Blog Posts

The gift that keeps on giving

1/9/2020

Charles City Press, 1-9-20

“Are you okay, Uncle James? It’s snowing here, is it snowing there?”

I’ve been getting a lot of text messages on my phone like that one lately.

At the family Christmas gathering, I made a snap decision, and I’m not sure if it was the right thing to do or not. Time will tell.

I gave my phone number to my nephew. I knew it might be a mistake when I did it, with unintended consequences, but I’m an old softy sometimes as an uncle, so I just did it.

I should tell you a little bit about my nephew, new owner of my phone number. His name is Christian. He was born at Christmas time several years ago, a Down syndrome baby. He’s highly functional, very self-aware, and one of the most caring individuals I’ve ever met. You haven’t been hugged until you’ve gotten a Christian hug.

Of course, he has special needs. He has disabilities and mental and physical developmental delays. He was fortunate to be born into a family with one parent who regularly works with disabled people as a part of her career, and another parent who has the patience of a saint.

Christian is lucky; many who are like him aren’t. They need help, and their families need help. That’s a different newspaper article for a different day.

Christian has grown from a Down syndrome baby to a toddler to now a teenager, and each next step has brought our family joy. It’s safe to say he’s the best Christmas gift our family has ever received.

But since he’s taken control of my phone number, the text messages have been perpetual and the FaceTime calls have typically come at inopportune times.

Sometimes, I’ll get a weather report.

“I just wanted to give you a heads up. It will snow on Saturday and it will snow the following Wednesday. It might start snowing the following weekend and week, so thanks for listening. I love you Uncle James.”

Sometimes he’ll tell me about his jobs — yes, he’s old enough to be getting jobs now. From what I understand, he’s a part of a culinary program in his school district, and he’s learning how to cook. I don’t think he’s putting out master chef dishes; I think it’s more short-order cook stuff, but he’s excited about it.

He’s also, from what I gather, working part time at a movie theater. I believe he’s doing things like sweeping floors and making popcorn. I told him that when people ask him what he does, he should just tell them he’s in the movie business.

“That’s funny,” he texted. “I like your attitude there, Uncle James.”

For the past several years, he’s been involved in a local community theater for children and young adults with special needs. They put on elaborate productions of Broadway musicals. A couple years ago, he had a part in “Beauty and the Beast.” Last year, he was one of the monkeys in “Seussical.” This year, he’s a hyena in “The Lion King.”

I’m looking forward to seeing the show later this month. He spent most of his Christmas practicing his lines and songs — and the lines and songs of everyone else in the show.

I’m so proud and grateful that Christian is involved in all those things, but mostly, I’m proud and grateful that he’s my nephew, my little sister’s kid, my parents’ grandkid, and a good brother to my other nephew.

He’s in a family of diverse sports fans. His dad loves the Bears, his mom and his Uncle James love the Vikings — but Christian loves the Packers. His late Grandpa was a big Packers fan, and I think he chose the Packers out of respect for his grandpa’s memory.

He still watches the Vikings, though, as I found out last weekend, as my phone started squealing non-stop with messages from him.
“Are you watching this game? This is nuts,” was the first text message.

Later it was, “The score is 14 to 13. The Vikings can win this game.”

And then finally, it was, “I told you. The Vikings win this game in overtime.”

Later, he inexplicably sent me a photo of his brother.

“My little brother is so funny. He is the best.”

“You and your brother are good kids and you should look out for each other,” I replied.

“I like your attitude there, James.”

I received a Face Time call in the middle of a meeting last week, which interrupted a speaker and embarrassed me. I quickly hung up, which apparently Christian didn’t understand. So he called back again. And again. Finally, I had to just turn my phone completely off and apologize to the others at the meeting.

When I turned it back on later, there was a text message waiting for me.

“You are not talking to me, are you okay? I hope you aren’t sick. What’s wrong, Uncle James?”

I explained to him that he couldn’t try to Face Time me during the day when I was at work. I think he understood. I told him it was OK to text me, but not to try to Face Time me unless I gave him permission ahead of time.

“Good thinking, James.”
“Thanks, Christian.”

“I like your attitude, there, James.”

The following Saturday, I was doing a little work, as we newspaper people do sometimes on Saturdays, and he attempted to Face Time with me again. I gently informed him I was working.

“You can’t be at work because it’s Saturday. We get the weekend off before we go back to school,” he told me.

