Voices From the past

Of all the places to be standing, the last place I expected to hear about living in the Big Easy was in a cemetery. 

It has been said that in history you can find all the secrets of living in the present.  Such is the case as I stand outside the rusty arched entrance of Lafayette Cemetery, one of 42 "cities of the dead" found throughout New Orleans.  This particular cemetery was established in 1833 in what is now known as the Garden District for les Americaines (the Americans).  The Garden District features some of the most elegant and expensive homes found in the city.  Successful immigrants built here as part of the city of Lafayette, bringing with them their love of Italianate and Greek Revival architecture.  Today, the surrounding neighborhood -- showcasing enormous lots, spacious gardens and grand courtyards -- are owned by famous actors like John Goodman, Sandra Bullock, and Nicholas Cage, musician Trevor Reznor and author Anne Rice.

As I enter the cemetery gates, I encounter black decorative ironwork and sun-bleached tombs.  Crosses and statues offer a faded contrast to the grey skies above.  The threat of rain forces many of us to keep our umbrellas in hand, ready to open at a moment's notice.  Around me are the bodies and remains of Irish, German, French and Spanish people who lived, worked and died in the later years of  the 19th Century.

If I listen carefully, I can hear their voices.
               

 

Liz, Matt, Sean and I are in the Crescent City (far from the winter snows of Wisconsin) for the week surrounding New Year's Eve.  It is in part a celebration of Matt's graduating from Washington University grad school and part family vacation.  Our children are growing up and we are confident that they will go their own ways soon enough.

As part of our itinerary, we are taking a tour of a cemetery that has been seen in popular movies like "Interview With the Vampire" and "Double Jeopardy."  So much of this city is based on historical events, that we thought it would be interesting to learn about it from a place where they bury their dead above ground since the high water table makes it impossible to keep caskets (and their occupants) from floating to the surface.

Our tour guide has been talking about the early division between the Creoles in the French Quarter and the new Protestant settlers.  As he leads us through rows of attached vaults, some stacked above each other, I discover New Orleans and its citizens have always found a way to bring life to its turbulent past -- including its mysterious voodoo and piracy, its bawdy, tenacious traditions, its artistry of jazz, its diverse cultures and ornate French Quarter decadence.

These voices from the past tell tales of new world explorers from France and Spain, hardships of sickness, hurricanes and a flooding river, and the dueling influence of Roman Catholic and Christian religions.  Born out of these influences was the birth of jazz, Creole cuisine, and tremendous commerce brought about by sugar and cotton plantations located near the Mississippi River.


To the sounds of approval, our waiter sets the plate of bacon wrapped jumbo shrimp and grits on the table.  With my fork, I scoop a small helping of the shrimp and ground yellow grits and put it into my mouth, savoring its unique combination of smokey pecan and red-eye barbecued flavors.

I look up at the others sitting at my table, and see them enjoying their own selection of gumbo ya ya, chicken pontalba, Creole catfish and gulf shrimp with Barbecue sauce.

We are at Mr. B's Bistro, located in the heart of the French Quarter at the intersection of Royal Street and Iberville. This corner is a New Orleans' landmark and celebrated food corner.  The downtown area is flooded with people returning from a Saints football game, and they are jubilant following a 42-17 win over the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.   The throngs of people stop traffic as they crowd the sidewalks, fill the restaurants and find the nearest barstool in their favorite tavern.

Our hotel staff recommended that we get to Mr. B's early, so we are finishing our appetizer of oysters as the first of the revelers spin their way through the building's revolving doors.  The restaurant's host greets the incoming throng and moves them to candle-lit tables draped with white cotton where its front staff of servers, bussers and bartenders eagerly await.  

Many of the incoming are repeat customers, eager to enjoy their upcoming meal.  For us, however, it is our first experience with New Orleans' love affair with food.


When the first settlers arrived from France, they encountered a Louisiana landscape where the water, the marshes and the woods were teeming with wild game and seafood.  This abundance -- in combination with influences from local Indians and West African / French cooking -- created what is known as Creole cuisine.  The Gulf of Mexico and the surrounding waterways provide much of the "meat" for shrimp creole, gumbo, crawfish bisque and e'touffe'e.

Many people shopped for meals at the local marketplace.  Like many river towns, New Orleans' market formed near the Mississippi River.  It was crammed with people buying and selling food from around the world.  For sale were alligators, frog legs, Louisiana sausage, and an assortment of tropical fruits like lemons, strawberries, bananas and oranges.   In the early days, voices could be heard of women and salesmen bartering the prices or quality of goods, and vendors hollering out their specials. Much of their conversations were carried on in French, English, Italian, Spanish and German.  Added to these were the sounds of chickens, parrots and other caged birds, monkeys for sale and perhaps a brass band playing in the background.

Today, tourists who walk on Decatur Street near the Mississippi River, enjoy a market experience that includes clothing and record stores, as well as outdoor cafes selling Po'Boys, muffalettas and sugary beignets.  Those shopping in the marketplace can take the Canal Street trolley past the warehouse district which lies along the river.  These nearby buildings used to house much of the commerce and shipping that made New Orleans a destination for food, drink and culture.

New Orleans love affair with food continues through the contribution of well known chefs like Paul Prudhomme, Alex Patout, John Folse and Emerile Lagasse.  Whether at a well-known restaurant like Mr. B's Bistro or a local favorite like Something Cafe with its excellent jambalya, eating in New Orleans is unlike anywhere else in the United States.

 

 

New Year's Day is coming to a close as we walk down Frenchmen Street to a small bar called The Spotted Cat Music Club.  Our hotel staff had said that this street is to New Orleans' locals what Bourbon Street is to visiting tourists.  This is where we had come to hear authentic jazz and blues. 

Frenchmen Street borders the French Quarter to the west and is a short section in the Faubourg Marigny neighborhood.  This area was once the plantation of a wealthy Creole born man who influenced the city of New Orleans with his "soie de vivre" -- or a keen sense of enjoyment.  Through the years the Faubourg Marigny neighborhood has developed into a block of thriving New Orleans' music, culture and food.   It is a diverse neighborhood with a personality that is unique to this city.


A poster taped to the window of a bar to my left advertises bands that will be playing throughout the holiday week.  A quick glance shows names that are well-known in this part of New Orleans, but not to me:  Meschiya Lake and the Little Big Horns, the New Orleans Cottonmouth Kings, New Orleans Moonshiners and Washboard Chaz Blues Trio.  I step around a tuba (lying on the sidewalk) with the name "DisFUNKtional Bone" written on the instrument's round bell, announcing another popular bar band.  

All around us, the blast of  jazz, blues and rock music screams from nearby open doors, inviting us into their dark, sweaty and crowded confines.

We cross the street to another open door where a blue haze shimmers and a persistent drum beat rattles the windows.  As we walk through the entrance, a band ensemble kicks in to the sounds of  "St. James Infirmary Blues," featuring Ecrib Muller on the trumpet.  The full sound of guitars, drums, keyboards and bass propel us through the thickening crowd to the back of this small, but popular building.   Our temporary destination is the bar where I order a round of Abita Amber beer for me and the boys and a rum and coke for Liz.

For the next couple hours, jazz is alive and well in N'awlins.  And we are at the center of it.


When people think of New Orleans, they think of jazz.  This unique sound comes from the city's exotic culture dating back to the early 1800's when slaves brought their music and dance from West Africa.

It was later, in a district near the French Quarter called Storyville that black musicians found work as musicians.  It was here -- in the bordellos and nightclubs -- that people like Jelly Roll Morton, Louis Armstrong and Sidney Bechet crafted their unique sound.  As their music evolved, its popularity grew beyond the boarders of New Orleans and even Louisiana.  Over time, their bands migrated north by riverboats to Chicago and St. Louis.

Other styles of music found in New Orleans included the early Cuban music known as habanera, an Afro-Carribean rhythm popularized by songs like "New Orleans' Blues."  Dixieland music could also be found in early music dating back to 1859, but it was not popular in the usual sense, because the term referred to any area of the South where slaves had not yet received emancipation.  A citizen of New Orleans once said, "You must understand that there was always a bad feeling between the northern part of the country and the southern part.  After the Civil War, they still battle against each other, and to those boys (the North) everything was Dixie and Dixieland as far as they were concerned.  But to tell the facts, as far as we blacks were concerned, it was New Orleans music -- New Orleans, not Dixieland Jazz."

