On a cold December morning in 1963, I and the rest of Mrs. Thiele’s morning kindergarten class took our places on what passed for a stage in the front of the classroom to perform our Christmas program.  Amongst the handful of parents in the audience, I spotted my Mom and my almost 21 month old little sister, Jenny.  Soon afterwards, Jenny spotted me, and was so surprised and thrilled at seeing her big brother that she broke free from my Mom, ran up to me, and gave me a big hug.   The festivities were just about to begin, and there was no way she was going to leave my side.  My Mom tried to gently cajole her back to her seat, but Mrs. Thiele, ancient and sweet, told her it was okay if Jenny wanted to join in the fun.

And so she did, sharing the stage with my classmates and me and even getting her own pair of paper antlers for the stirring reindeer scene, where we all held the antlers to our head and did our best reindeer impersonations, running and jumping about in our own un-choreographed interpretive dances.   As Jenny enthusiastically joined in, her hands holding her paper antlers to her head and a determined look  on her little face, I remember feeling a combination of embarrassment and pride, embarrassed by her disruption, and proud of not only her convincing portrait of a young reindeer but also of her devotion to her big brother.

The program continued, with Jenny participating in every part of it, until it was time for the moving conclusion, Mrs. Thiele’s reading to us some Christmas story from some big book.   Those of us in Mrs. Thiele’s class, veterans of the kindergarten experience that we were, understood that story time meant sitting silent and still.  Jenny, the 21 month old rookie, didn’t grasp this, and kept making noise and running about with her antlers, not ready for all the excitement of the morning to end.   She was disruptive enough that my Mom finally had to remove her, despite her loud cries of protest, which got louder and continued from the hallway long after they left the classroom.   As Mrs. Thiele tried to read above the slowly fading echoes of my sister’s crying, I could hear the snickering of some of the other kids, and I found myself feeling defensive and sad for my little sister.    I shot a disapproving look at a couple of the laughing kids, and was surprised when they suddenly stopped.

I think that this was the first time I realized that I, the youngest of three boys, was now an older brother.     It didn’t take me long to appreciate the awesome power that comes with the position.   I realized that not only would my little sister believe whatever I told her, but that I would decide which toys we played with, and that I would make up the rules to whatever games I decided we’d play.  

As I wielded this power over the years, a funny thing happened.  Although always reluctant to admit it, I found that I enjoyed my little sister’s company.   I found that she and I laughed at things that nobody else laughed at.   As time went on, it became clear that she is much more talented (born with an incredible artistic gift that completely missed me) and smarter than me, yet she still played the role of little sister, sharing in my interests and obsessions.  

Flash forward to the 21^st century:   now in our middle ages, Jenny and I remain close.   We still laugh at things nobody else laughs at.  I still enjoy her company.  I am proud of the person she has turned out to be.  Caring and strong, she looked after my Dad in his last few years, and made sure that he had everything he needed.   I have difficulty imagining what his last years would have been like without her.

Despite the fact that she is a very formidable presence who can stand up for herself, I find that my big brother instincts remain intact, and I still feel the need to defend and look out for her.

A couple of months ago (August 8^th) I posted a report on the status of my memoirs project.  To jog your memory, earlier this year, I had a literary agent express interest in the query letter I had sent him and ask to see some sample chapters.  I sent him about five chapters, to which he responded very enthusiastically.  He then asked to see the entire book, and, unfortunately, decided to pass on the project.  I was disappointed but rebounded, and spent most of the summer trying to make the book better, getting rid of some fat, tweaking some parts and adding some new material.  Confident that I had a much better product, I went about searching for an agent anew. 

I created a list of six new agents and submitted my query letter.  The results so far are:  three no responses, two not interested, and one request, from an agent at one of the largest New York agencies, to see the entire book.  On September 13, I cleaned up a copy and nervously attached it to an e-mail.  For almost a month I opened up my in-box with a combination of anticipation and apprehension, looking for the response. 

Finally, last night, while at my cabin up north, I checked my e-mail from my Android and there, waiting in my in-box, was the long-awaited reply to my submission.  I stared at it for a couple of minutes.  The subject line gave no clue; it was merely a response to my submission.  I finally opened it and, as I suspected, it was another rejection notice.

It was very nicely phrased and complimentary, but, she apologized, she didn’t connect with the material as much as she had hoped she would.  She was nice enough to forward on some information about an organization of literary agents, where I might be able to find a better fit.

