Waiting For Company, Part 3

We are at war.

I've heard that declaration many times when there is talk of meeting the challenges of the Wuhan virus.  This pandemic is described in wartime imagery, with words like "under attack," "invisible enemy," "front line warriors," and health care workers as "troops."

It's easy to see why our politicians and media use such imagery -- it promotes national unity and adds to the gravity of the situation, plus it encourages personal sacrifice from its citizens.  And it has been used many times before, with a war on terrorism, a war on poverty, war on drugs and a war on cancer to name just a few.



 

But being overly alarmist can have a negative effect on people by breeding fear, anxiety and panic (look at the empty shelves in supermarkets and the record sales of firearms).  So it's best to be careful when using the phrase "we are at war."

We already know that this emergency will be costly in terms of our economy and to those who die.  It will require extraordinary measures, even if we act quickly.

We as Americans, British, Italians and French (to name a few) must come together and solve this.  And if we don't act like we did during World Wars I and II, the world will have not only lost the war, but our future as well. 

In response, someone who loves  The Lord of the Rings put it perfectly when he said,  "It is time to light the signal fires and muster the Rohirrim!"




Having said that, I believe our country is at war with other enemies.  Ones not containing a single-strand of Wuhan virus, but ones that shares our television channels and spend taxpayer money:  the media and government officials.  For those of you who think I'm reckless in calling them my enemy, I don't know what else to say.  They're either ignorant, or on the other side.

Anyone who has listened to the media during one of Trump's coronavirus task meetings has to ask the question -- whose side are they on?  It may be rhetorical, but is their hatred for all things Trump so virulent that they will throw the country's future under the bus just to watch him fail?

Here's how shameful the media has become --

Some media outlets have refused to show the task force press meetings, claiming they are Trump campaign speeches.  Like always, they would rather you listen to their biased talking heads, rather than figure it out yourself.  Rest assured, if President Trump was making a fool of himself, it would be shown 24/7.

The media relentlessly pits Trump against his team physicians, trying to ridicule his comments as not being based on "science" as though that alone makes it true.  The President has asked for and been given advice from Dr. Fauci, Dr. Birx and Admiral Adams.  My fear is that he has put too much faith into pandemic models that have been proven wrong from day one.   To a fault, Trump has remained faithful to his medical experts and not questioned the models being used for the nationwide shutdown.  It's time to act on data-based proof, not the original China supplied numbers.

Nonetheless, when the media is rebuked by Dr. Birx or Admiral Adams, they scream racism or sexism, which is laughable considering how both physicians fall into the liberal's realm of identity politics.

I still view social media sites as part of the same bias.  How else can you explain censorship of videos and comments made by those who support the President or who provide potential cures for the virus?  Recently, UTube removed a controversial video by two urgent care doctors from California claiming it violated their community guidelines, including content that explicitly disputes the efficacy of local health authorities.  What a pile of you know what.   So doctors dealing with this virus everyday are wrong, but medical experts squirreled away in some academic school or bureaucratic government position are right?  Apparently only if you favor censorship.

The media refuses to give Trump credit for anything he has been right about.  Trump was right about the origins of the virus.  It has been mentioned many times and by a number of doctors in China that the virus came from Wuhan, with the likelihood of a lab, not a wet market, as being its source.  The President was also right about stopping flights coming from China, not to mention closing our Mexico and Canadian borders.  He's also right about touting hydroxychloroquine as an effective virus-fighting medication if issued under strict medical guidance. 

And lately he mused about using light, heat and disinfectants as potential treatments for fighting the virus.  Ultraviolet light is already being used and we commonly use disinfectants like hydrogen peroxide as a mouth rinse.  But of course the media twists his words to claim "Trump wants you to drink Clorox."

I don't know what's worse, the media twisting Trump's comments or people actually believing it.  So in the interest of those not smart enough to know the difference, please don't mix bleach with your salad dressing.  Not a good idea.

The media  -- on a national, state and local level -- continue to post daily death totals.  Did they do that with President Obama during the H1N1 pandemic?  Of course not, (so let me remind you -- 60 million cases in the United States alone)!  These tallies allow them to scare ignorant people into remaining compliant and permits the media to equate the death totals to gross negligence by the government (i.e., more deaths than the entire Vietnam War).  In other words, this current administration is so inept, out-of-touch, dangerous and untruthful that they must be removed as quickly as possible.  Or, at the latest, in November.

So while enemy number one remains the Wuhan virus, other stealth forces are at work.  They are welcomed into our homes every night under the guise of objective journalism.  What they are doing today is a far cry from what I learned going to journalism school.  This country and every small business -- be a restaurant or family run painting business -- is ill-served by our current agenda-driven media.  We all deserve much better.



 

Another front in this war is the actions of Congress and state governors to limit our civil liberties and control our daily lives.  Like some politicians have said -- "Never let a good crisis go to waste."

Early on, our government was saying "We must flatten the curve!"  It was an effort to reduce the number of people infected so hospitals could handle the sudden influx of patients.  It would also give our medical world a chance to find treatments or cures, further lessening the virus's effect.  Flattening the curve was based on the premise that until a vaccine was developed, nothing would stop the spread.

Well, flattening the curve has worked -- the number of infected and dead has been minuscule compared to the early model projections.  We've dropped projections from over 2 million deaths to under 100,000.  Like I said, that's great.

But now we are being told it's not enough.  Now we must prevent people from dying.  In the words of New York Governor Cuomo, "even if we save one life, it will be worth it."  I'm tired of hearing how one life is worth the costs of staying home.  Or how someone who doesn't stay home is selfish and risks killing innocent people.

What Cuomo and other elitists like him are ignoring is the health care costs of crushed lives and dreams, the human costs of lost jobs and careers and of nest eggs broken on the ground.  Have they anticipated the lives lost to depression, drug and alcohol addiction, suicide and despair in a country where abortions are considered essential, but heart stints and CT scans are not?

I fear not.  Or worse, if they have, then how do they justify one loss over the other?  I doubt their arrogance allows them to see the damage they are responsible for creating.

So we've managed to flatten the curve.  Unfortunately, we've flattened the economy as well. 

Today's unemployment report showed 30 million people without jobs over the last 6 weeks.  In just a few weeks we have gone from 3.5% unemployment to the worse unemployment numbers in our country's history.  It's probably not fair to compare the Wuhan virus's effect on America by comparing 60,000 deaths to 30 million unemployed, but it raises some serious questions.  Chief among them is does our government have the "moral authority" to lock us down?  Can they fine us or throw us in jail for public and private gatherings?

Democrat governors from Michigan, California, New Jersey and New York seem to think so.  The governors of New York, Michigan and New Jersey are showing their full, authoritarian tendencies by closing gardening centers and fining citizens who are not wearing masks or getting too close when in public.

Does keeping someone "safe" permit our elected officials to take away our rights? 

I've said this many times to my friends -- this is the first time doctors can remember when we quarantine healthy people.  Not the sick.  Not those at risk.  Proponents will argue that there's a difference between isolation and quarantine.  I don't see the difference when you are forcing the vast majority to isolate themselves from others in the interest of "remaining safe."

In addition, many medical professionals are saying isolation is actually hurting us.  I hate to repeat myself, but there are only two ways to defeat the Wuhan virus -- a vaccine (not coming anytime soon) and herd immunity.  Hiding in our houses will not accomplish either one.  So we are putting off the inevitable by isolating ourselves from others.  What we're not putting off is the destruction of so many people's dreams and aspirations.  For many restaurants and small businesses that make up the 30 million unemployed, that destruction is well underway.





