Archive for » February, 2009 «

You’re in the Army now
February 27th, 2009 | Author: Eric Hays-Strom

After returning from Kenya in September, 1977, I was still suffering from the side-effects of the food poisoning incident, feeling very weak.  So, I took a semester off, and working part time while I regained my strength and went through medical testing to determine if there would be long-term effects.

I enrolled at Creighton University in the Spring ‘78 semester.  College for me that first semester was mostly without incident.  I did go to a job fair for the summer, and ended up being hired by the Boy Scouts to run the lake-front aquatics program for one of the 3 camps the local scout council ran.  In late May, after completing the various finals, I was off to Utah to attend a “scout camp school” to learn the skills needed to run an aquatics program.  Returning to Omaha, I then spent the remainder of the summer running two programs for the BSA.  One of the things we could do was, when our programs weren’t running we could participate in other programs.  I soon learned I had a bit of skill with rifles, and enjoyed learning how to shoot.

In September of that year, I returned to college, though not at Creighton.  I still wasn’t ready to “buckle down”, and Creighton isn’t the school for lazy students.  I enrolled that fall at Kearney State College (now the University of Nebraska at Kearney).  In addition to my classes, I wanted to keep up with my shooting, so I enrolled in the ROTC program at Kearney, specifically so that I could take classes in Rifle Marksmanship.  This led to my becoming more active in ROTC’s other programs. 

In November, I returned to Omaha for Thanksgiving break.  While there, I learned that Mom & Dad had sold the house, and were moving to California!  It was a tremendous shock.  I’d known nothing but Omaha my entire life, and always expected that our family home there would stay with us for ever!  To this day, I miss that house.

In the spring, I applied for an ROTC Scholarship.  Then, without knowing what the outcome of that application would be, I joined my parents in Sacramento for the summer.  That summer, I spent some time with the Santa Barbara council of the Boy Scouts, running their aquatics program.  I also worked for the East L.A. Boys and Girls Club, at their camp in Mono Lake.  That turned out to be a huge mistake, and I quit after 1 week.

Towards the end of the summer, I learned that I had NOT won a scholarship, but that I was selected as an alternate, or runner up.  I prepared to stay in Sacramento, and to attend a local Community College for one semester, then apply to Cal. State Univ. at Sacramento in the spring.  But with 1 week to go before classes started, I received a call that the winner of the 3 year scholarship had to back out, and it was now mine!  Mom and I rushed to put everything in order, then drove back to Nebraska, arriving with less than 12 hours to spare before my first class!  While I don’t remember a lot of the details of that drive, I do remember having a blast with Mom!  And that it was a very hard drive!

I only spent 1 more year at KSC, then transferred my scholarship and myself to California State University, Sacramento.  My college career was not stellar, but not shabby, either.  In my last year at CSUS, I married my high school sweetheart (to which I’ll only append the word… yuck… big mistake).  In November 1982 I was commissioned a 2nd Lieutenant in the US Army, and in March I moved to Virginia to begin training for my role as a Transportation Corps officer.

The early ’80s were a largely peaceful time for the USA.  I spent my entire career within 40 miles of Fort Eustis, Virginia.  My unit deployed to Granada that first year, but I stayed behind, except for one short visit. 

In 1985, my wife and I divorced, and in 1987, I left the active army.  I spent another 4 years in the reserves, leaving the military as a Captain.

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Mea Culpa!
February 26th, 2009 | Author: Eric Hays-Strom

Uh… hi!

Sorry I haven’t posted since Sunday.  I got addicted to a computer game.  It’s occupied far too much time.  I promise… I’ll repent!

Hmmm.  Blog?  Or play Stupid Computer Game?

Okay, here’s my pledge:  I will only play Stupid Computer Game 1 hour a day.  Maybe then, I’ll take time to blog!

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That 70s Life
February 22nd, 2009 | Author: Eric Hays-Strom

I turned 12 in 1970.  This would be for me the decade of adventure, in more ways than one!

