You may have noticed that my last blog entry was May 30, a month ago. Things were going quite well; shortly after that, they weren’t. My last workout with Jo Ann was on a Friday. It was an awesome total body workout, ending in leg lifts. I could really feel my abs tightening and was confident throughout the routine. At the end, I was wiped out, which is the way it should be. That’s how I know I got my money’s worth. A good trainer will push you further than you would normally push yourself. This is important with strength training, where it’s very easy to stop when you start getting sore and winded. There’s also a real art to the type of exercises and the order in which they’re done. It takes time and effort to get to this point, and that’s where the trainer comes in. It’s more than weight loss or bodybuilding – it’s an education.

My tutelage came to an end on the evening of June 12, the day after my last workout with Jo Ann. My friend Jim was visiting from the Twin Cities, and we indulged in steak and a few beers after an afternoon of watching the World Cup. It was a much-needed day off. After ingesting the 12 ounce sirloin, a baked potato and a beer, I sat down on the new couch to watch the Twins play the Braves. At some point during the course of the game, I felt a sharp pain in my belly. It wasn’t gastrointestinal, either. I was more bloated than I should have been, even after meat and potatoes, and found that lying down was the only thing that served to alleviate the pain. It felt a lot like the hernia I had suffered while first lifting weights 25 years ago. Damn, I thought. Not this. I knew the implications; depending on the severity of the injury, it would drastically curtail or even completely halt my weight training. This wasn’t the first time, either. In the course of my 52 years, I’ve been subjected to a broken arm, an inguinal hernia, Lyme disease, a torn rotator cuff, plantar fasciitis, sprained feet, bad knees, sciatica, tennis elbow and lower back pain. And those are just the physical issues. After I was sure it wasn’t going away, I surfed the web and learned all about umbilical hernias. The pain was centered around my navel, and my innie was now an outie. I sent Jo Ann an email the next day, asking for suggestions. She told me I should see a doctor. I made an appointment the next day.

Dr. Gee confirmed my diagnosis. I was now the unwilling owner of an umbilical hernia. It’s not something serious in itself, but if abdominal contents should push through the tear and strangulate, I could be in serious trouble. Surgery was, and still is, an option. Going under the knife would, however, prevent me not only from lifting, but also from any type of exercise for a long time. Too long. I elected to keep the injury in mind and adjust my workouts accordingly. After a few lame attempts and some soul-searching, I once again resumed a rigorous fitness routine. Jo Ann was kind enough to “prescribe” a regimen of cardio 3-4 times a week, as well as a detailed total body training plan to follow 3 times a week. When I went to Anytime Fitness earlier this week, I didn’t finish all the sets Jo Ann had given me (that’s where a trainer with a big whip would have come in handy), but I realized I had learned something. I felt the pain and increase in heart rate, and worked up a drenching sweat. I knew then that my injury was just a temporary setback, just like all the other before. I was back in the saddle again, pardner. Giddyup!

As I stated at the beginning of this entry, I plan on losing 15 pounds this month. I encourage all of my readers and friends to drop in every now and then and check up on me. Kick my ass, please. It’s turning out to be a beautiful summer and there are lots of distractions and lame excuses to deter me from my objective. Another objective I set for myself is to write a page a day – of anything. I call it “Write First” and have been at it for 10 days. The intent is to keep it up for a lifetime, and that goes for fitness as well. I’ve reached the conclusion that health is the most important in our lives, both mentally and physically. It’s what everything else we do is based on. Good exercise, good nutrition, good sleep and the right dose of mental stimulation work for me, and will work for you as well. It’s all part of being human.

Thursday was also a day for progress measurements. In the chart below, you’ll see a comparison of those and the numbers from May 7, taken at the end of the first week of training.

