Our stay at the Music City Embassy Suites was outstanding: views of
the city from the 8th floor, walking distance to many attractions, and
great wheelchair accessibility. However, the weather did not cooperate.
There were a few breaks in the rain, and we took full advantage. On
Monday, we walked about 30 minutes to the honkeytonk bars that line the
streets for about three solid blocks.
At the first bar, we stood at the door and looked in to see if there
was room for our motley crew. The singer on stage called us out to come
in to a nearby open table. The country music and the beer was good.
Although the band didn’t know any Townes Van Zandt, they did fulfill my
request with an old Johnny Cash tune from the Folsom Prison album.
Monday night, Julia and I walked over to the Parthenon replica at a park near Vanderbilt University.
On Tuesday, we all walked downtown to view the state capitol and other state government buildings.
After all of that hard work, Justin was ready for a hot dog, and we
were ready for a beer. The Nashville farmers market provided the perfect
respite from the rain.
I was drinking a Bearded Iris Homestyle IPA, which might be the best IPA that I have had this year.
The rain continued that afternoon and evening, although we did sneak out for some Ben and Jerry’s ice cream between showers.
To celebrate Justin’s high school graduation, we are on a wheelchair van road trip with the first stop in Memphis.
Traveling with Justin can be a lot of fun but sometimes also very
frustrating. We had trouble finding accessible accommodations in every
city stop on this trip.
Julia booked us at the Hilton. When we arrived, we discovered that
all of the handicapped rooms were in the basement/parking level.
Our room was accessible for perhaps an older person who could walk
but needed a rail support for the toilet or bath. However, we had asked
for a wheelchair accessible bathroom with roll in shower. The bathtub,
narrow door and tight spaces didn’t work.
An hour later. We were settled into a room that worked. It was
located in the very back of the basement floor next to the staff break
room door. But it worked.
The pool had a lift for disabled people but could only be reached by
negotiating a flight of stairs. We asked how a power wheelchair user
could access the pool. Each employee we asked looked at us like we were
aliens. No one knew.
This is often business as usual for wheelchair consumers in our
country. Things are better with the ADA (Americans with Disability Act).
But we have a long ways to go with regard to access and respect. It
isn’t as though our room was cheaper.
Think for a moment how races or genders would feel about being
segregated in hotel basements or restaurant side rooms. Or ushered into
the back room or freight elevator representing the handicapped entrance.
We were pretty tired when we finally got settled into our room and got unpacked. Still, we had time for some Memphis barbecue.
On Saturday, Julia and Justin toured the Civil Rights Museum while I
took a long stroll to downtown, Beale Street, and the riverfront. I
ended up drinking a 201 Poplar IPA at Earnestine’s and Hazel’s.
We met up for an afternoon stroll around downtown, stopping for
gyros, and listening to music at a riverfront festival. On Saturday
night, we dined on delicious fried catfish at the Soulfish Kitchen,
along with sides of fried okra and collard greens.
On Sunday, we returned downtown and toured Old Dominick Distillery.
Our guide did a great job, and the location provided excellent
accessibility for Justin who enjoyed it all including fresh squeezed
lemonade at the end of the tour. Julia and I sampled some of the
distilled stuff.
Sunday evening, we ate burgers at Huey’s and listened to live music.
Although it was crowded, staff did a great job of finding us a table and
creating a path to get there. Food, service, and music were awesome!
Next–Nashville.
“Well, I’ve been afraid of changin’ ‘Cause I’ve built my life around you But time makes you bolder Even children get older And I’m getting older, too.” (Fleetwood Mac-“Landslide”)
Yesterday,
my son graduated from high school. For many reasons, education for
Justin has been a battle. He overcame many physical and social
obstacles.
Today, we spent a couple of hours at his new school and home:
University of Wisconsin-Whitewater. He plans to major in social work
and will start a summer transitions program in July. There are still
unknowns and obstacles ahead, but we will take those day-by-day.
For now, we can sit back and celebrate his victories.
When we hiked last weekend, a few important art pieces had not yet
been installed. So I went out yesterday morning to view my friends’
installations and then again last evening to help in my wife’s
installation of her piece. I don’t think I could ever hike Gibraltar
Rock too many times. It’s just too much fun.
Yesterday, I served as a pallbearer for my wife’s grandmother’s
funeral. Eldora was born in Little Wolf, Wisconsin in 1918 and was
buried in Little Wolf, Wisconsin. She was 99 years old and lived in her
own house until she was 90. She polka danced until she was 97. And
she loved to drink a half-glass of my home-brewed beer at special family
gatherings. As a recent commenter pointed out, none of us knows what
the future holds, but Eldora was a standard setter for living life
fully.
Art on the Trail
This is an event in Lodi,
Wisconsin during May, celebrating art, poetry, music, and musings. The
opening was held last night at D Squared Studios
and Spring Creek Art Works. After our long drive yesterday to the
funeral and back home, we stretched our legs on the Gibraltar Rock
segment.
This
morning, we woke up at sunrise and hiked the Slack’s Hill segment from
the Merrimac Ferry. All along the trail, artists have strategically
placed works of art, reminding us of the connection between nature and
art. Some of the art requires sharp eyes, as it is designed to blend
into the surroundings or disappear over time.
Decorated wood rounds are dispersed along the trail with famous quotes and not-so-famous quotes.
This one was my favorite by a guy I want to learn more about:
Finally,
I leave you with a piece of art that my wife Julia has been working
on. She has learned to weave over the last few years. We still have to
find a place on the trail for it.
Winter has finally passed. The last vestiges of snow have melted
from our north-facing hillside. This morning I rose early, made
sourdough pancakes and coffee, and took service dog Elvis for a long
walk into town.
