Category: Stories

Animal Shelters, Connection, Courage, Dogs, Events, Faith, Gratitude, Grief, Horses, Identification, Love, Pets, Prayer, Quotes, Relationships, Spirituality, Stories, Thoughts From the Porch, Writing

Dogs, Horses, and Maddie

gregoryjoel

I went to the farm Sunday afternoon to water the newly seeded beds. It may have rained a lot of last week, but new seedlings require consistent water to germinate well. Besides, I like Sunday afternoons. I enjoy the solitude of the day. It’s quiet except for the occasional bicyclists whizzing down the Trinity Trail, encouraging each other as they ride past.

I noticed a grey compact car parked toward the back of the empty lot in front of our barn. It’s not unusual for people to park in the vacant lot and walk down to fish or walk the trails so I paid it no mind. I drove down to dump compost before returning to open the barn and getting the generator out. As I unlocked the barn, I caught a glimpse of an older man sitting in the grass next to the tree in the vacant lot. He grabbed my attention because he didn’t look like most of the folks going fishing or the homeless people that frequent this part of Sylvania Street and the Trinity Trail. He was dressed in a sport shirt and jeans, his hair neatly combed, and gave off a fatherly aura, if there is such a thing.

It was then I noticed who he was talking to. It was a beautiful black and brown German Shepherd. I looked back at the barn door quickly as if my eyes had intruded on a very important and precious moment. I don’t know anything about that man or his dog, but I do know about something about men and their dogs (no offense to my wife or all the other female dog lovers). There was something deeply personal and tender about what I had seen. There was a sense of sadness in the picture. It was as if he were saying goodbye to an old friend. Could it be that he was spending his last day with his faithful friend? I have no reason to know this was the case except for the feeling in my gut. A tear blurred my vision as I opened the door and stepped into the barn.

I hurriedly loaded my truck with the generator and some tools and left as quietly and as quickly as I could. I went about my chores but couldn’t shake the image I had just witnessed.

I’ve always had a special relationship with all the dogs who have graced my life. I’m convinced that the world needs more dogs (and horses but that’s another story…) and less people. It’s no surprise to me that dog is simply “god” spelled backwards. They share the unconditional love quality of the Creator. I needed to be around such unconditional love more than ever. That’s when Maddie, and a couple of months later Missy, came to live with me.

Maddie was half Dachshund and half German Shepherd. I’m not sure which one was the father, but I’m convinced it was not the Dachshund. I can’t figure how that would’ve worked if it was. She looked like a Dachshund with a semi-German Shepherd head. My first thought was that she was so ugly she was cute. That changed soon enough.

 Maddie was eleven years old when she came into my life. Her owner had lived at Samaritan House, a transitional housing place for homeless folks with HIV/AIDS, and been the caretaker for the house dog, Maddie. The two became inseparable. When her owner moved into her own place Maddie went with her. Unfortunately, her owner passed the same year I found myself at Samaritan House and getting clean from too many years of addiction.

Her owner’s sister brought Maddie back to Samaritan House because the only other alternative for her was the shelter. I volunteered to keep her, and we bonded immediately. She became my dog.

Three months later Missy came into our home. I was doing some landscape work for a friend. She had two dogs: one a Boston Terrier and the other a Sheltie named Missy. She had taken Missy in from a breeder and then discovered she was incredibly allergic to Missy’s long hair. She asked if I would like to take her. I said yes without hesitation even though I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to have her in my little apartment. Moreover, I wasn’t sure how it would work with Maddie. I’d figure it out. When my friend said her good-byes to Missy, I opened my truck door and Missy jumped in. She never looked back.

I finally moved from Samaritan House to my very own place. It didn’t have a fence, but I didn’t have to worry about the dogs. Missy kept Maddie safe and would always herd Maddie back to the house when she wandered off. She got along well with Maddie, but Maddie made sure everyone knew she was the alpha in our little pack. Maddie would stand at the food bowls, while Missy waited patiently for Maddie to finish eating. Maddie would empty her bowl, walk over to Missy’s bowl, and lick the top and sides of the food bowl just to show she could.  She wouldn’t eat any mind you, but she made it quite clear who was in charge. When bedtime came Maddie slept by my head and Missy slept at my feet.

