Grandma, Year Six

When I moved away from Green Bay in June 2018, it was for many reasons, and I didn’t envision living there ever again.  

I had been following my creative senses more closely, which made it more apparent how it needed to be my life. Also becoming more obvious was how stagnancy crept into my life and found residence. 

A big part of leaning into my creativity was realizing I needed more experiences that were different—there were too many things about the city that signaled a needed change for me.  

When I took nearly all of 2017 off of “regular” work, I took many opportunities to seek change. The first of which was given to me after months of email exchanges with PWTorch founder and publisher Wade Keller before I began writing for the Torch in February. It was one of the shifts of difference I needed and helped change my perspective for the better. I also traveled different places observed how different every city was to Green Bay. 

Soon after starting working a typical job in Appleton in December 2017 while still living in the Green Bay area, the various small town mindsets were beginning to seep back into me. 

With my newfound sense of avoiding complacency and needing a change of consistent environment, the move became a necessity. It was very hard no longer being a short drive to see your smiling face and turn down your blaring television so we could hear each other while spending time together.

Thankfully we could still talk on the phone; unfortunately though the conversations had to be shorter because your good arm’s rotator cuff was torn. My work schedule gave me a couple days off each week, and when I’d visit you I didn’t want to go anywhere else in town.

When I moved to Neenah, there was a lot I left behind. Inherently, I knew I needed to heal, though I didn’t realize its true gravity and urgency until physical separation gave me more clarity to begin truly sorting everything out without being consistently triggered. 

Soon after you passed, my time spent in Green Bay became less so I could continue my processing and healing. Soon after each time I came back from a rare Green Bay trip, it was clear how having a neutral place to live was helping.

Each time I came back to town could only be for something or someone that wouldn’t derail me from what I needed to work on. Sometimes I came back for a morning or afternoon drive around town to places that I had history to make sure I was on track and not losing focus.

To be in various situations of exposure therapy in Green Bay was very difficult but also quite necessary. Many tears were shed and many words were journaled in those days after I drove through the neighborhoods I lived in and went to school as I searched for clues and questions and answers and roots of issues that were persisting. 

In last year’s essay to you, I mentioned reconnecting with a friend from high school. Since then, we have become romantically involved. 

I wish you could have met her—she so beautiful and fantastic, and very good to me. I would love for you to be able to see it up close and how we are great for each other. She has a lot of gratitude to you for how you helped shape me, for how the love you gave me so early in my life was my example of knowing when something was real versus hoped and projected, which I also referenced in last year’s essay.

Very soon after moving back to Green Bay last year, I was smacked with a fact that didn’t cross my mind until something reminded me of you.  

When you were alive and I would hear sirens, I would call you to make sure you were okay and the emergency response vehicles were not headed to you.

Once a Green Bay resident again, hearing that first siren shifted me back to the default of calling you. I was instantly sad I couldn’t call you, and sadder I didn’t forecast it. 

As much as I attempt to practice and maintain high self-awareness, my spicy brain tends to hyper focus, resulting in some things getting repressed until an acute reminder jolts me into a quickly conjured memory.

Thanks to proximity and the flexibility of my job, I have been able to help out some loved ones in a variety of manners. Though not always easy, it is very rewarding. I have also been the blessed recipient of close and trusted people when I have needed help.

It is interesting to see how people who have not seen me since I have lived here treat me. Those that offer me the grace of asking/seeing how I am now are really appreciated.

Those who project assumptions that I haven’t grown and evolved in that span are even more appreciated because it makes my progress more clear. To not be bitter or resentful, and to just observe and not judge is a far cry from the immature and aimless person without a healthy self-identity that I was.

On my bad days, those interactions actually help make my day better.

These days I have moments of impatience of not being where I want to be yet, especially with my writing, but the value of knowing how far I have come cannot be understated, as long as I keep myself moving forward.

The reasons I moved from Green Bay are still present, but now I have a much better attitude that is informed by my progress and the perspective of living elsewhere until I was ready to come back. I loved my time in the valley and miss it, and am even more grateful to be back in town to continue my life’s journey in its myriad known and unknown ways.

There were new and tenured friends awaiting my move back to Green Bay, plus some reconnections that have been wonderful. And, people who I want to see if reconnecting is possible and mutually healthy. Time intentionally spent will tell, and maybe I will have something to share here next year.

Having reminders of so many lamentable aspects of my past all over Green Bay isn’t always easy to contend with. But I must stay aware that they point me to some of the next phases of the work I need to do on myself—this is the only productive way for me to deal with those bad parts of my past.

As wonderful as it is to be close to my girlfriend and everyone I’ve missed, there is definitely a huge gap with you not here.

From my childhood house on Holzer, to your house on Victory, to your apartment on Lenwood, and to your final residence on Cardinal; to the Red Owl, to Prange Way, to the Mason Street casino, to all the streets we’d go up and down for bumming around and for Christmas decoration sightseeing; to all the drive throughs and restaurants, to Tony’s Drum shop to Henri’s Music; from Annunciation and West High School to our childhood house so my sister and me didn’t have to be latch key kids; to Shopko, and to Woodman’s, whose parking lot you sat in for over two hours in September 2000 while I filled out an application that got me a job that became the next sixteen years of my work life, and beyond because it continues to teach me, all the way to the church at St. Joseph’s Parish that held your funeral, your 1950 wedding to Grandpa Belgie, and so many other milestones in between.

The fact that so many of the good parts of my past all around this city are deeply ingrained with you and by you is a daily set of blessings I could not be more grateful for.

Until next time Flo Baby, you are very loved and very missed. 

Now, below will be the eulogy I wrote and delivered for my grandma’s funeral for those who want to reread it, and for those new to me and my work so you can have my fresh perspective of when I lost one of the most important people of my life.

For Grandma

My name is Craig Elbe, Florence’s first grandchild. Oftentimes I’ve called myself her fifth child as that’s how she made me feel. She simply was another mother. Her sixth and youngest grandchild, Connor, can say the same thing. Even if there were twenty of us grandchildren, I’m confident her motherly love wouldn’t be diluted.

My first memories with my grandma, I’m told, involved me being very spoiled. I was simply too young to recall the bumming around I did with my grandma and whoever else was with us. There were many trips to many stores and restaurants, with a lot of time and love and money spent on me. Though those memories are not vivid for me, the genuine love she had for me was instilled and never left me.

Being filled with so much love before my conscious memory took hold removed any impetus to do anything crazy when I struggled with my confidence as I got older. My grandma set the tone for how to love your friends and family. She loved and cared for us all so much to the point of us all having an agreement to not tell her of any bad news until the situation improved enough to tell her. The toll bad news would take on her was too much to fathom putting her through it by seeking the solace her love and support provided without fail.

Very early in her life, my grandma found herself to be the peacemaker. Seeing both sides to situations informed her deep sense of empathy. She felt everything so much more than most people. For example, any time she’d read a card or note from one of us, she would tear up on the second or third sentence that expressed love and gratitude to her.

Whether it was just her and me or a room of people, I always found it entertaining how she’d run through the progression of her kids and grandkids before she’d land on the person whose attention she sought.

My grandma was the epitome of a people person. She seemed to find a way to the hearts of many people she interacted with. Her spunky personality and sense of humor was adored by all, from social gatherings to anyone who cared for her at any type of medical facility she was admitted to. Her smile and laugh could brighten any small or vast space, and I could always count on her warmth when life was cold to me.

She had many clichés as punchlines for jokes or to blow off some steam, and it was quite entertaining how she’d say them all like it was the very first time.

My grandma strived to see the good in everyone she met and saw. It wasn’t always easy for her but the effort was there despite evidence some people didn’t deserve her good heart.

Telephone conversations with grandma were always a joy. Most of the time, just saying goodbye was another conversation itself!

Walking into her home was a guessing game of what she was cooking or baking or canning. To this day I’ve not been able to find anything that was as good as her tomato juice or pickles. Anything else lacked the simple but essential ingredient of grandma’s love. What the perfect placebo!

Her refrigerator and walls were covered in pictures of the family, and she always had film in her camera for more moments to capture. What couldn’t fit on the fridge or walls found homes in the various photo albums she accumulated over the years.

While my sister and I were in school, grandma would bring us home when our parents weren’t able to. I’m sure she feared the worst for us walking home, especially once I got to high school and my sister was still in middle school. But, she didn’t want us to be home alone either. She was always my reliable ride to work and home when needed, and was always curious who I saw that day that she knew!

I started playing drums when I was a junior in high school, January of 2000 to be precise. Most days after school I had lots of pent up ambition or anger, so I went downstairs to play my drums. After a few months of practice, I was able to play along to some songs. When I’d begin a playing session, I consistently used the song “Home Sweet Home” by Motley Crue to warm up.

One day, after playing for a while, I came upstairs for a break. My grandma asked me about that song with the piano part in the beginning. I had no idea she was even paying attention! After some thought I remembered it was the first song, “Home Sweet Home” by Motley Crue. Right then and there, she told me she wanted me to play that song on my drums at her funeral! I couldn’t believe she made such a request, but I agreed to it then. It was the first time I felt like I was performing for someone. From that day forward, I always had a special bit of nerves while playing that song, even when she wasn’t there. Grandma being my first audience member seemed very appropriate. She was our family’s biggest cheerleader.

During the summer of 2000, I put myself in a situation where I had nowhere to go. Grandma was nearing the end of her 60s but without hesitation took me. Well, she may have hesitated a little because of my behavior at the time, but it wasn’t apparent. Grandpa had passed away just over four years ago at the time, so it was just her and me. Our only argument was about the length of my hair. She was upset I wanted to grow my hair really long, when all I wanted to do was look cool playing drums with long hair. It took me some years to realize this, but my grandma was just trying to protect me from the judgmental world.

The two months I lived with her finally started to break my rebellious nature. I learned what respect was, and that how I was treating my parents was very wrong. We were close before then, but her taking me in forged a special bond. Today, I’m proud to be the man I am. Those two months with grandma were the beginning stages of me realizing what it was to be a man of principle and character, and she was the only one able to truly reach me during my rebellious teen years.

At that time, she was receiving supplements and other household items from a mail order company called Melaleuca. Also at the time, I became a huge fan of the band Metallica. I had some tapes of some of their concerts and would play them while living with grandma. I never expected her to like the music so I only played the tapes with her permission. Out of the blue, one day she asked me if I was going to watch any Melaleuca. I was so confused for a couple seconds till I realized she wanted to watch Metallica with me! I had no idea she was even remotely interested in such music, and I doubt she really was. She was just being supportive of what I enjoyed and didn’t want to hinder my enjoyment.

The grace and class of how she carried herself was something to behold. Sure, she’d have her sad or weak moments that she’d confide in her close confidants, but she did the best she could with what she had and knew at the time.

Her frugality and tenacity was on display during one time I was visiting with her. It was in her last months of living alone. She noticed her telephone bill went up by about 8 dollars, so she called them up to have them reinstate the previous sale she had before the price hike. By the time I arrived to spend time with her that day, she proudly told me she succeeded in getting the sale price back. She said, and I loosely quote, “It took me till the third person till I got what I wanted, but it’s going to save me about $100 a year!”

While grandpa was living, he and my grandma did the “casino tour” of Wisconsin the short time he was retired before he got sick and passed away. We always knew when they hit the Royal Flush when they would show up at our house with some extra money for my parents, and we knew they were on their way to our other aunts and uncles to give them their share.

Their generosity was apparent, and she continued the trend after grandpa died. I became her casino partner some years later, and she always shared with me what she won but wouldn’t let me share what I won. All she’d let me do was pay for our lunch or dinner.

When I’d be out and about with grandma to bring her to some appointments or at the casino, people would often remark about how nice of a grandson I was to be with grandma. That annoyed me a lot. I genuinely enjoyed spending time with grandma and it wasn’t obligatory. I just wish I spent more time with her.

My grandma was very selfless and never made anything about herself. All she wanted in return was to be grateful and not take her for granted.

Recently, before she passed away, I went to her old house, then her old apartment. I parked for just a minute in each place. I wanted to soak up, one last time while she was still alive, all the recollections of days gone by of all the fun we had. While the memories were very present for me, sadly, those places just lacked the magic once present when my grandma called those places home.

This day is a combination of sadness and happiness for me. We all knew this day was coming, and I’m very grateful we were given a lot of notice, so to speak. The last time I saw her was while she was still pretty good and remembered the good times we shared together. I offered my last love and gratitude. The last time I looked at her face she had the loving smile and grace we’ve all been privy to.

For today’s service, I wanted to do something special for my grandma. Besides the anecdotes I’ve shared, I chose this outfit instead of the customary black colors for a funeral. These are the colors of the house she called home for over 50 years, and was the place she took me in during that summer of 2000. This is my tribute to that time in our lives where we became closer and for what she taught me with love and by example. This jacket is also the last, or one of the last, suit jackets she purchased for my grandpa before he passed away. She gave it to me many years ago and I’ve never worn it till today, and won’t ever again.

As the years have gone on, I’ve not felt right about bringing my drums and playing “Home Sweet Home.” Instead, I’d like recite the lyrics of the song most applicable to her:

“I’m on my way, I’m on my way, home sweet home. Tonight, tonight I’m on my way. Just set me free, home sweet home.”

Grandma, now that you’re home with your parents, sisters, grandpa and the rest of your deceased friends and family, I want to tell you it was an honor being your grandson. The way you introduced me to people with pride, even in your last days while you struggled for air, meant the world to me then and always will. Thank you for everything, and until next time, I love you.

Grandma, Year Four…and Five

Shorts.

Funny.

Kitty-wampus.

Poor fart.

These were among many words and phrases you used beyond their technical definitions, yet your intentions were never in question.

No one who met you, even once, could escape your charm—you were unapologetically Flo.

You had a sweet and hopeful naivete. It was apparent when you thought cigarette companies would raise prices to help people quit smoking. And, when you were dismayed you couldn’t get a free supreme pizza and pay for a one topping pie. “But the coupon said buy one get one free!”

You were also honest, sometimes to a fault. If you ever got tech savvy, I could only imagine your mental battle if you would go to change a password that you didn’t forget, but your only option would be to click on “Forgot Password.”

Four months before your death, I was honored to be your transportation and plus-one for your 69 year high school reunion. We had a silent understanding that this was likely your last one, so I wanted to make it as fun and worry-free as possible for you. 

The clear and warm September weather abated your concerns of getting rained on and comfortably getting in and out of my car. It made for a pleasant afternoon drive there and back, which, sadly, had become rare with your diminishing strength and mobility sapping your motivation.

