The hike to the Devil’s Kettle falls didn’t kill me. Me saying, “This hike will be the death of me” was hyperbolic. I’m not a kid, climbing down thirteen stories of uneven steps littered with sand, rocks and roots to get to the place you cross the river was a tough challenge. Then climbing up seven or eight stories of uneven steps littered with sand, rocks and roots to get up the other side of the gorge to the observation area slightly above the falls level was, well, also a tough challenge.

The Devil’s Kettle is a unique waterfall on the Brule River in Judge C.R. Magney State Park. The river splits right before the falls and about half the water goes over the falls and the other half goes down a hole never to be seen again. Throw a stick into the kettle and it will not be seen again.

Seeing the Devil’s Kettle was worth the hike but to be honest, persevering through the challenge of the hike itself was just as worth the hike. Thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of people have successfully not died making the one mile long trek from the parking lot to the Devil’s Kettle falls. Those stairs are challenging but once we made it back from there, we felt we had accomplished something beyond our norm.

The sound and sight of water in a stream or river, dropping and churning, for me, personifies the majesty of nature’s power and glory. It’s beautiful, exciting and feels dangerous while somehow also being calming and, well, way cool. There is, for me, a sense of inner peace every time I am close to rushing water.

If I’m being honest, I get the same sense of inner peace looking down a river valley watching the river wind its way out of sight or even standing on the edge of a small pond. I love looking across a peaceful lake as well as watching the waves pound the shoreline of a lake on a windy day.

It has been my experience that virtually all Minnesota state parks have water features. We are in fact the land of well over ten thousand lakes and countless miles of shoreline. The source of the mighty Mississippi is easily waded across in Itasca State Park.

Walk east for a half mile from the visitor center in Fort Snelling State Park to stand at the exact point where the Mississippi and Minnesota Rivers converge. Be careful, the current there can be quite strong. I have fond memories of taking my granddaughters along this path several times. I caught my youngest granddaughter (about five years old at the time) just before she almost cartwheeled (intentionally) into the river.

In Crow Wing State Park just south of Brainerd, MN, the Mississippi River is not yet the majestic “old man river” it will become downstream, yet the views of the Mississippi River as you hike the path alongside it are breathtaking. Pictures along this stretch are the types of images you see in beer commercials and nature magazines.

There are several state parks with vistas of the Minnesota River valley. The Minnesota River can be fierce in the spring and also after a series of heavy rains but otherwise it seems to meander more gently than fiercely. That said, what I find intriguing as we hiked through the parks in this part of Minnesota is how huge the Minnesota River valley is. How you are driving along relatively flat agricultural land and as you approach the state parks you almost always drive down into a deep and wide valley.

What is cool to me is how many of the state parks in the Minnesota River valley have trails with lookout points from which you gain perspective just how wide and deep and awe inspiring the Minnesota River valley actually is. Note that in order to gain this perspective many of these trails lead up (and down of course) the valley edges which means sometimes the walk up seems to never end.

This spring we leased a new car. As part of the process of taking possession of the car we had the opportunity to get a Minnesota State Park license plate. It costs a bit more than the standard license plate but then you don’t need a park sticker in the window and the license plate looks cool. It looks cool but it also supports the parks and is a good enough excuse to go visit more parks.

We often combine our journeys to state parks with an overnight or two or three in towns around the state, eating in local restaurants and some shopping in local stores. I guess I feel if we want a prosperous Minnesota we need to support the local Minnesota merchants.

On our recent trip staying three nights in Grand Marais and one night in canal park in Duluth we visited several state parks along the Northshore of Lake Superior. Here are some of the parks we visited along the way.

Grand Portage State Park has the highest falls in the State and an easy hike. They also have middle falls which I have not seen as it requires a 4.5 mile hike to get to.
Cascade River State Park has cascades and a couple small but beautiful falls.
Temperance River State park – the river flows through deep ravines in the rocks and it’s cool to see.
George H. Crosby Manitou State Park has three falls although we did not have time to visit them.
Tettegouche State Park is a busy place. The Cascade falls is worth the walk to see.
Gooseberry Falls State Park is the busiest state park I’ve been to. The falls is just a couple hundred feet from the parking lot. It’s cool but lacks that back to nature feel.
Jay Cooke State Park has rapids that are awesome. It’s worth the drive just to see the rapids.

The closer you look the more you see.

I turned 69 on June 26, 2021. I am in my 70th year of life. Some people my age are getting old. Not all of us, of course. Certainly not me. Age is relative. When you’re ten, being told you’re getting old is patronizing but appreciated. When you’re my age being told your “old” is a mild insult.

How do I feel about being the age I am? Mixed. Happy I made it this far, not so happy I am this far along the journey. I don’t want to be younger. With age comes an outlook which is quite liberating. It’s not that I don’t care what others think. It’s more like what makes me happy is given more weight in my decisions than what others think about me.