This, my friends, is progress. Not overnight miracle progress, but a welcomed change nonetheless. It also reflects something very important: cumulative momentum. In other words, the more I work out, the stronger I become; the stronger I become, the more I can work out. This rule can be applied to life in general, and that’s what begins to happen over time. It’s a very healthy mindset. The singular process of focusing one’s mind on the improvement of the whole body strengthens not only physiological systems like muscle groups, but also critical aspects of consciousness. It’s the “Yes, I can do it!” experience. The personal trainer provides a catalyst, but the trainee must want to change, and must understand the benefits of subjecting oneself to considerable discomfort. That’s where the focus comes in.

At this point, if I were to fall out of the program this week, gain 20 pounds and disappear from sight, I would forever be regarded as that guy who bragged so much about how good weight-lifting was, but wimped out early on. For me, this would mean loss of face, dishonor and humiliation, but worst of all, I’d still be fat. One step closer to a stroke or heart attack. Living in a down-spiraling mental state. Giving up, whining, purchasing larger and larger pants. That’s not what I want, though. Who would want that? I also know that my trainer, Jo Ann, would not be happy for any of her trainees to fall short of their goals. She genuinely cares about people who come to her for training, and that’s what makes her great to work with. Besides, she’s a competitive bodybuilder and knows what’s she’s doing. She sets a high standard for all to see, for anyone who wants to reach for it.

Jo Ann in Minnesota Competition

This photo shows Jo Ann at a recent competition in Burnsville, MN. A person doesn’t look like this by watching Food Channel reruns and eating Big Macs. It takes a lot of hard work, and a will to achieve. According to her, though, it’s also a lot of fun. Knowing Jo Ann, I’m sure it is! I see something more than fun and good health, however. I see the body as art - just as a painter paints a canvas, a poet writes a poem or a musician creates a song - the body is a means of expression for those with the talent and passion to make it into something beautiful. Now, do I see myself standing up there on stage, glistening boldly under the lights? No, not really. I see myself as having the health and energy to accomplish other goals. I see myself as feeling pretty good most of the time. Above all, though, I see a world of possibilities that didn’t exist before.  And that makes for a very good life.

Now for the good news.

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The chart seen above compares laboratory test results from February and mid-May (last week). I began fitness training with Jo Ann two weeks before the most recent test. The cholesterol and triglycerides readings indicate dramatic progress. I’m convinced that it’s due to the intensive physical training, as well as a much healthier diet. While setting a goal for a reduced waistline is worthwhile, the lab chart is much more important. I’m looking forward to seeing it improve from week to week!

When I showed up ready for today’s session, I told Jo Ann that “This had better hurt.” It did, but not in the expected way. I experienced waves of intense nausea and some dizziness, so I had to take more breaks than usual. I made it through the session, but had to sit down for at least 20 minutes afterward to regain my composure. It wasn’t until I went to the men’s room and vomited that I felt well enough to drive home. After tuna for lunch and some rest, I was fine. Now I know soup was a bad choice for an early lunch, especially on a brutally hot and humid day. I also know I can mentally work my way through some pretty horrendous physical states. Focus is everything.

Tomorrow morning I have another session at 10 A.M. This time, I’m having oatmeal for breakfast.

Last week, my first ever with a trainer, was kick-ass! On Monday, Wednesday and Friday, we worked on separate muscle groups. I worked on cardio on my own, sprinting and jogging alternate 0ne-minute intervals on a treadmill for 25 minutes. On Thursday, the workout consisted of transporting a sleeper-sofa and kitchen table to my son’s place in St. Paul. I’m not sure what I got out of that physically, but now I have a place to crash in the Twin Cities. The gyro wrap I ate for lunch at Shish Cafe that day was one of the best I’d ever had, and half of it came back with me in a box to be eaten the next day. A couple of months ago, I would have sucked the entire juicy delight down my gullet in one sitting, unconcerned with its effect on my increasingly corpulent mass. Now, I’m keeping track of everything I eat on a spreadsheet. I’m following a plan that tilts heavily towards reasonable portions of protein, low carb intake and requires me to eat six times a day. Three of those meals are basically snacks, but they’re important to maintaining proper nutrition.

