2018 Christmas Letter

Time of my life

This is how I know I am an old fart:

• I audibly grumble when reading the newspaper. Although easy to explain in these grim times, I also catch myself harrumphing at restaurant reviews, gardening tips, and heartwarming features about children.
• I read the newspaper.
• I have three birdfeeders which bring me great joy and diversion.
• I have exhausted my supply of stories. Nina regularly stops me mid-yarn, rolls her eyes, and (with contempt) finishes the anecdote for me.
• I have a favorite pair of slippers.
• I freely offer driving directions to friends and family including tips on where to find the best deals on gas along the route.
• I had a legitimate Orbach Moment when Peter called to ask how to fire-up the propane heater I lent him. He spoke of valves, burner heads, and reverse threaded fittings. It was like watching Baby nail the jump.
• Among my many activities, I categorize a certain portion of my goings-on as Garage Time.
• In addition to a rotary nose and ear hair trimmer, I have a yardstick onto which I duct taped a disposable razor that I use to shave my back.

How they roll in Minnesota.

• I have aligned myself with a particular brand of applesauce, forsaking all others.
• I have a solution for everything and am quick to tell you.
• I drove around town with Ann Marie the other night judging homeowners on the effort and creativity that they put into their Christmas light displays. Note that I phoned it in at The Kingman with just a wreath and single string of LEDs.
• In the last calendar year alone, I have been requested on three separate occasions to produce my tasty meatballs for various social functions.
• I harbor a deep seeded resentment for the specter of self-driving, electric cars. I believe there is no way the decent, clean-living people of Iowa will give up their pick-ups in favor of a crowd-based shitshow of A.I. controlled econo-boxes designed by a bunch of weak, elitist hipsters in Mountain View, CA (I went a little Red State there, sorry).
• I am unable to fully embrace, understand, or support Social Media.

And this is just the short list…

The State of The Kingman is strong: Nina is in the home-stretch, set to graduate with a Bio-Medical Engineering degree from the University of Iowa in May. Peter is 9-feet tall, deep into a second year of science and engineering courses at Iowa State. Between traveling the globe and advocating for excellence in higher education, Ann Marie still carves out time to commiserate with me. As for myself: (What’s So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love, and Understanding (further evidence of my Old Fart status).

Merry Christmas. Be well.

(Nick Lowe's lyrics)

2017 Christmas Letter

Radio Daze

Living in the shadow of Iowa State University, it’s easy to forget that Ames is largely different than the rest of the state, or even the country. Granted, there may be more feed stores than coffee shops here, but even the feed stores are a little high-brow. We have suburbs, sort of. To a degree, Ames is hipster friendly: Asian grocery stores, microbreweries, co-ops, and community radio. And scattered among the old, beautiful Protestant churches downtown are six or eight tattoo parlors. This is College Town, USA, and when viewed from the right perspective, it could pass for Madison, Athens, or even Tucson (only with more corn).

So how to explain that Iowa went red a year ago?

The difference between Ames and the rest of America was made clear recently when I was driving West on I-80 not far from The Kingman. I was in the portion of central Iowa where NPR drops out completely— the center of the void between Des Moines and Omaha. Here, low on the FM frequency I tuned into a local broadcast: After the school lunch menu was revealed (tuna sandwich and potato soup), the DJ played a recording of The Pledge of Allegiance recited by overly enthusiastic school children. As if this did not inspire enough liberty and justice for all, the announcer then doubled down with Lee Greenwood singing the pledge and featuring spoken word overdubs clipped from Ronald Reagan speeches. Patriotism was oozing from my speakers and onto the vinyl floor mats.

This daily act of devotion was followed by a full hour of polka. Remember, this is Steve King country. [For those non-Iowans: Steve King serves as a member of the United States House of Representatives from Iowa's 4th congressional district, which includes Ames. If you boiled Donald J. Trump into a concentrated mass of hate, ignorance, and greed, then added an equal mass of malignant ideology, you would have just created Steve King. This is a scientific fact.]