Maddie was eleven years old when she came to live with me. I knew when I took her in that I may not have her long. Despite the tendency of Dachshunds and Shepherds to have hip and back issues as they age, Maddie never had those problems.  She may have slowed a bit, but she was full of energy, bringing joy and love to my home.

\When I moved in with my “adopted brother” Craig a couple of years later, she wormed her way into his heart. The dogs who would “have to stay outside” still slept with me and often took on the role of service dog to Craig. He had severe diabetes and both Missy and Maddie warned me when his blood sugar dropped too low. He often told me how special they were to him.

It was 2011 and the morning was unusually hot and humid for the early Spring. I began my morning ritual of letting the dogs outside and making the morning coffee. Missy bound out the back door, but Maddie stayed in her bed. She had given up sleeping with me a few weeks earlier. She could no longer jump up on the bed and preferred her little mattress on the floor next to me. She had been sleeping more than usual, but at the ripe old age of sixteen she was entitled to take her time waking up.

I finished my morning ritual and headed off to work. Missy was at the door when I returned. She was running back and forth to my bedroom, baking for me to follow. Maddie was still in her bed. I reached down to love on her when I noticed she had messed on herself. I gently picked her up, cleaned her off, and placed her on the bed next to me. Missy sat at attention with a concerned look on her face. Maddie hadn’t eaten in a couple of days and now she even refused the dog treat I offered her. I knew it was her time. I began to sob uncontrollably, hugging my sweet Maddie as she laid her head in my lap.

I agonized over the decision I knew I had to make. Maybe she had caught a bug, or it was something she ate and she’ll be better in the morning. I knew it was simply wishful thinking. She had lived a long full life, loving those of us who God put in her path – at Samaritan House, with her caretaker, and with me. She was a rescue dog who really the rescuer. I had been given time with her I never expected and now couldn’t think of life without Maddie. Even Missy could sense that the end was near and come over to love on Maddie and I.

I didn’t sleep much that night. I checked on Maddie frequently through the night to make sure she was comfortable. When morning came, I told Craig what I had to do. He sat down with me in our morning coffee spot – his garage wood shop – and asked if he could pray for us. We prayed together; both choking back the tears. He shared my pain and knew he couldn’t fix the problem. He could be there for me. I’ve been blessed by the people God has put in my life as well. That point isn’t lost on me.

I got showered and dressed slowly. Every moment felt like a weight keeping me down and struggling to just “be”. I wrapped a blanket around Maddie and gently picked her up. Missy followed us to the truck and stopped short. She knew that it would only be Maddie and I leaving today. I think she knew that only I would be returning.

I drove to the Humane Society shelter – the same one Maddie had come from all those years ago – and explained our situation to the receptionist. I couldn’t afford a veterinarian, but I couldn’t let Maddie suffer any longer. She was so kind and said to simply donate what I could at another time. She called the veterinary tech while I left to bring Maddie from the truck.

We went to a private room behind the office. There the tech explained to me what he was going to be doing, that Maddie would simply go to sleep, and asked if I wanted to stay with Maddie. There was no question. I had to be there to love her until the end. He then brought out the syringe and administered the shot. “It might take a few minutes”, he said, “because her metabolism has slowed so much.” I wasn’t sure if it was good or bad. I didn’t want to leave Maddie, but I felt myself breaking down. Maddie’s breath began to slow. She looked at me one last time as I held her.

Maddie took her last breath and died in my arms. The tech said to take as much time as I needed. The receptionist brought me a note, thanking Maddie for her years of service to the HIV community and with it a note about the Rainbow Bridge:

“Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together….”

Author unknown…

I don’t know if the man I saw was going through these same feelings or the same situation. What I do know is that whatever he was going through his faithful companion would be there until the end. That’s what dogs do.

One of my favorite author, Brennan Manning, tells a story of watching a dog being dumped on the side of the road. As the car sped off, the dog ran down the road chasing the car, pursuing his owner with all his might even though he was rejected and abandoned. God is like that with us. Regardless of how much we have rejected and abandoned Him he pursues us with His unwavering love and forgiveness, wanting to be with us every no matter what.

I guess that’s why Dog is God spelled backwards…

Bad Weather, Children, Christmas, Events, Generations, Gratitude, Parents, Relationships, Stories, Storms, Storytelling

Christmas Stockings

gregoryjoel

I don’t know how long it took to get to Swedish Medical Center. I’d never been there before but I knew that on a normal day it was only six or seven minutes from the house. This Christmas Eve night it took hours. It didn’t, but it sure felt like it.

