorrow and grief and God saw me through it.
These events led me to a relationship with Jesus Christ, (not the beginning of perfect sainthood.)
I've had periods of unemployment through no fault of my own and eventually landed on my feet. When I didn't land on my feet I rebelled against God. He didn't answer my prayers. Some job interviews looked so promising I felt I had the job only to feel the bitter sting, of alleged over- qualification, under -qualification , inexperience, etc., etc. I didn't yet know God delighted in me.
When I was in rehab the thirst, the all-consuming drive to drink booze left me. It's been 26 and one-half years since that time and I still do not feel inclined to drink- even when life sucks. I was almost dead from the booze in August of 1989, rebelling against a God who wasn't doing right by me. Yet He restored me and I don't drink because He gives me the gift of sobriety each day. The obsession is long-gone. I'm not claiming it will never return but I receive each day of sobriety, one at a time.
In treatment I was acquainted with the passage of Scripture in Psalms 18:16-19 which ends with "he rescued me because he delighted in me." By the way, Bibles were contraband in the treatment facility. I mysteriously, without intent had one in my room. I was too drunk to even think of smuggling it into detox, but it was there!
The only way I can understand why God delights in me is through our dogs, a beagle, Skittles and a Scottish terrier mix, Snickers. They are cute and sassy and they do sin, like the time Skittles tore off the upholstery from the front of our couch because her bone was stuck underneath. We were out shopping for new carpet then. My wrath was so intense that my hands trembled. My tantrum was an 8.0 on the Richter scale. Poor Skittles slinked away, head down and tail between her legs. She steered clear of me until I simmered down and still she cowered in a corner. I spoke forgiveness softly and tenderly while stroking her head. She, in turn licked my hand. Her tail waged weakly.
I was moved by her contrition and I forgave Skittles. I delight in her! I love her! She is a part of my life and we go on long, sometimes adventurous walks or take naps together.
Snickers committed the ultimate transgression in chewing up one of our remotes. It was the Sony that controls the home theater amplifier. I was so angry that I was stammering and spitting. Snickers sat on the floor looking up at me with the expression, "Is there a problem?"
It took quite a while for Hurricane George to blow out. I was sitting on my recliner and he jumped up on my lap and snuggled into me. "Are you sorry, boy?" He licked my hand. Good enough!
I know God forgives transgressions but the only way I can wrap my mind around God delighting in me is the parallel with the dogs. Snickers has riled me repeatedly and I still delight in him, "a good boy, a fine boy," I often say. Skittles wanted to rumble with a golden terrier walking down the other side of the street. She created quite a commotion and I had all I could do to control her. (Beagles are very strong!)
I say "good-night" to each of them each night, reminded that I delight in them.
Wednesday, March 23, 2016
Imminent Death of a Friend
Both Lois and I have been left behind by loved ones. It's an experience that never gets easier with age and experience. There is a grieving process and this lasts longer in some people than in others. I grieved for my parents in-law. I still refer to them as Mom and Dad (Lois uses 'Daddy'.)
I didn't grieve for my Mom until years later after Dad died. He survived Mom by two rough years. I was twenty and green as grass, trying to hold it all together. When Dad died I was crushed with grief. I felt so alone with no siblings, so apprehensive at what life would throw at me.
But I did heal and I learned how to live alone, yet there were lonely moments, usually at any holiday. When working at the mine I didn't mind working on Christmas Day or Eve. Work can be a great tranquilizer.
There are other kinds of deaths and one of them is the passing of one's workplace. Each instance is unique, each (personal) experience varies as some take this life event in stride and some don't. The mine died and I didn't think I could survive. Another job came and when it went, I decided to take computer programming classes at the local community college .
I became employed at Sprague Electric Co. in Grafton, Wisconsin as an applications programmer. The job lasted exactly one year. The manager called me into the office. I became alarmed when he told me to close the door. I thought that someone in my shrinking family had died. Instead I was relieved that I was being terminated for non-disciplinary reasons and I was eligible for unemployment benefits.
Grief over my loss of employment settled in after the unemployment benefits were exhausted. I had lived with the hope that the company would rally and I would be asked to return to work. The company closed for good. I grieved for that career position more than any previous employment. Several attempts to secure employment ended in failure. I felt that God had let me down and eventually I became despondent. That story is not the purpose of this missive.
