Birthday Surprise

I’ve got a birthday surprise for my wife—NO BLOG. Wait, that’s not going to work. I’ve already started writing this, and it’s related to her birthday and I wish she has (now I must confess, I should have said “had” since I’m actually not writing this on her birthday, but rather the day following, early Sunday morning. And I’m pre-dating it so that it looks like I was prompt in my birthday wishes. So really this could be filed under “belated birthday.” And as such I could draw upon all kinds of great humor in that section of the b-day cards aisle. But I’m going to pretend that I was responsible and got this blog in on time. So where was I? Oh, yeah. . .) a wonderful 47th birthday.

So what could the surprise be? I bought her a web-cam for her computer, so she can now show her smile to the admiring world. But she was kind of expecting that, I think. And besides I didn’t hide it very well, and she found it before her birthday. And I’ve been working in the garage all day long trying to get it ready for a second car and a real working laundry tub and hopefully heat, but she knows all about that.

I didn’t short-sheet the bed.
I didn’t send any sweet message concerning her to the newspaper.
I didn’t buy her the flowers that she received from her sister (although I tried to think of a way to take credit)
I did take her out for supper.
I did make my own sandwich for lunch.
I did run numerous errands and filled up the gas tank in her vehicle.

But what could be the birthday surprise? Maybe I’ll have to wait a day to think about it. Or could it be . . . ?

Maybe Tomorrow

Still no snow.

If you look real close you can see a few snowflakes against Luke's black truck. Squinting helps! But then again, maybe I was hallucinating after all that turkey and pumpkin pie.

Thanks

Thank you God for countless blessings. Your goodness has been heaped upon me in more ways than I know, for I find new examples each day.

You have given me a family heritage of true compassion, one that has always shown me that I matter and am cared for, one that has encouraged me to venture out and try new things, but at the same time being there when I need support and comfort. And I’ve had the fortune of marrying in to a family which gave my beloved a similar foundation of support and encouragement. As a result, our life together has been deeper and richer (and probably easier too) thanks to her like heritage.

And I am also grateful for the civic heritage that I too often take for granted. Despite all the challenges which are a natural part of any earthly society, our nation has provided us with more freedoms, more opportunities, more good will, and more material blessings than any other place in the world. Our forefathers sacrificed much to set into motion a place that by recorded history’s standards is truly unique. God has richly blessed, and probably spoiled, us.

But most important, I treasure the spiritual heritage which has been passed down to me. I have been loved beyond measure by a Lord and Savior that gave His very life through a painful sacrifice. Each day I see the clear love of Jesus through the sacrificial, devoted lives of his followers and through an awesome creation that is continually being made new. Each walk through the woods, or glance over a lake, or look into the starry heavens, or even time spent watching an underwater nature special on TV makes me realize the bounty of his love. May they always bring praises to my heart.

So may I always be thankful, living a life of gratitude and service each and every day. May a joyful gratitude and hopeful charity be hallmarks of my life as a natural outgrown of that which I’ve received; and may I pass that on to my kids as they too realize how much they have to give thanks for.

Tack gode Gud.

Fresh from the garage

So I ended up back in the garage to burn some calories. Digging through an old box I found a 13-file folder contraption that held all of our receipts for the year 1984. That was before Luke and only our second year of marriage, back when we were organized. My best find was a receipt from a small music retailer that had started selling microwaves. Our first microwave, which cost us a whopping 350 bucks (in 1984 dollars!!!), was purchased on a 90 days same as cash contract. We bought it from a company that had just switched their official name to Best Buy Co.; that name was on the receipt next to the larger d.b.a. Sound of Music. They no longer use the Sound of Music name, but I hear they still have an awesome selection of stereo gear.
Our financial situation has improved such that we no longer need to take out loans to buy our microwaves. Heck, we didn’t even sign a contract to buy our last toaster oven. And I think we might have even paid cash for the last can opener. Life in the kitchen is good (as long as I stay clear, that is.)

And I guess that is why I am now blogging again. The Swansmith is busy in the kitchen preparing for a wonderful Thanksgiving meal, and one of the few places I am safe in the house is here. She holds blogging in such high esteem that if I am blogging, I am exempt from other home chores. For you see, I am now being “productive.” I am creating something of worth. (Alright, cut the giggles and chuckles.) I am giving the woman of the house something to read. And that makes it o.k. to sit on my butt. So the longer I blog, the longer I can stave off requests from the “Warden” to slice apples or peel potatoes or engage in other non-timman-type work.

