The Creek - Reminiscence and Discovery

As a frigid north wind battered the edges of our winter coats, Annie and I carefully chose our footing across the clods of frozen dirt and stalks of forgotten corn silage in the field that lay south of my opa's rural farmhouse. The sun shone brightly on the snow, eluding to warmth that was nowhere to be found. Reaching the bottom of the hill, we followed the edge of the field, past the derelict barn that had been neglected and in decay since I was a child, and on to the creek that lay below. Drawing closer to the trickling water in its frozen bed, Annie and I noticed that we were not the only ones looking to navigate the water at this crossing. several tracks of forked prints revealed the recent presence of turkeys in the fresh snow. The cloven prints of a deer could be seen a little further on. Raccoon prints abounded, their articulate fingers making soft indentations around the running water. A little further on, a marking that I first thought to be a coyote revealed itself to likely be a bobcat, as the prints looked more feline than canine. Annie and I paused a moment, taking in all the traffic that had evidently commuted through this crossing since the snow had fallen the night before. The scene must have been breathtaking.

Going Home - A Prodigal Playlist

This weekend I went back home to Southeast Iowa. The weather was crisp and cool, the leaves were crunchy on the lawn, and I was feeling very reminiscent of growing up in the rolling foothills of the Mississippi Valley River Valley. In honor of my voyage home, I'd like to share a few songs about going home.

Pilgrims Chorus, from Tannhauser - Richard Wagner

This song is a part of Tannhauser, one of Richard Wagner acclaimed operas. The piece was first performed in 1843, and this particular number was infamously used as a victory march for the German armies as they marched through Berlin.

More recently (and more pleasantly), my good friend Richard Harrod used this song to herald his arrival in his home state of Maryland after a fifteen hour drive home from Monmouth College.

This piece definitely evokes feelings of homecoming, if listened to in context. Otherwise, it's just a bunch of German.

Sloop John B - Beach Boys

While this summer-fun tune from the Beach Boys' 1966 Pet Sounds album is often lost among bigger hits such as "Wouldn't It Be Nice" and "God Only Knows", I find "Sloop John B" to be one of the most entertaining songs on this record.

Maybe it's because the Beach Boys veer away from the surf themes, love crooning, and hot rods, choosing instead to sing about how miserable life is aboard a sailing ship. Add in the eternal perkiness of Wilson's music and you get a peculiar, camp-song quality that I personally can't help but smile at.

Side note - What is going on with this album cover? Possibly one of the weirdest album covers the Beach boys ever came up with.

Homeward Bound - Simon and Garfunkel

This is the quintessential Homecoming song. Written in 1965 by Paul Simon while touring, this music will eternally be belted in cars while travellers young and old make their way back home.

This song, and really Simon and Garfunkel in general, bear special significance to me personally. I can still remember when I first heard the names "Simon" and "Garfunkel". When my sister was around thirteen, she had asked my dad for a Beatles album for Christmas. She was going through a personal Beatle-mania, and hoped that my father could facilitate her obsession.

I remember her getting that small rectangular package, then the excitement in her eyes shift to horror and confusion as she ripped off the paper to discover some strange album - Sounds of Silence. I remember thinking, "what kind of name is Garfunkel, anyway!?"

In retrospect, I am eternally grateful to my father for inadvertantly exposing my to two of the greatest poets and musicians of the last fifty years.

Wagon Wheel - Old Crow Medicine Show

Old Crow Medicine Show will always remind me of a different sort of home - not physical or geographic. The feelings evoked by this band are that of comradery and brotherhood. Wagon Wheel is one of those songs that any time we get together and there is a guitar laying around (and lets be real - when is there NOT a guitar laying around?) this song is belted out.

It's a great ballad of life on the road, the tribulations of travel, and that deep yearning to be back with the ones you love. Even though this song was written in 2001, the band gives their music an early twentieth century flavor that evokes the spirit of hobo's, gunslingers, and traveling shows.

Gravel Road - William Elliot Whitmore

This song will always be my homecoming song. I am proud to boast that William Elliot Whitmore and I share the same homeland - Both growing up in Southeast Iowa. Because of that connection, whenever he sings about farm life, the Mississippi River, and old coal trains, I know exactly what he means, because I've lived alongside the same rivers, farms, and trains. 

The song Gravel Road gets me every time with the line, "Lifes mysteries unravel when my tires hit that gravel and I leave the paved road far behind."

While I love living in bigger cities, this song perfectly capitulates the unquantifiable love I have for the rural beauty of Southeast Iowa. And Whitmore is the only person who has ever articulated that love with lyrical perfection.

So those are five songs of homecoming that I personally hold dear. I'm sure there are countless others, both general and specific to ones experiences. What songs make you want to go home? Which ones do you crank as you are rounding the bend to your childhood stomping grounds?

Confrontation Consternation

Confrontation – A face to face meeting. The clashing of forces or ideas.

Merriam-Webster Dictionary

Growing up, I watched my father haggle with car dealers. I watched my mother engage door-to-door encyclopedia salesmen. I saw my grandfathers verbally combat arrogant landowners and indignant baler-buyers. And as I ventured out from behind the towering figures of my elder role models, I began to realize how important it was to stand strong against opposition. Whether that consternation is caused by a smarmy salesman, licentious landlord, or berating boss, I've found it eternally difficult to absorb the abuse, stand my ground and give a concise, firm response that protects and respects.

