Summer Tour 2015

Note:  I asked my niece to edit this blog.  Her many talents include rock historian and summa cum laude in English from UNL.  Her comments add context to the seemingly hopelessness of my summer project, so I have kept them in.  They make me laugh.  I wrote this because whenever someone asked what I was up to this summer, I’d tell them this story. They asked me to write it down.

I went to an Eagles concert this summer.  Before I committed, I had to google whether or not Don Henley was back with the Eagles.  This statement alone proves that insofar as rock music is concerned, I checked out in the 90’s.

As an anthology of their 1970’s rock, which I subsequently learned was called Southern California rock, it piqued my curiosity enough to download their documentary History of the Eagles afterwards. Get it. Watch it.  As a twentysomething year old, Don Henley comes across as articulate and thoughtful - thoughtful as in career charting thoughtful. This wasn’t just about the music of the Eagles.  This was about the business of being the Eagles.  And business is something I understand.

A simple Facebook posting that I mistook for a friend showed up in my feed a few days later.  I think it showed up because Facebook knew that I was researching a band from the 1970s – that is the creepy part of social media.  Instead of a friend, it turned out to be a link to a video of a Kennedy Center Honors program honoring Led Zeppelin.  For people raised on 70s rock, this next part will sound like heresy.  Sorry. 

I did not know who Led Zeppelin was.  I did not recognize Robert Plant.  I, maybe, maybe had heard of Jimmy Page?  I certainly didn’t know the names John Bonham and John Paul Jones.  In fact I still have a terrible time referring to Mr. Jones as Jones and not Johns[JS1]   But I was hooked when Heart came on stage and rocked the living soul out of  “Stairway to Heaven” with a sixty plus person choir on back-up.  Dang! 

I was transfixed by the performance and the reaction of the crowd to it.  Everyone remembers the song as long, really long. It was a prom theme song that didn’t really make sense as a prom theme choice when you listened to the words.  But the Celtic folk flavor in its entrance, nice. 

Then I realized  something.  I missed the 70’s rock scene. I wasn't sure if I could learn a decade’s worth of music in a summer, but I made it into a research project anyway. I went full in. I started with Rolling Stone online – not to be confused with the song (wrong decade) or the band (still touring).  Rolling Stone the magazine is the great on-line resource for my little rock research project.  After combing through their top 100 lists of everything, I have a better appreciation for why Zeppelin turned into this mythical apparition.  All of its members were best in class. 

Next, I went back to my roots for a lesson in rock music 101. 

There’s about a dozen years that separates me from my nieces and nephews. They are now  thirtysomething year olds and beyond.  Given that we share a healthy amount of DNA, I did not get any of the music history molecules in my double helix that they did.  So I casually ask one Sunday if anyone from the family music library could fill me in on their take of Led Zeppelin.

It was like setting off a verbal grenade at the dinner table.  “What?” “You’ve GOT to be kidding me?” “Hello!?!” “Greatest Rock Band Ever” “Sex on a Stick” “Greatest Guitarist Ever” [JS4] ….. Ok, stop there.  What? Back up?  “Robert Plant. Jimmy Page. Watch the video of their early 70’s concerts”  Then someone added, “You have to watch the Heart video from the Kennedy Center Honors.” 

As a matter of fact I had. 

July turned to August and I was headed to Kansas next.

Fairs in small rural states net the still touring rock bands from the 70’s and 80’s and current country talent for their grandstand acts.  This year’s throwback was Kansas and Foghat.  Rest assured that since I didn’t know Zep, I really didn’t know Foghat.  I referred to them afterwards as a little British band opening for Kansas.

The reaction, “Seriously, were you stoned in the 70s?”  Additional comments, with a few putdowns [JS5] aimed at Anne Murray and Debby Boone, had me walking away with an essential 70s rock playlist.  Jury is still out on Thin Lizzy’s Wild One.

I did get last minute tix for Def Leppard and Styx in August.  Def shouldn’t really count as a 70’s band but I think they qualify as glam rock [JS6] . If they aren’t, then someone has to explain the scarves.

I loved that concert because I came by loving Styx honestly - in the 1970s.  I also loved my thirtysomething seat mates who were my true entertainment for the evening.  They were funny, drunk and more than once, almost in my lap.   The guy, I think his name was Jason, and the lovely girl with tears in her eyes who asked me after the encore if they had played “Pour Some Sugar on Me”. Yes honey.  Yes they did and you enjoyed the heck out of it.

As August gave way to September, a circle was being formed. “Heart is coming to town.”  “Say what?” “Heart, the Wilson sisters are coming to town. They’re kicking off this year’s United Way campaign.”  End the summer of the 70’s with the rock chick trailblazers, nice.  [JS7] 

The Wilson sisters are in their sixties and the upper Midwest isn’t big on showing their love for artists. But when Ann Wilson hit Crazy On You at full voice, everyone came to their stand as one.  Most people are thrilled to be on Medicare at 65, not singing full voice for 90 minutes on stage in front of a few thousand people who will critique every sound.  Respect.

My working theory is this now. Rock and roll artists aren’t supposed to age because if they age, we age.  They were the foreground music of our youth, our air guitar moments and our groupie fantasies.  These musicians are expected to play the same song the same way for decades in order to please us.  We forget why we loved them in the first place because they were so fresh and they spoke to us in that moment in time.      

I’ve been to four Dylan concerts and I always leave saying the same thing. This is the last Dylan concert I’ll ever go to. And I’m still not sure I’m really done yet. I’ve never once heard that man do Blowin in the Wind as I think Blowin in the Wind is supposed sound.

In closing out my summer project, I came to the conclusion that I was impressed with how Led Zeppelin walked away. [JS8] It was a sad, tragic ending with the death of drummer Bonham. No one would have chosen that ending.  Yet they had to have known very young that what they had could not be replicated; so they collectively closed the book and then each took their own path forward. 
This was my last learning. 

Their lead singer, Robert Plant, now in his mid sixties, continues to explore and evolve.  Through that work I was introduced to Alison Kraus and African tribal music over the summer.  Take heed fellow mid-lifers.  Life may be wearing, but you have much more life to live and give regardless of your age or stage in your journey.          

