A winter of warm memories

Hoops heaven and popcorn

The tip-off of a new college basketball season is fast approaching and I’m thinking about my popcorn buddy who shared the tasty treats with me on game nights during a magical winter 31 years ago.

From her rocking chair in heaven, my mom, is blowing out 88 candles today (Oct. 11) balancing a white Tupperware bowl and spitting out an occasional old maid into her napkin.

When I graduated from Iowa State University in December of 1985 with my English degree, I moved back home while searching the classifieds for my ticket into the working world and a regular paycheck every two weeks.

With Milo on the road doing the sales gig, Wilma and I bonded with our favorite bucket team from that famous university in central Iowa. We cheered together when they won, cried together when they lost and cursed the opposition when they cheated our boys out of a victory.

We scolded the lads when they didn’t play up to their potential, but we didn’t stop loving them.

Our world on those cold nights was Iowa State basketball coach Johnny Orr arguing with officials and a savvy point guard named Jeff Hornacek shaking his head at the men in stripped shirts.

When Hornacek wasn’t launching three-point baskets, he was cutting a path through tall timbers or passing the pumpkin to another guy named Jeff Grayer who was slashing through defenses and depositing the rock with reckless abandon through the round cylinder with a variety of moves that could’ve earned him a pilot’s license.

The two Jeff’s, a skinny guy named Ronnie Virgil, a couple of clunky clowns with the monikers of Sam Hill and David Moss and a lot of other superstars were going to take us all the way to a national championship. There’d be cool T-shirts and championship posters to buy.

As January endured an attack from Mother Nature, the competition for the boys in cardinal went up a notch. The palms got sweatier and the cheering intensified.

We made the Big Dance that year, earned a couple of well-deserved put-downs and made it to the Sweet 16 before being bounced by a Pack of cheaters.

Win or lose, the boys played hard and didn’t disappoint their favorite fans from First Avenue in the old neighborhood.

Happy birthday, mom, from the guy in the beanbag chair.

 

 

 

 

 

Me and Hugh down at the drugstore

 Put down the smut and walk away

I had seen that young boy before. His eyes were allegedly glued to a compelling article in some automotive magazine.

But beyond the façade of that muscle car on the cover was a danger that might corrupt his feeble brain for the rest of his demented life.

I had to save him. What the heck. Forget the punk. Let him get caught. No one saved me.

That young lad was yours truly in another life. I spied the clerk in the overhead mirror swooping down upon this testerone-fueled delinquent in the magazine aisle of my hometown drug store. I classified myself a mature adult just passing by the periodicals to buy some aspirin for an affliction brought on by some companions who didn’t have my best interests at heart.

And I do believe it was the same aisle walker that interrupted my fantasy a few years earlier when I was wearing this boy’s skin.

And I do believe it was the same tone that she used on me when she freed  the birthday suit clad Candy or Sandy or Bonnie or Lonnie from within my movie magazine and returned her to the top shelf behind the protective barriers.

The young boy’s bug eyes were losing their vision over Cheri or Terri or something like that.

A few months later in my wayward youth, I succeeded in removing a magazine of this nature from the drugstore and hiding it in my bottom dresser drawer under some old coloring books. Whenever I wanted to oogle all I’d have to do is pull that bottom drawer out.

However, in a move brought on by the prospect of spending eternity in Hell, I put the smut under my coat, walked out of my boy cave and returned to the scene of my crime. Wandering in front of the shelves, I lifted my coat and cleansed my soul. I was going to Heaven.

Earlier this week, we closed the final issue on the man who aroused many young boys and their fathers. So was Hugh Heffner, the creator of Playboy Magazine a genius, a marketing pioneer or just a dirty 91-year-old geezer who wooed naked young women and wore pajamas in public.

As a boy, I would’ve leaned on the pioneer and really cool side, but as a man closing in on the speed limit, I’m stuck in the far left lane wondering what that blinking noise is. Dirty old man in my book.

What do you think?

 

 

A leader and a follower

Happy birthday to our favorite hero

He was a quiet war hero who never told those closest to him about that Bronze Star and Purple Heart he was awarded for his exploits on the battlefields of Korea.

Yet, he bellied up to the bar night after night at the American Legion with other men from his generation who answered the call from Uncle Sam to leave some of their guts on foreign soils in lands far away.

To use my brother-in-law’s words, my dad did some kick ass things to earn those honors. You just  don’t hand out medals like that, this student of military history assured me.

