But then I'd Have to Kill You

 The tenets of our faith, worship practices, Christian conduct, the Word of God and many other aspects of our Christian beliefs are the foundation of our church organization at Woodland (Baptist) church. The constitution conjured up faces set in a righteous frown,  longtime members dead-set against having fun. "Yet one unwritten tenet that is freely practiced without any encumbrance "Let's have a potluck."

No prodding or cajoling is necessary in getting a potluck scheduled. The potluck dinner has been absorbed into our skins just as freely as water during immersion baptism. It's a Baptist institution that transforms most faces into smiling faces and the grumpiest faces into at least, neutral faces. Garrison Keillor gave his take in his book, Life among the Lutherans. 

     You have fed me wretched food, vegetables boiled to extinction, fistfuls of sugar, slabs of fat,              mucousy casseroles made with gobs of cream of mushroom until it's amazing my heart still beats.

The cream of mushroom could be blended with other edibles, with a base ingredient that violates my entire sensory spectrum, to wit, mayonnaise. Some potluck contributors surreptitiously include "M" in an innocently-appearing dish that belies the appearance of straight-forward, uncomplicated food. Usually it's the most innocent entrée in the whole buffet and it fools its way through my teeth and past my gums. Then my mastication is stopped by a red alert from my taste buds. I can't spit this out to my plate, causing others to pause their eating and drop their jaws as well. I gagged down the substance, , then I eat the peripheral food on mty plate, the green beans and the buttered roll, wait untill the coast is clear, drop my napkin over my plate and head for the nearest garbage receptacle. My name is George and I'm a ... picky eater!

My Christmas Miracle

For those who are not familiar with the incredible gift of sobriety bestowed upon me by God in September of 1989 I'll brief you. I had already sobered up during the year of 1974 but lacked the maturity to withstand the shocks in life that befell me and I started drinking again in 1983 with a defiance against God for the loss of my employment at the White Pine copper mine and other reverses and subsequent job layoffs from other business interests.

I was mad as hell then because I assumed that I had lived as the Bible prescribed for a Christian life. And this was how God rewarded me! I crawled into a fog of self pity and took my comfort in booze once again and I did not feel guilty. but I loved the quagmire of my self-pity. That's tough if God didn't like it.

God didn't retaliate and He stopped me short of my self-prescribed demise. He let me suffer the abdominal pain which I later discovered was indicative of liver degeneration and He let me have the grand mall seizures that scared the hell out of my wife, Lois. But these seizures marked the 'Big Bang' of my recovery.

I was in rehab the entire month of September of 1989 and my attitude during the detox period was flint-hard. I observed with scorn the cock-eyed optimism and of those patients who were now in treatment, having completed their detox phase as I sat at the table assigned for the detox smokers.  A short unexpected  stint in the Psych Ward. Plumbing issues over the Labor Day weekend necessitated the evacuation of the rehab facility to the hospital proper. Detox patients were ushered, as if under arrest, to the Phych Ward.

That was an epic wake-up call! I saw the scourge of mental illness as the young pretty girl who sat curled up on the couch staring out the window, oblivious to her surroundings. She never engaged with others, just sat and smoked during the entire day. An elderly woman just kept running her finger up and down her leg. A handsome man in his twenties went from patient to patient asking childishly, "What time Bullwinkle?"

As I matriculated for detox to the treatment population I slowly improved. My hands no longer trembled and I was able to sleep in a peaceful, restorative fashion. There was one more thing; the monkey was no longer on my back. I shared this with a counselor who had involuntary twitches from his years of drug use and he debunked my lost desire for the booze. It was real and it has lasted over these past twenty-nine years. I shared this with a doctor after I had left the treatment facility and he rejected my claim of a God-given miracle. He  concluded that my drinking had fried the brain sells that caused my addiction. In other words I cured myself by drinking.

We were celebrating Christmas with family in West bend just over two months after I graduated from rehab and I was suffering with a cold in my head and deep in my chest. After the exchange of gifts Lois and I joined the family at Christmas Eve mass at the historic St. Augustine chapel  in the farm setting  where my wife Lois was reared. After the the Christmas Eve lunch and everyone had retired I lay coughing. I struggled to breathe and begged sleep  to visit me.

I got up and sat alone in the darkened living room and stared at the  Christmas tree silhouetted against the window. The idea hit me that a couple of shots of whiskey would sedate me sufficiently, facilitating my badly-needed rest. There was a variety of open liquor bottles atop the refrigerator and if I just took a little from several bottles to fill a shot glass twice no one would know. After much deliberation I returned to bed without taking any liquor and eventually fell asleep. 

When I got up on Christmas morning the tight chest and the miserable cough dragged me down. Then I remembered last night. If I had taken those drinks I would be excusing myself so to go find a cold remedy - at the nearest liquor store. The suffering would have returned and I would revisit the misery of addiction.

A counselor at Lutheran Social Services had reminded me that autumn that when you climb back on the Booze Train you get on exactly where you got off. "George, never forget how close you came to death late in August. You may have another drunken episode but I seriously doubt if you will have another recovery.."

That was such a close call and I hadn't been sober very long. I was weak and I was rationalizing, justifying a drink that I knew would lead to my demise. God had not only given me the gift of sobriety; He had saved me from myself. A Christmas miracle!

