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

another single family residence

a new single family with a boat house in the foreground 

Is this proof or what?

What Was the Real Reason Mark went to Moldova?

Was it to give skateboard lessons or see how he would look with a purple purse?

Something There Is that Loves a Coincidence

The title of this blog is one that I’ve pondered for many moons. I’ve filled in the details, written the text, provided examples, argued for its veracity many times, but always in my head. It’s never made it to paper or electronically charged bits or bytes (unless you count the ones in my head.) Until today. This appears to be as good a day as any to finally let the thoughts swimming around in my head spill out and fill up a page in my blog.

As I’ve mentioned previously, I’ve had the privilege of working with my cousin these past many days. I've been employing him for a short time and it may continue for a while. He has spent this summer at the Anoka County work house, where they have a special program that allows residents to look for employment outside of the place.

About a year and a half ago he started a year-long program at MN Teen Challenge, a local drug and alcohol treatment program. Breaking some rules got him kicked out, and eventually landed him at the work house. But it looks very promising that he’ll be back at Teen Challenge this fall. He’s very much looking forward to that.

Last Friday we were picking up materials at Drywall Supply in Plymouth. It was the middle of the day and the place was dead, only about two other customers in the place. But lo and behold one of those customers was the head of maintenance at Teen Challenge. He spotted my cousin and they both shared how thrilled they were to see each other. The director was able to give my cousin some encouragement and update him on all the ongoing projects at the “new” building. It seemed like a divine appointment to keep my cousin looking forward to what lies ahead.

Now this morning we were ordering sheetrock at another building materials place in another city and who do we run into but the assistant head of maintenance at Teen Challenge, Willie. This was the guy my cousin was directly responsible to this past year, a towering man that provided much spiritual guidance during my cousin's initial stay at TC. Willie also gave my cousin a huge dose of encouragement to keep pressing on and then got both of us excited about what’s going on at the new place.

The Anoka County work house can be a depressing place, but Someone is making sure that my cousin keeps his eyes on the goal which lies ahead. In less than a few months he’ll be back in the program which has dramatically changed his life and given him a new lease on life. And when he gets there, I know there will be two fine devoted servants of Christ to welcome him back.

Fun Be Cuz

Today was the third day in a row that my cousin Terry joined me at work. He is in between jobs this week and managed to devote these five or six days to giving me a hand. He’s been a welcome hand to help me catch up at work. Although he’s never worked officially in the “field of mud,” his wide range of past hands-on activities made him a quick learner. After an early (but not too deep) quick slice of his thumb on Monday, he navigated the sharp knives and trowels pretty well.

But more than just helping lighten my work load (especially on these humid, oppressive, August days) he’s been a worthy and thoughtful discussion partner. We’ve reminisced and philosophized and encouraged one another. Our paths have not crossed as often as cousins' paths should, but we’ve done well playing catch up. He’s got a life full of stories and victories and it’s been great to hear them firsthand.

The Eighth Month

As a believer that most good things begin in August, today’s special day is a testimony to that conviction. Early on I knew that August was good. August is the month when I first got to experience fresh air, fresh milk, and a gentle touch. August is the month when the average daily high temperatures begin to fall. And August is the month we get to send the children back to school. It’s definitely a good month. But Augusts have not only been great since 1958. My life has been immensely enhanced by a union that began on this date even prior to ‘58. That union brought forth a treasure which has deeply enriched my life. My wife’s parents tied the knot back when Elvis was king and went on to devote their lives to raising four great kids. Their finest achievement, though, came second.

And while I’m most grateful for their gift of number two, I’m grateful for them too. They are by far the best in-laws I’ve even had. (With their heightened sense of humor, they even laugh at my bad jokes [does that assume that I have good jokes?]. And puns don’t even make them groan.) I admire their adventurous spirits, their vibrant faith, their thoughtful concern, their youthful attitudes, and mature insights. When I think that my better half might grow into what they have become, I get even more excited for our days ahead. (Besides, if it weren’t for my wife, I would not even be blogging.)