Baler Bullshit

There seems to be a vengeful pleasure found in some established professionals. As if some form of initiation into the adult cohorts, these seasons businessmen and women take pride in looking down their noses at perfectly competent, incredibly intelligent, young professionals. This phenomenon first happened to me in college, working on my grandfathers farm.

A commercial hay man, probably in his mid-forties, brought in his Model XL baler for repairs. The baler looked like crap. It was full of dents, had rust showing around the edges, and was in general disrepair. I took notes on the main concerns for the equipment, and was preparing the paperwork, when the man made some snide remark about my hair.

To provide some context, when I was working for my grandfather, I had stick-straight hair that fell to my shoulders. I generally kept it under a hat and behind my ears, out of sight and mind. This man decided that, rather than assuming that I was a competent employee, it'd be better to make assumptions about my masculinity, penchant for illicit drug use, and overall lack of usefulness, based on my hair.

I brushed off the mans jeers, and cordially sent him on his way, pretending that his remarks didn't bother me.

That day still brings back feelings of rage. I wanted to sock the man in the jaw. I wanted to do what I'd seen my grandfather do many times before to this same farmer – I wanted to zing him with a one liner that would put him in his place and shut him up tighter than an oil drum. But instead, I balked. I clenched my jaw, and let him pummel me with insults that I'd done nothing to deserve.

At what age do you gain the ability to retort? At what level can you successfully return the bullshit and retain your dignity in these situations? A few years later, I had a memorable experience that spoke to this question.

Finding Problems and Fixing Problems

I worked at a Boy Scout camp for a month or two every summer. These are mostly happy memories of swimming, boating, building monstrous fires and playing pranks on others. But one memory stands out as not so positive.

I was a member of an honor society through the boy scouts and, after a few years of membership, had climbed the ranks and was one of the leaders of the organization. Along with that privilege came great responsibility. With that responsibility came a great potential to screw up, and one week, that is what I did.

We were at an event that was far removed from the main part of camp, at a ceremony for the new members. It was a fairly stressful day, with little sleep and a lot of work, and I had neglected to bring a crucial element for the ceremony. Upon realizing this, one of the adult volunteers pulled me aside, mid-ceremony, and began berating me about this slip up. This man was a well-liked member of the organization, fairly influential, and physically commanding to boot. He towered over me, his temples turning crimson with fury.

I listened to the man go on about my incompetency and inabilities for about a minute, all the while glancing back at the ceremony still in progress. Finally, I had to stop the abuse. I looked the red faced buffoon in the eyes and said,

“Listen, I realize that I screwed this up. I am going to go fix the problem, so that we can have a successful event. When we get back to camp, you can rip me a new asshole. Until then, don't talk to me.”

With that, I stormed off, bent on fixing the error and completing the ceremony. We did and, as I recall, I didn't hear anymore on the subject. In retrospect, I did exactly what I'd seen my father and grandfathers do before me. But not all of my attempts at confrontation have been so positive.

Once You Pop, You Can't Stop

Flash back to the man with the hay baler. We repaired the dilapidated machine, replace the abused parts, and gave it the best face-lift possible. The work was not egregious, but the man had definitely not followed the common sense recommendations for caring for a machine worth more than the truck he drove.

He came by the shop about a week after the initial confrontation. I steeled my nerves as I saw the portly, pompous man approach the shop. He strode into the office and declared,

“So, ya figger out what was wrong with that damned piece of machinery, hippie?”

Without blinking an eye, I glanced up from the manual I was consulting on the desk, adjusted my hat, and just as I'd heard my grandfather retort, I flung the following phrase from the corner of my mouth:

“You ever heard of operator error?”

The man turned seven shades of red under his tanned skin. At first I thought he would jump over the counter and wring my neck. Then I realized that he physically could not jump over the counter, so I was probably safe.

I thought that, as in the movies, my amazing one-liner would shut him up like a steel trap. Unfortunately, my insolence only embroiled his rage, and made his comments worse. After that one moment of shining glory, I closed back up, shut my mouth, and went back to deflecting his jeers with a closed mouth and a determined look.

Lesson learned? Confrontation is more than having the gall to take the petulant route. It's taking that course, then stick with it till the end.

Sales = Constant Confrontation

In my current job, I deal with confrontation every day. It seems that when a 25 year old walks in the door to talk to you about your marketing strategies, it is open season. People have a difficult time looking past my age and my job title to see that I am a person trying to not only further the newspaper I work for, but also help their business succeed.

I walked into a restaurant a few weeks ago, and was met by a business owner who was not only crass, but referred to me by the disdain laden moniker,

“salesman”

The man thought he was a big deal. He dressed snappy, sported designer glasses, and had obviously colored hair. He owned a swanky establishment and knew that, while I was on his turf, I was his mouse. I don't know why, but on that day, I wasn't in the mood to put my head down and wade through the guff. I listened to him talk about his business for a while, listened to his gripes about my paper, and gave him some poignant rebuttals to the scoffs and dismissals he threw my way. At the end of the meeting, he grinned and asked me a heavily baited question,

“So what's your favorite restaurant, salesman?”

