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.