ANOTHER MINNESOTA MORNING

                                

I awoke early this morning to a summer thunderstorm and another amazing Minnesota morning. My nineteen-year-old granddaughter from Phoenix, who is visiting and usually sleeps to noon, was sitting by the patio doors watching the rain come down and she said “Grandpa you don’t know how much I miss this.” she moved to Arizona over a year ago, after being born and raised here.

I have a disk of the song ‘Minnesota Morning’ that’s always lying on top of the player and I went over and slipped it in and pushed play. “I open up my sleepy eyes and see. The morning just the way it should be. By the setting of the midnight moon and the rising of the sun and the feeling like I’ve only just begun. The morning mist still lies, upon the ground and it comes and goes but doesn’t make a sound. And the heavy of the midnight air lightens with the day. There’s a Minnesota morning on the way.”

I guess for me, I take for granted all of the intricacies of this beautiful state and I have never been gone long enough to miss all that is going on the way she had. But as a sat drinking my coffee and listening to the song and the soft rain, I thought about all of the things that were going on right now that I had witnessed in just the last twelve hours. Last night we had gone for a boat ride just as the sun was setting on another perfect day. We slowed to watch the loons showing off their new little one, perched on it’s mothers back. I knew when its was born the other day because I heard them celebrating that morning, somewhere out on the lake. We watched a nervous doe down by the river drinking from the lake, her eyes watching us intently and her bushy white tail flicking in the shadows, her spotted fawn hiding behind her, peeking between her legs. Back home, over my back door, tucked back in some old antlers, is a swallow’s nest. I saw all of the little beaks pointing skyward the other morning and I have watched the mother coming and going on her food runs. The humming birds put on their little air show everyday, darting in and out of the feeders as they drink. Yes there is something going on everywhere you look.

But its not just about the animals and birds, its about the vibrant green world summer brings us with grass and trees and flowers blooming everywhere. It’s about the lakes with their clean clear waters, and bass surfacing down by the dock to take a water bug and leaving a ring of ripples to show us where they surfaced. It’s having to drive carefully, while watching for the turtles laying eggs in the driveway. Sitting on the deck in the evening and watching spectacular sunsets across the lake and the mirrored image of the opposite shoreline, in the still waters of our little golden pond. Sometimes at night you need to just close your eyes and listen to the frogs croaking in the swamp and the waves lapping softly on the shoreline. The birds are singing another Minnesota day away and then you know your living in one of nature’s showplaces and you feel like the luckiest guy on the face of the earth. “And I haven’t seen a day like this, since I went away. Minnesota I am here and I’m going to stay.”

   

RACIAL PROFILING

I wanted to talk a little about racial profiling because it’s been in the news a lot lately. You would think that after 150 years since the Emancipation Proclamation we would be beyond this, but we’re not and most likely never will be. It still exists today, as do other forms of profiling, and it always will because it’s in our nature to do so. Most of the countries of the world are made up of one race and their roots go deep. When we became a land of immigrants, and established this melting pot, we had to expect problems such as we have. I guess by stating in the constitution, “All men are created equal,” it shows our founding fathers were already aware of it, too.

I’m not trying to say that I understand what people of color go through in this nation every day, but I do understand somewhat how you have to deal with it. There are no effective laws that will ever be able to tell people what they can and cannot think about others. It’s against human nature to even try to do that. You can make laws and punish people for what they say and do, but you can’t punish people for what they’re thinking. That tells me there isn’t much any government can do about it.

The greatest way to change people’s minds, regarding what they think about you, is to gain respect by being a good person. But I’m going to stop this lecture right here because you have heard it all before and that solved nothing. NO—I want to talk to you about the day your child was born, and what were your hopes or wishes for that child on that day. I don’t care how poor you were, or if your child was born into a one-parent family. I want you to know that if on that day, when your child was born, if you wanted that child to be great, he or she would be great but not without a huge effort on your part. But then, that is your responsibility, isn’t it?  In this country, with the resources that are available, it’s hard for any child not to succeed if you are serious about them being a good citizen. It’s only when you give up, and expect others to raise your child, that the child will probably fail. Being bad is easy, and often the first choice if not shown otherwise—being good takes constant work and commitment, but the rewards are huge and last a lifetime.

If our government shares any of the blame for the troubles with our youth today, it’s because somewhere along the line, they decided to try and raise your child for you. They thought that through strong-arm laws, they could tell people not to judge other people, when all they had to do was help you raise your child, in the right way, to be a good person and no one would judge them wrongly. I said “help you,” not do it for you. Love and respect are the most essential ingredients in raising a child, and that, the government will never master because they are not capable of doing it. It’s something children should get all of their life from their guardians.  It’s simple—you give it to them and they will give it to others. I don’t judge people by the color of their skin, but I do judge them by their reputation and character, as I know it. If you, as parents, help those children from day one to build a reputation that is not tarnished, then your child will always be respected, and yes, some wrong-minded people will still discriminate against them, anyway, but we can’t control that. When you know that you are a decent person, you don’t care what others might think wrongly about you because you’re better than that, and you know it.

