"Grateful" Memorial Day

Of course we are happy today. For most of us, we've got a day off of work and it's made even better by the fact that the day off is a Monday -- typically the most difficult day of the week. But on Memorial Day, I've never been comfortable when people say "Happy Memorial Day!" A Memorial Day greeting should express gratitude and be a touch more somber. It should pay respect to our veterans who both served our country and, especially, to those that made the ultimate sacrifice.

Every year for me, Memorial Day is the one holiday that packs the most meaning into a day off. Many years we'll go to a service at Wood National Cemetery. This year we missed it, but within moments of posting this update, we will visit the cemetery and pay my respects to my father -- who is buried there -- and other veterans.

If you are resident of Southeastern Wisconsin and have never visited Wood National, I can't implore you enough to visit. Not only is it historical and grand, it will give you perspective on just how significant the sacrifice made by our veterans was and is.

I can't visit without getting a lump in my throat.

Maybe "Grateful Memorial Day!" would be more appropriate.

P.S. -- When you visit Wood, find my Dad's memorial stone and thank him from bringing me into your life. (Or blame him. Your choice!)

To My Mom, Thank You ...

At this stage of my life, it is possible to look back, understand and identify the influences that shaped me into being who I am. Those influences include environment, associates, happenstance, teachers, relatives, and, most importantly, parents.

In my case -- mostly -- parent.

Singular.

Between the ages of zero and 18, I had my father around about half of my life. Sometime around 11 or 12 it was splitsville for Mr. and Mrs. Collins. Dad had his own way of doing things, and his own set of odd and irresponsible dreams to chase. He took off and left my two sisters and me to be cared for exclusively by our mother. Where he was at any given time, I rarely knew. He was in Colorado for a while. Then Michigan, I remember. Who knows where else.

Quite unforgivable actually, but I did ... in time, but that's a story for another post.

It was saddening to see Mom and Dad not together. I remember it well -- particularly the day they told me, "Mike, we're going our separate ways." I was crushed. I am sure that any child that's ever had their parents split knows this feeling.

But here's the crazy thing -- not even a year had passed and I had come to realize that their divorce was for the better. Way better, probably. Seven days a week of an uneventful life was preferable to five days of okay and two days of Hell -- Friday and Saturday. Dad's days to let loose. Yep, I saw some things in those two days that I wish I could unsee, but I can't. In some respects, I think it caused me to grow up a little faster than I otherwise would have, but that wasn't altogether bad.

And through it all, I had a rock...

Mom.

1971

For all of the crazy, flighty whims of my father, mom was solid as a statue. She ingrained her values and ethics deeply into my being.

I would hold the door open for my elders. I would say "please," "thank you," and "excuse me." I would not litter. I would not lie. I would not steal. I would go to college and get an education. I would lead an honorable and honest life.

I could elaborate, but the important thing is, of all of the above woulds or would nots, I did not ever think of them as either/or choices. These were givens. Musts. Unequivocal truths. I couldn't choose to do otherwise even if I tried, because these truths were so deeply impressed upon me.

I was no angel, that's for certain. Whenever I was a little too troublesome, I got 100% of her ire targeted directly at me and let me tell you ... that did more to ingrain her values into me than anything else!

When I was a youngster, I might get a spanking or a slap on the face every now and then, but in truth, those momentarily surprising (and painful!) punishments left my memory just as soon as the sting wore off. You kind of remember, "Oh yeah, don't sass back to Mom again or you're going to get another one of those lickin's!" but when I got older, I'd receive a punishment 50 times worse than the hardest cheek slap...

The silent treatment.

Well, it wasn't totally silent. It usually started out like this, "Michael, I am so disappointed in you." Followed by a stern glare and a slow, disapproving head shake.

By day three I'd be begging for mercy. I won't do it again. I promise!

Mercy would be granted, life would resume to normal and from that point I knew -- never do that thing again, whatever it was that made her so upset. What a severe punishment, to know that I let down the person that loved me most!

