Wars & Peas (Reblog)

There are times in one’s life where one has to stop being humorous and take a serious view about certain things…don’t worry, however, this isn’t one of those times. Today I will write about the war. Which war, you ask? The WAR! You know, the war at home. The war most of us have to wage weekly. The war at the supermarket. You know, the STORE WAR! Of course, if you no longer have kids, it’s more like a skirmish. This story took place over 25 years ago when I took my 4 kids to the grocery store.

There’s nothing like the heat of battle to get your blood pumping. I feel it every time I maneuver into the parking lot and search for the ultimate launching point for our assault. You know…a good parking space. Not too close, yet not too far. It needs to be accessible for a hasty retreat if needed. Before exiting the vehicle, I turn to the kids to give them their pre-assault briefing.

“Men…” I begin.

“I’m a girl,” my daughter, the oldest, my second-in-command, aptly pointed out. A stern look usually corrects this kind of insubordination. “Sorry, dad.” I forgive her because she usually is dependable in crucial situations. I look back at the other kids.

“We’re about to enter the brunt of the battle,” I continue. “I expect you all to perform with honor and valor!” I paused for effect, but all I saw was bewildered faces.

“Huh?” my four-year-old asked. As usual, my second-in-command daughter translated.

“He means not to touch anything, not to beg for anything, and not to goof off.” Nods of understanding followed her explanation, except for the one-year-old. He seemed to be more fascinated with something on his finger. His inattentiveness was ignored because he was pretty good at his role of just sitting in the shopping cart and looking cute. His military skills as a decoy were unparallel.

We left the security of the vehicle and began the generally fruitless search for an Urban Assault…um, shopping cart (for you non-military folks) that worked as intended. Settling for one with only one wobbly wheel, a functional seat belt, and only a trace of grime, we assaulted the building.

We were hit immediately by the smell of the battlefield. The moist heavy smell of the produce sector, the deceptively soft billowy aroma of the bakery sector, the cold frigid feeling in the freezer sector, and the putrid smell of raw flesh in the meat sector. Ah, the memories of past battles, both won and lost, wafted through our, well, at least my mind. It was as if I trained my whole life for this moment! But first, we had to traverse the dreaded sale sector. This is where the enemy hits you with their heaviest artillery barrage…you know, stuff for kids.

“Look, Daddy!” my four-year-old says as he starts to succumb to their trickery. “Kool-Aid Bursts! Can we…”

“Don’t give in to their commercial warfare tactics!” I cried, a little panicked.

“Huh?”

“Medic!” I yelled. My kids just looked at me strangely…even the one-year-old tore his eyes from whatever was on that finger of his to look at me strangely. We rolled on as I noticed the kids weren’t the only ones looking at me strangely. Just a bunch of civilians caught in the crossfire, I thought.

Anyway, as in most military operations, there was always something ugly that had to be done. Many men out there know exactly what I’m talking about and no doubt still suffer lingering nightmares over it. Yes, I’m talking about the dreaded feminine hygiene product sector, a place usually avoided by most males. Some of us, namely me, think we have a good plan for the extraction of this product without detection. I simply hover about near the aisle until it’s empty, quickly roll through and grab the package, then hide it under the other groceries until the moment of truth…checkout. It’s a dirty business, this war stuff.

Of course, it could go very badly at checkout. If you ever watched the movie, Mr. Mom, you’ll know what I mean. The scene where the cashier did a price check on the feminine product traumatized me. What if that ever happened to me? What would I do? Would I crack under the pressure? Is there even a military training protocol to handle this situation? I don’t know and I never aim to find out.

Something similar did happen to me on that day, however. We hit the checkout lane with a false optimism that we were going to win this battle today! The kids were good, the aisles were free and clear, and we were making incredible time. I was feeling pretty good about our chances of getting away from the battlefield without casualties until I began to load the conveyor belt with our spoils.

The only child in this story not to be mentioned yet was my eight-year-old son. Until now, he was quiet. In hindsight, he had been a little too quiet. I should have observed this earlier, but ended up paying for my lack of attention with his betrayal.

“I thought we didn’t need diapers?” he asked, his little hand reaching for the feminine hygiene product I had just smoothly placed on the conveyor belt as if it were a bag of noodles or something. I grabbed his hand before he could ruin everything. I had mentioned this fact while we rolled through the battlefield, but I didn’t realize it would turn into such a grave tactical error. I panicked and told the truth.

“They aren’t diapers,” I said quietly, very aware of the civilians both in front of and behind us.

“Then what are they?” he asked loudly. Wouldn’t that kid shut up? I could feel all the civilian eyes turning to us. I looked at my one-year-old decoy with pleading eyes. Do your job, I thought, but he just stared at me with a smile, as if he could sense my discomfort.

“Something for Mom,” I informed him, thinking that answer would pacify him.

“What do they do?” he continued. I clenched. I’m pretty sure the checker clicked the PA button by now and the whole store was listening. I imagined my entire life was put on display and it was time to take my measure as a soldier and as a man. This was to be my heroic moment, I thought, if only I could just shut that kid up!

“Um, you can ask Mom when we get home,” I answered tersely. Why should I have all the pressure?

