The wind blew most of Sunday and all through the night. I don’t always like the wind. It chaps my face and tires me out. My friend Dr. Jack is a keen observer of the wind and the changes it brings. When the wind started coming out of the East I thought perhaps that Mary Poppins was going to blow into town. The movie starring Julie Andrews was based on the book written by P.L. Travers. I generally prefer books over a film adaptation (and I enjoy watching movies), but this particular book gets a little crazy at times (it takes nail biting to a Lecter-like level) so I recommend the movie.
I suspect that there are perhaps dozens of web-sites, articles, books (maybe even a few columns) devoted to the child-rearing lessons learned from Mary. I have also read about economists who refer to the story when explaining panicked bank runs and the magic of compound interest, so clearly I cannot take credit for bringing this idea to light, but as there is “nothing new under the sun,” I would like to offer my own list of observations. The book All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten by Robert Fulghum, suggests that the really important things are not complex. I think that the ideals brought forth in The Mary Poppins story run the same course. Lord knows right now we certainly could use her practically perfect approach to problems.
Mary Poppins traveled light; taking everything she needs in her carpet bag. I like that uncluttered approach. Take what you need and leave the rest. The greedy accumulation of possessions and money should not be the end goal, but rather a means to fund the journey through life. Coins (tuppence) traded for bird seed (and perhaps because of that exchange the old woman selling the seed is able to support herself), lasts longer as a meaningful memory than placing them in a savings account where inflation pecks away at it.
When it becomes necessary to take your medicine (or any of the other required doses of cures and consequences) it always helps to do so with a spoonful of sugar. It just makes tough things easier to swallow when accompanied with something pleasant. Otherwise mundane tasks can be made easier with an “element of fun.”
Mary’s friends (Bert the chimney sweep) and family members (Uncle Albert) are light hearted, caring individuals who freely share their time and talent with children, and always without an appointment. Some wonderful jokes which later prove to be life changing are told by Uncle Albert and Bert (beautifully played by Ed Wynne and Dick Van Dyke) during the time with Mary Poppins, and the Bank’s children in Uncle Albert’s home. The story does a good job of demonstrating how time spent with older relatives, who are often neglected, can be very rewarding.
Jane and Michael Banks only desired time with their father, but Mr. Banks was under pressure to perform at his job at the bank leaving no time and energy to invest in his children at the end of the day. It isn’t until the end of the movie where we see that George Banks finally learns the truth after he is fired from his job. But as is often the case, something good comes from an otherwise unpleasant situation. He now is able to see what he had been missing. Whether it’s flying kites or telling jokes at a tea party, time with family and friends is more precious than gold. Think of that the next time the wind blows.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Happy Birthday Mom (March 19th, 2009) Shakopee Valley News
Mom had her birthday Tuesday. She would have been 80 this year, but she passed away on a Sunday last July so this year I celebrated the grand day without her. St. Patrick’s Day was special for her, and because of that, it was special to her kids. Mom (Pat to her friends) was all Irish. So to honor her memory and acknowledge my own Irish heritage I wore green (as did all those blessed with Irish blood and those wishing they had been).
She grew up on a small farm near Kilkenny (Minnesota – not Ireland). After she was married she and Dad moved to Belle Plaine where many Irish families had settled. I know Kucera is not an Irish name, but my mother’s family accepted Dad as if he were a member of their clan. That’s the way the Irish are. You don’t have to be Irish; but you must have a thirst for it. Mom came from a large family, and because of that I have many cousins. The O’Meara side of my family still gets together for family reunions conducted in the Irish tradition.
There are really only two places to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in Minnesota. One is St. Paul and the other is Belle Plaine. Oh sure, there are others – but none of any real notability. So I went back home Tuesday to reconnect with my past. Growing up in a small town with a strong Irish influence and having a Mother of pure Irish descent affects a person in ways that six-hundred words can’t fully explain. You can’t escape who you are. The way I approach life was sharply influenced by those days in Belle Plaine.
It’s been said that the Irish don’t take themselves too seriously. Now I ask you is there a better way to go through life? There was a lot of fun to be had with Mom. She didn’t waste precious time by making her house spic and span. She was content with just spic.
She didn’t win any awards for cooking either. As a former first grade teacher Mom made sure all five of her kids could read at an early age. We had a box of crayons (we called them colors) that she would often take out to draw and color with us. She also played games with us and with often her in the lead we learned to create our own worlds of make-believe. We also played a lot of records in that house on Church Street.
