Surrounded By Friends And Family

At a recent gathering with friends I heard the unfortunate news that a longtime mutual friend had recently passed away.
Nobody had many details. All that was known was that a friend, younger than us, was gone.

In time, I went online to find his obituary published in a suburban Boston newspaper.
He left behind three children and an ex-wife.
He is survived by both of his parents, his two brothers and his only sister.

The notice mentioned that he, “died unexpectedly in his home”.
There was no mention of being, “surrounded by family and friends”.
I always look for that in the announcement when someone passes away.

Being surrounded by loved ones is, in my view, a great way to live, and just seems, particularly at the time of last departure, like the way, if given a choice, that I’d like to go.

At that same gathering of friends where I heard of our friend passing away we discussed our high school and college days.

One friend mentioned all the hard work he put in during his high school years.
We graduated together and I mentioned to him that I always thought high school was a breeze and that I didn’t recall studying at all. I seemed to remember it more as a ‘just having to show up to pass’ kind of thing.

Afterwards I felt bad about contradicting him, and perhaps appearing to belittle his efforts.
It bugged me a bit, but I didn’t have time to address it with him before we headed out of town to visit our granddaughters.

When in Boston we were excited to see the progress the 5 year-old is making towards learning to read. Her moms have made it fun by using letters on tag-board that fit in a pocket to form words for her to read.
S “sss”
I “i”
T “tah”

S-I-T.
“Sssitah”
“Sit”

She seems to be learning quite a few words rapidly with this system.

We also noticed though that her not quite 2 year-old little sister likes to play the game too and may be learning her letters along with older sister.

We laughed at the thought of a child as young as two learning the roots of reading, but then the lightbulb flickered on over my head.

Family Social Science was a major emphasis of my studies at the UofM.
The courses I took placed very little credence in the stereotypes typically listed for birth order placing higher priority on the relationships formed within family units instead.
But I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps there may be some benefits gained by when and where one is born.

In the movie, A FEW GOOD MEN, in the courtroom scene where the prosecutor, Captain Ross (played by Kevin Bacon), in an effort to dispel the notion that Code Reds - when Marines punish members of their own unit - occur, questions witness Corporal Barnes (played by Noah Wylie). Ross asks Barnes to show him, in the Standard Operating Procedure Manual for Rifle Security Company Guantanamo Bay, where the section on Code Reds is.

Barnes says there is no section in that book on Code Reds.
That is true, Code Reds are not in the manual since they are not an official Marine activity.

Representing the defendants in the court martial trial, and attempting to show that not all things that the Marines do in Guantanamo Bay appear in their Standard Operating Procedure Manual, Lieutenant Daniel Kaffee (played by Tom Cruise) then asks Barnes to show him the part of the manual that outlines where the mess hall is.
Barnes explains that that is not in their either.
At meals times you just followed the crowd.
You just learned from the others that lived there and knew where the mess hall was.

You may have seen this logic question that NatGeo published a few years back.
Which way is this bus heading?
Left? Or right?
Researchers at NatGeo have found that very few adults can answer this question correctly and most that do get it correct admit that they only guessed the correct answer.
Yet 80% of 10 year-olds know the answer and can tell you why they answered correctly.

Kids can answer it because they are more inclined to ride buses or at least interact with them far more often as a routine part of their day.
Can you answer the question?

Perhaps you have seen this other logic question.

If not, it can be difficult to figure out.
Once you’ve been exposed to the answer though, it becomes very simple.

You need to connect the 9 dots with 4 straight lines without lifting your hand from the paper once you start until all 9 are connected.

What does any of this mean?

Well, I think it helps explain why high school was so much easier for me, the youngest child from a family of five, than it was for my friend, the oldest child in his family.
By the time I set foot in Lincoln High School I had been exposed, second-hand, to so many of the experiences that were new to many of my friends. I’d learned so many of the lessons by osmosis from my brother and three sisters that preceded me.

Plus, the added bonus of being the fifth of five was that my parents applied very little pressure by the time I came along. They’d pretty much seen and done it all with my older siblings and while I shouldn’t say they didn’t care, they definitely didn’t sweat the small stuff, so neither did I.
So, things were pretty much a breeze for me.

We gain so much from friends and family. More than many realize.
Trivial facts.
Academic knowledge.
Life lessons.
Friendships, and enduring love.

It all works out for the best as long as we stay surrounded by friends and family.

****************************

In North America 80% of children will correctly tell you that the bus is travelling to the left since there is no door visible from the side we are viewing. The door to enter the bus is on the back side away from our view and would be on the left which is the front of the bus.

In Australia, where the driver sits on the other side of the bus so the door is on the opposite side, most children will tell you correctly that the bus is heading to the right.

Here is the solution to the other puzzle.

  

Godspeed Jeff Svendsen! You are missed, and I'm honored to have called you my friend.

AT LONG LAST SIR...

One of the more famous lines of American political rhetoric was uttered back in 1954.
The United States was in the middle of the Red Scare at the time and Senator Joseph McCarthy
was making a name for himself claiming, with little if any proof, that he had the names of
“hundreds of communists” that had infiltrated the US Government.

McCarthy, a Senator from Wisconsin, was gaining political traction with some American citizens.
The US Senate held the Army-McCarthy hearings to investigate McCarthy’s claims.

