A Thanksgiving Reflection

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite days of the year. Not because I consider the literal meaning of the annual holiday and it’s historical context, but because it’s the only time of the year that both sides of our clans come together to share good food and conversation. Our collective families are spread out like the station markers on a wrinkled Amtrak schedule. From Ann Arbor, Michigan to the north, to Winchester, Indiana in the south; we are a close family that is spread out over two states. Unfortunately, this extended distance makes it difficult to coordinate a get-together that doesn’t involve the despair of a funeral, or the chaotic splendor of a wedding.

That’s why I like Thanksgiving.

There is no schedule, and no pretense other than to come to our house to eat, drink, and have a good time. Dinner is at one p.m. The kids go first through the buffet line, and if everyone else is being ultra polite, I make no qualms about following right behind them with plate and napkin in hand. After all, this is one of the few days of the year you can indulge your self-gluttony and not feel guilty about being unable to snap that top button on your pants. If you’re late, your only sin is not getting that first slice of Aunt Ann’s delicious pecan pie (because I have beaten you to it).

The family conversation is normally lighthearted; unless we get on the subject of politics or religion. For the hearing impaired, they can tell when the subject turns to right versus left because my mother-in-law and step-father usually get up and beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen. This holiday
we had six Democrats, four Republicans, and two independents sitting around our dining room table. We kept it civil for the most part. However, I did sense a muted enthusiasm for the subject amongst my fellow Democrats this year.

Another thing I like about Thanksgiving is talking about those family members who have left us behind and now dwell in either heaven (for the Catholics and Protestants) or the great unknown (for the agnostics and atheists). I love hearing my aunt’s stories about my deceased father’s adventures as a wayward kid, and my wife’s ninety year-old grandmother reminisce about life during World War II and the 1950’s. If the kids are behaving and not pestering us for seconds and thirds from the desert buffet, I always learn a new tidbit or two about our collective family history, something that perhaps some day I’ll be able to pass down to my kids and grandchildren.

At the end of the day, after everyone has left and I’ve helped my wife straighten up the dining room and kitchen, that’s when it really hits me why I love Thanksgiving.

Our kids are healthy, happy, and thriving in school. We’ve survived a year of work-related challenges, no health insurance, and a great deal of uncertainty about our future. Our beloved cat, Sophia, scratched her way back from death’s door, and is back to her usual, aloof self. We’ve made it through ten months of the year without losing a loved one, and we have a large family that loves us unconditionally.

We have a lot to be thankful for.

Into the Fire

Don't laugh at a youth for his affectations; he is only trying on one face after another to find a face of his own. ~Logan Pearsall Smith, "Age and Death," Afterthoughts, 1931

Memory is a funny, sometimes maddening thing. Given ample amounts of time, I have a tendency to look back on bygone events from my school years and exorcize all of the negatives (like believing that I won my first fistfight in the fourth grade but forgetting the black eye that appeared on my face the next day). Much like a revisionist historical text on the Pilgrims or Spanish Conquistadors, its much easier to forget the negatives and accentuate the imagined good.

Now, thirty years after my graduation from a small high school in the Midwest, my memory has grown still fuzzier on those details, and with each passing year I find myself selectively recalling only the good times, while with the precision of a surgeon’s knife, cutting away at the heartache, humiliation, and insecurity that accompanied me through the doors of the school every single day.

That is, until my first born son, Ethan, left the relatively easy charity of elementary and middle school, and entered into the abyss commonly known as “high school.”

Gone forever are the days when homework consisted of a spelling review and math worksheets, a mere thirty minutes of additional work before he could play with his friends in the backyard or sit mindlessly in front of the television set or computer. Ethan’s once simple life has now been replaced by weeknights consumed by history project deadlines and endless chapters of American classics. Much to my delight, he has embraced this challenge with his usual laid-back, dutiful recognition that good grades in high school begets a college education and the possibility of achieving the “American Dream.”

But what escaped me until now (that damn memory thing again) was the difficult tribulation of assimilating in a closed, semi-adolescent society of your peers. Everything is magnified in the high school arena of academics, athletics and extra curricular activities. The pressure to succeed is enormous, and while my focus has been on stewarding Ethan through homework and sports, I completely overlooked the internal pressures he is reeling from while trying to fit in and define himself as a person.

