Down in the Valley

Money management with my teenager.

2009-04-02T11:18:00.000-07:00

Oh, sometimes this is the hardest part of raising kids. I know it's not like changing a dirty diaper, but it still stinks.

Mary Nagan - November 3, 1917 - October 15, 2008

2008-10-21T07:47:00.000-07:00

Mother Mary in the gardens of Healdsburg, at the wedding of Jeffrey and Christina, August, 2008.

Mary's eulogy –– written by Wendy Lewis.

I remember the first time I met Mary and Bill Nagan. Rita was shuffling uncomfortably around the dining room of she and Mike’s first house on Jefferson St. NE — her tattered turquoise robe barely made the turns around the girth of a very pregnant belly. While I was there, Mary and Bill dropped by. I was taken first with Mary’s brilliant blue eyes, then her infectious laugh and calm demeanor, which provided perfect ballast to Bill’s generous, blustery and endearing theatrics. I fell in love with both of them instantly and little did I know what kind of harvest this affair would bring. I was going to have to buy a few silos.

For almost thirty years, Rita and I have raised our children, survived poverty and calamity, traveled, celebrated our successes and buried our dead together — in short, we’ve polished off a few bottles of wine. Woven inextricably into all these events has been the strong fiber of her family and today we pay homage to the matriarch of this Irish crew — Mary Jane Farley Nagan.

Mary stands alone as my only true hero. Unwittingly, she lived beyond the standards for a woman of her own (or any) generation by truly being who she was and keeping time with her own internal drummer. She has always appeared to me to be disaffected and unshackled by conventional roles or limits of any kind. She was the sort of woman whose autonomy would inspire three staunchly independent and entrepreneurial generations in her own family while deeply affecting countless others on the periphery, myself, and my children included.

Mary was really good at doing what she wanted, when she wanted — and didn’t really make much ado about any of it. She didn’t need permission and perhaps she never even imagined it was part of the process. She didn’t rant, rave, demand or make a scene either; she just slipped through all the gates as if she’d been given a backstage pass. Her way of moving through the world gave me extra clearance to do the same. Without ever spelling it out, she showed me that you don’t have to fight for access; you just assume there is a freeway exit with your name on it and flip on your signal. It really works!

There is an infinite cache of stories family and friends will flush out in the days and years to follow — but here are a few that come to my mind. I was in New York at least twice with Mary and I know for a fact she dug closing wine bars, loved St. Patrick’s Cathedral and was always up for the next thing to do no matter how late it was. She’s also given me a host of gardening tips over the years, innumerable rants on U.S. and Irish politics, and plenty of information on Catholic rituals and saints. While she was one of the least judgmental people I’ll ever know she was certainly not devoid of her convictions. She never excelled at cooking, but she got damn good at those Irish potato buns — they weighed a pound each, stuck to your ribs and became standard Thanksgiving fare. Someone will need to sign up for those this year.

Here are few more things Mary taught me by example about the art of living well. Mary never “got old” but instead got bigger, always expanding and updating her skills, interests, goals and passions. I never thought of her as “someone’s mother”, an elderly woman whose presence required that I behave differently or edit myself. As long as I’ve known her, Mary has always pursued life as if it were meant to be lived right now, not wasting time with diminishing returns or pretense. She met everyone where they were.

Even with the losses she incurred during her years, she didn’t get sucked into the undertow of sentiment as she aged clinging to things that might weigh her down, but instead, made choices in the present tense and towards whatever interested her next. She thought nothing of taking up metal sculpture, traveling here and abroad, finishing a college degree or starting a new business in her 70’s, 80’s or 90’s. She didn’t throw the age card down as an excuse to not learn something, not challenge herself or unplug from the world. She would sometimes make reference to “those old people” as if she were not one of them — and clearly, she wasn’t.

Mary has everything to do with me being on this plane right now, writing about her, bound for Berlin. I’m heading off with three young musicians to tour the world for the next year. The chance that this would happen this late in my career is as likely as the chance I would miss the funeral of this remarkable woman who has had such a profound influence on my life! But, these unlikely events have lined up alongside each other and there is something so unbearably impossible and perfectly Mary about it all.

