Charity

Four years before I was born, Thomas Merton wrote No Man is an Island. The books were printed, distributed, read, critiqued, put on shelves, packed in boxes, and stored away. One day in 2005 I found a copy on the basement book shelf at The Angel Inn, Green Lake, WI. After reading No Man is an Island, I read 10 or more other books by Merton. I keep picking up No Man and finding more insight.

Charity...makes me an instrument of God's Providence in (other's) lives. I must become convinced and penetrated by the realization that without my love for them they may perhaps not achieve the things God has willed for them. My will must be the instrument of God's will in helping them create their destiny. Chapter I 6

Yesterday I met a 34 year old named Brian, who was preparing to appear in federal court for sentencing on drug trafficking charges. Today was his day before the judge. This young man had been involved in a major marijuana distribution conspiracy moving a highly potent form of the drug from New York to Madison for three years until the fall of 2003. When I met Brian I didn't know the details of his charges and I offered to join others in supporting Brian in the court room. I sat in the audience and heard the Federal prosecutor explain some of the findings. As the story was told it occurred to me that Aaron probably was drawn into this exact conspiracy in the summer of '03. The extreme volume of pot this organization was moving makes it highly likely that Aaron was affected by the operation.

There was a time from 2003 through a good part of 2005 when I wanted to destroy those people like Brian who were killing my son and my family. I hated these people. For a day in the summer of '05 I wanted to kill any of them. Revenge, I imagined, was better than grief. Anger, hatred, revenge. A drug pusher was going to pay. These guys were the pushers, not the teenagers. They just wanted to be like the pushers. They wanted what the pushers had. The pushers tell the great lies. They coach the kids to manipulate their parents and siblings. They're the role models. They kidnapped my son's mind. Parenting doesn't have an instruction manual but drug pushing does.

I'm grateful for recovery. Today I sat in the courtroom without judging. I had a wide range of feelings for all of the players in the drama. The Judge who may have weighed the political risk of leniency on a drug pusher, the defendant who has changed his life, the family who's nightmare won't end, the prosecutor who appeared to have no friends in the room, and the Mother in the audience who just wanted to know if the defendant, or anyone, knew her son Amos. Amos has been missing for 4 years. She feels no one cares and no one is looking for her son. Of all of my feelings today, anger was not one of them. Sadness, contentment, compassion, envy, sorrow, peace, satisfaction, disappointment.

With my head in my hands I breath and know I stood close to what once was part of the evil that claimed the innocence of Aaron and I immediately experienced the Providence of God. In the presence of what once was evil, I was aware that my compassion for this person is necessary for him to achieve what God has willed for him. Only charity can defeat evil.

No man is an island.

New Clothes

So the Palins need new clothes. I understand, you can't be running around America looking like you're from Juneau ya know. Maybe everybody who runs for Vice President needs to have their family re-attired and Sarah is being treated unfairly by the media. Or, maybe these people never watched What Not To Wear and their closets are full of problems.

A politician with wisdom would be a nice change. Instead we seem to get politicians with smart mouths. Witty and quick with a quip trumps wisdom. I won't blame the media--we get from the media what we ask for.

If wisdom mattered, Sarah Palin would be wise to take a suggestion to heart: "I say beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, and not rather a new wearer of clothes." Henry David Thoreau

Should she run from the office?

Fucking Wall

The emphasis is on the first syllable. Say second syllable soft and drawn out. Without intention to be offensive, the word is a capsule of anger, fear, resentment, displeasure, sorrow, grief, love, and hatred. Fucking wall.

Fall is a time I get up early and leave home before even the farmers. I'm fortunate to have permission from some of them to hunt ducks on their property. Driving north a few miles from my house I cross Vinburn Road. Looking left, right, the left again, I look west toward that fucking wall. Aaron would rarely be with me on these morning jaunts but he'd be somewhere if not for the fucking wall. I resent that concrete monster and the decision that placed it there. It took my son.