Our arrival turned into a blur though – out of the car with the paramedics grabbing Jennine to steady her across the snow and ice then through the ambulance bay doors and me holding a bundled-up Adrian in one arm and Jennine’s go bag and a diaper bag in the other. Suddenly we were in Labor and Delivery.

I vaguely remember the flurry of activity around Jennine as they got her settled into the labor room. A nurse said something about the labor pains coming much quicker and telling us that it shouldn’t be long now. Someone popped their head in to tell me that my Mom and Dad had a friend bringing them to the hospital in his four-wheel drive. Adrian could stay with them for the night. One problem solved anyway…

The doctor entered the room. Keep in mind that this doctor was a total stranger in a hospital we’d never been to before. He grabbed one of the labor room nurses and asked for an update, never looking or speaking to Jennine or me. That was already two strikes against him. When he groaned and walked back out of the labor room it was strike three. Jennine grabbed my hand and cried out, “Who is this guy? I don’t like him. I want my doctor. It’s all your fault we’re here”.

“It’s going to be okay. I’ll find out what’s going on”. I was a little perturbed to be assigned all the blame for the whole situation. I was pretty damned sure she was present when this whole thing started. After all, it takes two to make this process work. I didn’t ask for the blizzard either.

“Stay here, she barked about the time the latest contraction came on full force. I was thinking no problem as my hand she was gripping went numb. I wasn’t going anywhere.

The nurses finally got Jennine settled in. The monitors were all hooked up and the initial examination was over. The contractions were only three or four minutes apart and our nurse informed us she was almost fully dilated. She was a Godsend. She seemed to be the only one taking the time to pay attention to us. I wish I could remember her name. Back then I would’ve sent her a bottle of twelve-year old scotch and a thank you note.

We had been through La Maze birth classes before Adrian was born and had a refresher course back in October. We had wanted a natural childbirth – at least that’s what I reminded Jennine every time she hollered for drugs as her labor became more intense. I tried to be a calming voice of reason and help her with breathing through the contractions. Apparently, a calming voice of reason wasn’t needed nor appreciated in this situation. They finally came in to do an epidural block.

Our nurse came in and, sensing the tension, she let me know I needed to go downstairs with Adrian; that my parents were almost here. How she knew that I’m not sure as cell phones were still science fiction in 1982. She also mentioned that the doctor had been here since the night before because of the storm. “She’s in good hands.” I thanked her, grabbed Adrian, his diaper bag, and headed downstairs.

I vaguely remember giving Adrian to my mother, hugging my parents – who I hadn’t seen since they got to town – and thanking our friend Mark for getting them here and back home with my son. All I could think of was getting back upstairs. I stayed in the lobby long enough to watch them all drive off into the falling snow and ran for the elevator.

I returned to the labor room and the nurse informed me I better “gown -up”. They were taking her to the delivery room right away. We had been there maybe an hour or so. I said a silent prayer of gratitude for the guy who volunteered his Jeep, the paramedics, nurses, and even the doctor Jennine didn’t like. The time it would have taken an ambulance to arrive would have meant a home delivery. I’d like to think I could’ve done it, but I was so glad I didn’t have to find out. It was going to be okay.

Sometimes I regret not being able to remember all the details of our time in the delivery room. It went so quickly, for which I was appreciative. Jennine had the hard work, but it’s hard to see your wife in pain. The only thing I remember is the doctor saying,” It’s a healthy baby boy”. The nurse took him and cleaned him up. I’m sure they went through all the post-birth baby and mother checklist before he announced, “Here’s your son”.

The one thing I remember quite clearly is that Jennine didn’t want to take him, and the nurse handed Jeremy to me. Her reluctance to take Jeremy was, in hindsight, a red flag but more about that later. I cradled Jeremy in my arms and burst into joyful tears as I saw another beautiful son.

The nurse that had been with us all through labor and delivery took Jeremy back. She told me they were moving Jennine to the maternity ward and taking Jeremy to the nursery. Then she said, “You should try to grab some sleep until we bring Jeremy to your wife’s room. Go into the Nurse’s Lounge and there’s a couch in there to lay down on. I’ll come get you when it’s time.”

