Reprise: Twenty-Five Years

(This is written 9 months (July 2009) before we received a diagnosis of advanced metastatic prostate cancer (April 2010).  What good fortune we had - the treatments afforded us much more time - and for the most part, more truly quality time. 

Tom himself predicted 10 years of mobility; 20 living years, expecting to have a much shortened life span because of the effects of infantile paralysis.  He also learned to deny pain at an early age, and reflecting on the last several years, I see way more signs of pain than I did at the time.  But as the days melt away, I continue to be so grateful for all the time we had - and grateful that I wish for more.

And - when doctors sometimes laughed - we pointed out that it was truly OUR disease - it impacted both our lives - pretty obviously, eh?

original article:  Twenty-Five Years  -laura)

 Twenty-five years

The first time I laid eyes on Laura Ellen Robinson was late in the summer of 1982.

“Lori,” as she was called at that time, had just landed a job as a hostess at “The Gemini” restaurant in Wheat Ridge.

I had just returned to work as the baker for Dewey Dutton’s wildly successful bi-polar vegetarian/steak eaters’ bistro. I’d been home recovering from a motorcycle crash when Laura was hired.

When Laura walked toward me in the hallway to the kitchen, I muttered under my breath, “There’s a sweetie for ya.”

Little did I know.

Neither of us would say necessarily now that we believe in love at first sight. Except in our case, it was pretty much love at first sight.

After what I thought was an appropriate “get acquainted at work” passage of time, (about 4 hours, - laura) I began following Laura around the restaurant, from one hostess station to the next, intent on asking her for a date.

Every time I approached, she would become startled and quickly dart away, an avoidance reaction that only increased my ardor.

Finally, I stepped in front of her and forced her to come to a standstill. I looked in those big beautiful blue eyes and asked, “Would you like to go have a cocktail after work?”

With a mischievous smile, she said, “I’m not old enough.”

She was 20. I was 40. Even though she was under legal age, after work we went to Etta’s Bar a short distance down Wadsworth Boulevard and had a cocktail. And no, she didn’t get carded.

Laura had come to Denver to stay temporarily with her sister and husband. She had gone into hiding to avoid a poor mistaken but dangerous young man she had met in California.

She and I went on several “dates,” not always to Etta’s. I have fond memories of visiting Buffalo Bill’s grave; Laura let me drive her sister’s Mustang up into the foothills and back. (Did you know that, Darlene?)

Because she was a hostess and not a waitress, Laura couldn’t make much money at the Gemini. She didn’t really want to impose on her sister for too long, but couldn’t really afford her own apartment either.

By and by, her parents suggested that she move back to Boise and live there again for a short time. They came from Idaho to pick her up.

The night before she was to depart, she and I went to Etta’s to enjoy a farewell drink. I managed to spill an entire glass of beer on her. She surely smelled like a brewery when she returned to her waiting family that night.

I definitely didn’t want her to leave at that point. I had become fond of her company. Very fond. Laura had obediently acceded to her parents’ wisdom, and I had resigned myself to that fact.

Hindsight shows it was appropriate for us to take a break at that point.  (The break also meant that I have a group of letters, banded together, to remind me . . . -laura)

I was also acutely aware of the potentiality that I might never see Laura again. Hoping to continue in her acquaintance, I had given her my brother’s telephone number and my mailing address. Off she went to Idaho.

A Christmas gift

On Christmas Day 1982 the phone rang at Dick’s house, and Mary handed the receiver to me. It was Laura calling from her grandparents’ mobile home in Boise, where she had taken up yet another temporary residence.

She called me. I was floored. Dumbfounded. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before. She called me.  (What a Hussy! - laura)

We half-seriously discussed moving together to Flagstaff, where I had a standing invitation to work in a bakery at Little America.

I spent the rest of that holiday in a daze, a dreamy fog.

There followed an exchange of typed and handwritten letters and many phone calls. I remember specifically stopping to use the pay phone at Schwarz’s Market just down the street from my apartment in Brighton.

That long-distance courtship finally came to a close on March 15, 1983, when Laura arrived in Brighton – driving her own well-worn 1967 Mustang across Wyoming to get there.

(I had a vivid dream, on my way to Tom's house, about a girl on a hospital gurney - blond-haired, white pants, white tennis shoes.  After Tom got home from work that first night, and we were becoming . . . reacquainted . . .  I became alarmed at sounds outside. "Oh, don't worry about it, it's nothing . . . I'll show you." 

And he opened the door to his brother Dick, who, after introductions, suggested we come to the hospital, where Tom's daughter Monica was being treated.

Upon our arrival in the emergency waiting room, I was introduced to Tom's Dad - who crossed his arms and turned his back to me.  

I looked past him as Tom went into the cubicle where his daughter was - and had a glimpse of a girl on a hospital gurney - blond-haired, white pants, white tennis shoes.

-0-

In the next few days, I nested into Tom's apartment, unloaded my Mustang, including the hand-made cedar chest from Dad and Mom, and the large teddy bear which Mom insisted dressing in guy's clothing and putting in the passenger seat, and decided to do laundry.  Tom pretty obviously didn't know about separating colors and whites.

Got a load started, went out to put my car back together, enjoyed the sunshine - and came back in to 3" of water on the kitchen floor.  The washer drain had to be put into the sink during each use.  I had never experienced anything like that!

The kitchen floor was very clean when Tom got home that night.  And I never made that particular error again.  -laura)

Since that day, we’ve pretty much been constant companions. (I am so grateful - SO GRATEFUL - for this - and it makes life pretty lonely right now. -)  We are friends, buddies, business partners, lovers. And we benefit beyond description from the bond of Holy Matrimony.

We were married in Boise on July 21, 1984. Performing the rite was the Rev. Bob Wecker, Laura’s uncle. He was stern, to say the least. “If you can’t look me in the eyes and say you agree with my requirements, I will not perform this marriage,” he said. He meant it.

This next week, we celebrate our 25th anniversary. The success of our marriage has been dependent on intense effort and dedication from both of us.  (Last year was our 30th Anniversary.)

We have not had an easy row to hoe. We have faced huge obstacles, including family problems (my family) and simply being able to make enough money to pay the bills.

We moved to California in 1986 for a “new start” and after a few months of motorcycling bliss we both got laid off our jobs on the same day.

Tails between our legs, we moved back to Colorado and with the help of family (my family) we opened our own business.

Only four years into our marriage, we started our own “destination niche” business. If that ain’t a recipe for disaster, I don’t know what is. But it hasn’t been a disaster, it’s been a blast.

Why success?

Several factors have contributed to the fact that Laura and I have been able to remain married for all that time.

Primarily, Laura’s parents, Doris and Ellwyn, receive the credit. Doris was skillfully intuitive, and she saw through me immediately.

Years later, she told me, “Lori saw something in you. I simply supported her in what she saw.”

