The Digs

I had a friend back in high school who rented an apartment near a busy railroad station shortly after graduation. His friends all thought that he had it made in the shade (pardon that 70’s expression please). Here was a guy who had just turned eighteen and he had his own place already. Wow! We – the posse – were not only chartreuse with envy, but everyone also knew that from that day forward we’d forever (or at least until he got evicted) have a place to P-A-R-T-Y!

Can I get a “Hell Yeah!” Y’all know what I’m talkin’ ’bout, right?

To say his place was a little small would be like saying Texas is a little warm in the summer. The roaches had to work in shifts. And the mice had to commute, because there was no place for them to sleep.

Speaking of commute…

Did you ever hear a commuter train traveling down the tracks at about seventy miles per hour? Let’s just say you can feel it coming long before the sound gets to your ears. And when that happens, look out below!

Take a peek out the front window of your home right now and imagine three sets of railroad tracks about where the street is located. On average, roughly twenty-five feet away. That’s how close the tracks were to party central. The first time I was on hand for this mind-crushing event, I thought I was in an explosion.

All day long commuter trains would rumble-by. First they would head into the city during morning rush, then they’d bring ’em all back in the afternoon and evening.

It really got interesting after dark – around 10PM – when all the weary travelers were safe at home and tucked into their beds. That’s when the freight trains would roll. And roll they did, until morning, when the whole ritual would start all over again.

Did he get a break on Saturday and Sunday, you ask? Nope. Weekends were simply less folks and more commerce. My head hurts just thinking about it.

He had it made alright.

I also had my share of interesting dwelling places in my lifetime. Not the least impressive (but it was close) was my eighth floor apartment on Pratt Avenue in Chicago. The exclusive North Shore. But this was a little slice of heaven that was as far from upscale as you can get without being on some sort of government aid program.

Not fit for man nor beast, this place had a wonderful view of Lake Michigan out the bedroom window and a potentially profitable view over the left field wall of Wrigley Field – home of those lovable losers the Chicago Cubs. I say “profit” based on the highly unlikely event the team could stop losing just for one season, so I could charge folks money for my great view of the game. I wasn’t holding my breath!

Sounds pretty tasty doesn’t it? Hmmm?

First of all, this was an “artists’ community” that featured futon stores, over-priced bistros, wine caterers, and head shops – call them “smoke shops” if you want to, but I know what folks were smokin’ in those “hookah pipes” (read: bongs) and it wasn’t crab grass.

We had two movie theaters that the neighborhood aristocrats and visiting jet setters called “fine arts” centers. Centers? Heck, I went there to watch movies. Don’t know what y’all were lookin’ at?

Every Friday and Saturday night, at midnight, for as long as I lived in that neighborhood, one of the so-called fine arts centers played the Rocky Horror Picture Show. The other rotated the Star Wars trilogy. Movie goers came in full costume – every weekend – for both films.

It was not uncommon to take a late night stroll only to spot several Rocky Horror cross-dressing movie buffs (wearing Fredrick’s of Hollywood leather and lace attire), Chubaka, and R2D2 on the same street corner. Oh, wait, that could have been three hookers with a homeless guy standing by a city of Chicago garage can? I used to drink a lot back in the day.

Then, in the dog days of summer, when the Cubs were in town, the beer flow was like a frothy river of sudsy fun. After all, if you’re a Cubs’ fan, you’re also a hefty drinker. What else is there to do when you’re watching them blow another pennant?

There was a bar about every other doorway on Sheridan Road – the main drag. (Sorry, poor word choice there.) Loyola University provided much of the clientele that wasn’t part of the fine arts masquerade party.

Since when was Meatloaf (the singer, not the dinner) promoted to art? Did I miss something? Sorry, I digress.

Speaking of dining adventures in the area…

A greasy spoon that served a very tasty breakfast 24/7 was really the highlight around Pratt Beach, but only if you ignore the little adult book store and sex toy shop as being off the grading curve. (Editor’s Note: wear old shoes if you ever go – the floor’s a little sticky. In the restaurant, I mean.)

The apartment itself was a little charmer. Flush a toilet six blocks away and the water pressure would dip to a dribble. And if that flush came whilst you were taking a shower, you’d better bail out of the tub in a hurry unless you like being scorched by a scalding drizzle from a low-flow shower head. Ouch!

Not a single window in the place actually fit into the opening it had originally been designed to fit. It was not unusual to see one-half-inch of space between the window and the frame. Now imagine a forty mile per hour wind blowing at minus seven degrees.

Yeah. Brrr! Y’all got that right.

Fortunately, the building had those old steam heaters, which were always hot enough to bring a pot of water to boil if you had occasion to put one on top of the heater itself – like if you forgot to pay the electric bill and the stove didn’t work. Not that that ever happened to me.

Moving right along…

When the decision was finally made that a move was needed, haste was the order of the day. You see, maintenance had “taken care” of a “bug problem” on the main floor. Only problem with that was the “bug problem” moved up about eight floors.

I was lying in bed watching TV when a dog ran across my set. I’m sure you’ve all seen the TV commercial for Orkin where the roach runs across the screen, but not really. I hit my TV with a hammer the first time I saw that one. I lived it! My visitor was real – big too. It was like the film Joe’s Apartment, only not nearly as funny.

So many places, too many to talk about here, that provided the road map of my life.

I lived in St. Louis for almost one year. The Central West End was another artists’ haven that in no way resembled my horror show on Pratt Avenue in the Windy City. This classy setting of thriving night life was actually a fun area to live. Could’ve been that I could see a Hooter’s neon sign from my window though? Relax! I only went there because I like chicken wings.

(pause for groans and eye rolling)

When I moved to Texas back in 1996, I had to learn the hard way what they actually mean when they say, “location, location, location.” I moved into an area to be close to work, but that also put me pretty doggone close to the ghetto. Well, as ghetto as Fort Worth gets anyway. I was used to Cabrini Green and the Robert Taylor Homes – I assure you, Texans would not allow these two places.

To be fair, it took eight years of Texas living before I got robbed at gunpoint. Thirty-five years in the gun crime epicenter of the Universe – Chicago – and I had to move to Texas to be the guest of honor at a stick-up. Who knew?

During the last month of my East Side of Fort Worth stay, I counted four home invasions that happened at night when folks were at home asleep. That’s pretty brave if you ask me. Most folks have guns in Texas – this ain’t Illinois where the politicians disarm honest folks to make it easy on the crooks. Only reason that I didn’t get robbed in Chi-town was because I knew all the crooks and where to go get my stuff back.

Brings to mind a local police chase near Ennis, TX some years ago that featured several municipalities, state troopers, and even some Texas Rangers. The crooks took law enforcement on a whirlwind shootout tour of a number of towns southeast of Dallas. When the dust settled and the bad guys were behind bars, they pulled over one-hundred slugs out of the suspects’ vehicle and could only attribute half of them to police. The rest came from civilian guns.

Don’t mess with Texas! Y’all got that right too.

I just moved – again. I’m still in Fort Worth, but on the fashionable West Side. I don’t suppose I’ll be going anywhere else any time soon. I like it here. And I found a new place in a neighborhood I had been drooling over ever since I came to the Lone Star State sixteen years ago. It’s no bigger than the train stop dwelling my school chum rented. No trains (or critters) here though.

I call it my Man Cave and I dig the new digs. I’m snug as a bug in a rug. If you’ll pardon the expression?

Waterloo (and another epic surrender)

An ad on Ebay recently touted the sale of vintage French infantry weapons thusly:

“For Sale: French Muskets… like new, hardly used, only dropped twice.”