My beloved has been employed at the Ironwood K-Mart for almost thirty-five years and its closing is weeks away. I went into the store weeks ago and the outer perimeter was bare. Fixtures are being sold, leaving ghastly bare walls.
This store was an encore for the first K-Mart store in Ironwood and I recall how busy it was, both at the registers and at the pharmacy. Everything was so new and shining. K-Mart even had auto service and they sold tires and the store had the aroma of newness. and excitement. There was a little cafeteria where I enjoyed coffee while waiting for Lois. Sometimes we ate together when she had the afternoon shift.
Lois loved her job. I knew this from the start. At home she talked about the store and what transpired that day, good or bad. She related details of her job that I didn't understand because you had to do those things to understand their intricacies.
She made friends at work, both fellow employees and customers. She met every imaginable sort of person, some personable, colorful, even those who were fun-loving. She dealt with those on the other end of the personality spectrum and she often told me about how difficult it was.
She still carries keys with which she opens the store early in the morning and closes it at night. When we had occasion to be customers, Lois showed her pride in her work, straightening merchandise that had been moved on the shelves since her shift had ended. She showed me the area she had worked on so hard that day. The merchandise was in military precision, ranks and files absolutely perfect. The shelves would muster a white glove inspection.
When we checked our purchases, an employee would ask Lois for help, whether on the registers or something in the store. Lois always helped with zeal and a tender patience that I admire so much. (She has to have vast patience to live with me!)
Her fellow long-term employees will grieve, no doubt. It takes a team to make a business work and K-Mart has had a mighty good team.
I never thought I'd feel this way, as though a dear friend or family member was wheezing and shriveling more with each passing day, welcoming the inevitable.
I didn't grieve for my Mom until years later after Dad died. He survived Mom by two rough years. I was twenty and green as grass, trying to hold it all together. When Dad died I was crushed with grief. I felt so alone with no siblings, so apprehensive at what life would throw at me.
But I did heal and I learned how to live alone, yet there were lonely moments, usually at any holiday. When working at the mine I didn't mind working on Christmas Day or Eve. Work can be a great tranquilizer.
There are other kinds of deaths and one of them is the passing of one's workplace. Each instance is unique, each (personal) experience varies as some take this life event in stride and some don't. The mine died and I didn't think I could survive. Another job came and when it went, I decided to take computer programming classes at the local community college .
I became employed at Sprague Electric Co. in Grafton, Wisconsin as an applications programmer. The job lasted exactly one year. The manager called me into the office. I became alarmed when he told me to close the door. I thought that someone in my shrinking family had died. Instead I was relieved that I was being terminated for non-disciplinary reasons and I was eligible for unemployment benefits.
Grief over my loss of employment settled in after the unemployment benefits were exhausted. I had lived with the hope that the company would rally and I would be asked to return to work. The company closed for good. I grieved for that career position more than any previous employment. Several attempts to secure employment ended in failure. I felt that God had let me down and eventually I became despondent. That story is not the purpose of this missive.
My beloved has been employed at the Ironwood K-Mart for almost thirty-five years and its closing is weeks away. I went into the store weeks ago and the outer perimeter was bare. Fixtures are being sold, leaving ghastly bare walls.
This store was an encore for the first K-Mart store in Ironwood and I recall how busy it was, both at the registers and at the pharmacy. Everything was so new and shining. K-Mart even had auto service and they sold tires and the store had the aroma of newness. and excitement. There was a little cafeteria where I enjoyed coffee while waiting for Lois. Sometimes we ate together when she had the afternoon shift.
Lois loved her job. I knew this from the start. At home she talked about the store and what transpired that day, good or bad. She related details of her job that I didn't understand because you had to do those things to understand their intricacies.
She made friends at work, both fellow employees and customers. She met every imaginable sort of person, some personable, colorful, even those who were fun-loving. She dealt with those on the other end of the personality spectrum and she often told me about how difficult it was.
She still carries keys with which she opens the store early in the morning and closes it at night. When we had occasion to be customers, Lois showed her pride in her work, straightening merchandise that had been moved on the shelves since her shift had ended. She showed me the area she had worked on so hard that day. The merchandise was in military precision, ranks and files absolutely perfect. The shelves would muster a white glove inspection.
