Jeff's Book Published in 2011

“A Conscientious Life”

by Jeffrey Mc Andrew

"The book weaves a compelling story line that certainly engaged me. I think the author's imagery is colorful, and capturing." 

Dr. Darold Treffert, Author and Autism Expert, Fond du Lac, Wisconsin

“Overall, the book is an excellent read. Since it covers many parts of life, it has a very wide appeal. Those who would enjoy this book would be: those who are very politically active or spend their time keeping informed, those who have had trouble relating to their parents, those who have felt any uncertainty in their lives, those who have had to deal with the grief of their parent’s deaths, and finally, those who are the parent of a child with autism.”  

James Williams, Autism writer and nationally-known speaker, Chicago, Illinois

“It has such a powerful voice...most people would love to be able to
write a book with your talents.”   

Maeve Quinn, former Sheboygan School Board member

“The author shows a tremendous ability to capture the human condition.
His work takes us from early stages in life through college years and
the loss of a close family member, and beyond. We can all relate to
this.   His search for the central characters' identity reminds us of our
own adolescent phase in life, and how we work through it.
In sum, this book does an excellent job of capturing that which we
all know.     The title does the book justice: It truly is ‘A Conscientious Life.’’”

Michael J. Tollifson, Singer/Songwriter, Sheperdstown, West Virginia

“I think the dramatic arc has to do with the main character's honesty, genuine heart and naivety confronting a cruel and unfeeling world and the challenge to incorporate that new sense of realism into his world while still retaining and even deepening the main character's humane way of being in the world and with others around him. The razor's edge of that confrontation would seem to be the foreshadowed and unexpected burden of living with an autistic child.” 

Fred Hersom, longtime friend and musician, Concord, California

"I still find each day too short for all the thoughts I want to think, all the walks I want to take, all the books I want to read, and all the friends I want to see."

- John Burroughs

Dedication and Author Note

          This book is dedicated to my wonderful mother Jane Elizabeth McAndrew, a lover of great books, and a compassionate human being, whose politics have always been person-centered. It is also dedicated to my father, John Burton Mc Andrew, a giant in my life, without whom, I would feel a great emptiness. I will always remember my father as a sensitive, intelligent and compassionate man. The book is also dedicated to the memory of my Uncle Charles Jefferson Hitt (1935-2007.)   Charlie, you were always in my corner.  May you rest in peace.  The book is also dedicated to the spirit of the late Harvey Stower, former Wisconsin Assemblyman and mayor of Amery, Wisconsin.  Harvey you were a great friend.  Thanks also to the outstanding writers and thinkers who have inspired me including Dr. Darold Treffert, John Updike, Mitch Albom, Kurt Vonnegut, Garrison Keillor, Sam Harris, Daniel Dennett, Leo Buscaglia, Richard Dawkins, Carl Sagan, Albert Einstein and others who have motivated me on many levels to put my thoughts down on paper and share them with others. Also, nature writer Margaret Jarek was gracious enough to let me share some of her wonderful excerpts of her writing in this novel.  I also owe very special thanks to author and sports journalist Mitch Albom.  After talking with him for 30 minutes during a WHBL Radio interview in 2005, I knew I wanted to give fiction a shot.  I knew it in my heart that I was destined to write a very special book.  Mitch talked about the magic and wonder of creating plot and characters and about how his first work of fiction, “The Five People You Meet in Heaven” was a fantastic and inventive process.  He told me it represented a new freedom not felt in his first non-fiction book “Tuesdays With Morrie.”   Thanks also to my wonderful wife Debbie who patiently put up with me during my intense days of editing and tweaking the manuscript.   By the way, the characters in my book are purely fictional but to some varying degrees may represent some characteristics of people in real life.  Any exact or complete likeness or resemblance to anyone in real life is purely coincidental. 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
          The earth, and every common sight
                  To me did seem
          Apparell'd in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it has been of yore;—
                  Turn wheresoe'er I may,
                  By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more!
          The rainbow comes and goes,
          And lovely is the rose;
          The moon doth with delight
    Look round her when the heavens are bare;
          Waters on a starry night
          Are beautiful and fair;
    The sunshine is a glorious birth;
    But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.

from Ode: Incarnations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood by William Wordsworth

                             

Table of Contents

Preface


Chapter 1: Early Years

Chapter 2: College Years

Chapter 3: Father's Funeral

Chapter 4: The Psychiatrist's Couch

Chapter 5: Bad Things Happen to Good People

Chapter 6: The Dream

Chapter 7: Work and Home

Chapter 8: The Neighborly Salesman

Chapter 9: Carl's Demise

Chapter 10: Lost!

“What keeps us alive, what allows us to endure?  I think it is the hope of loving.”  

Master Eckhart

THE EARLY YEARS

          The amiable six year-old Jonathan Stark walked slowly and carefully across the front lawns during the annual Cub Scout project.  It was a beautiful and calm spring morning in Wisconsin.  With young Jon were members of his Cub pack sauntering along in mostly obedient fashion and following their scout leader.  They were picking up bags of food they had requested the week before for the “Cubs for the Homeless” drive.  The pack leader was a ruddy-faced rotund woman who was often prone to intermittent loud barks.  Her troop tried to stay in line---but sometimes failed to meet Kari’s strict expectations.  Kari said felt a compulsion to run the Cub Scout troop because “nobody else in town seemed to want to.”  It was a trip down Barker, Cherry, Adams, Schultz, Stoll, and Monarch Streets and then along Ondorf, St. James, Haux and Park Avenues.  A vehicle drove down each street and avenue to collect the food bags.   A lone robin pranced upon Mr. Templeton’s garage roof.  Apparently he had lost his flock and was all alone.  A tomcat in a nearby window sill eyed the bird with rapt attention, so focused on his potential prey, he had awareness of the transparent barrier between himself and a potential carnivorous victory.

          The Ford truck picking up food bags was driven by Kari Bender’s husband Dirk.  His friends called him “Razor” because he was hardly ever clean-shaven. Dirk’s cigarette smoldered just a couple of inches away from his chapped lips.   Dirk played a conservative talk show on the Ripon, Wisconsin AM radio station called “Clarke Smitherton, America’s Patriot.”   He revealed a smirk when Clark talked about “the liberals” and how they were ruining America and “trashing the proud and sacred place America was meant to be.” He talked about the unions and how they were all corrupt and were going to be the “downfall of the entire nation.”  The loud voice over the radio carried to the sidewalks and to the ears of some of the young scouts. The tone, anger and attitude irritated young Jonathan, but he was far too young to put his feelings into words or to understand the complexity and abstractness of the politics involved.  The course nature of the articulation over the airwaves seemed to piece the cool air with its belligerence and vindictiveness.

          Kindergartner Toby was Kari and Dirk’s oldest son and he boasted that he would someday drive a big cement truck like his Daddy. He was also a bit of a show off and handled any opportunity for negative or positive attention with uncanny skill.  He was known as the first grader who nudged and tested the other children, but he didn’t intend to be a mean-spirited person.  He didn’t want to see any of the other kids suffer.  He bullied and prodded Jonathan frequently, but it was mostly playful and not malicious.  “Why are you so quiet?  Are you still a baby?” Then he would mix it with, “It’s OK Jonny, I used to be quiet too.”  Toby knew Jon was smart and deep inside was jealous of the intelligence he would never have.  When teased, Jonathan would give him a pensive look and he wouldn’t even think of jumping into any kind of retaliatory response.   Laconic and with a stoic countenance, the young boy trudged on.  Jon thought it was better to be quiet than to tempt a bully.  Jon’s mother always told him that it wasn’t worth it to challenge a bully’s games, and that it would only “bring you to their level.”  He was learning to be quite good at playing along and being safe.  In his young life, Jon would find, ironically, that carefulness would be his best friend.

“When we are very young our horizons are close by, but as we grow and mature and carefully experience life, our horizons began to expand, giving us an ever-deepening perspective on life and a broadening concept of what constitutes reality. Curiosity is the great impetus that constantly urges us forward in our journey to discover what lies around the next bend in the path or over the next hill.  With an ever-expanding consciousness, the puzzle of life accumulates more pieces and the picture becomes more inclusive and better defined.”

Margaret Lathrop from “Rainbows of Hope”

Jonathan’s mother Karen is a petite woman, about 5-foot three inches tall. Most of her friends find her to be an intense woman in many ways. She appears to put an immense amount of thought into anything she does. Karen has a wonderful folksy sense of humor and a way of making people feel very comfortable.  She is cautious like Jon but smiles and laughs more often.  Karen moved with her husband to Meadeville three years ago.  She always said that she felt that Meadeville’s pleasant countryside was a kind, peaceful and rustic atmosphere…a good place to raise a family.

Karen is also an artist who paints competently on canvass when she has time, but she rarely had time, because she poured so much energy into her family obligations.  Some of her talents would remain mostly hidden forever.   When she did make it into the art room, she loved to paint faces.  She would label the finished pieces emotions such as Trepidation, Joy, Loathing, Humor or Consternation. She won an award from the local community college for a display she did at the local Windmater Art Center.  Karen, college educated and prematurely gray, walks softly but carries a big stick.  When crossed she gives her true opinions, but when not crossed goes along with the status quo 99-percent of the time.

          Jon’s hometown of Meadeville was incorporated in 1857 and was a railroad town for much of its history. To this day, the Railroad Inn has the best food in town.  The “Trails Inn” chili dog was Jon’s favorite.  Howard was the city to Meadeville’s immediate south, directly south of Lake Omaha. Howard was about ten times bigger than Meadeville’s population of 5,611 people.  Howard was where Karen’s uncle worked for 30 years.  He was a reference librarian at the city library back when they had card catalogs. 

          Back in 1970, Karen was confident that her life, honest husband and her two young boys would help take her family on a journey of interesting and meaningful proportions.  Jonathan’s father Daniel was an all-state basketball player at Kirk City High School in central Wisconsin in the 1940's.  Daniel was a modest man of Horatio Alger type achievements.  His older brother Paul David died when he was 16 in an automobile accident, which was tough to overcome considering Paul David was idolized by his little brother.   Daniel’s character was strong and he bounced back, proving to his family that he could be a nearly straight-A student.  He was in the top 25 in his college class and top five of his class at the University of Nebraska Dental School.  He is a quiet, intense and complex man who loves his classical music (especially Haydn, J.S. Bach and Mozart), fishing and sailing.  He never boasted about his accomplishments.  He was a quiet observer of life...a humble man.   Dr. Stark worked long hours and had a great compassion for his patients but at the same time cared intensely (like no one would know) about his boys.   When Jonathan was in the elementary grades in the 1960's, his mother Karen took night classes at King Hill Community College to become a part-time nursing assistant.  In 1966, Jon’s little brother was two and a lot of work for his parents.  Murray was bigger and more muscular than his older brother.  Jon bore a bit of a scrawny build and was more of the bookworm type.  He was transparently shy and seemed the opposite of pretentious.  Jon was conscientious and Murray was audacious.  Jon was more of an appeaser and his brother was more recalcitrant.   Jon’s problem was that he was almost invisible because he was painfully careful.

One of Jon’s favorite things to do with his father was to watch the TV show called “The 21^st Century” with Walter Cronkite.  Young Jon also loved astronomy.  He studied the solar system in 3^rd grade and memorized all the diameters of the planets and their distances to the sun.  (The boy’s enthusiasm for space earned him an “A” for that unit in Mrs. Magnuson’s third grade classroom.  Mrs. Magnuson would wonder why this boy with all these gifts would remain so silent so much of the time.  She watched his painful shyness and wondered what it would be like if he were more outgoing and openly communicative.)   Jon and his father would talk together about how wonderful the future will be when new technology and scientific achievements “transform our lives in the decades to come.” (Later in life, Jon would be very appreciative of how positive his father was in encouraging a sense of wonder about the future and this fascinating world of ours.  Dr. Stark was planting seeds of positive thinking.)

Daniel, sometimes nursing an after work Manhattan on the rocks or Bourbon, would talk about how great his boys were.  He loved his boys so much.  Young Murray was the jock, but no predictions were made overtly about Jonathan.  He felt invisible sometimes.   He was called “special” and “conscientious” a lot.  He didn’t quite know what that meant.   How did he rank in the family scheme of things?   Murray already seemed to be possessed with a somewhat brash sense of self and crass sense of humor, while Jonathan was more careful, more introspective.  The word that always popped up on his report card was “conscientious.”  Mrs. Magnuson used that word a lot too.   He didn’t have a full sense of what that word meant, and how could he at the tender age of eight?  His sense of self was still in serious question.  His self-concept had a lot of evolving to do.   

Jon worshiped his father and felt his strong compassion for the working man, for those less fortunate than himself.  He always emphasized a great empathy for the rights of workers.  He talked to Jon about his respect for those who would go to jail for justice like Steven Biko, Malcolm X and Mahatma Gandhi.    He also talked a lot about the political courage and compassion of the late President John Fitzgerald Kennedy.  Daniel said he was deeply saddened by the death of JFK because he could “convey so much hope to so many people.”  He talked often about his idols who risked their lives for freedom and sometimes went to prison for their political beliefs.

“As long as there is a soul in prison I’m not free.”

Eugene Debs

 

          When Jon was eight, his father felt the need to serve his community in a new and different capacity. He decided to run for school board. He was especially passionate about funding for special needs programming and how it was as he said, “always taking a backseat to reading, writing and arithmetic.”  A nephew of his named Lane was diagnosed with childhood schizophrenia at the age of eight just a few months ago, so the passion burned stronger for personal reasons.   He also was passionate about teaching of critical thinking.  He felt that schools were not for teaching kids how to conform but for continually building and reinforcing critical thinking skills.  His sister Marian was on school committees in Milwaukee for a long time and critical thinking was one of her mantras as well.  Daniel respected Marian’s boldness for saying what she thought, and being unafraid of the political attacks she might invite. 

For a long time, Daniel disapproved of how the Meadeville Superintendent of Schools Tim Oreilly seemed to be in secret collusion with the school board president on many of the critical education decisions yet to be made.  The administration and school board members wore buttons that said...”CHILDREN FIRST!” but, many people knew it really was the Superintendent Oreilly and the Tim Hanley agenda.  It seemed as secretive as the Nixon administration sometimes. Hanley was criticized by the public for seemingly going along with every big decision that was the brain child of Dr. Oreilly.  It was this factor that made the eldest Stark very nervous. He was nervous about so much power in the hands of so few in town.   Hanley’s brother owned Grand Junction Motors. The company bought 40 acres of school property at a good price in the 1960's and opened a car lot.  Environmental groups protested because a city park was supposed to go there, but Oreilly shot them down in the local newspaper, the Smith County Leader. He said the environmentalists were “pathetic tree huggers” and “misinformed idealists” who were naïve about the business world.  When pressed by a competent reporter, he expressed that all liberals were mentally ill.

          Some said Superintendent Oreilly had a shady background.  Oreilly’s father Arlen owned “Arlen’s Good Times Supper Club.”  There were rumors of drugs, gambling and even some prostitution at the establishment, but many of the richest people in town went there on a regular basis.   Jon was too young to perceive the reality of the corruption of the human soul which may have been going on there.   Arlen died in his late 70's of a disease nobody would talk about.  It was never revealed.  Dr. Stark would take Jonathan and Murray to Arlen’s a couple of times and in later years Jon would reflect on how fake Arlen seemed when he talked to people.  When his father would take him to the restaurant as a young child, with brother Murray in tow, Arlen would say with a gregarious smile, “Dr. Stark, so nice to see you!”   He would then turn to the bar and engage in extremely loud and borderline vulgar talk.  Young Jon noticed this but said nothing.  There was something deeply wrong with that guy, thought Jon, something far too rough about his character.  It appeared he enjoyed talking to his Dad because of his status as a dentist and not for who he was.   Jon was angry about this man’s crassness and insensitivity.  Later Jon would find out that Arlen had ties to the mafia.  That cheerful, friendly guy act was apparently all a charade.  He had a heart cold as ice.

             Karen said she wasn’t anxious to have her husband involved in another big undertaking, but she wanted him to do something he felt was his responsibility to the community. She also might have been worried too much that Daniel was away from the family enough and that more meetings may not be good for the boys. But she felt that if Daniel was happy, the whole family would be happy.   Karen’s Mom (Grandma Janice everyone called her) said several times, “Karen does everything for Daniel.”  The boy didn’t stop and analyze that too much.  He also had a sense his Mom was psychologically confined in some way, but couldn’t define it.   Young Jon also thought there was something wrong with his Mom’s lack of 100-percent freedom.  She had the material things, but was she psychologically free?   Was she totally free to be herself?   He felt guilty for even thinking it---that his Mom, in the service of others was not living a full and satisfying life, that her self esteem was somewhat injured by this preoccupation with Daniel’s success.  

          Two years later Jon was almost out of the elementary grades. The scene is Truman Elementary School.  The door to the classroom opened abruptly.  Jonathan’s 5th grade teacher, Mrs. Brumwell, stepped back in after consulting with someone in the hallway.  Eyes of students were meticulously glancing toward the chalkboard, except for young Jon’s whose were drifting on this windy spring day.  10 year-old Jon seemed wholly captivated by a bronze statue through the classroom window.  It was a robust bronze of the late Democratic Senator Harvey Stausen, a man from Meadeville who became a U.S. Senator through his brilliant speaking skills, his grit and stubborn determination.   He was portrayed by a statue in the midst of fiery oratory. 

          Stausen had also been an assemblyman and was mayor of the town before succumbing to the horrors of cancer.  Politics by its very nature is truculent but Stausen contradicted all of those ferocities.  Whether he was at Norm’s Hardware Store, at a park dedication or a Chamber of Commerce meeting, Stausen had a smile for everyone he met.  He wasn’t about mumbo jumbo, but about meaningful one on one conversation. Stausen had the skill of making people feel important in his presence.   Even though he was a Democrat, Republicans liked him because he respected each human being.   Harvey was a liberal in the very best sense of the word. A conservative Wisconsin radio commentator gave Harvey the biggest compliment stating that “Harvey is not the type of arrogant, self-righteous, condescending, mean-spirited liberal that dominates the Left wing of American politics  - but an intelligent, compassionate human being with an inquiring mind and a keen interest in the human condition.”  The quote on a plaque at the base of the structure read, “Inspiring the hearts of men begins with believing in all people.”  That summed up who Harvey was.  The expression of compassion and bravery on the Senator’s face would be something Jon would remember often when down and out from time to time. The image of that statue would give him a psychological lift throughout his life, especially when beset with some kind of setback or tragedy.  Gazing at that bronze statue sometimes gave him a quiet courage.

Throughout his early school years, Jonathan was mostly quiet and compliant and resisted the opportunity to call undue attention to himself.    He got good grades (especially in math and in science), but was not in any sense of the term an over-achiever.  He was more of an appeaser than a challenger and liked to slip under the radar most of the time.  He was ultra-careful but also the opposite of boastful.   Jon felt a very powerful bond to his mother, and to his father.  His love for his father was enormous but spiritually abstract.   Jon had wished he was closer to his father in some ways but there was a psychological barrier there that he could not articulate. Over the past couple of years, Jon grew further from his Dad psychologically, as Dad got more involved with the school board, and mentally more distant.  It was something Jon knew was happening, but could not articulate in his mind.  There were all those meetings. Did he have to go to so many meetings?  It seemed like there were too many of them.   Dad grew more aloof towards Jon and his life over the years, and was continuing to favor Murray’s sports prowess more than his conscientious first-born son.  Later in life Jon pondered whether or not Daniel’s aloofness, close to the austere, could be masking some kind of abstract emotional fragility. 

THE COLLEGE YEARS

We now move ahead eight years. Our main character has graduated from high school.  Math and science remained Jon’s favorite subjects and he remained somewhat of an outsider socially.  He had one date in high school during the senior prom but Jack Auguia from the swim team dared him to ask or he wouldn’t have done anything.  He went to the upper level media center and asked Sarah Crowe and she said yes.  At the end of the vaunted date night he received his first kiss at the age of 17 and then drove all the way home with his lights off.

We now move ahead to the college years.  Jonathan rode with his parents to Orientation Weekend at Tilden College–a quiet rustic ride, 40 miles from Meadesville.  Dr. Daniel Stark, now with a gray mustache and gray goatee, looked a little nervous and out of place. He glanced at Karen, with that somewhat hard to read look. Karen with her grey hair blowing near the half-opened car window said tritely, “Where have all the years gone?” The now 17, almost 18 year-old Jonathan was wearing fragile black wire-rimmed glasses.  He calmly gazed at the pristine Glidden countryside but had that lost in thought look.  A sign said, “Home of the Glidden Ghosts, 1976 WIAA State Football Champions.” Jon’s attention wasn’t on the sign, but was more in touch with the serenity of the rustic countryside which included the waving wheat fields and the neatly and meticulously planted rows of corn.  The journey would take the Stark family vehicle through Glidden then on to Clayburg, then a straight shot south down County “AA” to the outskirts of Tilden, population 4122.  It was a little smaller than Meadesville, but not much.  The viridescent landscape was nearly intoxicating.    The smell of the atmosphere on this breezy afternoon was full of the benevolent scent of flowers of all colors and sizes. It was though the world was pullulating all around.  The steady wind carried trillions of gramineous molecules adrift toward their random destinations. 

As Jon gazed out of the window of the family car, he daydreamed about the fact that life is so short, that life by its very nature is evanescent, fleeting moments one by one.  It is the transitory essence of life that is the key to enjoying it, thought Jon.  He glimpsed the variegated rows of perennials diversified by some intelligent structure of Mother Nature.  The structure of the brick borders beautifully created forms at the various farmhouses and rural businesses along the route.  The family’s dark green Ford was freshly washed.  Daniel always liked freshly washed vehicles.  That was just one of his things.  He would remind people constantly when their cars were not clean.  The Grand Junction Motors sticker on the back of the vehicle was glittering brightly in the Wisconsin summer sun.   It was a windy and sunny day.  The pastoral landscape revealed scenes of rural America that people in the big city often miss.   The white-picket palisades, the immaculate silos and the cluttered farm house yards were all part of the scenery.   Wide-eyed and impressionable Jonathan had a copy of Time magazine on his lap. That was his mother Karen’s favorite periodical.   He liked the writing and he felt it was a good way of keeping up with world events.  Karen encouraged Jon to take a vocabulary class in Oshkosh the summer before college.  Jon did it and did learn some new words but didn’t integrate them too much into his everyday conversation as Karen thought it might do.  Molded by shy elementary school years, Jon always felt more comfortable with a world of ideas than a world of people.   Human relationships were still very scary for Jon, and he had virtually no experience with the opposite sex.    He hated to take any risks at all with his life because he was in his safe and comfortable bubble.  The young man also had little experience with alcohol, but sometimes did drink to give into social pressure, appeasing the crowd when necessary.   Jon never really liked the taste of beer.

          As the car was nearing its destination, Jon’s mind wandered for some reason through multifarious memories of his Dad.  It was assumed by some in the family that Jon had inherited much of his reserved nature from his kind-hearted father, and also got his intelligence and sensitivity to people from him.  He also had some of his Uncle Gerald’s sense of humor. (Gerald was capable of ultra-pungent satire, especially when it came to his politics.  Occasionally he was enamored with a sense of guileful enthusiasm and his thoughts would take off in different ways. Gerald’s jawls would vibrate rhythmically like a bowl of jello when he laughed.   It was an extra hearty kind of laugh.  Jon loved that part about his uncle - that his thoughts would go in such fascinating and sometimes unpredictable directions.)  Gerald also possessed a cantankerous side, an irascible, argumentative and partially vulgar side that he hid from family and friends.   Gerald would sometimes go on a tirade about salesmen.  He saw salesmen as henchmen with insidious plans to beguile and falsely convince customers.   He said most salesmen owned a warped sense of empathy for greedy purposes.   On the other hand, Jon’s father showed a kindness to folks, no matter what their lot in life.  He had remembered the barber that his Dad would take him and Murray to when they were preteens and junior high-schoolers.  Glen Rayson was described as a “real” person by many.  He was very folksy and also had a racist streak.   Jon, while getting his hair cut, would often wonder why his Dad would befriend someone like this, more unsophisticated and unrefined in many ways than his family, in many ways an ignoramus. It was an understatement to say that Rayson was a little bit rough around the edges.   Rayson was also a charitable man  in many ways.  He would give one-thousand dollars to his church per year when he couldn’t afford it and he would volunteer for the Boys and Girls Club, helping young lives by doing activities with the young people and listening to them.   Listening was something even their parents would often not or could not do.

“I am lulled into a state of dreamlike lassitude by the warm stillness of a summer afternoon.  With energy at its ebb, I am replete with the rainbow hues and musky scents to be favored in this oasis of greenery.”

Margaret Lathrop from “Reflections of Summer”

          It was a brilliant summer day.  The arboreal landscape of the college gracefully soaked in the sunlight.   The President of Tilden College gave a pep talk to the freshmen and their parents on that hot and steamy August afternoon of 1977.  It was a speech with enthusiasm but characterized by a bold but sometimes pompous type of seriousness. President Charles Campion was himself a former Tilden football and basketball star and BMOC.  After the short welcome speech at Memorial Union Hall, the Starks stood in line to meet the president.    There was fancy fine china, coffee and tea on expensive red and white table cloths in the Ronald Reagan Lounge.    The atmosphere emanated a strong sense of academia and clerisy.  Raspberry and strawberry pie was cut on shiny silver plates.  Campion smiled like a cunning politician running for office as he crushed young Jon’s hand. He glanced at Jonathan’s name tag and then at the eyes of his anxious parents.  He noted the sign, “Welcome to the home of the Bulldogs.”  Even though there were ubiquitous and conservative smiles abounding, a nervous grin dominated Jonathan’s countenance.  The boy’s expression showed little evidence of emotion and he just politely smiled.  

          A roommate who was chosen for Jon was from Hawaii and looked like a cross between Charles Bronson and Starsky from “Starsky and Hutch.” He had a strange look about him and seemed to be mumbling to himself, kind of like a common street bum.  A look of honest trepidation now overtook Karen Stark’s face. After the orientation dinner, the Starks said their goodbyes to Jon.   Karen had tears in her eyes because of the uncertainty of what her son was preparing to embark on. The unknown was frightening.  She felt he may not have been ready for this kind of independence, but didn’t say a word.  Jon then trudged up to his room with his two big bags, headed from Room 422 of Hawkins Hall.  The hallways echoed all evening with the sounds of loud conversation.  It was the sound of freshman freedom.  All young Jon wanted to do was to get back to his room and get his things back in order and escape the madness. 

          Even though Hawkins Hall was loud and unruly much of the time, Jon would concentrate on his studies and would occasionally glance out the window at the many different kinds of trees planted on campus along the curved walkways, the birches, the oaks, and the maples a plenty.  He enjoyed the peace nature supplied. It provided a peaceful contrast from the intense rigors of Harvard-like liberal arts reading requirements.    Words from a writer and poet he had just discovered by the name of Margaret Lathrop seemed to sum up the rustic atmosphere of the campus walkways:

“Whenever I walk into a forest or even a wooded area, I am immediately aware of being in the presence of some intangible but very real entities. I am awed into silence by their immanent proximity. It is as if I have intruded upon a secret conclave of elders who spend their lives pondering the mystery of the universe. In their midst there exists an all-pervasive sense of some ancient wisdom that we humans have yet to acquire.”

            During his freshman year, Jonathan found that writing for the newspaper was something that made him feel genuinely alive.   He was somewhat good at expressing himself in a simple but clear fashion in writing.  He started writing political and feature stories and found he was interested in many controversial topics around campus such as the debate over abortion, African-American rights, labor issues, and gay rights.  Writing made him feel involved.  He also took a liking to feature stories involving the special events on campus.  A poet who spoke in early 1978 at Clarence Hall attracted only a couple of dozen people.  Charlotte Isaacson had been published in major magazines and had been nominated for a national award called the Beacon Star Award, which would put her in the company of some of the best in the world.  In an interview she said she was hopeful of winning the Pulitizer Prize for Fiction some day.  Jon’s story about Isaacson wasn’t about the event itself, but speculated more about why not a lot of people were interested in greatness.

    “It seemed that there was uneasiness, and a quiet and politically correct sort of apathy surrounding the event.  It was like Charlotte Isaacson was being overshadowed by a subtle type of discrimination against too much intellectualism on campus. Perhaps it was her ‘close to brash’ attitude favoring women’s rights that rubbed them the wrong way. She was too honest perhaps to be politically correct about these thoughts on campus. Perhaps Isaacson’s ideas like this did in her potential campus populism in this conservative campus atmosphere...’Women pushing, women choking, women stumbling on the mastery of a fictitious horizon, the mastery of something meaningful. Always working, always supporting, and always giving into a man’s egotistical whim. Half-way there, but never there until someday a paradigm shift will intervene.’  These kinds of ideas, perhaps like Nikki Giovanni’s poetry, were possible.”

            Jon had later learned that Tilden President Charles Campion had lobbied not to have such a “radical” speak on his campus. Campion had a history of not getting along with democrats and was outspoken on issues like abortion and collective bargaining rights for workers.  He felt that the poet was a dangerous leftist who would “poison college minds with subliminal and naive ideas about freedom and equality.”   Young Jonathan felt Isaacson was one of the most interesting stories of the year and loved the freedom that the college media would afford him.  He also admired the fact that he would not have to pigeon hole himself into a career track that would take away too much of his individuality. He took pride in making his own careful, quiet decisions—-even if they were decisions that involved avoidance and some degree of rationalization.  He felt that reporting was kind of an art and that he had a license to tell the truth through this medium.   

       John did a story on the civil rights icon Ralph Abernathy when he came to campus and was high-fived by all the Afro-Americans on campus the following day.  He wrote about the idealism inherent in Abernathy’s message and the kindness that he showed for all minorities.  Dr. Campion would only shake his head in disgust, scowling like Richard Nixon would when he talked about the NAACP or the ACLU. 

          What power Jon’s writing could have.  He got no thanks, though, from many of the conservative students who thought the writing was politically incorrect and biased towards naivety.

            Jon also wrote an article about a controversial wellness speaker who came to campus.    John Spencer came to town with his “Calorie Counter Magic” program.  He had products that he sold to the students that were more costly than some could afford, but promised results in the first 30 days.  In the school newspaper, Jon blasted Spencer for being a slimy salesperson who was preying on innocent students just to line his own pockets.  He said with Spencer “hell is paved with good intentions.”    The column ended with the young writer encouraging overweight students to eat smaller portions to solve their problems. No gimmicks needed.  It was direct and to the point and some people didn’t like that.    

          Norman Mailer came to campus in 1978 and talked about his thoughts about democracy and what he perceived as “the increasing and vulgar corporate control in America.”  Mailer also talked about how war in his words, “tears the country’s soul apart.”   He began his talk by stating the quote, “With the pride of an artist, you must blow against the walls of every power that exists, the small trumpet of your defiance.”  Jon not only wrote about Mailer’s speech but also about what the Tilden College Republican Club had to say about Mailer, who they labeled “un-American.”    In his article, Jon criticized the Republican Club for “cheap shots” and for not proposing any solutions to the expansive questions Mailer brought to light. 

          Author Jane Smiley came to town that year as well.  (She was to win a Pulitzer Prize for Fiction 14 years later.)  Smiley talked about the importance of humor and folksiness in writing.  She said she regularly incorporates parts of the personalities she knows (her relatives, friends and co-workers, etc.) in her writing.  At the time she was working on her first novel called “Barn Blind.”   She would later become very famous.  Book clubs across the country would discuss her books for decades to come. 

          John got to do music feature stories too and one of his most enjoyable pieces to write was on the Razzy Dazzy Spasm Band which came to campus in the late 1970’s.    It consisted of several individuals who went on to be folk superstars.  The folk/bluegrass band formed at Moravian College in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. The band consisted initially of John Gorka, Russ Rentler, and Doug Anderson. Later, Richard Shindell joined the group on lead guitar. Tim Germer was also part of the group, playing bass guitar.  Jon called the college band “infinitely eclectic and full of life.” 

            During his sophomore year at Tilden, Jon found an inspirational English teacher, an instructor who had a unique sense of humor, a love of students, and seemingly no sense of arrogance.   This instructor displayed an uncommon humility and a genuine interest in the learning process.  He seemed to have a genuine ability to appreciate and practice the love of teaching and  apparently not for the money or prestige.  Dr. William Hixon certainly enjoyed telling stories as well, and was able to pose many interesting hypothetical questions about novels which instilled a sense of wonderment about the authors.  He was an expert in polemics, of exposing the crux of any controversial argument and transferring that zest to his pupils.  The teacher was great at getting to the quintessential element in any discussion and this made his classrooms buzz with exuberance and interest.   Hixon was more like “The Smothers Brothers” than “Masterpiece Theatre.”  This the students liked very much.  There were always intermittent bursts of laughter in his classrooms…not from silly jokes, but from sharp and thunderous jolts of insight.  Hixon was a free thinker to the extreme,  and was a good-natured and lucubrating liberator of student minds.  This was pure learning in progress.

          In American Literature class, Jon encountered the works of Steinbeck, Hawthorne, Faulkner, Updike, and even J.D. Salinger.  It bothered him that the lofty ideas of the greatest writers of all time seemed above his intellectual capacity.  He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he felt inferior to these great minds. Jon, the latent linguaphile, still felt a great burst of energy when he was able to be in touch with some of the genius thoughts of those authors.   It was like he was able to feel a profound oneness with a greatness of a higher order.  Jon thought highly of Dr. Hixon, for his scientific objectivity in examining bit by bit what the writers were attempting to do.  He was also engaging in a Socratic sense.  The students would love the questions he would pose and he made no student feel shallow or stupid after their responses. 

          Hixon was continually posing questions of characters, as in Moby Dick, “Was there a proper contrast set between the Christian Starbuck and the less than ethical characters in the novel?”  Or he would gracefully present a question about Updike, “Is the author sending a message about the downside of American culture in the development (or shall we say disintegration) of the character Rabbit Angstrom?”  Jon never understood, however, why Dr. Hixon underplayed Updike’s obvious brilliance, saying he was easily overshadowed by such writers as Joyce, Orwell, Faulkner or Steinbeck.   Maybe he reveled in playing the devil’s advocate for discussion’s sake.   Jon felt Updike to be the ultimate master of description of the mundane world.   His sublime gift for creating beauty using incredibly complex sentences was marvelous.   There was a real richness in Updike’s delicately described phrases and metaphors.  He was like a painter, but his canvass was words.  There was an honestly in Updike’s writing that did not come close to existing in everyday small talk.   Jon was painfully aware, however, that he didn’t speak up in class enough.  He was painfully reserved, even when discussion was focused on his favorite American writer.  He could hear his father’s words echoing in his mind, “You have to speak out more.” or “You have to get into the game and do something.”  His grandmother’s words were, “You’re just as good as the rest of them, so get in there and participate!”

          Jon was most perplexed with J.D. Salinger and how he hadn’t written a book since about 1965.   It seemed ridiculous to him that Salinger would just plain stop writing books and become a recluse.  Kind of like Howard Hughes in later life, Salinger would shut himself off from real life.  Why would such a genius like Salinger shut out the entire world?  (At least he wasn’t quite as crazy as Hughes who would obsess about the size of peas and arrange them in order by size before eating them.)  Jon enjoyed reading Holden Caulfield’s observations in “Catcher in the Rye”… observations thhat most people were thinking but everyone was afraid to say.   (Jon and Uncle Gerald would talk about certain political candidates who they thought were fake.  Gerald didn’t like George H.W. Bush and he let the swear words fly sometimes, which shocked Jon.)   In Caulfield’s words, many people would be “phonies.”  Updike would praise Salinger for being an early and extremely positive influence, saying,  "the short stories of J. D. Salinger really opened my eyes as to how you can weave fiction out of a set of events that seem almost unconnected, or very lightly connected.  Salinger’s writing in my mind has really helped me move me a step up, as it were, toward knowing how to handle my own material.” Other writers looked up to Salinger's voice and unique comic timing.  Jon related most to “Catcher in the Rye” and uncannily shared with Holden his syndrome of uneasiness.  He was drawn to this syndrome of disaffected youth yearning for more, but only vaguely aware of what to do about it.  Like Holden, Jon wondered sometimes about those at his college who were acting like phonies. 

          The Salinger book Jon most voraciously read was “Franny and Zooey.”  He enjoyed the 1^st person accounts of the main characters.  He agreed with the character Franny when said about poets, “If you’re a poet you’re supposed to leave something beautiful.  All the slightly better ones do is sort of get inside your head and leave something there, but just they do, just because they know how to leave something.” Maybe he liked it because it sounded like something Holden Caulfield would say.   J.D.’s perspicacious observations were throughout the book, much as they had been in “Catcher in the Rye.”  Jon felt a vague feeling that he wanted to help people in life, but didn’t really know how to put his feelings into words.  He enjoyed reading Holden’s main yearning that was not totally unlike his own vaguely defined angst,  "Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around--nobody big, I mean--except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff--I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going. I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be."

          In the second half of Jon’s freshman semester, his grade school friend Toby transferred in from UW-Stevens Point.  Toby had lost his teasing nature for the most part, but had seemed to acquire a hard edge that he didn’t have as a youngster.  He had gained a lot of weight, easily topping out at 350 pounds.  Toby’s father had become very rich and successful in the concrete business and mother thought he should go to a more prestigious school like Tilden. Toby would brag about his family being successful once in a while and he was set on getting his MBA with Tilden as the undergraduate foundation.   Toby was in Jon’s Developmental Psychology course that semester and would attempt to dominate the classes with his questions.  Jon was very shy and presented a start contrast to Toby.  Toby would have his hand up after nearly every question Dr. Tony Games would ask.  Dr. Games would let it go on without telling Toby it was inappropriate.  Once Toby did indirectly tease Jon by saying there are some people in the class who are crazy, but a “good kind of crazy.”  Toby had developed an incredible arrogance and self-centeredness that was unbelievable.  Nobody liked Toby.  When greeting classmates along the school walkways, he would say, “Hi buddy! or Hey ya!” to everyone, often with an insecure and nervous tone. He had this superficial kindness to others but was secretly an internal mess.  Deep inside the arrogant are deeply insecure, thought Jon, giving his former grade school cohort the benefit of the doubt.    

          Another favorite professor of Jon’s was Dr. Eric Applebaum, the Sociology teacher who seemed to have an uncommon acceptance of him.  Jon knew Dr. Applebaum was brilliant when he first stepped into his Sociology 101 class at Milton Hall.  Jon, however, felt very sorry for Dr. Applebaum’s obvious social ineptness.  He saw his own social awkwardness in him too, which was painful.  Applebaum would have little or no eye contact when he talked with his students.  Applebaum was a bit like Dr. Risler, who taught the beginning chemistry classes on campus.  He seemed so intelligent.  Some students postulated that Risler had too many thoughts inside his head simultaneously, and was not always able to get those thoughts out in a convincing or even moderately understandable fashion.   He would sometimes stutter and some students didn’t understand.  Jon started to realize how many of his classmates were not tolerant of differences and that bothered him.  They were judging when they should have been more objective and compassionate.

          Here are some more observations on Dr. Applebaum.   He wouldn’t just grade papers, he would type out a two-page summary of criticisms and advice.  This sociology professor cared about each and every student and seemed passionate about their intellectual development.   Applebaum’s number one aim was teaching critical thinking skills.  He wasn’t afraid to tackle the controversial topics either.   Some of the subjects Dr. Applebaum liked to talk about most were the death penalty, the environment, birth control, euthanasia and various Supreme Court cases. He was a classic liberal and unafraid to back up his ideals with a brand of logic as pure as Fort Knox gold. He would agree with Isaiah Berlin who said “Freedom for the wolves means death to the sheep.”  Applebaum was for the underdog, for the sensitive and kind student who was a little unsure of him or herself.   He would hint that Reagan would take the country too close to an “unkind fascism.”   Applebaum was pro-choice on a campus that was more pro-life, conservative and conventional. (A campus election showed Ronald Reagan the winner over Jimmy Carter by a 60-40 percentage margin.)    Jon admired Applebaum’s courage a lot.  Jon felt that Reagan, with his  appetite for war, seemed widely respected as this kindly cowboy trying to save the nation from communism.  People seemed in love with his image and not his substance.  Jon felt that many on campus were falling for the cowboy image and didn’t see his ferocious and ignorant tendencies.  Applebaum would say in class, “Capitalism seemed like a vaunted dream, but was it the best for people?”  He once got in trouble with the campus dean for pushing that question too far with students and a guest editorial article was written in the school paper about his “communist tendencies.” 