Meanwhile, new music continued to evolve in New Orleans through the contributions of Fats Domino with his rhythm and blues.  Dr. John and James Booker both were popular during the 1950's, and in recent decades we've enjoyed such popular artists like the Neville Brothers and the Meters.  Today, Wynton Marsalis and Harry Connick, Jr. carry on the city's rich musical tradition.

                                                                     
It's early morning, before the crowds return for another day of partying.  Standing outside the Hotel Mazarin, I can see a trail of what looks like soap running into the gutters of the street.  Apparently the city sends out a team to clean the garbage and power wash the streets nightly.  Despite the city's best efforts, however, the smell of something wet -- booze, sweat, vomit or rain from the night before? -- hits my nose as I walk down Bienville Street toward the river and Jackson Square.  

 

Our stay in New Orleans has planted us in the middle of the French Quarter, which is only a block away from Bourbon Street (Rue des Bourbon).  To even the casual observer, Bourbon Street is something to behold, at other times, to be avoided.  

Our walk down Bourbon Street -- less than eight hours before -- is best defined as a visit to an insane asylum which has let its inmates loose.   The open container law in the French Quarter allows drinking alcoholic beverages in the street, and we -- like the rest of the inmates -- take full advantage of it.  Large plastic cups litter the street, joining the drunk passed out on the curb holding a piece of paper advertising Huge Ass Beers.

We quickly pass through upper Bourbon Street, a noisy eight-block section of blue, red, yellow and purple neon colors with people surging up one side and down the other.  In the sparse light coming from one doorway, I hear a young man shout, "No cover charge, mister.  Eight dollars for drinks!"  but I continue walking.  Another window has a curtain that is parted showing dancing girls clad in G-strings and high heeled shoes.  I keep telling myself that it's best not to make eye contact -- but I can't help myself.  Standing before me is a young girl -- no more than 16 years old -- leaning against a door papered with a variety of naked women.  A hidden strobe light flashes inside the building, casting her in its unnatural light.  I turn my head and continue down Bourbon Street.

Dodging an incoming throng of Oklahoma football fans in town for the Sugar Bowl, I feel like the quarterback for the Auburn Tigers faking a step to the left, then darting quickly to the right.  The four of us continue past a road barrier that has closed off the next couple of blocks.  We pass bars with names like Pat O'Brien's,  Jean Laffite's Blacksmith Shop, the Famous Door, Spirits on Bourbon, Razzo and the Cat's Meow.  

Hours later, on the way back to our hotel, we pass more strip clubs, Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo, the Old Absinthe House and finally the Royal Sonesta Hotel.  The sound of loud bands and the vibration of a thousand revelers vanishes as we enter the safety of our hotel lobby for a much needed night of rest.


In addition to the bars, restaurants, souvenir shops and strip clubs that line the street, Bourbon Street's history also provides a look into New Orleans' rich past.  For that matter, the architecture throughout the French Quarter features over 200 years of rich characters, chaos and intrigue.


Walk down any street and you will find aging buildings with shops on the first floor and apartments or homes above.   Outside doors are tall and surmounted by arched and barred transoms.  Above them one can image prostitutes and musicians leaning over hand-wrought iron railings laughing and shouting at those below.  The wrought and caste iron railings are everywhere you look, some with the most intricate designs to be found anywhere.  The plaster and brick façade looks old and in some instances you wonder how the building remains standing.

As a horse-drawn carriage meanders past, you catch a glimpse of some of the wonderful courtyards tucked between buildings.  They contain murmuring fountains and shady sitting areas.  When it rains (which is often), people dash to the nearest art shop or tavern to dry off and spend time drinking a beer or ice tea.

The historical buildings, food and music found in New Orleans tell a story of great beginnings, terrible losses and renewed ambition.  These stories, told by voices which permeate the cobbled brick streets and historic buildings of the French Quarter, Frenchmen Street, and Lafayette Cemetery make The Big Easy one of the most fascinating cities in America today.

Never Too Old for Hoops

Age is mind over matter.

Like a fierce gladiator going to battle, I wrap the flexible neoprene fabric around my right knee and stretch it till it's comfortably in place.  I reach into a bag and pull out two ankle braces, lace them up and slip on my tennis shoes which contain arch supports.  An elbow strap for compression completes my five minutes of prep and I rise to my feet.

I shut my locker, grab the ball and walk out of the room, which is still stinking from the exertion of sweaty bodies and wet towels.  A blast of fresh air coming from the hallway brings my mind and body into focus, preparing me for the next 90 minutes of exercise. 

As I open the door leading into the Mathy Center gym area, I hear the squeak of shoes on waxed floors followed by the swish of a basketball falling through an overhead net.  A throng of bodies flood the area only to push and shove its way to the other end of the court.  Like a school of fish flashing through water, the assorted bodies surge to one player, then separate only to dart to the left as the ball is passed to a streaking figure who grabs it and banks it through a basket.

I continue to my left, leaving the mass of young players and part a full length curtain that hides another court populated by a very different collection of players.  A group of five men stand around -- their bodies decidedly bent with age, their hair gray and receding, and their demeanor much more relaxed and accommodating.

Upon my arrival, one of the men slaps his hands and asks for the basketball.  "Hey, Ward," I smile and pass him the ball.  "How's the foot?"

With a shrug of his shoulders, he answers "Not good.  I'm looking forward to getting off my feet for a few days and give it some rest."  Like all of these guys, Ward Jones has been playing noon ball for years.  Despite the plantar fasciitis, it hasn't kept him from playing three times a week at Viterbo University with other professors, students and alumni.

These basketball junkies, at one time grade school, high school, or college players, can't get enough of the game of basketball.  I am no different.

As the husband of a Viterbo University alumni graduate, I started coming to the school's gym to play racquetball.  It was free and (unlike the YMCA) courts were available.  At the end of my lunch hour, I started talking to this small group of men who shared the locker room and quickly discovered that my passion for basketball was shared by others.  While my days of hitting a small blue ball continued for many years, the object of my affection quickly changed from the racquetball court to the basketball court.

And for nearly 21 years, noon basketball has become my escape from old age, where magically I'm a young boy again.


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There is nothing better than basketball.

Well, next to my wife and two sons, there's nothing better than basketball.  And even that has been called into question at times, when basketball interferes with vacation and weekend trips.

Where does this obsession come from?

My earliest recollection of playing basketball goes back to fifth grade at First Lutheran grade school in La Crosse.  As I was a tall kid for my class, it didn't take long for our basketball coach, Jerry Grunholz, to track me down and ask me if I'd ever played basketball.   As my coach was to learn, playing basketball was one thing, being good at it was another.  My first game in fifth grade was against the Pioneers of Lewiston, Minnesota.  I came off the bench in the first quarter and was so nervous that the first two balls passed my way slipped right through my trembling hands.  Somehow, my capacity to catch and dribble had been replaced by an inability to catch a bouncing ball.  Two blocks of slippery ice had more trraction than my hands. 

Acknowledging his mistake, Coach Grunholz had me back on the bench for the remainder of the game.  

Despite my sloppy beginnings, I stuck with it.  There was something different about basketball than football, track, swimming and baseball.  I was a good athlete (not fast, but athletic) and my height made it easier to play basketball than other sports.  By the time I reached eighth grade, our "A"team of Bill Juen, Randy Mitten, Tom Grams and Steve Jenkins had beaten the likes of the Mount Calvary Hawks,  the Lewiston Pioneers, and the Nodine Patriots.  I can't say we ever had a good team, but I do remember the excitement of practice and scrimmages, and the thrill of running on court to a full gym of parents and siblings cheering us on.

 I don't know where it came from, but I always had a love for sports -- the Green Bay Packers won the 1967 NFL Championship game against the Dallas Cowboys in what later became known as the Ice Bowl, and I was in front of our television watching it.  As for basketball, I remember watching Notre Dame end UCLA's 88 game winning streak in 1974.  The Fighting Irish beat Bill Walton and UCLA by a score of 71-70.  It represented the first time UCLA had lost a game in more than three years.

 

Yeah, sports was in my blood.  Whereas my older brother and dad would go hunting or fishing, I would spend my time in our driveway shooting hoops, or watching it on television.  I can remember somedays when I would be so excited from watching a game on television, that I would shovel part of our driveway and shoot a few baskets just to get it out of my system.