Of course, this is an old joke. But it does segue nicely into today’s topic for discussion.

Last time I blathered about the world according to me, I was ready to tackle a second round of heart surgery in less than a month. Obviously, since I am writing this blog and you are reading it, I survived. So, with that news flash out-of-the-way, I think I’ll take it from here in a little less predictable direction. If you don’t mind?

No. Good! Let’s proceed.

I chose “surrender” as my theme, because Monday is June 18th – the 197th Anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo. Why is that so doggone important, you ask? Well, let me tell you. But first… Here’s a little history lesson for you:

The Battle of Waterloo was fought on Sunday, 18 June 1815 near Waterloo in present-day Belgium, then part of the United Kingdom of the Netherlands. AnImperial French army under the command of Emperor Napoleon was defeated by combined armies of the Seventh Coalition, an Anglo-Allied army under the command of the Duke of Wellington combined with a Prussian army under the command of Gebhard von Blücher. It was the culminating battle of theWaterloo Campaign and Napoleon’s last. The defeat at Waterloo ended his rule as Emperor of the French, marking the end of his Hundred Days return from exile. (source: Wikipedia)

Don’t worry. These things do have a way of coming together in the end. There’s no use worrying that a beaten Emperor Napoleon standing in front of the Duke of Wellington 197 years ago with his hands reaching for the sky has precisely zero connection to heart surgery performed in Fort Worth, Texas in 2012. It’s a funny image, but it’s nonetheless a disconnect. Or is it?

I arrived at the hospital on time – 7:30AM sharp – just like they told me to. I had no coffee in me, so the fact that I was standing up at all and not sleeping on a waiting room sofa was a miracle in and of itself.

The receptionist greeted me with a cheery smile too bright for that time of day and noted that everything was “all systems go” for surgery. That was going happen at 10:30AM.

(So, why did I have to get here at this hour again?)

The prep staff performed like clockwork – I was whisked to a “pre-screening” room where they surgically removed $150-bucks from my wallet to cover the hospital co-pay and then a very nice lady in a business suit entered all of my personal insurance information, living will, emergency contacts, and shoe size into the data base.

I was only kidding about the shoe size… wanted to see if you were still paying attention.

But that was only the beginning…

From there – the pre-screening room – they took me straight to pre-op. Now the only thing I know about pre-op I learned from watching the hit TV show M*A*S*H. Not much, I guess? I was stripped naked and in a hospital gown faster than Napoleon said, “I surrender!” (Cheap shot, I know.)

That’s another thing… the hospital gown.

When I had my heart attack less than a month ago, it took two – count ’em two – gowns to cover my big pale keester. I wore one forward and one (thank God) backwards too. This time they gave me one and it wrapped around me four times. I know I’ve lost some weight, but I looked like someone the mob planned to dump into the river after a hit. Sorry, got my Chicago showing. But man… this thing could have covered a wagon.

(Seriously! Do I have to wear this? And how’s the surgeon gonna find my heart in here?)

Well, he found it alright – I spent the next twelve hours wrapped in a king sized bed sheet and was hangin’ out all over the place, because it kept falling off. Thanks a lot y’all!

Anyway, I was thinking about all the jokes I cracked about the Cardiologist the last time I was lying around in the hospital waiting for him to visit:

“The Doctor is running a little behind schedule today, sir.” The nurse told me in a bright but ever so apologetic voice.

I snarked back, “Bet he has to finish the back nine first, huh?”

(Oh, God. Please don’t let the nurse tell him I said that – he’ll pull the plug on me for sure. He’ll put tiny flags on all eighteen holes he drills into my heart. She’s probably texting him right now: “You’re not gonna believe what your wise guy patient said about you, Doctor? No! No! Let him lie here a while, he’ll be fine. It’s forty-degrees in the O-R right now. And he’s wearing a sheet! Ha! Ha!” I sure hope he gets a hole-in-one today. Ugh!)

It was raining out and no golf was going to be played. Well, the Doctor surely was going to play through a few holes in me. He walked into the operating room just as the team was preparing me for surgery.

(No golf jokes today – I promise!)

He shook my hand and said, “Are you ready for this?”

I don’t know if you ever had surgery, but this is all very new to me. Last time I went “under the knife” (Do they even say that anymore?) they did some kind of a ceremonial dance around a camp fire, sacrificed a live chicken, and bled me with a leech. Really, it was a long, long time ago – I was about five years old.

I liked all the high-tech stuff, but did it have to be so cold? I think I saw a side of beef hanging in the corner? Oh, maybe that was the Anesthetist? They had begun sending drugs my way and I was beginning to get a bit fuzzy.

Doc excused himself to “go scrub” and one of the nurses said, “Okay, get his music going.”

(Music? I like music. Can they play music and still operate? Won’t they get distracted? Oh, who cares. I feel pretty darn good right now and… Ah!!!)

Then they cranked it with some solid bass reflex to shake me awake for just a few seconds more.

(Waterloo? They’re playing… ABBA. Noooooooooo!)

I told you it’d all come together.

Then I belted out uncontrollably, “The Doctor likes ABBA?! Bah ha!”

He can’t be serious?

My shrill couldn’t have been any more condescending if I wanted it to be. The Anesthetist leaned over and said, “ABBA calms Doctor down when he operates and we want Doctor to be calm today, right?”

Well, since you put it that way. As a matter of fact, yes I do.

All’s well that ends well, I guess? Unless you’re Napoleon.

Speaking of surrender…

Our will as human beings can be something we cling to with tight fists and a closed heart. I know that I have always been “strong-willed” as it were. But unless we turn our lives over to God we can’t get away from the shackles of this life. And there are many things that bind us, whether we chose to admit it, or not.

I spent a long time insisting my own way. I thought I could do it all. I gave God a bit part in the story that is my life and I took-off with a reckless abandon that only a drunk with no compass heading out into the wilderness in a storm could have had. I was lost and in big trouble in no time at all – didn’t know it either. Duh!

God has roped me in. He has addressed every corner of my life, on His time, with His amazing Grace, and for His good. He told us all that He would.

For a long time I knew I had it right. Boy, was I wrong about that! I was losing the fight. Then I surrendered to God’s will and it all started to move in the right direction. The four-year metamorphosis has changed me in so many ways. And all I did was give it to God.

Some of you might think that all this sounds hokey, or sentimental, or “too religious” for you. I did surrender my will to God though and He has changed me completely.

Four years ago I lost my job, I lost my health insurance, I lost my dignity, I lost friends… I suffered great financial losses too, duked it out with the IRS, fell into debt, and had to search for work – a fifty year old man – during arguably the worst economic times since The Great Depression.

I knew that I suffered from out of control type II diabetes and yet I let it slide. What I did not know was the surprise my heart had in store, slowly creeping-up on me. It knocked me down last month with a force I had never experienced in my whole life.

I thrive today in a brand new career, with good health care, and the debt monkeys are off my back. I can’t imagine life without my students, my church family, and some of the new friends I’ve met along the way. I also have renewed relationships that began years ago, when I was a different guy. Today I can see those relationships more clearly and eternally.

I thank God for it all. To surrender to His will for my life was the best choice I ever made. It was a forever choice. I am forever grateful for what He has done and what He continues to do for me. I am blessed.

How’s that for the bright side?

I know it’s normal to be depressed after going through what I’ve gone through. Even the doctors and nurses at the hospital told me this. Buy hey, they also listen to ABBA.