          At Milton Hall, Applebaum held extensive office hours and was a lot better in communicating with students one on one.  Milton Hall was one of the creakiest buildings on campus but an old building housed some of the most talented teachers.    Some of the smartest professors at Tilden had offices there, like the entire philosophy department, who someone said was ranked in the top-five in the country, ahead of many Ivy League schools.(There was a popular t-shirt that said, “Harvard University, the Tilden College of the East.”)  The chair of the philosophy department was Dr. Arthur Dobbs and he had that Ivy League feel.  Jon took a special interest in him.  Jon loved his mysteriousness, his intellectual steadiness and his open and engaging questioning method in class.   Dobbs was also a great advocate of learning history.  He would always say, “Learn what is in my class, or you are doomed to repeat it.”  Jon sort of appreciated this dry sense of humor.  Dr. Dobbs once told Jon’s class that there was a lot of “bullshit” in the social sciences.  He was once arrested for starting a bar fight at a local tavern with some townies.    

          Dobbs also helped Jon get interested in Immanuel Kant and his categorical imperative that there are fundamental truths upon which systems of knowledge can be based.   Then there was Des Cartes and the “blank slate” and persistent questioning of Socrates that Jon loved reading about.   His toughest class was “The Philosophy of Science” in which Jon felt very overwhelmed in.  There was Thomas Kuhn and the concept of paradigm shifts and the concept of scientific revolutions.  He believed that science undergoes periodic paradigm shifts instead of progressing in a linear and continuous way and these paradigm shifts open up new approaches to understanding that scientists would never have considered valid before.   Jon was perplexed that scientists could never completely divorce their subjective perspective from their work and that the comprehension of science can never rely on full objectivity.   He also was required to read people like Richard Bernstein, David Hume, Ludwig Wittgenstein and even Eugenia Scott.   It was pretty heady stuff for a young kid.

          In Frank Mills’ history class he would learn about Thomas Paine and his request to Americans of the 1700’s to revolt in the name of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.  Jon admired how Mills read Rousseau in class and often quoted Emerson to his students.   Mills believed that “education is empowering,” and he would repeat that phrase often and with conviction.  

          Perhaps the most conservative of Jon’s professors was Dr.  Hobson, the chair of the Business Department, who believed strongly in the roots of conservatism.   He praised conservative thought quoting Edmund Burke, stating that the right had a “disposition to preserve and an ability to improve” society.   He said the left is too full of extremists and radicals and that conservatives were wise because they stood for organic rather than revolutionary cultural evolution. The pedantic Hobson had strong anti-union overtones when he spoke, like he was always overly suspicious of their motives.   He quoted another conservative who said that to try to “prune and shape and force change is to invite unforeseen catastrophe.”   Jon came away from his classes still thinking that conservatism was a bit dry and boring. 

          In May of Jon’s freshman year there were the Hobson/Hixon God Debates.  Dr. Charles Hobson, who headed the Christians for Victory group, was armed with conservative fire power and Hixon supplied the common sense retorts.  The two adroit orators would debate vociferously at the MLK Lounge for three intense hours.  The event also got coverage from the Milwaukee Sentinel and the Janesville Gazette.  Young Hixon had been a classmate of journalist Christopher Hitchens in Balliol College at Oxford and had said jokingly that Hitchens’ voracious appetite for contrarianism had rubbed off on him.   He talked of the importance of intellectual and moral courage, however, young Jon thought there was something missing in conservatism, like it wasn’t totally in touch with the human heart.  

          In his article, Jon paraphrased some of the most interesting lines between the two.  Hixon came out sparring, saying that Hobson’s opening statement was “spirited but irrational and cognitively narrow.”  It was not Hixon’s intent to degrade, insult or excoriate his opponent.  His aim was to simply present the facts in such an orderly and attractive way that the audience would slowly gravity towards his way of thinking.   Hixon stated that the religious were more apt to use the argument of “irreducible complexity” to explain complex phenomena, and that they were not being open to the real answers.  Professor Hixon surmised that the intellectually humble man does not assume he has all the answers.  Hixon also touched upon the idea of evolution saying it is an apodictic certainty.  He criticized those who would object because of apparent gaps in the evidence.   Hobson tried to convince the audience that it is not ludicrous that there is a creator, given the vast complexity of human beings.   Hobson painted Hixon and his fellow atheists as representing a very dangerous and narrow world view, a world view bereft of any moral compass, lost in “a sea of meaningless relativism.” Hobson said it was somewhat detestable that atheists would attempt to convert young naïve minds to this sense of narrowness.   He added that if man does not have a soul, they are no better than a cat, snake or ameba.   He argued that God provides the foundation and without God we are nothing.  Hobson stated, “If atheists believe we are all just the molecules we are made out of, then they are denying the most important parts of life.  Theism is a more reasonable world view.”  Hobson would quote C.S. Lewis saying that a compassionate God accepts many different kinds of views and personalities but rejects evil.  He told the crowd that he had an epiphany of sorts after realizing late in life that most of his good, dependable and reliable friends were Christians and that those with no deeply-based belief system were the ones who were “less trusted friends.”   Gerard Johnson’s religion class was there with signs saying “Think abstractly…Think God!”  Johnson’s class put forth a barrage of softball questions designed to make Hobson look good, to enhance the ebullience of spirituality.  Hixon’s students were dressed more informally and also held signs saying “Think For Yourself.” 

          Hixon’s rebuttal was that there was not a correlative relationship between ethics and religion, inferring that those who needed a God were less likely to have a sensitive moral compass, and that ironically, agnostics and atheists probably had more advanced internalized ethics.    He argued that man was evolving toward being more ethical, but didn’t need an imaginary creator in the sky to make it happen, adding that the inability of human beings to fully reason about religion vitiates progress on many levels.   Hixon also argued that to have the ability to critically think about issues and to judge morality across a wide variety of situations was “crucial to the spiritual and intellectual development of man.  Hixon was careful not to drift into the esoteric, like William F. Buckley or Christopher Hitchens may have done.  He wanted to keep the keen interest of the students, not losing them in big words.” 

          The debate took an interesting turn when Hixon cried out that, “Extreme claims require extreme proof!”    He also stressed the importance of critical thinking and that religious fundamentalists were hiding behind “Oz’s curtain”and were “100-percent bluffing.”   Hixon added that it was unfair to indoctrinate children in the cruel brainwashing that religion represents.  The English teacher and pointed to the cognitive dissonance that would have most ministers not believe in what they say but talk up their propaganda to “the flock.”  He expressed fear that religion and spirituality may someday be transmogrified into something strange by the Earth’s children and grandchildren.  Comfortable modern-day understandings of the Bible may be lost with increased awareness of existentialism.  Something strange and full of Freud’s thanatos may result in the public dialogue when people find out there is no heaven.   Hixon’s dialogue had somewhat of a lubricious quality, as he was energetically switching from subject to subject.  He summarized that “if we are to look at a conflation of ideas, it’s imperative that both sides use rock solid logic to get to a greater understanding—a more powerful amalgamation of ideas.  To ensure that these ideas are useful for posterity, the ideas must have a strong logical cohesion.”  He added that “if there was a nuclear holocaust, there is a good chance that a propitious God would not intervene and that humanity would have to live with the consequences of the disaster.”    Hobson’s made his final point.  “You can side with hope or with the dyspeptic rationalists.  It’s your choice.” 

          Jon reported accurately that the audience of mostly students seemed to favor the atheist because he was a better entertainer and orator.  He still got some flack from religious students that he was apparently not fair and balanced in his reporting and that he favored the atheist because he was biased.  Jon postulated that the question most needed to be asked was, “Which side, religion or science, was more guilty of more cognitive narrowing?”     

“Philosophy is questions that may never be answered.  Religion is answers that may never be questioned.”   Anonymous

          Jon also wrote an article called “In Partial Defense of Faith.”  He wrote about how extremists on the atheism side can take things too far.  He referred to a group on campus calling themselves AMS, standing for “Atheism Makes Sense.”   Tom Shoreman led the group.  Sometimes people would talk about him in hushed tones inferring that Bill worshiped the devil and is faithless. Some people were truly scared of him, that he was delivering this negative karma that would infect believers.  Some also worried about his influence on impressionable freshmen and sophomores.  The group would protest at Wisconsin churches holding signs with question marks on them.  They would hold regular meetings in the basement of the student union but would play Dungeons and Dragons most of the time.  In his article, Jon wrote, “Billy’s Christian group and Tom’s reactionary group are polar opposites that we can learn a great deal from.   Tom’s hate and oversimplification of Christianity and literalistic interpretations of faith water down the true goodness which Christianity can represent.  Billy’s far right Christianity represents a somewhat dangerous trend in the other direction.  When worshipping Jesus turns into rationale for discriminating on the basis of race, gender or sexual orientation, faith travels far from what Jesus would have intended it to be.”

          For awhile, the conservative campus ironically seemed to be a magnet for liberal speakers.  Jon wrote a very complimentary column after Howard Zinn spoke on campus.  Zinn told the students in Great Hall that he'd like to be remembered "for introducing a different way of thinking about the world, about war, about human rights, about equality," and "for getting more people to realize that the power which rests so far in the hands of people with wealth and guns, that the power ultimately rests in people themselves and that they can use it. At certain points in history, they have used it. Black people in the South used it. People in the women's movement used it. People in the anti-war movement used it. People in other countries who have overthrown tyrannies have used it."

          Paul Wellstone, a young professor from Carleton College in Minnesota spoke at the campus that year as well.  He explained his book that he co-wrote called “Powerline.”   “Powerline” told readers about the opposition of rural Americans to the building of a high voltage line across 430 miles of farmland from central North Dakota to the Twin Cities suburbs.  Wellstone was deeply concerned that the welfare of people and the health of their land was dismissed in favor of “the massive and vulgar energy consumption of cities.”  The farmer-led revolt was peaceful and civil disobedience was respected.  By mid-1978, nearly half of Minnesota's state highway patrol was engaged in stopping sabotage of the project.  Wellstone told the students that interviews in Powerline “reveal the surprising power of the citizenry of rural America-and resonates strongly with those who care deeply about their country.”    Jon reported in the school paper about how he was moved by the event in an editorial and was criticized by some in the Republican and the Christian Club for being a lib and being biased.

          That’s enough about the professors and the school newspaper reporting experiences.  Let’s move ahead one year.  During Jon’s sophomore year, he and Ben Riseman decided to room together.  Ben seemed nice enough and Jon didn’t consider them best friends, but he was someone who Jon could trust.  Ben grew up on a farm and possessed a common sense intelligence that a person could trust immediately.  He would lend a hand to anyone in trouble.  If someone’s vehicle was broken down on the highway, he would be the first to stop.  He was honest and Jon found him refreshingly transparent compared to much of the upscale and self-absorbed Tilden student body.  He also liked Ben’s sister Debbie, who would visit from time to time.  Debbie apparently had a crush on Jon, and she gave him her senior high school picture one day.  Jon never followed up because he felt awkward about the rules of dating. He never really understood them.  At the same time, he was quite spiritually smitten with Debbie.  She had a quality of calmness and virtue that he had never encountered before.  (When you meet a presence like that, you never forget the impact it has on your soul.)  Jon liked Ben’s easygoing and good-natured rustic ways and his good and honest family upbringing.  He was 4^th out of 13 farm children.  Jon had a deep respect for Ben’s strong family values and work ethic.  The work ethic of the farmer was something that was becoming extinct in American society and across the world and Jon thought it was something to be treasured and revered.  He was just a plain good guy.

          In his sophomore year, Jon met Carl Tabor, who transferred from Cornell University after his freshman year.  Carl was interested in many things Jon was and the two had many bull sessions about philosophy and politics.   Carl had a great interest in astronomy, but his major passion was American Literature. He was fashioning his own major called “American Literature 1850-1980” and Dr. Hixon was to help guide him to his goal of being a high school English teacher, or better yet....a college English professor. 

          The enormity of the world’s reality seemed to overwhelm Jon at times.  Sometimes he would think troubling ideas repeatedly, but that would only exacerbate the problem of putting things in perspective.  Jon and Carl would talk about their favorite books often.  As we mentioned earlier, Jon had a real genuine liking of the erudite writer John Updike, especially his short stories.  Carl would talk about his literature classes and the two would compare notes of literary criticism.  They knew they were nerds, but most of the time they didn’t let their detractors bother them.  When they chatted about philosophy, it was often about the ideas of Des Cartes, Darwin, Jefferson, Hegel, Kant, Robert Green Ingersoll and the like. 

          Jon found some of Ingersoll’s quotes fairly unnerving and somewhat troubling, and Carl the self-styled secular sophist, would try to put Jon’s thoughts into his perspective. Carl would take the atheist side and Jon the agnostic.  Ingersoll wrote about religion:

“If a good and infinitely powerful God governs this world, how can we account for cyclones, earthquakes, pestilence and famine? How can we account for cancers, for microbes, for diphtheria and the thousand diseases that prey on infancy? How can we account for the wild beasts that devour human beings, for the fanged serpents whose bite is death? How can we account for a world where life feeds on life? Were beak and claw, tooth and fang, invented and produced by infinite mercy? Did infinite goodness fashion the wings of the eagles so that their fleeing prey could be overtaken? Did infinite goodness create the beasts of prey with the intention that they should devour the weak and helpless? Did infinite goodness create the countless worthless living things that breed within and feed upon the flesh of higher forms?” 

            Carl would emphatically say, “There is no proof whatsoever that GOD exists.”  Jon countered once by quoting his philosophy teacher, “There is no empirical proof, but there could be a knowing beyond the senses that is a sublime awareness beyond man. There could be something past the five senses which we cannot perceive which created us. ” The two would often agree to disagree but they enjoyed the safe environment for good and clean debate.  They respected each other but appeared to have sharp differences in their perspectives and intellectual propensities.  Carl also liked William Shakespeare and would share with Jon how he thought the legendary writer was thousands of years ahead of his time because of his keen and uncanny insight into the nature of human relationships.  Jon never bought into this process of making Shakespeare an idol.

            Dr. William Morgenstein was the head of the English Department at Tilden.  Carl thought highly of him too.  Sometimes Morgenstein would deliver a lecture with the energy of a Sunday sermon, like Father Kiley had done in Carl’s hometown of Dewitt, Iowa at the Reformed Church.  Dr. Morgenstein said of Shakespeare, “The man knew many truths which are sublime and timeless, which no doubt transcend 20^th century thought and which sometimes predict the events and human patterns of behavior even in this impatient and materialistic age.”  It seemed that Carl thought of Dr. Morgenstein as a father figure, and almost a prophet.  Carl had tried unsuccessfully to get Morgenstein as a faculty advisor. This upset him greatly.  Carl was once so upset about an English test that he bashed the mirror at Brockman Hall and had to get six stitches in his hand.  Sometimes Carl’s anger scared Jon.

          Carl and Jon were part of the campus’s Poet’s Club.  The poets the two young men would talk in the group about most were Wordsworth Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson (Carl’s favorite) and E.E. Cummings. There were poetry readings where Carl would show off his ability to recite Shakepeare from memory.  The topic of god and religion, however, was one the two always gravitated too, because it seemed so intellectually tempting.  

"The atheist staring from his attic window is often nearer to God than the believer caught up in his own false image of God." 

Martin Buber

          Both young men had vastly different views about what religion meant to them.  They both agreed that there were some contradictions and moral problems involving organized religion.   Jon liked Carl Sagan’s science books and his somewhat spiritual perspective on the universe.  Carl saw Sagan as a naïve dreamer who was more interested in being on the Johnny Carson Show than portraying pure scientific knowledge.   Jon still held out hope that great quantities of spirituality could exist in science discoveries and not just The Bible.

          Deep inside, Jon felt he was too painfully cautious and inadequate. There was playfulness in his soul, but it was buried deep inside.  Why was he so afraid to tell the world who he was?  Carl would tell Jon that he is a great guy and that he just needs to show people how great he is, how funny he could be, and that he needed to reach out a little more to people and that would reap rewards.   Jon thought that his writing could somehow help people, and make them feel comfortable thinking thoughts they were thinking. The ideas seemed too hard to express out in the open. 

“If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain; If I can ease one life the aching, Or cool one pain, Or help one fainting robin Into his nest again, I shall not live in vain.”

Emily Dickinson

          We now move a little farther ahead into the future.  Jon still feels he still has a major “direction” problem.  He didn’t have a declared major and he was moving headlong into his junior year at Tilden. Deep inside, he wanted to make a strong impact on humanity but he had no idea how he was going to strike out on his own and do this. Jon had developed sort of a false sense of security.  He felt somewhat comfortable in his malleable youth, but he never really able to connect with people to the degree that he wanted to, to make things happen in his life.  He found it difficult to make a stand against people who were winning an argument against him.  Jon felt like his life was in slow motion sometimes...too slow to get on the right page.  He felt like he was just too far behind. He hadn’t met up with the correct situations, interacted with the right people, didn’t have the right plans and wasn’t going in a direction totally of his own choosing.  Jon admitted to himself that he was more of a watcher of life than an active participant in the process...something sadder than words could say.  He was painfully aware of it all, but did not know how to break out of his chain of carefulness.  Pat Temmis once told him he was a smart person, but didn’t “do anything.” He was hurt by that comment, more than he could ever express.  He saw Pat as the winner he was supposed to be.  At the age of 19, Pat had already made up his mind that he was going into personal injury law.  His father, also an attorney and head of his own law firm, was a big influence on young Pat’s life.  He was also a very active and responsible member of the Tilden College Alumni Board.   Jon thought his life was very lifeless and mundane compared to Pat’s life.  He felt inferior to Pat.  There was something deeply wrong with that.

          What about girls?  Jon was quite caught up in the painful recognition that he was mixed up about sex and didn’t know the first thing about how to attract a woman.   He didn’t know the first thing about girls, and felt so incredibly awkward in their presence.  He really didn’t have a good read on what they were thinking, and this made him very nervous.  He felt he was a better predictor of the behavior of the male sex, but was embarrassed that he didn’t have a clue about the other half of the human race. If there was any way to extirpate the awkward feelings and emotions, he would sign up for the cure.   Jon was more of the bookworm than the adventurer.  Sometimes he wished he was more like Phil Goodman, the musician, who would thrill people with his guitar skills, playing James Taylor, Jim Croce, the Beatles and George Benson, wooing the women at the Johnston Hall Sunday night coffee houses with his intense strumming and heartfelt lyrics.  Phil also had a great sense of humor, imitating Steve Martin and George Carlin during his collegiate gigs.  Perhaps the most wonderful performances where when he was accompanied by Stacy Jackson, the brilliant Afro-American singer.  

          Jon was also a bit jealous of Joe Cosluss, of the Phi Delta Phi Thetas who seemed so natural with women.  It was almost like he had this extra sense and knew exactly what females wanted and expected. The Phi Delts sometimes acted like barbarians, but many of them seemed to have an innate feel for the souls of women, to be able to get to intimacy quicker and with more care.  Maybe they were more physical and sexual and girls liked that.   Jon felt like he was out in left field.  He felt like an alien with women. Sometimes he felt like a helpless and hopeless nerd.

          Young Jonathan would daydream once in a while about writing the great American novel. He thought of a lot of possible story lines thinking that his philosophy of life could be summarized through the characters.  Jon could subtly or perhaps quixotically speak great or burgeoning truths.   He remembered what John Updike said in a recent interview on TV that writing great novels is “transmuting the author’s experience into something meaningful.”    His main purpose, he said, was to “create beautiful books filled with honest feeling.”   Jon was completely stunned sometimes by the author’s adept descriptions of character, landscape, and quite surprised at how so much could be written so clearly, giving a vision of this world he was creating.   Jon would want to fill his books with such honest feelings and thoughts. Maybe his book could take some sort of political stance.  The theme of his work could oppose nihilism or could infer the inherent stupidity of terrorism or the mafia, making the reader more assured that the world could be a beautiful place.  It could make wonderful philosophical statements that could help fill the world with more peace and love.   His novel could have the power to assuage feelings of hopelessness and isolation while at the same time assisting people in feeling less guilty about irrational fears they have about the world.  It could attempt to reconcile feelings of cognitive dissonance between spiritual and scientific thinking.  The possibilities were endless thought Jon. 

          Carl would trivialize his friend’s seemingly manic thinking and would tease Jon him about having “silly screenplays inside his head.”  He would also joke that Jon’s life was an open book but that it “lacked a table of contents.”  Jon thought it would be interesting to write a novel about the first woman president, and all the psychological ramifications of how tradition would respond to a “first man.”  He also pondered about writing about the first gay president, but thought it would be too radical and not at all easily digested by the mainstream population, perhaps not even by the New York Times Book Review. Carl knew his friend sometimes acted like a dreamer, but accepted him for who he was, “warts and all.”   That was a phrase that Jon’s Uncle Gerald used sometimes. 

          Gerald was quite a character, but there was absolutely no doubt he was blessed with a heart of gold.  He cared greatly about his nephew in ways he couldn’t adequately express.   Uncle Gerald was a great supporter of Jon’s during the college years and would meet him for coffee at Perkins Restaurant on Jean Street once in awhile.   Gerald was in his late 50's, balding and gray.  He was full of sayings, anecdotes and dry humor.  He was usually smoking a pipe, with a deep cherry tobacco smell.  He was also a great pun master.  One of his favorite lines was, “I’m a tax and spend liberal and darn proud of it.”  Sometimes he would make comments that would puzzle young Jon.   His uncle once said he loved his car more than he loved himself.   That was a bit strange.   Gerald would also talk a lot about his good friend Alan Michaelson and how he was smitten with his intellectualism and his exceptionally good nature.

          Jon had a special respect for and curiosity about Uncle Gerald, his mother’s younger brother, and respected his courage to be himself, no matter what anyone else thought.   He knew his uncle was more than blood.  He was in fact a true friend.  Gerald spoke fluent German and had made many trips to his beloved city of Leipzig, Germany, where he attended music festivals, art museums and practiced one of his favorite activities in Europe, that of riding their beautiful "ICE" train system and making friends wherever he traveled. He often spoke of another highlight of his life, attending the Bach Festival in Leipzig and hearing concerts in the church where Johann Sebastian Bach performed and is buried. His greatest love is classical music and he wrote reviews of concert performances as well as any great music critic. He was also a talented competitive bridge player, a lover of Shakespeare, reading and biking, as well as a raconteur who could entertain friends and family with his comical and engaging stories.   Gerald was an intensely private man too.  He had a very strange sense of humor at times.  Once he took Jon to a concert by the Chicago Symphony when Jon was in high school and joked about yelling the word “shit” very loudly during the silence before the first note directed by Sir George Solti.   That was pure Gerald.

“Do not walk in front of me I may not follow. Do not walk behind me I may not lead. Just walk beside me and be my friend.”

Albert Camus

     

          Uncle Gerald was someone whom Jon could ask almost any question.  He never felt judged or unfairly scrutinized by his uncle.   It was good to have Gerald firmly on his side.   Like his uncle, he seemed to have a way of looking through people’s false airs and seeing them for who they really were.  The emperor has no clothes.  Gerald and Jon both had a knack for making these kinds of observations from time to time.   That made some people uncomfortable.  Jon began thinking about much courage complete trust actually takes. True friendship is very rare. Ironically, it was very difficult for Jon to place complete confidence in someone else.

          Jonathan knew some great changes would happen in his life and he knew he had to be brave for each challenge.

“We need to teach the next generation of children from day one that they are responsible for their lives.  Mankind's greatest gift, also its greatest curse, is that we have free choice. We can make our choices built from love or from fear.”

 --Elizabeth Kubler-Ross

          Jon felt a special connection to several of his teachers at Tilden College, and that gave him a kind of quiet courage. A professor who puzzled Jon but who also inspired him was Dr. Bob Othesford.  Othesford taught some of the upper level psychology courses and loved to take students out to the observatory stations in northern Wisconsin and in Michigan to observe wolves and other wildlife. His uncle, who was also a professor at Harvard, observed killer whales and had an observation station in Alaska.   His specialty was animal behavior, but he also had a childlike curiosity about human behavior.  He also gave talks around campus about ghosts and about haunted houses.   Dorms came to life when he spoke to young people, usually in front of a crackling fireplace somewhere.  Jon pondered, “What would Bob Othesford think about religion? He was most likely an agnostic because he was so honest and questioning.”  Othesford taught Jon that it was possible to be very spiritual but not necessarily religious.

          Jon was a very childlike and impressionable 19 years of age and he knew it. There were so many questions, including questions about the mystery of human intimacy.  He also was afraid of this intimacy and what it would teach him about himself, especially his limitations.  He didn’t want to face that.  He was more in control of his own life than he thought. 

          The biggest questions Jon had were, “What is the nature of God?   If there is a God, who created him?   And why were some people so set in their opinions on religion, convinced that non-believers will go to hell?”   He always wondered what Albert Einstein’s full conception of God would be.  This quote appeared below a bronze statue of Albert Einstein at Tollifson Science Hall: 

“I cannot conceive of a personal God who would directly influence the actions of individuals, or would directly sit in judgment on creatures of his own creation. I cannot do this in spite of the fact that mechanistic causality has, to a certain extent, been placed in doubt by modern science.] My religiosity consists in a humble admiration of the infinitely superior spirit that reveals itself in the little that we, with our weak and transitory understanding, can comprehend of reality. Morality is of the highest importance -- but for us, not for God .”

    

          Einstein had said that any God would be like Spinoza’s God and that science was king.  The great thinker was apparently referring to a creator who “reveals himself in the lawful harmony of all that exists.”  Jon imagined that Einstein saw the world in an extremely unique, creative and brilliant manner.  If only he could know the mind of Einstein completely.

          Jon and Carl would talk about world politics from time to time.  Carl would be quite petulant in his attitude and had an extremist liberal chip on his shoulder much of the time.  He was openly contrarian to make a point.  Carl many times took pride in his one-liners and acerbic wit, bordering on capricious or peevish.  Carl’s obstinate nature could also be a major stumbling block, especially when he was upset or preoccupied about something political.  Even though he was not nearly as extreme as Carl, the political party Jon naturally felt closest to were the Democrats, but he was not overly impressed with their sloppy organization on campus.  It seemed to young Jon that Democrats were often more hopeful and artistic than the Republicans who marched in a straight line and tended to be more futilitarian.   He admired how Harry S. Truman favored the democratic way of thinking and how they could lead.

“Once a government is committed to the principle of silencing the voice of opposition, it has only one way to go, and that is down the path of increasingly repressive measures, until it becomes a source of terror to all its citizens and creates a country where everyone lives in fear.”     

Harry S. Truman

          In his young and impressionable political mind, Jon had a strong feeling that Democrats were the party of inclusion, and in the long run this was superior to any kind of superficial class-oriented politics, which he thought the far right represented. Was it this simple?  He thought sometimes that the Republicans cared more about money and Democrats cared more about people. At Jon’s tender young political age, this seemed almost like common sense.  At some level, he knew it was a gross over-simplification.   He also thought current Republicans wanted to blend religion and government together too much of the time, that they were too focused on faith and not enough on reason.  Most of them hated unions.  Jon surmised that there was something inappropriate about that, something our forefathers would not have wanted if they were alive today.  What would John Adams have thought about the current Democrat and Republican parties and how they interacted?  What would he think of the divisiveness that many times runs counter to mature democratic discourse that was envisioned by our founding fathers?  The extremists in both political parties seemed to be tragic caricatures that held fast to their views and allowed no real debate.  Jon concluded that this was a serious barrier to real democracy.  

          It was clear to Jon that the Democratic Party embodied the diversity through strength concept better than the Republicans. He also knew that the dems could never devolve into fascism, where the GOP was quite capable of it if the wrong conditions were present at exactly the wrong time. The Democrats, he thought, could rule through inspiration rather than scaring the people.  Jon knew the Tilden College Republican Party President, but didn’t really like her or understand her.    Laurie Taurensmith’s metabolism was so often in high gear it would scare some people away.  She did everything so quickly.  She talked, walked and even ate too fast.  She was so sure of herself.    Laurie disregarded all “liberals” as silly dissenting people who were “naive” or “foolish.”   Jon never worked up the courage, but if he had, he would have told Ms. Taurensmith that it was better to embrace all races and all religions and be the party of inclusion rather than the party of class warfare or the party of the country club. Is it easier to side with the party of big business, but much more difficult to have the perseverance to go against the grain?  With a little courage, Jon could’ve expressed to her that so far, he thought that the bad guys with the big checkbooks were winning.   Deep in his mind, he wished that he could convey this political ideology to more people, and deep in his mind, anything seemed possible in his life, if only he could choose a smart direction.  Jon had a quiet kind of confidence in himself, which was not anything even close to braggadocio.  Many of the rich kids at Tilden had learned how to be arrogant braggers.  That’s not the kind of man Jon wanted to turn out to be.  That he knew for sure.

          Jon at times felt like he was soaring to a kind of mental clarity that would make him his own kind of person with his own set of unique beliefs about life.  Perhaps, he thought, he could be a political candidate some day...a superstar champion of the left.  He daydreamed often about being the hero of the common man.   This amount of day dreaming didn’t always help his studying.

“The only way of finding the limits of the possible is by going beyond them into the impossible.”

 --Arthur C. Clarke

          It was a September afternoon in 1978 and Jon and Carl walked down the blacktop path from Harlin Commons to the dorms. Phil Goodman walked past them whistling a tune he had just written on his guitar and was going to perform with Stacy Jackson.  They then heard a strange noise behind them. Someone was making gagging sounds.  He was hooting and hollering.  It was that pompous fraternity boy from the football frat, Delta Phi Delta Phi Kappa.  Billy Carson was the definition of the ADHD child gone completely haywire with an ego to match.  He was the classic bully in Jon’s eyes.   Billy sauntered up to the two with this strange maniacal look on his face, as if he knew the answer to a huge question that must have been puzzling him.  Jon kept quiet while Carl did the talking.  “What are you doing here...and what to you want Billy??

          Carl saw Billy as one of the ultimate campus hypocrites,  one who headed Tilden’s Christian Club, and one who partied heavily with his football and Theta Chi Chi friends at least 2-3 times a week.  He also enjoyed making fun of many people behind their backs.  He would fabricate much of his application to Princeton Law School.  That’s the kind of guy he was.  Jon thought that Billy had absolutely no credibility mainly because he was in love with himself and believed in winning at all costs.  He would strut his stuff and have no idea of the kind of idiot most people knew he was.  Billy just kept on strutting.  

          On Sunday, Billy would don a suit and with a half-dozen friends with bibles in hand would try to corner impressionable frosh or sophs, lecturing to them about God, and what God had in store for their lives if they accepted Jesus Christ as their personal lord and savior.

          Carson went eyeball to eyeball with Carl.  Carson was the first to talk, his blue eyes blazing and his blond hair flying in the wind.  “I’ve been noticing you boys, and your secular beliefs you have been broadcasting all over campus.  It doesn’t look good I don’t think.”  Carl was getting angry now, “What on earth are you driving at anyway?  Did you get drunk over at the Theta’s again?  It’s only 4 in the afternoon.”   Billy’s tone was now sounding more like a sermon.  “I think some guys in the Christian Club were offended by Carl’s letter to the editor in the Tilden Times school newspaper, offering that half-crocked view of agnosticism. You don’t realize how much damage you can do—ignoring the light of the Lord and professing your own individualistic hedonistic philosophy. Don’t you know that our country is a Christian nation?” 

          Jon restrained Carl as he wanted to throw a wild punch. Billy’s Arkansas drawl was now getting seriously annoying.   “Last time I checked, this was a free country and people were allowed to think and believe what they want.”     Billy retracted, ”I feel sorry for you guys–lost in your wishy-washy liberal world view crud. I’m getting sick to my stomach.  Jon, you think you can hide behind your commie articles in the newspaper.  Like the one about the poet who came to campus and nobody showed up because she was a radical feminist, maybe even a radical communist and a man hater lesbian.  We don’t like wild ideas like that on our campus.  President Campion was right.  She is dangerous for young minds.  What those minds need is the light of the Lord.”  Carl fired back, “At least she isn’t coming out to the commons on Sundays waiting for naive freshmen and women, ready to pounce on them and brainwash them at a moment’s notice. At least she is not a member of the Ku Klux Klan!  Your Christian club is a giant contradiction.  Look inward to see how you really treat people less fortunate that you are.  That kind of cognitive narrowing is common among some ultra conservatives I know too. ‘I earned my money. If some other degenerate isn't making money, it's not my job to fix them. I gots my money and it's too bad about anybody else dude.’ This is a very narrow world view and not a compassionate outlook. It's very ironic to me how the extreme right wing often affixes itself to Christianity and is very public about it. From the history I know, Jesus was a compassionate man who cared little about material possessions and a lot about people and would never have acted like the Republicans.  Can you seriously envision the prince of peace bragging at the country club about the latest car he just bought? Jesus would have been a Democrat who had true compassion for the homeless, teen mothers, the mentally ill, autistic kids, etc. The extreme right wing's version of Jesus is a gun toting member of the NRA and not a card carrying member of the ACLU. That bothers me.”

          Billy attempted to get the final shot in.  “There has been some talk about you guys too.  People are wondering if you two are embarking on an alternative lifestyle, a lifestyle not to the liking of a majority of Americans.  You know what the Bible says about that. You don’t have to be a genius to figure that one out and you guys may have a lot of learnin’ to do.  People are wondering about you two.” 

          Carl muttered under his breath...”I don’t have time for idiots like that.  His ignorance is beyond belief.  He’s an egotistical moron gone wild!”   The two walked away as Billy Carson flashed an impish red-neck smile full of false pride.

          Carl was now determined to write a fiery and passionate letter to the editor that Jon would hand deliver to the editor of the Times, Ed Wilson.   It was May 11^th and it was the last edition of the school newspaper before students were let out on break for the summer. 

Dear Students at Tilden,

            I find it unconscionable that a person who represents a Christian group on campus could be so off track.  Intolerance of differences on campus could grow like a malignant cancer if not checked. Billy Carson is not a good ambassador of good will, but is projecting just the opposite.  In March, the Campus Christian Club denounced the appearance of an award-winning woman poet on campus because of her apparent liberal bias.   The advisor of the club and the president of this college, Charles Campion, deserves the brunt of the criticism here.  Carson told me just last Friday how dangerous he thought Charlotte Isaacson was for the students.  A member of that Christian club, who will remain unnamed, said gays on campus should be turning to God and realizing their sins, adding that Tilden is “no place for alternative lifestyles.” 

            A liberal arts college should have no time for such extremist bigotry, ignorance and outright arrogance.  Most of the latest studies on homosexuality state that a large part of sexual orientation is biological and not learned.  Saying that these people can turn against themselves and turn to God…that they would be magically transformed is balderdash in its lowest form.  If there is anything that a liberal arts college such as Tilden should teach, it is tolerance toward different races, religions, sexual orientations and when it comes down to it......different world views. I believe there is a much revered book which states, “Do not judge, lest ye be judged.”  I rest my case.

Sincerely,

Carl W. Tabor

          We now move six months into the future.  After a summer in Meadeville and a part-time job at Meadeville Pizza Palace, Jonathan felt psyched up for the new school year ahead at Tilden College.  Jon felt like he had a fresh sense of direction, with a new major and a refreshed attitude toward school.  He had decided to major in psychology with a minor in journalism. 

          Jon was very interested in the study of human behavior, like his father, who wrote a pamphlet for the American Dental Association on “The Psychology of Patient Care,” which was widely read by not only the Dental Association but members of the American Medical Association and members of the American Psychological Association. It sold thousands of copies just in Wisconsin.  Jon’s Dad was known for his warm and excellent relationships with his patients, his dental chair-side manner as he liked to call it.   The mood on campus was mostly upbeat during that last week of September, with a warm fall wind blowing through the campus. The leaves of the trees were scattering in greater frequency along the campus walkways. 

          There was a smell in the air of autumnal welcoming, a sort of an olfactory fantasy.  The leaves were speaking a kind and gentle language as they whisked through the trees.  That day, Jon was doing things that many normal 20 year-old liberal arts college students do.  He was unpacking new textbooks and talking to Carl about sports and the good looking girls in Kinsey and Hersom Halls.  Girls at Kinsey seemed a little "nicer" than the rest of the girls on campus, and much less arrogant.  They were “real” and a lot of them liked sports.  Carl had many times mentioned how “down to earth” most of them were.   Carl would joke that these are the kind of girls he could “sit down and have a beer with.”

          It was an average morning on campus...Jon getting ready for breakfast before his Abnormal Psychology Course with Dr. Balek.  He also spoke with Carl about his upcoming test on DSM III disorders, noting specifically that autism was a particularly vexing condition that he felt was poorly understood and maybe would be for some time to come.  A large part of the test would cover autism.   Jon also mentioned a note on Dr. Balek's bulletin board about a camp for autistic and other behavior problem kids in Clinton, Connecticut that he was very curious about.  It was called Camp Hope.  The announcement on the board beckoned to him in a strange and captivating way.  He told Carl it looked interesting.

          Jon’s mind shifted from thought to thought.  He was worried that he didn’t study hard enough for the test and felt guilty that he had put it off until the last minute. It would be a busy year ahead.   He started thinking about his father for some reason.  Jon’s theme of internal guilt continued, and he suddenly felt guilty about not taking the initiative in not developing this relationship with his Dad who was an intelligent and complex man who didn't share feelings very easily.  Time had gone so fast since Jon’s mixed blessing of a childhood, with Murray the jock now far ahead in the race for parental affections. “The squeaky wheel gets the grease,” he thought.  What was done was done and he couldn’t go back in the past and change things.   He still felt a very solid bond with his parents, a bond he would later understand in far greater complexity and profound perspective. Why was he all of a sudden thinking about his Dad?

          The ring of the telephone broke the calm silence and echoed around the third floor of Brockman Hall.  Soon Jon would know that it would be the toughest phone call he would take in his lifetime.  There are some moments that a person will never be entirely ready for.  How he would react this time would be a strong test of his character and mental strength.  Burley Steve Burrey answered the phone on the third floor of Brockman Hall. Steve said “Hey J-man it is for you.”  (J-man was a name Jon didn’t invent, but, Burrey just felt this strange need to call him that, and several others in the residence hall followed suit.)

          “Hello.” 

          “Hello Jon, this is your Mom.”   Karen was obviously very upset. There was a unique tone to her first words, as she struggled to get them out. Jon knew there was something very, very wrong.  Her voice was raspy. He knew his mother never to have a raspy voice unless she was very upset over something.   “Jon... You need to come home right away. Dad has had a heart attack or stroke and is going to Mercy Hospital.  He was sitting at the kitchen table and passed out without saying a word. (Karen starts crying)I need your support Jon.  Murray has been called home from high school.  You need to come right away and drive carefully.”  The click of the phone felt too sudden and Jon knew he had to get moving.

          Jon’s heart seemed to twitch one or two times every minute as he packed a small bag in room 301. His heart was beating faster with trepidation.  When he got into the car to drive, it was like his hands didn’t want to take the wheel, as if they were stricken with some kind of ataxia of indecision.  He would take Highway 23 straight to Mercy, about a 25 minute drive, the longest 25-minute drive of his life.  As he drove, he thought of past times with his Dad, how he would stay up with him when he was sick (sometimes for hours until Jon felt comforted,) his silly habit of singing in the morning to wake up sleepy boys, and making “eggs in a glass.”  He remembered when he showed incredible patience showing him how to tie a bow line, a good knot to know if you were docking a sailing or fishing boat.   He remembered for some reason the stories his Mom would tell about his Dad when they first met.  He remembered the story about how his Dad asked Karen’s friend Bunny in college if she would go out with him if he asked, and she said yes because he exuded a “country boy cuteness that could not be matched.”   If it weren’t for Bunny and her whimsical request, he would not be alive.  Kind of a strange thought, pondered Jon.   All the good memories flooded back and Jon was afraid of what he would see at Mercy’s emergency room. His mind started playing a slide-show of memories as he tried to pay attention to the situation at hand.   Now another image came to mind, of Dad on the Flying Scot sailboat with contentment emanating from his sun-filled face.   The sun flickered in and out of the cumulous clouds and the rattling of something loose outside the passenger door of his subcompact didn’t even catch his attention.  He was firmly caught in his own mental web, a heady zone of contemplation, a poignant daydream.  It was like he was re-running an 8mm movie his mind.  Jon felt so bad for his mother who could lose her trusted and loving husband.  Karen and Daniel’s souls were conjoined in many ways. Both were well aware of that fleeting feeling of being perfect soul mates for short intermittent bursts of time.   Those fleeting moments were treasured very much. 

