A Lucky Day

Local weather on KCAL in Los Angeles was a proving ground for aspiring actors. The short televised segment required little beyond a pleasant on-camera persona and the ability to recite the phrase, “Late night and early morning fog.” Each day was a replicate of the one before, with highs around 84 degrees, sunshine and a light offshore breeze. It’s what drew agriculture, ranching, vineyards and celebrities to the increasingly crowded coast.

 

The lack of variety in the daily forecast resulted in the inclusion of earthquakes and seasonal brush fires in the weather report, and 1994 was typical of most years in The Golden State.

 

            “I’ll be there, I promise,” said Sandra to her daughter.

            “You always say that Mom.”

            “There’s nothing that can stop me from being at your graduation!”

 

Sandra’s thoughts flashed back to a morning several months earlier. She normally drove about fifteen minutes to her job in Culver City. The fourteen-lane 405 freeway was the primary north/south artery through the area, but despite its huge capacity it often slowed to a crawl during rush hours. 

 

The morning she recalled was a perfect storm of so called “earthquake weather,” the name given to periodic rashes of temblors that raised Angelino anxiety levels to thoughts of The Big One, a handful of roadside brush fires that lofted snow-like ash into the air, and an overturned southbound tanker truck that spilled its contents onto the freeway. Drivers in mid commute when the accident occurred were frozen in place, some pulled off to the side having run out of gas, and many unable to reach off-ramps to the surface streets until the wreck was cleared, a hazmat process made lengthy by the truck’s contents–sulfur! The entire roadway was shut down.

To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

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Thar She Blows! - A Pleasant Paddle at Manatee Park

“Call me Ishmael.”

That was not the first thing that came to mind as I executed a languid turn in the shallow waters of the Calusa Blueway. My first thought was, believe it or not:

 

            “Damn you, white whale!” as I struggled for balance in the drenching thrash of waters, the dripping red blades of my double ended spear glinting in the sun, begging for slack in the coiled bowline on the kayak floor.

 

Ok, it wasn’t that either, but it did get interesting. Let’s back up a bit.

 

The day could not have been more pleasant, 72 and sunny. After the damp and dismal recent January days we bravely suffered through, each in our own way, this was a much-needed reprieve from our harsh Florida winter, and a nice bit of exercise as well.

 

We put in at the mouth of a perfect mangrove tunnel, an easy paddle to the viewing area at Manatee Park in North Fort Myers. As promised, the manatees were in high numbers. Cool air temperatures and warm effluent from the nearby power plant cooling towers combined to offer the air-breathing aquatic mammals their own aqueous reprieve from the winter weather. 

 

Landlubbers gathered along the water’s edge to catch a glimpse of their underwater ballet. Short sprays of watery breath that bring to mind the name Snuffleupagus indicate the infrequent surfacing of the fully aquatic mammals sometimes known as sea cows. And that’s part of the mystique of manatee viewing. They do not engage in the dancing, chirping dolphin show of Seaworld fame. More often than not by the time you hear their occasional breath and turn to look, their small hairy pig-like snout is disappearing beneath the water for as long as twenty minutes. At least, that’s the experience when you view them from land.

 

For those who may have been concerned about entering the water amidst a congregation of 1300 pound beasts with only a quarter inch of fiberglass as protection, we were assured, “Oh, they may give you a bump.” How cute!

 

Let me tell you. I am not a world adventurer, but I have experienced a few things. I have trained dolphins in Hawaii and learned about their power, stood at the base of a live volcano hissing warnings to incautious nearby humans, dodged an outbreak of killer tornadoes that left me covered in grass and mud, and experienced the disorientation of the earth quaking under my feet. But not until today have I ridden the bare back of an upset rubber Volkswagen like a bucking bronco at an Arcadia rodeo. If there is a person who can beat my time of five seconds airborne without rope straps, I’d like to congratulate him or her. Do I exaggerate? Of course, I was in the middle of a torrent of water that threatened to pitch me into the drink, bouncing like a cartoon character on the back of a lumbering beige turnip the size of a she-shed. But as heads turned from every direction in fascinated hope of my imminent demise, I heard one fellow kayaker exclaim, “Well, I’ve never seen anything like THAT!”

 

Of course, my wife missed the entire episode, which is unfortunate, but also allows me to further embellish my tale at every telling. As one of seven children, she grew up laughing at the periodic impalings, tumbling missteps and dislocated joints of family lore. It was a survival mechanism. So I feel she was deprived this morning of a hearty laugh that would have grown louder and longer at each retelling.

