Kyle L White

January 20th

2012-01-24T11:51:00.000-08:00

Curving paths up the driveway, along the sidewalk. Under the nose, down the chin.

Shoveling. Shaving. The same thing: cutting away to the new, "old familiar" underneath. Making way for smooth travel, and maybe a kiss.

Sure, both have their hazards: the chunk of hidden ice that catches the scraper and rams the handle into your breadbasket; or the occasional bloody nick. But, in the end: tap your snowy shovel on the concrete; rinse your shaving cream razor in the sink. Either way, you did it, brother. It 's finished.

There's plenty of time to get to work. Plenty of time to never-get-anything-done. The only time today you can say: the task is complete. So, lean back on your snow shovel. Slap on the aftershave. Survey the job well done: your shoveling & shaving Sabbath.

It is good.

Edgerton's Sterling North Book Festival 2011

2011-09-02T21:57:00.000-07:00

A step towards ending the border war: I will be crossing from Illinois into Wisconsin Saturday, Sept. 24th , to speak & sign copies of Wisconsin River of Grace (Cornerstone Press, 2009), at Edgerton's Sterling North Book & Film Festival. Come and be part of the peace process! Other authors: Jon Sciezka; David Wroblewski; Allison Arngrim; and, more.

For more info: http://www.edgertonbookfestival.org/

Brickville Road, 6:50 a.m.

2011-06-27T20:47:00.000-07:00

Soil black crows congregate in the cornfield
and clear their throats.
Aughh. Raughh.

“Spit it out, man!
If you have something to say, just say it,”
I call from the road.

“No, it’s just post-nasal drip. Sorry to bother you,”
they call back.
Aughh. Raughh.

“My apologies,” I mumble.
(What I had always attributed to rudeness in crows
was actually just spring allergies.) Ahem.

Super Bowlful of Friendship

2011-03-17T11:20:00.000-07:00

Can we still be friends? It is a stretch, but I believe so.

I know my favorite team, the Packers, won Super Bowl XLV. And, the game before that they beat your favorite team, the Bears, in the NFC Championship. And, three games before that, the Packers beat the Bears in the final game of the regular season. I think you said, “The Bears let the Packers into the playoffs.” But, I had nothing to do with that. If it is the policy of the Bears to let certain teams into the playoffs, that is a matter for management to discuss.

After the last game of the season you e-mailed and confessed that you could not root for the Packers in the Super Bowl. You said, “I thought about it, but I just can’t do it. I’ll remain neutral.” I understand that hating the Packers is almost as high a priority for you as rooting for the Bears, but before that game you said you would root for the NFC North in the Super Bowl. I guess you changed your mind. If the Bears were in it, I told you, I would have rooted for the NFC North. Sadly, the Bears were not in the Super Bowl, so I had to root for the Packers. I sensed some bitterness about that on your part. Maybe you felt bad that you plastered the outside of my house and car with Bears paraphernalia before the NFC Championship game, then posted the pictures on Facebook. (At first, I thought maybe a garbage truck had overturned on my street and the contents had blown into my yard. Later I found out it was you.)

Then, at the Super Bowl party (your buffalo wings were good, by the way) I asked again who you were rooting for, to give you another chance to do the right thing. You said, “The Steelers.”

“You are rooting for Ben Rothlisberger, the criminal?”

“No, I am rooting for the Steelers.”

I guess you changed your mind again. Something about cheering for the enemy of your enemy. And, after the Packers won the Super Bowl, adding to their 12 World Championships, you left the party rather quickly. I understand that. People were excited and jumping up and down, like when good triumphs over evil in the movies. Or, in the Bible. It was probably too loud. It was nice, though, when your wife said, “Aren’t you going to congratulate your friend?” and you said, “Good game.” Or, something like that to me. I couldn’t really hear you as you pulled the door shut behind you. It’s hard, I know, but this shouldn’t ruin things.

My point is: I am not the Packers. And, you are not the Bears. We’re just old friends. And my team happened to win Super Bowl XLV. Please don’t be angry.

I like to think our friendship transcends trivial things, like sports. We have camped together, mountain biked together, travelled together, and served others together. Recently, you even called me to go to lunch, after I mentioned an argument with my wife. The argument was no big deal, but you took it as an opportunity to ask me about my marriage. Those kinds of friends are hard to come by. Let’s not allow the recent Packer Super Bowl Championship to get in the way of our relationship.

In fact, I take it back; you are the Bears, my friend. The 1985 Super Bowl Champion Bears. There’s no higher compliment I can give in northern Illinois; you are the ‘85 Bears. And, I am the 2010 Packers. We’re all good, right?

Door County Style Magazine Book Review

2011-01-16T15:05:00.000-08:00

"Now is the perfect time to read Wisconsin River of Grace..."--Door County Style Magazine

Thanks for the kind review from editor Stephen Kastner.

El Gaucho

2010-12-07T06:45:00.000-08:00

Dear Man,

I strongly recommend that you grow a mustache if you have not already done so. By no means am I an expert, but when I have grown a mustache in the past the results have been spectacular. I am not bragging.

Primarily, you should grow a mustache because you can, but there are other benefits as well.

You should grow a mustache because it gets things done.

Yes, you will face opposition from your wife: “Okay, are we about done with the roustabout look?” Your teenage daughter will take it as one more opportunity for ridicule: “Who’s that creeper in our summer vacation photos? Oh, that’s Dad.” Friends who are really no more than acquaintances will say: “Dude, you look like a truck driver.”

Yes, initially your mustache may look like coffee grounds glued to a Smokey the Bear preschool project. But nothing worth having comes easy. Or, looks very good to begin with. Or, starts without feeling itchy. This is the fourth law of physics, and its corollaries.

But, tell your wife this: two summers ago my family and I were on vacation in Wisconsin. Our Subaru with Illinois plates broke down, so I called a local mechanic for a tow and repair. This is a recipe for disaster. Did I mention I was in Wisconsin with a broken down Subaru with Illinois plates? I might as well have put a sign on my back that read: “Crack me in the head with your monkey wrench and take my wallet. Please.”

Luckily, earlier in the summer, I had grown a mustache. My best mustache ever. I fondly referred to it as “El Gaucho”. I have heard it referred to regionally as “The Biker”, “The Warrior”, and “The Pancho Villa”. Sometimes, mistakenly, “The Fu Manchu”. My wife referred to it as “that thing”. For two months “El Gaucho” presided over my top lip and trailed commandingly down each side of my face to the brink of each jowl. Even now I miss it. Him.

Anyway, the mechanic, who also had a mustache, came to tow the car and we talked and joked for an extraordinary amount of time. Previously I would have trembled with suspicion in the presence of an auto mechanic. Later, I would realize that it was my mustache that was doing the talking. The mustache going before me, greasing the wheel. Now greasing the palm. Because, not more than three hours later, I received a call that the car was done. Three hours. The cost? Ninety dollars. Can you believe it? Under “Illinois Tourist Car Repair” on Wisconsin mechanics’ service menus, this usually lists for $500 to $1000. Thank you, Mustache.

Tell your wife that. And tell her how on that entire vacation we got tables more quickly at restaurants. We received better service. And I believe we received discounts where before there had been none.

Mustaches get things done.

Sadly, at the end of the summer, I succumbed to familial pressure to remove it. El Emasculacion, in Spanish. It wasn’t until this fall that I resurrected “El Gaucho”. So as not to arouse suspicion, I started with a beard, but soon after carved away the superfluous to reveal my Old Friend.

The responses were the same from my family. Blah, blah, blah. But, one Tuesday night, mustache in tow, I was working at a reading program at an income-eligible apartment complex in our community. We provide reading and homework help for kids. A preschool girl named Cassie, and I, were engrossed in putting together a circus animal puzzle on the floor. Without announcement, she stuck her hand in my face. She rubbed it back and forth across my mustache for about five seconds. One monkey. Two monkey. Three monkey. Four monkey. Five monkey. Then she whispered to her friend, “Ellie, come see this.”

And, Ellie did. Then Cassie patted me on the head like a dog.

It was funny.

But later I reflected that, maybe it wasn’t so funny. In most low-income apartment complexes there are very few men. Almost every family is single moms and kids. And from what I had heard, Cassie’s dad, or step-dad, was in prison. So, a mustache, and a man for that matter, must be a strange animal. It reinforced in me that a mustache gets things done; whether it be reduced auto repair bills, or more importantly, building bridges with kids that need some healthy male influence and connection. This particular mustache grabbing incident reminded me that men have some responsibility to act like a dad to kids that need one.

So, in conclusion, Man, you should grow a mustache. Because you can. And the cost of that ability is responsibility. Winston Churchill said something like that. Just think how much more he could have accomplished, had he sported a powerful “El Gaucho”. Godspeed in your efforts.

Warm Regards.

End-of-Year Giving

2010-12-06T07:36:00.000-08:00

Here's a shot at fiction, coming from left field! My apologies!-Kyle

END-of-YEAR GIVING

Nicholas looked over the books. It was near the end of the year, funds were low like they were for every not-for-profit. He scratched his beard as he looked out his frosted office window. Snow was falling fast. Nicholas would have to think quickly if he was to fulfill his annual charitable giving promises. These end-of-year gifts were the focus of his organization, and not to come through with them would be disastrous.

He stroked his beard one more time and tentatively bent forward in his chair. The bottom drawer of the desk creaked and revealed two ledgers. He pulled out the thick black one. Nicholas hesitated but opened it and traced his finger down the list of alphabetized tabs, stopping at the letter ‘S’.

+++

Colin Sceleris leaned forward in his chair at his home office desk. A few clicks of the mouse and his paycheck was distributed in the proper accounts. Despite the economic downturn, and the government bailout of his company, he had pocketed seven figures in his year-end bonus alone. Colin settled back in his chair with a sigh and gazed past the lights of his replica Christmas tree and out the window to the heavy snowfall. The idea of the cold out-of-doors gave him an unexpected shiver.

Halfway through rising to place another log in the fireplace, Colin turned to click out of his online bank account. But, before he could do so, and at that moment, the fire in his fireplace went out with a wooph! and a rush of air, like a giant candle snuffer had been clapped over the fire. With a thud, one of the glowing logs rolled off the pile on the grate, out into the the room. Bitter smoke reached out and left Colin choking. Then he saw a blur of red move past him from the fireplace. He thought at first it was just a flash of pain from stinging eyes, brought on by the acrid atmosphere, but there was definitely someone else in the dark room with him. Colin had felt the coldness of the figure brush past him, and even in the wood smoke he detected that smell of winter. That faint wet dog scent of someone coming in from the cold and snow.

In the dark, Colin fumbled in his top desk drawer and finally felt the cool metal grip of his revolver. He turned, eyes straining, gun waving about, “I don’t know how you got in here, but you picked the wrong man to rob.”

“In fact, Colin, I selected the very person who needed to be ‘robbed’, as you say,” a deep, calm, craggy voice replied from nearby.

“How the devil do you know my name?” Colin fired two shots into the dark. One to the right, and one to the left, for probability’s sake.

“I know most things about you. When you’re sleeping. When you’re awake. Mostly I know that you have lived your life at the expense of others for a very long time. Didn’t you suspect that after so many years of robbing others that you would eventually be robbed yourself?”

“Who are you to judge me?” Colin yelled angrily.

The intruder stepped through the darkness, and Colin, incredulous, could just make out that white beard, and that red coat.

“St. Nick?”

Trembling uncontrollably, Colin squeezed off two more wild shots, to push back the darkness, if for a moment. But to no avail. He felt a vice at his throat.

“Colin, I wish this had turned out another way,” Nicholas said. His red, fur cuffed gloves tightened around Colin’s neck. There was much flailing of arms, and clawing, and grunting, and scuffing of shoes against wood, as if the victim were trying to find the floor. And then there was less of that. And then none. And then quiet.

Colin’s eyes never closed, but were frozen open in disbelief, even after he stopped breathing. “For goodness sake, Colin, I wish this had turned out differently,” Nicholas sadly addressed the darkness, then made a few keystrokes and clicks at Colin’s computer. And then he was gone.

+++

“His secretary said he never showed up for work this morning,” the officer explained to the detectives in Colin Sceleris’ apartment. “I said, what fat cat CEO works on Christmas Eve? She said, ‘You don’t know Mr. Sceleris’. I said ‘OK, we’ll check up on him’.”

“No sign of forced entry. All the doors and windows are locked. Only these soot marks around the victim’s throat, obviously the perp used gloves to strangle him. No fingerprints. Why does this kind of stuff only happen on Christmas Eve?” the detective said to no one in particular. Particularly not to Colin Sceleris, who lay on the floor, wide-eyed and cold.

+++

Nicholas stroked his beard and slowly drew a red line through the name of ‘Colin Sceleris’ in the thick black ledger at his desk. He also closed the accounting books, happily in the black. Nicholas then rose from his desk to complete his year-end charitable giving, like he did every Christmas Eve.

I-44 West

2010-10-05T20:51:00.000-07:00

"You’ll never make it.” That’s what my Christian friend, Mark told me before my family and I started out on our summer vacation road trip.

I’m sure Lewis and Clark got the same buncha crap from their buddies when they set out on their expedition. Haha, you’ll be dead by the fork in the Missouri. Or, You’ll never get horses from the Shoshone for the rest of the crossing, you losers.

Gee, thanks.

We are on a Westward Expansion, too—my family and me. Our usual voyages, from Northern Illinois, take us north to Wisconsin. Three, four, five hours tops. I have conditioned myself to be exhausted by Green Bay or Stevens Point. Can’t make it any longer. Go on without me. But, this summer we’re heading south and west. To Texas. Austin. 1100 miles, one way. I tell my friend, Mark, who snickers, “You’ll never make it.”

“Whatever,” I say. But in my heart, I wonder, too, and decide we shouldn’t tell Sacagawea. Or my wife.

By Springfield I need an extra-large coffee with a turbo-shot. By the Gateway Arch we need to stop for a stretch, and lunch. Near where I imagine Lewis and Clark took their first potty break. But after that I break through the wall. Like the runners high. I can do this! Look, I’m driving! Gliding down the Missouri turnpike that winds between hills and trees that watch from the side, like the river tribes spectating to see if the white men will make it through the rapids. They wag their heads, “They’ll never make it.” But, these aren’t rapids, and this is no dugout canoe.

We are at a controlled cruise down I-44 W. No worries. We have an atlas. A kid’s atlas. Google maps. And, GPS. All of which, I suppose, would not be possible without Lewis & Clark’s painstaking, plotting work of sketching the surface. But by western Missouri we have wandered into strange territory. I wonder what Lewis & Clark thought. Signs that call out “Report Feral Hogs”, and “Visit the Vacuum Cleaner Museum”, and ‘World’s Largest Rocking Chair”. There is also a ratio of churches to adult gift shops of 1:1. One wonders which came first: Bethel Baptist Church or Big Louie’s Adult Gifts? New Life Evangelistic Center or The Velvet Box Adult Gift Shop? Abundant Life Christian Center or The Lion’s Den Adult Gift Shop? Yes, you heard me, The Lion’s Den Adult Gift Shop. It’s a conflicted stretch of road.

It’s no wonder that Merriwether Lewis would often wander off the river with his Black Newfoundland, Seaman, to get away from the drag of the Missouri, or to look for something bigger than the world’s largest rocking chair. Mysterious flora and fauna. Lewis and Clark thought that they might even discover Wooly Mammoths and other prehistoric animals on their journey west.

And if I know my history right, perhaps Merriwether, in his off-river wanderings, even stumbled across Meramec Caverns in Stanton, Missouri, better known as Jesse James’ Hideout. Although the dozens upon dozens of signs announcing the “Jesse James Hideout”, and the “Jesse James Wax Museum”, and the Jesse James Zip Line Tour, and the “You Missed the Turnoff for Jesse James’ Hideout 500 Feet Back”, etc. probably made it easy to find. Which also probably made it a bad hideout for the outlaw Missourian and his gang. One Meramec Caverns sign even depicts Jesse James and a dinosaur in the same montage. Now, “Jesse James vs. the Triceratops” is a movie I would go see, but I imagine the explanation is that there are fossils in the very cavern where the thieves counted their loot.

Three years after his return from the expedition, however, Merriwether took his own life. I postulate that he would have taken his life sooner, if he had had to travel thru Oklahoma, but that is another story. And some say Jesse James knew all along that one of his gang members, Robert Ford, would betray him and kill him in cold blood, and yet he turned his back to him and took a bullet to the head.

Now, why would some of our country’s most famous adventurer’s end their lives like this?

Maybe they thought their best was in the past. Maybe the dinosaurs of fame and immortality they were chasing caught them from behind. My theory is this: Merriwether and Jesse felt the emptiness of never grabbing hold of anyone or anything. They only stopped long enough to take what they needed. Like stones skipping across the Missouri. They only sketched the surface in their lives.

Maybe sketching the surface only counts as a fraction of a life. Only abbreviations and highlights.

