Okay, okay

Here it is, by popular demand, a trophy fish from Canadian wilderness. Thanks for asking, it is 26 inches, 6 pounds, and was pulled from 28 feet of warm water, off a jig with medium minnow. Three day expedition, yielding a yeoman's supply of walleye, augmented by northern pike, which were immediately released.

Ladies who lunch, again

Taking full advantage of the situation, the ladies went to Outback for steaks, and a lot of chat. Notice the lack of patrons, who keep more conventional lunch time hours. Kathleen and M'liss, with enough leftovers to satisfy a homecoming fisherman.

 

Okay, John. You're on the blog

In what at first blush looks like an arcane form of elder abuse, Canadian Wilderness carpenter/everything else workman John Anderson, 83, tends to another chore at the Family-owned fishing lodge in Ontario. He's been maintaining, hosting, building for the family for 50 years and brought order and quality construction to the typically ramshackle outposts, where lumber and materials are flown in at great expense, and often pre-cut to facilitate assembly. 

Winters are long in his hometown Ft. Frances, and when he's not shoveling snow or doing some other chore, John occasionally amuses himself by reading this blog and researching Rolfsrud family history. Which gives you an idea of just how boring life can be when the fish aren't biting or the bears aren't tipping the dumpsters. Despite the heat this week, the fish were biting in the over-warm waters, but we will resist any boasting, for now. Standby for trophies.

Ladies Who Lunch 2.0

Katie with her long-time girlfriend, Bonnie, 
today for a proper luncheon at Houlihan's in Chanhassen.

Almost a 10, almost

“I have never been to Wyoming,” my bride spoke firmly into her texting machine. Cousin Kelli had been sending us glorious photos of their recent visit to that state and Katie was sounding jealous. I dared intervene. “You’ve been there,” I said, softly so as not to be recorded into her message. "I got a ticket."

This is why I keep a blog. A historic record to augment failing memories, I can tell you lots of things about our past, as long as I can find anyone interested in it. Our Wyoming visit is a prime example. In fact, a permanent record in the Wyoming Highway Department will attest to its veracity. As does my blog. 

I take you back in the Way Back machine to Tuesday, January 26, 2016. 

Caught. Fined. Released.

When compared with yesterday, today was almost perfect.

Heading west and alone on a dry sunlit highway, the miles flew past as we gently changed altitudes, curving undisturbed through pristine landforms, occasionally gasping at a vista so wide it seemed to reveal the curvature of the earth.

We drove softly into a day spread with sheets of blue and white so clean you’d think God was making his bed for a stayover in Wyoming.

The Silver Fox Steakhouse website said their highly-recommended restaurant in Casper would open at 11 am for lunch. Today, two very prompt seniors had to shake on the door handles a bit to get them to open up on time, but were glad they did. Kathleen chose a wonderful homemade chicken pot pie and Stan the tenderloin salad; they shared the hot fudge sundae that lured them in the first place. It looked just like the picture on the web site.

Speed limits can vary widely in this sparsely populated state, ranging from 65 to 80 per. Driving 80 is great fun and can be habit forming, especially when you have the road all to yourself. There’s a gorgeous stretch of two-lane highway south of Casper that eventually rises to the Continental Divide. Then just east of Muddy Gap, a section of highway spreads out as flat and wide and straight as the Salt Flats. For some reason, it is clearly posted at a mere 65 miles per hour.

With distant snowcapped mountains to gaze at, it was easy to let the big old Lincoln out of the barn a bit. Didn't notice the actual speed. Trooper Mike, tooling along in the opposite direction on behalf of the Wyoming Highway Patrol, did. He adroitly performed a textbook reversal of direction — a skillful move reluctantly appreciated through the rear view mirror of the Minnesota miscreant.

Yes, it was almost a perfect day.

Pleasantries and information were exchanged. It was agreed that Stan will be sending $67 to the State of Wyoming, which seemed more than reasonable for a low-altitude flight over endless prairie.

Ah, January 26. An almost perfect day. “Did you remember that your mother died exactly a year ago today,” Kathleen reminded?

“No, I didn’t,” Stan responded ruefully, still thinking about the ticket. “Darn. I could have used that to get some sympathy with Trooper Mike.”

_______________________

Yes, Katie. We have been to Wyoming.

At last, some clarity

Texted my big sister, Becky, in West Des Moines as usual this morning,  remarking that I was eating an Avocado toast for breakfast. We chat a lot, you see, and have used up many topics, please understand. 

Since I have no idea what “woke” means, I asked her if she thought eating the toast with avocado was being “woke.” 

“Only if you have nuts on it,” she quickly texted back. 

Ah, at last, someone to cut through it all and bring some sense to the confusion. Now I’ve always known I was a tree-hugger, but I could never tell if that was a good or bad thing. And who the hell is Karen? She seems to be everywhere.

