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

Wilderness Latrine

 

Latrine photo courtesy of  https://bwca.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=forum.thread&threadId=110645&forumID=12&confID=1

Campsites within the BWCA consists of a U.S. Forest Service iron fire grate, somewhat flat grassy tent area and a the all important fiberglass latrine.  The BWCA wilderness latrines are typically some distance behind the campsite.  Usually a short walk; however at times, the walk can seem long.

A definite trail is readily visible leading to this relief oasis in the woods.  Its not difficult to find.  Follow the path at the back of the campsite away from the lake.  At the path's end you will find the green fiberglass implement you seek.  Some latrines have beautiful views of the surrounding woods.  Some are up high on a small hill, or down low in a knoll.

Some have stellar lakeside views.  Which can be unsettling.  On one trip as I was sitting in the woods with a nice view of the lake to my left.  A couple canoes paddled by not more than 50 yards away.  I could clearly see them through the trees and hear their conversation as I sat there in my altogether minding my business.  Glad I didn't wear my red plaid shirt on that necessary walk in the woods.

Other latrine locations are surrounded by low brush and ferns.  Continually shady and damp.  Mosquito havens.  We learned the hard way to always bring bug repellent on our walks into the woods.  Our tender, never seeing the sun backsides are a beacon to blood sucking mosquitos and biting gnats.  Keep the bug repellent handy when you drop your pants.  Give your backside a healthy dousing of repellent to give yourself some time to sit and think.

When nature calls we would announce, "I need to take a walk."  This declarative statement let everyone in camp know that the green stool in the woods is about to be occupied.  This announcement quelled any embarrassment by having someone walk in while another was tending business.

Later on, we hung a roll of TP on a tree branch at the trailhead to the latrine.  This worked quite well to replace our nature call announcements. If the roll of TP was missing, you new someone was at the office consulting business.  After an overnight rain, we had to modify our tree hanging TP roll.  A gallon sized Ziploc baggie proved a worthy rain guard to the precious roll of TP.

Roll care while using the latrine is essential to prevent roll mishaps.  Typically, there is not an optimal place to set the TP roll.  Usually a flat rock near the feet worked fine.  Unless it had rained, or was raining.  A wet rock lent a soggy roll. Reaching for the roll must be taken with care.  Reaching too far to only knock over the roll will send the TP roll into a spin down the dirt trail.  Nobody wants to do the quick walk of shame to retrieve the wayward roll.  

On one occasion, Bob took his nature walk only to hurry back in a panic.  He explained he needed paper towels and the pot of hot soapy dishwater we used to wash breakfast dishes.  Perplexed, we followed Bob to the latrine.  There we saw that a squirrel or some poor rodent had gotten itself into the latrine and proceeded to climb out, covering the latrine seat and sides with little paw prints of whatever was down in the latrine.  We had a laugh about that poor happless rodent.  Yet we felt bad for the critter.  Worse was cleaning up after the fouled rodent.  ugh.

The 1999 Blowdown was disastrous.  Hundreds of acres with trees blown down, campsites were damaged. Forest crew spent time clearing portages and campsites from downed trees. The trip a year after the Blowdown was a memorable latrine experience. Surrounding the latrine was a wall of logs, almost like a three sided log outhouse; but without a roof.  I did not notice the crack in the latrine's seat as I sat down to do business.   Once seated, I experienced a sharp pain on my backside; a severe pinch on my right backside cheek.  

This pain had no end.  However, standing up was impossible.  The latrine seat had my seat in its tight grip.  The damn thing was goosing me and would not stop.  I could not stand.  And calling to my fellow campers was not an option; at least not without extreme embarrassment.  To free myself, I had to push on the back of the seat, behind my behind while pushing the outside of the latrine stool inside.  Free at last, but with quite a sore welt on my backside.  Once back in camp I warned my fellow campers.  We all learned to hover on that trip.

Reflections on Cigar Ash

My dear friend Paul, may he rest in peace, and I used to have contests smoking cigars to see who could keep the longest ash.  Loser would have to pour the next round of drinks.  Though it mattered not who won or lost.  Round two was a win- win either way.  Whomever broke their ash on themselves were subjected to ridicule.  Our choices in cigars varied from each other.  Paul’s favorite was Onyx while I preferred Romeo e Julietas.   Our taste in scotch was also different.  Paul preferred Tomatin or Johnny Walker.  I preferred The Balvanie Double Wood or a style of an Islay.

