If These Old Walls Could Speak

A house is nothing more than a bunch of wood and concrete and other stuff thrown together in some semblance of order to form a shelter. A home, though, is the place where life happens. One day in the not too distant future, Diane and I will begin the process of packing up our home. Packing the "things," while no small feat, is meaningless when compared to the packing up the memories of the last 30 years.

In some ways, it still seems like just yesterday that I cleared areas of the heavily wooded lot for the house and septic system. We broke ground in early 1994 and I was sent to Japan to work for two weeks (on very short notice) just days after the basement was poured. Diane powered on in my absence; raising two active little boys and keeping things moving with the builder.

Diane, the boys and I invested much blood, sweat and tears as the house grew from that hole in the ground and somehow transformed into the home where our family grew up. The memories started even before we moved in in September of that year.

The excavator put the boys on his lap as he drove his big machinery around the lot; digging and moving dirt. 

Those walls saw two little boys spending many hours pounding nails through various walls' bottom plate into the subfloor as Diane and I worked on other construction projects. I'm sure the hundreds of nails holding some of the walls to the subfloor would keep the wall standing in the fiercest tornado.

Those walls saw two little homeschooled boys grow into godly young men.

Those walls saw an addition built to move Diane's parents in when they needed extra care, and they saw us grieve as her Dad passed away in their home within our home. They saw Diane sacrifice much as she cared for her Mom for 20 years until she simply couldn't provide the care she needed anymore, all while still caring for her boys and me.

Those walls saw Diane fiercely battle cancer; refusing to give in even a little as she pressed on with all of the responsibilities of being a wife, mom and educator.

Those walls saw the boys head off to college and begin families of their own.

Those walls saw joy and sorrow, arguments and reconciliation, victories and loss.

Soon, those walls will be seeing memories being made by a new family, but all they have seen over the last 30 years will somehow still be there - still a part of the fabric of that house that will no longer be our home.

Lola's Last Words

Lola died Thursday. Lola wasn't her real name, but that's what I called her. Lola was Loretta Gorski, Diane's Mom. The very first time I met her some 34 plus years ago, she told me she had grown up wanting to be a Radio City Rockette with the stage name of Lola. She would have been the first and only sub-five foot tall Rockette, but the name stuck and she was Lola until the end.

Lola lived with us for 20 years in a connected apartment we built by converting the garage into living space. She lived there with Diane as her primary caregiver until, after taking a fall in December, 2019, she needed more care than Diane could give. We moved Lola into an assisted living facility about fifteen minutes from home on March 6, 2020. One week later, the facility was put into COVID lockdown, and for over a year the only real contact Diane had with her Mom was phone calls and waving to her as she stood at the window of her third floor apartment while Diane stood in the parking lot. She was so happy when the facility reopened for Diane to visit her, to hug her again. 

Lola lived in her assisted living apartment until Memorial Day weekend when she took another fall that sent her to the hospital. From there, she was sent to a rehab facility with the hope of getting her strong enough to go back to the apartment that had become her home. 

On Wednesday, June 30th, Diane brought her outside to meet Asaph, her first great-grandchild, who was visiting from Florida. She was ecstatic and he was happy to sit on her lap. 

That night, everything changed.

The nurse called Diane early Thursday morning to tell her Lola was becoming very lethargic and confused. They were sending her to the hospital. Diane called from the ER to tell us Lola was out of it. They ran a battery of tests to determine that she had infections of several organs and systems. She handed the phone to the doctor so he could discuss his findings and find out what we wanted to do. As her Healthcare POA, I made the decision to begin comfort care and allow the infections to run their course in her body. 

We met her back at the care, now hospice, facility, but Lola really wasn't there. She slept virtually all of the time and was not really lucid during her wakeful periods. We called Matthew during her last (and really only) lucid moment and put the phone by her so they could talk a final time. After Matthew tearfully told her that he loved her for the last time, Lola said, "I'm glad you're not here." She didn't want his last memory of her to be seeing her in her current condition. After that call, she went back to sleep.

Lola had a few wakeful episodes after that, but she was never really lucid. In one of those times, she told us (about 50 times in a ten minute period) that she loved hot, black coffee. She had another wakeful, but not lucid, moment during our final visit with her Wednesday evening. She looked over at me with a blank stare and said, "Bye." 

Diane said, "Mom, that's Scott." 

She just looked over at me again and said, "Bye." 

Diane asked her if she wanted me to leave and she said, "Yes," then she looked at Diane and said, "Bye."

Diane asked if she wanted her to leave, too, and she said, "Yes." Diane asked why and she said, "I'm going to sleep."

She was snoring away within a minute, so we kissed her forehead, said goodbye and headed to the car. 

Diane got a call from the hospice nurse at around 7:45 Thursday morning to tell us that Lola had died. She was sleeping comfortably during the nursing checks through the night and sometime after the last check she had simply, peacefully stopped breathing. 

Lola loved our yard and had asked that we scatter her ashes in our wooded backyard, so sometime in the coming weeks we will head into the yard and tearfully say our final goodbye.

Lola was 98.

Not Just A Dog

Sadie Mae died quickly and peacefully on Saturday, October 3rd. The doctor suspected that she had developed a brain tumor that led to some sudden and significant issues. She was only happy if both Diane and I were home with her. She was agitated a bit if only one of us was home and was inconsolable if she was left alone. She would go crazy when we got home; racing around and panting until enough time had passed for her to settle back in. She also started sleeping a lot more over the last couple of weeks. 