When I turned 6, my parents enrolled me in Cub Scouts.  I enjoyed the den meetings, there were my friends, and all sorts of crafty type things.  It was a good time with Mom, who attended all the meetings with me, and was even the Den Mother for a while.  But there were also campouts with Dad.

But by 1970, Cub Scouts were behind me, and I was in the Boy Scouts.  The number of campouts increased.  I especially enjoyed the ones where Dad joined us, but by now, Dad didn’t attend all of them.  Our Scout Master had a friend who owned a plot of wilderness land down near the confluence of the Platte and Missouri rivers.  We’d park on the side of the road, and then climb a fence, and hike in to the woods about a quarter mile.  There was a stream that curved back and forth through the area, forming three or four good camp-sites, each separated by a bend of the stream.  The area was heavily wooded.  We’d go down several times a year, where we would hike, and play various games.  We learned lots of “scout-craft” stuff… building fires, cooking, tracking.  It was here, in my twelfth year that I learned more than our Scouting leaders would have wanted me to learn!  I shall leave the details to your imagination!

My Scoutmaster was also our next door neighbor, Bud.  Bud was great with the kids.  We knew we could count on him.  In addition to his emphasis on camping, he wanted to make sure we were fit, and so many of our outings involved “bike hikes”.  We’d set out on our bicycles and ride up to 25 miles!  Some of those hikes culminated in campouts.

In 1973, he took 6 of us on a special trip for 3 weeks.  It began in Chichen Itza. We toured the Mayan ruins near there, then flew on to Guatemala City.  In Guatemala, we toured in to the interior of the country, up in the mountains, to view the volcanos, and more ruins.  I remember we rode on a local bus, complete with chickens and the like.  We chatted in stilted english and spanish with the old men on the bus.  We travelled in a mini-bus down to the coast to romp in the ocean.  And we spent 2 full days fighting “the crud”.  Six boys and an adult leader all cramped in 2 rooms in a run down hotel fighting food poisoning or something… with toilets that didn’t work!  From Guatemala, we travelled to Mexico City, then Taxco, then Guadelajar, down to Acapulco, then back to Mexico City.  Finally home, via New Orleans, and a drive from there up to Omaha. 

In the 70’s my brothers moved away from home, one to California, one to Missouri and then from there on to California.  I attended a Boarding School for three years.  At the end of that time, before transferring to a public school in Omaha, one of our teachers “Pere B.” took a group of us from his French classes to France for 3 weeks.  We made a brief sojourn in to Italy and another in to Switzerland.  We saw the Loire Valley, and Normandy, the French Riviera.  I turned 18 that summer, while in France.  Father took us all out and partied.  And I got drunk!  But not for the first time.  The first was on the flight from the US on an Air India 747.

My memories of High School aren’t all that significant.  My boarding school career was not all that memorable.  I enjoyed my time there, but it was also a living hell for me.  Early on, by the end of my first month, I’d been labelled “Fag”, and that label stayed with me.  Students took every opportunity to mock me, and to beat me.  By the end of that first year, I was having horrible fights with my parents on Sunday… the day I’d have to return to school.  Early in my second year, Mom & Dad started taking me to a child psychiatrist.  I continued to see him until the middle of my third year.  We decided during that last semester that it was time to take me out, to put me in to public school.  In the words of my Dad, it was better “to be a small fish in a large lake than a small fish in a small pond”.  By that he meant it would be easier for me to hide from tormenters in a school that  was over 30 times larger than the small boarding school I was attending.

As an aside, in 2002, I was invited to attend the 25th Reunion of my class at that boarding school.  The men with whom I’d attended school were mellowed with age, even kind in their interactions with me.  But the baggage I carried with me was too heavy.  I had to leave early, and have since discontinued any contact with the school.

