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.)