Author: Denis Wilhelm

Made With Love

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“What would you like for dinner?” That’s Deb’s usual request as I’m walking out of the house on my way to work each day. My response: “I don’t care” or “Whatever you would like” or some other non-response. I might as well say “I can’t be bothered with that right now!” And I’m ashamed of myself for doing that…

I’m not a ‘foodie’ but I love to eat. And I love to eat good food. But I can’t (won’t) cook and I don’t know what’s “in season” or what it takes to prepare most meals. It’s not that I don’t care; I just don’t care that much. This makes me kind of a rat-bastard because Deb loves to cook and she puts so much thought into each meal. And I (on most nights) just come home and wait to be served. Don’t get me wrong – I appreciate it and I am always thankful but I don’t necessarily understand the ‘art of cooking’. It’s similar to my complete lack of regard for opera or ballet – never quite acquired an appreciation for either. I suppose that the ‘finer things’ in life are often lost on me.

But yesterday when asked, ““What would you like for dinner?” I thought about it and replied, “Something light or summer-timey”.  And away I went. I never gave it another thought.

To my delight when I came home Deb was preparing bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches. Now I don’t think that she needed Julia Child’s cookbook for this meal but to me it was as wonderful as if she had prepared Boef Bourguignon. The BACON smelled amazing! And the fresh lettuce and tomatoes, that she had ‘hand-picked’ at the produce market down the road, were perfect. Not to mention all of the other produce that she purchased: peaches, watermelon, strawberries, blueberries and carrots.

I savored that BLT! It brought me back to a simpler time. And the worry and stress of my day slipped away. It occurred to me (once again) why my wife is such a good cook. It’s because all her meals are made with love. She takes the time to plan most meals based on my half-hearted suggestions and then she goes the extra mile by hand selecting the ingredients to prepare whatever is on the menu du jour. It doesn’t matter whether it’s Veal Prince Orlov or Sloppy Joes she always adjusts her recipes to add a ‘dash of love’. And often a dollop!

Cooking with Nana ~ a living legacy

So when you sit down to dinner tonight and give thanks to God for your blessings don’t forget to thank the cook, too.

Bon Appétit,

Denis

P.S. Deb, I reckon that we’ve shared over 13,000 dinners together – that’s a lot of love!  I can never really thank you enough (but I’ll keep trying).

Did I Ever Tell You About The Time…?

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I can almost hear the groans as I write this. “YES! We all know that story!”

Maybe someday Noah will continue the legacy

My Dad, God bless him, loves to tell his stories. The problem is that he has told the SAME stories (and jokes) for as long as I can remember. He really needs some new material. Dad is 85 years old now and I suppose he is entitled to repeat himself but everyone in the family can tell his stories verbatim. 

Somehow that doesn’t bother him. He tells them again (and again). Mom usually rolls her eyes and the grandkids giggle because it’s a ritual they’ve come to appreciate. Sometimes they’re the instigators. “Hey Grandpa, how did you and Gram meet?’ or “Hey Grandpa, did you really travel through the Panama Canal during World War II?” or “Grandpa, what’s that joke about the priest, the rabbi, and the Lutheran minister?” And he’s off and running…

Now of course I am doing the same thing (and I’m not certain when it really started). I will repeat the same joke ad nauseam – because “if it’s funny the first time”…

I will recount for the umpteenth time a story (which may contain some truth) about something that happened before most of my captive listeners were born. I CAN’T HELP MYSELF. I don’t know, maybe it’s genetic; maybe it’s a learned behavior. It’s like the cycle of abuse – I’ve become the abuser (in this case the serial story-teller). And I kind of like it. No, I really like it. It’s frightening!

The problem for serial story-tellers like me is that our victims are all too willing. Most people are either too polite to ask that I “shut up” or they are actually entertained (initially). It doesn’t matter. If I have a willing listener – I will talk. All normal social clues such as yawning, looking at a watch, blank stares, preoccupation with cell phones, PDAs, etc., have no power over a serial story-teller. Debbie even tries to ‘intervene’ by asking me to “not tell that one again” – that’s utter foolishness. Once I’ve settled in – you’re there for the WHOLE STORY. I wish I could stop, but I can’t.

