WRAPPING IT UP

                                                           

For a lot of us here today the world has become a far different place then the one we grew up in. Some call it progress and yes, in some respects it is progress but progress to where? No one wants polio and small pox around again but yet it seems we have traded these dreaded diseases for others born on the backs of the carcinogens we have poisoned the earth with. Just think half of this state has bodies of water unfit to swim in or drink. A state that once was called the land of sky blue waters. We seem to increasing love violence as seen in our sports. The harder the hit in football, the bigger the wreck in Nascar, two hockey players slugging it out at center ice until their faces are bloodied always bring the crowd to its feet. Movies and videos games where the body count is not calculable and people are ate up like those little globs on the Pac Man machine.

Gone, but not forgotten are love songs and slow dances. Families praying together and sitting around the supper table sharing their fears and successes. All of this gobbled up in a frenzy of greed and power that took a world that shared and cared to a dog eat dog world most people my age don’t like or understands. We used to have a world of compatibility and teamwork and now we have a world have competition and selfishness.

The minds of today are going to be the mentors of tomorrow whether we like it or not and that’s somewhat scary. The mentors I talk of that should be mentoring today’ youth+ are the same minds we didn’t mentor well enough or we wouldn’t be where we are now. So in fact we have no one to blame but ourselves. I always dislike when people criticize the young people of today as if we had nothing to do with it.

I’m going to close with Lyrics from a song by one of the greatest songwriters this country ever produced. I’m not going to sing them so you can relax there but the words Bob Dylan wrote some fifty years ago are still so relevant today.

“Come mothers and fathers throughout the land. And don’t criticize what you don’t understand.

 Your sons and your daughters are beyond your command. Your old road is rapidly ageing.

Please get out of the new one if you can’t lend a hand. For the times they are a changing.”

WHAT IS WRONG WITH AMERICA?

                                    

I often hear the comment and especially in an election year—“What is wrong with America?” As I look back through history I find very few times when everything was hunky dory. There has always been challenges and most of the time we have met them but that is life right? You have problems and you fix them. If I had to pick out one thing right now that is different. We have problems and we’re not fixing them. Instead of working together and fixing things, the common practice in Washington, and at the state level too, is to not fix things so you can blame the other party for the unsolved mess at election time. When you have nothing to brag about in respect to your own behavior then the next step is to point fingers and make excuses. Try to make yourself look good by making others look bad.

It makes me think about times when my kids were little and got caught with their hand in the cookie jar, they often would say, “Ya, but do you know what she did Dad?” It never worked with me then and it doesn’t work now. Most of our unsolved problems came about because of inattentiveness and no responsibility. Kicking the can down the road or what ever clique you want to use.

I while back a presidential commission named Simpson and Bowles was commissioned to look into a fix for some of our financial problems. It was a bipartisan panel and they spent a great deal of time on it. The problem was their solutions would cause some hurt and hurt is political suicide, so it was wasted effort. You know it’s kind of like not going to the dentist and spending your money elsewhere. Your problems get worse every day you ignore them. In some cases they get so bad there is no fix anymore. But you had a good time while it lasted. If your my age, in my seventies, who gives a rip huh? But if you’re my age, in your seventies and you love your kids and grandkids the picture does get a whole lot cloudier.

This pervasive attitude about debt is growing worse each and every day in this country and it has it roots right here in the population. It has become a way of life. We no longer manage our money, we manage our debt instead. Young people start accumulating credit card debt the day they get out on their own. No one saves for anything anymore, just put it on the card. No one saves for college. Just borrow the cost on student loans. When you do have an asset that becomes worth more then you owe on it, you borrow the equity and buy a boat or go on a vacation.

That’s the way the government operates now too. They borrow one fourth of all the money they spend. 19 trillion right now and counting. They spent every penny of the social security trust fund with no way to pay it back. No one ever talks about paying off the debt anymore because to be truthful they feel it’s not feasible. Just pay the interest and get on with it. So I ask you. “What’s wrong with America?” The same things that have always been wrong with America-- but now-- unlike the past, we have elected to do nothing about it.

WHY I'M GLAD I DIDN'T WIN THE LOTTERY

A few weeks back, when the lottery was worth 1.5 billion I, like most people, went to the store and bought a ticket. In fact, I bought 2. The night of the drawing, I went to bed before the numbers were called, but I dreamed that I had won. The next morning I woke up in a cold sweat, grabbed the tickets and ran to my computer. I hadn’t matched even one number, and I sat back-- so relieved.