I looked him square in his smug grin, and told him about Antonella's Trattoria, a little whole in the wall Italian joint in Davenport. I raved about the authenticity, the service, and the wine. I gave him the address and told him to check it out. It was priceless to watch his face go from smarm to startled in seconds. He actually believed that I would kiss his ass and say that I love his restaurant! As I walked to the door, I turned back to Mr. Bag-o-chips and said,

“You want a salesman response to that question? Ask me again after you advertise with us for awhile. I'll probably say the same thing.”

Just because I sell things, doesn't mean I have no integrity.

So maybe I am learning a little about handling confrontation. I still have times when I fold like a bad poker hand, but I also am getting better at playing it cool, choosing my words, and standing up for myself. I guess it comes with age. To quote a song that resonates with this issue nicely,

"Stand your ground, don't back down, it's the only way to win. And when life throws a punch, son, you've got to take it on the chin."

William Elliot Whitmore, Take it on the Chin

The Exorcism of Volvo

I believe in the possibility of demons.

I'm a natural skeptic. I hear stories of ghosts, demons, and possession, and I raise an eyebrow. Ouija boards, in my opinion, are bogus. Horoscopes and fortune tellers are so vague and generic that they get it right most of the time.

But something inside me still believes that there is a possibility that the supernatural world is real. That there is validity to some of the paranormal things going on in this world.

A priest once told me that we have a Diocesan Exorcist. One priest is appointed as the exorcist for the entire Diocese, which is a large region, geographically. If another priest is faced with a possessed soul, they call the exorcist, who will come and pray over them, performing rites in an attempt to remove the demonic presence. This happens! The Linda Blair, split pea soup-spewing, spider-walking, head-spinning images of the 70's are still happening today.

It's kind of hard to believe. That being said, I do have a personal story of exorcism. The tale is true, although the demon is questionable.

Foreign Cars are the Devil

Growing up, I was a member of St. Boniface Catholic Church in Farmington, Iowa. It was a quaint church in a town of 750. A few times each week, we'd travel highway 2, through the stoic evergreens of Shimek forest, from Donnellson to Farmington. The town was tired and dilapidated. Once a vibrant river town that took advantage of the commerce that traveled the shallow waters of the Des Moines River, Farmington had begun to dry up when the railroads and highways began etching their way into the rolling hills of Southeast Iowa.

The church was a potpourri of families that lived in and around the dirty little town. Some older couples, tottering in on canes and replaced knees. A nice man named Gerhardt, who was missing one hand, everything from the forearm down. A few of my classmates' families, although none the really cared to associate with me. One woman distinctly stands out in my mind. No one knew how to take her. Her name was Christie.

Christie was around my moms age. Sandy brown hair laid plainly on her head. She was extremely tan, with wrinkly-leather skin pulled across her petite frame. Christie dressed plainly, with white canvas shoes and smudged khaki pants that were too short for her wiry legs. She often wore some type of button down shirt or sweater that seemed as thought someone thrown it out. Christie believed in demons.

The story goes that Christie moved to Iowa from Washington state, to attend the Maharishi School of Enlightenment in Fairfield, Iowa. Something happened while she was there, and she left the school to live in Farmington. Again, I do not know what the incident was, but the Christie I knew was both physically shaken and mentally distraught.

She walked with a timidity that reminded me of a nervous rabbit, arms pulled in tight and eyes nervously glancing back and forth. When she prayed in church, she folded her hands beside her head and laid her cheek against them. Her face was wrought with distress over silent pleas that no one else knew. Every time she spoke, it was with a whispered cadence that sounded as if she was trying to sing, but afraid of how it might sound. The result was a haunting voice that hung in the air like a fog, settling on your memory and turning to dust.

Christie was the point of much pity in our church and my mother made a point to make her welcomed at every opportunity. We had dinner with her, sat with her at church functions, and helped out with things she had trouble handling on her own. That's where this story picks up.

It was a brisk October day, not over 40^o Fahrenheit, when my mother got a call. The voice on the other end was breathy and sing-song. When she hung up, my mom turned to me,

“Christie called. She said she needs her car cleaned. I guess she drove through something.” There was more to the story than this, but my mother wasn't divulging any other details.

“Isn't it a little cold for a car wash?” I asked. I was not looking forward to any part of this mandatory charity event.

“Just go out there and help her.” She commanded with a roll of her eyes. After some cajoling, I got the truth out of her.

“Her car is possessed.”

“What?”

“I guess she drove through...something, and now her car is possessed.”

“WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO ABOUT THAT!?! I don't know how to cleanse demons! I am not an exorcist! Come on, mom!”

My pleas for reason fell on deaf ears. Begrudgingly, I set out to deal with the demonic Volvo.

The Tools of the Trade -- Lime Away and Carpet Cleaner

When I got to Christie's house, she was waiting for me at the door. She led me to the dingy silver Volvo wagon and explained to me the process that I was to follow:

Step 1 - Pour Lime Away pipe cleaner onto floors, seats, and any other surface, until thoroughly soaked with green goop.

Step 2 – Vainly attempt to soak up the verdant, viscous liquid with old towels.

Step 3 – Pray to God that Christie is satisfied before my hands freeze off.

