Thursday, December 30, 2010

What I learned in 2010

When I was out trying to get elected to public office several of Robert Fulghum’s book titles kept entering my mind: “What On Earth Have I Done,” “Maybe (Maybe Not),” “Uh-Oh,” and “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.”

This is what I learned in 2010

- Walking/biking/fresh air (blah, blah, blah) really are good for you.

- One barking dog may be safe to approach; two is less likely; five – you should stay in your vehicle with the windows rolled up (I didn’t); twelve dogs running down the driveway towards you – well that’s just ridiculous.

- “I’m sorry, they’re not my dogs,” is not something you want to hear after you were just told, “don’t worry these dogs are fine.”

- According to the emergency room physician, if I’m careful I will be able to play the piano after a dog bit my hand. Gee, I always wanted to play the piano.

- People tell me I look like my dad (they must mean the younger version when he was in his 30’s and 40’s).

- You can’t judge a person by their shelter.

- You can hear people swear when their windows are open, “Who the %#@& is at the door now?”

- There are people so lonely they will invite a stranger into their home just to have someone to talk to, someone who will listen. We didn’t talk politics.

- A good teacher is never forgotten. “Your mom was a lovely lady. She was my first grade teacher,” was a comment I heard from several people.

- A stuck doorbell can be unstuck with a pocket knife before it chimes five times.

- Life is all about relationships.

I could, and probably will, expand on some of these topics. But for now, let me tell you about the last one. I witnessed many interactions between family members as they encountered me. My favorite involved a father and son.

It was on a Saturday, and I was biking around one of the towns. When I rode up to one house I saw two men painting an old garage. As I approached them the younger one (about my age) asked if I was there to help. I told them that I wasn’t very good at that kind of thing, but that I could go get my wife, who is a skilled painter

I then introduced myself to them. The younger one explained that he didn’t live there.

“It’s my dad’s place,” he said as he nodded toward his father. “I’m just helping him paint the garage.”

“I’m helping you,” his dad said, as he shuffled past into the garage to get something.

“Well, you are a good son,” I told him.

“Well, he’s been a good father,” he said. “He’s kind of slow, but we have a good time.”

I wanted to stay with them a while longer and share their good time – but they had work to do and I had other people to bother; so I gave them my piece of political propaganda and walked back to my bike. I don’t remember every stop, or every conversation of the campaign, but I’ll never forgot that good father and good son.

What I want is to be known as a good son, a good father, a good husband, a good friend…

It’s not what you get (at Christmas or any other time) – it’s the giving through your living that matters. Keep Christmas with you all through the year; I learned this from Sesame Street when my kids were little.

God Bless Us, Every One!

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Away in my barn

Merry Christmas! Last year, I used some of my Christmas-gift money and bought a snow blower for my tractor. I don’t have a cab on the tractor so I usually get a face-full. This year I got smart and now wear ski goggles and a face mask. I still get covered with snow but at least my eyes and face stay dry.

With all of the snow removal required by this old-fashioned winter we have been “enjoying,” I have been kept from some of my other duties: baking Christmas cookies, trimming the Christmas tree and addressing Christmas cards. I had to have Rhonda do those this year.

But I have found time to prepare the barn for some guests. It’s not that I don’t have room in our house and expect expectant mothers to find comfort in the barn and lay their newborn babies in a feed trough; no, nothing like that. Jennifer, our daughter, is getting married next spring and we are having the reception and dance in the 80-year old barn loft. So with that on the horizon the loft must be made ready to welcome friends and family.

Lest you think clearing an old loft out sounds easy, allow me to set you straight: It isn’t. The loft of a barn can accumulate many things over time. Some stuff came with the place when we bought it almost 20-years ago (dirt, dust, cobwebs, straw stubble, hay seeds, scraps of wood and old farm tools), some items were donated (grand-parents’ and parents’ furniture), and some things we just put up there because there was room (a VW Bug with assorted parts I had disassembled before I got distracted, ladders, ping-pong table, sleds, bikes, etc., etc., and etc.).

The furniture was divided into three groups, one collection for each of our children who promised to take it with them when they got their own place, and one bunch we gave to the thrift store. The nice thing about the thrift lot is that I was fairly confident that once it was unloaded I would not have to touch it again. For the other stuff, I knew we would meet again.

Amazingly, we were able to find space for everything in another building. Once it was empty it became obvious that parts of the loft floor needed repair. Fortunately, I keep a supply of lumber in the lower part of the barn for “just in case.” The problem with doing that is that it can get out of control. This is due to the possibility that you may actually use a hoarded piece, even if that’s only as often as when a census is decreed. This only leads to saving more pieces for a future unknown use. I once read about a man who was cleaning his deceased grandfather’s garage attic. The grandson came across a box marked “too small to save.” In the box were pieces of wood that were apparently too small to save for anything but to fill the box.

Once the loft was empty we started sweeping, dusting, and coughing. Even with both 44-foot doors open (I may be a exaggerating a little on the size) visibility was reduced to zero at times. In between dust storms I glanced towards my daughter as she swept the wood floor with her broom. It was a little hard to focus as I had something in my eye. Next spring, as she moves among her guests, the bottom of her white dress will brush against the clean loft floor. I don’t know if goggles will help keep my eyes and face dry.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

Not My Favorite Song

I like things to make sense - to have some logic, some consistency. I get cross when confronted with something that defies my own limited sense of order. Since so much of what we experience this time of year has a Christmassy feel to it, (a blizzard is means we’re going to have “a white Christmas”; many conversations comment about getting your Christmas shopping done - I haven’t it). To be consistent I thought I would stay on task (seems logical) and talk about Christmas music.

Everyone has their favorites (mine includes anything from “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” by Vince Guaraldi), and most everyone has their least favorite (the list gets longer as Christmas approaches).

One song I hear with too much frequency is “My Favorite Things,” from the “Sound of Music.’ I like the move and I like the song, but I contend it is not a Christmas song. I have had this conversation with anyone who will not walk away from me when I bring it up (the list gets shorter as Christmas approaches).

Sometimes the conversation turns into an argument with me defending my position from those who haven’t thought about this enough.

“Charlie Brown? Are you serious?”

“Who made me you the Christmas song sheriff?

Well, first of all, the songs from “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” are different – the cartoon actually was a Christmas show. And secondly, remember this column is just about me sharing my opinion (you are welcome to share yours even if it’s wrong).

Now let’s examine the lyrics together and see if you don’t agree (my comments are added):

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens; (roses are covered with snow, kittens don’t make great gifts).
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens; (are we boiling water for a Christmas tea? Mittens are wintery – so maybe that verse works).
Brown paper packages tied up with strings; (Christmas gifts delivered to your door, or just a poor wrapping job?).
These are a few of my favorite things. (the song title).

Cream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudels; (ponies don’t make great gifts either, and is apple strudel, crisp or otherwise, a holiday traditon in your house?).
Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles; (doorbells – now who’s here? Sleighbells are jingle bells so that works. Schnitzel is an Austrian fried meat dish which is sure to upset your holiday vegan guests).
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings; (the geese are flying south – you know what that means, Christmas is just around the corner).
These are a few of my favorite things. (So we heard).

Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes; (are these girls going to a holiday party? If so, white is out of season and blue sashes,satin or otherwise, are so 1938).
Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes; (OK, this and the next verse are certainly seasonal with the images they create).
Silver-white winters that melt into springs; (It sounds more like April than December).
These are a few of my favorite things. (Thank you, I get it).

When the dog bites, (I’ve been bitten by a dog, and although it hurt it did not put me in the Christmas spirit).
When the bee stings, (Who gets stung by a bee this time of year?).
When I'm feeling sad, (Many people get depressed at Christmas time, so this verse is timely).
I simply remember my favorite things, (Not getting what you want for Christmas – that can make anyone sad).
And then I don't feel so bad. (I do when I hear this song at Christmas).

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Gift Idea

Every Christmas most of us struggle with the same problem: what to buy for the person who seems to have everything or they don’t want anything. The good news is I believe I have discovered the perfect gift (to give, but not necessarily to receive). lawn ornaments. Now before you throw the idea out like a cheap pink flamingo please allow me to regale you with the benefits.

This idea occurred to me as I traveled from town to town. Many yards and lawns had displays that could not be defined by any theme. Along side a purple dragonfly would be a plywood cut-out of a woman in a red polka-dot dress proudly displaying her back-side as she tended the flowers.

What makes lawn ornaments such a great gift is that it leaves everyone off the hook –the receiver can love it or not, it doesn’t matter; you tried, and you had fun making your selection. If the recipient doesn’t like it they can hide it under a bush or re-gift it and plead ignorance as to its whereabouts. Of course, they may really be fond of it and display it prominently. Again, it doesn’t matter.

This category can include anything to enhance the yard of those on your gift list. Obviously this is not for children, kids don’t want that junk, get them some toys, books, mittens; it’s for the adults – homeowners. The possibilities are vast and varied which means that it is entirely likely that your gift will be unique, if not despised.

I suggest you avoid purchasing birdfeeders or bird baths. These require maintenance (filling and cleaning), so if the recipient wasn’t mad at you initially they will be. I’m thinking more along the lines of something you can put outside and forget it.

