Crossing Over

March 15, 2018

In three short years we crossed from what looking back seems like Eden, to a very different world. Of course, we lived in the world on the farm, but life changed dramatically when we left it. Cracks had begun to appear in the façade of innocence both in our life and in our country before we left. I clearly remember lying on the floor in front of the television when the Beatles first appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show on February 9, 1964. My dad clicking his tongue in disapproval, stated “Look at that hair.” I was entranced. Though they broke up in 1969, it was not until years later on December 8, 1980, while driving up North Main Street in River Falls, hearing on the radio that John Lennon had been shot and killed, I realized an era was over for good.

In 1965 we left the farm and the Beatles came with me. When I was lonely I’d listen to their music or read about them. My cousin and I exchanged frequent letters in which we contributed to an on-gong evolving fictitious story about them. In 1966, when John Lennon stated at a press conference that they were more popular than Jesus (he was appalled by it), my parents reacted and forced me to get rid of all my Beatle albums. I went underground with them and took them to my cousin’s house until the heat died down, then clandestinely brought them back. Rebellion and deception had begun.

During this same time, the United States was digging itself deeper and deeper into the Vietnam War, Riots were breaking out across America, free love was emerging and revolution was in the air. Enamored by all of this, I wanted badly to go to San Francisco and be part of what was happening. We began to watch reports of the Vietnam War on TV every night.  Protesting students got killed at Kent state by American soldiers.

Having in many ways left their identity on the farm, my parents were now working away from home. I went to five different schools in a row. My family and our country were in flux; I was just entering adolescence. 

But my parents brought our horses with us wherever we went, finding places in the country for us to live and renting space for them when we had to temporarily live in the city Oshkosh, for a while. This fact amazes me. They had very little money, no longer had easy access to hay and a barn, yet found it essential that we have our companions. I will be forever grateful to them for that sacrifice.

My constants were family, our horses, the Beatles and church.

Eventually life settled down for my family, but not for me.

Have you ever been looked at by Tom?

March 13, 2018

Peter working on a drawing of Tom Loome, 2012.

“Have you ever been looked at by Tom?” This is the question I put to Jillian on Sunday when we were talking about the impending demise of my beloved teacher. She nodded in affirmation. Anyone who has been will likely not forget it.

Nearly ten years ago I’d written “You have the kindest eyes,” on a sheet of paper set out for all to comment while celebrating his retiring from book selling. I was flattered to have been invited to the celebration, intimidated by his position, intellect and education. This remark was the best I could muster; my usual kind of remark. 

Now Tom is slowly being taken from us – much more slowly than he would prefer and his look is still as intense and searching as ever. As we are visiting him I lean into his whisper as he struggles to speak, casting about in the labyrinth of his mind – going into the mystery of who he is and where he is going, into perfect truth. That kind eye locks onto mine, a piercing, intelligent eye, a faithful eye that I encountered over twenty years before, when he was giving a presentation about his faith, soon after I’d  come to the church, long before I was his Catechism student. I never forgot that look and never dreamed it would be cast on me with any kind of familiarity.

He asks me a question; I give him a thoughtful answer. He says he disagrees with me. I say “I’m not surprised.” As we leave I tell him “I love you.” He says “and I, you.”

This was one of my favorite posts from 2018

We’re All in This Together

March 12, 2018

Last week my friend Monica and I met in our usual place – the El Paso Bar and Grill, for our usual cribbage game, conversation, mushroom Swiss burger, shared basket of fries and Spotted Cow beer (only available in Wisconsin). We’d not been sitting long when two menus were flopped aggressively down on our table. The man who had done so, resplendent in crumpled raw hide cowboy hat and vest, immediately walked away without a word. It was really busy in there – people filled the room and it became obvious that he was the only one waiting tables. 

One expects to be treated with courtesy by “wait staff.”

The thing is – he has only one arm, and on that arm only the thumb and index finger. We’d chatted with him the last time we were there when I mistakenly thought he was the owner of the bar. He was rushing out to tables carrying one plate at a time and one beer at a time; slamming them down and running back to get the next thing. He didn’t have time for niceties. When he came back to our table, I stated softly that we were ready to order. He snapped “That doesn’t mean I am, what do you want to drink?” We ordered our Spotted Cows and shuffled cards for a cribbage game. He soon came back with one Spotted Cow and dashed off to get the other one. I wanted to go help him, but Monica pointed out that he would probably be irritated if I did.

We started drinking our beers and playing cribbage.

He came back again, got our order and off he went. A bit later, by balancing the two small Styrofoam burger plates on the basket of fries he was able to deliver them all at once. We finished our cribbage hand and prepared to eat – Monica shook the ketchup bottle, asking me if I minded that she put her finger over the small end opening. We opened our burgers and Monica accidentally bumped into mine. She commented “Sorry, I touched your bun,” just as our waiter passed by. We all laughed and both he and I made comments about her keeping her hand off my bun.

As the room cleared out, our acquaintance began to relax. We finished our meal and took up our cribbage game again. He asked who was winning, she was, and did. He gave her a verbal thumbs up. A woman emerged from the kitchen to bus tables. I recognized her from previous visits. She breezed by with a pleasant hello.

We’re all in this together.