 

But seriously, the “bump” that I felt telegraphed the mass and power of the creature I must have inadvertently wedged between the water’s surface and the shallow sand bottom. When these critters feel trapped, they can move! And the strange sensation of being lifted above the water from underneath is primal, worthy of a Jaws remake, and hopefully something my troublesome GoPro decided to capture if it was even turned on at that point. Consider the weight of my twelve foot kayak at perhaps sixty pounds, my own considerable mass within, and the ease with which I was tossed like an omelette on a rubber spatula, and for the rest of the morning I was just a touch leery at the approach of shadowy shapes and their passage under my boat. But they were well behaved, even stopping by with their babies who seemed fascinated with us, a concern for their future among dangerous propellers and boaters who refuse to heed clearly posted warnings. The scars on the backs of many adults testified to this, and as tempting as it was to rub their backs and bellies, we resisted that human-encouraging interaction for their sake.

 

By all means consider treating yourself with an easy rental at Manatee Park, whether on your own or with out of town guests who think all we do is lounge around our pools in the winter.

 

            “Avast, ye matey, yo ho!”

 

Best regards, your recently humbled reporter, Moby Vic.

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

 

 

 

 

What I Plan to Give up for Lent

Ash Wednesday is here and I have a personal tradition I’m planning to try again this year, the first time since our move to Florida. About fifteen years ago on Ash Wednesday, after the solemn evening service of ashes and before retiring for the night I washed my face and put away my electric razor until Easter. I did not shave for forty days. I didn’t give up sugar, meat, coffee, alcohol or any of the other significant penitential offerings I heard proclaimed once I started paying attention to them. It certainly wasn’t fasting. I just quit shaving.

I’ve never been a great beard-grower, but within a week people begin to notice and comment, “what’s this?” stroking their own chins between thumb and forefinger.

My response drew chuckles and grins, heads shaking in disbelief. What a goof. He gave up shaving for Lent. 

 

“So, whose sacrifice is that, your wife’s?” they’d say.

 

I’ll admit, at first it was a novel thing to do. I relished the extra minutes I gained each morning. When I originally did this it was before the facial hair and skinny jeans trends reached into corporate America, which was mostly devoid of beards, at least where I worked. It accompanied a minor sense of rebellion that was somehow satisfying. It was also amusing to hear the protestations from my wife when I started looking scruffy and kissed her cheek. It was fun, but I didn’t mean for it to be entirely funny. 

 

After several years of this practice a few men at my church joined me in my “sacrifice.” I recall posing for a picture together. A pastor at a church in Minnesota developed an article building on my story. Hardly viral, but I wondered if I was onto something.

 

And another thing happened. 

 

Each morning, groggy and unclear, I wandered into the bathroom for a drink of water, looked up into the mirror, and was reminded, “Oh yeah, it’s Lent,” which was not something about which I previously gave a ton of thought.

 

Forty days is really long one day at a time when wandering in the wilderness, tempted and suffering as Jesus was, which is the point of all of this.

 

As Martin Luther said, “Original sin is in us, like the beard. We are shaved today and look clean, and have a smooth chin; tomorrow our beard has grown again, nor does it cease growing while we remain on earth.”

 

I can shave my beard, but the hair returns to remind me each day. And so I go through life “shaving” and failing, then shaving again.

 

Many go a bit public at this time of year on Ash Wednesday. Particularly those who receive an imposition of ashes at a morning service, then go through the day with their Christianity emblazoned on their foreheads, sensing the glances from passing strangers and feeling a little self-conscious. We notice the cross here and there on the evening news, on the foreheads of late-night comedians, pundits and politicians. Now imagine leaving the mark of the cross on your head for a month and a half. Yes, imagine giving up bathing for Lent! (Please don't.)

 

In his final days, during a torturous scourge and humiliation, Jesus submitted to a lesser known indignity mentioned in Isaiah 50:6:

 

"I gave My back to those who strike Me, and My cheeks to those who pluck out the beard; I did not cover My face from humiliation and spitting."

 

Honestly, by day forty I can’t wait to shave. I hate having hair on my face. It feels like cobwebs and spiders crawling on my cheeks and neck. As the hair lengthens it begins to irritate my lips and curl into the sides of my mouth. So if I must be sacrificing something, consider it my comfort, especially as the temperature starts to rise in Florida.

 

There’s another approach if I have the courage. When people grin at my beard and ask about it, I could say, “It’s a daily reminder of Christ’s suffering in the wilderness.” As you can imagine, that would get a very different response. 