I am sure you will find something that fits your taste and budget. I have seen yard gnomes, frogs, elves, dogs, fairies and heard enough wind chimes to have a pretty good idea what’s available. Of course for the real crafty you can make your own decorations, using everyday household junk and recyclable material. These seem to be highly collectable/collectible (either spelling is correct) as they can be found everywhere.

There are, of course, commercially available gifts in the outdoor category. I was at one home that had a park bench with a life-size bronze Mark Twain reading Huck Finn right there in their yard - very classy.

My favorite frog “sculpture,” was a grouping of three. One was reading a book (The Frog Prince?), another was enjoying a cup of tea, and the third one was daydreaming or merely reflecting on the day. I took a picture. I think frogs are better choices than toads – unless you are trying to send a different message with your gift.

If you’re lucky, you may even inspire someone to start a collection; because once you get a collection started you’re home free. From there on in anything remotely connected to the theme is acceptable. I tried to get my wife, Rhonda, to embrace the idea of collecting ornamental chickens. As she already had the real, live kind I thought it was the perfect coop compliment. Many of my chicken gifts have found homes among the shrubbery hidden from neighbors who may otherwise covet them.

Several years ago one of our friends gave us a large, metal sculpture shaped like a pineapple, the symbol of hospitality, as a gift. I didn’t want people to get the wrong idea so I hid it under a bush. However, I am sure it was a thoughtful and expensive gift.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Tort or Tart

Tort Reform is a subject not easily handled in a short newspaper column by a non-expert. So sue me.

Tort reform, among other things, may restrict the type of lawsuits filed, the amount of the award, and may require the accusing party to pay for the legal fees of the defending party if the accuser loses.

A tort is a wrongful act or an infringement of a non-contractual right leading to legal liability. A tort should not be confused with the word tart which has several different meanings: sharp in taste, a cutting or sarcastic remark, a pastry, or a promiscuous woman. If you called your waitress a tart because she served you a sour lemon dessert which caused you to pucker painfully, both of you may be guilty of a tort.

But this is neither a food nor a legal advice column. It’s more of a “what I think about that,” column.

I try and resist the temptation of the easy buck through litigation, but sometimes it’s hard to avoid. This summer while knocking on doors in vain (or was it vainly knocking on doors?), I walked up a flight of steps from the sidewalk to get to the front door of a house. On the top step was a skateboard just waiting to launch me, an unwary traveler, into space. I laughed out loud while I looked for the hidden camera.

Once I had finished my business with the front door I wisely avoided the skateboard/concrete stairs combination and cut through the yard to the next house. I normally try and “stay off the grass,” but I thought trespassing was a better choice than breaking my … tailbone.

Recently I have had several opportunities to join a class-action lawsuit club. This is where a group of people, who supposedly share a common grievance, get together and sue whoever they think is responsible for the perceived wrong they have received.

Sometimes it’s about an investment I don’t ever remember making, other times it’s an advertisement wanting me to consider whether asbestos may have impaired my health. I’m not sure if I have ever come in contact with asbestos. It’s best not to think about it, but I lay awake at night wondering about it. This lack of sleep is affecting my health. I may have to seek legal counsel and sue the TV network, the ad agency, and the law firm who are all making me paranoid.

Many times statements are made in commercials to entice people to buy a product, or at least provide some separation between similar products. Consider M&M’s for a moment. They claim that their candy “melts in your mouth, not in your hand.” Well that’s not true; I’ve tried it. If you hold them long enough in a tight fist they’ll melt. But really, is it something to sue the candy man over?

Are Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes “Great,” as Tony would have us believe? Those delicious corn flakes with the sugary layer on top are occasionally part of my balanced breakfast. But are they great? Hardly, they’re just pretty good. In fact, I can think of many other cereals I like much better, but that’s another column.

One ad informed me I may be entitled to benefits if I had purchased a certain brand of razor five or six years ago. It seems the guilty razor company stretched the truth as they stretched your whiskers when they claimed their razor could give you a shave so close that strange women would want to touch your face.

Maybe tart reform is the real issue here.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Pursuing Happiness

Hi there. It’s nice to be back in the paper as a writer instead of one running for office.

If you’re wondering where I’ve been then my 512 vote deficit makes more sense than ever.

In May I told you I was taking a break from writing to chase another dream. For some time I have wanted to throw my hat into the ring for elected office. The hat didn’t fit and I lost. But as my brother Dan reminded me, I gained a lot. One of those things is an almost endless supply of stories. So watch this space for complete details.

This desire to run for office is/was (I’m not sure yet) part of my pursuit of happiness. It’s not that I am unhappy, or that I haven’t found happiness. My wife, Rhonda, says it’s because I am not content. I disagree. For me being content means learning, growing and experiencing new things. Life offers so many opportunities, so many choices, that to find what you are looking for means you may have to take a road less traveled from time to time.

When I was in college I was involved in student government. I liked that experience so much that I wanted to do something similar after I graduated. But as timing is everything, I chose to wait. First came love, then came marriage, then came two babies in a baby carriage(s). It occurred to me sometime during this period that I had certain responsibilities that must be fulfilled: I was a young husband, Dad to two children and the provider. Plus, I was at peace, so I decided to wait. Thirty years can fly by pretty fast.

While I waited I discovered more pressing matters that needed my attention. I changed diapers (three times), gave baths, tucked my kids in at night, read bedtime stories, made up stories, played make-believe, went to the library, went to the zoo, played games, camped, went to plays, recitals, school sports, laughed, wrestled, watched kids shows, swam, had picnics and bonfires, celebrated twenty-seven years of marriage, tended to the needs of parents as they aged, and watched my kids grow up.
Some things are worth waiting around for.

So now I am faced with a dream that has been dashed. I have gone through the five stages of losing an election:

Denial. “Now let’s just wait until all the votes have been counted.”

Anger. “Fine, I didn’t want it anyway.”

Bargaining. “Perhaps there has been some mistake, maybe if I ask for a recount.”

Depression. “I’ll be in my room covered with heavy blankets.”

Acceptance. “Fine, I didn’t want it anyway.”

When I was out campaigning people would answer the door with a variety of greetings. “Dad, it’s a politician.” (politician? I hate that word.) “Tell him I also I like to write,” I would yell through the screen door. One time a young woman answered the door, “Make it quick. I’m giving my baby a bath.” “Run,” I said as I threw a brochure at her (like I need that on my conscience). And the one that always threw me off my game, “What do you need?” “Umm, I just wanted to introduce myself,” I said. “I really don’t need anything.”

Mick Jagger and Keith Richards wrote:

You can't always get what you want.
But if you try sometimes you might find
you get what you need.

In losing this election I may find that although I didn’t get what I want, I got what I need. I lost by 512 votes. But I’m happy writing 600 words.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Belle Plaine Rotary

This week I was invited (or maybe I invited myself and they were too polite to say no), to speak to the Rotary club in Belle Plaine. I had a lot of fun., and the food was fantastic. Some of the same people who were members when my Dad was a Rotarian are still there.

Thomas Wolfe wrote, "you can't go home again." Going back home is never the same, but many of the same faces and feelings are still there. I think you can go home again - you just have to be ready for some changes.

Speaking of which (how's that for a shameless transition?), people ask me what kind of changes I would implement if elected. I am not as interested in changing things as I am in improving them. Our roads could be better, we could strengthen our law enforcement with more officers and patrol cars, and we could be better stewards of the citizen's tax dollars.

I plan on picking up my yard signs in a day or two, please let me know if you would like one (it would be better if you lived in the district). Thanks for your help, Jerry

Thursday, June 10, 2010

On the trail

Hi, today I was in New Prague where I met with some folks who work at City Hall. One of the reason’s New Prague is such a cool town is that the people who take care of the town’s business really care about their town. Combine that with a fabulous school system and it's easy to see why New Prague stands out as a place where people want to live. I want to help build their tax base with commercial activity by making it a desirable place to bring business where jobs can be created.

After I spent some time at City Hall I went to the golf course in town where I spoke to the Rotary club. They were a very polite group – they laughed at all the right parts. Plus, I had a nice lunch and was serenaded with a song.

Today I ordered some campaign literature, so soon I may be knocking on your door and handing some reading material. For those of you who live in district one please let me know if you would agree to have a sign in your yard.

In summary, I don’t think it felt very summery today. Thanks for your help – remember to have fun.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Announcement

PRESS RELEASE

Jerry Kucera has announced that he will run for Scott County Commissioner against incumbent Joe Wagner and Joe Thill.

“Because I’m not your average Joe I believe I can bring a fresh perspective to the County Board,” said Jerry.

Jerry and his wife Rhonda live on a hobby farm in Sand Creek Township. Rhonda is a substitute teacher in the Jordan school district. Their daughter, Jennifer, is a kindergarten teacher in New Prague, and their son, Nathan, will be student teaching in Jordan and Belle Plaine this fall.

Jerry was born and raised in Belle Plaine, graduating from high school there in 1977. He received a degree in Speech Communication from St. Cloud State University where he also studied Political Science and History. He has been a State Farm Insurance agent in Shakopee since 1985.
“My 25 years of experience helping people protect their resources and preserve their income allows me to serve the citizens of this county with those same goals. Our elected representatives must be responsible stewards of the citizen’s money. A big challenge facing local governments is how to maintain a current level of service with less tax revenue.”

