A minor reason for the season

This Christmas was proof that it pays to blog. And it pays to whine and complain. Many weeks ago I told the sad tale of having no right glove. I'm sure many were moved. I know I was. In the subsequent days since that blog, I searched high and low, and even at waist level, for a companion to any of my lefties. But none has appeared.

But lo and behold, beneath a Christmas tree in Tennessee, a pair (both left and right) of gloves were found bearing my name. And they were in my color and my size and I felt like Cinderella. I am now ready to go outdoors, pull my hands out of my pockets, and wave them frantically to all I see, letting all the world know that my blogging adventures were not in vain. And Christmas is not only for children or maybe I'm still a kid.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good week. (Pray for us as our daughter turns 16 on Tuesday.)

From Tennessee

I would like to wish everyone everywhere all day long a very happy Holiday Eve.

We're here and I'm remotely blogging

We arrived in Tennessee and I wrote this sentence (of which I am quite pleased), but I was unable to get online to add it to my blog until Saturday.

Shopping/Chopping/Hopping

Took a break from diagramming to shop, shop, shop with my wife, wife, wife at some store, store, stores with lots of crowds, crowds, crowds all scurrying, and racing, and darting to and fro, and here and there. So now I have no energy to blog, blog, blog.

Time to go fishing again

Well I suppose it’s time for an easy one and then I might call it quits. Besides, I should be encouraging the purchase of such a wonderful book; and what better Christmas gift than a book about fish? The last fish, sporting the Z’s, I thought was funny because I’m assuming the author was making fun of himself and his faith tradition. He labeled it “Presbyterian.” And with a name like MacCullum I thought it might not be too big of a leap to assume that Presby might be his background, Scottish don’t ya know. Maybe I’m all wet, but he seems like someone that might not take himself too seriously.

This current and last fish is one of my favorites.

who (as in a category) is this bottom feeder? 

Five Things People Don’t Know About Me

1. I’ve Been Tagged. I didn’t know this about me either for awhile. My faithful Reader, i.e. the Warden, i. e. my wife brought me up to speed on the fact that I’m too slow and therefore got caught. And since I’ve been tagged, this seems like a good place to start. How many people knew that I was tagged? Of course many literate, computer-savvy confessional Lutherans probably got the word (no pun intended.) But I’m not sure of the overlap between those folks and the circles in which I run in circles.

Now to those who know me at all, they know that that’s about all I know for now. I guess a better way to say it is that one thing at a time is about all that I can handle. I can't blame it on being ADHD. Rather, being Norwegian from the neck up, I just can’t think fast enough to rattle off five things in one sitting. So please accept my first humble entry of baring my soul.

Diagramming 2

Still diagramming.

Yet more free plugs for J. MacCallum's book. Is this an easy one? 

What Kind of Fish Are You?

I know this might seem a little fishy, but I want to brag about a book that I have actually read three times from cover to cover. And in case you’re wondering about the ambiguity of that last sentence—do I mean to brag on myself or brag about the book? I think both. I’m proud of my stick-to-it-ivness.

Now I don’t know if it’s kosher to copy a whole page of a book without getting permission from the author, but I’m going to do it anyways. I checked amazon.com and they didn’t have the book listed, so I wasn’t able to link there. Cause, as you probably know, Amazon does that kind of stuff, letting you read just long enough to get hooked on a book. And then the next page is missing.

Concerning my new fishy book, they're just not enlightened enough to include it in their vast collection. Or they've actually read it and refuse to sink to such a level. But it's not there. So if I don’t, who will? And if I don’t provide actual pictures, what I write will seem very obscure. So here goes. The book is written & illustrated by Jess MacCallum. It was published by In Ardua Tendit Press in 2003. And I betcha can’t even find it on ebay. Oh yeah, the title is “A Handy Guide to Swimming with the Fishes.”

So anyways, for the first one I’ll give the answer. After that you’re on your own.

really, really, really, really good Christian 

I'm not allowed to disclose the title for this one yet.

Diagramming

Still Diagramming

Trying to Stay Focused on One Line of Reasoning or Getting Distracted and Going Completely Different Directions Because You Forgot what Your original

Point Was Or Something Like That


I had thought about flushing out some of Boykin’s thinking in setting the p-word as the antithesis of love. And then in turn I had thought about asking myself how that all relates to the two great commandments (love God—love neighbor) and then how those two relate to each other.

But then I got distracted. Saturday’s Minneapolis StarTribune, in its Faith and Values section, had an interesting article about a local author’s connection to last month’s (I think it was then) electrocution of the Texas pastor. Being Baptist, this pastor had stepped into a large tank of water on the podium to baptize a congregant. When he reached for the cordless microphone something went terribly wrong and he died shortly thereafter.

I had heard a brief description of this event, but the article did a good job filling in some of the details surrounding that fateful day. The theme for the day (and subsequent month) at this church was based on Terry Esau’s book “Surprise Me.” The church was to start a 30-day faith experiment. Each day they were to ask God for a surprise and then log (or maybe even blog, although it doesn’t say that in the article and this is merely my editorial comment perhaps as a way to relieve tension when discussing a very somber event as some are apt to do when they face issues of ultimate importance and aren’t quite sure how to deal with them or even if they want to deal with them so then they change the topic or try to make a joke out of it even though they mean no disrespect) their experience.

Of course no one foresaw the tragedy of that morning, but the very theme of the day begs the question of God’s involvement. And this question is actually the main focus of Boykin’s book “The Gospel of Coincidence,” which raised that initial question of love’s opposite. This book, now out-of-print and commanding some decent prices on e-bay (like $ 50, I should have invested in copies of this book instead of Enron), does a great job of posing some intriguing and ancient questions and an even greater job of alienating most of his “friends” with his answers. (I’m still surprised that Zondervan would publish it.)

His argument in a nutshell (although I know this is an oversimplification) is that God works primarily through people’s hearts and minds without undue coercion and not by micromanaging every detail of the universe. Most “happenings” of this world are the results of free people acting to cause them. Taking people’s free will out of the equation or focusing too much on a divine preference for everything is tantamount to reading tea leaves. Taken to its extreme (where people spend too much time and energy trying to discern God’s will for everything, e.g. a preferred parking spot for them) ultimately leads one to inaction in the “things that really matter” and things that are clear to us.

I haven’t come to any firm decisions on the arguments he presents, but I did have fun reading the book and I think he provides a healthy balance to those who venture too close to a deterministic view of the world. And since people have argued this issue from the beginning of time, and I’m sure not going to come up with any original insights, it’s probably time to quit typing and do something productive, like reading (at least I didn’t say TV.)

For the love of lions

I have this strong controlling feeling welled up inside me, because I know the answer to my question. And you don’t. But it’s time I swallow my you-know-what and let on to the answer I had in mind. As I’ve said, I’m not completely convinced that this answer is definitive, but I can’t come up with a better one. It seems to capture underneath its umbrella of influence those other "deadly" sins, such as selfishness and apathy and inaction and a whole host of other no-noes. (I need to consult Dan Quayle to see if I should have put an “e” in that last word of the previous sentence.) But as far as the king of transgressions, the opposite of love, that’s what I had in mind. Or I should say that’s what this John Boykin character had in mind in his book. And it seems to make sense.