I am proud of my mother to have raised me the way that she did, and I am ever grateful for her strong values. It is wonderful to see those values passed on to my sisters and see how they, too, instill them into their children. I still think of them as sisters, but truthfully, they're mothers now too, and I am equally proud of them.

Happy Mother's Day to all the Moms out there, but especially and  particularly, the ones in my life.

Mwah!

Hold You In My "Ohrms"

Ray LaMontagne's song Hold You In My Arms, by nearly any measure, is a great song. I've got Ray's first two full-length releases, but it wasn't until friends asked me to consider learning this song to play at their wedding that it struck me how wonderful and soulful it really is.

Performing a LaMontagne song is not an easy task. There are few professional vocalists who sound anything like him and if you've ever heard me croak out a tune, you'd readily agree -- I'm no professional vocalist! The best I can try to do is sing the melody so that it is recognizable and, hopefully, in tune.

Every once in a while I am able to pull it off, and Hold You In My Arms seems to fit within my limited vocal range. With some practice, I should be able to pull off a reasonable facsimile of this song, but my biggest question is:

Do I sing the title line as Ray sings it ("ohrms"), or as I pronounce it with my thick-as-a-slice-of-Nuekse's-bacon Wisconsin accent ("arrrms")?

Pessimist for a Day

I'm fortunate. I'm eternally optimistic about the nature and future of man. It's just the way I'm programmed, I guess.

Oh sure, I can get beat down about lots of the ugly stuff in the world: crime, greed, terrorism, people who think Kathy Griffin is funny, etc., but for the most part, when I cross paths with people, I expect them to be good-hearted folk looking to make it through their day in the most civil manner possible.

This is foolish. This is naive. And this is also a good way to be let down. An optimist can only be disappointed, while a pessimist can expect the worse, and be pleasantly surprised when a random act of kindness is encountered.

This morning, I saw an act of human behavior so vile and base that it upset me all day.

I was filling up my gas tank at the Midtown Shell Mart at the intersection of Wisconsin Avenue and Hawley Road. This station is just south a little bit from the Badger Association of the Blind. It's common to see visually impaired people in this area and today was no different.

As I was standing between the gas pump and my vehicle, I noticed a blind man walk out of the store and make his way across the blacktop tapping his cane to the left, to the right and back again. I wasn't paying attention to him as he made his way in front of an SUV that was fueling up on the opposite side of my pump, but shortly after he made his way past the vehicle's front bumper, the rear window rolled down and a thug yelled at the blind man.

"Watch where you're going with that stick or you'll fall on your God-damn face, bitch!" they shouted then rolled up the window.

I was shocked and appalled. If I could make my eyes vaporize this worthless dreck of human flesh into the ionosphere I would have. Thank goodness for him that's not one of my super powers.

The blind fellow no doubt heard this. He was only about 10 feet away -- about the same distance I was from the perpetrator -- but he continued his even pace towards the intersection.

I glanced into the SUV only to get a stare shot right back at me. Sheepishly, I went back to my business as I don't think thug-face would have thought twice about popping a cap in my skull if I pressed the matter.

Made worse was the fact that there was a small girl in the vehicle -- I'd guess about 3 years old, with no car seat. This child does not stand a chance.

What was in it for this person to say such a abhorrent thing?

I'm in complete amazement when I see visually-impaired citizens making their way through the city independently when I, with all my faculties fully intact, am growing increasingly frightened of doing it myself. Can you imagine the type of person who could witness this feat and then shout out a comment as loathsome as the one above?

I cannot. We live among savages. My dog's a better person than that. Many dogs are, considering how many are trained to help the blind.

I am sorry if this post was upsetting. I promise, I'll shake it off by tomorrow morning, but on Monday, April 23, 2012, allow me to be a pessimist for a day.

In Remembrance ...