This story should end here but there is one last concert for this summer.

I have business in Chicago this week.  I actually had a choice of going to Chicago or Minneapolis for this conference so I checked out the artists playing the night I’ll be staying over.

And one single seat stared back at me for three weeks until the universe said through a multitude of ways, just go.  So Wednesday evening, you should be able to find me at FirstMerit Pavillion Row D Seat 12 Section 101 listening to Robert Plant and the Sensational Space Shifters. #RJPSSS

I love it when God smiles.  Thanks for a great summer and a very complete and full circle. 

And for everyone who wanted me to write it down, I hope I have done the journey right. Peace.

---

 [JS1]The man’s name is Jones.  Not Johns!

 [JS2]Are you referencing “Rolling Stone” as in the magazine, the Dylan song (60s) or The Stones?  It isn’t clear and there has to be more of a story to that.  If it is the magazine, what issue did you read?  If it is the song, wrong decade.  If it is the band, what song?

  [JS4]Guitar God.  Jimmy is a Guitar God. 

 [JS5]It’s not a putdown if it’s true.  Even Karen Carpenter is cooler than Anne or Debby.

 [JS6]NONONONONONONONO!  Def Lepard is shitty hair metal.  Glam rock is T-Rex and Bowie.  That is a whole other AMAZING portion of the 70s that we haven’t touched on it. 

 [JS7]Ann is one of the top hard rock/metal voices, male or female.  They were trailblazers.  Rocker chicks sounds like it’s just a step up from groupies. 

 [JS8]You gotta talk about Bozo dying.  All the best ones have a shelf life.  The Beatles are really the only ones who ever walked away without someone croaking.

Reflections of Broom Tree

Driving 92 mph down the highway to the small rural community where the retreat facility was located, I repeated the mantra in my head, "do not be late", "Do Not Be Late", "DO NOT BE LATE".  I chastised myself for cutting the time so close. If only I hadn't taken that last question at the office.  If only I had left the dog at my sister's before I went into work.  If only.

Broom Tree is one of those activities I avoided for seven years.  It took three guys and the plea of an administrative assistant to whom I owed more than a few favors before I decided enough was enough and submitted the requisite application to be part of the seventh class - lucky number seven.

In the last seven years, most participants shared the following with me about their time at retreat: 1) technology is deeply frowned upon - best keep your smart phone in your pocket on silent; 2) expect to have your Christmas ruined; and 3) never, ever, ever be late. 

Skating in at five minutes before the official start time, I was close to breaking rule number 3.  My mother would have been gravely disappointed in me if I had been late.  Why?  Because she taught me respect, respect for time, respect for rules, respect for faith traditions.  Her construct, which she passed along to me, was every person, as a child of God, was deserving of respect.

The sponsoring Sisters are, on the barometer of my respect scale, pretty close to the tippy top.  They represent to me, the single, educated, mature woman and the collective shoulders on which I have been lifted and the role models of individualism and community that demonstrate how to be present.

If there is one thing I shall remember about Broom Tree and one thing that I will take with me where ever I may go is the importance of being present.  Present in the moment.  Present in the conversation.  Present during the meal.  Present.  I have come to believe that is one, but not the only, reason why technology is so deeply frowned upon.  It is also why being on time is revered.  It doesn't explain the Christmas part but I will go into that later.

Staff back at the office has nicknamed Broom Tree "rehab".  As in, "she's headed to rehab so get your questions answered before she takes off on Thursday morning." Amusing? Yes.  In a way, perhaps it is rehab. Come out stronger, better, clearer, whatever your word might be, than when you started. 

I have thoroughly enjoyed the history, the context and the discussions surrounding the Bible.  Lost in the modern era is the underlying truth that this is a book, many books and letters actually, written not as a historical retelling of how the earth was created (easy to understand in the face of modern day science), or how a virgin gave birth (a popular point in Bill Mahar's Christianity as mythology argument).   We forget, probably for our own internal and societal needs, that the Bible is literature, a confluence of oral traditions, legends, myths, parables and allegories among other writing styles to relate an understanding of God and God's relationship with us.  Reading it in a 21st century world with a 21st century frame of reference becomes overwhelming at best and misinterpreted at worst (leading to wars and social peril).  It also gives rise to challenging modern images of the nativity scene, hence the "ruining" of Christmas commentary. 

Jesus the innocent. Without sin? By my definition of sin? Couldn't say.  Did he even understand his divinity while on earth?  Would he have that capacity having come in human form?   What does life to death to life take?  How are we to define our faith in a world where atheism is the largest growing segment of belief in our American society? Are we simply birds resting on the branch of our faith?

The "who are the birds" and "who is the branch" line isn't mine.  I borrow it from the film "Of Gods and Men". a real life story of the Algerian monks killed in 1996.  They are portrayed in this film filled with powerful moments.  I've ruminated over that scene dozens of times.  The monks, knowing that if they stay they would most surely face death, grapple with the decision of to stay or to go.  The lead monk says to the villagers, "we are but birds on a branch".  And a woman of the village interjects, "but you are our branch and we are the birds.  What will happen to us if you leave?" 

How many of us have been faced with that question?  You feel like a bird, but you are in a very real sense the branch.  I've seen families where the matriarch, is the branch for the entire family tree.  I ask the same question at work - bird or branch?  If I am to be a branch, then I must do all I can to be a strong one.  There are many families who depend on it. 
. 
Taking a part of Broom Tree back to work, friends and home has been the experience's bonus round.  From other year's participants, I didn't hear the stories about the infancy narrative or the combo big bang/creation story or the differences in the writing styles of Luke and Matthew. I took back those stories and weaved them into the fabric of conversation.  I didn't realize its effect until our controller shared the parable of the field workers through the eyeglass of social justice and equity in providing counsel to a staff member.  What I have had the opportunity to bring back to work, to family, and to friends has left them asking, "Where can I go for this?"

We have absolutely no programming in our society to allow an individual the opportunity to discuss faith traditions in a non-judgmental venue.  I'm not saying debate should be shunned.  I'm just saying how fun it is to ask questions, mentally challenge the answers and know that there may not be a right answer.