SO GOD MADE A DOG

All right my friends; you know how I feel about dogs so I want to share something with you that I came across on the Internet the other day. It’s called, “So God Made a Dog.” I remember years ago the late Paul Harvey did something similar called, “So God Made a Farmer” and maybe it’s a take-off on that, I don’t know. I want you to know I didn’t compose it, and I’m not sure who did so I can’t give credit where credit is due, but it says so well how I feel about dogs. I have talked to you about my Molly before, and I have nothing new to report on her. As loveable as she is, if Molly was starting school this fall, I think she would need a tutor. But just to hear her breathing, on the floor next to my bed at night, gives me pause and reassurance—and maybe some dog hair on the rug, but who cares. There is something about a Labrador’s eyes that women should pick up on, and maybe they would get their way more often. Ouch!  Did I really say that? Well, too late now. To my significant other— mea culpa.  Enjoy the following—Mike

SO GOD MADE A DOG

And on the ninth day God looked down on his wide-eyed children and said, “They need a companion.” So God made a dog.

God said, “I need somebody willing to wake up, give kisses, pee on a tree, sleep all day, wake up again, give more kisses, and then stay up until midnight basking in the glare of a television set.” So God made a dog.

God said, “I need somebody willing to sit, then stay, then roll over and then with no ego or complaint, dress in hats they don’t need and costumes they don’t understand. I need somebody who can break wind without a first care or a second thought;

who can chase tails, sniff crotches, fetch sticks and lift spirits with a lick. Somebody who, no matter what you didn’t do or couldn’t take, or didn’t win, or couldn’t make, will love you without judgment just the same.” So God made a dog.

God said, “I need somebody strong enough to pull sleds and sniff bombs but yet be gentle enough to love babies and lead the blind. Somebody who will spend all day on a couch with a resting head and supportive eyes to lift the spirits of a broken heart.” So God made a dog.

It had to be somebody who would remain patient and loyal, even through loneliness.

Somebody to care and cuddle, snuggle and nuzzle and cheer and charm and snore and slobber and eat the trash and chase the squirrels.

Somebody who would bring a family together with the selflessness of an open heart.

Somebody who would bark and then pant and then reply with rapid tail wag when their best friend says, “let’s go for a ride in the car.”  So God made a dog.

ARIZONA WILD FIRE

I remember my first firefighter’s funeral. As a twenty-some year-old rookie fireman, it was a very poignant moment for me, but one I felt I had to witness because, for me, I felt it came with the territory. Silently, though, I hoped and prayed it would never be me. Yet you simply had to honor your dead, and there was a certain solemnity that went with it. After all, they had given all they had to give. I guess, at that moment, I felt that I would get acclimated to such events. That as time went on, the funerals would not be as moving as that first one was for me. That, somehow, you would harden to the tragedy that can only come out of such events. I was wrong. They only got worse from that day forward, because there was an accumulative action to my grief. Firefighters belong to a great fraternity. Whether you’re fighting fires in the heart of New York City, a small town in the back roads of America or somewhere in the wild forests of the West, you have one purpose in mind; to do what you can to safeguard the people and their property, and to always remember the oath you took to do just that.  For the most part, you are always revered for your efforts by others, but never more than when you didn’t come back to the station, and never, ever, more than when you paid that ultimate price.

Death is no stranger to firefighters. Thankfully, not often is it one of your own, but you do have to deal with it all the time. You have had to press your ear to the blackened, burnt lips of victims to try and hear those last words—coming from throats that are scorched beyond being able to talk any more. You have begged someone pinned in the front seat, of a crushed and mangled car, to stay with you for just a few more minutes so you can get him or her to the hospital. You have done C.P.R. until your arms ached, and all the time praying this drowned child in your arms would just please breath and live again because you can’t stand hearing her mother’s screams in the background. There are no strangers in this trade, for the minute you were called they became your victims to care for, and it got up close and personal in a hurry.

Somewhere in Arizona, hundreds of hearts are broken. Moms and Dads have lost their sons, wives have lost their soul mates, and the nightmare they prayed would never come to visit their house, is now here. Children, who only days ago tried on their dad’s boots and helmet and wanted their picture taken, can’t understand why daddy is never coming home. In the tiny town of Prescott, where the ‘Granite Mountain Hotshots’ came from, a black cloud has descended over the station they left that day. All that’s left are their vehicles in the parking lot and their possessions in their lockers. Flowers and memorials sit outside the fence in silent respect.

Sometime in the future, nineteen rookie firefighters will once again fill the Hotshot ranks. For you see, fire takes no holiday and waits for no one. Life—as that fire station once knew it—will begin again. Then, bells will ring and a plume of smoke on some far away mountain will be calling them in once more. On the hill where they died, new plants will have bloomed and new houses will be going up. Soon, no one will know there was ever a fire. No one, that is, but the Granite Mountain Hotshots and those who loved them.

CRAZY RULES

                                                 

I saw in the paper, the other day. where a school district in the twin cities now has a no touch policy for the kids on the playground. I’m not sure if it’s the media blowing things out of proportion or if we live in a world that has gone way beyond politically correct. How do you play games without touching someone? Explain baseball with no tagging, and touch football with no touching. Tag with out touching anyone. Even ring around the rosy is in trouble with these rules. These are playground rules run amok by a frustrated administration that say’s we will just make a zero tolerance policy and be done with it. Were sick of being parents to these kids too.