If my years at the boarding school were largely uneventful, other than constant bullying, my year at public school was even less eventful.  The bullying mostly died away.  I learned to avoid the kids most likely to continue it.  But two activities from that year were fun.  The first was, for PE, I enrolled in swimming.  I was too slow to ever compete, but I did develop a great fondness for the sport, I enjoyed swimming, because I could compete against myself.  And of course, it didn’t hurt that I was surrounded by good looking boys in speedos!  While in the pool or in the locker room, boys who would bully me out in the halls were actually sociable and friendly, making suggestions on how to improve.  As a result of my swimming, after leaving High School, I worked for a few years with the Boy Scouts running various aquatic programs in summer camps.

The other program I got interested in was AFS, a program of exchange students.  As a result, I spent the summer after my graduation in Kenya, East Africa, where I had a great number of adventures. 

By the time the 70s ended, I’d travelled to 8 exotic foreign countries!

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Early Life
February 20th, 2009 | Author: Eric Hays-Strom

Last Sunday, I indicated I’d be writing a series on my life, boring as it may be.  My first such post was last night, when I wrote about a “Day in the Life“… how a typical day unfolds for me.  Today, I turn to my early life.

I currently live in the town of Council Bluffs, a town on the western “leading edge” of Iowa.  Council Bluffs is a town of approximately 63,000 people.  Just across the Missouri River from Council Bluffs is Omaha, Nebraska.  We are part of the “Omaha Metropolitan Statistical Area”, a metropolitan area of 850,000.  The Omaha MSA in turn is part of a larger “Metroplex” of nearly 1.3 million people. 

Today, I live in a house less than 1/2 mile from where I was born nearly 51 years ago.  I still sometimes drive by the house, a duplex, where I spent the first 18 months of my life… Mom, Dad and I and 2 older brothers lived on one side of the duplex, my maternal grand-parents on the other side.

In 1960, my parents, siblings and I moved across the river to Omaha.  The home we moved into was a split level ranch and, at that time, on the very outskirts of town.  I can still recall looking west from our house and seeing corn fields.  Today, that house is in the center of the Omaha area.

My father was a civil engineer working for a major gas company, though he was also studying law.  By 1964, Dad was a practicing patent lawyer.  Mom was a home-maker, though she also did some work in the 60’s for a political campaign, and then in the 70’s held down a job at Boys Town. 

Our neighborhood fairly exploded with children.  I remember a small handful of these kids from those days. Greg lived across the street, Jimmy lived next to him, Andy around the corner, John on the next block to the north, Paul two blocks away.  There was Jeff, and a boy I just can’t remember between John and I.  Greg, Jimmy and I were probably the closest, though there was an ongoing rivalry between Greg and I for Jimmy’s friendship.  Beyond the boys listed, within just a few blocks were probably another dozen boys… all of us spent our days together.  Sleepovers at various homes, including ours, were not uncommon.  “Camping” in the back yard was a frequent summer-time treat… Dad would set up an old canvas tent that would sleep maybe 4 adults… usually 10 kids!

My cousin Danny lived not too far away, and was part of our gang.  He once “ran away” from home one Sunday.  My Aunt called Mom, quite shaken up, to let us know the horrible news.  Danny was maybe 4 years old, me slightly over 5.  The moment Mom told me what had happened, my gut instinct kicked in, and I ran out the back door and into our “fort”, a collection of 4 or 5 bushes at the corner of our property and had a small “hollow” in the center.  Sure enough, there was Danny.  He’d made the 6 block journey to our house to play!

Playing was pretty typical fare for children.  Hide and Seek is the game I remember the most, though we also had these fantastic summer “water fights”.  There would be thirty to forty of us kids, ranging in age from 5 to 15.  We’d stock up on water pistols and water baloons during the day, getting our arsenels prepared, then, after dinner, the fun would begin, and would last until well after dark.  The territory of our war stretched over 3 full blocks.  Hoses came in to play, as did buckets of water.  The little kids (me included) were detailed to guard our home base, while the bigger kids went off on patrol.  The parents too were involved!  Our Dads, most of whom were veterans of WWII, were the commanding generals, providing tactical and strategic advice… and once or twice getting involved in our “hand to hand” combat!  The water fights were actually modifications of our Hide and Seek games.

