Once in a while, out to dinner at a “nice” place, I will order a Margarita. More precisely, far less than half of the time, when we go out to a nice place to have dinner, which is not that often, I’ll have an alcoholic drink. I just don’t drink much.

Probably, I average around a dozen or so adult beverages spread out over a year. Not evenly spaced, one month I might have a couple adult beverages, not in the same night of course, and then not have another for several months. On average, I just don’t drink much.

As a kid, I was allowed sips of what the adults around me were having. From then until this day, in my opinion, wine and beer taste bad. Yes’ I’ve tasted both beer and wine over the years since then and they are just as foul tasting as they were when I was a kid.

Linda would just love it if I liked wine. Admittedly, it would be lovely to share wine with her. Yet, to me, wine tastes bitter and beer tastes worse. Not liking the taste is not the only reason I don’t drink much.

On June 1, 1973 the legal drinking age in Minnesota was lowered from 21 to 18. I was, at the time, nineteen, working as a pizza cook at Cicero’s Pizza in Har Mar Mall. Several of my coworkers and myself were suddenly legal, we would go across the parking lot to the Ground Round for a drink after work.

I would order a whiskey and seven-up. After hours in front of a pizza oven I would be thirsty, pretty much I just drank that whiskey-seven down. There was conversation, fun, stories were told, I’d order another. Having a good time and I would order another. Repeat. They closed at 1:00 am.

One night, I decided to put the stir sticks from my drinks into my shirt pocket. The next morning I had like seven stir sticks in my pocket. I would have told you I had three drinks, not seven.

Maybe somebody put a couple extra stir sticks in my pocket, so I repeated this experiment several times. We only drank from 11:30 to 1:00 AM, an hour and a half. I was drinking something like one drink every fifteen – twenty minutes. Consistently I had a couple more stir sticks than I had intended to have drinks.

In my head, the lesson of the stir sticks was about me lacking the self control to limit my drinking. Two drinks in an hour and a half might be reasonable. Consistently drinking two or three times that and not realizing you had, is not something to be proud of.

By nineteen I’d seen some young men do bad stuff while drunk. As I’ve aged I’ve come to know people, men and women, of all ages often do bad things while drunk. My guess is almost every adult personally has seen bad stuff happen resulting from a person being drunk.

Here I am, fifty plus years later. I never quit drinking altogether. I have been drunk a couple times over the decades but only a couple. For example, on a four day trip to Mexico like thirty-five years ago, I drank a lot. There is no way I would have joined the conga line at Senor Frogs if I wasn’t drunk. However the bottom line is, I don’t drink much.

I was nineteen when I decided not to drink much. Whether or not I would have become an alcoholic had I not decided to not drink much is sort of academic at this point. Yet, I do not regret my decision to voluntarily not to drink much.

That said, I’ve never had a drinking buddy let alone a group of drinking buddies. Contacting some guys to meet at a bar is something I’ve never done. Going to a bar to watch a game is just not on my radar. I’ve never hung out at a VFW or the like. No bartender has ever asked me if I want my usual.

I did go to “office get togethers” at bars. I’d order a mixed drink, and if others were having multiple drinks, I made it a Sprite or ginger ale. Me not drinking more than one was often noted but, I think, in a positive way, as me being someone being under control.

Those of us who don’t drink much notice there are lots of opportunities to drink: bars, restaurants, music venues, sports venues, breweries, wineries, distilleries and the like. Most every town has at least one bar. Book clubs, softball leagues, reunions, family gatherings and so much more all include a drinking component. Drinking is a big part of our economy and actually also our social fabric.

We all make choices in our lives. Not drinking much is a choice I made long ago. Sometimes I think if I would have drank more, my life would have been a bit more fun. Drinking lowers some inhibitions and sometimes a little less inhibition is a good thing.

I wish there was an easier, maybe more convenient way to spend time with buddies just chatting about whatever, which did not include drinking. Did I mention I don’t like coffee either. Although, lately I’ve been going out to breakfast with a buddy here and there. So there is hope for social contact without drinking.

Over the years, I occasionally get tempted to go to a bar, order a whiskey and seven while I tell tales of all of the brave and brilliant things I’ve done. Everyone would laugh at the clever way I told stories and jokes. It might be fun.