When I saw her four days before I left town, she asked me to check out Michelangelo’s The Last Supper when I got to Milan because she’d never been able to see it when she had traveled to Italy. I baited her with things like “here you are, still trying to make a Catholic out of me after 30 years” and “I’ll go see that damn painting if you’ll just wait for me to get back to tell you what it felt like”.

When I left her sick bed that day, I went to a studio to record the gospel song she’s long wanted me to sing at her funeral and every time she reminded me, I would say, “Mary … I can’t sing that or any song at your funeral because I can’t sing and cry at the same time”. Her response was always the same, “Well, that’s too bad. You’re gonna have to pull it together because you have to do it — I won’t take no for an answer”. It seems she has held me to that promise and let me off the hook at the same time because the song got sung but I’m not here to do it in the flesh. How she pulled this off will confound me for the rest of my days. If you need more proof, while Rita reads this to all of you, I’m on the ground in Milan trying to get to that painting. Life is a mystery.

You are all gathered here together today because of Mary Nagan. Celebrating her life is going to be easy; living without her will take some painful getting used to, and it may take awhile. Go easy on yourselves. One of the last things Mary said to me was, “So … off you go into the wild blue yonder!” As I write this, I’m flying at 36,000 feet suspended somewhere between the blue of heaven and the deep blue sea. I feel her floating along inside me and I know she will do the same with all who have had the pleasure and privilege of loving her.

Wedding Photos

2008-09-14T11:20:00.000-07:00

Margaret, Joseph and Justine. Just before they joined arms, jumped as high as cheerleaders and shouted, "Obama!"

Johanna, Lillian and Justine. Beautiful cousins.

Emily made the wedding sweets: cheesecakes. And they were darn good.

The Parents of the Groom: Joe and Jennifer.

Mother at the Wedding

2008-08-31T11:46:00.000-07:00

Oh, we had a great time last month at Jeffrey's wedding. Mother looked fabulous and had a great time.

The wedding ceremony was a half an hour late in starting. Someone forgot the marriage certificate –– the priest and the wedding party had to sign the document to make it legal. Then it was discovered that the rings had been left somewhere also. All documents and jewelry were eventually located.

The marriage ceremony commenced. Tears were shed. Tears of joy, of course.

Lucky in Lucca

2008-06-27T15:17:00.000-07:00

Life at Il Mulino is fabulous.

Antipasti dinner in a small restaurant up the mountain from Tofori.

2008-06-20T13:53:00.000-07:00

First course: a small bowl of cherries from the tree we can see from our table.
Second course: cantaloupe with proscuitto.
Third course: tuna, tomato, olive oil and bread salad.
Fourth course: polenta cake with a mushroom tampenade.
Fifth course: crostini - thin sliced tomato with mozarella cheese.
Sixth course: lasagna, like you've never, ever tasted.
Seventh course: eggplant and cheese.
Eighth course: bed of greens topped with roasted pancetta.
Ninth course: pecorino cheese slabs served with honey.

Vino rosa, olives and bread as sides.

Nothing more to say.

the M tour

2008-06-03T05:51:00.001-07:00

Tuesday, June 3 - making a list. checking it twice. cleaning up at the office. cleaning up at home.

Wednesday, June 4 - leave for paris with mother, madge and meghan. meet matthew in italy. the M tour.

Thursday, June 5 - arrive paris. it's my birthday. 54.

Friday, June 6 - still in paris. it's my 28th wedding anniversary -- at 8:00 p.m. paris time and 12:00 Noon Minneapolis time, Mike and I will raise a glass to each other - agreeing to sign on for another year. air hug. air kiss.

Saturday, June 7 - fly to pisa. matthew will pick us up at the airport. mmmmm, really? we've tried this before. default to doris.

spend the next week in lucca, san gennaro and il mulino. details to follow.

il dio li salva da noi stessi.

buon giorno.