Now I know that they are saying this is just an attempt to keep bullying and violent acts down, but back when I was in school if you got out of line the teacher either boxed your ears, or sent you to the office. Either way you were on your own. Parents did not challenge the school administration when it came to making you be a better kid, and less of a smart ass. In fact what went on in school when I was being punished was best left in school, or my father would try you in his own kangaroo court when you got home, where justice was swiftly dealt out because he too had little patience with ill behavior.

But we supposedly live in a more perfect world now and some parents of supposedly perfect children have an attorney on their payroll that is looking for work and everything has changed. It used to be that schools educated your children and had little tolerance for students who were disruptive. Now they walk on eggshells every time they have to tell parents that their little angel is acting out again and wasting everybody’s time and talents, just by being there. We have parents now days that blame the schools for their kid’s academic problems, when the kid isn’t even there most of the time.

Education is the most important thing we do to prepare our children for life, but the schooling is only part of the process. True they have the books, and the teachers to get you started, but parents’ getting involved in their child’s education is essential to their offspring’s success. It’s the schools job to put the material out there; it’s the parent’s job to see that it gets absorbed. Don’t have time for that? Then try home schooling, or get a tutor, either way they are your kids to raise, not the schools. Better yet, just have your kids behave. There comes a day when they have to go out in the real world and well-behaved kids become well-behaved adults. As a parent isn’t that what you would want?

People, who say I ignore the good kids and just complain about the bad kids, have criticized me. Let me say this. This isn’t about the kids as much as it is about the parents and I don’t like people from my generation who complain about the bad kids now days as if they had nothing to do with it. I acknowledge my part in failing our kids and want to change it. That’s what this letter is all about. As for the good kids, and yes-- there are more of them then the failing ones. Congratulations, you succeeded despite the mess we created and some day when you are out in the world and on your own, you too will be disgusted by the pandering that goes on in our schools and hopefully you will do something about it, because we seem not to be able to.

PRIMING THE PUMP

                                                

When I was a youngster, we had an old hand pump in the park where you could get water for the animals or a cool drink for yourself. The pump was old and leaked a little air so, to get it started, you had to pour some water down the well pipe to prime the pump. The water for priming was kept in an old rusty coffee can that had been left there by someone, and filled by the last person who used the pump.  Once primed, you could pump water for as long as your arms held out. Then, when you were done, you filled the coffee can with water for the next person. The can was always there and always full. It was strangers looking out for and helping strangers.

All of us need to take a look around at the youngest family member we have, be it a niece or nephew, brother or sister, son or daughter or a grandchild. These youngsters are our hope for the future, and we need to do everything we can to help them become educated and the leaders of tomorrow. We need to shape their bodies and their minds with the ideals which worked for us in so many cases, and not try to hide the mistakes that didn’t work for us so they can serve as bad examples. God knows there have been enough of them. We also need to do everything in our power to safeguard this world we all have to live in.  In effect, we need to leave them some water to prime the pump with so they can keep it going.

I often look at this younger generation and think—what kind of a world have we left you? Has our overwhelming greed for self-satisfaction and wealth left you an empty can of water? Our air and water has become more polluted every day, by people that are driven to make more and more money. Our code of ethics that used to include good morals, a sense of decency and family values, has been badly watered down. Yes, as the good book says, “we reap what we sow” but the sad part of that is, the next generation also reaps what we sow, and they had no say in it.

I met a young woman a while back who told me a story of how she had given birth to a baby daughter at home. They—she and her husband—hadn’t registered the birth and weren’t going to. They planned on home schooling the child, and keeping her out of mainstream society. I had a thought about how close that was to children that were raised on the prairie in sod huts a hundred years ago, and why would we ever want to revert to that? Then I look around me at the world we live in, and I see where her fears are coming from. Sadly, I don’t think it’s possible anymore to keep your children to yourselves. At some point, the government will find out and they will make you comply with the mainstream. We shouldn’t have to fear our government being involved in our lives, but we are starting to more and more.

We should leave this world the way we found it, or better yet, in cleaner shape then we found it. Many people drink only bottled water because they can’t trust that the water that comes from their wells is safe. Government guidelines tell us not to eat too much fish in some areas because it’s full of mercury. Huge areas of the ocean are filled with floating debris and the dead zone in the gulf gets bigger every year. That coffee can of water our kids need, to prime the pump, sadly is being left empty.

THE FOURTH OF JULY

                                                 

So it was the fourth of July once more and we celebrated the anniversary of our nation’s beginning. Last Sunday I went to church, and they tried to set the tone for the week by singing, “America the beautiful.” The song always makes my heart swell with pride because it merges the two most important institutions in my life—my faith and my country. But lately, I sometimes wonder if we don’t need to give God a reason to bless America. For you see, America has done everything it can to distance itself from Him.

In verse three we sing in part “Who more than self their country loved and mercy more than life.” When I think of our country today, I find it hard to sing those words and correlate them to America. There used to be a firm connection there, but self-serving people want no part of God and country anymore. God and country made great partners for so long, but they want that partnership dissolved.  In time, as things get worse—and they will—they’ll come crawling back to God because he’s always been their bastion of last resort. Let’s hope he doesn’t hold grudges like we do.