          Questions ran through his mind like, “Have I tried hard enough to have a meaningful relationship with my father or did I take a lot for granted?”  Or “What stress in his life was I responsible for or could have eased or erased?”  “How will my Mom be able to cope with a possible tragedy here? Dad is only 48 years old.”   He knew he would have to bravely cope with the future and help his family as best as he could. He was prepared to call up as much bravery as he could muster. A song came into his head.  It was the theme song from a disaster movie about a sinking ship he knew well....the words “there must be a morning after...there must be hope after the storm.” Why do the corniest and stupidest songs pop in during such serious moments?   (Of course, it could have been worse.  It could have been “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor.  That song seems to never end.)  He felt like he was immersing into a kind of poor man’s purgatory.  He flashed back to a time when his parents had called him a “broken man,” after he almost flunked a Philosophy of Science test last semester.  His parents may have been a little bit confused about his lack of motivation in college sometimes.  Thoughts were swirling around in his brain.  Episodic memory seemed to be flailing out of control. 

          Jon's mental state stood in stark contrast to what he was feeling just an hour ago.   While driving, Jon felt it odd that his mind could flash back to such normalcy, while a family crisis was in full swing. Once in awhile, during heady moments or moments of stress Jon's mind would conjure up combinations of words which to the outside world would be non-sequiturs or perhaps bordering on mental illness.  The words..."messianic buoyancy" kept creeping into his mind. Jon pondered this.  Jon thought, “I’ve never even said these words before in this combination before, how strange!”   A religious person would have assumed this strange self-talk was from God, but Jon analyzed it with a secular touch.  He may have read the words a long time ago and the deep recesses of his mind were now communicating them after long being dormant.  He then jumped to thoughts of the spiritual resiliency his family would need to tackle the days, weeks and months ahead.   Jon suddenly felt an unusual comfort and confidence that he could remain strong and buoyant in amidst the inevitable turbulence, even among the waves of angst that threatened to drown the bright hopes of his family.  This inexplicable buoyancy seemed to possess his deepest being. It was strange.  There was no other choice except to be strong.

 “Unless circumstances  to our urge us out of our comfort zones or unless we ourselves make a marked effort to face and overcome challenges, we never ascend to the highest stages of our potential.  We lie fallow on the surface of life, without germination, and incapable of rising to our higher level of self-consciousness.  So bless your darkest hours and embrace your challenges.  These dark hours are your greatest blessings and your greatest opportunities.”

Margaret Lathrop from her collection of prose and poetry, “Raindrops of Beauty”

            He felt for his Mom as so much of her life had been built around Dad. What would she do if Dad dies? Will she be able to craft for herself an identity and a self-confidence to survive in the world? Jon worried more for his mother than he did for himself.  Mom loved her two boys and would do anything for them, but the sacred nucleus was Daniel. There was no question that this health crisis would challenge family members, especially Murray the basketball star, much of whose self-esteem was wrapped up in sports and his parents. This would be a real challenge for a big brother to help Murray deal with feelings alien to him in a world of tragedy far removed from sports.   Jon again felt his heart beat, like his heart muscles were trying to escape from his chest.  He heard it flutter underneath his striped shirt.  Jon knew that in less than five minutes he would be meeting his Mom, Murray, Uncle Gerald and other friends at the hospital lobby. Even the head administrator, Bernie Dykes, would be there most likely.  He was the one his Dad had detested for his fastidiousness and overly-compulsive nature.

          As Jon came through the revolving doors, he first met Bernie's serious eyes; he shook his hand and said, "Good luck." His bifocals hung from the end of his nose and his eyes were projecting a strange kind of arrogance, as he gave Jon a semi- ingratiating slap on the back.  Bernie reminded Jon of that slimy vacuum cleaner salesman with slicked back hair and fake smile who was arguing with his parents several years ago about why they needed a Kirby.  Uncle Gerald sat on an easy chair in the lobby area, but his countenance was anything but easy.  Gerald’s current demeanor was vertiginous at best and he looked somewhat lost.   He had troubled and damp eyes.  Murray wore a San Antonio Spurs jersey.  Sweat was still apparent from a morning workout and he had his back turned to Jon talking to some medical professional near the elevator.  Jon's eyes then slowly joined with his mother's. His mother’s eyes expressed emotions like he had never seen before.  Dried tears made their impressions even several inches below the lids and she had a certain inherent seriousness.  It was almost an icy seriousness.  "Where is he?" said Jon.  His mother nodded and pointed, going into a crying spell once again. She pointed at a long hallway, at the end of which was the emergency room. "They are working on him in there...." uttered Karen. Murray turned around.  Jon went over to hug his younger brother, even though Murray was not the hugging type. This was a situation where they could break all the rules. There were aching hearts and no need for words.  An moribund atmosphere permeated the hospital.

          A doctor or aide with a stethoscope dangling from his neck rushed down toward the family from that long hallway with gleaming white tile..."I can take two relatives to see him, but you have to hurry!"  The man looked far too young to be a doctor.  Karen tapped her first born son on the shoulder and said..."Let's go. The rest of you, we will be just a minute. We’ll say hi to Daniel for you.  Wish us luck!"  The young medical worker added, "You can talk to him for a moment before we have to put him under. We are going to have to do a bypass of some kind. It’s complicated and we can’t explain it all to you right now. We must hurry!"

          The seconds were like centuries and the gravity of the moment was maliciously overpowering.

          The hospital emergency room was a busy place.  It was a mileu of doctors' orders, patient complaints, the sounds of technology including the beeps of computers and the hum of machines. Jon had not remembered being in the E-R before. His Mom had been to one 17 years ago when her younger sister was in a car accident, Jon didn't remember much about that. Maybe he repressed those memories.      Tracey Mordahl was hit as she was walking along a sidewalk in Haysford, by a drunk driver who drove up the sidewalk after robbing a drug store. It took six weeks for Tracey to recover. It was a painful recovery, a time period that family members did not prefer to talk about  very much.

          The smell of medical alcohol now became more intense as the two carefully rounded the corner. The first site of Dad was in ER Room 101. His head was propped slightly to one side. He had a blue hospital gown on and it looked like they were preparing him for surgery. Mrs. Stark went to the left side of the bed, fell slowly to her knees and looked incredulously at her husband. One of his eyes was half open...he muttered...in an unclear, squeaky and groggy voice, "It's OK." Out came another soft, barely audible vocalization.  "What happened to me?" Karen caressed the side of Daniel's head. "You were having coffee and toast at the kitchen table and you fell over. You just grabbed your chest and you couldn't talk or breathe.  I called the ambulance, and you're going to be OK dear. Hang in there. Jon is here too." "I love you Jon." Jon thought about the words one at a time. This is the first time he had said this to him, and he didn't know how to take it. "Love you Dad. You’ll make it through OK. We're here for you."  The doctors gave a pointing motion...the direction they needed to roll him out to...to a surgery room. Dr. Voight talked in a soft reassuring voice, "We are going to take him in for emergency surgery to repair what we believe are two main areas of blockage. We are also concerned about a possible tear in the aorta, which could require immediate attention. We’ve got our best people in there working on him." You guys can go back to the waiting room and we will keep you updated.

          It was tough for Jon to see his father so motionless, so helpless, so "not in control" of his life. He seemed like a man always in control. Jon said a prayer..."God if you exist, please be kind to my Dad. Do not let him suffer more than he has to, because I love him." Jon hardly ever prayed, but for the first time in his life it made sense. His mother was so quiet and contemplative that she may have been praying too. There are no atheists in foxholes and probably none in hospital emergency rooms either.

          The family was together again. Jon's eyes met Murray’s. There was no need for words right now, because anxious glances were powerful.  Uncle Gerald with a tense and troubled look now had strong smokers’ breath.  He was sneezing repeatedly all the sudden.  He had not smoked cigarettes in 20 years, and slipped out the side door to fill his lungs with nicotine. "He's fighting hard to make it. He was awake as they took him in for surgery; they are going to do an open-heart procedure of some kind. They didn't explain much to us...they just rushed him in," Jon sighed. "I know it sounds cliché, but all we can do is wait."

          Gerald tensely gesticulated and replied, “That’s easy for you to say.”  Jon hoped Gerald wouldn’t start banging his head against the wall like his mother said he did in 6^th grade when he didn’t make the school play.  Even though he is seen as a somewhat eccentric man to the world, Jon knows his uncle to possess a heart of gold. He would always be willing to lend a helping hand to family or friends in trouble. Gerald wears his heart on his sleeve. Jon often thought that he would trust Gerald with any secret, no matter how embarrassing or troubling, because he would understand.  Jon thought that Gerald could be counted on to be an emotional support person even in this tense crisis.

          Murray picked up a Sports Illustrated Magazine on one of the side tables of the waiting room and pretended to look at the words.   The magazine was more of a veil for his tears, tears which were starting to stream down the side of his face. Small talk started to break out after about 10 or 15 minutes of waiting. The talk was mostly about the weather and the local sports teams.  Someone down the hall appeared to be fighting which got the group's attention, but it turned out to be two custodians just horsing around.  They were talking about an issue they heard about on the local AM radio station.  It was on the conservative Clarke Smitherton show.  He had been on the air for decades and Uncle Gerald had on more than one occasion called him a “self-righteous wind bag.”  He had used other words to describe extreme right-wing Republicans and had once gone in a mad tirade during a phone conversation with Jon.  He was boiling mad at the Reagan administration, calling them a bunch of “callous f’ing simpletons.”  He used other even worse words that shouldn’t be repeated here. 

          An hour had now passed and Karen couldn't help thinking that her husband's fate was in the hands of some doctors half his age. She had a compelling urge to talk to those around her about the time when she and Daniel had been dating.  She said she could never forget their first date, when he was wearing bright white pants and spilled a strawberry sundae all over them. She volunteered to wash the pants at her apartment and he had to wear her brother’s overalls for the day. It turned out to be a great day of togetherness.  She also remembered the time they went up to northern Wisconsin (perhaps their 6th or 7th date) when they took her old Chevy up to Bayfield and on the way, the muffler fell off. It being a Sunday, they had a hard time finding help. They finally found a sheriff's deputy who knew where the Ford mechanic lived in town. He opened the shop just for Dan and Karen. He was sick with a 104 fever, but lent a hand anyway. They made their trip to Bayville that day and the young couple gained more trust in the possible goodness of humankind.  They grew a lot closer that weekend too.

          Good memories seemed to flow wildly in Karen's mind now as she thought of how special and sensitive Daniel was, how much he cared for everyone’s welfare and how he wanted his to be a very special family. She then remembered him on the sailboat, when he first got that Flying Scot, and how proud he was to be alive and out on the water.  It was only the 500^th Scot made and that made the boat more special.  Karen couldn't help thinking that the open water was a second home to her husband, especially after a stressful day at work.  Daniel also liked writing poetry to his wife. She remembered one...

A day continues in a brash fortitude

The wind whistles in the night

Memories of you persist in the daylight

Transcending our souls and truth’s delight

          Sometimes she didn’t understand all of the words and feelings associated with some his many poems, but knowing the immense love behind them was all she needed to keep her heart company and to keep her secure in the fact that Daniel cared about her with all of his heart and soul. Daniel would drop the notes all over the home, in the bathroom, in the car and even under her pillow.   It was a certainty that Daniel was 100-percent dedicated to her and to the family.  She felt fully alive when she was hand in hand in partnership with her husband.  They were soul mates.

“Seek out that particular mental attribute which makes you feel most deeply vitally alive, along with which comes the inner voice which says, This is the real me, and when you have found that attribute, follow it.”

--William James

            Dr. Alan Voight walked slowly down the hallway and looked up with that brief and sullen medical professional glance and then down at the floor again.  Karen knew immediately what it was. It was like that sheriff’s officer who comes to the door at night.  Her beloved Daniel had passed away and had traveled into another existence totally unknown by the living.  It was heaven for Christians and a big question mark for agnostics.  Daniel was now with his Unitarian God.  Jon thought about the possible reason for this spiritual castigation, this abrupt sequestration from his father.  Soft crying and sniffling could be heard in the hallway.  “We did everything we could to save him.  The aortic tear was just too difficult to repair. I’m very very sorry that this had to happen to such a nice family.  Is there anything else I can do for you right now?”  Uncle Gerald started banging his head against the wall.

          Jon felt like the gravity of fate was suffocating him. He knew that something had just happened that is totally irreversible.  A tectonic shift had taken place in his soul. A nasty life event was flowing through every fiber of his being, and he was now fighting back the tears. Maybe GOD was teaching him tough love, or maybe it was something GOD could not control. The finality of it all shook his emotions and struck at the core of his being. Why did GOD let his father die?  Did he have any control over the situation? Does anybody really have control over their lives?

          The family spent the next couple of days together, talking about many fond memories of their beloved Daniel.  Uncle Gerald read poetry(his favorite writer Walt Whitman)  on the front porch that first night, the stars glistening and the air so fresh.  Some of the words seemed just perfect, but yet there was a fresh awareness of loss, a giant hole in the cosmos.  Writer Margaret Lathrop would talk about the special magic to be experienced when one witnesses “the spacious panorama of the sky in all of its glory.” She would add rhetorically, “How vast is the love possible in an endless universe?”    Daniel was back to his home somewhere among the bright stars.  As Carl Sagan would say, “We are all star stuff.”

          It was a day before the funeral and the mourning was close at hand. The inevitability of it all was becoming more and more like a something he wanted to avoid.  The sun shone with intermittent bursts of light and shadow, as if it were treating the flatlands and small hilly regions of the college campus with equal favor and proportion. There was a womb-like security in Jon’s small dorm room as he sat in his black and soft reading chair.  He was perusing a book of poetry written by Margaret Lathrop. 

“The colors of the soul are tarnished by real life but nourished by poetry. The love is inside your heart is where you need to make yourself at home. “

Margaret Lathrop

    

          In his study area, Wisconsin Public Radio played J.S. Bach’s French Suites.  The piano music was so peaceful, so lovely and so intense.  It was utterly sublime. If only Jon could bottle up this moment and save it forever.  Freud once wrote about the magic of solitude:

“Against the suffering which may come upon one from human relationships the readiest safeguard is voluntary isolation, keeping oneself aloof from other people.”

          This haven of quietness and solitude was then sharply broken by the ring of the telephone in the echoing hallway. It was Jon’s mother.

          “Hi Jon, Do you think we could get together at Tom and Lois’s Restaurant tonight?  I’d like to talk to you about tomorrow.  “How about seven o’clock for coffee?”  “Yes, that sounds fine,” replied Jon.  The hours of seven to nine were reserved for Jon and his Mom .  They would travel to the comfortable confines of 1183 Timothy Boulevard, about 15 miles down Highway 23 toward Meadville in the tiny town of Weber.  

          There they were, mother and son and a pot of coffee between them, quietly sipping and opining.  Karen opens the conversation, “Do you have any female friends at college Jon?  Do you have male friends you can talk to?” 

          “There’s Carl. He is always willing to listen and is very caring person even though he hides it a lot with his sarcasm.  There is William Hill down the hall, but all he wants to do is to talk about calculus and outer space.  Carl calls him a ‘nut,’ but I understand him I think.  As far as girls go, there is Janine who also works at the school paper.  We talk about sports, computers and movies a lot.  Carl is very direct but great.  We have bull sessions over a glass or two of beer. We talk about our favorite writers.  Other kids would probably call us nerds for talking so much about that kind of stuff.” 

          Jon took a slow sip of coffee with a facial expression and searching eyes like he was pondering the fate of the world, thinking about something of infinitely weighty significance.   “You know Mom, it seems like time is so short and I could have gotten to know Dad a lot better, could have understood him at a deeper level.  Is this something all late teens strive for unconsciously, overcoming this upsetting feeling about never getting close enough to their fathers?”

          Karen paused slightly and mentioned, “There were many times when he said you were special in ways that Murray could not be. You had that special sensitivity that most boys lack.  When you were born it was like a sumptuous glorification of dawn, a new beginning in our lives.  We were so excited to hold our first child in our arms.”    “Yes, it makes me feel special that I made such an impression on your lives.” said Jon.  “I met a girl named Debbie last year at school and she seemed taken with my sense of calmness and good nature.   I’ll never forget what she said to me as we were shooting baskets at the college outdoor hoops.  She said, ‘You are different that the rest of the boys, I can tell.  You are special and not as aggressive and violent as the typical men.  I find your personality refreshing.’  It’s not like a very pretty girl to just say something like that out loud.  Was she hitting on me Mom?” 

          ”Sure she was.”  “I guess I was too naïve to realize it,” replied Jon.  

          “You know Mom, it seems like time is so short and if we don’t go down the right paths in life, if we fail to be proactive and make the right choices, life seems to drift right by.  It is kind of sad, isn’t it?” 

          Karen just nodded while smiling a sad and poignant smile.  John continued, “Only if I could have connected with Dad more often, did more things with him and showed more interest in projects and things like that. I could have taken interest even in the very small projects like folding the sails from the Flying Scot and watching a TV program with him.  Maybe we could have read the same book together and then discussed it later.  I feel like I missed out on something big sometimes. If only if things would have turned out differently.” 

          “I know son, I know. There are some missed opportunities and we have to live with that.  There are many things I would liked to have done with your Dad too, like retire, and enjoy life in the slow lane for awhile. We simply never got to do that. That is sad.”  Karen continued, “Do you remember when you were about three years old (I’ve told this story before) when we were taking a walk through the park and you said that ‘It’s great to be here?’  And I said where, and you replied, “Oh, here on Earth Mom, here on Earth.”  I was very touched by that.  You know, Earth can still be a pleasant place to be even without your Dad here. It sounds corny to say that right now, but it is really true.  He will always be here in spirit. That sounds kind of cliché too, but your father’s body died, and your relationship DID NOT.  Remember the story about Uncle Gerald’s Uncle passing way when Gerald was in his 30’s.  He gave Gerald his Toyota as a symbol of his love and respect for him.   Every time Gerald drove his Uncle Charlie’s Toyota, he thought of Charlie and his kindness and generosity.  Likewise, your great memories of your father do not have to perish.  Your father wrote me the most beautiful poetry.   He truly loved life and crafted his existence in a way that was graceful and pleasant.  He was such a calm spirit most of the time, the reassuring person I know you will be some day, a consoler of the sad and full of amazing curiosity about people.  I see a lot of that in you Jon already and it is exciting to see in blossom.  Your Dad had a total lack of arrogance on any level and you are much like that.  He saw the beauty of life and he expressed it especially well to me in private.  Your Dad was a humble and wonderfully giving man, who wanted the best for you. What I liked best about your father was his ability to listen.  He was a master at it.  He could tune into a person’s feelings very skillfully and sensitively.  His humility was not self abasement or mere submission, but it was a total awareness of the abundance of good and intelligence in the universe.  He was very humbled by the fact that he was far from knowing all the answers but felt proud of all the good things he was able to enjoy in this life.”   The song “Father and Son” played on the soft and tinny restaurant speakers and the smell of cedar and shoe polish was in the air for some reason.  “All the times I have cried, keeping all the things I knew inside…”

          Karen continued, “Your father had a tremendous empathy for those who have less advantage in life.  I kind of wish you and he would have connected a little more in earlier years.  He wanted the best for all of us and told me privately that he wished he had more time to ‘just talk with Jon.’” Jon wiped away a tear from his eye.  

          “It’s going to be OK.  I know you are groping for answers right now and it’s normal to have some private crying spells from time to time.”   Karen took out a framed picture.  It was a framed picture with a poem on it, written in forest green letters.  “I’d like you to have this.  Maybe you can put this up in your room. It’s Dad’s favorite poem.  It’s by William Wordsworth:”

My heart leaps up when I behold 

 A rainbow in the sky:

So was it when my life began; 

So is it now I am a man; 

So be it when I shall grow old, 

 Or let me die!

The Child is father of the Man;

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.

          “This is your Dad talking to you Jon.  Never forget this.  You have the perseverance, the inner strength and the immense love and compassion for your fellow man that your father has.  A mother could never be more sure.”   She reached out a hand across the table to her now trembling son. 

FATHER’S FUNERAL

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die!

Old Indian Prayer

          The outside of the Ormsby Funeral Home building had ivy climbing up the sides, much like the building that was used for his Mom and Dad's 25th wedding anniversary. In his father's will, he said he had wanted a Unitarian service, even though the family had not attended church on a regular basis. Jon had attended Unitarian church several times in the 1960's as a young child, when his parents tried to be regular church goers. That didn’t last long.  The Unitarians believe in a supreme being, but Jon’s Dad felt they are not so arrogant that they can define exactly what God is and what all the rules are.   Jon was critical of the Unitarians in two respects.  One being that they tended to gravitate towards the high income levels and secondly, that they tended to get too political.  It was his opinion that their overtly political nature made them a bit superficial at times.   Jon knew that a real God would not care in the least about politics. Jon felt there was something strange about that, but also felt there was a refreshing type of honesty in the religion that didn’t exist in conventional Christian theology.  They were not afraid to say they didn’t know all the answers.  He respected the Unitarians for not being so boastful.  They also seemed to have an uncommon empathy for alternative lifestyles and for other key differences among human beings. 

          There were rules about funerals that his mother told him about. Jon opened up the sheet of paper that he had folded in his pocket and read part of it.

            “The family should plan to arrive at the funeral home three to five minutes early and prior to the commencement of the service.  The family is welcome at the conclusion of the service, either at the grave side or crematorium, to make a final act of farewell by approaching the grave or crematorium bier. As the casket is carried from the place of service, the family should follow it out. Should the next of kin be elderly and unable to stand freely, we suggest they be seated in the family car for comfort, with a window down so that mourners may still approach them.”

                All of these rules, and these were just some of them. Why did there have to be so many rules?   Shouldn’t people know how to behave as a matter of common sense?  He was surprised that there wasn’t a rule in there saying...”Thou shall have proper reverence for the dead.”   To young Jon, there seemed to be an intricate unwritten and cold sort of rubric at church functions that made him feel inappropriate.    

          As Jon entered through the doorway, there was a serious smell in the air, a combination of aftershave, of fresh shoe polish, and other scents he could not completely perceive or define.  He had only been to one other funeral in his life, and death was somewhat of a new experience for him.  It was Aunt Naomi’s funeral.  It was an open-casket type of event, and Jon had nightmares about it for a couple of nights. This was his first glimpse of a dead body.  It was so peaceful looking but so frightening. It was hard to believe that someone could be completely gone, that their existence could be erased.    Jon didn't really know what to expect on this day, or wasn't sure exactly how to act.   He was handed a program by the usher.  On top of the piece of paper was a picture of his Dad captaining his sailboat.  Inside was an Indian prayer that stated that the spirit lives on in those who care about the earth. There was a necrology provided near where a couple dozen scrapbooks of pictures were displayed.   Snapshots of Daniel’s sister Naomi, Uncle Charlie, Grandma Jane, and Aunt Jessie were all there.   There were also pictures of Daniel’s brother Tom who died when he was three years old of polio.  Candles were lit for seven relatives who passed away before Daniel. 

          Daniel had always been very concerned about the environment. Jon remembered how unhappy his father was several years ago when the governor cut highway money and vetoed cuts to the state’s land stewardship fund.  His father's favorite poem was also there.  It was a poem about youth by William Wordsworth called "Intimations of Immortality." His Dad had helped Jon work on a report on a poem for English class...a paper that analyzed that poem in meticulous detail.  He had been impressed how objective his teacher, Dr. Hixon, was in grading the 10-page paper. Jon had received an A- but had always felt his Dad was a big help. Working on that big term paper was something he and his father had truly shared together.  Jon's memories swept back in time to the report on the human brain and the project his Dad helped him with.  Dad took great pride in helping Jon build a car for the Pinewood Derby.  There was his gentle encouragement to join the softball team in 5th grade, and a report in 7th grade on the electoral vote process and why it was flawed.  Jon tended to remember the good things about his father, even though there were also some bad things, like teasing that seemed a little more mean than kind. There were some very awkward times when he attempted to be part of the racing crew on his Dad’s sailboat.

          During races, he saw a different side of his father, somewhat brasher, more impatient, and he would sometimes swear on the boat, something that offended him. He was never able to talk to his father about how upset he was about that.  It was almost like a disturbing kind of capriciousness from an impatient soul.   His Dad seemed to change personalities on the boat. He was not the same man when he was in this intense competitive mode.  He didn’t want to get to know this side of his father.   Pleasure sailing was a different story, as Dad seemed more placid and friendly, more like the gentle soul he was meant to be.   

          In some strange way though, Jon's Dad may have wanted to show his son his more human side on the boat, thinking this was a way to change their relationship for the better in the long run.   It was also his Dad that encouraged him in downhill skiing.  Jon had become the most graceful skier in the family largely because of Daniel’s persistence early on to not let Jon give up. The young Jon felt invigorated with a kind of grace on the moguls of Aspen and Brekkenridge.  It seemed to transport him into a different world, a kind of higher plane.   There was something deeply sublime about being at one with the mountain.    Jon was now wishing his Dad had pushed him in other ways. But now, it was too late.   Jon looked back on the program, and then heard bagpipes, the emotions creating a moist tear in his eye.   Perhaps the most beautiful sound he had ever heard was emanating from the back of the church.     

          The minister, John Zimmerman, had been a politician (a local assemblyman) 20 years ago, but realized that there was a greater calling with the Unitarian Universalist Church.  He had grown very tired of the bickering inherent in the political process.  He was sick of the arguing that seemed to never cease.   Zimmerman had been an assistant minister in Minneapolis before coming to Meadeville to a very small congregation. Zimmerman had always said that rural life was more refreshing and the people were more “real,” he joked.  His goatee was not too different than his father's salt and pepper version.      His mother and Murray were now sitting next to him in the pew.  It was the first time they all had been to church together since the 1960's. What a strange feeling, thought Jon.     A soprano from Rhinehampton, Wisconsin was also on the program. She was standing in front of the colorful church, dressed in a black dress with matching black shiny shoes poised and ready to go. She had eyes like an all-knowing angel, Jon thought.  How could anyone look so beautiful at a funeral?   They sparkled as they turned Jon’s way.  It was poignant, because they sparkled with sadness and beauty at the same time. He felt guilty catching her glimpse, because he was not a flirtatious man.   The woman was to perform something from J.S. Bach and a piece from Franz Joseph Haydn, his father’s two favorite composers.  On the back of the program, there was a statement about what would become of his Dad’s ashes after cremation and the ceremony.  They would be flown over the Rocky Mountains, and dropped over his father’s cabin near Evergreen, Colorado.  Daniel had many great memories with his parents there.   Jon had gone fishing for rainbow trout with his Dad and grandfather there several times. His father also loved to sail his Butterfly sailboat and his sailboard in that area.  He had named the red Butterfly “Sublime Freedom.”  That particular lake was a place of placid dreams, a place of surreal peace, and a place straight from the sublime.  It felt like heaven.   Jon was hoping his Dad was experiencing that kind of peace right now.  Jon’s favorite writer Margaret Lathrop would elegantly state what a vision of peace is. This was a passage that was included in the funeral’s order of service:    

            “If peace was something I could buy at the mall, I’d gladly spend my last cent to purchase it.  And were this possible, I would distribute it freely to every stranger, to every family member, to friend and foe alike.  I’d stand on the corner and pass it out like bright confetti to every person the way Santa passes out candy.  I’d shower it across the whole planet like a golden rain from heaven. The truth is that just as it is with many other intangible concepts, peace is a choice that is essentially transcendent in nature. Peace is always there, waiting patiently for us to welcome it and affirm it in thought, deed and spoken word. It is an invisible presence that enters our lives only when we realize that the nourishment of our souls must take precedence over the transitory dictates of the ego.  Always, this thing we yearn for, this priceless treasure, is a choice each one of us must make in every moment of our earthly lives.”

          There was talk in the hallway that Jon had overheard from distant cousins, who were debating the merits of cremation over traditional burial.  The town gossiper squawked that it was more dignified to be buried, and that cremation was somehow an affront to God himself.  Jon believed that it was just his father’s body, not his soul that would be burned. His soul, if there was such a thing, was the important thing here.   Jon rooted silently for the pro-cremation side, and really loved the fact that his father’s ashes would be spread in a place he loved with all of his heart.  He had remembered from his college studies that in Kenya, land for burial is growing scarcer by the day, and whatever remains is being grabbed left and right by unscrupulous individuals. This was probably happening in dozens of other countries as well.  There seemed to be good societal and practical reasons as well for choosing this option. He also remembered a lecture by one of his favorite sociology teachers.  Eric Applebaum once said, “America's early cremationists utilized the idioms of both theology and sanitary science, merging the ancient queen of the sciences and one of the newest modes of scientific inquiry into one overarching argument.  Burial presented both a danger to public health and a threat to the spiritual life of a nation. Cremation, by contrast, promised not only a more hygienic but also a more spiritual America.”

          The services had just begun and that mysterious and charming soprano named Kathleen was performing a piece that sounded very much like J.S. Bach.  The music later in the service included Pachelbel’s Canon.  It was a special improvisational recording by the New Age artist George Winston.   Jon was thinking about how Winston’s interpretation seemed like a breath of fresh air compared to more traditional compositions.   He marveled at how gracefully Winston could make pieces his own.

          Kathleen, the tall brunette with blue eyes, sang a poignant version of Ave Maria, one of Daniel’s favorites.  Jon wondered how Kathleen could remember all those words in Latin.   A somber crowd of mostly professional people (about 100) filled the small chapel almost to capacity.  Daniel would be buried wearing his grandfather’s gold watch, a family heirloom of the highest order.  (The watch was to be symbolic of time being very precious.) Dr. Kelstone was there, a friend of his Dad’s since medical school.  Dr. Smeadiman, the man who helped his Dad so much during his early years in the dentistry business, was talking to Jon’s aunt. Jeanette Carnelo was also there.  Mrs. Carnelo, the faithful administrative assistant at Stark and Smeadiman Dental Associates, always had a kind word for Jon and his brother when they met at the office or at some social gathering.  Jon wondered about the hundreds of stories these people could tell about his Dad, many of the stories he had no knowledge of.   There could be stories about Dad’s work side, his funny side, his confused side, his compassionate side, and the ethical and morally ambivalent sides, even his controversial side. 

          Jon kept thinking that it was sad that he didn’t know his Dad as well as he could have. Part of him wanted to take the blame for this, and part of him wanted to forgive himself for not having those important one-on-one conversations that could have built a more solid bond.  It was the way things worked out and there is nobody to blame. He was sad that his Dad was not alive to see him harvest some direction in life.  How tragic that we have so little control over our own fates, he thought. 

          This poem was displayed near the casket, amongst the flowers, the quiet talking and the tears.

Sailing the boat of silver light

The moon beauty is fast approaching me

The sky is vibrating with week and melodious songs

The birds are flying beyond the horizon

To an unknown land

All my hopes are flying without destination

Slowly my life’s evening sets in

Sri Chimnoy

          Three-quarters through the service, it was Jon’s turn to play a special song on his old Martin guitar that he had written for his Dad.  It contained the themes of love, freedom and sailing. 

"Sailing Away"

I see you sailin on  

I see you sailin away

Your smile and your love

Will never go away

Well you take my hand

And you take my heart

You say all the right words

Right from the start

I see you sailin away

I see you sailin away

In life's deep oceans I now sail  

Your lessons a beacon in my soul   

In my heart your guidance does not fail

With your love I'm never stranded on the shoals

Well, you’re proud of your son

Leave nothing undone

With vision and grace

We turn the next page

You are an island in my soul  

As I navigate the stormy seas

No storm can gain control

Cause you'll always sail with me

Sailin’ away

Victorious day

The sky is so clear

As long as you are here...Dad

You're sailin away

And I'm sailin' on

You're sailin’ away

we're sailin’ on too

Sailin’ away 

          There were several other interesting people who showed up at the funeral, including the venal Mr. Hackborn, who was in the insurance business.  There was Vern Kron, the tax accountant, who his Dad sailed with from time to time.    There was Patricia Kay Griffin who was the waitress at Daniel’s favorite family restaurant called Percheau’s.  She was talking, while gesticulating actively, about her favorite new folk and new age musicians and how she adored Gordon Lightfoot so much.  There was the laconic hardware store owner who Daniel visited on a regular basis for everything from a faulty lawn mower problem to a window latch problem.  There was a hushed conversation as Kron’s wife talked about a fascinating new book by Dr. Wayne Dyer that was helping her with her life’s problems called “Your Erroneous Zones.”  Dr. Charles Darrow, always felicitously adorned, settled himself into a comfortable part of the room, talking about the weather.  Dr. Darrow was known as the secular humanist in town that everybody ignored.  He would write letters to the editor but they were mostly ignored by the mainstream.

          Jon also thought about how Americans hid death, how they used terms like “pass away” and “laid to rest”, and “rest in peace.”  He wished that death was more of an open event in the USA.  In the America’s past, people died at home and the body would be kept in the home until the time of the funeral.  The family had a chance to openly acknowledge death in their household and could come to terms with death at a deeper level he thought.  And why must funerals be such a somber affair?   His Aunt Jane, who was quite the political liberal (perhaps radical), had spoken about this to him. She admired the funeral of an Irish friend named Steve who died in a car accident in his early 40's.  She told Jon about how the funeral was a celebration of the person’s life rather than a somber and tense affair filled with the angst of the unknown. 

          Then he caught a glimpse of his aunt, who just entered the large room. She was wearing a colorful, African type top, a rainbow of colors...and a big smile as she talked to friends.  Daniel was her more conservative little brother and she loved him dearly.  She had a wonderful sense of humor and a good perspective on life, and looked great and full of energy as she approached the age of 74.  Jane was a city council person in Hannaton, in southern Wisconsin, and always had an original and very colorful way of expressing herself.  Her opinions were always her own and she did not hesitate to air her views on issues she felt were of “burning importance.”  Even those who disagreed with her respected her originality and most people liked and respected her for her political courage and stamina.  She once delivered a speech to the Library Club in her hometown about being prochoice.  Mrs. Masterson, the staunch conservative librarian, approached her at the end of the presentation and told her she thought it was a well organized and well delivered speech, but totally disagreed with her conclusions. 

          Aunt Jane had a ritual of having coffee with a group of friends at the Oasis Coffee Shop.  The people there seemed especially kind.  After breakfast, Jane would go to the new chapel at the local hospital.   She would pray for her friends and loved ones there once in awhile.  She would also pray for her ex-husband who left her for younger woman.  She stilled loved Frank even though was gone for more than ten years.  Aunt Jane would tell Jon how great it is to start the day with a sense of peace and purpose.   She was a confident woman who seemed to have a strong sense of direction in life with a feeling of compassion towards others.  She would preach the gospel of surrounding oneself with kind people in life.  Aunt Jane had a most interesting circle of influence.  The people who got what she was up to truly understood how great of a person she really was. 

          The funeral service lasted only about 35 minutes.  Several poems were recited. Murray read a self composed work called "The Young Man and His Sea."  It was about how his father had loved the water so much whether he was sailing on Lake Orion or fishing in Evergreen, Colorado. The poetry created images of beautiful days on the water, the waves splashing as they were set in motion by the "breath of God" and "Daniel's face reflecting complete and utter satisfaction."  He went on to say that his Dad was able to reach "a spiritual peace reached by very few captains on the open water." Jon could tell that Murray had put a lot of thought into his poem and really meant every word.  Jon had written some poems in his youth, but never thought of himself as very talented.  He wrote a poem called "Admiration" for his father during those years in his teens when his Dad seemed to be getting more distant. Jon did feel comfortable enough composing a few lines, which ended up on the back of the program for the funeral service.

How do we summarize a life?

A life with plans unfinished....

How do we praise a man?

And try to maintain his vision?   

          Jon felt that he and his Dad's relationship was kind of a shared vision never fully completed or actualized.  He felt the weltschmerz welling up rapidly inside of his soul.   Jon would now have to (through his thoughts and actions) live a life his father would be proud of.  Maybe he would have to guess at what would have made him proud. Jon would have to craft his own identity and meaning, making the right choices in life. The pressure to do this had never been so great.

          As Jon was leaving the funeral proceedings, he felt an internal needling, that voice of conscience telling him that he probably should have listened more carefully to his Dad, to what he was saying, doing and inferring.  He would have to interpret life for himself now without his idol.  He was fatherless at the age of 20.  The resulting intense existential feeling was almost suffocating.

          Even though he had passed away, his father would remain a giant in his life.  Later in the week, his Dad’s ashes would be spread across a picturesque lake in Evergreen, Colorado. Parts of his father would remain forever a mystery, and that thought brought a tear to Jon’s eye.   As the more than 90 people filed out, there were glances of sadness, of mutual admiration and of confusion.  Jon felt that some people were somewhat overly ingratiating and some were more genuinely warm and real.

          Young Jon knew he had to start a new chapter in his life and it was totally up to him if his life were to soar or flop. One of his father's favorite sayings was "Don't feel sorry for yourself."  Another was, “You get out of life what you put into it.”   He would need to follow through on this advice right now, more than ever before.  Jon would have to make it through life’s wilderness more alone than he had ever been before. 

          His Dad’s psychiatrist and family friend Dr. Tom Kelstone was also there.  He was the man who helped his father through tough times when his sister died. Kelstone highly valued psychologist and writer Dr. Carl Rogers and his idealism. He had studied him in psychology classes and had read some books by this modest but brilliant man. Rogers was famous for what was called “client-centered therapy.”  Kelstone also admired his concept of “unconditional positive regard.”   Dr. Kelstone exemplified many of those qualities in his sessions.  He was also a close family friend who knew this was a tough time for Jon and his mother and brother and he wanted to help in any way he could.  He first got acquainted with Jon’s father while the two were in their respective post-graduate schools, Daniel in dental school and Tom in medical school in Nebraska.  

          Jon had read about the ideal relationship between therapist and client, where there was a caring and accepting relationship forged during sessions, and where caring was not contaminated by judging of thoughts, feelings or actions.  It was compassion without judgement, a compassion that made it possible for a client to feel that his/her own experience is important and the direction he or she was crafting sacred. Directiveness and judgements in therapy were minimal, out of respect for the individual’s reality and life experience.   Jon left the funeral that day looking at the soft, brown and fragile leaves falling from the trees, knowing that everything that lives must die but that recovery after a major loss was possible. It was a sobering sense of urgency that filled him, as he drove away, the leaves crumbling under the tires of his car, and the minutes of his life evaporating like water on a hot metal roof.  He had a feeling that his life and Dr. Kelstone’s life would cross in some meaningful way.

          It’s now two weeks later and Jon is tossing and turning quite frequently with some disturbing dreams.  He was having trouble getting to sleep since the funeral. Maybe another factor was that he was watching too many crime shows on TV lately. He had a nightmare that he was in the middle of a robbery and two people were shot.  Then he had a dream about his wife getting into a car accident.  Jon would also have a dream that he was taking a trip to Russia on this huge jet plane that had a swimming pool in it.  But, when he got to the USSR, he didn’t know where to go and no one would take him in.  When he tried to board the plane again to come home, it was too heavy to take off.  There were many reoccurring dreams in which his Grandpa Charlie would come back to life.  He would appear at a party, perhaps a 4^th of July gathering (a tradition of the Starks) and he would be there.  Jon would say, “I thought you were dead,” and Charlie would respond...”Oh no. Where did you hear that?”  Then he would smile and laugh.  Uncle Gerald’s Dad was a character, always telling stories and laughing.   Grandpa Charlie was quite a practical joker. He once put beer cans on the lawn of the First Catholic Church in his hometown, because he thought the Catholics took themselves too seriously, that the church leaders were “prudes too obsessed with their own importance.”  Charlie was a “devil may care” kind of guy.   The dream was a pleasant type phantasm.  Jon marveled that his imagination had created the whole thing.    It was strange that Jon would have so many strange dreams within such a short time span.  It was the weltschmerz welling up inside him again.

     

THE PSYCHIATRIST’S COUCH

          Jon’s mother was also aware of the strange dreams and sleep problems her son was having and recommended to her son that he see a therapist to help him sort out his feelings.  The perfect choice was Kelstone.

          It was Tuesday and the leaves were nearly all fallen, brushing up against the Washington Avenue office building. The building was constructed in the 1920’s and had a certain charm.  This was the first time Jon had ever gone to a psychiatrist and he was nervous about the uncharted territory he would explore, the territory of his own mind.  His mind was heavy with some of the criticism he felt he could get if people would find out he was visiting a “headshrinker.”   He felt like the great John Adams crossing the Atlantic for the first time.  There were many perils, but also many possible discoveries.  

          When entering the office, Jon glanced at a framed piece of wooden art that had the engraving a quote by John Wesley, 

"Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as ever you can."

