Strawberries, rhubarbs revealed

 K is the most modest person I know. Never showing the slightest cleavage, double checking the window shades, etc. 

Today she brought a jar of her famous rhubarb strawberry preserves to our dear neighbors, Fifi and Dr A. He’s retired from a life of Medicine at a prestigious Saudi hospital, she is a healthy survivor of a double transplant at the U last year. Practicing Moslems, they are very tolerant of Western ways, adopting many as their own. Their English ain’t bad either. And they’ve always taken an interest in the aches and pains of friends. Kind and sweet. 

Monday Kathleen took a tumble at Byerly's grocery store while shopping there with Jordanne, her helper. She’s grateful to be just bruised, it could have been so much worse. She fell backwards and now has a huge bruise on her elbow….and buttock. 

Fifi and Dr. A had heard via text about the fall, and greeted her today with genuine concern. "The elbow will heal," the good doctor opined after checking it out. “You are fortunate it didn’t fracture. “

And now for the butt. The doctor gestured that he wanted to see her backside. The look of horror on modest Kathleen’s face, made Fifi reassure her. “Is ok” she said, “I am here” perhaps thinking of cultural norms of behaviour prohibiting a married man from seeing another man’s wife. “Is ok,” she insisted to the shocked woman who had just come to deliver a pint of jam to friends, with no idea that she’d be asked to take her pants down.

 

Fifi had no idea that Kathleen’s reticence came from a life of Catholic modesty. 

Somehow, Dr A was able to convince her and so there she stood in her neighbors kitchen, as the retired, qualified physician examined a black and blue bruise that I will never be able to show you. 

Eventually, Kathleen pulled her pants up and headed back home, now giggling to herself of the absurdity of the whole situation, but also grateful that the doctor saw no troubling aspect. 

Now to explain to her husband how a strawberry/rhubarb jam delivery can take such a surprise twist.

Summer's End

 

Last night on Rainy Lake, my friend and colleague Wayne Kasich snapped this jewel on has way home, while piloting a pontoon load of fun seekers after a day of frivolity. Enjoy your weekend, Wayne, it ends soon in our northern reaches. Our friends in Canada, who live there on the horizon, know this too.

Our daughter, not forgotten

Jennifer would have been 54 today. We all paused to remember her life too short.

 

Bob Suel eulogy

Here's the eulogy Stan delivered at former employee Bob Suel's funeral this month.

I have been asked to say a few words about Bob Suel today. That’s a problem. I write, I do not speak. But Pat and Mike said I could just read something, so, with your permission, that’s what I’ll do.

Bob Suel came to work for us sometime after his graduation in 1972. He never left us. During his tenure, we watched him become a loving husband, a father, a survivor, a homeowner, and a basement railroad engineer.. His remarkable consistency and unquestioning support were the hallmarks of his longevity. 

You could count on Bob.

When he opposed something, it was not for selfish reasons, but for what he believed was best for the company. He cherished his role in the informal inner circle of decision makers, meeting over a beer in the boss’s green room, genuinely guiding the future of the enterprise he felt was in his personal care. He was a truly rare and comforting asset when we were making difficult decisions.

Pat can recall the dreaded 2 a.m. phone calls on Thursday mornings, when something wasn’t right, faraway at the newspaper printing plant, a midnight pressmen calling for a quick decision from Bob. She remembers the relief that followed after he had solved it. Thank you, Pat, for those nights of interrupted sleep, the supportive anxiety, and helping Bob to get his paper to bed.

Bob wasn’t high tech. He reached his clients the old school way, shoe leather and friendships. His clients grew fond of his steady ways, and trusted him, relied on him. 

Whenever a competitive challenge or bad idea loomed that he felt would spell trouble for the company, he was fond of saying, “We will have to stomp on those dragon eggs” in other words, get ahead of this thing before it is big enough to bite us.

He came to work about 50 years ago. Newspaper owner Bill McGarry was a good friend of Bob’s father, the late Brendan Suel. Bill acquired Brendan’s son Bob over a cup of coffee and a donut one morning. 

Then Bill came around and told me to find a place for him. Bob thought he might like to be a writer, one of those journalists. So we sent him on a wing and a prayer to the Victoria City Council meeting.  

We decided that a better fit might be on the sales team, where he had some experience, by representing the company on the main street in Chaska. We had one telephone line and an extension phone at the time, so Bob had his work cut out. He put on a tie and went to work in a role he would never leave.

His buddies had all picked up various entry level jobs, and were astonished to see Bob going to work so soon wearing that tie. Where ever is he going, many wondered. How could it be?