Our cigar endeavor began in our junior high school days.  We’d somehow, by various means, get a hold of Swisher Sweets, grab our fishing gear and bicycle to Beaver Brook for some fishing.  As we aged, all fishing trips required a cigar(s).  Later, we graduated to better cigars.  We’ d get together just to visit, drink and smoke.  Good therapy when we joined the corporate world.  

Fishing trips would take us to his family cabin on Gunn Lake.  The two of us armed with scotch and cigars  spent considerable time conversing with not so much fishing.  On those weekend adventures, the cigar butts mounted.  Frugal as we were Paul got a brilliant idea in buying pipes to smoke the remaining one inch cigar butts to it’s last.  Which of course led to us buying pipe tobacco for our briar woods.  

Of course we enjoyed a wee bit too much scotch weekend evenings on Gunn Lake.  Ice was a premium, so we added a splash of water.  I coined the term Gunn Lake Water for the evening drinks around the campfire.  The following morning was hectic and slow.  We managed to put the coffee on, but had no energy to actually cook breakfast.  In the cupboard, Paul scrounged up a box of Raspberry Poptarts.  We decided sunshine and fresh air outside on the deck would clear our foggy minds.

Leftover cigar butts and an open bottle of Johnny Walker greeted us.  Since there were no women around to say no, we lit up and poured a morning glass of Gunn Lake Water.  A perfect morning.  No words were spoken.  The gentle lapping of the lake on the shore, birds singing, blue cigar smoke rising made for an exceptional breakfast.  I must say, the cigar smoke and smokiness of the scotch combined with raspberry Poptarts made for a wondrous flavor sensation.

I still try to see how much ash I can leave while smoking my cigars.  And the only flavor of Poptarts I buy is raspberry.   Perhaps this weekend I’ll replicate our breakfast we once shared.  Thanks Paul, for a lifetime of memories!

 

Little Big Dippers

 

The moon was out, bright above the tree tops when my niece asked if we could look at it through my spotting scope.  Its a Bushnell 15-45x 60mm on a mediocre tripod.  It takes time to focus as the tripod is a bit wobbly.  Someday I’ll replace that wobbly tripod.  Our best viewing was on the road at the end of the drive looking towards the east.  Always fun to see the moon in fine detail. 

Just to the left of the moon we could see Jupiter.  A large white orb of light in the spotting scope viewfinder. Void of detail as its too far away.  But a thrill to see none the less.  Up and to the right we focused on Saturn.  Though, we could not make out it’s rings, it had an oval appearance rather than being round like Jupiter.  We took turns looking through the scope in wonder at our night sky.  We also took turns swatting the squadrons of biting mosquitos in the hot July night air.

I pointed out Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, the Big and Little Dippers high overhead.  We tried to trace the stars that make up the constellation of Draco, but the bright moon faded the stars in that constellation.

Looking to the western sky, my niece asked if the moving light was a plane.  No, not a plane.  It was a bright fast moving white light.  Too fast for a plane.  It was too large and bright to be a satellite. It showed up on my iPhone SkyView Lite app as the International Space Station.  We watched it for a minute transversing the sky eastward.  We lost it under the close horizon of treetops down the road.

The hungry mosquitos chased us indoors.  This cut our star gazing and satellite hunting short.  We’ll pick it up again in September when its not so hot and the mini vampires are gone.

Superspreaders

 Blue mask mandate

Traveling Super spreaders

Delta variant

 

The Great Perkin’s Little Boat Race

Back in our early 20s college days,  like all 20-somethings, we used to bar hop then stop for something to eat.  The munchies usually set in around midnight.  There was always a debate on where to stop in and dine.  This particular evening we were in Bloomington near France Ave and 494.  Perkins was the logical choice.

There were usually 8 of us, or more on these weekend college drinking/partying excursions.  Sadly, my memory is a bit sketchy with the overall details.  That was 30 plus years ago.  And a bit too much beer that evening.  No doubt, both.  Anyway, back in those days, Perkins had a wishing well in the lobby.  It was filled with small plastic trinkets and toys for children to choose one.  Fun times growing up playing with the little toy at the table waiting for the adults to finish their meals.  A brilliant move by corporate to keep the children quiet and entertained.  

Our group on our way out to head home, and nurse our inevitable hangovers, stopped in the lobby to plan the next evenings party events.  A few of us hung out at the Hostess station.  The others headed to the wishing well.  Paul, And a couple others, each found a little plastic boat each in three different colors.

The three of them armed with tiny plastic boats got a bright idea and headed to the men’s room.  The great Perkin’s boat race was on!  They each dropped their six inch plastic boat into a toilet bowl.  Bets were made.  No idea who, but the toilet was flushed.  Round and round the three little plastic boats raced downward into the vortex.  As the three little plastic boats raced, the contestants and spectators in the handicap stall cheered on their chosen boat. 