So we are in a war with emergency measures in place.    Never in the history of our civilization have we so willingly given up so much without a fight.  Why did so many die in World War 1 and 2?  Or the Korean War?  Or Vietnam?  Had we lost, would America be much different?  The problem we have as a nation fighting this war is that too many authoritarian, "play it safe" politicians and members of a corrupt media are on the enemy's side. 

For us to survive we all need to be on the same side.

The Best Day of the Year

My shoes leave a trail of wet prints on the patio as I reach down to empty the planter of rainwater than had fallen overnight.  A slight breeze blows yellow heart-shaped leaves from the two lynden trees painfully positioned on the boulevard to my right.  Painfully because they continuously drop pea-sized fruit that attaches to a yellowish bract that litters the yard and garden beds all summer long.  For anyone in love with fall, and layers of clingy, hard-to-rake leaves, the lynden tree is your dream come true.

When I think of fall, I think of cooler temperatures, campfires, apple pie and football.  I also think of a few things that aren't so nice -- shorter days, dying flowers and putting the pontoon boat away for another winter.  Of the three, putting away the boat has to be the worst...



I had written those words last fall in anticipation of putting Muddy Waters to bed for another six months.  Fortunately, I didn't have it in my heart to finish writing the post, which I had titled "The Worse Day of The Year."

 

Most writers have a short list of reasons for not writing -- fear of rejection, fear of inadequacy and fear of criticism among them.  I think I found another one:  fear of doing something unpleasant.  And there isn't anything more unpleasant than putting your boat away, high and dry, for almost 180 days.  People have built houses, or gotten married and divorce in less time.  So it can be a big deal to not do something for half a year.  This horrible pandemic has only lasted two months, and it feels like forever.

My brother and I always remind each other how long we have to go before we can put the boat in the water.  Snow can be swirling past the window, with a forecast for more than 10 inches, and we will ask each other, "How long before we can put the boat in?  This blizzard can't last forever."

I didn't always love boating.  In fact, it took a while for Liz to convince me that we should buy a pontoon boat.  I'd always heard the worn out expression about owning a boat -- the two best days of owning a boat are the day you buy it and the day you sell it.  But since owning our pontoon boat, I can honestly say that's not true.  For us, the two best days of owning a boat are the day we bought it, and the week of April 15th when we can take it out of storage.

I think that means we'll be boaters for life.

Every year I make a Shutterfly photo book of my favorite memories.  Many of them include pictures from our time on the muddy Mississippi, enjoying sunsets, taking friends out for dinner on a sandbar or jumping in the boat during early fall mornings to go looking for white pelicans and tundra swans migrating their way south. 

They say pictures tell the story of a thousand words.  While that may be true,  they don't always tell the whole story...



The smell of grilled steak hangs in the air like the humidity clinging to the northern red oak and sugar maples above us on Wildcat Bluff.  As one of the highest points along the Mississippi River, the bluff overlooks Lawrence Lake Marina where a cluster of pontoon boats, houseboats, ski boats and cruisers are tied down haphazardly wherever there is room.

The acoustic sounds of Joe Cody and Dominic Orrico can still be heard as I back the pontoon boat away from the dock, careful to avoid the two boats on either side.  On board is a motley crew if ever there was one -- Paul, Kelli, Doug, Peggy and Liz.  We are scattered about the boat, with Liz pulling in the bumpers, while others retrieve their drinks that were left in their cup holders.  I aimlessly grab the iPhone and select an early evening playlist, including the Cranberries, Zach Brown Band and maybe a little steel drum music from Jimmy Buffet.

We have spent the last three hours enjoying the start of our weekend -- leaving work early to beat the mass migration of boats and people that will arrive between 4 and 6 o'clock.  That migration continues on Saturday and Sunday mornings as fast boats full of bikinis, inner tubes and cold beer rush to find a tiny patch of sand on one of the many sandbars between Dresbach and Genoa.


One of the best parts of the summer is coming down by boat to Lawrence Lake Marina to eat steaks on the grill, drink a few beers and listen to live music.  I'm sure there are many things to enjoy in places much bigger -- Chicago and Minneapolis have their rooftop bars overlooking city views, free music in the park or hitting microbreweries after work -- but I honestly don't know how anyone could have a better time than we do by grilling steaks and buttered french toast, indulging in adult beverages and meeting some of the nicest people you will ever know.  

 If you own a boat or know someone who does, it is the essence of a good life on the upper Mississippi River near La Crosse. 



I refocus on the business of driving the boat, which is challenging when you are surrounded by laughing people and trying to decide on dessert being handed out by Liz.  The boat has reached the main channel of the Mississippi where we pass a large mile marker jutting from the water.  Throughout spring, summer and fall, barges mark their turns by locating these green and white buoys.  At night, you can watch a barge's powerful spot light searching the river for these reflective markers.

From the front of the boat I could hear Peggy saying, " ... so Doug thought really hard, looked at the cards and said whale!"  The boat erupts in laughter, much to the discomfort of Doug, who looks skyward and shakes his head.  I had missed most of the joke, but vaguely remembered her telling this story before.  It had something to do with the letter "r" getting confused with a pirate's pronunciation of "arrr!"  It is a pretty funny story, one I'm sure Doug is going to take to his watery grave.

"So when are you and Liz getting a looper boat?" asks Paul, taking a sip of bourbon from his red solo cup.  

It's a question he's asked many times before and my answer is always the same.  "As much as I'd love to do, it's not going to happen.  I've been watching those videos you mentioned and I'm not so sure I'm ready for that."  I glance to my left to watch a ski boat speed by, its wake barely noticeable as our center pontoon cuts through the chop and keeps us riding high. 

Paul never gives up.  He says, "Come on, how fun would it be to travel down the Mississippi to the Gulf then cruise east to Florida?  We can follow you in our RV, then together we can float up the Intracoastal Waterway to New York City.  You and Liz could continue up the Hudson to the Erie Canal, then across to the Great Lakes."

"Yeah, we'd be living the dream!"  I agree, thinking how nice it would be to retire, buy a looper boat and take a couple years to make the trip.  It would be a great adventure and I could do some writing  along the way.  Stay in marinas, maybe take some time RV'ing with Paul and Kelli.  Drop anchor in the Florida Keys.  Enjoy the barrier islands near North Carolina and float by the Statue of Liberty in the Big Apple.  

Then I think about everything that will go wrong along the way -- storms will roll in, tanks will leak, engines will die, lightning will strike and fires will start.  In addition, I'll have to fix a broken part, unclog the head and investigate another strange sound.  I'll have no choice but to blow hundreds, even thousands of dollars on a suddenly flooded engine.  It's the price you pay -- the colossal ingredient -- for living the dream.

And like that -- POOF --I'm back to our perfectly good pontoon boat, and I feel pretty good about everything.  I notice Liz is keeping an eye on me, so I say in a loud enough voice that she can hear above the wind and motor, "It's just not going to happen, Paul.  But don't let that stop you from buying one yourself!"

I throttle the boat faster before Paul can answer.

As we hit our cruising speed, I trim the motor up a little to give us a nice smooth ride.  Liz and Paul keep everyone's drinks filled and more dessert is unloaded -- this time chocolate covered blueberries.  Since the sun is not setting until 9:00 tonight, I decide to head south toward Genoa.  It's the perfect evening, with temps in the upper 70's and very little wind.  At times like this I imagine myself standing in the bow of the pontoon and yelling "I'm the king of the world!"  I don't care if Leonardo DiCaprio beat me to it...   At least I'm not going to hit an iceberg and sink to the bottom of the Atlantic. 