 

Or I can hide behind the words in Matthew 6:1 if I choose:

“Beware of practicing your righteousness before men to be noticed by them; otherwise you have no reward with your Father who is in heaven.”

 

In either case, with action or with words that result not in laughter but in thoughtful reflection or even in private prayer, our thoughts should be of the season and of the sacrifice that was made for us.

 

So if you see me looking more than a little scruffy during March you’ll know why. I know the growth on my face will be much more gray than it was just a few years ago. And I guarantee it will be gone by National Beard Day on September 4^th.

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

 

 

A Note From Facebook

In a random audit of our users, the Facebook Content Assessment team has made the following observations regarding your use of our free tool.

First, we would like to thank you for spending so many irretrievable hours of your precious life in the time-sucking hole Mark Zuckerberg initially dug to compare pretty faces from the safety of his college dorm room. How did he know that a vanity contest would compel women to voluntarily share photos with a socially awkward dork? Very clever, Mark.

 

Here, then, is our categorized summary of your violations on our platform during the past year. By the way, in addition to exposing your darker nature, we collect and collate your information for sinister future use, forever, and of course to make money. Please continue.

 

1. Nature photos: do you really believe that no one knows what a bird looks like? Or a turtle, snake, alligator, or fish for that matter? And stop with the sunsets. They happen every day without fail and all look basically the same. Ditto sunrise.

 

2. Food: apparently you are the discoverer of eating and cooking, the veritable Vasco de Gama of gastronomy. The photos you post of favorite meals look generally unappetizing, and often like a scabrous bandage ripped from a wound. One exception: if you ever dine in a three-star rated Michelin restaurant (you won’t), please post a photo, though they may ask you to leave if you are that crass.

 

3. Quizzes: you frequently answered ten simple general knowledge questions, proving that you’re a genius! Really?

 

4. Bragging: this one is tricky. Are you aware you’re doing it? Is that photo of a book you’re lounging around reading really about literature, or does it have something to do with your bare legs, poolside, in January, or at the beach? Oh, you live somewhere nice? Everyone knows that.

 

5. Humble Bragging: instead of an object or setting in the background, your benevolent nature is just off-camera. You’ve issued a plea for others to help you save the world. Notice how you let people know you’re saving the world? It should be noted that the worst humble braggers are those who point out others are humble bragging. Let them rejoice in their beneficence.

 

6. Vacations: we’re not on your vacation. If you invited us we would be. Stop teasing. See bragging.

 

7. Music: great song. Did you write it? Or are you simply inflicting your musical taste on others? How could they possibly not love all the same songs as you?

 

8. Friend Collecting: do you really have hundreds of friends? How many do you call on the phone once a week?

 

9. Lurking (snooping): yeah, that’s just creepy. Would you wander down the street at night looking in windows or steal and read mail? But then again, people are sharing and not being careful with security settings, so…

 

10. Your writing: this is obviously the only way anyone will ever have a chance to read your words. Getting published or stumbling into a Harry Potter phenomenon not only requires a ton of hard work and discipline but Vegas-style timing and luck. Play the lottery.

11. Weight loss (photos of): while we agree that holding yourself publicly accountable can be quite motivating, we may not think that you look as good as you think you do. Also, you’re setting yourself up for the inevitable later comment, “Oh gosh, they gained it all back.” Statistically, one-third to two-thirds of dieters gain back more than they lost, thus raising the bar on their metabolic set point, the new weight your body vigorously defends.

 

12. Memories: once was enough. Stop. Facebook tells you about your memories as a courtesy. Don’t share them. Is nothing new happening?

 

13. Google: stop correcting and informing everyone. No one needs or expects it. Instead, perhaps take a ten-question general knowledge quiz.

 

14. Politics: it is clear that you are right and everyone else is wrong. You are enlightened and they have never considered an opposing viewpoint. Honestly, they haven’t, but you’re not going to change their mind by suggesting they’re stupid. 

 

15. Noteworthy accomplishments: you swam 26.2 miles in six weeks. Wow! Michael Phelps swims many miles every morning before you wake up. How fast can you run a mile fella? Can you run a mile?

 

16. Memes: OK, some of these are good, but in many cases, people are trying too hard. Humor is being diluted by overuse. Rules of supply and demand apply here. Cut back.

 

17. You’re bored: why else would you spend so much time peering into other people’s lives, looking at pictures they volunteer for your titillation? Wait, are you Mark Zuckerberg?

 

18. Pets: OK, pets are allowed, especially baby pets. Even Mark Zuckerberg has a dog named Beast.

 

19. Posting: we have noticed that you have friends who never post anything. Nothing! And their profile picture is a silhouette. That’s weird. Why did you allow them to connect? See lurking.