There are many verses to the song “God Bless America” but most of us know only four. In one of the later verses that we seldom sing, are the words, “America, America, God shed his grace on thee. Till selfish gain no longer stain the banner of the free.” No, our heroes didn’t die for what we’re doing to our country now. They died so we could sing this song with pride and not have hypocritical thoughts about what we are singing and what we really are becoming.

In this country, we have always had this monumental task of keeping the peace and living harmoniously. Mainly, because we are a nation of immigrants that come from all over the world with many cultures, religions and traditions that people hold dear to their hearts and they are not always respectful of each other’s way of life. But the intent, when our government was formed, was to live and let live and to live in peace and respect for each other. The civil war was a great example of what happens when ideals clash and what it can lead to. This country was lucky to have survived that war, but we did, and it brought back some peace for a long time.  But now we see similar social problems rearing their ugly heads again, and we wonder—are we going to survive this time.

Back in 1971, what began as a Coke commercial, developed into a popular song. It was a catchy little song that kind of intrigued me, and not for the melody, but for what it said. The song was called “I’d like to teach the world to sing.” One verse I remembered in particular said, “I’d like to see the world for once all standing hand in hand. And hear them echo through the hills for peace throughout the land.” That’s what we all need in this country. Hand in hand instead of drawing lines in the sand. Our Christian faith, ingrained in our government, was once the catalyst that helped us achieve just what I am talking about. But now we want to get rid of it.

ONE MANS JUNK

One of the highlights of my life growing up in Staples was to accompany my father to the dump. About once a month he would hitch up his trailer that sat out by the garden and we would take that dirt road that ran along the railroad tracks, east of town, to the city dump. He would also take his pump Winchester 22 caliber rifle along so we could shoot rats. We always went at dusk when the rats were most active, and we would sit on the hood of the car just in case a rat got aggressive. My dad would howl with delight every time he got one, and as I got older he would let me try my luck, too. This was before anyone knew what a redneck was.

I talk about this because we often criticize today’s kids for their video games, which all too often involve shooting fictional people in various roles. I have tried out my grandson’s video game, but it doesn’t hold a candle to plinking a rat at the city dump.  To those who say video games lead to a propensity to grow up violent, I want to unequivocally state that I have never had any desire to shoot anything else, except wild game in season. Nor did my father.

There is an old adage about “one man’s junk is another man’s treasure” and my dad bought into that big time. All too often, we brought a load of junk to the dump, and came back with another load of someone else’s junk, that would just sit around until my father realized he didn’t really need it anyway, and then we would haul it back. I swear, this exchange program got so serious that, sometimes, we brought back junk that we had originally deposited out there.

As I look around my property, after fifty years of keeping house, I often say, “I got to get rid of some of this crap,” so I make little piles, because once a year I go to the landfill with my junk, and use my five dollar coupon the county sends out. Now, I’m in the last quarter of my life so saying, “I might use this or that someday,” just doesn’t cut it anymore. It’s been my experience that, when I do come across a need for something that might be in my junk category, I can’t find it anyway, so I just do the easy thing and run to town and get another one at the hardware store. I gave some thought to taking an inventory and entering the junk into a computer program that would tell me where I hid all the stuff, but as I told you, I’m in the last quarter of my life and I feel I would be doing that, not for me, but for someone else who I can tell you for sure—because he told me so—is going to rent a dumpster when it comes time to clean out my estate. His theory is, “one man’s junk is not going to be another man’s junk.”

I once visited some friends who have been married about fifty some years, and as I looked around their house, I noticed that every conceivable piece of wall space was covered with something. I think if they could have found some way to conquer gravity, they would have plastered the ceiling full, also. When I asked them if they ever threw anything away, they told me, “Hush your mouth man, do you know what this stuff is worth?” My guess is “nothing,” unless you find someone who wants it—and my dad is no longer alive. 

SUMMER THOUGHTS

                                                SUMMER THOUGHTS

There is something magical about this lake country in summer time. I have had many occasions to be in theme parks in my life, often at great expense and many miles traveled, but nothing man has ever made rivals the snugness of a cabin, on the shores of a sandy lake in the summer time. It seems that all of your senses come into play in such a place. For it’s not just the beauty of the place, and the wildlife you see, it’s the smell of the pines and flowers wafting in on soft breezes that mimic a mother’s breath on the top of her newborn’s head. It’s the sound of waves lapping softly on the sandy shoreline, always repairing and removing the tracks of intruders; sitting on the dock in your wet trunks, catching sunnies until your butt itches; the mournful cry of the loons coming from across the fresh water during a kaleidoscope sunset, mirrored in the placid waters of some unknown bay, tucked far away from the mainstream of humanity, as snug as your parents bed on a cold and scary night.

I grew up in the North Woods of Minnesota, and left to seek my fortune like so many do, but always, something drew me back from the fast-paced world I lived and worked at in the city. Something told me that, as you age, serenity becomes so crucial to your happiness and the woods and lakes are where it’s best found. For as mysterious as nature can be, it is synonymous with the untroubled lifestyle you’re now seeking. Maybe it’s some primeval urge that tugs us back, or was it something in our unexplainable and mysterious roots that brought us back. But, either way, back we come, as surely as the swallows returning home from Capistrano.