I know he loved my mother, but my father’s heart belonged to the red, white and blue. What did he share with the woman that blessed him with three children?

Probably nothing.

What did this former legion commander, seller of automotive parts, peddler of cookies, deliver of dairy products and head usher at Sacred Heart Catholic Church tell his fellow veterans?

Probably everything and then some. He was a teller of tall tales who loved to label people. He was a product of his generation.

I was Bud, the youngest sibling and only son who once came downstairs at night after a restless sleep and told my parents I wasn’t going to Vietnam. Canada, the refuge for men that didn’t want to crawl in the jungle, was my destiny.

I was only seven, but my father, the hired killer on the home front, from his smoke-stained chair, assured me I’d go to Vietnam and make him proud. It was my duty, he said calmly.

My father, known to the world as Milo, would’ve turned 88 on Friday, Sept. 22 (today). He left us on July 12, 2001, two months before the day that changed our world.

At the legion, he would’ve been in top Milo form to describe the terrorists who instigated this attack on our soil. We could use of those salty words today to describe certain world leaders, but we have to be politically correct.

A leader among men, but a follower at home, when I think of Milo, I’m reminded of the words he said in the hometown newspaper when he was named personality of the week. – I do what, when I want, when my wife gives me permission.

Happy birthday, dad.

 

A leader and a follower

Happy birthday to our favorite hero

He was a quiet war hero who never told those closest to him about that Bronze Star and Purple Heart he was awarded for his exploits on the battlefields of Korea.

Yet, he bellied up to the bar night after night at the American Legion with other men from his generation who answered the call from Uncle Sam to leave some of their guts on foreign soils in lands far away.

To use my brother-in-law’s words, my dad did some kick ass things to earn those honors. You just hand out medals like that, this student of military history assured me.

I know he loved my mother, but my father’s heart belonged to the red, white and blue. What did he share with the woman that blessed him with three children?

Probably nothing.

What did this former legion commander, seller of automotive parts, peddler of cookies, deliver of dairy products and head usher at Sacred Heart Catholic Church tell his fellow veterans?

Probably everything and then some. He was a teller of tall tales who loved to label people. He was a product of his generation.

I was Bud, the youngest sibling and only son who once came downstairs at night after a restless sleep and told my parents I wasn’t going to Vietnam. Canada, the refuge for men that didn’t want to crawl in the jungle, was my destiny.

I was only seven, but my father, the hired killer on the home front, from his smoke-stained chair, assured me I’d go to Vietnam and make him proud. It was my duty, he said calmly.

My father, known to the world as Milo, would’ve turned 88 on Friday, Sept. 22 (today). He left us on July 12, 2001, two months before the day that changed our world.

At the legion, he would’ve been in top Milo form to describe the terrorists who instigated this attack on our soil. We could use of those salty words today to describe certain world leaders, but we have to be politically correct.

A leader among men, but a follower at home, when I think of Milo, I’m reminded of the words he said in the hometown newspaper when he was named personality of the week. – I do what, when I want, when my wife gives me permission.

Happy birthday, dad.

 

Five years of celebrating each new day

Unwelcome house guests go away

For five years, and maybe even longer, this stranger has been sneaking around my attic. It never gets the message that it’s time to hit the road.

At the start, it was really living it up, trying to kick me out of my own house. Let me just spread out and get more comfortable, it’d mumble in sick, little shrieks. I’ve seen pictures of it. These days it’s hiding behind a stack of old newspapers, and I’m still trying to serve eviction papers.

It doesn’t have a name. It’s just a big, sketchy weirdo to use a couple of my daughter’s favorite words.

For five years I’ve been celebrating each new sunrise, sunset, life and my 100^th birthday that will be here in 46 years. Never once have I said, “Why me?”

The battle for territory goes on. With so many prayers, thoughts and hopeful words, I’m still here. For another year I raise my flag of victory and continue God’s mission for my life.

And we hope for great news at my next home inspection, scheduled for early next year. So far, my maintenance team hasn’t let me down.

My celebration jig was put into perspective when I recently spied a woman wearing a T-shirt sporting the familiar and vehement phrase, CANCER SUCKS. It was a tribute to her father who recently lost his battle with the “sketchy weirdo.”

I have to get one of those T-Shirts, I said, pointing to the five-year-old dent carved into my head all those years ago.

While my celebration tour goes on, my thoughts always put the victory dance into the proper context.

