Hurts (sp) Rental Agreement

 We all remember back in 1986 when Cameron, Sloane, and Ferris played hooky from school to spend the day exploring Chicago. Vehicle enthusiasts fondly remember Cameron’s Dad’s car – the 1961 Ferrari 250 GT. In that candy red, California Spyder, the trio delighted in a joyride for the ages while they dodged Principal Rooney’s suspecting ways. For a while Ferris was able to get his buddy, Cameron, to cut loose and enjoy the day but near the end of the story the two concocted a plan to reverse the miles on the odometer of the hard ridden symbol of automotive excellence.

To turn back time and put the luxury sports car back in pristine condition, they jacked up the back end and put the car engine in reverse. Classically they learned that once the toothpaste it out of the tube, it can never be put back in. The result was catastrophic.

Now, I’m no exquisite, convertible, sports car but stick with me here… I have an analogy – I have spent 8 long years pushing back against “the establishment” all the while knowing what Cameron and Ferris learned the hard way – you can’t undo those unforgiving miles back once it’s been ridden hard.

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Homes, cars, boats, hotel rooms – you name it…Every rental agreement in the history of recorded transactions has granted the borrower temporary use while holding them financially responsible for incurred loses to include, fines, tolls and/or any loss or damage to the rented. Hertz, Budget, Enterprise...they all do it. When you sign on as a borrower, you are expected to conduct an inspection on the vehicle and return said vehicle in comparable condition at the conclusion of the rental agreement. The agreement grants you bailment with the understanding that said renter does not own but is ultimately responsible for the vehicle if damaged during rental and for all losses suffered up to the full replacement value.

In 1993 at the Military Entrance Processing Station in Fargo, North Dakota Uncle Sam and his team of doctors did a thorough examination of a high-end luxury sports car and determined him fit for service in the United States Marine Corps. On July 6, 1993, I stood on the yellow footprints at the Marine Recruit Depot if not in peak physical condition, I was at least serviceable, functional, and fit for use. 3 short months later, I graduated bootcamp and earned the title US MARINE. Our 4-year rental agreement had begun.

Bootcamp Platoon 1042 (Hardest on the Depot)

Senior Drill Instructor Staff Sgt. Crane

Me - 2nd Row from the top

Tales of heroic service can wait for another time. Suffice it to say, from 1993-1997 I did my time honorably and to the best of my ability. At the conclusion of my enlistment, I met with another team of Uncle Sam’s doctors. With an EAS (End of Active Service) looming and college on the horizon we went through an exit examination and inspection. The Hearing Loss was hard to dispute. They nearly kept me on board because of it but referred me to civilian audiologists they knew I would sooner forget. My Service Record book was skimmed, a few boxes checked, and I was on my merry way.

Fast Forward 20+ years… In 2018 my father-in-law passed away at the Veteran’s Hospital in St. Cloud. He had received outstanding care and treatment through the VA off and on for the 10 years prior. I was proud of their professionalism and care for Grandpa Ray in his twilight. It was then that I came to terms with my own service and sought veteran’s benefits that I once believed I had not earned.

It’s a fragile thing for some to accept. Those of that have served but have also studied our history know the atrocities and pain that men and women that came before us endured. Quietly we hoped for our own wars to prove our valor and bravery, and somehow justify our self-worth. But not everyone is sent to Vietnam and luckily, not everyone faces the severity of damages some of our predecessors absorbed. My neighbor, Roger Senske, was wounded in action in Vietnam and spent nearly a year and a half in the early 1970’s at a hospital in South Korea. Bullet holes are hard to dispute. As a kid, my best friend had a dad with a discernable limp. His limp was because he left his entire leg in Vietnam. One time Jeff and I snuck into his parent’s bedroom. There I held Don Olson’s Purple Heart in my own hands. Turns out, Purple Hearts are hard to dispute.

But once I realized that my service was no less honorable than my own heroes’, I put my pride in check and introduced myself to the Veteran’s Service Office of Pine County. In 2018 we began a discussion with the VA to claim disability and compensation for hearing loss and a back injury both sustained during my time in service.

