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The boy Beemer above, at 15, clueless in Huntington, Ind., 1965; clueless still below in 1966; somewhat
aware in 1967; a total hunk in 1968.
A Life Unexamined
DO NOT READ UNLESS YOU REALLY ENJOY BORING BLATHER ABOUT
MR. BEEMER'S IDIOSYNCRACIES AND IRRELEVANT LIKES, DISLIKES AND QUESTIONABLE ACHIEVEMENTS.
By Will Dicker
First and foremost, Mr. Beemer was born in Huntington, Ind., pulled reluctantly from his mother's womb by the now-deceased
Dr. Richard Peare, who later in life became Mr. Beemer's dear friend. Mr. Beemer spent the vast majority of his
life right here in good-old Nothington, as one of his brothers prefers to call it.
He went to Catholic schools in his formative years, and wasted
time in college for three-and-a-half years, taking courses off and on throughout adulthood in an attempt to acquire a Bachelor's
of Observations. He finally graduated from Huntington University in 2008 at the age of 58 with a bachelor of science
degree in organizational management.
The work that once supported his simple lifestyle involved him
as managing editor of periodicals at Our Sunday Visitor, Inc., a Catholic publishing company founded in Huntington.
He labored there for 31 years, only to be let go after the company "restructured and eliminated the position
of managing editor," he was told on that black, March 3rd Friday afternoon. Mr. Beemer was also the editor of The
Huntington County TAB for a year-and-a-half, a twice-weekly local tabloid with a distribution of 15,000. Since September
6, 2005, he has worked at Parkview Huntington Hospital, where he is the Community/Media Relations Specialist. He was also contributing
editor/writer for The Roanoke Times and The Markle Times, small community weeklies in Huntington County now defunct. In
addition, he has a freelance book-editing business, called WordWorker, which is doing well and helping to pay
the weekly bills. For a short while he was a licensed realtor, and he continues to keep current his Class A CDL
license to drive a semi. He also substitute teaches on Fridays at various schools for the Huntington County School Corporation.
Mr. Beemer loves listening to most genres of music,
except rap, because it is not music; it is crap, which is what they meant to call it in the first place.
Mr. Beemer loves playing the guitar, and fantasizes
himself a virtuoso while hamming it up on a Tradition electric and an Alvarez acoustic. He also pounds
on an excellent set of Pearls, the instrument of Mr. Beemer's choice, at which he excels. He is the drummer for a local
classic/blues band, The Jones.
Gardening is a passion of his, and he has planted about
40 antique heirloom apple trees on his acreage as well and he has forested an acre of his property.
He holds a patent for God's Good Earth Tool Rest. It is
designed to be placed in the garden as a rest for one's gardening tools, thus avoiding constantly bending over up to pick
them.
Mr. Beemer is also an award-winning photographer and tends to God's bees, who regurgitate approximately 30 pounds
of honey each year, which he generously gives away to loved ones and sells to others with deep pockets.
He once wrote a music column for Catholic Parent, a national
magazine, and it was called Loud And Clear. That magazine folded after 10 years, and the column can now be found on Mr.
Beemer's own website, www.big-dads-reviews.com. Mr. Beemer reviews lyrics to popular music, from Spears and Eminem to Disturbed and Beck. Most parents love
him, most kids hate him.
Mr. Beemer also helped get The Open Door
off the ground some 10 years ago with friend Joan McClure, which is a Catholic outreach in Huntington
that feeds about 300 people every Sunday. It is now run by a tightknit group of faithful and prayerful people, and is
fortunate to have several hundred volunteers from both Catholic parishes in Huntington to help with its corporal work
of mercy to feed the hungry.
A furniture ministry for the poor grew from it as well.
Mr. Beemer also founded the Kil-So-Quah Roadrunners, a local
running club, which puts on a 7.2-mile race, the Shoe-Sucker Seven, at the Huntington Reservoir. This year is its 22nd. See
the Shoe-Sucker Seven Page for details.
"You know what?" Mr. Beemer said not long ago while pondering
the mysteries that God has set before us: "This really is a wonderful life!"
Will Dicker, noted for his notability, writes from and
lives in the holler somewhere in the neck of the woods down yonder.
