Happy Holidays!

Many changes have taken place in my life in the past several weeks. Most of them extremely promising and positive, but they have kept me busy. I have some debts to pay, and some loose ends to tie up with people who are important to me, and new beginnings to forge. 

Have a wonderful holiday season, friends. 

I will see you after the New Year, and we will pick it up where we left off.

Until then, remember...

We are still savages.

Season Two: "My First Cell Phone"

Last season ended with my intent to focus on a more organized essay style to the blog, and so for those of you who are returning to follow my ramblings, I want to talk about my first cell phone. That's right. Nearly twenty five years ago I invested in a bag phone for my Pontiac Sunbird. How cool was I in the mid 1990's? I won't lie. It was a status symbol. A toy that I picked up on a whim. It wasn't until years later that I purchased another, for very different reasons.

I had a phone then, so that my wife could let me know when our daughter, Marissa was not doing well. I have had and have used cellular devices as a means of communication, like the rest of society has ever since... well almost like the rest of society.

Come on, if any of you have followed me in "Season One," you know darned well that cell phones are not what I will be talking about in the season premiere of "Still Savages."

Take a look at the video I have posted here below. I have to warn you... It's brutal. If you have a weak stomach, don't watch. But I do think that it is important that you do.

I was first introduced to this video through one of the many hand-to-hand combatives and martial arts groups I subscribe to on social media. It was, not shocking to me, but still the sheer brutality and cowardice was something that struck me. What struck me even harder (no pun intended) was some of the commentary that came later.

I made the comment "This is what I mean when I talk about the loss of a fundamental value of human life in this country. We talk about how barbaric other cultures are, here we just let the cameras roll while people are beaten perhaps to death in the street."

And just to bring things full circle, I should add that I also said "I remember when I got my first cell phone... it was to call for help in emergencies..."

The response that I received was not shocking.

A very well spoken and respectful gentleman responded to my comment by saying that "Actually society today is a lot better than it used to be. Crime in the past was more brutal and plentiful. Despite media images we live in a less barbaric era than past generations."

I have to admit, that I agree. We are less "barbaric" than our ancestors who came to this land, and decimated it's indigenous population. Slaughtering thousands and forcing them onto "reservations." 

We are certainly less barbaric than those who came before us, owning, selling human beings as property. Previous generations I have known in my own lifetime, were born only a few years after abolition!

We are more civilized even than those generations who placed our  own U.S. citizens of Asian ancestry in internment camps because of our Japanese enemies in World War II. 

We are certainly less barbaric than the generation that violently assaulted my own own teacher who is by ancestry and birth ethnic Chinese, after the war in Vietnam.

I have to agree with that well spoken and educated poster... We have certainly come a long way. But "crime" is not the only way to judge the loss of the value of human life.

But what that individual seems to have missed is... well the entirety of what I said. Our decreasing homicide statistics do not show that we value human life any more in this country than we did two hundred years ago. One of the very founding principals of this great nation--that all are created equal seems to be lost on the hangup that violent crime is down.

Every day, some sources say up to 125,000 abortions take place.

Every day, some sources say over 5,000 people visit the emergency room for drug abuse related issues.

Every day, some sources say that over 3,000 people are sold into slavery--mostly for sex.

Every day, some sources say up to 30 people are murdered.

Every day, some of us get up and try their damnedest to change some of those statistics into success stories, while every day some of us take our cell phones and record people being beaten instead of calling for help. 

We have lost the respect for human life in this country, and we don't even see it. We see it as something that happens to "other people" or to "those people" or to "those less fortunate." While we sit in our living rooms in front of our big screen televisions and become outraged at the beheadings of our citizens at the hands of terrorist groups like ISIS, we take time to adjust the zoom and focus on our cameras,  as we film people being beaten, bullied, robbed and worse.

Oh yes, my friends...

We are still savages.

Season One Finale Part Two: Not like the Good Old Days

Last week, I talked about my past experiences with being victimized, and what that taught me. You can disagree with me all you like, but the fact remains, that in those precious moments before help arrives (if it arrives at all) you, and only you will keep yourself alive. 