You see, in my dream I watched the numbers being called, and one by one they matched. Then they called the Powerball, and yes, it was my number. For a few minutes I was dumbstruck, then, realizing I had one and a half billion dollars in my hand, I fainted and fell off the edge of the bed on top of Molly, and she bit me. Coming to, for the rest of the night I paced the house with a loaded rifle. The next morning I went to lotto headquarters to claim my prize. So far, I had told no one. I asked that the money be transferred to my checking account at my bank in Crosslake. Then, I called my three children and Pat to tell them the news. Two of my kids called me a liar and said, “That’s not funny, Dad” and hung up the phone. My son said, “Cool,” and went on to ask me how my health was—and reminded me of his power of attorney. Pat said, “Sure you did—but I need to go grocery shopping and will you take me to Brainerd?”

Back in Crosslake, I went to the bank to check if the transaction took place. They told me they couldn’t check right now because something made their computers crash early this morning, and the FBI had closed the bank thinking it was a terrorist action. When I told them I won the lottery, one of the girls took my hand and led me over to the clinic next door. She whispered something to the receptionist and a nurse gave me a shot. I woke up an hour later, handcuffed to a chair. By that time, the truth was out and I was released. The bank apologized and asked if I wanted to be on the board of directors, in charge of their new addition? The clinic gave me a coupon for a free physical, and a prescription of my choice. I wanted to go home, but my road was closed, so I drove across the lake and snuck in the back door. My phone said I had 14,000 messages in my voice box. My computer had crashed, and there was a guy from Publishers Clearing House on my back porch, wanting to know if they could borrow 5 thousand dollars a week, for life, because they were in a bind.

Over the next few weeks, I changed my phone number and put blinds on all of the windows, as the yard was full of people crying and holding up requests written on cardboard. Molly had to use a litter box because I couldn’t take her outside. I had death threats daily from disgruntled beggars, and I hired three security guards just to watch my place. A man from Baxter, who was in line behind me at the convenience store where I bought the ticket, is suing me, claiming I jumped the line so I had his ticket. I hired the tax firm, Wecheetem & Howe, to do my taxes. Pat and I escaped to South Florida, where we are living under an assumed name. I drink a lot nowadays, and take antidepressants. My son moved to Lake Minnetonka and won’t give me back my checkbook. Molly ran away with a 3-legged Poodle. I just want to go home and go for a walk. I hate the Lottery.

WOMEN

                                                         

I wanted to write something about women. I fancy myself as somewhat of a student of the fairer sex but sadly admit; I don’t really understand all there is to know about them. But then I’m smart enough to know that if I lived a hundred life times I could probably still say that and not be far from the truth. But on the other hand if I did understand all there is to know, I probably wouldn’t be so interested in them anymore, because the mystique would have been revealed, the veil would have been lifted, and at least for me the game would be over.

This world has its share of crime and violence but if you look closely at it you will be hard pressed to find women participating in that kind of behavior, too any great degree. The ones, who do, probably learned it mostly by trying to emulate men. As a man I’m not proud of having to write this but it is, what it is. Even in the animal kingdom this quest for dominancy by males is exhibited everywhere. They will fight to the death for it. The farmer knows that fifty cows and one bull is a happy situation. But introduce two bulls and it doesn’t work. Sadly, that leaves twenty-five cows for each, but for some far-fetched reason that isn’t workable in the old boys selfish mind.

If you put a fence across the world and split the males and females up, before long the males would have all killed each other and the females would all be giving each other new hair due’s and gossiping about each others kids. Being the nurture’s they are, they would get along fine, for a while, until the kids grew up, but then they would be overwhelmed with this feeling of worthlessness and they would all be over looking for a hole in the fence and a man if there was any left. Yes believe it or not, we do need each other.

