Yo Adrian!

“Life's not about how hard of a hit you can give... it's about how many you can take, and still keep moving forward.” ― Sylvester Stallone, Rocky Balboa

Trying to do the Rocky Balboa pout.

Less than a week after winning his Golden Globe for "Creed," Sylvester Stallone dropped by the Stonebrooke Clubhouse for a beer and a chat with old friends.
Yeah, right.
Actually, here's Pete Holzer, 49, sort of a poor man's Stallone look-a-like, jaw-jacking with his old boss, who hasn't seen Pete much since he left the company about 15 years ago -- with an excellent work record. He sold advertising for the newspaper company.

We easily recognized  Pete tonight after all these years, the resemblance to the actor was still striking. We took some time to catch up. Pete still lives in Jordan and now works for Oracle. And he's the dreamer that he always was. Fun to see him -- still looks better than the actor, don't you think?

Rock and Roll is here to stay

Rockin' the Clubhouse. Old guys do it best.

When we saw the bald heads on the old rock 'n rollers tonight, we just knew they'd play something we like.
They did.
Iko Iko, Nick of Time, Nobody Loves You When, Stir it Up, you know, the good stuff -- Bonnie Raitt, Dr. John, some Reggae, great licks, non-stop.
These veterans have a repertoire that reflects a life time in the music scene. Aimee Lee, the lead singer, carries a torch. And when they jammed, uff da.
They are good friends, this is for fun, and that's why the group comes out to our tiny venue in the boonies.  Kirby the keyboarder could name only one "responsible" job he's ever had. . . and that was selling pianos.
We had just come by for a burger, what a nice surprise.
We stayed for a second set.

For the record. . .

Kathleen's mother died 10 years ago this January. We didn't have this blog at the time, so we'll post this eulogy now, to put it on the record for future reference. We enjoyed re-reading it, you may as well.

Florence with her Grandson, Tony Brewer

Florence Neilson was born at home in St. Paul, July 30th, 1906, the sixth child of William J. Gander and Mary Sullivan Gander. She was baptized Florence Mary Veronica Gander. She died Jan. 2, 2006 at St. Anthony Park Nursing Home in St. Paul at the age of 99, just shy of 100 years. She witnessed much during her lifetime.

She was confirmed at St. Luke's Catholic Church. She attended St. Joseph's Academy. Her father was a printer, a lithographer by trade. Two of her uncles were St. Paul firemen. She recently shared memories of great white horses harnessed to a coal-fired water pump, hooves clattering, bells clanging and smoke and steam streaming as they charged past this little girl down the cobblestones to a St. Paul house fire.

In 1937 she married Leonard Neilson in St. Paul. This union brought four children, Mary Louise, Daniel Leonard, Kathleen Ann and James John. Their marriage was interrupted by World War II when Leonard served in the Pacific Theater. Their love letters are reread and cherished by her grandchildren and others to this day. After Leonard's return from the Philippines, the couple reunited at 1142 Marshall Ave in St. Paul, sharing residence in the Gander family home, where Florence had been caring for her widowed father.

Florence managed the household, raising not only her own children, but caring for members of her extended family who lived there as well. She cooked three square meals a day, every day, usually feeding eight, including her brothers, Uncle Willie, Uncle Dan and family friend, Frank Fahey. Frank was a professional baseball scout and object of considerable family pride. He was a regular visitor to Florence's table and often left a dollar with her to help pay for groceries. This traditional family unit gathered at the same mealtimes every day, said grace together and shared conversation. They were bound by necessity, habit, family ties and good food. It was Florence who made it work.

Family style, home cooking, whatever you call it, it meant chicken ala king, roast beef, tuna hot dish, macaroni and cheese, pumpkin pies, and, of course, big turkeys on Thanksgiving and Christmas. After school, hot rolls or fresh-baked cookies often greeted the children coming in from the cold. She scrubbed their clothes in a wringer washer next to the basement coal furnace, then hung them out to dry in the back yard.

Florence cooked everything from scratch on a tight budget. Leonard often told a story of shopping with her at the old Golden Rule department store. He once wandered away to a bakery nook and naively returned with a special treat --- beautiful finished brownies, ready to eat. His lesson in such extravagance was swift, he would laugh, much later: Florence kicked him a good one in the shins.

It was this kind of leadership that earned the diminutive but feisty matron of Marshall Ave the nickname "Big Shorty." She never stood more than five feet tall. She served as the neighborhood yardstick for growing kids who would check their height against hers in hopes of accelerating their progress to adulthood.

Twenty-nine years ago, Florence lost her husband to cancer, ending their partnership but not his enduring memory. Faithful to the end, Mrs. Leonard Neilson always spoke fondly of "Pa" as though he had just left moments ago. In 1994, she bore the loss of their son, James, to a sudden heart attack. He succumbed while mowing the front lawn. He was only 49.

During her 99 years, Florence was blessed with excellent health, a particularly notable achievement since her food pyramid favored meat and potatoes and gravy……..and the occasional "tako" from "Tako Johns."  She had no regular doctor. In 1995, she suffered a heart attack, but it was no big deal, apparently. She phoned Kathleen because she had a stomach ache. But she couldn't depart for the hospital until her nails were cut and her makeup applied. Eventually they got to the emergency department. But Florence looked so good in the emergency room, that, despite pleadings, no one paid serious attention to her. Fours hours later she was finally diagnosed with a heart attack and then hospitalized for five days. Her remarkable health continued. Even during her last years at the nursing home she didn't have much use for the country's new drug plan. Her medication regimen was simple.  Tylenol whenever needed.