The Life expectancy calculator I found online gives me about a fifty / fifty odds of reaching eighty-six. So my goal is to be among the fifty percent that survives past age eighty-six. Although I do not want to be kept in a vegetative state in order to reach eighty-six. I just want to be relatively active and happy for as long as possible.

I am not as sharp mentally as I once was and yet, probably sharper now than I will be. I am still physically active. Not as active as I used to be but probably more active than I will be in the future. I am still cognitively here. I read, understand and remember books. Although I often forget people’s names, which has been true most of my life.

I have hearing aids but even with them, my hearing is still not great. I’ve had both kidney cancer and prostate cancer. Both were caught early and both of which were dealt with. Both surgeries were done robotically. Each with several small incisions. My abdomen looks like I’ve been in a knife fight. The odds of either of my cancer’s returning are pretty small. However, I will be scanned and tested annually for the remainder of my life.

The thing about life is it continues until it doesn’t. Most people my age have known many people who are now dead. Friends, relatives, acquaintances, people you worked with, people you played a sport with, and the list goes on. Some died suddenly, others knew they were dying before they died. The deaths were all too soon, but often it was a blessing their suffering was ended.

There is some peace accepting life for what it is: a blessing which will not last forever. Time stops for nobody. Kids grow up unless they don’t. Yup, I knew a couple different kids who did not make it to adulthood. Adults mature into senior citizens, unless they don’t. Senior citizens remain senior citizens until the end.

It’s been my observation that there is a wide range of how senior citizens proceed with their lives. Some sort of “turn off”, or maybe a better phrase is “give in”. They don’t do much except sit around complaining about not doing much. There are others who are almost hyper-active because they believe if they slow down that will be the end.

Personally, I am up for moderate exercise. I still rollerblade but only on a very flat surface in good conditions. I go on walks in the neighborhood and on trails in state parks. I like to mow my lawn but have accepted there will come a day when I will hire a lawn service. I now take as much pride in having someone fix something for me as I used to take in doing the thing myself. The goal is to keep things in repair, how the goal is accomplished is no longer that relevant to me.

I also love taking an afternoon nap. I like to write, listen to podcasts and play a bit of solitaire on my devices. I like talking to folks. I also like some alone time to read and think about stuff.

The COVID pandemic sucked and I worried we lost a year. In hindsight, the year was not lost at all, it was just a different experience than normal. I actually gained a new respect for life and the importance of interacting with others. On balance, I wish the pandemic didn’t happen but I don’t regret having lived through it.

As my 69th birthday approached I became rather unsettled and glum. In my head I was trying to come to grips with being an age I used to think was “old”. One day passed on to the next and life moved along. Soon most of the time when I looked in the mirror, I saw a happy person looking back at me.

Being an age or not being an age, it turns out has no bearing on my happiness. There is no deep philosophy or life changing insights needed for me to be happy. I don’t need some new gadget or wild intriguing experience to make me happy. I just am happy to be me and I am the age I am. I’m just happy I made it this far.

I don’t miss being young. Looking back it is easy to see some of the missteps I made along the way. In fairness to myself, I also did some pretty clever things back in the day. Could of, should of, is a stupid game to play. Look how cool I was is just as stupid of a game. I try to live in the present.

Today’s kids live in a very different world than I grew up in. Most of my friends are around my age however, it’s a fact, the vast majority of people on earth are younger than I am. I just want to say to all those younger than me, thanks for tolerating me and in fact generally being so supportive. I truly do appreciate it.

The closer you look the more you see.

Linda says it all of the time: “It does not take much to be happy”. She’s, of course, correct. Happiness is not reserved for a special few. Even in difficult times we, each of us, can be happy.

Several weeks into the pandemic shutdown, our spirits were a bit low. My beloved Linda observed, bakeries were open during the pandemic even while most “non-essential” businesses were shut down. Next thing she says is, she’d heard the Swedish Crown Bakery in Anoka was good.

Predictably, being married to Linda it was predictable, the next morning we were headed to Swedish Crown Bakery for Swedish pastries. We ate them on a picnic table at a nearby park with bottled water we brought from home. From there we took the long way home, looking at sites I hadn’t seen for several decades when I used to work for Anoka County.

That little trip did wonders for our morale so we decided that we would visit other bakeries more or less every Saturday. Lists were made. Choices were made. We tried to go a different direction and or a different type of bakery every week. See the bottom of this post for a list of some of the bakeries we visited.

Weekly trips to bakeries and to parks gave us something to look forward to and gave us a story to tell. We used Target stores for our potty breaks. They were open, located everywhere and Apple maps made it easy to find them. Like I said, I’ve heard Linda say it hundreds of times, it does not take much to be happy.

Dictionaries define Happy as “enjoying or characterized by well-being and contentment”. Being happy is an internal feeling. Being happy is a choice. Not every minute of every day needs to be a happy moment. However, we can be generally happy most of the time.

