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The Prince of Peace

The Prince of Peace

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Soon many of us will be celebrating Christmas and the birth of Jesus.

Well, I suppose many will be celebrating Christmas, not all the birth of Jesus.

But many hundreds of years before the day that we celebrate as the birth of Jesus, the prophet Isaiah foretold of the event in Isaiah 9:6:

For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders.  And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

Prince of Peace.

Many years before I became familiar with this passage in Isaiah, my familiarity with the Prince of Peace was from an early 1970s Leon Russell album.

I was a big Leon Russell fan back in the 70s.

Leon Russell’s song Prince of Peace was recorded on his debut solo album titled “Leon Russell” in March of 1970.

“Never treat a brother like a passing stranger

Always try to keep the love light burning.

Listen only to this song and watch their eyes

For he might be the Prince of Peace returning.”

 

The blog post “Reading Between the Grooves” describes the idea of the song: “is that you better treat an individual like you want to be treated, because that person might be “the Prince of Peace returning.”

I am sure some of you may have heard this before, the one you least expect could be an angel of the Lord or the returning Christ.  I remember some years ago walking Baltimore’s Inner Harbor and encountering a homeless person.  Kim gave him a twenty-dollar bill if I remember correctly.

Of course, me, I freaked out…”Kim why did you do that?”

And she said something like:

“Because” she said, “you never know, this could be a test, that could be Jesus.”

 

And last Christmas I wrote about a young boy who schooled his cheap grandfather in generosity and giving.

I have to admit, I quickly fell back into my comfort zone as a stinge, because thinking back now I haven’t given up too much since.

 

There is an old woman who is a regular fixture sitting outside the Herndon Post Office.

I say old, but who knows, the weathered skin, squinting eyes, missing teeth, she could still be younger than me.

Disheveled, in a knit cap, and a worn coat, sometimes asleep, but most of the time greeting you with a question:

“Sir, do you have cash today?”

 

I am at the Herndon Post Office often, sometimes twice in the same day, and my general response is “no I don’t have any cash” avoiding the question, the look, and those eyes.

Typically, it is true, I don’t carry cash, and besides, as often as I encounter her, setting that precedent could get expensive.

 

It’s been a cold December, the coldest I can remember since living in Virginia. On a recent morning it was 22 degrees, yet there she was, sitting in her folding chair next to the entrance and exit doors of the Herndon Post Office.  On this day she had a heavy coat on and hood over that knit hat, and a scarf, and she was wearing a pandemic style mask covering her mouth that she pulled away when she spoke.

 

I went around the corner to the bank, took out some cash and returned to the post office.

 

I told her that I was in and out of here all the time and she was always here.

“It’s cold,” I said, “where do you stay?”

“In the shelter on Jefferson Highway” she responded, “I used to stay at the shelter in Reston, but you can only stay there a month, though I was there a year. I had to leave.”

“Jefferson Highway is far away; how do you get here?” I asked.

“I take the bus, with money that I get here.”

 

So, I explained to her again that I don’t usually carry cash, but I went to the bank and took some out.

With that I handed her the two twenty-dollar bills, and told her, “Merry Christmas” and went on my way.

 

It was my “look at all the children living in the streets’ and “love the blind and wounded as you love yourself” moment and realizing there was a lot of wisdom in this song that was wasted on a young teenager in the 70s.

 

On September 17, 1972, Leon Russell performed at the Roosevelt Stadium located in Jersey City in the great state of New Jersey.  My only memory of that show now was that at some point in the day, I remember being pressed up against the stage security fence with a pretty good view, and of course I had fun.  I would see more shows at the Roosevelt Stadium in Jersey City over the next couple of years, as I skipped the light fandango through the rest of my teenage years.  It would be many years though, and ultimately Kim, that would bring me back to the church and the prophet Isaiah.

 

It’s true, not everyone has bought into the prophesy of Isaiah Chapter 9:6.

Not everyone believes the birth we celebrate in a few days was the Messiah.

Not everyone accepts the notion of Jesus on Earth, the second covenant, Jesus’s blood shed and body broken to save all, Jew and Gentile alike this time.

Not everyone believes Jesus will come again.

 

Nevertheless, we can at least agree that giving is a special part of this season.

Maybe setting a precedent is not such a bad thing after all.

And forgiving too I would say.

And either way I suppose there is still a good message in the song:

 

Never be impatient with the ones who love you…it might be yourself that you are burning.

Never treat a brother like a passing stranger.

Love the blind and wounded as that you would yourself;

 

Because like my wife said, you never know, it could be a test.

 

For that broken soul might just be “the Prince of Peace” returning.

 

Postscript:

 

Kim and I hope that everyone has safe and happy Christmas.

