Pont des Arts

Railings weighted down

City views obstructed

Tacky locks of love

Sacré-Cœur Basilica

Queue in customs

Shuffling through metro trains

Conquering Montmartre stairs

Saint Germain

 Streetside cafe

Baskets of bread escargot

Accordion music

 

Country Music

Interesting how music can transport you back into time. 

 

Surfing TV I stumbled onto a Time/Life informercial of Classic Country music. My childhood flashed before me. Now I’m not a huge country music fan; it was too overly Nashville produced. If I had to listento country, I preferred the “outlaw” country with Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Jessi Colter, Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard... the non bubblegum country.

 

But I digress. Growing up, relatives had all kinds of parties and celebrations. I remember vividly my uncle’s garage with the pool table, us pre teens sneaking Olympia or Coors from the 16 gallon keg hose. Always the radio or 8- Trak would blare Conway Twitty, Dolly Parton, Loretta Lynn, Tammy Wynette, Ray Price...the list goes on and on and on. 

 

A number of times my uncle hosted sauna parties that brought neighbors in to participate in the fun. My Uncle would begin heating the sauna mid afternoon. Once ready, turns were taken to sauna in between the partying and yard games. We pre teens played kick the can throughout the night. In the background Ronnie Milsap, Charlie Pride, Charlie Rich, Kenny Rogers could be heard. Thirsty for soda pop, we’d head for the screen tent where the grown ups were partying. Along the way we kids thought it’d be funny to catch lightning bugs and let them loose in the adult’s screen tent. This distraction proved beneficial to sneak a sip from the keg hose. 

 

Good times! 

 

Five easy payments of $26.99 gets the entire collection. But wait, there’s more, Country Duets and liner notes!!! 

 

Yep, what a great Time Life.

 

Saturday night Sauna

 

Our Sauna on Lake Vermilion

Eric and I at Palo

 

What not to do in the sauna. 

 

Lessons are learned the hard way. Especially as teenagers...who by nature, aren't very bright . 

 

Many of our relatives would gather at my Grandparent's farm for Saturday Night Sauna. Gramps would start heating the sauna mid afternoon, and at times, we kids would help tend the wood stove. Our cousin Dan lived across the highway. They had an above ground pool, and September was a cool month. 

 

Three of us teens; cousins Eric and Dan decided the pool was a bit cool. We hopped on the Honda 3-wheelers and rode to the heating sauna to warm up. Back and forth from pool to sauna was our activity​ throughout the day.

 

Somewhere between pool and sauna we got a hold of some beer. Our teenaged minds thought how fun it would be to sneak the refreshing beer in the sauna to warm and relax. So we did. Sitting there downing a few beers in the heat with clouded minds, great ideas emerged as steam rose from the rocks. Not sure whose idea it was, but the three of us decided beer steam would be an awesome idea. 

 

We all poured a can of beer on the steaming rocks. It was immediate the realization of our folly. We just wasted 3 cans of perfectly cheap beer and our eyes were burning from the haze of steaming hops and barely. The smell was awful, like a burnt sourdough bread - skunk concoction. 

 

Fortunately, Gramp's sauna had a window that opens in both steam room and dressing room. We tried our best waving towels to air out the offensive steam. That really didn't work out well. So we did what any underage teenager would do; hightail it the heck out of there. 

 

Many relatives commented on how awful the sauna smelled. We fessed up as it may have been mud from our 3-wheeling excursions and the Tamarac logs we threw in the sauna stove. They bought that story. If anything, a teenage mind is resourceful when dealing with eminent doom.

 

I believe the statute of limitations has run out. So no harm, no foul. And a lesson that sauna and beer steam do not mix.

Lawn Mowing

 

 

Revenge comes in strange ways.

 

We came home from a lovely Sunday afternoon cruise at the Andover RC Boat Club. I noticed my neighbor, Mr. MB fertilizing his lawn. Of course I had to run over there to harrass and mock him for fertilizing grass only to mow it again later. We had a good laugh and i left to enjoy the rest of my Sunday evening deck side with an ice cold refreshment.

 

That's when she said, "it's going to storm tonight and tomorrow".

 

I replied, "so?"

 

Her retort, "lawn needs mowing".

 

Dammit!....Dammit!!!

 

I pleaded my case. It's been 5 years of not mowing on the weekends, it's not fair to ruin my standard. But no; other neighbors set a precedence. She even said, “Mr. MB is out fertilizing.”