There’s no room for alcohol in this program, either. Now, I love full-bodied, malty beer. Unfortunately, though, five pints of Guinness equates to 1050 calories I don’t need.  Does this mean I’ve quit drinking? No, but it means I don’t have a problem giving it up in order to drastically improve my health and fitness. Saturday afternoon, I kicked back, popped open a bottle of pale ale and sipped on it slowly, not wasting a drop. The relaxing effect of the alcohol, the carb-kick and eye-opening hoppiness tasted quite healthy to me. It was enough, though; a guilty pleasure I could do without. For the most part, I intend to stick with water - lots of it. Caffeine is also discouraged, but I still like my tea in the morning. Green tea, of course, is good for you, and I’m drinking a cup of jasmine as I write. Not bad at all.

So, I’m living what might be referred to as a healthy lifestyle. I wouldn’t call it difficult. In one way, it’s easy, but in another, it can also be a person’s biggest obstacle. If that isn’t enough of a challenge, though, there’s always pain — the pain of trying to suck in enough oxygen, of breaking down muscle tissue and pushing the limits of your strength. There’s also the pain that comes in the evening and the next day, that only time and anti-inflammatory medication will remedy. It’s a good pain that tells you you’re getting your money’s worth. At this stage of my fitness program, if I don’t ache a little bit, I feel I’m doing something wrong. If I don’t have to agonize to lift that last rep, I might as well be taking a stroll in the park. I enjoy the challenge and the work that it takes to achieve my goals. I like trying to focus my mind on the objective of the moment, and of the future. It’s really quite invigorating, this pain, and it’s real.

Pain is fun! Some people apparently think weightlifting is boring, but there’s nothing boring about pain. Fortunately, it’s well below the body’s threshold, gathering most of its effect through repetition and accumulated fatigue. There’s a limit to how much fun a person can have. With Jo Ann’s help, though, there seems to be no end to it. The party has just started!

I haven’t been able to budge my weight since it began to concern me back in January. Last month, I realized that I wasn’t able to fit into pants purchased a year ago. Either I had to lose weight, or buy a new wardrobe. Last week, I contacted Jo Ann with the intention of paying her to whip me into shape. By Friday, I hadn’t heard from her, and was beginning to think it was a bad idea, anyway. This could easily end up costing several hundred dollars; money which could be spent on other things…. like beer, or larger pants. I put it in the back of my mind and spent the weekend celebrating the beginning of May. Sunday morning, I received an email from her. She discussed scheduling and answered my questions about nutrition. I struggled with the notion of committing to a professionally managed fitness program, but by 4:00 P.M. I had made up my mind. I agreed to meet with Jo Ann at 11:00 A.M. the next day, at the uptown (hilltop) Anytime Fitness.

Last night, I had a dream that was a continuation of one from Saturday night. An Asian monk shaved my head until it bled and humiliated me in in public. I remained calm throughout the ordeal. The only difference in last night’s episode was that it seemed even more real. I woke up having to use the bathroom, and went back to bed thinking about fitness training. My gut twisted; I was terrified. Why? What is there to be afraid of? Failure, perhaps. It would be a shame to make such a huge commitment in time, money and energy, only to see it come to naught. Somehow, I went back to sleep until my wife said goodbye to me in the morning. I woke up knowing what I had to do, and spent much of the morning researching ways to track my diet and exercise. Jo Ann had asked for a record of meals from the last three days, and I was going to give her a spreadsheet.