The priest in the photo is from Kenya. He was visiting the United States, I believe, in
the year 2000. I forget his name. That's me next to him, looking fit and trim. The only difference now is that I'm better
looking. That's Julie Kenny off to the left, marketing director for Our Sunday Visitor's offering-envelope division, and David
Scott is standing between me and the priest, straining to see the camera lens. He's a former editor of
Our Sunday Visitor, the largest national Catholic newspaper in the United States, where I was employed for 31 long years.
Rick's Revelations
Lucky ones: Here I share witty quotes, intellectual insights and arcane revelations
that somehow either come my way or I dream up myself.
Let us begin:
Revelation 1, 6 p.m., Sunday, Dec. 1, 2002
On Saturday, Nov. 30, 2002, I stopped in for a beer and a burger at Bernie's
Sports Bar in Andrews, Ind., a small town a couple miles west of my rural residence. Bernie's has nothing in it remotely
connected to sports, unless pool is your "sport." Or watching television.
Plastered all over the wall facing the drinkers at the bar are the usual array of witty
sayings that caught Bernie's attention enough for her to post them on the wall for everyone's amusement
and edification. One read: "Food and beverage prices determined by customer's attitude!" But the one that amused
me most was this one: "Too often we lose sight of life's simple pleasures. Remember that, when someone annoys you, it takes
42 muscles in your face to frown. However, it takes only 4 muscles to extend your arm and smack the moron upside
the head."
Now there is an insight worth remembering.
Till next revelation,
Beem
Revelation 2, 7:07 p.m., Sunday, Dec. 1, 2002
An old newspaper friend of mine in the Catholic press, Tom Russell from Lafayette,
Ind., shared the following revelation with me, which he received from a friend by the name of Bill Whitefoot, who
was studying and collecting Appalachian folklore. My friend's friend was visiting a shack in the hills, interviewing a West
Virginia woman in her simple kitchen in her simple home for a folklore project. Her young son was hiding under a kitchen hutch,
which was sitting over a hole in the floor large enough for the boy to crawl into. The mother noticed that her young
offspring was lurking beneath, and hollered to him. This is what she said: "William, you come on back on out up from back in behind down in there."
What is it with women and directions?
Till next revelation,
Beem
Revelation 3, 7 p.m., Monday, Dec. 2, 2002
It dawned on me several years ago that the passage of time seems to race by quicker as we get older. I also
concluded that the reason we adults experience this time bandit as we wither away can be attributed to one phenomenon: the
phenomenon of "others."
There were fewer "others" when we were kids; just Mom and Dad and the siblings; relatives and a few close
friends.
As communication between people has become instantaneous and intrusive (e.g., e-mail spam and this website),
we tend not to stop often enough to smell those roses we've heard tell about. Nothing revelatory about that, right?
What I'm leading up to is a memory, a memory of a nun who taught according to the letter of the
law. She attempted to teach me algebra and geometry, an endeavor that, for her, ranks her with the martyrs now that she is
among them.
Remember those paper-cutout platitudes that used to be strung above the length of blackboards, back when
blackboards were actually that color? There was one in her classroom that seemed to be, as I recall, up there above the chalk
dust for my entire four years of Catholic high school.
It read: "Time lost is lost forever." I don't remember to whom it was attributed, but those five words
have both blessed me and cursed me. Time used wisely is not lost, but who does that all the time? Time used unwisely
IS lost (television?). I gave it up totally for one full year only to be labeled culturally deprived; actually, I missed
nothing. I even missed, thank God, the maturation of Brittney Spears, who, I heard on the radio today, has
turned 21. I thought she was older than that already. I stray.
So. My struggle is with using time wisely, and I lose it left and right, but I use it, too. The real challenge
is to know when and how one is dealing with time unwisely, but that would require spending time on solving the problem of
wasteful time in the first place, when I'd rather be doing something more interesting, like wasting time. Even time used
well is lost forever. I'm done now. Anyone got the time?
Till next revelation,
Beem
Revelation 4, 9:05 p.m., Saturday, Dec. 21, 2002
One has to wonder why the dead do what they do. After a loved one dies, does he or she show up in the dreams
of certain family members to visit, to assure that all is well and heaven is a swell place and I'm finally there, so
get on with your life already?
