Is It Real? Does it Matter?

Does the grape flavoring in candy and pop resemble in any way the actual flavor of real grapes? Does Olive Garden have anything in common with real Italian food? When someone says, "Have a good day," do they really mean it?

What can we depend on to be real in this world? Or does it matter? If you like Olive Garden (which I do), does it matter if it's authentic? If wishing someone a good day might possibly increase feelings of positivity and good will, what's the big deal whether they mean it?

During the events surrounding my father's recent death, my siblings and I continually encountered strangers in public who either told us to have a nice day, or worse, asked us how our day was going. Each time, we cringed and joked that they wouldn't ask if they only knew. One waiter at an Olive Garden competitor was so insistent that we have a "fantastic evening," that one of us finally replied that we really couldn't do that because our father had just died. They peppy young man awkwardly expressed his condolences and turned to leave, but not before one last cheerful wish that we have a terrific night.

 I suspect wait-people get evaluated by how much they say that stuff to every customer, kind of like the number of "flair" items Jennifer Aniston is required to wear in the movie Office Space. (If you haven't seen Office Space, stop reading this, open up a new browser for Netflix, and put it at the top of your queue. Then resume reading this.)

I suppose the have a nice day habit is so ingrained, and in some cases, so required by the corporate script, that such wishes are unavoidable. And truly, there's no way to know whether a patron is having a day so terrible that a cheerfully expressed verbal wish would actually make it worse.

The alternative, I suppose, is that no one would ever wish anyone a good day. I think I'd rather risk being greeted with poorly timed, insincere good wishes than encounter deliberate surliness or indifference.

On Grief

Grief is disorienting. Something is missing. The world is off-kilter, like Earth's axis is tipping. It is not the same as sadness, though sadness often accompanies grief. Sometimes it's like shock. Numbness. Emptiness. Other times, there's a rush of memories, flashbacks, and the desperate thrashing feeling that something which was always there is now gone forever.

Grief is messy. It often produces tears and snot, and throws life into disarray.

Grief is not a disease. It's not an illness for which there is or isn't a cure. You can escape it for a while, but it will always return to run its course. Like a cloud, it hovers above, momentarily forgotten, until it starts to rain.

Grief isn't a bad thing. It helps us adjust to unwanted change.

Grief can be silent. It can be very loud. It can be lonely or it can be shared.

Grief lasts longer than most people think it should. When life calms down into a version of normal, others act like grief should be over. But you don't snap out of grief. There's no set amount of time and then it's over. It doesn't occur in five even, synchronous stages.

In fact, it could be argued that grief never totally ends. It may lessen in intensity, ebb and flow a little further away, but when that anniversary comes, or that reminder of the loss, the cloud hovers again.

Grief may slow us down, but it doesn't stop us permanently. We go on because we have to.

If we grieve, it's because we are capable of love. Love continues beyond grief and finds renewal in its wake. 

Bob Calkins, 1925-2012

Robert Calkins passed away in his Fort Collins, Colorado home on Thursday, April 19, 2012. 

A family physician who later became a psychiatrist, he was an active teacher and community volunteer right up to the end.

Born in Beatrice, Nebraska in 1925, Bob served as a medical officer in the U.S. Navy during the Korean war. He married Harriet Rickertsen in 1955 and they remained together 50 years until her death. In Kimball, Nebraska he practiced general family medicine until 1970 when he pursued a degree in psychiatry from the University of Nebraska Medical Center. From 1973 to 1988, he practiced psychiatry in Scottsbluff, Nebraska, followed by a brief period in Cheyenne, Wyoming, before retiring in Fort Collins, Colorado.

In Fort Collins, Bob was active in many community organizations, including the Kiwanis; Front Range Forum (where he both attended and facilitated classes); Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays, Bisexuals, and Transgendered Persons (PFLAG); and the local senior center. He served on the ethics committee of Poudre Valley Hospital, was on the board of Northern Colorado Hospice, and was a very active member of Plymouth Congregational Church (UCC).

He is mourned by his children, Susan Bodar (Jerry) of Dubois, Wyoming; David Calkins (Anne Talbot) of Scottsbluff; Bill Calkins of Denver; and Carol Calkins (Mike Moyer) of Cheyenne, Wyoming; three grandchildren, Justin Eckland (Heidi) of Sterling, Colorado; Hannah Calkins of Washington, DC; and Brooke Bodar of Dubois. He also has one surviving brother, Raymond Calkins, of Lincoln, Nebraska, two great grandchildren, and a beloved dog, Peggy.

Music was one of his life’s greatest pleasures. He listened to the Metropolitan Opera on the radio every Saturday for years, and eventually attended the live broadcasts of the Met at the local movie theatre. He was, himself, an accomplished musician, performing as a tenor in many venues. He was very fond of organ music and delighted in the performances of his own children.