I have offended half a dozen or so people whom I have already had the conversation we are about to have, in the past two weeks, and I am truly sorry for that. No "but" coming next. It is too bad that people can't realize that sometimes "social justice" just has to take a back seat to common sense, and not everything is a "cause." By my stating that we are responsible for our own safety, I have been accused by some for "victim blaming." So this week I will clarify. There are two points that I wish to make. One, is that the choices we make will have consequences. 

I stand with Emma Watson, as she faces the threats of anonymous hackers who promise to expose her very private moments to the world. The highly publicized exploitation of Jennifer Lawrence, and now the looming threat of similar violations in the future for Ms. Watson are beyond  despicable, and I believe the source of most of the backlash I have received has been due to the fact that the victims are indeed all women. Scarlett Johansen, Mila Kunis and Vanessa Hudgens have all been victims of this act (and I might point out that these women did not receive nearly the public outcry that Lawrence or Watson have received).

Now, those who took issue with my position have countered with a number of statements, for the most part the argument is based on the exploitation of women. 

This is absolutely true. You will not get a single argument from me regarding this being anything but an affront to Ms. Watson as a woman. Were someone like Channing Tatum to have made a similar speech, I seriously doubt that he would be subjected to the mind games and intimidation that Ms. Watson has been forced to deal with since her commendable statements on gender equality. But until our misogynistic culture decides to stand up and do something about the deplorable treatment of women, we will continue to have these issues. We will continue to experience what I did in the French Quarter. Until women themselves decide that it is not okay to work at Hooters, or Scores, or to work for Larry Flynt, and men decide to support them by not contributing to this culture, it will continue.

My response was this:

"One thing that has come to mind for me, is that no one can post nude photos of me online, because... well... there aren't any. Unless my mom has some baby pictures of me floating in the cloud somewhere, I am good to go. Please don't get me wrong--this is horrible, and Ms. Watson should not have to endure this at all, and it is her right to take whatever photos she chooses. I simply wish that people realized that in this day and age nothing is safe, and nothing is sacred."

The responses were swift. Some came from my own household.

"So if someone breaks into my house to steal my computer, it's my fault because I had a computer?"

"I mean, all these school shootings are horrible, and no one should have to endure their child being murdered, but this could never happen to me, I don't have kids."

"The images came from her phone. She should be able to have anything she wants on her phone. It is in her possession."

"Too bad Joe Schmoe's big screen TV got stolen. Don't get me wrong-it was terrible of those thieves to take his TV, but I don't have to to worry about that because I don't have a big TV."

The fact that people did not like my statement does not change the fact that nothing is safe  and nothing is sacred. This is the world we live in. If someone wants to hurt you badly enough, they will. I will also say again, that you will not find naked pictures of me on line because there aren't any. This is not the same as owning a big screen television, or a nice Macbook in your home. Your home is a physical place where you legally have an expectation of privacy and security. It is yours because you own it. These things are not kept in "the cloud."

We are well into the age of the internet, which is owned by... Nobody. In spite of repeated examples, the world still hasn't figured  out that the internet is NOT a safe place. Identity theft, human trafficking, embezzlement, prostitution... All thrive in cyberspace. The internet isn't your home. You do not own it, and there can be none of the same expectation of privacy. The same rules and standards that apply to your home do not apply in the information that exists in this electronic space out there somewhere.

These are nothing like the "Good Ole Days." It is now commonly known that the NSA is able to use our own webcams against us, it should be pretty clear that if the government can do it (legally) than the criminals are just as able, and possibly more motivated.

We sometimes fail to realize that anything we own that sends a message out to the World Wide Web is shaky ground. We don't think of our phones as being something that can be remotely accessed, and we certainly don't think of the cloud as just what it sounds like , something jut floating around out there. How can we protect ourselves, our personal information and thoughts? How do we keep our intimate moments hidden from prying eyes? We harden our target. Better yet, don't give them a target at all.

