The Wall Drug of Wisconsin?

At least one reader of this blog will get the significance of this photo, which I recently snapped outside the Old City ...














... especially when I enlarge it. (And no, it's not about the guy, although he's not too hard on the eyes.)

Who's your hero?

Even non-sports enthusiasts like me know that Michael Phelps was the hero of the recent Olympic games. His amazing performances won him fame, admiration and, no doubt, millions of dollars in product endorsements.

I’m no Michael Phelps, but when people praise me for leaving the comforts of home to volunteer for two years in a foreign country, I’m inclined to put myself on a pedestal not unlike the three-tiered rostrum of the Olympics. But the truth of the matter is that I did not get here on my own, the same as Phelps did not win eight gold medals on his own. I don’t know who sacrificed and worked so that Phelps could achieve renown and glory. But I’ll show you who are the real heroes in my story.

This is my family. Every one of them, from little 4-year-old Levi to my septuagenarian parents, made sacrifices without which I would not be in Jerusalem today. Each of my three siblings spent time packing, cleaning or completing maintenance projects. Each of my in-laws hauled boxes, cooked meals or watched kids so that others could help with trip preparations. Each of my seven nieces and nephews was bereft of one parent or the other while they attended to my needs.


If I could hand out Olympic medals, I’d award not one but two gold medals – one to each of my parents. They didn’t just make multiple trips to my house to help, but they lived there for days at a time. Now in their well-deserved retirement, they gave up their free time, their own bed and their central air conditioning to pound, scrub, paint and haul at my house. They were patient with me when my head spun in indecision. They encouraged me when I became overwhelmed with all that had to be done. They soothed and reassured me when the stress rendered me a sobbing mess. And when I had to board a plane on Aug. 19 and leave things undone, they went back to my house – again and again – until it was done. Tears well up in my eyes if I think about this for more than an instant.

There’s another medal to be awarded, this one to the step-mama of my cat. When I first began talking about going overseas, my friend Lois volunteered to foster my pets before I even had a chance to ask. My beloved beagle, Yukon Cornelius, went to heaven in February, leaving only King in need of room and board. So Lois is feeding, watering and scooping poop for King for the next two years. It is said that “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” But I think cleaning out someone else's litter box is right up there! On top of pet care, Lois gave up nearly a week of vacation days to come and help out just before my departure. She was my chauffeur when we needed to go somewhere. She was my brain when I was too flustered to think. She was my hands when things needed to be packed for storage at the last minute. And now she is my heart, loving my cat when I’m too far away to do it myself.

The three weeks before I left for Jerusalem was one of the most stressful times in my life. But the result of it is that I have the privilege of spending two years in Jerusalem. What my helpers got out of it was a few free meals and unlimited boxed wine. Big deal. I guess that’s what amazes me most about all the help I received – they did it even though there was nothing in it for them. As I told my parents one night through my sobs, I never imagined anyone would ever love me that much. I think I must be crazy to separate myself for two years from that kind of love.

Unlike Michael Phelps, I don’t have eight valuable gold medals or million-dollar contracts with which to show my gratitude to my heroes. I just hope they know how much I appreciate and love and miss them. And I hope they realize that every newsletter I create or web page I publish or speech I write is made possible because of their selfless service to me.

Teach a cat to fish

At age 15, my beloved cat, King Carnivore, is probably a little too old to be relocated half way around the world. So my dear friend Lois agreed to add her to her own two-cat household while I was away. Having proved her portability on a camping trip earlier this summer, King was invited to join Lois and her husband, Darin, on another trip into the great outdoors. The destination this time was the "garlodge" (that is, a feature of northern Wisconsin architecture in which a garage functions as a lodge) of Lois' sister, Linda, and her husband, Jeff. Lois' very entertaining account of King's adventures follows. (Below: This is King curled up with a tackle box on her first fishing adventure.)



Lois writes:

If there was ever a cat cut out to be an ambassador, it's King. She's not afraid to go to new and different places, she seems to be inured to the difficulties and/or boredom of travel (sleeping is her favorite remedy), she makes friends easily (Linda and Jeff, this time). In short, according to Darin, she's just like you! Except for one aborted escape attempt behind the Thorpedo Restaurant when we were seeing if she'd take a potty break in the her box in the back of the truck, we had no troubles whatsoever.

We did broaden her horizons on this trip in a couple of ways. First, we've given her retail experience, and not in the way you think. As a surprise to Darin, I scheduled an appointment at Toys for Trucks (yes, a "guy" truck accessory store) to have them install a tonneau cover on the back of the truck so that he could get the secure, weather-proof storage he's been pining for before we trekked yet again across the state with our weekend goods out there for all the world to see. This required the truck without us in it for half an hour. I asked if I could just stay in the truck in their shop, as I was traveling with a cat. He said, "You're more than welcome to bring her in here ... we get guys bringing their dogs in all the time." I shrugged and complied. King handled it like a pro. She sat in her bed in my lap in the waiting area next to the Outdoor Life and American Hunter magazines (two things she's big into) until she tired of the view. Then she wriggled out of my grasp and went on walkabout. Darin did stop her from going back into the office, but otherwise she checked out displays of wheel covers, tonneau covers, etc. On a side note, her full name came in handy in introductions to the staff. It amused me to increase the machismo level of bringing a cat into the world of men and dogs by introducing her as "King Carnivore"!

By our last evening, Jeff had decided she was pretty cool, and had even reintroduced the topic of getting a cat for Linda. We decided to spend the time after a late dinner fishing on the dock. I decided that King had seen everything else, so I thought, "What the hell! Teach at cat to fish ... or at least let her watch." I brought her on a makeshift leash down the 70 steps to the dock. Everyone was sitting on the pontoon since it provided fish cover and had the only seats, so I joined them, figuring the solid, carpeted floor would be less disconcerting than a slatted dock. After 10 or 15 minutes without any luck, Jeff said, "Should we take the boat out for a cruise?" I reminded him that we did have a feline companion about whom a week ago he said would have to stay in the "garlodge" when we took the boat out. He wasn't concerned at all, and King didn't appear to be either, so she is now the first cat of my acquaintance to have gone pontooning! She again handled it like a pro, keeping her sea legs under her and even "helping" a little with piloting. Matter of face, the only fear she showed all weekend was when Darin shot across the room to stop her from scooting her butt across Linda and Jeff's sleeping bag. After she heard "King, no!" and saw him descending on her, she tucked herself quickly under the bed, but came out with some reassurance from him that she wasn't in big trouble.

Now she's back home again, and we're picking up where we left off with developing kitty detente in our house. There's a little less hissing (although still a lot of staring), and King has been allowed by Xan [Editor: One of Lois’ cats] to spend a few hours in the "playpen" (deck, that is). Do you really need her back? ;-)

What's next for King -- sky-diving?