She was unable to settle down even with people with her when we gave her a trial run at the doggy daycare in preparation for our trip to Florida to meet our new grandson, Asaph. After consulting with her doctor, we made the gut wrenching decision to euthanize her before we left on our trip. I pretty much spent the last five hours of her life stroking her as she mostly slept contentedly; the pain building in my heart along with the lump in my throat with every passing minute. The first thing Dr. Svang said when she walked into the room was, "You're doing the right thing." 

It sure didn't feel like it.

The week away was a salve for my aching heart, but coming home to an empty house is a punch in the gut.

Sadie Mae was so much more than "just a dog." She was a special companion to me through good times and bad. I work next door to the Elmbrook Humane Society. One of their volunteers was walking Sadie (they called her Blackie) past our building while we were outside at break enjoying an unseasonably warm January day. Diane and I went over to meet her that afternoon and just knew that she needed us as much as we needed her. 

She had a really rough start in her life and came with some issues as many rescues do. She transformed into my perfect canine companion after multiple visits with her doctor and several sessions with the doggy shrink at the Waukesha County Humane Animal Welfare Society.

Sadie Mae was quite sure that I couldn't eat an entire apple by myself, so she stood by staring at me knowing that I would bite off a small piece and give it to her as the first bite, another one in the middle and she always got the last bite. She also determined that Diane couldn't eat lunch without having some baby carrots on her plate destined for her. She somehow knew anytime Diane was boiling water to make noodles because she always raced in no matter how deeply she had been sleeping to eat the noodles Diane had used to test for doneness. 

No matter where she was in the house, or how deeply she was sleeping, all it took was for me to call out, "Sadie Mae come help Daddy...," with whatever task I was headed out to do. She loved things as simple as backing the truck into the garage or going out to light the grill or flip the meat. She was also an invaluable helper whenever Diane needed to fill the bird feeders or pull weeds in the garden. She just wanted to be with us whenever we did anything. 

Sadie was my constant companion during the three and a half months that Diane lived in Pennsylvania to help Matthew and Shelley during his Lymphoma treatment. She went to work with me everyday and either followed me around or sat in a spot where she could monitor my location the entire day. She slept at my feet in bed every night. 

Sadie Mae was terrified of my woodshop in the basement. She would run to the furthest reaches of the house and hide when she saw me changing into my shop shoes. During the last couple of weeks of her life, though, her need to be near me seemed to supersede her fear of the shop. Maybe that should have been a clue that things had changed for her. She even spent several hours in the shop with me a few days before she died; leaving me with a wonderful memory of our time together. 

I wake up early; even on the weekends when most people relish the chance to sleep in. Not me. I'm still typically awake and up sometime between 3:45 and 4:15. To avoid waking Diane, I would get up and go downstairs to pass the time watching some woodworkers I follow on YouTube. Sadie Mae always went with me. She curled up on her bed beside my spot on the sofa or up on the sofa and we would pass the hours until Diane got up with one hand stroking her as we watched the videos together.

Sadie couldn't easily jump onto the bed anymore so she slept on her bed on the floor beside our bed. I gave her a few treats and some petting just before getting into bed each night. I would stroke her ears as I looked into her eyes and told her that I loved her. Her eyes seemed to convey that she wanted to tell me that she loved me, too.

We got home from Florida Saturday afternoon. I cried as I watched videos alone yesterday morning; longing for the chance to stroke her soft ears and scratch her belly just one more time. 

We had Sadie Mae cremated. Her ashes are supposed to come back today. I am going to make a  dovetailed box from some beautifully figured cherry to hold her cremains. 

She was not just a dog and I will miss her always and forever.

It's Going To Be A While

Everyone is talking about when things will "get back to normal." Based on their context, they seem to be talking about social distancing being eliminated or "non-essential" businesses reopening. Unfortunately, those aren't even close to what's required for us to get back to normal. In fact, we may never return to the normal we used to know.

People are anxious to return to their life the way it was before this crisis. Unfortunately, merely ending the restrictions isn't going to make that happen. Many people are out of work. The government's stimulus plan isn't going to replace the income they are losing - not even close if this continues for another month or more. The damage done to some companies is going to be too much for them to overcome and they will either never reopen or won't return to their pre-COVID-19 status. Many of their employees won't have jobs to go back to.

Also, just because restaurants and movie theaters and stores reopen doesn't mean their customer base can afford to jump back to the level of discretionary spending they enjoyed before the crisis hit. Those businesses won't be able to afford to keep the same staffing levels they had before if their customers can't afford what they are offering. Unemployment numbers are likely to be affected for a long time.

We can't forget that the $2,000,000,000,000 (let all those zeros sink in for a moment) government stimulus plan isn't free. We're going to be paying for that for a very long time, even without the pork that our elected leaders allowed to bloat the bill. Ultimately, the only way the government generates revenue is to tax its people. That "free money" is going to cost a whole lot for a very long time. The interest alone on that money could cripple an economy already reeling from the effects of the pandemic. We are all going to pay for it eventually.

I'm one of the "lucky" ones. My company is considered essential so I still go to work each day and collect a paycheck every two weeks. That could change in a heartbeat, though, if I or one of my co-workers get sick. Having one or two people quarantined out of a company of eight people could quickly bring us to our knees.

Until then, I just keep praying for those people searching for effective treatments and vaccines. I will keep praying for the healthy to stay healthy and the sick to recover.

Like the ripples emanating from a stone hitting the water, the ripples from the Corona Virus are going to continue spreading over a great area until they eventually weaken and largely disappear. There are going to be a lot of businesses; small, medium and large, that are impacted for a very, very long time.

Maybe forever.

Whatever happened to civil discourse???

