Minnesota

Nightmare

I rarely get nightmares. Come to think of it I don’t dream very often either. I wonder why that is? I like to think that dreams and nightmares are our psyche’s way of working stuff out on the inside, and what we experience when it hits our consciousness are the stories we see while we sleep. I am not sure and I don’t think anyone is 100% sure of this. If it has in fact been proven to be true, then because I have not had dreams of any kind in over five years, I must have it all figured out.

Now that in and of itself is a scary thought. Can you imagine having it all figured out by age fifty-four? Then what do you do? I mean after you have all the answers what do you do with your life from that point on? Walk around as if you have all the answers? What fun would that be? Really what would be the point of going on living? Now don’t worry, this is not some kind of suicide note, just because I wrote “I got it all figured out,” and “What’s the point of going on living.” I have far too much to live for and love life. Besides that, I did have a nightmare.

I will say the nightmare was scary. So scary that when I started to tell the story to my nine-year old son the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Describing it to him, I conjured up the image of my childhood home where the story took place. He picked up on the vibe of fear and started to feel the impact of the nightmare and became scared. So much so that when asked by his Mom to go to his room to get dressed for soccer practice, he refused. That is a testament to the strength of this nightmare or my storytelling ability or both.

I must confess that I have not gone into grave details yet about the nightmare for fear of raising the hairs on my neck again. I cannot promise that it will be all that scary to you because it originated in my subconscious and not yours, Anyway, I will try my best. And yet still I hesitate, frozen in fear. Ok, not really, but hesitant, that’s for sure. Okay now here we go.

I am the same age I am now and find myself in my childhood home, a small postwar 3-story home in a middle class suburb of Minneapolis. Built for a family of three we were a family of five – Mom, Dad and three boys. As we got older the house felt more and more cramped. The reason, there were only three bedrooms – two on the first-floor and one in the attic. The attic was where the three of us slept for the first ten years of our lives. It was an interesting place. The sharp angled ceiling thanks to the V shaped roof made for a peculiar feeling. The L shaped room ran the length of the home and yet large enough to accommodate the three of us – a bunk bed for my younger brothers and a single for me. Windows on both ends of the room allowed for both morning and afternoon light, which made it bright and cheery throughout the day. I am not quite sure who chose the carpeting, but it was a small block shaped pattern blue tone color. It was an odd combination when contrasted against the typical 1970s light wood paneled walls. It did add an overall pleasantness to the unique space. And then there were the four doors that opened into the rarely used storage spaces. These tiny rooms when opened emanated nothing but blackness. At the time, our imaginations went wild whenever we opened them thinking ghost or goblins resided behind the doors. We dared one another to go in and stay as long as possible with the doors shut. I do not recall anyone ever going over the one-minute mark. When reaching our fright threshold we signaled to one another with a loud scream when it was time to open the door. I remember that all-encompassing feeling of dread once the doors shut. You couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. It was comforting that I could still hear brothers voices, but not enough so to make it past one-minute. To this day I do not know if it was our imaginations or there was some unseen entity lurking behind the doors. This is why I believe my nightmare had such an impact. Well that and the storage space at the top of the stairs was the scariest of them all. I cannot speak for my brothers, but this particular space’s creepiness factor was off the charts. Whenever I had to open those doors to put something in storage I would get so spooked and threw whatever it was slamming the door as quickly as possible.

I will continue from this point on with my horrific ordeal that took place while I slept. I stand before the bedroom door with a cardboard box in hand. I open the door and start to walk up the stairs leading to the bedrooms and storage space reaching the top without incident.  As I closed in on the storage space door fear began to seep in. I am not sure if it was my childhood memory causing this or something real lurking behind the door. All I know is the objective is to put this box in storage. Reluctantly opening the door, at first glance I see nothing but darkness. As my eyes adjusted I could make out a blue quilted blanket lying on the ground in the shape of a body. I shrug that off as my mind playing tricks.

Because the storage space is small the entrance is as well. Now that I am an adult I have to get down on my knees and wiggle my way in so I don’t hit my head. I’m on my knees breeching the threshold where darkness meets light. I just need to get myself in about a half a foot. Once there I can put drop the box, get out, shut the door and be done with it. Just as I am about to put the box down, the blanket in front of me moves ever so slightly. “It’s my imagination again,” I say out loud. As I move to put the box down, the blanket is whipped off on its own accord in a violent manner revealing within inches of my face the face of a decomposing corpse. Blood oozing from the white cranium like hot lava from a volcano only to be sidetracked by dark patches of greasy hair. The face was pus white contrasted by the surrounding blackness. The piercing deep black lifeless eyes revealed the true nature of this evil entity. I know in that moment, had I locked eyes I would have surely lost the stare down and my soul. With no time to waste I dropped the box, slammed the door hitting my head and screaming out in pain and fear.

The moment I stood up and backed away from grisly ghoul was the moment I found myself standing at the foot of the stairs again with the cardboard box in hand and no memory of what had just happened. I began my journey again walking the stairs to the storage space. Again I opened the door, and before opening the door I had that same dreadful feeling blaming it on my childhood. Opening the door I saw the very same blanket in the shape of a body. And like the first time the blanket whipped open revealing the same evil entity. And just like the first time I backed away in fear slamming the door shut, hitting my head, screaming and finding myself at the foot of stairs yet again with the same cardboard box. This continued over and over becoming a twisted horror version of Groundhog Day. That is in and of itself the real nightmare. Can you imagine having to relive that level of fear and evil over and over again for the rest of your life? No strike that there is no rest of your life in this scenario – it just continues ad infinitum.

