Renegade, then and now

I got a note from John Kay yesterday.

In case that name isn't familiar to you, he created and lead the group Steppenwolf, which was a dominant force in rock in the late 60's and early 70s.  I was a huge fan back then. I remember dancing to the albums with my eyes closed. Couldn't have been a pretty sight.

They were unconventional even for the time. Two of their biggest hits were anti-hard drug songs penned by Hoyt Axton: “The Pusher” and “Snow Blind Friend.”

And then, in 1970,  'Renegade.' 

It tells John Kay's story. He was born in Tilsit, along the Baltic Coast in 1944. The area had been annexed by the Nazis in 1939; when that regime was collapsing, with the Red Army rolling in, infant John and his mother were two of the thousands of refugees who fled to the west. Unfortunately for them, they landed in what later became East Germany, in Arnstadt, and had to run again, escaping to West Germany in 1948.

The first two verses (transcribed here in paragraph form) tell the story:

My birthplace would be hard to find; it changed so many times, I'm not sure where it belongs. But they tell me the Baltic coast is full of amber, and the land was green before the tanks came. One day I learned just how it used to be: the devil's curse brought the whole world to its' knees.
And it was "Hey you, keep your head down, don't you look around, please don't make a sound! If they should find you now the Man will shoot you down."

It's a mighty long way out of the darkness to where the sun is free to shine. Well, the truck came by to put us in the back, and left us where the railroad tracks cross the line. Then the border guide took us by the hand, and led us through the hole into the promised land beyond. And I can hear him now, whispering soft and low, "When you get to the other side just you run like hell!”
"Hey you, keep your head down, don't you look around, please don't make a sound! If they should find you now the Man will shoot you down."

As a boy in Hanover, West Germany, he learned about rock and roll, listening to the British Forces Broadcasting Service before moving to Canada at age 14. In 1967, at age 23, he and his band moved to California, and became Steppenwolf. They achieved commercial success; two of their songs 'Born to be Wild' and 'The Pusher' featured in the 1969 movie 'Easy Rider.' They appeared with the Doors, the Rolling Stones, the Grateful Dead, Canned Heat, and many other headliners of the era. So, a happy ending, right? Well, mostly, but:

But for the young man who had literally risked his life to escape to freedom, TWICE, the violent politics of the time was sickening. Those of us who were sentient at the time remember the cities burning; the assassinations of King and Kennedy; the protesters brawling with the cops at the Democratic National Convention, while the crowds chanted “The whole world is watching, the whole world is watching.”

He must have thought we had lost our minds. And he wrote a third verse to his song:

I thought I had a quiet place where I could learn how to catch my childhood dreams; but on my left and to my right they keep on shouting, while I'm just stuck here in between. Lord! I'm tired of running and I don't believe I can; I can hear them calling time and time again: 
And it's "Hey you, keep your head down, don't you look around, please don't make a sound! If they should find you now the Man will shoot you down."

Now, on this lovely spring day in Georgia in 2017, I don't THINK we are in the same place that we were in 1968. But I think it's just a matter of intensity. The division between people is every bit as deep as it was when John Kay wrote this song about his experiences. So, the responsibility is mine to teach my children what is important, and what we have to lose.

So, on weekday mornings, my 12 year old Kenneth and I spend an hour before school, studying the ancient wisdom in Proverbs, and discussing how those apply to our lives today. After setting an example by the way I live, it's the most important thing I do.  And one day last week, I started by printing him a copy of the lyrics so he could read along as he listened to the song. I showed him on our world map where the Baltic is, and about where Arnstadt is, to bring him closer to the story. I told him about my own experience in the Army in Germany, crossing over through Checkpoints Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie, to go from West Germany into West Berlin and East Berlin. I told him about the Berlin Airlift. And I showed him pictures of the Berlin Wall, and how it finally came down.

John Kay's story had an impact on my boy. I could tell by the questions he asked; his nephew Trey is a bit older than Kay was the first time had to run; his nephew Heath is the age Kay was when they finally reached West Germany.

And then I applied the lesson of the third verse to his life. “Kenneth, today and for the rest of your life, you are going to have people on the left and on the right shouting at you, and you are going to be stuck in between. Don't give up! You find the truth, and you hold on to it. It won't be easy, but it's worth fighting for. And you can help to make this world a place where mothers never have to run away with their little boys, in the freezing cold, just so they can be safe.”