“Why? Don’t you know?” he asked as I swear thousands of spectator civilians gasped. The checker stopped what she was doing and looked visibly nervous. If I didn’t get ahold of the situation, there was a chance it could blow up and create an international incident. As a parent, I always prided myself in knowing most of the answers to most of the questions my kids would ask, something I learned from my dad. Now, how would he answer?

“Um, sure I do,” I answered with a wink. “Let’s just see if your Mom does.” Sighs of relief surrounded me. The checker went back to work with a smile. Disaster avoided, mission accomplished, battle won…at least until I got home.

Should’ve Played the Lottery

After I recovered from cancer a couple of years ago, I decided to semi-retire from my previous occupation. The fact that we still needed a little extra money had me searching for a fun little job that would still fit the bill. I found that job at a casino working the graveyard shift as a slot attendant. I’ve now been doing this job for almost a year.

Casino’s are interesting in that you meet all kinds of people. We have high rollers that spend a lot on table games and high dollar slots. We have low rollers that come in with very little money and play pennies on slots. We have people who come in daily and we know each other by name. There are also the people who come in very infrequently or are just passing through to other locations. No matter the circumstance, there are a lot of interesting people.  Most of the people are nice and treat us workers with respect, courtesy, and kindness. Then we have the others…

I will avoid details that might cause someone to recognize themselves, but if they do, maybe this will give them a clue about how awful a human being can be to another human being. I once was called to a slot machine that froze while being played. There are various reasons why this can happen, but the most common fix is to reboot the machine which can take a few minutes. Of course, if the player is a real jerk, it can feel more like hours.

I approached the machine with my usual happy greeting to the player and began to tell them I would have it fixed as quickly as possible. Before I could finish, the lady began to berate me and let me know that in no uncertain terms, I had better have it fixed in 2 minutes. 2 minutes of her berating later, it was still rebooting and showed signs that it would be a long reboot. Her mouth kept going about how I was inept at my job and the casino was the worst casino she had ever been to. I finally radioed my supervisor to deal with her so I could concentrate on the machine. He arrived and her berating didn’t slow down one bit. He asked me how far along I was and I told him. She immediately called me a liar. I bit my lip and let my boss deal with her. After a short while, he left to see if we could get her paid before I was finished. Then she continued to berate me some more. After a few minutes, she seemed to tire. Then I think something clicked in her unreasonable brain.

HER: What do you say about everything I said? (I had been keeping my mouth shut for fear of what might come out.)

ME: I’d say this has been the longest ten minutes of my life…

HER: I bet it has. I’m sorry, but I need to get my money so I can go get my kids from school…I’m late.

ME: I’ll say. It’s 10 o’clock on a Sunday night…what school do they go to?

This seemed to shut her up and she was paid shortly after.

I have plenty more examples, but I mentioned the job was fun, so I don’t want to spend my blog trashing folks. The real point of this blog is to tell you about something remarkable that happened not too long ago.

I was called to a machine where a man was trying to learn how to play. He expressed that he’d never played slots before and wanted to know what the winning lines looked like. I explained the game to him and he was very grateful and nice. When he turned to me to thank me, he noticed that my mask had the Green Bay Packer logo on it.

HIM: Packer fan, huh?

ME: Born and raised. I’m from Wisconsin.

HIM: So’s my buddy here (he said while pointing at his friend behind him).

I looked at his friend and nodded.

ME: Where in Wisconsin?

HIS FRIEND: Milwaukee.

ME: Me too! Where at?

HIS FRIEND: Kinnikinnick and Oklahoma Avenues.

This floored me. That’s the same intersection in Milwaukee I grew up near…like, really near…like, only a half-block away…like, wow. Of course, nowadays, it’s a little harder to really see people because we all have masks on, so…

ME (said very slowly): Take off your mask.

He did and then I did before we hugged. Here we were, two thousand miles from where we grew up, standing in front of a solitary slot machine, in a smaller casino, near a tiny town, in the state of Washington. We hadn’t seen each other in 40 years. He wasn’t just an acquaintance back then, he was a real friend. We worked at camp together, hung out numerous times together, did bad teenage things together, were in Boy Scouts together…yes, we were friends. It was a surreal evening, to say the least.

If I had been thinking clearly, I would’ve immediately bought a lottery ticket because the odds of meeting a childhood friend in that circumstance was probably astronomical, just like winning the lottery.

Cousin Abe

My Grandfather was the most remarkable man I never met. All I have are the stories from my dad that told me he was a good man to my dad. My dad was 11 years old when my grandpa died and he was the only one by my grandpa’s bed when it happened. Here’s the crazy part…my grandpa was 87 years old when he died of a stroke. For those of you who don’t see it, that means my grandpa was 74 when my dad was born…and my dad was the 3^rd youngest. He had 2 brothers younger than him.

Our family history is full of stories. My great-grandfather was 101 years old when he died. Once again, in true family fashion, there’s a sideline to this story. He didn’t die of old age or disease or anything like that. He died when he took his first (and only) ride in a Model T and it rolled over.

Both of my parents come from long-living families. My mom’s side lived into their 90s while my dad’s side had a half dozen live into their 100s. If any of you ever read about Lazarus Long in Robert Heinlein’s sci-fi novels, there was a secret society that had long-living families marry into other long-living families that extended their lives dramatically. I might have a shot! I’ll just avoid any rides in a Model T and I should be fine!