Of course, unhappy stuff also happens. Several sources stated the trick to getting back to happiness is to acknowledge the feeling of unhappiness, letting yourself experience it for a moment. Then, shift your focus toward what made you feel this way and what it might take to recover.

It is way too easy to get down on oneself and or to blame others for being unhappy. Yup, crap happens. It is not fair. It is not fun. Even if it is your own damn fault, being unhappy makes nothing better. Your happiness is about you and your outlook not about your lot in life.

Give yourself permission to be happy. Most everyone, in their own opinion, should be the hero of their own story. Jerry Seinfeld famously said, “When men are growing up reading about Batman, Spiderman, and Superman… These are not fantasies, they are options.” In my humble opinion, being the hero of our own story is fundamental to happiness.

Even in the worst times in your life it is possible to still be happy. Terminally ill people smile, and appreciate others. Being poor can be tough but being poor does not mean one is necessarily unhappy. Being rich does not necessarily make one happy either. Happy is not a present received or a pat on the back. Happy is a choice you make no matter what life deals you, because it feels better than choosing not to be happy.

When I reflect back on our bakery runs during a pandemic what made us happy was not just the pastries. What I think made us happy was deciding the experience of getting pasties during a pandemic was a good reason to be happy.

Countless philosophers conclude the same thing, life is about the journey not the destination. Happiness is not tied to reaching the destination. Happiness is choosing to be content while you are living the journey that is our lives.

Here are some of the bakeries we visited.

Swedish Crown Bakery – Anoka
Hanisch Bakery – Red Wing
Ruby’s Roost Bakery & Coffee – Victoria
Brick Oven Bakery – Northfield
Rustica – Minneapolis (Uptown)
The Heights Bakery – Columbia Heights
Sarah Jane’s Bakery – Minneapolis (NE)
Swedish Crown Bakery – Anoka
Pine River Bakery – Pine River
Emily’s Bakery – Hastings
Sweet Kneads – Farmington
Bread & Chocolate- St. Paul
Lindstrom Bakery – Lindstrom
La Delicious Bread – Little Canada
La Boulangerie Marguerite- St Paul

You can’t beat the Heights or Hanisch bakeries for the variety of choices.
My vote for the highest quality, La Delicious Bread, wonderful.
For that “I’m a cool yuppy” who wants to be around other cool yuppies, Rustica in Mpls.
All of the bakeries were good. We found no clunkers.

My go to all of the time bakeries are La Boulangerie Marguerite – on Randolph in St Paul or La Delicious Bread – Little Canada

Pro tip: keep paper towels and wipes in the vehicle. Some benches need a touch up before you sit down. The bag the pastries came in makes a good plate. Fingers get sticky.

The closer you look the more you see.

While hiking in Flandrau State Park in New Ulm on June 22, 2021, Linda and I talked about how the pandemic no longer dominates our thoughts. Not like the pandemic  didn’t happen, more like the pandemic is in the rear view mirror and we’re moving forward.   As we walked, apparently I got pretty quiet.  For some reason, as I was thinking about life moving on after the pandemic, the story of Robert Johnson selling his soul to the devil came to mind. 

Almost exactly two years earlier, June 23, 2019, (yes I looked it up).  Linda and I were headed north, towards home, up the east side of the Mississippi River, eight days into our several thousand mile road trip along the Great River Road route.  We found ourselves in a Hampton Inn in Clarksdale, Mississippi, on Sunday night, hungry after a long day on the road.  Clarksdale, Mississippi is the home of the crossroads where Robert Johnson is said to have sold his soul to the devil.

There were only a couple cars in the parking lot of that Hampton Inn.  Off in the distance to the west you could see the storm we’d heard about on the radio coming toward us.  We checked in, and asked the clerk if there was any chance there was some place to eat with live blues music.  In case you didn’t know Clarksdale is considered literally the home of the blues. Most of the famous blues artists came from somewhere within a hundred miles of Clarksdale, Mississippi.  

Understand, first of all, Clarksdale has a population of about 15,000, less than half the population of Roseville, MN where I grew up.  Remember also it was a Sunday night. The hotel clerk said there were three restaurants in town which had live blues; however, two of them were closed on Sundays.

The place that was open was Levon’s. She was not sure they had music on Sundays.  We got directions and off we went.  It was just a couple miles away.  As we drove through town it was apparent the town had seen better days.  As we got closer to Levon’s, the houses, businesses and schools were sadly in rough disrepair.  We almost turned around as we approached the old weather worn building with a small sign saying “Levon’s”.  

There were a couple of old men sitting in old chairs in front.  The very small parking lot was as much dirt as it was broken pavement. We swallowed hard and went inside.

Off to the left was an elderly gentleman playing the hell out of a very nice looking acoustic guitar with a tip jar right in front of him.  I guess he was in his mid to late seventies. My gosh he played well.  We stood in the doorway for several minutes, before one of the staff held up a finger indicating he’d be right over as soon as he finished hearing the story he was being told. 