 He got it. (I love it when it works.)

And then, riding the crest of the wave of a successful Teachable Moment, I wrote a few lines about that morning's experience; and I submitted them to the 'CONTACT' link on the Steppenwolf website. I didn't really expect anything in particular; it's just that I owed a debt of thanks, and I wanted to do my best to pay it back. And I went about my day.

Until yesterday, when I get an email out of the blue:

Pat, I've forwarded your email to John Kay and here is his response:  "Please tell Papa Pat that I found his note and what he does, very rewarding as a song writer. But I also found it quite moving. I will keep his note as a reminder that music can make a difference in our lives".

WOW. Naturally, I responded, and they responded to that, and then, out of the blue, I'm given four tickets to a Steppenwolf concert this summer near Atlanta.

What's our takeaway?

Well, it's not 'honor rock and roll musicians.' John Kay is just this guy, right? Incredibly talented, true, but mostly he finds purpose in his family, and their foundation supporting human rights and protection of wildlife and the environment.
I THINK the takeaway, for me at least, is don't miss an opportunity to say 'thank you.'  You never know who it might bless.

And if you wind up with tickets to a rock concert, that's gravy!

Left Overs

Is it true that anything you make with noodles is better as leftovers?

Here's what I made last night, and today for lunch it was truly wonderful:

Lackadaisical Prep:

I made a marinade sauce with honey, garlic salt, mustard, soy sauce, olive oil, corn starch and water, and smurfed all up together in a tupperware marinating container. I don't know how much of each ingredient I used; I knew I wanted the honey and mustard flavors to come through, and I added things by taste.

I skinned, boned, and sliced two chicken breasts and two chicken thighs into tiny little pieces, and dumped them in the marinade. I froze them slightly before hand, to make them easier to slice.

I sliced up a red bell pepper and a yellow bell pepper and dumped them in the marinade. These were just on hand. I don't buy this sort of thing; someone was attracted by how pretty they were, and they were in my way, so they got selected to add color to the meal.

I steamed a pound of broccoli florets and dumped them in the marinade.

I closed the container, shook the bejabbers out of it to get everything mixed up and coated, and put it in the fridge for an hour and a half. That was based on the fact that dinner was at 6, and I started prep at 4. If I had started earlier or later, the marinade time would have changed.

Made four packets of ramen noodles, using only two of the chicken flavor packets, and set aside.

Fried four large slices of hog jowl to get the bacon drippings, as well as giving me something to munch on while cooking.

I was skeptical that the amount of bacon was going to give me enough to stir fry with, so I added about the same amount of olive oil.

In three portions, I stir fried the contents of the marinade container, between 5 and 10 minutes per portion. I cooked until the chicken was done. I scooped out the cooked chicken and vegetables with a slotted spoon, so the marinade got added to the bacon drippings and olive oil as time went on. I dumped the cooked chicken and vegetables over the ramen noodles.

With the last portion, I poured most of the accumulated marinade over the noodles along with the chicken and vegetables.

I set the bowl with the noodles and stir fry on the table, announced "FOOD IS READY" and walked out of the house, drove to Waffle House, and ate a cheeseburger. I was mad about something, and you don't need to know what it was. I just didn't want to be around people for a while. So, my rebellious act consisted of drinking coffee with my double quarter cheese plate, scattered and smothered. (It was an act of rebellion because my doc took me off caffeine.)

By the time I returned to the house, I wasn't mad any more. Much of the Honey Mustard chicken pepper stir fry had been eaten. However, there was plenty left for my lunch today.

It really was delicious!

The Next to Last Gift

"Mama, do you remember when I had some really bad problems getting along with _________?"

"Yes, I certainly do. It was awful for you."

"Well, we're doing just fine right now, and we have for years. But there were a couple of things that happened back then that I just don't understand. I was thinking about asking him about it."

My mother and I sat in silence for a moment. I was trying to work up the courage to say the next thing. It took a LOT of courage! I was afraid of what I was going to say. I was afraid of what her answer might be. I was about to cross a line, and there was no reverse.

