Homage to Dick Feagler

"Did you hear Feagler's retiring?" asked Dan.

"Nah, the paper pulled his column," said Matt with certainty. "He's not relevant to these kids any more. Besides, who reads a newspaper anyway."

"Well I still read it," said Jeff. "At least the 'education' section. Stuff like box scores and high school football standings. And, ya know, it's a whole lot easier to hold a newspaper than the internet when you're sittin' on the throne."

"Unless you're usin' one of them Crackberries," said Dan.

The boys were assembled for the weekly gathering of old farts at the coffee shop, just like they had done for years.

Not some greasy spoon diner, though. This place was a real, honest-to-goodness coffee shop. A place that served good, strong coffee. Over on Superior a couple doors up from the T-shirt business. Locally owned, too, not some fancy-schmanzy foo-foo Seattle-based chain.

"I used to read the paper a lot too," mused Matt, "until they started dumbing it down for the lowest common denominator. I'm not gonna waste my time with it for some touchy-feely feature story plastered all over page one to appeal to the 'Dancing With the Stars' mentality."

"Or that PDQ crap," Jeff said with disdain as he swallowed a bite of his blueberry muffin.

"My mom used to read him," said Dan.

"Who?" blurted Matt and Jeff nearly simultaneously.

"Feagler!"

"Oh, yeah, we were talking about him," Jeff said.

"As a kid, our family took the Press, not the PD," Dan said. "Dad was a carpenter. Blue-collar guy. Liked the Press because it came out in the afternoon. Felt the news was newer than if he took a morning paper that sat around the house all day while he worked."

"Afternoon papers. You just don't see those any more," Matt said, taking a sip from his latte.

"Yeah, they're an anachronism these days," opined Jeff. "Hardly any left in this country."

"Anyway," said Dan, "I remember my mom talking about Feagler probably thirty, thirty-five years ago. She'd read his column all the time. Liked his take on the world. Usually she agreed with him, which is more than you can say about some of his readers.

"Like any kid, I worshipped my mom, so I started reading Feagler too. Then I moved away to college, got a job, started a family, moved around some more, and finally moved back to Cleveland. Lo and behold, what do I find? Feagler's still here!

"So I start reading him again," Dan continued. "Curmudgeonly old Feagler. Still taking shots at corrupt county officials. The Brownies. This town's inferiority complex."

"You know, he was on to more than his Aunt Ida and the gang at the coffee shop," Matt said. "He was one of the first guys to come out against the war, back when most people still thought Dubya and Dick and Rummy were on the right track. Mission accomplished. What bull!"

"Don't forget Obama, either," said Jeff. "Feagler saw the need for change and called it like he saw it. Boy, did the neocons jump all over him for that!"

"My mom's been gone thirteen years now, but if she was still here, she'd still like what he has to say," said Dan. "With him leavin' the paper, who's gonna write for us now?"

"Yeah, who's gonna write for us?"

Stories of Jefferson

Dad was in a very good mood today, fairly alert and together compared to last Friday's visit. He told me stories today of his boyhood in Jefferson, WI.

His parents' house on the corner of North and Park streets in Jefferson was next door to his grandparents. One house farther down was his Uncle John. In the other direction, a couple houses away, was the back parking lot of St. John the Baptist Catholic Church, his family's parish.

The pastor at one time was Father Singer (or Zinger), whom Dad describes as being quite an athlete. Dad said Father Singer would regularly come out and play football with the boys in the parking lot.

When winter came, Dad said he convinced Father Singer to let him build an ice rink in the parking lot. They flooded part of the lot so the parish kids could spend their winter days joyfully skating.

Dad also said that, at another time, there was a stern pastor named Father Krick whom the children feared. Speaking from what appeared to be personal experience, Dad said any child who misbehaved in school would be sent to the rectory, where Father Krick would twist and pull the errant child's ear. (In those days, too, the kids usually got a double-whammy: When they'd get home from school and tell their parents about the punishment, the parents often would punish the kids again!)