On St. Patrick’s Day Mom would listen to Carmel Quinn and Dennis Day. I now prefer Van Morrison and U2, but that’s just me. .Mom didn’t celebrate her St. Patrick’s Day birthday by raising a pint of Guinness. The very thought of it - Honestly. Her way was more in step with the wearin’ of the green, a Shamrock to remind the world that she’s Irish, and maybe a wee bit of Bailey’s in her coffee.
Many years ago I had a boss who gave me some wonderful advice. “Make your home a place where your children will want to bring their friends. That way you will know where your children are and who their friends are.” Looking back on my childhood Mom already knew that. My friends were always welcome at our house. They were comfortable in talking with Mom, and many of them came to say good-bye at her funeral.
So even though she’s not here anymore I still feel compelled to extend my greeting to her one more time. “Happy Birthday Mom and Happy St. Patrick’s Day.”
She grew up on a small farm near Kilkenny (Minnesota – not Ireland). After she was married she and Dad moved to Belle Plaine where many Irish families had settled. I know Kucera is not an Irish name, but my mother’s family accepted Dad as if he were a member of their clan. That’s the way the Irish are. You don’t have to be Irish; but you must have a thirst for it. Mom came from a large family, and because of that I have many cousins. The O’Meara side of my family still gets together for family reunions conducted in the Irish tradition.
There are really only two places to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in Minnesota. One is St. Paul and the other is Belle Plaine. Oh sure, there are others – but none of any real notability. So I went back home Tuesday to reconnect with my past. Growing up in a small town with a strong Irish influence and having a Mother of pure Irish descent affects a person in ways that six-hundred words can’t fully explain. You can’t escape who you are. The way I approach life was sharply influenced by those days in Belle Plaine.
It’s been said that the Irish don’t take themselves too seriously. Now I ask you is there a better way to go through life? There was a lot of fun to be had with Mom. She didn’t waste precious time by making her house spic and span. She was content with just spic.
She didn’t win any awards for cooking either. As a former first grade teacher Mom made sure all five of her kids could read at an early age. We had a box of crayons (we called them colors) that she would often take out to draw and color with us. She also played games with us and with often her in the lead we learned to create our own worlds of make-believe. We also played a lot of records in that house on Church Street.
On St. Patrick’s Day Mom would listen to Carmel Quinn and Dennis Day. I now prefer Van Morrison and U2, but that’s just me. .Mom didn’t celebrate her St. Patrick’s Day birthday by raising a pint of Guinness. The very thought of it - Honestly. Her way was more in step with the wearin’ of the green, a Shamrock to remind the world that she’s Irish, and maybe a wee bit of Bailey’s in her coffee.
Many years ago I had a boss who gave me some wonderful advice. “Make your home a place where your children will want to bring their friends. That way you will know where your children are and who their friends are.” Looking back on my childhood Mom already knew that. My friends were always welcome at our house. They were comfortable in talking with Mom, and many of them came to say good-bye at her funeral.
So even though she’s not here anymore I still feel compelled to extend my greeting to her one more time. “Happy Birthday Mom and Happy St. Patrick’s Day.”
Time Travel (March 12th, 2009) Shakopee Valley News
I think I need some sleep. I am writing this on Sunday, the day after the big change. Daylight Saving Time began this morning at 2 a.m. and I feel completely screwed up. Monday won’t be much better because I still won’t be over this jet lag sensation. We should make this change on Friday night, which would give me the whole weekend to adjust. My sense of time is way off. For example I think it’s about 4:00 and it ends up being 9:15. It may not even be Sunday anymore for all I know. I have trouble enough contending with the normal passage of time without agreeing to “lose” an hour. Oh sure I get it back in the fall but without any mention of interest or compensation. By the time you read this on Thursday I may actually have got used to the time change. I may even have begun to appreciate the longer sunlit days. But right now I am confused, annoyed, tired and crabby.
I tried to nap to “catch up” but that only made things worse. I woke up more tired than when I closed my eyes for a few minutes, or maybe it was a few hours. I just don’t know. My hair (what little of it there is) is all twisted around and I feel like I need to shower with coffee. Lather, rinse and repeat.