And I know that someday I’ll be very sad when Dad’s not around to tell his stories (even though we sometimes groan). But he needn’t worry, I’ll be telling them for him. Maybe that’s my purpose – to keep the flame alive. Perhaps Dad is passing the torch so that HIS stories will live on long after he does. Or maybe it’s just an annoying habit that I’ve picked up.

Either way, did I ever tell you about how Mom and Dad met…?

Peace,

Denis

Burden

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“Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest.” These are Jesus’ words in Matthew’s Gospel. And often I need that reminder.

We all feel burdened from time to time but sometimes I admit that I play the “martyr”. Why me? Poor me! How can this be happening? What else can possibly go wrong? It’s during these times of self-pity that I forget God’s promise of love. I become so self-absorbed that I can only focus on my needs – my pain – my heartache. And my burden only becomes greater because I fail to remember that I am never truly alone.

During those darkest times – when I am feeling alone and unloved and that I am carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders I try to recall the words of a hymn that Deb shared with me the first year that we were married:

God has not promised skies always blue,

Flower-strewn pathways all our lives through;

God has not promised sun without rain,

Joy without sorrow, peace without pain.

But God has promised strength for the day,

Rest for the labor, light for the way;

Grace for the trials, help from above,

Unfailing sympathy, undying love.

Burdens. We all must bear them from time to time. Some are heavier than others. Some can be life-changing. And some might seem insurmountable. But nothing is stronger or more powerful than God’s love. The beauty of my life is that God delivers his love to me daily – through the shared hymn given to me by my beautiful wife; by the sweet kisses of my granddaughters or the giggle of my grandson; by the loving words of my children; by the comfort and concern of my siblings; by the countless kindnesses bestowed upon me by friends. Many times they have dried my tears; shared my struggles; helped me find my way.

"Nana, why are you crying?"

The other evening Deb was reading a bedtime story to our granddaughters – “That’s What Grandmothers Are For”. Now she has been known to cry watching a Hallmark® commercial so the fact that this book’s tender message brought tears to her eyes was no surprise to me. The girls however were both concerned because Nana was crying. Instinctively our younger granddaughter Anna grabbed a tissue and wiped her eyes. The pure compassion of that gesture then brought me to tears. What an amazing example our children have set for their own children!

Being Christ to one another is the ultimate expression of God’s love. Thanks to each of you for the times that you have carried my burden. I hope that you will allow me the honor of carrying yours, too.

Aretha Franklin sang about it in 1969. Still sounds good today…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=reeE8mbh0zA

Peace,

Denis

Summertime

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I love summer! Sunshine. Hot weather. Swimming pools. Cool drinks. Baseball. Watermelon. Picnics. Patios. Barbeque. I love it all.

My love of summertime started as a kid. NO SCHOOL! My best friend and I would meet up after breakfast and literally play all day long. On most summer days we would pack our lunches so that we wouldn’t have to be home until supper and then we would resume playtime again until dark. There were only a few rules in the summer:

  1. Be home in time for supper.
  2. Be home again before dark (and that could be bypassed if you had a pre-approved backyard campout at your friend’s house).
  3. Go to Mass on Sundays.
  4. Take an occasional bath (especially prior to aforementioned Mass).

Summertime and the livin’ was easy! Lena Horne sang it and we lived it…

Hunting "Wild Chihuahuas" on "The Hill"

Of course times were simpler back then and maybe safer, too. Certainly parents didn’t have the fears then that they do today. The only helmets that we had were our “Army helmets” that we wore when we played soldiers. We swam in creeks. We drank out of those same creeks. We played in open fields. We ate wild berries. And we somehow survived.

Today begins the 4th of July weekend and I’m determined to let my grandkids be a little adventurous today. We won’t be drinking creek water but maybe we’ll drink from the garden hose when the “adults” aren’t looking. Maybe we can run around barefoot in the backyard. Or perhaps we’ll “hunt for wild Chihuahuas” up on the hill in our overgrown garden. I love that my grandkids encourage my need to be a kid.