E-V-O-L

First of all, I must admit that I don’t read my sister-in-law Cheri’s blog everyday either. She’s always there, being that beacon of consistent light, but who knows where I’m at, and what excuse I’ve concocted for myself. I haven’t read my e-mail in over a week. How sad is that!

Second, I should have known that this first-born would come up with a fabulous response, not that the other responses (written and un-written [I’m still imagining other responses]) are that far from the imaginary mark. But selfishness sure is antithetical to a spirit of love. And I love that answer. But. . .

Un-love

So if it’s not hate and not apathy, could it be judgmentalism? Maybe not, since I don’t think that’s even a word. But I think I’ve read some writers who try to set up such a contrast.

As a sidebar, I was thinking too: is the absence of something the same as the opposite of something?

I agree with D C Talk that “love is a verb.” Might the opposite of love not be a verb, or must it be a verb?

I’m not trying to be persnickety. (Heck, I don’t even know what that means.) But I really have thought about this a lot this past week or so. And I do think that love is very central to the entire message of Scripture.

In the Tuesday evening Bible study I’ve been attending the past few months, we’ve read through Romans. I usually don’t think about Romans being about love, justification maybe, or sin, but not love. However, a huge chunk of the last third of the book deals with the issue of love. So it’s been on my mind. And smack dab in the middle of that section on love is the passage on submitting to authority. So what does that have to do about love? The 13th chapter of Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians makes a lot of sense, but it’s a little fuzzier in Romans.

So what else might be an opposite of love? If I keep on rambling, a good choice will be this blog.

What’s the opposite of opposite?

For kids (and adults) who play the opposite game: hot/cold, day/night, etc., it seems like "hate" would first pop into people’s head as a response to "love." But I don’t think that’s a good answer. I think I’ve heard shrinks talk about love and hate being very similar in the amount of passion they stir up within a person.

If my sister-in-law cared, and if I felt like being generous with compliments, I would say that “apathy” makes a lot of sense. Love and hate are hot, whereas apathy is cold. But, I had something else in mind. The author of a book I recently finished argues for a different opposite to love. And it’s not asparagus.

Cold

I got to walk the dog this morning. And I’m glad, very glad. I got to taste a little of my wife’s morning addiction. The fresh snow was not only beautiful (cleaning up everything, even my dirty truck,) but it crunched. It was a sound that the little Rice Crispies guys could appreciate. The lack of any wind made the walk pleasant, even though the mercury was just a few notches kinder than biting. The little weather icon at the bottom right hand corner of my monitor still flashes “6.” To my international kids that’s a whopping -17 or so. But cold is good. It allows me to run and not get weary. And it makes it easier to chip away at the hardened snow on the driveway. And it gives me a chance to wear my best fashion statement—my leather and rabbit bomber hat.

So along with a healthy dose of gratitude to my Creator and a gladness of heart that comes with the pinks and blues of a morning sunrise, came a sense of sorrow for those who don’t get to experience a multitude of seasons. Winter rocks! Oh snow birds, what are you thinking?

Opposites

I’ve thought about posting this question for some time. It is actually Sunday today as I'm writing this, but I think I’ll slip it in as a Saturday post. Last time I checked there was still room under Saturday, December 3, 2005. And if you’re actually reading this, then I was able to squeeze it in. The living proof is right before your eyes—and now literally right between your ears (unless I’ve forced you to zone out by now.) Oh yeah, the question: what is it? (How’s this for a build up?) Actually I’m just filling up space, making a visit to this sight worth the energy you exerted in clicking away on your mouse. Plus, I’m a little curious as to how much room there really is under this Saturday’s date.

OK, now for the question, I hope it’s not now anticlimactic. What is the opposite of love? Any thoughts—right or wrong answers that pop into your head? The Warden is not allowed to comment, as we’ve hashed this over a little.

Sparky

One of the “joys,” or should I say challenges, of working on people’s soon-to-be-brand-new kitchens is the frantic nature of it all. Remodeling contractors are usually tempted to underplay the difficulty of living without a kitchen for an extended period of time. And the sometimes promised eight to ten weeks usually turns into twelve to sixteen or more. I still feel sorry sometimes when I see people set up a temporary kitchen in their laundry room or bathroom, washing their dishes amongst less pleasant surroundings.

Such was the case today as I headed to a small kitchen remodel in Minneapolis. My original start date was this previous Monday. But as things often go, “unexpected” delays pushed my drywall installation back until today, Thursday. Or so I thought. I picked up the necessary sheets and planned to begin the installation this afternoon. The electrician should easily be done by the middle of the day, I was told. I should know better, but still I arrived around three, ready to work.

I imagined a jobsite completely ready for me to start, but instead I found “Sparky,” the electrician still buried in wires and boxes and tools and insulation and half demo-ed walls and ceilings. Not only was he not close to finishing, the inspector was not even lined up until Friday, who knows when.

As I asked him when he would be done and where I could leave the sheetrock, he started in on his tirade of the many woes of the electrician: fishing wires through tight spaces, insulation falling in your face, and unexpected problems buried beneath the old walls. Then he caught himself. “Am I whining too much,” he asked rhetorically. I assured him he wasn’t. I could relate. It did remind him of a story though, a personal true one at that.

The electrician told me about his brother-in-law who is a sheet-rocker. This sheet-rocker, in thinking about his back-breaking job, once told Sparky that he had always wanted to be an electrician, but wasn’t allowed to become one because of a medical condition. He claimed to fail the electrician's health exam. Knowing that there is no such exam for electricians, Sparky was confused and pried for more information. The sheet-rocker, knowing that he had Sparky wrapped around his little finger, told Sparky that he wasn’t allowed to be an electrician because his tear ducts weren’t adequate. Zing, zing. There went the slam against electricians who are often known for their highly developed ability to whine and feel sorry for themselves.

However, Sparky was able to come back with a very healthy response. He told his sheet-rocking brother-in-law that when he was growing up he always wanted to hang drywall, but his parents wouldn’t let him drop out of high school. Touché.

So in short, I wasn’t able to start working on that job today. It’s probably going to mess up my schedule on other jobs. It will probably mean some weekend work. But, hey, I did get a laugh out of the deal. But maybe you had to be there.

One-handed thief on the loose

I made a startling discovery this morning as I looked outside at the fresh snow and then inside in our glove and mitten bin. A thief is on the prowl. And he only has one hand. And it’s a good sized hand at that. In digging through our bin, matches were a plenty, except for ones that would fit me. All I could find in the way of large gloves were for my south paw. Now fashion has never been my strong suit—I would have been more than happy to find any combination of one right and one left. Matching colors matters not to me. Maybe because I can magically turn anything white, making two mismatches look like a pair. But it was not to be. I left with four left-handed gloves.

This morning’s vain search made me think back to last Saturday when our family volunteered (under some duress) at a thrift store 40 miles west of Minneapolis. It was actually a pretty classy second hand store. Most of things for sale were in far better shape than most of my wardrobe. When we first arrived we were initiated into the store’s policy about accepting donations—be picky. I was put in charge of the back entrance where the donations were received. Most of the things I saw looked brand new and caused no problem, but there were a number of people bringing things that were more my style—very comfortable. This caused quite a dilemma for me. The lady training me in should have just told me, “Tim, if you see anything coming to our back door that looks like what you, Tim, are wearing, slam the door in their face. And then latch the dead bolt. I tried to cover the coffee stains on my shirt (they were fresh stains), by pretending to scratch my nose. But I think she thought I was doing something else. Then she knew she had put me in the right place, far, far away from the retail area.