Celebrities are already exposed, just by the choice that they make to get in front of a camera. Personally, I believe that they are more than adequately compensated for some of the risks that they take, but if you must take issue with something, if you want to take up a cause, don't point your fingers at me and put me on blast for "victim blaming." If you want to get on a soapbox and defend Emma Watson's honor, remember that simply performing a Google search for "Emma Watson Naked" will result in over twenty five million results. I know. I just looked. These images are already there, not leaked. The creations of hundreds if not thousands of twisted minds with too much time on their hands and access to photoshop. You will have your work cut out for you.

So my second point is this:

Our society is okay with this. It isn't just our society. It is global society. The cause you should be taking up is why these hackers are making threats towards Ms. Watson in the first placese images are there because there is an audience for them. These images are there because people want to see them. Until we can change this aspect of our society, women will still be objectified and seen as something other than an equal.

Steve Thompson of Central Michigan University has developed an amazing program that addresses bystander mentality in sexual assault and violence as well as stalking called No Zebras No Excuses. The philosophy behind this program is fitting in these cases as well, when men who choose not to participate in objectifying and disrespectful behavior towards women do not actively discourage such behavior by their peers. 

The idea is that when a lion stalks a zebra, they select the weakest target, and bring the zebra down. As the lion attacks, the remaining herd runs away-but once the zebra falls, the rest of the zebras will stop running and resume their grazing-often within only a few yards of the kill. Thompson's position is: what if the zebras didn't run? What if the zebra's decided to fight back when they saw a member of their herd becoming a victim of the lions?

The concept translates to people pretty easily, doesn't it. Men, when you see a woman being treated inappropriately, do not allow it to continue. If that woman was your mother, or your sister, or your girlfriend or wife being treated that way, would you stand for it? Well that woman being mistreated is someone's mother or sister or girlfriend. She is important to someone. 

I am sorry if I offended anyone with what they perceived to be my "victim blaming." I sincerely and truly am. My original statement is nothing I will back away from, however many people I have offended. The idea behind it is one that I will share with my own daughters--and my sons. Time and time again, I have seen the youth that I work with devastated when someone gets ahold of the images they have on their phones and make them public. The choice to make sexually explicit images or videos is just that, a choice. 

When we make choices there are consequences, in some cases unforeseen consequences. Stacie Halas  lost her job as a middle school teacher due to her career in pornography in a "previous life," and Robert Marucci found himself kicked out of his Florida High School for legally acting in a pornographic film. I tell my children that if you don't want anyone finding out that you have done something, you probably shouldn't be doing it. Even lesser offenses have cost people dearly, Georgia schoolteacher Ashley Payne lost her job for posting pictures on her Facebook page, with her settings on "private." She was seen drinking alcohol while on vacation in Europe, while Andrew Kurtz a mascot for the Pittsburg Pirates was fired for voicing his opinion on the team-which was nothing that the thousands of other Pirate fans hadn't already said themselves already. 

Is it awful that women are being exploited on the internet? YES.
Is it disgusting that Emma Watson makes a stand only to have faceless cowards threaten to expose her from the shadows? YES.
Do we all make choices that have sometimes significant unforeseen consequences? YES.

So watch your back.

The internet is not your friend, and it is not safe.

The world still does not respect women very much.

We have a long way to go, ladies and gentlemen. Until we stop harming all other living beings, we are still savages.

Season One Finale Part One: When the Chips Are Down.

When I was in middle school and high school, I was tormented by bullies. I was beat up and spit on. One instance in particular I remember well, being cornered and threatened by the leader of a group of boys, and sitting silently, hopelessly outnumbered and alone as this kid stuck his finger in my eye. It was miserable, but it taught me a very valuable lesson.

If you want to know why I enlisted in the Marine Corps at 17, or if you want to know why I sought out formal combatives training,  earned my black belt and competed regularly, or if you want to know why I own a gun, and trained and educated myself in psychology and sociology, the answer lies back in that dimly lit high school one morning long ago, with that finger in my eye. Nobody was coming to help. It was just me and the six or seven guys who didn't like me.