Recently, a déjà vu moment woke me up to this egregious oversight. Ethan had a rather one-sided argument with a longtime friend (via texting and online gaming, of course) that turned rather ugly when the young man accused him of always siding with another friend whenever they had a disagreement. Unlike his father, Ethan tends to be the living, breathing equivalent of Switzerland when it comes to an argument, but in this instance he was very distraught that one his best friends could accuse him of disloyalty.

“I’m just sick of it, dad,” he said, as he sat at the computer and pulled up his Facebook page. “I’m tired of getting stuck in the middle whenever my friends have a disagreement. I don’t even want to hang out with some of them anymore!”

Later, after he cooled down (his friend texted him, apologized for his outburst, and Ethan graciously accepted his apology), we talked about the ramifications of possibly shutting the door on his friendship with the boy. In a stunning, heartfelt admission, Ethan told me how painful it had become to watch as his friends, many of whom had been his baseball teammates for years, broke off into smaller groups or cliques, and how difficult it was to be stuck in the middle trying to please everyone. Trying to fit in and trying to be a good friend was tearing him apart.

Looking into his soft brown eyes I could see the innocence was slipping away, and it broke my heart.

Friendships that were so easy on the ball diamond and the long, careless days of summer, had suddenly become as fragile as egg shells under the glaring lights of the school’s unofficial system of self-segregation. I had tried to prepare him for this day. Small, fractured statements, sometimes delivered with caustic sarcasm and at other times, gently; always trying to accentuate the positives without sugar-coating the reality that who we are today is not the same person we will be next week, next month, or next year. People change and you have to accept the disheartening reality that some friendships won’t last forever.

I think he’ll be okay. He’s a good kid, and a respectful, trusted friend to his peers. He has a strong sense of who he is and where he wants to go in life. I just wish there was some way to douse the emotional fires of high school life and let him know that in time everything will be alright.

Planting a Garden in the Burbs

When you live in a state where the vast majority of fertile black soil is cultivated for crops, it's relatively easy to take agriculture for granted. Even as local family farms have been driven to the brink of extinction by large corporate operations like Cargill and subdivisions which are rapidly creeping outward from the city limits, you can't take a drive in the country without seeing thousands of acres of corn and soybeans. Unfortunately, much of what is grown in Elkhart County is now being used as cattle feed to support our insatiable appetite for meat and the bio-fuel industry. Other than our local farmer's markets in Goshen and Elkhart, where our considerable Amish population are the primary suppliers of fresh fruits and vegetables, most of what we consume is grown out of state and is purchased at our local Meijer store.

Earlier this week, after spending several hours working in the yard and planting a few blueberry and blackberry bushes, I paused for a moment beneath the shade of a large oak tree and stared at a sunny patch of earth in our backyard. With the current oil catastrophe in the Gulf of Mexico and our sour local economy, I have been thinking a lot about about what our family could do on a limited basis to help sustain the environment. I don't know if it was the heat or the dark black soil that stained my hands, but the twenty by ten foot stretch of grass (and a few dandelions) suddenly looked like the perfect place to plant a garden. After mulling it over for a few minutes and then discussing it with my wife and children, we decided to collectively take the plunge and try our luck as suburban farmers.

The positives appear to far outweigh the negatives. As a child I can still vividly recall the joys of eating green beans and tomatoes picked fresh from my mother's garden. Unless my memory is playing sentimental tricks in my head, there is nothing that tastes better than something you have grown and nurtured with your own two hands. Other than possibly upsetting our new next door neighbors, who have a lush yard and expensive landscaping that looks like something you might see in a copy of Better Homes and Gardens, we all agree that the "family garden" will be a good opportunity to spend some much-needed time together and discover if we have green thumbs or minds addled senseless by imagination.

After digging through our shed and garage for almost an hour, we came to the conclusion that we have all of the tools we will need to use for this modest endeavor. Nothing fancy. Nothing expensive. In an effort to keep it simple and affordable, we are going to dig up the yard by hand this weekend (using a diabolical-looking garden cultivator, spades and hoes) and then plant tomatoes, peppers, carrots, cucumbers, and perhaps a few canteloupes. Nothing too ambitious- just a few of the basics for a good salad or a homemade batch of spaghetti sause. While this certainly wouldn't have kept the Pilgrims alive for more than a week or two during their first harsh winter in New England, it should be an interesting experiment in home-grown, sustainable vegetable gardening.

As long as we don't accidently dig up our deceased pet rabbit, guinea pig, or one of the half a dozen or so goldfish that now claim our backyard as their eternal resting place, I think we are in for an interesting summer.