Instead, I stand and bump hips with Liz to the sounds of Bon Jovi singing "Livin' On A Prayer."   Soon the whole boat is singing together,

"Whoa, we're halfway there
Woah-oh, livin' on a prayer
Take my hand, we'll make it, I swear
Woah-oh, liven' on a prayer!"

(It could be the rum, but I don't think I've ever heard us sound better.)


Eventually, we are past Brownsville and into the Upper Mississippi Wildlife Refuge, consisting of 129 acres of islands, among them Horseshoe, Turtle and Boomerang.  These islands -- home to the great blue heron, great egret and ring-billed gull -- are little more than sand and mud, with a little topsoil and ryegrass built in to hold them together.  But it works.

It is here, where the Mississippi widens to over four and a half miles wide, that  I find my love for the river at its greatest.  The busyness to our north, where the river snakes its way between La Crosse and Brownsville, has given way to the serenity of fewer boats, more wildlife and an occasional barge delivering grain, coal and oil.

Making the experience even better tonight is the sight of the  Queen of the Mississippi, a modern paddlewheeler taking passengers from Minneapolis to St. Louis.  I slow the boat and everyone grabs their phones to take pictures of the steamboat, inspired by Mark Twain and his wonderful stories of life on the Mississippi River.  

As if to acknowledge our pesky presence and perhaps to warn us from getting too close, the captain grabs the whistle handle and send a couple of long, low blasts.  A moment later, the echoes come from the surrounding bluffs as if the whistle has awakened the ghosts of previous steamboats that traveled this river almost 175 years ago.

A half hour later, we can see the towering power plant that marks the city of Genoa.  We've been discussing the possibility of driving to Door County next summer.  "We can stay at an Airbnb, rent a pontoon, kayak and explore the Green Bay shores we've never seen before," Liz says excitedly, her face flush from drinking wine.  "Sister Bay or Ephraim?  Or we could try Bailey's Harbor?"  

Her conversation fades as a train roars past, a reminder that we have approached the Great River Road and the railroad tracks that share this side of the river.  From our vantage point, we can see the train stretching for what seems like miles.

I gently throttle the boat down, the stern of the boat lifting as the wake overcomes the boat.  I then swing it to the North and back toward La Crosse.  Despite being the same river, we are about to  encounter a completely different ride.  Sometimes, when it's hot and windy, and we have been traveling in one direction, the simple act of turning the boat can suddenly bring instant relief from the heat and humidity.

Tonight, against this current, it should take us almost forty minutes to get back to Pettibone.    Plenty of time to enjoy the long ride home, watch the setting sun and re-tell stories we've told to each other many times before.

The bimini isn't really much use anymore as the sun is low enough that I need my sunglasses to shield my eyes.  By the time we are past Crater Island, the sun will be behind the bluffs and we will enjoy a nice orange and yellow glow tracing the tops of the trees before it gives way to a darkening cobalt blue sky.  

As we continue north, a quietness has settled over the river.  There are a few boats heading back to La Crosse, but they are spread out and don't infringe on our solitude.  As is typical on a warm summer night, tree swallows are darting, pirouetting and diving -- snatching bugs from the air like a second baseman nabbing line drives at Miller Park.  I'm reminded of a military air show where the Blue Angles aerial maneuvers are astounding.  Yet the jet's daring dives and banks pale in comparison to these swallows.


I drop my arm over the edge of the boat and with my hand I catch the warm water as it splashes up along the side of a pontoon.  It's my "dog sticking its head out a car window" moment, and it feels like I'm a part of the river.  It's amazing the water running through my fingers originates from Lake Itasca in northern Minnesota before mixing with other rivers that converge and fill the Mississippi River with their own stories and adventures.

As the conversations quiet and everyone settles into the realization that the evening is drawing to a close, we are reminded in our own private ways just how lucky we are to live near this great river.

 
And so the story goes.

Like I said, I haven't always loved boats.  Liz and I moved to Michigan after college and quickly fell in love with the eastern shore of Lake Michigan.  Like the love we had for each other, we also fell in love with the natural beauty of towering sand dunes, fire engine-red lighthouses, sandy white beaches and glorious red sunsets.  But as wonderful as it was, our admiration for the lake was always from the shore or crowded boardwalks filled with tourists.

It wasn't until we returned to La Crosse years later, that the idea of owning a boat became a possibility.  And with the boat came an understanding of the history that runs with this river.  A  reminder that tugs at you like the current does when you are up to your waste in the flow and you know that it would be far wiser to not venture further out into deeper water.  It is out of respect for our part of this river's history that I appreciate the opportunities we have while boating with friends or putting through the locks near Dresbach and Trempealeau.

While we are not making history on the river, we are a part of the history of this river.  For better or worse, our experiences become part of the same history where 29 sunken civil war ships lie near Yazoo, Mississippi.  Or part of the passage between the Fox and Wisconsin rivers where the first Europeans reached the upper Mississippi.

Christians believe we all came from Adam and Eve.  For many, you can say the same thing about the Mississippi River.  From its inauspicious beginnings in northern Minnesota to its sprawling river basin near the Gulf of Mexico, the river has embraced millions, if not billions of people by boat or land.

The best part is this experience is that it's never the same.  No matter how many times we go out, with friends or by ourselves, it is always different.  It's why I look forward to pulling the boat out of storage,  connecting the battery, cleaning its pontoons, wiping down the cushions and restocking everything we will use this summer.

Unlike the fall, when the rains begin and darkness comes too soon -- today is truly the best day of the year.

Waiting For Company, Part 2

I've never experienced an event quite like the Wuhan virus.  It has me going in one direction today and the opposite direction tomorrow. 

I feel like the character in Robert Louis Stevenson's 1886 novella Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.  One moment, I'm in full agreement with the government's assessment of a very serious threat to people of all ages.  Yes, the majority are older, but I've been reading reports about children, college students and middle age people being infected with the virus.  I watch what is happening in New York City right now and I see fear and overwhelming conditions where people are being left to die in the hallways of hospitals.  The daily briefing from the White House has medical experts telling us to expect between 100,000 and 240,000 deaths in the coming weeks.

 

If I'm honest, my fear and anxiety (Mr. Hyde) show up after watching the evening news.  It doesn't matter where the news is coming from -- print or television -- 95% of it is bad news with daily banners (A FOX NEWS ALERT followed by ominous music)  showing the number of dead and infected.  It's quite depressing, and can drive a sane person, much less someone with actual depression, over the edge.  I may not physically change and become violent like Mr. Hyde, but my personality certainly changes from someone who is optimistic to one who feels like locking the doors and crawling into bed.

The next moment, I'm struggling with  the impact this virus is having on our economy.

This transformation occurs, without pain and disfigurement, when I am asked to take the same precautions in Wisconsin that someone in New York City is taking.

I think, do we really need to shut down the entire country?    All the medical experts tell us, yes.  Businesses must be shuttered, many with little hope of being re-opened.  Ten million people are unemployed because our government has told us it is in our best interest.  Honestly, the economic hammer is falling faster than people dying from the Wuhan virus.  And we're supposed to take it all in with a smile on our face and to color our sidewalks with a box of chalk.  Puppies and coloring books are coming next week.

Common sense (the Jekyll transformation) tells me the majority of people who become infected suffer only mild symptoms, such as cough and fever.  La Crosse County has reported only 20 cases with no deaths.  I talk daily to friends and co-workers who are doing fine.  Working from home, maybe, but other than dealing with communication delays and learning how to video conference, most are doing fine (thank you Lord).   I suspect many other communities are the same.