 

Dammit!

 

No amount of pleading or throwing a tantrum would sway her. I cried. I whined, I even held my breath and stomped my feet. I muttered something about unionizing.

I pleaded a man's house is his castle. 

 

She looked at me with that telling glean in her eye that recognized momentary humor. I froze. Terror ensued, my life flashed before my eyes. I just realized I may have overplayed my hand in this stake and that every man's castle resides in the empire of the empress. We have no vote in matters. Any matters.

 

The Authority Having Jurisdiction ( AHJ) spoke calmly but sternly, "the lawn needs mowing".

 

So I mowed. 

 

From across the street, Mr. MB pointed and laughed.

Knife Lake Two Step

Knife Lake Two Step

 

The evening progressed after a fine dinner of lake trout and walleye. The dishes were washed, hung to dry in a lingerie bag on a Norway Pine branch. Firewood gathered, bourbon poured, time to relax around the evening fire. 

 

This is something we look forward to each night; sitting around the fire, chatting, drinking bourbon and smoking cigars. Usually a snack of some sort is involved. This night was no different, except for a treat of peanuts in the shell. And a “floor show”.

The sun was sinking fast as the bag of shelled peanuts dwindled. Our empty peanut shells were erratically tossed towards the fire. Most of the shells made it into the fire. Many littered the ground around the fire grate. The orange glow from the campfire took over as our main source of light as we sat on log benches. Each of us was cast in the warm tones from the fire. Stars popped out from the heavens through the canopy of pines. A loon sang nearby. An answering call sounded from across the lake. 

 

Our conversations dwindled as the night grew long and the bourbon in our tin cups emptied. We sat in silence for a few moments enjoying the crackle of the fire. The lake lazily lapped on the rocky shoreline. I pointed out a satellite crossing the night sky on its endless orbit across the zenith. I began to feel the sleepy affects from the bourbon and cigar, fighting the urge to fall asleep.

 

Without warning our floor show began. Bob jumped up in a torrent of “Yee, haw hoowie!” Our serenity was shattered. Up he jumped hopping on one foot then the other. He began slapping his lap. I looked at the faces of Ron and Pop in the dim light of the fire. We looked at each other in utter bewilderment, not quite comprehending what was taking place in front of us. Bob danced, darted and jumped around the campfire whooping and hollering. 

 

Just as suddenly as Bob’s two - step routine started, it stopped. Moments passed as the three of us tried to comprehend the origin of this impromptu display. Perplexed, Pop asked Bob what was the matter. Bob, still shuddering, half giggling, explained the situation. He felt something. He felt something furry on his leg. He felt this furry thing scramble further up his leg reaching his swim suit area. As he jumped up, the furry thing crossed his nether region and scooted down his other pant leg. 

 

A mouse! 

 

In unison, the three of us clicked on our flashlights illuminating the ground surrounding the campfire. Four of those little buggers were scurrying about with the peanut shells we haphazardly threw toward the fire.

 

 

 

Louvre

 

Last Deer Hunt

The Last Deer hunt

 

The opening day of deer hunting season was perfect for wandering through Coon Rapids Dam Regional Park. It was not long before I spotted the big buck. I watched this big buck circling around between woods and meadow, keeping a wary eye on me. 

 

That is when she came into the picture, the doe. Her presence caught his full attention, his demeanor changed; he no longer deemed me as a threat and chased after her. However, she was playing coy, hiding in the shadows, luring him further into the woods.

 

Hiding in the shadows of the woods, she managed to keep just ahead of the big buck. I watched them for some time as she circled around while he followed. The two of them headed off deeper into the woods. I caught up with them a few hours later resting in a meadow.

 

I met up with an elderly man along the trail. We both were hunting deer; he with his binoculars, me with my camera. We talked at length about this buck and other parkland deer. He stated he quit hunting deer years ago, and now enjoys getting out to the park to stalk deer in late autumn with his binoculars. Hunting had become too difficult in his old age. We both witnessed the big buck and the doe, their love story unfolding before us. In his excitement I caught a sense of loss in his aged eyes. He was old and frail no doubt missing the hunting tradition that continued through his son and grandsons. Parting ways as I watched him walk down the trail, I sensed this may be his last deer hunt.