Alms for the Poor?

I was notified by Val at the place I 'retired' from that they had collected a box full of newspapers. Most people pass up the free paper at the hotel in favor of electronic media. I use the newspapers throughout the winter for lighting fires in our wood stove.

I came in bearing three half-bushel baskets and set them on the floor while I talked to my good friend Val. She's a great asset for the company with her sanguine personality. I found my visit to be uplifting and after some catching up the phone rang. That was my cue to go and collect the papers which were in a plastic tote just outside the breakfast room.

Then a mischievous idea entered my head when I noticed the breakfast attendant cleaning the breakfast room. I was disheveled with whiskers, hair sticking out from my baseball cap and my jeans were fashionably full of holes, good for summer wear with the ventilation. I approached the girl and asked "Could you spare a few bucks," as I held out one of the baskets. The girl was aghast, her jaw dropped and incredulity beamed from her eyes. She was speechless!

"Oh, I'm sorry, please allow me to introduce myself. I'm Toivo and I'm soliciting funds for the OAW. Would you care to contribute five dollars?" No response but her face said, 'who is this guy! What the hell is the OAW!'

"You see, I represent the OAW which is the Organization of American Winos."

She was even more shocked and I had to tell her, "just kidding."

You had such a serious look. I thought you were really from the 'OAW.' We both had a good laugh.

When I got home I thought , 'I really looked the part.'

Niemi (partial) Genealogy

Grandpa Axel Niemi was born in Vassan Lanni on the west coast of Finland and he had a brother, Abner Aho, the last name given to him from the farm on which he was born.  I don't know where in Finland Mary Lassi came from. She eventually became Mary Niemi and whether it was in Finland I'll never know.

There is probably a lot of history which never will be known. Axel never talked about his parents or family. It wasn't until I was in my teens that I found out that the skinny bent-over man who wheeled his groceries up the street was his brother. He and his wife lived at the corner of South Range Road and Penokee Road in Ironwood and there is nothing but woods there now. I remember this skinny old man atop his house cleaning his chimney, completely black with soot, except for his eyes.

Grandpa Axel immigrated to Canada where he worked in a lumber camp and eventually settled with Mary in a humble house at 211 South Range Road in Ironwood. They had four kids. An unknown who was stillborn, my mom Irene Marie, Frank, Reino (later Ray), and Emil.

I enjoyed Emil's  effusive personality.  We frequently visited them in Bessemer and were treated to the bubbly personality of Aunt Florence (Margetta). Emil played his accordion and showed us his 8 mm home movies. He was outgoing and happy despite his hunched back and the lift he had to wear on one shoe. He was a polio victim and spent most of his childhood in the hospital at the University of Michigan. Many surgeries corrected severe deformations which made it difficult to breathe or participate in school. He received his primary education in Ann Arbor but he attended Ironwood High School and graduated at age eighteen.

Grandpa noticed that Emil was intelligent so he paid for Emil's tuition at Gogebic Community College which was then on the third floor of Ironwood High School. Emil graduated with a two-year Associate's degree in accounting and spent his working years in the office at the Chrysler dealer in Bessemer. Emil died from complications of pneumonia, a month after my dad in October, 1970.

Ray served in the Air Force during WWII and spent his working years with the Ironwood Daily Globe in the advertising department. I didn't meet  his wife Mary until Dad's funeral in 1970 and I was impressed that she really cared about me during my season of grief. Hadn't met her before because of strange family dynamics. They both perished at their cottage on Little Oxbow Lake (circa) 1983. They were asphyxiated by a propane gas from a defective refrigerator.

Frank was my ideal man's man, tough and rawboned. He worked for a while in the iron mines and then he worked for the local Coca-Cola plant. He drove the truck loaded with cases of fine beverage. Road construction, Highway 2 as I remember was his next livelihood. when I was twelve he was staying at the family cottage in Mercer, Wisconsin. One day he came back from work with his pants torn and bloody. A chainsaw  raked across his thigh, and he had stitches. It was remarkable to me that he didn't consider it a big deal. He still went to work the next day.

Frank's life hit a rough patch, starting with a divorce. He drank heavily in the unkempt saloons in Hurley. He was a brawler and he spent overnight stints in jail. I thought that Frank was so cool! I wanted to be like him, even smoked his brand, Camel, those short coffin nails with no filter.



Frank eventually straightened out. He got sober and married again (Helen) and was a good father to three step-sons and eventually another baby boy.

He helped me with some projects around the house after my parents were gone and helped ease me through the horrible first week after Dad died.

 He was a man with several skills, making their drab house in Hurley into a showplace. He did it all, carpentry, masonry, electrical, plumbing, siding, roofing and he even installed a new furnace. That was the side of Frank that deeply impressed me. He beat the booze and made a new, sober life as a plumber for Schult Mobile Homes in Ironwood. He had ten good, sober years with Helen and the kids until his death at age fifty-five.

Mom was the eldest. In my book I remembered her mercurial disposition and her explosive temper. Eventually we found that her behavior had a physiological cause. When she got the medical care she needed she was a completely different person during the last three months of her life.

Mom kept the house clean and orderly. She got up at 4:30 on Monday to do the washing and also get the fire lit in our coal stove. She handled galvanized steel tubs and worked with a stick-shift wringer washing machine. She cooked on a wood-fired stove, snow for her new steam iron and hung clothes outside so they froze stiff then she hung them in the basement. She died from a stroke at age fifty-one. 