Bob dressed for success from that point forward. Years later, when “casual Friday” was in vogue and his partner came to work without a tie and wearing jeans, he was quickly admonished by Bob, “Oh no, we don’t do that on the Southwest sales team” he reminded the junior miscreant.

A few years before Bob took his own bride, he did me a solid: He volunteered his father, then the clerk of Scott County court, to marry me to Kathleen and her family, under a gorgeous maple tree in Chanhassen’s Lake Ann Park. Both marriages remained durable throughout the tumult of newspaper challenges.

Bob deserved many thanks for his lifetime of service, unwavering through thick and thin. Our success as a growing firm lay squarely on his shoulders, and many others like him, who put the good of the organization above their own immediate needs. Thanks go to Bob, a good and faithful man.

Look Who Met at the Great Get-together

 

Marcy was waiting for her big sister, Missy, to arrive on the bus today, when lo and behold, of the thousands of dudes strolling the Minnesota State Fair, someone she knew! Her own son, Maxwell, out and about himself at the Fair. Didn't say if Maxwell's aunt Missy got there in time for a
fulsome family reunion. 

Cars keep steaming into the parking ramp here in Eden Prairie, as more fun seekers find the trip to the fair is a lot more pleasant on the $6 round trip bus service made to the fair front gate. The two ramps top out with the Renaissance traffic and the State Fair combined. 

Golf team

Early bird golfers: Cloid, Ashly, Jordanne's Mom Jeanne, K, Stan, Jordanne.
 

Topgolf domestic challenge

 It was deep into the third frame at the Topgolf venue in Brooklyn Center when it happened. Lord Stanley had taken an early lead in the five-way battle royal and was just settling into a second round of sliders and chips as Katie stepped into the box for her final round. 

Jordanne was there today with her Indiana mother and random friends, an enthusiastic bunch, gathered at the week’s end. Some fun seekers were top shelf driving range competitors. Some, not all.

Trailing most of the game, St. Paul Katie had put herself in a hole, and she knew it. Her golf companion for the day encouraged and steadied her, lest the force and impact of Katie’s swing send her reeling. Her first two shots were middling. Her final shot was not! She crushed the Angry Birds target completely, decimating the entire assemblage.

The crowd hushed as the official scoreboard tallied the damage. Had she kicked her husband’s butt?

Not quite, but good enough to be declared co-champion, and vowing to settle the crown in a future grudge match.

If you see something, say something!

 My dear brother-in-law tried to cheat death with a tackle box worth of vitamins and supplements. Arrayed alphabetically, the pills promised him a longer life… and probably other things too. Twice daily he sat at the kitchen table, opened the magic box and indulged in longevity.

He once told the social security interviewer that he would live forever. Must have gotten an eye roll from her. He lived in a nice two-story neighborhood in St. Paul with his younger wife. They may have been pill poppers, but never anything illegal, hallucinogenic or even fun. Never. Her sister, my wife, has claimed to have been high in her younger years, once, by sharing a communal joint, but even that story is somewhat dubious.

Then one day in his St. Paul home came the knock on the brother-in-laws door from the authorities. Yes. Two agents asking for an interview. Flabbergasted, the couple consented immediately. There had been reports of illegal activity at this residence, it seemed. No mistake. Eyewitness. This was the exact location, the St. Paul detectives insisted.

Gradually, facts emerged. The neighboring eyewitness, from the vantage point of her upstairs window. had peered down into their kitchen and seen him repeatedly. Very suspicious indeed, she said. Yes, he had flipped open a tackle box and revealed an enormous array of pills. The witness knew that no one in his right mind would amass such a collection of vitamins. It had to be drugs. Authorities were called.

If you see something, say something.

Sadly, despite his heroic efforts, my brother-in-law did not live forever. A mere mortal, he died an ordinary death at or near the table of expectancy of the Social Security Administration.

They had left their St. Paul neighborhood long before his demise, selling their home, but probably with the kitchen shades still pulled, to avoid any further reports of suspicious activity.

What can I say!

 

That's a good one!

 Emily shared a moment with a friend, long ago.

Top of the Food Chain

 Photo by Jordanne Scott

Meet the newest welder!

 

Our grandchild, Emily, just completed her freshman year at the Minneapolis College of Art and Design, and no one could be more proud than we are.

While her major is that old favorite “undecided,” her bent is toward animation and associated crafts.

But the artistic curriculum is broad and she is now a qualified welder! And she has other workshop skills as well. Who knew?