Another Disaster for the Gulf Coast

How many more ecological disasters is it going to take until America wakes up? Today, after a third leak was discovered at the Deep Waters Horizon rig that exploded and sank fifty miles off the Louisiana coast on April 20, 2010, some officials are now estimating that 210,000 gallons of oil are leaking from the site every day. While this accelerated pollution of the gulf waters takes place, British Petroleum (BP), which reported 4.4 billion dollars in gross profits during the fourth quarter of 2009, is finally admitting that they don't have a clue on how to handle the disaster.

BP's Chief Operating Officer, Doug Suttles, announced today that "we'll take help from anyone" in an effort to stop the leak and clean up the oil spill, which is rapidly advancing towards the Louisiana coast. How can a company that makes every penny of their profits from drilling for oil not know how to cap the leaking oil at its source? Even worse, how can the most profitable industry on the planet not have contingency plans for disasters?

The only logical answer is greed on the part of big business and our own stupefying indifference to the consequences. From the oil companies and their shareholders reaping record profits, right-wing pundits like Sara Palin and her obscene "drill baby, drill" motto, our elected officials like President Obama (who recently announced his intentions to allow oil drilling off the east coast of the United States), and our own selfish gluttony to consume and ignore alternative energy resources, we are killing ourselves.

While the fall-out from this disaster will be witnessed in the months and years to come in terms of government and business declarations to "protect the environment" and the reality of dead wildlife and contaminated coastal wetlands, we continue to deny the absolute fact that some day the last drop of oil will be pumped out of the earth, and all we will have to show for our ravenous consumption is dead oceans, rampant air pollution and poisoned drinking water.

It's been twenty-one years since the Exxon Valdez catastrophe, and we haven't learned a damned thing.

Remembering Sally Conrad

Earlier this week I received tragic news that a long time friend, Sally Conrad, had succumbed to cancer in Pennsylvania. Through Facebook messages and some conversations with her sister, Peggy, I knew the cancer was aggressive and had been discovered in its final stages, but her sudden demise still left me with an empty, gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. After over ten years of being apart, it saddened me deeply to know that our phone conversation several months earlier would never be replayed. Sitting alone at home in front of my computer, I found it hard to believe that her battle with cancer had claimed her life so quickly.

When someone dies suddenly and in a far away place, it gives you pause to reconcile and relive, if only for a brief moment, the breadth of your friendship. Sally had come in to my life when I was a junior in high school. She drove a school bus then, and part of her routine was ferrying our speech team to various competitions on the weekends. From the first cold morning that I stepped in to the warmth of her bus, I found Sally to be anything but your typical bus driver. For starters, she smiled, laughed and talked to the kids- something that was totally foreign to most of us. The bus drivers of our youth were grumpy old men. They smelled of sweat and tobacco, their thoughts focused on their farm fields that needed to be tilled between bus runs. The only time they spoke was to admonish us for horseplay or to inform us that we were temporarily kicked off the bus for bad behavior.

Riding on Sally's bus was a breath of fresh air.

We could laugh and sing on her bus... sometimes in such a silly and ear-piercing manner that even Mother Theresa would have been forced to pull over and give us all a good tongue-lashing. But Sally was different. She seemed to enjoy our company, even pausing between driving and taking sips of her ever present cup of steaming coffee to banter back and forth with us. When we finished with our competitions, sometimes deflated after a poor performance, Sally was there, patiently waiting for us in her radiantly warm bus. Her kind words of encouragement and radiant smile always managed to take some of the sting out of a bad day.

In later years, Sally developed a deep and lasting friendship with my mother. It was through this relationship that I came to know her as a dear friend. In a crass world populated by narcissistic mortals, she was one the most selfless people I have ever known. If something was wrong with your kitchen sink or you were just having a very bad day, Sally was always there for you. She would give and give, often times to the point of physical exhaustion. If the measure of our days has anything to do with personal benefaction, Sally was a colossus who had few peers.

She was also a hell of a lot of fun to hang out with. We spent more nights than I can count playing board games or cards at my mom's house, often times playing until the wee hours of the morning. Our game nights were punctuated with incessant laughter and banter. In more serious discussions about life, politics and world events, Sally was open-minded and had a passion for those who were less fortunate. She was sentimental and loved her family deeply, especially her sister Peggy, and her only child, Billie.

