Western States Day Three: Arrival at Morraine Park

Crazy Horse

Our intent the next morning was to head out of the Black Hills to the west by way of the Crazy Horse monument farther down the road. If you're not aware, the monument, also being carved out of a mountain, is a private, non-profit undertaking (no Federal funding) that began in the mid-20th century and will eventually be the world's largest sculpture, at 563 feet high. By way of comparison, the faces on Rushmore down the road are about 40 feet high.

Fuck me? No, fuck YOU!!

I was heartened by the number of visitors to the monument (each of whom were paying a hefty admission price that will help support continued building of the monument), and then discovered that the site also plays host to the Indian Museum of North America, and the Native American Cultural Center, two attractions filled with art and artifacts of North American Indian history (and, of course, the requisite gift shops). I also saw the book, American Presidents: American Indians (which, I should note, I have now checked out from the library and am reading) again, as well as this super cool map showing the historic locations of many of the tribes of North America. Alas, we were on a schedule and had to hit the road again, as we were to make CO before dark. Back into the car and off onto the byways on our way towards the great, windswept, cowboy state of Wyoming - which, by the way, reveals another thing about crossing the Missouri River. You start to see people wearing cowboy boots for a reason other than fashion which to me, as a Minnesotan, is downright exotic.

A LITTLE BIT OF WYOMING!

There's some pretty amazing natural places in Wyoming: the Bighorn Mountains, Medicine Bow National Forest and a little place called Yellowstone. But we were only to be skirting the western side of the state by way of Interstate 25. All the same, we were clearly in territory that was vastly different from where we originated. The high plains, literally. Open gates on either side of the freeway that can presumably be closed in times of snowstorm. Rest stops in vast, wide-open, wind-swept spaces. Distant, treeless rock formations. And an utter lack of cultivation. Then, as we approached the southern border of the state, I saw it off on the western horizon: what was almost certainly Laramie Mountain of the small range that bears its name. At 10,200 ft above sea level, not anything compared to the giants of its larger, western brother, The Rockies, it struck me quite powerfully as the first peak I'd seen since my youth that topped out over the treeline (about 9,800 in Wyoming), a full 3,000 feet above the highest mountain I'd seen in my adulthood (Harney Peak of the Black Hills which, incidentally, is the highest peak in the USA east of the Rockies and far, far older than any mountains outside of its own range, taller or otherwise). [Well, I guess I'd been in the mountains with a couple of friends (Pat M & Cory L) in 2006, but we were more passing through high-wooded ranges on our way elsewhere. Never above treeline, and never really in a position to do much "peak-gawking"].

One wind-swept rest stop and one Laramie Ultra on the horizon.

From that point on, it was another race against time as the day was getting on; the actual immense immersion of the full-blown Rocky Mountains seemed worlds away (in fact, a state away); and we really, really wanted to set up camp before dark. We continued on, speeding along at 80 mph (the speed limit, I've discovered, in pretty much every state west of my own). We crossed into Colorado, and it really took no time at all to reach Fort Collins. OK, now for one of the great realizations/ruminations of this trip...

Finally, Colorado

So: some of my closer friends know that my brother, who was 14 when I was born and who moved west before I reached kindergarten, basically just sought out liberal college communities in mountain states for the next 15 or so years of his life. Fort Collins, Boulder, Albuquerque, Corvallis. One of the very fondest memories I had that was drawing me back to the mountains was a visit to my brother during his time in Fort Collins. The haze of years (and me being possibly around 10 at the time) had me remembering Fort Collins as this little mountain town nestled among the peaks. I remember my brother telling me stories of the floods of the mountain streams wiping out Loveland (which, I assumed, was also nestled among the peaks). Even Denver (with its famed Eisenhower Tunnel through which I'd passed in the rain at breakneck speed in the dead of night back in '06), I'd assumed, straddled some high mountain pass, with various white-capped peaks at its very doorstep. What I now realized, as I sped through Fort Collins and slowly crawled through in Loveland (stopping at every red light in what seemed more like the world's longest strip-mall than an actual town), was that these cities were actually quite FLAT. Mountains still just a ridge, if a little higher and stretching, now, the length of the horizon. And then it struck me: Duh! Of course you wouldn't build a city IN the mountains! How impractical! I mean, maybe a resort community, like Estes Park (which I would soon see) or Vale (about which I am making an assumption). But not one depending upon trade & commerce, the ability to actually zone & build and deliver public services with some degree of normalcy. You build in the last flat space available before the mountains. Mind = blown. Or, at least, 34 year-held assumptions, falling away.

Anyway, it did take forever to get through Loveland, which was the point at which the road finally turned and headed directly towards Estes Park and the heart of the mountains, themselves. After a last bit of wide highway, we entered the foothills, inducing a series of memories: lying in the back of the station wagon as we weaved through mountain roads, my father (seeming infinitely wise about such things) establishing the notion of "foothills" and their relation to "mountains" and showing me how you can sometimes think you're just going straight along, but if you look out the back window you can see, in fact, that you are climbing up (try it: it works!). And then: a true mountain road. traveling along the fast-racing torrent that is the Big Thompson River. Bare-faced, rocky slopes that minutes ago were named "foothills" suddenly skying above to a height that I  didn't dare remove my eyes from the twisty road enough to see. Scattered homes wedged narrowly between stream & cliff for which people could not possibly have been able to secure insurance. We traveled along this way for about half an hour till things opened up into the valley that held little Estes Park with it's 5,000 residents and tourist population many times that.

Ah, Estes Park. I immediately sensed this little town was to become a battleground between my love of quaint, quirky villages and loathing of places overrun by tourists. But no time to ruminate. No time to slow down and ask a passerby (possibly in a British accent), "Excuse me, sir...But I've been having some trouble trying to locate a sweat-shirt that says "Estes Park" on it!" It was on to that last final destination of our journey: Rocky Mountain National Park.

When they say that Estes Park is right outside RMNP, they're not kidding. Literally, five minutes outside of town and you're passing through the main entrance on the east side of the park. Only a few more minutes and you're winding your way into the world-class campground of Moraine Park. Ahead of time, I'd been a little concerned about the immensity of the campground itself, as well as its innumerable electric sites and the certainty of 30'-40' RVs and their accompanying generator noise. But resource after resource had assured me "No, Morraine Park is great." I was often thinking, "Come on. I'm from Minnesota. I know great campgrounds." But it's no joke. Morraine Park is super. Just make sure that if you plan on tent camping, you choose something in the tent-only loop of "D," And you really want one of the sites on the far west side (and very specifically, you want either one of the two we stayed in).

As it turned out, we reached the campground at near dusk, so there was very little time to dick around. At least for the adults. We set about getting the tent up and getting supper started as the kids got out and began to explore our environs, which were amazing. We were within sight of one or two other campsites, but quite a bit back from the main loop, and nestled right up to one ridge of the moraine after which the campground was named. A just a few feet past our own private bear locker was a large rocky outcropping, perfect for kid exploration & down-time, and not a bad spot for a cup of coffee and some contemplation. The view below is this first site (which was to be our site for our first four nights there), with a view the opposite direction of the climbing boulder. You can see the start of the moraine of to the right, though the general steepness of its slop is not done justice in the picture.