When I opened the driver door, I was greeted with the project already in progress. Christie had unloaded two bottles of Lime Away onto the floor of the car. It seemed that this had happened some time earlier in the day, as the liquid was a semi-frozen slush. As the mid afternoon sun started lowering itself behind the scraggly trees, I began the process of exorcising the demons.

The first step was to remove the icy liquid from the floor. I checked the back for an ice scraper. No such luck. I attempted to chisel the corrosive liquid from its hold on the carpeted floor with a pen, but got nowhere. Then I got smart. Requesting a bucket of the hottest water available, I proceeded to besiege the Lime Away with scalding water, thus successfully liquifying the frozen cleaner. Objective completed. As I looked down triumphantly at the floor boards of the vehicle, my mood quickly changed from triumphant to disparaged. While I had melted the frozen muck, the car was now even swampier and, with the sun going down, the potential for another frozen floor was imminent. So I began bailing out.

After the majority of the liquid was removed from the floor, I was able to soak up the remainder with some old towels that Christie had provided. About the time I was finished with that project, Christie came out with a Shop-Vac and a can of carpet cleaner.

“Spray this on the seats. We need to get rid of it all.”

Ignoring the fact that a vacuum would have made the floor job much easier, I tried to think of a response to her request. Finding none that would meet Christie's irregular logic, I sighed and proceeded to coat the seats with an expanding white foam that smelled of old rubber. After vacuuming the upholstery, I returned triumphantly to Christie's door.

“All finished!” I proclaimed with vigor and chattering teeth.

Christie sidled up to the car with some trepidation. She peeked into the backseat, opened the hatchback, and seemed to be satisfied with the job I'd done. But then she sat in the drivers seat.

Immediately, she turned and looked me straight in the eye.

“You need to do the dashboard.”

“Christie, what do you mean? How do I do the dashboard?” I responded reluctantly. The methods used thus far were not utilizing electronics friendly cleaning agents, and this worried me.

She looked around a moment, then reached down for a bottle of Lime Away. Handing me the bottle, she pointed at the electronic panel of dormant meters and lights.

“If I put this stuff on the dash, It could ruin the car. There are electronic controls up there that – ” She cut me off,

“You need to do the dashboard. That's where they are. Please just do the dashboard.” She was adamant, but I realized the implication of this decision. I tried one more time,

“Why don't I just put it on like this?” I squirted the liquid onto one of the towels and began rubbing it into the vinyl.

In a surprisingly quick motion, she snatched the bottle from my hands and pushed me aside. As she sporadically squirted the cleaner onto the control panel, she ordered,

“Like this! You need to do it like this!” then she darted away and disappeared into the darkened doorway of the house. As I assessed the situation, I noticed her silhouette in the kitchen window, watching me as I stood in the frosty dusk. And so I began to dump the remainder of the bottle onto the dashboard.

The green liquid poured into the defrost vents. It seeped into cracks and ran over the edge, dripping onto the steering column. I did my best to mop up the goo, all the while my stomach sank lower and lower with the realization that I may be destroying a perfectly good vehicle. A perfectly good, potentially possessed vehicle, but none-the-less, a perfectly good vehicle.

I finished mopping up the mess I'd made, collected all the empty bottles, rags, buckets, and left them with the vacuum by the front door. Christie didn't come to the door when I knocked, so I closed up the soggy car and drove home, reflecting upon the task I'd just completed.

I don't know if the car was possessed. I don't know what Christie thought she'd caught in the engine of her Swiss-made hatchback. I do know that she had the entire dash replaced a few days later, due to an unknown failure in the electronic systems. But of some things, I can be certain.

Something had affected Christie. Whether it was in her car, in her house, or in her head, something had definitely upset her.

And that is real.

A Natural Selection

I love going back home. I especially love taking my dog, a two year old Basset Hound, to my grandfathers farm. Although she is a hunting dog by breed, Ellie has long since left her tracking skills with her more aggressive forebears.

On a weekend in Lee county a few weeks ago, Ellie and I were staying at my grandparents. We got in late Friday night and, after a late night snack with my mothers parents, we retired to one of the now spare bedrooms. The room has lovingly been deemed “the boys room” as it once belonged to my uncles. With its wood-paneled walls, olive green carpet, and NFL curtains that may include the 70's expansion teams, this room remains virtually untouched from the days that my uncles slept in it.

One of the best things about going home? The blackness of the night. Once the switch is flicked, the room is pitched into inky darkness. I slept deeper than I'd slept in months that night. The next morning, I rose early and dressed. Ellie was already awake and stared at me with mild interest as I threw a pair of old shoes on and bundled against the impending November air. I attached Ellie's leash, and out the door we went.

When we are in a new place, Ellie will normally proceed with her nose to the ground, fervently exploring every scent that wisps by her whiskers. It's a tedious way to proceed, dashing forward four feet, then slamming to a halt as she smells the remnant odor of some ground squirrel or field mouse. I dropped the leash to prevent the jerking stops and starts of the little hound, and began to plug in my mp3 player. In our normal morning routine, I listen to NPR podcasts while Ellie does her business. Just as I was scrolling to find the next episode of All Things Considered, I looked up to find Ellie in a dead sprint across my grandfather's gravel lot.

