Between covering the Musky Fest Saturday and brainstorming a TV series via text with Kid, I was tired on my way to bed.

But fulfilled.

Of the literally hundreds of festivals I've attended or edited stories about, I believe Musky Fest is the best. And I can't claim to be a local for at least a couple decades.

It's hyper-local, with local beer served alongside locally made bratwursts. Said sausage is ground at Lynn's Custom Meats in Hayward and is the best brat I've ever had. And brother, I've had me some brats. The local Lion's Club grilled them and served with sauteed sauerkraut. If anyone wants to visit me, I'll promise my own homemade sauerkraut and sausage pizza. (Note: The sauerkraut and Swiss cheese omelet did not work out.)

The tents in the streets were filled with regional art -- my favorite being the carved wall hangings that  had correct lake depths for the biggest of our regional bodies of water. I have to write "biggest" because there are 300 lakes within an hour drive of Hayward, Wisconsin, so we can't have some representative of every single lake.

While hydrating with some beer at a local watering hole, I exchanged texts with Kid about a limited TV series idea I had. She called the idea brilliant and shared her changes and I promised to create a narrative arc if we decide to move forward working together. I only share that she thought it was "brilliant" because Kid doesn't BS me. When I shared the script I wrote during my layoff, she said, "it needs work, dad."

I respect the truth.

I won't share the story idea, even though the likelihood of it ever being written, let alone being made, is less than a tenth of 1 percent.

Saturday was a joy.

Peace unto Ukraine and peace and joy unto you my brothers and sisters.

On this day, where major, historic news holds the headlines, I can't write about that.

I'm not in that position and I can't control a single damn bit of it.

What I can control is something so small, so meaningless but yet gives me joy. I have loved watching my stupid little garden of herbs and lettuce and the singular tomato plant grow, as though they are my kids.

Psychological studies show gardening is a true stress reliever. Even in difficult times, blood pressure goes down. Dopamine levels rise.

I enjoy the watering process in the morning, even with a couple spots of failure, and like to check on them when I get home in the evening.

When I recently made a frittata for a friend, the best part was fresh basil and parsley from my little railing garden.

I've down a poor job of unpacking lately. Actually no job of unpacking lately. Don't judge me.

But I've been handling the stress with a little cooking and raising some herbs. And, oh, the tomato plant has some baby maters that will grow into some nice home-grown snacks in a short time.

In times of great, stress, Buddha has always suggested to look at something small. I've written before the story of when Buddha was cleaning his rice pot while a class waited. Buddha had burned some rice so it took some time. His assistant suggested he take over the task of washing the rice pot so Buddha could teach the waiting students. "What can I possibly teach," Buddha said, "if I cannot wash a rice pot?"

Peace unto Ukraine and peace and small joys unto you my brothers and sisters.

Kid called Sunday for Father's Day, even though we agree it's a made-up celebration.

It's the kindness in her heart that comes naturally to her.

She's thriving out in Hollywood, living with a roommate over a Thai restaurant in Thai town. As an assistant, she's doing a great balancing work with exploring the city. She was able to do that during her internship in her last semester.

What impresses me is her honed focus on how to climb the ladder. Her college did a superior job in teaching how one traverses the entertainment industry. She knows what step she needs to take and where she might get ahead.

Kid's boss is getting married and I offered to do the ceremony as I am licensed preacher and performed one ceremony. At this point, Kid laughed at my ceremony pricing structure:

-- Basic ceremony is $19.95 and that includes two bar-rail drinks.

-- Next up is $24.95 which is the ceremony and two drink with brand names.

-- $29.95 is that plus a photo taken by me.

-- $34.95 will get you a crowd-size serving of mac and cheese.

-- Finally, $39.95 that provides all of the above plus I'll cut some hot dogs into the mac and cheese.

That there is an inflationary friendly wedding ceremony, my friends.

I love talking to Kid because I don't have to fill in history or background for a reference.

One time in North Carolina, I explained to her at age 14 how I reported a fight in the apartment next to me. I said I didn't want to be a bystander. "Oh," she said, "like the bystander effect around Kitty Genovese's murder." "Right," I said.

Then I realized what was happening.

"Wait," I stopped. "How in the hell does my 14-year-old Kid know about Kitty Genovese? A story from 1964?"

She thought. "I dunno. Maybe a documentary or something."

Love that kid. Forever proud to be her father, even on a made-up celebration.

Peace unto Ukraine and peace and familial love unto all of you my brothers and sisters.

 

(A public letter to my friend Bertha in Bloomington, Indiana.)

Dear Bertha,

Thank you so much for your kind letter of June 13. It found me well. And, of course, thank you for the $27. (My friends want to know, "Why $27?")

I appreciate your nice note about the progress I've made in the last year. And indeed, I'm doing much better. I've lost about 25 pounds in that time and haven't had a gout attack in months. I had to give up beer in the process -- which is sad for a son of the Wisconsin Northwoods. Beer is as mother's milk to us.