I explained that sometimes people have to work on Saturdays, too. There was silence on my phone for several hours. Then this text message:

“I don’t want to distract you but I love you Uncle James smiley face smiley face emoji.”
(There weren’t actually any emojis used. He just typed in the words “smiley face emoji.”)

A few days later, there came this text message exchange:

“Happy back to school day, Uncle James!”

“I don’t go to school anymore, Christian, but your Aunt Michelle went back to school to teach yesterday. I have already been back to work.”

“I see. Is that fun, Uncle James?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d rather hang out with my nephews than work.”

“OK. Good answer. I like your attitude there, James.”

The best text message exchange came a week ago, when I had told him that I had the stomach flu on New Year’s Day. It’s this conversation that just might convince me that giving my nephew my phone number was the right thing to do.

“I have been sick too,” his text message said. “My shoulder is very sore and I got a headache. I’m a lot sick, I got a stuffy nose and the back of my leg is hurting.”

“I hope you feel better, Christian,” I said.

“Aw. Thank you Uncle James. I already do,” he said.

“I like your attitude there, Christian.”

“You’re funny, Uncle James.”

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The Fact of the Matter is:

1/5/2020

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For everyone who is either defending or criticizing the Trump-ordered assassination of Qassem Soleimani …

Truth -- 98 percent of you had no idea who the hell he even was before a few days ago, and all but one or two of have been largely ignorant of the diplomatic situation between the United States and Iran for at least 39 years now.

Excepting a few false factoids and buzzwords like “Benghazi,” and “ISIS” and “Muslims,” 98 percent of you are almost entirely clueless in regard to the intricacies of the geopolitical situation in the Middle East as a whole. You can claim otherwise all you want, but you simply haven’t been paying attention, and the bottom line is, you haven’t given a shit.

Proof is, if you actually gave a shit, and if you actually understood what's going on, you wouldn’t be so sure in your convictions, whatever they are.

If you gave a shit, you would understand that you might be wrong — or the false prophets you parrot might be wrong.

You’ve now seen a bunch of memes, and maybe even some hastily-composed semi-factual articles in the last few days, and a cloudburst of bullshit propaganda has been dumped on top of them. About 98 percent of those creating the memes, articles and propaganda also have no idea what they’re talking about — just like you don’t.

I’m asking everyone to take a few breaths and shut the hell up for a while and try to observe and learn something from non-reactionary sources. After digesting that information — and also taking a look at the immediate and potential long-term unintended consequences as they unfold — then perhaps you can present a reasonable, thoughtful, educated opinion.

My guess is most of you won’t, you’ll simply go back to your natural default position of not giving a shit. And that is OK with me, as long as you shut the hell up about things you know nothing about.

If you're not going to take the time to educate yourself, at least be considerate enough to stop mis-educating everyone else.

Knowledge is earned. Ignorance is contagious.

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Merry Christmas

12/23/2019

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Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

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A Christmas story — Tidings of comfort and joy

12/19/2019

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A Christmas story — Tidings of comfort and joy

By JAMES GROB

The young woman furrowed her brow and rubbed her eyes. Her fingers then straightened her long black hair. Everything in the store she had looked at that was any good cost just a little too much, and everything that was within her price range just wasn’t quite good enough.

She needed a perfect Christmas gift for the perfect guy — a blue-eyed, baby-faced guy who had always been sweet to her — and she became more and more frustrated as she roamed through aisle after aisle.

She had looked at sweaters, watches, jackets, gloves, gadgets and colognes — and just about everything she liked cost more than she could ever afford on her wage as a waitress at a small cafe. She didn’t know whether to cry or scream. If he didn’t like his Christmas gift, she thought, maybe he wouldn’t like her anymore.

A white-haired older woman watched her and knew immediately that the young lady had to be searching for a present for a very important boyfriend. As the two came closer to one another in the cologne aisle, she cleared her throat and spoke cheerfully.

“Merry Christmas, dearie,” the older woman said.

The young woman looked at her. The older woman’s eyes sparkled through her spectacles, and she wore a navy-colored sweatshirt with a red-nosed reindeer pictured on the front — a gift from grandkids the previous Christmas.

Something about the way the strange old woman had said it soothed the younger woman. Maybe it was the silliness of the word “dearie,” or maybe it was just the musical tone in her voice.

The young woman smiled. “Merry Christmas to you, too,” she replied.

“Oh, dearie.” (There was that word again.) “You don’t have a thing to worry about. With a smile as pretty as that, your man will love you no matter what you give him. He won’t let you get away.”