Like the unwelcome houseguest in the Florida Keys who just decides to drop in on out of the blue and mangle your roof or ravage your home. “I’m north of Cuba,’’ said Irma. “According to my GPS, I’ll be knocking on your door in a couple of hours – maybe more, maybe less – you guess.’’

Like the family in Texas surveying their devastated community shredded by some bum named Harvey who just happens to show up with vengeance on his mind.

There  will always be mountains to conquer, storms to ride out. We just need the right tools to help reach the summit.

 

 

The hairs of our heirs: bald, thinning or grizzly

When hair wasn’t overrated

Hair today, gone tomorrow? That’s the question every boy asks when they look at their father’s hairline.

Hair.

For some, it consumes a great deal of time every day. For others, it’s just overrated.

My wife, it seems, grows out her hair until she gets to the point she wants it shorter. She gets it cut, only to start growing it out again. Between her and my daughter, our bathroom is filled with stuff to make hair softer, thicker, straighter, curlier, blonder, smoother, wave-ier and whatever.

I’ll never understand.

My son, on the other hand, is reluctant to get haircuts. He figures he has hair now, why not enjoy it? He sees what has happened to me. Will he follow the male pattern baldness on my side of the family or his mother’s?

For my friends, we seem to fall into three different camps: thems that got it, thems that are trying to hang on to it and thems that have given up the fight.

The Minnesota/Iowa chapter of Hair Club for Men

Grab a seat around the barber pole of the Minnesota/Iowa chapter of the Hair Club for Men. Some of us insert the words lack of into the title. As a well-known male model (because everyone wants to have their picture taken with me) and card-carrying member of the lack division, I was waiting for the photographer to arrive and photograph me for the upcoming summer issue of Bony White Legs.

As bald me sat in my in my chair, oiling my prize limbs, another member of my pack, a lad sporting the hybrid looks of Grizzly Adams and an Amish man from the flat land of Northeast Iowa, strolled through the front door. This dude is the rebel of the group. His face hasn’t seen a razor since Dec. 15. Birthdays, Christmas, a wedding anniversary and the dawning of a New Year took a back seat to the growth of whiskers. He vowed the harried look would remain a few more weeks and continue to be a gathering place for past meals and upcoming desserts.

Garceau or Kojak?

Close behind him coming through the door were two hitchhikers he had invited to the northern gathering in The Sewer.

Shannon’s disco suit

One was a former tramp, now clean-shaven to the scalp. With his fresh look, he should’ve been licking a lollypop and solving crime on the mean streets of New York. Who loves ya, baby?

The other traveling companion was a happy balding guy who probably uses awashcloth to comb his remaining red follicles. Don’t try to borrow Dave P’s blow dryer and return to the days of yesteryear of John Travolta disco suits.

After comparing hairy notes and before hoping in a vehicle for a lunch of fish (and it wasn’t even Friday), in strolled the photographer to capture the beauty of this pasty white club. The young camera dude, (the one who shies away from haircuts) captured the above photo of the day.

Three bald guys and one hermit proud of the legacies their fathers and grandfathers had passed onto them. In fact, the hermit plans to match his great grandfather’

I do suspect the hermit’s mother would be dragging this boy into the bathroom with a pair of hedge clippers shear her little lamb (dairy cows don’t need haircuts) before the next family portrait. Mrs. Stewart, after you buzz your son, can I have the clippings off the floor? I need to jazz up my scalp.

Hair Club President

Still looking good, Mr Stewart

What he aspires to look like some day – his great great grandfather

Inside the space capsule

These are the MRIs of my life

Encouragement, support are staples

An unexpected stop before my nap

I’ve been doing a lot of mountain climbing this month. I get close to the summit, reach for the victory flag and it slips through my grasp. One step forward, two steps back.

I take a tumble and end up in the back of an ambulance. A theme song begins to play. Like sands through the hourglass, these are The MRI’s of My Life.

In last Thursday’s very special episode, Milo’s Boy climbs into the Escape at 6:30 a.m. for the 8:55 tunnel call in Rochester, hoping our gray Ford will live up to its name and take me and my beautiful driver to warm places void of any noisy, giant tubes and well-meaning doctors.

I am no longer afraid of these little excursions down to Mayoland to climb into the device that resembles a cold, white space capsule. I actually enjoy the time alone. It’s a place to think and pray for my own journey, as well as others traveling tougher roads. I wish the banging and thumping sounds would go away, but I tolerate them and try to give a joyful shout when the technician asks me how I am doing. They keep telling me the next two sets will be four minutes each.