“One new program I’m really exited about is FISH (Families and Individuals Sharing Hope). This cooperative effort between county human services, charitable and non-profit organizations may seem like a new way for government to do business, but it actually reminds me of the old way of doing things: people helping one another without relying solely on the government.

“SCALE (Scott County Association for Leadership and Efficiency) is another example of how building relationships can have a positive effect. SCALE is made up of county, city, school and townships officials as well as those from the Shakopee Mdewakanton Sioux Community. I agree that by working together and sharing resources we can be more efficient and reduce costs. With the success of FISH and SCALE I’m anxious to see if we can establish a FIN or GILL program.”

“Several years ago I helped lead a group of citizens committed to protecting Scott County. A New York corporation wanted to build an amphitheater here and we were able to stop them. We did this by adopting an attitude of working with “city hall” instead of fighting them. This was accomplished by building associations with representatives from all levels of government (local, state and federal), as well as civic groups, and the people who call Scott County home.”

“I can use my communication skills (listening first, then speaking), and my ability to establish relationships with people from a variety of groups and perspectives to serve the people of Scott County.”

“I want to give back to the people of District 1 by representing them at the county board. I live in the middle of the district and my office is within 4 blocks of the County Government center. These locations, combined with an adjustable work schedule will assure that the citizens of this district will have full representation in county government. With their support, I will work to make sure that Scott County continues to be a wonderful place to live and work for generations.”

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Can we still be friends?

There is a book on my shelf titled “Call Me Ishmael, 801 Memorable First and Last Lines in Literature,” compiled by David A. Spector. I like reading it from time to time. I have read some of the books quoted in there, but not all of them. One of the opening sentences included in the book is from “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” by Truman Capote.

“I am always drawn back to places where I have lived, the houses and their neighborhoods.”

I feel the same way. Other than when I was in college and the first few years of my marriage, I have lived no further than 20 miles from where I was born. I like it here and I like writing this newspaper column. I will continue to live in Scott County, but for now I will move off this page.

I would rather have done this in person, but it has to be this way. I am taking a break. For several months this will be my last article/column/piece/story (pick your favorite name for what this is – but remember, it’s a family newspaper). Think of it as if I’m taking an early summer vacation that may extend through October.

I’m giving up this space for awhile to chase another dream. It’s not about needing more space; 24 column inches every week has suited me well. I am not going to another paper or anything like that. I just have to take some time away from publishing this column.

Can we still be friends? It’s not you, it’s me. I’ll take the time off, but one way or another I will return (provided the editor allows me to).

And lest you think I have run out of ideas – don’t be silly. I could tell you about my former life as a garbageman in Minneapolis, or the time I asked a chauffeur to drive my two brothers and me around Milwaukee while our sister was receiving her diploma from Marquette. Perhaps I will write about the time my friend, Jeff, and I ate a dinner salad with our fingers at a restaurant (they had forgot to give us silverware, and they ignored our pleas, so we just played along). I will tell you what I did the summer of 2010.

In this space I have tried to be meaningful, thought provoking and entertaining. I have written these 600 words with you in mind – kind of a conversation through the paper if you will. Some of you actually liked what I wrote. Your kind words mean very much to me. I will not forget them or you. So forget everything you know about memory loss, but please don’t forget about me.

I insist – to the point of being pouty, that my wife and kids always say “good-bye,” before they leave, even just for a run to the store, because – well, just because. But on the other hand when I am at a large party (more than 20 people) I prefer to slip out the door unseen (they call me “The Breeze” – not really but that would be a fun nickname). I think the quick escape is better than the traditional long Minnesota goodbye (hanging on a car door while running along side clutching a pan of bars).


It’s a weird thing, but I feel like I’m leaving you and I don’t like it. I didn’t want to just slip away from this space without saying goodbye. So have fun. I’ll see you around.

The last line is by Dr. Seuss.

“I’d make a few changes,
If I ran the zoo.”

Thursday, May 20, 2010

You're not dancing

I like a good conversation where speaking and listening is evenly traded. Snappy banter, the exchange of ideas and the sharing of thoughts is like dancing, and a skilled conversationalist is like a deft dancing partner. Exactly who is leading and who is following is indistinguishable. The discourse adheres to a certain rhythm allowing each partner to keep step without stepping on the other.

When the partners know each other well, a certain amount of hyperbole is tolerated whereas inconsistencies are challenged.

“How do you like the hot dish I made for supper?”

“It’s the best I’ve ever had.”

“Would you like some more?”

“No, thank you.”

“I thought you liked it.”

“I did – I mean I do. It’s just that I think we should save it in case someone else wants some.”

“There’s just the two of us here.”

“I know, but what if someone comes over, then what?

“No one is coming over.”

“I’d rather not risk it. Besides, I’m full. I couldn’t eat another bite.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m stuffed.”

“That’s too bad because I baked a pie.”

“Really? Well, maybe I have room for a small piece. Do we have any ice cream?”

Most conversations involve a question-and-answer period. Usually occurring at the beginning, this exchange can take many forms – from the unremarkable (“Some weather we’ve been having, huh?”) to the unwelcome (“What happened to your hair?”)

Sometimes the questions are part of a quest for allies in a battle where one is dragging the other down a path of enlightenment: “Don’t you agree that instead of always raising taxes we can solve this budget crisis by exercising a little fiscal constraint?”

In my experience it’s the follow-up, or the question behind the question, that can open a door or expose a truth. Several years ago I met Larry Werner, an editor for the Star Tribune. During our conversation he asked me what I did. After I stated my occupation, this seasoned journalist posed a life-changing, thought provoking second question:

“What else do you do?”

After I stumbled and hesitated I said, “I like to write.”

Then he told me to send him some of my writing. That one question gave me the push I needed to do what I always wanted. But without a question from a veteran newspaper man I may still be dreaming.

For a long time I knew that I enjoyed writing. But outside of writing a few stories for my kids and some skits for church I never did anything with it. Consequently, I could hardly be considered a writer (there are many who still support this view). I had failed to appreciate a simple truth: To be a writer one must write. If you like something, then show it, express yourself.

A couple months ago we were at my sister-in-law’s when a 2-year-old trapped me with her second question. Like all my nieces, Flora is quite smart, but her ability to reason seems advanced for her age. While listening to a song on her music box she was jumping around, or dancing as she likes to call it.

“Do you like this song?” she asked me.

“Yes I do,” I replied.

“Well you’re not dancing,” she said.

I laughed and said, “You’re right.”

Although she’s not yet able to share her thoughts logically, in Flora’s mind I was being inconsistent. If indeed I liked the song, I should be dancing. So I jumped up and became her dancing partner. Even though I couldn’t tell who was leading and who was following I didn’t step on her.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Typewriter

My handwriting is beyond illegible; it’s repulsive. Even I don’t like looking at it, and sometimes I can’t even read what I wrote. I gave up writing in cursive a long time ago because chicken scratching is a language only a few can read. So when I write, I print my letters. This works pretty well provided there is a straightedge handy.

My ugly penmanship has been an ever-present obstacle for me. In high school I took a full year of typing to communicate better with the written word. But when computers took over the world I got rid of my electric typewriter.

Lately I have become interested in manual typewriters. I’m talking about the ones that are over 40 years old. Clearly a typewriter, especially a manual one, is slower than a computer and mistakes are not easily corrected.

But manual typewriters also have some advantages: They’re always powered up and ready to go and battery life is never an issue. The printer is always compatible; they don’t crash (unless you throw them out the window). The sound that comes from the metal characters striking the paper, and the little bell reminding me to go to the next line, put me in a literary mood. Plus, I think they look pretty cool.

I now have three manual mid-1960’s typewriters. At my office in town I have a slate-blue and ivory Royal Aristocrat. I bought this from a woman selling her uncle’s typewriter. He had passed away without ever realizing his dream. He had always wanted to write a mystery novel, but he never got around to finishing it. The book is still locked in there somewhere and I intend to use the keys to find it.

In my truck I keep a petite, portable Smith-Corona Corsair. I never use my typewriter when I’m driving. It’s texting the way Mr. Underwood intended: stopped and stationary. The guy I bought it from got it from his parents when he graduated from high school in 1965. He put in it his closet and never used it.

The one I have on my writing desk at home is a beautiful Olympia SM-9 with a script/cursive font. The original receipt, manual and the factory test sheet came with it. On that test sheet Mervin and Rosemary Roberts tried out their new typewriter 45 years ago. Rosemary typed her name and address but it was Mervin’s note to her that told the story. It seems that the typewriter was a gift to Rosemary from Mervin.

“TO MY DEAR WIFE. I hope this meets with your approval. Merve.”

Not exactly a Robert Browning/Elizabeth Barrett-Browning exchange, but I intend to seek Rosemary’s approval as I use Merve’s thoughtful and expensive gift (back then it cost $119 plus tax).

I keep a sheet of paper in them at all times, because I never know when an idea will show up. There’s something enticing about a blank sheet of paper in a typewriter. A typewriter is designed for one thing: to put symbols on a piece of paper. The machine may lay dormant for years, but it is patient. It might need a little oil or a fresh ribbon, and then it’s ready to work, like a draft horse in the barn waiting for spring.

Robert Benchley said, “There two types of people in the world: those who divide people into two types and those that don’t. “ When it comes to written communication, I think there are two types: those who do and those who don’t. I would rather type than put pen to paper.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Hats

My kids often accuse me of eavesdropping. Can I help it if I have good hearing?

