Not Quite Everything

Wayne, my father-in-law, used to do all or most of his Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve. There may have been many different reasons why he did this (scheduling, procrastination, wanting to avoid the crowds, the attractive unconventional nature of it), but whatever the reason it was efficient. He would get several of the same shirt or coveralls in various sizes for his three sons and me. I don’t remember what he got his daughters and daughters-in-law (tricky plural placement), as I was way too self-centered back then. However, I will never forget one of the gifts he gave me, because I still have it.

About twenty-five years ago Wayne got all the guys (we were young men then) identical maroon/red/wine/burgundy (some such color) sweatshirts. I don’t know what the other guys did with theirs, but I still have mine and it proudly shows its age.

The scripted “Minnesota” on the left breast has faded with the rest of the fabric, but all the letters are still there. The cuffs and high, three-button collar are tattered, but the buttons have hung on through the years; the elbows have thinned and the shirt itself has lost some of its form, while the function has improved. Even though holes have appeared out of nowhere and the seams are beginning to separate, I won’t part with it. I don’t own a more comfortable article of clothing or one I am more attached to.

I won’t throw it away, and neither would my wife, Rhonda, as she remembers who gave it to me. She washes it by hand as it still bleeds a rosy color. I have often wondered what goes through her mind when she washes that shirt. Does the need to hand-wash it annoy her? Is she secretly hoping I will forget about it and she can discard it? Does she think of her father as the water turns color? Does her heart bleed a little?

Her Dad has been gone for seventeen years. I miss him and I know Rhonda does too. I wonder if any of the gifts that I give will still linger when I’m gone. I would not guess a sweatshirt – but there it is proving me wrong.

The wrong gift is quickly discarded and forgotten, maybe even bringing some disdain with it. But even the right gift may not have the staying power to survive decades of stress and hand-wringing.

Toys break, cash is spent, and we eventually forget about most everything else. There is also the problem of what to get the person who has everything? The answer is you get them nothing – well almost nothing.  You often hear older, mature (more mature than me) adults say, “Don’t buy me anything, I have everything I need.” I remember hearing my grandmother say that.

In my mind I will never be as old as my grandparents appeared to be, but as I think about my own children and grandchild I know what I want from them – nothing that money can buy. I selfishly crave their time and love, and I freely offer mine. I have appreciated all of the gifts I have received over the years, but they are no match for the memories, time and love shared.

A friend of mine wrote me and said that he needed to find a gift for his wife soon, as he doesn’t want to be shopping at Kwik Trip on Christmas Eve. Sometimes those last-minute gifts can last a lifetime, but just to be safe better throw in some love and time.

It's a Gift

In this season of giving I try to increase what I do to help around the house. In addition to making the bed a couple times a week, placing my dishes in the dishwasher, and putting my clothes away after my wife, Rhonda, washes them, I now look for other ways to help – at least at Christmas time. I guess I should thank Miriam at the coffee shop for this.

Miriam, a pleasant woman a decade or so wiser than me, asked me a few weeks ago if I was ready for Christmas. I knew what she meant; at least I thought I did. She may have meant spiritually, emotionally, or my guess – physically.  I said I was, but then admitted that I really don’t have that much to do because my wife does most of the work preparing for the big day.

She suggested that I could volunteer. I thought she meant I should volunteer at a soup kitchen or some other charitable venture, so I told her that I would be ringing a bell with a few friends for the Salvation Army. 

“That’s nice,” Miriam said, “but I meant that you could volunteer to help your wife get ready for Christmas.”

“Yes, I suppose I could,” I said, surprised by the very idea of it.

So, motivated by my new mission, I began to look for ways to help. Normally, I clear the driveway and shovel the snow off the steps and sidewalk, but this year the warm temperatures have made that unnecessary, so I cleaned the garage instead. Rhonda never even noticed.

This year I carried several boxes of Christmas decorations upstairs from the basement after being asked only once. It’s not quite the same as volunteering – but it does have the same cooperative feel to it.  I did this in between periods of the Wild game.

I also try to keep up on the TV listings to make sure we have an opportunity to watch the Christmas shows. We have Charlie Brown, Rudolph and the other classics on DVD, VHS or 8mm but it still pays to see what else might be playing.  I also make sure to have Christmas music on in the background.  It’s those subtle touches that make the holiday special. It’s another way I help out around the house.

When Rhonda couldn’t find the barn her Grandpa had made for a nativity scene, I volunteered to find it without being asked. I found the miniature barn in our barn; it was near the one my brother-in-law and nephew had made to provide temporary shelter for the ceramic nativity scene my mother had made. My family has a long tradition of displaying the Holy Family at Christmas. I didn’t manage to find the manger however.

One night last week I peered over my newspaper and saw that Rhonda was addressing Christmas cards, so I offered to help. Considering my handwriting and wanting to make sure the addresses were legible, she suggested I help instead by buying stamps. So the next day I stood in line at the post office. There were half-a-dozen people ahead of me, and it took at least ten, maybe fifteen minutes to get my postage. Volunteering is hard work.

I do my share of the Christmas shopping too.  I have already purchased Rhonda’s gift, and have written checks for the two women in my office. I actually got my shopping done early this year. I’m not completely sure what gifts Rhonda has in mind for the kids – I’m sure I’ll find out though when they open them.

It has become obvious to me if it wasn’t for the unselfish nature of women, we wouldn’t have Christmas. Two thousand years ago a young woman named Mary gave birth to the King of Kings, giving us the greatest gift of all.

Annoyance

I spend too much of my time in a state of annoyance. I can do very little about some of the things that put me in a state of disturbance. The pills I get off the shelf to help me deal with my self-diagnosed hypersensitivity are not covered by insurance. But without them I go through the day (and night) quite uncomfortable as the itchiness comes with a vengeance.

Being self-aware and mindful of public perception, I am careful to not scratch and rub when others are in attendance. Other than a thoughtful beard rub, many erratic motions by a person can get that person removed from fine dining establishments and other places of importance.

I am unaware of being allergic to anything, but I am, however, keenly aware of things that throw me off balance. I don’t think loud noises, a drawer left open, or clothing that constricts qualify as allergens, yet they make me uncomfortable for instance.

Most often I am not bothered by an aroma or a fragrance. I also try not to judge a book based on its appearance. But, too often I am less patient with an acquaintance. It’s not that I feel superior or want to be perceived as having a unhealthy dose of arrogance. Rather, I find some traits and characteristics outside my current level of tolerance. I admit it’s not their fault, it’s my own petulance.

Someone who interrupts others in a conversation may be just trying to demonstrate their own significance. Certainly, if I keep that in mind I can exercise some tolerance. Even though it’s easier to change myself than others, occasionally all that is required is a little distance.

Also, I don’t like to hear another complain or speak a negative utterance. Although I pretend to be above such things, if I were to hear my own words, I couldn’t feign ignorance. It’s always easier to offer others suggestions and guidance. But with all our talking I doubt few of us would find any reflection of perfection in the mirror, not even a close resemblance.

If it isn’t obvious by now, let me point out that I have many faults and admit them with great reluctance. Along with the things that bother me I can obsess incessantly about something and get caught in a pattern of redundance. Clearly, I don’t want everyone to be like me, of that you have my assurance. Instead, I write about these things to point out my shortcomings and my need for your assistance.  

We are who we are for reasons that are not always obvious, and we need to celebrate our differences and not treat them as a poisonous substance. If being hypersensitive means that wool and people can rub me the wrong way, then I will serve it as my penance.

For those of you who somehow tolerate me and my uniqueness I offer my gratitude, albeit a small pittance. For those of you who have somehow managed to read this entire essay and have now reached the end I can hear you say, “Good Riddance!”

Santa

Santa waved at me last week, and it made me smile. I had gone to one of the malls a few days before Thanksgiving to check out a new store; I refuse to go shopping on Thanksgiving or the day after, as I can do without the mobs and mayhem. Black Friday is so unlike Santa.

