Head trauma drama

 Kathleen took a backwards fall on March 15, 2026. Beware the Ides of March. A loud crash brought Stan down from upstairs to find his bride, her back against the dishwasher, and a bit confused about what 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 her armpits and hoisted his lightweight bride onto her walker/chair, then stepped into the hall to see if Med Tech Jerod in 602 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 stitches at Urgent Care, but with slight lapses now, the three decided it was best to call 911 and let the professionals take over.

While still on the phone, we could hear the fire and police scrambling up the street, and soon 601 was swarmed with uniforms, about six, joined shortly by a couple of paramedics with questions. 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 best care presently available in the Twin Cities.

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 held for two days for observation. Thank you Medicare.

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

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

The house dress has not been replaced, but the scar 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. Huh? A strange world we live in.

Memories

 My buddy Wayne, fellow publisher and International Falls fishing guru, stumbled across some old photos today, and sent me a a few for posterity. Thanks Wayne, we flew into Canada many times in our years together. . . and always caught fish. This was taken from Lake Outukomomoan (sp) in the fall of 2019. Little did we know what the coming decade would bring.

Saturday Night! Woohoo!

Christmas gift:

My typing instructor . . .

 There are fewer people to challenge your memory as you age. You’re free to recall events that may or may not have occurred and you can do so with unabashed abandon. I love that.

Take the memories of my sophomore year typing class, in 1962 - 1963. 

The clattering classroom was tucked behind the home ec area, ostensibly to shield the academic wing from the constant cacophony of 30 manual typewriters brutally banging out the day’s exercises. Mr. S (I just can’t remember his name) placed the tallest boys in the back so they didn’t block the view of the huge placard on the front wall that revealed the day’s keyboard layout. Our typewriters all had blinder caps on the keys so that we couldn’t cheat and look down at our hands while learning proper stroking technique and key placement.

(I do remember the name of the subsequent instructor. Mr. Reiter. We were pals in the hidden back row of the choir loft at the First Lutheran Church during my senior year, singing bass with the adult Chancel choir and goofing off. His nickname was “Type Reiter.” Unforgettable, of course.)

Mr. S had placed me, at 6 foot one, in the back of the room. Methodically, he had placed a junior class man, at 6 foot 3, at that same rear station during the preceding class. Invariably, this joking occupant would leave the typewriter all fouled up for me, with inky strikers all jammed against the platen, requiring me to pull them apart before beginning the daily warm up.

(But, in what seemed like an unfair case of karmic justice, the following year, the persistent prankster was kicked off the varsity basketball team. This opened a slot for me on the starting five. What?)

In the classroom, we worked diligently on our “words per minute” scores, no whispering in this clanging environment. . . until Mr. S squeezed his stopwatch and ordered “Stop!” Then a silent relief as we marked our progress.

I had no idea of the benefit this daily hour of exercises and tests would bring.

Drafted in 1970 during the Vietnam War, I resolved during boot camp to avoid a combat specialty as best I could, perhaps as a clerk-typist. To this end, I sat with 30 some hopeful trainees in a test of typing skills. Thankfully, Mr. S’s training came through. I got the top score that day in that room, and immediately was assigned to an office job as a public relations specialist in Texas. 

At least that’s how I remember it. So who was Mr. S?

False alarm

 Back in the day when girls wore girdles or garter belts to hold up their nylons, I was a 15-year old riding from Alexandria with my mother to Concordia College in Moorhead. This was long before some women started burning bras in protest.

We parked near Fjelstad Hall where my freshman big sister was staying in the women-only dormitory. I was not allowed, so I waited quietly in our old Dodge as the dusk gathered. Room lights came on in the classic stone edifice, boasting huge windows, most with drawn curtains.

My attention was drawn to the first floor, however, when at eye level I saw a lovely co-ed dash in, perhaps stopping by her room before supper time in the college cafeteria. Bored and innocent, I watched casually from my vantage point. I was about to receive an educational first.

Quick as a wink, she bent over the bed, reached into her bra, and plop, plop out came a pair of foam falsies. 

I was aghast. She left her room as quick as she came, apparently her only mission was to relieve herself of this tiresome burden. Not wishing to discuss the intimate subject, I didn’t tell mom.

Nuptials

It was our pleasure to host the Dec. 21
 wedding of Diana and Aaron Rolfsrud.

 The groom is my brother's son. Complete wedding photos are available with a special link to be shared soon. 

The excitement began with the rental of our community room for the service, and arrangements made for a huge "Kings Table" in our great room. The bride's vision for her winter wedding was magnificent, and came together expertly under her competent direction, despite the hobbled assistance from the groom, who had conveniently sprained his ankle prior to the event.

Loved ones gathered promptly that Sunday afternoon with great anticipation, dressed for the forever photos that would record the event for generations. 

Both immediate families were present at the small ceremony, with a larger common reception to be announced later this year to celebrate the union. A catered dinner followed the service with 20 adults at one table as well as a "kids table" that accommodated the flower girls.

Toasts were exchanged, wishes were made, friendships cemented. A most memorable event.

A senior gentleman from central casting officiated, his gray hair and sweeping mustache giving a classy and august presence. They united under a nuptial arch designed and carried out by the bride. Vows were exchanged, with the bride admitting to overcoming early "red flags" in their relationship. For his part, Aaron said he had never been more sure of this decision to spend the balance of his life with her.

We are so pleased to enlarge our extended family with Diana's relatives and friends, a substantial faction giving Aaron a wonderful depth of support. We are very pleased as well with his bride, no one better for Aaron. . . or us.

Brother-in-law

My big sister was going through her attic this weekend and produced this gem. Years ago, she had painted her young husband, 25 years old. Kathleen and I recognized him immediately. He's presently in his 80s and still has a head of hair to be envied. We hope this work gets hung properly somewhere. It's wonderful.

Ice cream for the deer?

 Wayne leaves his camera behind at the end of deer hunting season. The motion- activated camera runs until June when the batteries give out. He retrieves the captured images and sorts through them later at home. There's always an interesting surprise. 

Getting in the spirit. . .

 Katie and daughter, Marcy, love the Popovers at the General Store in Minnetonka, and try to make a pit stop during the busy errand day, usually a Tuesday. Cafe & Bistro is the name of the restaurant, and they'll often bring Stan a sample for staying home with the cat.