Being an effective listener can be quite entertaining. I once overheard this conversation between an elderly woman and her adult grandson.

“Look,” the woman said as she looked at her grandson’s hands. “Your fingers are just like your grandpa’s – short and stubby. He could do many things with those hands. He could do carpenter, electric, and plumbing.”

“Yeah, grandma,” he said as he turned them over. “These hands wear many hats.”

My hands don’t wear many hats; they don’t even wear that many gloves – maybe two or three different pairs. But to continue with this theme let me say I’m a man of many hats. Some of you might think that I am referring to my multiple roles of being a husband, father, business man and writer(?), but really, I do have many hats.

My interest in hats has gone from just fashion and supporting the local team, to protecting my scalp. I can get sunburned watching the sunrise so I wear hats to hide my head from the ultraviolet rays.

I got a new one recently. Well, actually three new hats. One was a Twins hat. I was going to the new ballpark and I wanted to fit in while warding off mean Mr. Sun.

The second hat I picked up was something to wear during the work week – kind of a dress hat if you will. I don’t think a baseball hat looks right with a sport coat. Although one could argue that since baseball is a sport the hat and coat naturally go together, but on me the combination looks clownish.

When I asked my wife, Rhonda, if she liked my new hat she said, “It has a certain look to it.”

I don’t keep a hat long. Either they get lost, worn out, or I finally realize it certainly looks stupid. I lost one hat to a mower. The wind blew it off my head and into the blades. It never fit the same after that.

The third hat was a replacement for one I lost 30 years ago. It was from H.E. Westerman Lumber Co. I got it when I worked on their crew building pole sheds. It only took a few weeks for them to realize that I was better at hitting my thumbnail than barn nails. Since I had a license to drive a truck they gave me the delivery job at the lumber yard.

Of the many jobs I have had over the years I count that as one of the best. As a 16-year-old it was an ideal summer job. I drove around the countryside listening to the radio with the window down.

A couple weeks ago as I was driving through Montgomery, the home office and original site for Westerman Lumber, I remembered reading that the 120-year-old company was going out of business.

I stopped and introduced myself to the clerk. I told him how sorry I was to hear they were closing, and about the best summer job I ever had. I asked if they had any hats for sale. He picked up the phone and in a few minutes a woman brought one out. She handed it to me and when I asked how much, the clerk said I could have it.

On my way home, I turned on the radio and rolled down the window. Putting on my new hat I drove home. I wasn’t sixteen again, but I did feel carefree. The hat fit like a glove.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

May 1st

I opened my office May 1st, 1985. For those of you who struggle with math that was 25 years ago. Good grief that sounds like a long time ago.

No cards have been sent and no party is planned, so please don’t interpret this as a sideways attempt to invite well-wishes. In 25 years a person can amass quite a list of stories. So please allow me to use this space and share some of them with you.

With my first office I shared a lobby with Dr. Jack Hobday. Besides being a skilled Chiropractor; Dr. Hobday is one of the finest men I have ever met. I still see him from time to time.

As is often the case in my business, people will drop in without an appointment. One day a man walked in my office and sat in a chair across the desk from me.

“What would you like to talk about?” I asked him.

“I’m having a little trouble with my neck,” he replied while grimacing and grabbing his neck.

“Me too,” I said as I stood up. “Should we go see if Dr. Hobday is free?”

One afternoon a woman walked in and sat down in the same chair (apparently a running gag).

While leaning forward she placed her hands on the desk and said to me, “How do my eyes look to you?”

At first I thought it was a set-up, and then it dawned on me: She was there to see Dr. Monroe. Dr. Monroe, an optometrist, had been the previous tenant.

My last story revolving around the desk chairs literally revolved around the desk chairs. Occasionally I will greet a customer in the lobby and then walk them back to my office. Without ever spelling it out, people usually allow me to sit behind the desk and they sit on the other side.

Except one time this guy walked around to the back of the desk and sat in my chair. I like to have fun too, so I sat in his chair: I smiled at him with a knowing kind of grin. He just stared back at me, as if waiting me for to say something. I chuckled a little. He stared back. I leaned back and laughed. He stared.

Finally I got up and said, “You know, it might work better if we changed seats.”

He shrugged his shoulders and got out of my chair. The rest of our meeting remained awkward. To this day I don’t know if he made a mistake in choosing a chair, or if he was a comedic genius.

Making house calls is part of the job. One particular house had a dog the size of a giant wolf. When I got out of my truck the dog was barking ferociously, but there was a woman standing on the front steps so naturally I assumed everything was under control.

With my arms in a defensive position to protect my face I asked her, “Is your dog OK?”

“Yes, he’s fine. Just don’t put your arms down,” she said.

With my arms raised I walked as if under arrest. About a year later I was back at the same place. When I pulled into the driveway I didn’t see the monster; but the lady was waiting on the front steps.

“Where’s your dog?” I asked.

“The delivery man ran him over a couple months ago,” she said.

“On the first try?” I asked under my breath.

Thanks for the last 25 years. I don’t know what tomorrow may bring so
stay tuned for episode 26.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Rich poor man

April 15th, perhaps my least favorite day is gone until next year. With government programs taking a bigger bite each year, soon I won’t be able to afford to work. We need more people who refuse handouts – and that includes all manners of welfare: corporate subsidies or tax-breaks funded by others.

I am willing to pay my fair share (what is fair and who gets to share is up for debate), but I’m still steaming from having to part with what amounts to be a penalty for earning an income. My kind is disappearing though. According to the Tax Policy Center in Washington D.C., 47 percent of the households in this country did not pay any federal income tax this year. It could be because their incomes were too low, or perhaps credits, deductions and exemptions erased any tax obligation.

In a CBS News poll released April 11th of this year, 50 percent of Americans think the amount they pay in taxes is fair. Let me use sloppy math and suggest that 47 percent is close to 50 percent. The number of people who pay no federal income tax is about the same number as those who think the amount of taxes they pay is fair. That sounds about right – if you don’t have to pay to get the benefits it probably seems fair.

Just like the ABC’s, it seems so elementary – this country needs its attitude adjusted, beliefs balanced and convictions calibrated. For without a new vision, those paying taxes will soon be outnumbered by those getting the benefits. The minority will be supporting the majority, and a country following that trend can not sustain itself.

Those that benefit from a benevolent government occupy both ends of the economic scale with the middle class holding up both of them. But this is not to suggest that all wealthy or all poor are comfortable in receiving handouts.

Even though I cannot recall his name there is a man I will never forget. Although it’s probably not his real name I will call him Rich – as in rich poor man.

It was back in the early years of my job – “the good old days.” My wife, Rhonda, was my secretary (the term administrative assistant was not yet in vogue). She was also my bookkeeper, receptionist and marketing department. One afternoon we had a visitor to our office, which was an uncommon occurrence then. Rich came to inquire about doing business with us. He brought his son (about six-years old or so) with him. During our conversation it became evident this was a poor family; for whatever reason they did not have a lot.

Trying to make a bad situation better, Rhonda started giving the little boy stuff: crayons, coloring books, candy and some pencils. I think eventually she would have given him the office furniture if Rich hadn’t stopped her.

“I know what you’re trying to do and I appreciate it,” he said. “But it’s OK. It’s true we don’t have a lot. But, each of my kids has a bike and a glove. We have enough and we’re happy.”
We talked for a few more minutes and then they walked out with their trinkets. Even though he didn’t buy anything I profited from his visit.

I’ve thought about him often over the years. He had next to nothing yet he expected nothing: no handouts, no spreading of the wealth, and he made no demands. That was over twenty years ago and I wonder where he went. For if guys like Rich don’t come back soon taxes will eat us alive bite by bite.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

GPS

Sometimes when I sit down to write I start going in one direction but end up taking a different path. When this happens I am surprised at where I find myself.

I try not to resist the new direction as it is usually better than the first I had begun. Perhaps if I stuck to an outline I would stick to one road – but that seems too rigid. I want to be open to new ideas, so I follow them to see where they take me.

I actually like to travel that way too. It’s fun to take a new, unexpected route that will get me to the same spot (eventually). I can get turned around easily and will often drive in the wrong direction for a while. In some circles this is known as being lost.

A month or so ago I got a tool (or toy if you’d like) to help me navigate. It’s a GPS instrument. GPS stands for Global Positioning System, but it could stand for Go Places Soon, Get Positively Screwed-up, or Get Passengers Steamed. With information received from satellites this utensil knows where you are and how to get somewhere else.

This is the closest most men are ever going to get to asking directions. In my life I have had my share of people telling me where to go – now I can get it done in 40 different languages, because this gadget can give you directions in a language other than English – just like America. You can be told what to do by a male or female voice. It’s much more annoying when it’s placed in the back seat. For American-style English you can choose from either Jack or Jill. These two come in handy when you get thirsty going up hills.

This little box is full of possibilities. You can select the language to match the ethnic flavor of the restaurant you are going to. I think it would be fun to close my eyes (not while I was driving of course) and pick an arbitrary language. Then, stopping the first person I saw I would hold up the GPS and ask, “Excuse me, I’m lost. Do you speak (Cantonese)?”

This thing is really quite amazing. It displays the posted speed limit along side the rate you are going (my two numbers don’t always match). I suspect that someday we will be ratted out by our electronic devices. Our mouse will point to us in a line-up.