I know there were probably good reasons to begin this weird experiment but I choose not to discuss them right now – maybe tomorrow when I’m in a better mood. It may have started on Easter Island or at Stonehenge. This need we have to control something as ancient as time may even be supported with modern day reasoning, but I contend we should rethink this whole thing. Oh sure, President Obama talks about Hope and Change but when is he going to quit messing with our clocks? Certainly former President Bush can be blamed for this untimely mess. Will our children and grandchildren have to make up for this lost time?
Arizona and Hawaii don’t observe Daylight Saving Time – lawbreakers! Even Puerto Rico, the Virgin Islands, and American Samoa have chosen not to participate in this time warp. Kyrgyzstan (a country near China) observes it year round. How does that work? Can’t we all just get along?
As a society we love time travel – and that’s what we’re talking about isn’t? Springing ahead, falling back. H.G. Wells’ book The Time Machine, Peggy Sue, Marty McFly, Doug & Tony from the 60’s TV show The Time Tunnel all entertained us with the concept of going back and forth in time. Even respected scientists Albert Einstein and Carl Sagan have discussed the concept. But for all this dreaming all we can muster is an hour here or there.
I say if one hour is good – why not two? Is it possible to change the clocks and gain longer weekends? Maybe slow down time so your kids stay little longer? Let’s really make a difference and skip entire days. Take one day at a time – nonsense! Let’s have some fun and take three days all at once. But please let’s turn back the clock enough to let me get out of the market.
I propose that this autumn we should fall back an entire week. That way we could take a paid vacation mandated by the government like they do in Europe. We’re headed that direction anyway. I should go to bed. I have to get up at 6 a.m.- or is it 5 or 7?
I tried to nap to “catch up” but that only made things worse. I woke up more tired than when I closed my eyes for a few minutes, or maybe it was a few hours. I just don’t know. My hair (what little of it there is) is all twisted around and I feel like I need to shower with coffee. Lather, rinse and repeat.
I know there were probably good reasons to begin this weird experiment but I choose not to discuss them right now – maybe tomorrow when I’m in a better mood. It may have started on Easter Island or at Stonehenge. This need we have to control something as ancient as time may even be supported with modern day reasoning, but I contend we should rethink this whole thing. Oh sure, President Obama talks about Hope and Change but when is he going to quit messing with our clocks? Certainly former President Bush can be blamed for this untimely mess. Will our children and grandchildren have to make up for this lost time?
Arizona and Hawaii don’t observe Daylight Saving Time – lawbreakers! Even Puerto Rico, the Virgin Islands, and American Samoa have chosen not to participate in this time warp. Kyrgyzstan (a country near China) observes it year round. How does that work? Can’t we all just get along?
As a society we love time travel – and that’s what we’re talking about isn’t? Springing ahead, falling back. H.G. Wells’ book The Time Machine, Peggy Sue, Marty McFly, Doug & Tony from the 60’s TV show The Time Tunnel all entertained us with the concept of going back and forth in time. Even respected scientists Albert Einstein and Carl Sagan have discussed the concept. But for all this dreaming all we can muster is an hour here or there.
I say if one hour is good – why not two? Is it possible to change the clocks and gain longer weekends? Maybe slow down time so your kids stay little longer? Let’s really make a difference and skip entire days. Take one day at a time – nonsense! Let’s have some fun and take three days all at once. But please let’s turn back the clock enough to let me get out of the market.
I propose that this autumn we should fall back an entire week. That way we could take a paid vacation mandated by the government like they do in Europe. We’re headed that direction anyway. I should go to bed. I have to get up at 6 a.m.- or is it 5 or 7?
Farm Dog (March 5th, 2009) Shakopee Valley News
There is an old saying about accepting the gift of a horse without reviewing its dental records. It says nothing about dogs. My family has had four dogs over the last fifteen years. One we actually purchased. The other three were given to us. The first one was given to us against our will. A guy we knew said that his daughter had to “get rid of her dog,” and he wondered if we were interested. I guess he called us because we fit the “free to a good home” description. I told “our acquaintance” that he could bring the dog by the house and we would think about it. I imagined that he would make an appointment to come over and exchange pleasantries normally found in polite society. Sometime during the course of this social call we would regard the dog, and then after careful consideration – perhaps even sleeping on it (the decision, not the dog), we would let him know if we accepted his offer.
But I guess that all he heard was some kind of code talk for “Sure, we’d love to have him,” because in less than an hour he showed up with the dog and all the accessories (normally sold separately). I have never seen anyone unload anything from a van so fast – unless you count littering. He dumped everything: the dog, leash, food including the chewed-up dish, and assorted germ laden toys.