Michele had been pestering me for years about my hearing. I put it off as playful banter, but she was persistent, and an audiology report confirmed what Michele always knew. My hearing was for shit. My affinity for Led Zeppelin albums played a high volume coupled with my childhood memories of sitting in my dad’s Carvin double stacks while he ripped out lead guitar riffs may have had some long-term lasting effects. But the facts of my service were undeniable. My job description as an 0311 Marine Corps Infantryman entailed repetitive use of a variety of munitions. 5.56 NATO- and 9-millimeter small arms fire was child’s play in relation to C4 Bangalore torpedoes, 40mm HEDP M203 grenades or even those grenades that come hand delivered. Quantifiable and assessable results were hard to dispute. Tinnitus and Hearing Loss were granted the first time we asked. I was rated at 10%. Uncle Sam agreed to compensate me for an Auditory System that was used for 4 years and returned to the lender in poor condition. 7 years later, Michele finally talked me into Hearing Aids. I should have listened to her a long time ago – the VA couldn’t help me with that.

The injury to my lower back proved to be much more difficult hill to climb.

Again, I will spare you the specifics but trust me when I say that in December of 1994, under full combat load, I fell while walking through the desert sands of northern Kuwait. From that time forward, I struggled with back pain. The thing is, there was not an Urgent Care Clinic within reasonable distance of my last known fighting position. And stopping the “fight” to ask our Platoon Corpsman for a light duty chit was not an option with an imminent combat mission in Somalia on the horizon. So, like a good Marine, I pressed on, and the injury did not go formally reported. Therein lies the government’s argument against “service connection” to a back condition.

Mogadishu, Somalia - March 1995

Me - Front Row - far right.

Raider 4 Life. 

And for the past 8 years we have been going back and forth from Denial to Appeal. Followed by hurry up and wait for another denial on supplemental claims and higher order appeals. Frustrated and angry, I thought about quitting many times but with the support and encouragement of local Vet Rep, Mindy and my crazy chiropractor, Doc Joe, we pressed on. At first, the government contested that there was no diagnosis. I got one. (3 actually). They countered that there was no nexus, connection, or link to my service. By nature of my MOS and time in Combat we proved that conditions and injuries often went under-reported because Marines are asked to do Big Boy Shit sometimes. Back and forth the paperwork flew until I felt there was a breakthrough in 2022 when I was sent to the Federal Clinicians in St. Paul for a C&P exam. Finally, their own doctor concluded that, “the veteran’s current low back condition of chronic lumbar strain with lumbar degenerative disc disease most likely had its origination in military service.” We felt that we had what we were after – a diagnosis and a connection.

DENIED.

I almost lost it. But Mindy suggested we go through all the way to the top. We asked for a Hearing with the Board of Veteran’s Appeals. We wanted a Veteran’s Law Judge to make the decision. What they were doing wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right and I was stubborn enough to get in line for the long haul. The waiting game was ON!

A hearing was docketed in 2022. It was not actually held until October of 2025. I was represented by the VFW and testified in front of a Veteran’s Law Judge. It was all there. Once off the record, the Judge apologized for the system and thanked me for my patience and persistence. He assured he that he would do everything in his power to write up the legalities and surmised that I had met the criteria and done everything that was asked of me.

On October 5, 2026 (8+ years after starting this process), Judge Hager granted my appeal and ordered an entitlement to service connection for a back disability, diagnosed as lumbosacral strain, degenerative arthritis and degenerative disc disease.

Seems Uncle Sam rented this high-end sports car back in 1993 and tried to turn it back in without acknowledging the damage done. The sound system and the chassis had been compromised during the rental period. And according to common law rental agreements, the borrower (USMC) was given temporary use but will be held financially responsible for incurred loses to include, fines, tolls and/or any loss or damage to the rented (Me). It’s not a disability in the sense that I am fully capable of most things for a man my age but it’s more compensatory. I have proven a diagnosis for an injury incurred while in service and for that I rate a compensation and accompanying medical coverage from here on out. It’s been a long, hard 8 years but we made it. It was hard to prove but we did it.