What began with the First Lutheran Wildcats continued into middle school where I played center for the Longfellow Trojans.  Coming from a small parochial school like First Lutheran meant my competition was upgraded by the likes of Aquinas, Tomah, Sparta, Logan and Lincoln middle schools.  But the game was the same despite the fact that I was no longer one of the tallest player on the court.

At First Lutheran we scrambled to find enough players to make a team.  Not so at Longfellow where we had tryouts to determine who made the team.  I remember the excitement of seeing my name listed on the team  roster along with other boys from the prior year:  Tom Juan, Bill Weber, Paul Mundinger, Matt Venghen, Randy Newton and Dan Michaels.  Being the new kid in school, I felt I had to try harder to prove my value and to let them know I could be counted on.

One memorable game had our team on the brink of losing.  Our better shooters had fouled out and I was one of the few remaining starters as the game wound down.  My hook shot as time expired sent it into overtime, where our team eventually won after a number of my shots kept us in the lead.  You hear about shooters being "in a zone" where everything goes in.  This was one of those games.  I'm not bragging when I say that I couldn't miss, -- believe me -- I had plenty of other games that brought me back to earth.

My memories of that game include running from the court, walking through a gauntlet of cheering students to our locker room.  It was one of the first times I can remember where I felt like people knew who I was.  Coming from First Lutheran in ninth grade, it was hard to make new friends.  Most of my classmates had been together since grade school, so there was a familiarity that I was missing.  I always felt like sports was one of the best ways to make new friends, not only with your teammates, but also with students in class.   All of a sudden, everyone knows you and wants to talk about the game.  I can understand why professional athletes have the egos they do.  Add a couple million dollars to the mix and they think they can do anything.

The following year I tried out and made the high school basketball team at La Crosse Central.  Once again, the competition was tougher, but tryouts went well and I was happy to make the team.  When the season began, however, I discovered that band and basketball practiced at the same time.  Not wanting to give up either, I surprised my coach (and my parents) by quitting the team and playing with my friends on Saturday mornings in a city high school league.  

Initially it was hard giving up the competitive game I'd grown up loving, but I soon discovered that a game between friends was just as much fun.  Playing in the pep band on Friday nights at Central and the Mary E. Sawyer Auditorium kept me close to the high school game -- even if it was from the bleachers.  

Through the remaining years -- in college and after graduation -- I always found a way to track down a game of hoops, both in city leagues and at the Y.  I continue to watch my Wisconsin Badgers fight it out in the Big Ten, and take days off around March Madness to watch the initial rounds of the tournament.  A few of us from noon ball even travel to Madison to watch the boys state tournament.

As I said, there's nothing better than basketball.


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As I spin to the left, I receive the pass with my right hand.  After faking a move to the center of the lane, I drop to the baseline and finger roll the basketball off the back board and into the basket -- game point. 

"Another game we should have won," complains Rick Kyte, walking forward to shake my hand.  "Nice comeback!"

As a professor at Viterbo University, Rick is one of four teachers who are playing basketball today.  The remaining group includes a pastor, a financial planner at Wells Fargo, a journalist for the La Crosse Tribune, an owner of a cleaning business, a CFO for a hospital and a number of retired businessmen.

As is typical for this group, each team consisted of a fairly balanced group of "seasoned" players mixed in with a few students.  Our game has gotten worse with age.  We are trying hard to convince ourselves that we can play with the younger guys next door, but reality has us on the losing side.

It has become a game of attrition for our group -- this has been an especially tough year for some of the players.  Last summer we had one of the retired players suffer a heart attack while waiting to enter the game.  As he lay there -- his heart stopped -- two of us (who luckily were trained in CPR) were pushing on his chest and performing mouth to mouth until the paramedics arrived.  It was the first time I had ever seen something like that, and I'll never forget it.  A few weeks later, another player didn't feel right and he went to see his doctor, who promptly put him into surgery to perform heart surgery.

It's a fine line between our love of basketball and our fear of injury. 

Most of us have suffered broken noses, dislocated fingers, torn rotator cuff injuries and even scratched corneas.  Some wrap their knees, elbows and ankles to keep playing, despite the pain.  I think all of us keep Johnson & Johnson in business one way or the other.

But it's the enjoyment of the friendly competition, the thrill of hitting the winning shot and the camaraderie that keeps us coming back.  Last month, one of the players came to play right after a colonoscopy.  He asked the doctor to back off the anesthesia so he come join us.  The funny thing is all of us understood why...

"Let's go!" shouts Tom Tiggelaar, looking at the clock on the wall.  "We have time for one more game -- let's do it."  As guys grab a last drink of water and gather under the basket, Ron Amel takes the ball at the top of the key and says, "You guys know we only remember the last game, right?"

Maybe for some, I think.  But I remember them all, even the ones I lose.

 

A Non-Traditional Point of View

Toward the end of every November, Liz and I have a conversation that goes something like this (it's a tradition):
Tim, time to put up the Christmas lights.
I'll get to it after Thanksgiving.
But the weather is so nice right now.  Do it before it turns cold.
I'll get to it after Thanksgiving.
Everyone else is doing it now...
But I like Thanksgiving.  It's one of my favorite holidays and I hate to see it replaced by Christmas.
Arrgh... you can be such a Scrooge.

But I'm not.  Really -- I like Christmas (a lot) -- but I like Thanksgiving more. 

 
 

I feel like Thanksgiving gets rushed out the door like relatives who have stayed too long (and no, I'm not talking about you), and before you know it -- Christmas is everywhere.  Rotary Lights are hung in Riverside Park early November, downtown La Crosse has its holiday "open house" celebrations before the first snow flake has fallen, Christmas music is heard while shopping for Halloween candy, and Liz's Christmas Club check is in the mail before the seasonal onslaught of Lands End catalogs.

I understand why.  Christmas means spending money on gifts and every year merchants try to get an early start.   It is the time of year when a business can make it or go under.  They call it Black Friday for a reason, and it's not because it puts so many people in a foul mood.

This fall, we have "adopted" a Chinese student from UW-L who is planning a trip to Minneapolis on the day after Thanksgiving to take advantage of Black Friday deals in the Mall of America.  Being a young man in America for the first time -- unfazed by the multitude of rude and pushy shoppers -- his brain synapses are firing on all cylinders.  Unleashed from the chains of communism, he can't wait to take part in this tradition of unfettered capitalism gone amuck.

However, our tradition of waiting to shop until you drop, was dropped instead.

This year marked the first time many stores opened their doors before midnight.    Not a good idea if you ask me.  Not only does it take away from time spent with family, turkey and football, but it also means someone in the family has to leave early to be at the store to work.  More shoppers mean more workers, even if it means everyone is miserable.

Maybe Liz is right.  Maybe I am a Scrooge.  Maybe my views on "tradition" is unconventional.  So it's just another way of saying I don't like change, God knows I struggle with that every year.  Maybe it's just my way of fighting the inevitable slide toward Gomorrah.

Ok, so you think I'm over-reacting.  Some would say I need to look at things the other way around.  Do we really need traditions anymore?  Have they outlasted their usefulness?  Some believe many traditions are based on outdated stereotypes that are insensitive, offensive and discriminatory.  Traditional marriage, traditional Christmas celebrations, and traditional man/woman roles are all things of the past.

Or are they?

Traditions are important to our culture.  They define who we are and what we hold valuable:  our country is held together by the same things that hold our families together.  Without traditions we become homogeneous, common and rudderless.   Our country is a melting pot (or salad bowl if you're talking to my son) awash with different cultures -- each with their own stories and beliefs.  That's something that needs to preserved, not lost.

One of the major criticism coming from conservatives today goes like this:  that's not what our founding fathers intended.  I realize that times change, and know we're not living in a bubble where things don't change for 200 years.  But traditions are more than enjoying the lights at Christmas, or having turkey and pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving.  They give weight to our way of living.  It's how we teach our children things from our past, with the hopes that they apply them to our future.  As traditions change, so does our understanding of our place in society.

This is important in my household -- because I am always picking up water softener salt, killing spiders, collecting the basement garbage or cleaning out rain gutters.  Most people wouldn't think of those as being traditional roles, but my wife feels like it's my job to make sure those things get done.  If it involves something smelly, squishy or dangerous she wants nothing to do with it.  Now, before you label me "sexist," let me make it clear that I don't mind doing those things.  Liz has her own list of important things that she does that I don't do.  Our "traditional" roles, so to speak.  Not long after we became man and wife, we became muck and flour.  Stink and sweetness.  Grunt and nurture.