The common perception in comedy writing and on the small screen is that the farther away the in-laws the better. But in my case this is definitely not true. I wish the miles between us were fewer. For they have become more than just relatives to me. Thankfully the ever progressing advances of technology have softened the distances somewhat. And who knows, maybe in a few years, at the current pace of advances, they will be able to jump out of my computer screen.

Thank you for the fine example you’ve set. I’m hoping that your number two can also put up with me for 52 years.

where it began

Humbled

I read a comment on my blog yesterday. I was amused that someone would actually take the effort to comment on my quirky little photo of a piece of popcorn that I stole from my wife’s bowl. I said, “you can’t eat that one, it’s the Michelin man.” The more I stared at it though, the more I thought that it really did look like him. And although the temptation to eat him was very strong, I exercised enough willpower to set him on the table and shoot him first.

But then came the surprising part. Suzi approached me with much excitement this morning. “Did you see that Kudzu commented on your blog?” she asked. I laughed and discounted it. But she continued, “yeah, Shane Blake, Kudzu.” Then the light went on. The Shane who commented is the one and only Kudzu, master of the “two’fer tuesday.” The fact that a real photographer commented on my photo, a lame attempt at humor (and an out of focus shot at that), is a bit humbling. I will never be in his league, but I do check his blog regularly to glean some inspiration.

But as far as shooting popcorn, I probably have the advantage. Living in the South, Shane’s life may be filled with Kudzu; but up North (and especially in this household), what the Indians called “maize” flows freely.

Why Do I need another book, now that I've already listed my five favorites?

I think I mentioned in an earlier blog that Suzi, her sister, and I had the chance to hear from Brian McLaren at Cornerstone a number of times. He’s an engaging speaker and one that I tended to agree with a lot more than not. I glanced at his books which were on sale in the merchandise tents, but decided against buying any at the Fest (they were all full price.) Plus, the one that I really wanted was sold out by the time I went looking. That book is entitled, A Generous Orthodoxy, and has a super-long sub-title which you’ll have to go to Amazon.com to find.

This past week I was working in St. Paul (as well as St. Anthony Village, Minnetonka, Edina, St. Louis Park.) The job in St. Paul was only blocks from the world’s greatest bookstore (sorry Barnes & Noble.) This bookstore is in the basement of Luther Seminary. Not only is the selection extremely wide, but all books are at least 25 percent off retail! I’ve visited the place dozens (maybe hundreds) of times over the past 30 years, and I still love it. Well, two days ago as I was leaving the remodel job in St. Paul and sitting at a traffic light, waiting for it to turn green, the book and the bookstore came to mind. I’m sure they have it, I thought. So three right turns and a u-turn (mistake) later I pull in front of the building which houses the bookstore. Covered from head to toe in white mud, I run into the building a start my search. I find it in only 5 minutes without having to ask for help. It was in the “personal theology” section, the third area I searched.

So now I’m actually reading the book. And I’m struck by many things, but one thing stands out—his style (or lack thereof.) His writing is even more jerky and parenthetical than mine! As I read, I was struck at how his constant qualifying and lame attempts at self-deprecating humor sounded vaguely familiar. In the past I have read authors whom I knew personally, and in short time I would start hearing their actual voice as I turned the pages. With this Brian character, I start to hear myself. It’s not that I’m anywhere in his league of understanding or perception, but the style is familiar. He has a lot more to say, but I sometimes find myself laughing at how he says it.

I’ll conclude with one humorous example from chapter zero (the warning that one might want to return the book before one jumps into the actual first chapter.)

Even as an English major I’m a failure. My sentences are too long. As you’ve already seen. I overuse parentheses, which many readers find highly obnoxious (and having been told this, I still yield to almost every parenthetical temptation that presents itself). And the book is laced with overstatement, hyperbole, and generalizations. . . which, as the self-refuting saying goes, always must be wrong. At least I could have footnoted reputable scholars who make the same generalizations I do, to add some aura of credibility. All good English majors know how to do this. But I seldom do so, leaving you to wonder whether I am even aware of the scholarship, or whether I’m just too lazy or ornery to give sufficient documentation, or whatever.

