Category: gratitude

What’s out there

My mom told me I was born around 7 p.m. Sunday, March 22, 1953, and she ought to know, she was there. I remember a story about having to stop at a train crossing on the way to the hospital. That might suggest why the whistle of an old steam train strikes me in the heart, although by ’53 it could have been a diesel, too.

In any case, here I am, 71 years old today. How the bejeebers did this happen? I know, I know: It happened one day at a time.

I joked to a friend that my 71st year on this planet will not be on my list of my top 70 favorite years. A part of me is still reeling and still trying to adjust to the loss, and a part of me is thinking, “Oh, no worries, that’s just normal, some things you just never adjust to, deal with it.”

I did get a Christmas book out just in time for Christmas, and people said nice things about it. And I did pick up my guitar and start playing again after 15 years, and you know me, I have to start putting words and music together and I’m writing some songs again.

Oh, and then there was that Godzilla movie. The first Godzilla movie came out in November 1954, and I finally realized this year that I’m older than Godzilla. There have been 38 Godzilla movies in my lifetime, but only two absolutely brilliant films with Godzilla in them — the first one and Godzilla Minus One.

As for my 72nd year:

I woke up New Year’s morning and considered what an evil and stupid thing war is, and I started writing about resolving our differences peacefully. And I watch the new boss and the old boss gearing up for another fight, and I get on my knees and pray we won’t get fooled again. And I have laid something down in this space for one thousand, three hundred and thirty days in a row now, and I still have things to say — I’m not done.

Some time ago I said that this fourth act of my life would be about making books, and I still see that happening. I only published one book in 2023, although it was a dandy if I say so myself. I think the second quarter of this year might bear some fruit — watch this space for announcements.

I am happy to put my 71st year to rest, and I begin my 72nd journey around the sun with a bad cold that has canceled plans to celebrate my birthday with a couple of friends, wouldn’t you know it. Still and all, I thank God to be here and reasonably healthy, reasonably happy and reasonably reasonable. As Jean-Luc Picard said at the end of his first adventure commanding the Enterprise: “Let’s see what’s out there — engage!”

Twice in a lifetime possibilities

Three years ago tonight, I lay down on the kitchen floor next to Willow The Best Dog There Is™ and lay my hand across her paw. We stayed that way all night.

We had a date at the vet in the morning to make a decision, but it was inevitable. We had taken Willow to the animal emergency hospital that weekend after she unexpectedly collapsed in pain, and x-rays showed a big mass in her abdomen that was not supposed to be there.

That dog and I loved each other. If this was to be our last night, I was going to be with her.

I remember Red came out to see where I was in the dark of night. She sighed, whispered, “Oh, Warren,” and went back to bed.

Willow and I had a once-in-a-lifetime bond. That was the most heartbreaking night of my life until I lost Red herself.

I’m not really here to get all tear-jerky so much as to wonder if once-in-a-lifetime bonds can happen twice. I’m — well, let’s say I’m asking for a friend who has a 2-year-old golden retriever going on 3, and this dog is really starting to cling to, um, my friend.

This is a photo of this dog — we’ll call her Summer — resting her head on his shoe, with his foot still in the shoe. He really had to twist his hand to get the right angle with the phone camera.

When she’s not putting her head on his shoe, it’s on his knee, or she is sitting and leaning toward him for a good stroking, or she’s sprawled behind his feet while he’s watching TV in the easy chair. This hound does not want to be separated when they’re in the same house.

Either she’s making herself an obstacle in hopes he’ll trip and break his neck, or she really really really wants to be pals forever. 

The thing that Willow The Best Dog There Was™ and I had, that was once in a lifetime. I’ll never have a relationship with a dog like the one I had with Will. My goodness, I loved that dog.

Maybe, just maybe, I can have a different relationship with a different dog that is still once in a lifetime. If that sort of thing could happen, I mean. What are the odds?

I will miss Willow forever. Summer is pretty darn cute, though.

Be aware the Ides of March

Here they are — the Ides of March. Be aware! Be aware — see the world in all its glorious detail. Feel the wind, breathe the air, you’re alive! 

You’re alive! Do you know what a miracle that is, in itself?

And you are surrounded by life. There is beauty in every tree, every bird, every blade of grass, every squirrel, and each and every human you encounter today. Each has its own brand of beauty. Be aware of it!

Yes, yes, I know Will Shakespeare warned Caesar to “beware.” But isn’t that just a contraction of “Be aware”? And isn’t being aware a good thing, a blessing kind of thing?

Self-defense experts talk about situational awareness: Always watch for unusual possible threats, know where the exits are if you have to flee, figure out what you can use as a weapon if you need to defend yourself.

But situational awareness can also be about seeing all the beauty around you — the decisions that went into the decor, the meticulous detail of a butterfly, the smiles on so many faces, or the frown of someone who could use a friendly neighbor.

“Ides” is just an ancient word for the middle of the month, and here you are in the middle, surrounded by all the life in your world. Even in the darkest night there is light enough to see, if only dimly. Be aware of as much detail as you can. It’s a miraculous world.

One of those darnedest things that kids say

A big man and his tiny son shared a table next to mine at Culver’s the other day. (For out-of-state friends, Culver’s is Wisconsin’s favorite fast-food restaurant, and it’s so good that “fast food” is really not the word to use to describe it.)

