(This Thursday will mark my 32nd wedding anniversary)

You are everything to me, the sunshine that lights my days and the lighthouse light that guides me through the windswept seas and rocky shorelines of night.   You are strong as a rock and frail as a leaf.  You are heart and you are soul, you are passion and comfort.  You are astonishingly beautiful.  Your eyes, lit by the incandescent flame of your glowing soul, see and understand everything, everything that matters.    You are the love of my life; you know all of my secrets, my triumphs and failures.  You’ve inspired me to do things I didn’t think I was capable of.  You’ve stood by me when I’ve come up short.  You’ve given me reasons when all reason seemed lost.

I find myself lost in the dark, adrift in the unending night, and I reach out to you, and you’re there, warm and still, and even now, after all this time, after fate and circumstance and disease, our breaths rise and fall in time together, the rhythm to dreams that still come to me, dreams that are dreamt within the dream we’ve been living for thirty two years now.

There are the late nights, after long days or nights working or returning exhausted from a long trip, when the street light marking the turn off onto my dead end road comes into view, and it’s always the warmest light in the world.   Beneath its glow I turn onto my street, and in a minute I’m home.

I’ve lived in the same house on the same dead end street since November 1, 1984.  That’s going on 29 years now.  In that time, among other things, I’ve completed a career in I.T., raised my children, gained about 40 pounds, and lost most of my hair.   I’ve done the math, and just driving to and home from the various jobs I’ve had over that time, I’ve driven down that same dead end street to my driveway over 14,000 times.   Add in another 30,000 to 40,000 times running to town to get groceries or running kids to softball or basketball practice or whatever, and I’ve pounded the same narrow half mile or so of pavement in excess of 50,000 times.   I know the road’s imperfections, its nooks and crannies, its bumps and manhole covers, so well that I could probably drive it with my eyes closed.  I know where the little valleys in the pavement are, and where, after a rain, the deepest puddles form.  For years, if I had one or more of my kids with me, I’d always accelerate through them, making as big a splash as I could.

I had endless routines I’d use to entertain my kids with when driving them down the street.   One of my favorites was, years before talking GPS devices or Suri or whatever her name is, I had Hank the engine man.  Hank was a small man who lived in the engine of my 1989 Ford F150 pickup truck, and whenever we embarked on a trip, as we pulled out of the driveway, I’d ask Hank for a systems report.  I’d say, “Hank, how’s the oil pressure,” and Hank, forever loyal and faithful, would answer, in his high pitched voice “Oil pressure is fine and steady.”    I remember one time, I hurt Hank’s feelings when I yelled at him for failing to report that there was a puddle just past our driveway, and normally cheerful, Hank turned sad and depressed when I asked him, “Hank, what’s the fuel level?”

He answered glumly, “um, it’s not bad, I guess.”

“Do we have enough gas to get to Milwaukee?”

“What do I know?” he replied.  “Apparently I don’t know what a puddle is.”

My kids thought it was funny when I had to apologize to Hank for hurting his feelings.

The years passed and my kids grew up and the laughs my routines used to draw turned into impatient sighs and rolling eyes, and I realized that I performed them as much for my own entertainment as theirs’.   Whatever, they were fun while they lasted, and they were part of the universe that a family creates.  The center of that universe is the house the family calls home, and for the past 29 years, the pathway to home has been our little dead end street.

Now, when the kids come back to visit, they approach that same streetlight, and I hope it is just as warm a sight for them as it’s been for me all these years.  I hope they breathe the same sigh of contented relief and, no matter what stresses or worries occupy their minds, for the stretch of that dead end street to our driveway, they melt away.

They’re home.

(Going through some old files tonight and I found this -it’s one of the first things I wrote upon joining the Kenosha Writer’s Guild a few years ago, and one of the few things I wrote back then I can still read now without invoking the gag reflex …)

There used to be an old blue school bus that ran from the parking lot of the A&P grocery store in Ladysmith to the Norco Window factory in Hawkins every day.  I’d walk the four blocks from my apartment on the third floor of the Gerard Hotel to the bus, and for a while, I’d be joined by Jack Anderson, a big burly man of about 6o years old with a scraggly white beard, who worked in the same department at Norco that I worked in.  Jack worked alongside the slightly older and famously cantankerous Conrad Stonkey, one of the great characters I’ve had the pleasure of having known.  Conrad was at the time in his early 60s, a rather short man of medium build, whose thinning hair had turned pure white with age. Every day Conrad wore the same olive green work uniform, work pants and shirts, and had an olive green colored cap that covered the thinning white hair on top of his head.  He also sported a little pure white goatee, that for special occasions he would dye an appropriate color.  To celebrate his Irish ancestry, every year on St. Patrick’s Day he’d show up with this white goatee colored green. On the fourth of July, streaks of red and blue would be added to the natural white for a stirring patriotic salute.  He was ornery and complained about everything, but he also had a sense of humor, and when he laughed, he would clench both of his fists and hold them at his thighs, stand on his tippy toes, and emit a high-pitched “tee-hee-hee” sound.  It never failed, you’d get a laugh out of him and his automatic, reflexive action would be to clench his fists, stand on his tippy toes, and make “tee-hee-hee” sounds.