The polite, pretty smile quickly became a sincere and beautiful one — the kind of smile that belongs on the cover of a magazine or in a feature film. The young woman simply beamed. “Thank you,” she managed to mutter in reply.

Finding the right gift was easy after that, and as she merrily waited in the checkout line she bumped shoulders with a middle-aged man. A tired fellow with a receding hairline and a growing belly, he didn’t care much for Christmas shopping and cared even less for crowded checkout lines. His patience was limited and he was beginning to dread the anticipated hassle of another Christmas Day — and the outrageous bills that were soon to follow.

“Excuse me,” he mumbled to her after they had bumped.

“No problem,” she said. Then she gave him that sincere smile. “Happy holidays.”

It had been a long time since a pretty young woman had smiled at him like that. His beaten posture changed as his heart lifted in his chest — his upper body seemed to inflate and his face softened significantly. He held his head high and smiled back at her — as he would smile at the whole world for the rest of the evening.

“Happy holidays to you, too,” he cheerfully exclaimed to her moments later as he exited the store, bags of gifts in tow. He seemed to be walking on air. “And season’s greetings and Merry Christmas to all of you,” he exclaimed to all the busy check-out clerks, his once-grumbling voice now lilting with gentle laughter.

His attitude had changed so drastically that he happily left a much-larger-than-usual amount of money in the charity bucket next to the Salvation Army Santa ringing the bell outside. Then, as he drove out of the parking lot, he came across a motorist with a flat tire. Normally he would have driven right by, but today he pulled over to help.

As he put the spare tire on for the nice, white-haired woman, he chatted away — and even complimented her on her “Rudolph sweatshirt.” He laughed as she told him stories about her grandkids. He told her he couldn’t wait to have grandkids of his own, and he was surprised to hear himself saying that — and meaning it.

He then followed her to the repair shop — the only one in town still open on Christmas Eve — and insisted on paying to have the tire repaired.

“It’s not much,” he told the woman. “Consider it a Christmas gift. Just promise to spend the money I’ll save you on your wonderful grandkids.”

She promised. He waved good-bye, shouted “Merry Christmas” and hurried home. For the first time in a long time, he couldn’t wait to see his wife — and to give her a kiss.

The typically-gruff repair shop owner witnessed the man’s generosity, and was so impressed that he decided to spread a little generosity of his own. He gave his only employee the rest of the day off, with full pay and a holiday bonus. It was just a small bonus — after all, business had been slow — but it was more than what the young man had expected, which was nothing.

The blue-eyed mechanic was so thrilled he actually gave his surprised boss a hug as he wished him “happy holidays” and skipped out the door. Although the moment was awkward, it somehow seemed appropriate, and the repair shop owner was pleasantly amazed at how easily he could positively impact the attitude of an employee.

Now the baby-faced young man would have just enough time to get to the jewelry store before it closed, and just enough money to pay off the engagement ring on which he had been making payments for the last few months.

It was a Christmas present for his girlfriend, a thoughtful young woman with long, black hair. He was going to ask for her hand in marriage tonight, on Christmas Eve. He’d always been sweet to her, and she seemed to care about him an awful lot. He hoped and prayed that she would say yes.

When your girl has a smile as pretty as that, you don’t let her get away.

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Some things just sound way better on vinyl

12/8/2019

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Was it really 39 years ago? I learned about it from Howard Cosell on Monday Night Football.

I didn't fully appreciate the significance of it at the time, I was just a kid.

So was he, actually.

RIP.

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Cool! I get to write a column about Van Halen

12/5/2019

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Charles City Press, 12-5-19

I had no idea who Billie Eilish was until last week.

I just don’t listen to that kind of music, and honestly, if I did, you’d probably think there was something wrong with me.

My children are all adults, and my age currently resides on the north side of Half-a-Century Street. In the last week, I’ve learned that Billie Eilish is a 17-year-old pop music sensation, and the youngest artist ever to be nominated for a Grammy for Best New Artist, Record of the Year, Album of the Year and Song of the Year. I can only assume that she’s quite talented.

The fact that I’ve never listened to one of her songs shouldn’t be a surprise. I never cared too much for the Grammys when I was young, so it would be really weird if I was paying attention to the latest pop music trends and listening to the crooning of a 17-year-old pop star, now that I’m old.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized and accepted that popular contemporary musicians aren’t exactly writing songs with me in mind. I’m not their target audience anymore, not sure I ever was. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.

