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.

Living in a Van Down by the River

Rolling Stones Magazine recently listed a Saturday Night Live skit featuring comedian Chris Farley as Matt Foley, a 35-year old motivational speaker, as one of SNL's all time best.  In the skit, Chris lectures two teenagers (played by David Spade and Christina Applegate) about the direction their lives will take if they keep smoking dope.  I have to admit that it is one of the funniest skits I have ever seen, and Chris Farley is hilarious as the screaming, sweating motivational speaker.

As he is pulls and twists on the belt of his pants, he screams to the young teenagers: "You kids are probably thinking to yourselves that you are going to go out and get the world by the tail, you're going to wrap it around and pull it down and put it in your pocket."

He continues, "We'll, I'm here to tell you that you're probably going to find out as you go out there, that you're not going to amount to jack squat!  You're going to wind up eating a steady diet of government cheese, and ... LIVING IN A VAN DOWN BY THE RIVER!"

The final line is delivered with such despair and self-loathing (delivered as only Chris Farley can) that the audience breaks up laughing.  It IS a funny line -- and one that goes down as one of his all time greats.

While watching the skit again this morning, I started thinking how perfect -- and prescient -- it was for  today.  The consequences of doing nothing with your life resonates with so many things happening with America right now, that it's hard to believe it was performed over 20 years ago.

Here's how it resonates with me --

Take the push to legalize dope.  Like gay marriage, it's become the media darling of 2014.  Since a bill legalizing it in Colorado, the push to legalize marijuana is going into overdrive.  States like Hawaii, Maine, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island and Vermont all have legislation pending that will legalize pot.  Other states are watching closely to see what happens.

I feel like this country has lost its mind -- the inmates are controlling the asylum.   One-hundred years after California was the first to criminalize marijuana, our country is ready to embark on an experiment that will dumb down its citizens, increase drug use, and most importantly for our government, increase tax revenues.  Maybe that's all I need to know.  Legislators are selling their souls to the devil, hoping the legalization of pot will sooth another kind of addiction -- spending our money.

Never underestimate the capacity of our government to throw its citizens under the bus.  If it means more power and money flowing to Washington D.C. and its bureaucracy, you can guarantee they'll find a way to do it.  Our elected officials don't give a damn about the people they represent, as is clearly evident in the laws they pass or laws they don't enforce.

My oldest son and I have had a number of discussions about the legalization of pot.  Showing his youthful indiscretion, he asks:  Why is it ok to buy alcohol, but not pot?  Won't it reduce violent crime that is associated with selling pot?  Isn't it our right to have freedom to do what we want (appealing to his libertarian side)?

I've never bought into the argument that one wrong (alcoholism) should permit another wrong (being stoned).  Both are stupid, and ruin lives in ways I'm fortunate not to have experienced.  In addition, I'm a believer in pot's"gateway effect" which could lead to other drug use that are even more destructive.  Why take the chance?

As for crime, since when does the cost of criminalizing an activity lead to its suspension?  Yeah, we spend a lot of time and money on busting drug dealers and putting users in jail.  Maybe we need to rethink the need to jail users (charge them a punitive amount to discourage its use), but I'm sure the dealers in Mexico, South America, Asia and West Africa aren't going to quit selling heroin and cocaine just because you take marijuana off the shelf.

Besides, law enforcement officers are against the use of legal items like guns -- what makes you think they could possibly feel good about legalizing a product that will only lead to more violence?

The point I'm making is that people in this county are acting out the parts of Jim Carrey and Jeff Daniels in the movie "Dumb and Dumber."  Roles which lead to a less productive society and by fiat, longer lines at the welfare office.  Why do we want that?

Chris Farley's skit also resonates when I hear that Obama Care is going to result in millions losing their jobs.  Democrats, fearing retribution, have come up with the spin that this will allow people the freedom to quit their jobs and find the time to do what they really want to do.  Like the single mom who is going to leave her miserable job as an accountant so she can be the artist she always wanted to be.  According to Obama, it will no longer be necessary for her to suffer at work just to maintain the health benefits that cover her and her baby.

