The best laid plans o’ mice an’ men go oft awry.
–Robert Burns, 1786
We’re in the depths of winter here in Wisconsin, and respite from the cold weather is proving hard to come by. The temperatures have been below zero on most days, with the wind-chill numbers dipping even lower. I’ve grown my winter beard, but my morning walks have been bracing, to say the least. Plus, every time we start to feel as if Covid is behind us, that deadly and shape-shifting virus rears its ugly head once again. The result has been that many of our plans for the winter have had to change.
Last Friday, I was supposed to attend a party hosted by my employers from Kilkarney Golf Club. They had come up with the creative idea of providing dinner and a different sort of entertainment at a bar in Stillwater, Minnesota, a short distance from here. The featured activity at this bar, called The Lumberjack, is axe throwing. Apparently, that is a real thing these days, although I’ve never done it myself. I was so excited about taking part in this unusual competition that I tried to figure out how to practice this esoteric art form. I had sold my axe when we moved from Nashville, so I was forced to practice with my chainsaw. I figured, they’re both used to cut down trees aren’t they? The neighbors became alarmed when they saw a whirring, sharp-toothed implement flying across my backyard, so I had to “cease and desist,” in the words of the court order. My stepson, Ben, a doctor, expressed dismay over the fact that I planned to attend, but I argued, “What could possibly be dangerous about being in a crowded bar with drunken 22-year-old people throwing axes?” Then I realized that he was talking about Covid, which has been rampant up here, so I had to bow out.
We’ve also received several pieces of bad news from friends. In December, our son-in-law, Kevin was told he needed quadruple bypass surgery because of heart problems. He had the operation in early January, and he and Kristin were unable to visit us during the holidays as we had originally planned. The good news is that he came out of it in good shape and is now mending well. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I learned that a friend of mine from Chicago had died. I had known Mort for forty years or so, and he was married to a good friend I’ve known for even longer. Mort was an interesting guy, and I always knew I was in for a fun evening when I saw him. He also was rather unconventional by modern standards. For many years, he refused to get a driver’s license. Where he lived, on the South Side of Chicago, public transportation was available and for years he could get along without driving. I think he finally caved and learned to drive, but he was probably into his forties when that occurred. He also rarely had a traditional sort of job. For a long time, he ran a sports book as his primary source of income, taking bets, setting odds and all of that. Later in life, he also bought a little neighborhood bar in the suburb of Burbank, where I lived during my high-school years. The sports-book endeavor was especially surprising since his brother-in-law was the chief of police of Burbank (and my college roommate). I was never sure how they worked all of that out. Mort was also a stubborn guy who refused to go to doctors. He had a painful knee ailment, but refused to ever have it looked at. That refusal might have been his ultimate downfall, though. He probably died from Covid, but still would not go to a doctor or hospital, so it was never officially diagnosed. Mort was a great guy and he will be missed.
The last piece of bad news reached us in a strange way. Our friend Mary was a teacher with Kathleen in the ‘70s. She served as a mentor for her and they remained Christmas-card friends for many years. About 18 years ago, we visited with Mary and her husband, Bill. Bill was a Cub fan and history teacher, like me, so we hit it off right away. Bill died in 2019, but we stayed in contact with Mary, and she sent me some of Bill’s Cubs memorabilia. In 2020, just before Covid hit, she invited us to use her winter home in Punta Gorda, Florida. Kathleen and I stayed there for a week and had a wonderful time. Last summer, we had a great dinner with her in her suburban Chicago home, catching up with an old friend. At that time, she offered us her Florida home for a full month and refused to take any money for our stay. We planned to go there for the month of February. That was Mary’s most striking characteristic—her kindness. She used to be a nun, and she was always generous with her time, money, and possessions. After Bill died, she thought about selling the Florida place, but decided to keep it, primarily so that she could lend it to her friends for a month at a time. This is a wonderful home, a short walk from a golf course and stores, with a screened back yard, complete with heated pool. She kept up the utilities, cable, maintenance, etc. just so her friends and relatives could enjoy the home when they wanted. As of last week, we still had not heard from Mary, nor had she replied to Kathleen’s Christmas letter. By way of the internet, Kathleen discovered that she had died in December. We knew she had cancer, but the surprising news still hit us both pretty hard.
Okay, this is the part where I display my shallow, self-centered personality. After hearing about Mary’s death, I had a brief George Costanza moment. In this scenario, I could picture me, in my George persona, showing up at Mary’s viewing and saying to the family, “You know, Mary said we could stay at her place for February. Do you think you could delay putting it on the market until March?”
Alas, even I am not capable of such a callous act, and we had to scramble to rearrange our February plans. Instead of our month in sunny Florida, we will remain in Wisconsin for most of the month. Our frozen winter will be broken only by a visit with Kathleen’s step-mother in Southern Illinois, followed by a trip to see Kristin and Kevin in Huntsville, Alabama. We still hope to go on a spring trip to Europe for a Viking cruise with Kristin and Kevin, but we’ll have to see if Covid will cooperate with those plans. As usual, Bobby Burns knew what he was talking about.