Ol' Men Talkin': On Hyphenated Relationships
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Date Published: June 4, 2021
Date Modified: June 29, 2024 |
Gathering Together
The cashier saw Mike entering the store and asked, “Mike, is it a good morning?”
Mike thinking of G., who they had just honored the previous week, exclaimed back “I am vertical and ventilated, Francisco. I don’t need anything else to make my morning!”
Francisco quipped back, “Mike, I could have used a little more horizontal before going vertical this morning.”
“You do look like you have one foot in the grave, Francisco.”
“It feels like it, Mike. My allergies seem to have a year-long love affair here in Austin: cedar fever, mold, cottonwood, oak, ragweed, ash, pine, pecan, mulberry, elm, poplar … Good Lord!”
Francisco chuckled as he saw Mike meticulously start counting out an exact amount of change on the counter.
“The usual, Mike? One three-item breakfast taco and a refill?”
“Please, sir. Thank you!”
When Mike was finished counting out the four dollars and thirteen cents, he pushed it across the counter and commented, “Francisco, it sounds like you need better ventilation to go along with more horizontal.”
“Or a change of scenery,” He grumbled back.
He then nodded toward a table across the room that butted up against two old, red garage doors. “They’ve been waiting for ya’, Mike.”
Mike turned to see that his friends had arrived, gathered together and settled in. They were sipping on their teas awaiting his arrival. Danny, who had been watching Mike’s arrival, lifted his drink, tipped it toward Mike and nodded.
So it was, that Mike – the last arrival – started the Rudy’s 360 "Ol' Men Talkin’ ” meeting.
Mike thinking of G., who they had just honored the previous week, exclaimed back “I am vertical and ventilated, Francisco. I don’t need anything else to make my morning!”
Francisco quipped back, “Mike, I could have used a little more horizontal before going vertical this morning.”
“You do look like you have one foot in the grave, Francisco.”
“It feels like it, Mike. My allergies seem to have a year-long love affair here in Austin: cedar fever, mold, cottonwood, oak, ragweed, ash, pine, pecan, mulberry, elm, poplar … Good Lord!”
Francisco chuckled as he saw Mike meticulously start counting out an exact amount of change on the counter.
“The usual, Mike? One three-item breakfast taco and a refill?”
“Please, sir. Thank you!”
When Mike was finished counting out the four dollars and thirteen cents, he pushed it across the counter and commented, “Francisco, it sounds like you need better ventilation to go along with more horizontal.”
“Or a change of scenery,” He grumbled back.
He then nodded toward a table across the room that butted up against two old, red garage doors. “They’ve been waiting for ya’, Mike.”
Mike turned to see that his friends had arrived, gathered together and settled in. They were sipping on their teas awaiting his arrival. Danny, who had been watching Mike’s arrival, lifted his drink, tipped it toward Mike and nodded.
So it was, that Mike – the last arrival – started the Rudy’s 360 "Ol' Men Talkin’ ” meeting.
The Life and Times of Mike Mayer
Mike was the quiet one of these old men. On the days when he was “running the show” they called him “Mikey,” and although he would protest … he liked it. Mike had never graduated from high school, and his five children were not allowed to fail where he thought he had. He had been driving a county trash truck for most of his adult life. For four decades he had come home from work smelling of humanity’s waste. He treated it as great fun when his young children would hold their noses and run away from him. He’d chase them, grab them, and pull them close so they could get a real good “whiff” of his work.
But as his kids grew older, they came to understand what the smell meant … their "father" was providing for them. From their "dad," though, they learned that it isn’t the job that matters so much as how well you do the job.
And every one of them understood his high expectations. He would constantly tell them, “When people ask me how I know if I am being a good father, I tell them, ‘When I see you guys, and I know that each one of you is a better person than me.’ ” In many ways, they were expected to be like their dad: the first one to stop when they saw a car broken down on the side of the road, and coming together as family around life’s important, transitionary events: births, deaths, graduations, and weddings. But in one way, he expected them to be unlike him: He expected them to travel beyond the county trash dump to build a better, more affluent, more educated generation of Mayers. |
Mike’s five children were now all grown and married, and soon all of them would have children of their own. This weekend his youngest son and daughter-in-law had told him they were expecting. He was about to be a grandpa again.
Doug, who was hands-down the most respected man’s man at the table, – rancher, businessman and forever-Texan – looked on Mike with admiration, especially when “trash man” shared stories of his life. Mike’s stories were an eclectic collection: friends, life, fighting, war, current events, … and more. The ones he shared with this group of old men, though, were usually about his children.
Doug, who was hands-down the most respected man’s man at the table, – rancher, businessman and forever-Texan – looked on Mike with admiration, especially when “trash man” shared stories of his life. Mike’s stories were an eclectic collection: friends, life, fighting, war, current events, … and more. The ones he shared with this group of old men, though, were usually about his children.
When he shared his parenting stories, Doug either laughed so loud he would disturb the whole restaurant—like when he heard Mike’s story about his oldest son in “The Color-Blind T.V.,” or more times than not, he retreated into an old man’s, thoughtful silence—like when Mike read the story of the same son adjusting to the loss of his mother in “This Century Plant Will Never Bloom Again.”
Mike lost his wife during the birth of their youngest daughter. For most of a decade, he was father and mother to his children. And although he rarely acknowledged it, at times he earned the title of “Daddy.” |
"This Century Plant Will Never Bloom Again"
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It was a tough road, but ol’ trash men like Mike knew that if you just kept your foot on the gas, kept your eyes looking out over the hood, and never focused for long on what fills a rearview mirror—the past, things usually worked out. And eventually, it did. He remarried – happily if it must be written – but he was a man who, even after 70+ years, was always trying to improve himself.
For decades Mike had been self-educating: reading and writing were his passion. When the trucks backed up for a half mile delivering their “goods” to the dump, he would pull out a book to read and study. He was always taking notes. He kept a loose leaf binder under his seat to capture his one-off stories when they came to him—he said the ideas always came at the strangest times. Yes, Mike may have always looked out over the front hood of his truck, but there was always a spiritual part of him that stood on the front bumper of his aging machine peering back, inquisitively, through the front window—trying to understand the heart, soul, and mind of its owner.