That is a summary of what I know about the maternal side of my family.

The Thief of Life

My concept of God has evolved from the white- bearded old man in robes. He was in a bedroom-sized observation post up in the sky. There were windows all around so God had a 360-degree view. It was like a gondola and it was red. I didn't know the character or temperament of God. Later I saw God as this mighty and vengeful deity that would throw me into hell of I misbehaved. I feared that death would be my portal to fiery and everlasting hell.

The backdrop of my childhood belief was a town of about 10,000 people. Long trains of ore cars would held up traffic now and then. The iron ore mines were still going strong. The downtown was bustling with traffic on Friday night that you never see nowadays. Two traffic cops at the two main intersections.  There were 4 pharmacies, two movie theaters, 3 hotels, 8 franchised auto dealerships, 6 grade schools, 2 high schools, 14 churches, 8 taverns and 2 supermarkets. And it snowed all the time in the winter.

Our family attended St. Paul Lutheran, just around the corner from our house. On any given Sunday the church was full of people in their Sunday best. Dad and I attended services every other week, because of Dad's work schedule. He was a pharmacist at the Walgreen store on Suffolk Street. Mom didn't attend because she thought church had become a fashion show. She would stay home, cooking Sunday dinner, but she listened to the Baptist Hour and the  Lutheran Hour on the radio.

The seeds of my faith, however were in television. Just about every roof was adorned with a TV antenna. I had a great desire for TV so that I wouldn't have to go to Billy's house to watch cartoons.

Our entertainment was a Capehart radio and phonograph in an elegant mahogany cabinet with doors on the front. It was okay but didn't have the electric and dynamic appeal of TV.  Dad always said, "Be patient. I'm shopping around for one and I want the most for my money."

"Are we going to get a TV soon? " The patience of an 8 year-old boy is brief. I just hung onto the faith that Dad was going to have a TV in our living room, but after a few days my faith waned.

Then one gray October day in 1955 as I was coming home after a hard day at school, I saw the antenna on our roof! I broke into a run. Now I could see Popeye, Mickey Mouse and the Three Stooges at home. It was a General Electric 21-inch black and white.

Mom liked to watch American Bandstand with the teens dancing to the just-evolving rock and roll music on channel 3 while my cartoons were on channel 6. I was frustrated, but I soon found out that Mom was too busy to sit down and watch TV for very long, but still, a 20 minute portion of American Bandstand was her coffee break show.

I became acquainted with such personalities as Jackie Gleason,(The Honeymooners), James Arness (U.S. Marshall Matt Dillon of Gunsmoke), Aaron Burr The lawer who always won in Perry Mason), Walter Cronkite(CBS news) and Captain Q (really Jack McKenna the weather man on channel 6.)

On Saturday nights I'd be watching "Gunsmoke" and I'd hear, "You better get busy with your Sunday school homework," Mom yelled from the kitchen. "You could do it any night you want then your Saturday night would be free." It was more sensibility than I could muster so on Saturday nights I opened my Bible along with the workbook. I read the text then hunted for the answers to the questions in the old or new testaments.The Bible was in the ancient King James version and from that I gathered such misunderstandings asPsalm 23 (the Lord is my shepherd I shall not want) meant that God is my shepherd and I don't want Him. There were other misunderstandings but there was a whopper that robbed me of peace and serenity and the joys that a middle school kid should have.

I had several Sunday school teachers and all of us boys liked Margaret. She was a stunning beauty, but she was teaching the junior high school group, so I was in the middle school age and Mrs. Perlberg was the teacher. She was humorless and strict. She was also ancient with deep creases and wrinkles. I imagined they had dust in them. She also wore a floral hat since women wore hats in church.

Mrs. Perlberg expedited us to come prepared. We were to speak when addressed. I thought she was also a public school teacher with her rules. She also told us to sit up straight. The forty-five minutes of class time seemed like half a day.

I wondered why Mom and Dad sent me off to Sunday school. By the end of the fifth grade I thought my chances of going to heaven were slim. I thought 'who can be good all the time.' 'I thought of spanking Miss Kemp, my fifth grade teacher at Central School when she reprimanded me for tardiness. Miss Kemp and Mrs. Perlberg could have been sisters.I asked God for forgiveness for my sinful thoughts but never felt forgiven. The Bible tells us to love our neighbor as yourself. I didn't love Miss Kemp or our neighbors. I liked them but I didn't feel mushy about them, particularly Claude, who was always crabby and never smiled or said hello. Then there was a bully next door to Claude and he bullied me in front of his friends many times. I couldn't find anything about bullies in the Bible.

Mrs. Perlberg's class took a frightening twist when we got to the topic of the unpardonable sin. I wondered how any sin can be unpardonable. The Bible said in 1John 1 "...He is faithful and just to forgive our sins."

But then there was Mark3:28-29, "Verily I say unto you all sins will be forgiven unto the sons of and blasphemies with which they shall blaspheme; but he that blasphemeth against the Holy Spirit hath never forgiveness, but is in danger  of eternal damnation." My innards turned to ice. I was not only going to hell but I would also receive eternal damnation.

