Author: hkraushaar (Page 3 of 15)

It’s a little after noon on Thanksgiving Day. I am sitting here writing this while sipping my coffee, brewed with freshly ground Peet’s beans in filtered water, all the while humming a few bars of Alice’s Restaurant as Arlo endlessly blathers in the background.

My 19+ pound, outrageously expensive, branded, minimally processed, free range, dry rubbed turkey is nestled in the oven sans two thirds of each of its wings. I use the wings for my giblet gravy, because the thought of eating gizzards is a bit too intense for my pampered, Beverly Hills self to digest.

The wing tips are currently simmering in my soup pot, along with onions, celery, carrots and other stuff. Soon, I will have my turkey stock for making my gravy later today. Ironically, cooking the turkey is the easy part of my day. Making the gravy, which requires a whole lot of hands-on time and micro adjustments to get the taste right, is the hardest task I have left to do.

If I count our two grandkids, we will have 16 people eating here tonight, a big crowd for our little dining room. The good news is that the workload has been divvied up, with everybody contributing, giving me time to reflect on what I am thankful for.

Yup. Different year. Same Thanksgiving Day stuff for me. Thankfully. And I have a lot to be thankful for.

Pam and I are healthy, or as healthy as can be expected for two people staring down the gun barrel of our 50th high school reunion later this year.

Shelby, Bryan, Portia and Ford, their son, not their car, are doing great, in life and in their respective careers. Sometimes I watch Shelby mother Portia and am amazed by just how good she is at it. Clearly, she got those genes from Pam. Ford is seven months old, and his birth was the highlight of the year for us. Portia continues to amaze us with her precociousness and unbelievable control over all the others in her life, Bryan, never being content with their house, has begun a substantial remodeling project to make room for Ford. Otherwise, Ford may have had to sleep in the garage alongside the other Ford or shared a room with Portia, a potentially ego damaging event for a Ford. The way I see it, their remodeling costs will most likely be lower than the potential therapy costs if they do not remodel.

Kimberly, happily relationshipless and pursuing a new opportunity at her job, is doing great. She loves to travel, and has now, thanks to stellar advice from the psychic at the wedding of the daughter of our friends, became part of the international team at the company for which she works. In the few weeks since she has made the transition, she has been two Europe twice, once to England and once to France. She will be in Mexico next month. That same psychic told her that she will find romance in 2023. Sadly, the psychic did not specify whether Kim would find the romance domestically or internationally.

Pam, my saintly wife, is the rock star of our family. She continues to work for the school district, all the while counting down the months to retirement. I think the main thing preventing her from pulling the trigger is that I work at home. She has had a great year, spending time with Portia and Ford, who she tells me will be sleeping here tonight for the first time. Pam was recently appointed to the Human Relations Commission in Beverly Hills, an appointment she worked hard to obtain. We were all impressed and proud of her efforts and appointment. As Pam is one of the nicest people I know, I think this is the perfect commission for her. Pam continues to work out at Pure Barre. I think she has done almost 1,400 workouts there, making her an inspiration for us and the younger, post-boomers who work out there with her.

Pam and I finally took our first post Covid vacation in October, parking our butts in Wailea for about a week. It is our happy place, a place where we do very little except eat, exercise, bask in the shade, float in the ocean, and drink mai tais. We had a great trip and are planning another one for 2023.

I continue to spend just about every weekday in my den, mainly working, but sometimes, though not as often as I should, getting out of it. I do get out to walk Jake, our dog, twice per day, and every three weeks or so to walk the five blocks to Supercuts to get the hairs that are remaining on my head cut. Every now and then I have a weekday lunch with friends, and I actually went on a business trip this year. As I have noted before, I kind of embrace the hermit lifestyle.

This year was a transition for me, though, as I began to generate more of my own CFO consulting projects and rely less on work from my previous employer. I expect this transition to continue in 2023, and with it more “out of my den” outings during the week. Of course, that means I might be more impacted by high gas prices, something I have been immune to in 2022, as I have purchased gas only three times for my Cayman, my “daily” driver, throughout 2022. I think it’s a bit miffed at me for that, but at least I start it weekly, which is more than I can say for my 89 Carrera, which is on a trickle charger in the garage and which I do not start for months at a time.

I did, however, make a change in my life this year. Not a big one, but bigger than the rest of my changes this year. I decided todump, along with many other Americans, my Peloton. It served its purpose for 18 months, but I would rather walk or run than spin so I bought a treadmill. I continue to use my Tonal for strength training, meaning I never have to leave my house to exercise.

Time is ticking, and I have been sitting here for long enough, blathering far longer than Arlo. It’s time to take stock of my turkey stock and get on with the rest of my day.

Happy Thanksgiving.