As I've unpacked, I have been able to cook more and that's always a better way to eat. I sometimes joke that I recently found a building where one can go and buy uncooked foodstuffs which can then be taken home and made into lunches and dinners. It's called a grocery store. No one thinks that joke is funny.

So I was embarrassed to write the last time Bertha sent $27, I spent most of it on some drinks. 

Today, I took Bertha's gift to a roadside veggie stand run by a couple of nice Mennonites. I bought some great tomatoes and local asparagus. 

See, I am making better decisions as I improve after falling into that deep, deep hole.

It occurred to me today, while I meal-planned as I shopped, that I am no longer running. Running from pain. Running from difficulty. Hell, running from myself.

Thank you, dear Bertha, you're helping me during these last two years in the greatest travail of my life.

As you always ask, I will pray for your arthritis and I will ask readers to do the same.

Your friend,

Rich

Peace unto Ukraine and peace and friendship unto all of you my brothers and sisters.

 For some time I've been thinking about switching www.thehomelesseditor.com to Substack.

Now I have the song "Money" from "Cabaret" in my mind. (Although not "Money," I could watch this video every day for ever: Willkommen - Joel Grey & Alan Cumming - YouTube.)

But I can't do that. I set this standard more than two years ago and, thus, set the expectation.

Cool.

This will remain a free blog.

Yet I'm likely to set up a Substack account for some writing. For those who don't know Substack, it is website where writers or artists charge small fees to access the material. There are some people who make hundreds of thousands a year on the platform.

I will not make that kind of money -- but given the difficulties of the last couple of years, I could use any additional money I can get as I approach my prospective retirement in 2037, when I will be 72.

The question is this: What would you pay $5 a month to read? From me?

I write about my life here, the difficulties, the blessings and my watering holes.

Certainly, I won't write about politics. There are far too many people who pull opinions from their nether regions. I also refuse to be accused of bias, even though people don't understand what "bias" means or is. ("Bias" means being slanted for or against something.) I've also noted for decades that bias is in the perception. I have been both "commie" and "white supremacist" in the same market.

I've thought about starting a running novel, based on my idea of "50 Shades of Flannel: An Erotic tale of the Wisconsin Northwoods." But there's an online book someplace called "50 Shades of Flannel" that is perhaps copyrighted.

I'll take recommendations, ideas and admonitions.

Peace unto Ukraine and peace and five bucks a month unto all of you my brothers and sisters.

Cooking for people makes me feel good.

I'm pretty sure I received that from my mom who loved to cook when she was still at home. After moving away from Wisconsin, every time I returned home the visit would revolve around food. She'd make my favorite childhood dish -- meatballs and dumplings -- and I would grill out.

Last weekend, I made a dairy-free frittata for my friend Kellie, who also cooks for me. Onion, roasted red pepper, zucchini seasoned with salt and pepper and fresh basil from my deck. That was all softened on the stovetop before I added the eggs and baked it at 325 degrees for 25 minutes.

Normally, I'm thick skinned but my cooking ego is a brittle little thing. She assured me it was delicious.

With more eggs available I tried making a Spanish tortilla -- which is entirely different than a Mexican tortilla. The Spanish version is thinly sliced potatoes and onions cooked and softened in too much oil. The oil is then drained and whipped eggs are poured over the top. I baked that as well with much salt and pepper. Potatoes need, to me, a fair amount of salt.

It was OK. But I make the mistake of comparing it to the version at Don Quijote in Valparaiso, Indiana. The chef/owner there, though has likely made tens of thousands of tortillas and has it down to a science. (Carlos Rivero is the chef and it's worth a trip just to meet him.)

I told a friend at a nearby bar what I cooked during the weekend and promised to bring her the last piece of tortilla. I added a salad from a pot on my deck.

I know how I feel when others cook for me and it was nice to share that feeling with others.

People seemed surprised that I like to cook.

"Fat guy gotta eat," I responded.

As I continue to unpack, I've promised myself this will happen more and more.

So put in your order now.

Peace unto Ukraine and peace and sustenance unto you my brothers and sisters.

" Talked to Kid tonight. She’s just so goddamned smart. And I made her laugh twice. Twice. That’s a new record. I’m no longer proud. I’m in awe."

-- A quote from my Facebook page last night

I remain forever amazed by Kid's knowledge, not just her fancy book learnin' but current events, literature, politics and her cultural literacy.

The latter is no longer one of my strengths.

Some time ago, she asked if I knew Dua Lipa.

I said, "Yes, that's Latin for 'two lips.'"

It is not.

I particularly appreciated she was aware of current events in Los Angeles where she now lives. I imagine she learned from me by watching that you learn local news by reading it. From a reliable source.

If you are one who thinks a reliable source is someone at the bar, or some online cat, you would be wrong. The process of journalism includes fact checking and, when errors occur, corrections.

See if you can find that on television.

In 56 minutes -- I keep track -- we hit at least 60 subjects. We tend to riff off each other as in jazz but instead of notes, we have information.

