Life and Fish Tacos

I have thought that what I'm about to post here would never see the light of day. It comes from New Year's day 2019, which was not a day that I consider "light" in any sense of the word. I wrote it in a hospital waiting room, while my daughter suffered on the other side of a secure door through which I was not allowed to enter.  I can only share it now because we have come so far past that dark morning in the ER.  Much good has transpired since then. We are healed and are healing. She is now in college and living on her own, working on her coping mechanisms, and enjoying a new-found family with her soon-to-be step father & step siblings. She is beautiful, healthy, and determined to find happiness each day. COVID-19 has reminded me of the anguish of that January 1st of 2019. How many people since January of 2020 have been sitting out in their cars, or home alone, or in a waiting room, not being allowed to see a loved one in intensive care as they struggle with this...

“Hand me that wrench over there…”  “Sure thing! You mean the one with the blue handle or the hand-adjustable one?” Again with the hands! This is Part 2 of a column that Gary Bird and I co-wrote and posted back on March 19 of this year. In Part 1, we talked about our fathers and how their hands told the story of the lives they led and the values they lived by. Kelly Carswell added a poignant description of her grandfather’s farm-worn hands.  We also mentioned hand size, comparing NBA player Boban Marajanovic’s hands with those of tiny Kristin Chenoweth, the 4’11” actress from the Broadway musical “Wicked”. We mentioned Alan Alda’s unforgettable monologue from M.A.S.H. where he describes the miracle of the hand. I sent our family a text, asking to help me out today as I write. I requested that they think of the word “hand” and tell me what crosses their mind on the spot. What followed was a bombardment of phrases from the very silly to the profound.  “Han...

All this washing of hands lately—it has had us thinking, well, about hands: how useful they are, how beautiful they are, how culturally indispensable they are. We clean with them, work with them, make art and music and inventions with them. We text with them, travel with them, make repairs with them. Dabbing would not be dabbing without them (Google: “Betty White dabbing” and you’ll see the best example). We greet with them. We welcome with them. We comfort and cure with them. We reject with them. Think about it. Hands are truly amazing. We looked up NBA players with the biggest hands. Boban Marajanovic, center for the Dallas Mavericks, wins the prize with a hand length of 10.75 inches (base of the palm to the tip of the middle finger), and get this, a hand span (pinky to thumb) of over 12 inches. Keeping it close to home, Milwaukee Bucks’ Greek Freak, Giannis Antetokounmpo, is a close second. His hand span is equal that of Marajanovic, but just an inch shy in length. Of co...

My friend, Angela, recently built a harp. I remember when she first told me that she had plans to do it. She mentioned that she had been perusing the various patterns and kits for a while, trying to reconcile the complexity of the project with her resolve to finish it once she started. Building a harp from the ground up!   How does a person accomplish that?!   Well, Angela, for one, would have had both the nerve and the drive to attempt it, so as proud friends do, I made it my goal to throw my enthusiastic support her way.  When I saw her weekly at our band rehearsal, I would ask her about her progress. One week she let me know she had made a decision and had ordered her kit. A couple of weeks later she announced that her living room floor was sectioned off with all of the innumerable pieces, and that she had begun sanding the wooden parts.   There was one week where she wasn’t sure if she had bitten off more than she could chew with this project. “But,” ...

I liked that movie! He likes a good brat and a beer on a hot summer day! She likes getting packages in the mail. Do you like scrambled eggs and bacon? Like. Like. Like. Have you ever thought about the idea of “liking” something?  I mean, if I like tacos (which I do…very much), it does not matter to the taco. It does not change the taco one bit and the taco, other than becoming non-existent (because I ate it), cannot care about or experience my preferences.  But, you know, there is “subject, verb, object” in English. (Be patient with me as I dive into a little bit of a grammar lesson). I am the subject, doing a verb-thing (liking), and the taco is the object. It experiences the brunt of my verb-thing. If I change the verb-thing to, let’s say, EAT—“I EAT the taco” rather than “I like the taco”--then the object (the taco) is directly affected, as a proper object should be. It gets eaten and thus changed by me, the subject. Being an unabashed linguaphile, I frequently f...

I smiled at my life as I tipped the sand out of my shoe and onto my quilt on a recent autumn morning.  Attempting to apply lotion to my legs while leaning against my bed frame, removing the shoes from my feet one by one, and ready to toss them onto my bed, I noticed the tiny mound of ancient crystal grains in the heels of my canvas slip-ons.  Which lake or river bank had they come from? I’ve been to quite a few in these shoes.  Rather than emptying my shoes into the trash can, I decided to create a tiny sand mountain on my blankets. I leaned in to examine my treasure. Remember Forrest Gump? “My mama always said you can tell a lot about a person by their shoes, where they going, where they been.” If Forrest’s mother peered into my closet she might be able to make some assumptions and not be entirely incorrect. Yes, I have some high heels, but only a couple pairs. What I have the most of are these slip-on canvas shoes made by a company called Sanuk. ...

One of the precious things about living at the 45 th Parallel is that despite the heat of the summer, the nights cool down. At the end of August, and on into October, the evenings are crisp, the humidity drops, and bug spray on the arms can be replaced by a sweatshirt—preferably a hoodie.   Now, my present 45 th Parallel is in the state of Wisconsin, but my original longitude fell in Michigan. I don’t see this so much in West-Central Wisconsin, but you can tell a true Northern Michigander by his/her wardrobe: shorts with hooded sweatshirts and sneakers. And the sweatshirt will be either a combination of dark green and white, or of navy blue with gold (maize). (Go Green—and if you know what I’m talking about, you’ll know what to type into the comments of this blog). Regardless of wardrobe, 45ths like to build campfires. We can because, well, it’s not so dang hot up here. And we have lots of firewood, and lots of water for dousing if need be. It’s now the beginning of S...