My parents couldn’t stand most of the music I listened to when I was in high school. Regularly, they complained that it was too loud, too obnoxious, too vulgar. That was kind of the point. Imagine if my parents would’ve said things like “that’s a great song, play it again, turn it up louder!” I would’ve been horrified.

If a song was good, it was good. If that song annoyed, enraged or disgusted my parents, it was even better. If my parents actually liked it, then there was obviously something wrong with it. Put that cassette back in the case.

My musical horizons expanded exponentially once I got out of high school, and I started liking just about every kind of music available, from rock to show tunes, from metal to classical, from calypso to country to jazz to blues to much more. I still don’t listen to most of what’s on the pop charts, but overall, my taste is diverse.

In high school, Van Halen was the tastiest ear candy I knew, and that’s why I’m writing about Billie Eilish.

The young singing sensation was recently on one of the late night talk shows, and the conversation revealed that she had no idea who Van Halen was. Apparently, she’d never heard of the band. This exchange went viral on the world wide inter-webs and twitter-nets and further fueled the generational feuding between the Baby Boomers and the Millennials and GenXers and whoever else dares to have a completely uninformed knee-jerk opinion.

A blood-red flood of abusive invective washed down on Billie Eilish, and for a couple of days, she became the poster child for everything that’s wrong with everyone who’s under 30. You know, they are all ignorant and lazy and self-centered and eat laundry soap and don’t know who Van Halen is and inappropriately pierce all their body parts and won’t pull up their pants and have a closet full of meaningless participation trophies.

And the young people responded with “OK Boomer” and “get off my lawn,” and pointed out how ironic it is that the generation that thought up the idea of giving participation trophies to kids is the same generation that calls the kids “entitled” for receiving participation trophies.

We’re the ones who gave them the trophies, folks, so let’s stop yelling at them for just going along with our stupid idea — but that’s a whole other column.

This column is about Van Halen, the amazingly talented and innovative guitar band that restored hard rock to the forefront of the music scene and provided the structural template for hundreds of successful rock artists who followed them.

“We came here to entertain you, leaving here we aggravate you. Don’t you know it means the same to me?”
— Van Halen, “I’m the One,” 1978.

My parents hated them, I loved them. (We won’t factor in the Sammy Hagar debacle here — that’s a sore subject for me.)

Pay attention now, young people. The crazy, “unwoke” old guy is about to teach you something about music and culture.

Van Halen’s energy and virtuosity reinvented live concerts, turning a music show into a four-ring circus. Van Halen brothers Eddie and Alex were the freak shows, as they reimagined what could be done on guitars and drums.

David Lee Roth was more than a lead singer. He was a wise-cracking ringleader, a mock-poet, a pop-philosopher, an extreme athlete, a slightly enlightened wise-cracking, toke-holding surfer dude.

Bass player Michael Anthony held it all together and provided unique high harmonies.

The lights, explosions, antics, mesmerizing guitar hooks, howling vocal growls swirling around a crunching heavy metal sound — tempered by a sugary pop-music mentality — demanded the world’s attention.

Most importantly, it was so darn fun.

Van Halen’s music led to the sale of more than 80 million albums worldwide. Most of those albums were sold in the years between 1978 and 1988 — 14-24 years before Billie Eilish was born.

Why on Earth should I expect a 17-year-old kid to be even vaguely familiar with a rock band that was at its musical and popular peak almost 20 years before she was born?

Every day, I hear from people my age, and older, who are remarkably uninformed — or criminally misinformed — about what’s going on around them, in the world, in their own communities. None of these people have the excuse of being 17 — too young to know, or too young to care.

Every member of Van Halen’s original lineup is in his 60s now. How many 60-year-old rock stars were you aware of at 17?

I hope Billie Eilish has taken a few minutes to listen to some old Van Halen tunes in the last week, and I hope she likes what she hears. Maybe they’ll even influence her musical direction in a good way. If she doesn’t like them, fair enough. To each her own. I just hope she gives them a good listen.

I plan on listening to a few of her songs at some point very soon. I won’t promise I’ll like them — as I said, typically not my thing — but I’ll hear them out.

I hope she doesn’t feel as though all of us old guys think less of her for not yet experiencing Van Halen’s music by age 17. It’s actually our fault, for not introducing Van Halen to her.

And really, I hope she doesn’t give a damn about what any of us old guys think of her at all. It’s rock ‘n’ roll. Old people aren’t supposed to matter, that’s the whole point. If she annoys, enrages or disgusts us, that makes her music that much better.

