Unbelievable!

 The best part of the journey to Kathleen’s favorite St. Paul eatery today wasn’t the fabulous soup selections, not the crisp salads or handmade while-you-watch sandwiches, not the fresh fruit nor the soft focaccia.  Not even the turtle cake slathered in a chocolate mass.

We’ve favored this popular cafe on busy Grand Ave for years, rain or shine, freezing or summer breeze. It was a lovely day, a break from the hot, sticky ones we’ve been having. But what was about to happen was a first in our many visits.

Our host and driver, Aaron, spotted the opportunity almost as quickly as did his co-pilot bride, Diana. The niece and the nephew were treating us to a casual morning of viewing the new things in Kathleen’s hometown when it happened! A parking space barely big enough for an SUV appeared squarely in front of the Cafe Latte front door. Amazing. Traffic scooted past us as we surveyed the chance opening. A Kojak if there ever was one.

Our driver eschewed his auto-park feature and cranked the urbanroad beast himself with all the skill of a professional semi-driver backing into a tight berth at the local Walmart.

We were coming for lunch, after navigating the 10-year long real estate development replacing the Ford Assembly plant, shuttered years ago at its expansive site overlooking the lower falls on the Mississippi, just before it joins the clean waters of Minnehaha Creek heading for their eventual New Orleans destination.

Stan remembers coming there years ago, in the 50s, on a bus tour by rural country school kids, agape at the wonders of factory processes.

The abandoned build site is gorgeous, and worthy of the lengthy row of multi-million dollar homes planned for the site. We chose a $2.8 million model for personal inspection, opened to us by our real estate pros, Aaron and Diana, an accomplished real estate team.

The pair guided us through the four bed, 5 bath edifice, pointing out the many amenities. Despite this we did not place an offer. Two stair cases deterred us, but the lack of a microwave in the immense kitchen was a deal breaker. Disappointed, our understanding hosts headed us to the Cafe Latte and a meal fit for prized, loyal clients, and that Kojak parking space. No closing chat today. Just family talk.

We had to school our agents on just what a “Kojak” is. Perhaps the reader as well.

A popular 70s crime series featured an actor named Telly Savalas, who played Lieutenant Kojak, a hands on, no-nonsense head-shaved Manhattan cop. Whether rushing his unmarked cruiser to a crime scene, downtown skyscraper, or courthouse trial, there was always the best possible parking spot just waiting for him.

He hurried in to claim it and continue on his relentless fight against evildoers.

And today we continued that tradition, claiming our space on busy Grand Avenue, then handing out justice to the soup, salad and sandwiches.

Tap tap tap tap

 Paul Strandberg and I were driving mom’s aging luxury Oldsmobile, large and somewhat bodacious for mere high school juniors, and even my modest mother. Steve Jobs and Bill Gates were in elementary school, but we were already qualified new drivers that spring day, a peaceful Sunday afternoon on the Hiway 29 straight-away approaching Carlos, Minnesota.

Endowed by our creator with certain random hormones, heavy testosterone levels and lots of bad judgment, we decided to just let it out and “see what she can do!”

She responded faithfully, giving us her best. But sadly it was not enough. Adrenaline jolted the two teenagers to a new sound: The insistent tap, tap clatter of a thrown piston rod. We had never experienced such a sound when driving with mom and dad, but it would later be introduced to us as the logical conclusion of an engine that has been pushed to the end of its useful life. She was a goner, but we still had naive hope.

As we eased the wounded warrior into Paul’s farmyard with a new found care, we desperately grasped at solutions, alibis, explanations,  fixes, but nothing occurred. 

Paul died a tragic death some years ago and I remember him with fondness. But I also remember his possible creative solution that day. “Why don’t you turn it off and turn it back on and see if it goes away?” he suggested. So we did.

“Tap, tap, tap,” she answered back, when we started her up again. “Tap, tap, tap.”

Paul was ahead of his time, way before the vaunted Gates and Jobs became the lords of creation. For although it didn’t exactly work out that day, I will always remember dear Paul as the original inventor of the now dependable re-boot.

Tradition

 

Laurie always makes a. special birthday meal for Stan, and this year was no exception. Given the party we're hosting tomorrow, she arrived today with a complete meals on wheels, the traditional meat and potatoes, green beans and gravy, rhubarb cake treat. She did not disappoint, making today a special one, as usual. 

Stan and Laurie go back ages to the days
she was hired as a "Girl Friday" at the Prior Lake newspaper office.

Much has changed since then, except for the constant love and respect we have for this loyal partner.

Graduation Party

 

Lots of activities in June, not the least of which is graduation parties. A big one was held for our Jordanian friends granddaughter, Masah, yesterday across the street in the creekside pavilion. We photographed the proceedings and kept grandma and grandpa in touch at their residence in Amman, Jordan. Amazing technology in real time. Weather was perfect, and Mom and Dad outdid themselves with the buffet and dessert bar. We helped ourselves. All the best to the new graduates! We have no idea who the seniors in the photo are, but they are obviously friends of the graduate, far right.

Open House

 

Coffee with a COP; EPs finest

Katie loves her cops. Doesn't drink coffee, but visited with the force Tuesday morning. That's Eden Prairie Police chief giving her a hug at Tavern on Four and Five
.