I said thank you and felt a wave of exhaustion wash over me. The adrenaline coursing through my body had suddenly shut off and left me drained. It was all over and I had a new son.

I’m not sure how long I got to sleep but when our nurse returned to wake me up, I was suddenly alert and full of energy. “We’re going to bring Jeremy to her room so they’ll both there”, she said as we waited for the elevator. My excitement level made for the longest wait time ever recorded for elevator doors to open – maybe not?.

The nurse opened the door, motioned me in, and closed the door behind me. I entered the room and went to hug Jennine. I was sitting on the bed holding her hand when a maternity floor nurse entered the room with Jeremy. He was stuffed into a little Christmas stocking with a Santa cap on his head.  The nurse picked him up and handed him to Jennine. I still have the picture from all those years ago of Jennine as she held our son for the first time. Her smile radiated love and beauty filling the room as she looked into Jeremy’s eyes. A small joyful tear rolled down her cheek.

I can’t recall the rest of Christmas Day in 1982. I know my parents came back to the hospital to visit and take Adrian and I home. We planned to celebrate Christmas when Jennine and Jeremy came home the next day. My sister had spent Christmas Eve at the DFW airport before they finally cancelled all flights to Denver so she wouldn’t be with us that year and spend Christmas alone. Everything else is stored in memory sections of my brain that I no longer have access to.

I can say that it took a week-and-a-half to dig my car out and the alleyway so I could even get to the street where snowplows had left a huge pile of snow. I used my cross-country skis to get to the nearby Seven Eleven only to find bare shelves. The local media had a hay day with the “Hundred Year Blizzard of ‘82”. Everyone had opinions about the city’s response to the storm and the time it took to clear the streets; most of them beyond negative. Blame was heaped on Mayor Bill Nichols, who had been the only Mayor I’d known since moving to Denver in 1969, costing him his re-election later that year.

None of it really made a difference to me. We had another son. Every parent sees their new child as the most beautiful baby ever. The truth is, if it’s a vaginal birth all babies look like little aliens, but they appear much differently to the parents that waited so patiently for them. I had just received the best Christmas present ever and life would never be the same.

Bad Weather, Christmas, Family, Generations, Relationships, Stories, Writing

Christmas Eve 1982

gregoryjoel

I watched the snow fall outside my study window as I enjoyed my coffee and wrote in my journal. No cars could be found on the street. That was highly unusual on Logan Street, even for Christmas Eve. The cars that were parked out there were virtually covered by the falling snow. An occasional gust of wind piled the snow even higher so they couldn’t be seen from our side of the street. “She probably is in labor”, I muttered to myself. I had no idea how we’d get to the hospital.

I heard Jennine in the back of the house. A few minutes later she was at my study door. Her “good morning” was sidetracked when she looked out the window. “Where did that come from? It was only supposed to be a couple of inches”.

“More like a couple feet is more accurate. I’m going to turn on the news”, I said as I got up from my chair and headed for the living room. The television came to life as I went in the kitchen. “What do you want for breakfast? I’m not fixing any burritos”, I chuckled. It was a long-standing joke that my famous green chili burritos had been responsible for Jennine’s labor with our first son, who was now well awake in his crib. “I got him “, I told her as I turned and walked downstairs.

Coffee mugs were filled, Adrian’s breakfast served, and a plate delivered to my wife in the living room. The TV caught my attention. All the news was about the Christmas Storm that started in the wee hours of the morning. A list of business and government office closures ran across the bottom of the screen. My traditional Christmas Eve half-day and lunch weren’t going to happen. I said a silent prayer that Jeremy, the newest addition to the Joel household, would wait until the snowplows could do their job. I would find out after the fact that it wouldn’t really matter, but more on that later.

We were definitely in for the day, so we sat together in the living room, sharing coffee and hot chocolate, and doing last minute gift wrapping. The news had been replaced by VHS tapes – we’d bought a VCR and that was serious high tech in 1982 – and we watched a Christmas movie together.

Photo by Colin Lloyd on Pexels.com

Jennine called her parents who lived up Lookout Mountain to the west of Denver. They wouldn’t be able to get out until the snowplows arrived either. My parents were staying with friends while they were in town and faced the same situation. My sister was flying in from Fort Worth for the birth of the new addition to the family and to celebrate Christmas together. Unfortunately, the Denver airport was closed – no flights coming in or going out. She sat at DFW Airport for several hours waiting for the weather to clear until it became obvious that reopening wouldn’t be happening anytime soon.