Give and forgive.

Pray for peace and understanding.

And for those who are hurting, especially during holidays.

And for a Spring that comes early.

 

Turkey Trot

Turkey Trot

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When I was in the seventh or eighth grade, I thought I was a pretty good sprinter.  I remember a track meet that was held at the Shore Regional High School, between the four  elementary schools that fed into the regional high school.  My event was the 100-yard dash (and maybe a 400 relay as well, not sure I remember).  I was in the second group of runners, sort of the “B” team who were not quite as fast as the “A” team.  I remember sitting in the bleachers waiting for my event.  The week before I had heard or read something about how sugar can give you a burst of energy, and so thinking this was a good idea, I snuck a couple of Hershey bars in the waist band of my gym shorts with the plan of ingesting them prior to my event.  This was brilliant, I thought, kind of like giving a racehorse Lasix before their big maiden debut.

The problem was that when I went to get my Hershey bars from the waist band of my gym shorts, I discovered they had melted and as a result my plan was foiled.  I had to throw my Hershey bars away.

Ah, it probably wasn’t a good plan anyway.

Though I am not 100% sure, I believe I won my heat but got smoked in the finals running against the “A” top finishers.

I came out of it with a medal anyway, and a lesson on stuffing Hershey bars in the waistband of my gym shorts in June.

In high school, I let my athletic aspirations be second to growing my hair long, listening to music, being interested in girls, and doing other things I shouldn’t have been doing.

I suppose there was a lesson in that as well.

 

Later in life, I picked up running again.

Which came in handy when I met Kim because she was a runner too.

I think our running peaked in 2014.  I would be turning 58 years old that June and had a goal of completing a half-marathon.  That Spring and Summer, we did as many ten-milers, 10 Ks, 15 Ks, and 5 Ks as we could find.   And I completed my half-marathon that April, participating in the Long Branch Half Marathon in New Jersey.

It was great, but I think the best thing to come out of that experience that year was that I finally got over my fear of writing and having someone other than me read the words I had written.  That year I wrote a weekly blog called “A Happier, Healthier Me” as part of the job I had at the time.  This led to my Musings starting in January of 2016.

I haven’t run much at all in the last ten years.  Walking, maybe, but not even walking as much of that as I should.

This week, while driving through downtown Herndon, I saw a sign for the Herndon Turkey Trot on November 22 at 4 PM.  I thought the 4 PM time was a little odd, it started to get dark around 4:30, but when I got home, I decided to look it up online, thinking it might be fun for Kim and me to do.

I learned the race was open to ages 4 and up.

The first 400 pre-registered got a long-sleeve T-shirt.

Registration cost was $40 each.

But here was the kicker…runners had to complete the course in 45 minutes or less.

I thought, well, I don’t really need another T-shirt.

And $40, $80 for the two of us is a lot of money on my current budget.

But, here was the real issue, I didn’t think I could finish the course in less than 45 minutes.

The 5 Ks Kim and I have done the past few years, we have walked.

And though I know there is all that pre-race adrenaline, with the gear on, and the number, and the pre-race stretching going on, there is also the possibility of humiliation.

But let’s face it, it’s not the tee shirt, it’s not all that camaraderie, it’s not the post-race bananas and free Gatorade…it’s the self-satisfaction you get when you just finish.

So, I thought, who needs all that?

I just needed to prove to myself I could complete a 5K in 45 minutes.

 

I heard a sermon this week with a guest speaker who was a successful businessman, and he was talking about failure and the rewards one gets from the lessons learned from failure.

He only admitted to failing twice in his lifetime, which I thought was a bit of a stretch.

But good for him.

I thought, gee, if failing was the ticket to success in this life, I should be the King of the Universe right now.

But I understood his message: don’t let failure stop you, don’t give up, keep striving, and in the end, you will be a winner.

 

So, this morning, I went up to my closet, dug out the running tights that used to make my kids cringe, put on some running layers, got my running gloves, and my hat, and like a gladiator leaving the tunnel and entering the Colosseum, I opened the garage door, and strutted out into the public.

But before all that, remembering the Hershey bars in the waistband of my gym shorts, I ate one of the Baby Ruths and the Butterfingers my son-in-law Leon had sent me packing with in a zip-lock bag the other evening.

Now, using the stopwatch feature on my smart watch, I hit start, and off I went.

Kim and I had already established a three-mile route so I knew where I needed to go.

Through the neighborhood and down to the Sugarland Trail, I thankfully only encountered one neighbor.

Crossing the creeks carefully, I plodded along, breathing heavily, one foot in front of the other.

Checking my watch, just a few times, it seemed my pace was too slow, but picking up speed seemed like a long shot.

