Healing Up and Rolling On

About four months ago, I had a freak accident that required total shoulder replacement surgery (technically a reverse shoulder arthroplasty). Severe shoulder fractures are quite painful and in all candor, the surgical procedure and lengthy recovery process that follows are no picnic, either. My total recovery time has been guesstimated at six months to a year but unless I reinjure that joint, the hardest part is now behind me.

I have endured many weeks of physical therapy, investing countless hours and no small amount of dollars in regaining as much range of motion and strength in my left arm and shoulder as is realistically possible. After six weeks, I was able to begin driving again, albeit with some difficulty and a good bit of physical discomfort. That same week, I parted ways with a new employer that I should never have joined in the first place. That certainly didn’t help financially, but because I had wholeheartedly agreed with the decision to separate, I couldn’t exactly mourn the loss. Enough said.

At that point, I also set a personal goal for being able to ride my motorcycle again: Thanksgiving weekend of 2018. This was a fairly aggressive goal and let me tell you why. At the six-week mark, I mounted my motorcycle, but could only lift the 885-pound beast off its side stand with assistance from my son and without using my left arm, which was still under substantial restrictions at the time. Merely setting my left hand on the grip took some effort and I knew I could reach no further forward that day.

By late September, I could stand the bike up by myself, though I was still compensating substantially for my weak left arm. I could also turn the handlebars lock to lock and work the clutch lever without difficulty. Still, it would have been foolish to try riding so soon. Given my stage of healing, there was simply too much at stake. Besides, based on my informal survey of the available internet chatter, I hadn’t heard about anybody riding a heavyweight motorcycle any earlier than four months after a total shoulder replacement. So I bided my time and continued to push myself at physical therapy.

My patience and effort paid off. On the morning of November 22, with an ambient temperature in the mid-thirties, I rolled Miss Scarlett out of my garage and accompanied by my son and his motorcycle, took a brief jaunt through the neighborhood before pulling back in and moving on to our Thanksgiving Day festivities.

The ride lasted only a few minutes and told me everything I needed to know about preparing for my 2019 riding season. For openers, after a four-month layoff, my skills were as rusty as they are after a full winter season of not riding, and then some. Every spring I work on removing that rust by running specific exercises—mainly emergency maneuvers and slow-speed handling—over and over until they become fluid again. Unfortunately, my son and I were a day away from putting our bikes up for a long winter nap. So my riding skills, which had already deteriorated from four months of non-use, were about to be set aside for another four months or so, save for the occasional warm, saltless day.

But what could I do with only one day, a cool and windy one at that? The answer was clear: go ride a little more.

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The following day, we saddled up and rode out to Silver Springs State Fish and Wildlife Area on the outskirts of Yorkville, IL. It was cloudy and cool, but dry and not cold, with winds gusting up to 30-ish mph. The route we chose allowed us to periodically run the bikes at highway speeds or better, with a few opportunities to take sweeping curves, sharp turns, and stretches of moist debris left on the road by farm implements. Let your imagination be your guide. By and large, I did okay and my shoulder caused no issues at all, but I did commit some awkward errors that are typical of novice riders. I noted every one of them for future reference and will work on those, even before I get the chance to ride again, through visualization exercises, followed by actual practice once the warm weather returns.

My son and I discussed these things as we took a walk around Loon Lake at the state park. It was quality father-and-son time for us, though we couldn’t help but notice certain telltale signs, such as residual snow on a shaded path and some floating ice on a slough, all this despite an ambient temperature in the mid-to-upper forties. We knew this would likely be our last run for a while. Ah, but it was golden to me!

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We stopped at the Crusade Burger Bar in Yorkville, where my wife Karen met us for a delicious lunch (try the fried cheese curds appetizer, you will thank me). Then we headed back to Plainfield, stopping to top off our tanks after adding the usual measures of gasoline stabilizer. Afterward, we took a brisk ride through the neighborhood, allowing the stabilizer to mix in and get into our respective fuel lines. Finally, we pulled into the garage, rolling the bikes onto layers of cardboard, to protect the tires, and hooked up our smart chargers. The bikes are, for our purposes, winterized, though they still remain available and ready should an off-season riding opportunity present itself.

If I were to end my story here, very few people would question my gratitude on this Thanksgiving holiday weekend. But there is more. When I lost my job in September, a handful of friends I had made as business acquaintances took it upon themselves to go beyond the usual lip service—”good luck” and “I’ll keep my eyes open”—and actively sought out potential opportunities for me. These were extraordinary gestures on their part and I am still humbled by their endeavors, one of which resulted in a new job that I started last Monday, at the start of Thanksgiving week.

Diaz Group LLC is a growing force in landscape design, enhancements, and maintenance, as well as snow and ice management services. Located in the Back of the Yards neighborhood of Chicago, this family owned and operated organization has experienced tremendous growth over the past decade. We did business with each other for eight years during my tenure at Cherry Logistics, a national facilities maintenance company, so in effect, we have already known each other for years. When a mutual friend of ours saw the potential and encouraged us to meet, both parties moved on the opportunity. Now I am a member of their management team and I can proudly say without reservation, “I am Diaz Group.” What a rush!

Early on after my injury, I devoted a measure of time to feeling sorry for myself. At some point, I realized I could go further by embracing my healing journey than by mourning my losses. Please think about that for a moment. Right now I could still be wondering why I lost my left shoulder by trying to get my poor, frightened dog home. Right now I could still be mourning the loss of a job that I should have never pursued. Instead, I am back on two wheels and planning my 2019 riding season and I have a new and wonderful workplace that I can call home. What changed? Me.

Embrace the journey! And as always, thanks for hanging with me.

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Romancing the Blade

Mug Brush

My fascination with shaving has a lengthy history that began when I was a small boy and became aware of this ritual performed by grown-up men. For as long as I knew him, my grandfather shaved with a safety razor, a mug of shaving soap, and a brush. He also had an old straight razor in his basement bathroom and although I never saw him use it, I’m sure he had done so once upon a time. I rarely got to watch Grandpa shave, but the few memories I have of those times involved him coming out of his bathroom with one or two fragments of tissue stuck to his face. I would later learn firsthand that this was a tried-and-true method for catching and holding blood droplets from the seemingly inevitable razor nicks and cuts.

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My dad’s arsenal was a bit more modern. He was a Norelco man, having owned numerous corded and uncorded models over the decades. But he also had several safety razors, at least one in each bathroom, and he used them on occasions when he wanted a particularly close shave. Pop professed that he could go for two days between proper wet blade shaves, whereas his electric razor required daily use.

My dad was no stranger to the toilet paper trick, either, but he also kept a solid alum block, which he had purchased from a barber, I couldn’t tell you in what year.  After shaving, you simply run the alum block under cool water and then gently glide it over your freshly-shaven skin. Any nicks, cuts or abrasions will immediately be made known. The alum stings like mad when it finds any such wound, but it does help check the flow of blood. Styptic pencils, used for the same purpose, also contain powdered alum crystals. After my dad passed away, I kept that old alum block, mainly for sentimental reasons, though I have used it from time to time. I wish I’d kept all of the razors as well. Hindsight is always 20/20.