 

Aurora Borealis

Our last trip into the BWCA, Fourtown Lake

 

Aurora Borealis

 

Our camp was on a large granite shelf on the northern end of Fourtown Lake deep in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, (BWCA). The evening was hot and humid. Night proved to be stifling inside the tent; Pop and I slept on top of our sleeping bags in our undapants. Sleep was difficult laying in a sweltering tent while sweating profusely. 

 Around 1am Bob woke us up. Bob was usually the first one up and out in the wee hours of the night to take the walk of relief. Pop was usually next. The commotion of unzipping the tent flap for nightly relief always woke me to make haste to take my own walk. This breathless night was no different. I not so reluctantly gave up the comfort of the rolled up sweatshirt pillow and Duluth pack wedged against my back like a shim. Both Pop and I were quite pleased to escape the tent oven to find the hot, humid, but fresh outside air refreshing.

 

In the dim light, we met both Bob and Ron standing on the granite ledge in their undapants. My need for relief was great, but Bob delayed relief pointing toward the north end of the lake. Bob pointed out the most intensely vibrant neon green veil of iridescent color of light dancing above the tree line. We grew weary standing on the granite barefoot straining our necks looking up. We lay down on the cool rock out cropping. Cool was a relative term, it was cooler than the air. The four of us lay there on the granite in our undapants enjoying the light show. 

 We watched the Aurora Borealis for over an hour. The light display danced across the heavens. Stars and the Aurora reflected off the glass smooth lake surface. Our discussions were brief and hushed. Eerily it seemed we could hear, or perhaps detect the magnetic electric field from light show.

 

Sometime after 2am off to the right of our campsite we heard a wolf howl. More wolves chimed in. An answering wolf came from not too far to our left. Their mournful howls seemed to keep in time with the shimmering neon green aurora. We lay there for a long while enjoying the light show and wolf serenade. The thought of crawling back into that blast furnace of a tent repulsed us, But wearily, sleep began to overtake. 

 

We reluctantly braved our tents.

 

Night

Night's silent darkness
Heaven reveals twinkling stars
Aurora shimmers

 

Fishing Opener

 

The MN Fishing Opener is upon us!

 

Reflections

 

I am not sure how memories pop up into my head, but some how my cranium clay is stirred. A Minnesota Walleye Opener form years ago resurfaced while preparing for the big event.

 

My wife and I headed out on a cold May Saturday morning; our destination a particular reef to bobber fish along the edge. We got there only to find 12 other boats on the same reef. We dropped anchor away from the others. It seemed like an odd thing, a small community of boats arranged in a large oval of about 50 yards. We could make out the muffled conversations and laughter while intently watching our bobbers lay upon the glass smooth lake surface. It was rather peaceful with an occasional fish dragging the bobber under the surface.

 

The serene scene was shattered by a 20 foot Lund Pro V. The asshole boated through all of us at top speed over the reef and through the community of boats fishing along the reef's edge. Rather than going around us, he upset everyone. We all braced ourselves from the impending wake, violently rocking us all from side to side up and down, upsetting many beers into a frothy mess all over the boat floors.

One man who had a few beers in him dropped his cigarette into his lap along with his beer. He stood up slamming his fishing rod down while patting away the burning smoke, and flung a long heartfelt rant of expletives at the Lund Pro V driver.

This string of four letter words echoed off the island's rock surface and hung in the air trailing off across the reef following the wake of the offending Lund Pro V. He spewed what we all were thinking.

 

As the wake settled down, and the ranter calmed a bit sitting down opening another beer while relighting another smoke. A voice called out from across the reef.

A stern voice in a calm manner spoke out, "hey, watch your language. I am fishing with my boy."

 

Every occupant from all twelve boats all looked toward the man who spoke just to see the young boy who had witnessed his first curse words. In unison, we all laughed long and hard. 

 

The voice came from a man that looked no younger than 80 years old. His "boy", looked to be no younger than 60 years old.

 

That was one of the better fishing openers we had.

Not Caffeinated

To Caffeine or not to Caffeine.

 

The previous night’s spaghetti dinner mishap was only compounded by the morning’s coffee kerfuffle. I had the water heating up on the Coleman two burner stove in anticipation of camp coffee. Which is the best coffee. To build the pot, you throw out the coffee pot percolator parts and boil lake water and coffee grounds together. Anyway, I ransacked the food pack looking for the bag of coffee grounds. I asked Paul if he had brought the coffee. He simply stated, “ah, no, I thought you brought it.” 