Different settings allow for different scenarios. There is the Eco setting. I think it probably tells you to park your car and walk. Some of the settings will help you avoid heavy traffic and road construction. Other than telling you to forget it and take the bus, it will route you in ways that would never be chosen by humans.

Not too long ago I was taking my family to a wedding in Minneapolis during rush hour. It probably wasn’t the best time to give my new tool a trial run. I had a pretty good idea how to get there but I turned the route choice over to my new traveling companion.

The devilish device took us on Lake Street into the Uptown area of Minneapolis, then on Hennepin Avenue, then onto Interstate Highway 94, off on Third Street and then a quick right on University Avenue where we arrived at our destination on time. It helps to have an adventurous spirit.

I wonder if Robert Frost would have liked this implement. It would have given him many opportunities to travel roads not normally taken.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

First Avenue

When I miss a day or two of reading the newspaper, I set them aside until I can catch up. My unwillingness to just keep going with today’s newspaper and forget about what I missed prevents me from throwing the old unread newspaper away (I mean recycle). So I was a little behind the other day when I picked up the March 26 edition of the Shakopee Valley News.

I don’t know if this was intentional, but all the stories seemed to have a connection. Four stories appeared on the front page with the following headlines: “Proposed median downtown divides,” “More, longer trains coming,” “Waters begin to recede” and “Green light, finally for Hwys. 169/494.” A fifth story had a photo that appeared next to it. It read: “SHAKOPEE IS CHANGE.”

So it seems that you will be able to get out town easier; but if you choose to stay, things may get a little frustrating with the change that is surely coming. The county, with the cooperation of some of Shakopee’s elected officials, seems poised to construct a four-lane divided road on First Avenue between Spencer Street and Marschall Road.

From my reading of the story “Proposed median downtown divides,” by staff writer Shannon Fiecke, it appears that a divided highway may make it more difficult to get to the other side of the road because of a proposed center median. Some business owners believe this would be bad for business.

But according to the article, Scott County Highway Engineer Mitch Rasmussen thinks medians are good for business. He said: “If you don’t feel safe getting in and out of an area, you don’t go there.” But Mr. Rasmussen, if you can’t get there easily, you don’t go there. Why didn’t the chicken cross the road? Because it couldn’t.

City Councilman Steve Clay believes that people rarely change their minds when driving. In the story by Fiecke he is quoted as saying “I would hope that 99.5 percent of people going to a business know they’re going there before they start driving down the road.”

I reject his premise. I think many people (including myself) are spontaneous when making decisions. Voting may be an exception. I would hope that most people know who they are not going to vote for before they get to the ballot box.

An alternative proposal to have a turn lane instead of a median isn’t favored by the county because $150,000 from the state of Minnesota may not be available to build the median at a later date. I think the county, or perhaps the city, maybe both, will be spending that money and more when they discover that neither Bluff Avenue nor Second Avenue are good alternates for moving traffic east and west.

Neither road is open all the way between Spencer Street and Marschall Road; both would need major improvements for them to handle more traffic, and Second Avenue is cut right down the middle by a train track. Putting more cars and truck on these two residential streets looks even worse when you consider that Second Avenue can only be crossed at three of its eight intersections between Spencer Street and Marschall Road.

But wait, there’s more.: From another story, “More, longer trains coming,” by Fiecke in the same edition of the Shakopee Valley News, we learn that soon we could be waiting twice as long with twice as many trains. Plus, they are getting rid of that wonderful, soothing “clickety-clack” sound.

Maybe I’ll just keep a stack of newspapers in the truck to read while I wait to cross the road.

Friday, April 2, 2010

Cabinet Maker

Among the growing number of things that bother me, cabinet doors and drawers that are left open have a prominent position on the list. So when I noticed a large drawer in the kitchen was waiting to be returned to its proper place, I gave it a nudge. When it didn’t yield to my polite advances I gave it a push. Then, becoming frustrated with its uncooperative nature, I gave it a shove.

When a drawer is new and properly installed it retreats to its cave in silence. As it ages and loses its agility sometimes it makes a squeaky, scraping noise. This particular drawer screamed loudly as it jumped off its tracks and lay askew.

“I’ve killed it,” I said to myself.

“What happened? “ Rhonda, my wife, asked as she entered the room.

“Nothing,” I said. “This drawer just needs a minor adjustment. I’ll take care of it.”

My wife grew up in a house where her dad never took his car in to a garage (other than his own), never had a repair man to the house, never needed a plumber or an electrician to take care of a problem. Wayne was a cabinet maker. He could fix darn near anything. He's gone now or I would have called him. One time he talked me through a water softener repair over the phone.

“I’m sure you can do it,” Rhonda said. Imagine how disappointed she must be.

Al Sicherman, a retired columnist for the Star Tribune, said that ”any such project, no matter how apparently simple will ultimately require three trips to the hardware store.” It’s a good thing I like driving, because most every project I begin (notice I did not say finish) has me on the road several times before I surrender to the superior forces of the physical laws.

Upon inspecting the drawer I saw that the one of the rails was bent and broken. I brought it down to Jay Picha. Jay is a cabinet maker. He can fix darn near anything. I asked him if he thought I could find a match for the wrecked rail.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said rather casually. “Bring the whole drawer down.”

With my second trip to Picha’s Cabinet Shop (not a hardware store, but close enough), Jay gave me a new set of rails and a lesson on how to install them. He even had me take them apart and put them back together to prove to him (or maybe it was me) that I could do it.

When I got home five minutes later, the rails looked different, more complicated. It took me an embarrassingly long amount of time to figure out to start the show.

For my first trick I decided to attach one of the rails to the interior wall of the cabinet. The drawer was designed to hold sheet metal used for baking cookies and building machine sheds – so it was kind of tall and long, but not very wide, so I was unable to fit the drill, my hand, arm and shoulder in the cabinet at the same time.

I went to the hardware store (third trip that day) for a drill made for just such an occasion: It’s got this right angle that works in tight spots.

Two hours later the rails were on and the drawer was back in its spot. But because of some unexplained phenomenon, the drawer doesn’t close completely at the top no matter how much I plead with it. That’s OK. I’ll try not to let it bother me. Stupid drawer.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Census

Like just about every other home in the U.S. the census came in the mail the other day. Those nosy folks at the bureau have made it easy to stand up and be counted. It’s not like the old days when Quirinius was governor of Syria. I didn’t have to travel by donkey to the home of my ancestors.

The single sheet message from the Director of the U.S. Census Bureau (that sounds like a good job) states in bold print: “Please complete and mail back the enclosed census form today.” I got mine on the 16th of March. They wanted me to fill it out with information pertaining to April 1st, which on my calendar is about two weeks in the future.

On the first page of the 2010 Census it states, “The Census must count every person living in the United States on April 1st, 2010.” This reference date is used no less than 15 more times throughout the form. So unless you are a time traveler visiting from tomorrow land you cannot, with any certainty, answer about a future event. Yet, the Census Bureau requires us to do that very thing.

To verify this nonsense I went to the official web site: www.2010.census.gov. There it stated that, “Households should complete and mail back their forms upon receipt. Ideally, all forms will be returned by Census Day on April 1, 2010.” Census Day? Are gifts or flowers expected?

Any day prior to April 1st where this form was completed and returned makes any and all answers a bunch of good guesses at best. You see, they want you to answer the questions from the perspective of April 1st. But all you can do is hope, Lord willing (as my Dad used to say), that your answers (and life) will be the same on April 1st as they are on the day you did your civic duty. The fast forward calendar treatment makes some questions even more senseless than others.

The first question asks, “How many people were living or staying in this house, apartment, or mobile home on April 1, 2010?” Then to make sure you weren’t lying or forgot to imagine that someone might be there by the 1st, they repeat it in Question 2: “Were there any additional people staying here April 1, 2010 that you did not include in Question 1?”

Then to help you along they give you five possible answers, (I have included my five possible comments).

“Children, such as newborn babies or foster children,” (oh, you mean the kids. Are they people too?).

“Relatives, such as adult children, cousins, or in-laws,” (how would Gomez Addams have answered this?).

“Nonrelatives, such as roommates or live-in baby sitters,” (I think Fraulein Maria came uncomfortably close to satisfying both of these non-relative subsets before she became Mrs. Captain Von Trapp. But that was Austria – so never mind.).

“People staying here temporarily,” (how temporary – an hour, two days, out the door April 2nd? It doesn’t say.).

“No additional people," (that’s it, now you’re catching on. Please refer to Question #1 if you need further clarification.).

I’ll let the bureau handle the race and national origin questions. Anything I say would only make it worse. Why can’t they ask something simple and straight forward like: Ginger or Mary Ann, or not counting winter, which is your favorite season?

In these days the federal government issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire United States. This census took place while Pawlenty was governor of Minnesota. And everyone took out his own pen to register.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Counting

“19 and Counting,” is one of the many reality TV shows that have taken over the airwaves. This show follows around Jim and Michelle Duggar and their 19 children.

In one episode Jim was trying to lose some weight. One thing he talked about stuck in my mind: It doesn’t sound bad if you only gain one pound per year, but over 25 years that adds up.

It got me thinking about my own gravity-pulling factor. If I am able to stick to the Duggar diet, by the time I’m 100 years old I’ll weigh almost 250 lbs. With the government’s focus on obesity that much personal mass may be unacceptable.