Florence loved her St. Paul newspaper and read it daily. She was a publisher's dream. She never traveled far from home, but every day the world spread out before her as she turned the pages and read the stories on her kitchen table. She held a stunning command of local and world events and often surprised listeners with her insight into arcane and novel subjects.

She followed her beloved Twins and Golden Gophers on the sports pages, on radio and television. Her favorite team, of course, was the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame. The science of rosters and records and her home team's chances came easily, naturally. Her boys played baseball in their youths and she loved to follow the action.

Florence had a goofy streak. It is a genetic characteristic that has been carried forward by her kin. She loved to confound her daughters when shopping. Florence could slip away and disappear easily because she was too short to be seen over the clothes racks. And since she was a little hard of hearing, it forced her adult daughters, in a wonderful role reversal, to wander from aisle to aisle, calling out loudly, "Mother, mother, where are you?"

She never lost that goofy touch. She was loved at the nursing home for her dining room antics. I joined her there once at a table with three strangers. One was a dignified elderly gentleman whose stoic demeanor was at odds with the white bib tied around his neck. Florence opened him up instantly with the question: "Are you a Republican?"

Throughout her life, Florence never had much money, always cutting corners and looking for bargains. Purchasing the new oilcloth for the kitchen table was a special event. That changed late in her life, when pension money and an inheritance from her sister accumulated in a brand new savings and investment account. But she never really got used to having all that comfortable cash on hand, try as she might. Concluding one shopping trip to Penny's, she signed her check with a flourish and announced loudly to her daughter and anyone else within earshot, "There's plenty more where that came from!"

The world is a little bit smaller today. The Pioneer Press has lost a loyal subscriber; the Fighting Irish a loyal fan; the St. Paul Fire Department has lost an advocate; St. Cecelia's Catholic Church has lost a devout member and the St. Anthony Park Nursing home has lost some of its sparkle.

If heaven is where all the best things happen whenever we want them to happen and the love we share on earth lives forever; if it is a place where happiness has no bounds,

If heaven is where Leonard, and James, and Bubbles and Uncle Willie, Auntie Gertrude, Frank, and so many other dear ones are just waiting on us, then it is time for them to slide the table out from the wall, put in the leaf, push up the chairs and gather around, because mother is home and she's making everyone dinner tonight.

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Delivered by Stan Rolfsrud, her son-in-law at services held on January 10, 2006, at the O'Halloran and Murphy Funeral Home in St. Paul. Burial followed at Fort Snelling. Lunch was served at the Holiday Inn.

Jack is back

The big dip last night brought out a famous window artist to leave creative examples of natural wonder on our frozen glass.
Cold air continues in the forecast. We're inside and cozy, making plans. Sub-zero tomorrow on exposed Viking arms -- Kathleen says they're preparing special clothing for both teams. What would Bud Grant say?

High of 5 degrees in Shakopee today, 9 below tonight.

Photos by Stan Rolfsrud -- "No two designs are ever alike."

Friday morning

Photo by Stan Rolfsrud

With all this gorgeous scenery it's hard to believe we're planning an escape, but we are. It's been mild the past few days, then a polar plunge into sub zero starting this weekend when the SeaHawks invade for their coldest game ever. We'll get motivated.
After the constant rains, the West Coast should be warm and green in a couple of weeks, perhaps a leisurely road trip there through Utah's glory?

Route 128, 2008

Are you sure that's what it says Grandpa?

Photo by Briggs Wilson

Another delightful post from our niece Briggs detailing a visit to Grandma and Grandpa's house in Arizona. For details, open blog at right.

Parting Gifts

With his beloved Packers falling to the Vikings and the mercury about to plunge precipitously, our neighbor Jeff declared "I'm outta here!" -- and he's taking Marcia with him. A limo has since picked up the dashing couple for a flight to Florida and a winter in their San Marcos Island home. Jeff kindly dropped by this morning to bid us farewell and thoughtfully leave us with a parting gift: two days worth of household garbage.

Red, White and Blue. . . thinking green.

Morning fog frosted the neighborhood into a winter wonderland, but with friends writing from Cozumel, others posting from Florida, and Hai beckoning from California, it is hard to ignore the Garbage Man's advice, below. Meanwhile, Stan got a clean bill at his annual checkup at the VA today, we've got a few other details to tend to  . . but we're thinking, no doubt about it.


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Photos: Flowering crab, flocked and bedecked with ornaments, more spectacular than when we light it for Christmas. Icy shards melted by afternoon.
Below, trash day, the neighbors are in sunny Florida, their daughter came to take out their trash.

Florida Photos

Our neighbors are enjoying a break at their Florida condo, Sandy spotted some wildlife and sent along this photo today. She writes:

"Spotted our first Roseate Spoonbill (at least one that was sitting still for a photo). We've been looking since we learned about them in the spring. He was hanging out with the ibis."
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Like the American flamingo, their pink color is diet-derived, consisting of the carotenoid pigment canthaxanthin. Another carotenoid, astaxanthin, can also be found deposited in flight and body feathers.[9] The colors can range from pale pink to bright magenta, depending on age and location. Unlike herons, spoonbills fly with their necks outstretched. They alternate groups of stiff, shallow wingbeats with glides. --- Wikipedia