I was well picked to stay in the back, man the garbage, receive the good goods (being a living display of the needy to those well-dressed folk handing off their fine extras), and turn away the bad goods (hey dude, I love that couch with the creative pattern of cigarette burns, but they just don’t have room for such a fine piece.)

In short, I went kicking and whining, but I left actually feeling pretty good about the place. It was good to volunteer. I met some neat folks. My only regret: I didn’t pick up a right-handed glove.

Happy Birthday

I thank my wife each November for blazing the trail before me. For nine long months she gets to experience what it means to be a year older (than me). She is now getting her feet wet with the reality of 48 while I’m still enjoying the early stages of 47. It’s great to have someone like her test out those new phases of life. She doesn’t seem to mind and she wears the years well. Her adventurous steps ahead of me cannot be described by the proverbial “age before beauty,” because she trumps me on both accounts. The older she gets, the better she looks. And I don’t attribute it to my faltering eyesight. (I still can pass the driver’s license test without my glasses.)

Enjoy the rest of the 40’s honey. If you think something’s gaining on you, it’s probably just me. I hope to pursue you for many years to come. But could you please slow down a bit and at least give me a chance to catch you?

No Respect

The warden did not appreciate the fine editing and masterful restraint employed to deliver my last blog. She saw it as shallow and flippant, not appreciating the art of its brevity. Oh well.

Thanksgiving Day

I'm thankful that I can blog today.

Purple Pride

I’ve outgrown the days when Minnesota Vikings telecasts were mandatory for me. Getting out of church by 12 noon during the autumn was essential for me throughout most of the twentieth century. In that time before Tivo I learned how to be rude, in a polite sort of way, as I rushed out to my car after the Sunday morning service. And then I (along with dozens of other male car-warmers) would sit with the radio blasting as I (we) awaited the spousal factor in our lives.

But then there were those special Monday nights, that extraordinary, almost magical, once-a-year evening when the Purple People Eaters would devour and humiliate a rival on national TV. The hardware stores were empty, the bars were overflowing, and I was usually home propped up in front of the tube. Vikings on Monday Night Football was huge.

So why did I not even think about turning on the tube last night? What has happened? I don’t think I can completely blame the men in purple and gold, although they’ve worked hard at alienating fans this season. It’s probably me. It wasn’t until about 10:40 last night that I turned on the game. And to my surprise they were actually ahead. And it was the fourth quarter with only four minutes left. And it looked like it was a great game. And it was against those dastardly Cheese Heads. But I did the unthinkable (at least it would have been a few years ago), I turned it off and put my head on the pillow.

The traffic was lighter than normal this morning. I think it’s directly related to having a Monday night game. But there were still people out and about. I hear that across the border on those kinds of Tuesdays the whole state shuts down, especially if the Packers have been humiliated.

In closing I can’t claim to have enjoyed a fine game last night, but this morning I could still feel great and gloat in the fact that the Pack lost another one, especially at the hands of a questionable team at best. Am I slowly becoming infected with purple pride again?

Under Two Dollars (or Almost Like Going to the Dollar Store)

I filled up my warehouse on wheels yesterday and it only cost $ 50.00. Oh how my perspective has changed or been tampered with or played or manipulated. $ 1.99 sounds and looks so cheap. And maybe compared to other items it is. It’s sort of like those March days in Minnesota when I run outside in my t-shirt because the mercury rises above 40 degrees F.

One added advantage to that magical price was that I could easily figure how many gallons I pumped. (Don’t forget to add that almost hidden 9/10 of a cent.)

It’s a Dog’s Life

I was called into duty on Thursday morning—to the pound, sort of. Same stuff, different day, pet project. I was goin’ downtown and to the dogs.

In the shadow of many tall buildings (but still on the wrong side of the tracks, if ever so slightly) I searched for the address. The sidewalk across the street housed merely one man who along with a handful of blankets and a single brown paper bag seemed to hold up the building he was slouched against. With my truck full of tools and mud, the drywall type, I arrived at the back door.

The steps up to the cement deck were a bit rickety and had just enough ice on them to encourage even me to use the handrail. The rear door looked adequately secure with enough metal and heavy duty hardware to discourage any canine rustlers. The closest thing to a welcome sign was the variety of “smiley” MasterCard, Visa, and Discover logos near the center of the door. The name of the place was also on the door, but not in a stylish enough way to let one know this was the main entrance. I think that honor fell to the windowed door on the other side facing the street.

I tried the door and sure enough it popped open as a mighty chorus of scores of dogs of all types and shapes and sizes greeted me. The sound was deafening and I quickly realized that one thing my warehouse on wheels lacked was a pair of earplugs. In a voice that I continually had to raise and raise, I asked for the whereabouts of the owner. She was nowhere to be found, but the project was staring me in the face. It was two small walls that needed some muddin’. It was part of an effort to spruce up this rear entrance to the place.

As the dogs sang on, I began to haul in my tools. Once completely inside with all my stuff, I settled in to the constant, but varying waves of sound. Each pooch tried to be the first in noticing any activity or any movement of any door. Or maybe they were all auditioning for some upcoming solo parts in a doggy musical. It was a wall of sound that would have made Phil Spector proud.

But the thing that I noticed most from my two day tour at Downtown Dogs was the camaraderie of all the canine’s companions. The owner of the place put things in proper perspective when she wrote that she was owned by three rescued dogs. They were in this together, providing a pampered place to put their pups. I only worked in the rather sterile “receiving” area, but I saw pictures of comfy areas that put our living room to shame. The dogs get to curl up on a couch as they watch their movies. I didn’t ask if popcorn was complimentary.

With a pair of earplugs, this might not be a bad place to work. The dozens of customers/clients/guardians that I brushed against in the two days all had the same warm greeting and smile and made me feel a part of their community, even though they knew not that I too am a fellow servant of a dog where I live. Our German shepherd mix surely would have enjoyed working with me these past few days, but he was at another doggie daycare where he truly is king, pampered with the undivided attention of a real warden, the Warden of my heart and his.

If we're lucky the snow starts in the morning

the reds of last Friday

Friends

We said good-bye yesterday to a long-time friend. He stayed with us for a long weekend, hoping to escape the hurricanes of Florida for a time. His mother no longer lives here in Minnesota and he no longer owns property here, so his visits have become less frequent. I guess that makes them more special, and the special-ness was stretched out for a longer period than usual this time. In addition to that, he actually dropped his bags and crashed with us for the duration of his Twin Cities tour. The weekend get-together focused on primarily three things: (1) church (usually not his thing) and our weekly small group (he felt remarkably at home); (2) long heated discussions of politics, theology, philosophy, and other matters with similar endings; and (3) food (he generously treated us to places we frequent only rarely.)

The weekend was very full and very rewarding. It’s truly a blessing to have friends, who although they disappear for months or years at a time, step back into our lives as if we suspended our conversation just yesterday.

We’re already missing John and hope he returns soon. We’ll leave the light on for him.

Johnny Cash Wannabe? 

Extra Hour?

