If my father were alive he would shake his head in disbelief at the way I have let the snow have its way with me. I live far enough from town to escape the watchful eyes of nosy neighbors, and yet whenever I shovel snow I feel like I’m being watched.
As our winter (which occupies half of our 12 months) goes on and on I shovel the snow with less enthusiasm and concern for how proficiently the job is done. In the beginning of the season, I clear the snow beyond the edges of the sidewalks; I make sure the steps are clean and the paths to the farm buildings are wide and even. But this year I have all but given up – the frequent snow and the sharp wind have all but defeated me – and it’s only January. It is as if I am in the great Gobi desert trying in vain to keep the sand from piling up.
One of the many jobs I had before I realized my lifelong dream of selling insurance was clearing snow from the sidewalks that surrounded and dissected an entire city block. I was a member of the maintenance department at a nursing home near downtown Minneapolis. I know that sounds like a joke. I have no business calling myself a maintenance man as that title suggests I can actually fix and maintain stuff. I was hired mainly as a driver of the nursing home’s activity bus, but as they were opposed to paying me for inactivity I was wore the uniform of a maintenance man in between trips.
The nursing home was part of a larger organization that owned several older homes and a series of high-rise apartment buildings used for assisted living. This complex occupied the entire block. As a maintenance man I vacuumed floors, cleaned furnace filters, mowed the grass and shoveled snow, a whole block’s worth. There was a snow blower on hand, but it was too big for the frequent flurries that year.
I spent many hours shoveling under the watchful eyes of many a happy onlooker.
As I scooped and pushed, there were dozens (maybe hundreds) of people watching me. I would verify this from time to time as I would look up to the throngs of spectators glued to their windows watching me perform.
It’s not easy to be involuntarily cast as the lead in a one-man play. But there I was, sometimes performing twice a day: a morning matinee and a dinner show. I concentrated my efforts to make even, efficient movements with the blade. With the shovel as my dance partner we moved to the rhythm of the city traffic across the stage. I did not want to disappoint the audience – they were paying good money for this.
Sometimes I would wave and some of them would wave back. I didn’t fault them for watching me, although they never once threw roses at me or asked for a single autograph. The faces in the windows were often unrecognizable but they never really bothered me. But there was one lone figure that did.
The complex administrator (as opposed to the administrator of the complex) would often stand in the skyway between the nursing home and the apartments. With his arms folded across his chest, he would stare and glare. I would wave at him - partly to be friendly (small part), partly to let him know I knew he was there (bigger part), and partly to raise his blood pressure (biggest part).
So now whenever I shovel I turn and wave just in case, because you never know if someone is watching.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Pass the Plate
Most of us have been in a church when a plate is passed for the offering. This is an opportunity to support the church and its mission. But what if it was reversed? What if instead the church handed out money as part of an assignment to make a positive difference in the world?
The church I attend is going to find out. Several weeks ago 50-dollar bills were given to me and about eighty other volunteers with the understanding that the money was to be invested and multiplied for a greater good. Making that $50 grow had more to do with situations and people than the S & P 500.
This idea originated with two books: The Bible, and “The Kingdom Assignment.” A church in California (surprised?) came up with this concept about ten years ago using a passage from the Bible. Now before you dismiss this idea as some religious silliness I would think that you would want to find out what I did with the $50.
This may surprise you, but I actually took this challenge seriously. I have never thought so hard about $50 in my life. Sure, it would have been easy to give it to the county so they could buy more abandoned railroad lines for a future undetermined use, but that didn’t seem quite right.
I was looking for something bigger, something with a larger world view. The $50 may not be enough to change the world, but if it was multiplied it could make a difference. While I was busy contemplating this new responsibility my wife Rhonda scheduled me and the rest of the family for an evening activity at church.
I went with some reluctance as I had other plans: TV, several books that needed to be read and some other stuff that seemed better than going to church. The activity at church involved helping an organization pack food. It sounded to me like bagging groceries.
We did bag food – but not in a “paper or plastic,” sort of way. The organization that we helped is called Feed My Starving Children (FMSC). Headquartered in Coon Rapids, they have locations in Eagan and Chanhassen, as well as Illinois and Arizona They put meals together to feed starving children throughout the world. But what makes this organization unique is that they can bring the entire packing assembly line to an off-site location, such as a church building.
There volunteers are trained, split into several groups, each having multiple stations, and packaged food then is sent around the world to feed starving children. Each meal costs about 20 cents to produce and 94 percent of all donations go directly to the food program. From one of their brochures I learned that $350 could feed a family of five for a year. FMSC relies on volunteers to pack the meals.
As a volunteer I sat through a training session and watched a heartbreaking video of children who were saved from certain starvation with food donated by this organization. To participate in the packing I was required to wear a hairnet, even though I am convinced I have very little hair left to capture.