Because of this, he always asked tough questions of himself, his family and friends, and, every now and then, he would share a new insight with these old friends of his at Rudy’s. Today was one of those days as Mike owned the discussion.
He wondered, though, if he could get control of the meeting.
He was going to get grief for being late.
For decades Mike had been self-educating: reading and writing were his passion. When the trucks backed up for a half mile delivering their “goods” to the dump, he would pull out a book to read and study. He was always taking notes. He kept a loose leaf binder under his seat to capture his one-off stories when they came to him—he said the ideas always came at the strangest times. Yes, Mike may have always looked out over the front hood of his truck, but there was always a spiritual part of him that stood on the front bumper of his aging machine peering back, inquisitively, through the front window—trying to understand the heart, soul, and mind of its owner.
Because of this, he always asked tough questions of himself, his family and friends, and, every now and then, he would share a new insight with these old friends of his at Rudy’s. Today was one of those days as Mike owned the discussion.
He wondered, though, if he could get control of the meeting.
He was going to get grief for being late.
Sometimes It Takes a While to Get Old Men on Topic
As Mike sat down, Danny lit into him, “I thought Germans were always the punctual, arrive-on-time sort. Jeez, Mikeyyyy." Danny pointed expressively at the antique timepiece he had placed strategically on the table so everyone could see, “… ten minutes late!”
Mike decided to follow the lead. It was his opportunity to take control of the conversation. It did have something to do with his topic today if he could guide it there. “Call me Mikey again Dann-kneeee—you ol’ Czech—and you’ll taste the fist of this ol’ German Kaiser!” He made a fist for show as he settled down into his seat at the table. Danny raised two old-man fists off the table just a little higher than Mike’s but in a less-than-threatening gesture and winked.
“Guys, all of you know that my family came across on a boat from Germany. The joke in my family has always been that when the Kaiser started the world’s first draft, my great grandparents were the first in line on the next ship to America.”
Danny didn’t let up, “At least your ancestors knew how to leave on time.”
Anthony choked on a bite of his breakfast taco. Manuel, sitting next to him asked, “You okay old man?” Anthony just nodded and gestured with his head for Mike to go on.
Everyone chuckled, but Mike didn’t miss a beat. With old men, if you don’t keep talking, these tangential, humorous thoughts can sometimes destroy the flow of a good story. So, he pushed on, “They joined so many others fleeing the old country that for decades they were one of the most despised races in the United States. The New York City papers of the day referred to my ancestors as the ‘locusts of Germans’ passing through Ellis Island on their way to Wisconsin.”
“Locusts?” queried Jim, “Pretty … biblical sounding.”
“ ‘Apocryphal’ might be a more accurate word Jim. Germans were one of the most despised races on the face of the planet. They were seen as a ‘plague of war’ for most of the first half of the twentieth century.” Mike paused for a moment and then continued, “During World War I, ‘Kill a Hun’ was plastered on posters around the country. … during World War II they were updated to ‘Kill a Kraut.’ ” He paused again. He was waiting to see if the topic was too sensitive.
But his friends around the table picked up the thought.
“… or a Jap in the South Pacific,” said Jim.
“… or a Chink in Korea,” said Danny.
Mike saw Anthony’s eyes water up. Mike was the only one at the table who knew Anthony’s story. He knew this discussion was bringing old wounds too close to the surface. They were both Vietnam-era vets, but Anthony had gone into the jungle as an infantryman – he fought hand-to-hand there – he lost comrades and friends there. He survived it, but he struggled on a daily basis with what he had done—in the name of survival—out of the site of and beyond the boundaries of his own humanity. Although no one at the table knew, it was Anthony’s story that Mike reposted every Memorial Day on his website: “In Memory of Those Who Never Returned.”
Anthony ended the list with a tone of sadness that caused all the men to pause, “or in Vietnam, we called them … Gooks.”
Manuel, looking at Anthony, tried to find a balancing thought, “I am sure they had nicknames for our guys too … soldiers have to, or they would be the first to die on the battlefield … or lose their minds. All of us around this table know that you have to depersonalize killing when it is on such a massive scale as war between nations.”
Mike decided to follow the lead. It was his opportunity to take control of the conversation. It did have something to do with his topic today if he could guide it there. “Call me Mikey again Dann-kneeee—you ol’ Czech—and you’ll taste the fist of this ol’ German Kaiser!” He made a fist for show as he settled down into his seat at the table. Danny raised two old-man fists off the table just a little higher than Mike’s but in a less-than-threatening gesture and winked.
“Guys, all of you know that my family came across on a boat from Germany. The joke in my family has always been that when the Kaiser started the world’s first draft, my great grandparents were the first in line on the next ship to America.”
Danny didn’t let up, “At least your ancestors knew how to leave on time.”
Anthony choked on a bite of his breakfast taco. Manuel, sitting next to him asked, “You okay old man?” Anthony just nodded and gestured with his head for Mike to go on.
Everyone chuckled, but Mike didn’t miss a beat. With old men, if you don’t keep talking, these tangential, humorous thoughts can sometimes destroy the flow of a good story. So, he pushed on, “They joined so many others fleeing the old country that for decades they were one of the most despised races in the United States. The New York City papers of the day referred to my ancestors as the ‘locusts of Germans’ passing through Ellis Island on their way to Wisconsin.”
“Locusts?” queried Jim, “Pretty … biblical sounding.”
“ ‘Apocryphal’ might be a more accurate word Jim. Germans were one of the most despised races on the face of the planet. They were seen as a ‘plague of war’ for most of the first half of the twentieth century.” Mike paused for a moment and then continued, “During World War I, ‘Kill a Hun’ was plastered on posters around the country. … during World War II they were updated to ‘Kill a Kraut.’ ” He paused again. He was waiting to see if the topic was too sensitive.
But his friends around the table picked up the thought.
“… or a Jap in the South Pacific,” said Jim.
