Looking Through The Happy Window

Into the Fog

2012-02-10T08:27:00.000-06:00

When I was young the fog used to come up the river from Mankato, stopping only briefly in town to rest before it continued on to the Cities. Walking to school with my brothers and sisters we would have to cross Highway 25. The state road would drop into the valley, cross the river and climb back up again before heading west and then north.

On those damp mornings we would gaze down into the valley and imagine we were on the granite shores of Lake Superior. That’s what it looked like to us. We couldn’t see through the fog, so instead we pretended we couldn’t see across the Great Lake.

The fog obscured what was there and allowed our minds to imagine what was not or perhaps could be. Maybe that’s why fog is found so often in stories – the fog fuels our imaginations.

Walking shrouded in fog on a quiet country lane far beyond the reach of the street lights can be very peaceful when done in the morning. But the same stretch of road takes on a different feeling at night when it’s foggy. A rolling fog often precedes death in movies and books, so you have to keep your imagination on a short leash lest it run out ahead of you in search of Vincent Price and Edgar Allen Poe.

The warm days and cool nights of these past few weeks have ushered in the fog around here. The poet Carl Sandburg said, “The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.” I try and enjoy its short, infrequent visits before it lifts.

Fog comes in when the proper mix of temperature and moisture has created the right conditions. According to those unpredictable people at www.weatherquestions.com “Fog can be considered a cloud at ground level. The processes forming it, however, are usually different from those that form clouds.”

You can have your head in the clouds or you can have your head in a fog. The first describes someone who is out of touch with reality. The second tells of a person who is confused, forgetful, or unable to concentrate.

But I find that fog actually forces me to focus on the matter at hand. It’s good to have vision that lets you see in the distance, but to really concentrate it sometimes becomes necessary to shut out all distractions.

Take driving for instance. Driving in fog is especially risky. I’ve come dangerously close to missing turns and curves on a foggy night. But I suppose any activity can be dangerous if not accompanied by care and concentration (throwing knives, shooting guns, making toast, etc.).

When everything else is blocked from your view you pay attention to what you can see, what is close at hand. Otherwise the important things can be taken for granted – like taking a walk with your family.

Can I see some ID?

2012-02-03T08:52:00.001-06:00

I have a pretty good idea who I am and I can prove it when required. Several times a month I am asked for some kind of identification whether it be at the bank, the library, or some other American institution. I accept this minor disruption in my day as the price I pay for protecting my identity. However, some folks bristle at the thought of being required to provide proof of their identity when voting.

In this country we have privileges, duties and obligations. I believe our constitutionally protected right to vote qualifies for all three. There is talk of amending the Minnesota constitution so that a photo ID is required to be eligible to vote. I have read, heard and listened to the opposition, but I still believe requiring a photo ID would help remove fraud from the voting process.

There are at least two sides to every issue. I, like many others, want voter identification to be a part of the election process, and if it was added as an amendment to the state Constitution it would be protected from judicial tampering. It is easier to prevent fraudulent votes before they happen than trying to correct vote counts afterward.

Those opposed to photo ID for voters claim that if there is any fraud, it is very rare and infrequent. Maybe, but fraud, like many crimes, is invisible until detected. Those opposed to requiring photo ID for voters say it would be an inconvenience to the democratic process. So what? If I have to prove who I am in order to be allowed to vote so be it. That is a small price for liberty.

Let’s examine our day to day comings and goings and see how many hindrances and inconveniences could be removed to make our lives easier and void of responsibility.

Air travel could be smooth sailing without all the fuss over identification and security. Commercial airplanes could be like taxis with wings.

“Atlanta, Georgia please, and step on it.”

“Yes sir…Mr….?

“None of your business – just follow that plane.”

Cashing a check at any bank would be a profitable and easy transaction if you weren’t required to prove your identity.

“I’d like to cash a check.”

“Do you have an account with us?’

“I think so.”

“Great. How much money do you want?”

The appearance of a police car would no longer strike fear into the hearts of wayward drivers because almost anyone would be allowed to drive.

“May I see your license please?”

“License? I don’t need a license. My neighbors can vouch for me.”

If you want to get some books at the public just go get them. You don’t need a library card. Hunting and fishing would be fair game all year long. Anyone and everyone could carry a gun as the permitting process would be considered inconvenient. Proof of citizenship and passports could become a thing of the past (at least in this country). Titles, deeds and other proof of ownership would give way to such time-honored traditions as “finders, keepers” and “possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

Of course that would be silly. No one would expect such careless treatment of our identities, laws and freedoms. So it makes sense to me that our most important one, voting in our elections, should be held to the same standard. Let’s vote on it.

Buddy and Olivia

2012-01-26T22:41:00.000-06:00

Like most everyone, I enjoy an uninterrupted night’s sleep, and I usually get one. Before I retreat to my bedroom I let Buddy the dog out for the last sales call of the evening. We then have a conversation where I remind him not to bark unless it’s an emergency. He then spends the night in the garage below our bedroom, where he usually lays quietly.

Sometimes during the night he will bark to convince an outside trespasser to retreat to the woods. That kind of bark usually comes in a quick series of serious warnings, which gets me out of bed to survey the situation.

But more often it comes as a single sound meaning, “Are you awake?” If my feet don’t hit the floor within a minute or two, it changes to “Can you come down here for a minute?” “Please?” comes a few minutes later.

If I lay in bed long enough hoping that he’ll stop, his bark will change to “I’m not going to quit, so you may as well come down here so I can show you what I want.” Walking through a cold, dark house to check on a barking dog can test any man’s patience. Most often it’s nothing – he just wants to come in, and that’s against the night time rules. But once in a while he can’t wait for our early morning appointment.

I try to take Buddy for a walk the first thing most every morning and last Thursday, the coldest of the season, we gave it a good try. That morning’s walk was shorter and quicker than usual. Normally the half-mile takes a leisurely 15 minutes. But 11 below and a burning northwest wind sent Buddy running back to the house immediately after his two business appointments. I was content to follow him.

The morning routine is the same. I go out to the garage where Mr. Important (the name he prefers) greets me with a strong nudge. He’s a big dog – a cross between a black Labrador and a Great Dane. He’s not as big as an elephant, but when I am lacing my boots he almost pushes me off the step with his large head.

Usually we have two cats waiting outside the door for us. Pretzel, named one summer day by two young sisters who were visiting from town, and Olivia. Olivia and her two brothers, Newt and John, were given to me by a guy who had been in a band with a singer who had an Australian accent.

Pretzel prefers to sit in the warm garage on Buddy’s pillow purring loudly to show his appreciation, while he waits for our return. Olivia insists on walking with us. I have tried to dissuade her from what I consider an unnatural act for a cat, but she’s as stubborn as a mule, so she joins us. Staying close to the side of the road she trots to keep up. After about ten minutes she will casually cross my path, which is her way of asking for a lift.

The three of us walking together probably looks kind of strange; a cat and dog, sworn enemies, walking together on the same path with the same goal in mind. I suppose if a dog and cat can walk together, then it’s possible for elephants and mules (or donkeys) to get along as well. Republicans and Democrats, conservatives and liberals should quit fighting like cats and dogs and treat each other respectfully as fellow humans.

I know it’s possible because I’ve seen it done. But, I’ve also read poisonous prose personally attacking someone because their politics differ. Hissing and snarling should be left to animals. Strive for clarity and civility in your communication, or take a walk to cool down. You’ll sleep better at night.

Peter's Essays

2012-01-19T22:09:00.001-06:00

Saturday I took the tree down, and with Buddy the dog happily prancing ahead of me, I dragged it through the pasture. Then without any fanfare, I threw it on the brush pile, thus ending another Christmas season. We like to hang onto good times a little longer at our house I guess, but sooner or later you have to move on and rely on memories and pictures to keep the spirit alive. Please allow me to share just one more story about this Christmas.

A friend of mine showed me a present she received for Christmas this year. It wasn’t expensive, it wasn’t new, and it wasn’t useful or even practical. It was just six pages written in beautiful cursive handwriting.

Once upon a time a 9-year old boy named Peter sat down to write. I can’t tell if this had been a school assignment, a suggestion from his mother, or if the mood had just hit him. Peter talked about how much he weighed, how tall he was, the color of his hair and eyes. In Peter’s first essay I learned that his father was a farmer and that Peter had to walk two miles to go to school.

The following year Peter wrote a letter to his friend James (and perhaps never sent it) happily reporting about the skates he received for Christmas and he included a “hearty,” thank you for the “kind present’ James had given him.

The next four essays, written during the next few years, were about Christmas. According to Peter, his “family likes to sing hymns on Christmas evening.” Winter was a “jolly season,” with “sleigh bells jingling on the streets.” The house was decorated “with holly and mistletoe.” But even as a little boy Peter knew that winter was hard on some because he wrote, “poor people don’t like winter because they have not enough money to buy coal to keep their houses warm.”

It’s obvious that this was written a long time ago. When Peter sat down to write he had no way of knowing what a great gift he would be giving his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren 90 years later. Fortunately, Peter, or most likely Peter’s mother, saved these writings in a special box.

Recently, that box was discovered by Peter’s granddaughter. Recognizing how special these words were, she and her mother made several beautiful copies and gave them to Peter’s children this past Christmas.

What a wonderful legacy. The words of a little boy, written long ago, saved by his mother, then again by him, to be read and shared over 90 years later are priceless. We only have a glimpse of a little boy and his world. Both are gone now, but because Peter’s written words were preserved, his family can learn a little more about him and feel a little closer to the man who was once a little boy.

Learn from Peter and write. Write your story and leave a legacy that time cannot erase. Write a letter to a friend, describe yourself, write about your father, record how your family celebrates Christmas or keep a journal, because someday somebody will want to read what you wrote.

When I turned from the brush pile toward the barn I was surprised to see the trail left by the tree and me. Dragging the tree through the pasture had mixed the leaves on the ground with the dusting of snow that fell last week. I had left a mark that showed I had been there. Soon time, wind and weather will erase all evidence of my passing. To leave a more permanent trail of life’s journeys, Peter’s family recommends ink and paper.

Cloning

2012-01-12T21:26:00.001-06:00

It’s nothing to brag about but I believe I have a good imagination; at least I imagine that I do. However, I am not sure I can imagine all the changes (good and bad) science and technology will bring us. The other day I shared my lack of vision with my smart friend Jim. Like most of my friends, Jim had an opinion. He thinks cloning will be the next big thing and that if people our age live another 30 years they will most likely live past 100. That got me thinking.

Let’s imagine that someday cloning yourself would be as easy as copying a document. Maybe Time-Life will introduce the “Home Cloning Kit,” (some assembly required, must be 18 or older, and has been know to cause depression in some cases).

Having a duplicate me to have around would make old age more attainable. With someone to help shoulder the stress my life expectancy should naturally increase. Plus, if I can get past all the creepy stuff that accompany cloning, it would help solve the all too frequent problem of needing to be in two (or more) places at the same time.

For instance, last Saturday I needed to be in four places. To begin with I have found that I am much happier if I have my column written Saturday instead of Sunday night (Grandfather Clock is about to strike nine).

I couldn’t do that though, because my younger sister, Joanne, and her family had come down from the North Country to have a weekend at a hotel in the Cities. Some things can wait and some are clearly more important than others.

I didn’t have all day to do that either because I wanted to watch the basketball team my son coaches play in a tournament here in town. But, I also wanted to go see my cousin Sheri perform with her band, “Locklin Road,” in Le Center for the official kickoff of the St. Patrick’s Day season.

I would never trust anyone else to write my column (not even another me) – even if it meant an improvement. Maybe time with my sister would have been a better option to send my clone to. Family comes first. I could get a full report from my clone at the end of the day.

“So how was time with Joanne and her family?”

“Not so good. I kept mixing her and her daughters up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I couldn’t keep their names straight. They look so much alike. They should wear name tags.”

On second thought, maybe that’s not such a good idea.

Maybe the basketball tournament would have been a good choice.

“How was the tournament?”

“I didn’t stay.”

“Why not?”

“Apparently there are expected rules of decorum that you aren’t aware of.”

“Such as?”

“Well it seems that referees are sensitive about their eyesight. I was asked to leave.”

Forget that one. Perhaps I could have sent my clone to see my cousin play Irish music.

“What’s this I hear about your behavior in Le Center?”

“I thought you liked to dance.”

“But not on tables, and certainly not the jig, how embarrassing. And singing with the band? I can’t sing.”

“Maybe you can’t, but I can. It was fun. You know you should spend more time with your cousins. They’re fun.”

“I know, I know. Don’t start OK?”

You know when I think about it, I can’t imagine how cloning would add years to my life; it would only seem like it. One of me is more than I can handle anyway.

Sliding

2012-01-05T22:03:00.000-06:00

Now that we finally have some snow on the ground we may be able use the new inflatable plastic/rubber snow tubes that were under the tree; a very big change from the sleds or toboggans of my childhood. They lack any steering apparatus, but you can ride down the hill in cushioned comfort. Some changes are easier on the body than others.

Several sliding conveyances have coasted through my life, leaving their tracks. My first memory of sliding was at “Leonard’s Hill.” It was across the highway and Dad used to take us there. I don’t know that anyone ever asked for permission, but often on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon (or during Christmas vacation) you would find five or six cars parked along the county road on top of the hill.

Dressed in boots that covered itchy wool socks, two pairs of patched pants, bulky coats that fit over layers of sweaters and sweatshirts, scratchy scarves wrapped tightly around the face and neck, stocking hats to keep the head warm and dry, with mittens clipped to coats kids would climb out of station wagons and pull sleds, saucers and toboggans out of the back.

The sleds, “Flexible Flyers,” had metal runners and a wooden platform. They were supposed to steer, but it was rather an unreliable method. During one memorable run down that hill my sister, Colleen, and I had our faces cut up when we lost control of our sled on an icy spot. On another day I watched my brother, Terry, lose his hat half-way through an involuntary air-born flip on a saucer.

Before the roads were paved Dad would pull us around the neighborhood behind the car. I’m not sure Dad had his seatbelt on, and we certainly weren’t wearing any helmets – considered very dangerous now. The rolling hills that bordered our town and the wooded ravines which opened inside the city limits provided many sledding sites.

Below the hill, a half-mile from our house, was Goetz’s farm. When conditions were right I could walk to the end of our block and slide on the road almost the whole way. There in the woods above the old brewery was “Runaway,” a wild sliding run named by the boys who lived below the hill from my house. It took some skill and luck to make it all the way to the bottom. Shari, a neighbor girl, broke her arm on a tree when she missed a turn on this hill.

Across town was a deep ravine near my friend Jim’s house. In junior-high we spent many hours sliding down there with our heads covered with long tasseled stocking hats or something borrowed from Frosty and his legion of snow men. Those long runs and long days seemed to last forever.

Somewhere along the line, plastic began to replace wood and metal in sled construction, and then during high school I put away the sleds for snowmobiles, skis and a Chevette. It wasn’t until many years later that I rediscovered the joy of sliding with my children. About that time I went to Mom and Dad’s house and grabbed the old flyer off the garage wall.

I pulled my two kids around on it for trick-or-treating in 1991 before most of the twenty-nine inches fell. We replaced the steel and wood sled with a series of cheap plastic models after Jennifer, my daughter, and I hit a bump on a steep hill behind our house and the sled hit her in the face. The snow angels protected her from harm greater than a big bruise. I carried the sled and a very unhappy little girl up the hill.

Jennifer is now a happy, married young woman and the sled has made tracks to her house. There was a day when that sled flew down the hills, but now it sits quietly in her yard; a gift to decorate her home during her first Christmas out of our house. Some changes are harder on the body than others.

New Year's Plans

2011-12-30T09:31:00.002-06:00

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

“A banjo? You bought a banjo?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

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

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

“No, this is different.”

“You sure have a lot of interests.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Understand

2011-12-22T19:16:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas.

Mrs. Claus

2011-12-15T23:10:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How else should I be?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

Dish

2011-12-09T08:52:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you be more specific?” I asked.

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

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

“Or you can choose another day.”

“Will that narrow the time field?”

“No.”

“Morning.”

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

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

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

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

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

Now where was I

2011-12-01T19:53:00.001-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now where was I?

Thanks for Staying Home

2011-11-24T08:48:00.001-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Menu please

2011-11-19T12:01:00.001-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just A Few More Minutes

2011-11-11T08:00:00.001-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Port of Call

2011-11-04T09:10:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you drinking?” I asked him.

“Port,” he replied.

“Port?” I said.

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

“Would you like a glass?” he offered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's all about latitude

2011-10-28T08:27:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dad's Chair

2011-10-21T08:44:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This chair is too small,” I growled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until next year

2011-10-13T19:48:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It Stings

2011-10-06T23:09:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wingding

2011-09-30T08:31:00.000-05:00

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.

My apologies

2011-09-23T09:21:00.001-05:00

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.

I love a parade

2011-09-16T08:13:00.000-05:00

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.

Dining Out

2011-09-08T22:06:00.001-05:00

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.

Corn

2011-09-01T20:11:00.001-05:00

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.

Trashman

2011-08-26T08:35:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fence

2011-08-19T08:27:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Signs

2011-08-12T08:52:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Patience

2011-08-04T23:00:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Buttons

2011-07-29T08:26:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fair Weather

2011-07-22T08:26:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read.

2011-07-15T08:26:00.002-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Billfold

2011-07-08T08:16:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Personality Type

2011-07-01T07:48:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bookmarks

2011-06-23T19:33:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wonder if Mr. McCourt would appreciate the irony.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo Sessions

2011-06-17T08:26:00.000-05:00

Recently I was in the San Francisco area on vacation with my family (except for my newly married daughter Jennifer and her husband Adam) and I have the pictures to prove it. If you come over I could show you photographs of me riding a cable car, eating on Fisherman’s Wharf and walking on Pier 39. There are also photos of me at Yosemite National Park, China Town, Alcatraz and more than one with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background.

From first glance it might seem that I saw all of the sites in just one day. I did not. This is because in the pictures it appears that I was wearing the same clothes in every picture. I was not. Please notice the different colors of the T-shirt underneath the long-sleeved denim shirt, which at times is beneath a zipped up hooded sweatshirt.

When we decided to go to California I thought sun and warmth would be included. It was not. The week we were in San Francisco the temperature never rose beyond the 60s during the day, and at night it dropped to or near the 40s. You throw in a stiff breeze off the ocean, some drizzle and fog and it feels rather chilly. I typically don’t mind that kind of weather – but I had packed shorts and T-shirts. But, because I am from Minnesota and am used to dramatic changes in the weather I also brought along the denim shirt, sweatshirt, and a pair of jeans.

So there I was in California with a suitcase full of clothes suitable for the endless summer only to discover that it had not yet begun. But back in Minnesota that same week temperatures were in the 80s, 90s and even 100. Oh well – I typically find that kind of weather too hot anyway.

San Francisco does have the coldest daily temperatures for June, July and August for any major U.S. city (Liz Osborn, currentresults.com). There is a quote attributed incorrectly to Mark Twain (he never said it, but it has been repeated so often that he may as well have): “The coldest winter I ever spent was the summer I spent in San Francisco.” Midwest versions of this saying will substitute Duluth as the cold spot. I say it takes a San Francisco summer to make one long for a Minnesota winter; at least winters here make sense.

Strangely, few people in San Francisco were caught with their pants down. Once when we did wear shorts a shop keeper suggested we were being too optimistic about the weather improving, but upon learning we were from Minnesota she understood.

After a week of basking in the Frisco fog we returned to Minnesota where Jennifer and Adam picked us up at the airport. During the ride home it was revealed that the wedding pictures were done and ready to be looked at. With several hundred pictures to go through, our evening was booked.

I am not the most patient person, and I get distracted easily. I suspect that I and most of my boyhood friends would be hooked up to a Ritalin dispensing machine if we were in school today. So to sit and look at hundreds of pictures can be a challenge (even if the pictures are of your daughter’s wedding).

This activity is similar to watching other people open gifts and to know that none of them are for you (I did that the week before). I have noticed that women are generally better-suited for these activities than men. Men look at pictures quickly, women take their time. But it didn’t take me long to notice that the people in the pictures were wearing the same clothes in all the pictures. I understand how that can happen.

Buddy

2011-06-12T15:09:00.002-05:00

Buddy is a funny dog. I don’t mean funny in that he pulls tricks on the cats. He is funny in the way he expresses himself, and he doesn’t strike me as being terribly intelligent. But I may be wrong; perhaps I just don’t understand him.
Like most labs, he likes to have things in his mouth, and like other Great Danes I have seen, he likes to catch bugs in mid-flight. So if I can stop him from catching bugs long enough for a game of tug of war he will play until I grow tired.

We got him from a family that was moving to the other side of the country. They couldn’t take him along so they gave him to us as we had no plans on moving anytime soon. Our initial plan was to keep him outside – no exceptions. Our thinking was that houses are for people and dogs aren’t people. And at 120 lbs Buddy was bigger than half the members of the household.

A dog can get in a lot of trouble in the country at night, and since it was his first night at his new home Buddy was put in a fenced area. The fence is about five feet high and surrounds an old smoke-house which provides shelter from the elements. It had been home to Max, our German shepherd and arguably the smartest dog in the world. So I thought a dog of a Great-Dane/black Labrador-mix would be happy there as well.

Fortunately Buddy walked into the makeshift kennel willingly with me. I have since learned he cannot be moved if he doesn’t want to. I bade him good-night, closed the gate, threw him a dog-biscuit and went into my own house.

The next morning I found him patiently waiting on the front step even thought the gate was still closed. How he slipped his large frame out of there without breaking the gate I have never learned, but I was the one who constructed it so I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised.

He has since moved from his summer home in the smoke house and winters between the attached garage and the laundry room. This arrangement allows him to be closer to people.

Buddy is happiest if he is near people, the nearer the better. It is impossible to stand next to Buddy and ignore him. He will begin by pushing his large head into the side of your thigh. His nose is at the correct height to get most everyone’s attention. His signature side push, although annoying, is preferred over the front or rear nudge. Nobody likes that.

If pushing doesn’t work he will start nibbling on clothes. Thankfully his next move is not a bite, but he will emit a low, guttural growl. To the uninitiated he sounds angry and threatening. It is the same sound he gives me when the answer to my persistent line of questioning is “no!”

When I think it’s time for him to go outside for a break I will politely ask him, “Buddy, do you want to go out?” His first response is to move away from the door and toward the wall while staring at me with his head lowered. This wall stance means “no,” but I ask again to be sure, and for the comic relief. The repeated question elicits a growl combined with the lowered head and stare. If I am stupid enough to ask a third time, he will bark so loud that I can’t possibly misinterpret his meaning.

When someone is preparing to take him for a walk he will grab the leash in his mouth and start down the driveway on his own.

He’s a funny dog all right, but he’s smart enough to know how to tug at my heart.

Father of the Bride

2011-06-03T00:01:00.002-05:00

The house is starting to settle back into its normal state. I have reclaimed my writing desk from the manicurists but I fear it will never be the same. Saturday, through the rain, hail and a threat of tornados, friends, relatives (and some people I didn’t know), slogged tough the mud and ascended the ramp to the barn loft to wish my daughter, Jennifer, and her new husband, Adam well.

As father of the bride, owner of the barn and a guy who likes to embarrass himself in front of others I gave a little talk to the invited. I am sorry that not all 29 of you faithful readers (I am keeping count) were invited to the reception so I am including most of what I said, and some of what I didn’t (but I imagine that I did).
“Rhonda and I want you to know how wonderful it is to have you here with us to celebrate the marriage of our daughter, Jennifer, to Adam, our new son-in-law.
The barn didn’t always look like this. It was Rhonda and Jennifer who had the vision for this day, and it was through Rhonda’s direction that the barn was transformed. For six months she was in charge, but as I reminded her just yesterday, that’s going to change tomorrow.