"Well, anyway, when I was thinking about that, it made me wonder. Are there things that you want to ask me about? Is there anything that's bothering you?"

She was struggling to answer. Until she spoke, I didn't even know if she understood what I was talking about. This woman, this incredible intellect, had ALWAYS had a book in her hand, had ALWAYS know the answers to my homework; she had gone back to college and earned her degree when her own children were of college age; but now, she couldn't remember how long it had been since her own parents had died. 

She looked away for a moment. But when she began to speak, it wasn't with the voice of a helpless old lady in a care facility. 

She spoke as much power, and confidence, and complete assurance as she had ever had. She spoke with the certainty of a wise mother, who KNEW what she was talking about

"The one good thing about this is that I don't remember any of the bad things. All I remember is the love. I remember the love I have for you, and for your sisters, and I remember the love my parents had for me. I don't remember anything bad at all. But the love is right here with me, all the time, every day. 

So, you don't need to explain anything to me. There's nothing to explain. I know you love me, and I know I love you, and that's all there is."

I leaned forward and kissed her cheek, and she put up her frail hand and stroked my face. We smiled at each other. 

The love was there. The love was always there, and it would be always there.

I've thought about that a lot over the past week or so. And I have come to accept that this is the next to last gift my mother will receive from God, the forgetting of turmoil. 

When she thinks of her children, her husband, her parents, her friends, she knows nothing about tension and struggles. 

She sees the pictures of her grandchildren and great grandchildren on the walls and tables in her room, and even when she can't remember their names, she remembers the love. 

She knows the thing that matters; these are the people she loves. 

These are the people who love her.

I MUST find a way to visit my mother more often. My sisters, especially our baby sister, do a wonderful job of visiting her. I need to do more of that. It will be good for her.

But it will also be good for me.

It's always good to spend time in the company of someone who knows only love.

Happy Mother's Day, Mama!

Re-visiting the Future of War

In 2015, Castalia House re-issued Jerry Pournelle's series "There Will Be War." I rejoiced! For a long time, it had only been possible to obtain volumes in the series by judicious searching of the very best used book stores, and by 'very best' I mean the one down the street that has what I want to read. At one point, I owned this series in paperback, and re-read it many times. HOWEVER! Evidently, it is not possible to own a nice collection of military sci-fi, AND have literate sons: they take your stuff. But somewhere, at rest on any of the voluminous bookshelves owned by Patterson boys, the tattered originals rest.

I was a young father and a relatively recent vet when these books came out, and the world was a scary place then. The idea of Soviet subs lingering off the coast was given vivid imagery in 'The Hunt for Red October,' and we absolutely KNEW the madmen in the Kremlin would go to any length at all to preserve their positions. Do you remember that the Soviets shot down an unarmed civilian aircraft, Korean Air Lines 007? At the time, we all KNEW Ivan was crazy. In the face of THAT terror, the radicalized Islam that had produced the fiasco in Iran for 444 days seemed less significant.

Was it a lack of foresight? Should we have aligned ourselves with the Soviets, and produced the CoDominium in reality, in order to stamp out the current greatest threat to world peace?

I don't think so. We had a different enemy then, and a different war. Under the leadership of Ronald Reagan, America raised the stakes again and again, until it became impossible for the pitiful Soviet economy to sustain the technological war, and they folded. It was a remarkable achievement. Reading 'There Will Be War, Volume I' has brought back a snapshot of those times when we thought the bombs might fall, and were seeking space-based solutions.

Our enemy then was a formal nation-state, supporting conventional forces as well as nuclear weapons on intercontinental ballistic missiles. Today our enemy uses small arms, rental trucks, and hijacked airliners to bring about terror. Threats to national integrity mean nothing, when the enemy has no single national identity.

A MOAB might get the job done, though.

PS: This blog post only addresses some of the political changes between the time of the original publication of the series and the current re-release. The fiction is magnificent, and if it isn't timeless, it comes close. I reviewed the book here. 

A minor Easter Meditation

Understand this: At one time, Easter was THE focal point of my year. It mattered more to me than my birthday, Christmas, and all of the other celebrations combined.

That was because I regard Easter is THE point of transformation, of victory, in the existence of the universe. This is more instant change, a bigger upset, than the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded home run, because up until Easter morning, victory wasn't even on the horizon.