My younger (half) brother -- Bradley Wayne Collins -- passed away earlier this week at the young age of 26. It is not easy for me to put my thoughts and feelings into words. We didn't see each other often, however, he's still flesh and blood, and that's something that forms a permanent bond no matter how seldom we saw each other.

Bradley was a complex individual -- much like our father -- and he suffered from schizophrenia. I was asked to say a few words at the service on short notice. I quickly scribbled some thoughts together that reflected my feelings towards his death. It wasn't easy to write and and it was even more difficult to deliver, but these were my words ...

By any account, a spoken remembrance of someone is never easy. It's always difficult. The last time I gave one was at our father's funeral service. While my heart was heavy and filled with grief, I did not have a head full of questions. I knew my father, and I knew the path of his life for 35 years by the time of his passing.

I knew my father was gifted ... and I knew he had struggled.

With Bradley, however, I have questions ...

When I received word of his passing last Tuesday, I was speechless.

"Speechless" is an oft-repeated and overused expression, but in this case, I truly was.

I sat quietly for at least 15 minutes trying to make sense of it all.

How could an equally gifted person (as our father), be taken from us?

Why was his time on earth so fraught with struggle?

What could I have done to make a difference?

It's not fair, is it? That Bradley's life could reflect our father's life, but be compressed to a time frame of only 26 years?

Finding solace in the death of a family member and loved one is difficult. But it may be comforting to know that peace has come to two of the most complex minds I have ever known. And that, God willing, they will find each other again ... in heaven.

Rest in peace, Bradley.

Honesty, the Best Policy

Last night, on my way home from work, I stopped at my local grocery store -- Metcalfe's Sentry on 68th and State -- and picked up a few items for the upcoming weekend. Like many of my shopping trips, this one included picking up a 12-pack of some good craft beer. Sentry had a nice offer on Summit Brewing Company's Spring Sampler (three bottles each of Extra Pale Ale, India Pale Ale, Great Northern Porter and Maibock), so I picked one up.

After running my items across the self-checkout scanner, paying and packing up my car, I was thinking about the bill on the way home. It seemed too inexpensive. Something must be wrong.

At home I checked the receipt and saw that the $14.49 Summit Sampler rang up at $5.99.

Five. Dollars. And. Ninety-nine. Cents.

A whole $8.50 less than it was supposed to be!

I knew I had to make this wrong right. I quickly called Sentry and explained that I was undercharged $8.50 and that they needed to correct their pricing on this item. I also said that I would stop in the next morning and pay the difference.

My conscience temporarily cleared, I went for a 3-mile run and returned home to enjoy a tasty Summit Maibock -- a brewing style I am usually lukewarm to, but this one I enjoyed. it was not too sticky sweet like I find some Maibocks.

This morning I returned to the store as I said I would and, with receipt in hand, I explained the story again. The person working the desk said she couldn't ring up the transaction because this was a liquor department sale and that business could not be conducted until after 9 a.m. She thanked me for my honesty and said that she would honor the price that I paid for the sampler.

Yes! Inexpensive beer is the next best thing to free beer!

While this may be a simple story, it brings a few things to mind:

1. Thank you, Mom, for raising me with this honest ethic. This was all your doing and I am proud to have it.
2. Metcalfe's Sentry is a good store with good people. I have shopped there for years and will  continue to do so.
3. Summit Brewing Company makes good beer.
4. How many others would do the same thing that I did? I think readers of this blog would, but others would  probably have run back and bought more samplers!

Thanks for reading and have a good Good Friday and a winning 2012 Milwaukee Brewers Opening Day!

Don't Take It for Granted (RIP, Greg)

As I write this, I am coming off (I hope!) of four or five of the sickliest days of my life. In the past, if I fell ill, I would miss a day or maybe a day and a half of work. Last week I missed two and a half days and had it it not been for a Wednesday afternoon scheduled conference call, it would have been three. And Friday--a day that I came in--I was being entirely too optimistic that I had recovered. In truth, had my first day of illness been the way I felt on Friday, I would have stayed home that day too.

