thewritingprofessor55

Hello from Mallard,

In the last couple days, while driving to Pocahontas for appointments or to Emmetsburg for errands the memories of a decade ago, to the day, came flooding back. I had driven back to Menomonie from the fall semester teaching in Bloomsburg. I needed to take Lydia to a couple doctors’ appointments, and I would be traveling after Christmas for my first visit to Poland, something that had been arranged by a former student who happened to be Polish as well as by her father, who, while also Polish, divided his time between the States and his Slavic homeland. It was the typical much-colder in Wisconsin, and staying in Lydia’s third floor, the Upper Sanctum as I dubbed it, was cold and had a monastic vibe to it.

When I got to Comforts of Home (COH) to see Lydia, I was stunned by the degree her health had deteriorated since a previous visit earlier that fall. And in spite of the strong care by the staff and really thoughtful and consistent communication with the administrator of the facility, I was not prepared for what I would find in the little room at the end of the right back corridor. Dementia had turned the brain this brilliant economic professor and polyglot into Swiss cheese, and those holes caused numerous seizures. This whirling dervish, two-digit midget (no offense meant to smaller people as I called her this in person) was less than a shell of the person I had first met on the Circle a decade earlier. As I took her to her PCP appointment, she was no longer the person who would chase down her doctor if she waited too long. She was no longer the woman, who in spite her diminutive stature, could, and would, control an entire room. In fact, barely two weeks ago I was in Menomonie, and when her name was mentioned, the gentleman noted she had been her professor. He said unapologetically that she was one of the toughest professors he ever had. Lydia was now reduced to sitting listlessly in her wheelchair, covered by her blanket, while the deteriorating brain matter subjected her to mere existence and general exhaustion because the seizures that wracked her body created incredible pain, which zapped her. On an ironic note, the dementia caused her to forget that experience regardless of how many times it happened.

When we arrived at the doctor’s office that day, Lydia’s change from the incredible take-charge person she had once been was on full-display as she was a present, but non-participant, person in her own health discussion. In spite of her physicians continued profound care, she was incognizant of where she was or what was happening. Even now, as had always been my experience with her doctor, his concern was to offer me both the most caring and appropriate advice and counsel possible. Our conversation was honest and informative as I tried to make the most caring choices for her. It was my responsibility (now both morally and legally). He explained options and reasons for everything I could choose to do. What I learned once again was both his medical acumen, but more importantly the unparalleled compassion he held for every person who entered his care. I was her POA, but in someways I was as much of a patient as she was, and he knew that. His care in providing me the best way to supply for her the most thoughtful possibility at such a crucial time has never been unrecognized. His exceptional goodness as a physician, as a human being is something I still see today. He is one of the few Renaissance people I have ever met. Upon leaving his office, I called her care facility and asked both the administrator and staff RN to wait for our return. I wanted them to know what our change for her care would be.

As we returned in the van to Lydia’s home of the past 3+ years, I still struggled with what choice was best. Her doctor had provided a choice, but he also explained what and why the choice was offered. He used his own family’s experience as a basis. The choice chosen was to discontinue some medication, to increase the dosage of the seizure medication to keep them more at bay, and to offer a medication for pain. That was the choice I made. I did not want her to continue having these incredible body-wrenching episodes, and it mattered not if she remembered them. That sort of pain was inhumane for me for anyone. The irony of the next morning for Lydia’s choice for daily life still shocks me. That Saturday morning she went to breakfast as normal. They had helped her dress and brought her to the central gathering place for her morning meal. She sort of picked at her food that morning, and shortly afterwards, stated , non-characteristically, “I want to go back to bed.” Abiding her wishes, she returned to her room; they redressed her in a warm nightgown, and soon she was comfortably in bed. Unbeknownst to us, except to shower or use her restroom, Lydia would not leave her room again. That day her additional medication was administered, and what became a vigil began.