“ … Look at all these little kids, takin’ care of the music biz. Does their business take good care of me?”
— Van Halen, “I’m the One,” 1978.

Face it — if you’re really, honestly upset with Billie Eilish, it’s probably not because she doesn’t know who Van Halen is.

You’re upset because she’s 17, and you’re not.

And you’ll never be again.

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Enjoy the little things, because they’re the big things

11/14/2019

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Charles City Press, 11-14-19

I’m 51 years old, but there is no grown-up cereal in my cupboard.

Come on over and I’ll show you. Open the cupboard door right now, and you’ll find Lucky Charms, Frosted Flakes and Fruit Loops — all the same cereals I enjoyed as a kid.

Occasionally I’ll treat myself to some Cap’n Crunch. That’s the best, always has been.

With most cereal, you have to start eating it seconds after you pour the milk over it, because it’s not as good when it’s all soft-soaked with milk. With Cap’n Crunch, you can leave it alone for a few minutes, to maybe finish making your toast, and it’s still good and crunchy, the way cereal ought to be.

The original was my favorite, but the Crunch Berries and the Peanut Butter Crunch and whatever other seasonal varieties they produced were all fine with me. As a child, I worshiped the entire Cap’n Crunch catalog.

It was a morning dose of unbridled sweetness, with the added bonus of the taste of your own blood, as the coat of cemented sugar that retained the hickory-wood-like crunchiness tore the living hell out of your mouth, leaving both physical and emotional scars that lasted through high school and well into adulthood.

It’s a rite of passage. Sometimes you need to spill a little of your own blood in the pursuit of happiness.

I know kids’ cereal has virtually no nutritional value. I know I should eat something more grown-up like Total or Special K or Product 19 or Formula 55 Fire-Baked Fiber Flakes or some such nonsense. I’ve tried some of those and they weren’t too bad, until I was informed that I’m not supposed to pour three cups of sugar on them before I eat them. When I stopped doing that, they became boring bowls full of soggy, joyless, soul-killing gruel.

And yes, I need to monitor my sugar intake, I know that. So maybe I’ll eat a little less, like half a bowl, to keep those glucose levels down. I refuse to give up my childhood cereals.

Late author Kurt Vonnegut is quoted with saying, “Enjoy the little things in life because one day you will look back and realize they were the big things.”

A bowl of cereal in the morning is a little thing, no doubt. But to me, it’s a big thing.

I met a little thing named Quentin Donald this past weekend. He’s a bit more than two weeks old and a tiny bit more than seven pounds, and were it not for the fact that he has more hair on his head than most of his adult male relatives, his total poundage would likely be on the lower side of seven.

He doesn’t do much and doesn’t know much — but I think he knows a little more than he lets on — and he has yet to learn that there are a lot of people who already love him. I am told he will be taught to call me Papa James when the time comes, and I like that, but honestly, he’ll be allowed to call me whatever he wants to. Anything he says to me will sound like “I love you” to my ears.

I saw a message the other day that there are lots of ways to say “I love you” without actually saying it. Sometimes “I love you” sounds more like “be safe,” “did you eat?” or “I made this for you.”

As my wife pointed out, in my family it’s “safe home.” It was something my grandmother would say at times of departure. We grandkids called her “Granny,” and to her that meant “I love you.” When she bid us farewell with the words “safe home,” she was telling us, “I love you, too.”

Although she passed away nearly 40 years ago, the words “safe home” are still repeated in my family. That tradition is just a little thing, maybe even a childish thing, but it’s a thing we hold on to, and that makes it big to us.

Other little things that are big to me? When I’m sitting comfortably in my chair, watching TV or typing on my laptop or just unwinding from my day, and my wife walks by, I reach up my hand, and she touches it. When she does, it makes my heart a little happy, for just one second. When we miss the moment, it makes my heart a little sad, for just one minute.

I believe my wife would tell you that one of her big little things is the feeling of snuggling into a bed at night, under freshly-washed sheets.

Digression: Is there any little thing more satisfying than popping bubble wrap?

I love a big little thing like making my daughters laugh, or watching them try to make me proud of them, unaware that I already am, and have been forever.

Or maybe hearing a great song for the first time, or hearing an old song, one you used to love, for the first time in years.
Watching your favorite football team pull out a win against a good opponent in the final seconds. Or better yet, watching two teams you care nothing about play a game with all their hearts, leaving everything they have on the field, until one team wins, the other team loses, and both teams cry. Maybe I’ll cry, too.