It was something that was reinforced a few years later in the dark city streets near a bus stop in Oceanside, California. There was no one to help me then either, and this time it was more than pride at stake. That day saw a significant change in how I viewed personal safety. I walked away that day, and the other guy didn't . Because I knew no one was going to rescue me, and no one was going to scare this bully away.

At the end of the day, when the chips are  down, the only person responsible for the safety of you and your loved ones... Is you.

In those critical moments between 911 and the arrival of police, fire or EMS, you have to keep you alive. No one else will do it. No one else can.

The purpose of this week's brief entry is not to sound paranoid, but to give you all an idea on where my mind lies when we return next week. I have offended several people with my views on recent events, and I will go into them next week in the final installment of this "season."

We are all the product of our life's experience. Today, you have seen some of mine.

The next time you find yourself alone, or uncomfortable I hope you won't have to experience what I have experienced... 

That we are still savages.

Worth every ounce of effort.

"Staying married was the only way to work your problems out."--Miranda Lambert

I have been lucky enough to have stayed married to my best friend for over seventeen years.

Me an' the "Chief" back in the beginning

No. That isn't right.

Luck may have caused us to find each other, but hard work, perseverance combined with lots of respect and love are the reasons we have stayed together so long.

We have survived things that most marriages in the United States have not. Financial troubles, difficult employment situations and the death of a child to name a few. Yet here we are, going strong and not even hinting at slowing down.

There are a lot of reasons we could quit and go our separate ways.
There is never enough money.
There are significant limits on the time we can spend together.
Medical issues.
Out interests are night and day sometimes.
I am on the road more often than I like.
She likes to be around people, I like to be alone.
She likes the beach, I like the mountains.

There are a lot of better reasons we stay.
Two teenagers.
A sixth grader.
A fourth grader.
A second grader.
A first grader.
A house on an island with coconut trees.
A past we have shared together, and a future we are building the same way.

Neither of us have ever been unfaithful. There is simply nobody else that is important.

In spite of my travels for work, the destinations I find myself in and the company I keep, I always find myself on the phone at least once a day to talk to my best friend and the love of my life. It is always her that I miss. I can't wait to go home to her, and to them.

We have little in common sometimes it seems, different music, different movies, sometimes different politics, but in the end what we have is more than enough to compensate for those differences. Like any man, I do stupid things, she puts up with them. We discuss things rather than avoid them, even though many times we avoid them for quite a while before we discuss them. We don't always agree, but more often than not we compromise in the end. She is her own person. I am mine. She is the brains, I am the brawn. She is the Yin, and I am the Yang.

It sounds corny, but she completes me.
It sounds crazy, how lucky did I get?

In this day and age of automated checkout lanes, IMAX theaters, international space stations and instant everything, it is often easiest to simply throw up your hands and walk away. No fuss, no hard feelings, its just business. Slow to hire and quick to fire. We are now raised to believe that if something doesn't work in our lives we should change it.

Think about your relationship as a classic 1963 split window Corvette. You are out driving it the way it was meant to be driven. It looks great to everyone, and it is running like a champ. Its a hell of a lot of fun, too. But then, you throw a rod right through the oil pan. Smoking and sputtering, you pull to the side of the road and call AAA...

You wouldn't dream of just scrapping this beautiful car, would you?
You would have to sink a lot of time and hard work into rebuilding the engine, but in the end it is totally worth the effort isn't it?

It may sound silly, but it's true. Relationships require work. You can't always just walk away from an issue or ignore it an hope it will go away. I should know. Ignoring things has always been my favorite method. I don't always work as hard as I could for my marriage, but there have been times that I have had to work harder than I ever thought possible. I look at my friends and even some of my family who have been married two or even three times, and wonder how they do it! How--or for that matter why they would want to subject themselves to that kind of misery over and over again is a mystery to me. 

Perhaps its the Marine in me?

The "chief" and me fifteen years later!

