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

Livin' On The Edge

"There's something wrong with the world today
I don't know what it is
Something's wrong with our eyes

We're seein' things in a different way
And God knows it ain't his
It sure ain't no surprise
Livin' on the edge.
-- Aerosmith



In light of the recent shootings in El Paso, Texas and Dayton, Ohio, I've been thinking about fear, anger and hate, and a look at local and national news leads me to believe that those on the wrong side of that equation may be winning the battle.

When I attended a Lutheran parochial school in La Crosse as a young child, I was reminded of my sins on a weekly basis.  Friday morning was my time to recite -- from memory -- an assigned Bible passage that would remind me not to steal or lie to my parents, or how I could be doing more for those in need of a helping hand.

For a young boy still learning what it meant to be a teenager, it was an excruciating exercise in resisting the temptations of puberty.  I was leaving years of purity, innocence and simplicity of life for one where my self awareness and preservation were more important than others.  Girls, money and recognition were far more interesting than another humbling passage from the New Testament.

Years later, I am beyond grateful for those passages which continue to show me the way whenever I am tempted by girls, money and power (some things never change).  But with the removal of the Ten Commandments, or worse, the removal of anything that upsets people, like civil war monuments or conservative speakers on campus, restaurants and movie theatres.

It's a mental component that seems to be missing in so many people today -- from friends and neighbors that disagree over politics, to people in honorable positions like politicians, law enforcement and pastors.  People no longer know their limits.  Damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead!

The result is a loss of  basic civility, challenges to First and Second Amendment rights and new interpretations to long-held religious beliefs.  It's the unraveling of the America that I grew up in as a kid.  Every decade seems to have lost some of it civility to the point that people today will tear their neighbor's head off if they put a political sign in their yard supporting the "wrong" candidate.

A generation ago, most people knew the difference between right and wrong.  Today, not so much -- politics (with the help of cable news and social media) have assaulted the founding fabric of America, including sex, marriage and family.  The left has successfully removed God from schools, courtrooms and public parks.   Sometimes I think they've even been successful in removing God from church!   The moral compass of our lives used to be church, and now with fewer and fewer people going, it is missing from many of our lives, leading to some of the worse behavior and language I have ever known.

The '60s radicals in education have reaped the benefits of their self-proclaimed "tolerance" and "diversity", resulting in less free speech on campuses once known for protesting the Vietnam War and President Nixon.  The hypocrisy of our education system is unmatched anywhere in our society.  Diversity is no longer something to be used for admissions.  Today's definition of diversity has become political, like everything else.  "Diversity" prevents conservatives from giving their side of an argument, because it's counter to a minority position.  Our country's laws -- written to protect us as American citizens -- are to be followed by the political underclass, but not those running for elections or illegally crossing our borders.

Our future is grim when we can't even agree on the definition of things like justice, equality, racism, illegal alien, or making America great again.




As Yoda, in The Phantom Menace famously said, "Fear is the path to the dark side.  Fear leads to anger.  Anger leads to hate.  Hate leads to suffering."

We would all be wise to listen the Jedi master.  The Texas and Ohio shootings are a reflection of how far down the rabbit hole our media and politicians have descended.  You can't reason with hate.  And -- not to disappoint presidential candidate Marianne Williams -- but you can't convince someone to love you when they are filled with so much hate.

Many democrats, tech giants like Google and Twitter, and Hollywood actors have criticized Trump for his "hateful rhetoric" when he defends his stand on illegal aliens and building the wall.  They are equating love of country -- one of Trump's signature beliefs on the campaign trail -- with white nationalism.  Trump's nationalism is being proud of being an American and wanting the best people to come here and contribute to our future.  Legal immigration IS what has made America what it is.  Diversity can be a strength if you follow the laws and assimilate into this county, rather than tearing it down and making it into the country you left behind.

My friends, what I hear from too many on the left -- democrats, communists and socialists --  is hatred for this country.  How else do you describe their positions on open borders?  Illegal aliens?  Free education?  Free health care?  If they successfully win the presidency, they will attempt to destroy so many of these things that have made America great.  When was the last time you got something free that was great?  Not only are they pandering for votes next year, but should they win, they will quickly kill our health and educational institutions as well.