The burst of energy sent her brown ears flapping in the breeze. Her leash skittered across the drive, trying desperately to catch up to the little dog's fiercely pounding paws. She ran across the drive way, past the old summer kitchen, the barn, the grain bins, the hog shed, and into the barren field at the bottom of this hill. At this point, I assumed she would pause and renew her exploration. Ellie is not what you'd consider a long distance runner. She's more of a long distance eater.

But the feisty little hound didn't slow when she reached the black topsoil of the field. She gave chase through the silage and crashed into the underbrush at the bottom of the hill. When I caught up to her I found her sniffing intensely through the prairie grass that grows along the creek that cuts the property down the middle.

I stood there panting as she sniffed and explored. As my heart rate returned to normal, I looked around. Over my left shoulder, the sun was sending shards of light through naked trees. The steam from my mouth was cold and wet as it dissipated into the cold, dry atmosphere. I crunched through the weeds, following my dog as she tracked some mythical creature in her mind.

As we trekked about the creek's floodplain, Ellie stopped short. Before I realized what she was doing, she began rubbing her ears, face, and neck in the brush. I was curious as to what she was doing, and caught up with her, only to find that she'd found a steaming pile of raccoon poop, and was circling the dung, rubbing her body on the surrounding ground. Every so often she'd stop and lift her nose to the sky, trying to pick up on the smell she was inundating herself with, but after a few moments, she'd go back to rubbing.

I soon realized that my dog, the domesticated diva of Davenport, was using deep bred instincts in an attempt to track this animal! Hounds are bred for their elastic faces and ears, as the folds in their skin trap the scent they are tracking, making them more likely to find their mark. Although Ellie had had no formal training, she new that this was what she was supposed to do!

My dog is a genius.

Father Hoenig - A Pastoral Tale

Have you ever met a person that, upon looking back, defies all logic? I'm not saying that the person makes illogical decisions, I am referring to the idea that their very being does not compute in your brain? This is the case with Father Hoenig.

I don't know Father Hoenig's first name. Though he was a priest, I've never attended a service he's officiated. I've come to learn of this priest through a professional relationship.

It was a sweltering hot afternoons in early August. It was late in the day, when the sun starts balking at the earth, sending shadows long but refusing to give up it's tenure of torturous heat. At the shop of Leroy Walljasper, we were all befuddled by some persnickety machine that had been commissioned for repair. As we stood back viewing the machine with a contemplative simmer, a little truck rattled into the drive.

Peculiar Pastor

The truck, if it had to be identified by one make or model, would be a Nissan, although the one remaining bumper, hood, and passenger side door would beg to differ. Most of the body used to reflect a navy blue hue, but it had oxidized to the point that a burnt orange crust overwhelmed any color on the trucks once gleaming hull.

The vehicle paused for a moment, unsure as to whether it would lurch forward from it's clutch or give up life indefinitely. Instead, it coughed to a dilapidated halt under an old hickory tree across the lot. Then, slowly and unsteadily, Father Hoenig tottered into view from behind the rusted out machine.

An immaculate version of Father Hoenig's jalopy

He was wearing black dress shoes that had long shirked the title “dress”. They were missing their laces, allowing the tongues to flap wildly as his legs jerked unnaturally out in front of his body. Inside the shoes were fathers naked feet, untethered by socks in the summer heat. He wore navy blue slacks, one leg caught around his knee in the style that LL Cool J made famous in the 80's and 90's. Hoenig's black shirt was unbuttoned but half tucked into his slacks, one shirt tail flapping in the breeze, the other bunched and stretching the cloth across his thin hunched frame. The white priestly collar was sticking out of the neck of his shirt, bouncing with fervor as his shoulders lurched ever closer to the shop.

Father Hoenig's hair was ghostly white, almost as if a wispy milkweed plant had landed on the back of his head and had clung there, ever so meekly, being tousled by the winds of that summer afternoon. One of the man's eyes drooped uselessly to the side, as if it'd jump free of its housing, if the skin surrounding the orb would only relinquish its grasp. I'd later learn that this useless eye was struck blind from complications of diabetes. At the time, however, it was simply one more element of absurdity in a whole collection of flesh and bizarre.

“I've got a mower. It...it...stopped working.” the monsignor said meekly as he approached the group of us who'd been observing his pilgrimage across the gravel. His voice was small and shaky, as if he was still working on shaping them as the passed his lips. They reached us with an upturn, making every word a milquetoast inquisition. As my grandfather questioned the elderly man, the story began to appear, but only in small sections. With a long drag from his cigarette, grandpa said through a puff of smoke,

“Yeah father, we can probably get that running 'gain for ya. Bring it by tomorrow and we'll get to workin' on it.”

“God bless you. Thank you. Thank you...so much. God bless you son, for helping me with my...mower.” Father tottered back across the rocky lot, clambered into his pickup, and sputtered into the distance, leaving naught but a plume of white gravel dust in his wake.

“I hope he realizes that I'm still gonna charge him for the thing. Blessings don't keep the lights on, ya know?”

Mowing the Unmowable

The next day, one of the fellas that helps Father Hoenig around the farm brought by the mower. He dropped it off and, tipping his hat, wished us luck.