“… or a Chink in Korea,” said Danny.
Mike saw Anthony’s eyes water up. Mike was the only one at the table who knew Anthony’s story. He knew this discussion was bringing old wounds too close to the surface. They were both Vietnam-era vets, but Anthony had gone into the jungle as an infantryman – he fought hand-to-hand there – he lost comrades and friends there. He survived it, but he struggled on a daily basis with what he had done—in the name of survival—out of the site of and beyond the boundaries of his own humanity. Although no one at the table knew, it was Anthony’s story that Mike reposted every Memorial Day on his website: “In Memory of Those Who Never Returned.”
Anthony ended the list with a tone of sadness that caused all the men to pause, “or in Vietnam, we called them … Gooks.”
Manuel, looking at Anthony, tried to find a balancing thought, “I am sure they had nicknames for our guys too … soldiers have to, or they would be the first to die on the battlefield … or lose their minds. All of us around this table know that you have to depersonalize killing when it is on such a massive scale as war between nations.”
Old Men Can Manufacture Humor on the Toughest of Topics
Jim interrupted. “I must say that you Huns were a nasty looking bunch, Mikey.”
He turned his iPad around for everyone to see what he had found on the Internet. “Guys, take a look at this World War I, U.S. Army recruiting poster.”
Doug took the iPad from Jim’s hands and looked really close, “Good Lord, it looks just like you, Mikey! Did your grandfather pose for this ‘mad brute!’ ” Each of the old men broke into laughter as the iPad moved between them.
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Billie Rae pinched, zoomed in on the picture, and commented, “Wait! … is that maybe – Wow! Is that your great grandmother?”
He gave out a short, quiet whistle and said, “Mikey if there is any good looks in your family, it obviously came from the maternal side of your family, not the paternal!”
All the old men roared again. Mike was enjoying the banter, but he cleared his throat to silence the gang. “Manuel is right. To fight a war, you have to dehumanize the enemy. You have to use slang because to take the life of a man on a battlefield, who is a living, breathing human being with a wife and kids—just like yourself, … you have to shoot first or … it’s your wife and children who will be crying over your coffin … instead of a stranger’s wife crying over his.” |
Billie R. zoomed in for a closer look
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“Patton probably put it best,” Billie Rae said. “No man ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor dumb son of a … gun … die for his country.”
Jim commented, “Billie R., thanks for making Patton’s speech … less colorful.”
Anthony had recovered by now and said, “The problem is getting rid of the feelings behind the words ‘Hun,’ ‘Kraut,’ ‘Jap,’ ‘Chink’ … or ‘Gook’ when the war is over.”
Jim commented, “Billie R., thanks for making Patton’s speech … less colorful.”
Anthony had recovered by now and said, “The problem is getting rid of the feelings behind the words ‘Hun,’ ‘Kraut,’ ‘Jap,’ ‘Chink’ … or ‘Gook’ when the war is over.”
In Memory of Those Who Never Returned
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All the old men nodded in agreement for every one of these men came from families of service. They had either served in the military themselves, or they had lived with grandfathers or fathers, uncles, brothers or cousins who had. They had all heard the factual, realistic stories of war.
Many of their elders would not share what they had seen – or done – but it was easy to imagine the stories, because their eyes, the gateway to their relatives’ souls, reflected the pain, the hurt and the terrible damage to their humanity they still felt decades later. “Heck,” said Mike. “Let’s refresh our teas and I will get to what I wanted to talk about.” “What exactly is that Mike?” Doug asked testily. “Hyphenated relationships,” replied Mike. “That is why I started off talking about German-Americans. Although, we went off the rails a little with that discussion.”
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aAnthony whispered to Mike, “a little?”
All the men gave each other wincing looks, but, as usual, it was Doug that gave voice to their concerns, “The topic sounds a little too philosophical for a breakfast discussion. … Maybe we should ask Cabe for some of that hard liquor in his back office to spike our teas?”
Mike laughed, “Well, touchy, feely maybe – but not philosophical.”
Doug muttered, “In that case, I’ll just skip the tea.” He saw Cabe, one of Rudy’s managers, walking by and said, “Cabe, a shooter of the hard stuff, please!”
The manager didn’t miss a beat, “Brewed up the tea on the left with an extra bag of caffeine and a bucket of extra-sweet, southern-sugar just for you and your ‘boys,’ Doug!”
“You know what I meant, Cabe!”
Cabe put his hand on Doug’s shoulder, “Yep, but it is too early in the morning for you, Doug. Consider the extra strong, extra sweet tea, a personal favor. I promise a caffeinated sugar rush that will keep you awake in that cozy, air-conditioned, tractor-cab of yours.”
Doug took the bait, “cozy? … air conditioned? … Real men don’t drive air-conditioned tractors, Cabe!”
Everyone laughed and moved off to refresh their teas. Along the way, they all melted into a restaurant that was full of employees, guests and delivery men. They all engaged someone: some stopped to talk with the workers cleaning tables or sitting around on break, some teased the delivery truck drivers, and some eavesdropped on other conversations around the restaurant—inviting themselves into anything of interest. Others engaged with the “regulars,” getting updates on work, families and friends.
Eventually, which is a much more enjoyable – and a much longer – span of time for an old man than a youngster, they gathered back around the table.
All the men gave each other wincing looks, but, as usual, it was Doug that gave voice to their concerns, “The topic sounds a little too philosophical for a breakfast discussion. … Maybe we should ask Cabe for some of that hard liquor in his back office to spike our teas?”
Mike laughed, “Well, touchy, feely maybe – but not philosophical.”
Doug muttered, “In that case, I’ll just skip the tea.” He saw Cabe, one of Rudy’s managers, walking by and said, “Cabe, a shooter of the hard stuff, please!”
The manager didn’t miss a beat, “Brewed up the tea on the left with an extra bag of caffeine and a bucket of extra-sweet, southern-sugar just for you and your ‘boys,’ Doug!”
“You know what I meant, Cabe!”