It was great to have time together with just us. Family Christmases are wonderful but somewhat chaotic. We weren’t going anywhere, and no one was coming over. It was quite peaceful except for the persistent sense of anxiety about getting to the hospital should the need arise. The news was now putting out an appeal for anyone with four-wheel drive vehicles to help shuttle paramedics to emergency calls. The ambulances were having trouble getting anywhere in the blizzard.

Jennine had gone throughout the daylight hours without any more contractions. I was holding out hope that Jeremy would be content to make his entrance to the world under better weather conditions. However, from the very beginning, Jeremy always had his own ideas, and they were usually counter to mine.

Jennine and I lived in Fort Worth when Adrian was born. We were part of an HMO so the only hospital we could use for delivery was in North Dallas. When Jennine went into labor with Adrian, I flew down the freeway with emergency flashers on as I darted through Dallas traffic to get her to the hospital. I needn’t have stressed. Jennine ended up being in labor for thirty-one hours before Adrian was born. I silently prayed that if Jennine did go into labor, it would be a long one even though I didn’t want to see her in pain. I didn’t know how Iwas going to get her to the hospital. The idea of delivering a baby scared the daylights out of me. I could do it if need be, I told myself but I didn’t want to find out.

It continued to snow throughout the day. The chain link fence in the backyard disappeared under the blanket of white. My car in the driveway soon followed suite. We thought we’d be spending the rest of an uneventful Christmas Eve relaxing in the comfort of our living room and being generally lazy. I fixed an early dinner, washed the dishes, and Adrian and I retired to the living room. Jennine came in later looking concerned and stated the “we may have a problem”.

“What do you mean?”

She calmly said, “I mean I think I’m in labor” as she slid back on the sofa.

I’m not sure how long I sat in stunned silence as my brain began running hundreds of scenarios; all of which pointed to delivering a baby at home. “How far a part are the contractions? Never mind, tell me when the next one starts and ends.” I went into manager mode. “It’s quite obvious we’re not going to be able to get to the hospital. Hell, I can’t even find my car under all the snow. I’m calling 911”.

I tried to be as calm as possible even though I was totally terrified. Jennine told me her contractions were starting. She finally sighed they were over, and I started to count. I gazed at my watch for what seemed an eternity and then another one started She sighed and said, “another one started. How long?”

“Seven minutes. They’re at seven minutes” as I dialed 911. Jennine still had several hours to go when she was in labor with Adrian. I prayed for similar results, but I knew deep down it was not going to be anything like that. Everyone warned me about second births – they go much quicker. The mother’s body says let’s get this over with as they learned from the first time around.

“911, what’s your emergency”. At least the phones worked!

I explained that my wife was due on the 23rd and just started labor. Our doctor was at St. Joseph Hospital. What were we to do?”

The 911 operator ran down the list of questions all 911 calls receive. Yes, she’s still breathing. No, she’s not bleeding, and her water hasn’t broken. Her contractions are seven minutes apart. After answering all her questions, she told me in a very calm and composed manner that we would have to take an ambulance to the nearest hospital with labor and delivery and a maternity ward – which wasn’t going to be St. Joe’s.

“Okay, okay, but how long until the ambulance gets here?”

“Right now, it looks like it will be four hours until we can get someone out there.” I greeted the news with stone-cold silence. “Sir, are you there? Did you hear me?”

“Yes” I mumbled with a mix of anger and fear. She wasn’t going to last four hours. “Thank you. We’ll be ready”.

“What’d they say?”, Jennine asked.

“Four hours before we can hope the see an ambulance and we have to go to the nearest hospital with a maternity ward”, I declared flatly. “Let’s keep track of the contractions for now”. Concentrating on the time between contractions might hold off some of the terror I was feeling. I thought of that classic line from Gone With the Wind, “I don’t know nothing about birthing no babies”…

I called my parents and told them what was happening: we were waiting for an ambulance, and we’d have to take Adrian to the hospital with us when it got here. Was there any way for them to get to the hospital to get him? Dad said they didn’t know how, but they’d start making some calls to all their friends. I made other calls to friends and family to let everyone know what was going on. Adrian’s diaper bag was ready, and Jennine’s “Go Bag’ was sitting by the front door. Now we wait.