“Well, here you go. His name is Winston. Thanks. Bye.”
I am not even sure he put his van in park. Well we couldn’t have a dog named after a cigarette lest people think us bad parents and turn us over to the authorities, but the dog was already named so we softened it to Winnie. It wasn’t necessarily a masculine name, but it was a name that the kids liked and was reasonably close to the name that the dog came with.
Winnie was (I am sure he’s dead by now, as I almost killed him several times myself) a Siberian husky, He had crazy eyes: one was ice-blue, the other brown. Winnie was good to the kids, but his other qualities were all bad: He howled instead of barked; he ran the other way when he was called; he loathed all other animals – especially farm fowl. In fact, if Noah had selected Winnie as one of the two dogs for the ark’s maiden voyage – well breakfast would be decidedly different without chicken eggs on the menu.
After Winnie killed our chickens, he introduced himself to the neighbors by killing their chickens as well. I tried to confine him, really I did. But he was better at escaping than I was at confining. He could jump over a five foot fence and tunnel under a wall without any excavating equipment. When it became apparent that this dog was not a “farm dog,” we gifted him to someone else. I made it very clear to the new owner of Winnie’s proclivity for killing, but he had his own plans to take the dog “up North,” presumably to have him hitched to a sled. How far north? The further the better I thought.
Several weeks after we had accepted the gift of another dog that needed a good home I received a phone call. Apparently Winnie had escaped from his new owner and was now terrorizing Northern Minnesota. Apparently they traced Winnie back to me using his dog tags. I reminded the caller of the old adage which required him to accept the gift of this dog without criticism, comment or dental inspection.
But I guess that all he heard was some kind of code talk for “Sure, we’d love to have him,” because in less than an hour he showed up with the dog and all the accessories (normally sold separately). I have never seen anyone unload anything from a van so fast – unless you count littering. He dumped everything: the dog, leash, food including the chewed-up dish, and assorted germ laden toys.
“Well, here you go. His name is Winston. Thanks. Bye.”
I am not even sure he put his van in park. Well we couldn’t have a dog named after a cigarette lest people think us bad parents and turn us over to the authorities, but the dog was already named so we softened it to Winnie. It wasn’t necessarily a masculine name, but it was a name that the kids liked and was reasonably close to the name that the dog came with.
Winnie was (I am sure he’s dead by now, as I almost killed him several times myself) a Siberian husky, He had crazy eyes: one was ice-blue, the other brown. Winnie was good to the kids, but his other qualities were all bad: He howled instead of barked; he ran the other way when he was called; he loathed all other animals – especially farm fowl. In fact, if Noah had selected Winnie as one of the two dogs for the ark’s maiden voyage – well breakfast would be decidedly different without chicken eggs on the menu.
After Winnie killed our chickens, he introduced himself to the neighbors by killing their chickens as well. I tried to confine him, really I did. But he was better at escaping than I was at confining. He could jump over a five foot fence and tunnel under a wall without any excavating equipment. When it became apparent that this dog was not a “farm dog,” we gifted him to someone else. I made it very clear to the new owner of Winnie’s proclivity for killing, but he had his own plans to take the dog “up North,” presumably to have him hitched to a sled. How far north? The further the better I thought.
Several weeks after we had accepted the gift of another dog that needed a good home I received a phone call. Apparently Winnie had escaped from his new owner and was now terrorizing Northern Minnesota. Apparently they traced Winnie back to me using his dog tags. I reminded the caller of the old adage which required him to accept the gift of this dog without criticism, comment or dental inspection.
Hobby Time (February 26th, 2009) Shakopee Valley News
I’ve struggled for years trying to create a hobby for myself. I believed that a hobby consisted of some physical activity which often involved building, creating or fixing something. As a child I was under the impression that every boy should have a hobby. The old saying “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” was often used as a reason to have a hobby. So as I understood it I could avoid spending eternity in Hades if I built model airplanes using glue. I remember thinking I had already made the trip when I, up to my elbows in stickiness, struggled to put the models together. I got glue on myself, the kitchen table, but very little on the airplane. The completed models never looked like the picture on the box. Rather they resembled a tragic accident. It was later discovered that some kids were creating their own Hell on earth by sniffing the airplane glue
There were boys in the neighborhood who God had blessed with the ability to build stuff. Where my friend Tom had constructed a clubhouse accessorized with secret trap doors and multiple levels, I opted for the more basic blankets-held-in-place-by-books-over-a-card table look. It wasn’t as showy – but it was easy and reasonably fool proof in assembly. This wonderful abode gave my brothers and me hours of fun until my mother decided that three months was long enough to have a club house in her basement.