Cabe put his hand on Doug’s shoulder, “Yep, but it is too early in the morning for you, Doug. Consider the extra strong, extra sweet tea, a personal favor. I promise a caffeinated sugar rush that will keep you awake in that cozy, air-conditioned, tractor-cab of yours.”
Doug took the bait, “cozy? … air conditioned? … Real men don’t drive air-conditioned tractors, Cabe!”
Everyone laughed and moved off to refresh their teas. Along the way, they all melted into a restaurant that was full of employees, guests and delivery men. They all engaged someone: some stopped to talk with the workers cleaning tables or sitting around on break, some teased the delivery truck drivers, and some eavesdropped on other conversations around the restaurant—inviting themselves into anything of interest. Others engaged with the “regulars,” getting updates on work, families and friends.
Eventually, which is a much more enjoyable – and a much longer – span of time for an old man than a youngster, they gathered back around the table.
The Old Men Finally Get on Topic: Hyphenated Relationships
Mike took a deep breath and exhaled, “Okay! Let’s really start.”
“After my son told me of the coming birth of my latest grandchild, I was thinking of how we, unconsciously it seems, use hyphenated words that undermine or stifle our relationships. I was wondering, if we eliminated hyphenated relationships, maybe the world would be a better place.”
Everyone looked at each other. Danny took his right hand and slid it down in a slow motion saying, “I feel this meeting going downhill.”
“Give me a chance, guys,” Mike said.
“Just a small, short chance, Mikey.”
“For example, my family is one that is hard to describe without hyphenations: step-son and -daughter, step-mother and ‑father, or fathers- and mothers-in-law, sisters- and brothers-in-law, and more. It naturally raises the question, ‘Is a step-son or a son-in-law of any less importance to a father than a son; or the inverse, is a step-father or father-in-law of less value to a son than the genetic father? Why do we need to call out and punctuate the differences?’ ”
“I am not sure that all of these relationships are hyphenated,” said Jim, “but I get your point. That seems to apply to all of us here at the table, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but in my case, it is a much longer and more complicated list of hyphenations: my step-daughter has two step-sisters, a step-brother, and a half-brother; my youngest son only has half-everything: a half-brother and three half-sisters; then there is a sister-in-law from Chile, a daughter-in-law from China, a daughter-in-law from Nicaragua, a niece-in-law – if there is such a thing – from the Philippines, and a son-in-law that is Canadian, Native-American.”
“No!” said Jim, “You talk about your kids and grandkids all the time. You have even read us stories about them, and I never picked up on that.”
“Personally, Mikey, the only one in that list that I would be ashamed of is the ‘Canadian-American’ ” said J.D.
All the men chuckled because J.D.’s father was Canadian. Because of it, this crew of old men had to listen to him spout Stanley Cup news as if it was as important as the Super Bowl. He talked hockey like everyone else talked football.
Mike chuckled, “Both the father … -in-law … and the son … -in-law … played hockey, J.D. Unfortunately, you can’t tell because they still have all their teeth.” Mike gave J.D. an exaggerated smile—flashing his pearly whites—while moving his face from side-to-side.
J.D. shook his head, “Disappointing, they can’t be real Canadians then.”
“They do have bad knees, though, J.D.”
“Well, okay now! That is acceptable. Please continue.”
Mike smiled, “So, if you hyphenate my family it includes German-American, Chilean-American, Chinese-American, Nicaraguan-American, Filipino-American and Canadian, Native-American, but this story starts with my daughter … uh, …” He screwed up his face, “… my oldest … son’s … wife.”
Doug looked around the table, leaned in and said, “For those of you who are slow on the uptake, his daughter-in-law. Come on Mikey! The point?”
“Like I said, I come from good German stock, and there is a thread of culture or genetics or whatever, that seems to make Germanic males more predisposed to being better ‘fathers’ than ‘dads.’ We tend to see ourselves as ‘father’ role models: stern, disciplinarian, and first and foremost--providers. For instance, I never once in my life called my father, ‘Dad.’
“Of my father, though, there was no doubt that he loved us, but he seemed to think that distance was needed for him to fulfil his role. We all knew we were loved, but it wasn’t the touchy, feely love that this new generation seems to yearn for and idealize. But it was love just the same. He went to war for us. He meant to die for us if necessary. He worked and sacrificed for us to have a better life.”
Doug asked, “Wasn’t it a generational thing, Mike? I mean most of our 'fathers' were probably depression-era men?” He looked around the table and saw most of the men acknowledging the fact.
Mike picked up the thought. “In my father’s case, that was surely a factor. He was a life-long Democrat because of FDR’s Civilian Conservation Corps. He often said that if it weren’t for the President’s public works programs during the Great Depression, he would have starved to death during the Wisconsin winters. It was a generation that survived tough times, and he was always prepared for those tough times to return.
“Anyway, he was my role model. I think, though, because I was a single parent for so long, I dropped down those rigid walls, somewhat. I had to be what most people would consider a ‘dad’ or … maybe, at times, even a ‘daddy,’ with caring, emotional traits normally associated with the ‘fairer sex.’ That was easy to do with my kids because they are my sons and daughters, but for some reason, I never thought of being the same way with my step-daughter or daughters-in-law, … my hyphenated relationships.
“Although I loved them, it was different … It was as if the step-something, half-something, or something-in-law made a difference, but it shouldn’t have!”
J.D. chimed in, “But it does, Mike. If for no other reason than there’s no history there.”
“Maybe that is what I thought too. Then again, I don’t think I ever thought about it. I was just going along with what I had seen in my family. In-laws were always ‘da-laws,’ part of the family but separate. At times that boundary might come down: births, deaths, weddings, but most of the time, the separation of hyphenation was there. …
“After my son told me of the coming birth of my latest grandchild, I was thinking of how we, unconsciously it seems, use hyphenated words that undermine or stifle our relationships. I was wondering, if we eliminated hyphenated relationships, maybe the world would be a better place.”
Everyone looked at each other. Danny took his right hand and slid it down in a slow motion saying, “I feel this meeting going downhill.”
“Give me a chance, guys,” Mike said.