Nickles was the name of the dog Dad had when he was a boy, something I had heard frequently in my own youth. Today he mentioned something new, though. Apparently the neighbors' dog was named Penny, which Dad found very amusing.

When his own father was a boy, Dad said, he played with local Indian boys. They called my grandfather "Yo" and rode ponies together. Dad said the Indians lived on a hill north of Jefferson.

My grandafather was born in July 1881, just three weeks after President James Garfield had been shot (but before Garfield died). It's hard to imagine that so few generations separate my grandfather--riding ponies with Indian boys in pioneer Wisconsin--and my own son, who has already traveled a good part of the world.

Anyway, it was good to see Dad in such good spirits today. Even though he was apologizing constantly for not being able to remember who had visited him recently, it's nice that he still has strong memories of his childhood, which I'm inspired to capture while he's still with us.

Viliya: Slovak Christmas Eve Supper

A few weeks ago, I saw an announcement that the monks of St. Andrew Abbey were hosting a "Viliya," or Slovak Christmas Eve Supper, yesterday at Benedictine High School. Several years ago, while Ben was still young, our family had been to the event, so Kathie and I talked about it and decided to attend.

Following a noon Mass in the abbey church, the congregation gathered in the Benedictine cafeteria for the meal. Knowing no one, Kathie and I ended up sitting with a friendly family of cousins. They had remembered such meals when their grandmother was alive and made plans to relive those days.

The abbott and the assistant principal of the high school acted as hosts, leading the group in prayer and song. Beginning with Oplatky wafers dipped in honey and accompanied by a glass of sweet red wine, our meal consisted of about a dozen dishes, each one with defined meaning in the Slovak tradition. The first course was cabbage soup, somewhat bland, but tasty nonetheless.

Fresh fruit and nuts were on the table and eaten after the soup was finished, then everyone filed through the cafeteria line for the main course. Breaded fish was served with bobalki (delicious pieces of baked dough, similar to marble-sized bits of dinner rolls, tossed in a sweet poppyseed sauce), peas and pirohi (two potato and one prune). For dessert, each person got slices of nut and poppyseed rolls.

Despite being surrounded by strangers, I felt a great sense of comfort and familiarity with the surroundings, the laughter and the wholesome goodness of the meal. Dinner conversation with our tablemates centered on our families--mostly grandmothers and mothers--church and roots. I thought a lot about my parents, grandparents, siblings and other relatives, many of whom aren't able to join us any more.

My hope this Christmas season is to prolong the good feelings and memories of family, sharing them with Kathie and Ben, my siblings and cousins. Through our family get-togethers, we can maintain the old traditions learned from our parents and grandparents, perhaps experiment with making some of the old dishes, and ensure our heritage gets passed along.

Vesele Vianoce! Merry Christmas!

Starting to fade

Today was the first day my dad didn't recognize me when I visited him at the Alzheimer's home. As I entered his room, I found him sitting on the side of the bed, head down. He appeared to be either asleep or deep in thought.

"Hi, Pops!" I said, causing him to look up and see me.

"Who's that?" he asked.

"It's me...Joe" I replied.

"Oh, I wasn't sure who you were," he said. "My mind is so mixed up and I guess I was thinking about something else when you came in."

After that, we had a nice conversation, but I noticed that I had to put a lot more things into context for him. For example, when I told him that Evelyn, my mother-in-law, had spent Thanksgiving with us, I had to remind him who she was and where she lived. Then he was able to put two and two together.

Even though I had just been to see him on Monday, he didn't seem to have any recollection of my last visit, the holiday last week or anything in the recent past. When I told him I had spoken to his sister Dorothy and brother-in-law Carl, he appeared happy to hear the latest about them.

One very positive note is that he has gotten accustomed to the facility he's at, stating that he likes it there. That's a major change since last month, when he was begging my brother Jeff and me to get him out of there. It's now become familiar to him, so his resistance to it has diminished.