I arrived early to use an elliptical for a half hour. Jo Ann asked how I was doing, asked me if I was ready, and proceeded to have me do some things I’d never dreamed of doing before. We spent the next 30 minutes on chest and shoulders. She was very polite, but firm and persistent. I told her I was going to do whatever she told me to do, which I did to the best of my ability. A few minutes into the session, I realized I had made the right decision. I was being challenged! She asked me to come up with a goal to reach in four weeks, such as weight loss or inches or even wearing a pair of pants I wasn’t able fit into. That was no problem — I have a closet full of those. We also covered the fine points of breathing, drinking enough water and knowing when to stop. It went quickly, moving from one tough exercise to another. I was able to do some of them very well, but Jo Ann insisted it would get easier. She also told me I was fun to train, because I was so focused. With a painful grimace on my face, I told her she was a lot of fun, too.

I survived the first session. I feel good. Tonight I’ll take Naproxen for the pain, but for now I’m elated with my decision. I’ve placed my health firmly at the top of my list, and I’m going to keep it there. With that in mind, it’ll be interesting to see how this blog progresses. Will I stick with it? You betcha!

My son Marcus was born in Landstuhl Army Hospital, Germany, on June 20, 1990. In his early years, his favorite foods were Cheez-its, fresh-baked bread and waffles. He also took a liking to a little heat on the tongue as a baby. One evening, I fed him while his mother was somewhere like Paris, Prague or Cardiff. He didn’t really like the squished squash or beans or whatever crap I was trying to thrust into his mouth. No – He wanted a bite of the pizza I was eating. He was in a high chair, not walking yet, but I thought – Why not? I gave him the point and let him munch. He enjoyed the novelty, but suddenly his face turned red and he shuddered. I had forgotten about the Tabasco sauce I had sprinkled on the slice.

He survived. A few seconds later, he asked for more, and thereafter there were no more aftershocks. To this day, he enjoys the taste of fire. We recently devoured a pile of wings ominously labeled “Sudden Death,” the meatiest and hottest to be found in Mankato, MN, at Big Dog Sports Café. This has nothing to do with proving one’s resistance to pain. It’s just another way of appreciating the full spectrum of what the world has to offer. I also believe capsaicin, the fiery element in hot chili peppers, has medicinal properties. It’s sure to make your blood flow and will clear your sinuses. Eat enough hot peppers, and you’ll never worry about constipation. No more bland food, either. There are many varieties of peppers and the sauces made from them, all adding their unique flavor to the culinary realm. They can be used in any meal, including, come to think of it, waffles.

Waffles. Where did they come from, and how did they get that name? Upon googling, an immense universe of waffles opened up before me. Never had I suspected the depth and history of this seemingly humble breakfast selection. The word is of Germanic origin, and is closely related to “web,” “weave” and the German “Wabe,” which means “honeycomb.” Also, it comes directly from variants of “wafer,” which were the cookies we know of, stamped with various designs beginning in the Middle Ages. Someone eventually discovered they could make a larger, gridded version, which would hold substances like melted butter and syrup in its neat little cells. Maybe it was a monk, who saw a microcosm of his monastery in the form. A Belgian monk, perhaps.

I found a box of Triscuits in one of the kitchen cabinets. They look kind of like waffles, and should go well with California red I just opened. That and some pepper jack will aptly show me the way to the beginning of 2010 six hours from now. The rat terrier is begging for some cheese… maybe I should give her some. But wait – it has jalapeño peppers in it, so she’ll have to wait for the bland doggy treats. I don’t want to see what happens when a dog develops a taste for fire.

Happy New Year to you all!

Macie Tries on a Bra

I’m back on full-time disability again, regrouping. The new SSRIs (Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors) seem to be acting without the deflationary side-effects of the previous prescription. The sleeping pills, the first I’ve ever taken, made me wonder why I wasn’t given these seven years ago. Seven years of poor sleep, or no sleep, with the exception of a few brilliant days here and there. I finally stopped shaking. It’s a fresh start. Only, it took the better part of a week to remember how to manage thoughts a la CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy) and relaxation techniques. Thank you, big corporations. Thank you for the paychecks and helping me realize who I really am.