In the days ahead, the Staff and Aides at COH provided the most incredible care to the little tornado who was the second person to live in their amazing facility. They had cared and supported her and me on this tremendously arduous journey, seeing the transformation from a person who wanted to help with everything to a person who needed help with everything. The administrator cared for her as she would her own grandmother, even crawling into the shower to help her bath in those last days. I watched and marveled as Lydia would refuse water to watching her point into the corner and speak in Polish to the apparitions only she could see. It was during that time this blog would become the significant element in my writing it remains today. It was the way I could chronicle the end of a life that began in Austria, grew in the Sudetenland, would move to London, marry a Polish concentration camp survivor, and together immigrate to Chicago with “two suitcases and a hundred dollars.” She lived a commuter marriage and became a trusted and respected faculty member at the university, and left a memorable path everywhere she went. Those next days were both comforting and tragic as I watched her physical body continue to fade, working to catch the mental person who had long since departed, though there were moments she would surprise us with clarity.

On Christmas Eve day, as I sat at her bedside, I wrote about what I was witnessing, expecting (you can actually scroll down in the interface here, and read those blogs from December of 2014) and playing Christmas music softly on my laptop. She began to speak in Polish and pointed to the corner. I asked her if George (her husband) was there and she nodded affirmatively as her “tak, tak” became more insistent. At a quiet moment, I inquired softly, “Lydia, are you ready to go home?” Hoping she might say tiredly, but appropriately (or so it seemed), “yes’.” Instead, she looked straight at me and replied distinctly (and in her Austrian accent), No!” I simply stared at her. In the six days what had transpired since her appointment, she now ate little or nothing, was too stubborn to drink water, and she slept much more, but she still knew what she wanted. Lydia was no a fan of Christmas, and I secretly feared she would die Christmas Day to haunt me forever. That did not happen; she actually died on New Year’s Day, which her accountant noted was the best day tax-wise to pass away. I have noted to some she probably knew that and planned accordingly.

During the 27th and 28th of December, as her fragility became more apparent, I spent 16-18 hours a day in her room, both because I did not want her alone, but also because I knew I soon had to leave for Poland, the country of her husband. Fortunately, the co-caretaker of her, a former student of mine, a member of the USCG, and his incredible family drove up from North Carolina to take over the vigil. As I spent my final hours with her before I would drive to MSP’s airport, the reality of what was to occur hit me hard. She had become my parent; I had become her chauffeur, her yard boy, her snow-removal person, her personal chef, and perhaps most of all, the never-existent child; I was her guardian, her companion, and in someways the spouse she had lost 20 years before. Before I left a final time, I sat on the floor next to her bed, softly weeping for the loss that was unavoidable. She had slept a great majority of the day, but suddenly, I felt her hand on my shoulder. With tear-filled eyes, I turned to look at her. She smiled faintly, and rubbed my head. I said, haltingly, “You became my mother.” She simply said, “I know.”Then I said, “I love you,” and she responded, “ I love you too, and she closed her eyes. There were no better words we could have exchanged. As she went back to sleep, I went back to the house on the Circle to get my things (already packed). It was snowing steadily, so the trip to the cities would be a little concerning. As I left the house, I decided to return to COH on more time. Tears streamed down my face as I walked to her corner room. I entered quietly and she was sleeping, her breathing shallow. I walked softly to her side and gently kissed her forehead, whispering, “Goodbye, Lydia; I love you.” I walked out of her room and sat in the gathering room that was outside her room where I sat and wept. There was no way I could drive in that moment.

New Year’s Eve day, I was in Kraków, Poland, and standing in the church where Pope John Paul II had served as Cardinal Karol Wojtyła, the Archbishop of Kraków. As I stood before one of the auxiliary altars in the beautiful church, I lit a candle and I prayed a simple and fervent prayer. I knew back in Menomonie, some 4,725 miles and eight time zones away, Nathan and family had taken over the vigil. In fervent supplication, I asked, God, and George, please convince her it is time to come home.” I left the church believing I was heard. Early on the 2nd of January, but still New Year’s Day in Wisconsin. Lydia passed quietly in her sleep with both Nathan and the wonderful administrator by her side. In the decade since her passing, my life has been transformed in many ways, but as she was transformative for me in way too many to count. I still miss her. One of her favorite groups, of course, was the Vienna Boys Choir. The video below is in her honor. I found a picture of her from 10 years ago to the day, but the picture above is how I prefer to remember her.

I hope the memories of those you love will bring you comfort in this season of Advent, and this Sunday of the Angel’s Candle. Thank you as always for reading.