Our Big Agnes Big House was made even more kick-ass with the recent addition of this vestibule.

Oh, and for the record: our campground was at 8,300 feet above sea level. Throughout the trip, it didn't seem to cause much trouble for any in the party. Maybe if you had a load in your arms and ran a bit with it, you might give a little "Whoo!" exhalation at the end, but that was about it. 

So, supper. And then night fell. And then a campfire. And that was that for that day.

Western States Day Two: Rushmore, et. al

That Damned Hotel

The hotel was called "Presidents View," as it was nestled halfway up the rugged shoulders of one of the Black Hills in and around which the small town of Keystone was located. So named, as some of the more expensive rooms actually afforded a distant view of the famous mountain pretty much everyone was there to see (this is true: we went there the next day and EVERYBODY was there). We were not in one of the more expensive rooms. A hotel with prime real estate such as this one could have really gone one of two ways: luxury suites/resort or "cram as many people into substandard rooms as possible and be the cheapest rate in town." We stayed there because they were the latter. And because they had a pool (a major selling point for the kids, of course). It was basically Tiki Tom without the waterpark. And somewhat more cramped quarters. But whatever; we were there to let the kids swim for a bit and then crash for the night before a day's adventure in the surrounding community.

So, swim swim swim. And then to bed. Whereupon I lay down and attempted to get comfortable. Too hot, then too cold. Then, the beginnings of a belly rumble. Then, that moment where you first start thinking, "Wait a minute...is this building to vomit?" To a few minutes later, kneeling by the toilet and "HUUAGH." And so began an evening that I recall as involving no less than 15 trips into the bathroom, continuing to expel every ounce of beer and nachos in my system. Luckily, things never did get too watery, so I don't think I was dehydrating myself as is often the case. Also, everything about it felt it was so squarely about the beer and nachos (and, I don't know, the 4,900 ft elevation?) that I didn't really avoid drinking a little water to absolutely sure dehydration would not be an issue the next day, when I would be needed. And that was that. Somehow, everyone else managed to sleep through this all. I finally got to sleep around three or so and felt like a bit of a ghost at the beginning of the next morning, but I was still up before everyone else and pretty much ready to go.

Rushmore

So, how to approach this...I will start by saying I think my love for this country (and, dare I use the loaded term..."patriotism?") would surprise many people. I have actually had conversations with my kids, explaining the wondrous thing that freedom of speech is, and general affluence. And these points are made starkly evident in my reading with Lucy of "I am Malala" (Nobel Peace Prize winner Malala Yusafzai's story of her quest for education for Pakistani girls under the Taliban). A student of history at some level, and having actually studied our nation's presidents a little more in depth in the past couple of months, I really should have been primed for this visit.

But man...I came immediately face-to-face with a perfect storm of a few different pieces that are among my greatest turn-offs: crowds, ugly parking situations, overtly "touristy" places, and chintz. No getting around it: we were headed for one of America's peak tourist attractions at peak season. Just. Not. My. Fucking. Thing. Everything about it made my fibers rebel and I had to muster all my energy to avoid exuding and cynicism. I used the trick of tunnel-vision: tunnel-vision with regard to my kids' experience, actually looking at the damned mountain and reflecting ("that's quite a mountain!"), and making note of some really fascinating books in the gift shop (including one exploring the various American Presidents through Indian eyes that is now on my GoodReads list.

I'd been to Rushmore once before, alone in November of 1996, when there was literally one other person on the grounds that I could see and I pretty much had my run of the place (albeit with a gift shop that was closed for the season). That is an experience that I hold pretty close to my heart. Not sure I needed to go again, but there I was. Sharon and I guided the kids on a nature path around the perimeter on which we saw few other families (the ol "5 Minutes From the Visitors' Center" theory), and we had the chance to talk with a NPS naturalist about buffalo, which was informative. But ultimately, you are there to see IT. And it is pretty damned impressive, when it comes down to it. And how can you leave without that classic family photo?

The King of Men poses in front of what are presumably some other world leaders of some renown.

Look, they made some really good decisions on the four presidents they included on the Mount. Four of my favorites: Washington: Wow. How many military generals in the history of the world would have abdicated a crown? Jefferson: From his role in the drafting of the constitution to the Louisiana purchase, to the design of the "Jeffersonian grid" to his role in the Lewis & Clark expedition, his influence was immense. Teddy Roosevelt: The most quirky of the selections, it's a great one. One of our last great true populist presidents, and the creator of the National Park system. And then Lincoln: About which nothing even need be said, right?

All that said, they do a lot at the monument to remind you of the sacred history of the Black Hills to the Indians and of the repeated aggressions, encroachment, and deceit that wheedled it away piece by piece. I couldn't help but reflect how the building of a monument celebrating The White Father smack-dab in the center of their once sacred lands was a final "FUCK YOU!!!"from my European Ancestors to the people they displaced. Sigh.

Back to Keystone

The plan was to spend a last day in "civilization," doing Rushmore then maybe giving the kids a chance to swim around in the pool again. Well, we'd not counted on the extend to which Keystone truly exemplified the notion of "tourist trap." In its purest form. Zip lines (not a bad locale for this, the Black Hills, I will concede), gift shops, go-karts, etc. etc. And my kids are at a perfect age to be absolutely enamored with the notion of doing any or all of them. Had it been Sharon & me without the kids, we would have headed to the local ranger station and found some public access trails & gone on a hike. Or maybe explored into Custer State Park (which I've also visited in the past, and which is a wildlife bonanza). But...we had our Wild Place ahead of us on this trip, so we gave them Keystone for a day. Cynicism back on the shelf. Steeling myself against the onslaught of The Typical American Families that thronged the attractions. In the end, the kids got to do a mirror maze (which remained one of the highlights of the trip for Rosie to the bitter end) and a zip line (Sharon & I did this, as well), and get a treat; and then retreat for some more swimming at the pool.

This qualifies as a zip line, technically, I guess.

I will merely leave you with this one awesomely stupid find of Lucy's: Possibly the very worst missed-opportunity, inexplicable "poke your head through and take a picture" sign on the planet.

This missed opportunity and overall stupidity needs no explanation.

You may recall a bottled margarita phone camera share. That was the meal this night. Then back to the hotel.

I will mention one other note: Lucy had been diagnosed with ringworm (actually, not a worm - a fungus) on her arm a week or so before our vacation. Contagious, but not overly so - and treatable with over-the-counter Lotrimin. So she was in the midst of treatment. But on this second day in the hotel, Lucy started noticing some additional bumps: "My ringworm is spreading!" A little here, a little there. Neck, back, belly, along with some other red spots. We didn't outwardly show alarm, but we were starting to freak out, Sharon & I. Why were we not warned this was a possibility? And where would it end? And what was the implication of hotel bed sharing and sleeping bags and not changing out of camping clothes every day? erg...

Western States Day One: To Keystone!