It’s a good thing Jennifer married a guy with the skills to build this floor, because without Adam, this would not have happened. He is very talented and I was amazed with his skills. I saw him work magic with wood; I tried to help but I was often in the way. I would help him carry stuff but I always seemed to have the heavy end.

Adam and I started to work on this barn in November. Some nights we would set our water bottles next to the heater only to have them freeze solid in a few unattended minutes.

But we had fun. We listened to music, laughed and danced up here together as we fixed the floor. We had a wonderful time getting to know each other. For any of you guys in similar situations I would recommend doing projects with your future son-in-law.

Sometimes Jennifer would say “Oh no,” when she saw that Adam is a lot more like her father and brother than she wanted. Sorry about that Jenn.

Adam, I cannot replace your own father (motion to his father, Steve), or your heavenly father, but I am happy to be your father-in-law. So if you ever find that a burden becomes too much for you to carry, I will be there to help and I’ll take the heavy end.

Jennifer, the easiest thing I ever did was being your dad. I just had to show up. You never gave us any trouble; you have been such a wonderful daughter. But, tonight this may be the hardest thing I have done.

When Jennifer was little, and I mean very little, you could ask her name and she would say “Jenner,” and if you then asked, “But what do they call you,” she would say “Special.” And Jennifer, you are still special. Getting this place ready was a lot of work, but it was worth it and I would do it again 1,000 times over.

Because there is space, we have saved scraps of lumber “just in case.” When Adam needed a board of a certain length to repair the subfloor I would go downstairs and find it.

Underneath this floor is wood that came from the walls of a cabin built by Rhonda’s grandparents in the ‘40’s; that cabin was then passed down to her father, and now her brother Rick, his wife Melissa and their son Preston make their home there. There is also part of the dock from my parent’s cabin. There is wood from decks from this house as well as Rhonda’s mother’s home.

So Jennifer, it is fitting that we celebrate this day by having a party on the floor built by your new husband using materials provided by your parents, grandparents and great grandparents.

May all that this floor represents give you a good foundation to begin your life together.

The End

2011-05-27T15:44:00.001-05:00

Even though there were predictions to the contrary, as far as I can tell the world did not end on Saturday, May 21st. Although on the following day the world did end for many people in North Minneapolis and Joplin, MO when tornados roared through and took their lives. For the rest of us, life on Earth kept going – for good and bad, I suppose.

Anyone guessing the correct date and winning the “end of the world” sweepstakes seems unlikely, but I do think it serves us well to hold this contest every few years. When the last day is fixed on the calendar, correctly or not, it shifts one’s thinking. Even though I never really believed that the world had been stamped “BEST IF USED BY MAY, 21 2011” I began to number my days.

I suppose it would be terrifying and even paralyzing to know with certainty the exact day of either your own demise, or of all creation. But just knowing that day is out there somewhere in the future can sharpen your focus.

The number of years each of us has is somewhere this side of 100 years (with some exceptions of course). For me I have used up about half of that number. If I have anything to say about it I would like to live to be 100, so that means I have about 49 left to get things done before the drop dead date.

I suppose I should have a to-do list: Get closer to God, mend fences with friends and family, read and write, take better care of myself, and leave a legacy. But with almost 50 left it seems like I have plenty of time – no need to rush into anything.

But what if it was less? What if I knew I had only 10 years left? I suppose I would grab a snack, sit down and watch some TV while I mull over my limited time. After I wake from my nap I would make a list of things I want to accomplish, people I want to see and places I want to go.

Not much of the day-to-day would really change though. I would still have my responsibilities: go to work so I can pay my taxes. With a full ten years ahead of me there doesn’t seem to be a pressing need to make any big changes.

I guess I operate best if I work under pressure – if I have a deadline I can really focus. To continue with this morbid line of thinking allow me to sharply reduce the number. Let’s say instead of the world ending May 21, imagine that it’s May 28. Now things get interesting.

Apologies, relationships and eternity all become very important when the days are numbered. With only a few days remaining I wouldn’t even go to work (unless it was to pick up my check). Material possessions would quickly lose their luster and become almost meaningless. Phone calls, letters and one-on-one conversations would rule the day. My dog, Buddy, would certainly get the walk he deserves.

As I see it, the trick is to go through life and take care of your responsibilities while focusing on the important and the eternal. When time is short, friends and family matter the most. How much time do you have left to make things right?

I predict my life; my world will not end in a week. On the contrary, Saturday, May 28th, 2011 is just the beginning for a young couple. On that day two people will begin life together and build their world. My daughter Jennifer is getting married to Adam (there I said it). As my wife, Rhonda, said, “Others must carry on for us.” Someday, Lord willing, they will bring our grandchildren to visit and the world may continue.

Congratulations Jennifer and Adam!

Iron Men

2011-05-19T22:49:00.001-05:00

Some people read in bed before they fall asleep, some read to hasten sleep. I love to read but I find it almost impossible to read in bed, for as soon I lay my head down I can feel consciousness slip away.

I even have to be careful how I sit in a chair. But if I have the window open I can stay awake for a very long time. As I lay there with my eyes wide open I watch the window shadow spirit across the wall in its nightly race with the rare traffic on the avenue, and I listen to the sounds of the night.

Mark, my college roommate of four (or was it five) years, liked to have a window open – even in January. I liked having a fan on, he had a humidifier going during the dry winter months. Looking back on I can’t believe neither one of us didn’t get sick. Sleeping in a room with cold, wet air being blown about should have got us two beds in the hospital for pneumonia.

This has been a tough May for many things, including sleeping with the windows open. My father, who was pretty well acquainted with the old ways of thinking, would, on a cold day in May, talk about the “Iron Men.” These “Iron Men,” referred to three days in the middle of May when frost is likely. I remember them coming around sometime between May 15 and 17 (of course I could be off by a day or two one way or another). Dad may have picked this fun fact up from his Czech (or, if you prefer, Bohemian) relatives, or from a conversation with a member of another European clan. I just wish I could know for sure which three days he was referring to so I could be ready.

Other nationalities refer to the three days as the “Three Ice Men,” and have them arriving earlier (May 11th – 13th). For them, these three days coincided with the feast days of three saints. In some countries one or two feast days, with the respective saint, was replaced with one or two other holy days and moved down the calendar. And yet still others believe that the middle of June is the proper place to be on the lookout for frost that is both unseasonable and completely unreasonable.

Whatever the three days are their threat of frost is testing my mettle. I so want to open the windows and listen to the sounds of the night filter through the screen.

As a boy growing up on Church Street in the days before central air conditioning, I could lie awake for what seemed like hours and listen to the night life. Sometimes I would hear my father talking to Donald, our neighbor, or it could be kids still playing outside who were either older or had a later bedtime than me. And every night the train and the trucks called me to ride along.

The other night I opened the window as I climbed into bed after midnight. It was still too cool, but I was growing impatient. On Harlow Avenue I can still hear the wheels click on the rail and the tires whine on the highway. The train whistle is carried up from the valley and begins to lull me to sleep, but not before I hear the sound of gravel crunching underneath shoes.

Am I dreaming or is someone walking on the road outside my window? A chill goes through my body. Have the Iron Men come?

Food Chain

2011-05-13T11:43:00.000-05:00

I have lived in small towns, big cites, suburbs and far outside the city limits. Each has its advantages. Which is better? You may as well ask which came first, the chicken or the egg. But when you live in the country you live more closely with nature and by doing so you must find the balance between contentment and control. You can choose to live like Thoreau at Walden’s Pond, or you can throw up fences and drain the pond.

In my attempt to find a spot somewhere in the middle I have chosen to soften nature’s harsh realities while trying to commune with it. My one-hundred-year old farm house (with the three-year old addition) heats me when I am cold and cools me when I am hot, but outside its walls there is life and death.

The food chain gets rattled once in a while around my home. From the fields, woods, and skies come snakes and frogs, mice and voles, rabbits and squirrels, muskrats and skunks, owls and hawks, foxes and coyotes. They all compete for survival. And despite my best efforts the carnage will sometimes spill over into the farmyard.

Given to counting heads I can say with some certainty that we never shared a cow, horse, sheep or goat with a predator. We have however, been more generous with our smaller stock. Predators usually come at night, although sometimes the slayer will come calling during the day.

As I pulled into the yard one afternoon something seemed to be amiss. An osprey had dropped in for a chicken dinner. I watched with rapt attention knowing since there was nothing I could do for the dead bird, I may as well enjoy the live one.

But I am not always so willing to stomach uninvited guests; I will usually grouse
about the pilfering of poultry. One summer we kept a paddling of ducks in a wading pool.Not wanting to have these messy birds muck up the barn we thought it better for all concerned to have them quack about freely in the barnyard. But we hadn’t concerned ourselves with raccoons.

At night the ducks started to disappear. This went on until I put Max, our 90 lb. German shepherd, inside the gate. He seemed to always know what was expected of him. The first morning I found a raccoon in a tree near the barn, the second morning Max came to the gate with bloody gashes near his right eye.

The ducks, which belonged to Nathan, were scheduled to go to the county fair as a 4-H project. Nathan and I talked about it and concluded that saving some dumb ducks wasn’t worth losing one of Max’s eyes.

Fortunately the raccoons never came back for the ducks. But a weasel was more tenacious. Although I never saw him, the slaughterhouse he left behind inside the barn provided ample evidence. He removed heads and filleted bodies. Ignoring live-traps and closed doors he decimated our chicken and pigeon population. The research I did told me that if I didn’t catch him he wouldn’t stop coming until the last bird was dead.

I kept a loaded shotgun next to the bed and a baby-monitor in the barn to alert me. But still I could not catch him, so I resorted to something I had never done before: leg traps.

I built heavy wooden boxes with small holes on one or both ends (I experimented). Placing the boxes over the baited traps I would place a concrete block on top so a cat or dog could not trip the trap. I even baited one live trap with a live pigeon (she was protected by a wire mesh wall I had attached to the inside).

I was out walking my trap line one morning after about a week of cleaning up dead birds inside the barn (the pigeon in the trap survived). One of the leg traps had been sprung. The weasel never came back.

Somewhere out there a weasel may have an injured leg, but I have to set my priorities. For after all what comes first, the chicken or the leg?

May I

2011-05-05T21:48:00.001-05:00

On the last Friday in April I did something I have never done before: I took a long lunch and went to a movie (including the previews) by myself. Now before you start congratulating me for my bravery it wasn’t that big of a deal. I’m sure there are others who routinely have the popcorn all to themselves, that’s just never been me. I guess I’ve always considered “going to the movies” a social outing that is best shared with someone. The person who recited “one, please” seemed, to me, forlorn and forgotten. As I don’t want to consider myself either of these I hope I was wrong.

I have been to a bazillion movies, sometimes several in one day. One summer day I, and two of my friends, went to five movies in one day (three of them were at a drive-in). But I don’t think I have ever watched an entire movie from title to credits by myself – not even at home.

The movie, “Atlas Shrugged,” was pretty good. I liked the book better though. At 1,168 pages it took me awhile to get through it. But it didn’t take me nearly as long as “Lassie and the Mystery at Blackberry Bog.” At 282 pages, that book, a present for my 8th birthday, took me a full year to read. I read it once more recently and was able to stretch it out again for a whole year – for old times’ sake.

I would like to do that with my life: slow it down, revisit my favorite parts, set it down and savor it. This year, for selfish purposes, I’d like to slow the whole month of May down.

This month I will watch (hopefully from a good seat) Nathan receive his college diploma in his cap and gown; this month I will sit in the front row and watch Jennifer stand on the altar in her wedding gown. I know I’m not the first man to see his son graduate from college or his daughter get married, but to have both of these happen inside of one month (May) may be more than I can handle.

As I have watched my kid’s lives unfold I have been able to foresee where both of their storylines would lead – I just never considered that they would happen so close together. The student becomes a teacher and the single woman a wife. The plot thickens. This May I may lose my mind.

I know I’m being selfish, but as the co-producer, assistant director, writer-in-residence, and sometime choreographer, I’d like to say “All right everyone let’s take it again from the top, and this time let’s slow it down.”

Life goes by too damn fast.

Nathan is ready to graduate and Jennifer is ready to get married. Both of them have done their homework and have learned their lessons. It’s time for both of them to take the next step. For all of us life is changing in a big way.

For 26 years I was the man in my daughter’s life and she lived under my roof; for the past 21 years, one or both of my children were in school. I have loved both of those supporting roles. It has just occurred to me (at this very moment – which is why writing may be more important to the writer than the reader) that my role as a father is also changing, and rather quickly. Thank you Captain Obvious. I may need to study my lines for the new part.

This month, I am going to do something I have never done before, but I won’t be sitting by myself. Rhonda, my wife and their mother, will be there too. Be sure to watch this space for reviews of the events as well as previews of coming attractions.

Pass the popcorn please.

Games People Play

2011-04-28T23:12:00.000-05:00

It’s been a long time since I purposely lost a game to my kids. I quit doing that when they started to figure out I was letting them win. My reasoned rationale for throwing the game was I didn’t want them to get too discouraged early on. There would be plenty of time for disappointment later in life, but of course there was the other side of the dice. They needed to learn that life is not fair.

Of course I knew from experience that I was messing with their sense of reality, but they were used to that from me. Before I was old enough to play Scrabble with Grandma I had watched her and my older sister Colleen play. They were both very good and very competitive. A large dictionary was always at hand to settle differences of opinion. I still have the original Scrabble box with their high scores recorded in their own handwriting. CLASSIC (11 points, plus a 50 point bonus for using all seven tiles).

When I finally got my turn to play with Grandma I was impressed with how well I was doing. With my crafty use of three- and four- letter words, I ran away with the game. Occasionally she and I would consult over an especially tricky strategy, but when the score was tallied, I had bested my grandmother. WON (6 points).

This pattern of winning went on for some time until I finally put the pieces together: She was letting me win. I don’t remember blaming Grandma for this ruse, but it did make me more suspicious whenever she and I would sit down to play again.

About that time the cloak of mystery started to unravel in other areas of my life: Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and “All-Star Wrestling” were not what they seemed. But even after all that I still like staying home and playing a game, the kind where everyone knows the rules – not the Joe South kind.

My family has a lot of games. We have letters, words, checkers, kings, queens, dice, cards, timers, clay, pencils, paper, play money, chips, houses, hotels, markers of every color, cars, thimbles, cannons, armies, ships, trains, tracks, and boards.

We also have video game systems. These plug into your TV and are operated with hand-held controllers. I like playing with these as well – I am an equal opportunity entertainer. If my grandmother was still alive I think I could beat her, but I am not as skilled in this area as my kids, however.

This last weekend I played video games well into the evening with three guys in their 20s. My son Nathan was home from school and he had invited his friend Kevin from New Jersey to spend the Easter holiday with us. Adam, my future son-in-law, was over at our house as well (as is his wont).

I am no longer in the habit of staying up past midnight. I get tired and go to bed – usually about 11 o’clock. This last Friday night (which became Saturday morning) it was past 3 a.m. before I climbed the stairs to bed. These guys are more accustomed to these early morning hours. It was a bit of stretch for me and I did pay for it the next day, but I’d do it again 100 times over. These times don’t come around that often and I want to participate when they do. But I did find out no matter how late I stay up, no matter how discouraged I get, my kids won’t let me win. They didn’t learn that from me.

To Dye For

2011-04-21T23:34:00.001-05:00

I’ve often wondered what it would be like to work for the PAAS Easter Egg Co. For 125years these folks have been helping people make a mess at their kitchen tables. Except for some busy weeks right before Easter, the PAAS employees seem to have it pretty easy. An attractive salary and benefit package would certainly make this a job to dye for.

While conducting extensive research I stumbled across the PAAS company website. There I learned that once upon a time a Mr. Townley of Newark, N. J.conducted experiments in his drug store. At the end of the 19th century he had created some products for use around the house. One of those creations was a recipe to color Easter eggs. People could purchase his packets of dye tablets for a nickel. With “five cheerful colors” to choose from, anyone could become a member of the House of Faberge.

Mr. Townley named his business the PAAS Dye Company. According to the company’s website, “The name PAAS comes from ‘Passen,’ the word that his Pennsylvania Dutch neighbors used for Easter.”

“Messy,” is the word that comes to mind whenever I sit down to color eggs. My mother, a former 1st grade teacher, was used to little kids making a mess, so I suspect that her five children didn’t present her with any new challenges. But even now when I get pressured to dye eggs I put on an apron and surround myself with yesterday’s news.

The smell of vinegar, the stirring sound of metal spoons scratching ceramic bowls, and the sight of white eggs waiting to be discolored put me in that “holiday mood.” My colored eggs always stand out and are usually the first ones chosen for egg salad sandwiches.

I want to remind people that I am not colorblind (not that there’s anything wrong with that), but my “signature,” color design for Easter eggs is a predictable somber look. I have taken Mr. Townley’s “five cheerful colors,” and combined them into one or two “mournful casts.” Instead of bright, pastel colors usually associated with Easter, mine, with their gray quality, may be more suitable for Good Friday.

In addition to being a teacher, Mom was also an artist, so her decorated eggs were always nice to look at, but it was Rhonda’s mother who really shined in this area. She would take a normal egg, magically empty out the insides with a couple small holes and transform it into a family heirloom.

She would use tiny brushes to paint beautiful birds and flowers on them. She even taught Rhonda and Jennifer how to do this. She did not however waste any time on me. Even when she had lost the use of her right hand she picked up the brush with her left hand and continued to create masterpieces.

Recognizing that my skills may lie elsewhere, I have concentrated my efforts on becoming an expert egg hider. I have a lot of experience in finding eggs, so naturally I would know how to hide them.

We have raised chickens for fun and no profit for almost two decades, and in all that time we have not been able to train the chickens into laying the eggs directly into the cartons. So to gather the eggs one must be smarter than the chicken.

Usually the chickens lay the eggs in the nesting boxes, which give the hens a strategic advantage for pecking your hands when you come for the eggs. But once in a while you have to go on an egg hunt. I have spent many an hour close to the ground looking for the elusive egg.

From time to time we have Araucana chickens, a breed that lays eggs with blue/green shells. I have considered substituting those eggs for my own dyed eggs, but that seems wrong, especially at Easter. For at Easter, we are reminded that God thought us worthy to die for.

Vehicle of Expression

2011-04-14T23:29:00.001-05:00

According to some people, an automobile is just a vehicle to get from A to B. For me it’s much more than that – it’s the whole driving experience. I don’t really know for sure how many different cars and trucks I have driven. I can remember with reasonable certainty all that were titled in my name, but all those owned by employers and friends – well, I can’t be sure. It may be close to 100.

Ever since that June day in 1975 when Mom and Dad drove off in the Buick and left the keys to the ‘66 Mercury, I have been hooked on driving. I don’t quite understand all the mechanics involved, but I appreciate the feel of a steering wheel, the response of an accelerator and the sound of a powerful engine.

But I still haven’t found the perfect vehicle. I’ve been close several times, but things change, and you move on. After I got my license Dad bought a Chevette as a second car for the family. It was more of a go-kart than a car.

Mom used it for getting groceries; I used it for getting in trouble. My position prevents me from sharing all matters of mischief, but when my friends and I looked for trouble this little car took us there.

In college I had four different cars. The first was a faded ’66 Galaxie 500. The body was indestructible, but the block cracked on a cold January night. That was replaced by a brown ’73 Bel Air (I can not for the life of me remember what happened to that great car). Next was a ’73 Lesabre with a hood so large that the sky disappeared when it ascended a hill. The frame cracked on a warm July afternoon when a truck ran into it.

The fourth car, the one that became “our car,” was a dependable 1980 Skylark. Rhonda and I put a lot of miles on that car until it finally got too tired and quit. As part of her dowry, Rhonda contributed a ’74 Mustang with a standard transmission. Both our children got their very first car ride in an ‘84 Cavalier station wagon.

Some time during those early years I discovered Dad was right when he said, “you can always use a pick-up.” For the next twenty years a truck, sometimes two, was stabled in a barn or a shed. There was the yellow ‘71 Chevrolet with a bench seat where a little girl could sit next to her dad; an ’86 Ford (with two jump-seats for two kids; a ’69 F250 farm truck with a “granny” gear; “Pipes,” a short-box ’96 Ford that growls when the pedal is pushed, and two Fords with four doors each (just in case we had to haul the whole crew).

Somewhere in the middle of all this we had “Mr. Breeze.” That was a ’66 Chrysler hard-top who got its name one day when we pulled both vents open and rolled down all the windows. There was a Jeep CJ that took five little boys on an open-air birthday adventure, and a red Cherokee that was destroyed by a deer. We also had a Caprice, an affordable family-car that my brother-in-law, Rich, got for us when he worked at a car dealer.

There were others: a Chevy conversion van we sold when the color became too much for us to bear, a ’74 Dodge motor home which gave us lots of memories and settings for camper plays, and a Buick with bad shocks that turned its passengers into bobble heads.

Even when Rhonda was satisfied with her “family,” vehicles (including the Expedition she drives now) I had a couple two-seater sport cars, but the gravel road finally won out and I sold them. My brother Dan’s VW bug sits in the barn patiently waiting for attention. Some day I will work on the car, but in the meantime I will keep looking for that perfect vehicle.

I may not have driven 100 cars yet, but this is my 100th column. This may be just the vehicle to express myself from A to Z.

Breakfast Special

2011-04-07T21:09:00.003-05:00

I usually have breakfast at home – toast, coffee, maybe some hot cereal (if it’s made for me). It isn’t that I don’t know how to cook cereal it’s just that I would rather not. Sometimes a situation arises that causes me to eat out.

When conditions allow I like to wake up in a leisurely manner: slumbering, drifting in and out of sleep, trying to recall dreams as they fade away. But the conditions have to be just right: no early morning appointments, reasonable levels of quiet throughout the house, and no pressing need to visit the little boy’s room. All of those have to be present in order for that wonderful 15 minutes to pass peacefully.

Last Wednesday morning nothing was as it should be. I woke to the sounds of doors being shut firmly, voices raised and too much commotion for 5:30 in the morning. I threw on a sweat shirt and jeans and hustled downstairs to see what was afoot, and that’s where it almost was - on my foot. Buddy, our dog, had made quite a mess of things in the night.

Unless the Exxon Valdez oil spill could be considered a minor mishap, you couldn’t really call what Buddy did an accident. It was more like widespread wreckage. Sometime in the night, probably during the third watch, Buddy desperately needed to go ashore.

As there are no moorings to hold him, Buddy is free to float about the house. He is however, normally content to remain berthed in one area. With no one awake to let him out, he was forced to navigate the first floor in search of a secret passage to the outside world. Finding no place where he could drop anchor, Buddy jettisoned his cargo in several ports of call.

Even though it wasn’t an oil spill (don’t blame OPEC) the mess left by Buddy was quite crude (oh ick!). I made several sincere offers to swab the deck, or at least help clean up, but as my skills in this area have proved to be less than admirable I wasn’t pressed into service.

Since the kitchen was closed that morning I chose to eat in town. I hesitate to name the restaurant for fear that my dozen or so faithful readers will forever more associate dog droppings with that establishment (who wants that kind of advertising?). Plus, I don’t want to get sued.

When I walked in the hostess offered me a booth. As I sat down I recognized the man in the booth next to me. He looked to be about my father’s age (if Dad was still alive and I could meet him for breakfast). After we exchanged polite greetings I asked if he wouldn’t mind some company. He motioned me to sit down, so I changed tables.

He was drinking coffee (with cream) and his breakfast was already on the table: Eggs (over-easy), potatoes, wheat toast (with jelly) and ham. When the waitress came by she asked if I needed a menu or a run-down of the specials.

“I am going to make it easy,” I told her. I’ll have coffee and exactly what he’s having, except I’ll have sausage instead of ham.”