I had fun being part of the effort (I carried boxes) and the time flew by, plus I felt that I was actually doing something very meaningful and important. At the end of the two- hour packing session (some of which was training and clean-up) approximately 200 volunteers had packed over 51,000 meals.
The next day I gave Feed My Starving Children the $50 I had been entrusted with along with an additional check. With this small donation I know more plates can be passed to hungry kids. The $50 won’t change the world – but maybe it will be multiplied.
If you want more information please go to www.fmsc.org
The church I attend is going to find out. Several weeks ago 50-dollar bills were given to me and about eighty other volunteers with the understanding that the money was to be invested and multiplied for a greater good. Making that $50 grow had more to do with situations and people than the S & P 500.
This idea originated with two books: The Bible, and “The Kingdom Assignment.” A church in California (surprised?) came up with this concept about ten years ago using a passage from the Bible. Now before you dismiss this idea as some religious silliness I would think that you would want to find out what I did with the $50.
This may surprise you, but I actually took this challenge seriously. I have never thought so hard about $50 in my life. Sure, it would have been easy to give it to the county so they could buy more abandoned railroad lines for a future undetermined use, but that didn’t seem quite right.
I was looking for something bigger, something with a larger world view. The $50 may not be enough to change the world, but if it was multiplied it could make a difference. While I was busy contemplating this new responsibility my wife Rhonda scheduled me and the rest of the family for an evening activity at church.
I went with some reluctance as I had other plans: TV, several books that needed to be read and some other stuff that seemed better than going to church. The activity at church involved helping an organization pack food. It sounded to me like bagging groceries.
We did bag food – but not in a “paper or plastic,” sort of way. The organization that we helped is called Feed My Starving Children (FMSC). Headquartered in Coon Rapids, they have locations in Eagan and Chanhassen, as well as Illinois and Arizona They put meals together to feed starving children throughout the world. But what makes this organization unique is that they can bring the entire packing assembly line to an off-site location, such as a church building.
There volunteers are trained, split into several groups, each having multiple stations, and packaged food then is sent around the world to feed starving children. Each meal costs about 20 cents to produce and 94 percent of all donations go directly to the food program. From one of their brochures I learned that $350 could feed a family of five for a year. FMSC relies on volunteers to pack the meals.
As a volunteer I sat through a training session and watched a heartbreaking video of children who were saved from certain starvation with food donated by this organization. To participate in the packing I was required to wear a hairnet, even though I am convinced I have very little hair left to capture.
I had fun being part of the effort (I carried boxes) and the time flew by, plus I felt that I was actually doing something very meaningful and important. At the end of the two- hour packing session (some of which was training and clean-up) approximately 200 volunteers had packed over 51,000 meals.
The next day I gave Feed My Starving Children the $50 I had been entrusted with along with an additional check. With this small donation I know more plates can be passed to hungry kids. The $50 won’t change the world – but maybe it will be multiplied.
If you want more information please go to www.fmsc.org
Friday, January 14, 2011
Alison's Restaurant
I like to read books about writing in the hope that someday some of it may rub off on me. M.F.K. Fisher is one author that is praised for her style and beautiful sentences. She wrote about food, cooking and eating. I have always been drawn to the eating part – the other two I have taken for granted.
In her book, “The Art of Eating,” Fisher writes, "It seems to me that our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others. So it happens that when I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and the hunger for it… and then the warmth and richness and fine reality of hunger satisfied… and it is all one."
The art of eating has taken another hit. The Coffee Bean Café, a place where people could talk over a cup of this and a glass of that, has closed. Alison, the proprietor, also served salads, soups and sandwiches which you could enjoy while live music played. When the New Year opened for business, Alison closed hers. But, before it closed I think even Mr. Guthrie would have agreed you can get anything you want at Alison’s restaurant.
I went there from time to time and got to know some of the regulars. But either the regulars were too irregular, or not enough customers were accustomed to getting their food and drink at The Coffee Bean. It’s too late now to make a difference – but another quaint cafe’ closed its doors.
I suppose I may have had something to do with it. Not too long ago both Starbuck’s and Dunn Bros. closed their Shakopee locations. I had cursed the two of them with my presence too. Before that, Say When, another coffee shop went out of business. I had also been there. Even before that two other stores closed their doors: Pour Mary’s and Ground Zero. I had been in both places as well; I’m sorry, perhaps I should have stuck with just one.
So now there is one less place to meet someone for a cup of coffee and some snappy conversation. It’s like when people die – then we hear about what a great person they were and how they’ll be missed. When a shop closes that’s when we realize what we’ll miss about it.
At The Coffee Bean everyone bused their own dishes; it wasn’t required or expected – it just seemed like the thing to do. When you are home (at least my place), you may not actually do the dishes, but at least you clean-up after yourself.