The whole "honor, courage, commitment" thing? When I make a promise, I intend to keep it. I made a vow to love, honor and cherish my best friend until one of us dies. We are both still breathing. We are both still together.

You also have to work on seeing the person you fell in love with in the first place. No matter how much time has gone by, I look into my wife's eyes and I still see the willowy 24 year old beauty that caught my attention all those years ago. No matter what she thinks of herself, I can't see anything but the most beautiful woman in the world. There may be an ocean of "tens" out there, but I have my "eleven" waiting for me at home.

I love my wife. But it takes work.
Not because she isn't worthy or anything of that sort, but because anything worth having is hard work. 

And trust me, it has only gotten better. Every year. Every week. Every moment is better than the last.

Miranda Lambert is right, you know. "It's only worth the time you put in."

The longer it takes for couples to realize that it is more "blood, sweat and tears" sometimes than it is "happily ever after," the longer we will have to admit that...

We are still savages.

The Ghosts of New Orleans

The French Quarter

I had always wanted to go to New Orleans. Something about the city is so alluring, the history, the mystery and the magic (which is alive and well in the dark alleys) has beckoned me for years. Now I had the opportunity to spend a week in the French Quarter, where everything happens. This is where The excitement was, and the mystery. This is where the beautiful people congregated and the music never stopped.

I was eager to sit and listen to some good ole' Delta Blues, and I scrolled through venues on my iphone as the bus whisked me from Lois Armstrong to the French Quarter. I marveled at the cemetery as the shuttle carried me deeper into "Nawlins." The colossal mausoleums of polished marble and glass stood in the green fields as beautiful reminders of the delta's unusual perspective on death, and dying. I t was easy to see why ghosts and spirits are so much a part of the New Orleans culture. I commented to the woman seated next to me that it must cost a fortune to die in New Orleans, some of those tombs must have cost more than my first house.

Eventually the bus pulled to it's stop on Bourbon Street. The hotel The door squeaked open and I stepped off with my luggage in the heavy summer air. The street was crawling with people, many of whom had gathered to watch several young men painted white performing a dance in front of my hotel door.

The string of "Gentlemen's Clubs" on
Bourbon Street

But amidst the never ending party, amidst the amazing jazz and dixieland music and incredible food were people lurking and existing invisibly in plain sight. Skeletons peeked at me from dimly lit doorways, and skulls grinned at me from atop of shelves and brass based displays, reminding me again of the preoccupation with death and the spirits.

In the dark, I passed by one of the numerous "gentlemen's" establishments. A scrawny, pony tailed young man in a suit that was much too large for him stood out front, arms folded in front of him and calling out something that was supposed to entice and tantalize passers by (such as myself)to enter his dimly lit hall and experience the fulfillment of their fantasies. His demeanor could not be any more indifferent. As repulsed as I was by him, what I saw next made me feel even worse. I cast a passing glance into the door and my gaze was met by a slender young blonde woman wearing nearly nothing at all. She smiled at me sweetly, but that smile couldn't quite reach her eyes. The same was the case on my way back from the fabulous Redfish Grille, where the calls of two women in fishnets and leather beckoned me with "Hey baby, come play with us," in an enthusiastic tone that their body language simply could not match. I realized then that I had seen my first ghosts in New Orleans.

The Cafe Du Monde

The following day, I had taken a break from the company training I was in town for. I stood at the window of the conference room that looked directly onto Bourbon Street. Two surly looking homeless men, one shirtless and carrying a pit bull draped over his tanned shoulders was arguing with another man who appeared to be in his late forties to early fifties. This man was wearing a bite restraint mask, similar to the one Anthony Hopkins wore as Hannibal Lecter, a leather vest, black furry boy shorts and fishnet stockings. Later that evening I saw a young woman wearing only a bikini bottom and silver body paint. I walked the streets for almost an hour, witnessing the dozens of other assorted "performers," with no skills to appreciate wandering back and forth along Bourbon Street scavenging for tips, all part of the ambiance. All part of the electric atmosphere of this perpetual celebration. 

How had they ended up here? I wondered. How did it come to this for so many?