The challenge of Broom Tree isn't balancing time away from the office with time spent there, weekends make up for the deadlines that can't be missed.  The challenge of Broom Tree is bringing to balance the work with the mission.  I've worked in the private sector, the public sector, for profit and not for profit.  It is different here, and maintaining that difference in an era of margins, regulatory change and generational transformation is easier said than done.

Technology provides the advantage of "finger tip" information.  To be an "A" student, is to master the numbers, the information and the technology.  Rarely is an "A" student defined by their mastery of the mission.  That mastery of the mission is the challenge of Broom Tree.

I am amused as I channel surf on a Sunday morning.  A television pastor will speak to a verse in Matthew and I will immediately consider the context of the passage and its writing in a framework of two thousand years ago.  This isn't something that I would have done before Broom Tree. 

I have learned that the "Kingdom of God" is not for the hereafter in the sweet bye and bye.  It is here, and it is now.  Broom Tree changes everything.

Reflections of a Friend

Timothy Alan Pedersen, Tim, Timmie, Zima – oh how you have left a lasting impression on all of us. 

Most everyone remembers the first time they met Tim and I am confident everyone remembers the first time they met Zima.  He was a memorable character. 

For me it was a December business lunch at Theo’s.   I believe it was Kate who I asked that day to tell me “who did their beautiful Christmas tree”.  It had this amazing cornice of pheasant feathers crowning its top.  I thought, who would put pheasant feathers in a tree?  Tim would. 

Christmas was a time when there simply wasn’t enough Tim to go around.   He talked about “Tim’s Trim A Tree” service.  The more of everything the better…  more lights, more bulbs, more feathers, more trees, more trips to Hobby Lobby.   Perhaps if he could have started decorating for us all in April, he could have kept up with our demand.  

He was just that good.  I remember one year attempting to decorate my tree on my own.   I had all kinds of florals: hydrangias, lilies, passion flowers – I decided if Tim could do it, I could do it too.  I threw in the towel after four hours, called and asked him to stop over on his way out for the evening.  It took him ten minutes to make a masterpiece out of my mess.   And his parting comment was, “promise me next time you will call me first.” 

The year his tree won the “Most Elegant” at the Festival of Trees, he took his “favorite girl” as his date that night.  He picked out her red suit, her hose, her shoes, styled her hair and did her make up.  Folks thought he and his mom came from New York for the event – they looked great together.  And he would say all night long, “can you believe this woman is fifty?”  “Doesn’t she look hot?”    

He had no problem telling his women friends.  “You look hot” or “vavavavoom” or “giiiiiirrrlll mmmm you got it going on” or my favorite “you look amazing and that man is one damn fool”.    

Everyone needs a Tim in their life.  Someone you accept simply for who they are.  Someone who accepts you simply for who you are.  Someone who takes you on an adventure.  And Tim could make going to the grocery store an adventure.

For me the adventure would be to the furniture or hardware store.  Most everyone knows he did much of the interior and exterior work for my home.  He painted my walls bright green and red, the ceilings yellow and lime.  He glued paper bags to my kitchen floor and we laughed until we were escorted out of Loews on one occasion. 

Out of the many things I will miss about Tim, it will be wandering the aisles of the big box hardware stores.  His smart and clever wit with the clerks immediately endeared him to them.  His confidence that his way was ALWAYS the right way when it came to home improvement left me with a beautiful and unusual home, a much lighter pocketbook and more than a few stories of compromise. 

Tim would make sure that the staff announced him to me “as your decorator is on line two”.  He did a beautiful job restoring the home he and Steve shared on 2^nd Avenue but when it wasn’t ready in time for a photo shoot he had pre-arranged, I came back from a four o’clock meeting with a note from Tim tucked by my phone.  It read, “My house won’t be done in time for the magazine’s photo shoot tomorrow, I’m going to bring them to your house instead.  Don’t worry. Yours will be ready in time.”  

Don’t worry.  That was a favorite Tim line.  “Don’t worry, I’ll get it done, when have I ever not gotten it done?”  And he usually did, although our timelines might not have always aligned perfectly.

In the last few days, his family has shared pictures and stories of Tim as a boy with me.  He was a beautiful little boy with a grin and eyes that still shined three decades later with their non chalant, devil may care attitude, breathlessly fearless at times.  

Whether it was swimming in the ditches with his older siblings when the snow melted in the Spring, or snatching green apples from the trees to eat in the Fall when he knew they would make him sick, or helping in the recovery efforts during the 1989 San Francisco earthquake while his Navy ship was docked in the Bay, Tim was Tim.  Present in the moment, helpful too, his humor and quick wit always stood ready to serve. 

Yet his life was a testament that facing differences and adversity could indeed make one stronger but it did not come without pain.

As a gay man, he was saddened that he could not legally marry or have children of his own.  He was deeply hurt when others would use words that would disrespect the very basic human dignity that all God’s children are endowed with.

He paid special attention to his nieces and nephews – their wellbeing were thoughts closest to his heart.

For his dogs Sonny and Charlie, they became his kids – a source of centering for him.     

And then one night while he was sleeping, his partner Eric submitted an application for him to work for the postal service.  Who would’ve thought that the post office would have been such a great fit for Tim? He loved that job.  And he was so proud to wear the uniform.   He walked over 4000 miles in just under two years each one of them marked on his smart phone app.

He felt that his life would not be long in years, so he knew that he had to put a lot of life into those years.  We talked about it on more than one occasion.  It was hard to hear the news last Thursday when it was delivered because his life was so very full at its end.  He had his new home near the Cathedral.   His relationship with Eric.  A career that he loved and a true sense of pride in all that he was accomplishing.

So on the morning of April 12, 2012, after his morning coffee, the angels surrounded him and stayed with him giving him wings to fly, a place to stand and watch over those he cared for here and a paintbrush to color heaven in the palate of a rainbow. 

Goodbye Tim for now, we will miss you, we will remember you and we are proud of you. 