It was during the early afternoon of a weekday, and I was standing by myself on one level looking down at the atrium below. Some festive folks were putting the finishing touches on the North Pole display, while Santa sat in his throne checking over his list.

Not wanting to disturb the seasonal scene, I stood there quietly watching while they worked. Santa, being a crafty old soul, must have sensed my presence. He froze, and then lifting his head he looked right at me. At first I felt a little foolish, as if I had been caught spying on him. Then Santa smiled and waved like we were old friends. He may have recognized me, although I can’t imagine how, as it has been such a long time since we sat and talked. I returned his wave.

Like other kids I had seen Santa in parades sitting in his chair on top of a float or riding on a fire truck. I saw him at malls all over the state and in small shacks in small towns. I have pictures to prove it. He didn’t always look the same though and the logistics of him being in so many places at the same time gave me reason to doubt, but Mom explained that it was his helpers or his elves filling in for him while he attended to other duties and obligations.

He would stop at our house on Church Street shortly after supper on Christmas Eve. Dad would take the kids out in the station wagon to look at the Christmas lights in town, and when we came back Santa had been there, somehow slipping past Mom and Colleen, my older sister. He even took time to eat part of a cookie, drink half a glass of milk, and scribble a quick thank-you before moving on to the next house. He also found us at our grandparents in Faribault and our cousins in Tucson.

As I got older Santa quit coming because I quit believing. But many years later he showed up again on Christmas Eve. This time it was to drop off a few things for my little girl and boy who were nestled all snug in their beds. True to form, Santa crumbled his cookie, spilled his milk and left a note.

I know there are good people who don’t want to share Christmas with Santa, but I am not one of them. I am thankful my parents had fun with me at Christmas, and I have no regrets in passing on that tradition to my children. But make no mistake; I believe that Christmas celebrates the birth of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. It’s just that I feel there is room for a portly, generous elf to brighten children’s lives while they are still young enough to believe in a little magic. Let’s not wave good-bye to Santa too soon.

Roll the Credits

At this time of year we are reminded to be thankful for either our blessings or good fortune (depending upon where your faith lies). If you’re table is so inclined you may hear the grateful phrases from those seated around it. Popular subjects for gratitude at Thanksgiving include the turkey, jobs, and a warm house. Instead of things, try to be thankful for the people in your life and for those who have passed through your life.

What about your first grade teacher? Most likely it was a woman. She was probably your very first teacher. She may have been the one who taught you how to read, how to perform simple mathematics, maybe even how to draw, cut and paste construction paper together. You probably made a turkey hand-print to bring home to mom.

My first-grade teacher was Mrs. Bosard (my own bad guess at the spelling of her last name). She was a tiny little woman, not much bigger than some of her students. In fact Kenny Neisen’s hands were bigger than hers. Her tiny VW Beetle was perfect for her, and she probably wanted to drive away in it the first time she saw her classroom.

It was set up in the basement of an old school, down steep, concrete steps five and six year olds descended into a dungeon-like setting with only a pipe to lean on for a handrail. The room could never have been designed to be a classroom - it must have been a former storage room or a workshop for the janitor instead. All the pipes were exposed on the ceiling, and most likely, wrapped in asbestos. There were only a couple opaque windows on one wall way-up high, which gave a dark, gloomy room little natural light.  On one wall were some metal lockers, and a dark closet used to store paper, paste and other supplies. In the middle of the room was a large industrial sink, where we once bobbed for apples during a Halloween party.

Surrounded by a dark, depressing setting was a happy, pleasant woman who taught little children five days a week. I remember the room, but I also remember how Mrs. Bosard created a bright little world for her students.

I grew up in a neighborhood filled with several dozen kids roaming around. Across the street were the Weldon’s: four girls and one boy - Brendan. Brendan was (and still is) eight to ten years older than me.

When I was six or seven, I broke my wrist at a family picnic on my mother’s side. They were Irish. It was the summer-time and a little boy with a cast from his fingers to his elbow had very little to do. I couldn’t ride my bike, play ball, wrestle with my brothers, or do anything that required both arms. One day Brendan walked across the street with a wiffle ball. I don’t know how long we played, but I will never forget it. Brendan, a star-baseball player on the high school team took the time to play with a little boy. He pitched the ball to me, and I swung my arm and hit the ball with my cast. He laughed and pitched it to me again and again.

Gary Krant, and old friend from Belle Plaine, called me the other day to tell me he enjoyed one of my essays he had read in the paper.  I thanked him for being so thoughtful and taking the time to call me. He then said something quite simple, yet very profound. “You have to take the time to tell people they did a good job.” He’s absolutely right. 

We are far too quick to criticize and correct, it’s time now for the pendulum to swing the other way. Go out of your way, take the time and make the effort to let someone know they did a good job or they did something well. Make them thankful that you were in their life.

This Thanksgiving you may want to thank the cook or the host and then reflect on who else you are thankful for, maybe even a former neighbor or teacher.

Front Row Seat

Sometimes when seating is limited and the attraction promises to be entertaining, we are advised to get there early so we can get a good seat. I’ve always felt a little guilty though on being the early one for something with a limited supply, as I cannot help but think of the poor fellow who is turned away and doesn’t get anything for his time and effort. However, with some things a delay is desired. For instance, with winter there’s plenty to go around and everybody gets their fill, sometimes even a face full before the show is over.

Winter comes every year without any effort on our part, and this year everyone seems to agree it came too early – especially the cold (others say it’s the snow). Either way we are driven indoors where it’s warm and dry. Outside the un-raked leaves and plump garden hoses are left to fend for themselves.

This year winter slammed the door on camping, golf, walks, and other fall activities that can usually be carried into November. To say winter came without warning is silly, as it comes every year, but this year most of October was so pleasant that the end of fall was abrupt and cruel.

Of the four, autumn is my favorite season, and I prefer a gradual change to the winter-like feeling over several weeks: Somewhere in the upper 60’s, changing to 50, then to 40, and then down from there. I may be wrong, but it seems that this year we were flirting with the fifties and a couple days later the cold north wind slapped us in the face.

The holiday season is looming and soon will overtake us. There will be talk of going here and there, and people will show up at the door laden with odd-shaped bags cleverly concealing crocks and pots. The noise level will increase and people will sit in my chair without hesitation or invitation.

I can already feel the pull from the private quarters of our house drawing me to safety and solitude. I usually don’t close the door behind me, as I don’t want to give our guests the wrong idea. My perceptive daughter will usually come looking for me and ask, “What are you doing?” or “Is everything all right?”  I will mumble some incomplete phrase assuring her that everything is fine and that I just needed a break. She will smile and suggest I rejoin the group.

I wasn’t always like this. I grew up with two brothers, two sisters, over three dozen cousins and a generous helping of aunts and uncles. Thanksgiving had plenty of people, Christmas was crazy, and picnics were parties. Now it’s just the six of us and whoever else my wife invites over.

I feel a dose of neurosis is settling in with the cold. In a letter to his brother Stanley, E. B. White wrote, “A doctor last spring told me that I would be all right if I quit writing. He said most writers were neurotics – if they weren’t neurotic they wouldn’t go to the trouble, the enormous trouble. I find that Not Writing is very soothing, but I haven’t figured out yet what I will use for money.”

Not writing would leave me with no hobby, so I keep trying. A short time ago daylight savings time ended and the darkness settled in. Even though the calendar says it’s still autumn – we know better. It’s winter.

At least at this time of year I can sit guilt-free with a book in my chair before 10:00 pm. Since there are plenty of good seats still available, I suggest you get comfortable and settle in – it could be a long winter.   

Tracking the Days

I have been at my present office location for two and a half years, and in that time I have watched trains come and go. The railroad tracks are approximately thirty feet from the front door, so to ignore them is impossible. I have decided to enjoy them instead.