I hope that you get to have some summer fun, too!

Peace,

Denis

iPod, iPad, iTunes, iPhone; it’s too much information!

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I love new technology. I especially love it when it works. I have an iPod® and an iPhone® and my son and son-in-law each have an iPad® (which just look like giant iPhones® to me). I have some ‘apps’ which I recently learned means ‘applications’ but I don’t really know what that means. And I don’t need to (or want to) know – please don’t try to tell me. I just want the phone to stop dropping calls. I also would like it to stop “pocket dialing” people; which means when jostled in my pocket my iPhone® mysteriously finds numbers and dials them – it’s like magic!

Now I’m told that there are many wonderful things that my iPhone® can do, but really just making phone calls and reading the occasional email is enough for me. Oh, and playing games when stuck in the airport or waiting in a long line is fun, too. But I don’t a need a GPS tracker that works like an electronic ankle bracelet or an ‘app’ that tells me what the restaurants in New Zealand are serving or what the temperature is on Mars. It’s too much information!

 And I refuse to text! I do not accept text messages nor will I send them (mainly because I don’t understand the abbreviations). It took me about a year to realize that LOL wasn’t someone’s initials! Don’t even get me started on OMG! What’s wrong with spelling an entire word or phrase? Remember how excited we were as children when we learned how to write? Wouldn’t it be fun to relive that excitement and use actual words in our written communications? Imagine the joy in being clearly understood by those with whom we are corresponding – instead of the receiving party asking “what in hell does this mean?”.

Call me old-fashioned but I don’t need you to send me Facebook® updates every time you leave your house. As glad as I may be that you “like” your favorite dry-cleaner, car wash, liquor store, or deli, I don’t really need you to share that information with me. Also I wish the folks at Amazon® would stop sending me “recommendations” daily. If I had that kind of money I would hire somebody to go out and buy stuff that I don’t need at a real store. And how do I get those STORY-PEOPLE® to stop??? I swear I’ll purchase another over-priced item if they’ll just stop sending me those daily STORY-PEOPLE® stories!

I think tomorrow I’ll write all my memorandums “old school” in long hand on real paper. There’s probably an ‘app’ for that, too.

Peace,

Denis

Letting Go

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Yesterday there was a memorial service for my cousin Jerry. Jerry was only 63 years old and died of a massive stroke a week before. At the visitation his siblings appeared shell-shocked. And rightly so; just two weeks ago we were all together at a family reunion and Jerry seemed the epitome of health and fitness. At the reunion Jerry and I talked about how nice it was to be together as a family at something other than a funeral. Two weeks ago…

And now here we are at his memorial and it just seems surreal. Earlier this year Jerry suffered the loss of his daughter Jennifer. She was only 30 years old. One of his sisters suggested that perhaps he hadn’t recovered from his broken heart but I doubt that caused his stroke. Still I wonder??? And at the service yesterday I couldn’t help but imagine the pain his wife Susan and surviving daughter Alison were now bearing; not to mention his  mother, sisters, and brothers. I’m ashamed to admit that I have this perverse habit at funerals of imagining myself in the grieving parties place -maybe others do it, too. I wonder how I would feel if it was Deb (or God forbid one of our kids)? How could I go on without her (them)? The pain and sorrow seem insurmountable.

But somehow we manage. We human beings are a pretty resilient species. Somehow we put one foot in front of the other and carry on. We grieve. We cry. But we live on. We must learn to let go.

Let go! How many times have I been told to just “let go”? Let go of anger. Let go of pettiness. Let go of jealousy. Let go of pride. It’s not easy. But letting go of  “bad things” is easier than letting go of the “good stuff”. But we must do that too. 