Here I Go Again

I stood-up today, looked down at the floor, and saw my feet. My size 13 quad-E’s were right down there at the ends – one each – of my legs (which I could also see, but I didn’t want to brag about it).

You may be asking yourself, “Why in the world is this such an important event?” I mean, you can probably see your feet too, right? Well, a few short weeks ago, I couldn’t. Not without some sort of reflective device (like a shoe store mirror) on the floor in front of me. Stop laughing!

It’s true. I was indeed round and anything below “the equator” (as it were) was definitely out of sight and out of mind. Heck, Christopher Columbus wouldn’t have even had to take the ship out of dry dock with me around to prove his point:

“Round? You bet! Just look at this…”

But now I have lost – at last count – fourteen pounds. It may be more than that, but I have not been near an interstate weigh station in a few days. My rings keep falling off though – that’s a good sign.

As I continue to melt, I feel stronger. I feel better. I feel younger. Okay, I know, I’m really pushing it now. It’s true though, even if I won’t run a 5-K any time soon. Just know I’m running it in my brain as we speak. Tomorrow: hurdles!

Actually, tomorrow I get to relive the events of May 16th (see my post “Sacred Heart” for more details) all over again. Except I’ll be doing it all without having a heart attack this time around. Thank God for that! But as far as the heart surgery goes, it’ll be a complete rerun. At least that’s what the Cardiologist told me.

He said, “Are you ready for a repeat performance?” Uh… no! Do I have to?

The worst part of it will be lying around the hospital recovering afterwards. In May I had to lie on my back, stiff as a board, for nine hours. This was because I had to wait for my pressure to drop and my blood to clot. That way they could remove the catheter from my thigh without all of my blood leaking out. I guess that wouldn’t have been such a good thing?

That’s another fun story in and of itself…

My overnight nurse was very easy on the eyes. Honestly, she was quite stunning. In fact, all of my nurses were good motivation to really take my time healing, if you catch the way I’ve drifted? I had to text message my best friend up in Chicago to gloat, because when he had back surgery a few years ago, he was treated to a nursing staff that resembled the offensive line of the Washington Redskins. Not that there’s anything wrong with that!

But I was really enjoying the whole fawning over the old guy thing until she came into my room to inform me that she would be the one removing the catheter (from my groin area) and that she’d have to put her entire body weight on top of me – on top of the wound – for at least a full thirty minutes.

She said, “I have to make sure the wound clots properly, so I’ll be pushing as hard as I can against you to…” Sorry, I lost track about there.

Say you have to do what? Are you even gonna buy me dinner first?

You know, there have been times in my life when all that she said would have been really great news to me. This wasn’t one of those times.

She did exactly what she said she was going to do. I hated every millisecond of that thirty-hours, uh… I mean, minutes. And can I just move-on with my life please!

Not yet…

So, here I go again! Back into the hospital. Back to the operating room. And yes, another catheter. Ah… So many nurses, so little time. Okay. Give me a break! I was on a lot of morphine at the time.

I have had a lot of time to think about… stuff… since my first heart surgery twenty-seven days ago. Stuff like friends, family, my church family, my work family, my students, and all that has happened to me not only since the heart attack, not just since November of 2007 when I became a New Creation, but my whole life. I have been able to see God’s love shining through it all. I have been blessed all along the way – even if I never knew it at any given moment – I know it now.

A lot of folks dwell on the negatives of life, but that route is so defeating. God doesn’t promise a smooth ride, or a safe journey. To expect it is a let-down. He also doesn’t cause tragedy, illness, failure, or natural disaster. So many preach it, but that thinking isn’t supported by the Word. Bad things happen to good people. God happens to us all!

We all face the impossible. We are all challenged in our lives. There’s no way around it. But God does promise a safe landing. He promises something else – to be there with us every step of the way. He is here and I am here to tell you all that He won’t let you go through it alone. He just won’t!

So, on that note, no matter what goes-down tomorrow in the operating room, I will

My band Strings of Faith played last Sunday. Fun, fun fun!

carry-on as a New Creation and a witness for the Lord, that He is good, all the time. He is with us all the time. And He will be with me from the surgeon’s first cut, until my new overnight nurse is clotting the catheter incision Tuesday night. I pray she isn’t an offensive tackle. Not that there’s anything wrong with that!

I know I’ll be thinking of my blessed new life and how much it has meant for me to be a part of God’s plan. He is the vine; we are the branches. And I am so grateful.

I’m also grateful for being able to see anew. My feet are not the only things I have seen for the first time lately. Like fumbling around in the dark looking for the car keys, it’s so much easier when you turn on a light. Only in this case, God’s light shines on the world and allows for a whole new point of view.

See you in a few days!

Love, Bob.

There’s another world inside of me
That you may never see
There are secrets in this life
That I can’t hide
Somewhere in this darkness
There’s a light that I can’t find
Maybe it’s too far away
Or maybe I’m just blind

When your education X-Ray
Cannot see under my skin
I won’t tell you a damn thing
That I could not tell my friends
Roaming through this darkness
I’m alive but I’m alone
Part of me is fighting this
But part of me is gone

So hold me when I’m here
Right me when I’m wrong
Hold me when I’m scared
And love me when I’m gone
Everything I am
And everything in me
Wants to be the one
You wanted me to be
I’ll never let you down
Even if I could
I’d give up everything
If only for your good
So hold me when I’m here
Right me when I’m wrong
You can hold me when I’m scared…
So love me when I’m gone

– 3 Doors Down

Sacred Heart

Today the grass was a little more green; the sky seemed a little more blue; the air felt a little more life-giving. I stepped out of my door to greet the day and felt so alive that I couldn’t help a smile on my face. I looked up to Heaven and said “thank you” to the God who made this and every day for me the last fifty-one years.

I had been released from the cardiac center a survivor only twenty hours before.

I survived a major heart attack.

I collapsed at work, took a ride in an ambulance that I thought would be my last, tasted the artificial sweet of nitro under my tongue three times on the way to the ER, wondered how near death was, knew that it wasn’t far, saw the EKG scratching my erratic heart rhythms on the scroll of paper in front of me, heard the hospital calling to “give him another dose” of nitro, could see the hospital just one block away through the window of the ambulance, wondered if I’d make it there alive, saw the driver open the door, rode a bumpy gurney ride out of the daylight and into the blinding florescent lamplight inside, had my clothes and shoes and jewelry ripped from my body, lay naked and helpless while four people pulled me off of the stretcher and onto a table, felt pokes and pricks and prods as the trauma team prepped me for heart surgery, felt sticky cold heart monitor leads attached to my skin.

I was whisked away towards the operating room, saw my Mom and Dad in the hall, thought I’d never see them again, watched the robotic x-ray camera hovering above my rib cage project images of the inside of my heart onto three giant flat screen TV monitors, thought that was pretty cool, heard the Cardiologist crack a joke to his assistants during what seemed to be a delicate moment with my life in his hands, wondered if he was really taking this seriously, cracked a joke back that surprised the team working on me (they thought I was asleep), felt the surgeon’s instrument follow a narrow path through a catheter in my leg all the way to my chest cavity and into my heart (“No. Just processing what you said.” I replied.), marveled that I was awake and watching/feeling the skilled hands and technology at work inside my body (they all laughed), prayed that I would be okay, hoped to see another day, heard the words “it went very well” through my worry, thought about Jesus and what I’d say when I got to meet Him, spent the next thirty hours recovering in the ICU, and then moved to a private room where my every breath was monitored as if it were my last.

Fortunately, none were my last and I was presented back into the world as one who had just dueled with death – and won – this time.