“What’s the matter, you don’t like ham?” my dining partner asked.

Now I felt bit defensive. I mean wasn’t it enough that I had ordered everything else he had in front of him? “It’s not that I don’t like ham, it’s just that I like sausage better.”

“I like ham,” he said. “Always have.”

“Me too,” I said. “Come here often?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

“Yes,” he said. “I never learned how to cook and now that my wife is gone I eat out a lot. How about you? Do you eat out a lot?”

“Well, normally not. I usually have breakfast at home, but you see we have this dog and last night…oh never mind. How’s the ham?”

My Father's shelf

2011-03-31T22:03:00.002-05:00

In my never ending task of shuffling contents within and between the farm buildings I came across a red metal shelf. It had been my father’s and now it was mine. Except for the thick layer of dust it was empty. Its former contents are part of my life now.

Dad thought it was important for me, a new husband, to have the same sturdy shelf he was using so he bought me one for Christmas in 1983. I still have it along with a few other things he gave to me.

Underneath the Christmas wrapping paper was an unmarked flat box. When I opened the box I realized what I had – a bunch of metal pieces that needed to be assembled to resemble a shelf. I knew this because of what Dad told me when I tore off the paper. “It’s a shelf,” he said with a smile.

When Rhonda and I got home to our garden-level apartment in St. Paul I dumped the contents of the box on the living room floor. Since we didn’t have a garage or a basement, I thought this was the best spot. I’m not sure Rhonda agreed, for what young bride doesn’t like the look of metal pieces, screws, nuts, bolts and cardboard strewn about her living room?

I had three tools for the job: A screwdriver, a pliers and a hammer (just in case things got out of control). It seemed simple enough: Attach the metal shelves to the metal brackets to make a shelf. But after I was done it looked rather odd. I remember thinking how lucky we were to live in an older building with tall ceilings, as this shelf reached way up high when I stood it up on the floor.

I wasn’t too impressed with the quality of the material used. It was quite flimsy, and why only four shelves? It had a top and bottom of course, but there seemed to be too much space in the middle to fill with only the two remaining shelves. As I was not sure what the problem was, I asked Rhonda to come into the room.

“What’s the matter with this piece of junk?” I asked.

She put her hands up to her mouth to suppress a laugh. It didn’t work.

As the daughter of a cabinet maker she recognized the problem immediately. She pointed out that the brackets, which made up the frame and supported the inner shelves, were meant for all four corners – not just two (the way I had put it together).

My completed project had two tall, lonely metal stakes that held four shelves (miles apart from each other) on just one side. Only the lowest shelf, which was resting on the floor, offered any stability for storage. With nothing holding them up from the other side, the other three shelves hung in twisted shapes to flap in the breeze. A feather wouldn’t have found support there. I couldn’t help but laugh too.

I took it apart and put it back together – kind of. I now have two shelves, one my dad put together, and one I put together (twice). Someday these family heirlooms will belong to my two kids.

But more importantly I hope I have given my kids the other things they will need: The tools to build a happy family, the knowledge that they need God in their lives, the ability to admit their mistakes, the skills to take problems apart one piece at a time, the strength to start over, and the willingness to laugh at themselves.

Dad had given these to me too.

Try it

2011-03-24T22:37:00.001-05:00

Alka-Seltzer had a TV commercial in the 70’s of a waiter persuading a man in a restaurant to choose a particular menu item, “Try it – you’ll like it,” he said. Next we see the restaurant patron at home dropping two tablets into a glass of water to settle his upset stomach. He may have tried it once, but he won’t again.

I approach many things in life this way (naturally within reason). I am not opposed to trying new things. I don’t always think it through completely – well because it’s hard to know if you’re going to like something until you try it.

You need only to look at my list of occupations to verify that. I have tried many different jobs with the hope or belief that I might like it. I’m sure there are those cynics who would call me a job-hopper, or worse. I would remind them that I have held the same job for the last 26 years, so there.

I won’t list all the tasks I did for payment before my 25th birthday as space really doesn’t allow for a proper treatment (it was less than 30 if you’re wondering).

In many ways I am like the cat that lands on a hot stove. He won’t make that mistake again, but he won’t touch a cold one either. If I tried something and it didn’t agree with me, well I probably won’t attempt it or anything like it again.

One of the hobbies I have toyed with is refinishing furniture, usually done without the aid of power tools. This is because of an experience I had one summer working in a furniture factory. Wood was sawed, sanded and glued to resemble furniture.

At one of the stations was a belt-sander mounted on a table where the sandpaper flew by doing about 80. The person pressing the board against the sandpaper was supposed to pay attention to what they were doing so the wood would be sanded and not their finger tips. I didn’t and they were. Nobody likes that, and I sure didn’t. Although my thumbs were spared, my bloody finger-tips gave me eight good reasons to not try that again.

After college, where my fingertips pressed a keyboard, I worked at two jobs while I waited for Rhonda to graduate. At night I tended bar in downtown St. Cloud at The Red Carpet. That job I liked, and probably for all the wrong reasons.

During the day I was a garbage man, another job I liked. I drove the truck, “Hermie,” who threw the cans, would hang on the back for dear life between stops, and would step off on a street where covered cans waited patiently at the end of their driveways. I would get out from time to time when the trash was piled high. This was usually the week following an unsuccessful garage sale. “Everything Must Go.” It did.

Having that experience on my resume’ came in handy several years later when I would need a job: Rhonda and I had been married a little over a year and I had just left law school after a year. I tried it. After a day or two of picking up the pieces of a dashed dream I picked up the phone and got a job as a trash man. Except this time I was the guy hanging on the back. Rain or shine I emptied garbage cans into the back of a truck. Some of the things I saw would upset most people’s stomachs.

It was a good experience – it made me stronger in many ways, but after six months of coming home and plopping down dead tired I needed some relief. So I tried something else.

Hello, My Name Is ____

2011-03-17T21:20:00.001-05:00

When I am offered a “Hello My Name Is ___” label I will often politely decline. I don’t live under any delusion that everyone knows who I am – I actually prefer anonymity to recognition – but I just don’t like that whole labeling thing.

I have been told I am “supposed” to stick the label on my left lapel (or maybe it’s my right) so people can read it easily when they shake my hand. It seems rather forced and artificial. Plus, I think I can do a better job on my own without the promptings of a mass-produced, throwaway badge. So I usually put it in my pocket which of course means I will be labeled anyway (non-conformist, trouble-maker, and rebel).

But I think labels are more than just a good idea when it comes to photographs. It is an odd thing – you take a picture to capture the moment, or secure the memory, but what if your memory fades, or the people on both sides of the lens are no longer living?

Rhonda has been sorting through old photographs for our daughter’s upcoming wedding. Normally I look through pictures as if I were dealing cards – but when it comes to old family photos I slow down a bit. While she looks through hundreds of pictures for wedding photos of parents and grandparents (I think we are having a wedding theme for the wedding day) I dutifully sit there and try to answer her questions.

“Is this your Mom’s dad, or your Dad’s dad?”

“No, I think it’s my Mom’s mom’s mom’s dad.” I answer correctly, if not annoyingly.

These are some old pictures. Fortunately, through some careful, albeit amateurish, detective work I am able to name many of the people in the pictures. This is because some of the photos were labeled many years ago by someone who recognized that time fades memories.

“Grandma’s mother remarried after her father died, so I think this is her mother’s second husband’s nieces or nephews, or maybe her half-brothers or sisters. Then again maybe they’re just neighbors or friends.”

“Are you talking about your Mom’s mom or your Dad’s mom?”

“Try and keep up OK?”

But for others their stories may be lost. There are several pictures of a wedding reception held outdoors. Judging from the military uniforms it appears to be take sometime in the mid-1940’s. The happy couple is standing next to a wooden chair. Seated in the center is the wedding cake which is about to be ceremoniously cut. Apparently all the tables were used in the war effort and the chair crop was very good that year. Judging from the pictures, the newlyweds seem very nice, and I would like to claim them as my cousins (removed or distant), but for now they will remain lost – and yet frozen in time.

I have no idea who some of the people in the photos are, so I am taking some liberties and coming up with my own ideas.

“Isn’t that William Strunk and E.B. White looking very stylish in their element?”

“I’m sure that must be Ingrid Bergman behind those sunglasses.”

Rhonda and I have many unlabeled pictures lying around. We know all the people in them (well most of them) so why would we bother to record their names?

Just ask us – we’ll tell you who they are. But hurry up as I’m not as sure as I used to be.

Many photos are recorded digitally and I imagine that there is some way to label them digitally as well. But just to be sure, on the day of the wedding I think it would be a good idea to have people wear some kind of label – not for introductions, but rather for photo identification purposes.

Advice Column

2011-03-10T20:58:00.001-06:00

I’m never sure whether to take advice columns seriously. I do read them however, but mostly for the entertainment value. Without ever leaving my home I can get advice and answers on baking, car repair, manners/etiquette, finance, education/career, home maintenance, technology, pets, medical and even what books to read, movies to watch and music to listen to.

Sometimes I wonder, though, if the questions are genuine or just made up by the writer of the column. I would never do that (except for today). In my life I have received advice from some great uncles, and a few pretty good ones. So today I would like to introduce a new feature, “Dear Uncle Sam.” It is only scheduled to run this once, but the way things are going there is bound to be material for more letters.

Dear Uncle Sam: I am 7 old with money problems. Yesterday I asked my dad for some money so I could go the mall with my friends. I get an allowance of $10 a week and that isn’t enough to buy everything I want. My dad told me that money doesn’t grow on trees. Is he right?
Jimmy H., Independence, Missouri

Dear Jimmy: Thanks for writing. Yes, you’re dad is right, money does not grow on trees; we make it ourselves on special machines. Here in Washington, our nation’s capital, when we need more we just make more. I wish you could do the same, but that would be illegal. If you study hard in school, Jimmy, maybe someday you can grow up to be President and make money the old-fashioned way: print it.

Dear Uncle Sam: My wife and I are having trouble sticking to a monthly budget. We always seem to spend more than we make. I know from reading the papers and watching the news that the federal government sets a budget every year. I told my wife that if Uncle Sam can balance his budget, then so can we. Please tell me how you do it, or is it a secret? I am looking forward to your answer.
Sullivan R., Bridgeport, Connecticut

Dear Sullivan: First of all, where are you getting your information – the Internet? I’ve got news for you – the government doesn’t stick to its budget. That would be silly. We know every year that we won’t have enough money – that’s why we get to ask for more from you, the taxpayer, and if that isn’t enough, we just borrow more. Don’t worry about spending more than you make – it’s the American way. Remember to file your taxes on April 15th; I’ve got bills to pay.

Dear Uncle Sam: It’s been many years since I was in school, but I seem to remember that the Constitution balanced the power between three branches of government: The legislative makes the laws, the executive enforces the laws and the judicial branch interprets the laws. But lately the whole works seems out of whack. I watch legislators run and hide instead of fulfilling their elected duty, the executive branch ignores laws they don’t agree with, and judges will often make laws from the bench to suit their own agenda. As the musical group Bread sang in the 70’s, “It’s sad to say we’ve lost the way. This isn’t what the government.”
Elizabeth T., Liberty, West Virginia

Dear Elizabeth: Since you seem to have a weak understanding on the founding of this country may I point out that Benjamin Franklin (one of our founding fathers/mothers) said, "So convenient a thing it is to be a reasonable creature, since it enables one to find or make a reason for everything one has a mind to do." You’re forgetting that the Constitution is a living, breathing document that can grow and evolve into anything we want so that we can justify our actions. By the way, it may be time to take a look at your musical tastes. Does your bread have mold on it?

Hitchhiker

2011-03-03T20:21:00.001-06:00

Last week I went to the bank so I could fill my truck. It now takes a revolving line of credit to keep the tires turning. My truck gets better mileage than an Abrams tank, but it is not what you could call fuel-efficient. So I have started to consider other options.

Instead of commuting to work every day I could sleep at the office and visit my wife and kids on the weekend. I could pedal my bike everywhere (seasonally modified with a rear snow tire and a ski on the front). I could replace my truck with a small, cool car, or maybe I’ll just hitchhike.

My cousin Kevin and I were attending St. Cloud State University about thirty years ago. Our aunt, Shaun, a nun and professor at St. Benedict’s College, invited us over for church and then lunch one Sunday. It was a conditional invitation – if we expected to eat, she expected us to go church. Since neither one of us had a car, or knew anyone who would let us borrow theirs, we chose to hitchhike.

Church was early (for two college boys) – maybe 8 o-clock, so we began our adventure about 7. We didn’t have that far to go, but we were picked up by three drivers.

The first one was driving a rusty four-door sedan. He told us to get in front with him as the backseat was full. Not only was he kind of enough to pick us up, he also offered us a beer (there were several cases sitting on the backseat and he had already broke into one about three beers ago). Considering our destination, we declined his polite offer. Sensing that we were not going to be the drinking buddies he had hoped for, he soon let us out.

Within minutes another four-door sedan stopped. It was driven by a man dressed in his Sunday best. Kevin got in the front and I hopped in the back and found bibles instead of beer.

“You boys been to see the Lord this morning?” he asked us. When we explained the purpose of our trip he quickly dropped us off too. I guess he was on a mission and figured since we were headed in the right direction he would look for other wayward travelers.

The third and final driver pulled up in a brownish, greenish van. There were only two seats: One for the driver and one for me. Kevin got to share the mattress in the back with a dog. The dog was quiet and well groomed. The man wasn’t. The dog regarded us with a disinterested glance while his driver rambled on and offered us a “hit of the doobie,” he was enjoying. We turned him down too. Within a few minutes we were dropped off in front of the church.

I’m sure the church service was lovely with a meaningful message, but all I could think about was how we got there and lunch (which still seemed a long way off). Shaun lived with several nuns, one of which was an Italian from New Jersey; the day seemed to be filled with stereotypes. Sister Ralph-Mary prepared a fabulous spaghetti meal – complete with all the garlic bread you could eat. I ate so much I got sick.

Shaun and I have had many lunches together since then. I’m still surprised you can get a glass of wine with lunch at Emma Krumbee’s. She would drive down (apparently nuns don’t hitchhike) from St. Joseph when she would visit my mother (her sister). Often there would be others with us when we would visit Mom, but one time it was just the two of us, or as Shaun put it, “It looks like it’s just thee and me.”

Mom’s now gone and Shaun is a little older and does not make the trip south as often any more. So I make the trip up north. I can make the round-trip on less than a tank, but I would do it even if it was more because the way I see it – it’s pay back time.

Travel Advisory

2011-02-24T22:25:00.001-06:00

Today, Sunday, February 20th is one of those days when travel is “not advised.” I usually travel on those kinds of days anyway just because I don’t like taking advice from people who don’t know the first thing about me or my plans for the day. Plus, I think that sometimes the weather people are too easily alarmed.

But today I may actually stay home because the weather people are throwing numbers around that make you get out of your chair and look out the window to check for yourself. There really is not that much to look at as the snowflakes are so thick and numerous it’s hard to see anything else.

So when the weather keeps you inside for another six weeks you have to look at the travel potential for any activity and plan accordingly. I was going to fix some plumbing but thought better of it as that kind of thing can get ugly with one wrong turn of a wrench, and I know from experience any do-it-yourself job can require multiple trips to the hardware store. So I’ll wait.

But sometimes you can’t wait. On our first Christmas as a married couple Rhonda and I were supposed to visit both sets of parents, her grandparents, and her uncle and aunt (as long as we would be in town). This often happens with young couples until old traditions are thrown out, new ones are established and somebody’s feelings get hurt.

With so many stops on Christmas Eve, I had planned on leaving the car running (because it was acting up) and we wouldn’t be at any one place for any length of time as in “Sorry we can’t stay, here’s your gift. Why yes, I would like something to eat thank you.”

Except on Christmas Eve the car wouldn’t start and the weather people were throwing out unsolicited suggestions about staying home. But, we couldn’t stay in our apartment either as the old boiler couldn’t keep up with the holiday heat demand. It was so cold we could see our breath.
So Rhonda called her dad and he drove from Carver to St. Paul to pick us up. Against the advice of the local meteorologists, he also drove us from Carver to Belle Plaine later that night so we could see my folks.

Another time when we were supposed to stay put and didn’t was my Dad’s decision. Rhonda and I had caught a ride with Mom and Dad to celebrate Thanksgiving with my sister, Colleen, and her family in Wisconsin. I think our car was actually working – but they had room in their van so why not? We had only been married a year or two so we had no traditions of our own.

I don’t watch the weather forecast that closely, but back then I was even less interested than I am now, so when Dad woke me up at 2 am on the Saturday after Thanksgiving I was surprised.

“Get up. There’s a big snowstorm headed this way.”

“Um, (trying to make sense of the situation and choose my words carefully), well, so?”
“I want to get on the road now to beat the storm,” he growled.

“Uh-huh,” I said. He was in one of those early-morning moods where you didn’t argue with him. I had learned this in high school when I would come home later than he thought reasonable.

So by 2:30 we were on the road headed back to Minnesota and straight into a blizzard. I sat up front for a couple reasons: I figured Mom and Rhonda would be happier in the back where they couldn’t see all of the cars and trucks sliding into each other or into the ditch, and if we were to crash I wanted to have a front-row seat.

It seems these storms always come on a holiday weekend. As I write this on Sunday night to meet the Monday deadline I have decided to cancel my Presidents Day plans as a travel advisory has been issued.

Wedding Planner

2011-02-17T21:20:00.001-06:00

I believe in the concept of life long learning, and not just because of the alliteration. Since there is so much I don’t know it’s not too difficult to pursue a new idea or skill.

One of my many shortcomings is tying knots, so I bought a book on the subject; you know, to learn the ropes. The book even came with several ropes of various lengths and widths (no extra charge). I know this may look to some as an unnecessary academic exercise but it’s obvious I need some help.

I can tie my tie, tie my shoe and tie a simple overhand knot (fancy name for the knot when the loops on your shoe laces disappear and you are left with a criss-crossed mess). But anything more complicated and I embarrass myself.

I will usually step back and allow someone else to secure a load. When I find myself alone with a length of rope and loose cargo I will lasso, and loop until only a sharp knife can undo the damage, so I always carry a sharp knife.

After inspecting a tangled web I wove around equipment on a flat-bed trailer one guy remarked, “It’s a good thing you’re not transporting wild animals.”

I was upstairs the other night practicing my new skill. I had just finished tying the chair to the table when I felt a little guilty. Downstairs my wife, Rhonda, was helping our daughter, Jennifer, plan her wedding. Surely I could once again offer some assistance.

I had already given my opinion about the food for the reception. I wanted some bread on the tables and maybe some fancy-flavored creams for the coffee.

One night I even went dress shopping with Rhonda. She really appreciates my opinion in this area. I had selected a couple attractive numbers, and for fun I picked out one that my grandmother might have worn to her funeral.

“What do you think of this one?” I asked as I held up Grandma’s dress.

“Nice,” she said.

“What do you think of these two?” I asked.

“Are you crazy?” She said. “These won’t work with the bridesmaid dresses.”

“Why not?” I wondered.

“You don’t know what color their dresses are, do you?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. They’re kind of a . . . Well they won’t work with these dresses, that’s for sure.

“The bridesmaid dresses are red. The wedding colors are red and white,” she told me as if she was getting tired of repeating herself and had reached the end of her rope.

When I got downstairs Rhonda and Jennifer were discussing the schedule and how to coordinate times for the big day. I listened politely for a few minutes and then concluded the discussion by pointing out the logical times so that the day would flow smoothly. Satisfied that we had made real progress I was surprised that twenty minutes later we were back on the scheduling subject again. When I reminded them we had already decided all of that I was told to be quiet.

Sensing that the evening was about to unravel I retreated to my room to do some more reading. I’m sure everything for the wedding will fall into place with or without my help, and I look forward to that day in May when Jennifer and Adam (her fiancé’) tie their knot on the altar.

In the meantime I need to learn how to loosen the tie with my daughter so that it doesn’t bind her but gives her something solid to start with. I don’t want to cut that knot completely – but I need to let out some more line. I don’t have a book that can teach me how to let my daughter go.

Words Are People Too

2011-02-11T07:47:00.002-06:00

Occasionally think I should learn another language. This is usually after feeling embarrassed when I meet someone from another country who is fluent in seven different languages (not counting Vulcan and Elvish).

I did take a full year of French in high school, although the second half was more about the culture (literature, art, cooking etc.) than the language. This was because we pressured the first-year teacher to give us a break from learning the difference between the masculine (la) and feminine (le) – or was/is it the other way around?

But whenever I start to get serious about twisting my tongue around another language, I realize that the English language is often so complicated that it may be enough just to master it (I’m confining my comments to the spoken word as the body of evidence against any claim of me being proficient in writing English is vast and growing).

Slang words come and go – although some words, such as “cool,” survive. My gripe (and I have many) is with people who borrow or change the meaning of words to conceal the truth or mislead their audience. Using words as if they were made of Spandex, they tug and stretch them as they pull the wool over. Except the word, if stretched too often, can no longer be returned to its original shape and we are forced to tell the borrowers, “No thank you, you can keep it.”

Taxes are now referred to as “investments,” not adhering to a scheduled increase in spending is called a “cut,” and “shovel ready projects” may only exist in a fantasy world of political speeches. Clearly the government is guilty of misusing words and definitions, but it is not alone.

Abraham Lincoln is said to have asked one day, “If you call a tail a leg, how many legs has a dog? Four. Calling a tail a leg doesn’t make it a leg.”

I recently met a woman who had two dogs with presumably eight legs between them, but that wasn’t enough for her. She wanted her dogs to be more than dogs. Shortly into our time together our conversation took an odd turn.

“So do you have any children?” I asked her, after she spoke of her husband and their home.

“No, our dogs are our children.”

I had not heard that answer before so I considered a few inappropriate responses: You must be so proud, any grandchildren? How about pet fish, what do you think they are? We don’t have any dogs, our kids are our dogs.

But I just nodded politely with my tongue firmly trapped between my teeth. I understand she may not have children because of some reason (which is none of my business), and I am not going to get into a discussion about adoption. You can if you like, it’s your choice. But my point is that referring to dogs as kids, doesn’t make it so. We need to be clear on that.

Dennis Prager, a clear thinker, stresses “clarity over agreement.” My friend Bob says “you can disagree without being disagreeable.”

I want to be clear, but sarcasm can get in the way so I often find myself being disagreeable without actually disagreeing. So the woman with unattractive, four-legged children has opened up a whole new world for me. I am now considering all sorts of responses to normal questions.

Some weather huh? Oh, I don’t mind, it’s always sunny and warm in my world.

What do you do for work? My life is my work.

Was Santa good to you? I was good to Santa.

Do you live around here? I like to live in the present.

Do you speak any other languages? No, I am still trying to understand English.

Ghost Stories

2011-02-03T21:06:00.001-06:00

“Do you believe in ghosts?” is a great conversation starter (or stopper). The Lion from “The Wizard of Oz,” Ebenezer Scrooge and many other famous fictional characters had reasons to believe in ghosts. I have also talked to several real-life people who have had their own afterlife encounters. But, because of my overactive imagination I can’t be trusted as a credible source for any hearsay evidence (“Did you hear that?”).

Apart from seeing a shadow move past a window and a faint image (seen through several panes of glass) of a frail old man sitting at a table waiting for his wife to serve him dinner, I have no scary ghost stories to tell. However, I have found that some memories can be so strong that they come to life.

This summer I had reason to visit some of my old-haunts and stepped into what felt like the middle of an old home-movie. The first stop I made was my boyhood home on Church Street. When my folks moved from there they left behind lost toys and my childhood. When I walked up the driveway the memories hit me so hard my vision blurred and I stumbled.