First stop: Rushmore MN

Trying not to overspend too terribly, we packed some picnic supplies for our traveling lunches. On day one, we were able to get enough driving in before lunchtime to make it to the sleepy, western MN prairie town of Rushmore. OK, believe it or not - I never even made the Rushmore, MN: Mount Rushmore connection until this moment. In any event, it was time to eat and we wanted to eat in a park. We saw the little hamlet of Rushmore (pop 342) a few miles off I-90 and sought out the town park, which was a lovely little time-out-of-place, complete with metal slides, teeter-totters (the real kind) and a ballfield with an awesome old-fashioned scoring system (where you'd hang numbers on pegs under each inning).

They don't make em like this any more.

Being a city boy, I am always struck by the deafening quiet of the still places of the world, when I get out of my car in the middle of nowhere. Actually, I don't know if it's because the silence of those places and the ambient sounds of my city are that different, or if it's just because I usually experience those quiet moments shortly after a number of hours of interstate travel with its accompanying compact car travel noise. I imagine it's a little of both; but in any event, daytime solitude is a little tough to come by where I come from, and it was remarkably peaceful on that hot summer day in the shade, in the country, with the sonorous rising and falling chirr of cicadas. In moments like that, I risk losing myself and thinking "I could live here. This could be all I need." Which is not true, of course, But it's sure a nice chance of pace.

Into The West

After that, it was back into the car and off through a number of uneventful miles broken only by the heralding of change of states (MN to SD). Each new state was an adventure for the kids, with them only having experienced, in their memory, MN and IA (Lucy traveled to KS when she was one, but whatever).

Also notable: The crossing of the Missouri. The crossing could be notable for anyone at any time, but it was particularly so for me, having recently finished William Least-Heat Moon's River Horse, about the author's journey by water from the Atlantic to the Pacific, in which the Missouri River played a major part. As a geographer by both hobby and partly by trade, the river is also significant to me as one of the primary distinctions between our notions of East and West in this country. One might suggest the true distinction between East vs. West is really a function of rainfall - but if that is the case then it only bolster's the river's case, as it is strikingly evident how amazingly GREEN the land is rolling on down to the eastern shores of that great river and how amazingly BROWN it is rising into The West on the other side. Green to brown. Plants to pasture. Growing to grazing. The trip was one running "teachable moment" for my kids where geography was concerned, but I made particular note of that sort of dry, broken pasture land as we encountered it, so foreign is it we Eastern Minnesotans with our lakes, woods, and river valleys. And, as I've documented in the past, though I share almost nothing, politically, with ranchers, I have a place for pasture in my heart. That damned Kansas thing.

In any event, I should not suggest there is no cropland in the West, of course. Where the cows are not, there is generally wheat. And wheat, and wheat, and hay. Lots of hay. And also - and it dawned on me at the time that (it being mid-to-late August and all) we might be traveling during a singularly perfect time of the year for it, but....SUNFLOWERS! In full bloom!!! Field after field in south central South Dakota.

I'm just wasting space, here. This doesn't capture it at all.

I can't imagine being a sunflower farmer at harvest time and being unhappy. It was one of the more cheery scenes I've ever personally beheld. Many sunflower fields, and on both sides. Good, thing, too - for I was to soon feel a chill that would strike me deep and near to the heart. Out of sunflowers and past some more hay, a mere hour or two later, we passed right under the shadow of....Weathertop. Holy shit!

Amon Sul of the Northern Kingdom of Arnor, where once dwelt one of the Seven Palantir of old.

The Badlands

This section won't actually be all that long. Up until a few days before we left, we'd considered camping night one in the Sage Creek Campground in the Badlands. Partly out of desire to save money, but also to expose my kids to an amazing environment that was home to one of my top five favorite camping experiences of all times (Fall of 1997 with Gibbons). It was Rosie's desire to see Mount Rushmore, both of our kids' interest in having a hotel swimming pool experience and, perhaps, my own interest in the Firehouse Brewpub of Rapid City that resulted in a change of plans. Anyway, we made time for a mere swing-through of the scenic route. I could share lots of pictures of cool rock & soil formations, but better pictures than the ones I took could certainly be found elsewhere on Google. I'll simply share one image of Lucy, considering the vastest open space she has experienced this side of Lake Superior.

"This is worth getting to the hotel 45 minutes late for!"

Firehouse Brewery

The scenic detour through the Bandlands is not short. Upon emerging, we were in a serious race against the setting of the sun that rivaled the harrowing carriage chase in Bram Stoker's Dracula. Ultimately, we reached the Firehouse while the last glowing rays of the sun were touching rooftops and I had a curiously large flight of beers (eight samples of maybe five ounces each). I downed the samples in and around a rather large order of nachos (in a world where a man can expect to get four or five measly mozzarella sticks for $7, curiously gigantic heaps of nachos for no more than $10 is a comforting, consistent, and countervailing force). I then decided it would be a fitting end to the meal to also have a full pint of their IPA selection. Though I very responsibly asked Sharon to take the wheel to wind us southward through the Black Hills to the tiny tourist trap (and home of our night's lodging) of Keystone. But only looking back now do I tally that beer total to see I had drunk somewhere around 56 ounces of beer...

Reflections on Rose's Fifth Birthday

Many days, I’m helping move kids along from the moment I roll out of bed, and I don’t really slow down from some level of childcare until nearly nine.  I finish the day and my head is just buzzing and I look at Sharon with a dazed expression on my face and say, "What the hell just happened?"  And I look at friends with no kids - their freewheeling, spontaneous lifestyle and (seemingly) scads of disposable income and experience sudden moments of something like envy.

But when things are on, they're on. The magic of a squirly, playful, snuggly little body that squeezes up next to me. Curious little minds and crazy ideas. Instances when I catch a glimpse of something that makes me catch my breath and say, "Wow - is that something that came from me?" Other times, a sudden wonderment - "Is this for real? Me, and this amazing, beautiful little creature? And I'm her...daddy?"  Moments I would be content to capture and relive for eternity. On a daily basis.

Daddyhood: The toughest job you'll ever love.

And now - a quick step back: I look at Rose at age 5 and there's so many things to like.  Permit me to take a moment to congratulate myself.  "Way to go so far, man. Way to go."

The Ghost of Fremont Ave Strikes Again!!!

I shit you not - the music box in my girls' room spontaneously started playing two times right before 11:00 pm tonight. My girls were both fast asleep, and both times, the music (just a few notes in slow-ish succession) stopped right before I could get in there & check.

March for the Middle Class

I was at this demonstration yesterday. Of late, I've been trying to strike that very careful balance between being effectively informed & involved in politics of the day without just seeking out those bits of sensationalism ("what did Michelle Bachman say today?!?!?") that serve to whip me up with no discernible return on the emotional investment.  But it seems to me that this whole "class warfare" thing, in which the Republican Party has effectively managed to direct public ire and legislative activity away from millionaires & billionaires and focus it on the working class, may end up being a tremendous overreach.  At least I'm hoping it will be. It should be, and right now it seems that it might be one singular issue on which the historically scatter-shot Democrats may be able to make a little political hay.  In an abstract sense, most people are for the little guy, aren't they?