The daily specials, written by hand, were displayed on a white board. The sandwiches, with names like “The Sommerville,” and “The Wermerskirchen,” reminded the menu-reader that you were in Shakopee. I liked to order the tomato soup and grilled cheese – it was fabulous.
Retired cops, old folks, business people, kids, music lovers, friends, writers, politicians, handymen, and lawyers had comfortably sat at those tables. One local storyteller earned his first dollar in show-business there entertaining women who wore colored hats.
The floor was fashioned with a cobblestone finish which gave the place a sturdy old- world feel. There were plants for sale from a guy in town who liked to grow stuff. You could also buy soap, candles, and greeting cards with the picture of a local celebrity in whimsical poses.
The seating options were varied: you could sit on a stool at the counter; as many of Alison’s friends did, and read the paper while you sipped, slurped or supped. In the corner was an old couch that was as comfortable as the one you had in your first home, and a coffee table (imagine!) with a better selection of current magazines than most dentist offices. High-back chairs and high tables were available when you wanted to feel important. There were chairs next to the wall and tables for two, four, six or eight. Who do we appreciate? I wonder.
Alison, I’m sorry I took you for granted.
In her book, “The Art of Eating,” Fisher writes, "It seems to me that our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others. So it happens that when I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and the hunger for it… and then the warmth and richness and fine reality of hunger satisfied… and it is all one."
The art of eating has taken another hit. The Coffee Bean Café, a place where people could talk over a cup of this and a glass of that, has closed. Alison, the proprietor, also served salads, soups and sandwiches which you could enjoy while live music played. When the New Year opened for business, Alison closed hers. But, before it closed I think even Mr. Guthrie would have agreed you can get anything you want at Alison’s restaurant.
I went there from time to time and got to know some of the regulars. But either the regulars were too irregular, or not enough customers were accustomed to getting their food and drink at The Coffee Bean. It’s too late now to make a difference – but another quaint cafe’ closed its doors.
I suppose I may have had something to do with it. Not too long ago both Starbuck’s and Dunn Bros. closed their Shakopee locations. I had cursed the two of them with my presence too. Before that, Say When, another coffee shop went out of business. I had also been there. Even before that two other stores closed their doors: Pour Mary’s and Ground Zero. I had been in both places as well; I’m sorry, perhaps I should have stuck with just one.
So now there is one less place to meet someone for a cup of coffee and some snappy conversation. It’s like when people die – then we hear about what a great person they were and how they’ll be missed. When a shop closes that’s when we realize what we’ll miss about it.
At The Coffee Bean everyone bused their own dishes; it wasn’t required or expected – it just seemed like the thing to do. When you are home (at least my place), you may not actually do the dishes, but at least you clean-up after yourself.
The daily specials, written by hand, were displayed on a white board. The sandwiches, with names like “The Sommerville,” and “The Wermerskirchen,” reminded the menu-reader that you were in Shakopee. I liked to order the tomato soup and grilled cheese – it was fabulous.
Retired cops, old folks, business people, kids, music lovers, friends, writers, politicians, handymen, and lawyers had comfortably sat at those tables. One local storyteller earned his first dollar in show-business there entertaining women who wore colored hats.
The floor was fashioned with a cobblestone finish which gave the place a sturdy old- world feel. There were plants for sale from a guy in town who liked to grow stuff. You could also buy soap, candles, and greeting cards with the picture of a local celebrity in whimsical poses.
The seating options were varied: you could sit on a stool at the counter; as many of Alison’s friends did, and read the paper while you sipped, slurped or supped. In the corner was an old couch that was as comfortable as the one you had in your first home, and a coffee table (imagine!) with a better selection of current magazines than most dentist offices. High-back chairs and high tables were available when you wanted to feel important. There were chairs next to the wall and tables for two, four, six or eight. Who do we appreciate? I wonder.
Alison, I’m sorry I took you for granted.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Snow Mountains
The weather has been leaving me quite conflicted lately. I was happy to see a snow fall record set for the month of December, because if it’s going to snow that much it might as well set a record so we have something to brag about.
But then when the thermometer hit 40-something degrees last week I was happy about that too, because if it’s going to snow that much we might as well have a warm day to melt some of it so we don’t drown this spring with record setting floods.
Even the snow piles have shrunk. These large mountains that rose to the sky almost overnight are in driveways, parkways, boulevards, and yards. With last week’s warmer weather the height of these snow-capped peaks was reduced so adventurous children may now be able to reach their summit with out the aid of Sherpas.
Like most Minnesotans I am pretty well acquainted with large piles of snow. Using nothing but snow, I have built them from scratch. I have moved them, hollowed out their middle, tunneled under them, climbed them, tumbled and slid down them, and defended them. I don’t mean that I defended the snow’s honor or legal right to exist; I mean I have defended these strategic hills in playground battles.
