Book Ends

I just finished reading “The Noticer,” by Andy Andrews; subtitle “Sometimes All a Person Needs is a Little Perspective.” It took me about three hours to read it, and in spite of liking the content, I was left feeling empty when I finished it.

I didn’t touch the pages, I don’t even know how many there were. The binding didn’t bend, and there was no place to drop in one of my bookmarks. The book does not sit on my shelf to remind me of the joy it brought me. All of Its words were delivered to me electronically without the heft or smell of a physical book.

As a member of the baby–boom generation I was an early adopter of all the personal technology that became available. I had an electronic organizer before I upgraded to a Palm Pilot. I had a Blackberry until it became socially unacceptable. I have a reasonably intelligent phone and a few computers, so it seemed logical to get an electronic reader to complete my collection.

I happily received the Kindle Paperwhite as a gift and I was anxious to try it out. The first book I downloaded on the device was a King James Version of the Bible as a nod to Johannes Gutenberg and his printing press. Three hours wouldn’t get me half way through the Old Testament, so I thought I would try a book I had read a promising review on.    

I willingly admit that the convenience of getting the contents of a book delivered to me almost instantly is impressive and attractive, but I’m not sure I will ever give up physical books for the electronic version.

My children are members of the millennials, the generation that may not be able to remember a time when digital technology did not have such a prominent place in their lives. Today you can watch movies on your cell phone or tablet. The millennials have streaming video on–demand, the generations before them had books they could buy or check out from the library.

Reading books was a common activity when I was young. Movies and television took a back seat. If you missed seeing a movie in the theater you had to wait several months for it to appear on television, and then you had to be in front of the TV when it aired. You could only hope for a quick rerun of the movie if you missed seeing it on TV. There was no recording apparatus and you could not buy or rent movies. It seems almost unreal to be true.

I have a friend, a member of generation X, who bought for her mother, a member of the greatest generation, a book; a special book. It was one her mother had read and reread as a child, checking it out repeatedly from the local library, almost wearing it out. Sixty some years passed, and although she never forgot about the book, she was unable to find a copy anywhere. 

My friend had heard her mother talk about the book over the years, until one day she decided to take up the cause for her mother. With a little help, she was able to find a signed, first edition through an on–line bookseller and gave it to her mother for Mother’s Day. Even though she has read it many times, her mother told me “I read it slowly so I can enjoy it.” My friend had bridged the gap between generations when she noticed a need and offered a different perspective to help her mother.

Blakeley and Back

When you are doing something you enjoy, something you are lost in the hours pass unnoticed; it’s as if you were living unfettered by the confines of time. It’s unusual for me not to have a general sense of time; it’s more common that I have no sense of direction. I can get turned around quite easily, but usually I know what time it is.

I don’t wear a watch as I don’t like the feel of something on my wrist; I used to carry a pocket watch until it quit. Now I carry a pocket phone that lets me know the time. It’s not as elegant as a traditional time piece – but it gets the job done, plus a few others.

When I was a kid growing up in Belle Plaine there was no need to have a watch, as there were plenty of ways to keep track of time. There was the noon whistle – more like a siren that blared across town letting you know it was lunch time. There was at least one church steeple that displayed the time in all four directions. Plus there was the clock above Gerdes’ Shoe Store.

It was the summer of my tenth year and my friend Steve’s idea of the day was to go for a bike ride.  Steve was an idea guy and many of his ideas included mischief and adventure.

The bike ride was to Blakeley, a tiny town of rail, river and road. I had been there before by car; one time, in 1965, Dad scared the whole family by getting us real close to fast–moving flood waters. It was mid–morning when Steve and I began our trip from his house where we had packed a lunch of peanut butter sandwiches and a couple cans of pop.

Steve had a spider bike (high handle bars, banana seat, dual brakes and multiple gears controlled by a shifter on the frame). Mine was a red and white Schwinn Roadmaster. It was a sturdy, heavy bike that featured a coaster brake and one speed.

Sometime during the trip it might have occurred to me that neither had I asked for permission, nor had I told my parents what I was up to. If it did, I did nothing about it except pedal.

Steve and I crossed the river twice that day, once when we got to Blakeley and once again when we were coming back into Belle Plaine. For, instead of turning around and heading back home when we got to Blakeley, we took the long way home by taking the northerly route across the river in Sibley County.

During that day we stopped to throw rocks from the muddy river banks, flung sticks into the water and watched trains disappear down the tracks. When we stopped for lunch under a shade tree, Steve grabbed what looked like tall grass and showed me how it could be taken apart and put back together again. He called it puzzle weed. It’s also known as horsetail or Equisetum (for those of you keeping score at home).  

After lunch we came upon a long driveway where several large dogs charged out to greet us or eat us. As we were unsure of their intentions we pedaled as hard as we could and were somehow able to outpace the snarling dogs. I felt most vulnerable on the down stroke of the pedal motion as my leg was close to getting chomped.

Sometime later we crossed the river again and climbed the hill back into Belle Plaine. At Church Street we waved good–bye. I headed east, and Steve pedaled home facing a sun that was no longer high in the sky. When I got home Mom and Dad were waiting for me; two weeks would pass before I and my bike were allowed to leave the yard. All the other adventures Steve and I had that summer took place within the city limits. It was a different time and we were lost in it.