Later on guys began working on their cars and trucks. I was again limited by my lack of interest and ability. I really liked enjoyed driving the cars – I just couldn’t fix them. Oh sure, I could handle the simple things like changing the radio station on my car – but that was about it. I still had no hobby.
Hunting and fishing have been tried – but again, no interest. It’s not a PETA style of objection that I have, I think my short attention span prevents me from spending too long of a time sitting in one spot waiting for something to happen.
I was once asked if I had a hobby that I really enjoyed. I took it as a two part question.
Woodworking - but I hate it. Yes I even went down that rode for a while. I refinished furniture in the barn for a while until one tormented evening I was refinishing a pie safe when I mistakenly thought that I could improve the doors. I took a little off of one, then the other, then the other was too long. So I kept at this insane exercise for two hours until I was left with a piece of furniture that could keep only four pies secure.
I always enjoyed reading but I resisted calling it a hobby. But my position is beginning to weaken. The school district where my daughter teaches has declared February “I Love To Read Month.” Jennifer, recognizing that her Dad could read, invited me in to read to her kindergarten class. Well here was something I could do. I scanned the children’s books on my book shelf and selected an old favorite: TheHappy Man And His Dump Truck. I also went to the kids section at the library and checked out The Great Pig Escape. Pigs make great stories.
I had the best day. I got to visit my daughter’s classroom and read to her kids. The kids loved the books I chose and sat around my chair giggling at the pictures of pigs while I read to them. I guess reading can be a hobby - especially when it is enjoyed.
There were boys in the neighborhood who God had blessed with the ability to build stuff. Where my friend Tom had constructed a clubhouse accessorized with secret trap doors and multiple levels, I opted for the more basic blankets-held-in-place-by-books-over-a-card table look. It wasn’t as showy – but it was easy and reasonably fool proof in assembly. This wonderful abode gave my brothers and me hours of fun until my mother decided that three months was long enough to have a club house in her basement.
Later on guys began working on their cars and trucks. I was again limited by my lack of interest and ability. I really liked enjoyed driving the cars – I just couldn’t fix them. Oh sure, I could handle the simple things like changing the radio station on my car – but that was about it. I still had no hobby.
Hunting and fishing have been tried – but again, no interest. It’s not a PETA style of objection that I have, I think my short attention span prevents me from spending too long of a time sitting in one spot waiting for something to happen.
I was once asked if I had a hobby that I really enjoyed. I took it as a two part question.
Woodworking - but I hate it. Yes I even went down that rode for a while. I refinished furniture in the barn for a while until one tormented evening I was refinishing a pie safe when I mistakenly thought that I could improve the doors. I took a little off of one, then the other, then the other was too long. So I kept at this insane exercise for two hours until I was left with a piece of furniture that could keep only four pies secure.
I always enjoyed reading but I resisted calling it a hobby. But my position is beginning to weaken. The school district where my daughter teaches has declared February “I Love To Read Month.” Jennifer, recognizing that her Dad could read, invited me in to read to her kindergarten class. Well here was something I could do. I scanned the children’s books on my book shelf and selected an old favorite: TheHappy Man And His Dump Truck. I also went to the kids section at the library and checked out The Great Pig Escape. Pigs make great stories.
I had the best day. I got to visit my daughter’s classroom and read to her kids. The kids loved the books I chose and sat around my chair giggling at the pictures of pigs while I read to them. I guess reading can be a hobby - especially when it is enjoyed.
Smoking In Cars (February 19th, 2009) Shakopee Valley News
Finally, I see we have come to our senses. Nora Slawik, a Minnesota State Representative, has introduced a bill (HF -0379) which would make it illegal to smoke in a vehicle while transporting a child under the age of 18 years of age. Where was she forty years ago? My own father would occasionally light up with five kids in the car. Why is it there is never a cop around when you really need one?
I would have loved to see my family’s summer vacation interrupted by Dad getting arrested in the middle of South Dakota for smoking in the car. Why they could have thrown the book at him. I am quite sure not one of us had our seat belt fastened; there may even have been a car seat violation as well as my younger sister was wandering freely violating many of today’s current laws.