As I made my way to the incredible Cafe Du Monde I was halted by one of the most beautiful girls I had seen since my arrival. It was impossible to tell her age or nationality. Her skin was as dirty as her dreadlocked hair. She sat alone in a recess on the side of one of the busy streets, her little dog in her lap and a small cardboard sign that read, "Homeless and Hungry. Anything Helps."  I couldn't help staring at this child, whose pierced and dirty face brought out the stunning blue of her eyes, and wonder; "How did so much potential end up here?"

That my friends is the real mystery that I found in the City of New Orleans.

Homeless girl on Bourbon Street

When I looked at the once beautiful women who sold their souls for the entertainment of others who do not even see them as human beings, I grew sad. When I watched men humiliate themselves for a few dollars, I became uncomfortable. When I stared at the young homeless children--many of whom had audacity to match their apathy, my heart broke.

As I have stated, New Orleans is supposed to be full of ghosts and spirits. The city is the final resting place of the famous Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveau, and the age and history of the streets hold energy from generations. In spite of the Hoodoo, Voodoo and Conjure, the real ghosts of the City are these invisible souls that people pass by without a second glance, or worse still, look directly at and don't recognize at all as a person.

I wonder how many people who drop dollar bills for women that take their clothes off realize, that those girls were once somebody's baby? They are someone's daughter. Maybe someone's sister. Possibly someone's mother. That guy out on the corner dressing in fishnets and furry shorts was someone's kid. Those punks sitting in the middle of the sidewalk asking for your change or even your cigar... They belonged to someone.

Every one of those characters, strippers, or urchins have needs. They all have wants. It would do many of us to remember that if it may only take one act of misfortune before we ourselves find ourselves there. A good question for all of to ask, is how far would we be willing to go to make ends meet? What would be the price to sell our soul, our dignity?

Remembering how close my family was to losing everything while my oldest child was alive is very real to me. I do not find myself able to pass judgement on those who live in the shadows. I know how close I was to becoming like these men and women. I know that circumstance as much as choice have lead them here.  

On the opposite side of that coin, there is a beauty in New Orleans in that anyone can be anything that they want. Cast your inhibitions aside and start your life over as one of these characters! If that truly makes you happy, then by all means. While I may not respect your choice, I can absolutely respect you for making it. I remember the eyes of the ghosts in the alleys and realize that those who choose freely are the exception, not the rule.

By Friday, I was on a plane with the gentle, hypnotic hum of the jet engines was putting me to sleep. It was difficult to put this week's installment together sitting there on the Tarmac waiting to return to the sunshine state, and my family. 

My family.

How many of those ghosts I left in New Orleans had families?

How many of those families wondered what had ever become of their loved ones?

It isn't just the Big Easy that these specters can be found. They are everywhere, towns big and small. I have seen them in Detroit, Tallahassee, Chicago, San Antonio, Flint and Grand Rapids. I have seen them in Seattle, Orlando and in Los Angeles. I have seen them in Myrtle Beach, Tampa, San Diego and in Reno. They are everywhere.They may not be as "in-your-face" as they are in the town where the party never stops, but they are there. In the same recessed corners of the streets, the shelters, and the bars. What did it take for them to lose their self respect? More importantly, what would it take to get it back? 

The next time you happen to see one of these ghosts, try looking into their eyes. What do you see? If you see anything else but a human being, it simply reinforces the fact that... 

We are still savages. 

All Good Things...

"Not too long after Diane and I moved to Mount Pleasant, I got a call from a farmer named Don Hatfield. Don and his brother had just taken over their uncle's dairy farm in Mecosta County, and they needed help with a calving. 'We're having trouble getting the calf out of the cow, " he said in his wonderfully deep voice I got to know so well. When we started talking, Don admitted he didn't know much about dairying because his uncle, who had recently died, had taken care of the cows. So I spent quite a bit of time with at the farm, helping them out, teaching them how to care or their livestock. Don's family had been on the land a long time; that barn was just about one hundred years old. He was a wonderful man whose real passion was the history of this part of central Michigan. He interviewed all the old-timers and then compiled thick books telling the story of this area. Don did okay on the farm for a long time, then he more or less retired and sold the cows. When Don quit the barn I went over there and picked up some things I found lying around that I still have, like porcelain mineral cups for the cows. 'Take whatever you want,' Don told me. I still hear that beautiful grumble of his voice in my head. 