Joseph Welch, the chief counsel for the Army for the hearings quickly became
exasperated at Senator McCarthy’s unrelenting attacks upon the character of Fred Fischer, a
young associate lawyer at Welch’s Boston law firm, Hale and Doerr.

Fischer was not even involved in the hearings, but had, at one time, been a member of the
National Lawyers Guild, which McCarthy believed to be a Communist organization.
McCarthy attempted to besmirch the reputation and ruin the career of Mr. Fischer anyway just to
score points against Mr. Welch.

McCarthy’s attack on Fred Fischer was excessive and uncalled for.
In response to his spurious accusations Mr. Welch, on June 5th, 1954, finally stated,

“Until this moment, Senator, I think I never really gauged your cruelty or your recklessness.
Have you no sense of decency, sir? At long last, have you left no sense of decency?”

Many who have examined public affairs feel THAT was the point at which the McCarthy
hearings, and the Red Scare, took a crucial turn. The hearings petered out in a week. That
December McCarthy was condemned by the US Senate. He became an alcoholic and died in
1957 at age 48.

His legacy, the term ‘McCarthyism’, is understood to mean making reckless and
unsubstantiated accusations and/or leveling audacious attacks on a person’s character.
Hardly the way one would want to be remembered, nor the actions most would like their name
attached to.

In 1954, when Mr. Welch posed that important question to Senator McCarthy in Washington
DC, half a world away, in Southeast Asia, the newly independent country of Laos was
enmeshed in a civil war that would rage on for 22 years (1953 to 1975).

On August 18th of 1956, a kid named Joe was born in Philadelphia Pennsylvania. He grew to
become a very skilled athlete playing both basketball and football in college and later playing in
the National Football League despite the fact that he was raised, from age 11, in an orphanage
after his father died when Joe was only 9 years old.

Near the end of the war in Laos, 1973 to be exact, a boy named Anousone was born in a
Laotian village. He too was separated from his family of origin, but was raised by his extended
family. His grandfather taught him how to cook. In time, Anousone reunited with his family in
Minnesota. Like many people from war-torn areas of the world the United States represented
their best chance at a better life.

In 1980 Joe began his professional football career. Near the end of that season a kid named
Phillip was born in Duluth, Minnesota. Phillip would go on to become a football player too, but
he’d gain more acclaim coaching rather than playing the sport.

Joe Senser was an all-pro tight end for the Minnesota Vikings. He is also part owner of the
popular Joe Senser’s Kitchen Bar sports bars. The Roseville restaurant often hosts radio shows
that feature coaches from the University of Minnesota like the fellow named Phillip John (PJ)
Fleck. Anousone Phanthavong was the unfortunate victim that Joe Senser’s second wife Amy
struck and killed as he re-filled his car’s gas tank on a freeway exit ramp.

I mention these people, and their sad tale, to tell you another rather sad story.

I first became aware of Amy Senser when a worker at the Hopkins Public Library pointed her
out to me one evening. The worker knew that I used to work with the UofM’s football team for
some time and thought I’d be interested to know that the quiet, pleasant lady in the corner was
married to the famous ex-Viking Joe Senser. I hate to intrude on people, and fame doesn’t really
impress me all that much so I didn’t introduce myself preferring to let Amy have her privacy.

The next time I saw Amy Senser, in October of 2014, was on a city bus heading from Hopkins
(where I board) through Edina, the upscale suburb (where Amy boarded) to the Hennepin
County Government Center where I catch the light rail train to the UofM. On that day Amy
departed the bus at the same stop as me, but she walked to the Government Center. She had
completed her prison time from her conviction for killing Anousone Phanthavong and I assumed
there was legal paperwork and governmental administrative hurdles for her to clear so she
could move on with her life.

I get that the crime she was convicted of was terrible, and that the loss to the Phanthavong
family is horrible. It’s a tragic tale. But our system of jurisprudence is designed to dispense
justice.
She was convicted, sentenced, and did her time.
According to the laws presently in place justice has been served.

Seeing Amy on that bus, fidgeting, shifting in her seat, looking miserable and not being able to
relax at all, I began to wish that I had introduced myself to her years earlier in the library if only
so that I could reintroduce myself that morning on our commute and hopefully appear as a
calming force for her. That bothered me for a while since I truly believe that we’re all in this thing
together and that where we can we owe it to our fellow man (or woman) to lighten their load as
much as possible.

Time moved on however, and so did I. Since Amy was out of my sight she was pretty much out of my mind after that day.

Fast forward to April 2019. It was one of those early spring days so beautiful that you can’t resist
getting outside even if it’s just to take a walk around the neighborhood.
That’s what my wife and I did.
At one point we were amazed to see a couple of wild turkeys perched up in the trees.
We stopped to watch them for a few minutes.

As we proceeded down the path a lady approached from the other direction walking her two
dogs. She seemed to be so at peace with the world. I mentioned to her the turkeys she was
about to encounter hoping that her dogs wouldn’t spook and bolt out of her control.
She smiled, said thanks, and told us that we were in for a special treat.
She explained that as we turned the corner just behind her, but a few yards ahead of us, there
was the most beautiful sunset going on and we were about to be amazed.
She was right.

It was an amazing sunset that Amy Senser pointed out to us, but I was more amazed at the
sense of calm she exuded. She seemed to be in such a better place than the last time I saw
her.
It made me so happy.