There were only a couple tables with people sitting at them.  We were seated and our drink order was taken. Then a single menu with only a couple items listed was given to us.  

We asked the guy who sat us down what he recommended.  He was about as laid back and casual as you could imagine.   I don’t remember the name of what he recommended but it looked like some sort of gumbo only with big shrimp in it. OMG it was delicious. By the time we got our food the place was filling up.  Near as I could tell everyone who came in was a regular, most of them greeted by name, handshakes and or embraces.

The guy playing the guitar had started to sing the blues.  He was very good.  Yes, of course, I put a twenty dollar bill in the tip jar. 

The next morning as we left town we drove past a large marker on the corner of Highway 49 and Highway 61 indicating this was the site of the famous Crossroads.

The legend is:  Robert Johnson was an embarrassingly bad guitar player.  At age 19 (1929) he left, some say was kicked out of Robinsonville, Mississippi and traveled 45 miles to Clarksdale, Mississippi to the Crossroads of Highway 61 and Highway 49.  Which is where he met the Devil at midnight and made a deal to sell his soul in exchange for being able to create the blues well enough to become famous.

Robert Johnson, in fact did leave Robinsonville in 1929 not knowing how to play the guitar and came back two years later a guitar virtuoso.  There are only forty-one songs known to be recorded in two sessions (29 different songs, some recorded twice) . Many of them are now blues classics. They were recorded in 1935 and 1936. He died a couple years later in 1938 at the age of 29. 

The rumor was, the devil kept his end of the bargain and then the devil took his due. The reality seems to be Robert Johnson from the time he was like 14 he could play the harmonica well and made his way singing and playing in bars and street corners. 

He went to Clarksdale where he lived with his cousin, who was a good guitar player.   It is thought his cousin taught Robert how to play and practiced with him often.  Robert had unusually long fingers so he could do things with the guitar that most people could not.

Pre-pandemic, life was moving along as life does. The pandemic hit and for the next fifteen months, for better or worse, life was different.  Vaccines were a game changer.  We now stay in hotels and eat in restaurants which made taking long hikes in multiple state parks practical.  

Selling one’s soul to the devil seems a tad extreme but I know for sure, taking time for a walk in a state park thinking about the past and the future is a nice way to spend some time.  

The closer you look the more one sees. 

Everyone of the dozen or so of us in the urology office waiting to be called in for a prostate biopsy, appeared to be men plus or minus 10 years of my age (68).  I commented to one of the staff about there being a lot of men here getting biopsies.  He indicated that since covid they do about half as many biopsies as pre-covid.  

The five year survival rate from prostate cancer caught before it spread beyond the prostate is about the same as those without prostate cancer. Once the cancer spreads beyond the prostate the survival rate drops dramatically to about 30% of the five year survival rate for those without prostate cancer. 

The short version

On March 25, 2021 my prostate was surgically removed.  The pathology report confirmed about 10% of the area of the prostate was malignant and the cancer was contained (not spread to the lymph nodes or otherwise).  As of this writing, my bladder control is improving.  I still am restricted on lifting, pulling or pushing and I get tired.  Afternoon naps are often the order of the day.

The longer version.

Back five – seven years ago, I was diagnosed with an enlarged prostate.  I had the classic urinary issues men with enlarged prostates have. Trouble completely emptying my bladder thus having to go frequently.  Trouble starting the stream. Once started I had a weak stream.  Trouble stopping the stream. 

My enlarged prostate didn’t stop me from leading an active lifestyle but it was becoming a problem.  For example, at the intermission of a play I would rush out to the bathroom because I felt I was about to wet my pants. Then when I got to the urinal I would stand there for much longer than it should have taken, trying to get the stream to start. Then repeat as soon as the play is over.  

My issues surrounding peeing became part of a mental plan for every outing.  Eventually I was given a prescription (tamsulosin).  The symptoms diminished for a year or so but the symptoms returned.  The dose was upped but the relief was only sort of better.

Then as part of my annual physical in the fall of 2019 my PSA (prostate-specific antigen) levels were still within the normal range but they had increased from low in the range to high within the range.  Which got me sent to a urologist which after some other scans and tests led to the discovery of my kidney cancer.  

On December 5, 2019, I had my right kidney and the associated malignant tumor removed.   I recovered. Follow up check ups happened at six months, one year and are scheduled annually after that.   A checkup means:  a CT scan of the area my kidney was and an x-ray of my lungs and then an appointment with a urologist to discuss.  

The urologist who did my surgery moved out of state, the urologist for my six month checkup retired shortly after.  I don’t think either one was related to me but who knows.  At any rate, the next urologist up, one year check up (December 2020) happened to be the urologist who assisted on my kidney surgery.  He reviewed the scan and x-ray saying they looked fine.  Which, as a practical matter, meant annual as opposed to semi-annual checkups into the future.  