I am genuinely worried about what comes after hate.  Violence?  The hate harbored by the shooters  in Texas and Ohio spilled over into violence.  And now we are left with suffering.  Instead of dealing with the hatred being spread on social media, we have politicians asking for gun control.  Someone with an open mind can see guns are not the problem.  And having easy access to them isn't the problem either.  Not that many years ago, you could order a gun from a mail order catalog!  Seriously.  No background checks, just send money and in few days you have a gun at your door step.  And guess what?  No mass shootings.  So it's not having guns that has changed.  It's people.  And that's why we have to address the cause of all this hatred if we are ever going to prevent more suffering.

But something tells me the left is not going to stop in their sowing of discontent during a year leading up to 2020's presidential campaign.  Which is tragic when you look at how many people really want it to stop.





The left has become so deranged in their hate of Trump that they label any criticism or disagreement as being racist, or worse yet, being a white nationalist.  Tell those who hate America to leave?  You're a racist!  State facts about Democrat-controlled cities that are failing?  Racist!  Denounce white nationalism?  Then you must be a White Nationalist! 

A recent study of the media showed cable news hosts calling Trump a racist over 1,000 times in just one weekend.  And Trump's accurate portrayal of Baltimore has also been labelled racist because he attacked a black Congressman's district for being "infested" by rats.  Who knew "infested" was a code word used to denigrate blacks?  He has also been credited with hate speech because he used the word "invasion" to describe the illegal aliens crossing our boarder.  What?  The only invasion I'm worried about is the invasion of stupid comments like that one!

It's just insane.  From where I sit, dividends from President Obama -- eight years ago -- continue to be enjoyed by the left.  Opponents couldn't criticize anything he did without being accused of racism and today, if anything, it has gotten worse.

Look at this exchange from last week:

President Trump said, "In one voice our nation must condemn racism, bigotry and white supremacy.  These sinister ideologies must be defeated."

The left's response?   This headline from the New York Times sums it up pretty well, "Trump uses a Day of Healing to Deepen the Nation's Division."

Amazing isn't it?  How does one twist unity into division?  With stupidity like this, this country is never going to survive.

In my parent's house, talking politics used to be avoided.  I can't remember my parents ever discussing the racial unrest of the 60's, the Vietnam War, or Ronald Reagan.  My uncles and aunts were more politically astute, but even they knew not to bring up politics when we got together.  Today, everything is contaminated by politics, including our sports, movies, late night comedy and even tragic events like last weekend.

When did anyone think calling half of your fan base "racists" was a good idea?  Football games need fans in the stadium, and movies need butts in the theater, so why are athletes and movie stars attacking their audience?  Not that I represent everyone, but I don't watch football like I used to, I've lost respect for women's soccer and tennis, and I don't know when I watched a movie or television series that featured one of these woke millionaires.

Our country used to agree on more things.  The stool that supported our country's foundation for nearly two hundred years consisted of God, family and country.  How tragic to think that all three have been successfully attacked by the left.  Today, we have removed God from our lives, having a family is now a minority position, and country means "no borders."

The result is as appealing as a root canal.




America is sick, and we didn't need the latest shootings in El Paso and Dayton to convince anyone.

The emptiness that fills our souls cannot be addressed by anything government can do or say.  You can blame Donald Trump if you want, but Americans have been unsatisfied with the country’s direction for most of the last five decades.  If we leave it up to Washington to save us we are in deep trouble.  Our salvation, like those Bible passages I used to memorize in parochial school, can only be found in ourselves. 

"You have heard that it was said, "You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.  But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven."

Words I'm glad I learned many years ago.

My Mornings with Bailey

Today's temperature is almost ten degrees cooler than the last few days.  Upper 50's with a gentle breeze out of the north, which leads me to wonder if I should be wearing shorts and a short-sleeved shirt.  My mom would say no, but my Norwegian heritage proudly says "what's the problem?".