Letting go of Tyson when he left for the Air Force was difficult; I drove home alone with my heart breaking and tears streaming. Letting go of Bess after we delivered her to her dorm in Madison was painful; Deb and I rode home in silence, neither of us able to look at the other. On Bess’s wedding day I felt I was letting go of my little girl but I knew she would never leave me (not really). Moving back to Missouri and leaving Blake in Wisconsin at the University; feeling certain he felt abandoned (and feeling guilty and sad all at once), that was tough. But during those times of “letting go” we knew that we would be together again. Even when Tyson was deployed to Iraq we somehow knew our prayers would be answered and he would “come home”. But death – the final surrender. How do we let go? And yet I know that we have no choice. It will happen to each of us.

Yesterday one of the ministers that spoke at Jerry’s service said we all have a God-sized hole in our hearts and when we get to heaven it is filled. Maybe we needed to let go of Jerry so he could have his heart filled but it seems to me that his loved ones had the holes in their hearts made larger by his loss. Still it’s comforting to think about Jerry with his trademark smile enjoying a beautiful eternity with his daughter Jennifer and his dad, my Uncle Les.

But God if you’re listening (and I know that you always are) I’m not really ready to let go and I imagine that Jerry wasn’t either.

Peace,

Denis

Loss of Innocence

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Yesterday my two granddaughters and I spent the day together. First we went to the park where we encountered a Day Care Center that was using the park for a day camp. The place was overrun with 10 or 12 year-old boys that wouldn’t share most of the playground equipment. We were clearly outnumbered and outmaneuvered. And the adults were either clueless or careless. Either way, we sort of played around the perimeter of the place until it just became too much work and then we left for lunch.

After lunch we went to the swimming pool. The pool is a community pool at my daughter Bess’s subdivision, and while “private” it is a community pool so there are other swimmers there that we don’t know – strangers if you will. 

We all warn our kids about strangers – you know those scary adults that look creepy and lurk around unsuspecting little children: STRANGER DANGER! But yesterday we encountered another kind of stranger. This one was probably about 4 or 5 years old; a little girl in a Disney swimsuit. She seemed nice enough in the “baby pool” with her limp blond hair and little half-smile. That was until she opened her mouth. And then out it came: “Hey let’s play shark!” Anna, my three year-old granddaughter responded, “But we can be friendly sharks, okay?” Then strange-girl shouted with a snarl, “NO!” Anna and Charlise were kind of taken aback by strange-girl’s response. The next thing that transpired was an exchange of names. I couldn’t quite make out all the words but the demon-child said very loudly, “Anna’s not a real name – Annie is a real name!” Anna tried to reason with her but to no avail. I’m not sure what strange-girl had to say about Charlise’s name but I’m sure it was unkind.

Okay, at that point both Bess and I were on HIGH ALERT. But the tiny little beast was completely in control of the “baby pool”. We just sat there hapless and helpless. The next thing that strange-girl proclaimed was that, “If you step on those black things (the bottom drains in the pool) it’ll KILL YA!” Well that definitely got my attention! Who was this girl? Where were her parents? And at what point should I intervene??? 

Holy Innocents

Memories of my own children when young came flooding back. And silently I screamed: SAVE THEM! DON’T LET THE BAD GIRL RUIN THEIR SWEETNESS!! I want Charlise and Anna to only be “friendly sharks”; I want them to believe in unicorns and fairies; I want them to love rainbows and bunnies; I want their worst dreams to be ones where the cookie jar is empty or they’ve dropped their ice cream cones.

There’s time enough to grow up and face the harsh realities of life. But please God not yet – NOT TODAY. Please let them remain innocent a little longer. Please!!!

I’m afraid yesterday a little bit of that innocence was stolen by a tiny stranger (who probably has an older brother who plays “mean shark” and tells her name is stupid). And I just sat there dumbfounded while my pure little girls were subjected to what I’m sure is only the beginning of a lifetime of playground bullies, mean girls and other evil. I didn’t like it one bit – this feeling of powerlessness; knowing that strangers will continue to steal little pieces of their innocence. And one day they might lose their innocence completely – gasp!!!

