• Things I Should Warn You About

shenrydafrankmann

~ Hopeful honesty from simple sentences

shenrydafrankmann

Monthly Archives: July 2015

4 and 29

29 Wednesday Jul 2015

Posted by shenrydafrankmann in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Dry weather.  Finally.  Dry weather means that I don’t stay dry.. I sweat.

I have been on the mountain bike four days in a row.  Four.  Three of those days were on my “old” 26, which felt like riding a slug after being spoiled by my dual suspension 29.  Oddly enough, by last night I was beginning to feel real good on the 26 despite spending way too much time holding the pedals up due to clearance.  The 29 has me spoiled.  When the shop called this afternoon, right after my boss and I were getting back on the interstate following lunch with a client, to tell me that my bike was ready, I was ecstatic.  My boss encouraged me to stop on the way back to the office to pick the bike up.  I think he liked the excuse to check out the bike store that I frequent.  Pedal and Spoke is my Cheers.. everybody knows my name.

Don’t think I have shirked my duties (that sounds dirty) with all this bike riding.  Not eye.  I mowed the lawn before zooming out to the mountain bike trails.

it felt so so so so so so freaking good to ride the 29 again tonight.  I rolled out onto the trail fast, my legs and body already warm from mowing the lawn as well as riding for consecutive days.  Even so, routine took me on my warm up route, dispatched quickly as I was hitting on all cylinders from the excitement of being back on my favorite ride.  As I finished my warm up, I bumped (not literally) into my friend, Dan, who was heading out towards the trails at the back of the park.  He asked if I wanted to join him, something I agreed to immediately.  Dan has an upgraded version of my bike, is close to me in ability, and it’s always good to ride with someone else.  It keeps me honest and motivated.  Usually I ride faster from necessity.  The only negative is that Dan takes a lot more breaks than I do.  I usually don’t stop for a break until I have covered most of the trails in the small park (8 miles of trails).  Dan stops frequently.  That was OK.  It was a good night for an easy ride.  Besides, it was 91 degrees and very humid.. typical Illinois summer weather.

I suppose I should feel fried.  Oddly, I’m not.  In a few minutes, I will sleep the slumber of the pleasantly relaxed, a rest aided by having a quiet house.

Oh, and the report I get from Alyssa is that Nate is having a very good time.  🙂

What’s That You Say, Young Man?

21 Tuesday Jul 2015

Posted by shenrydafrankmann in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Sunday morning’s light pried my eyes open with a bit of reluctance, urging me to get out of bed and smell the bacon.  My body gave that little bit of hesitance to getting up, a bit like a car engine at first crank on a frigid winter morning, bones and muscles a little sore from the punishment I imposed on myself the evening before.  I rolled out of bed any way, the soreness working itself out as I took the short walk inside the cabin to the shower.  What fog existed in my head disappeared as the hot water soaked my head and soothed my bones.  Ahhhhhhhhh.

Thank goodness for hot water and Irish Spring.  I emerged from the shower feeling as good as new, the only other requirement to prepare me for the rest of the day the necessary caffeine rush.

Saturday afternoon/evening was a literal thrill ride.  My son, Nate, and I rented jet skis, running them full throttle for close to two hours on Lake Michigan, chased off of the lake by a fast moving thunderstorm.  We flew over the waves, blurs hidden amidst tall sprays of water.  The ride was punishing, the wake beating on my legs as the boat I was driving hit the water at full speed.  At one point I jumped a wave at full speed but sideways, the force bucking me off of the jet ski to drive me deep into the water.

Thank good for hot water, Irish Spring, and life vests.  That was the strangest feeling looking up through deep water.  All my body parts were intact, although I did not think to check certain vital parts (they are still there).

Nate’s heavy breathing from his cabin bunk told me he was still in a deep sleep as I pulled my cargo shorts and tshirt on, slipped my flip flops under my feet, then took a step outside the cabin door to hear the sweet chirps of greeting from the woods around the cabin.  Except for a pleasant soreness in my thighs, something I am accustomed to from riding bicycles, I felt very good.  I walked across the campground to my parents’ trailer, where my brothers and their families would gather for breakfast and coffee.

I had finished my second cup of coffee when the trailer door opened slowly and a groaning teenager entered.

“Dad, I can barely walk.  My thighs are so sore.”

You would think that I could not pass up the opportunity to remind my son that his 54 year old father felt real good.  My 72 year old mother jumped right on this one.

“What’s that you say, young man?  I haven’t heard a single complaint from your old dad.  Must be all that bicycling that he does.”