It was a close-knit neighborhood.  In addition to the games, there were block parties.  Our Dad’s would block off the end of the street, and set up tables made from saw-horses and planks, card tables… anything that could be turned in to a surface.  The Moms would put out table clothes, and adorn the tables with all types of food… though I remember the hot dogs, hamburgers and fried chicken the best.  We’d wander up and down the block, eating from whichever table looked most inviting (which meant by the end of the night just about every table was barren!)  The kids would wander off to play and the parents would congregate in small groups to chat over coffee… oh, I suppose there was lots of beer, as well!

By the mid sixties, that had begun to dwindle.  Those years were the height of the mobile society and families moved in and out of the neighborhood.  We lost the sense of closeness to a degree.  Those block parties shrank to dinner parties with very full houses!  By the ’70s, there just a handful of “old timers”.  We’d get together and play cards… our parents, that is.  The kids continued to play as play we always had!

Snippets of memories crop up as I write:

  • playing outside, in 1967, waiting to run inside as soon as it was time to watch the moon-landing.
  • not understanding why Mom was crying, as we watched the news of JFK’s assassination on TV.
  • Touring the newly built main fire station downtown as a huge commotion erupted… news that Bobby Kennedy had been assassinated.
  • The two Japanese men staying with us for a week on an exchange program, and the tension in the family room as the older Japanese man and my father discovered that they’d literally fought against each other on Okinawa… in the very same small tract of land they both referred to as “the cemetary”.  And their hugs of mutual apology and forgiveness.
  • The flood of 1964 (I think) when we watched our side yard turn in to a raging creek… a creek that washed out the house to our west.
  • The annual heavy rains that would flood our basement with up to 8 inches of water… water that every one of us would spend hours cleaning up… carrying buckets of water out to the back door… until Dad finally discovered the cause and fixed it… even then, it was only a partial fix.
  • Christmas Eve of 1961… I was a mere three years old. I recall waking around 2 or 3 in the morning, just knowing that there was something horrible in the house.  Running to Mom & Dad’s room, and yelling that something was in the house.  Dad leading us all, Dad first, me second, Paul and Bob (my older brothers) next followed by Mom bringing up the rear.  Dad armed with a baseball bat to lend an air of adventure, as we crept down to the basement… where the noises were coming from.  Throwing open the door and being attacked by a vicious….ly loving Dalmatian puppy!
  • Another midnight hunt to the basement and discovering we’d been literally overrun by MICE!

Memories like this pile one on top of the other as I remember those early years.  For instance, as a Kindergartner, I walked… alone… over 6 blocks to school, crossing a major street!  Today I think that would be considered neglect!  Then it was perfectly normal.  Or, walking home from same school, and stopping to play in the vacant lot where the city had deposited several large sections of drainage pipe big enough for little boys… many at a time… to stand upright in.  Such fun places!  Until one day, exhausted by the rigors of kindergarten, I fell asleep in one of them.  By the time I awoke late, late at night, I couldn’t find my way out.  The neighborhood was awash in activity.  I’d never seen it so busy!  And best of all, Police cars and fire trucks were everywhere!  Police were pounding on doors, firemen were looking in bushes and everywhere… everywhere, that is, except the stockpiled drainage pipes… for the lost or run away little boy!

Next post will be about the 70s!