Christmas Letter 2011

This year's Christmas letter was intended to be the memorialization of a year's worth of unique and different experiences - things I've never tried before.  A trophy to place alongside last year's rather staid tome.  I've taken a stab at writing it several times but have a hard time beginning or ending it.  I think it is because I don't want the challenge to end with the turn of a page on a calendar.  It was because of the challenge I put before myself last year that I came to a realization that my life is truly blessed. 

In this year, I have conducted a symphony, danced at an inaugural, and flown an F16 training sim.  I have turned blonde, focused on taking better care of myself and explored new faith traditions at BroomTree.  I have declared myself debt free, baked my first blueberry pie and recognized that to whom much is given, much is expected in return and have made commitments to hold up my end of that deal.   I have written much about the experiences along the way in my blog, and through the kindness of strangers my life has been enriched. 

The joy comes from time spent with Luke (6), Sarah (3) and now Will (9 months) and Autumn (5 months).  The smiles that accompany a pre schooler's first Christmas program and the satisfaction of work that can make a difference end this year but not the mission.  There is the possibility of so much more to come.

And in this holiday season, no matter your traditions, I wish you the joy of Christmas now and throughout the new year.

God's richest blessings,
Deb

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1985

In 1985, I was a young intern at a hospital outside of Detroit, Michigan.  The nation that summer was in the grips of something unknown and terrifying and a fourteen year old boy from Kokomo, Indiana was at the center of the storm.  His name was Ryan White and he had AIDS.  Frightened parents prohibiting their children from playing at the city pool or taking up petitions to prevent a child's access to education were common stories on the evening news that summer.  So too were the skeletor images of Rock Hudson, who until that summer, was able to keep private his sexual orientation from the world.

We talked alot about universal precautions that summer - a principle where all patients were considered carriers of blood borne pathogens.  We educated ourselves on the transmission mediums for HIV and "gloving up" became the standard.  I remember very serious conversations about a virus that was running rampant in specific demographics of our society and I remember irrational behavior borne out of fear.

Almost three decades have now passed.  In the intervening years, I have met men and women, straight and gay, single and married with children who are HIV positive.  One of my very dear friends who has been a cornerstone of my life for years has been HIV positive for quite awhile.  I am troubled by a growing number of middle aged single men and women who assume they are somehow immune to infection and chose not to take precautions.  I am vaguely concerned that we do little to raise awareness with the next generation who have come to age in an era where there were no little red ribbons pinned to lapels on award shows. I am disappointed that the public health sector, who provided such a solid foundation of education on the disease at its origin, has largely remained silent over the last decade in promoting awareness of prevention activites.

Mostly, I have been disturbed by a Facebook posting of a Sister in the Zambian mission field from several weeks ago.  "AIDS has taken one of my most enthusiastic computer students and local police officer tonight. Tried to help and wish I could have done more. Such a sad & helpless feeling. +RIP friend."  The stigma of this disease continues to cast a long and dark shadow over an entire continent.

AIDS is both preventable and treatable.  On this, World AIDS Awareness Day, I take a moment to reflect on and give thanks for the progress science has made in the last three decades for treating HIV and AIDS.  And I take a moment of silence to pray for a global de-stigmatization of the disease so that more lives can be saved.  I hope that you will join with me in remembering how far we have come, and how much farther we have yet to go.

Field of Dreams

On my drive home this last weekend from out West, I pondered how my own Ray Kinsella "if you build it they will come" story has come to be.  Ray was the guy in the movie "Field of Dreams".  The one who kept hearing voices and took off on a cross country trip where he picked up Burt Lancaster and James Earl Jones along the way.  He turns his Iowa corn farm into a baseball field where Shoeless Joe Jackson and others return from the other side to play ball and at the film's climax reunites with his long estranged, long gone, father.  It's a fantasy movie of course but it strikes a chord with anyone looking for something and compelled by an unknown force to find answers. 

My story starts with a vision I have held onto for more than two decades - it has shape shifted over the years - but in my mind, the vision is constant.  I create a retreat on an acreage in the Hills where all are welcomed to blend art, spirituality and community together.  A place where judgement is not offered or given.  Where there is no admission fee just a true sense of belonging.  Where everyone is a friend and God, as each one knows him, brings together the traveling souls to learn, to share and to create.

Almost six years ago, on a trip West for a bike ride through the Hills, I decided to start executing on my vision.  It would start small out of necessity as my resources were limited. I figured God would make the rest happen in His own time and in His own way.  On the way out, I discussed my plans with my biking companion.   It was on that trip that I came to first learn about someone I shall call, the "Uncle". 

I was waiting in line with my friend for an evening meal when a young woman and her husband struck up a conversation with us.  They asked us if we knew of her Uncle.  An unusual request from a stranger.  But not unusual given the role we would find out her Uncle had played in organizing the weekend's trail ride.  Delightful would be the only way to describe the young couple.  They were soon joined by her mother I believe, introductions were made and we parted ways as our table was called.  Later in the evening, my friend and I joked when the Uncle's name was called over the loudspeaker hoping the girl could find him.

On Sunday we returned home and several weeks later I sat in the office of my investment counselor talking through financing options to bring my stripped down vision to fruition.  Our conversation turned to more practical matters like how to chose the right location and how to build out the vision.  She mentioned a name.  Someone I should call who lived in the Hills and might be helpful in providing advice or counsel.  The name?  The Uncle.  I shook it off as an unusual coincidence and moved on, not sure how to cold call a guy and ask for help in fleshing out my plans.  It seemed presumptious.

The following year, I bought my land.  It was a small plot for which I had plans.  The seller of the property, a client, called me a year later and said I should meet this guy - yes - the Uncle - because he was extraordinarily smart and we would have an "interesting conversation".

I moved on, life interceded and instead of taking on the Hill's challenge, I landscaped my garden to reflect the world's religons.   My own backyard of harmony and conversation.  I thought no more of the Uncle or of my plans until last October when I picked up the local newspaper.  It talked about a place where all were welcomed, where spirituality was embraced and art was used as a focal point for evoking the spiritual energy in those who visited.  It was closing for the season in two weeks time. The visionary, creator and caretaker of this sanctuary?  The Uncle. 

Now, God had my attention.