Besides all this he doesn’t waste his hormones growing hair either. I think I’ll enjoy the book.

Practicing to be the "Bodyguard"

A Younger Mark and David

The Michelin Man

Is it a sign? Do we need new tires? Now I have to go eat this critter.

My Achilles’ Heel

It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. I hate it. Sure I know that without moisture in the air we in Minnesota wouldn’t enjoy as many wonderful lakes. But I hate it. And I know that our lawns would be a lot browner. But I still hate it. And I know that we’d have to buy a lot more skin cream (well, you can count me out there), but I still absolutely despise the heat when it’s linked with an oppressive humidity. As the dew point rises my good-natured-ness starts to disappear. I become a real tyrant. I get grumpy and irritable and cranky and mad and discouraged and grouchy and depressed and angry and annoyed and short-tempered and sweaty. I can’t wear my glasses as the sweat drips onto the lenses; and even if they didn’t, they would fog up anyways.

I suppose if I were sitting by a lake, the humidity wouldn’t bother me. But as the humidity becomes oppressive, my workload always mounts and I try to push myself. To no avail, though, I still get further and further behind. So I curse the saturated air and wonder why I travail through it, when it should rather properly be cut with a knife. Did I mention that I really, really, really hate the heat and humidity of July and August? Whine, whine, and more whine. I can’t help myself. I hate it.

Right now as I type this in an air-conditioned office, I have trouble engaging the passion that I felt earlier today. The words I write are tame and mellow compared with how I felt earlier today and yesterday and the day before yesterday and the day before that and so on. I’m sick and tired of having to work in this unbearable weather inside enclosed spaces with no A/C and no chance for much air movement at all.

But enough said. If I continue the rant, I’ll probably say what I really think. For now I should be grateful that I have an escape. I get to come home at the end of the day. And I have a home which has A/C. And the house comes with a wife that loves me and usually has supper ready for me. And I have a shower with hot and cold water. And if I use it after becoming really smelly during the day, the WTLM will even sleep next to me.

So in the grand scheme of things, I’m very blessed. I should count my blessings, show some gratitude, and quit whining. I could be off far from home, serving our country, or working for some impersonal corporation, having to endure airplanes and airports, etc.

So pardon my whine, but I hope it helps me this January as I munch on my cheese and crackers, and try to keep my self from frostbite. And maybe as I dream of blizzards (the real ones), I’ll protect my feet and keep my Achilles’ heel from becoming an Achilles’ hell.

Diet DQ

From the realms of Blobdom came some concern about my rapid consumption of medium French Silk Pie Blizzards. A concerned gentleman graciously provided the actual DQ site where my jaw fell open as I got the official nutrition facts about my weakness. I think it boasted a whopping 980 calories per medium FSPB.

So last night I ordered a diet one, i.e. a small. Let me tell you, it was hard. Not because I was necessarily that hungry, but because I value value. We all know, of course, the bigger the size, the more bang for the buck. Or in this case the more calories for the cash.

And now, in an even more surprising development, I really wimped out today. I ordered an Arctic Rush, which is basically a slushy, crushed ice with a little sugar water added. The 95 degree weather helped with my decision. But if I continue on this trend I might have to start looking for my belt again.

Two scary dudes at the Mpls./ St. Paul airport. They are now living in Moldova on $ 20 a day. 

Is Raven Catholic?

After a wonderful meal sitting on the outside porch at Thistle’s Restaurant in downtown Robbinsdale, we decided to go out for a walk. And because it was a special meal we decided to make it a special walk, so downtown Minneapolis we went. But first we stopped home to get the dog. (Is this starting to sound like a Swansmith blog?) Raven joined us as we walked across the Mississippi River twice, once on the Stone Arch Bridge and once on the 3rd Avenue Bridge. About half way across the second bridge we all spotted a tiny bunny rabbit. Of course Raven was a lot more interested in this sighting than we were. He immediately started pulling on the leash. I gave him some slack and actually ran a bit to see how the rabbit would respond. The bunny took off. But with no where to go (we were up about 100 feet over the river and had cement walls on both sides of the path), he could only run forward away from us. We had only deposited 50 cents in the parking meter and we probably only had 20 minutes left before it expired, so I thought this might be a good way to speed him up, full speed ahead, no sniffing.