Have you ever noticed that you can go months, even years, without thinking about a person,
place, or thing, and then they appear twice in rapid succession?

Returning home a few moments after seeing Amy Senser I checked my Facebook feed and saw
that Gopher football coach PJ Fleck would be broadcasting a radio show later that week from
Joe Senser’s restaurant as a prelude to the 2019 Spring Football Game.

Now I’m not a fan of PJ Fleck, I think his all flash with very little substance act is tiresome.
Evidently, with season ticket sales dropping faster than the watermelons David Letterman used
to throw off of the roof of the Ed Sullivan Theater, many “fans” seem to agree with me. I didn’t
renew my season tickets this year either. I try not to be overly vocal about my dislike of Fleck
though those that really know me know I long for the day that he moves along to another
coaching position elsewhere.

Evidently not everyone is able to show such restraint.

One of the comments on the Facebook post about the Spring Game radio broadcast asked,

“Fleck at Joe Senser’s? Are we all supposed to get drunk and kill a guy while driving home
afterwards?”

I had to reread it to make sure I saw what I saw.
I was stunned. And saddened.
It seemed to be an obvious, ham-handed and inappropriate, attack on Amy Senser in the guise of a shot at PJ Fleck.

The only thought that occurred to me was,
“At long last sir, have you no sense of decency?”

Now I’ve said inappropriate things before. I’ve even posted dumb things on social media.
I’ve posted stupid remarks, and I’ve posted smart remarks in a stupid way.
But the unwarranted cruelty of that comment still stuns me.

In researching the Sensers, after seeing Amy on the walking path, and reading that harsh Facebook comment, I found out that in addition to Joe being raised in an orphanage, Amy serving time in prison, Joe is now struggling to walk and is barely able to speak anymore as a result of two strokes he has suffered recently.
Additionally their 13 year old granddaughter recently committed suicide.
Amy and Joe are leaning on each other though, working together on their marriage and Joe's rehab.

To be sure, we all have successes in life, and we all suffer hardships, and karma can rear its
ugly head at times too. All I know is that the best we can do is rejoice with our loved ones, and
offer support when we’re able.

I just wish more of us would come to appreciate that, and show a lot less cruelty and much more
decency to those around us, whether we personally know them or not.

I know that’s my newest goal at long last.

BOTH SIDES NOW

“It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is
summer in the light, and winter in the shade.”
Charles Dickens
GREAT EXPECTATIONS

On a recent Saturday in March my Lovely Bride and I, with two friends, visited the Landscape
Arboretum to get in a nice walk, to get some sun on our faces, and to see the sights.

I’ve heard the University of Minnesota described as “...one of the glories of our state...”.
In my opinion many portions of the UofM deserve to be lauded, none more so than the
Arboretum.

Nature’s colors that day seemed muted since March is a bit early in the growing season at our
latitude. The grounds at the Arb will explode with color in the coming weeks when plants come
to life, things green up, and the tulips bloom with a full rainbow of hues.

On that particular day the brightest colors to behold were worn by our fellow patrons out strolling
in their spring jackets while some of them still sported winter hats and sweaters.
At the end of our walk half of our party headed inside the main building to take care of some
business. The other two of us stayed outside to enjoy the beautiful sunshine.

A friendly gray haired lady on the patio slowly walked past us so we exchanged pleasantries
with her. Her husband followed closely behind. He had a fairly extensive camera setup with him
(by which I mean ANYTHING more involved than the smartphone camera that I carry).
I asked him whether he thought he got any good photos that day, or if I had maybe seen some
of his pictures on the arboretum website or in the emails they send to members so often.

I knew that my question sparked an interest with him because his eyes lit up.

Many have heard me tell of the lesson my dad taught me many years ago that if you talk to
people long enough you will invariably find some common ground.
Friends you both know,
a shared hometown,
or even common interests.
As I’ve traveled through life I’ve found this axiom of dad’s to be true more often than not.
That day at the Arb was just the most recent example.

As we spoke that day I found that the 80 year old photographer and I are we both nature loving
Arboretum members.
He’s a retired college professor from the University of Washington where our companions’
brother works.

He did research at UW and I do invoicing and financial reporting at the UofM for professors like
him.
He’s a blogger and, by virtue of the fact that you’re reading this, you know that I am too.

My newest friend Professor John fished a business card, that gave his contact information and the web address for his blog, out of his wallet.
Are he and I the only ones giving business cards like that out anymore? We just might be.

While I’m sure far more unites us than divides us, it wasn’t until I got home, fired up my
computer, and checked out John’s blog, did I see some of the differences between us.

Many of the neuroscience professor’s blogposts are science-based and very informative
complete with many photographs he’s taken. My blogposts, in comparison, are more randomly
observational, I hope entertaining, and chock-full of stock photos culled from the internet.

I’m a lifelong Minnesotan. Professor John has lived in many different places.
And it’s a travel story from his blog that got me thinking...

I’ve told many of you the story of my father’s death, at age 80, on January 9th, 2012.
He drew his last breath at 12:25 am.
7 minutes later the moon went full in the central time zone.
Since that night I sense my dad’s presence and feel secure of his guidance every month when
the moon goes full. I feel as if he’s checking in with me.
I now savor those nights when the moon shines so bright that all things around me are clearly
illuminated despite it being nighttime.
It is good for my soul and my mental health.