Everyone began yelling, “Go, go, go…c’mon, go!   No, hurry get in there!”   Strangers opened the men’s room door, but left immediately upon hearing “sonovabiach, get down in there,”. Perkins staff ran in to quell the commotion, shushing us to keep quiet as the lobby was filled with our inebriated excitement in the toilet bowl boat race.  But seeing 8 guys in and surrounding a handicap stall, they decided to let things be as they were.  

I do not remember who won the great Perkins little plastic boat race.  But I do remember seeing the faces of fellow dining patrons, Perkin’s staff and the cute hostess.  Their faces said it all.  They were perplexed, horrified, bewildered and frightened.  

Wet Beehive and Sofa

We’re perfect angels, my sister and I

The trip to our Grandparent’s farm in Esko, Minnesota started as usual; my sister and I taking turns at annoying each other in the back seat of the Buick.  It was an enormous car that 1971 Buick LeSabre.  It sat 6 adults comfortably and only had AM radio, no AC…sweet.  We listened to the Twins game as WCCO was the only radio station it was tuned too.  Following the Twins was Mystery Theatre with EG Marshall.  We usually arrived before the end of the story.   There were no seatbelts or car seats in those days.  Just the spacious back seat with a pile of blankets that separated my sister and I.  Vying for more space always created a ruckus.  Ma and Pop took turns fielding these skirmishes.  Usually with, “I’ll stop the car and make you walk if you don’t settle down”.  

Looking out the window on all our trips I never witnessed lone children walking along the freeway system.  A hollow threat we knew.  But as non-teenagers, we knew just how far to push the adults.  And when to back off.  This ability is lost on the addled teenage mind.  Making matters worse, it was raining quite hard.

As I said, the goal was to take more space in the backseat to stretch out.  This trip I tried reverse psychology on my sister.  I grabbed the pile of blankets sliding them to myself and said to her, “see how much of the blankets I have?  Sure is nice and cozy here in this little space.”  Darned if she didn’t take the bait.  She was too smart for that psychology nonesense.  She actually rejoiced in her expanded domain by stretching out across her spacious seating arrangement.  Which of course was the start of yet another fight as I tried to reclaim my lost space.  Ma whipped around to tell us again for the umpteenth time to knock it off.  That’s when she noticed the trailer behind our car was empty.

Before I continue, let me add a bit of background to this trip.  One of our adult cousins was getting married the following day.  Ma went to the beauty parlor to have her bouffant hairdo set earlier.  I never understood how her bouffant doo would survive the night’s sleep.  But all the Aunties practiced this.  As usual for these family functions, the Aunties would gather early at Grandma’s house.  She had one of those pink floor standing hairdryers where they each would take a turn “drying” their beehive hairdoos.  Or, was that warm swirling air to remove the bees?  A child often wondered.

In the trailer, we had this hideous god-awful family hand-me-down brown and orange sofa that we were to deliver to another adult cousin up north.  He had just purchased a one room house and needed a place to sit.  Even if that meant inheriting a sofa that defied all logic in style and decor.  It was some silly Colonial pattern high back with Queen Ann backrest sides.   Supposedly, my older cousin was pleased to get a damp but rain driven clean ugly sofa.  Maybe my folks paid him to take it?   They loaded the hideous sofa into the trailer, no tie downs, no tarp nor covering.  The sofa just sat there in the trailer bouncing as we drove northward on Interstate 35 at 70 miles per hour.

Anyway, somehow, this sofa lying in the ditch between the north and south bound lanes of 35 was my sister’s and my fault.  They told us we were to watch the trailer.  Oh, yeah, I vaguely remembered that.  Yeah, right, watch a trailer for two hours.  We had more important things to do, fight for more than our fair share of backseat space.

Backtracking south of Hinkley, they found that blasted sofa around Pine City.  It layed in a wet soggy heap in the center median between the north and southbound lanes.  Pop bought a clothesline at Tobies to finally and correctly secure the load.  We felt kind of bad that both Ma and Pop were soaking wet; Ma looking like a drowned racoon with her deflated bouffant hairdo.  So weird that they always yell at my sister and I to wear our raincoats and rubber boots when it was raining.  Yet there they were, messing with a soaking wet sofa in a trailer in a driving rainstorm without a raincoat on.  

Ma glared at us and told us we were to be quiet and watch that trailer and sofa for the rest of the trip.  We knew the car adults had had enough and an unspoken truce broke out between us.  The glare of the red taillights on the wet back window reflecting on the trailer was enough to make us sleepy.  My sister lasted 12 seconds before she fell asleep.  I was asleep shortly after.