Alum Block

When the time came for me to begin shaving, sometime during my high school years, my dad introduced me to shaving by presenting me with one of his safety razors. This particular one had a “butterfly” mechanism for replacing the double-edged blade and was also adjustable. Twisting a dial built into in the handle would change the height/exposure of the blade, allowing for a milder or more aggressive shave, depending on the setting. This was a good choice for a newbie like me.

We went over the basic techniques—using hot water and the shaving brush to work up a good lather and apply it to my face, holding the razor properly, rinsing thoroughly, using the alum block if necessary, and applying aftershave. My young peachfuzz whiskers never stood a chance. Neither did my face when I began experimenting with more aggressive razor settings over time. But I learned and I did okay.

Before long I became curious about electric shavers and got one of my own. Using an electric razor was cool because I could mow down my whiskers relatively quickly without fear of cutting myself. But they were also bothersome because (a) applying pressure to get a closer shave often resulted in razor burn and (b) the darned things needed to be cleaned regularly. Over the decades that followed, I tried various electric models from Norelco, Remington, Braun, and Panasonic. Some I liked better than others—especially the self-cleaning models, although those tended to break down after the warranty period was up.

Fusion

I also went through all the iterations of disposable and multi-blade cartridge razors, beginning with the Gillette Trac II and culminating with the Gillette Fusion5™ ProGlide Power razor. In the end, I preferred wet shaving, though not necessarily the rising costs associated with using the latest innovations in cartridge shaving technology. Every time the folks at Gillette (now part of Proctor & Gamble) rolled out another iteration of the latest must-have razor, I knew I could count on the cost of replacement blade cartridges going up.

I’d been seeing and hearing a lot about the resurgence of safety razors over the past few years and I guess it was just a matter of time before I got swept up in the movement myself. The cost of blade replacement for my five-bladed (six if you count the trimmer blade on the backside), self-lubricated, vibrating, flexing, pivoting shaving system was between two and three dollars per replacement cartridge and as much as I liked the product, I was ready for a change, if only to save a few bucks. As a rule, I am seldom afraid to try something new. But was I ready to try something old?

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After a bit of research, I decided to buy The Chieftain safety razor by Vikings Blade. an outfit in Australia that seems to have fun with what they do while taking the art of shaving quite seriously. The product is well-rated and comes with a storage/carrying case as well as five starter blades, all for a price that wouldn’t break me (I was still employed full-time and hadn’t yet broken my shoulder when I bought this). When my new razor arrived, I was not disappointed. The weight and balance are excellent, to say nothing of the fit and finish. The Chieftain is a quality product. I couldn’t wait to try it out.

Hamburger

Unfortunately, despite having read and reread the directions and even watched a video or two about shaving with a safety razor, I had built up some bad habits from many years of having shaved with pivoting disposable cartridge razors. Despite the “mild” blade I had used,  my poor neck paid dearly for those bad habits. It was days before I attempted shaving with that razor again, but to be very clear, it wasn’t the razor’s fault. This was pure user error.

I recall one of my college marketing professors, years ago, explaining that The Gillette Company had developed the pivoting razor head after research revealed that a substantial portion of shavers did not hold their razor at the proper angle. The advertisements never said, “…with a new pivoting head, because some of you are too stupid to hold your razors properly,” but that was the gist of it. And remembering that helped me get the best shave of my life with a safety razor. That and an email.

I emailed “Grumpy old Robert” Vue, owner of Vikings Blade, who merely confirmed what I already knew. “Michael, neck shaving with a safety razor is very very different and I can totally guess why you had to use the alum bloc.” He proceeded to give me some sound advice about shaving with a safety razor, which I took to heart. And so, with a healed up neck and a head full of knowledge, I picked up my safety razor and began anew. I even learned a few new things along the way.

If you are looking to make the switch to a safety razor, here are some important tips to keep in mind.

  • Hydration matters. Your skin needs to be very wet, your whiskers softened by it. The result will be an easier shave and more optimal results.
  • Use a proper shaving cream/gel that works for you. I’ll get into my favorite in a bit.
  • A safety razor will not pivot to correct your shave angle, nor will it forgive your mistakes. You must control the blade angle throughout the shave. A 30° angle is considered optimal and you won’t need a protractor to find it. When the portion of the razor head above the blade and the safety bar/comb beneath the blade are both touching your skin, you’re pretty much there.
  • Do not apply pressure on your safety razor for a closer shave! Use the natural weight of the razor and let it glide, at the proper angle, to do its job. Major thanks to Grumpy old Robert for driving this point home for me.
  • Lift the razor off your skin before changing the direction of a stroke or moving the blade sideways.
  • Shaving “with the grain” (in the same direction as your whiskers grow) will yield the mildest shave. Sideways to the grain is more aggressive. Against the grain is most aggressive and will yield the closest shave, if you have the skill and your skin can handle it.
  • Understand your face. There are about three points on the contours of my neck that require additional attention in order to get a close shave without injury. The same goes for the area above my mustache and beneath my nose. Your mileage may vary.
  • Take your time and do it right. If you rush, you may regret it.
  • Sometimes it makes more sense to shave less aggressively, i.e. on a very hot and humid day.
  • No matter what, your last razor strokes should be downward. I was taught that this would train the whiskers to grow downward. True or not, I can’t shake that teaching.

Shaven

My results have been phenomenal. Never again have I suffered the same “hamburger neck” that I experienced with that first, careless shave. I have graduated to using a more aggressive blade—more on that in a moment—and my usual result is an unbelievably close, smooth shave. Any actual nicks have been few and far between, and are usually the result of my zeal to repeatedly achieve the closest possible shave.

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I place a lot of emphasis on technique when it comes to shaving with a safety razor, but I would be remiss not to mention two other factors, that being your choice of double-edge (DE) razor blade and shave cream—each of which can be a very personal thing. On that fateful first day, when I turned my neck into so much hamburger, I couldn’t see using anything sharper than the “starter” blades that had come with my razor. Several weeks later, I had changed my mind. The Astra Superior Platinum Double Edge Safety Razor Blade is reputed to be among the sharpest-yet-smoothest blades available. These stainless steel, platinum-coated blades are super thin and even after “dulled” by a week or more of shaving, they should be handled with respect. I can get a full two weeks out of one blade, but one week is optimal and at just under ten cents a blade, when bought in 100-count packages, I have little reason to push it. That’s right, I buy 100 premium quality DE razor blades for a fraction of what I used to pay for four disposable Fusion 5 Power replacement cartridges. Some people periodically flip the blade over in the razor head, claiming that doing so extends blade life. Me, I flip the blade after every shave. Even if doing so doesn’t help, it can’t hurt.

Cremo

Cremo Original Concentrated Shave Cream is my go-to shaving product. I’ve tried others and kept returning to this one. Again, this is a very personal choice, so I encourage shavers to draw their own conclusions. For me, a dime-size dollop plus hot water gets my face as slick as heck and pretty much keeps it that way throughout the shaving process, as long as I can keep it moving with one wet hand. A sufficient coating of Cremo is nearly transparent on my face, which allows me to see what I’m doing and shave with precision.