While I was ill, I thought, "Geez, when I am healthy I should be singing and smiling all the time. How glorious it would be if only I could be well!"

Funny that when we are healthy, our thoughts and desires often turn to other material wishes and desires. When what we should really be doing is reveling in the marvel that is our body, mind, and good health. When I am back to 100%, don't be surprised if I run up up to you on the street and yell, "Holy smokes! Would you look at me! I can talk, walk, eat, and see without any pain or suffering! I'm a friggin' marvel of nature, I am!"

We do take it all for granted, don't we? Maybe the flu is just God's way of reminding us that we could have it a lot worse.

Me and Greg at The Bomb Shelter

And if I needed any more reminders, I received a chilling one last evening -- a friend and the proprietor of the incomparable Milwaukee bar The Bomb Shelter died of a heart attack at 46. I did not know Greg Landig suffered from a weak heart, but I am told that he was aware of his condition. Maybe that's one of the reasons he chose to pursue the idea of opening a bar specializing in breweriana and the enjoyment of Milwaukee's favorite beverage. (I was at The Bomb Shelter just a little over a week ago. At that time, the bottled beer types topped 300!) He was just pursuing a dream while he had the chance.

If this post accomplishes anything, hopefully you, as a living, breathing sound human being will take a few moments to appreciate the gift that is your good health. Close your eyes, take a deep breath, think, and love.

You are fortunate. Very fortunate.

And if you are the suds-loving type, get yourself a fine craft brew and celebrate your healthy taste buds as you raise your glass to Greg. He would have wanted you to.

RIP, Greg. You will be missed.

Dad. A Short Memorial.

Wayne M. Collins

If you knew my father, Wayne Milton Collins, you know what a unique individual he was. Quite indescribable actually -- so those of us that knew him seldom try to explain his nature. It's impossible.

But there are a few, small things that we can say about him. For instance, he like to play guitar and he liked to solder things.

He liked to solder lots of things.

Usually on the kitchen counter or kitchen table.

It drove my mom nuts.

When my dad died in September 2002, he was destitute. He had nothing but a carton of cigarettes and the clothes on his back, but before his final day, I had a chance to raid his meager lot of possessions. I took a few tools, a blood pressure tester, and a gun.

It would be interesting to see what Dad would think of today's world and technology. I am quite certain he would be amused and impressed by the iPad, but I also believe he'd think he could one-up Jobs' wonderpad and would probably make his own from a 19" color Sylvania, an Etch-a-Sketch, some wire, solder and electrical tape. "Why spend the money, Mike? I'll make you one just as good at one-tenth the price!" he'd say. And I bet it would work too, it would just be a little embarrassing hauling it into my local Starbucks.

Today's Project with Dad's Wire Snips

Today, I found myself assembling a wire harness to install a car stereo in our SUV. I got out the required tools: wire snips, solder, soldering iron, wet sponge, electrical tape, and, of course, a kitchen counter. As I stood there squinting to study and hold the soldering iron tip to the freshly stripped wires, I could see out of my center of focus a tool that I had at the ready: Dad's wire snips. Yellow-handled, they still bore the stains of his always black-epoxy covered finger tips. The memory flashback was intense. I could see him standing there doing the exact same thing. The only difference between the way I was standing at the counter and he'd stand at the counter was that he would have a cigarette dangling from his lips (he never did not have a cigarette dangling from his lips and that's what ultimately did him in too). Next to Dad's thumb, I think these snips were his most used digit.

Later this year will be the 10th anniversary of my father's passing. I'm sure if he were around today he'd be proud of his daughters and over the moon about his grandchildren. I am sure they would have tickled him pink. And sadly, they'll never get to see what an interesting fellow he was. I guess that's where I come in -- it'll be up to me pass on his good qualities, sense of humor and love of a good tune. These are things I remember and cherish the most.

Maybe I'll even teach them how to solder.