After my usual blushing from you proudly introducing me to everyone, I was privileged to see your longest living peers regard you wonderfully similar to how your more frequently visiting friends and family did.

Despite any previous gaps in time prior to this reunion, there was a warm acceptance and familiarity with everyone. Though your cognitive decline was more obvious since your last interactions, no one reeled you in or corrected your inaccuracies—they were just happy to see you. 

Seeing you flirt caught me a little off guard—I never saw you flirt before! A classmate conjured memories with just a few words, bringing you both to laughter and more reminiscence that filled the room specially reserved for this occasion. 

For your meal, you ordered extra crispy fried chicken with fries without coleslaw. Once the waitress left, you said, “That means I’m gonna get extra fries!" as a result of asking for no coleslaw. 

When your plate arrived and there was only a regular serving of fries, you were disappointed. You said, “I’m paying the same amount for less now!” 

The fuller story was in your eyes. 

They said this was the latest example of how the world has changed, and not for the better, especially when it came to going above and beyond for your fellow humans—something you did time and time again. Never for validation, you simply wanted to help and you could. 

I noticed how easy it was for you to quickly let it go. I offered to ask our waitress for more fries, but you told me not to, when, at any point in the past, you would have spoken up—your usual vigor was gone, dissipated into resigned acceptance.  

Famously, your refrigerator’s color was a mystery above waist level, plastered with pictures of all your friends and family. At that high school reunion, I took pictures you were giddy to wheelchair pose for; I could tell you were mentally rearranging your current display to accommodate what you were smiling for, which helped make up for your despondency from the meal.

Since your room’s refrigerator was too small and sat on the ground, your pictures were adorned on the wall most visible from all your resting spots.

You were the first person to consistently hear and see and love me, exactly for who I am. When I was born and growing up, you had more opportunities than anyone to show me your true love and acceptance, yet that’s not why I felt safest with you. Time was always quality with you because of you and your love, and had nothing to do with its quantity—I was just blessed there was a large quantity of time with you.

Your phone number was the first I memorized. Heck, I even dialed it correctly on my first attempt, doing my best to mimic how I saw my mom dialing your number. I wasn’t even in preschool and barely had a concept of numbers.

This last year marks another one without you, five in total. It took me many years to love myself from your early and frequent examples—not just with how you regarded me, but everyone you loved.

Since you died I made it a point to commemorate your life every year on your death’s anniversary. Last year, I did not do so. 

It was only because I was buried under a mess of unexpected emotional agony. 

I got really lonely, and regressed in my relationship with seeing and loving myself as you demonstrated for me all my life. 

I didn’t fully realize it until after I found myself out of a codependent friendship with someone I fell for. When that became obvious to both of us—her before me—she first ghosted me, then promised a conversation that ultimately never happened, pulling all my traumatic triggers in the process. 

During that friendship and the preceding months, I was not close to my best self. My loneliness made me compromise and blinded me from seeing how unhealthy I became.

In hindsight, I was needy for acceptance and validation. I thought I was well past that stage of my life with all the progress I’d made up to that point—the sheer shame was very disheartening, and, until recently, more than I could articulate.

Reflection has a way of seeing clearly, and that’s only if one chooses that kind of radical self-analysis. As often as possible, I will choose that, and especially if I lose sight of it. 

I had to process more than I was initially aware of—the situation brought every level of every past pain and trauma to a brighter light and focus, which compounded it all and rendered me emotionally catatonic. 

Every traditional job I’ve held became a distraction from myself. Too much emphasis was on my performance to avoid the full and flawed person in the mirror. Same for every relationship.

Since I’ve been my own boss, I can work as much as I want to, so I did, to unhealthy levels—I could not stand to be alone with myself or my thoughts. 

In order to change this, I needed to intentionally change those and other patterns that were dormant until they snuck back from these situations.

My focus became slowly building myself back up to where I was so I could grow beyond that. Part of this was needing to better address my traumas by further educating myself.

I began by consuming various books and podcasts and videos. I also consulted a friend. She is someone who knows trauma well. 

Since I needed a fresh approach, I asked her to meet me for coffee sometime. Some of her life experience mirrored mine, so I knew her advice in the space I was in would be helpful. 

Five months prior, we reconnected after a couple decades of no contact. There was no animosity, it’s just how post-high school life can be.

Since being reacquainted, even though it was only surface level, we realized the comfort and safety with each from our teens was not only still intact, but greater as adults—all without needing to do anything to earn or prove it. 

When we met for coffee, I knew I would be heard and understood, and I was hoping for some different ideas to consider as I was wounded and trying to heal; I also wanted to hear and advise her with anything she needed.

What we got was so much more: a pivotal day in hindsight. 

Best friends is too reductive. More accurate is that, from that day and every day since, we have found a safety and acceptance with each other that’s deeper than anything we’ve experienced. Without having your early and frequent models, I wouldn’t recognize fact from fiction as an adult.

It’s also made my life more clear in reflection—for how different and better it is to be fully seen and accepted, contrasted to when I was obliviously over-projecting and over-hoping.

These galvanizing realizations have been informing how I live ever since. If there isn’t reciprocal respect, acceptance, empathy, curiosity, and meeting each other where we are, I don’t waste my time—even if it hurts. My standard is high, my time is precious, and life is too short. 

Part of this process was rededicating myself to Christianity more than I ever have. I sought to have a deeper relationship with God and myself, and to pursue my long standing and developing questions and concerns. Without trying to, I saw Christianity for what it is and what it is not, and why it’s not for me. 

______________

When I set out to write this annual tribute to you for January 11, 2023, I was only partially aware of my mental machinations.

I knew I wanted to highlight your love and acceptance because I had experienced quite the opposite. As 1/11/23 came and went, subsequent drafts and revisions told me I was still not ready and healed enough for completion to publication, plus some of the story I detailed was still ongoing. 

It still is, but I cut it off to highlight what I did, so I could then have a fuller story in January, when I will begin a new streak of annual punctuality.

Working on this became my gauge and mile marker in the healing of all the hurt that was kept fresh from many reminders, long after things ended in real life. 

This whole time, I had other things I wanted to publish, but anything before my annual tribute to you felt wrong. While also working on various book projects, I met myself halfway last summer and created a Currently page to write in a different manner, and to do what I have dearly missed: bringing something to a state of publication. 

Publishing this means I am ready to share the level of pain I was in and what helped me get to where I am today: a much wiser person who is much healed and still healing while perpetually learning. Less than a handful of people knew how badly I was affected. 

—To the still living: Please know you’re never alone and deserve total acceptance, and it is out there for you. Don’t ever be afraid or discouraged to reach out and ask for help. There’s nothing wrong with you for asking and/or needing to ask for help. We are wired to thrive in the company of each other, not in solitude. No matter what, your community is out there, ready to enjoy your company and to love and accept you exactly for who you are and want to be—no more, and no less.

______________

While I am grateful for where I am and where I’m heading and who is in my life, I must acknowledge life was always better with you. Since you died, it took me till now to fully realize this. 

Three years ago I wrote that your death’s timing was great for your sake, before you were about to really suffer, and a year before Covid happened that would have increased your suffering and hastened your death, at least from your harmful worrying.  

I thought wishing you were still here was to also selfishly wish for the aforementioned suffering.

That’s not what wanting you still here means. I was just trying to find gratitude where I could, and didn’t pay enough attention to how much I would love to hear your voice, and to see your big and bright smile upon my arrival to your house/apartment/room.

I miss those moments, so fucking much. 

The love and acceptance you showed and modeled for me is alive and thriving with me and my community. It also reminds me of how easy it was to fully love and accept you.

During your childhood, you heard and saw many things no one should ever have to. Once you lost your mobility later in life, your high concern for your safety became more than it had been, growing as you regressed.

Knowing your history, it made sense why you felt safest when you took drastic measures to keep your door secure. When some people deemed you crazy for that and the bad dreams you were having, you were not seen and accepted for where you were at that point in your life. 

They also know your history and should have known better, and did not reciprocate what you modeled for them. Their callous lack of empathy and curiosity made you feel worse for having rational concerns with everything that was haunting you. The grudge I hold for them is not one that will easily lift. 

You always joked about being a chicken, but you weren’t a coward. You showed extraordinary strength and bravery multiple times in your life, none more than after Grandpa died. Though you missed him very much, you forged ahead and lived as best you could without the love of your life you had from age 19. 

From February 6, 1997 till January 11, 2019, you shared so many stories about him, and so many times. I never tired of them. I simply wished to meet someone who could share that kind of love with me. 

Thank you for your total and complete love and acceptance—it was time well spent. I hate that I lost track of what I deserve, and I am so grateful to have the memories with you that will always remind me to never settle. 

I miss you and wish you were still here, Grandma Flo—with everything I am.

__________________________________________________________________________

As per my tradition of offering a full perspective of her as the years go compared to when she died, below is the eulogy I wrote and spoke at my grandma’s funeral.

For Grandma

My name is Craig Elbe, Florence’s first grandchild. Oftentimes I’ve called myself her fifth child as that’s how she made me feel. She simply was another mother. Her sixth and youngest grandchild, Connor, can say the same thing. Even if there were twenty of us grandchildren, I’m confident her motherly love wouldn’t be diluted.

My first memories with my grandma, I’m told, involved me being very spoiled. I was simply too young to recall the bumming around I did with my grandma and whoever else was with us. There were many trips to many stores and restaurants, with a lot of time and love and money spent on me. Though those memories are not vivid for me, the genuine love she had for me was instilled and never left me.

Being filled with so much love before my conscious memory took hold removed any impetus to do anything crazy when I struggled with my confidence as I got older. My grandma set the tone for how to love your friends and family. She loved and cared for us all so much to the point of us all having an agreement to not tell her of any bad news until the situation improved enough to tell her. The toll bad news would take on her was too much to fathom putting her through it by seeking the solace her love and support provided without fail.

Very early in her life, my grandma found herself to be the peacemaker. Seeing both sides to situations informed her deep sense of empathy. She felt everything so much more than most people. For example, any time she’d read a card or note from one of us, she would tear up on the second or third sentence that expressed love and gratitude to her.

Whether it was just her and me or a room of people, I always found it entertaining how she’d run through the progression of her kids and grandkids before she’d land on the person whose attention she sought.

My grandma was the epitome of a people person. She seemed to find a way to the hearts of many people she interacted with. Her spunky personality and sense of humor was adored by all, from social gatherings to anyone who cared for her at any type of medical facility she was admitted to. Her smile and laugh could brighten any small or vast space, and I could always count on her warmth when life was cold to me.

She had many clichés as punchlines for jokes or to blow off some steam, and it was quite entertaining how she’d say them all like it was the very first time.

My grandma strived to see the good in everyone she met and saw. It wasn’t always easy for her but the effort was there despite evidence some people didn’t deserve her good heart.

Telephone conversations with grandma were always a joy. Most of the time, just saying goodbye was another conversation itself!

Walking into her home was a guessing game of what she was cooking or baking or canning. To this day I’ve not been able to find anything that was as good as her tomato juice or pickles. Anything else lacked the simple but essential ingredient of grandma’s love. What the perfect placebo!

Her refrigerator and walls were covered in pictures of the family, and she always had film in her camera for more moments to capture. What couldn’t fit on the fridge or walls found homes in the various photo albums she accumulated over the years.

While my sister and I were in school, grandma would bring us home when our parents weren’t able to. I’m sure she feared the worst for us walking home, especially once I got to high school and my sister was still in middle school. But, she didn’t want us to be home alone either. She was always my reliable ride to work and home when needed, and was always curious who I saw that day that she knew!

I started playing drums when I was a junior in high school, January of 2000 to be precise. Most days after school I had lots of pent up ambition or anger, so I went downstairs to play my drums. After a few months of practice, I was able to play along to some songs. When I’d begin a playing session, I consistently used the song “Home Sweet Home” by Motley Crue to warm up.

One day, after playing for a while, I came upstairs for a break. My grandma asked me about that song with the piano part in the beginning. I had no idea she was even paying attention! After some thought I remembered it was the first song, “Home Sweet Home” by Motley Crue. Right then and there, she told me she wanted me to play that song on my drums at her funeral! I couldn’t believe she made such a request, but I agreed to it then. It was the first time I felt like I was performing for someone. From that day forward, I always had a special bit of nerves while playing that song, even when she wasn’t there. Grandma being my first audience member seemed very appropriate. She was our family’s biggest cheerleader.

During the summer of 2000, I put myself in a situation where I had nowhere to go. Grandma was nearing the end of her 60s but without hesitation took me. Well, she may have hesitated a little because of my behavior at the time, but it wasn’t apparent. Grandpa had passed away just over four years ago at the time, so it was just her and me. Our only argument was about the length of my hair. She was upset I wanted to grow my hair really long, when all I wanted to do was look cool playing drums with long hair. It took me some years to realize this, but my grandma was just trying to protect me from the judgmental world.

The two months I lived with her finally started to break my rebellious nature. I learned what respect was, and that how I was treating my parents was very wrong. We were close before then, but her taking me in forged a special bond. Today, I’m proud to be the man I am. Those two months with grandma were the beginning stages of me realizing what it was to be a man of principle and character, and she was the only one able to truly reach me during my rebellious teen years.

At that time, she was receiving supplements and other household items from a mail order company called Melaleuca. Also at the time, I became a huge fan of the band Metallica. I had some tapes of some of their concerts and would play them while living with grandma. I never expected her to like the music so I only played the tapes with her permission. Out of the blue, one day she asked me if I was going to watch any Melaleuca. I was so confused for a couple seconds till I realized she wanted to watch Metallica with me! I had no idea she was even remotely interested in such music, and I doubt she really was. She was just being supportive of what I enjoyed and didn’t want to hinder my enjoyment.

The grace and class of how she carried herself was something to behold. Sure, she’d have her sad or weak moments that she’d confide in her close confidants, but she did the best she could with what she had and knew at the time.

Her frugality and tenacity was on display during one time I was visiting with her. It was in her last months of living alone. She noticed her telephone bill went up by about 8 dollars, so she called them up to have them reinstate the previous sale she had before the price hike. By the time I arrived to spend time with her that day, she proudly told me she succeeded in getting the sale price back. She said, and I loosely quote, “It took me till the third person till I got what I wanted, but it’s going to save me about $100 a year!”