I know I didn’t look like a real bargain. I was twice Laura’s age. I was divorced. I was emotionally devastated, exhausted, defeated, ruined. Confused. Baffled.

I had this long hair thing, a beard thing, a Harley-Davidson thing, a leather thing. I was rough, coarse, rude, full of false bravado. I was listening over and over to Bob Seger’s anthem, “Against the Wind.”

In spite of all this, and following Doris’ lead, the Robinson family enfolded me. I wasn’t accustomed to that, and it felt good. It was the beginning of the making of me. They testified to me by their actions rather than by talk. Laura and her family became the light of my life.

One more thing

Late in 1999, a strange thing happened to me, to us. One night at dinner, out of the blue, I said, “We need to start going to church.”

We both looked around the room and asked each other, “Who said that?” It was I, but it wasn’t something anyone anywhere had ever heard me say before.

Suffice to say, I’d received a grace; I had been enabled; I could listen to the Holy Spirit. After some false starts and thrashing around, we found ourselves at St. Peter Roman Catholic Church on the first Sunday in this century.  (THANKS BE TO GOD! -laura)

Ten (fifteen now  -laura) years later, we’re still there. We are hyperactive Catholics, and our marriage is blessed by the Church.

This event isn’t just an important thing in our marriage. It is THE important thing. Our union is still far from perfect, and we each make mistakes, but as married Catholics we share a fullness, a wholeness, a wholesomeness – yes, even a holiness.

The renewal of our vows, marking 25 years, is scheduled for 7 a.m. Mass July 19. We wanted this ceremony to be a public one so that we could give visible testimony to the priceless blessing God gives us humans, the blessing of Holy Matrimony, of Holy Matrimony Catholic style.

Be there or be square.

(Fr. Tadeusz was the celebrant for our renewal.  He asked if it was okay to utilize a Polish tradition - of course!  During our vow renewal, he wrapped our hands together with his stole, a beautiful Our Lady of Guadalupe representation embroidered on it.  

Fr. Tadeusz also was the messenger for my music ministry.  "Laura, I would like you to lead our elders in song each week.  It will be good for them."

Yes, Fr. Tadeusz.  And it has been invaluable for me.  Thank you.

Pictures in a future reprise.  -laura)

-0-

Word of the week: Conversion. It’s from Latin, “conversio,” change. Most commonly, it means a change from lack of faith to belief. It means adoption of a religion, especially Christianity. It means to change from one belief, religion, doctrine, or opinion, to another. I’ve never felt like a “convert” to Catholicism. I’ll write about that some time.

Twenty-five Years

Dear Readers: In case you haven’t been keeping track, here comes Friday Letter #107. Enjoy!

Twenty-five years

The first time I laid eyes on Laura Ellen Robinson was late in the summer of 1982.

“Lori,” as she was called at that time, had just landed a job as a hostess at “The Gemini” restaurant in Wheat Ridge.

I had just returned to work as the baker for Dewey Dutton’s wildly successful bi-polar vegetarian/steak eaters’ bistro. I’d been home recovering from a motorcycle crash when Laura was hired.

When Laura walked toward me in the hallway to the kitchen, I muttered under my breath, “There’s a sweetie for ya.”

Little did I know.

Neither of us would say necessarily now that we believe in love at first sight. Except in our case, it was pretty much love at first sight.

After what I thought was an appropriate “get acquainted at work” passage of time, I began following Laura around the restaurant, from one hostess station to the next, intent on asking her for a date.

Every time I approached, she would become startled and quickly dart away, an avoidance reaction that only increased my ardor.

Finally, I stepped in front of her and forced her to come to a standstill. I looked in those big beautiful blue eyes and asked, “Would you like to go have a cocktail after work?”

With a mischievous smile, she said, “I’m not old enough.”

She was 20. I was 40. Even though she was under legal age, after work we went to Etta’s Bar a short distance down Wadsworth Boulevard and had a cocktail. And no, she didn’t get carded.

Laura had come to Denver to stay temporarily with her sister and husband. She had gone into hiding to avoid a poor mistaken but dangerous young man she had met in California.

She and I went on several “dates,” not always to Etta’s. I have fond memories of visiting Buffalo Bill’s grave; Laura let me drive her sister’s Mustang up into the foothills and back. (Did you know that, Darlene?)

Because she was a hostess and not a waitress, Laura couldn’t make much money at the Gemini. She didn’t really want to impose on her sister for too long, but couldn’t really afford her own apartment either.

By and by, her parents suggested that she move back to Boise and live there again for a short time. They came from Idaho to pick her up.

The night before she was to depart, she and I went to Etta’s to enjoy a farewell drink. I managed to spill an entire glass of beer on her. She surely smelled like a brewery when she returned to her waiting family that night.

I definitely didn’t want her to leave at that point. I had become fond of her company. Very fond. Laura had obediently acceded to her parents’ wisdom, and I had resigned myself to that fact.

Hindsight shows it was appropriate for us to take a break at that point.

I was also acutely aware of the potentiality that I might never see Laura again. Hoping to continue in her acquaintance, I had given her my brother’s telephone number and my mailing address. Off she went to Idaho.

A Christmas gift

On Christmas Day 1982 the phone rang at Dick’s house, and Mary handed the receiver to me. It was Laura calling from her grandparents’ mobile home in Boise, where she had taken up yet another temporary residence.

She called me. I was floored. Dumbfounded. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before. She called me.

We half-seriously discussed moving together to Flagstaff, where I had a standing invitation to work in a bakery at Little America.

I spent the rest of that holiday in a daze, a dreamy fog.

There followed an exchange of typed and handwritten letters and many phone calls. I remember specifically stopping to use the pay phone at Schwarz’s Market just down the street from my apartment in Brighton.

That long-distance courtship finally came to a close on March 15, 1983, when Laura arrived in Brighton – driving her own well-worn 1967 Mustang across Wyoming to get there.

Since that day, we’ve pretty much been constant companions. We are friends, buddies, business partners, lovers. And we benefit beyond description from the bond of Holy Matrimony.

We were married in Boise on July 21, 1984. Performing the rite was the Rev. Bob Wecker, Laura’s uncle. He was stern, to say the least. “If you can’t look me in the eyes and say you agree with my requirements, I will not perform this marriage,” he said. He meant it.

This next week, we celebrate our 25th anniversary. The success of our marriage has been dependent on intense effort and dedication from both of us.

We have not had an easy row to hoe. We have faced huge obstacles, including family problems (my family) and simply being able to make enough money to pay the bills.

We moved to California in 1986 for a “new start” and after a few months of motorcycling bliss we both got laid off our jobs on the same day.

Tails between our legs, we moved back to Colorado and with the help of family (my family) we opened our own business.

Only four years into our marriage, we started our own “destination niche” business. If that ain’t a recipe for disaster, I don’t know what is. But it hasn’t been a disaster, it’s been a blast.

Why success?

Several factors have contributed to the fact that Laura and I have been able to remain married for all that time.