So you might think that I’m devastated, destroyed, de-incentivized, de-motivated, or some other harsh word that begins with “d”.   Although I am a little disappointed, for some reason I am taking it pretty much in stride.  Maybe it hasn’t hit yet, maybe I’m in denial (another “d” word).    But I am definitely not defeated – if anything, I am more determined (yet two more “d” words!)

One thing I don’t feel is any anger or bitterness to the agent.  I have read diatribes on line from many writers cursing out agents who rejected their work, portraying them as mean spirited and vindictive monsters who relish the opportunity to dash the writer’s dreams.   I have also read comments along the line that there is so much crap published they don’t know good work when they see it.   I don’t subscribe to either of these theories.  First, every time they open a submission, I am sure that the agent is hoping for success.  The agent makes his or her living based upon their ability to sell the work, not on how many would-be writers they can destroy.  As for the crap that populates the best seller lists, it may be crap, but hey, it sells – obviously somebody knew what they were doing.  

After I read the rejection notice last night, I went back to my laptop and for the first time in a few weeks I opened up the book, looking for things that could be fixed.   Instead I found myself getting lost in it.  I think enough time had elapsed that I was able to detach myself to some degree and I just read it, and to my surprise, I liked it! (Hey, Mikey!)  There are still a few imperfections and some parts that aren’t as good as others, but overall, I found myself smiling at the funny parts and getting choked up at some of the emotional parts.  I found the changes I had made worked.  About an hour and a half later, I was still reading, and I realized I hadn’t thought about the agent or the rejection for some time.   I found that I am still proud of my work.  This helped my mood considerably.

It could also be that I’ve been through enough other crap lately, from the death of my Father to my daughter beginning her senior year in High School to my  ongoing wrestling with Parkinson’s, that this is just something else to be dealt with, and not that big of a deal.

It also helps that I’ve got a strong support structure in place, starting with my wife, who, I suspect, for some reason I still can’t fathom, really loves me.  I also have a great family and friends who I can always count on.  Finally, I have my fellow Kenosha Writer’s Guild members and you, the few but loyal readers of this site, to give me encouragement and confidence.

Most importantly, I am not taking the rejection personally.  I still have an enormous respect for the agent who rejected me, but I am chalking it up to my work not being her cup of tea rather than any personal failure on my part.  My self confidence is no shakier than normal.

I’d also be remiss, with the Milwaukee Brewers only three wins away from the world series, if I didn’t throw in a baseball analogy:  I may have two strikes against me, but, like Ryan Braun fighting off an 0 and two count, I can stand in the batter’s box and foul off countless pitches before hitting a home run (ok, if not Ryan Braun and a homerun, would you believe Craig Counsell and a balk?).

So here I stand, more determined and defiant than disappointed and depressed (gotta love those “d”s!).   In the next few days, I will follow up with the three agents I haven’t heard from yet, and then I will start sending out to another batch of agents.  I’m going to give this agent thing another round or two before I consider self publishing.  I’m still eager to get my book out there, because I think it is good and may be of some value to somebody somewhere.   I’m more eager to put it behind me and get going on the next thing, whether it is re-immersing myself in my novel or starting something new.

About 10:00 on a sunny Saturday morning in 1995, my wife went outside to do some yard work.  Our next door neighbor at the time, Sam Spitz, was out, and commented to my wife, “Boy, you guys were sure up early this  morning.”

 “What do you mean?”, Deb asked.

“Well, I saw Hannah and the dog outside at 5:30” 

This was a revelation to us, as we slept in until almost 9:00 that morning.  Unbeknownst to us, our daughter, about a year old, had gotten up, unlocked the door, and ventured outside, taking with her our dog, Sid.  When she got tired again, she came back in, bringing Sid in with her, and went back to bed, where we found her contentedly sleeping when we woke up.  How long she had been outside remains a mystery, as does how many other times previously she had woke up and decided to go outside.  Suffice to say additional security measures were put in place after that morning.

Hannah is our third and youngest child, preceded by her two brothers,   Jon and Nick.  When my wife was pregnant with her, and when the ultrasound images indicated we were going to have a girl, we heard from more than one expert that girls are easier to raise than boys.  For the first several months, this seemed to be true.  She was the sweetest and calmest baby you could ever ask for.  But then she learned to walk, and all Hell broke loose.  And talk.   And talk, talk, talk.