I walked past the church that I once attended and served as deacon
and into an older neighborhood with beautifully restored Victorian
homes. Today is garage sale weekend, so the yards and streets were
busy. The birds were singing. I could hear children playing. One
house was silent. The paint on the house was starting to peel. My
friend Jon was found dead in that house yesterday.
Jon grew up in that town. He was a high school football star,
graduated from college, earned a commission as a captain in the Army
Rangers, and served in combat in Grenada and Panama, making dozens of
jumps during his military stint at high altitude and low altitude. Jon
married a local girl, had two great sons, and worked as a
stockbroker/financial adviser for many years.
I met Jon at my coffee shop and roastery. He was widely traveled and
loved coffee. Jon was a frequent participant at the “smart table” that
met every morning to discuss the world and local problems of the day.
He was interested in the roasting process and would join me in the
roasting room early in the morning before opening to talk and joke while
I roasted. He scared the crap out of me early one morning by putting a
laser sight on my chest while he hid out in the back parking lot. Jon
did have a weird sense of humor.
I knew him as a friend in the shop and outside the shop. One time,
while I was working on a slow afternoon, he brought me a plate of
freshly prepared wild game and wild rice, explaining how he harvested
and prepared each of the samples on the plate. He was a great cook, and
it was delicious. Jon also invited me to bring my kids to his home for
a family fish fry–bluegill that he and his boys had caught. It was an
occasion that I’ll always remember. From the outside, everything looked
completely happy and normal.
Around that time, Jon told me he would do anything for me. I kind of
laughed it off, but I think he was serious. All i needed to do was
ask. Jon was that kind of person.
I knew that Jon had back problems–partly due to parachute jumps when
he was in the military. He’d had one surgery to fuse vertebra. Then,
after saving a large, sinking man in a lake during a triathlon, Jon blew
out his back again. He needed another surgery, and Jon was never the
same after that second surgery.
I went hiking with him once, taking Jon to the secret waterfall near
Leland, Wisconsin. He told me that he later took his family on that
hike to show them the waterfall. On the drive, I introduced him to the
folk singer Tom Russell. Jon seemed to really enjoy the music,
especially the sad song, “”California Snow.”
Alcohol had always been part of Jon’s life, although he never let me
see him intoxicated. He introduced me to Eagle Rare bourbon by giving
me a bottle although he refused to drink it with me. I’m not sure I
ever shared a drink with him. Jon invited me to meet his parents, and
his dad poured me a small glass of rye, but I don’t remember Jon having
any.
As Jon’s back problems grew worse, doctors couldn’t find a way to fix
him. The two surgeries had left Jon in frequent pain, but there wasn’t
a viable treatment at that point. There was an experimental surgery,
but Jon didn’t trust it. So the doctors offered pain medication, which
Jon hated. Instead, he self-medicated with alcohol. That was the drug
he knew and trusted, but it took its toll. Jon’s wife divorced him. Jon
eventually became unable to work and found himself in a fight with the
private disability insurer to whom he had paid premiums for decades.
During the last couple of years, there was a gap between what Jon
told me and what I believed to be true. He was keeping up a front about
what was happening in the divorce case and the disability insurance
case and about how he was dealing with the pain. Jon stopped inviting
me into his house or even answering the door. He didn’t have voice mail
set up and refused to text. He would sometimes call me up on the phone
when it was clear that he was intoxicated. More often, he would show
up at my house completely sober and in obvious pain. Jon would mention
that alcohol had been a problem but one that he had overcome.
Last Thanksgiving, another friend called to tell me that Jon was in
the hospital and might not make it. The doctors were giving him a 4%
chance of survival and admitted him for hospice care. His skin was a
deep yellow. Both his liver and kidneys were failing. Jon was a
fighter and beat the odds. He eventually transferred to a local nursing
home and then miraculously back home to live independently. Jon knew
that drinking again would kill him. We talked about it–at least three
times in the last couple of months. He told me that he had found
spirituality and was committed to spending his remaining days wisely.
About a month ago, Jon came by my house to visit while another mutual
friend was here. We shot the crap about old times. His color was much
better–nearly normal. We drank coffee and told Jon how glad we were that
he had made it back. Jon was going to get a puppy. Things were
looking up. A few days later, I stopped by at Jon’s house, and he
wouldn’t answer the locked door. I drove back home, and the telephone
rang. It was Jon, and he was off. I didn’t know if it was pain
medication or alcohol, but my heart sank. I couldn’t be totally
positive what was going on, so I didn’t say anything directly to him
during the phone call. Maybe I should have.
Two weeks ago, Jon called and said he was feeling down. I invited
him to come over while I moved firewood into the pole shed. Jon asked
if he could bring soup from the Chinese restaurant in town. Jon also
brought his new puppy, and we sat on the hill in the sunshine, eating
our soup and watching the puppy play in the grass. I never did get a
good photo of it; the puppy was in constant motion.
We
talked about better days: the hike to the hidden waterfall, dogs,
coffee. He was sober, but I could tell he wasn’t feeling great. Jon
didn’t eat much of his soup.
A few days later, Jon called to talk, and I invited him to come over
for coffee. It was a miserable cool and wet day. He complained about
feeling cold and wondered if I would build a fire. I threw on some
fresh wood into the wood stove, and he sat by the fire in the rocking
chair, warming his bones and drinking the coffee. Jon said it was the
best coffee that he’d ever had. He usually said that to me.
Jon called
me up on the next day to say how much he enjoyed the coffee and the
fire. That would be the last time I talked to Jon.
As I suspected, Jon went back to drinking to ease the pain. When
I heard the news of his death yesterday, I was angry and sad–mostly
angry. Today, I have the same emotions, but I am mostly sad. The family decided not to have a funeral. The world has lost a good guy.