Primarily, Laura’s parents, Doris and Ellwyn, receive the credit. Doris was skillfully intuitive, and she saw through me immediately.

Years later, she told me, “Lori saw something in you. I simply supported her in what she saw.”

I know I didn’t look like a real bargain. I was twice Laura’s age. I was divorced. I was emotionally devastated, exhausted, defeated, ruined. Confused. Baffled.

I had this long hair thing, a beard thing, a Harley-Davidson thing, a leather thing. I was rough, coarse, rude, full of false bravado. I was listening over and over to Bob Seger’s anthem, “Against the Wind.”

In spite of all this, and following Doris’ lead, the Robinson family enfolded me. I wasn’t accustomed to that, and it felt good. It was the beginning of the making of me. They testified to me by their actions rather than by talk. Laura and her family became the light of my life.

One more thing

Late in 1999, a strange thing happened to me, to us. One night at dinner, out of the blue, I said, “We need to start going to church.”

We both looked around the room and asked each other, “Who said that?” It was I, but it wasn’t something anyone anywhere had ever heard me say before.

Suffice to say, I’d received a grace; I had been enabled; I could listen to the Holy Spirit. After some false starts and thrashing around, we found ourselves at St. Peter Roman Catholic Church on the first Sunday in this century.

Ten years later, we’re still there. We are hyperactive Catholics, and our marriage is blessed by the Church.

This event isn’t just an important thing in our marriage. It is THE important thing. Our union is still far from perfect, and we each make mistakes, but as married Catholics we share a fullness, a wholeness, a wholesomeness – yes, even a holiness.

The renewal of our vows, marking 25 years, is scheduled for 7 a.m. Mass July 19. We wanted this ceremony to be a public one so that we could give visible testimony to the priceless blessing God gives us humans, the blessing of Holy Matrimony, of Holy Matrimony Catholic style.

Be there or be square.

-0-

Word of the week: Conversion. It’s from Latin, “conversio,” change. Most commonly, it means a change from lack of faith to belief. It means adoption of a religion, especially Christianity. It means to change from one belief, religion, doctrine, or opinion, to another. I’ve never felt like a “convert” to Catholicism. I’ll write about that some time.

Next week’s word: Flabbergasted.

Gripes? Complaints? Whines? Comments? Adoration? Puppy love? Reciprocal rant? Feel free to express yourself in the comments below!

Here's a '56 In Your Face

Twelve years ago, we were driving down the street in nearby Evans minding our own business.

Laura said, “Hey. Do you want to go around the block and look at that truck that’s for sale?”

We were cruising cool in a brand-new Ford F-150. I looked at her like she was, er, touched, and said, “Naw. What do I want to look at an old truck for?”

A week later she didn’t ask. She said, rather insistently, “Let’s go back and look at that truck.” She knew that the undoing of me is to test drive something. We drove it around the block.

We soon became the proud owners of a completely beat-up 1956 Ford F-600. It had 49,000 actual miles on the odometer, but it had been rode hard and put away wet, like we say.

The first expenditure to get this vehicle roadworthy had to be tires. We bought two used wheels, two new and four recapped tires, spending $1,200. We had paid $800 for the whole truck. That’s pretty much how it’s been since then.

The gross vehicle weight of the truck is 17,000 pounds. This means it can legally carry about five tons. It ain’t no big truck, by today’s standards, but I’ve never had anything other than half-tons. For me it’s a big truck.

Over the past dozen years, we’ve bought even more tires and we’ve replaced, repaired or modified: the bumper, radiator, water pump, fan shroud, carburetor, intake manifold, generator, oil filter adapter, starter, clutch and ring gear, muffler and exhaust system, windshield gasket, driver and passenger seat, rear view mirrors, door weather strips, heater core, heater motor, universal joints and pinion gear seal.

An acquaintance of ours built the steel flatbed with some of the original equipment and some new material. Another friend modified the bed-to-frame mounting system and replaced a broken section in the truck frame adjacent to the dual rear wheels and tires.

This is nowhere near a comprehensive list of what we’ve done on this thing in its dozen years in our yard. Once for Laura’s birthday we replaced the muffler, and when I showed her the surprise she said, “Oh honey, you shouldn’t have!” Then for my birthday we installed dual tailpipes. I was ecstatic.

The truck is powered by an early version of the Ford 272 cubic inch “Y-block” overhead valve engine fed through a Chevrolet two-barrel carburetor. (That lets us out of the Pebble Beach Concours Classic show, doesn’t it?)

The transmission is what Ford calls “Five Direct,” meaning it has five forward speeds with fifth gear being direct, engine to rear wheels with no change in ratio. The drive train features a two-speed axle, giving us ten forward gears and two in reverse. Absolute top speed is 65 miles per hour.

The vehicle gets an even seven miles per gallon, loaded with freight or empty, slow or fast, summer or winter. Before improvements (Chevvy carburetor) we were getting 6.66 miles per gallon. A twenty percent improvement is pretty good, we think.

Early on, we had the seat covered in leather, and we’ve worn it out. Today, the truck has 60,000 miles – actual miles – on the odometer. Do the math. That’s 11,000 miles since we’ve owned it. It’s not easy to drive it very far.

And now, we present:     Big Red Rose

“What year is your truck?” There might be a visual clue in the license plate – though the county issued this by coincidence.

The meaning of this sticker is lost on the owner. But it seemed as if it wouldn’t be politically correct, somehow, so on it went.

Save the Coal Act? That is for sure not a politically correct bumper sticker, now is it Mr. Tommy?

Remember Y2K Phobia? We were safe in Oklahoma, with the bumper sticker to prove it.

The brush guard was purchased for One U.S. dollar in a Boise thrift store. Our friend Hugh made the brackets and installed the important piece of hardware. . . . Like we go in the weeds with this thing.

This is the power takeoff. You could run a wheat thresher with this truck's engine, hooked up to this device. When we bought the vehicle, the PTO was hidden under about five inches of mud and grease. The previous owner didn't know it had a PTO.

This is a phrase invented long ago by Mr. Tommy. It's "faux Latin," and its intended English meaning is . . . "Don't let the bastards wear ya down."

Remember the Culhanes on Hee Haw? And is there any visual clue here as to the date of manufacture?

Hitchiker from Nebraska has stuck with us for years.

What a nice touch. Laura has her name on “her” door. How sweet, Mr. Tom!

This Mustang grill emblem may well be the shiniest thing on the truck. We had the horsie so we found a place on the truck for him. There’s also a Pinto.

What a birthday present! Mr. Tommy always wanted Twice Pipes and now he has ‘em. Fuel mileage and performance did improve ever so slightly after this attractive addition.

This ought to be bloody obvious. But in Oregon, they have teenaged losers fill your gas, so they might need a visual clue.

Though it’s a Ford, Fisher Body obviously built the rusty, bent parts.