We are treating the whole country as one huge "hot spot." Applying the same extreme measures to every town whether it's a small, sleepy Mississippi River town or a Mardi Gras infested city like New Orleans.  By doing so, we have shut down vital businesses in many places not overcome by the virus.  Making it worse, the media is chastising American employers for "thinking of money at a time like this.  Why are they putting profit before people?"

As I said, my mood changes day to day.  I wonder which personality will win out -- Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde?  We all know how the book ends.


*        

And now, "Tales From The Pandemic":


Despite the poor weather, Liz and I are standing outside City Hall under a tent, listening to rain drum on the overhead yellow and white canvas material.  One by one, people are being issued into the building by a big burley police officer, wearing light blue surgical gloves.  He holds the door open for one person, then shuts it, until allowing another person inside.

As we wait, I look at Liz who is wearing her HealthyAire cotton mask (made in China!) and gloves she wears when shopping for groceries.  I am braving the weather and early in-person voting without the benefit of either protective device.  I am less comfortable wearing masks and gloves than I am limiting what I touch and washing afterward.  Although, with the temperature in the mid 30's I wouldn't mind a pair of gloves.

I am ushered into the building and told to "go right ahead to the left."  Despite the confusing instructions, I turn left and am told to wait by someone sitting behind a desk wearing the afore mentioned mask and gloves.  The floor is marked with yellow stripes marking a six foot safe zone.  A lady before me goes up to the desk and I move up one spot to the next yellow stripe.  I am reminded of the ending sequence in the movie "Men In Black," where some giant alien is playing marbles with the planet Earth.  Only this time someone is moving us like chess pieces on a board marked with yellow stripes.

Finally I move another spot and am told to take a pen from the table to my left.  Next, I am asked my name and address, then given an a slip of paper with a number on it.  "Please keep your pen and follow the yellow line into the next room," the female poll worker says, somewhat muffled by her mask.  "They will tell you what to do next."

I quickly find myself in another line with more yellow stripes.  As I approach another desk, with more people sitting behind boxes, I glance around the room.  For the first time in my life, I am standing in the Common Council Chambers.  The city's bright yellow seal, mounted on black fabric paneling, serves as a backdrop to the council chamber dais and reminds me of the importance of why I am braving the pandemic, even if it is just for primary voting.

"Next?" asks the lady sitting behind the desk to my left.

I walk forward to the last yellow stripe and extend the slip of paper I was given earlier.  She shakes her head, then says, "You can throw that piece of paper in the basket over there."  She regroups, then continues, "Your name and address please?" 

Next comes my driver's license, which I hold in my hand for her to see.  Without touching it, she confirms the name and address match the information in her book,  and hands me a narrow envelope with instructions on where to go next.  "Please keep your pen, take this envelope and go into the next room to get your ballot."

Following another yellow line, I am greeted by another lady, without a mask,  who hands me a ballot with further instructions.  In a serious tone she says, "When you are done voting, fold the ballot into thirds and put it into the envelope.  Do not seal it!  Another lady will take the envelope and wet it with a water stick.  You will then be done and can leave.  Please keep your pen."

"Thank you," I say and follow another yellow line to the polling booth, where I vote a straight ticket, fold the ballot, stick it into the envelope and walk another twenty feet -- at all times making sure I don't deviate from the exiting yellow line.

Finally, I hand the unsealed envelope to another woman who announces for the up tenth time that she is sealing the envelope with a water stick and that I am allowed to leave.  With one final nod from the police officer who let me into City Hall, I am escorted out of the building into the rain.  

In my hand is the blue pen I selected when starting.  A souvenir of the pandemic, I think tucking it into my coat pocket.


*


Despite the ominous threat we all find ourselves living through, there are bright spots helping us through this tough time.

One of my favorites is seeing the pictures drawn using chalk on sidewalks by children.  Since we don't have small children anymore, I don't know what is going through their minds.  If I suffer from stress and worry, it must be very worrisome for those who don't have the maturity to realize what is going on and when it will end.

Despite it all, they are giving us everyday messages of hope and love from little hearts, sunbeams and rainbows.  It serves as a reminder -- for me at least -- that we will find a way through this pandemic.  As one child wrote, "This too shall pass."

Another bright spot -- a Facebook post encouraged the entire state of Wisconsin to tune into their favorite radio station on April 4th at 2 PM and do a "Jump Around" -- a fourth quarter tradition done at Badger football games.  It will never replace the actual fun we have at those games, but it does remind us that we are all in this together if we bleed Badger red.  Rock on Wisconsin!

Because of social distancing, there are now Google Hangouts, ZOOM and Netflix parties, FACEBOOK LIVE and virtual happy hours.   I'm not usually one to embrace new technology, but I have to admit it's a lot of fun to hang out with friends and family all at the same time.  One of the things I miss most during these times is getting together with people.  And while it's not the same as sitting around the table playing cards, it's pretty nice seeing the smiling faces of those you love and miss.

Last but not least is the thought that this could have happened sometime in November, before Thanksgiving and Christmas -- when the days were getting shorter and the night colder and longer.  Instead, I have been out raking the yard, tilling the flower beds and watching the daffodils, irises and lilies emerge from their winter sleep.  I don't think I've ever seen so many people out walking their dogs.  Or raking their lawns, which is nice.  But one thing is consistent -- people will wave or stop to say hi.  Neighbors I've never talked to before come out of their houses to see how you are doing.

One of the more unsettling things about the last month has been how you look out the window and everything looks the same.  Your mind tricks you into thinking that nothing is changed.  You should be able to leave the house, jump in the car and pick up some hamburgers, tomatoes and buns.  But while everything looks the same, it's not.  You drive down empty streets, you walk into the grocery store and encounter empty shelves, people wearing masks, and a check out counter with yellow lines and plexiglass.  From your house, everything looks the same,  But when you get out a little ways from home, everything is different.

If this was France, England or Germany during World war II there would be collapsed buildings, others bombed into obsolescent while others were destroyed to cover one the reminder of the atrocities of the war.  When the "smoke and fire" of this war finally clears, we won't have to rebuild damaged buildings, streets and homes.  My hope is that we won't have to rebuild our damaged lives either.

To all of us waiting for company to come ring our door bell, remember the words of a little child with chalk in her hand.

"This too shall pass."

Waiting For Company, Part 1

I've mentioned many times my reasons for writing this blog, but the main reason is to chronicle my thinking about politics, sports and family.  Some day I won't be here and I want my family and friends to understand my thinking on things that happen to me. 

So, with that understanding, my views here aren't meant to judge or criticize people.  I'm not trying to tell people what to do or make them question the value of what they are doing.  Just to give someone who want's to understand me better the opportunity to do so.



I feel like the world has gone completely insane.

For those of us old enough to remember, there was a comedy movie released in 1963 called "It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World."  It starred some of my favorite movie stars, including Spencer Tracy, Milton Berle, Sid Caesar, Buddy Hackett, Ethel  Merman, Mickey Rooney, Phil Silvers and Jonathan Winters.

While it didn't involve a worldwide pandemic, it did involve irrational fear, absurd behavior, traffic jams and, in the end, mindless mob mentality.  Fortunately, it was a comedy, and everyone's reaction to  Spencer Tracey's actions survived to see another day (and star in another movie).

Unfortunately, what's happening in reaction to the COVID-19 pandemic's spread, isn't funny at all, and too many people are going to die.  It's unlike anything any of us have ever seen, with every day bringing a new understanding of the virus's rapid spread and its unbelievable impact on our daily lives.  No March Madness (still having trouble with that one), no new movies, no church, cancelled vacations, no wine tastings, delayed planting of spring flowers and worse of all, no visits to family and friends.

