Back to the Gypsy That I Was

I don't know when it happened, but somewhere along the line, I grew up. I got married. I had kids. I got a "real job". I both took up smoking and 8 years later quit the habit. I bought a house. I've replaced a toilet. I've opened investment accounts. Yes, plural. Investment accounts. Made a  bucket list and then proceeded to cross some things off it, as well as create new iterations of said bucket list. 

Yes, I bought a house. Right smack in the middle of the city that I hate, but am now kinda obligated to attempt to love, or at least tolerate. The house kind of reminds me of a house you'd expect to find in Chicago, and I cannot even tell you why. It was built in 1905, so of course parts of it are kind of falling apart, or at the very least very old. But I really like it - well, except for the roof. The roof that is 30+ years old. The roof that was excluded from our homeowner's insurance but led the inspector to declare that I should have "a good five years on it yet"...well...maybe five years without a hailstorm, or maybe home inspectors count years differently than normal people do, because after a good hailstorm back in July, yes you guessed it. The roof leaks. 

Shit.

That led me to make a bold move, as if the move to buy the house itself was not bold enough. And it's another little piece of evidence that I've grown up. I'm donning the red and khaki (although this time it's jeans at least until January), and working part-time at Target again, something I said 11 years ago (when I quit the first time) that I'd never do. And you know what? I actually now, like this job more than I like my day job. Maybe the fact that it's a secondary income and not my primary source of income has something to do with it, that I'm not depending on it to make a living. Maybe two years of working at home (and quitting smoking) has given me the dreaded "Anthem Ass". OK so it has. I've put on 46 pounds since I quit smoking in February of 2017. But it is a nice change of pace, and it's nice to get out of the house and make a little money while I'm at it.

So since I have no other good way of putting it, let's address the elephant in the room. I was (ostensibly) too busy "living my best life" (physical air quotes intended) to blog, which is why you haven't heard from me since March 7th...although further research tells me this is not the first time I've taken a hiatus of sorts. So now I'm back from outer space. You just walked in to find me here with that sad look upon my face. You should have changed that stupid lock, you should have made me leave my key, if you'd have known for just one second I'd be back to bother you yeah I went there. If you don't speak in song quotes from time to time we can't be friends. 

And right about now I'm all about making friends.

I think in your teens and twenties you get cocky, and I know I'm not the first to come up with this theory. So I'll rephrase that. I agree, that in your teens and twenties you get cocky; you sometimes feel invincible. At some point, maybe it's sometime in your thirties, that cockiness mellows out. Now I'm not gonna lie and say I've got all my shit figured out because I'll be the first to tell you I'm a basket case. A lot of the things that bothered me when I first worked at Target don't seem to bother me anymore. I seem to be having more epiphanies lately, and if I can give myself the time to think about them and consider them, lead to a new worldview. 

My worldview has evolved so much over the past 3 or 4 years, it's crazy. I've looked at old journals and such from way back in 2002-2005, and was just shaking my head at the (for lack of better words) drama queen I was. And that's not to say that I'm not still a bit of a drama queen (YAAAAAS HE WENT THERE). Needless to say, I burnt those old journals. That was an old part of me that needs to be left in the early naughties. 

And so here we are. 2018 has definitely been the year we've been living our best life. I seriously credit all this to quitting smoking. If any of my readers smoke, do yourself the awesome favor and quit. I have such an addictive personality that years ago I said "what, me? Quit? Yeah right. Easier said than done." And it's true. But it's so worth it. SO worth it. But you have to want it. You need to be in that place that says you're ready. 

But it's more than that. I've had the opportunity tonight, while zoning in Market, to stand back (I first typed that as "stank back" and laughed as I hit the backspace key) and take stock of the fact that 11 years and one week after quitting, there I was again, with a brand new attitude and outlook on life.

And I know that it won't put a roof on my house, but part timing it for now will bring in a little bit more income that will free up more to save for said roof. Ever since my "Financial Crash of 2012" (we'll just call it that), it's been nothing but baby steps to get to where I am today...and I'm not even fully there yet. (Where even is "there"?). But no matter what the situation is, it will get better. Time will move on, and you'll grow up.

And when you grow up, you'll probably lose your hair...or at least, I have. Yeah, that part of growing up sucks.

Sad and Bougie

Wow. It's been over a year since my last post. So it seems as though I've fallen victim to my usual old problem, trying to do all the things. In doing so, as always, I've done none of the things.

Well that's not true.

Off the top of my head I can think of a few, that I just never found the time to write about...or...in my case...was too distracted by other necessary things to procure the time to write about.

I had planned a blog post called "A Little More Yeast", as a sequel to my excursions in yeast, in which I would talk about my adventures in brewing - specifically, I brewed a clone of New Glarus Brewery's Spotted Cow (famous here in Wisconsin), and I also made a batch of Dandelion Wine.

Yeah that never happened. And by that I mean the blog post; the actual brewing occurred mid-year.

In August my family and I took a weeklong family vacation, something we have never been able to do. We went to Mackinaw City, Michigan and had a wonderful time. We will have to go back when I find my dream job and/or money is no longer (or much less of) an object.

In April we bought a Jeep. I have a higher car payment now, but I'll take the car payment over having to worry about car repairs. Being a single car family (in this town at least) really sucks, but I've been making do since October of 2016. Public transportation in this area is lacking, save for a bus, which I rode once, but honestly, I got spoiled by the Metra/CTA of Chicago.

Late March I got introduced to Rhett and Link via Good Mythical Morning, and it could not have come at a better time. Just two weeks prior, my family and I suffered a loss. Something that subconsciously may have been the cause of my apathy of last year and which may have sparked another round of depression, now that I actually think about it. Something that we'd been hoping for, for quite some time, was given to us, and in just two weeks' time was taken away. Given some time to think about it, I know it was for the best and God always knows what he's doing, but it still hurts when He takes people away from you, especially before you get a chance to meet them.

Oh! And a big thing that happened which allowed us the ability for the above-mentioned items. My wife and I quit smoking. As of this writing, it has been 1 year, 1 month and 2 days for me. As of late I have been having days where I really crave some, but not enough to throw away a year's worth of being able to say I'm a non-smoker. Most of that is due to poorly managed stress, so if I can find a way to better manage my stress, I think the cravings will stop altogether. I couldn't have done it without Chantix and the fact that my wife wanted to quit as well. Guarantees if that weren't the case we'd both still be smokers. But oh what a world of possibility being a non-smoker opens up.

I have a problem, well, actually, something I'd just like to discuss as it has infested my life lately, but as this seems to be more of a catch-up post, I think I'll give that its own post. I'd like to dive more in depth into the topic, and I don't feel like that can be done with this post here. Plus I mean come on, we're 3 months into the year already and I ain't post nothin yet.

Blocked and Deleted

What is it about Facebook...it truly does mess with people's heads. I'll grant you it can be a useful tool in staying connected with people, but I've increasingly been finding out that it's more in my head than I'd like for it to be.

Recently I've discovered that I've been blocked and deleted by a number of people. Two in particular left me with a "what the f" feeling. And really it shouldn't bother me as much as it seems to be.

So why does it?

I've made mention of the false reality Facebook creates, leading others to look at their timeline comparatively. "Oh so and so just got back from vacation", "This person just got a new car", "That person just put their two weeks in because they just got offered a fabulous job", so many people seemingly enjoying their lives and living way more fabulously than you could ever dream to, and then you sit and take stock of your life and become disappointed. And this is the definition of social media?

(Whoa, get off your soap box. You're going to be sharing this post via Facebook)

When I had my hands busy knitting and working on Christmas projects, I found little time for Facebook and this did not bother me one bit. But now that I've slowed down on that, Facebook once again sinks its time-stealing claws into my mind and it is then that I'd discovered the whole blocked and deleted nonsense.

But now back to my original question: why does it even bother me? It shouldn't. Admittedly my posts as of late tend to be a little left-of-center, which doesn't exactly mesh well with some of my right-leaning friends, and since you can now see things that other people like as opposed to what they just post, people can see that I merely liked things that are a bit Catholic in nature, which doesn't exactly mesh well with some of my more evangelical-leaning friends.

At the same time, I am neither staging a Lenin-esque takeover nor am I proselytizing, so their blocking and deleting really comes down to their narrow-minded insecurities and do I really want that in my life anyway? It's almost as if I'm taking each unfriend or block/delete as a personal attack for which vengeance is necessary. (Okay that was a bit dramatic, at least the last part. I apologize.)