ANYWAY, to this end, I attended yesterday's March for the Middle Class (which I really wish would have been called "March for the Working Class," but maybe they are really trying to cast this net of popular appeal as wide as they can - as almost everyone sees themselves as middle class).  But I wanted to do my part on helping this movement have a show of force, and I wanted Lucy to see, as I said on Facebook, that there are some things her daddy thinks are worth fighting for.

So, we went. Here is the Star Tribune write-up.

I kept going between getting a little caught up in the emotion of the event, and just simply being fascinated at the sociological exhibition on display.  Especially the chant leaders, and the expectation that the crowd would pick up the chant.  As near as I can tell, it is ESSENTIAL at a rally like this to have some sort of fervent chant going at all times, or you totally risk losing energy & focus; which could just kill an event of that size (couple thousand or so).  But, you only have 10-12 total chant lines that you can call upon, if you expect the crowd to know what to chant back.

“Who does the work?!”

“WE DO!!!”

Or

“No justice!”

“NO PEACE!!!”

Or

“Ne-go-ti-ate”

“DON’T LE-GIS-LATE!!!”

etc.

I find myself more comfortable with responding to some chants than others, but in order to help make the rally effective, I decided it's probably necessary for me to take part in them all, just at varying levels of volume & energy.

I've been to a couple of political rallies prior, but never an official "march" or "demonstration." It was very, very peaceful. No counter-protesters.  Some PA problems when the speech portion began (which also can really kill the energy). One guy tried to get me to donate to a Socialist newspaper.  I didn't want to get in an argument, but I did feel like that sort of presence is the last thing the demonstration needed.  Were Fox News to have been there, that would have undoubtedly been their first piece of video shot.  Other than that - nothing too surprising.  I will mention two particular highlights for me:

1. During the "assembly" before the march, Lucy & I were hanging out by the road.  Cars were driving by and gaping at this mass of demonstrators.  About a third of the cars were honking in support, and we'd always give them a raucous cheer in response.  At one point, a St. Paul Fire engine happened by, and as they did they just laid on the fucking horn for about twenty seconds, which resulted in a tremendous response from the assembled.  The chills that went up my neck were real and dynamite.

2. During the speech portion (after the march), one of the speakers was interrupted by an announcement that he relayed: the harbormasters' union of San Fransisco had just shut down the port of the city in support of the Minnesota protesters.  Solidarity, right?  Another electric moment for me.

That's all. Peace. Out.

Into....?

or "The Awaited 'Happy Post' ‘The Pre-Happy Post’"

Towards the end of 2010, Sharon & I started attending couples counseling sessions.

We've always known we had a good thing going. Sharon & I align almost identically along political and world views, and are of similar mind on issues ranging from appreciation of early 20th Century film noir to child-rearing philosophy. But when we have differences - we don't confront them head on; we bury them. We also have dealt with ongoing issues related to intimacy which, without revealing the innards of an issue which is far too complex to get into in this forum, I will simply say finally came to a point of being (that word again) stuck. Stuck at a point where we needed some sort of outside intervention.

I credit Sharon as being the one who finally arranged for our counselor. I cannot emphasize the significance of this highly enough. It was a great affirmation for me, who was (as later came to the surface in our sessions) feeling increasingly shut out of Sharon's personal struggles. An affirmation that our relationship was a priority that needed to be dealt with a similar degree of priority, and that everything was connected. A lot of great things have been put in motion as a result of our sessions. We both enter the process, it seems, willing to accept responsibility for how we have, to paraphrase Sting, laid assorted mines throughout our past among which we now walk.

A little prior to us going into the couples sessions, Sharon hooked up with a new psychologist, who I will call "B." And in taking great care to respect as least some degree of privacy regarding their work together, I will say that Sharon is being "pushed" into uncomfortable, but (I believe) necessary territory in a way I have never seen in her history of therapy. And not only that, but I have been invited into "the process" for the first time ever. I was even invited in to a session, so psychologist, client, and spouse could all get on the same page. "B" also wants to keep tabs on where we are at in our couples' therapy and even aspects of Sharon's "woo woo" work. The plan is to get all aspects working in concert, and to make sure we're keeping things moving forward, with homework & concrete achievable goals, however modest. And don't start grasping when things get desperate. Stay in the moment. It's very Jedi-like.

In the time since my last post, Sharon actually went through another rough patch. This is not a quick fix, here. But I feel like the foundation is there - that she (we) have a stable base to descend to when the tower gets tippy.

Out of Discombobulation, and Into....?

I have recounted to various members of my readership, and to varying degrees, the amazing amount of discombobulation which pervaded almost all happenings of my family in 2010, but I'll see how concise I can make the recap here:

BACKGROUND:
1. Sharon has a history of depression, which is rooted in experiences from her childhood, but which hit full flower in her adulthood.
2. I have been a very supportive husband through the years.
3. After 12-13 years of marriage, the ongoing mental ilness was making Sharon feel (understatement of the century alert!) frustrated and stuck.
4. After 12-13 years of marriage, my ability to be a supportive husband was beginning to feel its own strain.
5. All of this going on in and about everyday turmoil of life, including but not limited to: raising two kids, unemployment & subsequent employment, various ebbs & flows in personal endeavors & pursuits, ever-present financial concerns.
6. In 2009-2010, Sharon began exploring what I will, to borrow a phrase from a friend, simply refer to as "her 'woo-woo' stuff:" A series of alternative therapies & "energy work," out of pure desperation to get un-stuck.
7. I am skeptical of the scientific substance behind a lot of what she is exploring (and spending a lot of money on), but I also pride myself on Dismissing Nothing.
8. And, for whatever reason - for the first time in her life - Things Began Moving. This has been, alternately, incredibly promising and terrifying. What used to be months'-long slogs through a depressive fog has become pretty crazy, shorter, swings between feeling like she's on the verge of a new tomorrow and feeling like she wishes she was not alive.
9. A group of you gents got to see some of this first hand, last June, when The Fellowship was broken just a little prematurely out of the need to rush Sharon to the ER in the midst of a panic attack. That was pretty extreme, but there's been a lot of that sort of thing.
10. This past Fall - I was looking forward to Letting Things Go. For the first time in my adult life, I was not going to be in a band, in school, or in a theater company. A blessed, indefinite (& possibly permanent) stretch of down-time in which I could luxuriate and pursue nothing but my own pleasures on my own time. Wow - and remember, I now have a 6-minute commute, an inspiring career, and everything on the surface seems to be going my way.
11. Yet somehow, I entered the dead of Winter showing a number of signs of stress and was having a hard time figuring out how that could be, in light of #10.
12. That's when I remembered #s 1-9.

This is kind of the scary, bad post. I've got a happier follow-up post coming.

We Interrupt this Blog (in much the same way as a Wenckenbach Heart Block)

I think all of you knew the recent development where my doctor has me wear a Halter Monitor for a day to try to get to the bottom of a long-standing arrhythmia I had in my heart. Long-standing, as for as long as I can recall (Sharon used to put her ear to my chest in the early days of our marriage and remark on my skippy, stoppy heart beat).

The results of me wearing the monitor were a little startling - detecting that I had a second-degree "heart block," meaning, simply, that the signal or impulse from my brain would simply not get through every so often. My heart simply misses a beat, generally after slowing down over a succession of beats. At one point, there was actually a 2.5 second interval between beats. Almost all of this goes on while I sleep.