It occurred to me about two years ago to keep track of the different engine companies and their numbers. I jot down the numbers, and my capable staff watches in my stead when I am absent. Before this year has passed two-thousand different engines will have gone by, and that’s just when the office is open.

I have seen trains that come from the North and South, Old and New Mexico, Canada and Texas, Kansas and Missouri, and the Union and the Southern. The tracks have been there for about one-hundred and fifty years, so I think I may have missed a whole bunch of them.

From my desk I have a front row seat to the daily drama on both sides of the tracks. There is a large orange cat that roams the neighborhood (he looks like he could be named Casey). I don’t know if Casey has a place to call home so I have put a blanket and a box in a shed behind the building just in case. I propped the shed door open just enough to let him sneak in and out without a lot of fuss.

I have seen a squirrel scamper right by him without so much as a lift of his paw. There are so many squirrels scurrying about the cat is either not interested or completely overwhelmed as to which way to jump.

One particular squirrel had been storing nuts in one of the flower pots outside the window. The day after I took the pot inside for the winter the squirrel came up to the window and just stared. “Excuse me, where are my nuts?” I never know how to answer that.

We have birds that have built nests in the gutters of the building and then their young fall out onto the pavement.  It seems like a poor plan to me. Once in awhile, after the window washer has left, the birds will fly into the window once or twice before flying on. I tell you I don’t have much hope for this particular breed of bird.

In addition to my daily activities of train spotting, answering the phone, and reading, I will on occasion visit with people, including the mailman or a delivery man. Sometimes I see people walking their dogs, or just walking. Emergency vehicles will go by, grain trucks will come and go, buses will pull up at the quilt shop across the street (housed in the old train depot), cars will park at the law office and classic trucks will leave the old fire station. Sometimes it’s hard to get any work done with so much to watch.

The thing I cannot see, that which I barely notice, is the passage of time. Every day a train goes by and blasts its horn to let everyone know it has come and gone, but the days go by with nary a whisper. It’s a crazy concept, but an older person knows what it’s like to be younger, but a younger person does not know what it’s like to be older. As I have gotten older I have become aware of a pattern that will, I fear, become more common as I age. Friends, in increasing numbers, are becoming ill and being hospitalized.

Life is so fragile and our days on this earth are not long enough. The train blows its horn and another day disappears out of sight. For the past five and a half decades I have watched the years come and go. They seem to be going faster as I get older and there is no way to stop them. I guess I will just enjoy them instead.

Undefeated

One morning I was sharing a cup of coffee and a fried egg sandwich with my daughter, Jennifer, at her house. We were conversing, as we often do while, watching her son, Micah, busy himself with toys and activities. On this particular morning Micah had decided to see what else was inside his toy box. With his eyes on the goal, he moved swiftly across the floor by employing a commando style low-profile crawl.  

When he reached the toy box and found it to be much taller up close, he didn’t stop. Unable to reach the top from the floor, Micah pushed himself up on his knees and reached up with one hand and steadied himself for the next move. Then he brought his other hand to the top and grabbed on tight.  That was all well and good, but what he did next was the most impressive.

As this little boy pulled himself up, he grunted and growled, summoning all his strength. “He’s pulling from within,” Jennifer said. Pulling from within – I immediately loved the phrase and wrote it down.

As I rolled it around, I was reminded of a story my Dad told me. One wet spring he and Mom were visiting my sister and her husband in central Wisconsin. In the field across the township road, a tractor had become stuck in the mud. Soon, a larger tractor was brought in to assist. Soon that tractor became mired as well.

My sister, although not Amish herself, (not that there’s anything wrong with that) has many neighbors who are.  One of the neighbors, hearing of the sticky situation, brought his Percheron horses over to help. As Dad told the story, the team was hitched to the first tractor and waited for the signal from their master. With just a few words of encouragement and direction, the team leaned into their traces and pulled one tractor out and then another.

No tractor or machine has anything beyond its measured horsepower to give, but a living, breathing creature can always reach down within to find a bit more to pull themselves up and out.

The political elections are over for this year, and barring any recounts, almost everyone knows whether they or their candidate won or lost.  I am writing this on the Saturday before the election, and although I can’t predict the results, I know for certainty there will be winners and losers. That’s the way these things work.

Most of us have heard the phrase, may the best man win. That’s a hope, a desire – not a guarantee of results. I don’t pretend to be Zig Ziglar or even Matt Foley, but I offer my condolences and encouragement to those who have lost the election.

The real test after facing any disappointment, whether its love lost, being passed over for a job or losing a race, is to find the invisible inner strength and pull yourself up; to persevere. Speaking from experience, I can tell you that life does indeed go on and that losing does not mean the end. As my friend, Dean, said to me, it only means you were out-voted, not defeated.

I personally knew many candidates in the local races – even opponents in the same contest. My heart goes out to those who lost, but remember the sun does come up and soon things will look better. See what else life has in store for you. Find the strength within, pull yourself up and let out a growl. Then grab a cup of coffee and a fried egg sandwich with a loved one. The battle is over, but not the war.

Balance

The older I get the more I realize the need to balance my schedule with regular exercise, but I struggle with time and motivation. I’ve never been one who enjoys exercise just for the sake of it. I prefer an activity where getting a workout is a benefit, not the sole purpose; things like playing sports, splitting wood, and bike riding come to mind.

My wife, Rhonda, and I have some good friends who live near a bike trail, and last week Mark and Lynn invited us (and our bikes) to their house. It was a beautiful Saturday, like so many we have enjoyed this October.  

Before we left home there were a few things I had to attend to. First, I had to give the bikes the once over and see what they needed. My skill set for bicycle maintenance is putting air in the tires, spaying some silicone on the moving parts, and wiping off the dust. After that I put the rack on the truck and the bikes on the rack and us in the truck and trekked over to do some biking.

Mark and I have been friends since childhood, but it had been four decades since we had rode bikes together. After he got his license in 1974 we rode around together on four wheels instead. But up until then the preferred conveyance was a bicycle.

Often we would be part of pack of boys on their ten-speed bikes moving through town. It took a couple trips to learn that changes in direction need to be agreed upon by the group in advance of the change. Abrupt, unannounced alterations often resulted in a pile of bikes and boys blaming each other in the middle of the street. 

We also biked around town at two and three in the morning. There were a few summers when several of us would set up a large tent in one of our backyards for a sleepover, except there was no sleeping. In the early evening we would eat junk food, drink pop and laugh, and later, after the parents in the house were sure to be asleep, we would push our bikes off the property and ride into the night.

During those years there were no police in town, other than infrequent visits by the county patrol car, so biking around town in the middle of the night was never challenged. Sometimes we would ditch our bikes a couple blocks from the swimming pool and jump the fence. Eventually, the noise level would wake the neighbors and they would alert the authorities. Running through backyards in the dark with your head down was a necessary posture to avoid being clothes-lined.

Later, as I got older, slower, and wiser swimming lost its adventurous appeal. However, I kept on biking through the years, but not with any of my childhood friends. It was as if we had outgrown it.

Last week boys and bikes were back together again and this time we had a designated trail to follow. Mark and I rode side by side, just like the old days and several yards behind us our wives happily conversed. The trail pushed through the woods and leaves crackled under the tires – so thick in spots that the trail would almost disappear. The lake, sparkling with the autumn sun, was just off our shoulders. Of course, it helps to have a destination, a reason for biking.  Someone had wisely opened a winery just off the trail and our bikes rolled in without much coaxing.

I will continue to bike, to exercise, because a sedentary life leads to a sloth-like existence.

”Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.” Albert Einstein.

Main Street

I drove down Main Street in Belle Plaine late Friday afternoon to say good-bye to an old friend of the family. Even though much has changed since I left there over thirty years ago, I can still see the old town and remember how it was. As I pulled off the highway, I thought of the café that shared space with a gas station.