Over the course of a disruptive winter and hectic spring, I forgot about the coincidences and my attention drifted away from visions and dreams.  It wasn't until I was visiting a friend last weekend in the Hills that I mentioned the story and asked her if she would be game to visit the santuary.  She already knew of the place as a friend had mentioned it to her along with the Uncle's name and a few other details.  Another odd twist to an already odd story.

We spent the day on a girlfriend journey through the Hills - shopping, eating, hiking and making our way north to my land with a quick stop at the sanctuary - my friend quite confident that the Uncle would be there to greet us.  I am not sure why we were both taken by surprise when the man who drove up on his rhino as we parked the car answered in the affirmative when my friend asked if he was the Uncle.  I'm not often at a loss for words.  I can't be given my profession.  My statement after formal greetings were exchanged was "I read about this place last year and have envisioned doing something like this for a very long time." 

The Uncle replied, "Well, I did all the work for you, so you didn't have to."  His voice kind, humor filled and humble.  For a Christian, my friend reminded me, that statement offered another meaning.   It was not the time or the place for a conversation as there were other visitors to tend to.

The vision was executed brilliantly.  There wasn't a fault to be found in it.  A host of emotions settled in on me as I walked the property, and yes jealously and confusion were among them.  It was lovely and lovingly created.  For the people who visited, their musings were documented by hand in journals spread throughout the sanctuary.  They read like love notes for the Creator and His earth bound caretaker.   I only wished that I could have found my way to creating such a place.

And I was left to ponder the meaning behind it all.  Remember when Ray struggles to figure out the "why" behind the messages?  That's an accurate way to describe how I felt, how I still feel.  I'm not sure if there will be another message or not for me as I follow this trail of breadcrumbs. I only know that my vision was realized, even if it was not by my own hand.  Perhaps that was the message in its simplicity.         

God's Grace

I've been hesitant to blog on anything even remotely related to my health - I live a very rich life in spite - and in some ways because - I was diagnosed early in life with a chronic condition.  People tend to find their blog as an outlet for their feelings and emotions related to their health.  Before the Internet, I believe this was called journaling.  Only now those thoughts are open to the world's view.   The one's that truly get to me are written from a mother's or father's point of view, where their child suffers and their words lift them from what must be the world's sharpest pain.  The pain of seeing your child hurting or suffering and you can't do a thing about it.

Over fifteen years ago I waited in the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport for a connecting flight to San Francisco.  It had been a long layover - close to two hours already - with a long flight still to come.  I'm first to the gate on this Saturday afternoon and my wait begins.  I'm doing the things people used to do at an airport before our smartphones and iPads kept us company.  I'm reading magazines and watching the people. 

My attention was drawn to a large family - a mom, a dad, an older brother, a middle sister and a little boy.   The first to attract my glance was the little boy.  He was obviously sick.  His hair was gone, his frame fragile, his wheelchair, the pic line for a pain pump, his tired expression.  I thought perhaps he was headed with his family to wherever he called home.  Home perhaps from treatment at Mayo.

The next thing that drew my attention were his siblings' return from the magazine shop.  They had purchased a picture of the Mall of America and brought it back to show him.  The look on that boy's face would have been worn by my 90 year old grandfather years before.  The tiredness, the unaffected interest, the knowledge he'd condensed into just a few short years.  I said a prayer.  "Please dear God, please have them find seats together and not next to me if they are headed where I am headed."  Selfish yes, I had this feeling.

The family's tickets were distributed by the gate attendant and her words were, "I'm sorry the flight is full and we've had to split your family. We'll put mom and the son together and dad you will be able to sit with the other two children in back.  I'm sorry but there is no other way we can accommodate all five of you today."   The parents understood and felt the split - mom taking Jacob and dad taking the other two was the best strategy for the flight.   They are taken on board first as it will take time for them to settle in.

The seat rows are called in much the same way they are to this day. "We'll start from the back of the plane - rows 30 and above".  I am close to the front of the coach cabin, perhaps just two rows in, so I wait.  And my row is called and I approach my aisle seat.  I exhale and I politely say hello to the woman - a mother - seated next to me.  I say my next prayer in my head.  "Ok dear God. So here I am.  You are going to have to help me through this."

The first hour was quiet.  Mom had much on her mind and I could tell her heart was heavy, her sadness evident.  The beverage service came through offering a chance to exchange polite conversation.  I asked if they were headed home.  "Yes, we are, we are on our way home from Disney World.  My husband and two older children are in the back of the plane.  This is my son Jacob with me."  I would find out later that this was the second Make A Wish trip the family had received.

I said I was sorry.  "It is so very hard to be sick as a child.  I was sick at one time."  Her eyes drilled into me with this intense curiosity.  She asked, "How did your mother react?  What did she do?"  I said, "She did the best that she possibly could."

She started her story.  Her youngest son was diagnosed with leukemia when he was three - that was their first Make A Wish trip to Disney World.  He went into remission and he was cancer free for two and a half years.  As he turned five his cancer returned.   They had exhausted all of their treatment options and decided as a family to take up Make A Wish's offer for this family trip to Disney World.  It was expected that Jacob would not live to see June.  It was late April now.

After sharing this synopsis, she launched into a thousand questions.  She started by saying, "Most people I meet don't know how to react.  They don't understand. You have this experience and I would like to know what it was like.  How you felt and how your mother reacted.  I don't even know how my other kids will feel years later because I spent so much time with Jacob in his short life.  Will they feel neglected?  Will they understand? Would you tell me your story?"

I replied honestly, "I'm not sure I can draw an analogy between my story and yours.  I have been blessed with years of life and it has been a great, rich and for the most part healthy life."  "Tell me anyway" she replied.  "There is no one I've talked with who has lived through a serious illness in their youth."  And so God's answer to someone's prayer began.

"Well, I can only tell you that they knew something wasn't quite right when I was in fourth grade.  There were tons of very basic tests that I learned later simply told them my body was fighting something.  It was presumed to be rheumatic fever but it wasn't.  Later, with more science and research, I believe they will find that the infection was the basis for the autoimmune disorder I have."  Now there are all kinds of autoimmune disorders.  I've characterised these disorders in my own mind as a "black box" of disease states.  If you can't figure out the source, call it autoimmune - like arthritis or fibromyalgia.