Earning the unconditional love of a dog — and earning the reluctant acceptance of a cat.

Flushing a pheasant on a crisp, November morning. Feeling a walleye on the other end of my line, and pulling it into the boat — then another, then another — and releasing them all, in a flash of a splash, watching them swim away.

A talented artist’s painting of a sunset. Or maybe, a real sunset.

Hugs. Warm ones.

Sharing and embellishing memories with old friends.

These things, so small in the grand scheme, so important to living life.

There is a Bible verse I learned long ago, and I’m not sure I’ve ever liked it. It’s from 1 Corinthians Chapter 13, verse 11. It says, “When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.”

I don’t like it, but maybe there’s some truth to that. I’m 51 years old now, so perhaps I should set aside childish things and act like a grownup. Maybe I should throw those sugary cereals away, and buy a box of Product 19.

Perhaps I should. Perhaps I will.

Just not today.

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A legend quietly passes … Farewell, Papa Bear, we’re lucky to have known you

11/6/2019

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Anthony Alexis “Papa Bear” Nelson

October 13, 1941 – November 01, 2019

( I like to believe that he greeted a bewildered God with a big bear hug. Then he handed God a little lollipop. -- IowaScribe.)

Anthony “Papa Bear” Nelson, 78, passed away peacefully at Life Care of Westminster, Colorado, on Friday, November 01, 2019, due to complications concerning long-standing health challenges.

He was born in Cincinnati, Ohio, on October 13, 1941, to Helena Madison and Grady Nelson, but grew up in foster care.

Papa Bear was very resilient. With his medical issues and growing up in foster care, he still described himself as “the luckiest man I know.”

Many close friends became his family. A person’s smile would warm his heart. He never met a stranger.

Papa Bear was best known as a person who could make a connection with anyone. He would listen, make someone feel at ease and loved, and wouldn’t hesitate to say he was proud of you. He wasn’t afraid to show his emotions with people from all walks of life, and he did this as a cab driver for Metro Taxi and later as a vendor near Coors Stadium on the Wynkoop Walkway at Rockies baseball games.

He was easily recognized as he navigated the walkway on his motorized mobility scooter, now replacing his Goldwing motorcycle that he used to call his “legs.” He has now rounded third base and headed Home.

Papa Bear had a quick wit, could embellish a good story, wrote poetry and prose, was skilled in cribbage and poker, loved jazz and the blues, enjoyed a good debate, and shared his insights, wisdom and intuition. He remained positive even in poor health and was considered a legend to all who met him.

Papa Bear loved his cats, anyone’s dog, and children. As a large man, he often commented that small children were not afraid to approach him and extend their arms to him for a bear hug.

He is preceded in death by his parents, an older sister, Juanita, several aunts and uncles, his ex-wife, Carolyn, and his loving foster parents, John T. and Nicholas Spencer.

He is survived by his loving Mama Bear, Barbara Jones. She was his loyal advocate and companion for 31 years. He called his Mama Bear “Bulldog” because she became his voice as his health declined.

Papa Bear is survived by his children: sons Jarrod (Teri) Nelson of Blaine, Minnesota and Gabriel (Kate) Nelson of Belle Plaine, Minnesota, daughter Kirsten Eigenfeld of Nashville, Tennessee, and like-a-daughter: Amanda Hutson (Brian) of Castle Rock, Colorado, Vanessa Kelly (Ron Chapel) of Ciudad de Guanajuato, Mexico, Abbey Niver (Gregory) of Arvada, Colorado, and Mary Jane Rafferty (Jim) of Amelia Island, Florida. Grandchildren: Jaden, Roman, Naomi, and Taylor Nelson, Nathan Eigenfeld, Morgan, and Hunter Hutson, and Teagan and Luke Niver.

A memorial service and Celebration of Life will be held at St. James Episcopal Church, 8235 West 44th Ave., Wheat Ridge, Colorado 80033, on Friday, November 22, 2019, at 2:00 P.M.

The service will be directed by Rebecca Jones, Priest in Charge, the woman Papa Bear called his “Sky Pilot.”

In lieu of flowers, please make donations to the Colorado State Foster Parent Association (CSFPA), 2497 Fenton St., Edgewater, CO 80214 or www.csfpa.org or an animal shelter of your choice.

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Chemo, fake cars, baseball, tricks and treats — and vote!

10/31/2019

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Charles City Press, 10-31-19

As I write this, tomorrow is Halloween. Tonight is Game Seven of the World Series. I’m about to disconnect my handy-dandy home chemotherapy infusion, as soon as the alarm on my chemo pump goes off.

