Author: Jon Gauger

Marvin H. Mischnick did not look like a hero.  He was wrinkled, hard of hearing and in need of a shave. Understandable for a man at the unlikely age of 99. As I sat in his living room, his World War 2 stories oozed out. “I was a photographer for division headquarters, G2 Intelligence section. We were advancing in the city of Cologne, Germany.  Our general wanted to know if the bridges over the Rhine River would support our troops and equipment.  So they sent me behind enemy lines to take pictures.” Marvin recalls operating the camera was “hard to…

As temperatures climb up, the lawn trucks roll in. I refer to the fleet of yard care vehicles that will clog the streets of suburbia from now until Halloween.  They will mow, trim, weed, and fertilize—for a fee. Though our town prohibits the roar of their mowers and blowers before 7:00 am, the convoy carrying the platoon of lawn care commandos is in place and unloaded by O-dark-thirty most mornings. While we could probably afford to outsource our lawn care, I’ve decided to do it myself.  Want to know why?  First I need the exercise! Mowing the lawn gives me a…

Like most other humans, I text.  A lot of those messages I tap on the phone screen, though I also rely on voice-to-text communication.  But I've noticed that whatever method I use, my phone appears to be biased: in favor of all things vulgar. If I should happen to slightly misspell a word, the phone often suggests something naughty, including profanity of all kinds. The phone's predictive algorithm goes so far as to look at specific words I've typed and then recommends "typical" follow up ideas.  Words that may be extremely inappropriate. Have you experienced this?  I bet you have….

The glory of springtime in bloom withered with a rude awakening this week.  All I wanted to do was "simply" remove the worn wood siding on our storage barn and replace it with new. As it has been 35 years since we built the thing, it was overdue for an overhaul. After emptying the ten-by-ten structure (a process which somehow filled our entire garage), I noticed the problem. One corner of the plywood floor had succumbed to rot. As my fingers pressed deep into the spongy pulp, I knew this would be no small project.  Time for a trip to…

I am confused. In our town—perhaps yours as well—we see lots of signs encouraging us to “stay safe—stay home.”  Point taken.  COVID-19 continues to threaten and kill. Yet our town also features signs that say, “Businesses are open. Shop local.”  Hmm….what are we really saying? "Stay home unless you have dough to spend, and unless you intend to spend that dough locally?"  Or maybe the intended message is "Spend your money here first—THEN stay home.  To me, it's a mixed message. Sure, I get the fact that everybody needs milk and eggs and toilet paper.  Which means there is a…

On April 15, it snowed.   Enough to cover the grass.  Enough that I could carve a heart on the windshield for my wife.  Enough to cause a 50 vehicle pile-up on Chicago's Kennedy Expressway, sending twelve people to the hospital. It's tempting to call this an "inconvenient snow."  It is spring, after all.  April showers, not April blizzards, are supposed to bring May flowers. For anybody now dealing with an insurance headache and a car in the body shop, it certainly was an inconvenient snow. Me, I took a walk in it. I made sure that hike took me past…

I'm still not sure how it happened.  At one point, we were playing, laughing, and enjoying the antics that provoke little tykes to giggle (my specialty).  Then, rather abruptly,  a look of fright oozed all over three-year-old Ava's face.  Something had startled her, but I didn't know exactly what.  And her response was unforgettable. “Hey, you scared myself!” She blurted accusingly. I couldn’t resist teasing her.  So I fired back, “You scared myself?” “No!” She insisted.  “You scared MY-self!” (Emphasis on the “my”).   “Oh,” I feigned understanding.  You scared MY-self.” “No!” Ava insisted.  “You scared MY-self.” Whatever the original fear…

My wife and I have proudly joined the 2010s.  We now have Netflix on our TV.  Since all the cool kids went there a long time ago, I guess we're not so cool. But we are enjoying a lot of what we see.  From tours of English castles to hilarious movies to mind-expanding  (and downright entertaining) TV series, it’s been fun. But as delightfully distracting as Netflix is for a season like Coronavirus, it flows into our homes with a deceptive undertow. I shouldn't be surprised by the unrelenting push to watch more episodes of whatever we just watched.  But…

My red American Tourister suitcase—the one with the nice spinner wheels—lived a rough life and died an early death.  Despite the widely held belief that duct tape can fix anything, Ol’ Red gave up the ghost.  Black residue from countless strips of adhesive oozed from a gash that ran most of the length of the top seam, and it didn’t take a doctor to know it was time for the final trip—out to the curb. Yet, based on the rattle of  Ol' Red's innards, I figured I ought first to perform a sort of autopsy to see what might be…

“I just dunno if I did the right thing or not."  Jack shifted back and forth from one leg to the other.  My friend was upset, so naturally, I urged Jack to spill his story. “It was midafternoon in downtown Chicago,” he recalled.  “I walked past a truck being unloaded outside a CVS store. Then I saw him.” “Saw who, Jack?” "This guy in a wheelchair was coming toward me.  As I got closer, he somehow managed to flip his wheelchair over on its back.  Made me suspicious, so my antennae were up." “Did you help him up, Jack?” “Well…no. …