While grandpa was living, he and my grandma did the “casino tour” of Wisconsin the short time he was retired before he got sick and passed away. We always knew when they hit the Royal Flush when they would show up at our house with some extra money for my parents, and we knew they were on their way to our other aunts and uncles to give them their share.

Their generosity was apparent, and she continued the trend after grandpa died. I became her casino partner some years later, and she always shared with me what she won but wouldn’t let me share what I won. All she’d let me do was pay for our lunch or dinner.

When I’d be out and about with grandma to bring her to some appointments or at the casino, people would often remark about how nice of a grandson I was to be with grandma. That annoyed me a lot. I genuinely enjoyed spending time with grandma and it wasn’t obligatory. I just wish I spent more time with her.

My grandma was very selfless and never made anything about herself. All she wanted in return was to be grateful and not take her for granted.

Recently, before she passed away, I went to her old house, then her old apartment. I parked for just a minute in each place. I wanted to soak up, one last time while she was still alive, all the recollections of days gone by of all the fun we had. While the memories were very present for me, sadly, those places just lacked the magic once present when my grandma called those places home.

This day is a combination of sadness and happiness for me. We all knew this day was coming, and I’m very grateful we were given a lot of notice, so to speak. The last time I saw her was while she was still pretty good and remembered the good times we shared together. I offered my last love and gratitude. The last time I looked at her face she had the loving smile and grace we’ve all been privy to.

For today’s service, I wanted to do something special for my grandma. Besides the anecdotes I’ve shared, I chose this outfit instead of the customary black colors for a funeral. These are the colors of the house she called home for over 50 years, and was the place she took me in during that summer of 2000. This is my tribute to that time in our lives where we became closer and for what she taught me with love and by example. This jacket is also the last, or one of the last, suit jackets she purchased for my grandpa before he passed away. She gave it to me many years ago and I’ve never worn it till today, and won’t ever again.

As the years have gone on, I’ve not felt right about bringing my drums and playing “Home Sweet Home.” Instead, I’d like recite the lyrics of the song most applicable to her:

“I’m on my way, I’m on my way, home sweet home. Tonight, tonight I’m on my way. Just set me free, home sweet home.”

Grandma, now that you’re home with your parents, sisters, grandpa and the rest of your deceased friends and family, I want to tell you it was an honor being your grandson. The way you introduced me to people with pride, even in your last days while you struggled for air, meant the world to me then and always will. Thank you for everything, and until next time, I love you.

Just Because

Last year in August, I began feeling some sudden anxiety. Nothing was acutely obvious, until I realized it was about a month before my birthday. 

Going from 38 to 39 meant I’ll be turning forty years old in 2022, but that wasn’t it. In fact, I’ve been enjoying getting older. After pondering what the issue could be, I saw the first sign.

My initial dread was connected to superficial interactions of receiving happy birthday wishes. Superficial, because it seems auto-filled by what Facebook suggests, plus I don’t hear from many of these people but on my birthday. 

In the prior year or so, I'd turned a corner and became less bothered that not many people would reach out to me on the other 364 days. I used to take it so personally. I still struggle with it at times, but I’ve been shifting my focus and energy towards having a healthier relationship with myself and deepening my faith while appreciating those that maintain contact with me, regardless of who reaches out first. 

Previous years saw me crave the attention and dopamine hits of seeing Facebook flood me with notifications that contained birthday wishes. This was before I realized how unhealthy that is, and I’ve worked hard to reverse that for myself. So, what really was my problem? 

I came to realize that yes, superficiality has always been reprehensible to me, which led me to my anxiety’s root cause: the surface level actions that have become synonymous with holidays. 

My birthday is barely before Halloween, where lots of people are more horridly pretentious than usual. 

A month later is a time of far too concentrated gratitude, followed by the next month of more concentration, in the form of the virtues and values of family gatherings and offering of gifts. 

In my life and those I’ve observed from near and afar, those and all the other holidays shine a huge light on the problem with them. They have become far too prescribed and scheduled. 

The older I’ve gotten, the less I want to be around people and situations where I feel an obligation instead of a choice. The people I see and talk to throughout the entire year are for me and I’m for them, and it’s done out of the shared joy of free choice. 

I’ve been on each side of choosing and choosing not to be in someone’s life. We all have a past, but the important part is to learn from it and not be stuck in it. Life must perpetually move forward, however small the steps are.

If a person feels obligated to be in contact with someone but they’re not an enjoyable presence, it must be communicated. Maybe it can be repaired, maybe not. If not, it’ll be too bad, but no one should stand in the way of anyone’s peace of mind and happiness. The more people that adopt this mindset in their lives, the better we’ll be. Critical to all this is to have an open mind to a variety of perspectives, with reciprocal empathy and respect. 

After any personal or widely observed holiday, the return back to the hustle and grind of life reverts too many of us back to the petty and ungrateful versions of ourselves. Most, when confronted on it, are oblivious and unaware that daily acts of love and respect are the true essence for any level of a healthy relationship, and that infrequent acts do not sustain.

Also horrible is that most holidays are widely seen as an excuse to indulge in gluttony and pleasure without fully grasping what occurred, who sacrificed what, and the gravity of who and why we’re celebrating. 

The most glaring example is the Fourth of July and how the environment, animals, and Veterans and others with similar PTSD have to suffer with fireworks. 

Freedom isn’t free, so be in daily practice of thanking every Veteran you see. Veterans have not been given what they deserve after what they’ve endured and sacrificed for us all to have what easily gets taken for granted. 

Besides commemorating my grandma’s death here each January and keeping track of how many books I read in a year, January to December doesn’t carry much weight for me.  

Your life is a story. It is nonlinear and marked in your ink on your calendar by events important to you instead of what is jotted on every calendar. A new year means nothing—there is no clean slate—so resolve to always be learning and growing. 

Your favorite people and celebrities dying and other unfortunate incidents is not the fault of the year. For example, the Covid-19 pandemic began in late 2019 and changed the world in early 2020, and still controls many of our choices today. Boxing it or anything else in a specific year or other limited time frames is too simplistic and takes our eyes off the bigger picture. 

A succinct quote I recently came across goes, “Tradition is peer pressure from dead people.”  We are far too unique and creative to submit to doing the same things with the same food on the same days every year, and with the same people we may begrudgingly see those handful of times each year.

Life is a day by day learning and growing process of the pursuit of the right balance of being present, reflective, and looking ahead. Seeing yourself evolving is beautiful, so don’t deprive yourself of it. At the right pace for you it can be maintained and further attained. Expecting or hoping for results within a time frame or an arbitrary schedule isn’t the point, and is a tightly connected aspect of why holidays and the overall prescriptive nature of them have led to counterproductive mindsets. 

Presently, I just turned 40 and it was a wonderful day, spent by myself, conversations with my parents, some words I wrote and read, bookended with a very close and special friend. 

My Facebook feed was populated by a few dozen messages wishing me a great birthday, with others messaging me privately. I was truly happy and humbled by all of it. 

A simple adjustment in perspective from last year to this year made a lot of difference. Leading into my 2022 birthday, I wasn’t anxious at all. Instead, I was grateful for every blessing without worrying about what I cannot control. 

For decades, there has been a designated spot in every greeting/holiday card department entitled something along the lines of, “Thinking of You.” Imagine if that was how we regularly interacted with each other, just because we care enough to reach out however we may instead of waiting for a holiday, anniversary, birthday, or a reason to extend condolences. Being alive is the real occasion we get to celebrate every day. Since we don’t know how much time we’ve got, let’s do it! Doesn’t that sound like a great step towards a much better world? 

Holidays have bled too much into our daily lives with our eyes on specific traditional days instead of being in a daily practice of what each holiday touts. Every holiday has its own unique and deep origin story, and I love or at least respect what each holiday represents. Observing them in the manners that have become the norm has diluted their true meanings and intentions, with rare exception. Gone is the joy, replaced by the stenches of obligation and anxiety, also with rare exceptions. 

To those who disagree with me by your actions, I commend you for being the rare exceptions that shouldn’t be so rare.  

Grandma, Year Three

Last year, I wrote about how grateful I was that you didn’t have to go endure this pandemic. This year I’m here to tell you that I’m grateful that I did, and made some good of it.

Adversities are wonderful windows, but only with the right set of eyes. This past year has been my most difficult, yet most rewarding. 

In October 2020, my seven month relationship came to an abrupt end, and without closure. For a solid month, I emptied and dried my tear ducts on a daily basis. The devastation was the most I’d experienced, which baffled me. Past relationships were longer and had deeper connections, so I had to figure out why this was so devastating. 

To do so, I recognized my sensitive energy and protected it. My already small circle needed to further constrict, leaving me with my therapists and close friends. I was quite lost and broken and they kept me from getting worse, as were the few coworkers I could talk to. 

A little past the initial pain, I began to see I was in a losing pattern and was tired of it. The fear of being alone kept me in that pattern, and I finally had to admit I was not as far along with myself as I thought I was. 

The previous few years were spent reflecting on my past to understand myself. The acquired knowledge was helpful but not being used properly. Instead of taking that knowledge and making the necessary upgrades in thought and behavior, I was using it as an excuse. As a result, I was less than I needed to be for myself, my relationships, and my jobs. 

Once those friends and therapists helped me see that, the next stage was to simply be alone by choice. Previously, I vented to people in hopes they’d tell me what I should do, or at least gain their sympathy. I fooled myself into believing I was changed just by knowing things, and it wasn’t enough. I was bringing my glass to others expecting them to fill it for me, then quickly pouring it down the drain. No wonder I was alone–I was too needy and needed the wakeup call. 

Protecting my energy while being alone became crucial, providing clarity I never had. Despite the great coworkers I had while employed by a great company, the job itself was starting to wear on me. Retail has a shelf life for everyone; after 23 years in that industry, my time was coming up. 

Writing was starting to become a much stronger desire and factored into the next step. For a long time, I complained about something but did nothing. Clearly, I was hooked on drama. Knowing I needed to change that, I decided to take a leave from the job. I was burned out and needed some clarity on how I was to feed and shelter myself differently while not having my creativity compromised.

Writing wasn’t close to being a money earner, so a pivot was needed. I had taken other leaves from the job but didn’t make good use of the time I afforded myself. This time, it was going to be different.

A coworker and fellow writer who knew of my burnout suggested I sign up for Instacart to be an independent contractor that shops and delivers for people that use the service. A couple days into the leave, I signed up. Two days later, I was approved to give it a go. 

Self-confidence used to be an issue for me. As I’ve gotten older, my confidence has grown through how I’ve been able to weather other adversities. Even though I was still working on my fear of being alone, I got to February 2021 feeling decent with my progress thus far. 

The person who suggested Instacart to me offered to train me the morning after I was Instacart approved. I couldn’t quite rouse myself awake enough for it, so I told him I’ll try it myself and ask questions if I had any. As it turns out, my insomnia helped me see a pattern: I’m much better on my own, and I needed to teach this to myself. 

There were many hiccups along the way, but I was able to use everything I’ve ever been through and learned in all my retail jobs, as well as my creativity, to provide this valuable service to those who need it. I quickly saw I needed not just a different job, but a drastic lifestyle change, and it has been the most fulfilling way to make a living thus far. It’s allowed me to gain further perspectives on what to write about, and what the business aspects of writing mean to me.

The greatest thing about this job is also its scariest: it’s all on me. You know discipline has always been difficult for me. So has managing money. In order to succeed in those areas, I needed to change the context of those things by looking ahead instead of being caught up in my past mistakes and poor relationships with money and discipline. I am nowhere near where I want to be in those regards, but am better than I was, and have laid some groundwork to build momentum towards different and better directions.

For the first time in my life, my job didn’t necessitate so much of my mental and physical energy to survive. That blessing came with something else on the other side. That extra room was filled with the reality of how much resentment I was still carrying, from childhood to now.  

I found myself complaining too much about things from all points in my life. Basically, how I was treated and how others conducted themselves throughout my life. I thought I’d resolved those issues, but I was wrong. Some people hadn’t shown a good enough example or appreciation and haven’t atoned for it, and others haven’t evolved out of their own negative patterns despite evidence they can’t or don’t want to see. 

I was finding myself irrationally upset with those people and situations. I knew it was not healthy and out of my control. After conversations with my therapists and friends, I began to see I needed to also change those contexts, my reactions, and interpretations of those people and places. 

To do so, I needed the clarity of not having interactions with the people and places who had been disrespectful or toxic to me or around me throughout my life. I also needed to do so silently and without setting any limit so as not to expect anything from them or myself more than what will take its natural, nonlinear course. 

Slowly but surely, I’ve been reversing my perspective with those people and places so I could find the empathy and gratitude they deserve without being too easy or hard on them. I’m not there yet but have made some good progress. I’m close to forgiving them for at least my sake, but getting there will take some more time.  

Another change I needed to address is my relationship with obligation. Being hard on myself was easy for a long time, especially with low self-esteem. For too many years, I’d been too emotional and reactionary, as well as too narrow in my perspective. 

Doing Instacart has allowed me to grow in those aspects. About a year prior, I began making the incremental progress that paved the way for these larger and more meaningful strides. A few months into doing Instacart, I quit the retail job and have not looked back. The pandemic simply exposed and accelerated what I was noticing at my location in small doses in the prior pre-pandemic years.

Again, a big part of all the work I’ve been able to do on myself is choosing to be alone without being lonely. When I was initially dumped in October 2020, I promised myself not to attempt anything with anyone else the rest of the year. Once 2021 started with the promise intact, I had begun to see how bad I was at relationships once they started to show signs of me or them needing to move on. 

Many times, I reached and fooled myself into keeping these relationships going longer than they needed to exist, all out of fear of being alone. The time gaps between relationships weren’t well-spent on reflecting on what I needed to learn from those failures. I was assigning far more blame than I needed to take. I drove these women away with various immaturities that manifested in my unresolved issues but was too ignorant to own those facts. 

2021 began with a new promise: to make sure I was good with myself before even asking anyone on a date. I didn’t know how long that would take, but the last two months of 2020 gave me enough confidence and introspection to know I could and needed to do so.

In February, a potential romance didn’t work out. On our first date, I realized it wasn’t to be. I felt bad for her because of how quickly I escalated our situation, but knew she deserved better than being strung along.

Soon after, I realized I let myself get caught up in the moment yet again, but was proud of how quickly I saw the old pattern and changed course. Yeah, I broke the promise to myself, but I learned from it and started fresh without beating myself up.

In late March, another potential romance presented itself. We were initially texting friends, but after talking on the phone, we realized we have a sensational chemistry. A romantic relationship was budding after a few days, then turned to a few weeks.