And Dad, if you're able to read this, remember, there's two things you are never supposed to discuss in heaven: politics and religion. Now stop it! ;)

An Avoidable Tragedy

*** Extracted from my February 27th dailymile post ***

Today, a tragedy of unthinkable proportions happened in my neighborhood. It happened this morning and has been on my mind all day -- an 11-year old boy was hit by a train on his way to school. He died. There's not person in my community that doesn't grieve tonight.

After the shock and immediate sadness, the next question our minds naturally ask is, "How? How could this young man not have seen or heard this fast-moving, but very loud train?"

The answer is why I think this is a post suitable for dailymile...

The boy did not hear the train because he was wearing headphones.

This tragedy, presumably, would have been prevented if he was not wearing headphones. Many of us, as runners, run with earbuds or headphones. When we do, our ability to aurally detect potential hazards is greatly reduced and we need to rely solely on our vision. Even though I, too, often run with earbuds, tonight I was acutely aware that I run across residential streets with little knowledge that an automobile may be coming up BEHIND me. Sure, I give forward glances and look left and right, but I'm taking a risk by not knowing what's going on ALL AROUND me. Plus, when we get "in the zone" we are probably even less likely to be 100% cognizant of oncoming hazards.

I thought the same thing as I crossed the very same railroad tracks that the tragedy occurred on. I gave a left and right glance as I normally would, and then I asked myself, "Was that really an adequate glance?" My silent response was, "No, Mike. You could be more certain."

The next time you lace 'em up and head out for a run, if you're going to plug your ears with little speakers, try to pay extra attention to the awareness you have of your surroundings. Are you as alert as you should be? How certain were you when you crossed the street that there wasn't a car coming up behind you? Did you glance appropriately left and right as you crossed the street or tracks?

Maybe you'll ascertain that you are, and have been doing, a fine job, but if you find yourself, like me, knowing you could do a little better, then maybe today's tragedy won't be entirely in vain.

And if you're a parent, I don't need to tell you any more. You'll take some action without any further prodding from me.

(This Is Not) The Wauwatosa Grand Prix

*** Extracted from my first Wauwatosa Patch blog ***

Hello Wauwatosa Patch readers. My name is Mike and I live in Wauwatosa. This is my first Patch blog and I'm angry.

I was going to write my first post as a big, sloppy kiss to the city I love and its fine citizens, but I'm afraid I can't do that today. You see, today, or more specifically, yesterday morning, I became infuriated at a few of my fellow Wauwatosans and I haven't been able to shake it.

What's got me so ticked off?

Your bad driving.

Seriously. You folks are sweet and nice when you're out walking the dog or at the coffee shop, but when you get behind the wheel of an automobile you mash your foot to the boards and grip the wheel like Michael Schumacher at the Grand Prix de Monaco. Only you can't drive like Michael Schumacher at the Grand Prix de Monaco.

It's one thing for me to just be grumpy, but what I saw yesterday morning was downright dangerous and nearly resulted in an elderly man and a crossing guard getting run over at the intersection of Milwaukee Avenue and 76th. It didn't qualify as a merely egregious example of bad driving -- it registered as an outright violation of the law. A Wauwatosa East crossing guard had his STOP sign held high and was accompanying the gentleman as he crossed Milwaukee Avenue. A turning driver ignored the sign and accelerated right though their crosswalk missing them by an inch. I was shocked as I saw him shoot past my bumper narrowly missing me too. The guard was equally exasperated as he glared at the offending auto as it sped west on Milwaukee Street.

My heart still pounding from witnessing the close call, my light turned green and I began to accelerate through the intersection. Just then a Tosa East boy ran right in front of my car. BRAKES!! I slammed on 'em. The kid's eyes were wide as saucers and he knew he did a dumb thing.

Adrenalin still coursing through my veins after the two incidents, I made my way east towards Washington Heights. Apparently, the speed limit or 5 mph over is not enough for some and a car decided to blast past me on the right.

This one happens all ... the ... time.