          Dr. Kelstone opens up the conversation:

          “I know you Jon but tell me a bit more about yourself.”

          Jon: “I am 20 years old. I’m a junior at Tilden College. I am majoring in journalism, with a psychology minor.  I like life in general, but I don’t think I’m communicating with people in a real cause and effect, impact like manner.  It’s hard to explain. Maybe I’m too critical of myself.  There seems to be this wall between myself and others preventing me from having relationships that have meaning, the kind of meaning I want out of life.  The problem is that I’m not a risk taker, and therefore am not very street smart. I have been an observer of life.  I have this vague troubling feeling that I could get more out of life and I’m missing all the fun.”

          Dr. Kelstone: “Tell me about your family life and how you perceive yourself as a part of your family.”

          Jon: “It was a very normal family. Dad was at work a lot, but his high salary enabled us to live in a safe middle-class neighborhood, a nice Meadeville subdivision.  My father wanted the best for us.  It was a neighborhood with friendly people in it, and a lot of nice material things.  I felt safe growing up with very decent and good parents.”

          Dr. Kelstone: “You feel your life has been relatively safe?”

          Jon: “Yes, maybe a little too safe. Maybe that is part of my problem, in being afraid to totally live my life. I never take risks and the irony here is that I don’t feel like I have as much control over my life’s direction as I could have. If I could just take the bull by the horns more often, but I don’t.”

          Dr. Kelstone: “How has the death of your father changed your life? Is that why you came to see me today?”

          Jon: “Yes, my Mom urged me to see a counselor. I agreed that it might be a good idea to try to put things in perspective.  Since you are a family friend, I felt you would have the extra insight and understanding to help me sort out my feelings.  Our family is having a hard time. Things are a little jumbled up.  My younger brother Murray is a senior at Meadeville High School. He is dedicating his senior basketball varsity season to my Dad. He made his own black arm band and points to the sky when he makes a basket.  I’m trying to be a good support person for Mom, but she is so busy and I’m also busy at school.  We talk on the phone once in a while, but that is about it. I’m worried about Mom too.  So much of her life was built around Dad. It’s like the four-legged stool has lost two legs.  I think some of the foundations of Mom’s self esteem were firmly embedded in Dad’s ego. Now the rug has been ripped from underneath her feet. She may be holding in her feelings.  Maybe you should talk to her too.”

          Dr. Kelstone: “I have already set up an appointment at the Meadville office next Tuesday.”

           Jon: “That’s good.  I’m sure she has a lot of feelings to sort out, maybe more than I do. She is trying to get more involved with the symphony association, with her book club, with Planned Parenthood and with the library board. The house has been so quiet.  She needs to get out. Maybe she should run for city council or something.”

          Dr. Kelstone: “Your Mom sounds like a very important person in your life. Let’s get back to the father/son relationship, what was your relationship with your Dad? How do you evaluate it?”

          Jon:  “I’m afraid it was a relationship far from actualization. I know Maslow talked about self-actualization and I believe relationships can have actualizations too. Dad was always an over-achiever, but never wanted to impose too much on me or call too much attention to himself. There was a strange kind of distance between Dad and me sometimes.  He cared a lot about me, but always related more to Murray.  Murray was the socializer, the jock, and the involved guy. He was the doer.  I was the dispassionate observer of life, careful with every move, probably too careful, and that did not impress him in a positive way.   I also think he had serious doubts about my intelligence.  Dad was a jock in high school and Murray seemed to follow him in lock-step.  I was in tennis, cross country and yes, the Math and Polaris Club, but that was not the track he envisioned for me.  Part of his distance was his personality and part of it felt like disapproval.  I was always more introverted and more careful.  I think he always felt I was closer to Mom.  Mom and I see eye to eye more often and our senses of humor are more parallel. In some ways, my sense of humor is most similar to Uncle Gerald’s.  Uncle Gerald is my Mom’s brother.  With Dad there was sometimes this angst, this subtle heartache of an unrealized relationship.  At the same time there was this admiration and respect for him too.   I feel I didn’t become the person Dad wanted me to be. I was too laid-back and not a go-getter. Now, I will not be able to fix it because only in my private thoughts and dreams can I talk to Dad.  I feel like I am like him in many ways but we were never able to see our similarities and to talk about them together.”

          Dr. Kelstone:   “What do you think are some of your greatest similarities?”

          Jon: “I think we thought about the world in the same way, with optimism toward the future of mankind.   We were dreamers about the future and always saw the good in the human race.  He did not think of man as a victim of original sin, but always felt the challenge to look for and find the plentiful goodness in every heart he came in contact with.   He was a fierce opponent of the death penalty for that reason, because he felt there was a heart of goodness in every person’s soul if only we looked deep enough.   We were both forgiving, but always questioning, and at some deep level we both believed in a higher power.  My father said he was an atheist, but, I knew him to be part of the positive energy here on earth, which to me could be defined as a god-like energy.  (I guess that’s how the Unitarians would characterize it.)  He believed in people and was a firm believer in the Democratic Party. When asked about why he was a Democrat, he would say because Democrats believe in people and Republicans believe in money, then he would have a chuckle.  That comment would drive the Republicans crazy. Dad also was always for the underdog.  Often when watching a sporting event, he would heavily root for the weaker team.  I know he believed in me too, but was frustrated that I wasn’t on a track of stardom or great purpose like Murray. I know I’m rambling.”

          Dr. Kelstone: “That’s OK, rambling can be good sometimes.” 

          Jon: “I remember having this inane conversation with my father once. He was asking me how much effort I was putting into school.  I said maybe 90-percent.  We talked about what the right number really was.  It was a demeaning and sarcastic conversation.  I felt like he was playing mind games.  He was good at it and I was the unsuspecting victim. This was in my view,  a bad side of his dispassionate observer type personality...sitting back and judging but sometimes offering no support or help whatsoever.  It felt like he was letting me drown in my own confusion sometimes.  I also remember a time when I tried to make a video tape, interviewing him about his life.  The interview turned out about me towards the end and not him.  That may have been his way of saying he hated being filmed.  He would never come out and say it.“

          Dr. Kelstone:    “It’s important that you not compare yourself with your father. He had his own unique way of succeeding in life just like you have your own unique path of success.  When you think of your father, you will think of someone who deeply cared about you and understood that your path was quiet and careful, but different from his.   He just had trouble seeing your path, the wisdom of your way and that sort of thing. I knew your Dad and I think he understood that you were your own person, and that is why it’s OK to be different than your Dad.  You talked about this spirit of optimism that you liked so much about your father—tell me a bit about that.”

          Jon suddenly felt engulfed in a flood of feelings of emptiness, confusion and loss.  His mind was filling with questions.  It was beginning to dawn on him that his life was ruled by some kind of inane conformity, and that he may have to take responsibility for that. (This is the point in therapy when the patient realizes how much work is really ahead and sometimes feels a vague sense of optimism for the future.)  Nearly everything Jon had been through during his first 20 years seemed to suddenly contraindicate something far deeper.   Kelstone had this ability to make every moment seem intense and infinitely valuable.   Jon felt that there was an open wound in his life that left him silently reeling with only himself to turn to or to blame.   He couldn’t blame his dead father or his mother. He felt it extremely difficult to share it with anyone, because the feelings were so abstract and scary.  With Kelstone he was opening up for the first time. 

          Jon: “I never saw my Dad cry or complain.  He took each day as it came and never had a bad word to say about anyone (except for a very few I guess.) He strongly disliked arrogant people, people too pumped up with their own self-importance.  To him the biggest sin was self-aggrandizement.  Like Carl Rogers, he accepted people like they were, not judging them and most of the time, careful not to criticize.  He grasped for the good life and at the same time had a pretty good hold on that brass ring in my view. He knew life was short and he had to take advantage of every opportunity that life made available to him. 

          Dr. Kelstone: “Do you see life as an opportunity?”

          Jon:  “Yes, to a certain extent.  I think it’s easier to see opportunity with an economic advantage and education in life.  I have that advantage in many respects, but feel guilty sometimes that I’ve not been able to put my life together.  I seem to have no excuse.”

          Dr. Kelstone: “What do you mean by putting your life together?"

          Jon: “An organized plan of some kind. It seems I’ve never have had a cogent plan. I have never been a guy with a strategy and I have paid for that. I’ve been an observer in life, not a player, and that has hurt.   Part of me still strongly wants to be an observer and not a player.”

          Dr. Kelstone:  “I think your career ambition closely fits your personality.  As a news reporter, you can remain an observer in many respects. You can keep a distance and yet, still have relationships with many people.  You can talk about important issues and feel involved in life.  You can maintain that strong sense of connection at a safe distance.” 

          Jon:  “Yes, as a child I ed about being a news reporter.  When I was young (about seven years old) I dreamt of interviewing my favorite baseball player Hank Aaron.  My family was visiting Grandpa Carl and Grandma Lou in Arizona and we were going to a Brewer game in Mesa.  I had a long list of questions for “Hammerin’ Hank” but they never got answered.  I never got close to the superstar.”

          Dr. Kelstone: “Let’s get back to your feelings about your father.  What would make your Dad proud?”

          Jon:  “I think he wanted me to succeed in whatever I did, but somehow I did not ever do enough.  I feel he was somewhat let down that I was more of an observer than a player at a very early age.  I didn’t realize how profoundly sad he felt about that.” 

          Dr. Kelstone: “Isn’t that kind of the essence of being a reporter, being that outside objective observer of life and that sort of thing?”

          Jon: “Well, I guess you are right on the money on that one.  That is my personality.”  (Some tears are streaming down Jon’s cheek)

          Dr. Kelstone: “There is nothing wrong with silence and a little emotion.  Is there anything else you want to say, anything to get out in the open so we both can take a look at it?”

Jon: (silence)

          Dr. Kelstone:   “You talked about possibly going to the Unitarian Church service to check it out.  What importance does religion have to you and how do you think it (a sense of spirituality) would help your life self-esteem?”

          Jon:  “Well, I tend to be mostly a scientist, but I admit there are some things the five senses and the mind cannot understand, and people should be humble enough to accept that there are things we DO NOT KNOW. I think the Unitarians are the closest to the truth of any religion. They believe that Christ was a great teacher but not the son of God. They also believe that Confucius, Gandhi and others were great teachers but were not Gods or offspring of Gods.   They admit when they don’t know something and don’t pretend to know.   I went to the local Unitarian church last week to see Koren Parisian speak about the inevitability of globalization and the how corporations may help avert World War Three.  That was very interesting. The Unitarian Society is not afraid to get political, while many other churches seem to be gun shy about being political in any way.”

          Dr. Kelstone:  “Confucius once said, ‘Everything has its beauty but not everyone sees it.’   You appear to be trying to boldly look for the spiritual beauty in life and to create real opportunities in your life.  I see that as healthy.  My friend and fellow therapist Karen Horney would be proud that you are separating the dream from the hard choices of reality.   In my professional opinion, one can be successful in the hard choices of life by taking an objective and realistic stance toward self improvement.  Once we have totally absorbed the good and bad in the world, it’s up to us to craft a life which is ethically strong and which makes sense from our own life experience and point of view.   It’s basically a choice to take the high road or the low road.  Each of us has one chance to get it right, so in that sense there are many pivotal choices. Those important life choices can be the difference between making our own heavens or our own hells.  It is a simple choice yet complex at the same time.  In a Christian sense, Jesus would be pointing to the correct way.  I have C.S. Lewis’s most famous book on my bookshelf.  It’s called ‘Mere Christianity’ Jon.   To get a different part of the spectrum take this book from Richard Dawkins.  He does not believe in God, but does believe in the beauty of the universe.  Would you like to borrow them Jon?”  

          Jon:  “Sure!”    Jon took the books off the shelf gingerly, careful not to disturb the Piaget, Rogers, Skinner and Freud works nearby. 

          The clock on the wall said five to three o’clock, and Dr. Kelstone went into his closing mode. 

          “Let’s sum up some things.  You seem to be a very personable, likeable young man, and you have good questions about life, better questions than many at your age would ask.  That is OK.  That is healthy.  You’re a handsome, assiduous and friendly young man who is trying in an honest and gentle way to put life into meaningful perspective, and you are doing the best you can, considering the circumstances, particularly the death of your father.  I think you will do just fine.  I would like to see you a couple of more times so we can talk about some more things. “

          Jon felt there was an acceptable comfort level with Kelstone. He was real.  He was frank, a fair citizen and a good man. This emanated from his being.   He also used to play in the Courtney Club Tennis League with Jon’s Dad and had talked with him before several times when he subbed for the league.  Kelstone was first to call 9-1-1 when the Indian doctor,  Dr. Singh, had a heart attack right on the court.  Dr. Kelstone and Jon’s Dad had been in Nebraska together, and had met there. Daniel was in dental school and Tom Kelstone, the young Paul Newman look-a-like, in medical school.   The two had a card club and the guys would drink some beer and watch “The Tonight Show” with Johnny Carson together every Tuesday night.  Tom was more innately social and Daniel was the more compulsively studious.  As a matter of fact, Daniel was so autodidactic in nature that he taught himself French and Spanish in his spare time in college.  He called that “fun learning.” 

          As Jon was getting up to leave, Kelstone said, “Don’t forget that life is a gift, and so take time to smell the roses. You are a careful and contemplative soul and it’s very OK to be yourself.  Keep being yourself and showing the world how great you are.”  Jon turned to leave the lounge-like office on the second floor of the Washington Building, a building that had a neat smell all its own, like that of paint and leather.   There was a picture of JFK on the east wall, on the left a view through a large window of the city tennis courts. On the west wall, there was a picture of a skier in the Rocky Mountains.   There was also a large and wonderfully colorful Monet painting hanging behind Kelstone’s desk.  Maybe it was symbolic of something.  The violets and the reds were most outstanding, thought Jon.  He was starting to see the brilliant colors of his own life for the first time also. This was very exciting.

          Jon glanced at a framed picture in the hallway outside of the office with a saying in it.  Looking closer he saw they were words about peace from Margaret Lathrop:

            “In order to truly see, one needs to go deep within one’s soul and search out an inner stillness that nullifies the voice of triviality.  Then and only then will our eyes and ears be open to the wonders that exist all around us in spite of subdued tones people and situations sometimes present us with.”

          Kelstone, “Say hi to Carl Tabor and Tom Ireland for me.”

          Jon: “I will. Talk to you soon.”

          Jon thought about the roses comment, and wondered if Kelstone was a Christian or a Buddhist or something else.  Maybe he was just a friendly atheist.

 “We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh.”

--Friedrich Nietzsche

          Jon thought, “Was Kelstone an atheist?  It did not make sense to analyze your psychiatrist’s spirituality.  Were most psychiatrists atheists?  Why?  The God concept seemed too simple for someone who believed in Freud and the Id and everything.”   It was just too confusing to think about.  Jon had enough to ponder, just thinking about himself, and how he would just get through his life.  His thoughts went from subject to subject.  Jon looked out on this beautiful sunny day, a day he had a chance to make right and meaningful.  His mind then flashed to career thoughts. He thought about the goal of becoming the most objective reporter possible...and felt a sudden optimism that he could and would achieve a great sense of personal satisfaction in his field of journalism.  His thoughts kept shifting back and forth.  His goal of being a news reporter became clearer and more powerful in his mind.  It seemed to be the perfect, objective, non committal stance in his life. 

          Jon’s mind floated to politics.  He remembered the tape of a speech called “Love Your Enemies” by Martin Luther King  that he recently saw on a Bill Moyers special on PBS and wished he could have been there as a reporter covering all the action:

                There is a little tree planted on a little hill and on that tree hangs the most influential character that ever came in this world. But never feel that that tree is a meaningless drama that took place on the stages of history. Oh no, it is a telescope through which we look out into the long vista of eternity, and see the love of God breaking forth into time. It is an eternal reminder to a power-drunk generation that love is the only way. It is an eternal reminder to a generation depending on nuclear and atomic energy, a generation depending on physical violence, that love is the only creative, redemptive, transforming power in the universe.

            So this morning, as I look into your eyes, and into the eyes of all of my brothers in Alabama and all over America and over the world, I say to you, "I love you. I would rather die than hate you." And I’m foolish enough to believe that through the power of this love somewhere, men of the most recalcitrant bent will be transformed. And then we will be in God’s kingdom. We will be able to matriculate into the university of eternal life because we had the power to love our enemies, to bless those persons that cursed us, to even decide to be good to those persons who hated us, and we even prayed for those persons who despitefully used us.

            Oh God, help us in our lives and in all of our attitudes, to work out this controlling force of love, this controlling power that can solve every problem that we confront in all areas. Oh, we talk about politics; we talk about the problems facing our atomic civilization. Grant that all men will come together and discover that as we solve the crisis and solve these problems—the international problems, the problems of atomic energy, the problems of nuclear energy, and yes, even the race problem—let us join together in a great fellowship of love and bow down at the feet of Jesus. Give us this strong determination. In the name and spirit of this Christ, we pray. Amen.

          Jon felt his mind did not close off to ideas rapidly and he was able to openly explore issues objectively without having agendas.  He kept an open mind on a lot of things and he felt that this unbiased view of the world would be a huge advantage in journalism.  His thoughts were close to manic as one abstract and philosophical thought kept reinforcing another.  The thoughts kept building and building within his cortex. 

          Jon thought about the concept of objectivity and how it was impossible to apply that to religion. It was difficult to reconcile science with religion.   He wanted to believe in some kind of kind God so badly, but his mind would not let him do this completely.   Science and religion would always be completely different kinds of thinking.  How could the big-bang theory be reconciled with religion?  Would science and religion meet at some higher level some day?   Jon was starting to feel the strength of his own intelligence, or was it merely delusions of grandeur?  He was having fun with his own ability to use his critical intelligence.  And wasn’t that what the definition of a liberal arts education is anyway?  It’s the ability to have a balanced view of things, to be well rounded.

“The yearning for an afterlife is the opposite of selfish: it is love and praise for the world that we are privileged, in this complex interval of light, to witness and experience.”     

John Updike

          Jon and his best friend Carl ended up talking into the night beyond 2am in the Brockman Hall Lounge later that day.  After their discussion Jon felt like a genius.  He was feeling very good about being able to grasp the objective.  He felt the highest form of intelligence may be the ability to hold two extremely contradictory ideas in his mind together with minimal cognitive dissonance.  Or maybe it was just a false feeling of grandeur brought on by two cups of coffee past midnight.  

          This idea about cognitive dissonance,  he thought, could be the definition of having an “open mind,” to hold dissimilar and complex thoughts and to be able to put them in some kind of perspective.  Jon was still wondering about his Dad’s untimely death, but knew he had to pull his life together, better than it ever was before. His life was not like a neatly wrapped package.  Sometimes it seemed it was scattered all over the place.   Was his Dad looking down on him from heaven and hoping he would make the best choices?  Would his relationship improve with his father in death?  He reflected on a speaker who came to his college once, named Jon Ension.  Ension held students spell-bound as he talked about death and dying, about how he would talk to his dead parents on a regular basis, and how it was therapeutic to cry while conversing with the dead.  He had led students through a visualization exercise where they would pick a comfortable place to be with their loved one who passed away, near a roaring fireplace or a calm beach somewhere.   Jon had a good sleep that night with his head full of ideas.  He would dream about his father having a talk with him in his study, where the two would have their rare one on one talks.  In his mind he would explore areas where they could come together to agree on a variety of subjects that they weren’t able to agree on before.

          It was hard for Jon to concentrate. Even though part of him had died, he felt a strong and profound sense of rebirth.   Jon was back at his Brockman dorm now in his comfy chair, and George Winston’s piano music was playing in the background.   It was Thursday morning and although there was a quiet that permeated his dorm hall, the Phi-Delta Gamma Gamma's heavy metal music could be heard faintly from Clemmons Hall next door.  This restless presence was fairly close but could not touch Jon where he was.  There was also a slight smell of stale beer wafting through the window, evidence of late night frat parties and mindless destruction of brain cells.  

          Jon was trying to put things in perspective. It had been a couple of weeks since his father's death, but he couldn't help but feel like a victim. Even though he was not extremely close to his father, he also felt spiritually robbed. He had lost the time that would have made him feel more comfortable with Dad in adulthood.

          Young Jon felt that time would have healed the wounds between he and his father, but now there was no time left.   He had always thought that the two would have grown closer as the years went on. There was an almost startling, existential realization that no one is guaranteed anything in life and that death can happen at any time to family or friends. He felt cheated, but hoped he had a long life ahead of him. He pledged to himself to be strong for the rest of his family, for Murray and his mother. They would need each other.

          His father's spirit would always live on in him for the rest of his life. Jon felt some stomach cramps coming on, probably caused by stress. Jon had inherited the stomach problems of his mother, or perhaps it was his grandfather on his Dad's side, Grandpa Carl. Carl struggled immensely with a bad gut in the months before he died at the retirement home in Arizona. Some thought it was Crohn’s Disease, but it was never diagnosed.  Jon wondered if his stress levels could carry him to early stomach problems in his 40's or 50's. He knew he had to keep his life manageable enough so the stress wouldn't get the best of him. Jon sensed that the pleasant childhood that he had been ensconced in needed to transform itself without fear into the meaningful and awesome reality of adulthood.   He looked forward to his next appointment with Dr. Kelstone, whom he felt was on his side. Now he was off to dinner at the Commons.  Carl would be there with his head buried in a philosophy or history book, a science textbook or perhaps a great American novel. There would be more bull sessions. As his Uncle Gerald would say, “The more you know, the more you don’t know.”  He felt this to be true.

“I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no "brief candle" to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.”

George Bernard Shaw

          Jon lived the rest of his college years with the urge to burn brightly.  He graduated from Tilden with a 3.0 grade point average.   He made more friends, but none as close as Carl.  Their bull sessions always kept them tight.  Jon was just fascinated with Carl’s personality.  His friend received his Masters in English and he had heard that he got a job teaching high school English in somewhere in Louisiana.  The two would correspond a couple times a year at the most.  Jon’s little brother Murray inspired the whole family during the spring following his father’s death.  Meadville won the state basketball championship in Madison that year.  With stocky Murray at forward, top assist man Jimmie Johnson at the other forward position and big 6 foot 11 inch Craig Marshall at center, their teamwork was dazzling.  Coach Andrew Murphy was scintillating.   Murray would point to the sky after every point. 

          We now move several years ahead. Jon attended graduate school in
journalism at the University of Wisconsin-Madison and met a young
nursing student by the name of Nora Plank. The two met during a
dedication of a major nursing wing at the UW Hospital and Clinics.
They dated for 11 months before Jon popped the question. Jon's mother
Karen tells her son to "get a ring on that woman's finger,"
apparently very impressed with her. With the strong endorsement of
Mom and Murray and hopefully a positive prayer from Dad, Jon made the decision to ask Nora to marry him. He proposed at Eierman Park in
Madison on a warm and windy day. Nora said yes right away as they
took a paddle boat out to the other end of the small lake and Jon showed her the ring.

          Jon really liked the fact that Nora loved flowers and gardens.  Their first home would be surrounded by Lilacs, Marigolds, Peonies, Geraniums, and all kinds of wild flowers.  She especially liked Peonies when they fully bloomed.  She stated that they were magical.  This is what Margaret Lathrop said about the sacredness of gardens in her book “Reflections of Summer,” a book that Nora and Jon found together at the UW bookstore.   

            A garden is a learning place where many life lessons are taught to the willing student. One of the most paramount of these lessons is to cherish the moment, for it will not return.  Become immersed in the beauty at hand, inhale it, absorb it, savor it and release it.  All things, both the good and the bad, are passing.  To cling to something, whether it’s a perceived injury or a moment of ecstasy, is tantamount to clutching at a summer cloud whose shape shifts from moment to moment as it drifts across the blue sky. Since we are both the gardeners and the guardians of our own souls, we are always free to choose just what aspect our self we manifest.

     They set a wedding date of May 16, 1984. A Unitarian minister
by the name of James Scott Williams was chosen for the service. A
small and intimate crowd of less than fifty attended the service on the record warm day, temps in the low 90's. The sweat was seen forming
on the upper lips of the minister. The Lord's Prayer was sung by the
Reverend during the services which were Unitarian and Christian in content. The wedding was held outdoors at Thomas Jefferson Park, a small park owned by the church. The service was quite diverse. There was an American Indian prayer, a Jewish Prayer and a Muslim Prayer that made much sense given Jon and Nora's varied religious backgrounds. The best man was Jon's brother Murray who read sayings from Thomas Jefferson, Jessie Jackson, Carl Sagan and Leo Bascaglia.  Champagne was not served.  It was Karen’s favorite drink, framboise, a French raspberry brandy that she always ordered when she went out to eat with Daniel at Thiels on Main Street.   The best man would have been Jon's best friend from college Carl Tabor, but he was nowhere to be found in at his last known address in Louisiana. Jon just laughed it off, saying, "That's Carl!" Jon is far too busy with his own life to worry too much about his old friend. He does miss their "bull sessions" from time to time. He also misses talking with another intelligent male about "everything under the sun," as they called it.
   

          After the ceremony, a shiny white limousine whisked down Robert
Raymond Drive and picked up the smiling couple. They were on their
way to their honeymoon at Door County. Jon knew in his heart that he was marrying the most generous, caring and selfless person on earth. As his Uncle Gerald said, "Nora appears not to have a mean bone in her body."  As usual, he was right on the mark.

          The next few years of their marriage were mostly blissful because
they respected each other's independence and recognized each other's
strengths and weaknesses.  They were able to get through the tough parts in life with a little humor and lots of patience and understanding.

"When we are in a relationship where we feel listened to and
understood, we count ourselves lucky because we know how rare that
experience is.  We reserve our most intimate selves for the people
who, along with us, co-create an open space where we feel free to
express ourselves and listen without judgment. These relationships,
which thrive on open communication, can mean the difference between
existential loneliness and a deep sense of belonging. We all long to
feel heard, understood, and loved, and clear communication makes this
possible.”

Anonymous

        

BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE

        

          The editor of the Elbem City Newspaper walked into Jon's cramped office on the third floor of the Bailey Building. "This is not a story.  You need to take your time a little bit. What about contacting all the city council members and not just the mayor and the Development Director? This story needs to be more accurate, and it certainly does not appear to be complete.  Do you have a comprehension problem?" Jon Stark, the rookie newspaper reporter of the Elbem City Press and a bald, graying and irascible Larry Duxman were face to face. "Mr. Duxman, my wife Nora was sick and I just couldn't fit the council meeting in last night. You know I make 99-percent of those meetings. I got the basics of the story and I feel I did a good job in the time allotted balancing work and family." Duxman replied, "Well tomorrow night is the Chamber of Commerce meeting. It's Business Appreciation Night and we cannot afford not to be there. This newspaper must have visibility!  It’s all about news presence.   I need 100-percent commitment from you.  You need to be a team player." "Yes Mr. Duxman, my wife is on antibiotics and her persistent cough is getting better now." Duxman didn't move an inch.  Duxman seemed totally focused on producing an agglomeration of evidence against Jon’s liberalism.  He would just stare at Jon like he was some pathetic shill or peasant born in purgatory.   It was as though altruism was not part of who he was and that prestige was a more powerful motivator.  If there was any kind of altruism projected, it as a fake brand just for the public’s satisfaction.  He appeared to have no ability to amalgamate his strong sense of ego or any sense of helping others.  It was part of Duxman’s constitution.  Self-interest permeated his being.  He was a firm believer in solipsism it seemed, and he may have believed that the world was built just for his own pleasure.  Duxman’s attitude was simply execrable.  He was pure business and zero compassion, a living and breathing panjandrum—a legend in his own mind. If Duxman had his way, he would lancinate things like collective bargaining, social security and medicare.  Duxman’s only slightly redeemable quality was his business sagaciousness.  He possessed a keen and guileful sense of how to make money.   Jon would dream of emancipation from Duxman and his minions, but knew it was not to be his reality for the time being.

          As Duxman left the office, Jon let these words slip out..."As a good businessman and good family man, I'm sure you believe that family is first." Duxman didn't turn around.  He just kept walking down the narrow hallway, the light of the east window glaring off the oil on his bald head.  Duxman, with all of his ducks in a row, sauntered back into his spacious office with the old fashioned Cola machine and conference table inside the glass walls. His arrant allegiance to conservativism  and his compulsive political zeal was hard to understand.   Duxman set himself up as a man with high morals, but his frequent cursing gave a different impression.  He was an incorrigible ideologue impervious to constraints or punishment….because he was Larry Duxman the king of business and politics.  The big fancy office had a fish tank and an old fashioned AM radio.   Jon felt Duxman was quite arrogant, quite in love with his own power and his money, but mostly in love with himself.  He had an ego not unlike that of Richard Nixon and like Nixon he seemed not capable of much compunction for wrong doing.  He was quite good at inculcating his zealously conservative beliefs to his staff, as through a strange osmosis. Duxman couldn’t cease his rapacious appetite for politically correct conquest.  His followers were like lemmings to the sea.  His gospel metastasized one by one in the minds of his followers in his strange self-constructed autarchy.  Duxman was also a member of the local Republican Party and gave his opinions on politics even though it wasn't politically correct for his reporters to give honest answers back. He was once overheard saying that most of his poor reporters were "libs looking for an identity."  Duxman thought most liberals were too naïve to be aware of how dangerously close the left was to radicalism, socialism and communism.  He thought liberals were incredibly naïve about the economy and international politics too.   He hated that the liberals wanted everything so “over regulated and politically correct.”   He wanted to run the most conservative newspaper in Wisconsin.  Jon felt that it was ironic because extreme conservativism seemed more endemic to the radio business and not as much in newspapers.  Duxman ran a tight ship that was tilted to the right.   Duxman's best friends were the Deputy Police Chief, Harley L. Bolgert, a Vietnam Veteran who was the quintessential "get tough on crime" cop. His favorite president was Eisenhower, his favorite actor Charles Bronson and favorite drink was bourbon on the rocks. He was also a chain smoker who was developing a strong cough. The things Bolgert thought were funny were, Jon thought, a pathetic attempt at humor. Bolgert also brewed his own brand of beer and rumor had it that a couple of years ago, he was drunk on the way back from a party at Southview Country Club and had to be escorted by one of his deputies to his home. He was all over the road at 60-65 miles per hour. Duxman was also close (at least he thought he was close) to many of the big-shot business owners who thought highly of themselves as well, with almost the same level of egotism that Duxman had.  Jon’s boss was surely a legend in his own mind, and a shameless self-promoter.  Duxman was blissfully unaware that his Grand Old Party was becoming an anachronism.  Jon would sometimes fee that was immersed in a cauldron of conservatism that could eventually take him to a boiling point.

          From time to time Mr. Duxman would have visitors, but the most frequent were his mother Cindy and wife Priscilla.   Cindy would not be caught in public without tons of make-up caked on.   When visiting, she would many times brag openly about how her son Larry, “was a successful businessman and the millionaire in the family.”  She would also bloviate about stories of Larry’s childhood and how he was an Eagle Scout and how he rescued a cat from a tree when he was nine years old, “without any concern for his own safety.”  Cindy was the director for many years of the Miss Wisconsin Pageant and was a cofounder of the Country Club Book Club.  The book club was a place for upper-class women to gather for coffee, gossip and the latest romance novel.   They consciously stayed away from the classics because they were too controversial and intellectually challenging.  The most difficult book they would read in 17 years would be an Agatha Christie classic. {“And Then There Were None” is the story of 10 people, each lured to an island by a strange host. Once his guests have arrived, the host accuses each person of murder. Unable to leave the island, the guests begin to share their deep and dark secrets until they begin to die off mysteriously.}   Priscilla was the founding member of the Republican Women’s Political Action group.  Once in awhile, Priscilla would be seen on the local TV station spouting truisms about pro-life issues and her somewhat grandiose thoughts about America’s exceptionalism and why war is justified against terrorists and communists.  She was also a protester in Florida when Susan Cuomo’s life support was going to be turned off, and held a sign saying, “Doctors cannot play God.  Let the people decide!” 

          Once Jon attempted to do a book review on Al Gore’s “Earth in the Balance.”   One of his co-workers had suggested that he do this article.  In retrospect, it was most certainly a business world type set up.  He had trusted Mark, who was a fellow reporter, but he later found out he was closer to Duxman and had been seeing if he Jon would take the bait and get into trouble.   When Duxman found out about the rough draft of the review of Gore’s book, he hit the ceiling, blew a gasket, went ballistic, pick your favorite cliche.  There was a scary transmogrification on his face that could easily be replayed in a horror film.   Duxman went on a tirade of non-sequiturs, much like a psychotic would spew loose associations of the ego.  Duxman talked about the IMF, the idiocy of Gore’s plan for international commissions on the environment.  He called Gore a traitor and a communist. He would sit at his fancy desk and dandle about, tapping his pen on his knee incessantly.   He declared that the story was no good and there is more to the report besides leftist tripe.    Here is the article as it looked like before it hit Duxman’s desk:

            The work is really quite brilliant.  Gore has the knack of keeping us interested in learning more about the environment and facilitating a compassion for the earth and a passion for changing things.  We catch his enthusiasm and want to do more to save the earth in any way we can.  The book makes the case that a crisis of large proportions is nearly upon us and that if the world doesn't get organized soon and compromise to some kind of "Global Marshall Plan" to protect the environment, we’re all in trouble. The loss of biodiversity, the depletion of the ozone layer, the slash-and-burn destruction of rainforests, and the onset of global warming are the most troubling and profoundly disturbing according to Gore.  This book is more than a call to action.  It is a litmus test on the concern mankind has for its future.  How we react to Gore’s words will set the tone for decades to come.  We have a choice.  We can agree to stay in our own comfortable worlds or we can move out of our comfort zones to speak our minds about the future of this planet.  We need to care about the well being of our grandchildren and great-grand children.  It is up to us to act. 

    The concept of global warming has been perhaps the most troubling concept of all and Gore points to solid evidence that can back this up.  The term global warming was first coined in August of 1975 in a scholarly paper by Wally Broecker in the journal Science Broecker inferred that mankind may be on the “the brink of a pronounced global warming period.”   The National Academy of Sciences first used global warming in a 1979 publication called the Charney Report.  Some scientists were warning back then that if carbon dioxide continues to increase, there no reason to doubt that climate changes will result.   Gore clearly sounds a warning siren for more serious research that could have deep implications on the long term future of our planet.  Global warming became more widely popular after just a couple of years ago when NASA climate scientist James Hansen testified to members of the United States Congress.  He said, "global warming has reached a level such that we can ascribe with a high degree of confidence a cause and effect relationship between the greenhouse effect and the observed warming.”   When science starts making such serious claims, then we should all start to pay closer attention and Gore’s book is a good start towards more ecological and environmental awareness.    Gore stated that arguments against global warming often take the form of legitimate scientific inquiry but fall short when logic and intuition is strictly applied.   Gore claims that climate change denial differs dramatically from scientific skepticism in that the former is more right-winged politics and the later pure science and logic.   Gore investigates the serious and life threatening dangers posed by global warming, thinning of the ozone layer, destruction of tropical rain forests, overuse of pesticides, incineration of municipal wastes and other human-made disasters.  The esteemed United States Senator appears not to be afraid to debate those would try to minimize the severity of these ecologic crises.  Emphasizing the importance of the concept of deep ecology, Gore speaks of the Gaian form of Aids subtly gripping Mother Earth, and of “bulldozing the Garden of Eden.  Gore describes deep ecology as a contemporary ecological philosophy that recognizes the inherent worth of other living beings and their life sustaining surroundings. The philosophy stresses the interdependent nature of human and non-human life as well as the importance of the ecosystem and natural processes.  It provides a solid foundation for powerful green movements worldwide and has positively reinforced a newly developing system of environmental ethics.  He explains how the earth is in a perpetual state of recovery, warming to rid itself of unnatural influences.

    In the book, Gore warns of dire consequences of warming including more severe hurricanes, rising oceans, more flooding, more droughts and exponentially increasing CO2 levels.  Gore added that because of political gridlock, money and big business, it is hard to make the changes we need, for countries to cooperate and work in positive directions.    Gore says we must band together to bring the earth back to balance given this new awareness that prompts us to action. As Rachel Carson once said in a classic called “Silent Spring,”  “To stand at the edge of the sea, to sense the ebb and flow of the tides, to feel the breath of a mist moving over a great salt marsh, to watch the flight of shore birds that have swept up and down the surf lines of the continents for untold thousands of year, to see the running of the old eels and the young shad to the sea, is to have knowledge of things that are as nearly eternal as any earthly life can be.”   I believe that says it all.

          After getting thoroughly yelled at my Mr. Duxman, Jon was wondering why he didn’t work for a more liberal newspaper.  He was wondering what he was doing working for such an asshole.  Duxman was so overtly tilting to the right.  He would give tacit approval to the Republican Party in his editorials.  One letter was about how conservatives had a lot of common sense and that liberals were “dirty democrats” who had to lie and deceive people to get what they want.  He even told Democratic Assemblyman James Andrew of Rhinelander that he was “spreading atheism” by writing a column in The Humanist Magazine.  He took pride in his five-part interview with Clarke Smitherton called “Clarke Smitherton—True American Hero.”

          The Elbem City News was one of the most conservative papers in Wisconsin. The young reporter had a lot on his mind.  He was thinking of what the coming weekend would bring, aware that Nora was close to delivering their first child.  Nora, a registered nurse, took off work from St. Michael's Hospital two months before the baby was born. The baby was due in three weeks. The supervisors at Saint Michael’s were very understanding of the Stark family needs  This stood in marked contrast to stern Mr. Duxman at the newspaper. 

          Jon peered at the list of some new stories on his desk, but all he could think of was his wife and how she was feeling. One story idea caught his eye. (Duxman would jot down story ideas and put an asterisk besides the ones he thought were important.)

          One of the unmarked stories was entitled "The Bellville Autism Conference." It was one of the most unique conferences in the nation. It was organized by a group of very pro-active parents who were confused and perplexed by a diagnosis of autism in their family, some of them not diagnosed until the age of 15. These very assertive parents formed the BAS (Bellville Autism Society) two years ago and the group was very strong, attracting guest speakers, positive parent interactions, and inquisitiveness that was not criticized but admired by the whole group. Jon looked at a brochure that was in his pile of mostly unopened mail. The definition of autism was, “a communication disorder which may be related to schizophrenia, marked by flat affect, inappropriate reactions to normal stimuli and a lack of eye contact." One parent quoted in the conference flier said that children with autism are "gifts that cannot be unwrapped."

          They were typically very handsome kids, with more boys than girls by a 4:1 ratio. Jon thought it very odd that so many more boys have autism than girls. Psychiatrist Dr. Andrew Lippert was to be the keynote speaker talking about how some moms of autistic kids had been inappropriately labeled as "refrigerator mothers." The fathers were accused many times of being distant and uninvolved. The talk by Dr. Lippert was entitled..."Autism, The Genetic Mystery of Gordian Complexity." Jon knew a little about autism. His college friend Fred Court had been a camp counselor in New York State at a camp called Randolph Place, a beautiful retreat near a small pristine lake in the Catskills.   He had talked about Andrew Bointon and Steven Taylor were two children of well-to-do New York City families, whose IQ's could barely be measured because of their profound disabilities. Fred and co-counselor Keith had written profiles of the all the children and Jon had heard the fascinating stories. There was Harry Walkman, the autistic son of a New York City Wall Street broker, who could name all the prime numbers to ten-thousand, could shoot 70-percent on three pointers on the basketball court and was in love with mustard for some reason. He was always mentioning mustard.  Jon thought this was quite strange.  Steven Taylor's only words were "blue car." His parents had a blue car. In a brusque manner, Fred would talk in an animated fashion about these special children, mostly Jewish and offspring of wealthy parents from the Big Apple.   There were also very mysterious and emotionally distant kids like 12 year-old Mathew Trambino, who would emit “devil” sounds at night as counselor Hilary Kay would say from time to time.  One of the psychologists who visited the camp would say that Mathew was suffering from some kind of neurasthenia from the burning out of his own neurons.  Even though he would rarely talk, he would write letters home on the level of a college English major. Fred was fascinated and a bit frightened by Mathew.   Thinking about Fred’s stories made Jon even more curious about the condition of autism, as it was such a strange and perplexing condition.   He felt so sorry for parents who were burdened with the birth of such a poorly functioning child.  What a nightmare of a life, he thought.   Jon planned to go to the Bellville Autism conference. He had many questions prepared for Dr. Lippert.  Lippert seemed to be the kind of guy who had a hunger for knowledge that was 100-percent impeccable.  With autism, there seemed to be more questions than answers, he felt.

