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.

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.

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.

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.

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.