My son looked at the results I have achieved with a double-edged safety razor and decided to draw his own conclusions. Less than a week later, he opted to get his own Vikings Blade razor, opting for The Chieftain, Odin Edition. I have yet to hear a complaint.

In the end, one’s shaving equipment and accessories are a personal choice. For now, I am very pleased with the choices I’ve made.

Closures: My Summer Interrupted, Part III

Continued from My Summer Interrupted, Part II

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I was only in the hospital for two days, but two days spent lying in a bed gives one plenty of time to think, to dwell, to obsess… and yes, to fear. My left arm had been bound into an immobilizer (picture a sling on steroids, with generous helpings of velcro and foam) before they wheeled me out of the OR. My entire left arm, held firmly in place by that synthetic getup, felt like a decorative sculpture of sorts that had been left beside me as a memento of my surgery. Dr. Saleem said that as soon as he got inside, he knew there was no hope of repairing the bone, but that the replacement had gone very well.

I wasn’t too choked up about having had my shoulder replaced but it was necessary, given the severity of my injury. I adapted. Learned to eat with one hand. Never once had to use a bedpan or one of those confounded plastic handheld urinals. All in all, I thought I’d been doing pretty well. Then about midway through the following day, the nerve block began to wear off in ever increasing waves. A cold, metallic achiness began to pulse from my left shoulder, right through the elbow, across my wrist, into the very substance of each knuckle, and ever down, down, down, until it seemed as though the pain had begun to drip from each of my fingernails. As soon as I’d realized what was going on, I rang for the nurse, who materialized almost instantly.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi, I seem to be having a lot more pain. Can you give me… oh, jeez!” Each successive wave of pain was worse than the last. Of course the nurse immediately understood what was happening and arranged to administer an IV pain med, in addition to adjusting the dosage and frequency of my oral medication. That worked fine, but could not be kept up indefinitely. We gradually weaned off the IV juice and tried reducing the oral as well, but found my pain threshold pretty quickly. Reducing the dosage and frequency of my oral pain med—an acetaminophen/narcotic combo—took quite a few days.

Two days after surgery, I was released from the hospital. I sure hadn’t felt ready for that. Right up until discharge procedures were initiated, my nurses wouldn’t even let me walk the few feet from my bed to the bathroom without an escort. How was I going to fare in my cluttered house, with its stairs and other hazards, to say nothing of the animals, one of whom had put me in the hospital in the first place? We would soon find out because I was going home.

The nurse removed my IV port with ease. My physical therapist made her daily visit, as did an occupational therapist, who tried to show me how to put my own shirt on, a pretty tall order for a guy who is afraid to move his left arm. Last of all came my dressing change and drain removal. Karen observed as the nurse carefully removed the original dressing. I looked away wincing as some of the more aggressive adhesive strips came off. The nurse chose not to warn me before yanking the sizable drain tube out of my arm, probably a wise move, but did apologize after I stopped yelping like a dog whose tail just had a car door slammed on it. Then with a new, much thinner dressing in place and a hefty band-aid placed over the former location of my drain tube, I was ready to go home.

Eh, I did alright. At first I was petrified anytime the dog or cat tried to come near me. In time, I adapted to life in my recliner. Leia, who had already earned the title of “The Most Expensive Dog I’ve Ever Owned” before this incident, gradually learned to approach me calmly and head-on rather than to my left side. I eventually allowed Jazzy to assume her duties as a medicinal cat and take naps on my blanket-covered lap. Me, I took my pain meds on time, did my therapy exercises three times a day, and slept a lot.IMG_2122

The pain meds and the immobilizer were my main concerns. I couldn’t do anything about the immobilizer, which I had to wear it at all times, except when getting dressed or doing my exercises. It was torture, but vitally necessary to protect my new shoulder as the bone and muscle tissues began to mend around the artificial parts. I wasn’t allowed to lift anything with that arm anyway, not even a Kleenex.

The opioid pain meds were a pain in and of themselves. On the one hand, they were effective if taken regularly. On the other hand, keeping an adequate supply was difficult and I ran out more than once while waiting for the doctor’s office, the pharmacy, and the insurance company to sync up. That annoyed me, as did the prospect of getting hooked on the stuff, so I began replacing every other dose with plain Tylenol. Eventually I was taking only over-the-counter pain relievers and before long, I was taking nothing at all. This of course took time, but over the course of two to three weeks, I did it.

About a week after I went home, I had my first follow-up with the surgeon, who was very pleased with my results. I also had my stitches removed and the incision no longer required a dressing. I just had to leave the steri-strips in place until they fell off on their own. A few days after that, I was cleared for actual bathing and celebrated by shaving my entire face for the first time in over 20 years, traumatizing my kids and several of my friends in the process. The following day I began regrowing my facial landscaping.

A day or so after seeing the surgeon, I began going to physical therapy three times a week, while continuing to exercise at home three times daily. At first I was afraid to move, but the therapists at Advanced Physicians are a top-shelf group of professionals who are apparently very used to dealing with big babies and had me doing new and exciting things in no time.

I was still homebound for several more weeks and having earned no paid time off at my new job, I made an arrangement with my employer to work from home to the extent that I could for a fraction of my usual pay. I was glad to be earning at least some income and downright grateful to still have my new job, which I loved despite some inherent challenges and shortcomings.

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The weeks that followed were a continuum of baby steps forward. It seemed like every time I went to physical therapy, I was making some form of progress in my range of motion, strength, or my ability to add on another exercise. Everyday life activities, like showering and dressing, were also becoming easier.

Four weeks after my surgery, I was cleared to return to work, ramping up to full-time over the course of two weeks. But because I was still in the immobilizer, my wife Karen chauffered me to and from work, 35 miles each way, until I was able to do so myself. She must have really wanted me out of the house badly.

Five weeks after my surgery, I had another follow-up with the surgeon’s assistant, who cleared me to begin weaning myself off the immobilizer the following week and to begin driving, but only short distances. When I asked her about the  35-mile, 60-to-90-minute commute to work, she shook her head and said not to try that for several more weeks. The chauffering would have to continue for a while. Karen said she didn’t mind and we both agreed that we had been enjoying the hour-plus discussions we’d been having while stuck in traffic. Still, I was sad because of what was to happen in week six.

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Last winter, while I’d still been living a somewhat normal life, I put together a motorcycle rendezvous near Green Bay that would take place over Labor Day weekend, now known as week six. A small group of people would be riding in from at least three different states. The idea was for everyone to arrive Friday, spend all day Saturday touring Door County on the bikes, and then each do our own thing from Sunday morning on. I had found the perfect hotel from which to base, the AmericInn by Wyndham Green Bay East, whose sales manager set me up with a block of rooms and everything. My friend Ann was to be my pillion passenger.

As that weekend approached, realizing that I was still months away from being ready to ride again, I had arranged for Ann and me to drive up to the rendezvous, hang with the group at the hotel, and then do our own touring by car while a friend of ours from Minnesota would lead the bike tour. Now it seemed like I wasn’t even able to drive.