Where once there was a rusty hole, now there’s a stainless floor by Mikey & Tom.

Garden tool rack can substitute as a grenade launcher.

Cows watch out! We’ve got warning bells.

Sure it’s hard to read it backwards, but the nickname in the back window is “Exxon-Valdez.” Any ideas why the truck has this nickname?

Our little duckie has a magnet in a tender place.

Mom assured Tom that a truck like that was incomplete without brass balls.  (MOM???!!!)

 Suck in your breath and check your bank balance when you go out to buy four of these 9.00x20 traction tires. Tom cut down the mudflaps from ones intended for an even bigger truck.

This is the End

Friday 11/23/07 "The Martin Chronicles"

This is the story of two men named Martin.

Other than the name, the two have nothing in common -- except that they are acquaintances, friends, neighbors of Tom and Laura.

Billy Martin

We've known Billy Martin for almost 20 years. He is the son of Kent Martin who for some years lived at the Ponderosa Mobile Court adjoining our property here in Greeley.

You may recall Kent Martin as the subject of a story called "long-term followup," earlier in these musings. Kent was a client at a sheltered workshop in Denver where my brother Dick worked many years ago.

Billy Martin is now some 30 years old. He is rather painfully inflicted with multiple sclerosis and many other physical and mental disabilities.

Once upon a time, Billy was quite good at riding a bicycle and actually had his own apartment and held a job. Laura and I got to know him when he bought a leather jacket from us and made payments on it over several months.

Billy, like his father, has a debilitating speech impediment. He can hardly speak without stuttering. He has trouble walking. His skin is constantly broken out with acne. Those are only the visible evidences of damage.

Some time ago, Kent moved from the mobile court to an apartment downtown -- "coincidentally" right across the street from St. Peter Roman Catholic Church, the church we attend.

We often see Kent when we're outside church, coming or going, or working in the flower garden. By way of making conversation, we would ask the usual: how's your mom, are you feeling better, how's Billy.

Alarmingly, a couple of years ago, Kent said, "Billy's in the big house."

We didn't press it. But we were surprised -- Billy just ain't the criminal type. We guessed Billy might have fallen in among a bad crowd. Nope. No such luck.

Last week, Billy was released on parole. The Greeley Tribune dutifully reported this event. Apparently having no alternative, Billy moved in with his dad. The Tribune, of course, heaped as much dung as possible on the little guy, calling him a "sexually violent predator," and gleefully and precisely reporting his street address and apartment number.

Billy had been convicted of ''attempted sexual assault of a child.'' Sent to the big house. Two years. Released with an ankle bracelet. This last seemed particularly ludicrous: Billy's ankles are five inches in diameter at most. Tiny skinny little ankles with a big ol' sheriff's cuff. Just ludicrous.

Billy Martin. What in the world could be going on with the poor guy? We may never know.

Martin Salinas

We've known Martin Salinas for about ten years. Martin and his wife Barbara rented our cute little No. 2 mobile home for several years.

They are extremely challenged in a multitude of ways. Martin has been in jail more than once, usually following a combination of alcohol and driving. Martin lost driving privileges permanently over this issue.

Barbara is emotionally disturbed. Once, she almost lost her eyesight because she insisted on a thick layer of mascara even though there was deep, painful infection in her eyelids. She cries. She and Martin fight. She calls the cops. They split up. They reunite. Repeatedly.

Martin is a nice guy. I've gotten to know him as a tenant, as a neighbor. His home is not in our little mobile court now; he and Barbara moved into their own trailer just a block away on Third Avenue. Martin and I have been snow-shoveling buddies.

Martin had poor vision, and he isn't the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. Some of the time he has regular work; some of the time he makes do with part-time stuff like chopping weeds or shoveling snow. He's cute and has a giggly sense of humor.

Lately, the division between Martin and Barbara had become more permanent. Barbara moved downtown to an apartment about a block from St. Peter Church. Martin stayed at the trailer. Martin's eighty-year-old mom visited daily - sometimes several times a day. Months went by.

Martin found a new girlfriend. He continued his friendly ways with us, waving cheerily as he rode by in his Mom's car.

One day a couple of weeks ago, Martin woke up in a coma, hospitalized. The family reports that four men and a woman entered Martin's home about midnight. They beat and stabbed Martin and dragged him outside.

Barbara saw me in the grocery and asked me to drive her to see her Ex. I did, and she took him a dozen red roses. I visited Martin at North Colorado Medical Center a week ago.

His eyesight is gone, lost to stab wounds. His memory may return -- he did recognize me by name during my visit. He was left for dead in the dirt outside his trailer. His sister ''sensed'' something wrong and found him there about 1 a.m.

Martin Salinas. What in the world could be going on with the poor guy? We may never know.

-0-

There you have it. The tale of the two Martins. Cheerful holiday fare, eh?

-0-

Last week, writing by our friend David Ralston appeared in this space. It's what we had hoped others would do. Write something.

This was intended to be an exchange, not a monologue. Too busy? We've been through that: ''Too busy'' don't cut no ice. I'm too busy, but I do it anyway. Twenty-five weeks in a row now.

-0-

Word of the week: Penitentiary. It's from the Latin (shock and surprise) "Paenitentia,'' see penance. It means "prison" but guess what. There's a Roman Catholic meaning too -- "An officer empowered to give absolution in cases normally reserved to a bishop."

Next week's word: Ordinary.

-0-

Gripes? Complaints? Whines? or Comments? Adoration? Puppy love? Feel free to express yourself in the comments!

Our Oncological Adventure

Tom is one of the bravest men I know.  He survived infantile paralysis, which disease resulted in more than usual family conficts. He has been a journalist and newspaper editor, a baker, a chef, a biker, a hippy, a husband, a father, a son, a brother, an uncle, a grandpa and great-grandpa.  He is an oil painter, a tailor, a landlord, a child of God.

And he has been my mate.  For more than thirty years we've been a team.  In our first five years we went separate directions for jobs; when we returned to Colorado we knew we wanted to work together as well as live together.  Man, has that led to some challenges - for both of us. But the rewards . . . the rewards.  Not financial - he'd be the first to tell you we didn't plan well.  The other side of that is that we are among the wealthiest in the world - it doesn't have to do with a bank account, though.

Neither of us knew much about leather tailoring when we opened The Real Leather Company in October 1988.  We learned a lot in 26 years.  Mostly we learned not to let our personal differences get in the way of customer relationships.

Tom was married to the mother of his children - my bonuses - for 15 years.  When we met, they were considering reconciliation.  Obviously, that did not happen - but just a few weeks ago, when Jaye and Ben came to visit, Annette came down from the mountains and spent the night, visiting with us, visiting our friend's art show, going to Mass with us.  What joy to be able to say to my friends - "Look - that's my bonus son, my bonus daughter . . . and their Mom."  Eyebrows raised, the question came "you mean, his ex-wife is sitting in the same pew with him?"  Yes.  What a grace their friendship could be renewed in spite of the parting of ways.  What courage he shows to maintain that relationship.  Easier by far to throw out the past and move on.