“Who has the Lasix?” I thought as I was approaching the last creek crossing and facing the all uphill last quarter mile back to my garage door.

Taking small steps, but moving steadily, I approached my driveway.

Not to be deterred by failure this time, I thought I would just take the weekend to recoup and as the message said, try again on Monday.

When I hit the garage door, I looked at my smart watch stopwatch and the time said…

Forty-three minutes and seventeen seconds.

There was no big timer waiting for me, no cheering crowds behind the string of flags and traffic cones, nobody to take my photo crossing the finish line…

But it was all good.

Breathing heavily, my heart pounding, a little pain in my chest, through the garage door I went into the house, while I waited for the ambulance to arrive.

No, just kidding about the ambulance, I actually felt pretty good.

And proud of myself that I proved I could run the Herndon Turkey Trot in the required time, and since I didn’t need another tee shirt and I don’t want to spend the fory bucks, I no longer had the need to run the Herndon Turkey Trot 5K.

Because today, November 21st, at approximately 12 PM:

This Turkey…

Former member of the “B” team…

Not the King Of the Universe..yet

And definitely qualifying as “ages 4 and up”…

 

Trotted.

 

Happy Thanksgiving!

That’s me in 2014 with my Team Move For Hunger teamates at the Long Branch Half Marathon
Beer Shirts, Caulking Guns, Grandkids

Beer Shirts, Caulking Guns, Grandkids

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I am in Florida.

Why?

Because I can.

Kim is not with me.

Why?

Because she can’t.

This is one of the negatives of being retired.

Before your wife, I mean.

But I am learning there are some positives.

To be retired.

Not to be retired before your wife, necessarily.

Like beer shirts.

I can wear beer shirts or brewery shirts every day if I want to.

And I can wear the same pair of jeans for two, three, even four days.

If I want to.

Because I can.

I can sleep in every day.

But I don’t.

Even though I can.

Kim can’t.

So that would be selfish.

And besides.

I am busy.

Who would have thought?

Kim’s Vintage Cool Stuff is doing well.

And I have cleaned out the garage almost to the point where I can put a car in it.

Who would of thought of putting a car in a garage?

And I have organized my tools to know what I have, and I can actually find them.

Now I don’t have to go out and buy another when I already have one.

Like caulking guns.

I have four caulking guns.

And those special pipe wrenches for large sink drain nuts.

I recently had to go buy one of those because I couldn’t find the one I had.

Now I have two.

And there are many other examples.

Might save me some money.

Because that’s important.

When you are retired.

But for now, I am in Florida because I can making up some lost time with grandkids.

Because that’s important too.

Wearing my Harvest Gap Brewery shirt.

And realizing that some of things that I thought were important in the past,

Maybe they aren’t so important.

Because I can.

And because you know…

the day will come when I can’t.

 

Postscript:

Halloween in Oviedo was fun. Ethan was Toad from Super Mario Bros and Christian was a Jim Cantore like CNN Weatherman. Me? I was a Breeder’s Cup fan in a Brewery Shirt. Every day is Halloween for me, I guess.

In The Belly of a Big Fish

In The Belly of a Big Fish

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Earlier this summer, I wrote about my phobia of going to the dentist.  And in that writing, I mentioned Kim’s fear of snakes.

Despite her ophidiophobia, I was really proud of Kim one day, a few weeks back.

While sitting on the deck enjoying a glass of wine, I watched a black king snake about 15 feet away drop from a tree branch next to our deck to the top of the patio canopy, also adjacent to the deck.

I said,“Kim, look,” and pointed towards the snake, expecting the worst.

She looked.

But when she saw the snake, she didn’t freak out.

She didn’t run to the shed to get a hoe or a shovel or run upstairs to get the shotgun.

She sat calmly and observed the snake.

And for the next forty-five minutes, we watched the snake change its mind and go back up the tree branch, then up and down another branch, and eventually down to the grass and disappear.

The most important thing was, the snake remained safe.

Unlike most snakes my wife has encountered in the past.

 

Fear.

It’s about 9 am.

Normally, I would already be at work.

But not today.

Because I just retired.

And like the fear of snakes or going to the dentist,  I am experiencing fear again, this time, retirement fears.

 

I read something recently online, one of those memes that pop up on your social media:

Time is more valuable than money.

You can get more money

But,

You cannot get more time

Don’t waste your time.

I get that. I have lived through that in my past.

 

I remember the times when I went through major changes in my life: career changes, marital changes, financial mistakes, and not worrying about it.

Because I had lots of time.

Midlife, I had to start all over again, building a new career.

Midlife, I had to start all over again, building a marriage and a blended family.

But it was all good.

Because I had time.