In all honesty, it's more like a bee sting (although I am allergic). Now that I've given it a few days, the initial sting has passed and I'm soothing myself with the Benadryl cream of "you don't want that kind of negativity in your life anyway".

But still, for something to have such a profound effect on one's psyche, says a lot about the subliminal power of the Facebook.

Poster beware.

January: The Traditional Cold, Grey Bucket of Suck

I have to say it's nice to be back. I took a couple months. For the month of November, I tried my hand at my first NaNoWriMo, and while I regret to inform you that I was not able to make the 50,000 word quota by November 30th, I am pleased to inform you that I nonetheless was able to come up with what I feel is a kickass story, (but then I am kind of biased). My inner monologue makes a return in my parenthetical quotes, you'll notice.

Sadly, I only made about 22,000 words, but even through all that I consider it a success, as prior to November 2016, I was unable to come up with more than 5 pages of writing that wasn't a school paper (which, incidentally enough I found out that this blog led one of my fellow students to actually plagiarize my paper on indifference that I had posted here and have to now make private).

Also during my two-month (and a half) hiatus, I busied myself with a couple new hobbies. I began working with yeast (as is alluded to in my previous entry); I got myself a bread machine that my mother was not using and which, in my household, has been used more than it has been in the decade or so it was under her ownership. I've made breads in there as well as some homemade ciabatta bread, (the crumbs of one loaf are still in a bowl awaiting to be made into either bread pudding or a stuffing dish)

I also took up knitting. (Yes...knitting. Men can knit too. Knitting, I'm told, used to be particularly male-dominated, but suffice it to say, men can knit too. More on that in a future post). I started simple - I made my wife a scarf, and one for my sister-in-law and one for my friend who has defeated cancer. That ballooned to a straight month of knitting scarves, 24 in total. It's just so quick and easy. Then I tried to make a dish rag and let me just state, from a dude's point of view, and a left hander's point of view, the purl stitch can suck it. Ain't nobody got time to dig under the top stitch and grab the bottom and pull through.

I also finished my plastic canvas ornaments, a self-professed tradition my great grandmother had going on when I was a kid, and which she ended the Christmas of 1989 due to her death in August of 1990. Pictures to follow in another post so as not to bog this one down. A brief rundown though, in 2004, after 15 years having passed since her last ornament, I took it upon myself to make a commemorative replica (or a new word I've recently learned, a pastiche) of the ornaments she used to make. I don't know if it was a tradition of hers or not, I just know that the older 3 cousins of the family (which includes myself) received a handmade ornament from her for Christmas.

This seems the perfect segue to my topic for this post : Tradition. I myself quite like the idea of tradition. I admire close-knit families that have traditions that keep them closely knit and together (wow paralleling my newly-discovered knitting hobby much?) Perhaps it's because my family, sadly, doesn't seem to have very many traditions. Even my grandmother admitted, before she died, that there weren't many (if any) traditions when I'd asked her in an attempt to revive forgotten traditions.

Now there's nothing wrong with that. Sometimes having no traditions can probably be in itself a tradition. And regardless of that, all traditions begin somewhere, or somewhen. Also true is the fact that it is never too late to start traditions. And it doesn't even have to be some Old World tradition that one's ancestors used to do generations ago "back in the old country" either. Admittedly, that had been my fascination in past years, especially since the death of my grandma who was predominantly Polish.

A death of a central family figure creates a devoid, a vacuum of sorts. Sometimes that death creates what I'm calling a "Diaspora Effect" on a family. Sometimes it's not a death at all; sometimes people just move away. Experience and firsthand witness has taught me that it's much easier to maintain a close knit when the family is located in one general vicinity, if not the same city. And sometimes, we find ourselves just naturally closer to one portion of the family than the other. Sometimes we also go through an exorbitant "teenage drama phase" and distance ourselves from our families. Sometimes, it's a combination of all of that which creates a perfect storm of family unraveling. But I digress...

Sometimes one central figure becomes the glue that holds a family together, and when that person departs in one way or another, it can become very difficult to stop the inevitable unraveling. It's sad to witness, it's sad to describe. It becomes necessary to then stop at that crossroads and evaluate whether or not it's time to detach and start knitting your own "close-knit-ness", for lack of better words. If it becomes especially hard to knit back together that unraveled or unraveling heap, then the answer is pretty clear.

It takes more than one person to want to keep an unraveling family from falling apart and completely dispersing. But then, families can surprise you, too.

So posting on a Friday the 13th, right!!! Admittedly, my absence from blogging and coming back to it opens up fresh ideas in what WheezyWaiter calls my "mindbrain". Blogging isn't the first thing I've come back to after a period of hiatus-ing...I've also started working on school stuff as well, as my 4th Term for my AA has begun as of January 1st. I am determined, and I know I've said this before, that this will be my last term. By June 30, I resolve to have completed and earned my AA, maybe even venture to New Hampshire to march across the stage and receive my degree in person. That might be a bit lofty, but the finishing of the degree not so much. It's only 44 credits...

(I just scrolled up to realize I've had a lot to say in this post) (Parenthetical side note: I just went down to refill my coffee and found myself uttering to myself, "That's one full ass cup of coffee.")

So we celebrated our first New Year's at Little Townhouse on the Prairie...and while me typing that brings about a certain sense of deja vu...(and yes I will be looking back at my posts of January 2016 to see if I've typed something similar, and maybe for that sense of nostalgia), I have to say it combined with my Christmas was actually refreshingly low-key. Even with no traditions, except for one that I started, since we had more time on Christmas Eve (as we had one less Christmas to go to this year), I read my oldest The Polar Express when we got back, took the kids to the light show at the park, and set out cookies and milk (or, Mocha Coffee Drink) for Santa.

So here's to the first post of 2017, 26 more to go! (in order to beat last year's post total of 26 because yeah that's a thing.) Next post I'll low key talk about some heavier things...unless I'm inspired to write something else. It's just good to be back :)

Little Townhouse on the Prairie Part 5 - A Little Yeast...

Taking a short break from NaNoWriMo to get into the kitchen. The last time I made a yeast bread, a ciabatta loaf no less, was about 2012-2013, at the Old Old house in the North of town. I am (or at least, WAS) a killer of yeast. I think the water was either too hot or too cold, and yeast intimidated me. This weekend I've used 2 packages of active dry yeast and dang.

I started by making an Amish Friendship Bread Starter, that if it keeps going the way it is, will give me about 7 starters. The recipe did state that making it from scratch will be a more active starter, so expect a lot more. What's even better is I found an Amish Friendship Bread Sourdough recipe that I'm dying to try...in 9 days when the starter is complete. And today I have a Bama Bowl of Ciabatta, recipe here. Ciabatta that I just turned after the first rising.

It's true, a little yeast leavens the entire loaf. I know that context is to be taken to talk about sin...but in my case, it's turned me into a Yeast-aholic.

I didn't stop there. Saturday morning my 3 year old and I made Snickerdoodles, without cream of tartar. LOVE. Dinner was a chicken bacon cheddar ranch goop that was actually pretty tasty. Today I am in the process of making 2 Pumpkin Loaves. Oh and I roasted both of my butternut squashes for future use. Yes, writing and cooking are my true passions.

Stay tuned, more to come. And interestingly enough my yeast bread baking has inspired me for a portion of my NaNoWriMo story!! But as I did not say "Spoiler Alert" in the beginning of this post, I will stop there.

And those Snickerdoodles...yeah out of three dozen they're almost gone. Very chewy for no cream of tartar, I actually love this recipe.

Little Townhouse on the Prairie Part 4 - A New Season

I have to start with a quip. So I let my inner Wisconsinite out the other day. At a stop-n-go light an SUV (which I would later learn was from Illinois) pulled up and the passenger asked out their window how to get to the Culver's. my inner monologue said "Oh you is going the way wrong way." But I replied, "OK so you turn left here, you get to the stop and go light and hang a left and just keep going. It's gonna be right next to a BMO Harris bank on your left." They probably still got lost because at first I told them to turn around and go left at the roundabout but then corrected myself because it would have been easier to just turn left than to turn around, especially since they were in a left turn lane. Wherever this adventure of life lands me, I will always be a Wisconsinite at heart. Except for the fact that I would help them regardless of the fact of knowing they came from Illinois. Though admittedly, the Wisconsin Department of Transportation could do a lot more to ensure motorists on the interstate would not get lost whilst getting off to eat. But then they should have thought about that before building a concrete wall around the city...but I digress.

So the growing season is over. And the results are in. The bunnies in my general vicinity are very well this summer. A wise farmer once told me that a farmer figures on 10% ish of their crop will go to the wildlife. In my case, I consumed about 10% of my crop. Ah well...I don't think farming genes run in any of my family history...save for maybe one or two. We're city-dwelling workers, not workers of the land apparently.