Thankfully we now have guardians like Representative Slawik. I don’t smoke but I look forward to the day when it is illegal to smoke in one’s own home. I would love to see the neighborhood watch program expanded to include a whistle-blowing division. If you see your neighbors smoking – you can rat on them and have them arrested and dragged out into the street – hopefully in the middle of night. Oh yeah, I can’t wait.
Let’s not stop there though. I understand that many of our foods are laced with fat-inducing contents. During my own wicked childhood I used to eat sugar cubes (right out of the box), and eat spoonfuls of brown sugar. I loved the texture, the taste and the nice little lift it gave me on a summer afternoon. Mom used to sprinkle sugar on cottage cheese to make it more palatable, and until recently I could not eat spahgettios with out a generous helping of sugar. My mother should have been in jail, and I along with my brothers and sisters could have become wards of the state. What terrible parents I must have had. I only hope that change will come soon for the old ways must pass away quickly.
I am thinking that maybe we could create a new security force. They would of course be an arm of the government, but they could also be a clearinghouse of sorts for citizen’s complaints. The name of the new force must be something easily remembered; an acronym would be best: Safe Society?
I have additional ideas to create a more perfect world. The parents of overweight children should be investigated. Strict bedtimes must be enforced to assure the correct amount of nightly sleep. We can also monitor what television and radio shows are broadcast into homes. The mind reels to what good we can accomplish if we put our hearts ino it.
Make the television show Family Guy illegal in homes where children under 16 reside; require reading of certain publications so that we are all on the same page; prohibit reading of bad things (to be determined later), outlaw stripes worn with checks, make helmets mandatory for many recreational activities - bikes, skateboarding, skiing (both snow and water). I would also like to see other protective clothing put in place – such as safety glasses and hearing protection.
Now I know that some of these ideas may seem radical to most of you. Let’s just give it some time. In a few short years you will hardly notice the changes. The government knows best and it is time to publicly acknowledge this and yield to its higher authority. I think Representative Slawik could be our next President.
I would have loved to see my family’s summer vacation interrupted by Dad getting arrested in the middle of South Dakota for smoking in the car. Why they could have thrown the book at him. I am quite sure not one of us had our seat belt fastened; there may even have been a car seat violation as well as my younger sister was wandering freely violating many of today’s current laws.
Thankfully we now have guardians like Representative Slawik. I don’t smoke but I look forward to the day when it is illegal to smoke in one’s own home. I would love to see the neighborhood watch program expanded to include a whistle-blowing division. If you see your neighbors smoking – you can rat on them and have them arrested and dragged out into the street – hopefully in the middle of night. Oh yeah, I can’t wait.
Let’s not stop there though. I understand that many of our foods are laced with fat-inducing contents. During my own wicked childhood I used to eat sugar cubes (right out of the box), and eat spoonfuls of brown sugar. I loved the texture, the taste and the nice little lift it gave me on a summer afternoon. Mom used to sprinkle sugar on cottage cheese to make it more palatable, and until recently I could not eat spahgettios with out a generous helping of sugar. My mother should have been in jail, and I along with my brothers and sisters could have become wards of the state. What terrible parents I must have had. I only hope that change will come soon for the old ways must pass away quickly.
I am thinking that maybe we could create a new security force. They would of course be an arm of the government, but they could also be a clearinghouse of sorts for citizen’s complaints. The name of the new force must be something easily remembered; an acronym would be best: Safe Society?
I have additional ideas to create a more perfect world. The parents of overweight children should be investigated. Strict bedtimes must be enforced to assure the correct amount of nightly sleep. We can also monitor what television and radio shows are broadcast into homes. The mind reels to what good we can accomplish if we put our hearts ino it.
Make the television show Family Guy illegal in homes where children under 16 reside; require reading of certain publications so that we are all on the same page; prohibit reading of bad things (to be determined later), outlaw stripes worn with checks, make helmets mandatory for many recreational activities - bikes, skateboarding, skiing (both snow and water). I would also like to see other protective clothing put in place – such as safety glasses and hearing protection.
Now I know that some of these ideas may seem radical to most of you. Let’s just give it some time. In a few short years you will hardly notice the changes. The government knows best and it is time to publicly acknowledge this and yield to its higher authority. I think Representative Slawik could be our next President.