I once worked for thirteen years with an all men work force. Then I abruptly changed roles and went to work in an office with all women for almost twenty years. So it is with some authority I talk about, how they differed. I went from this pack of men who had very little good feelings for each other-- at least that they exhibited-- to a group of women who could spend the first hour of the work day gushing over Melba’s pictures of her granddaughter while the phones rang off the hook. I watched men throw things and slam doors and cuss each other out and then I watched women either cry or pout. Not that they didn’t have some devious ways of getting back at each other, they do. It might not be this instant, as the men would do, but it was going to happen sometime within their life time and you could make book on that. With the men, I know where I stood, usually within a few minutes of shooting my mouth off, but with the women? Well you’ve heard that old clique, “the suspense is killing me.” Well if it had been literally, it probably would have been a blessing.

I think when God laid Adam down and yanked out that rib and made a woman, he in his infinite wisdom, knew it had to be something different then he’d made the first time around or this earth was in a world of hurt. Wow, my lady friend just sent me an apple. Nice.

MY GRANDFATHER

I have, over the years, never forgotten about the relationship I had with my grandparents. My grandfather was my mentor and my hero. Although I had loving parents, he was a big part of my life, and I have often written about him. My question is this. “Do, and will, my grandchildren have that same love and respect for me that I had for him?” Maybe what I’m asking is really a two-part question because, sometimes, people love you just for who you are, and not what you are. Respect, on the other hand, has to be earned.

As I look back on his lifetime, I see a man who, with his sister, emigrated here from Norway as a teenager, leaving the rest of his family behind. What I have been privileged to find out is that he had no future there, and he wanted to better himself. Think about leaving your family— not just running away, but going to another country across the big deep Atlantic. Grandpa was always a restless man, always looking for something better. After he married, and much to the chagrin of Grandma, they moved many times. He was a soldier who fought in the Philippines during the Spanish American War. He was a man of the cloth, who shepherded many small congregations throughout Southern Minnesota. He was a businessman, a faithful husband, and a father of 8 children; two of whom died from diphtheria in adolescence. Everywhere he went, he left a trail of friends.

By the time I got to know him well, he was retired and lived in a small town called Mizpah in Northern Minnesota. As a young boy, I would go stay with him for a few weeks in the summer. Every day he would walk down to the Post Office, maybe a mile away, and come home with a fistful of letters. Then, he would sit on his porch and write replies to all of those people, typing them out with two fingers on an old Smith Corona Typewriter. Despite all of his moves, grandpa never left anyone behind. He loved animals, and once told me of the heartbreak of having to leave his horse behind when he left the service. He said it was the most faithful animal he ever knew, and he had often slept in the stall with it. He waited each spring for the Martin’s to return to his immaculate birdhouse. There was always some mongrel following him home from town for a treat. Whether it was man or beast he loved them all. But it was his undying love for grandma that was beyond reproach.

Grandpa died during my 22^nd year. Grandma had suffered a massive stroke shortly before his death. They lived in a retirement home in Bloomington. She was moved to a care center, and at the age of 85, he would run away from the home and go visit her as much as he could. I remember him calling me, and asking me to take him home, as I Iived close to the hospital. Then, one day, my dad called and said he had passed away. I asked my dad, “Of what?” “It was his heart, Mike,” he told me. I said, “I didn’t know he had heart trouble.” Dad said, “When your heart is broken, you have heart trouble.” We live in a far different world today. My grandchildren are grown and scattered, and have busy lives of their own, so I don’t get to see them much. They will write my legacy, not I. I hope it’s a good one, and if it is, they have my grandpa to thank for that.

TPS ON FOOD

                                                           

I watched an hour long show on televisions the other night on nutrition and it seemed to be so ironic, that some of the foods they are now telling you not to eat, were the same ones they were touting as healthy for you ten years ago. They got into trans fats and saturated fats and gluten free and sugar free and when it was all over, if I was to take them seriously, I might just as well have dumped my cupboards out and sat down the floor and sucked on a celery stalk and waited to die. It makes no sense to me to eat greens when the beef that is so full of fat was raised on greens.

 I want to share what I had made for supper yesterday. My homemade bean and ham soup and how bad or good it must be for me. At Christmas we had a ham for supper so I had taken the left over meat and the bone and made homemade bean and ham soup. It has carrots, celery and onions along with the navy beans.  It was my usual recipe, except my friend Al told me to put in a spoon full of baking soda to kill the farts. It doesn’t make it any healthier or tastier; it just makes you more socially accepted the next day. It does nothing for the taste, so feel free to leave it out if you enjoy that sort of thing.  Sorry, no pulling the finger from me today kids.