Conrad and Jack would take panes of glass and stack them on top of the aluminum frames I and my work partner, the 45 year old confirmed bachelor Lew Reed, were responsible for.  Lew would fill the individual aluminum spacers with silicate, I would snap them together into wobbly rectangles and store them in groups of about 30 of the same dimensions in the hot room, where Conrad and Jack would take them and stack them on the tables we had covered and taped with construction paper earlier that morning, inserting the freshly cut and clean pieces of glass that they’d take off of rollers that were fed from outside the room by another member of our crew, Roger Arndt.  Finally the stacks of glass and aluminum spacers that were so carefully prepared by Conrad and Jack would be wheeled to the middle of the room, where their sides would be covered by a fresh coat of “goop”, which was some form of thick adhesive material that the worker, for a period of time my friend Jeff Severson, would whip up from the strange goop-making machine that stood in the center of our small room and apply to the stacks of windows with a cardboard grovel.  When finished, Jeff would wheel the table with the gooped up stacks of glass outside of our temperature controlled room to the larger factory that sat outside, where the goop would dry and someone would later come by with a utility knife and cut through the goop, revealing the separate insulated aluminum spacer bound panes of glass that would be incorporated into wooden sashes to complete the transformation of raw material to window.

We worked in this small room, me and Lew, Conrad and Jack, and Jeff, with Roger popping in between loads to see what size of glass panes to pick up for washing and feeding through to Conrad and Jack next, together for 8 or 9 hours a day,  and during peak times, an additional 5 hours on Saturdays.   So we got to know each other pretty well.  I, being the youngest and by far the most immature of the group, settled easily into the role of clown.   I quickly mastered my job of snapping together the aluminum frames so that I could stay comfortably ahead of my work, leaving my mind free to explore ideas to convince the others, especially grumpy, cantankerous old Conrad, that I was one sandwich short of a picnic.  Amongst my favorite routines were:  1)  getting “angry” at the stored boxes of metal spacers and going a few rounds with them, showing off my boxing skills, quickly throwing left jabs and lethal combinations and punching them until my knuckles literally bled, 2) standing on top of the papered  tables, flapping my arms, and cawing like a crow at the top of my lungs, and 3) with Jeff and a visitor from an outside department starting out with the bass vocals of the Beach Boys’ “Barbara Ann” ,  jumping up on top of one of the wheeled tables and singing the high pitched falsetto lead as loudly as I could, all the while using the wheeled table as my surf board,  pretending to ride a big wave.  I’d get puzzled smiles and head shakes from Lew Reed, and when I’d get the involuntary tippy-toed, clenched fisted “tee-hees” from that old mule Conrad Stonkey, I knew I’d accomplished something.  Exactly what, nobody knew, but it was undeniably something.

I’d spent enough time with these guys that I had gotten comfortable – maybe, too comfortable – with them, and wasn’t afraid of showing off for them.  I was living alone, very much alone, at the time, and work provided on many days the only real contact I had with other human beings.

After the misery that was high school, I had no desire to attend college and subject myself to more of the same.  I was eager to experience a life without school, and make money, and buy things.  After graduating high school, I got a job where everyone who couldn’t get a job anywhere else got a job, the C & D Duck Processing plant in Franksville, Wisconsin, where I worked my way up to the illustrious position of lung sucker, and with my handsome $4.33 per hour salary was able to buy my first car, a 1974 A.M.C. Hornet, a green hatchback with yellow racing stripes down the side.  I was also able to make enough money to purchase a stereo system, and get a pretty impressive start to a record album collection.

But it didn’t take long for the job of sucking the lungs out of ducks (to be clear, we sucked them into these big vacuum guns, not our own lungs) to lose its luster, and in mid 1977, a year after starting work at C&D, I grew restless.  I was still living at home, still lonely, still not meeting any girls.  I decided it was time for the next chapter in my life – I decided it was time to go out on my own.  The only choice there was for such an adventure was for me to return to my ancestral homeland of northern Wisconsin.  So it was that I moved into the Gerard Hotel in Ladysmith, Wisconsin, high on the banks of the Flambeau River.