I remember four full-service gas stations: Standard, Texaco, Skelly and Sinclair. There was no such thing as self-service. While you stayed in the car, the gas tank was filled, the oil was checked, the windshield was cleaned, and the tires were visibly inspected for pressure.  The stations had a garage with a mechanic on duty – often the same guy who pumped the gas, and if he was not too busy, he would vacuum the interior of your car after it was serviced

One of my favorite stops with Dad was the Sinclair station. I never sat in the car when we pulled in there, because Dad would get out and talk with Louie Lieske, the proprietor. While Dad talked I played on the big green dinosaur in front of the station. Dad and Louie had an easy way with each other; their conversations were snappy and filled with laughter, and it made everyone around them smile.

The trademark logo for Sinclair Oil was a green brontosaurus, and one day Dad brought home an inflatable one. I don’t remember how big it was, but it was big enough to support a small boy in a lake. I don’t know if Dad purchased it from Louie or if Louie just gave it to him. I suspect it was a gift, a thank-you for Dad’s friendship and patronage.

Louie was generous in other ways too, especially with his time. He was a volunteer fireman, and he spent four years as chief. I used to see him at the fire station, which was just a block and half from our house.

As the town grew, so did Louie’s participation. He owned several businesses and served on several civic organizations. For over forty years he was on the board of directors of The Lutheran Home Association, with four years as its CEO. Ironically, he worked all those years to make it home for others, but never stayed there himself; Louie died at his own home instead of at The Home.

The last time I saw Louie was a couple weeks ago at a football game. We sat and talked in the rain while he watched his grandson play and I watched my son, Nathan, coach. He got to know Nathan when Louie was driving bus and Nathan was a student teacher at the Belle Plaine schools. Three generations of Kucera men (my father, my self and my son) connected with Louie. I never met anyone else who had Louie’s ability to make friends so easily. I suspect many people considered him their best friend. That kind of guy never goes out of style.

But things change, they don’t stay the same. Almost one hundred years ago the book “Main Street” was published. The fictional book is about Gopher Prairie, an ugly little town filled with unhappy, short-sighted people. Ignoring the difference in years, I think the book would have had a different slant if the author, Sinclair Lewis, had stopped at Louie’s Sinclair in Belle Plaine (which means beautiful prairie).  He would have seen what I saw, a great little town because of men like Louis Lieske.

Click and Connect

Friendship has never been more confusing than it is today, where being someone’s “friend” and “following” them takes just a click without any real connection or commitment.  I used to have a pretty good idea what being a friend meant; I’m not so sure anymore. I am certainly willing to shoulder my share of the fault for this confusing development; but most of the blame has to be thrown at the imaginary feet of social media.

Let me be the first to point out that I am a hypocrite. I have “friends” on Facebook who I barely know. After this essay is published in the local paper I will post it on the internet and provide a link to make it easier for those “friends” to read it. But just so I don’t offend everyone, I have some very good friends who are also Facebook “friends.” One size does not fit all. However, I am convinced that it is next to impossible to develop meaningful relationships there.

I believe the deepest, most sincere friendships are where genuine, one-on-one conversations take place.  However I fear this is falling out of fashion as we only have so much time and energy. It takes work to cultivate and grow a long-term relationship;

It’s getting together, not just saying you will. It’s remembering to call just to talk. It’s a card or a letter (maybe an email) sent at the right time or just because. It’s dropping everything because your friend needs you. “Keep your friendships in repair.” Ralph Waldo Emerson (1864)

I can almost here the laughter and shouts of disagreement from my old friends, but I think I am better at being an old friend than a new one because of the work required to get there and stay there. It’s challenging to give new friends the attention or time they deserve. Unfortunately, because of that, I may be missing out on building great new friendships, because, as I said, there is only so much time and energy, and I refuse to take short-cuts and substitute small talk for sincere dialogue.

The consequence of that behavior is the appearance of being aloof, stand-offish, and even arrogant. I know you only get one chance to make a first impression, and unfortunately, I don’t always give a good one. I am often impatient, rude, and self-centered; qualities that my old friends have either learned to tolerate or ignore, in the hope that someday I may improve. Though I don’t deserve it, they are patient with me.

Last Sunday in church, the pastor was talking about connecting with people and forming friendships.  Not once did I hear him mention using social media as a way to achieve it. He talked about have a conversation over a cup of coffee, maybe even sharing a meal together. The thinking being that you should be able and willing to reach out and make friends at church. If we can’t or won’t put the effort in there –Lord help us all.

In 1728, James Thomson described what I believe to be the ideal later years of a man’s life. “An elegant sufficiency, content, retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books.” Just as surely as I do now I will need friends as I get older. An old man with plenty of time but no friends to spend it with is a sad way to finish life. I need both old and new friends; I will learn and grow with the new ones and recommit to click and connect with the old ones.

Suitable for Framing

Rhonda, the kids, grandkid, and I got together Sunday and put on our very best (or close to it) to take our Christmas picture. Yeah, it seemed a little early to me too, but to beat the rush, I guess it’s a good idea to get it done sooner than later, or at least get it over with.

It was rather chilly, more November than October; cold weather can hurry an otherwise slow process. “Stand here, move there, let’s try the bean field, sit on this blanket, how about with the fire truck, okay, just a few more, maybe some with the pumpkins.” It’s times like that where I find smiling especially challenging.

Generally, I am rarely satisfied with how I look in photographs (or the mirror for that matter), but I always hope for a little help from the camera. I can almost picture my school pictures from each year in my mind. Oh, the horror.

In the one for my high school senior year I am wearing a suit: a mint-green coat, green-striped tie, and green plaid pants. I think the shoes (thankfully hidden from the camera) were some brown/cream two-tone platforms; flashy, even for 1977. Up until then I had never seen a get-up quite like it, and I have not seen one since then either. It truly was one-of-a-kind, and I thought I looked good in it. But then, of course, the pictures came back from the studio with a different story to tell.

Judging from what I see on Facebook, it seems that many people are pretty happy with how they look in pictures, as they put them up for all to see. A series of black and white photographs I have seen recently stands out among the others. The four Brown sisters from Connecticut have had their pictures taken together every year since 1975.

The annual photographs were taken by Nicholas Nixon, one of the sister’s husbands, who, after the first year, asked if he could do the same thing with the sisters standing in the same order. As I looked at the pictures I was thankful for the wisdom and willingness of all five, but at the same time I felt sad as I watched the girls grow older far too quickly, almost as if I were Rod Taylor in “The Time Machine.” The passing of time happened all too fast.

Most families have photo albums they can page through to look back at the years; we have many, but not too many. What if the Brown’s had skipped a year or two because it was inconvenient, one of the sisters didn’t feel like it, or they weren’t getting along that year?

In the past, including last Sunday, I have grimaced Grinch-like when asked to sit for more than one family picture. It’s obvious the camera doesn’t slow time down, but it does capture that moment for all time.

Because of the wisdom of my wife and daughter, we pose at least once a year (usually more) for a group photo. It’s not always matchy-matchy, and every one looks better than me, but that’s okay – I’m the oldest. Later, we will pick out one for our Christmas cards; every year we care enough to capture and then send our very best.

Messy Business

If not done properly, feeding a baby can be a messy business. I took a turn feeding my grandson, Micah, the other day. Other than finger-food (Cheerios, cut-up/smashed-up bananas and Puffs) placed on the tray of his high-chair, he can’t yet feed himself.

Micah likes to eat, and he isn’t very patient with someone unaccustomed to feeding a baby. His body language lets you know he’s ready to eat: his arms are extended, but slightly bent at the elbows; both his hands are flexing, eyebrows up, eyes big, mouth wide-open, accompanied by an occasional holler if you are too slow.