Ann and Karen to the rescue! Karen drove me to Kenosha, from where Ann picked me up and drove me around for the rest of the weekend before returning me to Kenosha on Sunday so that Karen could take me home. Together the two of them solved all of my logistical issues.

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And so there Ann and I were, up in Wisconsin on Friday morning, only to learn that the rest of our group had been canceling out since late Thursday night. In their defense, the weekend weather forecast for Green Bay and the Door County peninsula did include some chances of rain, although as far as I could tell, no day would be a complete washout. Nonetheless, the rest of our merry band had canceled. What to do?

What to do indeed! We had breakfast, went for a walk, and then headed for Green Bay. Breakfast was at a really happening place in Delafield called Lumber Inn. The food was great and the portions large. The walk was particularly enjoyable and also meaningful to me. See, during the first couple of weeks after my surgery, while I was basically stuck at home, Ann would take me along on her daily walks by sending me photos from her phone, promising that when I was able to do so, I could go along for real. And so I did. We saw deer, a turtle, fish, and people, some of whom had dogs. We spoke with some of the people and fed breadcrumbs to some of the fish. It was a pretty cool way to start out.

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Our next stop was the Rahr-West Art Museum, part of which is housed in a Queen Anne style Victorian mansion in Manitowoc. The mansion itself is cool to see and the museum has some interesting pieces, both inside and outside. The facility is owned by the City of Manitowoc and admission is free, although donations are gratefully accepted.

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Twenty or so years ago, whenever we were camping and boating over on Lake Winnebago, I would take my wife and kids over to Manitowoc and we always went to the big Wisconsin Maritime Museum down by the lakefront. Ann and I didn’t go into the museum, but we did enjoy a nice walk out back. I wanted her to see the USS Cobia, a World War II fleet submarine that had been built in Manitowoc. I had toured the Cobia a few times back in the day but would have had a difficult time passing through the hatches with one bad arm.

I also wanted to see if the Lake Michigan car ferry S.S. Badger was in port, but it wasn’t. We did walk past a pretty neat small ship called the Grande Mariner that was being fueled and “pumped out” by a couple of local tank trucks. I had never seen this vessel before, nor had I heard of its company, Blount Small Ship Adventures, so I made a point of Googling them after I got home. Apparently the Grande Mariner was doing its “Magical Lake Michigan” tour, a counterclockwise coastal journey that begins and ends in Chicago.

We walked along the Manitowoc River, where the Cobia is permanently docked, out to the Lake Michigan shore and onto a short concrete pier, part of the US Army Corps of Engineers Manitowoc Harbor Navigation Project. After all these years, I never seem to get tired of the sights, sounds, or smells of this or any of the great lakes. Ann took a few photos, while I took a photo or two of Ann taking photos. It’s almost an inside joke now.

Our last stop before reaching Green Bay was at the Trout Springs Winery in Greenleaf. What a delightful little place! The vineyard rows come right up to a small parking area in front of the main building. Free range chickens roam about the vineyard helping to keep the insect pest population in check. The tasting room is a friendly, inviting sort of place. Ann and I were greeted by a Welsh Corgi, who occasionally checked on us as we tasted several wines. We eventually selected an estate-grown wine called Rainbow Blush to enjoy in Green Bay that evening. Ann also picked up a Babordo Vino Nuovo port-style wine as a gift for one of her family members.

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We arrived at the hotel in Green Bay late Friday afternoon and as anticipated, did not see one motorcycle in the parking lot. We kept to the planned itinerary that evening and went up the road to Wertel’s Tap for their Friday fish fry. A classic family-owned bar/restaurant, Wertel’s was positively hopping when we arrived. There are a number of larger, more prominent restaurants near the hotel, just off the interstate, but this little cash-only establishment further up the road draws a substantial local crowd. And why not? The service is prompt and friendly, the food is wholesome and well-prepared, and they have ice-cold bottles of Spotted Cow, which Ann and I both enjoyed very much.

I had worn my prized Ralph Marlin designer Three Stooges button front shirt that day and it did not go unnoticed. While Ann and I were at the lakefront in Manitowoc, someone with a group of motorcyclists lounging on the lawn called out a halfway decent “woop-woop-woop” to us and then during supper at Wertel’s, a delightful older gentleman addressed me as a “fellow Stooge” and proceeded to describe his own extensive collection of Three Stooges memorabilia in detail. I couldn’t help but smile, both times.

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Ann and I met for the hotel’s “free” breakfast before heading out to tour Door County for the day. The AmericInn’s location, just off Interstate 43 and only a few miles south of Wisconsin 57, made it a perfect jumping off point and if I try putting this run together again next year, I would try to base the group out of this same hotel. It was clean, relatively up-to-date, and had a decent-sized indoor pool. The staff there is friendly and courteous, too.

Our first scheduled stop on the beautiful Door County peninsula was at Sturgeon Bay, the county seat and, I believe, its most industrialized community. Although this small city has a great deal to offer in and of itself, we were there to visit one fairly small park and then a much larger one. Both were worthy of our time. Ann and I got a little turned around looking for the Wisconsin Motorcycle Memorial Park but once we were there, we couldn’t help but linger. Established as “a place to recognize and honor the memories of friends and loved ones who are/were motorcycle enthusiasts,” this well-maintained park is at once solemn and lighthearted, if such a thing is possible. It’s also peaceful and beautiful. The “Walkway of Remembrance”, a path paved with tribute stones, is emotionally moving, not only for what it is but for the mementos left behind by friends and loved ones of those whose names are inscribed on the pavers.

The sculptures and furnishings, all donated, are also noteworthy. Some pieces made us smile or giggle, perhaps as reminders that this park was not intended to be a sad place. All of them held our attention for one reason or another. Ann and I approached an impressive metal sculpture of an eagle—created and donated by Art Weborg of Sister Bay—and realized that it had been changing direction with the breeze. As Ann was shooting some video footage of this, I noted an example of the real thing soaring high in the distance. It was a very cool moment.

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Over 25 years ago, my then-young family and I (along with some very close friends) visited Potawatomi State Park, on the shore of Sturgeon Bay just northwest of the city. While we were there, we climbed a 74-foot observation tower and were impressed by the view (and a brisk wind that had been blowing that day) once we had reached the top. Although I was younger then, I fancied the idea of climbing that tower again and showing Ann the spectacular views from the top. Imagine my disappointment upon finding that tower only to learn that it had been permanently closed due to “structural deterioration and safety concerns.” I couldn’t help but notice that some of the old wooden staircases seemed to be listing to one side or another. So there I stood at the foot of the old wooden structure, looking up toward the top, remembering how nothing of this earth is forever and suddenly feeling a bit structurally deteriorated myself. Ann consoled me and suggested that we continue our tour of the park, which still offers some wonderful views.

We traveled up the peninsula in a clockwise fashion, touring the more populated west coast along Wisconsin 42 before heading back down on the eastern side on Wisconsin 57. I won’t mention every town or every shop, but I will hit a few highlights for you. Predictably, some towns were rather crowded on this Labor Day holiday weekend, but most parts were quite tolerable. A case in point, Egg Harbor seemed to have more vehicular and pedestrian traffic than did most, but not enough to prevent us from stopping, shopping, and eating there.