Ever notice the tales told by sober people somehow are a bit less funny, brave or brilliant. That describes me pretty well. A bit less funny, brave or brilliant.

The closer you look the more you see.

A couple days after I was born, June 26, 1952, I was brought to the modest brick house where I lived until I went off to college in September of 1970. Oh the stories I could tell about all of the things we did growing up in and around our brick house.

Other than a couple months in a dorm room and a couple months sharing an apartment with my buddy Harry, I lived in that brick house for twenty-two years until Linda and I got married on September 14, 1974.

We started our married life living in an apartment for a couple months. Then we rented a small cabin on the southeast corner of Lake Owasso. It was tiny, fun, but we needed some more space. So after about a year or so we left the cabin for an apartment for a year and from there we bought a brick house just two blocks east of Como Lake in St Paul MN in 1978 and have lived here since.

Both the house I grew up in and the house, 3.6 miles away, I’ve lived in for the past forty-three years were solid brick houses, built within a year or so of each other. I’ve lived in a brick house for sixty-seven of my sixty-nine year life.

The house I grew up in was two stories and was built by my bricklayer father and his brother. The house I live in now is a rambler. It is the house the developer of the subdivision built for him and his family. I was told his kids grew up in this house.

This story is really not about the brick houses I lived in. This story is about raking the leaves. However, to understand the point I want to make, it is necessary to understand my attachment to our house.

First off it is centrally located. The Guthrie, Gopher sport venues, Wild hockey, Theatre Latte’ Da, St Paul Saints, MN Twins, Mpls Institute of Arts, MN United Soccer, The Science Museum and more are all within ten miles of easy driving to our house. Admittedly Mystic Lake Casino or Treasure Island are both about a forty-five minute drive but I’m really not into casinos so that does not matter too much.

Linda is very attached to both a knitting group and book club group in our neighborhood. She and her neighborhood lady friends are constantly in communication and go to various events such as museums, art galleries, dinners out, patio gatherings, and the like.

We live on a one block long street that comes to a T on both ends. Although we get some traffic because there is a daycare on our block, generally it is just at pick up / drop off times and they are being careful because they are carrying kids.

We have sidewalks. Sure they need to be shoveled but year around we have a safe place to walk outside. There are lots of different routes we take on our walks. Going for a walk in the neighborhood is something we do individually or together almost every day.

Como lake and the pavilion with its small cafe, plays and concerts is just a fifteen minute walk away. Conny’s ice cream shop is just three blocks away also.

Neighbors walk their dogs so if you are in the front yard there is ample opportunity to talk to the neighbors or not. It’s a friendly place. Our driveway and the next-door neighbors driveway are side by side and attached. We get along great with them and it is amazing how convenient it can be to once in a while use a double-wide driveway.

Our yard is very small. Mowing the lawn takes about twenty minutes. In the front we have a patio and very nice landscaping. In the back, we have a large deck, flower bed, two giant pine trees and a rain garden. So there really is not that much lawn to mow. Plus our yard looks nice, inviting yet feels secure and comfortable.

I snowblow both ours and our neighbors driveway whenever it snows. So far I actually like doing the snow blowing. I feel useful and it is good exercise. When I was recovering from my kidney surgery two different neighbors blew out my driveway for me. It is nice to have nice neighbors. There will come a time when we hire the person who does lawn and snow maintenance for about a dozen people in our area.

Since I’ve retired we systematically repainted all of our rooms and replaced virtually all of the furnishings. The kids’ old bedrooms have been repurposed into an office and into a room we call “the nook”. Our brick house is comfortable and fits our needs very well.

So anyway this story is about raking the leaves. The truth is I no longer actually rake the leaves. I use a leaf blower / leaf vac and / or the lawn mower to pick up my leaves, put them into bins and take them to the Ramsey County compost site which is less than two miles from our brick house.

By the way, our brick house is low maintenance. Homes take maintenance and our brick house is no exception. However the amount of maintenance is relatively low.

So anyway, periodically I’m asked if I’ve thought about moving into multi-unit housing so I no longer need to deal with raking the leaves each fall. Admittedly, this fall I’ve picked up the leaves and brought them to the compost site at least six times. I certainly do understand why people are happy to not rake the leaves each fall.

Which is why I decided to write this story which is about even though I still need to pick up the leaves, I am not ready to move out of our house.