In later years we grew apart when Sally moved, first to New York, and then to Pennsylvania. Through Facebook, we reconnected last year, and sent each other messages from time to time. When she called me back in January of this year, it was as if we had never been apart. Although I didn't recognize her number on my cell phone, I knew immediately who it was when I heard her beautiful, crackling laugh. It was a joy to finally be back in touch with such a good friend, and I feel sick now knowing that I allowed time and distance to cheat us out of a reunion.

When Sally died on April 16th, fighting for every last breath until she could fight no more, she left behind a lifetime of wonderful memories for her family and friends.

Goodbye, my dear friend. You were loved...

Support Dr. King's Legacy

This month marks the 42nd anniversary of the death of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. In honor of Dr. King, the clergyman, civil rights leader, and peace activist, a National Memorial is being built in Washington, D.C.

The Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. National Memorial is a scant 16 million dollars away from reaching its funding goal of 120 million dollars. This is a Memorial that will rightly take its place on the National Mall in honor of Dr. King and his ultimate sacrifice in the name of equality and civil rights. The tentative dedication of the Memorial is scheduled for the Fall of 2011.

There are a number of ways to support the Memorial, including direct bequests via the website and text messaging donations. Please visit the MLK website at www.mlkmemorialnews.org and help America honor Dr. King's legacy by making a donation today.

Back to Nature

With my children's Spring Break fast approaching, my wife preparing for a business trip, and my daughter getting her turn for the annual vacation with the grandparents, I found myself wondering what I could do with my son for the week. At fourteen, he is at the age where spending time away from his friends and his obsession with X-Box Live, all factor in on what he might consider a good time with his father. Due to other commitments, including a medical appointment later in the week, we were consigned to a two-day window to plan something enjoyable for both of us.

After ruling out a trip to Chicago (the Cubs were out of town) and some other inexpensive options, I decided to take Ethan on a trip to southern Indiana to hike the trails of Harrison-Crawford State Forest. Located on the Ohio River near the historic town of Corydon, Indiana, the state forest offered over forty miles of remote hiking trails and the prospect of very few hikers and campers this early in the season.

I had been to the area once as a small boy, accompanying my dad and one of his hunting buddies on a trip to scout deer hunting locations. It was a quick trip, spent mostly driving up and down dirt roads, but my recollection of the area was one of lush forests and towering hills, something totally foreign to me after growing up in the glacier-leveled plains of central and northern Indiana. Instead of meticulously planning every facet of the trip (something I am notorious for doing when planning family vacations), we decided to just pack up and go, even leaving open the possibility of camping under the stars.

Tuesday morning dawned unseasonably warm with temperatures near seventy degrees. After loading up the Rendevous with the bare essentials (including a compass, trail food, gloves and two rain ponchos), we hit the road. Unlike the typical family trip where the kids sit in the backseat and listen to their I-Pods or watch a DVD, Ethan sat up in front with me and we talked a great deal about school, sports, girls, and life in general. The conversation was refreshing. It was the sobering kind of interaction that reminds a parent that their child is two-thirds of the way to adulthood.

Not counting a quick pit stop south of Indianapolis, we made the three hundred mile drive in a little over five hours, arriving in Corydon around three o'clock. Since Ethan seemed less than thrilled about spending the night outdoors, we stopped at a local motel, checked-in, and got a quick bite to eat before heading to the state forest. With the temperature now at a balmy 84 degrees, we rolled down the windows and drove silently through the countryside. Turning off of State Road 62 to enter the state forest, we paused for a moment on a bridge over the Blue River, both of us entranced by the sight of two kayakers paddling down stream in the bluish-green water.

A few miles down the road we stopped at the entrance of O'Bannon Woods State Park. While Ethan waited patiently in the car, I spent five minutes talking to a cheerful park ranger who seemed very happy to see us. He asked about our plans, pointing out that it was not uncommon for people to get lost on the miles of trails, and stated rather mischievously that they had never lost a hiker for more than a day or two. After collecting a trail and topography map, we set out for a trail that followed a ridge line overlooking the Ohio River. Other than a lone hiker and two people on horseback, it appeared that we had the entire park to ourselves.

We were both excited as I parked the car near the trail head. Ethan laughed out loud while I struggled to put on a fanny pack filled with our supplies, especially when I put it on backwards the first time. The view from atop the bluff was surreal, almost as if we had stumbled back to the 1800's. No barges, boats or industry as far as the eye could see. The trail was well-maintained and clearly-marked. Two hawks circled overhead, effortlessly rising and falling with the wind as we walked silently, taking our time to enjoy the sweeping views from the ridge, and pausing at several spots to stand on the rocky outcroppings that perched over the river.

