Its Gonna' Be Alright

  Saturday September 18th, 2021

 

 

We woke to a beautiful crisp cloudless autumn morning.  We were glad for the warming sun as a difficult day lay ahead of us.  We were heading north from Grand Rapids to Paul and Kim's family cabin.  We were to retrieve their boat and other belongings from the lakeside cabin in the woods.  And to spread Paul's ashes at one of the places he cherished.  Each of us in our own way checked our emotions and anxiety on the drive to the lake.  It was a pretty drive with the leaves beginning their change to their autumnal glory.

 

 

A right turn off the road and onto their shared drive.  A two tire rut path through the woods.  Before us, the gate to their private road.  Countless times I witnessed Paul's father, then later, Paul open the gate.  It's now Kim's turn to open the gate for us.  Their road seemed different yet familiar.  Changes over time are inevitable.  The large stand of birch embracing the road was logged off years ago.  A new grove of young birch and brush now crowd the road.  One day, they too will grow to majestically embrace the road.  We continued downhill with a sharp left and past the beaver pond that habitually flooded their road.  This day the road was dry as though the beavers stopped their pond work out of respect.

 

 

 

 

The familiar brown and white cabin stood before us. Paint was a bit weathered, the trees grew up, the lake view hindered.  Yet the mature trees now compliment the cabin in the woods. It was rather emotional for me standing before the cabin realizing this would be my last visit.  In 1979, my dear friend Paul invited me to his family's cabin for the first time.  And now I stand in that very spot once again, forty-two years later.  Over the years I would spend at least one weekend a summer with Paul and his parents Cathy and Ken and a lifetime of memories.  Entering the cabin was like a step back in time with that familiar cabin smell.  It was similar yet different.  The layout was the same, but with new furnishings, new carpet, a new picture window overlooking the lake.  New improvements.  The wicker chair I always sat in during the evening's conversing with Paul, Cathy Ken was replaced by a more inviting sofa.  Good changes.

 

 

 

Julie spent time helping Kim sort through their personal belongings inside.  Deciding what to take home and what to leave behind.  Rick and I spent our time in the Morton garage sorting through how to get Paul's boat out and attached to the car.  We came up with numerous workable solutions when it struck us.  We were struck as though Paul was there stating the obvious, we were over thinking things.  That's the way it was, the three of us razing each other over simple things.  It was quite fitting. 

We took a lunch break after we finished loading the car, boat and trailer in anticipation of leaving.  We dined on SuperOne sandwiches, a good decision made by Julie.  A Bald Eagle soared high above the cabin heading east.  A Red Squirrel chattered.  A butterfly floated around us as we ate.  This little butterfly made it's way into the cabin's open door, fluttering around as if it too wanted one last look inside the cabin.  It rested outside on the window, perhaps to enjoy in our company.  Sometimes God or a Higher Power gives us these little things to comfort us.

It was a beautiful cloudless day as we walked out onto the dock amongst the lily pads. Kim brought Paul with her.  We carried green and red solo cups, along with a bottle of champagne and Jameson Irish Whisky.  One last party with Paul.  Though as usual there was confusion as which cup was for the drinks and which cup was to spread ashes.  No doubt Paul was behind this.  Paul always thrived on a good prank.  We had a good laugh over our confusion.  Rick popped the champagne bottle with a resounding "pop".  The cork jettisoned out over the lake lading on the deep end of the lily pads.  Champagne sprayed out into the lake, and on us as Rick shook the bottle.  The four of us, Kim, Julie, Rick and I enjoyed a last toast to Cathy.  I'd like to think that champagne cork will float in front of the cabin forever in Cathy's honor.

 A final toast to Paul.  I opened a new bottle of Jameson pouring into five green cups, green being Paul's favorite color.  We lifted to toast and poured out one cup for Paul.  Afterward, we enjoyed the whisky in his honor.  It was a pretty day.  After some emotional tears we each filled a red solo cup with Paul's ashes.  The wind started picking up from the south, blowing straight into us. No doubt Paul was at it again with his pranks; as the south wind would push his ashes into our faces.  One by one, we sent Paul to the wind over Gunn Lake.  One of the places he most cherished. 

Just the four of us, Kim, Julie, Rick and I, set out on this emotional adventure.  We may have feared  the unknown with great anticipation. However, everything fell into place.  As though a Higher Power watched over us and lent a hand to ease the day and paint the day with a pretty brush.  On the dock we wept.  We sat in silence.  The wind settled down.  It was such a pretty day.  The four of us sat in silence.  Each of us in our own thoughts, reflecting on memories and what we have lost.  We said goodbye to a husband, a cousin, a dear friend.  We said goodbye to a mother, an aunt, a friend's mother.  We said goodbye to the family cabin by closing and locking the gate one last time.  I believe we did right by Paul and Kim.  We now look forward.  A new beginning, A new adventure.