In the afternoon, the interpreter of the scans will give me the results that hopefully end with the words, “THE CRITTER IS DEAD.” She doesn’t say that, but her take on the grainy images of my brain is encouraging. On my last visit six months ago, I was proclaimed medically boring. This time I ask her for a new catch phrase, and the doctor says the clouds in my head look stable to slightly improved. The key word is “improved.” On Book of Faces, family and friends across the country react to the post with positive words and thanking God.

I am always encouraged by this support.

Then comes the next day’s episode. Milo’s Boy enjoys an hour of exercise at the community center with a friend from church. Following some uneventful cycling on the stationary bike, I journey with him to the local Subway for a leisurely lunch of six-inchers, sodas and cookies. The talk is good.

On the way to the car, I’m already thinking my next stop will be my bed for a quick nap before my wife gets home from work. Maybe fall asleep watching The Rifleman on Me TV.

Walking out the door, the next thing I know the back of my head and the Subway building have had an unplanned exchange as I tumble backward. There is blood. Hey, that’s my blood.

An ambulance is called, and I spend the next hour or so in the ER, seven silver staples holding together an inch and a half of jagged scalp.

Now even before this humbling incident, the right side of my body hasn’t been very cooperative for the past four years. In fact, it’s downright defiant to the commands my brain tries to give it. Brain: let’s run down the driveway and get the mail. Body: drags foot and clutches wall for balance. Maybe navigating the driveway isn’t such a good idea.

They ask me in ER if they should call my wife. I say no. I have it handled. Let’s not worry her. Honestly, I don’t know why I don’t call the one person who has managed my doctor appointments, wrangled insurance claims, and has been the biggest advocate for my healthcare treatments for the past four and a half years.

Yeah, like she wouldn’t notice the seven silver staples and the blood on my gold sweatshirt or that my legs are like jelly and my words very slurred.

She comes home from work, pre-warned by our son and daughter about my condition. She is hurt that I didn’t tell her, and I am bad at admitting I’m wrong and at apologizing. Still, she helps me get to bed, and I sleep for 14 hours. Perhaps she has over-medicated me on purpose. She is concerned I might have a concussion. And she is annoyed that I managed to hang on to my Subway pop and cookie throughout the whole ordeal, but didn’t think twice about calling her.

So though the scans say my head is improving, the right side of my body doesn’t know it yet. A cane or wheelchair is needed outside the familiarity of home. Gravity sometimes wins.

For my friends at the Community Center, I hope to be back next week after I get the staples out.

For the MRI staff in Rochester, I’ll see you in six months.

For my wife, I’m very sorry.

 

 

 

Meet these three wise men

Just doing their jobs

Fighting for a cause

I never met Fred Krause, but he was a hero of mine. Twenty-five years ago this week, I documented in the town crier the sacrifices Fred made on Dec. 7, 1941, the day our country and world changed forever.

I think of Fred when we stop and remember the awful events at Pearl Harbor and the brave men just doing their jobs.

I think of the man when we drive by his boyhood home at 129 Third Street in our little city in Minnesota. He wanted to travel and see the world. The United States Navy was the perfect place for him to be.

Had the circumstances worked out differently that day, Fred would’ve turned 96 on Sept. 1 of this year, sharing stories of survival. He’d be a hero to a new generation.

I never met Harry Chapin, but he was a hero of mine. He was born on Dec. 7, 1942, the one-year anniversary of Fred’s sacrifice. Harry’s music of hope and his mission to end world hunger have provided the energy to make a difference in my own life. We lost Harry in a car accident July 16, 1981, a week before he was scheduled to serenade an auditorium of faithful fans in Des Moines, Iowa.

I had tickets for that performance, but sent them back for a refund. How foolish was this youth of 18? I wish the paper treasure were still in my possession.

Harry would’ve turned 75 in 2017, still tooling around on the Long Island Expressway in that 1975 Volkswagen with an expired driver’s license looking for the exit and the park where he would give his next free concert to aid starving children in Aleppo.

I never met John Lennon, but he was a hero of mine. On Dec. 8, 1980, John’s mission of giving peace a chance ended when a demon stepped in front of him and silenced the dream.

Thirty-six years after the singer’s death, we’re still trying to imagine a world where we all live as one.

John would be celebrating his 77^th birthday in 2017 and still be searching for that elusive peace, something still not within our grasp – at home and on foreign soils.