The First Lady, Michelle Obama, is leading a campaign against childhood obesity called “Let’s Move.” I would be happy to help the Obama family move out of the White House and back to Chicago, but I don’t think that’s what she’s talking about.

Using her own daughters as examples, Mrs. Obama said their family pediatrician “cautioned me that I had to look at my children’s BMI (body mass index).” TMI (too much information), Mrs. Obama.

But this is not the first time the Obama’s have gone public with their daughter’s weight. In November 2008, Barack Obama casually mentioned that his 11-year old daughter, Malia, had become “a little chubby”. I’m sure the Obama girls will turn out just fine without any professional therapy. After all, what girl doesn’t secretly wish that her parents would publicly discuss her weight?

If the President and his wife feel so free to criticize their daughter’s health, they will most certainly come after you and me next – not that I consider you obese, but I don’t think their girls had any weight problems either.

Combine this with what Nancy Pelosi, the Speaker of The House, may have meant when referring to the health care bill. “It’s about diet, not diabetes.” From the sounds of this our daily diet decisions may soon be made by the government. An innocent question to your neighbor “May I borrow a cup of sugar?” may get you turned over to the calorie cops. I think I may know how to head this off though.

If the president, under pressure from his family, quit smoking maybe he’d start eating like crazy. Nothing would be off-limits, Mountain Dew, Twinkies, Girl Scout cookies, even candy. Maybe he’d put on a few extra pounds and start to relax a little; and if he wanted to sneak a cigarette once in awhile, that would be all right.

I really don’t have a problem with President Obama smoking though. In fact, borrowing the words from Old Lodge Skins, the Indian Chief in the movie “Little Big Man”: “I would like to meet this man and smoke with him.” Although I don’t smoke, I would if I could sit down with the president. I bet he smokes Kools. As long I am living in this fantasy world, let me take it one step further: it would be fun to have a beer with him and just talk – my treat (maybe I could deduct it from my taxes).

During the course of our conversation I would tell the President that although I appreciate his concern for the citizens of this country, the American people can thrive without government interference. Independence – it’s what this country was founded on. Whether someone smokes or eats too much is their business (or their parents’ or guardians’) and not the government’s.

I’ll keep track of my own weight if you don’t mind; 190 pounds and counting. But hey, I’m working on it.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Facebook

About two weeks ago I broke down and joined Facebook to make friends and advance my literary career.

I had resisted, as I do with anything that looks to be a passing fad. But, when my cousin, Sheri, who is an editor and writer suggested it, I decided to give in and give it a try. Sheri was also the one who convinced me to start a blog so the seven or eight people who like my writing can go back for a second look.

Soon after joining this cyber community I started getting “requests,” from people to be their “friend.” This should not be interpreted as an indication that I am friend material; my seven or eight acquaintances would argue otherwise. Rather, it’s just the way this social network stuff works. Some people will seek a connection only with people they know; others ask anyone with a name. No money changes hands, there is no handshake, no physical contact, and unless photos are available you may not even know what the other person looks like.

Most of the people who asked me to be their Facebook friend I knew; for some I had to consult my copy of “Who’s Who” to see who’s that.

Facebook friends interact with one other through the Internet. Thoughts and feelings are shared on-line such as “I scored 16,726 points playing “clock-buster,” or “My husband just got sick and threw up in the pan of sauerkraut.” Nice. Thanks for sharing.

This making-friends business is much easier now that it used to be. Today friends can be made with a couple keystrokes. However, pointing and clicking doesn’t guarantee that people will click and connect; it takes more than just logging-on to be friends. But perhaps I am getting too caught up in the meaning of words. Maybe it is that easy.

I could have saved myself a lot of trouble through the years if I had only waited. One summer day in 1971 when I was dragging around the house with nothing to do, my older brother, Dan, made a suggestion.

“John has a younger brother, why don’t you go see what he’s doing?”

John was one of Dan’s good friends. He, along with his brother Jim and the rest of their family, lived on the other side of town – almost two miles away. I didn’t phone him to see if my request would be accepted. I hopped on my bike and made a social call.

Strangely, I remember nothing of the bike ride; I had no feeling of dread or reluctance. But I do remember knocking on Jim’s door.

“Hi, I’m Jerry Kucera. Do you want to be my friend?” I asked.

With only the slightest hesitation – hopefully out of surprise and not of pity – Jim answered, “Sure, you want to come in?”

We did become friends; still are. I would make that same trip across town about a million times until we both left for college. We would play Risk and Stratego (of which I lost every game). The neighbors had an outdoor basketball court they let us use. The vacant lot next to his house became our football field. Jim even made up a game where a Wiffle football was thrown on the roof of his house; we called it “The Game.” One summer night we even harbored a fugitive from the law in a tent in his backyard.

Today, Jim lives about 30 miles away. I don’t think he’s on Facebook, but rather than check I think I‘ll call and ask him. I would bike over there, but it’s just too far.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Serpentine Oil

It might be too early to celebrate, but it seems I’m about to come into some real money. I’d rather not say how much until things are more settled, but the inheritance, if you can call it that, looks to be rather large.

I got an email from some barrister (I guess that’s a foreign name for a lawyer), a guy by the name of Khan R. Tist. I think he must be from another country as his English is not very good.

Apparently this Mr. Tist is the personal attorney for one of my long-lost relatives. I guess they were in killed in an auto accident back in 2005. I didn’t know them so it’s hard to get too worked about it, still it was a tragedy. My (cousin?), Leo, his wife and three kids all taken just like that. Oh, those poor people.

Anyway, it seems that they had no other family so this lawyer somehow finds me and makes contact. It’s lucky for me that he found me, but unlucky for my cousin and his family that it had to come to this. So from reading the letter I find out that Leo worked for some oil company – Serpentine Oil (must be a foreign concern). From the sounds of things he made quite a bit of money with them.

Frankly, I’m not really surprised as that side of the family has always done pretty well for themselves. I seem to remember hearing about Leo and his good fortune. From what I can tell everything looks to be on the up and up. I have a pretty good head for this kind of thing, and I am generally a good judge of character plus, it’s family. What’s a guy supposed to do in a time like this? I can’t turn my back on them now after they’re dead.

I just wish I had got a chance to get to know them. The lawyer, Khan R. Tist, gave me his contact information in his email; he seems very nice. I think I’ll call him soon, but before I do I think I will gather up my Social Security number and bank account numbers (checking and savings), just in case he needs them for some legal reason. Hopefully I can get this taken care of soon. I could even fly there – wherever that is. I like to travel, so why not?

To be on the safe side, though, I probably should bring my checkbook and my credit cards in case some cash advance is needed to move things along, you know maybe to “grease the wheels,” a little. I’ll have to see how the local customs are though. It could even save time if I were to give Khan (listen to me – I talk like we’re old friends)my credit card numbers (including expiration date), security code (that little number on the back) because sometimes they ask for that to make sure it’s really you, and any corresponding PINs to make sure there are no problems or delays.

I’m not trying to brag about this. I mean poor Leo and his family are dead for heaven’s sake. I’m just trying to do the right thing and help out. The nice thing is that Khan “guarantees that this will be executed under a legitimate arrangement that will protect you [me] from any breach of the law.” That’s a good thing, because once you have that kind of guarantee what could go wrong?

I hope it’s not a scam. I’d hate to have to cancel the party; I already ordered the cake.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Old-time Music

I own only one polka music CD, a signed copy. But whenever I hear polka music I will stop to listen and that includes Lawrence Welk. I honestly don’t know what I like about it. It may be the memories it triggers, the simple beat, or the happy, light-hearted feeling it creates in me.

There are three times when polka music seems very fitting. One is on Sunday. My folks used to take the five of us out for a Sunday drive, while listening to polka music. It typically happened during the three weeks of warm weather we get here in Minnesota. We would drive around the country listening to Mom and Dad talk about who married who from where, where they were building and what they were doing now. So now when I am driving on Sunday I will turn on KCHK and listen to “old-time music.” Sometimes, I even get the urge to roll-down the window and gossip.

I also like polka music at a wedding dance, which is becoming a rare sound as the population ages. The third place is at summer festivals. Polka music just seems right at home with the sights and sounds of a fair.

Rhonda and I were walking around the Scott County Fair one year (maybe last year, maybe the year before – I don’t know) when we were drawn into the beer garden by the sound of old-time music. Playing in the back of the tent was a three-piece band: drums, tuba and a concertina.

I immediately recognized the concertina player, the leader of the band - Ernie Stumpf. I used to hang around his house waiting for his daughter, Sue, to get ready before I took her to a movie. She introduced me to Led Zeppelin, and I’m pretty sure she still has one of their albums I had bought, which I then lent to her.

It was 1976 or 1977; I was 17. Ernie was a husband and father, worked a full-time job, farmed, and then somehow found time to learn how to play the concertina, a complicated musical instrument.

A concertina has dozens of buttons or keys that are alternately pressed and released by the fingers on each hand while the squeeze box is pushed and pulled. He had a little set-up in the basement: a couple chairs, a drum and his concertina. Here was where his musical career began.

After the band finished playing the song I walked up and introduced myself. A smile that said “I remember you” lit up his face.

“I never would have recognized you,” he said.