However, he was also concerned the previous doctor at my sixth-month check-in had not checked my PSA levels.  After all, checking my PSA levels was why I was sent to the Urologist in the first place.  So, blood was drawn and two days later he called me saying my PSA levels were now above the normal range and recommended we do an MRI and biopsy of my prostate.      

The MRI was done mid-January 2021.  Apparently the MRI provides the road map for doing the biopsy.   The biopsy was done in early February 2021.  The worst part of the biopsy is the prep.  Let’s just say my bowels were cleared out and the antibiotic regimen messes with one’s digestive tract.  

About a week or so after the biopsy the urologist called me to let me know there was a relatively small, but medically significant, malignant area on my prostate.  A couple weeks later I am in his office reviewing my options.  The cancer was a slow growing type.  One option was to kick the can down the road, get a biopsy annually and remove the prostate at some point in the future.  The other option was to remove the prostate now.  Doing nothing was not a real option, the cancer would continue to grow, would spread and likely be the cause of my death. 

The thought of doing that prep every twelve months was not appealing but I was on the fence.  Then I asked the key question: Would the surgery relieve the symptoms of my enlarged prostate.  He chuckled. Yep surgery would in fact relieve the effects of my enlarged prostate because it would remove the prostate.  At that point it was an easy decision.  

I am three weeks out from the surgery at this writing.  The surgery was not bad. Overnight in the hospital and I had to wear a catheter for a week post surgery. Little to no pain from the moment I woke up from the surgery to date.  No lifting over 10 pounds for a month.  Linda is patient and kind beyond words. The enlarged prostate urination issues are gone.  

I am not yet completely in control of my bladder but it is getting much better. I am told it typically takes six to eight weeks post surgery to gain full control.  The technology of my “incontinence underwear” is amazing. It never feels wet against my skin, it just gets heavy. 

So that is that.  

What follows are some car-related memories from my distant past.  Once in awhile remembering the past is fun, however, for the record, generally, I prefer living in the present. 

High school was over fifty years ago.  I honestly no longer know if the stories I tell are totally accurate.  I’m going with mostly accurate.  I am not mechanically inclined and not really a car guy.  I like using cars to do stuff, not so much doing stuff on cars. 

Starting about a month or so before I got my license and about a half dozen times, my older brother gave me the keys to his turbocharged Corvair Corsa Turbo 6 to practice driving.  He would say here are the keys, try not to crash.  I then drove off alone. 

It was probably the fourth time I drove his car.  I had the hang of it.  I knew how to shift and the like.  It is just about sunset.  I am turning left from County Road B heading north on the entrance to I35W toward I694.  This section of the interstate was, at the time, brand new with very little traffic.  

I accelerated, my foot to the floor, shifting through the gears. At about 100 mph the front end started to float.  I was not at redline on the tach so I tried to keep going faster. To this day, I think I took my foot off the gas just a split second before I lost control.  I did not crash but it was close. That is as fast as I’ve ever driven. I was too dumb to be scared, but smart enough to avoid wrecking my brother’s car. 

The following summer I got a summer job at a fiberglass repair shop.  I think it was located a couple of blocks from the Minneapolis Auditorium.  They fixed fiberglass boats and did bodywork on Chevrolet Corvettes (their bodies were fiberglass).  They rented some very dumpy storage space down on Nicollet Island.  Part of my job was to shuffle cars from the storage space to the main shop.  That summer I probably drove a dozen or so Corvettes down Hennepin Ave between the storage space and the shop.

One of the cars I shuffled was a custom 1966 Corvette painted British racing green with a dark racing stripe down the center pulling a hydroplane race boat on a custom trailer both painted to match the Vette.  Everyone I passed along the way stopped and stared at a seventeen-year-old kid driving the Vette with a boat down Hennepin Ave.

Donnybrook Raceway started in 1968, (yes I looked it up).  The following year, I drove my 1959 Pontiac Catalina in the middle of the week to watch a Sports Car Club of America event.  Basically, amateur drivers put a rollbar in their stock sports car, put on a helmet, and raced each other.   We were allowed to park and stay in the infield campground (bare field with a couple of porta-potties).  I slept in the car.  The next day my car would not start.  I even talked one of the race mechanics into taking a look and he could not get it started either. 

So that afternoon I hitchhiked home.  There were two entrances to the track one for the general public and the other for the racers and track staff. The non-public entrance was closer to the infield so I walked out of that entrance and stuck out my thumb.  

A green Ford Mustang pulled out of the track, pulled over, and picked me up.  The car had a rollbar. The driver was wearing a helmet and racing gloves. He asked me where I was headed and drove me to the corner of County Road B and Highway 280, three blocks from  my house.  For the duration of the trip, he did not say more than a couple of words.  Which was good because he was driving very fast.  We passed cars like they were standing still.  The tires squealed slightly as we rounded corners.  He was in full race mode. Scaring the crap out of me was probably just a bonus.  