I really thought that with an extra hour this weekend I would find something new posted on my blog. But last time the Warden checked there was nothing there. Kind of spoookey, isn’t it? Almost scary. Did it disappear? Or did I simply not write anything?

Now I’m confused. My son Mark is all dressed up in black this evening. He’s covered from head to toe in black silk, with black netting over his face. I get this feeling that somewhere somehow someone is celebrating a birthday. Is he wearing this to scare off the constant flow of urchins that keep ringing our door bell? Or is he celebrating someone’s 40-something birthday? He won’t say. All he does is howl.

The howling increases in frequency and volume as he nears the front door and the huge bowl of M&Ms. I wonder if he is guarding them. Staring at them has given me the munchies. But I dare not sneak any, lest the Warden threaten me. Those are for the kids she might say. Or why don’t you have some chips or Cheetoes instead?

There’s probably a good reason she has Mr. Black guarding the front door. I decide to retreat to my office where I suddenly remember a private stash of chocolate hidden near the back of the middle drawer of my desk, the last remaining vestiges of my red valentine heart-shaped box. A piece of dark chocolate filled with creamy nougat and a hint of nut was still there to tempt me. And so it goes, I wait until the holiday synonymous with candy to finish off my box. But it tasted oh so fine. I even think it was safe. If not, I may not blog for a while.

A Memorial Day He Can't Forget

It never ceases to amaze me what my dad keeps in his head. He’s one that would much rather listen than talk. I wonder who I take after.

When the subject of “dumb things teen-agers do” came up, he told me a story of him and his brother speeding down a busy street in north Minneapolis in an older vehicle with practically no brakes. His brother of course was driving. As they crossed the railroad tracks, my dad who was in the back seat looked out the rear window and saw the train literally four feet from their back bumper.

What’s amazing though is the fact that they kept speeding around the northern side of town until they came across a sight that to this day was hard for my dad to completely describe. The year was 1950. The day was Memorial Day. As they headed east and crossed the Mississippi River, they came upon another intersection of tracks and road. But this one forced them to stop, for the train was already blocking the road. And in the foreground was a Chevrolet sedan that didn’t make it. A family of four was strewn across the field. The bodies and parts of the car were separated by over a hundred yards. The husband was close to the initial impact, his lifeless body was covered in gravel, but blood managed to gurgle out of his mouth. The infant child was also dead. The mother was many yards away, but missing a leg. The engine of the car was thrown dozens of yards. A second child was thrown from the car but survived. It was a very gruesome site, one that received substantial coverage in the next day’s newspaper. My dad remembers it being discussed at school the next day. But he never told me if he shared his first hand experience with the class. Was it too hard for him relate the story? Or was he too shy then also?

I should have asked him, but I mostly just listened.

Mud Man

As a parting gift my cousin hand painted this sculpture by my oldest son and placed it on the dashboard of my work van. It was created with real drywall speed set. So when St. Christopher is not available, Mud Man will have to do.

Mud Man--notice he's balder than I am.

"Choo Choo" or "End of an Era"

My cousin is now gone. This evening we parted ways as his parents drove him to their house for the weekend. On Monday he will re-enter Minnesota Teen Challenge to finish his program and possibly do an internship.

Last night it was only the three of us home, the Warden, my cousin, and me. So we decided to ride the train. My cousin, although he actually worked on it, had never ridden the light rail from Downtown Minneapolis to the Mall of America. So off we went. When we got on board it was standing room only, with not even a round handle to grab onto. As we headed south people slowly started disappearing, and the Warden was first to find an empty seat. My cousin and I stood for most of the way, not finding a seat until about the airport. The airport is where my cousin was working on 9-11-01. He was driving pilings for an entrance to the light rail tunnel under the airport. He spoke about how eerie it was going from continuous takeoffs and landings to absolute silence. Only a few fighter jets were allowed to take off.

A short while after these somber remembrances, we arrived at the Mall, each of us bringing a very empty stomach. We were tempted to grab the first thing we saw, chips and pretzels, but decided to walk until he happened upon someplace with food of substance. Around the first bend was a place we had been once or twice before, the Rainforest Café, the original one at that. And this time there was no line, so in we went. They sat us next to an absolutely awesome fish tank, filled with at least a dozen different varieties of brightly colored fish. I never tire of that sight. And I would have been content to leave that place merely feasting on the visual stimuli. But I ate anyways. And then I helped the Warden with her plate. I would have helped my cousin too, but he was holding a fork in one hand and a sharp knife in the other.

And the conversation was as good as the food, recapping the past two months together and our soon to be more separate futures. Although the food is part of the place’s draw, the ambiance is probably the greater pull. I’ve mentioned the fish, but the place is also known for its frequent thunder and lightning, its numerous jungle trees, and a gift shop with all sorts of toy animals. I didn’t see the parrot, however, that used to be out front to lure people in. Maybe he’s only a weekend treat.

Did I mention the coffee was great? And because it was, I had to visit the boy’s room on the way out. This gave my cousin and my wife a chance to mosey on through the gift shop. While leaving the facilities I heard the loud screeches of a Rainforest monkey. A new feature, I thought. As I looked around many others were also enjoying this new sound. Was there a monkey in the house? I kept walking until I saw the Warden up ahead. But she was running away. What was the deal? What was I missing? Then out of the corner of my eye I see, and hear very loudly, the monkey—my cousin. He has perfected a monkey call and screech, loud enough and believable enough to get most of the restaurant’s attention. And loud enough to encourage the Warden out of the gift shop without buying anything. Thank you, dear cousin.

These past few months have been like that, always full of excitement, and laughs, and heart-to-heart discussions about life and faith and family and work. All of them wrapped around with plenty of joy from a new lease on life and a new appreciation for each new day. I’m going to miss that.

Seasons of Time

Hope on the inside

the company I keep 

I normally don’t have time (or money) to eat breakfast out that often. But I splurged these past two mornings. Wednesday my cousin and I met two other guys at the Bean Scene about 6:30 for coffee, waffles, and conversation. This morning my cousin and I met up with my dad, my younger brother, my uncle, and my dad’s two cousins for some feed at Oodles in Robbinsdale. The transition in conversations and concerns from one morning to the next was interesting.

Wednesday morning I heard of the struggles of a young parent with two kids trying to balance work, and marriage, and family time, and social life, and church, and stuff. . . Wednesday evening I wrestled with teen-agers as they sought housing arrangements and employment and general direction in life. Then come Thursday morning I gathered with family more advanced in age and wisdom than me. The discussions revolved more around health than anything else. Everyone was optimistic and upbeat and grateful (fun things to see in people who have long weathered life’s storms.) The tolls of age were apparent though as one of my dad’s cousins sporadically revealed the symptoms of his encroaching Alzheimer’s. The hints of the advancing disease might not have been noticeable to others who didn’t know him, but for those of us who share long histories with him, it was becoming clearer. It’s a sad, sad condition, but at this stage it seemed to open up a portion of his soul that was good to see. He was especially free to speak of the things that mattered greatly to him: his marriage, his service to our country, his extended family, and the mementos that he cherishes.

As the leaves around here continue to fall, I’m acutely aware of the passage of time. Fall is my favorite time of year, primarily for the comfortable temperatures, but also for the colorful landscapes (a chance to cry out “wow”), and the longer evenings, which encourage me to slow down and take life at a more relaxed pace. But time marches on.