We didn’t have to wait long. It had only been thirty minutes when there was a loud knock on the door. I opened it to find two paramedics in insulated coveralls and a middle-aged gentleman in a heavy coat and a cowboy hat. Apparently, he had volunteered his four-wheel drive Jeep Waggoneer to shuttle paramedics about. I invited them in a they began the same barrage of questions the 911 dispatcher had asked earlier. They finished checking Jennine’s vitals and told us we were going to Swedish Hospital. It was the closest one with a maternity ward. I grabbed Adrian, they grabbed the bags, and we headed out across the snow-covered yard to the Waggoneer on the street.

It’s important to note that it had snowed more than three feet in the previous twelve hours. Jennine was only five foot three and very pregnant (Jeremy was a big baby). This made the seventy-five-foot journey from the house to the car interesting to say the least. I held Adrian with one arm and Jennine with my free hand. The gentleman driver held her other hand as we navigated the path left by the paramedics. We all plowed through the snow until we got to the car. Jeep Waggoneers are larger than a regular Jeep model and can seat four people comfortably unless, like our entourage, there were heavy medical bags and six people. Jennine sat in front and the paramedics, Adrian, and I squeezed in the back. We finally managed to get the doors shut when the driver announced that the windshield wipers were no longer working, and he would have to have the windows down as he and Jennine reached outside to keep the windows clear enough to drive. So, off to the hospital we went with the driver and a very pregnant and in labor Jennine scraped the windows as best they could in the falling snow.

Activism, Anxiety, Bad Weather, Beatitudes, Belief, Common Sense, Communication, Community, Consequences, Emotional Health, Environment, Freedom, God's Economics, Goodness, Grace, Grandchildren, Gratitude, Hope, Listening, Marginalized, Marriage, Miracles, Neighbors, Peace, Service to Others, Spirituality, Stories, Thoughts From the Porch, Transformation, Trust, What Can I Do

The clock is Ticking Again

gregoryjoel

It was sometime during the early years of the Reagan Administration. I can’t remember the date exactly, but I’ve never forgotten the events that night. It was clear and despite the city lights, the stars twinkled brightly on the late winter’s night. I had taken a moment to sit on our big front porch to take in the beauty of the evening before going to bed. I smoked my last cigarette of the day and shut off the lights as I walked through the living room, the kitchen, and down the back stairs to the warmth of our small bedroom in the basement.

Our house was an old farmhouse built in 1890 and sat on two large city lots. It was built long before the area known as Washington Park grew up around it and had much different architecture than the Craftsmen and Victorian homes that came in the early 1900s. It was small – only 950 square feet – and finished in stucco with a flat roof. It even had the old concrete path to where the outhouse would’ve been in its early years. The basement had been finished with two small bedrooms my first wife and I shared next to our boy’s bedroom. It always felt so cozy on a long winter’s night, and I rarely had insomnia issues after sliding into the inviting warmth of the covers and my wife’s arms. It wasn’t much but it was our piece of paradise in the middle of Denver’s urban sprawl.

I’m not sure of the exact time it happened but it was in the early morning hours when sleep is so deep that even one’s dreams are on hold. It was the kind of sleep that we all long for: peaceful and restful. It was also the deep sleep that made it virtually impossible to awaken with a clear mind – the mind remained in that state long after the body was jolted awake. That’s when it happened.

The long, loud scream of the warning sirens blew in the basement window; waning and ebbing as the siren made its circular motion. My wife and I sat up in bed. “What in the hell?”, I demanded as we looked at one another trying to figure out what was up.

 I had grown up with warning sirens in Texas, but there we called them tornado sirens. They were tested monthly so if they ever went off other than 1:00 PM on the first Wednesday of the month it meant you needed to head for a place in your home away from windows and doors and hold on. A tornado was nearby and may hit you soon. North Texas marked the southern end of tornado alley. Growing up in Fort Worth meant having a solemn respect for tornado warnings.