Some traditions are easier to leave behind than others.  Casual dress at work is definitely better than a suit and tie.  Black and white are much better at basketball than shirts and skins (you don't ever want to stick your face against someone sweaty and hairy).  On a serious note, slavery never was a good idea.  As were voting restrictions on women and minorities.

But some traditions won't go away without a fight.

Some, like religion and patriotism, have to be systematically reduced by the left before they can be removed.  A union between a man and woman is seen unfair to gay people.  The gap between rich and poor has to be reduced.  Asking "what you can do for your country" has been replaced by "what your country can do for you."  Singing religious songs at a holiday concert needs to be balanced by secular songs celebrating Frosty the Snowman.

 

I don't understand the politically correct desire to take Christ out of the holiday.  It's not like it's Friday the 13th versus It's A Wonderful Life.  As my left-leaning friends are always reminding me:  be a little more tolerant.  Well, the last time I checked, I'm not the one trying to remove a traditional celebration from our schools, workplace, movies, television and music.

Do they expect us to limit our appreciation for Jesus' birth to a candle-lit service on one night in December (yes)?  Is there another religious holiday so relentlessly attacked here or anywhere else (no)?

The Christmas holiday is still on December 25 -- the day Christians have chosen to celebrate Christ's birth.  So why replace it with something so bland as holiday shopping and Santa?   Are you really that offended by someone wishing you a "Merry Christmas?"  Some are.  Children in school decorate holiday trees, not Christmas trees.  Before any of that, we used to refer to Christmas as "Xmas."

Based on some of the videos going around the web showing in-store fighting, theft of money from Salvation Army kettles, and driver rage in mall parking lots, I'd say we'd be better off remembering Christ is the reason for the season.  Maybe that's the reason people search for understanding and forgiveness -- at least once a year -- by going to church on Christmas Eve.

Another tradition under liberal attack is patriotism.  A month doesn't pass when Washington politicians don't condemn the American way as being bad.  President Obama continues to blame the United States for world poverty, global warming and Islamist uprisings.  Tea Party candidates are blamed for racism, mass shootings, homophobia and fiscal gridlock.  Whose side does Washington defend when it comes to illegal immigrants and enforcing our borders?  The patriots enforcing our immigration laws, or immigrants that slip across the Mexican border in the middle of the night?

There are times when I feel like no one in Washington is obeying the law.  Our constitution is being ignored when Congress allows the president to delay parts of Obama Care or send the IRS to question conservative groups applying for non-profit status.  Our right to bear arms is under attack, as are efforts to ensure fair elections and limit voter fraud through voter ID.

But enough about Washington and atheists.  They would attack the dead if they could (come to think of it they do).  For the rest of us, holiday traditions are a way to enjoy --

     . Eating cream-filled Krumkake and powdered rosettes during the holidays

     . Walking through Riverside Park to enjoy the two million lights brightening a dark and frigid
       December night

     . Watching "A Charlie Brown Christmas" to remember the meaning of Christmas

When I was a child, my father would always put us kids in the Rambler before heading to church on Christmas Eve.  Mom, of course, would still be in the house putting on make-up and combing her hair. Dad would grumble, "What's taking her so long?  We're going to be late for church."  As proof, I remember driving up and down the driveway for ten minutes waiting for her to join us in the car.

It wasn't until years later -- when I found out that Santa didn't exist -- that it was a tradition in Grandpa's family to take the kids somewhere while Grandma pulled out the Christmas presents and placed them under the tree.  It was a tradition he gladly carried on with his family (by putting us in the car), and one all of us share in some form or other during Christmas and Easter.

Traditions don't have to be big in scope or meaningful to have an impact.  Perhaps it's reading a book, watching a movie or calling a dear friend.

To this day, memories of waiting in that cold car come flooding back on Christmas Eve as I sit quietly in our Toyota, warming it up for Liz, Sean and Matt.  As I turn to look in the back seat, ghostly images of my sisters, brother and I wrestling in anticipation of unwrapping Christmas presents, are still with me.  As is the sweet scent of Dad's Aqua Velvet aftershave coming from the driver's seat.  How something so mundane can still be with me after more than 40 years is a testament to the power of traditions, and why they remain so important in my life.

Thanks for the memories, Mom and Dad.

The Year Was 1958

"Thanks to modern medical advances such as antibiotics, nasal spray and Diet Coke, it has become routine for people in the civilized world to pass the age of 40, sometimes more than once."
-- Dave Barry

As I turn the corner on my fifth decade, I find myself looking for humor as a way to deal with the pain I feel every day I get out of bed.  Physical pain from my plantar fasciitis, and the psychological pain from Washington politicians coming from the radio.

If given a choice I'd take physical pain every day.  There's medication to help with that, of course.  But after 55 years, I'm still looking for some type of pain relief from politicians.

At this point, I'd rather have a colonoscopy than listen to President Obama.  At least during the colonoscopy I'm mostly unconscious...

Today, my sister sent a birthday card.  That's something that hasn't happened in I don't know how many years (Tina, do you know something that I don't?).  Typically, I'm not big on birthday cards -- I don't need birthday greetings from people I hardly know, just mom, family and a few friends.  I really don't know why businesses send birthday cards.  My previous broker dealer still sends me a card even though I left them 8 years ago.  Somehow, I'm still in their computer system and I will be for as long as I stay with my current employer.  Isn't technology great?

Today, I guess Facebook and other social media outlets have a firm grip on birthday celebrations.  Every other week I get a notice from Facebook that reminds me to send a birthday greeting.  Type "Happy birthday, Brian!"  Hit the enter key.  Join a dozen other electronic greetings guaranteed to make his day.  Technology has a way of either keeping you young, or reminding you just how old you really are.

All I know is that birthdays tend to remind you of how much things change.

I have to remind my youngest son that I come from an era when neighbors would talk to each other over their backyard fence and use the (only) phone in the house with other neighbors who shared the party line.  Watching movies on television was an occasion -- I can remember mom making me take my Saturday night bath before I could watch Robinson Crusoe on Mars.  And CBS was the place to be on Thursday and Friday night to watch a two-part showing of The Guns of Navarone starring Gregory Peck and David Niven.  Today, you can download RC on Mars from MovieBerry.com for free and watch The Guns of Navarone three times in two weeks on TBS.

Too much of a good thing just becomes ... normal.



"A friend never defends a husband who gets his wife an electric skillet for her birthday."
-- Erma Bombeck

It's funny how I've been receiving birthday presents for all these years and yet most of them I can't remember.  Sure, there's been shirts, pants and ties that have come and gone.  But that's about it.

I seem to have an easier time remembering presents I bought for someone else than my own gifts. Fear must be a more formidable emotion than anticipation, because I can still remember the reaction I got from Liz when I bought her a set of pots and pans for her birthday.  Something about the angry shape of her eyes and the flare of her nostrils told me my well-intentioned gift wasn't going to be thought of the same way.  I'm just glad I didn't decide to buy that set of cutlery I was eying.

I do remember getting a GI Joe action astronaut with space capsule for my birthday when I was in seventh grade.  I don't know what was so cool about it, but I enjoyed it enough that I took it to school for show and tell.  Apparently I wasn't the only one who thought it was cool -- when I went to pick it up at the end of the school day, I discovered someone had stolen it.  I never did find out what happened to it, but today when I look on Amazon I can find one that sells for $299.  I hope whoever took it from me kept it in good shape.



 

Another birthday gift that I remember was a Batman coloring book.  Back in my day, Batman wasn't the dramatic Black Knight movie star that he is today.  The television series (which ran from 1966-1968) was a campy series featuring Adam West and Burt Ward as Batman and Robin.  As a young boy, however, I loved it.  So much so in fact that my friends and I used to play in the front yard, imitating the "CRASH!" "POW!" and "BAM!" that was always a part of the show's inevitable showdown between Batman and the Penguin, Riddler or Joker.


I had a thing for Cat Woman and Batgirl who -- thanks to their costume designers -- always drew more attention to their tight fitting catsuits and high heels than their combat readiness.  But then again, the show was designed for young boys like me who had more curiosity in girls than common sense.

I wonder if Crayola still makes crayon boxes with the built-in sharpener?  Oh, for the good old days when my biggest concern was coloring inside the lines.



"Wherever the past has gone, the best is always yet to come."
--Mark Twain

My sister sent me a book that lists some of the events that took place during the year I was born, which is always fun to look through.  Some of them you can't believe actually occurred during your lifetime -- they seem better suited for a history book than for something I lived through.