The next thing I know, the farm was sold to a potato farmer, who dug a big hole and pushed the beautiful old stone house and the barn into it and covered them up. I drove by the place once and stopped to take a good look, and I couldn't even tell where the house and barn had been. All that was let standing was the electrical pole with a transformer. I just sat there for a little while staring sadly at that field and remembering the people who had once been there. A hundred years of farming history pushed into a hole."

Nat Geo Wild's "Incredible" Dr. Jan Pol

From his book, Never Turn Your Back on an Angus Cow

So, about "the people who had once been there..."

As I will remember it.

It has been a year now since the man with the "beautiful grumble of a voice" has passed. Since then his wife Edna has also moved on. Today, I want to share with you my thoughts on the "people who had once been there," that the star of Nat Geo Wild's flagship series, the Incredible Dr. Pol, mentions so kindly in the opening pages of his delightful book. You see those "people who used to be there" were my people. That hundred years of farming history, was my history. The man with the "wonderful deep voce," was my grandfather.

In the grand scheme of things, it was seven years of my life. But in that seven years, I learned more about life, than I did in the Marine Corps, and college combined. In those fields I learned about working hard, being honest and respecting others--about respecting life. Everything on that farm had to do with life. The cattle were the revenue, the beef and the milk for your cereal. To lose a cow meant money out of my grandfather's pocket, money that they didn't have. We cared for the cattle and and they provided for us. The same with the crops. It was never said out loud, it was just the natural understanding of the land and the way of life. It was simple, but not easy. 

The Centennial Farm Sign

The old barn in 2011

And there was family. Every noon the men (and boys) would gather for dinner that grandma had spent the morning working on. Every Christmas, Thanksgiving or birthday, the vehicles would start rolling into the driveways of the uncles or the cousins. On some occasions, our cousins from Plainwell would actually fly in, landing their little aircraft in the hay field to the south of my grandparent's house. They would bring in crockpots filled with "sunday potatoes," "hot fudge pudding," and meat for the grill. Every year the whole family would gather and roast a pig, enjoying good food and each other. 

As these words are written, an offer has been accepted for the sale of the farmhouse Don and Edna shared. In the old grey house with the dirt cellar, I spent many nights, and ate many meals at the small kitchen table. With that it is all gone, and it won't be coming back. It is bittersweet to be certain, but like all things in life, it had to move on.

My grandfather meant the world to many. It was not just me who loved and respected him. All of his six children, his many grand children and great grand children were there with him at one point or another, until the end. Including me.

When I arrived at the Grand Rapids international airport, I was greeted by my father, and we climbed into his bog diesel GMC truck and began the hour and a half drive to Isabella County. I received a phone call along the way, telling us to hurry--my grandfather was fading fast. I knew my grandfather was unconscious at this point, but asked my mother to pass along a message to him.

"Tell him I'm coming," I said. I was the last grandchild to pay my respect to the patriarch of this wonderful family. "Tell him, it's okay if he can't wait any more. I know it must be hard," I told her, "but tell him I'm coming."

I hung up.

My grandfather, Donald Hatfield, one of the most
honorable men I have ever known

We pulled into the driveway forty five minutes later. I saw my uncle standing outside, and greeted him. I walked up the ramp to the front door that had not been there when I was a kid (but then they were younger and stronger then, too), and into the "mud room," I continued through the laundry and kitchen which still looked and smelled the same way that they always had. I embraced my grandmother and kissed her gently, and moved into the dining room where my grandfather lay in the hospital bed provided for him by hospice.