The political division in our country is quite possibly as bad as it has ever been. It seems impossible to disagree with someone without being accused of hate. Where did we lose touch???

A prime example of this problem was glaringly obvious in a recent social media post featuring a photograph of four of our surviving past presidents with their surviving spouses. It was a very nice photo of a nicely posed group of smiling people. Now I don't really agree with any of the four men on everything, and I strongly disagree with the policies of two of them. Those who know me know which I would tend to support and which I wouldn't, but that's irrelevant to this discussion. My problem is with the vitriolic and hateful comments people on both sides of the political spectrum posted.

Really, people????

There were hateful posts directed at one party's presidents or the other. There were hateful posts directed at the people who support one party's presidents or the other. There were posts spewing disgust and hate that their guys would be photographed with the other guys - and that they'd all be smiling.

Where did we go off the rails? Since when is it somehow implied or worse, required, that we hate our opponents? All four of the men in the photograph had been duly elected President of The United States and, as such, deserve the respect due the office - whether you agree with their policies or not. Personally, I would consider it a privilege to meet and shake hands with a former U.S. President even if I strongly disagree with his policies. I'm guessing that we could even have a very polite conversation about our disagreements without any hateful speech, raised voices or vile language.

How could that possibly be? It's possible because I still believe in civil discourse with those with whom I disagree. Sure, the debate can be spirited at times, but we can have spirited debate without being hateful or mean. Having my picture taken shaking hands and chatting with a former President I may not support does not imply my endorsement any more than shaking hands and chatting with one of my competitors at a trade show or meeting implies that I back them and their products. It's just how we are supposed to interact with other people.

Disagreeing doesn't mean hating; despite what our current climate tries to portray.

Let's face it; you are not likely to change my mind and I'm not likely to change yours, but why don't we get back to an era of civil discourse, where we can disagree and still be friends.

Hannah Rose

There are two kinds of people in the world; those who see their pets as family and those who have no heart. I am clearly in the first camp. Cats and dogs have always been so much more than pets to me - they are family.

Hannah Rose was one of those family members. I had to put Tiffany down shortly before her twentieth birthday. She had been with me since she was a kitten. It took about a year, before I was ready for another cat; not one to replace Tiffany, of course, but one to be a new companion.

The Humane Society of Wisconsin was running a free adoption special on adult cats. I fell in love with a beautiful girl they had named Sparkle. The rest of the family fell in love with an adorable little black and white girl. The adoption counselor, of course, suggested that we could get two! I wasn't keen on getting two, but I knew without a doubt that "Sparkle" was my girl and Diane and the boys wanted the other one.

As you would expect, we left with two...

The people at the Humane Society really had no idea how old the girls were, but they were at least one year old that day they came to their new home.

Sparkle became Hannah Rose before we even got to the car. I don't remember the other cat's name at the shelter, but she became Haley; an appropriate name because she is like a comet!

Hannah was my girl, though.

My office was in our home at the time, and Hannah promptly claimed the back of my desk chair as her spot. She spent many hours there as I madly typed code. She was definitely "my" cat and I was wrapped around her little paw.

That was fourteen and a half years ago, and our relationship never wavered. She spent countless hours graciously allowing me to pet her as she sat on my lap. She grew a bit more restless in recent years and would jump up and down from my lap a dozen times as we watched hockey or baseball games, but she always preferred my lap over any other. I loved to feel her soft coat and hear her gentle purr as I stroked her.

Hannah was also our mouser. Even as recently as a week and a half or so ago, Diane went downstairs to find a dead mouse proudly displayed for all to see.

Hannah Rose was a big girl - until just a couple of weeks ago, that is. We noticed she was starting to lose weight and eating less of her hard food. We started offering soft food which she took readily at first, but even that was met with a less than enthusiastic response after a bit. We also noticed that she was starting to drool and it was a bit blood tinged at times.

Hannah Rose took a turn for the worse over the weekend. She began rejecting even soft food and was very restless. We knew we had to make the tough decision to let her go before she started suffering.

Diane called the vet's office as soon as they opened yesterday. They had several openings, but she chose the one in the afternoon that would allow me to leave work early so I could be with Hannah at the end.

We put Hannah Rose in a towel lined box to take her to the vet. She fought being in the box at first, but then it was almost as if she realized that this was best and settled. They took us right into a room and the doctor came in to check her. She knew immediately that Hannah had developed a very aggressive malignant tumor in her mouth. She said it was fairly common in cats and that it was reaching a point where it was hurting her. She reassured us that it was time.

We had a few minutes to stroke and snuggle Hannah as they went to prepare everything needed to compassionately euthanize her. Our tears flowed as we said goodbye to my precious Hannah Rose. She purred even as the medicine coursed through her veins and she peacefully fell asleep.

The vet's office made a clay plaque with her name and her paw print that now sits on my dresser - a permanent reminder of my precious girl.

The vet helped us wrap Hannah in the towel and put her back in the box for her final trip home.

We buried Hannah Rose next to Tiffany behind the pond in our backyard. Two rocks mark her grave.

I will never forget my sweet Hannah Rose.

The Empty Space

It's amazing how cavernous a space seems to be when it is empty. Even tiny spaces seemingly swell to great proportions when the contents disappear. The cavern may be real, or only a figment of our imagination. In a few cases; it is both.

There's an empty space tucked into the woods at the top of our driveway. For nearly two decades, that space has been filled with an amazing little fourteen foot aluminum fishing boat on a simple trailer. It had always been my dream to own a little fishing boat, but we weren't in a position to really do it. That all changed when we got a small inheritance after Nana died. We decided that we would take that money and buy the fishing boat I had always wanted.

