That Was Then, This is Now

All things come around.

After an abysmal week at work, I slept not at all Friday night with a mind full of worries and regrets and strange dismal dreams.

I awoke with eyes feeling like sand had been ground into them, and all signs suggested that it wouldn't be much of a Saturday. A bad day, though, is the very best time to just get on with the chopping wood and carrying water, and so I did. There were dozens of routine chores around the house to take care of, and there is a kind of dignified elegance to tending to small details when you're feeling depressed. It's awfully good therapy.

Then, about noon, my son appeared downstairs.

"Hey, old man," he said. "Got anything we can build today?

Well, now, there was a thought. Not much better than tinkering with hardware on a bad day.

This is something of a joke around my house, the fact that I will try to fix and build almost anything around the home. My knowledge far exceeds my skill though, and it's a running joke that if you look closely, the signs of my imprecision and lack of motor skills are evident. My daughter likes to grab my hands and hold them up to new friends, pointing out the stitch marks and scars from various battles. My sons friends joke whenever they come over, wanting to know what I'm building now. "Can you teach us something?" one will say. "My dad can't even change a car tire."

Though he had worked the overnight shift at one of two jobs he tends while trying to make the leap from college grad to career man, Boy was rather bright-eyed and serene after just a few hours of sleep. He's now in job interviews and apartment hunting, as well, and so he has a fresh haircut and is generally clean-shaven, which also helps.

So on Saturday we added some roof gutters around a section of the back porch that has been funneling water into the window well for the basement egress window--which happens to the last building project Boy and I tackled a year ago.

So we listened to the ball game on a radio as we measured and cut and nailed and screwed. And we made a total of four trips to the hardware store, since no American man ever manages to get everything he needs in just one trip. And the trips to the store were actually the best part of the day. Men, they love their hardware. The last trip to the hardware store was a lark: we bicycled there to buy wrenches with which to tune up our bikes. Boy teases me about the old-man bike I've just bought--I no longer have any interest in being streamlined, and it's just fine to sit bold upright where I can see things and my back doesn't protest.

Sometimes I regret that my son and I don't share more interests. But then I pause and reflect on the fact that we'll occasionally go to rock concerts together to see guitarists we both admire, that we've been to action films together twice in the last two months. There is a pretty unique pleasure to having a 23-year old son who is a good, responsible man, well adjusted and friendly to people. And moreover, one who not only tolerates his dad, but seeks me out to do things. I couldn't say the same thing about myself at age 23. I never really did get to know my dad. Still don't.

Odd thing. People have asked me what was my favorite age as the kids were growing up, and upon reflection I always recognize that their current ages are always my favorite. I've never got more pleasure from parenthood than I do right now. I will admit, though, that it's the thought of toddler grandchildren, just beginning to master language, that I'm now looking forward to.

Then on Sunday, I drove over to the University to watch my daughter, a freshman, compete as one of the coxwains on the University rowing team. This is big time Division 1 college athletics, and she made the team as a walk-on, while also earning an academic scholarship and studying Chinese and global politics. So Sunday was spend with my other child, sitting in a comfortable chair on the banks of the Mississippi and reading buddhist philosophy in between races while sipping hot tea. Her team won three times.

This is very early spring in Minnesota, and although it was mild in temperature, the limestone walls of the river valley were still coated with glacial ice on the far side, where the direct sun doesn't shine. It's chilly over there. Then my eyes raised a little higher and I was startled to suddenly recognize the big brick building on the far side of the river, sitting high up on the bank. Riverside hospital. A gust of wind came up and I shivered. I counted up to the windows of the seventh floor of the hospital. More than 30 years ago, that's where I spent the better part of a year staring out at the world and not knowing if I would ever really emerge again.

How very strange. Only thirty years, and yet this is an entirely different river I see today.

Tramps Like Us....

My head is a little numb today, the result of spending hours at a rock concert last night. Unexpectedly, a work colleague had four tickets to Bruce Springsteen, which I gobbled up in a flash.

It was the sixth time I've seen Springsteen in concert, though there was a lapse of more than 20 years since the last concert I attended. Raising kids and building a career sort of got in the way for a long while.
My brother, my 21-year old son, his friend and I went to the St. Paul event, and none of them has seen Springsteen before, and had no idea what to expect. I myself was 21 the first time I saw Springsteen, and the crowd last night was largely made up of my peers. I heard many of them talking about seeing Springsteen in the 70s.

The band was a full hour late taking the stage, and I worried a bit if this indicated the Springsteen might have lost his respect for audiences. Like other long-time rock acts sometimes are now guilty of, would Springsteen go through the motions in a prefunctory 45-minute set, in order to catch an early plane to Milwaukee, where he plays tonight?

I need not have worried. The concert lasted a solid 2-1/2 hours, and there were times when the band, loud as it was, was drowned out by the 45- and 50-year old audience singing along with the lyrics.

From time to time I glanced over at my son and his friend, to see them looking about awed at this songwriter/musician's hold over the audience. At any given moment, when Springsteen holds a microphone into the air, 19,000 people will bellow out the lyrics. While this goes on, Springsteen looks around at his band members and shakes his head in emotion and amazement. At one point last night during Born to Run, the crowd held all the lyrics for a full two minutes. Behind me was another father with a fifteen year old daughter, who kept looking around at the crowd, giggling with delight.