After about three quick sprints, with a pause between each one, the bunny looked tired. Although it was cement everywhere and really no place to hide, he found a shadow thinking that might work. Of course it wouldn’t have, but I felt sorry for the rabbit and pulled Raven past him as he watched us pass. He was crouched down, huddled next to a post and trying to be still, although he seemed to be shaking a little. Raven continued to look back as I continued to pull on his leash, letting out a few short barks as if to say “I could have had you if I wanted to.” So I hope the poor, tiny, stressed out bunny on the 3rd Avenue Bridge can find his way off and onto some vegetation for a late supper.

Anyways, after our delightful walk we coaxed Raven back into the car and headed home. He sits in the far back and watches out the rear window. The A/C was on and Raven had his face right up to the glass. As we hit bumps his head would bounce up and down and side to side, leaving a perfectly formed cross on the window. The moisture from his nose left cute droplets on the glass in that very holy formation. The problem is that I couldn’t tell if he was bouncing from right to left or left to right. Is he Catholic or is he Greek Orthodox? Or is he merely a very spiritual dog? The Swansmith never addresses these important questions in her blog. It seemed that her blogs focus more on how and where Raven relieves himself. Oh well.

Probably 501 Consumed

I didn’t have anything to blog about this evening, so I ran to Dairy Queen and bought Suzi a Dilly Bar. (Oh yeah, I also bought myself a French Silk Pie Blizzard.) Now I have something to say. (Burp.) Do you think I’m addicted? At least I’m on a role. Or consistent. Or dependable. Or predictable. Well, I’ll officially consider it number 501. . . Is that the number for Levi’s stretch jeans? Maybe it’s a bad omen.

Reaching a Milestone?

It’s hard to believe that the Blizzard is only 20 years old. Yeah, that Blizzard, the one that Dairy Queen has a registered trademark on. It says so right on their cups. I have now consumed two Blizzards in two days which makes me wonder how many I’ve enjoyed these past twenty years. My favorites have changed over time. This past month I’ve been hooked on the French Silk Pie one, probably logging about 7 or 8 during the past 30 days. I did try the Key Lime Pie. It too was wonderful, but about 2/3 of the way through I had had enough. Of course, I still finished it, but I wasn’t craving it to the last drop. Some of my favorites throughout the years have been (1) the ever faithful Mud Pie Blizzard, especially when they add enough coffee, (2) the chocolate chip cookie dough, (3) the Strawberry Cheesequake, (4) and the Mocha Chip.

I was trying to figure out if I am nearing some important milestone in Blizzard consumption. McDonalds always keeps track of stuff like that, over 99 billion served, etc. My Blizzard buying, however, is not consistent which makes it so much harder to figure. Some months, believe it or not, I never darken the doors of DQ. But then some weeks, I’ll visit more days than not. So what would be a good figure? Actually, my figure would probably be a lot better if I stayed clear of the place. I suppose on average I visit about once every other week. That would make it about 25 times per year. Multiplied out, that works out to be about 500 times in 20 years. And seeing that I usually order a Blizzard, I’ll take that number and boldly claim that DQ has now served Tim 500 Blizzards. Wow, how’s that for a snow job.

Going back in time without adequate records, makes me think of a Jewish friend who attended our wedding. I think he was quite serious when he told me that it was a Jewish tradition (at least in his branch and family) to put a quarter in a jar in your bedroom each time you made love with your wife during the first year of marriage. Then as the second year begins, you can start taking the quarters out. Well, needless to say we never did adopt this Jewish tradition. (It’s always hard to find loose change when you need it.) But I always think of his suggestion when I drive by his house. And I lament my lack of good record keeping. But I know that our first year’s investment would not have adequately funded the following years.

It’s kind of like that with Blizzards. If only I could have set aside a quarter for each DQ treat, I could weather the Minnesota summers a little better. For when July chokes us with heat and humidity, the only appropriate antidote is a Blizzard.