Last week my crazy chiropractor, Doc Joe, said, “If you back injury was a bullet hole, you would have bled out by now.”

And Ferris said, "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

And now - a grizzly, old Vet - with a Hot Wife 

and a Bismarck Blunderbuss.

Gangster Comedians

 "Everyone wants to be a Gangster until it's time to do Gangster stuff."

I wear my scars proudly on account of my rough and rowdy ways. A lifetime of living hard and playing hard on the long and lonesome, dusty trail has left me with a discernable gait and a growing addiction to anti-inflammatory, over the counter medication. I am HARD but I am Fair. 

Well, I used to be....

I have grown soft - to the point that I regularly use hand lotion and lip balm and enjoy a good thrifting adventure on the weekends. Gone are my ruffian days of poor decision making and rambunctious and carefree living. I listen to Old Timey country music and enjoy looking at the changing leaves of Fall. That's not roughneck - that's S.A.W.F.T.

Now, 8 and 9 year old children Mock Me.

And it hurts...

Last week was Homecoming -  time to show our school spirit and hometown pride. A week filled with laughter and smiles, a Pep Fest and a Parade and some harmless dress up days. Monday was a throwback day to the Glorious 1980's - I brought the energy with a boombox and playlist of breakdancing tunes to fill the hallways. BUT on Tuesday the kids swung back and it hurt....

Teachers vs. Students was a challenge to dress and represent the opposing generation. 

The kids WON. 

I don't know if I should be flattered or disappointed. I thought I was looking good after losing a few pounds... the orange beard was a Gimme....but the Belly? 

Come on....be nice. !

HAPPY HOMECOMING EVERYONE. 

GO TIGERS.

The Tale of the Starfish

 Sometimes I question how “real” I should be when I write on our innocent little family Blog. When I was in KIVILS, I dropped a few unexpected bombs on people unsuspecting the realism of life in such a harsh place. I’ve developed a certain “style” of writing…my Dad likes to talk about it….sarcasm and humor, long winding stories…clues at the beginning and connections at the end….

Writing has become therapeutic for me.

Things are good – I’m in a good place….nothing bad to report….but have been moved to be a “little Real” lately. So I’ll throw this story of the Starfish out here for you. I borrowed it from the Interwebs but heard a version of it many years ago….I think it’s partly the reason why I am a teacher….

Enjoy.

K

 

 

A young girl was walking along a beach upon which thousands of starfish had been washed up during a terrible storm. When she came to each starfish, she would pick it up, and throw it back into the ocean. People watched her with amusement.

She had been doing this for some time when a man approached her and said, “Little girl, why are you doing this? Look at this beach! You can’t save all these starfish. You can’t begin to make a difference!”

The girl seemed crushed, suddenly deflated. But after a few moments, she bent down, picked up another starfish, and hurled it as far as she could into the ocean. Then she looked up at the man and replied,

“Well, I made a difference for that one!”

The old man looked at the girl inquisitively and thought about what she had done and said. Inspired, he joined the little girl in throwing starfish back into the sea. Soon others joined, and all the starfish were saved. 

Rescue Rick

 

On Juneteenth at 12:08 p.m. an unresponsive, 11-year-old girl was pulled from the water at the Pool of which I am the Manager. “Unresponsive” is a whitewashed way to say she had drowned. She was not with us. Life was leaving her body, on the deck of the Rush City Aquatic Center that cold and rainy afternoon. My team of lifeguards, an assistant manager and I began CPR, attached an AED and worked, hoped and prayed that our response would be enough to bring this little girl back.

We did and she is back to her old silly self and doing well…

I felt “called” to be there in that moment, much like I was 17 years ago when a similar near drowning happened with similar positive results.  The safety record at the Rush City Pool is outstanding. We serve over 15,000 people a season and in 28 years have only had 2 serious and significant, next level, emergencies. In near drownings using CPR, I am 2 for 2.