It wasn't until my later teens when everything came to a head.  I lost weight - down to 112 pounds.  I lost blood - two transfusions a week.  And I lost my patience.  The physicians involved tried all manner of treatments.  I was subjected to monthly scopes to find out if the disease - at that time diagnosed as Ulcerative Colitis - was giving up its hold on my colon.  All of my trips were scheduled around bathrooms.  It's an embarrassing disease, in a category no one likes to discuss, and having it in the youth of your life was isolating. 

One physician, known as a regional expert in the field, recommended a full surgical intervention.  I was nineteen and alone on that visit.  I wanted it that way.  There are two things that have stayed with me from that day.  The first, this is the life I have been given, I must be responsible for the decisions I make within it.  The second, tell me I can't do something or it can't be done, and I will do all in my power to prove you wrong. 

I found out years later mom wanted to go on that visit with me, but my internist called her and told her not to go.  "Let her go.  Let her find her way through this."  Watching me drive my Mustang into the farmyard after the visit with the "expert" telling me I had no choice but to operate, my mother said I spent ten minutes talking to myself before getting out of the car.  I walked into the house stating (remember I'm nineteen here).  "The physician said I should take the surgical option.  He doesn't believe I can get into remission without it and it would be the cure."  "What did you tell him?" mom asked.  "I said no - rather emphatically.  I will consider it at forty but never at twenty.  It is up to me to prove him wrong."  Later when I was forty, and the science had evolved, I was advised that the UC was actually Chrohn's and that surgical intervention would not have provided a cure.  Funny how things work out.

And so our plane ride continued.  "What did you think of your mom's decision not to go?" she asked.  I said, "It was the right call."  "She could not live my life for me, no matter how hard she must have wanted to." 

I went on, "Your son knows.  He knows that you would do anything to replace the hurt and suffering he is going through. He is just a kid but he is a wise child because of all he has experienced.  He is stronger than you may imagine a six year old to be. He knows that you have done the absolute best that you can."

And as the plane banked over the San Francisco Bay, the Golden Gate Bridge spectacular in the early evening light, Jacob was awake and looking out the window.  "Look mom, I can see the hospital.  It is right down there."  "Yes" she replied.  "When we go in tomorrow, you will have to tell the doctors you saw where they worked from the air."

Jackson's Blog

I love my dog.  It took me awhile to fully accept him into my life and it took adjustment to accommodate a little heartbeat in my home.  But I have loved him since the day he was gifted over to me in a little wicker basket at Christmas.

Through Jackson I can see a world different from the world we live in.  There is lots of play time and rest time, there is kibble time - never a worry to over or under eat.  There is treat time and outdoor time.  There is defending the homestead time and there is marking time.  There is buddy time and there is girl time too.  His needs are pretty basic.  Belly rub. Scratch. Scratch some more.

Today is Jackson's blog ...

I took Jackson to the office for the tail end of the work day.  He is twelve pounds of energy flying around the halls like they're a giant personal race track.  He brings smiles and laughter - something of a release after a long week for all.  In the winter, it wouldn't be unusual for me to bring Jackson back with me to work at night.  One evening, immersed in reading, I noticed my companion gone.  I came out of the office and heard voices down the hallway.  Here were the janitors talking to him and he would patiently listen in return.  It appeared they had a long standing relationship.  Later the same evening, I looked up to find him gone again.  This time I called out his name.  Loudly.  Several times.  On the last shout, down the steps from the second floor comes the pooch, as if to say, "I was having fun, what do you need me for?"   I found out that Jackson would follow the cleaning crew upstairs on their nightly rounds.  He found their work endlessly more facsinating than mine - they made noise and they hauled around big containers that smelled interesting.

Before he was neutered a few months ago, he would hang onto the backs of Allie and Lacey like a tiny little man pushing a huge wheelbarrow around the yard.   Those girls exhibited much patience with the little white tick attached to their back.  He would do no harm.  Although nephew Luke won't be able to watch his three year old birthday party video until he is at least sixteen.  Or so goes the family story. 

He doesn't particularly care for the housekeeper but he loves it when my niece comes over to steal internet during the day.  He's grown to appreciate nephew Tom and is a big fan of three year old Sarah even though Sarah likes to put him in "time out" during her visits.

Jackson's spirit is endearing.  He has this great kung fu move when playing with other dogs - he's the ninja dog.  He goes to the "big dog" park rather than the "little dog" park because that is where he has found his kindred spirits.  The 140 pound Chessie next door  would come to visit each morning, his tail pounding on our door as if to say, "can Jackson come out to play?"  And I couldn't move fast enough to Jackson's taste so they could tussle in the grass. Hunter was Jack's best buddy till he moved away.  They were the canine version of Abbott and Costello.  The new family moved in and they brought home Archie the Soft Coated Wheaton Terrier.  Now Jackson has a dog with stamina to play with.  The funny thing about dogs is they sort things out on their own.  They understand the pack, they understand how to find peace.  Wish their human pack leaders could do the same.

Jackson has added so much to my life.  Yes, it's true.  It's harder to travel.  Spur of the moment trips are a thing of the past.  So are some adventures.  But he has been the very best gift and has been my very best teacher along the way.   

Ed - The Perfect Party Favor

Ed lost whatever inhibitions he was genetically predisposed to during the 1920's.   His dad, a captain of the Sioux Falls' Fire Engine company, died in the 1918 flu epidemic leaving two sons and a daughter.  His mother moved back to her hometown and it soon became apparent that the boys were too much to handle.  So on a dry, dusty summer day, the battered black Ford drew up to the Odd Fellow's Home in Dell Rapids and two little boys were given into the care of the retirees and staff of the rest home.  The adventure of Ed's life began there and it ended 80 years later around the same time he stopped buying green bananas. 

This one's for Ed.

"Where are you from and what do you do?" said the man crossing my front yard.  An old curmudgeon smoking unfiltered cigarettes lived in the pink house next door to mine.  Who lives in pink houses anyway?  This coarse, surly, old man did.  "It's my wife's favorite color and her only request after following me around the world was for a house she could call our own and to paint it pink."  "My name's Ed."