When we checked our purchases, an employee would ask Lois for help, whether on the registers or something in the store. Lois always helped with zeal and a tender patience that I admire so much. (She has to have vast patience to live with me!)
Her fellow long-term employees will grieve, no doubt. It takes a team to make a business work and K-Mart has had a mighty good team.
I never thought I'd feel this way, as though a dear friend or family member was wheezing and shriveling more with each passing day, welcoming the inevitable.
Monday, February 22, 2016
Life in the Old Baptist Church.
My good friend Lloyd Mattson once complained of the lack of rancor in the Baptist church he attends. Our current Baptist church is the same. No drama at business meetings, save one explosive outburst at an annual meeting a few years ago.
Lloyd's post (theholenews.org) jogged my memory. We had all finished our traditional pot-luck dinner following the morning service. I was our young treasurer and when I was up to bat at a business meeting, I got raked over the coals.
"Why are the payments to missionaries behind schedule?"
"Ah,... after paying bills and the pastor's salary and retirement and the monthly payment for the new pipe organ and the monthly mortgage payment there was nothing left; well there was less than a hundred dollars left. Can't do much missionary funding with that."
At the previous annual meeting, around 1984 the Board of Deacons wanted our missionary budget increased by a whopping fifteen per cent. I put together a presentation showing our income trends over the last five years versus the expenditure trends. By the figures on the screen (from the overhead projector) it was plain that we were barely treading water. I wasn't against missionary funding but I saw red flags while working as treasurer for a few years.
During this annual meeting my presentation advising caution in the proposed budget increase was heard, duly recorded and totally disregarded. Someone mentioned that God owns the cattle of a thousand hills." God will provide", someone else said and a resounding "amen" followed.
One of the elders proposed that each week a percentage of the offering equal to our missionaries' total slice of the pie chart would be set aside so that the missionaries would be funded.
"If this is done, the power company will be shutting off our lights and maybe the pastor will miss a payday on occasion," I protested.
I was chided for my lack of faith. "What is not of faith is sin," came from a former deacon, Sam, who often sang solos and along with each would preach a sermonette. I protested that God has given us faculties to manage our financial affairs prudently. I may as well have been talking to the walls and the proposal was approved. I was ready to quit my position and let the Board of Deacons figure it out but my conscience stopped me.
In succeeding weeks when I sat down to church business, a good portion of the offering as reported on the income summary was dedicated to the Organ Fund. Some money was dedicated to specific missionaries. I wrote a check equal to the missionaries percentage, which would sit on my desk and collect dust along with each weekly check. I could not send out these checks because the checks for the utilities, power, natural gas, insurance, etc., would bounce and if enough checks bounced our church would be in trouble.
An ad hoc Advisory Committee was created as a watchdog to be sure that I followed policy concerning missionaries.
Each week I gave a profit and loss report and it was evident that our budget was extravagant, overwhelming our income. The Advisory Committee didn't see it that way.
"George, you're supposed to send those missionary checks right away. The Lord will provide."
"How can I write checks that exceed our bank balance and somehow expect the Lord to prevent checks from bouncing? Too many people are designating their offering checks. A large chunk of our weekly income is designated to the organ, then I don't have enough money to keep the lights on."
In a short time the problem worsened and I reported to the committee that the balance after Sunday's offering, without any cash outlays was less than a hundred dollars. Shock registered on the faces of those present. Soon the committee dissolved and I was in charge of the finances again.
Subsequent annual budgets increased, using the excuse of having faith. "If it's not of faith it's sin," someone said at an annual meeting and several jumped on this bandwagon and the movement was afoot to increase the budget. The difference was a small band of people starting to think conservatively (financially.)
The church has since been through ideological splits. Pastors have come and left. One of the pastors spent the church's money with reckless abandon. I cautioned the deacons as to our rapidly depleting cash reserved. The pastor was brash and had encounters with different members who left the church. When membership and cash reserves had dwindled He was asked to leave.
Presently we have a wonderful pastor. He doesn't chafe at his salary. He cares about individual struggles and shepherds our church lovingly. He is about to lose his day job because of company financial decisions (downsizing) so God only knows how much longer we will have him, since we can't afford to pay him very much.
