I’m a patriot.  Not an in-your-face type kind of patriot, but more a hand on my heart, love it til I die kind of patriot.  I’ve enjoyed living in Australia, but everything is held versus the measuring stick that is my American experience.

I’m also not an emotional person.  You won’t see me showing public displays of affection.  Saying good bye to family and friends usually entails a slight nod of the head and a simple, “well, best be moving.”  I’ve heard jokes about some of our families pictures where we stand shoulder-to-shoulder, like a military review.

But I will admit, watching the sun rise out of the airplane window with the billowing clouds below was something to behold.  After being out of the country for over five months, seeing that first streatch of the California coast made me remember what an awesome and awe inspiring place that we live in.

There was a bit of a lump in my throat as the plane touched down and I said to no one imparticular, “It’s good to be home.”

Don’t get me wrong - the people were rude, cranky, the bathrooms stank, and part of the requirment for re-entry is to have to walk down seemingly endless random hallways and flights of stairs, but having that immigration officer look at my passport, ask me where I’m from, and nod at me and say, “Welcome home!” gave me goosebumps.

I sometimes cringe when I hear people complain about ‘Pax Americana’ or ‘Imperial America.’  As a citizen, I know as well as anyone her impefections and sins.  But it never fails to impress me that as much as I’m away, I certianly enjoy coming back home, where ever the stars and stripes wave, and freedom reigns.

 I expected them to tell me that I wouldn’t be able to make it out of town.  I expected them to say that the first flight they could get me on was going to be end of the week, or worse the next week.  They had done a good job of setting expectations low.

I debated with myself - should I make sure that I was ready to go?  Do the last of the packing and cleaning, or save it for when I knew I was leaving?

Futility seemed to be my middle name and I proceeded to clean and pack.

It wasn’t like I was going to be sleeping anyway.

After a couple of work calls, I went to bed, where I proceeded to stare at my cell phone for the next hour.

Finally, about one thirty, I couldn’t take it anymore.  I called the travel agency again.

“What’s your name?  Ok, let me pull up your information.” The agent said politely.

“Hold on, hold on.” She said, “The gentleman behind me was just typing you an email and wants to talk to you.”

“Hey,” The new agent said, “I didn’t want to wake you by calling in the middle of the night.”

“That wouldn’t have been a problem!” I replied truthfully.

“Well, we’ve got some good news; they gave us almost a full refund on all of your flights!”  We saved you a lot of money.

“That’s great!” I said, a bit worried, “But how am I getting home.”

“Well, let’s see.”  Working his magic with the computer and asking me a series of questions, he first managed to find a flight almost as expensive from Melbourne to Minneapolis as I had going around the world.

“That isn’t going to work.” I replied a bit discouragely.  In the end, I spend my company’s money like mine.  And I’m cheap.

“Well, let me see what else we can do.”  There was a long dramatic pause…..”Do you think you could make a 6am flight this morning?” He asked.

“You mean four hours from now?  Sure, my bags are all packed.” I replied.

“We can have you in Minneapolis by Tuesday afternoon (Minneapolis time)…for 25% of the original ticket price” He said.

“Book it.” I said.  “Just book it.  Book it now!”  Thanking him, I hung up the phone, did the last of the preparations (ate the last poppy seed horseshoe), grabbed my bags and was out the door.

I didn’t want to risk falling asleep and missing my flight!

I winged my way from Melbourne to Sydney, then Sydney to Los Angeles.

 Melvin made it over to my place a little after four and we started our drive across town with a set of directions, dutifully looked up online, that were less than perfect (or perhaps my navigation…).

None-the-less, we made it.

It was the most like home I had felt in a long time.  The beer and wine was cold.  The food, the food was great.

The first good sausage that I had since moving to Australia was sitting out on a plate of cheese.  Brochette was the appetizer.  And the main course - well, the main course was heaped on the table.  Coleslaw, Potato cakes, potato salad couscous, and the best darn steak I’d had in my first six months in Australia - grilled to perfection.  For desert, a Pavlova, and not some of the other pansy arsed pavlovas, this was the real deal - or at least it tasted like something that should be popular, a meringue covered with berries.

It was good.  It was very good.