Britt Sweats

Of course, these were all things I had to avoid thinking about in order to prevent a panic attack. I arrived at Anytime Fitness, plugged the iPod into my brain, and thought about things like breathing and gravity. It took some time to figure what I wanted to listen to, though. Rock and Electronica were way off. The meditative chants were soothing, but not motivational enough for heavy lifting. Ah – here it is. Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor for organ. Yes, and loud! The music took me through biceps and pull-downs into chest-press. I set it on 120 lbs. and lifted 30 times, slowly. This is the most I’ve ever pressed for 30 reps. Things were definitely looking up.

Instruments of Health at Anytime Fitness

A small woman with brown hair entered the gym and looked my way. Her smile exploded at me. When she got to work on the weights, though, she was serious. I introduced myself and asked her about her workout. She told me her name was Tami, and she was getting ready to run a marathon. I told her I didn’t think my knees would make it through a marathon, even though I had been running off and on all my life. She said she had never been a runner, but wanted to do this with her daughter, and “People our age have to work a little harder to keep up, you know.” We had not shared our ages with each other, but she was right. Somehow I had a feeling I wouldn’t be able to keep up with her.

Tami Rocks

When you’re in a gym, there’s a good chance you’re going to see someone who is in very good physical condition. It’s not unusual to see guys with huge, well-developed muscles and narrow waistlines, with practically no fat anywhere. I’m not one of those guys. I’m not even close. One of them was sitting in the chest-press machine, pumping a few more after getting a real workout on the free weights. I didn’t know his name, but let’s call him Hercules. The guy is a body-builder. He knows exactly what he looks like in the mirror, and likes what he sees. This is what he lives for. If I ever get back into free weights, he’s the type of person I would approach for direction and advice. I’m sure I would get it, too, if I ever go that route.

Dude has Arms

I finished off my workout with scrunches and decided to take a walk. I left my vintage 1998 Cavalier in the parking lot, crossed Riverfront, walked past the police station and coffee shops, and sauntered across Front Street to Once Read Secondhand Bookstore and Exchange.There were a few customers browsing the shelves, and the cats were ballistic. Yes, a used bookstore with cats. One, gray-striped, is named Fred, the other, mostly gray, is Ethel. Ethel was darting from the front to the back of the store, back and forth. The other was content to sit in the window. This would be a bad thing for people who are allergic to cats, but for those of us who like both books and cats, it feels perfectly natural. It’s a small store, but a large world unto itself. A diagram is posted up front, describing how the store is organized. By now, I know where poetry, classics and history are located. The place is a literary treasure trove. You may not find what you’re looking for, but something may find you. A month or so ago, I found a copy of Julius Caesar’s Gallic War commentaries. It was published in 1898, and would have been in perfect condition if it had not have been missing several pages. I paid $3.50 for it.

Fred Likes Books

This time, I struck gold, or platinum, or diamonds, which ever is more valuable. I found Rilke: A Life by Wolfgang Leppman, a very comprehensive 400 page biography of one of the 20th century’s greatest poets. The other gem I dug up is The Complete Rhyming Dictionary and Poet’s Craft Book, edited by Clement Wood, and published in 1936. It’s in perfect condition. It covers all of the basic terms, techniques, patterns, and forms, but the bulk of it is a dictionary of the English language in which words are grouped by like sounds, rather than by first letter. Very few modern poets write in rhyme, but this is fun reading. For instance, under the group heading of EZ´i, are the words breezy, easy, free-and-easy, freezy, greasy, queasy, sleazy, sneezy, speakeasy, uneasy, wheezy and Zambezi. That sounds like an interesting night out, doesn’t it?

