Category Archives: Memories

A Magic Carpet Ride

Fall                                                                       Falling Leaves Moon

Another box. Carpet. 160 yards of a champagne colored floor covering that we may never walk on. Weird. At Hamernick’s Decorating in St. Paul we walked across the street from their main showrooms to another Hamernick’s building. This one, instead of aisles filled with flooring samples and fabric books, had stacked rolls of carpet. It would have made Harun al-Rashid comfortable.

Though there were more rows in the back, the front had two rows of carpet still attached to the cardboard rolls from the mills. Both rows were over my head in height which meant there were carpet rolls buried beneath as many four and five other rolls. Each row was probably 30 feet long. How did they get the bottom ones out, I wondered?

There was the answer. Near the open back door a man got onto an ordinary forklift with an unordinary front attachment, a long round metal probe, the exact length of the carpet rolls, drove it over and deftly picked up a fat roll. A worker there said he could get at any roll in “under 10 minutes.” Then, looking at the precarious portions of the two nearby rows stacked up against the far concrete wall, he amended that, “Well, maybe not those.”

Afterward Kate and I had lunch at Mai Village on University Avenue. While we waited for our food, I told Kate the story of the owners who flew Vietnamese carpenters in to build the interior. It’s a marvelous feat of woodcraft with delicate light sconces and elegant open screens, thick pillars, an interior roof over tables each with bamboo lengths carved from dark wood along the table edge. Each chair at the tables has an open back, again carved.

Later, on the way home, discussing what we would miss about the Twin Cities I used that story as an example. “I’ll miss,” I said, “the thick network of memories and concrete places, a network woven over 40 years. Like the story of Mai Village this network is idiosyncratic to these cities. But, part of the fun will be building a new network in Denver.”

Losses

Fall                                                                                   Falling Leaves Moon

The Wing Joint. It’s a symbol of the loss.

Let me explain. In 1975 I began a year long internship at Bethlehem-Steward Presbyterian Church at the corner of 26th St. and Pleasant Ave. The focus of this work was neighborhood ministry, finding out what the needs of the area were and responding to them in some concrete fashion. This was work I could do and did not involve me in the more philosophically ambiguous (for me) worship, educational and pastoral life of a local congregation.

Over the course of those years, which included a good deal of time at South Central Ministry, based out of the old Stewart Presbyterian building which sits three blocks south of Lake Street on Stevens Avenue right next to the freeway sound barriers, my work at South Central was even more politically and neighborhood focused than at Bethlehem-Stewart.

That was when I found the Wings Joint. It was run by a Chinese guy and sat on Nicollet, maybe 8 blocks south of Lake Street. These were the best wings I’d ever had. Crispy, always moist on the inside and just a bit of zing, which could be amped up with the hot sauce. At the end of my day (often after 10 pm) at South Central, I’d stop by the wings joint, pick up some wings, then buy a six-pack of beer and get started on both on my way home. This was one of those urban equivalents of a special bay on a lake or a place with rare plant species in a forest, a unique haven, a place with qualities you could find no where else.

Then, I moved away from South Central and away from every week visits to the Wing Joint, though I would still, on occasion, go back to it.

When we moved to Andover, it seemed that all those unique finds, gathered over many years of wandering the streets and inner city neighborhoods of Minneapolis and St. Paul, would disappear.

Imagine my surprise when I read in a newspaper article that the Wings Joint had moved to Blaine. Blaine! I knew where that was now. So, I hunted down the the Wings Joints new spot. It’s in a strip mall with little presence, concrete block buildings with a Subway, an Asian grocery store and a Nail joint. But it was the same place. The same wings.

So on occasion, as I did Friday after dropping Kate at the airport, I take off Highway 610 at University and drive north, well into what used to be the heart of Blaine, stopped at the Wings Joint and enjoyed their atmosphere, unchanged from the Lake Street days. At least in my memory.

When we move to the mountains, to a state far away, all these special places: urban havens, Scientific and Natural Areas, places along Lake Superior will be lost. Not disappeared, of course not, but there will be no equivalent surprise of finding that unique Denver spot all of a sudden taken up residence in Idaho Springs. I don’t have the memories.