My new friend Professor John may see nights like those quite differently however.

He was born in Czechoslovakia in 1939.
His family was very anti-Nazi going as far as serving in the resistance.
In 1941, at age 2, as Hitler rose to power, John and his family fled to America.

In 1946, when World War II ended, John and his family returned to their homeland.
Unfortunately in February of 1948 the Communists took over Czechoslovakia.
By April John’s father was arrested, imprisoned, and charged with anti-state activities.
If convicted of those charges John’s father would face the death penalty.
Fortunately by summer he was released from prison, but he was removed from his job at the
leather factory that had been the family business for over 150 years.

Constantly harassed and followed by government agents, their life as they knew it destroyed,
John’s family needed to do something.
The almost 10 year old at the time John now recalls;

     “Rather than face ongoing terror, my parents decided to try to escape from Czechoslovakia a
     second time. I remember our escape very vividly— waiting for the moon to be obscured by
     clouds so we couldn’t be seen, carefully watching the tall guard towers with their machine guns
     and searchlights, holding tight to the rope that provided the only way for our group of six to stay
     together in the darkness and the mist, alternately running and dropping to the ground across the
     open, roughly plowed land at the border, crawling under the barbed wire, and repeating whole
     process until we crossed the remainder of the plowed land and entered the forest on the other
     side. This was the Russian Zone of post-war Austria, however, so we were still far from safety.
     Obviously, we ultimately made it.”
     https://naturesdepths.com/personal-roots/

For John and his family a bright moonlit night was life-threatening.
To me it’s life-affirming.
Both views are valid depending on one’s perspective.

In the song, BOTH SIDES NOW, Joni Mitchell looks at clouds, love, and life from both sides and
concludes that she doesn’t really KNOW any of them at all.
The song seems to contrast the optimism of youth and the complications of adulthood.
Seeming simplicity versus actual complexity.

In my life I’ve been fortunate as a boy to be a son and grandson, now, as a man I am blessed to
be a father and a grampa. I’ve looked at both sides of those relationships and I’m not sure I’ve
really figured them out either. I just plug away as best I can.

Maybe we’re not meant to really understand some of these things, but perhaps the point is to at
least understand that THERE ARE BOTH SIDES, and that, regardless where you’re standing
now, or who you’re standing with, we’ve all traveled different roads to arrive right here, right
now, and if you make the time to listen, the stories are pretty amazing!

Who knew?!

MONA LISAS AND MAD HATTERS

 On more than one occasion I’ve thrown out the challenge, that’s so far gone uncontested, that while in high school me and my friends were able to stand around drinking beer in our parents’ basements and garages while listening to the greatest variety of REALLY GOOD music - better music than any generation before or since.

Heck, my kids listen to, and enjoy, the music of my generation. Dad even used some of our music in his worship services on Sunday mornings.

Boston, Cat Stevens, Journey, Springsteen, Boz Scaggs, Billy Joel, Steely Dan, Michael Jackson, and Elton John.
I believe these stars, and many others, too numerous to name, that performed the soundtrack of my youth, rose to prominence during my Junior and Senior High years.
Hearing many of their songs today takes me back to good times spent with great friends back in the day.

I myself never learned to read music nor to play an instrument.
Many of my classmates did though.
We had an excellent music program at Bloomington Lincoln High but those resources were lost on me.
I did, however, go to school with some EXTREMELY musically gifted kids.
Through talent and hard work they honed their skills and performed at many games, concerts, and other school gatherings.

On a recent trip with old friends to Wally’s Roast Beef in Bloomington we noticed, on a shelf of memorabilia, an old vinyl album made by the marching band from Lincoln High our senior year.
Who knew?
I wished that Wally’s had a turntable and stereo so I could play the album and hear those tunes from our school days too. Just looking at the list of my classmates on the back of the dust jacket brought A LOT of memories flooding back.

In 1697, William Congreve, in his poem, THE MOURNING BRIDE, wrote that, “Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.”

I’d also add, far less eloquently than Mr. Congreve said it, that music also has the power to transport us through time, to hearken old memories, and to change and refine how we remember those golden days too.

In my youth I was blessed with a lot of good friends, great schools, and very good health.
Oh sure I had a few minor medical issues. Stitches, broken bones, and more than my share of ear infections, but by comparison, I think I was pretty damn fortunate that all of my issues were really minor.

My classmates were a varied lot.
When thinking of my high school class I’m reminded of the lyric from an Elton John song,
“…Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters,
sons of bankers, sons of lawyers…”
To be sure, there were some classic beauties, some crazies, and sons and daughters of people of ALL professions.
We also had a classmate named Karl Nygaard.

Karl was a guy who was not as fortunate as most of us health-wise.
His twin sister graduated the year before Karl and most of my friends did.
Karl suffered from hydrocephalus, a condition where an accumulation of cerebrospinal fluid occurs within the brain.
Hydrocephalus symptoms can include a larger than usual head, double vision, headaches, mental impairment, and consistently elevated pressure inside the skull.
Karl had a distinctive, tripping, gait, overly active salivary glands, and cognitive challenges that we, as his peers, could not fully grasp.
What many of us knew and appreciated most was that Karl was just a genuinely nice guy.
Like most of us he loved to stop and chat in the hallways between classes.
He liked to feel as if he belonged.
I think many of us admired Karl because he had to work very hard to achieve many of the things that came so much easier for most of us.