Now the State will take care of her health insurance costs by subsidizing her "family" through higher taxation on those of us still working.  For these blood sucking parasites, they will finally find their calling as unemployed artists, actors and musicians.  At some point in their "career" they'll realize that working means more than just getting health benefits.  But by that time, I suppose the State will also provide cable television, cell phones, and other necessities we currently work for.

In step with Obama Care freeing people to pursue their dreams, is the perverse requirement for people to pay more for their health insurance if they earn too much.  Nothing will encourage people to quit a productive life than the idea that they can get more in benefits by working less.

It is not by accident that Obama Care was set up to fail.  The entire premise behind its subsidies and tax credits was to reward those who had less. Are you unemployed, a minimum wage earner, college student, or  a single mom?  Do we have a plan for you...

On the other hand, if you work full time earning a salary that barely pays the mortgage, your auto payment and some of the college expenses for your two kids, we are going to require you to pay 25 to 50% more for your health plan.  It's the only way to be fair to those in need.

No wonder Obama keeps delaying its implementation.  People are going to revolt when they find out how bad it's going to be.  Or quit their jobs and join the unemployed.  It's madness, and once again, our country is buying it every four years.  Presidents Roosevelt, Kennedy, Carter, Clinton and now Obama follow the same game plan.  But they need us (living in a van down by the river) to pull it off.

The irony of Chris Farley's funny characterization of Matt Foley trying to get teenagers to stop smoking pot is that he died at the age of 33 while speedballing cocaine, heroin and morphine.  Hardly the future he envisioned while performing for Saturday Night Live.

Too bad life isn't like television, where you can watch reruns and learn from your mistakes.

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.

Fire Of The Dragon

A collective sigh of disappointment came from the people around me.

My fingers and wrist were shaking as the sweat and river water dripped from my hand and fell to the bottom of the boat.  Heat rose from my upper body, though my neck to the top of my head.  My life preserver felt constricting, preventing the deep breath my body needed to feel better.  

As I lifted my head and looked to my right, the red-scaled dragon boat sliced to the right and headed back up the river, its crew confident in another victory.

Heat number two was minutes away, and I needed to gather my strength for the last race of the day.

                       

Liz and I were in Dubuque, Iowa to race in the 26th Annual Dubuque Dragon Boat Race.  We were part of La Crosse Dragon Fire

 

, a ragtag team of hard working paddlers who wanted to win against some of Iowa's best dragon boaters.

Dubuque, on the shores of the Mississippi River, has been putting on dragon boat races since 1988, three years after this unique boat racing began spreading throughout the Midwest.  Since its inception, competitors from the U.S., Germany, Italy, New Zealand, Taiwan and Canada have competed for medals in novice, intermediate and elite divisions.  Recently, junior and breast cancer survivor teams have been added.

Our team chose wisely by putting us in the novice division, pitting us against teams from Dubuque and Chatham-Kent (Canada).

Our 18 paddlers (6 men and 12 women)  came from a variety of professions -- none of them professional racing.  We were doctors, nurses and technicians from Mayo Clinic in La Crosse.  We had a yoga instructor (which came in handy for warm ups). Clock and insurance salesmen, and even someone old enough to be retired.  One thing held us together:  pride.  We may not have been experienced dragon boat participants, but we were a determined bunch.

With our padded cycling pants, rowing gloves and water shoes, we had arrived to show the state of Iowa how much La Crosse loved the river.


                                                                                                              

As we paddled upstream to start the second heat, our sweep (at the back of the boat) told us to use a method he called 10-10-2.  Ten long strokes from a dead start, ten quicker strokes once we got going, and then a one-two punch through the middle one-hundred fifty meters.  Then let all hell break loose and go for broke on the final fifty meters.

"But coordinated," Mark said to my left.  "We have to remember that none of that will help if our strokes aren't coordinated."