While I cautiously approached each overlook, Ethan negotiated the rocks with athletic ease, completely oblivious to the fact that one missed step could lead to a tragic end. Walking fifty paces in front of me, he shouted suddenly for me to join him on a large, flat rock that formed one half of a chute that led straight down to the forest between the river and the bluff.

"What is it?" I asked, surprised to hear the sheer excitement in his voice.

"I found a big black snake!" he replied. "Quick... Grab the camera out of your pack!"

By the time I had extracted the camera from my pack and joined him on the outcropping, the snake had vanished, undoubtedly annoyed at being interrupted during his late afternoon sunning session. We explored the rock for a few minutes, marveling at the dozens of cracks and crevices where snake could have sought refuge. I was actually somewhat relieved that it had been a black snake. Southern Indiana is Northern Copperhead territory, and one of their favorite places to den is in rocky crevices. Disappointed that he wouldn't have a picture to show his friends, Ethan finally agreed to give up his search and we continued on our way.

Fifteen minutes later we emerged from the trail at the bottom of the ridge. Instead of continuing on another trail that angled away from the river, we decided to walk back to the west between the bluff and the river. There were no trails leading up to the base of the cliffs, which presented us with the challenge of navigating the steep hillside filled with brambles and fallen trees.

While Ethan led the way, I carefully followed behind, choosing each step with the knowledge that a fall would probably result in a bruised backside. Sure enough, about fifty feet from the base of the cliff, my left foot slipped in the wet foliage and I tumbled first sideways and then downhill about eight feet. Pulling myself up with the help of a sapling, I was surprised to see that other than a few small cuts on my calf and a wet behind, I was none the worse for wear. Ethan, who was standing at the top of the incline, laughed for several minutes as I wearily made my way up the rest of the grade.

"Not very graceful, dad." he chuckled good-naturedly, extending his hand to mine for a final assist to join him at the top. "I'm surprised you didn't fall all the way down to the river!"

"It was the fanny pack's fault." I replied, before taking a paper towel out of the man purse and dabbing my bleeding calf. "It threw me off balance, probably because I packed those extra batteries in the left pocket."

All Ethan could do was smile as he scrambled up twenty feet to a rock ledge that appeared to run for several hundred feet beneath the outcroppings. Suddenly feeling my age and nursing my bruised pride, I declined Ethan's invitation to join him on the ledge, and instead followed beneath him, snapping pictures and watching every damn step I took. The rock ledges were both foreign and fascinating. Large and small crevices dotted the rocky formations, the product of millions of years of weather and erosion. Around a small bend, several hundred feet from our starting point, we came across an actual cave. The entrance was about ten feet wide and six feet tall. Ethan made a brief attempt to climb up to the cavern, but thought better of it when he realized the rock wall actually inverted outward.

Exhausted after about two hours of climbing and exploring, we both decided it was time to head back up to the car. Ethan had drained his water bottle in the first hour of our adventure and we were now sharing my half-drunk bottle. The point at which we chose to descend was fairly steep, and in a fearful moment of history repeating itself, I decided to tie a 25 foot line from a sturdy tree and rappel-stagger-slide down a particularly steep portion of the hill. I made it to the bottom of the incline without incident (although I wouldn't describe it as a graceful maneuver). Ethan was excited about the prospect of doing the same until I informed him that he couldn't because it was his job to untie the rope and throw it down to me. We couldn't leave it behind. Determined not to suffer the same fate as his father, Ethan did an excellent job shifting his weight to his down foot and slid down the incline without incident.

After some more good-natured ribbing back and forth, we made our way to the bottom of the hill and walked back to the base of the ridge. We stopped for a water break fifty yards from the river and during our break discovered two walking sticks that had carved, pointed ends. Tired, and hungry, we used the walking sticks to guide us back up the ridge. Watching my son navigate the long, upward stretch of trail with ease and grace, I couldn't help but feel a tinge of both sadness and joy knowing that my youth was gone, but Ethan's wonderful journey was just beginning.

At the trail head we stopped once again to admire the beauty of the river below us. The two hawks who had sailed overhead at the beginning of our trek were still floating effortlessly in the warm, humid air. We considered briefly taking the walking sticks with us for our next day's hike, but instead decided to set them next to the trail head marker for the next hikers who would follow in our footsteps.

As we trampled through a small meadow back to our car, I smiled and hummed an old Dan Fogleberg song. It had been a good day for both of us, father and son.