“….to sleep;–To sleep! perchance to
dream:–ay, there’s the rub….”

—Shakespeare, “Hamlet”
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I am a light sleeper. Have been for decades. After retiring to bed, it usually takes me a while to drift off. I toss and turn. Doze, then start suddenly, wide awake, my relaxed brain flooding with the worries and problems of the previous day. Issues from work, some call I forgot to return, or whatever. Often I wake up around 4 or 5 AM, suppos-edly the ideal time for the most productive deep sleep. When that happens, I usually doze fitfully again until the alarm blares at 5:40.

Lack of sound sleep has afflicted me most of my adult life. As a teenager, and later an adult living in my parents’ home, I regularly burned my bedroom oil-flame lamp late into the night, reading whatever I could get my hands on. Lots of trash. Some good stuff, real literature. While such late-night reading was greatly beneficial for my self-education, the price ultimately was steep. An accumulated lack of sleep.

Sleeplessness runs in the family, I think. My father often stayed up until midnight or later, pounding away on his typewriter. He did a great deal of his writing after supper in his little office, the mantle lantern hissing above him. As the rest of us went to bed, the clacking and dinging of his typewriter reverberated faintly through the walls. (What the man could have done with a computer will never be known.) But he was always the first one up, well before sunrise, hollering into our bedrooms at the boys to get up for morning chores.

Sometime around 2001-02, Ellen and I bought a Select Comfort mattress, the kind Rush always brags about on his world renowned, growing-by-leaps-and-bounds radio program. The mattress was a king-sized model. I still use it. It’s probably the best bed I’ve ever owned, although not quite as magical as advertised (by Rush or anyone else).

I never sleep well in hotel beds, either. So when I went to the 4-day Timonium Horse World Expo in Baltimore last week, I expected the usual. I booked a room at the Holiday Inn Select in North Baltimore, located about a block from the trade show. The first night, I retired around 10. I stretched out on the king-sized mattress and pulled up the soft comforter. Amazingly, and quite unexpectedly, I fell asleep almost instantly. And slept like a baby all night, without waking up once.

I couldn’t believe it. I briefly examined the bed on Friday morning before heading out for the day. Looked like a regular, cheap motel bed. It did have some kind of pad on top of the mattress. “Oh well,” I thought, “probably a fluke. We’ll see how I sleep tonight.”

I stayed at the Holiday Inn for three nights, and slept better those three nights than I have for many, many years. I stopped at the front desk to inquire about the bed one evening. The dreadlocked, droopy clerk didn’t know and didn’t care. He eyed me suspiciously through his tiny round spectacles. I’d have to ask housekeeping, he said, stifling a yawn. Oh, yeah, housekeeping. If I could only communicate with them. The maids I saw were talking another language.

I raved about the mattress on the trade floor to my neighboring vendors. One lady told me the pad on top of the mattress was called Memory Foam, and that it was available in stores like JC Penney and Boscov’s. Now I was getting somewhere.

I always take a day off after doing a trade show. So on Monday afternoon, after hitting the gym for the first time in six days, I headed to the mall to find a Memory Foam pad. Penney’s didn’t have them. I wandered into Boscov’s next. I walked into the household goods section and approached a matronly sales lady.

“Memory Foam?” she responded pleasantly to my inquiry. “Sure we have it. Right there.” She pointed to a stack of various sizes.

Trying to look as helpless and forlorn as possible, I asked some questions as to what I should buy. Kate, the sales lady, was a quite helpful, and I soon selected a Queen sized, 2-inch thick pad and a cover spread. Kate assured me that I could try it for a few weeks and return it if it was unsatisfactory.

After paying for the items, I realized they were too big to fit in a bag. No problem, Kate claimed, as she taped some chintzy-looking plastic handles on both. I expressed doubt as to whether the handles would hold.

“Why, Mr. Wagler,” Kate scolded, “have I given you any indication that I don’t know what I’m doing?”

I chuckled and confessed that indeed she had not given me any such indication. And apologized for my lack of faith. The chintzy little handles held up well as I trundled from the mall, the boxes banging against my legs.

I wasted no time installing the Memory Foam on my bed when I got home. The verdict after a few nights: A definite improvement, but not quite as good as whatever was on that hotel bed. I may have to try the 4-inch pad.
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Some of you may have wondered why no updates were posted on Anne Marie Zook’s brain tumor diagnosis. The tumor results were returned several weeks ago. At the time, Paul and Anne Marie requested that I refrain from mentioning anything publicly until further notice, as they needed a few weeks to gather their thoughts in relative privacy. They have now given me permission to post.