All the familiar cars were gone, as was the basketball hoop that hung over the garage. As I shuffled through the breezeway I was careful not step on any grasshoppers that may still be there. One summer day my brother Dan and I caught hundreds of them in jars (with holes punched in the metal covers for air) and released them in the breezeway to see how our cat would react. She just sat and stared. After I stood and stared for too long of a time I turned my attention to the screen door.

It appeared to be the same door. Thousands of times I had opened, closed and slammed that door (sorry), now for the first time I knocked on it. I know the current owner and he politely invited me in. He talked about some of the changes he and his wife had made and how happy they were there. As I looked around I struggled with conflicted emotions. I wanted to run through the house and look in the all the rooms but I also wanted to turn and run down the driveway back to my truck.

I thanked him for his hospitality, turned and walked (fast) to the truck. I revisited the rest of the neighborhood with the bike I had with me. Being careful not to trespass, I pedaled up the alleys and coasted down the sidewalks. Mrs. Schultz’s white dog no longer barked at me, Andy McCormick and his one-room house (cot, table, one chair) were both gone as well. I slowed as I went past the Miller’s house. It was on that concrete step that Tommy Miller introduced the world to the idea of putting peanut-butter on toast (at least that’s how I saw it).

The siren used to blow every day at noon –that’s how everyone knew it was time for lunch, now the church bells sounded alone striking 12. I circled back to the truck and had lunch under the shade of a tree Dad had planted. With the windows down I could hear the lawn mowers and I was back at Minnie’s. My brother Terry and I would mow her lawn (using two mowers) for the agreed upon price of $2 each. Later on we picked up the Murphy account as well.

I finished my peanut butter sandwich (not toasted) and jumped on my bike. I went down the block and past the cemetery where I would be sure to have more memories jump out and surprise me.

Please don't watch me

2011-01-27T22:44:00.001-06:00

If my father were alive he would shake his head in disbelief at the way I have let the snow have its way with me. I live far enough from town to escape the watchful eyes of nosy neighbors, and yet whenever I shovel snow I feel like I’m being watched.

As our winter (which occupies half of our 12 months) goes on and on I shovel the snow with less enthusiasm and concern for how proficiently the job is done. In the beginning of the season, I clear the snow beyond the edges of the sidewalks; I make sure the steps are clean and the paths to the farm buildings are wide and even. But this year I have all but given up – the frequent snow and the sharp wind have all but defeated me – and it’s only January. It is as if I am in the great Gobi desert trying in vain to keep the sand from piling up.

One of the many jobs I had before I realized my lifelong dream of selling insurance was clearing snow from the sidewalks that surrounded and dissected an entire city block. I was a member of the maintenance department at a nursing home near downtown Minneapolis. I know that sounds like a joke. I have no business calling myself a maintenance man as that title suggests I can actually fix and maintain stuff. I was hired mainly as a driver of the nursing home’s activity bus, but as they were opposed to paying me for inactivity I was wore the uniform of a maintenance man in between trips.

The nursing home was part of a larger organization that owned several older homes and a series of high-rise apartment buildings used for assisted living. This complex occupied the entire block. As a maintenance man I vacuumed floors, cleaned furnace filters, mowed the grass and shoveled snow, a whole block’s worth. There was a snow blower on hand, but it was too big for the frequent flurries that year.

I spent many hours shoveling under the watchful eyes of many a happy onlooker.
As I scooped and pushed, there were dozens (maybe hundreds) of people watching me. I would verify this from time to time as I would look up to the throngs of spectators glued to their windows watching me perform.

It’s not easy to be involuntarily cast as the lead in a one-man play. But there I was, sometimes performing twice a day: a morning matinee and a dinner show. I concentrated my efforts to make even, efficient movements with the blade. With the shovel as my dance partner we moved to the rhythm of the city traffic across the stage. I did not want to disappoint the audience – they were paying good money for this.

Sometimes I would wave and some of them would wave back. I didn’t fault them for watching me, although they never once threw roses at me or asked for a single autograph. The faces in the windows were often unrecognizable but they never really bothered me. But there was one lone figure that did.

The complex administrator (as opposed to the administrator of the complex) would often stand in the skyway between the nursing home and the apartments. With his arms folded across his chest, he would stare and glare. I would wave at him - partly to be friendly (small part), partly to let him know I knew he was there (bigger part), and partly to raise his blood pressure (biggest part).

So now whenever I shovel I turn and wave just in case, because you never know if someone is watching.

Pass the Plate

2011-01-20T19:14:00.000-06:00

Most of us have been in a church when a plate is passed for the offering. This is an opportunity to support the church and its mission. But what if it was reversed? What if instead the church handed out money as part of an assignment to make a positive difference in the world?

The church I attend is going to find out. Several weeks ago 50-dollar bills were given to me and about eighty other volunteers with the understanding that the money was to be invested and multiplied for a greater good. Making that $50 grow had more to do with situations and people than the S & P 500.

This idea originated with two books: The Bible, and “The Kingdom Assignment.” A church in California (surprised?) came up with this concept about ten years ago using a passage from the Bible. Now before you dismiss this idea as some religious silliness I would think that you would want to find out what I did with the $50.

This may surprise you, but I actually took this challenge seriously. I have never thought so hard about $50 in my life. Sure, it would have been easy to give it to the county so they could buy more abandoned railroad lines for a future undetermined use, but that didn’t seem quite right.

I was looking for something bigger, something with a larger world view. The $50 may not be enough to change the world, but if it was multiplied it could make a difference. While I was busy contemplating this new responsibility my wife Rhonda scheduled me and the rest of the family for an evening activity at church.

I went with some reluctance as I had other plans: TV, several books that needed to be read and some other stuff that seemed better than going to church. The activity at church involved helping an organization pack food. It sounded to me like bagging groceries.

We did bag food – but not in a “paper or plastic,” sort of way. The organization that we helped is called Feed My Starving Children (FMSC). Headquartered in Coon Rapids, they have locations in Eagan and Chanhassen, as well as Illinois and Arizona They put meals together to feed starving children throughout the world. But what makes this organization unique is that they can bring the entire packing assembly line to an off-site location, such as a church building.

There volunteers are trained, split into several groups, each having multiple stations, and packaged food then is sent around the world to feed starving children. Each meal costs about 20 cents to produce and 94 percent of all donations go directly to the food program. From one of their brochures I learned that $350 could feed a family of five for a year. FMSC relies on volunteers to pack the meals.

As a volunteer I sat through a training session and watched a heartbreaking video of children who were saved from certain starvation with food donated by this organization. To participate in the packing I was required to wear a hairnet, even though I am convinced I have very little hair left to capture.

I had fun being part of the effort (I carried boxes) and the time flew by, plus I felt that I was actually doing something very meaningful and important. At the end of the two- hour packing session (some of which was training and clean-up) approximately 200 volunteers had packed over 51,000 meals.

The next day I gave Feed My Starving Children the $50 I had been entrusted with along with an additional check. With this small donation I know more plates can be passed to hungry kids. The $50 won’t change the world – but maybe it will be multiplied.

If you want more information please go to www.fmsc.org

Alison's Restaurant

2011-01-14T07:42:00.003-06:00

I like to read books about writing in the hope that someday some of it may rub off on me. M.F.K. Fisher is one author that is praised for her style and beautiful sentences. She wrote about food, cooking and eating. I have always been drawn to the eating part – the other two I have taken for granted.

In her book, “The Art of Eating,” Fisher writes, "It seems to me that our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others. So it happens that when I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and the hunger for it… and then the warmth and richness and fine reality of hunger satisfied… and it is all one."

The art of eating has taken another hit. The Coffee Bean Café, a place where people could talk over a cup of this and a glass of that, has closed. Alison, the proprietor, also served salads, soups and sandwiches which you could enjoy while live music played. When the New Year opened for business, Alison closed hers. But, before it closed I think even Mr. Guthrie would have agreed you can get anything you want at Alison’s restaurant.

I went there from time to time and got to know some of the regulars. But either the regulars were too irregular, or not enough customers were accustomed to getting their food and drink at The Coffee Bean. It’s too late now to make a difference – but another quaint cafe’ closed its doors.

I suppose I may have had something to do with it. Not too long ago both Starbuck’s and Dunn Bros. closed their Shakopee locations. I had cursed the two of them with my presence too. Before that, Say When, another coffee shop went out of business. I had also been there. Even before that two other stores closed their doors: Pour Mary’s and Ground Zero. I had been in both places as well; I’m sorry, perhaps I should have stuck with just one.

So now there is one less place to meet someone for a cup of coffee and some snappy conversation. It’s like when people die – then we hear about what a great person they were and how they’ll be missed. When a shop closes that’s when we realize what we’ll miss about it.

At The Coffee Bean everyone bused their own dishes; it wasn’t required or expected – it just seemed like the thing to do. When you are home (at least my place), you may not actually do the dishes, but at least you clean-up after yourself.

The daily specials, written by hand, were displayed on a white board. The sandwiches, with names like “The Sommerville,” and “The Wermerskirchen,” reminded the menu-reader that you were in Shakopee. I liked to order the tomato soup and grilled cheese – it was fabulous.

Retired cops, old folks, business people, kids, music lovers, friends, writers, politicians, handymen, and lawyers had comfortably sat at those tables. One local storyteller earned his first dollar in show-business there entertaining women who wore colored hats.

The floor was fashioned with a cobblestone finish which gave the place a sturdy old- world feel. There were plants for sale from a guy in town who liked to grow stuff. You could also buy soap, candles, and greeting cards with the picture of a local celebrity in whimsical poses.

The seating options were varied: you could sit on a stool at the counter; as many of Alison’s friends did, and read the paper while you sipped, slurped or supped. In the corner was an old couch that was as comfortable as the one you had in your first home, and a coffee table (imagine!) with a better selection of current magazines than most dentist offices. High-back chairs and high tables were available when you wanted to feel important. There were chairs next to the wall and tables for two, four, six or eight. Who do we appreciate? I wonder.

Alison, I’m sorry I took you for granted.

Snow Mountains

2011-01-06T22:39:00.001-06:00

The weather has been leaving me quite conflicted lately. I was happy to see a snow fall record set for the month of December, because if it’s going to snow that much it might as well set a record so we have something to brag about.

But then when the thermometer hit 40-something degrees last week I was happy about that too, because if it’s going to snow that much we might as well have a warm day to melt some of it so we don’t drown this spring with record setting floods.

Even the snow piles have shrunk. These large mountains that rose to the sky almost overnight are in driveways, parkways, boulevards, and yards. With last week’s warmer weather the height of these snow-capped peaks was reduced so adventurous children may now be able to reach their summit with out the aid of Sherpas.

Like most Minnesotans I am pretty well acquainted with large piles of snow. Using nothing but snow, I have built them from scratch. I have moved them, hollowed out their middle, tunneled under them, climbed them, tumbled and slid down them, and defended them. I don’t mean that I defended the snow’s honor or legal right to exist; I mean I have defended these strategic hills in playground battles.

The recess and noon hour activities of the religious elementary school I attended followed a seasonal pattern. In the spring and fall we fought, but in the winter time we took advantage of the snow and ice.

We were free to do things that are almost unthinkable now. There was a small incline in an area between the church and the school and in the winter it was flooded to provide a slippery slope for ice-skiing. Ice-skiing combined skating and skiing without using skates or skis. No poles were used to stay upright, just a good pair of rubber boots - fastened either with a zipper or a set of buckles. My brother skated out of school early with a broken collar-bone after hitting the slope.

But when it snowed a lot, which seemed to be often, there were two huge mounds of snow that were piled in the school yard. These were positioned just far enough apart to be suitable for a variation of king-of-the-hill. The object of the game was quite simple: There were two teams or sides, and each side would start with one hill as their home base and then attack the other side’s hill, while at the same time defending their home hill against an attack.

There was no choosing up sides, the two warring factions were decided at the city limits: town kids versus country kids, all ages allowed. There were of course exceptions and allowances for trades and traitors.

I lived in a house with horses corralled across the street and a farm at the end of the block, but the fact remained I lived in town. Still, I found myself in a unique position to fight for either side. As a new kid I was disliked by boys in town and in the country, so I wasn’t exactly welcomed on either hill.

As there were no rules, all means of engagement were allowed: shoving, pushing, pulling and flying tackles. Pickett’s Charge was reenacted most every day at noon. I remember what it felt like to defend the hill. Cold air carried war cries that inspired one side and terrorized the other. A dozen or so boys screaming and hollering as they ran through the snow to attack the hill I stood on; the approaching hoard scrambling up towards me, and then crashing to the bottom with another boy who had left his feet to knock me off the top.

Even after living in a few different rural Scott County homes for the last twenty-two years, I still feel like a town kid living in the country. Perhaps I should invite a few guys from town, and some of my neighbors for a friendly game of king-of-the-hill.

What I learned in 2010

2010-12-30T22:31:00.001-06:00

When I was out trying to get elected to public office several of Robert Fulghum’s book titles kept entering my mind: “What On Earth Have I Done,” “Maybe (Maybe Not),” “Uh-Oh,” and “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.”

This is what I learned in 2010

- Walking/biking/fresh air (blah, blah, blah) really are good for you.

- One barking dog may be safe to approach; two is less likely; five – you should stay in your vehicle with the windows rolled up (I didn’t); twelve dogs running down the driveway towards you – well that’s just ridiculous.

- “I’m sorry, they’re not my dogs,” is not something you want to hear after you were just told, “don’t worry these dogs are fine.”

- According to the emergency room physician, if I’m careful I will be able to play the piano after a dog bit my hand. Gee, I always wanted to play the piano.

- People tell me I look like my dad (they must mean the younger version when he was in his 30’s and 40’s).

- You can’t judge a person by their shelter.

- You can hear people swear when their windows are open, “Who the %#@& is at the door now?”

- There are people so lonely they will invite a stranger into their home just to have someone to talk to, someone who will listen. We didn’t talk politics.

- A good teacher is never forgotten. “Your mom was a lovely lady. She was my first grade teacher,” was a comment I heard from several people.

- A stuck doorbell can be unstuck with a pocket knife before it chimes five times.

- Life is all about relationships.

I could, and probably will, expand on some of these topics. But for now, let me tell you about the last one. I witnessed many interactions between family members as they encountered me. My favorite involved a father and son.

It was on a Saturday, and I was biking around one of the towns. When I rode up to one house I saw two men painting an old garage. As I approached them the younger one (about my age) asked if I was there to help. I told them that I wasn’t very good at that kind of thing, but that I could go get my wife, who is a skilled painter

I then introduced myself to them. The younger one explained that he didn’t live there.

“It’s my dad’s place,” he said as he nodded toward his father. “I’m just helping him paint the garage.”

“I’m helping you,” his dad said, as he shuffled past into the garage to get something.

“Well, you are a good son,” I told him.

“Well, he’s been a good father,” he said. “He’s kind of slow, but we have a good time.”

I wanted to stay with them a while longer and share their good time – but they had work to do and I had other people to bother; so I gave them my piece of political propaganda and walked back to my bike. I don’t remember every stop, or every conversation of the campaign, but I’ll never forgot that good father and good son.

What I want is to be known as a good son, a good father, a good husband, a good friend…

It’s not what you get (at Christmas or any other time) – it’s the giving through your living that matters. Keep Christmas with you all through the year; I learned this from Sesame Street when my kids were little.

God Bless Us, Every One!

Away in my barn

2010-12-23T19:10:00.001-06:00

Merry Christmas! Last year, I used some of my Christmas-gift money and bought a snow blower for my tractor. I don’t have a cab on the tractor so I usually get a face-full. This year I got smart and now wear ski goggles and a face mask. I still get covered with snow but at least my eyes and face stay dry.

With all of the snow removal required by this old-fashioned winter we have been “enjoying,” I have been kept from some of my other duties: baking Christmas cookies, trimming the Christmas tree and addressing Christmas cards. I had to have Rhonda do those this year.

But I have found time to prepare the barn for some guests. It’s not that I don’t have room in our house and expect expectant mothers to find comfort in the barn and lay their newborn babies in a feed trough; no, nothing like that. Jennifer, our daughter, is getting married next spring and we are having the reception and dance in the 80-year old barn loft. So with that on the horizon the loft must be made ready to welcome friends and family.

Lest you think clearing an old loft out sounds easy, allow me to set you straight: It isn’t. The loft of a barn can accumulate many things over time. Some stuff came with the place when we bought it almost 20-years ago (dirt, dust, cobwebs, straw stubble, hay seeds, scraps of wood and old farm tools), some items were donated (grand-parents’ and parents’ furniture), and some things we just put up there because there was room (a VW Bug with assorted parts I had disassembled before I got distracted, ladders, ping-pong table, sleds, bikes, etc., etc., and etc.).

The furniture was divided into three groups, one collection for each of our children who promised to take it with them when they got their own place, and one bunch we gave to the thrift store. The nice thing about the thrift lot is that I was fairly confident that once it was unloaded I would not have to touch it again. For the other stuff, I knew we would meet again.

Amazingly, we were able to find space for everything in another building. Once it was empty it became obvious that parts of the loft floor needed repair. Fortunately, I keep a supply of lumber in the lower part of the barn for “just in case.” The problem with doing that is that it can get out of control. This is due to the possibility that you may actually use a hoarded piece, even if that’s only as often as when a census is decreed. This only leads to saving more pieces for a future unknown use. I once read about a man who was cleaning his deceased grandfather’s garage attic. The grandson came across a box marked “too small to save.” In the box were pieces of wood that were apparently too small to save for anything but to fill the box.

Once the loft was empty we started sweeping, dusting, and coughing. Even with both 44-foot doors open (I may be a exaggerating a little on the size) visibility was reduced to zero at times. In between dust storms I glanced towards my daughter as she swept the wood floor with her broom. It was a little hard to focus as I had something in my eye. Next spring, as she moves among her guests, the bottom of her white dress will brush against the clean loft floor. I don’t know if goggles will help keep my eyes and face dry.

Not My Favorite Song

2010-12-16T22:35:00.001-06:00

I like things to make sense - to have some logic, some consistency. I get cross when confronted with something that defies my own limited sense of order. Since so much of what we experience this time of year has a Christmassy feel to it, (a blizzard is means we’re going to have “a white Christmas”; many conversations comment about getting your Christmas shopping done - I haven’t it). To be consistent I thought I would stay on task (seems logical) and talk about Christmas music.

Everyone has their favorites (mine includes anything from “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” by Vince Guaraldi), and most everyone has their least favorite (the list gets longer as Christmas approaches).

One song I hear with too much frequency is “My Favorite Things,” from the “Sound of Music.’ I like the move and I like the song, but I contend it is not a Christmas song. I have had this conversation with anyone who will not walk away from me when I bring it up (the list gets shorter as Christmas approaches).

Sometimes the conversation turns into an argument with me defending my position from those who haven’t thought about this enough.

“Charlie Brown? Are you serious?”

“Who made me you the Christmas song sheriff?

Well, first of all, the songs from “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” are different – the cartoon actually was a Christmas show. And secondly, remember this column is just about me sharing my opinion (you are welcome to share yours even if it’s wrong).

Now let’s examine the lyrics together and see if you don’t agree (my comments are added):

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens; (roses are covered with snow, kittens don’t make great gifts).
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens; (are we boiling water for a Christmas tea? Mittens are wintery – so maybe that verse works).
Brown paper packages tied up with strings; (Christmas gifts delivered to your door, or just a poor wrapping job?).
These are a few of my favorite things. (the song title).

Cream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudels; (ponies don’t make great gifts either, and is apple strudel, crisp or otherwise, a holiday traditon in your house?).
Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles; (doorbells – now who’s here? Sleighbells are jingle bells so that works. Schnitzel is an Austrian fried meat dish which is sure to upset your holiday vegan guests).
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings; (the geese are flying south – you know what that means, Christmas is just around the corner).
These are a few of my favorite things. (So we heard).

Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes; (are these girls going to a holiday party? If so, white is out of season and blue sashes,satin or otherwise, are so 1938).
Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes; (OK, this and the next verse are certainly seasonal with the images they create).
Silver-white winters that melt into springs; (It sounds more like April than December).
These are a few of my favorite things. (Thank you, I get it).

When the dog bites, (I’ve been bitten by a dog, and although it hurt it did not put me in the Christmas spirit).
When the bee stings, (Who gets stung by a bee this time of year?).
When I'm feeling sad, (Many people get depressed at Christmas time, so this verse is timely).
I simply remember my favorite things, (Not getting what you want for Christmas – that can make anyone sad).
And then I don't feel so bad. (I do when I hear this song at Christmas).

Gift Idea

2010-12-09T21:25:00.001-06:00

Every Christmas most of us struggle with the same problem: what to buy for the person who seems to have everything or they don’t want anything. The good news is I believe I have discovered the perfect gift (to give, but not necessarily to receive). lawn ornaments. Now before you throw the idea out like a cheap pink flamingo please allow me to regale you with the benefits.

This idea occurred to me as I traveled from town to town. Many yards and lawns had displays that could not be defined by any theme. Along side a purple dragonfly would be a plywood cut-out of a woman in a red polka-dot dress proudly displaying her back-side as she tended the flowers.

What makes lawn ornaments such a great gift is that it leaves everyone off the hook –the receiver can love it or not, it doesn’t matter; you tried, and you had fun making your selection. If the recipient doesn’t like it they can hide it under a bush or re-gift it and plead ignorance as to its whereabouts. Of course, they may really be fond of it and display it prominently. Again, it doesn’t matter.

This category can include anything to enhance the yard of those on your gift list. Obviously this is not for children, kids don’t want that junk, get them some toys, books, mittens; it’s for the adults – homeowners. The possibilities are vast and varied which means that it is entirely likely that your gift will be unique, if not despised.

I suggest you avoid purchasing birdfeeders or bird baths. These require maintenance (filling and cleaning), so if the recipient wasn’t mad at you initially they will be. I’m thinking more along the lines of something you can put outside and forget it.

I am sure you will find something that fits your taste and budget. I have seen yard gnomes, frogs, elves, dogs, fairies and heard enough wind chimes to have a pretty good idea what’s available. Of course for the real crafty you can make your own decorations, using everyday household junk and recyclable material. These seem to be highly collectable/collectible (either spelling is correct) as they can be found everywhere.

There are, of course, commercially available gifts in the outdoor category. I was at one home that had a park bench with a life-size bronze Mark Twain reading Huck Finn right there in their yard - very classy.

My favorite frog “sculpture,” was a grouping of three. One was reading a book (The Frog Prince?), another was enjoying a cup of tea, and the third one was daydreaming or merely reflecting on the day. I took a picture. I think frogs are better choices than toads – unless you are trying to send a different message with your gift.

If you’re lucky, you may even inspire someone to start a collection; because once you get a collection started you’re home free. From there on in anything remotely connected to the theme is acceptable. I tried to get my wife, Rhonda, to embrace the idea of collecting ornamental chickens. As she already had the real, live kind I thought it was the perfect coop compliment. Many of my chicken gifts have found homes among the shrubbery hidden from neighbors who may otherwise covet them.

Several years ago one of our friends gave us a large, metal sculpture shaped like a pineapple, the symbol of hospitality, as a gift. I didn’t want people to get the wrong idea so I hid it under a bush. However, I am sure it was a thoughtful and expensive gift.

Tort or Tart

2010-12-02T20:39:00.001-06:00

Tort Reform is a subject not easily handled in a short newspaper column by a non-expert. So sue me.

Tort reform, among other things, may restrict the type of lawsuits filed, the amount of the award, and may require the accusing party to pay for the legal fees of the defending party if the accuser loses.

A tort is a wrongful act or an infringement of a non-contractual right leading to legal liability. A tort should not be confused with the word tart which has several different meanings: sharp in taste, a cutting or sarcastic remark, a pastry, or a promiscuous woman. If you called your waitress a tart because she served you a sour lemon dessert which caused you to pucker painfully, both of you may be guilty of a tort.

