Friday, December 30, 2011

New Year's Plans

Happy New Year! To those of you who, as a conversation starter, will ask, “Was Santa good to you?” I can honestly say yes, I received some very nice gifts, including a Columbia fleece to keep me warm when winter finally arrives in 2012. And as is my habit, I pre-purchased some things for myself in anticipation of the Christmas giving season – because after all it is better to give than to receive (and I knew I wouldn’t get everything on my list). One of the gifts I gave myself caused questions and confusion.

“A banjo? You bought a banjo?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I thought it might be kind of fun to play.”

“Is this going be like the drums, harmonica and violin?” (Those items were purchased to support pursuits that never really took off).

“No, this is different.”

“You sure have a lot of interests.”

It’s true I do have many interests, and this New Year is no exception. In 2012 I have three things I want to accomplish: further my education, take the mystery out of chocolate boxes and improve a common-household appliance.

The first thing involves rocketry. We often hear how something is not as hard as rocket science, or you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to accomplish a certain task. I get a little tired of having the study of projectiles held up as the stick from which all difficulty is measured. And to prove them wrong, I think this year I may study aerospace engineering and learn about the physics of trajectories, lift, thrust, etc. How hard can it be? It’s not rocket…oh wait.

Well anyway onto the second thing. All boxes of chocolates (not just the classy ones) should have a chart of the contents on the underside of the box top. However, placing it on the bottom of the box would create some humorous situations and possibly sell more chocolate. Unfortunately, a chocolate treasure map would remove the charm of Mrs. Gump’s adage because, unlike life, a well-mapped box of chocolates would always let you know what you’re going to get.

My own mother must have grown tired of watching half-eaten candy spit into the waste basket – that image can ruin an otherwise festive atmosphere. As with other problems, she would cut the chocolate into smaller pieces to expose the stickiness of the situation.

And finally, few problems in life can bring such temporary horror as a bad haircut and the immediate need to correct it. As a child, my friend Mark once jumped out of a barber’s chair and stormed out the door half-way through a haircut when he saw his reflection in the mirror.

I have experienced that heart-stopping realization. Clippers, designed for screwing up your appearance at home, come with several guides that fit over the blades. They are supposed to help you cut your hair at an even length. This works only if they are put in place.

I have been half-way through a haircut when I removed the guide to do a quick touch-up around the ears. The screaming started shortly after I picked up where I left off. It was then that I realized I forgot to put the guide back on. But then it was too late because I had disfigured myself with several one-inch-wide swipes. My wife, Rhonda, was summoned from whatever secondary task she was doing to fix my hideousness.

Therefore for 2012, I propose that clippers designed exclusively for home use should come with an automatic shutoff when the guide is removed. As I cut my hair about once a month I may only have about twelve more times to screw it up anyway, because according to some interpretations the Mayan Calendar signifies the end of this age on December 21, 2012.

The Mayans, who lived in Central America over 1,000 years ago, devised a calendar that did not continue past 2012. Some people think the Mayans knew that the world would end at the end of this year. With all due respect to pre-Columbian society, I am not going to worry about it though. I will sit up in my room, warmed by my new fleece, and plan for next year.

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Understand

I strive to be clear in all that I do, especially when I communicate. For I feel that if my message is not received as I intended then I have failed. So when I came across a phrase that seemed contrary to that attitude I paused and I pondered. It read: “I’m only responsible for what I say, not for what you understand.”

Perhaps I don’t understand the message, (which is the beginning of a big circular argument) but I can not help but disagree. It seems lazy and self-centered, a “that’s your problem, not mine,” kind of thinking. When we speak, it is our responsibility to be understood, otherwise what’s the point?

What if I were to write “I’m only responsible for what I write, not what you understand”? I think most would agree that I was missing the point in writing.

What would we think of a teacher where the entire class consistently failed? If the teacher was not understood then perhaps the teacher had failed as well.

It takes effort to ensure that your message is understood. That’s what I dislike about the new way of communicating (texting, emailing, social media, etc.). It’s too easy to have your message manipulated and misunderstood.

I fear we have become too dependent on these types of exchanges. They are poor substitutes for face-to-face conversations where pauses, inflections, facial expressions and body language can communicate a concept better.

Ben Franklin once wrote: "The great secret of succeeding in conversation is to admire little, to hear much; always to distrust our own reason, and sometimes that of our friends; never to pretend to wit, but to make that of others appear as much as possibly we can; to hearken to what is said and to answer to the purpose."

Speaking to one another, or conversing, is an exchange where an idea or thought is shared and passed back and forth. During my junior high school years my friend Tom and I walked to school together. Often we would kick a rock back and forth the entire way (almost a mile). Sometimes we would continue the exchange into the school building: kicking and talking.

We would kick the rock in a way where the other guy could have a turn without too much effort. It was like playing catch where you throw the ball so the other guy has a good chance of catching it. That’s our responsibility in speaking – be certain that the other person can grasp your meaning.

For instance, this is the Christmas season and I prefer to say “Merry Christmas,” instead of “Happy Holidays,” as I want to be clear as to what holiday I am celebrating. I said “Happy Thanksgiving” on the 24th of November; I will say “Happy New Year” at the end of this month and the beginning of the next, but for now it’s Christmas.

You may not always agree with what I say, but if we understand each other we have a better chance of finding common ground. As Dennis Prager states, “I prefer clarity over agreement.”

Merry Christmas.

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Mrs. Claus

Walking through one of the malls the other day I noticed that Santa was sitting by himself, bearded head in gloved hand. There was no one on his lap and no one in line waiting to do so. I found this troubling. Santa should not be sitting by himself. Why is no one talking to him?

I considered approaching the old fellow and asking him if he needed some company. I could have pulled up a chair next to his green throne – no need to sit on his lap, and I doubt very much he would have sat on mine.

We could have talked about anything he wanted. For starters I would have asked him what he wanted for Christmas, and then we could have moved on to a discussion of child-labor laws and their effect on child-like elves. Perhaps I would have some explaining to do about this year’s behavior, or maybe I could have told him about the summer I met his wife.

I was working at a nursing home as an orderly. I took advantage of the situation and engaged the residents in conversation whenever I could. One woman was especially pleasant to talk to.

Although her legs were too weak to support her, her mind was strong enough to carry a conversation. She was short and round and her eyes sparkled behind her round glasses that sat just above her round, glowing cheeks. And to complete the circle, her hair was drawn back in a bun that outlined her happy, round face.

She was known to everyone as Minnie – but I knew who she was. She was Mrs. Santa Claus, who else could she be? I asked her once why she thought I addressed her as Mrs. Santa.

“Because I’m so fat,” she said with the trademark belly-shaking laugh.

“No, that’s not it.” I said laughing with her. Although I guess it was partly true. “No, it’s because you are so happy.

“How else should I be?” she asked.

Clearly, there was no better alternative. In our talks I found that she had led a busy life. In addition to keeping house at the North Pole she enjoyed gardening, baking, sewing and mending.

After the summer ended I went back to college. I never saw her again, but I will never forget her either. Thirty years passed and I found myself back at the nursing home again, this time visiting my father, and then later, my mother.

Often, during these visits we would include another resident in our conversations. It was usually rewarding. Naturally, I met some wonderful people. But, after my folks passed on I quit going to the nursing home, maybe because I wasn’t strong enough to push past the pain, or maybe I was just being selfish and lazy. But that’s going to change.

This week I am going back there for a little conversation. There are many people waiting for a visitor to share some time with. We all have someone we know who would love to see us, and if not, there is someone we haven’t met yet in a hospital or a nursing home who would love a visitor.

Everyone needs someone to talk to, even Mrs. Santa Claus and her husband.

Friday, December 9, 2011

Dish

For most of my years in elementary school I went home for lunch, as the church school I attended was only a few blocks away. Some of the kids brought their lunch; others ran the three-quarters of a mile to get a “hot lunch” served across town at the public school.

Mom served my lunch in front of the TV. I will still eat in front of the TV once in a while but now its supper, not lunch. But last week there were problems. The satellite dish had been malfunctioning for several days.

All of the suggestions for trouble shooting were followed (except shooting it): unplug the receiver for 10 seconds (I went for 11), clear any obstructions away from the dish (there were none), check to see that the sky was clear (whatever, it’s November) and to make sure the TV was tuned to the right channel (of course it was). I finally grew frustrated enough to call.

After about 20 minutes on the phone they promised to have a technician come over the following day.

“Would you prefer to have the appointment between the hours of 8 a.m. and noon, or noon and 4 p.m.?”

“Can you be more specific?” I asked.

“You can choose to have a morning or an afternoon appointment.”

“So, it’s one or the other huh?” I said.

“Or you can choose another day.”

“Will that narrow the time field?”

“No.”

“Morning.”

The next morning I called my office to say I would be in sometime between 8 and noon. Thus, I began to wait for the arrival of the repairman. I tried to position myself so I would have a clear view of the road in both directions. When I discovered that this was not possible, I stood by the window and kept my eye on the driveway.

I grabbed a book to pass the time but found it hard to concentrate. So I busied myself by walking around the house and looking out the windows. I was going to sit and watch some TV while I waited until it dawned on me – that’s why he’s coming. So I and Grandfather clock ticked away the morning wasting time waiting for a guy to get my preferred time-wasting activity back on schedule.

He finally showed up about 11 o’clock that morning and did some stuff for about an hour. He left confident that he had fixed the problem. That night the TV went blank, and I was back on the phone – flustered. They apologized and offered to waste another one of my mornings. After a few minutes we came to an understanding, and I was assured that my house would be the first stop the next morning.

