Who Decade?

I was never a fan of the decade sandwich. The previous two I existed in, the eighties and nineties, were more conglomerates of toys, music, movies and the highs and lows of growing up. There were more instances in a year that any type of trend. For example, my entire memory of 1980 consists of “The Empire Strikes Back,” nothing more. I was six years old, what can you expect? My memories of 1990 revolve around the Minnesota Twins losing a ton of baseball games, video games like “Maniac Mansion” and the general disappointments that come during adolescence. Before the age of the internet (at least as we know it now), we had to rely on significant events, handwritten notes and pictures to document our existence in that period. By the time 2000 rolled around and gave us an election few cared about, (I remember this because I chose not to vote) there was the beginning of email, internet research and a general desire to put things into a larger perspective. Perhaps this was because of age, me being the big two five at the time. Or was the 2000’s the beginning of something else that many of us felt coming. Although hindsight generally gives one the vision of Burgess Meredith at the finale of the classic Twilight Zone episode “Time Enough,” many events occurred suggesting that we as a society are indeed running out of time.

Before the 2000 election, I had always voted and was proud to be a part of the political process. Anyone who has known me for a fair amount of time can vouch for my incessant desire to pour over newspapers and do my best to disseminate facts from fiction. There are many reasons I didn’t vote in 2000, the foremost being I thought Al Gore and George W. Bush were idiots. Turns out, I was right on both calls, no matter which side of the political spectrum you reside. As the debacle of the election recount unfolded, I seriously wondered who was in charge of this mess we live in. The second reason I didn’t vote in 2000 was I just didn’t think I had the time - meaning I came home from work at 6PM and just did not care. Like many Gen-Xers, I was becoming dissatisfied with my job and opportunities were shining on the horizon everywhere I looked. Even though I was disgusted with the actual rules of the electoral process, my thoughts still focused on job-hopping. I had a good job at the time, probably one of the best I’ll ever have, but there was so much to criticize when everyone else is offering you something supposedly rosier than what you have now.

2001, the crash of the dot com odyssey. Remember all those ads on every station known to God? This dot com, that dot com, my Grandma sells you time-shares dot com? When all those plastic companies exploded in their own hubris so did the yellow brick road of employment. Unfortunately, I did make a change in employment, not expecting bigger will not mean better. By the time I left the new job it was August 2001. The dot com recession was in full force and there were few opportunities available besides becoming a human tool. I chose to do what any red-blooded American would do in that situation: move back in with Mom and Dad and pick apples. Getting back to nature and forgoing corporate culture was just what the doctor ordered. When 9-11 happened, we stopped working and watched. The people I was around were shocked, as we all were. But there was some semblance of inevitability in the air. It was unspoken in many places in the world, but silence speaks volumes. Rocky Balboa loses. Luke Skywalker gets his hand hacked off by his father. Kurt Cobain commits suicide. The fallacy that we live in a fortress of solitude was broken. People can blame whomever they want for the attack, but anyone with a good grasp of mathematics could theorize something would happen, sooner or later.

After the season apple-picking gig ended, I worked with a friend roofing houses, a far cry from running a music store in Edina, Minnesota a year earlier. Honestly, I don’t think I was great at it but I learned to bust my ass and got to know people in a way I never would have before. Taus taught me more than I can ever repay him for. While we were roofing a house in St. Michael, MN, I noticed half of the houses in the cul-de-sac were unoccupied. They were built but unsold. I thought it peculiar. These gigantic houses without a tenant. So perfect I wanted to buy one except they looked like every other house on the block. I wondered if I lived there, would my neighbors know where my stuff is? I spent the next year drifting, dissatisfied with my life and occupations (or lack thereof) until I chose to make a complete break with everything that was making my life suck. I bounced back into the parents’ house after barely being gone and a good friend was kind enough to offer me a job and with it, stability.

