Letter to my mother

Dear Mom:

Tomorrow I’ll make the trip to Anderson to celebrate Mother’s Day with you. I’ll come bearing a card and an inexpensive gift, and, as you always do, you’ll receive them as if they were purchased at the most exclusive shop in Beverly Hills. What I’ll have a more difficult time giving you is a proper expression of what you mean to me. I’ve never been good at conveying those kinds of feelings verbally, so I’m doing it in this letter instead.

My mother, Betty Leer Engle

For 51 years your influence, example, support and love have carried me. I would be hard-pressed to name another person who has had a greater impact on my life, although you would be quick to redirect the credit to others with more education and longer resumes.

Yours has been a life devoted to giving. Time after time I’ve watched you deny yourself to meet the needs of someone else -- acts of kindness done with no fanfare and often met with little or no gratitude. I’m ashamed to say I’ve been one of those benefactors who sometimes took your generosity for granted. On those occasions it wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate what you did, mom. My attention was focused on something else or, most likely, I was embarrassed by your loving deed. I’ve always felt a sense of inadequacy in your presence. How could I -- or anyone else -- ever measure up to your compassion and care?

The evidence is overwhelming. You raised five children, a stepson and two grandkids. To help put us through a private Christian school you first drove a school van then, when dad died, you went to work at a local automotive components plant. Somehow you kept the household operating efficiently, made sure we got to ball games and church youth activities, and always had a hot meal on the table at dinner. I still don’t know how you pulled it off.

When I headed to college you were right there with me. Although I earned money and received a couple of small scholarships to help pay for tuition and housing, it was really your financial support that pushed me across the finish line. There probably was not a prouder parent at that 1986 Liberty University commencement than you, and certainly none that had worked harder and overcome such incredible obstacles to put a child through school. The Liberty degree bears my name, but it really belongs to you.

You’ve accomplished so much despite having to overcome incredible hardships. Few outside our immediate family know what you’ve been through. Often I’ve asked God why He would allow so much pain and suffering to be heaped on one of His children, especially one who has never complained, never asked why and never stopped believing in His goodness.

There was the poor upbringing in Temple, Texas, and the humiliation of having to wear hand-me-down clothes and drop out of the high school band because you couldn’t afford the rental fees for your clarinet. There was the first marriage that ended almost as quickly as it started when the older man who made you his wife left you and never returned. There was the stomach cancer that claimed your second husband -- my father -- on Valentine’s Day 1976, just four months after the diagnosis. There was that awful news on Labor Day weekend 1992 that my younger sister Pam had been brutally stabbed to death by her estranged husband. And then one final kick in the teeth when Pam’s killer’s attorney worked out a plea bargain for him to serve a reduced prison sentence on a manslaughter charge.

Through experiences that would have destroyed most people and left them bitter and disillusioned, you remained a pillar of strength, steadfast in your faith. I remember watching you stand for hours beside the caskets of my dad and sister, greeting every last visitor who came to pay respects. I don’t know if I could have summoned the courage to do the same.

And yet, even in the darkest of days, you exhibited joy and thankfulness. You refused to feel sorry for yourself, when by anyone’s accounting you had ever reason to do so. Would that I had just one-tenth of your optimism.

Mom's name on a donor's plaque at Liberty University

Even today, with the kids leaving the nest and having retired from the factory, you continue to reach out to help others. You work part time as a caregiver for an elderly woman. The pay doesn’t come close to reflecting the time you spend cleaning her house, preparing her meals and serving as her listening board. But you really don’t do it for the money, do you? You do it because of who you are: a sweet, humble woman who thinks about others far more than she thinks about herself.

I don’t know how many more Mother’s Days I’ll have to spend with you. You’re getting up there in years and I can see that age is starting to take its toll. But if we had a hundred more Mother’s Days together they wouldn’t be enough for me to tell you how blessed I’ve been to call you mom.

So please accept the card and gift, and these simple words: I love you. Thanks for giving me life and teaching me how to live it.

I owe you more than I can ever repay.

With much affection,

Your son Steve

Let's vote on it…someone, anyone?

When I want a nice, quiet spot to be alone with my thoughts, I find a primary election voting place. It never disappoints.

Yesterday was the municipal primary election in my city. Apparently no one in my community knew about it, because when I showed up to cast my ballot there was just me. Well, and those two people over the age of 70 who got off at the wrong bus stop and decided to wander into the building marked “VOTE HERE.”

That’s fine by me. Voting is a civic responsibility that I’ve always taken very seriously, even if no one else does. Part of it has to do with my strong belief in the right of the people to choose their government leaders. A bigger part of it is the fact that I get to spend a few minutes touching buttons on a computer much cooler than the one I own.