Even in his final moments he was huge. His ribs stood out like a whiskey barrel, and his hands that had loved to tinker and fiddle that could fix anything that was broken (albeit not always the best way), were still enormous mallets. I kissed his forehead and remember saying "Look at you, old man."

I sat down next to him on his left side, and my grandmother on his right, holding his hand. I whispered to him what I needed him to know, but was certain that he already did; That I loved him and honored him, and thanked him for everything that he ever did for me, and ever taught me--and I thanked him for waiting for me. I sat their holding his wrist, feeling his pulse still so strong gradually weaken and finally stop.

Not long after I stood in front of the old garage with my uncle and cousins. I had brought with me a bottle of bourbon, and we passed it around between us. We shared some words, and some memories. I looked around the old shop, found a hammer and gently removed the old horseshoe that hung above the small room that I had spent so many a cold winter day sorting thousands of nuts, bolts and screws. That horseshoe had been there longer than anyone could remember, and best guess was that it had belonged to my great, great grandfather. It was September in Michigan, and while it wasn't cold yet, there was the beginning of that distinct smell of fall in the air. 

I wasn't sad.

I tell people to this day, that my grandfather died like a boss. His way. Surrounded by the people and things that were most important to him.

It was less than a year later that my grandmother joined him. Unfortunately, I could not be there. 

My grandmother, Edna at her 80th Birthday

Whereas my grandfather was the quiet, patient one everyone respected, my grandmother was his polar opposite. She was the loud one, she was the one who barked. She was stubborn and I believe that she was proud of that. She was and will always be to a degree, remembered as just that--a stubborn old woman. She could make her grandchildren stop misbehaving and start crying merely by saying their name, but in spite of the harshness that many attributed to my grandmother, she could love like nobody else. She was "ornry" to be sure, but she was silly, and kind, and devoted to those that she cared for. When my grandfather died, I thanked her as well for all she had done for me growing up.

"Well," she said "Twasn't nuthin'. Your'e one of us." she said. Those may be the last words my grandmother said to me.

The first Christmas I was home from the Marine Corps, I went to the farm to pay my respects to my grandparents. I walked into the kitchen and there she was, alone cooking away, "making supper for the men," she told me.

"Got any world famous Christmas cookies?" I had asked her.

"I ain't got time for no cookies this year," she said. Edna Hatfield possibly used the word "ain't" more than any other person in America, and double negatives were her speciality.

"But Grandma," I said "It just isn't Christmas without your cookies." I meant it too.

I spent some time with her that morning, and after a while decided to go visit some other family members, go see the dairy barn and just have a look around. Eventually I went home to my parent's house and kind of forgot about the conversation with my grandmother.

The next day I was back, and again, she was in the kitchen preparing food. Cookies. The kitchen was filled with them. All kinds. She looked so pleased when I said hello, that she would likely burst. It meant the world to her that her adult grandson still came home for her cookies at Christmas time.

I may not be able to say that I am "an ole' country boy" anymore. The world for me, has moved on. I now have my own family and we are building our own traditions. I will not be able to take my children back to the family farm anymore, and they will not spend any nights in the upstairs bedroom filled with old boxes and ancient books like I did. They won't spend all morning raking hay or loading bales or picking stones. They won't know the experience of having to take a dip in the pool before lunch, not just to cool off, but to rinse they layers of dust from the field off of you before you could eat. What they will know is that they come from good, hardworking people who loved each other and loved and respected the land that was as much a part of them as anything.

One of my tribe, enjoying the simple life on the farm around 2011

Today the farm is officially gone, "a hundred years of farming history pushed into a hole," and I am closing the door on my childhood. That mere "seven years." As it clicks shut, I know that it is my wife's time, and my children's time, and that the old times are gone forever. But I also know that when I need to, I can open that door and take a peek back. I can hold my grandfathers tools that I have kept, or I can make my kids some old fashioned "milk gravy" and tell them "When I was your age..."

It's okay.

Like I have said previously, it is how you are remembered that is important. It is what you have left behind that really counts. Thank you Don and Edna Hatfield for all that you have left behind, even though...

We are still savages.