Category: Eric's Life, Ramblings  | 2 Comments
My Recipe Invention
February 19th, 2009 | Author: Eric Hays-Strom

Okay, first of all, let me be honest.  I did NOT invent this, as I said in my previous post.  I modified it.  I woke up yesterday morning and thought “Self, we need to figger out what to do with that chicken… I know, how about something with peppers and mandarin oranges?”  So, I set out to find a recipe.  I modified, slightly, what I found… here goes:

1 lg red pepper sliced into thin stripes
1 lg yellow pepper sliced into thin stripes
1 can mandarin oranges (strain, but keep juice)
1 cup green onions (cut to about 1 “)
2 tbsp fresh minced ginger
1 can strained water chestnuts
soy sauce
1 lb Chicken breast cut in to strips
“a large handful of raisins”
chinese noodles (prepare as package directs)
1 can chicken broth
Olive oil

In a skillet, add a little olive oil, 1 tbsp minced ginger, 2 tbsp soy sauce and the chicken.  Grill chicken until no longer pink.  Remove chicken and set aside.

In the same skillet, add another tbsp of soy sauce, a third of the can of chicken broth, the peppers, onions and chestnuts, and stir fry until veggies are crisp but hot.  Remove from skillet.

In the same skillet, add  a third of the can of chicken broth, the noodles, the mandarins and the raisins.  Stir fry, then add back in the veggies and the chicken, a little more chicken broth, the juice from the mandarins.  Stir together, turn off the heat, and serve.

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Day in the Life
February 19th, 2009 | Author: Eric Hays-Strom

What does a day in our life look like you might ask?  I’ll tell you, because it impacts my writing at this stage.

First of all, our household.  Scott and I live in an old “craftsman bungalow” that was built in about 1915.  We’re not sure of the date.  One record source, county records, says 1910.  The other source says 1920.  We provide a home to Gary, a “Little Person”.  That’s a long story, one I’ll save for later.  We also have a cat and a dog.  When we moved here, we had 3 of each!  But, over time, old age, infirmities, and an auto accident has narrowed our menagerie to the 2 animals.  Bosco is a tabby cat and owns Gary.  Nikki is an Australian Shepherd/Blue Heeler mixed dog that owns Scott and I.

Every morning at 5 a.m., Miss Nikki wakes me up.  Sunday through Friday, Scott gets up at the same time to prepare for work.  It takes him a long time.  We get up, take Nikki out for her morning ablutions… potty time!  Then we sit down to watch TV… morning news for a while, then some saved program from the DVR… and have coffee.  At about 6:20, Scott starts showering and getting ready for work.  At 7:20, Scott leaves for work, not returning until nearly 6 p.m.

After Scott leaves, I return to the sofa with Miss Nikki.  We watch a little more TV, while I check out a couple of web sites, read the night’s blogs, check email, and play a solitair game or two.  About 8:30, I go upstairs, and spend a half hour on the treadmill.  Since January 6, between diet and the treadmill I’ve cut about 15 pounds.

After exercise, I gather up laundry, clean a room and the kitchen (kitchens are a daily necessity), and plan any grocery shopping that may be needed.  Some days, Gary asks if I can make myself scarce.  He has a lover who is very shy and won’t come by if I’m home… even though he knows we’re gay.  So I will generally give Gary 2 hours to get his groove on.

Somewhere in that day, I get in a nap.  That’s essential!

About 4:45, I start preparing dinner.  Now, for 13 years of our relationship, Scott has cooked EVERY meal that we’ve shared, not counting restaurants.  I’m having to learn how to cook all over again.  I invented a new dish last night, I’m quite proud of.  Maybe I’ll post the recipe later.

By 7 p.m., our dinner completed, Scott and I settle in for the night to watch TV.  There’s a number of shows we watch, CSI, CSI:Miami, Ugly Betty, ER, plus lots of documentaries.  

At 10:20, we give Nikki her medications and treats, then take our own, and call it a night.

Why is this schedule interfering with my writing?  Because even though I have lots of down time, I have the TV on whenever I’m on the sofa… and that’s where my my laptop is! 

I need to learn to discipline myself to write, and turn off the boob tube!