I've experienced two dreams thus far since my mother died a couple years ago, in which she was the main character
in the dreams. But they were more than dreams, I think, because the sense that she was so real awakened me both times;
literally affected me emotionally. In the first encounter I awoke startled; the second time I cried.
First Encounter: As I slept, I could see Mom standing in our bedroom all gussied up in her favorite dress,
warmed by her coat, gloves and stylish hat. She was smiling, and seemed to be prepared to make a journey that she looked forward
to. It was if she was telling me that Purgatory was no big deal and that she was boarding the last train to heavensville.
She was smiling, and appeared very content.
Second Encounter: This time, Mom was in her kitchen at home on 706 Clark St., and only I could see her. Everyone
in the family was there, but no one could see her, or me, as I yelled to them that Mom was still alive and had never died. The
next memory has me giving my mother a hug as she does some dishes in the kitchen sink, and I could literally smell her; but
somehow she seemed sad. The dream shifted to a scene that was somewhat unusual. Mom was in my Ford truck as a passenger, but
she appeared to change her looks to that of my Great-Grandmother Helen Wood, old and gnarly looking, and she asked me to drop
her off, which I did, at the corner of Etna Ave. and Charles St. Why there, I'll never know. Suddenly I'm not in my truck
but on a bicycle heading to work at Our Sunday Visitor, telling myself that no one there will believe what just happened
to me.
Both experiences, separated by a couple years, have convinced me that the Communion of Saints keep in touch
with us, reminding us to live holy lives, to walk with Jesus and to love all by living the corporal and spiritual works of
mercy. Live those works, receive Christ in the Eucharist, avoid sin (confession routinely) and smite the
devil, and life everlasting will be ours.
Dear God: Hope Mom isn't bugging you too much.
Till Next Revelation,
Beem
Revelation 6, 5:30 p.m., Sunday, Sept. 14, 2003
Well now, it has been some time since my last revelation, but much turmoil in my life stifled me there for
a bit. I've suffered deeply from severe depression since the loss of my job at Our Sunday Visitor, but with some prayer and
lots of anti-depressants, I'm slowly recovering from the shock. Who would have thought that, after 31 devoted years to a company,
one would be simply and coldly dispatched to the realm of the unemployed in a matter of minutes. I have strived
since then to be my own man and not be at the mercy of a fickle employer, having started a freelance book-editing business
and getting myself licensed as a realtor. The income from both is spotty, so I'm considering truck-driving for a living. God
must be calling me to minister to truck drivers; who knows. Lesson: Always have a backup plan and do not, I repeat, do not
equate many loyal years of service with job security. It just doesn't work that way anymore. Makes one wonder if life truly
is a bitch and you die. Don't get me wrong; I see the glass as half-full. But there were and are times when the glass is so
damn empty that it seems to mock my hope. This too, they say, shall also pass. May the passage of time be swift.
Revelation 7, 6:53 p.m., Sunday, Jan. 22, 2006
Life is too short.
Revelation 7, 3
p.m., Friday, Nov 28, 2003
STALKING THE
ROGUE YAM -- By William E. Dicker
Just yesterday
I went out to my woods to stalk a rogue yam that's been wandering around the area lately. I know 'cause I spotted it just
a few days ago sneaking around.
At first, all
I saw were tater tots for the longest time, knowing full well that there must be a plethora of sweet potatoes in the area
with that many young-uns running around. Those rogue yams get mighty horny; found a low-lying branch that one of those horny-toad
yams must have poked his eyes on for a week! Talk about pawing! The piss bed below the branches looked as if a harem of sweet
potatoes had a spraying orgy.
That's where
I set up shop with my rake and hoe. I figured if I couldn't sneak up on the darn thing and hack it in two with the hoe, maybe
if I raked fast enough I could cover it quickly with leaves than stomp on it. Then I'd have mashed yam, and that didn't sound
good to me at the time. I prefer yam jerky, so this one I wanted in no more than two pieces.