She was simply not looking for, nor was in a place in her life for a relationship. Despite how well we got along, treated each other, communicated, and how much we did and did not have in common, it needed to end before it truly got started. It was sad for us both, but not a surprise, and I understood. The last post I published on this website was about her and what we had and may have again. 

Something else I was too good at was playing the victim. Whether we realize it or not, we emulate the good and bad characteristics of people we’ve been around much of our lives, and I was negative instead of positive for far too long.

I’d been aware of the lengths I went to in the past to feel bad for myself. Once that lady pressed pause on us, those same patterns were finding their way back to my psyche. Thankfully, I caught myself starting most of those pity parties and corrected my thinking back to reality.

Simply allowing myself to feel my feelings and sort through them to get to places of solutions instead of self-loathing and other negative rabbit holes has been a huge shift. I can work on myself throughout every day I work or don’t work. 

Another part of growing with myself was finding happiness in deprivations. Not just being without a romantic partner, but of what is comfortable. Some of these came by accident, others on purpose. This has been a year of following my instincts in order to learn to trust myself to make the most of each day. 

There have been days where I barely ate, weeks where I had no money, etc., and I challenged myself to find true fulfillment despite those deprivations without falling into old negative habits and self-talk. I even stopped reading and writing and eating healthy and exercising for stretches of time in order to make sure I am good with myself on my own. 

I am aware my subconscious is the real driving force in my life, and that it’s my responsibility to invest the necessary time to correctly interpret everything that happens to me. I also know I’m not stupid. Yet, approaching anything assuming I know nothing is the best attitude to start with.

I’ve gotten to a place where I embrace being wrong, and to be malleable and nimble. Besides embarrassment, I’ve observed too much arrogance in the opposite, including with myself.  I want to keep learning and growing and not get stuck in complacency while staying present and humble.

I am proud to say that I’ve been at least mildly successful with all these changes and adjustments. There is so much more room to grow, and I’m in steeped anticipation for the rest of what I’ll be able to do for myself and the world I’m here provide my unique value to. In order for that to happen, I had to finally get myself off the hamster wheel.  

On June 23, 2021, I came up with a way to sum this all up: “Self-awareness and self-correction is exhausting, but not nearly as exhausting as spiraling out of control without knowing why and negatively affecting others. I’ll gladly be my own net, without coming to anyone with a catch.”  That was the present me talking to the former me.

With all that, here’s the kicker: if you were still alive, I’d not come close to telling you all of this. All of us in the family would discuss our lives with each other but keep certain things from you. I know I don’t have to tell you, but it’s because you’re a worry wart. You knew it too because that’s exactly what you called yourself.

With you, I felt comfortable to tell you anything. And I confided a lot to you, but only the things I figured you could handle. This year, with all these big realizations and adjustments I’ve made, I would have been elated to tell you of them, but well after the fact instead of in the moments of my despair.

I needed to experience those things by myself in order to find true gratitude in those adversities and continue learning about myself to grow. Heck, for the last month and a half of 2021, I didn’t even have this website because I wanted to try a different service. Transferring from there to here became a huge headache that also gave me the deprivation of this platform and allowed me to gain further insights to myself. 

I would love to tell you of how Instacart works in more granular detail and how rewarding it is for me and the customers I’ve shopped for. Just yesterday, I shopped for a sweet older lady. Once I delivered her items, we had a nice chat and I told her about all about you and how wonderful of a grandma you were. She was very happy that I had such a great grandma and was elated to hear all about you. 

One insight I wish I could have is how wonderful these last three years have been for you, only so I can accurately be happy for you and all you’ve been able to experience with those you lived without for so long.

The idea of missing you has become a mixed set of emotions. If I had a choice, I’d still love to have you here. The reality is, before you died, you were about to have a miserable existence. So, to say I miss you and want you here is to beg you to suffer for me. I’m not nearly that selfish, nor do I find it useful to wish for things that simply were not meant to be When you were alive, my other grandma suffered way too much for way too long before she died. You felt horrible for her and hoped the same wouldn’t happen to you. Thankfully, it didn’t. 

Three years will turn to four, then five, and so on. No matter how much time passes, you will be forever fresh to me, with tons of memories to cherish. You are my conscious memory’s first example of love that became a vital foundational element of how loved I was no matter how little I felt about myself. If you didn’t show me so early on what I needed to later show myself, especially this last year, I don’t see how I could be where I am today. 

As long and scattered as this piece is, it’s just a summary and an indication of how nonlinear life is to finally break the cycle and get out of my own way. I know you’d listen intently and be so proud of me.

I think about you every day, and laugh and cry about you often. My tears don’t represent sadness; rather, they represent the utmost gratitude that God blessed me with you as my grandma for thirty-six wonderful years. 

For my annual tradition, I will now post the eulogy I wrote and spoke at your funeral. This is to offer a fuller context of when you died to each current year that I celebrate your life in this manner. 

With as much love and gratitude that I can muster, here’s to you grandma, and all you meant to so many.

For Grandma

My name is Craig Elbe, Florence’s first grandchild. Oftentimes I’ve called myself her fifth child as that’s how she made me feel. She simply was another mother. Her sixth and youngest grandchild, Connor, can say the same thing. Even if there were twenty of us grandchildren, I’m confident her motherly love wouldn’t be diluted.

My first memories with my grandma, I’m told, involved me being very spoiled. I was simply too young to recall the bumming around I did with my grandma and whoever else was with us. There were many trips to many stores and restaurants, with a lot of time and love and money spent on me. Though those memories are not vivid for me, the genuine love she had for me was instilled and never left me.

Being filled with so much love before my conscious memory took hold removed any impetus to do anything crazy when I struggled with my confidence as I got older. My grandma set the tone for how to love your friends and family. She loved and cared for us all so much to the point of us all having an agreement to not tell her of any bad news until the situation improved enough to tell her. The toll bad news would take on her was too much to fathom putting her through it by seeking the solace her love and support provided without fail.

Very early in her life, my grandma found herself to be the peacemaker. Seeing both sides to situations informed her deep sense of empathy. She felt everything so much more than most people. For example, any time she’d read a card or note from one of us, she would tear up on the second or third sentence that expressed love and gratitude to her.

Whether it was just her and me or a room of people, I always found it entertaining how she’d run through the progression of her kids and grandkids before she’d land on the person whose attention she sought.

My grandma was the epitome of a people person. She seemed to find a way to the hearts of many people she interacted with. Her spunky personality and sense of humor was adored by all, from social gatherings to anyone who cared for her at any type of medical facility she was admitted to. Her smile and laugh could brighten any small or vast space, and I could always count on her warmth when life was cold to me.

She had many clichés as punchlines for jokes or to blow off some steam, and it was quite entertaining how she’d say them all like it was the very first time.

My grandma strived to see the good in everyone she met and saw. It wasn’t always easy for her but the effort was there despite evidence some people didn’t deserve her good heart.

Telephone conversations with grandma were always a joy. Most of the time, just saying goodbye was another conversation itself!

Walking into her home was a guessing game of what she was cooking or baking or canning. To this day I’ve not been able to find anything that was as good as her tomato juice or pickles. Anything else lacked the simple but essential ingredient of grandma’s love. What the perfect placebo!

Her refrigerator and walls were covered in pictures of the family, and she always had film in her camera for more moments to capture. What couldn’t fit on the fridge or walls found homes in the various photo albums she accumulated over the years.

While my sister and I were in school, grandma would bring us home when our parents weren’t able to. I’m sure she feared the worst for us walking home, especially once I got to high school and my sister was still in middle school. But, she didn’t want us to be home alone either. She was always my reliable ride to work and home when needed, and was always curious who I saw that day that she knew!

I started playing drums when I was a junior in high school, January of 2000 to be precise. Most days after school I had lots of pent up ambition or anger, so I went downstairs to play my drums. After a few months of practice, I was able to play along to some songs. When I’d begin a playing session, I consistently used the song “Home Sweet Home” by Motley Crue to warm up.

One day, after playing for a while, I came upstairs for a break. My grandma asked me about that song with the piano part in the beginning. I had no idea she was even paying attention! After some thought I remembered it was the first song, “Home Sweet Home” by Motley Crue. Right then and there, she told me she wanted me to play that song on my drums at her funeral! I couldn’t believe she made such a request, but I agreed to it then. It was the first time I felt like I was performing for someone. From that day forward, I always had a special bit of nerves while playing that song, even when she wasn’t there. Grandma being my first audience member seemed very appropriate. She was our family’s biggest cheerleader.

During the summer of 2000, I put myself in a situation where I had nowhere to go. Grandma was nearing the end of her 60s but without hesitation took me. Well, she may have hesitated a little because of my behavior at the time, but it wasn’t apparent. Grandpa had passed away just over four years ago at the time, so it was just her and me. Our only argument was about the length of my hair. She was upset I wanted to grow my hair really long, when all I wanted to do was look cool playing drums with long hair. It took me some years to realize this, but my grandma was just trying to protect me from the judgmental world.

The two months I lived with her finally started to break my rebellious nature. I learned what respect was, and that how I was treating my parents was very wrong. We were close before then, but her taking me in forged a special bond. Today, I’m proud to be the man I am. Those two months with grandma were the beginning stages of me realizing what it was to be a man of principle and character, and she was the only one able to truly reach me during my rebellious teen years.

At that time, she was receiving supplements and other household items from a mail order company called Melaleuca. Also at the time, I became a huge fan of the band Metallica. I had some tapes of some of their concerts and would play them while living with grandma. I never expected her to like the music so I only played the tapes with her permission. Out of the blue, one day she asked me if I was going to watch any Melaleuca. I was so confused for a couple seconds till I realized she wanted to watch Metallica with me! I had no idea she was even remotely interested in such music, and I doubt she really was. She was just being supportive of what I enjoyed and didn’t want to hinder my enjoyment.

The grace and class of how she carried herself was something to behold. Sure, she’d have her sad or weak moments that she’d confide in her close confidants, but she did the best she could with what she had and knew at the time.

Her frugality and tenacity was on display during one time I was visiting with her. It was in her last months of living alone. She noticed her telephone bill went up by about 8 dollars, so she called them up to have them reinstate the previous sale she had before the price hike. By the time I arrived to spend time with her that day, she proudly told me she succeeded in getting the sale price back. She said, and I loosely quote, “It took me till the third person till I got what I wanted, but it’s going to save me about $100 a year!”

While grandpa was living, he and my grandma did the “casino tour” of Wisconsin the short time he was retired before he got sick and passed away. We always knew when they hit the Royal Flush when they would show up at our house with some extra money for my parents, and we knew they were on their way to our other aunts and uncles to give them their share.

Their generosity was apparent, and she continued the trend after grandpa died. I became her casino partner some years later, and she always shared with me what she won but wouldn’t let me share what I won. All she’d let me do was pay for our lunch or dinner.

When I’d be out and about with grandma to bring her to some appointments or at the casino, people would often remark about how nice of a grandson I was to be with grandma. That annoyed me a lot. I genuinely enjoyed spending time with grandma and it wasn’t obligatory. I just wish I spent more time with her.

My grandma was very selfless and never made anything about herself. All she wanted in return was to be grateful and not take her for granted.

Recently, before she passed away, I went to her old house, then her old apartment. I parked for just a minute in each place. I wanted to soak up, one last time while she was still alive, all the recollections of days gone by of all the fun we had. While the memories were very present for me, sadly, those places just lacked the magic once present when my grandma called those places home.

This day is a combination of sadness and happiness for me. We all knew this day was coming, and I’m very grateful we were given a lot of notice, so to speak. The last time I saw her was while she was still pretty good and remembered the good times we shared together. I offered my last love and gratitude. The last time I looked at her face she had the loving smile and grace we’ve all been privy to.

For today’s service, I wanted to do something special for my grandma. Besides the anecdotes I’ve shared, I chose this outfit instead of the customary black colors for a funeral. These are the colors of the house she called home for over 50 years, and was the place she took me in during that summer of 2000. This is my tribute to that time in our lives where we became closer and for what she taught me with love and by example. This jacket is also the last, or one of the last, suit jackets she purchased for my grandpa before he passed away. She gave it to me many years ago and I’ve never worn it till today, and won’t ever again.

As the years have gone on, I’ve not felt right about bringing my drums and playing “Home Sweet Home.” Instead, I’d like recite the lyrics of the song most applicable to her:

“I’m on my way, I’m on my way, home sweet home. Tonight, tonight I’m on my way. Just set me free, home sweet home.”

Grandma, now that you’re home with your parents, sisters, grandpa and the rest of your deceased friends and family, I want to tell you it was an honor being your grandson. The way you introduced me to people with pride, even in your last days while you struggled for air, meant the world to me then and always will. Thank you for everything, and until next time, I love you.

She Knows

How to grow:

Take the seed and give it plenty of attention, water, and sunshine. It also deserves the best possible soil, the kind that comes from a lifetime of knowing how seeds don’t grow.

The attention, water, and sunshine also need to be the very best. Filtered and measured, too much or not enough and the wrong kind will kill what is promising. Like the soil, the filters and tools for measuring, digging, and weeding are hard-earned knowledge. 

The first days will warrant close attention to ensure all the best things are in order and in the right amounts. Then, the seed must grow to live and breathe on its own volition from those, determined at the time, to be the best things.

Seeds cannot be planned. Only prepared for and without expectation. The absence of a seed is the patient sharpening of the tools, reflection of the wrong soil, sunshine, and filtering and measuring, not to mention the waiting……the waiting cannot be rushed. That is very important, as is the documentation of each seed's planting and growing process.

Most important is trusting that the seed will grow from all that prior applied knowledge, sharpened tools, sun, and soil. When the seed doesn’t appear or is weak and dies, the documentation yields the why. One cannot shy away from the truth, no matter how much it hurts. We live and learn, and learn to live with the necessity of continued learning. 

There isn’t one correct method. We are all too unique. 

The growth process necessitates tweaking as we age, while never losing sense of who we are, especially not losing what's gained from where we’ve been that shows us who we are and want to be.  

Our time together saw us happily apply the best tools we have accumulated, produced, and sharpened over three and a half decades of life lived fully and uniquely. Real time became Einstein time. 

We came to each other very unexpected but so, so welcomed. Our initial attention, sun, and water did not drown the seed, it just invigorated what was always between us. Our gestation was ongoing prior to meeting--we were consistently sharpening or upgrading our tools and bettering our soil.