But not everything with this virus has been bad.

In addition to bringing a better understanding of the difference between a pandemic vs. epidemic, quarantine vs. isolation, and respirator vs. ventilator, I have expanded my useable vocabulary to include asymptomatic, community spread, contact tracing, wet market, "flatten the curve," herd immunity, essential businesses, apocalyptic surge, "social distancing," patient zero and "shelter in place."   When I'm really frustrated I use words like covidiots, "Let the experts talk!" and blue plague.

It has also spawned an epidemic of a different kind -- toilet paper -- and bringing out some of the funniest memes and social media posts in the history of the internet.  I'm sorry if you are upset by jokes about such a serious subject -- but they're not really about the virus itself.  Instead, these funny memes are about stupid human beings doing stupid things like hoarding a commodity unrelated to the virus.  I have not yet talked to someone who hoards toilet paper, but if I did, I doubt I'd get a good reason, beyond "I don't want to run out!"   I suspect some of these people also think Trump stole the election by colluding with Russia.  Or worse, that Trump wants people to go back to work by Easter so he can be re-elected in November.

Which leads me to ask -- must we kill the economy to kill the virus?

Washington D.C. has, for the most part, recommended shutting everything down.  State governors have follow along.  With the exception of some essential businesses, people are working from home or have been laid off.  Dr. Anthony Fauci (a member of Trump's COVID-19 response team) feels this is necessary to contain the spread of the virus.  Dr. Fauci is an American physician and immunologist who has served as the director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases since 1984.  So it stands that he is THE expert when it comes to virus pandemics.  And his advice, with Trump's support, have saved hundreds, if not thousands of lives.  Of which I am thankful.

But do we just assume these people are always right? 

I'll be the first to tell you government officials and experts have been wrong over my lifetime.  They have hurt the American people through government regulations, taxation, healthcare and deficit spending.  Could they be hurting us with their reaction to COVID-19, as well?

Yes, doctors are experts -- but aren't economists experts as well?  In less than three weeks we've destroyed much of the growth we experienced over the past three years.  Was it really necessary to shut down so many businesses to contain COVID-19?  I don't have an answer, and I doubt anyone else does either.  We are being proactive in our response, because no one wants to harm people we love who are susceptible to the deadly virus.  At some point we will learn enough to answer that question.  If my prayers are answered, the infections and deaths will be much lower than reported by the press. 

But what if the "benefit" of closing so many businesses causes more damage than if everyone kept working and we protected those most vulnerable?  EVERY DAY, heart disease or cancer takes 3,000 loved ones,  63 are lost to the common flu, car accidents kill more than 465 people, and more than 129 succumb to suicide.  If we use the same method to determine the number of deaths attributed to COVID-19, we'd be at 3 per day.

Our solution to COVID-19 guarantees an increase in poverty, promotes poor social interaction and other community factors.  Even before our decision to shut down and shelter at home, researchers at Columbia University found poverty and poor educational support contributed to as many deaths in the U.S. as heart attacks, strokes and lung cancer.

So how many more are going to die because we want to remain safe?

Again, I don't have the answers and I don't mean to upset anyone who thinks staying at home is the right thing to do.  By all means, do so.  And we must protect those in danger.  

I just fear our government has taken our economy and damaged it in a way I'm not sure will ever be the same again.

 

How do we flatten the curve on panic?

Earlier today, The New York Times became the epicenter of the Blue Plague by stating people in hospitals throughout the city were dying, as desperately under-prepared and under-equipped doctors and nurses could not find ventilators for thousands of arriving patients in a state of panic.  This is incitement at its worse.

This week's newspaper's had these headlines on their front pages -- "Atlanta hospitals overwhelmed by COVID-19 cases;" Governor Cuomo slams feds - "You pick" who's "going to die;" and 14 million job's at risk.  Are we entering another Great Depression?"

Last night's CBS Evening News lead off the broadcast by highlighting "skyrocketing" unemployment numbers exceeding 3.3 million.  In the "highest unemployment numbers not seen since the Great Depression" questioned its impact on President Trump's re-election bid.  Next was a story on the U.S. surpassing China with the most confirmed cases of coronavirus at 85,000 and counting. 

Does anyone really believe anything coming out of China?   Earlier this year we had one of our Chinese students say how the Chinese government would always use the same number for fatalities no matter the tragic event being reported.  She knew it wasn't true, but what could she do?  If China can't tell their own people the truth, why would they tell the world the truth?

Another breaking story highlighted the "surging" anti-Asian hate -- a result of Trump's use of "Wuhan virus" during his daily press briefings.  And finally, for good measure, there were interviews with unemployed people "feeling very, very afraid." 

Apparently CBS had no time to spend on this good news from today --  the stock market (and many people's retirement accounts) was up more than 6%.  This marked the third day in a row when the market posted gains.  The last three days saw market gains of over 2000, then 500 and now 1300.  I'm sure the market will rise and fall over the next few months, but isn't it note worthy that they only report on the market's freefall, but not its rise?

Nonetheless, the bad news went on for 20 minutes, before I couldn't take it anymore and turned it off.  A quick change to Pandora and a little rock n' roll from Journey and Foreigner had me in a much better mood in no time.

So is there some way we can report the news without constantly hyping worse case scenarios, and without using doom and gloom adjectives to describe daily results?

Of course there is.  During the 2009 world pandemic, resulting from the H1N1 "swine flu,"  more than 60 million U.S. citizens were infected by the flu which caused pneumonia and acute distress syndrome (ARDS).  Most patients needed immediate respiratory support with mechanical ventilation.  The virus was spread mainly from person to person, through coughing or sneezing.  Sometimes people became infected by touching something such as surfaces or objects containing the virus.  Unlike the current pandemic, it affected younger people and was not an issue for people over 60 years old.  But on the whole, it sounds very familiar doesn't it? 

The numbers I have read for swine flu the U.S. are eye-opening -- 60 million people infected, more than 11,000 people died.  That's just the United States!  Compare that to COVID-19.  As of the end of March, we had 85,000 infected and 1,300 deaths according to John Hopkins Hospital.  I realize the numbers aren't final, and the virus may be more deadly than the swine flu, but isn't it interesting that in 2009 we didn't cancel sporting events, stop all international flights, order restaurants and bars to close, cancel schools (even though it affected the young, including children), or put "stay at home" requirements on all of us?

What was different in 2009 than in 2020?  The media's response.  And which political party was in power.

When the media wants to drive a narrative -- and you know what I'm suggesting -- it's easy to see why the New York Times and CBS News are spending so much time accelerating the panic curve.  In the words of the New York Times, be very afraid...

I thought I would end on a high note, as I've never been one to stomach bad news, so why should I contribute to it?

A coworker sent me a link to a comedy special called "What's Wrong With People," starring stand-up comedian Sebastian Maniscalco (he played Johnny Venere in the movie "Green Book", if you saw that movie).  It's a hilarious skit about people who ring your doorbell.  In this small bit, he remembers how forty years ago, family and friends would come over to his parent's house and eat cake and drink Sanka.  They were called company, and everyone looked forward to seeing them and spending time together.

Fast forward to today, where if someone rings your doorbell, everyone hits the floor and turns out the lights.  Instead of welcoming people into your house, you avoid them like the plague.

It's really funny and you should watch it.  You can find it here:   just copy and paste https://youtu.be/0Swzvm-gXHg

My wife's suggestion was that when this COVID-19 nightmare is over, we should plan on ringing a few doorbells again.  It's time to spend time with company again, and I think we are all looking forward to it being sooner than later.