She’s always had a creative, constructive will and constantly surprises us (and teachers) with unusual talent. She’s now grounded with a summer job, directing customers at a nearby overstock enterprise and supporting a car and a closet.

We so enjoy watching her grow and are so pleased with her mother’s job in raising the perfect grandchild. Oh yes. We’ll give aunt Marcy some credit too!

She’s pictured above at grandma’s birthday party.

Back from Hotel California

 Just returned from a lovely spring at our Hotel California, a casita provided me by long-time friend and employee, Hai Dang. The annual sojourns always involve some fun construction projects, the latest there is another nail salon for his enterprising wife, already the master of a very successful one near by.

He's learned the Japanese art of Komiko and has substituted the laborious intricacies with a smart laser cutter that takes direction from software, and not a shop master. The resulting panels are spectacular and truly will make the new salon a one-of-a-kind enterprise. 

Equally spectacular is nature's handiwork on the front porch, and I arrived just in time to see it in its full glory, and present it here.

And now for our own spring entrance, scheduled to appear shortly. C'mon already.

Lucky ladies

 My wife is a gambler, she took a chance on me, but that’s just the beginning of this story.

Her handle is St. Paul Katie at poker home games, where players soon learn not to underestimate little old ladies holding good cards. It’s a family thing, she played cards all her life. As a Lutheran, forbidden to own a deck of the devil’s tools or anything fun like a cap pistol, I tease that it is her Catholic upbringing that lead her down this path. 

She does as she wishes, plays blackjack tables, horses, and so on, but never too much to regret. The lottery is a never-ending must. a little chagrinned, she discreetly always has numbers from various games. She used to consult with her late brother, with that same family trait. I try not to bother her about it, and she reminds me that she doesn’t drink liquor and I have a lifetime of savings to show for it. Point taken. I try to say that she won the lottery already. Not funny.

This weekend, in the company of her daughter, the usual please. She bought a lottery ticket, and won. Won twice, it turns out. 

She relates her tale:

“When Marcy and I were at the convenience store and I was getting the ticket, the little Asian woman wanted to know if Marcy was my daughter. Marcy said ‘yes, we are mother and daughter.'

“Then Marcy says ‘I don’t get tickets because I’m not lucky, but my Mom is.’

“Then the lady says ‘Oh, you are lucky, because you have your mom. I wish I had mine.’

“With that we left the store and I checked my tickets. Of course I was stunned and said ‘Marcy, I just won $500!’’’

Showing more than the usual wisdom you find at a convenience store, the Asian lady had spoken truth. Two lucky women, perhaps one more lucky than the other, with $500 to spend.

The Letnes Luau

 

Welcome to the Tiki Hut Lounge

 Mai Tai? Tropical Smoothie? Mango? Pineapple crisps?

75 degrees, sunny and no bugs!

 Players on the lanai at St. Paul Katie's Poker Club 601 were rewarded with a Hawaiian-themed ambiance yesterday, the clubrooms being readied for the upcoming Letnes Luau Feb. 2. The veterans were not distracted, however, and stuck to their chips in a rousing afternoon of strategy, luck and bad beats. Tom "No Tell" emerged victorious and was followed by Two Buck Theis. Everyone had ample fun and will do it again, perhaps joined by some new players. 

Above, Front row,  Long Shot Laurie, St. Paul Katie. Back row is Two Dollar, Seattle John, and No Tell.

Nanners, Trips Queen, Miss M'liss, Little Bro, Grampa Gary, and others are the handles of potential players rounding out future tables. Many have not played since Covid, and look forward to working out the rust with a rousing game of Texas Hold 'Em.

A capital idea

 It was in the bowels of the Indianapolis Star that I saw my first photo typesetting machine. The Army has lots of Temporary Duty Training opportunities and I grabbed at this one, even though I knew I would be out of service by 1973, God and Nixon willing.

The machine was as big as a refrigerator, and inside its light-tight chamber, a couple of font strips spun madly around an axle, faster than a clothes dryer. A sharp beam of light, timed by something called a computer, shot through the spinning font strip, perfectly timed to expose photo paper with a single letter of the alphabet.

Our squad of Information Specialists from around the country gasped as eventually a cartridge of photo sensitive paper was run through a light-tight box of chemicals, resulting in a column of newspaper type.

Photo offset, huh. A miracle of ingenuity. Little did I know it would be life-changing.