And I could make more money. I could get a new job, I could get two jobs, or even three jobs.

I could deliver pizza.

It would all work out.

And it did.

 

But this time, I must admit, I am a bit fearful of the future.

Because this time, it is more about time.

 

I heard a good sermon recently.

It was from the first chapter in Jonah.

You may be familiar with the story of Jonah from childhood, as Jonah ends up in the belly of a big fish.

But before the big fish, Jonah had to reckon with his fear.

God asked Jonah to do something he didn’t want to do because he was afraid.

So instead of going where God wanted to send him, Jonah dipped out and took the next boat in a different direction.

As a result, God hurled a powerful wind at the ship, and the sailors were afraid and wanted to know who could have caused such a storm.

Finally, Jonah said to the sailors, “Pick me up and throw me into the sea,” he replied, “and it will become calm. I know that it is my fault that this great storm has come upon you.”

And so, they did, and the sea became calm.

Jonah knew “…throw me into the sea” meant put me into the hands of God.

And he would be safe, and the sailors would be saved.

 

God didn’t ask me to retire.

I just assume it is part of my plan.

And I am not running away from anything as a result of fear.

I guess I am more running towards something I just don’t understand yet.

But I can relate to “throw me into the sea.”

That’s kind of how I feel right now.

Throw me into the sea.

Calm my fears.

Make me safe.

Put me into the hands of God.

And not the belly of a big fish.

And it will all work out.

 

Postscript:

Kim and I spent Labor Day kayaking on the Shenandoah River, taking two vehicles and dropping our kayaks upriver.  We pretty much floated for three hours.  We didn’t have any powerful winds hurled at us, nor heavy seas, or encounter any huge fish. The photo above was at the end, where I locked up our kayaks while we went back to get my truck.  I thought the contrast of the graffiti and the boats was pretty cool.

Urban kayaks.

 

The Serpent
Curt Christiansen Has a Great But

Curt Christiansen Has a Great But

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Curt Christiansen has a great but.

Can you imagine that conversation?

“Curt, you don’t have a great but, you have a great butt.”

“Why thank you, you have a nice but too.”

“No, it’s not but, it’s butt.”

“Okay, okay, butt don’t you think I look great in my new genes?”

“Those are jeans not genes.”

“Okay don’t you think I look good in my new American Eagle jeans?”

 

Silly, right?

The world seems to be getting sillier and sillier, doesn’t it?

We have the Sydney Sweeney controversy, an ad deemed as fascist and the convoluted argument that “great jeans” really meant “great genes” and because she is an attractive white human being American Eagle had to be subliminally promoting the concept that Sydney’s genes had to be superior.

An ad for jeans featuring a pretty girl, how novel, and how sinister.

Forgot about Brooke Shields and Calvin Kleins?

And how about Marla Maples and No Excuse jeans?

And what about Beyonce’, another attractive human being, and Levis? She takes off her jeans in a laundromat recreating a Levis ad from the 1980’s featuring Nick Kamen, and revealing she is wearing what?

WHITE UNDERWEAR!

Seriously Levis, what kind of messaging is that?

 

Don’t we have better things to do and more important issues to worry about?

 

The truth is, this is all misinformation.

Because the truth is I don’t have a nice butt at all.

I don’t even have a butt.

In fact, describing my butt as a “but” with a little less “t” might be more accurate.

Yup, mine qualifies as a “but” but maybe not a full “butt.”

Butt, I do like my new American Eagle jeans, though.

And my favorite jeans of all time, those that I wore at all three of my daughters’ weddings, were American Eagle genes, I mean jeans.

And speaking of genes, I am happy with those too.  I didn’t get the nice butt genes, but nevertheless I am proud of the ones I got.

As we all should be.

Love and Devotion

Love and Devotion

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Love and Devotion

May I love you?

Your sweet lips are the sweetest of all.  I love every inch of your heart, your mind, your soul.  I love the ground you walk on, the air you breathe.

I am longing for you dear, longing to be able to whisper my true honest love into your own precious little ears.

I could tell you I love you once for every hair on your precious head, and then I would not have expressed one half the devotion I feel for you.

 

Obviously, I didn’t write that.

There aren’t any “maybe’s” in there.

The author of that piece was a young lady named Marguerite Fadeley, and it was written around 1907.

One of the cool things about buying and selling other people’s stuff is that sometimes you find a treasure buried in a box of junk.

A treasure that may not even have any monetary value to anyone, but a window to someone’s heart and soul, and therefore might even be priceless.

I wrote in my dad’s obituary, in the words of Nichole Spector, we are all stories:

“…the fact that in the end, we all become stories. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, sure, but also: words to words.”

I don’t know much about Marguerite Fadeley.