My life was ruined! For eternity. When this thing hit me my mind was not there in the classroom.  I was  imagining what hell was like. I didn't hear the pertinent discussion.

Central School was turning into a disaster. I became inattentive, moody and withdrawn. I forgot to do homework assignments. One morning I wore my bedroom slippers under my overshoes. I ran home and put on my shoes and I got the expected lecture from Miss Kemp. I wasn't sleeping well.

Mom reacted to my hang-dog look:

"What are you worrying about now?"

"I've committed the unpardonable sin."

"Who told you that?"

"The Bible."

"For crying out loud get those cobwebs out of your head. You're enough to drive me nuts!"

I consulted Webster for meaning of what the word  : "Showing a lack of reverence for God."

How reverent did I have to be. Maybe there are no degrees of reverance. Maybe it was like the status of a light switch. On or off. Maybe I was irreverent, like when I hung out with guys and we smoked and swore and talked about the birds and the bees. I'd ask God for forgiveness in silent prayer but then I'd do something else.

I crawled into a shell. I had enjoyed playing basketball with the guys at the Memorial Building, or attending Saturday matinees at the Ironwood Theatre. On  spaghetti night I barely ate anything.

"What's going on, son?"  Dad's vertical lines between his eyes became pronounced with care. "You've been unusually quiet the last couple of weeks."

Mom was just about to say what I had told her, but I headed her off. "I'll be OK."

"If there's something you want to talk about just get it out on the table."

"No, it's ok Dad."

"Sure?"

"Yup."

                                       ----------

Next week I was home, ill with a cold so Mom kept me home from Sunday school.  Mom said it was okay to watch TV but I had to rest and stay covered up. I surfed our two channels, finding David Brinkley in a boring political discussion. Channel six had something I hadn't ever seen.

It was the Oral Roberts crusade under a huge tent. There must have been thousands in attendance, men, women and children. The hymns they sang seemed childish to me, having sung more dignified and majestic hymns at St. Paul's.

Roberts preached a  sermon about salvation and he had me dangling over hell-fire. Then he was putting his hand on people who were in the throes of affliction. Some were in wheelchairs, others had cancer, and then there was this tall teen with his mother, who said her boy was eighteen and his doctor had given him six to eight months to live. He had heart failure and his lips were pale and his fingernails were blue.

Roberts asked the boy,"Do you believe that Jesus has the power to heal you?"

"Yes, I do, sir." Oral Roberts put his hand on the boy's forehead and prayed fervently.

"In the name of Jesus cast out this terminal disease and make this young man strong and hearty. Heal him o Lord! Heal him!"

The boy shouted for joy, claiming he was healed and he felt stronger already.

(I obsessed about the color of my fingernails and lips and for months.)

Then came the altar call and Oral Roberts spoke calmly on  behalf of those who came forward. He recited John 3:3,5-7, and 16.  "You are here because the Holy Spirit has convicted you of sin. Pray with me all of you, including those with us by television." I closed my eyes and folded my hands as I was sitting on the floor in front of the TV. Maybe this was my escape from eternal damnation.

Oral Roberts prayed a line and the audience repeated it.

"Lord, be merciful to me, a sinner.  I have done wrong in your sight. I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of the living God. I deserve the horrors of hell but you give grace and salvation. You blot out all our sins and I now ask you into my heart, oh Jesus! Thank you Jesus! Yes thank you that I am now a child of God. Amen.

As Oral Roberts opened his eyes they were flooded with tears and he yelled,"Praise Jesus!"

Others were crying, some rejoicing, even jumping up and down. Jubilant glowing faces bore testament to their salvation. I had prayed that prayer too but I had no tears, no ecstasy. I didn't feel like jumping around. Crestfallen, I assumed that the Sinner's Prayer didn't work for me. I was still going to hell. The winter sun was brilliant and I was going to hell.

Another week passed and Dad asked if I wanted to go for a ride with him and so we drove to Hurley and the target destination which was Fino's Bar on the second block of Silver Street. We entered the back door through a long, dim corridor. It was dark in Fino's. The shoe repair shop in one corner of the bar-room was darker but the pairs of boots and shoes needing repair were still displayed. Buck Owens, a country singer was singing from the jukebox.

I climbed up a bar stool next to Dad. Dad ordered a beer and I took a bottle of Squirt, sitting there, trying to look grown up, but I wasn't tall enough to comfortably rest my elbows on the bar.

"What's got your boxers in an uproar?" Dad asked. It was noisy with the din of conversation and the Wednesday Night Fights on TV, making our conversation  private.

"I'm okay," I replied uneasily.

"I've known you for all your life. I'm your Dad and I can see that something's not right. You've been quiet and withdrawn and you're not hanging out with your buddies. Whatever it is, you can tell me. That's what Dads are for.," He ended his sentence with a kindly smile.

"I think I'm going to hell."

"Why?" Dad took a sip of beer.

"It was in Sunday School a few weeks ago. There was this passage from Mark 3:28-29 about the unpardonable sin."

"What's it say?" Dad was nicely drawing me out of my shell. He also had some familiarity with the Bible.

"The sin of blasphemy against the Holy Spirit will not be forgiven."

"Do you think you're guilty of this?"

I nodded.

"Tell you what. let's finish our drinks and go on home?"