So this new day, today, may seem more beautiful than all the other 18,615 days that went before, but that is how I see it. And that’s how it is for me now.

When my boss came to visit me in the ICU, all the nurses were telling her what a “cool guy” I am. Not that I’d disagree with that sentiment ; ) But they were amazed at my positive get up and go attitude so soon after a major heart attack.

Heck, to be honest with you, I was pretty happy to still be above ground. It didn’t look too good on the ambulance ride over, that’s for sure.

They told me later that typically folks get really depressed after a major life-threatening event like a heart attack. I can understand that.

It’s just the opposite for me during times of great despair. At least it’s different for me now than it was before I was born again. But I had to learn how to trust God. It wasn’t always like that for me and I do understand the other point of view in an intimate way.

When I lost my job four years ago I came unglued at first. But God was right there beside me saying, “This won’t be easy, but I’m with you all the way.” He never abandoned me and He gave me the strength to accomplish what I never could have accomplished by myself.

I have had a few “wake-up calls” since then. This new challenge is just another mile marker on the road to God’s Glory. I actually felt much better emotionally in the days after my heart attack, than I did the day before. It’s a miracle, I know.

Miracles are to be expected!

I have God and all of His angels (the people who wrote, called, visited, cooked, and prayed for me) to thank for my positive attitude. Because they were with me, I was able to see God working in my life. His presence was all around me. And through Him, all things are possible – yes, even miracles.

I have gone through many changes since I became a New Creation. I have been challenged. All of this has been good for me. It has taken me away from the darkness of sinful behavior and put me onto God’s lighted path. The tragedies and hardships and afflictions have without exception been part of the journey to a better place. I have grown for all of it. Each experience with adversity, whether it was a job loss, death of a loved one, an unhealthy relationship, illness, or bad behavior, has helped me to understand that we do not please God when we ignore (or try to justify) our sins. He is pleased when we acknowledge them, when we turn away from them, when we repent. I have been so blessed and it is because I have done the 180.

God says that our bodies are a temple. I have let my temple run-down, become sick, unhealthy, out of shape, and therefore not God pleasing. There’s much to be learned from this experience for me. Like I have chosen to be a better steward with money (and God has certainly rewarded me in many ways for that life change), so too must I become a better keeper of the one life and one body that God has given me.

I don’t know how I’ll do it yet? Yes I do! I will pray.

Prayer has helped me before. It helped me build a new career out of the ashes of my former life. It comforted me in hard times and in lonely times and in times of great fear and anxiety. It helped me overcome the adversary’s hold. Prayer has been the calm in the storm; it has led me to finally do the right thing, when all my life I have been so bad at that. And it will help me rebuild my temple – stronger, healthier, and even more committed to God’s purpose for me.

I have always been a tough customer – one who will not go down without a fight. The heart attack may have knocked me down, but it won’t keep me down. I am determined to get back up. Heck, I was doing laps around the nurses’ station twenty-four hours after my surgery.

I’m confident that all of my brothers and sisters in Christ will stand with me shoulder-to-shoulder to greet every new day with the joy that Jesus Christ has put in all of our hearts.

He’ll put it in your heart too – if you let Him.

To God be the Glory!

“The old ones speak of winter
The young ones praise the sun
And time just slips away

Running into nowhere
Turning like a wheel
And a year becomes a day

Whenever we dream
That’s when we fly
So here is a dream
For just you and I

We’ll find the Sacred Heart
Somewhere bleeding in the night
Look for the light
And find the Sacred Heart…

Oh, sometimes you never fall
And ah – You’re the lucky one
But oh – Sometimes you want it all
You’ve got to reach for the sun

And find the Sacred Heart
Somewhere bleeding in the night
Oh look to the light…

You fight to kill the dragon
And bargain with the beast
And sail into a sight

You’ll run along the rainbow
And never leave the ground
And still you don’t know why

Whenever you dream
You’re holding the key
I opens the door
To let you be free

And find the Sacred Heart
Somewhere bleeding in the night
Run for the light
And you’ll find the Sacred Heart”

Ronnie James Dio

______________________________

The Sacred Heart (also known as Most Sacred Heart of Jesus) is one of the most famous religious devotions to Jesus’ physical heart as the representation of his divine love for humanity.

God Speaks; I’m Listening.

When I first opened my eyes Monday morning I knew that it would be a day unlike most. For one thing, it was the day I’d be saying goodbye to a dear friend who died one week before – unexpectedly. Cora was a special soul and my church family was set to gather for her memorial service in the afternoon. But I still had to go through the motions of a half-day at work, even though my heart really wasn’t into it.

Just then, the snooze alarm woke me up – again – ten minutes later, telling me to, “Wake up slacker!” Okay! I got it.

Off then to work, gazing at a gloomy morning through a dirty bus window in mourning for a dear friend and walking through the proverbial “to do list” in my mind. I wanted to turn it all over to the substitute a smooth-running flawless learning machine. (By the way, I’m a special education school teacher.)

I got the kids off the busses at 9:05 am and we headed to breakfast.

On the way I was still thinking, “Attendance: check! Lesson plans: check-a-rooney! Note to sub explaining the afternoon’s activities in great detail: check again! Wow! I wish I could have it all together like this when I’m here all day… If only!”

At 9:20 am the first period bell sounded. That’s usually the signal for us to gobble-up the rest of the vittles and then head to our room for “morning meeting.”

For my kids, morning meetings consist of enthusiastically welcoming the new school day by posting the daily calendar, running through the days of the week, months of the year, counting to whatever day it happens to be. Monday was the 19th of March – considerably more ground to cover than way back when it was March 3rd, but time does fly. Counting all the way to the 31st will be a bumpy ride indeed.

I’m usually in my room during our morning meetings, and for all the daily activities, so when general ed students occasionally approach me to say, “You have so much fun in your class!” I generally agree, but I never really understood what an objective outside-my-classroom observer meant by that – until Monday.

I had to excuse myself temporarily and left my assistant in charge. Five minutes later I came out of the main office door (a considerable distance – and around a corner – from my classroom) and heard our typical “morning meeting” already in progress echoing through the vacant school halls. And I must say, boy was it swingin’!!!

I could hear the days of the week, counting to 19 (a great accomplishment, as I have already pointed out), months of the year, identification of pictures associated with the calendar holidays, and most of all, I heard the loud and proud cheers of encouragement that my students have learned to share with one another from day one, in order that they all should feel good about every accomplishment they make – and recognize one another for those accomplishments.

I stood and listened for five minutes in total amazement at what I have been a part of every day for seven months, but never really heard from an outsider’s perspective.

And are you wondering why this audio image hit me so hard? Well, it could have been the fact that, out of nine students who started the school year in my classroom, way back in August, only three could speak recognizable words – only these same three offered to make any real sound at all. The others were silent, except for occasional brief unrelated-to-anything-else sounds, or crying tantrums.

That was back in August.

The reality that eight out of nine of my students use words regularly now (and the ninth uses sounds in a more purposeful way – i.e. to get something, or communicate wants and needs and emotions), was not lost on one of those people who have been working very diligently to get the voices singing. No, it wasn’t lost on me at all.

In fact, to say that God was speaking to me through my kids’ voices on a morning I needed so badly to hear from Him, just goes to show how in tune He really is with us all – every second of every day.

How is this possible? Because He’s God, that’s the only explanation I have.

Cora’s passing left a hole in the world – a hole in my world too. Through my kids, God let me know that my work here is important – that I need to carry on until I am called home. I have a purpose greater than self and that is my hole to fill. He let me know, even though I had to say goodbye to Cora, everything is going to be okay, because He’s in control.