My hand holds a leash that is stretched to its limit, as our nine-year old miniature schnauzer, Bailey, turns her body and forcefully angles her way to the first tree we've encountered.  Bailey only weighs 19 pounds, but the chances of me stopping her from her appointed duty are somewhere between none and the Vikings having better luck in getting to next year's Super Bowl.  So there's no point in moving on until she's ready.

 

To the east, the sky has turned from an uninteresting gray to playful blobs of white, underscored by pink and orange, as the sun awakens from its evening slumber.  The weather forecast is for rain to arrive sometime this afternoon, but for now, there is nothing to worry about. 

A gentle pull of the leash brings my focus back to the ground as Bailey is moving on, her nose inches from the ground.  She snorts as she sweeps the area for fresh scents of squirrels, rabbits and other dogs.  Her present track has her aiming toward a scattering of white powder on the edge of the sidewalk.


"Leave it, Bailey," I tell her, wanting to move beyond the perimeter of our next-door neighbor's property.  I wouldn't put it past the old man to put down some rat poison as a deterrent to dogs peeing in his yard.  Ever since his epileptic verbal attack two winters ago, I've made a point to stay clear of him -- and this morning will be no different.  Is it my imagination or do I see a bent over, shadowy figure looking through his window?  

With a strong tug, I head north toward the end of the block and away from the house.  We have places to go, and trees to pee on.


*          *          *          *          *


Liz and I have been walking in our south side La Crosse neighborhood for more years than I can remember.  It's something that started shortly after we moved into our house and our second son was born.  We would put Sean in a stroller to calm him down and get him to sleep, thinking it was cheaper than driving in a car.  We quickly found ourselves exploring the area that would become our home for the next 25 plus years.

For those of you interested, here's a little history of our neighborhood.

During the war years, and before there were houses  --  between 1930 to 1950 -- the southern edge of our neighborhood was basically a large open field.   This 80 acre field was the site of La Crosse's first airport, called Salzer Field.  It wasn't much of an airport, just a dirt track used for aerobatic shows, military landings and a daily mail route between the Twin Cities and Chicago.  When the city decided to make improvements to the airport (boundary lights and a beacon), they abandoned the site and moved it to its current location on French Island.

The same grounds were also used for periodic performances of the Ringling Brothers Circus and Sells-Gray Circus when they came to town.  Imagine -- twelve acres of tents, three-hundred performers, five-hundred horses and twenty-five elephants, just blocks from our house!

It was later converted into a maintenance site for vehicles from Camp MyCoy (now called Fort McCoy).   During that time, Quonset huts and wooden barracks were constructed on the big open field for the many workers who kept McCoy's vehicles running.  Shortly after, the barracks that housed these workers were no longer needed for the war effort, and were converted into the booming post-war housing effort.

I've always thought it was a great neighborhood -- a typical middle-class neighborhood with medium-sized 1940 and 1950 post-war houses, each with 1 1/2 stories, 3 bedrooms 1 1/2 bathrooms and a detached garage.  Today, it is a neighborhood where you can safely walk or take a bike to school without worry.  In fact, our sons walked to elementary, middle and high school and never needed a car or ride.  It was a rare day -- raining or snowing -- that one of us needed to drop them off at school.  Nearby is the Village Shopping Center, Festival Foods , Erickson Pool and The Cinema within a 15 minute radius making it the center of many family friendly activities.  There's even a small park located in the middle of the block -- Verchota Park -- where we have played football or jumped on a swing to soar so high in the air that the legs of the swing set literally pull out of the ground.

Through the years, our neighborhood has seen families come and go -- when we moved in, we were the new family with young children.  Today life has come full circle.  Liz and I are the empty nesters, surrounded by households with young kids riding bikes and playing in the front yard.

As was the case during most the last half century, you could always find neighbors outside and stop to talk about family, politics and sports.  It was the kind of neighborhood where you could leave a set of keys with the neighbor in case you locked yourself out of the house, or wanted someone to check on things while you were on vacation.