For the first five or six years of her life she was Hurricane Hannah.  Strong and independent and smart beyond her years, she wore us out.   Despite our attempts to act as “parents”, there was little doubt about who was really running things around our house.   For example, there was the time when Hannah was in pre-school, and fascinated by the aquarium in her class room.  My wife had prepared a quick and easy supper.  After calling several times for her to come to dinner, Hannah finally came to the table.  Quickly surveying the table and the main course of Van De Kamp’s fish sticks, she indignantly put her hands on her hips and confronted her Mother.

 “You killed it, you cooked it, and you expect me to eat it?”  The four year old was demanding an explanation.

 “I didn’t kill it”, my perplexed wife responded.

 “Well, you cooked it!”, she concluded as she left the table.  My wife and I were dumfounded.

 It was at this time that it became clear that the world we all lived in belonged to Hannah and was defined by her heart and her boundless imagination.  She’d let me join in her imagination from time to time.   Most mornings, I’d assume the role of the tireless servant who would serve her breakfast (“You’re oatmeal” I’d announce as I put it on the table in front of her, “is serrrrrrrved”).  When she was little, she wanted to be a schoolteacher, and as I’d walk past her room, she’d be reading to a classroom of her stuffed animals, holding a picture book high up so they could all see.  From time to time, I’d assume the role of principal, calling her into my office to give her some new curriculum.  Sometimes she’d call me in to her classroom to help discipline kids who were misbehaving.   I’d find myself lecturing invisible kids on the evils of throwing staplers at each other or bringing their pet giraffes into the classroom, at which point she’d sigh, “Dad, you’re getting too silly again.”

 I used to call her “Hannah Banana at the Copacabana” and even created my own lyrics to the Barry Manilow classic (!), “Copacabana”, which I used to sing to her all the time.

 Her name was Hannah / she liked bananas / she liked to sing and dance /and step on ants / at the copa,Copacabana./ Hannah Banana at the Copacabana

One day, as she sat on my lap watching television, I was flipping thru the channels when I came upon Barry Manilow himself sitting at a piano.  As if on cue, he started singing the real “Copacabana”, to which Hannah turned to me and said with amazement, “He’s singing the Hannah Banana song!”

The years passed and there was the endless parade of classic Hannah moments, like the time she was angry at her brother Nick and emptied a container of Chinese sweet and sour sauce under his pillow, or the time she drew in bright red crayon over the bathroom walls my wife had just minutes before finished a long weekend wallpapering, or the time up north when she fell into the river (“I forgot about that”), or the many times we’d be awakened by the crashing sound of her falling out of bed in the middle of the night, followed by the faint cry of her voice saying, “I’m all right”, or the time when we moved the couch in the living room to see, on the wall behind it, in tiny print that was her unmistakable hand writing the words, “Jon did it”.  Although she eventually grew out of her precocious youth into a sweet and smart girl, she has remained a vibrant and prodigious life force.  There has never been a dull moment when Hannah’s been around.

Today (September 27^th) is her 17^th birthday, and she has grown into a lovely young lady who is just starting her senior year.   She is smart and funny and surprisingly mature and level headed. I am very proud of her, and am going to miss her terribly when she goes to college next year.

One night, when she was about three years old, as I tucked her into bed, she said, “good night, froggy!”, to which I replied, “good night, froggy!”   Ever since then, she has been my froggy, and no amount of time and distance will ever change that.

 

 

In the photograph, they are in black and white, and they are young and beautiful.    The three are standing in the snow, on what looks like maybe a frozen lake, bundled in their winter coats.  Their smiles convey warmth and love and happiness.  My Dad still has all his hair, and is still thin and muscular, and movie-star handsome.  My Mom, gently leaning on my Dad, is every bit his match, her skin still unwrinkled by time, and thin and mid-twenties young.   My Dad is holding my oldest brother, Mike.  Bundled in his winter coat and hat, he isn’t smiling but looks warm and natural and loved in his Father’s arms.  

They are unaware, standing there in the snow, that the three will eventually become six.  They know nothing about cancer or mental illness or congestive heart disease.   They have no perception of how fast nearly 60 years will pass.  They have no way of knowing that in that time, they will all be gone, and they know nothing of the other three they will leave behind.

They have no way of knowing that nearly 60 years later, on a warm Saturday in September, the photo will be posted on a bulletin board in the dining hall in a senior community in the town of Bruce, Wisconsin.   They can’t conceive the enormity of loss and the depths of emotion that the photo will inspire.

They are just a young family, standing in the snow near their home, having their picture taken.