Anyway, back to my grandpa and his propensity for having kids even into old age. He had 21 kids in all, 13 from my grandma. His first wife died when he already had 8 kids so he found and married my grandma to care for them. He was 55 years old and she was just 18 years old. They were farmers so every time a kid would grow up and leave, out came a new farmhand from my grandma. I imagine it went like this:

GRANDPA: Well, Claude’s leaving for the army tomorrow.

GRANDMA: Crap…well, I’ll be in the bedroom waiting.

Needless to say, she was not a pleasant person the 3 times I met her and really, who could blame her? If you had read my earlier blog “Big Babies,” you would understand that this family thing of every baby being over 9 pounds probably got a little old for her. My dad was 12 pounds at birth so that might explain why she never seemed to care for him, even though my dad was my grandpa’s favorite.

Another story passed along by my grandpa was our relation to Abraham Lincoln. Sure, this is the part where I lose half of you readers, but if you give me a moment, I’ll explain. The way it was told to my dad, Lincoln’s aunt had married my great-great-grandfather, making Abraham Lincoln my grandpa’s second cousin, my dad’s third cousin, and my fourth cousin. Growing up, I believed my dad, but my brothers and other relatives weren’t so sure. It wasn’t until one of my aunts produced an old newspaper clipping talking about it that they thought it could be true. I didn’t care what they thought…my dad believed it and that was good enough for me. In the clipping, my grandpa talked about how “Uncle Abe” would rough house with the kids, my grandpa included, before he became president. The only thing I can find, other than the clipping itself which I have a copy, is an abstract online talking about the very same article. Hardly proof, but I still don’t care.

We even talk about the “Lincoln gene” in our family. Most of the males in my family range from 5’6” to 5’9”, but every now and then, we get a really tall one. That’s the one with the Lincoln gene. I remember going to family reunions and it seemed like every tenth person towered over everybody else. Just the sight of that would cause all the relatives in their 100s to cluck their tongues from their wheelchairs and begin babbling about the Lincoln gene…of course, that’s where I got the term to begin with.

So there it is…I’m related to Abraham Lincoln. My dad said so.

The lies we tell our kids…

As parents, we are expected to show a good example for our kids to follow…at least that’s how it’s supposed to work. So why do we lie to our kids so much? I can almost hear some of you saying, “But Mr. Dazeodrew, we never lied to our kids!” Ok…

Santa Claus is probably the biggest lie we tell our kids. Don’t get me wrong, I did the same thing. I also did the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, and Boogey Man. I know, I know, these are just harmless little things we do to enrich our kids lives…but they are still lies. Little lies about little things.

As a dad, it was almost imperative that I tell a whopper or two to the kids. Things like “we bought you at Walmart and we still have the receipt” or “there’s a troll in the basement so don’t go down there.” Little lies about little things.

Another little lie is that broccoli are little trees and cauliflower are little snow-covered trees. My wife once told the kids that those big rolled bales of hay in white plastic were really giant marshmallows and that’s where they came from. Little lies about little things.

Convinced yet? Do you accept you’re a big fat liar yet? What’s worse is that we sometimes make our children accomplices in our lies…

DAUGHTER: Dad, I know Santa isn’t real.

ME: Well, don’t tell your brothers.

DAUGHTER: Ok, I won’t.

ME: Also, don’t tell them about the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy.

DAUGHTER: Wait, what?

ME: Um, what what?

DAUGHTER: They aren’t real either?

ME: Um…

So there we have it. Just like every other lie in the world, the truth eventually comes out. The difference is, when the kids discover we lied about certain things, it gives them the ok to lie as well.

MY BROTHER: You’re the mailman’s kid.

ME: No I’m not!

MY BROTHER: Oh yes, you are! Why do you think you have a big head? (I did have a big head so I had to consider this point).

ME: Um, because you said dad dropped me on it a lot when I was a baby.

MY BROTHER: I was just being nice.

ME: Wait, what?

MY BROTHER: Um, what what?

ME: Dropping me on my head is being nice?

MY BROTHER: Well, when dad found out you were the mailman’s kid, he dropped you on your head a lot.

ME: Ok, now I’m just confused…

MY BROTHER: That’s because the mailman isn’t very smart and you take after him.

So as you can see, the lies just continue to perpetuate from generation to generation. We often punish our kids for lying, but fail to realize we taught them how. We’re all a bunch of hypocrites.

Of course, there’s no easy way out of the whole Santa, Easter Bunny, and Tooth Fairy mess we’ve created through the years. If we tell the kids the truth too early, they get made fun of by their friends. If we tell the kids too late, they get made fun of by their friends. If we deny Santa and the rest right at the get-go, the kids will hear about them from their friends and view us as liars anyway, because obviously, their friends wouldn’t lie about something that serious…but they definitely think we would.

Possible moral of this story? Do what you want with your kids…you’ll be labeled a liar either way.