Yes, my dear one, once upon a time, there was penny candy

 

Choosing

With some friends, it doesn’t matter what you do, you are going to have a good time. So when Stacy and Kitty suggested guiding us through Minnesota’s Largest Candy Store, we were All In, even though, between us, we have about $20,000 in recent dentistry to protect.

They confessed to shopping there on numerous occasions, quickly explained that they have many grandchildren and really only get popcorn for themselves. Right. We met today at Mallard’s new restaurant in Shakopee for some good eats but very disappointing service, as, unfortunately, our advanced age makes us almost invisible. 

Heading southwest on 169, Stacy wheeled us very near to the front door of the jammed candy store parking lot. Stacy always drives. He’s from Chicago and a bit more pushy and daring than we nice Minnesotans, and we like it, sitting in his back seat. 

The excitement of nearing the candy mountain was palpable. An absolute gatherer’s paradise. Hunters? Not so much. But Stacy and I have been tamed and stood respectfully with our yellow baskets, after perusing the aisles and aisles of excess to our satisfaction. Eventually, we rejoined our spouses after what seemed a reasonable time (to us) for a primordial gathering experience.

Bryce, a summer employee attending Jordan High, expertly packed our 2 hours worth of finds, having no appreciation for the nostalgia that drives oldsters to pay over a hundred dollars for Nickel Nibs, Necco, BlackJack gum, bottles of Squirt, Bubble Up, O Henry bars, candy cigarettes, pop rocks and other boomer fare. He just methodically fit it all into a box, cash only, and cheerfully wished us well, obviously used to the nonsense of these invisible ancient people, and actually more interested in the babe at cash register No. 3.

Huh. Bet he can’t operate a dial telephone! So there!

Earlier in the day, I had asked bachelor friend Arty in 519 what his favorite youth candy was. Hands down, it had to be the venerable Heath bar. Not a Health bar. Heath bar. He bought one almost every day after school as a child. If you look at its logo, it looks like H Eat H bar. At least, that’s what Arty thought and he ordered it that way. “Give me an H Eat H bar,” he instructed the clerk, time and again. It wasn’t until the last day of sixth grade that the clerk bothered to tell him that it was pronounced “Heath Bar.” Still chagrined and humiliated after all these years, nonetheless, I spotted a Heath Bar today and purchased a couple in his nostalgic honor, 65 years later. $2.98 each, but hey!

Flashback to rural Alexandria, 1954: When Tarnow’s resort closed shop for the summer, our only source of penny candy was five miles from our rural homestead, and rides to town were always at a premium. Except Wednesday nights for church choir, when the chosen choir attendee would take penny candy orders for his 4  siblings, returning from church with Bazooka Joes and licorice strings, Clark bars and assorted must-have goo. Junior choir practiced first, adult choir later at 8, allowing for a quick trip to the treasury at the Fountain of Youth on Fillmore. I once ordered a “male Hershey”, thinking it might stun the clerk, but he promptly handed me a chocolate bar with nuts and said, “what else?” Disappointing. If you had time left on the church adult choir hour clock, you could stop and peek at a (gasp) color TV, proudly displayed and running in the lobby at KCMT.

I say four siblings, because when I texted my big sister this morning asking about her favorite candy, intending to surprise her with it, she responded that she couldn’t recall having an extra penny for candy. ??? She did remember having only $1.25 for a week’s worth of school lunches and occasionally skipping lunch for the freedom and luxury of a 15-cent slice of lemon chiffon pie and 10-cent fountain coke at the Bluebird Cafe, near the Trumm Drug corner. That was all before the ubiquitous sales tax, which would have made such an elopement impossible for a poor girl of no means. Not a penny left for a candy treat!

My big sister is a war baby, one of six children, and has entirely different youth memories than us baby boomers, who lived a life of A-bomb anxiety, crushed into tiny spaces meant for previous smaller generations. And we had to walk uphill to school barefoot, if I recall. But I digress.

Did our grandparents come this way?

Two successful red-blooded American entrepreneurs celebrated on Liberty Island today, she with her Gucci sneakers, cheesy tourist crown and Gucci handbag. Starting from nothing, now living the American dream, they pay taxes, create jobs for others. All they asked was a fair chance, and quickly became the backbone of their new country.

Bullish on America. Hard work and persistence.

So much to do, so little time

 

My wife usually does most of my shopping, you see

 Went to Von Mauer yesterday to see about some shoes that you can just step into, without bending over, that you read and see a lot of lately. Clerk there said no, don't have any, but how about some nice loafers? 

I said No. He said, Well, you should go to Scheel’s then...... Huh? That’s a hardware and sporting goods place headquartered in Fargo, I thought. And with the sort of world-view attitude that I don’t particularly appreciate, but whatever. I’ll take a look. Put politics aside, if the shoe fits, wear it.