It was a cold and grey Saturday morning in mid December, 1971, a little more than a month after my 12^th birthday.  My sister and I were sitting in the back seat of our green 1969 Ford LTD, my Dad was driving and my Mom was sitting in the front passenger side.  My Mom was nervous and anxious.  We were on our way to Mitchell Field to pick up my oldest brother, Mike, who had just finished the Army’s basic training in Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri.  He was coming home on leave.  It’d be the first time we saw him since the last time my Dad drove to the airport, eight weeks earlier, to drop him off.

We had received, in the mail, an official army portrait photo of Mike, all dressed in uniform, very formal, with his hair cut razor thin.  He looked nothing like the thick haired rock and roll fan he went into the army as.  We had received a couple of letters, in the army’s white envelopes with the red and blue trim, and he seemed to be doing well. 

We parked the car and went inside the arrivals area.  We were surprised to see dozens of razor thin haired soldiers, all formally dressed in their uniforms, all resembling the photo we had received.  My Mom was very anxious to see her oldest son, and somehow, she and I split off from my Dad and my Sister, as she aggressively made her way through the sea of uniforms.  Finally, she spotted my brother standing at a ticket counter.  She walked up, me following, and approached him, smiling broadly and saying, “Hi, how are you?”  It was at that point that the confused expression on the soldier’s face confirmed what I had just begun to suspect – it wasn’t Mike.

“I’m fine”, he said cautiously, as I was able to nudge her and say, “Mom, that’s not Mike.”   Embarrassed and flustered, she turned red, and we turned our back on the soldier that wasn’t Mike and towards the mass of uniforms.   It didn’t take us long to find the real Mike, and I had a good laugh when I told him how Mom had mistaken the wrong soldier for him.  My Mom, still red with embarrassment, was a good sport about it, and reluctantly laughed, too.

Then the three of us found my Dad and Jenny, and then we were back in the car, Mike sitting in the back seat with me and my little sister.  We had a nice ride home, with me calling him a “punk”, just like I did in the weeks before he went in the army, picking up where we had left off as if he’d never been gone.   The conversation turned to current events, and my Mom asked him what he thought of the big topic of the day, President Nixon’s recent trip to China, and Mike answered that he didn’t think Nixon was tough enough.  We were all surprised by his answer, as this was the same Mike who had been against the Vietnam War and who had agonized, after being drafted, about going in or defecting to Canada.  He ended up taking advantage of an offer where if he would enlist for a third year, he could serve in Germany, on the front lines of the cold war, and avoid having to go to Vietnam.  Mom and Dad took his response to Nixon and China as evidence that he was growing up.  I silently doubted the sincerity of the answer and suspected that he was telling them what they wanted to hear.   Regardless, I think it was more the site of his son in uniform than the answer to the question that made my Dad proudly beam as he drove.  They spoke of going downtown and having a couple of beers together while Mike was home on leave.   The generation gap that had always stood between them had, at least for the moment, closed.

As we drove home to Union Grove, light snow flurries began to fall, a reminder that Christmas was right around the corner.  Outside it was cold and gray and windy.   Inside the big Ford, we were comfortable and laughing, warmed by the car’s defroster and the knowledge that we were all going home, and that we’d all be together for the holidays.

Thanks to everyone for their kind words and condolences regarding the passing of my Dad last week.  It’s been a rough week, and things are finally settling down, and I’m just beginning to grasp the enormity of the hole that has been left behind. 

My Dad, though, was unique.  There was no you could spend any amount of time with my Dad without smiling if not laughing.  He always had a sparkle in his eye, and it was through that sparkle that he viewed his own unique take on the world.  He was always good company, and his gift was in making people feel better.  This gift continues on even after his death, in the memories of the times we shared and the stories he told.  Even in the sadness of my mourning, a smile inevitably forms on my face.  I think it is because he was such a powerful life force that death seems weak by comparison. 

My Dad was a great storyteller, and I know that I could never do any of his stories justice, and I know that I will undoubtedly get a lot of the facts and dates and details wrong, but what the Hell.    This is a story he told a few times, as late as a few weeks ago, and it remains one of my favorites.

In 1947 (? Or 1946?), after he returned home from the Army, on a bright summer afternoon my Dad stopped into an empty bar in Ladysmith for a drink.  As he walked up to the bar, the bartender said, “Oh, no you don’t.  You get your ass out of here”

“But I just got home from the Army,” my Dad protested.

“I know exactly who the Hell you are, now get the Hell out of here!”