Making those equivalent memories in Colorado is something I look forward to, that slow accumulation of local knowledge, but the utility of all that Minnesota knowledge will fade away, useful only for the very occasional trip back.

 

Fully Awake

Fall                                                                                          Falling Leaves Moon

11 hours of sleep last night, a nap this afternoon, by tomorrow I’ll be back in the land of the fully awake, a state I try to encourage on as many levels as possible. Still feeling a bit numb from the sudden whirlwind of energy about the Tchaikovsky Road house. I didn’t mention that it had a great address, 329 romantic Russian composer street.

I remember, come to think of it, another stupid state, finals stupid. Just before, during and in the immediate aftermath of final exams my world would narrow to streams of data, large chunks of ideas and my focus would be tight. Cooking was ramen noodles, mac and cheese. Lots of coffee, pencils, outlines and summaries. Finals stupid and move stupid are very similar though move stupid has occupied a longer period of time. They both simplify and constrict the flow of information, ratcheting down to those matters relevant to the task.

It’s simplification and constriction that produce the effect, the shoving out of irrelevances, pushing them to the periphery and maintaining attention, a most precious cognitive resource, where it needs to be. But these are not states I would want to last very long. They produce an intense concentration on particular results, necessary, yes, but there are other pursuits that call to me.

Memories

Fall                                                                                     Falling Leaves Moon

Tom Crane, Bill Schmidt, Scott Simpson, Mark Odegard and Frank Broderick and I gathered at the Black Forest for the Woolly Mammoth first Monday restaurant meeting. We had gone to the Black Forest regularly for many years, then, partly at my urging, had moved onto other cuisines and other locales. Now, though, as my time here has become limited I find myself wanting to return to familiar places.

The Whittier Neighborhood was the site of my year-long internship while in seminary-part at Bethlehem-Stewart Presbyterian (only two blocks west of the Black Forest on 26th) and part at South Central Ministry just across Lake Street from Whittier in the Longfellow Neighborhood. In 1976 the Presbyterian church ordained me to the ministry of word and sacrament at Bethlehem-Stewart, an ordination I held until 1996 when, in Phoenix, Arizona at the Unitarian-Universalist General Assembly, I entered the U-U ministry.

So a lot of person history intersects at the corner of 26th and Nicollet, where the Black Forest is. Not far from there toward the north and east three blocks, too, is the Minneapolis Institute of Arts. A nexus for me in many ways.

Frank’s back from Ireland, looking much better and feeling no pain in his legs. Tom’s hand has mostly healed. Mark and Elizabeth have decided to spend three months  or so in southern France, staring mid-January. Scott admitted he had spent time in his youth a mail-man substitute. And worked as a Lamplighter while sleeping in People’s Park in Vancouver, B.C. Bill Schmidt’s becoming Spinozified and finding this Dutch Jew a very compatible thinker.

On the drive home, a drive I’ve made more or less regularly from Minneapolis or St. Paul to Andover for the last 20 years, I realized that though I spent 20 years in the city and consider myself an urban guy, I’ve really only spent 20 years in cities. The other 47 years have been in smaller to medium sized towns or the far burbs. Interesting how a place can impress itself into our sense of who we are.

Regret, like resistance to the Borg, is futile. In all ways but one.

Fall                                                                                Falling Leaves Moon

Not sure why, but today I told Greg, my Latin tutor, why I was doing this. Or, maybe I’ve told him before and don’t remember, but I don’t think so. (Of course, by definition, how would I know?)

The story begins with my traipsing off to college, already doubting my Christian faith for a number of reasons, not the least of which was what I perceived as a holding back by my native Methodism of (to me at that point) elegant proofs for the existence of God. I got them from the local Catholic priest. I didn’t know that he re-iterating Aquinas.

It was not far into my first history of philosophy class that we dismantled each one, piece by piece. Oh. My.

Philosophy set my mind on fire week after week. I signed up for Logic in the second semester and the second history of philosophy segment. Even though I left Wabash I had already earned half a philosophy major’s worth of credits in my freshman year.