At 58, Springsteen no longer leaps off the pianos, but his energy still would put most 20-year olds to shame. His fondness for audiences is legendary, and there isn't a moment when you don't see his delight. He's become steadily more political in his old age, and last night there were moments of celebration that we're coming to an end of "8 years in the dark ages," and an admonishment to protect our civil liberties against illegal wire taps. We were asked to donate to a midwest food shelves charity set up in the lobbies.

Mostly, though, we were just flat-out entertained by an event where the audience is every bit as important as the performers. It is hard to know exactly how Springsteen manages to put so much of his soul into every performance. Six times now, and they mark the six best concerts out of dozens of different rock concerts I've seen.

On the way home, my son's friend said, hoarsely. "So, I suppose that must be pretty much what it was like back in the days of the Beatles."

Not quite, I thought to myself. But it will do. It will do.

I went to a funeral service for the tragic death of an acquaintance over the weekend, and was surprised at the nature of the Mennonite service.

I was raised a Lutheran, and have plenty of friends of this and other Protestant denominations as well as Catholic acquaintances. So I have a working knowledge of the principles of most Christian denominations. Frankly, none of them has really spoken to my soul, which is why most of my adult life has been spent studying eastern philosophies and disciplines. I'm not sure you could really pin me to any religious group, though if the issue was pushed I'd fit most neatly into the Buddhist club.

So this was my first ever exposure to Mennonites. This particular congregation belongs to what is commonly called "modern Mennonites," which means that they are main stream ocitizens that don't wear any special clothing, and wh by all appearances live pretty much like the rest of us. Many years ago, the Amish split off from the Mennonites because they wanted a much more conservative, disciplined practice.

In fact, though I was aware that Mike, the deceased, was a highly religious man, there was never a moment where he visibly "witnessed" his faith to the world at large. Mennonites are pretty private people, and would rather die than proselytize as do the Mormons, for example,

The first major surprise was that compared to other Protestant groups, the modern Mennonites have almost no discernible liturgy to their services. No creeds, no ritualized prayers, no communion. I"m told they do not even bother with baptism. The service was filled with music, and with personal stories about the deceased, and this appears to be what almost every worship service consists of. The members of the congregation move around the chapel quite freely during the service, and may roam about talking to one another, or may pop out to the lobby for a drink of water at any time. The kids roam about, and all the adults care for them as though they're parents.

The closest thing to gospel readings were a couple of brief quotes from Jesus, in which he instructed people to care for the poor, the sick, and for children with great compassion.

And this is about the only "rules" by which the modern Mennonites live: to try and emulate this compassion as modeled by Jesus. They don't really care about this "Jesus is the son of God" thing; they just believe it's the greatest good to care for others. They spend a lot of effort and time building schools in third world countries, rebuilding homes in places like hurricane ravaged Louisiana. And they do it pretty much without trying to convert anybody. This was what Mike's life had been about, and while he wasn't perfect, I can't point to many people who tried any harder to lead a good life.

I'm sure that digging a little deeper would reveal some not-so-nice features of the Mennonites. But my quick glimpse of it made we wonder if the Lutherans and the Catholics and the Pentecostals might not get a clearer picture of what Jesus was really thinking by paying attention to this little group.

Mike

Mike and I have known each other for 20 years. We became acquainted when our sons entered kindergarten together, and as the boys played soccer together, wrestled on park board teams and the highschool wrestling team together, Mike and I saw a lot of each other then, not so much now. We're not close, close friends, but good acquaintences nonetheless. During the kids' highschool years in particular, our families saw a lot of one another, and would occasionally socialize at one another's homes.

As the boys graduated high school and drifted apart into different lives, MIke and I saw less of one another, but when we run into each other at neighborhood festivals or political meetings, we always catch with 15 or 20 minutes of enjoyable talk.

Mike is a very devout Mennonite, which puts us on slightly different planets, me being a fallen Lutheran and mostly Buddhist these days. But for a strongly religious fellow, Mike never pushes his belief on others. And I admire the good quality of his life. MIke and his family host foreign visitors from Africa frequently. They travel to central America to do social work in depressed neighborhoods. MIke has also overcome some personal problems in an admirable manner. Mike is an all-around good guy, who has rightly earned the respect of others.

Last weekend Mike traveled up to Fargo to handle funeral arrangements for his father, who just passed away. One night he went out for a jog on the streets of Fargo, and a driver struck and killed Mike on a blind corner.

Mike was 53 years old, just months older than me. He leaves a wife and two sons, ages 23 and 18——exactly the same ages as my kids.

It was pretty somber at my house last night. My son was home, and he seemed especially quiet. We were all, in our own ways, reflecting on the fact that life is so precious, so fleeting, and so uncertain. I'm sure my son was thinking about his friend, imagining what it's like to lose a father so suddenly, so randomly.

If ever there was a fellow who deserved to live happily into decrepit old age, it was Mike. But there is nothing whatsoever fair or certain about life.

And so we must live it right now.