Up until Easter morning, all hope was lost. On this huge globe surrounding the Sun, every little peasant uprising, every palace intrigue, every great momentous trembling of armies preparing for battle: all of it was NOTHING, because in Jerusalem, the Son of God had been put to death. And after that, it was all going to be a picnic for the Evil One. There was no  one left to stand against him; he was going to be able to feast on our misery, openly or in secrecy, depending on his whim.

And then: Sunday morning.

I know the factors that lead me to the truth that Easter is the most important day EVER, and I'm pretty sure of the factors that have caused my outward celebration of that to be toned down over the years.

It's NOT a loss of faith! Call it, instead, a loss of opportunity; a loss of circumstances; in the case of THIS year, a loss of health. I've spent most of the past several days coughing my lungs up with allergies, and last night, I kept waking up with my throat and chest in pain, hunting around for a piece of citrus fruit to eat to sooth my throat and let me sleep for another hour.

I should, in every year, greet the dawn of Easter Sunday with the shocked joy of the three Marys; having accepted the worst, they were nearly blasted into infinity by the realization of the very best.

Circumstances prevent me from doing what I should, but I want to affirm the truth:

Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down Death by death,
And upon those in the tomb, bestowing life!

He is risen, He is risen indeed!

Getting Outshot by Moose, and 'A Small Medium at Large'

Yesterday, I went shooting with Moose.

No, I did not take a giant herbivore to the range; Moose is the nickname of my youngest bio-son. His first name is Mickey, and we would have called him Mickey Mouse, but he was 10 pounds, 9 ounces at birth, and that wasn't a mouse. That was Mickey Moose. Over the years, he maintained his status as the biggest, and today, at age 25, he stands 6'5" and weighs over 300 pounds: he's the Moose.
I taught him to shoot when he was 9 years old, and for birthdays and Christmas, he frequently wanted, and received, either a firearm or ammo. We did baseball, soccer, scouts, and karate when he was younger, but the shooting sports stayed with him to this day.

For various reasons, we took a total of three rifles and eight pistols to the range with us. Some had never been fired, others had only been fired by one of us, and still others were just old friends that we love. And for the first time, with EVERY single firearm...

...Moose outshot me. It wasn't even close. He outshot me with his guns, he outshot me with my guns, he outshot me with guns he had never fired before. It was funny to me, but it bothered Moose a bit. He was used to Papa being the man when it came to the range. He started making excuses for me! I actually had to stop him, and pass on one of the basic life truths:

"At some point, sons are SUPPOSED to exceed their fathers. It's how the world gets better."

And now, I have to go to Stephanie Osborn's wonderful book, "A Small Medium at Large," and there are GOING to be SPOILERS.

By the way: there really is not a medium in the book; there is an alien masquerading as a medium, and that is the reason for the pun in the title. Actually, it's the other way around, I think: in order to get the pun in the title, the alien character was given that role to play. But I digress.

Here is the guts of the book: Special Agent Omega (Megan) was kidnapped by a Bug-Eyed Monster as a child, and for reasons best known to him, had her DNA modified to include that of seven people and five animals the BEM had killed. The net effect was to make her stronger, smarter, faster, and more resilient than other humans, yet leave her completely human. Now, whereas I rather think those would be nice characteristics to have, there were initially other side effects that weren't so great (like wanting to kill her partner) which she overcame through grit and determination. And when she discovered that the reason for her abilities was due to the alien tampering with her DNA, she felt unclean.

Meanwhile, she finally admits to herself that she is in love with her partner, and unbeknownst to her, the feelings are reciprocated. But JUST before she admits her feelings, she discovers the truth of her DNA, and not wanting him to be disgusted or show her pity, she keeps her feelings to herself.

And the book ends with the relationship unsettled.

Now, at FIRST, I was rather impatient with Agent Omega's dithering. After all, the doc had reassured her that she was completely human, and her partner and boss had both gone to great lengths to confirm that she was in no way responsible for the fates of the seven individuals murdered by the BEM. Why can't she understand that? Why must she persist in feeling unclean and unworthy, when there is a perfectly good life partner eagerly awaiting her?

Why can't you just GROW UP, Agent Omega?

Well, it turns out, it ain't that easy. 