Coooooooool

I miswrote. It’s not Google World, it’s Google Earth. And I downloaded it for free. And I’m taking a quick break from playing with it. It’s cool.

If Only

This morning I stopped at the office of one of the builders for whom I work. The architect was there with a blueprint for me to look over. He was sitting at his desk with his 25” plasma monitor and much-faster-than-mine computer. He decided to show me the location of the job and pulled up Google’s new map program. He had been using it lots the past week or so and was impressed and wanted to show me all the features. He also showed me Google World and Google Moon, equally cool sites.

When I got back to the truck where my son Mark was now taking a nap, I had to tell him about the program and the fact that we looked at Chisnau, Moldovia from satellite pictures. He’s leaving for there in less than a week. Maybe we could look for Inga’s home this evening, I told him.

When I arrived home I had to share with the Warden my wonderful discovery. I thought she would have been amazed, BUT. . . BUT . . . BUT . . . She reads Kiihnworld and IdeaJoy more regularly than I do. She knew all about these new programs because her blog reading is broader than mine.

I read Swansmith to stay out of trouble, but it’s often tough for me to venture onto other blogs. My reading addiction takes hold and I loose track of time. With Kiihnworld and IdeaJoy especially, I get hooked into linking and surfing farther than I should. They always provide such enticing links that I have to force myself to stick with blogs that don’t link, lest I travel into the hinterlands of cyberspace. When I go to their sites, I start taking some quiz on what kind of 1960s TV show I am, then I’m looking at comic book characters, then I’m reading Augustine, and I get lost and never update my checkbook or send out the invoices that I originally sat down to do.

But this time, IF ONLY I had been more attentive to the blogging community that stays on the cutting edge of what’s happening out there, I would not have allowed my wife to scoop me on this one. She knew what Google has been up to, because she had read it on Kiihnworld and IdeaJoy. Google is doing some great things in addition to search engines and blogspot. Check it out.

She’s Back (and she still loves me)

My son Mark and I tried to make the house feel as much like a bachelor pad as we could this past weekend. The dishwasher still contained dishes that my dear mother-in-law had loaded way back on Wednesday. The dog’s water dish was (close to) empty, even though the Warden had make specific mention that it must be refilled regularly in her instruction manual (not really, it was only a note) left on the dining room table. We made it feel comfortable.

Besides work and long naps and a few blogs and a Turner Classic Movie from 1953 entitled The Hitchhiker (I think I’m getting into this film noir thing) and two church services and two get-togethers with friends, I did absolutely nothing. My grand plans to put my life in order with all my free time sans spouse never materialized. Instead, I left the house as it was a half week ago, except for the few drops of water left in Raven’s dish.

But the funny thing is she was still happy to see me as she pulled into the driveway with my truck blocking her access to the garage. For you see the garage was a temporary storage space for phase one of cleaning out my truck. She had to stumble past tools and buckets before phase two happened this evening. But she was still happy to be home and still claims to love me. It must have been a rough time on the road.

Free Sauna

You’ve got to wonder what the deal is when the temperature drops while the heat index rises. Our dew point is now registering 80 degrees. Yikes! I dutifully took our dog out to pee. My glasses fogged up so bad that I couldn’t tell if he did his duty or not. Was it sweat running down my leg or was Raven too close? And as I tried to clear my spectacles, I thought I saw some alligators rustling in the distance. Then as I looked up I could swear that I saw a toucan in the newly grown banana tree. The rain forest may be disappearing in South America, but it’s establishing a foothold in the middle section of North America. If it gets any worse, I suspect we’ll start seeing Finns skinny-dipping in our area lakes.