The warning sirens were also called Civil Defense sirens. You see, I grew up during the Cold War between the Soviet Union Eastern Bloc and the West. Both sides had a first-strike capability with the ever-growing stockpile of nuclear weapons. The sirens warned us of an imminent attach by the godless communists. We were supposed to file into the basements of buildings marked as Civil Defense shelters if we were downtown working or shopping (this was BM – Before Malls). If we were elsewhere, such as school, we were supposed to “duck and cover” as if our trusty school desks were to help us survive a nuclear blast. I still remember Tommy Turtle and the black-and-white instructional films (this was BV – before video) that told us how to duck low to the ground, cover our heads, and look away from the blast in case of nuclear attack. It mattered little that we were to be vaporized or brutally burned when the bomb went off. The ostrich approach was probably the best way to go…

Unfortunately, this wasn’t North Texas but Denver, Colorado. In the all the years of junior and senior high school and college I had never heard a warning siren. Nor had I ever seen a tornado in Denver, especially in the winter. They just didn’t happen then (climate change changed that scenario years later). Even if they did, the city wouldn’t be testing the sirens at three o’clock in the morning, so something was going on. I reached over to our bedside alarm clock radio and tuned in to see if there was any news about what was happening. There wasn’t. Was this it? Was this the bomb?

The Cold War had a renewed tension after Reagan was elected President. Saber rattling had become the norm and tensions between East and West were at the highest point since the Cuban Missile Crisis in October of 1963. The nuclear arms race was in full swing. I had proudly been arrested for civil disobedience at the Rocky Flats Nuclear Weapons facility numerous times (once with Father Berrigan!). Nuclear disarmament and peace were the subjects of many a demonstration, however small those might be. Most folks were content to live in fear if it didn’t interfere with making a living and going about normal daily life. The warning sirens made everything suddenly real.

Maybe this was it. Denver would be a prime target in any attack scenario. It boasted the largest Federal center of anywhere outside of Washington, D.C. and was surrounded by Rocky Mountain Nuclear Arsenal, an Air Force Base, and several other military facilities. The likelihood that this would be our last few moments was real. My mind raced with memories of a recent movie sensation, “The Day After”.

Finally, the sirens stopped. My wife, though jolted awake by the sudden emergency, drifted back off to sleep. My boys never woke up through the whole affair. All things slowly returned to normal though I never quite made it back to sleep that night. It had all been too unsettling. The morning news carried a story about the event. It seems somehow water had gotten in a control room and shorted out the wiring, causing the alarms to go off. We were never in danger, only inconvenienced. The event was soon forgotten, and life went about as usual.

Several years later, the Berlin Wall came down, the Soviet Union fell apart and became the Russian Federation, and the Cold War was declared over. Anti-nuke demonstrations faded and the news media found plenty of other things to instill more fear and create more demonstrations over. There were new countries joining the nuclear weapon family. Although they had agendas contrary to the West there has not been the intensity of coverage, nor the fearfulness found in the Cold War years.

2024 is an election year. Many on both sides of the political spectrum say it’s the most important election in America history. I’ve lived long enough to have voted in several “most important” elections. This year really is different though, and for a myriad of reasons. I’ve heard all the arguments but the one that’s been missing is the threat of nuclear catastrophe that is now at its highest point since the 1980s. There may no longer be a Soviet Union but the Cold War between East and West has restarted and could become a “hot” war through miscalculation, misunderstanding, and miscommunication.

Authoritarian rulers like Putin have referred to the nuclear option several times over the last two years in his quest to restore Russian Empire. North Korea improves and expands its nuclear program while other international actors seek to be come nuclear powers. More and more uncertainties enter the equation.

I don’t like fear tactics and that’s not what I hope comes from this story. I hope that this is a subject to be taken seriously when considering election choices in the coming year. Whoever is elected will have the final say over whether we live together or die together. It’s important to consider deeply and prayerfully who we give that power to.

Evaluate real character and integrity. Choose those who demonstrate empathy and compassion for the common good rather than those whose decisions are made for themselves. Who holds up and lives out the values we strive for? Making America great again should be making America what it professes to believe in, and not some idea of selfish, power seekers only seek to make others do their will. Choose wisely. You lives may depend on it…

***I also recommend:

Turning Point: The Bomb and the Cold War available on Netflix

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Forty Two

gregoryjoel

It’s rained about 4 inches in the last two days with more to come. I gratefully sat down to write this morning. It seems like it’s been far too busy to do so given our unseasonably warm winter. The winter crops don’t know what to do – some have even bolted (gone to seed) – and the Spring crops are beginning to poke their heads out of the soil. It’s too muddy to work today so I get to sit back in my office and spend some quality time by myself. My playlist is going, the coffee’s hot, and I have all four dogs curled up around my feet. I can’t think of any place I’d rather be.