They were good neighbors. I remember our neighbor across the street, Woody, helping Sean and I retrieve a baseball that had fallen through a sewer grate; Dee, our neighbor to the south ran a muffler shop and always came out to talk whenever he saw me working in the yard; and Gladys who was always interested in what we were doing to our flower beds.  If ever there was a neighbor who would lean across the fence wanting to talk, it was Gladys.  They were neighbors who helped us in so many ways.  I can't walk through the neighborhood today without thinking about them at some point.

Unfortunately, our neighbors today aren't as friendly as Woody, Dee or Gladys.  And the children don't play kick the can or ghost in the graveyard when it gets dark.   Society in general seem to be less neighborly for a variety of reasons, including television, social media and safety concerns, and I think our lives are poorer because of it. 

The changing makeup of our neighborhood hasn't stopped me from walking, however.  While my memories of past neighbors are like ghosts that wander through nearby yards, a few neighbors remain that allow those memories to live on.


*          *          *          *          *


I have always loved early morning walks.  You see a gentler side to life as the city wakes up from its deep slumber.  There's a feeling that you can conquer anything.  The day is full of promise as you  think out solutions to problems that have been keeping you up at night.

Today's challenge is coordinating the logistics of getting Liz's nieces, who split time between Ireland and Saudi Arabia, to La Crosse.  From out of the blue, Liz gets a call from her brother, who wants his youngest girls to spend some time in La Crosse.  They've never been to the states before, so we are planning things to do for the two weeks they are here.  On a morning like this, the solution is only a few houses away:  meet them half way in Madison.

As Bailey and I continue our walk I see a few neighbors with their lights turned on -- I imagine people stumbling out of bed to take a shower, make that first cup of coffee and check their phones for updates to Facebook and other favorite websites.  We have a neighbor that works the early morning shift at a radio station, so he is never home by the time I walk past his house. 

(As a child, I remember a neighbor who had served many years in the Navy.  Every morning, I would see him through his kitchen window sitting at the table drinking a cup of (coffee?).  As a young boy I didn't think much of it, but today I wonder if he ever thought of his time at war.  Did he miss his wife who had passed away from cancer?  Was his early morning routine formed during the war, or did his body hurt so much that he could no longer sleep?.  As I grow older, I find the later to be more plausible.)

We are waiting at the curb as a car rumbles past, avoiding potholes that have become as big as Bailey.  Once it is gone, we cross the street and head up a slight incline before Bailey finds interest in a neighbor's fence post.  As I wait, I see a familiar figure -- a high school student -- with his hood pulled over his head, switching to the other sidewalk.  It never fails -- I don't know if he's afraid of Bailey, or me.  I can walk on either side, and he will walk on the other. 

On most days, the 1 to 1 1/2 mile walk will last thirty minutes, unless we encounter rain or heavy snow from the night before.  Then it's a quick once-around the block and back in the house. 

Today, I think we will walk over to where the church grounds are under construction to see what progress has been made.  I tell Bailey that we have an hour before I have to go to work, so let's enjoy every step.  She looks up at me, as though she understands.


*          *          *          *          *


I wonder how many people have never really explored their neighborhood?  They jump in their cars and drive away.  I realize people are busy with school, sports and other things.  But for too many people, their view of the neighborhood exists out the front window when they're not watching television.  I don't mean to tell people how to live their lives, but they're missing out.

For me, walking slows things down and let's me look at the houses, schools and businesses up close.   You see their flaws (pealing paint and weeds), their beauty (a trellis full of cascading wisteria flowers) and sometimes the people who live or work there (many have lived in the same house all their lives). It also lets you hear the sounds of the neighborhood.  The swish, swish of sprinklers, the welcoming barks of dogs who wish they were joining us, or the whistle of a distant train hauling goods to another city.

In the years we have been walking, many things have changed, but some are as consistent as the rising of the sun over the bluffs to our east.

.  Our encounters with middle school and high school kids walking to school, eyes glued to their cell phones, oblivious to cars backing out of a driveway or the waging tail of a certain miniature schnauzer.

.  The assembly of people arriving for seven o'clock mass at Mary, Mother of the Church Parish (accompanied by the floating, long serenades of ringing bells announcing its start).