Michael

Hello from the couch on an icy December evening,

It is before 6:00 p.m., and it’s been dark for an hour or more. We are rapidly approaching the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere, but the cold and dark will be here for some time, and it is easy to want to hibernate. I understand why people went to sleep much earlier in the past. I find my desire to be up and doing something later, particularly when it is so dark, quickly wanes when there is neither light nor heat. I am still acclimating to the daily constant and gusting winds, the flatness of the area (which, of course, contributes to the wind), and temperatures that I did not experience in North Central Pennsylvania (single digit temps and below zero windchills already); And we are not technically in winter yet. The weekend saw freezing rain and this morning had schools on a two-hour delay, which always pleases students. Additionally, there is the aroma of agriculture, a farm ambience, which is not unfamiliar, but it is also not recently experienced. Simultaneously, there is a beauty to the rich, harvested fields as the sun rises and sets. Some of the most brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows are stunning on those clear days.

One of the things I struggle to respond to appropriately is mediocrity, the willingness of people to be content to merely get by. Before I travel too far down this path, let me admit up front: too often in my early life, I was that person. I did just enough to stay out of my mother’s oversized doghouse. What I learned was Cs were sufficient. I did not get scolded for that. In retrospect, that became my modus operandi. If I enjoyed the class, or, more likely, the instructor, I would do quite well. In fact, I did really well in AP classes and average – and sometimes below – which would open the door to the doghouse. However, I seldom remember anyone pushing me to change my process or raise my own bar to increase my effort. The irony of some of that became apparent when I went back to my 50th high school reunion two summers ago. There were classmates who found it completely predictable that I ended up in academe. I was stunned and they told me I was so intelligent. That was not the word I would have expected. Small, good natured, personable would characterize what I thought. Smart, perhaps, but intelligent . . . Not so much. My first memorable indication I might be more than average was when I was in the Marine Corps. I did exceptionally well in communication and electronics school, so well I was initially accused of cheating, and my military test scores were high enough I qualified for the Platoon Leaders Course, which would have set me on a path to a commission. And yet, none of that stuck and as I’ve noted in other posts, I failed in my first attempt at college. My father did admonish his 16 year-old underachieving son at one moment with a simple, but pointed statement. As I lounged on the couch one day, he stood above me with his matter-of-fact manner. And with a level tone, he calmly stated, “Anyone can be average, that’s why it is.” And he turned and walked away. That was the only time he would ever really say anything related to academics, but for him this was as much about life as any book I would ever open.

Looking back with a more critical eye, there was one particular educator, one I had almost every year in a class from 8th grade until I graduated, who inspired me to learn and excel. He was a history teacher both at Riverside and West High School. Immensely proud of his Norwegian heritage, and as passionate about the Minnesota Vikings, Mr. Larry Flom imparted wisdom, kindness, and humor into every class, as well as every day you had his class. Many of his quirks, his sayings, and his interchanging of word for another remain with me a half century later. The Union was the onion; his standing up in the middle of class and puffing out his chest to bellow, “Norrwayyy” is as clear to my mind to day as it was in his class. His given place as the chain gang in a football game or his participation in the Siouxland Male Nordic Chorus offered insight into the other ways he offered his kindness and talent beyond the classroom. To this day, I owe him a debt of gratitude for being able to reach a wandering, directionless, undersized, and often frightened kid. It is his work that created a life-long learner and lover of history, which would become one of my majors in college.

And yet, the seeds that Mr. Flom planted would remain dormant for some time. My desire to move beyond that long-practiced “it’s good enough” would not really change until I was a freshman at Dana College. By that time, I was in my mid-20s; I had failed in my first foray into academics, and I was petrified I was not “smart enough” to make it. That first semester my fear focused me to study like crazy. Second semester, my Humanities 107 course, and my interest in an incredibly talented and brilliant other freshman led to study hours in the library and her ability to be a strong student pushed me to work even more diligently. I actually remember someone in the Registrar’s Office noting how profoundly capable she was when they found out I had been spending time with her. And so, by the end of my freshman year at Dana, I, for the first time, actually engaged with my academics. My sophomore year, while a bit bumpy, immersed me in the humanities program at Dana, and my travels to Europe for interim changed my life. Education was being a sponge; it was so much more than memorizing facts, formulas, and dates. It was soaking it up and thinking about how it all fit together. It was thinking critically, analyzing things carefully, and it was attempting to understand its relevance. Dr. John W. Nielsen’s humanities program, and his mentorship set me on the path of scholarship. I did not realize it at the time, but that traipsing around Europe with the Pope in January of 1981 would change me forever. My father’s admonishment finally made sense.