Maybe the good do die young. Fred was a lad of just 21. Harry was a young man of 38 and John was a pup of 40. Their mission in this life was brief, but meaningful and memorable.

As these three warriors travel on the Road to Kingdom Come, we know one thing. The journey has just begun and their resumes are far from complete.

 

 

 

 

The winner’s circle

 

Sweet sounds of electric mower

Safe at home with Marge

 Somewhere on the other side, my neighbor from the old stomping ground is smiling.

Pete’s beloved Chicago Cubs have erased a blemish on their storied history. Never again will they carry the tag of losers. Pete’s boys are World Series champions. No instant replay or review can take the prize away from the diamond heroes.

It took ten innings, 108 years of pain and a slight rain delay, but then the heavens finally opened up and poured tears of joy on the former doormats of baseball. Some of that mist, I’m convinced, came from Pete’s eyes.

I’m remembering Pete fondly on this day of celebration for Cubs fans in all corners of our vast universe.

On those tropical summer days of my youth, I’d see Pete relaxing on his cement driveway (we had gravel) in his lawn chair with a radio after a hard day of caring for his lawn. It was his pride and joy. Every mowing was a victory over nasty weeds and blemishes. You could’ve played baseball on it. Stray dogs crossed the street to avoid contact. It was rumored young children hovering too close to the jewel never found their way home.

You see, Pete had a heart condition and maintained his green masterpiece with a sweet-sounding electric mower that hummed like a vacuum cleaner. That’s what made him a legend in my mind. Back and forth he would go, holding the cord so it wouldn’t leave a dent on the turf.

The audio blunders of Rick Monday, Jose Cardenal and Rick Reuschel would play havoc with Pete’s heart. I’m sure there were days when he wanted to bench the whole team, but he hung with the lads. His wife, Marge, with her trusty broom, made sure grass didn’t stain the sidewalk. She probably let her husband know of the dire consequences that could befell his fragile state if and when a superior opponent swept the Cubs.

God had a plan for Pete. One day while vacuuming his lawn, Pete’s mission on earth ended suddenly. His Savior was calling him home to maintain the plush lawns in the heavenly kingdom, the ultimate home field.

A few years later, Marge joined Pete on the upstairs lawn detail.

Rest in your lawn chair, Pete, and enjoy the sights and sounds of the victory with your beautiful wife.

And keep saying those words from the heart because you’ve got a new one that’s going to last for eternity: Cubs win, Cubs win, Cubs win, Cubs are World Champions.

 

 

 

 

Great times for true fans

Flying The W

Sending 1908 to the shower

Come, labor on!


Who dares stand idle, on the harvest plain


While all around him waves the golden grain?


And to each servant does the Master say, 
“

Go work today.

”
Then watch the Cubs.

I’m thinking a lot about my friend, Mark, who posted the above on his Facebook page recently.

Then there’s Tree. I’m thinking about that old Cubs hat you used to wear all the time. Is that a new one you’re sporting these days?

Marti, aka Rosey, is not far from my thoughts. His son, Aaron, had a thoughtful post recently when he pounded out this message:

What a journey it has been! Years and years of getting made fun of for being Cubs fans and FINALLY they make the World Series! So glad I could watch the game from home with the guy who introduced me to the Cubs! We aren’t done yet! #FlyTheW

Marti, I can’t forget those summer afternoons when we’d go to your house and find you sprawled out on the couch listening to Jack Brickhouse or Harry Carey on Channel 9 during the era of day baseball.

 Kurt, I can’t forget you. Way down there in Missouri, right in the middle of Royals territory, and the Cubs are still your team. The W is flying high in my old haunts back in Northeast Iowa these days. There you are celebrating a Cubs victory with Jim, Todd and Marty, also known as Marble. Marty, weren’t you a Red Sox guy back in the day?

 

And to all the other Cubs fans in the hometown, cherish this moment as you put 1908 in the rearview mirror and send it to the shower. One down, three to go. Wrap this thing up before Halloween and make it a true October Classic.

I’m up here in Minnesota, a Twins fan who jumped on the bandwagon in 1987 when the local boys popped open the Champaign. Got married during Game 6 and Kent Hrbek’s magical grand slam. I’ve strayed, but stayed loyal even during the bad times of 2016.

But I can’t forget where I came from.

Two teams at opposite ends of the diamond. While the Cubs are basking in the glow of a 103-win season, the Twins are pushing up daisies with 103 losses.

Baseball is a funny sport, but also a fantastic voyage.