Thanks Liz and Pat, you've made my day.

Believing In Christmas

My feet shuffled through the remnants of today's snow shower, searching for icy spots to avoid.  Winter had come early to La Crosse, which had doubled-down on a crappy fall season, filled with rainy weekends and cold gray skies.  Heavier snow was reported to our north, but today the Coulee region had to deal with a mixture of freezing rain and light snow.

To my right stood a lighted, plastic blow mold Santa, with bright red splotches on his nose and cheeks.  The four foot figure stood on the yard of my neighbor, along with Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman.  These vintage molds always reminded me of my childhood, when I would see them on rooftops and front yards throughout the neighborhood.   Today, they had been replaced by inflatable lighted Santas and snowmen.  Somehow, they didn't have the same warmth and charm of the plastic blow molds of yesterday.

I had decided to take a walk this evening to clear my head.  The busy-ness of Christmas had a way of clouding one's thinking, and I had been dwelling on how much the holiday season had changed  since Matt and Sean had left to go to college, and years later, to bigger cities for jobs.

This year's Christmas was different -- from a season of anticipation and excitement, to one of observation and reminiscing.   I hated living in the past, but lately I had been having a hard time living in the present, with its pre-programmed, 24-hour Christmas music and the start of holiday shopping a month before Thanksgiving arrived.

I had helped decorate the house with false enthusiasm -- putting up the tree, displaying Santas, hanging stockings over the fireplace, swaying garland and wreathes, and stringing lights on the bushes in the front yard.  But the process had left me wishing the boys were home to help.  Many of the ornaments hung on the Christmas tree were from their childhood or from our time in Michigan when Liz and I were just starting to share our Christmases together.

A passing car brought my thoughts back to the present, and I discovered I had walked many blocks from home.  I crossed a street to stand before one of two churches in our neighborhood.  I had always enjoyed walking past Our Redeemer, with its contemporary architecture, highlighted by a towering cross that was the main fixture on its outer sanctuary wall.  Thin, vertical stained glass windows embraced the cross on either side.  Tonight, its stone façade was beautifully lit by a flood light that shown on a wooden nativity scene, complete with Mary and Joseph, the baby Jesus, wise men kneeling before the stable and an angel watching over all.

I paused for a moment, then decided to sit on a stone bench to enjoy the Christmas scene.  As I looked at the gentle faces of Mary and Joseph, I wondered who was responsible for creating them -- surely someone from the congregation with an artistic touch.  But also someone who understood the dignity and reverence each character had for the baby Jesus.  As if to say, "Welcome my God, my Lord, and my Son!"  For some reason, this sentiment brought a tear to my eye, and I realized many people today have completely missed the meaning of Christmas.  Instead of an offering of myrrh, frankincense and gold they came armed with video games, phones and new tech.

Instead of improving my sour mood, the worn appearance of Mary and Joseph seemed to confirm that Christmas had lost the culture war, to be replaced by Black Friday sales and gift cards.  It wasn't just the commercialization -- I longed for Christmas carols and being a kid again.  I missed going to church with my mom and dad, and returning home to Christmas presents under a real tree.  Something had pulled back the curtain, and with it, the magic of Christmas.

With a sigh, I decided to get up and head back home, where Liz was probably wondering why I had left so suddenly.  As I stood, my footing slipped on a patch of smooth ice and I crashed to the ground hitting my head on the sloped sidewalk leading to the church narthex.  As I closed my eyes, I remember looking to the heavens and thinking "when did it start snowing?"  Then darkness.

Unknown to me, a snow flake sent from the heavens above, and briefly illuminated by the lights shining on the nativity scene, gently landed on my face.



*     *     *     *



"A little higher, Tim!"  

My dad stood at the foot of the ladder and directed the placement of the wooden frame above the pulpit.  It wasn't an easy task as I had placed the ladder inside the raised stand, but had to lean against the wall because there was so little room to open it.

"How's that?" I asked, looking down on my dad, who for the first time in my life looked smaller than me.

"Perfect," dad said.  " Now get down before your mother returns and tells me how dangerous this is, and how I shouldn't let my 10-year old son fall and break his neck."  

My father was a  quiet man of average height, with a strong face, peaceful eyes and thinning hair with a curl that would never stay in place, unless he used an extra dose of hair tonic.  He stood below me with his hands on his hips, a look of approval glinting from his blue eyes.  Years ago, at the request of our church, he had constructed the star in his workshop, and displayed it every year for everyone to see.  I loved seeing it on Christmas Eve as we sat in church singing "Silent Night" and "What Child Is This?" 

I carefully climbed back down and bounced the ladder down the pulpit steps until it was safely on the floor.  Placing the ladder against the wall, I stepped back and looked up at my handiwork.   Above the pulpit hung a five-pointed wooden star.   It was five feet tall and covered by garland and large Christmas lights.  Although we had boxes of colored lights to decorate the church Christmas tree, all of the lights we used on the star were white.  Each bulb was protected by a silver, star-shaped foil bulb protector.  We also had them on our Christmas tree at home to keep the bulbs from burning the tree when they got too hot.

"Let's turn the lights on and see how it looks!"  I raced to the wall, found the extension cord, plugged it into the wall, and raced back to dad.  We stood there with pride on our faces and some relief that the job was finished before mom came back. 

"That's so cool dad!" I said, alternating my view and appreciation between the star to our left and the church tree to my right.  Other members of the church had decorated the tree and put pine boughs on each pew a few nights before.  Finally, I thought, Christmas had arrived in church! 

Dad patted my shoulder, walked to a church pew and sat down.  "Come here for a second.  I want to tell you something."  My dad wasn't one to do a lot of talking, so I began to wonder if I had done something wrong.


"Yeah?" 

My dad looked up at the Christmas tree, which was much taller than the one we had at home, and said "See that angel?"

My eyes searched the tree, traveling right to left, then from bottom to top.  Colored lights and ornaments adorned the tree (the ladies club had made ornaments from left-over fabric and hung them from the branches).  But I didn't see an angel.

"Look higher."

Eventually my eyes found the top of the tree, where an angel was perched looking down on the empty church pews.

"I see it!"

"An angel atop your tree shows that you have a strong spiritual side, you are a kind soul and that people will turn to you in times of need.  The people of our congregation want the world to know that Jesus was all of those things.  Now look at the Advent candles that we've lit for the past four weeks.  They are a reminder that God is coming and that you and I should prepare for his birth.  And finally, look at our star.  The star means you have a strong belief system, you think of yourself as a strong leader and you have a strong moral compass." 

I glanced away from the star and noticed dad was looking at me. I wasn't exactly sure what he was telling me, but I knew it was important.  "Those three things -- the angle, the candles and the star -- have always made Christmas special.  I know some day you will feel like Christmas has lost its meaning, like it did for me.  We get so busy getting ready for Christmas that we forget why we celebrate it."

He paused and grabbed my small hand in his.  The only sound coming from the church was the sound of an ambulance racing down West Avenue toward St. Francis Hospital.  

"There will come a time --when your mom and I are gone -- that you will stop believing in Christmas.  Trust me.  You get distracted... there are kids and work that get in the way.  When that time comes I want you to remember the meaning of the angel, candles and star.  Just like the three wise men and shepherds in the fields who heard the story of his birth, you will find Christmas and the baby Jesus is inside you, waiting for you to find him again."