As we dug into the machine, we found an incredible mess inside. From the looks of it, the mower had been run against something so hard that it not only stopped the blades from spinning, it actually took the alloy shaft that runs the length of the machine, and turned it into a corkscrew. This made our job immensely more difficult. After a few hours of driving the blades off the shaft with a sledge hammer, we retreated to the office to regroup against the twisted adversary. Grandpa lit a cigarette, grabbed a coke from the pop machine, and grabbed the phone.

“Yeah, this' Leroy. What the hell'd he do to this thing? Well, it's twisted up tighter'n a tax collector.”

Grandpa listened for a few minutes, then let out a chuckle. Shaking his head, he imparted the account.

Father Hoenig had a lot of land that, in recent years, he'd either forgotten about, or chosen not to plant for some reason or another. Whatever the reason, he'd remembered these fields on that particular summer and, upon inspection, decided that they needed to be cleared. The easiest way to do that was to hook on to the hay mower and cut through the ragweed and canadian thistles. It should only take a couple hours with this new mower. He was cleaning up the land pretty well, until he ran up against something, stopping the machine dead in its tracks. Rather than investigate this issue, he backed up the tractor, lifted the mower, and came back to the house. When his farmhands went out to inspect, they found what had stopped the machine so abruptly. It was an old moldboard plow.

A possible equivalent of Father Hoenig's adversary

It's not small. It's not unnoticeable. Even with shoulder high weeds and brush, most people would see a plow from the tractor. Most people with two good eyes. Unfortunately, I don't think father had one good eye.

The plow had done substantial damage to the mower, and the project was not fun. A week later, we'd finally gotten everything back in working order for father. He came back to pick up the cutter, and graciously paid grandpa, with a check as well as a blessing.

Curious, I asked grandpa why he called him 'Father'. Was he really a priest? I'd never heard of a priest who was also a farmer, but then again, I'd never met a character like Father Hoenig.

“Yeah he's a retired priest, lives out by Montrose. Used to be the pastor at St. Joe's out there, till they forced'm to retire. Still says a mass or two every now'n again. I guess it's a site.” Grandpa went on to recount the foibles he'd heard. Stories of Father Hoenig asking the altar servers what part of the mass came next, or speaking so quietly and unintelligibly that no one was sure whether they should sit, stand, sing, or kneel. It wasn't uncommon for Father to be late for mass, or forget to show up at all. For that reason, he hasn't been saying many masses any more, which is fine by him, as it gives him more time to farm.

I haven't heard much about Father Hoenig in recent years. I don't know if he's still farming, still driving, or still alive. While I may have depicted him as weak or unstable, I assure you that he was one of the most venerable individuals I met working at Walljasper Construction. He refused to give up, even when it meant pitting himself against 19^th century farm machinery.

To this day, I'm not sure I understand Father Hoenig. He was truly an anomalous entity. But maybe that was what is so intriguing.

Making love - Giving Gifts That Don't Suck

I love sweater tees.

I have simultaneous exuberance and loathing in my heart when it comes to Christmas gifts. Giving, receiving, buying, wrapping, exchanging, returning – it does not matter. There are few things in life that cause anxiety like Christmas gifts.

The Gift of Gift Giving

It may be hereditary, this holiday humbuggery that befalls me. Last weekend my father and I wandered aimlessly through stores as we sought out obligatory gifts for the ones we care for. We finally settled upon a few items that fit the people on our list – candy and trinkets, mostly. As we drove home, we agreed that the whole gift giving concept was flawed.

We are so fixed on the act of giving, we forget that the gifts we impart should actually have meaning. And that is where I fail. I can think of great things for people throughout the year, but when it comes time for Christmas shopping, I am vapid. I wander stores in a daze of lights, people exuding peculiar odors, and the impending doom of an empty-handed Christmas.

My grandmother, on the other hand, is so caught up in the gift giving conspiracy that she calculates, down to the penny, how much she gives each of her grandchildren each Christmas. We all get at least one gift, then, for the older among us, cash. The gifts are, at times, the most asinine trinkets and trivial bobbles ever dreamed of. In the past, I've told her,

“Grandma, just give me money. I don't need any gifts this year.”

But she insists that if everyone doesn't have a physical gift to open on Christmas, we'll feel left out, and probably cry ourselves to sleep while visions of familial guilt dance in our heads. So we get our gifts on Christmas. Regardless of their limited utility, I appreciate the gesture. She wants us to feel loved. While we may not always love the gift, I do love the love behind the gift.

What Do YOU Want For Christmas?

Don't ask me what I want. I know you have the urge, but restrain yourself. If I were to compile a Christmas list, it'd consist of the following:

A hand-held, digital audio recorder

About a dozen music albums

A few films, mostly underground or silver screen

A new pair of brown dress shoes

An FM transmitter compatible with my Blackberry

Multiple bottles of top shelf Bourbon

The Pabst Brewing Company

DO NOT GO OUT AND BUY ME ANY OF THESE ITEMS.

With all of these Christmas wishes, there are specific models, styles, and specifications to my desires. I have an esoteric love of non-mainstream indie music, I love older films, and am pickier about my shoes than most women are. The technology that I want, I want the specific models that I have researched and determined to be the best item for the job. Worst of all, most of the things on my ramshackled Christmas list are expensive.

When I attempt to explain any of these requests, it generally elicits an annoyed or bewildered look and the person buys the closest thing to my desired item. They find the most inexpensive equivalent, slap a bow on it and hope for the best. Upon opening it, I smile, feign excitement, and then try to figure out how I can buy the one I want without making anyone feel bad.