Times were simpler back then. I believe there was an overriding live and let live attitude like the lyric from the Paul McCartney and Wings theme song from a James Bond 007 movie,
“When you were young and your heart was an open book,
You used to say live and let live.
(You know you did, you know you did, you know you did).”

In the six years I went to school with him I never once saw or heard a classmate disparage, tease, or bully Karl. My classmates didn’t roll that way. Karl was one of us so we treated him as such.

The movie, URBAN COWBOY wouldn’t be released until 2 years after we graduated, but a few of my friends and I caught the bug early. We used to wear cowboy hats and boots to parties and while bombing around town during our high school careers.

At our school, during the final week of the school year, the seniors could pretty much do whatever we wanted as long as we showed up sober and nobody got hurt.
So I wore my cowboy hat to school the last 5 days at Lincoln High.
Wednesday of that week my Behavioral Science instructor, Mr. Dimond, asked me,
“Are you going to wear that thing to graduation too?”

I’m not sure if everyone in the classroom that day actually saw the light bulb, in a thought bubble over my head, flicker on or not, but the seed had been planted, a plot was about to be hatched.
A ‘truly stupid gesture’ (ANIMAL HOUSE, 1978 Universal Pictures) would occur in a few days in front of all manner of friends, family, and assembled guests at the Bloomington Lincoln High School class of ’78 graduation commencement ceremony.

I’m not certain whether it was the cowboy hats we donned seconds after we passed the faculty member who stood guard to prevent such hijinks (Yeah he was none too happy), or the “HI MOM” sign we flashed to the crowd while our classmates threw their mortarboard hats to the sky, but we made an impression that night. Some liked it, others hated it, but many remembered it.

For a lot of years wearing a cowboy hat to graduate from high school in was pretty much my most vivid memory of that event.

Fast forward to September 22^nd, 2012, that was the day that our classmate Karl Nygaard passed away.

As typically happens at funeral visitations I was relieved to see a familiar face or two at the cemetery chapel. One of my sisters was a high school classmate of Karl’s oldest sister.
I came to know her too, thanks to their friendship.
After signing the guest book, filling out a memorial card, and looking at the photo boards, I was able to talk with Karl’s sister.

We exchanged pleasantries, and small talk, and stories of Karl.
Then I heard a story that changed the way I will always remember that graduation night.

Karl’s sister reminded me that on the night that more than 600 of us heard our names announced and walked across the stage that was set up on the field at Bloomington Stadium, the loudest cheers, led by the graduating students and mirrored by the family and friends in the stands, was not for a star athlete, the valedictorian, nor the group as a whole.
Spontaneously, when Karl’s name was announced, an ovation began and grew to a level neither Karl nor his family ever imagined he’d achieve in his lifetime.
I found out that our graduation night was definitely the happiest night of Karl’s life, and one of the proudest nights for his family.
They were proud, not just for Karl, but for the kindness shown by his classmates and the entire crowd in attendance that June night in 1978. *

In my view that night no longer belongs to any Mona Lisas nor Mad Hatters.
I will forevermore remember that night as Karl’s night.

A forever-lasting warm memory was made because a whole group of very decent people performed a kind and simple gesture.

And now whenever I recall that night I think of Karl, his family, all of the friends, and families who gathered that night and I’m reminded of another lyric from the Elton John song,

“…And I thank the Lord for the people I have found,
I thank the Lord for the people I have found…”

*If you were in attendance at the graduation ceremony for the LHS class of ’78 Karl’s family wishes to thank you for making his night so incredibly special. They are eternally grateful to you all for being so kind.

ANGELS WALK AMONGST US

Coming of age in the 1970’s, in suburban Minneapolis, was a wonderful experience.
Doing so, in a parsonage, as the son of a preacher man added its own unique flavor.
As a PK (or Preacher’s Kid) we were pretty much expected to be in the back pew any and EVERY time that dad was in the pulpit.

Helping to fold church bulletins, sorting the monthly newsletters by zip code for mailing, and accompanying dad on some of his daily duties, kept life interesting for a young kid.

I remember thinking that being a minister might be kind of a sweet gig. Heck, ya preach a sermon and lead worship on Sunday morning and then the rest of your week is pretty much yours to do as you please.

Like most impressions I formed back then without doing much research I was sadly mistaken. A minister’s life, as I witnessed first hand, is really pretty busy.

There are weddings and funerals to officiate.
Hospital calls to make, nursing homes to visit, and many faith needs of the church members to be met.

There is local community outreach to engage in and even global needs to be addressed. There is the formal church hierarchy to deal with and EVERYONE in the congregation has an opinion on how you’re doing your job. Good and bad.

Some of the more memorable experiences I had were going with dad to a hospital burn unit to visit a patient who had requested a clergy visit. I’m sure my eyes were as big as saucers as they gowned us up in preparation for a short trip in to visit someone neither dad nor I knew, but there was a need so my father answered the call.
The pain and suffering on that hospital ward was profound.
Something I will never forget.

I also recall visiting an elderly church member at a nursing home so dad could give the man communion. I like to think I’m typically a pretty cool customer, but imagine my quandary when I was not sure what to do as dad looked at his small Bible to read a passage while the old man damn near swallowed the small glass communion cup.
I watched him roll it around in his mouth a time or two and then interrupted dad’s reading of the verse so that HE could fish it out of the man’s mouth.
I wasn’t going to do it!
Heck, that was the blood of Christ!
Who am I to mess with that?