“Just a small, short chance, Mikey.”
“For example, my family is one that is hard to describe without hyphenations: step-son and -daughter, step-mother and ‑father, or fathers- and mothers-in-law, sisters- and brothers-in-law, and more. It naturally raises the question, ‘Is a step-son or a son-in-law of any less importance to a father than a son; or the inverse, is a step-father or father-in-law of less value to a son than the genetic father? Why do we need to call out and punctuate the differences?’ ”
“I am not sure that all of these relationships are hyphenated,” said Jim, “but I get your point. That seems to apply to all of us here at the table, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but in my case, it is a much longer and more complicated list of hyphenations: my step-daughter has two step-sisters, a step-brother, and a half-brother; my youngest son only has half-everything: a half-brother and three half-sisters; then there is a sister-in-law from Chile, a daughter-in-law from China, a daughter-in-law from Nicaragua, a niece-in-law – if there is such a thing – from the Philippines, and a son-in-law that is Canadian, Native-American.”
“No!” said Jim, “You talk about your kids and grandkids all the time. You have even read us stories about them, and I never picked up on that.”
“Personally, Mikey, the only one in that list that I would be ashamed of is the ‘Canadian-American’ ” said J.D.
All the men chuckled because J.D.’s father was Canadian. Because of it, this crew of old men had to listen to him spout Stanley Cup news as if it was as important as the Super Bowl. He talked hockey like everyone else talked football.
Mike chuckled, “Both the father … -in-law … and the son … -in-law … played hockey, J.D. Unfortunately, you can’t tell because they still have all their teeth.” Mike gave J.D. an exaggerated smile—flashing his pearly whites—while moving his face from side-to-side.
J.D. shook his head, “Disappointing, they can’t be real Canadians then.”
“They do have bad knees, though, J.D.”
“Well, okay now! That is acceptable. Please continue.”
Mike smiled, “So, if you hyphenate my family it includes German-American, Chilean-American, Chinese-American, Nicaraguan-American, Filipino-American and Canadian, Native-American, but this story starts with my daughter … uh, …” He screwed up his face, “… my oldest … son’s … wife.”
Doug looked around the table, leaned in and said, “For those of you who are slow on the uptake, his daughter-in-law. Come on Mikey! The point?”
“Like I said, I come from good German stock, and there is a thread of culture or genetics or whatever, that seems to make Germanic males more predisposed to being better ‘fathers’ than ‘dads.’ We tend to see ourselves as ‘father’ role models: stern, disciplinarian, and first and foremost--providers. For instance, I never once in my life called my father, ‘Dad.’
“Of my father, though, there was no doubt that he loved us, but he seemed to think that distance was needed for him to fulfil his role. We all knew we were loved, but it wasn’t the touchy, feely love that this new generation seems to yearn for and idealize. But it was love just the same. He went to war for us. He meant to die for us if necessary. He worked and sacrificed for us to have a better life.”
Doug asked, “Wasn’t it a generational thing, Mike? I mean most of our 'fathers' were probably depression-era men?” He looked around the table and saw most of the men acknowledging the fact.
Mike picked up the thought. “In my father’s case, that was surely a factor. He was a life-long Democrat because of FDR’s Civilian Conservation Corps. He often said that if it weren’t for the President’s public works programs during the Great Depression, he would have starved to death during the Wisconsin winters. It was a generation that survived tough times, and he was always prepared for those tough times to return.
“Anyway, he was my role model. I think, though, because I was a single parent for so long, I dropped down those rigid walls, somewhat. I had to be what most people would consider a ‘dad’ or … maybe, at times, even a ‘daddy,’ with caring, emotional traits normally associated with the ‘fairer sex.’ That was easy to do with my kids because they are my sons and daughters, but for some reason, I never thought of being the same way with my step-daughter or daughters-in-law, … my hyphenated relationships.
“Although I loved them, it was different … It was as if the step-something, half-something, or something-in-law made a difference, but it shouldn’t have!”
J.D. chimed in, “But it does, Mike. If for no other reason than there’s no history there.”
“Maybe that is what I thought too. Then again, I don’t think I ever thought about it. I was just going along with what I had seen in my family. In-laws were always ‘da-laws,’ part of the family but separate. At times that boundary might come down: births, deaths, weddings, but most of the time, the separation of hyphenation was there. …
Mikey Finally Makes His Point
“At least until I met my daughter … or rather …” Mike paused to clarify himself because he wanted to be precise … he focused to get it right, “My oldest … son’s … wife,”
“Your daughter-in-law.” Doug said again, but with a touch of exasperation this time.
“Okay, which double-hyphenation, country-family relationship is this?” asked Bill.
Laughing, Mike said, “Nicaraguan-American and daughter-in-law.
“The first time I met her, she came through the door of our home, threw her arms around me and said, ‘Hey, Dad!’ The Latin-American, touchy-feely, sense-of-family smacked the German-American, old-world, stoicism in the face.”
“Wow!” said Doug, now sucked into the drama, “Which one won the battle?”
“Your daughter-in-law.” Doug said again, but with a touch of exasperation this time.
“Okay, which double-hyphenation, country-family relationship is this?” asked Bill.
Laughing, Mike said, “Nicaraguan-American and daughter-in-law.
“The first time I met her, she came through the door of our home, threw her arms around me and said, ‘Hey, Dad!’ The Latin-American, touchy-feely, sense-of-family smacked the German-American, old-world, stoicism in the face.”
“Wow!” said Doug, now sucked into the drama, “Which one won the battle?”
Jim pointed to the enlarged picture on his iPad and said, “I was going bet on ‘Da Hun’ myself!”
Everyone roared. Humor is a powerful salve when used properly by old men. It can make comfortable the uncomfortable, and memories more memorable. Bill was intent on making today’s gathering more memorable. He said with a grin, “Did she know how little you deserved the title?” Anthony – again – almost choked on his food. Under his breath he said an inaudible, “Damn it.” |
Manuel said, “A. B., while we’re talking you might want to quit eating or take smaller bites.”
Mike, sitting across from A.B. saw that he was okay and continued.