No one was more surprised than I was when my cancer team told me that I could be trusted to remove my chemotherapy infusion by myself.

There is a process to it. Chemo can be dangerous, but the instructions are relatively simple. Then again, clipping toenails is a relatively simple process, too, and I somehow screw that up every week.

Still, it’s better than having a home nurse come visit every two weeks, although I’ve had home nurses in the past and they’re very kind people. It’s also much better than spending three days in the hospital getting chemo infusions.

As it is, I have to spend a few hours in the hospital getting one big infusion and then spend the next two days carrying around a chemo infusion pump in a fashionable handy-dandy man-purse. It works fine, until the alarm goes off and I have to remember the removal process.

I don’t trust me, but my doctors and nurses trust me, and their faith in me gets me through it.

So I already had a lot on my mind when the phone call came this morning — the fifth call this week telling me it’s my “last chance” to extend the warranty of my car, and if I don’t they’re going to close my account for good. I dialed “2” to speak live with a friendly customer service representative.

SHE: Hello, may I have the make and model of your vehicle?

ME: Yeah, I have a 1976 AMC Spirit.

SHE: CLICK.

The nice lady never gave me a chance to tell her that my imaginary 1976 AMC Spirit is powder blue. I’ve been discriminated against. Her company had no desire to extend a warranty on a darn fine, all-American, patriotic, 44-year old fake vehicle. It’s Vehicular Ageism. It’s a thing.

Meanwhile, technology is ruining baseball. This is according to me and one other guy I know.

Last night, in Game Six, there was a pretty obvious umpire’s call along the first base line that the umps got right the first time. But for some reason, they had to review the call for about 15 minutes. After further review, the umps determined that the call couldn’t be reviewed. This confused me. I remain perpetually confused.

When I watch a game on television, I don’t mind that they now have a box, created by graphic geniuses, that shows me where the strike zone is. I do mind when the commentators complain that the umpire called a pitch a strike when the ball did not go through that box. Can’t that dumb umpire see that box?

No, Einstein, the umpire can’t see the box, because the box is not real, it’s a television graphic. Also, it’s not exact, because television screens are two-dimensional and the world is three-dimensional. The strike zone is what the umpire says it is, not what that little box says it is.

There are good things about technology that can help the game, but unfortunately it gets sent into overkill, and rather than using it as an occasional guide to enhance coverage, it becomes the basis for the coverage, and overshadows the game itself.

I would add that analytics is also ruining the game, the coverage of the game, and enjoyment of the game, in much the same way. A lot of positive things can come out of crunching baseball numbers, but there is a new wave of baseball computer geeks who insist that things like RBIs, batting average, slugging percentage, ERA, wins and saves are “useless stats,” and if you try to argue with them, they attack you personally.

Instead, they are obsessed with things like “wins against replacement” (WAR) — a meaningless stat that amounts to little more than an arbitrary number — and things like “exit velocity,” “spin rates,” “catch and hit probability,” and they foam at the mouth with pleasure at defensive shifts and “launch angles.”

They push this on us and push out the real stats. Coverage of baseball has become intolerable, especially on television, and they’re starting to go after football and basketball, too.

Anyway, I’ll still watch Game Seven tonight, because I still love the game, and I hope it’s a good one, with no controversial 15-minute reviews that can’t be reviewed. As you read this, you already know who won. Please don’t spoil it for me.

Oops — my chemo pump alarm just went off so I have to go. I don’t have time to tell you what I was going to tell you about Halloween, so I’ll just say that if you want to give me some candy, I’ll take it. I’m going dressed as a general assignment reporter this year.

As a postscript, I remind you to vote next Tuesday. First of all, learn about the issues and candidates — perhaps from your friendly, local newspaper — then vote for whatever you think is best, for yourself and for your community.

It seems almost everyone votes in presidential elections, while almost no one votes in local elections. Seriously, local election results have far more lasting impact on your life than national election results do.

Trust me — my chemo doctors do.

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Taking one last look at our fictional friends

10/24/2019

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Charles City Press, 10-24-19

I was just minding my own business, just watching Monday Night Football this week, when it spiraled out of my TV screen and into my brain like a Tom Brady pass.

It was a commercial — it was the final trailer for the new “Star Wars” movie, coming Dec. 20 to a theater near us. I was riveted. I later found it on YouTube and watched it again, a few times. I made my wife watch it, too.