This land we love so much is sacred to all that live here. We understand that there are only a few degrees of separation between a blemish and a blossom in nature’s delicate world. That in summer time, this phenomenon of nature is most vulnerable because that is when the old gal shows it all off and hides nothing because, just like us, the flora and fauna too revel in summer time. I truly believe that when the credits are rolled, long after I am gone, most of what you will see of my life will have taken place in summer time. As Celia Thaxter said, and I quote, “There shall be eternal summer in the grateful heart.” As a side note, in every man’s heart there is a girl he can never forget, and a summer when it all began.

We live in an increasingly violent world. The winds of war seem to be constantly blowing all over the world. Social issues seem to spew hatred and disregard for each other here at home and around the world. Politicians and politics bring an acidy taste, like rancid bile, to the back of your throat. Is it any wonder that we try to go hide in nature, like a shy cat under the bed? That we want to find that quiet place, where our hearts can rest and mellow in what’s left of this world that we can call good and unspoiled. That finally we have paid our dues to society and we can now leave the so-called rat race, and rejoin what was once perceived to be the human race.  I have found it’s all right to be lazy in summer—in fact, it’s almost respectable. It’s the lakes, the cabin, the forest, birds and animals that give us this respite before we reach our final reward.

THOUGHTS ABOUT LIFE

                                                THOUGHTS ABOUT LIFE

Each day as I take my dog for a walk, I walk down the service road that comes by my house. Three houses up from mine were people I stayed away from for many years because they always seemed to be so negative about the world and everything in it. It was a downer to talk to them. I had no other reason to avoid them; they were respectable people who kept their place nice and never gave anyone any problems. A few weeks back, I read an obituary in the paper and the wife of the couple had passed away.

I didn’t think much more about them after that, until the other day when I saw his vehicle there. He seemed to be tinkering out in the yard like we all do when spring finally comes, but he didn’t look up as I passed by so I kept on walking. Then it hit me. “That was you a year and ten months ago. That was you after everyone gave you a final hug and went home to their lives and you looked around that big old house full of fifty years of memories and said, where do I start?”

This weekend I am going to go over there and see how he is doing and I have no idea what I am going to say because I learned that there is nothing I can say to make it better. But no one should suffer alone, so I want to keep my mouth shut and just listen. I want him to tell me about her and not why she died but why she meant so much to him while she lived. I want to tell him not to be in a rush to change his life or get rid of anything. I have learned that the picture of her and you together that made you break down sobbing the day after the funeral-- a year or two from now will bring a gentle smile.

God said in the good book it isn’t good for man to live alone. But for all of us who have lived in a committed relationship with someone we love, even though we are now alone, we will never be alone.  Our hearts will see to that. There is something else that is good for us that our hearts can do, besides living and reliving those memories. Almost magically they will heal themselves up if we let them. She may well be the only one who you will ever call ‘wife’ but somewhere there may just be another lonely heart whose hands are warm and are waiting to be held. Don’t harden your heart.

In a couple of years or so, when the world is brighter and you come out of your shell, maybe, just maybe, something nice could happen. I know-- there is no one who can take her place but then your not replacing anyone are you? You’re just building a little addition onto your life or adding a few more chapters to your story and hopefully someone else’s too. It can be as simple or as complicated as you want it to be. Year’s ago when Doctors were given their degrees and white coats; one of the things that was asked of them was “To do no harm.” That should be the goal of anyone who is trying to melt his or her life with someone else’s.

DEAR DAD

Dear Dad,

It’s been fifteen years now since last we spoke. Time has done little to erase your memory with me. I suspect that time will run out for me too, before that ever happens. You know Dad in all of the years I have lived on this earth, I have been blessed to see so many dads. Good men, who like you, loved their children and wanted the best for all of them. Men who made big names for themselves. Men who made lofty salaries and lived in houses, that made ours look like a shack. Men, society made into heroes. I mean no disrespect to any of them for their achievements but I want the world to know what my hero was like without any of that.

My dad was the man who made sure all of his eight kids got up and went to church on Sunday with him and Mom. Just before the collection plate would be passed he took out a pocket full of nickels and pressed one into each of our hands. If we giggled in church he would point at the Pastor and give you a glare that froze you in your tracks. He sang every hymn and expected you would too, even though he couldn’t carry a tune across the room in a wheelbarrow. We prayed before meals, even when what little, that was on the table, made Mom cry. The kids dished first then Mom and then him. He wore three pairs of pants to work along with several shirts and a denim jacket to stay warm in the cold. He never took a sick day because he didn’t have one to take. If there was money for clothes it went for school clothes for his kids or a dress for his wife. We knew we were poor but he always told us “we were as good as the next person but not one smidgen better,” and to never forget that.

           

My Dad worked two jobs most of his life to make ends meet. After work he cut all of his own wood for heat, grew a one-acre garden, and always had time for everyone and especially his kids. On the day I got married, Dad took me off by myself and he cried. Saying he was sorry for not being a better father, for not giving me more material things and for not having more time for me. I don’t think he realized and neither did I at that time, that the gifts he gave me were immeasurable. That it was his example that taught me love and respect for others. It was his example that showed me how good it feels to work hard and go to bed tired. It was his example of marriage and the way to treat your spouse and women that kept me married for forty-nine years. It was his example that trained me to raise my kids and now I see it in my son and daughters who are using that same example to raise their children.