Kim Holds Down the Fort

The price of both books together: $10.50. The woman working the till was named Kim, and she was genuinely friendly. The owner’s name is Mark, and I’ve never met him. I assumed he was kicking back somewhere, reading a good book. I took my purchases under my arm, dodged Ethel and walked out into November. I started to head back to my car, but the coffee shop across the street said, “Hey! You sure would like a good, steaming cup of mud!” Why, yes I would. And not just mud – a double espresso. The door to the Fillin’ Station was wide open. A few patrons sat here and there with their favorite companions - laptops and cell phones. I ordered a double, dumped some sugar in it, and sipped away. Instantly, I was transported to the back streets of Napoli. That’s good stuff. There was original artwork on the walls, newspapers and magazines lying about, and a noticeable shift in the perception of time. Not to say there was more or less of it here, but it just wasn’t important. As it should be.

Fill 'er Up, Joel

I floated out the door, several wavelengths above ground. I’m referring to electrical ground, where all the electrons go when they die. Did I tell you I rarely drink coffee? Heh. Newly energized, in warp drive, traveling somewhere beyond light speed, I decided to visit the Barkhadle Store, located across from the police station. The store had been featured recently in the Mankato Free Press, as an example of the lack of integration immigrants had with the larger community, particularly in regards to relations with the police force. I spoke with the proprietors, Ahmed and Habibo, who were very friendly and justifiably proud of their business. I picked out what I had come for – Indian Pickle – and inquired as to what food the typical Somali household eats. I thereupon received an education. I think they were a little surprised, and delighted, when I purchased the items they showed me. A very popular dish contains crushed white corn and adzuki beans. Ahmed advised me to cook the corn first, and add the beans when it was almost done, along with a little salt. When the contents of the pot are fully cooked, I can add anything I want. That sounded easy enough. Once I cook this meal and eat some of it, I’ll give a full report.

Ahmed Runs His Business

I walked out of there with several bags of food, including fresh injera, the spongy East African flatbread that lends itself so well to scooping up well-seasoned sauces, meats and vegetables. I planned on having that and Orange Pekoe for breakfast the next day. At that point, I also decided to put an end to my exploration of a corner of downtown Mankato, and drove home. That was enough excitement for one day, and I needed to do some work at home. I crossed over the Minnesota River, took the Center Street ramp, and took a right on Belgrade towards Range. As I neared the intersection, I noticed some kind of construction going on, and began to look for ways to negotiate around it. Getting closer, I saw that it wasn’t construction at all, but city workers decking overhead cables with Christmas decorations in a cherry picker. I pulled over, grabbed my camera and began taking photos. I wasn’t sure of how they would turn out, but this wasn’t something you see every day. When I asked the workers to wave for me, they said, Yeah, each raising and lowering a hand quickly, without smiling. They obviously found me obnoxious, but if I ever see them out and about, I would be happy to buy them each a beer for putting some magic into our lives.

Tacos @ Spinners

I managed to make it home without anything unusual happening. Looking back, though, nothing out of the ordinary had happened during my trip across the river and back. People read books, sold food, drank coffee, and did their jobs. It was just another autumn day in a small Midwestern city. The only anomaly to be found was a bald guy walking around with a camera, bothering people with questions and taking their photos. For him, it was a very good day.

Ethyl Shows Off

The pines are tall here. Tall and thick and green. The ground is wet in the morning. It soaks your sandals. No rain for weeks, yet the ground is wet, the lake is high, and there are no complaints, no thirst.

It has been calm all week, but now the wind is up. When it dies, I will take out the canoe. There is a point across the bay, where a fallen tree points down into the water. A good place for bluegills, possibly northerns.

The wind blows through the pines and birch. If there is no magic here, there is none anywhere.

Big Ole Lake, 9/18/2009
The change in weather – drier, breezier – changed the way the fish bite. It takes longer for the lake to warm up. So they don’t start biting until later in the day. Even then, it’s not like the frenzy we experienced when we arrived last weekend.

Which is OK. There’s a trade-off. The current conditions could be described as perfect in terms of human comfort. What’s good for fish to feed is not always best for our pampered selves. Not that I’m complaining – I wouldn’t change a thing about this week.