Walls don't give back, they take. A decision was made to put this manslaughter 20 few feet from the edge of the road. For what reason? To hold mulch--as if it would walk away without a four foot high, two foot wide mass of concrete and steel. The Berlin wall was only 8 feet higher and no wider. Hundreds of people died trying to escape. They died in the death trap in Berlin--shot by the keepers of the wall. None were killed by the wall. Aaron died trying to escape the death trap on Vinburn--who killed Aaron? The wall?

In any year I drive over 30,000 miles. I pay attention to where concrete monsters lurk. With satisfaction I noticed a similar business on Hwy 19 outside of Waunakee took their wall--which was more than 20 something feet from the road, and moved it well away from harm's way. They put it in their parking lot where disasters are avoided. That's considerate. I have never seen another mulch security wall as massive and as close to a road. Fly to it and take a panoramic view on
The view of 4048 Vinburn Road, 53532 might be the view Aaron saw. Disgusting how close this piece of shit wall is to the road. I strongly dislike this wall.

Rebuilding our lives is not reasonable. We do the work that needs to be done, but you can't rebuild a family life without the family. I could rebuild without our home, or clothes, or belongings, but not without our son. The fucking wall was rebuilt though. Nothing to it I suppose. Haul away the broken piece and stack a new half ton block. Business as usual. Gotta keep the shit mulch right there---can't put it behind the barn. God knows you can't sell mulch from a many hundred acre farm unless you display it 20 too few feet from the road. Bullshit. Move the fucking wall.


My son was disgusted by greed. He had sorrow in his heart for the carnage caused by greedy pursuit of more than a fair share. Aaron died because of someones insanely greedy marketing idea. Aaron enjoyed music. They keep making new music. OAR will be in Madison on November 1. Aaron should be there. The wall should be moved. My heart aches. I want to cry.

Fucking wall.

It has always seemed strange to me...

There is much to be grateful for in my life. It is just my opinion, not a fact, that things I do require time and/or money. What I be is free. There is nothing I have to do before I die and one thing I want to be. I want to be me. Not the best me, just me as I am. And I am pretty much the same guy who served mass at St. John church at 12 in 1971.

Four days in the clean Canadian air surrounded by clear, cold Canadian water, poured on by rain, and warmed by a wood fueled fire in a 1938 built stone fireplace, sleeping in an uninsulated vintage, running water-less cabin. I wouldn't feel more forgiven had it rained holy water for those 100 hours. Without technology the entertainment was watching a little chess tournament by the fire, lots of laughs at the expense of eachother, and turning in early for a few chapters of Steinbeck's Cannery Row.

Steinbeck wrote Cannery Row in 1945 as a contribution to the war effort. Soldiers in Europe in need of a diversion from war escaped into Cannery Row, a ficticious story with characters from Steinbeck's life in California. This past year I escaped into Steinbeck books and became a fan of his writing. Whenever I see words strung together so perfectly that I hesitate to read on in fear that I will lose the beauty the way a burning sun sets I highlight them, bend the corner of the page, or write the words down somewhere to hopefully find them one day again. This paragraph seems appropriate in this current economy and political season.

Thank you John Steinbeck---

"It has always seemed strange to me," said Doc. "The things we admire in men, kindness, and generosity, openness, honesty, understanding and feeling are the concomitants of failure in our system. And those traits we detest, sharpness,greed, acquisitiveness, meanness, egotism and self-interest are the traits of success. And while men admire the quality of the first they love the produce of the second."...The sale of souls to gain the whole world is completely voluntary and almost unanimous--but not quite...

I'm thankful I had the opportunity to live with less long enough to appreciate more.

Oh Canada

Kenora Island, Lake of the Woods, Ontario Canada.

The island is a 13 acre rock. The main cabin has a kitchen, one big room with a stone fireplace and a 1950's era white gas heater. A few other cabins in various states of character sit near the outhouse. A decoy and boat shed still looks over an edge. An old boat house - pier system was taken down 10 years ago.

My last visit to the island was in 2001. I went reluctantly. To go meant missing one of Aaron's football games. It was a tough choice but there was to be more games. There were, but not as many as I had expected.