Dad led me out of the long, dim corridor back to the car.  It had started snowing and I cleared the snow away from the windows. I liked watching Dad drive the '54 Chevy, the way he effortlessly shifted gears.

"Blasphemy against the Holy Spirit means you have rejected the Holy Spirit. Have you done that?"

"I don't think so."

"Of course you haven't. You prayed the Sinner's Prayer. Mom told me about that. If you rejected the Holy Spirit you wouldn't even watch Oral Roberts or anything that pertains to God. You have nothing to worry about."

"I thought about what it is like to commit blasphemy. I imagined it It seemed like I had really done it.."

"That's all you did, son. Think of Jesus at times like that. He wouldn't want you to be in such pain."

As we walked through the snow in the yard Dad put his arm around my shoulder.

"No more worrying about this?"

"No more worrying," I said with the first smile on my face in a few weeks. I was glad that I had such a great and wise Dad.

"Son, you've just experienced God's grace.

                                                 -------------------

I Guess it was the Lord's Will

Chuck was foursquare. You could count on his word and now the world has one less foursquare person.

I want to remember him in his white work clothes when he did plastering. He and his dad plastered the Woodland Church forty years ago. He drove an old Ford paneled van as he went to his jobs. Never advertised in the paper. His craftsmanship preceded him and he didn't lack for work. He plastered our ceilings and made friends with our (then) dog Teddy. They became buddies as Chuck listened to Christian radio while working. Chuck asked so timidly if he could keep his portable radio on while he worked.

 I wondered how he could listen to sermons all the time. He loved his Lord.

Chuck was the essence of humility, the essence of the chapter in the Bible called the 'love' chapter, (ICorinthians 13.) He was never proud, never uttered harsh words. He looked for the good in people. His love showed in his concern and patience for people.He shared his faith wherever he went, never too shy to tell a total stranger that he needed Jesus Christ. Once I met Chuck at the old Ahonen's Mill. We had each bought a bundle of slab maple wood and we were loading up. A stranger backed his pickup to load wood.

"Hi, I'm Chuck and I wondered if you would accept this (Bible tract) and read it over in you spare time."

The stranger was at a loss for words. Chuck always had tracts in his pocket, concerned that the next person he met needed Jesus as his savior. I marveled at this because I wouldn't have had the boldness to even say 'hi.' The stranger politely accepted the literature.

But that was Chuck. Taciturn and meek on one hand but he had this remarkable boldness to spread the Good News.

None of our Bible studies at Woodland Church was complete without Chuck's sage advice and opinions. His Bible was worn, indicating his devout Christianity.  Once we were befuddled as to a Bible passage. "Chuck, where is that reference about giving to the Lord's work?"

"Chuck replied without hesitation, without turning a page in his Bible,  "Second Corinthians 9:6, he who soweth sparingly shall also reap sparingly."

All of us smiled.  We were delighted at his command of the Scriptures.

Lois and I delighted in having Chuck and Lil for dinner after church during the football season. Although he didn't wear licensed Packer clothing and their car bore no Packer bumper stickers and he didn't talk much about football, a part of him was in the green and gold nation. I never knew Chuck could get so excited! "Touchdown! Hooray for the Packers! Did you see that perfect pass by Brett Favre?"

When they lived in Iron Belt they had us over for dinner occasionally and of course, the Packer game. After a scrumptious dinner we descended the stairs to their completely finished basement. It was a bone-chilling Sunday in December but Chuck made their basement recreation area toasty with a fire in the stove. It was the Packers vs. the Vikings and we were  pumped up for the occasion. It was a pivotal point of the season, a crucial game. Lois and Lil were upstairs and Chuck and I continued to watch the game. Then we took a nap! Right during this  game that had playoff implications! Our full tummies along with the warmth from the wood fire and the comfort of the recliners did us in.

"Are you guys sleeping?" Lil asked as she and Lois returned much later. We had to admit that we couldn't stay awake under such extreme conditions. The Vikings won.

 I was angry, "The Packers had that stupid holding penalty. The replay clearly showed that there was no holding."

Chuck calmly replied with a wistful smile,"I guess it was the Lord's will for the Vikings to win."

Chuck was always concerned to do and accept the Lord's will. We will surely miss him.

To My Friends at the Comfort Inn

Some days are unforgettable. Jamie asked me two weeks beforehand if I would come in on Feb. 12 to clarify some things about the pool, including the paperwork. I obliged and wrote the note on my office calendar.

I recalled my appointment on the appointed day and as I was leaving I told Lois I'd go to the store and get the few things we needed. Strange thing is that  Lois said  not to bother. She would get them. That was okay with me.

When I got inside the lobby Jamie told me that the hotel was in an uproar and that hoards of rug rats had rendered the pool into a state of emergency. 'Whatever it is I've seen worse,' I told myself as I punched in. I was focused on bringing the pool back to a healthy state and then Jamie (oh, that Jamie) said the breakfast room would qualify for disaster relief from FEMA so she entreated me to come and help put the furniture back in order. "Not a problem," I said, wondering how much work would go into the pool maintenance.

The French doors to the breakfast room were papered over and a sign proclaimed that a private party was in progress. Jamie opened the doors and the room was dark. As my eyes adjusted I wondered why the room was full of people sitting in the dark. Someone turned on the lights and a loud and unison yell of "surprise!" unhinged my jaw. Talk about shock and awe! I saw fellow employees as well as former employees and I became aware that I probably looked silly with my jaw down to my knees. The room was packed. And Lois was there!