Admittedly as of late it'd been a while since I got into the kitchen and made anything more than a nightly meal. Since the second week of September at least one person in my household has been sick. Lord willing we have kicked the virus or illness or what have you, out of the Little Townhouse, and are moving forward.

I have to say, I felt a rush - the same rush that I feel when I sit down to write - when I got back into the kitchen. It all started with me wanting to use my bread machine. Not currently listed on my resume is Murderer of Yeast. I have successfully made one loaf of yeast bread in my life. It was a Ciabatta Loaf, and Oh My Expletive was it good. Well I don't have yeast currently, and so I found a recipe that was for a "Country Loaf". It was flour, baking powder, salt, "Any Liquid" and "Any Liquid Fat"...I jumped on that, as I had a bottle of Hard Apple Cider that was just sitting in my fridge and wouldn't you know it, was exactly the amount needed for this loaf. End result - Not too bad!

I didn't stop there. I have (or, Had...) exactly 1/3 cup of sugar in my entire kitchen. So I did what any sane person would have done and made coconut macaroons with them, which of course needed exactly 1/3 cup sugar. Seems to be a healthier alternative to regular cookies, as there's only 1/3 cup of sugar, and whatever added sugar was in the shredded coconut. Didn't have time to scientifically do that math or anything but let's just assume they are.

Also made some meatballs, since i had 2 egg yolks after the macaroon matter. I was so excited about them, except they turned pasty. I mean 2 out of 3 though...Meatloaf said it best.

So that true passion thing...perhaps I can just add cooking to it too. Writing and cooking. I can be okay with that. Of course, I will be adding more, as Christmas is coming (and the goose is.....ok too soon for Christmas Carols), and I do like making me some Christmas Crafts! Little Townhouse on the Prairie continues into the Fall and Winter!! Here we go.

Comparative Epitaphs

Lately I've been thinking about true passions. The thought has come to me, "What will your epitaph read?" "When you die, and your children and grandchildren have to write your obituary...what will they say?"

Immediately I think to myself "I do not want them to write 'he was a claims adjudicator for X amount of years." So why then, am I still a claims adjudicator? Well the short answer is good intentions not only pave the road to hell, but they certainly do not pay the rent. If I knew I could write a novel and my family would never know want (hyperbolically speaking), I would turn in my two weeks and never look back. Or, at least, I would write that novel and then turn in my two weeks.

That then brings the subject up of duty vs passion. It is said that if one does what they love, they will never work a day in their lives. I find myself working 50 hours a week in what I would describe (in a not complaining tone) as a position that does not utilize my talents to the best of my ability. And I think that's where this period of reflection, this discernment of my true passion, stems from. This, of course, led to The Choice for Awesome. And, failing to achieve my goal there, a step back in reflection of figuring out just what I am good at. It's easy to sit here and say "I'm not using my talents to the best of my ability", but what exact talents am I speaking of? Without an answer this just becomes a clever way of saying "I hate my job and I want a new one, a better paying one."

To paraphrase Stevie Nicks, what dreams do I have to sell? Definitely not dreams of loneliness.

There is something to be said about being too dutiful. It sucks the life right out of you. It kills your passions, it kills your sense of self...but hey, on the bright side, it pays the bills so you can continue to live your mediocre life on repeat. (That was overly cynical, tell me how you really feel)

Without sounding too much like Ariel (I want to be where the people are, I want to see, want to see them dancing...whoa just typing that it sounds creeperish but I needed to explain my metaphor because not everyone gets my sense of humor), I want to have the kind of job that utilizes what I know I'm good at, and/or what I enjoy doing. I like writing (although the verdict is out on whether or not I'm particularly good at it). I like cooking (same parenthetical remark as before applies). Photography. History, Genealogy, haven't we been through this before?

So there's that. A resolution: I need to make a better use of all the free time I can, which probably will consist of after bed time, but nonetheless, utilize it better, to foster my writing. I need to make it happen. Yes, it's been a while since I actually wrote wrote anything. But to start again, I simply need to just do it. I need to grab it by the --- (wait, that's beginning to sound too Trump-esque).

(Come on now, I can't infuse my blog posts with a bit of pop culture to make them a little more interesting to the handful of readers I actually have?)

My first novel is only a blank page away.

A piece of advice I will leave you with. If you're like me...when you scroll on your Facebook feed and you come across people you went to school with...don't click and scroll and see what they've been up to since you were in school, unless you want to truly reconnect. ESPECIALLY if you're experiencing the kind of wanderlust, if you will...(OK maybe wanderlust isn't the exact word I'm looking for). But it's a classic example of how social media makes you feel...I don't know, sorry for yourself? You see where these people are, what they've done, and then you look at your own life comparatively. I don't think I have to go further into detail, if you've been reading my last few posts.

It can be a good thing, it can spark a sense of urgency, if you will. It can spark you to want to do something more. And admittedly, it has. But the pangs of knowing I'm just where I was 10, 12, 15, 21 years ago (exformation intended for reasons I've just divulged), and to know it is at least for the time being, out of my control...you get the point. Social media though...it's supposed to be a connective tool that brings people together, makes the world a bit smaller...Maybe it's just the election, but it's in all actuality a very cold and lonely thing. And yet, we are still addicted to that thumb scrolling joy sucker. We just want to be part of their world...(what did I say about sounding like Ariel???) Anyway back to the point. Facebook sucks joy. So don't do it.

It might just be a hindrance to creating your own joy.

A Worthy Sacrifice

"A man's biography is written in terms not so much of what he causes to happen, but rather what happens to him and in him. The difference between men is not in the adversity which comes to them, but rather how they meet the adversity." - Archbishop Fulton Sheen.

I came across that on my Facebook feed and immediately my brain crack receptors went off.

Brain crack? Rather than try to explain it, just watch this video from the Great Ze Frank, who came up with the term.

That particular quote couldn't be more perfectly timed, as I sit here and contemplate my life's story.

Google search defines adversity as "difficulties, misfortunes". I'm not going to sit here and pretend to be the person most affected by adversity. But I will say that adversity takes many forms, wears many different hats and disguises if you will. Many of mine in recent years have been monetarily in form. I've learned lessons, slightly slipped back, but found more gripping as the days progress, however I can look back on where I was two years ago and state with confidence that even though it feels the same, it really is not. It's better.

And it will get better.

I've done my fair share of running, when faced with adversity. But I've also trudged through like a blinding blizzard because I've had no other choice. I've taken easy roads and hard roads, though admittedly my inherent impatience does get the better of me when the latter is involved. It's easy to let happen. You want results, and you want them now. A misfortune befalls you, and you immediately try to think of ways to solve it. Sometimes that solution lies just outside your realm of control, and it irks you to no end. And then it becomes an obsession (or maybe that's just me?).

But it gets better. It doesn't feel like it at times. It feels more like you are stuck in a rut and it's never going to get better. But it will.

Choices are and must be made every day. One often looks back on those choices and wonders how things would be different if they just took that other path. But what one doesn't take into account sometimes is that everything would be different. You go back and alter one choice and you end up in a totally different situation. And then, realizing that, one comes to the conclusion that you were meant to choose that path for a reason. What you might now deem as a mistake, ultimately leads to a great joy. A joy which sometimes is overlooked for the simple fact of the desired result of making that other choice.

It's easy to look back on past choices, but a whole other mountain with present choices that need to be made, along with all the possible future outcomes. And it becomes dizzying.

There's something to be said about a worthy sacrifice. For some reason this phrase has been bouncing around my head this week, which is a sure sign that this is brain crack and must get released from my fingertips. It's choosing to forgo going out so you can spend time with your family. It's briefly taking a second job so you can provide better for your family. It could be forgoing, or at least temporarily, your big city dreams in favor of a smaller town life because that's what your family has become accustomed to.

In the past few entries I've talked about my desire to move. I can never fully shake that feeling, especially when I pull up Google Maps and look at all the places I could go. But then I see my sons playing with their cousins. And then I know, that at least for now, rather than think of it being "my fate sealed", that I made the right choice. That regardless of any other feelings of being an outsider looking in, being a stranger in a group that once was so closely knit, effectively being shunned to a point...regardless of all that, I've made the choice for awesome. Or at least it would seem that way, for my kids. And wasn't that what I'd wanted all along?

A worthy sacrifice.

An outsider looking in?