We never had not had a more fulfilling or more satisfying time with anyone else. Sleep was by necessity, not choice. We saturated the seed and provided all the sunshine we could with our effortless conversations and impeccable communication. We easily flowed through the levels of goofy and serious and intimate, learning and enjoying our uniqueness along the way. 

We're great together as a result of our collectively healthy soil. We have a palpable and easy chemistry. What's usually considered work was a pleasure, and we didn't balk at the concessions we needed to grant each other for us to be our best in all aspects. 

Where we were, are, and want to be had no flinches or varnish. It provided the future sunlight and how well it all fits under that beam without complacency, full of mutual respect and open-mindedness. Our attraction to each other goes deeper than what our eyes see. 

This is what we'd been waiting and working for. 

We will always have and be responsible for our weeds. We discussed all our weeds and their roots, and how we’ve learned to care for our soil to prevent weeds and deal with them when they sprout up. 

Unfortunately, you found your soil to have some old weeds returning, and existing ones grew more visible. I saw them too, and was happy to help you with them. They did not seep into my soil or affect my tending of it, but you also didn’t want to get re-accustomed to more support than what’s healthy and reasonable.

Though not a surprise, it was still a very sad day when you recognized the need for a greener thumb and to be a solo gardener. Your standards are very high. You want your soil even healthier with fewer weeds, using better and/or sharper tools to notice and uproot pesky weeds earlier, before again combining soil. 

An entire afternoon spilled into the evening. Reminiscing, laughing, crying. You wanted to convey how you want to be healthier for you before we can become us again; that it was nothing negative on me; that we know this isn’t the end. Rather, an intermission. 

Only God knows what’s coming. All we know is what we have and how awesome it will be when fully grown. This seed can survive on all we put into us.

Though I’m making sure to live as well as possible since we said bye for now, but not forever...this void is unmistakable. My brain tricks me into seeing you everywhere I go. Though the memories are strong and are sustaining me, I won’t miss how much I miss you once we permanently combine our soil. 

If we aren’t meant to combine soil ever again, you've blessed me with an experience that will help prevent me from projecting and hoping and ultimately settling, effectively ending my lifelong pattern. You have sealed a special place deep in my soul, and there won't be a day where I don't profusely thank God for giving us each other at the exact right time.

What's That About?

Some of my earliest memories saw me curious as to why a song was written, or why similar artistic expressions were created; but something Jason Wade said made a lasting impression on me.

In 2001, Wade's band Lifehouse released their first album, No Name Face. Thanks to its leadoff hit single, "Hanging By a Moment", the album was climbing the charts. Wade's soulful and unique voice were on full display, singing some of his most heartfelt and personal lyrics behind the band's tasteful and catchy blend of bass, drums, and electric guitar.

The song peaked at number 2 and wound up as the Billboard 100 top single of 2001. It's important to note that more basic rock music was in a popularity lull, and for a rock song to be a huge success in 2001, it was hugely connecting with the masses.

In the midst of that whirlwind and life-changing year for them, Lifehouse was a featured guest on a show that played music videos. Throughout that show, the host asked the band questions between cueing to videos.

In one segment, Wade was asked why he wrote "Hanging By a Moment's" painfully personal lyrics—his sentiment that followed will always be with me.

Debuting in the summer of 1997 was VH1’s Behind the Music. It was a documentary series that profiled a band or artist, aired in one-hour episodes and became one of the network's most popular shows. Whether or not I enjoyed the music of the artists being profiled, I watched every episode.

Part of each Behind the Music was these musicians' journeys from young and emerging to their current state, mixed with reflection and at least some regret. There were many friends, family, and peers interviewed for each episode.

Previously untold or not widely told stories from each episode were huge for Behind the Music’s success. I became fascinated by the close view of artistic integrity and its fluctuations throughout the careers that each show profiled.

The episodes featuring artists lamenting a lack of artistic integrity at some point in their career resonated with me the most, even before I had any creative or artistic aspirations shy of notebook jotting for me and me only.

When Jason Wade was asked what "Hanging By a Moment" was about while on that television show, he copped to a shred of annoyance, and that he'd been deluged with the question. Wade said he respects the question and those curious of stories behind his lyrics, but cited his reasons as private. For any songs he has or will write, Wade wants the listener to make the lyrics their own for whatever they may need them for.

Wade's real time insistence and artistic integrity as an emerging 20-year-old singer/songwriter instead of a reflective, Behind the Music-like view resonated deeply with me.

Opposite of Wade's approach are those who pursue the fame and fortune that this world froths over. Once privacy is exchanged for fame and fortune, regret washes through, eventually desiring to be a "normal" person again instead of an interchangeable product for exploitation and profits, among other seedy aspects of celebrity culture; unless terms are set and held, early and often.

Twenty years later, I have pieces of me in the world via my words, with many more to come. Some things I’ve published have garnered "what's that about" questions from readers.

There is definitely value in vulnerability, yet Jason Wade’s sentiments in 2001 have helped steer how to handle my writing divulgences.

Success has been found by those who are relatable. In turn, like any proven approach, vulnerability has become a marketing tactic. Predictably, it can and does go too far. Charades or sincere, vulnerability has become part of branding, a term I find oxymoronic with vulnerability since being vulnerable requires utmost integrity, not forced and inorganic as branding can be.

Anything I have and will pour into this world will bear big or small pieces of me. In the process, I promise to always maintain utmost integrity by never delivering vulnerability by exaggerating reality or to market myself. I'm not afraid of showing you who I am, but I also won't take away what you may need from what I write about.

Desiring to be a widely published writer is to accept that my life will be open for others to see all of the depths of my emotions. My experiences and resulting words are for our mutual information, entertainment, and catharsis. I wouldn't be in a place to do so if others did not bravely set their paths for me to blaze my own.

Grandma, Year Two

Absolutes are rare, but here is one: your demise’s timing was great. For about fifteen months, we could gather and celebrate you. Then, the world changed.

You thrived on in-person visits, and talking on the phone was always mutually enjoyable. Sadly, toward the end, your weakened arm and voice could barely hold.

Unfortunately, you also thrived on whatever the TV said. Its toxicity has only increased since your death.

Your mind’s default was always set to immense worry. I’m certain you would have spun yourself crazy everyday, wondering how we were staying safe, healthy, and sane; and more Flo-crazy than a fly in your room could ever conjure.

The 2020 Presidential Election circus was a historic milestone for many of the wrong reasons. I’m glad you didn’t have to endure it, and everything that went down at the Capitol last week—it has further divided too much of this country.

I have no idea how you’d be surviving this pandemic. I am grateful you don't have to, and were spared suffering in the myriad ways you would.

We all are filled with joy and solace from the last two years of quality time you've gotten with those whose death preceded yours.

I’m continuing to talk about you in the various ways your stories and teachings can help and entertain. My tears are of gratitude for being blessed with you, and for what is now giving you peace and happiness.

Once again, thank you for enriching my life by loving me and being just yourself. I'll make sure your spirit endures well past the time you spent in this world.

Just like your birthday last year, I will now post the eulogy I wrote and spoke at your funeral. I decided it's a more appropriate tradition to maintain on your death's anniversary instead. It will offer full context of when you did pass to each current year I celebrate your life in this manner.

As I always will, I miss you and love you.

For Grandma

My name is Craig Elbe, Florence’s first grandchild. Oftentimes I’ve called myself her fifth child as that’s how she made me feel. She simply was another mother. Her sixth and youngest grandchild, Connor, can say the same thing. Even if there were twenty of us grandchildren, I’m confident her motherly love wouldn’t be diluted.

My first memories with my grandma, I’m told, involved me being very spoiled. I was simply too young to recall the bumming around I did with my grandma and whoever else was with us. There were many trips to many stores and restaurants, with a lot of time and love and money spent on me. Though those memories are not vivid for me, the genuine love she had for me was instilled and never left me.

Being filled with so much love before my conscious memory took hold removed any impetus to do anything crazy when I struggled with my confidence as I got older. My grandma set the tone for how to love your friends and family. She loved and cared for us all so much to the point of us all having an agreement to not tell her of any bad news until the situation improved enough to tell her. The toll bad news would take on her was too much to fathom putting her through it by seeking the solace her love and support provided without fail.

Very early in her life, my grandma found herself to be the peacemaker. Seeing both sides to situations informed her deep sense of empathy. She felt everything so much more than most people. For example, any time she’d read a card or note from one of us, she would tear up on the second or third sentence that expressed love and gratitude to her.

Whether it was just her and me or a room of people, I always found it entertaining how she’d run through the progression of her kids and grandkids before she’d land on the person whose attention she sought.

My grandma was the epitome of a people person. She seemed to find a way to the hearts of many people she interacted with. Her spunky personality and sense of humor was adored by all, from social gatherings to anyone who cared for her at any type of medical facility she was admitted to. Her smile and laugh could brighten any small or vast space, and I could always count on her warmth when life was cold to me.

She had many clichés as punchlines for jokes or to blow off some steam, and it was quite entertaining how she’d say them all like it was the very first time.

My grandma strived to see the good in everyone she met and saw. It wasn’t always easy for her but the effort was there despite evidence some people didn’t deserve her good heart.

Telephone conversations with grandma were always a joy. Most of the time, just saying goodbye was another conversation itself!

Walking into her home was a guessing game of what she was cooking or baking or canning. To this day I’ve not been able to find anything that was as good as her tomato juice or pickles. Anything else lacked the simple but essential ingredient of grandma’s love. What the perfect placebo!

Her refrigerator and walls were covered in pictures of the family, and she always had film in her camera for more moments to capture. What couldn’t fit on the fridge or walls found homes in the various photo albums she accumulated over the years.

While my sister and I were in school, grandma would bring us home when our parents weren’t able to. I’m sure she feared the worst for us walking home, especially once I got to high school and my sister was still in middle school. But, she didn’t want us to be home alone either. She was always my reliable ride to work and home when needed, and was always curious who I saw that day that she knew!

I started playing drums when I was a junior in high school, January of 2000 to be precise. Most days after school I had lots of pent up ambition or anger, so I went downstairs to play my drums. After a few months of practice, I was able to play along to some songs. When I’d begin a playing session, I consistently used the song “Home Sweet Home” by Motley Crue to warm up.

One day, after playing for a while, I came upstairs for a break. My grandma asked me about that song with the piano part in the beginning. I had no idea she was even paying attention! After some thought I remembered it was the first song, “Home Sweet Home” by Motley Crue. Right then and there, she told me she wanted me to play that song on my drums at her funeral! I couldn’t believe she made such a request, but I agreed to it then. It was the first time I felt like I was performing for someone. From that day forward, I always had a special bit of nerves while playing that song, even when she wasn’t there. Grandma being my first audience member seemed very appropriate. She was our family’s biggest cheerleader.

During the summer of 2000, I put myself in a situation where I had nowhere to go. Grandma was nearing the end of her 60s but without hesitation took me. Well, she may have hesitated a little because of my behavior at the time, but it wasn’t apparent. Grandpa had passed away just over four years ago at the time, so it was just her and me. Our only argument was about the length of my hair. She was upset I wanted to grow my hair really long, when all I wanted to do was look cool playing drums with long hair. It took me some years to realize this, but my grandma was just trying to protect me from the judgmental world.

The two months I lived with her finally started to break my rebellious nature. I learned what respect was, and that how I was treating my parents was very wrong. We were close before then, but her taking me in forged a special bond. Today, I’m proud to be the man I am. Those two months with grandma were the beginning stages of me realizing what it was to be a man of principle and character, and she was the only one able to truly reach me during my rebellious teen years.

At that time, she was receiving supplements and other household items from a mail order company called Melaleuca. Also at the time, I became a huge fan of the band Metallica. I had some tapes of some of their concerts and would play them while living with grandma. I never expected her to like the music so I only played the tapes with her permission. Out of the blue, one day she asked me if I was going to watch any Melaleuca. I was so confused for a couple seconds till I realized she wanted to watch Metallica with me! I had no idea she was even remotely interested in such music, and I doubt she really was. She was just being supportive of what I enjoyed and didn’t want to hinder my enjoyment.

The grace and class of how she carried herself was something to behold. Sure, she’d have her sad or weak moments that she’d confide in her close confidants, but she did the best she could with what she had and knew at the time.

Her frugality and tenacity was on display during one time I was visiting with her. It was in her last months of living alone. She noticed her telephone bill went up by about 8 dollars, so she called them up to have them reinstate the previous sale she had before the price hike. By the time I arrived to spend time with her that day, she proudly told me she succeeded in getting the sale price back. She said, and I loosely quote, “It took me till the third person till I got what I wanted, but it’s going to save me about $100 a year!”

While grandpa was living, he and my grandma did the “casino tour” of Wisconsin the short time he was retired before he got sick and passed away. We always knew when they hit the Royal Flush when they would show up at our house with some extra money for my parents, and we knew they were on their way to our other aunts and uncles to give them their share.

Their generosity was apparent, and she continued the trend after grandpa died. I became her casino partner some years later, and she always shared with me what she won but wouldn’t let me share what I won. All she’d let me do was pay for our lunch or dinner.

When I’d be out and about with grandma to bring her to some appointments or at the casino, people would often remark about how nice of a grandson I was to be with grandma. That annoyed me a lot. I genuinely enjoyed spending time with grandma and it wasn’t obligatory. I just wish I spent more time with her.

My grandma was very selfless and never made anything about herself. All she wanted in return was to be grateful and not take her for granted.

Recently, before she passed away, I went to her old house, then her old apartment. I parked for just a minute in each place. I wanted to soak up, one last time while she was still alive, all the recollections of days gone by of all the fun we had. While the memories were very present for me, sadly, those places just lacked the magic once present when my grandma called those places home.

This day is a combination of sadness and happiness for me. We all knew this day was coming, and I’m very grateful we were given a lot of notice, so to speak. The last time I saw her was while she was still pretty good and remembered the good times we shared together. I offered my last love and gratitude. The last time I looked at her face she had the loving smile and grace we’ve all been privy to.

For today’s service, I wanted to do something special for my grandma. Besides the anecdotes I’ve shared, I chose this outfit instead of the customary black colors for a funeral. These are the colors of the house she called home for over 50 years, and was the place she took me in during that summer of 2000. This is my tribute to that time in our lives where we became closer and for what she taught me with love and by example. This jacket is also the last, or one of the last, suit jackets she purchased for my grandpa before he passed away. She gave it to me many years ago and I’ve never worn it till today, and won’t ever again.