I had lived there, on my own, and worked at Norco, for about a year by the time Jack Anderson came to join our little department, and we hit it off right away.  Whereas Conrad was an ornery old fart who found reason to complain in just about everything, Jack had a much more philosophical view of life.  He was well read and had a fast mind, and he had his own way of viewing things.  He had raised two sons who were older than me and, in 1978, had a young daughter about four or five years old.  At the end of the work day, his wife, who was a bit younger than Jack, probably late 40s, would walk with his young daughter to meet the blue bus that we returned to Ladysmith on, and together the three of them would walk home.  I remember that it never failed, every day, the eyes of both his wife and young daughter would light up when Jack got off that bus, and they’d walk home together, the three of them, Jack walking that distinctive, lumbering walk of his, a picture of domestic bliss that never failed to put a smile on my face.

Jack kind of took me under his wing.  I may have been wearing my plight as a lonely young bachelor on my sleeve a little bit more than I’d like to admit, because I think Jack saw through the façade my clowning around all day tried to project and saw the loneliness underneath.  He’d always take the time to have serious discussions with me, and we’d discuss current events and old movies and philosophy, as I had picked up every now and then some of my brother Mike’s college books and liked to pass myself off as knowing something about the subject.  It turned out Jack had read many of the same books, and was able, in his simple terms, to make me understand for example what Kant’s categorical imperative was all about, on a morning when the blue bus chugged down highway 8 to the Norco plant.

Jack also took enough pity on me to help me out on occasion.  One morning, he handed me two army fatigue jackets that used to belong to his sons plus an old black and white checkered winter coat, saying he had no further use for any of them and would like to see them come to some good.  They were great; I wore them until they fell apart.  I still have one of the army fatigue jackets to this day.  I did find in one of the pockets a letter from Jack’s oldest son to his second son, saying how he was coming home on leave from the army soon, and how he was looking forward to seeing his little brother, and how he knew a guy in Eau Claire they could get some good weed from.  I never showed this letter to Jack.

My favorite memory of Jack Anderson took place on a very dark morning in late November. We had to be on the blue bus by 6:00 A.M.  About an hour earlier it had started to snow, one of the first snowfalls of the season.  It was cold out, no wind to speak of.  It started with a few big snowflakes slowly and silently drifting from the sky, and then it started snowing heavier, still big flakes, silently dropping out of the low ceiling of night and into the halo of the Miner Avenue streetlights like an invasion of miniature white paratroopers.  The ground was just cold enough that the snowflakes started to stick, and they’d lie there on the sidewalks, glittering in the glow of the streetlights.

I had gotten to the bus first that morning, and when Jack joined me a few minutes later, his eyes were wide with excitement.

“Did you see that?” he asked.

“What, the snow?” I replied.

“Did you ever see such a beautiful sight?”

“Yeah, those were big and pretty flakes, weren’t they?”

“They were diamonds, is what they were.  They were diamonds, thousands of them, at my feet, shining.  And they were mine.”

I thought, that’s exactly what they looked like, illuminated in the glow of the street lights.  They glittered and sparkled just like diamonds.

“I was a wealthy man, there, for a while,” he said.  “I was a wealthy man.”

I don’t remember much else about the ride to work that morning, but I remember, a couple of times throughout the day, he’d remind me, “I was a wealthy man, there, this morning, with all of those diamonds shining at my feet.”

Jack was right.  He was a wealthy man that morning.  I understood even then how rare a diamond Jack Anderson himself was.  To see and appreciate the beauty that was there at that moment, on display just for him, as he lumbered his way up Miner Avenue, his lunch box in his hand and his head at his feet, counting the diamonds that were his and his alone.  Conrad Stonkey was roughly the same age, and I can guarantee he wouldn’t have seen the diamonds.  Nor would Jeff Severson or other kids my age.  The question was, and remains, would I see them?

With Jack having shared his poetic vision of the miracle that was present in that moment with me, I liked to think that I would see them, and I’ve at least tried to look for the diamonds at my feet throughout the years, but no doubt I’ve missed most of the miracles that are constantly occurring every day.   I know I have all too frequently worn the blinders of preoccupation as I made my way through the journey of each day, preoccupied with family issues, work issues, or lately, disease and fear.  But through the years, I have revisited that early snowy morning hundreds of times, and heard Jack describe what a wealthy man he was, and each time I think how lucky I was to have been there and been the one he shared his wealth with.