You’ll be happy to know, brothers and sisters, and Mark, that we made it to Texas, and back, despite the sucking vortex of Oklahoma. I learned about the cautionary tales of Merriwether and Jesse. And, I have this to report: It is a conflicted world out there. And it raised some questions: Am I content as I travel this life to only sketch the surface? Content to deal only in fractions, abbreviations and highlights? Am I a stone skipping across the depths?

I wonder.

The 'Quake of 2010

2010-10-05T20:43:00.000-07:00

The snowplow crashed through the fence in the backyard and rammed into the back of our house. 4 a.m. February 10. Ka-bam! Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter! Out-of-balance washing machine. The whole house. All of seven seconds. Maybe. We awoke with “What the devil was that?!” and leapt from our bed, peering through the windows, to the patio door, then the front door. Nothing. Winter winds ripping vinyl siding off the house? Bison stampede? Other neighbors' houses were hit by snowplows, too, and thieves trying to break in, and airplanes crashing, and--someone said--terrorist attacks. What a morning in Sycamore, Illinois.

Of course, it was none of these.

But, never in 20 years would I have guessed what it was, here in northern Illinois.

Our neighbor, Joe--the science teacher and newly minted meteorologist--he guessed it, however, and guessed it right. He sat up thermometer-straight in bed at 4 am, according to his wife, Caroline, and exclaimed, "Earthquake! 4.3!" And then, by her report, he dropped back into a satisfied slumber.

Not me.

My brother texted me soon after: "Are you guys OK?" We were at the epicenter of the news. The Today Show. CNN. Facebook. Calls from friends. Aftershocks of sympathy and attention.

“I think we’re going to be OK,” I said. And we would be, since nary a picture frame had fallen over in the natural disaster. Never mind that the 7.0 earthquake in Haiti, just weeks before, had wiped out about 100,000 people. This would be the topic of conversation for all in Sycamore for the next week: So, did you survive the ’quake? Did you feel it? What did you think it was? Where were you when it happened? It was something to call our own. Something unique. Something to talk about finally, after a long winter. We were important. Apparently we sit on a fault line here in northern Illinois. Who knew?

Yes, we were at the center. That is, until the ‘quake got downgraded to a 3.8 and the epicenter got moved 3 miles east. One Chicago comedian commented that they don’t even cancel circumcisions during a 3.8 earthquake.

I felt robbed.

Oh well. It was a good Midwestern earthquake, wasn’t it? Good while it lasted. A minor rumbling predicated by decades of uncomfortable silence. Hidden faults brewing just beneath the surface. Aunts and uncles talking in whispers.

Apparently—and this was not reported in the Daily Chronicle—the earthquake apologized afterwards: "I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean it. I was just tired."

“It’s OK,” we said. “It’s no big deal.”

And then we drank some coffee and had some zucchini bread. We made circles with the toes of our shoes in the imaginary dust of the linoleum, until someone asked, “So, is there supposed to be snow this week?”

No hard feelings, Earthquake. It’s OK. Don’t be a stranger.

Autumn Is On Her Way!

2010-09-20T13:00:00.000-07:00

Autumn is on her way! I saw her this afternoon about two blocks from here.

Read the essay "To Whom It May Concern" in the literary pages of Door County's "Peninsula Pulse" this week!

Speaking of autumn, Don't miss this:

"You made it feel like we were all together sitting in a living room!"
"That was the best acoustic show of my life. Really."
"It was so inspiring...I really enjoyed the performance."

"Fall In Together" with local artists Kyle White, and Greg & Kim Wheaton! Join us for a free show of music and stories at the Sycamore History Museum! Hear some new material and some old favorites!

Saturday, October 2, 2010 at 7:00pm

Free Event!
http://www.sycamorehistory.org/

http://www.kylelwhite.blogspot.com/

http://www.myspace.com/gregtwheaton

http://www.etsy.com/shop/kimwheatonceramics

Save the Date! Saturday, October 2nd

2010-07-15T18:58:00.001-07:00

Kyle White, Greg & Kim Wheaton "Fall In Together Show" at Sycamore History Museum! Saturday, October 2nd! New material! More info to come! www.SycamoreHistory.org

Local Author Publishes Book, Folds Underwear

2010-03-07T20:07:00.000-08:00

Local Author Publishes Book, Folds Underwear

Kyle L. White, a local author, has had his book-length manuscript accepted for publication by Cornerstone Press. The book, titled Wisconsin River of Grace, is a humorous recollection of White’s childhood in—and attachment to--Wisconsin.

“Wisconsin River of Grace is about the mysterious pull of God's Country—Wisconsin,” says White. “It's about the way we want a place to belong or, more accurately, the way we belong to places. And, it's about how those places shape us.”

White currently lives in northern Illinois, with his wife and two children.

The book was released on November 13. During the publisher’s party, featuring chips, deli sandwiches and Point beer, White commented, “I’m excited that the book has seen the light of day, it’s been a long process.”

He went on to ask, “Where is this potato salad from?” Publisher and host, Dan Dieterich informed White that it was from the deli at Wal-Mart. White commented, “It’s pretty good.”

After two book signings and a reading on November 14, White returned home with his family. That evening they watched a re-run of “America’s Funniest Home Videos”, the one where a man gets hit in the crotch with a piñata bat. White folded laundry from the weekend and attempted to find matches for his kids’ athletic socks. His wife, Barb, asked if he would want coffee in the morning. “Only if you do,” he replied.

Recently, White was seen moving the large “Meet Author Kyle White” book signing posters from behind the chair in the living room into the laundry room, beside the dryer.

Wisconsin River of Grace Available Here!

2010-01-14T13:31:00.000-08:00

"You’ll never find a book that better describes Wisconsin than this one. In it, Kyle White reminisces about how Wisconsin cast a spell over him as a child and continues to shape his life now that he has left the Badger State.”--Dan Dieterich, professor of English, University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point

"Hilarious, thought-provoking, tear-jerking...and above all, inspiring."-Wisconsin River of Grace reader

Click the "Add to Cart" button to purchase using credit card or money order!

For more info: whitekb4@comcast.net and www.uwsp.edu/english/cornerstone

"Wisconsin River of Grace" Available Now

2009-11-23T14:22:00.000-08:00

“You’ll never find a book that better describes Wisconsin than this one. In it, Kyle White reminisces about how Wisconsin cast a spell over him as a child and continues to shape his life now that he has left the Badger State,” said Dan Dieterich, professor of English at UWSP.

Copies of Wisconsin River of Grace may be purchased at Wisconsin bookstores, and may also be obtained from the Cornerstone Press website: www.uwsp.edu/english/cornerstone

White will also be signing books at Borders in DeKalb on Saturday, December 12 from 5pm to close. Books will be available for purchase.

Follow Wisconsin River of Grace on Facebook:
Wisconsin River of Grace by Kyle L. White

Press Release; Kyle's Book Released 11/13

2009-11-01T19:08:00.000-08:00

Cornerstone Press Publishes Book by UWSP Alum

Kyle L. White, a University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point alumnus, has had his book-length manuscript accepted for publication by Cornerstone Press. The book, titled Wisconsin River of Grace, is a humorous recollection of White’s childhood in, and current attachment to, Wisconsin.

“Wisconsin River of Grace is about the mysterious pull of God's Country—Wisconsin,” says White. “It's about the way we want a place to belong or, more accurately, the way we belong to places. And, it's about how those places shape us.”

White currently lives in Sycamore, Illinois, with his wife and two children. He is the founder of the non-profit organization Neighbor’s House (neighborshouse.org) which offers literacy enrichment and academic help for students in DeKalb County, Illinois.

Cornerstone Press is a publishing company formed by UWSP students enrolled in English 349, Editing and Publishing. Each year, the students in the class choose a manuscript from over a dozen submitted to the class, edit it, design it, and manage its marketing. All proceeds are used to fund publications in following years.

Copies of Wisconsin River of Grace may be purchased at these Stevens Point area bookstores: Book Finders, the UWSP Bookstore, and Book World. The book may also be obtained by using the purchasing form on the Cornerstone Press website (uwsp.edu/english/cornerstone).

White will also be signing books at Borders in DeKalb, Illinois on Saturday, December 12. Books will be available for purchase that evening.

For more information contact:
Kacie Otto, Publicity Director
Cornerstone Press
Email: kacie.j.otto@uwsp.edu
Website: uwsp.edu/eng/cornerstone

To Whom It May Concern

2009-08-05T06:30:00.000-07:00

July 30, 2009

To Whom It May Concern,

I am writing to recommend Autumn for the position recently left vacant by Summer. I have observed Autumn’s work for the last 40 years or so and feel I am as qualified as anyone to comment on her abilities.

For at least the past 40 years, Autumn has faithfully, and without complaint, ushered in Packer football seasons, kicked off school years, and provided meaningful work for sweater manufacturers and kids with rakes. She has been a major sponsor of the annual harvest of pumpkins, apples, cauliflower, Brussels sprouts, and squash, to name a few. I don’t even have to mention how each year she hosts that beloved children’s event: Halloween. And, of course, her crowning achievement: the fall color display in collaboration with the trees of our community. Her management skills have allowed all of these to come off like clockwork. Of course, it would be difficult in this space to elaborate on all of her accomplishments.

I understand that in the eyes of a few, Summer has left some big shoes to fill. However, sometimes big shoes just mean they were on the clearance rack. As you consider Autumn for this position, let me be candid: This has not been a stellar year for Summer. Yes, there was that sunny week in June, and the fireworks were OK, and the spinach came up nicely. But, personally, I think any loudmouth with an Associates Degree in P.E. could do what Summer does. This year, I am sure many would agree, she phoned it in. Like the waiter at that lakeside bar and grill who seemed so friendly and funny at first: “How’s it goin’, Boss? What can I do you for?” Ha. Ha. Ha. But he was nowhere to be found when it came to re-filling your Diet RC Cola, or bringing that bottle of A-1 steak sauce after you asked for it three times. If he thought he was going to escape without eating one of my signature piercing glares in tip reduction sauce, he was deluded. Anyway, if you check the time cards, Summer showed up late for the first day of work. About three weeks late, as I recall. And there were days, even weeks on end, where she was absent without as much as a phone call. For example, my one week of vacation: 63-degrees and rainy. Come on! This is July 30th, people! Any chimp with The Old Farmer’s Almanac could have done a better job.

But enough about Summer’s lack of aptitude, I am writing on behalf of Autumn. I understand this is just seasonal work, but Autumn’s abilities cannot be overstated and she would be perfect to pick up where Summer left off. In fact, she would bring a necessary change of direction. After the mindless, devil-may-care stupor that Summer left us with, you will find that Autumn will create a much-needed atmosphere of introspection: How did we do this year? What will we do with the time we have left? Who can we give all this acorn squash to?

I highly recommend Autumn to you for this opportunity. She is clearly the next logical step for your organization. Thank you for your consideration.

Kind Regards.

My Life Inside the Bureau

2009-05-07T12:10:00.000-07:00

I was let go last week from the Bureau. After giving my all to this federal institution I am disheartened. To process my curtailed career I thought it best to write about it. That is perhaps cliché: Bitter Federal Agent Writes Scathing Memoir. It’s the stuff of Harrison Ford films. However, after “Kingdom of the Crystal Skull”, I would prefer my part be played by William H. Macy. But as much as I need to write this down, I’m hesitant. I’m not proud of some of the things I did, and I’m not sure my experiences can be explained in layperson terms. Beyond that, I’m not even sure it’s legal to write about it; I swore an oath to uphold something. I think it was the Constitution.

So, yeah, I got canned by the Bureau of the Census. The FBI wasn’t hiring part-time workers, so you take what you can get. I was hired as an “enumerator” which is Bureau lingo for: the guy who verifies your address. Did you know that a national census is required by the Constitution every ten years? But, before the 2010 Census surveys can be mailed to every place where people live, or could live (caves and railroad cars are choices in the manual), the enumerators go out like Swine Flu and verify addresses with GPS on hand-held computers. HHCs if you’re in the Bureau. Usually enumerators don’t talk to homeowners, unless there’s a discrepancy from the HHC list to what’s “on the ground”, as we say in the Bureau. But I’ve heard that sometimes enumerators talk to residents. Like when they’re being chased off a property with a gun, or like one enumerator who went to a home, knocked and was greeted by a naked man--a man whom the enumerator recognized from church. The interview was conducted without a word about, well, you know.

Now, I say “I’ve heard that…enumerators talk to residents” because I never actually went to any housing units. I worked a total of 40 hours for the Census. Less, if you don’t count our hour-long lunches, the two 20-minute breaks each day, the morning we were locked out of the training room, or the day we got out at 1 pm because it was 70-degrees and sunny. When I say “worked” I mean I went through the training. And when I say “training” I mean I spent most of the time filling out withholding forms, confidentiality forms, payroll forms, form forms, etc. I was even “sworn in” as a government worker after fifteen minutes. When our trainer told us to stand and take an oath, I looked around to see if he was joking. And then I was put in charge of the HHCs while everyone went on a twenty minute break. (Incidentally, each HHC supposedly cost $1500. Multiply that by however many enumerators there are across the entire country. Extrapolate that by how the HHCs will be obsolete come the next census.)

Anyway, I went home after training and waited to be assigned work. The following Thursday I got the call. “Hello, this is Phyllis from the Census.”

“Great,” I replied.

“I need to pick up your official Census Bureau badge and messenger bag. There’s no work. I don’t know why they trained you guys, they knew the work was done in your area.” I met her at a local grocery store to return my gear. I was hoping for a black sedan and dark sun glasses; I got Phyllis in a Dodge mini-van and Cubs jacket. My glamorous career in the Bureau was over.

Now, I don’t write this as another study on government inefficiency. I think the census is important because it helps communities figure out how to use tax dollars and what services are needed for a changing population. And I don’t write this ‘cause I’m angry about the job. I didn’t expect much anyway.

I write this because I liked the people I trained with. It was only 40 hours, but everyone there was in the same boat; everyone needed to make extra money. Just so you know, there’s been a downturn in the economy. Yeah, sorry to break it to you. So, there were white collar folks, some realtors, a school board member, a community activist. Some twenty-somethings, a single mom, a widower, some retirees. All had a good sense of humor. Most had a distrust of government (the oath should’ve included: “We acknowledge that we are now officially part of the problem.”). Everyone was just trying to make ends meet.

I was looking for supplemental work ‘cause I direct a not-for-profit, and the freelance writing I did on the side dried up. But I have nothing to complain about. I had lunch with one of my fellow trainees who’d been out of work for over a year. He couldn’t find a truck driving job to save his life. And three months before our training, his wife passed away. His house was in foreclosure ‘cause her income was gone, and he ended up having to move into his brother’s house. But you know what he said? “The Lord has provided every step of the way. Yessir. Yessir.”

Pray for that guy.

I’m grateful for my career in the Bureau, however short-lived. I met some people who are persevering in situations more difficult than mine. People who are exhibiting resiliency and gratitude.

There should be a movie about that.

The Dead of Winter

2009-01-23T12:18:00.000-08:00

Behold, hope has frozen over.

Hark, life has drawn her last bitter breath.

Come, bid a cold farewell to joy.

Our winter wonderland has turned to icy wasteland.

Alas, it is over. Snif.

This great and glorious Winter Sabbath has come to an end. The culmination of all things--Christmas Break across community unit school district #427--ends with a whimper on this dark, frigid Sunday night. And a faint sucking noise. At this very moment the marrow is being drained from our children’s bones. Monday morning is a mocking specter. The Ghost of Christmas-That-Didn’t-Last.

The Christmas decorations have all been laid to rest, buried with the other boxes in the basement vault. And you, O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree, what did you ever do to deserve this? To be dressed up as if by a drunken undertaker. Then, to be stripped naked and thrown out the back door to shrink in the arctic air. You, O Christmas tree, who never gave up so much as one needle. You who drank water, God bless you, like an out-of-control diabetic. You who were at once both Frasier and Fir. You who were worth all twenty nine dollars and ninety-nine cents. Plus the tax. God rest your soul.

And, Monday morning comes. Like a slow motion winter pile up on I-90 .

Sliding.

Braking.

Sliding.

Braking.

Sliding.

Breaking. There is nothing we motorists can do.

It. Is. Inevitable. Bewildered victims everywhere.

“I can’t do it. It’s too hard. It’s toooo hard,” bemoans our boy as he rises up from under his covers. A resurrection into the old life.

“But, I want to keep sleeping. Five more minutes,” pleads our girl.

We have passed over to the other side. That purgatory between Christmas and spring. Where the streets are paved with slush. Where we are robed in wet socks, post-nasal drippings, and Vick’s Vap-o-Rub. Where every tribe and tongue and nation clears their strep throats and croaks their winter croak:

“Who will deliver us? From whence does our help come?”

Draw near, St. Casmir Pulaski—whoever you are--with your curious Monday holiday. Save us! We need you now more than ever. Mount up one more revolution. Make war against this darkness. Against the oppressive Superintendent of Schools and his minions. Dethrone him for another day.

And, if it is not too much to ask, a snow day on the preceding Friday. Or the following Tuesday.

Lord, hear our prayers. Amen. And amen.

OLD MAN MIX TAPE.