I searched the newspapers diligently until I found a 1965 Lone aluminum boat. She had been painted in a rough camo pattern that had long ago faded into subtle shades of gray. She sat on a rather decrepit old homemade trailer.

She was beautiful.

I still remember the day we hooked her up to the back of the car and took her home.

We christened her, "That's Nice," because it was something Nana commonly said. Whether you told her about your day or you shared your thoughts and dreams, her standard reply was, "That's nice." Nana never said a bad word about anyone. Her response to things she wasn't all that excited about was typically her standard, "That's Nice."

We all agreed that naming our boat That's Nice was an appropriate way to remember and honor Nana.

That's Nice was so much more than a simple fishing boat. It was a memory making machine.

I bought an old, small outboard and our family began making deposits in the bank of memories. We'd fish and we'd ride around in our beautiful little boat. The boys were ecstatic when we'd buzz across the lake and I'd suddenly spin in a tight circle to pop us back over our own wake and make the boat rock and jump. It doesn't take much to make a 14 foot aluminum boat rock and jump.

Sometimes, we would tie a rope onto the back of the boys' life jackets and they would jump (or be thrown) overboard and swim around until it came time to drag them back inside and head for shore.

Through the years, we upgraded the outboard and trailer and equipped her with a locator and other accessories. No matter what we did with everything around the boat, though, the old aluminum hull was a constant.

The boys interests changed as they grew older. Joseph would go fishing with me once or twice a season. He was only happy when we put the boat over a large school of tiny panfish that would immediately bite on virtually anything he threw out there. He would catch dozens of fish in a short time. While Joseph did some fishing, our time in the boat was mostly spent just talking. Once the bite tapered off, it was time to go home.

Matthew, on the other hand, would spend hours in the boat; casting and retrieving with the hope and expectation that the next cast would catch the big one. We drifted down rivers and motored around lakes in pursuit of bass, walleye, northerns or perch. It didn't really matter if the fish were biting or not; we were in the boat and we were together.

I hoped that those days would last forever.

I knew, of course, that they couldn't and they wouldn't.

The boys grew up. Their lives moved on and they moved away.

I would look at That's Nice as I came up the drive; thinking I should get her out again, but there were always other things that needed my time and attention.

So she sat.

I knew I should just sell her since I wasn't using her, but I couldn't bring myself to let her go. There were just too many memories piled up in that old aluminum hull. Too many hours of laughter and joy.

Last week, my seemingly rational thoughts took over and I listed her on Craigslist and the Facebook Marketplace. I had several inquiries almost immediately, but they wanted to split her up and buy the outboard only.

Then came THE EMAIL.

Hello,

I saw your boat posted on Craigslist. I am interested in seeing it. I am in Mukwonago and can stop by before noon today (5/16), before 10am tomorrow (5/17) or Friday morning.

Please let me know if any of those times work for you.

Thank you.

Andy

That started a string of emails that led to me taking the boat to the launch at Phantom Lake so he could see her running. 

He told me about his family, and how his kids were so excited to get a fishing boat. He told me he'd been looking for about a year but couldn't find one in their price range with an engine nearly as new and nice as hers.

He made an offer.

We shook hands and agreed to meet Friday afternoon at the bank to complete the transaction.

Part of me regretted it right away, but I honored our deal.

I got all of the paperwork together and marked up some lake maps for some of our favorite fishing spots.

I fought back tears as I hooked her up to the back of my truck for one last time and headed to the bank. We went over everything and I unhooked her and drove away.

A new family is making memories with her now.

So now there is an empty spot tucked into the woods at the top of our driveway and a cavernous hole in my heart.

Beyond Explanation

Every once in a great while, we get to experience something that defies explanation.

Something so unexpected that we have a hard time believing it.

Something so "out there" that we catch ourselves waiting for someone to call and say it was all a joke and we come crashing back to reality.

Something with no real human explanation.

Perhaps you can't understand it until you've lived through it.

Last Spring (we still haven't gotten to a "this Spring" in Wisconsin this year, but that's a different story entirely), I went to National Institutes of Health in Bethesda, Maryland to participate in a familial midgut Carcinoid study. They found a couple of suspicious spots when running a special PET/CT that is not available in many places. That lead to them running more tests which came back inconclusive. They requested that I submit to a capsule camera study for definitive answers to what showed up on the scan.

I went through all of the prep (no fun at all) and swallowed the capsule on the morning of the test. I went about my day with a special harness that allowed me to peek at what the camera was seeing. I, of course, had no real idea of what I was looking at, but it was pretty cool nonetheless for a geek like me to watch my innards.

Upon completion of the study, they collected the harness and downloaded the data for review. One of the research fellows was suspicious of several areas, so the study was sent out to be read by an outside expert. Due to some circumstances that I still don't completely understand, the outside expert failed to read the study and the two weeks stretched out to just shy of nine months. I got "the call" from the lead researcher one morning last December. He told me the results were finally in and the study showed five definite Carcinoid tumors and four suspicious spots. I was scheduled to head back to NIH in March of this year for some more scans and surgery to remove the affected areas of my small intestine. I was told to expect to stay in the hospital for up to two weeks.

Diane and I made all of the arrangements for her Mom and our critters and made our way to NIH one Sunday in March. I checked into the hospital bright and early Monday morning and started through the gauntlet of tests and exams. My first major test was a repeat of the special PET/CT that had started this whole journey.