I sat there thinking about what my dad had said.   I believed him, of course, but I doubted I would ever stop believing in Christmas.  It was all around me.  The lights, songs, presents and family.  And yes, Jesus.  I had stopped believing in Santa, but I would never stop believing in Christmas!

"There you two are," echoed an impatient voice from the back of the church.  It was mom letting us know that it was time to go.  "The ladies are done wrapping the candy for next week's children's program. So, if you two are done with the decorations, let's go.  There's a lot to do at home yet, and I feel like we are running out of time."

As I stood and turned to prepare to unplug the star, I heard dad say in a voice that began to fade, then disappear, "Don't stop believing in Christmas, son.  Just look inside yourself."



*     *     *     *


"Just look inside..."

My eyes opened to the sight of snow flakes -- big, fat and wet snowflakes -- falling from the sky.  I lay there on my back trying to remember what had happened.  Then a pain from the back of my head reminded me of my fall.

I rolled over and got to my knees, shaking snow from my face and hair, then briefly stood before sitting again on the bench.  I needed to see if I was going to be ok.  I didn't think the fall had knocked me out, but it had left me dazed and in a little pain.

As I sat there, a memory of a Christmas from fifty years ago started to come back to me.  At first it was just an image of my old church, then a Christmas tree and finally a star that my father had made.  And with the images, came the words he  had told me -- "don't stop believing in Christmas."

What was that all about?

Had I stopped believing in Christmas?  Maybe I had.  At least, the true meaning of the holiday.  My fall had somehow triggered a conversation I had forgotten.

Before me was the same nativity scene, but for some reason it seemed different.  Instead of a worn and tired Mary and Joseph, I saw joy in their eyes as they glanced down at the baby Jesus.   The faces of the wise men and shepherds, who had traveled so far, were in awe of the Christmas miracle.

My father had said Christmas was a time of celebration -- and that there is a gift inside each of us.  These gifts  - our voice, our minds and our bodies -- are beautiful because Jesus was born in a manger so many years ago.   How was it possible he foresaw this day when I would fail to see the beauty that is in this moment and the people around me every day?

I stood and carefully walked to the street and headed toward home.   Before I entered the darkness of the night,  I took one last glance at the star shining above the manger.  Despite the falling snow, it remained easy to see, as if giving me one last memory of my dad.

A few minutes later, I walked through our back door and into the kitchen.  As I removed my snow covered jacket and shoes, Liz walked in asking me where I had gone.  As she approached, I could see the concern in her eyes and on her face.   "Where were you -- you had me worried," she said, wrapping her arms around me.

I smiled and hugged her back.  "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have just left like that.  But no need to worry.  I went to see someone who helped me believe in miracles again.  It's been a long time, but I really mean it now when I say Merry Christmas."

Liz looked at me with her warm, brown eyes and said, "Merry Christmas to you too... it's a wonderful time of year."

A Long Way There

The busyness of the evening had slowed, and most of the guests had left for their homes and families.  The sliding door opened and Paul stepped onto the deck to joined us at the end of the table.  Wine bottles were scattered across the table, indicating another successful wine party, affectionately referred to as the great Wine Adventure. 

At this point, only the mosquitos showed much life, but they were being held at bay by the citronella candles burning at various points along the deck.  Our wives were in the house, putting away food and catching up on each other's fading summer plans.

I was filled with melancholy, perhaps attributed to the wine or maybe I was feeling sad at the prospect of another summer coming to a close.  Fall was around the corner, with its cooler temperatures and longer nights, and I was thinking about how quickly the summer had passed. 

I was asking Doug a question when Paul sat down and emptied the remaining wine from a nearby bottle into his glass. 

"So, Doug, do you know what we were doing forty-two years ago?" I asked.

Doug's face, illuminated by one of the candles on the table, repressed a smile and nodded,  "No amount of wine will ever keep me from remembering that trip.  Four hundred dollar car, Little River Band on the radio, chalk outlines on cement and you learning how to drive a stick."

Paul put his glass down and added, "And getting carded buying some beers on the beach."

I laughed, "How could we ever forget that?  You bring it up every time we're together."

"Just saying."

"What about tossing all that fruit out the window as we entered New Mexico because we were afraid they would bust us at one of their checkpoints?  I don't think they bother anymore, but we were scared shitless that they would find us with oranges or bananas."

"We were so clueless.  I'm still amazed that we were able to find our way."

We were silent for a moment, then I added, "Think about it guys.  We were kids right out of high school driving over 2,000 miles in a car that Doug had bought for a bad song.  I don't know about you two, but I had never been further west than Minnesota.  And that's not saying much."

Doug said, "Before GPS, Google Maps or computers in our cars."

"Before John Lennon was shot."

"And Microsoft Windows, Apple iPhones and Facebook."

"September 11, 2001."

"And Make America Great Again!"

I looked across the table at the gray haired guys who were still my best friends, despite everything life had thrown our way - marriage, the passings of our parents, children, jobs, and Father Time.  Sometimes I think we wouldn't be life-long friends if it wasn't for that trip.  A trip that defined not only our adolescence by ending the banality of high school, but also changing our lives in ways none of us ever imagined.

Yes, it was unforgettable -- the trip of our lives.






I was eighteen when Doug, Paul and I left for California.  We were nerdy kids who wore rolled up jean shorts and foot high athletic socks.  We were all from the Great Plains, who firmly fit the corn-eating, vanilla chit chat, Midwestern Nice profile.  We avoided trouble in high school by spending our Friday and Saturday nights playing euchre at a friend's cabin.  In a throw-back to "American Graffiti," we occasionally enjoyed driving around downtown on a weekend night  looking for chicks and avoiding a guy named Malum who once pointed a gun at us because our stupid antics had pissed him off.  But, typically our summers consisted of a few girls, minimum wage jobs and wasting a few afternoons on the Mississippi River. 

I'm not sure whose idea it was to drive to California, but there was little doubt it would happen once it was mentioned.   California sun?   Disneyland?  Pacific Ocean beaches?  Mexico?  San Francisco?  Check, check, check, check and check!

It was a different time --  when our parents didn't worry about mass shootings, climate change and safe places.  If we had the money and our own transportation, they were ok with it.  None of us can even remember calling our parents while on this trip, which is unthinkable today.  I can imagine my mom telling us to drive safe, eat every day and get lots of sleep.  Oh, and keep your eyes on Paul -- he could be trouble.  I made up that last part, but it's a good joke every now and then.  Everything else was up to us.

It was a time when Fleetwood Mac was on top of the charts with Rumours, which stayed at number 1 for 31 weeks.  Star Wars introduced a generation to a galaxy far, far away, and a peanut farmer became our 39th President.

It was also a time when after four years of unmistakably plain high school, we were heading in different directions.  Paul and I were heading to college, but not the same one, and Doug was heading to WWTC to study auto mechanics.  It was an opportunity for one last adventure -- before summer ended and we went our separate ways.

Our road warrior was a four-hundred dollar, 1972 Chevrolet Vega GT, a straight line four cylinder hatchback, which was famously known in its ads "as the only little car that does everything well."  What a slogan!  Reminds me of those ads today telling you not to settle for someone who is  "pretty good" at something.   Coincidentally, 1977 was the last year of production for the Vega, as reliability, safety, rust and engine durability spelled its doom (good thing our parents didn't know about that).

With the backseats down it bragged about having a whopping 49.3 cubic feet of interior space with the seats down.  It had holes in the passenger quarter panel from a dent puller and a manual shift, meaning I had to learn on the fly.  I thought I did ok, except the one time I was pulling out in front of a speeding semi-truck somewhere near Anaheim.  I had shifted into third gear, which for anyone who has driven a stick knows will either stall the car, or at best, cause the car to chug-chug-chug until you pick up speed. 