Prom, 2008

2008-04-28T06:38:00.000-07:00

Bill at the Lake

2008-04-26T09:44:00.001-07:00

I found this image while rummaging through the family archives. One of the rare moments of Bill Nagan taking a rest. His three day stubble and scruffy hair lead me to believe he must have been taking some time off from the office. Not sure the exact year, but it was in the 70s sometime. This was Margaret's dog.

viewville.com gets launched.

2008-04-24T12:11:00.000-07:00

From an idea spoken about over dinner almost a year ago to this: the actual moment viewville.com was launched. 7:02 PM CST, April 23, 2008. As Jeremy is clicking that mouse, Viewville is open for the eyes of the world. (Evelyn took the picture) My exposure kept the screen dark, because we didn't want to show the tech page, we wanted to add the home page later. We wanted the real moment captured.

Ideas are floating in the air all around us. Ideas are the easy part. Making them happen is the hard part. We, Jeremy, Rita, Margaret and I have worked on this for almost a year. We will continue to work on it as long as it takes. If it works, good for us all. If it doesn't, we tried. Trying is what it's all about. I think it is going to work.

Chinese Pop Soul Advertising

2008-04-15T12:35:00.000-07:00

Most scientists agree. The future is actually going to be more futuristic than they had originally thought. Paving the way perfectly for more Chinese Pop Soul Advertising.

Painting Classes

2008-03-28T08:17:00.000-07:00

The first painting class is complete. Here is the result. The way the class works; you pick a still life that is set up in the studio, draw it identically with charcoal and transfer it to your canvas. All the instruction is about realism. Even Pablo Picasso was a realist first. Getting the shapes in relation to each other, the values, color and detail are what is discussed. Each class we completely recover the canvas with paint. Each class, or week, the subject changes due to aging and/or movement. After 8 weeks you have your result. I am happy with mine for a first attempt. I like the class and teacher and have signed up for another round.

Don't look at the background. I concentrated on the onions. You can tell those are onions, right? Now I am painting apples.

That's Miss Wilker to you.

2008-03-10T21:16:00.000-07:00

There's not much to say about our little sassy-pants. Except that we love her so.

Meghan sent me this image of precious, and I can't stop looking at her. She's as cute as my girls were, that's for sure. (God forbid I'd have said, "cuter than my girls" -- I never would have heard the end of it. Meowwwww.)

Scrabble Me

2008-02-23T05:19:00.000-08:00

Where are my scrabble peeps? I NEED to play scrabble. MC, make sure you have the scrabble board set up when I come for a visit. Travel scrabble would be best -- can we play on the train?

Karl

2008-02-19T16:00:00.000-08:00

Karl was a man I shared a hospital room with recently, for 2 days. It was one of those rooms with a curtain between the beds. As I was rolled in, I introduced myself, but Karl did not respond. He was moaning slightly, an older man in his late 80’s or early 90’s, with scabs on his legs. The staff got me situated. As I lay there questioning everything about my strange day, Karl began to speak. I thought, of course, he was speaking to me.

“Oh, I don’t know WHAT’S going on.”
“Excuse me? Are you all right?” I said.
“Muriel, open the door. That’s it. I can see it.” He was speaking clearly. “Tell me why we need to call them today.”

I began to realize he was babbling. So, he’s got the Alzheimer’s maybe. He went on and I began to ignore him. My mind drifted back to my day. I had coughed up blood earlier. When I checked the internet about what that might mean, it just said, call an ambulance. I didn’t. I waited and it stopped. It started again and stopped. When it started the third time I went to the Emergency Room at North Memorial Hospital. After many questions, a chest x-ray and CT scan that were inconclusive (no cancer), the doctors were puzzled and wanted me to spend the night and be seen by a pulmonary physician the next day. So there I was, in that room with Karl.