The entire research team makes their way into the room each evening to discuss the results of the day's tests and prepare for the next day. Diane and I waited patiently in the room for them to appear during rounds. The team walked in, shook hands and then the lead doctor suggested that Diane and I sit down. That was a bit surprising since I already knew I had cancer and couldn't imagine that they could really hit me with much worse.

We sat down and the lead doctor said, "We have some good news for you." The team proceeded to tell me that my scan was completely clear. Had that been my first scan, they would have said it was negative and I would not have been brought back on the one year protocol.

To say I was shocked would be putting it mildly.

We asked about the previous scans.

We asked about the camera study.

The doc said that it could have just been an artifact or anomaly on the initial scan. He was harder pressed to deal with the camera study, though. He suggested that maybe they saw a fold in the intestine and thought it was a tumor. When pressed on that being possible with one or two spots, but virtually impossible with five confirmed and four suspicious spots, he admitted that he really didn't know. All they knew was that I don't have cancer now. They were going to go forward with one more scan the next morning, but if that was clear (as they expected), I would be free to go home.

They cancelled the remaining tests, pre-anesthesia meetings and surgery. Just one more CT and then I could go home.

Wow.

Just wow.

People may offer up any number of explanations for such an amazing result, but they just can't explain that an expert in the field would make nine mistakes on one study. The only explanation that makes sense to me is that God answered the prayers of so many of His people who lifted Diane and me up before him as we headed to NIH.

I still have a hard time believing it. In fact, I still kind of pause to catch my breath every time I get a notification that something new has been added to my electronic health record; half expecting that it's going to be the wake up call from this dream.

I don't claim to know why God chooses to heal some people and not others, but He does. For some reason that I am not likely to comprehend this side of eternity, He chose to remove the cancer from my body.

Bare Spots

We had several pretty beat up sections of lawn as the boys grew up. They served as the pitcher's mound and home plate for Wiffle® Ball home run derbies, or as the bases for pickle games. Time waits for no man and the boys eventually grew up, left for college and began their adult lives. It took quite a few years, but the bare spots in the side yard were slowly reclaimed. It was always a little sad to see the grassy patches and listen to the deafening silence where little boys had grown into men.

That all changed this weekend, though. For the first time in nearly three years, the whole family was together and healthy for a any length of time. It took Joseph and Matthew no time at all to dig through the old toy barrel in the garage to find some old Wiffle® Balls and a bat. They were old and cracked, so they made the trek to Walmart to buy new ones. We also ordered a bag of balls from Amazon for Saturday delivery so they would have enough to play.

The home run derbies began again in earnest; only now it included their wives, too! We spent hours over the five days we were all together creating new, stressed areas in the lawn for the pitcher's mound and home plate. Our yard was, once again, filled with the sounds of the whack of plastic bat on plastic ball and the joyous laughter that went along with it. There were cheers for the hits that went all the way across the street and jeers for the swings and misses or ground balls.

The kids headed off their separate ways yesterday, but the sounds of our little boys at play still echoes in my mind.

The Measure Of A Man

If one measured a man only by the number of people who call him friend, then Ron Kilkenny was an amazing man. When measuring by the number of people who call him their best friend, he exceeds measure.

Ron was taken from us far too soon. His sudden and untimely death has left many who called him best friend shaken. Facebook quickly filled with tributes to Ron as word spread of his death; many of the writers telling their story of why Ron was their best friend.

That is a remarkable man, indeed.

I, too, called Ron my best friend for 43 years. He changed my life and his passing will forever leave a hole in my heart.

We met as twelve year olds. Neither of us had a brother, so we became brothers from different mothers. From his consoling me just a few weeks after we met as I mourned the sudden death of my dad, to his loving concern for my son as he fought Lymphoma - twice, Ron was someone who cared. He was never afraid to demonstrate his love for others.

Ron was the first person to ever share the Gospel with me, and his example of Christian love was instrumental in my ultimate decision to commit my life and eternity to Jesus Christ.

We fought plenty through the earlier years; as brothers tend to do. We also got into a fair amount of trouble together. I'm sure his dad would have been horrified if he had known how Ron and I used to wander through the campground convincing people that I was Deaf and used that to garner sympathy - and snacks - from the other campers. Whether it was getting caught jumping off the garage roof or racing our go-karts down the hill on Ranch Drive when we weren't supposed to be out there or playing in the flooded creek, Ron and I were in it together.

Even distance couldn't destroy the special bond we had. Although we weren't able to get together often, it was as if we saw each other every day whenever we were together.

Our talks in recent years changed to talking a lot about our kids. Ron was immensely proud of Andrew, Ellen and Ryan - and for good reason. I could almost hear his chest swelling with pride over the phone as he told me about their lives.

Ron was a man of great character, and will be missed as the best friend of many of us.

Recently, Ron and I began ending our calls or messaging by saying, "I love you," to each other. I don't remember exactly when it started, or who said it first, but it became a regular thing for us.

I wasn't always the friend I should have been, but Ron was always there, ready to forgive and move on. I take some tiny measure of comfort in knowing that he knew I loved him, and I know that he loved me. I take great comfort in knowing that Ron now sits in the presence of his Savior, and that I will see him again.

Back to a Simpler Time...

Saturday was one of those days that made me think back to a simpler time. Not an easier time or even, necessarily, a happier time.

Just a simpler time.

Diane and I decided to head down to the Gurnee Mills Outlet Mall Saturday. We've been there quite a few times, but not for quite a while. We've always parked by the entrance to the Bass Pro Shop and Diane and Joseph or, in later years, Diane would head out into the mall while Matthew and I perused Bass Pro Shop's offerings. We were diligent about meticulously going through the boating, marine, fishing, fly shop, guns, hunting, knife and camping departments. We'd spend hours talking about the goodies we saw - and wishing we could buy them all.