Perceived or otherwise, feeling like an outsider doesn't feel good at all. To belong to a group where everybody seems to be connected to each other, and know, or at least perceive, that you are not included, sucks so bad. It feels like you're living in the shadows of that group. Like you're trying too hard to fit in, and why doesn't he just get the hint that he's not welcome do we have to come out and say it? It may or may not be the case, and in most cases it's not. But sometimes, perception is everything. People will never forget how you made them feel.

Then you shake all that out of your head. Concentrate on the choice, concentrate on the here and now, and forget everything else. Deal with the conflicting feelings as they come in waves, like high tide. Build a levee to control them. Consider your worthy sacrifice.

The trouble is determining whether or not said sacrifice is, in fact, a worthy sacrifice.

The Laugh Track is Extra

Life isn't just a sequence of waiting for things to be done." - Ze Frank

Do you ever get the feeling that you are living in a circus and all of a sudden you are thrust into the role of unwanted ringmaster?

Hi, I'm Eric, and this is my circus. 

My car won't start. And when it does...it acts as if it has elected a new pope. And last I checked Pope Francis is still the pontiff.

**For those who do not get that, this is my punneriffic way to say something is majorly wrong with my vehicle. You see, when the pope does and the College of Cardinals convenes to elect a new pope, They indicate said election by releasing white smoke from the Vatican. If they've not, black smoke is produced. Side note over.**

Now then, it doesn't stop there. Yesterday my father's guardian angel made itself known by guarding him from being hit by a semi truck while in his car. 

My days have converged into a series of get up, work, work overtime, log off, cook dinner and go to bed, in a series I'd like to see cancelled by Fox. (don't mistake that for suicidal ideation, it's a metaphor, duh guys.)

My life is a sitcom; all that's missing is the laugh track. Or maybe the live studio audience. But I guess, in my case, everyone I interact with is my live studio audience. They're just not gathered collectively as my life situations play out. Going off of my previous post, the phrase from Beauty and the Beast (modified for context) "There must be more than this provisional life" seems to be uttered by my inner voice a few times a day.

Provisional Life. What the F does that mean, I asked myself. A quick Google search defined it as follows: people whose lives are stuck on a dysfunctional merry-go-round of self-inflicted crisis, that everything they don’t like about their lives will change just as soon as something else happens

Hmm. 

And now I'm drawn back to the previous post, thinking about Puer Aeternus. My fascination (or borderline obsession, if you will) that moving from this town will magically make everything better. We have a winner. This sounds oddly familiar, the resemblance is striking.

And now I've just had an epiphany. I was writing that during my lunch. Back story, the past few months we'll say, I've been taking stock of what my true passion in life is. I've done some research, as I've briefly referenced in previous posts, and one of the things I've stumbled upon are the following questions:

1 - What makes you lose track of time?
2 - What do you spend money to do?
3 - Where do you fear judgment?
4 - What makes your heart race?

I've discovered one thing that can answer all four of these questions. WRITING. I almost forgot to come back from lunch and punch back in after my half hour, time just flew while I was writing, and the words just keep coming off my fingertips. I may not be able to do it at present but I've been toying around with the idea of self-hosting my blog/writings. I do fear judgment on my writings, because I don't really take criticism well. And when I write what I feel is a really good post, my heart does race as I wait to see how many people it will reach. 

Side Note - I'm thinking of drawing up a character I'll use in a forthcoming story. All I will say is he has a man-bun. And people call him Man Bun because his name isn't worth remembering, mainly because I haven't thought of his name yet. But I do wonder if I can pull off a man bun myself...but then I remember I'm balding. Moreover, I have a growing bald spot on the back of my head from where I used to (don't judge me) consciously pull my hair out as a kid. Side Side Note, The diagnosis of childhood psychosis is starting to make more sense...

So, as if it never existed before and I'm just discovering it now, the world is not flat. No, no, that's not it. I've found (at least one of) my true passion(s): writing. It was there all along, I haven't sat down to actually write anything in a while, but rather than feel guilty about it (as I read in another Google Search of "how to start writing again after a long break"), I will resolve (wait is this New Years?) to start writing again.

You'll notice that I've allowed my inner voice some commentary throughout this post. That actually gives me a rush too in thinking of when I will post this. My inner voice has a dad-jokes sense of humor, which is why I feel like I will be (or, am...) that classic dad jokes guy.

Asphalt Bars

I will be the first person to say I don't know the inner workings of depression, how it operates or what brings about episodes. I will also say that I would love to be privy to such information.

I'm not saying that I believe I am going through an episode at present. I'm not even saying that right now I am currently depressed. The term I think is most applicable in my case at immediate present, I would say, is restless.

It amazes me that a little over a month ago I could make a post called The Choice For Awesome and now find myself saying I feel restless. And not in a good way, either.

Okay let me back up a bit. The aforementioned post, admittedly, was a little overzealous. I did do a vlog, on September 12. Due to circumstances beyond my control, including but not limited to an eardrum-rupturing ear infection, I was unable to continue. Don't get me wrong, I still have that taste for awesome as I so vividly displayed back then. I may just need a little redirection of sorts.

Let me back up a bit further. Ever since I moved to this city from suburban Milwaukee exactly 21 years ago this month (October 1st to be exact), I've hated it. Speaking in the hyperbolic sense, there's nothing more I'd love than to move, to a bigger city, to a different state, maybe even to another country altogether. Just. Out. Of. Here.

Several factors are preventing such a move, even in the slightest degree of moving to a neighboring biggish city, as I discovered last year. Some are inside my control, but most are out of my control. In addition, one of the biggest things that is in my control, even when I accomplish it, might not have a huge difference in the municipality of which I reside.

Yes, this city is a prison of sorts, especially taking into account that it is "walled off", if you will, by a freeway and a freeway-wannabe, the access control points of which are becoming decreasingly hard to cross. But then I stop and think how much different things would have been, say had I done what I wanted to do post-high school. Differently, not in a good way either. As much as I felt (and sometimes still feel) like George Bailey, it needed to happen this way. And sometimes I forget that.

And that's when it hit me.

Save for one paragraph above, everything I wrote in this post was written about a week ago, before I had an epiphany of sorts, this morning. I wasn't ready to post this post yet, partially due to the fact that my routine has not permitted...no, but this restlessness I am feeling, has an origin.

Enter puer aeternus.

I've just become privy to information about this, and would not even describe myself as marginally knowledgeable about it, but what I did glean from it has gotten me thinking.

I think there's a difference between "being a kid at heart" and "never wanting to grow up", as the puer aeternus would state. It might be a fine line, but there's a difference. I think my biggest problem is as of late, I have fallen into the trap of "waiting for my ship to come in", so to speak. I've lost a certain amount of joy, but yet I am not per se depressed. Not that the loss of a certain fraction of joy doesn't bother me, but it is nowhere near the episode I experienced before.

I googled something to the effect of "finding joy again", and one of the things I found that was rather noteworthy instructed me to think back to the Halcyon Days of when I was 7-8, and what I enjoyed doing back then. It took some coaxing, and didn't come to me right away.

I derive joy in puzzles. Sudoku, crosswords, piecing together the puzzles of family history. I derive joy in just looking at maps. The new year's edition of Rand McNally's Road Atlas was always on my must-have list. As a result and with the help of Google Maps at times, I consider myself a person with a great sense of direction, something I generally take for granted until I come across someone who does not have said quality and asks directions to get somewhere (Mom and Alex, I'm looking at you). I derived joy in playing pretend. I derived joy in creating, even if it was just making Lego Towers in Lego Cities, or buildings and train stations out of empty cigarette packs while my dad was building the real deal in the basement. (In retrospect, admittedly a 7 year old should not be trusted with a soldering iron, as much as I wanted to build things myself)

I derive joy in writing, in using big words correctly (but not often enough to be considered pretentious). I derive joy in research, as I've already mentioned genealogy. But other things, too. Looking at Google Maps, seeing the borders of any given city, the population trends of said city...but then just when I start to think that that city would be a great place to live in, the pangs of being stuck here come back.

It's stupid, I know. But as I say, these are the things that thrust themselves into my mind every day.

I want change, yet am scared of it sometimes. When I want things to stay the same, they change, and when I want them to change, they stay the same.

I must learn to create my joy in the restlessness, in the "puer aeternus" if you will. I cannot keep standing on the dock waiting for my ship to come in. I've got to get to the shipyard and build a dinghy myself.

Yes, I chose dinghy because I like the sound of that word, not because I never want to grow up. I'm not asking for a luxury cruise liner here, a freakin' raft will do.