 

20. Chain Sharing: you never fall for dares to copy, paste, comment, and share lengthy posts. Good for you! But are you aware that a failure to do so means you don’t love Jesus, the police, love itself, or the American flag?

21. Birthdays: if you're going to acknowledge the birthday of someone whose birthday you are aware of only because of Facebook, say something more than, "Happy Birthday."

22. Puzzles: Can you find the horse in this image? Or the one different number in a field of numbers? Is your bathroom clean? Have you brushed your teeth today?

23. PDA (Public Displays of Affection): You're sitting across the table from your significant other, tap, tap, tapping effusive proclamations of adoration, devotion, and gratitude for the blessing of their place in your life on a birthday, anniversary or Valentine's Day. This is often accompanied by a picture of the meal you shared or prepared, and of course, those flowers on the table. Yes, you're sitting across from this special person, both of you head down when you should be gazing at each other, not telling us how you're feeling. See bragging and get a room.

 

We reserve the right to update this list as you become further addicted, er, participatory. Thank you for your support. By the way, we noticed you liked a picture of shoes. We have curated a collection of styles you might like based on your inability to run a mile. Have a nice day, what's left of it.

 

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

Moving Day

“Before I sign, can you clarify something?” asked Keller.

The familiar-looking elderly man on screen did not comment one way or another, so Keller continued.

 

“I’ve signed non-disclosures before, usually a couple of pages. This is a book. The phrase ‘consequences up to and resulting in your termination’ strikes me as a bit ominous given the context.” He looked up for a response, a clue.

 

The old man smiled slightly and leaned toward whatever camera was filming him.

 

“You’re right to read between the lines. I once asked the same question. The job you’ve applied for has an arms-length interest from our government. It is important work, but they maintain plausible deniability. You said you want to make a difference in the world? Everything we do here has the potential to be life-changing.” 

 

“Or life ending?” Keller probed, raising his eyebrows.

To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

I Can’t Fly but I Can Float

Old people need new experiences to prevent mental atrophy. And well into a pandemic we’re fairly certain that our bodies are taking a hit while we continue to binge-watch streaming television series that everyone is recommending. If you’ve gotten really good at Words With Friends, move on–you’ve simply entered a new comfort zone.

As old people (note to peers, we’re old, get over it) we no longer need “stuff” for our birthdays, so we try to come up with experiential gifts. Thus it was with a mix of excitement and apprehension that we entered a new spa in Port Charlotte for an hour in an isolation tank at 11am on my birthday.

If you’re a movie fan like me you no doubt remember the 1980 film Altered States. In that story an anthropologist mixes hallucinogens with isolation tanks for a mind and body journey that had serious ramifications. Expand your mind too much and it may pop.

The float tank pictured above was the one I used. Thankfully there is no latching top that closes over you. That would induce claustrophobia in the best of us. Before I go further, let’s just clear a couple of elephants out of the room.

I was naked.

I was not doing drugs.

There, now I can describe the experience without the distraction of nagging questions. Of course, I’ve also created a mental image for you that you just can’t unthink.

The tank is large but shallow. Only about ten inches of body temperature water fill what is essentially a large hot tub. The tub has underwater lighting that can be dialed from blue to other colors. A laser light projector like the ones you see at Christmas sprinkling stars all over the fronts of houses can be set to produce a variety of light shows on the ceiling. And you’re never really alone in the room because everyone’s friend Alexa is playing the kind of music you only hear when getting a massage.

We were instructed to take a quick shower in the adjoining room (to wash off oils) and get in the tub, preferably in “cactus” position. That’s the sort of arms up and to the side Egyptian hieroglyph that you may remember indicates a prehistoric field goal. In other words, let your limbs float naturally away from your body. Well, I can’t get my arms to do that in water, in air or up against a wall. It’s a serious flexibility issue that I’ve tried to correct with stretching and yoga to no avail. So I just went with the Day The Earth Stood Still robot stance. Klaatu Barada Nikto and all that.

I wondered how I could possibly float in ten inches of water. I'm not a small person. At six foot one and somewhat above my recommended body mass index I assumed I would be resting on the bottom of the tub. Putting this indelicately, I’m a ten pound pickle trying to float in a two pound jar of brine. But I guess a thousand pounds of magnesium sulfate rich Epsom salts is a lot more buoyant than pickle juice. It worked!