Over the spring of 2003, I decided to “get back” to whatever it is I liked about my life when I thought it likable. I went to baseball games, began reading extensively and started going to concerts on a regular basis. I did not have a lot of money – even as I sponged off Mom and Dad, but I was happy. I started realizing happiness is a far better trait than anything monetary. No matter if it was a good or a bad day, when I went to sleep, I did so with a leap and a smile (I was way into Donnie Darko at the time). On Sunday, July 13th, I went to see Blur at First Avenue with my concert-going friend. I remember about the first five songs, through maybe “Boys and Girls.” After ordering a beer at the bar, I was tapped on the shoulder. “Where did you get that shirt?” asked a tall woman with a big smile. “Suns,” I replied. “Hunky Dory is my favorite David Bowie album,” she said. We began a long talk about music and the greatness of the Blur show became quickly distant. She changed subjects: “Do you like “Doctor Who?” My nerves and doubts quivered at the question, which had been the geek kiss of death on more than one occasion in my life. I overruled myself, telling apprehension to go screw itself. “Yeah,” I smiled. She smiled (although I think both of us were smiling nonstop at this point): “It’s my favorite show. Who’s your favorite Doctor?” Again, shoving conventional wisdom in the subconscious garbage, I replied “Patrick Troughton.” “Mine too! I dressed as Patrick Troughton for a convention once.”

We talked for the rest of the evening. It wouldn’t have mattered if the Beatles or Nirvana with a zombie Kurt Cobain was playing. The only sounds were heard were each other. Eight month later, we were married at the Mall of America, featured music by Kate Bush and Guns and Roses. As I think about the last decade, I have little, if anything to complain about. I watched two wonderful babies born into this world and saw a precocious four-year old become a world-ready pre-teen with enough smarts and sense to skip a math grade. What’s to complain about? I read all these self-centered tirades by media types thanking their stars the decade is over. To them, I ask one basic question: What in your life sucks so bad that you want to forget an entire decade?

According to the almighty media pundits and pontificators, we should all hate the era of 2000-2009 because of terrorists, war, natural disasters, the economy, job security and “Gigli.” Anyone who wants to travel in Mr. Peabody’s Wayback Machine or the TARDIS can find similar problems in any decade in modern history. Take your pick. The nineties had Iraq Part One, Columbine, a recession brought on by the S & L scandal, a lying head of state and at four movies starring Pauly Shore. Similar results are evident if one studies the previous decades as well. It’s all a matter of perception. If your life is better than it was ten years ago, then the “aughts” aught not to be taken with such sadness and despair. If your idea of a successful life revolves putting your investments and lifestyle in front of your family and kids, stop reading right now. Please step away from the computer. Find the nearest toilet. Insert head. Flush. Repeat.

Through the magic of Facebook and older means of communication such as talking, I have seen my friends go through good times and bad. They may have lost a job but I don’t know a single soul who chose to give up on their family or themselves. Their attitude in the face of adversity is stronger than bad guys on Wall Street or terrorists fastening bombs in their underpants. Pictures do not lie. Most of us have gotten married to someone they truly care about. Many have had children and are experiencing the joy, wonder, frustration, exhaustion and love they bring. The greatest of these, of course, is love. I see it every day. In pictures, videos and status updates. I see it in those who are taking their layoff time as an opportunity to spend with their kids. I see it in those who celebrate a party like they were teenagers but put their family first every day. I see us growing up, growing older but still being themselves. Despite the despair shoved down our throats by the media, I see nothing but positivity and hope. When I asked a good friend how he felt about having another child in the face of job loss, he answered: “I’m just lucky.” We should all feel that way. Every day, every decade.

Before we kiss off 2000-2009 into the wind, let us all think about how lucky we are. For one, we’re still here! We have friends and family we care for and care about us. That’s a stronger bond than any job, recession, war or Megan Fox movie could sever. Sure, there’s always things to complain about – it’s just our nature. However, what is good should outweigh the bad. If that equation doesn’t add up, it’s not too late to change the math. There’s a line from an old Jesus and Mary Chain song, “Head On” which states: “The way I feel tonight, I could die and I wouldn’t mind.” It’s the song that went through my head after I met my wife. If you are truly happy, you can feel yourself touch the cusp of heaven. Maybe these moments are memories or something you’ve just experienced. Like it or not, we’ve all had great moments in the last ten years and we are capable of so much more. Forget about the people and things bringing you down. We are so much bigger than all of it and - dammit! – we are better than our adversities. If our history has taught us anything, it is that human desire, ingenuity, passion and love will triumph if we are true to ourselves. The new decade has begun. Let’s blow the stars from the sky.