            Jon was sitting on the edge of his seat, thinking about the

autism story, when in walks Mike Cramer.  Cramer, the white-haired, venerable

and affable 39-year veteran of the newspaper business, carries

himself with a quiet but very powerful self-confidence.  He is a thin

and very fit man for age 64. His nickname is “Grey Fox.” Cramer is a former smoker who has found how moderate exercise and good lifestyle habits can enhance a life. He was able to make quite a comeback in the health department.  He often stated, in his sometimes dark sense of humor, that with his high cholesterol level, he would have been “dead a doornail” without exercise.  Cholesterol ran high in his family.  His father died of a heart attack when he was just 51 years old. 

            Mike was a big fan of Stephen Covey and many of his motivation ideas, which he tried to impart to the younger employees at the paper.  He was all about being proactive in the business world, thinking win-win, seeking first to understand, and visualizing success. Mike would preach the seeking of positive encouragement from all social settings, including at work, saying we are “totally responsible for placing ourselves in social settings.”   He once game a mini-Covey seminar to the reporters on staff and it was very well received.   The venerable Cramer dispersed wisdom often and he appeared to care deeply about young Jon’s development as a reporter and as a person.

            Mike had seen it all, from city council controversies to major labor strikes to political scandal in many forms.   "How is the familyJon?"  "Very well," replies Jon adrift in an endless bulk of papersin his cubicle.  "I've heard that Duxman thinks you are not getting all the sources.  I wouldn't let it bother you too much.  I know you

are a man of good intentions and integrity in the news business.  It's

the car dealer Vinny Hillsdale and the Lenny Bariman, the downtown discount guy, who are putting the political bug in Duxman's ear.  They are blowing the council story you covered out of proportion.  They say you got some comments from mostly liberal members of the council and the moderate mayor out of context.  I think they are exaggerating to get on some “fair and balanced” bandwagon.  It’s politics at its worst.  Don’t let it get you down.  You are a very conscientious reporter.  I’ve seem ‘em come and go from the left and the right around here and the people who stay are the ones with integrity.  You have that integrity Jon." 

            "Thanks Mike.  It's a pleasure working with you because you take

things in stride so well and seem to have things in perfect perspective. You don’t seem to get bent out of shape about anything.  I guess experience in the news business helps a lot to put things in perspective.    You do point out ways that I can make stories better, but you don't get political like does.  I appreciate that."    "Duxman is quite assertive in his opinions in a doctrinaire or arrogant manner.  If you look up arrogance in the dictionary, you may see his picture.  We'll here's the way to deal with our man Larry,  just smile and be as upbeat around him as you can and let me have the battles with him as far as news content.  He doesn't

really know news.  He has more of a sales perspective on everything,

whatever sells more papers, you know."   "Yeah, I know," said Jon. 

"You know what really bugs me about Duxman is that he is so arrogant,

he thinks everybody worships the earth he walks on.    He is almost

out of touch.  I know he has sold cars and has been a strategist for

the Republican party and all, but he really wants to own the world,

doesn't he??"  

            "I knew Larry when he was a car salesman at Christman's Motors

on Bellidare Street. He is just as human as any one of us.  I know

your views are a bit liberal, which is fine if your writing stays

fresh and objective, but don't get into any political arguments with

the man.  It is not worth it. He will try to crush you if he thinks

you’re against him.  It's kind of "us against them" with that man.   The

key is to keep your cool in tense situations.  Keep doing your job

well, consistent, with good reporting and writing everyday and you

will be totally fine. I've seen guys like this come and go and in

this case, there is more bark than bite.   There is a power complex and some insecurity there.  Over the long run, you will see it too.  All I can say is turnabout is fair play."

            Jon knew that he would be OK with Duxman if he kept the conversations light and talked mostly about sports.  Duxman was a big Green Bay Packers football fan and a big Milwaukee Brewers baseball fan.  They could connect on sports topics.  They would discuss Bart Starr and how good he would have been in the present-day NFL.  Duxman would take pride in saying, “Old Bart would get crushed.”   They talked about the great Horning and Taylor and Dowler on the left and Dale on the right.  The green and gold were like a religion in Wisconsin.  They would also talk about this new guy the Packers just obtained from Atlanta by the name of Brett Favre.  Duxman said Favre seemed like a dumb redneck who would never master the mental skills needed at quarterback.  Jon would respond, “You never know.  You just never know.”   When it came to baseball, it was talk of the 1982 World Series that kept them going.   He talked about Harvey’s Wallbangers and how the team put down the Cardinals 10-0 in the first game of the series behind a 17-hit attack. It was Fingers and Caldwell on the mound, and the powerful hitting of Molitor and Yount.  Clutch hitting by Darrell Porter and others made for an exciting series, but the Brewers ended up losing to the Cards 4-3.  Duxman had a huge picture of Paul Molitor in his office with a very expensive dark wood frame.   Duxman also talked a lot about the superior basketball skills of Michael Jordan and liked the Bulls better than the Bucks. 

     

            Jon had immense respect for Cramer.  He had done it all as a

journalist and had won the Jamie Hale Murphy Award, one of the

highest lifetime achievement honors that can be bestowed on a

newspaper man.  He had worked as a cub reporter with Mike Royko of the Chicago Tribune and had remained one of Mike's larger than life idols to this day.   He admired Royko’s “larger than life portrayal of Mayor Richard Daley.  He called Royko a master of political insight and common sense.  He said, “Royko defined what it is to be a columnist.  He was a writer who had the talent of truly captivating the reader and uncovering the poignancy of everyday 20^th Century life.   He was truly to a gift to journalism.”   Cramer was also fond of war history and especially Winston Churchill.  He also liked Charles Kuralt and once worked with Kuralt on a special looking at the lives of factory workers at two auto plants in Chicago.   As a child, Mike had met the great Edward R. Murrow and talked about him in glowing terms.   Mike and Jon would share their love of books and talk about the world in such an objective way.  Mike taught Jon a lot of lessons about news writing and presentation that helped him along greatly in his early reporting years.  Both reporters loved to read great examples of writing, and loved to talk about how great writing can paint a picture, like an

artist paints on a canvass.   

            Mike uttered, "I see you are doing that story on autism.  It's a fascinating

condition, and there are so many competing theories.  I had a chance

to meet Dr. Andrew Lippert about ten years ago, when he was just

starting his sojourn into the autism mystery.  My, that man has a

passion to understand this perplexing condition.  He is almost prescient in his perceptions.   Try to get a one-on-one interview with Lippert.  He’s also interesting because he tries to stay apolitical, as contentious politics isn’t his purview.  I guarantee you will find him fascinating and get a great story out of it!"

    

            Jon answered, "I look forward to the Bellville Conference.  I will learn a lot about a subject I don't know a lot about." 

            Mike nodded, "That's one of the great things about the news business.  It allows a person to learn about so many different subjects and to meet

many interesting people.  There is always a new interesting

story angle or community topic.  No, Jon, the world will never run

out of news.  That is one of the great things about our business."

            Jon answers, "I appreciate your support and I also appreciate the tips on how to survive politically with Duxman around."

          Jon woke up early Saturday morning.  His wife had fallen asleep early the night before.  She needed the rest. She would be delivering their first child any day now.  Jon felt a little guilty that he would be going to the Bellville Autism conference for his feature story for a couple of hours, when he had been so intent on being there every moment for her every need.  Duxman wouldn’t be too thrilled about it if he stayed at home.  He gave Nora a contact number at the convention center in case of emergency and would check in Sunday afternoon.  The event seemed too interesting to pass up.

          Jon again felt that nagging feeling of anxiety.  The pressure between work and home was getting tight, as if he were surrounded by two intimidating walls coming closer and closer.  He wanted to do a great job at work because in an uncertain economy, he could lose his job at any time. He felt this autism conference may be the feature story that could make him eligible for a journalism award. The story could perhaps help push him over the top, and put him on better terms with Duxman.   He needed more job security at work and awards wouldn’t hurt.   He felt guilty that on his own volition, he was away from his wife at this critical time but there were intense work pressures too.  His heart said to do the story.  He had an inner drive that propelled him forward. 

          Jon arrived at 1pm at the Shelby Center, where the conference was to be held.  He was promised 20 minutes with Dr. Lippert. That seemed to be a generous amount of time with such an esteemed expert on the subject of autism.  Lippert was dressed in a light sport coat and a purple tie.  He was more soft-spoken than his clothing, sort of a monotone, scratchy type voice.  He was very careful with each syllable of articulation.  He often did not have full eye contact, but there was a wellspring of honesty and dedication showing through in how he carefully expressed himself.  Being in Lippert’s presence was something benignant, something profoundly good.   This profoundly positive energy poured straight from his scientific soul.  There was a quiet confidence, an aura of intelligence that emanated from the man. 

          The quiet scholar carefully explained to Jon how the definition of autism has changed over the years and how little we know about the condition, that it was a condition marked by profound communication difficulties, lack of eye contact, and multiple frustrations.  Lippert wore an indigo short-sleeved dress shirt with a white tie, but he emanated a friendly conservative essence and persona integrated with a highly sumptuous or divine self confidence. Lippert’s mind was intriguing, the fecundity of his imagination seemingly without bounds. His intellect was vivacious, perhaps vivacious to an exponential degree.  Many were not privy to the giant gold that Lippert’s intelligence represented.   Subdued but highly intellectual, he was controlled in actions and words.  Often, he explained, autistic children look very much like typical youngsters, but have obsessions with spinning objects, like dryers, or spinning tops.  They may also be obsessed with dates and numbers.  He said scientists and other experts needed to be very careful to not assume they know more than they do about autism and “we need to call things by their right names” before we can proceed with a knowledge base on the subject of autism.  The scholar was especially fascinated with the intersubjective junctures of language and evidence of something called genetic memory, which may be a viable explanation of savant skills.  Then there was the concept of synesthesia, where people with much more advanced brains could calculate difficult mathematic problems in their heads by using categorization strategies different from non-autistic individuals.  More scientifically stated it is a neurologically based condition in which stimulation of one sensory or cognitive pathway leads to automatic, involuntary experiences in a second sensory or cognitive pathway. People who report such experiences are known as synesthetes.  Letters or numbers can be seen by synesthetes as inherently colored, while in ordinal linguistic personification, numbers, days of the week and months of the year can manifest personalities.   Lippert was totally engrossed in this kind of stuff, captivated by its uniqueness and the future implications for the function of the human mind.

          It’s needless to say that Dr. Lippert was intensely interested in studying autistic savants. Some of these individuals had the ability to memorize phone books, or remember the weather from 25 years ago.  Others could remember all the prime numbers up to 10-thousand. He also heard of someone who could memorize all the major statistics for all the NBA players from 1950-1985.  Another man memorized all the World Series scores and winning pitchers from 1941 on. That was a lot of data to store.  Jon was very interested in this perplexing condition which seemed to raise more questions than answers.  Jon even wondered if he had any autistic tendencies, recalling how he memorized all the batting averages of every major league baseball player in 1970 while playing the Sports Illustrated Baseball Game,  how Rico Carty hit .366, Gus Gil hit .185 and how Johnny Bench had 45 homers and 128 RBI’s, stuff like that. 

          Lippert also had some interesting side interests.   He was a founding member of a community group against the legalizing of marijuana called ABNORMAL.  The premise of their ideology, that marijuana leads to the degradation of thinking and of the nervous system and that long-term effects will still undetermined by science.   He also showed his conservative side by joining the Citizens Against Pornography group in town.   Lippert was quoted in a Time Magazine feature story saying that porn is “humiliation and degradation of women, which is unconscionable.”

          The interview was about half over when Dr. Lippert suddenly and unexpectedly pulled Jon aside, and looked directly into his eyes, something that shocked the young man.   Lippert had extremely low frequency of eye contact for the first 15 minutes of their conversation and quickly switched gears.  The autism expert stated, “This is one of the most vexing of human conditions. This is one of the greatest tragedies to befall mankind. This mystery of autism holds our heart in its hands. If there is a God who cares, why do you think that autism is happening?”  For a minute Jon was ready to leave. He had not expected this outburst.  He found it mildly offensive.  It was a sudden heart-rending comment, which seemed a bit out of place.   Lippert, that opinion leader and potentate of psychology's cutting edge, was starting to scare Jon a little bit. 

          He was shocked, like the time he saw Uncle Gerald bang his head against the wall at Mercy Hospital when his father died several years ago. It was something out of character, or mildly out of whack, it seemed, for an award-winning psychiatrist who was supposed to be so much in control, so stoic and stable.  Still waters must run deep, thought Jon.  Was this condition so confounding to him that he was so very troubled over it?  Dr. Lippert again... “It’s like these kids are trapped in their own minds, and it is not fair. People are making guesses, but we have yet to scratch the surface of this condition’s etiology.”               

          Jon, “Are we on the record now?”  “Yes of course, I have nothing to hide,” retorted Dr. Lippert.   “This will become the most controversial medical condition in the world in the next 15-20 years, you just watch. This condition will make people look into to their hearts, and it will tell them a lot about their own compassion, their agendas, their selfishness, but hopefully most about their love and compassion for the human race.  Has Christ has come back to earth in the form of autistic children?  These are not aliens to be shunned. They have something huge to teach us!  There are an infinite amount of lessons which can be learned, about love, caring and most importantly, compassion.”   Suddenly, objective Dr. Lippert was starting to sound more like Pat Robertson.

          Jon was wondering what kind of article he was going to write. Lippert’s carefully articulated words were deeply and profoundly felt by the young reporter.   To Lippert, the Ivy League educated opinion leader, the study of autism is almost a consecrated act.  Jon could feel it intensely.  His new found friend was on a mission of some kind.  Lippert was on his second book on autism already.  The fecundity of his mind seemed limitless even as he approached the age of 60.   What would he do with all of this information?  This man had the potential to be very controversial, and he knew his boss, Mr. Duxman, that hand-shaking self-anointed important guy with perfectly white teeth, would not go for any kind of controversy.  Was this time to break away and take a risk, to write that award winning piece based on this seemingly eccentric expert on autism? He would have to be careful not to write something that would make Lippert look like a madman or something.  Or was it time to pack it in and do a conventional article, taking no risks whatsoever?  

          He was afraid of taking a risk, because it may negatively affect his family, and his reputation.   If he wrote from his heart, Duxman may remind him about his “liberal bias” again.  Hints of aggression would emanate from Duxman’s baleful expressions.   Jon was so tired of Duxman’s continuous harassment of those he called “the leftists.”  He had heard it before when he wrote an article about global warming.  When the pugnacious Duxman read the copy, he pulled him into his office, and said, “Let me give you some reality.  We don’t believe that global warming is an issue.  You are pandering to the emotional left. I will not have that kind of journalism here!”  He got very angry once when he saw a copy of “Worldwatch Magazine” sitting on Jon’s desk.  Duxman truly believed that liberals had some kind of social disease that was in need of a cure.  He believed they were mentally ill.   Jon just had to play along most of the time, always in fear of losing his job over some silly political argument.

          He listened patiently, as Dr. Andrew Lippert continued.  “Autism may make parents vulnerable to pseudo-cures and treatments.   I worry a lot about that.  There are a lot of impressionable parents out there who will be hurt by the vacuum of knowledge in this area.”  This man who seemed calm at first, now appeared a little angry, almost inappropriately angry.  He was reminded of the book he read in college from Ben Goldman, a Harvard professor who was on a rampage against the Democratic Party. He spoke on campus at the MLK Lounge and most students wrote him off as being insecure.  Goldman said he was tired of the status quo and narrow mindedness of modern liberals.  Jon thought Lippert was basically saying he’s tired of the political correctness of how most people chose to perceive the causes and treatments of autism.  He was upset with how people chose to see things, in a non-scientific way, most searching for pseudo-cures instead of the real answers.   However, he also understood the desperation in the hearts of parents of children with a seemingly incurable condition.

          Lippert, with his mind as open as it could be, was in favor of trying numerous medical treatments but not pseudo-science.  He wore his objective heart on his sleeve and thought of himself as a kind of pioneer.   Lippert said that being someone looking for a cure to autism is like being “Young Goodman Brown” in very dark and dangerous woods, a jungle full of false treatments, false promises and salesmen with a buck to make. 

          The scholarly Lippert was no doubt one of the smartest and most meticulous human beings that Jon had interacted with in his relatively short life. He would turn out to be decades ahead of his time saying things like this, "The research in autism, points more and more toward the under/over connectivity problems. It also fits with much of the left brain/right brain material I have read about. Of course the big question remains, if it is an interconnectivity problem, what causes it?" These are such refreshingly candid thoughts, and so objective and scientific, thought Jon. Lippert was a quiet and complex man who always appeared to be on the verge of some great discovery about human kind.  Jon started to understand Lippert, the quiet and frustrated genius.  He was starting to “get” him. He was becoming empathic, but not yet always sympathetic with his frustrations.  He felt Lippert was sort of on another plane of reality than he existed on, but there was much he felt he could learn from the man.  He was in touch with a great and profound intelligence, his own mind.  Was he tortured by his own brilliance?   Jon was beginning to think so.

          With the passion of quixotic youth, Jon wrote his story at the newspaper office that night.  He wrote it quickly, so that he could be back to take care of his wife.  The story was easy to write quickly because he was very interested in the subject. He wished he could write the headline, but that was not his job. He would write something like, “AUTISM, AMERICA’S NUMBER ONE HEALTH CRISIS?” He knew that Duxman would never go for that, saying the headline was too sensational.  Maybe it was pandering to the “emotions of the Left.”  This he would claim frequently but not always appropriately. 

          The car clock in Jon’s Ford Escort read 6:33pm. He entered his home through the back way.  The small duplex had a front and a back entrance.  As he slithered his way in, he heard what sounded like groaning from the living room.  Nora was lying down.  “Why did you take so long?”   “I’m sorry honey, but Duxman wanted me to type up the story and put it to bed tonight.”  “What about putting me to bed?” chimed Nora.  “I’m sorry...that’s all I can say.” “I think this story on special needs will make a good impression on the community, and could buy me some more job security. You know how I try to balance work and family.”  “Did you have any more pains?”  “Yes, a little bit,” said Nora.  “You are only a week away from having our first child. If it’s a girl, it’s Katelin, and what did we decide for a boy?” said Jon.  “It’s Steven for a boy.”

(One week later)

          The bright, brilliant sky welcomed itself and the wind howled in front of the
Stark home. A couple of crows in the backyard were cawing with boastful territoriality.  They seemed to be bickering.  At the same time the rooster down at the Steven Johnson farm, about two miles down Gentry Road, could be heard in clear contrast to the crows’ noise pollution.  The dew on the lawn was evaporating quickly as the powerful light of the sun 93-million miles away gave the sky that royal azure.  The blueness and the light peered through the kitchen window, illuminating more and more of the room, eventually giving more light to the room than artificial light could offer.  Jon opened the blinds and let more of nature's light in. He opened the screen
door and took in a full breath of earthy smells, which seemed wrapped in a heavenly peace. He smelled the pine trees, the smell of a freshly tarred driveway at the Micklette’s place, and the smell of a bonfire somewhere far away. There was a large steel water fountain in the Andrew's front yard, the concavity of the structure glistening in summer's sun.

          It was day like any other day. There was the sound of typing in the newspaper office, the sound of business, like any weekday.   Duxman was in his office talking to someone from the Republican Party.  What hair he still had left, was a little extra slicked down today for some reason.   Jon’s office phone rang.  He had barely started to look at his list of stories for the day when he heard Nora’s voice on the other end...”Come quickly, it’s coming.”  “Should I call an ambulance?”  “No.” said Nora.  “I can make it. You come right now.”  “I’ll be right there!” hollered Jon.

          He left a quick post-it note for Duxman and put it on his door as he ran out.  Duxman was still in some heavy discussion with a member of the GOP, and didn’t even notice the obvious distraction in the office.   Jon felt a strange nervousness, like the time when he rushed to the hospital in college after his father had a heart attack.  His heart was now fluttering and he had a kind of upset stomach starting, like he had eaten too much breakfast.  

          Jon and his young wife drove to the hospital.  He held her hand feeling her pulse quickening. They burst through the ER doors, and Jon was told to take a seat in the waiting room, the nurse said, “Everything will be OK.”  Waiting with Nora at the St Michael’s hospital room was rather confusing and scary.  That was the only way to explain it. The last time Jon had been in a hospital, it was when his Dad had suffered a fatal heart attack in 1980 and had not come out alive.  There was fear running through his mind but at the same time, he wanted to stay calm under the circumstances.   He needed to be a comfort to his wife who needed him very much right now.  He even talked to his Dad in his mind and thought about his favorite fishing lake where his ashes were placed.  Jon prayed to his father to give him courage through the situation and to have it all work out OK. 

          Now Jon must deal with it, ready or not. The knot in his stomach felt larger and tighter.

          It was a dry crisp September day...a gorgeous day with a temperature in the mid-70’s.  Jon gazed out the window and noticed a statue in the front lawn of the hospital. He noticed how the likeness of hospital founder Charles Sean Andrews was shining with importance. He was wondering how much it cost and how much the hospital must be making in profit. That statue must have been worth over 300-thousand dollars, Jon thought.  Nora appeared rather calm as she quietly joked with nurses she knew on the OB floor. 

          They found out Laura Burns was going to be her nurse in Room 1015.  Laura was one of Nora’s friends on the floor and this made Jon feel more comfortable. Laura was almost Amish in her rather humble and reticent manner. At age 39, she was still single and rode a bicycle to work nearly every day. She belonged to the Bahai Faith and had a home filled with books that not too many people understood.   What the townsfolk liked most was her kind and wonderful attitude and sense of humor.  Even with her laconic nature, she had a healthy sense of candor and many human connections.  She had adept listening skills and gentle openness that could disarm the most defensive person on earth.   She would help Nora and Jon through this experience.  She was a bright light. 

          Laura took a look at things and told Nora she and her husband would have a child by lunch time or shortly thereafter.  Jon thought, “Would the baby look more like me or her?”  “Would it have brown eyes or blue?”  “Would it like sports or chess?” “How would it feel to hold the baby?”

          The time was 11:49am.  There were some old corny Lawrence Welk reruns playing on the old hospital TV.  People with perfect hair, teeth and smiles were singing and dancing.   Jon wondered why it was even on, when more important business was going on.  A nurse who detested Lawrence Welk switched the channel to PBS, where a debate between William F. Buckley and Noah Chomsky was being replayed on a presentation called “The Best of Firing Line.”  Buckley was bloviating about the politics of the military action internationally and the stability of regions around the world in the context of colonialism.  Dreadfully boring, but in a different way, thought Jon. Nora let out a cry...”OH!” “It’s almost here.”   The doctor was called in.  Dr. Hammerstein looked like he was half asleep. He looked like he had gone a couple of days without sleep. His glasses were just hanging off the end of his nose, about to drop any second.  The good doctor asked if Nora would like an epidural and she declined, probably not aware of the amount of pain that was coming shortly.  It would be 20 minutes before the child would come.  The antique clock on the wall said several minutes after noon on that beautiful September 11^th afternoon.   Nora’s water was broken hours ago and excitement turned to poignant anticipation.

          Jon nearly passed out as he saw his son come into the world. The world changed and he trembled as this brand new form of life came out of the birth canal, his small body would soon take its first breath.    He was still shaking, but got to cut the umbilical cord, and took pride in it. He held his wife’s hand all the way, wanting to share as much of the experience, as he possibly could.  They had picked the name Steven for the boy. Steven Jonathan Stark.  Steven was Nora’s late uncle’s name, the one who was a mathematician at Columbia University.    He taught math for 37 years and was an expert at connecting mathematical concepts with those of physics.   Nora had been saying over the last few months, “I want to name Steven after someone brilliant, and my uncle is a shining example of intelligence and human caring.”    Nora just held Steven for the longest time.  Jon held him for a few minutes during the first hour but let his wife’s maternal instincts have free reign.  This was a wonderful moment.  All Jon kept saying was “This is wonderful. This is wonderful.”  He must have said the word “wonderful” two dozen times during that first hour.  Steven looked so healthy and he had plenty of hair. The nurse put his hair into a “spike.” and announced, “Here’s your son Spike!”  They all laughed.

          Nora called her Mom and Dad in Indiana.  Jon’s Mom was there holding Nora’s hand.   Nora’s parents would be in Wisconsin by early tomorrow morning.   She said how proud her husband Daniel would have been to see his handsome grandson.  Thanksgivings and Christmases have been tough since the death of Jon’s father, but now, she knew in her heart that there would be new life at these holidays, bringing them new hope and meaning.  Nora, “Mom, It’s a boy.”  Nora’s mother who bore the same name as her daughter said, “Dear, I’m so happy for you. You’re a mother!”  “I can’t believe it.  It hurt but it was worth it.”  “He is a wonderful boy, a miracle and we have decided to call him Steven.”  “When I look into his eyes I see Jon’s Dad and you.  What a profoundly beautiful combination.”   “We will be driving up tonight and staying at the Holiday Inn. Is there anything you would like us to bring? We have a surprise for the baby,” said Thelma.  “That would be great Mom, but the thing we need the most is you.  The greatest gift you can give us is yourselves. How is Dad?” said Nora.  “Jack still has some stomach problems, but he is nearly over them now.” 

          It was now two weeks later and Steven was not sleeping well, keeping Nora up at all hours of the night.  The couple was awakened many times by a strange cry that seemed to pierce the peaceful night like a wounded coyote or stranded animal of some kind.  Jon knew it was his son, but the noise sounded strangely non-human. It was more of an animal-like cry. He wanted to deny it was his son, but he couldn’t.   Once he rushed in and found Steven with mucous all over his face, struggling to breathe. He had a cry so strong that seemed to sort of dislodge him spiritually.   It would hurt his son’s throat to go on like that for several minutes more, but he kept on going and there was nothing, it seemed, that Dad could do about it.   Tuesday night he took his son in his arms, but that did not stop the crying. Nora said, “Maybe he needs a mother’s touch.”  The mother’s touch didn’t seem to work either.  The two talked about how they may change to a different type of formula. Steven had totally rejected breast-feeding the first couple of days he was home.  Jon and Nora thought it was colic, but they were to face more challenges down the road.  Jon cradled the boy in his arms, trying to talk to him, trying to sing to him...”I love you...you love me....we’re a happy family...” but, that did not work.  Nothing seemed to work, until little Steven cried himself to sleep at 5am.

          A half-hour later, the couple was arguing over how much emphasis the young husband and father puts on his home life, versus his priorities at work.  Jon slowly looked up. "That's not fair, you know I'm doing the best I can to support this family and thanks to a stable job, we are making it. I'm always concerned about job security, I'm thinking about us, our future including Steven's."  Nora stared back, her greenish blue eyes now glaring, "Well then, you need to help me more around the house. That would be good. See the garbage when it needs emptying, see the dishes, see the tables or cabinet that needs cleaning up. You're always reading something. I'm starting to feel overwhelmed."  Jon said, "I think this is going to take some real work. Maybe it's make it or break it for our relationship. Steven's tantrums are getting longer, it seems like he always has an ear infection. I know you need more help, and I'll try to be more supportive.  Nora with the book on her lap now, "You're finally starting to get it. Hooray!"

          It’s now a year and a-half later.  It was a Wednesday, and Jon and Nora decided to take Steven to the doctor.  He was now 19 months old and still not sleeping well.  The young couple was running on fumes, especially Nora, who was a light sleeper. They had doubts about Steven’s hearing, as they would shout at the top of the lungs and still sometimes not get his attention.  Something was wrong and they were scared.  Pediatrician Dr. Tricia Nelson recommended Steven be tested for “Birth to Three,” a county program that assists families with their special needs children.   Both agreed that this could not hurt. 

          After the testing, about a week later, Jon and his wife met in the comfy confines of Dr. Nelson’s office. They heard the bad news.  Dr. Nelson along with the Director of “Kids Birth to Three” Fredrica Barth said he had “autistic tendencies.”   Jon’s mind flashed back to the autism conference he had covered for the newspaper about two years ago, and shook his head in disbelief.  Nora’s tears dripped one by one on the hard wood floor of the office.  “We want him to be tested by a neurologist.” Dr. Paul Hugh will see you in Madison in two weeks. It all came so fast.  Jon had terrible visions of a “head banging out of control child,” a child that would bust up their family for good.   Would this child become the hellacious hurricane of horror? 

          Dr. Hugh was a tall man with a receding hair line; his gray hair cut short and clean shaven.  He welcomed Jon and Nora and their small son into his office.  He took a short family history and then said, “I want to take some time just to observe Steven, to let him walk around and get familiar with my office.”   There was a brown shagged carpet and a slight smell of Lysol in the air.  There were some toys in the southeast corner of the room, some building blocks, a toy house, some doll figures and cars and trucks.  Steven just stood in the middle of the room, and he looked like he was going to cry, his lower lip trying to break his face into a pout.  Hugh watched him and then brought him over next the toys and started to interact.  He had no notepad or notebook.  He just took mental notes.  After about 15-20 minutes of observation, Hugh sat next to the couple who were on the off-white leather couch.   “I believe Steven has Pervasive Developmental Disabilities, non-specified at this time.  He has autistic type tendencies, little eye contact, profound communication problems and an apparent problem with the ability to give and receive appropriate affect.”   Nora chimed in, “This cannot be so, he seems so normal in so many ways.”    “’The Birth to Three’ people will work with you and I would like to also give Steven an EEG before you go today.”    

          The E-E-G showed evidence of irregular brain waves, which could be an indicator of seizure activity. The report showed that the E-E-G demonstrated disorganized background with the presence of intermittent right frontal slowing as well as some bi-frontal slowing.  Also, “focal right posterior temporal spike and spike and slow wave discharges” were noted.  The doctors said there was a potential for Steven to develop seizures, but the risk was relatively low, that the findings represented a “diffuse neurophysiological dysfunction, which may be secondary to some toxic or metabolic effects.”    Dr. Hugh prescribed some Depakote for this, and Jon and Nora, somewhat stunned, left the office. Their son had never had a seizure as far as they knew.   The Birth to Three staff scheduled intensive therapy with their son and over the next few months, there would be testing and more learning about how far behind Steven was in a number of important areas, like receptive and expressive language, fine and gross motor skills, affect and there was no language.  Jon knew one thing for sure.  He would never ever give up on his son and he and Nora would try to give him the most loving and supportive family possible. 

          Nora knew that Jon had a big day at work Monday and Duxman would be brooding in his office, wondering why “Jon had seemed so distracted as of late.”  He was a results kind of guy.   His three-year review was coming up on Thursday and he had to be ready for it, but how could he be ready with so little sleep?   He was not looking forward to encountering Duxman’s  judgemental  tone and the terse, stridor and raspy quality to his voice.  Jon would have this reoccurring dream about Duxman seething in his abject negativism.  He was not looking forward to the speech about loyalty which he gave to his employees on a regular basis.  Duxman had stated openly that loyality was the most important quality for his employees to possess.  The contrived fealty congealed as if it were some crème from the right willfully rising to the top. 

          The next morning, Jon stopped for coffee at Mel’s Convenience Store before work.  It was right on the way, so he only had to leave a couple of minutes early.  As he drove, he felt some sense of guilt for leaving Nora with such a loud and seemingly unhappy child, a child that didn’t seem to like being held.  The days were long with struggles as they tried to calm Steven’s growing frustrations with life.   Steven’s internal struggles must be enormous, thought Jon.

                                       

THE DREAM

They are not long

The days of wine and roses

Out of a misty dream

Our path emerges for awhile

Then closes

Within a dream

Ernest Dowson

          It was a rainy day. The pitter-patter of the rain was like nature’s metronome, a soulfully soothing background rhythm in a quiet house. Nora took Steven to do some errands.  After three nearly sleepless nights in a row, Jon went to read a book by Tom Stupples, a famous democratic state senator from California, whose campaign slogan was...”I’m an American liberal,  and proud of it!”   Jon admired Stupples for his gift of oratory, and the way he could motivate people from all kinds of backgrounds.  He had political courage and was the common man telling people how their lives could be extraordinary.  He could make people believe with religious-like conviction without using the word God once in his presentation.  Stupples was previously a college professor in Minnesota, and his book also told about some of the bold actions he took to get students to learn, like the time he had the students getting up on a stump outside Jerriman Hall reading political speeches of the 1800's.  They were speeches which had significance in the modern day, ideas which sometimes rubbed some campus conservatives the wrong way.  The oratorical exercise was called “Bringing History to Life.”   Stupples got called into the Dean’s office and almost got fired over that one and other similar antics.  The pages became heavier and the book slipped from Jon’s fingers onto the shag carpet below.    The rhythm of the rain led Jon gently into a peaceful sleep. 

          Jon was now in the world of REM sleep, the theatre of the mind.   He was snoring now, but Nora wasn’t there to nudge him awake.  In the dream, he was near a ticket window waiting for tickets for a Wisconsin Badger football game.  Next to him, his father, was in a quiet but content mood.  A large table to their left held a large pile of Badger shirts, with a large emblem in front, freshly manufactured.  His Dad pointed to the shirts...”Let’s get a couple of those.”

          The Badgers were to play Indiana that day at Camp Randall.

          The importance of the moment hit Jon’s impressionable mind like an earthquake.  It was sort of an epiphany.  God was about to give him one more chance to be with his father, who died during Jon’s college years.   Here it was...one more Badger game.  It was one more chance to interact and get it right with Dad.  Tears were streaming down Jon’s cheeks even as he was fast asleep.  This is it, one last chance.  Jon looked at his Dad again, and he was in his mid-30's still vibrant with his usual ruddy complexion, maybe some slight sunburn on his face from an afternoon sail.  He could smell his Dad’s aftershave, the aftershave he smelled every morning before going to Lakeview Elementary School.  

          The two would be seated in the upper deck where the wind was a little stronger.  There was the smell of hot dogs, beer and cotton candy.... and the sound of people anxious to see the two top Big Ten teams go head to head. There was this flood of red in the stadium, with thousands of Badger faithful donning the team colors.   It was all so real for Jon, so clear, so vivid.   Daniel did not have a beer in his hand, and seemed much more interested in just conversing with his son on this breathtakingly beautiful September day.  Jon looked on the stub of his ticket.  It was September 16^th, the day his father had died.  His Dad started the diologue, “We better check our tickets to see if we are in the right section.”   They were at a football game, but it wasn’t Billy Marek’s rushing yards or the ferocious Indiana defense they would talk about.  It was their relationship.

          There was plenty of hazy sunshine, certainly the kind of pleasant day that warmed the soul.  Jon’s relationship with his father had always been kind of unclear, but there was always plenty of sunshine possible.  There was a sense that something could be done through this conversation to bring the two closer together.  There was an urgency to the conversation that only a dreaming mind could comprehend.   There was no repentance to talk about, but more of a gentle forgiveness needed by both sides.  Jon’s Dad probed, “How much do you think I prevented you from being what you wanted to be?”

          The question made Jon a little dizzy.  He replied slowly.  “I think I was one who failed to be assertive enough, in a variety of situations.  When others were going for it, I was sitting back, not realizing how wrong the sitting back actually was.  There were times when I could have helped solidify our father-son relationship.  I regret the times when you wanted me to help with the sailboat, and I said “No thank you.”  I also turned down offers to go sailing.  The opportunities lost were many.  Things were subtly offered and I turned them down. I hate to think of the things that could have been done that could have changed both of our realities.

          Daniel:  “I believe that you were trying in your own way to understand your world.  I do not dislike you for failing opportunities.  It was both of us who could have acted to make it better.  All you can be is to be yourself.  You cannot be anyone else.  Perhaps I could take the blame for not reinforcing the truly good characteristics you had, and caring a bit more about your social development than just letting it transpire by itself.  I thought if I left you alone to find yourself, it would happen....and some things never happened.  I was saddened but felt powerless to do anything.  Perhaps I could have helped you more to build your self-confidence.  I think sometimes you could have shown more enthusiasm in being my son.  I didn’t always see that.  You didn’t seem to be excited enough about life. Murray was easier to identify with because of his attitude.  It stood out more and it was an attitude easier to engage with.  Don’t take me wrong, it doesn’t make him a better person than you.”

          Jon replied,   “There is an ironic tragedy here, or is it tragic irony?   I always wanted to be closer to you and I was perhaps afraid of rejection.  I was always extremely proud of being your son, your number one son.  I still feel the enthusiasm you felt when you brought me home from the hospital.  You were 29 years old when you held me for the first time, after I was born at Fitzsimmon’s Hospital.  I wish I had done more talking during our earlier years.  We would have found out that we were closer on many things, and that our similarities far outweighed our differences. We could have grown closer in spirit, more than we had thought possible.” 

          Daniel: “When did we drift apart?”

          Jon:  “During junior high and high school.  Murray got so adept at sports, and turned out to be quite a popular kid. You took a lot of interest in him and I felt you didn’t always check in with me. I acted like things were fine, but I was really very very confused.  I am saddened that you didn’t see through that.  The squeaky wheel gets the grease, and I should have made a greater effort to reach out to you. It was always easier to talk to Mom, and with us there was this distance, a distance that didn’t necessarily have to be.  Murray took your death very hard, but perhaps it was tougher on me because of the unrealized relationship....the opportunity that was never fulfilled.  That was very sad.” 

          Loud speaker:  “Rufus Ferguson with the touchdown” (crowd cheers and fades into the background)

          Jon glanced at the crowd and saw someone who looked just like Dwight Eisenhower in the 2^nd row.   He was just cheering away.  He had quite a presidential smile.  Eisenhower had been president of the United States when Jon was born on November 2, 1959.  Adlai Stevenson was nowhere in sight.  Why?

          Jon: “I always appreciated how you chose to see the good in humankind, rather than the negative.  You were not the “’fire and brimstone’ kind of guy who saw life as a continual battle against original sin.  You were a kinder and gentler soul in many ways.  I always saw you as a quiet, complex man sometimes hard to read, but a great interpreter of life’s script so to speak, and a friend to many.  Tell me more about the political party you best meshed with?”

          Daniel: “The Democrats are closest to the compassion and truth that God represents, but they still have a ways to go.  As the Democratic platform said in 1880, ‘The party is a friend of labor and the laboring man, and pledges itself to protect him against the cormorant and the Commune. The interests of the people are betrayed when trusts and combinations are permitted to exist.  The Democratic Party stands for democracy; the Republican Party has drawn itself to all that is aristocratic and plutocratic.  The Republican Party is the party of privilege and private monopoly.’”

          Daniel:   “What about this autism that affects your son?”

          Jon felt like his father, armed with rapt perception, knew more about him than he was aware of.  He was starting to probe. The sun was starting to burst through the haze at Camp Randall. 

          Jon added, “Perhaps you can tell me.  What is the secret to overcoming this challenge of autism in our family?  It seems like a cancer, a pernicious psychological growth within the family constellation that is eating away at Nora and me.  I am more irritable than ever. Nora is more irritable than ever.  Tenderness in our relationship seems like a thing of the past.  Are we in a negative downhill spiral, a plane that is nose diving with no pilot?  Did I do something wrong in my lifetime to deserve this?”

          Daniel starts talking in a consoling tone, “We must be very careful when looking at this.  If you perceive some sort of meaning from God, then that’s great if it works for you.  I do believe that it’s not what happens in life, but how you react to it that counts.  My honest thought is that there is not a divine, from ‘on high’ reason for this.  What I do know is that you have a 100-percent responsibility to figure out what God means to you.  It is important that you get this into perspective in your mind. It is important that as the situations get more challenging, you and your wife grow in intellectual and emotional honesty.  I cannot express this enough.  It’s vitally important that you put your life in some meaningful perspective, in the best order possible.  You only have one chance to get it right.  Nora wants you to get it right and you want Nora to get it right.  In your life, meaning must be more important than pleasure.  Much of what pop culture says is not good for your family.   Things are clearer from where I am, but you must figure out your answers for yourself.   Follow your heart, but also follow your mind.  Several years from now, a folk rock singer from England will write a song called ‘God loves Everyone.’ Listen not only to the simple melody, but also listen to the words.  Remember the words of Meister Eckhart who said, ‘You may call God love, you may call God goodness, but the best name for God is compassion.’” 

          Jon speaks, “What is the importance of empathy?”

          Daniel chimes in, “It can certainly make it more likely that the physician will heal or at least improve the status of his patient.  It can certainly strengthen and preserve a friendship since a true understanding of where the other person is coming from can allow us to accept, without judging, opinions and sometimes behaviors different from our own.  Empathy when used in a positive way, can be an extremely constructive force in human relationships.  It can be a healer.   Of course there are a few unethical doctors, lawyers and salesmen out there who use empathy for bad purposes, for making money.  There was the story of the man who built his own allergy clinic and who was tremendous with empathy with his patients but who recommended tons of surgery that was not needed and even ended up killing someone in the process.  That would be empathy gone wrong.  A terrorist may use empathy to ‘understand’ the plights of his followers but also realizes he is manipulating their lives for their own needs. ” 

          Jon sighs, and states, “How much then do we really know about anything in this world?” 