Fortunately, it was my nightmare and my eighty-year old bladder residing in a 54 year old body saved the day by signaling to my brain it was time to relieve myself now or risk wetting the bed. And I don’t want to relive that childhood nightmare again.


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Mortality

I was out for an early morning run around our local park the other day located in a sleepy suburban town on the outskirts of Tokyo. Early morning runs are the best! I get the park all to myself, it’s peaceful and mid February temperatures have a slight nip in the air, which reminds me of Minnesota. After fifteen minutes of warming up, I kick into gear, not that high of a gear, just a notch faster than my warm up. When I hit my stride thoughts floating around my head ratchet up as well. Usually I do not grab them. Most are just trivial and related to politics, resentments or plans for the day. If I am in the midst of working on my book, ideas tend to float in. On this occasion it was none of the above. Having breached my 50s a while ago and weathered the mid-life confrontation, I still get the occasional residuals. On this particular morning what hit me was the word – mortality.

How many of you think of your own mortality? That inevitable truth we cannot escape. You can be the richest man in the world, what’s his name that owns Amazon? He will die. You can be the most famous actor or actress in the world and you know what, they will die. The president of the US will die. In short we all will die. How many have even said these words? – I will die someday. This does not have to be morbid in any way, it just is. Knowing this truism I choose to live my life like I may die today. What the heck does that mean? Or maybe you’ve heard that before. I certainly did not coin the phrase, but I do on a regular basis try to live that way. How I interpret the phrase “Live like you’ll die today,” or I believe another way of saying it is, “Live like it’s your last day,” is that I try not to get caught up in the pettiness of life, treat everything with at least a modicum of love and respect for everyone and everything and take risks. I am not perfect at it and I know I never will be, but I try.

For those results oriented people, what is the payoff of admitting one’s inevitable extinction?  It’s peace, serenity, clarity, joy, lightheartedness, compassion and love. The list of positives goes on and on and on. Really, I find it comforting knowing there will be an end and that I get to live my life on this planet in the best possible way.

I do want to add one caveat, and that is this is coming from someone who is in his 50s and well over the halfway mark. So it does seem to make sense that this whole notion of the inevitable has planted roots in my psyche. If there were only a way to teach those under the halfway mark the concept of mortality. I wonder how it would affect our world?


Let There Be More Blood

Bodies strewn about writhing in pain, with blood splatter canvasing the ice like a Jackson Pollock painting, ladies and gentleman it’s broomball!

Once a week from Japan I Skype a family member in Minneapolis to say hi and see what’s up. The first topic of conversation is always the weather. Lately it has been about how much snow there is in Minnesota – a lot! After a recent call I started reminiscing about Minnesota winters and how much I miss them. Winter exists in Japan and I go skiing twice a year with family, we just have to get in a car, bus or train for a few hours to reach it. What I miss most is the easy access to winter sports such as cross country skiing, hockey and my favorite, broomball. Ask anyone who has never experienced life in a winter wonderland what broomball is and 100% will be clueless.

To the untrained eye broomball looks like a trailer trash form of hockey in which participants unable to afford to buy the necessary equipment like skates, hockey sticks and a puck opted for dumpster diving and came up with brooms, old winter boots and a volleyball. This is not the case. In fact broomball is a legitimate sport with teams, leagues and tournaments. There are commonalities with hockey such as six players to a side, an ice rink and goals. Other than that it’s a game all its own.

Made with rubber soles, the boots do not mix well with ice causing extreme slippage adding to the danger factor. The lethal combination of rubber soles and a lack of head protection increase the chance of a noggin cracking. The broom is the centerpiece of equipment and used to bash the volleyball. The object of the game is simple, put the ball into the opposing team’s goal. This is not an easy task due to the slick ice and the opposing team trying to slam you into the boards. Like passing a hockey puck, passing the ball to a teammate is next to an impossible task.

This game is about timing and team members overshooting their position sliding past an incoming pass is common. With skates you can stop on a dime thanks to the sharp edges. Boots offer no stopping power whatsoever. Besides timing, it comes down to speed, balance and an understanding of physics. I failed out of physics in college and ended up relying on my speed, which explains why I nearly always overshot my mark. Like Usain Bolt in the 100 meters, at the ready in my starting position at one end of the rink hoping this time physics and gravity work in my favor, my starter pistol is a teammate screaming at the top of his lungs “Unleash the fury!” At that moment I start my dash gathering speed as I go from one end of the rink to the other with an aspiration to remain on my feet for the duration before getting the pass. Receiving the pass just as I reach top speed, shooting and scoring was a rare occasion. Most of the time the ball would end up behind me and at bone breaking speed I would crash into the boards surrounding the rink injuring my shoulder and pride, or the next best thing run headlong into the opposing team knocking them down like a set of bowling pins. Whenever that happened spectators would yell out in unison STRIKE!

Hockey fans go to games to cheer on their favorite team, but we all know the real reason is to see fights. Fighting is the highlight. Hockey fights are barbaric and brutal in which tempers flare at the slightest infraction. Loyal broomball fans of course support their teams, but what really puts butts in the seats is the promise of seeing cracked skulls. To the tried and true, it doesn’t matter win or lose the rallying cry of both teams is the same – “Victory is ours only when enough blood is spilt!” Weary and woozy from a well fought battle and concussions, we enter our local watering hole to glorious applause knowing we did our best for our diehard fans and Jackson – leaving enough blood for his next masterpiece.