2008-11-04T07:59:00.000-08:00

The Wintry Mix. The Roll Down Your Window Mix. The Songs That Make You Say HYMN Mix. The Music to Build a Deck By Mix.

I’m in a Seasonal Mix CD Swap. The mix CD is the offspring of the ubiquitous mix tape of the’80s. You still see some of these on the side of the road with their intestines spilled out. But, I got asked by my friend Luke to be in this CD swap with nine other people. It’s an honor because I’m 40 and everyone else is like 25. I’m not sure how I got in, but I must be pretty cool.

The first question a few of us had was that of music piracy: Is it legal to copy these songs and distribute them to a bunch of other people? The justification came down to this: if you liked the songs you heard, buy them. If you didn’t, dispose of the disc. I’ve kept to that deal. Honest.

Here’s how the Seasonal Mix CD Swap works: Every quarter—every season—of this past year, I’ve sent out a mix of songs I’ve been listening to, or that fits a theme, to nine other people. Mostly people I don’t know. Mostly they’re from Missouri. I live in Illinois. And then we each have gotten nine CDs in the mail. That’s like 180 songs. I suspected that since it was mostly Missourians that I would be getting 180 jug band songs a quarter, but it really hasn’t been the case. It has really been almost too much, though. I confess to just skimming through sometimes, but there are some real gems.

I’m glad to be in the Swap because at my age I’ve stopped looking for the flavor-of-the-day bands, so I see my music options dwindling. I assume that if the artist is under thirty they have nothing worthwhile to say to me, so I don’t bother. But, the people I listen to are pushing 50, maybe even 60 and 70. And several have even died. Johnny Cash most recently. But some more lesser-known artists like Mark Heard and Gene Eugene. Of course, that means no more records from them. And no more music for me. So, it’s good to have mixes from younger folks who are aware of younger more diverse artists. And it’s good for me to share some old man music, like T Bone Burnett. And Lucinda Williams. Sam Phillips. Sister Rosetta Tharpe. And Mark Heard. Don’t tell the rest of my Swap, but I feel like I’m bringing them culture.

This all sounds snotty, but I blame it on the mix tape era in which I was raised.

It’s easy to spit out a music mix these days. Just fire up iTunes, click a few boxes and then the “Burn CD” button. But back in the day of cassettes you had to: 1.) advance the tape past the lead (that short strip of white plastic that attached the tape to the reel; Maxell brand cassettes were hands-down higher quality than Memorex); 2.) hit the “record” and “pause” buttons at the same time on the tape deck; 3.) set the recording levels; 4.) drop the needle in the groove of the LP; and then 5.) quickly de-press the “pause” button; 6.) repeat 10 times; 7.) pray to God the last song on Side ‘A’ didn’t go longer than the amount of tape left; lastly, 8.) meticulously write out each song and artist on the 2” x 3" cassette insert.

Next, turn the tape over. Repeat steps one through eight.

So, if you were gonna make a mix tape back in the day, it was serious business. A part time job. Giving someone a mix tape was a power move that meant you were either gonna bring the musical hammer down on the recipient to show how cool you and your music were (summed up by the t-shirt that reads: “Your Favorite Band Sucks”). Or it was a power move that meant you were infatuated with the recipient (like how in junior high I once sat and over-dubbed the name “Sandy” 15 times into my cassette tape of the Billy Joel song “All for Leyna”. It sounded something like this: “There’s nothing else I can do, ‘Cause I’m doing it all for clunk, screee, [insert pre-pubescent “Sandy”], screee, clunk .; I don’t want anyone new, ‘Cause I’m living it all for clunk, screee, [insert pre-pubescent “Sandy”], screee, clunk .” Why I never captured Sandy’s heart continues to be a mystery.).

So, of course, as a product of the ‘70s and ‘80s, I approached the CD mix swap as a competition. Subconsciously I desired to crush all others’ attempts at music mixes. But, I soon found that I carried around some scratchy LP attitudes in this clean digital world.

The first CD mix I sent was a plain silver bullet with a list of tracks. Ka-blam. Bring it, sucka. The nine discs I received, however, were pieces of artwork. There were handmade CD envelopes, some with original, playful illustrations. There were clever titles, like the Daniel Boone vs. Abraham Lincoln Mix, the Road Trip Mix, the High-Low Mix, etc. Silly youngsters. They’d get serious as soon as they heard my ultimate mix.

But the next quarter it was the same. Luke even made a CD mix of unorthodox renditions of hymns that included Andy Griffith and Faster Pussycat. He didn’t care if it was mostly silliness. It was more of a communal experiment.

I was shamed by their attitudes.

My fellow swapees saw this as a community endeavor, not a battle of the bands like I did. They seemed to believe that they were sharing a piece of themselves, inviting me into their lives a bit. One Swap member even e-mailed us all recently, “I’ve never met most of you guys, but I feel like I know you through the mixes. If it isn’t too weird, it would be cool if we could all meet.” Well, it would be too weird for me, but isn’t that what music is supposed to be--a medium that pulls people together? Somewhere I missed that, but I saw it clearly in the Swap.

As the year went on I couldn’t wait to get the flood of CDs from Luke, Lisa, Jonathon, Jay, Tobie, Felicity, Christine and Tom. I confess to even liking some of the bands they introduced me to like G. Love & Special Sauce, Feist, Gogol Bordello, and Peter, Bjorn & Whoever. I even bought some of their songs. In this year-long experiment I became a little less snobby about music. I did less skimming. Of course, my music is still superior to everyone else’s, but I confess a warm appreciation and a slight infatuation for these nine mostly strangers. I feel pretty cool to have been invited.

Job's Wisconsin

2008-08-13T15:01:00.000-07:00

The Book of Job, chapters 38-41 (a paraphrase)

Tell me, who is it that churns up the mighty Wolf River like a cheap washing machine for you at Big Smokey Falls?

Have you ever rounded up herds of mosquitoes and sent them on their summer stampede?

Do you know why the ferocious but slow snapping turtle springs his jaws like a trap and won’t let go?

Who can call up Aurora Borealis for a command performance above Nicolet as you lie on your backs in the long wet grass? She dances through several wardrobe changes and there you sit slack-jawed and prostrate.

Can you pour humidity through a sieve upon old women and play havoc with their permanents? Or send forth the sun’s heat so fierce that white central Wisconsin thighs stick to black vinyl car seats?

Can you pull in a trout with a fish hook or put him in a net? Or, are you only privy to where the bluegill lives? Have you ever caught a fish big enough to eat, or fried one in a pan under the moon at Devils Lake?

Do you know why all the traffic gets dammed up on I-90 just south of Madison precisely when your bladders are about to rupture? Tell me if you do. And then begins to flow again as if nothing happened?

And who endowed the bald eagle with eyes that can see for a mile? Even around that bend in the Wolf River to see if you’re still together.

Sasquatch.

2008-03-03T13:25:00.000-08:00

Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.

This is a prayer we used to say as kids. I didn’t remember it until my brother told me he tried it out on his own boys one night recently.

My ten year-old nephew said he thought it was creepy.

But I didn’t remember thinking so back then, when I was six, or seven, or eight, lying under that blue and red plaid comforter. Life was dangerous as a kid, and there was no point in taking chances, even while sleeping. Especially while sleeping.What could possibly be dangerous about being an elementary school kid in central Wisconsin?

Plenty, in the '70s.

I am not talking about the danger that comes from falling out of pine trees, or from being run over by the family station wagon in the dead of winter, or from taking a garbage can cover and a tree branch, climbing onto your bike, and charging at your brother in a joust back there on John Street.I am talking about deeper mysteries that lurk on the edges.

Sasquatch for one. Bigfoot as he—it--was known to us rural white kids. Only leaving enormous foot prints, tufts of fur, grainy images and trembling children in his wake. That giant ape-like man. What did he want? Out there in the woods. Watching. I should have been praying for my counterparts in the Himalayas who had it worse: the cold and terrible Yeti. My wife remembers praying to Jesus every night that Bigfoot would stay away. I am glad to report that God answers prayers.

But there were other skulking menaces, too, like: Great White sharks; piranhas; killer bees; UFOs; Nuclear missiles. At any moment they could’ve snapped us up. Stripped our flesh. Swarmed us. Abducted us. Fallen out of the sky and laid waste to us. Any one of them. Or all at once. We shivered together as we watched the made-for-TV drama,“The Day After”, and the impending nuclear winter.

All of this, and I have not even mentioned the mysterious danger of liquid nitrogen. Some scientist in a lab coat came to Amherst elementary school and poured an arctic liquid into a metal container, right there in the gym where we played dodge ball. Then, into that container, he slowly dipped a banana and then dropped it to the tiled floor. Ta-Daa! It broke into smithereens like tropical glass. He told us never to touch liquid nitrogen. But what if we came across this inexplicable liquid on the side of the road? That’s the information we really needed from that scientist. What if we accidentally touched it? What should we do then? Would it creep up our arms like ice from the back of the freezer and turn our flesh solid like petrified banana? Would we break into a million shards? Alone back there on John Street? It could happen.

Although the child’s bedtime prayer was mysteriously “creepy”, it was an accurate depiction of reality. I was suspicious as a kid, and was pretty sure that life offered no happy endings. At 40 I am convinced there are no happy endings. Life is a messier, unpredictable mess than we pretend.

A few weeks ago, in the Illinois community where I now live, a grad student opened-fire in a university lecture hall. He shot 22 people. Six died, including the shooter. I told a friend, who had just gotten his masters from the school, that it was shocking. Right here in our community. He said he wasn’t shocked. Sad, but not shocked. He was resigned to the fact that it would happen again.

We talk too much about happiness these days. Scientists in lab coats even study it. My research shows that we should save our breath and our grant money. Happiness is too easily stolen away by Bigfoot, missiles and shotgun shells. To protect ourselves from cold, lurking devils we must cling to something else that is also below surface. Something more mysterious. Something that extends past the dark woods. We must pray the Lord our soul to keep. Whether we wake or not.

If I Didn't Live Here

2008-02-08T18:28:00.000-08:00

If I didn’t live here I would think this was a great town.

Although I’ve lived in this community for a while, it was the first time I ever thought that. Navigating the winding sidewalk around the DeKalb County Courthouse one night on my way to meet some friends at PJ’s, it occurred to me that this could be home. I thought of people driving on State Street from out of town viewing the solid, stately courthouse and the sentinel pines and the ice skating rink. This would not be a bad place to live.

It’s not that I ever thought our community was a bad place to live. It was just more like, well, headquarters than home. Like a stop on an expedition.

My wife and I moved here from Wisconsin so I could take a position working with middle and high school students. Our roots run deep in Wisconsin. It is God’s Country in my estimation. It is home. So, the first time driving from the west into Sycamore through cornfield, cornfield, cornfield, a torn up thoroughfare, and past a sign in front of the cemetery that stated “Life Offers More in Sycamore”, we looked at each other and said, maybe we can be here for five years. That was seventeen years ago. And now we have two kids. Both born at Kishwaukee Hospital. And our oldest is in middle school herself. Who would’ve guessed?

At 40 I am starting to see this as home. There, I said it.

When you’re young you spend a lot of time plotting your escape from home. When you’re older you tend to lament the ways things aren’t like they used to be back home. At my age, I’m somewhere in between. Calling another place home is like when I was a kid and my mom would point out something in the distance. On vacation, or somewhere. Maybe your mom was like this.

“Where? I can’t see it.”

“Over there,” she would say.

“Where?”

“It’s right there!”

“I don’t see it!”

It’s at that point that she would put her cool hands on either side of my face and point my whole head in the direction of the Big Dipper or the gray heron, or the hot air balloon. My lips squashed sideways. “Look. There. Do you see it now?” she would say. No, I still probably didn’t, but I’d say yes just to break the grip. And to rub my cheeks. Coming to the point of seeing this as home, is like that for me. Unnatural. It strains my neck. But it’s there. I can see this one now.

This community is home, too, because it’s home to my best friends. It’s the location of almost half of my history. This community is where I’ve spent my twenties, thirties and now the beginning of my forties. It’s where I’ve started to get comfortable in my own skin. Tonight I am on my way to PJ’s to get together with some guys, like we do every two weeks, for the sole purpose of discussing the most important thing about us—our thoughts on God. I didn’t know any of these guys 17 years ago. And, guess what? When I come in, the waitress will ask if I want a hard cider. I never thought I’d ever, anywhere, be able to say, “I’ll have the usual.”

Is it so bad to call another place home? Can’t I have two homes? I don’t know. It feels a bit like cheating. But maybe.

Perhaps it’s not so much like breaking a commitment or cutting the cord. More like getting married and including other-than-your-own-flesh-and-blood into the family. That’s a good thing, right? Not “either/or” but “both/and”. Yes, home can be geographical. But more, it’s the good, growing community of people around me. One that I am privileged to be part of. So, today, February 7, 2008, I concede that the Sycamore and DeKalb community is home for me. I confess that this is not a bad place to live.

(I know it took 17 years to say it, but let’s not tell Wisconsin just yet.)

Tube Socks.

2007-12-09T13:49:00.000-08:00

“Just some white t-shirts.”

My wife had asked what I wanted for Christmas, and then rolled her eyes at my response.

At 40 I can honestly say I would be very happy with a pack of five dependable white t-shirts. Sometimes you can get six for the price of five. Basic. Necessary. Comforting. And what else do I need? Honestly.

I have come full circle. When I was a kid my Grandma White would buy us a pack of tube socks for Christmas ever year. We knew exactly what we were going to get, yet she wrapped them every year. Not the most exciting gift, but dependable. Necessary. I can say now that I kind of wished for something else at the time. But what else did I need? Honestly. Here I am decades later wanting exactly what Grandma White gave us: new underwear. She had discovered the key to happiness and passed that on to us.

And, I remember her gifts. I can’t remember what I got last year for Christmas but I remember that when I was a boy that I got tube socks every year. From Grandma White. In her little walk up apartment on Clark Street in Stevens Point. With that ornate, wooden, German-looking clock, and that picture of my dad in his National Guard uniform. It seemed there was always a Celtics game on. Larry Bird and my grandmother had something going on.

Details.

My dad and step-mom said they weren’t going to decorate as much for Christmas this year. “Not as much” would still mean 80% more than the general populace. They transform the entire house at every holiday. I keep telling them it’s not necessary on Casmir Pulaski Day. But when they said “not as much” for Christmas this year my kids protested. “You mean you won’t have that Mrs. Claus with the cookie tray? Or the manger scene on top of the TV? Or those cardinals on the mantle? Or…?” My dad said he was surprised at how much they remembered. Kids’ memories can be a blessing and a curse. As a result there will be full-bore decorating this year from my dad and step-mom. My kids cheered.

Details.

I read a quote about faith recently that said it is “…meant to be lived moment by moment. It isn't some broad, general outline--it's a long walk with a real Person. Details count: passing thoughts, small sacrifices, a few encouraging words, little acts of kindness, brief victories over nagging sins.”

Details count. That can be said of love, too. It isn’t some “broad, general outline”. Love is not a parenthesis around a relationship. It's never just implied.

My dad and step-mom love their grandchildren, so they go the extra mile in creating an atmosphere that says “Christmas” to them. My grandma knew my sister hated onions, so she would make her a special dish of potato salad sans onions. My aunts and step-mom steal something from each others’ houses each year and wrap it up and give it back to the victim at Christmas. Like a pie server from Thanksgiving, or something. It’s a game to see if the others notice what was taken. More details. Noticing. They howl with laughter on Christmas Eve when they all get together and open their gifts. And my dad told me he and my uncle get together for coffee every week. Sometimes my aunt joins them. They take notice of each other. Little things count. I desire that with my brother and sister, too.

I didn’t and don’t always get the importance of details. There are regrets. Shortly after I moved to Illinois seventeen years ago and started a new job, my Grandma White died. I drove up and went to the visitation. But I felt like I couldn’t stay for the funeral the next day for some reason. I’m not sure if it was because of obligation, or fear, or just not knowing what my responsibilities were, or just being young and stupid. I should have stayed. I should have taken better notice and immersed myself in the detail of relationship not just the broad outline.

While she was dying from cancer on my aunt and uncle’s couch I did get to talk to Grandma White one last time. I don’t remember exactly what she said but it had to do with what was most important in her life. Basic. Necessary. Her faith in God. And faith is about details. So is love. Thanks for sharing both of those, grandma. And for the tube socks.

Advent

2007-12-03T07:44:00.000-08:00

Happy Advent!

For your Christmas listening pleasure, you must try Over the Rhine. Here is their "radio" link: http://overtherhine.com/recordplayer/recordplayer.html
You can listen for free. Now playing: Snow Angels (2007; http://www.overtherhine.com/)
Saw them in November at the Old Town School of Folk Music in Chicago. One of the best shows I've seen in a long time.

Postcards from the Edge of the Bluff.

2007-11-06T17:33:00.000-08:00

“I didn’t have the same sense of place as you did growing up,” my friend told me. He grew up in Iowa.

I told him, “I don’t think I did either.”