Throughout my time in the classroom, from my first experience with an exchange student when I was in high school until my last experiences as a host for exchange students, I can state with certainty that European students I have encountered have been much better critical thinkers and integrators than we as American students seem to be. I have often wondered why that is, and I do not believe there is a single answer, but I do believe their work to integrate and their general lack of busy work and merely meeting standards, their work that integrates everything into a final exam. This integration requirement is essential to life, I believe. It appears, and I saw this regularly in the last years teaching, that our willingness to spoon-feed requirements and then teach them how to pass has created a generation of too many wanting a recipe-card for their life. This fosters the average-is-good-enough, the very thing my father rejected, and leaves us with some really nice people with no idea of how to think critically, analyze thoroughly, or integrate what they know carefully or intentionally. That is concerning.

And yet, in spite of my concerns for many things, I wonder if some of the geniuses being tapped by the President-elect might use their extraordinary talent for the good of all. That would be a phenomenal thing. Perhaps that is my own idealism. Perhaps this is a mere pipe dream. As I move into the last days of the calendar year, I find myself finishing a year of profound change, but also one of opportunity. The next months will push me to think in ways I never have, to learn things I have never attempted, and hopefully, next summer, the bus and I will be on the road. Last night, Julie, my incredible cousin, and her talented and humorous husband, Gavin, and I went to see Pentatonix. It was spectacular. The initial picture is my teacher, Mr. Larry Flom, and the video below, though old, is one of my favorite pieces of the Pentatonix repertoire.

Thank you for reading, and I wish you a blessed Christmas.

Michael

Hello from a driving break,

I am a creature of habit, of that there is little room for doubt. Therefore, I am in a Starbucks on Duff Avenue in Ames, Iowa, on my way over the hills, with little or no woods, and to the relatives’ house we go. As noted by a seminary classmate by phone earlier this morning, and certainly as experienced since my return, memories can be a double-edged reminder of who we were versus who we are. They can transport us back to that time. Yet, how we remember things versus how others see that time can be quite different. There is nothing wrong with those diverse perceptions, those retrospections, but the divergence can catch us off guard. Too often our hopes or expectations are colored by our individual attempts to gratify ourselves by those previous experiences, be they with a place or a person. I know I am guilty of this, not as a sort of conscious reframing of the past, but wishing most often for the best possible spin or outcome of our past. The propensity for such might be elevated at this time of year because of our romanticism of the holiday season. Lines of Dan Fogelberg’s “Auld Lang Syne” are rolling through my head at the moment. Undoubtedly, there is a wish the fairy tale we believe or chosen to create, to remember, is possible. Too often I find myself remembering only specific things that make the reminiscing enjoyable, believing it can be the same. Seldom, however, is that the case. Indeed, Fogelberg’s lyrics are poignant reminders “lost in our embarrassment as the conversation dragged” . . . “And tried to reach beyond the emptiness . . . Just for a moment . . . And the snow turned into rain”.

As many know, I love Christmas decorations, creating the fairy tale home where giving has no boundaries. Of all the things I have purchased, there is one 2’x2’ square somewhat barn-board style painting of small boy dragging a Christmas tree back to his home in the snow, which is my favorite. It is my fairy tale in image form. Christmas vacation as an elementary-school-aged boy meant spending a week at Grandma’s house following Christmas. Snow, new presents, toboggans, and hanging out at the bakery, each of those memories is delightful. Morning breakfasts of poached eggs, bakery bread, and a half of grapefruit, which remains my comfort food to this day, began each morning on a positive note. What made the holiday time so special was the generosity and love displayed by my grandmother. It was limitless. I think it was her way of asking for some forgiveness that she found it necessary earlier in life that adoption was a more likely path forward for my sister and me. Part of that adoption was she would remain our grandparent, and she embraced that role with every ounce of her being. My grandmother’s home was not extravagant; it was a two bedroom, two story house at the end of a street in a decidedly blue collar section of my city, and there were more fields than houses around her. Those hills and fields were our playground and our safe haven. As I write this, it is the first day of Advent, a season of preparation, of hope, and of light that shines into a darkness that covers both more hours of our day, but it can also illuminate a world that seems to struggle with the ability to exhibit kindness. Kindness is not always an easy thing to manage; I know this in my own life, but it is a necessary trait if we are to be hopeful as we go about our life.