My earliest memory of an event that blew a hole in my soul occurred when I was in middle school, a few years after the assassination of JFK. The specifics of the event do not matter, though it consisted of the abduction, mutilation and ultimate death of a child. Some fifty plus years after the event, I can still vividly remember sitting in one of the swings on the school playground with my feet gently rocking my body back and forth, while my mind reeled. I sat there like that for over half an hour trying to still my mind and stop imagining what that child experienced.

Thankfully, I have not conjured up that memory for decades. Sadly, it came roaring back unbidden this morning. I wish it hadn’t. It still cuts me to the core.

Over the years, other tragedies have moved me, some to tears, some to rage, some to fits of frustration, but none have had the same impact on my entire being as the one that occurred when I was in middle school. None, that is, until this week’s events in Uvalde, Texas, a place about which I had previously never heard, a place about which I wish I still hadn’t heard.

I have been dwelling on the event since it happened. When I first heard the news, I was shocked and dismayed, but I chalked my somewhat muted initial reaction up to being inured to mass shootings, as they occur so damned frequently.

But then the details started to come out. It was the details of the event that came out in the news conferences that transported me back to being in elementary school, trying to come to terms with a heinous act. It was the details that blew an atomic bomb sized hole in my soul. It was the details that crushed me.

I did not write this to make a political statement, though maybe I should have. I did not write this to advocate for better protection of our schools, though maybe I should have. I did not write this to advocate for mental health reform, though maybe I should have. I did not write this to advocate for a rational gun control policy, though maybe I should have.

No, I did not write this for any of those reasons.

I wrote this because I needed to. I wrote this because it was cathartic. My eyes filled with tears multiple times as I pressed the keys.

I wrote this because I can no longer spend half an hour in a swing.

In a couple of days Pam and I will celebrate our 42nd anniversary, though the word celebrate may be too strong, as we typically just acknowledge the day in passing. That’s not to say it is not an important day in our lives. It is. It just means that we are somewhat past the point of celebrating anything. It also turns out that we are being traditionally appropriate this time.

Being appropriate is a very rare thing for me, as I am never intentionally appropriate. I am consistently inner directed. I am unapologetically me. I like what I like. I do what I do. I wear what I wear. Heck, I still watch network TV, and my favorite zip up hoodie is threadbare at the elbows and is fraying at the ends of the sleeves. I claim it is comfortable. Pam says it’s disgusting. I’m sure she is right, but I can’t bring myself to admit it. Every now and then I could be considered appropriate, but it is a coincidence, not a planned act.

Pam, on the other hand, loves to be current. She loves to be appropriate. She is always reading the newspaper looking for trending things to eat, to do, to listen to, to watch. I love that aspect of her, as it pushes me to be more mainstream.

So as I approached our 42nd anniversary with nothing planned, I decided to research the traditional 42nd anniversary gifts. I wanted to know what I should be doing, even if I most likely would not be doing it. I was shocked to learn that I should be doing just about nothing. Wow, I thought, “I am good at that.” It turns out that there is no traditional gift, meaning, color or name to signify the event. The best tradition has to say is that, “The couple must be doing something right.” Geez, what a backhanded way of looking at it. A way that I thought was pretty appropriate.

All was not lost, though, as the 42nd anniversary does have a traditional stone. It’s called the Jasper stone, a type of stone I have never heard of. Once I looked it up, I understood why I had never heard of it. Apparently, is is an impure form of silica, riddled with a bunch of minerals, including iron, which gives it its red hue.

I was nonplussed by the Jasper stone’s composition and color. It looked like an almond to me. But then I dug deeper and was pleased to learn the true meaning of the Jasper stone. It is said to be nurturing and bring wellness through times of stress. It is also said that it provides protection, absorbs negative energy, promotes feelings of peace, relaxation and security, and balances the yin and the yang. Oh my!

Once I did my research, I was intrigued. I decided I should get Pam a Jasper stone for our anniversary. I mean, it is traditional. It turned out that it was not only traditional, but it was darn cheap, something else I found endearing about it. So I ordered one. Thanks to Amazon, it should be here before the big day. It is not wearable, though it could be carried in a pocket. It is not pretty, though it could be caressed. It is not extravagant, though it is thoughtful.

I was pretty shocked with myself. I was acting traditionally, with intention. Dang. Could this be the start of a new habit? Thankfully, my research was not done. It turns out that doing a home improvement project is thought to be a pretty traditional 42nd anniversary gift. Pam and I have a couple of big-ticket improvements to make. We have been procrastinating due to supply chain issues and general malaise, but we recently decided it was time to move forward again, without any realization that they were traditional anniversary gifts to each other. I was stoked, as that thought sunk in because I didn’t have to worry too much about becoming intentionally appropriate.

Happy Anniversary, Dear.