I just sat sipping my coffee with a big smirk on my face.

Welcome Back, Mister Blue Sky

15 Wednesday Jul 2015

Posted by shenrydafrankmann in Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!

Much better.  Better than “Waaaaaaaaaaa” which has been my literal cry for the last month and a half due to all of the rain we have had in the Chicago area.  As a road cyclist who wants to be a mountain biker, rain is not my friend.  Contrary to what one might think, riding mud is NOT fun nor is it recommended.  Trail advocates will slap riders who ride muddy trails, thus damaging trails and contributing to erosion.  Erosion damages trails even further.

Riders around here blame the weather on me.  Yep.  I bought that fancy mountain bike in the middle of April, ensuring a season of wet and mud.

My theme today, though, is Electric Light Orchestra’s “Mr. Blue Sky” — so appropriate for today.  After so many weeks where every tiny puff of cloud poured on us, we (meaning “us in the Chicago area”) not only have escaped major rains from the storm systems that have passed over the past few days, but today is 72 degrees with blue azure skies.

And who can feel dark when listening to Mr. Blue Sky?  I can’t.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!

The report from yesterday was that the trails would be dry enough by today to ride.  In another hour or two, if the work load stays light, I am going to find out this afternoon.  I can not freaking wait.  Last time I rode the mountain bike was last Saturday morning (a bird chirper at dawn).  The trails were a bit damp then.

20150715_114135

Redbird also returned to me today after another kidnapping.  He disappeared from my office some time last week while I was out of town.  The kidnappers texted threatening messages to me last Monday night, vowing to imprison Redbird in a tampon machine if I did not agree to their ransom.  They apparently also subjected him to hard office labor, something I know he is not used to when being kidnapped.  Previous kidnappers tried to brainwash him by treating him to beauty queens, bikini clad babes, booze in New Orleans, baseball in Oakland.  But wily Redbird managed to escape today by stealing away in a Jimmy John’s delivery, making sure I got a fresh roast beef sandwich and chocolate chip cookie in the deal.  Suh weet!

It is indeed a blue sky type of day.  I’ll let you know how the ride goes.  I have a text message in to Nate, asking if he wants to abandon his summer video gaming long enough to brave the trails with me….

Everyone Has A Harry

14 Tuesday Jul 2015

Posted by shenrydafrankmann in Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

adversity, hate, lessons from my parents, neighbors

A few weeks ago my father, ever diligent to watch the obituaries in his small town way, sent one of his weekly email announcements to my brothers and I.  In typical fashion, we got the same announcement from my mother, prefaced with “your dad probably already told you this”.  Any time someone from our family’s past or present is in the hospital, dies, or does something significant, my parents follow the same email procedure.  My brothers and I laugh.  Mom is likely sending her email while sitting with her iPad in her living room easy chair.  Dad is a few feet down the hall in the study, coffee next to him and their dog at his feet.  They could easily check with each other, but somehow it’s not important that they don’t.  That’s all part of their magic.

Dad’s email was to advise us of the obit for Harry Critcheloe, our next door neighbor from the time I was 9 years old until my parents moved when I was in my mid-twenties.  If it’s possible to dance on someone’s grave in an email, that is what my father was doing, very odd for my usually compassionate and caring for all humanity father.  When Mom sent her email a few minutes later, she was not too broken up herself.

We figured Harry was too mean to die young.  Both parents said that.  Cancer got him, they both reported.

Harry was one mean, obnoxious, terrible man to have as a neighbor, especially for reasonably well behaved boys like my brothers and myself.  Believe that one.  We were good boys, a necessity in a small town since everyone knew everyone’s business, talked about it out in front of the church on Sunday (not IN the church, God forbid).  Fences were a rarity, definitely not really needed as we all knew each other, looked out for each other, sought to come closer to each other instead of shutting out our neighbors with the barrier a fence could be.  Our neighbor did everything he could to try to provoke the bad out of me especially, the oldest of three boys, as well as my brothers.  He scowled and cussed at me every time I walked out our front door, calling me a fag or homo or any other assortment of insults that I did not understand.  When he did it, an evil grin replaced the scowl, his intent was to make me cry, to destroy the strong boy that I am sure he hated because of whatever lurked in his own past.

My parents gathered us to pray after Sunday dinner nearly every week, not just for Harry but also that we would stand strong in our witness, not react in a way that betrayed our Christian values.  I am not sure Harry was aware that instead of tearing us down, he was teaching us to be strong in a different sort of way, a spiritual and a human way.