          Daniel replies, “I think you could look at a statement of your favorite writer Margaret Lathrop again to find some partial closure here.   She said in one of her books in 1979, ‘I will never understand man's capacity for violence against others. I'll understand rocket science before I'll come close to comprehending cruelty or the intentional causing of pain to others.  So all this leads up to one question: What is it that I can say I understand?

‘I understand that all life is interconnected. I understand that nothing exists separate or by itself. I understand the profound sacredness of life and its miraculous existence. I understand that reverence for life and a compassion for all is a far more enlightened approach to reality than violence and destruction.  I understand that humanity has an untapped potential for greater good than we have yet achieved. I understand that the best is yet to come.  I understand that we fulfill our greatest potential for good and find the meaning of our existence in our service to others.  I understand that all of creation echoes and reflects something more infinite than anything our five senses can convey.  Perhaps when all is said and done and the last word is written in the last volume of human knowledge, this is really all we ever really need to understand.’”

          Jon pauses and asks, “What is the meaning of love then?  Isn’t that the ultimate question?” 

          Daniel takes a generous pause and then responds:  “Look at Carl Sagan’s love for life and knowledge and respect for the short time people are on the Earth.  I think Carl urges us to dream about a spirituality of the universe, of great questions unknown and to pause and marvel at the complexity of it all. Like a child looking at the night sky and billions of stars, Carl urged us to meditate positively about the possibilities, marvel at the greatest of mankind and glance the wonder of the human mind.  As author and philosopher Sam Keen once wrote, ‘The great lovers throughout human history have testified that, in the final analysis, we do not define or measure love but are defined and measured by it.  The more dedicated we become to the process and practice of love, the more we come to understand the poverty or richness of our love that defines our sense of what is real. We experience the self and the world in radically different ways when we are exiles living in isolation from others and when we are exiles living in the passionate community of our kindred.’  Ultimately love reveals its vastness, it’s comprehensive nature that is more than a feeling.   As another great American philosopher of love stated, ‘Find the person who will love you because of your differences and not in spite of them and you have found a lover for life.  Remember that love is always bestowed as a gift — freely, willingly, and without expectation … We don’t love to be loved; we love to love.’   Life is short but love is anything but ephemeral or transitory.  Life is like a benevolent flash of light.  Capture its true essence.  Love is the answer Jon.”
          “What about church-goers and compulsive moralizers?  These aren’t necessarily the chosen ones are they?”   
          Daniel responds, “I’m not asking you to be a fanatic about The Bible, but take a look at Jesus’s parable of the lost son.  God is teaching us never to feel superior to other human beings, to never assume superiority.   It’s all about having infinite empathy and working on ourselves before having this urge to judge others. Very few people are actually good at this.  Do not judge lest ye be judged.  The parable has some real healing power if you take time to analyze it.  God is also sending a message about assumed moral conformity versus experimentation.  God judges each soul individually.  One should never have a false sense of security with pride in a false moral record.  With God, it is not a matter of being in the in-crowd.  It is far deeper than that.  There is such thing as feeling pride in a false moral record.  This parable may also help you more clearly understand your relationship with your younger brother Murray.  The parable also helps us understand more clearly the German word sehnsucht, the existential longing that man has without knowing all the answers.  Faith must play a big role in filling that gap.”

          Jon asks, “Is there something intrinsically artistic and creative about what we call God?”

          Daniel replied, “Human beings’ understanding of God is much too anthropomorphic.  In reality God is much more abstract and a million times more beautiful.  The Christians seem to be closest to the truth right now, but still have a ways to go.  The concept of Jesus dying for the sins of man, that is possibly the most powerful thought in your spirituality today. Becoming a Christian or Unitarian is a good way to start.  Poetry and meditation are also a good way to get closer to the father, mother, son and holy spirit.  Spirituality is never a destination, but always a journey.  Always remember that Jon. ”

          Daniel continued, “Over two decades ago, President John Fitzgerald Kennedy had a grasp of this idea when giving a speech at Amherst College in Massachusetts.    He was giving tribute to poet Robert Frost,

When power leads man towards arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the areas of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses. For art establishes the basic human truth which must serve as the touchstone of our judgment.

          Jon asks, “I agree that spiritual direction is very important and that there are more questions than answers.  What can I best do to help my autistic son in the way God would want it to happen?   He is only four years old and so vulnerable.”

          Daniel replies, “Love him for who he is even though he has very little discernable IQ.  He is still one of billions of human miracles on the earth, the place where you and I were born. He needs you son, more than you could ever know.   Even though his awareness is limited, he will be greeted with a constant barrage of extreme love and understanding, and also with a barrage of prejudice and ignorance, and a firestorm of misunderstanding in some instances.  It’s up to you to put this in some kind of meaningful perspective, and set an example for others by acting in the most loving and compassionate way.  Your outward love for Steven will spill gracefully onto your other relationships.  It’s much like the love of Christ spreads through his disciples.   When your understanding of Steven’s plight increases, the love and tenderness between you and your wife will intensify.  Loving Steven is much like loving what Christians call Christ.  Your love for your special boy will ignite the power of love around you in an exponential way.   Let not your heart be troubled.  You must not be afraid to show your love for others.   You must express your love like a rainbow.  When you see a rainbow, think of the love that is possible and know that everything will work out alright.  Keep some thoughts to yourself, but know that there is plenty of love to express and to share.  Life is too short for hate, and only fools are sucked into its more tumultuous vortex.  Hate is short sighted and love is forever.  Go forward and proclaim your love for your son and good things will happen.”

          Jon:  “I’m sorry, but I cannot believe that loving Steven can totally cure the problem Nora and I have with tenderness.”

          Daniel:  “Talk to her more.  Bombard her with your feelings and emotions.  She will never be cold to you if she knows you are in touch with the miracle of the family you created together.  That includes Steven.  It can work.  You have to capture some of that beginning passion and find the fresh friendship you found when you first met.  It’s best to show and express your friendship intensely.  People underestimate the power of friendship.  Friendship is the foundation for all relationships.”

          Jon:   “Sometimes I feel like such an outsider in life and not really “in the loop” at work or at home.  How can I break out of this seemingly helpless cycle of being an observer instead of a doer?” 

          Daniel: “Wait a minute.  I’m very proud of you for not participating in so much evil that was around you through your developmental years. Look at what could have gone wrong. It could have been much worse. You are very cautious about life and there is much good in that.  Look at Jesus and Gandhi.  They tended to be outsiders for most of their lives. You are in pretty good company. They had the most marvelous perspectives (dreams if you will) of what the world could be.  You have some of that Christ/Gandhi energy inside you.  Get in touch with this energy.  It will lead you to a vision of endless love for humanity, sadness for what is, but eternally grateful for the possibilities and the miracle of life.  Concentrate on your dreams, not on the sins of the world.  There are a lot of ways to get in touch with what people call God. You can do it through Unitarianism or perhaps Hinduism or Christianity, just to name a few examples. 

          Daniel continues, “Respect also the passionate searchers who call themselves agnostics. They sometimes have the warmest and kindest hearts.   See the great works of art and listen to great music and meditate about how wonderful life is.  You may want to concentrate on the principle of ahimsa, passive resistance as a means of bringing about political change.  As you look at this philosophy, which comes from Jainism, you will better be able to formulate your own spiritual outlook.  The key to life is to never stop searching, and keep your childlike curiosity firmly intact. The evanescent quality of life is the key.   Respect immensely that it’s here and it’s gone, here and gone again, each golden moment.  Be thankful for what you have.  As Margaret Lathrop says, take time to look at the details, ‘It has become increasingly vital to my well-being that I do not fail to find God in the details. I remind myself often to appreciate each moment I am given, to appreciate every shade and nuance and subtle ambiguity that I encounter in the passage of time, for I shall not pass this way again.’ God is speaking through Margaret in more ways than one. Listen very carefully to what she says.  Margaret once wrote in her book ‘My Reality,’  ‘Sitting up on my rooftop taught me to look at the bigger picture in order to distinguish the underlying order of things and to understand how everything fits together to create an integrated reality.  The very immensity of the starry heavens created in my mind the first hint of infinity.  In those moments that trembled on the edge of ecstasy, I began to comprehend in some childish manner what folks were referring to when they spoke of God.’   I will leave you with that Jon.  I love you more than words can say.” 

          And with that final statement, his father’s dreamlike presence vanished.

          Groggy Jon wiped his eyes.  He rose slowly from the couch and found he had been in slumber land for nearly two hours. He shed a tear when he realized he had been visited by his dead father who was very spiritually alive in his dreams.  Did God craft such dream activity or was its Jon’s mind trying to work things out, to make things more psychologically comfortable?    Maybe it was something not to be analyzed, but to be appreciated.

          Jon's mind was swirling with a variety of thoughts, some of which were not very comfortable. It seemed as if his son was a soul trying to escape, but his mind wouldn't let him make a break for it.  He was trying to escape from the prison of his own genetic destiny it seemed. He was a beautiful gift unable to be unwrapped. Steven is a sacred little boy inside, not knowing how to break free from the dark dungeon of autism.     Who would be able to unlock the doors? Would he be doomed to an existence where there is a wall between the typical and the bizarre? Would he suffer with profound frustrations that do not allow him to be totally free? He would be robbed of normal conversations, of feeling the warm camaraderie of friendship on the school playground, of graduations and birthday parties. It was sinking in. Jon was at the beginning of his own grieving process, or was he farther along than he thought?  Jon marvelled at the complexity of his own brain which could create such a sublime yet profoundly disturbing dream. 

“Our brains stand as marvels of nature’s power to create.  We are capable of processing millions of bytes of information at such a speed that if a computer ever attempted it, it would burn up from the amount of energy it would be using.  And yet, we do it with ease every moment of our lives.”    

Margaret Lathrop from “The Ripple Effect of Spirituality” 

          Jon had learned in college psychology classes about the stages of denial, anger, and acceptance, so maybe he was in the anger stage right now. Was his anger turning inward about his father’s death, forming a sort of depression?  He also knew that he and Nora had not talked adequately about what seemed to be the unfolding of tragedy of yet unknown dimensions. It would be more than a dent in the family structure.  Jon knew he had to communicate more with his wife about his concerns or the marriage would quickly start to unravel. He knew this in his heart. They would have to dialogue about feelings, thoughts and concerns at a deeper level than they were now achieving. What was Nora feeling? Was she repressing her anger about the grief process? Would she be able to express it without anger pouring out of her soul like a dragon, tarnishing their relationship? Nora rarely ever got mad, she just got very quiet, and Jon hated the silent treatment.   

          Nora also found peace in reading books.  She was a member of the “Pulitzer Prize Reading Club.”   The PPRC only read Pulitzer prize winners and their list went back to 1918.   Writers they studied included William Styron, Philip Roth, Margaret Barnes, Caroline Miller, Catherine Ann Porter, Josephine Winslow Johnson, Harper Lee and Robert Lewis Taylor.   Nora’s favorite author was Ernest Hemmingway who won the Pulitzer in 1953 for “The Old Man and the Sea.”

          Jon found some solace in doing the family’s laundry.  He did it on Tuesday and Thursday and he would listen to cassette tapes of his favorite artists like Tom Paxton, Peter Paul and Mary, James Taylor, Kenny Rankin, Nick Drake, Lyle Lovett and Bruce Cockburn, or listen to country music on B 93.5. When his soul was unsettled and restless, it was a tape of The Rolling Stones.  The repetition of the spin and wash cycles was like an elixir of peace and tranquility.  The predictable routine soothed his soul and his world, like iced tea on a hot summer day, like soft whispers from a mother in love with her child.    He found solace in squeezing the soft pastels, the reds, the yellows and even the browns.  Loading the jeans with the smell of Tide everywhere, Jon would sift the detergent into the gurgling water and wondered what the future had in store for him.   His mind sometimes wandered when wading through the wash, about the time his younger brother Murray, at age three, became preoccupied with the spin cycle...and other spinning objects too, like tires on cars and trucks.   Daniel had been worried that his son may be delayed or perhaps autistic. He bought his son a toy washing machine and it seemed to please him greatly, and after that there were fewer fears of Kantor’s autism.   

          Laundry was the great escape...especially an escape from his wife.  Nora would sometimes wear her heart on her sleeve and her situational depressions like a prisoner committed to life.  She wore her grief like an old tattered sweatshirt, which provided a strange comfort in these times of uncertainty.  The truth was that both he and Nora were both trapped inside a paradox, between shadowy night and the hope of sunlight.  Jon desperately needed to see the light, and to see the glass half-full.  He intensely wished that his wife could see life like an exciting rapids, bubbling with possibilities. Getting out into the work-a-day world helped Jon see this, but Nora, burdened with Steven and the home chores could not see the “more” in life, and there was nothing Jon could say that could sway her.  Nora’s world was dark and instead of bubbling with possibilities, it was like a bubbling cauldron of frustration, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  The possibilities in her tapestry of life now seemed more like a web to be trapped in with trouble just around every corner. 

          The door opened and it was Nora with an enigmatic half-smile that meant the tremor before the quake.  There was nervous energy and depression built up, and no Richter Scale could predict how her naked angst would sometimes affect the day. 

          Nora nearly out of breath from some kind of emotional trauma, “I ran into Duxman on the street.  What an incredible pugnacious asshole.  He told me, ‘Good luck with that retard you are trying to raise.’  The gall that man has. He said he felt sorry for our family. He was glad it didn’t happen to him.   I thought the guy would have some social sense, going to Yale business school and all.  Doesn’t he have to be at least a little human to graduate Ivy League?”

          Nora could hardly contain her anger.  Jon held back and just tried to focus and listen. 

          “How could you work for somebody like that? What a bellicose jerk! Nobody understands this autism. Nobody does.  But to have your boss make smart ass remarks.  It takes the cake!  Jon, I just walked away.  I couldn’t look at his pathetic face any more. “

          Jon’s usually gentle visage became a greater shade of red, ruddy like his father’s used to get sometimes, his countenance a teary shade of angry concentration.  He knew there were few excuses for the politically pugnacious Duxman.  He responded, “Not everybody likes their boss. We just have to do the best we can in this world. We need the money my job brings in to survive! We cannot choose our bosses in life.” 

          Nora chimed in with such uncharacteristic truculence, “But, this insensitivity, this trash talk cannot be excused.  It is hateful plain and simple.  As far as I’m concerned, Duxman can take a long leap off of a short pier along with his Chamber of Commerce hot shot friends.”   

          Jon, “I think you are overreacting Nora. There is bound to be misunderstanding out there, including people wrapped up in their twisted word views, who do not want to understand the plight of their neighbors. That is just plain reality and we must learn to work with it.”     Jon empathically gazed at his wife, whose tears were turning to fright, fright about an uncertain future.

          Jon knew there was something incendiary and almost belligerent in her accusations.  There was something deeply tragic about a friendly young woman, the woman he loves, losing her mind momentarily. This constant stress was beginning to choke her.  It seemed to be moving in like a severe thunderstorm warning on a hazy humid day.  Jon hoped that Nora would not start throwing things.  Her tone was turning vitriolic, which was totally contrary to her usually warm personality.   Jon feared an impending disintegration of sorts, severity level unknown. 

          Nora went to turn on the radio and heated some water for some lemon tea saying “I just want to be alone for awhile.”   Jon countered, “That’s OK, perfectly OK honey.  We all need our private time for sanity’s sake.”    The radio played to the song of Cyndi Lauper “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” the words adding more than a tinge of irony to the humid day.  Nora was taking refuge with “The Soft 98, the soothing hits of the 70's and the 80's.”   It was her soma that she felt she earned, but what Jon and Nora really needed was more frequent communication between them. Right now, their relationship wasn’t an open door policy, but “knock before entering.” 

          It was nine p.m. and Jon went to check Steven in his crib, the outline of his small and thin body was in the near fetal position as he clutching his Winne the Pooh.  The light of the full-moon was the room’s only illumination.  Steven was fast asleep and looked so typical and so peaceful.  He was less trouble now at bedtime, now that they had discovered the sleep aid Melatonin.   Jon was happy that sleep had calmed the autistic turbulence that only Steven’s mind truly knew.  Jon wondered what it was like to be inside Steven’s mind.  He imagined an engine room without a captain, a control tower with airplanes buzzing about randomly.  It was a mind full of misfiring neurons and underdeveloped connectivity, a sea of unfathomable emotions, emotions that were deeply locked inside his handsome son.  Steven’s mind was like the Titanic lost somewhere in the ocean deep.    What a tremendously complicated mystery autism is.

          Steven was now fast asleep in his green dinosaur pajamas, with the red and white Wisconsin Badger covers pulled to his chin. At a very young age he had the habit of putting one arm over his head when he slept, much as Jon had done as a child and still does as an adult. His stuffed Garfield animal was not far away. With the light of one lamp illuminating the small room, Nora sat reading her favorite novelist James C. Finch. It seemed she needed an escape from the here and now, now more than before. Jon motioned Nora to put down the book, because he wanted to talk about Steven. Steven's quiet snoring now barely audible from across the hallway.

          Jon:  "Do you think we have a problem here?"  Nora stared back with a half-frown, half-smile and says, "There is a sense I have right now that our relationship is getting more mechanical and not as fluid as it once was. The child is taking a lot of emotional energy from us. I have not been able to go back to work at all.  Nursing is the job I love and I feel like I'm cooped up here. It just makes me feel sad. I feel like I'm doomed to this house, having to follow Steven where ever he goes. It just doesn't seem like the happy family I had envisioned five years ago. At the same time, Duxman has got you working 55-60 hours a week at the newspaper, putting in overtime like some fool. It seems like you're kissing Duxman's ass too often. Maybe it's that shiny head of his or something, maybe that's what you’re attracted to."

          Jon thought of the almost infinite divide between men and women and how that was so hard to penetrate at times. Sometimes Nora's moods were very hard to understand. Jon had thought they were having a good day and then Nora would announce that something wasn't done right. The dishes had not been done correctly, water was spilled on the counter, or the latest argument, that Steven was being fed rotten cereal. Jon didn't intentionally want to feed his child bad cereal,
but thought that if it wasn't perfectly crisp, that wasn't a logical
argument for rancidity. The way Nora argued her case, it made it
sound like Jon would intentionally want to poison his son, the
implication that he didn't care. Jon wondered if every relationship
had so many absurd and rocky moments or was it the tension of having
Steven in the house breaking through and making it virtually
impossible to have a satisfying conversation with your significant
other. It seemed that Jon was always doing something wrong, that he
wasn't handy enough around the house, that he was a sloppy planner
and "too laid back." He would detest that phrase, "too laid back."

          If there was a plan to implement, I wouldn't be so laid back,
Jon thought. But Nora, he thought, often expected him to do things
automatically without her giving him a clue. Should he always be on
edge ready for every project?  Should he risk being too happy or too
relaxed?   He was afraid that her wrath could slam him once in a while.   Jon favored
keeping the communication lines open as much as possible, but it
seemed that Nora only communicated when she desired to, and that was
that, no middle ground, no compromise, just black and white, right or
wrong. When Jon tried to probe her feelings, things got worse many
times. He would ask her if she was alright, if there was "something
he could do to make things better." The more he probed, the more
frustrated he got when she would throw up that wall of silence, that
deadly quiet that meant she was only getting madder and madder.

            There were many great qualities his wife exuded too, and Jon was careful to not let the troubled moments overshadow the many fine points of her character and her intense generosity.   Jon's wife showed a spiritual radiance that was hard to describe.
He remembered his friend in college, Red Hermen, the soccer star at
Tilden, who remarked how in love he was with his fiancé Diane because
he said, "A person gets more beautiful to you the longer you know
them and learn to love them. Your love for them makes them more
physically and spiritually attractive."  He never forgot Fred's
words.  The more hard times he went through with Nora, the more he
felt close to her and empathic and sympathetic to her daily trials.
Nora was a beautiful person on the inside, and that what he loved and
maybe just as important, trusted.   Nora was so innocent in so many
ways, thought Jon.  She often didn't understand the cut throat
competition people exhibited against one another and the one
one-upsmanship that people continually had to fulfill to keep their
egos healthy.  She expressed to Jon how she had a friend in
elementary school who was Amish and how she truly respected their
ways and how society in many ways had gone too far, because people
"were out for themselves." She was such a generous person. She did
not understand selfish people, seeing most of those egotistical
people as fools.  She could have been very happy growing up as Amish,
not needing to absorb herself in material comforts.  Jon greatly
respected that, and could not express in words the wonderful ethics
emanated from this treasure of a woman. She loved her husband and
child very much and fought hard times bravely.   There were more hard
times to come. 

          He saw Nora as the truest and most trustable friend he has ever had
in his life and wept when he heard this poem on public radio that
morning:

“That life may be more comfortable yet,
And all my joys refined, sincere and great,
I'd choose two friends, whose company would be
A great advance to my felicity:
Well-born, of humors suited to my own;
Discreet, and men, as well as books, have known.
Brave, generous, witty, and exactly free
from loose behavior or formality.
Airy and prudent, merry, but not light;
Quick in discerning, and in judging right.
Secret they should be, faithful to their trust;
In reasoning cool, strong, temperate and just;
Obliging, open, without huffing, brave,
Brisk in gay talking, and in sober, grave;
Close in dispute, but not tenacious, tried
By solid reason, and let that decide;
Not prone to lust, revenge, or envious hate,
Nor busy meddlers with intrigues of state;
Strangers to slander, and sworn foes to spite:
Not quarrelsome, but stout enough to fight
Loyal and pious, friends to Caesar, true
As dying martyrs to their Maker too.
In their society, I could not miss
a permanent, sincere, substantial bliss.”

John Pomfret

          There were so many problems yet so many possible answers. Jon
thought about the differences between Nora's family and his. He felt
it hard to sometimes get along with Nora's mother. Nora’s mother had had a hard life, growing up in Florida with an abusive father. Nora, who shared the same name as her mother, didn't say anything about that, but it was assumed that Larry did some physical and psychological damage. Larry was a drinker who would come home drunk many times. Young Nora would hide underneath the glass coffee table while her Dad interrogated her Mom. Her mother would remain quiet for hours at a time while Larry would make threats and sometimes break things like pictures and telephones. Nora would just stay under that table reciting The Lord's Prayer over and over again at the First Lutheran Church Wisconsin Synod Pre-School. Nora's mother was remarried (to a science teacher at the community college) when her daughter was eleven, a year after Larry left for good. He said he was "headed for Vegas and not comin' back." That was one promise he DID keep.

          Jon couldn't help thinking that the same patterns may be playing
out in his marriage. Was Nora "hiding under the table" when she
stood in the kitchen wiping down counters for the third time or doing
dishes over and over, when she refused to meet Jon's eyes directly
for the longest period of time? Jon was far from abusive, but he had
never felt this anger before, made more intense by her silence.
Maybe he needed to take a deeper and more penetrating look at what he was and was not contributing to the family. This anger in the home could get very intense after Steven's tantrums of one or two hours, the constant wining and worst of all, the fact that Steven could not communicate many of his needs.

THE NEIGHBORLY SALESMAN

          It was now about two and a-half years later.  The knock on the door was more like a pounding that a tapping. Steven was asleep and it was just past nine. It was windy fall night, a night when the trees caressed the side of the Stark home with scratching sounds. The long tall streetlight outside the unlit front porch flickered once in a while like it was in touch with its own offbeat Morse code.  Moments later, there was a much more  intense and almost barbaric pounding on the door.  Jon reached for the door dressed in Green Bay Packer pajama bottoms and a T-Shirt he got a rummage sale that said "Sheboygan Police Department" on it. It was kind of strange having a shirt with Sheboygan in big blue letters. Jon had never been to the eastern Wisconsin city or known anyone on the police force. With a touch almost, the door blew open, the leaves swirling near the small front porch. "Hello I'm Bill from down the block. My wife knows your wife from the hospital," said the man, who was obviously under dressed in just a work shirt and jeans. "Oh, Hi Bill, Bill Sorrells right?" "Right," replied Bill with a slight hint of a shiver.

          "Come on in and get out of the cold," said Jon.

          "Can I get you anything?" "No no, that's O.K." Bill had that look
in his eye like he was going to sell something, like he had spotted a
bargain at an auction or something. "Say, I heard that your son Steven is autistic and has some challenges and my wife and I were talking about it and were wondering if you ever had a chance to try any interventions?" "My wife Sylvia and I have been taking this chemical that I guess comes from the tropics...from ancient bark where African tribes have used to prolong their lives. The tribes near Kenya actually average a life span of about 95 years of age. It also helps them with sleep problems. I heard that your son is having trouble sleeping and that is affecting your family. It just so happens that my wife and I are distributors of "somagolia," made from the ancient magolia trees.  No, not magnolia, magnolia trees...there's a big difference! (Bill lets out a hearty laugh.) We can get you some of the stuff you can try on little Steph-onn." Jon with hand on his chin, said, "Sounds interesting, perhaps it's worth trying with Steven.

     The over the counter Melatonin doesn't seem to be doing the trick. We're also researching some other medicines right now, and we have an appointment with a psychiatrist tomorrow. Do you have any information on the somagolia?" Bill replied, "Yes, right here I have this here brochure with all the information. Both my wife and I take it and we feel so good and we sleep real good too. If there is anything Sylvia and I can do to help, just let us know. We like helping people, and I know you guys have had a lot of struggles. Nobody seems to understand this autism stuff. Did I tell you that my Dad went to school with your Uncle Gerald? What a small world." The two talked about the Packers and about plans Bill had to take Sylvia on a surprise cruise from some of the money she has earned as a Watkins salesperson. Bill and Sylvia were in their late thirties and childless. They had problems conceiving. Bill is a semi-truck driver and talked a lot about motivational tapes he listens to in the cab including Dale Carnegie, Zig Ziglar and others. "Well, let me know when you decide. I can get you the stuff at a cut-rate price." "Thanks a lot and have a good night Bill. And go get a coat on.  It's cold out there!" Bill chuckled again and gave him a thumbs-up as he closed the door very aggressively.

          "Whew," thought Jon. "It's amazing what the November winds can blow in." Jon went upstairs to check on Steven. He was sound asleep with his elbow over his forehead.  The house was quiet except for the rustling wind.  Jon went to the kitchen of the cramped Stark duplex on Stone Street and made himself some instant coffee, some decaf, so he could still sleep, then it was to the easy chair in the small living room, to treasure some rare silence.  The family cat named Hoyer brushed up against Jon’s shoe, hankering for some kind of attention in a way only a feline can.   He threw Bill's brochure on the kitchen counter, with a post-it note to Nora, saying "Can you believe this? What kind of crap is this man trying to sell us? What is Sylvia putting in his orange juice these days anyway?”  Jon had kept the brochure out of common courtesy. He had detested Bill's hard sell ways. Bill reminded him of a very poor used car salesman.  While in the easy chair he read some short stories from Updike, like "A and P" and a few others, but his thoughts kept floating back to him. "How would his family deal with the crisis of autism?" "How long would Nora hold up?" Jon knew she wasn't herself lately. He wished it was he and Nora who were going on a cruise and not that tacky couple Bill and Sylvia Sorrells.

          The hospital called and wanted Nora to put in a extra half-shift. Nora put in less hours these days at the hospital. She was able to work part-time, but not full-time anymore because of Steven's immense needs. Jon turned the TV on only to hear a commercial about the magical powers of vitamins. There was a man who had a doctor's white coat on (almost a Sylvester Stallone look-a-like) talking about the magic of "Dr. Stantman's A and E Vitamin Formula" that was supposed to cure everything from cancer to arthritis. The commercial made Jon sick to his stomach. The ways of the world seemed to be not always kind.  They were sometimes manipulative, deceptive, and down-right mean in Jon’s view.

“I worry that pseudo-science and superstition will see year by year more tempting, the siren song of unreason more sonorous and attractive.”  Carl Sagan

          The placid blue skies of morning, the atmosphere of bird songs faint in the distance and car horns and motors made their daily presence known on the street.  The long shadows of morning seemed to envelop the Stark home on this cold November day.  Steven is awake, now with a sharp, but playful vocalization.  He is trying to talk at age four and a-half, but with no success. Jon arises from his pallid grey dreams, not feeling ready for the day.  The dull headache is back again, the one his doctor doesn’t seem to understand.  Dr. Blank just keeps saying, “You need to get more sleep and take more aspirin.”   Was the doctor totally unaware, or not wanting to be aware that Jon’s body was courting danger?  The doctor’s office, he thought, was getting to be more of an assembly line these days. Jon could only think of one word, and that was the word “coffee.”   

CARL’S DEMISE

          The phone rang as the metronome of the rain fell on the rooftop.  It was the voice, now a little more scruffy than five yearsh ago of his old college buddy Carl Tabor.  He hadn’t talked to Carl in five years and last time he had heard was that he was going for his PhD in English Literature at some small college in Louisiana.  

          “How are ya buddy?” said Carl.   Carl had never called him a “buddy” before.   “Fine Carl.  It’s good to hear your voice. Our lives have gotten so busy, we just haven’t had the time,” answered Jon.  “I’ll be driftin’ into town next weekend,” said Carl.  It was a grey day all day long, and to Jon, the phone call symbolized a grey area too. Should one attempt to go back in time to try to relive a friendship with his best friend in college or should he concentrate on the present and the future and help Nora take care of Steven?  It might be too selfish to hang with Carl again.  He would feel like he was sinning.  Nora would surely be upset, thought Jon, if he would just "blow off" an entire evening with his old buddy. What would stop him,?  He did feel curious about how his friend may have changed and how the two might relate after about eight years since college.   After much internal deliberation, Jon decided he would take his old friend up on dinner at Jimmy's Inn on Highway 49.
          "Fine, that's final dude!  I'll see you at six," said Carl.  "See you then," replied Jon.

          There was now a pouring rain draining from a dark sky as Jon's Ford pulled up to the parking lot in bad need of repaving.  Jon had a blank look on his face as he walked through the door.  He didn't know what he would see.
          "Hey, I'm here at the bar buddy. You need to catch up.  It’s double bubble night!"  Jon was already growing very tired of being called buddy.  "How is life treatin' ya?" snorted Carl.   "OK I guess.  We have a lot of catching up to do."   "What are ya drinking Jon?"
          "Oh a light beer would be fine."   Carl responded, "Give the man two!   It's still happy hour."  Carl's petulant laugh had always been a little strange, even back in school.  It was almost like he was inhaling a lot more air than exhaling when he chuckled.  It was almost an overly tense laugh, thought Jon.  Carl’s fractious comments were bordering on the racy and suggestive.  His behavior was becoming refractory in nature and more like an obstreperous teenager.  This didn’t seem like a real friend. 

          "What the heck have you been doing with yourself lately?  Have you been staying out of trouble?" asked Carl.  "Oh, yeah.  I'm a married man now and things are a lot different. I met Nora right after college in 1981 when I was doing some odd jobs and some part-time work at the newspaper. She is such a great woman, a compassionate person, who is even a little more liberal than me in some ways. Can you imagine that? More liberal than me?  "I cannot fathom it."  Again Carl exudes his nervous laughter, but with a steady listening pair of eyes towards his friend.  "Nora is a nurse and a very good one.  She is so caring and generous.  She is the opposite of judgmental and so kind that she would help a homeless man to the shelter and if the shelter wasn't open, she'd bring him a warm meal."   "I always thought nurses married assholes," said Carl.  "Not in this case.  She’s a great person." replied Jon.   Jon was taken aback by that comment.  He was shocked by Carl’s vulgarity, his impropriety the obvious elephant in the room.  Jon expected more of a contemplative, ruminative tone from his friend, but instead got someone who was prone to mental gallivanting and presenting himself in an inane fashion.  Was this the introspective and kind Carl he had known in college?  His incisive wit was still intact but there was something missing.  There was something disturbing and contrived about his apparent intellectualism. Carl was surely in touch with his inner-capriciousness.  He seemed to really not care about Nora.  Jon thought, maybe it was the alcohol talking.   Once in awhile he was stride into non sequiturs like joking about going to jail, or has he called it, “the hoosegow.”  Sometimes he was very hard to follow.
          "Tell me a story about your life Carl.  Did you get that PhD at that small college in Louisiana, Hoffmeister College?"  Carl showed pitiless criticism of his former mentor at Tilden College, Dr. Hixon.  His brusqueness was almost disarming.  When he tried to say something enthusiastic, it sounded more half-hearted or sarcastic.   At times, he was bombastic with little evidence to back up extraordinary claims.  His tirades were quite innocuous but sad, thought Jon.   Jon contemplated total sequestration from his friend.   Was it the right thing to do?  Carl’s bitterness was becoming like a noxious fume filling the air space.   Carl looks askance at Jon, like he asked an inappropriate question.  "Well, Jonny, plans kind of changed when I got a bad reference letter from Hixon at Tilden.  I traced it back to him because he was the only one who could have done it.  He saw me at a party in my senior year doing some funny stuff I don't want to get into right now, but I think he judged me wrongly."  "I can't believe Hixon would do that.  He's such a neat person.  He was always in my corner."   "Well, he must have had it in for me for some reason.   I have no idea."   "I'm going to wait for another opportunity to come along," said Carl with a sort of glazed look.

          Jon asked Carl what books he was currently reading, and he couldn’t give him very much information, not revealing very much of his real self.  Jon found this kind of strange as they had had such good bull sessions about books and writers in college.   He seemed not as open and questioning as he had been in the past.   What had happened to his good friend?    He had mentioned that he was currently reading “Lolita” by Vladimir Nabokov, and that it had many secrets of the world inside it, and wouldn’t elaborate.  He also had mentioned that “Alice in Wonderland” was a brilliant book.   Carl went on to mention another book that “ties it all together,” saying the much maligned scientology had “a lot of truth to it that nobody recognizes.”   He went on to praise E.R. Hubbard for making life easier to understand.  He talked the concepts being “clear” and how other religions were all a bunch of bull, saying this is the only one that makes sense.  He told Jon that the these ideas cannot be all “bunk” because some very intelligent celebrities like Tom Cruise and John Travolta had helped their lives immensely by getting in tune with these new “radical ideas.”   It was getting harder for Jon to listen to all of this. His old college friend had become bitter and stolid.  His youthful fastidiousness had turned bitter. He was having an epiphany that good people can be turned corrupt and that cannot be helped sometimes.   Jon wanted to gag. 
          "I'm working some odd jobs now down south, working at a department store and full time at a video store, just sort of livin' right now, what can I say?" "What the heck ya waiting for? Drink up buddy!"  stated Carl in a ribald manner.   As he was saying this, he was teetering and breaking a near fall on his bar stool.   "I'm taking my time, savoring the brew," said Jon.
          "Tell me why you gave up on the English Phd?"
          "We'll it's all sort of a crock in a way.  Hixon had me jacked up to be this pipe-smoking intellectual who is in tune with GREAT LITERATURE.  Remember how he used to talk about GREAT LITERATURE like it was handed down by God?  Give me a friggin break.  It’s time to wake up and smell the coffee.  He had me geared into some abject determinism, some bleak nerd future.  He is a friggin phony!   Maybe this college teaching is not what it is cracked up to be.  I remember how he used to worship John Updike like he was some kind of saint of the 20th century.  You read his books carefully and you find out he is just a middle-aged pervert.   If you ask me, Woody Allen is smarter than Shakespeare and James Joyce was a wordy whiner.  Why are all of these classic writers worshiped so much?  It’s all a crock of shit!   These people in literature we all admired in college were nothing more than false idols for us college kids who were afraid to live in the real world.  Tilden College was not the real world. The liberal college crap is for the birds.  Too many of my profs worshipped political correctness, the ACLU and the National Organization of Women.    I am finding out a lot more about life by dating Connie from video store and smoking some weed once in awhile.  Ha, ha.  This guy we know at the apartment complex named Gus shows up with some funny stogies once in awhile.  Living real life, that is what it is all about."

          Was this the same guy I knew in college?  He is now a druggie!  thought Jon.   He had put on about 80 pounds and now had a beard and mustache, which he never had in college.  Where was Carl's fresh view and search for knowledge and where did all this negativity come from?  Jon desperately wanted to lighten up the conversation.  He couldn't talk about sports because Carl never really liked football, basketball or baseball.  They could talk about the weather, thought Jon, but that would be too corny and trite.   Jon felt very uncomfortable that Carl was laughing as he trashed his favorite teacher from college.

          Carl jumped into politics.  "I’ve turned more conservative over the past few years, but did you hear that our good buddy Ronald Reagan wants to blow up the world with his Star Wars Defense System?  He said we'll start bombing in five minutes.  Reagan, or should I say ray gun, wants to start World War Three.  I'll tell you Jon we are all going to hell in a hand basket.  He is just an idiotic actor.   We need a smart man like Nixon back in the White House.   The stupid administration will just let international relations deteriorate until it's too late to turn back. The writing is on the wall.  This country is bound to fail and do go down in flames!  Look at the Middle East, what is going on there?   They say Jimmy Carter was trying to do something meaningful at Camp David, but they are still blowing each other's heads off.  The world sees Carter as a joke and all we have is a senile former actor leading the country right now who wants to 'start bombing in five minutes.'   Pretty soon China will start threatening us with the bomb, then India and Pakistan will bomb each other. We have terrorists in this country with suitcase bombs right now.  America will go down like the Roman Empire.  You just watch.  This country is a joke.  Let’s all just party like hell, because things are not going to get any better.  There is too much greed in the world and we are in for it."

          Carl with his bellicose laugh, getting more haughty by the moment, orders a scotch on the rocks. Jon still has a full beer left.  "Are you a wussy?  Can't you handle more than one beer?"

          Jon felt an overwhelming sense of depression seeing his former bright star of a friend who in about a half-dozen years since college disintegrated into a drunken fool who works at a video store drooling over teenage girls.   He seemed to be a conceited, very self-absorbed person whose world view was getting more narrow and negative.  Jon had anticipated talking about their favorite books like they did in college or perhaps their dreams for how they can make the world a better place. But that was the past, never to be retrieved again. The reality was that Carl's dreams had evaporated and alcohol had taken over his life.  Jon felt like he was in a kind of hell.  He quietly excused himself after exchanging superficial pleasantries and left for home, a full beer still sitting on the bar.  Thomas Wolfe was right, Jon thought.  Maybe a person cannot go home again. He ran his hand across the privet hedge outside the restaurant as he slowly walked to his car, pondering what fate had in store for his friend.  He was realizing that Carl would never be the same and it was sad.   The Carl he used to know was totally gone. 

          Jon remembered his great English teacher Dr. Hixon and how he had urged him to write down his thoughts more often even if they were not positive and his college friend Kathleen who religiously wrote in her journal and wrote letters to others for therapeutic value, even though they would never be sent.  Dr. Cole, who many thought was the campus Communist, had urged the young student to write about what he was reading about the Byzantine Era.  Jon never followed through on this.   He wished he had written and thought more during his college days, and felt like he was paying dearly for this now.   Jon had joked to Carl at Tilden about how he someday would write the great American novel.  Maybe with a little inspiration from the great writers like Updike or Chekhov, he would write a novel or novella which would have a complex yet meaningful message.  Maybe the novel would contain a tragic character like Carl.  He felt a deep and profound sense of weltschmerz as he thought of Carl’s life in a nose dive. 

When you describe the miserable and unfortunate, and want to make the reader feel pity, try to be somewhat colder — that seems to give a kind of background to another's grief, against which it stands out more clearly. Whereas in your story the characters cry and you sigh. Yes, be more cold. ... The more objective you are, the stronger will be the impression you make.

Anton Chekhov

          When he returned to his house, Jon felt a nagging compulsion to pick up the phone and call his mother.  Nora was already asleep along with Steven upstairs.   Was it too late to call?  It was 9:26.    His wife wouldn’t be as sympathetic to his college baggage as his Mom would be.   Jon decides to pick up the telephone and call his mother.

          “I know by the tone of your voice that something is bothering you,” uttered Karen.

          Jon mutters, “Carl has totally changed.  He is literally not the same person as he was eight years ago at Tilden.  It frankly shocks me that he has lost a positive interest in life and has seemingly fallen so far.”       His mother carefully chose her words. “Some people change and you just CANNOT do anything about it.  Sometimes a person’s life takes a fall for seemingly no understandable reason.  Carl seems to be a soul in a lot of trouble, but he is not ready for help right now.  Maybe sometime in the future he will be ready, but not right now.  Probably the best thing is just to leave him alone.  I know it hurts, but you have to let your friend sink or swim.  Right now it appears he is trying to drag you into his problems.  Frankly this is not what you need right now.”