I disagree with him politically and as to the origins of the universe. He is young-earth, I subscribe to the Big-Bang and theistic evolution but we get along as friends.
The church finances have been stable for several years and there haven't been any intra- church wars. It's wonderful being relaxed during a Sunday service.
I've seen enough of church strife and divisions, people essentially saying, "Be reasonable, do it my way." I'll take peaceful Christianity any day.
Lloyd's post (theholenews.org) jogged my memory. We had all finished our traditional pot-luck dinner following the morning service. I was our young treasurer and when I was up to bat at a business meeting, I got raked over the coals.
"Why are the payments to missionaries behind schedule?"
"Ah,... after paying bills and the pastor's salary and retirement and the monthly payment for the new pipe organ and the monthly mortgage payment there was nothing left; well there was less than a hundred dollars left. Can't do much missionary funding with that."
At the previous annual meeting, around 1984 the Board of Deacons wanted our missionary budget increased by a whopping fifteen per cent. I put together a presentation showing our income trends over the last five years versus the expenditure trends. By the figures on the screen (from the overhead projector) it was plain that we were barely treading water. I wasn't against missionary funding but I saw red flags while working as treasurer for a few years.
During this annual meeting my presentation advising caution in the proposed budget increase was heard, duly recorded and totally disregarded. Someone mentioned that God owns the cattle of a thousand hills." God will provide", someone else said and a resounding "amen" followed.
One of the elders proposed that each week a percentage of the offering equal to our missionaries' total slice of the pie chart would be set aside so that the missionaries would be funded.
"If this is done, the power company will be shutting off our lights and maybe the pastor will miss a payday on occasion," I protested.
I was chided for my lack of faith. "What is not of faith is sin," came from a former deacon, Sam, who often sang solos and along with each would preach a sermonette. I protested that God has given us faculties to manage our financial affairs prudently. I may as well have been talking to the walls and the proposal was approved. I was ready to quit my position and let the Board of Deacons figure it out but my conscience stopped me.
In succeeding weeks when I sat down to church business, a good portion of the offering as reported on the income summary was dedicated to the Organ Fund. Some money was dedicated to specific missionaries. I wrote a check equal to the missionaries percentage, which would sit on my desk and collect dust along with each weekly check. I could not send out these checks because the checks for the utilities, power, natural gas, insurance, etc., would bounce and if enough checks bounced our church would be in trouble.
An ad hoc Advisory Committee was created as a watchdog to be sure that I followed policy concerning missionaries.
Each week I gave a profit and loss report and it was evident that our budget was extravagant, overwhelming our income. The Advisory Committee didn't see it that way.
"George, you're supposed to send those missionary checks right away. The Lord will provide."
"How can I write checks that exceed our bank balance and somehow expect the Lord to prevent checks from bouncing? Too many people are designating their offering checks. A large chunk of our weekly income is designated to the organ, then I don't have enough money to keep the lights on."
In a short time the problem worsened and I reported to the committee that the balance after Sunday's offering, without any cash outlays was less than a hundred dollars. Shock registered on the faces of those present. Soon the committee dissolved and I was in charge of the finances again.
Subsequent annual budgets increased, using the excuse of having faith. "If it's not of faith it's sin," someone said at an annual meeting and several jumped on this bandwagon and the movement was afoot to increase the budget. The difference was a small band of people starting to think conservatively (financially.)
The church has since been through ideological splits. Pastors have come and left. One of the pastors spent the church's money with reckless abandon. I cautioned the deacons as to our rapidly depleting cash reserved. The pastor was brash and had encounters with different members who left the church. When membership and cash reserves had dwindled He was asked to leave.
Presently we have a wonderful pastor. He doesn't chafe at his salary. He cares about individual struggles and shepherds our church lovingly. He is about to lose his day job because of company financial decisions (downsizing) so God only knows how much longer we will have him, since we can't afford to pay him very much.
I disagree with him politically and as to the origins of the universe. He is young-earth, I subscribe to the Big-Bang and theistic evolution but we get along as friends.
The church finances have been stable for several years and there haven't been any intra- church wars. It's wonderful being relaxed during a Sunday service.
I've seen enough of church strife and divisions, people essentially saying, "Be reasonable, do it my way." I'll take peaceful Christianity any day.
Monday, February 15, 2016
I Have a Medal!