The other oddity is that I have a curiously high resting heart rate. It's in the upper 80s or low 90s, which really makes no sense given my decent level of fitness and my (on the whole) low stress level. It was thought that the two could possibly be related. Add to that, this inordinate amount of sweating I do (more so in the last few years); beyond normal, truly. I think the sweat is related to how I cramp up so easy (I'm simply losing fluid that fast), and my thought (hope?) is that the sweat was/is somehow related to the heart rate.

So really, I was going into this with a lot of questions. Questions that need answers.


Well, I just came back from a specialist visit at a cardiology center, and I am cautiously quite optimistic. First off - within the spectrum of second degree heart block, there are two main types: type two, or type one (the Wenckebach). Type two, not so good: unpredictable, likely progressive, ending in (ultimately) cardiac arrest. Type one is a more or less benign condition. This is the one the cardiologist is convinced I have, given the fact that you always see this slowing up of the rhythm before the stoppage. He says there is no reason the condition would need to impact my exercise or lifestyle, and there is no health risk, currently.

The high resting heart rate is curious. He doesn't think it's related in a cause-effect way, but he thinks BOTH conditions may simply be as a result of sleep apnea. That is his belief, and my hope. We know I snore, and we know I'm always a little tired, which would both be symptoms of apnea. The doctor says that sleep apnea can also wreak havoc with your sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems, and totally have all sorts of unexpected consequences on heart rate. My next step is to do a sleep assessment. But this is really good news, given the uncertainty of the last couple of weeks since the condition was diagnosed.

More on this as it develops, undoubtedly.

Major Event #2: The House

For the majority of my readership, this was chronicled in a recent trip up North. But I'll recap for posterity, as well as the one or two others who might have an interest in the nuts of it all.

I've maintained a long-standing dalliance with a house move. This is not new territory. Sharon & I moved into our current house one year into marriage, back in 1998. There was little thought of raising a family, energy upgrades, "walkability,""community," etc. We needed a place which was affordable on a meager income that was also not coming apart at the seams.

What we found at the time was a sturdy little home that was built for the post-WWII inner-ring laborers in North Minneapolis. A granny house. Orange carpeting throughout, and electrical/gas/piping/etc that had not been updated in 30 years. The outdated nature of the facilities has become our quality & energy efficiency playground, as we've updated it all - and generally to the highest possible energy efficient capability, short of pure solar/wind. And a choice borne out of necessity has proven to be one of the defining circumstances of our life: a surrounding community and set of environs & amenities that has essentially cemented our loyalty to our neighborhood into the foreseeable future.

But we've also smacked head-on into the actual structural limitations of our house. As our tastes have become a little more refined and our family has grown, we've become a little frustrated at the lack of flow & openness, as well as the cramped feel of an eat-in kitchen and dominating features of a central staircase and hallway. In addition, while a large number of our friends live in North Minneapolis, that is not so much the case in the surrounding few blocks. There are other areas of North, and one in particular (the "Victory Neighborhood"), which have beautiful stucco tudor-styled homes and early-century floorplans. Our "sub-neighborhood" predominately consists of the same type of small, uninventive little "banger" in which we live. That has resulted in a generally lower level of home ownership and, frankly, fewer peers. Lucy, alone, has about five relatively close friends living in this same seven block by seven block section of North (and our family, in total, knows probably a couple of dozen families); while in our neighborhood, we tend to have kids from rental houses running free & unsupervised (some as young as two or three) in the middle of the street, late into the evening. Not to mention being involved in a series of misdemeanor-type offenses up and down the block. Just not the type of environment we are excited to have our kids growing up in proximity to.

So this combination of factors, including with the equity we believed we had accumulated in our house and current historic low interest rates, drove us to explore the notion of moving into Victory, to be within blocks of many friends and into an area with a greater sense of community. We went so far as to be pre-approved for a mortgage and begin touring some houses.

Well, to make a long-story short, some of our financial assumptions, in particular the amount we had truly lost in equity (e.g. pretty much everything - our area was extremely hard hit from foreclosure, and prices have not recovered) and the relative house prices between our neighborhood and the other, did not prove out as we had assumed. And, the more we investigated the interior and "guts" of prospective houses, the more we appreciated the solid foundation and interior investments we had made in our own. And the more we thought about it, the less favorably the parks & trail system in Victory compared to the parks & trails around our home, which may be among the best of anywhere in the Midwest. And yards in my neighborhood are much bigger (11 homes per block as compared to 15 in Victory). And you can hear toads calling from my back yard. And on and on.

And personally, I started to hold fast to some of my personal values about simplicity and non-wastefulness; realizing that some of these things I'd been looking for in another home: larger bathroom, dining room, etc. are things that simply aren't necessary for happiness. We can (and should) (and will) do some aesthetic interior upgrades to our own home, and are actually currently in the process of working out what sort of cash-out-refinance we can leverage, given the lower interest rate, to keep out monthly outlay about the same as it currently is, while rolling in our mortgage and a low-interest community fix-up loan we've been paying on for a few years. We're hoping we'll come out with an extra $10,000 or so with which to utterly remodel our bathroom and re-do the hardwood floors. In the meantime, there's some sweat-equity stuff we can take on ourselves: painting, some more landscaping, etc.

We may yet end up doing a move someday. It still doesn't seem likely that the character (e.g. the characters who reside within the houses around us) of our neighborhood change significantly in the next handful of years. I do wish Lucy & Rose had some "backyard friends." But in the big scheme of things, they're not all that far from their friends in North. And - good God, we live in the age of cars and, in a scant handful of years for our girls, bikes. And when my intellect is involved, I realize I have little to fear from the "bad influence" factor. My girls are smart and perceptive, and have the tools to gravitate to positive influences. So if we end up moving someday, to achieve a little more immediate "community," and maybe a dream house in terms of design flow, we're going to do it right, and it's going to be when & if Sharon is back in the workforce and we have a little more purchasing power. The key to a little more peace of mind in the near-term is to just let that go until the time feels right.

Major Event #1: My Brain

When my readers last left My Brain, I was performing a self-diagnosis with the conclusion: Fucked Up. It was at near the height of a long-buildup of ambient stress, with a series of external stressors and a life in flux that was overwhelming me like so many Lilliputian Poltergeists. Here's the crazy/eerie thing: the date/time stamp of that last post on my psychological state was 8:27 pm last Aug. 13. That was about two hours before my dad died.

THAT was what finally pushed me over the edge.

So, it was a couple weeks after that I entered therapy. After one well-meaning therapist that was not a good fit, I ended up with a psychologist, Martha, who was wonderful. I saw her every two weeks throughout the fall, beginning with with working through what she diagnosed to be a moderate level of clinical depression, and evolving into digging into a weedy topic I will summarize as - ah - "HOW DID IT COME TO THIS?"