In 2008, I felt “called” toward a career change into Law Enforcement. Applications and interviews coupled with ride-alongs and background checks made the flashing Red & Blue a realistic and attainable possibility. I nailed board interviews and personality tests and adequately proved that I was physically fit enough to do the job… the Minnesota State Patrol offered me a position in their LETO program, and I proudly accepted. I was within arm’s reach of serving and protecting for a living. A few short days later, their doctors felt otherwise. 18 months into the process, I was disqualified for being Color Blind. My call to be a full time “rescuer” did not matriculate into the career change that we anticipated. Although I was heartbroken at the time, I can see that God had other plans for me.

I guess I’ve always had that RESCUER character trait.

In college I worked security at the local watering hole. Being the only real dance club in a college town meant that I regularly went toe to toe with some of the town’s biggest and baddest ruffians. Most of my Division II football playing co-workers held a distinct size advantage over the customers we served. Freshly out of the Marine Corps and weighing in between 185-200 pounds, I had to use my quick wit and award-winning charm to get others to do what I needed them to do in a moment of crisis. That, and I was well versed in Violence of Action. Hit them before they hit you. I got paid a Sailor’s pittance to fight as a Bouncer, but made up for it by drinking my wages worth of ale and spiced rum.

It was in college that I also worked as a councilor at a residential treatment center for troubled youth. The Episcopal Community Services established a place for the care, education and treatment for children living in poverty and or suffering from emotional, behavioral, and addictive disorders. It really was an eye-opening experience for me, and I like to say that 90% of the time it was the best job that I ever had. But that 10% of the time that it consisted of pure chaos and violence made it sadly one of the most emotionally traumatizing jobs that I’ve ever been asked to do too. Seeing “behind the curtain” and learning what these children dealt with helped me appreciate my own mess. I learned to be thankful for my own Drag Path. Offered a long-term and full-time position in my senior year of college, I respectfully declined and continued the course to my career in education. Sadly, my time spent working in residential treatment has helped me too many times in general education.

Prior to my time at Bemidji State University, some call the “Harvard of the North,” I served my time in the often imitated never duplicated United States Marine Corps. I stood on a Wall. I walked my Post. I was a worm in the mud. I learned about Honor, Courage and Commitment while dedicating my life to locate, close with and destroy the enemy by any means necessary. I am an 0311 Infantryman from India Company 3^rd Battalion, 1^st Marine Division. I am a Raider. At 17 years of age, I signed the dotted line and committed to giving four years of my life protecting the Constitution of the United States against all enemies both foreign and domestic. I guess I stumbled into the USMC recruiter in those fancy dress blues by virtue of being a good guy willing to do what others sometimes can’t. I’ll spare you the rest of the heroics but am only reiterating my history in the business of being a rescuer.

So where did this come from?

Recently, here at work while discussing a few of our most vulnerable kids, I shared with our school counselor and behavior specialist, some of my own childhood experiences with divorce, substance use, alcoholism, poverty, and the accompanying uncertainty of life. It was a fascinating discussion about the resiliency of children and what factors lead to them breaking a vicious cycle and becoming a success story or learning to lead a life of questionable choices. No doubt there typically is an adult or two along the way that offers direction and a beacon of light to ships lost at sea. A coach, a teacher, a neighbor, or an extended family member that provides stability, rules, and love. Luckily, I had many.

One particularly memorable evening on the east side of Aurora in 1983, my little sister, my mother and I climbed the stairs to our second story apartment in the dark. I’m not sure if we were returning from the grocery store or the laundromat or if we were just making our way home from the babysitter’s house. I do know that it was dark, and it was late. As we approached the front door, it was apparent that things were going bad quickly. Our house had been broken into.