If you recall your first massage, it takes a while to relax into the session. Your arms never quite dangle completely, your shoulders and neck tense up while you try to breath through a linen-lined hole, and never mind you’re naked and covered with a sheet in a room with a stranger. It’s the same thing here. The laser lights were distracting but fun. The music was all wrong, so I said, “Alexa, play Shadowfax Radio.” If you’ve never tried that Amazon station, give it a whirl, but not while you’re driving a car. This is serious New Age Ambient audio Valium. I immediately got up out of the pickle juice and turned off the laser and room lights, but not before a drop of liquid splashed in my eye. Fortunately the Soakmistress had pointed out a spray bottle with plain water and a small face cloth. A wipe of my eye and a few tears later and I returned to horizontal.

Being the curious type, I experimented with floating from side to side and end to end within the tank. I also submerged my arms to see how quickly they’d resurface. Boink, there they were! The blue light in the tub illuminated the whole room, which I found somewhat distracting. I also started obsessing about relaxing myself to death and how long it would take the owners to discover if a floater had become, well, a floater. I turned off the underwater high beam. That’s when I noticed that Alexa has a pulsing light, so I closed my eyes.

Did you know you can hear your heartbeat in your ears when you’re head is halfway under water? It’s kind of rhythmic and soothing, unless you have Afib.

So now I’m getting into my float. “Alexa, what time is it?” I whispered.

            “It is eleven thirty seven. Have a nice Friday,” she said, and then,

            “I noticed you whispered. Would you like to enter whisper mode?”

Clearly, I am one easily distracted, wound up dude. I told her no, and to lower the volume.

Now that I was aware I had only twenty-three minutes left, I needed to hurry up and relax. Let the inner light show begin. Commence my mind expansion, darn it. It’s not like I hoped to get in touch with my pre-hominin genetic memories or morph into a protoplasmic blob, but a touch of nirvana would be cool. That’s when I noticed that salt was crystallizing on the tops of my thighs and some of the lights I had turned off were really heat lamps that were no longer preventing an air conditioned chill above the warm water.

We showered and met for a cup of delicious lavender-infused iced tea in the very capable and cute adjoining cafe that serves up a variety of organic and healthy items. We looked over the menu of services and agreed that we should consider a membership and try some of the other healing offerings for mind and body including salt therapy, yoga, and massage. The entire experience was very upscale and unique for our area. We agreed that our next float would be instantly rejuvenating and are looking forward to another visit. If you're a first-timer, benefit from my shared thoughts and allow yourself to adjust immediately to this intensely relaxing hour. You may just fall asleep, but rest assured there is no danger of accidentally turning over. I already thought of that.

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

I Have Your Password

Something about an email sitting in my spam folder got my attention. I generally do a quick review of that folder’s contents on the chance that my email program deposited a legitimate message there. This one was from Thomas Johnson.

The message had the feel of a “Nigerian prince” scam, a lame attempt to get the targeted recipient to transfer large sums of money. If you’ve seen those messages, by now you recognize the broken English and comical structure of the request.

The email went something like this:

            “Not one person has paid me to check about you.”

Well, good, this was entirely random. No one paid to have me blackmailed.

He (or she) went on to explain that my entire contact list had been acquired and that if I didn’t comply with his request, embarrassing information would be sent to everyone I know.

Not a problem. I regularly embarrass myself in front of friends.

            “Best solution would be to pay me $1007. You'll make the payment via Bitcoin.
            You could go on your life like this never happened and you will not ever hear back again from me.”

At this point buddy, I’m going to “go on my life” and keep the $1007.

            “I know xxxxxxxx is one of your password on day of hack.”

And that’s when things got chillingly creepy. The cited password was indeed mine. Granted, it was an old password, a simple one from back in the days when merchants didn’t recommend, or insist, that you come up with a unique combination of letters, numbers and special characters. It was one that I used for local restaurants or random clothing websites where I didn’t store credit card information.

What had undoubtedly happened was that this person had purchased a list of hacked passwords and emails on the dark web. There have been numerous security breeches at major merchants during the past year. Even systems used by my former employer’s HR department have been compromised. We received two apologies from them accompanied by instructions for following up on the data loss with a year of free identity theft protection.

If you’re like me, you have lots of passwords. If you’re really like me you have them alphabetized and organized by category. After some cleanup and updating I have 200 active passwords. They are strong, unique, stored offline and changed periodically. They are also worth way more than $1007, which is just a really strange amount. So Thomas Johnson will have to seek his small fortune elsewhere, but it was a good reminder that there are bad actors out there, sitting at home just like us during the pandemic with plenty of time on their hands.