Dad says that Harry’s feud started when Dad was building our house.  I spent a lot of time there helping Dad, noticed Harry sitting outside watching us work.  In the years to come, Harry was always outside doing something in his garage, where he kept a weight set and worked out.  His lawn was a precious possession to him, a refuge that should never be crossed.. nor did Harry every leave it except for his early morning jog.  When Dad used a tractor and rake to prepare our yard when the house was near finished, he accidentally swung the rake into Harry’s yard, the only time that Harry crossed the line into our yard, furious with my father.  No matter how hard Dad tried to apologize, Harry refused to bend, cursing him for weeks afterwards.

That was 45 years ago.  That memory has little haze.  I still remember the hate in Harry’s eyes, the bewilderment in my father’s eyes.  Dad had a temper, but it wasn’t evident then.

I remember the day when my friends were over to play baseball in our large back yard.  We always used a hollow rubber ball, called a “Peewee Ball”, hit it with a wiffle ball bat and caught with our bare hands.  Harry sat on his back porch and, when the ball landed in his yard, ran out to take it, refused to give it back to us.  Mom saw it happen, confronted him, endured the B word and many others, left in tears without the ball.  She called the police, who were incredulous at the way Harry acted.  He refused to give the ball to them, saying that we were telling a lie — the ball was his, not ours.

Soon afterward, Harry posted five NO TRESPASSING signs facing our yard, four on posts and one nailed to the side of the garage.  One of the funniest times I ever had with my mother was the night she and I dressed in black, including stocking caps, stole over to Harry’s yard in the middle of the night and painted over those signs with thick black paint.  Mom was laughing like a kid the entire time.  Harry never said a word, replaced the signs shortly after we painted them.

Our next midnight mission was to pull them up, then toss them on his front porch.  He replaced the posts with longer ones.

Next we knocked all of them from the post with an aluminum baseball bat (Mom has a very good swing).  Harry found a way to keep that from happening again.  So my Grandpa asked me to help him take down that old wood fence he had in his back yard.  We used the wood from that fence to build a barrier along the lot line, obscuring Harry and his signs.  If Harry was going to harass us, he had to do it from the street in front of our house.  He did.  Often.  Any neighbors who doubted our stories about how Harry had berated my brothers and I no longer had those doubts.  They witnessed him spitting insults at us as we played basketball in our own driveway or washed a car or mowed the front lawn.

Harry attended our church now and then with his wife and two daughters.  He didn’t attend often.  His practice was to sit across from my family in the church auditorium, arms crossed, staring at us.  Our preacher saw that, talked to us about it, visited him and asked him to stop.  I am pretty sure his wife was the reason why, from then on, he sat in the back corner of the back church pew, left out the back doors before the last hymn was finished.

The last memory I have of Harry Critcheloe is perhaps the worst confrontation that occurred between us.  I was 19 years old, in my second year of Bible college, and was loading the trunk of my car early in the morning to go back to school after Christmas break.  Harry was an early morning jogger, a very good runner as a matter of fact, and he stopped a few feet behind me as I finished loading the car trunk.  Mom was watching through the front door, waiting to say goodbye to me before I left.

I don’t remember a whole lot of what he said.  He called my mother a whore and several other select names, me a faggot preacher boy as he aggressively stood within inches of my face, his chest pressed against mine.

He hocked up and spit in my face.

“Go ahead, cry faggot preacher boy.  You’re not man enough to fight me.”

Those years of praying looked to be paying off at that moment.  I didn’t move.  Didn’t wipe his thick spit from my face.  I wanted to cry.  I knew if I said something, it would not be good.  I could hear my mother screaming for my father from the front porch.  Our neighbor from across the street came running out of his front door as Harry spit in my face again, stepped back, and swung at me.  I dodged the punch, pushing Harry face first into the gravel as he lunged past me, my knee in his back as I pulled his head back by his hair.  There was blood pouring from his nose, his mouth bloody.

All I could think to say was “I forgive you”.. and I screamed it, Harry’s thick mucus dripping from my face.  Mom and Dad came out and pulled me off of Harry, a towel in her hand while she wiped my face and hugged me.  Dad and our neighbor dragged Harry away as he yelled “Did you see that?  I’m calling the police!”.  Both men encouraged him to do that.

Everyone has a Harry in their life, I think.  Oddly enough, I am glad I did.  I learned a lot from that man.  While I still don’t have it completely right, I learned a lot about people from Harry.. and how to react to them from what my parents taught me in the way they dealt with him.  Not once did they react to him in anger.  They prayed for him.  They knew that the hate he had for us was really for someone else, not us.  We all need to be able to look at people that way.