This time was different, though. Joseph and Anna live in Florida and Matthew and Shelley live in Pennsylvania. This time, it was just Diane and me.

Diane wanted to look through Bass Pro's clothing department, so I wandered off to my normal routine only, this time, it wasn't normal at all. I constantly caught myself looking at some new (or old) thing and thinking, "Matthew would love this," or, "Matthew would get a kick out of this," or, "Matthew would laugh at this."

Diane and I wandered around the mall a bit after she finished checking out at Bass Pro. I found myself looking at the sports memorabilia stores and thinking how much Joseph would have enjoyed poking around in there as a boy.

It was all kind of hard, and it made me think back to those simpler times.

Those times before Cancer.

Those times before the boys were called to other parts of the country.

Those times before...

I'm not saying I want to go back to those times; although, it would be great if we could skip over the Cancer parts. But going back would also mean we would miss some of the most wonderful times of our lives...

Times like college graduations.

Times like getting to know the wonderful young ladies God brought into the boys' lives.

Times like their weddings.

Times when we laughed and times when we cried.

It's just all part of life moving on. I suppose I tend to look back through rose-colored glasses.

Maybe those days weren't really simpler at all, just different.

Not quite like any other day...

It was easy to become a father. It took a lot more to become a dad.

I wasn't always a very good dad. In fact, I often (and truthfully) proclaim that Joseph and Matthew turned out so well in spite of me at least as much as because of me. Joseph and Matthew got their best traits from their Father. Not their weak earthly father; no they have blossomed under the blessings of their Heavenly Father. It is a joy to look at them today and see the men they have become. The husbands they are learning to be. 

I know God used me in their lives, but the biggest impact I ever had on their lives was that I started praying for them before they were even born. I prayed constantly for them and for their future spouses; whomever they may be.

I prayed; and I cried.

I cried tears of joy when each of the boys were born.

I cried tears that were a mixture of joy and sorrow when we left each of them at college for the first time.

I cried tears that were a mixture of joy and pride as I watched them walk across the platform at Bob Jones University to accept their hard-earned degrees.

I cried tears of joy as I watched each of them commit themselves in marriage to our wonderful daughters-in-law.

I cried tears of fear as I came to grips with the doctor's words that Matthew had cancer.

I cried tears of relief as I watched Matthew respond to the treatment.

I cried tears of joy and pride as I witnessed Joseph being ordained.

Somewhere, sometime, in the midst of all of those tears I became a dad.

Father's Day this year will not be a day when I look for accolades or gifts. 

Father's Day is so much more. 

It's the day for me to look back on all that went into becoming a dad instead of just a father.

Some Day...

Just when is Some Day, anyway? I keep looking for it and never seem to find it.

I saw a Facebook post recently that listed the seven easy steps to improve your attitude. They were simple steps:

1. Stand Up
2. Stretch
3. Take a Walk
4. Keep Walking
5. Board a Plane
6. Fly to Alaska
7. Never Return

That looked like pretty good advice to me. In fact, I even added a comment saying, "I've been telling my wife, Diane Brader, this for years!"

Diane replied, "Some day!!!"

Not, "I wish," or "It would be great if we could do that."

No, she said, "Some day."

People say that a lot.

Maybe some day this.

Or maybe some day that.

Some day.

There are so many things we talk about doing Some Day. Some of them are all in fun; others, are dreams we would love to see fulfilled. Life seems to intervene, though, and make Some Day seem farther and farther off. Something else consumes the time or forces us to rethink our budget.

I imagine I'll run out of days long before Some Day ever comes.

First Serve!

Our church used to rent out a small racquetball club periodically for a late night Friday activity. We would all show up at 10:00 when the club closed, pay a small fee and have full use of the facility until 2:00 AM. It didn't matter whether you were a first time player or an experienced tournament competitor; everyone had fun.

My friend Arturo was at the upper end of the competence spectrum. I, on the other hand, resided on the other end. We played anyway; often doubles to level out our skill levels. Occasionally, though, we would play singles. Arturo regularly beat me. In fact, Arturo regularly shut me out. I felt like I had won the match if I managed to score even a single point.

This friendly rivalry turned into a bit of entertainment for the rest of the folks. They would stand at the viewing window and watch Arturo toy with me for a while before smashing a shot for a point. One night, Mr. Stewart - a man from our church who also happened to be a police officer in our community - stopped by during his shift to visit with everyone. Somehow - and I remain unsure of how this little escapade started even to this day - someone challenged that Arturo could beat me with handcuffs on.

I laughed, but soon realized that they were serious. They were asking Mr. Stewart to handcuff Arturo (in front, of course, since even I could probably beat him if his hands were cuffed behind his back) to see if he could still beat me.

Momentum built for this little escapade until virtually everyone was huddled around the main court (with lots of glass to allow spectators to observe the heated match) pushing for the combatants to accept the challenge.

Like an idiot - I did.

Mr. Stewart, although technically Officer Stewart at the time, pulled the handcuffs from his belt and proceeded to apply them to Arturo's wrists. They played around with them a bit to make sure he could still swing his arms albeit they would have to swing together.

We entered the court to begin the match that would put us on a level playing field; Arturo in handcuffs and me handcuffed only by my own lack of ability. One set of cuffs would prove to be the root cause of a loss.