I don't know if my grandpa ever felt "stuck" in Milwaukee, but I do know if he did, it took north of 70 years for him to get out. And here I am just north of 20 complaining. The problem I have here, is that there's just so much to be seen and experienced beyond the asphalt walls of this town. So many other places that may be a better fit for me and my family. And maybe that opportunity will open up, but I have to let it open up when it's ready. I can't create it myself. I might as well be waiting in New York City in 1912 for the Titanic to dock.

But what I can do, is create joy in the here and now. And that is my assignment.

Trains on a Butterfly Wing

You get to a point in your life when you finally grow up. You realize the things you made such a big deal about when you were a teenager aren't as big of a deal as they were, and you even question your motives as to why you let it upset you to the extent that you did. And then you feel embarrassed by the way you acted/reacted.

I can't say I've had the same childhood as Anthony Kiedis, lead singer of my favorite band, the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Nor can I say I've had the same father/son relationship he had with his father. But I can relate to this song, on a different level. The Red Hot Chili Peppers song "Savior" until very recently just struck me as another track off of the Californication album, something I usually would skip over unless I was in that mood. That is, until I found out what the song was about, thanks to both Kiedis and his father Blackie Dammett via a YouTube video.

(side note, the RHCP are notorious for having hidden meanings in their songs, and me having the delightful inability to read between the lines has to make it a point to seek out the meanings as I can't read them myself)

The line "he's just a man and any damage done will be all right" resonates with me, especially now that I know the song is about his father. Growing up, I didn't exactly have a normal father/son relationship with my father. As this isn't a tell-all autobiography and just merely a blog post, I won't get into details. As I've grown and (in terms of this subject) matured, I've come to the realization that I was quite - you'll forgive my blunt phrasing here - a drama whore, in my teenage years. Going back and reading the things I wrote, hoping they'd become future bestsellers at the time and thinking I'd written gold, I have confirmed this notion. Now I just roll my eyes.

No one was a victim, and no one was an instigator, although 15 years ago I was telling the story quite differently. When you get two people together that are under the same mindset of "This is logical to me, and anything different is illogical and therefore wrong", and one of those person's logic goes against the other person's logic, there are bound to be problems.

As for the aforementioned writings, after much debate I've decided that they belong in what I have cleverly dubbed "The Turd Archive". I could take the time to polish them up and tweak the drama out of them but I think that time would be better spent adopting my new and improved (and still improving) writing style, and starting fresh. This decade long creativity dry spell has to end,

I didn't become addicted to drugs because my father fed them to me along with a passion for womanizing and what not, so in that way I differ from the song. But in many ways I can relate. There was a time when I wanted nothing to do with him, even thought about changing last name (see? drama whore), and then my perspective changed. It wasn't overnight; in fact it took many years for me to adopt this new perspective, but I'm glad I finally did.

He did what my grandfather did before him, and what I'm sure his father did, and so on. He made the best of what he had  Which is what I find myself doing today. Don't get me wrong it's very difficult at times. But things always have a way of working themselves out. Time does heal wounds.

The Choice For Awesome

I may have made potentially a stupid decision. A stupidly awesome decision. I'm going to do a daily vlog. Ish. I know I'm about 8-10 years too late, and no I don't think I lead that interesting of a life but the fact of the matter is I enjoy making videos. Yes, my earlier videos have basically for the most part, for lack of better terms, sucked. But that doesn't necessarily mean stop making them, and in light of recent events it's almost necessary.

I'm not going to wait until I have the perfect job or even my dream job to be awesome. In a major DUH turn of events it has occurred to me that I can be awesome while still hating what I do to put food on the table. If I am awesome to just a handful of people then it is a success. If only 30 people read my blog and 7 people watch my videos, whatever. I will have a showcase for my children that I don't have with my relatives. A chance to see them as they were. In some cases even before I knew they existed.

I have felt a little less than awesome as of late. Well I shouldn't say that. I've had intermittent spurts of awesome, but I feel like I need to be gushing with awesome and doing my part to decrease even the tiniest amount of world suck. Maybe I sort of lost it trying to figure all this true passion stuff out, that perhaps what is necessary is to keep doing what I love to do, create my own awesome as it were. Something tells me, if history proves anything, is that when the time is right, things will fall into place the way they always seem to do. I'm not saying I will just sit back and wait for these things to effect themselves, but I can't stop doing what I love just because an existential crisis is at hand.

Oh and I think I might just try my hand at NaNoWriMo in November.

Finding the St. Francis Within

This past Friday, I listened to a fascinating documentary on St. Francis of Assisi. It was very jarring in a most positive way, to the point that he may give St. Philip Neri a run for his money in terms of being my patron saint. You can have more than one, right? I hope so.

It is my understanding that Francis of Assisi was much like me, much like all of us really, through his teens and 20s. Then he found himself in an old dilapidated church and call it what you want - he had a vision upon gazing at the crucifix. The Lord told him to rebuild his church. So he did. He cleaned up and repaired that church. Obviously there was a deeper meaning to it, but from what I understand, he left that experience a changed person. He wanted to do something bigger with his life.

I'm going to stop there, lest I ruin the documentary for you. But that is where I find myself today. I'm a 31-year-old Claims Adjuster, having gone through 3 different jobs since I started working on "the edge of twenty", to borrow but not quote a phrase from Stevie Nicks. As a side note, I've recently found out that my quoting of songs in past blog posts amounted to what I am calling an accidental infringement, and thus all quotes (to the best of my ability) have been removed, sadly. I am very much a musical person, and one of those people that if we can't talk in song lyrics we can't be friends. I enjoyed making that a part of my blogs but I also don't like infringing on copyright, so it had to be done.

Doing what I do for a job, I hardly feel like the force of nature I've made it my life's goal to become. Have I discovered what my true passion is yet? I can't say that I really have, but I'm working on it. I'm not asking to become a bestselling author, celebrity chef or professional vlogger/blogger, but I do enjoy all those things. I'm trying to figure out which of my passions I could capitalize on and do for a living. Many people say cooking is my strong suit. Humbly, I say that I'm not that good. And it's true, I have a lot to learn. Everybody does. But I can't in good conscience continue to do what I'm doing, expecting to be that force of nature I'm always striving to be.

My old religion teacher always used the phrase "the workaday world", and I now get what that means. I used to write for hours every day. Now, I'm lucky to be able to sit down and pen thoughts that are swimming in my head. Ten hours of work, plus a family, does not equal much free time. It's a struggle trying to ensure everything gets done, both wants and needs.

But does it have to be?

Say my true passion does involve cooking. At present, I don't feel like me taking on any kind of cooking job would be able to pay enough to sustain my family. I know money isn't everything but hey, a Claims Adjuster salary is doable with some creative financing, and as I've said I'm no celebrity chef. Not to mention I'm sure if I wanted to do something like that, I should have thought of that after high school and not as I enter my 30s.

Thinking about it, what do I really love? Writing. Writing, Photography, and making videos. And I love watching vlogs on YouTube, specifically vlogbrothers and Wheezy Waiter. I don't necessarily feel like I live an interesting enough life to vlog about, but the time factor comes into play again.

I refuse to be relegated to mediocrity. If there's one thing I learned from the Vlogbrothers, it is not to forget to be awesome. And that's what I want to do with my life. Something awesome. Maybe only awesome for few, maybe awesome for many, but something awesome nonetheless.

And now is the part where I open it up to you, the readers, taking suggestions on how to best find my true passion.

Evolution of Family - Thoughts From Arab, AL

Over the last 6 years, one thing I have learned is that blood isn't the only thing that makes you family. I have been fortunate to have more than tripled the size of my family over that time under that logic. Merriam-Webster even has varying definitions of family, ranging from the usual sharing of a common ancestor to sharing common convictions or affiliations.

The point is, you don't have to be related to someone to call them your family. Whoever you associate with, who when they're in pain or suffering you share in their pain and suffering, and when they are joyful you share in their joy, that is your family. Sometimes non-blood relations are closer than blood relations. Sad to say, but this can be true.

Everyone needs family of any kind; going through this death sentence called life alone is a special kind of torture one must never subject themselves to. If we aren't going to make it out of this adventure alive, we might as well enjoy the ride in he company of others.

Yesterday marked the second year since my Grandma left to go dance with Jesus. I was blessed to have her in my life for 30 years, even if at times I didn't make the most of those 30 years. I think we are still in that "lost" phase, where the loved one is taken and we're still trying to figure out how we're going to move on with our lives. The phase where nothing seems right and the realization that nothing will be the same again is still prevalent.

The thing about family is it's always evolving. Marriages, births, deaths, meeting new people...like the weather in Wisconsin, it is constantly changing. And we are all family with God as our Father.