Bob will be remembered for his kindness and infectious sense of humor. He was a loving and generous father, husband, mentor, and friend, and a long time advocate for the sick, injured, and mentally ill.

In lieu of flowers, his wishes were for memorial donations to be given to PFLAG Fort Collins (305 West Magnolia, PMB 117, Fort Collins, CO 80521).

A memorial service will be held Saturday April 28, at 2:00 p.m., at Plymouth Congregational Church (UCC), 916 West Prospect, Fort Collins, Colorado.

Go to www.goesfuneralcare.com for an extended obituary and to sign the guest book for those that cannot attend the service.

Resistance to Change in a Chaotic World

I recently returned to work from a week of vacation only to learn that my department had moved to a different part of the building while I was gone. I trusted that my coworkers would make sure my stuff was moved, but the prospect of not being able to find my new office, wandering among cardboard boxes in half empty cubicles looking for familiar objects like my picture of Scottsbluff National Monument and hoping that someone remembered to pack that extra stash of paper clips I had been hoarding, was stressful enough to undo all the relaxation of my time away.

On my weekly visit to Village Inn, Betty, the server, asked me if I needed to see the menu or would I have the usual. As if I order the same thing every Wednesday morning when I’m there. My coffee and large water were already on the table before I arrived. I may just surprise her and order something different someday.

It's been implied that I am resistant to change! Can you imagine? Why just yesterday, I was telling someone how flexible I am. This was after I told them about my 12th annual vacation to San Diego.

Is it so bad to be set in your ways? Perhaps I'm not as adventurous as some people, but I like knowing what to expect. It's a chaotic world where sometimes traumatic change is thrust upon us. My preference is to not be surprised.

I tried to explain that to a guy I've gone out with a few times who was thinking of different date activities we could try. It seems he was worried that we would get bored by always having lunch and watching a movie on Saturdays when we get together. Perhaps we might, he suggested, go to the zoo or take a drive in the mountains, and maybe we could meet some other day besides Saturday. But I like lunch and a movie, I explained. I know what to expect on Saturdays that way.

Lest you think I'm not flexible, I'll have you know that I'm getting ready to replace my entire home entertainment system with a better one. I've been talking about it for a year or so and I'm just about ready to start to think about ordering the components and changing the furniture to accommodate the new system. On the other hand, what's the hurry? What I have works just fine. So what if the TV is not HD and I can't read subtitles on the old glass screen?

I admit I am a creature of habit. Perhaps I could challenge myself a bit. Perhaps I'll think about it over dinner from the chicken teriyaki take out place - where I order the number one every Monday night. But see, sometimes I go on Tuesday or Saturday, so there.

Dreams Interrupted

Dreams can give lots of insight. In the drives for passion and food, for example, what do you suppose my dreams say about me?

I am standing in line at McDonalds contemplating the consumption of a big mac, fries, and a diet (of course) coke. Suddenly, a sexy man cuts into line in front of me, turns around, and, well, let's just say that, as usual, I wake up before it gets really good.

What sticks with me is not just the vivid nature of the dream but the utter disappointment which occurred when a cat's cold nose entered my ear and woke me up. Most of the frustration was not that the man part of the dream was interrupted, though it was certainly vivid and ended prematurely. Instead, I was distressed about waking up before I got to eat that food.

You see, it's been over a year since I've eaten a big mac. Since starting Weight Watchers 18 months ago, I've only been to McDonalds once and that was because I was stranded at an airport for several hours and had a voucher to use.

 I know that McDonalds is not on anyone's list of fine foods. Even among fast food and burgers, it doesn't measure up to finer chains like Fat Burger and Five Guys and Smash Burger. Colorado may soon have In-N-Out Burger, but big macs are here now. You can find McDonalds virtually everywhere, and the quality is consistent - you know what you are getting every time.

When I used to eat approximately one big mac every ten days, I'd remove the pickles and the excess lettuce and squeeze on a single packet of ketchup. I'd hold all the layers in place as I took that first bite. Exquisite.

Big macs are probably the single worst thing you can eat. Well, it's probably worse to eat a whole pizza at a single sitting, which I also used to do, but I'll save that for another essay. Besides, I don't dream about pizza. I dream about those two all-beef patties, special sauce, and all that other stuff.

Occasionally, I consider splurging on a mac, but I'm kind of proud of my months of denial. Plus, if I have to blow that many Weight Watcher points, I'd rather really go all out on something spectacular like, well, a Fat Burger.

I'm sorry, were you hoping for more about the other part of the dream?

Episcopalian Update - Or is it Episcopal?

Even after a friend clearly tells me when it is correct to say Episcopal versus Episcopalian, I still can't remember which is correct.