 
I also recall on numerous occasions when dad would get a call from a particular local grocery store manager alerting him that there were day old baked goods that were going to be disposed of in a few days and that if dad wanted to come get them they would be free for the taking.

Dad would ask if I wanted to ride along and I’d get to help load the bakery items into our station wagon so we could take them to the food shelf at the Division of Indian Work in south Minneapolis.

The grocery guy was well aware, I’m sure, that it’d be far easier to just open the dumpster and pitch that unsold merchandise in and be done with it.
But this guy went the extra mile, made the extra effort.
He saw the value in donating those products to the less fortunate.
He didn’t need to do it, but to him it just made sense.
I was always amazed at his act of compassion and charity.

I don’t know how, where, or why my dad and that grocery guy came to meet and know each other. Dad has been gone 7 years now.
We said goodbye to that grocery guy today.

You see in my teen years I came to work with quite a few of the athletic teams at my high school as a student equipment manager. A lot of the guys from those teams are, to this day, some of the best friends I have.

While I was passing out tape, keeping stats, and slicing oranges for between periods energy boosters for the Bloomington Lincoln hockey team, one of the players on that team, nicknamed Lenny, was the grocery guy’s son.

Lenny is one of the funniest and nicest guys you’ll ever meet. We used to rollerblade on occasion back in the day, and some of our old slow-pitch softball exploits are the stuff of legends. Although he and I don’t see each other as often as I’d like it was nice to see him today, after too many years, but, like the cliche has it, the years kind of melted away as we talked.

As the post-funeral luncheon crowd dwindled and the volunteers cleared the tables I headed to the exit with other friends. Before leaving I had the opportunity to finally meet Lenny’s mom, the grocery guy’s widow.
I introduced myself as a friend of her son’s but pointed out to her that her husband and I went way back, even farther than Lenny and I.
I was happy to tell her the story of her husband’s generosity, caring, and human kindness.
I believe her voice caught a bit as she said, “That sounds so like him.”

Yes, that was EXACTLY him.
And he’s just one example why I’m convinced that there are angels that walk amongst us.

Grampa? Do you know him?

One of the greatest joys of my recent years is time spent with my kids and grandchildren.

I especially like it when I can spend some time one on one alone with them.

With the young ones our conversations are typically very light and often silly, but sometimes they make us - well maybe just me - think quite a little bit afterwards.

On a recent trip to Boston I had an opportunity to spend time alone with Ayla Elizabeth.
Since I’m a pushover when it comes to the granddaughters I let her ride in the stroller as we went to Ula, the local cafe where we like to split a popover, or two. She likes the eggy middle, while I favor the crusty exterior (No surprises there I guess). A New Orleans coffee for me, and a vanilla steamer for her completes our typical order.

As we navigated the narrow Jamaica Plain sidewalks the few blocks from home to the cafe that day we had to scoot around a couple of other pedestrians we passed by.
I said, “HI!” to both of them and probably made some quick, inane comment to them about the weather, or some other inconsequential matter, as grandparents on vacation are wont to do.

After each encounter, when the stranger was just out of earshot, Ayla asked,
“Grampa? Do you know him?”

Not wanting to screw up any STRANGER DANGER lessons she may have been learning at school or at home I said,
“Yes, he is an old friend of mine from a long time ago,”
even though I’d never before in my life seen either of those men.
I’ll probably spend some time in hell for lying to my grandchild, but I’ve found that with kids that young sometimes a little fib just makes more sense.

My first thought was about the different ways a man in his late fifties and an almost five year old girl need to approach the world these days.

She needs a hand to hold and a seasoned guide to help lead the way to keep her safe from harm.
On the other hand I can walk almost anywhere, and approach most people and situations without batting an eye.

My dad always chatted strangers up and it appears that I inherited the trait from him, so I guess you could say I come by it honestly.

In Minneapolis I can walk up to most homeless people I encounter and strike up a conversation and help them out in whatever way I can.
It’s fairly easy for me since I am male and feel far less threatened than many woman probably would be.
I am fortunate in that regard.

I’ve given Ayla money to put in the panhandlers’ jars on the streets in Boston along with the explanation that they weren’t as fortunate as Ayla and I and that s/he just needed a little bit of help right now.
I hold onto her hand as she makes those deposits.

Caught up in a flight delay (I actually missed my flight) on my return to Minneapolis at the end of that particular visit to Boston, I approached a group awaiting their Aer Lingus flight to Dublin. Their lilting Irish accents were a joy to listen to, so I told them as much, and thus began another friendly conversation amongst new friends.

On multiple occasions I’ve also struck up conversations with university presidents or other dignitaries. I take advantage of those opportunities when they present themselves as well. Rank or prestige doesn’t intimidate nor impress me much, so I probably don’t display as much reverence as they are accustomed to.
Whatever.

I have the opportunity to do A LOT of the things I do because of the fact that I’m a male of a certain age who doesn’t get hung up on pretenses, and isn’t afraid to be that “random guy” who talks to EVERYONE.
I’ve reached a point in life where I don’t worry about much.
Why should I?
Life’s too short for that.