Category: Eric's Life, Stayings at home  | 3 Comments
An Adventure
February 15th, 2009 | Author: Eric Hays-Strom

Almost 4 years ago, I related a story about my 3 months in Kenya.  At the end of that post, I promised one day to tell some stories about being chased by Baboons, Lions and, a Hippopotamus.  Here is the first of those stories:

 

It all begins nearly thirty years ago, when I was but 19. That year, I graduated from high school. Also in that year, I had the incredible good fortune to be selected for a student exchange program known as AFS, and was sent to Kenya, in East Africa, for the summer. As part of the experience, all 20 exchange students, in the weeks before leaving the country, took a tour to the port city of Mombasa. We boarded our bus early one morning, after stopping to buy two cases of what I was told were pawpaws. As the morning progressed we each took a piece of this fruit, took a bite and promptly spit it out. It was un-ripened, the nastiest stuff you could imagine, with a consistency of sand, and the flavor of cardboard, with a hint of bitterness. Yuck! Now, it happened that our route took us through Tsavo National Park. Throughout the drive, we kept our eyes peeled for signs of wildlife (I’d already been to another park, so I’d see much of the African fauna,) but all we saw were the distant humps a far off elephant herd, and the heads of far-off giraffe sticking above a copse of stunted savannah trees. Finally, we came across a troop of baboons close enough to the road to provide the opportunity for photography. We stopped the bus, and John, the head of the AFS program stepped out, accompanied by myself (I WAS 19, after all!) and another boy, leaving strict orders to the rest of the folks to stay on the bus.

While the baboons were close, they were a little too far away to get good pictures of. They’re brown animals, and the terrain was mostly brown dirt with brownish brush, and well, they all tended to blend together. We needed to draw them closer in. But how? Ah, here was a way to get rid of that nasty fruit. So we unloaded the two cases of nastiness and began to toss the fruit, one by one, to the troop, drawing them close. Well, those folks on the bus, they weren’t happy. They wanted to get better photos! So… they got off the bus.

By now, the troop was close enough to count their teeth… and see the whites of their eyes! If I’d been at Bunker Hill, I’d have been shooting LONG before they got this close! Have you ever seen a baboon close up? They’re not too large, about the size of a 10 year old, maybe…. But with teeth, no, FANGS that are huge! In fact, I read somewhere that their fangs can be much larger than a lions! A troop of baboons, when angered, can be extraordinarily dangerous. Well, I looked into the box of fruit to get the next piece and realized we’d emptied one box and had maybe 6 or 7 left. By this time, our troop was getting into a feeding frenzy, and their sounds were getting irritable.

John, our leader, seeing the same lack of fruit, frantically called for everyone to get on the bus, and to their credit the kids rushed to comply. John and I, and the other boy did our best to dish out the fruit, as the last of the group jumped aboard the bus. The other boy then jumped aboard. Then, all gallantry thrown to the wind, John shoved me aside, and jumped into the bus, screaming at the driver “Go! Go! Go!”. The driver complied leaving me with a troop of angry baboons. Well, these legs of mine never ran so fast! I’m sure a Hollywood director could have made one heck of a funny comedy filming this… a bus quickly picking up speed, a screaming teenager running frantically to catch up… and a troop of 50 howling baboons streaking after them! With my last ounce of strength, I grabbed the rung of the ladder next the door and pulled myself in as the lead baboon sprung at me.

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Interlude
February 15th, 2009 | Author: Eric Hays-Strom

After my 2nd last post, I read the blog of my pilgrim friend.  He posted his own “first experience of the Sacred” writing.  It was one I’d read before.  And every time I read his post I feel blue for a day.  What a life he’s had.  I’m sure the Pilgrim neither needs nor desires my pity… what an ugly word that is.  But I’m just struck by the differences in our lives.  My “growing-up-years” were so easy.  Where he encountered struggle and loathing, my life was easy and loving.  While he was fighting to survive, I went on adventures.

The reality for me is, after reading about your life, my pilgrim friend, it is so hard for me to write about my own.  I suppose in some way a voice in the back of my head is saying “How do you top that?”.  And I KNOW that is a ridiculous sentiment.  There’s no need to top anything (uh, okay, there is, but let’s not go there!)