Sue Spets, the General Manager and I have been with the company since the doors opened on my birthday  in August of 1990. Sue read some of my entries in the operations log and brought to life in vivid color the night that I came to work and an old classmate was in charge behind the counter. His demeanor suggested that maybe he was the CEO of Choice Hotels Int. I hadn't seen Jack since high school.

"Do you have enough confidence to do this?" Jack asked in a patronizing tone. My engine temperature sharply increased but I was careful not to show it. I remembered him from fourth period physics with Mr. Supercynski. Nonetheless he had a point since I didn't have enough confidence to take algebra as a freshman but as a senior  I was doing quite well in math and science. (That's another story in my blog.) "Yeah. I can do this," I replied, remembering to relax my jaw. I lasted long enough to retire, and overcame  many difficult situations so there, Jack. (I'll elaborate on the trials in my book.)

Sue read other entries from the operations log that I had written. Some were angry, some were lighthearted and humorous. Some were incredulous.  She masterfully framed my career at The Comfort Inn. Her cohorts, led by Jamie helped her pull it off. Thanks to Sue and the crew for this soiree. The next morning I asked Lois, "Did that really happen?"

Now it's time to let go of my duties behind the desk, although I'll still work as a consultant for our aquatic recreation facilities. (Could Jack. manage a swimming pool?)

I made a statement in my book that my career at the Comfort Inn wasn't something to brag about at a class reunion, minimizing the importance of fellow employees and management. Working at the desk requires a rare skill set.  There are difficult  and sometimes delicate situations and the desk agent must deal with while making everything work in our complex computer technology. Quick decisions must be made under pressure. There are many judgement calls, tough calls. The general Manager gets the same menu of stress only it is magnified tenfold. I've called her many times in the wee hours for direction. Sue, you have the strong and broad shoulders needed for all of the issues that come your way. Please accept my apology for that statement.

Now I have different challenges: 'where are my reading glasses? ... what do you mean, doctor- I don't need Lipitor....why is the floor down so low when I have to pick something up... who is that person who seems to have known me forever ... did I take my pills? Where are my pills?...that new music drives me crazy! When I was young we had the Beattles, Rolling Stones, Credence Clearwater Revival. Real music!... the gal on the ten o'clock news should get to bed. It's a school night.

He Keeps Me Running

I have the tendency to get moody and my countenance darkens. That's my tendency. Currently I have no time to brood. My retirement job is the church janitor at Woodland Church. Today I cleared snow away from the fire doors. The east door required the use of a mattock, a steel shovel and the 12 horsepower snow blower. That one door took a half-hour. The four doors took over an hour and the mercury plummeted. I felt tired and old and cold on the way home so I settled into my recliner and fell asleep till suppertime.

After supper Chris called. He's been an object of my prayers lately, a 28-year-old whirlwind who came into our lives out of nowhere. He painted our house last summer and he's finishing the remodeling project in our upstairs bathroom. He's ambitious, works as a jack of all trades, barely making a living. Chris shows up and the dogs erupt and I prepare a cup of coffee for him.  He has a naughty sense of humor even though he's up against it.

Things haven't been so good for him lately. The market for projects has slowed. His pickup truck gave up the ghost and he lives alone in a rented house out in the sticks of Bessemer. Lives on mac and cheese except when we have him join us.

Prayers are being answered as he found a truck, an old beater, yet something that will take him to his jobs. He has applied for any available jobs and just today he got a call from Ironwood Plastics for a Monday interview. Our prayer chain at Woodland church is praying he will get the job and a steady income.

Chris has exasperated us, amazed us and become the son we never had. He makes me forget about besetting troubles.  He's a good kid, no matter what anybody says. Reminds me of that 1967 song by the Byrds. The refrain goes,"I was so much older then; I'm younger than that now."

Preface to "Fortuitous Friendships."

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.

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.)

                                                        

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Our Doggie Kids at "Cute School" (Snickers in Kindergarten)

It was almost the end of the school year and the sublime spring weather got our Scottish Terrier/Corgy boy (Snickers) in a restless state.  Miss Beagle coaxed the students into their nap time, keeping an eye on Snickers because of his propensity to sneak out for a smoke.

At the first instance of his tobacco use Miss Beagle was shocked since this has never happened in the annals of the school, even in the middle school age dogs. Miss Beagle grilled Snickers for his tobacco source, but he's a stubborn lad, loathe to squeal so Miss Beagle made him sit in the 'shame' corner pending his cooperation. She was unaware of a bond between Snickers and the principal, Mr. Pit Bull whom the students had clandestinely  dubbed "The Bull."

Miss Beagle did, by chance, uncover the alliance after sending Snickers to the principal's office for brawling during a game of "London Bridge is Falling Down." School had been recessed for the day so she went for 'the Bull's office to investigate the matter of Snickers' admonishment. No one happened to be in the office but the window was open and she detected cigarette smoke. She heard the two talking just outside so she sauntered toward the window.

"I was in a few scrapes myself when I was a young pup."

"How old were you?" Inquired Snickers.

"I was in the second grade, as I recall."

"By the way, how many times have you been sent to my office?"

"About a hundred, give 'er take."