What I realize now is my grandmother’s indubitable charity is who she was. It was always there in how she treated her bakery employees, in how she gave to her church and her chapter of Eastern Star, and in how she loved us all unconditionally. In spite of the fogginess of other memories, which come with time, the clarity of her graciousness shines through as the brightly lit Advent wreath that adorns houses and sanctuaries during this season. It was my first trip to Europe with Dr. John W. Nielsen, which opened my eyes to the reality of Advent and the idea of preparing for the true Christmas season (those 12 days from the 25th of December until Epiphany, January 6th). The reality of allowing each liturgical season to do what it does can be helpful for the soul. The truth of preparedness is something I’ve come to appreciate. In all of life, we will be hit with the unexpected. We will be tested when our memories of someone or someone do not fit with the given we experience in the present. This is painful and disconcerting. It requires us to reimagine, to rethink, the past, or more precisely to let the past go. That is not something easily achieved, especially when we like what we remember. That gets me to the title of the post. As time passes, are all memories merely our perceptions of what was? Is there only a minimal degree of actuality to those childhood recollections? Is it our way of minimizing the disappointments we might have experienced? These are difficult questions, but necessary if we are to be honest with ourselves and with others.

Sometimes it is easy to become disillusioned by the struggles of our humanity, by what Paul calls doing the evil we hate. And yet, the promise of Advent is there is a light on the horizon, a light that the darkness cannot overcome. It is in that hope I can find some comfort, some belief in a sense of peace that transports me back to that childhood of Christmas magic. The memories of a giving grandmother who epitomized the true spirit of generosity, of kindness, and actions that backed up her boundless love for us. As I woke this morning, there was an unexpected layer of snow, gentle, light and glistening. The air was crisp and the cold was noticeable, but manageable because of the calmness. There was a pureness to the morning as the snow covered the empty fields, as it lay undisturbed yet by our humanity. While it is also a harbinger of the colder Midwestern temperatures I know typical, the morning transported me back to the memories of the hills and fields I noted above. Often we think of the winter as a time of hibernation for plants and animals, but I think some of my fondest memories are found in the snow. My colleague’s son, who attends Michigan Tech, where I spent so much time and received my PhD, sent a picture with a measuring tape in the snow. They were at 30” and counting. I loved that part of living there. With an average annual snowfall of over 8-9 feet, living with and in the snow was a fact of life. For the better part of a decade I lived in the snow-globe world of the Keweenaw, and I learned to both respect and revel in its winter beauty. I remember during my first year, my Toyota 4Runner slid off the road while driving to preach one Sunday morning. In spite going down a rather steep embankment, the 4Runner, which was buried to its windows, sustained no damage because the snow was light and fluffy. Even more amazing, someone took me to the church, and when I came out from the final service, there was my vehicle waiting for me. Two parishioners and a semi had pulled it back onto the road and delivered it. This still amazes me almost 30 years later.

As we work our way through this first few days of the Advent season, we think about the ending of a calendar year, but it is the beginning of the church year, and the year of Luke for those who follow the 3 year lectionary. Perhaps that is apropos for a world who seems so in need of healing. Much of our traditional Christmas story comes from Luke’s gospel, and those are the memories of our childhood, if you were church-going, where we stood in our bathrobes as shepherds, wondering who would be chosen to be Mary, or perhaps, like one Christmas Eve, I was asked to read from the Bible in front of all those people. For me, winter and Advent are inseparable, and they bring me joy and hope. In spite of the extensive darkness that is part of our upper Northern Hemisphere, I am not sad. I am reminded that often it is only in the darkness we can truly appreciate the light and what it offers. This is not some cliché that I write, it is a realty for me. While there can be a degree of fogginess to our holiday memories, I hope you find blessedness in them and may you create some new ones that will bless you and those around you. This piece by the incomparable Mannheim Steamroller bring those blessed memories to me like few pieces do.