A bit scary. . .

 Went to a little pizza party last night in my building. Fun. Mike makes a great pizza on the bbq grill oven. Let’s have another party soon, we decided, only let’s invite all the neighbors and just see who comes.

“I’ll make up an ad,” volunteered Marty, our software nerd. He then asked artificial intelligence to create one from a group selfie we had just made. Within seconds, Presto. You see the result above.

Bet you don’t recognize me. AI gave me hair and eyebrows and nice big eyes. But it’s a nice result promoting future good times.

My firm had a graphics department of nine designers, photo technicians etc. So glad I am now retired. I would have had to let most go and they have families. Retrain them? Not likely.

Now I wonder about my grandchild’s future at the Minnesota College of Art and Design. Her future? Hope she adapts to the new world.

But then again, look at that head of hair!

He dragged me across the goal line

 We loved the unsupervised play periods when teacher would turn us loose for a half hour or more to exercise in any which way we wanted on the rural playground. She doubtless needed the time out as well, responsible she was for eight grades of restless, yet strictly disciplined grade schoolers. The Oak Grove School at District 460 had no gymnasium, no jungle bars, no slides or swings, but we had imagination.

Steal the sticks, Bear by the pump, Goose goose, kick ball. Somebody would choose an activity and we’d all join. And then there was pom pom tackle. Yep, tackle. Unsupervised, the object was to break down the opponent as he tried to make a run for the goal line. Enthusiastically, the top four grades would participate in the rough and tumble. No refs, no rulers.

That’s when I broke my front incisor on Tommy Navratil’s heel. He was tough and strong, a trim farm boy with muscles of steel. Two years older than me, but I was sure I could get him down. He dragged me across the goal line, with me clinging fiercely to his leg. 

My tooth was lost forever, first a partial plate, then a permanent bridge. Things are different now on the nation’s playgrounds, I am told. A lot fewer broken teeth.

Tom lost his mother to cancer the day of the Christmas pageant. Nevertheless, he gamely played the role of Jacob Marley, before a stunned and grieving crowd of neighbors, jammed into the little one room school house. The men waited and smoked outside, not enough room for everyone.

Tom dreamed of some day having nice clothes, cutting out samples from the Sears and Roebuck catalog and bringing the clippings to school to share. His widowed father did his best, but.

Tom’s memory will linger, he died recently, but will never to leave the thoughts of so many. Always kind and giving, my younger brother remembers him as his protector from the bullies, putting his power to good use. Tom was mother-less for 70 years, making us truly grateful for the time we had with our own.

His presence endures, whenever my tongue occasionally checks out the condition of that permanent bridge, cemented tightly inside my head these many years. 

Rest in peace, Tom.

Head trauma drama

 Kathleen took a backwards fall on March 15, 2026. Beware the Ides of March. A loud crash had brought Stan down from upstairs to find his bride, her back against the dishwasher, and a bit confused about what had just happened.

“What happened,” he asked. She wasn’t sure. Apparently she had been preparing a bite when she fell back and struck a metal protrusion with her skull. She was conscious, but felt a wetness against her back. It was blood.

Stan grabbed her beneath the armpits and hoisted his lightweight bride onto her walker/chair, then stepped into the hall to see if Emergency Tech Jerod in 600 was available. He wasn’t. But Maria and Teresa were chatting down the hall and were waved into service.

Maria, who once sold medical supplies and was thus deemed the most qualified, donned gloves and tried to stop the bleeding, by now soaking the house dress, floor and chair. Preparations were being made to drive her for some stitches at Urgent Care, but with slight lapses now, the three decided it was best to just call 911 and let the professionals take over.

While still talking with the dispatcher on the phone, we could hear the distant fire and police scrambling up the street, and soon Unit 601 was swarmed with uniforms, about six, joined shortly by a couple of paramedics with questions about blood thinners. And then a stretcher. 

Because of the head blow, the crew decided to transport her to Hennepin County Medical Center, a trauma one facility, the very best care presently available in the Twin Cities.

Kindly, Maria drove Stan downtown where he watched them cut-away the blood stained dress and make sensible decisions, again swarmed by confident, knowing types.

 

Scans would reveal a slight brain bleed, which was more concerning than the scalp laceration that required Dr. Dowd to close it with nine of her finest stitches, while Stan filmed her. (The photos were so graphic, they won’t be shown here) Kathleen was then held for two days for observation. Thank you Medicare.

We do have before and after photos of the brain bleed, which satisfactorily disappeared after two weeks.

A home nurse, physical therapist and administrator, have made subsequent Medicare calls, pleasant folks all, as we gently get back to normal, following recommendations as best we can.

The bloody house dress has been discarded, and the wound is fast disappearing. We’re grateful for the outcome.

________________

While Kathleen was being wheeled through the lobby, a startled neighbor spotted her, and then informed a mutual friend and former neighbor now in Amman, Jordan, of what he had just seen. So Stan’s immediate first panicked call inquiring about Kathleen’s condition came from the Mideast, miles from the Strait of Hormuz. . Huh? A strange world we live in.