“No kidding, Bill! I have been trying to live up to the ‘Dad’ moniker ever since. She melted my heart. She made me realize that our family relationships shouldn’t be defined by hyphenations. They are my fathers and mothers, my sons and daughters, my brothers and sisters, and my nieces and nephews – our families shouldn’t suffer the distance or the separation of a hyphen.”
He stopped to look at the water collecting again from the condensation on his red Rudy’s refill cup. Then he tapped the table and said, “And getting to the final point … they are not hyphenated citizens either. I was never so proud as when I attended my daughter’s—for you, Doug, my Nicaraguan-American, daughter-in-law’s—naturalization ceremony in San Antonio. She is my daughter. Her family is my family, and, through no real credit to myself, my family is representative of America’s promise. It just seems that all these hyphenated relationships somehow distance and … diminish … us.”
Mike, sitting across from A.B. saw that he was okay and continued.
“No kidding, Bill! I have been trying to live up to the ‘Dad’ moniker ever since. She melted my heart. She made me realize that our family relationships shouldn’t be defined by hyphenations. They are my fathers and mothers, my sons and daughters, my brothers and sisters, and my nieces and nephews – our families shouldn’t suffer the distance or the separation of a hyphen.”
He stopped to look at the water collecting again from the condensation on his red Rudy’s refill cup. Then he tapped the table and said, “And getting to the final point … they are not hyphenated citizens either. I was never so proud as when I attended my daughter’s—for you, Doug, my Nicaraguan-American, daughter-in-law’s—naturalization ceremony in San Antonio. She is my daughter. Her family is my family, and, through no real credit to myself, my family is representative of America’s promise. It just seems that all these hyphenated relationships somehow distance and … diminish … us.”
Mike continued, “You guys know that I post my stories on the Internet. I read one for you guys, ‘Why I Stand for the National Anthem,’ right?”
Doug was all over this one, “Yeah, it was a great way of saying, ‘Feel free to kneel, but not me!’ I thought it was right on.” “Well, I published it and this woman jumped all over me, calling me a racist. She seemed to think only racists would have a different opinion from her and Kaepernick.” Anthony commented, “Mike, your stern, old, white-man picture on Facebook probably didn’t help. I’ve got to say, Mike, the picture just isn’t you. You smile all the time, and that picture makes you look like – and I mean no offense by this – a grumpy, old white man.” |
America: The Home of the Brave, Respectful, Tolerant and Forgiving
|
Those gathered around the table laughed as Anthony articulated what every one of them had thought about the picture but had never said. Anthony looked a little uneasy from the laughter that came at Mike’s expense.
“Yeah, I really, really should change that picture. But I did change the title of the article to “America: The Home of the Brave, Respectful, Tolerant and Forgiving.” I then asked her to read it. I commented on all the hyphenated relationships in my family and wrote, “I carry prejudices. I believe we all do, but I hope that my family shows how open I am to people regardless of color or non-color.”
“Well,” she commented back, “Where is the African-American?”
Doug shook his head and said, “Mike, you’re kidding, right?”
Anthony, knew he wasn’t and groaned, “Sometimes it isn’t just the Germans who feel the need to apologize for some members of their own race, Mike.” He shook his head slowly.
“Well, Anthony, I did sleep on my response.”
“The next morning after I had calmed down, I wrote, ‘I have raised my kids to be better men and women than me. I am sure that they are raising their children to be better men and women than them. So, my grandkids’ choices of partners will have little to do with race but, rather, finding a good hearted and sensible partner – regardless of race, religion or color.’ ”
“I then asked her – again – to read the retitled article.” He raised his fingers up like quotes in the air, “She ‘liked’ it.”
“Why didn’t she read it the first time?” asked Doug.
Mike said, “I believe that was my fault. Titles are really hard to get right. You don’t want it to be click bait, but …”
“Good Lord, I hate that click bait stuff. It makes me want to gag like Anthony,” said Manuel.
Anthony put his finger up to his mouth and made a gagging sound.
Mike smiled at Anthony, “… but you have to give the reader some idea of what is in the article without raising their preconceived alarm bells. I remember everyone’s reaction to the title at this table. It was ‘Right On!’ But to others on the forums it was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. They never read the article because of the title—they just reacted. And if I want my articles to work, I need someone to read them. … to think about them. So, changing the title was no problem for me, and I am glad she commented, because I am sure others thought the same thing without reading or commenting.”
Doug was quiet. Everyone sat in thoughtful silence. They were thinking of their family, friends, and their own heritage of blended, hyphenated relationships brought together within the boundaries of the United States. At this table, Doug and Mike were German-American, Jim was Scottish-American, Manuel was Mexican-American, Billy Rae was Basque-American, Danny was Czech-American, J.D. was Welsh-Canada-American, and Anthony was African-American.
Anthony commented first, “I have to admit that the title made me uncomfortable.”
Mike questioned him, “Why didn’t you say something Anthony?”
“Heck, I didn’t know you were going to share it with the world, Mike!”
Mike said, “Yeah, live and learn, eh? But, next time Anthony, say what you think and don’t spare my feelings.”
Anthony chuckled, “Oh it wasn’t your feelings I was worried about. I was just gagging on my taco at the time. Like I usually do when you run a meeting.”
Everyone laughed, but they knew that Anthony was watching what he said. He was the newest member of the group, and he was still feeling his way through the “family” dynamics.
Billy Rae commented, “I don’t think hyphenations kept our fathers and grandfathers from putting their lives on the line. It isn’t the hyphen between the words that matters. It is what is in the heart, and in their hearts they were Americans.”
Anthony jumped in, “I think some of our fathers and grandfathers fought because they were seen as hyphenated Americans, don’t you Mike? In World War II, in particular, it probably had as much to do with being German-American as African-American. Both our fathers knew they were defending a nation of Americans from all backgrounds, but they had something to prove. Don’t you think?”
Mike said, “Well, my father was sent to fight the Japanese because too many back then still questioned if a ‘Kraut' would kill a fellow 'Kraut.’ In their eyes, he was definitely German-American—with the emphasis on German.”