It’s comforting to know that, considering I still feel like crying about every thirty seconds. It’s a bitter pill, but through my kids God said, “Tomorrow will be a better day and the day after will be better still.”

God Speaks; I’m listening.

So, there I was, sitting in the choir risers, high upon the chancel with about sixty others, overlooking the sanctuary filled with about six-hundred guests, ready to sing Cora’s farewell.

We all wore white robes with beautiful silky white stoles around our necks. I couldn’t believe how heavy it was – the robe – not made of a flimsy material at all. I felt elegant, angelic almost. But then I got hot and started to sweat as I am known to do in any situation where the temperature rises above fifty-five degrees.

I’m a Chicago boy. What can I tell you? Collar and sleeves are not an option usually, even where snow is a concern, but I was wrapped to the wrists and tripped up the stairs from the choir room to the chancel on the long train like I was wearing a prom gown and high heels for the very first time.

I was very nervous sitting there waiting to sing, which didn’t help the blast furnace I had going on under my robe any. I am not a member of either choir, but was invited to join in the voices anyway. I was thrilled and wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

I don’t sing. I play bass in the praise band and the running joke (at least I think it’s a joke) is that the Music Director won’t let me have a microphone. She was seated straight across from me and I tried hard not to catch her eye out of fear she’d come over and tell me to, “Just move your lips, Bob… no one will know you aren’t making a sound.”

We all stood to sing Cora’s anthem and it was wonderful. From my place I could see the family, but I tried not to look there too much. I found comfort in the baptism candle, which stood tall next to the baptism font only a few yards in front of me. Lit only for baptisms, Easter, and funerals, the candle made me feel Cora’s presence. I’m sure she was pleased to see me there within the ranks of not one, but two really good choirs. She’d probably say that it took real “chutzpah” to pull it off. Yeah, I think she’d use a word like that to describe it?

I looked around the big sanctuary. It was full of my church family mostly. Yeah, it could have been broken-down into individual family units, but it wasn’t like that for me. I’m an only child from a family that could never have been considered close. No, that’s not the word I’d use anyway.

So, when I looked out there it was all family to me. And although most of them will never know how much they mean to me, the fact that we were all there together to say goodbye to Cora made them even more important in my eyes – infinitely more important.

...all the time. And all the time, God is good.

I heard God speaking again during the service. He said, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”

His grace resonated in the hymns, in the scriptures read, in the enormous sound of the pipe organ, and in the Pastor’s voice. I heard Him comforting us, cleansing us, telling us to move forward, even though we felt so much pain on that day. I heard Him say that everything was going to be alright.

I know one thing’s for sure… I believe every word.

Tim Tebow: Humble Servant; Media Lynch Mob Target

Tebow’s very existence is somehow controversial. He’s a walking pro-life testimonial.

I saw amazing displays of ego and self this weekend in the NFL coming from every team. All cheered by fans. Players celebrated personal gain through shameless and grotesque displays of human expression. Hardly team play, as far as I’m concerned. Yet all anyone seemed to be able to criticize and find fault with was a player kneeling to pray.

Unreal how the words of Jesus ring true so often, that we will suffer for following Him. Look what happened to His disciples.

Looking back at the history of bad behavior in all of professional sports – from double murderers, to drugs, to prostitutes, to alcohol abuse, to spousal abuse, to illegal guns in night clubs and on airplanes, to sexual assault, etc. etc. etc. – it is difficult to understand how the angst over Tim Tebow has reached such a fever pitch. To say hatred, would be an understatement. You have to really know someone to hate them.

This is something else and Jesus warned us about it. The seething anger towards Tim Tebow exposes a much larger enemy that dwells among us. We should recognize it as such.

The Lambeau Leap, The Ickey Shuffle, The Super Bowl Shuffle (sorry to critique my Bears, but they are guilty too), players stowing cell phones in the end zone to make dramatic celebratory displays of self after a score, placing bows on footballs to give to fans in front of the live network cameras, and simply acting like fools – all warrant more scorn than a player taking a knee in a personal moment with God on the sideline. But silly displays of self are touted and celebrated, while prayer is ridiculed in the media, on the streets, even in churches.

I’m not surprised. And neither should you be.

This past summer Texas Ranger Josh Hamilton tossed a ball into the stands and it cost a man his life. The fan reached over the upper deck railing and fell. Some call Josh’s practice a noble gesture and say he should keep doing it in spite of the fact that someone has died.

Is Tim Tebow kneeling an improper display of faith? Show-boating? It can be taken that way, although I doubt Tebow’s intent would justify the accusation. We’ll never know either, because he probably won’t speak about it much.

What about Josh Hamilton? Could he not save those baseballs and give them to fans in a more private (and safe… and proper) setting? Sure he could!

I love Tim Tebow for persevering through the relentless criticism and kneeling in the face of the adversary. I pray he keeps on “Tebowing” throughout his (surely to be) very long and successful career.

I am a fan for life.

Go Tebow!!!

“If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first. If you belonged to the world, it would love you as its own. As it is, you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you out of the world. That is why the world hates you.” John 15:18-20

During the Broncos’ regular season loss to the Buffalo Bills, for instance, “progressive” troglodyte and pseudo-intellectual funnyman Bill Maher tweeted about the game, encapsulating [the] visceral hatred for Tim Tebow in 140 characters or less: “Wow, Jesus just [expletive deleted] #Tim Tebow bad! And on Xmas Eve! Somewhere in hell Satan is tebowing, saying to Hitler ‘Hey, Buffalo’s killing them.’”

Heavenly Pearls

God moves on our lives and it isn’t always comfortable; it isn’t always the way we imagined it to be. Any thoughts about scolding Him for the rocky road, or whining about a dramatic turn of events, might as well be saved, because He won’t have anything to do with it. He is “The Creator” after all, so He will create. That means movement, change, and discipline!

He is our Heavenly Father and not a travel agent, genie in a bottle, or magician to conjure all good things at our beck-and-call, with a happy ending tacked-on for good measure. He will mold, shape, renew, and craft, but a personal valet He is not.

God doesn’t guarantee a pleasant journey. In fact, for many of His children, the road is long and cluttered with potholes.

He intends to test us.

I was listening to Christian radio and caught the tail end of a guy talking about this very subject. His son, who was in his late teens at the time the story took place, was frustrated with God after going through a rough spot in his young life. Angrily he questioned “why, if God is so loving, does He let people go through so much pain and suffering?” He saw no truth to scriptures that claim everything works for the good of God.

Everything?

Dad went into a dresser drawer and pulled out an oyster shell that he had been keeping as a souvenir. When he had found the oyster, it contained a pearl. In the story, the shell, preserved with a clear lacquer finish, revealed a great deal about the process of making the pearl.

Dad explained that pearls don’t just happen. There’s no magic involved with making a pearl. In fact, the opposite is true. A pearl begins as a grain of sand that gets lodged inside of an oyster. The oyster’s defenses do everything nature allows in order to reject the foreign matter, which includes secreting some sort of mucus that actually coats and transforms that grain of sand, over time, into a beautiful pearl.

The process of making a pearl is uncomfortable for an oyster – very uncomfortable. And it certainly takes much time and effort.

Isn’t life like that for us?

I, for one, find life very uncomfortable and complicated, unless I am in the presence of God. In fact, often times I can feel God’s presence because of the difficulties.

I heard the pearl story two more times within just a few days of that radio show, once during a sermon delivered by one of the Pastors at my church. Another on a TV show – and I almost never watch TV.