Time flies, it is fleeting, it’s money, on our side, of the essence, only a matter of, and there is none like the present. I was ready to be firm with the second repairman and let him know a thing or two, but according to Emerson “Life is not so short but that there is always time enough for courtesy.” So I was courteous and, as far as I can tell, he fixed the trouble.

On his way out the door we talked a little business, and I gave him my card. I told him he could call the office to make an appointment. When he does, I will give him a choice: sometime between 8 and noon or noon and 4. “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” I saw Khan say that to Captain Kirk on TV.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Now where was I

A couple weeks ago I was at my desk checking on the state of the world when I got sidetracked by a story titled, “Walking Through Doorways Causes
Forgetting, New Research Shows.” That kind of fragmented title has me asking, “Forgetting what?” But, I guess that’s the problem. They don’t know because they forgot.

Susan Guibert of the Notre Dame News reported on a study conducted by Gabriel Radvansky, a psychology professor there. She writes: “We’ve all experienced it: The frustration of entering a room and forgetting what we were going to do. Or get. Or find.”

According to Professor Radvansky this is because doorways are the culprit. “Entering or exiting through a doorway serves as an ‘event boundary’ in the mind, which separates episodes of activity and files them away.”

Radvansky concludes that walking through a doorway triggers lapses in memory.

I would submit that there is an exception to his conclusion: bathroom doorways; because once the decision to enter that room has been made there can be no turning back.

The forgettable reseach study included only college students; presumably all in their late teens and early 20’s. If college students have memory issues now they are going be in big trouble when they are older and have more to forget. What are they teaching these kids? Perhaps some memorization exercises are in order.

I think Notre Dame’s absent-minded professor should have expanded his research beyond that of walking through doorways and studied other causes for sudden memory loss. Walking smack into a door, for instance, will suddenly dislodge everything from your mind other than the pain you are experiencing. Getting interrupted while talking can make a person forget what they were going to say.

It’s easy to get distracted, especially if you’re easily distracted. Look at this, listen to that, go there, come here (“just a minute”); the diversions never seem to stop. We are beset with dozens of things that demand our attention. If I’m not careful I can get so lost in a song on the radio or a conversation with a passenger that I can sit through all three colors at a stoplight.

Writers can often get sidetracked from where they started to where they want to be – sometimes even between paragraphs. Often when I sit down to write, I start with one idea and find myself pulled along by another. It’s known as chasing or going down a rabbit trail.

Rabbits seldom stay on the straight and narrow. They hop from here to there, stopping only momentarily before they start off in another direction. Their trails are hard to follow, and they often seem to be headed nowhere in particular.

Rabbits are very fleet-footed; lucky for them as they have no natural defenses. But for all their hopping around rabbits have very little to think about: eating, staying alive, and keeping up their reputation of going forth and multiplying. As Emerson said “All the thoughts of a turtle are turtles, and of a rabbit, rabbits.”

Cousins of the turtle and rabbits are the tortoise and the hare that were made famous in one of Aesop’s fables. The moral of that fable is that you should concentrate on what you’re doing and don’t be distracted, for slow and steady wins the race. Or you might lose your place.

Now where was I?

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Thanks for Staying Home

I’m not much of a shopper… more of a buyer. I don’t spend a lot of time trying to find the best deal; usually when I decide I want something I just go get it. However, I do have a great time wandering around shopping malls (“just looking, thank you”). This is true especially this time of year, and this time of year comes earlier and earlier, both on the calendar and on the clock.

I have found from experience, however, that Black Friday is not the day to do casual browsing. Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving and traditionally the biggest shopping day of the year, is the day that puts stores “in the black” on their ledger sheets.

But now more and more of the major stores are opening for business on Thanksgiving Day. By doing this they hope to get a jump on the season by luring the shoppers in with the promise of before-Christmas bargains (some quantities limited and the stores reserve the right to run out of the item before you get there).

Unhappy with this arrangement are the employees of the stores that are open for business on Thanksgiving. They would like to have this time to spend with their families. Imagine.

Thomas Lee, a writer from the Star Tribune, recently wrote about this trend in retailing. He quoted executives from three major stores:
Macy’s - “People want to shop through the night.” Wal-Mart - “Our customers told us they would rather stay up late to shop than get up early so we're going to hold special events on Thanksgiving…" Toys ‘R’ Us - "We know our customers like to get an early start on their Black Friday shopping, so we're …opening our stores at 9 p.m. on Thanksgiving night."

Lee goes on to say that he finds it difficult to believe that customers are actually demanding that Thanksgiving Day should be a day to commence commerce. But for a moment let’s say that consumers really are insisting on more hours to shop, and since the customer is always right we must do what they say.

But why stop there? To satisfy the growing demands of the customers I propose that every store, every office (public and private), every school be open every hour of every day (no exceptions). We could solve our economic woes with such a new world order.

Everyone who wanted a job would have one as the buildings that never close would need to hire more workers. People would have more money to buy stuff and factories would be running at full production just to keep up with the demand. Of course, there would be no time for anything else.

We think nothing of going to a store on Sunday to buy just about anything, but not too many years ago that was quite unusual. In the movie “That Thing You Do,” set in 1964, Mr. Patterson, the owner of a small store, became quite annoyed while reading a competitor’s advertisement in the newspaper.

“Open Saturday 10 to 10. Open Sunday 12 to 6... open on Sunday from 12 to 6! You know, I don't believe I want to live in a country where you have to stay open on Sunday to do business. You shouldn't have to work on Sunday to support your family.”

That’s right Mr. Patterson, and you shouldn’t have to work on Thanksgiving either. I am going to stay away from the stores on Thanksgiving. I’m not sure about Friday though.

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Menu please

I missed an opportunity last week; one that may not come my way again if things don’t change. I could have and should have gone out to eat for one of those big “hungry man” breakfasts, the kind where you get a couple eggs, sausage or bacon, hash brown potatoes, some toast (with jelly), maybe some pancakes, a glass of juice and a cup of coffee. After one of those you can skip lunch, maybe even supper and use the extra time for something else – like taking a nap. It could have been like the last meal they give to the condemned.

It’s too late now; a reordering of my menu has been called for. I have been advised to go on a low-fat, no-fun diet. Apparently, I was killing myself with my dietary decisions. Last week I went to the doctor for my annual physical. As part of the arrangement it is assumed that I will submit to some rather unpleasant probes and prods by the practitioner. In addition, blood was drawn and tested for the existence and absence of all manner of things.

The results came in a couple days ago. Of the four categories, I am outside all the accepted boundaries of where “they” say I should be. Nothing alarming mind you; however, the nurse did ask if I had a health-care directive.

So now to survive another 48 years I have to eat the “right” foods. From what I read from “the list” this means, among other things, to decrease or eliminate sweets. Soda is listed as an example. Why anyone would eat baking soda is less puzzling than why it’s listed as a sweet. Oh well, check that off the list.

Candy is also on the list. That’s an easy one to give up since I don’t really like hard candy anyway, especially the sour stuff. I didn’t see chocolate, so I guess that must be O.K. I’ve heard some good things about dark chocolate, so I’ll load up on that instead.

Refined carbohydrates were mentioned as something to avoid. Refined anything sounds rather cultured and high-brow for my mid-west palate. I lean towards the simple, some would even say unsavory tastes. Give me a loaf of bread, a plate of noodles, a quart of chocolate milk, and I am as happy as I can be.

Further down towards the end of the list omega-3 fatty acids were brought up. I guess I missed the first two of the heavy-set Greek acids. Anyway, I thought I was supposed to avoid fat. Now I am told to consume fatty fish twice a week. Sounds like a good opportunity to visit a nice seafood restaurant – doctor’s orders. Other foods high in omega-3 fatness are walnuts (they taste great in brownies) and dark leafy green vegetables. I like them in a salad generously topped with croutons and French dressing.

Next, to confuse me even more, I am told high fat meats are off the table, but fat fish can be the catch-of-the-day twice a week. Meats with a high fat content include lunchmeats, hot dogs and variety meats (you don’t want to know what that is).

It is suggested that I reach and maintain a healthy weight. That won’t be too tough on this diet. If not for that fat fish, I would waste away to nothing. Now if I only start exercising on a regular basis everything will be OK. I am already planning my celebratory meal. I should be pretty hungry by then, hungry enough for a man’s size breakfast. I like my bacon crunchy, if you don’t mind.

Friday, November 11, 2011

Just A Few More Minutes

Blame it on November – the darkest, grayest, most depressing month there is. This is my second in a series on old men who have died recently. My own father died on a November day several years ago. Andy Rooney, the man who shared a few minutes with us at the end of the CBS show “60 minutes,” died Friday. The clock finally ran out for him.

Mr. Rooney (I didn’t really know him well enough to call him Andy) had just retired a few weeks ago at the age of 92. Maybe he should have kept working, but I guess if you are going to retire, 92 seems better than 52.

Some people retire at 52. In Cambodia and Thailand early retirement is thought to be about 50, compared to 62 in the United States. I got this from the computer site Wikipedia. That sounds like a made-up name to me.

I don’t like made-up names, or even made-up words for that matter. We have plenty of good words and names that still have some life left in them. The problem with making up words is that there are no rules, traditions of usage or historical origins to give them any validity or experience.

In Greece and Italy, the early retirement age is 57. From what I read in the newspapers, people in those two European countries want to retire even earlier. I guess that will work as long as there are enough people who will work to support them.

I don’t understand the need to retire early. I think it is more of an indicator of someone working at a job they don’t like. Perhaps what they need is a different job instead.

Plenty of people have worked in their advanced years. Billy Graham is still active and he’s 93. Grandma Moses started painting when she was 78. Ronald Reagan was in his 70’s when he was president. Moses was 40years old when he led the Israelites out of Egypt, but it wasn’t until he was 80 that God gave him the Ten Commandments. I guess God wanted to wait until Moses got old enough to handle such a big responsibility.