 

We had this discussion about who brings coffee in this trip’s planning stage weeks prior. Neither one of us remembered who was to bring coffee. The correct answer should have been both of us. We braced for what lay ahead for us; we were both one pot a day coffee junkies. 

 

We prepared for our day and the coming days deep in the BWCA caffienless. We each popped a handful of Excedrin and set out for a day of walleye fishing. While in the canoe fishing, we debated the merits of canoeing/portaging back to the truck, drive into town, buy coffee and paddle/portage back. We estimated if we left at that particular time, we’d be back before dark. 

 

Our answer was in our heads. Our heads pounded with caffeine withdrawals. We were crabby. We were irritable. We hated the world. That and we were doing so well with canoe tied up to an old pine tree half submerge over an eighteen foot dropoff. Well, we estimated it to be eighteen feetish deep, we really didn’t know for sure. Nor did we care. From this spot during our “flee for caffeine debate”, we were catching walleyes. We quit counting after a couple dozen and managed to put 6 nice filleting sized walleyes on our stringer.

 

Our two companions, who were non-coffee heathens, paddled by. They had brought in the latest electronic gadgets to hone in on the fish. They stopped by noting the depth in front of us. They knew our caffeinless addled brain plight and took pleasure in it…or so we believed. They mocked us and bragged about their fishing adventures on the north side of the lake targeting specific depths. They annoyed us greatly. But we got the last laugh. Well we really didn’t laugh at that particular moment in great pain. 

 

They were smiling as big as life when they raised their stringer of two little walleyes. Paul scowled and hefted out our stringer of seven beautiful walleyes, he had caught one more during their annoyance parade secretly adding it to the stringer.

 

Funny, they paddled off in a huff not saying a word. And for a moment, the dark caffeine mind fog was lifted as we triumphed in our delight of out fishing our island mates and their electronic gadgets.

BWCA Spaghetti Dinner

 

BWCA Spaghetti Dinner

 

Paddling across Lake Polly in the BWCA, we were surprised that the island campsite was available. We beached our canoes and claimed the island as our temporary home for the next several days. Within an hour, camp was made; tents erected, kitchen established, hammocks strung between trees.

Our mini tent city was ship shape.

 

I began the business of preparing dinner for the portage weary crew. The two burner Coleman stove lit; boiling water for the spaghetti noodles and heating marinara sauce. 

 

The marinara aroma wafted through camp mingling with the campfire. Marina now sufficiently warmed and the noodles nearly done, I had good friend Paul tend to draining the spaghetti noodles as I readied the plates and cutlery.

What I heard was not promising. “Oh shit” is what I heard. Something one does not like hearing from a sous chef. Then a “Dammit!” I asked what’s up. “Nothing” was the reply as I looked over to see a heap of spaghetti noodles laying peacefully on the campsite floor.

 

One thing for sure about starchy pasta noodles; things stick well to it. And in this case, deep in the BWCA, what seems like the entire forest floor is now stuck fast to the spaghetti pasta noodles. Time for quick action. I relit the burner as Paul scooped the noodles back into the pot with nearly half the forest floor.

Pot of noodles and forest debris in hand, I waded bare foot out into Lake Polly submerging the pot to skim off dried pine needles, tree bark, lichen and moss. Most of which floated right off! Paul got a second pot and we spent time scooping and dumping into each pot of fresh Lake Polly water. It was a fine attempt to wash the dirt and fastly stuck forest debris from the starchy noodles.

 

Somewhat satisfied with our cleaning process, I reheated the already al-dente noodles, tree bark, pine needles and lichen. As it re-boiled, I swirled the concoction skimming off the remaining forest debris the best I could. Once done, the two of us carefully drained the now overly mushy noodles and small particles of forest debris. A quick dump into marinara sauce and I call out “Bon appetite!”

 

The four of us ate in silence and the mushy noodles took no time to dissolve into nothing. Each of us picking out re-hydrated pine needles, tree bark and lichen from our teeth. Now and then we spat out sand and other unidentifiable forest amenities that was stuck to the starchy overly mushy spaghetti noodles. We were tired; we were hungry. Nobody complained. Yet, nobody spoke either. 

 

I gotta’ say that pine needles are a poor substitute for Rosemary.

 

Stay tuned as Paul and I can’t find the coffee.