I had to ask what I was feeding him, as most everything has been blended into an unrecognizable consistency, although generally it’s color-coded. Green is peas, beans or zucchini; beige/oatmeal is oatmeal, rice cereal or ground-up chicken. Pears mixed with raspberries look like neither one, and pureed prunes look like so much mush. This time it was sweet potatoes, which look remarkably similar to carrots in their orangeness.

Micah likes fruit, and he’s learned to clap; so you have to be careful while feeding him applesauce that applause doesn’t suddenly erupt. I did have an audience when I was feeding him, and from what I could tell, we made a very entertaining pair.

At first I thought his mother and grandmother were laughing at Micah, but it became clear that I was the clown. It’s hard to hit a moving target with a spoonful of goo and all the while tiny hands are trying to grab it. At least half of the spoon’s contents ended up all over his face, which had to be scraped off for another go around.

As I repositioned myself, I mistakenly set the bowl down, which he quickly grabbed. By then food was everywhere – hands, face and hair.  I was a mess, so I took a break and went to the sink to clean myself up as best I could and then returned to the battle. But I had been relieved of my post by Rhonda, who finished the job in expert fashion.

Micah’s mother, my daughter Jennifer, is quite particular on the foods she will feed him. She prefers natural food of the organic variety, nothing I would want to eat mind you – but she’s the mom. She and her mother share a garden at our farm, and my job is to till it twice a year.

This year I added some ingredients to the soil. Our neighbors, the Duklets, have horses, and while I was removing the corn stalks from the garden I made arrangements over the fence with Duke to get some manure. As I was driving the tractor back from his place with a bucket full, the wind caught some and blew it into my face. Lovely.

After my third trip Rhonda reminded me that we had a pile of chicken poop (manure didn’t sound right) in the barnyard that had been seasoned and was ready for garden application. By then I had learned to lower the bucket beneath head height to avoid getting a face full. 

Then she suggested that I clean the old hay bales from the barn and put them in a compost pile for next year’s garden. The hay was dusty, moldy, rotting and rather unpleasant.  I added it to the list of things I was wearing on my shirt and pants. 

Even though usually I will wear clothes on a Saturday that I can rip, stain or soil with no regret, I found by the end of the day my clothes were ready to be washed separately from everything else. If not done properly, gardening, like so much of life, can be a messy business.

                                                                                                                                               

Leafing Through Life

Autumn has come and the leaves are turning. Soon they will fall, and the wind will push, and the rake will pull them into piles. It has been a long time since I raked any leaves; I rely instead on my lawn mower and the breeze, which seems to blow through the yard without ceasing.  But now the obligations of being a grandfather call me to have a pile of leaves to jump into – not this year, but perhaps next year. There is a large cottonwood behind the barn with enough leaves for dozens of piles.

At our last house there was a giant cottonwood tree standing tall in the front yard; it was so big it dwarfed the one behind our barn. The leaves it dropped were so numerous they had to be raked and removed just so we could see out the first-floor windows of the house (I may be exaggerating).

When I was kid, very few people bagged their leaves; they burned them instead. People my age may be the last ones to have enjoyed the woodsy smell of burning leaves. I am sure we can have a discussion concerning burning leaves, bagging and burying them, collecting and composting or just letting them lay where they fall, but that’s another day.

I grew up in a time where kids raked leaves into rows to create a floor plan for a modest one-level home and played house in its small walls all afternoon. After supper the house was demolished and their father would burn the remains. He would stand there tending it, as if he were smoking his pipe, fussing with the dried leaves periodically while he enjoys the aroma and relaxation that goes with the task.

I don’t know when burning leaves fell out of favor, but I suspect it was about the same time burning barrels were outlawed. Most backyards had a barrel where the household garbage was burned, never completely, of course, as not everything burns. Like most others, ours was an old, rusty fifty-five gallon barrel that stood next to the utility pole between the garden and the alley.

I watched in horror one day as my favorite stuffed animal was thrown unceremoniously into the fire. I had been quite ill, and the theory was the big blue dog was harboring the black plague or some such thing.  Despite the pleadings of me and my compassionate older brother, the dog was burned alive in the barrel. 

I don’t remember the day Dad found out he could no longer use his barrel to burn the trash, but I know it bothered him. For one day I was watching him work the soil in the garden when his eyes rested on the decaying empty cylinder.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with this country, you can’t even burn your own garbage anymore,” he announced, leaving no room for disagreement or comment.

That was many years ago, but it seems like yesterday. Things change as fast as the seasons. I love this time of year, but I cannot help feeling a bit melancholy. Summer ends, the temperatures drop, and the sun goes down earlier every day.  

But it is also the time of year life begins to quiet and move indoors; I recognize the need to make some changes. Colorful sentences don’t get written and musical instruments don’t sound better without daily discipline. I guess you could say I am turning over a new leaf. 

Retirement

I am reminded, almost weekly that I don’t look my age. “So, when are you going to retire,” people will ask. It’s not quite as bad as asking a non-pregnant woman who appears to be in her second trimester when her baby is due, but I can’t help sounding defensive in my reply, “How old do you think I am?” Perhaps they are just making polite conversation, or maybe they are being rather forward in their thinking.  

Personally, I don’t view half-way between fifty and sixty as the age to retire, unless, of course, you hate your job and have enough to live on for several decades. Neither is true for me.

People work past sixty-five for a variety of reasons: a sense of loyalty, they find the work cathartic, they love the job, they need the money, or they need something to do. When my grandparents sold the farm and moved to town Grandpa got a job at a lumberyard for several years. He finally retired at the age of eighty-five. I got a job at the same lumberyard three years later when I was sixteen.

One day we were short-handed, and they called Grandpa to help out. Andrew, as he was known around the yard (I never called him by his first name, not even once), showed me that age is no yardstick of ability. The two of us spent a memorable summer afternoon unloading a train car of lumber by hand. Grandpa laughed at how I struggled to keep pace with him.

His son, my father, passed away before he reached eighty. I hope to pass by that age in good stead. However, I am quite sure I do not want to be unloading train cars at eighty-eight years old, with or without my grandson (alright, maybe just one afternoon). But do I want to be sitting in my office at that age? Probably not, but how will I know when enough is enough?

A friend of mine, who is about ten years older than me, is contemplating retirement. She talks about retiring sometime next year after she has marked a work anniversary. But someone asked her a question the other day that broadened her perspective. “What if you knew your time was limited, would you wait another six months to retire?”

The truth is time on planet Earth is limited for each of us. So now what? It gets kind of confusing. How do you choose to spend your remaining days – work, leisure, or somewhere in between? I know, too many questions and not enough answers right?

For me the answer lies somewhere in the middle.  Work is good for the soul, but all work and no play makes Jack and Jill too dull to fetch anything but ulcers. If you can, find work you enjoy, and if not, find enjoyment in the work you do. Develop a hobby, learn a new language, play a musical instrument (some would say a banjo doesn’t qualify), volunteer, play with children, visit the elderly, read a book, take a walk, live life.

Live a life that has purpose, satisfaction and contentment. That’s what I’m trying to do.  I don’t know when I will retire, but apparently I look old enough. 

Public Housing

Having stayed at a private campground after attending a wedding in Wisconsin, my wife, Rhonda chose to extend our trip and camp at a state park for a Walden Pond-like experience without all the fuss.  It wasn’t that we couldn’t have driven straight home after the wedding, but that defeats the whole point of camping – staying somewhere else when you could be at home. The countryside in that part of the world is beautiful, so we decided to see it during the daytime instead of dodging deer at night.

The next day, with a trailer still in tow, we pulled into Interstate State Park. That particular state park has a Minnesota side and a Wisconsin side, with the St. Croix doing its best to keep them apart. We chose the Minnesota side, as we didn’t want to wear out our welcome in Wisconsin, and we already had paid for the season pass, which grants unfettered access to all the state parks in Minnesota.