Cell phones were highly discouraged 7 years ago. I broke the ban on contact with the outside world in order to check in with Aaron after the game. I remember standing outside on top of a rock on the rock to get reception on a crystal clear star spangled night. Aaron was excited. He had played well. I don't remember the details but I do remember giving the report to the guys in the house.

Eventually Aaron was to make the trip with us. I have an ache in my heart tonight thinking about returning to a place where I once chose over being with my son. Kenora is one of my Jezebels. How will I feel when I see the spot where I stood to get a clear connection to Aaron? Maybe the rock on the rock can connect us one more time.

Does the Subaru Come with Bumper Stickers?

For 20 years I've driven from east and northeast Madison to the west side. These are my beltline observations:

Traveling east to west the Nascar sticker sporting autos decrease.

Following a Nascar weekend, be aware of excelerating, tailgating, in and out weaving. The beltline is a Daytona without the left turns.

Moms in kid movers never leave early enough.

If school bus drivers drove the way moms drive an SUV, there would be no passengers on the yellow bus.

What happened to the short bus?

The police vehicle that stops behind a vehicle with a flat tire causes a backup from John Nolen to Stoughton Road.

Bumper stickers shout some things there owners would not whisper in public.

Do you need a bumper sticker to tell people you're a redneck?

You were so sure Bush was the one, and now you want me to trust that you know what you are saying when your bumper tells me to vote for McCain?

Subarus are bought on the east side of Madison and taken home to the west side.

Subarus are required by neighborhood covenants on the near west side.

The closer one lives to Lake Mendota the more likely you are to drive a Volvo.

Cars breakdown on the exit ramp at Seminole Highway.

Pickup trucks are larger east and non existent west.

Bumper stickers are a form of passive aggressive behavior.

If there is enough snow to close schools and GEF buildings, maybe riding a bike on the street is not wise.

I know people car pool because I see cars in the designated lots.

Guys car pool midday in groups of five -- some of the vehicles have tinted windows.

People would rather stop at Starbucks on their way to work than brew a pot and pour a cup before leaving home.

Guys from Illinois drive black cars Volvos, wear white shirts, ties, Blue Tooth headsets and drive like moms on a Nascar fix.

The further west I go the more wrong I am about life... according to the vehicles that pass me.

Cars with multiple stickers on their backsides makes me think of the one I would glue to my vehicle: They're called BUMPER stickers.

Calculate This

Put an Inflation Calculator on your site!

I bought a Michael's Custard, single scoop cone last week. $3.65 I paid. Change for my five dollar bill was a buck and a few coins. In 1975 dollars, the price of the cone would buy $15.00 worth of groceries and an ice cream cone at the Fairview Dairy--really good stuff was $.25 for a single dip, $.75 got a tripple dipper.

Here's some crazy talk--A slice of pizza, a soda, and a trip to the salad bar at Rocky Rococo's, $7.00. A Culver's shake is $5.00--and I think it's smaller than last year. A bottle of water from a tap at a bottling plant, delivered in a warm truck to a gas station convenience store, $1.39. A pack of gum, $2.09. A tank of gas is $57.00 and that's with gas at the recent low price of the cost of a scoop of ice cream! A nickle candy bar is a buck. Next Tuesday Culver's has $1.00 butter burgers. Cool, but take me back to 1972 when cheeseburgers were $.26 at Sandys across from the Sport Marine on Highway 45 in Antigo. What is 26 cents in 2008 money?

My Dad would be stunned. I'm stunned. Is this inflation or just plain crazy? Probably dysfunctional. When we decided that our parent's way of saving and only buying what we can pay cash for was not for us, we got what we deserved. We opened the door to our vaults and told everyone to come and get it. If you got what I want, name your price because I can't say no. I won't say no. I want it. You got it. The higher the price, the better the product, the fancier the label, the smarter I look. Sign me up! I need it today. It'll make me happy. You'll like me. Somebody will like me if I have what you have. I'll buy it today, I get paid next week. I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today. Garshgh Olive, we've become Wimpy!