 

Every little thing gonna' be alright.

Traveling With Strangers

On our travels in Paris, we encountered numerous people who left an impression.  We are all from different backgrounds, cultures and life experiences.  Yet we find common interests bonds to share while traveling.  Simple human interactions that makes us aware we are all very similar in wants and needs.

While in Paris, the businesses catering to the hoards of tourists seem pleasant enough.  No doubt their patience are tried at times, but they manage a friendly smile in doling out assistance and help.  The typical Parisian on the streets seem indifferent to others and to themselves.  I suppose that attitude is necessary when one lives in a heavy tourist city.  The smiling happy people we meet on our travels were fellow tourists from all over the world.  

We met a young man from Nevada on the metro train, Line 1.  We got on the metro car at Concorde.  He graciously stood up to give us his seat as we chatted.  He recommended sites and restaurants to visit.  We stood in line with a woman from California to tour the parapets of Notre Dame.  She looked through her notes to recommend street crepes in Montmartre as that area was next on our list to visit.  We exchanged some money as the exact change was needed for the parapet tour. 

One breakfast we enjoyed was pancakes and a Denver omelette at a restaurant called Breakfast in America.  An American student was our waitress and helped us to understand the bill ticket tax and tipping information.  Strange to witness an American waitress in Paris.  We got to know the restauranteurs at Sarl Momh’s across St. Germain from the Maubert Mutualite metro stop.  That was our breakfast stop.  By day two, he had our coffee orders memorized and ready as we seated ourselves.  No changing our coffee order at that point.

Inside our hotel lobby we bumped into three elderly couples from Denver.  They were trying to see about having a couple taxis take them to the Louvre.  The metro system scared them.  Being that we were on our way to the Louvre, we led the couple to where they could buy the tickets.  I explained how the metro works and led them all the way into the Louvre.  

We visited the Louvre often in small amounts of time.  Its too large to take on all at once.  In the Dennon wing there is an enormous floor to ceiling painting by Louis David, The Coronation of Josephine.  One evening I walked up to get a closer look I walked in front of a young man sitting on the bench studying the painting.  I hadn’t noticed him as I was transfixed on the painting.  I excused myself and went around behind the bench to the other side for a closer look.  This Italian art student approached me and we talked about some of the other paintings we had seen. I asked him if he knew where La Liberty was.  Of course I was wrong on the painting name, but mentioned Delacroix.  He was intrigued I knew about it, knew where it was and explained about the painting.  It was five minutes to closing.  The three of us, the Italian art student, my wife and I raced through the Louvre to find and experience Liberty Leading the People.  Louvre museum hosts were trying to herd us to the exit.  The joy we shared with the young man in our discovery was priceless.  We exited in separate ways.  

The following day we met a young man on the Normandy Landing excursion.  He was studying in an exchange program in Germany.  We talked about the sites in Paris, the Eiffel Tower, Louvre and of course the historic sites in Normandy landing beaches.   On our last day for dinner at an outdoor cafe, a couple next to us asked about my camera.  He too had a Canon DSLR.  We talked photography and even allowed me to snap a few pics with his telephoto. We learned they were from Devon UK.  We had 12 metro tickets left and handed them over to the couple.  They were quite pleased and wished to pay us.  I refused their payment.  Too much to worry about with the exchange rates.  Sometimes its nice to leave behind small gifts for strangers.

Its quite an experience to see the world and interact with others.  A surprise to find such joy in simple things; like an exchange with others in art appreciation.  Helping fellow tourists in a foreign country.  The joy of sharing a common hobby like photography.  We’re all in this together, to travel and to find our personal happiness.

Crossing Piazza Cavour

Our hotel in Rome was Hotel Cicerone north and west of the Tiber River by a few blocks.  It was a quiet neighborhood with a plethora of scooters everywhere.  Across the street is Grotto Azzura where the night before we each enjoyed a personal sized pizza and terrible red wine.  Or so we thought.  Our communications with the non English speaking waiter afforded us each with a 16 inch pizza pie rather than the smaller personal pies we tried to communicate about.  We later learned that the Lombardy wine region is the equivalent of Mad Dog 2020.  Travel is an adventure serving fun memories.

Our first morning in Rome was damp and cool.  Yet the sun proved hot, painting the early morning city in warm yellow tones.  A kind of tranquil morning where you desired a sweater but later in the afternoon, you would soon regret that decision.  Wanting to walk to St. Peter’s Square, Karen and I took a left from the hotel on Via Cicerone.   

Via Cicerone dead ends at Piazza Cavour.  Our aim was to cross to the piazza, follow the river to Via della Conciliazione.  This avenue leads to the Egyptian Obelisk in the center of St. Peter’s Square and St. Peter’s Basilica beyond.  A stunning view.  More stunning was the view from on the roof of St. Peter’s Basilica Cupola Tour.  A view of the embracing colonnades, Obelisk and city beyond.  If you look just to the top right you can see the dome of the Pantheon. 