When I’m Sixty-Four (Fiction from 2001)

I can feel the sweat pour down my body from the mid-day desert heat.  It’s a strange feeling to be sweating so much when the sky is black.  The Iraqi’s had lit the oil wells on fire and we hadn’t seen daylight for at least forty-eight hours.  The bombing could still be heard in the not so far distance as the road from Kuwait was being pummeled, preventing any escape.  The Iraqi soldiers, not much different from us, were certainly praying for life during what could be their last moments.  The smell … the smell of … coffee?  The smell of coffee?  Ah!  Coffee!

I rolled over onto my side as my sleepy mind raced back to the present.  The dream had been my trapping of the past while the smell of coffee was the gateway to freedom.  To open my eyes would be the total submission for participating in another day.  A deep breath brought the coffee back into my system and I gave in without a fight.  I opened my eyes…so far, so good.  My eyes are generally cooperative; it’s my body that puts up a fight.  Modern medicine could only do so much.  The rest was will power.

I really wasn’t in very much of a hurry, so I opted to daydream for a bit.  For some reason, I thought back to my Olympia, Washington days some twenty-five years earlier.  The aroma of the Batdorf and Bronson roasted coffee probably induced this.  There was nothing quite like it and it stood out as one of the finest products ever to come out of Olympia.  Every morning I was graced by the memory of those days.

My thoughts turned to a class I was taking at night at The Evergreen State College back then.  I couldn’t quite remember the name of the class, but in it, I was asked to write a paper about what I thought I would be doing in the future.  It was called a dream paper.  As far as I could recall, I wrote my paper about what I would be doing at age sixty-four.  I had some pretty lofty goals for myself and I had hoped to have them all achieved by that age.

I remember writing that I would be a successful author of fiction novels.  I wasn’t so popular as to have lost my ability to be private, but I did have a loyal following and the bills were paid.  I would have occasional interviews to do and the publisher required me to attend a few book signings at some of the major venues.  Overall, I had become a real writer in the aspect that it was listed as my occupation on my tax forms.  I had even watched a few of my novels become movies.  Of course, they weren’t always true to my intent, some were better, but I was still proud.

My wife and I would be living in a rehabilitated gothic style gingerbread home in the heart of Old Town Key West.   We bought it years ago when a hurricane devastated the Florida Keys, leaving ruin and plenty of good bargains.  Most of our windows were left open year-round and we had a steady population of cats, some ours, and others as boarders whenever it was excessively hot or unbearably, at least for a cat, rainy.  The steady breeze kept the home cool even on the steamiest days.  A writer could write here.

Besides the cats, we never had an end to visitors.  Even though my wife had retired as a therapist, neighbors still sought out advice as often as they could.  At least they thought it was advice.  My wife had a knack for getting these people to answer their own questions.  Sometimes they didn’t like what they told themselves, but they’d get over it.

Our day would begin with coffee and the sharing of a newspaper, the real kind made of paper.  After this, I would go off to write for the morning while my wife would enjoy one of her many hobbies.  We would meet again for a lazy lunch and spend the afternoon together doing woodwork, shopping, kayaking, or just laying around.  At least this would be our goal.  Inevitably, we would have a guest or two or more to entertain instead.  That was fine with us.  We had plenty of time.

Our children and even a grandchild or two would be completely grown and many of our days would be spent with whomever was visiting at the time.  We always had a few spare beds and an honest welcome mat to greet them.  Some of them would complain about the distance they had to travel to visit us, but it never stopped the visits.  The complaining would usually dry up by the first sunset.

We especially cherished the visits by the littlest ones.  There were few things more pleasurable than to walk Duval Street or stroll one of the beaches with our grandchildren at our proud sides or in our arms.  There was little doubt that these were the cutest children present.  The many comments we’d receive were solid proof of this fact.  Life was good and we made sure everybody knew it.

Evening meal was the only serious event in our house where all present in the house was expected to attend and be seated.  We always thanked the Lord for our blessings and ate like we meant it.  Every night was a variety, but Sunday’s dessert was always a different variation of Key Lime Pie.  A good pie was always brought back for an encore performance and sometimes even found its way into one of my novels.

After evening meal, coffee or cocoa would be poured and I would sneak off for an occasional cigar during an evening walk.  I usually reserved this for one special day a week where my writing went exceptionally well.  Cigar or not, however, we seldom missed a sunset on clear nights.  These were the nights the Lord showed us his artwork and after all these years, it still left us awestruck and feeling very small in the universe.

Then as a finish to a perfect day, my wife and I would read until we both would silently feel the time for sleep had come.  Our years together had perfected this shared feeling and we would then fall asleep in each other’s arms, knowing the world had bestowed its best upon us and thankful for it all.

This was what I wrote those many years before and I smiled at how naïve I had been when I wrote it.  I was forty then and I guess I still had illusions that I could get a classic home for cheap.  Imagine me thinking a hurricane would lower prices in the Florida Keys.  The truth was, I had paid a high price for my home.

“Dazeodrew!” my wife called from outside the bedroom.  “The kids will be here soon and if you plan on writing this morning, you’d better get up!”

I reopened my eyes and smelt the coffee again.  This time the smell was intermixed with the fresh smell of the ocean breeze from the ever-open window.  One of our many cats crawled across my chest and seemed to smile at me as if it knew what I was thinking.  I had to agree with the cat.  Life was good, especially here in Key West.