During my Junior year of college, I was mentally not in a good place.  I told my mom I planned to drop out of school spring quarter and hitchhike my way to the east coast.  I didn’t drop out mostly because I was too depressed to change course.  However, when my brother heard about my funk, he suggested I fly out to Norfolk Virginia, where he was stationed (Navy) then drive back home with him and his car.  He was to be deployed for six months in the Mediterranean and did not want to leave his car on the base for that long.  

His car was a custom 1967, maybe 1968, Pontiac GTO painted multiple shades of metal-flake green. Big cheater slicks so the car was raised in the back.  Traded the Corvair Corsa plus some cash for it as I recall.  

So I flew down and spent a week of my Christmas break in Norfolk, VA.  Two days before Christmas we headed home.  The first thing to know is I had long hair.  The next thing to remember is it was a custom painted street rod.  The third thing to remember is the 55 mph speed limit had just taken effect.  About a mile from his base a Virginia highway patrol started following us.  Hour after hour, as we drove from the eastern edge of Virginia to the western edge, a highway patrol car was right behind us.  Periodically one patrol car would take an exit but another patrol car would pick us up. 

When we got to the Virginia / West Virginia state line, there was a West Virginia state patrol waiting to escort us.  The same routine, periodically the patrol car would take an exit, and a new car would be there to follow us.  We stopped for gas and the patrol pulled in behind us.  He nodded his head and tipped his hat but never said anything.  

Once we got to Ohio we were no longer followed.  The speed limit might have been 55 but we wanted to get home sooner than later.  We treated speed limits as suggestions and drove as fast as the traffic would allow. 

No moral to these stories.  Maybe someday I’ll tell you some more. Learning how to break into cars is a good story.  Anyone one of a half dozen teenage road trips is a good story. For now time for lunch. 

 

The closer you look the more you see

www.scaleandperception.com

 

The corn dog from the Roseville VFW was good but an MN State Fair pronto pup would’ve been better.  I was sad the 2020 MN State Fair was canceled, however, I was not crushed.  It is a shame the vendors lost income, but in fact, it saved me a couple of hundred bucks.  I miss the “Great Minnesota Get Together”, however, canceling the fair made sense.

The reality of this pandemic is the virus is highly contagious, spreads mostly through the air between congregated people.  In America, over two-hundred thousand died, five times that number were hospitalized, millions got sick, millions were asymptomatic and yet the vast majority of us are yet to be infected. 

Not enough time has elapsed to know how long immunity continues post-infection. Vaccines are being developed although none are yet proven to be both effective and safe. 

Assuming a vaccine is developed, it will take many months maybe years to ramp up production and to twice vaccinate the over seven billion people on earth. Add the reality that many might refuse to be vaccinated and God alone knows how long we will be fighting COVID-19. 

Most people wish life would soon get back to pre-pandemic normal.  Being honest, I can’t remember any “normal” time in my entire life. In my life experience: more days than not, unexpected shit happens, we react, and then tomorrow comes.  Then, as often as not, during the next day, the unexpected shit once again happens.  

In reality, this new coronavirus is not the only threat we all face. Forces known and unknown are always threatening our lives and requiring us to adapt as best we can.  Cancer, auto accidents, diabetes, illness, overwork, lack of sleep, and oh so much more besides COVID-19 also threaten our well being. 

We wear seatbelts, we filter our water and we wear warm clothes on cold days. We wash our hands, we have sewer systems.  The list of ways we react to threats to help our chances of survival is long. 

Almost always as we react to a new threat, real or imagined, it is first awkward and controversial.  Then, over a period of time, our adaptation becomes second nature (normal). Some people will still not wear a seatbelt but most of us click it on without a second thought.

Right now, most people, including me, think social distancing and wearing a mask is required to reduce the threat of COVID-19.  We also wash our hands, get checkups by a doctor, periodically change our sheets and you get the idea.  Each day we do our best to assure we see tomorrow. Sure we can take some risks, but most of us know tempting fate is not a good long-term strategy. 

A meteorologist responding to a question about bad weather said; the weather is what it is.  Judging the weather to be good or bad is more about your circumstance than about whether the weather is good or bad. Snow makes driving difficult but snow makes cross-country skiers smile.  

People are social beings. The negative consequence of social distancing is real. It goes against our nature. Yet congregating in close quarters such as in concerts, churches, sports, weddings, funerals, and the like are not a good idea during a pandemic. You might not get sick or die but you might well spread the virus to someone who will.  

One thing I know for sure, life will never return to a pre-pandemic normal.  Life always evolves.   Normal always evolves. Who knows what concerts, weddings, sports, and the like will evolve to.  I am actually looking forward to seeing how it all works out.   

Weddings are a good example.  Over the past several decades I attended dozens of weddings.   Each wedding was different. Some big, some very small.  In back yards, in big cities, on farms, in small towns, in big buildings, in churches, in small banquet halls and, you get the idea.  