As we pulled around the teardrop driveway in front of my Grandparents house, my sister’s back door opened.  I watched in utter surprise as she bailed out of the car before it even came to a stop.  I could see the lawn and gravel pass by through her still open door as she ran for the house.  Not to be outdone, I too bailed from the car to seek refuge inside the house.  

My sister was already hugging Grandma crying a stream of tears. Nice touch.   Grandpa asked me how the trip went.  I stopped in mid sentence when our folks walked in.  Both of them were still wet, Ma’s big bouffant hung down in clumps of wet matted hair.  I lit for the living room, my sister hid behind Grandma.  Ma and Pop retold the story of our trip while my sister sat on Grandma’s lap in her kitchen rocking chair.

I heard Grandpa chuckle as he brought down a bottle of bourbon for my Pop.  To this day, I wondered how his car trips went with one boy and six girls.  Those musta’ been some epic fights!  The Poor man.

The others arrived and the Aunties tended to Ma’s bouffant hairdo in the bathroom using the pink standup hair dryer.  If only they had worn raincoats…

We learn from our parents.  To this day if the load I am securing requires two ropes, four additional ropes are used.  I am proud to say that I have never lost a load on the roadway.  Though, it may take 45 minutes to untie said load.  

Grandpa’s Folding Knife

I finally replaced my old folding knife I lost decades ago.  I do carry a small lightweight pocket knife daily.  But its no replacement for what I had lost.  

 

Long, long ago while cleaning out my Grandmother’s garage, I found the old worn out folding knife.  It was missing both side skins showing only the rivets.  The non stainless steel blade was rusty and black; it was four inches long.  The knife, or what was left of it was a large heavy beast of a knife, despite no side skins.  It was in terrible shape and nobody wanted it.  

I kept it, and got to working on it removing the rust, dust and grime.  However, the blade kept its greyish black appearance but took a wonderfully sharp edge. It was a carbon steel blade rather than stainless.  Scrap oak was used for the side skins.  I simply oiled the oak side skins with Hoppes gun oil  to protect the wood a little and give them some color.  Though it was not a locking blade, it took some effort to close the blade. 

 

I had this knife for years, and used it often, not only as a knife, but a screwdriver and a prybar.  I even used the butt end of the knife to pound a tent stake in place during a rain and wind storm in the BWCA.  And sadly, that is where I lost this knife.  

I had it in my jean jacket pocket behind the front canoe seat as Paul and I fished for walleyes.  We were along a rock island over about twenty feet of water.  The sun was setting bringing on an evening chill.  Reaching behind me for the jacket, I heard a “ploop” and watched my Grandfather’s pocket knife sink out of view into the inky depths.  I guess if there was a good place to lose this knife, Lake Three in the BWCA was a better place to lose it. He spent considerable time there long before it was designated as the BWCA.

 

I lost that knife in the mid 1980’s and after years of procrastinating, I finally ordered a replacement; the 110 Hunter Buck Knife.  The dimensions are a bit smaller than what I lost, it has brass ends rather than nickel.   I wonder how brass will hold up the way I will be using it.  It has a locking blade, which is a safe feature.  The price was right, so it will be a good replacement.  

Parisian Café

 Small café tables

Carafe of wine baskets of bread

Crowded sidewalks

 Weekend rainy day

Water drop forest reflection

Wet shoes in woods

Warm sun

 Warm sun gentle breeze

Floral blooms heavenly scent

Piercing lawn equipment

Newborn Fawn

 A newborn fawn lays

Soft bed of bright green clover

Napping innocence sleep tight

 

The Campfire

 Orange embers glowing

Flames tickling pine smoke rising

Autumn leaves smolder

Serenading Loons

 

Loons

 Serenading loons

Calling across calm waters

Sun dips below pines

Sacrificing Body and Limb

 

We decided to build a level path and kayak rack to make our lives easier. Lots of work, it's all rock and little dirt here.  After hours of raking, hoeing, using a  pick ax to dig holes for the concrete kayak rack post footings, I felt a twinge of tendinitis setting in. But no worries, we have cool Air Conditioned air to rest comfortably in.

Happy to say, Pop built a nice kayak rack.  It was a lot of work for sure.  As July gives way to August, we decided the AC unit should be put away.   Up into the loft I went to tackle this simple job.  I reached my left arm out the window to grab the back end of the stationary AC unit to help push in as I pulled with my right arm.  