My own grandfather worked in a lumber yard until he was 85. He took the job after he moved to town from the farm. I guess he wanted to “slow down”. When I was 16 we unloaded a railroad car together. I had trouble keeping up with him, as he hadn’t “slowed down” yet.

Some people retire so they can take it easy. Some just want to fish or play golf everyday. I don’t have anything against these things, I just don’t like to do them. I think it would get kind of boring after a while. A person needs a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Something tells me that Andy Rooney had his reason.

Thanks for not retiring early Mr. Rooney. But could we have just a few more minutes? Please Andy.

Friday, November 4, 2011

Port of Call

I first met Luvern Hinz at the home of my brother-in-law, Rick and his wife Melissa. On that day Luvern generously shared his bottle of port with me – nothing excessive, just a glass. Over that glass of wine was where I met a real-life George Bailey. Bedord Falls, the town in the Christmas classic “It’s a Wonderful Life,” was better because George Bailey had been there. Kimball, Minnesota was better because Luvern Hinz had been there.

Kimball is a small town in central Minnesota, and for over 90 years of his life, Luvern called it home. He died on October 20, one month short of his 97th birthday. Luvern was the grandfather of Rick’s wife, Melissa. I didn’t know him well, but I am blessed to have known him at all.

If not for extended family gatherings I would have never met him. If pressed, I would tell you that I am not a fan of these kinds of things. These family affairs will often have people seeking security by remaining huddled in familiar groups. Separated from each other across the room, any polite interaction between strangers hinges on a brave, yet awkward first step. I will usually find a seat in a corner where I can observe the unscripted play unfold with clumsy interaction between the characters.

Except one time several years ago I sat on a couch next to Luvern. I knew he was Melissa’s grandfather, but up until then I had not taken the time to talk with him. I have found over the years that the older folks have the most to offer. They have life experiences, stories, and wisdom to share. All you have to do is ask.

My first question to him was prompted by the dark liquid in his glass.

“What are you drinking?” I asked him.

“Port,” he replied.

“Port?” I said.

He then told me about how his wife had suffered from stomach trouble, so he picked up a bottle of port one day with the hope that this would settle her stomach. After having success with his home remedy, he and his wife would have a glass of wine together every evening thereafter; and even though she has been gone over 20 years he still has his glass of wine.

“Would you like a glass?” he offered.

“Absolutely,” I said as I sailed over to the cabinet and grabbed a suitable drinking vessel for Luvern’s port.

I found him very easy to talk to. Assuming that a man of his age was retired I asked him what he had done for work in his younger years. This was when I learned the value one man can bring a community. Without boasting, he talked about how he had worked at a grocery store, which he later purchased. He had built the town’s first bowling alley and a self-serve car wash. He had also delivered milk from a horse-drawn wagon.

In addition, I found out that he loved to golf; I would have loved to golf with him, but no one likes to get beat by a 95-year old man. It wasn’t until after he died that I learned just how amazing this man was. Most of this information I got from the obituary notice provided by the Dingmann Funeral Home in Kimball.

Luvern had served in the US Navy, and he, along with several other people, started the Kimball Golf Club. He had been on the city council, the school board, past commander of the Kimball American Legion, and had been a member of the Kimball Fire department, where he had served as chief. Plus, he found time to plant trees in a local park and build bluebird houses.

No one would have criticized him if he had completed just one activity. It would have been less risky, but as William G.T. Shedd said “A ship is safe in harbor, but that’s not what ships are for.”

Luvern didn’t stand at the dock and wait for his ship to come in; instead he worked hard and shared the fruits of his labor with his home port of Kimball.

According to the obituary, “Luvern loved his friends, his family and Kimball.” Every town should be so fortunate to have such a man.

Friday, October 28, 2011

It's all about latitude

I’m willing to adjust my attitude from time to time and try new things. I took off for a weekend this month just to try and do geocaching. If that looks like a made up word to you, well you’re right it is. It combines two word: geo (Greek), meaning “of the earth,” and cache (French), which is a temporary hiding place.

Geocaching incorporates concepts of older games with modern technology. It has elements of “Hide and Seek,” a scavenger hunt, and the old “you’re getting warmer… warmer…colder…warmer…warmer” game of finding a hidden something or other. In geocaching the clues to find the hidden object are longitude and latitude coordinates, such as N 43 (degrees) 31.577’and W 92 (degrees) 30.946’.

Using global positioning satellites or GPS technology the seeker enters the coordinates into a GPS device. Many people use an expensive portable device that gives directional help, but a smart phone can also be used if you are not smart enough to remember bring the expensive toy with you. Either one lets you know if you are getting closer (warmer) or further away (colder).

There is no shortage of places to mess around with geocaching. Hundreds of thousands people participate in it every year all over the Earth (or geo if you prefer). So it was just a matter of time before I was forced to check it out.

Up until recently I was able to stay in the truck while others scurried about trying to locate hidden treasure. But this time an entire weekend was devoted to geocaching in Minnesota state parks.

When the idea was first presented for my consideration I carelessly said, “I don’t care where I go, I care where I stay.” You see I like traveling I just don’t like camping. I thought if that message was communicated clear enough I could have a relaxing weekend spent in a hotel somewhere reading and relaxing while others chased wild geese. Once again I didn’t ask enough questions.

There are over 70 state parks and recreation areas in Minnesota and each one has at least one hidden treasure waiting to be found using GPS technology. The goal is to find the official cache at all the parks within a certain time period. A local teacher and his wife were the first ones to complete that task in Minnesota.

The modern-day treasure hunters collect stamps, patches and pins when a certain number of these state-sponsored caches have been found. My daughter Jennifer and her husband Adam have taken up the task of visiting all 73 state parks. So recently she and her mother conspired to involve the whole family.

In two days, traveling over 450 miles, we stopped in at eight state parks; fun for the whole family. We shared trails with horses, climbed hundreds of stairs, scampered up rocky cliffs, traversed ravines, forded streams, explored caves, island hopped and made our presence known in a ghost town.

I think the state of Minnesota is using geocaching as a device to introduce people to the state parks. I was at parks that I had never heard of. All eight parks that we visited were beautiful and each had its own unique identity. I can see why some people like this kind of thing.

Geocaching wouldn’t be my first choice, but you have to participate in the activities that are important to your friends and family. My global position is not one of resistance to change and trying new things. I may not always like it but I try to have fun with it. It’s like what Jimmy Buffet said.

It’s these changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes
Nothing remains quite the same
With all of our running and all of our cunning
If we couldn’t laugh we would all go insane

Friday, October 21, 2011

Dad's Chair

I guess I’m not much of a furniture person. It doesn’t matter if it matches or looks right, but I need a chair. In most homes with a man in residence there is a special chair; his chair. There he relaxes after a hard day; from there he exercises his authority. Women may have their own chair as well, but they seldom sit in it; I’m not sure why. I guess it’s because they are too busy … doing stuff.

Therein lies the problem. Just because women don’t take the time to sit down, doesn’t mean that men won’t. I don’t think my wife, Rhonda, fully appreciates why I need a good chair to call my own. I didn’t realize this until a series of events unfolded in my house over the course of a couple days.

One of Rhonda’s friends brought over a chair she was no longer using. No harm there, as we have plenty of storage room in our buildings and I have extra tarps. I had almost forgotten about the chair when on the eve of the third day Rhonda had me come out to look at it.

Something about it didn’t sit quite right with me, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. The color was rather nondescript (as most colors are to me). At Rhonda’s urging I sat in it. It was comfortable enough, but it lacked something.

She asked if I needed help in carrying it to the garage. Did you catch it? Hidden within her question was also a directive: she wanted the chair in the garage and eventually the house. That was already decided. The offer to help me carry the chair was merely a ploy to advance her agenda. I let it slide.

I was able to carry it myself with little difficulty, which should have been a big clue as to why I wasn’t thrilled about this chair. The next step took very little time, but it was an important one. When the new chair came into the house it replaced my chair.

My chair – the chair from where I caught up with my papers, watched movies with my children, fell asleep, meted out justice, delivered wise counsel, and solved the problems of the day.

Well, it could be replaced I suppose, with the right substitute. My chair had become worn and the color had fallen out of fashion. When I sat down in my usual spot the shortcomings of this substitute became obvious. It certainly wasn’t too big, and it wasn’t just right. It had been built for either a child or a woman.

“This chair is too small,” I growled.

I should have noticed it before it came into the house – but without the proper perspective I didn’t realize how inadequate this new chair was. It was narrow and low and its arms were bony and weak. There was no way I could be the man of the house in this chair.

If a man’s home is his castle, then his chair must be his throne. I was at risk of being abdicated, overthrown. As far as I know, my father never had this problem.

Dad had his chair, and it was his whenever he wanted it. A simple look or a subtle gesture would displace anyone who occupied it. Often it didn’t match the carpet, the drapes or any piece of furniture in the neighborhood, but that didn’t matter.

It was positioned so that Dad could monitor both the TV and the outside world without moving his head. From the comfort of his chair he ruled.

“What are we watching?” “Quiet, I want to listen to the weather.” “Where are you off to?”

And when he fell asleep after a long day Mom would bravely touch him and say, “Why don’t you go to bed Tom?”

Dad wouldn’t have put up with such nonsense so I didn’t either. I got my old chair back. Except for my chair, furniture is really not that important to me, so does that make me a chairman?

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Until next year

I tilled the garden this weekend – not once, but twice. The first was to grind this year’s remains into the ground. The second time was to add about 10 bags of leaves to the soil. These leaves were special – you might even say imported. They were a gift from my daughter, Jennifer, who lives in town with her new husband Adam.