I’ve never been nervous entering any room because I usually know someone there.
Whenever we go places where crowds are gathered I always expect to run into someone I know.
I’m somewhat disappointed if I don’t.
In those instances I typically try to meet someone new.

I have those luxuries because of who I am.
AND how I was born.
Specifically, a white man in America.

I was a freshman at the University of Minnesota, working with the Gopher football team as a student equipment manager the first time I EVER found myself to be a minority.
I’d gone to school with very few black people and actually really knew even fewer of them.
And now I was getting a crash course in
black and white,
differences and similarities, and,
disadvantage versus privilege,
in my new situation as a minority.

It was truly eye opening to see how privileged my upbringing was.
I never knew how good I had had it!

Whereas I’d always been able to travel anywhere I wanted in my hometown I now met people who had not EVER set foot on certain blocks in their neighborhoods because they were unsafe due to drugs, gangs, and violence of all sorts.

I met college athletes who had never known their fathers.
I heard stories of kids who were routinely followed by security most times they shopped.
I knew my dad and was never accused of shoplifting.

As I got to know my new friends better, by hearing their stories, and telling mine, it became increasingly clear that, deep down, we are ALL far more similar than we are different.
I was just born with A LOT more privilege than many of them.
The fact that I never even realized that this privilege existed (and that I was a beneficiary of it) until I reached age 18 attests to how saturated in it I was.

Over time, as we became more familiar with each other the differences we saw became less a matter of black versus white and more offense versus defense, X’s versus O’s, with the overarching sentiment being a bunch of individuals, each with their parts to play, pulling together for a common goal, as a team.
Everyone contributing their best.

Doing what they could.
All in it together.
Talking and listening were the keys.

Allegedly the Native American proverb is that one should,

“Walk a mile in another’s moccasins before judging them”.
I like that standard.
Again, talking and listening are crucial.
We’ve all walked differing paths to arrive at the point we are at now.
I realize that my path has been pretty damn easy to travel.
Many others have had far more difficult roads to navigate.
I acknowledge and appreciate that fact.

And these lessons, learned way back then, still inform my daily interactions today.

Whether you’re a
have or a have-not,
a millionaire or homeless,
a star or struggling,
I like to think I’ll treat you the same.
If given time we can talk.
And hopefully get to know and respect each other so that next time I’m asked I can HONESTLY answer the question with,
“Yes Ayla, I do know him. He’s a friend of mine.”

DO THE MATH

A long time ago I had heard that the human body, despite a few minor flaws, is pretty much an engineering marvel. Who am I to argue with that?

Of particular interest to me lately are the ears.

These technical wonders use skin, bone, cartilage, liquid, and nerves, to allow a baby born this morning to hear his mother sing him a lullaby just as well as they allowed Homo Habilis, the oldest human-like species, to detect and avoid predators roughly 2 million years ago.

But hearing is not the only function ears perform.

Additionally, the cochlea and liquid filled canals of the inner ear help us to physically keep our balance which aids us greatly in sitting, standing, and walking so we can move about our world.
Life would be far less interesting were we unable to get up, get out, and get together with others.
The mechanics built into our ears make that possible.

The fact that we have an ear on each side of our head not only makes many people’s eyesight better, since they help hold our eyeglasses on our face, but this placement of our ears also makes sound localization possible. The ears, in congress with the brain, give us the ability to differentiate the amplitude of sounds in each ear to help us determine where those sounds are coming from. That ability serves us well each and every day.

I’ve found that the most important aspect of ears, as they relate to the human body, is a point you’ve possibly heard me make before. I thought it was important years ago when a mentor explained it to me, and I’ve shared it often since then. To paraphrase him,

“We’re each given two ears and one mouth.
So it stands to figure that we should listen twice as much as we talk.
Do the math.”

I’ve often heeded that advice and have found it helpful in many situations.

In classroom settings it is helpful to absorb the lesson and gain the wisdom of others.
At work one can often learn best practices by asking a question and letting more seasoned employees tell you what works best and what doesn’t.
With family it is important to listen to their hopes, wishes, and concerns. Learning about family history through stories from elders serves a valuable purpose too.
And with friends it’s always great to hear what they’ve been up to and how they’re doing.

Listening more than talking can be useful when encountering strangers too.

I had an instance of this last Friday on my trip home from work.

My ride home involves two city buses with a connection from one to the other in the Lowry Hill neighborhood of south Minneapolis.

Timing is crucial.

If the 114 bus doesn’t get me to the bus stop outside the Sebastian Joe’s Ice Cream Shop in time I won’t be able to catch the 12 bus that runs past my street, a short walk from my home.
On an ideal day, with all of the moving parts properly aligning, my trip home takes about 45 minutes.
If the connection is missed at least a half hour is added to the commute.
I HATE missing the connection.
ESPECIALLY on a Friday when my weekend is beginning.

Last Friday as we approached my stop a bus was pulling away.
I asked the driver, a man I’ve never seen before, whether he could see which bus was ahead of us. He guessed it might be the 12 bus. I asked what the chances were that he could catch it since that was the bus I needed to be on.

He smiled, and took it as a challenge.
“I’ll get you on that bus!” he said.

GAME ON; cool.

I remained standing near the driver, but behind the federally mandated yellow passenger line, in order for the driver to safely operate the vehicle, and to allow me to rapidly exit the 114 bus in case we DID catch the 12.