The closer you look, the more you see.

Irritating my sister by pulling her hair was actually the point. The fact my sister screamed and upset everyone was on my sister for being irritating in the first place. When mom said I should know better, it confused me. Moms sometimes seem more interested in keeping the peace than dealing with their irritating daughters. Just saying.

I’m not a paranoid schizophrenic axe murderer. I own an axe but have not actually used it for years. I am neither paranoid or schizophrenic. In fact, I am reasonably sane. However, I think the sanity of most of the rest of humanity is debatable. Ever wonder how many people you’ve met are actually paranoid schizophrenic axe murderers. Again, just saying.

Reality – noun – the state of things as they actually exist, as opposed to an idealistic or notional idea of them.

For the record. The sun does not actually rise every morning, the earth rotates. In fact, it rotates once every 23 hours 56 minutes 4.091 seconds. Most people actually get enough Vitamin C from their diet, Supplemental Vitamin C most often does no good and in extreme can do harm. Eskimo tribes, such as the Inuit and Aleut, do not have a disproportionate number of words representing snow in their languages. Once again, just saying.

The employees at coffee shops are almost always nice to you which makes getting a beverage a pleasant experience. Does it matter whether they were sincerely nice or if being nice is a ploy to make more tips. Feeling negative because you question their motive is on you, not them. Of course they want to make more tips. Wanting more tips and being willing to be nice to do so is an honorable, good enough reason to be nice. Just saying.

It is human nature to want to belong to a group. However, in fact, we are all unique individuals with individual differences from every other individual. No two people have the exact same circumstances, same beliefs, same opinions, same background, same interests and you get the idea. “They” are never all alike. “We” are never all alike either. Just saying.

We all do stupid stuff. It’s a wonder any of us survive our own stupidity. On the other hand, periodically most of us have also done some rather clever things. People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. Sometimes it’s best to not say anything about other people’s current position on the genius / idiot scale. Think about that, just saying.

Beer and wine taste terrible to me. I do not like them. I like root beer. The 1919 root beer served at the Minnesota State Fair from a tap is the best. No question. When I go to a restaurant and ask for a root beer I get served a wide variety of brands. I’ve tasted dozens of different brands of root beer. Never had one I thought was bad. It’s kind of fun to taste and comment on root beer while all of the wine drinkers comment about body, and hints of. Ice cold A & W root beer from a can is the standard to beat. Just saying.

ESPN estimates there are about 160 million fans of American football. There are said to be four billion soccer fans in the world. Golf, tennis, volleyball, hockey, and several other sports each actually have more fans than American football does. It bothers me that the playing of a football game almost always results in a player being hurt bad enough to see a specialist. I wonder about the ratio of fans that watch a sport because they love the sport compared to the number who mostly watch the sport because it will give them something to talk about with friends and coworkers. Just saying.

The music of the late sixties and early seventies is the music of my teen years and thus the best music, period. Sure there is good music from other periods. Not universally but more often than not, the music of their own teen years is the music most people think is the best. People who were teens in other periods are wrong, of course, it is only the music from my teen years that is actually the best. The song “The Boxer ” by Simon and Garfunkel released in 1969 spoke deeply to a 17 year old me. Just saying.

I do not have any tattoos or piercings. I have never dyed my hair. Unless they are extreme, tattoos, piercings, wild hair color and the like seem to no longer label the person as a weirdo. I wonder if this is because over the past decade, in person interactions between people have been reduced as virtual interactions have increased. Standing out in a virtual crowd might be easier with bright green hair. I mean the person with the tattoos, piercings and dyed hair still might be a weirdo for other reasons. For example they might think the music of the 80’s is the best. Just saying.

Who am I to judge others? Well, I’ve lived a long time. I’ve witnessed lots of people’s future results from their past practices. I’ve seen the difference in results between being a nice person and being a jerk. I’ve seen ample evidence of idiots often living long full lives never even aware they were an idiot. The Boxer is still a great song. Soccer is fun to watch. Just saying.

For the record, I don’t like coffee. Hot chocolate is my coffee shop’s beverage. I actually like most people I meet. Gopher Women’s hockey is the sport I like to watch the most. Maybe the world would be a better place if we all treated each other as coffee shop employees treat us. Just saying.

The closer you look the more you see.

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

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