Sorta like our dear helper, J, that I overheard as she combed out Katie’s hair the other day. Chatty, she opined that she really doesn’t like the politics and viewpoints espoused by those people at Chic-fila, “But their chicken is sooo good,” she said.

Yesterday, I got a delivery from Amazon (whose Bezos political blunders I have to overlook, in order to use their fantastic service). The delivery wasn’t even close to my requested order, so now I’ll have to bike it over to Kohl’s and return it. I mean, I ordered six plastic cereal bowls and got a prompt delivery of an Outdoor Digital Timer Box, of all things. After pledging on-line to their artificial intelligence that I would return the timer box intact, I got a promise of a future refund and the free cereal bowls, pronto.

By the way, I quit drinking Bud Light years ago, so I don't have that to deal with.

Kohl’s Amazon return center is next door to Scheel’s, so I’ll bike by and let you know about their shoe department. It’s located next to the dead moose and wolf display, I think.

So many first-world problems.

____________________

Update:

I pedaled down to Kohl’s, got my refund authorization, then slipped over to Scheel’s. This ain’t your father’s hardware store. The main floor is a clothing store, and the mega men’s shoe section is not located by the dead wolf display after all, it’s southeast of the Midway ferris wheel. Good thing I had an idea of what I wanted, as the hundreds, perhaps thousands of shoe choices quickly overwhelmed. Found a clerk, he directed to the non-athletic step-in choices and I picked one, size 13. He disappeared, then out the leather loafers came. Sure enough, stepped in to them while standing there, paid, then away we went, after I laboriously re-tied the sneakers I came to the dance with. Life changing? We shall see. That Von Mauer shoe department never had a chance.

Next week, we will tackle the jigs offered at Scheel’s second floor fishing fantasmagoria, for my upcoming Canadian convention of grumpy old publishers. Thousands of colorful weighted walleye jigs are just waiting there to be chosen by the experienced eye. 

Certainly not mine.

The party's over, thanks everyone!

We like to call it “My Birthday Week.” A happy time when you can justify any little selfish thing, with a "But it's my birthday week!" Sadly, even Birthday Weeks must come to an end. You’ve made mine special with all the wishes and nods and memories. Don’t know how many more of these I’ll have, but this was one of the best. The Pride Cake was a fun, free finish to our birthday dinner downstairs, but the tops was when my loved ones circled around and told stories about our best times together, and seeing my healing bride laughing uncontrollably until tears came to her eyes. These are the good times I shall never forget. 

So thank you,
for whatever your part. 

The sun has set on a wonderful day.

They came for the fireworks, stayed for Paul's ice cream

We watched seven fireworks displays from our Crow's Nest patio vantage point last night. 

Weather was perfect, overcast and we watched what seemed to be a more extravagant than usual program at Mystic Lake and Valleyfair.  

We had invited the neighbors who don't have the same vantage point, and enjoyed identifying the various city displays and separating them from the amateur attempts all around the city.

Overcast clouds created a magical background, reflecting brilliant colors in the lower reaches.

Joining us was Marty, who also often watches the Twins ballgames with Kathleen and Stan, our nephews Alex and Aaron, and a family from the fourth floor that we've enjoyed, Elizabeth, Paul and their son, Sander. 

Paul got an ice cream maker for Father's Day and made good use of it last night, treating us to scoops of banana and chocolate homemade delights.

You asked what I want for my birthday? At 76?

What do I want for my birthday at age 76?

Not much, really. I'll make a list.

1. I’d like the Twins ballgame to be on the same station every game, and for  greedy Major League Baseball to quit selling their loyal followers as pawns in the incessant battles for media dominance. Apple TV? Peacock? Fox 9? Bally? Pay per View? Where? What time slot?

(Love the day when you could press WCCO, and hear a long 10 second pause before Herb Carneil would break in with a simple: “Strike two”  or a remark from Halsey Hall. Calm pastime. No ratatatat endless commentary from old players rehashing their careers and repetitious theories.)

2. I wish there were 50 channels on television and I could just buy the five that I watch. I think that I buy 1000 of them now, carrying dismal old offerings or fake real tv just to access what I want with difficulty. 1000 channels and nothing to watch. Unbundle!

3. I want our oligarchs to treat their customers as number one, and not make them wait in line, talking to artificial intelligence. Pay big for quality customer contact. Don't seek the cheapest help. Cut cost elsewhere.

4. I wish news stations would not be controlled by marketing departments, so that they could just tell us what they know, instead of making us guess, and tease us through the next ten or so 15 second commercials. I don’t want to “find out who.” Just tell me.

5. l wish to reduce food prices by not displaying thousands of choices.

6. I wish I could control my laptop and phone, and didn’t have to constantly re-learn them due to upgrades and improvements done for “my convenience.”

7. I wish people wouldn’t wrap fresh fruit and vegetables in separate plastic bags, when they are already wrapped by nature and priced by the grocer.

That’s what I want for my birthday, and I promise I won’t ask for anything else.