A Gift of Grace

the old homestead

The last few days as we have been enduring the seemingly endless string of 90 plus days of summer, we’ve heard the meteorologists promise (or rather threaten) even warmer days ahead. This weekend, today and tomorrow, the mercury was supposed to approach the magic mark of 100 in the Twin Cities, with unbearable humidity to boot. Well, it hasn’t come yet. Instead, we got severe weather this morning, followed by lots of clouds, just enough to put a cap on the rising thermometer. I think 84 F. is all we got today (although it was accompanied by a 74 degree dew point, STICKY.) But with expectations of super-hot, only hot was nice. Especially since my son and I hauled sheetrock this afternoon for a job we’ll start on Monday. It felt like a gift of grace. (My more pessimistic [ i.e. realistic] side tells me that we will pay for this break with tomorrow’s weather.)

Two weeks ago as our string of nasty weather started, I was “blessed” with three attic jobs. The worst of the three was an attic that we started last winter. It would have been a great winter job except for the fact that back then the attic did not have working, in tact, windows at the time. The previously vacant attic had suffered years of neglect and the windows had been broken and some were completely missing. By the time we made it back for phase two the windows were finally replaced and operational in the first section. However, the section of the attic where we worked lacked any windows. And of course there was no A/C. The heat was able to find us hiding in the dark. The stagnant air was just enough to keep us thoroughly toasted and roasted and broiled and basted.

But it was still fun to be back at that attic. The house sits on the corner of 16th and Irving Avenue North, with a great view of the house in which I spent my early years. As I sweated away my morning breakfast, I would take short breaks, walking over to the finished part of the attic with new windows that overlooked my boyhood home and the sidewalk where I learned to ride a two wheel bike. Most of the lawns on the block had a sharp two to three foot rise from the sidewalk to the edge of the flat part of the lawn, making a fall into the grass not so treacherous. I never used training wheels, but those sloped lawns gave me a lot of confidence to try it alone.

As I gazed upon that old house, built in the 1921, my imagination went inside. I wondered what had changed. When we lived there, my immediate family was upstairs and my uncle and grandparents were downstairs. It was a duplex with a full kitchen upstairs as well as down. It now looks like a single family home. Shortly before we were back for phase two, the house went up for sale. And noticing a little box on the “for sale” sign, we grabbed a brochure. It described the house as a single family with four bedrooms and two full baths.

Inside I could imagine my grandmother squeezing orange juice from fresh oranges with one of those glass bowls that had a ribbed part rising up in the middle on which one could turn and twist the oranges. It took a lot more effort to get orange juice that way. But my grandmother never complained. She was always willing to squeeze and twist and turn until we got our fill. I hope that we enjoyed it more then than we do now when we grab our Dole pasteurized OJ out of the refridge.

And inside I could imagine my grandfather sitting in the front sun room with a cup of coffee, a box of sugar cubes, and a carton of cigarettes. Although he never taught us to smoke, he was always willing to share his cubes. The thought now repulses me, but I would eat one after another, sometimes dipping them in his cup of coffee. Maybe that’s where my obsession for Java began? He was the talkative sort, a genial salesman, who loved to read and had an amazing wit. He would sit and talk politics into the wee hours of the night with one of his cousins who was on the Minneapolis City Council, an alderman as they were known then. He was always such a booster of his grandkids, telling me that I would be president someday. (As I think about that now, it sounds more like a curse, but I know his intentions were right. Plus, how could I improve on what Bill and George have done these past many years?)

He always adored us kids and loved for us to visit. And even after my parents bought their own house in the suburbs, they would drive in to visit grandma and grandpa almost nightly. We were blessed to have them so much a part of our lives. I always saw them as great role models, even though my grandfather’s past was not always exemplary. Early on in their marriage they lost their first born child, a baby girl. It was an event that totally devasted them. And then during the difficult Depression years, the bottle became too much a part of his life. His life for most of the years that my dad and his brother were growing up was consumed by a passion for drinking that would have completely torn the family apart except for the strong Christian faith of my grandmother.

From early on I knew that was a part of his past, but it never made sense to me because I never saw any evidence of it. As far as I knew, he only drank coffee (with way too much sugar.) Although my father does not like to talk about it much, he did open up to me about a year ago concerning my grandfather’s abuse of alcohol. He told stories of how he and his brother had to go out and find their dad as he couldn’t find his own way home. But then he told me something that I still have trouble believing. One day he quit cold turkey. On the day I was born, he made a pledge to be a worthy grandparent and forever gave up the sauce. And he lived a dry life from then on. I’m glad that I never had to experience those earlier hellish days. But I’m sorry that they consumed so much of my own dad’s youth.