I heard him trying to sit up in bed. The curtain next to me began to move. Then it started thrashing and I realized he was grabbing it, trying to get out of bed. Oh-oh, he’s going to fall. I reached for the flailing curtain and pulled it aside so I could see him. “Are you all right? Do you need some help?” He was grunting and struggling to get up. I used the call button to summon the nurse. Patrick, our nurse from Uganda, with a heavy African-English accent native Africans have from their colonial past, came in and wrestled Karl back into his bed. “Karl. You have to stay in bed.” Karl would have none of it and fought him for a while before laying back. “Oh, I don’t know WHAT’S going on,” he moaned.

“I didn’t know what to do,” I told Patrick, “I thought he would fall.”
“It is fine. Call me anytime. He should not be trying to get up. Just call me if he does this thing again.”

Patrick left and Karl did it again, then again and again for 3 hours. I realized sleep was going to be hard this night. As I accepted my fate and got into the routine of calling Patrick and he apologizing for Karl, I began to listen to the rambling sentences Karl was uttering throughout all this.

“Who got the bid? Did we get the bid?”
“Try putting the wheels mid-range and increase velocity.”
“Have I missed my bus?”
“Muriel, I can’t see you.”
“The data is correct! I’ve been over it a hundred times!”
“Is this the bus that is taking me to the hospital?”
“Oh, I don’t know WHAT’S going on.”

I started to realize I was hearing things from his life. They were so specific. It was if all the sentences he spoke in his life were randomly being selected from some bowl in his mind and uttered again. There were times he sounded like a child. “Gertie, you hide here. I’ll hide over there and they will never find us.” At times he spoke what sounded like German. He even sometimes used English with a thick German accent, as if he had immigrated here, eventually losing his accent. It went on all night and all night I listened.

The next morning I began to see staff changes, new nurses, draw more blood, new drugs injected through my IV and the whole routine of a hospital floor. I was getting annoyed with all these tubes and wires connected to me. They made it hard lay in anything but certain positions. Going to the bathroom meant I had to hold everything in order as I walked along. Karl kept his story going. I tried to make some kind of contact with him.

“Good Morning Karl. How are you feeling this morning?” No response from the other side of the curtain. I had noticed the nurses could get a response from him. They all spoke slowly and loudly to him. “He’s hard of hearing,” they said. Whenever I got up to walk around I would try to talk to him. “Hello Karl.”

“Who are you, “ he asked me once.
“My name is Michael Jensen.”
“I would like some rutabagas.”
“You can release the pressure slowly. No, no, no, that’s too fast.”
“We can finish this all later.”

That is all I ever got.

The nurses attended to him regularly and never heard more then a few sentences at a time. They don’t know it was all about his life, I thought. They never hear enough to put it all together.

“McElroy turned his figures in. 90%. That is what we had calculated.“
“Mama. Gertie has all the bread.”
“We have to water the garden again. Muriel. The garden.”
“You’re a new driver, aren’t you. I haven’t seen you on this bus."
“Can you believe what she said? He never went to Toledo.”
“Oh, I don’t know WHAT’S going on.”

Eventually, they came and took Karl away. “Where’s he going,“ I asked.

“Back to the nursing home,” they said.

The room was just me now. It was quiet. I was tired and needed sleep. Later, an older man came in. He looked around and was about to leave when I asked him if I could help.

“I’m looking for Karl,” he said.
“They took him back to the nursing home,” I said. “Oh.” He started to leave and I stopped him.
“Did you know Karl?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Was he born in Germany?”
“Yes.”
“Was he an engineer, did he build things?”
“Yes.”
“Was his wife’s name Muriel?”
“Yes.”
“Did he ride the bus a lot, use public transportation?”
“Why yes. How do you know all this? Karl has Alzheimer’s Disease.”
“He told me.”

I explained how I had been listening to Karl. He told me he wasn’t related, he had met Karl 18 years ago and thought he was an incredible man. I am back home now. The doctors don’t know what happened to me, maybe a blood pressure spike. I am fine.

I still think a lot about Karl and the way I learned his story.

The World is Round

2008-02-09T16:15:00.000-08:00

Remember High School History Projects? Seems as though they're still required -- paper maché has no rivals.

More Pictures From San Francisco

2008-01-28T08:50:00.000-08:00

Just a few more shots from the trip. Lil's efficient little apartment, visitng Matt at the Schelleville Grill, Joe's worms and Ev at the Exploratorium.