But this is neither a food nor a legal advice column. It’s more of a “what I think about that,” column.

I try and resist the temptation of the easy buck through litigation, but sometimes it’s hard to avoid. This summer while knocking on doors in vain (or was it vainly knocking on doors?), I walked up a flight of steps from the sidewalk to get to the front door of a house. On the top step was a skateboard just waiting to launch me, an unwary traveler, into space. I laughed out loud while I looked for the hidden camera.

Once I had finished my business with the front door I wisely avoided the skateboard/concrete stairs combination and cut through the yard to the next house. I normally try and “stay off the grass,” but I thought trespassing was a better choice than breaking my … tailbone.

Recently I have had several opportunities to join a class-action lawsuit club. This is where a group of people, who supposedly share a common grievance, get together and sue whoever they think is responsible for the perceived wrong they have received.

Sometimes it’s about an investment I don’t ever remember making, other times it’s an advertisement wanting me to consider whether asbestos may have impaired my health. I’m not sure if I have ever come in contact with asbestos. It’s best not to think about it, but I lay awake at night wondering about it. This lack of sleep is affecting my health. I may have to seek legal counsel and sue the TV network, the ad agency, and the law firm who are all making me paranoid.

Many times statements are made in commercials to entice people to buy a product, or at least provide some separation between similar products. Consider M&M’s for a moment. They claim that their candy “melts in your mouth, not in your hand.” Well that’s not true; I’ve tried it. If you hold them long enough in a tight fist they’ll melt. But really, is it something to sue the candy man over?

Are Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes “Great,” as Tony would have us believe? Those delicious corn flakes with the sugary layer on top are occasionally part of my balanced breakfast. But are they great? Hardly, they’re just pretty good. In fact, I can think of many other cereals I like much better, but that’s another column.

One ad informed me I may be entitled to benefits if I had purchased a certain brand of razor five or six years ago. It seems the guilty razor company stretched the truth as they stretched your whiskers when they claimed their razor could give you a shave so close that strange women would want to touch your face.

Maybe tart reform is the real issue here.

Pursuing Happiness

2010-11-24T22:14:00.002-06:00

Hi there. It’s nice to be back in the paper as a writer instead of one running for office.

If you’re wondering where I’ve been then my 512 vote deficit makes more sense than ever.

In May I told you I was taking a break from writing to chase another dream. For some time I have wanted to throw my hat into the ring for elected office. The hat didn’t fit and I lost. But as my brother Dan reminded me, I gained a lot. One of those things is an almost endless supply of stories. So watch this space for complete details.

This desire to run for office is/was (I’m not sure yet) part of my pursuit of happiness. It’s not that I am unhappy, or that I haven’t found happiness. My wife, Rhonda, says it’s because I am not content. I disagree. For me being content means learning, growing and experiencing new things. Life offers so many opportunities, so many choices, that to find what you are looking for means you may have to take a road less traveled from time to time.

When I was in college I was involved in student government. I liked that experience so much that I wanted to do something similar after I graduated. But as timing is everything, I chose to wait. First came love, then came marriage, then came two babies in a baby carriage(s). It occurred to me sometime during this period that I had certain responsibilities that must be fulfilled: I was a young husband, Dad to two children and the provider. Plus, I was at peace, so I decided to wait. Thirty years can fly by pretty fast.

While I waited I discovered more pressing matters that needed my attention. I changed diapers (three times), gave baths, tucked my kids in at night, read bedtime stories, made up stories, played make-believe, went to the library, went to the zoo, played games, camped, went to plays, recitals, school sports, laughed, wrestled, watched kids shows, swam, had picnics and bonfires, celebrated twenty-seven years of marriage, tended to the needs of parents as they aged, and watched my kids grow up.
Some things are worth waiting around for.

So now I am faced with a dream that has been dashed. I have gone through the five stages of losing an election:

Denial. “Now let’s just wait until all the votes have been counted.”

Anger. “Fine, I didn’t want it anyway.”

Bargaining. “Perhaps there has been some mistake, maybe if I ask for a recount.”

Depression. “I’ll be in my room covered with heavy blankets.”

Acceptance. “Fine, I didn’t want it anyway.”

When I was out campaigning people would answer the door with a variety of greetings. “Dad, it’s a politician.” (politician? I hate that word.) “Tell him I also I like to write,” I would yell through the screen door. One time a young woman answered the door, “Make it quick. I’m giving my baby a bath.” “Run,” I said as I threw a brochure at her (like I need that on my conscience). And the one that always threw me off my game, “What do you need?” “Umm, I just wanted to introduce myself,” I said. “I really don’t need anything.”

Mick Jagger and Keith Richards wrote:

You can't always get what you want.
But if you try sometimes you might find
you get what you need.

In losing this election I may find that although I didn’t get what I want, I got what I need. I lost by 512 votes. But I’m happy writing 600 words.

Belle Plaine Rotary

2010-06-17T23:26:00.002-05:00

This week I was invited (or maybe I invited myself and they were too polite to say no), to speak to the Rotary club in Belle Plaine. I had a lot of fun., and the food was fantastic. Some of the same people who were members when my Dad was a Rotarian are still there.

Thomas Wolfe wrote, "you can't go home again." Going back home is never the same, but many of the same faces and feelings are still there. I think you can go home again - you just have to be ready for some changes.

Speaking of which (how's that for a shameless transition?), people ask me what kind of changes I would implement if elected. I am not as interested in changing things as I am in improving them. Our roads could be better, we could strengthen our law enforcement with more officers and patrol cars, and we could be better stewards of the citizen's tax dollars.

I plan on picking up my yard signs in a day or two, please let me know if you would like one (it would be better if you lived in the district). Thanks for your help, Jerry

On the trail

2010-06-10T19:14:00.002-05:00

Hi, today I was in New Prague where I met with some folks who work at City Hall. One of the reason’s New Prague is such a cool town is that the people who take care of the town’s business really care about their town. Combine that with a fabulous school system and it's easy to see why New Prague stands out as a place where people want to live. I want to help build their tax base with commercial activity by making it a desirable place to bring business where jobs can be created.

After I spent some time at City Hall I went to the golf course in town where I spoke to the Rotary club. They were a very polite group – they laughed at all the right parts. Plus, I had a nice lunch and was serenaded with a song.

Today I ordered some campaign literature, so soon I may be knocking on your door and handing some reading material. For those of you who live in district one please let me know if you would agree to have a sign in your yard.

In summary, I don’t think it felt very summery today. Thanks for your help – remember to have fun.

Announcement

2010-06-02T14:21:00.001-05:00

PRESS RELEASE

Jerry Kucera has announced that he will run for Scott County Commissioner against incumbent Joe Wagner and Joe Thill.

“Because I’m not your average Joe I believe I can bring a fresh perspective to the County Board,” said Jerry.

Jerry and his wife Rhonda live on a hobby farm in Sand Creek Township. Rhonda is a substitute teacher in the Jordan school district. Their daughter, Jennifer, is a kindergarten teacher in New Prague, and their son, Nathan, will be student teaching in Jordan and Belle Plaine this fall.

Jerry was born and raised in Belle Plaine, graduating from high school there in 1977. He received a degree in Speech Communication from St. Cloud State University where he also studied Political Science and History. He has been a State Farm Insurance agent in Shakopee since 1985.
“My 25 years of experience helping people protect their resources and preserve their income allows me to serve the citizens of this county with those same goals. Our elected representatives must be responsible stewards of the citizen’s money. A big challenge facing local governments is how to maintain a current level of service with less tax revenue.”

“One new program I’m really exited about is FISH (Families and Individuals Sharing Hope). This cooperative effort between county human services, charitable and non-profit organizations may seem like a new way for government to do business, but it actually reminds me of the old way of doing things: people helping one another without relying solely on the government.

“SCALE (Scott County Association for Leadership and Efficiency) is another example of how building relationships can have a positive effect. SCALE is made up of county, city, school and townships officials as well as those from the Shakopee Mdewakanton Sioux Community. I agree that by working together and sharing resources we can be more efficient and reduce costs. With the success of FISH and SCALE I’m anxious to see if we can establish a FIN or GILL program.”

“Several years ago I helped lead a group of citizens committed to protecting Scott County. A New York corporation wanted to build an amphitheater here and we were able to stop them. We did this by adopting an attitude of working with “city hall” instead of fighting them. This was accomplished by building associations with representatives from all levels of government (local, state and federal), as well as civic groups, and the people who call Scott County home.”

“I can use my communication skills (listening first, then speaking), and my ability to establish relationships with people from a variety of groups and perspectives to serve the people of Scott County.”

“I want to give back to the people of District 1 by representing them at the county board. I live in the middle of the district and my office is within 4 blocks of the County Government center. These locations, combined with an adjustable work schedule will assure that the citizens of this district will have full representation in county government. With their support, I will work to make sure that Scott County continues to be a wonderful place to live and work for generations.”

Can we still be friends?

2010-05-27T19:24:00.000-05:00

There is a book on my shelf titled “Call Me Ishmael, 801 Memorable First and Last Lines in Literature,” compiled by David A. Spector. I like reading it from time to time. I have read some of the books quoted in there, but not all of them. One of the opening sentences included in the book is from “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” by Truman Capote.

“I am always drawn back to places where I have lived, the houses and their neighborhoods.”

I feel the same way. Other than when I was in college and the first few years of my marriage, I have lived no further than 20 miles from where I was born. I like it here and I like writing this newspaper column. I will continue to live in Scott County, but for now I will move off this page.

I would rather have done this in person, but it has to be this way. I am taking a break. For several months this will be my last article/column/piece/story (pick your favorite name for what this is – but remember, it’s a family newspaper). Think of it as if I’m taking an early summer vacation that may extend through October.

I’m giving up this space for awhile to chase another dream. It’s not about needing more space; 24 column inches every week has suited me well. I am not going to another paper or anything like that. I just have to take some time away from publishing this column.

Can we still be friends? It’s not you, it’s me. I’ll take the time off, but one way or another I will return (provided the editor allows me to).

And lest you think I have run out of ideas – don’t be silly. I could tell you about my former life as a garbageman in Minneapolis, or the time I asked a chauffeur to drive my two brothers and me around Milwaukee while our sister was receiving her diploma from Marquette. Perhaps I will write about the time my friend, Jeff, and I ate a dinner salad with our fingers at a restaurant (they had forgot to give us silverware, and they ignored our pleas, so we just played along). I will tell you what I did the summer of 2010.

In this space I have tried to be meaningful, thought provoking and entertaining. I have written these 600 words with you in mind – kind of a conversation through the paper if you will. Some of you actually liked what I wrote. Your kind words mean very much to me. I will not forget them or you. So forget everything you know about memory loss, but please don’t forget about me.

I insist – to the point of being pouty, that my wife and kids always say “good-bye,” before they leave, even just for a run to the store, because – well, just because. But on the other hand when I am at a large party (more than 20 people) I prefer to slip out the door unseen (they call me “The Breeze” – not really but that would be a fun nickname). I think the quick escape is better than the traditional long Minnesota goodbye (hanging on a car door while running along side clutching a pan of bars).

It’s a weird thing, but I feel like I’m leaving you and I don’t like it. I didn’t want to just slip away from this space without saying goodbye. So have fun. I’ll see you around.

The last line is by Dr. Seuss.

“I’d make a few changes,
If I ran the zoo.”

You're not dancing

2010-05-20T21:05:00.001-05:00

I like a good conversation where speaking and listening is evenly traded. Snappy banter, the exchange of ideas and the sharing of thoughts is like dancing, and a skilled conversationalist is like a deft dancing partner. Exactly who is leading and who is following is indistinguishable. The discourse adheres to a certain rhythm allowing each partner to keep step without stepping on the other.

When the partners know each other well, a certain amount of hyperbole is tolerated whereas inconsistencies are challenged.

“How do you like the hot dish I made for supper?”

“It’s the best I’ve ever had.”

“Would you like some more?”

“No, thank you.”

“I thought you liked it.”

“I did – I mean I do. It’s just that I think we should save it in case someone else wants some.”

“There’s just the two of us here.”

“I know, but what if someone comes over, then what?

“No one is coming over.”

“I’d rather not risk it. Besides, I’m full. I couldn’t eat another bite.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m stuffed.”

“That’s too bad because I baked a pie.”

“Really? Well, maybe I have room for a small piece. Do we have any ice cream?”

Most conversations involve a question-and-answer period. Usually occurring at the beginning, this exchange can take many forms – from the unremarkable (“Some weather we’ve been having, huh?”) to the unwelcome (“What happened to your hair?”)

Sometimes the questions are part of a quest for allies in a battle where one is dragging the other down a path of enlightenment: “Don’t you agree that instead of always raising taxes we can solve this budget crisis by exercising a little fiscal constraint?”

In my experience it’s the follow-up, or the question behind the question, that can open a door or expose a truth. Several years ago I met Larry Werner, an editor for the Star Tribune. During our conversation he asked me what I did. After I stated my occupation, this seasoned journalist posed a life-changing, thought provoking second question:

“What else do you do?”

After I stumbled and hesitated I said, “I like to write.”

Then he told me to send him some of my writing. That one question gave me the push I needed to do what I always wanted. But without a question from a veteran newspaper man I may still be dreaming.

For a long time I knew that I enjoyed writing. But outside of writing a few stories for my kids and some skits for church I never did anything with it. Consequently, I could hardly be considered a writer (there are many who still support this view). I had failed to appreciate a simple truth: To be a writer one must write. If you like something, then show it, express yourself.

A couple months ago we were at my sister-in-law’s when a 2-year-old trapped me with her second question. Like all my nieces, Flora is quite smart, but her ability to reason seems advanced for her age. While listening to a song on her music box she was jumping around, or dancing as she likes to call it.

“Do you like this song?” she asked me.

“Yes I do,” I replied.

“Well you’re not dancing,” she said.

I laughed and said, “You’re right.”

Although she’s not yet able to share her thoughts logically, in Flora’s mind I was being inconsistent. If indeed I liked the song, I should be dancing. So I jumped up and became her dancing partner. Even though I couldn’t tell who was leading and who was following I didn’t step on her.

Typewriter

2010-05-13T20:41:00.001-05:00

My handwriting is beyond illegible; it’s repulsive. Even I don’t like looking at it, and sometimes I can’t even read what I wrote. I gave up writing in cursive a long time ago because chicken scratching is a language only a few can read. So when I write, I print my letters. This works pretty well provided there is a straightedge handy.

My ugly penmanship has been an ever-present obstacle for me. In high school I took a full year of typing to communicate better with the written word. But when computers took over the world I got rid of my electric typewriter.

Lately I have become interested in manual typewriters. I’m talking about the ones that are over 40 years old. Clearly a typewriter, especially a manual one, is slower than a computer and mistakes are not easily corrected.

But manual typewriters also have some advantages: They’re always powered up and ready to go and battery life is never an issue. The printer is always compatible; they don’t crash (unless you throw them out the window). The sound that comes from the metal characters striking the paper, and the little bell reminding me to go to the next line, put me in a literary mood. Plus, I think they look pretty cool.

I now have three manual mid-1960’s typewriters. At my office in town I have a slate-blue and ivory Royal Aristocrat. I bought this from a woman selling her uncle’s typewriter. He had passed away without ever realizing his dream. He had always wanted to write a mystery novel, but he never got around to finishing it. The book is still locked in there somewhere and I intend to use the keys to find it.

In my truck I keep a petite, portable Smith-Corona Corsair. I never use my typewriter when I’m driving. It’s texting the way Mr. Underwood intended: stopped and stationary. The guy I bought it from got it from his parents when he graduated from high school in 1965. He put in it his closet and never used it.

The one I have on my writing desk at home is a beautiful Olympia SM-9 with a script/cursive font. The original receipt, manual and the factory test sheet came with it. On that test sheet Mervin and Rosemary Roberts tried out their new typewriter 45 years ago. Rosemary typed her name and address but it was Mervin’s note to her that told the story. It seems that the typewriter was a gift to Rosemary from Mervin.

“TO MY DEAR WIFE. I hope this meets with your approval. Merve.”

Not exactly a Robert Browning/Elizabeth Barrett-Browning exchange, but I intend to seek Rosemary’s approval as I use Merve’s thoughtful and expensive gift (back then it cost $119 plus tax).

I keep a sheet of paper in them at all times, because I never know when an idea will show up. There’s something enticing about a blank sheet of paper in a typewriter. A typewriter is designed for one thing: to put symbols on a piece of paper. The machine may lay dormant for years, but it is patient. It might need a little oil or a fresh ribbon, and then it’s ready to work, like a draft horse in the barn waiting for spring.

Robert Benchley said, “There two types of people in the world: those who divide people into two types and those that don’t. “ When it comes to written communication, I think there are two types: those who do and those who don’t. I would rather type than put pen to paper.

Hats

2010-05-06T22:49:00.001-05:00

My kids often accuse me of eavesdropping. Can I help it if I have good hearing?

Being an effective listener can be quite entertaining. I once overheard this conversation between an elderly woman and her adult grandson.

“Look,” the woman said as she looked at her grandson’s hands. “Your fingers are just like your grandpa’s – short and stubby. He could do many things with those hands. He could do carpenter, electric, and plumbing.”

“Yeah, grandma,” he said as he turned them over. “These hands wear many hats.”

My hands don’t wear many hats; they don’t even wear that many gloves – maybe two or three different pairs. But to continue with this theme let me say I’m a man of many hats. Some of you might think that I am referring to my multiple roles of being a husband, father, business man and writer(?), but really, I do have many hats.

My interest in hats has gone from just fashion and supporting the local team, to protecting my scalp. I can get sunburned watching the sunrise so I wear hats to hide my head from the ultraviolet rays.

I got a new one recently. Well, actually three new hats. One was a Twins hat. I was going to the new ballpark and I wanted to fit in while warding off mean Mr. Sun.

The second hat I picked up was something to wear during the work week – kind of a dress hat if you will. I don’t think a baseball hat looks right with a sport coat. Although one could argue that since baseball is a sport the hat and coat naturally go together, but on me the combination looks clownish.

When I asked my wife, Rhonda, if she liked my new hat she said, “It has a certain look to it.”

I don’t keep a hat long. Either they get lost, worn out, or I finally realize it certainly looks stupid. I lost one hat to a mower. The wind blew it off my head and into the blades. It never fit the same after that.

The third hat was a replacement for one I lost 30 years ago. It was from H.E. Westerman Lumber Co. I got it when I worked on their crew building pole sheds. It only took a few weeks for them to realize that I was better at hitting my thumbnail than barn nails. Since I had a license to drive a truck they gave me the delivery job at the lumber yard.

Of the many jobs I have had over the years I count that as one of the best. As a 16-year-old it was an ideal summer job. I drove around the countryside listening to the radio with the window down.

A couple weeks ago as I was driving through Montgomery, the home office and original site for Westerman Lumber, I remembered reading that the 120-year-old company was going out of business.

I stopped and introduced myself to the clerk. I told him how sorry I was to hear they were closing, and about the best summer job I ever had. I asked if they had any hats for sale. He picked up the phone and in a few minutes a woman brought one out. She handed it to me and when I asked how much, the clerk said I could have it.

On my way home, I turned on the radio and rolled down the window. Putting on my new hat I drove home. I wasn’t sixteen again, but I did feel carefree. The hat fit like a glove.

May 1st

2010-04-29T21:46:00.000-05:00

I opened my office May 1st, 1985. For those of you who struggle with math that was 25 years ago. Good grief that sounds like a long time ago.

No cards have been sent and no party is planned, so please don’t interpret this as a sideways attempt to invite well-wishes. In 25 years a person can amass quite a list of stories. So please allow me to use this space and share some of them with you.

With my first office I shared a lobby with Dr. Jack Hobday. Besides being a skilled Chiropractor; Dr. Hobday is one of the finest men I have ever met. I still see him from time to time.

As is often the case in my business, people will drop in without an appointment. One day a man walked in my office and sat in a chair across the desk from me.

“What would you like to talk about?” I asked him.

“I’m having a little trouble with my neck,” he replied while grimacing and grabbing his neck.

“Me too,” I said as I stood up. “Should we go see if Dr. Hobday is free?”

One afternoon a woman walked in and sat down in the same chair (apparently a running gag).

While leaning forward she placed her hands on the desk and said to me, “How do my eyes look to you?”

At first I thought it was a set-up, and then it dawned on me: She was there to see Dr. Monroe. Dr. Monroe, an optometrist, had been the previous tenant.

My last story revolving around the desk chairs literally revolved around the desk chairs. Occasionally I will greet a customer in the lobby and then walk them back to my office. Without ever spelling it out, people usually allow me to sit behind the desk and they sit on the other side.

Except one time this guy walked around to the back of the desk and sat in my chair. I like to have fun too, so I sat in his chair: I smiled at him with a knowing kind of grin. He just stared back at me, as if waiting me for to say something. I chuckled a little. He stared back. I leaned back and laughed. He stared.

Finally I got up and said, “You know, it might work better if we changed seats.”

He shrugged his shoulders and got out of my chair. The rest of our meeting remained awkward. To this day I don’t know if he made a mistake in choosing a chair, or if he was a comedic genius.

Making house calls is part of the job. One particular house had a dog the size of a giant wolf. When I got out of my truck the dog was barking ferociously, but there was a woman standing on the front steps so naturally I assumed everything was under control.

With my arms in a defensive position to protect my face I asked her, “Is your dog OK?”

“Yes, he’s fine. Just don’t put your arms down,” she said.

With my arms raised I walked as if under arrest. About a year later I was back at the same place. When I pulled into the driveway I didn’t see the monster; but the lady was waiting on the front steps.

“Where’s your dog?” I asked.

“The delivery man ran him over a couple months ago,” she said.

“On the first try?” I asked under my breath.

Thanks for the last 25 years. I don’t know what tomorrow may bring so
stay tuned for episode 26.

Rich poor man

2010-04-22T20:37:00.001-05:00

April 15th, perhaps my least favorite day is gone until next year. With government programs taking a bigger bite each year, soon I won’t be able to afford to work. We need more people who refuse handouts – and that includes all manners of welfare: corporate subsidies or tax-breaks funded by others.

I am willing to pay my fair share (what is fair and who gets to share is up for debate), but I’m still steaming from having to part with what amounts to be a penalty for earning an income. My kind is disappearing though. According to the Tax Policy Center in Washington D.C., 47 percent of the households in this country did not pay any federal income tax this year. It could be because their incomes were too low, or perhaps credits, deductions and exemptions erased any tax obligation.

In a CBS News poll released April 11th of this year, 50 percent of Americans think the amount they pay in taxes is fair. Let me use sloppy math and suggest that 47 percent is close to 50 percent. The number of people who pay no federal income tax is about the same number as those who think the amount of taxes they pay is fair. That sounds about right – if you don’t have to pay to get the benefits it probably seems fair.

Just like the ABC’s, it seems so elementary – this country needs its attitude adjusted, beliefs balanced and convictions calibrated. For without a new vision, those paying taxes will soon be outnumbered by those getting the benefits. The minority will be supporting the majority, and a country following that trend can not sustain itself.

Those that benefit from a benevolent government occupy both ends of the economic scale with the middle class holding up both of them. But this is not to suggest that all wealthy or all poor are comfortable in receiving handouts.

Even though I cannot recall his name there is a man I will never forget. Although it’s probably not his real name I will call him Rich – as in rich poor man.

It was back in the early years of my job – “the good old days.” My wife, Rhonda, was my secretary (the term administrative assistant was not yet in vogue). She was also my bookkeeper, receptionist and marketing department. One afternoon we had a visitor to our office, which was an uncommon occurrence then. Rich came to inquire about doing business with us. He brought his son (about six-years old or so) with him. During our conversation it became evident this was a poor family; for whatever reason they did not have a lot.