.  The lonely sighting of an empty yellow school bus, waiting at Harry Spence School, ready to start its route to pick up children eager for another day of school.  As we approach, the bus driver lowers her "People" magazine long enough to smile and acknowledge our passage.

. The meeting of a familiar rescue dog, Miles, and his foster owner, Curt.  Someday, he is going to tell me that he has decided to keep him.  The longer he keeps him, the stronger the bond.

 

. The sad reality of ash trees slowly dying from the Asian beetle.  Large trees, a part of our neighborhood for fifty years or more, are gone in one day, to be replaced by young trees that provide no shade to those of us walking by.

. The sight of mourning doves fleeing their evening perch, whistling through the air as their flight feathers create an audible, high-pitched sound.

. The precise arrival of engineers in the parking lot near Trane Company.  I hypothesize that each one of them is contemplating a better lunchbox design than the obligatory one they carry with them into their office.

. Seeing our neighbor's aging golden lab, laying in the grass, patiently watching us with the wisdom that nothing is going to interrupt his early morning meditation.  I don't look forward to the day he won't be there to greet us.

Some of these occurrences are good, others not so much.  Either way, I would miss them if I couldn't take my daily walk through the neighborhood.


*          *          *          *           *


We are waiting at another busy intersection where a constant stream of cars is heading to work. 

I estimate that Bailey and I walk over 400 miles every year.  If someone my height averages 2,100 steps every mile, then I'll be walking over 840,000 steps in 2018.  Or 3,360,000 dog steps based on Bailey's short legs.  Whew!  No wonder my feet hurt every day!

Obviously, the biggest benefit to walking is improved health.  A relaxing walk every day could lead to fewer pills to lower your blood pressure.  I read somewhere that walking will reduce your risk of death from cardiovascular causes by 46% (if walking with someone as slow as Bailey).  If you can walk faster, without stops, you can reduce that risk by up to 53%.

But there are other reasons to walk.

Maybe we could understand some of the problems our nation face if we aired our differences during a walk around the neighborhood with a friend or spouse (instead of listening to the morning news).  I'm thinking marriages would also benefit with a little more talk about work and family during a walk -- get to know your spouse again and why you fell in love all those years ago.  

And of course getting to know your neighborhood is good for developing your sense of belonging.  Of having an identity. 

While my neighborhood isn't what it used to be -- I still miss Gladys and Woody -- I will never forget my time here.  The memories of our house and those around us will be with me when we retire and move to someplace else.  I know this because I still remember my parent's neighborhood. 

I had awesome times playing basketball and walking down the street on stilts.  "Kick the Can" was great fun and I can still remember how strange is was lying in the grass of my neighbor's yard swatting mosquitos and hoping that itch wasn't coming from poison ivy.  The view of my parent's house from three houses over was different.  The lights looked brighter and the house was too small for six people.  Almost like it wasn't the same place.

I think walking though my neighborhood with Bailey has given me that familiar childhood feeling.  Unless you get out and view the world -- or neighborhood -- things will always look the same.

Home Away From Home

At 5 feet tall, and weighing less than 110 pounds, she hardly seemed capable of having much of an impact. 

If we were talking football, she wouldn't survive a single hit.  Call the doctor, get an ambulance and prep the operating room. But if we were talking matters of the heart, it was another story.  Like a much loved daughter, her presence could melt away the worries of a busy work day and make you glad she was with you.

Little did we know when we met Ahn Jae-hyun on a cold January evening in 2013 that she would affect us in such a personal way. 

 

She was the first student we hosted as part of La Crosse Friends of International Students (LFIS), an organization that connects students from around the world with a host family and the La Crosse community.  Unlike foreign exchange programs where students live with you, La Crosse Friends of International Students simply provides support to foreign students needing a friendly face, adjusting to college life while away from home.  It's a connection to each student needing a friendly face in new surroundings -- getting back and forth to the airport,  hosting a much-needed home meal, getting out on the river,  traveling during the holidays with family, or making a simple phone call when someone loses a filling in a tooth.