Moose inherited other things from me, in addition to his proclivity for firearms. One of those things is HLA-B27, a fragment of DNA we can trace back to the Neanderthals. Remember all those pictures of cave men, hunched over with bad posture? That understanding was based on a few knobby bones found in Neanderthal burial sites. They appeared to be heavily arthritic, and as it turns out, carriers of HLA-B27 have a tendency to develop auto-immune diseases, and in particular, ankylosing spondylitis. I have it, and Moose has it. Coming back from the range, we talked about the  back pain we were both experiencing, but how this wasn't something that could kill us, unlike some of the other auto-immune diseases.

I did not have any idea when I was about the business of conceiving children that I had ankylosing spondylitis, that the chances were good that I would be passing along a crippling disease to them. But what if I HAD known? I've spent quite a few hours in excruciating pain, and I had to retire from a career I loved because of the complications associated with the disease and treatment. If I had known that my children might have similar experiences, would I have decided NOT to procreate?

If I had known that I would have to look on in helpless GUILT as my child suffered from pain from a disease inherited from me, would I still have had children?

It's a stumper, isn't it?

Well, fortunately for me, I did not know about the clinker I was passing along, so I didn't have to face THAT particular quandary.  And as I look at my children now, I am so grateful to be in a world in which they exist. It's a better place because of them. And I did everything I could to give them the tools they would need to live long and prosper. And I think that's about the best any parent can do. And while I wish things could be otherwise with our pain levels, that's just the way the genetic dice rolled for us. And we have to play the hand we are dealt.

And that's the REAL message of this blog post: play the hand you are dealt. Do the best you know how to do. 

And to return from the real world Moose and I (and you) inhabit, to the fictional world Stephanie Osborn has built for Agent Omega, I hope that's the message she eventually allows herself to hear. Choose love, Agent Omega. Nobody has any guarantees, not of anything. So: choose love.

Whatchu talkin bout, Willis? The Sunday church version.

Kenneth, Vanessa, Me, Alicia

November, 2016

This is without a doubt one of the most glorious times of my life. Just shy of 64, I'm well into retirement; my gift-from-God, happily-ever-after trophy wife Vanessa, the elegant, foxy, praying black grandmother of Woodstock, GA has the flexibility to tell her job to take a flying leap any time they get too abusive, and there are only 33 days left in the school year. My delightful 12 year old Kenneth is in his first year of middle school, and the glorious 10 year old Alicia (who turns 11 next month) is our VLESS (Very Last Elementary School Student).

Ummm...that last school fact? That smarts a bit. Alicia is our last elementary school student. Vanessa became an elementary school parent in 1982; I got a later start, in 1988. And I've had kids at Alicia's current school since Jordan transferred there in the 4th grade in 1992. So, lots of ways to slice it, but the bitter-sweet milestone is there; in 33 days, we will no longer be parents of an elementary school child.  

But, aside from the comments by that great Philosopher Poet Maudlin Lachrymose, it's a truly lovely, lovely time. Kenneth and Alicia are both sponges; sometimes, you can actually SEE them learning some life lesson, and that is a treasure I would never swap (for money, fame, or a book contract. But feel free to make offers!). And yes, they can be rotten little monsters sometimes, and it's not always intentional. 

And that's what prompted this blog post. 

Last week, Kenneth and I had an opportunity to review his domestic responsibilities. The foundation principle is this: It is MY job to give Kenneth as much freedom as he can handle; it is KENNETH'S job to demonstrate just how much freedom that is. Pretty much all parent-child interactions touch on this principle in some way.

One of Kenneth's assigned chores is to take out the trash; to take the trash can to the curb on the appropriate day, and to bring the emptied trash container back to the house. I explained to him that I didn't want Mom to have to drag the trash cans around, nor did I want to have to remind him to do this job which has been his for five years at least.

And I pointed out that this was a GREAT opportunity to practice his negotiation skills. It would be up to him to offer me a plan that would be effective in reminding him to deal with the trash; I was open for anything. I reminded him that in a good negotiation, both parties gain something, and both parties contribute something. And I closed with pointing out that the chore itself was non-negotiable; no matter what, he was going to be taking out the trash, etc. 

That was the home front.