Do you think God was trying to tell me something?

My dog Spike developed fast-moving pancreas cancer and went into liver failure a week ago. My surprise was only eclipsed by the sorrow of the terrible news. I took a pet that I thought had a simple virus to a doctor who told me a half-hour later that my dear friend Spike was going to die.

Through the tears I felt something come over me like a flow of warm water to calm, comfort, and wash-away the pain. It was Jesus who wrapped His arms around me; He came to me in a time of great sorrow and I felt His presence. He took me to green pastures and led me by still waters right through the valley of the shadow of death. He gave me peace.

As I gently whispered my last goodbye into Spike’s ear, I felt his life end in my arms and I was broken, beaten, devastated, that I had lost such a good friend so suddenly, so unexpectedly…

But I know that this terrible experience is part of life. Losing a pet is a very sad thing, but losing a loved one, a family member, a friend, is harder still. I have witnessed death a lot in my life. We all have! It never gets any easier. In saying goodbye to Spike, I remembered that this month marks the 30th anniversary of the death of my best childhood friend, John Simon. John took his own life at the age of 19, on my 21st Birthday. And in February I will mourn the second anniversary of the passing of another dear friend of mine, John Rae, who died due to complications from pneumonia in 2010. The list goes on-and-on.

Pearls.

As we move through life, if we listen to God, we can be transformed from grains of sand into beautiful Heavenly Pearls. It’s God’s plan. It’s not always pleasant. And we’ll struggle against it with all our might sometimes, until we realize (hopefully) that The Creator is at work in our lives again. And it will be beautiful; it will be forever.

Goodbye My Friend!

That’s what I think anyway.

Spike is gone and I still cry every time something reminds me of his sweet, sweet smile on my life. He was my angel, after all. And I know you’d laugh if you knew that I burst into tears tonight, fifteen minutes ago, a full week after Spike’s death, when I saw a tumbleweed of his fur roll-out from under my bed.

And I thank God he touched my life.

I remember when
I stumbled in the wind
You heard my cry to You
And You raised me up again
My strength is almost gone
How can I carry on
If I can’t find You

But as the thunder rolls
I barely hear You whisper through the rain
“I’m with you”
And as Your mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise the God who gives
And takes away

I lift my eyes unto the hills
Where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord
The Maker of Heaven and Earth

And I’ll praise You in this storm
And I will lift my hands
For You are who You are
No matter where I am
And every tear I’ve cried
You hold in Your hand
You never left my side
And though my heart is torn
I will praise You in this storm

– Casting Crowns

A Glimpse of Home

“Life is a luminous pause between two great mysteries, which themselves are one.” – from Homer’s Odessey

In adult Bible study today we discussed “home” and “homesickness” as these terms relate to our perception of, and perhaps position within, our own life and relationship with God. We each were asked to present an example of “home” as we remember it from our childhood. This would turn out to be an exercise that would evidently point each one of us in two opposing directions at the same time.

The first direction would be a look backwards at the beginning of life and a search for union, love, belonging, and home. Perhaps, as the required text put it, “the foundational seed of a possible and ideal paradise.”

The second direction, of course, would be looking forward. Our one memory of “home” would serve each of us as an inner compass or “homing device” always pointing forward.

With this “device” planted within us, “the end is in the beginning, and the beginning points toward the end.” We all yearn for home, as even a child with an abusive or sad childhood longs for some idealized form of “home” or “mother” and wants to somehow return to it.

My mind instantly took me to the dining table on Christmas Eve – December 24th, 1960 something? I don’t know how old I was in the flash of a memory? Probably around eight years of age (that would make it 1968), as my parents had just moved into their “dream house” in Darien, Illinois on Halloween less than two months before. I could see into the living room from my dinner chair, all the presents carefully placed under the large fake green tree with anticipation and love. That’s what I saw anyway.

I knew this wasn’t our old house, mostly because we had a fake white tree over there – with one of those funky spinning color wheels that would turn the tree blue, green, and red about every thirty seconds. I liked the way it turned the walls, ceiling, drapes, carpet, people, dog, furniture, and snow outside the window different colors too.

What did I know? I was just a baby.

OMG! That's the one.

I think we even had one of those aluminum Christmas trees at some point in our old house, but don’t quote me on it. I was either too young back then to recall for sure, or I am drawing a blank now because of the embarrassment over the possibility that we would fall victim to such a pitiful mistake of fashion. “Tree by Reynolds Wrap.” Bleeeech! No wonder we had to move.

The Christmas trees, however, were not why this particular memory came to me so quickly, while I was being pressed to come up with a childhood image of “home” in my Bible study class this morning. No, not even toy race cars, choo choo trains, trikes, bikes, soldiers, cowboy pistols (save the NRA comments please), or favorite games pierced the cobwebs of my aging mind like the vision of that dining table did so effortlessly and with clarity.

Do you remember by your sense of smell? Yeah. Me too!

Every once in a while I get a whiff of that Christmas Eve meal; it takes me right back to the kitchen where my grandmother (mom’s mother) prepared every holiday meal throughout my whole life, until I was in my twenties and she passed away. I never thought I’d miss the commotion and fit my father would throw every time he had to carve the hot turkey. (He still pitches that same fit, but I intervene when I can and carve it myself – no angst, it’s just a hot bird. You dig?)

But I do miss it! I missed it when the table popped into my head again this morning. I miss the smell of it.

Mom was at one end of a seemingly endless red tablecloth; red linen napkins, our best silver and china, and crystal wine goblets provided a forest of shiny things reflecting the lit candles in the center of the table, semi-blocking a view of my dad way down at the other end. The food my grandmother, Helmi, had been preparing for days was strategically set all around steaming in pretty serving dishes and I know for a fact that I just wanted to get past grace and the obligatory Christmas Eve toast fast, so that I could dig in – to the gifts.

Grandpa (my dad’s dad) always had the honor of giving that toast. I don’t know why? Maybe it was some ancient patriarchal custom, or maybe that he wanted to get it over with too, so that we could get to the vittles? Whatever the reason, he was selected year-in-and-year-out to say a few words of wisdom.

I’m fuzzy over his exact words, as “some” years have since gone under the memory bridge, but with lifted wine glass he would make a similar – no exactly the same – offering every year:

“Another year has come and gone, let’s be thankful we are all sitting around this table once again.”

I wanted so badly to wolf-down my food and then rip-open the gifts. Grrrrr! It was the longest meal of the year for me.

My grandmother, the chef, died in 1989. My grandfather shortly thereafter. The details are not important. She broke a hip in 1988, spent a whole year recovering. A few days after she finally made it home from the nursing center, she broke the other hip and did not recover from the pneumonia that developed. Near the end, grandpa George had Alzheimer’s and a pretty bad case of Emphysema (from smoking two packs of filterless Camels since he was a young boy).

They left this world pretty close together. Apparently he missed her cooking? I know the feeling.

You know, up until the last time they were together, they would address one another as “Mrs. Kaal” and “Mr. Chochola.” I don’t believe we have anywhere close to that degree of respect and decorum left in this world right now. Seems some of that died with them too?

The Christmas Eve dinner table guests left one-by-one until it didn’t really look like Christmas Eve to me any more. For a long time I pretended to not care that holidays felt so different, so empty, or that I had to work. That was actually a relief. I stood tough as cousins moved away and started families of their own. My dad’s family was never very close and when grandpa was gone, so too was the force that brought that side of the family together.

On mom’s side there wasn’t anyone but mom and my grandmother to begin with. They barely escaped Estonia through Nazi Germany during World War II and came to America just the two of them. My grandfather on my mom’s side had died when she was a small child and everyone else, except for a few friends, didn’t make it out.