Why can't we be referred to as Anglican, like all the other offshoots of the Church of England around the world? To that question, actually, I do know the answer. It goes back to the American Revolution when all ties to England were severed, including ecclesiastical ones. Now, of course, the Episcopal Church of the U.S. enjoys a good relationship with the world-wide Anglican Communion.

In just a couple of weeks, I will officially be part of that communion. During the traditional Easter vigil on Saturday April 7, I will be confirmed into the membership of Saint John's Episcopal Cathedral in Denver. I will officially be Episcopalian. Or Episcopal.

In any case, I've gone faithfully to the classes since September, participated regularly in worship, made a financial pledge, and can spout off a pretty good Episcopal(ian) party line. Go ahead. Ask me anything. Except the proper usage of Episcopal versus Episcopalian. And don't ask why Episcopalians wear black so much of the time. I still don't have an answer to that one.

The biggest challenge so far has been documenting my baptism, which occurred approximately 48 years ago, in a Presbyterian church so small that no one answers the phone. Episcopalians believe that only one baptism is necessary, but you'd better be able to prove that it happened.

I've been a member of many congregations and several denominations over the years. I've been a member, lay leader, youth minister, religious educator, musician, and preacher. I won't say that I've finally found the "right" denomination. There's no such thing. But I feel at home for now, worshiping in high church style, with that combination of ancient tradition and modern theology which affirms deep spirituality along with intelligent discourse.

In other words, in the Episcopal (?) Church, you don't have to check your brain at the door in order to engage in serious spiritual practices.

So think of me on April 7 as I step into the newest chapter of my long faith journey, a fully fledged Episcopalian (I think that's it).

Reader Comments

Sometimes the most interesting part of a publication is the reader mail. As a veteran blogger, I am, myself, the grateful recipient of notes from readers. For every BillsWeek entry, there can be anywhere from one reader comment to, oh, more than one. Most come through Facebook, some from the little comment box on the blog itself, and others come in regular email. While I try to respond to each individually, the BillsWeek staff is sometimes a little overwhelmed and I don't always succeed. Plus some are anonymous so I can't respond directly. A sampling follows. In the interest of full disclosure, some of these are paraphrased, a few are combinations of multiple messages, and some I just made up. So here we go.

What advice would you give to an aspiring blogger?

The amazing thing about our internet age is that anyone can publish just any crap they want to, without regard to quality or socially redeeming value. So if you want to blog, go ahead and do it. There's nothing to stop you but shame.

Why do you always write about your stupid cats? Don't you have a life?

Well, to the later question, that's debatable. The answer to the former is that my cats are the cutest and the prettiest, and they are the pillars around which the whole world revolves. If you don't believe me, just ask one of them.

When are you going to go on another extended mystery road trip? It was especially fun to guess where you were by the clues you put on Facebook.

I very much enjoyed my 2010 summer trip through Kentucky, Illinois, and points Midwestern. I hope to do another like it, perhaps up north somewhere. Meanwhile, there are other mysteries I could write about. What will I have for dinner? What's that spot on my neck? Will Jules really marry Grayson?

I'm not so sure we need to hear about all of your deviant life-style choices.

You mean my decision to become Episcopalian? Hey, I don't write about half the deviant stuff I do.

Do you have a good recipe for meatloaf?

Yes.

Why do you always assume that all Republicans are bad people?

I try to avoid using words like "always" and "never." Not all Republicans are bad, just the vast overwhelming majority of them.

Why don't you publish new entries in BillsWeek more often?

I appreciate that you want more. Thank you for the complement. I'll try to do better.

When can we do lunch?

Call me.

I disagree with your assessment about the number of cats portrayed on TV. Please cancel my subscription immediately.

Um... BillsWeek doesn't really have subscriptions, but, uh, I’ll give your request all the consideration it deserves.

Mr. Calkins: Thank you for having your car serviced at Tynan's Nissan. Please click below to take a customer satisfaction survey.

Done.

I notice that you sometimes end sentences with a preposition. That is improper. You need to set a better example.

Language is a tool that helps us to communicate, and it is best when communication occurs in a standard form so that we can understand each other. Sometimes, however, the tyranny of the language experts who delight in correcting what everyone else says becomes oppressive and even interferes with communication. Perhaps, more succinctly, I should just say, bite me.

You often say that we are living in the future. What does that mean?

Ah, young readers, what times we live in (yes, I wrote that for the benefit of the previous commentor). Imagine a world where we carry our phones with us everywhere we go. From a 1970s perspective (the 1970s were my formative years), that's pretty futuristic. In other words, I'm old. I came of age in the last century. The year 2012 was once impossibly far away, and now, amazingly, we are here.

 So there you have it dear readers. I hope you are as stimulated by this exchange of ideas as I am. Keep those comments coming! You never know - you might see yourself in the blog someday.