River Road

I once told my dad about my dreams of living somewhere else someday. I described the various options available to me: the seashore, the mountains, maybe a big city. He listened and then said, “You’ll live where you work.” He was right. I found a job here and didn’t go too far. My wife, Rhonda, and I both grew up in small towns along the Minnesota River, so it seems natural now that we would live near it.  

I never moved very far from this valley, and I never stayed away too long. After leaving home to attend college I eventually returned. This past weekend I traveled some river roads that I have been on dozens, maybe hundreds of times. This, of course, is possible when you don’t go too far from home.

When I travel I like to have choices and some measure of control over scheduling, itinerary, and mode of transportation. That combination just about eliminates air travel, which is fine with me as I dislike the whole hurry up and wait agenda and the cattle–like herding of passengers. But when you drive your own vehicle the choices are all yours (except when they’re your wife’s).

For Mother’s Day weekend (in our house it’s not just one day) Rhonda decided we should take the camper to Henderson. I had my own idea how to get there, and it had very little to do with a four–lane highway.

Once we were in Jordan we got off the highway and crossed the river. We stopped at the National Wildlife Refuge and had a picnic–style lunch on a park bench. From there we dropped in at a cemetery in Carver so Rhonda could visit her mother’s gravesite and drop off some tulips.

We got detoured at East Union, so we drove through the countryside to West Union and dropped down to the Scenic Byway, where we would cross the river again into Blakeley. Between the Unions we met up with a group of bicyclists who had picked the perfect day for a ride. Seeing them reminded me of the summer day a friend of mine decided to ride our bikes from Belle Plaine to Blakeley, from there we crossed the river and took the long way back to town. We were nine or ten years old.

When Rhonda and I got to Blakeley, we stopped at Albrecht’s Antique Shop. Although the door was open and Arlene was there, the shop is no longer open for business. With a realignment of a road caused by the wash–out last June, Arlene is selling out with a two–day auction this August. We talked with her for a few minutes and left with an auction flyer.

We crossed the river again and took the Jessenland road to Henderson, a charming river town. With all the motorcycles in town it looked like a rally, but it was just a nice day for a ride. We parked the truck and trailer on a side street and started walking. We visited with Jane at the antique store about the passing of time, were offered some tacos from another store, bought some ice cream from Toody’s, and groceries from Wager’s.

When we got to the municipal campground on the top of the hill two brothers from Henderson helped me carry a picnic table to our site.  They weren’t camping; they were just at the campground with their kids for the day. When it started to get dark they left with their two cars and gave me the balance of their firewood. Our children had drove down to spend a few hours with their mother (and grandmother); it only took a half and hour to get there from Jordan because they took the highway.

As Rhonda and I sat around the fire after they left we recounted the blessings of the day. She remarked how we didn’t have to travel very far from home to have a good trip. Or a good life.

Getting Lost in the Grass

For the first time in many months my lawn is cut short. That’s not an unusual declaration for the first mowing of the season, but last year I had trouble with my mower. It wasn’t running right, and it wasn’t cutting closely. In fact, it was hard to even tell where I had mowed, as the mower blades were no match for the grass blades. Thankfully, Dave and Chester, a father and son repair team in Shakopee, fixed things up, and now I’m back in business.

Sunday, I got the grass cut before the rain fell (timing is everything). I drove the mower out of the barn and parked in front of the old car shed, where I added some gas to the tank. From there I began my journey; I like to start with the easier sections first, such as near the barnyard where I have chased chickens that had flown over the fence but had forgotten how to fly back. One night I did this quite early in the morning with a flashlight in one hand and a landing net in the other.

Next on the agenda is the ramp that leads to the barn loft. Four years ago this month invited guests walked up the ramp for the wedding reception of my daughter, Jennifer and her husband, Adam. I’ve not been able to watch a father–daughter dance dry eyed since then.

Near the barn is the chicken coop, and in front of the coop is a fire ring bordered by rocks that I mow around. Whatever weeds that manage to hide among the rocks are consumed by future flames. When the kids were at home, the rocks were often cleared of weeds, as they had friends over many times in the summer months. There are some wild flowers that grow next to the coop; we have a cut and dried understanding – I allow them to grow in that area, but no further.

As I mow past the car shed and granary, I cut around the basketball court, where when our children were little I had the concrete slab put in so we would have a place to play. It’s been a dozen years or so since I have been able to beat my son, Nathan, at basketball. I can still hear the sound of the bouncing ball over the noise of the lawnmower.

Next to the slab we used to have a net set up for volleyball and badminton. A big apple tree and the basketball court provided the east–west boundaries. The apple tree is dying and the birdies no longer fly across a net that is not there, but it still needs to be mowed.

Nathan used to barter with Jennifer for mowing duties; if she mowed the orchard (with its low, scratchy branches), he would mow the rest of the yard. As both of them have their own yards now, I am left to mow the whole yard myself.

As I mow near the old, gnarled plum tree, I stop to smell the blossoms. Then it’s back to the west side to mow around the house. It’s become quite a jungle underneath the weeping willow my brother, Dan, gave me for my 50^th birthday. Now Dan’s gone and the tree and I mourn him.

I end the mowing in the riding arena. It’s a fenced in area in front of the house that has seen horses, football, sheep, croquet, softball, Frisbee, dogs, and children. I hurry through this part of the yard, as I sense rain coming. Now that the mower is back in the barn and I’m back in the house, I think about how quickly life goes by. I pray that I stay sharp and my days are not cut short.