"Anyway," continued  The bull, "I knocked out a mutt who ate one of my colored crayons, the red one. I knocked the poor kid out cold! They carried him to the nurse's office and give 'm smellin' salts to bring him to."

"Anyway, nobody messed with me after that but I was required to stay after school in the principal's office every day for a month."

Miss Beagle knocked on the door and cleared her throat. The smokers quickly made their way back inside.

"Out for a little spring air?"

The Bull coughed before he spoke.

"I was just giving Snickers a lecture about fighting."

"Indeed."

She looked sidelong at The Bull, spectacles perched on the end of her snout.

The Bull shifted uneasily and excused himself, "I've got a lot of paperwork to do. Snickers won't make any more trouble, right, Snickers?"

"Yes, sir!"

Dress Rehearsal

My running has taken a more serious nature as I signed up tor the Paavo Nurmi  marathon. I did some searching in the Paavo website and found that there was also a half marathon. I found the map of the course then Lois and I took a ride to investigate the course. (Afterward I said to Lois, "I can do this!")

The course starts in Gile, Wisconsin and initiates one's legs with an approximately medium climb on otherwise busy Highway 77 past well-kept homes nestled in spruces and pines. There is a blacktop lane for runners and cyclists and the road surface integrity is excellent, as it is for the 13.1 miles.

I ran the course June 6, and made rookie mistakes, the first of which was to charge  too fast up the hill until the turn at Highway C. My legs were warm but not burning. I stopped and consulted my Fitbit activity tracker. I thought I had run farther than the two miles indicated. My time wasn't too bad, at 20 minutes but I would regret this later.

Onward! My shoes slapped the pavement over hill and dale in a pastoral setting. I stopped regularly to consult Fitbit and I was on the pace that I desired.  I ignored the article in Runner's World stating that first-timers should not have a time goal. Just finish the race. I've been running for five years. What do they know? My goal was 2:20.

Fatigue started in my calves after about an hour and I remembered that I hadn't slept well the last two nights. I slowed my pace to the beat of the song, Richard Cory, the ballad by Simon and Garfunkel about a much-envied rich man who had the world by the tail but went home one night and killed himself. I began to sing this out loud as well as I could, pausing as I ran past fishermen at the Gile Flowage.

At three-quarters of the County C stretch my legs began to ache seriously. I couldn't understand this since I had run 12.86 miles the previous Saturday. (I would research more on running marathons later and find out that I shouldn't run  half-marathons in consecutive weeks.) I had also read that first-timers especially should intersperse intervals of walking. I was too bull-headed to heed any of this Runner's World crap.

At the somewhat residential stretch I knew Highway 51 wasn't far ahead but I was running out of gas. I started walking intervals at seven miles and I was mad at myself. What the hell is wrong? I can run this, I know I can!

Highway 51 afforded a downhill stretch so I ran (much slower than Richard Cory tempo) but when the road flattened out so did I and I was back to running-and-walking intervals but when traffic passed by I made sure I was running.

The intervals changed with more walking, less running and my legs were burning, my hip joints were killing me but I was determined to make this course. I have sisu  as did Paavo Nurmi the great Finnish marathon runner who won nine marathons, (I think.) Fatigue and pain trumped my pride.

By the Gile Flowage I consulted Fitbit and my time was lousy. I was ashamed but I pressed onward. By now my pace was three-quarters walking. I had only two miles to the finish line.

I ran and walked several intervals and my upper back ached. I realized that I was out of gas a mile from my goal and I couldn't run any more so I walked on aching legs and hips. Cars sped past me and I wished I was sitting in one, headed for home.

Runner's World has great insight into running and I recalled a bit of training advice I had ignored: do easy runs, don't run hard at all two days before the race. On Thursday I intended to take an easy run, but the hills of Jessieville beckoned and I scaled and descended then ran up a long, hard grade, First National Street, thinking this would condition me for the hills in the half-marathon. I ignored expert advice.

I did finish the course but I won't disclose my time, but it was considerably longer than the two hours it to me to run a week ago. I started to realize that running wasn't all legwork. Strategy must be deployed, such as taking it easy at the start, the two- mile hill. I've got to listen to what my body is telling me, not the vanity.

I had read expert advice and ignored it. The book of Proverbs says, "The way of a fool is right in his own eyes." It also says "Pride comes before a fall."

This week I stuck by my training plan, running easy for three or four miles Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday and not running Friday. I researched the benefits of slow runs. I also found that muscular micro-tears from the 13.1-mile venture needed to heal.

Today will be a six-miler and the pace will not be Richard Cory but Tuxedo Junction,  composed by  Glenn Miller (1930s) and there will be slower intervals in hilly terrain, Stuck in the Middle With You (The Steeler's Wheel)  will be playing in my mind.

My goal for the race has changed; just finish it.

Mr. Buffet's Employee

It's easy to get bogged down by the negative experiences in life, especially those that originate from sour people. I would like to see a federal law that all persons of sour disposition be required to work one year at a service job at marginal pay, with no benefits, but that's not going to happen. But if it did all of us would still have to take a happy pill since nobody's perfect with respect to disposition. Just ask my wife about my sometimes sour disposition.