If you care to read through a couple of the posts during my job search odyssey last year, you we see how I had managed to expose and master a number of hang-ups and generally messy roadblocks I had constructed for myself early on in life, for whatever reason. Coping mechanisms that allowed Young Dan to get through childhood with a minimal investment of energy on directing his own future. During the job search in Spring '09, I wasn't digging into the "why" so much. But I WAS, for the first time in my life, moving from a mindset of believing all things in life would generally default to not working out for me to realizing that people can make things happen for themselves, and that I'd laid a pretty solid foundation for success in life (my definition of success, not Norm Coleman's) without even thinking about it.

So, I was understanding this on some level in the late spring and into the summer. But it was through therapy in the fall that I dug into how that came to be. And also (more importantly) how to recognize when I was in danger of falling into old patterns of thought; gaining an ability to clinically evaluate a situation and say, "Ah yes, I'm doing it again." As any therapist (or substance abuse counselor) would tell you, getting your head around what you're doing is the first and most critical step to moving past a roadblock. It's related to the old cliche of "admitting you have a problem."

At some point, in the fall I think (and kind of at rock bottom), a Wise Friend said something to the effect of "I think when the dust settles, you're going to be able to take stock of things and realize you're in a much better place." It is a Wise Friend who has a penchant for saying things that stick with me over time. And, obvious as that statement might seem, it did stick with me throughout the fall and into winter, as bi-weekly therapy sessions turned into monthly sessions, and moderate depression went into disthymia (mild depression) and, eventually, simply away.

With the departure of depression and the greater level of self-awareness, AND with a number of "externalities" of life having settled into a Good Place, a burst of motivation and energy has been unleashed, the likes of which I haven't seen in a long, long time (the fruits of that burst of motivation and energy will be covered in following posts for Major Events).

Understand, I live in the topsy-turvy world of the New Millenium. Our nation is awash in economic disparity, corruption, and widespread political vitriol. Our world hangs in the balance from environmental and militaristic threats. I essentially live check-to-check and I have two young kids providing (in addition to many moments of indescribable joy) a moderate level of ambient, background stress. I can still have my highs and lows.

But I'm in a Good Place.

Back with a Vengeance: And The State of Me, Executive Summary

The plan – to begin this anew. We’ll see how it actually comes to fruition, but my hope is to steal coffee time in the morning to pound out some thoughts on a regular basis.

Time was, I used to examine and deliberate every life decision in this forum. Needless to say, that’s been pretty much absent in the past year. There were a couple of posts about my dad last summer, and one odd one during the summer when I suspected (rightly, at the time) a state of depression. Before that, the blog chronicled my unemployment and career change – that that was only monthly during the spring of ’09.

What’s ironic is that – as Sharon & I have discussed – 2009 – 2010 will likely go down as a turning point in our history, when looking back someday. So many things have changed. For me, the period of unemployment was a life-altering event. My wonderful career coaches were making me understand how much, in this life, is really within my control, and I was finally ready to buy into it. The death of my father (predictably, I suppose) not only induced me to re-frame some family considerations, but it also was the tipping point, driving me into a necessary series of appointments with a psychologist, wherein I was able to get my head around few things about myself that maybe I could/should have understood 25 years ago –but hey, better late than never.

And the new job. And the end of theatre and the resurgence of music. And the impending house move-WHA?!?!?!

I will attempt to go back and get into the particulars of these assorted Major Events over the course of the next few weeks.

Stay tuned!

Ranch-Style, Part 2 of 2

…exact events….slipping from my mind….have to….wing it…..

So, got down to The Ranch about mid-morning where, as I said, the opportunity to put the morning’s events in the context of a classic regale helped quash the potential of fuming or scorn from my host. We had a laugh together, then headed out for late breakfast at the Happy Chef who, as we discussed, is almost certainly the father of the Big Boy.

Events at that point were, out of necessity, coming together in such a way that would allow us to be down in Clog’s basement in front of the TV by 1:00 pm. For, you see, the heartbreak kids (aka The Vikings) were to be taking on the surging Cowboys in the NFC playoffs. Given the much-chronicled last playoff game we watched together in a previous January (a game of such cataclysmic bitterness in these parts, that two phrases: “the knee” and “the kick” need no further explanation), there were some ghosts of the past that needed busted.

Before the game, we had the chance to traipse around out front of the house with a football. There was a lot of snow and some ice, but we made a few catches and made a few throws. I think, additionally, that T-Clog made some frozen pizza which we consumed before the start of the game. Then: the game. And what a game! Such an ass-beating I’ve never seen the Vikings lay on ANYBODY in the playoffs. Clog was still concerned heading into the 3rd period, but the game was well in hand. Making it at least five times sweeter was the fact that Sean & his boy, fanatical Dallas fans, were at the game in Minneapolis. It was definitely the source of some mirth and merriment as the game progressed. It was only over Easter weekend that I dared bring up the game to my brother, who is still so shocked and sad that he is unwilling/unable to even attempt to deflect the negativity back on fans of the enemy team, a classic sports-dummy move. So, that game definitely raised the overall fun quotient.

MOONS OVER MY HAMMY

At some point, I should probably see a sports-injury specialist. I’ve now pulled my hamstring three times in the past year, each time from a seemingly mild athletic endeavor. Obviously, much of it is age, and the fact that I don’t stretch out in advance of some of these activities and go suddenly into sprinting. I think it probably also has to do with my chronic dehydration. So really, a three-bladed sword. But somehow, when doing our silly little football thing (you know, four passes to get pas an arbitrary TD marker), I came up lame. Like, bad enough to where I had to hobble back to the ranch (following a long American tradition of men hobbling back to ranches).

Other than that, it was – as they say – all good. TClog has an array of pleasures to delight the senses and trip the mind to fancy. His house is the dream of EveryMan. Pool table, high-class dartboard (almost canceling out his 1995 purchase of a Poverty Phone), Nintendo Wii, and foosball. We played all of the above, for various amounts of time and in multiple instances, for most of the rest of the afternoon and into the night. I could be remembering this wrong, but I think I lost every time at pool, foosball, and darts; but I did much better than one might expect, since I don’t have the opportunity to practice any of them. Beatles Rock Band, at least, I dominated (on vocals). I think I recall that all day I was pestering the Clog about opening up the hot tub on his deck. He was like a mad scientist, feverishly mixing chemicals and fretting over the pH levels. At one point, having just added this and that and waited out a timer, he actually stuck a lead rod into the hot tub to test it’s condition, and when he pulled the rod out, the bottom half was eaten away. Nevertheless, I eventually convinced him to let us take a dip, which was glorious (and the results of which are available in the video, below).

That night, before bed, I watched the last half of The Lost Boys. It was as bad as I suspected, but I hung on either out of respect to the recently departed (or soon to depart – I can’t recall the timing) Cory Haim.

In the morning, it was breakfast, and back on the road for a much, much less eventful ride home.

City Slicker's Visit to The Ranch #1 of ???

First off - All Apologies to T-Clog for the delinquency of this report. Hell, I haven't chronicled the re-emergence of my musical career, my battle with depression, coping with the loss of my dad, and only barely, my new career. So he can feel a measure of pride in that he rose to the cream of that cup of mik, at least.

So...kicking off what is poised to be a year of much time off (nonprofit holiday schedule, three weeks of vacation, and a two-week furlough) providing space (if not funds) to visit a cadre of friends, I decided to kick it off with style. Ranch-Style.