At the time they parted, he lost his job; lost his apartments; lost his home.  Lost his children.  Not really, but the relationships were changed.  He went to Idaho State University and became a fantastic baker, a chef extraordinaire.  Worked for the Sun Valley Company in their premier bakery.  Started a new life.  As time progressed, and the effects of polio became better known, he investigated a hip replacement, and moved back to Colorado to help his Dad and brother in their rental property business.  A hip replacement was not possible as the hip he had was not fully developed (it stayed the size of a four-year-old) and he simply was not a good candidate for the surgery.  Conflicts continued with his Dad; we met and married; we moved to California in search of better climate, a new beginning.

After a couple years California chewed us up and spit us out, and back we came to Colorado.  Tails dragging, not beaten though.  With the backing of the family business, we were afforded the opportunity to start our business.

After 15 years of marriage, in late 1999, Tom said "We need to go to church."  He and I both looked around the dining room - who could have said that?  Couldn't have been Tom.  The Holy Spirit led us to the Roman Catholic Church, St. Peter Parish to be exact - and we never looked back.  We have been enfolded, embraced, empowered by the community and by learning to seek God's will in our lives.  How brave, to turn to God in the face of . . . skepticism and doubt, in a world not accustomed to seeking the face of God.

We added Catholic goods to our store - another courageous move, would it "upset" our "biker" customers?  No.  It clarified who we are, in Whom we believe, the hope we want to share with others.

These verses come to mind:  ". . . wives should be subordinate to their husbands in everything.  Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ loved the church and handed himself over for her"  (Eph. 5:24,25)  It's pretty obvious to me that the male bears huge  responsibility here.  It's easy to be "subordinate" when the man is willing to love his wife as Christ loved the church - even to the point of death for His beloved.  It has become easy to be subordinate to Tom as he strives to walk with God.

He was diagnosed with advanced metastatic prostate cancer in 2010, the year after our 25th anniversary.  God guided our way to some of the best doctors you could find, including Dr. Flaig, who teaches at U C Hospital, and travels the world helping other doctors learn how to more effectively treat urologic cancers. More recently we added Drs. Fuller and Fried to our "wonder doctor" list, as they have helped with radiation therapy and palliative treatment.

We came to Denver to see our beloved Dr. Flaig Thursday, and have been at University Hospital since then.  Lots of tests, lots of talks, lots of tears.  Wonderful care.  Compassionate, loving, merciful care.

Friday I did one of the hardest things I've ever done.  I informed Tom's children that there are no further treatment options; that we can pursue palliative care; that we will be going home (I hope) with hospice care.  OF COURSE there can be a miracle; Tom can be healed; the doctors don't know for sure about Tom's life span.  OR yours or my life span.  But I believe the true miracle will come when Tom meets Jesus - and is healed; made whole; when he "who hopes in the Lord will renew his strength.  He will soar on wings like eagles; he will run and not grow weary, he will walk and not be faint." (Is. 40:31)

He is embarking on the hardest part of his life so far - letting go.  Letting go of his hopes, aspirations, desires; letting go to let God embrace him and take him home.  Our true home.  Letting go of earthly attachments; entrusting his children's future, my future - to our Lord.

If you want to send him a card, our mailing address is 330 18th St., Greeley, CO  80631.  If you want to visit him, and need our home address, let me know.

Here's how we met:   Twenty-five Years

Thomas Hodge, aka Tom, Tomaso, Maso, Dad, Grandpa, Great Grandpa, Tio Tomaso, The Old Rocker . . . is one of the bravest men I know.

20th Store Anniversary

Greetings and Salutations. See below for Friday Letter #72. Enjoy.

Our 20-year odyssey

Toward the end of October in 1988, Laura and I officially opened our business, “The Real Leather Company.”

Do the math. That’s twenty (20) years. Twenty years this month in a business that has been described as “a studiously unconventional destination niche.”

With the backing of Dad’s rental business, we found a poor old decrepit building on the eastern fringe of Greeley.

We’re still here – although in 1995 we expanded to use the whole building. At first, we crammed our sales and service departments into one-third of a 3,000-square-foot floor space.

Our very first customer ever was “Kansas Donnie,” a pear-shaped brute from the plains. Laura altered a pair of chaps for Donnie, using denim because we didn’t even have any leather in stock yet.

When Laura finished her work, Donnie put on his newly enlarged chaps, put his huge leg over his well-worn Knucklehead Harley and deliberately rode off into the unknown, neglecting somehow to pay the bill.

Later on, in passing, I mentioned this unacceptable behavior to Willie Spaedt at his motorcycle shop, “A Righteous Ride.” Willie offered, “I’ve got a mechanic’s lien on Donnie’s bike. He will come and pay you before I let the bike go.”

Later that same day, would you believe it, Donnie showed up to deliver $25 cash. We never saw him again. We were thrilled. And our thanks once more to Willie, who has continued to be our supporter through the years.

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We sought the advice of several business people before opening the business. All of them encouraged us, but some said “you’ll know” whether to continue “after three years.” Frankly, we still don’t know.

Among our first customers were Tomas Mondragon and Tomas Gonzales – both of whom we still see in the neighborhood. We have dozens of such examples of our long-term clientele.

We must have done all right in the good will department, because hardly anybody gets mad at us. Some exceptions happen when we get slow on filling custom orders.

At present, the RLC is open only on Saturdays. This has happened before: we tend to accept too many repair and alterations jobs, so we close up during the week to try and catch up. This also serves as R and R time.

Ironically, the inventory here is the best it has ever been. Volume, variety, selection, size range are all way up. So we have lots of leather duds for sale and we’re closed.

I said we are unconventional, didn’t I? Rest assured, the plan is to be “open” more regularly come November.

Speaking of inventory, in 2003 we began stocking and reselling books and gifts, targeting specifically a Roman Catholic clientele.

Laura likes to say, “That means you can buy a biker jacket and a Bible at the same place.” Unconventional. The Catholic orientation of this enterprise has been very fulfilling and enlightening.

No, our biker customers and our Catholic customers don’t fight. Or even clash. Actually, many of them are the same people. We have created our own venue for evangelization, which is productive and enjoyable.

We have statues, Bibles, rosaries, pendants, crucifixes, leather Bible covers, pamphlets and tracts, gifts and just plain Christian good will.

The building itself is unconventional. We occupy the premises of the former Public Market, a neighborhood grocery and butcher shop just down the hill and across the tracks from the UNC Jackson Field.

So we have cold storage areas that haven’t held frozen meat for probably 35 years. It’s almost eerie how the building is similar to a very memorable one in Fort Lupton: The Community Cold Storage, operated until the mid-50’s by my Dad and Grandfather, still stands at Fifth Street and Denver Avenue.