A related story came to my attention just hours before I wrote this. Someone who shall remain nameless was recently contacted by her grandson.

            “Hello Grandma, it’s Bobby”

Now, Bobby never calls this person “Grandma” and his voice sounded strange.

            “Oh, it didn’t sound like you Bobby.”

            “Yeah, I have a cold.”

“Bobby” went on to explain that the friend he was with got in an accident. When the police came they found drugs in the car and they had both been arrested. He needed $9000 to make bail and had been appointed a lawyer.”

            “Please promise you won’t tell my parents.”

By this point, both Bobby and a thoroughly convinced Grandma were sobbing to each other on the phone. The “lawyer” took over and explained the need for confidentiality due to the nature of the arrest. Grandma refused to keep this situation secret, and with that the call ended.

This is the classic grandparent scam that has sadly increased dramatically during the pandemic. As a recipient of AARP’s magazine, I’ve read repeatedly about this, and coincidentally an article was in the latest issue that arrived today.

Almost daily we hear 2020 referred to as “these challenging times” or some other such catchphrase. They are indeed.

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

 

 

 

Who You Calling Majestic?

I’ve been reading quite a bit of historical fiction and non-fiction lately. Although much of the content takes place within the aristocracy of the 1700s and 1800s, I was recently struck by a bit of royal tradition that has seeped into the Twenty-first Century virtually unscathed. There on our digital high definition television screen, streaming at bit and byte speeds unimagined just a few years ago stood an elderly lady dressed to the nines from her pink heels to her pink bonnet. A brief video captured her knighting of Captain Tom Moore, a one hundred year old World War II veteran who recently made the news for his fundraising efforts. My initial reaction was, “You mean they still do that?”

In case you missed the Captain Tom story, as his 100^th birthday approached he decided to walk one hundred times around his garden with a goal of raising 1000 British pounds. The effort went viral, with videos of him and his walker doing ten 27-yard laps per day and eventually raising over 32 million pounds for his chosen charity. It was cute and sad and worthy of celebrating.

Thus, he became Captain Sir Tom Moore on July 17^th during an investiture outside Windsor Castle when Her Royal Majesty, 94 year old Queen Elizabeth II tapped him gently on the shoulder with a sword that belonged to her father, His Royal Highness King George VI.

Let’s stop right there. “Her Royal Majesty?” “His Royal Highness?” This recent knighting was in the quadrangle outside of Windsor Castle. The Queen’s last name is Windsor, but this is not her house, valued at a mere $236 million, nor is the $5 billion Buckingham Palace. Those two properties are held in trust for use by the current Sovereign (monarch or supreme ruler.) Think of them as where she goes to the office. Her actual residences are Sandringham House ($65 million) and Balmoral Castle ($140 million.) This is the home she owns.

We can put all that aside, because there are a lot of wealthy people in the world who like to flaunt their riches, collect things, have huge staffs of people – servants – paid slaves. And they are used to this. They expect it. They have lived their lives with it. They hang out together and always have. I understand the imbalance at play within humanity. It’s unfortunate but evolutionarily capitalistic and often the result of imbalances of taxation, purchased power and fealty that have existed for centuries.

But really, it is the year 2020. Dare we disrespect Mrs. Windsor by calling her other than “Your Royal Majesty?” Is she so profoundly imbued with her own self worth that she looks in the mirror each day and takes herself that seriously? “Good morning, me, you’re looking majestic today. I think I’ll go tap a worthy subject on the shoulder with Daddy’s sword and add him to my collection.” Are they beyond self deprecating humor and the occasional riposte during supper, “Lord Henry, was that you or the dog? Oh har, har, flar, flumpf.” Or, "God save the ME!"

I need to re-read Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. I’m sure he had a good satirical time with this. Titles like “Highness” and “Majesty” are just so pumped full of loftiness as to be absolutely absurd at any place or in any time. How does this continue? A lot of the people (subjects) seem to adore the tradition and can’t imagine it any other way.

It got me thinking. If each of us got to choose a title that we felt best represented us, what would it be? What would it reveal about us to those whom we expect to faithfully utter that moniker? But rather than speculate about that, what would we call our leaders? I think most of them have opened their political kimonos sufficiently during the past few years to give us some direction.

Some examples:

Your Insipid Ineffectiveness. 
His Unbrilliant Illuminance. 
Her Most Bituminous and Faltering Insufficience.

There might be a card game here, or at least material for a quick meme on Facebook. You know the ones: what would your royal title be – match your birth month on the left to a column on the right.