Does anyone? Growing up in Wisconsin I was as unimpressed as anyone is of his home. The same Thrifty-Mart. The same K-Mart. The same Richard’s Drive-In. The same ratty city Christmas decorations. The same neighbors. The same patch of grass to be mowed. Week after week. God, who could stand it another day?

But, something changed upon moving away from Wisconsin. I began to miss something. I realized that much of my identity was rooted in Wisconsin. Certainly that’s been accentuated by my friends in Illinois. Part of our poking and jabbing is based on the "enmity" between the two states; Packers vs. Bears is a big part of that. And the whole “cheesehead” thing. The old joke: Q: What’s the difference between a Cheesehead and a Butthead? A: The Illinois state line. Except Wisconsinites don’t say “butt”. Snicker.

Right now I am closing in on my fortieth birthday. Part of my wife’s gift to me was a weekend of camping at Devil’s Lake. By myself. My favorite camping spot. I asked for it, but am realizing as I type this that, hey, it may have been a gift for her. And friends who I told about this getaway said that’s weird and you’re kidding…by yourself? Is it really that weird and am I really that bad of company? But the gift for me is to get back here to Wisconsin to write. Such fertile ground. What a glorious gift.

It’s smooth sailing up I-90 to Baraboo. The entrance to Devil’s Lake is like entering a tunnel to another world. Dense woods only allow for a few shafts of sunlight. The drive curves around rock walls and bluffs, until the lake expanse opens up at the bottom. My anticipation is high.

The tent goes up easy and the Ice Age camping loop is empty. It’s October. A postcard picture of what I was hoping for. I pull out the laptop, pull up a chair, and prop my feet on the picnic table. Sigh. Flipping through my index card book of ideas, I am aware of the quiet and of the leisurely descent of yellow leaves. Isn’t this the kind of time and place of which writer’s dream?

That Friday afternoon I start or finish three different essays. Very productive for me, for whom writing is usually a chore.

I celebrate with a fish fry. There are no good fish fries in Illinois. I am convinced after 16 years. Unless rubber is a kind of fish. One of the park rangers recommends the Baraboo Country Club. It’s pretty good. All-you-can eat. And a Leinie’s Creamy Dark. My table overlooks the rolling golf course and gives a view straight between the two bluffs at Devil’s Lake. Isn’t this the perfect weekend? I’m obviously out-of-place with my camping clothes. Some country club people talk loudly at the table next to me. I try to jot down some notes on a writing assignment I brought along. Why did I bring it along at all? So people wouldn’t think it was weird I was eating by myself?

Or maybe I’m not too good with solitude.

I’m reminded of this back at camp as I sit in my tent alone. It’s October and it gets dark by six or seven o’clock. I go for a walk. I start a fire and try to be introspective. Fifteen minutes later, I give in and watch an episode of Deadwood on my laptop. I’m in fitful sleep by 9. So much for the idyllic writer’s retreat.

I came here to write. I did that. The question, however, this weekend is: why write at all? There is writing that informs and instructs, of course, but I think most writing—songs, novels, essays, and probably “inform and instruct” writing, too--has the same motivation at its core. That motive is summed up in the simplest writing form. Not the poem or the haiku, but the postcard. Our family keeps a small wooden box of the postcards we’ve received. They range from Paris to Wisconsin Dells. From Mongolia to Rib Mountain State Park. From Turkey to Ehlenbach’s Cheese Chalet in DeForest. But all of their messages can be summed up in the classic sentiment: “I love you. Wish you were here.” I like you. Don’t forget me.

Why write? To love and to be loved. I write because “I wish you were here”. The “here” being inside my head. A scary thought? But my writing self is probably my truest self. I write to know and to be known. I write to send a postcard.

Ironically, I went away by myself for the weekend to write. I isolated myself in order to “know and to be known”. What the heck? If I have a sense of “place” here in Wisconsin, it is because of the people I have experienced it with. If Devil’s Lake is one of my favorite places to be, it is because of the people I have shared it with and continue to share it with. Sam Phillips echoes this truth, “Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be…The places I go are never there.” Well, the places are never there if the people connected with them are not.

Saturday morning I am up at 6am. The tent is down by 7:30. I write a bit more, but I leave Devil’s Lake for home by noon. I had the opportunity to stay quite a bit longer. And yes, there is a time for solitude. But this weekend I’d rather be with those people who know me and whom I know.

We will make plans to return to Devil’s Lake next summer. Together.

Coming Late.

2007-11-02T08:52:00.000-07:00

I come to things late in life.

Like coffee. And chess. And beer.

Coffee because, like many things, I liked the idea of it, but not the taste. Until one night, at 38, I had a writing deadline and drank eight cups. Wow, man. I went from McDonald’s coffee to Americanos in a matter of hours. I have not looked back.

Regarding chess, I don’t take directions well. Directions for games, or driving, or assembling things. I figure someone else will listen for me. But at 38, I sat still long enough for a junior high kid to teach me. I think it is amazing. Whoever thought of chess had a great idea.

Beer is more involved. I grew up United Methodist and alcohol was not looked upon kindly, thus it didn’t figure into my faith line-up. And I’ve become aware of how big alcohol companies target advertising in poor communities. But starting in my thirties, I started to enjoy a beer once in awhile with friends. Is sticking with smaller breweries more ethical? Is Leinenkugel’s a small brewery? I am not in danger of becoming drunk, however, as I get sleepy after one beer. I wouldn’t be able to stay up long enough to become an alcoholic. Benjamin Franklin, a fine statesman and inventor, but not-so-hot theologian, tried this route: “Beer is living proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.” Um. OK. Maybe.

I’m sad that I missed out on these “social lubricants”. I mean “social lubricant” in the best of ways. A vehicle to sit and talk. I read an essay by a woman who wished that she smoked cigarettes. She longed for the “do nothing”, no-excuse-needed, sit-and-chat opportunity that the “smoke break” afforded her fellow employees.

I come to things late in life. I’ve also come late to coming to terms. Introspection. But I’m starting now that I’m almost 40. Some evidence of that is, uh, crying at movies. It’s only been a few. Really. Two or three. Four tops. It started with the film Big Fish. Especially the scene at the end where the father’s larger-than-life life is coming to an end, and his son carries him to the river. I could hardly see the road driving home from the theatre that evening. My wife was good about not laughing at me. And, it wasn’t a fluke. Every time I’ve watched it since, I can’t hold back. Other films, too, like Finding Neverland, Second Hand Lions, Forrest Gump, the 1950s version of Cheaper by the Dozen, life insurance commercials, etc. You may think I am a nancy-pants, or overly-sensitive. I swear that I am not. But someone said that if you find yourself choked up, or in tears, you should camp there for awhile, as it’s probably the signal of a spiritual break in the dam. The writer of one of the wisdom books in the Old Testament, Ecclesiastes, said, “The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning; but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.”

The common thread throughout these? Fathers and sons. Loss. Not a place I want to camp. But the truth is I miss my dad. You’d think he was dead by what I said, but he is not. He will not eat most fruits or vegetables, but he is alive and well, enjoying retirement. Golfing. Trying to thwart the squirrels at the birdfeeders. So more accurately, I missed my father. By that, I mean I missed out on close proximity fathering because my parents divorced when I was in middle school.

This is not an indictment or way to garner pity. It’s just reality. It—this thing that is missing, or that I missed--didn’t register until I was in my thirties, after I became the father of a son.

(Last weekend I went to a funeral visitation with my middle school daughter. Her friend’s dad died at the age of 42. So, this boy and his mom had to stand next to the casket for five hours while people filed through trying to offer some word of comfort. And, the boy, in a jacket and tie, kept saying “thank you for coming” while fighting back tears and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. My daughter and I just hugged and cried a little bit after we got through the line. “It’s a sad, lonely, rotten world…it’s a sad, lonely, rotten, damn world,” musician David Wolfenberger sings. That is one of the truest songs I’ve ever heard. It’s true for sons, and it’s true for dads.)

In my line of work, I am around a lot of middle school guys whose fathers are out of the picture. These boys don’t do very well. The statistics are ridiculous. Luckily, my dad was close by, and tried, and took us places and all that. I love him. But still, I think, with divorce there are things that are missed, or forfeited. I have always wanted more with my dad. He is going to be sixty-seven this year. As I turn forty I want to make it a priority to get to know my dad better. I don’t want to say, “Well, it is what it is.”

One Wisconsin value is: “Do the best with what you have.” Usually that’s a good reminder to persevere and be creative. Like using bread bags as liners in winter boots. Or like the “mock chicken legs” we had for dinner growing up. No one’s heard of them in Illinois. But these grease fried, ground veal and pork creations, molded around wooden skewers to look like chicken drumsticks, were the product of a time when chicken was expensive. A little more time spent on naming them would have been worth it, but they were pretty good. Someone did the best with what they had.

Sometimes, though, “Do the best with what you have” is the very opposite of perseverance and creativity. It is the white flag of settling. A dull and slothful response to life. Worse, a complete lack of faith. As if this is the best we can do, while we live Thoreau’s life of “quiet desperation”. I don’t want to settle. But maybe even the desperation is evidence of something more. Sam Phillips, a favorite poet of mine, wrote, “If love never did exist, how could we know its name? …Love is not lost.” That’s good news for me. I have a longing for more with my father because I believe there is an innate sense of God as father. That opens up at least a few possibilities. I’ve come to this realization late, but I don’t want to miss the opportunity.

Someone told me a few years ago that one doesn’t really become a man until his father dies. I have no idea what that means, but I hope that it’s not the case—his death any time soon, or the idea that my maturity hinges on that event. I think next time I visit him in Wisconsin, I will see if he wants to go have coffee. Or a beer.

Reading Room.

2007-11-02T08:10:00.001-07:00

I read that one edition of the Wall Street Journal has more information than one of the Pilgrims would've ingested in a lifetime. I'm not sure who figured that out, but I do know that my brother spent 30 minutes in the bathroom, after Thanksgiving turkey and stuffing at my mom's, reading the Stevens Point Journal. He doesn't live in Stevens Point.

Much of my reading is done on the toilet these days. Out with the old, in with the new. Like some bulimic librarian: Binge. Purge. Binge. Purge. The constant rolling flow of this microfiche brain.

If I were ever to be alone with myself in my head, I'd probably pick up a magazine and pretend to read.

11/29/99

Raising Ebenezers.

2007-11-02T08:06:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make. When I’ve visited Door County I’ve taken a few things. Not stealing really. But not really borrowing. I confess that I’ve taken some of the smooth, white stones unique to the beaches there. Now, I think that it’s illegal to remove rocks from Washington Island. I’ve never done that. Honest. When I lived on Washington Island, in the employ of historic Bethel Church’s summer youth ministry program, I do remember enjoying fires on the beach with friends and then suddenly one of the cold rocks would explode from the heat. We all would scramble from the stinging shrapnel. The place left its mark. And, I remember making painful, barefoot pilgrimages across rocky beaches only to be baptized in the frigid waters of Lake Michigan. So, no, the rocks were not my friends on Washington Island. I never pocketed any of them.

Later, however, as I began to more deeply appreciate Door County as a place of rest and reorientation, I started to see the smooth rocks as relics. Sacred mementos. Now, the “Sacred Memento” defense probably wouldn’t hold up in court, but let me build my case. It all started innocently, where our family would take some watercolors (non-toxic), sit on the dock, and paint a few rocks. Pictures of sunsets, the place where we were staying, sailboats, and seagulls. Or, in the case of my two-year old, at the time, greenish-brown rainbows. An innocent pastime. You understand don’t you?

But, it is true that we began to take a few rocks home, and that they have begun to accumulate in a copper bowl on our coffee table. And, it’s become more than just paint on the rocks. We’ve begun to write on them, too. On the flipside of tempera painted lighthouses you can read, in tiny print, about our adventures at Nicolet Bay Beach and the Door County Maritime Museum. We’ve chronicled our time at Wilson’s, Pebble Beach, and Peninsula State Park sunsets. And, monumental events like my wife’s encounter with the “best roast beef sandwich ever” at the deli in Sister Bay, and my son’s trip to the Sturgeon Bay emergency room after swallowing a quarter.

It’s even become our end-of-summer ritual to go out to dinner as a family and record on one of the rocks all the memorable events that took place. And, no longer just rocks from Door County. We lift rocks and other relics from other corners of the world, too. Stone diaries of momentous events. Pivotal times of decision. If you sorted through them you’d see: a Chicago rock from 2003 that lists my wife’s first triathlon at age 35 and, not to be outdone, my daughter’s first kids’ triathlon; a piece of jagged granite that marks a camping trip with friends at Devil’s Lake where it rained for 36 hours straight; a pine knot from Mexico where we spent part of a summer building houses with a cool group of high school students; a piece of sandstone that simply states “Step o’ Faith May 2K” from when I resigned from a job to pursue the next step in our lives; a sea shell from June 2001—I can’t remember what that’s from; and, a rock with my daughter’s crude drawing of planes crashing into a building from September 11, 2001.

These relics have become a chronicle of our life together. Reminders. Truth be told, the rocks are exercises in thanksgiving. Is “thanksgiving” a good defense? ‘Cause, there’s a long history of rocks in relation to thanksgiving. Remember the old church hymn, “O Thou Fount of Every Blessing”? If you do, you’ll remember snickering at the second verse, because it starts with, “Here I raise my Ebenezer, Hither by Thy help I’ve come…”. And, after snickering, you’ll remember having thought, “What the devil is an Ebenezer?” Well, our Bible reading today, brethren, is from the Old Testament in 1 Samuel, chapter 7 and verse 12. After the Israelites drop-kicked the Philistines, the prophet Samuel erected a great rock monument and named it ‘Ebenezer’ or, translated from Hebrew, ‘stone of help’. And, whenever the Israelites saw the stone memorial, they would remember that God had helped them. They would remember divine grace and mercy. But, not surprisingly, the exact site of the Ebenezer is no longer known. Which may stand as a memorial to our languishing attention spans. We need lots of reminders when it comes to thanksgiving. Hence, the entire bowl of rocks in our house.

As I began to write this, my six-year-old son brought in a handful of gravel from the side of the road in front our house and laid it on the kitchen table. “Look at these, Dad!” Some red granite, some quartz and some other spotted stones. To him they were treasures. In fact, everything is treasure to him. Everything is amazing. Blue Jay feathers, tree bark, bottle caps, a crayfish claw, a flattened Matchbox car from the alley. He has boxes and pockets full of Ebenezers and knows the exact site of each one. As writer and musician Terry Scott Taylor sings about the miraculous found in the mundane, “No, nothing really happened…There was laughing and crying, the sky was blue and the grass was green…The sea reached the shore…The moon came up when the sun went down…It was an ordinary, extraordinary day. A very ordinary extraordinary day. In every way.”

So, I confess. I’m guilty. But, perhaps, if I’m guilty in regard to pilfering stones, relics, and Ebenezers, it is because I haven’t pocketed enough of them. They are everywhere. In the smooth, white stones of Door County and in the very gravel around my house.

Sweet Corn.

2007-11-02T07:49:00.000-07:00

This is the summer of plowing the crop under. A time of drought and brush fires. It's the year of dead limbs and diseased trees. A season of grass that rarely sees the mower. But today, on the west edge of town, down by the grain elevator--sweet corn. A blue pick-up from out of town piled high with fat green and flaxen ears. Some storehouse of hope two counties over. And, at my grandma's cottage on Lake Sherwood in July, we used to eat that corn-on-the-cob and pretend we were typewriters. Tap. Tap. Tap. Ding. Return. Slide. Journalists with salt and better hands reporting that the forecast calls for rain.

8/8/00

Door County Idyllic.

2007-11-02T07:41:00.000-07:00

Act 1.
Scene 1.
Cue actors.
Cue door.
And, action.
Sister-in-law enters. Angrily.
Sister-in-Law:
This has been 10 years of dysfunction and non-communication!
Supporting actors stare, mouths agape.
Door slams. Sister-in-law storms up stairs.
More door slamming.

And, cut.

This was the opening scene of my side of the family’s much anticipated week in Egg Harbor last summer. And, when I say opening scene, I mean Sunday. And, when I say Sunday, I mean Holy Day. And, when I say Holy Day, I mean the first day of our much anticipated week in Egg Harbor last summer. This was the first pitch. It wasn’t even thrown by the home team. A curve ball from a “visitor”. Well, only on the home team by marriage, and that just ten years ago. We thought it best to send another visitor, my wife, to see exactly what the problem was, while the rest of us sat in the kitchen of our cabin dumbfounded. Secretly a little jealous because we didn’t get to be the first ones to yell and slam the door.

But still more dumbfounded and upset than jealous. Afterall, this was my mother’s dream vacation. Her Christmas gift to all of us children and grandchildren and, oh yes, the sisters-in-law, too. Her dream vacation, in the dream locale of Door County at her favorite resort in Egg Harbor. And, my dream, too. A week of reading and writing and swimming and exploring and eating and making memories.

And then the slamming of the door threatened to slam shut the possibility of our—my--idyllic week. I wanted to kill her.