Jim pushed back his chair. “Before we go deeper, I think I need to refill my iced tea. This might be a three-tea gathering. Who would have guessed that Mikey had that in him?”
Doug looked across the table at Jim and dropped his right eye down below his left and said warningly, “Draw from the sweet brew on the right. I drank from the one on the left earlier. I will be pulling my tractor this afternoon instead of it pulling me – whew!”
“Did you tell Cabe?”
“Cabe warned me. I think he said something about brewing it for some ‘grumpy old men.’ ”
“Heck if it weren’t for us grumpy old men, ….”
“… The world would be a better place,” one of the busboys interjected – a youngster working his way through college.
One of the old men poked his finger – gently – into the young man’s chest and said, “A bit of advice young man? Keep making comments like that, and you won’t live to be an old man.”
Laughter rocked the room, again.
“Nothing like a good laugh, is there boys?” commented Mike.
Doug glanced at Danny’s watch on the table. “Mikey, no offense but I think most of us need to make like your great ancestors and leave on time. My crops and herd are calling me.”
Miguel held up his phone, “Yep, no rest for the wicked. My wife is texting me about some ‘honey do’s.’ … He turned the phone around as a new text announced its arrival. He sighed and added, “… and one ‘honey don’t.’ ”
Doug added, “Miguel, I am darn glad my cows don’t know how to text.”
With that, everyone smiled and nodded in agreement that it was time to go.
“Well then, I am done.” Mike said, “Meeting adjourned!”
“Well,” she commented back, “Where is the African-American?”
Doug shook his head and said, “Mike, you’re kidding, right?”
Anthony, knew he wasn’t and groaned, “Sometimes it isn’t just the Germans who feel the need to apologize for some members of their own race, Mike.” He shook his head slowly.
“Well, Anthony, I did sleep on my response.”
“The next morning after I had calmed down, I wrote, ‘I have raised my kids to be better men and women than me. I am sure that they are raising their children to be better men and women than them. So, my grandkids’ choices of partners will have little to do with race but, rather, finding a good hearted and sensible partner – regardless of race, religion or color.’ ”
“I then asked her – again – to read the retitled article.” He raised his fingers up like quotes in the air, “She ‘liked’ it.”
“Why didn’t she read it the first time?” asked Doug.
Mike said, “I believe that was my fault. Titles are really hard to get right. You don’t want it to be click bait, but …”
“Good Lord, I hate that click bait stuff. It makes me want to gag like Anthony,” said Manuel.
Anthony put his finger up to his mouth and made a gagging sound.
Mike smiled at Anthony, “… but you have to give the reader some idea of what is in the article without raising their preconceived alarm bells. I remember everyone’s reaction to the title at this table. It was ‘Right On!’ But to others on the forums it was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. They never read the article because of the title—they just reacted. And if I want my articles to work, I need someone to read them. … to think about them. So, changing the title was no problem for me, and I am glad she commented, because I am sure others thought the same thing without reading or commenting.”
Doug was quiet. Everyone sat in thoughtful silence. They were thinking of their family, friends, and their own heritage of blended, hyphenated relationships brought together within the boundaries of the United States. At this table, Doug and Mike were German-American, Jim was Scottish-American, Manuel was Mexican-American, Billy Rae was Basque-American, Danny was Czech-American, J.D. was Welsh-Canada-American, and Anthony was African-American.
Anthony commented first, “I have to admit that the title made me uncomfortable.”
Mike questioned him, “Why didn’t you say something Anthony?”
“Heck, I didn’t know you were going to share it with the world, Mike!”
Mike said, “Yeah, live and learn, eh? But, next time Anthony, say what you think and don’t spare my feelings.”
Anthony chuckled, “Oh it wasn’t your feelings I was worried about. I was just gagging on my taco at the time. Like I usually do when you run a meeting.”
Everyone laughed, but they knew that Anthony was watching what he said. He was the newest member of the group, and he was still feeling his way through the “family” dynamics.
Billy Rae commented, “I don’t think hyphenations kept our fathers and grandfathers from putting their lives on the line. It isn’t the hyphen between the words that matters. It is what is in the heart, and in their hearts they were Americans.”
Anthony jumped in, “I think some of our fathers and grandfathers fought because they were seen as hyphenated Americans, don’t you Mike? In World War II, in particular, it probably had as much to do with being German-American as African-American. Both our fathers knew they were defending a nation of Americans from all backgrounds, but they had something to prove. Don’t you think?”
Mike said, “Well, my father was sent to fight the Japanese because too many back then still questioned if a ‘Kraut' would kill a fellow 'Kraut.’ In their eyes, he was definitely German-American—with the emphasis on German.”
Jim pushed back his chair. “Before we go deeper, I think I need to refill my iced tea. This might be a three-tea gathering. Who would have guessed that Mikey had that in him?”
Doug looked across the table at Jim and dropped his right eye down below his left and said warningly, “Draw from the sweet brew on the right. I drank from the one on the left earlier. I will be pulling my tractor this afternoon instead of it pulling me – whew!”
“Did you tell Cabe?”
“Cabe warned me. I think he said something about brewing it for some ‘grumpy old men.’ ”
“Heck if it weren’t for us grumpy old men, ….”
“… The world would be a better place,” one of the busboys interjected – a youngster working his way through college.
One of the old men poked his finger – gently – into the young man’s chest and said, “A bit of advice young man? Keep making comments like that, and you won’t live to be an old man.”
Laughter rocked the room, again.
“Nothing like a good laugh, is there boys?” commented Mike.
Doug glanced at Danny’s watch on the table. “Mikey, no offense but I think most of us need to make like your great ancestors and leave on time. My crops and herd are calling me.”
Miguel held up his phone, “Yep, no rest for the wicked. My wife is texting me about some ‘honey do’s.’ … He turned the phone around as a new text announced its arrival. He sighed and added, “… and one ‘honey don’t.’ ”
Doug added, “Miguel, I am darn glad my cows don’t know how to text.”