Just up the road from where we are staying in Alabama there is a pond in a city park. I'm not sure if it's teeming with fish or not, but suppose it is. They will forever be relegated to that pond, that will be all they know of existence. They won't know that there is so much more water to explore. And anthropomorphically speaking they'd probably be fine with that. Some people are like that too. They stay within the confines of their city or state, and they are perfectly fine with that. I'm very thankful I was blessed with the ability to travel and venture outside my city walls (if you knew my city you'd know the Department of Transportation built a bypass that is effectively a modern day "Great Wall" of sorts) and see more of the beautiful world God created. I was afforded the opportunity to immerse myself in Southern culture, even developed my own accent that'll likely stick with me for about a week. It was the first time in 6 years I have been able to travel out of state; incidentally enough to the same place, this time with a wife and kids.

Side note: a twelve hour road trip with an almost 3 year old is basically signing away a percentage of your sanity.

In Which I Take Stock of my Monkeys

Something happened almost two weeks ago. Due to the potential audience of my blog posts, suffice it to say that this event caused me to take a step back and take stock in my current "situation" and "position", as the words "undisclosed" and "no transfers" got tossed around. Bob Cratchit was threatened with this after he vocally subscribed with Scrooge's nephew Fred regarding Christmas. I think that's eloquent enough...

I must admit, I've sort of grown comfortable in my current position. I finally have a supervisor who I like and appreciates me for my work, I've been given the permission to work from home and love every minute of it, but the volatility of the industry has me wondering. For one thing, it has me wondering "What next?" Not as someone going through constant trials and then having another trial come upon them and shaking their fists heavenward and shouting "what next", but as in career-wise, what is the next step?

Currently I am pursuing and am halfway to attaining, an AA in General Studies with a Concentration in Business. After that I will be following that up with a BA in I-Don't-Know-Yet. But I haven't looked at the market in a while, so to speak. However, that would mean giving up the chance to get these degrees - at least, the chance to get them at no cost to me.

Taking stock of the situation, taking stock of my position, taking stock of my...location. What if some awesome job opportunity presented itself in, say, Oregon? Well for one, I would never know because I haven't been out there looking, but I hear that Oregon is one of the 10 states where the job market is exploding. Am I really so tied to Wisconsin? Who knows...that BA is a ways off yet, thinking 2-4 years away. And we just went through the whole moving fiasco...only to find ourselves right back in the city we were intending to leave a year ago...

It once again makes me go back and "dust off history" (consider further my last post, In Which History Gets Dusted Off). That post I focused on Paulina, who traversed the Eastern United States in an effort to find her sister, Anna. Whereupon finding her, stayed with her and lived with her and her husband and family until meeting my great great grandpa, Frank. Now I think of Frank's side of the story. While I don't know the schematics of it all, Frank came here to avoid being forced back into the Austrian Army due to lack of Draft Card, which I'm sure being forced back into the Army was the least of the potential punishment...but that's neither here nor there. The fact is, sometime around 1901 he came here. Landed I'm sure in New York City where Paulina found herself just a year previous, and as a hard-working, (probably) liberal-minded (The Google tells me through Wikipedia that typically, Austrian immigrants as well as Polish were of the liberal persuasion) 30-something single Catholic, I can only assume traversed the country as well just trying to attain a job to sustain himself.

History has shown me that my individual family roots had come to this country (excluding perhaps the English Colonial ancestors) due to either religious persecution or a better opportunity to escape the constant war and strife of the European scene at the time...almost reminiscent to today's America, but that's another blog post. I seem to be developing a theme of "Piecing Together History", as it were.

Anyhoobastank (credit to Wheezy Waiter for introducing that word into my life, seriously check out his channel it's amazeballs) it makes me wonder, not to sound like Adam Levine, what it was that brought Frank ultimately to Iron Mountain, Michigan. And even more than that, what took him in such a short time from Iron Mountain all the way to Milwaukee, Wisconsin? Nowadays that's about like an 8 hour trip, I can imagine it taking probably thrice as long in the early 1900s. Was it the influx of German and German-esque immigrants to the Milwaukee area? Although Chicago would have sufficed as well...what was it that took them precisely to Milwaukee?

So now, four generations later, I find myself in similar shoes, so to speak. No, I'm not contemplating fleeing the US Army (they wouldn't take me even if I wanted them to), but I find myself a hardworking, liberal (sorta)-minded 30-something Catholic wannabe (albeit married with children), asking myself is my current city the best location and is my current position the best position for me to have at this very moment in time?

The answer remains to be seen. As the scientists put it, "Further research is needed." The job market in Wisconsin is stagnant at best. Like Frank, however, I have family here, although his was admittedly possibly smaller than mine is at present, he had family that he left in Michigan to remove down to Milwaukee. It was for a job that my father removed us from Milwaukee to my current city. Is the perfect well-paying job just waiting for me in some place like Bend, Oregon (had to say that just for the name), and I'm too focused on what I'm doing now to catch it? Could it be that there's life outside of Wisconsin? Those last two statements are facetious but you get my drift.

As to the monkeys referenced in the title, it is too soon to discuss one of them; suffice it to say I took one important step to remove it from my back. Tomorrow the recipients should receive their correspondence and responses may or may not come. But the ball is officially out of my court, not that it was even ever in my court to begin with...but were it kicked over there, I've returned it back to the opposing side. The Collective Soul album title "Hints, Allegations and Things Left Unsaid" comes to mind. I took care of those, and await the results. Albeit not one of my monkeys, I've also begun writing letters to my grandfather, because it dawned on me that I cannot get down to where he lives (a little over an hour away) as frequently as I'd like to, and even when I do, I can't fill him in on everything going on in our lives, because so many other people are doing so. As he is not online, I've done the next best thing (and some would argue, including myself, an even better thing): written correspondence. Summation - there is something to be said about a hand-written letter.

The other monkeys are my vehicles. Let me preface by saying being in an upside down car loan sucks. However, being that the Teacher has allowed us to climb further out of a debt hole by utilizing it, I can only see it as being a friendly if not annoying monkey on my back, not one that is doing me harm. And while climbing out of a debt hole using more debt doesn't seem to make logical sense, it's more of a consolidation thing than it is a debt thing. That being said, it still sucks. Especially when the vehicles now need more work in them than they are worth. It will take some thrusting to get these monkeys off our backs,

Time - on its resume, it would have to include professional healer of wounds, single entity in which futures and fortunes are told, and flight extraordinaire (at someone else's fun expense).

In Which History Gets Dusted Off

Every once in a while, usually once or twice a year, the Genealogy Bug strikes me. Part and Parcel with my myriad of psychological issues is that I will obsess over something for a few hours, days, sometimes up to a couple weeks, before moving onto the next obsession. It's fun, you should be jealous. If I have to have OCD, I'm glad to have it paired up with ADD so I can obsess about a new thing each day...or week, as it were.

Anyhoobastank...so in retrospect, I feel like I have discussed this before, I'm not sure when. A quick search of my blog tells me it was the entry Without Shoes and Without Regard, in which I discussed grieving and the loss of my Grandma. You can read that entry here. That's right, I get real time up in this.

I've learned a lot from my family's history, if even some of that was contrived by my own at times hyperbolic fashion. (I may or may not have just clarified for myself today what the word hyperbole means and wanted to use it in a sentence)

Starting with my Great-Great Grandmother, the Matriarch of the Family, as it were. The stories throughout the family that I've heard, I mean, I can't decide which one I like better between my Great-Great Grandparents, who were the originators of my family in America, more specifically, Upper Michigan at first (before settling in Milwaukee, my hometown). Here is what is known as fact, with only little assumptions made (the hyperbole comes in later): Frank was in the Austrian Army in say the 1880s-1890s. The story goes, you had to have your draft card renewed, or certified, or updated every year. He lived in a small town in far southern Austria...basically a Sound of Music hike across the Alps from Slovenia...but at that time was probably part of the Tyrannosaurus Austria-Hungary Empire Rex...but I digress...and the bigger city of the area was likely Klagenfurt, or Villach, one of the two. Anyhoobastank, Frank's employer said that he would take his draft card to get certified and then bring it back to him. En route either there or back, Frank's employer lost his draft card. If you were caught in Austria at that time without your draft card, so I understand it, you were thrown back into the Austrian Army. Which apparently was the last thing Frank wanted, because he hopped a boat for America. I do not know where he landed, or even what he did from the time he made landfall, if you will, in 1901 to when he married Pauline (more on her in a moment), in 1903 in Iron Mountain, Michigan.