Lastly, at the intersection of Hawley and Vliet, I wait for a red to turn green. As I watch southbound cars speed through the intersection, I see their light turn to yellow. That doesn't matter; for most, yellow means green and red is merely a suggestion. I see another car approaching the intersection at full speed and I don't care what my signal says, or is about to say, my motorcycling instincts tell me this clown's gonna run it and I'm not in the mood to be T-boned on a Tuesday. I'll hold a sec just to see if he's going to stop.

He does, but not after thinking about running it, I'm sure. The light in front of me has turned green for less than a second and the guy behind me lays on his horn. LESS THAN A SECOND, I tell you. The fractions of a second that transpired between the green light and his horn would have to be measured with pulsations transmitted from a Rubidium standard clock. We're talking nanoseconds here. My rapidly beating heart turned into vaporizing boiling blood I was so mad. Nonetheless, I kept my cool and continued my morning commute to Walkers Point.

Five minutes and less than 2 miles from home, I saw unconscionably dunderheaded moves by no less than 4 people (5 or 6 if you count the southbound, red-light runner and the one that was thinking about it).

C'mon people. We are better than this. Can we please chill just a li'l? Arrive alive and all that stuff? If you're worried that your boss is standing at the time clock with a chronometer in hand measuring your arrival to the thousandth of a second, may I suggest awaking from your comfy slumber just a few minutes earlier?

Sorry to be rough on you, Wauwatosa. Call it tough love and thanks for reading. I'll be more light-hearted next time. I promise.

Bean Soup Blog - Inky Dinky Parlez Vous!

I know what you’re thinking, "Oh boy, not another blog from Mike about bean soup." Well it’s not exactly about bean soup, but it is inspired by bean soup.

When I was a child, one of my dad’s favorite meals was navy bean soup and cornbread. He grew up with 7 brothers and 1 sister and bean soup and cornbread was always a hearty and satisfying meal. Plus, grandma’s cooking was always delicious -- I am sure they had to fight for their position in line to get some!

He passed his love of bean soup and cornbread on to me. Whenever I see it on a restaurant menu, I inevitably order it. My craving is usually exacerbated by the fact that my wife has an allergy to legumes and we have never been able to have any bean-containing meals in our house. So when I saw it on the menu at Milwaukee’s Cafe Benelux -- “DING! -- the bell went off in my head and I instantly ordered it. As expected, it was good (especially paired with Cafe Benelux’s Tandem Dubbel beer!).

The following morning, driving to work, I still had bean soup on the brain and I faintly remember this little ditty that my dad would sing:

The first Marine picked the bean,

Parlez vous!

The second Marine cooked the bean,

Parlez vous!

The third marine ate the bean

and shit all over the submarine!

Inky dinky parlez vous!

I never heard this song sung by anybody else in the world and I wondered of it its origin. Where’d it come from? Was it a parody? Did he write it?

As soon as I got to work I performed a Google search for “marine picked the bean” and sure enough -- I discovered a thread from 1997 where folks were discussing and wondering the exact same thing. The actual ditty is named Mademoiselle from Armenteers and was a song from The Great War (WWI). The melody seems to have an infinite number of parody versions -- my dad’s was just one of many. It appears that there are no definite lyrics, just thousands of variously bawdy versions.

I found this recorded version on YouTube:

The poster of the video says this: Otherwise known as "Mademoiselle from Armentieres", this old song lived on for several decades. This is a song sung by the WWII-era soldiers (and possibly earlier) and there are no specific lyrics. I think that of all of the versions of this song sung in terms of "cleanliness", this is the best one. Part from that, it's performed by The Four Sergeants in the album Bawdy Barracks Ballads and is available on iTunes; however, due to my own frustration with a lot of YouTube videos popping up with advertisements I decided not to include a link to purchase the song. Looks like you're on your own - sorry.

Now excuse me while I make some bean soup and write a couple bawdy verses of my own.

Bon appétit!