Upon proofreading this, I realize that I may come across as an ungrateful prick. That is not my intention. Nor am I trying to sound like a Scrooge. I am merely trying to avoid the quagmire of awkward gifting that inevitably occurs this time of year.

Seasonal Origami

Would you expect a cross-eyed five year old to successfully wrap gifts without using three rolls of tape and a healthy dose of saliva to keep everything adhered?

Then why is it that every year, regardless of my vehement protestation, I am forced to create these works of ephemeral abstract art that will inevitably be ripped to shreds by the recipient.

I am not in any way comparing myself with a visually impaired child who is 1/5^th my age. I am, however, comparing my ability and desire to wrap gifts with that of a preschooler.

I prefer newspapers and electric tape, garbage bags and zip ties. Or the old 'Close your eyes and hold out your hands!' routine.

Making Love

There are exceptions to my disdain for gift giving. When I receive a homemade gift, my Grinchian heart grows three sizes. Whether it be culinary treats, fashionable yarnwear, or refabricated trinketry, I appreciate the thought that goes into a gift that is from the hands and heart of the giver.

My other grandmother gives out Christmas cookies every year. She must bake 500 cookies, from sugar cookies to turtles to traditional German anise cakes. I love them all, and they never last more than a week. One of my favorite cookies from oma's kitchen are the sugar cookies. There is something about those powdery morsels, slathered with pastel frosting and shaped like reindeer, Santa Clauses', and Christmas bells, that make my mouth water at the thought of them.

But after I was diagnosed with diabetes a few years ago, my grandmother decided that she was going to give me a healthier option for Christmas. So now, nestled in with all the other carb-filled delights in my Christmas package, I am chagrined to find my sugar cookies naked as Jesus in the manger – Not a bit of frosting on the poor little angels and stars.

Although I've tried to explain it to her, grandma has yet to grasp the concept of carbohydrates versus sugars. The cookie is chock full of carbohydrates, so is just as deleterious to my health without frosting than it is with the creamy delight. Do not spare me the savory experience of my youth, in an attempt to keep me healthy! They're cookies! Frosting or not, they will still raise my bloodsugar levels, so let them raise in peace.

Again, I am grateful every time my grandmother sends those barren cookies my way. As I crunch into the lacking treat, I smile. Grandma, in her own misguided way, is showing me she cares.

The Never-Ending Scarf

The all time best homemade gift I've received is a scarf from my wife. It has to be the only one of its design, and that is why I value it above every other neck protector I own.

Annie learned to crochet, specifically for this project, and set to work on a scarf for her beau. She chose a multicolored yarn that transitioned from red to orange to green, reflecting the autumnal ambiance that she knew I loved. Annie labored over the needle and lambswool for days, fervently looping and tugging, ensuring that every miniscule know was even and tight. My giraffe neck deserved only the best, and that was what she set out to deliver.

Somewhere along the way, Annie forgot to look up and check her progress. Before she realized it, she had created a scarf that was 15 fee long, but only 3 inches wide. More a snakes blanket than a human's scarf, Annie was nonplussed. But she was not defeated. In a move of pure ingenuity, Annie folded the scarf in half and proceeded to attach the two segments along the edge. The end result was a beautiful, thick scarf that has provided warmth and comfort to my neck for several years.

'Tis the Season

I know I shouldn't fight the inevitable. People are going to give me gifts. I want to show people my appreciation and reciprocate with my own trinkets of seasonal cheer. I will bear the anxiety of this tradition in stride, and, with any luck, I'll get better at it.

So don't feel bad if I give you a crummy gift. I really did try. And don't worry about giving me a crummy gift. I'll love you all the same for it.

And then I'll give it to Goodwill.

Seasonal Affect

It's cold. For those of you who are not in in the Midwest, take my word for it.

My car thermometer read a balmy one degree Fahrenheit this morning as I mad my way out of the parking lot. I backed into the alley and, as I shifted into drive to begin my commute, continued to slide backwards. No matter how much my tires protested the backwards motion, I continued to move in reverse. After a few failed attempts to gain yardage, I opted to work with the forces of physics. As I backed down the alley, I hoped no one would come out of their garages and see me creeping down the lane in reverse. Once I reached the street, I was able to continue my journey facing the proper direction.

I've spoken to many people over the last month who've all made similar claims about this inclement iciness.

“The weather puts me in a foul mood.”

“I'm tired of being cold all the time!”

“It gets too dark too early.”

“I can't feel my fingers.”

My father, a born and bred Iowan, even left last week for the warmer climes of Houston Texas. This ardent opposition to winter got me thinking about seasonal affect disorder, a psychological disorder that has come to my attention in the last few years. Here is what the Mayo Clinic has to say about SAD:

“Seasonal affective disorder (also called SAD) is a type of depression that occurs at the same time every year. If you're like most people with seasonal affective disorder, your symptoms start in the fall and may continue into the winter months, sapping your energy and making you feel moody. Less often, seasonal affective disorder causes depression in the spring or early summer.”