Trying to make a bad situation better, Rhonda started giving the little boy stuff: crayons, coloring books, candy and some pencils. I think eventually she would have given him the office furniture if Rich hadn’t stopped her.

“I know what you’re trying to do and I appreciate it,” he said. “But it’s OK. It’s true we don’t have a lot. But, each of my kids has a bike and a glove. We have enough and we’re happy.”
We talked for a few more minutes and then they walked out with their trinkets. Even though he didn’t buy anything I profited from his visit.

I’ve thought about him often over the years. He had next to nothing yet he expected nothing: no handouts, no spreading of the wealth, and he made no demands. That was over twenty years ago and I wonder where he went. For if guys like Rich don’t come back soon taxes will eat us alive bite by bite.

GPS

2010-04-15T23:27:00.001-05:00

Sometimes when I sit down to write I start going in one direction but end up taking a different path. When this happens I am surprised at where I find myself.

I try not to resist the new direction as it is usually better than the first I had begun. Perhaps if I stuck to an outline I would stick to one road – but that seems too rigid. I want to be open to new ideas, so I follow them to see where they take me.

I actually like to travel that way too. It’s fun to take a new, unexpected route that will get me to the same spot (eventually). I can get turned around easily and will often drive in the wrong direction for a while. In some circles this is known as being lost.

A month or so ago I got a tool (or toy if you’d like) to help me navigate. It’s a GPS instrument. GPS stands for Global Positioning System, but it could stand for Go Places Soon, Get Positively Screwed-up, or Get Passengers Steamed. With information received from satellites this utensil knows where you are and how to get somewhere else.

This is the closest most men are ever going to get to asking directions. In my life I have had my share of people telling me where to go – now I can get it done in 40 different languages, because this gadget can give you directions in a language other than English – just like America. You can be told what to do by a male or female voice. It’s much more annoying when it’s placed in the back seat. For American-style English you can choose from either Jack or Jill. These two come in handy when you get thirsty going up hills.

This little box is full of possibilities. You can select the language to match the ethnic flavor of the restaurant you are going to. I think it would be fun to close my eyes (not while I was driving of course) and pick an arbitrary language. Then, stopping the first person I saw I would hold up the GPS and ask, “Excuse me, I’m lost. Do you speak (Cantonese)?”

This thing is really quite amazing. It displays the posted speed limit along side the rate you are going (my two numbers don’t always match). I suspect that someday we will be ratted out by our electronic devices. Our mouse will point to us in a line-up.

Different settings allow for different scenarios. There is the Eco setting. I think it probably tells you to park your car and walk. Some of the settings will help you avoid heavy traffic and road construction. Other than telling you to forget it and take the bus, it will route you in ways that would never be chosen by humans.

Not too long ago I was taking my family to a wedding in Minneapolis during rush hour. It probably wasn’t the best time to give my new tool a trial run. I had a pretty good idea how to get there but I turned the route choice over to my new traveling companion.

The devilish device took us on Lake Street into the Uptown area of Minneapolis, then on Hennepin Avenue, then onto Interstate Highway 94, off on Third Street and then a quick right on University Avenue where we arrived at our destination on time. It helps to have an adventurous spirit.

I wonder if Robert Frost would have liked this implement. It would have given him many opportunities to travel roads not normally taken.

First Avenue

2010-04-08T22:47:00.002-05:00

When I miss a day or two of reading the newspaper, I set them aside until I can catch up. My unwillingness to just keep going with today’s newspaper and forget about what I missed prevents me from throwing the old unread newspaper away (I mean recycle). So I was a little behind the other day when I picked up the March 26 edition of the Shakopee Valley News.

I don’t know if this was intentional, but all the stories seemed to have a connection. Four stories appeared on the front page with the following headlines: “Proposed median downtown divides,” “More, longer trains coming,” “Waters begin to recede” and “Green light, finally for Hwys. 169/494.” A fifth story had a photo that appeared next to it. It read: “SHAKOPEE IS CHANGE.”

So it seems that you will be able to get out town easier; but if you choose to stay, things may get a little frustrating with the change that is surely coming. The county, with the cooperation of some of Shakopee’s elected officials, seems poised to construct a four-lane divided road on First Avenue between Spencer Street and Marschall Road.

From my reading of the story “Proposed median downtown divides,” by staff writer Shannon Fiecke, it appears that a divided highway may make it more difficult to get to the other side of the road because of a proposed center median. Some business owners believe this would be bad for business.

But according to the article, Scott County Highway Engineer Mitch Rasmussen thinks medians are good for business. He said: “If you don’t feel safe getting in and out of an area, you don’t go there.” But Mr. Rasmussen, if you can’t get there easily, you don’t go there. Why didn’t the chicken cross the road? Because it couldn’t.

City Councilman Steve Clay believes that people rarely change their minds when driving. In the story by Fiecke he is quoted as saying “I would hope that 99.5 percent of people going to a business know they’re going there before they start driving down the road.”

I reject his premise. I think many people (including myself) are spontaneous when making decisions. Voting may be an exception. I would hope that most people know who they are not going to vote for before they get to the ballot box.

An alternative proposal to have a turn lane instead of a median isn’t favored by the county because $150,000 from the state of Minnesota may not be available to build the median at a later date. I think the county, or perhaps the city, maybe both, will be spending that money and more when they discover that neither Bluff Avenue nor Second Avenue are good alternates for moving traffic east and west.

Neither road is open all the way between Spencer Street and Marschall Road; both would need major improvements for them to handle more traffic, and Second Avenue is cut right down the middle by a train track. Putting more cars and truck on these two residential streets looks even worse when you consider that Second Avenue can only be crossed at three of its eight intersections between Spencer Street and Marschall Road.

But wait, there’s more.: From another story, “More, longer trains coming,” by Fiecke in the same edition of the Shakopee Valley News, we learn that soon we could be waiting twice as long with twice as many trains. Plus, they are getting rid of that wonderful, soothing “clickety-clack” sound.

Maybe I’ll just keep a stack of newspapers in the truck to read while I wait to cross the road.

Cabinet Maker

2010-04-02T20:06:00.000-05:00

Among the growing number of things that bother me, cabinet doors and drawers that are left open have a prominent position on the list. So when I noticed a large drawer in the kitchen was waiting to be returned to its proper place, I gave it a nudge. When it didn’t yield to my polite advances I gave it a push. Then, becoming frustrated with its uncooperative nature, I gave it a shove.

When a drawer is new and properly installed it retreats to its cave in silence. As it ages and loses its agility sometimes it makes a squeaky, scraping noise. This particular drawer screamed loudly as it jumped off its tracks and lay askew.

“I’ve killed it,” I said to myself.

“What happened? “ Rhonda, my wife, asked as she entered the room.

“Nothing,” I said. “This drawer just needs a minor adjustment. I’ll take care of it.”

My wife grew up in a house where her dad never took his car in to a garage (other than his own), never had a repair man to the house, never needed a plumber or an electrician to take care of a problem. Wayne was a cabinet maker. He could fix darn near anything. He's gone now or I would have called him. One time he talked me through a water softener repair over the phone.

“I’m sure you can do it,” Rhonda said. Imagine how disappointed she must be.

Al Sicherman, a retired columnist for the Star Tribune, said that ”any such project, no matter how apparently simple will ultimately require three trips to the hardware store.” It’s a good thing I like driving, because most every project I begin (notice I did not say finish) has me on the road several times before I surrender to the superior forces of the physical laws.

Upon inspecting the drawer I saw that the one of the rails was bent and broken. I brought it down to Jay Picha. Jay is a cabinet maker. He can fix darn near anything. I asked him if he thought I could find a match for the wrecked rail.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said rather casually. “Bring the whole drawer down.”

With my second trip to Picha’s Cabinet Shop (not a hardware store, but close enough), Jay gave me a new set of rails and a lesson on how to install them. He even had me take them apart and put them back together to prove to him (or maybe it was me) that I could do it.

When I got home five minutes later, the rails looked different, more complicated. It took me an embarrassingly long amount of time to figure out to start the show.

For my first trick I decided to attach one of the rails to the interior wall of the cabinet. The drawer was designed to hold sheet metal used for baking cookies and building machine sheds – so it was kind of tall and long, but not very wide, so I was unable to fit the drill, my hand, arm and shoulder in the cabinet at the same time.

I went to the hardware store (third trip that day) for a drill made for just such an occasion: It’s got this right angle that works in tight spots.

Two hours later the rails were on and the drawer was back in its spot. But because of some unexplained phenomenon, the drawer doesn’t close completely at the top no matter how much I plead with it. That’s OK. I’ll try not to let it bother me. Stupid drawer.

Census

2010-03-25T21:50:00.001-05:00

Like just about every other home in the U.S. the census came in the mail the other day. Those nosy folks at the bureau have made it easy to stand up and be counted. It’s not like the old days when Quirinius was governor of Syria. I didn’t have to travel by donkey to the home of my ancestors.

The single sheet message from the Director of the U.S. Census Bureau (that sounds like a good job) states in bold print: “Please complete and mail back the enclosed census form today.” I got mine on the 16th of March. They wanted me to fill it out with information pertaining to April 1st, which on my calendar is about two weeks in the future.

On the first page of the 2010 Census it states, “The Census must count every person living in the United States on April 1st, 2010.” This reference date is used no less than 15 more times throughout the form. So unless you are a time traveler visiting from tomorrow land you cannot, with any certainty, answer about a future event. Yet, the Census Bureau requires us to do that very thing.

To verify this nonsense I went to the official web site: www.2010.census.gov. There it stated that, “Households should complete and mail back their forms upon receipt. Ideally, all forms will be returned by Census Day on April 1, 2010.” Census Day? Are gifts or flowers expected?

Any day prior to April 1st where this form was completed and returned makes any and all answers a bunch of good guesses at best. You see, they want you to answer the questions from the perspective of April 1st. But all you can do is hope, Lord willing (as my Dad used to say), that your answers (and life) will be the same on April 1st as they are on the day you did your civic duty. The fast forward calendar treatment makes some questions even more senseless than others.

The first question asks, “How many people were living or staying in this house, apartment, or mobile home on April 1, 2010?” Then to make sure you weren’t lying or forgot to imagine that someone might be there by the 1st, they repeat it in Question 2: “Were there any additional people staying here April 1, 2010 that you did not include in Question 1?”

Then to help you along they give you five possible answers, (I have included my five possible comments).

“Children, such as newborn babies or foster children,” (oh, you mean the kids. Are they people too?).

“Relatives, such as adult children, cousins, or in-laws,” (how would Gomez Addams have answered this?).

“Nonrelatives, such as roommates or live-in baby sitters,” (I think Fraulein Maria came uncomfortably close to satisfying both of these non-relative subsets before she became Mrs. Captain Von Trapp. But that was Austria – so never mind.).

“People staying here temporarily,” (how temporary – an hour, two days, out the door April 2nd? It doesn’t say.).

“No additional people," (that’s it, now you’re catching on. Please refer to Question #1 if you need further clarification.).

I’ll let the bureau handle the race and national origin questions. Anything I say would only make it worse. Why can’t they ask something simple and straight forward like: Ginger or Mary Ann, or not counting winter, which is your favorite season?

In these days the federal government issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire United States. This census took place while Pawlenty was governor of Minnesota. And everyone took out his own pen to register.

Counting

2010-03-18T20:29:00.001-05:00

“19 and Counting,” is one of the many reality TV shows that have taken over the airwaves. This show follows around Jim and Michelle Duggar and their 19 children.

In one episode Jim was trying to lose some weight. One thing he talked about stuck in my mind: It doesn’t sound bad if you only gain one pound per year, but over 25 years that adds up.

It got me thinking about my own gravity-pulling factor. If I am able to stick to the Duggar diet, by the time I’m 100 years old I’ll weigh almost 250 lbs. With the government’s focus on obesity that much personal mass may be unacceptable.

The First Lady, Michelle Obama, is leading a campaign against childhood obesity called “Let’s Move.” I would be happy to help the Obama family move out of the White House and back to Chicago, but I don’t think that’s what she’s talking about.

Using her own daughters as examples, Mrs. Obama said their family pediatrician “cautioned me that I had to look at my children’s BMI (body mass index).” TMI (too much information), Mrs. Obama.

But this is not the first time the Obama’s have gone public with their daughter’s weight. In November 2008, Barack Obama casually mentioned that his 11-year old daughter, Malia, had become “a little chubby”. I’m sure the Obama girls will turn out just fine without any professional therapy. After all, what girl doesn’t secretly wish that her parents would publicly discuss her weight?

If the President and his wife feel so free to criticize their daughter’s health, they will most certainly come after you and me next – not that I consider you obese, but I don’t think their girls had any weight problems either.

Combine this with what Nancy Pelosi, the Speaker of The House, may have meant when referring to the health care bill. “It’s about diet, not diabetes.” From the sounds of this our daily diet decisions may soon be made by the government. An innocent question to your neighbor “May I borrow a cup of sugar?” may get you turned over to the calorie cops. I think I may know how to head this off though.

If the president, under pressure from his family, quit smoking maybe he’d start eating like crazy. Nothing would be off-limits, Mountain Dew, Twinkies, Girl Scout cookies, even candy. Maybe he’d put on a few extra pounds and start to relax a little; and if he wanted to sneak a cigarette once in awhile, that would be all right.

I really don’t have a problem with President Obama smoking though. In fact, borrowing the words from Old Lodge Skins, the Indian Chief in the movie “Little Big Man”: “I would like to meet this man and smoke with him.” Although I don’t smoke, I would if I could sit down with the president. I bet he smokes Kools. As long I am living in this fantasy world, let me take it one step further: it would be fun to have a beer with him and just talk – my treat (maybe I could deduct it from my taxes).

During the course of our conversation I would tell the President that although I appreciate his concern for the citizens of this country, the American people can thrive without government interference. Independence – it’s what this country was founded on. Whether someone smokes or eats too much is their business (or their parents’ or guardians’) and not the government’s.

I’ll keep track of my own weight if you don’t mind; 190 pounds and counting. But hey, I’m working on it.

Facebook

2010-03-11T21:07:00.001-06:00

About two weeks ago I broke down and joined Facebook to make friends and advance my literary career.

I had resisted, as I do with anything that looks to be a passing fad. But, when my cousin, Sheri, who is an editor and writer suggested it, I decided to give in and give it a try. Sheri was also the one who convinced me to start a blog so the seven or eight people who like my writing can go back for a second look.

Soon after joining this cyber community I started getting “requests,” from people to be their “friend.” This should not be interpreted as an indication that I am friend material; my seven or eight acquaintances would argue otherwise. Rather, it’s just the way this social network stuff works. Some people will seek a connection only with people they know; others ask anyone with a name. No money changes hands, there is no handshake, no physical contact, and unless photos are available you may not even know what the other person looks like.

Most of the people who asked me to be their Facebook friend I knew; for some I had to consult my copy of “Who’s Who” to see who’s that.

Facebook friends interact with one other through the Internet. Thoughts and feelings are shared on-line such as “I scored 16,726 points playing “clock-buster,” or “My husband just got sick and threw up in the pan of sauerkraut.” Nice. Thanks for sharing.

This making-friends business is much easier now that it used to be. Today friends can be made with a couple keystrokes. However, pointing and clicking doesn’t guarantee that people will click and connect; it takes more than just logging-on to be friends. But perhaps I am getting too caught up in the meaning of words. Maybe it is that easy.

I could have saved myself a lot of trouble through the years if I had only waited. One summer day in 1971 when I was dragging around the house with nothing to do, my older brother, Dan, made a suggestion.

“John has a younger brother, why don’t you go see what he’s doing?”

John was one of Dan’s good friends. He, along with his brother Jim and the rest of their family, lived on the other side of town – almost two miles away. I didn’t phone him to see if my request would be accepted. I hopped on my bike and made a social call.

Strangely, I remember nothing of the bike ride; I had no feeling of dread or reluctance. But I do remember knocking on Jim’s door.

“Hi, I’m Jerry Kucera. Do you want to be my friend?” I asked.

With only the slightest hesitation – hopefully out of surprise and not of pity – Jim answered, “Sure, you want to come in?”

We did become friends; still are. I would make that same trip across town about a million times until we both left for college. We would play Risk and Stratego (of which I lost every game). The neighbors had an outdoor basketball court they let us use. The vacant lot next to his house became our football field. Jim even made up a game where a Wiffle football was thrown on the roof of his house; we called it “The Game.” One summer night we even harbored a fugitive from the law in a tent in his backyard.

Today, Jim lives about 30 miles away. I don’t think he’s on Facebook, but rather than check I think I‘ll call and ask him. I would bike over there, but it’s just too far.

Serpentine Oil

2010-03-04T21:44:00.002-06:00

It might be too early to celebrate, but it seems I’m about to come into some real money. I’d rather not say how much until things are more settled, but the inheritance, if you can call it that, looks to be rather large.

I got an email from some barrister (I guess that’s a foreign name for a lawyer), a guy by the name of Khan R. Tist. I think he must be from another country as his English is not very good.

Apparently this Mr. Tist is the personal attorney for one of my long-lost relatives. I guess they were in killed in an auto accident back in 2005. I didn’t know them so it’s hard to get too worked about it, still it was a tragedy. My (cousin?), Leo, his wife and three kids all taken just like that. Oh, those poor people.

Anyway, it seems that they had no other family so this lawyer somehow finds me and makes contact. It’s lucky for me that he found me, but unlucky for my cousin and his family that it had to come to this. So from reading the letter I find out that Leo worked for some oil company – Serpentine Oil (must be a foreign concern). From the sounds of things he made quite a bit of money with them.

Frankly, I’m not really surprised as that side of the family has always done pretty well for themselves. I seem to remember hearing about Leo and his good fortune. From what I can tell everything looks to be on the up and up. I have a pretty good head for this kind of thing, and I am generally a good judge of character plus, it’s family. What’s a guy supposed to do in a time like this? I can’t turn my back on them now after they’re dead.

I just wish I had got a chance to get to know them. The lawyer, Khan R. Tist, gave me his contact information in his email; he seems very nice. I think I’ll call him soon, but before I do I think I will gather up my Social Security number and bank account numbers (checking and savings), just in case he needs them for some legal reason. Hopefully I can get this taken care of soon. I could even fly there – wherever that is. I like to travel, so why not?

To be on the safe side, though, I probably should bring my checkbook and my credit cards in case some cash advance is needed to move things along, you know maybe to “grease the wheels,” a little. I’ll have to see how the local customs are though. It could even save time if I were to give Khan (listen to me – I talk like we’re old friends)my credit card numbers (including expiration date), security code (that little number on the back) because sometimes they ask for that to make sure it’s really you, and any corresponding PINs to make sure there are no problems or delays.

I’m not trying to brag about this. I mean poor Leo and his family are dead for heaven’s sake. I’m just trying to do the right thing and help out. The nice thing is that Khan “guarantees that this will be executed under a legitimate arrangement that will protect you [me] from any breach of the law.” That’s a good thing, because once you have that kind of guarantee what could go wrong?

I hope it’s not a scam. I’d hate to have to cancel the party; I already ordered the cake.

Old-time Music

2010-02-25T21:51:00.002-06:00

I own only one polka music CD, a signed copy. But whenever I hear polka music I will stop to listen and that includes Lawrence Welk. I honestly don’t know what I like about it. It may be the memories it triggers, the simple beat, or the happy, light-hearted feeling it creates in me.

There are three times when polka music seems very fitting. One is on Sunday. My folks used to take the five of us out for a Sunday drive, while listening to polka music. It typically happened during the three weeks of warm weather we get here in Minnesota. We would drive around the country listening to Mom and Dad talk about who married who from where, where they were building and what they were doing now. So now when I am driving on Sunday I will turn on KCHK and listen to “old-time music.” Sometimes, I even get the urge to roll-down the window and gossip.

I also like polka music at a wedding dance, which is becoming a rare sound as the population ages. The third place is at summer festivals. Polka music just seems right at home with the sights and sounds of a fair.

Rhonda and I were walking around the Scott County Fair one year (maybe last year, maybe the year before – I don’t know) when we were drawn into the beer garden by the sound of old-time music. Playing in the back of the tent was a three-piece band: drums, tuba and a concertina.

I immediately recognized the concertina player, the leader of the band - Ernie Stumpf. I used to hang around his house waiting for his daughter, Sue, to get ready before I took her to a movie. She introduced me to Led Zeppelin, and I’m pretty sure she still has one of their albums I had bought, which I then lent to her.

It was 1976 or 1977; I was 17. Ernie was a husband and father, worked a full-time job, farmed, and then somehow found time to learn how to play the concertina, a complicated musical instrument.

A concertina has dozens of buttons or keys that are alternately pressed and released by the fingers on each hand while the squeeze box is pushed and pulled. He had a little set-up in the basement: a couple chairs, a drum and his concertina. Here was where his musical career began.

After the band finished playing the song I walked up and introduced myself. A smile that said “I remember you” lit up his face.

“I never would have recognized you,” he said.

He hadn’t changed – although, I was quite sure I had. I was no longer a teenager; in fact I am older now than he was in 1977. His age was hidden within him. He still had his full head of hair and the same genuine smile.

During the next break he came over and sat at our table, which was only fitting as I had sat at his table many times. He and I talked over a beer, something that would have been frowned upon in 1977. He spoke about the band and how most of the time he plays to Wisconsin crowds. Some of his former band members have passed away – but he keeps playing.

Then his break was over, and he got back to his music. During the next break I bought one of his CD’s – even had him sign it. I think I made a good trade – a Led Zeppelin album for one of his CDs. It’s even signed by the leader of the band.

Darn Ice

2010-02-18T21:39:00.001-06:00

Sometimes when I’m out rearranging the snow I get an urge to package up some of the excess and send it to one of my friends who usually don’t get a chance to frolic, because they live in a part of the country where 40 above is considered cold.

But now thanks to global warming, or climate change, or whatever the phrase of the day is, most everyone gets the chance to dance in the snow.

If it’s true that misery loves company, then those of us in the north have never been happier. For across the country people are getting pounded by the white fluff and stuff. So when our nation’s capital gets buried repeatedly by snow I start singing, for when Congress can’t get to work I am delighted. It’s time that the snow job they have been giving us is returned. The snow, having no political affiliation, falls equally on conservatives and constitutionalists, liberals and libertarians, and progressives and populists.

I try to do my part in spreading the misery around. For instance, instead of raking leaves in the fall I chop them up with the mower and let the wind carry them to the neighbors. This year I have adapted this practice for snow removal with the purchase of a snow blower. In the past I have pulled, pushed and prodded the snow with a plow, and then carried it by the bucketful where it was then heaped upon itself into large piles.

My version of Mary Anne, Mike Mulligan’s steam shovel, is a small tractor with a bucket and a back blade or plow. For the purposes of this story let’s refer to it as Ginger. After I had complained to my friend Mark about the late nights spent moving snow, he, who has an opinion on most matters, suggested I get a snow blower for Ginger.

Either he didn’t mention the part about needing a cab for the tractor, or I was day-dreaming about throwing snow at the neighbors and didn’t hear him.

The thing about blowing snow is that there is always the wind factor to contend with, yet they fail to mention this in the owner’s manual. There is a constant need to adjust the engine speed, the angle, as well as the direction of the chute to avoid wearing most of the snow. I think my coveralls must have a magnetic quality about them as everything sticks to them, especially the snow.

If I had a corncob pipe and a button nose, and my eyes were a shade closer to the color of coal you would think that Frosty had indeed come back. There is nothing quite like the feeling of a face full of cold snow to make a guy wish for spring. A face mask can only do so much.