She's enjoying living in the entertainment capital of the world, even if on short wages. We traded recipes -- she has one of those Instapots or whatever you call them. I have pots and pans but all food ends up being the same.

We talked about writing, a craft that is difficult. I've been trying to write since high school and I'm not sure is any easier after 40 years. "The best advice I can give you is sit down and write," I said. Note the advice was not solicited.

I'm so pleased with the human she's become and her laser focus on her career and the future while also being present in the moment.

Peace unto Ukraine and peace and offspring until all of you my brothers and sisters.

 I did something different this week -- twice.

I went home for lunch and relaxed for a little bit during the day.

Not unlike a Junior Mint, it was quite refreshing.

That used to be quite common for me going back to college. Somewhere, as jobs changed and life happened, it became common for me to work through lunch or get takeout -- and go back to work. Even the periods where I needed to save money, I'd bring in a sandwich or something and work through lunch.

No.

That's no break. It's all work all the time. 

I couldn't believe how afternoons changed for me on those two days. I felt invigorated rather than worn down. I also controlled what I ate for lunch. Instead of something from fast food or, worse, a gas station. I hate something that wouldn't slide out of me later in the afternoon.

For writers, that's the nicest description of the situation -- ever.

It all comes down to taking care of oneself and I've failed that on many levels for decades. So lunch at home is my new, first goal. Mind you, this is a small town where the commute is about three minutes. I can do this.

The other day, I had some frozen pizza leftovers and today I had a nice ham and cheese with a side of kosher dill pickles.

That's high-livin', baby.

The best part is catching up reading a recent magazine or whatever book I might be reading. And I get to catch a breath. It was refreshing to the point I didn't understand the feeling until later in the day.

I shall expand my learning on this issue.

Peace unto Ukraine and peace and learning unto all of you my brothers and sisters.

 

Water calms me.

And we have plenty here. There are 300 lakes with an hour's drive of Hayward. Every time I turn a corner, I come across another lake. I wonder if early settlers began to run out of names. Thus we have Big Round Lake and Little Round Lake next to it. In fact there are two Little Round Lakes and Two Beaver Lakes. And don't confuse either of the Lost Lakes with Lost Land Lake.

It's confusing for a newcomer.

So I have a goal of making sure I'm on the water at least once a week.

Above is a view from one of my favorite spots -- the deck of Powell's on Round Lake. Wonderful people running it and good food with a beautiful view of the water. It's a great place to write a column.

I keep promising me I will take better care of myself. I will stop blaming work for taking too much of my time. I'm an adult and, like a 3-year-old, I'm in charge of myself. That means more live music, more fresh food from the Farmer's Market (it opens Monday) and more time on the water. This might include a few drinky poos. (Thanks, Jim Herman, for that phrase.)

Summer is not the time to relax, though. Our population will triple over the summer months as 53 percent of our housing stock serves as second homes. So we add a magazine every two weeks about what's going on. There are events and festivals every weekend -- as well as a fishing contest of some kind four to five times a month. I've been thinking about holding a McDonald's Filet-O- Fish contest each Friday night. What does the winner get? Another Filet-O-Fish -- extra tartar.

I'll find my spots, though. Which inevitably will include time on the water. And perhaps some fire in the sky.

Peace unto Ukraine. And peace and water unto you my brothers and sisters.

 I talk to Kid last night -- the second time in a week.

That's a new record, at least since before she went to college.

While at Emerson she was so busy with classes, as well as working with a well-known comedy troupe and other projects like writing for the annual awards show -- and doing stand-up around Boston.

She actually sounds relaxed, despite her new full-time job working as an assistant to an important person. But because she's only doing one thing, she actually has time to do her own writing and her boss has offered to read anything she writes. That's a particularly cool trait in Hollywood.

Kid lives over a Thai restaurant in the Los Angeles neighborhood of Thai Town. I'm not sure I'd do well there. I'd probably eat their everyday and talk around town smelling of pad thai -- which is probably a couple steps up from my current body odor.

Just tracking her down was like chasing a feral kitten. The harder you try, the less likely it's going to work.

So talking to her has been a joy during what's been an exceptionally busy time at the newspapers and our magazine.

I worked every day though the three-day holiday including a full-on 10 hours on Memorial Day. I did not get a chance to have one bit of grilled food. That's probably best for my health but not so much for my mood. 

Packing continues, albeit more slowly than I wanted. I keep finding little treasures as well as mystifying pieces and parts. Just the other day, a box contained what looked like little tampons. Turns out they were filters for my coffee machine. So coffee tampons? (Great band name.)

The herbs are doing well -- except for the damn basil. And that's my favorite. I use basil like others use salt. I make this zucchini-goat cheese-fresh basil frittata that would make you plotz. It looks to be a good summer for my one tomato plant that's already flowering and the thyme, which is already growing over the container.

I apologize for being gone so long. Frankly, it's been a little overwhelming.

And I appreciate those who sent private emails to check on me.

Please remember that I have survived thus far.

Peace unto Ukraine and peace and survival unto you my brothers and sisters.