Why I Believe in Santa Claus

Despite continual claims to the contrary, there is little, if any doubt among able-minded people as to what Christmas is all about. We don’t need to drag old Linus out of retirement to provide us with another reminder. Christmas is (and always will be) a Christian holiday celebrating the birth of Jesus and general goodwill toward men. However, like Charlie Brown might lament, Christmas is often disguised as a crass commercial entity in which goodwill is tossed out the window like last year’s stocking and one does the best they can to deal with relatives they only have to tolerate once a year (usually involving extra egg nog). In the midst of all the good, bad and insane aspects of Christmas, there sits a jolly rotund man dressed in red making a list and checking it twice. For some, Santa Claus can be as controversial as the phrase war between “Merry Christmas” and “Happy Holidays.” For all the joy he brings to children around the world each year, there are many who question whether people – especially the young should believe in someone who may not exist at all. Santa’s residence, the North Pole, has been the subject of intense scrutiny by scientists. Is it possible for him to stay warm up there or is Santa’s house turning into a sauna?

Though many skeptics question the believability and possible effects of telling children that an overweight, immortal man flies around the world on Christmas Eve on a reindeer-driven sleigh to deliver presents to all good boys and girls, I, for one, do not. Think for a little bit about all the preposterous ideas we thrust upon children as they grow. Kids are taught from a young age that America lives in a democracy where we elect our own leaders fair and square, by the people for the people. Numerous political controversies and scandals have shown this ideal to be nothing but a sham regardless of ideologies. The right thinks the left is corrupt and vice versa. If one was to analyze the massive amount of political polling conducted on an almost daily basis, the one solid conclusion available is nobody trusts the government. Yet we tell children and ourselves it is our right and responsibility to participate in it. I think it’s safe to say politicians will disappoint more people than Santa.

Children are also taught that they should work hard when they get a job, spend and invest their money wisely and the economic system will reward their efforts. However, many people work too hard for too little and have seen their effort at work turn into an unexpected pink slip. Money saved from week to week in hope of providing a college education for their kids and a well-earned retirement vanished quicker than Santa’s ascendance from the chimney. Despite all evidence to the contrary, we still tell our kids this is the way to go. Are we not setting them up for an avalanche of reality later in life? Though economic collapses do pass and get better, they are still as annual as the seasons of the year. Santa Claus doesn’t fire you or lose your retirement in a ponzi scheme to build a better sleigh that never flies or has any presents.

Adults idolize athletes and pass their enthusiasm unto the young by taking them to games, buying posters and sports cards and encouraging them when they join a team. Many parents love sports and athletics so much their kids will do anything to reach a common interest with them. It is sad to say but 99 percent of all kids will not grow up and become the next Brett Farve, LeBron James or Joe Mauer. Yet this idolatry is encouraged by many as it does help one’s own performance to analyze the masters of the craft. Nevertheless, injuries, cuts and disappointments happen more often than they do not. If a child believes for years that they can really “make it” only to have that dream shattered, is this not a disservice to their concept of reality? When their heroes are discovered to be less than the image believed, whose fault is it for perpetuating the fallacy? No parent wants their child to become a cheater, a drug addict, an adulterer or a criminal yet pictures of athletes guilty of these faults adorn their rooms, lockers and Facebook pages. Santa doesn’t need steroids to enhance his sleigh, all he requires is belief.

Our children love rock and roll, movies and the culture of celebrity because we love it too. Is it really possible to play your kids a Rolling Stones concert and not talk about how cool Keith Richards is? Can we watch “The Dark Knight” and not discuss the death of Heath Ledger? We watch reality shows because it is fun to watch a train wreck but do we want out kids to aspire to such greatness as getting on the cast of “The Real World” or “The Hills?” If these are integral parts of our cultural mythology, then why do we shun Santa Claus?

Santa Claus is a pretty cool cat. He never disguises who he is or what he does. He watches over the good and bad in all of us, always choosing to side with the good. On one night, he transforms the scares we have in the dark into something magical. He gives presents even if we don’t deserve them. He sticks candy in stockings despite being diabetic. Santa is a hero in a world that won’t believe anymore. Yet he is still here, this December night, making his lists. Santa Claus is still here, despite all our cynicism. He is here for those who believe not just in him, but in the belief of us towards each other. I’d rather see my kids on Santa’s lap when they’re teenagers than encourage their belief in the other, more obvious fallacies of our society. They are more fake than Santa ever was or will be. I encourage everyone to tell their children to keep believing in Santa Claus, maybe even reignite that childhood spark of wonder within you. In a society with so few heroes and role models, we need the magic of Santa now more than ever.