And finally, the Swanmeister would want you to know that yes, it was a G.E. microwave. And for those of you interested it was a model 212, a very good model indeed. And if I remember right, it was so big that we had to purchase a special microwave cart just to hold it. That cart long out-lasted the microwave, and it was re-born as a TV shelf, and later as a computer desk.

Well I sense a chance to break now, either sneaking back to the garage or into the sack to rest up for a busy day of over-eating. The superior sex is still slaving away in the kitchen and I’m trying not to feel guilty. And it’s working. So there. I have my work cut out for me tomorrow as I have to eat all that food. I better get right to bed. Good night.

Forever Green?

Chicago, quit stealing our snow! As I sit here in my Twin Cities office I lament at all the green grass I see out my window. I’m almost getting the itch to GO OUT AND MOW. Oh well, I’ll have to get my exercise some other way. No shoveling, no mowing, raking done—I might have to volunteer some help in the kitchen. Whoa!! No, no, no! What could I be thinking? The mind is not willing, so the flesh better go play hide-and-seek. Dear Lord, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

Again becoming one with the Canucks

Ah the wonderful bite of a cold November gale, encouraging one (like me) to stay inside and do what people inside do. Blog.

Blogging subjects or objects (or even Blobjects) have been creating traffic jams in my head for some time now, so maybe with more favorable weather in the near future, I’ll find time to transfer some thoughts to screen.

As a glorious November has passed from tee shirt weather (at least for us Nordic types) to a hint (no make that strong suggestion) of winter, the focus is inward. Clean the garage and the office and torment the wife and kids about cleaning their spaces. Pitch and shred and shovel and sweep, sneeze. Pitch and shred and shovel and sweep, cough. So it’s been a while. The gray clouds outside make all the colors inside a little brighter and warmer.

It’s good to have the election evolving into ancient history, but before it does I need to boast about our little town of Robbinsdale’s voting turnout numbers—96.7%. And I believe that only counts living voters. So Chicago, don’t try to impress us with your 110% turnout.

And then there's the unity factor. Our ward one council member received a whopping 100% of the vote. Not a single soul wrote in the Swanmeister. :(

W.W.S.D.

What Will Suzi Describe? This evening the kids and I encouraged the Swansmith to tag along as we visited the Loaves and Fishes program at River of Life Lutheran in north Minneapolis. Seeing that I’m clairvoyant, I predict that she will write about (or at least mention) our evening outing. She will say that it was not as scary as she thought it would be. She will mention that we had beef stroganoff. And carrots. And bread, white or wheat. And cupcakes for dessert.

She will tell us that we sat at a table with Carl, the 70-something gentleman with the one bedroom apartment that now has two formerly homeless guys living under his roof. Guy number two, Les, also sat with us. His drug of choice is the bottle.

One thing I picked up on tonight was the camaraderie of those on the streets. Although I would guess that most of those who show up have places to live, a fair amount do not. It was a little like a high school reunion for some of those who sat close to us. In seeing familiar faces, they had some checking up to do.

Today the weather was quite mild for middle November, 50ish without the help of Mr. Sun. Or I should rather say despite the day-long fog and cloud cover. So it wasn’t too tough saying good-byes to some who were on their way back to their chosen outdoor hiding spots. Steve and I prayed with one guy who had several months ago attended a recovery group led by Steve. He just got back out of jail having served all his time and wanted Steve to know why he hadn’t been back at the group meeting. He came to the free meal with a brother and cousin and we were thankful that they could look out for each other. Although I wonder what kind of influences they will be on him as he tries again to wean himself from the bottle.

Well, enough said for this week. I will now anxiously await the wisdom and insight from the Swansmith. She will fill in the details and flush out the big picture and generally with precision and succinctness tell us what really transpired tonight. But we must wait. We must cultivate patience as we await the morning and read what Suzi will write. And she will write with gladness in her heart, for I have blogged, and she has an insight into my staid Scandinavian mind. Now if only I would clean the garage!

Melba

I dropped by Melba’s apartment last night on my way home from River of Life Lutheran Church. My son Mark and I have stopped by this church in north Minneapolis a number of times these past two weeks. They open their basement kitchen each weekday to Loaves and Fishes, a program that serves free supper meals between 5:30 and 6:30. We heard about the program through a couple from our church that has made this a nightly event for themselves. They hang out, some times eating, but always listening, and usually praying with those who are interested. They are the ones who first met Dale (see October 21) a few months ago when he was still living on the streets, and subsequently found shelter for him, sharing a room with 70-something Carl.