The private campground had prohibited tents; the state park encourages tenting but limits the length of the vehicle-trailer combination. Fortunately, (or not) we were able to make the cut-off for length at the state park so I backed into a spot with a beautiful view of the river.

Several times during our stay we saw a paddle-wheel boat laden with waiving passengers. The first time or two I waived back, but after that I only nodded in their general direction, as I was grew annoyed at their tour-boat style of enthusiasm.

A site or two from ours was a young family in a tent. The vinyl-lining of the tent did little to dampen the sounds of the mother hollering at the toddler and the toddler crying in response. On the other side was a trailer so small that my father would’ve said, “you couldn’t change your mind in there,” yet three adults crawled in there that night to escape the rain. The mind reels.

Before I started a fire to cook our hot dogs, I mistakenly volunteered to go for a walk. I knew Rhonda wanted to go for a walk, and I had calculated that walking around the small campground circle would have us back to our trailer in no time. However, I had not counted on the walking trail, which was partially hidden from view, but it was too late to back-out, hence my offer would be seen as shallow and insincere (which, of course, it was).

Rhonda loves to walk, I enjoy sitting, but there we were walking in 80 plus degree heat. Luckily, it was also humid so I could sweat through my shirt while avoiding poison ivy and certain death should I stumble off the path and fall hundreds of feet into the waiting waters of the St. Croix.

I struggled to keep up; it really is amazing how long a mile and a half is when you are going up and down over hills and through woods. We finally reached the end where it was suggested we take another way back.

We followed the fill-in-the-blank style of directions to get us under the highway, through the town and back home, or at least the camper. The return trail was on an old railroad bed, which had the advantage of being on an even grade without all that up and down business that nobody likes. Other than the distance, the only problems we encountered were the missing trestle and the hobbit-size culvert.

Many years ago when the train was running there was a trestle that spanned a deep ravine, but it was no longer there, so we had to negotiate our way, first down then back up, on steep stairs with only a smattering of hand-rails. The trail ended at a dank culvert, where we walked hunched-over. When we finally reached our camper Rhonda suggested I go shower, as it looked like I had just walked out of one.

So ends Part II of this travel essay. I apologize for the length, but in the words of Henry David Thoreau, “Not that the story needs to be long, but it will take a long while to make it short.”

Camping

Last week after we got the camper fixed, we dragged it across the border to Wisconsin to attend a wedding. The camper wasn’t invited, so we parked it nearby at a campground. In my experience I have found that there are generally two types of campgrounds: the public (State or National Parks) and the privately owned campgrounds. Both offer advantages, but in the end it comes down to a lifestyle preference. As I prefer to stay home, I don’t like either one of them – but eventually you have to park somewhere for the night and most people are opposed to letting you park in their driveway, run an extension cord and build a fire in their yard – even if you bring your own firewood.

For the first night we stayed with the private sector in a campground at an old resort on a chain of lakes. The “office,” shared a corner space in a wood paneled bar, where you could have a beer, play pool, watch the game and eat a pizza. I dropped fifty cents and played pinball instead while I listened to John Prine and Iris Dement sing “In Spite of Ourselves” on the juke box.

From its hilltop perch, the bar had a panoramic view of the lake. Outside, ancient concrete steps dropped unevenly to a shore line boardwalk, where a series of white docks with peeling paint exposed rotting piers. Rental rowboats saddled with outboards restlessly tugged on their moorings. Further down the line pontoons bobbed up and down; the waves slapped their sides sounding a hollow, tinny report luring fisherman to their decks.

Having ventured out to the one of the docks, Rhonda and I sat a bench and took it all in. Looking back towards the bar a sign, which was hung high on the building, flashed OPEN, OPEN, OPEN across the water. Every lighthouse should be so welcoming.

While we were sitting a little boy, about nine or ten years old, had carried an inflatable boat down to the water. For only a moment or two we watched him struggle trying to get into the boat without falling into the water. Always the motherly type, Rhonda asked if he needed help.

“Okay,” was all he said.

Rhonda bent down and held the boat while I held his fishing pole. Soon he was sitting amongst his two oars, his yet-empty wire basket, his cup of worms, and his can of root beer.

“Looks like you’re going fishing,” Rhonda said – trying to extend the conversation.

“Uh-huh,’ he said.

“Where’s your life jacket?” I asked.

“Uh-oh,” was his trademark two-syllable reply.

“You want us to hold your boat while you go get one”, Rhonda asked.

“Yes, please.”

In a few minutes he was back safe and sound. We helped him in the boat and wished him well. As we walked back to our camper we wondered which camper was his and where were his folks. Many of the campers were situated in a semi-permanent stage. They ranged from almost new to forty some years old.  Some had decks attached, some had screened-in porches adjoined to their trailers. Many had the green and yellow Packers colors flying proudly next to the Japanese lanterns and “Welcome to our Cabin,” signs.

“Where you folks from?” we were asked by the Fred half of the “Fred and Carol’s Camper.”

“Southwest of Minneapolis,” I said. Fred went on to explain that he and his wife, Carol, come here every weekend. Carol would be joining him later because he had been at his grandson’s football game.  Wanting to avoid getting dragged into a Packers/Vikings discussion, we excused ourselves and went to the camper to get dressed for the wedding.

Tomorrow night we would stay at a state park.

Plus and Minus

I like to be optimistic and stay positive. I consider myself a clear thinker; clearly I’m not, but I like to think I am. When given a set of circumstances where a problem is to be solved I am confident in my ability to examine the options, consider the possible outcomes, and choose the best solution available.

But when I am in a hurry and there are only two possible choices and I have some, albeit limited, knowledge of the problem at hand, I will guess and get on to the next thing. Guessing or assuming based on incomplete information is bad form and is usually punished.

As a public service please allow me to let you in on a little secret. Just as you cannot judge a book by its cover, you cannot judge the charge of an electrical wire based only on its color.

AC (alternating current) and DC (direct current) are too confusing for the average person to grasp without getting electrocuted. One is for the house; one is for the car, and when you combine both you get a pretty good rock band from Australia.

It gets even more confusing. On the DC side of the things red is positive and black is negative. In the unfriendly world of AC, the black wire is hot (not to be confused with positive), and the white is neutral (not negative).

Last fall, thinking I was being smart, I disconnected the battery from the camper and brought it (the battery, not the camper) into the house for safekeeping and an occasional charge. We got a slow start on the camping season this year, so last week on the night before we were supposed to leave I reconnected the battery, only stopping briefly to consider the colors of the wires.

Having jump-started dozens of cars and trucks over the last forty years, I was used to black and red wires for car batteries, but I only had black and white to work with on the camper. So instead of crawling underneath the camper and following the wires to wherever they may lead, I concluded that black must be negative because it always is with a car battery, and the folks at the camper factory must have run out of red wire and grabbed a length of white instead.

Unfortunately, I chose unwisely – I connected the positive wire to the negative post, and the negative wire to the positive post; I got my wires crossed and reversed polarity.  When that happens things get damaged and they won’t work properly. Who knew? Fuses blew, power was lost, trailer brakes locked up and wouldn't release, and I thought I my camping days were over.

With some adjustments we were able to salvage a weekend trip and visit some county fairs, and not once did my wife call me stupid; she could have – but why state the obvious?  As I have told my son, Nathan, and now my son-in-law, Adam, “I do these things so you don’t have to.”

When we got back into town I brought the camper to Noble RV, where they fixed the camper, and in true professional form, they politely ignored the opportunity to call me names and tease me. It all worked out, and I was able to maintain my positive outlook, even when things got negative.

Cloudy Days

I was blessed with a mother who, among other things, enjoyed looking at clouds and finding animals, funny characters and other shapes within the clouds. I believe it was games and activities such as cloud-gazing which expanded my imagination and showed me how to look at both sides of an issue. It taught me to look for the good, the silver lining in every cloud, but it also taught me to keep watch for the clouds as well. Good and bad will often share the same stage.