Waking Up With Country

I’m not sure when I woke up, but I’m sure it started with a song. The morning milking was AM radio ringing in the house. It was five in the morning as I heard the radio ring. It was Boone and Erickson on WCCO AM and the songs my Daddy sang. It wasn’t easy, scratching the dust under my eyes. My Dad got up with a fire and a mission. I heard the “good morning” song on the radio and I watched my Dad get up. There were cows to be milked and Granddad was waiting. He sang the morning songs before the sun rose, songs meant to be sang as you grunted it out. As he showered, he was happy, the land which he farmed on was his and his father’s. The songs sung in affirmation to the world he lived in and was never going to be gone. I must have been four or five, when I rode with Dad on his tractor. We spread manure over the land and laughed at its splatter. I guess it was funny, when I volunteered to clean it off. To me, it was happiness seeing my family get along.

I remember the radio alongside the milk tank that I climbed. There must have been work to do, but to me it was just fun. It was a ride watching machines work, holding a lever just right. I don’t know if I helped anything but being a part of it was magical. I walked through the barn like a labyrinth, with trap doors and forts made of hay. I could hide and imagine adventures every day. The sounds and the daydreams in the hay were safe inside myself. It was a castle of straw, a world that hummed with the buzz of making something. I had my first adventures there as my Granddad tugged me down. We watched the milk fill the tank and he would tell me stories and jokes while we sat. As I sat on his lap, there was a calendar and a radio. Thirty years later, the calendar and the phone still sit like it was 1981. The barn is a hard room to go into for inside I see my past.

There was a sense of purpose, of prosper and happiness. Maybe it was just contentment and a grasp onto the past. The radio sang morning and another day with the cows. I guess it must be hard, getting kicked at all the time. It must have been harder to let go, hoping the future will be more fine. I miss my Dad, milking cows and swearing strong. I miss my Granddad, laughing as he went along. Granddad always had a big perspective. What is broken could be fixed. To this day I miss his smile and his magic of fixing a problem just by poking at its innards. If he ever got mad, he never showed it to me. Granddad gave me the wonder of farming while my Dad busted his ass.

My Dad and Granddad worked well together, a yin to a yang. They could always solve a problem, one way or another. I remember when I was nineteen years old, helping Granddad fix tractors in the shed and he was so proud of me. He gave me the rope and I ran with it. We bought repair parts and I saw him turn on his charm. It was so fun to be there, inside his warmth. A few years later I was helping him work on a tractor and he told me in sadness that he didn’t have the strength anymore. That admission did not stop him from trying and make me love him all the more for admitting it. He didn’t quit. My father won’t either. When I start one of our tractors, I feel them both inside me.

I am alone on the John Deere 4020 tractor as my Dad combines. I feel the air around me and I feel Granddad. He’s talking baseball or girls to me with a gold-toothed grin. No matter the weather, he always knows it works out in the end. I always look to the side of my tractor and see him there. He’s there keeping me company while I wait and guiding me while I unload my wagon. My Grandma makes the same sandwiches, with the same love and care. In the open air of the field, I feel it all within me. Despite how hard it can be and the animosity that comes with the field, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

There’s always an argument between fathers and sons. A simultaneous need to teach and to love. To criticize and approve. I don’t think this philosophy has been any different for generations. We want our children to learn from us and improve on our mistakes. We also don’t want them to fail. Maybe that’s why fathers have that loud voice. I used to hear my Dad and Grandpa yell at each other. Usually it was a disagreement of how something should be fixed or how best to go about what they agreed previously about fixing. Sometimes, one would walk away, angry and confident in their belief. It never lasted long, a day at the most to cool heads and realize that nobody was really wrong. Emotions can get to you sometimes, more so if they build up. It takes an eruption to calm a volcano. After the dust is settled, there are still two guys working together. I saw that with my Dad. I think my Granddad is still there with us when we get mad. A child of the depression has seen far worse than auger placement and branch cutting. He could just say our names: “Michael! Adam!” and it would be enough to check ourselves and get straight. Granddad spoke to both of us a night ago. I’m pretty damn sure my Dad and I both saw his deep blue eyes and arms holding his crutches firmly. He didn’t need to say anything, the thought of him brought us back together. His words were what my Dad and I heard inside. There is no giving up, not now, not ever.