Meanwhile, Kenneth, who truly IS a bright young man, had been slacking off in school. I can say without fear of contradiction that he is very capable of making straight A's; However, I've told him that while he COULD make A's, as long as he makes no progress report/report card grade lower than 'B,' I will give him the freedom to schedule his leisure time, which in his case means video games.

And then I got his report card with a 70 in Math, 71 in Advanced Reading, and 75 in Science. I came to the conclusion he had been allowed too much freedom so, I impounded all the power cords to his electronics. No games, no TV, and I impounded his tablet as well. And his freedom to schedule his leisure time is forfeited. 

I told him he had to fill out his agenda, daily, in each of these three subjects, AND have the appropriate classroom teacher initial it, and I would return to verifying that all assignments were completed. IF his daily grades (which I can access online) showed a satisfactory turn-around, meaning that he started earning a 'B' or better in all subjects, he could have temporary access to the electronics, and not have to wait for the end of the grading period before getting some relief.

He grumphed.

I understood.

He didn't like it.

I explained to him that I was not REQUIRING him to LIKE it; I was just requiring him to DO it. His emotional reaction is his business, as long as it doesn't bring gloom on the others in the house.

 And for a while, I had a grumpy 12 year old boy, sighing and making sure I knew he was being woefully mistreated.

After a few days of that, I took him for a walk. I reminded him that I wasn't trying to raise a child; I was trying to raise a person who could function as an adult. And I pointed out that he had not troubled to try to negotiate a better deal for himself with respect to taking out the trash. Why did you not offer to take out the trash if I gave you $10, I asked. The worst that would happen is I would say no. But because you didn't even TRY to negotiate a better deal, you've gained nothing, and you still have to take out the trash.

He grumphed.

And I left it alone. I guess he's just going to stubborn this one out, I thought.

Until the NEXT day, when Vanessa and I returned from our evening walk, to discover he had locked us out of the house, and taped the following note to the door:

Yes, you have been locked 

out of the house, 

so

HA-HA-HA

And also to remind me to 

take out the trash Just

pin a 5 dollar Bill to the door (Papa Pat's idea)

He said ten but I ain't

no thief so HA! 

We cracked up. Humor is SUCH a life-saver when it comes to raising kids! Just when it seemed like I was in for a LONG period of grumping, Kenneth found his funny bone, and used it to make contact.

And I DID negotiate, by the way; ordinarily, I would have paid a buck, so he could have some spending money, learn to budget, and I wouldn't have to nag. In this case, though, because he had spontaneously reached for restoration with humor, I wanted to do some more. And I agreed on three dollars, and I explained that his good nature had produced the bonus. And since then, I hang three dollar bills on a bit of wire just inside the front door, and I don't have to say anything.

Which brings us up to yesterday.

Kenneth has just made the transition from Children's Church to Adult Church. He has also moved up in the youth group he attends. He is well behaved in church, and we made the agreement years ago that if I stand up, he stands up; if I sit down, he sits down. It works for us all. And I don't know how much of the adult sermon he is absorbing, but he is seeing adults worship God, so that's a win.

Yesterday was the second sermon in a series about mercy, forgiveness, and judgement. The pastor was making the point that the people we are most likely to judge harshly are our parents (much more to the message than that, but I'll leave it there). And he was contrasting extremes in family dynamics, with one extreme being "I think everyone has a good heart" and the other extreme being "You did that because you are a rotten kid and you are just trying to make everyone around you as miserable as you are." 

And he asked, "How many of you grew up in a home in which there was a lot of yelling and screaming and blaming?" Regrettably, I had to put my hand up, along with about two thirds of the congregation.

And then I noticed, out of the corner of my eye: KENNETH HAD HIS HAND UP!

So I backhanded him across the chest, and said "WHATCHU TALKIN' BOUT, WILLIS?"

I'm not sure he got the cultural reference, but I DO know what happened. Kenneth is off in Dreamland for 12 Year Old Boys in Adult Church, and notices that I have put my hand up. So, he applied the rule, in which he copies my behavior, and puts his hand up as well.  

He had no idea what he was raising his hand for. I hope.

Of course, the people sitting behind us who see him raise his hand to testify about a toxic home situation, and then see me backhand, probably had a nice little conversation about that mean old man beating on that poor little boy.

Well, That's the way it works, sometimes.