I saw a bride ride into a wedding riding side-saddle on a white stallion, while a gospel choir sang under an ancient oak tree.  At another wedding, Linda and I were the witnesses and only guests.  Each wedding is unique.  There is no normal wedding. The thing is, in the end,  the status of the couple was: married.  Whether the wedding was lavish or in a judge’s office during a coffee break, once it is done, the couple is legally married.  

Weddings during the COVID-19 pandemic can happen. The wedding might be different than the couple originally thought but no wedding is ever normal and virtually all of them are memorable in their own way. 

I miss concerts but at a recent distance get together, one of our friends played the guitar. You can’t beat live music. Our little mini-concert was every bit as wonderful as I could imagine.  

Where is this normal to which so many of us refer?  Working or learning from home was not the norm, yet there are many who love working or learning from home.  On the other hand,  for some, working or learning from home is not ideal. Doing the best we can with the hand dealt is the best we can do.

Normal is changing like it always does: shit happens, we adjust and move on until some other shit happens. That’s life.  Like the weather, life is not bad or good, life is what it is.  Whether it is good or bad depends on how well you adapt to it.

 

The closer you look the more you see.

www.scaleandperception.com

I was the fourth of five.  By the time I was a teen, my parents had experienced the teen years of my three older siblings. My parents loved me, but it is a fact, they did not care whether I ate at home or not.

They didn’t announce they did not care.  Experience taught me the harsh and yet liberating reality of my situation.  I was a new seventh-grader, time got away from me at a friend’s house.  I headed home missing dinner by a couple of hours, not having called.  I  assumed “grounded” would soon be my status as I braced for my parents’ wrath.  I was pleasantly surprised; mom asked If I had a good night.  I responded, “yep”.  And so it started.   

I spent seventh grade (infrequently) and eighth-grade (frequently) exploring the limits of my parent’s indifference of me missing dinner.  Over the remainder of my teens, I never once found the limit.  I never felt unwelcome at home, The table was set for those of us home when the table was set. Come home in the middle of dinner, a setting was added.  Come home after dinner, and you were welcome to any leftovers. Don’t show up for dinner, that was fine also.

My decision of whether or not to be home for dinner revolved around the relative convenience of getting home for dinner.  We lived close to the west border of Roseville, MN.  Most of my friends, my schools, shopping, and restaurants were more centrally located. It was often just more convenient to eat out before going to a sporting event, concert, church event, friend’s house, or the like. 

Between my morning paper route and working part-time, the paying part of eating out was not an issue.  I felt comfortable eating alone. It was often just easier to grab dinner out. My parents were okay with it, so that is what I often did. 

I ate several places but mostly Har Mar Pizza. At first, the staff at Har Mar Pizza treated me just like any other customer,  sit, menu, order, beverage, food, eat, check, and go to the register to pay. 

I usually ordered a sausage, mushroom, and pepperoni pizza. Put the sausage on in small chunks so the flavor is more evenly distributed, please. My normal. But periodically I would change it up occasionally with a burger or spaghetti and meatballs.   

It was not long until, if the cook saw me walk in, he would just ask if I wanted the usual and the waitress either just brought me what I usually drank (Coke for a while then Dr. Pepper) or told me to get it myself. 

Not at first but at some point, generally, when I finished eating, I bussed my table.  If there were some dirty dishes on an empty table I was walking by, I would often just grab them and put them in the bus tray. No big deal. I was there frequently and they were nice to me so helping seemed fair.  

Gradually, not every time, when I brought the check to the cash register, rather than charge me, the waitress or cook would crumple up the check and just throw it away.  

It was never a formal thing but from around ninth grade on, I pretty much always ate for free. How much I helped had also evolved.  If they were really busy I would run a load or two of dishes through the dishwasher or grab some needed supplies from the back room.  They appreciated the help and I appreciated the free food.   

We had an unspoken understanding if I was there with my friends, my friends and I would pay because free did not apply to everyone.  They also understood, interacting with me when I was alone is different from interacting with me when I am with a group of friends.  If the group got loud, they told us all to keep it quiet.  I was never singled out because they knew me well.  I appreciated that.  

As I got old enough to drive, my time at Har Mar Pizza expanded. I would often eat at Har Mar Pizza before and or after whatever part-time job I had at the time.  Even on school nights after an event, I would drop my friends off at their home, then often go to Har Mar Pizza for soda.  The staff appreciated the help of putting chairs upside down on the tables so the floor could be cleaned. 

Maybe you noticed, besides not required to be home for dinner, there was not a curfew.  Coming home at ten or ten-thirty on a school night, was not an issue.  On the rare occasion when I would call telling mom I was going to be late, she asked if something was wrong, confused as to why I called just to tell them I would be late. 

My dinner/curfew freedom was just the way it was for me. It was my reality. I knew my friends did not enjoy the same freedom as I did.  At the time it did not make me cool or the object of pity. It was just the way it was.