As the years have gone on, I’ve not felt right about bringing my drums and playing “Home Sweet Home.” Instead, I’d like recite the lyrics of the song most applicable to her:

“I’m on my way, I’m on my way, home sweet home. Tonight, tonight I’m on my way. Just set me free, home sweet home.”

Grandma, now that you’re home with your parents, sisters, grandpa and the rest of your deceased friends and family, I want to tell you it was an honor being your grandson. The way you introduced me to people with pride, even in your last days while you struggled for air, meant the world to me then and always will. Thank you for everything, and until next time, I love you.

Value I Did Not Expect

The salon I chose for my most recent haircut came from a grocery store receipt's coupon. Not one to turn down a good deal within my budget, I made an appointment.

Since he’d never cut my hair, I told the barber what I wanted. The non-heroic cape followed, then the spray and comb and scissors. Later, the clippers.

Small talk commenced. I asked about his youth. He grew up in southern United States, in a town "you’d miss if you got off the highway and went to pick up something you dropped by your feet."

His upbringing was a relic, part of how life "still ought to be: the entire village raised the kids." The first parent who saw a kid misbehave was the initial hand of discipline, then later the child’s parents once they got home —who, of course, knew about their child’s misdeed before the kid "was seen from the kitchen window, sulking to the door."

I told him the short version of my winding story of my working life that became my writing life, and how I, for now, combine the two. I mentioned writing for PW Torch,  my website, and my various other projects and writing goals.

Only then did he feel comfortable enough to tell me about the book he is writing. Well, not the book per se, but the story. The story he lived.

While living in an eastern state many years ago, he was incarcerated for over twenty-four months. The catch—he wasn't guilty of the crime, "even with clear as day evidence I didn't do it, even before I gave my plea." Without hesitation, he contested the charges and eventually won, all while having his rights to a speedy trial not met.

After his victory, he was made aware of being the first black man to win such a (pre-DNA) case in that historically racist state, presided over by a judge who was as racist as they come. The jury? Eleven white women and one Hispanic woman, and four white woman alternates.

This story he’s told many times was delivered with quiet, yet strong conviction. It's still fresh for him, but he'd let the anger go. He didn’t offer any foul language or negativity, besides the distressing facts of his situation. Simply put: “I knew I wasn’t going to lose. I didn’t do it. Even with the deck stacked against me, I had the truth and God on my side.”

While telling me his story, his attention was less on my hair and more on his memories. At the outset, I said wanted much shorter hair. I ended up settling for non-crooked, barely shorter hair. And I don’t even care. Without a coupon, I still would have given him a generous tip.

The tip wasn’t for the haircut.

It was for the courage to share his story with a stranger. For over two years, he was a man against huge odds, knowing the truth, and fighting till he won in the end. He refused every plea deal and employed more than one lawyer with that knowledge and the strength God provided him.

I was very moved, especially in these pandemic times where we don't get much in-person interaction. Despite the required mask, his eyes said it all through the mirror when he paused, especially when I thanked him for his story and how it made me feel before departing.

I paid less than twenty dollars for a story of redemption from the person who lived it. Coupon or not, my trimmed hair is the bonus of an experience within a value I did not expect.

Thank You For The Courage I Lack

Thanking a Veteran for their service doesn’t seem to be enough. However, those I’ve seen placed on a pedestal of any kind reveal a certain discomfort, perhaps feeling praise of that variety wasn’t what they served this country for.

My twenty two years in retail have provided a litany of windows into the human psyche. I have witnessed some rude Veterans ask for special discounts the company didn’t offer anyone, only to later pull their service cards after they were first informed such discounts didn’t exist.

My younger, immature self allowed that to color how all Veterans were—just showing off and seeking attention and validation through those selfish actions, and the attire that detailed their service. I am not a fan of my younger self, with this old judgmental mindset being at the top of my youthful abhorrence list.

In recent years, I’ve found the boldness to thank these special people. During moments of a pridefully stated, “you’re welcome” from every Veteran, my youthful immaturity is always freshly revealed to me, and I deserve it. The vast majority of these people are showing their pride, not seeking attention. I also recognize my immaturity was steeped in shame of not being as courageous as them.

When I thank Veterans for their service, some ask if I also served. I don’t hesitate to admit I never had the valor for it. I tell them their choice to serve ensured that I had a choice not to, and is a big part of my gratitude. From older Veterans, they've told stories of being drafted, yet their pride is the same as those who chose to serve.

This year’s Veteran’s Day was perhaps the most important in my lifetime. I am hopeful it began to unite us as a country, a country that’s been divided by politics, with the division magnified by a pandemic.

We are mere days after the presidential election where its results are still being disputed. There are all varieties of hopes and projections and confirmation biases hinged on who won and if it was a fair election. I wish we all realized none of this matters near as much as it’s being portrayed.

These polarizing times have damaged relationships, and tarnished opinions of those formerly held in high regard. When we use our differences to divide each other, instead of having boundaries and civil discourse, then the sacrifices of Veterans can seem impotent and meaningless. We know better, and need to do better than permeate that toxicity.

I am intentionally publishing this one day after Veteran’s Day. These brave individuals deserve more than a single day per year of widespread acknowledgement, just as those who have died while serving deserve more than just one Memorial Day.

The Veterans who are still alive carry lonely, invisible scars that will live on in them forever, with traumas that will repeat in them abruptly, and place them right back into their versions of war mode. Creating a sense of goodwill through expressions of gratitude every day can prevent a far too common Veteran’s suicide, or at least remind them their service will never be taken for granted, and scars not lonely and invisible.

May these words be part of the continuation of us offering our daily gratitude for everything Veterans protected us from that has kept this country great. To all of you Veterans, thank you for the courage I lacked, stepping up so I could instead freely unite us with these words, and for us all to pursue our unique passions and the opportunities this country affords us.

Ride Wisely

Not often enough, we are unexpectedly tested in a manner of huge magnitude. These aren’t tests you study for by memorizing curriculum-decided drivel enroute to their desired end goal for you: an obedient and unquestioning tax-paying shell. 

Though not aware, you are always studying and preparing; by the choices you make, the stories you tell yourself, and the thoughts you hold until they’re ready to be released; all with intention, then critical reflection to sharpen.

When one of these tests occurs, you’re rattled and scared into questioning everything you knew, thought, want, need, what everything prior has meant, and what it all means with an upside down world. It is cruel, but meant to be the ultimate jarring interruption toward positive change.

This wave, you can choose to ride. You can even influence its size and direction for the greater good of all by making scarce of former comforts and conveniences-to remind, reflect, recalibrate, refocus, and/or change direction and affiliations based on how others interpret, inquire, and ride the wave. 

Callous your feet on this wave toward inclining your mind to make wise, informed choices. Be not selfish. Don't buy into needing more distractions, we've been over-stimulated prior to all this.

Now it's time to look very close at yourself and what always mattered, perhaps all that's been much neglected.....Ride wisely. 

Music For My Soul: How Did You Love, by Shinedown

On any scale, legacy is important to everyone. Some have children—those who desire parenthood but can’t conceive adopt. Founding a business or inventing products we need and/or want will also cement a legacy.

While all noble, I believe the most important legacy is how you treat others.

Those near death consistently identify their only regrets as not spending enough time with loved ones. More material things, making more money, or more sexual partners doesn't equate to a fulfilling life when one is close to dying.

Excepting common sense, considering societal norms isn't a factor for what I ought to do or be. That’s largely why identifying as a writer and its boundless avenues suits me perfectly; the words I create and share will be a big part of my legacy. The rest of it will be who I choose to share my life with, and the memories we make through this madness we call life.

Ideal is not realistic but must be persisted. Finding and vetting those whose actions prove they love and accept the entirety of you are worth the time it takes. Unworthy ones reveal themselves with their absence when you aren't an asset to them. Trust me, and be diligent.

Participation in humanity equals supporting and connecting with each other towards love; that’s what this song means to me. Fear and greed will always be unfortunate and easily accessed human drivers, especially during pandemics, i.e. this current coronavirus and COVID-19 situation. Hacking into those traits succumbs the unaware, diverting them from the big picture and hidden truths.

We all have a voice and a heart. Our altruistic use of each will be a huge part in how we positively we reflect on a life lived, except sociopaths and other hopelessly selfish individuals. How faithful and generous your love is in every facet will be your legacy.

To quote a line from the song: “No one gets out alive, everyday is do or die; the one thing you leave behind is how did you love.”

Left Hanging

Why ignorance?
Why wasted time?
How did I earn forgotten?

Anger is my closest ally, with
Zero tolerance of what you’ve perpetrated.

This coddling along of you is done.
You're clearly not on the level; I was wrong.
Projections of hope exposed my emptiness through craving
Mutual love and trust.

I...held myself accountable.
I.....apologized.
You said no big deal.

I, give; you take without consideration.
I, fully offer; you choose speed instead of careful thought.
You, tell me; then abandon.

My worth is not lost on me, nor is my vast potential.
Your abuse of both pushed my anger to halt you in motion.

My throat will be sore from processing this pain.
My mouth will be dry after
Expressing my disgust of you daring to
Squeeze the triggers I trusted you with.

The last you'll see of me is dusted footprints as I
Run away from your kind.

Closed mind with petty judgement equals
Your pathetic existence.
Enjoy eventual solitude; compromised and shallow company at best.

Your former elicited butterflies have corrected themselves to scarecrows.

My standards, realized once again.
These tears will dry, this sorrow will fade.
My feelings will renew and regain strength.

I’m not too much, as you accused...….you’re just not enough.

Grandpa

After enough life lived, one may ponder their biggest successes, failures, and regrets. Of all my regrets, the one I place above all others was out of my control.

My grandpa and I loved watching Michael Jordan play and appreciated his abilities on the court from very different perspectives. Now, the number Jordan famously wore represents the number of years my grandpa passed away.

I was in eight grade and knew this day was coming. His health was rapidly declining due to the cancer he had since the summer before, combined with the effects of chemotherapy and radiation. When our like-another-mother neighbor told my sister and me of grandpa’s passing that Thursday morning, we were given the option to stay home or go to school.

Our parents were with our grandma and aunts and uncle, consoling each other and grieving loss the one of, if not the, most important man in their lives. I remember it being a Thursday because Thursdays were Art Class and I got to see my crush, my Art teacher. The timing was fortuitous with my needed distraction already in play. I chose to attend a full day of classes.

I was a little numb, trying to be strong. However, a few days later at his wake, I cried harder and more than any other wake, before or since. The sadness that surrounded my family and me was compounded by the sheer number of people that came to pay their last respects to this great man. My grandpa touched so many lives in his 68 years that the funeral home had to open all the other rooms to accommodate the large crowd. Thankfully, his was the only wake that day.

My mom worked at the school we went to, so the faculty that was like another family came by to offer their sympathies to everyone. Despite my bashful demeanor at that time in my life, I wasn’t afraid to shed as many tears as I needed to regardless of who was in front of me. I felt so much love from everyone that came by. Many of them took turns holding me each time I broke down.

My small pond of tears were hard for me to explain at the time. I just let them flow without question. As I’ve aged over time, I’ve realized it was partly from all of us losing him, but also me losing him when I was only 13 years old.

Since then, I’ve heard tons of stories of him and how wonderful he was, especially from the love of his life, our grandma. It wasn’t until years later through those stories that I realized the full scope of who he was and what he stood for. His sense of humor and work ethic were second to none, some of which I was lucky enough to see up close.

He was the first person to take me fishing and saw me catch my first fish, a perch, which I proudly displayed in the small kid's pool in the backyard. It somehow lived for about a week until we saw it was floating. Being a reminder of hanging out with grandpa, I couldn’t bring myself to properly dispose of it.

You see, fishing with him was the first meaningful time we spent together. He was retired at this point and I was in third or fourth grade. Until then, I was intimidated by him. He was quick to yell if he’d get real upset, especially when picky eater me would scoff at what I was served at his house.

He grew up poor and never forgot the sense of appreciating every morsel he was given no matter how it tasted. During that fishing trip, I saw a softer side to my grandpa and stopped being scared of him. I realized his sporadic yelling was always short lived and came from a place of caring.

Have you ever witnessed two stubborn people argue? It is pure entertainment, or at least it was when my grandma and grandpa would argue. It wasn’t till I was much older that I realized how much they loved each other and the example they set for me. When they’d get upset and holler a little, they’d quickly go to other parts of the house to cool off before coming together more calmly to resolve the issue. No cross words were spoken or cheap shots taken, loud disagreements was all they were. Though each were quite, quite stubborn, they always came to a compromise. If that’s not love I don’t know what is.

The last time I saw him was at the house he and grandma had since the 50s, while he was under hospice care. It was prior to a basketball game of mine for my school, and he was in a bed in the middle of the always immaculate living room. My family was visiting him and grandma, and we had as nice of a visit as we could considering his impending death.

He was very tired and too weak to speak more than barely above a whisper. When we went to say goodbye, I went to his bedside to give him as full a hug as I could with all the limitations he had. We said our farewells and told each other we loved each other, and then he said, “Go and score some points.”  

As a bench warmer, I wasn’t sure I’d get the chance. After the game, I beamed of scoring a few points in relief of the much better players. Remembering the point total wasn’t important; feeling great that I scored some points when my grandpa wished me to was important. That farewell and game became hugely meaningful once he died shortly after, making it the last time we exchanged glances, words, and love.

Citing my grandpa’s death as my life’s biggest regret was and always will be for not having him around as an adult. I missed out on all of his life wisdom and the jokes he dared not recite around children. I could have also benefitted from more insight into how it was to grow up meagerly.

He died well before I played drums and became the writer I am today, and I would have loved to share those slices of my soul with him. I know he’d have been proud, even when I wasn't very good. He always admired those that tried their best instead of those that sat on their ass and did nothing. Hell, during an old-timers baseball game in his early 60s, he slid into second base to be safe. To me, that's the epitome of his spirit.

Losing loved ones sucks at any age, and I feel robbed of a huge and great opportunity. That may seem a little selfish but I don't really care. That’s life; I’ve accepted it and am grateful for the time I had with him.

The love and admiration for the man known as Belgie has only grown as I have matured, and it will never stop.

Grandma's First Year

Ever since I had the slightest grasp of language, your words have lived in my mind in your inimitable voice. Your consistently wise musings and humorous cliches won’t be forgotten by me or any of us blessed by your love. We count those as some of the many gifts you gave us while you were alive.