We knew we were on the right path when we left the tar north of Grand Rapids, winding and roller-coasting through dense pine and birch forest, broken here and there by clear, deep lakes. The owner’s name was written on an oar nailed to a tree, as he said it would be, plus there was this:

NO TRESSPASSING —- Owner: Itchy Trigger Finger

That was OK – He was expecting us, so we felt safe.

There was a party in progess, which the owner had “warned” us about. He asked me if we were OK with that. I told him – I guess we get to go to a party – He said – That’s what I was hoping you would say. When we arrived, though, I declined the invitation to throw horseshoes (“had to get settled”) and unloaded the contents of our Malibu into the cabin. An hour later, it looked “lived-in.” After we had a little lunch, explored the dock, and figured out how to use the composting toilet, we joined the crowd in the garage. People had come out of the woodwork, and the woods, to play horseshoes and darts, drink a keg or two of cold beer, and eat deliciously fresh fried crappies and sunnies. We would never had expected to be greeted by so many laid-back, accepting folks on a northwoods vacations. The Grand Rapids classic rock station filled the air through night, and we didn’t mind a bit. I heard a few of them carrying on now and then, but we slept well. The kegs were empty the next morning. Almost everyone was gone, except for those (relatives?) in a couple of small cabins, and the Harley in front of our cabin. The rider came back to get it later. Smart guy.

We started fishing the next day. The bluegills were wild and ravenous. Highs were in the 80s, with little wind. The fans in the cabin kept us cool, though, with the windows wide opened to the lake. The magical compost toilet kept us comfortable as well. For those of us who have frequented outhouses, this was a miracle of modern technology. Because no matter how well-built or clean the outdoor privy, it’s still more than enough adventure at 2 A.M. for most of us. All you really want to do is satisfy a simple physical need.

The way a composting toilet works is simple: Waste is deposited in the container, peat moss is added, and the drum is turned using a crank on the front. A small fan suffices to evacuate odors. At some point, someone has to remove the compost and put it to good use. It’s kind of fun in a way, but some may find it it challenging when compared to conventional facilities. I feel it’s worth the effort, and it’s very, very green! Learn more at www.Sun-Mar.com.

Then there is the cleaning of 30 fish. If anyone would like to show me how to clean a bluegill in less than a few minutes, feel free to do so. It takes time, and stinks, but it must be done. The results are incredible when properly prepared in a frying pan. The fish of Big Ole, however, did not go to waste. I’ll return next year to this deep, clean and fertile lake, to catch a few more.

The day started off very cool and cloudy for mid-July, even in Minnesota. The indoor thermostat read 64 at eight A.M. After feeling the wind for a few minutes, I closed all the windows in the house. I like cool weather, but goose-pimples are one of the ways our bodies try to tell us something important. Like, it’s cold.

I spent most of the morning cutting the excess carpet off the edges of the basement floor, as I had laid it several years ago. There is a new ceiling, with new lamps, another renovation that throws the rest of the house into total disarray. This, I think, as I clip thick threads from fabric, is life. It is potentially obsessive when done right. Contemplative, redundant, meditative. My knuckles begin to bleed. This is a pain in the ass.

There is something weighing on my mind. On my heart, my stomach, my feet. I’m reminded, once again, that we are to attend a wake this evening. She was nineteen, a niece of my brother-in-law’s wife, part of the extended family. The shock and sadness ripples through us soon after her death. We drive to the funeral home to meet my in-laws at 4:30 P.M.

A genial old man asks newcomers which person they are coming to see, and directs our party downstairs. We sign the book. There is food in an adjacent room, but we decline. We are directed into line, delineated by ribbons help aloft by metal stands. We view photos of the deceased as a baby, an adolescent, and a young adult. Some of the most exotic and beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen are on display, with cards from loved ones attached. We inch closer to the coffin.

She looks as if she could come back to life. I hope that she could do so. Her parents are standing ahead of us, shaking hands, crying, and greeting the long line of mourners. What do I say? “We’re here for you.” He remembers me, and says, “Keep an eye on your kids,” in great sorrow, but in a very dignified and noble fashion. My wife hugs the mother for several minutes. I shake her hand with both of mine, and say, “Hang in there.” She thanks me. We move on.