However it doesn't always end well – at least where the silver shines through. Childhood gives way to adulthood and troubles loom large on the horizon and block out the sun. In life, as in drama there are two masks we must wear from time to time – comedy and tragedy.  

Some of the men whose comic work I admire have bowed out early – John Belushi, John Candy, Chris Farley, Mitch Hedberg, Andy Kaufman and now Robin Williams. Williams died last Monday, and when I heard the news a feeling of emptiness settled in.

Robin Williams had a lightning quick wit and an uncanny ability to improvise. It seems to me in order to be that funny, to find comedy in so many areas of life means the tragic side of life is close at hand waiting its turn in the wings. I can’t find any bright spot in his death; I am glad he was here however.

In 1967 Judy Collins released, “Both Sides Now,” a song written by Joni Mitchell.

I won’t give you my stanza by stanza interpretation of the words (I used to argue with my teachers and professors over “the author’s use of symbolism and foreshadowing.”), but allow me to suggest a few things I got from the song. Children start out life happy and innocent, letting their imaginations go skyward, but soon childhood visions are pushed aside when adulthood responsibilities take over. Memories linger of the clouds and those empty illusions are replaced by love lost and an unfulfilled life. The writer is left to admit that they don’t understand clouds, love, or life.

We must keep looking for the silver lining. Robin Williams – He made me laugh, he made me cry.

I suggest you listen to Collins sing as you read the lyrics.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7Xm30heHms

Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds that way

But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way

I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all

Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
When every fairy tale comes real
I've looked at love that way

But now it's just another show
You leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away

I've looked at love from both sides now
From win and lose, and still somehow
It's love's illusions I recall
I really don't know love at all

Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say "I love you" right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I've looked at life that way

But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I've changed
Well something's lost, but something's gained
In living every day

I've looked at life from both sides now 
From win and lose and still somehow 
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all

Party Line

When I was kid it took just four numbers to call my friends; the prefix and the area code were not required. If you had to use the area code that meant long distance – and that meant a phone bill was being tallied by the phone company for every minute spent on the phone. This amount would only become known when the phone bill arrived; rates varied on the weekends, after six and on holidays.  In other words – nobody but Ma Bell knew for sure, and she encouraged us to dial a 1 followed by all ten numbers. After all, long distance was the next best thing to being there, so we were told.

But every word, every pause, every minute counted – time was precious. Talking on the phone with someone “long distance,” rarely allowed for a casual conversing experience even if you were paying the bill (which I wasn’t) as someone would eventually be heard saying, “better keep it short, this is long distance.”  I often thought – is the person on the other end only worth $2.95 and not $4.65? My older brother and sister were both in college hundreds of miles away so phone calls never seemed long enough – still cheaper and faster than driving I suppose.

Calling long distance could mean calling someone in another country or the next county. Rhonda, then my girlfriend, lived only about twelve miles from my house, but to call her meant to call long-distance.

Most homes had only one phone located in a very public place such as the kitchen where privacy was never served. Although many people had phones in their homes with their own phone number, many people had to share a line (a party line) with others in the neighborhood. For instance, when Rhonda, now my wife, was growing up her family had to share the line with two other families – seventeen people (nine teenagers) all sharing each other’s secrets. She would pick up the phone and discover a conversation already in progress. It was like turning on the radio in the middle of a talk show – except you were not welcome to listen in; although some did.

When we moved out here twenty years ago we were having trouble with our phone line – sometimes it became a party line. The problem was that the phone line was lying exposed in the ditch. The flimsy wires in the weeds were occasionally munched on by the neighbor’s horses. This went on for a couple years – the phone company would patch the wires and the horses would disconnect them.

Land lines are disappearing and are being replaced with cell phones and with that the long-distance charges are going away too.  I was talking to my friend Tim, the L.A. movie star, last week about the changes in the telephone. He remembers running in from outside because so and so was calling long-distance. Now his friends call him from all over the country to tell him a joke, even when they can’t remember the punch line.

It seems now almost everyone has a cell phone so it’s never been easier to reach out and touch someone. I don’t even have to remember my friends’ phone numbers, which is good because they are no longer just four numbers; they now include the prefix and area code. To call my friends and family just takes a tap or two on my phone.

Bingo

Most people can spell it, and I would guess that most people have played it. It’s a simple game, yet it is popular with children and adults. Depending upon the variation played, there is usually more than one way to win: four corners, horizontal and vertical, diagonal and an occasional cover-all. Bingo – you guessed it.

I first played bingo in the basement of our church and have played it in dozens of parks and church halls ever since. I don’t remember ever winning, although having played the game many times over almost fifty years its hard to imagine that I didn’t get to shout out its namesake at least once.

I remember watching my dad call bingo in the basement of the church and at the park during Barbeque Days in Belle Plaine. He approached the game in a straight-forward, no-nonsense style; he called out the letter/number combinations clearly and succinctly, repeating them only once. Everyone was tuned in to his baritone voice waiting and hoping that he would call the number they needed so they could shout, “Bingo!”

“Bingo’s been called, hold your cards please,” was his reply.

In the last few years I have followed in my dad’s footsteps once more, because I too became one of the chosen few – a bingo caller at Barbeque Days and Derby Days. Now having been on the other side of the rolling balls I can let you in on my life as a bingo caller.

The traditional game is simple enough, but like most everything else it has been tampered with. The changes make it more difficult for the caller. Let me explain.

When four corners is chosen as the exclusive way to win then the only numbers that qualify are those that track with the B and O. That’s a lot to remember when the balls are rolling toward you at fifty miles an hour; a guy can get confused. But the confusion never lasts long, as the crowd is quick to remind you of your error and shout out instructions.

The serious bingo player likes their game called at a measured pace and to the point. Go too slow and they get impatient, go too fast and they will tell you to slow down, but just a little bit as they want the game to keep moving. Don’t talk too loud lest you annoy them, too soft and they can’t hear you. It’s serious business.

Staying serious in anything has been a life-long challenge for me.  So to make bingo calling interesting I have worked up a few comments to go with some of the numbers; I’m sure there are others. Feel free to use them the next time you are asked to call bingo.

I usually start out the first game by telling the crowd that although I don’t take requests I will on occasion do a dedication, and then later when B4 comes up I will say, “This ones going out from Elvis to Priscilla. “Priscilla, before I met you I was lost. B4.”

B1, the call to conform. Join the club.

B2, or not 2B; Shakespeare’s number.

B8, looks the same upside down – sort of.

B9, good news from the doctor – “the tests came back from the lab and it’s benign.”   

B12, the vitamin.

B13, the lucky one.

I16 going on 17, innocent as a rose.

I17 going on 18 I’ll take care of you.

I18, and I like it – so says Alice Cooper.

I21, yes, but I still need to see some identification.

I29, the interstate that runs between the Dakotas and Minnesota and down to Missouri.

G55, gee officer I’m sure I was only going 55.

I didn’t say they were funny, it’s just something to crazy it up a bit. I can’t just sit there and do things the normal way; I look for a different way to play – Because I Need Goofy Options.

Baseball

 The game of baseball seems simple enough until you come across someone who is more than just a casual observer of the game, and you learn how much you don’t know. It’s not just the lingo, there’s also the “inside baseball” stuff, the details of a specific subject not commonly known to outsiders, which requires a level of knowledge to comfortably participate in the activity or discussion.

But that’s with most anything I suppose; we are constantly interacting with people who know more or less than we do about any given subject, and we try and find an understanding between us. I recently joined the board of directors for the Scott County Fair, and once again, I found out how much I had to learn.