This post is from my runner's log. I'm trying to keep my eagerness for the 2016 Paavo.
When I started this log on October 23, 2013 I was on my third year of running. Back then, running in a half-marathon didn't occur to me.
At the start line I my pre-race anxiety level was mild. Instead I was eager to get started. It's a good thing Lois drove me to the start line in plenty of time because we were under the impression of an 8:30 start time and the race began at 8:00, as I was down on one knee fiddling with my shoelaces. I didn't hear a gunshot, just saw everybody running in this great, big pack. I cast off my hoodie and joined the pack.
My expectations were realistic, being a first- timer; I just wanted to finish the 13.1 miles. I had trained for this for this since early May, logging about 25-30 miles per week.The months of training gave me an idea of what I could do as well as how hard I could push my body.
I'm a recovering alcoholic and one of the devils that dogged me in other non-running endeavors was the thought, "Who do you think you're kidding? This takes a better man than you. You can't do anything right. You're not as good, not as smart, not as strong; you don't have what it takes."
One Friday night Lois and I drove along the race course and as we came to the end I said to Lois, "I can do this!" I really believed it so I signed up online and committed myself to train for the event.
I found a training program on the Runner's World website. I stayed with two weeks before I violated the advice not to run too long a distance too soon, to work up to the half-marathon gradually. I ran 12.8 miles on Saturday, May 30 and I became overconfident. After running that distance I should have rested for two weeks, but I thought I'd try the actual race course the next week.
I charged up Highway 77 too aggressively and forgot about pacing myself to conserve my bodily resources. Halfway through the course my legs began to feel heavy. I took walk breaks thinking I could resume running in a short time, but at the junction of Highway C and Highway 51 I mostly walked. My upper back began a dull ache. My legs had weakened and I tried to make up time using timed walkin/ running intervals. The problem was that I became confused as to the most recent reading of my watch.
The final two miles were all in a slow-tempo walk. Inside the city limits of Hurley I crossed the road and sat on a low headstone in the cemetery. I had flopped and I was ashamed of myself. It took all of my strength to walk home.
I felt sorry for myself for a couple of days and then I looked at what went wrong. I had ignored expert advice because I thought I knew better. I had also run up and down the hills of Norrie Location two days before, another violation of expert advice. Thirdly, I hadn't slept well Thursday or Friday night. I should have postponed the run.
I went back to running in a disciplined way with slow, easy runs during the week and a longer route that progressed with each week. I watched what I ate and drank plenty of water, running or not. I gleaned every bit of wisdom I could from various runners and the result was heartening. On Saturday, July 4 I ran 13.1 miles and I did it in two segments, using our home as an aid station where I drank water. I also carried M&M candies with me for extra energy. I ran in Ironwood and Hurley, not the official race course. The discipline paid off.
In the ensuing weekends I began to taper my long Saturday runs but I made a mistake that almost cost me participation in the race. On a slow, mid-week run I decided to see how fast I could finish a four mile run. I was proud of running four miles in 39 minutes. Later that day I felt the painful onset of shin splints. I had pushed myself too hard, again ignoring expert advice.
No running for the next two weeks as I iced my shins, rolled my calves on a foam roller and showed up at work in shorts with support sleeves on my legs.
I prayed that I'd heal and be able to run the race.
After two weeks I started running, 10 seconds on and then a minute walking. I progressed with 20/60, 30/120 and back down to 10/60. The easy running was painful but with each day the pain eased and after a weekend with no running I felt no pain. I would be ready.
I was determined, running with this huge pack that I would stay with my pace even though others passed me by. When young women passed me I mentally complimented them. My pace through most of the race was the tempo of 'On Wisconsin" and when I felt I could go faster "Hail to the Victors" came to mind.
At the start the temperature was in the low sixties and kind of humid. By mid race it was a little warmer but it felt more humid. Glad I wore my headband.
I just have to give praise to the volunteers gathers at at intervals, aid stations. They held out cups of Gatorade, water, and at one station a gentleman offered me beer, which I declined, graciously.
I finished somewhere in the middle of the pack and that was okay. I want to do this again in 2016.
When I started this log on October 23, 2013 I was on my third year of running. Back then, running in a half-marathon didn't occur to me.