As I waited in
the calm woods, all I could hear was the faraway rustle of mushroom spores settling in for a long, bitter cold winter. At
least they knew when to call it quits, I thought to myself. But yams? Stupid yams. No wonder they were so easy to kill; didn't
have sense enough to protect themselves when they're most vulnerable -- that is, during the mating season. God must want it
that way, so that the stupid yams can get thinned out by mighty yam stalkers such as myself.
All of a sudden
I was slapped sideways by reality when I heard the tell-tale sounds of a large "Yambuk" rolling through the underbrush, heading
for a rendevoux with what he hoped would be a young, blushing sweet potato. And he wasn't disappointed. As he approached from
the left, just in front of me, where I was hiding behind a large red oak, emerged from a small patch of still green wild grass
the most adorable sweet potato I ever laid eyes on. The yambuck must have thought so too, because he started rolling, jumping
and hooting like a crazed red pontiac.
Little did he
know that I was patiently waiting for just such a rash move, poised, as I was, to strike with my semi-automatic Hoechester
with an 8-foot-long stock butted against my shoulder.
Now was my chance!
Just as the unsuspecting yam -- now no more than a shuddering mass of quivering potassium-based vegetation, its swollen potato
eye squirting gelatinous, gummy semin in the direction of the sweet young thang -- began its carefree dance toward his love
interest, I scorched the calm air with a bark and a yowl as I catapulted from my nook by the tree. Taking two long steps,
I raised the hoe with both my arms and came down upon the bewildered yam with the edge of my hoe blade, slicing him in two
as quick as a hot knife through butter. The sweet potato, alarmed by my sudden burst from behind the tree, scurried away to
live another day.
Breathing heavily
from my battle to the end, having conquered one of Mother Nature's more savage beasts of the backwoods, I leaned up against
the nearest tree, stroking the sweat from my brow as I wondered how in the world I was going to get this leviathon of a yam
back home.
Oh well, I thought,
I'll just leave it for the scavengers; they need to eat too. So I slid my trusty hoe and my unused rake securely back in their
holsters and headed toward home, just a couple miles north.
About halfway
home, I wondered if the old lady had dinner fixed. Probably not, I thought, since all we had in the cupboard, refrigerator
and freezer were package after package of yam -- dried, frozen, ground, sliced, diced and microwavable. And she was sick of
eating it. But that was her problem.
As far as I was
concerned, I thought, I could eat that stuff every day, no matter how it was prepared. After all, a second thought followed,
"I yam what I yam."
THE END
Rick's Picks
The Best Of the Best Music
- "On Every Street," by Mark Knopfler and Dire Straits. Some of the most inventive, creative guitar
playing ever.
- "The Road To Hell," by Chris Rea, an English artist who made more than a dozen CDs, but who is known
for one song, "Fool That You Think It's Over," in the '80s. This CD is unique and powerful in its message and in its
ability to draw one into its mesmerizing listening experience.
- "Heart Of Gold," by Mark Knopfler, his first solo effort. The tune "Imelda" is perhaps the best song
he's ever written. Extreme.
- "Brothers And Sisters," by The Allmond Brother's Band. I met Dicky Betts in 1981; he bought ME a
beer.
- Anything by "Phish."
- Anything by Tom Waits, especially "Alice."
- "Triston Und Isolde" (The Love-Death Theme), by Richard Wagner. Hitler, our 20th-century
prominent romantic despot, dug this guy.
- Anything by Frank, both Sinatra and Zappa.
- "The Traveling Wilburys," volumes one and two. The best-ever super group (George Harrison, Roy Orbison,
Jeff Lynne and Bob Dylan). Only Lynne and Dylan are with the living.
- "Days Of Future Past (Passed?)," by the Moody Blues, a band of English lads who probably
corrupted me morally more than any other with their message of uncommitted loooooooooove. Saw them in Chicago in 1968
with a college friend, Mark Orewiler.
- The collective works of Richard Thompson, an English chap who writes inspiring melodies and lyrics.
- Moe.
- John Hiatt.
- Ben Harper.
- Bruce Cockburn.
- Anything by the amazing jazz pianist Oscar Peterson.
- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.
The Best Of The Best Movies
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"To Kill A Mockingbird": This film communicates on many levels, and reminds me of simpler
times, as far as the kids are concerned .