Growing up in the country Jennifer rarely had to rake leaves. Out here on the farm we use the mow and blow method: chop the leaves up with the mower and let the wind take them when and where it wishes. But that method of yard work is frowned upon in town, so she and Adam bagged up the leaves that had fallen on their yard and generously shared them with me.

When they had completed their end of the bargain I went to town and picked up the bulging bags. At home I quickly spread the leaves on the freshly cultivated soil. I had to hurry, less the gift to the garden would blow away to parts unknown.

Jennifer used to work the farm garden with her mother – now she has her own smaller plot in town. So this year I was a “husbandman,” an old term meaning farmer, gardener. So I helped my wife in the harvesting of tomatoes and carrots to empty the ground before the tillage. As the Lord says, “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few.”

Before I modernized with a tiller powered by the tractor I used to have what is commonly referred to as a walk-behind tiller. But walking suggests a peaceful pastime, and that does not describe my former tiller. Instead it handled like a team of wild horses trying to escape. A rear leaning 45-degree stance was required to engage the tiller in battle. By the end of a leisurely day in the garden my forearms were like rocks, my back was shot and my legs quivered with fatigue.

But turning over soil has become an easy chore since I purchased an attachment for my tractor. I call it a tractor because that’s what it is, but Mary, Mary quite contrary, my tractor looks like a toy next to real farm tractors. So I guess I’m playing farmer.

True, I live in an old farm house and have a barn, but I am not a farmer – I do not possess their massive machinery or skills.

The farmers in the area are busy. Their trucks and tractors pulling wagons go back and forth on the normally quiet avenue. The combines with their bean heads raise dust in the fields and on the roads as they reap what they have sown. Soon they will come back outfitted to collect the corn. They will be gone soon, along with the 80-degree October days. I wave as they pass.

The 80-degree plus days in August are normal and expected, so I take them for granted and think about cooler times. But in this clime, those temperatures in October are rare and fleeting, so I soak up the sunshine as I go about my business. If I knew it was the last time I would see such warmth for six months or more I may treat the day differently.

I can find contentment in a day spent reading and writing, but as the old saying goes, “A man of words and not of deeds is like a garden full of weeds.” Land must be turned, garden hoses and pumps have to be drained and put away, and snow removal equipment must be made ready.

So I toil in the soil and make provisions for the cold. The garden has been put to bed and patiently awaits the heavy blanket of snow that will surely come. Till next year.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

It Stings

Buddy, the dog, doesn’t like bees; he tries to bite them. I don’t mind them; I understand their purpose: to pollinate and produce honey. I also know they can sting, but I accept that as part of the trade-off.

However, I am much less tolerant with wasps, hornets and other members of their swarm. I understand they are considered useful by those in the know, such as the University of Minnesota Extension office.

“Wasps are predators, feeding insects and other arthropods to their young…They are beneficial because they prey on many insects... Some wasps may become aggressive scavengers around human food… Nests that are near human activity can pose a potential problem. If there is a concern about stings, you should eradicate the nest.”

They suggest that you wait until nightfall to attack. One method is to “cover the nest with a large, heavy, plastic bag and seal it shut. Cut the nest from the tree and freeze it or let the bag sit in the sun, which will kill the wasps inside in a day or two. Use caution: there is more risk involved in this procedure than in spraying the nest.”

Uh-huh. It seems to me that if you were unsuccessful you have only made a bad situation much worse. If they were aggressive before, they are sure to have revenge on their minds now. I have trouble with zip-lock baggies so I am going to avoid that method.

I like spraying them with an insecticide from a safe distance of two yards (mine and my neighbors). I think someone should invent a predator drone for home use. They seem to be working very well in the “war on terror” or “overseas contingency operations” or whatever the phrase of the day is.

I would buy one of those to avoid getting stung. I think most people would. I also think most people want to avoid the sting of paying more taxes than is legally required of them. But, there are always exceptions.

For instance, Doug Edwards, a retired millionaire and former Google employee, was an invited audience member of a town hall meeting held recently in California. He asked President Obama, “Would you please raise my taxes?”

I agree, please raise Mr. Edwards taxes. But I don’t think he meant just his, because anyone who felt that they weren’t paying “their fair share,” has an easy solution. Simply send the government a check.

According to http://www.fms.treas.gov/faq/moretopics_gifts.html, a U.S. Treasury website, “Citizens who wish to make a general donation to the U.S. government may send contributions to a specific account called "Gifts to the United States." They even give you the address to make it easy.

Warren Buffet, a zillionaire doesn’t think it’s right that his tax rate is lower than his secretary’s. Well, I don’t think it’s right that his company, Berkshire Hathaway, has owed the IRS one billion dollars since 2002.

But don’t take my word for it. Various websites (Newsmax, The Huffington Post) are running a story that a group called Americans for Limited Government (ALG) has said that Berkshire Hathaway’s own annual report indicated the company is embroiled in an ongoing standoff over its tax bills. This was also included in an editorial in The New York Post.

I have talked to people who state that “they proudly pay their taxes,” or that “it’s their patriotic duty.” OK, is if this is true let’s raise the bar. How proud and patriotic do you want to be? At what level do taxes become too much?

I can imagine other requests from concerned citizens to follow: Please audit me, please seize my property, increase the assessed value of my home, draft me, arrest me, deport me, enslave me, take away my constitutional rights. Please take away my economic freedom.

When it comes to taxes I pay my fair share with as much pride and patriotism as I can muster. I am not stingy, but I’d like to know why there is this new intensity to pay more to the government, because if you take away the why I am left with a sting.

Friday, September 30, 2011

Wingding

Last Saturday night my wife, Rhonda, and I attended the benefit for the Scott County Historical Society, “The Bees Knees 1920s Hangar Dance.” The wingding was held in an airplane hangar at Flying Cloud Airport. There was a buffet, cash bar, and the entertainment was provided by The Roseville Big Band, a 19-piece swing band.

Many of the guests wore period costumes and outside a bi-plane and a couple old cars were parked to add to the atmosphere. With the band playing songs from that era, it was easy to get in a rollicking mood.

A regular part of these types of galas are auctions, both live and silent. Fortunately, I was prevented from participating in the live auction as I had been asked to be the auctioneer. My compulsive behavior and the fear of losing out on a “good deal” can lead to rash decisions and buyer’s remorse.

With a silent auction there is more time to contemplate and consider. And with the knowledge that your money is going to a “good cause” a little largesse can be forgiven.

One noteworthy piece drew me in. “Living Life”, a print of a painting by Bonnie L. Mohr, a Minnesota artist. The print has a large tree in the middle of a pasture with a fence and gate in the background. It reminded me of the big cottonwood in the pasture behind our barn. The beautifully painted scene caught my eye, but it was the verse printed below the tree that stirred my mind.

“Life is not a race – but indeed a journey. Be honest. Work hard. Be choosy. Say “thank you”, “I love you”, and “great job” to someone each day. Go to church, take time for prayer. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh. Let your handshake mean more than pen and paper. Love your life and what you’ve been given, it is not accidental – search for your purpose and do it as best as you can. Dreaming does matter. It allows you to become that which you aspire to be. Laugh often. Appreciate the little things in life and enjoy them. Some of the best things really are free. Do not worry, less wrinkles are more becoming. Forgive, it frees the soul. Take time for yourself – plan for longevity. Recognize the special people you’ve been blessed to know. Live for today, enjoy the moment.”

Finding nothing there that I could disagree with, I put my name down on the bid sheet. Five dollars was the minimum starting bid, and I was very happy to imagine that I could get such a treasure for such a small price. Feeling rather pleased with myself I walked back to my table.

A little food, a drink and some conversation can occupy 15 or 20 minutes quite easily. I then began to notice that others had taken an interest in my piece. Well, why not? It was beautiful and others could look at it if they wanted. The auction was to remain open for another two hours, but I felt secure knowing my name was on the sheet.

But wait. What did that man think he was doing? He was putting his name on my bid sheet. And now a crowd had gathered; there were more people standing in front of my print. It was too hard to see what was going on, but it was obvious that I had to get up there and see what was going on. I had been out bid and the price now stood at $10 dollars. I grabbed the pen and put my name down again.

This pattern repeated itself throughout the evening. Fifteen became 20, then 30,
40, and finally 60 dollars (the stated value of the framed print). The agony finally ended, the auction closed, and I got my print.

The 1920’s ended with the crash of ’29 and the start of The Great Depression. I’m not sure this country can avoid another economic calamity, but the right attitude found in the words of Bonnie L. Mohr can help us see us through.

Friday, September 23, 2011

My apologies

I was at a church bazaar recently with my wife. During our stroll through the tent we stopped to look at some plants to purchase. Rhonda picked up a small wandering jew (a plant – not a person) and handed it to me. She talked about getting that one and possibly one or two others – she wasn’t sure. So as I listened to her rationale I set the plant down.

It was then that it happened. While we were regarding the plant a lady reached in front of us and plucked it from the shelf. “She’s got a lot of cheek,” I said to myself.

My options were many: I could have physically blocked her from reaching in, confronted her with the rudeness of her actions, the plant could have been snatched from her hand, or I could have told tell her that we were considering purchasing this very plant and would she mind waiting her turn. But with any of these an apology would have followed – first from my wife to the lady for my actions, then from me to the plant-stealing lady, then from me to my wife for embarrassing her, then from me to me for ever leaving my house in the first place.

I did nothing and let her have the plant. In retrospect, not doing anything was the best option because I didn’t have to apologize, which is good as I have been told that I apologize too much – and for that I am truly sorry. It’s just that when you confront trouble instead of avoiding it you are bound to run into regretful circumstances.