Thank you as always for reading,

Michael

Hello from the farm,

The reality of typing that is setting in as I look out the windows of my cousin’s farm house. I see harvested fields as far as the eye can see. Gone are the mountains and the topography of the Poconos, where I have spent (in total) about a third of my life. Indeed, looking that up, I have spent more time in Pennsylvania than I have in my home state, the place I call home. That was a bit of a shock when I thought about it. Certainly the number of people I know most intimately, have spent the most time with, and have shared more than just moments with are far more numerous than my Iowa connections, and yet those Iowa connections know the boy I was. Recently, as many know, I posted my high school senior picture, I was certainly a youngster. That summer I worked two jobs and lived at my grandmother’s house in Leeds. It was the beginning of when I started to detach from my adopted home. It was the genesis of when I began a journey that still continues, though much has been achieved. I realized for the first time, and to a great degree that I felt alone, as if I had no home. Certainly I had a house in which I stayed, and a family (or people) around me every day. At that time, I am not sure I could articulate what I can now. What I knew is I spent much of my time walking gingerly . . . treading lightly to avoid the wrath of the mother in the house. Too often I failed, but I learned to remove myself even though present. That senior year I was learning to navigate a new school, finishing my studies, and trying to imagine what post-graduation would bring.

Now it is more than a half century later. That reality in itself is a bit mind boggling. My perception of the world, of my life, and yes, my memories of Iowa are very different from that 16-17 year old child, and indeed, I was a child. When I take the time to ponder my Iowa departure, it was a time to run away. It was a time of searching and trying to figure out where I fit, where I belonged, and perhaps if I belonged anywhere at all. One of the reoccurring threads in my blog is having a sense of place. Iowa is home for me, but what makes it so? It is about more than geography, and it is certainly more than experience. As I come back, I wonder how I fit into this more rural location, what a country song refers to as a fly-over state. Sioux City, when growing up was the 2nd or 3rd largest city in the state. I am not sure where it stands now, but I am sure the Quad Cities, Cedar Rapids, and, of course, Des Moines are larger. And while I did some work on farms, I was not a farm kid. And yet, in the few days here, I am feeling comfortable, relaxed, and still focused.

Today, the bug is off the dolly; the dolly is in the horse barn, and the bus is sitting outside it’s soon to be home for the next months. The first few days of administrative necessity is done and it seems all those things are managed. There are some things like Starlink, that has been activated and need to be set up. There is the cleaning out and rearranging the shed (Audrie’s temporary home) to prepare the build space, and there is the actual unloading of the bus. All of that will happen over the next couple days . . .

A couple days have passed and I am still working on the project above. Hopefully today, but since I last worked on this post, I have driven to Waukesha, WI, back to Menomonie, and at the end of the week, I am back in Mallard. Completing some visits, surprising long-time friends, sharing times in a cemetery, and reminiscing were all parts of the last few days. It was (appropriate for the time of year) a cornucopia of events, emotions, and experiences. I did experience, and it was emotional for me, the new movie, Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Spy, Assassin. It is an incredible film that does a really masterful job of managing the complexity of Bonhoeffer’s life, theology, and choices. Of course, writing a dissertation about him affects my perspective. For those who do not know of Bonhoeffer, it might be easier to misinterpret to fall into some particular perspective of his work and intention.

Much of what I am experiencing, not only in my recent trip, but in my daily existence, seems to be a full-circle return to my roots, not just in multiple geographic places, but through people, in my emotions, or likewise in some of my wrapping it all together experientially. Additionally, in the midst of it all, we have less than 40 days left in a calendar year. My return to Iowa was a possibility at the beginning of the year, and imagining travel was also rattling around in the ether of possibility, but the decision to buy a shuttle and embark on a bus build was not really anywhere in my thought process. I will admit I am both excited and overwhelmed by such a process. I can appreciate the space needed to undertake such a project, and preparing both in terms of tools and physical space is what I am working on this week. Even arranging tools in a way to expedite my work is part of my consideration. I probably need to purchase a couple things to manage safety also. A good pair of wrap-around safety googles are a first piece. Considering a good pair of coveralls to save on daily clothing too. As I have noted, I am treading in new waters, feeling a little like dog paddling.