Sitting in the living room, covered in blood from smashing through a window on the back porch, was my mother’s estranged 3^rd husband. The gentleman with a history of alcoholism, incarceration and abuse was not there with good intentions. My mother sent me running for help. Unforgettably, I sprinted through the alley and across Highway 25 to the Marathon Gas Station where a clerk phoned 911. The flashing Red & Blue came in spades.

Rescuers.

Listening to this sad and personal story, our school psychologist pointed out that I have been a “Rescuer” for a long time.

I'm not a Doctor but I play one on TV.

 "I'm not a Doctor but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night."

You understand the premise here, don't you? Playing a physician on T.V. and/or getting a cozy nights rest at the No Tell Motel doesn't afford you the decision making freedoms to diagnose and prescribe medications. Imagine if it did.

In year 26 of public education I cannot count the number of times that I've heard of parents withholding a medication or weaning their children off of psychotropic medications without consulting the educated and paid professionals that prescribed the treatment plan in the first place. I know parents should know their children best but pharmaceutical decisions are best made by the professionals with hours, months and years of education and research backing those decisions. Parents are, no doubt, and important part of the Care Team - the most important part even. But pulling a medication from a child just "to give them a fresh start to a new school year" is probably not a solid research based decision. 

At least in my professional opinion, most often those scenarios result in relapse and other adverse effects as their little bodies work through withdrawal and other negative side effects that can be manipulated and balanced by the doctors serving those kids.

Another related and sadly connected scenario concerns the diagnosed yet un-medicated child. Imagine if your child had strep throat or pneumonia and after a couple doses of DayQuil Cold and Flu their poor little bodies were not responding accordingly. You'd surely take them in to the family doctor and leave with a prescription for relief. After a quick trip to the pharmacy and a couple of slugs of antibiotics and before you know it, they're on the Up and Up because you trusted the decision and opinions of the professionals. If my kid needed antibiotics, I would walk through Hell wearing gasoline boxers to get it for them.

Then why not medicate the child that clearly needs it?

As an elementary teacher I am not a Pusher. As a human I have High Blood Pressure and Type II Diabetes. My body responds to the medication I am prescribed by people that are way smarter than me. So I trust them and stick to their treatment plan. 

Medicate now or they will Self Medicate later... in the form of chemical dependence of the illicit kind.

In 2017, the alternative rock band, Theory of a Deadman penned some lyrics and a catchy tune called 

"Rx." 

The "hook" goes like this....

I am so frickin' bored
Nothing to do today
I guess I'll sit around and medicate 

Maybe they were on to something. 

A Spot of Tea.

 The risen little finger or Pinkie was once considered a sign of high class. Over time it's been misconceived but the idea basically came from the 1600 and 1700's when the Brits were sipping their beloved tea from the tiny porcelain bowls imported from China. A thumb and an index finger held the caffeinated concoction at the six o'clock position while the pinkie extended outward as a counterbalance so as the Queen Mum didn't inadvertently spill on her blouse. 

Since the Poor Folk couldn't afford tea and tea drinking was restricted to the wealthy, it became a general assumption that an extended pinkie could be attributed to being upper class. Petite hands of Great Britain's wealthiest ladies and gents propagated a myth that their rigid but dainty, pinkies signified social status. 

Seems it's just a misconception and doesn't really mean anything. I'll reach for my Tea and Crumpets while I contemplate this any further.....

I think an extended pinkie is Cool.

But right now I don't have any choice.

Mine isn't necessarily dainty or petite. I guess I would use words more like mangled, mutilated and damaged to describe my fifth digit right now. A month ago to the day, I got into a bit of an accident. It sounds way cooler to say it was a motorcycle accident as opposed to saying I dumped an e-bike. Truth is, the "bike" in which I laid on the pavement in an unexpected but violent and brutal manner is technically an E MOTO....As in Motocross Cycle powered by and Electric Battery. 

Luckily it was just my two fingers of my left hand that suffered the brunt of the damage. I did get some topical road rash on my wrist, both knees and right side of my ribcage. And I guess the deep thigh contusion and accompanying disgusting bruise that followed was no laughing matter, especially two weeks later when I still looked like hamburger. 