We enjoyed lunch at a bar and restaurant called Casey’s BBQ & Smokehouse, which is well-rated across various internet and social media channels—and for good reason. You might not expect to find a decent barbecue joint in this part of Wisconsin, but we found one. Fancy? No. Popular? Seemingly so. Crowded? Not so bad, though we weren’t there during a peak meal time. All I can tell you is the smoked meats were nicely done, the waitress was friendly, the portions were quite generous for the money, and the service was prompt. They only had one barbecue sauce on the table, but it’s their own signature sauce, which has a pleasant if mild flavor to it.

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After lunch it was on to Fish Creek for a stop at Peninsula State Park, where  75-foot observation tower once stood. We learned from speaking with a helpful gentleman in a guard shack that this particular tower had been taken down two years ago. The good news, however, is that thanks to a fundraising effort, groundbreaking for a new tower was to take place in November. It’s too early to tell whether the same thing will happen at Potawatomi.

Still, Ann and I had a great time exploring the many views that this park has to offer. At 3,776 acres, this is Wisconsin’s third largest state park. It seems like a popular one as well.

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We encountered only one bad traffic clog during our entire day of touring and we encountered it twice, once each way: a gapers block in front of Al Johnson’s Swedish Restaurant in Sister Bay that stretched for blocks in either direction. The pedestrian traffic in Sister Bay was substantial, too. Understandably so, because it’s a nice touristy town. Just the same, we chose not to stop. And there is no simple way around that town, unless you know the side roads, because the main drag, which is Wisconsin 42,  leads on to the top of the peninsula and Wisconsin 57 also ties in there to take drivers south along the east coast. Something to be figured out before we go back, especially if we return with a group of motorcycles.

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We continued north on 42 as far as we could, stopping in Gills Rock to explore a couple of shops and admire the view. It was already late afternoon, so hopping the ferry to explore Washington Island was not an option this time. We knew in advance that this would probably be the case. Door County has a lot more than can be experienced in one day. Another consideration, should we decide to attempt another motorcycle rendezvous next year, is that it may be worthwhile staying until Monday. We’ll see.

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We made only one stop on our way down the peninsula’s eastern shore, mainly because we were running out of time, but that one stop was magical. Anclam Park is at the southern end of Baileys Harbor, a lovely, uncrowded community on the Lake Michigan shore. The last time my family and I visited Door County, we stayed at the Beachfront Inn in Baileys Harbor and absolutely loved it there. The inn is visible from Anclam Park and looking across at it brought back some fond memories of the days when my kids were still kids.

The lakefront was nearly perfect that afternoon and even though the park isn’t that large, Ann and I lingered there a while, enjoying the peaceful sights and sounds. Then we continued down Wisconsin 57 back to the hotel. Still pretty full from the big lunch we’d eaten at Casey’s, we opted to nibble on some snacks we’d picked up and drink one of the wines we bought at the Door Peninsula Winery earlier that day.

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On Sunday, September 2, Ann and I ate another free breakfast, checked out of our respective rooms, and headed for home. But we had time to kill before Karen was to pick me up in Kenosha, so we took our time and made a couple of cool stops, the first of which was Lambeau Field. This had been my suggestion, but I think Ann wanted to see a little of Green Bay before we left. Nothing was happening there that day, but there were people on the property walking around and taking photographs, just like us. It was kind of neat and much easier to get to than Soldier Field, down by me.

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Our next stop was at the Experimental Aircraft Association Museum in Oshkosh. This one was Ann’s idea and having never stopped there before, I was anxious to see this place about which I’d heard so much. It was cool! Lots of informative exhibits and their historic airplane collection is impressive, to say the least. As is the case with many places Ann and I had visited this weekend, we could have spent more time here than we did. I’m glad we stopped.

While we were walking the EAA grounds, Ann told me about a program called “Young Eagles” that was started in 1992 as a means of introducing young people to aviation. That sounded like a terrific idea to me and I wondered if a similar approach could be taken by the motorcycling community to get more young people interested in our hobby. For me, motorcycling has always been a sensory, experiential thing. I became a motorcycle fanatic as a small child, when I got my first motorcycle ride. There was something about the engine sounds and vibrations, as well as the way the motorcycle behaved as my older cousin worked through the gears and steered his bike through the neighborhood. All the multimedia endeavors in the world cannot take the place of taking a real motorcycle ride. There will be more to come on this subject, I’m sure.

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We left the EAA grounds just in time for lunch and as luck would have it, there is a Friar Tuck’s located very close by. I had been to their Fond du Lac location with my son a few years ago, based on a recommendation from Ann that I would like their burgers (she was correct). Her parents were fans of Friar Tuck’s and now, so am I. Their decor can best be described as dark and dated. Their food offerings are fresh, hearty, generously sized, and quite delicious. If you are ever in Oshkosh, Fond du Lac, or Manitowoc at lunch or supper time, give them a try.

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The only torrential rain we got all weekend long occurred less than five minutes after we stopped at Ann’s place to check on the cats, separate our respective purchases, and rest a while. Before long it was time for Ann to drive me to Kenosha, where Karen would meet us and take me home. Not counting business travel, my least favorite part of nearly every trip I’ve ever taken has been the end. Despite the rash of cancelations we had, this one was no exception. Sure, I had my limitations—I couldn’t even drive—but this had been my first road trip of any consequence since the accident. And with no small amount of help from Ann, it had gone very well.

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Week seven brought the same thing that the week following Labor Day always brings: the Sandwich Fair. Established in 1888, the Sandwich Fair is the oldest continuing county fair in Illinois and has been a D’Aversa family favorite for about 15 years now. It’s not even our county—this is DeKalb County’s fair and we live in Will County—but we love this fair and haven’t missed it in years. Karen and I have already established certain traditions. I must have a foot-long Pronto Pup as soon as possible after we arrive at the fair. Karen requires an ear of roasted corn. We usually get cream puffs and/or eclairs. We visit all of the commercial buildings. If it’s convenient, we take in a tractor pull or better yet, a demolition derby. And Karen must visit with the sheep.

You read right. Like any worthwhile county fair, the Sandwich Fair has a comprehensive collection of animal exhibits. A number of years ago, we were perusing the sheep barn when a large, healthy-looking sheep all but jumped out of its pen to greet Karen as she wheeled by. The two conversed for a while, I took photos, and then we moved on. Every year since then, Karen looks forward to hanging with the sheep at the Sandwich Fair. Some visits are more fruitful than others. This year four sheep wanted to visit with her, three of them from a single pen. Of those three, one attempted to eat Karen’s hat. Both Karen and the sheep seemed to enjoy the encounter immensely.

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At the beginning of week eight, I began driving myself to work. This was just one more baby step in a continual succession of small personal victories but to me, it was a milestone. If I could handle the 60-to-90-minute commute to and from work, I could handle longer drives, too—no more chauffering required.

At the end of week eight, with an estimated sixteen more weeks of recovery still ahead of me, my employer decided to sever our at-will employment agreement and abruptly did so. I will not say any more about this other than to confirm that what they did to me was legal and that I am no longer an employee of that company. How unfortunate for both of us.