I found myself in the middle of many apologetic situations when I was growing up because trouble was usually met face to face. That may have been when I became aware of the power of an apology. Properly timed and recited with sincerity, a proper apology can defuse an explosive setting. I also know that if something is said too frequently it can lose some of its effectiveness (kind of like the boy who cried wolf).

I know that Dad ceased to be convinced of the genuineness of my apologies for he often said, “Sorry nothing! You don’t know what the word means.”

I often think of Dad’s phrase when someone delivers a non-apology apology, “I’m sorry if you felt offended,” or “I’m sorry that you didn’t like what I said.” It reminds me of the little boy who was disciplined for being mean to his sister. When prompted by his mother to apologize for calling his sister stupid he says, “I’m sorry you’re stupid.”

A little forethought can avoid feelings of regret or remorse. But if you are to blame, take responsibility, apologize, and try to make things better. In “Tie a Yellow Ribbon,” John Wayne said “Never apologize mister, it’s a sign of weakness.” I’m uncomfortable disagreeing with a national icon, but I think admitting when you are wrong and asking to be forgiven requires strength because you stand alone when doing so. An apology can defuse an argument and dislodge barriers that disrupt clear communication.

But on the other hand everyone is too easily offended these days and our country is too quick to apologize. Perhaps The Duke did have a point and the truth lies somewhere in the middle. Apologize when you are wrong, but when someone wrongs you turn the other cheek.

Friday, September 16, 2011

I love a parade

Last weekend I watched three parades – one from a standing position and two from the shaded comfort of a portable chair (the type that folds into a finger-pinching shape suitable for easy transport). Just to clear up any misunderstanding I should tell you that the parades were on three separate days in two separate towns. To stay in one spot and have three parades file by would be quite unusual and require a great deal of patience.

It’s hard to avoid a parade when you grow up in Minnesota. Most everyone has seen several before their tenth birthday, and by the time they have graduated high school they have most likely walked (or marched) in one or two.

I have seen dozens of parades from the safety of the curb. I have also marched in a couple wearing a high school band uniform, walked in several to support a cause, and drove cars in them during the homecoming festivities of both high school and college.

In college it was a ’73 Chevrolet Caprice convertible that was driven on the downtown mall in St. Cloud past the morning celebrants. In high school I sat behind the wheel of a ’76 Chevrolet Chevette (Herbie’s cousin).

As fun as it is being in a parade, it may be more fun to watch, but not all the time. I remember being scared out of my mind by the Vulcan Krewe of the St. Paul Winter Carnival. It seemed that no matter what parade my parents took us to the Vulcans were there waiting to swoop down on us.

These fallen angels would ride in on the back of an old fire truck. The truck always seemed to stop in front of us, and with the siren screaming they would descend upon the innocent. As terrified children clung to their father’s pant legs these masked demons in their red capes and boots would smear the faces of women with a greasepaint kiss. I don’t think Mom was ever set upon by one of their horde; perhaps it was the frame of my larger-than-life father that protected her.

Time marches on and the Vulcans have been forced to modify their behavior, but thankfully we still have old fire trucks crawling down the main streets of small towns. I think that the parades in small towns are better than those of large cities. Macy’s Thanksgiving parade has turned into such an orchestrated hoo-ha with its Broadway-style shows performing for the cameras that I no longer watch it.

Of course there is a limit on the other end of the parade route where a town may be too small to host a parade. Many years ago Nathan and I were prevented from driving through a town because they had closed the only road through town to hold their parade. So we did the only logical thing: we watched. There didn’t seem to be very many spectators as almost the entire population was in the parade.

There were men driving their tractors down the middle of the street without any banners, walkers, floats or signs to indicate their sponsor or purpose. They may have just been headed to the field – it was impossible to tell.
I love a parade (the title of a song written in 1932 by Harold Arlen and Ted Koehler). I love the cars, trucks and the tractors. The floats with the royalty and their choreographed waves (one-two-three-four-switch sides), and the three-piece bands on hay wagons are small-town standards.

There are some towns that don’t allow politicians in parades. I like that idea, but perhaps they could be permitted under certain conditions: Since they are not royalty they should not be treated as such by riding in an open car or on a float. All politicians (elected or candidate) must walk the parade route. And as a second condition they should follow the horses.

I would even stand in the sun to watch that high-stepping spectacle.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Dining Out

I had a little trouble at the drive-through window of a fast-food place one morning this week. The voice on the other end of the magical speaker goofed up my order, and when I corrected her she got a little snippy with me. I felt kind of foolish arguing with a speaker and a display screen, but at least I got a straw to go with my iced coffee.

In a fast-food environment, particularly with the faceless speaker box, there isn’t the same personal connection you get with a slow-food restaurant (as my kids used to call them). When you have a waiter or a server they are with you for a longer period of time and hence should have a greater interest in your well-being; at least in theory.

There’s a restaurant in town I frequent because they have a bar where I can sit and eat my lunch, drink my iced tea, read the paper, watch eight TVs, and listen to music being played through speakers above my head. I only do this when I am alone, for it would certainly be rude to be so distracted with a dining partner.

I had a meeting in town the other night so I had supper there. The bar stools were filled with people I didn’t recognize (the regular lunch crowd had shuffled out). I took a spot at a booth but I felt a little out of place. I couldn’t see the TVs very well, and the music was hard to hear, and although I brought a book to read, it wasn’t the same as reading the paper.

When I was finished and ready to leave the server brought my receipt and said,
“You guys have a nice day.” I looked around to make sure that someone hadn’t slipped into my booth unnoticed. Not seeing anyone I considered that perhaps there was a character sitting with me that only the server could see – kind of Elwood P. Dowd (the character Jimmy Steward played in “Harvey”) – only different. I left a large enough tip to cover both of our meals, just to be on the safe side.

The wait staffs in restaurants have it tough. I’ve never been a waiter and am quite sure I don’t have the patience for it. Also, servers are expected to anticipate a customer’s needs and satisfy them before they are requested. For example, water, menus, and condiments are usually brought to the table automatically, but not silverware. In some restaurants you must ask for it.

I was eating lunch some time ago with my friend Jeff. He and I try to get together once a month for lunch, and it was my turn to drive to his town. He selected a restaurant at a golf course. It was a fancy place: linen napkins and table cloths, lead crystal goblets filled with water, black menus with gold tassels – the whole she-bang.

After we ordered the waitress brought our salads, which were included with our lunch (you get that kind of treatment at your fancier places). With food now in front of us we looked around the table but we couldn’t find any silverware – no forks, knives or spoons – nothing. We waited patiently and tried several times to get our server’s attention but still no silverware.

Jeff may have started it, or it could have been me, but one of us picked up a crouton with our fingers and put it in our mouth, then another and another. Pretty soon both of us were picking up all the croutons on the salad, even the ones with dressing on them. After that we grabbed the lettuce with our fingers as well. In between bites and bouts of laughter I asked him, “What kind of town do you live in where you have to eat a salad with your fingers?”

Within a few minutes the waitress brought the rest of our lunch. By then we had attracted some attention from the other tables.

“Do you think we could have some silverware for the rest of our meal?” Jeff asked her.

“It looks to me like you’re both doing just fine without it,” she said with a huff as she turned her back on us.

Maybe I should just stick to the drive-through window – at least there you get a straw.

Check please.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Corn

I relish corn in all manners and stages, some more than others: popcorn, corn bread, corn flakes, frozen corn, canned corn, corn nuts, Corn King hot dogs, creamed corn, field corn, corn syrup, ethanol and corny jokes. But about this time of year I start to grow tired of corn-on-the-cob.

We have a garden at our place. I say we, but mostly it’s my wife Rhonda’s garden, as my only contribution is to till it twice a year. Corn, still on the cob, begins to show up at meal times with regularity for a few weeks every August. It’s hard to complain about food when it is plentiful and prepared for you, but please let me try.

My aversion to excessive corn goes back to my childhood; the memories still disrupt my sleep. As part of my training my parents sent me to Montgomery to work the corn pack at the Green Giant factory one summer.

Although it only lasted a few weeks, it seemed more like a few years. The shifts lasted 12 hours and then swung around to let the night shift go to the day shift (and vice versa). I would work 18 hours during those swing days. During those long days that turned into night I witnessed people fall asleep while standing up.

My social life suffered greatly during those weeks. I’m not sure if it was the hairnet worn throughout the day, the corn that clung to my clothing, or the smell that permeated my pores that made me want to stay home and rest in between shifts.

The freshly picked corn was delivered by truck day and night from the fields of Scott, Rice and Le Sueur counties. They kept coming and coming. While I sat outside alone during my breaks I remember being impressed and feeling depressed witnessing this long parade of trucks.

I had two different jobs at the factory. Both of them had comical “Lucille Ball” qualities. On one I stood next to a fast-moving conveyor belt. In front of me cobs of corn whizzed by that had been husked by a (husking?) machine. My job was to quickly grab those that had been missed by the machine and put them down a chute, where they presumably would be sent back to be husked (or rehusked?).

My secondary task on that conveyor line was to grab gross or damaged cobs and dispose of them. There was no time for indecision or contemplating the fate of a marginal cob. Some slipped through, but when I got behind I resisted the temptation to catch up by stuffing the cobs in my shirt or my mouth.

The second job I had at the factory was to get my hands smashed by frozen corn cobs. I stood on a ladder above a large container and spread frozen cobs evenly in the container as they exited a chute. The idea was to get as many cobs into a container as possible, but I found the consequences of completing the task contrary to its intended purpose: the frozen cobs flew out of the chute with such velocity and numbers that it was impossible to make any progress without having your hands pummeled with dozens of frozen cobs.