The roof still leaks here, and the goat-heads do their invasive thing every summer, but we now have central air, and insulation, and filtered forced air heat. We’ve been very fortunate.

Dad quit the grocery/custom butchering business after 25 years. Currently, I don’t have any plan to retire, mostly because I haven’t a clue as to how I’d maintain my high standard of living if I did. Ask me in five more years.

Addendum

Perhaps some readers picked up on this in last week’s spiel about our daughter Jayedominique.

Jaye was born just two weeks before President John Fitzgerald Kennedy was murdered.

I was on campus at the University of Wyoming when I heard that the President had been assassinated. I drove directly home to our little student housing apartment.

My first reaction then was to pick up my newborn daughter and hold her tight to my chest for long, long moments.

As young as she was, she knew something was wrong. Though she is a happy person with an engagingly beautiful smile, there continues an element of wistful pensiveness in Jaye.

I am positive that somber element has its provenance in the horror of the assassination and its aftermath. Things were “this way” when she was born but quickly became “that way.”

She lost something precious within two weeks of being born, and there still isn’t anything to be done to assuage that grief. All her life, she remains too young to understand. For the record, I don’t understand either, Jaye.

The middle kids

Last week, the Letter concentrated on Jaye, the eldest, and Matthew Benjamin, the youngest.

The Middle Kids are twins – Tamara Louise Hodge and Monica Anne Hodge.

Tammy and her family live in New Zealand. We’re currently not on speaking terms, a condition I don’t pretend to be able to comprehend. It has something to do with me being an Ugly American.

Monica moved to Florida right after her high school graduation in 1983. In Florida, she has built herself a loving support community and made herself a home. Monica does what she sets her mind to do, which is a good personality quality.

When she’s “home” from frequent sales trips to promote her SCUBA diving equipment business, “home” is what’s called a “cabin” in the Keys. Quite an accomplishment for a little blonde girl from Idaho.

I’ve been making notes on the dynamics of parenting twins. While I’m studying that, I’ll turn to scripture. Jesus says the first will be last and the last will be first.

He says nothing about the middle ones. But I have dozens of anecdotes about the Middle Kids. Watch this space!

Word of the week: Katzenjammer. Sadly, we have been unable to find a dictionary definition of katzenjammer. In days of old, there was a comic strip called the “Katzenjammer Kids.” They were a bunch of little hooligans, always creating havoc, eager to play a practical joke. Some of them were probably twins. If you have a better definition, please write.

Next week’s word: Vessel.

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Gripes? Complaints? Whines? or Comments? Adoration? Puppy love? Reciprocal rant? Feel free to express yourself in the comment section below!

Greetings and welcome to Friday Letter #82. Please enjoy the text of our son Benjamin’s Navy farewell speech, delivered earlier this month at the Naval Undersea Museum in Washington state. The text has been edited for length. You’re on your own with the Navy jargon. --T

By Matthew Benjamin Hodge

Twenty years.

For quite a while I thought that I would be fired. “This is the military,” I would say to myself, “I don’t belong here.”

When I meet people who don’t know I’m in the military they say, “You’re in the Navy? Never would have guessed that.” Many times even my shipmates would say, “I can’t believe you’re in the Navy”.

Back in time now . . .

I was down and out, selling magazines door to door when I knocked on my recruiter’s door. I sold him two years of Playboy and he sold me six years in the Navy. Seemed like a good deal. I had no idea what I was going to do or why.

I was 20 years old; I didn’t CARE what I would do or where I would go, young and brainless. I had given up on everything in my angst-ridden punk rock way.

I had the best time of my life in boot camp. I had never been to summer camp and it was just how I pictured it to be. There were activities planned and nature walks, and a variety of arts and crafts like folding your underwear so it looks perfect. It was a blast.

I did the Navy Sonar School thing and found that I had a natural ability with sonar; it just made sense to me. Sound, placement, classification, electronic troubleshooting . . . it was like a super-high-tech video game to me.

I liked that it was “sonar SUBJECTIVE analysis” The word subjective made me feel right at home.

I got to my first boat, the Alexandria, and excelled with sonar; my chief called me a prodigy. Unfortunately I had significant behavioral problems -- “issues with authority” is how it read in my evaluation. Not to mention my other socially seditious characteristics, most of which now I am too embarrassed to mention nor would I recapitulate the stories in mixed company.

I went on a few missions with that boat. Before and after I would read the message boards and investigate the upshot with my favorite subversive literature, because I had always thought that what I was doing was just for the cash, blood money I called it; they paid me well to be an instrument of destruction.

I did not care, still the tormented youth, having no faith in humanity, wanting to have a hand in devastation to feel justified in my hatred of myself and what I was doing.

Throughout five years of going to sea I began to doubt my one-sided dissident reading as much as I doubted the message traffic. I had gained a modicum of understanding of the human condition through an obsession with history.

Here’s a story to illustrate my point: Two people drift in a lifeboat on an uncharted sea. One says “There! I see an island. Our best chance is to go ashore, build a shelter, and await rescue.”

The other says, “No, we must go farther out to sea and hope to find the shipping lanes. That is our best chance.”

Unable to agree, the two fight, the lifeboat capsizes, and they drown. This is the nature of humanity. The meaning of the story is that if only two people are left in the entire world, they will come to represent opposing factions.

It took me a while to recognize that America is my faction, my home, and I am very proud to be a U.S. citizen.

I am by no means saying that we are perfect, but we are a far cry better than most of the world. We even have a system in place to better ourselves; that system is our ability to vote and to no small degree our ability to view civil disobedience as a necessary part of keeping things right.

Civil disobedience has been responsible for the majority of the significant changes in our country; it gained the right for ALL the people to vote, it stopped slavery, and has had a huge impact on labor laws, just to name a few.

The Constitution gives us this right. It gives us the ability to freely assemble. It gives us the right to free speech. There is so much in that tiny document that is just so cool. In short, it is in place to keep power-hungry people in check.

In other countries the rioters would be shot and their families would be charged for the bullets.

Here, they might beat you up and tell you to come back with more people. Maybe there’ll be a shooting or two but we are still learning. After that epiphany came to me I became extremely gung ho in the Navy.

When I was teaching periscope photography it was the daily routine that my class would say the Pledge of Allegiance, followed by a quick quiz of Constitutional knowledge.

I did good work at the San Diego submarine school house. When I got there, five of the six boats were failing their photo package inspections. When I left, all six boats were earning a grade of outstanding. I made it fun by taking my class to Blacks Beach with the Navy cameras for practice on filter use and depth of field.

I hit the ground jogging when I got to the Michigan. I quickly qualified and took on what in retrospect were too many collateral duties. I was deemed to be the waterfront’s best broadband and WLR-9 operator for three years running and the best sonar supervisor for two.

I created from rubble what the PACNORWEST sound silencing advisor called “the best silencing program he had ever seen.”