          Jon replied, “It’s just so incredibly sad. How does he even have a chance to meet a nice woman and have a decent family life with all of this going on?”

          Karen, “It’s not your problem. I know it is hard, but you need to move on and hang tough.”

          “How can people change so much?  It’s disturbing.  It’s kind of a rude awakening in my life.  Carl’s lifestyle is taking him down the drain.  I found his behavior almost rude,” mumbled Jon.

          Karen answered, “I know it’s hard to accept, but you cannot let his life affect you too much. He made his bed and now he is attempting to sleep in it.  Only Carl can pull himself out of the fire and the chaos of his own personal hell.  Only he can realize that a change in attitude and perhaps a more secure spiritual base can get his life back on track.  I don’t want to lecture you on this Jon, but you are getting pulled into the quicksand here. Try to be more concerned with you life, your precious wife and your special son Steven.”

          Jon quipped, “It’s just so maddening that I didn’t get to talk about Steven.  I don’t think Carl would have wanted to know about him anyway.  He is so self-absorbed, it’s sad.”

          Karen replied, “I think you’re starting to see more of the red flags, and that is very perceptive.”

          Steven started crying in the background, that screeching cry as irritating as fingers down a chalkboard. The two said their goodbyes. Jon’s mother knew the cry right away.  Jon felt a jolt of self-confidence that his plan would be correct.  He would avoid Carl like the plague, for now at least.

(ABOUT TWO YEARS LATER)

          Seven year-old Steven wakes up the family at 3:30 in the morning with a sharp cry, then a bellowing laugh, like a spirit has taken over his semi-consciousness.   Steven was more effective than an alarm clock.   Jon wakes up with that headache again.  His doctor now thinks it is some form of stress in the form of tension headaches or some unexplainable type of migraines, migraines that are not explained in medical school textbooks.  Could Steven be waking up with the same kind of headaches?  With his brain wired differently, would he perceive headaches in the same way?  How many types of headaches are psychological?  Psychosomatic elements in autistics may exist but the point was moot, because little Steven could not tell us what he was thinking or feeling.  How sad thought Jon.    The morning sun shown through the morning blinds, segment by segment of rectangular shadow divided by light repeated many times over and over.  How did Steven perceive shapes?  Was he able to see the stark contrast between light and darkness or shades in between?  It was monolithic in a sense, this overbearing somnambulism of consciousness that Steven represents, this huge force, a kind of intrusion careening into the life of an unsuspecting husband and wife.  Jon and Nora were intensely worn out by their trials, trials their precious son Steven would drag them both through each and every day.   Trying to take care of this child was becoming a very difficult challenge.  Anger was seeping into the family more and more now, like a hole getting bigger in a leaking boat at sea.  They were struck by an iceberg of autism.  They could see it on the surface but mystified and scared of the vast reality that it represented underneath.   Fairly soon the ocean could sink them and they would succumb to the waves, the current and a cold impersonal fate.  Why would GOD have such a fate in store?  What had they done to deserve Steven?   Existential consternation had Jon and Nora firmly in an unpleasant vice of vexing proportions.  They both felt trapped and were afraid to admit to each other how hopeless things seemed, but they both plodded on. 

          The alarm clock rang.  It was 6a.m. and Jon had his review with Mr. Duxman this morning. He would wear his favorite red tie and black slacks and a black sport coat.  Jon hit the snooze for ten more minutes of peace. Steven was still sleeping and the house was almost perfectly quiet.  Then, 6:10am came almost in an instant it seemed.  “Hello this is John Montemayer and this is ‘The Breakfast Show.’  We’re going to take the 7^th caller now and the winner gets free lunch for four at Saint James Restaurant, where you are always welcome as a friend and a neighbor!”   Jon thought, “How can this guy be so cheerful?”   Montemayer’s cheerful and mellifluous voice continued to invade the silence of the room.  Now came a nudge from Nora.  “Why don’t you get in the shower? You have a big day today with snot head.”   “You mean the bald wonder?”  “Yeah,” snorted Nora.    It was just three weeks until Christmas and the radio started playing “White Christmas” by Bing Crosby.  Jon thought just listening to Bing’s tones was a calming experience, quite radiant, festive and sublime.  The house was adorned with pictures of Steven and pictures from Jon and Nora’s wedding.  Steven’s high pitched cries, now heard from the room just a few feet away across the hall, canceled out any sign of a calm start of the day.  It was time for the daily ritual to begin.

          As Jon lifted a cup of freshly brewed caramel coffee still steaming to his lips, he thought about an argument he had with Nora last night.  He was reading an article in the paper about the anniversary of the Challenger explosion and his English teacher from high school had contributed a powerful poem.

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds...and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of...wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up, the long, delirious burning blue
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, nor even eagle flew.
And while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space...
...put out my hand, and touched the face of God. 

From "High Flight"
by John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

          Nora had not been sleeping well and Jon had been sleeping irregularly, worried about Steven. He had started his first day in early childhood program at the Wildwood Elementary School several weeks ago. There were new pressures. How would the children accept him? Would he run into teasing on the playground?  Nora couldn't protect him from the world. These were thoughts that caused storms in her mind. Steven is such a helpless child. He could not dress himself or feed himself without a great deal of help, and this mystery of autism seemed to just overwhelm her. It was wearing on her face, and some age spots were already appearing on her cheek.  She was not even 30, and stress appeared to be taking a toll on her body.  Jon had about an hour before he had to leave for work and had time to write a letter to his wife about what happened last night. It was about eight o’clock, Steven had gone to sleep, and there was peace and quiet in the home, Jon was now watching a National Geographic special on a drug interdiction in Columbia. At the same time, Jon switched to a medical column by Dr. Andrew Lippert.  It was a fascinating piece on Dr. Jay Langdon Down, the scientist who coined the term Down Syndrome.  Dr. Down had observed autistic-like behavior more than 120 years ago.   Nora finished some laundry and she cuddled in the nearby love seat. Nora would love to talk to Jon when he was watching TV trying to get his attention. About an hour after putting down the newspaper, Jon penned this note to Nora.

Dear Nora,

     I'm sorry about last night. I think I got too wrapped up in my TV show when
you were trying to talk to me.   I was also reading the newspaper and absorbing myself
in National Geographic, I somehow made you feel less important. I don't
want you to feel that way. It seems like our different personalities get
the best of us sometimes. When the show ended at ten o’clock, I was hoping
you would come to bed with me and we could have some quiet time, some time
to work on us and our relationship. It took you another 20 minutes to come
to the bedroom and I was almost asleep. It was then that you decided to wake
me by rolling on top of me and making strange animal noises. I know you were
trying to be funny and trying to liven me up, but the timing seemed wrong.
When I said I was tired, it just made it worse and I grew angrier as you
tried to tickle me awake. It seems like the manic behavior was inappropriate, and
I'm sorry we didn't connect. Once you had awakened me, you said it was too
late for any romance because you had tried to connect with me and I had
rejected your advances. There comes a time when we need to look at the whole
picture. We both want to connect, and why is the timing sometimes so bad,
and why does the anger flow when it doesn't have to?? You, me and Steven,
this is our family and I treasure it so much, but there is no worth in such
comments like "you are so boring reading your stupid newspaper." How
can such comments be constructive? In your mind, do you have a strategy, or
is this just plain anger gone amok? I know I said some bad things and
called you a name. Please forgive me. I am just trying to figure this
whole thing out. It just seems that our relationship is lacking the warmth
and tenderness it once had, and that bothers me. Is it Steven, us growing
apart or a combination of both or are there things you are not telling me?
I hope you know that you are always free to tell me what's on your mind,
even if they are negative feelings, because getting them out is healthy for
you and good for our relationship in the long run. I know things are not
perfect, but let's please try to be tender with each other’s feelings. That
is where it has to start. It cannot start anyplace else.

Love, Jon

            Jon took another swig of caramel coffee from his Green Bay Packer mug and then stared out the window thinking about how he had to reintegrate tenderness back into his marriage.    The nature outside reminded him of his favorite newspaper columnist's writings about nature when he looked at the snow flurries in the wind. Margaret Lathrop would say it just perfectly...."On frosty mornings the tiny leaves of the lemon thyme are feathered in frost crystals so delicate and so precise it makes one wonder what invisible artist took time to create such flawless perfection." Jon had often wished he could write like her, or better yet, like John Updike. Lathrop would continue her praise of nature in many of her columns that ran regularly in the Elbem City News..."A grateful heart is a glad heart and oh, how very much this world is in need of glad hearts and souls that have learned to sing of small deep down lovely things." Jon kept thinking about how Margaret was quite a genius but probably didn’t even know it.  But in a few minutes, he would enter the world of Larry Donald Duxman, Editor in Chief of the Elbem City News. He wanted Jon in his office by 8 o’clock sharp....the clock said 7:34.
          It was 7:51 am and Jon entered the swinging doors of the newspaper building on North 1^st Street.  The office was located right next to George Washington Park, where a statue of the first United States president was beginning to rust.  It was a cold morning with snow flurries in the air.  People’s breath looked like mini smoke stacks. Their minds were most likely pre-occupied with their daily to-do lists, their own lives like novels, strolling along the cold concrete sidewalk, a block away from downtown.

          After arriving at the office, Jon put his coat on the old familiar coat rack on the second floor, the floor for reporters and most of the editors. The morning was getting busy already as a couple of reporters were called in by Duxman, in charge of writing about a fire that occurred at Mel's Auto on South Main. There was an energy in the air, the adrenaline of journalists seeking an sensationalistic high.  The office clock read 8:51am. He went down the hall now in view of his reporter's cubicle, a modest but comfortable space for writing. But, closer was Duxman's plush office space. He had just opened his door and was talking to the paper's promotions and weekend editor Tammy Beckman. She had tears in her eyes. Maybe he was consoling her about a personal tragedy. He stood by for about a minute, until Duxman called him into his office, "Stark come on in." His eyes met Tammy's, and they were the saddest eyes he had seen in awhile.  Jon wanted to console her, to talk to her, but it there was no time.  Duxman was obsessed with people being punctual. Jon had a seat at a large wooden table in his boss's oversized office. The fish tank made it's gurgling noise, and the furnace turned on.  There was more silence, then an aggressive slam of the door, Duxman style.  "Thanks for coming in this morning Jon."   Duxman was the over accentuation of politically correct behavior in public, but he was markedly more ribald, contentious and abrasive in private. 
          "Jon, there are some things I am concerned with. Number one, this
newspaper just lost two major car dealers as advertisers last week and a
furniture store last month, and we are heading into January, our least
productive month of the year.   Duxman, the walking and talking panjandrum, had business professionalism in his voice but invective was written all over his face.  Jon knew something very bad was coming up.  We have seven full-time reporters on staff, which is fairly large for a small population market we have. Jon, I'll put it to you straight. You have put four years in here and you have shown effort, but I see you as the weak link in the chain here, in a climate of slow growth. I have to make a tough decision here.  I have to let you go.
          You are a competent reporter, and not all of this is related to your
performance.   You bring quite a bit to the table. A lot of it is economics. I will however, give you some pointers if you plan on staying in this very competitive business. I have noticed that you seem a bit aloof at times and I don't know exactly where that comes from. You sometimes don't appear to be as confident as we would like you to be. Secondly, many of your stories seemed to include sort of a liberal bias. Some of the editors and I are concerned about that. When you go for quotes in stories, why do you always seem to quote Parnell, Stephens and Reynolds? They are the most liberal members of the council.  Is this conscious or unconscious bias??  We just cannot have that in objective journalism. I got six calls from conservative advertisers threatening to pull their ads because of what one of them called "liberal bleeding heart trash." You don't always seem to seek out all the sources that need seeking out. That story on global warming you did was VERY silly. We don't believe in global warming at this newspaper. I didn't say anything at the time because I thought you would follow it up with something better. You never did. I was very disappointed when you failed to make that Chamber of Commerce meeting, where all the business awards were given out. I know family is important. It is important to all of us. But we must do the job we are assigned to do! Jon stated, "Nora was sick that night and Steven was acting up. It was a tough one." Duxman, "Well, get a babysitter then, do something about it. I think you are too obsessed with this autism your son has. Everybody has their cross to bear. You’re no different than anyone else.”  Jon kept bracing for more invidious diatribe.  Duxman’s tone became even more serious, “Did you know that the police chief's father worked for two years in Elbem City with stomach cancer? You need to get a little bit tougher and take care of things at home. Do you understand that you have a lot of things to work on? Life is not easy and you are going to have to sell yourself at any job. I just don't see the same desire I saw from you four years ago. I wish you the best of luck. You will be getting six weeks of severance pay so you can look for something else. I’m sorry about you and your retarded kid.  I hope he gets the help he needs." Duxman's face was very serious, and he had that very arrogant look in his eyes. "Do you have anything to say?"
Jon was shaken by the brazen nature of the attack, "Not really. This comes as a shock, and it being five weeks until Christmas and all. I love writing and want to continue to do it for a living."
          The overtly impudent Duxman grabbed a vitamin pill from a bottle on his desk and swished it down with coffee. "See Dorothy downstairs in the business office about your insurance. You'll need to pay for it in the interim." Tears began to stream down Jon's cheeks as he left the office and went to pick up his things.  The finality of it all begane to sink in.  The servile sports reporter Chad Barrett, a brash red head, was passing him in the hallway and said, "Good luck Jon." He followed it up by saying, "Duxman had to make a decision and we all agreed you were the one to go."   What an arrogant yes-man dip shit, thought Jon.  How can people say such mean things and not think twice?  
          Jon took a deep breath and wondered how he would tell Nora. Didn't Nora have enough stress?? This was going to be very tough. He thought of his Dad and how he would console him in this situation. He was comforted by the thought. Jon would go home and see if Nora was there and would call his Mom. He would also call Uncle Gerald, because he would understand, and be able to say the right words to help him cope with this major stressor and see the complex situation more clearly.  Sometimes Gerald had the uncanny ability to see the gestalt of a situation and this would be no exception. He would be home by 10:30am. The house was quiet and Nora was out on an errand, probably Christmas shopping. Jon broke down into a full cry.

I’m trying to make some sense of life

But it’s hard when it runs so deep

Choices are like tributaries

Where will they seep?

Taking my hand, a betting hand

On the life that stands before me

Glass half-full not empty now

My history stands before me

Jon Stark  

November 4, 1985

          The shock of Jon’s father’s death had brought an aura of new feelings to his life over a half-decade ago, feelings he only expressed to himself and to his best friend Carl.   The loss of his job would bring out the guitar creativity again.   He wrote songs on his Ovation guitar on those quiet nights alone and he let his mind wander to ponder life’s biggest questions.

          Jon made up some chords...it was A minor to G to D and to A minor.   He talked the words of Robert Frost’s poem “Nothing Gold Can Stay.”      Guitar was Jon’s therapy, his way to calm down and put things in perspective.  It appeared to be working.

Nature’s first green is gold.

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an  hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief;

So dawn goes down to day,

Nothing gold can stay.

     

            Jon then read more of Margaret Lathrop’s new book called, “A Bright New World.”  The pages of the book were worn from a lot of perusing on lonely nights.  He could just picture Margaret, integrated in her own grace, ensconced in a comfy chair at the library totally absorbed with newly created metaphors and similes, all paying homage to the beauty and wonder of nature.   Jon wondered why reviews of Lathrop’s new book were so critical saying she lacked a sense of reality and that her “stream of consciousness” style was a bit “gaudy.”   Jon followed his own heart.  He believed in Margaret strongly, reading her voraciously as if every sentence was bulging with meaning.    Lathrop would talk about the music of the soul and how important it was to “find one’s own song” in life.  She would write:

“How lonely but infinitely meaningful is the natural dance of our own song, the tune that molds us in to the beings we were meant to be.  The music lights our way on our life journey.”

          In her book she had something called “Essay on Thanksgiving,” which picked up his spirits quite a bit.

“Let me begin by giving thanks for the invention of the printing press as well as for the efforts of all those whose research and efforts have led to the publication of all the books that occupy every nook and cranny of my house from attic to basement and everywhere in between. I cannot begin to conceive just how impoverished my existence would be if it were not for the books I have read and collected over a lifetime. I am equally grateful for the invention of eyeglasses, without which I'd be hard pressed to read those books.
I'm thankful for such amenities as electricity and indoor plumbing. This past hurricane season has revealed just how desperate life would be without these blessings.
I'm thankful for the ability to hear. Both my mother and my aunt were deaf. So I never overlook how blessed I am to be able to hear. I'm thankful for the gift of laughter. There is nothing in this world I relish more than to be able to laugh. Laughter makes the world bright, even on a cloudy day.
I'm thankful for wind and rain. Without wind to move our weather systems around the globe, life on this planet would become all but impossible. And with the drought we've been having, I always rejoice in the rain.
I'm thankful for the quality of education I was given. Its most enduring legacy has been a lifelong passion for learning. I'm thankful for the creation of and easy access to paper and pens. I think I'd go quite mad if I had no means by which to record my thoughts.
There are not enough moments in the day for all the things I want to say thanks for. One day a year is not enough time to contain my gratitude.
Were we to focus our hearts and minds wholeheartedly on all we have to be grateful for, there would be no room or time left for complaints. Rather, we would experience life as a welling up of joy that would spill out across our lives in a celebration whose light would banish all of our discontent for all time.
Happy Thanksgiving.

          During this tough time, Jon thought about how he was thankful for everything he had.  He had once done a feature story about a sheriff’s officer who became paralyzed from the neck down after a gun fight with a bank robber.  He told Jon during the interview that he was thankful for what he could still do.  “It’s not about the 900 things I cannot do, it’s about the 9000 things I can still do,” said Police Captain Jeff Sorensen.  Jon also thought of his Dad, and how nobody has an 85-year contract with life.  Life is to lived and appreciated now.   Thinking these things gave him a new kind of hope.   

          Jon’s mind also turned strongly to physical fitness and he was starting to use the exercise bike he and Nora had gotten for a wedding gift from the Kearney’s.   What really inspired him was a new book he found at the library called “Personal Best” by George Sheehan, the physician who was sort of a self-made philosopher of fitness.   He had heard about what happened to Jim Fix, but was very excited about the prospect of feeling better and being more physically and mentally ready for his next job, wherever that may be.  He admired how Sheehan quoted German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer who said, “Health outweighs all other blessings.”  He warned that no one can remain healthy without exercise of hnot only of the parts “immediately concerned,”  but of the whole body.  He said that in folks who are completely sedentary, there is a disconnect between mind and body and “glaring and fatal disproportion” between outward expressions and inner tumult.   Jon thought of Carl Roger’s concept of congruence again and thought there may be some parallels.  He was also reminded of some of Freud’s writings on the importance of maintaining a balance between physical and mental fitness.  

          The silence in the house was still deafening.  Jon felt he was at a crossroads in his life. The profession he thought he had loved had become a little meaner. It seemed like a cruel trick. He hoped he had just dreamed the whole conversation with the sycophantic Duxman, but he could not will something that was the opposite of reality. Then came the sound of the garage door. The squeaky unclean door was in desperate need of some service. Nora was home.  Seconds later there was the silhouette of his wife with bags in hand trying to open the door. "Honey, Is that you?" "Could you open the door for me?" "What are you doing home?" "Honey, Duxman let me go this morning." Nora, "Yeah right and next you're going to tell me that you got a job with your idol Dan Rather at CBS right?" Nora's smile zeroed in on Jon's face which was rapidly exhausting itself of any sense of cheer of positive energy. There were wet eyes, then tears.  Nora, "Oh honey, how could this have possibly happened?"  "Oh, no!"

          The two hugged. It was a tight embrace, much like a firm embrace when somebody close in a family had died, Nora now with an empathic whimper, sensed her husband of six years was really hurting. "That damn son-of-a-bitch! What a cocky, arrogant, and self important ass. Why didn't he fire that anal Chad Burnett, whose only two loves are himself and professional wrestling?" "Funny you should mention that Nora," Jon said softly but deliberately. "Good old Chad said they all got together and decided I was the weak link in the chain. Nice guy." "What are we going to do now? I just bought 250 dollars worth of Christmas presents and now we cannot pay for them. What timing. I cannot believe it. Is there any newspaper nearby that would be hiring?" "'The Stansfield Times,' but they are a weekly paper and 40 miles away." "You have an interest in broadcasting, right? What about WFDR or WJAY? Dan Rather started in radio didn't he?" "Well, there is Wild Bill Kraft who works there who went to Tilden College and graduated two years behind me. He was quite a cut-up, a goof off football player, but I did some work with him, some news and sportscasts on the college station WTDN. It's a long shot, but I could give him a call." "It's 555-0549." said Nora. "Let's go the grocery store. It will calm us both down." Jon was impressed by the incredible strength in his wife. She was here to be supportive and not to go ballistic. He wasn't quite sure. The phone rang. "Hello." "Hi Jon, I just heard the news, I am so sorry...." The voice at the other end was Senator Carol Staines, the liberal republican lawmaker from Elbem City who Jon respected very much. He had done several news features with her. She was very progressive, but careful in her thinking, which Jon admired very much. "I didn't expect it at all. I guess he fired three full timers including Carol Beckman." "Well, I would be glad to write a letter of recommendation for you. You are a very nice man with a nice family, you are a professional and a conscientious journalist. I think a lot of people would want to hire you. You have a good soft-sell way about you that could get you a variety of jobs out there." "Thanks, I appreciate it." Jon gave the state senator his address, and breathed a sigh of relief. Even though something bad had happened, there still was quite a bit of hope left.

          Jon kind of felt sorry for his old boss Mr. Duxman because it seemed that he had to portray this conservative side for business purposes.  His private side may have doubts about the GOP gospel, much as a Catholic priest may natural have some cognitive dissonance.   He was so concerned that the public, especially his advertisers, would see him in the wrong light that he was always put on this flag-waving handshaking show portraying this individual who didn't show a shred of insecurity, when in fact, Jon thought, he may be much more insecure than he let on.   The image that the man wanted to portray to the world was a friend to all kind of a guy who was associated with nobody but winners in life, when in fact; he was imbued with a kind of negative self-concept deep inside that the world would never know.  Duxman was frenzied and corybantic at times as he would discuss the “leftist dems” and how much he detested Dan Rather.  Duxman’s demeanor was unpredictable and volitile at times also.    He was married and had two children, but did he really value family like the flag-waving Republicans did?  Jon had heard from a pretty good source that Duxman was seen trying to pick up an 18 year-old woman at Piers Bar near his house and that he was subscribing to a phone sex line.  Some family man.

          Off they went, Nora with her new off-white coat with a brown scarf, and Jon with his red Wisconsin Badger coat, off to the market to get lost in everyday chores to take away the pain of the moment. Nora's spiritual resilience amazed Jon. She wasn't hollering or getting hysterical. She was taking her husband to the market. Right now the number of yogurts to buy for Steven, the soups to fill the cupboard and the inspection of fruits were overshadowing the current crisis. Nora was the leader and Jon the follower. Maybe she was so angry at Duxman, she was trying to focus on something else. Whatever she was trying was working, thought Jon.

 “Grief teaches the steadiest minds to waver. “

Sophocles

          Jon went to the Margaret Mead Public Library sometimes during this period of being unemployed.  The quiet of the library calmed him.   Jon was away from the noisiness of life.  He would read a copy of Updike's "Rabbit Run" or "Couples" for a half-hour, and then he would try to write descriptive prose, a more metaphorically rich combination of words than was allowed at the newspaper.  The paper often catered to readers with junior high school educations or worse, thought Jon.  There were too many clichés allowed in the news.  As the great writer John Gardner once said, “A writer sensitive to language finds his own metaphors, not simply because he has been taught to avoid clichés, but because he enjoys finding the exact and vivid metaphor, one never thought of before.”  Fascinating.

          Jon loved to read and re-read the short story “Pigeon Feathers.”  He was obsessed with that story and what it said about human nature.   The great John Updike, he thought,  His prosodic waves of language were a high form of human communication, he thought.  Updike was writing prose but it had a powerful and sublime poetic feel.  The power of the prose and the poetry had a synergistic effect.  Jon would read for ten pages or so, and then try his hand writing into his own black covered notebook. After reading a passage or two or three from Updike, he decided to write about his fictional character Glen at a museum.   As he sat there on the library’s first floor next to the painting of Elliot Winkle, the library’s first director, he was immersed in his own contemplation and in some sense soaked in his own self-created weltschermz, afloat in a sea of ambiguity and ambivalence. 

'The Monets, the Renoirs, the Picasso's, the Hoppers filled his head with colors as he exited the Chicago Art Museum on that clear summer day. His consciousness was for some reason fixated onthe dreamy blues of Hopper, the expert shading of Picasso and thedreamy flowers of Monet, their multitude spelled a kind of nirvana.  Monet's pinks and the greens seemed especially powerful and impressive.'

               

                After putting down his pen, he thought about how he immensely admired Updike, his magnificent ability to describe the surreal in the real and to make every day situations come alive. His honesty about sexuality made him a little nervous though. Such discovery, he thought, was possible in the words he used. The English language was Updike's canvas.  Uncle Gerald had great respect for libraries too and this love of learning trickled down to young Jon’s consciousness.

There is a definite art to being a lifelong learner. The first and most necessary ingredient is to retain an active curiosity about every aspect of our world. The second is to have a passion, not just for gathering random information but for bringing all aspects of acquired knowledge into an integrated overview of reality. True learning can never be passive. Learning is far more than the mere memorization of facts and figures. Nor is it a mere storing away of dates and chronologies.
The real art of learning involves the whole person being intensely involved with and immersed within all aspects of our world and perhaps the whole of our universe. It is to find nothing irrelevant or without merit since everything is part of the whole fabric of our existence.

Margaret Lathrop from her book “Gazing at Life”

          Now that feeling was back with him again, and he was writing songs on the guitar.  Quiet moods and moments were rare with Steven in the mix.  Part of him wanted to escape, to escape the daily routines, to escape the anxiety of Steven, to run away from his wife’s mixed bag of angst and depression. Could he run away from it all? Sometimes he wished he could.  Jon’s ambivalent soul was troubled by the uncertainty of the future.  This autism was starting to set in, and creating a blurry barrier to future’s hope.  It was something that surrounded him like a foul smell in the air.  He couldn’t escape it.  He continued to play guitar softly downstairs when Steven was asleep and Nora was busy with other things.  Strumming gave him confidence in himself and gave him strength in the belief that everything would work out in the end. 

          The days would pass and life turned more normal.  Steven was crying.  It was that highly recognizable, high-pitched scream and then anguish. Jon had just been dreaming about throwing a football with Steven. Suddenly he was a typical five year-old, bursting through the leaves in a crisp fall day.
          They were both smiling and Steven was catching the ball and diving into the leaves with great delight. It was a dream made in heaven, or was this heaven?  Then Jon woke up and realized he had to change his son's diaper, a far cry from the R.E.M. induced fatherly fantasies he was indulging in moments ago. It was 7:00 AM and time to get Steven up for school.   Nora could sleep in because she didn't work at the hospital today. He got up to start the hazelnut coffee brewing.
          It was one leg at a time getting Steven dressed in pants and one arm at a time getting his shirt on. He still seemed to have little awareness of
what getting dressed actually was. The high pitched screams of pleasure
increased in frequency, and then the rocking and hand flapping so typical of autism started up. He was excited about school. "Wash hands Steven," and moments later...."Get in chair. Get in chair." He ran into the kitchen and sat in his chair awaiting a bowl of cereal and yogurt, or would it be frozen pancakes this time??" He knew a routine and that made Jon happy.  He loved this helpless boy more than life itself sometimes. This impelled him to try hard to make connections with Steven. He would hug him frequently and reward him for doing well, like trying to go potty when told to. He was half way through toilet training, and would take Jon and Nora by the hand when he needed to go to the bathroom. After dropping Steven off at the elementary school, he came back in the house through the garage door, and his glasses fogged up."

          Jon glanced at a pamphlet his wife had picked up at the hospital. Nora wanted them to be more regular church goers, but where was the time, with all the distractions, tension and anger that Steven brought with him?  Jon wished his family could go out to the grocery store, the library, restaurants and other public places like movie theatres and churches without Steven's moods culminating in a gigantic fuss. Jon very much liked what he read in the pamphlet.  The front cover read, “Why Should You Be a Unitarian Universalist?”  He turned to the first page of the small publication.

"The inherent worth and dignity of every person; Justice, equity and compassion in human relations; Acceptance of one another and encouragement to spiritual growth in our congregations; A free and responsible search for truth and meaning; The right of conscience and the use of the democratic process within our congregations and in society at large; The goal of world community with peace, liberty, and justice for all; Respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part."

          A lot of good positive words there like compassion, respect and the
phrase: "the encouragement of spiritual growth." That phrase really grabbed him.

          He read on.

"The living tradition which we share draws from many sources: Direct experience of that transcending mystery and wonder, affirmed in all cultures, which moves us to a renewal of the spirit and an openness to the forces which create and uphold life; Words and deeds of prophetic women and men which challenge us to confront powers and structures of evil with justice, compassion, and the transforming power of love; Wisdom from the world's religions which
inspires us in our ethical and spiritual life; Jewish and Christian teachings which call us to respond to God's love by loving our neighbors as ourselves; Humanist teachings which counsel us to heed the guidance of reason and the results of science, and warn us against idolatries of the mind and spirit."

          Jon knew that some people would be turned off by the word "humanist," but here the word was used in such a kind and compassionate way. He liked very much that this was a religion that seemed to be wide open to science and its beliefs as part of our spiritual quest on earth. As he read further, he realized that this religion was perhaps the most honest because it didn't assume it knew all the answers but was in a constant state of searching humbly. The pamphlet continued,

"As a group we appreciate the spiritual teachings of earth-centered traditions which
celebrate the sacred circle of life and instruct us to live in harmony with
the rhythms of nature. Grateful for the religious pluralism which enriches and
ennobles our faith, we are inspired to deepen our understanding and expand our
vision. As free congregations we enter into this covenant, promising
to one another our mutual trust and support."

          Being grateful for religious pluralism, Jon thought, was the opposite of an egocentric kind of religion, but of a religion that aimed to reach out to all people.

          Then came the "Purposes of the Unitarian Universalist Association."

"The Unitarian Universalist Association shall devote its resources to
and exercise its corporate powers for religious, educational and
humanitarian purposes. The primary purpose of the Association is to
serve the needs of its member congregations, organize new
congregations, extend and strengthen Unitarian Universalist
institutions and implement its principles."

          Interesting, Jon thought, that a religion would use the term "corporate powers."   The pamphlet continued…

"The Association declares and affirms its special responsibility, and that of its member societies and organizations, to promote the full participation of persons in all of its and their activities and in the full range of human endeavor without regard to race, color, sex, disability, affectional or sexual orientation, age, or national origin and without requiring adherence to any particular
interpretation of religion or to any particular religious belief or creed"

          Jon liked this part. It was a group that was very very accepting of
human differences and encouraging of all kinds of people to participate in the democratic process.

"Nothing herein shall be deemed to infringe upon the individual freedom of belief which is inherent in the Universalist and Unitarian heritages or to conflict with any statement of purpose, covenant, or bond of union used by any society unless such is used as a creedal test."

          The individual freedom of belief is sacred. That is cool, thought Jon. He
would talk more with Nora about the importance of worship and the development of their faiths.

          It was no time for foggy thinking. Jon must start out aggressively in
his job search. He would make a series of phone calls to news contacts,
telling them it was nice working with them. He would ask some for job
reference letters or short paragraphs of recommendation. Perhaps he would ask the District Attorney Jon Stassland, the sheriff Pete Beston and the county executive Al Wachtel for their positive words. He was very pleased that a letter was on the way from Senator Staines. What a consummate professional, thought Jon. On a yellow post-it note on the refrigerator was the phone number to WJAY. He dialed and asked for Bill Kraft....the wild man from the Tilden class of 1983. "Yello. Phil's Diner," joked Bill. "Hi Bill, I don't know if you remember me, I'm Jon Stark, Tilden College class of 1981?" "Oh yes, the guy I did the nightly news with on the college station. I heard you were in the newspaper business. I read a couple of articles of yours too. They were interesting, especially the article on the railroad controversy and the one on autism. They must have been award winners!" "Well, the reason I called was that I was wondering if you needed anyone to read news. I've always had an interest in broadcasting." "We'll funny you mention that." Our morning news guy Chad Jones is leaving for a job in Nashville. We are doing some try-outs this week. Why don't you come down and I'll treat you to a cup of coffee and you can read some news copy for me." "That would be great," said Jon. "Is 2pm OK?" "Yes, fine..." said Jon. "I'll tell you right now, radio doesn't pay a lot, but it's an awful fun business."

          WJAY and its FM sister station were at the end of county road Y, next to a corn field. It looked like a trailer home, a far cry from the palatial Duxman estates of granite and steel. Jon opened the screen door and there was sort of a musty smell. He could smell an electrical smell of some kind combined with the smell of coffee from the small employee lounge. Bill, in a Hawaiian shirt, came out and shook Jon's hand firmly. It was about a 30 foot walk into the news room, where Bill grabbed a couple of sheets of news copy and a couple of sports stories. "Let's see how you read. Have a seat in front of the microphone. Our next newscast isn't for 20 minutes. We have plenty of time." Jon read a story about President Reagan, about the economy, and state stories about tourism and agriculture. "That was good Jon; now give me a little more energy. It's best to motor through your newscasts...speed up a little bit and get a little angry at the copy, that's OK."  Jon's second try was more forceful. It was over after 15 minutes. Bill was the wild student at Tilden College who used to get drunk three nights a week, but he had one of the best senses of humor that Jon had ever encountered. He did stand-up at the coffee houses at Johnson Hall and had people in stitches. He did an impression of Mork from the show "Mork and Mindy." He did a hilarious President Reagan and Carter. He did Jimmy Durante and even Jimmy Stewart.   He was a naturally funny person and wouldn't be bad to work with if he got the job. Jon wasn't sure what he was getting into, but had a feeling Bill respected him as a journalist. Jon wondered if his reading was good enough. Two weeks passed and there was no call from Bill. There were struggles with Steven, trips to the store with Nora, and dealing with Jon's Ford which broke down for the second time in two months. It was the transmission again, but luckily it was under warranty this time. They seemed nice at the Ford place, but some of the mechanics were quite young.

          Two weeks later, Bill called, and the first sentence was, "We would
like to try you out on the morning show." "Wow," replied Jon. "We will
start you at 18-grand a year and bump you up to 19, if you show promise in a month." "You came across as educated and friendly, and that will help our image here at Jay-1440." We want to build our local news coverage, and with your contacts, you can help us quite a bit. We want to cover Elbem City and the whole county!" "Thanks, I can't wait to tell Nora. Thanks for the opportunity." Life was getting back to normal for Jon, and it felt very good to be getting into a routine again. He would start two days after Christmas, December 27th. This was perfect. He would now have a happy Christmas with Nora's family this week and Nora's parents over the weekend. Jon thought of it as a two week vacation before his new adventure in the world of broadcasting. Nora would be home at noon from her morning shift at OB, and he couldn't wait to tell her. He had time to stop at Jim Gail's Liquor Store to buy some champagne. He would have Nora's glass poured when she came in the door.

          Several days passed by.  There was a wet and heavy snow falling on the ground, melting the instant it hit the pavement.  Jon went to his mailbox and found a white envelope with handwriting he recognized.  It was the handwriting of his semi-gconservative former co-worker at the newspaper Mike Cramer.  He tore the letter open and found a typed three-quarters of a page that read:

"Hi Jon,

Thought I would write you a quick note. I heard about you
getting let go at the newspaper and I was troubled by that, but I'm
am pleasantly surprised by your ability to get back on your feet and
keep going. You are working out very well I understand as a
broadcaster after being out of work for about five weeks. Radio is
more of a headline service than the newspaper, but I'm confident you
will adjust. I think your "soft sell" people skills will come in
very handy in the radio business, and don't be afraid to keep your
eyes out for another newspaper position. You are a very responsible guy
and any boss should feel lucky to have you and your reliability
around. Did you hear that Chad Burnett got fired last week from the
paper? Something having to do with gambling I guess. I guess what
goes around comes around right?

I will be having my retirement party next month and I will send
you an invite. It will be at the Elbem City Holiday Inn. Almost 40
years in the business, hard to believe. Please know that even though
there are some very rough politics out there, I still believe in you
and your talents. You’re still a very young man and you have so much
potential and SO MUCH to give to the community.

Sincerely,

Michael J. Cramer


            Reading the letter made Jon feel very good. It made him feel that his life did have a lot of meaning and that there was so much to do and so little time. This was a great frame of mind to be in.  He wished he could grasp on to this feeling forever, this infinite awareness of worth and well-being.
          It was a Tuesday and Jon had now been working as a news reporter for the radio station for six weeks. His biggest assignment yet would also affect him personally. Greg Western was to speak at the elementary school auditorium about his experience with autism. He was well-known as a parent of an autistic boy who was virtually non-verbal, much like Jon's son. He had been traveling the state as of late to talk about his group he was forming that was building momentum across the nation called "Western's Parent Movement." It was a group that asserted that there is a cure for autism, but that the medical community was not smart or aware enough to recognize it. He ardently touted two main ideas, that a leaky gut syndrome could cause the nodus of autism and that a method called chelation could cure autism. He also touted a new diet that favored feeding these children no food with gluten or casein, basically the bread and the milk products. Jon may find it hard to be a non-biased reporter at this event. He was skeptical from the beginning. Four TV stations from Wisconsin and possibly CNN were going to be there. He titled his talk "The Doctors Don't Know." There were several hundred people expected to attend at Bettleheim Auditorium.

          The weather outside the 77 year-old auditorium was rainy, and some of the dampness was carried to the inside in the form of wet footprints on the old tile floor.  The drops beat down on the ceiling as the people with their hats and umbrellas filtered in through the large glass doors.   Many came with children but there were more couples alone, getting respite from their kid care duties for awhile.  The auditorium had a somewhat musty smell, and the sound of the
ventilation system could be heard with intermittent noises once in a while emanating from the cavernous interconnected pathways of air.  Even as the old run down auditorium breathed its characteristic sounds and smells, there was a new air of enthusiasm, a kind of electricity building among the audience members, many of them new parents in their 20's.  There was anticipation in the air. 

          Western, who gave the impression that he would be quite comfy and content in a hagiocracy, began his presentation with some dry humor and then went on to tell the audience that his life was dedicated to "Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior." He said he had been praying to God that the doctors would understand that these "poor children" needed help. He told the people how profoundly sad he had become when the doctor told him that his son Brekken had autistic tendencies and "there was nothing we could do about it," that he would always have this perplexing condition. He said, "You can't trust the doctors, because they only go along with what their colleagues in the AMA approve." He said that there is a lot of evidence that there are causes and cures for autism, but that "the medical community is looking the other way, shortchanging the hopes and dreams of parents who have autistic children."  In Jon's mind Western’s shallow rhetoric was nothing less than complete spoliation of the hopes of innocent and impressionable parents of newly diagnosed autistic children.  Tear them down then build them up.   Western's speech seemed to have a desperate and desultory tone, like he was trying too hard or something.  His specious arguments seemed good on the surface—but beneath the surface of his personality was probably a multitude of contradictions.  There was a sharp and thrasonical tone to Western’s speech as if he were entwined in his own solipsism.  Jon was questioning the verity of Western’s broad-brush generalizations which had this vainglorious quality.  The speaker also had a perspiration problem, the moisture dripping from his chin, sort of the like the maniacal unshaven villain in a bad action movie.  The speaker was full of bromides, trite remarks uttered as if they were unique and profound.  His hackneyed expressions appeared to captivate most people in the audience.  They were captive like sheep and not free thinkers.  It was as though Western hand-picked claque of admirers who would follow him from show to show.  The presentation was mostly a plethora of truisms disguised as truth, as sensationalism disguised as hard news.
          Western mentioned all of the “great opportunities for parents” including:  craniosacral therapy, hyberbaric oxygen therapy, special diets, and chelation.  The speaker had such evangelistic zeal in his voice when he mentioned his list of alternative but not medically sound interventions.  Jon was reminded of that guy in the multi-colored sweater on those info-mercials on TV, the guy who was always smiling about some product. He had some kind of look of excitement, but was there any substance to what he was saying? thought Jon.  Was he trying to befog or elucidate issues?  Would this guy be more appropriate on the shopping channel? There seemed to be a lot of nodding heads, as if the masses were being transfixed into another reality by this false opiate of hope. This pontification, thought Jon, was merely a theoretical house of cards, vulnerable to only a little logic.
          Western had a slide presentation that showed his theory of the "leaky
gut syndrome." It showed how the intestinal walls were vulnerable to
peptides which the body could not break down, which created problems with the immune system.  He talked about how the lining of the intestinal walls in autistic kids could be rejuvenated by chelation treatments. Jon also knew these chelation therapies could change more than just the heavy metal balance in children, and science does not know what the consequences might be. He knew that chelation has been used for decades to decontaminate people exposed to metals such as lead through their jobs or other environmental factors. Chelating drugs bind with the metals, which are then excreted in the urine. Jon was concerned that the chelation could remove beneficial minerals such as zinc, copper and iron. Western explained his gospel of the leaky gut theory:
          "Leakage of imperfectly digested proteins (peptides), through an incompetent intestinal lining, is now known to be the most common cause of all environmental sensitivities. We now know that many chronic conditions, previously listed as "cause unknown" are caused by immunological reactions to these peptides which, in turn, turn those antibodies against similar peptides that make up our various tissues. Peptides are the simplest things that our immune system CAN determine to have come from something other than ourselves."