For example, cost of living:  back in 1958, a new house cost $11,975; a new car topped out at $2,155; tuition at Harvard University was $1,000 per year; gasoline cost 24 cents a gallon, and you could mail a letter with the help of a 4 cent stamp.

In world news:  the President of the United States was Dwight Eisenhower (Vice President was Richard Nixon); TIME magazine "Man of the Year" was Charles De Gaulle (French president); James Dean, who became a cultural icon in "Rebel Without A Cause," died at the age of 24; NASA was founded as the National Aeronautics and Space Administration of the U.S.; Lego toy bricks were introduced to children; and the aluminum can was first used as a food container.

In movies:  Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo; Vincent Minnelli's Gigi; Richard Brook's Cat on a Hot Tin Roof; and Orson Well's Touch of Evil.  And, of course, my favorite -- Terence Brooks' Horror of Dracula (should have won the Academy award for best movie).

In the end, no matter how many birthdays come and go, the real test of how old you are is this:  are you able to still do the things you want?  And enjoying them? 

Three activities give me hope.

I still playing basketball -- running the court's 94 feet takes a little longer, but I'm still getting 15,000 steps in 3 times a week.  My 3 point shot still goes in.  In fact it may be better today than years ago (and no, Tom, I didn't travel on that one).  I can honestly say that without that hour of basketball, my workdays would be a lot longer, so how can I complain about that?  As we always say at the end of a bad day of hoops, "there's always next time."  See?  Sometimes forgetting things isn't all that bad.

Liz and I have been dancing for the last ten years -- the complexities of the fox trot, tango, swing and samba have faded as we continue to take lessons from the Moonlight Dance Studio.  If someone had told me I'd be dancing -- and enjoying -- the same dances my parents did years ago, I'd have called him a liar.  I'm not sure what got Liz and I started (maybe it was one of those birthday presents I can't remember), but we were dancing the light fantastic long before TV's "Dancing With The Stars" became popular.  And as long as the ankles and my arches hold up, you'll find us dancing at La rosse's Concordia Ballroom and dance clubs in Winona, Fountain City, Rochester and Baraboo.

Two of my best friends and I get together every year to celebrate each others birthdays.  It's usually over lunch and not very expensive.  The same group decided to get together at the Recovery Room bar to celebrate our fiftieth birthday.  Between work, friends and family we had a pretty good turnout.  My feelings about both are its great as long as all three of us are living.  We've been through so much that I feel closer to them than my brother or sisters.  School, roommates, weddings and our children's graduations are imprinted into my mind --  and every year we keep adding more and more memories.  It will not be the same when one of us is gone...

So (for my 55th birthday) while the world is changing around me, the people I know are changing as well (there's a perverse sense of satisfaction in knowing that).  In my general circle of friends I'm one of the oldest.  So in some ways, I'm pioneering the way.

We all struggle with smaller electronics, but appreciate what they bring to the table.  We all wake up with aches and pains in the morning, but still remember how we got them.  And I bet we all recognize the people in the mirror, even if they have a little more gray in their hair. 

Here's to 1958 -- and every year since.

And Then There Were Three

This month marks the one-year anniversary of the death of Alice Ogden, who passed on August 18, 2012 after a six month battle with esophageal cancer.  As a mother, mother-in-law and grandmother, she fulfilled many roles.  Some she did well, others not so much.

 

For my wife, Alice's passing created a void that had been filled by her mother for more than fifty years.  Now Liz was facing life without either parent, and it was time to stand on her own.  To make decisions without the wisdom and guidance she got from her parents.  To handle family matters on her own.

As the only girl -- now a woman, with two brothers -- it was time to move on.

Losing a parent is difficult.  Liz lost her dad from a stroke when she was thirty.  I lost my dad at a much later age, although I feel I lost him to illness much earlier.  In both cases, our mothers carried on, maintaining a sense of family, with brothers and sisters returning home to celebrate holidays and birthdays.  Our mothers made a point to be there for special events like graduations, band concerts and baseball games.

What happens to the meaning of family when the second parent dies?  Does it vanish, like fog on a cool summer morning?  Do the remaining siblings become something else that has no glue holding everyone together?  How do you plan for the holidays, and where do you go when "my" family is replaced by "our" family?

My wife's family was living in Monroe, Wisconsin when I met her.  Don and Alice Ogden lived in a big house (at least by my humble standards) with high ceilings, pocket doors, an elaborate staircase banister , and a corner fireplace.  We used to have picnics in the back yard, make our own ice cream and go into New Glarus, WI to eat wienerschnitzel, roesti and cheese fondue.

As an outsider, I viewed Liz's family much like I did my own.  The stories I heard around the dinner table or on long vacations spent in the same car, provided the nucleus of your typical American family.  Fights between brothers were broken up by dad.  Mom was there to bake birthday cakes and to help sew Halloween costumes.

I began to feel like family when Liz and I moved to Grand Rapids, Michigan and received her parents into our new home.  At times, Liz and I commented on how it seemed like we were following in their footsteps since they had lived in Benton Harbor, Michigan when Liz was just a baby.  Their visits to our Michigan home were never long, but eventful, almost like they needed to squeeze every minute out of the trip.  When Liz went into labor with our first child, a call went out to Alice, who hurried to Grand Rapids to spend time with her new grandson.

On a few occasions, we crossed Lake Michigan on the SS Badger to meet Liz's parents in Kewaunee, Wisconsin to hand off our son, Matt, while we spent the week (or weekend) in Door County.  I think the exchange was as good for them as it was for us.  A photo of Don's face, watching Matt standing in a makeshift swimming pool with his diaper sagging to his knees, remains one of my favorites.  Our expanding family soon became the Ogden family, as Alice would call Matt "one of her boys."  I suspect she did until the day she died.

When we moved back to Wisconsin, Alice would visit and help with the kitchen remodel or give her opinion on the finished basement.  She even helped me build a wood fence that took all summer to complete.  Family picnics that were commonplace in Monroe, magically moved to La Crosse and Pettibone Park on the banks of the Mississippi River.

Family time bound us together and to Alice's credit, she made sure everyone got together as often as possible.  But much like the thread used to sew those early Halloween costumes, it began unraveling with the passing of Liz's dad and the eventual sale of their credit bureau business.

Years later, following a minor stroke of her own, Alice moved to La Crosse to be closer to Liz and our family.  Their relationship, strained at times, had many ups and downs before Alice felt the need to return home -- one final time -- to spend her remaining years with her brothers and friends in Iowa.

Liz spent a lot of time with her mother after the discovery of cancer.  She was there for its diagnosis, treatment and finally, its victory.  She would travel over to Ankeny, Iowa to visit and put things in order.  One of the cool things she did was research her parent's past through ancestry.com where she created a family tree and browsed through genealogy records including census, SSDI and military records.  She also spent time having conversations with Alice's remaining brothers and sister and would get them to write to her by mail.   Liz would scour through hundreds of old photographs, letters written by her grandfather, and listen to her mom talk about her long journey through life.

When the pain became unbearable for Alice, she was moved to a hospice house, where she spent the final few weeks of her life.  It was in that quiet room, with a window overlooking a potted geranium, that Liz, Eric and Kevin -- family once again -- watched their mother slide slowly from their lives.

 

We all have stereotypical images of our parents.  As children, they are loving, wise and comforting.  As teenagers, they become more authoritative, setting rules about staying out late, dating and doing our homework.  As adults, they finally become more human -- if that's the word -- with their flaws, concerns and struggles with failing health.

As the first anniversary of her death approaches, I wonder what Liz is thinking.  Do the pictures ease the pain, smooth out the rough edges, and re-sketch forgotten parts of her life that are so quickly forgotten?  Do the letters written by Alice's brothers and sister help refill the void?

One thing I do know is that time stops for no one.  We are born into this world, and somewhere it is written in God's book when we will leave.

She was born  on November 7, 1936, in New Providence, Iowa during the Great Depression. She had two sisters, Elizabeth and Bobbie, and two brothers, Carl and Joe.  She remained a true Iowan even when she married Don and moved to Michigan, Indiana, Wisconsin and eventually back to Iowa.  Her parents shared the same characteristics and traits that made Alice the person I knew.  Proud of her immigrant heritage, educated, hard working, politically active and frugal with her money.