           

When dad died there was enough in his bank account to settle his bills and

pay to bury him. I think that was his goal in life and nothing more. His assets were his children and his grandchildren and no one can put a price tag on them. I remember visiting him on his deathbed. I saw the worn out body of an old eighty-four year old man at peace with himself, ready to finally lay down his labors and go to his lord. I saw that peace etched on his face and felt the love that was in his heart for all of us, in my heart.

                                               

HAPPY FATHERS DAY TO DADS EVERYWHERE.

LEARNING FROM DOGS

                                               

Yesterday I took my dog, Molly, over to my friend’s house so she could play with her daughter’s dog, Lucy. Two one-year olds. It took them two sniffs and a lick, and they were off to the races. For a couple of hours they ran and played and then, exhausted, they lay down and were best friends. It made me wonder, for a while, why humans can’t treat each other like that and then the answer hit me, it’s because we’re humans and they’re dogs. Dogs are not judgmental or jealous. They don’t get upset by evil and discontent. You love them and they love you—it’s that simple. In fact, they will take it to the next level if you let them, because they will love you more than you love them. There is no animal, other than a dog, that will love someone more than they love themselves. Yes, as Andy Rooney said, “The average dog is better than the average person.”

I think some people love dogs because deep down, and maybe unconsciously, we wish we could be as innocent as they are. But it will never happen in our present state of mind because we can’t even manage to emulate the good that exists amongst our own ranks. We all want a world without the meanness, dishonesty and jealousy that exists in our world today, but somehow, despite all our research and well-meaning people, we don’t know how to find it. But take your dog over to meet a new friend and there they are, two dogs frolicking on the beach, complete strangers an hour ago, now lying in a shaft of sunlight, tongues hanging out, recharging their batteries for another go at it. Had Hitler, Churchill, Stalin and Roosevelt been two Labradors, a Golden Retriever and a Poodle, the war would have been over in 1940.

Are there bad dogs in the world? A few. But it’s been my experience that those are dogs that were not able to bring their masters up to their level, and so they reverted to his. Yes, they do come with some baggage, but when we weigh the costs against the companionship they give us, we’re getting a heck of a deal. They’re the only creatures on the face of the earth, outside of our own, that want anything to do with us. When I leave, and don’t want my dog with me, she follows me to the door and then, when she sees me going alone, she simply drops her head and tail and goes back to the rug. All is forgiven though when I return, and she simply puts my rebuff behind her, and life goes on as if it never happened. I think that dogs have the same fears we have when it comes to life. Storms come to mind, and so do people and other animals they don’t trust. But the biggest fear my dog has when I leave without her is—I’m not coming back. Ann Landers said, and I quote, “Don’t accept your dogs admiration as conclusive evidence that you are wonderful.”

I have known people who don’t want pets in their life. There can be good reasons for that, too; inability to care for them, or a busy lifestyle that doesn’t allow any time for pets. Almost the same reasons for not having children, I might add. I have hardly ever heard someone say they don’t want a dog because they hate dogs. Wait! I take that back. I did know a lady that told me once she hated dogs. Come to think of it, she hated most people, too.

BASEBALL MEMORIES

                                                BASEBALL MEMORIES

Growing up in Staples, I became a nut for baseball at an early age. I loved all kinds of sports, but baseball fit my mentality and my talents better than all of the rest. I say that because I was a small kid, so sports with physical contact left me lying on the ground most of the time. But baseball wasn’t a contact sport, and when the ball was pitched, it was just me and my glove against the hitter, or me and my bat against the fielder. It was a challenge that got my blood boiling, and I played my heart out.

In the summer, we would gather at the field in Pine Grove Park and pick sides. If we didn’t have enough players, we would play workup—where you batted until you made an out, and then you went into the field and rotated through the positions. Everybody pitched, everybody caught and everybody fielded. But many days we had more than enough kids, and we would choose sides, and the game was on. No umpires and no spectators, we played for the love of the game. We drank water from an old steel pump in the park—always filling the can when we were done in case the next user had to prime it—and when we were done with the water we drank, and didn’t sweat out, we left it in the bushes behind third base. The game filled our imaginations, too, and sometimes, if you closed your eyes for a moment, you could hear the murmur of the nonexistent crowd in the old wooden bleachers. 

On many days, we would play the day away and then jump on our bikes for the long ride home, the old mitt hanging from the handlebars with the ball safely tucked inside and the bat tied to the frame of our bike. You went home hungry, sunburnt, and knowing you were going to get it from mom, for the hole you tore in your pants sliding into second base, but it was worth it. The game meant that much to you.

I’m an old man now, and those days are distant memories, but I still remember the names of most of the kids. We never fought or tried to hurt each other; we were brothers of the game. In nineteen fifty-six I broke my leg playing out there, and for the rest of that summer I was on crutches. I felt like a wounded veteran, standing on the sidelines, cheering on my friends. My buddy would give me a ride on his bike, because I couldn’t ride mine, but I had to be there, it meant that much to me. On Sundays, we went out to watch the Railroaders, and I still remember Rev. Ray Ewing walking back and forth in front of the bleachers, selling ice cold pop out of an old galvanized bucket, for a dime. If you turned in a foul ball, you would get a freebie.