Interestingly, from that rough start, things got straightened out. The whole blow up was over food or something and who was eating what and where and when. All perpetuated by my lunkhead brother who didn’t pass along the details of our planning for the trip to his wife.

Oh, and it had to do with dysfunction and non-communication, I guess, too. Or something.

Some things under the rug got swept out into the light. We sat on the porch of our cabin and talked about stuff without our usual sarcasm and Teflon. And some vows were made to change a few ways.

Maybe yelling a little and saying what you think is OK. Perhaps “picture perfect” and “idyllic” are fictions. Even unhealthy.

Bruce Cockburn, the Canadian musician and activist, wrote, “I believe it’s a sin to try and make things last forever.” I think I am guilty of that sin. Guilty of trying to force life into a postcard frame to stand as a monument that I am OK.

Maybe it's sentimentality bred from being a kid from a divorced family. Maybe it’s the by-product of growing up as a spectator in a world of television and movies, where I feel like my life needs to be a clever comedy or an inspiring drama. Wanting each moment to be the perfect movie clip for others to watch.

Or maybe it’s just the curse of being a writer. Always wondering how this moment will play out, or spin out, on paper tomorrow. Never actually living that particular moment in all its glorious imperfection. I think I do that a lot.

For instance, my wife gave me a digital camera for my birthday . It was a thoughtful gift as we needed to graduate from our Walgreen’s disposable. It takes beautiful pictures. And, I hate it.
Because, at our third-grade daughter’s school choir performance of “World Music,” I was so busy trying to capture the moment on video that I missed her narrative on the people of Holland. The entire thing, including the fact that fishing and tulips are more popular with the Dutch now than clogging. And later I learned that I flubbed the video, too.

The same thing happened at my son’s kindergarten graduation (a concoction of sentimentality itself). I missed the entire rendition of the “PowWow Song” (a concoction of lingering Native American stereotypes) because I was trying to capture the moment on film.

And, “capture”—what about “capture”? The word has connotations of control and violence. “Capture the moment” for what? Well, there may be the noble motive of trying to provide a sense of history for our family. That’s fine. But, my other motivation--a not-so-good one--may be to submit the photos as evidence that our life is “idyllic”. Revisionist history.

Cockburn goes on to write, “Take your place with grace and then be on your way.” Meaning, I think: Stand in each beautiful, messy moment with awe and wonder. Enjoy it. And then, jump into whatever God has next.

Guess what? The whole family is going back to Egg Harbor again this year. My sister-in-law, too, I think. Same cabin. I’ll probably bring the camera. And, we’ve even thought about getting family reunion t-shirts printed up. You know, like the ones good families have. Ours, I think, will say “Family Reunion: Eleven Years of Dysfunction & Counting”. Idyllic vacation, take two. Maybe we’ll get it right this time. But, I kind of hope not.

Firework.

2007-10-09T10:29:00.000-07:00

My mother called me. Then, my brother called and said, “It’s his independence day.” Grandpa Halverson passed away July 4th in Port Edwards. He was 94. I’d meant to call him that week.

I was at a fireworks display with friends when I got the news. Grandpa was worth crying over right then and there. And, soon the fireworks started. Whistles and green rockets bursting into pinwheels. Thunder and white blooms crackling and plummeting to earth. Booms and red corkscrews in whirling dervish. An overwhelming display.

In between all of that--in those split seconds of darkness--are the ghosts. Those almost undetectable columns and wisps of gray-white smoke against black sky. One for each firework. They float off with the wind, exiting stage left. A slow drift parade. A flickering silent film.

And then onto the next flash and bang.

Underneath all of this, in the band shell, is the city municipal orchestra conjuring up a frenzied set of show tunes, marches, and patriotic numbers. Unable to see any of the display going on right above their heads. They miss it all. Year after year.

Life is too much. Too fast. I miss a great deal of it.

Someday I intend to run for city council on the platform that we change the annual fireworks display to the annual firework display. After we all take our seats on blankets and lawn chairs there will be one firework. We can marvel at its light, and its color, and its sound, and its smell, and its shape against the darkness. And, its pall as it passes.

Then we will move our mouths in awe and shake our heads in astonishment, Will you look at that? Good Lord, can you believe it? And, we won't help but wonder about such beauty. How was it made? Who can take it all in?

Then we will go home trembling in silence. It will be worth crying over right then and there.

Hey There.

2007-09-17T07:13:00.000-07:00

“Hey there,” I call out to others while walking this afternoon on County “G” in Egg Harbor. It curves around cedar and birch and bluffs. It’s a good, blue-sky, lake breeze day to greet people. I don’t know how “hey there” became my signature greeting, as opposed to, say, hi, howdy, hello, etc. Or, “Yellow!” as we so hilariously answered the phone as kids.

By “hey there” I guess I mean that you are over there, and that by the process of elimination, I am over here. It’s the extent of my knowledge of physics. By speaking my “hey there” I like to think I am somehow spanning the distance between us. I infuse it with as much warmth and respect as I can. Elderly folks seem to appreciate it the most. Adolescents are usually in shock. But, I think my “hey there” will bridge the gap. Maybe even change the world. Maybe. Some people nod or smile. Others say hello. And, still others ignore me and say nothing. The last group I always assume is on vacation from Chicago.

Residents of Washington Island, Wisconsin have it figured out. Washington Island—despite being only six by five miles—has one of the oldest and largest Icelandic settlements in America. I confess that my mental picture of Icelandic people doesn’t allow them the display of warmth or hospitality. I think of grave, black-and-white fishing boat captains and their severe, black-and-white wives, somber and cold as cod. No offense, Iceland. It’s me, not you. Probably from watching too much television and consuming too many frozen fish sticks as a child.

Anyway, this Icelandic crowd surprised me. Every driver it seems on Washington Island has his or her own wave. Not really a traditional wave, as hands never leave the steering wheel, but subtle variations of finger movements that make each driver’s gesture his own.

There is the slow index finger arc from left to right, reminding the oncoming driver of the path of the sun in the sky. A metaphor for the passage of time and the importance of tending to friendships in the time we’re given.

Actually, I just made that up. I have no idea.

But, whether it’s the quick, confident index finger salute, like a mailbox flag, or a twirling, gunslinger gesture ending in a pistola aim-and-shoot, the motivation is the same: Hey there. Bridging the gap. I only lived on the Island for two summers, and yet I received the same neighborly treatment as someone who lived there for 60 years. I spoke to one Islander who was born and raised there, and she told me she had never, in fact, left the Island in her 60 years. Not even so much as a ferry trip to the mainland. I was in disbelief when she told me, and all I could think was, “Poor castaway.” But, now, as I consider these common friendly gestures (hey, I know they’re not monumental, but they could be a lot worse), maybe I understand why she never felt the need to leave.

Yes, people grouse about the sham humility of Midwesterners and the faux graciousness. But, maybe there is something to be said for polite acknowledgement. A warm regard. That initial gesture of neighborliness. Because it is rare. Sam Smith, writer and activist, observes, “I feel the vacuum, the loneliness, the dehydration of the soul as people...still wander the streets without knowing how to say hi to one another.” Take a visual survey--walk downtown or in your local Big-Mart--there is a veneer of defensiveness and suspicion surrounding human interaction today.

Maybe neighborliness is one of those things you learn from the outside in. A waving hand, or friendly gesture sets the rest of the body and soul on a path towards being a neighbor. Polite regard may even help us do what’s right. I’ve heard that pre-WWII the British people had the same animosity towards Jews as the Germans had, yet British manners wouldn’t allow for the same kind of persecution.

A wave or a “hey there” puts us in a position to know the other person. To bridge the gap. And, from there, who knows, maybe our neighbors’ concerns might even become our own concerns. It’s a small thing, I know, but if you are ever on the receiving end of my “hey there”, would you at least pretend to acknowledge me over here? Then we can go from, well, there.

Indigenous Animals

2007-08-15T09:36:00.000-07:00

Trillium. Dandelions. Indian paintbrush. Milkweed. Daisies. Queen Anne’s Lace. Black-Eyed Susan. Jack-in-the-Pulpit. Purple Coneflower. Cat tails.

The average American can recall 1000 brand names and logos, but can’t name ten indigenous plants or animals. I read that somewhere. I think at a Starbucks.

Chipmunks. Thirteen-striped ground squirrels. Gray squirrels. Badgers. Juncos. White-tailed deer. Red-winged blackbirds. Red fox. Prairie chickens. Yellow perch. Bluegill. Mallards. Sandhill cranes.

I think these flora and fauna are all indigenous to Wisconsin. All off the top of my head. In fact, I can name two more: Black-capped chickadees; and moss. Chickadees were as common as gravel in Amherst, Wisconsin where I spent part of my time growing up. And dark green moss was the outdoor carpeting in the white pine woods behind our house. So, don’t ask me why, but in fourth grade I snuck the BB gun out of our garage. My dad didn’t want me playing with it. Which is probably why I so wanted—needed-- to do so. So, I snuck the gun out to the backyard and headed off to the woods where I spotted a chickadee in one of the pines.

Have you ever seen a black-capped chickadee up close? It’s a common bird, but it is quite striking. Black velvet cap. A black bib. Deep shiny black eyes. A luxurious gray waist coat, with a downy white breast. And, an infectious call from which it derives its name: chik-a-dee-dee-dee. Although it has every reason to be aloof and snobbish, it lingers and shows little apprehension. A gracious innocent among the arrogant, marauding blue jays and grosbeaks.

Don’t ask me why I did it. At first I thought I missed. Dear God, I had hoped I’d missed. But, never was a truer shot fired. Straight to its mark. All was quiet. Then, the bird fell over. Still gripping the branch. It swung. Underneath the branch. For a second. Then. Headlong to the moss below. A small, black, white and gray form against the emerald floor.

I was horrified. Draped in guilt.

Not for fear of getting in trouble for taking the BB gun out of the garage. That was a misdemeanor.

The shock was from killing something beautiful. For as much as a fourth grader can understand that. Although maybe fourth graders have a better eye for beauty than others with 1000 brand names stockpiled in their heads. I was horrified because there was no reason behind what I did. Maybe the first revelation that I had powder and shot packed inside my very own skin.

I didn’t set out to shoot a chickadee. Even when I aimed and pulled the trigger I was thinking I would just see how close I could get. But how does one measure that? Brinksmanship. I didn’t mean to shoot the bird. Nor did I mean not to shoot it. Maybe that’s the bigger crime. That was the source of my dread.

Afterwards I stood over the chickadee, gun in hand, with what felt to be a rock on my chest. Years later, one hunter friend told me he would place a berry in the beak of the quail and ring-necked pheasant he would shoot. Maybe even say a prayer. A Native American sign of respect or something. I didn’t have enough sense at the time. And the only prayer appropriate would have been one of repentance. All I did was leave the woods and sneak the gun back into the garage. I hid in my room. It wasn’t until later, when I couldn’t stand myself that I confessed to my parents. I’m pretty sure I did that.

I can name a few wild things in my backyard today. But, it was in fourth grade that I began to name the animals and weeds indigenous to my own heart.

Circus World Museum.

2007-07-27T07:09:00.000-07:00

The small town of Baraboo, Wisconsin is home to the Circus World Museum. Fifty-acres of circus history in the town that the Ringling Brothers used as their winter quarters from 1884 to 1918. I remember my grandparents taking us there when we were little. Actually, my grandma would take us. My grandpa was simply the chauffeur. He would sit in his air-conditioned Oldsmobile--Mother Mary shivering on the dash--and read the paper or listen to the Brewers and wait for us to come out. But, as we walked in, there was a fake, yet terrifying, gorilla in a circus train cage. What if he suddenly wasn’t, well, fake? It could happen. Next to him was a trumpeting, wheezing calliope. (One time I remember a reporter on Channel 5 doing a feature on the calliopes of Circus World Museum. He pronounced it “CA-lee-ope”, like it rhymed with antelope, through the entire well-researched segment.) But, the monster ape and a gasping cacophony welcomed us into the museum. I remember being afraid of what I would see.

Not long ago, in July, my family and I visited this historical site on the way to go camping at Devil’s Lake. Twenty five years after my last visit probably. And it is beautiful. My kids loved it. In one building, at the Circus World Museum, there are cracked black and white photos of faithful elephants. In another display, there is a scratchy, hollow recording of a ringmaster calling the Big Top into glorious action. And, over there, in a glass case, are faded garments covered in dull sequins, once worn by The Flying Wallendas, and other high wire risk takers. Next to them, a case full of clown props used to show up human absurdity.

Just up the hill from there are housed dozens upon dozens of ornate and beautiful circus wagons, once used to carry this show to cities around the nation. And, then, there is this red and white sideshow tent outside where there are wax mannequins of giants, snake handlers, a tattooed woman whose skin looks like a map and tells some mysterious story, and Siamese twins who are connected one to another with a bond I could never understand.

Twice a day there is a Big Top show on the hot, dusty grounds, with some very tired looking clowns, and a sleepy organ player, where the most active member of the event is the attendant with the shovel who runs along behind the elephants.

All that to say, I’m not sure there should be a circus museum. It’s all very interesting and beautiful, but where is the thunder? Where is the clatter of hooves and wheels taking this show on the road? Where is the glory of this strange spectacle, the likes of which the world has never seen? Is this where children are supposed to run away to? See, I’m not so sure there should be a museum for circuses. Why? Because the very essence of the circus is movement. Don’t fence it in and flatten it out. It’s about bringing risk, danger, excitement, wildness right to peoples’ front doors. So, to reduce it to permanent displays, models, and reminiscence that requires us to come to it is, at best, looking through the wrong end of the telescope. At worst, it is a denial of the circus’ reality. No offense intended towards the Wisconsin State Historical Society, but I suggest they free those elephants from the leg shackles of “used-to-be” and “remember-when”. We need them now more than ever.

Maybe that’s why my grandpa wouldn’t come in, but sat in the car with Mother Mary and Paul Molitor. Maybe he was afraid of what he wouldn’t see.

Of course, I am not talking about the Circus World Museum.

Aldo Leopold's Warning.

2007-04-07T06:33:00.000-07:00

Aldo Leopold, pioneering conservationist and Wisconsin icon writes in his classic, Sand County Almanac, “There are two spiritual dangers in not owning a farm. One is the danger of supposing breakfast comes from the grocery, and the other that heat comes from the furnace.” Farmers or not, we tend to forget the source.

I have a very bad memory. I forget how bad it is.

Not long ago my wife and I had our annual Talk. Maybe semi-annual, I can’t remember. The Talk occurs when life has become busy and out-of-joint. “Are you okay with this? It feels like we’re living separate lives,” she usually says. And there are tears. And she is right. Our jobs that deal with lots of people send us off in separate directions. Like we’re in two rowboats only catching glimpses of the other as the waves crest, “There! In the distance! Through the mist and spray!” Only to be dropped back into our respective troughs. Stroke by stroke, pulling away.

Our friend says she recently realized that she’s been substituting her “work life” for her “real life”. That somehow home became peripheral. Her family had become a kind of support staff for her “real life”--her faux community of work. We tend to forget the source.

Leopold writes that the cures for these spiritual maladies associated with not owning a farm are to split a cord of wood, or to plant a garden. I imagine these would cause one to stop, and to consider the source. Probably all of my stunted spiritual growth can be attributed to the deficiency of stopping and considering. Like a skipping rock that flits across the surface of Lake Michigan, I am inclined to take what I need. Frictionless living. “All the fires that crackle here consume but do not burn. All light and no heat…” the dearly departed Mark Heard sang. And, in that kind of consumer atmosphere--whether it be food, or heat, or family, or community, or even God Almighty himself--it all begins to look like it is here to serve me. That it all orbits about my gravity. I need no one. As Leopold observes, that is a great spiritual danger.

That spiritual pioneer and icon, Mother Teresa, wrote, “Sometimes we must ask ourselves questions in order to inform our actions.” This is exactly what I don’t want; The skip of this stone to be interrupted with a question that would trip me, and drop me below the surface, into the depths.

“Are you okay with this?” my wife asks. There’s that sinking feeling. Now gasping for air. It is terrifying. But, maybe drowning is good. Maybe I was just holding my breath anyway waiting for the inevitable moment my disconnected life would begin to take on water. Maybe you have to go down in order to rise up for your real life.

And, questions, as I said, are usually the things that scrape a hole in the hull of my unanchored life:

Q: Where does this all come from? Not just food and heat, but love and community and breath and wonder and me and…?
Q: How does the way I am living my life right now affect others? From my wife and children, to my neighbor across the street, to my neighbor across the world? By commission or omission? For good or for bad?
Q: What do I need to give? Or, better yet: What do I need to receive? Bishop William Willimon said in a sermon, “I suggest that we are better givers than getters, not because we are generous people, but because we are proud, arrogant people…It’s tough to be on the receiving end of love, God’s or anyone else’s. It requires that we see our lives not as our possessions, but as gifts.”
Q: What do I need to stop for God’s sake? What do I need to start for my, and everyone else’s, sake?

Whether farmers, or not, we tend to forget the source. Are you okay with this?

Hunting for Words.