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I am publishing this post on the eve of the 2018 autumnal equinox, the first day of fall. My summer that was so unexpectedly interrupted will also be over with. That suits me just fine. I’d rather look ahead than behind, anyway.

In the photo above, I am sitting on my motorcycle with my hands on the grips as they would normally be. When this photo was taken, my son had to help me lift the bike off its side stand and my left hand was extended as far forward as it could go, just to rest on that hand grip. Today I can stand the bike up myself, though not with equal effort by both hands, and I can turn those handlebars lock-to-lock. By all accounts, I am still two months away from actually riding the beast, but suffice it to say I have already been in training for that eventuality for eight weeks now.

What lies ahead? Hopefully a new and prosperous employment situation—one with at least as many challenges but none of the shortcomings—but that’s just one component of what lies ahead, one of many objectives. From the moment of my painful freak accident on the evening of July 4, 2018, I have had one end in mind: recovery. To me, that means gaining back as much of what I have lost as possible: physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, financially, socially, etc. Beyond a doubt, I have come a long way already. Yet there is still more to be done.

This has been a long post indeed. From the bottom of my heart, thanks for hanging with me.

My Summer Interrupted, Part II

Continued from My Summer Interrupted, Part I

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It had been a pleasant, relatively quiet Independence Day holiday for me. I had settled into my recliner for the evening, laptop in front of me, cool drink at my side. My intent had been to write a blog post about the two weekends I had spent riding to and from Rock Island, to see a couple of my son’s stage performances, and I was doing exactly that when someone in the neighborhood began setting off heavy mortar-type fireworks.

My wife ran to the sliding door to call our dog in. Leia, a high-spirited black Shepherd/Labrador mix, was afraid of fireworks and would not have been outside had we realized the neighborhood idiots were going to pull out the heavy artillery that early. Karen called several times and then stepped out onto the deck. She returned quickly, yelling out, “She’s not in the yard; she’s gone!”

Leia runs fast and jumps effortlessly. Once underway, she doesn’t really spring when she jumps; she merely raises her landing gear and soars over obstacles. At three years of age, she is still quite the puppy and she absolutely does not like fireworks. She had jumped our picket fence several times in the past, so as a precaution, we had installed some plastic “deer mesh” fencing several feet above our wooden fence. We would later find out that on this particular night, Leia had been so spooked, she flew right through the deer fence, leaving a large, gaping hole in one panel. But we hadn’t seen that yet and since my girl had never gone very far in the past, I went out after her without stopping to grab a leash.

Several minutes later, two of our neighbors were out combing the neighborhood in an effort to help me find my dog. Four or five blocks out, my neighbor Jim caught up with Leia along Joliet Road, a fairly busy street, and walked her toward me. Not having a leash, I took Leia by the collar and the three of us began walking toward home. We were with a block or two of arriving when my wife pulled up to the curb in her minivan. Recognizing the van at once, Leia veered toward Karen’s van and lunged with all her might, pulling me right off my feet.

What occurred next took all of a second or two. I pinwheeled toward the van for a couple or three yards before gravity took over. As Leia broke free of my grip and zipped around to the driver’s side of the van, where Karen had opened the door to let her in, both of my feet left the ground and went out behind me. An instant later I landed in bellyflop fashion, making full body contact with a concrete sidewalk. There is some speculation that I may have hit the side of Karen’s van with my left hand as I went down—she said it had sounded like something had hit the van hard and from her vantage point, she thought it might have been my head. I have no recollection of that. What I can recall are shock and pain. My torso had taken most of the impact on landing, or so I thought. The wind had been knocked out of me and I felt a wall of pain across my chest and stomach areas. My right elbow had taken a bit of a scrape and was bleeding. I felt no worse pain in my left arm than anywhere else. Yet.

“Do you need help getting up?” That was Jim, one of the nicest neighbors I’ve ever known. He had moved in to assist as needed and by that time, Karen was standing over me, too.

“I dunno, but let’s wait a minute before we find out.” I was still lying face-down on the sidewalk, trying to get my wind back and hoping the pain across my body would subside. My mind was not particularly clear. They stood by and let me wait a bit longer. Then I tried to get up.

The pain that fired through my left arm from shoulder to fingertips assured me that all was not right. I went loose again, lying prone on the concrete. “I can’t use my arm!”

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Jim helped me to my feet and got me over to the van. I vaguely recall he and Karen saying something about the emergency room. After thanking Jim profusely, and our other neighbor, Tony, who’d been covering the area by bicycle, Karen drove to our house only long enough to put Leia in the house, and then drove me to the Edward Emergency Department of Plainfield, a component of Edward-Elmhurst Health and the only ER in town.

The 4th of July must be one of the worst days to need emergency care. It must rank right up there with New Year’s Eve and Christmas. I’m sure the people working those days see some very interesting cases. I’m also sure they’d rather be elsewhere. I know I did.

Before I go any further, let me state for the record that every staff member I saw at the Edward facility that night seemed friendly, courteous, and professional. Let me also add that most of our past experiences there have been positive ones. It was only in hindsight that I saw a dreadful comedy of errors unfold—and I was playing the unfortunate straight man in that comedy. Without going deep into every detail, here are the low points of what happened.

  • When we arrived, I nearly passed out walking from the van to the doors. Karen went in to get help. They came out to talk to me but all I could tell them was that I couldn’t see, that everything was going black. They brought out a wheelchair and took me inside.
  • After some preliminaries, they took me for x-rays. There were two techs in the room, both very nice. In order to take the x-rays, I had to stand in front of some sort of panel. I did the best I could but the room started going dark again. As soon as they were done, they let me sit down and once the images were verified, they wheeled me back to where I had been before.
  • A doctor on staff came in and informed me that I had fractured my shoulder. They gave me some pain medicine, a sling and the phone number of an orthopaedic surgeon to call the next day, explaining that the specialist would determine whether or not surgery would be necessary. I asked about the pain med they’d given me, which hadn’t seemed to lessen the pain at all. The nurse suggested that I give it more time.
  • They wheeled me outside and Karen brought the van around. I almost blacked out a third time but got myself into the van. The pain meds still hadn’t done much for me. We went home and as I walked in, rather than blacking out, I was hit by a wave of nausea. Fortunately, it passed after I settled into my recliner, where I spent the night.

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As you read this, I want you to bear in mind that I had sustained a very painful injury, the extent of which had not yet been discovered or disclosed, and for which I had received no treatment other than x-rays, a sling, and a bottle of pills that weren’t anywhere near strong enough to take the edge off my pain. Anything that caused me to clench the muscles in that sector of my body set off a wave of pain strong enough to make me scream. I make no exaggeration here, I assure you.