So, over the next week or so, I’m going to be writing a series of posts about my very dull and very white-bread life.  I’ll throw in a few of my “adventures”; like the struggles that formed my friend into the man he is today (a very admirable man), my adventures played a role in who I am. 

I hope to add the first of these posts later today.

Category: Ramblings  | 2 Comments
I DO love 8 inches!
February 14th, 2009 | Author: Eric Hays-Strom

This past week, the news stations breathlessly hyped up the coming snow storm.  It was going to be a big one!  Problem is, over this past winter they’ve done the same thing several times.  Most of the time whichever system they anticipated either drifted off to the north of us, or passed to the south of us.  We’d get a dusting… or nothing at all!

In the meantime, I went through the week doing this or that.  Chores to be run.  Some of the chores that pile up over the weeks until you find time… well, I’ve plenty of time on my hands these days!  I took Miss Nikki (our Australian Shepherd/Blue Heeler mix) to the vet.  It was time.  And last year I was a baaaad boy.  I didn’t license her.  So, I wanted to make sure she was up to date on her vacs.  The vet recommended we have her teeth cleaned.

Then I took her paperwork down to City Hall and got her registered/licensed.  That’s off my back.  Ran by the bank one day this week… deposited a 10 year collection of coins… a collection that we frequently dipped in to… and I must say had some help with that from little sticky fingers. 

Yesterday morning, the day the news stations had set aside for our snow storm, Miss Nikki and I made the drive back to the vet for her scheduled teethcleaning.  It’s an all day event.  They anesthetize her for the procedure, then keep her until late afternoon to monitor her while the anesthesia wears off.  As I was leaving the technician told me I could come back at 4:30 to get her… hopefully the snow wouldn’t be too bad.  It was supposed to start at noon.  No, I informed her, it’s supposed to start at 9, but the worst is supposed to come at noon.

We were both wrong.

When I stepped out to my car, I was already seeing the first flakes of snow (8:20 a.m.).  By 9:15 a.m., the snow was heavy in the air.  At 10, I decided I better go out and buy the groceries, pick up my two medications, and the like so that I wouldn’t have to deal with the heavier snows/crowds of later afternoon.

That’s when I had my accident.  In the grand scheme of things, a pretty minor accident.  I was turning left at the bottom of our hill.  The light was green…. er, yellow…. er, red…. but by that time I was in the intersection.  I was half way through the turn… and then the car decided that it didn’t want to complete the turn!  I plowed into the curb, missing the light pole by a mere 2 or 3 inches.  Fortunately, I was able to drive on.  But this coming week, I’ll need to take the car to the shop and have them make sure there’s no serious problems wth the suspension or alignment or anything.

At noon, Scott called.  The University was closing shop and sending people home (they don’t have classes after noon on Friday’s… wouldn’t want those professors to have to work TOO hard, you know!

So Scott was home by 1:15 (not bad commuting time, considering the snow).  By 4:20 when we left to go get Miss Nikki, the snow had mostly stopped.

And, for once the news people were right.  It was a pretty good snow!  We have 8 inches.  I DO love 8 inches!  Of course, I’d prefer… uh, well, I AM talking snow, you know!

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First Assignment
February 12th, 2009 | Author: Eric Hays-Strom

After I left the seminary, I walked away from the Catholic Church.  By 1996 it was quite obvious to me that there was no place at the table for me.  Additionally, there was no way my partner, who had grown up Baptist, and then spent some time with the AOG church, could ever be happy in catholicism.  At that time, he was living just 1 block from the local MCC congregation.  I had, in my last semester in the seminary, discovered the MCC denomination.  It seemed the obvious fit for both of us.

At first I was a bit dubious; I was still operating under some “catholic baggage”, namely whether I would admit it consciously, there was still part of me that bought in to the “one true church” bullshit espoused by that church.  And so, as I entered the MCC I kept thinking at a not so subconscious level  that they were just playing church.  But, as time went by I began to more and more embrace the theology of the MCC.  In time I became more and more involved, finally stepping in to leadership positions by 2000.