Legend of an Angel Cat

Three days ago, my cat disappeared. The last time I saw her, she had been walking next to me while I went on a little prayer walk late at night. We often walked together. She was an indoor-outdoor cat, which basically means she was indoors when it was cold or rainy, outdoors when the weather was nice. The last night we walked together, she opted to stay outside. It was a beautiful cool night and I imagine she had some mice to chase down with the neighbor cat. This was normal for her. She never wandered very far, seldom leaving the yard to hunt or sleep or whatever she would do at the time.

You might be wondering…why is he writing about a cat? What’s the big deal about a cat? Cats come and go. They generally do what they want when they want. For most of my life, I’ve been accepting of cats, but being more of a dog person, I really didn’t dwell on them too much. If they came by me, and they almost always came by me, I would pet them behind the ears and listen to them purr away. This cat was different. She was more of a companion to me than a pet. She was special…so special that even my wife, not overwhelmingly an animal person, loved her dearly.

What made her special? Intuition. This cat could sense things that were quite remarkable for a cat. She just knew when I was sad, or upset, or hurting somehow. She was always there to comfort me. Yeah, I know, many pets are like this, especially dogs, but she was specific.

I met her the day after I was diagnosed with stomach cancer. She showed up in my life thanks to my wife and her friend who just had two cats dumped on her and she already had a cat. This cat apparently didn’t get along with the others, even the one she arrived with, and my wife thought it would be funny to bring the cat over to my office to meet me. She put the cat by my door before running to the side of the house to watch what would happen. I heard a couple meows and opened my door and in came the cat into my life. She hopped up on my desk chair, looked at me, and meowed. From that moment on, she was my constant companion. I didn’t pick her, she picked me.

That night, while I laid in bed, she jumped up and laid on my stomach. For the next four months, she laid on my stomach while I went through the cancer. When I was given the “all clear,” the cat quit laying on my stomach and slept wherever she chose…until I broke my foot. Yes, you guessed it, she laid on my foot. In the past couple years, every time my wife or I had an injury or a pain, she laid on it. That cat had more love in her than anything I’ve ever seen.

I like to think my cat knew how to talk. Whenever you asked her something, she always meowed in return. If my wife and I would have a conversation, the cat would get between us and meow in-between our conversation, as if she were adding her own opinion.

She was so devoted to me she would cry for an hour when I would leave for work and would greet me in the driveway when I came home at 2:30 in the morning.  Then we would spend a little time together before I would go to bed and the normal routine of climbing on my chest for nose nuzzles would ensue. Then she would climb on my wife’s chest to do the same thing before retiring to the end of the bed…unless we had an injury or pain, then she would lay there for a while.

I personally think she helped me with my cancer. I used unconventional means to treat it to include optimism, RSO (in very large amounts), prayer, and an incredibly loving cat. Her unconditional love (along with my wife) provided me with every reason to get better and I did.

By now, I’m sure you gathered that I loved that cat. She would often bring in a level of sanity that provided me with additional hope that I would beat the cancer. Don’t get me wrong, I had plenty of support from my family and friends. Even my ex-wife did an incredible thing of keeping secret the moment my youngest son (living in another state nearly 1500 miles away) visited after a long 5 years. That fueled my optimism further and gave me yet another reason to beat this thing. It was a moving moment that finally provided my ex-wife a chance to get a video of me crying, apparently something that suddenly became a goal. Everyone knows I’m a softy at heart so it wasn’t a challenge at this moment. Yes, I cried, I cried a mixture of happiness to see my youngest son and a shred of fear that it might be the last time I would see my youngest son.

Back to the cat. I think I’ve already convinced you she was special in every way. The only cat-like things she was ever guilty of was an occasional hairball or a well placed poop on the bathroom floor. Even then she showed her intelligence by knowing which room to do it in.

I miss her dearly and I know more days are ahead where I’ll think of her again and fight the tears welling in my eyes. She was pure in thoughts and intentions and I know my cancer kitty was really an angel kitty sent by God to get me through my ordeal.

In conclusion, she was probably found by a coyote, bobcat, owl, mountain lion, or large fox…maybe even a large eagle. If so, I hope her terror was short-lived. This thought tears me up and I pray this wasn’t the case…the thought of her suffering brings my breath up short and the rage and depression sets in…in no particular order. The only hope I hold out was that she was a larger cat (part Maine Coon) and was able to get away (my hope) or fight them off (not my hope because she could have been mortally injured).

There’s also the chance that she was such a loving friendly cat that somebody picked her up. All I can hope for in my prayers in that it was somebody who needs her like I did. Somebody with cancer or another illness that needed her love and care the way I did. This is my most fervent hope…other than my selfish hope of getting her back…and I hope to one day hear about how a beautiful long-haired grey, brown, and black furred cat with a cute tiger striped face and crooked tail saved the life of another human.

All I can say is that I believe she was sent by God to teach me even more about unconditional love and it worked. About three years ago I began to suffer again with my worst sin of pride. I began to alienate my wife and she pointed out the pride I had been embellishing was getting out of control. Everything began to crumble around me and eventually what unwarranted pride I had left deserted me and I realized I wasn’t all that great as I thought I was. I became down, depressed, suicidal at times, and felt beset from every angle from my job, hobbies, relationships, false accusations from people I thought I respected, as well as an enormous stress from combat memories and fellow veteran suicides that often left me wondering when my turn would come. It just seemed like all my prayers were being ignored. Then came the cat…the cat sent from God to assist my wife to get me through this. My prayer was answered.