In order to break the silence I asked the usual question I ask everyone on Friday,
“Big plans for the weekend?”
Then I listened.

I never knew that a Liar’s Contest nor a Christian Comedy show were actual things.
The 114 driver was trying to decide which of those he’d be attending on Saturday night.
He’d compete in the Liar’s Contest if he went, and he’d merely be a spectator at the Comedy show if he opted that way.

As we continued in pursuit of the 12 bus he mentioned to me that last year he’d placed second in the Liar’s Contest, but many in attendance told him he should have won it.

We got within a block of the 12, but a passenger on our bus rang the bell to exit at the next stop so we fell farther behind the 12.
I asked the driver what last year’s story was, so with a laugh he told me,

“The story goes that as a bus driver I had reached the end of my last route one day and was headed to the garage to park the bus and log out to head home.
Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a nun, in need of ride, waving me down.
Against my better judgement I stopped, and allowed her to board the bus.
The nun explained that she was running late and needed a ride to the Catholic church across the street from the bus garage I was headed towards anyway.
So I agreed to take her that far.
Upon reaching our destination I parked the bus and the nun asked how she might be able to repay my kindness.
I told her that a simple kiss on the cheek, as a blessing for peace, like in biblical times, would suffice.

She agreed but said I needed to answer two questions correctly before she could convey such a blessing.
I agreed, so she asked her first question.
‘Are you Catholic?’
I answered ‘Yes.’
Then she asked, ‘Are you married?’
And I answered, ‘No.’
I then offered my cheek for a kiss, but the nun twisted my head farther around and began furiously making out with me full on the lips!
And I returned the kisses with a fervor to match hers.
Once we broke the embrace I felt awful and told the nun that I was ashamed and felt like I was on an express bus to hell. Not only for making out with a nun, but because I had lied.
I’m not Catholic. I’m Baptist!
And, I’m not single, I’m married!
‘That’s alright,’ the nun replied, ‘I’m not a nun!

My name is Leroy, and I’m on my way to a costume party!”

We both shared a laugh at that lie and I kind of wondered what story might have topped that one in last year’s contest. We continued yo-yoing with the 12 bus getting closer and farther as passenger requested stops, and red traffic lights kept us from catching it.

I asked the driver if he knew the lie he’d tell this year if he decided to enter again.
He did. And he asked if I cared to hear it.
Of course I said yes.
So he told me this one too.

“As a younger man I was a modest, southern, small town preacher.
To emulate a vow of poverty, without actually taking a vow of poverty, I kept my car parked in my garage and used a simple bicycle as my humble means of transportation.
It played well with the townsfolk and especially with the members of my congregation.
People knew me by my bike.
I was told that the sight of my bike parked out front of the church on a Sunday morning brought a calming feeling to the congregation.
Imagine my surprise then that Sunday morning that I prepared my sermon at home and when ready to head to church I found that my bicycle was missing!
WHO STOLE MY BIKE?
I could scarcely imagine who would have the gall to pull off such a caper, but I intended to get to the bottom of it, and sooner rather than later!
I drove to church and before I could enter the building I ran into my nephew, who sensed my agitation so he asked me what was happening.
I told him that my bike had been stolen and that I intended to preach the Ten Commandments that day, with an emphasis on THOU SHALT NOT STEAL, with all of the fire and brimstone I could muster, in order to make whoever stole my bicycle feel guilty enough to confess their sin and return my bike!
I entered the pulpit and began slowly.
I built to a crescendo but stopped short of the Seventh Commandment, Thou Shalt Not Steal.

After the service my nephew pulled me aside and asked me what had just happened.
Why hadn’t I addressed the Seventh Commandment, Thou Shalt Not Steal?
So I explained to him what occurred.
The First Commandment, I spoke of the evils of loving money and viewing material goods as your God.
I got a little louder and more passionate for the Second Commandment decrying those that take the Lord’s name in vain.
And louder still for the Third when reminding my flock to dedicate the Sabbath to the Lord.
I turned it up even higher for the Fourth and Fifth, honoring your father and mother, and thou shalt not kill.
Then came the Sixth Commandment, Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery.
THAT’S when I remembered where I left my bicycle.”

By the time that story concluded we had lost sight of the 12 bus, but we had shared a few laughs and realized that we were the only two left on the bus.

As the driver approached the end of his route he said, “You know what? I promised I’d get you on that bus and I’m a man of my word!”

If any of the authorities ever ask I’ll tell them that none of the posted speed limits were exceeded and that no traffic laws were broken. That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.

He did catch the 12 bus, and honking his horn, pulling ahead of it, and parking diagonally in front of it, he did get me on that bus, one stop before I needed to get off of it at my street.
And almost 2 miles past where his route ended. So I rode the 12 bus 2 blocks, following behind the 114, for two blocks where I hopped off at my stop.

Before I had departed the 114 bus the driver thanked me for listening to, and laughing at, his stories.
He told me he was now leaning more towards participating in the the Liar’s Contest than watching the show at the Christian Comedy Club.

I made it home on time, heard a couple jokes, lived a pretty cool adventure, and made a new friend, all because I took the time to listen.

You know they say that most of us experience hearing loss as we age.
I can’t dispute that fact.
Me?

I don’t hear as well as I used to, but I am listening more.
It’s just simple math.

Who knew?