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.