LFIS was something new for us, and served as a way to keep young people in our lives after both of our sons left the house to pursue college, jobs and lives of their own.  Hosting a foreign student -- from another country, with a new language, culture and cuisine -- was simply icing on the cake. 

Liz and I have always enjoyed watching travel videos to exciting places in Europe like Norway, Scotland, Croatia, Slovenia and Spain.  We've been fortunate enough to travel to France, Germany, Austria, the Czech Republic, Ireland, Canada and Mexico.  Hosting these international students has simply been an extension of those journeys and allowed us to enjoy different cultures in person.

Ahn Jae-hyun was born in Busan, South Korea, the younger of two sisters.  Busan is the second largest city in South Korea with more than 3.6 million inhabitants.

I can't imagine what it must be like to travel from such a large city to a foreign country (even one as friendly as the United States), cope with a strange language, adapt to a different culture, time zone and food, earn money without working, and make new friends.  And once you have a handle on all of that, you still have to study and pass college-level courses, often taught in English.  I always assumed our language was taught as a second language to many foreign students, but even when they know enough to greet you, there is still a jump from reading it in a textbook to actually being able to talk and understand someone else speaking it. 

Ahn Jae-hyun, like other students from Asia, was one of those who struggled with her English.  So it was always an adventure with her, although by her fourth year she was much improved.  Every year she would return to UW-L with a better grasp of our language, which made getting out into the community that much easier.  Nothing made me laugh like watching her nod to a question I asked and then realize that she had no idea what I just said.  It's still funny! 

 

Since joining La Crosse Friends of International Students we have welcomed 6 other students from South Korea, China, Denmark and Great Britain.  Despite different countries, languages and cultures, their similarities overcame their differences.

What were they like?

With the exception of one, they all came from large cities  - not Minneapolis or Chicago big with 2 or 3 million people, but really big.  As in 24 million -- or 3,854 people per square kilometer in the city of Shanghai.  Applying the same number of people per mile to La Crosse, that would increase our population three times per square mile.

I often wonder why they chose to visit our little city, located in the middle of America, in a rural state with farmland and rolling hills. La Crosse isn't an urban center with racial diversity, a variety of musical entertainment or ethnic neighborhoods that you can find in the larger cities.   I asked Lydia Xu from Shanghai, China if she was ever able to be alone in China.  She laughed.  With such a large population, there is no getting away.  A nice quiet walk by yourself.  I wonder who would have a harder time adjusting, me walking through Seoul, Korea on a typical rush hour morning or Min Park walking through the marsh area during a quiet Sunday afternoon.

Ah, the simple things we take for granted...

As students, they all shared equally in struggles that came from tests and homework.  Some seemed to study all the time -- and I mean ALL the time -- while others where involved in sports which kept them occupied when they weren't studying or taking tests.

To our knowledge, they all did well in school, and three actually graduated from college during their time with us.  Watching them cross the stage to accept their diploma was as exciting as watching our own children.  We were lucky enough to have Ahn Jae-hyun's mom and sister make the trip to La Crosse in December for her graduation from UW-L.

Some were talented in singing or piano, others in volleyball and soccer. Their extracurricular activities only amplified our enjoyment -- I mean, it's hard to sit in on a chemistry class, but easy to watch a game of soccer or attend a musical performance.

Another thing in common was their desire to travel.  As young adults -- with family or classmates -- they had traveled through parts of Europe and Asia with the ease that Liz and I have in driving from La Crosse to Madison.  Whenever there was a break from school -- Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas --  the students from China and Denmark would travel to Chicago, New York City, Tampa and Los Angeles.  A few returned home to see family, but that was probably because they needed money or a hug from mom.  Home would always be there, but not the Big Apple or Windy City.

Liz and I were always amazed at their willingness to fly cross-country by themselves, and somehow navigate a strange city in a strange country, and be back in class by the following Monday.