Corn may be the only vegetable that I have a love/hate relationship with. I will no longer eat corn right off the cob; I require it to be cut off. I still have all my teeth so that’s not the reason, nor am I so highly cultured that the very idea of eating right from the cob is beneath me. I’ve just never been a fan of having corn stuck between my teeth, plus with a moustache I have to contend with the smell of butter beneath my nose unless I thoroughly scrub up after eating.

But soon I will no longer have corn coming out of my ears. Fall will come and winter will follow. I will spend my nights reading, writing, watching movies, and eating popcorn.

Friday, August 26, 2011

Trashman

Wednesday nights are a big deal at my house. It’s a time of celebration. That’s the night I put the garbage cans out so they can be emptied the next day by the man in the truck. It’s not as much fun during the winter – so part of my enthusiasm is to mask my reluctance in going out into the cold.

Garbage has a special meaning for me; I spent 12 months of my life on a garbage truck. I treasure that experience and wouldn’t throw it away. It was hard work – so every Wednesday night I celebrate the experience, the memory and the fact I don’t do that for a living anymore.

Garbage was collected differently in the early 80’s than it is today. The garbage was in metal cans, and we picked them up, not by grabbing them with a mechanical arm extended from a truck, but with our hands. Some days 700 cans were emptied. I don’t seek pity or praise – rather I offer the perspective of walking in another’s shoes.

The first six months of my stint as a garbage man were in St. Cloud. I had graduated from St. Cloud State University and was waiting for Rhonda to do the same; she had started a year later than me. At night I tended bar at The Red Carpet (another column?) and drove the trash truck during the day.

Hermie rode on the back. He was not a big man – maybe 5-foot-6, 140 pounds – but he was tough. No can was too big for him to abuse. If people put out too many cans or they had forgot to put there cans out he would holler obscenities at the house. I would get out and help on an especially heavy stop, but he preferred that I stayed in the truck to keep our day moving.

One of my favorite memories is when two toddlers waved as we drove by their house. When I pulled the air-horn in response they both tipped over. When Rhonda graduated in the spring I moved from St. Cloud. The following year we were married, and I began law school. The next year I was out of school with that dream dashed, so I needed a job.

I felt that my degree should account for something but was having trouble finding someone to agree with me. It’s hard to look for work when you’re working, but I found it harder not to work. So I got a job as a garbage man, except this time I was riding on the back of the truck for $5 an hour.

It took more grit than I possess now to get out of a warm car and climb on the back of a garbage truck in an October rain; cold, wet gloves may be worse than no gloves at all. My index fingers were so calloused after a few weeks of emptying cans, that I could pop the metal lids off two tightly sealed garbage cans with one movement.

Glenn, the driver, weaved in and out of the alleys and streets of South Minneapolis while I threw the cans. Rhonda would pack me a lunch, which I learned to share with Glenn in the truck in between stops (don’t worry I wiped my hands on my pants before I ate).

“What’s for lunch today?” he would ask. After we ate he would toss the candy wrappers out the window. “Job security,” he would say with a grin.

We worked for a guy who would haul away anything. Sometimes we would carry hide-a-beds down from the third floor of a house, other days we would back up the truck to a busted-up concrete driveway, open the back end and shovel the chunks into the truck.

I know that there are people who work harder than this every day, and I respect them for it. It was brutally hard work and not what I went to school for, but it was a job and I was getting paid. Those days as a garbage man are gone, and on Wednesday nights I think of them when I take out the trash.

Friday, August 19, 2011

Fence

There weren’t a lot of summer job opportunities for 12-year old boy in Belle Plaine in 1971. You could deliver newspapers, mow the neighbor’s grass, or bail hay when the farmers called. Few people were willing to give a kid a chance to prove himself –you had to know someone. Apparently, I didn’t know enough people.

But I knew Jim and Jim knew his parents and his parents knew someone who needed their fence painted. The job was too big and boring for just one, so Jim asked if I would help him. It was the perfect summer job for me. It was only a couple blocks from my house, it was outside, little skill was needed, and I got to spend time with a friend.

From one side the outside surface of a board could be painted, along with the inside surface of the other side. Sometimes Jim and I would paint on the same side of the fence, other times on the opposite side.

We talked and we worked. We talked about girls, sports, teachers, and planned adventures. Sometimes we spilled paint, missed a spot, and went too fast or too slow. But by working together we were able to get the job done without a lot of flip-flopping or excessive name calling when things didn’t go right. And we were just kids.

Kids call each other names, adults label each other, and the meaning is the same. The intent is to damage the other person or group. When an unflattering label or name is attached to a person or a group it hurts the target and also reflects poorly on the person applying the label.

If an argument or position is so weak that name-calling must be resorted to, then silence may be a better option. Now that Michelle Bachman has found herself in first place after the Iowa straw poll I’m waiting to see if her opposition will be called chauvinists or misogynists. After all, some state that those who oppose President Obama’s policies are doing so only because he is black. They must be racists; there can be no other explanation. At least that’s why I hear from some of his supporters.

Tea party members are either “terrorists” (Joe Biden) or “hobbits” (John McCain). It’s difficult to defend or explain away such a charge without getting into a childish exchange of “No, I’m not.” Yes, you are.” “No, I’m not.” “Yes, you are.”

Unless there is clear hard evidence to support damaging labels, let’s do away with them. We may be on opposite sides of the fence, but we should be able to accomplish common goals without painting each other with labels.

And just in case you need to know the color, we painted the fence red. The woman who hired Jim and me, a couple of white boys, to paint her fence, was black. She gave us a chance, and I will never forget that.


Friday, August 12, 2011

Signs

Some signs are easier to explain than others. I have seen hand-painted signs stuck in the ground along country roads that read “Eggs”, “Cucumbers” or some that say “Produce.” I hope the last one refers to things grown and raised for sale instead of a command of “get to work.”

I was driving through Wisconsin the other day with my friend Mark when we saw a sign that almost made us turn around and stop in to inquire, “Kittens $20.” No need to worry, this is not the second column in a series about kittens – this one is more about economics.

Clearly we should have stopped in to satisfy our curiosity about these cats. Instead we chose to theorize. Having seen numerous signs over the years for “Free Kittens,” we wondered if these kittens were special, even rare for this part of the country. Maybe it was just the opposite, perhaps the $20 was offered as an incentive to anyone who would take a kitten. Real money could have been made if the litter was large. Whatever their intent, no cash or cats were exchanged.

The signs seen in the downtown areas of small towns don’t require much thinking to determine their intent; “For Lease,” “For Sale.” The downtowns, those main streets that were a town’s commerce center, are dying as businesses either dry up or move away.

This situation is certainly not new, but it seems to be getting worse. When I was a kid growing up in Belle Plaine the town was much smaller than it is today, and yet in the downtown area there were four grocery stores, two hardware stores, two drug stores, a variety store, two gas stations within a few blocks of downtown, a shoe store, a couple clothing stores and several other businesses. Many of them are gone, or have moved out closer to the highway.

I don’t know for sure why this is happening. I suspect that it is due to several reasons such as shifting traffic patterns, competition, and changing market conditions, but I keep going to back to how Dad looked at supporting local businesses many years ago.

Dad had an office in downtown Belle Plaine and he was disciplined in where he shopped. He shopped in Belle Plaine. When I asked why he didn’t go elsewhere he explained it to me this way: He needed to buy his bread at the local bakery, so the baker would have money to buy a watch from the jeweler next door, so the jeweler could get his car fixed from the garage down the block, so the mechanic could buy his groceries to feed his family and the grocer would be able to keep his store open. He felt a responsibility to these merchants and he didn’t want to break the chain.

Well the chain broke and no business or store is immune. Border’s, the large book store chain, will shut its doors soon. At one time they were considered the big bully on the block that was responsible for the demise of the local independent bookstore. Now, unable to compete with Amazon and Barnes & Noble, they will close their books.

Sure it’s convenient to point and click and shop at one stop, but what will happen to the local retail merchant? This isn’t about me and my silly little office. This is about saving local businesses or soon we may be left with only the big box stores and a mouse to shop with. So please shop local when you can, or at least buy a cat to keep the mice in control. There only $20.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

Patience

Patience is a virtue. Perhaps, but I think it depends on the situation. I can be very patient or insanely impatient. For instance, when I am considering a purchase of a limited commodity I do not want to see if it is available tomorrow.

But when it comes to staying power I can linger longer than anyone or anything, including a cat. When Olivia, our resident female feline, has a litter of kittens it’s a challenge trying to find them.

She selects a secret and secluded place. If she suspects you are following her to find her kittens she will not return to them; instead she will bide her time until you give up. But I can be stubbornly patient.

Last year after she had been downsized from her pregnant state I sneaked into the barn after I saw her jump through the missing pane of a window. Being too large for the window myself I opened the barn door. When she heard the door she walked back towards me.

She was being rather coy, but I knew her tricks. I ignored her and went about the business of picking a post to lean on while I pondered. She sat down in front of me and gave herself a bath. After about 20 minutes or so she tired of this and crept over to the firewood pile. Looking around to make sure I wasn’t watching (I pretended to have my eyes closed) she jumped into an old metal tub. There, among the barks and twigs I had saved for kindling, were her kittens.

This year it got a little more complicated. We first discovered the litter in a hollow beneath a bale of hay. But because we had found them she moved them. Finding the second location was not difficult. I spotted her heading to the barn one afternoon, but when she did not emerge from the lilies below the window I went looking. There they were, gathered in the greenery. Of course now that the cache of kittens had been discovered she would move them.