An early journey to rural Sigourney, Iowa (where Don is buried) gave me an understanding of what growing up in Iowa must have been like for Alice.  Flat, hot and surrounded by remnants of better times, Sigourney paints a picture of the Great Depression in our modern world today.

But, as the letters from her brothers and sister stated, they didn't seem to mind.  Instead they made a better life for themselves, went to war, (or worked in support of the war) and moved up the social and economic ladder as opportunities presented themselves.  While, Alice and her siblings never left the Midwest for long, they were rich in knowledge of exotic places far away through books they read, movies they watched and letters they received from friends.

Alice gave meaning to the phrase "Iowa proud" and reminded me of it when Liz and I told her about a play we saw at the La Crosse Community Theater called "Leaving Iowa."  It was a national award winning comedy about a family who took their annual vacations in Iowa.  Liz and I found it hilarious, but Alice didn't seem to find it nearly as funny as we did.

The passing of a parent, and eventually both parents, completes a cycle of birth, growth and death that has been going on for generations.  It's a passage that brings joy, pride and sorrow if you are lucky enough to have your parent(s) live long enough.  I know some people that still have both parents living, others who lost their dad as teenagers and some who never met their mother or father.

Alice always used to say that she never thought she'd live long enough to see her grandsons graduate high school.  Later that changed to college, which for one of our sons came true.  Despite her prediction of an early demise, she was able to enjoy five weddings, nine grandchildren, and travel throughout the world with her family.

It is a reality that all of us must make, as we face the world without our parents.  A reality that makes us move on, become adults and lead our own families to greater and better things.

Rest in peace, Alice.  Your family is doing just fine.

Paddle This Old River Blue

The sunlight reflects off the water, showcasing a shimmering streak of diamonds that sparkle their way toward the city of La Crosse.  Above us, the sky is a robin's egg blue, with only a few, puffy white clouds disturbing its perfect consistency.

 

Liz and I are idling down the Mississippi River in our 20-foot Bennington pontoon boat, drinking our favorite adult beverage and listening to the inspired songs of Santana.  To our side the Minnesota bluffs gently rise above the small towns of La Crescent, Dresbach and Dakota.  Occasional outcroppings of limestone and rock break up their dense green covering.  

These bluffs have been watching over this twisting river for centuries -- long before Martin Luther would post his ninety-five propositions to the Catholic Church in 1517, and later as Michelangelo's paint was drying on the Last Judgement in the Sistine Chapel.

The Mississippi River is well worth traversing.  When floating on its muddy surface, it doesn't seem to be anything but ordinary.  But it is not -- quite the contrary.

Using the Missouri River as part of its main branch, it is one of the longest rivers in the world -- four thousand three hundred miles.  It discharges three times as much water as the St Lawrence, twenty-five times as much as the Rhine, and three hundred and thirty-eight times as much water as the Thames.  No other river has so vast a drainage-basin.  It draws its water supply from thirty-one states and territories -- from Delaware on the Atlantic seaboard, and from all the country between that and Idaho in the west.

The Mississippi receives and carries to the Gulf of Mexico water from fifty-four subordinate rivers that are navigable by boat, and from some hundreds that are navigable by canoes and kayaks.  The area of its drainage-basin (1,837,000 square miles) is as great as the combined areas of England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, France, Spain, Portugal, Germany, Austria, Italy and Turkey.

This summer is a rebirth for me.  It has brought back a flood of memories of my earlier times on the river.  As a shadow, cast by the canopy above our heads, shifts to the front of the boat, I realize it has been more than 30 years since I last captained a boat on these ageless waters.  

Time, like the waters beneath our twin pontoons, continues unabated by location, education and family.  



As a child, my father would take my brother, sisters and I fishing for crappies, northern pike and sunfish on the Mississippi.  Much of the fishing was off the main channel, back into the marshy sloughs and tributaries that were populated by tall river grass, duckweed and waterlilies.  Sometimes, we would challenge my dad's boating expertise by maneuvering over wing dams -- rocking back and forth as the waters churned about us -- while fishing for the elusive rock bass.

I remember getting up early one morning to trap turtles, standing on the seat of our aluminum fishing boat, holding a barbed spear -- readying my throw.  The food we used to trap turtles was carp, which were rolling and splashing all around me.  It was easy picking and exciting to launch the spear, watching it fly through the early morning mist to its destination.  With a pull on the rope still in the boat, I would drag back the carp, then throw it into the bottom of the boat, where it would kick and twist until it died. I would stand there (breathing in the smell of water, fish and algae) and raise my eyes to the horizon.  From my vantage point in the boat, I could see the ever-present bluffs -- sometimes green, sometimes orange and yellow -- surrounding the Mississippi River and the Coulee region.

By the time I was a teenager, my fishing tackle was replaced with a cooler full of beer and pop.  My fishing gear was now a pair of swimming trunks, and the gentle "put-put" of my father's fishing boat was replaced by the roar of a much larger ski boat and its 260 HP Mercruiser.  A soggy mid-morning meal of braunschweiger sandwiches was now a decidedly unhealthy bag of chips and dip.  Many an afternoon was spent floating in the backwaters of the Mississippi, dreaming of cute girls in bikinis and listening to the youthful sounds of Bruce Springsteen, Chicago and Rush.

 

In the years since, I went away to college, married a wonderful woman, moved to Michigan to start a family and returned home to find a place I never thought I'd enjoy again.  After almost 30 years, I find myself floating on the mighty river that is as much a part of the city of La Crosse as its streets, bluffs and people.

When Liz and I were looking at buying a boat this spring, we decided on a pontoon boat.  Our youngest son Sean would probably disagree -- since he likes speed and a steady stream of spray cascading over the bow of the boat -- but the slow ride of a pontoon makes it perfect for entertaining, tubing and idling up and down the river.

We have had our friends on the river numerous times, sometimes to travel into the backwaters or sometimes to travel up the river to the Dresbach locks and dam.  We've discovered new locations to eat along the sides of the river, behind its bends and turns and off the heavily travelled main branch.

A trip south to Genoa can take an hour (or less if you open the throttle), and along the way you will see bald eagles soaring overhead or perched on a dead tree limb waiting for its meal.  Along the shallow shores you can find blue herons, stoically standing watch as our boat floats by.  The river serves as a major migratory route for water fowl and waterbirds.  In the fall, Tundra swans descend on the backwaters near Stoddard, WI and its neighboring Goose Island habitat.

We are fortunate to live at the junction of three rivers, with the Black and La Crosse rivers running into the Mississippi.  While the lazy La Crosse River provides a wonderful backdrop through the marshy lands near the University of Wisconsin-La Crosse, anything larger than a kayak or small canoe will have trouble getting far.  The Black River, on the other hand, is prime property for condos and water houses, which dot the shores with their faded yellows, blues and reds.  On a typical afternoon you will find people lounging in their chairs (or even recliners) watching boats travel up and down the passage that connects the upper Black River to the Mississippi channel.

On this particular day, Liz and I are returning from the upper reaches of the Black River, idling through a no wake zone.  As we approach a railroad bridge used by the Canadian Pacific Railway to cross the Black and Mississippi rivers, we are given a brief reprieve from the summer's humidity and heat.  At times, we are able to watch as a train rumbles overhead, heading to Minnesota, the Dakotas and finally to the western United States.  If I breathe deep enough, I can smell tar, steamy and sticky, that has long ago bubbled up on the bridge's beams, heated by a relentless summer sun.

It's amazing the number of times you can make the same trip on the Mississippi, yet see something different every time.

Mark Twain, that great connoisseur of life on the Mississippi River, talked about the face of the water representing a wonderful book.  A book that contains a dead language to the uneducated passenger, but when told by those who travel its length, a book of secrets delivering its most cherished secrets as clearly as if it uttered them with a voice.  And it's a book, that if opened every day, should not be thrown aside, for it tells a different story every time.  As proof, on some days we will find a hidden bend that appears magically, opening into a secluded tributary that leaves one feeling like they're miles away from home.

Today's river traffic consists of pontoon boats like ours, fishing boats, powerful speed boats and cruisers that I think are better suited for oceans or seas.  Barges -- hauling coal, corn and oats -- are commonplace as the price of fuel continues to climb.

 

I wonder what Mark Twain would say about the river today.  His musings about mighty steamboats surging up the Mississippi, of a golden era with lavish parties, expensive gowns, top hats and traveling musicians on board, paint an exciting picture that seems impossible to believe.  Did Louis Armstrong ("Stardust") and Bix Beiderbecke ("Singing The Blues") really play to audiences on Mississippi River paddle wheelers?