Ed's stories played out like a technicolor movie.  Where scrappy boys of 8 and 10 would hustle the staff, terrorize the nursing aides and listen intently to the stories of the WWI veterans who were living out their last days entertaining the kids with tales of the Great War.  Where the protagonist starts chain smoking at 14 and is reunited with his mother only to find out that it was because a young man's strength is an asset, not a liability, to making money on the surrounding farms.  Where that move sets the stage for the hero to meet the love of his life - Mo.

Before enlisting in the Navy in the late 1930's, Ed and his brother did a stint in the CCC building Iron Mountain Road out in the Hills.  He rode the rails across South Dakota in empty train cars on the weekends or when he was needed back on the farm.  "Gettyburg's sheriff was the best.  He'd figure when we'd be on the cars, take us off and give us something to eat.  You'd get a hell of a lecture but the food was worth it."

He went to the South Pacific looking for Amelia Earhart, was in Pearl Harbor years before its destruction and had a chance to join the crew who would support one of Admiral Byrd's expeditions to Antarctica.   He came home ready to settle down, married his high school sweetheart and then the "Japs bombed Pearl Harbor" - that's how he talked.  He and his brother were sent back to the Pacific.  

It took forever to get home after the peace treaty had been signed.  There were only so many ships, and it took days, sometimes weeks to get from point A to point B and he'd pass from one ship to the next in his haphazard logistical voyage heading east.  "Whenever you could catch a ship headed to the east you did.  No one knew when you'd return home."  It turned out to be a great surprise for Mo when he appeared at the bottom of the apartment building steps.  Cue the background music.

Coming home, he missed the service and found it difficult to make ends meet.  So he enlisted again, only this time in the army.  Now based in Japan, he was providing support for the police action in Korea.  Calling Korea a police action pissed Ed off, I only did it once.  War is war and he saw action at Inchon, Iwon, Ulsan, Hungnam and the second landing at Inchon.     

After Korea, they were off to France.  He didn't have much nice to say about the French.  Rebuilding efforts were in earnest and Berlin was the epicenter for the Cold War.  He passed through what would be known as Checkpoint Charlie a few months before the wall was completed.  He also provided coordination services for the crew filming "The Longest Day".  I loved those stories best.  "That Zanuck fella would prance into the officer's club all gussied up, you'd never see him without some fancy scarf tied up around his neck." Or another favorite, "Eddie Albert was a really nice fella when he wasn't drinking but he was pretty much drinking all the time." 

A forty year old he said had no place trying to keep up with the 18 year old enlisted men so he passed on an opportunity to go back to Asia as an advisor.  "My time was over and it was probably a good thing."  He was one of the very few service men to ever reach the highest enlisted rank in two branches of service.   I don't believe that is possible now. 

So they came home. Bought a house. Painted it pink.  Mo died the year I moved in next door.  She had severe dementia and he placed her up to the Odd Fellows Home in Dell Rapids for her final days.  He'd come home and report back to me on all the comings and goings and when she was gone he was deeply saddened by her passing.

During the week he would drive his Chrysler down to the VFW for breakfast and lunch, smoking, talking politics and swapping stories.  During the day he would put on his uniform and conduct flag ceremonies on behalf of the VFW.  He never, ever passed up a chance to talk to the kids at the Children's Home Society.  His story, he felt, was one they could connect with. 

Toward evening he'd watch for me to come home and if I wasn't outside within thirty minutes he'd be at my door, saying "Coming out?".  Unless it was Wednesday.  On Wednesday he'd go over to the Center for Active Generations, he called it degenerates, to dance.  He'd come home exhausted having danced into the night with a whole bevy of ladies - some he said danced better than others.  There he met a North Dakotan with a deep German brogue.  The two of them became inseparable.  She'd take the bus to the pink house and he'd take her home in the Chrysler.

He'd interrogate all of the bums he proclaimed I dated and he'd come to every family gathering I hosted.  He didn't need an invitation, he would just walk over when he saw the guests gathering.  Someone would always give him his classic opening line by asking him his age. "Well, you know I don't buy green bananas anymore" and he would close at the end of a night's stories with "I was so poor the only thing a thief would get from robbing me is experience".  Pocketbook poor but rich in life.

He was demanding and intrusive.  He wouldn't take no for an answer.  And underneath it all, was that six year old boy on an adventure.  He golfed, attended Mardi Gras, and as a retired prison guard, signed up to watch hospitalized prisoners after 9/11 way into his eighties. 

He hadn't been feeling well through December of '03 and in January I got a call.  "I got some bad news today - small cell lung carcinoma.  The doctor says I got maybe six weeks.  Said the smoking didn't cause it.  I'd sure like to make it to Valentine's Day though.  Mo died on February 14.  I'd sure like to see her again then."

He planned his own funeral. Asked his own pallbearers to carry him. Picked out his uniform, had it laundered and mended.  Then his son, son-in-law and grandson moved in to the pink house.  They played cards, chain smoked Camels, and told the funniest stories.  I would sit by Ed's side each night and take in what I later called a sacred journey - life to death.

When he left the pink house by wheelchair for inpatient hospice care, it was spring - Easter to be exact.  He had called the week before and let me know that he wouldn't be around to ride with me in the convertible one last time.  I told him not to worry, as his presence would always be felt.  And on a Saturday I went to say good bye.  I was off to meet a bum.  He had me bend down - "no more jewelry" he said.  I laughed.  My closest family and friends will know what that means.  A last little piece of advice, not nearly as colorful as "got a middle finger, then use it." but his message was conveyed.

The formal send off was sad, but the impromptu party that night with his family was ridiculously fun.  There was drinking, karaoke, gambling, and chain smoking.  And then there were stories of Ed, the perfect party favor.

The Finale

Tonight is the American Idol Finale.  I don't usually pay much attention to the show.  Until something happened two years ago to change that.   

Several friends came to gather at the funeral of a colleague who drank himself to death on a sad May day.  It's a blunt statement but factual.  I gave his family credit for not hiding the pain he, and they, went through as they reflected on his life at the service.  He was a great guy who had a serious disease.  He also had this terrific voice and they played a recording of him doing "Tomorrow's a Brand New Day" for the recessional.  There wasn't a dry eye in the house.  I called alot of friends I hadn't talked to in awhile on the way home that morning.  One of those phone calls went something like this...