But I am finding her words fascinating.

From what I could find:

She was born May 12, 1891.

She died at the young age of 59 on March 29, 1951.

She would have been about 16 or 17 when she wrote the words above, the first passage in her notebook dated 1907.

Apparently, she lived in Leesburg, Virginia and married William Carlton Whitmore in 1921 who was the Leesburg Virginia Postmaster.

She was survived by one son, William Carlton Jr. who also has since passed.

To the best of my knowledge this may be the first time her words have been published in any form for others to read.

 

Today is my 25th wedding anniversary.

And though I love every inch of Kim’s heart, her mind, and her soul; and I love the ground she walks on, the air she breathes, I don’t think I could have written those words to her.

Maybe.

But maybe not.

We have shared many joys, and we have faced many challenges.

Some of those challenges have been known to have destroyed many marriages.

Yet our relationship prevailed.

Got stronger even.

 

Oddly enough, finding Kim at that time in my life, I found some parallels in Marguerite’s words.

Like the first time I saw her:

Eyes have met,

Lips are not yet,

But oh, you kid,

I will get you yet

(Marguerite Fadeley)

And I did!

 

And now it is twenty-five years of marriage later.

And I am sure we will share many more joys, and face many more challenges…

but we will continue to do that together.

 

May I love you?

Thankfully, you said yes.

Happy Anniversary Kim!

 

I have shared this one before, that was us July 1, 2000
Father’s Day Weekend

Father’s Day Weekend

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The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

2 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

3 He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

4 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

5 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

 

 

It’s Father’s Day Weekend.

Last Monday I was in church.

A church I have attended off and on for the last 27 years.

The plaque on the wall outside reads “Addition 1998.”

I remember the first time I attended this church, my future father-in-law gave me a tour of the new addition he had worked so hard to make a reality.

An addition that even included an elevator, knowing his knees could only be replaced so many times.

That was July of 1998, and I had gone up to Somerset to surprise Kim and run the Daily American 10K.  At that time Donny and Savannah would spend summers on the farm and running this race was kind of a family thing.

Even that first weekend, without introduction, I was redirected from my hotel room just off the Somerset exit of the Pennsylvania Turnpike and was invited to stay at the farmhouse.  Once there I remember Kim’s mom pointing out the window and explaining the acreage, the barn, the corn,  the milking parlor, and the dairy cows.  I was way, way, out of my element (“have you got any waves here?” you know, that sort of thing).

Even further out of my element at the time, it was mandatory to attend church. This same church, a Church of the Brethren church, Geiger Church of the Brethren.  Not a washed out Methodist Church (as my father-in-law would say sometimes) a Brethren church. I think I had to borrow clothes to dress for church that morning.

Over the years I listened to many good sermons, preached by three different pastors and even one of my all-time favorites delivered by a lay speaker.  I attended the Sunday school class.  I would experience the Brethren ritual of Holy Communion and be humbled by the act of having my feet washed and kneeling to wash another brother’s feet.  I would experience my then father-in-law singing a solo to my mother-in-law in church on her birthday in what I thought was maybe the greatest act of love I could witness.

 

Then last Monday, I was there once again.

Maybe for the very last time.

Listening to the 23rd Psalm.

A Psalm that is often read at funerals.

A Psalm I heard read the last time I was here.

Now I am hearing it read again.

 

Thursday, May 29th, I got a haircut.

Getting a haircut is not something I would normally write about, but in this story, it is important.

Kim and I were planning to go see Kim’s mom that upcoming weekend, and my mother-in-law had never liked my hair long.  So, I would usually try to get a haircut before going up to visit, so I could say “mom, do you like my haircut?”

And she would say, “No, I don’t like it long, it’s not short enough!”

But as it turned out, Kim’s mom took a turn for the worse that Friday and was admitted to the hospital in Johnstown.  We decided it would be best for Kim to go up alone in case she needed to stay longer.  I had a throbbing toothache and an emergency dentist visit scheduled for Monday, and as much as I hated to go to the dentist, I didn’t want to miss that experience.

That would begin maybe the longest week that I could remember since Donny’s accident.

Monitoring my mother-in-law’s condition, my dental anxiety, communicating mostly through texts with Kim as I was once again “home alone,” since the cell service is still spotty in that part of the world, it was stressful for all.   I took the opportunity with Kim not home to further prepare for our downsizing, filling the garage and our living room with everything I could identify that needed to go to auction while I waited for the phone call that would give me the green light to move all that stuff to the sale.

Thursday morning, I got the phone call.  There was no room for our stuff in the upcoming sale and the next opportunity wouldn’t be until August at the earliest.

Though I was disappointed to say the least, with my garage and my living room unusable,  now I could just worry about Kim’s mom and Kim.