At the start line I my pre-race anxiety level was mild. Instead I was eager to get started. It's a good thing Lois drove me to the start line in plenty of time because we were under the impression of an 8:30 start time and the race began at 8:00, as I was down on one knee fiddling with my shoelaces. I didn't hear a gunshot, just saw everybody running in this great, big pack. I cast off my hoodie and joined the pack.
My expectations were realistic, being a first- timer; I just wanted to finish the 13.1 miles. I had trained for this for this since early May, logging about 25-30 miles per week.The months of training gave me an idea of what I could do as well as how hard I could push my body.
I'm a recovering alcoholic and one of the devils that dogged me in other non-running endeavors was the thought, "Who do you think you're kidding? This takes a better man than you. You can't do anything right. You're not as good, not as smart, not as strong; you don't have what it takes."
One Friday night Lois and I drove along the race course and as we came to the end I said to Lois, "I can do this!" I really believed it so I signed up online and committed myself to train for the event.
I found a training program on the Runner's World website. I stayed with two weeks before I violated the advice not to run too long a distance too soon, to work up to the half-marathon gradually. I ran 12.8 miles on Saturday, May 30 and I became overconfident. After running that distance I should have rested for two weeks, but I thought I'd try the actual race course the next week.
I charged up Highway 77 too aggressively and forgot about pacing myself to conserve my bodily resources. Halfway through the course my legs began to feel heavy. I took walk breaks thinking I could resume running in a short time, but at the junction of Highway C and Highway 51 I mostly walked. My upper back began a dull ache. My legs had weakened and I tried to make up time using timed walkin/ running intervals. The problem was that I became confused as to the most recent reading of my watch.
The final two miles were all in a slow-tempo walk. Inside the city limits of Hurley I crossed the road and sat on a low headstone in the cemetery. I had flopped and I was ashamed of myself. It took all of my strength to walk home.
I felt sorry for myself for a couple of days and then I looked at what went wrong. I had ignored expert advice because I thought I knew better. I had also run up and down the hills of Norrie Location two days before, another violation of expert advice. Thirdly, I hadn't slept well Thursday or Friday night. I should have postponed the run.
I went back to running in a disciplined way with slow, easy runs during the week and a longer route that progressed with each week. I watched what I ate and drank plenty of water, running or not. I gleaned every bit of wisdom I could from various runners and the result was heartening. On Saturday, July 4 I ran 13.1 miles and I did it in two segments, using our home as an aid station where I drank water. I also carried M&M candies with me for extra energy. I ran in Ironwood and Hurley, not the official race course. The discipline paid off.
In the ensuing weekends I began to taper my long Saturday runs but I made a mistake that almost cost me participation in the race. On a slow, mid-week run I decided to see how fast I could finish a four mile run. I was proud of running four miles in 39 minutes. Later that day I felt the painful onset of shin splints. I had pushed myself too hard, again ignoring expert advice.
No running for the next two weeks as I iced my shins, rolled my calves on a foam roller and showed up at work in shorts with support sleeves on my legs.
I prayed that I'd heal and be able to run the race.
After two weeks I started running, 10 seconds on and then a minute walking. I progressed with 20/60, 30/120 and back down to 10/60. The easy running was painful but with each day the pain eased and after a weekend with no running I felt no pain. I would be ready.
I was determined, running with this huge pack that I would stay with my pace even though others passed me by. When young women passed me I mentally complimented them. My pace through most of the race was the tempo of 'On Wisconsin" and when I felt I could go faster "Hail to the Victors" came to mind.
At the start the temperature was in the low sixties and kind of humid. By mid race it was a little warmer but it felt more humid. Glad I wore my headband.
I just have to give praise to the volunteers gathers at at intervals, aid stations. They held out cups of Gatorade, water, and at one station a gentleman offered me beer, which I declined, graciously.
I finished somewhere in the middle of the pack and that was okay. I want to do this again in 2016.
Monday, February 1, 2016
Out-of-Control Capitalism
Two weeks ago Lois found out that K-Mart of Ironwood will close soon and she will be among the ranks of millions jobless people. It brings to an end the thoughtless queries of people, including friends, "I heard K-Mart is closing." These queries began when the rapacious Walmart Corporation built a store in Ironwood. These queries hurt Lois as some of them were followed by hurtful assaults, 'Walmart is better anyway."