I’ve been a fan of the “Star Wars” franchise since I was 9 years old and saw the very first movie at my local theater, with my mom. I liked it, so much so that I saw it three or four more times that summer. That was the first movie where people did that — went back to the theater to see it again multiple times.

Mom wasn’t expecting much. She was just going because I was a little kid and there was no one else to take me, but I think she liked it even more than I did. She insisted Dad take her to see it the following weekend for their night out.

Afterward, I asked Dad for his thoughts — when you’re 9, the opinion of your parent is very important — and Dad shrugged and said, “not too bad.” He then said it was like a John Wayne Western, except it was in space. Dad really liked John Wayne Westerns, so that sounded like high praise to me.

So here it is, more than 40 years later, and I was like a little kid again, watching this trailer over and over again. I even switched the football game off — of course, the Patriots were winning by four touchdowns at the time, so that’s not much of a sacrifice.

And speaking of making a sacrifice, there was a moment in the trailer that kind of broke my heart.

At one point, there’s a scene where the android C3PO appears to be getting his robot head rewired. If you’re unsure who C3PO is, he’s the gold-colored robotic character, a “protocol droid” with a British accent who is constantly making suggestions that are helpful but annoying, and constantly calculating odds that no one wants calculated.

Anyway, when another character asks him what’s up in the trailer, C3PO replies, “I’m just taking one last look. At my friends.”

And it occurs to me that this indicates that C3PO is going to be killed off in this movie — the last Star Wars movie centered on the Skywalker Saga.

So now, I’ve learned that I’m a 51-year-old man who’s seen a lot, but still doesn’t have the emotional maturity to handle the death of a fictional android.

By “killed off,” I mean it appears that his memory is about to be erased. So the droid will still be walking around, but he’ll have no memory of any of the adventures that we’ve been watching him plod around in since 1977.

From the trailer, it looks as though C3PO is sacrificing himself for the greater good, so he’ll get a hero’s death.

Keep in mind that I have no idea if that’s what’s really going to happen. I realize that trailers are meant to intrigue us into going to the movie. They put things in there to lure us into dropping our dollars and picking up a ticket, because we want to find out if what we think is really going on is really going on.

But I was all in before I ever saw the trailer. I would go see this movie, even if I thought it was going to be terrible. I need the story to be completed, even if I don’t like the way they’re going to complete it.

I also realize that the line, “I’m just taking one last look at my friends,” is allegorical. We are C3PO. We are urged to take one last look at our friends — the characters we’ve been watching for years.

We are being told this is the last time we’ll ever get to see these guys shoot each other up, buzz around in spaceships and fight with laser swords for our entertainment, so we better get our butts into the seats.

It’s the reason why old rock bands call every tour their “farewell tour.” They lead us to believe it’s the last time we’ll get to see them perform live. Some of them have had six or seven farewell tours. They aren’t fooling us anymore.

“Star Wars” typically kills off a main character in every movie, and part of the fun is guessing which one it’s going to be. I was sad when Han Solo died. I was sad when Luke Skywalker died — although he’ll be back as a “Force Ghost,” just like old Obi-wan Kenobi was, just like Master Yoda was.

There’s money to be made from merchandising, and dead characters don’t sell nearly as well as characters that come back as Force Ghosts.

Somehow, the beautiful and spunky Princess Leia is still alive, although she’s General Leia now. They’ve managed to do that despite the fact that Carrie Fisher, the actress who plays her, passed away after shooting the last movie. It’s amazing what The Force can do. I think they’ll probably have her character die in this one, just like C3PO.

The thing is, I’d always imagined that C3PO was the one telling us the story. There’s a scroll that runs across the screen at the start of every Star Wars movie, giving us a brief update and setting the stage for what’s to come. In my mind, I’ve always heard C3PO’s voice reading those words, “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away …”

If his memory is erased, that won’t be the case. That upsets me.

I know, I know — it’s just a movie. Real life will go on. I just need to accept what the writers and directors decide is best. If I don’t like it, I should write my own damn movie, and see if I could do better. I probably can’t.

So I’m preparing myself for a fictional world without good old, annoyingly helpful C3PO. It’s the last movie of this particular saga anyway, so I might as well toughen up, go to the theater and take one last look at my friends.

One condition, though — if they kill off R2D2, I’m walking out.

If they destroy the Millennium Falcon, I’ll never forgive them.

And don’t you dare kill off Chewie, you homicidal maniacs. I’ll come after you if you do.

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