As it really should have been.

Kim, much like after Donny’s accident when she would describe being lifted by the Holy Spirit that carried her through and set the example for the rest of us, remained by her mom’s side all week as she went from hospital, back to Laurel View Village, her room and then to Hospice care.  Once again, setting the example.

Very early Friday morning, Kim’s mom Faye, went home to be with Jesus, with Kim and her sister Kathy at their mom’s bedside.

As I drove off the Pennsylvania Turnpike on my way to Geiger Church of the Brethren on Monday, past the hotel where I spent that Friday night in July of 1998, I thought about the nice welcome I received from Kim’s mom that first introduction, and how out of place I felt, though it now seemed kind of silly.

Over the years I got over that and eventually I became my mother-in-law’s favorite son-in-law, ignoring the fact that I was her only son-in-law, I wore that title well, often bragging to the other residents at Laurel View of my status.

 

Now it is the weekend, and we have had some days to move from sleeplessness and sadness to a time for decompression and the nice memories that will keep Faye always alive in our hearts.

Though it is Father’s Day weekend, I couldn’t think of a better way to spend it, writing about the mother-in-law I grew to love, and sharing time with my mother and my wife.

As I watch the gentle waves spawned by the wakes of passing boats out on the water and throw in the crab pots, I find myself thinking about cows, the milking parlor, corn knee high by the Fourth of July, and my favorite mother-in-law.

Nice memories.

I hope you are allowing for some decompression time too, honoring your fathers, and your mothers, as well.

Happy Father’s Day weekend.

Postscript:

A happy life and happy memories require many nice people to help make that happen.  I have experienced many in western Pennsylvania as I have often shared in these writings.  Thanks to Linda and John Stoner, the pastors, and all the nice people who were a part of Faye and Royal’s life in the church and the community, and in Kim’s life.  And especially for making last Monday special.

The many friendships we made with the residents and the staff at Laurel View Village, we will miss greatly.  And the great care Faye received will never be forgotten. Maybe there is another Que Classic in our future and a visit.

 

See look here, she was probably telling me to get a haircut
the farm
Donny and I and some cows

 

The 10K Tee shirt from July 11, 1998
Dentophobia

Dentophobia

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I lay there tethered to the chair by the mask pumping gas into my nose.

The bright light shining directly into my face was dimmed only by the shaded glasses meant to protect my eyes from objects unforeseen.

All the prayers I had uttered in the days and hours leading up to this moment seemed to be in vain as my heart raced and my hands gripped whatever I could grab on to.

“Jesus why have you forsaken me?” I questioned to myself, unable to speak, my mouth chocked open like the exit door I would have liked to be going through.

Why?

It’s too late, I am trapped, fight or flight is not an option for me.

Gagging and choking, I begged God for the end to come quickly.

 

 

Fear and anxiety are horrible things.

The following, according to the internet, are said to be the top 10 fears or phobias:

  • Arachnophobia: an intense fear of spiders and other arachnids
  • Ophidiophobia: an intense fear of snakes
  • Acrophobia: an intense fear of heights
  • Aerophobia: an intense fear of flying
  • Cynophobia: an intense fear of dogs
  • Astraphobia: an intense fear of thunder and lightning
  • Trypanophobia: an intense fear of injections
  • Social phobia: an intense fear of social interactions
  • Agoraphobia: an intense fear of places that are difficult to escape, sometimes involving a fear of crowded or open spaces
  • Mysophobia: an intense fear of germs, dirt, and other contaminants

I have a couple of sons-in-law who fit the bill with the spiders.

And Kim hates needles and snakes so I guess she is trypanophobic and ophidiophobic.

I suffer from a little acrophobia and agoraphobia.

But my real fear is not on the list of top ten.

My real phobia is… Dentophobia.

Fear of the dentist.

Though I have never enjoyed going to the dentist, I haven’t always had the level of fear and anxiety about going to the dentist that I have now.

It was one botched root canal and subsequent root canal to fix the botched one that put me over the edge.

Having no more patience, I went to an oral surgeon who put me to sleep and took what was left of the tooth out entirely.  Bingo,  I woke up and the problem was gone and I didn’t remember a thing.

But since then, other than cleanings, which I now hate as well, I have avoided dealing with issues with my teeth.

Until this week.

Two broken crowns I had been living with for quite a while finally had to be repaired.

So, I found a dentist that was supposed to help me with my dental anxiety.

Nitrous Oxide was the plan.

A good plan maybe?

Maybe for most.

But I learned, on the battlefield and under fire, that I must have a high tolerance to Nitrous Oxide.

Because it didn’t phase me a bit.