These thoughts were also reinforced by one of the places I ended up working this week. It was a place called Hope. It was in a part of town that I haven’t visited in over 12 years, an out-of-the-way part of east St. Paul, over 20 miles from my home. Hope Church, or more completely Hope Lutheran Church, is on a quiet street on a road that dead-ends a few blocks away. It’s an old building that you wouldn’t know about if you didn’t live in the immediate neighborhood. But I knew about this place. And as a school age kid it gave me lots of hope.

I knew about the place because three of my cousins lived on that street when I was growing up. Their house on Clear Avenue was the home of my mom’s sister Joannie and her husband until the day she prematurely died of a brain aneurysm, on her birthday. As a kid I loved to visit that house and play with my “favorite” cousins, the ones closest in age to me. But as I grew older I became increasingly concerned for the spiritual lives of these close relatives, who were devout Catholics that brought me with them to Mass (back when the services were still in Latin.) My upbringing of anti-Catholic sentiment had encouraged me to see no redeeming value in anything from Rome. So when I got word that they would sometimes visit that “Protestant” church down the block, I got excited. I no longer carry that strong anti-Catholic bias with me. The Catholic church has changed much in these past decades, as have I. My life has been blessed by many Catholic friends who share a faith so similar to mine.

Before my aunt died, I had many opportunities to witness her vibrant faith “even though” (or maybe because) she remained faithful to her childhood tradition. She exemplified a servant's heart to the very end and was the best hugger in my life until I got married. (And in that deal I got a twofer, you’ll have to figure that out for yourself.)

My thinking has changed along some ecclesiastical lines through the years, as has the building in which I was working. It still houses an English speaking congregation, but it also provides space to worshippers who use a different language. (I couldn’t figure out what language it is though.) But it looks as though change is happening fast around that place, enough change to bring in a handful of drywallers. I hope our handiwork will help them serve each other and our Lord more effectively.

So time marches on, here, there, and in St. Paul. But for now it’s fall, and I’m loving it.

I Sometimes Work with Shrek

Shrek

Toot, toot

Reading church history is an eye-opening experience. I started a new book recently and was glancing through the early pages where the author was setting the stage by mentioning the major shifts in the development of what we call Christianity. He wrote of the significant change that took place around the year 1500 when the ancient or medieval world gave way to a more modern one. And of course one of the main characters (in deed a primary player and cause) during this monumental move was Martin Luther. In many ways, he straddled the ancient and modern worlds, living in both while being pivotal in bringing about much change. Still a product of the medieval world, he was very much in tune with the spiritual realm, battling evil and the demonic whenever and however he could. But my eyes were opened by his manly technique. Being the student of Scripture, tradition, law, and cuisine that he was, he was willing and able to use his masculine gifts. To ward off evil spirits, especially in the middle of the night, he often resorted to flatulence.

Now there’s a man I can respect and seek to emulate. Now if I can only find a way to bring these new insights to my wife, I’ll be pleased (or at least relieved.)

Sunday Morning Travelogue

My iPod has been acting up a bit lately. I finally decided to sit at the computer last night and set it straight. It’s now behaving itself and making me proud. I got it running like a charm, so I decided to invest a little screen time in other projects (sorry, no insightful blogs on the agenda yet). While at my desk I started up iTunes and set it to shuffle. Good music was enjoyed by me. At bed time (about 9:30 p.m.) I merely hit the pause key and let it rest until morning.

I woke up this morning to a cloudy day which is way too hot for my tastes, especially in October—day 2 of 4 in a row with highs in the 80s. Do I turn on the A/C in October? What is a Nordic type to do? I needed to concentrate and ponder my dilemma, so I against switched on iTunes, still in the scramble mode. First comes a Dylan song, then some Rich Mullins, followed by an epic that lifted my spirits, gray clouds or not.

I had to confess that few things work better than a Weird Al song in the morning, a little pre-worship levity. So for your and my listening and reading pleasure, I now submit (the local relevance is thrown in for free, and yes, I have actually been there with the family and my camera, but I can’t find the picture now):

The Biggest Ball Of Twine In Minnesota
By Al Yankovic

Well, I had two weeks of vacation time coming
After working all year down at Big Roy's Heating And Plumbing
So one night when my family the I were gathered 'round the dinner table
I said, "Kids, if you could go anywhere in this great big world, now
Where'd you like to go ta"
They said, "Dad, we wanna see the biggest ball of twine in Minnesota"
They picked the biggest ball of twine in Minnesota

So the very next day we loaded up the car
With potato skins and pickled wieners,
Crossword puzzles, Spider-Man comics, and mama's home made rhubarb pie
Pulled out of the driveway and the neighbors, they all waved good-bye
And so began our three day journey

We picked up a guy holding a sign that said "twine ball or bust"
He smelled real bad and he said his name was Bernie
I put in a Slim Whitman tape, my wife put on a brand new hair net
Kids were in the back seat jumping up and down,
yelling "Are we there yet?"
And all of us were joined together in one common thought
As we rolled down the long and winding interstate in our '53 DeSoto
We're gonna see the biggest ball of twine in Minnesota
We're headin' for the biggest ball of twine in Minnesota

Oh, we couldn't wait to get there
So we drove straight through for three whole days and nights
Of course, we stopped for more pickled wieners now and then
The scenery was just so pretty, boy I wish the kids could've seen it
But you can't see out of the side of the car
Because the windows are completely covered
With the decals of all the place where we've already been

There's Elvis-O-Rama, the Tupperware Museum,
The Boll Weevil Monument, and Cranberry World,
The Shuffleboard Hall Of Fame, Poodle Dog Rock,
And The Mecca of Albino Squirrels
We've been to ghost towns, theme parks, wax museums,
And a place where you can drive through the middle of a tree
We've seen alligator farms and tarantula ranches,
But there's still one thing we gotta see

Well, we crossed the state line about 6:39
And we saw a sign that said "Twine Ball exit - 50 miles"
Oh, the kids were so happy the started singing
"99 Bottles Of Beer On The Wall" for the 27th time that day
So, we pulled off the road at the last chance gas station
Got a few more pickled wieners and a diet chocolate soda
On our way to see the biggest ball of twine in Minnesota
We're gonna see the biggest ball of twine in Minnesota

Finally, at 7:37 early Wednesday evening as the sun was setting
in the Minnesota sky
Out in the distance, on the horizon, it appeared to me like a vision
before my unbelieving eye
I parked the car and walked with awe-filled reverence towards that
glorious huge majestic sphere
I was just so overwhelmed by its sheer immensity,
I had to pop myself a beer
Yes, on these hallowed grounds, open ten to eight on weekdays,
in a little shrine under a make-shift pagoda,
There sits the biggest ball of twine in Minnesota
I tell you, it's the biggest ball of twine in Minnesota

Oh, what on earth would make a man decide to do that kind of thing?
Oh, windin' up twenty-one thousand, one hundred forty pounds of string
What was he trying to prove, who was he trying to impress
Why did he build it, how did he do, it was anybody's guess
Where did he get the twine, what was goin' through his mind
Did it just seem like a good idea at the time