"Hi Tim.  We haven't talked in awhile, what are you up to?" 
"Hi. Hey, I'm glad you called. I have a favor to ask of you." 
       Since favors are Tim's specialty, this is no surprise.
"I'm helping out with a daschund rescue charity auction." 
       This is a new twist to favors.
"And you are the only person I know who could buy two tickets, backstage passes and wrap party tickets to the American Idol Finale next week. They really aren't that much." 
       American Idol?  That's still on huh? This can't be for real. 
"Well Tim I can't go because I have a board meeting." 
"Oh."
       Disappointment seeped through the line. 
"Well I just wanted to help out the daschunds and my friend who is organizing the auction."
"So how did these tickets get into your friend's hands?"
"Someone connected to the show has daschunds."
       OK, that makes sense.
"Well then, given the morning, happy birthday."
"SERIOUSLY?"
"Sure, consider it a thank you for all the design work you've done around the house at no comp."
"COOL!  But I don't have anyone to go with."
      And I thought this would be easy. 
"I'll find you someone to go with."

The first person I called - who knows and likes Tim. 
"I have Season Finale tickets to AI, want to go?" 
"No, I wouldn't know anyone." 

Next text message. 

"Do you watch AI?" 
"Yes, why?"
"I have Finale tickets for next week." 
"Really?" 
"Yes."
"Can you take time off work?"
"Yes"
"Happy Birthday and btw you're going with Tim."
"Nice!"

I sent them on their way the day of the show.  I got a text picture of them holding their tickets in a cab they'd taken to collect them.  Two rows back from where Seacrest did his audience shots.  Nice. 

Let's see, Black Eyed Peas, Steve Martin, Lionel Ritchie, Rod Stewart, KISS, Queen Latifah, Keith Urban, Cyndi Lauper, Queen rocked the house.  Nice.  Better than nice actually. 

Sometimes good things come during sad times.  Sometimes good things originate with daschunds.  They had an awesome time and I was just a touch envious of their ability to go at the drop of a hat and experience the moment.  I had my own moments though on that drive home, reconnecting, and the AI story was only one of the many I gathered on that day.   Perhaps tomorrow is a brand new day, but so too is today.

Holiday meals are synonymous with family stories.  Mostly recycled ones.  Some holiday meals become family stories - I have at least one of those that involves exploding pipes.  Last winter, as my sisters and I gathered with the next generation of family, we shared a story that both fascinated and intrigued the thirty and twenty something year old's present.  It happened in the 1940's - way before my time but we can thank mom for keeping the story alive over the years.  That's where this story begins.

It's summer on the high plains.  Hot and sticky.   My sister and I were on our way to Sioux Falls with mom, a field trip of sorts.  We were probably twelve and sixteen respectively at the time and headed to the Argus Leader microfiche room.    Mom told us a story on the way in.

Farm families were close back in the day.  You knew a stranger from the rooster tail their car dust kicked up as it appeared a half mile down the gravel road.  When your dad and I were first married, we had a hired man who lived with us on the farm.  Not for long, just through the harvest.  Didn't know really much about him.  Well that man eventually married my cousin and they had a little girl.  The man wasn't right and he killed both his wife and himself back in the forties - leaving the girl without her parents.  Today, we're going to look up the newspapers from that time.   It was a very big story and I want you kids to read about it.  There is a girl, now a woman, who doesn't know her mom's family.   She was raised by her father's side and none of us know whatever happened to her.  Perhaps someday she'll return looking for answers and it will fall upon you to fill in the pieces.

Mom was not kidding when she said the story made the headlines.  Taking the reels of microfiche out of storage container after storage container, it took us about an hour to pin down the exact timeframe.  The case was worthy of a week's worth of front page stories.  First there was the disappearance.  Young mother didn't come in to work.  Next there was the investigation into the disappearance followed by news of finding the bodies in a car parked along a gravel road the next day just outside the city limits.  The conclusions were quickly drawn and the police were asked whether they had done everything they could in a case that started with domestic violence.  It was a different time then, the case was closed and the reporters moved on.  Yet there was a child.  For reasons that will forever be lost to time, the child was released to the paternal grandparent's care.  The maternal grandmother spent her life savings hiring lawyers and investigators to find and return the child but it was money spent that would never deliver any return.  She died in the 70's never seeing her grandchild grow from a toddler to a woman.

It's now 1993, some fifty years since the disappearance and nearly twenty since our field trip to the over heated newsroom.  It is spring, June to be precise, and two strangers entered town.  They had started their day in the same microfiche room at the Argus looking only to find a woman's obituary.  By the end of their reading they came to know the circumstances of her death and it pointed them to a small town fifteen miles to the north.

Starting with a phone call to the church the woman's family was associated with according to the news accounts they had read, the strangers asked the pastor if he knew of the family.  The name wasn't familar and generations had passed, he was moving his family that day to Michigan or he would take the strangers out to the township cemetary where the woman was buried.  Instead they made their way to down to Main Street. 

They stopped at the weekly newspaper office, it was noon and closed for the lunch hour.  So they walked down the block that made up the whole of downtown and stopped at the local cafe.  They hold the door for an elderly gentleman to pass through.  His walk was slow, his balance assisted by two canes. 

Making their way to the counter, they asked the woman behind the cashier's till if she had heard of the family name or knew where the township cemetary was located.  "No, but I'll bet the man who you held the door open for might know."   They came out of the storefront looked to the east and saw the old man just now approaching his car.  "Excuse us sir but we are looking for the resting place of a family member."  They relayed the details of what they had learned that morning and he said, "I know who you are.  While I am old and in no shape to take you there, there is a woman who lives close by to where you will find what you're after. Here's how you find her."

And on a June afternoon, with her dog Cindy by her side, mom opened the porch door cautiously to the strangers who had arrived bearing out-of-state license plates.  The woman in her early fifties said, "My name is Shirley".  Mom replied simply, "We've been looking for you".