But even as my dad talks about those difficult days of his father drinking his life away, he still shares a picture of a man who had a deep moral compass and compassion for others. My dad has shared with me a few times an event that has become a core of who he is. During the darkest part of the Depression years, when jobs and money were so scarce, my grandfather was using a stall in the men’s room at the old Dayton’s Department store warehouse. It was Friday and payday. Back in the ‘20s everyone there was paid in cash in an envelope with their name on it. And you guessed it, he found a fellow employee’s stack of cash for a week’s worth of work. At the time he was dirt poor himself, using way too much of his money on booze, and behind on many bills at home. There would have been no way to trace the cash that was in his hands. But he did the right thing. He searched for that man and presented him with his entire week’s worth of pay. His deep sense of honesty to this day deeply moves my father, and it’s hard for my dad to completely tell that story. But that is how my dad lives his life today, having that righteous example deeply ingrained into his conscience, from a man who had very real and visible shortcomings.

Well, I’ve looked into enough rooms for now. Maybe I’ll go see if I can still ride a bike.

Stubborn Dog

Our 2 minute evening potty break outside took over 15 minutes due to the fact that we own the most stubborn GERMAN shepherd in the world. He definitely had a different route in mind, but I won. And I’m only half-German, halb-Deutsch, as I used to say.

FIVE--finally, finished with my favorites

found in the bargain bin and well worth it

As if anyone were paying attention, it sure isn’t at the forefront of my mind, I have not completed my list of five books. Well, the time has come. Maybe it has come too soon; for once I mention that special book number five, my time of reminiscing over the many great books of my past will come to an end. Actually, it probably won’t come to an end, but I won’t feel obligated to put it to paper or screen for my wife to see. And come to think of it, I really don’t feel all that obligated. How’s that for an intro? Dull enough to make any mention of any title seem fascinating by contrast.

First, I hope I don’t repeat a book title that I mentioned in numbers one through four. It’s been a while and my memory isn’t what it used to be. The finalists for this last spot are many (it should have been a top ten list.) I seriously considered a book by Cheryl Forbes entitled Religion of Power, written back in the 80s, but I haven’t been able to find it on my shelves of late and thus cannot glance through it to see if truly merits distinction as number five. I do remember being surprised by the number and caliber of endorsements on the jacket even though she stepped on more than her share of toes throughout the pages of the book.

And then the first book I received as a gift from my loving wife, written by Peter Kreeft and entitled Between Heaven and Hell, was in the running. It is a fascinating fictional conversation taking place between C. S. Lewis, John F. Kennedy, and Aldous Huxley as they first arrive in a purgatory type place immediately after death. They all died on the same day in 1963, November 23rd. It’s an engaging discussion that touches on three very different world-views.

And, of course, there were actually some books that I was forced to read in college that could be classified as favorites. But because I do not know the measure to which my free will was involved in the reading process, they will be left out of the list.

So now for the anti-climax after the big build up: Assumptions and Faith by Wayne Roberts. I found this book in a used book store for one dollar. The cover is not flashy. It is out of print. I doubt that many outside of his collegiate influence have heard of him, unless you count family. It is published by a house that I’ve never heard of. But it’s a great book.

For starters, it is short. At 97 pages, it wins my heart. James Joyce’s Ulysses and Tolstoy’s War and Peace may be great works, but don’t expect me to plug away at something for that long. Succinctness is a gift. (I know that you’re thinking right now that I sure don’t have that gift.) But this Roberts character is a math and science guy. He teaches at a college where I actually attended a short interim term back in the late 70s, sporting a lime green leisure suit. During a January “between semesters period,” I took a class studying the works of the late, southern U.S., Catholic novelist and short story writer Flannery O’Connor. (I suppose I could have named her collection of short stories as my number five book.) But anyways, the campus of the college is beautiful, their football team is lousy, but they had good heat. I believe the school was founded by Presbyterians with a Scottish heritage, but nowadays (as it was in the 70s) its ties to any religious body are not very evident. Out of this environment came a simple, yet profound book. It’s a book about faith, written in language understandable and approachable for those with any kind of background, from the framework of a scientist, that spoke to me deeply.