But the food was only part of it.  The conversation was lively, varied, intelligent (without being pompous) humorous, and all together enjoyable.  The atmosphere was terrific - a great night in Australia, but Antony and his lovely wife have four very rambunctious but extremely well behaved children.

In short, it was a place that was not only welcoming, but also very comfortable.  It was a welcome repose from the crazy world that seemed to be lurking.

Whether it was the beer, wine, port, or the just the ease of the evening, but that night I slept well, I slept very well.

There wasn’t much that I could do.  Went to church.  Walked around town.  Picked up the last few gifts for friends and neighbors.  Waited.

Monday, went to work.  No one was surprised to see me.  Everyone knew of the air traffic situation in Europe, so no one was surprised.  Though some thought I would have taken the first plane to Minneapolis.

Oh yes, that was tempting.

Calling the travel agent again that had booked my round the world flight, the person on the other of the line was of little help, except to say that they would escalate my request…which meant that they would look at it right away the next morning at the head office in Minneapolis, so I should get a response between midnight and six am local time.

Perfect.  Another great night of sleep.

 Too exhausted to sleep, I made it back to my apartment and left for work.  Needed to make phone calls and get flights booked.  It wasn’t fun, nor was it productive.  After over an hour on hold, I explained my predicament to the agent, “They wouldn’t let me on the flight in Melbourne due to the ash cloud in Europe.”

“Well that just seems silly.” Was the reply.

“Have you seen what is going on in Europe?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes, but it is only ash.  I just got in today though.” Was the reply.

Not sure if I wanted to be the first person of the day to break the news to the guy that he was going to have a very busy and frustrating day, I asked what my options were if I wanted to make it to Minneapolis by the end of the week.

“Well there isn’t much I can do.  How about if we just book you on the first flight out of Melbourne going to Minneapolis?”

Boy that was tempting.

“What is the cost?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about that.  We’ll work with the airlines after the fact.” He replied.

I know how that usually works.

“How about something early next week.” I replied.

“Well, we could get you out maybe on Tuesday, maybe Wednesday, maybe Saturday.” He replied, then followed it with a, “Hey sir, I need to call you back.”

Uh-oh.

About an hour later, my phone rang.

“Sorry sir, we can’t get you booked anywhere.  We will need to call you back.” The man said.

“When?” I asked.

“Tomorrow.  Maybe.  Or Monday.” He said unconvincingly.

Puzzled, I asked, “What’s going on?”

“None of the airlines are answering.  Everything is on hold at the minute.  Until the ash cloud clears.”  He replied with a sound of panic in his voice…much different then cocky looking down his nose voice I had heard only a couple of hours earlier.

I was stuck.

So off to the Victoria Market.  If I was going to be stuck in town for a couple of days, I should at least make sure I was well fed.

Victoria Market is the large, open air market in Melbourne where you can get darn near anything.  I had my own routine.  Not knowing my plans, I was going light today - a little cheese, some poppy seed horseshoes, a few apples and pears, and a little lunch of three cheese rolls (small pastries with melted cheese inside), plus an apple roll for desert.

Walking home, I was ready for a nap - but was almost too exhausted to sleep.

The last thing that I needed that day was a barbeque - I was exhausted and mentally burned out. 

The only thing out weighing that fact was that I probably needed a barbeque, primarily because I was exhausted and burnt out.

 It is a bit surreal to be stranded in Australia because of a volcano in Iceland. 

It is one of those moments that you think you might tell your grandchildren about: “Was I around for the big flight disruption of 2010, shoot kids, your granddaddy was part of it.  Yessiree, was living in Australia and couldn’t get a flight to Europe.  What’s that?  Yes, we still had airplanes back then, not like these fancy teleportation devices you kids have.  I tell you, travel meant something back in my day…”

I digress…

So I was stranded in Melbourne.  I thought about that a little bit.  Stranded in a laidback city on the ocean with some of the best dining and cultural activities in the world.  Stranded in a place where I could sleep in my own bed, meet up with friends, and generally enjoy myself.

Versus sleeping on an airport floor in Singapore.

It is amazing how much perspective can change when you sit back and think through the ramification of the situation at hand.  There was a part of me that wanted to charge ahead, volcanoes be damned, and just push to try to make it to Geneva.  That was the stupid part of me.