Well, we walked up beside it and I warned the kids
"Now, you better not touch it, those ropes are there for a reason"
I said, "Maybe if you're good, I'll tie it to the back of our car
and we can take it home", but I was only teasin'
Then we went to the gift shop and stood in line
Bought a souvenir miniature ball of twine, some window decals,
and anything else they'd sell us
And we bought a couple post cards, "Greetings from the twine ball,
wish you were here"
Won't the folks back home be jealous

I gave our camera to Bernie and we stood by the ball and we all gathered
'round and said, "Cheese"
The Bernie ran away with my brand new Insti-Matic,
but at least we got our memories
Then we all just stared at the ball for a while and my eyes got moist,
but I said with a smile, "Kids, this here's what America's all about"
Then I started feelin' kinda gooey inside and I fell on my knees
and I cried and cried
And that's when those security guards threw us out
You know, I bet if we unraveled that sucker,
It'd roll all the way down to Fargo, North Dakota
'Cause it's the biggest ball of twine in Minnesota
I'm talkin' 'bout the biggest ball of twine in Minnesota

Well, we stayed that night at the Twine Ball Inn
In the morning we were on our way home again
But we really didn't want to leave, that was perfectly clear
I said, "Folks, I can tell you're all sad to go"
Then I winked my eye and I said, "You know, I got a funny kind of feelin'
we'll be comin' back again next year"
'Cause I've been all around this great big world
And I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather go to
Than the biggest ball of twine in Minnesota
I said the biggest ball of twine in Minnesota
Minnesota
Minnesota
Minnesota

Dylan Rocks!

Even when we want him to crooooon.

From BC to BU

We were back and a lot of others were back—back to pick up our new alumni window stickers, to see newly constructed buildings, and to see plans and models of yet more new buildings. It was homecoming and our alma mater’s once embarrassing football now is a force to be reckoned with amongst division three schools in Minnesota. It was raining yesterday, so we didn’t take the short walk over to the grid iron and watch the humiliation of neighboring Hamline University. Instead we went out to eat, came home to work, and fell asleep until dinner time when we headed back to visit with old (and even looking old) friends and acquaintances.

I should mention that we started the day in the classroom. Bethel University, situated on the same picturesque campus that Bethel College occupied during our last visit, tempted us back early in the morning with a collection of "classes without quizzes." The Warden and I sat in on two classes. The first one was lead by a panel of two professors and two current students discussing globalization and the current best selling book: Thomas Friedman’s The World Is Flat. This was a fascinating discussion that is probably second nature to our kids. As one student spoke about her many travels abroad and her boyfriend in England, whom she visits at least a couple times a year, I was reminded of our son’s recent trek to Eastern Europe and the relationship he has there. The world is a lot smaller than only a generation ago, and the lines of demarcation (economically, socially, etc.) are drawn a lot differently too. Those in this country with a college education will probably be a lot more similar to a university student in the third world than either student would be like a fellow native who lacks a high school diploma.

I could go on talking more about the book and the class discussion, but what struck me most (now writing a day later) is a rather odd happening. My wife and I were sitting near the middle of the classroom and as I scanned the room looking for familiar faces I found one near the rear door. It was a fellow student (I believe one year my senior) who was on my debate team. In fact, she was one of the leaders and a coach for us rookies. I remembered her quick mind and vast knowledge of every subject matter. But as I kept glancing at her, I couldn’t recall her name. I finally gave up and we left for a second classroom. This lecture looked at Dan Brown’s book The Da Vinci Code.

Near the end of the lecture, the professor opened up the discussion to questions and I heard a voice from the very back row. It was hers. And as soon as she spoke, her name popped into my head. It was Jo Beld, great encourager of those of us with lesser minds. Always well-spoken and thought provoking, I remember hearing that she headed east to Yale after Bethel. (She was always winning awards and I think she won a Fulbright Scholarship [I didn’t know what that was at the time]).

But I was amazed at how our senses come through for us in different ways and at different times. I could have stared for hours and never come up with her name, yet a few short words (without even seeing her) and there was her name in my head. And I don’t even pride myself on being an auditory learner.

It was good to be back. It was familiar, but yet different. The new classrooms had stadium style seating with real comfy chairs (almost like a movie theater) and slick audio visual gadgets and huge screens hooked up to the internet. And during the middle of the lecture we even got to hear the ubiquitous ring of someone’s cell phone, a sound we never would have dreamed of in the late 1970s. Maybe it was someone calling from Uganda. The world is flattening.

keeping people out of the parking lot of the church in our back yard 

Good-bye Summer (a late season pruning)

It was an odd day as we sweated into the 90s for one final time. Of course what better way to spend a hot, humid day than lug dozens of sheets of drywall from the lumber yard to my truck to the house?

Earlier in the day as we tried to finish up a job (with the painter rolling on paint just inches behind us), the four of us were complaining about remodeling jobs and the endless repairs and cleanup. We joked that our lives were starting to sound like country music songs. This prompted the painter to turn on a (maybe the only) country music station. About three songs into its playlist we were all struck by the very type of song that we all claimed to despise. I don’t know the name of the song, but its lyrics went something like this: I hate my job, I hate my life, if it we’re for my two kids, I’d hate my ex-wife. What a classic! This brought tears of joy to all of our eyes. Maybe life isn’t so bad—ah the power of country music.

After rush, rush, rushing all day long, I got home just in time to sit down in front of the tube and watch the upcoming storm reports. When it got pitch black and the winds started blowing and the TV started beeping we decided to hit the basement. We later found out that the winds at a local (three miles away) airport were reported at 68 MPH. No wonder it was hard to open the front door for our daughter as she and her friend rain for our house. (I can’t imagine what 100 + MPH winds must feel like.) We haven’t noticed any damage to our house or vehicles, but our trees got a good pruning. There are a fair share of two plus inch branches laying around the yard.

As we looked out the windows after surfacing from the basement, we noticed that most of our neighbors were without power. Our small island of three houses was the fortunate one. A fire truck showed up at the end of the block. Since the rain was letting up I ventured out to check things out. It was parked near a power pole that had a wire dangling through a tall tree. The firemen were standing near the base of the tree and across the street just watching. I don’t know if they were waiting for the power company to show up or just waiting for the wire to burn up. It appeared as a line of fire with ashes raining down below. Cars would drive down the street, move to the middle of the road to avoid the fire truck, and then veer right again, only to have ashes bounce off their tops and trunks. If the ashes were falling in front of the vehicles, so they could be seen, most would slam on their breaks. It was very odd.

Now I’m back inside and a second wave (or maybe third) is coming through. Upstairs the thunder is a lot louder. I haven’t listened to many of the news reports yet, but preliminary reports mentioned a few tornadoes, a lot of strong straight line winds, some good size hail, and some serious damage to a few homes and businesses.

Welcome autumn.

Short Blogs

Short blogs are easier to read, and to paraphrase a line from Steve Turner, you know right away whether you like them or not.

Small blessings

Thankfully I don’t have to meet a quota with my blog each day.

Raven found this buried in my closet recently. I rescued it from his jaws. 

Up in the Air Junior Birdsman

I cut down some dead branches at my parents’ house on Saturday. They were hanging over our RV trailer. My dad became concerned about a week ago as he watched the winds bend the branches awfully close, so he strongly suggested that I do something soon. Armed with an extendable 24’ pole that has a saw pointing one way and a branch cutter pointing the other, I spent about an hour sawing and snipping, taking all that were within my reach as I tip-toed on top of our camper.