We volleyed a little to allow Arturo to get the feel of playing while handcuffed and then started the match. Arturo, perhaps a bit overconfident, offered to allow me to serve first without volleying for serve like we normally would. This was a bit of a new thing because I don't believe I had ever served first. In fact, in some matches I didn't serve at all.

That was about to change! I was serving first to a man in handcuffs.

I assumed my position between the service lines as Arturo moved to the back wall.

I had a plan.

The ball rocketed off the front wall as it angled back toward the corner that would force Arturo to manipulate his cuffed hands to execute a backhand shot from very close to the back corner. I faced the front wall; not really expecting to see a return come from behind me. He was, after all, in handcuffs and having to pull off a pretty good shot with very little room to maneuver.

But there it was! The ball rocketed across from behind me to hit the front wall just inches away from both the floor and the opposite wall.

A man in handcuffs had just taken serve.

He never gave it back.

More Than I Can Chew?

I have been accused of over-analyzing everything. I am one of those measure ten times and still purposely cut it slightly long to give me room to tweak it people. I often worry when taking on a new project that I will bite off more than I can chew and be left with an imperfect result.

I have a problem with that.

For example, the only way we could afford to build our home twenty years ago was for us to handle the roofing, siding, electrical, painting, staining and finish carpentry - including installing 1200 square feet of wood flooring. It was certainly more than I could chew.

For months, Diane would prepare dinner, pack it into a cooler, pack up the boys and meet me at the house after work each night. I would work until dark; and then much later once we had electricity in the house. We spent countless hours at the house each Saturday and Sunday after church. The boys, quite young at the time, were troopers. They wielded hammers and "helped" with many tasks around the house.

To this day, I really only see those things that turned out less than perfectly and wish I could just tear it out and re-do it. Time and money have kept me from doing that, so I look at the glaring mistakes around the house each day.

Diane says they are not that bad.

To me, though, they are daily reminders of having bit off more than I could chew.

The next project around the house is to do a minor reconfiguration of our kitchen. This will involve removing the countertop and disassembling several of the base cabinets in order to re-install them in new places. Then we'll install a new tile countertop and backsplash with hickory trim to match our cabinets and the top of Diane's new island.

Not a big deal for someone who knows what they are doing.

A lot of stress for the one who fears he has, once again, bitten off more than he can chew.

The work itself is not that complicated. There's no structural work involved. There will be time pressure, though, because we will be without a kitchen sink and food prep area from the day I pull off the countertop until everything is complete.

That's stressful for a measure ten times kind of guy.

I just hope I haven't bitten off more than I can chew again...

HOCKEY'S BACK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It has been 117 days.

That's 2,808 hours.

Or 168,480 minutes.

Or 10,108,800 seconds.

But today, the wait is over!

I have been waiting 117 days since Gary Bettman (BOO!!! HISS!!!) handed the Stanley Cup to LA Kings captain, Dustin Brown (BOO!!! HISS!!!).

One hundred and seventeen days since the puck hit the ice in a game that mattered.

But that ends tonight!

At 6:07 Central Time tonight, the puck will hit the ice at the Air Canada Centre (Centre rather than Center because it is in Canada, after all) and the Montreal Canadiens and the Toronto Maple Leafs will kick off the 2014-2015 NHL season. Just twenty-five hours later the action will be repeated at the Scottrade Center as the St. Louis Blues take the opening faceoff of what will certainly be their Stanley Cup winning season.

I have missed the sights and sounds of the greatest sport on Earth.

But that ends tonight!

Hockey's Back!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Welcome to my world.

There are some phrases that are just so annoying that they should never be spoken again. I nominate, "Welcome to my world," as one of those phrases to be banned.

We've all heard it, I'm sure. One person mentions a problem they are dealing with and the response is an oh, so compassionate, "Welcome to my world," as the listener discounts any issue or concern with the claim that they are forced to deal with that - and worse - on a regular basis.

Perhaps no situation provides a better example of why this should be banned than a conversation recently recounted by a co-worker. As a bit of background, we have been extremely busy at work this year. No one is complaining about being busy (that does, after all, mean we are successfully marketing and selling our products as we head toward a record year). Being this busy does mean, though, that some of us don't have time for our normal tasks because we are periodically summoned back to help in the shop. It's all just part of working for a small company.

Anyway, several weeks ago one of my co-workers reported going home after work and mentioning how tired and stressed he was at work because he was behind on his normal tasks to his wife - who doesn't work outside the home and spends much of her time shopping with her daughter and daughters-in-law or spending time with her grandchildren.

Her reply?

"Welcome to my world!"

What?!?!?!?!?!

She went on to say she could hardly keep up around the house because her life was so busy.

Welcome to my world????

Now I realize that being a wife is a lot of work (especially for Diane who goes to great lengths to take care of me), but it's not like someone who chooses to spend her day doing "fun" things (shopping and little kids don't sound like "fun" to me) really has the right to complain that she can't keep up at home. There's only the two of them at home and my co-worker is absolutely anal about everything being in its place, so it's not like there's a lot of cleaning up after him. Yet, somehow, she feels like her husband's stress is just a tiny window into her daily life.

I've heard the phrase, "Welcome to my world," many times. From my own experiences, I would say that most of the time, the person uttering those words has no clue. Not only are they exhibiting a total lack of empathy and compassion - two traits I have never been known to be very strong in myself - but they often also have an unrealistic view of their own situation.

Shopping and spending time with grandchildren does not equate to the stress of falling further behind on normal tasks at work because we are in a particularly busy period.

We know that we'll eventually get caught back up at work; whether because the pace returns to a more normal one or we decide to add staff once we determine that the higher workload warrants it. But for now, the stress levels at work are pretty high. Hearing, "Welcome to my world," reveals a certain selfishness and cluelessness.