  • The following day, Karen phoned the orthopaedic surgeon’s office and was told he wouldn’t see me because this guy is a foot and ankle specialist. I think it was at this point that we began to seriously question the “care” I’d received the previous evening. Karen called the ER back and left a message.
  • While this was transpiring, I contacted my new employer and explained the situation. I was supposed to be at work, but that was not possible due to the extent of my injuries, my inability to drive, and the narcotic-though-insufficient pain meds I was taking. I hadn’t been there long enough to earn paid time off or any benefits, for that matter. My only hope was to still have a job by the time this nightmare was over. My CEO was quick to allay my fears in that regard, which only increased my admiration for the man and for the organization he leads.
  • Karen then proceded to spend a few hours calling my primary care physician (closed) and a host of other offices, none of whom could schedule me to be seen timely. This includes the DuPage Medical Group, to which the foot and ankle specialist belonged. After spending substantial time on the phone with DuPage and getting nowhere, Karen declared them “useless” and vowed never to use them again if she has a choice.
  • I had taken to sharing my experience thus far on Facebook. I got lots of sympathy and a few well-meaning suggestions, but no outright help. That is until a friend of mine who works at Rush CopleyMedical Center in Aurora gave me the name of an orthopaedic group to call and the specific doctor for whom to ask. An insider recommendation!
  • Upon receiving the recommendation, Karen called Rush Castle Orthopaedics and requested an appointment with one Arif Saleem, MD, a shoulder specialist. Although the doctor himself was out of town—hey, 4th of July holiday—his assistant was willing and able to see me that very afternoon. Karen scheduled an appointment, hung up the phone, and just breathed for a while.
  • At some point, an Edward ER nurse called back insisting that the orthopaedic surgeon whose name they’d given me should still be willing to see me. Karen again relayed what she had been told. This was turning out to be anything but a fruitful conversation and I could feel my wife’s frustration building to a dangerous level, so I suggested she tell them we’d already found somebody else to see. She did so and that ended the conversation, but not my troubles.
  • Later that afternoon, the Physician Assistant saw me. She was friendly, professional, and by all indications, highly competent. Just one problem, she couldn’t tell much from the x-rays that had been taken at the ER the night before—yet another red flag concerning the treatment I’d received there, if you’ll pardon the exaggeration. So she ordered another set, which showed not just a fracture, but a severe one, involving a shoulder that was likely broken into “a number of pieces.” She wrote an order for a CT scan, which would be necessary to determine the best course of action, but added that surgery seemed quite likely.
  • At this point we obtained an appointment to see Dr. Saleem on Thursday, July 12, which would be eight days after my accident.
  • We couldn’t get the CT scan done that day, July 5, because it was late and because some front desk worker claimed they would need approval from my insurance provider—and that she had three days to accomplish that feat.
  • On Friday, July 6, the front desk called to inform us that no approval was necessary and we could schedule the CT scan. When Karen called back, the earliest appointment she could get at any location was on Sunday, July 8, four days after my injury had been sustained.

Four days had passed, so far. Again, any time I moved wrong or sneezed or the planets aligned a certain way, I involuntarily cried out in pain and then waited, sometimes for quite a while, for the pain to subside. This had become very disconcerting for my wife, my sisters, my friend Ann (herself a healthcare professional), and anybody else close enough to me to know what was really going down.

  • On Sunday, July 8, I went to Rush Copley Medical Center and had my CT scan. Then I went home. Everyone was very helpful, friendly and professional, but not one person gave me any indication that going four days without actual treatment of my injuries was the least bit out of the ordinary.
  • I repeatedly ran out of pain meds because prescriptions for opioids cannot be written for large quantities or to include refills. No skin off my banana except I was still experiencing substantial pain from my as-yet untreated injuries. I totally understood the need for strict controls but at that time I was not yet an addict in the making; I was just a guy who didn’t want to keep screaming in pain every time I upset the bag of jacks that was my left shoulder joint.
  • On Thursday, July 12, I met Dr. Saleem and instantly liked the man. He didn’t sugarcoat anything. I had sustained a severe compound fracture and surgery was indicated without question. Once in, his first option would be to try and repair the fractured head of my humerus, the “ball” of my shoulder joint. This seemed unlikely but was still his first option. Barring that, he would replace the joint. By approving both options, I allowed him to address my injury one way or the other. I would enter the OR as an outpatient. If he could save the shoulder, I would go home that day. If a replacement had to be performed, I would become a guest of Rush Copley Medical Center for a couple of days. Surgery was scheduled for Tuesday, July 17.

This, in a nutshell, is how Edward-Elmhurst Health allowed a patient to “get away” and end up being treated by Rush Copley, a hospital that doesn’t even serve Plainfield. On one hand, I’m gravely disappointed in the way my case was handled by the ER, from the insufficient x-ray images to the inappropriate surgeon referral, all of which prolonged the amount of time that passed between the day I sustained my injury and the day it was fixed. On the other hand, their actions allowed me to connect with a well-regarded shoulder specialist, thanks to a personal recommendation from a friend. So maybe I was better off.

By the time Tuesday, July 17 came around, I was ready to have that painful broken shoulder fixed one way or the other. My hope, of course, was that Dr. Saleem would go in and find a shoulder that could be repaired instead of replaced. When they wheeled me out of recovery and into an elevator instead of back to the prep room where I had started, I knew that wasn’t the case. As the nurse wheeled my bed out of the elevator and onto an upper floor, I said my first full sentence following surgery: “I take it I’m an inpatient now.”

To which the nurse calmly replied, “Yes, you’re an inpatient.”

My heart sank at the realization.

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To be continued…

My Summer Interrupted, Part I

On the evening of July 4. 2018, I sat down to write about what would have been one of my usual blog topics, but just a few paragraphs into it, a life-changing event occurred and I never went back to finish writing that post. Until now. At the risk of running really long, I’d like to start out with my original story and then roll right into what happened next.

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There just wasn’t enough time. That’s been the running theme for me since last May, when I accepted an offer for what may become the most meaningful job I’ve ever had. That’s not the subject of this post, but it shapes many aspects of the story. Without going into gross detail, I am the marketing director for a strong local/regional player in an industry that is all but entirely new to me. The hours are long and they’re bookended by a commute that I can only describe as horrendous. Because I’m essentially starting over, I have to earn my keep, prove my worth, earn my perks, etc. But I do love my job so and have deemed my latest employment situation to be worthy of my efforts and dedication.

My son John is back in Illinois! At the beginning of June, he rode his motorcycle from his three-year temporary home in Portland, Oregon to Rock Island, Illinois, where he was once again working for the Mississippi Bend Players, a professional regional theatre group at Augustana College. He came out last year to act in one of their productions and also served as a construction intern. This year he once again performed in one of their productions, a seven-time Tony Award winner called Big River. For those not familiar, it’s a musical based on Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. It was wonderful and I was there. Twice.

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Photo by Ann M. Fischler

I was able to attend two performances of Big River, each on a Saturday night, one week apart. Again because of my new work schedule, everything had been somewhat tentative, so the basic plan both times involved me getting home from work Saturday afternoon, hopping on my motorcycle, and high-tailing it to Rock Island in order to arrive in time for the show. My other family members had similar plans but went on different days according to their respective availabilities. Under the circumstances, this was the best we could do.