          He told parents to think twice before vaccinating their children,
saying that mercury contained in the vaccinations could be causing "the
heart-breaking condition" of autism. Jon started to get concerned that
this man's smooth talking was far away from the serious science that autism deserves. He felt like asking a question, but was a little frightened.
          Western continued with his slides and told parents how he had helped 250 families in 16 countries with their heavy metal contamination problems.
          Jon could take it no longer, his soul seething with veracity.   When Western the semi-iconoclast opened the forum for questions, Jon stood up and asked him if there is any good scientific evidence that his methods are helping families and "why doesn't the AMA back the work of his group?" He was met with a deafening silence as Western just stared into his eyes. "Haven't you been listening to what I've been trying to tell you all along here? We are trying to educate the medical community which seems to be very ignorant and arrogant about autism." Jon's visage was turning whiter by the second as if he was being impaled by some alien force. He was being treated as if he were the "straw man."    Those who bragged about having unshakeable faith would love to knock Jon down to the floor again and again. He felt like he had stood up in church and questioned the existence of God. People who were not reasoned into something were not supposed to be questioned, thought Jon.
          The combative Western continued, "We have heard from many parents of how much their children have improved. We have many stories of success. If something helps, why question it??" In a terse and tense manner, he shifted his glance from Jon. Jon felt like he wanted to crawl into the nearest hole.           He felt much like the time that he had asked the great move director Spike Lee two years ago why he did not subscribe to the concept of the "melting pot." Lee had stared him down in a similar fashion, saying little except, "Have you been listening to my entire presentation?" That was also embarrassing.  The crowd laughed.

          As Western took the next question with his half-disgusted look, Jon
could not help thinking about his son Steven who was trapped in his own mind, by a condition called autism, which he knew was not caused by a heavy metals or immunizations. He knew in his heart that autism was far more complex that we knew and that it involved a wiring in the brain that is fundamentally different than a person who does not have autism. He knew deep inside that we were on the tip of the iceberg and that these pseudo-scientists like Western were on the wrong track, misleading emotionally vulnerable parents. The emperor had no clothes. Parents of autistic children were being haunted by this ubiquitous entity called misinformation.  

          Jon's eyes caught a thin balding man in the back row. It was Dr. Andrew Lippert. He was shaking his head and looking down.  This man who usually emanated venerability and kindness was now is a state of disgust.  This apparent tripe was killing Lippert.  He wore a rare almost recalcitrant expression during most of the presentation.   Lippert curiosity was unabiding, almost childlike, but when confronted with a charlatan, he turned very bitter.  He was very angry at Western for deliberately feeding people incorrect information on autism.  Lippert studied autism like a devoted physicist would study our mysterious universe or like Donald Rumsfeld would be a scholar of polemology.  Lippert, in Jon’s mind, was silent champion of ethics who thought deeply about every significant question that he encountered.     Jon remembered  Lawrence Kohlberg’s six stages of moral development that he had learned about in Dr. Balek’s class at Tilden College.  Dr. Lippert must surely be in stage six, the highest stage, similar to Maslow’s self-actualization.  In Stage six, moral reasoning is based on abstract reasoning using universal ethical principles. Laws are valid only insofar as they are grounded in a rich amount of justice, and that a commitment to justice carries with it an obligation to disobey unjust laws. Rights are unnecessary as social contracts are not essential for moral action.  Decisions are met categorically in an absolute way rather than hypothetically in a conditional way. This can be done by imagining what one would do being in anyone's shoes, who imagined what anyone would do thinking the same. The resulting consensus is the action taken. In this way action is never a means but always an end in itself; one acts because it is right, and not because it is instrumental, expected, legal or previously agreed upon.  Jon thought that people rarely if ever reach stage six of Kohlberg's model.  Maybe Mike Cramer, Dr. Kelstone or Dr. Lippert are at that stage. 

          Jon was nervous about what kind of radio story he would write for the next morning, scared that he would let his personal bias intrude into the perfect objectiveness he strived for as a reporter. Would his boss Billy be
concerned about the stir he caused? He was supposed to be the observer of news and not the newsmaker.

          Jon, whose nature was to be the opposite of conspicuous, was pleasantly surprised the next day when his radio boss praised him up and down for his "guts as a reporter." Billy laughed very loud when Jon told him about trying to ask Western a question after the forum, and Western telling him, "How many times do you have to hear no for an answer? I don't like liberal reporters obsessed with sensationalism." Billy said "Way to play 60 Minutes with the guy. He sounds like such a sycophantic moron."  Jon had later learned that Western was big into the church of Scientology.   Jon looked up Scientology and found that some famous actors including Jon Travolta and Tom Cruise were practicing this belief system.  It made him want to do a story on it, but he thought it was too risky.  He might offend some sponsors.  He read from the dictionary, “The Scientology religion is an expanding new religion, founded by American author and humanitarian L. Ron Hubbard. The word Scientology means the “study of knowledge or truth” and addresses the rehabilitation and salvation of the human spirit.”

    

LOST

          It was 11 months later and into the next winter season.  The night was warm for a December. It was about 7p.m. and the temperature was about 50 degrees. The weatherman said it was nearing a record for December 7th. Steven was sitting on the couch watching his favorite cartoon called "Jack and Jim," about two wacky farmers who would get into all sorts of trouble on the farm. Steven also liked a character called Charlie the Cow and Gary the Goat. When they sang their songs, Steven's eyes lit up. Nora was in the laundry room downstairs in the half basement and Jon was working on putting a book shelf together in the study down the hall from the living room right next to Steven's room. Jon was not naturally handy, which sort of bothered Nora, because her brothers could take car engines apart and put them together again. Jon had trouble with store bought shelves and Christmas lights. That's just the ways things were.  A James Taylor tape played in the boom box recorder in the den and working to music was fun, thought Jon. "I've seen fire and I've seen rain....I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end. I've had lonely times when I could not
find a friend. But I always thought that I'd see you again." Jon hummed  but only to himself. He could carry a tune most of the time but was  embarrassed to sing in public. He was still very self-conscious.
 

          Nora rushed down the hall. "Is Steven in here?" He was not in the den and Jon shook his head no. "I thought he had ambled into the laundry room downstairs." "No," Nora shook her head. Check to see if I left the bathroom door open. Steven liked to open and close doors. He could go on for an hour or two, closing and opening the very same door. "Not in the bathrooms," yelled Nora. Anguish and fear rushed through Nora's entire being as she caught her first glimpse of the open screen door. Mental pain was surging through her soul now and she let out a cry, "JON!" Steven had sneaked out the screen door into the dark of night, following his innocent impulse to explore. Nora ripped the screen door open, almost tearing it apart, with Jon not fair behind. "You search the Campbell's yard and the Grothe yard, and I'll look at the Greene's and the Roberts', "puffed Jon. In the mad dash, Jon could feel his heart trying to leap out of his chest. His personal palpitations had an inexorable grasp on the softer more reasonable part of his soul. Panic was in control.  Running through the night screaming his son's name, Nora now half crying and screaming at the same time. This flight of frenzy was now turning into a battle to fight back the tears. "He's gone. Oh my God he's gone! He is nowhere!" Jack Campbell now turned on his porch light, "What in God's name is the matter?" "He's gone, our Steven is gone. He just sneaked out of the screen door. It's my fault, I left it open. God Dammit!" "Cool down Stark. I'll call Rolland Porter, the Deputy Sheriff. He'll know what to do." Porter was the Elbem County Sheriff's Chief Deputy, but basically ran the sheriff's department. The sheriff did mostly administrative work. “I’m calling 9-1-1," said Jon. Nora came running back to the side of the house next to the porch. "What can we do?" "I wish you hadn’t left that screen door open Jon.  We should have locked the screen door. You know how curious he is about that door!" Bickering would not help now. Jon picked up the tan box phone on the kitchen counter. "Hello, this is the sheriff's department, is this an emergency?" "Yes, it is. My son is lost. He is autistic and got away from us about 20 minutes ago. He has a yellow sweat shirt on and blue jeans and is about three feet six inches tall. He has brown eyes and brown hair, short brown hair. He is totally lost....can you help us??" There were some beeps indicating the call was recorded. "We'll send car 712 and 774 out there. They are in your vicinity. Officer Sal Strobe and Officer Gary Pickering will be there in less than five minutes." Jon said, "Thanks, good bye."

          Jon and Nora hugged a nervous hug and it seemed that time stood still, that their anxiety was enveloped in a cloud of ambiguity. The unknown was very scary. Where was he? Was he cold? Was he lonely? Was he being stalked?  Jon and Nora were both very aware that Steven likes people and would take the hand of a stranger and go anywhere. He would pick up a snake or pet a petulant Doberman ready to strike. "Oh my God!" Nora started crying uncontrollably. "He may be just a few blocks away. Maybe he is going to visit Mrs. Pincheon's miniature French Poodle Simone. We will find him. I know it."

          All the Campbells were now coming over the side lawn near the small side porch...16 year-old Ryan, 14 year-old Evan and 13 year-old Cindy. Ma and Pa Campbell in their flannel shirts and spring jackets trotted over too. Art Grothe and Randall Green the carpenter were now over asking a multitude of questions..."What was he wearing? Does he know how to get back home?" Nora suggested a search party. At that moment, Officers Pickering and Strobe arrived with lights and sirens activated. Curious Mrs. Trembly was peering from her living room curtains across the cul-de-sac. Steve Hoffman, the school board president made his way over, with a curious look in his eyes. "How long has it been since he was gone Mam?" Officer Pickering pulled a pencil from his ear and took some notes. What's he wearing? Does he respond to human voices? "He may respond to our voices but not anyone else's." He just loves Mrs. Pincheon's dog, so perhaps we should check around the corner on Mulberry Street. "I know this is hard Mrs. Stark, but would anybody want to take your child? Are there any neighbors you are suspicious of?" "Our mailman is a bit of an odd bird. He likes to talk to Steven when we're out in the yard, even though he cannot talk back. I guess he is just being friendly, right? The mailman's nickname is Jimbo. I don't know his real name. There was a rumor he was having an affair with some lonesome woman down at the end of the block, but you know how rumors are." Strobe said, "We are going to do a house to house search and any neighbors who want to join in, can. We hope we find him soon. Let's all stay positive, let's be strong for a little boy who is probably very scared and lost right now."

          The search party was now complete with a dozen or more flashlights and was going from block to block in the quiet subdivision.  They were almost to Ranch Road which turned into Highway 175 north to the small village of Alger.  The searchers had now been searching for an hour and there was no let up at all, no hesitation, and no negative thought could permeate the current exigency. Caught in a terrible prison of the present, not one searcher would let doubt erode their mission. The truth would soon be unraveled, but not one of them could predict how the future would turn out exactly. A blend of adrenaline and pure urgency kept up their energy levels. While searching, the men women and teens, now numbering 60, were told to say his name over and over again and to mention the word "bath" in a sentence. How Steven loved water. Water was his nirvana. When it was bath time at home, he would jump up and down and flap his hands and give his characteristic screeches, the high-pitch utterances of joy. That was pure joy and pure Steven. The searchers split up and now were all over to the other side of this small city of nine-thousand. There was Mrs. Pincheon with her dog dutifully following her in his doggie jacket.  Mrs. Pincheon must have weighed nearly 300 pounds and was breathing hard, but the look of determination in her eyes was undeniably strong and good. She loved Steven when he came around to see the dog, and tears were streaming down her cheeks. Everyone in town it seemed was worried about this innocent boy. Jon looked at his watch and it read 9:10. He and a group of six other neighbors were about to enter a road (Seaton Street) with less illumination from street lights, when a car sped up beside them and there was a short but very audible squeak of the tires. It was Officer Strobe. "Yeah, 10-4, Do you copy? We have a sighting of a boy matching the boy's description." "10-4." "What do you want us to do?" You and Pickering go over there and I'll call 750 and 740 to join you." "10-4". "Mr. Stark, get in the squad, we're going for a ride. Your search party can continue looking.”
   

          While traveling in the police car, Jon for some reason thought of
losing his father and how he missed him. It just jumped into his mind. He had already lost his father. There is no way he was going to lose his only son Steven with his big beautiful brown eyes, his smile full of innocence, the God-given grace contained in his hearty laugh. He hoped Steven was not in pain where ever he was and that he somehow had confidence in his heart that he would see Mommy and Daddy very soon. He thought about the search party and their audacity of hope, their fearless trudging into the unknown black night for a boy many of them did not know. This love was some of the best the human species could offer.  For some odd reason at that moment, he thought of the brave and hopeful look on the face of Martin Luther King during his "I Have a Dream Speech." They were eyes of caring, eyes of daring, and eyes looking out for a better future. King was not afraid of bad things happening, and so Jon would bravely step into the unknown on this warm December night, and hope for a miracle.  His eyes were brave, because there was no alternative.

          The policeman's car pulled into Jana's Gas Station on Prospect
Avenue, right after going past Valley Forge Park. Jana had an American
name, but was Hmong and spoke very broken English. "Child in yellow shirt come here with man, Child very well behave. Not speak much. Man in a hurry. He fill up and go. He pay in cash. He give me ten dolla for gas. He seem like hurry up, no time to waste." Officer Pickering, "Did you get a look at the man?" "He tall over six feet with blond hair and customer call him Jimbo and ask if he nephew. He say yes." Strobe on the radio, "We have a positive ID of suspect.  Do a license search for a James Marano, resident of Elbem City." "10-4, 722, we have a James P. Marano, he works for the postal service, lives at 715 Elmwood, apartment forum D.O.B. 12-9-1958. He has blue eyes and blonde hair." "10-4.”   All squads to 715 Elmwood.   Possible suspect in abduction proceed with no lights or sirens and be very careful.  Over." "Dispatch we copy, 10-4" "Strobe, you are the lead squad, over" "10-4" "Pickering follows in behind you."   "10-4." The police search light went to 733, then to 723 then to 715. All the lights were off at the small home, which appeared to have an old boat stored on the side of the yard and perhaps an unkempt garden in back. The lights showed some weeds going around the back corners of the house. Then there was a shadow of an adult and child running toward a fence in back. "Let's go!"  Three officers including Pickering and Strobe were in full sprint with night sticks in hand closing in on the fence. Jon was told to stay in the police car and he obeyed. He peered anxiously out the police car window. Someone was tackled, and they were screaming, then an officer came toward the car holding this small, thin and precious five year-old boy in his arms. The child had a sort of fake whine, but his eyes met his father's and he knew he was safe. "Dadda," he said. It was Steven. "Thank God," thought Jon. It was an embrace like no other. Somewhere in heaven, Jon's Dad was smiling about the happy ending. "Notify the search party to go 10-8. We have the boy. He is cold but safe. He doesn't appear to have any injuries. Let's send to the E.R. for tests just in case." "Bring suspect in for D.N.A." "10-4 dispatch."

          It was now two weeks later and Christmas music played from the radio.  The smell of hazelnut coffee permeated the modest Stark residence.  There was a peace and calm and a giant thankfulness that all family members were happy and healthy, including Steven, who did not comprehend what had happened or almost happened to him a couple of weeks ago.  There was a marvelous friendly beauty of the Christmas tree lights and the positive glow in Nora’s eyes.  Jon had a strong dream inside his soul that was getting stronger by the day, a dream for Steven and his family that this child would teach them great things even though they would choose the thorny and many times uncomfortable path less traveled.   The song changed from Bing Crosby to Johnny Mathis’s “Silent Night.”   Nobody was talking but each family member felt a oneness, a part of something bigger, this spirit of good (call it Christ) that existed and will always exist in the world.  Call it a conspiracy of hope.    A profound hopefulness pervaded the chilly December morning.  They were all smiling in their hearts. 

           Jon's thoughts turned to his father who was now at peace in the realm of eternity with his Unitarian God. His ashes were secure in the lake of the family cabin in Evergreen.  The pines which guarded the pristine beauty of the five acres of land in the Rocky Mountains stood in stark contrast to the turbulence of the world.  Jon discovered an abundance of comfort in that thought. Writer Margaret Lathrop would say of this kind of sublime serenity: "For all their solemn demeanor, the evergreens cradle the song of the minstrel wind in their branches as gently as a mother cradles an infant, so that even on days of depthless stillness, one may yet hear the faintest echo of the winds lament wherever the evergreens reach for the periwinkle sky. Always and always they murmur the song of yesterday's wind. On clear and cold nights when the snow blankets the earth in its feather-down quilt, it is the stars that seem to be caught in the furthest branches of the tallest evergreens. Perhaps those stars drew too near in order to eavesdrop upon the secretive murmur of the trees. Mantled in pristine white, crowned with a diadem of stars and alive with the song of the wind, they are forever inspirations of fortitude in the face of overwhelming challenges, guardians of the kingdom of nature, wisdom's keepers of the ages."

          Like the bright, shiny, and colorful gifts underneath the Christmas tree, Steven was like a package unopened, a beautiful boy whose personality and intelligence was inside in great abundance but who could not be completely connected with.  Who would be able to un-wrap the totality of Steven?  Or is it enough to appreciate Steven for the miracle that he is? 

          The End\I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.

In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.

 

JON’S POETRY

Words You Can't Take Away

there are words you cannot take away

they're out there, they've been said and the time cannot be replayed

words did hurt but were not meant that way

what is the half-life of a stupid joke gone wrong?

the words cannot be gathered back and retrieved

they're just out there somewhere, somewhat impressed on the memories of the receivers

will the power of forgiveness cash in on the blows of a dozen sorry's?

how can i tell you about your value so you don't judge my character by one incident?

i feel hurt that i caused something bad that lingers

i cannot turn back the clock unless you give your permission

Politics

let's tighten our belts and reach across the isle

without bipartisan bickering?

transparency in government but cloaked in code

a war of words or.....

compromise with deadlock?

faces of war

summoning up war analogies

arguing for pork projects

bottling up items in committee

that' the way we do things around here

both sides eagerly posturing and winking

is anything getting done?

pretending to take a stand, but not taking a stand

keep your head down, your mouth shut

appease your constituency

My Friend Mr. Soul

is it body or mind?
is it real or spiritual?
is it contrived or natural?
is it wonderment or pure fiction?

can i capture it with science?
i can certainly pray about it
can i wrap my arms around it?
i can feel it when i play guitar and sing

will we ever prove your existence?
do you lie beyond the five senses?
can i touch you?
can i possess you or do you possess me?
who are you my friend, dear mr. soul?

Change?

weary undefined future shaped by lessons and learning

unforgiving time presses on.

it presses on without hesitation going faster

it’s our responsibility to grasp time and make it meaningful

Paradigms

pardigms shifting but subtly
paradigms we live under are stubborn
creating their own well worn patterns
the well worn patterns are hard to undermine

changing myself is my own internal paradigm shift
thomas kuhn would agree that...
paradigms are accepted reality
paradigms are reductionistic
it's hard to work against their grain

paradigms are:

what is to be observed and scrutinized
the kind of questions that are supposed to be asked and probed for answers in relation to this subject
how these questions are to be structured
how the results of scientific investigations should be interpreted
paradigms are great, but they are limited by our own senses.

          Jon wrote several guitar songs.   Guitar music was his own therapy and he only played for his family.  Steven seemed more relaxed when Jon played his songs on his guitar.  Here are the verses to ten songs that he wrote over a five-year period:

Take Me Back This Way

See the flowers and the trees

Take me back this way

It’s you and me and the dreams we see

Take me back this way

Oh take me back… take me back..take me back  (chorus repeat)

It’s the dream and the glory

Take me back this way

See the world as a beautiful place

Take me back this way

One life one path

Take me back this way

(chorus)

(

Center of My Heart         

 (intro with oo’s)

You know I get a little weary

You know I get a little tired

You know that I miss you all the time

You I get unsettled

You know I get unwound

You know I would be lying if I said I didn’t want you around

You’re the center of my heart      (chorus)

Its your love I can’t ignore

I’m at a loss when we’re apart

In my life you’re the core

(guitar solo)

(repeat first two verses and chorus)

Outro with oo oo’s    and ad lib

Music

Music reflects the soul

Music reflects the whole

Music reflects the heart

So we never get old

It can show that we care

It show life’s a bear

It shape our life’s path

Or show a life raft

It confirms longtime beliefs

It can change minds from afar

It can make us laugh or cry

With a sweet melody and guitar

(repeat all verses and guitar improvisation at the end)

Meditation (Jon’s Tribute to Nick Drake)

One...way…

To stay….

One sail on the ocean….

Face to the wind of life….

One…way…

To stay…

Om…..Om…..

Peace….on Earth..

One way….for us….

I see you standing by the ocean….

Gazing so far and looking at the stars….

Love…and Truth

Is the way to move…

Love…and Truth

Is the way to move…

One...One way…

For us…..

On My Way Home

I am a young man, so cold and all alone

Standing in the big world, a man without a soul

Reached up to find it see what it’s going to be

Plant a big tree, you got to plant a big tree

On my way home, on my way home

Trying to tell what my life is all about

Searching for the big time, turning myself inside out

Scrapin’ the surface, with the vigor and the grace

Oh…oh, on my way home, on my way home

Finding my pathway and the one less taken

Trying to find security I’m stirred by not shaken

Seeing the courage, the rigor and the grace

Get along in life now, get along in life

On my way home, On my way home

Seein’ the sunshine of the joy on your face

Seeking the laughter and the joy that you make

I’ll be here with you girl or else the sun will not shine

On my way home..on my way home

(repeat and ad-lib, and finish)

Fuzzy Over You 

One dream valentine

Dream ship love of mine

Mysterious love it’s true

Funny how the breezes flow

I’m getting fuzzy over you….

Who knows when time and dreams may end

This valentine I’ll send

Colors of the rainbow tell me so

Ain’t it great to know

I’m feelin’ fuzzy over you…..

Walk in a park on a sunny day

Time when all our dreams will stay

Stay close we’re makin’ it home

Ain’t it amazing how everyone knows

I’m feelin’ fuzzy over you…

Nostalgia

Pointin’ toward heaven

without a clock

three ticks earlier, four ticks off

right now I'm sleepin' and dreamin' is just fine

is one minute yours

the other minute mine?

you come near, I come far

how it divides us, where we are.

comfort and pain

cycles of the day

you'll go your way

i'll go my way 

chorus:

wanna go back to 1968

where sun was so strong and the future so great

i wanna go back and meet bart starr

i want to ride in the family car

the wind of is blowing and the peace is on my mind

rememberin days when everything was fine

(repeat verses and chorus and end)

Do You Know This Guy?

I’ll tell you about my friend

He needs someone to talk to

I’ll tell you about my friend

He’s got questions to ask you

He builds a long long story hline

A bit like yours and a bit like mine

He’s not into condescension but into preservation

He’s looking for love in all the wrong places..

Do you know this guy?

Do you know this guy?

He’s suspicious but not malicious

Kind but not blind

He’s got a heart full of sorrow but is hopeful about tomorrow

He’s a little bit on edge but missing evasive happiness

He’s a little over the top but hasn’t hit the bottom

Do you know this guy?

Do you know this guy?

He’s the star of his own show

But he’s one nobody knows..

Do you know this guy?  (repeat ad lib and end)

Living For Love  (Jon’s tribute to Peter, Paul and Mary)

Here’s to the hope that is in our hearts

Here’s to the way that we live

Here’s to the way we express our love

Here’s to the way we shed our tears

If there was a way we could live my lives

We’d live it out in the open

If there was one thing I could say to you

Say it out in the open…

Chorus:

Conquering fears

Living for love

Conquering hate

Living for love

I say to you -  you have one life

Make it all that you can

We’re all alone on this pale blue dot

Let’s make it the best that we can

(repeat chorus)

Sometimes

Sometimes things make sense

Sometimes they don’t

Sometimes I win at life

Sometimes I don’t

Sometimes I feel at peace

Sometimes I don’t

Chorus:

I have one thing I can depend on, and it’s you

One sure bet in life…that is you

No matter what the world does around us

I….still….love you

I….still….love you

Sometimes I feel together

Sometimes I don’t

Sometimes I have the spiritual answer

Sometimes I don’t

Sometimes I feel I understand everything

Sometimes I don’t

(repeat chorus once, and end)

Old Song of Love   (Jon’s tribute to Neil Young)

Old song of love, you keep me crying,

Old song of love, get me through the night,

Old song of love, your banner is waving,

It’s telling me that compassion is right on time.

Chorus:

Old song of love you keep me rolling,

Old song of love, keep me up all night,

Old song of love, you got me going,

Old song of love, melody sounds just right

Capture the world and make it real,

See the compassion running on time,

The zeal and the love they go together,

When love speaks, you know you’re right in line

For Once   

Once in my life, I said once in my life

For once in my life I am free

Once in my life, oh once in my life

For once in my life I am free

Free, yeah…Free, yeah….

I’m making it right, I’m making it right

For once in my life I am free

I’m making it right, yes making it right

For once in my life I am me

Me, yeah…..me, yeah

I know my own life, yes know my own life

For once in my life I am free

I know my own path, I know my own path

For once in my life I am free

Free, yeah…..me, yeah

I own my own dreams, yes I own my own dreams

For once in my life I am free

I love my own life, yes I love my own life

I know for a fact I am free

EPILOGUE

"There are a thousand thoughts lying within a man that he does not
know till he takes up a pen to write."

William Makepeace Thackeray

          I had initially thought I would name the book “Stark Contrast,” then decided against it in favor of “Weltschmerz.”  After a couple of years of perfecting and editing the manuscript, I decided against both of the book titles, against “Weltschmerz” because it is too negative and against “Stark Contrast” because it is a little corny.  I finally chose the title “A Conscientious Life.”    The book’s main character Jon Stark is very sensitive and has very good intentions, but he is still naïve and is, in my opinion,  just a little bit off-base in the manner in which he perceives politics.  He sees Democrats as the owners of fairness and the ultimate saviors of a free society and Republicans as greedy businesspeople….a somewhat simplistic notion, but he is to be applauded for his pure heart and intentions.    He is also somewhat naïve about the politics of life and has many identity questions.  He clings hard to the world of liberalism because it seems kinder and gentler.  Later in life he may learn quite the opposite is true, that conservative ideas outweigh the long standing ideas, the solid and timeless ideas which can better help him through life.  This author’s views on politics, by the way are more in the middle.

          This book has a significant amount of autobiographical content, but should not be judged as a pure autobiographical account hidden as fiction.  I do admit I get a lot of personal satisfaction from writing these chapters.  I take pride in representing through Jon Stark the uncertainty we all feel from time to time about our lives but are afraid to express to anyone.  What is very clear about the main character is that he is always treading very carefully through life, almost too carefully.  My own father once said that about me when I was in my early-20’s that I was much too carefully walking through life.   Our main character always tries to do the right thing, but is somewhat tripped up by his own passive nature.   As his father and Dr. Kelstone point out, he tends to too often err on the side of comfortable caution. 

          Every journey offers chances to learn and grow and writing this book has been a very enlightening journey.  It got me thinking about my own politics and the way I live my life.  I have a chance to reflect on the liberal political background I’ve come from and how I need to moderate and orientate in order to make maximum sense of this complicated world.  Perhaps the experience of sharing my manuscript with a few selected friends has made me more humble than ever about how hard it is to write a truly good novel. Thanks to Julie Thelen, Fred Hersom, Darold Treffert, Michael Tollifson, and other friends who had the patience to read the rough forms of manuscripts on line and gave great suggestions.  To my cousin Robin, it’s OK if you want to wait until the actual book comes out.   The novel has a sort of “coming of age” feel to it.  Somewhat similar to Holden Caulfield in “Catcher in the Rye,” Jon is full of “meaning of life” type questions, many of which remain unanswered.  He slowly gains insight that living with a degree of uncertainty is part of being an adult.   Some readers may be uncomfortable with that too. 

          This introspective book also looks at the struggles of parents of a severely autistic son.  Having this severely disabled child creates unique pressures in Jon’s marriage.  The author also has an autistic child and can speak from experience, which is a distinct advantage. I have gone through some similar situations as does this young parent in the book.   In other words, some real life trials of the novel’s main character are also very similar to situations and feelings I have gone through.  

          There are many contrasts found in the main character’s life.  Jon carries sort of a “world weariness” with him most of the time.  He is sometimes profoundly sad deep inside at the contrast between physical reality and the ideal state, which in essence is weltschmerz.  He has a quixotic part that wants to come out, but he is too cautious to self actualize.   This pervasive malaise is the feel for the book that my late Uncle Charlie picked up on when he read the rough draft in 2007.  (However, I don’t think he was too fond of a character modeled somewhat after him named Uncle Gerald.)  

          Here are some of the contrasts in the novel.  First there is the contrast between a typical life and a family life seemingly ruled by severe autism (the challenge presented by the main character’s son Steven.) This is Jon Stark’s life.  Stark reality has given him some solid blows but his heady inner-world.  His idealism continues to try to manifest itself with a ferocious intensity.  Our main character’s idealism is a compensation for the unfulfilled life he feels.   The good life to Jon is kind of a blur that always evades his grasp. He is never able to achieve any kind of solid self-esteem or security because he is such an observer in life, for the most part.   He does not participate in evil.  He even agonizes about this sometimes, and adds that he feels like he is “living in a bubble.”    He also wants to be more politically active but is afraid to be because of his journalism profession, which is supposed to be unbiased.

          While maintaining a passive nature as an observer, he simultaneously possesses a very curious nature about people, about life and about how things work.  Being a news reporter allows him to be a part of the world, yet separate from it as an objective observer.  He is held back by his cautiousness and standoffish behavior, never taking a risk so big that he is not in control of the situation.   He can be outgoing, but in his own way.

          Jon is idealistic and as I have stated clearly, somewhat politically naïve.   Jon never understood the thinking of the right and even was quite put off by the brash audacity of the college Republicans and his newspaper boss's love of GOP fund raisers and the like. He loves JFK, Martin Luther King, Jessie Jackson, Paul Wellstone, and George McGovern but is too shy about joining hands with local Democrats for fear of retribution politically from his boss and community. Deep inside, he may be afraid to test his idealism in the real world.  That would be the real test to determine if his love affair with Democrats is worth it in the long run.   Perhaps, though, if he were to actually see the inner workings of the Democratic Party up close he may find some elements not to his liking, perhaps repulsive down and dirty union politics full of graft and corruption and the like.  He makes a reference during his years at Tilden College, that the student Democrats seemed far too disorganized.  (A sequel to this book may observe Jon discovering in middle age that his politics is more moderate, a more logical stance than the extremes.  This would be more similar to the author’s politics.)   In his profession as a news reporter young Jon prides himself on his objectivity and the fact that he doesn't have any "agendas." At first, his boss Mr. Duxman sees him this way.  As the book progresses, one can see that Jon wants to reveal his "democratic" self more and more and faces life head on in a more courageous manner.  Jon also desires to write the great American novel but doesn't think his ideas are nearly good enough to measure up. He knows he was an average English student in school and is vaguely aware that he has thousands of miles to travel to reach his lofty goals. He reads John Updike, Phillip Roth and James Joyce, but understands too little of what he reads.  Like the main character in Salinger’s “Catcher in the Rye,” Jon wonders why the world sometimes has to be so cruel and uncaring and why people are not more kind to each other more often. 

           Jon’s relationship with his wife is something that is a work in progress, much like a great painting.   He loves his wife very much and feels very fortunate to have met her.  She seems at first like "a good friend, someone a person can trust.”  Nora says of Jon, “He is an honest and a good man.  I could tell that from day number one.”  When they met in Madison, it is not love at first sight but an intense liking, a great first impression that eventually led to wedding bells.   During their courtship, Jon’s mother says to “get a ring on that woman’s finger!”   Nora is a very generous and caring woman who would do anything for a person in need.  She is generous, and Jon believes that he is lucky to have her not only as a life marriage partner, but as a friend as well.  His wife is the consummate organizer, and Jon is not.   He sees this as very fortunate, because he is not nearly as organized.  When asked by his father what he thinks the purpose of marriage and family is, he states, "for happiness and friendship and having someone with whom to experience family and the world."  Even though he believes idealistically that “an unexamined life is not worth living,”  he fails to examine his own marriage to a deep enough level and just accepts it as “good.”  He doesn’t analyze the compatibility factor in his marriage and sees stark differences in personality, but rationalizes this as being a complimentary relationship.  He feels inferior to his wife in many ways but fails to completely understand why he is feeling this because he hasn’t sorted it all out. 

          Jon is also very disenchanted and saddened when he meets his best college friend Carl ten years after graduating from Tilden College. Carl still spouts the similar sounding idealism but now has more biting cynicism and now it seems like all talk.    He has turned into an alcoholic who has to fight to keep jobs at several video stores and he still believes that Mick Jagger, Steven Tyler, Joey Ramone and Jerry Garcia are geniuses.   He lusts after young women even though he is married. Carl hasn't grown up, and the contrast between bright Carl with the almost perfect SAT's and the talk of being an English or Philosophy teacher ten years ago and today's reality is almost too much to handle for the idealistic Jon. This apparent deterioration of Carl deeply saddens our main character. Jon many times has serious trouble seeing the world for what it is. Carl’s story brings home the point that stories don’t always have good endings.   Maybe he doesn't want to see it at all sometimes. Maybe to some extent, he thinks that he is insulating himself from the evil and corruption in the world.

          Again, perhaps his greatest concern is how to deal with his son’s autism.  He wonders why God would give him such a challenge, a challenge to love a child who is so helpless.  Why would God do this to him?  Feeling a lot like Job in the Biblical story, our main character thinks God, if there is one, is out to teach him a lesson about belief and courage.   He feels Steven is here to teach him something very meaningful about life.   In a dream, his father gives him some interesting but somewhat cryptic advice on how to deal with the tough days ahead.     Jon carries a strong weltschmerz but also a strong spiritual strength, believing very strongly in the ultimate goodness of the many aspects of the world and the heart of mankind. 

          Most interesting, I think, is how Jon handles crisis situations. He appears to handle them with some awkwardness and some grace but he also wanders somewhat aimlessly along in his life. I believe that my main character's life path is quite interesting and my hope as the author is that you'll want to know what he chooses next as his life progresses and how he handles the trials tragedies that are to come.  It is really a book about identity as my friend Mike so accurately perceived.  A Christian friend of mine and I recently read the book “Nemesis” by Phillip Roth.  My friend contends that Roth has an agenda in the novel, an agenda of atheism.   If there is any agenda to my book, it is what the great German poet Rainer Maria Rilke said many years ago…

Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions

          In this sense, Jon is learning to live the questions, and this is only a start.  It also starts with realizing that he cannot change some things.  At the end of the book, he accepts his son’s autism and for the human being he is.  Did God create Steven?  Was it a bad luck circumstance of genetics?  Jon, relaxed in his agnosticism, says “I don’t know” but I’m willing to embrace what is. 

          Ideally, it’s a sort of transhistorical type of novel, or is it more like a novella as my friend Fred suggested?  The novel is somewhat of an intellectual trajectory bringing up more questions than answers.  Ideally, we empathize with this young man’s journey and find out ourselves that we need to revisit some questions in order to be completely honest with ourselves. 

          In writing this book, I in no way wanted to disturb family relations.  My intent is not to bemuse, bewilder or disorient anyone.  I do admit that the book is based largely on real characters or many times a combination of important people in my life.   Jon is very much like I was in my 20’s.   But, as I expect Jon to do in any sequel I write(hint hint) I have become a little more conservative into my 50’s.   Growing up doesn’t just happen in childhood, it happens throughout our lives.

          Newspaper reporter and author Mark Bacon put into words what excites me so much about writing a novel.  He said, “Language is fascinating.  The possibilities for expressing yourself in English are almost limitless.  Words are flexible, expandable, condensable, reusable, even tongue twistable.”  He goes on to say, “When you write, the richness of our own language permits you to be as specific or as vague as you wish. You can be subtle and soft or direct and firm. You can identify minute shades of differences or you can make sweeping generalities.”    

          While trying to perfect this manuscript I thought of my father who when he was my age and I was in middle school was preoccupied with learning  Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto Number 2 on the piano.   He practiced over and over, night after night.  I can still hear the melody in my mind.  By shear repetition and by incredible concentration he was able to learn the piece and reproduce it in a very competent manner. As my father most humbly recalls, “I think you are right and it was the Brandenburg Concerto No. 2, the theme in the orchestral version played by trumpets hitting extremely difficult to play high notes.  I was trying to play a piano transcription, greatly simplified, but clearly not made so simple that I could play it smoothly.  If memory serves me right again, I also tried to play the same segment of that piece on a fipple flute but never mastered it in spite of the practicing that must have fallen on the painful ears of family present.”   That’s my Dad’s great sense of humor.

          Even though not naturally talented at piano, he was performing a great work of art through pure perseverance.   I think he was very proud of his accomplishment.  Let this book be my Brandenburg. 

More Margaret Lathrop Quotes
“There is a definite art to being a lifelong learner. The first and most necessary ingredient is to retain an active curiosity about every aspect of our world. The second is to have a passion, not just for gathering random information but for bringing all aspects of acquired knowledge into an integrated overview of reality. True learning can never be passive. Learning is far more than the mere memorization of facts and figures. Nor is it a mere storing away of dates and chronologies.”
“The real art of learning involves the whole person being intensely involved with and immersed within all aspects of our world and perhaps the whole of our universe. It is to find nothing irrelevant or without merit since everything is part of the whole fabric of our existence.”
“Every culture has its own paradigm of reality. A lifelong learner is one who remains constantly open to the variations and interconnections of other cultures. A dedicated learner is forever open to new concepts, new ideas and new ways of looking at life. A true learner is also involved in constantly evaluating and adapting to the flow of these new ideas. This is the creative aspect of learning.”
“Someone whose passion for learning remains undimmed by the passage of time knows that one of the best ways of learning is by being a good listener as well as an active observer.”
“To a child for whom books were the principle avenues of escape from a challenging world, that old library was Aladdin's cave of treasure, a pirate's cache of gold and a queen's ransom in jewels all put together. The books themselves were the magic carpets that took me to the ends of the world and beyond.
“My heart always beat a bit faster as I walked up that long staircase to the front door. Once inside I was greeted by a stillness that was not unlike the hush of a church. I was given the unmistakable sense of being in a sacred place. It was, after all, the repository of all human knowledge and literary accomplishment and thus represented the best that humans had to offer one another. “
“I have no problem seeing God in terms of infinity, a creator who is at once immanent and transcendent out of whose mind all things become manifest.”   

“The loveliness of this late summer season carries with it vivid reminders that change is the essential nature of all life. Our own slow but steady migration through life has strong parallels to the seasons of the garden. Attached to each passing day is a footnote from the universe that urges us to immerse ourselves in the adventure of being alive.  More than the destination toward which we move with such inexorable momentum, it is the journey itself that contains all the necessary ingredients to make this life a memorable and wonderful experience.  Just as each season in the garden is marked by its own particular kind of beauty, so too are the seasons of our lives characterized by various but equally significant kinds of beauty, and all of our years contain unique blessings. We may, as the garden does, take on a weathered look with the passing years, but physical beauty is replaced by the shimmer of wisdom, the mellowing temperance of a life well lived. To waken to a new day and know it is a day that never existed before, to be deeply grateful for the small but precious gifts this day may bring, to release the past and all regret to morning wind and resolve to not overlook a single blessing of this new day, is to live life as it was intended, as the flowers in the garden live with their faces lifted up toward the light.   What lies at journey's end I cannot say for certain, but this life I call my own I shall live with a song in my heart.”