The beans in my soup are high in fiber, protein and antioxidants whatever that is. So that’s got to be good right. We hate those dang oxidants. My 8^th grade science teacher taught me, that oxidizing was another word for rust. Bad enough the car rusts, we don’t need the old body rusting. The carrots are high in carotenoid’s and my, doesn’t that sound healthy? Even if Bugs Bunny stutters a lot he’s one healthy rabbit and that’s good enough for me. He’s older then most of us. There were onions in the soup and everybody knows onions are just essential to most cooking. Onions have phosphorous, copper and potassium in them and by the way, none of that stuff rusts. Then there was celery. Not sure if celery is a food or not but it was left over and I wanted to get rid of it. Now bean soup needs lots of salt and that’s bad I guess, but people who would eat bean soup without salt would probably be just as delighted with a bowl of snow. Warmed up of course

But-- then there was that dreaded ham, all full of nitrates and carcinogens, fat and salt. Probably double smoked in some dirty old shed using turkey dung for fuel. That hog probably ate slop from grocery store dumpsters and everybody knows that slop was full of cigarette butts and rodent poop, swept off the sidewalk in front of the store. That the guy who lives behind the grocery store dumped his used antifreeze in there along with some dirty diapers. But how can you have ham and bean soup without ham? You can’t. Who knew there was that much flavor from a dumpster? So you win a few, you lose a few.

Now here is another good eating tip. Don’t eat bread with your soup. Bread turns to starch and starch turns to sugar and sugar turns to alcohol. You have a sandwich before bed-- and bingo.—You wake up with a hangover. Who knew?

IT'S A COLD DAY IN CROSSLAKE

                     

It’s a cold day in Crosslake this morning at -22. I walked down to the mailbox and fetched my paper around 7a.m. You could feel the air freezing up the lining of your nose. But beyond that it’s warm in the house, and for the most part, that’s where I intend to stay. Somehow though, I recognize that not everyone is at liberty to just stay in the house—that there are essential services that need attention, and someone is out there doing just that. It’s these people that I write about today.

If you think it’s cold walking 800 feet to fetch your paper, then I take you back sixty years, to a 14-year-old boy that used to deliver the paper every morning. My mother didn’t drive, and my dad was at work. Most likely, the old jalopy my dad drove wouldn’t have started, anyway. I would dress as warm as my clothing would allow, but oftentimes, it meant walking with my back into the wind, my fingers curled into fists inside of the mittens mom had knitted for me. My frozen canvas paper bag banged against my leg with every step. By the time I got home, I would have a red welt on my leg. The scarf over my mouth would become loaded with frozen vapor from my breathing, and I would keep moving it in a circular pattern around my head, looking for a dry spot. I did have a sheepskin coat that was warm, and nothing was warmer than the stocking caps mom made for us. There were times I felt sorry for myself, but then I would think of dad working outside in the railroad yards all day, or mom hanging up wet clothes on outside clotheslines.

It was New Year’s Eve 1965 now, and as firefighters, we were called out to assist another department at a high school that was on fire. It was -31 that night. We had rubber turnout gear that buckled down the front, and steel helmets with cotton liners inside.  We wore leather chopper mitts that were soaked after the first few minutes. The call came in at around midnight, and at daybreak the next morning, the fire was under control. Hoses and engines were frozen in the streets, and Steam Jennies were brought in to thaw the ice and remove them. Ladders were brought back fully extended, too full of ice to operate. You walked around with thirty pounds of ice stuck to your gear. There was a lot of frostbite, but no serious injuries.

I’m sure all of us who grew up and lived in Minnesota have our stories. I have heard the stories of soldiers, in Korea, fighting a war in the ice and snow; mountain climbers in -100 degree wind chills; a relative missing many toes that were lost in a winter walk home from school. I think we have developed a character of survivors here in the northland that much of the nation does not have. As Kelly Clarkson sings, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

Most of us older folks have got the stories, but we also have the desire to go where it is warm. No longer tied to a job, we can go out or just stay inside when it’s cold. But here is a shout-out to the lineman who keeps your electricity going, the tow truck driver who crawled under your car to hook a chain, the propane delivery person, public safety, and everyone else ­­­who keeps us safe and moving when it’s bitterly cold.