It would have been dynamite had these guys voted, too

The polls were less than an hour from closing when I headed to the voting venue nearest my house. When I arrived at Outpost Catering I found four cars in the parking lot. Had I inspected them closely I’m sure I would have found three of them packed with cake, nuts and mints, and preparing to depart for a wedding reception. I didn’t bother, although I could have used a mint to freshen my breath for the three souls I found inside the vast banquet hall -- one of whom looked like the janitor, and needed the mint more than me.

Once inside I was met by a poll worker who asked for a picture ID. I handed him my driver’s license and nearly my Visa card, which, fortunately, became unstuck from the license and landed on the table, or I might have been accused of buying votes. After meticulously examining my license -- maybe he was looking to see if I was an organ donor (I am, except for my large intestine) -- he pointed me to a man distributing the voting cards. When I stepped up to receive my card the man smiled, entered some information into a machine and gave me a card with a computer chip that was probably already programmed to re-elect Barack Obama.

I took the card and made the long walk to the other end of the room, where five lonely voting machines were lined up side by side. The silence was so loud you could almost hear the electric current running through the machines. It sounded something like “Pick me! Pick me!”

I chose a machine in the middle, hoping two other voters would come in, use the machines on either side of me and commence to copying the answers off my screen. No such luck.

Undeterred, I slid the voting card into the appropriate slot in the machine. The screen came to life and voting directions appeared in digital luminescence.

For a moment I considered how far voting technology had come in my lifetime, and how the public had embraced each improvement:

THE PUBLIC, circa 1980: We don’t trust paper ballots, because voting intentions can be misconstrued. We need computer voting machines.

THE PUBLIC, circa 2000: We don’t trust computer voting, because there’s no paper trail. Give us paper ballots.

THE PUBLIC, circa 2010: We love voting by cell phone. For “American Idol.”

At last the screen with the ballot came up. I could choose between two candidates for mayor. They were, as follows:

1. You don’t know him, but he’s for jobs and children; and

2. You don’t know him, but he’s for jobs and children.

My selection made -- the quarter came up “heads” -- it was time to pick three candidates for city council at-large seats from a slate of contenders. For this important decision I relied on my proven method for choosing candidates: a couple of choruses of “Eenie-meenie-miny-mo.”

Voting machines lead very lonely lives

After what seemed like 5.6 seconds, I was done. The voting card popped out of the machine and a cartoon President Obama thanked me for giving him four more years to spend my great-grandchildren’s money. Just kidding about that last part. It was actually Joe Biden.

I returned the voting card to the poll worker, who I could swear was staring at that area of my body where the large intestine is located, and made my way to the door.

A feeling of patriotism swept over me. I’d participated in the great American tradition of democracy. Later that night I participated in another great American tradition:

Waiting to hear that my candidates lost.

See Steve run, and run, and run

See Steve.

See Steve run.

See Steve run down the street.

Steve is running a long way down the street.

Steve is doing this to stay in shape.

He is not doing it for fun.

Running is not fun to Steve.

Getting old and fat isn’t fun to Steve, either.

So Steve runs.

Run, Steve, run!

Steve runs onto a sidewalk.

The sidewalk is getting old like Steve.

The sidewalk is not in shape like Steve.

It has cracks and holes.

It has puddles of water.

It almost has one of Steve’s ankles.

Steve is not happy with the sidewalk.

Steve wishes the city would fix the sidewalk.

Steve isn’t getting his hopes up.

Why doesn’t Steve get his hopes up?

Look at the streets.

The streets look like the surface of the moon.

Except the moon is smoother.

So Steve keeps running.

Run, Steve, run!

Steve runs into a park.

The park has a jogging trail.

Steve likes the jogging trail.

He doesn’t like it very long.

People walked dogs on the jogging trail before Steve.

The dogs did something besides walking.

The dogs left what they did in Steve’s path.

Steve detects a smell.

The smell is following Steve.

The smell IS Steve!

Steve’s shoe has dog on it.

Steve runs on.

Run, Steve, run!

Steve comes to a busy street.

The street has a pedestrian light.

The light tells Steve to wait.

Now the light tells Steve he can go.

Steve crosses the street.

A car wants to cross the street, too.

The light didn’t tell the car it could cross the street.

Steve stops.

He stops quickly.

The car doesn’t stop.

The car goes by Steve.

Steve is close to the car.

He is so close to the car he can see the driver.

The driver does not look happy.

The driver thinks Steve did something wrong.

The driver says something to Steve.

The driver invites Steve to go someplace.

That place is very hot.

Steve would rather keep running.