In a nod to the nostalgia of these old steamers, La Crosse provides docking to the Julia Bel Swain and occasionally the American Queen and Delta Queen.  The size and elegance of these boats draw passengers from throughout the world as they paddle their way from New Orleans, Louisville and Ohio.

Today, life on the Mississippi River has become much more commonplace, accessible to rich and poor. Where plantations and many of the country's early millionaires once lived, there are now casinos and small towns abandoned by an era that has moved on without them.

Perhaps that is one of the biggest reasons I have returned to the river -- it harkens back to a simpler time.  Before cell phones and computers ruled our lives, there was a way to escape the ties to humanity and its interminable pressure.  The gentle sway of waves, or the sudden swell from the wake of a barge take your mind off the client or patient who demands the impossible.  Its graceful curves, with reflected images of sunsets, woody heights and soft distances dissolve the worries of the day and give promise to a new day.

Life on the Mississippi is good.  Always has been and always will be.

"I'm growing tired of the big city lights
Tired of the glamour and tired of the sights
In all my dreams I am roaming once more
Back to my home on the old river shore
I am sad and weary, far away from home
Miss the Mississippi and you."

- Emmylou Harris

Nifty Fifty

Turning fifty is a traumatic experience for some people.  Take my wife, for example.

She turned 50 last June and felt a significant change in the universe when her internal clock moved from 49 to 50.  If she was captain of the starship Enterprise, we would have just come out of some worm hole into an alternate time zone where days pass much quicker, and your hair turns gray and wrinkles appear overnight.

Earlier this year, Liz traveled to Mexico
looking for the Fountain of Youth.
She found a beautiful hat instead.

It must be a female condition, because most guys I know look at it as another reason to celebrate.  Throw a party and see how long you can last.  Buy a car, put the top down and see how fast it will go.

I had no such shift in reality.  When I turned 50, I decided to grow a beard to mark my age in pictures that will live on for years to come.  The idea was to grow it for a year , but now I've decided to mark the decade, not just my 50th year.  That way when I hit 60, I'll shave it off and look ten years younger.  I can start my fifties all over again.

Turning a certain age will make you re-evaluate your life and in doing so make you realize that you need another 50 years to do all the things you haven't gotten to yet.  That means you have to stay healthy and find a way to do it without going broke.

Staying healthy is never an easy thing, especially when you get older.  Years ago, Liz and I took an exercise class called Combat Endurance Training.  If it sounds tough, that's because it was.  Created by some marine workout junkies, our instructor had us doing things to our bodies that only masochists would enjoy.  After about three years, we got tired of our internal organs feeling sore all the time, so we quit.

This year, as a result of turning 50, she teamed up with a friend from Trane company to work with a personal trainer.  As part of her training, she has been challenged to try things like eating vegetarian for a week, doing 100 push ups each day for a week, and running a 5K race.  Having successfully conquered the first two challenges, she enlisted my "expertise" in preparing for the Festival Grandad, Three Rivers 5K race, held in La Crosse on May 4th.

After contemplating the personal risk I was taking (Liz has been known to throw shoes at me while walking, I could only imagine what she would do running), I convinced her that we needed to train outside.  Get off the treadmill, leave the "Ease Into 5K" app on the IPad and hit the pavement.  For my running routine, I would get up early and run around the track at Central High School.  Not the most exciting thing to do, but for someone who had never run a quarter mile -- much less 3.1 miles -- I thought it would provide an easy way to gauge her progress, one lap at a time.

Our first obstacle was the weather.  In Wisconsin this year, spring decided to take a holiday, leaving winter in charge of the weather.  We had snow and 20 degrees into the first week of May.  But like all obstacles, you can either take another path, or put on your shoulder pads and knock it down.  Liz reluctantly chose the pads.

On a nice Sunday morning, with two weeks to go until the race, and with temperatures in the low 40's, we put on our Under Armor sweats and our Saucony Ride 2 tennis shoes and headed over to the track.  For our first outing, I thought we would try a mile to see how she did.  After a leisurely lap, Liz was breathing hard, so after another 1/2 lap we decided to walk to the end of lap two.  At that point, the "Ogden" in her must have kicked in because she continued running through the first mile and half way through the second, before we took a breather.  Another quarter lap later, she pushed on until we reached our twelfth and final lap.  I didn't bother keeping track of time, because I didn't think we'd run the entire three miles.

Our second outing involved running the scheduled route from Riverside Park, through downtown and to the La Crosse River path before finishing at the park again.  I felt familiarity with the course would make it easier for Liz on race day.  What I didn't realize was that it would make it harder for her before the race.  La Crosse is laid out with Riverside Park low next to the river, then gradually rising all the way to the bluffs.  So, one of the toughest parts of the race is at the beginning, where you have to climb a persistent hill before leveling off three blocks into downtown.   Liz and hills get along as well as Superman and kryptonite, so my claims to her that she was "doing great" fell on deaf ears.

Once we leveled off, she did better, but not to the degree that other runners seemed to enjoy.  We encountered two groups of young,  quick and graceful runners trotting past us, some even with baby strollers in tow.  They were laughing and talking, and I could feel her disappointment grow as we slowed to a trot barely faster than a walk.  By the time we returned to Riverside Park, over 40 minutes had passed, which was slower than she had hoped.  Despite my best attempts at telling her she had just completed the full 3.1 miles without stopping, she showed no signs of confidence.  Even her favorite breakfast at The Hungry Peddler didn't help.

Our final attempt to train for the race was back at Central's track, where we decided to run  a mile and a half.  My thinking was to conserve her energy (the race was in four days) and to help her overcome the initial "wall" she had encountered earlier.  Success was tempered by her frustration at anything I said, especially the attempts to push her harder.  "I'm not cut out for running," "Don't tell me what I can do!" and "Do you want to sleep on the couch tonight?" slid out of her mouth as easily as the sweat from her face.

I wasn't worried -- because we had a very comfortable couch.

The final piece to her 5K training was to put together a playlist that she could listen to.  I'm sure she was thinking that music would make the pain of running a little easier to take.  The bad news is, nothing makes the pain less.  Your mind may like listening to "The Love Shack" by the B-52s, but your legs still send signals to your brain that scream WHY AM I DOING THIS?  IT SUCKS!

Nonetheless, we spent an evening putting together some of her favorite songs, like "Panama" from Van Halen, "Girls Got Rhythm" by AC/DC, "Dancing With Myself" by Billy Idol  and others from when we used to head to the bars at 10:30 after work.

I just hoped Travis Tritt's "T-R-O-U-B-L-E" wasn't a sign of things to come.


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Race day arrived with temperatures in the high 30s and a threat of rain.  Ideal conditions if you were a duck on the first day of duck hunting season.  Or an incumbent politician hoping for a low voter turnout.

Once a champion, always a champion.

Arriving the night before was a good friend, Lu Ann Jordan who had participated in the Danskin triathlons a few years earlier.  Liz initially thought it would be fun to run with her, but as the race approached and she continued to struggle with her time, I think she was having second thoughts.

Nonetheless, Saturday morning dawned, and LuAnn, Liz and I prepared ourselves for the race.  Weather called for rain, so we didn't know what to expect.  And the wind was chilling whatever moisture was in the air.

Finally, it was time to line up. As we reluctantly left the  protective cocoon of the warming tent and shuffled to the starting gate, my thoughts wandered to Monroe, Wisconsin 28 years earlier.

I was remembering a day I ran with Liz's dad back when I was just starting to date her.  It was a hot and windy day, and Don was out to prove to his future 26-year old son-in-law that he could run further and faster.  He couldn't have been much over 50, but he ran like he was 35.  Like all things that he did,  Don couldn't settle for second place.  Before the hour-long run was over, I was bent over, sucking for air and he was running up the stairs to his house, well ahead of me.

While Liz didn't share the same competitive spirit that her dad had, she was still his daughter, and I was confident that she would not back down from the challenge.

With the start, everyone rushed from the gate and headed around Riverside Park.  LuAnn quickly jumped ahead and increased her speed.  I could sense the panic in Liz as she watched men, women and children run past us, almost effortlessly.  I had tried to warn her that some runners make the mistake of running too hard at the beginning of the race, then suffer toward the end.  Adding to the risk was Liz's choice of music now pounding in her ear buds -- I could literally hear Nickleback's "Burn It To The Ground," coursing through her body.