Not until I had kids of my own, was the relationship between reasonable restrictions and nurturing clear to me.  I am still working through how my parents could both love me dearly and still not nurture me well in some obvious ways. Dad passed 50 years ago and mom passed 30 years ago so I can’t talk to them about it.  

I still eat sausage, mushroom, and pepperoni pizza. I am not so much for caffeinated beverages anymore.  My Har Mar Pizza days ended when they closed.  I started working for them as a college student when they reopened as Cicero’s Pizza.  

I was still working at Cicero’s until I got my first career-type job working for the State of Minnesota at the Unemployment Division in early 1975.  I am still a bit of a night owl.

 

The closer you look the more you see.

www.scaleandperception.com

 

Until the spring of my senior year of high school, blue jeans were banned.  I was warned by the school principal about wearing blue jeans at school during the first week of that year.  In a brave act of civil disobedience, about once a week, I defied the ban by wearing a shirt, tie, and a pair of blue jeans.  In early spring I led some of my fellow students to the football field, under the west end goal post, to protest to be allowed to wear jeans to school.  

Times were changing, whether we protested or not, jeans were probably going to be allowed the following year, but we were seniors.  Later that afternoon I was sent to the principal’s office.  To my surprise, the principal had talked to the chairman of the school board and agreed to not enforce the ban on blue jeans, pending the formal policy change by the full school board.  Protests sometimes work when the timing is right. 

Resolving an issue requires getting the powers that be to focus on the issue. Protests tend to encourage them to focus on the issue.  Once you’ve gotten their attention, sometimes the issue gets resolved.

The First Amendment to the United States of America Constitution grants Americans the right to assemble in support of a cause:

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.”

There were numerous anti-Vietnam war protests during my entire three years at the University of Minnesota, (1972 – 1974).   Sometimes they were more intense than others.  I was crossing the Northrup mall on the way to my Cognitive Psychology class. A tear gas canister exploded with a mild bang, spewing clouds of gas, about 20 feet from me.  My eyes burned and itched. It was hard to breathe.  The professor sent me to the campus clinic where they flushed my eyes.  From then on, I had less sympathy for the heavy-handed police tactics used during a non-violent protest.

About nine or ten years later, I was the Industrial Relations Manager at White Farm Equipment Company in Hopkins, MN.   As part of the bankruptcy proceedings, White Farm stopped the pension plans and turned them over to the Pension Benefit Guaranty Corporation.  The net result is the pensioners got about 85% of their pensions.  They were not happy. 

Retirees protested with signs and news crews in front of my office.  I felt bad for the pensioners but protesting does not retroactively increase farm equipment sales, thus preventing bankruptcy, which is basically what I said to the reporters with three microphones shoved in my face.  Protesting can only affect future change, not the reality of the past. 

Years later while working for Anoka County,  there was a credible bomb threat from an anti-government protest group.  My team spent two years electronically mapping the County.  The data was backed-up but not off-site. So, I took about 10-15  minutes to gather the backup disks to carry them off-site.   As I headed out the door of my office, two police officers very intensely questioned why I was still in the building and carrying two obviously heavy bags.  Terrorist acts, even threats of terrorism, are not protected by the Constitution.  When terrorism is threatened, being in the wrong place at the wrong time can be dangerous. 

Several years after that, as I headed into work on my first day at MN/DOT, four protesters chained themselves to the doors. It looked like a bigger deal on the news than it did in person.  I just walked through the set of doors next to the doors they were chained to. When I told my boss about the protesters, he told me to get used to it, lots of people protest about roads. I think the protesters saved a couple of trees.  Sometimes the publicity resulting from the protest can make a difference.

I ended my career working for about 12 years at the Minnesota Pollution Control Agency (MPCA).  Each and every one of those 12 years, there were several protests which made the evening news. The unofficial protocol was to walk behind the camera and be quiet if a person was being interviewed.  Officially, we employees followed the same process in making determinations whether or not there were protesters. However, I suspect the protests were often effective in educating the public and gaining support for particular issues.  

The Women’s Rights protests after Trump was elected were large and there were a large number of them.  Clearly these protests moved the needle.  Like many protests, at first, the exact desired outcome is both obvious and still not exactly clear.  Yet over time, additional clarity is often achieved. 

The racial justice protests ignited by the murder of George Floyd by the Minneapolis Police are the largest, most widespread, multi-generational, diverse, sustained I have seen in my lifetime.  We are probably still too close to the moment to know what the outcome will be, however, clearly the role of the police in our society will be rapidly evolving. The intentional or unintentional enforcement of racism by social, governmental, and business systems is now in the spotlight and universally condemned. 

The United States Constitution grants Americans the right to protest.  Protests focus attention on an issue. Changing our ways requires focussing on the new way forward.  Change is tough to achieve, yet, change can and does happen.   

 

The closer you look, the more you see.

www.scaleandperception.com