“But … “

“I mean it, you get the Hell out of here”

At this point the story flashes back to the summer of 1944, my Dad having just turned 18 and enlisted in the army.  He got on with a busload of other recruits from Northwestern Wisconsin, most of who were unknown to each other.  They were on their way to Fort Sheridan, Illinois, where they would receive their basic training.  1944 was years before the modern interstate system,  plus the fact that, at least as I imagine it, the bus had to stop several times to pick up additional recruits, made what today would be approximately a seven hour ride an overnight excursion that included a stay over in a Milwaukee hotel.

Somewhere, north of Madison, as the bus made one of its scheduled stops, my Dad had the initiative and enough spare bucks in his wallet to spring for a case of beer.    Never being one who had any trouble making new friends, my Dad and his fellow recruits enjoyed the beer and the ride enough that by the time they made it to Milwaukee, they were old friends – old friends locked together in a Hotel in the big city the night before their induction into the Army.   What had started on the bus remained to be finished.

Later that night, as my Dad sat, as he described it, innocently and quietly in his room on the third or fourth floor of the hotel in downtown Milwaukee, a bunch of these new friends broke into his room and promptly took all of the furniture in it, bed, chairs, desk, whatever they could find, and threw it out his window.    My Dad, as with most of his stories, tried to convince us that he was the unwitting victim, that he had no idea why these guys singled him out.  We remain unconvinced.

As did the bartender who threw my Dad out of his bar three years later.  He knew exactly who my Dad was, as it turns out he was on the bus and had been put in charge of controlling the new recruits on their way down to induction.  He, of course, blamed my Dad for the mayhem that resulted in a bus load of drunken recruits and the rock star like devastation (this was at least 20 years before Keith Moon and company) of at least one Hotel room.   No matter how much my Dad feigned ignorance and innocence, the bartender wasn’t having any of it.   And I’m sure that the bartender suspected, as do I, that my Dad knew exactly whose bar he was walking into on that summer afternoon.

That’s it – I’m afraid the story isn’t the same without my Dad’s voice telling it.  But those who knew my Dad and his mastery of mischief can hear his voice and see him scratching the side of his bald head and staring off into the distance and pausing for effect before delivering one of his trademark punch lines.  And like me, if you knew him, you are undoubtedly smiling, in spite of yourself.

Thanks, Dad, for all the joy and laughter you have given over the years.  More than anything else thanks for the smiles that will endure the tears and persevere for as long as your stories are told.

I have a minor fascination with numbers and number sequences and riddles about numbers.   One of my favorite number riddles is known as Zeno’s paradox.   Take two points on any number line, and then halve the distance, and then halve that distance (½,¼ ,1/8  … ) and you can go on to infinity.  In other words, there are an infinite number of measurements between one and two inches, for example.  Yet we can see by looking at a ruler that there is a finite space, one inch, between the two points.  How can this be?  What are the implications?  Who cares? 

Unfortunately, it is a sad turn of events that has me thinking about Zeno’s paradox tonight.  I think I am beginning to understand how the infinite can exist within the finite.

My Father, Larry Gourdoux, passed away today.

This morning, about a quarter to ten, between his daily routine of morning coffee and “dinner” (his term for what most of us refer to as “lunch”, or the meal between “breakfast” and “supper”), I called my Dad on his cell phone.  He answered and I could hear that he was in a public place.  Our connection, as usual, wasn’t too good, and we quickly got past the hellos.

“Where are you?”, I asked.

“At the Post Office”, he replied.

“How are you feeling?”  

“I’m in a Helluva shape”, he said.  “I’m feeling dizzy”  There was a trace of fear in his voice.

“You’d better get yourself in”, I said, meaning in to see a Doctor.  My Dad’s had some serious health issues the past few years, and suffered from congestive heart disease, as well as an abdominal aneurism.

At this point, our call was disconnected.  I tried calling him back a second and then a third time, with no answer.  I then called my sister, and she called the director at my Dad’s senior complex, and asked if she could drive the three or four blocks over to the post office and see if our Dad was okay.

We waited about a half hour, and then got a call, first my sister, then me, from the Rusk County Sherriff’s department.  The deputy informed us that they had taken my Dad to Ladysmith in an ambulance; they had no information at this time, and would call back as soon as they could tell us something.  On the calls, they took our addresses and phone numbers.  I asked the deputy if my Dad was conscious when they took him, and he replied no, he was not.

So my sister in Oshkosh and I in Pleasant Prairie waited nervously for a call back.  Finally, around noon, my phone rang.  It was my sister.  They had sent an Oshkosh policeman to her door to give her the news that my Dad had passed away.