This third hiding place was the most challenging. Taking advantage of my busy schedule Olivia enjoyed a couple weeks of solitude with her kittens. But they were approaching a month old and if we had any hope of having tame barn cats, they would have to be found soon.

Saturday, after my morning constitutional with Buddy the dog, I noticed that Olivia was hanging around the front steps. With the whole day ahead of me I thought “I have you now.” I made some coffee to accompany the toast topped with strawberry jam that had been laid out for me. Taking the morning paper I seated myself next to the window.

While reading how Democrats and Republicans were waiting to see who would blink first over the debt crisis in Washington, I saw Olivia head for the barn. I scurried through the house to a back door so I could sneak up on her. By the time I got outside she had disappeared. One year she had hidden them in the hostas, but that was too predictable so I continued to the barn. Once she spotted me she went into her routine. But once again I waited her out.

Soon she made her way to a corner where there was a large set of warehouse shelves. Among other things on the shelves were a bunch of windows leaning against the wall. When I saw her climb behind them I headed back to the house for the flashlight.

When I returned I couldn’t find her. Climbing onto the shelf and through the cobwebs I rifled through the windows but she was nowhere to be found. Then I heard the sound of a content cat purring. Getting down on my knees I spotted her on the barn floor beneath the shelf. With only four inches of headroom it was a good hiding place.

This time we made the first move. My son Nathan helped me dismantle the shelf and we moved Olivia and her kittens to the smoke house where they would have room to grow and play. All things come to those who wait. Sometimes.

Friday, July 29, 2011

Buttons

A couple weeks ago I reached into the pocket of a new sport coat and pulled out the complimentary bag containing 2 buttons (a large one for the front and a small one for the sleeve). I gave the bag of extra buttons to my wife Rhonda. I don’t know where she stashes them, but she knows how to sew and will occasionally patch things up for me. My grandmother (Mom’s mother) kept her extra buttons in a coffee can (the 2-pound size).

Grandma kept this can on the floor in her sewing room. It was hardly a room; even as a small child I recognized that. Dad described such rooms as “so small there’s no room to change your mind.” There was room for a foot-powered sewing machine, Grandma, a visiting grandchild, some bolts of cloth, her mending and her can of buttons.

I don’t know for sure how the can ended up in my possession but it has been largely ignored. That red and white Butter-Nut coffee can has been sitting quietly forgotten on a shelf in our kitchen for several years. It had blended in with the other old-time country kitchen decorations so I never really thought about it.

Saturday, I took it off the shelf to examine a two-word phrase, “Specially Mellowed,” on the can that had caught my son Nathan’s eye. Having forgot about the can’s contents and presuming it empty I was surprised to find that it had some heft to it – Grandma’s buttons. It was like finding an old friend. I spent the next hour happily examining its contents.

Along with a few coins, some hat pins, hook and eyes, small buckles and paper clips were Grandma’s buttons. There must have been several hundred of them. They ranged in size from a Kennedy half-dollar to that of a pencil eraser.

Some of the buttons had a colored fabric cover, many were shaped like flowers, there was even one shaped and textured to resemble a seashell. In addition to the most popular color, kind of a white/off-white/egg shell/lace/beige/ivory/bone/vanilla/pearl mix, there were buttons of pink, purple, red, blue, green, gray, black, silver, gold and so on. They were made out of plastic, metal and wood.

After I had dumped the 50-plus year old contents on the table Nathan joined in the fun. By waiting he was able to avoid getting the blame for messing up a clean table cloth with dust, dirt and debris. With the help of his younger, stronger eyes we found real treasure.

There was an old metal button with the seal of the state of Oklahoma (a long way for a button to travel). The button was so small and faded that it was only visible under a magnifying glass. Several buttons had “U.S. Navy” stamped on them, others just had the anchor. Grandma’s four sons had been in the navy, while Grandpa had served in that branch in both world wars.

There is also a WWI U.S. army collar button. It has two rifles crossing each other with a large F (signifying company) below them. Grandma had one brother, Walter. He died as a young man in France in WWI. Perhaps this button had belonged to him.

Grandma kept these buttons in a can marked “Specially Mellowed.” It’s a clumsy little saying created many years ago by somebody in the Butter-Nut marketing department, but I like the meaning. Specially – Made for a special purpose. Mellowed - Pleasantly smooth; softened by maturity or experience, relaxed and good humored.

At 52, I’m mathematically closer to 70 than 30, but I don’t feel old – foolish, but not old – and I’m still looking for my special purpose. Like a button we are all designed for a special purpose, and as we age our rough edges should be smoothed out. The button that is knotted up too tight is usually the one that pops under stress. So stay relaxed, good- humored and hang onto your buttons.

Friday, July 22, 2011

Fair Weather

Today the thermometer will top 95 degrees in the shade with the air so thick it’s hard to see clearly, but that what’s we wait for up here in the north. It’s the reason people stick around (or return) after five months of winter. I like to tell people (without any prompting) that I prefer January weather to July.

In the winter people up here stay inside and mind their own business. In the summer they are expected to go fairs and festivals. There aren’t too many of those in January.

I like good food, but I prefer fair food, and I know I’m not alone. Last week I worked at the beef stand at Bar-B-Q Days in Belle Plaine. There were men beneath the bleachers cutting up the meat. I stay out of their as I don’t want to lose a finger. Nor am I suited for making the sandwiches and wrapping them up “just so.” I really have no business being in anything resembling a kitchen – but there I was.

I had the easy job. In exchange for a ticket or two I handed over hot barbeque beef sandwiches, cold pop and water. In only a few hours hundreds were served.

There were the hungry paramedics on hand to save lives, the Shriners fresh off the parade needing refreshment (“drink up Shriners”), visiting royalty in all of their glamour (I didn’t see William and Kate), mothers and their children with sweaty red faces, brutish men with their shirt sleeves hacked off, politely asking for “just one”, women picking up supper for their working man, (“He’ll be tired and hot when he gets home from work”), carnival workers in a hurry to get back to the rides, kids I went to school with who now have grand kids.

Most of the tasks at these events are done by volunteers. I am a rather poor example as I have got into this role rather late, and I am not yet fully immersed in the position but I can recommend it.

There are opportunities almost every weekend to give back to your community (or county). The Scott County Fair runs July 27-31. This will be my second year of driving a “people mover,” which is not a very fancy name for a golf cart. It’s really fun – you get to drive around and pick up people and take them here or there. The conversations last only for a few minutes. It’s like speed-dating (not that I would know), except you’re in a golf cart and no phone numbers are exchanged. Here is the website for more information: www.scottcountyfair.com/

After the county fair there is Derby Days in Shakopee, August 3-7.
(www.shakopeederbydays.com/getInvolved/volunteer.php). There are plenty of volunteer opportunities available for this event. Last year I got to be a bingo caller. It’s a lot harder than it sounds. There is a lot of pressure in calling out numbers. The pacing has to be just right – too fast and some of the players can’t keep up, too slow and people get impatient. And of course you have to keep your numbers and letters grouped properly. I heard about a guy in some town out west who mistakenly called “G -7,” instead of the correct “B-7.” He was never heard from again.

In Jordan they have Heimatfest on September 10th. Although I have no experience in volunteering at this event I plan on offering my services. I can take tickets, call out numbers for bingo or drive a golf cart. (www.jordanchamber.org/heimatfest/)

Next year on the third weekend in July I will be back in the stand at Bar-B-Q days in Belle Plaine. I generally don’t plan that far ahead – but for those of you who do, here is the website for more information.
www.belleplainemn.com/chamber/Bar-B-QDays.php

I don’t have any plans to attend the St. Paul Winter Carnival next January. I will be inside reading a book if you need me for anything.

Friday, July 15, 2011

Read.

For my friends, family members and the 36 faithful readers of this column it will come as no surprise when I tell you that occasionally I will have an opinion on a matter. Even though I want to believe that my opinions are offered only after reasoned and thoughtful consideration, I know that is not always the case. When a person is wrong enough times he begins to accept it (which is not the same as expecting it). The person who thinks he is never wrong will never accept being wrong. That person can never know what they don’t know.

The things I don’t know could fill volumes – so I read. I was reading the July 2nd edition of World Magazine when I flipped the page to Janie B. Cheaney’s column, Becoming Readers. Since this was on page 24 of a magazine comprised largely of words it seemed that the author was after more than just inspiring people to read. She wrote:

“I remember the moment when I became a reader. I always liked to read, but that's not the same thing. What made a reader of me was a novel I received through a children's book club.” (The Silver Sword by Ian Serraillier) “…the story itself had reached out and grabbed my hand.

“Words arranged in sentences, built into a narrative, made me bigger. It's a bit like creation itself: light spoken into being, coalescing into atoms, combining into molecules, becoming elements. Writing imitates creation by ‘speaking’ ideas into being."

According to Cheaney, readers share in the creative experience. “…they interact with the book in a conversation that alters perception, expands sympathy, provokes anger, or refines argument.

“Not everybody is a reader, in this sense. C.S. Lewis, in An Experiment in Criticism, made the claim that even in a highly literate society, readers (those who get something from books that they get nowhere else) are the minority. Most people read for two reasons: entertainment and information. Both needs are legitimate, but can be met in other ways, especially today. The third reason I would call enlightenment—letting the ideas created by written language challenge or change us.”

I learned how to read from my mother; but Jon Logelin taught me how to read to learn. Mr. Logelin was one of my high school English teachers. He was passionate about reading, especially books written by Kurt Vonnegut.

In spite of my being an unwilling and unruly student, Mr. Logelin taught me to listen for the author’s voice as I read. By doing this I learned to appreciate another’s perspective.

Although Mr. Logelin and Ms. Cheaney communicated the importance of becoming a reader of books, I would suggest that news and political commentary be read as well. We all have a responsibility to learn as much as we can about current events and our political climate.