And for two hours I endured the equivalent of spiders, snakes, and dogs crawling all over me while I was trapped flying high in a small plane with no way out in a thunderstorm, as I laid helpless in a pool of dirt, germs, and other contaminants.

It was awful.

I couldn’t return to work.

I was too traumatized.

 

And to top it off, that night, another small ache I had been ignoring in a tooth on the other side of my mouth suddenly became a big ache.

Probably the result of constant teeth clenching I was experiencing in the weeks leading up to my appointment.

So as a result, the anxiety set in again.

Now what was I going to do?

I contemplated calling the oral surgeon again and just having it pulled because at this point I am thinking who needs teeth,  I would rather be tube fed than to have to go through what I went through with the dentist.

But then I thought it would be weird to show up for my follow up appointment to have my permanent crowns put in, and for them to find another tooth was missing out of my mouth.

“Wasn’t there a tooth there a few weeks ago?”

“A tooth?  What tooth?”

No that would be awkward.

So, I called my dentist back and explained my problem, asked for a different plan, and made an appointment.

So far however, I haven’t heard the new plan.

I may still need that oral surgeon.

In the meantime I will suffer with my anxiety.

Because according to the Cleveland Clinic, in addition to the chills, dizziness, sweating, heart palpations, nausea, shaking, and upset stomach that dentophobia can cause, some people may experience:

  • Crying when thinking about going to the dentist
  • And have insomnia before a dental appointment

So, Kim, don’t be surprised if I keep you up until my appointment on Monday.

Hand me a tissue, its going to be a long weekend.

ære din far og mor

ære din far og mor

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Ephesians 6:1-3

Children, obey your parents because you belong to the Lord, for this is the right thing to do.  “Honor your father and mother.” This is the first commandment with a promise:  If you honor your father and mother “things will go well for you, and you will have a long life on the earth.”

 

I heard a good sermon recently.  It was about family dynamics, all aspects really, fathers and mothers; fathers and their children; children and their parents.

Honor your father and your mother and things will go well for you, and you will have a long life on earth. 

I hope my kids are paying attention.

And they want a long life.

 

Today would have been my dad’s 96th birthday. Needless to say I miss my dad, I miss him sharing stories, I miss sharing his stories.

My dad wrote the note above to his Uncle Gustav in Norway, and sent it along with the photo posted.  I am not exactly sure of the date of the photo, but I am going to guess based on how Kim and I look,  it was around 2001, so my dad would have been just a few years older than I am right now.  This note and the photo, were shared with me by one of Uncle Gustav’s daughters, one of my dad’s cousins.

A couple of months ago, I was researching my mother’s great-grandfather Charles H. Rosch, who also had some interesting stories to tell that I hope to share someday, in my My Heritage account.

I found the name of a person who was also digging into that side of my family and decided to reach out to her using the My Heritage messaging component, an area of the app I had never visited.

Once there, I sent my message and then noticed I had a message in my inbox from May of 2023, a month before my father died.  The message was from a cousin of my dad’s named Bjørg.  She explained in her message that her father was Talmar Gustav Jansen, and that Bolette (my grandmother Sophie, Bolette was her first name) was her aunt and that she was the youngest grandchild of Grete and Theodor Jansen, my father’s grandparents.

So it turns out that Bjørg, is my father’s youngest cousin and is in fact younger than me at 67 years old.  My grandmother had many siblings, Uncle Gustav was the youngest and only four years old when my grandmother emigrated through Ellis Island to America.

Eventually, Gustav himself would come to the United States.  He had his fiancée Anna come over from Norway, and they were married in Brooklyn.  My father’s family attended the event, and I have seen photos of their wedding.  According to Bjørg, her two oldest siblings were born in the U.S.  Then, after about ten years, Gustav and Anna returned to Norway with their children.

In my Norwegian American family, legend had it that “onkel” Gustav returned to Norway and introduced American-style split-level houses to Norway.

Having always heard that story, of course, I had to ask Bjørg if that was accurate.

Bjørg confirmed that to be true and even said a local newspaper wrote an article about it.  She also said he traveled back and forth from Norway to the United States many times, bringing back cars and other items he could sell for “good money” in Norway.

I guess my brother Carl and I got that family buying and selling trait honestly.

When my dad was still active on Facebook, he told us he was communicating with at least one of his cousins in Norway.  It turns out it was not Bjørg since she is not active on Facebook (a smart one), but she suggested that it might be another cousin named Ove Ludvigsen.  So I dipped into my dad’s Facebook page and sure enough, I found Ove. And just last night, I reached out to Ove myself on social media.  Ove is the son of my grandmother’s sister Ragna Johanne.