Honestly, I had things under control, despite what the other two will tell you.

The Vega rear hatchback also served as a bed for when we would drive through the night and one of us needed to get some sleep.  After a day, the sour smell coming from sweaty socks, uneaten food and three bodies needing a bath was almost overwhelming.  If lack of sleep didn't knock you out eventually the smell did.   And I don't know how we squeezed into the back because it contained all of our clothing, food, camping gear and everything we purchased.  But, we were young, flexible... and thin.  A lot thinner.

We passed time by listening to the AM/FM radio, talking on the CB radio or popping in a cassette tape of Little River Band's first album with "It's a Long Way There," "Curiosity Killed the Cat," and "I'll Always Call Your Name."  Little River Band would go on to have a number of Top 40 hits.  Another band, but one much less known, was Lake with songs no one would ever hear of,  "On the Run," "Time Bomb" and "Jesus Came Down."  We also enjoyed listening to Boston's first album and everything Rush.  We must have listened to those songs until the cassette tapes broke or spooled out of the cassette player like strings of silly string.

By my calculations, it is over 2,000 miles from La Crosse, Wisconsin to San Marcos, California.  To get there we drove through Minnesota, Iowa, Kansas, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California.   Our first night was spent in Liberal, Kansas in a campground after 884 miles and more than 13 hours of driving.  I'm sure it was a long day, but the freedom we felt and the excitement of new states, new landscapes and people was enough to keep our young bodies and minds racing toward the next town.

The following day, we made a quick stop in Dalhart, Texas so I could buy a tooth brush and toothpaste  (I'm not sure if it was my idea or Paul and Doug who had to sit next to me in the car).  From there we made it to Tucumcari, New Mexico where we bought some food and drinks, but decided to pass on the goat heads that were for sale in a convenience store.  I'd heard of head cheese while working at K-Mart Foods, but never the whole head.  I'm pretty sure we got out of there as quickly as Paul did whenever he heard my mom's voice, wondering what new trouble he was getting us into.

Before our experience with the sadistic head hunters of Tucumcari, we encountered another novelty (to us at least) in New Mexico -- agricultural checkpoints when you crossed their border on Interstate 40.  Our naiveté was on full display as we started throwing oranges out the window, only to find out later that they weren't interested in three guys driving a Vega hatchback to California.  Of course, you never knew what other "illegal substances" they might find, so we were always on our best behavior when crossing the borders of New Mexico, Arizona and California.

After a less than exciting night in our small tent the night before, we decided to forgo stopping again  and continued our push through the hot desserts of Arizona by driving all night long.  It was a trip of over 1,100 miles and more than 17 hours --  before satellite radio, iPhones and GPS.  There was no internet or DVDs of Mash, Threes Company or All in the Family to pass time.  And the only FaceTime was the one you had with the person sitting next to you in the car. 

It was during these long, cramped hours that our conversations wandered from girls, sports, girls, music, girls, school and life.  We were too young to have the burden of 8 to 5 office hours, diapers and baby food, or even the responsibility that comes from a steady girlfriend or wife.  Our interests were our own and our obligation to ourselves.  The trip was full of new experiences for all of us -- a strange voice coming from a radio station originating out of Albuquerque, New Mexico at two o'clock in the morning, sunrise in the desert, with the sky becoming a deep neon blue as the sun's  upper limb broke over the horizon, a gas station warning us that this was the last gas for 200 miles, and a night sky filled with millions of tiny stars, forming brilliant constellations we was seeing for the first time in our lives.

With determination and a little luck, we arrived the following morning at our destination, California, the land of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll.  At least that's what the Rolling Stone magazine said before it was lost in the growing pile of stuff in the back of the Vega.  At the time, I couldn't tell you if California had more sex and drugs than any other state, but I could certainly dig their rock 'n' roll  --  San Francisco and Los Angeles alone produced some of the best 70's bands -- the Eagles, Journey, Doobie Brothers, Grateful Dead, the Doors, Jefferson Airplane, Santana and of course the band that was synonymous with southern California, The Beach Boys.

Our plan, once we reached California, was to spend time with Paul's aunts and uncles living in San Marcos and Costa Mesa.  This was southern California and pools were everywhere --  some of my best memories come from George and Carol Halland's pool in San Marcos and Orv and Darlene Mundinger's pool in Costa Mesa.  However, our enjoyment at Disneyland and Knotts Berry Farm was muted as we watched the CBS evening news on August 16, 1977 to learn Elvis Presley had died in the bathroom of his Graceland mansion in Memphis, Tennessee at the age of 42.

We also went to Tijuana, Mexico for a day, even though none of us had passports.  In today's violent world, I don't think we would have wandered through the streets of San Diego's sister city looking for leather belts and wallets.  Were we in danger?  Who knows, but none of us gave it a second thought.  What did three boys from the midwest know about cardboard shanty towns and drug cartels?

The last few days of our trip were spent traveling north to the much cooler (both figuratively and climatically speaking) San Francisco where we would spend a few days with Paul's Uncle John and his partner Don.  I never gave their relationship a second thought -- beyond wondering what their neighbors thought of three young boys coming for a visit.  But hey, it was California, where everything goes!  Visits to the Golden State Bridge, Fisherman's Wharf, Alcatraz and riding the cable cars were like dreams come true for all three of us.

If it hadn't been for Paul's relatives, I'm sure we would've been part of California's first homeless invasion, living in a Vega down by the Pacific Ocean.

As it was, we enjoyed a week in the luxury of the gods (at least by my standards), sleeping on nice beds, swimming in private pools day and night, body surfing in the Pacific, cruising the beach in a convertible, and being treated to great beach-front Mexican restaurants and bars.

But all good things must end, and like the morning fog in San Francisco, ours ended  much too soon with a non-stop trek through Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, South Dakota and Minnesota.  It meant driving all 2,029 miles without stopping for much more than bathroom breaks, some food and something to drink.  While our trip out to California was an adventure full of excitement, our trip back was one filled with monotony and a desire for our own beds and our mother's homemade food. 

Lack of sleep eventually caught up to us in Minnesota, only a few hours from home.  None of us can remember whose turn it was to drive, but as the sun was rising over the pockmarked landscape of rolling hills and plains of southern Minnesota, we could go no further.  It was Paul, perhaps driven by my mom's final words to him when we left -- "make sure to bring my favorite child home" -- who pushed us through the last one-hundred miles to arrive home, safely.

In the end, it WAS the trip of a lifetime. 

Not because of where we went --  we have since all travelled much further from home and to much more exotic and older destinations than California.  But because of who we were and what we meant to each other.  It prepared us for life by teaching us about life.  And the bond that was developed in Doug's 1972 Vega GT, where we traveled more than 4,000 miles in little more than a week, has remained strong even forty-two years later. 

We all did our own thing after that long trip in a small car -- college, marriage, kids, death of our parents and everything else in between.  But no matter what came our way, good or bad, we have remained great friends.  My memories of that eventful journey always bring me back to them and to our midwestern roots where we could be kids, have fun and explore the great unknown without fear.

Thanks guys!


"Hey everybody yeah, don't you feel that there's something?

Feel it, feel it?

Hey everybody yeah, don't you feel that there's something?

People on their own are getting nowhere,
I am on the road to see,
If anything is anywhere and waiting, just for me.

Every night I walk around the city.
Seems like I'll never know,
That feeling of being together when I go.

And it's a long way there, it's a long, long way
it's a long way to where I'm going," 

- Little River Band