That old memory I’ve been keeping tucked-away and out of sight really blew my mind this morning. From out of nowhere, there I was, eight years old again. It really bore a striking resemblance to Leonardo da Vinci‘s The Last Supper (Italian: Il Cenacolo or L’Ultima Cena). It also reminded me of the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper that I celebrate with my church family. And that really made me smile.

For many years I have had this horrible empty feeling like the past is gone and I cannot get it back. I’d miss those days when I could see, touch, and smell the sensations of family – of the union, love, belonging, and home.

That’s what the Holy Spirit has given back to me through my church family. Folks probably wonder why I always sit up front. But I like to watch every part of every service (especially the Lord’s Supper) from a front row seat, simply because I don’t want to miss anything. I take it all in with delight like I’m eight years old again and really cannot get over how moved I am to watch the faces coming forward. God feeding His people and I want to be right there to see it all unfold. Is that a bad thing?

Suddenly I am at the table once again – a foretaste of things to come. In many ways that’s what the Christmas Eve dinner table was so many years ago. I know it now. It was a foretaste of the Lord’s Table with grandpa George and grandma Helmi, with my church family, and with all of God’s children.

It’s a beautiful thought isn’t it? It’ll be a beautiful reality when our “two great mysteries, which themselves are one” come together with God at His table. I know “Mrs. Kaal”  wiil be there – probably cooking if she has any say in the matter. And “Mr. Chochola” will most certainly greet us with a toast.

Until that day, may we all maintain the seed that points to an eternal paradise in our hearts and in our memories.

Amen!

Happy 4th of July and SEMPER FIDELIS

(Original post July 3rd, 2011)

The 4th of July is truly an All American holiday. It’s all about lounging around the backyard with family and friends. It’s all about hot dogs and hamburgers. It’s all about watching the kids play with sparklers. It’s all about fireworks, apple pie, baseball, and ice-cold watermelon.

Summertime fun… That’s what it’s all about! Have it. Make it. Breathe it into your soul. Enjoy life on this 4th of July and make the most out of your time with your fellow Americans.

There’s one thing I want to ask you to do this week before the 4th of July, 2012. But first, I want to remind everyone that Wednesday is actually called Independence Day. Why is this so important? Let me tell you…

It is my belief that everyone living in this country, a free United States of America, owes a HUGE debt. I’m not talkin’ about the national debt. I’m not talkin’ about the debt we owe because of DC bureaucrats. That’s all argument for another day.

I am talkin’ bout the debt we owe the American Soldier.

I’ve lived fifty-two years. In that time I have come to the conclusion that not a single one of our precious rights as Americans – call them freedoms – has come to us by the actions of a peace activist. Not one!

All of the rights we share, without exception, were given to us by the heroism of the American Soldier. Heroism! True heroism.

I’m not a “war monger” by any stretch, but some would surely accuse me of that. I am a “reality monger” who likes to remind folks that while “peace bro” is a sweet yet vague popular sentiment, our peace here at home is solely due to the grit of those who have sacrificed in war. Like it, or not, this is reality. And no amount of tie-dye peace sign t-shirts will ever deny that fact.

So, on this holiday, July 4th, 2012, I want all of you to take a moment to reflect upon those who have paid the price and those who continue to sacrifice in far away lands, for your freedom to relax and have fun. Make it about them this year.

(Here’s the part where I ask you to do something.)

To help you reflect, I am posting a link to a speech transcript that tells a story of true heroism. And if you are like me, you understand the word “hero” today means nothing more than celebrity in our shallow modern media culture – celebrity that rarely lives up to the status of hero and so often disappoints us with human dysfunction and failure in the end.

I aim to change that.

Heroes abound. But you won’t find any of them in the NBA, living in Hollywood, at the Grammy’s, on the golf course, on TV, in a newsroom, surfing the net, at the app store, with your smart phone, sitting in a fast food joint, or on your morning jog.

You will find heroes on the battle fields around the world, still doing the job you don’t have to do, so you can live free – like you often expect to do.

I’ve sent this speech out before, but believe it’s worthy of a re-visit once in a while – like on the 4th of July. General John Kelly, USMC, tells us of the bravery of two American Marines he recommended for the Navy Cross (posthumous). The Last Six Seconds is a story that will forever go down in history as a true act of heroism:

http://bobzilla.tv/supportourtroops/thelastsixseconds.html

 
Don’t take freedom for granted. As Ronald Reagan so correctly put it, “Freedom is never more than one generation away from being lost forever.”

Are we getting close to that point yet?

 

Happy 4th of July and SEMPER FIDELIS

Go (Muskie) Green

I gotta tell you, I am green. Green, green, GREEN with envy. Green because my muskie hunting crew leaves for Canada tomorrow and I am not going with them. Grrrrr-een!

View of Dryberry Lake's west side.

This is the third straight season that I have missed, because my financial crisis does not permit vacations of such magnitude. Heck, I got myself so broke that I couldn’t afford to get out of sight if it cost a quarter to go around the world. That means Canada’s out – for now. That’s what I get for starting over at fifty. Like it was my idea, right?

I am almost out of the woods, so to speak. And I do plan on using time off when November gets here (Thanksgiving break) to head north of the border, so I can get back in the muskie groove. It’s been a long time coming. Too long! I’m praying – a lot.

I say “I’m green” with tongue in cheek. Actually, I am thrilled that my friends are going and wish them all the luck in the world. I love them like Brothers. But they’d better send pictures back, or I’ll FedEx them each a rotten carp from Joe Pool Lake gift wrapped in a New York Times.

Spanky Joe's first muskie - EVER!

Going on this trip will be Mike and his son, Pat (my longtime fishing partner), Spanky Joe, and Pat’s Nephew. Spring is a good time of year to go fishing in Canada, provided the ice has melted. That statement will send shivers of terror up the spines of my friends from Texas.

No worries, it has been in the 70’s this week on the lake and water temp is 55. You know, that sounds very refreshing after 103 in Ft. Worth today.

We call it “the opener” because muskie season doesn’t officially start until today. They do that to protect spawning Spring muskies and it is a good deal for the anglers too, as we reap the rewards down the road with huge muskies in our boats.

We are all proud members of Muskies Inc., an organization dedicated to catch and release, safe handling, and stocking programs. That all benefits the species we love to catch (and release). So, lots of photos and NO EATING!

Daddio chowin' down on a chili dawg!

We do eat: steaks and burgers and chili dogs, of course! We usually bring our food in, but on the occasion we have a hankerin’ for fish, there are plenty of trout in Dryberry Lake to go around.

I’d like to send a prayer out for my friends’ safe journey and all the fish they can stuff into their huge Beckman nets. Dryberry Lake is a wonderful experience, but it can be dangerous, as well. The nearest medical attention is in Kenora, Ontario – anywhere from two to four hours away, depending upon where you are on the lake when the attention is needed. Plus it’s a long ride up, so God be with my Brothers and their family members.

On that note, my mind will also be on a fishing journal entry that I wrote a few years back after our Fall trip in 2008. It made the pages of both Midwest Outdoors and MUSKIE Magazine one year later in 2009. You know, it’s a story about the last trip I made. Perfect! It’ll wet my appetite for my NEXT trip.

Oh, I have to mention, Dryberry Lake is (usually) a great hunting experience in the Fall too, even though we primarily fish. But we met a group of bow hunters from Iowa that year. It was the two of us and the four of them – that’s it! Six guys on a two-lake area that spans roughly fifty-thousand total water acres and more than twice that much land mass.