On the first weekend, I was joined by my dear friend and pillion photographer Ann, who had timed her arrival in Plainfield to coincide with my own arrival home from work. After a few pleasantries and preparations, we were zooming west on Interstate 80. My wife Karen had attended the opening night performance the prior evening and was heading east at the same time. We kept an eye out for each other and somewhere between Princeton and the Quad Cities, we exchanged waves, each of us doing 70 MPH for a combined effect of 140 MPH. It was a quick wave.

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We had a little more time on our way back the following day, so rather than stay on the Interstate again, we exited at Illinois 178 and enjoyed a little two-lane touring through Utica, Ottawa, and points beyond. This is a very picturesque pocket of north-central Illinois featuring curvy roads, wooded areas, a rolling river, and even a few interesting elevation changes. Many bikers and cagers alike favor this area, so we had plenty of company on this beautiful day. Still, we enjoyed this portion of the ride home very much.

The following weekend was similar but different. Once again, I hightailed it after work on Saturday, only with a different set of friends. We were attending the Saturday performance. My wife was bringing her 90-year-old mother in that afternoon to see the Sunday matinee the next day. This presented an excellent opportunity for all of us to gather for supper early Saturday evening at the Bierstube in Moline. My mother-in-law was the star of our party, but nobody thought to take pictures (just one more reason why I appreciate having Ann on board). Still, a good time was had by all. My friends and I thoroughly enjoyed the Saturday night performance of Big River. My wife, daughter, and mother-in-law did likewise on Sunday afternoon, much to the delight of my son, the thespian artist.

There is more, but we are quickly reaching the point at which my story got interrupted in a big way.

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To be continued…

God and the Salt

By Mark Schellhase (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons

By Mark Schellhase (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0


I had an unusual dream prior to waking up this morning and want to record it here before the entire dream fades from my memory. I am making no claims about the substance of this dream.

As my dream began, for reasons unknown to me, I found myself alongside God—or rather, I should say I discovered God beside me. Don’t ask me how I knew who it was. In dreams sometimes certain things are simply understood to be so. I was not in a particular place. In fact, to the best of my recollection, there were no surroundings at all, other than some sort of heavy white woven fabric laid out before me that seemed to flow from Him. We were side-by-side, as opposed to facing each other. Although I never looked directly at his face or saw his body, in this dream God seemed like a man, albeit a very large one who positively dwarfed me, like a grown man beside a young child.

And that’s exactly how I felt, like a small child. For the duration of this dream, I never said a word. Now that’s very unusual for me. Whether in a dream or awake, silence is not among my strong suits.  From my left side, God spoke to me in a soft, deep voice. There was no echo, no Cecil B. DeMille special effects. Here is how it went.

“People wonder why I don’t do more to help them.” He placed several large crystals on the cloth in front of me, although I never saw his hand.

“This is salt. Go ahead, pick one up.” I picked up a white crystal the size of a Brazil nut. “Look at it. Feel it. Hold it in your hand.” I did as I was told.

“Put it in your other hand.” I moved the crystal from my right hand to my left. “Now put it behind you and switch it back.” I obeyed, not really understanding the point of this exercise. It was sort of like playing Simon Says with the Almighty. He told me what to do and I did it. If only real life worked like this.

“See? It’s real. I put that there. The problem is, people don’t use what I give them” That’s when I understood. I turned to my left, grabbing fistfuls of the heavy woven fabric, and began to cry.

He said one last thing to me, with emphasis. “Pick up the salt.”

Then I woke up, wondering what I may have been ignoring or underutilizing and what salt had to do with it. I’m not often able to remember my dreams, so I guess the way this one stuck in my mind bothered me a little. I’m also not one for quoting Bible verses, but let me leave you with this one that popped into my head. As I said when I started, I make no claims.

“You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how shall its saltness be restored? It is no longer good for anything except to be thrown out and trodden under foot by men.”  (Matthew 5:13)

As always, thanks for hanging with me.

Ups and Downs – Part 2 of 3

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Continued from Ups and Downs – Part 1 of 3

The day after I returned from having the time of my life at the Midwest Motorcycle Rally, I was back at work, bright and early on a Monday morning. One day later, I and all of my colleagues received word that my employer of the past eight years was on the verge of permanently closing its doors. At the end of the week, that’s pretty much what happened. I will not pretend that we hadn’t seen it coming for the past five months or so, but neither will I speculate on how or why my “other family” met its demise—because speculation is all it would be and besides, I don’t enjoy conducting post mortem exercises. What I will do is share some of my own introspective thoughts on the matter, to give you a glimpse of what’s been going on between my own ears lately. Could be fun.

But yes, as I write this for you, I am now in transition. Between opportunities. Looking for my next big thing. Those are all clever euphemisms for being unemployed. How’s that for a down. And unlike getting fired, I can feel no bitterness toward any of my former coworkers or even the owners of the company because they are all in the same boat, unemployed. Oh, it sucks, believe me.

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But what’s done is done. I can’t even give you a hyperlink to the company’s website because it has been taken down. Back in 2013, I oversaw the total redevelopment of that website and had written a fair amount of content for its pages over the years. I also developed and delivered educational presentations on my company’s behalf at two national conferences of the Professional Retail Store Maintenance Association (PRSM). I helped bring a proprietary operating software system into being and wrote user documentation and training content for many of its components. My teams and I accomplished some tremendous things together over the years and I remain grateful for having been a part of that. What awesome opportunities I enjoyed during my tenure there! See? Ups and downs. Some of the ups were pretty awesome.

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I have only dealt with the Illinois Department of Employment Security (aka unemployment benefits and services) once before. That was in 2006 and things have changed a great deal since then. For one thing, most activity related to unemployment claims have been moved online. In theory, this makes everything run smoother and faster, unless your last name has an apostrophe in it and various government agencies have dealt with it in different ways. This confuses the online system, causing it to throw one red security flag after another. I tried to “find my way in” online, but that only convinced the system that I did not belong there. The system locked me out and provided a toll-free number to call for assistance, if you’ll pardon the exaggeration. After spending at least 45 minutes on the phone, including hold time, the frustrated gentleman on the other end of the line also became convinced that I was not going to get into their online system—this despite that I had been there without issue in 2006. I am only too grateful that a SWAT team didn’t descend upon my home to confiscate my offensive apostrophe. In the end, I went down to the IDES office in Joliet and got it taken care of. Sure, it took a little time and effort. In all candor, the folks at the office spent more time trying to figure out their own software system than resolving my issue, which they really did in short order. Sometimes human beings are superior to machines, especially when it comes to dealing with the dreaded apostrophe.

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I’m okay. In many ways, I’m stronger and better than I’ve ever been. Before we move on to Part Three of my Ups and Downs saga, let me share a bit of philosophy that a pretty cool Catholic priest once passed along to me: “When bad things happen, you can laugh or you can cry.” The implication of those words is that neither response is going to change what happened. What changes, fundamentally, is your response to what happened. This in turn shapes your perspective and your attitude.

Me, I prefer to laugh. Most if not all of my friends seem to appreciate that about me. I still fumble sometimes, but then I get back up, laugh about it, and move on.

Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.
― Viktor E. Frankl

Thanks for hanging with me. As I indicated in Part One, there is more to this story, so please stick around.