On this day, we celebrate one year of the end of your life on this earth. Celebrate, because of how long we had you; celebrate, because you were reunited with those on the other side who had been waiting patiently; and celebrate because your suffering is no more. The end of your suffering made this difficult transition a bit easier for us.

This first year we have gotten together to celebrate your life in a few iterations. Whether I was able to attend or not, I know your presence was strongly felt every time. The clearest example was likely you flickering and dimming the light above our table to let us know you were there with us to wish your youngest daughter happy birthday, her first without you. As a group or any two of us in conversation, or just alone in our thoughts, we’ve grieved and mourned your loss in too many ways to count and measure.

Your presence has graced my dreams at least twice a week since you passed. Not once did you dispense after-life adventures or your well-being or advice. They instead mimicked how life was when you were alive—holding court wherever you went, tending to whoever was visiting, all with your body independent the way it used to be.

With rare exception, the settings of these dreams were true to life representations of what your house, my house, and your apartment was like. In those dreams I was aware of your death but happy to be with you and your spunky personality again. When I’d wake up, my smile of interaction with you via dream was paired with melancholy in the pit of my stomach for it merely being in a dream. Still, I don't want to stop having them.

Missing you won't ever be easy, but is getting better due to the gratitude I practice of having you in my life till my mid-30s.The love you demonstrated and satiated me with will sustain my soul many lifetimes. The way you continued life without grandpa for nearly 22 years was admirable. You missed him immensely but forged ahead and lived a fulfilling life, which has largely informed my template for living without you and to bask in the memories instead. And we sure had alot!

The last gift you gave me was a huge insight to my writing process when I wrote your eulogy. I couldn’t have gotten that priceless education any other way. Paying tribute to you the best way I knew how, then going totally out of my comfort zone when I read it aloud it at your funeral completed my catharsis. That experience and resulting feedback boosted my confidence and resolve to make this my career, and has continued to be a galvanizing force as I endure the drudgery that writing can often be.

Your support of what I enjoyed and wanted to do with my life never ceased, nor did your belief in me. I know the rest of the family and those you chose as family can say the same. Stating extreme gratitude is not enough to express what your boundless love meant to me and the rest of us.

Happy first year in heaven, Flo Baby. The legacy you left behind is alive and well thanks to your words and examples. We love and miss you.

Walled

So tall, perfect and straight.
Equal inches, cement to brick.

Dare I touch it?
It’s too precious, don’t!
Too far away, can I approach?

The wind, says yes.
Go.

Ah, yes.
Been waiting for the chance.

On approach……just what I thought!
Just what I hoped, imagined.

Now, I’m here.
Wow.
The sunlight’s illumination, too good; yet it’s true.

My first deep breath, met with a pebble upon exhaling.
My eyes meet my foot, then back to the wall.

A gap, in the binding cement.
Could it be?

Dare I act upon the earlier thought?
Curiosity needs indulgence, so I touch.

More pebbles, my touch creates.
The wall, revealed to be hollow of substandard inner material,
Covered invisible by the outer beauty’s facade.

My feet hurt, for they were bare to witness the beauty that was the wall.
I’m here as myself, no hollow image.

No halfway was met, now I’m alone with bloody feet.
Scars heal, and I will.
Once again.

These feet have walked into many walls,
Bled many times.
Their scars have scars, but haven’t breathed on my heart and resolve.

There is a wall to compliment mine; I still refuse socks and shoes to make
An easy arrival.

The pain teaches me direction, the scars teach clarity.

The right one will have a rope I didn’t ask for, just as I carry one
It won’t ask for, but will be ready
In its timely climb.

My Friend

From where you’re from, a friend is a non-blood sibling. Someone worth taking a bullet for without a thought, shy of where to jump so it gets only you. That means you chose them wisely. When you were abruptly uprooted to Wisconsin without enough notice to say goodbye to your well vetted friends, the contempt you carried was a visual taste of bile.

When we first met through our mutual friend, our worlds were quite far apart. I knew some of your family, but your last name wasn’t theirs so I didn’t know there was any relation. It went unknown until we visited your cousins after school about a month after we become friends. They lived close to us and I’d been acquainted with them for a long time. They were your family, but I related to you much more than them. It’s too bad some of your family was nicer to me than you, their own flesh and blood.

We were both outsiders without much confidence, yet oddly comfortable enough in our skin to stick to our convictions without compromising for more friends in school. You were an easier target despite how intimidating you were. We were deeply wounded emotionally but for different reasons.

The kinship and trust was there from the outset and carried us through high school from the freshman we met as. There were times we were at odds. Honestly, I forgot most of why we were, except for having a crush on your sister, then cousin a year or so later. But there were many sleepovers and wonderful times had that I still fondly look back on.

We always knew the friendship would survive post high school, and it did for a long time. When we had our ups and downs, our truce was always wrestling. Whether it was watching it or in your back yard for your own “promotion,” we all got a kick out of performing in for your little camcorder with our multiple characters.

We’d run to and from different iterations and heights of ropes, limited by the trees and clotheslines and the slight hill, performing all our favorite wrestlers' moves and some of our own. We strutted to the crooked square through hung up bedsheets to music we picked out for our characters.

Tempers rarely flared and we only hurt each other when it was planned, which was you the majority of the time. You allowed a steel chair to your head, and one time went through a flaming table with thumbtacks. I still feel bad I missed dousing your back with water, prolonging your selfless pain much longer than you deserved it to be.

When we got old enough, we’d go out drinking. You were one of my favorite drinking partners. We'd play our favorite songs on the jukebox and sing out loud to the chagrin of the other patrons who were there to have a drink, perhaps with other intentions. All we needed was each other and some beers, food, and music, and some dice if we felt adventurous enough.

There was the time I was going on a trip across the country. For the fear of the something going awry, I wanted to do something brave I’d never done before to somehow salvage my short life. The night before I left, we watched a show from one of my friend’s bands. I ran into so many people I’d not seen in years, leaving you ignored; you offered your loving patience while feeling much different in your heart: your familiar emotional wounds.

Afterwards, we went to a different establishment that had karaoke. I can’t remember whose idea it was. For years by that point we would always harmonize and sing songs while joyriding, so we were comfortable with singing in front of each other, me being the worse singer.

At the karaoke place, I got over some stage fright to perform “Enter Sandman” on the grand stage of that small place. I knew I wasn’t very good, that I was a much better drummer than a singer. I never had played drums to anyone in public, shy of some friends coming over to where I lived to watch me play.

Karaoke was the next best thing to be able to say I played to a public audience of some sort. Your non-judging presence gave me the courage I was lacking. And when I came back from that trip, you were the only one I wanted to see first, so we hung out-happy I made it back safe.

The adult years gave us troubles too. When I was single, I saw more of my friends and life was good. When I was in a relationship, I saw less of my friends and life was still good, but it upset you because a romantic relationship shouldn’t always come before a friendship, especially one like ours. I let the pangs of not having enough of the love I needed early in my life haunt me, to the detriment of nearly every aspect of my life. Though those ladies filled a large void in me, you were right, and I am sorry for that.

I’m ashamed to say I had crushes on a couple of your ex-girlfriends. Your praise of them during the relationship had an effect on me in that way, just like your fandom of the Spice Girls years earlier. There was no malice on my part, and I still can’t explain more than just your sales pitches you didn’t know you were giving me. You were not happy about it and let me know about it.

The last two times we interacted was first at your grandpa’s wake. Luckily your cousin alerted me of it that day, knowing I don’t get the newspaper and that’s why I missed your grandma’s wake and funeral a year or so previous. I walked into the funeral home, nodded at the many people I knew but made a beeline for you so I could hug you as tight as I could.

I knew what your grandpa meant to you, and I wanted to give you my love and make sure you were okay. We went to your car for some shots of grandpa’s favorite liquor before the service started. I left from there because you were all I wanted to see, and your well being was all that mattered to me. You said you’ve changed a lot and wanted to reconnect.

The next week saw us as the sole muscle to help a mutual friend move into their new apartment. We had fun, but the person I saw that day was one that didn’t change as much as he said, so I decided not to contact you further. And I never have heard from you again either, directly or through our many people in common, besides returning some borrowed items back to you.

A little over a year ago I was in a town nearby where you live. I don’t live there anymore but live close enough to frequently make the drive to see friends and family. I had to get something at Wal-Mart on the way to an appointment and was on a tight schedule. After I got the item, I was walking back to my car and saw a familiar figure. It was you. You didn’t park close enough to me to know it was me, but maybe you saw my car and went further away. To this day I don’t know if you knew it was me or not. I look different these days than the last time you saw me, so maybe not.

It wasn’t till later that day when I realized it was your birthday. I recalled the look on your face. It wasn’t a happy look, so perhaps life wasn’t going so well. It was also early in the day and maybe that contributed. Your apparel was some sweat pants, so perhaps you just had something to quickly get as well. I don’t know, but hope to know.

Since then, you’ve had another birthday. And it’s been on my heart for a long time now to reach back out to you. We did grow apart over the years in many ways, but I’ve never stopped loving you like a brother or caring about you. Now in our late 30s, I want to reconnect just to know you're okay.

Though I miss you, I'm not sure if a friendship can work with how we grew apart years ago. If you don’t respond, I want to honor you and our friendship with this public post so the memories we made can live forever. I chose to highlight only a few of the ones that stand out to me for the sake of brevity and for us to further reminisce if you choose to reconnect.

As I illustrated, I wasn’t always the best friend, but I know I was pretty damn good most of the time. Nobody knew you better than me in those years. Hell, maybe I still do. The times when we had deep and painful talks, of holding each other as we cried through the pain, or making sure we didn’t choke on our vomit when we’d had too much to drink; those will never leave my memories. You are a great but flawed man, just like any other person. I miss you.

Wild Life

Seeing a dead animal or those close to their demise sends chills all over me. On a recent walk on a bridge over a lake, I saw a deceased otter floating in the water. This unexpected event was much creepier up close. It is not easy for me to see death that close with a wild animal, and it’s more heartbreaking to see domestic animals splayed out in the road.

A wild animal is part of a food chain, yet even watching one safely cross the street will give rise to the hair on my skin. I've always wondered why, especially recently, so I decided to write about it to figure this out.

Fearing what could happen to any wild animal is only part of why. How intimidating some can be isn't quite it either.

One aspect is their unflinching courage, regardless of where they are on the food chain. Not being equipped with human intelligence is a jealousy I have with all animals, especially wild; my mind involuntarily spins many webs that freeze me in place more than moving forward.

Putting myself and my thoughts out to the world is akin to a wild animal living and surviving in the same world. There is a certain degree of courage necessary to keep going out in the world, subjective to those who may pounce and injure from any direction.

Courage is something I've always admired from afar while shrunk into thinking that I could never be that brave. Recent times have provided the insight and value of courage being an asset past what fear prevents it from being, even when it doesn't work out.

Any career I will have in this field will have criticism. Fair or unfair, everyone gets it, regardless of popularity or success. An important aspect for this wild life of expression is knowing myself and my journey, regardless of what others may say or feel.

Artistic and personal integrity must always be maintained. Anything shy of that will be transparent and thus remove me from any chance of survival. My skin is already thick from years of living the life I have, and will only get thicker as time goes on.

Writing is the most difficult, yet most satisfying endeavor of my life and all I want to do for a living. Playing drums is the only thing that comes close, but writing is more agreeable to my soul. Though drumming is great for its physical and creative nature, using words and craft and perspective is a more enjoyably maddening creative adventure for me.

My mental approaches to drumming and writing have many parallels. It has been fun for me to fully realize and flesh out in the years I’ve become more serious about writing. Both of them have been the greatest outlets for my life's ills and ups, aligning myself to how to best serve the story I'm telling/song I'm playing, or to just unburden myself without concerns of artistic merit.

Reflection has helped me see that everything required for my writing has been in place for my entire life, including but not limited to informing the way I think and learn. My vast curiosity has led me to knowledge beyond what any formal education may provide, with an unquenchable thirst for more of that fulfillment. This is what I'm meant for.

There are numerous topics I’m interested in diving into, but lack the time. The bills still need to get paid, so I have a job. With my strong desire to write and research, and my current job requiring much of my time and energy, it's resulted in anxious and depressing days. On days off, anxiety has stripped away time being spent wisely, but those days are becoming more distant.

Recent and mutually beneficial changes at the job have made my life better, and I just have to keep plugging along and believing in myself. My small circle of loved ones are very supportive, but I am the one who must perspire.

Until I am earning a living only from writing, I’m left to work that regular job while feeling a different kind of wild. From living that life for over 21 years, it is more familiar. With my writing aspirations, I’ve become much more of who I’ve always wanted to be. That process created a wide divide from the old sector to a different kind of wild I'm still figuring out.

My fingers and focus being on this keyboard, at or away from my desk, and the words and thoughts that result, make the rest of my life go ‘round. More fulfillment has happened despite no money, though I hope it becomes a full time living.

Lately, I've had to make some big decisions I never thought I'd make at this point in my life. Much, but not all, of those decisions are based on writing and all what I need my life to be in order for it to be at its ultimate potential, now and in the future for an ideal wild life.

As I continue with this site and keep writing, I hope you find value in what I have to say and come back often.

If I’ve earned as much, that will result in positive chills while being seen out in the wild world of the written word; the same ones I get when I see a wild animal courageously doing what I envision my wild life to be.

Word to Ponder: Nadir

Anyone that's overcome adversities of any scale or consequence can point to the lowest point, or nadir, that showed them the only way was up. Nadirs are inevitable but sneaky, best served as a wake up call to change something.

That last drink, cigarette, hit, junk food binge, or poor financial choice before permanent change is not a nadir. Though this self-sabotage is an unfortunate human trait, you can’t be plan for a nadir; they don't work that way. Bad for you is still bad, especially if you know better and do it anyway. It only creates a permission cycle of not doing what's best for yourself, keeping you captive and farther away from ideal, no matter what you may tell yourself while in the midst of it.

Paramount to work though a nadir is a strong and honest support system outside your large and/or small ego. The cunning nature of a nadir can blind you to it, while your support system will probably see it earlier and
clearer than you. Putting together that support system is its own problem, but is clear-cut when you hit a nadir. True friends and relatives are the ones that stick around when you're at your worst, selflessly and unconditionally helping you get back to your best. But it has to be reciprocal when they need you.