To those I would say, "You got what you wished for." Now there is no more competition in Ironwood, Bessemer, Wakefield or Hurley, or Ontonagon, and about 6 other minor cities whose residents shop in the Ironwood area. You will pay higher prices because that is how capitalism works. Destroy the competition and rape the vanquished, regardless of how much pain it causes. After 35 years Lois' job is gone.
The four living Waltons can rejoice. Another Kmart store has been destroyed and what the hell do they care? Their collective wealth exceeds that of the bottom 40% of the United States. Just FOUR PEOPLE! Capitalism is not godly. It is greed on steroids. It is economic Darwinism. For this country to survive capitalism will have to be reigned in by more socialist moves such as a living wage, not a minimum wage.
Reagan's "supply side economics" started a forty-year bonanza for the rich, along with the demise of labor unions. Reagan's followers saw an increase of 300% income vs. a paltry 1% for the rest of us, the 99%. Business have been raping their workers and this must be stopped.
A single-payer national health system will have to replace the voracious blood-sucking administrations of hospitals that demand full payment of the copay amount even if it unmanageable for the patient. If the patient doesn't pay the hospital sics collection agencies on them that endeavor collection through the use of fear and unfounded threats, possibly causing further health problems.
Companies like Walmart must be stopped, taxed heavily and FORCED to share their wealth with those whose hard work and long hours made trillions of dollars for the company. The same goes for restaurant and lodging chains. Energy prices need to be federally controlled.
The wealthy (1%) and rich corporations must pay their fair share of taxes. Those businesses doing offshore banking must be penalized. Tax loopholes must be closed.There must be penalties for shifting production facilities to foreign countries and that includes the computer tech-support business.
The loss of my wife's job has released my vitriol. The political party that strives to buy elections must be stopped. Citizens United must be reversed. Hard working employees must be given (retroactively, for the last eight years) living wages. NOT MINIMUM WAGES! They should also be given, by law further raises to keep up with the cost of living. The thievery perpetrated by business against labor must be stopped and reversed because the angst of the working class will intimately boil over into a inevitably violent revolution.
The American people can only take so much!
To those I would say, "You got what you wished for." Now there is no more competition in Ironwood, Bessemer, Wakefield or Hurley, or Ontonagon, and about 6 other minor cities whose residents shop in the Ironwood area. You will pay higher prices because that is how capitalism works. Destroy the competition and rape the vanquished, regardless of how much pain it causes. After 35 years Lois' job is gone.
The four living Waltons can rejoice. Another Kmart store has been destroyed and what the hell do they care? Their collective wealth exceeds that of the bottom 40% of the United States. Just FOUR PEOPLE! Capitalism is not godly. It is greed on steroids. It is economic Darwinism. For this country to survive capitalism will have to be reigned in by more socialist moves such as a living wage, not a minimum wage.
Reagan's "supply side economics" started a forty-year bonanza for the rich, along with the demise of labor unions. Reagan's followers saw an increase of 300% income vs. a paltry 1% for the rest of us, the 99%. Business have been raping their workers and this must be stopped.
A single-payer national health system will have to replace the voracious blood-sucking administrations of hospitals that demand full payment of the copay amount even if it unmanageable for the patient. If the patient doesn't pay the hospital sics collection agencies on them that endeavor collection through the use of fear and unfounded threats, possibly causing further health problems.
Companies like Walmart must be stopped, taxed heavily and FORCED to share their wealth with those whose hard work and long hours made trillions of dollars for the company. The same goes for restaurant and lodging chains. Energy prices need to be federally controlled.
The wealthy (1%) and rich corporations must pay their fair share of taxes. Those businesses doing offshore banking must be penalized. Tax loopholes must be closed.There must be penalties for shifting production facilities to foreign countries and that includes the computer tech-support business.
The loss of my wife's job has released my vitriol. The political party that strives to buy elections must be stopped. Citizens United must be reversed. Hard working employees must be given (retroactively, for the last eight years) living wages. NOT MINIMUM WAGES! They should also be given, by law further raises to keep up with the cost of living. The thievery perpetrated by business against labor must be stopped and reversed because the angst of the working class will intimately boil over into a inevitably violent revolution.
The American people can only take so much!
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