I transferred to the Trident Maintenance Facility, and they received me in a less than satisfactory condition. A failing marital relationship and the realization that I had screwed myself out of making chief were making me a little crazed.

Even with my idiosyncratic disposition, I did good work at the TMF. I became an auxiliary systems repair expert, and was allowed to go to the boat in need and fix WHATEVER without civilian supervision.

This was an oddity since by and large the sailors at the sonar shop in TMF are assistants; they carry the tools and are there for the opportunity to learn their trade better. I was on numerous occasions the shop supervisor stand-in and did so with no blunder.

When I came to the Jackson I had just moved everything I owned three times in two months and was in the middle of another move. I did not know whether to take a crap or wind my watch, and I don’t even wear a watch.

I was again put in the position of Leading Petty Officer, I quickly realized that I was out of my depth, and gave that up as soon as feasible. It seems that my problem with authority had extended to myself as well.

So for the last year and a half I have been in the background, with no collateral duties, just standing my watches and giving training.

I would like to think that I have done a good job at that. More than half of the sonar division was fresh out of A school and did not know the difference between blowing down the DCA and getting a machinist’s punch.

This is totally out of the norm and the ship got the short end of the stick on that one. But the sonar division did do O.K., considering how junior the shack is, on our Tactical Readiness Evaluation.

I hope that despite my cantankerous, non compos mentis, I have been able to pass along the benefit of my sonar knowledge.

Although over last few years I may have become fuzzy about who I am, I have never lost focus on what I was doing.

This ship and all like her are not the means of a last resort; they are the first line of defense for this country, the first line of defense for the Constitution.

That document is a masterpiece of governing for which it is worth dying. For me, even harder than dying for it has been living for it -- putting up with the bland military fashion, saying yes sir while exercising the callus on my tongue.

I understand fully that the hierarchy is necessary; nothing would get done without it. This entire military square L 7- ness totally makes sense. It’s the only way it would work.

In a nutshell, war is not coming folks, war is here. It is imperative that these ships get to sea, and remain undetected. These tools are vital to our survival as a nation.

I have heard the normal grumblings in my division and throughout the ship about getting out of the Navy. The last year has been a hard one for all of us. I can’t say that it will get better; we are on hard times in America. Money is short, work hours are long -- requirements increase, manning may decrease -- bowling scores are down, miniature golf scores are up.

That does not change the fact that this ship must continue her mission; if it can’t, things will get astronomically worse. This duty has by hook or crook fallen to us. Pardon my soap box definition. Duty conveys a sense of moral commitment. That commitment is the sort that results in action, and it is not a matter of passive feeling or mere recognition.

When a just and necessary duty is revealed, a wise person commits himself to the cause involved without considering the self-interested courses of actions that may have been relevant previously. This is not to suggest that living a life of duty precludes one from the best sort of life, but duty does involve some sacrifice of immediate self-interest.

I have done my duty. I was by no means cut out to be in the military. I am a tiny bit worse for wear. But the schism in my brain pan caused by the dichotomy of wanting peace and knowing it comes at a price, will heal.

All of the ailments I have received in the Navy are inconsequential – that is unless there is a VA doctor listening (‘cause ouch every thing hurts.) I was well paid and have the benefit of knowing that I did my part to keep the Constitution safe, far outweighs any annoyances that I endured. And it’s pretty cool that I will get paid to not work.

I am glad that I have had the opportunity to serve with all of you. Aside from all the other stuff I just mentioned, the Navy has been my closest family for all of my adult life. It has taken good care of me and put up with all of my eccentricity much better than I had ever thought possible.

I would not have done anything differently. The traditional Navy farewell is “fair winds and following seas” but since this is a submarine – I wish you all “fair winds and seas abeam.”

And to the whippersnappers in my division – you are too young for my brand of hydrocephalic listlessness. Don’t give up on yourselves. It is time for you to do your duty. I stand relieved.

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During the ceremony, as Ben’s Dad, I couldn’t help but think of this verse from the Bible:

“And a voice came from the heavens, ‘You are my beloved Son; with you I am well pleased.’" Mark 1:11

Word of the week: Watch. At the end of the ceremony, Benjamin stood relieved of his “watch.” Another sailor was on hand to take the responsibility. It was all very military, spit shined shoes and crisply ironed uniforms. Impressive.

Gripes? Complaints? Whines? or Comments? Adoration? Puppy love? Reciprocal rant? Feel free to express yourself in the comment section below!

Friday Letter 9/7/07

There's a man here in Greeley who hasn't paid for a haircut since sometime in 1967.

He claims it was all because of the John Birch Society. "I went for a haircut every month. Finally, my barber wore me out with his constant babble about how the Communists were going to overthrow the government.

"One day, he said Dwight David Eisenhower was a 'Communist Pawn.' That was the last straw. I just quit barbers altogether. No more John Birch Society crap for me.''

O.K., but what about shaving?

"I quit shaving about that time too. I had watched the agony my dad went through. He had such a thick healthy beard that he had to shave twice a day.

"Doing something as mundane as shaving isn't beneath my dignity. If I had to inject myself with insulin every day, I could certainly face it. But when I began to think about it, shaving every day -- every day -- it was just overwhelming."

Our Greeley man says, "Do the numbers. If I got a haircut every month between 1967 and today, I would have sat in that chair wearing that bib around my neck, amid talcum powder dust and Four Roses hair tonic, four-hundred and eighty (480) times.

"If I had shaved five times a week since 1967, that would be ten-thousand four-hundred shaves. Ouch. Imagine doing something extraneous like playing with a yo-yo 10,400 times. Besides, the instant you shave or get a haircut, it just starts growing right back. It's a futile exercise in diminishing returns.

"The numbers themselves are mind boggling. But consider the cash out of pocket. In 1967, haircuts cost $1.25 each. Today it's probably $10 or $12. If an average of $5 each is reasonable, that would be $2,400.00 for 480 hair-shortening sessions. Twenty-four-hundred smackers spent on something I don't need?''

The man recalled being accosted at the municipal recreation center. "An old Goldwing rider was in the locker room. He looks up at me and he says, 'Don't you know what a razor is for?'

"I answered, I think it's for women to shave under their arms.

"Shaving is time consuming," our Greeley man says. "Looking in a mirror for that long every day is pure unadulterated vanity. And it does say in the Bible that 'all is vanity.' ''

But, we asked our Greeley man, isn't it vanity for someone to braid his hair, comb and shape his beard, and (gulp) even bleach that hair and beard?

"Well yes," our man said. "All is vanity."

Sort of dovetailed into that is the made-up word of the week: Egovanity. You like?

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Here's a true story for you. An acquaintance of ours was to check in to Northern Colorado Medical Center for minor surgery.

Right in front of the main doors, she slipped and fell. Her kneecap was broken. Health care professionals were immediately in abundance.

You're thinking, they went and got a gurney and wheeled her to emergency, right?