But back to Melba. She lives only a few blocks north of that church. And she was married more than 60 years to Phil; together they were pillars in our former church. They also hold a special place in our family’s collective heart. My personal Warden, the blogologist Swansmith, wrote about Phil a few days ago. While cleaning in the office, she had found a letter written by Phil on Sunday. I was also cleaning, but out in the garage. And I too came across a letter from Phil. (We never throw away any letters! And I’m not even talking letters as in correspondences to us. If a letter is part of a word and on paper, we save it, yea rescue it. Whether in book form, or magazines, or newspapers, or napkins, or backs of envelopes, we grieve when any text [sacred or not] is marched out our front door to the recycling bin.) With wonderful penmanship and thoughtfulness and sincerity, he brought joy and encouragement to our lives at the time of the letters’ original arrival and now many years later.

So in the back of my mind I renewed my effort to stop by Melba’s and tell her of our finds. As I stood in the lobby of her building last night it took a while to explain who I was—her hearing aid was in the other room. Upon retrieving it, she recognized my voice and gladly buzzed me in. We had a wonderful visit.

I should have know better than to expect her parked in front of the tube. She was busy getting ready for Thanksgiving. A group of more than 27 would be descending upon her apartment in about two weeks. She had so much she wanted to get done to have the place properly welcoming. And it’s not like she can do this preparation during the day. For the daytime is for hopping buses all-around town. That morning she caught a bus outside her building and took it all the way to the other end of town for a Ladies workshop and luncheon. It was at a college in a St. Paul suburb, so it must have required numerous transfers. She’s a daring lady at 87.

We reminisced about her husband who died about two years ago and her son who died about a year before that. Of course I knew her husband Phil very well, but only said quick hellos to her son over the years. He was a dozen or more years my senior and our paths only crossed at special church functions, such as Christmas smorgasbords and anniversary celebrations. The son’s funeral is one that Suzi and I attended and one that we are forever grateful that we did. I only wished that we had known him better. It was about the strangest mix of people I’ve ever been apart of. At the center of the funeral home was a drum circle with Native Americans in full regalia, friends with whom he had worked. He was a musician who did not know a style of music he didn’t like. He was involved in everything from a rock band to a gospel quartet. And he was a successful engineer and inventor with eight prestigious patens to his name. We were surprised to run into a fellow AFS host parent at the funeral. This guy had known him well and played with him in, I believe, a Blues band.

But Melba’s doing well. She’s too busy to dwell on the hardships of these past few years. She’s on the go, gallivanting around town, riding buses I don’t know that I would dare ride. And she’s well on her way to being ready for Thanksgiving. With the literally hundreds of pictures on her walls of family and friends, she has much to be thankful for. And come Thanksgiving her tiny apartment will be stuffed like a golden brown turkey, but filled with love and good memories.

Z(ed)

At the prompting of my Canadian brother and mentor I must proceed. His comment on Saturday’s blog was a preemptive strike and it appears to have worked. For Zed it is. I’m learning Canadian slowly and someday hope to speak it fluently, eh?

With the influence put forth from the north and the sequential necessity to end this non-sense, I write today of Zebra stripes. Upon leaving our front door last night to allow our dog to make his mark in the world, the Swansmith and I looked up and were struck by bright patterns in the western sky. They looked like northern lights, but we were facing the wrong direction. (“Didn’t feel like north!” Sorry for that bad inside joke.) So we walked on. We headed northeast and gazed northward toward Canada. No geese, but plenty of light, all around us and directly overhead. They looked like undulating zebra stripes, mostly white but with a strong greenish tint. In my past experiences with northern lights, they’ve always been tied to the horizon, shooting upward to the sky. But this time I could stare straight up and see the free show. They were waving at us like the stripes of the flag. Of course we had to summon the kids. And they came. And were impressed. Tough to do with teen-agers.

Zee End. Or iz that Zed end.

awesome photo by Minneapolis StarTribune photojournalist 

Y

Y
Because I need practice with the alphabet
Y now
Because it’s the next letter
Y me
Because we love you (M-i-c-k-e-y)
Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy(ne)
Because I’m the father
Y me
Because I said so
Y not
Because I’m sequential

X

the next blog

W