Rabid

14 Tuesday Jul 2015

Posted by shenrydafrankmann in Uncategorized

≈ 7 Comments

20150706_192919

There is nothing better than baseball, except maybe if it is Cardinals versus Cubs baseball.  Last week started off the right way.  Thanks to several donations in the form of a Father’s day gift, I was able to get the best seats I have ever had for a professional baseball game — 7 rows from the third base dugout at Wrigley.  Heaven.

Let me say right now that I have one of those voices that carries about three city blocks with very little effort.

My 16 year old son, thanks to young players like Kris Bryant and Anthony Rizzo, has discovered the joy of MLB baseball.  Yes, he is a misguided Cubs fan, but he rarely misses a game.  We have something in common now, a reason to spend more time together, and he also has to suck up to me if he wants to go into Chicago for a game.  I now have leverage.

Nate and I went to the game, got there early enough to see pregame warmups, watched Anthony Rizzo being interviewed in his brand spanking new Allstar jersey.  He and Bryant had just been announced to the Allstar roster.  We watched Starlin Castro trot out to the left field batting cages with Manny Ramirez.  The usher got a kick out of seeing Nate and I, son and father, decked out in opposing jerseys.  I was in my Cardinal red, Nate in his new Bryant jersey.  The usher laughed as he talked to us and took the picture I used for this blog.

Cub fans can be very pitiful fans, by the way.  This year they are a bit better, likely due to having a team worth rooting for.  But by the sixth inning the fans started acting like Cub fans, booing when the Cardinal pitcher threw over to first base for a pick off attempt.

“Do it again!”  I actually got a few laughs with that one.  The pitcher threw over again, the Cub fans booed, and I again encouraged him to do it again.  Nate just stared straight ahead.

We almost witnessed a no hitter.  Jon Lester took a no hitter into the seventh inning, when Peralta of the Cardinals nailed a hot grounder to Kris Bryant at third, who tried to back hand the ball.  The official scorekeeper ruled it a hit.  I stood up and cheered loudly, high fived the only Cardinal fan in the near vicinity.  Cub fans glared at us.  The next ball was another grounder to third.  Bryant fielded it cleanly, then promptly fired the ball into right field.

“Way to go.  Nice play, ALL STAR!!!!”  Bryant actually turned in my direction.  A burly Cub fan scowled at me.  “Don’t disrespect us in our house.  You don’t live here.  Go back to Busch.”

I looked at Nate.  He had a smirk on his face.  That inning the Cardinals scored two runs.  I was having a great time, a Cardinal fan on his feet in a section full of Cub fans.. all with their head in their hands.

The sky emptied on us in the middle of the eighth inning.  We called it a night then.  It was a good night.  It didn’t hurt that the Cardinals won 6-0.

Raised

12 Sunday Jul 2015

Posted by shenrydafrankmann in Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Snapshot_20150712_1I have a new somethinerother bracelet, not really my thing, but nonetheless it will be for a while now.  Why?

Because my favorite girl made it just for me.

Dads around the world know what I am talking about when I say that the most precious fashion in our wardrobe comes from that which is most precious.  Alyssa is 19 years old, but she still likes to make little things for me.  Over the years I have many little braided baubles that came from my daughter’s creative hands.  Most I have worn as much as possible, not just so my little girl can see that I am wearing her gift to me, but because it really is a gift to me and for me, presented with sweetness by my jewel.

Today I am wearing my heart on my sleeve, literally.  Alyssa has been away for the last month and a half, working as a live in cabin counselor at the camp she went to as a girl.  She is a young woman now, just to clarify.  Yesterday I drove the hour and a half with Miriam and Nate to see Alyssa at camp,  I won’t say anything about the drive except that it made me even more happy to see Alyssa.  I burst out of the car as she ran up to us, wrapped her in a big hug, kissed my little girl on the cheek.  After she greeted Miriam and Nate, she led Miriam and I to show her cabin to us.

“I made this for you, dad.  Does it fit?” Alyssa beamed as she handed me the bracelet.  I put it on my left wrist, a perfect fit.