While working on this project, my cousin, who has been working with me for weeks now, was inside working on an old Toyota truck, trying to get the alternator working. (How’s that for a “working” sentence?) After making it safely back to ground level, I was looking up at some of the other old trees in my parents’ back yard. Lodged between two old oaks was some wire edging that must have been a part of my long-gone tree house. It was built back in the 60s by my mom’s dad, the grandpa that my cousin and I share. He was a high energy, driven, skillful mechanic and handyman, who could figure out anything, out-cuss a sailor, and “put ‘em down” faster than most. One of his hobbies was building forts, and I think most of the grandkids got a personalized tree house or fort. It was a fairly simple design, but we spent many hours up there with the birds and squirrels, throwing things down on younger siblings and unsuspecting neighbors. OSHA would have never approved it, but we all outlived the tree house, which my dad finally dismantled after we kids moved out. All that’s left is that wire, which the tree must have enveloped as it grew, making it too tough to take down. But it makes for a nice reminder of simpler, but not necessarily safer times.

the last remains

Saturday’s post actually written and posted on Sunday

I was up early this morning (Saturday) reading the Star Tribune newspaper. It is a clear baby-blue sky day and the sun is starting to rise. I glance at the comics page and break out laughing. I ask myself if my condition (or my relation to a certain fad) puts me 20 years behind the times. I decide that this cartoon will be my re-entry into blogdom. But I wait to post. I go on reading. I find a compelling essay on the op-ed page by Sven (located just below Erik’s piece—it is the Minneapolis paper after all). I tell myself that I will also comment on Sven’s remarks. But then reality hits. I start to think about my day and number the things that need to be done. This will have to wait.

Later in the day I am interrogated by the Warden. She wants to know if I’ve read her blog. I answer in the negative, so she proceeds to tell me about it. She has posted a cartoon. I stand startled. Did she see the cartoon that I had seen? And was she so impressed that she had to post it? Probably not, since the comic below is not that great. But then I began to wonder if I actually posted it, and forgot about it, and she was responding in kind. No, I guess I’m not that forgetful yet.

But enough mindless chatter, below sits a cartoon that brought me joy and might bring me motivation to get with the latest fad. I hope others will also get a chuckle out of it.

from Saturday's Star Tribune

I guess it’s Fair

Ah, the great Minnesota Get Together, there’s nothing like it—to make one feel thin. I guess I’ve realized this for many years now. I knew that an annual trip there was as good as a couple trips to a psychologist or a few dozen self help tapes. I always leave that place feeling pretty svelte.

But this year I noticed a few more things, a few more observations that added to my self esteem. Of course comfort is always my number one goal as I head to a place like the state fair. So a pair of over worn, under washed, slightly stained, loosely fitting, quite faded denim cargo shorts was just the ticket. Matched with them was an outdated, all blue (a little lighter than the shorts), short-sleeved, cotton shirt with a small, almost unrecognizable CK logo (also in blue) on it. (I think it stands for Calvin Klein, whoever that is.) They didn’t really clash, but they sure didn’t complement each other either. On top of my bald head sat a Cubs baseball cap. On my feet were big brown hiking boots with long white socks sticking out the top reaching half way to my knees. A fashion statement I was not.

However, (and isn’t this how it usually goes) by comparison to the other attendees (the unwashed, and I mean that literally, masses) I should have been on the cover of GQ. My shirt actually covered my slightly exaggerated belly and it lacked any rips or tears or tacky declarations to the world. I guess Calvin Klein never thought to put a big arrow on his shirts with the words “I’m with stupid.”

And I suppose I would also score points for not sporting those near-necessary fair accessories like a basket of deep-fried cheese curds in one hand and a large diet Coke in the other. And I didn’t catch any mustard dripping from a corn dog or pronto pup on the front of my shirt. Nor did I have any cinnamon sugar surrounding my lips from forcing too many mini donuts into mouth at one time. (I actually practiced unusual restraint and limited myself to a few egg rolls and some iced tea today.)

So as I sit here and type with a renewed healthy self image, I’m once again grateful for the Minnesota State Fair. It helped me to accept my underdeveloped beer (less) belly and ever expanding (if not already completed) forehead. Relatively speaking, I'm one above average-looking dude.

And I thank the fair for improving my grasp on the world of commerce. It always shows me millions of things that I don’t need. This year we actually walked through an ice fishing house that has wheels, a steering wheel, and an engine. You drive the thing!!! If the fish aren’t biting on one end of the lake, you start up the hydraulics, raising the house and exposing the snowmobile-like tracks and away you drive to greener (make that whiter) pastures.

Ah the state fair, what a great place to over-eat, over-drink, and over-spend. And as we joined in with the rest of the “fair community” we could all feel good about things, because all the thousands of us still smell better and look better and act better than the numerous humungous swine that let their presence be known throughout most of the grounds. Boy have we evolved.

Perspective

I had to walk to work today, sort of. The house we were taping is in the middle of a block which has the street torn apart. It was unusable for all motorized traffic. We all had to make a half dozen trips between van and house with our arms fully loaded. We spent the first hour of the day doing what normally would take about five minutes. And on top of that the house still does not have power, so we listened to the whine of the generator for the fifth straight day. And not all the windows have arrived, and the electricians and insulators and plumbers have not completely finished, so we’re not able to finish various sections all around the house. We feel like we’re spinning our wheels or moving in slow motion.

But none of us was complaining today. A quick glance at today’s newspaper cured us of any feeling sorry for ourselves. We were all grateful to leave a dry home and drive on dry roads (although under construction) and work at a dry house. May those circumstances come quickly to our neighbors to the south.

pushed down

Would it be a shame to push Mark from his perch of prominence by blogging today?

Dilemma

I’ve never been cursed with that photogenic look. That’s why it’s fortunate that I’m usually on the back side of the camera.

My kids are not so lucky. They must take after their mother. Son number two is now faced with a large collection of great shots taken at Proex Studio in Minnetonka. They took 142 pictures, and we couldn’t find a bad one in the bunch. (Do I sound like a brand new parent, or what?) He needs to pick only one for his senior picture, the one that will make it in the yearbook. We can’t decide, so we thought we would enlist the help of some family and friends.

Would you care to vote? We’ve narrowed down the selection (which was hard enough), but can we get some of your feedback?

Thanks in advance.

gettin' down 

Pace Pax Peace 

guitar man 

dream boy 

on Walden Pond

David Cassidy 

standing tall

A Picture WOULD have been worth 2000 words

So often I sit here at the computer ready to blog without the foggiest notion of what I will write. However, today I knew by about 2:30 what I had to say. This story must be told. No one will appreciate it as much as my brother Jeff, but I hope all can benefit from this hopefully adequate narrative.

I should start by saying that in an ideal world I would not have had to write anything, a simple picture would do. The scene that my cousin and I saw will forever be etched in our beings, half way between our funny bone and our armpit.

I had my camera. I knew that I had to shoot this experience. But I had a strange feeling that I would not be able to take the picture.