We so often set up a false dichotomy between science and religion, and pit “facts” against “values or beliefs.” His message in a nutshell is that science, and mathematics specifically, starts with unprovable assumptions to the same degree that religious faith does. The challenge is to find an assumption that appears true and build upon it, testing it, living it. It’s too easy to get stuck trying to find a perfect, complete explanation for all of life (e.g. a foundation that cannot be questioned) and in turn never live out a life of faith in God.

I think that’s what he was trying to say. But you’ll never know, because you’ll probably never be able to find the book, and probably have no desire in doing so. So there. But it was a book that definitely struck a chord with me back in 1991, and I should probably give it another look soon.

And now that I think about it, it reminds me of another book which I believe has a similar message. That one was written by Dan Taylor, an English professor that I sat under in college. The title of the book is The Myth of Certainty. This is yet another great book, and this is one that might still be in print.

Yes, it is in print. I just checked. IVP has republished it. They probably gave it a fancier cover and doubled the price. But it is still worth it.

I suppose that if I applied what I think I read many years ago within the pages of those two books by Roberts and Taylor, I would actually post this blog right now and not spend any more time trying to come to a perfect understanding of what they were attempting to say last millennium. So I will.

I’m Back

I went to empty the dishwasher, but it dawned on me that the Warden will not return for three more days! So I came back to blog again.

De Blog De Blog

The wife’s away the boy will . . . blog. The Warden is gone, so I have decided to leave dirty dishes in the sink, clothes in the dryer, piles of garbage in their respective cans and BLOG. I guess this is cheaper than a long distance phone call. She can read all about it. I’m home doing nothing productive, I’m blogging. It’s hot outside, the air is on, and I’m blogging. I’ve got nothing to say, nothing to contribute to society, but I’m blogging. I don’t know when to stop, my fingers just feel like dancing (on the keys), so I’m blogging. I’m not using any toner, or ink, or paper, ‘cause I’m blogging. I’m just filling up cyberspace, making some mainframe whirl and wiz with electronic positive and negative charges (or something like that) with my blogging. I’m helping to put my wife to sleep and she keeps reading and reading and reading my blogging. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Goodnight.

BULLETIN: WARNING—EXTREME CAUTION ADVISED

Bearded man with AARP card suspected to be traveling east through the back roads of Wisconsin with his female accomplice. They have been rumored to be making sudden and unannounced visits at all Dairy Queens along their traveled routes. Reports suggest that they have developed a severe addiction to the treats contained within those buildings with the red and white signs. Intelligence from sources in the Twin Cities area claim that they were seen frequent times at various DQ locations in the metro area. They were seen only consuming the basic items: chocolate dipped cones and dilly bars. However, the concern is that they may be turning to the harder stuff: Blizzards, Peanut Buster Parfaits, or even the Triple Fudge Brownie Earthquake!

They were seen in close approximation to an aging, bald (but good-looking) man and a long-haired bearded musician type, both downing Blizzards like they were water. These are the characters suspected to be responsible for the budding new addiction of the bearded man and his wife. Speculation is that the bearded man and his wife were kidnapped and forcibly brought to these DQ stands in the heat of the day. Once there, they were encouraged to mingle with all the other addicts sitting around the buildings, hurriedly consuming their delicacies before the drippings soiled their clothes. At first they offered slight protest, but in time they became willing participants.

Be on the look out for a late model Saturn with Tennessee plates. Experts expect this vehicle to be making sudden turns as it approaches all DQs. They also suggest that this vehicle may be exceeding the speed limit and passing other cars as it nears proximity of said locations. In summary, officials encourage all travelers to exercise extreme caution when driving near all Dairy Queens in west-central, northern, and south-central Wisconsin for at least the next week or so.