My final word…when you pray, don’t assume you know how it will turn out. I once heard a line from a song that really resonated with me:

“and if you want to hear God laugh, tell him your plans.” This was from a song by Van Zant called Help Somebody. God seems to have a way to change everything, especially when you think you know how it’s going to turn out.

Right now, my plans are to find my cat, if possible. If not, God’s plans may have put her where she could do some good. God knows she changed my life for the better.

Election Year 2020 (My Endorsement)

Well, it’s that time again. Presidential candidates are coming out of the woodwork, all promising things they probably, or won’t deliver on. Every four years, we get our hopes up, then spend the next four years wondering why? We may have our favorites, we may lean right or we may lean left, we may flip a coin every election because we don’t like any of them (my wife and I did this once), or we may just not care and stay away from voting. No matter what we do, we are all affected by the results.

Even though I’ve said a couple times that I would avoid politics, I just couldn’t do that when I heard about this candidate. He is, by far, the most enticing candidate I’ve ever come across. He’s basic, he’s simple, he’s opinionated, and he hates most everybody. He’s Red Foreman and he has a basic message for everybody…

“A beer in every hand, a foot in every butt.” How can you not get behind that message? I mean, as a cheesehead originally from Wisconsin, the beer is a given. As far as a foot in every butt? Personally, I think that’s what a lot of people need, especially the current politicians hiding out in DC…or even in our state capitals…heck, even in our city and town halls! School boards! Utility boards! Student presidents…ok, maybe a little too far, but you get the picture. Who wouldn’t benefit from a good foot in the butt? It’s a needed commodity these days!

People like Red Foreman are a rare breed nowadays. With him, you know what you’re going to get! If you try to terrorize anybody…foot in the butt! If you try to steal our children…foot in the butt! If you try to cheat everybody else out of what’s theirs…foot in the butt! Shoot somebody without provocation…foot in the butt! Take my beer…yes, you got it, foot in the butt! Can you just imagine Red Foreman in the White House?

AIDE: Mr. President, Sir?

PRESIDENT RED: What is it now? The Packers are on!

AIDE: The country of Kelso just launched a rocket into space!

PRESIDENT RED: Those dumb-butts? They couldn’t even get a rocket out of their butt! (2^nd aide comes running into the office).

2^ND AIDE: The rocket crashed!

PRESIDENT RED: See? Dumb-butts.

1^ST AIDE: Should we send someone to find out what happened?

PRESIDENT RED: Why should we care?

2^ND AIDE: Sir, we need to…

PRESIDENT RED: Fine, fine! Send the foreign kid. They can be dumb-butts together. And while you’re up, get me a beer, will you? I hope I didn’t miss the opening kick-off because of this! They’re playing the Bears for God’s sake!

1^ST AIDE: Um, Sir? The, um, foreign kid, um, Fez, is still in the Amazon where you sent him last week? You told him there was pie and candy there?

PRESIDENT RED: Oh, yes, that’s right. Well, do I have to do all the thinking around here? Fine, send that mouthy girl, the one who won’t shut up. She seems to get through to Kelso. Now get me my beer before I put my…

1^ST AIDE: …Foot in my butt? Yes Sir.

See how smooth that went? No committees, no meetings, no gathering of the Security Council, just Red Foreman. There’s not much he can’t handle. Except Kitty, his wife. She is the balancing force needed for Red Foreman to be successful.

FIRST LADY KITTY: Red? There’s a group of school children here to see the Oval Office! How exciting!

PRESIDENT RED: Again? There was a group yesterday, and I think half of them were hopped up on…

FIRST LADY KITTY: Oh, Red! They’re just children! Ha ha ha ha!

PRESIDENT RED: Oh, Kitty. That’s what you said about Eric and his friends and they’re all hopheads!

FIRST LADY KITTY: Oh, Red! There was just that one time in the basement! That was years ago in the 70s!

PRESIDENT RED (softening his look because that’s the effect Kitty has on him): You’re probably right, honey. Hey! What’s that on the lawn? Are they having circle time? On the White House lawn? That’s it! No more Mr. Nice Guy! I’m going to put both of my feet…

FIRST LADY KITTY: …In their collective butts? Oh, Red! Ha ha ha ha! We need cake!

There you go! The perfect couple for the White House! Everything has three simple solutions. Beer, foot in the butt, and cake. The trifecta of world peace! I know how I’m going to vote…unless, of course, he has Bob Pinciotti as his running mate…can you imagine?

VICE PRESIDENT BOB: Hey there, hi there, ho there!

But then again, if Midge came back to him…

Force of July

One of the reasons I decided to write this blog is to try to preserve memories. Yes, some of them are slightly exaggerated…ok, most of them are slightly exaggerated…OK, ALL RIGHT! MOST OF THEM ARE MOSTLY EXAGGERATED!!! Wow, tough crowd! Anyway, I just feel the need to preserve some memory of my life since I seem to forget so much of it.