2007-04-01T17:43:00.000-07:00

As soon as I walked in, I knew something was wrong. Blood was spattered at the entry way and then up each step. Large drops. Up one flight. More blood on the landing. Drip. Drop. Up the second flight. Through the second floor fire door.

And, the trail stopped. At room 201. I knocked nervously.

“Come in.”

And, there he was. A bloody knife in his hand.

“What did you do, Rick?” I asked in disbelief. But, it was obvious. His victim lay in plain view. Limp. Lifeless.Who would’ve imagined, here in Stevens Point, Wisconsin? Right here in my college dorm. Actually, it wasn’t too hard to believe. Rick was also the one who would hang upside down in his closet from gravity boots. And, wear shorts when it was 20-below on the way to class. It was only a matter of time.

“Why? How?” I stammered.

“It was easy,” he explained, “I just opened the window and took my shot. Never saw it coming.”

“A shot with what?”

“My blowgun.”

“What? You have a blowgun?"

“Yeh.”

“You shot all the way from the second floor?"

“Yep.”

“Nice shot!”

“Thanks. Yeah, I saw the rabbit in the bushes and nailed it with a dart.”

And, Rick proceeded to skin that rabbit at his study desk. Right there in front of us in his dorm room. This was central Wisconsin. No big deal. He grew up hunting, like everyone else.

Well, except me.

I’ve never been hunting. Which is probably fine. I like the idyllic picture of it. Like I like fishing. The solitude and the search. But, my fear would be that I would actually shoot something. Or catch something: “Dear God, now what?”

Often, I think, writing is like hunting. Or at least chasing rabbits in a thicket. I know some people say that the writing is “in them”. They just have to dig it up. I’m not that confident in myself as a rich container. I actually think that words are “out there”. They are elusive and wild. It feels, for me, that they have to be chased. Hunted. Baited. Coaxed. Called. Tracked.

Thus, I am in adulation when a word actually wanders into my sights. In deep thanksgiving when I can dress one on my desk. In awe when I can put a few together on my stringer. Lord, I am a dork: “Ah-yep. Just got back from a word hunt. Look at the size of this 900-word beauty. Had to land her with MS Word ‘98, but it made for a good fight. O‘ course I’m gonna have her mounted.” My Uncle Mike would be none too impressed; he gets 300-point bucks and 300-pound muskies every season.

But, in writing, as in hunting, you have to strike while the iron is hot. And, in order to strike the hot iron, or whatever, you have to, well, check the temperature of the iron regularly, or however it works. You gotta show up. Like Rick from his second floor window. He was ready to strike. Eyes peeled and blowgun at the ready. Or, the guy in his underwear, you always hear about, who shoots the buck from his kitchen window while he’s drinking his coffee. Why does that guy keep his rifle right there next to the creamer? That was probably Rick, too. But, last week I jumped out of the shower ‘cause I had to write something down for fear of losing it. I ended up forgetting to wash my hair. I probably wouldn’t have to do that if I just showed up each day and wrote. I would catch more rabbits that way.

Often, however, I don’t have the wherewithal for the chase. Actually, I am forcing myself to stay in this “word blind” right this very minute. Well, it’s not really a duck blind or a tree stand. It’s a chair at the Drink Coffee Café in Sister Bay. But, I could bolt at any second. And check my e-mail. Or go to the bathroom. Or buy another coffee. Or check my e-mail. Maybe I’m afraid of what I’ll catch if I write too much. Or, the work of hauling it in. So, I am envious of all my prolific writer friends who can churn out words daily. They are more brave than I. It’s said that the famous and prolific Wisconsin writer, August Derleth, could crank out 5000 words a day. 15,000 if he needed to. Courageous jerk.

Less a hunter, I am more like a driver hoping to hit a deer. Serendipitous, glorious road kill; the prey, the capture, the gutting, the vehicle for delivery, all at the same place at the same time. Do you remember that story a few years ago of the dozen or so white tails in Wisconsin that got on a highway overpass and ended up jumping over the guard rail? Head over hoof. Deer raining from above onto the interstate and cars below. If only I were that lucky.

Emmaus Road.

2007-03-12T08:28:00.000-07:00

"The ice age is coming..." The Clash sang on WAPL. We hitched our coats up tighter. Promises falling like snow. Flurries of doubt becoming an avalanche.

The forecast changed that night they both climbed the stairs and gathered us three kids in my room.

“Sorry, but it’s over.”

I tried to cry hard into my pillow, like I knew I should. Funny how quiet it gets after a snow fall.

From the window in that very room I used to scan the skies. Up past that white pine to the stars. The Milky Way was a curtain concealing. "Is this all there is?"

And as that glacier began to overtake us, a memory of something my brother said. "He explained...what was said in all the Scriptures concerning [the Christ]." As much as I pretended to be sleeping, and never wanted to believe that my brother was right about anything, the story struck like flint.

Outside, icicles on the eaves began to drip away. The chattering of teeth giving way to the snap and whistle of kindling. Amen.

Spectators Unite.

2007-03-10T05:39:00.000-08:00

(Another oldie that has appeared elsewhere, but does this fit with the other body of Wisconsin material? Does it flow, or is it too sports focused?)

I love my wife. I love that she set a goal to run a triathlon by age thirty-five, and then met that goal. She only started running eight months before the event. I’m proud of her. That being said, I am surprised to find myself a year-or-so after that event getting up at 4 am so she can participate in another race. In fact I’ve gotten up at 4 am many times in the last eighteen months to cheer on other friends and family members as they participate in triathlons, 5Ks, 10Ks and other Ks. Somehow, you get inducted into this culture of racing. Not just the athlete herself, but the whole family. Much like the mafia or youth soccer. All of a sudden, even as a spectator, you have certain responsibilities and assignments that you didn’t have before. In the mafia you must prove your loyalty by killing someone, in soccer it’s “your turn for snacks”, and in the race culture, we spectators take on the responsibility of “sled dog”. We carry the essentials, like water, Pop Tarts©, bananas, bug spray, “Go Mom!” signs, sweatshirts, cameras, children, etc. and get them to the next spot on the course where we can view “our” athlete. Now, that’s not a bad thing. Sled dogs are noble animals. But they don’t get a medal, or a “goodie bag”, or post-race pasta, or even one of the crappy t-shirts.

This was brought home to me a few weeks ago when at 5 a.m. some friends and I were standing around at a race in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin while our wives set up in the transition area and waited for the “pre-race whatever”. I noticed that there was no coffee and there were no donuts available for us “observer participants” (I think that’s the sociological term). Even to purchase. And, it struck me: while it was true that I was somehow inducted into the race culture, it was also true that I inhabited the bottom rung of that society. The Race Matrix, if you will. “It” was really not for me, although I was to be part of “It”. At that moment I realized I would need to start looking out for Number 1. I loathe that attitude in the greater society, but in the race culture, as a spectator, it’s a matter of survival. Especially when I read essays in my wife’s runners’ magazines about how we, as spectators, can be better supporters of the athletes. Blech!

Here are a few tips towards survival and sanity from a veteran race spectator (PS : None of them have to do with how to better cheer on the athlete, but don’t send any letters to the editor. Whining isn’t befitting an athlete. You’ve trained so hard, don’t stumble here.):

1. Bring your own coffee and donuts. Race events don’t cater to our kind.

2. In your mind, replace all “race lingo” you hear--like ‘race belt’ (didn’t Wonder Woman have one of those?), ‘black toenails’, ‘wicking material’, ‘hydrate’, ‘carbo load’, ‘shimmel’ (what the…?!), ‘body glide’ (gak!)—with a word that makes you laugh, like ‘buttocks’ or ‘chimp’ (I work with junior high kids). See if it doesn’t put a smile on your face and make the day go more quickly.

3. Get a big backpack to haul all the support items during race day. At my (wife’s) first triathlon I just grabbed my daughter’s first grade backpack. I spent much of the day running from vantage point to vantage point with my arms pinned back like a specimen moth. Why? Because of my Lilliputian pack and the 50 pounds of bananas, cereal bars, juice boxes, water, and other breakfast items (see Tip #1) needed for my bleary-eyed children. At the next race I opted for a larger bag and unbeknownst to my wife, we (my four and seven year-old and I) had our own little race: who could eat the most bananas and drink the most juice boxes before the actual event. It lightened the load but we ended up having to watch the race from the port-a-potties.

4. Pace yourself. At the post-race party (translation: snake oil marketing frenzy) don’t sample everything. At one expo my friend Paul and I took what amounted to a “pub crawl” tour of all the energy drinks and gels for athletes. Mind you, we were not participating in a race at that moment. And while, yes, the gels did taste like real apple pie and mocha latte espresso, after 32 samples our hearts were racing and bodies shaking like celebrities entering re-hab.

5. And, oh yes, don’t forget to embrace your sweaty loved one who just achieved the hard-won goal of completing a race. Remember, she’s the reason you are where you are today. At 4 a.m.

Mountain Biking is Grace

2007-03-09T11:14:00.000-08:00

It’s a cool September morning in Wisconsin. I’m writing this in my head as I motor up a hill at Kettle Moraine State Park. Sunlight percolates through pines and poplars. Grunting, almost asthmatically, I make the crest of the hill as sweat slips out from under my bike helmet. I thank God for the steep decline that opens up before me. The blessing for my work. The fruit of my toil.

I launch my mountain bike down the 55-degree-angled slope that’s wet from rains the day before and muse: “This is the intro for my article! Right here, baby!” The rush of air buzzes across my helmet straps. My legs and arms stiffen as I rumble down the gully-ripped, rock-studded trail—rocks, in fact, the size of grapefruits and cantaloupe. “Baby heads,” in mountain bike lingo.

I squeeze the brakes to avoid a rut. The tire grabs while the rear end slides on the moist dirt, then vaults. I am airborne, wondering where this fits into my essay. And, in Super Slo-Mo®, I arc through the ether. Now descending, my helmet crunches on one of the cantaloupe rocks. Second point of contact: right shoulder with rocks and gravel. Third: right forearm between my body and trail. Did something "pop"? Fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth: various limbs, parts and digits co-mingle with assorted rocks, sand and bike parts, including, but not limited to, an unnatural coupling of a brake handle with my inner thigh. I’m spread like chain grease on the rocks.

A pregnant pause.

The dust settles, and I check for missing parts. A hole in my shirt. Some blood, some abrasions, some imbedded gravel and some tender spots that will give birth to bruises tomorrow. But nothing broken or disconnected.

My buddy, Paul, who is ahead of me—who is almost always ahead of me on the trail—makes his way back up the hill in response to my yelp. He’s a good friend and doesn’t laugh until he sees I’m okay. (And, he even waits two whole days to send an e-mail announcing my spill to others in our church "small group". Several guys in our group bike together, but Paul prides himself in being “scarless,” as he puts it. Sudden-onset amnesia has purged his memory of the time he ran into a tree last summer. But, I, along with another mountain bike-scarred friend, Doug, point out later that “scarless” equals “riskless.” Doug suggests that perhaps Paul’s bike is not made by Gary Fisher™ but Mary Fisher. Just part of the “trash talk” that’s central to our group's mission statement.)

I gather myself to walk my bike down the rest of the hill. Gun shy. Rock shy. Blood shy. At the top of the hill it was about mountain biking as a metaphor for a life of faith. You know, the victorious lone believer happily motoring through life. Like the one depicted on the covers of inspirational books, where runners, decked out in cool running gear, circle a track. The life promised in many “gospel” booklets. In other words, the gospel of the neat and tidy.

That was the top of the hill. Here, halfway down the hill—give or take a few yards of sand and rock—that thought had been dislodged from my head. Yeah, mountain biking is a metaphor for the faith journey, but neither of them are a calculated, plotted-out, no-hands coast down a hill. I’m not talking about some loosey-goosey theology or an undisciplined faith. But I am talking about the mysterious adventure of it all. The Holy Ghost “wild ride” of not quite being in control. Something that’s been lost on modern believers with whom it can sometimes seem that God has been examined, dissected and suspended in formaldehyde.

Halfway down the hill, among the rocks, there is no easy route. No three steps to smooth sailing. You just push through to the end with your compadres, by God, trusting there is an end, a mile or ten miles down the trail. Is it joyless? Hardly. Hardly. Hardly. It has to do with perseverance, faith, community and the sovereignty of God, rather than ease, comfort, and personal agenda. It has more to do with the reality of faith found in "two-thirds" world countries, probably, than in our culture that has hybridized prosperity and faith, has not experienced persecution, and, as a result, has reveled in comfort.

I’m a product of this culture. With a faith born in ease, I’m much more likely to ask, “Why me, Lord?” than “What’s next, Lord?” Thus, my spiritual condition overlaps my biking. Honestly, if my buddies weren’t biking through the woods with me, I don’t think I’d be here. I’ve tried it. It’s hard work, and the motivation doesn’t come easy on my own. Without these companions, I’d be making circles on level blacktop at the neighborhood elementary school. I need a community of people to share the adventure, the stories and the encouragement.

Mountain biking is a metaphor for my faith journey. Community—my small-group buddies—are grace to me. They are a chain link for me to respond to God, to keep going and to persevere even when I have no idea what God is doing. They are the friends who lower this paralytic through the roof into the presence of Jesus. And, scripture says, “When he saw their faith,” the paralytic was forgiven and healed. Their faith. Community is grace. Mountain biking is grace, too, thank God. And, here, at the bottom of the hill, as we get back on our bikes to crunch down the rest of the trail, I pray the story of the paralytic remains only a spiritual application for me today. Mountain biking is grace.

August Derleth

2007-03-09T10:59:00.000-08:00

There [is]...a kind of nostalgic wildness in its name: Wisconsin.
-August Derleth, The Wisconsin: River of a Thousand Isles

The Wisconsin & Illinois Truce of February & ’07.

2007-02-17T11:53:00.000-08:00

Imagine this: A half day of school on Friday. Then, the weekend. Then Lincoln’s Birthday on Monday: No School. And, then, waking up Tuesday to 40 mph winds and 6-12 inches of snow: Snow day. Grace upon grace. My kids’ joy spilled over onto the front yard into tunnels and forts and pirate flags. And, it makes a man want to be charitable. Except he has to shovel.

I’ve always thought Illinois winters were rather nancy-pants in comparison to the winters I grew up with in central Wisconsin. The atmospheric conditions of northern Illinois being the armpit of the Midwest. But this January and February, Illinois has been showing her stones in the meteorological department. Weeks of sub-zero temps and foot-deep snow that sticks around for weeks. It has felt lately like, well…Wisconsin. Good Lord, I can’t believe I’m saying this.

I have spent the better of 16 years here in northern Illinois defending Wisconsin against the attacks of wounded Bears fans. OK, this is not a difficult outpost to fortify. The enemy’s pea shooter volleys usually come against God’s country in one of two or three ways:

“Those dirty Packers.”
“Ha. Ha. You said ‘bubbler’, ‘hotdish’, etc.”
“Geez-o-Pete, why do you guys label your county roads with letters? Like ‘WW’?”

And, when they want to bring out the big guns: “Cheesehead!” Did I say pea shooter? I meant cap gun.

Anyway, I will not go down like this. Not even to a winter broadside. Donning my union suit, shovel in hand, I trudge out into the battlefield: My driveway.

I like the idea of shoveling. I don’t like shoveling, but I like the idea of it. The idea of “real work” with my hands (I don’t do much of that in my line of work). And, I like the idea of visually completing a task (I don’t do much of that in my line of work, either). So after a few well-aimed thrusts of the shovel blade, I find myself dramatically stretching out my back, now kicking the slush build-up off the mud flaps of the Subaru. And, it’s at that point my neighbor--obviously an Illinoisan--comes up with his truck and plow, and says, “Want me to pull the snow out?” My eyes narrow and my pulse quickens. My grip tightens around the shovel. Play it cool, man: “How much are you charging?”

“Nothing.” What is he trying to pull here? Keep your hand on your shovel, boy. Let him see you know how to use it.

“Yeah? Are you sure?” Look for any cracks in his composure.

“Yeah.” Ingenious. The Trojan Snow Plow.

“Then I’d love to have you plow us out!” What the devil am I saying?!?

And then he did it. He plowed us out.

And, did I mention, another neighbor came with his snow blower and blew out the end of the driveway when we got 12 inches on December 1 of ‘06? Can you believe it? These are Illinoisans. I am not kidding.

It was on February 13 of ‘07 that I decided to stop using my shovel for digging foxholes against my friendly Illinois brothers. Instead I would use it to build bridges. OK, I am kidding about that. I was not going to go that far. Besides who would make a bridge out of snow? In any case I had been disarmed, and I would call a truce. I would begin to see the possibility of good in the people of Illinois.

Of course there is Abraham Lincoln, the great Commander-in-Chief and emancipator. But, how long can one state play that trump card? OK, they still can, and they should. Besides my Snow Removal Neighbors, there are other good Illinois people in my community. My kids for one. Or, two. They were born in Illinois, which is still hard to admit. But, they are natives, and I like them.