As I left the line, I noticed that I missed a couple of phone calls and had a fresh email.

Melvin, the other American was frantically trying to get a hold of me, he was leaving the next day to fly back to the United States and back to his wife and friends.

“Guessing you didn’t leave. BBQ tonight at Antony’s.  Let me know if you are in.”

Life is good.  Life is very good.

The only thing to do was to grab a cab and head back to my apartment.  Of all of the things that I should have been feeling, the only thing that I was really feeling at the time was exhaustion. 

There is a certain amount of preparations that go into a trip like I was supposed to take.  Physically, had been trying to work out.  Personally, had been preparing for weeks to go home - buying the final gifts, lining things up.  Mentally, there is a great deal of preparation - it is a long flight, and your mind needs to be ready.  In a lot of ways, you need to brace yourself for the onslaught.  It had been two weeks since I had gotten a good sleep - part of it the stress of the conference in Geneva, a big part was the anticipation of seeing friends and family. To have it not happen was a mixture of relief and yet, not disappointment, but a sense that something had, perhaps thankfully, perhaps not, slipped by.

There was uncertainty to be sure, but at least the path for the next day or two was certain.  Sometimes, that is all you can count on in life.

 I received an Easter card that showed a group of men in beards and robes playing basketball.  The caption was: “During a Lively Game of Pick-up Basketball, Peter Denies Jesus Three Times.”

I imagine that the rest of the Apostles thought that it was a good joke when Jesus stopped calling Simon, Simon, and started referring to him as Peter - the rock.  Throughout the Gospel’s, Simon Peter comes across as anything but a rock.  He comes across as impulsive, arrogant, a good talker…and a so-so doer.

In the end, God has either a tremedous sense of humor or a great sense of irony.

Of all of the Apostles to choose as the leader of his chosen band of followers, he chose the one that the Gospels seem to point out as the loose cannon.  Even in the Easter story - you have the Peter and John, ‘the discipile whom Jesus loved’ rushing to the tomb.  Through it all, John was the perfect discipile…and yet, it was Peter that was chosen.

Not that it wasn’t painful for Peter.

Three times Peter was asked by Jesus by the fire on the shoreline, “Peter, do you love me?” and Peter was hurt that he had to be asked three times…but wasn’t it Peter that denied him three times in a row at the fire by the night of Jesus’s trail?

So Peter, far from being the rock, was made the leader of the early church and told to ‘feed the sheep.’

God must have sense of humor, or a sense of irony:

The king of the Jews, the savior of the world, born in a manger.

The leader of the persecution of the early church, Paul, turned into its greatest preacher.

The growth of the early church built, sometimes quite literally, on the tombs of the martyrs.

But isn’t it true today too?

Those of material wealth starved for love and affection.

Those of power and affluence leading lives of quiet desperation.

Those of money and riches that go in fruitless searching for spiritual guidance and direction.

In truth, just as Jesus makes Peter strong in his weakness, so he continues to do to this day.  Some of the happiness people I know are not people of material wealth, but are rich in spiritual wealth and love and compassion.  Some of the people that I respect and admire most, “gave up” affluence for a simpler life - of struggle and toil, but of worth far beyond money and fame.

We are weak, but He is strong.  We are impatient, but He tempers us.  We are sinners, He forgives.  We are unworthy, but by His death and His undying love, He makes us clean.

It wasn’t by chance that Simon became Peter, it was by love of his flock (”Feed my Sheep!”)…and maybe a little chuckle….perhaps over a lively game of pickup basketball….

 It was a bad, bad sign.  And I missed it.

There was a lineup of people outside of Southern Cross Station, the main rail hub into Melbourne, and while I wasn’t going to take the bus out to the airport, with too big bags loaded with trinkets and knick-knacks, I was splurging on a taxi; I had to go through Southern Cross Station to get to the taxi cue.  There were a lot of people, people with backpacks and bedrolls (swags as they call them down here), just lounging.

This was too be my big trip.  Sydney to Singapore to Paris to Geneva for a meeting, then on Friday, Geneva to Amsterdam to Minneapolis - back home amongst the green countryside of my birth.