Run, Steve, run!

Steve runs home.

Steve is sweating.

Steve is tired.

Steve’s shoe smells.

Steve almost twisted his ankle.

Steve almost became a hood ornament.

Steve was told to go to a hot place.

Steve thinks about running.

He thinks getting old and fat might be better than running.

Then Steve sees his wife.

His wife likes to exercise.

His wife is in good shape.

Why does Steve’s wife have to be in such good shape?

What can Steve do?

Steve runs.

Run, Steve, run!

Rest in Pieces

I am in mourning. On Tuesday, I lost a dear friend who paid the ultimate sacrifice to protect me. The obituary follows:

LAFAYETTE, Ind. – Steve Leer’s umbrella, 3, of Lafayette died April 19, 2011, moments after being deployed in a thunderstorm. It had been in failing working order for months, having lost three ribs and a couple of tips to wind damage. At the time of death, one-fourth of umbrella’s canopy was drooping, although, surprisingly, the push button opening feature remained intact after hundreds of uses.

Leer and the "deceased"

Umbrella was born on a Totes assembly line in China, along with 97 percent of the other consumer products made in the world. It was exported to the United States before being purchased by Leer’s wife at a retail store. Leer adopted the black folding umbrella in 2008, with a message from his wife that said, “I bought you a good umbrella. Try not to break this one.”

Umbrella was an umbrella all its life. It enjoyed drizzle, rain showers and downpours, and was involved in no activities other than keeping Leer’s head and upper body dry – most of the time. Umbrella was difficult to open only when Leer was wearing formal clothing, and returned to its folded position within seconds, except when Leer absolutely needed it to: entering buildings and getting into a car. Outside those days when the weather forecast called for at least a 40 percent chance of precipitation, umbrella could be found tucked inside Leer’s backpack or on the floorboard of Leer’s car, where it inevitably was stepped on.

Surviving along with Leer is a stick umbrella, of Leer’s West Lafayette office; assorted umbrellas, of wherever they were last placed; a Weather Channel app, of Leer's smartphone; and a step-golf umbrella, a waterproof jacket, an Indiana Beach rain poncho, and a pair of all-weather boots, all at home. Umbrella is preceded in death by an untold number of umbrellas that passed away as a result of the same flawed design that has made umbrellas susceptible to high wind for thousands of years.

Umbrella was in grave condition

No visitation is planned, unless Leer’s family and friends wish to compare the flimsy construction of their own umbrellas to the deceased’s. Internment will be in the City of Lafayette Sanitation Department Trash Toter. Or the recycle bin. Whichever.

In lieu of flowers brought from April showers, memorials may be made to the Steve Leer Umbrella Replacement Fund. Donors may choose instead to purchase Leer another umbrella.

Titanium frame is preferred, if such an umbrella exists.

Take a (government shutdown-proof) hike

Whew! That was close.

Americans came within minutes of a federal government shutdown Friday night. Thankfully, an 11^th hour budget deal in Congress spared us the awful prospect of doing without the daily federal government inefficiency we’ve all come to know and trust. Now Democrats and Republicans on Capitol Hill can get back to the real work of hating each other with our money.

Until an agreement was reached on a last-second spending plan, it looked like we might lose all those great federal government services we enjoy. You know the ones – I don’t have to list them for you.

Really, I don’t want to list them for you.

Okay, you tell me what they are.

I do know that had an agreement not been reached, our national parks would have closed. That would have been disastrous. Think about the wonderful experiences our national parks provide. Where else can you take quarter-of-the-way-down-before-you-give-up hikes into the Grand Canyon? Stand around waiting while Junior has to pee to watch Old Faithful erupt at Yellowstone? Wonder why you drove hundreds of miles to look at soggy grass at the Everglades?

Leer Yard National Park's Nature Area with shelterhouse

Minus Friday’s congressional action, our national walk in the park would have stopped dead in its tracks. We would have arrived at a national park to find a “Closed, please call again” sign at the front gates, hung there by a park ranger just before he headed to Washington to join a federal employee protest.

That could still happen. With more federal budget battles in our future, we’ll again be at risk of having our entire national parks system shut down. Something must be done to preserve the recreation we need and the health benefits that come with being in the great outdoors. Namely, sitting around picnic tables eating too much potato salad.

With that in mind, I’m doing what any patriotic American would do. I’m starting my own national park.

Don’t tell my wife. I want it to be a surprise.

The Leer Yard National Park is now open at my residence on the southwest side of Lafayette, Ind., in the Ashton Woods Subdivision (marketing slogan: “You can’t see the forest because there are no trees”). Admission is free, although donations are welcome and will be placed in a fund to cover legal fees associated with neighbors’ public nuisance complaints.