Besides Abraham Lincoln, my Snow Blowing Neighbors, and my kids, there is my son’s barber, Windy. There are two beautiful things about Windy. One is that he only gives two types of haircuts: the “Little Boy Haircut”, and then the one he gives to everyone else, which looks remarkably like the “Little Boy Haircut”. Yet, he wields his combs and clippers with great flair, moving about my son’s head like a snake charmer. And, at the end of each haircut he conjures up a piece of bubble gum, and with sleight of hand shows the parent for approval before presenting it to the child. The second beautiful thing about Windy the Barber is that he has alopecia. Alopecia is a disorder where hair growth is difficult or impossible. So, in Windy’s case he has no hair—scalp, eyebrows, eyelashes. I’m enthralled; A man that ministers to the hair needs of others when he cannot grow any of his own. And, he is from Illinois. We saw a sign in his window this week: “Windy has retired after 52 years.” We will miss him.

The sixth good person that I have found from Illinois, my friend Wendell, told me something about where we live. Wendell was a history and social studies teacher before he retired. And, he knows everything about gardening, so I tend to believe what he says, despite his state residency. He told me, “You know, Kyle, the Wisconsin state line used to extend just south of where we live.” I had that usual eye narrowing and pulse quickening I’ve experienced from dealing with other Illinoisans. What is he trying to pull here? But, I figured, if what he’s saying is true about Wisconsin creeping like a glacier, or a receding hairline, into Illinois at one point in history, it explains a lot about Abraham Lincoln, and Windy the Barber, and the three or four other good people I have met so far in the Prairie State. I would then extend my truce to at least February 15. I will keep you abreast of my historical and territorial findings, and of the peace process.

If, on the other hand, he was not telling the truth, truces are easily broken and my trusty shovel is at the ready.

Grandfather Christmas.

2007-01-05T10:23:00.000-08:00

We always had to wait. After dinner. After the dishes were done. After dessert. And, after singing. You, Grandpa, with your plentitude of slicked back hair and your gray cardigan sweater, pumping away at the console organ. Your hands flowing back and forth across that glorious machine like a conjuring magician. “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” with the “castanets” tab engaged. And, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” with “marimba” and your signature falsetto warble, segueing into ‘Silent Night”. Couldn’t anyone else see that fat Scotch Pine with the fat frosted lights being swallowed up in a whirlpool of gifts? Open your eyes, people!

But still we waited.

You turned down the rheostat, setting the mood. The Fannie May box of assorted chocolates was passed around in slow motion. Each adult laboring over the description of the chocolates on the box lid as if it were the last chocolate before lethal injection. As if they were dismantling a bomb. Do we cut the Raspberry Buttercream wire or the Almond Cluster wire? Never mind that we just finished three types of pie and Bea’s cranberry pudding 15 minutes earlier.

But, finally, Grandma, the Angel of Mercy, from atop the tree—the grandma of “Good Gravy” and even better stuffing--swoops down with her blessing.

An explosion of wrapping paper. A scramble for 9-volt batteries. And, it’s done.

You put a stray gift bow on Muffy’s head. The dog gets the joke, and she’ll play your straight man. And then, you hand out your final gifts. Envelopes. Inside, a savings bond for us grandchildren. Or, a hundred dollar bill. A check, maybe. We are in awe. We don’t talk about what we’ve seen in the envelope. These are gifts to be accepted quietly, with reverence and in humility.

And after the envelopes are passed around, you doze off on the plaid couch. Eventually, that’s where you stayed. Now, almost 93, Grandpa, your glaucoma keeps you anchored to that familiar couch. The tree has gotten smaller--ceramic on the end table--and you have gotten smaller, too.

It has gotten dark. And in your slumber there is a knock. Here on Christmas Eve. At midnight. Not the trumpeting front doorbell, but a knock at the back door. The porch where good neighbors like Pee Wee Brehm and Doc Fleming were welcomed. You pull yourself to your feet and feel your way around the back of the couch, past the long silent organ.

“Who’s there?” you ask.

“It’s me, Dad,” calls Uncle Kurt. “Open the door.”

Confused, you turn the lock, and step out onto that porch. “Hi, Dad. Just got in from Mesa.” Uncle Kurt helps you put on your rubber galoshes and hound’s-tooth overcoat. That brown fur hat on your head. And leather gloves. He holds the door open for you and you step out into the crystalline snow on the deck. Wintry air refreshes your lungs. There in the moonlight is Sam the Siamese cat, with her iridescent eyes, being chased by Muffy who barks, “You better run!” They bound through the snow and into the woods. And you begin to head towards those pines, too, and the glow of the light on the garage. Through the crunch of snow. You fell here a few years ago, but not tonight.

As you tramp through the woods you see Uncle Mike on his yellow snowmobile pulling that sleigh with Grandma in her mink coat, bundled under blankets, waving.

“You’re a good woman, Benita” you call out, and wave back.

Up ahead on the road, by the garage, Kathy is taking a walk, like every good family should at Christmas. And, back on the deck, Uncle Mark is having a smoke and a good laugh.

You trudge on. Through the pines. Hands in pockets. You round the corner to the garage door. But you are halted in your tracks by the small crowd that has gathered. “Hey buddy, watch where you’re going,” one of the Magi mutters. Pushing through the sheep, you peer into the garage. Nestled amid the Olds 88, the canoe, and Mike's Kawasaki, is a tired St. Joseph who gives you a wink, and Mother Mary who smiles, beckoning you closer to the Christ Child. But you have no gold, or frankincense, or myrrh. Savings bonds, $100 bills, or cashier’s checks aren’t accepted here. All you have is your hat-in-hand. One of the shepherds nudges you forward, “What are you waiting for?” God’s good joke is on you. Mercy and grace. Who could have guessed? And, you laugh your good laugh as you bow down before the Christ.

Amen. And, amen.

Thaw

2006-12-01T13:56:00.000-08:00

We stand on Pebble Beach at Little Sister Bay. Under a brooding March sky. Under a shroud of lamenting gray clouds. We watch the dark waves of Green Bay advance to a rhythmic dirge. We watch them usher down masses of ice that are sick to death of the cold.

“Next please,” call the waves to the ice, dashing them on the rocks. Each frozen piece choosing a headstone for winter. Our family stands here at the brink, in the cold wind, watching this ceremony with some reverence. Winter giving way to spring. Even death must die.

We get front row seats. And, a quickening. My wife, our four year-old daughter, and I throw white rocks into the waves to try to pick off the ice before it ever reaches shore. Gulls circle. We are Israelites pitching rocks at the retreating Philistines, after David has knocked Goliath out stone cold. “Yeah, you better run!” we yell, after a quick look over our shoulders, and one last check for the giant’s pulse. “You never had a chance!” we laugh. Our daughter does a victory march, stones clattering in her wake. Our nine month-old son chants. We are full of life.

A blast of northerly wind shakes our bones and causes us to burrow into our coats. But, it’s only a death rattle. Pretty sure.

Yes, winter still lingers. Cold is all around. We don’t deny it can even be beautiful and dignified. We just know it’s not the end. Pretty sure.

She doesn’t know it today, marching on the beach, but five years from now our daughter will weep in the chapel foyer at her great-grandmother’s funeral. One half of the tears will be for her gentle, grace-filled Grandma Bruch, who wore winter so well. The other half of her tears will be for the bitter realization that everyone she knows will die, too, someday. Her mother, her father, her brother, and all the rest. “Why do people have to die?” she will choke out. Maybe more than half of her tears will be allotted for that.

She doesn’t know it today, but this girl will be stunned at the audacity of death. Just like everyone of us had been at one time. But her faith-filled great-grandma will go quietly to the brink, with confidence that it is not the end. She will go with a God-given white stone tucked in the pocket of her black dress.

Back at Little Sister Bay, our four year-old skips and gallops, stooping to examine stones along the way. She knows that she has every good reason for a joyful victory march. And, we have every good reason to join her, accompanied by the percussion of ice on the rocks. A gust of wind protests, and we give our coats a hitch out of respect. But back up the road, in the woods, the trillium is signing winter’s death certificate. Giants are being felled. Even death is dying.

Funeral for Summer (Revised)

2006-10-12T09:16:00.000-07:00

It’s hard to believe she’s gone. But, I’m sure I speak for everyone here when I say our lives are better—richer—because she was around. We’ve laid her out in yellows and oranges and reds. I think that’s what she would have wanted. Let everyone take one last long look.

When Summer was here, do you remember how we would spend all day on the beach in Egg Harbor, after breakfast at the Village Café? Digging holes and making monuments and castles with the white rocks. Trying to hold back the Great Lake Michigan. And, afterwards, the kids buried each other in that sand. We reclined in the cool water and shuddered upon slipping in for the first time. Some kind of group baptism into a new life of rest. “We pronounce you dead to frantic busyness…” Dunk! Gasp! “But, raised to new life,” the gulls squawked. Or, at least raised to a few moments of sticking our heads above water and breathing deep. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, I threw my keys, and my watch, and my calendar in a drawer and lost track of them for that week in Door County. Amen.

It seems like only yesterday, but when Summer was here, we all sat on that screened-in porch every night after dinner. The stars spilled out across the ink darkness. The Moon rose again over the bluff. The Green Bay breezes awakened the beach towels and swimsuits on the makeshift clothesline. The perfect time to try Le Faux Frog, yet another bad bottle of red wine we’d never heard of. And, outside in the yellow porch light glow, under the pines, niece and nephews performed an impromptu talent show. A hip-hop theatre of the absurd. Each act disintegrated into elementary kid snorting and falling down. Cirque Door So-Lame. Then that stray bat dive-bombed the stage. A scream. The curtain fell. And, the kids tumbled onto the porch for their reviews.

“Great choreography, but lacked passion,” my brother said.

“Creative, but needed a stronger finish,” their grandmother said.

“I don’t get it,” my sister said.

But, in the end, “Poignant. Riveting. Delightfully low-brow,” the Door Voice reported. Because of Summer, and because of that porch, I remembered how much I like all of you. And, wondered why we see each other so little the rest of the year. Life is so short.
Today, we commit Summer to the leaf pile and a good autumn wind. Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. But there is no need for tears, because we have the hope of resurrection. That, as surely as Winter is coming, Spring will follow. Don’t be discouraged. Was it Pascal who said: What is harder to believe, that something that was alive at one time could come alive again? Or, that something that never was could be in the first place? Yes. Something like that. Now is the time to practice hope, brothers and sisters.

God rest our beautiful Summer. Amen. And, amen.

Please join us for a coffee and egg salad sandwich luncheon after the service. In lieu of flowers, gifts of beach towels and Le Faux Frog can be left on the front porch. Go in peace.

Funeral for Summer

2006-10-11T05:03:00.000-07:00

We’ve laid her out in yellows and oranges and reds. I think that’s what she would have wanted. Let everyone take one last long look before we close it up.

“Doesn’t she look good?” we whisper and shake our heads. “Life is so short.”

Two or three more awkward glances at the ground. A couple more sad sniffles into the hankie. One more nervous clearing of the throat. And, a few last words for our dearly departed.

It’s hard to believe she’s gone. But, I’m sure I speak for everyone here when I say our lives are better—richer—because she was around.

When Summer was here, do you remember how we would spend all day on the beach in Egg Harbor, after breakfast at the Village Café? Digging holes and making monuments and castles with the white rocks. We tried in vain to hold back Lake Michigan from undermining our work. And, afterwards, the kids buried each other in that sand. We reclined in the cool water and shuddered upon slipping in for the first time. Some kind of group baptism into a new life of rest. “We pronounce you dead to frantic busyness…” Dunk! Gasp! “But, raised to new life,” the gulls squawked. Or, at least raised to a few moments of sticking our heads above water and breathing deep. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, I threw my keys, and my watch, and my calendar in a drawer and lost track of them for that week in Door County. Amen.

It seems like only yesterday, but when Summer was here, we all sat on the screened-in porch every night after dinner. The stars were spilled out across ink darkness. The Moon rose again over the bluff. Green Bay breezes awakened the beach towels and swimsuits on the makeshift clothesline. The perfect time to try another bad bottle of wine we’d never heard of, like Le Faux Frog. And, in the yellow porch light glow, under the pines, niece and nephews performed an impromptu talent show. A hip-hop theatre of the absurd. Each act disintegrated into elementary kid snorting and falling down. Cirque Door So-Lame. Then that stray bat dive-bombed the stage. A scream. The curtain fell. And, the kids tumbled onto the porch for their reviews.

“Great choreography, but not enough passion,” my brother said.

“Creative, but needed a stronger finish,” their grandmother said.

“I don’t get it,” my sister said.

But, in the end, “Poignant. Riveting. Delightfully low-brow,” the Door Voice reported. Because of Summer, and because of that porch, I remembered how much I like all of you. And, wondered why we see each other so little the rest of the year. Life is so short. But good. Thank God for Summer.

Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. Today, we commit Summer to the leaf pile and a good autumn wind. But there is no need for tears, because we have the hope of resurrection. That, as surely as Winter is coming, Spring will follow. Was it Pascal who said, what is easier to believe, that something that was alive at one time could come alive again? Or, that something that never was could come to life in the first place? Something like that. Now is the time for hope and wonder, brothers and sisters. God rest Summer.

Please join us for a coffee and egg salad sandwich luncheon after the service. In lieu of flowers, gifts of beach towels and Le Faux Frog can be left on the front porch. Go in peace. Amen. And, amen.

Harbors & Boat Launches.

2006-06-08T16:22:00.000-07:00

Tonight’s moon is a smooth, bleach-white stone from Pebble Beach at Little Sister Bay. Beckoning all the way down here to Illinois, “Come back! Come back!” It’s a strange and wonderful tidal pull. Some kind of anchor I dropped in Door County back when I was a little kid. I didn’t even know it then. But, it has become a harbor for me.

And, harbors, I’m reminded, "moonlight" as boat launches.

I think that most of my major decisions have been made in Door County. The decision to move to Illinois after college and begin work with junior high and high school students had its roots in the rocky soil of Washington Island and the summer youth ministry program of historic Bethel Church. Youth ministry looking, on occasion, like some combination of Jesus and BB gun fights (“Owww! Hey! One pump only!”). Dangerous stuff. And, my wife and I celebrated our honeymoon high on the bluffs of Egg Harbor. Right there on the frightening, exhilarating, beautiful edge. Envisioning our new life together.

More recent decisions have been made in Door County, too. Specifically, most of my recent major decisions have been made in Ephraim. About five years ago, for instance, right there overlooking Eagle Harbor, my wife and I made the choice to resign from a position that I had loved for almost ten years. The decision was excruciating and liberating. Excruciating because these were people we loved. Liberating because we asked the questions about our future and the future of our community: “What if…? What could happen?”. And, that time in Ephraim set us on a course to pioneer a community development organization focused on at-risk students. I’m not sure it would have happened without the concurrent “lake effect” of harbor and boat launch.

Why is this place such prime real estate for the dual roles of harbor and boat launch? Not too many locations can boast of that kind of holy ground. Certainly, it’s the grace of vacation and getting away. It doesn’t hurt that generous friends have let our family use their beautiful Ephraim home from time-to-time, either. Free vacations make me want to be a better man. And I don’t mean those “free” vacations where we’ve had to listen to “time share” presentations from someone named Dustin, who, for ninety-plus minutes questioned our values (“Is it just the bottom line with you? This is an investment in your children. You can’t put a price on memories, can you?”) and befuddled us with comments like, “Does that take the mustard off your hot dog?” Uh…What..? Vacation time share presentations do not make me want to be a better man.
But, vacationing in Ephraim has provided the impetus for pushing off the sandbar of routine. For breaking free from the undertow of “It can’t be done” and “That’s not how we do things around here” and “Let’s be reasonable”. Is this true for people who live in Door County or do they have to go somewhere else to experience this? Maybe Illinois, but I doubt it. And, yes, lake breezes and shimmering aspens and lapping waves all help beckon me into harbor and then, later, launch me on towards bigger dreams. But, there is something else, too, about Ephraim. Maybe it’s in the name.

Ephraim sounds like the Hebrew word for “fruitful”. That’s how the Old Testament character came by his name. His father--the great-great-grand-daddy of all dreamers--Joseph, named this second bundle of joy Ephraim, or “twice fruitful”. And, big dreams are what lead A.M. Iverson to take a step of faith across frozen Green Bay, in 1853, and envision the fruitful community of Ephraim. So, how can one not be harbored, and then launched, in this atmosphere and rich history of fruitfulness and big dreams? Being in Ephraim makes me think like a dreamer and a pioneer. And, well, like a fisherman. Like the ones dotted all over Green Bay. Can you find bigger dreamers than fishermen? My dream, my fantasy, is to someday catch a fish big enough to eat. It hasn’t happened yet. Clinically, there’s probably a fine line between dreamers and the insane, but I know it’s out there. So, I come to Ephraim-to this heady atmosphere-because I want to be in a place where I can think like a pioneer, and a dreamer and a fisherman. All of them--us--chasing something we can’t see. The deep thing that we know is out there. Now chasing us.