Heretofore, my only experience was akin to that of Johann Gutenberg, stamping ink on paper via letterpress. As a high school newspaper sports editor, I had watched Bud Akers (I think that was his name) manipulate heavy lead slugs into a page of news at the Lake Region Farmer. I couldn’t help notice that a career of heavy metal machines and saws had apparently left Bud missing a few fingers.  I didn’t ask. 

The same Compugraphic refrigerator box was grinding and overheating at the Chaska Herald when I got out of the service and took the only job available to me: an editor at $6 an hour.

The emerging technology and the fast-growing suburb would create a space for me to grow and raise a family. Timing is everything. The new efficiency and innovation of the industry forced the consolidation of smaller papers, collectivizing them into chains and corporations, changing forever the ownership of local news, with profits leaving the community, after expenses were paid.

I was part of that revolution and benefitted from it, the ultimate result of capitalism and its mandate to merge and grow.

I innovated and took advantage of every opportunity presented by the digital age and it brought me a good life. Eventually, all typewriters were replaced, telephones were replaced, paste ups were replaced, floppy disks were replaced.

And then local newspapers were replaced.

Self-publishing enterprises on the internet followed new rules. It was the end of an era, spanning my entire career, lasting just long enough to retire me in comfort.

All the newspapers that I ran are gone now, there are new voluntary groups emerging who have realized what a hole in the quality of life they have left behind in their communities. They are bringing local news to the internet in a whole new way. I wish them well.

Invitation to players

High atop the Southwest Station within the deeper reaches of the Greater Minneapolis-St Paul Metropolitan area, gamblers unite Wednesday morning for an epic display of wit, strategy and rust.

The focus of this happy event will be renewal of friendships, introductions and polite exchanges. But don’t be fooled. Buried within each player burns a competitive spirit, eager to scorch his neighbor, and crush the entire table of hopefuls, with a flourish of inspired play.

Bad beat stories are restricted to the Loser Lounge, where sloppy joes mingle with sad tales of what could have been.

The action begins at High Noon, Wednesday, January 22 in the Letnes Luau casino, Room 601. Five hands will be dealt, unless plans have changed. Registered players are No Tell Bartel, Seattle John, Long Shot Laurie, St.Paul Katie, and No Name Theis. Unable to play are Trip Queen, Nanners, Grampa Gary, Miss M’liss, Little Bro and others, but they plan on making future appearances to take on the winner. An open seat remains at the table, and, if plans have changed, another player would be a welcome addition.

According to Maitre ‘dHotel Stan Schmenge, house rules prohibit spitting, smoking, cheating and cat kicking. Proper attire required, to include bowling shirts, Hawaiian garb. Straw hats and leis provided. No trump means No Trump talk allowed and will be enforced.

Early birds welcome to discuss rules and procedures and count chips. 

Front door at 12900 Technology Drive is open, Elevate to the sixth floor. Keep your shoes on. Welcome. Aloha.

It makes a difference

Experienced cooks know the difference between Big T and Little t. There are three teaspoons in a tablespoon. Baking powder makes batter light and airy. This knowledge was gained over time by my sisters as they learned mandatory culinary skills.

Once upon a time my father fancied himself a writer’s studio and contracted Mr. Clair Helgeson to build it. Mr. Helgeson was a member of our church, and therefore eminently qualified to build a suitable edifice, one that was sure to draw the inspiration needed to create a best seller. Roger Sharp was among the carpenter crew that summer day, using nothing but hand tools and saws, since there was no electricity at the site. Healthy appetites resulted.

They were now ready for a break and an afternoon snack, courtesy of the host family. My sisters had been detailed for this task; baking a plate of cookies for a crew of hungry men was definitely women’s work. I, of course, was at the job site with the men, picking up manly nails or some other child’s task. The girls set about their duties in the home kitchen, about 300 yards away.

Exactly at the appointed time, the pre-teen girls proudly delivered their creation to the men: a plate of freshly-baked cookies and a beverage, probably a sugary Kool-aid. Sadly, it wasn’t long before a critical discovery was made: The girls had used a Big T and not a Little t when measuring the baking powder. Baking powder, I am told, raises the batter, making the cookies light and airy. The men immediately detected the mistake, there was enough air in these cookies to fill a balloon.

Roger Sharp was an excellent carpenter; he was also the father of a daughter who was Solveig’s age and he was no doubt aware of the sensitivities of these earnest young cooks. While the rest of us politely declined to finish the offering, he declared the cookies to be the best ever, and exuberantly helped himself to another dreadful mistake.

Roger didn’t die that day, he went right back to work. But he had just taught Little me a lesson about how to some day be a Bigger Man.