Leer Yard National Park is a sprawling guarter-acre natural paradise with something for everyone. There’s plenty of on-street parking except on Friday mornings, when the garbage trucks come by.

We recommend you begin your day at the Visitor Center, which just so happens to look exactly like my house. Ring the doorbell and whoever is properly dressed or not watching TV will come to the door and let you in. Inside you’ll find restrooms, a water fountain shaped like a kitchen sink and Zoey, our animal mascot. It’s okay to feed Zoey. She takes three scoops of cat food per day.

While in the Visitor Center you’ll also want to pick up a park map, or print the one here:

There are lots of things to see and do at Leer Yard National Park. Among them:

* Hiking – The Nature Area affords several seconds of challenging walking on completely flat ground. Test your knowledge of the exotic plant species you find, from dandelion to crabgrass to whatever weed is poking through the neighbor’s fence. You might even come face-to-face with wildlife, including the legendary Gray Beast. She looks hideous with half her tail missing, but her meow is worse than her bite.

 

* Swimming – Cool off in the park aquatics facility behind the Visitor Center. The aquatics facility opens as soon as we get down to Walmart and pick up a kiddie pool.

Our Recreation Area; don't sue me

* Sports and games – Enjoy a variety of competitive activities at the Recreation Area, such as basketball and concrete driveway football and wrestling. Be sure to sign the liability waiver for the latter two before you get started.

* Cooking out – Prepare meals on the park gas grill (yes, it’s singular, not plural). Visitors should bring their own propane tank or else come with an extra ribeye to share with park staff. Groups who call ahead can reserve the park shelter house, which has ample seating for three once the lawn mower, rakes and fertilizer spreader are pushed to the side.

* Camping – Set up a tent anywhere in the park and sleep to the sounds of trucks rambling down nearby U.S. 231. Outdoor shower facilities are available – pick up the garden hose and turn the spigot – and visitors can take advantage of the free Wi-Fi that, near as we can tell, extends 17 inches outside the walls of the Visitor Center.

Pack up the family and head to Leer Yard National Park. We promise to stay open no matter what Congress does. Now, should the county health department get involved, well, all bets are off.

The agony of defeat

Bummed out.

That's how I felt when I woke up this morning, and now that the day is nearly done the gloominess is still there. It might take a while for me to get over Butler University losing to the University of Connecticut in the NCAA national championship game.

I know it's just a game. I know a sporting event doesn’t come close to equaling the tragedy of war, poverty, human suffering or natural disaster. And yet, the deep disappointment is there nevertheless. I’d invested myself emotionally in Matt Howard, Shelvin Mack, Brad Stevens and Co., and I feel rotten that another dream season ended in heartbreak.

Losing often does this to me, even when I’m no more than a spectator.

Matt Howard, I know how you feel

For as long as I can remember I’ve taken defeat harder than most people. I’ve certainly had more than enough experience, having probably posted more L’s than W’s in the won-loss record of my life. But despite my familiarity with defeat, I’ve never grown accustomed to losing.

I despise losing and struggle to understand it. Losing makes me moody, irritable, withdrawn and depressed. Even in victory I sometimes dwell only on the failures along the way. I’m a lot like former tennis great Ivan Lendl, who once said he hated losing more than he loved winning.

How and why I became this way, I can’t explain. While I inherited my fiery competitive nature from my father, he was able to shake off defeat and move on. It’s never been that simple for me.

I remember my high school and college athletic careers. After many games where my team lost I was inconsolable, often choosing to sit quietly by myself during the bus ride home rather than chat it up with my teammates. I’d review the game film of my mind, trying to figure out what went wrong and how defeat could have been averted.

One especially painful road trip comes to mind. My high school basketball team was playing a conference rival – a much larger school we’d never beaten. After playing a near perfect first half – a half in which I scored 20 points – we led by double-digits. We were ecstatic in the locker room at halftime. We came out for the second half expecting to finally close the deal against the school that had owned us.

It didn’t happen. Our opponent rallied and finally took the lead late in the fourth quarter. We never led again. I finished with a career-high 33 points, but all I could think about heading home that night was the opportunity that we’d let slip away. I was so upset I didn’t want to hear the congratulatory words from teammates and fans, much less get off the bus when it stopped at McDonald’s.

Adulthood brought an end to my competitive playing days, but not the sting of defeat. Many are the times I’ve coached youth sports teams and agonized over losses, even as the kids themselves were forgetting the final score as they tore into the post-game snack and Gatorade.