Shortly following T-Clog's birthday and just braving the possibility of treacherous winter winds, I planned my solo trip down. If you'll pardon what borders on a blatant product endorsement, trips in my new Kia Forte are generally pure bliss. While it would be an insult to Kobe Bryant, and would seem like a modest, entry-level vehicle to most of America, it is the closest thing to a luxury class vehicle I have ever owned. And that luxury is never more evident than when it is simply me being by myself (e.g. sans the responsibility of kids) with my iPod, cruising to God-knows-where at God-knows-what-hour-of-the-night. It was this deal when I went on my solo camping trip this last Fall, and it was certainly an oasis of Me when making myriad trips down to Waterloo at the end of that last, awful summer.

My plan had been to wake up at maybe 3:30, head out at around 4:00, stopping for a really nice long cup of eaaarly morning coffee at, say, my old familiar Rochester Caribou (I still crave Caribou Coffee, on occasion), alone with my thoughts. I would then roll on into Cedar Falls sometime around 0h - I don't know - 8:30 or so? Well, part and parcel of my psychology of late has been that I am not hitting the sack particularly early (if I was T-Clog and in the Escalante, though, I might say that 'Sack' was hitting me!). So, I ended up going to bed around 12:30 or 1:00 or so, and there was just no way I was going to wake up at the target time. I did get up around 5:20 and was on the road by 5:40.

As a Man of the New Millenium, packing for a trip with yourself is a pretty simple affair. Throw some shit in a bag and then it's: iPod? Check! And then off you go!

Pretty uneventful. Long drives in late night or early morning hours and me are old friends. On alert for deer, but other than that things are pretty mellow. I cruised on into Rochester, making pretty good time, by around 7:00. At that point, I decided not to tarry any longer than it would take to post a "Coming on into CF to visit an old friend!!!" or some other such trivial thing to Facebook via the iPod Touch, then it was off.

Back into the car, and down the road. Speeding South of Roch. (most people say "Rod-chester," but don't be deceived! There is no "Rod" in Rochester!! It's "Roch" with the "ch" as in "cheese." But that's neither here nor there). Slowly on through Stewartville. And then sliding into Spring Valley and stopping at a Tom Thumb for gas. And thank God! For, as I emerged from the car,(yup, you guessed it) no billfold. Not immediatly panicking, I dug in and around the seat, through my backpack about five or six times; and then I ripped the sonofabitching Kia Forte apart. Nothing.

All the music that had been so nurturing and soul-enriching on the drive to that point were cold and empty as I raced with dark clouds on my brow back out of town in desperate haste back to the Rochester Caribou (30 minutes back North), in hopes of the wallet being there. Oh - did I mention I'd neglected to bring the cell phone? So....back to the Caribou. I raced through the door and asked the girl at the counter. She says..."Uh, no, sorry."

I'm like, "OK....so, I'm kind of in a bind here." (remember, I'd stopped in Spring Valley for gas. The Forte was BEYOND empty, here. My situation, had I not opted for the Fuel Economy Package at the time of purchase, I dare not consider). I continued, "I have no gas in my car, no money, and I live in Minneapolis." Of course, she looks at me partly like I'm nuts, and partly in fear of her life. At that point, I turn to head over to the table where I sat. Nothing. Then I look under the chair. Ah! The billfold!

so....backtracking here...because I can hear the "Damn you!" all the way from Methuen, as I type. I won't go into considerable detail here. Only to say that I have been learning a lot about myself through my psychiatric sessions this past Fall, and I am pleased to inform you that - it's not me, it's my brain. I'm hard-wired to lose things. It is what it is. I can work as hard as I possibly can, and then that one time in fifty I will not put something in the place it's supposed to go and - BAM! A combination of attention deficit syndrome, some degree of hyperactivity, and a restless heart is a dangerous combination. Add to that stress and fatigue and - wow - I think I do pretty well considering.

In any event, this was one of those instances where a case could just about be made that my forgetfulness was not entirely at fault. I have this Columbia fleece - a fairly new one that zips into my parka shell. Don't often use it on its own. I always forget that the pockets don't actually have any downward slant to them. They kind of go straight in. There's been times I've jammed my keys in there and stood up, only to have them slide right out onto the floor. Evidently, this principle was at work in the case of the wallet.

So, back out onto the road, now an additional extra hour beyond my already late start time (now, about 8:30 or so) and without the ability to call into T-Clog, I knew it was just a matter of time till he woke up, took stock of the situation, and began to get impatient. I KNEW one of my stops was going to have to be in a small town that still had a pay phone.

And, I did finally take care of that nasty little bit of business in Lime Springs (best town by a dam site), careful to only hint at the overall reason for my tardiness for fear of raising Clog's early and unnecessary scorn without the ability to put everything in context. Then, back on the the road with a little more peace in my heart.

And finally, with no further hassles, into Cedar Falls...

Wild - Two More Times...

In The Minnesota Independent.

and in

the Twin Cities Daily Planet

Nothing all that groundbreaking, again, there you go.

Press!

I'm quoted in this Star Tribune article about the housing crisis

Not the kind of press I was always gunning for 10-15 years ago, but I’m inching ever-closer towards my mid-life dream of being considered an “expert” in something, for God’s sake.

For anyone who doesn’t want to read through the depressing, if impressively thorough and nuanced article:

…In addition, "heroic work" by the Minnesota Home Ownership Center's counseling network is helping keep the numbers down, said HousingLink research manager Dan Hylton. That said, he added, there is no easy end in sight to the wave of foreclosures, which could even get worse.
"The general sense is that we're in a small lull between waves -- and that the next wave is going to be worse, simply because it is based on the economy, rather than subprime loans/questionable choices/questionable business practices," he said….

Initial Thoughts as the Funeral Approaches

My father was a man I both admired and was fascinated by. I was born when he was 41 years old, and so missed the first half of his life - with various paths that led him to achieve a level of notoriety in semipro baseball, get drafted into the Korean War, and pursue a career (with family in tow) that took him across the sea to reside for a few years in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia and Lahore, Pakistan.

By the time I came along, the family had settled in the smallish midwestern town of Waterloo, IA, where he served for 24 years as an elementary school principal. That second stage of his life, where he touched thousands of young lives and commanded a respect that resulted in him being known as "Mr. Hylton" to all but his nuclear family, represented the man I knew as "dad." After retirement, he re-invented himself, transforming from the role of disciplinarian to jolly grandfather who exuded devotion and interest in his grandchildren with his every act.

I was always fascinated by that earlier, amazing time of his life, though, where he was seemingly bold, adventurous, and full of piss and vinegar; not the stolid and steady patriarch I knew in my youth. Fascinated to the extent that I actually recorded two 45 minute interviews with him for NPR's "National Day of Listening," about a year ago that are avabilable for download on the wold wide web. I am so glad now that I did this.