A good example of this is, I can’t seem to remember 90% of my life’s Fourth of Julys’. Now, most of the period between age 16…make it age 13…and age 21 are a complete blank and yes, substances were probably involved, but I just can’t seem to remember most of the rest of them either.

There are snippets of memory, like going to the fireworks with my daughter and 2 of my grandsons when they were 3 years old (guessing) and 1 year old (not guessing). The 3-year-old followed me everywhere and even mimicked my actions, my stance, and my space. The 1-year-old human vacuum cleaner kept the grassy area around us free and clear of any fallen food like popcorn, chips, burgers, candy, bugs, etc. They were busy boys and I only remember that event because I enjoyed being with them so much. I know there were other Fourth of Julys’ with family, but those occasions didn’t involve any mimicking or little human vacuuming of the lawn.

In fact, we attended some wonderful Fourth of July parties where we spent time with 3 of our other grandchildren, lots of fireworks, games, food, beer, and plenty of young adult people who were very polite and called us things like “sir” and “ma’am” and assorted other names you call the token old couple at a party. These were very fun times and I miss them because when they moved, the parties ended…I think. Maybe they have secret parties now that don’t involve old people…

Like many veterans, the fireworks create some anxiety in me. I discovered early on that if I was involved with the lighting of the fireworks or if I’m witnessing the lighting of fireworks, I’m not as anxious. I know what’s going on and my mind is ready for it. It’s when someone sets off the equivalent of a building full of dynamite that I discover the ceiling is dusty, you know, while I’m trying to un-pry my fingers from it. There is just no getting around the startle response many of us vets have.

The same holds true for most dogs on the Fourth of July. I read recently that it’s believed dogs think they’re going to die every time they get startled by fireworks. I believe it, but I wonder how they figured that out? Was there a test panel? Did some researcher round up a bunch of dogs, blow some fireworks, then sit them down and ask how they felt? I would’ve loved to sit in on that conversation!

RESEARCHER: So, how do you feel?

DOGS (a whole bunch): Woof, woof, bark bark bark, woof, whine, whine, bark bark bark, yip yip!

RESEARCHER: Really? You thought you were going to die?

DOGS: Woof WOOF WOOF! Yip yip!

RESEARCHER: So, if I light this one? Would you still think…wait, that was hypothetical! Stop, no, STOP, NO!!!!

Once again, this is supposed to be a family-friendly blog, so we’ll just leave the following carnage to your imagination. Bottom line is, many dogs hate fireworks. Many veterans hate fireworks. These things are forced on them every Fourth of July.

The problem is, many children love fireworks. Heck, plenty of adults love fireworks. There is no answer to this dilemma of having fireworks or not. Also, the fireworks people set off now are so much more powerful than the fireworks I remember as a kid. Of course, they weren’t as easy to get back then either.

Moral of the story? Even though the Fourth of July is a celebration of our independence and we should celebrate, please have some courtesy for our veterans and dogs. The veterans gave you your independence to begin with and dogs, well, they’re just dogs. They just love you unconditionally, remain loyal when anyone or anything else would leave you, and rely on you for most of their needs (to include anxiety). Maybe we could give them a break and celebrate away from homes where veterans and dogs live. If your celebration included a “token old couple,” they would’ve told you this.

Cat’s Out of the Bag

Literally. I spent a good two hours looking for the cat, worried she might be stuck somewhere or I accidentally left her outside. The outside part really scares me because where we moved has some pretty wild animals that would make a meal out of my older cat…if they could get through all the fur.

Anyway, I kept looking around and finally after clicking my tongue a few times (the cat seems to respond to this) she came crawling out of a paper bag on the floor in front of me.

CAT: What?

ME: I thought you were lost.

CAT: You greatly over-estimate the size of my house.

ME: Your house?

CAT (responding in a sarcastic tone): Your house…of course, it’s my house. Are you still confused by this?

ME: Um, a little.

CAT: Ok, we’ll go through this again slowly so your little peanut-sized human brain can comprehend. Who brings me food?

ME: Um, I do.

CAT: Who lets me out when I demand it?

ME: Um, I do.

CAT: Who gives me water?

ME: Um, again, I do.

CAT: Yeah, but not very well. Sometimes I have to get a drink from the toilet when you fail.

ME: The toilet? Really?

CAT: Yeah. You know those times I come and lick you in the face?

ME: You mean…

CAT: Sure do. I have to get that taste out my mouth, so I get a drink, lick my butt, then lick your face.

ME: Oh…

CAT: So tell me, whose house is this?

ME: Um…

The fact remains, despite ownership of the house, that cats will find any little place to sleep. It can be a paper bag, a box, a pillow, my lap (where she is right now as I type this), a little pile of clothes, and so on. They are masters of sleep and comfortable places to do it. I hate to admit it, they are truly masters of their domain.

Still don’t believe me? When was the last time your cat did any chores? Huh? If you have a litterbox, who cleans it? Huh? At least a dog will fetch things or at least try to protect the house. A cat will stare at you with pity if you try to get her to fetch. A burglar will walk around your house unimpeded if it’s guarded by a cat…unless the cat wants a scratch around the neck. She has no problem ordering the burglar to do this. To her, a person is a person and they all have hands to do her bidding.

So, cats rule the world. You know the saying…Cats rule, dogs drool.