It’s a good thing that February is so short because it feels so long. Now this year, because of the unfortunate mix of moisture and temperature, we can curse winter even more: ice dam. Having avoided raking leaves in the fall, I am now forced to rake the snow off my roof because of those darn ice dams. Holding a 50 ft. metal pole in the air is just asking for trouble but I do the best I can which is not good enough. So I climb on the roof and start shoveling.

However, roof shoveling is not recommended because it can break shingles and shin bones when you fall off the roof and hit the ground. I guess I can enjoy the view while I wait for 40 above.

Keith

2010-02-11T21:48:00.000-06:00

The first time I met Keith was when I needed a new sports coat. The ones I had were looking a little tired. As I walked into the clothing store he approached me with a smile.

“Is there anything I can help you find today?” he asked.

I usually gave the “no thanks, just looking,” as an automatic reply until I had found something that interested me. But there was something about him that didn’t make that a fitting response to his polite question.

“Yes, I need a new sport coat,” I answered. “I’m a 42 long.” I gave him my size as I thought this would position me as a man who knows who he is, or at least what size he is.

“You’re a 44 regular,” he said without leaving my eyes.

“No, I’m a 42 long,” I argued.

“Just a minute,” he said. He then walked over to a coat rack and quickly grabbed two coats. “Here, try these on.”

I did as I was told, first one, then the other.

“Which one do you like?” he asked.

One was noticeably more comfortable: plenty of room in the shoulders without being sloppy, it closed nicely across my chest, and the arm length was just right.

“This one,” I said as I looked in the mirror.

“That’s a 44 regular,” he said with a smile. “From now on let me worry about the size.”

When you lose an argument about yourself that quickly and that decisively it puts you in a vulnerable position. I was now ready for the big push – the high pressure sale that would surely come. It never did.

Keith had me take off that coat and then I followed him over to the rack where he picked out two others for me to try on (both 44 regular).

I actually liked them both, but Keith explained why the second coat was a better buy.

“It’s a beautiful coat,” he said.

For the next several years I let him restock my wardrobe. Before I gave Keith control my clothes looked like they had been handed down from Dad when he no longer considered them fashionable. The days of me dressing like an old man were packed up and given to the missions.

Keith has been helping men look better for over forty-five years, sometimes working for others, sometimes owning his own store. For the past nine years you could find Keith talking to one of his friends at Bill’s Toggery in Shakopee.

Some people call them customers; to Keith they are his friends. Everyone needs someone like Keith in their lives, someone who will be honest with them. Honest enough to tell them that a shirt and pants combination, chosen that morning in the dark, clashed with each other. I even learned that some styles had their own names, such as “South Dakota rural.”

Keith would tell me what I didn’t need as often as he would say what shirt would go with the coat he sold me six months ago. This trick was accomplished while the coat hung in my closet nine miles away.

Now in his early sixties Keith is ready for retirement. He’s worn out shoes and carpeting walking the sales floor; I think he’s ready to sit down. Sometime towards the end of this month he will ring up his last sale from one of his many friends.

As he hands the happy man (or woman shopping for her husband) the purchase Keith will say “I really appreciate the business. Thank you very much.”

No Keith – thank you, and good luck.

Bunco

2010-02-04T21:14:00.001-06:00

In addition to the child-bearing capabilities (and a few other things which will remain unmentioned) I am comfortable in saying that there are many differences between men and women. But, perhaps I am being to general in my beliefs. Allow me to be specific with a brief discussion on the social aspect.

When I get together with some of my friends we will most likely meet somewhere, or maybe sit in front of a TV to watch a game or a movie (switching between the two during commercials and boring parts. We might even throw in a third show). There are guys who get together on a regular basis to play cards. A comfortable number would be about five or six men. Any more than that and things start getting wrecked.

My wife, Rhonda, meets with some of her friends once a month for a game called bunco. It started innocently enough, as these things often do, with an invitation to join a group of women to play a game at someone’s house. One of the regulars was absent so Rhonda was brought in as a substitute. She had so much fun she decided to get some friends together to play at our house one night.

There didn’t seem to be any reason to be concerned. She was just having a few friends over, some food would be included – hopefully enough for me to eat after the guests became distracted with the game. I could watch TV, maybe do a little reading in the comfort of my own home while a few women played quietly in the next room. I was thinking Scrabble or bridge.

Either I hadn’t asked enough questions, or I had tuned out the explanation station when it was broadcast. This is a game where a non-participant feels like the one person in the room who didn’t get the joke. Everyone else is having fun, you just can’t understand why.

Not everyone has heard of bunco. While not excluding men from playing, bunco is more popular with women. As a reluctant observer, I would describe the game as somewhere between Yatzee and all-star wrestling. Almost as if it were part of the game there is a great deal of loud laughter, some hollering and even some aggressive physical activity.

As I understand it - and I don’t really want to understand it - you need about 12 participants to make a good bunco game. Sixteen or even 20 players is an acceptable number. With numbers like that, any sane man would want to be anywhere else.

I have tried to stay upstairs in my bedroom and endure the mayhem. But the noise level becomes unbearable. Even my headphones don’t dim the din.

I try to have my truck out of the yard and on the road a good 15 minutes before the crowd gets there. On these nights I will go and walk around the malls, maybe go to a quiet sports bar and watch whatever is playing on one of the 42 TVs. I may sit in a bookstore or coffee shop. Any destination is suitable as an alternative to being home on bunco night.

But, as the night wears on, places start closing shop and I get tired – so I head home. I pull into the driveway (when there is room) and try to negotiate my way into the garage. Then, resisting the temptation to lean a ladder against the house, I walk through the door and decline invitations to join the game.

As a man there are some things I am not wired to do.

Procedure

2010-01-28T22:40:00.000-06:00

A couple months ago my doctor suggested I go see a specialist for a “simple procedure.” The last time I went in for a “simple procedure,” was July of 1966.

My sister, Colleen, and I were duped into going in for tonsillectomies with the promise of all the ice-cream we could eat. Either the hospital was running a two for one special, or my folks needed her to baby sit me as they did not trust me to be alone. I remember we shared one black & white TV, although we each had a remote control attached to our beds. We flipped between a Gemini rocket launch and cartoons. Back in those days patients usually stayed at least one night in the hospital after an operation – none of the grab and go out-patient stuff we have today.

The procedure that I was told to schedule is decidedly different than a tonsillectomy. The doctor approaches the situation from an entirely different direction. Some people are too embarrassed to admit ever having this done. I’m not, but I’m not sure if I want to spell it out too clearly either.

To maintain some level of decorum and decency allow me to just hint at the name of the medical technique. Let’s say two friends are sitting around having a nice conversation.

The first guy asks “So what’s new with you?”

The second guy answers, “I had a colonoscopy.”

The second guy is me.

The few days before the scheduled day life started to get weird. Some of my favorite foods were prohibited which threw me completely off my feed. Normally a casual eater, I became obsessed with food and drink. Before I consumed anything I had to check the chart to be sure that I was staying true to the diet.

The thirty-six hours leading up to the appointed time was the toughest part; no solid food at all. Jello and clear liquids only, and then to really test my mettle I had to guzzle 64 oz. (8 oz. every 15 minutes) of an ugly-flavored mixture.

At the clinic I was given two gowns to wear – one for the front and one for the back. I was sternly reminded to leave my shoes and socks on which violated every accepted rule of fashion. The operating room had two large flat-screen TVs, much like a well appointed lounge. Although one of the TVs was positioned for my viewing pleasure no remote control was offered. They were playing only one program, and I, or at least part of me, was the featured attraction.

After the session was completed a nurse came into the room to tell me that even though I was exhausted, I still had to exhaust some of the excess air that had been forced into my body. Wanting to make sure that I had understood her correctly, I asked where she wanted me to do this. When she replied, “right here,” I was relieved to see that a thin cloth curtain would provide the privacy needed between me and the listening public.

To be truthful, the actual procedure is not a big deal. Dr. Colonoscoper (not his
real name) was a gentleman and a professional. It’s the preparation that I found almost intolerable. That’s the way it usually is though – the fretting, worrying and anticipation is often worse than the actual event.

Much has changed since 1966. The color TV had a better picture but there was no remote control or overnight stay. I still can’t be trusted to be alone though. Adam, my daughter’s boyfriend, had to bring me home.

Legacy

2010-01-21T22:10:00.001-06:00

Little kids often get asked, “What do you want to be when you grow-up?” Men my age ask themselves a different question. “What do I want to leave behind, what do I want to be remembered for? What will be my legacy? Something that is uniquely mine, that which will outlive me.”

I first became aware of this strong desire after watching a “Little House on the Prairie,” episode. I know, not exactly “Masterpiece Theater,” but I learned a lot from it. Charles Ingalls, having become aware of his own mortality, wanted desperately to leave something behind, something that would tell people he had lived – something that would last. He had watched his friend die, and then two weeks later there was no evidence that his friend had ever walked the earth.

“My God, I don’t want that to happen to me,” Charles said to his wife, Caroline.

No man wants that. Charles built tables and burnt his initials on them. He hoped they would be his legacy. In the end, it was his children who fulfilled that dream. He lives on in his daughter’s books.

One measure of a legacy left behind is how a man is looked upon when he’s gone. A good place to witness this first hand is at a wake or funeral. I am not trying to turn the grieving process into a side-show, but this is where society and culture has deemed we demonstrate our love, affection and respect for the departed and their family. We owe them at least that much, so we pay our respects.

A couple weeks ago I said good-bye to Dick Mullin. I was deeply moved by what I saw at his wake. Dick had owned a trucking company – black Peterbilts pulling end-dump trailers. Almost fifty years ago he had started with one dump truck. During its peak the company had amassed 65 truck and trailer units. Dick built his company with hard-work and determination in a style that was his own. He expected everyone to work as hard he did.

In front of the funeral home were two Peterbilt tractors which had been polished and shined to perfection by his drivers. These trucks had been backed in and angled towards each other. They were parked as an honor guard – sentinels to the man whose name they displayed on their doors.

If stationary trucks can be moving – moving in a way that stops a man to look – then these were. As I stood outside admiring them a lone truck cutting through the darkness on the highway sounded its air horn several times in salute.

When I regained my composure I stepped inside the funeral home. The visitation line wound and stretched the length of the building. I felt a little out of place, for standing in line were dozens of men wearing the uniform of a truck driver: boots, jeans and big belt-buckles. These men, tough guys by any definition, were patiently standing in line to say good-bye. Depending upon the man, Dick had been their employer, their competitor, their contractor or their customer. But to all of them, he had been their friend.

I don’t know if there are any tables with Dick’s initials stamped on them, but you don’t have to look too hard for the Big M on his tractors and trailers. Dick Mullin’s legacy is his company, his reputation and his family. Dick built a company that is now run by his son Joe, and may one day be run by Joe’s sons. That’s a legacy that will last.

All men should be so lucky.

Season's Greetings

2010-01-14T19:08:00.002-06:00

Some (many?) people think I’m a kook. I certainly have qualities and characteristics that could earn me that label. That’s O.K., I don’t mind – I’m just trying to improve the world, or at least my world.

Let me address the exchange of customary greetings, seasonal first, and if space allows, the other kind. “How was your Christmas?” I never know quite what to say when asked this. What do they mean, what information are they looking for? I think it’s a much harder question to answer than the simple “how are you?”

To answer “fine,” to the Christmas question seems to suggest a problem. You can read the guesses in the frowns of the interrogators. “Is it your family?” “Yes, the holidays can be tough on a family’s budget.” “Did you goof-up your wife’s gift again?”

No one is supposed to say “fine.” The correct response to “how was your Christmas?” is “very nice thank you, how about yours?”

There are of course the well-intentioned who truly want an answer. With that bunch there is always a follow-up inquiry which begins a series about family, food, travel, holly and the ivy.

I’m sorry - I usually am not that interested. I say usually to allow for exceptions – you see there might be somebody reading this with whom I have had this conversation, so for you, please know that I care very much about your Christmas experiences. You know I do.

I was talking about this with my friend Lance the other day. Is it a genuine question that demands an answer or is it a quick polite exchange to note the passing of the holiday? Is it fluff and filler or a conversation starter? Whether I am over-analyzing it is up for discussion; but you can be sure that I am offending someone. Sorry, I think my own problem with the question is I never really know what direction to take the answer.

Let’s start with the materialistic angle. An alternative question gets more to the point: “Was Santa good to you?” But some folks would rather ignore the jolly saint so they ask “did you have a nice Christmas?” when what they really mean is “tell me about your presents.” So, do I go down the list of the things I got, pausing for effect on the really cool stuff? Or are they looking for “very nice thank you, how about yours?”

Perhaps the question is asked from a religious or spiritual perspective. But to make that assumption and answer with a carol by carol recounting of “midnight mass,” or a recitation of “The Christmas Story,” may sound kind of preachy, and could risk offending people who think Christmas has just “got too religious.”

Maybe it’s the social aspect. They may be looking for details regarding the parties I attended (one), the friends who came over to “see the tree,” (four), or the places we traveled for Christmas (one). Again, I must tell you I just never know what to say.

The weather was fine, the food was good, I got some stuff, saw some friends and family, went to church (twice, I think), did some last minute shopping, listened to my favorite Vince Guaraldi CD. Yeah it was nice. How about you?

Well anyway it’s the middle of January and I probably (hopefully) won’t hear that question again for another year. So in the meantime let me address another greeting that gets to me. When I am asked “how’s Jerry,” I stutter and stumble. Why are they addressing me in the third person? Do they think I’m crazy?

Harold

2010-01-07T18:33:00.001-06:00

I made myself a cup of tea the other day. Since I’m not starving I can stave off false hunger with some tea. But, to make it more interesting I will add some honey to the mix. I learned this trick from a neighbor a long time ago. He added it to his coffee – I, to my tea. It’s close enough to stir up a memory.

Some time ago (my new favorite phrase for a time reference as I struggle with the whole space/time continuum) Rhonda and I, along with our baby girl, moved to Prior Lake. Living next door to our new home were Harold and Opal. We quickly became good friends and spent many hours at their house playing cards.

Opal was always kind with time to share. But it was Harold who I was drawn to.

Other than an invisible property line, Harold and I had very little in common. He was a member of the Great Depression/WWII generation. I was born during the baby-boom and was just starting out with a young family. His children, already grown, were now bringing his grandchildren to visit. Whereas pliers and hammers usually pinched or smashed my fingers, tools were puppets in Harold’s large hands. When driving a screw his wrist rotated with a machine-like movement. Through his tolerance and my fascination, we became friends.

Men like Harold usually have a workshop on the premises. Harold’s was in a space beneath the garage. His shop opened up to the backyard which overlooked an encroaching swamp.

Sometimes I felt that I was playing the part of Dennis to his Mr. Wilson, but Harold never complained. I would usually find Harold working in his shop. We would go through this little ritual. I would knock and he would invite me in and offer me a chair near his Steelcase desk. Always the polite host he would then offer me a beer. The first time was on a warm July afternoon. When I accepted I expected him to go in the house and grab one from the refrigerator. Instead, he reached underneath his desk and pulled a Pabst right from the box.

“This is the way they drink beer in Europe - room temperature,” he said as he handed me the beer.

I nodded in agreement to this cultural lesson, but wondered to myself “What if the temperature of the room is 75?”

Usually Harold’s best friend Tubby sat with us. Tubby didn’t say much – most dogs are like that. Nevertheless, Harold spoke to him as if Tubby understood every word. One time Harold felt compelled to explain Tubby’s sullen mood.

“He’s mad at me. I left him in the shop all night – forgot to let him out. He won’t even look at me.” Then as if to prove the point he called his name, “Tubby!” The old dog would not even lift his head to look at Harold. Tubby was pouting.

As a young man Harold was a cook in a logging camp. After careers as an electrician and a plumber (each lasting about twenty years) Harold acquired all the necessaries required to become a locksmith. He even outfitted a van as a mobile shop. Most men look at retirement as an opportunity to sit back and open the mail. Harold saw it as a chance to learn a new skill.

I learned a lot from Harold. But the one thing I will treasure most is the taste of honey in a hot drink. It may not be how they do it in Europe – but it’s the way Harold did it.

New Year's Eve

2009-12-31T16:29:00.001-06:00

The year is almost over and radio stations are playing the top 2,009 songs. We get an opportunity to fool ourselves for a few weeks – a few months for the really committed ones. We do this by making public proclamations regarding matters normally discussed only with family and friends. Most everyone feels it would be easier to change someone else other than themselves, but that’s what marriage is for.

New Year’s resolutions know no limits, only that you promise to do more of what is good and less of what is bad. No one resolves to become obese, start smoking, or to give into violent mood swings. I suspect that most people are sincere in their belief that they can change for the better – it certainly beats admitting they are doomed to hanging on to habits that have taken years to develop.

In the past I made resolutions for the New Year under duress. I had not thought of any thing ahead of time and didn’t want to appear smug when quizzed about empty promises. This was more to do with my unwillingness to set goals than my candidacy for sainthood – which, according to good authority, is not forthcoming.

Now instead of telling people I plan on living as a monk for the next year, I explain that because I am unsure where to begin I do nothing. I then ask for their suggestions as to what they would like to see changed in me for the New Year. Then I return the favor. This exchange can turn rather heated even among the closest friends.

But, for most people January 1 allows them to improve their life, or at least themselves. People resolve to do this, and not do that. This time of year is a warm-up for the Lenten season. Lots of people “give up,” some trait, habit or vice for Lent. I want to believe that the success rate is higher during Lent as God has been made a party to the contract.

Resolutions are considered to be more serious if they are made public. Supposedly if more people are made aware of your promises you are more likely to keep them. I think if more people are nosing their way into your life you are more likely to get crabby.

To test that theory I am willing to go public with my resolutions for the new year. Some of these I have no intention of keeping and I only include them as a way to honor the tradition of trying to improve myself, at least for a few weeks.

I resolve to:
• Lose more hair
• Improve my memory.
• Lose weight and not find it again – my friend Chuck says that is the problem with most diets. I say the problem with most diets is that you can’t eat as much as you want of the things you like.
• Watch better quality TV. This of course means I will watch less TV.
• Read more (especially The Bible).
• Restore my brother’s VW Bug (which I’m sure will cause me to swear more).
• Swear less (the Bug restoration may take longer this way).
• Improve my memory. I know – that was poor.
• Write my columns any other time than right before the deadline.
• Pray more – other than in church and at meal time.

The new year gives us a chance to make a choice: improve or implode. If you don’t change anything – the record skips and replays your mistakes. But if things couldn’t possibly get any better, dance the night away.

Letter to Santa

2009-12-23T22:20:00.002-06:00

Dear Santa,

How have you been? I’m sorry it’s been such a long time (like maybe three or four decades) since I wrote you. I feel like we’ve lost touch. It’s my fault.

I bought into the “it’s your parents,” myth a long time ago. Both my parents are gone now, and yet I still get stuff in my stocking (which is hung by the chimney with care). I’m sorry I ever stopped believing in you. Please forgive me.

By turning our backs on you, we lose more than just childhood innocence; we also lose a part of ourselves – the part that wants to believe in the unseen, the magic of life. Thomas Nast, Francis P. Church, Clement Clark Moore (although some say Henry Livingston), Arthur Rankin and Jules Bass were men who still believed in you. So you see I am in good company.

I’m not even sure what name you prefer anymore. Do I still call you Santa Claus, or something more reverent like St. Nicholas, or St. Nick to be more familiar? Should I refer to you as Kris Kringle? It’s the same feeling I get when addressing former teachers or parents of my childhood friends – when is it permissible to just call you Kris? Every year you and I grow closer in age, because although you are ageless, I am not.

Do you still make a list? I know for awhile my name was inked on the “naughty” side of the ledger. Hopefully I’m on the “nice” side now – check it twice please. I’ve tried really hard to be a good man, but maybe I’m fooling myself. Santa, you see the real person behind our public portrait; you know when we’ve been bad or good.

I’ve seen you around town these past few weeks, particularly at the malls. The lines of people waiting to see you were too long, and I didn’t have that much time. A middle-aged man waiting by himself to see Santa would attract too much attention anyway.

I’m sure you aware of the push by some people with too much time on their hands. They are demanding that you lose some weight, throw away your pipe, and eat a more balanced diet (fewer cookies and more vegetables). Don’t let them get to you; be yourself. Nobody likes a skinny Santa.

I don’t even have a “wish list.” I can’t think of anything I need so you don’t have to bring me anything, but if you insist – surprise me. But, as I think about it I guess there is one thing I would really like. Please bring me a clock that keeps time. I don’t mean keeping the correct time, I want a clock that stores time, tucking it away where a special moment can be relived. With such a clock time would neither be wasted nor lost. It’s not as lofty a desire as shoelaces that stay tied – which I’m not sure even your talented elves could create. All I want is my fair share.

There are so many questions I have for you. Do you need snow to get the job done? If a little is good, is a lot better? What’s your favorite Christmas movie? Do you use a Star to guide you?

Write when you can, and please stop in and see me if you get a chance. On Christmas Eve I may step out for a few minutes with my kids to look at the Christmas lights. If I should be gone when you visit, help yourself to the cookies and milk. Happy Christmas, Santa wherever you are.

Grandma's House

2009-12-17T22:52:00.001-06:00

The other day my wife, Rhonda, and I invited some friends to our house. Some of them brought their kids with them, which was fine – I told them they could. I just wasn’t prepared for the all of the “touching my stuff,” that little kids do.

They were quite cute and reasonably well-behaved, but I became ruffled and restless as the evening wore on. I closed cabinet doors after they opened them, put things down when they had picked them up, asked them not to do this and please don’t do that. I just couldn’t enjoy myself, and I couldn’t help myself.

After they finally got tired and went back home to trash their own house, one of my friends told me I had been acting like “an old lady.” In my experience old men are generally pricklier than old women, so perhaps he was being kind in his criticism.

The two old ladies I knew best were my grandmothers. They wore glasses and had gray hair. Both of them sported the layered look in their kitchen – aprons over dresses. When they went out they usually wore hats decorated with netting, ribbons and jewelry. At the time it was considered fashionable.

Grandma O’Meara had a coat with two dead animals on the collar. They may have been foxes, or they could have been weasels, but whatever they were they always gave me quite a start when I bumped into them while playing in her large hall closet. I imagine C.S. Lewis might have had a grandmother who allowed him to play in her wardrobe.

Grandma O’Meara was a sturdy woman who had taught children their lessons in a one-room school house. Katie, as she was known to her friends, laughed, played games, enjoyed baseball, and always had time for her grandchildren.

Her home was like a giant playhouse. There I was free to use my imagination. Sometimes the second floor would become a ship, with the ground floor playing the part of the ocean; other times the upper floor was used along with the rest of the house in a game of hide and seek. The only rooms that were off limits were Grandma’s bedroom and her sewing room. But you were welcome to walk in if she was there.

Grandma Kucera’s home was not a playhouse, it was more like a rest home. Children were not allowed to roam freely. They were to sit quietly on the plastic covered couch and listen to the adult conversation.

After an eternity of sitting still a choice of activities was offered – escape to play in the yard, or entertain yourself with the box of worn-out, lifeless toys stored upstairs. But children weren’t allowed upstairs; not even just to get the box. That wasn’t permitted; the box would be brought down for them.

Grandma Kucera was known as the best cook in Le Sueur County. Emma, a name I learned after her death, was much more at home in her kitchen than playing house with her grandchildren.

My own children may, Lord willing, have children of their own someday, and I hope they bring them over to play house with me. I could read to them, maybe play a game of hide and seek.

Everyone’s got a favorite grandmother or grandfather, whether they are on your aunt or uncle’s side. Grandma O’Meara got older, but she never acted like an old lady. I have a lot to learn – I’m aging everyday, I just don’t want to become a crabby old man, and certainly not a cranky old lady. That would be weird.