The test results, or pathology report, as it’s otherwise known, revealed that Anne Marie has a rare form of cancer that is expected to return. Upon meeting with the surgeon and the radiation oncologists, they learned that because of the tumor’s location, vital parts of the brain would need to be radiated as well. Possible side effects could include loss of all cognitive functions, cataracts, or complete blindness.

Paul and Anne Marie have decided to treat the tumor naturally, with a rigorous herbal program and a diet of raw fruits and vegetables. I respect that decision. And support it. Those of us who have not faced such a dilemma would do well to hold our tongues, if what we have to say is negative criticism.

They are doing well. Amazingly upbeat, actually. Anne Marie’s parents, who had tra-veled from their home in British Columbia for a few weeks during and after the oper-ation, will return next week to be with their daughter and provide support and assist-ance. Whatever the future holds, Paul and Anne Marie will face it together. And I will be there for my friends as they have always been there for me.
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The Super Bowl scene shook out last weekend. (Those of you who don’t like to read about football may skip this section.) The evil Patriots. And the Giants. Contrary to popular opinion, I think it will be a close, hard fought game.

I deeply respect the game of football. It resembles life. Or war. Which life seems to resemble sometimes. In the game, the offense keeps plugging away, trying to gain at least ten yards in three plays for the first down. It can keep plugging away all the way down the field until the goal is scored. Or it can go for a deep strike, eating up many ten-yard chunks in one play. It’s never too late to get into the game. Well, almost never. A team may be behind by three or four touchdowns and figure it all out and still win the game. Like war. Like life.

And now I must do a most difficult thing. Acknowledge the greatness of the Patriots. I despise the coach, the quarterback, and all the other players. But they are without a doubt the greatest team ever to play the game. Ever, in the history of the NFL. To do the impossible, as they have done this perfect season, demands respect, if not rever-ence. It will not soon happen again. Just too much parity in the league.

With one more win, Tom Brady will go down as the greatest quarterback of all time. Just a fact, when all the stats are in. Greater than Montana, Bradshaw, Favre, Elway and Marino. And Manning. The guy is a warrior. And a winner. He girds for war. He leads his troops. He gets the ball to where it needs to go. He does what it takes to win. By thirty points or three, it’s still a win. And all counts the same.

Now the Giants. I don’t particularly care for them. Or particularly despise them. Pretty ambivalent, actually. I don’t much like Tom Coughlin, the coach. I thought the Giants were nuts last year to extend his contract by one year. But somehow, he made the right moves, called the right plays and got his players believing. Right now he has the last laugh. I do like and respect Eli Manning. I like both the Manning boys. Southern gentlemen. Mannerly. Nice guys. And they can throw the football.

In the Giants-Packers game, I was interested in only one thing. Which team has a shot at beating the Patriots? It was clear after the first quarter that the Giants were the ones, so I cheered them on. They outplayed the Pack all night and the game should never have gone into overtime. Of all teams, the Giants fear the Patriots the least. They will play them hard. And tough. Until the Patriots lose, they are the unquestioned favorites. But don’t be surprised if the Giants bristle. I expect them to. And they might actually pull it off.
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My parents, along with my oldest brother Joseph and his family, moved to Mays Lick, Kentucky this week. Thanks to my sisters Rhoda and Rachel for helping them get packed for the move. And thanks to my sisters Maggie and Naomi for meeting them at their destination and helping them settle in.

Dad and Mom plan to spend a few weeks in Florida soon. I am glad they can go, as traveling to Florida for the winter was forbidden by the church “Ordnung” in the Bloom-field, Iowa community where they formerly resided. Forcibly preventing 80-plus year old people from enjoying the healthy benefits of a warmer climate during the brutal winter months makes no sense, any way you look at it.

It is an oppressive and abusive church policy, implemented decades ago for what may then have been semi-legitimate reasons, whose time has passed. (Old folks shouldn’t go to Florida so the youth aren’t tempted to go too, and be wild and dress “English” and drive cars and such. Which makes little sense from what I’ve seen; the youth who want to go do so regardless.) An outdated relic of a policy, now enforced by a simple raw lust for power and total control over the most mundane aspects of other peoples’ lives. A shameful policy that should be abolished. As it would be if honestly evaluated.

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