Definition taken from www.Mayoclinic.com

From this idea, I started creating a person that not only experienced mood swings or lethargy during the winter months, but was so brought down by the drabness of the snow and slush, that he actually detached from reality. The only thing that kept him attached to some semblance of this world was a woman he loved. I don't know if her love was reciprocated, or if she even knew of his existence, but his belief in her attachment is what keeps him tethered to reality, if ever so slightly.

As our disconnected character wanders through life, he gets lost in the monochromatic gray, misplacing the horizon and falling off the sidewalk, into the ashen ether. He is brought back to earth by a prescription, but whether that medicinal solution in actually a productive addition to his life is questionable.

I don't know where this character goes from here. The story may continue with another song, or essay, or some other medium. But for now, it's just seasonal affect.

Seasonal Affect

Powered by Podbean.com

Drive around the town I don't know where to go

Stare at twinkling lights, amid the falling snow

I don't know

Lets run away

I don't know

Let's run away

Together

Frustrated with all this madness

Curtsy the world insincere gladness

I don't know who

Lets get away

I don't know who

Let's get away

Together

The land the sea the sky they fade to gray

Unsure of where to step, of what's terrain

I don't know who this life is for

Let's float away

I don't know who I am any more

Let's float away

Together

The frozen ground it falls away beneath my feet

Barren tree tops they shrink away in this retreat

I don't know anything for sure

Let's fly away

I don't know where to find the floor

Let's fly away

Together

The pastel doctors reign me in prescribing rope

Tie me to a lamppost in the park force-feed me hope

I don't what to do any more

Let's break away

I don't what I'm fighting for

Let's break away

Together

Greeting cards wish peace on earth good will towards men

speak to me in foreign tongues and unfamiliar pen

I don't know who you are anymore

Let's fade away

I don't know how I've come so far

Let's fade away

Together

Keep on Trucking

There is just something I love about driving a truck.

Please put the above statement in context. I drive a 2008 Toyota Matrix. A gunmetal gray hatchback that gets an average of 34 mpg. I love my car. I love everything about my car. It is the perfect vehicle for my life – living, working, and playing in a midsized metro area.

But when I recently drove my father's 2005 Ford F-150 Lariat quad-cab pickup truck, every logical reason for owning a sub-compact, fuel-efficient Toyota went out the window. The car fulfills every logical need I have for vehicular transportation, but the truck meets a more inherent, philosophical need. If you were to compare the two vehicles:

Toyota Matrix

Compact

Great handling

Easy to get in and out

Fold down seats create additional cargo room

Fuel-efficient

Sits low to the ground – little wind resistance

Ford F-150

It's friggin' huge

Takes corners like a boat

You need a rope to pull yourself into it

Its a truck. It has a bed. What other cargo room do you need?

Fuel? What is fuel? This thing goes through it like water

You'd be closer to the ground riding a giraffe

Every Girl's Crazy 'bout a Pickup Man

It may be a deep-seated masculine impulse, or it may be something I learned growing up in a farming community in Southeast Iowa. Trucks are the gold standard in Lee County and trying to find a Toyota, Honda, Suzuki, or Hyundai dealership within one hundred miles of my old country home is near impossible.

In high school, I would drive my little auction bought 1993 Mazda truck to school, and squeeze into a spot between any variety of giant 1980's Chevy or Ford truck. Mud tire clad, lift kit jacked, PA system blaring, aftermarket Cherry Bomb straight pipe exhaust ripping through the sonic atmosphere, these behemoths of the Central Lee High School parking lot would roll through the rows like prowling lions, daring a smaller car to cross their path. The 454 big-block engines would roar out a warning to the lesser vehicles, lest they be crushed under wheel like the tin cans they were.

My truck? It was a wounded meerkat. Stay out of the way, and I'd be fine. Otherwise my little red rice burner* would be a little red rice cake.

A Truck of a Different Color

The truck got me through high school. In college, my Mazda went kaput and I inherited a 1985 GMC Grand Sierra from my grandfather – a loaner that served me well for the rest of my higher education. At Monmouth College, where the student body is largely comprised of suburban Chicago minds, I encountered a very different vehicular phenomenon.

As the country mouse among city mice, my truck signified a tough agrarian existence. My newly-acquired “farm boy” image was further heightened when I cut the shoulder-length hair I'd sported throughout high school. My summer job working for my grandfather's farm implement sealed the deal, as I proudly wore my WALLJASPER CONSTRUCTION hat throughout the school year. I'd somehow gone from the hippie/punk kid driving a little foreign clunker in high school to the down-home country boy sporting the hulking pickup in college. I cannot really qualify this change in perception as good or bad, but it was certainly an interesting realignment of reality. Over the next few years I wore my agrarian heritage on my sleeve as something that made me stand out at Monmouth.

That old GMC would go on to be featured as a part of the ZBT homecoming float, haul pianos, drums, and more than its fair share of students, and cart all of my personal possessions to my new home in Davenport, Iowa.

But as all things are cyclical, my life would lead me back to a foreign vehicle. The GMC didn't do well for my wallet as I zipped around the Quad Cities on sales calls. So I sent it back to the farm, where it could be free to roam as God intended.

And I bought a Toyota. The more responsible choice.

*I apologize for the potential political incorrectness of the term rice burner as a pejorative synonym for an Asian made vehicle. This term is common vernacular in Southeast Iowa, where an American owned car company was held in much higher regard than any foreign made vehicle.