As I continue to write from the Iowa cornfield, now dotted with turbines, I will be going to my brother’s side of the family for the Thanksgiving holiday. Earlier this year, I stayed at my sister-in-law’s home. There was a moment as I sat in her dining room, at my grandmother’s dining room table, looking at the buffet I remembered as a child. I will be around that table this week, and that connection to the earliest moments of my life will not go unnoticed. Leeds, and 4547, as it was known by my grandmother’s elder , sister, are my first memories of life, even though I was probably close to two. It was the home where I felt more loved, cared for, and safe than any other time in my life. That table and the people gathered around it are perhaps my most precious recollections of my entire childhood, if not my life. The evocation of drives to the South Dakota farm known as Happy Acres (ironic I just connected it to calling my house in Bloom the Acre) for holidays or vacations are important to me as I find myself back in rural America. There is the recollection of a 1957 Chevy blowing a piston on the way to Volin, South Dakota (I think that might have been one of the last Chevrolets my father ever owned.). There are other significant growing-events that are swirling through my head at the moment, but they bring joy as I consider my Midwestern roots. Perhaps the difference, besides the obvious ones of time or aging, is the appreciation I have that was not anything that occurs in the moment. As we gather, I am reminded of those I know who might spend this week somewhat isolated, feeling less than thankful. It reminds me that our world can be difficult; it can be tough and seemingly uncaring. There are moments we do not respond as thoughtfully, productively, helpfully as we might or should. As I return to my roots, there are those times I am unsure of the path, unprepared for what is to come, but returned I have. Whether I am a prodigal is perhaps up for debate, but it’s nice to be home.

Thanks as always for reading,

Michael

Hello on a Saturday evening,

I remain in Bloomsburg certainly a couple weeks beyond my expected departure date, and with perhaps two more weeks to go. The subjunctive mood perhaps is because I honestly have no real concrete, predictable, date of the installing of a correct transmission and what will follow to be on the road. I am hoping by November 1st, but I will not hold my breath. Without an iota of doubt, I know I am at the mercy of schedules, hurricanes, and freight companies. On a positive note, however, the new windows arrived and are currently installed. That is a major piece of creating a livable space as I travel. Additionally, still being here made managing the wedding that I was part of this week much less arduous. And spending time in Sullivan County (the Northern tier of Pennsylvania) was quite spectacular in mid-October. Spending time with my former student on her special day, being blessed to be accepted as a family member by her parents and grandparents, made the day even more memorable for all.

As I write this we are 17 days from the official Election Day, though I have little confidence we will go to bed that night knowing who will be the President-elect. And let me say this unequivocally, it is not because of any malfeasance, but rather because of the continued data that shows how close the election seems to be. When states like my current state, Pennsylvania, cannot, by law, count early ballots until Election Day (2.6 million mail-in ballots were cast in 2020), it is impossible to do that in 24 hours. If I had even a quarter for every text message or email I have received in this election cycle, I think I could repay myself for much of the money I have spent on the bus build. As much as I enjoy the concept of political discourse, of the function of the federal government, and how we have, until recently, believed that our election process is safe, I find myself exhausted by the tenor, the volume, and the increasingly dystopic reality of our elective process.

It is this that brings me to both the title of my post and the real focus of this blog. The power wielded by the two parties in our federal system is untenable if we want to argue we are a government of, by, and for the people. I can appreciate what Vice President Harris wants to assert that she wants to be for the people, and I am even willing to go as far as saying I think she intends to be that kind of President (and I am also aware that some, even those dear to me, will disagree vehemently). I am also quite aware of their arguments. My reasons for believing her are the onion in my title. There are layers to why I either do, or hope to, believe. And yet not all of it is sweet, and some of the elements might create tears. Since she became a candidate, she has raised 1,000,000,000.00 (that is billion) dollars. That is both incredible, and asinine. Former President Trump has raised about half that amount, but that does not include PACs for either candidate. Open Secrets, an organization that follows election spending, expects that almost 16 billion dollars will be spent in total for the 2024 cycle. That is more than the GDP of around 50 countries. Think about that. And I am well aware that many in either side of our political spectrum believe we are still left with the choice that is the lesser-of-two-evils. I am not there, but I am still disenchanted with what we have become. I should also note I have already voted.