That was just the beginning of my road trip. I was going all the way West and traveling light. No thermos and wearing only sandals with no back-up footwear. My single comfort was a standard General Motors radio with no CD player, no Bluetooth connectivity, and no audio input jack. Like Thoreau, my intent was to live deliberately. It would be like the olden times, relying solely on truck stop coffee and local radio. Real Oregon Trail shit.

I had digested 1,232 miles of red state radio and was holding up nicely until Twin Falls, Idaho. The musical programming was top notch but the commercials became repetitive, notably a spot for “Peterson Family Farms Fall Festival.” Among other on-site attractions such as hay rides, Bible stories, and a giant corn maze, the announcer also promised a “live ammo shooting range for the young and old.”

Drinking cider, talking God, and shooting guns. Bring the kids. Steve King approved! Actually, I am sure the whole thing was very nice.

Back at home, the population of The Kingman has continued to decline, it’s just me and Ann Marie now. Peter moved across the tracks and enrolled at Iowa State in Materials Science Engineering. He took most of the furniture, all the Tupperware, and the Big TV with him. The house looked like a crime scene when he left. Nina is still hunkered down at the University of Iowa and killing it. Aside from hemorrhaging cash, the kids are alright.

We are thankful and wish you a Merry Christmas.

2016 Christmas Letter

Root Causes

My personal relationship with Jesus has always been tenuous at best. Although I fault no particular individual or organization, I am approaching that station in life where I am trying to more closely determine “why things are the way they are.” Aside from my shaky affiliation with Jesus, I have other ponderables: How can Pete simultaneously respect Johnny Cash and Chance the Rapper? What series of events occurred so that Nina can de-bone a whole chicken but is unable to find her way out of a parking garage? Why does Ann Marie reorganize the bean and soup shelf in the pantry every Sunday, only for me to put everything back in the correct location on Tuesday? Body wash? Trump? Currently, the big questions are in abundance. So, of course, I have been on the case seeking the Root Cause of All Things.

Just in time for Christmas, I have arrived at a somewhat nebulous conclusion on the Root Cause of my Jesus Thing. My middling childhood years was dominated by a devotion to motorcycles and Evel Knievel. My bedroom walls were adorned on one side by two giant, red white, and blue Evel Knievel posters. One, a handsome portrait of the man in full leathers and billowing cape; the other a long shot of Evel executing an awesome wheelie on his Harley down an airport runway. On the other side of my room was proudly tacked an 11 x 17 photo-realistic print of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, an artifact earned upon my First Communion. It looked like a photo from the mall: Glamour Shot Jesus, or a senior picture he might later regret. It was the 70s, man.

The iconographic commingling of Jesus and Evel, two somewhat opposing images, yet equally popular, caused a great deal of confusion in my pre-adolescent mind. Jesus’ eyes would follow me wherever I moved to in the room. Perhaps by design his gaze was inescapable. And it sort of freaked me out. At night, due to the shiny emulsion on the surface of the print, even the faintest light, a passing car or waning moon, would illuminate his eyes. Jesus was watching.

Meanwhile, Evel was simply gassing it down the airstrip, rocking his cape, looking to the future, and maybe a few more busses to jump. The cheap, matte finish on the motorcycle posters turned to black at night. Evel never judged.

I don’t fault Photo-realistic Jesus for making me a little skittish. Maybe that particular picture was just a little too heavy for my 10-year-old brain. And other than an occasional whiff of nostalgia, I currently don’t have much to say about Evel other than he was definitely an asshole.

And so it goes… perhaps the Root Cause of All Things is not what we are taught but, rather, what we imagine. And I give thanks.

Merry Christmas.

2015 Christmas Letter

ECF

Please give me break. I know that I have neglected the Christmas letter the past few seasons. But here is the deal: I have been hunting elk instead. You see, for the past 60 years, my dad and his cronies trek to some remote corner of eastern Oregon during hunting season. They have been at this a while and their camp is epic. No comfort is spared: Enormous canvas tents are erected; wood stoves are leveled and lit; generators power lights, microwaves, and laptops; days are spent falling trees and making wood; and a lovely open air shit box is strategically placed in a nearby clearing (This is exactly what it sounds like and is a recent upgrade. Up until 1995 they would just randomly designate a downed tree nearby the compound and designate it the “shit log”).