With those kind of odds you’d expect us to have the upper hand over the finned and furry critters of the North Woods, right? Uh, not so much.

Here’s my journal entry with eyes, hopes, and prayers on the Fall of 2011:

HUNTERS’ REMORSE By Bob Chochola

Mike bagged this 53-inch monster trolling the Granite Triangle.

It’s hunting season again, but this time of year always reminds me of one special fishing trip. This is the story of three prancing reindeer, one really big muskie, and four not-so-lucky deer hunters.

My fishing partner and I thought October in Ontario was going to be cold and gloomy. What we got was sun and relatively warm mid day temperatures – almost like summer – most of the time. We met our camp neighbors, four bow hunters from Iowa, quickly and every evening turned out for a gathering that featured dinner, cards, and cold brew. We’d sit out on the screened porch until we were too tired to keep our eyes open. We really hit it off with Otto and his crew.

Fishing was pretty good and we boated a few muskies around the 50-inch mark in short order. Smallmouth bass and bunches of northern pike kept us busy in between muskies.

Bow hunting, however, was not kind to our new-found friends.

Morning after chilly morning they would wake-up way before first light and head out by boat to their designated positions in deer stands placed meticulously throughout the forest. They always beat us back to camp and each evening about an hour after dark they’d hear us rumbling into camp giggling like a couple of school boys and spouting great fish stories, only to be forced to tell us that they had no luck at all. They didn’t even see a deer all week.

Pierre Pont facing east towards Gull Island. Can you spot our boat in this photo?

Our fortunes were much better – with one exception. We had located a pretty active muskie on a spot about fourteen miles from camp early in the week. She would follow lures of every kind like she meant business, but never cracked a smile to eat. Every evening we’d return to the spot several times, raise her, and then she was gone. Sometimes we’d raise her three and four times with no luck.

Bow Hunter Otto was particularly interested in our success even though he had never been muskie fishing before. So, when my partner Pat decided to sleep one afternoon, I took Otto out to do some casting.

We took off from camp straight for the spot Pat and I had been raising the big muskie. I figured that I had beginner’s luck riding with me and I would use that tool to my advantage.

I had to give Otto a crash course in the operation of a baitcast reel and he of course made his first two casts just like someone who is used to sitting in a deer stand. Cast number one splashed ten feet in front of him and I had to hold-in a chuckle.

“Nice and easy – let that big muskie rod do all the work.” I told him, as he was undoing a bird’s nest in the reel caused by the wild first chuck.

Cast number two was better – about fifteen feet – but I encouraged a higher trajectory and a little more focus with the eyes on a target area picked in advance. I said, “Look at where you want to cast and then point the rod tip to it.”

Bingo! Cast number three was a dandy and right to the weed point where we had been seeing the big muskie all week-long. A couple of cranks of my reel handle later I glanced over my shoulder to watch Otto’s figure-eight (yes, I told him on the ride up how to do it and he did a good job on this first time).

It’s a good thing too, because as his big spinner bait neared the boat I saw our muskie turned almost completely on her side, moving-in at warp speed, fins spread out like she was in flight, and mouth wide open – one foot behind the lure and closing fast.

Otto made a left turn with his lure moving towards the bow and the chasing muskie rolled to the right and under the motor area. Then Otto made a costly rookie mistake in assuming immediately that when the muskie turned in the opposite direction, she was gone. He pulled the bait out of the water. Pat and I have both had experiences like this and we know to keep the bait in the water and make big deep circles and sudden speed changes with the lure. This can and will trigger a strike. Otto gave-up too soon and lamented his “almost” trophy the rest of the day.

So, we motored back to camp with heads hanging. Actually I was kind of pumped – this was as close as we got to this fish and I knew she was ready for a photo shoot right now.

The other Mike with a 52.5-inch Dryberry muskie he caught casting in a high wind near Bald Rock.

Pat and I were feeling sorry for the bow hunters by the end of the week. These guys were troopers. While we slept-in, they were stumbling around in the dark trying to get a jump on those elusive deer. All we had to do was roll out of bed by noon and then start casting.

They struck camp a couple of days before we did, but not before we exchanged cell phone numbers for future outings together. We said our goodbyes then Pat and I hit the water, while our friends headed home.

A few hours later we took a lunch break and came back to camp. And guess what we found there? Deer! That’s right – three of them walking right past the bow hunters’ cabin. Of course, we just had to call them on the road to tell them what they were missing – and to let them know they could have bagged a trophy without even leaving the front porch.

Pat and I munched-down a hefty portion of this muskie hunter’s favorite food – chili dogs. We got a bit of shuteye too. Then we were awakened by the pitter-patter of rain drops taping on the roof of our cabin. A sound we both knew would put our hungry muskie into total frenzy mode. We put on our rain gear and took-off full steam ahead on the fourteen mile journey.

I set up a drift down the rock point that would take us out near the weedy spot in a cast or two. Pat was in the bow and aimed right at the sweet spot. We joked about how funny it would be if one of us caught the fish on a third cast like Otto did earlier in the day.

When Pat let cast number three fly it landed pretty much in the same spot as Otto’s third. This time, however, I didn’t have to wait for the figure eight.

I watched Pat’s spinner lure (same one Otto was using) start to work with his first crank of the reel handle and almost immediately a huge head appeared and devoured it.

The elusive beast - finally caught - was successfully released a few minutes after this photo was taken.

Lessons Learned…

We have embraced a number of fishing facts. And I consider some of these to be “myth busters” that shatter conventional muskie wisdom.

First and foremost is the fact that we still cast into the fall – a lot – when everyone else has switched to troll only mode. We find weeds even in Canada late in the year. Maybe not thick weeds and maybe not rich and green weeds, but weeds still do exist in some places and casting is still a favored tactic, particularly in Minnesota, Wisconsin, and points further south where you can find good weeds late in the season.

The weedy point in this story has but one thin line of weeds and is away from the main bed. Even in July this spot has only a few greens on it. But it is a long under water extension of a rock point with deep water on one side and VERY deep water on the other. We have caught and seen some monsters here.

Another myth shattered is that you can “overwork” a muskie, or that once you no longer see the fish on a spot then that fish has left the area. Not true!

How many times have you left a spot where you have raised a fish, because you think that once the fish has seen your boat, or your lure, it is spooked? Not true either.

A scenic point overlooking Dryberry Lake.

Have you had a fish up on a figure eight only to leave the spot quickly in order to not “overwork” her?

I used to think this way too, but have since changed my tune. Once I find an active musky, I like to persist. I will make several passes through the area and maybe change baits a few times.

It doesn’t end there. I like to hit a spot where I’ve seen an active fish several times during the course of a day. Just because there are no fish at 3pm, does not mean there are no fish at 6pm. If it holds fish, sooner or later the beast will show up again. The odds of making contact with an active fish that you have already raised go up by returning to the spot at peak times of the day, or during a change in weather conditions – like bright sun to a light rain perhaps.

I guess the last myth is the effectiveness of beginners luck. Otto raised that fish and

I have some big fish stories of my own!

so did we – at least twenty times. He had the best shot at a trophy though. Until his encounter she had frustrated us as much as those pesky deer taunted our bow hunting neighbors.

I knew all the way back to the dock with Otto that Pat would have been much more likely to bag that fish had he been in the boat. Otto’s rookie mistake had me wondering if I had blown it. We were so close – would she still be there later?

That question was answered in a big way and I was happy that Pat got to hold her for the photos.

Sorry Otto.