I do believe the political process itself has become an unpredictable monster, the ogre. It is completely understandable why many feel disenfranchised, disaffected, and disappointed. The consequences of these three adjectives is profound. At best people stand on the sideline believing their vote is irrelevant. At worst, they believe there is something much more sinister, more malevolent, at work. And that lesser than positive belief came to the fore following the last election. I am not sure if there is an idealism that I desperately hang on to or if there is a naïveté that allows me to believe we can still move forward in the true spirit of representative democracy or if it is truly that democracy is always messy. When I step back and examine both candidates, there is certainly much more than a difference in vision for the country. It is even more than a blue versus a red dichotomy. It is more complex than Federalism versus States’ Rights. It has become generational; it has become more complicated because of the reality of what former President Trump did and who he is in terms of both his Presidential conduct, which has been ruled on by the SCOTUS, and in his personal dealings, which do overlap his getting into office in the first place. That too is an onion of sorts, and it is dealing with the monster (the ogre) he seemed to create. Again, I realize there is some disagreement with my perspective.

As a rhetorical scholar, I am steeped in the idea of discourse, of coming to consensus, and I have strong feelings about appropriateness, about decorum, and about civility. It is for those reasons I struggle to respect the former President. I believe that truth is essential to creating the character of the person who represents us in the highest office of the country. I believe the Commander in Chief needs to show deference to those who serve in the military, support our allies, and exhibit a character that the American public can readily support. The number of people who say they do not like him, they do not like what he says or how he acts, but will still vote for him boggles my mind. Perhaps he is both the Ogre and the onion. During the last year, the decline of President Biden became such an issue he stepped aside (and I sure the pressure on him to do so was immense). Former President Trump has shown many of the same issues, but many want to say there is no such issue. Again, the job of the President has enormous responsibilities, expectations, requirements, physically, mentally, and emotionally. The reality is the Republican Party has been decimated by this supposed businessman/politician. And yet, while I am comfortable with the move to Kamala Harris, I suspect there are layers to that onion I might not like. The power that either the DNC or the RNC hold is immeasurable. Where does that leave the American public? Perhaps our entire political process is an ogre.It might seem that I am disillusioned, but I am not. This is where the onion comes into play. As noted, I have already voted, and I am adamant that everyone who has the ability to vote should do so. It is the way to make some difference in what happens. The difference in the vote count in Florida in the 2000 election when the Gore v. Bush recount was stopped by the SCOTUS was 537 votes. That was out of 101,450,508 (which Al Gore actually won the popular vote). That is a difference of .000529. The difference was less than 1/4 the freshman class at the university I taught at this past year. There is my numerical reason that argues your vote matters. And the 21st century has shown that we are an evenly divided country in pretty much every election since. The last real landslide in terms of the popular vote was 1984, and four of the most lopsided have been in my lifetime (1964, 1972, 1980, and the ‘84 elections). One of the others was Lincoln’s re-election in 1864 (history.com). The reasons chose for not voting are certainly varied, but feeling it does not matter hovers toward the most common. A recent study showed that over 20 million people do not have or find it difficult to obtain an ID necessary to vote (that shocked me); another significant reason is Election Day is not a federal holiday. Again, not something I thought of. Economic barriers (less than half making less than $20,000 voted in 2012), which can affect everything from issues of transportation to information, are shown to disenfranchise (Rodriguez, 2020). As the person with privilege, which I must admit I am, I seldom realize that my opportunity to vote is not what all experience. The onion is certainly more layered than I often see. The reality of our democracy, of our Republic as some are now wont to call it, arguing they are not the same, is we are controlled to some degree by the Elons, the Jeffs, the Marks, and the billionaires who control our capitalist nation. Have I been successful and blessed in my life? Yes; in comparison to the generations of my ancestors, I have. However, more importantly, those who control the vast majority of our national wealth, those who have incredible influence on our national interests, want me to believe, want you to believe, that. If we are content, they can do what they do. Again, all layers of the onion we have. Perhaps it was not by accident that my incredible history teacher, Mr. Larry Flom, used to refer to the Union (the United States) as the Onion. Perhaps there is more to the satirical news outlet being called the Onion than I first thought.

As we move rapidly (and perhaps not rapidly enough for some) towards Election Day, it is my fervent hope and prayer that we can, as a nation, cast our votes, support our democracy, and believe what we do as an individual citizen matters. In spite of the complexity that is our republic, that is our nation, let us support those who seem to be more vulnerable than ever, the people working the polls. Let us remember they are citizens just as we are. Finally, I need to give the priest at our local Catholic Parish credit for the title of my blog. Music and politics are sometimes strange bedfellows, but I offered this video as a reminder of those who put their lives on the line for our democracy every day. Semper Fi!

Thank you as always for reading, and please vote.

Michael