Granddad is with my Dad and I when we drive around the county looking at crops. Sometimes Dad tells the stories out of his mouth, about the land and who owns it. We drive and look at the hills and valleys slowly. I feel Granddad in the truck with us, wondering what he would point out or what joke he would tell. But I also know that he sees a new time, when there is a grandson who is a now a father, a father who is now a Granddad and a little boy and girl who would love to be taken on that long ride. I hope he sees his great grandchildren rolling down the hills, playing in the dirt and climbing the tractors he drove for many years. Even today, my son asks about who he was and it makes me think of the times my Granddad, my father and I had harvesting together. Although the road is not easy, I hope my kids see the paths paved by their ancestors. To take a steep breath at the top of a hill overlooking a lake, sled down a hill into a snow bank, make a baseball field out of abandoned buildings, climb a hayloft looking for trap doors, fish by the lake at five in the morning, listen to a Twins baseball game beneath the trees as the sun sets, dig a cave into a snowdrift with your dog or cat, explore all the silos with mice and spiders, put the tractor in one gear faster than needed, screw up a few times but have it forgiven and sit at the end of the day on Granddad’s old step stool.

The barn has no cows. The hay loft is thirty years old. The spirit is still there as long as there’s someone to hold onto it. Things break – we fix it. If we break - we should fix it. The machinery gets older but the manual stays the same. The radio still plays in the morning. It plays the same song that was heard thirty years ago. It’s the song my Granddad heard as he smoked his pipe milking cows. It is in the shed as my kids pick up the air compressor and make art out of dirt as their father did thirty years ago. When my father and I close the shed doors for the night, it is not an end, but a beginning. Locking the doors is not for yesterday, but for tomorrow. As I leave the shed, I always look up at the sign my Dad put up after my Grandpa died. In handwritten black paint, an autograph of Earl Koeppe. My Granddad. My Dad’s father. It isn’t a remembrance but an inspiration: Never give up! Laugh along the way! Life may be hard but it is short. Enjoy the harvest and reap the knowledge and dreams past from generation to generation. Pass your ancestors’ stories to your own descendants, so their legacy fills the land and air we breathe. They are the best crop you will ever sow, the kind that lasts forever.

Artifacts

My grandparents’ house is a fascinating place. Seemingly out of time, almost everything in it is 25 years old or older, except for a cable box purchased in anticipation of the end of analog broadcasts. The refrigerator, stove, bedrooms and dining room remain similar as I have always remembered. An era where radios were furniture with lamps and magazines on an oak top preserved like an interactive protest against time itself. The record player is over thirty years old yet still contains the original receipt and warranty inside. My grandfather passed away eleven years ago and much of the house has stopped since his passing. Storage boxes surround the foot of his bed, stacked in haphazard fashion, but his ashtray is beside the bed next to the same brown rectangular clock, which has kept time for decades. Occasionally, I take a nap or sleep in the bed and I always feel his smell and aura around me.

Recently, I brought my two little ones to visit Great Grandma. Although the house is too small for their enthusiasm, they seem to enjoy it tremendously. There are always cookies in the kitchen, chips in the living room and ice cream in the freezer. Upon arriving, my son, Shane was intent on breaking into the door leading to the attic steps, an endeavor attempted many times by yours truly when I was his age. The door is a pathway to the past, a means to access the unknown somethings which connect us through time. Shane pulled away the boxes blocking the door, intent on finding a box of toys I’d found a year earlier. The box contained toys from my childhood, things I probably played with while the rest of the world was jiving to the Bee Gees.