Marianne Larsen and Jonas Rasmussen -- who were with us for only 6 months -- seemed to handle our language and culture very well.  In fact of all our students, they seemed the most adept at fitting in at UW-L.  I always had the feeling they were here just to experience America and move on to their next adventure.  In the years since they left, Jonas has continued to search for his "next" adventure by bungy jumping from the Bloukrans -- the world's highest bungy-jumping bridge --  or parachuting from a plane in South Africa.  In the world of extreme sports, La Crosse doesn't have much to offer, unless you want to consider rock climbing Grandads Bluff as an opener.  Otherwise, not much to raise the hair on the back of your neck...

Speaking of celebrations and holidays, we've always tried to find out something about each student's culture, how they spend holidays and birthdays.  What food is served?

As a midwestern boy of simple means, I grew up eating mac and cheese, applesauce and beans, and cheeseburgers  (hold the pickles and onions!).  With each new student, I am reminded of how different we are --  language is the first thing you notice, but a close second has to be food.  It didn't take long to realize Asians don't eat birthday cakes with sweet frosting (with the exception of Joe who always had an appetite).  Liz is always excited about getting students together in our kitchen to prepare a meal that reminds them of home -- rice, noodles and vegetables.  She even found a bar on the North side of La Crosse that serves a bowl of Korean food on Friday nights (I've discovered kimchi, bibimbap and bulgogi has a way of growing on you).

Lydia Xu -- currently attending Viterbo University -- has an interesting appetite (to say the least) that consists of chicken butts (yes!), intestines, tripe, eels and anything that swims.  But she will pick at a plate of cheese, not convinced that goat cheese is up to her standards.

I am certain that one of my biggest challenges, should we visit Lydia or Jae Hyun, would be the food.  The only unknown is how much weight I would lose while visiting.

Our students from Denmark gave us a bottle of Gammel Dansk (bitter dram) complete with a sing-along for the holidays.    The taste reminds me of a combination of licorice and chili.  According to Wikipedia, is is one of the most recognizable strong bitter alcoholic beverages on the Danish market.  The bottle reads "for godt om jorgensen, efter dagens don't, under jagrten, pa fisketuren elder som aperitif (enjoyable in the morning, after a days work, when hunting or fishing, or as an aperitif ).

When hunting or fishing?  Seriously?  Marianne and Jonas, don't take offense, but there is still some left, despite sharing a full shot glass every Christmas.

 

As an old dog who struggles to learn new tricks, I am nonetheless thrilled that we have been able to stay in touch with almost every one of our students, through Facebook, KakaoTalk and WhatsApp.  The thrill of hearing from Jae Hyun or Lydia from their home on a Saturday morning while driving to the gym to work out is more than enough to stop us in our tracks.  Then again it may not take too much (that's a reminder, Jae Hyun, to text your U.S. "mom" every Saturday around 8 a.m.)

But seriously, despite the distance between us and our friends around the globe, it is such a blast talking to them, whether by text or video, as has happened with Emma Morris, who remains in the states, going to graduate school in Ohio.  Emma has a full plate -- in addition to studying for grad school, she is an assistant soccer coach for Heidelberg University in Tiffin Ohio.   That privilege means hours in a car recruiting new soccer players.  As a way to pass time, we have talked via video on Facebook to pass time.  Well, maybe for her.  But for us, we are keeping up-to-date with someone we miss who has left the friendly confines of La Crosse for a much more challenging adventure.

At a time when our own country is at odds over everything -- politics, race and even sports, it's nice to know that these young students offer hope for a bright future.

Bringing these students into our lives reminds us how big our world is -- it's easy to think everyone is like those we see everyday.  They are a reminder that we live in a world full of different people.  People with different faces, different appetites (I'm talking to you Lydia!), different cultures and different expectations. College has always been about learning.  How fun it has been to take that learning experience into our homes and lives as though we were freshmen attending college ourselves!

Thanks to all of you who have enriched our lives with the enthusiasm and perspective of your music, food and customs.  You are all special to us -- until we meet again!

Jae Hyun - Busan, South Korea
Linghao Zhou -- Wuhan, China
Min Park - Seoul, Korea
Marianne Larsen and Jonas Rasmussen -- Denmark
Emma Morris -- Richmond, Great Britain
Lydia Xu -- Shanghai, China