I still want my own dog, however. Between my wife and the cat, I’m really wanting something to be under me, that I can be in charge of…if it’s ok with them, of course…

The World’s Greatest Man (From 2018)

One of the Greatest Men

With everything going on in the world today, both good and bad, you may have missed a small obituary in a Midwest newspaper informing the world that one of the greatest men who ever lived passed away. I know I missed it, but now I will try to make up for it by telling you all about this man.

He was born during the Great Depression as one son with many siblings. It was a farm in Northern Wisconsin that bore him and he knew a young life of hard work and sacrifice. He loved his Father, whom he considered one of the greatest men who ever lived, but lost him when he was only twelve. His Mother remarried a cruel man and he found himself working on the farm full time after only completing the sixth grade. He was picked on and punished heartlessly, but still managed to grow strong, kind, and determined despite his upbringing. He was often misunderstood so many around him considered him stupid, but the reality was that he possessed a brilliant and creative mind that was only limited by the lack of education that was thrust upon him by bitter circumstance.

One episode of misunderstanding left him wandering at a Native American Pow Wow, unable to find his siblings who had left him so they could run around with the other children and not be embarrassed by his presence. He wandered towards the drumming circle and despite not being Native American, he was pulled in by one of the drummers to join them. To his own and the others amazement, he was a natural drummer and could hold a steady beat without distraction. The drummer who pulled him in understood something about him that others obviously missed. He was not a stupid boy.

When he became an adult, a common thing happened to men his age. He was drafted to serve in the Armed Forces. He would have been proud to serve, especially if it meant leaving his cruel stepfather behind. He had a problem, however, that left him ineligible to serve. Knowing this, and the law, he still had to board the bus for Milwaukee where the intake center was and report. It took a couple of hours for them to disqualify him and a hat was passed around to give him enough money to catch the bus back to the farm. While waiting, he realized that he could make a life in Milwaukee and resolved to come back and find a job. Arriving home, his intent didn’t sit well with his stepfather, who would be losing a strong farmhand, and it took a fist to the jaw of the cruel stepfather to get away. This is what it took and he was not a stupid man.

He found a job in Milwaukee where many uneducated men found jobs in those days, a packing house in the valley slaughtering cattle. He was not afraid of hard work in terrible conditions. The farm had prepared him well.

It was a big city, and even though he still found himself misunderstood and thought of as stupid, he made friends very similar to himself. It was one of these friends who told him about a church square dance held once a month just out of town where he might meet a single lady to his liking. In particular, there were two single sisters who attended that he might like, the friend thought. He went to the square dance that next month, but the two sisters were not there that night and he really didn’t take to anybody else. The next month he went again and they were there. He danced with the first sister but did not feel a connection. He then danced with the second sister and the connection was strong. Three months later, they were married. He had found his soulmate and like I said, he was not a stupid man.

The years went by and they had three sons. He worked hard and sometimes worked two jobs to make ends meet. Times were tough and the cost of raising three boys with the wages from the packing house was difficult. The boys often felt different than the other children, but they grew up smart and kind, like their Father. Their Mother often had a difficult time with loneliness and the stress of handling three headstrong boys by herself, but he always came home and after straightening out the boys, treated her like a princess, no matter the mood she was in. He was a gentleman in every aspect of the word. He held doors for her, catered to her, listened to her, and never lifted a hand towards her unless it was to touch her cheek and tell her he loved her and that everything would be okay. She needed to know she was secure and taken care of. As I said, he was not a stupid man.

He was very active with the church, serving in multiple positions to keep it going, even when times were tough. He found it easy to put God first in everything he did. He was a very moral, giving, and kind man, despite the cruelty he knew as a child. He provided for his family and often helped others when he could. As a white man in a time of racism, he was not prejudiced against anybody. He believed that to hate someone because they were different meant that he should be hated because he was different. Once again, he was not a stupid man.

His sons grew up, married, and had children of their own. They all treated their wives the same way their Father did, not because he told them how, but because he showed them how. They all became good fathers for their children and as their children grew up, they all became good and kind just like the man who started it all. The man who was not a stupid man.

This great man I’ve been telling you about was challenged throughout his life because he was misunderstood and sometimes thought of as stupid. In reality, he was deaf his entire life, but never let it stop him with what mattered. You see, to be great does not mean to be rich with money. Great does not mean to be a good actor or sports star. Great also doesn’t mean to be a military leader or a politician. You do not need an education to be great, at least not from schooling. Everything I just mentioned has some pretty stupid people that fit. What great means is this:

You are great if you make a positive difference with everybody you touch in your life. You are great if you change the world for generations to come because you always put those you love before yourself. You are great if despite all your cruel and bitter circumstances, you rise above them and instead of blaming them, overcome them. You are great if you can show how to be great rather than tell everyone you’re great. These are just some of the characteristics of a great man, not a stupid man.

This great man is one of the only men I have ever looked up to. Everyday, in every way, I try to live up to his greatness, but often fail. Thankfully, his example leads me to keep trying and showing instead of blaming. When I pass away, I want to be remembered as a great man, not a stupid man. I have no excuse to fail because I witnessed the life of one of the greatest men who ever lived.

This man is my Father and I will miss him greatly.