The recess and noon hour activities of the religious elementary school I attended followed a seasonal pattern. In the spring and fall we fought, but in the winter time we took advantage of the snow and ice.
We were free to do things that are almost unthinkable now. There was a small incline in an area between the church and the school and in the winter it was flooded to provide a slippery slope for ice-skiing. Ice-skiing combined skating and skiing without using skates or skis. No poles were used to stay upright, just a good pair of rubber boots - fastened either with a zipper or a set of buckles. My brother skated out of school early with a broken collar-bone after hitting the slope.
But when it snowed a lot, which seemed to be often, there were two huge mounds of snow that were piled in the school yard. These were positioned just far enough apart to be suitable for a variation of king-of-the-hill. The object of the game was quite simple: There were two teams or sides, and each side would start with one hill as their home base and then attack the other side’s hill, while at the same time defending their home hill against an attack.
There was no choosing up sides, the two warring factions were decided at the city limits: town kids versus country kids, all ages allowed. There were of course exceptions and allowances for trades and traitors.
I lived in a house with horses corralled across the street and a farm at the end of the block, but the fact remained I lived in town. Still, I found myself in a unique position to fight for either side. As a new kid I was disliked by boys in town and in the country, so I wasn’t exactly welcomed on either hill.
As there were no rules, all means of engagement were allowed: shoving, pushing, pulling and flying tackles. Pickett’s Charge was reenacted most every day at noon. I remember what it felt like to defend the hill. Cold air carried war cries that inspired one side and terrorized the other. A dozen or so boys screaming and hollering as they ran through the snow to attack the hill I stood on; the approaching hoard scrambling up towards me, and then crashing to the bottom with another boy who had left his feet to knock me off the top.
Even after living in a few different rural Scott County homes for the last twenty-two years, I still feel like a town kid living in the country. Perhaps I should invite a few guys from town, and some of my neighbors for a friendly game of king-of-the-hill.
But then when the thermometer hit 40-something degrees last week I was happy about that too, because if it’s going to snow that much we might as well have a warm day to melt some of it so we don’t drown this spring with record setting floods.
Even the snow piles have shrunk. These large mountains that rose to the sky almost overnight are in driveways, parkways, boulevards, and yards. With last week’s warmer weather the height of these snow-capped peaks was reduced so adventurous children may now be able to reach their summit with out the aid of Sherpas.
Like most Minnesotans I am pretty well acquainted with large piles of snow. Using nothing but snow, I have built them from scratch. I have moved them, hollowed out their middle, tunneled under them, climbed them, tumbled and slid down them, and defended them. I don’t mean that I defended the snow’s honor or legal right to exist; I mean I have defended these strategic hills in playground battles.
The recess and noon hour activities of the religious elementary school I attended followed a seasonal pattern. In the spring and fall we fought, but in the winter time we took advantage of the snow and ice.
We were free to do things that are almost unthinkable now. There was a small incline in an area between the church and the school and in the winter it was flooded to provide a slippery slope for ice-skiing. Ice-skiing combined skating and skiing without using skates or skis. No poles were used to stay upright, just a good pair of rubber boots - fastened either with a zipper or a set of buckles. My brother skated out of school early with a broken collar-bone after hitting the slope.
But when it snowed a lot, which seemed to be often, there were two huge mounds of snow that were piled in the school yard. These were positioned just far enough apart to be suitable for a variation of king-of-the-hill. The object of the game was quite simple: There were two teams or sides, and each side would start with one hill as their home base and then attack the other side’s hill, while at the same time defending their home hill against an attack.
There was no choosing up sides, the two warring factions were decided at the city limits: town kids versus country kids, all ages allowed. There were of course exceptions and allowances for trades and traitors.
I lived in a house with horses corralled across the street and a farm at the end of the block, but the fact remained I lived in town. Still, I found myself in a unique position to fight for either side. As a new kid I was disliked by boys in town and in the country, so I wasn’t exactly welcomed on either hill.
As there were no rules, all means of engagement were allowed: shoving, pushing, pulling and flying tackles. Pickett’s Charge was reenacted most every day at noon. I remember what it felt like to defend the hill. Cold air carried war cries that inspired one side and terrorized the other. A dozen or so boys screaming and hollering as they ran through the snow to attack the hill I stood on; the approaching hoard scrambling up towards me, and then crashing to the bottom with another boy who had left his feet to knock me off the top.
Even after living in a few different rural Scott County homes for the last twenty-two years, I still feel like a town kid living in the country. Perhaps I should invite a few guys from town, and some of my neighbors for a friendly game of king-of-the-hill.
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