"We need a good start," said Carolyn, the woman in front of me.  "If we can stay with them at the start, we will take them at the end."

I would be happy if I could get my hand to stop shaking.  It was so tired, that I could barely grasp the paddle.  My thoughts wandered back to our instructor in Winona who told us that if your hand, forearm or biceps was tired, you weren't paddling correctly.  Use the strength in your shoulder to pull through, he said, and your top hand to push down.  You should reach with your paddle, rotate your torso to the middle of the boat and locate your top hand over your lower elbow.  For optimum efficiency, the blade of the paddle needed to be perpendicular to the surface as you pushed through the water.  

"It should feel like you're pulling through cement," he had said.  "Pull and push.  Pull and push."  

I wondered what our drummer and flag puller (sitting quietly in the front of the boat) were thinking as they studied this collection of aging, sweating faces.  They would play a critical part in our finish, and we needed them to have confidence in our ability to paddle our boat smoothly and quickly to the end of the race.  As members of our team, they watched patiently for most of the 300 meter course.  Our sweep needed to position our boat through the currents toward the finish, and our puller needed to lean over the edge of the boat and grasp a flag before the other boat grasped theirs. 

Sounded simple until you stepped into the boat.

                   

 

Dragonboats are the basis of the team paddling sport of dragon boat racing -- an amateur water sport which has its roots in an ancient folk ritual of contending villagers held over the past 2000 years throughout southern China.

While competition has taken place annually for more than 20 centuries, dragon boat racing in the United States is a relatively new sport.

Most dragon boat races consist of a 300 meter course in a 40 foot fiberglass boat, weighing close to 1200 pounds.

In ancient Chinese times, it was believed sacrifices through drowning may have been involved in the earliest boat racing rituals.  During these races, violent clashes between the crew members of the competing boats involved throwing stones and striking each other with bamboo sticks.  Originally, paddlers or even an entire team falling into the water could receive no assistance from the onlookers as their misfortune was considered to be the will of the Dragon Deity which could not be interfered with.  Fortunately, our boats, with a crew of 21, were better sports (with no rocks to throw).

Dragon boats can vary in size, varying from our 40 foot span to ones that hold upwards of 50 or even 80 paddlers, plus a drummer and sweep.

There are also much longer races than the one we were participating in.  Our three hundred meter sprint was nothing compared to others.  The Three Gorges Dam Rally along the Yangtze River near Yichang, Hubei province, China covers up to 100 kilometers (62 miles) and the Ord River marathon in Australia covers over 50 kilometers.  The record holder is a relay event, on the Missouri River with a distance of 340 miles in a mere 38 hours and 5 minutes.


                                                         

As we positioned the boats for our 300 meters, I thought back to how we had gotten here.

In the morning's first two heats, we had gone up against a team called the Mississippi Tailbiters for a chance at a gold, silver or bronze medal.  Our combined time was 176.51, which was four seconds better than Saturday's best time.  But still not good enough to beat the Tailbiters from Dubuque.  So the good news was that we were stronger and faster than before.  The bad news was that we were heading into the consolation race later that afternoon.

At two o'clock, we were lined up against Lot One, a team of novice paddlers of similar age.  I think both teams were disappointed to be where they were, so every effort was being made to finish with a win.

Despite our best efforts (and after the first heat) we found ourselves less than a second behind heading into the second and final heat.  We had struggled with our start time, as half the boat paddled faster than the other.  With poor coordination, the boat struggled to hit its cruising speed, costing us valuable time.  Making matters worse, one of our rear paddlers broke his paddle during the start, reducing the push we desperately needed out of the gate.  Despite the poor start, we fought back.  By the time we reached the end we had made up most of our lost time.

 !

The dragon boat rocked slightly as I heard one of our team members say that our second heat times had been better than our remaining competitor's time.  But as the morning's race had shown, when pushed to compete, time trials were not a good indicator of how the race would go.