All this excitement led me quickly to the conclusion that I wanted to be able to read German, so I could pursue Kant, Hegel and Heidegger in their native language. So, I signed up for German, too. From my point of view it was a disaster. I struggled in every aspect of it and was faced with getting a D at the end of the second semester. That was not going to happen, so I dropped it.

A youthful decision, one I regret. It took me 45 years to get back to a language; but, I decided I wanted to challenge myself, see if my conclusion, defensively drawn in 1966, that I could not learn a language, was in fact true. It was not true.

Now I have a deeper regret, that I didn’t pursue German further and that I didn’t do Latin and Greek while in college, too. The classics and art history seem to be my natural intellectual terrain, but I never took a course in either one. Regrets are pointless, of course, the retrospective both wallowing in a past now gone and not retrievable, but I believe there is one good thing about them.

They can be a goad to action now, or future action. That is, we don’t have to repeat the actions we regret. We can change our life’s trajectory. So, I intend to spend the third phase of my life, as long as body and mind hold together, pursuing the classics and art history, doing as much writing about both as I can.

 

Lughnasa                                                                    College Moon

The College Moon reminds me that all of those stunned freshmen I saw at the University of Minnesota over Labor Day are now deep in the throes of their first semester. The student in me-and he is strong-envies them, the newness of it all. The library for quiet study. The smell of a book, paper glue and ink. Even the confusion. Confusion is the sweat of the mind, I read recently. The adult in me does not envy their angst, the worry about career, debt, love, success, about worth.

 

A Man, A Monument

Lughnasa                                                            College Moon

IMAG0657Third Monday of the month. It’s been the Woolly meeting night for years, over 25. Bill Schmidt suggested we visit a memorial related to war, a memorial in a neighborhood park in northeast Minneapolis, right on the Mississippi behind the old Grain Belt Brewery and its wonderful castles of yellow brick. The memorial is in an odd, very out of the way location, almost as if its hidden. And it is a monument to the effect one man can have on history.

That one man is Woolly Mark Odegard, a Vietnam War Veteran, who became part of this project and as part of it shaped its content in important ways. When the group gathered to consider it began, all the veterans wanted to honor the war and their service. This is after all the public script about how to notice veterans. We honor the historical event, the war, and their participation in the war. But Mark knew there was more beneath the public script.

When probed, the veterans admitted that war was ugly, painful and often confusing. Mark said the monument should show that side of war, too. He got this element added by interviewing veterans from various wars and putting their quotes on marble stelae along with historical facts about the war. Commenting on the Spanish-American War one man said, when the fighting against the Filipino’s began he realized the war “was about greed.” Unusual and telling language at a war memorial.

Each stelae is a slab of black granite with text acid etched into it and a face above it IMAG0661bronzed from living subjects, when possible veterans from the wars memorialized. Mark suggested that the monument start with the Dakota war in 1862 since that was the first war with Minnesotans serving. To particularize it further Mark suggested that the stelae have the number of Americans who died and the number of Minnesotans.

(Mark next to the Vietnam War stelae topped by his face in bronze.)

This monument will be in place for a long, long time and Mark’s effort to personalize war through the words of veterans will bring an element of realism to a too often romanticized human endeavor.

 

 

 

A Minor Leftie Memoir

Lughnasa                                                                   College Moon

Groveland UU has asked me to speak on December 14th. Their theme for the year is social justice. They wanted me to talk about restorative justice, a topic about which I know little. Instead I suggested this:

Social Justice: Reflections       Looking back at work for affordable housing, neighborhood organizing and neighborhood economic development, against corporate control of neighborhoods, organizing for jobs, for equity in philanthropy, for a sustainable human presence on the earth, for undocumented immigrants, for progressive politicians like Wellstone, Karen Clark and Peter McLaughlin, against the Vietnam War, for women’s rights, against the draft.

Looking forward at work necessary to retain and expand gains made.

When looking at it again, I realized it had the character of a summing up about my political work over the years, mostly in Minnesota. Sort of a minor leftie memoir, but not for the purpose of the memories, or not mostly for them, but mostly for teasing out the themes, the underlying rationales, the whys. What worked, what didn’t. What might work now, what might not.