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"Rasputin And The Empress": Filmed in the '30s, Lionel Barrymore played one impressive mad monk,
an actor who hated his craft but did it better than anyone.
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"The Shining": Although not true to the book, it brought us the Jack Nicholson we know today. "Honey,
I'm home!"
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"Happy Gilmore": A silly Adam Sandler film that, regardless of his irrelevance, makes me laugh.
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"It's A Wonderful Life": Once you see it, it becomes a part of you, and we watch it over, and over,
and over...."
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"The Big Lebowski": Bizarre, funny, laid back.
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"The Path To Wellness": Same as above.
The Best Of The Best Books
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Anything by Kurt Vonnegut, simply for the entertainment value of his incredible storytelling
and his singular ability to build sentences with good stuff. So it goes.
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"Huckleberry Finn": I've read it only about a dozen times.
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All of James Michener, simply because he makes history palatable.
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"Trout Fishing In America," by Richard Brautigan, because he's terribly overrated
by a generation of stoners. You'll see why. But important culturally, nonetheless.
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"Death On The Prairie," a book I read in grade school about American Indians that truly
left its mark on me.
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"Welding With Children," by Tim Gautreaux, a Southern writer from Louisiana who writes
excellent short stories. He's Catholic, too. God bless him.
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"To Kill A Mockingbird," obviously.
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"Isaac's Storm," a nonfictional book about the worst-ever hurricane to reach U.S
shores (more than 8,000 in Galveston, Texas, perished). I checked the archives at the Huntingtin, Ind., library, looking over
microfilm of old local newspapers. The storm came in at Galveston and traveled northward up along the Mississippi River,
then veered east, blasting northern Indiana with high winds and much rain just two days after destroying Galveston. It exited
northeasternly through Maine to the Atlantic Ocean. It traveled several thousand miles, taking with it several thousand lives.
A movie I predict that will someday be made (prediction made 12/1/02) .
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Nothing by Stephen King.
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Ross Lockridge Jr.'s "Raintree County," one of the great American novels. He was born
in Bloomington; suffered from depression and killed himself.
Real Men: Beware!
The following was a ridiculous column by a closet
liberal at the Huntington Herald-Press, supposedly a conservative Republican newspaper. By the position taken here by the
No. 2 man at the paper, Associate Editor Dave Schultz, one has to wonder if the publishers, the Quayle family (of vice president
Dan Quayle fame), are aware of The H-P's hiring policies. This column appeared in the Nov. 14 issue of the Herald-Press.
You should also take note of the response to this nonsense by yours truly and a friend of mine, Galen Stoffel, who brought
it to my attention to begin with. Our tongue-in-cheek response appeared as a letter to the editor in the Nov. 19 edition
of The Herald Press.
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Note to Hootie:
Let women in
Hootie Johnson needs a solid dose of the Mans Prayer: Im a man ...
but I can change ... if I have to ... I guess.
This is where Augusta National, the private golf club that hosts
the Masters tournament each year, and Possum Lodge, the silly guys group on the Red Green TV show, can come together. They
open each Possum Lodge meeting with the Mans Prayer, and Im thinking that it might not be a bad idea for Augusta National
to adopt it as well.
Augusta National, for those who may not have heard, stands accused
of discrimination because it has not admitted a woman to its ranks. The club includes among its members at least one Congressman,
several captains of industry, and a whole bunch of guys with a whole bunch of influence.
Mr. Johnson, chairman of Augusta National, said this week that his
club is a private organization that can pick and choose who it wants as members. The selection of a female member is out in
the future, and he said the majority of Americans are with him on the issue.
Mr. Johnson backs his stance with a couple of odd items.
One is a telephone poll taken by the Lancaster, Pa.,
newspaper. Ninety percent of those responding (and if that doesnt indicate a flawed poll, nothing does) said that Augusta
National should not change its male-only policy.
The other thing that supports his stance is a poll, taken at the
clubs request, that showed that 74 percent of Americans said the club has the right to have members of one gender only.
The polls wording was equivalent to the Do you still beat your wife?
question. According to an Associated Press report, one official with the National Council of Public Polls said the Augusta
poll included terribly loaded questions with emotionally loaded words.