Pauline, on the other hand, was presumably 17 when she "made landfall" in New York City in 1900. According to my grandfather, there was a rumor (or otherwise unconfirmed story that perhaps itself might have been hyperbolic) that Pauline's father....well, wait. Let me back up a second and say what I know. Pauline's father was a traveling salesman, and he had another daughter two years Pauline's senior, who was already in America. Whether or not they knew where, I do not know. I assume based on what I'm about to say, that they did know that Anna was in Iron Mountain, Michigan. Here's the possible hyperbole: while it is true that John, the father, was a traveling salesman, what I am assuming here is his wife, Pauline's mother, died in childbirth. What I know is that she died and John was to raise Pauline as a single father in 1880s Austria-Hungary, as a traveling salesman. The rumor was he was going to drown her in the river. Nobody knows if that is true, but regardless, at the tender age of 17 she boarded a boat in Le Havre, France, headed for New York City, where she arrived on the scene in March of 1900. Census records taken in June of 1900 do not place her anywhere, and I do not know of her whereabouts at that time but picture if you will: you are 17, in a strange land, not knowing the language but knowing that somewhere in this expansive country (wherever Iron Mountain, Michigan is), waits your sister. The only one who knows you. Your mission is to find your sister, and given the sad shape of roads in the early 1900s, I can definitely see how it would take multiple months to traverse the Eastern half of this country to find your sister, deep in the coal or iron ore mines of the Northwoods of Michigan.

I think you can see where I embellish the story just a tad...but still totally plausible.

Fast forward 40 years. My grandparents are born, all growing up in the time of the Great Depression. One grandparent is living in a multi-family home, where many of the apartments are inhabited by members of her family, a large...and I mean Polish Catholic Large...family on the East Side of Milwaukee. One grandparent was born into a family who, at the time of the 1940 Census, was at least 1 year out of a job and was working for the WPA. There's where I'm concentrating now. My Great Grandma had to make do with a little to serve her family...and she taught my Grandma a lot, so I've come to understand, when she married my Grandpa. I even remember toys she'd make for me, 40 years after the Depression, made out of old wooden thread spools strung together, and rattles out of two detergent caps twisted together. She was a very resourceful lady.

There is a theory that states that some memories can be transmitted through DNA. I would subscribe to this theory, as especially from the period of time of 2013 to early 2015, I had to do just that...or at least a modern version of just that. One pot meals were basically a staple. Buttered noodles were a commonplace dinner. But we never went hungry, and we were never without the necessities. We just made do with what we had.

On the other side of the spectrum, I had a grandparent who lived with her parents and brother, who lived with the grandparents on her mom's side - something that hits home.

As I've learned in school doing some economics projects, is that the economy is cyclical. Maybe that gives credence to the "history repeats itself" mantra. It may not have obviously hit in my parents' generation, and maybe not in my generation, but for my kids' generation we have the Great Recession of 2008, and while it was in no way as bad as the Great Depression was, it still was a big economic downturn. But we survived. Just like our grandparents.

If I've learned anything from this economic downturn it is that frugality can save your family from the brink. You may have to make some unconventional decisions, decisions that other people will look at you like you're mad, but in the end - and this is the important part - with faith in God, you can trust that He will surely guide the way.

That's not to say I had perfect faith throughout this trial, or anything that would even resemble something saint-worthy. There were plenty of times that I wanted to (and sort of did) throw my hands up in the air (and not wave them around like I just didn't care) and ask the Teacher why this wasn't on the test, why such a lofty exam, like this seemed like final exams 2 weeks into the term. I knew (and still know) that He doesn't give us more than we can handle, but it truly seemed to be too much, and that's all I will say about that. Yet even through all that, the Teacher showed me just how much He is in control, and he took me on an amazing journey of faith in the process, something I will talk about in a future post.

The Teacher is always silent during a test...

However I feel like this may have been an open-book test, in that I had and still have, history to draw off of. The lessons of my forefathers, be it learned or transmitted somehow, find themselves in the passenger seat...wait okay that is a bad reference, because I was going to say waiting for my perusal, but it is not safe to read and drive. But I think you get the point.

The Shortness of Life - Thoughts From Park Falls, WI

In true vlogbrothers fashion, I am plugging in to write a post from Park Falls. I may end up finishing it at home, due to service on my cell not to mention battery life.

Everyone and I mean everyone needs recreation. A great theologian Taylor Marshall outlines how to go on vacation and truly re-create, or rather, BE re-created. It doesn't matter how or where you do it, I am just by nature (and perhaps transmitted memories via DNA) attracted to the Northwoods of Wisconsin. My family hails from Iron Mountain. Anyboobastank, it used to be that I was sort of biased towards Minocqua and Lac du Flambeau, as far north as Mercer. But there is something to be said about the Northwoods as a whole. Park Falls is about a half hour 45 minutes to the west of Lac du Flambeau.

In the years since I've met my wife and had begun coming to Park Falls over the Fourth of July, I've come to see that everything north of US Highway 8 in Wisconsin is considered Up North, and there's treasure to be had and recreation to be had everywhere. I used to want to own property in the Minocqua-Lac du Flambeau area but now...anywhere will do. Just property. Then a camper.  And we can drive the camper and park it on the property and camp for a weekend. Just get away.

Life is short. Too often we say "some day". And then we get older and those "Some days" turn into "I wish". I will not be a victim to that kind of guilt. Cancer has been spreading like wildfire amongst my family and friends lately, and I myself am getting some suspicious moles looked at. Can't really afford it, based on my awesome insurance "coverage" (sarcasm intended), and I still keep second guessing myself if I'm (to make a pun here) making a mountain out of a molehill...but with my luck I'll let it go and it'll be something. I'm already prepared to go in there and find out it's nothing. But what if...what if I woke up tomorrow and had cancer of the something else?

That's why while we're up here I'm doing the most I can with my kids, and myself. I just got back from kayaking across the lake in a fashion hat would make my cousin who works with a rowing team proud. I've taken numerous trips out on the kayak and paddleboat with the kids even if it's just out to the bay and back. You just never know if this will be your last time.

I got so close to a loon. Like within a two kayak distance. I probably scared the living crap out of it, as it started doing its wailing call and getting up and flapping its wings. Those of you who know me, know that I have a strong affinity for the Common Loon. Aside from being a self-professed loon (although not of the avian kind), I have the bird tattooed to my right forearm. It is my number one favorite bird, next to cardinals and red winged blackbirds.

Nelson Mandela said "There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered." Next year, there might...no strike that, there will be some alterations, one way or another (I'm gonna find you I'm gonna getcha getcha getcha getcha). No but seriously, I say that every year I come to the Northwoods.

I think the first thing to get should be a camper. Camper first, then the property. Anywhere north of highway 8 is good for me!

And wouldn't you know it, I put sunscreen on and my shoulders still got burned.

A Lesson From a Mourning Dove

This morning, I sat on my back stoop during my morning ritual, during which a mourning dove (after scaring the shit out of my wife and I after taking off from the side of the house right over the door we just exited) kept flying all around the backyard. It was rhythmic, too - the typical squeaking if you will, as the dove takes off and flies to its destination.

And then I noticed a pattern. The dove would fly off to the side of the house where I had no view, and then fly back, once over to where Philip was peacefully munching on his green leafy weeds, and then back to his spot on the side of the house. Then back to over past the treeline into the neighbor's yard, and back to his spot. And I watched the dove. Every time it went out, it came back with a small twig betwixt its beak.

And then it dawned on me. It was nesting.

Persistently, one twig at a time, one shriveled up leaf at a time, dutifully back and forth.

And then I directed my thoughts inward. That is exactly what I am doing right now. After the events of the last year, one by one things are coming back. And we're accomplishing the task of making our nest, if you will, one flight, one twig, one leaf at a time. We're saving for vacations for the first time. Not a sponsor but the Ibotta app is helping with that, just yesterday I cashed out my first $20. One gallon of milk, one dozen eggs, one box of cereal at a time. One car payment, one cleaning job, one lawn mowing job, one bag of cans, one old outfit that doesn't fit anymore being sold, one penny, dime, quarter at a time. And what we are building is something beautiful for our family.

In Which We Talk About Memories...

How do you define a "Force of Nature"?

In climatological terms (yes Blogger it IS a word, I just googled it because you highlighted it red...indicating I made a spelling error), a Force of Nature is likened to a hurricane, tornado, earthquake, or some sort of destructive (or otherwise) force upon the earth. Metaphorically speaking, which is what I'm going for here, quora.com states the following:

"Force of nature is an idiom. To say a person is a force of nature (is one, not has one) means the person is a very strong personality or character -- like a hurricane or a tsunami are also forces of nature -- full of energy, unstoppable, unchallengeable, unforgettable. In short, a person to be reckoned with."