I hadn’t been able to sleep in weeks!

With the volcanic ash situation from Iceland being reported down here holding up flights into London, I knew there was a chance that my plane could get delayed, but my thought was it would turn my one hour layover in Singapore into an overnight stay.  I had gone so far as to call our companies business line the night before to make sure that everything was still a go - and they laughed at me.  “Well of course!  All of your flights are right on time.  England is having most of the problems.  Paris is having some issues not that bad.”

Perfect.

Another sleepless night in Melbourne, then off to airport - Southern Cross Station - Taxi.

At the airport, there were lines.  A lot of lines.  I had seen Melbourne at its peak travel times before, but I wasn’t expecting that on a Saturday.  “Must be people leaving on vacation.” I said to myself, my Pollyanna smile as big as ever on my face.

I got in the line for “Domestic to International” flights - the line reserved for people that would fly through Sydney, but check their baggage to destination.  It was long.  Very, very, very long.  It was well staffed too.  All four counters open.  My Pollyanna smile still on my face, I waited.  A long time.

Getting up to the front, and a little nervous because my flight time was approaching, the wary lady at the counter asked me where I was going - “Sydney.” I replied, “Then on to Singapore, Paris, and finally Geneva.”

The look of wariness on the agents face turned into a look of panic.  “You didn’t get a call?  No phone call?  Let me look at my list.”  Scanning through a thick book of names, she looked up and said with some fear, “I want you to talk to a manager.”

A little small talk later, and her manager was on the spot and looking ready for a battle.

“I’m sorry sir; we cannot let you get on that plane.  You might get to Sydney, you might get to Singapore, but you won’t get to Paris, and all of the hotels are full in both Sydney and Singapore and there are people all over the terminals.”

They both took a bit of a fighter’s stance as they prepared for the expected string of curses and foul language (which in hindsight I had heard quite a bit of that morning from the other lines).

“Really!”  I said laughing.  “Volcano?  Well, any chance of things clearing up?”

“No one is telling us anything right now.  All I know is that you aren’t making it to Paris today, and my best source of information is from Skynews and it sounds bad.  Really bad.” The manager said.

“Oh well.” I said.

“Do you have a place to stay here?” The manager asked.

“I live here, I have an apartment.  That isn’t a problem.  Good luck to you guys.  It can’t be fun.” I replied.

“Thank you for your cooperation.  It is nice.” The manager said as they waved me away.

The cute lady working the counter hollered out a thank you as well and added, “Let us know if there is anything else we can do!”

I need to get better at asking for telephone numbers….

 Two days into my world tour, and here I am…in Melbourne.  Still in Melbourne.  I was suppose to be in Geneva already, with two continents and three stops in the rearview mirror already.

But alas, the Iceland volcano has other ideas.

My conference has been canceled.  My flight home remains in limbo.  In short, it is frustrating.

That said, I really can’t complain.  It is a matter of safety - volcanic ash can rip apart plane engines.  I could be one of the thousands stuck sleeping in airports (instead of safely in my apartment, writing, reading, and listening to a mix of Hunters and Collectors, Jason Aldean, Switchfoot, Jack Johnson, George Strait, and Good Charlotte).

Am I worried about getting home?  Yes.  But things will work out.

One thing is certain, this volcano is a pain in the ash.

 ”Aren’t you going to wear your FarmHouse pin today?”  My oldest brother questioned innocently.

“No.  Not today.”  I replied curtly.

“You’re suppose to wear it.” His wife chimed in.

“Not today.” Was all I could reply.

Both of us had joined FarmHouse when we were in college.  My older brother back in the early eighties, me in the mid ninties, and while the people in the house had completely turned over - several times - the values, morals, and principles were as rock solid then as they were ninety years earlier when seven young men in Missouri decided to start a fraternity - a brotherhood - based on building the whole man, spiritually, intellectually, physically, socially, and morally.

But that day, fifteen years ago, was Mom’s funeral, and that day, I believed I wasn’t a FarmHouse member, or an NDSU student, or anything else beyond my mother’s son.  There would be no pins, no affliations, but my faith and my family.

I couldn’t find the words to explain that to my brother and his wife, both still wondering why no fraternity pin on my lapel.

