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.