It was here and now, I thought -- as we switched lanes and positioned ourselves for the start of the final heat -- that we would find a way to beat this team. 

It was time to have fun.  
Time to hold our heads up and smile.  
Time to win.

                                                            

Our weekend consisted of two time trials on Saturday and then two competitive races on Sunday.  Our first two time trials were against a group of 11th graders (E.D 11th) and a team called Solid Steel.  We did well against the boat of eleventh graders, but reality set in as we faced off against the Dubuque Midtown Marina favorites, Solid Steel Dragon Boat Club.    

Solid Steel has seven boats that compete around the world -- most recently in the 2013 World Dragon Boat Championships in Hungary, where they won two golds, seven silver and 13 bronze medals helping Team USA to a third place finish.

Needless to say, we were intimidated, even though our sweep told us to ignore them.

Time trials involved teams from all three divisions, so we were not actually competing against them.  Easier said than done, as I found myself repeatedly watching their deep, strong strokes.  Their coordination was machine like, complete with a video camera attached to their drummer.  Our quess was that they used the video to train and monitor paddlers who were out of sync.  It was the only race where we were swamped by the wake created by the other dragon boat.  

But we were able to see how much hard work and coordination would be necessary to beat the teams that were in our division.  Sunday's race would tell us if we were good enough to medal, or bad enough to go home early.

                                                     

I tried not to look at the paddlers of Lot One, but the temptation was too great --  I wanted to know if they looked tired, triumphant or worried.  I quickly realized our competition looked just like us.  Some faces were drawn and tired.  Others were determined and eager for another chance.  A few were trying to encourage others by telling them to "give it their all" and "fight through the pain."  But as both boats settled into their race positions -- paddles forward -- a quiet settled over the dock area.  Everyone knew what they needed to do.  It was going to come down to who did it better.

The powerful, dual tone air horn blasted through the humid air.  I sunk my paddle to the hilt, pulled through the water and lifted.  Grunts and shouts of  ONE!  TWO!  THREE!  FOUR!  FIVE!  SIX!  SEVEN!  EIGHT!  NINE!  TEN! escaped each paddler.  My eyes were focused on Susan, our pace setter in the front of the boat, and I tried to follow her lead with every reach, rise, and push of the paddle.  

Another ten shouts and our boat hit its cruising speed.   Paddling became easier and the pace of our strokes increased.  The boat to our right appeared to be slightly ahead, despite a better start from our team.  A float passed by marking the first 100 meters, then a second as we continued to push.  The boats were side by side as a cry rose out from our boat to PUSH, PUSH, PUSH!  From the back of the boat someone was yelling PULL, PULL, PULL!  

It was the final fifty meters when our boat took its first lead of the race -- albeit a small one.  

 

Giving it my all, I continued to dig my paddle into the river, pulling water and paddle out only to drop it quickly into the water again and again.  It seemed to me that all sound had gone out of the world -- I could see lips moving, arms rising and paddles diving into the water, but I couldn't hear anything.  So focused on what I was doing, I shut out all sounds except my breathing and my heart as it pounded in my chest.
Suddenly a cheer from shore broke through the silence as our boats flashed past the finish line and our flag puller grabbed our flag.  By the smallest of margins, it appeared to me that we had taken the flag first.  But who knew...  The winning decision was still minutes away as the announcer waited for the final electronic results.

Heads sagged and bodies leaned forward as our boat coasted through a gentle turn.  We held our breathe in anticipation of the results.

Minutes later, the announcer spoke again.  "With a second heat of 87.03 seconds, the La Crosse Fire Dragons have a combined time of 174.73 seconds.  Lot One has a final time of 87.79 seconds and a combined total of 174.76 seconds."

At first my mind was too tired to understand what that meant.  Seconds later, our team let our a roar as we realized we had won by a total of .03 seconds.  The amount of time it takes for me to blink my eye was all that separated our win from a loss.

We had come to Dubuque looking for fun.  In the end, all of us left looking for win number two.

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.