He hadn’t changed – although, I was quite sure I had. I was no longer a teenager; in fact I am older now than he was in 1977. His age was hidden within him. He still had his full head of hair and the same genuine smile.

During the next break he came over and sat at our table, which was only fitting as I had sat at his table many times. He and I talked over a beer, something that would have been frowned upon in 1977. He spoke about the band and how most of the time he plays to Wisconsin crowds. Some of his former band members have passed away – but he keeps playing.

Then his break was over, and he got back to his music. During the next break I bought one of his CD’s – even had him sign it. I think I made a good trade – a Led Zeppelin album for one of his CDs. It’s even signed by the leader of the band.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Darn Ice

Sometimes when I’m out rearranging the snow I get an urge to package up some of the excess and send it to one of my friends who usually don’t get a chance to frolic, because they live in a part of the country where 40 above is considered cold.

But now thanks to global warming, or climate change, or whatever the phrase of the day is, most everyone gets the chance to dance in the snow.

If it’s true that misery loves company, then those of us in the north have never been happier. For across the country people are getting pounded by the white fluff and stuff. So when our nation’s capital gets buried repeatedly by snow I start singing, for when Congress can’t get to work I am delighted. It’s time that the snow job they have been giving us is returned. The snow, having no political affiliation, falls equally on conservatives and constitutionalists, liberals and libertarians, and progressives and populists.

I try to do my part in spreading the misery around. For instance, instead of raking leaves in the fall I chop them up with the mower and let the wind carry them to the neighbors. This year I have adapted this practice for snow removal with the purchase of a snow blower. In the past I have pulled, pushed and prodded the snow with a plow, and then carried it by the bucketful where it was then heaped upon itself into large piles.

My version of Mary Anne, Mike Mulligan’s steam shovel, is a small tractor with a bucket and a back blade or plow. For the purposes of this story let’s refer to it as Ginger. After I had complained to my friend Mark about the late nights spent moving snow, he, who has an opinion on most matters, suggested I get a snow blower for Ginger.

Either he didn’t mention the part about needing a cab for the tractor, or I was day-dreaming about throwing snow at the neighbors and didn’t hear him.

The thing about blowing snow is that there is always the wind factor to contend with, yet they fail to mention this in the owner’s manual. There is a constant need to adjust the engine speed, the angle, as well as the direction of the chute to avoid wearing most of the snow. I think my coveralls must have a magnetic quality about them as everything sticks to them, especially the snow.

If I had a corncob pipe and a button nose, and my eyes were a shade closer to the color of coal you would think that Frosty had indeed come back. There is nothing quite like the feeling of a face full of cold snow to make a guy wish for spring. A face mask can only do so much.

It’s a good thing that February is so short because it feels so long. Now this year, because of the unfortunate mix of moisture and temperature, we can curse winter even more: ice dam. Having avoided raking leaves in the fall, I am now forced to rake the snow off my roof because of those darn ice dams. Holding a 50 ft. metal pole in the air is just asking for trouble but I do the best I can which is not good enough. So I climb on the roof and start shoveling.

However, roof shoveling is not recommended because it can break shingles and shin bones when you fall off the roof and hit the ground. I guess I can enjoy the view while I wait for 40 above.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Keith

The first time I met Keith was when I needed a new sports coat. The ones I had were looking a little tired. As I walked into the clothing store he approached me with a smile.

“Is there anything I can help you find today?” he asked.

I usually gave the “no thanks, just looking,” as an automatic reply until I had found something that interested me. But there was something about him that didn’t make that a fitting response to his polite question.

“Yes, I need a new sport coat,” I answered. “I’m a 42 long.” I gave him my size as I thought this would position me as a man who knows who he is, or at least what size he is.

“You’re a 44 regular,” he said without leaving my eyes.

“No, I’m a 42 long,” I argued.

“Just a minute,” he said. He then walked over to a coat rack and quickly grabbed two coats. “Here, try these on.”

I did as I was told, first one, then the other.

“Which one do you like?” he asked.

One was noticeably more comfortable: plenty of room in the shoulders without being sloppy, it closed nicely across my chest, and the arm length was just right.

“This one,” I said as I looked in the mirror.

“That’s a 44 regular,” he said with a smile. “From now on let me worry about the size.”

When you lose an argument about yourself that quickly and that decisively it puts you in a vulnerable position. I was now ready for the big push – the high pressure sale that would surely come. It never did.

Keith had me take off that coat and then I followed him over to the rack where he picked out two others for me to try on (both 44 regular).

I actually liked them both, but Keith explained why the second coat was a better buy.

“It’s a beautiful coat,” he said.

For the next several years I let him restock my wardrobe. Before I gave Keith control my clothes looked like they had been handed down from Dad when he no longer considered them fashionable. The days of me dressing like an old man were packed up and given to the missions.

Keith has been helping men look better for over forty-five years, sometimes working for others, sometimes owning his own store. For the past nine years you could find Keith talking to one of his friends at Bill’s Toggery in Shakopee.

Some people call them customers; to Keith they are his friends. Everyone needs someone like Keith in their lives, someone who will be honest with them. Honest enough to tell them that a shirt and pants combination, chosen that morning in the dark, clashed with each other. I even learned that some styles had their own names, such as “South Dakota rural.”

Keith would tell me what I didn’t need as often as he would say what shirt would go with the coat he sold me six months ago. This trick was accomplished while the coat hung in my closet nine miles away.

Now in his early sixties Keith is ready for retirement. He’s worn out shoes and carpeting walking the sales floor; I think he’s ready to sit down. Sometime towards the end of this month he will ring up his last sale from one of his many friends.

As he hands the happy man (or woman shopping for her husband) the purchase Keith will say “I really appreciate the business. Thank you very much.”

No Keith – thank you, and good luck.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Bunco

In addition to the child-bearing capabilities (and a few other things which will remain unmentioned) I am comfortable in saying that there are many differences between men and women. But, perhaps I am being to general in my beliefs. Allow me to be specific with a brief discussion on the social aspect.

When I get together with some of my friends we will most likely meet somewhere, or maybe sit in front of a TV to watch a game or a movie (switching between the two during commercials and boring parts. We might even throw in a third show). There are guys who get together on a regular basis to play cards. A comfortable number would be about five or six men. Any more than that and things start getting wrecked.

My wife, Rhonda, meets with some of her friends once a month for a game called bunco. It started innocently enough, as these things often do, with an invitation to join a group of women to play a game at someone’s house. One of the regulars was absent so Rhonda was brought in as a substitute. She had so much fun she decided to get some friends together to play at our house one night.

There didn’t seem to be any reason to be concerned. She was just having a few friends over, some food would be included – hopefully enough for me to eat after the guests became distracted with the game. I could watch TV, maybe do a little reading in the comfort of my own home while a few women played quietly in the next room. I was thinking Scrabble or bridge.

Either I hadn’t asked enough questions, or I had tuned out the explanation station when it was broadcast. This is a game where a non-participant feels like the one person in the room who didn’t get the joke. Everyone else is having fun, you just can’t understand why.

Not everyone has heard of bunco. While not excluding men from playing, bunco is more popular with women. As a reluctant observer, I would describe the game as somewhere between Yatzee and all-star wrestling. Almost as if it were part of the game there is a great deal of loud laughter, some hollering and even some aggressive physical activity.

As I understand it - and I don’t really want to understand it - you need about 12 participants to make a good bunco game. Sixteen or even 20 players is an acceptable number. With numbers like that, any sane man would want to be anywhere else.

I have tried to stay upstairs in my bedroom and endure the mayhem. But the noise level becomes unbearable. Even my headphones don’t dim the din.

I try to have my truck out of the yard and on the road a good 15 minutes before the crowd gets there. On these nights I will go and walk around the malls, maybe go to a quiet sports bar and watch whatever is playing on one of the 42 TVs. I may sit in a bookstore or coffee shop. Any destination is suitable as an alternative to being home on bunco night.

But, as the night wears on, places start closing shop and I get tired – so I head home. I pull into the driveway (when there is room) and try to negotiate my way into the garage. Then, resisting the temptation to lean a ladder against the house, I walk through the door and decline invitations to join the game.

As a man there are some things I am not wired to do.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Procedure

A couple months ago my doctor suggested I go see a specialist for a “simple procedure.” The last time I went in for a “simple procedure,” was July of 1966.

My sister, Colleen, and I were duped into going in for tonsillectomies with the promise of all the ice-cream we could eat. Either the hospital was running a two for one special, or my folks needed her to baby sit me as they did not trust me to be alone. I remember we shared one black & white TV, although we each had a remote control attached to our beds. We flipped between a Gemini rocket launch and cartoons. Back in those days patients usually stayed at least one night in the hospital after an operation – none of the grab and go out-patient stuff we have today.

The procedure that I was told to schedule is decidedly different than a tonsillectomy. The doctor approaches the situation from an entirely different direction. Some people are too embarrassed to admit ever having this done. I’m not, but I’m not sure if I want to spell it out too clearly either.

To maintain some level of decorum and decency allow me to just hint at the name of the medical technique. Let’s say two friends are sitting around having a nice conversation.

The first guy asks “So what’s new with you?”

The second guy answers, “I had a colonoscopy.”

The second guy is me.

The few days before the scheduled day life started to get weird. Some of my favorite foods were prohibited which threw me completely off my feed. Normally a casual eater, I became obsessed with food and drink. Before I consumed anything I had to check the chart to be sure that I was staying true to the diet.