An open mind is a must; though, it can backfire if you’re too open for too long, and is equally damaging as being too close-minded for too long. Ideally, you should go back and forth from your comfort zone to know where and when adjustments are needed. Too much time in or out of your comfort zone will get you off track. It is never going to be easy to identify when/how long to be in or out of that zone, but time and practice will afford that knowledge and self-awareness. That’s where the support system of accountability and praise will come in when warranted to help you make the necessary adjustments where and when you need to.

A huge problem for me was thinking I could solve all my own problems. This cycle always resulted in narrow mindedness and mental burnout when I’m overwhelmed with all I have to take care of, always magnified from reality.

I have never been good at delegating and enjoy carrying a burden. Big challenges motivate me until I’m out of wind and strength to go any further, way before I’m done with what I need to do, let alone want to do, or vice versa. When my support system tells me I’ve hit another nadir, it’s never at the right time.

I hate letting people down, even when they’re disappointed I let myself down. Not cracking the code of burning out is always abhorrent in principle, and is much worse to live it. Pressure does motivate me, but too much cripples me where all I want to do is eat poorly and sleep. And it’s all my own doing.

I recently hit another and pretty bad nadir, causing me to do things I’ve never done in my life. So, I needed time to get it sorted out. Making the time to only focus on what's been going on is so foreign to me. Though I recognize its necessity, I've had difficulty with it. I have felt so weak during this process, wondering why I couldn't just plow through this like I've always done.

I've come to realize the times I persevered was actually making me weaker and weaker over too many years. This nadir has become the full circle revelation of all the years of trauma I forced myself to go through were for the wrong reasons and without continuous and proper self-care.

I also never thought I'd be a Christian. But lo and behold, I am now a proud believer of God and that Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior. I'm super early to this, but it's been a great awakening and the best thing for me. Part of my years long hesitation was the many bad examples of Christians that are in this world. I failed then to realize everyone is on their personal journey and to not judge what I don't fully know, and prayers are needed instead of scorn.

Plus, I didn't believe anything I couldn't see, but the circumstances that led me to Christ and everything that has followed was all proof I needed. The more my eyes have been opened to this world in my walk with Christ, I've been observing further proof without even asking.

I've allowed too many people and environments to dictate how I feel about myself. I've learned that I take me and what I represent everywhere I go. Anything else around me doesn't matter unless it's positive or an opportunity for me to influence positivity. Though it will always be difficult, the negativity cannot affect me anymore.

Part of my issue is giving my all, all the time, without factoring in sufficient down time for recovery. Investing all of myself is a blessing but can be a curse. I struggle when circumstances outside my control take away my full skills and abilities.

When I’m able to accomplish something I love with enough autonomy, I’ll happily go my usual 100% but rarely hit a nadir, armed with an open mind and at least enough knowledge of what I'm signing up for. I enjoy the grind and miss it when the project is done, resulting in deep fulfillment. That’s why identifying as writer resonates so deep with me. The nature of me as a writer and how I work and think about the craft is essentially this paragraph.

To be honest, I don't think I'm receiving the best professional care possible through this nadir. Life happens way too fast for the best to always be available or obvious, and that's okay. No matter what care I receive, everything begins and ends with me. All I can do is the best with which I'm given. The power of prayer has been tremendous, as has the support of friends and family the Lord has wrapped me with.

Everyone will go through different paths and endure many nadirs. When they happen, it’s just life telling you to go change direction and/or mindset. Pain is promised, but it's part of growth. The barrage of emotions you’ll feel aren’t worth over thinking. They're just an overflow of what you need to successfully unpack and process.

This will likely require a lot of time, professional help, and hard, honest conversations with your support system and said professional. They are necessary to becoming your best self and are absolutely worth it, even if you don't get the best therapist or other professional. As I stated, it's up to you to make the most of what you're able to get and utilize all of what you have been gifted.

A therapist, counselor, doctor, etc. of any kind is only as good as the person who wants to make that change and do the work. I do want to improve, that's why I don't need the best, I just need a very good one, which I have. I used to put too much on past therapists to do more work on me than I was willing to do. I was expecting magical proclamations in every session to just tell me what I needed to do, which is utterly and embarrassingly backwards.

I promise I'll never be a preachy Christian. Everyone comes to Christ on their own time, but I can speak from experience you can't do life alone. Your support system is very important, but not more important than a close relationship with your Creator.

Feel free to reach out to me in the comments, as I've yet to set up an email account for this website. I'll notify you all when I do, but until then make the most of what you have and live your best life.

Our Dad

Expectations for fathers have evolved over the decades. In some cultures, it’s still common for children to only know their dad as the guy who is married to mom and goes to work so they can afford everything they have and will have. One of my good fortunes in life is having a father that worked very hard but was also present. Till our late teen years he worked multiple jobs, even running his own lawn care service for ten years. And yes, that meant he was my very first boss.

Although we didn’t see him much due to those jobs, his love for my sister and me wasn’t ever in question. Perhaps it was instilled in each of us when he gave each of us our first bath after we were born and home from the hospital. During our youth, my sister and I would usually bargain with him if mom said no, because we knew he was a softy and hated to dash our little dreams. When discipline was needed instead of the fun we wanted to have, and knew deep down that mom was right, we still went to dad anyway to at least have a yes in some fashion, even when mom stuck to her convictions.

When he wasn't working or sleeping, he was the one of the goofiest people I've ever known, hamming it up with anyone who would participate. When in public, he'd never shy to talk to anyone. It was often an annoyance to me when I'd want to get home as quick as possible to play video games, but it left a mark on me that connecting with people matters more than anything in life.

Our dad was born and raised in a household that was sustained by his parents’ farm and gardens. Working hard from dawn till dusk was the only option for the family to survive and thrive, instilling a strong work ethic in him and his siblings that continues to this day for them all. His dad was his first boss too and set the example I was privileged to be a recipient of.

Soon after I was born, he settled into what became his primary job that had him working third shift till I was fifteen years old. He was, and still is, someone who sleeps until he absolutely has to get up and ready to go anywhere. When my sister and I were growing up, we’d hear his alarm go off and he’d hit the snooze button. Back then we didn’t know much about the consequences of being late to work, except it would upset our mother. So, we took it upon ourselves when we heard the alarm to push dad out of bed so he wouldn’t be late! There were days where he wanted to sleep in and wasn’t thrilled about being pushed out of bed, but those were few and far between. Shoving dad out of bed became a fun ritual where he’d pretend to be sleeping and make it harder for us to get him out. He couldn’t stifle his laughter very well and his distinct chuckle always gave away his possum-playing intentions.

When I started working for him, I couldn’t wait to have my own money to buy my own things. I was 12 years old and craved independence and autonomy above my youth, and money was one way of achieving that goal. I didn’t really have much discipline at the time, but I learned the difference between doing something when it needed to be done versus doing it when I felt like it. During the school year I couldn’t wait to get out so I could cut grass. I was already spending the money I didn’t have yet, and I wanted to work more to get more things. What I didn’t know at the time, but realized later in my future jobs, was I was being given a real lesson in life. It was tough at first, but I learned how to endure adversity and enjoy suffering for the greater good.

For the first time in my life, I was able to spend quality time with my dad. It wasn’t something I realized I missed, even while observing other kids having much more time with their fathers. Still, it was nice to hang out with him more often, chatting about whatever he wanted while we drove to the next lawn to cut. All these years later, I’ll still drive to the areas where he had some customers to help me relive those memories. They are very fondly looked back upon by both of us, and never fail to entertain us while we reminisce about the three years I worked for him.

For my sister, she wasn’t shorted quality time either. She and dad would reorganize the garage when the time came. Our mom would show up on the job sites at times with my sister with some food and drinks if we'd run out of what we had or wanted something special. He would make sure to give my sister some attention while mom took over the lawn mower for a few minutes.

With the slivers of time he had, he'd make time for father and daughter outings. To her embarrassment, he'd call her his baby daughter to those he'd see when they were out and about. Nowadays, she embraces the title and signs everything she writes to him as his baby daughter.

When I worked for my dad from 1994-1996, the Packers were doing really well for the first time in decades. Not in the fluky Infante and Majkowski ways, they were a solid team worth cheering in a way that only compared to the Lombardi days. I will always cherish the times we’d do a lot of work on Saturday to be done early enough on Sunday to catch the end of the Packer games. The team of Jim Irwin and Max McGee was the soundtrack to those Sundays, hustling to be done early enough, yelling at the windshield to the picture they painted with their commentary.

Then there were the days we’d hit up the local go-kart track to reward ourselves for a hard day’s work. Sometimes our close friend Greg would join us, along with some of his friends and family when the timing worked out. When that group got together, some of us were sure to get yelled at by the track employees. We could also count on at least one of us getting booted from the track for the day while trying to one-up each other. It's a fond memory we talk about to this day.

Just because I worked for my dad doesn't mean I had it easy. He made me work a lot harder than I wanted to, yelled at me when I was slacking off, docked my pay when I didn’t do what he expected, and I barely had days off. He and I are both stubborn, and that made for some interesting days, but he always won. The only times he let me stay home was when my allergies were more than I could bear after trying different masks and/or over the counter medicines. When he was hard on me, he never made it about himself and never disrespected me. He simply expected more from me because I was his kid; he didn’t want nepotism to be why he hired me. He was consistent with it all and we learned more about each other as time went on.

Unfortunately, every boss I have had since then has had to work against the high bar my dad set as my first boss. Those bosses may have seen me as problematic or insubordinate. In reality, I have consistently been disappointed I've had to settle for less than what I was shown by my dad and his stern and respectful ways.

The business eventually grew so much he couldn’t keep up with it. He was trying to hold onto it until I was 18 and could take over, but it got to be too much and he had to sell the business when I was 14. It was successful but not enough to replace his full time income and benefits. It was a bummer for him, but also a relief of the burden it became. He was working a full-time third shift job as well as cutting grass, resulting in very little sleep. Thank God our mom was a competent secretary!

A harder worker than my dad is someone I’ve yet to meet. In some ways, it hasn’t been so good for me; I’ve burned myself out more times than I care to remember trying to live up to the example I was shown. Only in very recent years have I learned how to take better care of myself instead of working myself to the bone. But I’ll never forget the sacrifices my dad made just to make our lives comfortable while his was anything but.

After selling the lawn care business in 1996, we saw dad much more. He remained a hard and dedicated worker with just one job, and for the short time he worked a second part time job. In the twenty plus years since, our dad has become more and more comfortable with himself and his life.

There was a time a few years ago when I had nowhere to go. He took me in, but a couple months later kicked me out because I wasn't living up to what he expected of me under his roof. Even then, in my late 20s, he was still my boss looking out for me and making a hard decision for my benefit when it hurt him more than it hurt me at the time.

He’s made other hard decisions over time to get where he is now, and has done the best he could to make up for what he regrets. My sister and I are proud of how he has been able to overcome the adversity of being teased and treated much less than he deserved by his family and peers, especially in his younger days, to being a confident public speaker despite his still present stutter. Whether prepared or off the top of his head, his genuine good hearted nature always comes through.

That confidence has manifested itself with the courage to be more confident in other areas of his life. Despite what life has handed him, the fact he's remained a simple and humble man while learning and becoming better from his mistakes speaks highly of his character. When the times have called for him to stick up for us and go above and beyond, he was always there.

Last year, his parents passed away 63 days apart from each other. With class and strength, our dad mourned the loss of his parents, even with their deaths so close to each other. My original intention was to have this ready for Father’s Day, but coincidence made this more special; today marks his father’s 93rd birthday. So, on this day, my sister and I celebrate the man that our father is, the man who helped shape him, and we thank them and love them both. We don't even have to ask, because he's shown and told us that being our father will always be his favorite job.

Word To Ponder: Skank

Calling a woman a skank is ill-advised, so don't be surprised about anything that comes your way from it. Begging off while thinking you can convince her you’re referring to the style of dance for reggae or ska music won’t work either.

The problem I have with this word is how laden it is of judgment. Not just with how others use it, but even the way the word is defined. “One who is considered to be sexually promiscuous, especially of a woman” is rife with assumptions.

A woman scantily clad is enough for some to conclude she is easy to bed. Some women may be inappropriately dressed, but isn’t necessarily an indication of how many sexual partners she's had or will have.

How could someone be "considered" sexually promiscuous? Being a flirt, perhaps? A woman who is a scantily clad flirt could be assumed to be sleeping around or have many sexual partners. Still, the picture is incomplete.

I've known plenty of women who simply enjoy and appreciate the attention they receive when they doll themselves up, revealing clothing or not. Some are a tad naïve in their hopes and/or expectations of men around attractive women.

A woman saying they're not interested to a man expressing interest should be enough. The men who can't take that simple statement for what it is will assume the woman is playing hard to get because of how she's dressed.

The kindest rejection is still rejection and an affront to some men's manhood, and the true selves of those men may come out. Mean and hurtful rejections can begin or escalate a negative situation for all involved.

A woman's lively, buoyant personality could also be misinterpreted. Loudness in voice, apparel, or both could be seen as insecurity or someone who is quite sexually active. It could also confuse what is real versus an act.

For decades, there has been the idea of studs and sluts. Meaning, a man who has had sex with lots of women is a stud, and a women who has had sex with lots of men is a slut. I think it's because women are the more intelligent gender and a man just wants what will make him happy in a moment sans big picture.

When a woman lowers herself to a man’s typical mentality, she may not be completely in touch with herself. Women are emotional beings that need to feel a true connection to someone before being intimate, even for a kiss. Chivalry has been utilized for many years to cater to women’s unique emotional needs and give them the security they need and deserve to feel.

Women who are in tune with themselves can spot a ruse masquerading as a chivalrous man with good intentions. A women not in touch with herself could wind up sexually promiscuous. Let me make this clear: a woman who has had many loving relationships is not a skank.

Even if a women is sexually promiscuous, I still abhor the word skank. Assumption is wrong and unfair and doesn't belong, even in this ever non-fair world. Everyone has beauty and a unique journey towards it. For someone to not realize all their potential and waste it on anything below a high standard is heartbreaking.

Someone who is broken needs compassion and empathy, not long stares and dirty looks or other forms of judgement. Something is not right within their soul that caused them to sleep around, drink and/or do drugs to excess, eat their feelings into long term health concerns, etc.

I hope I will live to see the day where snap judgments are rare, and people invest in each other to lift each other up instead of tear each other down. We gain nothing, but highlight our own insecurities, and it needs to stop.

The word skank and its related connotations is just the example I chose to use to make this over-arching point: everybody should feel they have a chance to be their best selves without worrying about others tearing them down about the journey it is taking to get there.