That's when i felt it. A shooting pain from my left wrist,pinky and ring finger to my elbow.  Before i could think "this not good", pieces of plastic shot up into my line of sight like Mt Saint Hellens.  Ma and Karen screamed, yelling, "are you all right?!"

Still thinking I can catch it while staring at the AC unit now firmly resting on the deck far below, I ran down and for the door. Grabbing the door with my throbbing left hand, the pain nearly brought me to my knees. The three of us stood around the now deck mounted AC unit.  Ma and Karen were saying stuff, but I was still thinking how the hell did that happen. 

Pop came down from the garage. Looked at the deck mounted AC unit, looked up at the open window, then looked back down to the wayward AC unit and impressive debris field of plastic.  Pop simply said, "well, that's one way of getting it down."  

The result of this mishap; I'm out $$$ to buy a replacement AC unit, and lateral tendinitis in my left arm. I'm on steroids now for the tendinitis inflammation.  

Together

We grew up together.

We grew up apart.

 

We experienced life together.

We experienced life apart.

 

Together we joked and laughed.

Together we caused mischief and pause.

 

We shared life’s triumphs and joys.

We shared life’s pain and sorrow.

 

We lent shoulders to cry upon in times of need.

We lent love and encouragement

Compassion and advise to heed.

 

But now we are apart.

Heavenly universes apart.

 

Life’s experiences are now our own.

Now shared through our memories.

 

Eternal time shall pass until we meet.

We’ll save our experiences until we greet.

 

In The Metro

Long metro transfer

Train car howling through tunnels

Wet floor rose petals

 

 

My Bachelor Party

Photo credit:  image not mine, just a google download

An ex co-worker is now a police officer in a different city and state.  Some how we got to talking about police experiences.  A long, forgotten memory from 32 years ago made for a fun shared story.  My bachelor party.

 

There were 8 of us wandering from bar to bar in downtown Minneapolis; drinking at our favorite spots; Gluek’s, Lions Pub and Jukebox Saturday Night.  JBSN had a hula hoop contest where our cylindrically shaped buddy competed against eleven shapely young women on stage.  

It was quite the sight to see, everyone gyrating, provocatively spinning the hoops like a speeding carousel.  Then there was our buddy, slow and methodically spinning his hoop over his cylindrical body.  One by one, the shapely gals dropped their hula hoops to the floor until literally, our buddy was the last man standing.  

Yep, he won the hula hoop contest! The shapely girls were not pleased.

 

Anyway, we barhopped from one establishment to another. Out on the sidewalk we watched a guy and girl wrestling.  We just stood there in awe, watching as this little 120 pound blonde haired young woman beat down a 6 foot man.  They tumbled to the sidewalk and rolled into the intersection.  That’s when we learned he was an undercover cop.  Both his gun and radio skidded into the intersection.  He yelled. “Help me!”  

We jumped in.  

 

One of my buddies grabbed the gun and radio from the intersection.  He tried calling for help on it.  That was funny in hind-site as my half drunken buddy tried working the radio “we need a little help here, policeman wrestling a girl”.  Three of us grabbed her giving her a bear hug.  I had her around her knees, another buddy bear hugged her waist, another had her chest while he and the officer tried to handcuff her.  As the three of us bear hugged her with officer trying to cuff her, we all went for a wild ride as she bucked, thrashed and rolled.  We outweighed her by roughly 700 pounds, but we had a helluva time controlling her. 

 

Let me pause here.  If you find yourself in this situation, do not bear hug a person around the thighs.  Yes, it’s the thickest part of the legs, but that leaves the lower legs to pivot at the knees.  This position is vulnerable, I was on my knees, bear hugging her thighs.  Her lower legs pivoted kicking violently upward into my swimsuit region.  Now, the odd part was she never uttered a sound, other than heavy breathing, and a few grunts mixed in.  It was us yelling and hollering, “hold her down”, “I am”, “dammit”, “she’s breaking loose”.  Then me, yelping/screaming as the wind sailed out of my lungs from a well placed kick.

 

Backup arrived to take over; I like to think it was my buddy’s quick action with the police radio.  We overheard the police officers saying she was dealing and enjoying a PCP trip.     Proudly, we headed to the other establishments for more beer and frivolity, holding our heads higher by the good deed of helping the police and wrestling with a little blonde haired girl.

To sum up my bachelor party; our group won a hula hoop contest, witnessed a young blonde haired 120 pound girl take down a 6 foot tall man,  we assisted the undercover police officer, picked up his gun guarding it, played with the police radio, we bear hugged a woman who was not our wives, and got kicked in the jimmy. Then drank more beer.  What an awesome party!