The thirty-six hours leading up to the appointed time was the toughest part; no solid food at all. Jello and clear liquids only, and then to really test my mettle I had to guzzle 64 oz. (8 oz. every 15 minutes) of an ugly-flavored mixture.

At the clinic I was given two gowns to wear – one for the front and one for the back. I was sternly reminded to leave my shoes and socks on which violated every accepted rule of fashion. The operating room had two large flat-screen TVs, much like a well appointed lounge. Although one of the TVs was positioned for my viewing pleasure no remote control was offered. They were playing only one program, and I, or at least part of me, was the featured attraction.

After the session was completed a nurse came into the room to tell me that even though I was exhausted, I still had to exhaust some of the excess air that had been forced into my body. Wanting to make sure that I had understood her correctly, I asked where she wanted me to do this. When she replied, “right here,” I was relieved to see that a thin cloth curtain would provide the privacy needed between me and the listening public.

To be truthful, the actual procedure is not a big deal. Dr. Colonoscoper (not his
real name) was a gentleman and a professional. It’s the preparation that I found almost intolerable. That’s the way it usually is though – the fretting, worrying and anticipation is often worse than the actual event.

Much has changed since 1966. The color TV had a better picture but there was no remote control or overnight stay. I still can’t be trusted to be alone though. Adam, my daughter’s boyfriend, had to bring me home.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Legacy

Little kids often get asked, “What do you want to be when you grow-up?” Men my age ask themselves a different question. “What do I want to leave behind, what do I want to be remembered for? What will be my legacy? Something that is uniquely mine, that which will outlive me.”

I first became aware of this strong desire after watching a “Little House on the Prairie,” episode. I know, not exactly “Masterpiece Theater,” but I learned a lot from it. Charles Ingalls, having become aware of his own mortality, wanted desperately to leave something behind, something that would tell people he had lived – something that would last. He had watched his friend die, and then two weeks later there was no evidence that his friend had ever walked the earth.

“My God, I don’t want that to happen to me,” Charles said to his wife, Caroline.

No man wants that. Charles built tables and burnt his initials on them. He hoped they would be his legacy. In the end, it was his children who fulfilled that dream. He lives on in his daughter’s books.

One measure of a legacy left behind is how a man is looked upon when he’s gone. A good place to witness this first hand is at a wake or funeral. I am not trying to turn the grieving process into a side-show, but this is where society and culture has deemed we demonstrate our love, affection and respect for the departed and their family. We owe them at least that much, so we pay our respects.

A couple weeks ago I said good-bye to Dick Mullin. I was deeply moved by what I saw at his wake. Dick had owned a trucking company – black Peterbilts pulling end-dump trailers. Almost fifty years ago he had started with one dump truck. During its peak the company had amassed 65 truck and trailer units. Dick built his company with hard-work and determination in a style that was his own. He expected everyone to work as hard he did.

In front of the funeral home were two Peterbilt tractors which had been polished and shined to perfection by his drivers. These trucks had been backed in and angled towards each other. They were parked as an honor guard – sentinels to the man whose name they displayed on their doors.

If stationary trucks can be moving – moving in a way that stops a man to look – then these were. As I stood outside admiring them a lone truck cutting through the darkness on the highway sounded its air horn several times in salute.

When I regained my composure I stepped inside the funeral home. The visitation line wound and stretched the length of the building. I felt a little out of place, for standing in line were dozens of men wearing the uniform of a truck driver: boots, jeans and big belt-buckles. These men, tough guys by any definition, were patiently standing in line to say good-bye. Depending upon the man, Dick had been their employer, their competitor, their contractor or their customer. But to all of them, he had been their friend.

I don’t know if there are any tables with Dick’s initials stamped on them, but you don’t have to look too hard for the Big M on his tractors and trailers. Dick Mullin’s legacy is his company, his reputation and his family. Dick built a company that is now run by his son Joe, and may one day be run by Joe’s sons. That’s a legacy that will last.

All men should be so lucky.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Season's Greetings

Some (many?) people think I’m a kook. I certainly have qualities and characteristics that could earn me that label. That’s O.K., I don’t mind – I’m just trying to improve the world, or at least my world.

Let me address the exchange of customary greetings, seasonal first, and if space allows, the other kind. “How was your Christmas?” I never know quite what to say when asked this. What do they mean, what information are they looking for? I think it’s a much harder question to answer than the simple “how are you?”

To answer “fine,” to the Christmas question seems to suggest a problem. You can read the guesses in the frowns of the interrogators. “Is it your family?” “Yes, the holidays can be tough on a family’s budget.” “Did you goof-up your wife’s gift again?”

No one is supposed to say “fine.” The correct response to “how was your Christmas?” is “very nice thank you, how about yours?”

There are of course the well-intentioned who truly want an answer. With that bunch there is always a follow-up inquiry which begins a series about family, food, travel, holly and the ivy.

I’m sorry - I usually am not that interested. I say usually to allow for exceptions – you see there might be somebody reading this with whom I have had this conversation, so for you, please know that I care very much about your Christmas experiences. You know I do.

I was talking about this with my friend Lance the other day. Is it a genuine question that demands an answer or is it a quick polite exchange to note the passing of the holiday? Is it fluff and filler or a conversation starter? Whether I am over-analyzing it is up for discussion; but you can be sure that I am offending someone. Sorry, I think my own problem with the question is I never really know what direction to take the answer.

Let’s start with the materialistic angle. An alternative question gets more to the point: “Was Santa good to you?” But some folks would rather ignore the jolly saint so they ask “did you have a nice Christmas?” when what they really mean is “tell me about your presents.” So, do I go down the list of the things I got, pausing for effect on the really cool stuff? Or are they looking for “very nice thank you, how about yours?”

Perhaps the question is asked from a religious or spiritual perspective. But to make that assumption and answer with a carol by carol recounting of “midnight mass,” or a recitation of “The Christmas Story,” may sound kind of preachy, and could risk offending people who think Christmas has just “got too religious.”

Maybe it’s the social aspect. They may be looking for details regarding the parties I attended (one), the friends who came over to “see the tree,” (four), or the places we traveled for Christmas (one). Again, I must tell you I just never know what to say.

The weather was fine, the food was good, I got some stuff, saw some friends and family, went to church (twice, I think), did some last minute shopping, listened to my favorite Vince Guaraldi CD. Yeah it was nice. How about you?

Well anyway it’s the middle of January and I probably (hopefully) won’t hear that question again for another year. So in the meantime let me address another greeting that gets to me. When I am asked “how’s Jerry,” I stutter and stumble. Why are they addressing me in the third person? Do they think I’m crazy?

Thursday, January 7, 2010

Harold

I made myself a cup of tea the other day. Since I’m not starving I can stave off false hunger with some tea. But, to make it more interesting I will add some honey to the mix. I learned this trick from a neighbor a long time ago. He added it to his coffee – I, to my tea. It’s close enough to stir up a memory.

Some time ago (my new favorite phrase for a time reference as I struggle with the whole space/time continuum) Rhonda and I, along with our baby girl, moved to Prior Lake. Living next door to our new home were Harold and Opal. We quickly became good friends and spent many hours at their house playing cards.

Opal was always kind with time to share. But it was Harold who I was drawn to.

Other than an invisible property line, Harold and I had very little in common. He was a member of the Great Depression/WWII generation. I was born during the baby-boom and was just starting out with a young family. His children, already grown, were now bringing his grandchildren to visit. Whereas pliers and hammers usually pinched or smashed my fingers, tools were puppets in Harold’s large hands. When driving a screw his wrist rotated with a machine-like movement. Through his tolerance and my fascination, we became friends.

Men like Harold usually have a workshop on the premises. Harold’s was in a space beneath the garage. His shop opened up to the backyard which overlooked an encroaching swamp.

Sometimes I felt that I was playing the part of Dennis to his Mr. Wilson, but Harold never complained. I would usually find Harold working in his shop. We would go through this little ritual. I would knock and he would invite me in and offer me a chair near his Steelcase desk. Always the polite host he would then offer me a beer. The first time was on a warm July afternoon. When I accepted I expected him to go in the house and grab one from the refrigerator. Instead, he reached underneath his desk and pulled a Pabst right from the box.

“This is the way they drink beer in Europe - room temperature,” he said as he handed me the beer.

I nodded in agreement to this cultural lesson, but wondered to myself “What if the temperature of the room is 75?”

Usually Harold’s best friend Tubby sat with us. Tubby didn’t say much – most dogs are like that. Nevertheless, Harold spoke to him as if Tubby understood every word. One time Harold felt compelled to explain Tubby’s sullen mood.

“He’s mad at me. I left him in the shop all night – forgot to let him out. He won’t even look at me.” Then as if to prove the point he called his name, “Tubby!” The old dog would not even lift his head to look at Harold. Tubby was pouting.

As a young man Harold was a cook in a logging camp. After careers as an electrician and a plumber (each lasting about twenty years) Harold acquired all the necessaries required to become a locksmith. He even outfitted a van as a mobile shop. Most men look at retirement as an opportunity to sit back and open the mail. Harold saw it as a chance to learn a new skill.

I learned a lot from Harold. But the one thing I will treasure most is the taste of honey in a hot drink. It may not be how they do it in Europe – but it’s the way Harold did it.