As such, it should be banned.

The Old Drum

A mix of hickory and cherry smolders in my smoker; wisps of a blueish smoke rising gently from the exhaust holes. The aroma overwhelms my nose as I step from the garage.

Yes, the sweet smell of true slow-cooked BBQ is hard to beat.

My home-built smoker started life as a plain old 55 gallon steel drum. I picked it up from one of our suppliers at work and, with a little work and some plans from the Internet, turned it into a UDS, an Ugly Drum Smoker. And ugly it is...

The outside is rusty and dented; the inside well seasoned from many hours of smoking.

To the casual observer, it's just an old drum.

But to me, it's a masterpiece.

I don't know who came up with the original UDS plans, but it really is a marvel of BBQ. A crude, homemade basket holds the smoldering coals a couple of inches off the bottom of the drum. A grate sits on supports near the top. The only other parts of the smoker are three intake holes near the base that I open or close by sliding magnets over part of the holes to control the temperature and several exhaust vents in the top from which the sweet smelling smoke wafts.

The design is ingenious. The temperature typically stays within a couple of degrees for hours with little adjustment once I get it set up.

Two hundred and forty five degrees.

Pretty much locked in.

We'll be feasting on savory pulled pork sandwiches in another eight hours, or so.

Slow cooked in an old drum.

Mom's Lies

One of Mom's favorite phrases was, "You can't be too rich or too thin."

As I grew into adulthood (or at least the age where I was supposed to be an adult), I learned that this was a lie. Through the years I have seen the horrible effects, particularly in young women, who didn't understand that you certainly can be too thin. Bulimia and Anorexia have claimed the dignity and lives of far too many people who viewed their skeletal frames as fat.

I've also learned that you can be too rich. Perhaps this could not be more obvious than in the irrational behavior exhibited by many of today's professional athletes. 

Athletes who make it to the professional level in any major sport are a unique breed. They are enormously talented and often have egos that match, or even surpass, their talent levels. They have largely been coddled by coaches, supporters and fans for years. There is often a wealthy booster willing to step in and help sweep legal troubles under the rugs or hush the detractors. 

The result is often a narcissistic spoiled brat with an attitude that they are somehow above the law and other people. This has been made painfully obvious lately by the seemingly constant parade of National Football League players who have made more news for their off field crimes than their on field accomplishments.

Maybe we shouldn't be surprised that giving large sums of cash to previously a coddled athlete; often from a poor background, results in a young man who doesn't understand how to live in a normal society. Furthermore, how often do we hear of athletes who have made many millions of dollars ending up bankrupt and destitute after blowing or being cheated out of their money?

Perhaps the rest of the sporting world should take a lesson from the greatest sport on Earth - Hockey. 

While the NHL has certainly had its fair share of problem children; they have a system to help young players adapt to the sudden status and money that comes with being a professional athlete. Young players often live with an established veteran's family for the first couple of years of their professional career. They are expected to help around the house, deal with the veteran's kids and overall live like a member of the family. 

The veteran often helps the young player manage their money and learn to live with a budget. Perhaps even more importantly, the veteran helps the young player adapt to being a professional hockey player.

Imagine the rush a young man feels when he he sees fans wearing their sweaters with HIS NAME on the back...

Or the excitement from being pursued by "adoring" young ladies who want to be seen with the newest star...

Or the swarm of new "friends" who see the young man as a funding source for their plans and exploits...

Or the temptation to spend massive amounts of money on an exotic sports car - merely because he can.

In these cases, it is the veteran's (and his family's) job to bring them back to Earth; to remind them that they aren't the mighty force that they begin to believe they are, to remind them that giving their time and resources to causes within the community goes along with the notoriety of being a highly paid athlete. 

Is it an inconvenience for the veteran's family? 

Of course it is! It's hard enough for a professional athlete's family to deal with the stresses of day to day life as a public personality and the travel and the hassles of trying to be a "normal" family without having to deal with the additional monitoring and occasional discipline of a young man learning to find his way in the world of professional hockey.

But it appears to work at least most of the time.

Maybe these kids in other sports need the same sort of mentoring so they don't continue on the path that leads to the headlines no fan ever wants to see. 

Maybe they need to understand that having sudden wealth thrust upon them doesn't make them superior. 

Maybe these guys just need to understand that, without proper discipline, you absolutely can be too rich.

Not Possible To Care Less

I have been bombarded with news of the World Cup for months. It seems impossible to watch any sports news without the reporters talking about the upcoming tournament. Even the crawl across the bottom of the screen during hockey and baseball games lists World Cup news.

I just don't get it.

While I understand that soccer has become much more popular in the United States than it was when I was a kid; it's still not like we have, as Mom used to say, "an ice cube's chance in hell," of actually winning anything. Let's face it; USA men's soccer pales in comparison to USA women's soccer. We will certainly play (and likely get walloped) in the first round and then go home.

Only one of my co-workers cares about the tournament; but, then again, he lives, eats and breathes anything sports. I'm pretty sure that's his only interest in life. He talks about the World Cup. A lot. Unfortunately, he sits right beside me at work so I have to hear it.

I'm sure Matthew will want to watch soccer. I would rather watch a 50th rerun of the paint drying special on DIY Network. (I actually love DIY Network, but you get the point.)

I don't believe it is possible for me to care less about the tournament. At this point, I just want it to be over with so I can stop hearing about it. I would almost (key word, almost) rather watch the NBA.

Torture either way.

Bring on channel 230 and its constant stream of DIY shows!