So I have found myself out there the last few seasons and the general take-away is this, Elk Hunting is a misnomer. The practice should be referred to, simply, as Farting. As a well-adjusted adult person, a husband, father, and regular voter, I have no choice but to comment on the pervasive farting.  When at camp, these men have no boundaries and no shame. Furthermore, Elk Camp Farting is an entire magnitude of order more obscene than what takes place in the regular world. If farting were accounted for like temperature, ECF would be measured on the Kelvin scale.

Here are some highlights:

• A group of men stood talking about important recent world events. Many had differing points of view but the men were respectful to one another. As one was making a heartfelt but somewhat lengthy point about his disappointment with the current President of the United States, he let one go. It was really long. Maybe 15 seconds or more. Lots of tonal quality and a crisp finish. Throughout this gastric feat, he never broke from his monologue or showed any non-verbal cue of what was taking place south of the border. To my further astonishment, no one in the group batted an eye or made comment. It was like it did not happen. 
• Breakfast usually happens around 4:00 a.m. (which is delightful). When the food is blackened enough to serve, whoever is cooking goes around the table and scrapes a portion of the meat, eggs, and potatoes onto everybody’s plate. Then this happens: While serving food, the cook’s backside was positioned next to the guy he had just served. It was loud and extremely vulgar. His face was just inches away from the source. Hair was blown back. And yet he just sat quietly, chomping away in silence. Then somebody said, “Pass the fucking butter.”

These are stalwart men and have provided me with treasured memories.

We are down one at The Kingman now since Nina went off to college. Ann Marie and I never see Pete anymore; he might be invisible for all we know. But we continually find enough evidence that he is still nearby and surviving: Balled up socks in the couch, empty milk jugs in the sink, data alerts from Verizon. It is like having the place to ourselves.

Merry Christmas have a great New Year.

2011 Christmas Letter

Occupy Kingman


The poorly executed protest ended ugly. Ann Marie insists that use of pepper spray was not necessary. And though I agree that the use of this agent was cruel and inhumane, it totally worked.

Inklings of the uprising started in October as Nina and Peter began to organize. Lists of grievances were compiled and shared electronically. Ideas were fermenting. By November a plan was hatched and the Occupy Kingman was in full swing as Thanksgiving rolled around. The children had set up a squatter camp in the basement. The protest was on.

At first, we were proud to see the kids expressing themselves and engaging in social activism. It appeared to be a decent and thoughtful exercise of democracy in our own home. We considered the whole deal a wholesome and educational family experience. The protest signs and marches were modest and cute. After all, it was just the two of them. We thought it would end by Monday.

But it did not end and quickly became an annoyance. Security became an issue, the children were continually looting the pantry. In-fighting began, the camp became split as the kids could not agree on what the movement meant. Peter camo-painted his face and demanded to be called Enforcer. Nina stopped washing or combing her hair and would pace around the camp reciting passages from the Constitution. We found that it is impossible to sleep with a drum circle in your bedroom. The makeshift sewer they hastily constructed in the garden and the open fire in the living room also had us concerned.

The messages coming from the Occupy Kingman camp were increasingly disturbing:

“We are entitled to every handheld electronic device and gaming system we desire… I will be unable to move from the couch without at least one hour prior notice… As part of my Basic Human Liberties I refuse to ingest store brand cereal…. As parents, agree that it is your fault if I fail to study or am late to school… No, I do not need a coat. Never ask me again. Ever… You must heat the house to a comfortable level.”

I could sort of see their point on the furnace issue.

Not surprisingly the Occupy Kingman movement eventually became violent. Despite what Ann Marie says I still insist that they initiated the aggression. And because I have chosen to take the high road in this matter, I refuse to list the countless acts of heinousness that were directed towards me, the trips to the emergency room, the bruises— the tears. It is enough to say that the time had come to end this thing. I pulled on my jack boots, raised my riot shield and went at the kids with the pepper spray.

Things are great here.