It is Black Friday morning, and as I sit here writing this, I am reflecting on Thanksgiving, dipping a perfect piece of mandelbrot into my perfect cup of Peet’s coffee, all the while listening to Arlo mutter about Alice, Fasha and Obie.

Black Friday has been a mixed bag so far. Despite awakening in a food, drink and sleep induced fog, I had a great, though eye opening, both literally and figuratively, workout on my Tonal. I took advantage of a Black Friday sale by buying more Peet’s coffee. I bought some bagels. I ate breakfast. And now I am sitting here reflecting, dipping and sipping.

On the surface, Thanksgiving was perfect, or in the context of my thoughts last night, piefect. It marked a return to normalcy after last year’s small, muted, stunted celebration. We had 14 people for dinner, which may have been a record for us, including our kids, son in law, grandchild and many members of Pam’s family. Everything worked perfectly. Everybody contributed. Everything was done on time. All expressed our gratitude. No one yelled or argued. Portia was happily running around, talking up a storm, and eating lots of pie. Every thing was perfect. And, shockingly, nothing was amiss. Or so it seemed.

I have been taking the lead role in making Thanksgiving dinners for about 20 years. It is a role I never envisioned for myself when I was younger, but one Thanksgiving I told everyone at the table that I was doing the cooking the following year, even though I had never cooked a turkey in my life. It’s worked out pretty well, and no one wants me to stop. It has become a labor of love.

But labor it is. I refer to Thanksgiving as my version of The Longest Day. My day has evolved and my work load has lessened over the years, but it is still stressful and a lot of work. It starts Wednesday evening with pie making, something I am a relative novice at, having made fewer than ten pies in my life. But apple pie defines Thanksgiving, so that is what I make. And this one was damn near piefect, even though I felt it was going to be less than piefect as I fumbled around making the crust and getting it into the pie plate. On Thanksgiving day I make the hors d’oeuvre dish, a vintage egg paste that is an homage to my late mother, Helen, and requires a Foley Food Mill, an anachronistic device I watched my mother use over sixty years ago. Then it’s on to making the turkey, the turkey stock and giblets (wing tips, not neck or innards) to be used in the gravy, the creamed spinach and, last, and most assuredly the most difficult dish to get just right, the gravy.

Thankfully, I have lots of help. Shelby made the stuffing. Kim made the salad and a healthy version of cranberry sauce she made from scratch. Bryan made the macaroni and cheese. Pam continues to make the yams, which are the not candied in the least, the mashed potatoes and the green beans. Andrea and her family, bring a pumpkin pie. Mitch and Dale bring Dale’s pecan bars and drive down from San Francisco. Lois makes and brings the aforementioned mandelbrot and brings Sees candy.

I went to sleep last night feeling great, tired and full, but great. As I was working out this morning and doing a set of iso split stance chops, a fiendishly difficult exercise, it dawned on me that I had sinned yesterday. My sins were not sins of action, but they were sins of omission. And our Thanksgiving was not so piefect after all.

First, and less importantly, I apologize to Arlo Guthrie, as I failed to listen to Alice’s Restaurant yesterday, thereby making Thanksgiving day less piefect, which is why I was listening to it this morning. Alice’s Restaurant is a funny song, but it is also a protest song, a song which is more significant now than it has been in decades.

Second, and much more importantly, and why I am writing this with tears in my eyes, I apologize to Onesimus (smallpox), Edward Jenner (small pox), Louis Pasteur (rabies), Max Theiler (yellow fever), Thomas Francis (influenza), Jonas Salk (polio), Albert Sabin (polio), Maurice Hilleman (measles), Richard Mulligan and Paul Berg (recombinant dna technology), and Katalin Kariko (mrna technology), because I omitted to thank them for developing ground breaking vaccines or technologies which have led to the development of the covid vaccines. I apologize to Donald Trump and Mike Pence for failing to express my gratitude with respect to their efforts in initiating and managing project Warp Speed to combat covid. I apologize to all the scientists around the world, who worked on the development of the covid vaccines, for failing to thank them for their tireless efforts on our behalf. I apologize to Dr. Anthony Fauci and Dr. Scott Gottlieb, who spoke the truth throughout the pandemic, for failing to thank them for their honesty, knowledge, communication skills and professionalism during extremely turbulent, stressful times. I apologize to Joe Biden, Kamala Harris, Gavin Newsome, and Eric Garcetti, who made the distribution of the vaccines a national, state and local priority, for failing to mention their leadership in getting the infrastructure mobilized to get the vaccines distributed. Lastly, I apologize to all the doctors, nurses, support personnel and volunteers who spent inordinate amounts of time putting shots in our arms.