My playlist this morning is mostly Texas country. A Matt Hillyer song, “If These Old Bones Could Talk”, came on and I thought about the old box of dominoes in my drawer. It was a gift from my father – a box of old “bones” white with black pips and embossed with the green logo of Burlington Northern Railroad – a gift from the Burlington Northern Veterans Club (long before BNSF). The white marble-like dominoes are slightly discolored from years of body oils they’ve absorbed from years of shuffling and playing. It’s one of the few things I’ve managed to hang on to despite the chaos of active addiction that plagued me for so long.

Dad’s been gone since 2002 and I got clean and sober in 2005. The old box of bones is one of the few constants in my life – one that has seen the best of days and the worst of days. I’ve really been thinking about Dad this morning. I wish he could have lived to see me today. My wife reminds me that he does see me. I get it. It’s not the same though. I miss him. It’s my earthly father’s love that taught me how much my heavenly Father loves me. But I digress…

My dad was a railroad man. He worked for the old Fort Worth & Denver Railroad, which was owned by the Colorado & Southern Railroad was in turn, owned by the old Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy Railroad. Long before the merger with the Santa Fe Railroad – the SF in BNSF – was a merger with the Burlington Route and the Great Northern Railroad (among others) in 1970. My father could tell you the complete history and even had pictures of the old Fort Worth & Denver and Burlington Route trains as they moved through the train yards and stations. He took “early” retirement in 1981 at age fifty-seven and forty years of service. For many years afterwards he and mom attended the various BN Veterans dinners. Railroading is a different way of life – a subculture difficult to explain to outsiders. The railroad is family.

Our other family was the Church of Christ, a non-denominational body that has churches all through the state. That’s where the dominoes come in. First of all, please understand that dominoes, specifically the game of “Forty-Two”, is the state game of Texas (by a law passed in 2011). They even have a State Championship played in Halletsville, Texas every year. Texans, especially in protestant religious organizations like the Church of Christ and old railroaders take dominoes seriously.

Our family has deep roots within the Church of Christ. My great- great-grandfather was a travelling circuit preacher. My great-grandfather was a farmer and helped build the church in Navarro and Ellis counties. My parents and the majority of their friends were members of the Church of Christ and most of them grew up together. Since they were good church folks none of them played cards. That was the devil’s game. I’m told that dominoes were invented in the 1880s as a way to play cards without cards. Good fundamentalist Christians are good at finding loopholes to what they deem poor moral behavior…

My parents and all their friends would get together every month to have a “Forty-Two” night. It would always be held at someone’s house (never play games in the church building) and would include a huge potluck. Everyone would come, multiple tables would be set up, and parents would break off into tables of four to play. Kids would be running all over the yard (we still played outside – even after dark – back them). During the occasional game break one or more of the parents would come out to check on us and then return to the next game. They’d play all night – at least ten o’clock – and us kids got to stay up late. It was a win-win for everyone.

Dominoes disappeared after my dad was transferred to Denver (when the Colorado & Southern bought the Fort Worth & Denver ) – that is until they discovered a host of ex-patriate Texans and Church of Christ folks who became their new circle of friends. They got together religiously (no pun intended) on most holidays and Friday nights to play “Forty-Two”. The location changed but the game remained the same.

 I had become a teenager with better things to do than hang out with the “old folks” playing dominoes. I probably should’ve have stayed. It might’ve prevented a lot of bad choices. I never learned how to play “Forty-Two” and the kids I met in Colorado weren’t much interested in “shaking the bones”. It was the seventies and as I got older life became about sex, and drugs, and rock & roll, but that’s a story for another time.

Fast forward to my return to Texas as a young adult. I played a lot of dominoes down in the ‘hood with my using friends. It was never “Forty-Two”, but it was “straight” dominoes. Later, my recovery friends often played after recovery meetings, and I would play with my two sons occasionally (Jeremy always found a way to win but I never caught him cheating…).

I don’t play dominoes as much as I used to. Life has gotten full of good things, but it leaves me little time for the game. Besides, many of my old friends who played have either moved off or passed on. I’m sure my grandkids know how to play and next week is Spring Break. I think I’ll shuffle the old bones and see how well Jeremy taught them how to play. After all, the game remains the same.