Alyssa July 2015 KidsAlyssa was dead tired, a feeling that I remember quite well, the recognition both pleasant and dreaded from my own experience.  My daughter is doing what I did some 30 years ago.  She invests everything into the time she has with the children at camp, passionately, because she truly loves what she is doing.  The years I was able to be a camp counselor and camp dean were some of the best years of my life.  Listening to my daughter tell about the last few weeks, I can see that Alyssa is going to feel the same way when she is my age.  Seeing her excitement was just as much of a gift as the bracelet that she had just given me — because I felt that same excitement and it is so good to see that in her.

Alyssa told us story after story of little funny things her girls had said or did, her cheeks stuck in a grin as she told us.  Little things, really, but precious to her.

The kids love her.  It is so obvious.  Her girls cheered in celebration as she won the counselors’ beauty contest and devoured the cupcakes in the eating competition.  They cling to her, eat up the attention that she so easily gives to them.Alyssa July 2015

Can anyone tell how proud I am of her?

Alyssa is MY daughter, as my mother commented on some of the pictures that Alyssa posted on Facebook.  It’s true.  A ham.  An all in type.  She is me, but she is also unique in the way she expresses herself.  I hope she has a daughter just like her, one who brings joy to her, who brings the same kind of honor to her father.

Daughters raise up their father, lift them up.

Maybe that is why God gave me a daughter.  I need that.  I need to be feel like I am that special man that no other man will ever be — her father.  She looks at me with that twinkle that only a daughter has for her father, knows I am not perfect but it doesn’t matter because the good she knows about me far exceeds the imperfection.

When it was time to go, Alyssa asked me to walk her to her cabin.  She told me she loves me, gave me a big hug, and I wept as walked the 400 yards back to the car.  I miss her already.

Here are just a few more recent pictures from her camp counseling experiences:

Alyssa July 2015 Beard

Yes, that beard is her own hair!

Alyssa July 2015Kate

She was able to be a counselor with her childhood best friend, Kate, last week.

Alyssa July 2015 Contest

Her boyfriend, Caleb, drove 7 hours to visit her last weekend.

Her boyfriend, Caleb, drove 7 hours to visit her last weekend.

Yes, I really do say these things

  • My Father is Yacky
  • Image Bearer
  • Evening Ramble
  • Exposure of the Indecent Kind
  • Just Say Gnome

Yes, I really did

  • January 2023
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  • December 2016
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  • July 2016
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Categories

My brain hurts with you

  • January 2023
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  • January 2013
  • December 2012
  • November 2012
  • October 2012
  • September 2012

Blogs I Follow (and maybe even read)

  • glennkaiser.com
  • There and Bach Again
  • Dean
  • Southern Georgia Bunny
  • The Rambling Biker
  • Storyshucker
  • Ah dad...
  • Squeeze the Space Man's Taco
  • I didn't have my glasses on....
  • kidscrumbsandcrackers
  • longawkwardpause.wordpress.com/
  • Cycling Dutch Girl
  • The Shameful Sheep
  • Blog Woman!!! - Life Uncategorized
  • Life in Lucie's Shoes
  • Fit Recovery
  • lifebeyondexaggeration
  • Globe Drifting
  • I AM TOM NARDONE
  • Cathy's Voice Now

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glennkaiser.com

There and Bach Again

a teacher's journey

Dean

Marketing major. Outdoor sports lover. San Diego living.

Southern Georgia Bunny

Adventures of an Southern Bunny everything from dating, sex, life and shake your head moments.

The Rambling Biker

Roaming & Rambling in search of MTB Stoke

Storyshucker

A blog full of humorous and poignant observations.

Ah dad...

I need the funny because they're teenagers now

Squeeze the Space Man's Taco

A journey into Cade's world

I didn't have my glasses on....

A trip through life with fingers crossed and eternal optimism.

kidscrumbsandcrackers

Kids - I`m like the old woman who lived in a shoe - Crumbs, my house is full of them - Crackers, Im slowly going

longawkwardpause.wordpress.com/

Cycling Dutch Girl

the only certainty is change

The Shameful Sheep

Blog Woman!!! - Life Uncategorized

Mother, Nehiyaw, Metis, & Itisahwâkan - career communicator. This is my collection of opinions, stories, and the occasional rise to, or fall from, challenge. In other words, it's my party, I can fun if I want to. Artwork by aaronpaquette.net

Life in Lucie's Shoes

Life in a bubble: a dose of New York humor with an Italian twist!

Fit Recovery

Stay Clean Get Fit

lifebeyondexaggeration

What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stranger

Globe Drifting

Global issues, travel, photography & fashion. Drifting across the globe; the world is my oyster, my oyster through a lens.

I AM TOM NARDONE

Cathy's Voice Now

Sharing my "voice"

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