In truth, I hadn’t been a good to my FarmHouse brothers.  My mother had been sick for a long time.  She was sick when I joined.  I never warned them.  I never told them what was happening.  I hadn’t been, as our object states, “Honest with myself, as with my brothers.”  I had considered not joining - not wanting to expose my friends to someone whose mother was dying.  For college freshmen, there was enough other things to deal with, I didn’t want to cause additional grief in an already stressful time.  But I joined anyway.

Quietly we sat at the funeral home, for the final prayers and rosary.  We had a few moments to give our last good byes, then we left for St. Micheals, the church that my father’s family had help to build.  Where three generations had been baptized, married, and laid to rest.

Walking in, I saw faces of family, and neighbors, of my folk’s friends and people through the community…and three rows of my FarmHouse brothers in their Sunday best.

There is a lot of things that I have burned in my mind about that day, a lot of people, faces, words, and memories - and most of them not just pleasant, but uplifting (my faith tells me that the funeral isn’t an end, only the end of our pilgrimage here on earth).

But it was pretty clear that I owed a deep debt to my fraternity, to my brothers.

A few days later, my father, not one for unnecesary praise, said, “That was pretty impressive.  All of the neighbors are talking about it.  They even gave a check to MCCL (my mother’s favorite cause).  That’s pretty nice.”

As FarmHouse celebrated 105 years April 15^th, I think the founders too would see acts like that, and the hundreds of acts that take place daily, by the individuals and by the chapters as a sign that their goal of building the whole man is still very much alive.  For those of us on the receiving end, it is, in some ways, a debt that can never be repaid, except by trying our feeble best to carry on the work laid down 105 years ago.

 Victoria, the state on the very southeastern corner of Australia, where Melbourne resides, is the second smallest of the Australian states (Tasmania is smaller), but has the second largest population and the second largest city…Melbourne, which is due to overtake Sydney as the largest city within the next five to ten years.

Melbourne was nothing but a muddy/dusty little city in the middle of a wilderness when the residents of Victoria petitioned for statehood.  New South Wales, the first settlement, seemed at first to be glad to be rid of their troublesome settlers to their south…

Of course, Victoria became a state about three months before gold was found in the fields about one hundred kilometers outside of Melbourne.

Soon the city and the region swelled.

Thousands of immigrants, from Europe, Asia, and North America clamored for ships going to Melbourne to join the great gold rush.  Ships lay anchored and abandoned in the harbor with their crews leaving them to rot as they all went to make their fortunes.

The center of the gold fields was the city of Ballarat.

Visiting Ballarat today is seeing a shadow of its once greatness.  Looking out over the aging town, it is hard to imagine the hillsides covered in tents and hundreds of thousands of people scratching the dirt, looking for gold.

The three largest attractions in the town still revolve around the quest for gold.  As a history fan, I just had to go.

As me and my American co-worker made our way out of Melbourne (try navigating the city without using the toll roads…not impossible, but impractical…), we headed through the suburbs, past Bacchus Marsh (the Roman good of wine), and on to Ballarat.

The first stop was the Eureka Stockade - the site of the famous (actually, not just famous, but IN famous) sight of the first and only armed revolt in Australian history.

Like any good government, England was trying to extract money from their colonists to provide for roads, infrastructure and security for the growing, rather, exploding colony of Victoria.  To that end, they instituted a claim tax.  Every prospector had to pay a tax on their claim, monthly, or face fine of prison time.

For a miner, that was a tough pill to swallow…especially if you hadn’t found any gold.

A series of events lead to open revolt, where the miners elected to fight the government with force to prevent their taxation without representation (Americans, sound familiar?).  Building a stockade in the middle of mining camp and flying the flag of the Southern Cross, they declared that the oppression would stop then and there.

That is when the massive assault by the British cavalry and infantry took place a couple of days later.

The revolution was done.

Kind of.

The ring leaders were let off by a jury in Melbourne.  The oppressive taxes were lifted and changed.  In short, the freedoms that the men died for actually came to pass and the revolution, while not causing a new nation, caused an old one to stand up, take note, and make the changes that the people wanted.

Being a selfish American, I’m glad that the British didn’t make that decision one hundred years earlier in Boston….