Then, in 2007, things changed.  I’ve tried exploring just what it was that impacted me so much, but have never really come up with a satisfactory reason.  In any event, the result was that by November of ‘07 I’d pulled back from any leadership role.  And, in February 2008, I withdrew completely from the church for a while.  It was a short term hiatus; I began attending regularly again in May.  But my attendance can best be described as indifferent.  I came to church, sat in the pews… okay, chairs.  I went through the motions (still do, for the most part) then went home.  My passion for MCC, or church in general, just did not return.  Indeed, my passion for God just hasn’t returned.

It was because of this that I signed up for a class at church, feeling it was time to get involved again… involved in anything.  The class is called CLM… Creating a Life that Matters.  We’ve had two classes so far.  The first class was comprised mostly of “housekeeping” stuff – the rules we all agree to conduct ourselves by – and getting to know one another.

The second class has to do with “Bring Many Names”.  And there’s homework!  And it is THAT homework that has me writing this today.  The remainder of this blog post will be my homework assignment.  The assignment is to write a journal entry on the topic:

“Write about the first time you had an experience of the Sacred”

June of 1961 is shrouded in the mists of time for me.  I was a mere three years old.  But there is an experience from that year that has stuck with me, clear as the moon this morning.  In that month, my mom and dad took my two older brothers on a vacation to the Black Hills of South Dakota, and northwestern Nebraska.  For whatever reason, it was determined that I was too young for that trip.  I was heartbroken.  Well, I would have been heartbroken, anyhow, if it hadn’t been for the great adventure I was to have in their absence!  My paternal grandmother was to stay with me and I doted on her! 

In those days, we were living in a new home in Omaha.  We had an air conditioner, but it was to be used only on the hottest of days.  That June was hot.  And unlike many late spring days, the heat lasted in to the night.  Grandma Strom was not one to waste money on air-conditioning.  And so, after playing outside for much of the day, I was given a bath and sent to bed in a hot bedroom.  The only concession to the heat was an open window and the rare permission to sleep without my pajama tops.

Summer SunsetMy bedroom window faced east, and I can remember lying in bed across from the window,looking out in to the fading light of evening.  Sounds from the kitchen indicated Grandma was busy washing dishes and putting the room back in order.  I was restless, as little boys usually are at bedtime.  There was no brooking crying or tantrums, though.  Grandma came from sturdy German and Swedish background.  When it was time for bed, a little one had darn well better go to bed!  So, I lay in my bed, watching the growing shadows, striving to find some comfort, some coolness in the hot air of my room.

And then, the curtains twitched, and then fluttered.  A gentle breeze blew in through the open window, a cool breeze.  The breeze caressed my bared chest, bringing relief from the heat.

As I revelled in the sweet coolness, I slowly grew to an awareness.  This breeze was different, it seemed to me, than any other breeze.  I began to talk to the breeze, thanking it for its gentleness and for the relief it brought.  It seemed to me that it, too, spoke with me.  It spoke calming words; words of love, words of peace, words of friendship.  It was as if the breeze was saying to me “Be at peace; you are loved.  I am with you. I will always be with you.”

For some time we spoke together.  In truth, as clear as that evening is in my thoughts, I don’t recall the content of that conversation.  I just recall that I was somehow aware of the experience being something sacred, though I certainly had no idea of the meaning of that word… or even it’s existence!  I just knew it was special.

The grace of that twilight experience remained with me.  That breeze returned frequently during my life, though the frequency of that experience dwindled over time as I grew up, maturing in to the man I am today.  But even so, every now and then I’ll stop my activity, and an awareness will grow within me that once again I am in the presence of that breeze, that special loving breeze.  In the Presence of “My Friend the Breeze.”

Category: Spirituality, Stayings at home  | 3 Comments
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