As I finished my set of iso split stance chops, I was stunned, not to mention somewhat disturbed. While we were waxing poetically last night about our gratitude over our return to normalcy, our collective health, our happiness to be with family, and our joy at consuming massive quantities of piefect, fat laden foods, I did not adequately thank those many who provided the foundation for our piefect evening. Sadly, I did not even note my failure. A failure I will ensure never recurs.

Happy Thanksgiving.

To quote the Chambers Brothers, “Time Has Come Today.” I have always liked that song, even if I was about 12 when it was released, and even if I could not relate to it at that time. Most likely, I would have needed a dose of Timothy Leary to “get it” anyway. Now fifty-some years later it is beginning to weigh heavily on my mind.

Time Has Come Today is a call to action. When it was released it was about social justice and ending the Vietnam War. In a broader, world wide context the song is just as, or maybe even more, appropriate today than when it was first written, but that is not why I am writing about it now.

At 66, I am staring down the gun barrel of my own mortality. Well not really, but I am reaching the age where my QTR, or quality time remaining, is rapidly diminishing, leaving me with a host of long ignored and perpetually postponed life decisions. Decisions like how do I want to spend the quality time I have remaining. Like what will make me happy. Like what will make me feel good. Like what will keep me healthy. Like… Like…. Like…. Like…. While the questions are easy to pose, the answers are elusive, or, more likely, obscure.

I am a very fortunate guy. Despite my generally grumpy, curmudgeon-like outlook on life, I am actually pretty happy. Thankfully, I do not have a host of major issues to deal with. I have a great family. I love the work I do. I enjoy pursuing healthful activities. I enjoy my friends. My body and mind are functional. I do not have financial stress. That’s the good news. The bad news is that I have very little free time to spend on anything else. Which leads me right back to the question of the day: If I had free time, what would I want to do with it? In other words, how do I want to spend my QTR. Frankly, I have no idea.

Sporadically, in life we face times like these. Times that are watersheds in retrospect. Times where big decisions are made. From birth to our late teens, we have very few such decisions to make. Then all of a sudden, we have to pick, and get accepted by, a college. That was pretty easy for me, as it was UCLA or junior college. Even worse, we have to pick a major. For me, that was a simple choice, as I hated to read and—ironically—write when I entered college. Thus, it was easy to choose a major like mathematics. A paltry four or so years later, we have to pick a career or decide to stay in school. Again, that was pretty easy for me, as I opted to get an advanced degree. But unless we are lucky enough to be born with a significant trust and gobs of family money—which I wasn’t—sooner or later we have to pick a career, go to work and earn a living. Oh, yeah, we also have to decide if we want a spouse and family. But once those big choices are made, we generally have a long time to just stay the course, with periodic mid-course corrections. Until the specter of QTR looms large. Then it is time for the biggest life decision of all.

So here I sit, writing this and mulling over my life and how I want to spend what is left of it. So far, I have really enjoyed my day. I was up at the butt-crack of dawn because I don’t really need much sleep. I worked while it was still dark. I threw balls to Jake, the dog, after it got lighter, which is why at 12 years old he is still a spry guy. I did my 45 minute Peloton Power Zone ride, getting my heart rate into zone 4 and schvitzing enough to leave a puddle under the bike. I fed and walked Jake. I ate. I worked. I did my weekly personal banking and credit card reconciliations. I helped Pam unload the groceries. And I sat down to write this. All before lunch. All in all a pretty normal Saturday for me. And that is the problem.

I have been on the treadmill, literally and figuratively, of life for quite some time. It feels normal for me to do some work almost every day of the week—at all hours. Frankly, it feels good to be mentally engaged 24/7. It gives me purpose. It fills up my time. I am never bored—unless I have nothing on which to work. Again, that is the problem.

Sometimes I wonder if I am a workaholic. I know I have compulsive personality disorder in my genes, as my mom was a compulsive gambler. No doubt I enjoy a routine and find it hard to change it. Work enables me to stay in my rut. In the past when I have pondered this, I would re-read the definition of workaholic, and I realize that I did not work to avoid pressing or emotional issues. I worked because I had too much to do. Or so I told myself then. But more and more I am coming to understand that I am so inured, and that my soul has become so psychedelicized, to working long hours that I have accepted them as being the norm, or the price I pay for loving what I do, with the result being that I have suppressed my desires to do other things. Covid only made the situation easier to ignore, as there was not much else to do anyway. But now as we are beginning to open up and do more things and as my QTR continues to diminish, the true cost of those hours has become more apparent. But is it high enough to cause me to act? I think it is.

Which brings me back to Time Has Come Today, and its call to action. I need to change my life now. I need to work less. Not because I have a pressing need immediately, but because I will never know if I have a need until it is too late if I don’t. I have to give myself time before I have any clue as to how I want to use it if I ever want to have the time to use it differently. In some respects it is like creating the space to build a field of dreams, but that is a topic for another post.