The details we have are still a little sketchy, but from what we can gather, after talking to me this morning, my Dad got in his parked car and lost consciousness.  The director from the senior complex found him there and called 911.  On the way to the hospital, they tried to revive him, and for a short time were able to get a very weak pulse.  Once at the hospital, they tried for about another 20 minutes, and then it was over.

The next few hours were spent making and answering phone calls and tending to immediate business.  My sister and I went about these tasks with great efficiency and purpose.   Finally, sometime in the late afternoon, the immediate tasks having been tended to, I had time to think about my Dad and my loss, and it started to hit me.

When I heard the trace of fear in my Dad’s voice this morning, and when he didn’t answer when I tried to call him back, I braced myself for the worst.   So when I heard the news it really didn’t come as a surprise.  I took comfort in the fact that he apparently went pretty quickly.   He had   been very open this summer about the fact that he was 85 years old and ready to die, and the one thing he feared above all else was a slow and incapacitating decline.  

It is still a shock.  He had spent the past several winters in south Texas, and when he came back this year, he looked better than he had in years.  He had good color and high levels of energy.   He was very active routing out and painting wooden signs for friends, and he purchased a membership at a nearby golf course.   He actually golfed several times – something he hadn’t done in years.  In Texas, he was at the center of a large group of good friends, having breakfast with them every morning at the Port Isabel What-A-Burger, and enjoying happy hour every afternoon next to his neighbor’s trailer.  This summer, at the senior complex in Bruce, he had made a new group of good friends, with whom he had coffee every morning and “dinner” at 11:00.  He was happy and vital to the end, and, as he had been his whole life, he was funny. 

He had one setback in early July, when he was hospitalized for a week in Eau Claire, a week that the nursing and cleaning and medical staffs won’t likely forget for a long time, as he entertained them, his shtick in prime form, new audiences that had never seen anything like him.  At 85 years old, it was his curtain call, his last great audience, and he put on the performance of a lifetime, and they all fell in love with him.  Even I, who had witnessed these routines countless times over the years, was transfixed, and laughed out loud despite myself when, for example, he was talking on his cell phone as one of the nurses took blood, skillfully pricking the tip of his finger.  After a couple of minutes, my Dad told whoever he was talking to on the phone to hold on for a second, and then, with the delivery of a master, expressed a sincere but much delayed “Ouuuuchh” to the nurse.  Despite my better judgment, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

He seemed to recover completely from the hospital, and, as I took him from doctor offices to labs to surgeon’s offices, he not only seemed to be getting better physically, but was enjoying each visit as an opportunity to repeat his shtick.   It was as if he was taking his hospital show on the road.  I was amazed when, for what seemed like the fourteenth time I heard the same hokey lines about nurses or receptionists being good looking, someone would always laugh, not the polite poor old guy trying to be funny laugh, but genuine laughs from deep down, as in, did you hear what this guy said?

The routines were extended to his morning coffee group, where he made friends with a very nice old guy who my sister and I would refer to as his sidekick.  Every day he’d come to coffee with some wild scheme for him and his sidekick:  they were going to go out west and be cowboys, they were going to become astronauts and take a wing off of the space station.  Gradually, with each crazy adventure he’d concoct, the attendance at morning coffee grew.

After he got home from the hospital, he seemed to regain his strength, going back to work at his sign-making and even making it out with me for a couple rounds of golf.   He was looking forward to returning to Texas this winter.  When talking to him, you got the sense of a man at peace with himself – he was ready to die, but until that happened, he was going to enjoy living every moment left.

This afternoon, after all the calls were made and things started sinking in, I went to the harbor in Kenosha, near where I live, and stared out at the vast deep blue of Lake Michigan.    This is what, for some unexplained reason, I am often compelled to do when I get news of this sort.   I think I’m not alone, a lot of people, when confronted with grief or tragedy, end up at the seaside.  I think it’s natural when we lose someone we love to gaze at the sea or the night sky, because our loss, the hole we feel inside, is so large that we need something bigger than ourselves, big enough to contain the enormity of our pain.

This is where good old Zeno and his paradox come into play.   This is where the infinite lives within the finite. It’s the mathematics of loss.  The immeasurable and incomprehensible infinity of loss will be visible within the small area occupied by an empty chair at tomorrow morning’s coffee at my Dad’s senior center, and it’ll exist within the tiniest fragments of my broken heart.