I have no idea whatever became of Jack Anderson.  I have not seen or talked to him since I left Norco on Halloween, 1979, more than thirty years ago.  If he is still alive, he would now be in his 90s.  I’m sure that he has long since forgotten about the goofy 19 year old who he shared a bus seat with for a few months.  I’m sure he has long forgotten about the army fatigue jackets and winter coat and wisdom he shared with me.  But that doesn’t change the fact that I’ll never forget him and his lumbering walk, and if he has gone on to the great blue bus in the sky, I like to imagine that every year, when the first snowfall hits the early morning street lights of Miner Avenue in Ladysmith, his ghost can be seen lumbering along with his lunch box in his hand, counting the diamonds as they accumulate around his feet.

This is such a stupid story that it’s hard to believe it’s been told and retold in my family for over 30 years now.

I was 18 years old and living on my own for the first time, in a small efficiency apartment on the third floor of the Gerard Hotel in Ladysmith, working in the Norco Windows factory 20 miles away in Hawkins.  Being new to independence, there was much I didn’t know, but I knew this much:  I liked pie.

I’d discovered, in the frozen foods section of the local IGA, frozen chocolate crème pies.   You just took them home, thawed them out, cut a slice or two and ate, returning the rest to the refrigerator to be consumed later.  They were delicious, and as they required no cooking or preparation, they were perfect.

In early November, I turned 19, and the IGA started stocking Thanksgiving specialties.   Among the seasonal foods were boxes of pumpkin pies, right next to the chocolate crème pies in the frozen food sections.   Being the pie fan I was and remain pumpkin pie is right up there at the top of my list of favorites.   Having had such a rewarding experience with the chocolate crème pies, I didn’t hesitate to pick up a box.

I got home, let it thaw out a little, and dug in, removing a spoonful from the pie’s center.  It looked delicious.  However, shortly after that first spoonful, I realized something was horribly wrong.  Looking at the box, I discovered directions for heating and baking the pie.   Turns out you had to put it in the oven!   Disgusted by the false and misleading packaging (it looked just like the packaging for the chocolate crème pies, and they didn’t require an oven), I put the pie in the center of my spacious refrigerator, where it sat next to a couple cans of soda and a jar of jelly.

A couple of days later, with deer hunting season beginning, my dad and my brother stopped by to pick me up and take a look at how this neophyte was adjusting to bachelorhood, how he was getting by in his first apartment.  It didn’t take long for my Dad to open the refrigerator and see the raw pumpkin pie with one bite taken out of the middle.   I explained that I didn’t know you had to bake it, and they got a big laugh at my expense, confirming their suspicions that I was too much of an idiot to adequately manage independent living.

A few weeks later, back home in southeast Wisconsin at Christmas, with the larger family gathered together, my Dad told the story of me and the pumpkin pie for the first time, explaining how he opened the refrigerator and there was nothing but a pumpkin pie with a hole out of the middle in it.  Everybody had a good laugh, including me, excusing the slight exaggeration of the empty refrigerator (there were a couple of other items in it, but it was a small point, and made for a better story, so I excused his embellishment).

Sometime later, my Dad told the story again.  This time there were two pies, each with a hole in the middle.  Then, the next time, there were three pies.  Years later, when telling my children, his grandchildren the story, the number continued to rise, until, shortly before his passing last year, it was a “refrigerator full” of pies, all with a single hole eaten out of the center.

Debate has raged whether he deliberately exaggerated the number of pies for effect or if time and the act of telling the story so many times actually modified his memory, and he really thought there was a refrigerator full of pies, if he came to actually believe his own story.  It was hard to tell, because he always told the story with a straight face.

So some perspective is required.  I remember the refrigerator being of your average, run of the mill, full-sized model.  I have no idea what the capacity of the typical empty full sized refrigerator would be for storing nothing but pies.  Lets for the sake of argument say the refrigerator could have held 15 pies.   That means, if he really believed his own story, that I did one of two things:  I either went to the IGA one time and bought 15 pies, or I made 15 separate trips, buying one pie each time.  Either way, I opened 15 packages, took a single bite out of the center, and returned them to the fridge.  To believe his story as told he’d have to believe that his son was engaging in behavior that at best was extremely quirky but more likely psychotic.

I think I tried pointing this out to him more than once, but it never got through, and sure enough, at the next family get together, we’d hear him start telling the story again, knowing it all by heart except for how many pies there would be this time.

Of all the stories my dad told, and re-told, the mysterious pies with the center eaten out of them may be the stupidest, but we couldn’t wait to hear it, and I of course loved being the butt of the joke.  When my wife and now grown children gather together, we still retell the story, and we all speculate how many pies my Dad would be up to if he were still alive.

As many times as I heard it, I’d give anything to have him here right now and hear it one more time.  No one could tell a story, especially a stupid story without much of a point, like my Dad.