There is a toxin that hits you when it's launched by an irascible person. You're behind the counter and you must adhere to proper conduct and not raise your voice or use any conduct that would escalate the situation and give that person cause to launch his vitriol in the direction of corporate headquarters. It takes skill to divert this anger that implies incompetence on your part. Sometimes 'people' skills aren't enough.

Sometimes the toxin has a particularly keen sting as in the instance of a man who threw his key card at me.

"There's no need for that! I'll try to help you with your problem but don't treat me with disrespect." I smelled his boozy breath.

He was silent for a minute, looking down, elbows on the counter and then with a sarcastic smirk lauched into a tireade,
"I spend thousands here and they can't assure me of a key that works?"

" Sorry, I'll make a new..."

"You know who I work for? Come on, ask me who I work for." I took the bait.

"Warren(expletive) Buffet."

By then I realized how drunk he was. He hadn't spent thousands. His company paid for his lodging.

I started making a new key card but I forgot my password, a password I've used for a long time and panic came knocking at the door as Mr. Buffet's employee noticed my hesitation.

"You're new here. You forgot how to make keys."

Rather than respond I concentrated on the task and offered a quick prayer 'help'.

"When did they hire you? Last week?" His voice escalating, "You forgot how to work that machine, didn't you? Yeah, you're new."

My password flashed into my mind and in seconds I had a new key made. I apologized for the inconvenience and handed the key to him.

He snorted at my apology as he demanded to talk to a manager and it was after 1:00 a.m. To shorten this story I called the police after talking to the manager and the officers took him aside for a while and talked to him and asked him questions. They escorted him to his room.

In retrospect the man was reprimanded by his boss who also stayed at the hotel. During the incident I didn't let Mr. Buffett's employee define me, and I didn't retort by telling him how many years I had worked at this hotel. I wouldn't let him destroy my dignity. When he glared angrily I stuck to the problem at hand. I felt rage and fear that he would complain to corporate headquarters but I kept a poker face.

The abuse stung for some time. In church I've been told to forgive those who sin against me. The sting was dissipated by relating this event to my wife.  Lois understands since she has had many similar encounters. In time I forgave him and he quit living inside my  mind, rent free.

I will endure this situation again assuming I don't completely retire soon. I will dignify complaints and do my utmost for a guest but I will not tolerate disrespect or extreme drunkenness. I won't let anyone destroy my dignity and self-respect.

Self-Acceptance

Acceptance is a virtue for recovering alcoholics I'm told and I've learned to accept certain things, but not everything.

I've accepted, to a degree that I have a small bone structure, giving me small wrists, narrow shoulders. It's ectomorphism, with an inability to gain weight, not having much muscle mass, and a skinny physique. I have trouble finding watch bands that fit. Usually I need a jeweler to adjust the expansion band to fit my tiny wrist. It's hard finding jeans in my size in the slim style. Regular or relaxed fit will make me look like a kid trying on his daddy's jeans.

Acceptance for my slightness of physique didn't come easy or overnight and it hasn't come entirely. Well-meaning friends  remark that I am too skinny. I should eat more. One gal did this at a church barbecue. She yelled, "You better eat. You're WAY too skinny!" Heads turned and my ears got red. Afterward I smoldered, I didn't call attention to her obesity. I didn't say she shouldn't load her plate with two helpings but later in the night I kept thinking about retorts that I thought I should have launched.

During a visit to my dermatologist I was to receive a cortisone shot for my severe eczema and the doctor noticed my weight on my patient chart. Before he said anything I told him, "I'm an ectomorph, what can I do? That's the way it is."

"Well, George although ectomorphs lack muscularity and mass they do have one outstanding characteristic." I met his eyes for the answer. "Ectomorphs have outstanding stamina. That's why marathon runners are characteristically skinny. You're a runner. You have  endurance that makes you able to run five miles or more. You're not a marathon runner but you don't do too badly for a man of sixty-seven years. Enjoy your ectomorphism."

When I see myself in the mirror I see what's there versus what I'd like to see or more accurately, what I think others want to see. At times I accept the physique God gave me and other times I don't. After a run I feel good about myself.

Then there are times  when I condemn myself and I think I should put on a lot of weight. A real man has heft, huskiness.My mom used to say I was so skinny I wouldn't cast a shadow. Other times she said I was so light that a good puff of wind would blow me away. I tried weight-lifting and increased calorie intake to no avail. All I'd got was a flabby stomach but the rest of me was still skinny.

 Last year at work some snowmobile riders returning from the gin mills in an altered state said "You ain't as pretty as the gal on the afternoon shift." Construction workers have referred to me as "ma'm" when they come to check out of the hotel.  They smirk at my small, thin hands as they navigate the computer keyboard. I don't flinch, blush or bat an eyelash. I'm all business but after my shift is done and I'm alone, self-condemnation comes like a flood.

People tend to have these neat little definitions or boxes in which they can put people. They scorn the people who fail to fit into them, mostly silently, sometimes in gossip or they launch  blunt cruel words as when someone is deemed too fat, too thin, too masculine for a female or too feminine for a male. Not white enough, not having a pot-gut and facial hair, not big enough, not petite enough, not dressed right, not driving a bad-ass truck. They don't think (or care) for a moment, how Got sees them They also do not realize that they fall short of aesthetic  perfection. They are the ones who need self-examination, to figure why they have the need to demean others.

Self-acceptance will increase, but it's non-linear with respect to time.