I want to hold them in my arms and tell them all sharks are friendly and that no one will ever hurt them but I know that’s not possible. I can only help them be prepared for a world where everyone is not as beautiful as they are. And more prayers will be required…

Peace,

Denis

Fatherhood (and Grandfatherhood)

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Dear Tyson, Bess and Blake,
 
I love being your Dad. It’s the toughest job that I’ve ever loved. And calling fatherhood a job isn’t really accurate. It’s really a vocation; almost an obsession or a passion. I need to be your dad! You kids (and your kids) bring balance and purpose to my life; you make it (whatever it might be at the moment) worthwhile and meaningful.
 
I’m not suggesting that I’m a great dad or even a good one but I’VE ALWAYS WANTED TO BE. And mistakes that I’ve made with you (and there were plenty) I’m trying to make up for with your children. It’s my second chance.
 
When people ask me what age I enjoyed the most with each of you, I always say “All of them.” And it’s true. I loved having babies (even with colic and dirty diapers) because there is nothing sweeter than baby milk-breath and skin so soft that you can barely feel it with rough dad hands. I can still smell of Baby Magic Lotion® after all these years. I loved you as toddlers and pre-schoolers because watching as you discovered new things each day gave me a renewed interest in learning myself. Plus Fisher-Price® toys rocked! I loved your grade school years – the uniforms, the lunch boxes, the report cards – and papers, papers, everywhere! Memories of Cub Scouts, Brownies, First Communions, Christmas Pageants (um-diddle-diddle-um-diddle-eye!) still warm my heart. I loved your high school years; watching you develop before my very eyes from awkward teenagers into two young men and a young woman. I loved every basketball game, wrestling meet, school play and sports banquet and AFS dinner. At the time I didn’t fully appreciate being your Scout Master or the Chairman of The Booster Club but those experiences made me proud of you then (even if I was only Scout Master or Chairman because no one else raised their hand). You were (and are) so smart; so confident; so beautiful. Your teen years -what an amazing transformation! 

Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, you were grown and gone! But not really gone (not gone from me). Gone on to do big things, important things but still carrying Dad around in your hearts (I hope). Your adult years – The Air Force for you Tyson and University for you Bess and Blake. And then marriages and careers and other grown up stuff. Now Tyson you’re a Dad, too. And Bess you’re a Mommy of two. How did it happen so fast?

Ty, Bess and Blake

My happiest and saddest times have been as your dad. My greatest joys and greatest heartaches have come from you. But mostly joy and ALWAYS love. Pure love – dad love. There is something almost primal about my need to love and protect you – maybe its self-preservation. I don’t know, maybe when the first dad (Adam?) crawled out of the primordial ooze we were all pre-wired to protect our offspring in order to make certain our species would survive. Who knows?

What I do know is that you three are the manifestation of the love that Mom and I share. Seems almost greedy – to have a love as beautiful as ours and three remarkable children to boot. But I’ll take it!
 
And Charlise, Anna and Noah?  Well they’re just the icing on the cake!
 
Peace and love,
 
Dad

P.S. One of toughest times for me was when I moved to Wisconsin ahead of you and Mom and we spent most of that first year apart. This songs bring back that bittersweet memory. (The video is kind of lame but the lyrics still get to me).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1yTWauVjwo

Thirteen Children and then some…

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When I tell people that my mom is the 12th of 13 children I usually get one of two responses. The first one (and most likely) is: Wow! Are you serious? The second response, which never ceases to amaze me, is often something along the lines of “my mom (or dad) was one of 14 (or 15 etc.)” or “I knew somebody that came from a family of fifteen (or twenty)”. You get the idea. Maybe it’s true but it always seems a little doubtful. I think some people like to ‘one-up’. I just smile and say, “Oh, that is a big family”. What I want to say is, “Well okay then you win” “Just for the record, it was never a contest!” “And besides, even if your family is bigger it’s not better than ours!”

Mom is now 82 and is one of the ‘little girls’ – her younger sister is 81. All six of her brothers have passed away and three of her sisters are gone now, too. She and my dad are the only couple left in her generation. Her surviving sisters are: two widows and a nun. She also has two widowed sisters-in-law. Being one of the youngest in a large family has many blessings but watching your siblings die one by one is extremely difficult. We have spent the last few years attending a succession of funerals. With each loss Mom confronts her own mortality again.