We waited at the corner to cross the street on that busy morning rush hour.  Bus, scooter and automobile traffic never ceased.  We wondered if the traffic would ever halt long enough for us to cross.  Unlike here in the States, there is no “cross walk” nor crosswalk signs, nor crossing buttons to press.  We discussed our options of another route when a group of Nuns approached.  They passed by us stepping off the curb wading into the traffic.  Amazingly, the traffic stopped.  We looked at each other for a brief moment; who would run over a Nun?  We grabbed each other’s hands joining with the Nuns wading across the now stopped traffic flow.  All lanes were at a standstill as we crossed.  The lanes we passed through resumed as if in a seamless parade.

That day we learned from native Roman Italian pedestrians to keep a steady pace when crossing streets.  Simply step off the curb into the street and keep moving.  Traffic will stop.  They’re timing our crossing progression.  It was marvelous to have such power to bring four lanes of traffic to a standstill.  Just don’t try this back at home.

Labor Day

Traditions come and traditions go.  Our typical family’s Labor Day weekend tradition was spent at the cabin near Palo, MN.  We’d drive up Friday night and head home Monday afternoon.  Sunday we’d visit with Aunt Miriam.  It was a nice drive from the cabin north on county road 99 to Aurora.  A&W drive in is on the south side of town.  On the right approaching downtown Aurora is the iconic Dino’s Bottle shop. Our family and my cousin’s family spent numerous Fourth of July celebrations in Aurora.  Lights festooned across Main Street.  We kids chased the strewn parade candy.  Later was fireworks then a street party.

But I digress.  Through Aurora we drove through Biwabik to Virginia and finally Aunt Miriam’s home in Mountain Iron. It was a big grey two story house.  At least it was big to a ten year old.  We entered the back door parking near the garage in back and came into a spacious kitchen.  Ma and Pop would sit at the table visiting with Aunt Miriam while my sister and I watched TV in the living room.  In those days on Labor Day weekends, all channels aired Jerry Lewis and his Muscular Dystrophy telethon.  We learned all about Jerry’s kids, muscular dystrophy and witnessed wondrous variety shows from the telethon.  Now and then we’d sit with the adult listening to their stories while they drank coffee.  Aunt Miriam always had a paper sack of crusps.  An iron range staple.  Essentially dried thick sugar cinnamon toast.  Perfect for dunking in coffee.  I believe her kitchen was the birthplace for my love of coffee, and sugar cinnamon toast.  Crusp.  At least thats what I remember it to be called.

Across the street from my Great Aunt’s house was the DMIRR railroad overpass.  Her upstairs bedroom windows overlooked the overpass in a direct line of site.  While we visited downstairs, us kids usually watching TV, would hear the train horn at a crossing down track.  When we felt and heard the rumble of the engines, we were off; racing upstairs to Aunt Miriam’s bedroom to watch the train.  Of course our parents called out to stop our running and behave.  But Aunt Miriam encouraged us that its all right.  Peering out her bedroom windows we began counting the engines and ore cars coming out of MinnTac.  

The maroon DMIRR engines with bright golden yellow arrowhead insignias were enormous and beautiful.  My favorite engine was the high hood.  The hood came to the top of the engine’s cab.  As a kid, I wondered how the engineers saw around that high hood.  We’d count three engines leading the train with 135 ore cars.  Sometimes there would be a fourth pushing engine at the back.  After the train’s departure we’d race downstairs to give the kitchen adults our train report.  No doubt Aunt Miriam could care less about that train across the street chugging down the track at all hours, waking her at night or interrupting her daily life with it’s racket.  She never let on and shared in our enthusiastic train report.  Later that evening in the pre autumn waning light we’d begin our half hour journey back to the cabin.  Once in a while we’d find our neighbor’s dairy cows in our yard.  

There is a lot of truth to the old cliche, “you can’t go home again.”  Change, whether good or bad is inevitable.  We’re left only with our shared memories.  Sadly, Aunt Miriam and her entire neighborhood was relocated for increased mining work.  The entire neighborhood was razed, leaving behind lonely streets, empty foundations and a childless playground at the end of her street.  Sadly, Aunt Miriam has left us.  Jerry Lewis was canned by the muscular dystrophy non profit stuffed suits.  Both Jerry and his decades run telethon are long gone.  Our cabin on 40 acres of woodland  was sold to build our new lake cabin.  And DMIRR railroad was sold to Canadian National railroad.  Those magnificent maroon and gold engines are no more.  Every Labor Day I stop and remember Labor Days in my past, and my Great Aunt Miriam.

Missabe SD9 #170 leads a long string of jennies through Proctor, Minnesota in September, 1991. Warren Calloway photo