I am fortunate to be on the board during this time, because I believe with our new manager, Norm Pint, we are beginning a new ERA. With any manager, especially a new one, it’s a good idea to watch them for direction, for signs of their managerial style. Norm is not a micro manager – instead he has created an environment where thinking outside the box is encouraged; new ideas are regularly pitched by the directors.

The fair really hit it out of the park this year with its new Miracle of Birth center. The center was so popular it attracted the attention of newspapers as well as officers and scouts from other county fairs and organizations. Many parents brought their children into the barn to see the new animal babies. I enjoyed being a spectator and watching the little children interact with the baby chickens, lambs, calves and kids.

My daughter brought her son to the fair every day; this is something that will be part of his life as much as it was, and is, part of hers. The farm team of 4H kids will someday be asked to be on the board of directors for the fair, and these kids already know how to work hard. The barns at the fair do not smell foul because those kids are on the ball keeping them clean; I am sure they learned that at home.

I had been at the fair many times over the years – but my perspective was sharpened this last weekend. There are lots of things that need to be done in the weeks and days before the fair is open and every hour of every day during the fair. Some may balk at these tasks, but I was anxious to get into the game.

For instance, a group of musicians waited patiently on deck in the gazebo while I and another director moved some benches so the audience could sit and enjoy the music.  One time I had to run to the hardware store to pick up some supplies, another time I was out in left field parking cars. Some of the tasks threw me a curve, but I was always able to turn to the other directors and office staff for help and coaching. Of course, because I was one of the rookies on the team, I expected to get a poke in the RBIs when I made a mistake.

Before the fair opened I had showed up on a Saturday to do some work clearing trees with some other directors. I noticed that my Stihl chain saw was not cutting well, which I thought odd, as I had recently replaced the chain. I asked one of the guys if it needed to be sharpened. It turns out a saw will not cut well if the chain has been put on backwards.

The things I don’t know could fill a baseball staidi…or at least a fairground.

Road Less Traveled

If you want to get somewhere fast take the freeway. That assumes, of course, your destination is within driving distance, and for me that’s the Western Hemisphere ever since the airline industry began treating its passengers like cattle.

So when my wife, Rhonda, and I went to visit my sister and her husband in Wisconsin over the Fourth of July weekend we took interstate 94 to get there as fast as we could. We had left home Saturday morning, so I was reasonably certain there wouldn’t be much holiday traffic. However, I dreaded the Sunday trip home knowing that the freeway would become a parking lot, as most everyone east of the Mississippi would be traveling west.

We stayed on the freeway for as long as we could, then we headed east while the freeway continued on south and for the next hour we were on a two-lane highway. I am always surprised at how slow 55 mph seems after I have been driving 65 plus for a couple hours.  Traveling at a lower speed does allow you to look around more however.

We had been in this part of the country before – perhaps dozens of times, so the novelty of the surrounding area was losing its charm, and yet it still inspired conversation.  There was certainly more to look at than on the interstate; that’s the trade-off – speed for scenery, and serenity.

We drove through the little towns, over swollen creeks and past horse-drawn hay racks. Soon we were at my sister’s house and ate like royalty. I played with my brother-in-law and his tractor while Rhonda went shopping with my sister at an Amish store. A good time was had by all.  

Sunday I began to ponder the traffic jam that was building like storm clouds in the west. Looking at a map, I saw we could avoid the interstate by staying on a two-lane highway and going out of the way a bit.  It certainly meant more time traveling, but perhaps less time sitting in traffic. I will never know for sure what I missed, but I do know what I gained by taking the road less traveled.

Rhonda has a rule that has served us well over the years – when we enter or come within a mile or two of a small town we do some exploring. This includes driving through the downtown to marvel at the quaint architecture and Norman Rockwell back-drops.

That day in Strum, Wisconsin we came across the used car lot of my dreams, Scott’s Auto Body and Sales. There were two station wagons, a ’58 and a ’59, plus five other cars from the 1950’s and probably several more inside the surrounding buildings. On the other side of town we saw a group of little boys, wearing only shorts, happily playing in the mud puddles.

In over one hundred miles of driving I don’t recall any stoplights, exit ramps or traffic jams. But we did see many small peaceful parks with one or two picnic tables, some old store fronts needing a tenant to make it feel useful again; feed mills in the center of town a couple blocks down from the post office, which was across the street from the bar, which shared a wall with a café; and always a church, sometimes two, to marry and bury the next generation of the towns people.

Afterward I was reminded of a song The Little River Band released in 1977 called “Help is on its Way.” The song begins with two questions and two suggestions.

“Why are you in so much hurry

Is it really worth the worry

Look around

Then slow down”

Although all little towns could stand to use a little more commerce, I don’t want to ruin a good thing by changing everyone’s travel habits. Aware of Don Henley’s warning “You call someplace paradise, kiss it goodbye.”  Yet, I see no danger in that with a society that thanks God it’s Friday without acknowledging the good of the preceding four days. We wish our lives away, forgetting that the joy is found in the journey and not the destination. If you want to enjoy the trip, take the scenic route.

Summer Fun

For a guy who professes to prefer fall, perhaps even winter, over summer, I seem to find enough to write about regarding these normally hot, humid days. I think that’s because summertime has been such a big part of my life and the memories of those days come back to me on the breeze.

This afternoon the wind pushing thick, warm air through the screens reminds me when summer was a quieter, slower time. With just a smattering of part-time, temporary jobs (lawn mowing, hay baling, fence painting and dog sitting) I had plenty of idle time spent reading, watching black & white movies on a black & white television and playing games (both inside and outside).

However, sitting around “doing nothing” did not sit well with Dad, and in the summer of 1973 he found me a job. The Scott County Fair had purchased some land outside Jordan and the fair was going to open at its new location for the first time that summer. Outfitted with two wrenches I worked along side other 14 and 15 year old boys putting together metal bleachers for the grandstand. Some assembly required indeed.

Once the fair opened I was reassigned to parking cars. Andy, my friend from town, and I stood in an open field waving cars and trucks to the front of the lot, occasionally hopping on a bumper for a ride. It wasn’t exactly valet parking, but what person in their right mind is going to allow a 14 year old boy to drive cars around a parking lot?

After a full day of work, there was the fair to explore. People shuffled and shifted up and down the midway while the lights blinked and winked at each other and the band played on. The carnival rides tilted, scrambled, and rolled merrily round and round; I walked through it all as if I were in the middle of a movie.

The next summer some of my friends had driver’s licenses (or at least farm-permits) and we traveled the seven-eight miles up highway 169 to the county fair. It became a regular summer trip. There was usually a live band, which meant the chance to dance with some girls we didn’t know. There were engines roaring beyond the grandstand, animals calling to one another in the barns, and people enjoying each other’s company.

Over forty years some things change while some stay the same. For instance, during the last few years I was once again in the parking lot during the fair. I had volunteered to drive a golf cart giving people rides from the lot to the grandstand (and points in between). It was a lot of fun; I got to meet all sorts of people, save them a few steps, see the fair and pretend I was a taxi driver. I think it may be the best job there.

 

The fair has been part of my life for many years; when my kids were younger they would bring animals there for 4H. I remember loading sheep into the back of a truck when it was obvious from their bleating and pleading they would rather have stayed home; I have also transported cages of pigeons, ducks and chickens. One year we even brought a cow to the fair that was on loan from a neighboring farmer; that was the year I got a trailer.

In July of those years our kitchen was a flurry of floury creations and a gathering of garden vegetables to bring to the fair to be entered in competition by my wife and daughter.  Out in the barn I helped my son with wood projects. Then all of this and that was loaded and brought to the fair in the hopes of bringing back some ribbons.

The kids are older now, past 4H age, but I know we will go back to the fair again this year to revisit some old memories and bring back some new ones. It takes a few more dollars to get into the fair now and a couple more to get something to eat, but it’s still worth it. The Scott County Fair runs from July 23-27^th near Jordan.