Leading the charge against the mens club is Martha Burk, who leads
the National Council of Womens Organizations. I realize that I will not pass the physical required for membership, but I have
never heard of the National Council of Womens Organizations until now. Everybody needs to make their mark somehow.
I will admit to being mystified by the entire process. I will also
tell you that I detest discrimination, no matter how its packaged.
Personally, I would not want to belong to an all-male organization.
I cant think of even one that I would care to belong to. I live in a complete society; I want any organization to which I
belong to reflect the completeness of that society. That includes women, people of various races, people of various ages,
and people of various abilities.
If I was a member of the Augusta National golf club, Id sit close
to the exit, hoping the meeting ends soon and I could get out and do something else. Anything else. Maybe play golf.
However and here is the mystifying part what are we to make of the
Junior League? Or, for that matter, the Boy Scouts or the Girl Scouts?
Johnson brought them up in his organizations defense, and it was
the only good point he made.
The Junior League, as I understand it, is composed of women usually
young women who do good works for a community. Should that organization be required to sexually integrate itself? How about
the Scouts, of either gender?
We have here in our town the Huntington Womens Club. Should we squeeze
its membership to admit men ?
I would distinguish Augusta National from those other groups in this
way its a golf club, for goodness sake. Last time I checked, both men and women played golf. A golf club should not be allowed
to discriminate. Period.
Hootie Johnson is wrong. Wrong, wrong, and incorrect.
Ill deal with the membership of the Junior League later. Ill have
to think about that some more.
Meanwhile, Hootie, youre a man, and you can change, if you have to,
I guess.
Dave Schultz is associate editor of The Herald-Press
Note to Schultzie: Leave Women Out |
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| To the editor:
Re: Dave Schultz' column, "Note to Hootie [Johnson, of Augusta National Golf Course]: Let
women in" (Nov. 14). Schultzie: Men are men and women are women; that's why they have different tee stations at golf courses. With that in mind, we the charter members of the newly formed men's club, The
Testosterones of Huntington County, announce to all concerned that we will not invite women to join our club because
of our deep respect for their delicate nature. Neither is Schultzie invited. There's another club he might want to consider,
a club inhabited by Schultzie-like thinkers, which we will avoid naming out of respect for his constitutional right
to call for a co-ed Augusta. Femme-Nazi Martha Burk is head of the National Council of Women's Organizations,
a little-known organization until the Augusta National fiasco came to her attention. She wants more than women members
at private men's clubs. She has written that she wants mandatory sterilization of males, and for reproduction
to be controlled by a panel of experts. Some guy in Germany more than 50 years ago wanted that, too.
Hers is a politically
correct crusade that deserves no attention from anyone with half a brain. But since Schultzie brought
it up, we at The Testosterones would like to remind him that the U.S. Constitution's First Amendment grants
freedom of association, and even the Supreme Court ruled that "freedom of association receives
[constitutional] protection as afundamental element of personal liberty," and "freedom of association
therefore plainly presupposes a freedom not to associate."
The United States is home to private women's health clubs, golf clubs,
schools and sororities. Do you really think men would want to, or should be, allowed to join these fine organizations? Do
you think that Red Green and the boys would fit in, or would even want to? We members of The Testosterones prefer
not to associate with these private female organizations. We Testerones wish to join them as much as they
hope we do not attempt to.
So
Schultzie believes that a golf organization should not be allowed to discriminate. That being the case, all of
us, men and women, should be allowed to join the Fort Wayne Country Club. Not all of us can,
though, because of monetary discrimination! So it goes.
Also, it might surprise
Schultzie to learn that women are invited as guests at Augusta, and played more than 1,000 rounds of golf without restricted tee times in 2001.
Let's let women be
women and men be men. We charter members of The Testosterones have noted the difference.
Meanwhile, Schultzie, you're one of the guys, and you don't have to change, if
you dont want to, we guess, but no matter what you do, you'll never get invited to join The
Testosterones.
Richard G. Beemer 5327W-200N Huntington Charter Member, The Testosterones Galen Stoffel 7165E-250N Andrews Charter Member, The
Testosterones Note: The last sentence did not appear in The Herald-Press.
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