Christmas Gifts

2009-12-10T19:52:00.002-06:00

Do kids still ask Santa to bring them a puppy or kitten for Christmas? Or has the age of electronics replaced that Christmas wish?

One year my older brother, Dan, got a puppy as either a Christmas gift or an Easter present. It must have been Easter because Santa wears glasses to correct short-sightedness.

Soon the puppy grew into a large collie. Apparently this eventuality was not considered prior to the presentation of the Easter gift basket. Before the dog was one year old it was decided that a big dog didn’t belong in town. What a surprise - who saw that coming? Stupid Easter Bunny - what was he (or she) thinking? The dog was given to a family that lived on a farm. Perhaps the dog was presented as a gift.

Return lines that stretch from December 26th into the next year provide plenty of proof that many gifts are neither perfect nor loved. I once received a gift of food that was so ancient the expiration date was printed on papyrus. As I carefully handled the thoughtful and expensive gift the giver explained her reasoning. “I was going to throw it out and then I thought why not give it to you.” Without a gift receipt I could only share my good fortune with my two chickens, Sam and Ella.

However, this was not the first time that I was given food as a gift. I have happily received cashews, peanuts (both blanched and unblanched), and fruit. I also got a potato for Christmas one year.

The uncooked potato was placed under the tree for me by Santa when I was about eight years old. I have not trusted that corpulent Kris Kringle since then.

The year leading up to that Christmas had been a difficult one for me and my parents. I, being the middle child, took the brunt of their wrath. I am more than willing to shoulder my share of that burden – but let’s look at the facts.

Elevators have buttons to push when you want to summon one. Why shouldn’t the same logic apply to escalators? Mom and Dad, along with my two brothers and two sisters were Christmas shopping at Southdale. Having lost interest in hiding under the dress racks, and no longer able to find cigarette butts to drop on the heads of unsuspecting shoppers, I did a little exploring.
Just slightly underneath the curve of the railing at the base of an escalator (1967 model year) was a button that if pressed would stop the machine. On some of the later models it is labeled EMERGENCY STOP BUTTON.

I pushed it and the escalator stopped moving. A second panicked push did not restart it. Immediately my father was at my side.

“What happened?” he growled.

“I don’t know, I just pushed this button,” I explained as I crouched down to show him. My crouching had a two-fold purpose. I could more comfortably point to the button, and from this position it was impossible to spank me.

Now that the escalator had been magically transformed into stairs the stranded shoppers looked to my father for guidance.

“Now what are we supposed to do?” whined one lady.

“Walk,” Dad replied.

Now that I’m 50 I take the stairs whenever I can. I will also go on walks with Buddy, our Black Lab/Great Dane mix. When we got him a year ago he was already full-grown at over one-hundred pounds with his head at kitchen table height. We live in the country, where there is plenty of room for a dog of any size.

Christmas Trees

2009-12-03T18:55:00.002-06:00

I was doing some shopping the other day when a Christmas tree grabbed my attention. It wasn’t particularly large, but it was quite striking in its radiance. It was blue – not a blue spruce – but a blue aluminum tree.

There is nothing like an aluminum tree to brighten up a room. With the advent of ... well, Advent, people are rearranging their homes to accommodate a tree in the corner. This time of year you see mini-vans driving home from a successful hunt with a tree tied to their roof.

Forty years ago phony Christmas trees looked phony – there was no pretense. Some people even “flocked” their trees (which doesn’t sound very religious at all) to make them look like they just dragged them through a blizzard. I could be talked out of this, but I think we had a real Christmas tree when I was a kid.

Every year Dad would get into the spirit of the season by wrestling with a tree. He would lug the tree through the rarely used front door, knocking over lamps and spreading needles as he went. I have warm memories of him throwing his glasses across the room after they had been bent by a contrary conifer.

For the first few years of our marriage my wife and I had joined the artificial tree class. I think it was because we were given someone’s rejected artificial tree. Charlie Brown would have taken it because he felt it needed him. We took it because it was free. But all the while we tried to convince ourselves that “it looks real doesn’t it?” We eventually decided the tree was too ugly and gave it to the Browns.

We usually buy a tree from the Boy Scouts here in town; I then lay it in the back of the truck. I try to avoid tying things down because my knot tying skills are not what they should be. But some years we have cut down our own – not at a tree farm – but on our own place. Unless you live on a tree farm, this practice doesn’t last very long.

I will drag the real tree through the house and purposely bump into a lamp to honor an old family tradition. My kids usually wait for the ceremonial throwing of the glasses before they retreat upstairs. A good year is measured by the amount of cuss words (or magic words as my father-in-law, Wayne, called them) I use in my fight with the tree.

My Christmas tree cage match costume is a hooded sweatshirt to protect against needles jumping down my back, gloves to ward off the stickiness of the sap, and lopping shears to attack the tree.

Over the years I have put up many Christmas trees. It’s easier to put them up before they are decorated with heirloom ornaments, garland and light – but I’ve done that as well, sometimes two or three times with the same tree.

Some people find aluminum loathsome, but I think it can be quite handsome. Mixed in with a drum and a dancing sugarplum, aluminum in the atrium can give a warm welcome.

Occasionally I like to mix things up, and I think something new, something blue might do the trick. You know what I’m talking about - even Elvis promoted a “Blue Christmas.” I realize a blue tree might be closer to creating an image found in a Warhol pop print than an American classic Christmas found in a Rockwell painting, but just once I would like to put up a tree that shines like a star.

Coast to Coast Christmas

2009-11-25T18:34:00.000-06:00

This Friday morning before the sun rise, shoppers will stand outside in the dark. They do this so they can spend money they don’t have on things no one needs. But it is the biggest shopping day of the year.

The process begins with studying the ads to see if the item on somebody’s wish list is on sale, or if an item is priced so low you can’t pass it up. The stores open earlier than normal and they discount their prices (sometimes to ridiculous levels) to draw people inside.

I’ve done this. I read the newspapers, and occasionally the ads, but this time of year I like to get in the Christmas mood, so I survey the ads to see what I want (need has very little to do with it). One year my daughter, Jennifer, and I got up early - like 5:00 a.m. - to participate in the madness. If you have ever thought about going to Palermo to run with the bulls may I suggest day-after-Thanksgiving shopping as a warm-up?

Having waited in the cold outside the store, we were shoved through the chute when it opened. Propelled along with the rest of the herd, we stampeded through the store. Carefully avoiding the china I managed to find the luggage set that was on sale. Resisting the temptation to use it as a battering ram I hoisted it above my head.

Jennifer and I then made our way to the kitchen gadget section and picked up a large electric grill (the six-pancake model). Armed with our oversized gifts, we were shielded from the aggressive advances by the other shoppers. We paid for our items and left the madhouse. By now the coffee shop had opened, so we sat in there and had some caffeine to unwind.

Not all my Christmas shopping experiences were like this. When I was young downtown Belle Plaine was brightly decorated with lights, bells and candy canes. In the middle of the main intersection a large bell hung suspended by large swags of garland covered cable. Snow would gather on this centerpiece and then blow off as the bell swayed in the wind.

The Coast to Coast hardware store would open its second floor to the public a couple weeks before Christmas. In that hardware store attic - 30 stair steps above hammers and nails, brushes and paint - children would see what Santa’s elves had been making in his workshop. There were toy guns, games, rockets to Mars, cars, dolls, dishes, trains and trucks.

One year, Mom took Terry, my little brother (who now stands two inches taller than me), and me to that magical world. Like most families with several children, we drew names for gift buying (which were then posted on the refrigerator for all to see). Terry picked my name so Mom helped him choose a gift for me.

On the way home, Terry, who was about four or five, had me guess what he had bought me for Christmas. At first I declined to guess, but he persisted.

“A truck,” I suggested.

“Nope,” he said

“A game,” I asked.

“Nope,” he said with a grin.

“A gun,” I offered.

Immediately tears welled up in his eyes. He leaned over the front seat and announced “Mom, he guessed.”

I got a toy gun that year for Christmas, and so did Terry (from Santa). We played with those guns together for many years. I no longer play guessing games when it comes to gifts; I prefer to be left in the dark with the rest of the shoppers.

What you don't know can kill you

2009-11-19T22:07:00.001-06:00

Steve, one of the guys that will still talk to me after forty-five years, was in my garage the other day. Inclining his head toward the gas-guzzling, non-clunked SUV he said,

“It looks like those tires could use some air Jer,”

They did look a little low, but am I supposed to keep track of that? Steve’s family was in the car business for many years, so he has that over me. I’m not a mechanic. I have people for this kind of thing. Must I add psi to my list of things to be mindful of?

The amount of things that I need to be aware of, to think of, to know is becoming a bit too much for me to handle, but you already knew that didn’t you? I tell you it’s enough to drive a man to drink, except I am not even sure what to drink anymore. Whether it’s coffee, red wine, water, or milk, you can find opposing views advancing arguments for the merits of consuming more or less of each of these.

I have given up on having a working knowledge of all the areas of my life. For example: I have chosen to not become an expert in the kitchen. If I had to, I could be very comfortable eating cereal three times a day. It has that rich, tasty goodness that kids love and mothers trust. I stick with cereal because of the whole balanced diet thing that I am supposed to know about. The milk covers the dairy end of the spectrum, for fruit you can eat Raisin Bran, or Fruit Loops. The added sugar will keep you going all day. The required dietary grain element is in all cereals (don’t take my word for it – like I said, I’m no expert). For the vegetable part I recommend Corn Puffs.

The older I get, the less I know, and what I don’t know about the day to day stuff can fill whole libraries. It’s likely there is an update for my computer, it’s possible the windows in my house need to be replaced, perhaps a warranty is about to expire, or maybe someone I know expired and I missed their obituary.

Sometimes I find myself in situations where I feel alone in my ignorance. The first time I was on a plane with an in-flight movie “A Fish called Wanda,” was the feature. When I put on the headphones I was surprised that they were playing the French language version. Wishing I had tried a little bit harder in my high school French class I was only able to pick-up a few of the words. The guy seated next to me seemed to be enjoying the movie so I asked him if he understood French. He looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language.

“You have to turn that dial to English,” he explained as if he were talking to a child.

“I knew that,” I said with a laugh. “Of course, I was kidding.”

Humorist Will Rogers said “All I know is just what I read in the papers.” Communist Karl Marx said “All I know is that I am not a Marxist.”

Kenneth Grahame wrote in “The Wind in the Willows,”

“The clever men at Oxford
Know all that there is to be knowed.
But they none of them know one half as much
As intelligent Mr. Toad!

Even someone as smart as Mr. Toad probably didn’t check the air pressure in his tires either. But then we may have missed out on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

Christopher Robin

2009-11-12T22:49:00.002-06:00

Dropping sticks in a river with your children is more fun than it sounds. This summer Rhonda and I, along with Jennifer and Nathan, our two adult children, went down to Lanesboro and biked on the trails. If you like riding bikes and you get along with your family I can recommend Lanesboro for a family vacation. Otherwise stay home and watch TV.

The bike trail crosses over the Root River. Stopping on the bridge, Nathan grabbed fours sticks and invited us to play a round of Pooh-sticks. This game, straight out of Winnie-the-Pooh, involves dropping the sticks on one side of the bridge and peering over the other side to see which stick floats by first. There is not much strategy needed, just the right current, but win or lose you won’t forget the moment.

I want to write a children’s book. It’s just that I am having a little trouble getting started. It’s not writer’s block, which I define as the inability to fill the blank page. It’s much bigger than that – it’s writer’s mock. I can’t decide which children’s classic I want to use as my spring board to fame and fortune.

The “Wicked,” series is being referred to as a parallel to Frank L. Baum’s “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.” Seems to me someone just stole Baum’s characters and used them as their own.

Frank Beddor has written “The Looking Glass Wars,” which the “Minneapolis Star Tribune” calls a reimagining of “Alice in Wonderland.” Has originality fallen out of favor? Go ask Alice - I think she’ll know.

The one that bothers me the most is “Return to the Hundred Acre Wood,” by David Benedictus. It tries to continue the story of Christopher Robin and friends. Unlike the way some childhoods end abruptly, Milne had ended that childhood story elegantly.

In the final pages of “The House at Pooh Corner,” Milne wrote how Christopher Robin tries to prepare his friend, the stuffed bear, for the unavoidable change they will experience when Christopher Robin grows up.

“Pooh, promise you won’t forget about me, ever. Not even when I’m a hundred.”

“How old shall I be then?”

“Ninety-nine.”

Pooh nodded. “I promise,” he said.

Why try and improve on a masterpiece? The copying of classics is a disturbing trend, but I may want to cash in on this plagiaristic party. So with that in mind I am toying with a couple ideas myself.

“No longer Velveteen, this rabbit is mean,” is a story of how the Velveteen Rabbit, joins up with a gang of rabbits from Watership Down. Hopping a train they travel to Pottersville where they bake Old man McGregor in a pie. The little rabbit then marries Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail. After all, why should marriage be confined to just one man and one woman?

“Green Scales,” finds Jackie Paper and Puff “The Magic Dragon,” reunited again in Honah Lee. Having lost all of his money supporting his drug habit, Jackie searches for his life-long friend along the Cherry Lane. There they join up with a band of pirates, and using the autumn mist as cover, they raid the yachts of noble kings and princes.

To try and add pages to a classic children’s book and call it your own seems wrong. But to borrow pages from the same book to make a memory with your children on a summer afternoon seems about right. Someday my children may have fun with their children dropping sticks in a river and watching them float away. Or maybe, they may borrow a page from their dad’s writing to make a memory.

Favorite Time of Year

2009-11-05T23:16:00.002-06:00

Mom used to warn me about wishing my life away. Whenever I would look past the present and concentrate on some future event she would remind me that each day has its own blessings and should be appreciated. I don’t think her reasoning applies to the long winter months though.

Abraham Lincoln said “It is true that you may fool all the people some of the time; you can even fool some of the people all the time; but you can’t fool all of the people all the time.” To this I would add – but you can fool yourself most of the time.

This is a good time of year to engage in such an exercise. We have not had an exceptionally beautiful fall this year – rather below average actually, but with the proper perspective this time of year seems to fly by.

The autumn days can be very labile. I chose labile, which means liable to change because my smart aleck sister, Colleen, used it in a sentence the other day and I didn’t know what it meant – so I looked it up.

We are enjoying less sunlight, the days are getting shorter and the pumpkin is rotting on the step. I know it won’t last; the good things never do. There is nothing like wind, rain and snow to push a guy indoors where he can relax.

November and December just don’t last long enough. Thanksgiving and Christmas dominate the months with one long holiday season. Thanksgiving is only three weeks away, and then bam – the biggest shopping day of the year.

Only a heretic could ignore the hectic, chaotic Christmas season. I haven’t even started my shopping yet (my very wise father-in-law always did his on December 24th). The calendar is already filling up with parties and events. I just don’t know when I’ll have the time to get all of those Christmas cards addressed.

We all know about January – it just rushes past. You are just getting through Christmas with the gifts, the comings and goings of all the relatives, and then wham – Happy New Year. There are more parties to attend, and you have to find time to stand in line to secretly return the gift that you had gazed at with glee declaring “I love it.”

Where does the time go? Why it seems like just last year ... of course it was just last year wasn’t it? (Feel free to use that joke early in January.) I barely have time to get all of my thank-you notes written before I flip the page and say hello to February – the shortest month of the year.

There is not a lot of pre-scheduled activity in February, which is a good thing as it gives you plenty of time for all of those indoor winter activities you have been looking forward to: playing board games, doing cross-word puzzles, latch-hooking rugs, putting together jig-saw puzzles, finding the jumper cables and drinking hot-chocolate.

Before you know it, March comes roaring in. Unfortunately, March has a reputation for becoming a bit sheepish at the end of the month. This month simply cannot be relied on for consistent good old-fashioned winter weather. Oh sure, people say “March can be your snowiest month,” but that’s just wishful thinking because with spring around the corner the snow just doesn’t have any staying power. But for now let’s live it up, for soon enough winter will be gone.

I am not fooling myself. It’s going to be a long winter, and I won’t wish it away. There are many things to enjoy right now.

Books Smell Good

2009-10-29T22:18:00.002-05:00

Do people still press leaves between the pages of a book? Before electronics took over our lives, a nice autumn afternoon could be spent collecting leaves of various colors, sizes and shapes. The leaves were then taken back home and placed between the pages of a book. There they would stay, perhaps forgotten until next year. We haven’t had many nice autumn afternoons this year and books are being threatened by electronic devices.

The other day I was paying for some books at Barnes & Noble when the clerk handed me an advertisement for their new electronic device. Nook is the newest gadget designed to complicate our lives.

Like its competitors, Amazon’s Kindle and the Sony Reader, Barnes & Noble’s Nook makes it possible to read the text of a book, magazine or newspaper on a portable electronic screen. The images can be ordered, downloaded and stored on the device where they are displayed on the screen. An electronic image of text on a computer screen is not a book – but the devices are being referred to as electronic books. I don’t like the reference – but I can’t change it. A book is paper, ink, glue, and binding. It has a physical heft, a friendly scent and pages to touch.

I studied the clerk as I took the ad from him. Did he know that he was unwittingly aiding in the demise of civilization? I looked around the store and saw people talking on their phones while they looked at magazines. I watched friends who at first glance appeared to be enjoying each other’s company over a cup of coffee, but instead were busy sending text messages. I wondered if they were communicating with an unseen person and ignoring their coffee partner, or maybe they had lost the art of snappy conversation and were corresponding with one another across the table.

I am a bit conflicted with this battle of old versus new. I actually like and use technology. I write (type?) these words using a computer; I then email (electronic mail) it to my editor. I refer to my Blackberry often and I no longer own a typewriter. It has been many years since I have sat down and wrote a letter using pen and paper, but there are only a handful of people who can read my handwriting anyway.

I suppose electronic books have a purpose and a place. Perhaps like the iPod which has made it easier to listen to your favorite music, electronic books will allow portable access to the written word – but I can’t help thinking that we are losing something along the way when we so readily grab the latest gadgets and place our past on the shelf.

It was either Twain or Einstein (I can’t find the reference, but it was some guy with white hair) that had developed a trick to wake himself from a nap. While reading a book in his chair he would start to nod off. Not wanting to sleep his life away he would hold the book with one hand over the edge of the chair and close his eyes. Just before he would slip into a deep sleep his hand would relax its grip on the book allowing it to crash to the floor. The sound would wake him and he could start reading again.

Using the same method with an electronic book would probably only work once or twice before you had to replace it.

I suppose someday I will surrender and buy such a device. But I should buy two for napping and pressing leaves.

Halloween

2009-10-22T23:18:00.001-05:00

Next weekend is Halloween, the time of year where it becomes permissible to borrow someone else’s identity and panhandle, kind of like panning for gold and rocks, but this time candy is the sought after treasure. This is the season for trick-or-treating, watching “It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown,” and playing dress-up.

My costume-donning experience goes back to the glory days of Halloween when a kid could get a year’s supply of teeth decaying treasure with only a few hours of effort.

My earliest memory of the hedonistic holiday is through the eye-holes of a suffocating plastic clown mask (the kind with the elastic string which becomes eternally entwined with your hair and rips it from its roots upon removal). I carried a brown grocery bag that confirmed the collection of the candy with a papery popping sound.

Using the station wagon as a base, my brothers and sisters and I would steal from patio to porch while Dad would carefully traverse the crowded streets so as to not send little ghosts and goblins to their graves.

Back home I sorted the candy on top of my blankets and buried the remaining booty underneath my bed. If carefully rationed over the long winter the supply could last until Easter when a fresh shipment was scheduled to be delivered.

When I went to college I gave up trick-or-treating because as everyone knows you are not supposed to take candy from strangers – and college is full of strange people. But then there were the costume parties. One year a few friends and I each bought matching long coats at Ragstock, some berets, a few squirt guns, and went as the French Resistance. I still smile when I think about it.

So as a public service, I am going to share some costume ideas. I make no promises regarding the ease of putting these together, but you should have plenty of time to get ready before the social event of the season: the neighborhood costume party.

For women - you can go as Sarah Palin; men you can dress up as Tim Pawlenty. Both of these characters, having become bored with being a governor, appear to be in the early stages of a presidential campaign. But what makes them prime candidates for parody is that they won’t admit to any future plans. So if you dress up as one of them you can spend the entire evening dodging questions, being evasive and talking in circles.

Couples could go as Kanye West and Taylor Swift and walk around interrupting one another and stealing each other’s microphones. Or, they could duct tape a camcorder conspicuously on their shoulder. Pretending to be a pimp and a prostitute, the couple could ask others for advice.

Carry around a small sheet of plastic. If you pretend it’s a teleprompter you would always have a prepared speech on display in front of you. This way you would never be at a loss for words.

Dress up as a census taker. By doing this you could ask anyone inappropriate questions, and when you are challenged merely reply: “I am from the government and I am here to help you.”

Go as the president and write stimulus checks to people, and then later on in the night you could hand out more money to bail them out.

Three or more individuals could go as an award’s committee and give out prizes for some future accomplishment that they hope will be achieved. For prizes give pebbles so the winners can say in their best Charlie Brown voice “I got a rock.”

An Extra Bag of Cookies

2009-10-15T21:29:00.002-05:00

Occasionally for lunch I will have home-baked cookies garnished with a sandwich and a side of mandatory fruit and vegetables. This is when I bring my lunch to work. I don’t pack it – my wife does. It’s not that I require her do it – I just won’t do it. So, if she doesn’t pack me a lunch I will eat out.

When I was 16 I had a summer job driving the delivery truck at a lumber yard in Le Center. When I wasn’t out making deliveries, I would sit in the park and eat the lunch my sister Joanne had packed. After a couple days of this it dawned on me that my grandfather lived near by.

I didn’t bother to call; I walked there uninvited and unannounced. As I got close I saw him working in his garden.

The green work pants hung just above his black sensible shoes. His grey long sleeve shirt, buttoned at the cuffs and collar, would have hid his long underwear if not for the contrast of his dark skin against the white cotton. A drop of sweat clinging to the tip of his nose hinted of the July temperature. The only time he wore a hat was to church.

“Hi Grandpa, remember me?”

He studied me through his glasses as he held his hoe.

“No, no. I can’t say that I do.”

I understood. I was no longer the little boy who “was seen and not heard.” I was now 16 – almost a man, or so I thought.

“I’m Tom’s son, Jerry.”

“Sure” he said, pronouncing the word as if it had two syllables.

I told him that I was working at the lumberyard, and that if he liked I could stop for lunch sometimes. I don’t know if he had planned on eating lunch that day but he invited me in.

I sat at the table for two in the kitchen while he cooked his potatoes and fatty meat. I politely waited to open my lunch box until he sat down with his lunch. He poured each of us a glass of milk (whole I’m sure) – because as he liked to say “milk is not only a drink, it is also a food.”

Joanne always included a bag of cookies in my lunch so I offered to share them with Grandpa on that first day.

“That’s your lunch, what will you eat then?”

The next day Joanne packed a bag of cookies for Grandpa. When I handed the cookies to him I explained that Joanne had baked them for him.

“That’s very nice”, he whispered as he pushed his glasses up from underneath to rub the tears from his eyes.

We shared many hours together that summer, eating in that small kitchen. Sometimes I would stop with the truck and he would tell me to “be careful with that big thing.”

“I have seen many changes,” he said as he told me of the days when a horse was the only transportation available, then when money allowed a nice buggy was purchased.

Then tractors and cars replaced horses. Soon people flew in airplanes and man went to the moon. Grandpa said that with every change he thought that this was as far as we could go.

He looked at me and asked “What will it be like you are my age?”

I didn’t have an answer then and I won’t for another 40 years. But when I am 90 I hope I am healthy enough to entertain a grandchild in my home. I just hope they bring some cookies to share.