With that, everyone smiled and nodded in agreement that it was time to go.
“Well then, I am done.” Mike said, “Meeting adjourned!”
Two Old Men Having a Heart-to-Heart
Mike and Anthony, collected their belongings and walked outside to finish their brews.
By now everyone had left except Jim. He sat back down – as always – in a place where he could see and hear all the comings and goings at Rudy’s. He saw his two friends meandering out to the tables under the massive, hundred-year-old oak trees. He smiled, then inhaled and exhaled a knowing breath … “The only thing better than a bunch of old men talking is two old men having a heart-to-heart.” Anthony said, “Mike, that early discussion brought back Vietnam … my legacy.” |
“A.B. I saw. I am sorry. I never intended the conversation to go where it did. You know your story is between us …”
Anthony interrupted, “No, thank you for writing the story and putting it up for other vets to read. Others need to understand why it was so hard to emerge from that jungle and come home—only to be spat on. A few of us deserved it for what we did to stay alive, but you made it possible for me—and maybe others—to move forward. But … still … there are times …”
Anthony drifted away. His old war memories were surfacing.
Mike recognized the look. He had written about this look in his Memorial Day article. So, he brought Anthony back by changing the topic, “Why didn’t you say something about the title of my article?”
“Mike, I didn’t think it was my place.”
“Your place? What do you mean by that?”
“Well, you know there has been a lot of trouble recently – racial trouble – and …”
“Good Lord, Anthony, I’d have to be six-feet under not to notice, but what does that have to do with us and this group of old men?”
“You and I go to the same church, share the same religion, share the same perspectives on war, life, and death … I didn’t want to challenge you when everyone else seemed in agreement. At the time, I thought I was watching your back.”
Mike looked him in the eyes, “My friend, if you ever hold your tongue again, I will start calling you ‘Tony.’ ”
“Arrrgh! Please Mike, … No. Not that!” He smiled and said, “You are my friend too. I will speak up next time.”
Mike looked back at the restaurant … at the table they had just left … and said, “You know, Anthony. There is one undeniable way in which we—those of us who were just sitting around that table and every member of all our families are all alike.”
“What is that, Mike?”
Each and every one of us is ‘A fricken’ American.’ ”
Anthony stepped back and grunted, “Did you just come up with that one?”
“Yep, just now.”
“Is it hyphenated?”
“Never!” Mike responded.
“Good!” Anthony put his hand on Mike’s shoulder as they walked toward their cars and said, “In the spirit of the conversation we just had, though, may I say one thing, trash man?”
Mike gave Anthony the cynical look which the usage of his work “handle” deserved, “What?”
“Don’t use “A fricken’ American” in the title of any of your articles!”
“Yeah, I guess the country isn’t quite ready for that one, huh?”
“Not from a grumpy, old white man, Mike!”
“Okay, okay! I’ll update my picture, A. B.”
“Mike, it was a great topic today. You outdid yourself.”
Both of them were still chuckling as they crawled into their vehicles.
Anthony interrupted, “No, thank you for writing the story and putting it up for other vets to read. Others need to understand why it was so hard to emerge from that jungle and come home—only to be spat on. A few of us deserved it for what we did to stay alive, but you made it possible for me—and maybe others—to move forward. But … still … there are times …”
Anthony drifted away. His old war memories were surfacing.
Mike recognized the look. He had written about this look in his Memorial Day article. So, he brought Anthony back by changing the topic, “Why didn’t you say something about the title of my article?”
“Mike, I didn’t think it was my place.”
“Your place? What do you mean by that?”
“Well, you know there has been a lot of trouble recently – racial trouble – and …”
“Good Lord, Anthony, I’d have to be six-feet under not to notice, but what does that have to do with us and this group of old men?”
“You and I go to the same church, share the same religion, share the same perspectives on war, life, and death … I didn’t want to challenge you when everyone else seemed in agreement. At the time, I thought I was watching your back.”
Mike looked him in the eyes, “My friend, if you ever hold your tongue again, I will start calling you ‘Tony.’ ”
“Arrrgh! Please Mike, … No. Not that!” He smiled and said, “You are my friend too. I will speak up next time.”
Mike looked back at the restaurant … at the table they had just left … and said, “You know, Anthony. There is one undeniable way in which we—those of us who were just sitting around that table and every member of all our families are all alike.”
“What is that, Mike?”
Each and every one of us is ‘A fricken’ American.’ ”
Anthony stepped back and grunted, “Did you just come up with that one?”
“Yep, just now.”
“Is it hyphenated?”
“Never!” Mike responded.
“Good!” Anthony put his hand on Mike’s shoulder as they walked toward their cars and said, “In the spirit of the conversation we just had, though, may I say one thing, trash man?”
Mike gave Anthony the cynical look which the usage of his work “handle” deserved, “What?”
“Don’t use “A fricken’ American” in the title of any of your articles!”
“Yeah, I guess the country isn’t quite ready for that one, huh?”
“Not from a grumpy, old white man, Mike!”
“Okay, okay! I’ll update my picture, A. B.”
“Mike, it was a great topic today. You outdid yourself.”
Both of them were still chuckling as they crawled into their vehicles.
Capturing the Interactions of Two Old Men
Jim, sitting outside had been watching the body language of the two old men. As men get older, they abandon the exaggerated movements of their youth, and communicate through more subtle gestures, looks, and glances. During the two men’s conversation, Jim saw a shared grief, a rise in tensions, a reverberation of thoughts, and then a relaxation into calmness. He was pleased to hear their final comments as they walked by him.
He wrote in his journal, “A fricken’ American” – each and every one!
It was double underlined, scribed in bold, and, in honor of Mike’s lesson of the day, …
… unhyphenated—as a sign of hope for the future.
He wrote in his journal, “A fricken’ American” – each and every one!
It was double underlined, scribed in bold, and, in honor of Mike’s lesson of the day, …
… unhyphenated—as a sign of hope for the future.
Written for those who constantly seek closer, mutual, and unhyphenated
relationships with their families and their fellow Americans.
relationships with their families and their fellow Americans.