Wrong. They said they were required by regulations to call an ambulance. The trip from the front door of NCMC to the back door of NCMC, in an ambulance, cost $800.

"I guess everybody has to get his share," our friend says.

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Word of the week: Catacomb. From Latin, catacumba, sepulchral vault. Any of a series of vaults or galleries in an underground burial place. The Catacombs are the underground cemeteries in or around Rome, some of which were used as a refuge by the early Christians.

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The word catacombs came to mind when I was thinking about State Hospital South in Blackfoot, Idaho.

As a punk newspaper reporter, I sniffed around SHS a lot. I found the catacombs. Access is gained underground, from one building to another.

The halls are lined with ceramic tile. There are dim sconce lights every few yards, but no escape hatches that I could find.

I never wrote a story about the catacombs. It didn't seem like news to me -- I thought everyone would have already known.

Does it sound spooky to you? It does to me. What function do the catacombs have, or even, are they still in existence? Anybody know?

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Next week's word: accident.

What Cannot Be

Greetings fellow sojourners. We hope you enjoy!

A special "Happy Birthday" to our sister, Heather!
Happy Dec. 14th to you!

What Cannot Be

Once upon a time here in the leather store, a bedraggled-looking individual began a spiel, mostly about his own heroic bikerish accomplishments.

Now, we don't care about a little B.S. -- we hear it all the time, and it's like water off a duck's back. On occasion, we dish it out as well.

But when the tales reach Paul Bunyan or Pecos Bill proportions, Laura and I glance at each other and our eyebrows raise a little in mutual understanding: This guy is a gump.

"I rode my Harley 72 from San Diego on up to Nome in one week during winter in 1977."

Bells go off all over the place. They are special bells that sing "Horsepucky, horsepucky," loud and clear.

Well this one particular fella had a vest, and from the back of this vest several different embroidered patches had obviously been removed.

What this guy wanted was for us to sew this huge "Harley Owners Group" patch over the stitchholes from previous patches.

Usually, we do this kind of job instantly -- for several reasons. One, it means we get paid immediately. Two, it saves us the work of a return trip by some bozo. Third, customers seem to appreciate the instant gratification.

So we went right to work sewing on the huge Harley Eagle contraption.

It took maybe ten minutes. Meanwhile, our Gump regaled us with tales of his biker adventures.

"Yah, I rode from here to the Sturgis Rally in two hours flat." And, "Yah, I rode from Wendover Nevada to Denver in a snowstorm. Only took me five hours."

O.K. I'm indulgent. I summon up my considerable patience.The guy is going to leave $10 with me. And Laura and I are both real quick with vest patches, so we can afford to endure a certain level of blarney for a certain length of time.

"Yah. I used to be a Hells Angel. But I moved outta San Francisco, so I quit the club."

You know what? I've been close enough to know. Laura was done sewing on the patch, so I said, "The only former Hells Angels are dead Hells Angels."

Busted the guy. I had to. I mean, come on. Here he is getting a HOG patch sewn on.

(For the uninitiated, The Harley Owners Group was established in 1983 by the Motor Company. It was -- and is -- the company's lame attempt to combat the ''image'' portrayed by biker gangs. Other than riding a Honda, HOG is the farthest a biker can get from the real thing.)

It Cannot Be

Nope. Can't be a former Hells Angel. Another one like this is "Former Catholic."

You don't risk being murdered for leaving the church. People choose to leave all the time. But I just can't fathom how a person could do this -- especially knowing what I know now.

See, here's how it is. Those of us who are "in communion" with the church are receiving the genuine Body and Blood of Jesus Christ during the eucharistic ritual.

Rail at me if you will, but I came to believe this a long time ago. Vehemently. Firmly. Irretrievably.

Here's how it goes. The priest, who is celebrating "in persona Christe," (in the person of Christ) consecrates the bread and wine during Holy Mass.

By a process we know as "transubstantiation,'' the Holy Spirit works through the priest and the earthly products become the holy substances we consume at communion. That is to say, the Real Presence of Christ is there in the bread and wine.

So if a person actually holds that belief, if he leaves the church or falls from grace in some way, if he fails to confess his sins and fails to ask for forgiveness, if he fails to be repentant . . . he risks separation from God -- Hell, in other words.

Get my drift? Upon accepting membership, a person takes a vow, makes a promise, to uphold these things. A person agrees that the body and blood of Christ are real in the form of the bread and wine consumed.

We had a friend whose wife died. He remained a widower for some years. By and by, he met a nice woman, a widow. They fell in love.

Not only did he marry her. But he also abandoned his Catholic faith and joined up with some protestant mega-church in Loveland -- as his new wife wished him to do.

Now I don't know. I am not St. Peter and I have no position at all as Judge and Jury. I know that one of the best things God does, and likes to do, is to forgive us, so our friend could be forgiven -- if he thinks to ask.

But would I do what our friend did? Uh-uh. Not on yer tintype, Barney. For myself, leaving the Church would be hard on the soul -- fatally hard. I want to go to heaven. I might not go to heaven. But I sure as hell wouldn't thumb my nose at my own promises, at the covenants provided for me.

I'm a former poet, a former Episcopalian, a former Methodist, a former newspaperman, a former baker, a former cigarette smoker, a former carouser, a former hell-raiser . . . but I will never be a former Catholic.

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My brother Richard sure seems to be racking up his twenty minutes of fame. And deservedly so!

We've mentioned before that Dick was the central figure in the campaign to establish a Boys and Girls Club in Brighton.

The club is up and going.

Dick has been honored as "Man of the Year" by Brighton, and he and Mary were recently feted in the Festival of Lights Parade. Dick was the grand marshal.

Here are some of the things said about Dick as he retired from the Brighton City Council:

Dick McLean, elected as Hodge's successor as mayor pro-tem: “Beneath that gray hair is a lot of knowledge and wisdom that he is willing to share with everybody. He has been a mentor and I certainly appreciate it.”

Councilwoman Wilma Rose: “I appreciate his experience and knowledge about the city and the history of our city.”

Councilor Daryl Meyers said he appreciated Hodge’s sense of humor and, “What you have done will continue to make an impression and help in building our community.”

Aw shucks. My little brother. He's taken quite literally what our parents tried to teach us about contributing to the common good. He has taken that teaching and elevated it to a yet higher level.

It's my personal hope that Dick can take a little time off now, enjoy his "antique bus" hobby, and relax. Before he starts something else. . .

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Word of the week: Poultice. Originally the plural of the Latin puls, pultis, pap. A hot soft moist mass, as of flour, mustard, applied to a sore or inflamed part of the body.

Alternative word of the week: Nepotism. From the Latin, naturally. Nepos, nepotis, "Grandson, Nephew." Favoritism shown to relatives, especially in appointment to desirable positions.

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Next week's word: Panache

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Gripes? Complaints? Whines? or Comments? Adoration? Puppy love? Feel free to express yourself in the comments.