End of the Green Line

 

End of the Line

Designers of the Southwest Station must have seen Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder in the “Silver Streak” runaway train crash into the Chicago Union Station gift shop, and hope to avert a similar catastrophe with these over-water heavy-duty steel and concrete barriers. The forms are still in place but should eventually reveal an effective back stop. 

Thank you, thank you!

Thank you, Thank you!

Kathleen has been thrilled by the overwhelming floral response from her many fans. A special display was needed to assemble the generous show of support.

Just kidding, but thanks sincerely for everything you have said and done. We continue to progress. The floral display is actually John’s handiwork in our business center, but proves a worthy backdrop for this little joke. 

The Blue Streak

 Kathleen's getaway vehicle, used for major trips. Walker exercise paramount. Blue streak used for convenience and sitting at table, etc.

The Blue Streak

Medical magic

 Highly technical drawing of spinal situation. 

Before entering surgery, Kathleen asked the neuro surgeon exactly what she was getting in to. He quickly complied, grabbed a marker and borrowed her white board for a presentation. 

See the drawings under the word Trauma? Well, the circle on the right represents a normal spinal cord. The drawing in the middle shows the result of her fall. The fractured vertebra, represented by the triangular shape,  has squashed the circle. This the surgeon would remove and the result is the injured spinal cord on the left, expanding into the new channel over time. Steel structures will replace the busted bone.

He’s a magician. Won’t even be a scar at throat entry point. Actually, he’s just a damn good, gifted surgeon, and a good man to boot. We’re so lucky.

Dangling from six stories today

 Pay is good, I am told.

Integrity, honesty

A good man, a decent, honest politician. A guiding light for many others, a North Star. Photo taken during a memorable overnight in his Washington home in 1983, as he prepared for his presidential bid. May he rest in peace, giving true meaning to the term “The Honorable.” He served Minnesota well, even stepping up after the Wellstone tragedy.

Daffodils in Des Moines

 My big sister, midway between vaccinations, sent me this sign of better days ahead. The first daffodil, rising in her Iowa garden.

Heaven

 I have no idea of what heaven would be like, but I have my thoughts.

As I look back, the nearest I may have come to heaven, perhaps, was in a piano bar in downtown Minneapolis. Allee Pigalle, it was named, and it drew four devil-may-cares on the prowl that night, must have been about 1978. Twenty somethings.

This was long before the obnoxious invention called Karaoke. The little bar was an intimate setting, where a friendly mistress encouraged patrons to cozy beside her baby grand and join her in whatever pleased. Very skilled in her craft, soon we complied: Bruce, Randy, Wayne and myself joined a previously seated singleton, and bellyed up to the piano bar, cocktails at hand.

Her talent seemed endless, as she seduced and guided us through a myriad of old favorites. Passing the microphone around, we sang heartily, often in harmonious quartet format, all Lutheran boys from Concordia, who had spent many a boring hour in enforced church chorus or congregational song, or even in college choir.

We sang through her variety of show tunes. She had large print song books to dish around in the dimness, and we did our best to entertain the roomful that had come just for the fun that summer weeknight. Eventually she turned a page to the popular show tune “Ol’ Man River” and I remembered hearing it being sung by a deep, rich bass, and recalled it to my memory. Seizing the day, I grabbed the mike and took my turn, careful not to spill the rest of my drink, and did my best to imitate that singer. Using the best vocal technique my dear mother ever taught me, I belted the finest rendition I could muster.

When done, I was pleased, even got a ripple from pre-occupied patrons. Then the microphone was genially passed around to the others and they offered their tunes . . . all except the man at the end of the bar, who had been just silently enjoying the pleasant camaraderie.

Eventually, not wishing to leave anyone out, the pianist kindly gestured to him, saying: “Sir, would you like to sing anything? Do you have any requests?”

“Yes,” the stranger responded. “I want to hear him sing ‘Old Man River’ again.”

And that, my dear friends, is what heaven must be like.

The wooden hand reappears

 

Once upon a time, long before the malevolent Covid had devastated the land, a gentle girl sweetly asked her grandpa if he would please buy a fake hand for her. A startling request to him, especially considering that she already had two perfectly good real ones. The odd request was made between the aisles, in Michael’s art supplies section, where grandpa is particularly vulnerable to these entreaties. 

She quickly secured the prize, as she was pretty sure she would be able, based on previous experience. She played with the flexible hand all the way home, coyly freaking out some surprised motorists, though modestly refraining from twisting the fingers into any gross misdemeanors. Grandpa figured he’d never see the wooden-jointed figure again, but, oh well, the grin on her face was worth it. Impulse purchase.

A long cold winter and endless hours of aloneness intervened, interspersed with rare and protected visits. A dark time, indeed.

But today, without warning, the fake hand reappeared In a modest sketch presented in a text. Wonderful! She’s almost 15 now, and I know you’re tired of me bragging about how talented she is, but please indulge an old grandpa in his dotage, and admire the work of this talented child, who gives a needed break from the tedium and hopes for a future that shows so much promise.

 I will stop now.