I move around the crowd and wait. My wife knows it’s time to leave. She hugs a few more people, and we walk up the stairs and out to the parking lot. We stop and buy a pizza on the way home and start the oven. I open a beer. I call my 19-year-old son, and there is no answer. He calls back a few minutes later. I tell him where I was; he had gone to school with her. He has to go; he’ll drop by later. I call my 13-year-old daughter, and there is no answer. I’m going to call again soon.

Even though I have never been a big fan, I am truly saddened by his death. Michael would have turned 51 in August, just as I did earlier this month. Somewhere in “Japanese Death Poems: Written by Zen Monks and Haiku Poets on the Verge of Death,” compiled and with an introduction by Yoel Hoffman, it is mentioned that formerly in Japan, the traditional lifespan of a person was set at 50. This is not to say people did not live much longer, but that 50 was seen as a milestone, an attainment or a turning point. It’s certainly an age at which many people find themselves rethinking their lives. Heightened anxiety is not uncommon. There is a shift in temporal perspective — The view looking back is longer than the one seen forward. The moment - Now - becomes more elusive, requiring more focus even as it becomes more precious.  You may consider doing things you dreamed of doing when you were young, but put off. Or, like Michael Jackson, you plan on making a comeback.

I can only guess at what turmoil took place in his world prior to his death. Somehow, I don’t think he wrote a death poem, but I hope I’m wrong. It could be that he feared death greatly and did not approach it with respect or candor, neither as an inevitable season or as a mysterious friend. There may have been an overload of pain, denial and delusion. Who knows? What we do know is that he had his day, did his work, and left us. There are millions like him who will die softly in old age, but who will not have reached their maximum potential. I think, in a way, he died fighting, and for him that may have been the only way. 

A Break in the Action

When I started writing this, I felt mentally and physically drained. The fact that I’m still writing it, and that I just went for a good, sweaty jog, proves that I’m not. It would have been very easy not to do much of anything today. For the last three days, Tuesday through Thursday, I put in 41 hours in order to complete the IT portion of retail store projects. At least half of the work is %100 physical, requiring me to work on my knees, to lift and transport computer equipment from place to place, and to do so in an environment that is usually chaotic. It also means getting up and down from kneeling to standing several thousand times, an activity that would be the envy of the strictest Lutheran churches. It means pulling cable through cramped retail fixtures, smooth and friendly on the outside, but sharp and nasty on the inside. This really isn’t so bad for a few hours. After a few long days, though, one starts to wonder why he didn’t finish college. While I was working, someone asked me if I was on salary. I answered, ”If I were, would I be crawling around on the floor?” Well, maybe. As for pay, hourly is preferred for this type of work. I am compensated and treated fairly for my time, my skill, my experience and my loyalty. It’s also true that this particular type of work doesn’t go on forever. Projects, no matter how massive, are eventually completed, and work soon returns to to a relatively ”normal” mode (even though I’m still trying to figure out what that is for IT). Above all, though, I am convinced that the company I am working for bends over backwards for the customer. The burden of service should be totally on the backs of the employees and management, making the customer experience as care-free and satisfying as possible. That’s what I see happening. I see a successful business model; one that will continue to take care of customers and employees for many years. That, and a good paycheck, keep me as focused as possible at the end of a rigorous day.

And today, I have the day off. A day to sit in the sun and drink beer, or a day to write. I decided early on that this was not a day to work on the basement ceiling. Besides, Peg, my project manager and construction foreman, will not be home until 5:00 P.M. This gives my aches and pains time to subside to a tolerable level. It gives me time for this blog, for some reading, a run to the liquor store, and driving my 14-year-old daughter to her friend’s house for an overnight stay. It’s a break in the action, in this war we wage against each other and ourselves. Peace.