My cousin and I were on a mission to find a larger computer monitor to sit upon my desk. My birthday was yesterday, and the Warden agreed this would be an appropriate gift for someone reaching MY age. (If my memory was better, I’d tell you what that age is.) She agreed that I needed a larger screen. So off we went to visit three office/electronics stores situated only blocks from each other. As we raced from store to store we squeezed my full-size pickup into tight parking spots close to the door. The middle store that we visited placed us next to destiny. Parked only inches from our passenger door (such that my cousin had to take advantage of his slender physique) was a rusty (make that extremely rusty) 1980s something Chevy Blazer with faded paint and balding tires (at least I can empathize with that part of the vehicle.) It would have made an ideal candidate for the TV show “Pimp My Ride.” As we walked past the front of that vehicle our jaws dropped as we noticed something that we hadn’t seen in years—A CLUB. You know the thing that was over advertised for years on those cheesy commercials. “Protect your vehicle from auto theft with the Club, accept no imitations.” I think I only saw ONE actually used on a vehicle, and that was on an expensive convertible (with its top down) parked on a city street downtown at night. But today we were in the middle of the tony suburb of Minnetonka, former home of basketball great Kevin Garnett. And it was in the middle of the day. The parking lot was well lit by the scorching sun, and besides almost no one was out shopping on such a lovely day. But there it was THE CLUB, small capital T, small capital M (trademark), on a vehicle whose value was probably less than that theft-deterrence device.

It is a shame. This picture is permanently etched in our minds and I only hope that all readers of this blog, but especially my brother, will be able to likewise store it for safe keeping.

I should have gone back to my truck immediately and taken the shot, but I didn’t. Instead, we went inside to look at the monitors, found none to my liking, and then quickly left the store. As we walked out the door we were relieved to see that the vintage SUV was still gracing the lot. I sprinted to my truck and reached into the back seat to grab my camera. But I got this sinking feeling, thinking to myself, “what if the owner shows up just as I take the picture?” I took the camera out of its case. And I started to move into position. Just then a middle-aged woman walked through the doors of the store. Could this be the owner, I thought. The lady moved our way and then stopped. Sure enough, she was waiting for us to squeeze back into my truck and pull out; giving her the room she needed to hop in her ride. With her standing there, I didn’t have the heart, or gall to take that very important picture.

In addition to having similar senses of humor and similar vibes as to what seems odd, we also came to the conclusion that we should not try to judge this individual and probe into why she would conduct herself in such an unusual fashion. We decided to let the issue drop and not make any more fun at her expense. Not knowing her situation or condition it would not be fair or right to laugh at her expense.

Besides, right after seeing her, these two long-haired blond dudes drove up behind us in a 1950s Chrysler convertible (top down of course). They were beach bums if ever we saw one. They looked like they had just stepped off of Malibu Beach and were looking for their surf boards. They shuffled toward the store like they were riding waves. We looked around waiting for throngs of bikini-clad co-eds to clamor toward these two. They left a pretty sweet car sitting in the lot unattended, and I think I still hear the gurgle of that car’s muscular engine. Go figure.

Dumpster Diving

We were eating a late lunch as we sat in my cube van and soaked up the sun’s rays. I noticed that the dumpster sitting next to us was finally empty. The last week or so it has been bursting at the seams: full of busted sheetrock, scraps of lumber and plywood, pieces of tin and insulation and wire and shingles and siding and everything else you can imagine. Nothing looked too attractive, so I wasn’t tempted to rummage through it these past few days. But I did notice something different on today’s “new” dumpster. The sticker--it had a different message. Usually it warns people not to dispose of tires or cardboard or hazardous wastes and the like. But the message I stared at today, a little in disbelief (and probably as a result of the company’s legal staff), seemed odd. The first part was understandable. It said something about not digging through the dumpster. But the second part warned against residing in the dumpster. I think they used the word “occupy.”

My first thought was, ok, if someone is desperate enough to seek refuge in a dumpster are they really going to be talked out of such an activity by a warning label. I know if I see a good 2 x 4 or nice oak board in a dumpster, a warning label doesn’t keep me from leaning over the edge and grabbing it.

After giving it a few more thoughts, I mentioned the warning label to my son and cousin as they munched away on their lunch. This reminded my cousin of a high school friend of his whom he ran into at Teen Challenge this past year. He hadn’t seen him in decades and didn’t recognize him (probably due to too much hard living), but while talking they realized who each other was and went on to some great catching up. My cousin’s high school friend ended up at Teen Challenge by way of a dumpster.

Dumpsters became favorite night time sanctuaries for this guy. They would keep him warm and safe from predators. And he was usually too intoxicated to care about the down-side of such a living arrangement. But one morning he had a rude awakening (literally). He felt his dwelling shake and move and noticed he was sliding and wasn’t able to stop. A truck had come to retrieve the dumpster in which he lay. He was about to be tossed into the abyss of the garbage truck, but awoke in time to holler out “stop.” His quick thinking that morning can be partially attributed to the fact that this was one of the few mornings that he was actually sober. But that experience became his last straw, the event that made him turn himself in to Teen Challenge. He was finally ready to change. He has now graduated from the program, and we pray his life is on track for the long run. My cousin has not seen him since his graduation, but hopes to look him up soon.

So the fact that lawyers are busy covering the tails of their clients (by way of warning labels) brought forth an interesting lunchtime tale.

Be Fruitful and Multiply

a few branches of a very large tree

Can you find me? 

STITLAC (A piggyback on Tuesday’s Blog)

I dropped off my cousin at a non-descript corner in north Minneapolis early Friday evening so he could catch a bus back to the work house. As he’s standing there a car pulls up to the curb. My cousin does a double take. It’s Pastor Rich, the head honcho, the big cheese, the main man at MN Teen Challenge. The Rev. was driving by and noticed a familiar face. He stopped at the corner to get an update on my cousin’s situation. He told the cuz that he was looking forward to seeing him back in the program soon.

Just in case my cousin ever drifts toward discouragement, it seems that the One ultimately in charge is making some pretty awesome preemptive strikes with big doses of encouragement.

Send in the Clouds

Have clouds become more beautiful, more spectacular lately? Or have my senses been heightened? I think I’m developing a fondness, an affection, maybe even a keenness (or should that be kiihnness? Sorry, inside joke) for clouds. Maybe it’s always been there, but I definitely sense it growing. So many things come together to make a great cloud show. Not being a scientist, I mention only the obvious ones: the atmosphere and its moisture content, the prevailing winds brought about by the various fronts and pressures, and the position of the sun. Everyday the sun rises and sets, and everyday the barometric pressure rises and falls, and everyday the amount of moisture in the air varies, but the way things get mixed up works together in infinitely different patterns. And often the results are fantastic.

not a bad show

Playing Catch Up (Ketchup?) (Pictures that are now getting old) (Are they still worth posting?)

On the last day of July we joined some good friends out on Lake Minnetonka (the “Great Lake”). We spent a couple hours relaxing and checking out the scenery from the vantage point of their boat. The houses seem to grow ever larger each time we visit. The cabins give way to castles and the mansions give way to mega-mansions. Well, I suppose the wealthy have to have hobbies too. Maybe it keeps them out of trouble.

The weather was perfect that day out on the lake. And I think we enjoyed it even more than any of the residences of those places. The Warden of Swansmith is provided for evidence.

an existing house on eastern side of Lake Minnetonka