This topic came to me because I realized it would be my last time at Groveland, with whom I’ve shared a two decade plus relationship and possibly my last time speaking in Minnesota, maybe ever. I don’t, at least right now, intend to find a religious community in Colorado since such institutions no longer interest me.

There is a modest bolus of energy in reviewing a body of political work that arose mostly in response to individual issues and moments of time, that never followed a straight path and that, like most serious political work, had some successes and many failures.

Where I wondered, did all this energy and effort come from? It wasn’t a good career move, yet the political path was the one I followed anyhow, pushing away more logical trajectories. There was, of course, my father’s role as a newspaper editor and his often weekly airing of his Rooseveltian liberal opinions, basically pro-social welfare and anti-communist, pro strong defense. That may have shaped my willingness to be seen publicly as a representative of unpopular points of view.

Also important was the nature of my hometown’s work force, the parents of my friends. With few exceptions, my parents being among those exceptions, my friend’s parents were either factory workers or stay-at-home moms. It was the 1950’s after all. As factory workers, a very high percentage worked for General Motors, others often in suppliers to the auto industry or other vehicle related manufacturers like Allison-Chalmers. They were members of the UAW.

These folks, the majority by far from the hills of West Virginia, Tennessee, Arkansas and other southern states, usually had not finished high school, but had jobs in General Motors, jobs that, thanks to the UAW, had health care, pensions, regular vacations, good wages and decent working conditions. As a result, Alexandria, Indiana hummed. When the auto industry went into decline and the UAW with it, Alexandria crashed into a ghost town.

A third factor was my mother’s unwavering compassion all people, no matter their condition in life or the color of their skin. Her example shaped me profoundly in that way.

The final ingredient came when the U.S. went full force into Vietnam. I started college in 1965 and would be in higher education for the duration of the war. The struggle against the war radicalized many students and I was one of them.

A Milestone

Lughnasa                                                                                College Moon

Well. A milestone. Every bookshelf except the one beside my computer, stacked with books I use frequently, has been cleared, sorted and boxed. I thought I would be done in late August, early September works, too.

(New Harmony as conceived by Robert Dale Own in 1833)

As I passed these last books from shelf to box, new arrangements for them cropped up, new reading projects and writing projects, too. I have, for example, a collection of historical documents about New Harmony, Indiana. They are records of the Harmonist era 1814-1824 and documents from the Robert Owens era soon after that. There are, too, maps, Indiana Historical Society monographs, photographs and notes of my own journeys there.

(stone labyrinth in current day New Harmony)

New Harmony features in my novel, The Last Druid, and continues to interest me, both as the site of two utopian communities, one very successful, the other a successful failure and as a present day historical site with an emphasis on spirituality. Reading through those would definitely spark something.

There are, too, a collection of books, stacked up on each other, concerning the west and Colorado. These are the first tools I’ll use to get up to speed on our new home and the historical context that made it what it is now.

Now I move to file sorting, magazine culling. After that, objet d’arts.

Sounds Pathological, But Feels Blessed

Lughnasa                                                                              College Moon

Understanding of more than the motives of the moment seem more and more elusive as the third phase of life wraps itself around me. The deep reasons for liking, say, the classics and dogs and reading are lost in the fog of memory darkened by time into near opacity. There was a time when understanding felt more accessible, more relevant, perhaps as a lever with which to change personality, to affect a less tangled future.

Now though the past, my own past, not that long a time by historical reckoning and none at all in the sweep of geological time, not only seems to recede faster than the clock’s ticking, but happily so. It’s as if the meaning of the past, my intimate past that is, has begun to detach itself from my present, floating off like Sandra Bullock in Gravity, untethered and weightless.

This sounds pathological, but it feels blessed. This man that I am now is just who he is, not explainable by his past nor excused by it, but who he is either in spite of it or to the side of the past. Perhaps it is always like this: that the person we are now seems only distantly related to the person we were ten years ago, forty years ago, even an hour ago. That untethered feeling comes with a sense of liberation, of not being bound to the threads, the strings, the ropes, the cable of yesterday; not being bound and free to go where today goes, not captive to yesterday.

Oh, this is not to say that the past does not still have its effects. Of course it does. Just that they are no longer determinative, destiny creating. They are, after all, in the past.