Coming from an avowed liberal peacenik this might seem odd, but I am very gratified and proud that dad will be buried with military honors, which includes a color guard, flag-draped coffin, taps, and, I believe, even a five-gun salute. He did not ask to be drafted into the service fresh out of high school, torn away from a budding baseball career and plans for college, and forced to move with his young wife and newborn daughter to a one-bedroom apartment just outside Fort Benning, GA. But he served wtih honor, and it was something that he appreciated more and more, the older he got. It's that part of the visitation/service/internment that will be hardest for me - the part with the formal military send-off; but something that's going to about the most likely piece of this experience to be able to push my psyche into processing it all a little bit. I'm certainly not there yet.

Details of My Dad's Passing

Thanks for offers of support so far. Below is the obituary that will be appearing in various papers, followed by a brief biography we "kids" wrote that will be appearing in a program at the visitation.


OBITUARY FOR: Jack Hylton
Age: 79
Address: 512 Olympic Dr., Waterloo, IA 50702
Died at: his home.
Day, Date of Death: Thursday, August 13, 2009
Date of Birth: December 15, 1929
Place of Birth: Dunlap, Kan.
Parents: Harvey and Pauline (Jenkins) Hylton
Marriage Info: married Lois Groom on May 20, 1951, in Council Grove, Kan.
Education: graduated from Council Grove High School in 1947 and received his BA and MA at Emporia State University in Emporia, Kan.
Occupation: educator for 41 years, including 24 years as a principal for the Waterloo Community School District. He was also a principal in Jidda, Saudi Arabia, for the Parents Cooperative School System of TWA and in Lahore, Pakistan.
Military: served in the United States Army for the Headquarters Division at Fort Benning, Ga.
Organizations: Member and former Board member at First United Methodist Church.
Activities: American Legion and semipro baseball in Kansas; coached and refereed multiple levels of adult and youth sports throughout Kansas.
Survivors: Wife: Lois Hylton, Waterloo, Iowa
Daughter: Laura (John) Allen, Marion, Iowa
Son: Lindon Hylton, Madras, Ore.
Son: Sean (Amy) Hylton, Cedar Falls, Iowa
Son: Dan (Sharon) Hylton, Minneapolis, Minn.
8 grandchildren: Neil & Natalie Allen, Marion, Iowa
Taylor & Jared Hylton, Cedar Falls, Iowa
Cody (Kiara) Hylton, Portland, Ore.
Zane Hylton, Corvalis, Ore.
Lucy & Rose Hylton, Minneapolis, Minn.
Sister: Jill (Eldon) Fitzgerald, Council Grove, Kan.
Preceded by: parents, and grandson Matthew John Allen
Services: 1:30 p.m., Tuesday, at First United Methodist Church in Waterloo
Burial: Memorial Park Cemetery
Visitation: 4-7 p.m. Monday, August 17, 2009, at Locke Funeral Home in Waterloo
Memorials: to the church or Cedar Valley Hospice
Condolences may be left at www.LockeFuneralHome.com


on the cover:
He put His arms around him and whispered "come with me"
on the inside:
God saw that he was getting tired
And a cure was not to be,
So He put His arms around him
and whispered "come with me."
With tearful eyes we watched,
Suffered and saw him fade away.
Although we loved him dearly
We could not make him stay.
A golden heart stopped beating,
Hard working hands to rest.
God broke our hearts to prove to us
He only takes the best.

bio for the back cover:
To the casual eye, Jack Hylton was a man molded to be a principal. A hard-working educator for 41 years -- including 24 at Waterloo schools named Kittrell, Whittier and Emerson -- it was in Jack's nature to obsess about about the small details and tiny souls that filled his hallways every school year. A hands-on principal who gave more than his share of hours to the job, Jack made elementary school a well-rounded experience -- academics, after-school basketball clinics, even pizza parties and ballgames for chair crews. His job started in Kansas and took him to far-away lands like Saudi Arabia and Pakistan, and walked hand-in-hand with his love of sports, coaching and refereeing. However, Jack's role as a principal wasn't his ultimate calling. Instead, Jack saved his best for the end of the day. A loving husband, dad and grandfather, Jack was a man who gave his true devotion to his family by serving as a perfect model for a life lived with love, integrity, accountability, compassion and faith.

Next Up, My Brain

I've made a living as a "my life is an open book" type of guy, so why stop now?

After years of lamentations on an aimless "career" path, and then subsequent entry into a nonprofit field at a job in my neighborhood (yada yada - you know the song & dance - I'm suddenly the luckiest guy in the world), you'd think everything was wrapped up in a nice little bow, huh?

Well...the fact of the matter is that I am fucked up.

I can dig down a lot deeper (and have, in many conversations with Sharon in recent months), but on the surface - this appear to be the case:

In my early 20s, I was an emotional rock. Not in the stoic sense, but in the "life rolled off my back" sense. I had no crappy jobs, no prospects, next to no money, and few cares in the world. Over the years (and this is probably no rare thing), as I added cares and burdens of one sort or another, my emotional and psychological state has gotten increasingly more fragile. Particularly, in the past couple of years, I have found that going from "here" (calm, everything's OK) to "there" (I'm losing it) is as simple as a minor setback, and that my highs (and though I can still have highs, and find enjoyment in life) are less high, and my lows lower and longer-lasting, often accompanied by a feeling of despair. My "resting place" is at a general level of mild malaise, and it is almost like a fixed point to which I am tethered, and unable to fully escape. Very, very un-Dan like, the way I think of most of you knowing Dan. I am not myself.

I had some dark, dark moments last mid-summer (like, curling up on the ground dark moments) but, for the most part, things have really been at another level since the layoff last spring. It's not hard to trace the series of factors that have likely contributed in recent times, since I have been subject to a very identifiable and continuing barrage of stresses. There was not having a job, obviously - for which I bore the brunt of stress on behalf of my four-person family. Then there was/is the stress of a new job with not a single day of relaxation between job-search and new-job modes (it has been suggested by Sharon that there is actually a clinical term for this condition, called "adjustment disorder"). And, of course, all along - the declining health of my father. Sharon has actually coined a somewhat less clinical term to encompass the breadth of these, and other, of life's stresses (kids, other obligations); referring to my "ambient stress level."

Whatever it is, and whatever it's called, it's real.

And the fanciful notion of the "Dan Day" (relaxing day biking about town, relaxing in the coffee shop, and taking care of myself) being a cure-all has long since passed. As a wise man once said, "I feel like butter, scraped over too much bread." But I need more than a holiday. And I'm actually going in for psychological counseling two weeks from today.

Some other thoughts and considerations related to this topic are a little touchy to go into in this forum (even for me!), but I'm happy to talk more by phone or whatnot, one on one.

The Deed Is Done

2009

Well, the deed is done. With a minimum amount of hassle, and a loan we expect to be able to pay off in full come tax time, we have -at home - a car that should give us a smooth, relatively worry-free ride for the next 10 years or so. It's got a 10-year warranty, anyway. A little research since the purchase has also bouyed my already-good feelings about this car. With this crazy "fuel economy package" that we threw in, it truly is the most fuel efficient non-hybrid currently in the compact field. AND, it somehow manages to have a lot more interior space (both trunk & passenger) than just about any of the other sedans. And then there's all the fun stuff.

Anyway - hope to cruise by and pick one of you jokers up for an iPod-shuffle-laden excursion sometime soon!

1996