I must say, when I first read that first message from Bjørg, and I realized I had received it only a month before my dad left us, I was very sad.  I know it would have made him really happy to learn another one of his cousins was reaching out to him.

Instead, I apologized to Bjørg and explained that I was just now seeing her message and that my dad had passed away about a month after her inquiry.

Now, almost two years later, it is I who is really happy to have connected with family, hear their stories, and share my dad with them.

And even though Bjørg admits that her “engelsk” is not that good, she has since mastered Google Translate and has been able to learn about my dad through the stories he shared with me.

 

Honor your father and your mother and things will go well for you, and you will have a long life on earth. 

My father role modeled that for us.  He and his siblings took good care of my grandparents in their later years.

And he lived a long life.

I don’t know how that is going to work out for me and Kim and our siblings.  It didn’t work out so well for Carl and he was a great example.  But all we can do is try our best.

The rest is in God’s hands.

 

And once again, with my father providing the inspiration, I am again reminded of the words of Nichole Spector:

…the fact that in the end, we all become stories. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, sure, but also: words to words.

More words to words, more words to share.

And to answer your question, Pop, according to Bjørg, your grandfather lived to be 99 years old.

So thanks Pop, and Happy Birthday.

 

Postscript:

ære din far og mor means honor thy father and mother in Norwegian…I think…

 

Uncle Gustav’s split-level in Norway

 

My great-grandparents Grete and Theodor Jansen


My grandfather Carl Oskar Christiansen with Sophie, Tante Helen (my grandmother’s only sister to come to America), and Gustav


 


Uncle Gustav and Anna’s wedding


 


Farsund, the area of Norway where my grandmother is from.  Looks nice, huh?


							


	

			







	
	        

        	        	
                                             
        

        
	

		Anyday, Anyway
					

				Anyday, Anyway
			

		
				

			
 
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This week, the nagging song in my head has been Anyday by Derek and the Dominos, written by Eric Clapton and Bobby Whitlock and from the album Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs.


Anyday, anyday, I will see you smile.

Any way, any way, just for a little, just for a little while.


It’s not that I am complaining, it’s a classic, but I think all this was triggered this week by the word anyway.


You know how we often heard Joe Biden end his sentences with the word “anyway” as his thought process trailed off.


“…Anyway..”


The fact is, my wife had someone point out to her that she often ends a thought by saying “anyway”.


I had never noticed that, but we thought it was funny and it turns out I do it as well so now we find ourselves pointing it out each time one of us does it.


Well…anyway…


Sunday morning drinking my coffee and reading my emails, I received an email from one of the many I get that are related to word meanings or grammar usage, and low and behold, this one was asking the grammatical question: “is it anyway or anyways?”


 


Last Friday, I headed out to the Eastern Shore to attend the Eastern Shore Writers Association’s annual Bay to Ocean Writers Conference. I have attended a few of these over the years, my first in 2017. It got me thinking about the fact that I wrote my first post on Musings of an Aging Nobody on New Year’s Day 2016 which means this is the tenth year I have been doing this. At the time the “Aging Nobody” part of the title was meant in a kind of a tongue in cheek way.  I was all fired up, I was going to take that sabbatical and write that book.


Now ten years later the tongue is out of the cheek and I am facing the cold reality.


I am truly an aging nobody.


Driving out to the Eastern Shore without my wife allowed me to listen to my 60s golden oldies on SiriusXM that cause Kim anxiety but make me happy.  But how is it I can remember all the words to Build Me Up Buttercup when sometimes I can’t remember what I did last week.


I am beginning to understand Joe Biden better.


It used to be I would get an idea, pull my truck off the road, and put down seven hundred words right there in a parking lot.


That is not so easy now. Though I am sure some of that is due to external distractions, Lord knows we have a few of those these days, but that aging part is tough.


Fewer words are hitting the paper with far too much time in between.


Last year I registered to attend this same conference but decided at the last minute not to go since I hadn’t been writing much and thought it may be a waste of time.


This year I decided to go hoping it might motivate me to have more of those pull the truck off the road moments.


Maybe it helped a little, I have gotten this far…


But anyway…


You don’t want to hear all that.


 


But let’s see, is it anyway or anyways?


Well according to the Word Smart email I received, in a nutshell:


“Anyway” is the standard, formal version of the word. This useful adverb means “in any case” or “without regard to other considerations.”   It can also signify an additional consideration or a shift in thought. The alternate spelling, “anyways,” retains the same meaning and is listed in Merriam-Webster as a dialectical or informal U.S. spelling of “anyway.”


 


There you have it, in case you were wondering, and I am sure you were.


 


Well anyway…


It’s been fun so I think I will keep doing it.


And any day, in any way, if I can make you smile (or cry maybe), even if it’s just for a little while, it’s worth it.