Baseball, as we knew it then, taught me a lot about life. It taught me about winning and losing, and getting hurt, and bouncing back. And it taught me the meaning of the word “teamwork.” The most amazing thing about all of this was—we did it ourselves. No coaches, no spectators and no uniforms. No incentive but the love of the game, and the respect of our friends. None of us ever went on to bigger and better baseball. Oh, some of us played baseball in high school, and some of us played for the Railroaders, but our best memories were made out on that old chopped-up field, out at Pine Grove Park.

  

ONCE UPON A TIME

At coffee the other day, one of the guys asked me if I ever started any of my columns out with “Once upon a time.” I don’t remember what I told him, but it got me thinking about the words and what they mean to me. To me, “Once upon a time,” conjures up a story I want to tell. The very word conjure can mean something mystical or magical but it also can mean a reflection brought on by a scent, sound taste or anything that takes you back in your mind to “Once upon a time.” Put another way—it’s just a memory.

I have received some criticism for writing about the past so much. “It’s done and finished,” they say, and now it’s time to move on. But the future for each of us is different—and especially for those people who, to put it bluntly, don’t have a lot of tomorrow’s to draw on. For you see, there comes a time in your life when you’re satisfied with where you have been, and what you have done. You’re not exactly ready to cash it in yet, but when they tell you it’s time to start taking money out of your 401k instead of putting it in—well, the handwriting is on the wall. Old age is a time when many of us are stripped of our titles, dignities and maybe our driver’s license, but no matter how much they try, they can’t take our memories away.

Writers write mostly from their experiences or someone else’s observations. After all, if something hadn’t happened—what would there be to write about? Mark Twain didn’t gain all that wit he shared with us when he was in his twenty’s. He accumulated it over his lifetime. The biggest shame is that he didn’t live to be a hundred, for who knows what else he would have penned. To be smart is to retain what you have seen, heard and experienced—be it “once upon a time.” The only travesty for a lot of us is, just when we have seen and experienced most everything, we lose that God-given ability to remember things. It’s my experience, however, that the memories you lose most often are the things that just happened, and not the memories you cherish and never forget. Those are so ingrained in your mind you will never lose them. Maybe it’s your mind’s way of saying, “I’ll remember the important things. You’ll find your keys eventually.” Years ago, Frank Sinatra sang a song called “Once upon a Time” that says it all for me when it comes to a certain memory I have.

Once upon a time a girl with moonlight in her eyes. Put her hand in mine and said she loved me so. But that was once upon a time, many years ago.

Once upon a time the world was sweeter than we knew. Everything was ours, how happy we were then. But somehow once upon a time, never comes again.

To those of you who are still making most of your memories, those lyrics might not mean much to you right now. Your “once upon a time’s” are just a yesterday away. Your tomorrows seem to stretch out forever, and really, all that is important is the here and now. Believe me, however, time has a way of slip sliding away and before you know it, you too might be sitting at your keyboard and typing, “Once upon a time.”

SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW

                                    

Many years ago a young Judy Garland sang so beautifully. “Somewhere over the rainbow skies are blue. And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true.” The year was 1939 two years before I was born. I grew up hearing that song over and over again and although it’s a melody you can never forget it’s the lyrics I was drawn too, because somewhere in those words came hope that dreams really can come true. Good dreams to me are simply aspirations of things you really like and want to happen. Reality tells us however we must do more than just wish if we want these dreams to come true. We need to act, and make an effort on our part to make them come true. 

This brings me to the crux of my story, about the American dream. What is this American dream we talk about and why is it in peril? The American dream has meant many things to many people but always somewhere in its contents was the freedom to go after the things you have always wanted and wished for. That if you worked hard and stay focused and kept your eye on the goal, most of it would come to you. This was all possible because we lived in a country that encouraged you to do so. The old adage “land of the free” meant simply the opportunity to do this and more if you worked hard. Today the “land of the free” means to many people that you don’t have to do much to help yourself because the government will do it for you and for way to many, this has become a way of life.

On the Statue of Liberty there is inscribed. “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breath free; the wretched refuse of your teeming shores.” Were those words to be interrupted to mean come here and we will take care of you? No. They meant come to this land of opportunity and grow with us and they did. My grandfather was one of them. Millions of people came, just wanting to have a chance to succeed in a growing country without government intervention. That dreams that they dared to dream really did come true here. All they had to do was work hard and believe in themselves. It was truly the American dream.

Fast forward to today. Our country is for all practical purposes broke. Not just broke but broken too. Those huddled masses that came here to work, now come here to get free health care, food and rent subsidies. There is little incentive to work and even less opportunity for jobs because we now send our work to those teeming shores they came from. Our tax laws are a muddled mess of loopholes that allow those who make millions, pay almost nothing and keep their money overseas. I read the other day that the flood of illegal immigrants, across our southern borders has slowed dramatically and not because of stepped up enforcement. It has slowed because there are few reasons to come here when the jobs are being outsourced to the very country they were leaving. What a way to promote America & The American dream.

How long before people in this country leave our teeming shores for a less oppressive business climate. How long before the American dream becomes the American nightmare or are we already there?