I’m just glad that we just call our leader Mr. President. Imagine trying to adapt to a new name every four years. And what if the people got to choose the title after about a year in office? Oh heavens, what if Congress, the Senate, the Supreme Court or even the Electoral College got involved? President Bush might have simply been called Sir Hanging Chad.

 

Jestingly submitted for your consideration,

VC Larson, esquire

First Viscount of Larsony
Court Auburn, Royal Port of Charlotte

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

Hindsight in 2020

I am told that in late 1954 our minister, returning from a trip to the Holy Land, brought home a container of water from a sacred river. As family legend has it my entry into the world aligned nicely with his return. Thus, I was baptized with water from the River Jordan. As a child I did not understand the significance of this symbolic gift.

But life makes the most sense in hindsight. We all journey along somewhat random paths, sometimes to unexpected destinations and often with stops along the way. For some, the path is established early on and the road is merely followed. And then there are those of us more prone to stumble, willfully heading off in new directions, only to find that we never left the path at all. That’s when a look back becomes clarifying.

I have officially been a Lutheran since 1990. That’s the year my young family moved to a new town and sought out a church to call home. My wife was raised Catholic and I was brought up Methodist. We were both open to compromising our affiliation so long as we didn’t compromise our values. Around this time my wife discovered that her grandfather had been Lutheran. Apparently her grandmother insisted he convert, but the discovery brought with it a sense that her family’s faith had come full circle.

Twenty years earlier my family suffered a sad series of losses. We lived in Park Ridge, Illinois at the time. The first tragedy we didn’t see coming, though had my stubborn Swedish father acknowledged symptoms that are now considered classic warning signs of a heart attack perhaps the story would have ended more happily, or at least not so soon. We were thankful that he was transported to Lutheran General Hospital and received life saving care in the 8^th floor Coronary Unit, but his delay in seeking treatment prevented a positive outcome. He died two days later as the result of a very preventable accident while we stood horrified at his bedside. But that’s another story.

The metaphorical black cloud that settled over those of us he left behind continued to hover for the next five years. The day after my father’s funeral my grandfather went into the hospital. He never came home. My mother soon experienced a resurgence of Lupus, a mysterious illness that sickened her while in her twenties. This time it would not go into remission, ravaging her in seemingly random eruptions of increasingly debilitating symptoms. Her mother moved in with us to help care for her daughter. They had both lost their husbands within three weeks and soon Grandma lost her only child. She and I became unintended roommates, the remnants of a family that had rapidly dwindled from five members to only two.

At age sixteen, I had no familiarity with Lutheranism. To me, the name possibly indicated a region within a country or reflected some major donor’s last name. As a result of the traumatic episode that ended my father’s life, that Lutheranhospital became a place of painful association that I never cared to see again. 

But see it I did, as if summoned for a reckoning. As a recent graduate with a degree in Medical Technology, I was placed in an internship at Lutheran General, graciously near my home in Park Ridge. I was thrilled to have a nearby placement, but conflicted over feelings that surfaced regarding my last time spent in that building. I recall that during the first week on site, distracted by unresolved feelings of anger and grief, I got on the elevator and took it to the 8^th floor to face my ghosts. To my surprise, the unit had been totally transformed since 1970, which helped alleviate the haunted house images I carried through the intervening years. The place was gone. Cleansed. Different. It brought sudden and necessary closure I would never have received without my fortunate placement. I worked there for the next eleven years, and in 1985 a beautiful young Technologist from another laboratory became my partner for life on a journey together down a newly shared path.

Within a year my grandmother could no longer live in an unsupervised environment. A sequence of events including a fall at home, a broken hip, gallbladder surgery and a heart arrhythmia made it clear that she required nursing care. The search began within several miles of home. One location after another proved disappointing or downright disgusting, until we happened across a smaller, less industrial looking setting within a mile of the house. There it was – Saint Matthew’s Lutheran Home. That word again, familiar now and taking on increasing significance. It began to seem that at every turn, Lutheran people and solutions stepped into our path and took us by the hand. Was it caring, concern, human kindness, good business or good works? I still didn’t know. But the Lutherans certainly had my attention.

Any sense of sadness Grandma may have felt at “losing” me to my young wife was tempered by the realization that she was one step closer to achieving her fondest wish, becoming a great grandmother. She began to repeat, chant-like, “I may not be here next year,” often with a sigh and a look of resignation out the window. Ah, yes, she could certainly hand out a heaping helping of guilt along with her tasty home cooking.