The two of them were having fun together, and the man clearly was delighted to be spending quality time with his little pal.

After a while, the man asked, “You haven’t finished your dinner. Are you full?”

“I’m full for dinner. I’m not full for dessert,” the little guy said slyly.

I tried not to laugh out loud, I didn’t mean to intrude on their privacy, but sorry, that comment broke the cute meter. I hope he enjoyed dessert.

Call of the red-winged blackbird

I saw a note I wrote around this time a year ago about the return of the red-winged blackbird, a summertime visitor in these parts, and sure enough there they were a day later. That unique chitter has become one of my favorite signs of spring. I haven’t seen a robin yet, but they can’t be far behind.

“I will probably find daffodil sprouts soon,” I wrote in my journal, and sure enough I found them sprouting away yesterday morning.

It was a busy weekend at the day job, and I was still pretty tired Monday morning. I felt too sleepy for a burst of creativity. Or is it when weariness creeps up that an impish story jumps out, the tale of a magical land and the quest for a long-lost McGuffin, and the boy and the girl who trip over it in the forest, never realizing — until almost too late — that ancient sects and secret societies have been searching and waiting for it for centuries? The DaVinci Code meets Peter Pan.

Oh, I won’t grow up, and after 71 years, why bother? And now I have memories that are 60 years old — falling on the asphalt playground and breaking my wrist, not realizing it was fractured for a week; finding Spider-Man #4 in the pile of new comics at the Milton (Vt.) IGA; entering the 880 in the school’s field day and learning the hard way that you can’t sprint 880 yards — but I was in the lead for the first quarter of the race. I can still hear my teacher shouting “Pace yourself, Bluhm!” not sure what he meant by that until my lungs kind of exploded.

I was a goofy kid, somewhat normal, somewhat not. I think, all told, we all are. No one is perfectly average, and if we were to discover that we WERE perfectly normal, we would be alarmed and see what we could do that was not perfectly average but uniquely ours.

All the places I’ve been and things I’ve seen — and all that I have not — wash over me in a kaleidoscope of fond memories and if-onlys. And still, Lord willing, miles to go.

Anniversary of a birth

Red and Willow, May 2009

Red kept the fact that she was a cradle robber from me for well over a year. We were well ensconced in each other’s lives when some official process required her to give her birth date. “March 9, 1952,” said the woman I always thought was the same age as me.

“Don’t you mean 1953?” I asked. We were born just 13 days apart, after all.

“I think I know what year I was born,” she smiled slyly. It wasn’t a huge deal; we were both amused that she had never mentioned we were born one year and 13 days apart.

That led to a standing joke I told every year until I realized it amused her less every year: For 13 days each March, I was two years younger than Red, not just one.

Today would have been her 72nd birthday but of course she is forever 71 years, three months and 18 days old — that was her allotted time. Sometime this July, assuming my health holds, the tables will be turned and I will be older than she ever was.

Last year for her birthday, I gave her a gift card to a local gardening place, with a little note apologizing because gift cards are kind of impersonal and saying, “My life was ricocheting all over the place when I bumped into you, and you settled me down and gave me a home and a hope and I love you.”

We weren’t yet certain that the ailment she was fighting was indeed lymphoma, nor did I know that we had only three months and 18 days left in our love story. I’m grateful I had time to put into words all she meant to me, and I expect to miss her every day until we meet again.

The day after she passed, Bride of Son of Red learned she was pregnant with Red’s third grandson. Red relished her role as Grandma, and she delighted in Son of Son of Red and Son of Son of Red II. This week Son of Son of Red III arrived, just in time for Grandma’s birthday, but in need of some serious heart surgery.

The little one spent nine and a half hours in an operating room Thursday, and afterward the surgeon said it went well and, in fact, better than expected. He is on the road to recovery and a normal, healthy life. That red-headed guardian angel smiling down on him likely played a role.

And so, on what would be Red’s 72nd birthday, we celebrate new life in many senses of the phrase. Here at Three Willows, I face the anniversary of her birth alone for the first time in many years — or as alone as one can be with two feisty golden retrievers as companions — but grateful for a home and a hope and a love beyond any I deserved.

And Son of Son of Red III is a miraculous reminder that precious life goes on. Happy birthday, mon cherie.

Wage peace

I am not the first, nor will I be the last, to suggest the phrase “wage peace” as a counter to waging war. A commitment to resolving conflict nonviolently is surely more difficult than waging war and therefore deserves the same verb — “wage.”

After all, the primordial instinct to punch you in the face is easier than explaining to you how wrong I think you are and that I intend to stop you from proceeding by any means possible short of killing or maiming you and your followers.

At least it sounds difficult. As a matter of fact, we wage peace every day as we go about our lives. The vast majority of us today will not commit violence or crimes against any of our fellow humans, let alone wage war, a crime against humanity itself.

“It’s human nature,” some will say, “you will never eradicate war from the earth.” You’re probably right, and maybe I will never finish that challenge, but I can nibble at the edges and get the job started for others to finish when I am gone.

Jesus got the ball rolling when he said, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Treat your fellow human with the same kindness and respect you hope to be afforded yourself. Surely you do not wish to be killed or maimed, and so make a commitment not to kill or maim your neighbor. The idea sounds ridiculous when you’re talking about your next-door neighbor, but every victim of war is somebody’s next-door neighbor, isn’t she? Isn’t he? Aren’t they?