Shane dived in and pulled out a Fisher Price toy T.V. It played scrolling pictures to “London Bridges” and “Row Your Boat.” Winding the tuning knob caused the pictures to move and the music to play. He was fascinated by this primitive music box, wondering how the knob he turned could cause the music to play. While he played with it, I realized I knew basically how the toy worked. Spring, rubber band and torque? I wasn’t sure if I was right but at least I had an explanation. I have no idea how “Tickle Me Elmo” works and part of me never wants to. My toys from thirty years ago captivated him as he went back to the attic steps for another. He pulled out a Tonka Toys tractor with a working loader and bucket. Shane asked how it worked and my Dad and I demonstrated the levers which lifted the loader and emptied the bucket. He was happy with the answer, which is better than I could hope to describe how the DVD player operates. His excavation continued from the box and around the house, resulting in wood nesting puzzles, a hand-made cloth book and a magnifying glass. Eventually, he came across a metal bar with two wheels in the front and back.
“What’s that, Daddy?”
“It’s a car.”
“No it’s not,” said Dad. “That’s a pulley for a barn door.”
“Granddad always said it was a car.”

A pulley pulls the curtain open to a ballet of memories. A music box is the key to the universe twirling in the mind. Bouncing on the bed, ring around the rosie, hiding under covers afraid of monsters – and the monsters attack! A doll that opens its eyes if you love it that much. An imagination filled with a hug, a kiss and nursery rhymes.

A baby grandfather clock sits on the fireplace mantle. It hasn’t chimed in years but I hear its echo now. Grandma had let it go quiet, the quarter hour signal silenced. White ceiling paint peels above it, an implicit signal of the breaking of the past, a desire not to fix, but leave behind. She will be ninety-one this year and longs for a world that was probably just as corrupt, but a little easier to believe in. Connected to my Grandfather in an eternal, ethereal bond, which one has with a true love, a feeling that flows through time and space, past and future. The instinct which bonds us with one other, the one we’re supposed to spend time with. A decade is a long time to wait for a connection, a signal that the little something called love lasts forever.

The echo of the clock became a noise. Grandma found a new energy as my little two year old, Romana, pulled her from room to room, bouncing on the beds with gleeful abandon. Shane is grabbing cookies, taking marshmallows from the stovetop and somersaulting on the carpet. The stagnant clock rewinds, cracks in the ceiling are sealed as the house becomes filled with smiles and laughter. I could smell my grandfather’s pipe in the air. What was old is eternally new, present and alive. I laid back in his chair, taking in the timeslip as I had many times since his passing. Transcending time is like watching a waterfall. It flows with metronome momentum, occurring continually throughout the conscious. These are the places we’re meant to be at because we’ve always been there, the places that are pure as the first breath we take.

It is still close to impossible for me to picture Grandma at ninety-one. To me, she is still the person I could see gazing out of the kitchen window, washing dishes, watching me play in the sandbox or mow the lawn with Grandpa. The person who gave me a bowl of vanilla ice cream with chocolate on top and played Rummy and Pinochle with me for hours was the same person that Saturday. Time may be cruel but it also can be kind, providing mirror-flashes of faces un-aged and bodies still vibrant. We are only as old as the images of ourselves reflected in our subconscious. I smelled the pipe tobacco of Grandpa. Maybe it’s real, maybe it’s not but I relished it just the same. I think Grandma felt it too, that day. I’ve had this feeling before, a sense of a distant world gone by seeping into the present, almost always at the farm but there are other waterfalls flowing into the river of reality but the only one I can verify is the farm I grew up on. There are places and moments that put you out of time, into a spectrum wider than existence itself. These instincts could be chalked up to déjà vu, divine intervention or delusions of grandeur. I cannot claim to know, only that I suspect many of us have these experiences as well. It’s our choice if we accept them or bury them inside.

As I left the farmhouse, I looked across the lake and inhaled the crisp air. It felt old, new yet changing and evolving. Simultaneously, I felt like I was in 1959, 1969, 1979, 1989, 1999 and 2009 and all the years in-between. The universe is intertwined in ways so intricate we can barely comprehend them in our wildest fantasies. I can take my Fisher Price T.V., rewind the boat and float gently down the stream. My Grandma experiences this every day when she thinks about her life spent with Grandpa, the family and friends who are passed on, yet through the power of memory they continue to breathe. Like artifacts in a museum on display, memories are an idolization of the past, a pretense of the present and a portent of the future. Although she is often alone, I hope Grandma is in good company with her past, greeting each new day with a desire that the present isn’t so dire and the future gives her a hug when they say goodbye. As she falls asleep in her rocking chair, Granddad is still there smoking his pipe and making sure she is all right. It is the comfort of a life well led and loved which overcomes the void, the feeling that you’re never really alone as long as someone loves you throughout eternity.