Urban Dictionary takes it a step further, and although I'm not exactly fond of this definition I'll include it for the sake of point-making: "A person or creature possessing unnatural or God-like power." But we all know that Urban Dictionary is basically what you go to when you want to look up what will undoubtedly have an explicit sexual "alternate" definition that will more than likely gross you out - unless, you know, you have a strong stomach for that sort of stuff. 

I am dedicating this blog post to Tom Broderick, my "Shirttail Uncle". In short form, we are related by marriage, by my blood uncle's wife, whose sister is Tom's wife; therefore, my shirttail uncle. Their children are thus my shirttail cousins...I mean, we do share the same uncle after all...so doesn't that almost define the term cousin? But I digress...

Upon expressing my condolences at his passing, his wife said something that has stuck with me ever since. "He was a force of nature." That phrase really struck me, and ever since then I've made it my life's goal to be able to have that same phrase said of me when I dance with Jesus. "He was a force of nature." Well, in my case I'm sure other things will be said like "that guy was weird", and "he tried to get out of a car through a sunroof", and "did you see his last Snapchat picture? That filter though!" Maybe even "He made a mean Jewish Coffee Cake just like his grandma used to make...except for the walnuts." Some of my Lutheran friends will maybe even question the final destination of my eternal soul due to my Catholic tendencies. But at the core of that, doesn't that sort of at least begin to constitute a Force of Nature? 

Back in the Halcyon days* of my early double-digit years, as I was leaving my hometown of West Allis onto the city where I'd spend the better part of my years (and counting), in August of 1995, my Grandpa Bruce passed away after an unbeknownst-to-me battle with cancer of the everything, as in it had metastasized everywhere. That next month, over Labor Day, my uncle had invited me and my two cousins to go up north to Squirrel Lake, a now-defunct and torn down resort about ten miles west of Minocqua. It was then that I really got to know Tom.

Tom taught me how to drive a pontoon boat, how to park it even. There was always some sort of water adventure to be had when Tom was up north, be it in Dave's pontoon boat, a speedboat, fishing, tubing, and jet skiing. One of my very fondest memories is one gloomy Saturday morning when we were all on the pontoon boat, and something happened with the motor, or the waves or something. That part I do not remember but what I do remember was that the bow of the pontoon boat was where myself and my youngest shirttail cousin Beanie (using nicknames to protect identities, of course!) were seated, decked out in life jackets because Safety, duh. So all of a sudden, the bow starts sliding underneath the surface of the lake. Think a less dramatic and minuscule likening to the Tragedy of the Titanic. Only Not so Much...we didn't sink to the bottom of the lake, we could all tread water and/or swim, and we weren't in the middle of shark-infested waters. Just Muskies. Beanie, I'm looking at you. Remember the Muskies? Now at this point, about 4 feet of the bow is underwater, and Tom, being (I'm just gonna say it) an expert in the field of sailing and all things nautical, knew how to keep the boat from going down. He didn't say anything though at this point, and his wife, who stood behind him, hand on his shoulder, just as calm as can be, said in the most gently prodding and matter-of-fact voice, "Tom, the boat's sinking". Now I'm trying to capture the exact tone of her voice here, and this is the best I have. It was as if she was saying, "Tom, dear, I don't mean to alarm you, but it appears as though the boat is sinking." Or, as we say nowadays, "NBD" (No Big Deal). 

Needless to say the boat, as I said, did not go down. Tom knew what to do. If he was frightened or shaken by any of it, he never let on. But something tells me he was just as calm as his wife was. "NBD" :) That will forever be etched in my memory banks as the fondest Up North Memory this side of proposing to my wife on the side of the hill at Deerwood Lodge...definitely ranks up there.
Over Labor Day of 1998, at this point, my grandmother on my mother's side, was staying with us as she had decided to come back to Wisconsin after suddenly moving on a whim to Arizona in 1996 not too long after my Grandpa's death...now that I think about it, knowing what I know now, it was probably due to her lease being up. I'd like to think that part of the reason she came back was my mom was pregnant with my brother at the time, but something tells me that might not have been the case because upon disembarking the plane the first thing she could say to my mother was "Oh my God are you fat!" And basically ate her words, or put her foot in her mouth (so to speak) when my mother informed her that she was, in fact, 6 months pregnant with my brother.

So for 144 days (yes I counted...there's a history there and it's not an entirely pretty one), Grandma (I'll refrain from calling her my personal name for her here) lived with us while she found a place to live up here...as in Wisconsin. Ultimately she settled back in West Allis and now somewhere in southeastern Wisconsin close to the Illinois border, but for that first 144 days, you guessed it she was right across the hall from me in what was to become my brother's bedroom. Needless to say, it was not fun times in our household at that time. I believe the term "walking on eggshells" would be apropos to say here. Grandma tended to be very critical of the way things were done, which doesn't work well for any Aspie brain, realized or unrealized. 

So there we were, sipping our "toddies" that were made for us to warm us up after spending a rainy morning out on the lake. In our defense, it wasn't raining at first, but had done so after we'd ventured out on the water. My memory does not permit me to divulge what the toddies were made of, but suffice it to say they were good and warming. And there I was, discussing (okay, I'll say it, complaining) about my Grandma. Tom of course had the perfect solution - I was to shut her up by just saying to her "G-- Damn Gram!!" I'm sorry to say I never did heed that advice, as I felt that a mouthwash made of green Jafra soap (yeah that was the worst, forget your Ivory Spring, your Irish Spring, even your Zest. This liquid green soap from Jafra was the worst tasting soap ever - but who makes soap with the intention of the user to eat it, right?)

But that was Tom, pure, unadulterated Tom. I understand now what that phrase means, being a force 

of nature. And it's that very definition that drives me to strive for that kind of essence in my life. For Tom, I would use the term greatness, but in my case, I will say essence. It's easier for me to speak highly of other people than of myself. If I were to achieve even a fraction of his type of greatness I would consider it a great success. Those memories and more that are still locked up within the vaults of my memory banks, are the kinds of memories I want to make for my children, and eventually, Grandchildren. I know I'm not the only one with this desire, but I would love to be able to sit down with him for one more cup of coffee, or even another one of his wife's toddies, and just talk about life. Thinking about that a little further, I feel as though instead of coffee or toddies, it would likely be going out on the boat to go fishing. So I will rephrase - I would love to sit down with him on the fishing boat, cane pole in hand, and fish for crappies and talk about life. I wonder how many more times he'd have me say the equivalent of "G-- Damn Gram!!" to other people in my life. I'd love for him to meet my wife and kids, and there again I know I'm not the only one. That phrase comes up from a post I just saw again on Facebook, asking who you'd like to have a cup of coffee with, alive or passed, any individual. 

For that matter, I'd love to go back to Squirrel Lake just one more time, all of us, new family members and all, even though the resort is gone, with not a trace of anything left. The cabins, the piers, Duck Poop Island, Bird Poop Island, the boys from Thornwood Cabin who poked fun of us and tried to fight with us that one year, Lakeview, Shore, Edgewater, Dave's house, the playground, the badminton nets, the new Honeymoon Cabins...they're all gone, but the memories are forever in our minds. Some of them locked up, only to be released by that one trigger, that one thought, when the floodgates open and you're reminded of the good times, the love, the family...the forces of nature in all of us to take what we can of Tom and carry it forward in his stead. That love, that confidence, that love of the water, fishing, his wife's ever-so-perfectly roasted (with the patience of St. Theresa of Avila) marshmallows when Beanie would be the one chucking the marshmallow into the fire and dancing around with the stick in the air with a flame-engulfed marshmallow...a sugary torch of sorts...I think we can, and are, carrying that force of with us in his stead. 

We will all meet again. It's not goodbye forever. More of a see you later. Until then, we pick up our flame-engulfed marshmallows and dance around the campfire in some sort of ritualistic Marshmallow Fire Dance that only we will understand. Just as a small squall of rain in the right conditions of heat and humidity can quickly become a bow echo of thunderstorms capable of producing tornadoes, we will, and are, taking what we can from our experiences and memories, and becoming our own forces of nature, that if fostered with that same drive will become great forces of nature for our own families. 

For the record, if I had to describe myself as a Natural Force of Nature, I'd say I'm a hurricane.

*thank you John Green for saying that phrase and Google for telling me what it meant.

And as the great Archbishop Fulton Sheen (soon to be sainted?) would say at the end of his broadcasts, "Thank you, and God Love You."