OBSERVATIONS FROM ITALY

                                              

Buon giorno readers. I was blessed to be able to go with some friends to Italy a while back and for you who have not been there, I would like to offer the following observations about the country. Keep in mind that these are my opinions and may or may not be shared by those who accompanied me, or others who have been there. To start with, I could not substantiate the notion that Italy is the land of delectable Italian food that will wow your palate with perfect pizzas. I like cheese and sausage on my pizzas and neither seemed to exist where I was. The pizzas seemed to be a rather hard crust with a few veggies and some pepperoni on them and instead of cheese they have oil on them that tasted to me like lucky tiger hair oil. To those who like pasta, they have great pasta but I was unable to find a single meatball or a Godfathers pizza shop. When I asked about “Godfather’s” they drew their finger across their throat and said “Sicily.”

There is no coffee in Rome just shots of espressos that come in cups about the size of the ones that are in a Susie Homemaker play dishes kit. The one-ounce or so of sludge that is in them is equal to about six, five-hour energy drinks. You gulp it down in one swig, wait for your eyes to uncross, and your on your way. There is cappuccino for the non-espresso drinkers, which is the same thing with milk in it. Americano coffee, which is sometimes advertised but frowned upon, is not anything that resembles American coffee. I believe it is illegal to have American coffee in Italy.

Nero and Sons built the current roads in Rome out of cobblestones. Not nice smooth cobblestones like we have but little pointed ones that that poke you in the arch of your foot like walking on top of a picket fence, if you have soft shoes. If you have hard soled shoes it’s like walking across a room full of big marbles. They have no lanes marked off in the roads, so the cars-- which are about the size of those bumper cars you used to see at the state fair years ago—just wander nilly wily all over the road at very fast speeds blowing their horns ever few feet and waving their hands. If there were lanes marked, that would change in a hurry because restaurant owners seem to own at least two lanes of the street, in front of their establishments, and they fill them with tables and chairs for patio eating. So all of the traffic goes from four lanes to two lanes and then back to four again and then they repeat the process in the next block and sometimes more than once in any one block.

Nothing that Rome ever built for the last three thousand years has ever been torn down or removed. They just build around it or over it. If you are in an apartment in Rome, there is good chance, if you went to the basement and stated digging, you would find bones and chariot wheels, or the mother of all finds— Caesars sarcophagus full of old wine bottles. If you are Catholic and want to go to a church in Rome simply make a right turn and walk in. There is literally a church in every block. If you are protestant or Jewish, I can’t be of any help. After walking around about twenty square miles of Rome--scusi me—thirty square kilometers of Rome--I did not see any other kind of church. Despite all of this I fell in love with the eternal city and it’s people. For now, arrivederci my friends.

OUR ANCESTORS

                                                

America is a land of immigrants, and outside of our Native American friends, we all seem to have come from someplace else; albeit for most of us, a few generations removed. As a young man, one of the things I remembered happening, was people saying to me, “Holst—is that Scandinavian?” At this point, I would proudly tell them about how my grandfather came over from Norway on a tramp steamer, when he was eleven years old, to this land of milk and honey. Then the conversation would go on to Klub, Lefsa, Lutefisk, Krumkake and every other Norwegian dish you could think of.  By the way, I don’t do Lutefisk, and never have, but I still go to the church suppers for the Lefsa and the Norwegian atmosphere. My father said, “The only difference, between Lutefisk and snot, is that you can get kids to eat snot” and by the way, he was Norwegian. But my point is, those ethnic ties were a sense of pride to them and through interbreeding, it’s something we’re slowly losing.

I lost my mother when I was four. Her maiden name was Cromie, which is an old Irish name. I also know they came from the Belfast area. My father said she was mostly Irish so that’s the other half of me. Right near the top of my bucket list is a trip, someday, to both Norway, and Ireland. I have to admit, a pot of corn beef and cabbage makes my mouth drool like a sprinkler head in a burning building; and in the shower, my rendition of “Danny Boy” is a real tearjerker—especially after a couple of Jamison’s. I remember visiting my wife at the cemetery a while back, and those lyrics from “Danny Boy” came filtering through my mind. “And I shall hear, tho’ soft you tread above me. And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be. If you’ll not fail to tell me that you love me. I’ll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.” Yes, somewhere the simplicity of that old Gallic life style still stirs my soul, and yes, it’s been said “If you’re lucky enough to be Irish—you’re lucky enough.”

When I was first married I would go to family get-togethers, on my wife’s side of the family, down in Stearns County. They, like most of their neighbors, were of German heritage. We ate pig hocks and sauerkraut, and drank mugs of beer from New Ulm breweries, no less; also German sausage and hot potato salad. We danced the polka and the schottische, and old-time waltzes at places like the New Munich Ballroom. In every town, the centerpiece of the town seemed to be the steeple of a Catholic church—where most of them had been baptized, confirmed, confessed their sins and were eventually laid to rest in cemeteries behind the church where the tombstones read like a “Who’s who of the countryside.” It was always “Guten Morgan” when you arrived and “Auf Weidersehen when you left—her ninety-year-old grandma, with tears running down her face when we departed, extending her arms to heaven and saying, “mag Gott Segnen” or “may God bless.”

Yes, in everything I’ve talked about above, these were simple people who lived simple lives, never forgetting their roots. It’s not that way, anymore, and it’s sad. Sad because they’re gone, yes, but sad because gone, too, is the food, drink, traditions and the language that meant so much to them at the time—replaced by a different life, in a fast-paced American world that has no place for these, anymore.