Yesterday was a happy family gathering: a reunion. The Moellering Family hadn’t had a reunion in 10 years (not counting aforementioned funerals) and Mom couldn’t have been happier. Seeing Mom with her sisters and nieces and nephews made me realize how much of a Moellering that I am, too. I love our family! I’m proud to be part of this clan. We of the 13 brothers and sisters! We of the produce farmer granddad! We of the three aunts that were nuns! We, this big messy Catholic family that sometimes drinks too much, cusses and fights but always forgives and loves one another deeply. We, this fiercely proud group of hardworking, hard-headed, half-French, half-German, Midwesterners.

We are family!

Families. It’s God way of ALWAYS reminding us who we are. We will touch the future through our children and grandchildren. We continue to honor the past with our memories of those that loved us into being. We possess a unique bond with our siblings and our cousins that no one else can share. We are family. We are loved. We are Moellering!

Peace,

Denis

Too Cool For School

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Last weekend while Deb and I were out for dinner with my sister and brother-in-law, I ran into an old friend from high school and it got me thinking …

Remember high school? Of course you do! Most of us spent 4 years there. And some of us seem to have spent the rest of our lives attempting to re-live it or desperately trying to forget it. Either way, it seems that our experiences in high school leave an indelible mark on our psyche. Some would say an emotional scar.

I went to high school in the ’70′s and we had all the usual cliques: the popular kids, the jocks, the brainiacs, the goody-goodies, the freaks, and the geeks. I fell somewhere between the freak-geek categories. I really wanted to be a jock or brainiac but I didn’t really have the goods. And because I knew I wouldn’t (or couldn’t) be popular, I rejected all the normal ‘rights of passage’ in high school. I was a “Rebel Without A Clue”! It was easier to mock the popular kids than to try to fit in. It took less effort to ridicule the smart kids than to study hard and become one myself. I took the easy way out. When you’re a gawky, pimply-faced dork with no athletic ability you are certain to be relegated to one of the bottom tiers of the high school pyramid. So with the inverted logic: “if you can’t join ’em, beat ’em” I spent the next four years working very hard to try to be “too cool for school”.

Looking back after 40 nearly years I now realize that I wasn’t cool at all but my friends accepted me for who I was. And they carried me through some rough years. What’s truly ironic is that my best friend was a jock (and we’re still friends) and the smart kids let me hang out with them, too. No one in my high school was really a badass even though some kids tried to pretend like they were. And those guys accepted me (even if I was a wimp). There were even popular kids that were sincerely nice to me for no apparent reason – I had nothing to offer them. I’m still thankful for their kindness after all these years – thanks Jan, Trish, Alan, Keith, and others…

I met my wife after we graduated from different high schools. I was the hipster-dufus at my school; she was the popular girl at hers. I married a POPULAR GIRL who had been on the Homecoming Court! That changed everything. I realized then that being popular or a nerd only mattered in high school (or at high school reunions). And I became (sort of) popular with her friends, too. Mainly I became confident in who I was and stopped comparing myself to other kids. If someone as beautiful and remarkable as Deb could love me, then I must be truly worthy or just incredibly lucky. Either way – my self esteem took an upsurge. I grew up and I learned to like myself.

Today I’m Facebook friends with some of my former high school classmates and many of us have grown children and grandchildren now. We’ve all had many years to “get over” high school but somehow at times I’m drawn back to those days. I suppose there’s something comforting about that shared experience. It’s kind of fun (in a weird way) to reminisce about what once was. Be it geek or homecoming queen; jock or freak, I guess we just all needed to belong. And I for one am glad that I did.

In a couple of years we’ll be having our 4oth high school class reunion. I’m sure that I’ll be way cooler than most of the “kids” that are there but I’m too mature now to tell them so. They’re just going to have to figure it out for themselves. I hear that some of the members of the football team are fat and bald now. And I suppose the homecoming queen’s tiara might be a little tarnished, too.

Me? Well I’m still working on my “cool”.

Peace,

Denis

P.S. Keike it was great to see you!