To save you most of the details, I'll shorten it up into bullet points....

*Brand New E Moto bike brought to the Pool on Closing day by 15 year old lifeguard

*Ride offered to the Old Man - in hindsight, this was when the poor decision making started.

*Smooth but Fast ride through and out of town. 

*Stopped at a Stop Sign, mere blocks away from the end of the ride, I slipped the Machine in to S mode.

*As I learned later, S mode (Sport mode) in most vehicles offers more torque and faster throttle response by altering the engine and transmission settings.

When you switch to Sport mode, the vehicle's computer changes how it delivers power to give you a more aggressive and responsive driving experience.

*"S" does not mean Safe, or Senior Citizen - it means STOOPID.

My pride was destroyed when the motorcycle looped out from underneath me and jumped up and bit me! I was lucky to not wind up in the hospital although I was in the Doghouse for weeks after the accident. My body is slowly starting to heal and I am regaining usage of my dainty pinky finger each new day. 

I've learned that I don't bounce as much as I used to. In recent weeks we have had 4 other high school athletes injured by e-scooters, e-bikes and the same e-Moto that I dumped. The injuries have cost these young men playing time and have left significant wounds that will take time to mend. These things are NOT toys and need to be approached with caution. Maybe a Spot of Tea would help ease our pain. 

Walkabout Charlie

On an otherwise ordinary, Kivalina evening in Senior Housing back in October of 2015, I heard a knock on the cunychuck door. Standing in our Artic Entryway was Daniel Foster Sr., Iyyagun’s father. As soon as I opened the door, he says to me, “You’re the walking teacher, uh?” Not sure where he was going with his line of questioning and working my way past the fact that all my colleagues were ambulatory, I quickly surmised that he was referring to my daily walks in and out of the Village.

It seems my walkabout ways were being noticed by the villagers. Mr. Foster had put two and two together and figured that since I walked so much, I must be strong. (Which I am.) And so, he asked me if I wanted to help him “Run Dogs”. In my short time in arctic Alaska, I’d already learned that my hosts were sometimes short with words but always spoke purposefully and in meaningful bursts. Through rapid translation, I agreed to help him train sled dogs later that week and to this day, it remains a cherished memory of my Eskimo time.

Fast forward 11 years …

Thrice this summer at the pool I’ve been referred to and even questioned if I am “the guy that walks around Pine City”. I mean, I am a guy. Not the Old guy or the Homeless Guy. But I am a guy that walks around town. There’s a small collection of familiar faces strolling about. Gaylene starts on the east side of the lake and wears out the new path that crosses her yard. She always quick with a smile and brief cordials. The young lady in the wheelchair isn’t walking per se but she is putting us all to shame with the mileage that she clocks.

If I’m lucky and she hasn’t already taken Lewie for two walks that day, my wife, with those long legs of hers, will sometimes accompany me. From time to time, the two of us will take the dog a mile away to do his business and then return him home only to quickly turn around and get our steps in sans hound. When Michele pulls out the ponytail and the ball cap, I know I’m in for it. I consistently struggle to match her pace and must forgo conversation and hand holding for concentration and bigger steps. But it’s always worth it – some exercise and the company of a pretty lady - even if I am shamed by my huffing and puffing and sweat covered t-shirt.

Other times we leave the house in sandals which signals less pressure on me to perform. A good walk with my honey helps decompress and process the day behind us or focus on the days ahead. Truth is, it’s usually a one-sided conversation. Michele gives me a story starter and off I go! Work, sports, kids, current events, politics, nothing is off limits. Together we solve the worlds problems hand in hand.

That’s why I still love walking so much now. In Kivalina it was just me, the Baird mountains, and some random village dogs. Now, it’s our family dog, Lewie. Now, my honey is with me. I like that people notice me as “the guy walking around town” – maybe more productive than “the guy bellied up to the bar” or “the guy neglecting his yardwork”.