Read and listen to other points of view besides your own. You might learn that you may be wrong, or hopefully you will understand another’s perspective better. There is no honor in reading or listening to only that which you agree with. If your only source of news and information is one-sided you are only seeing half of the coin.

If you read Ann Coulter, read Maureen Dowd as well. Thomas Friedman and Charles Krauthammer will give you opposing views, as will Paul Krugman and George Will.

My daughter, Jennifer is a Kindergarten teacher. She spends much of her school day reading to her students and teaching them to read. She gave me a shirt with one word on the front: Read.

I think that is a marvelous suggestion. Of course, that’s just my opinion.

Friday, July 8, 2011

Billfold

I only have two credit cards in my billfold – any more than that and I’m just asking for trouble. A few weeks ago I decided it was time to clean it out. It’s been years since I carried it in the back pocket of my pants (promotes poor posture), but it was becoming too thick even for a coat pocket. The small amount of cash I carry with me was not the problem. It was the other items that stretched it beyond its original design.

There were business cards from people I don’t know and will probably never contact – those I threw (the cards, not the people). I also had some expired coupons (I never remember to use them – therefore they become annoying clutter). There were shopping lists of things I purchased or have done without so long they no longer matter – they were tossed.

I have a membership card to a store that I hate going to. It’s easier to vote than it is to get in that store. They never remember who I am. I have to show them the card every time I enter, plus they don’t trust me. Before I am allowed to leave the store after I have paid for my stuff they require me to show the receipt, and then they rifle through the items I just paid for 30 seconds ago. I reluctantly kept that card because once in a while I am sent there to “pick up a few things.”

The frequent movie-goers club card expired without winning the free pop and popcorn combination. I blame the folks in Hollywood because they haven’t given me reason to go to the movies with any recognized and rewarded frequency.

I saved the outdated pictures of my family. There are also gift cards and in-store credit cards with unknown balances. Those are saved. I also kept my library card, driver’s license and the two credit cards.

Most everything else I tossed. But then I discovered that the billfold had become so bloated by carrying around all that unnecessary junk I was no longer able to hang on to the important stuff – it just slipped out and fell to the floor. So instead of stuffing all that junk back in I got a new one, one that is designed to hold just what I need. But now I have to be careful and not fill it beyond its limits because once that happens its hard to get it back into its original shape.

I think that explains my Dad’s billfold. He must have kept stuffing more cards into it to keep all the other stuff in place. He had every major credit card (including Diner’s Club – for eating out I guess), and individual cards for all the major gas stations at the time: Standard Oil, Gulf, Texaco and Conoco. He also had credit cards for Sears Roebuck (as he called the store), J.C. Penny, Donaldson’s and Dayton’s.

All credit cards have a limit (even Dayton’s). You can only spend so much and that’s it. And the bill always comes due. The State of Minnesota shut down because we have maxed out our credit limit and don’t have enough money to pay our bills. As of Independence Day Governor Dayton and our state legislature still could not agree on how to get us out of this mess. We can’t keep increasing spending when we don’t have the money to pay the current bill.

We can continue to spend at the rate we are and raise taxes on other people to pay for it. But eventually we will all pay for it. As British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher once said, “Socialist governments traditionally do make a financial mess. They always run out of other people’s money. “

Our government has been stretched beyond its original design so it no longer functions well. Let’s get the lights back and begin the work of cleaning out the clutter before our bills fold us for good.

Friday, July 1, 2011

Personality Type

The other day a friend of mine shared with me a list of myths about introverts. This sounds so much better than “the other day one of my friends on Facebook shared a link to ‘The Top Ten Myths about Introverts,’” because this description could conjure up an image of a lone figure in a dark room crouched over a keyboard spending time with his only friends.

I am not that person, but neither am I one who wants to walk around with a “Hello, my name is ____” badge in a room full of people (strangers or acquaintances). I think I’m somewhere in the middle. You, of course, will have your own opinions.

In general an extrovert needs to be around other people to get energized; an introvert needs solitude to get reenergized after being with a group. I am not professionally trained as a psychologist, psychiatrist, therapist, counselor or a member of a religious order. So I really have no business even writing about this, but I find it interesting – so there.

Carl King (carlkingcreative.com) put the list of myths together after he had read “The Introvert Advantage,” a book by Marti Olsen Laney, Psy.D. So here are my comments about a list which was given to me by a friend which had been compiled by someone else after they read a book written by yet another person. Plus I am using the internet as a source (so you know it’s reliable).

Mr. King’s myth list (say it fast three times) is what extroverts believe to be true about introverts. The response is what I believe an introvert may say to an extrovert if pushed.

Myth #1 – Introverts don’t like to talk. “That’s like saying extroverts don’t like to listen. A good conversationalist is one who is both a good listener and a thoughtful speaker.”

Myth #2 – Introverts are shy. “I think your confusing shyness with being reserved. Not everyone is quick to show their cards. Some will choose to pass and not play. It is only after they have watched a few rounds that they will choose to participate.”

Myth #3 – Introverts are rude. “Now who’s being rude? Would you rather I toss out meaningless pleasantries to make you feel comfortable? An introvert would rather be direct and sincere than to run around the woods trying to become one of the trees just to fit in.”

Myth #4 – Introverts don’t like people. “It’s not that we don’t like people; it’s just that our friends are fewer and closer and may last a lifetime. It just takes a little longer to get to know us – but it’s worth the time spent.”

Myth #5 – Introverts don’t like to go out in public. “I just like to take it in smaller amounts. The stimulus, the conversations, the interactions must be taken in and mulled over. I need some time to sort it all out.”

Myth #6 – Introverts always want to be alone. “Not always. Sometimes I need a few minutes alone to think. I can be very happy just daydreaming. But solitude can change to loneliness if there is no one to share my thoughts with.

Myth #7 – Introverts are weird. “There you are being rude again. You think I am weird because I don’t always go with the group. I usually like to think things through and may choose to follow a different path than the one you’re on.”

Myth #8 – Introverts are aloof nerds. “What more name calling? Keep it up and you’ll never get to know me. I would rather be thought aloof than a fool who speaks and acts without thinking. I am just trying to be careful and considerate.”

Myth #9 – Introverts don’t know how to relax and have fun. “My idea of fun is just different than yours. It may involve a more private and quiet activity. I need time away from the noise so that I can unwind and recharge my batteries.”

Myth #10 – Introverts can fix themselves and become extroverts. “I don’t think I need to be fixed. Sometimes I need to be alone, and other times I need the company of others. I think that most people are like that. But please let’s dispense with the name tags, I will introduce myself when I am ready.”

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Bookmarks

Bookmarks help me keep my life in place. These rectangular shaped reminders of where I left off have become so numerous that they would fill a book. Up until recently I have treated them rather shabbily. They clutter up the bottom of desk drawers and lay strewn among books on shelves. But I have become aware that these pieces of parchment not only show me where I was, but who I was.

Currently I have 12 (possibly more) bookmarks employed full-time holding back story-lines, staying essays, guarding style-guides, keeping classics company and chaperoning children’s literature. I need these wardens so the words don’t get away and leave me confused and alone.

I maintain a large inventory so I can choose just the right one to match a particular book. Recognizing that just out about anything can be used to mark a page (including folding a corner over) I have resisted using meaningless scraps of paper. My newest acquisition was given to me by my son Nathan. He bought this handmade artwork at a small shop in the Chinatown district of San Francisco.

One bookmark that I use from time to time was my mother’s. It was given to her by her sister who had lived in Japan as a missionary for several years. It is a thin, silk ribbon with a hand-painted mountain and some Japanese writing decorating it. I must have it translated someday soon.

Another one that belonged to my mother I found when I opened up her copy of “Angela’s Ashes,” by Frank McCourt. This book recalled the author’s unhappy childhood in Ireland. Mom had cut out a poem from a greeting card (presumably received on her and dad’s wedding anniversary):

“There must be special happiness within your hearts today
As you remember all the good things life has brought your way.”

I wonder if Mr. McCourt would appreciate the irony.

A few years ago I purchased a book from Peter Rennebohm, an author, who had a table set up at a mall. He had written a book titled “Buried Lies.” It’s a mystery set around a golf course. I gave the book to my uncle, but I kept the bookmark. I use it in my copy of “How now shall we live?” by Chuck Colson. Mr. Colson, a born-again Christian, had worked in the Nixon administration and had went to prison for his involvement with the Watergate cover-up. I guess not all lies stay buried.

I am nearly finished reading “1984,” by George Orwell. I bought this paperback at Half-priced Books in St. Paul. In the middle of the book was a tattered marker from the Hall of Cards and Books book store in Michigan City, Ind. I suppose the government will shut these stores down soon for selling propaganda.

My wife Rhonda has made me several bookmarks over the years. Some were meant to inspire my writing. More recently she and our daughter Jennifer made some for the wedding guests. They have a picture of the happy couple on one side and a Bible verse on the other. They were available in several different styles. Each of the bookmarks has a thread (handed down from Rhonda’s great-grandmother) looped through the top.

Last Saturday I got a reminder of how important a good bookmark is. Sitting inside during the rain I opened up “The Dog Says How,” a book of essays by local author Kevin Kling. This book had lain patiently waiting on the shelf for several months. But I was able to pick up right where I left off because there of a bookmark made by my daughter when she was quite young. Framed between the crayon-colored rainbow on top and the green/brown tree on the bottom “Happy father’s day” was printed in purple. On the back it was properly labeled.

To: Dad (so I could know it was meant for me).
From: Jennifer (so I would never forget who made it).

I’ll treasure these bookmarks always because they help me find my place.