We continued up the hill on State Street, then turned by my office onto 6th, as more and more people streamed past.  As we continued through the intersection I could hear her say, "I've got to stop..."  But after a few quick jumps, she pushed on and we crossed the first mile marker at a little over twelve minutes.  As is often the case, your mind shuts down and your legs carry you through the next mile. Then we hit the La Crosse River trail for the final mile of the race.  With sweat running from her face, Liz slowed, trying to catch her breath.  With the chords of "Girls Gone Wild" on her IPod, she was off again straining to keep up with the distant crowd that was now turning past the Grandstay Residential Suites on Front Street.

As wonderful as the thought of finishing a race is to your tired body, the final stretch leading up to that point can be shear agony.  I could tell the stretch of Front Street that leads to Riverside Park was becoming unbearable for Liz.  I tried telling her she was almost done, but I don't think I was registering on her radar anymore.  All she could think about was the painful breathing and tired legs.

But in true fashion for anyone facing the reality of turning 50, she somehow found the extra energy that screamed, I'M NOT QUITTING NOW!  Putting aside the pain, she rounded the final bend and focused on the finish line.  As we crossed that line, approximately 6,680 strides later, the race clock above us indicated 38 minutes and 28 seconds.

By my calculation, it was an improvement of over two minutes from only a week earlier.  Not bad for someone who used to say she couldn't run.

Now if I can just get her to climb that hill on Hwy 33.

The Agony of da Feet

The weather is perfect for running -- low 50's, dry and no wind.  To warm up, Sean, Hanning and I run the short distance in Riverside Park from the Eagle to the Big Indian and back.   As I slow to a walk, my watch reads 6:45 a.m.  In half an hour I will be running the Maple Leaf  Five Mile race for the second time.  My primary goal, as always, is to finish without embarrassing myself.  My secondary goal is to run it faster than 47 minutes and 56 seconds.  That is my time from last year's race.  I tell myself that the last few months of practice will allow me to meet both goals, but self doubts won't let me relax.


My blogs occasionally endeavor to chronicle my attempts at running -- nothing major, just a 5K and most recently a 5 mile race during La Crosse's Oktoberfest.  At my age, now 52, my body doesn't always respond to what my experienced mind tells it to do.   My wife would probably tell you I don't respond to her comments either, but that's another story.

 

In basketball, I've suffered enough sprained ankles, broken noses and dislocated fingers to know better.  But I still drive the lane hoping to finger roll the ball into the basket, still box out a bigger player attempting to rebound a loose ball, or still set a rib-bruising pick to give a teammate an open shot.  Despite the pain, I still go back with the dream of making the winning shot and bragging rights for another day.

In running, I'm still learning the sport and its effect on my body.  To date, and through three races this year, I know this much:   it all starts with my feet.

Without good feet and proper footwear you won't enjoy running enough to stick with it.  I find it disconcerting that each foot has 26 bones, 33 joints, 107 ligaments, 19 muscles and 19 tendons.  Of the 26 bones, seven are in the ankle.  That has the potential for a lot of things to go bad when you think about it.


I decide that for this race I would listen to music.  Something that rocked -- like "Everybody Wants Some" by Van Halen, "Like a Stone" by Audioslave or "Banshee" by the Young Dubliners.  I have put together my Maple Leaf playlist and am determined to run harder than last year, using the tunes on my Ipod to keep my feet and body moving.

As the race begins, I give Sean and Hanning (his college roommate from China) high fives, and take off.  Having warmed up before, my legs feel better, my ankles loose and my feet light as I round the first turn and head up toward the causeway.  The runners are packed together, so I decide to sprint around a number of slower runners by staying to the right where I can see an clear path.

The route being taken is the same one that is used by the Maple Leaf Parade, arriving some 4 hours later.  Chairs, tarps and sleepy bodies occupy much the route, some of them having been there for more than 24 hours.  The smell of Oktoberfest hangs in the air like a long pass from Aaron Rogers to Greg Jennings.  Smoke from charcoal grills and the aroma of black coffee find my nose as I run toward the one mile marker.


Fortunately for me, my feet have been able to weather the daily beating they get when running, walking or dancing.  Which, given my feet and their high arches, is something of a miracle.  I've had occasional trouble with my knees and ankles, but never my feet.

I was reading an article the other day that discussed a new trend in running called barefoot running.  Actually it isn't new, since humans would walk and run without shoes long before shoes were invented and worn on the foot.  And in many poorer countries barefoot running is still common.  The concept of running barefoot looks at how the lateral edge of the forefoot strikes the ground.  Running in padded shoes typically alters this pattern, leading to repetitive stress injuries.

 

An alternative to running with no shoes is barefoot-inspired footwear like Vibram Five Fingers -- shoes which use minimal padding and separate the toes to give the appearance and sensations of running without shoes.  This new style of shoe, while not all that common at the Maple Leaf Race, did appear on a few runners that were participating in the half marathon.

Along with a man wearing a dress.


The song that plays in my ear buds is "Surfing With the Aliens" by Joe Satriani.  It is an image that hits home as I pass the half-way mark of the race and head back across the Black River bridge.  As I pass approaching runners on my left, I start looking for familiar faces.  Is my son behind me, or has he passed me by like the rest?  Where is Hilby, who I play basketball with?  I hadn't seen him pass me either, but with over 850 runners in the race, it wouldn't be hard.  

The stark looks I get from those on the sidelines make me wonder:  why am I here?  There are a lot of runners today, and I am finding myself getting passed by almost all of them.  Not that I'd ever think of myself as a good runner.  But getting passed by an overweight white guy wearing a knee brace is rubbing me the wrong way.

I decide not to stop and catch my breath, instead I push myself along the third and fourth miles of the race.  There's a bridge that spans the railroad tracks near Monitor Street that sucks the life out of you just as you're wearing down from 30 minutes of running.  Sweat continues to run into my eyes as I crest the bridge and start down the other side.  The drumming of my heart is loud, despite the music in my ears.  Even with the cool temperatures, my shirt is soaked with sweat and a side ache is starting to cause me some trouble.


Another aspect of running that must be dealt with is pain.  I think all exercise comes with some discomfort, depending on how hard you push it.  Sometimes the pain comes during the exercise -- other times it comes after you're done.  When I train in the morning, I can usually expect my feet and ankles to hurt the first twenty minutes.  I suppose that comes from basketball.  Stop.  Go.  Jump.  And go again. Stop, and run the other way.  The constant change of directions has taken its toll on those 204 bones, tendons, ligaments and muscles.  With  running, it's always one direction and -- depending on the traffic -- non-stop.

So by the time the sun is lighting up the sky, I'm beginning to feel loose enough to enjoy the morning's jog to it's ultimate finish.  The pain is forgotten and the joy of having accomplished a morning of practice fills me with hope for another day of work and family.  It's not until the following morning as I get out of bed that my ankles and feet feel the pain from the other day's run.

For me, physical pain and mental boredom is the challenge that comes with running.  I've mentioned the obstacles that keep many people from running a race like a 5K or 5 mile.  Like all challenges in life, however, you have to overcome pain to achieve things you never thought you could.  With me, it's running.  I'll never be very good at it, but I'll give it my best every time I try.


Eight minutes later I spot my wife and two friends who have decided to walk the 5K portion of the race.   I slice through the spot between my wife and Paul and curve back to the right.  As I start the race's last mile, I am determined not to let all my training during those dark and cold mornings go to waste.  I'll be damned if I am going to let my sore feet, tired legs and aching side slow me down.  Gasping for breathe, I push on.

Suddenly from out of nowhere, my son pulls up next to me and smiles.  I could be mistaken, but he doesn't look tired AT ALL, and all the sweat in the Carlson family seems to be on my body, not his.  It's almost like he's on coasters as he effortlessly runs past the Oktoberfest southside grounds. 

As we arrive together at the final turn of the race, I can see the finish line full of cheering faces, waiving arms and an occasional camera. Sean stretches his gait and pulls ahead of me, easily finishing his first Oktoberfest race.  Eight seconds later, I join him smiling from ear to ear.

I can't explain the reason why some people run.  But for me, it's overcoming another year on the calendar.  Nothing is as easy as it used to be, but running the Oktoberfest and Festival race in the spring are two more way to turn back time and reveal a new me.

Mission accomplished, and a new goal for next year:  45 minutes or better.