Let's Stay In Touch (February 12th, 2009) Shakopee Valley News
I am turning into an old man, or at least middle aged. I don’t like it, and I ‘m fighting it every stuttered step. I will have my fiftieth birthday this summer and I must tell you I find it a bit unsettling. I exercise irregularly, I eat healthy sometimes, and I could lose a few pounds. I am beginning to be mindful of my mortality. When I was a kid, my friend Mark had a saying for any dire circumstance we found ourselves in “Well, we’re not going to die.” With that proclamation everything was put in perspective; we knew everything was going to be O.K. Back in the ‘70’s in Belle Plaine we thought we were immortal. I don’t feel that anymore. When I hit fifty years of age I will finally accept being in the middle aged category. You see I plan on living to one-hundred, so naturally I had to wait until fifty to be called middle aged.
A couple weeks ago one of my high school classmates exited before he reached that middle age marker. Tim was one of the 101 of us who graduated in 1977 from Belle Plaine High. Back then we thought that Shakopee was the beginning of the “cities”. Our class was the largest ever to go through the Belle Plaine schools – a small class by today’s standards. Back then you knew everyone’s name, which was no trick. Most of us even had nicknames – some had more than one. The real challenge of staying in touch came years later. I knew Tim but I had lost touch with him. We exchanged pleasantries when we would see each other at a class reunion, or maybe the county fair, but I am sorry to say it didn’t go much further. Now it’s too late. He’s gone and I don’t know why. But, I don’t need to. That’s not my concern.
But, what has become clearer to me now – is that maintaining friendships is more important than any job or any task; it is worth any effort it might take. I am not going to pretend that Tim and I were close – we weren’t. We did receive our first communion together, we were confirmed at the same time, we were disciplined by the same nuns, and we fought with each other while playing floor hockey in Mr. Miller’s Physical Education Class, and then sometime over the last thirty years we went our separate ways. It often happens that way. I knew Tim for over forty-five years. I don’t know - that seems like a long time, long enough to stay in touch when you live in the same county all your life. I’ll take the blame. I didn’t do a very good job of holding up my end of the relationship. My Dad used to say “Go the extra mile, what will it hurt?” With Tim I never found out.
So I went to Tim’s wake. I rode down there with Jim (another guy I have known for a long time). It was so crowded we couldn’t get in to the funeral home. I was glad to see that. Tim deserved it. So a couple of us went uptown (or downtown Belle Plaine if you prefer) and had a beer. We talked of Tim, our kids, our parents (living and deceased), and the “glory days.”
The next day I made a few phone calls, wrote a few letters and promised myself that I would do a better job of staying in touch. After all, I only have fifty years to get the job done.
A couple weeks ago one of my high school classmates exited before he reached that middle age marker. Tim was one of the 101 of us who graduated in 1977 from Belle Plaine High. Back then we thought that Shakopee was the beginning of the “cities”. Our class was the largest ever to go through the Belle Plaine schools – a small class by today’s standards. Back then you knew everyone’s name, which was no trick. Most of us even had nicknames – some had more than one. The real challenge of staying in touch came years later. I knew Tim but I had lost touch with him. We exchanged pleasantries when we would see each other at a class reunion, or maybe the county fair, but I am sorry to say it didn’t go much further. Now it’s too late. He’s gone and I don’t know why. But, I don’t need to. That’s not my concern.
But, what has become clearer to me now – is that maintaining friendships is more important than any job or any task; it is worth any effort it might take. I am not going to pretend that Tim and I were close – we weren’t. We did receive our first communion together, we were confirmed at the same time, we were disciplined by the same nuns, and we fought with each other while playing floor hockey in Mr. Miller’s Physical Education Class, and then sometime over the last thirty years we went our separate ways. It often happens that way. I knew Tim for over forty-five years. I don’t know - that seems like a long time, long enough to stay in touch when you live in the same county all your life. I’ll take the blame. I didn’t do a very good job of holding up my end of the relationship. My Dad used to say “Go the extra mile, what will it hurt?” With Tim I never found out.
So I went to Tim’s wake. I rode down there with Jim (another guy I have known for a long time). It was so crowded we couldn’t get in to the funeral home. I was glad to see that. Tim deserved it. So a couple of us went uptown (or downtown Belle Plaine if you prefer) and had a beer. We talked of Tim, our kids, our parents (living and deceased), and the “glory days.”
The next day I made a few phone calls, wrote a few letters and promised myself that I would do a better job of staying in touch. After all, I only have fifty years to get the job done.
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