A couple of dinosaurs

It was a beautiful sunshiny day, the last of February, 45 degrees. A walk down to the Science Museum seemed a great idea, but like most Minnesotans eager for spring, Stan jumped the gun and didn’t wait for the sun to do its job on the snow. The walk was marred with sidewalks full of slush, snow, ice and standing water too wide to leap. He made the trip anyway, it just took longer. A year ago, Stan went to the museum riding a wheelchair on a field trip, an inpatient outing as part of treatment for stroke injury. The therapists made secret notes on how we did on the childhood challenges, like playing the keyboard embedded in the floor, or shooting baskets in the sports area. Stan didn’t do any of that stuff today, figuring the sidewalks were balance challenges enough.

Dave Simpkins, R.I.P.

Publisher Dave Simpkins had had enough. His typesetting equipment was failing again. Getting out the local newspaper on time was up to the spinning wheels on a refrigerator-sized Compugraphic, driven by yellow punch tape, using plastic font strips and expensive photo paper. It was not doing its part.

Steve Jobs to the rescue. In 1984, he introduced the 128K Apple MacIntosh.

Dave saw its potential, replaced his broken equipment, and instantly became a Minnesota pioneer in plain-paper typesetting. Innovation after innovation, he gleefully reported his progress in the weekly Minnesota Newspaper Association Bulletin.

I eagerly took note of his reports, undergoing a transition of my own at the newspapers I ran, but my path went through Bill Gates, in the Microsoft world. I would compare progress in this race to innovate, experiment, simplify, increase the bottom line.

Dave Simpkins died last night. He’ll be remembered as a free-thinking, fun-loving extrovert, always seeking answers to difficult problems, never afraid to lead. Our thoughts are with his wife, Linda.

Four to five inches

Winter's back. Fresh coat on the out of doors.

Kathleen's new car

Her fourth VW. We bought a 2018 Volkswagen Coast edition today. The yellow is gone, replaced by a teal model. Kind of unique color that Stan will feel more comfortable driving. This one has a sunroof too, and other goodies the previous one lacked. Still needs an assist to reach the hatch when it's open.

Horrific, evil? of course.

In 1970, due to the wisdom of my elders, I was drafted into the Army and assigned an M-16 assault rifle.

In time I earned an Expert's badge, but not before being made to low-crawl on my hands and bloody knees over gravel because I did not respect the lethality of this deadly device, having squeezed a single round down range, but out of order. It is a lesson I have not forgotten, and now I’m still stunned that some screwed up kid can just buy a similar weapon at will over the counter.

Thoughts and prayers? C’mon.

And then I saw this bright light. . .

Prepped for some light anesthesia for eye surgery yesterday, I recalled the last negative experience  I had had after my recent colonoscopy. Against the doctor’s orders and written instructions, we had breezed over to Buca’s restaurant. Dehydrated from fasting and apparently with drugs still working, I ordered a plateful of spaghetti and meatballs, dug in, and quickly fainted. Paramedics were called. It was all my fault, but perhaps my new anesthetist should know about it.

So just before being wheeled into the OR yesterday, I thought to mention the experience the last time I was drugged for surgery: “Doctor,” I said gravely as she was leaving, "Before we go in, I want to make a confession.”

Entirely misunderstanding, she quickly replied, “Oh no, we don’t do that here.”

She was soon relieved to hear that the burden I had on my soul was the premature spaghetti and meatballs at Buca’s.

I’ve learned my lesson, I promised, we laughed, and were good to go.

Hamburger heaven

Kathleen, Stan, Andrew, Betsy, Pat

As we cruised past Cretin High on Randolph Avenue in St. Paul today, Kathleen couldn’t help recalling outloud the names of the boys she and her Catholic girlfriends chased there: “Steve, Dave, Don, Bob, Dick, Pete...” In the back seat, her husband just kept his mouth shut.

Order Up!

Walls are lined with genuine historic items; not
the instant ambiance found in other chain restaurants.

Our driver, Andrew, was taking us to The Nook for lunch, just across the street. This burger joint must not be missed, he informed us, “it’s a historic site.” Indeed, it was a horse barn and gas station long before Kathleen’s salad days, then became Wally’s Nook in 1938 and The Nook later, not that she would notice, her eyes steady on the then boys-only school.

We squeezed into the Barbra Streisand booth (she was here) in the back under the autographed gaze of Guy Fieri of Diner’s, Drive-ins and Dives (he was here too). The booth was next to the wall that hid the homemade french-fry press that you could hear periodically pounding out the day’s fare. The menu was most extensive. . . if you like hamburger. We do, fortunately.

When Andrew’s neighbors’ heard he was going to The Nook, they wanted to come too, and, sure enough, they greeted us as we arrived. We were delighted to meet Pat and Betsy, a warm diversion from our cabin fever. They knew what they wanted, being more or less regulars here.

We ordered a variety of burgers and accompaniments: fried onions, tomato and lettuce, cheddar cheese, cole slaw (rough-cut, wet and very good, not too sharp), french fries (homemade), sweet potato fries (nice break from potatoes) and drinks. The hamburgers came not in normal patty form, more of a meaty mound of well-done ground round.

The service was slow, but we didn’t care. There were new friends, lots of memorabilia and artifacts and pictures.

After a pleasant visit and meal, we said our goodbyes, then our guide directed us to the basement. Down the worn cement stairs, low and behold, a complete bowling alley, taking up the basement space of all the next-door buildings. The low ceiling features plumbing and heating pipes serving businesses above. A small bar behind plexiglass completes the scene. As we stared at this vacant hideaway with old school pin-setters, Andrew commented: “it gets nuts and packed in the evenings.”

We resolved to return and bowl a few lines someday soon, in the early afternoon, then returned to the sunlight outdoors.

“Crash!” a snow clump dropped off the door ledge onto Stan’s head. Wiping himself off, he immediately stepped onto an ice slick and went down on his butt. Uff Da.

Maybe we’ll wait for spring before returning to this St. Paul gem.

Andrew, wearing shorts in honor of women who wear dresses on cold days, (really?) demonstrates 

Abbey Point night ...tonight's big gathering

This is what it has come to. Our former neighbors in Shakopee gathering for the monthly meeting of Abbey Pointers. Above are John and Mary Gerken and Tom Story, who texted their plight. Everyone else of the 24, it seems, is off to Florida or somewhere else tonight, prompting this photo and text from lonesome Tom. Soon things will get back to normal, we're sure. At least that's how it seems from St. Paul. Is that a Bourbon against winter's cold, John?

Nine

Happy Birthday to Birdie! Nine years old today. My, my; the things we find to cherish in our dotage.