Holidays came and went and her aging body began to fail. My wife and I visited frequently, and I stopped by almost daily on my lunch hour from my Lutheran workplace across the street at the hospital. Finally, one warm spring evening we planned a special outing and gave Grandma the news. We were expecting! Widened, misty eyes were supported by a smile from ear to ear.

            “I’m going to live to hold that baby!” became Grandma’s new mantra.

Our happy news was to be short-lived. Grandma’s health continued to decline. She went through a progression of rooms at Saint Matthew’s in which were provided increasing levels of care. And then my wife began to bleed. We lost the baby.

We discussed our options amidst our grief. If Grandma failed to live nine months she would never know the difference. To reveal the truth might hasten her decline. Instead, we kept up the appearance that everything was fine. Her malfunctioning sense of time was on our side.

Six months later my wife’s belly began to swell again and we carried on the story as if nothing had happened. We counted heavily on Grandma’s disorientation with the calendar not to give us away. The weeks passed. Grandma weakened. Urgent calls in the night were followed by hospitalizations and long recovery periods. I prayed for the first time in years as I felt my last link to the past, my only bloodline, slipping away.

            “Dear God, please” was all I could say.

A baby boy was born at Lutheran General on a hot July morning. I nearly ran across the street to the nursing home, camera in tow and a frenzied look on my face. I was advised against taking Grandma out in the heat, but by then the caring staff at Saint Matthew’s was monitoring our progress and making special concessions.

Grandma was confused by all the commotion. I silently said my thanks to God for the opportunity. Our baby cried in Grandma’s arms as she cradled and rocked, raising him to her lips to kiss his little face and urging him to behave. She held his tiny hand in hers, wrinkles against newborn creases, age against innocence, frozen in time on a priceless frame of film.

Our race was over. We finished and won. Grandma seemed to rally temporarily, but then began to slip away forever. We visited her with the baby as much as possible during those few remaining weeks.  On what proved to be her final afternoon, she seemed more alert than usual, but drifted in and out of sleep, aggravated by a feeding tube in her nose. The faded orange curtains on her window rustled softly in a hot August breeze and blocked the summer sun as we held our final conversation. 

            “I’m sorry I’m such a burden to you,” she whispered, sadly looking up at me.

            “Why do you say that, Grandma? You’d do the same for me”

She nodded her head slightly and tightened her lips “But you shouldn’t have to go through this again” she said.

I considered the best response to such a soulful concern, and simply let it come from the voice in my heart.

            “I’m a very lucky guy to have had two mothers” I confided to her with an unsteady voice. And then I choked and whispered, “It’s just so hard to lose you both.”            

I left the room as she drifted off to sleep. From the doorway I turned to look back at her motionless body, just as the curtains lifted away from the window in a gentle gust of hot air and then settled back, as if from a breath. Grandma stirred and said a few words that I couldn’t hear. She may have commented on the motion of the drapes or the sun in the window. She may have said nothing at all, I’ll never know. But a part of me would like to believe she was true to form at the very end, saying:

            “I told you I’d live to hold your baby!” 

Against all advice about making changes in the wake of loss, we took new jobs, moved away and essentially re-invented our lives. Settling into a similar town fifteen miles distant we found a place that would be our church home for the next twenty-five years. The choice was made – Lutheran Church of the Holy Spirit, an ELCA congregation in Lincolnshire, Illinois. There it was again, the name we’ve come to know and love.

Our daughter was born shortly after and was the first baptism by a newly called married pastoral couple who became our dear friends. Years later, hers was the final wedding they performed prior to retiring. To call this place special does it a disservice. It was core to our faith, family and friends and became the center of our servant-oriented lifestyle. We couldn’t imagine it any other way.

But there would be another way. Children grow up and move on. Adults retire. And so the search began again in a distant setting over 1300 miles away. Our new community in Florida is demographically quite different than Illinois. I am frequently called, “young man” by newly discovered friends in Port Charlotte. I’ll take that! And as we settle into Holy Trinity Lutheran Church we marvel at our good fortune for having located a congregation led by another married pastoral couple! What are the odds?

And here’s the latest channel marker on this voyage through sometimes-turbulent waters. A nice gentleman and his wife sit just in front of the pew we have “claimed” on Sunday morning. At this church we all wear nametags, and I joked when I noticed his last name was Luther.

            “Well, you certainly joined the right church!”

It is no joke. He proceeded to tell us that he is a direct descendant of Martin Luther!

We hope to remain at this church, and in this home for quite some time. The path that led here could not have been planned better had we tried, and now it all makes wonderful sense. We’ve been Lutheran all along.

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.