Tomorrow morning I’ll wake here in Illinois, step out on our porch on a cool, clear, breezy spring morning and my kids will roll their eyes: “I know what Dad’s going to say, ‘It’s a Door County day!’” And it is. Minus the water and trees. Minus the smooth, bleach white stones. But still, there’s some hint on the wind of the grace of Door County. And, of Ephraim. Of harbors and boat launches. The grace of this old man dreaming dreams. Now becoming a young man seeing visions.

Adeste Fidelis

2006-05-19T08:19:00.000-07:00

“Any big plans for the summer?” I asked.

“Not really. How about you? Let me guess, you’re going to Wisconsin?”

“Um, yes.”

He smirked, “You know, there are other places besides Wisconsin!”

I smiled on the outside. On the inside, I thought, “Liar.”

Here in Illinois I am surrounded by infidels. The faithless. No, not faithless, just in denial. Bitter from being left out. By birth I am a Wisconsinite. I understand that the less fortunate were born in Illinois and I pray for compassion as I move amongst them and have my being. However, it does beg the question: Why on earth did I ever move to Illinois in the first place? Missionary work. Father Marquette in reverse. Instead of making new explorations, I invite voyageurs to what Wisconsinites have already discovered: Adeste Fidelis! Come! Taste and see that God’s country is good.

Of course, I say this all in jest, to rib my Illinois brothers and sisters. Or do I? In any case, they’re right; I would rather spend time in Wisconsin than anywhere else. At my family’s dinner table we ask, “If you could go anywhere on vacation right now, where would you go?” My wife says, “France”. My daughter says, “Hawaii.” My son says, “Tatooine.” And, I say, “Wisconsin.” Every time. Obsessive-compulsive? I don’t know, am I? I am not alone, though. I have friends whose “Wisconsin” is Texas, or California, or Colorado, or Utah, or Pennsylvania. My lying friend pines for Nebraska. Whatever. Of course, by definition, these places aren’t Wisconsin, but they are trying their best.

Why this need for attachments to locations? What makes a person and a place one thing? I’m not sure what it is. Maybe it’s like the way people attach themselves to the Packers. If the team pulls off a victory, people say, “WE won!” Or detach themselves after a loss: “Those Packers—THEY played like a bunch of old women!”) People connect themselves to winners. But, there’s more stability with the "place"--the land--than NFL free agency. So, we connect with the “place”—the land—of Wisconsin for stability. Good memories of beauty and rest are anchored in the granite of this state. We want something more solid than us.

Maybe it’s like what Annie Dillard writes of in her short story "The Living"; her character, Clare Fishburn, observes, “Here is a solid planet…stocked with mountains and cliffs, where stone banks jut and deeply rooted trees hang on. Among these fixed and enduring features wander the flimsy people. The earth rolls down and the people die; their survivors derive solace from clinging, not to the rocks, not to the cliffs, not to the trees, but to each other. It was singular. Loose people clung in families, holding on for dear life. Grasping at straws! One would think people would beg to be tied to trees.”

The Wisconsin River--the hardest working river in the world, we were always told--is “fixed and enduring”. It is still there. The very one that I swam in as a boy during family reunions and birthday parties for my Great-Grandma Diver. There are no more reunions because of death and divorce, but the river is still there. Even the beautiful and kind Grandma Diver, who lived to 101; she crossed the Jordan River into Beulah Land. She’s gone, but the Wisconsin River is still there.

So, in the busy-ness and relentless rush of time, I grab a-hold of the solid rocks of Door County and the great pines of Nicolet. I rest in the steady waters of Lake Michigan and the Wolf River. But, no, that’s not quite it. It’s more than a solitary clinging to the land. Fishburn was wrong. It is also obviously people. My connection to the place, Wisconsin, is invariably linked to the people. Person and place become one thing with the glue of others. Community.

Amelia Diver understood this.

When our family would pick her up in our yellow station wagon, from her yellow cracker box house, in her yellow coat, and drive from Stevens Point to Wisconsin Rapids, along the wooded Wisconsin River, she would squeeze in the backseat with us three kids. Wedged in we would always ask, “Do you have enough room, Grandma?” Her reply was always, “If I have this much room in heaven I’ll be happy.” Those humble words gave me, as a boy, a picture of community and of heaven. This attachment is a desire for place, yes, and for people.

And, something--Someone--permanent.

Wisconsin is Grace

2006-04-15T15:14:00.000-07:00

Wisconsin is grace. One of those bridges to the Divine. I don’t mean simply the PackerCheeseBeer&Brat Cult. Which may be more of a sect, or even a denomination, if you give it, well, grace. But, I mean a genuine gift of God.

My family and I recently had lunch with some friends from L.A. who talked about the Disney Land exhibit called California. And, they speculated, “What other state could have its own Disney attraction? Like, for instance, who would go to a Wisconsin themed park?!” Ha. Ha. Ha. But, in the front pew of my heart, I raised my hand. Hey, it’s Wisconsin. My birth home. And the home of my re-birth. Again and again. Because now that I live in Illinois, when I cross back over the border into God’s Country, I tell people there is a sigh of relief and a burden lifted.

But, whether it’s Madison, or Baraboo, Ephraim, Wisconsin Rapids or Stevens Point, I could offer you dozens of mental snapshots of Wisconsin where the light of grace rests just so. Like this Polaroid® peel-away photo which has been framed ever-so-slightly by my revisionist history. “Mythologized”, my brother says. But, we both remember (It’s from when I was in kindergarten. I’m the round kid on the left)…

“We don’t like it here and we don’t like you, Mom,” we had charged matter-of-factly.

We were rebelling against an oppressive regime. Who would’ve believed it was possible, there in central Wisconsin? Right there under the very noses of the good people of Stevens Point, even? We’d had enough of work camp. Enough of sweat shop. Enough of dictatorship. There would be no more cleaning of our rooms. No more gagging from wadding paper towel to extract tee-pee piles of dog poop from our brown shag carpet. “Why is it my job? I didn’t do it!”

My brother led the rebellion. He was nine. Four years older and wiser. He knew what was really going on around there: Stalin, Mussolini, Our Mother. We, The Proletariat, stood in defiance with our rubber boots, snowmobile suits, and Green Bay Packer stocking caps. Our rebel plan? We went for the heart. “We’re running away!”

“Where?”

“Anywhere but here.”

6:00 p.m. Freedom! We scuffed and shuffled down Torun Road. A dark night. Winter in Wisconsin. Our cheeks were stinging hot as kamikaze snowflakes dive-bombed our frozen eyelashes. But it was the right thing to do.

6:06 p.m. We had walked for hours. But there we were, stalled in our tracks. We had come to that particular spot in the road. On one side, that abandoned gray house. Weathered. Windows broken. Every kid for eight blocks knew it was haunted. And, on the other side, my brother remembers, “…There was a logging road and it made that whole area seem like a black hole that you would get sucked into and never come back.” We didn’t dare walk past that place in the daylight, much less that dreadful night.

“I ain’t walkin’ past it.”

“Me neither. Maybe we should go back,” I said.

“Home? No way!”

We looked back towards where we had made our escape, through the smudge of swarming snowflakes and blurred streetlights. A double take. A figure in the gray distance. We squinted through the dark, through the wet snow. It was coming closer. Some one. Carrying some thing. A club, in its right hand. Oh yes, it was a club all right! Some cartoon caveman, chicken drumstick club!

We were trapped. January sweat. Feet frozen by fear. We shivered between lurking ghosts and a madman stepping up to deliver the Gorman Thomas homerun blow. Crack! Over the fence, into the ditch, laying us out like two deep-freeze Ball Park® franks. But, our eyes strained through the dark to capture our winter assailant. The last image we would ever see before…

“Mom? Is that you?” (Or, maybe it was like that scratch-and-pop LP at home where Hans Christian Andersen’s Little Match Girl had only enough light to show her just what she didn’t have before she froze to death. Why did we have that record?) But, no, it was Mom. And, she was carrying two scarves in her right hand.

“Why don’t you come back home? We’re having Polish sausage for dinner,” she offered.

“Okay, Mom,” we said, like it was our bright idea. And we headed for the porch light of home. Rescued. And, just like that, ghosts and fear melted like snowflakes in the hand. There was never a word mentioned about our rebel offense. Grace. Grace wrapped in Polish sausage and applesauce.

And, our Gospel reading that night was from St. Luke, chapter 15: “But while they were still a long way off, they were spotted and compassion was poured out upon them. Footsteps broke into hot pursuit of them. An embrace and kisses all around. ‘Bring out the best scarves and put them on them. And put those mittens-on-a-string on their hands. And warm boots on their feet. Don’t forget the plastic bread bag liners to keep those feet dry. And bring the fatted Polish sausage. Let us eat and be merry, for these sons of mine were lost and now they have been found.’” Amen.

And, amen. Wisconsin is grace.

Speed Bumps for Glaciers

2006-03-29T10:22:00.000-08:00

It was the year of the speed bump. The year my family ran me over. Twice. I was five or six, I think. But, I’m always five or six in my revisionist history.

The first incident: Stevens Point. Central Wisconsin winter. Pre-Green House Effect. Back when snow was proud. I stood on a glorious pile that was at least forty to fifty feet high. One of those towers created at the end of our driveway by the thundering snow plows. Mom, my brother, and sister were returning from the Thrifty-Mart with groceries, down the salt-white road in that cavernous, margarine-yellow tub of a station wagon. I slid down the snow bank and began to run alongside the car. I waved to my brother and sister, chugging white breath. They waved back. Me in my blue-black snowmobile suit, Packer stocking cap and faux-leather rubber boots, laughing. And, at that point, I grabbed the back door handle. My family kept waving, waving, waving, as I slipped, disappearing under the back tire. Thump. The lumbering wagon rolled over my legs and I was pressed into a stunned, fallen snow angel mold at the end of the driveway. Hot tears and breath flowed. It was an accident, I’m sure. No broken bones, Dr. Sevenich said.

The second incident: Stevens Point. Central Wisconsin summer. Hot house humidity. There in the twilight, as we three siblings played in our mosquito preserve front yard, under the tree where we had flung my sister’s Barbie© doll. Her neck tied to a shoe string (the Barbie’s ©, not my sister’s, if I remember correctly.). My brother chased me on that red bike with the sparkly yellow banana seat and knobby tires. The five-foot orange safety flag wagging and taunting, as I laughed and panted. Barefoot, I slipped on the dewy grass. Thump. Thump. He ran over my head. Tears and sweat mingled with the fresh tread mark across my face. It was an accident. Nothing broken, Dr. Sevenich said.

If only I had been old enough to see the conspiracy. They rolled me out like Silly Putty©. Pressed and impressed. Being careful not to get any of it on the orange shag carpeting in the living room. And, in all of that formative rolling and shaping that took place in Wisconsin I picked up pieces and bits that are now part of me.

Like the time in Wisconsin Rapids, at my grandpa and grandma’s house, when I plummeted out of that tree, landing hard on my back amongst the sand, pine needles, and roots. Luckily my grandma called her doctor neighbor to come over and examine me. Dr. Fleming was an optometrist but it made me feel better I guess.

Or the time in Junction City, during one of my dad’s softball games, where another kid and I thought up the clever pastime of ‘Rock Fight’. The rules, in case you want to play at home, are simple: 1.) Choose a rock and a partner; 2.) Mark-off about ten yards between the two of you; 3.) Take turns throwing your rock ‘til you hit your partner; 4.) First one to strike his target wins.

I wound up, pitched my rock, and missed. Wide right. The other kid, who somehow found an Indian arrowhead amidst the Golden Sands of Plover, fired, and in Super Slo-Mo©, the projectile flew, finding its mark directly between my eyes.

Cue the deluge of blood.

And, continuing in Super-Slo-Mo©, I fell backward to the earth in a cloud of dust. The game announcer, over the P.A., proclaimed, "Game delay! Don White, your kid is bleeding in the dirt behind the outfield fence." The softball fans Boo-ed. "The beer stand is still open," came the next announcement. Cheers all around.

It’s been 33 years since the stitches were removed, but I’d still punch that kid in the mouth if I saw him on the street today. I still have the scar. And, I still have the scars from rafting on the Wolf River during a storm in junior high, where my larger partner fell out the back of our yellow raft going over Boy Scout Falls. The ballast being gone, I was catapulted into the river where my right leg wedged between two underwater rocks. It’s the closest I’ve come to biting the dust. Fittingly, it almost happened at the hands of Wisconsin’s geology.

Considering all this, I realize I have an embarrassing number of stories of run-ins with Wisconsin soil. A veritable state tour, including: the Kettle Moraine while mountain biking; the smooth white rocks of Washington Island; the sand beach of Pine Lake in Westfield; the gravel on the shoulders of the roads of Amherst. You name the region, I have a story best left for another time.

And, while at first read this appears to be a history of my maladroit life--an outward demonstration of the rocks in my head--it is, below surface, a testimonial of the irresistible, gravitational pull of Wisconsin. God’s Country. Part of the conspiracy. All those times spent laying flat on my back in the rich soil of this state, I should’ve looked up, and looked around, at the grace of my surroundings. I should’ve seen the clues, but I finally get it now, after moving away. I am a human glacier tripping and stumbling and sliding through this beautiful state, picking up bits and pieces wherever I go. All magnetic fragments that point True North.

Now that I get it, I no longer fight the pull of this place. Wisconsin, for me, has become rest and reorientation and grace. And, my brother still tells the stories of the year I was run over by my family, pressed into the dirt. He still tells the stories of the rock to my head and the rocks in my head. Still making and revising our history. And, still, I am being smoothed, shaped and polished in the rock tumbler of Wisconsin. But, no need to call Dr. Sevenich, God rest his soul, I get it now.

Everyone Loves a Train

2006-03-26T16:28:00.000-08:00

Every kid loves a train, but in DeKalb I think every adult hates them. Our day-to-day life is really dominated by trains, but so common place we ignore them. Wanted to relay 4 poems tonight about the railway in our community. A “train set”.

February 23, 2006 (DeKalb).
They say eighty-one trains come through this town everyday. And I’ve had a front row seat for 79 of them. Blaring, graffiteed elephants stampeding single file. One herd passes while another waits around the corner to stop me in my tracks. Big, loud, and plenty, but I don’t remember seeing a single one of them. Is it the proverbial pachyderm in the middle of the room? No. I’m a poacher sawing the tusks off the Substantial. Carving ivory trinkets while I wait it for it to pass.
2-23-06

The second focuses on the trolley tracks that were unearthed in front of our house in 2001 during street repair in Sycamore. My then-5 year old daughter researched it at the library. “The DeKalb-Sycamore Electric Traction Company began offering trolley rides between the two towns in 1902. There were two cars which began service at 6:30 a.m. and ended at midnight. The route ran from the Normal School (where Altgeld Hall is at Northern) …and ended at the DeKalb County Courthouse. One could purchase a one-way trip for 10 cents. The trolley ended service in 1924. Some cited the increasing popularity of automobiles and paved roads as the cause. There was also a trolley service between DeKalb and Aurora from 1910 to 1916.”

Restless.
Inside this house at 3:24 a.m. I hear my five year-old’s heavy breathing in the other room. Her toss and roll under the comforter. My wife murmurs something in her sleep and my son takes another hourly union break from his slumber. His left arm now tangled in his pajamas. We’re a restless group, even at rest.

Outside this house workers have torn up the streets. The asphalt has been folded back and the concrete slabs recline on my neighbor’s lawn. And in this excavation a set of railroad tracks has been uncovered.

In my insomnia I slip on my shoes, leave the front door and grope in the sand and rocks to find those tracks. ‘Cause here in the moonlight I’m almost sure these cold rails lead somewhere. Maybe to a town where you don’t have to just pray for comfort for widows, but where you can pray for healing. And, for the dead to rise.
4-06-01

The last two poems focus on the interruption of a Train. Sometimes in DeKalb a two block trip from where I work to the P.O. can, if I hit it right, be a 45 minute affair. Makes one wonder why trains are so prominent as metaphors for “deliverance” in slave spirituals!

Prophet (DeKalb, May 11).
Freight train blowing and bellowing in the middle of town. Disrupting our schools, our 10am services, keeping us up at night. Sure, you might be Gabriel’s horn, or the moan of the Passover Angel, but you best shut your mouth ‘cause we got real work to do around here. Besides if there was anything worth saying, we would’ve already said it. And, anyways, we knew you when you was a kid and nobody liked you much then either. So, get back in line or get yourself run out of town on a rail.
5-11-02

A Train (DeKalb, April 15).
In the late afternoon,
Ghost whistle calling
Through the neighborhoods, a train.
Who’ll come? Who?

Distant. Underneath the cars and trucks,
And the doors opening and closing,
And the polite conversations, a train.
Who’ll come? Who?

My dad says, “I s’pose…
If you don’t keep busy,
You start thinking lots of things.”
And in the quiet, a train.
Who’ll come? Who?

In the late afternoon,
For those who hear,
And for those who are thirsty,
And for those who wish, a train.
Who’ll come? Who?

4-15-02

Uno

2005-05-14T20:15:00.000-07:00

Greetings! A blog for the purpose of organizing some writing...