Lombardi made a habit of winning

When I started an athletic program for homeschooled kids nearly eight years ago I knew it likely would take years for our teams to be competitive against established clubs. My hunch was correct. Although we won some games, the losses far outnumbered them. On the outside I played up effort and attitude and downplayed results with players and parents, but inside I was aching. I wanted the kids to feel like winners and not also-rans – the feeling I’d had through much of my high school sports career.

These days I find it difficult being a sports fan without dying a little after each humbling setback. Indianapolis Colts playoff losses can leave me blue for days. Watching the St. Louis Cardinals fall in three of the five World Series I’ve seen them reach was dispiriting. And then there was Butler, dropping title games to Duke last year and to UConn last night.

Vince Lombardi knew a lot about winning. He also knew a thing or two about losing.

“Winning is a habit,” Lombardi said, “and, unfortunately, so is losing.”

Don’t I know it.

If it ain’t broke, it will be soon

Some people pour money down a rat hole. Not me. I empty my dollars into a chasm no vermin would dare crawl into:

Cars.

Our three automobiles are disposable income black holes. Among the trio – a 2005 Mercury Sable, 2001 Honda Accord and 1994 Dodge Caravan – rarely a week goes by when one or more doesn’t need an oil change, tire rotation, windshield wiper, brake service, tune up or some obscure part that only a contortionist at a carnival freak show could reach without the help of an industrial hydraulic lift and a tool that bends in 17 directions at once.

We’ve sunk so many thousands of dollars into our vehicles in recent months I’ve quit reading the auto section of our family budget and, instead, taken up reading my 401(k) statements. It makes me feel better.

Is the Sable trying to tell me something?

Watching one car, then another and then the other require attention is like living with a house full of grade school children during flu season. By the time the last child exhibits flu-like symptoms, the first child to become ill starts coughing and sneezing again. At least with a bunch of snotty-nosed kids you can fix the problem for $10 co-pays.

This past year our car infirmary has been exceptionally busy. The list of repairs is long, atypical and costly.

There was the tire that kept losing air. Come to find out I’d driven over a nail, which apparently is an ingredient of road paving materials, considering the number of times I’ve had them removed from tires over the years.

There was the power steering that suddenly lost its power, making the Caravan harder to navigate than an oil tanker pulling a U-turn in the Panama Canal.

There was the mysterious warning light that began glowing on the Accord dashboard. After an attempt to diagnose the problem – I opened the hood, saw that the engine was still there and pushed the hood shut – I took the car to a mechanic. The problem: the gas cap. “In some of these models if they’re not on just right the warning light comes on,” I was told. How could I have missed that, since the “Warning Light” entry in the owner’s manual consists of “Have your vehicle serviced by a certified Honda auto technician”?

There was a battery that wouldn’t hold a charge, a failing fuel pump, old belts and fluids, and several other mechanical issues that will go unnamed because I can’t extricate the 10-pound automotive folder from the file cabinet stuffed with every receipt we’ve collected since before the Wright brothers used the first bar code – or something like that. Anyway, all were replaced, at varying degrees of pocketbook pain.

But none of those financial hits could prepare me for what was to come, however. Unbeknownst to me the granddaddy of auto problems lay just beyond the horizon. I was about to have a transmission go out. Twice.

The Sable’s went first. I was driving to work one morning when I noticed something unusual. When I stepped on the accelerator the car didn’t pick up speed. I tried it again. No luck. A third time I tried – nothing. I pulled the car to the side of the road, turned it off and then back on. Still no acceleration when I pressed on the gas pedal – not even a warning light to lead me to an owner’s manual page with no information. Had my wife finally had enough and purchased a drives-too-fast voodoo doll that looked like me?

Into the shop the car went. Several days of work and a couple thousand dollars in parts and labor later, the Sable emerged with a rebuilt transmission.

A less-expensive use of my money

A once-in-a-lifetime repair, I told myself as I drove it home. Yes, if that lifetime happens to last as long as the tsetse fly’s.

Last month, it happened again. The Accord began doing strange things as it shifted gears. A mechanic confirmed what I feared: the transmission was slipping.

How could this occur again so soon? Had the Accord and Sable compared notes in the garage? And had they gotten to the Caravan?

Another 10 days with the mechanic, and another $2,000-plus expense.

When he notified me the car was ready, the customer service representative finished by saying, “Mr. Leer, while we were putting the transmission in, we found something.”

Unless it’s a bag of South African Krugerrands, I don’t want to know, I thought.

“We noticed a small leak coming from your radiator. At some point you’ll need to have it replaced.”

A Google search placed the repair at between $400 and $600.

I did another Google search. Yep, just as I figured: I could save half that amount by pouring my money down a rat hole.