Greetings for her father 

Christina's New Look 

The Only Ones Missing were Sven and Ole

Credit Uncle Danny for this shot

Breakfast at Oodles 

I had breakfast yesterday with a different set of guys, but when push comes to shove they might not be that terribly different from the guys I met with last month at the Bean Scene. At Oodles Restaurant toward the back of Merwin Drug Store I gathered with my oldest son, my youngest brother, my dad, his only brother, and their cousin. The most obvious link between this crowd was familial, but if you looked at our attire you’d also see the common thread of white—painter’s paints. We’ve all succumbed at some time in our life to an addiction to mud. We’ve played in it, and made our living by it.

I often tell people that there is no known treatment program for this addiction. So if they want to help me spread drywall compound on a wall, they had better be prepared, and are duly warned. Of our Friday morning gathering, only my dad’s brother was able to escape this dusty life. With his keen aptitude for numbers, he began an accounting practice in north Minneapolis back in the 60s. His Nelson & Associates accounting firm gave opportunities for my mother and other brother to spend much of their day sitting at desks crunching numbers.

But the thing that struck me yesterday morning was a shared sense of humor. In thinking about the generations represented and the ones talked about, I noticed a common thread. My son thinks his life has been difficult, I sometimes think life is challenging, I know my dad’s generation (and his family in particular) faced many more trials, and we spoke of how it was even tougher for their seniors. But in looking back, they remembered the laughter. They remembered the jokes. Those old Scandinavians led fairly simple lives around the turn of that previous century. They were new to this land. They brought some useful trades, but more importantly they brought their love of laughter.

This item first came up in our discussion when I mentioned an article I had read in the previous day’s newspaper. For many years the Swedes of Minneapolis have boasted a Swedish Institute housed in a four-story mansion on Park Avenue, which at one time was the address to boast about. But now the Norwegians of the city want to have a monument to their achievements in this region. And they are considering the purchase of another old mansion on the near south side of downtown Minneapolis. The property they are considering was once renovated by the eccentric owner of Horst beauty schools and salons.

Although all those seated at the table have some Norwegian blood, we laughed about whether the Norwegians could pull it off. My dad was forced to recall his father’s favorite question: What’s dumber than a dumb Swede? The answer of course is, “A smart Norwegian.” It was all downhill from there and we should have started to look for Sven and Ole.

But I was amazed at the memory that stuck with the generation once my senior. Their parents and aunts and uncles loved to laugh, hahahaha. And it was probably loud and long and clear. May this condition continue to get worse for me as I try to balance work and work and family and work and work and faith. May a regular dose of guffaws help me to put things more in perspective. It is probably one of God’s greatest gifts, and I should picture it with a bright yellow Kodak-like label reading “open me first.”