Happy 17th Birthday Evelyn Jensen

2008-01-26T17:58:00.000-08:00

How do you describe this young woman?

Every one of her friends say she is the funniest person they know. And she has an unbelievable ability to cross all cliques and groups of friends. More than one person said that if she is having a bad day and Evelyn comes around, the day becomes brighter -- Evelyn changes her perspective. She is non-judgmental and filled with the patience of a saint.

She loves to share music with everyone -- her musical taste ranges from The Grateful Dead to Miles Davis. Although I heard she loves The Dave Matthews Band the best.

We love her the best.

Evelyn Tours Campus at Berkeley Interactively

2008-01-25T08:24:00.000-08:00

Actually, this is a shot from the Exploratorium in San Francisco. We had a fabulous time in San Fran last weekend visiting Lillian. The tour of the campus was real and Evelyn was impressed. We also visited Joe and Jen in Healdsburg and Matt at the Schellville Grill. It was my first time back in San Francisco since the 7o's. Lillian was a perfect host and showed us some great areas, along with the best food I have had in a long time. Evelyn loved Haight-Ashbury and the CitiLights bookstore. My only problem was trying to drive around in the city. Too crowded, no parking and no left turns allowed. The next time I go, I will leave the car behind.

Thanks Lil, for showing us around your incredible new home. It was good for me to see you again.

Let them eat cake.

2008-01-18T15:56:00.000-08:00

And that's exactly we did.

Lillian served up a perfect Christmas dessert: Devil's Food Cake. Buttery, caramel filling skimmed between four layers and frosted with a semisweet chocolate ganache.

And yes, it was all made from scratch.

Sweet.

Christmas, 2007

2008-01-04T18:13:00.000-08:00

The balsam was draped with over 100 ornaments, all hanging freely from the open branches, gently twirling, spinning upon the air, their movement dependent on the cycle and flow of the forced air furnace.

When I was about 12, on a Saturday afternoon just before Christmas, my mother announced we were taking a trip to the West Bank and she dragged me to Holtzerman's dry goods store on Riverside Avenue. Old man Holtzerman was a German, and like almost every recent immigrant, he was an importer, an interpreter of a life left behind.

The wood frame of the building was singed to a dingy gray, the paint peeled from the extremity of seasons -- cold arctic winters, moisture laden summers. The plate glass windows were barely held in place by the cracked and peeling glazing and were layered with a thin film of urban detritus.

The heavy wooden front doors, at least eight feet high, swung inward or outward and we leaned into the movement -- a full body press upon the leather hand plates. Pushing through we spilled into the late afternoon light of the dim, cavernous room. The stale air was speckled with motes -- held in suspension, still and unmoving, but thrown into chaos once the outside air swirled inward. It took a few seconds for our eyes to adjust to the low light.

We tentatively made our way across the worn wooden floor to tables that lined the long center aisle, the floor creaked and groaned with every step we took. Each surface was filled with tightly packed boxes, each container sectioned in a grid of 12, and sitting quietly in each square was a small piece of Germanic beauty.

There were ornaments as far as I could see. Most of them were glass. Santas, churches and houses, butterflies, birds with feather tails; others were glittered: stars, soldiers and pine cones. I followed along behind my mother and we poured over the tables, amazed at the bounty spread before us. My mother held up a glittered star and let out a gasp. She held up a small pale colored bird with a feathered tail, admiring it's delicate stance. She continued like this, down one side of the aisle and up the other, holding up different ornaments, fully engaged with a mysterious seduction that took me years to comprehend.

I can't imagine now that she had a lot of money to spend, but we always came away with a few ornaments. And when the tree was put up, she would proudly point out “that’s an ornament from Holtzerman’s”.

On my first trip to Holtzerman’s I was a reluctant tag-along. But to this day, I find it very difficult to pass by a display of glass ornaments, without taking a look. Without picking up, coddling and admiring just one. And if I succumb to the temptation, I usually come away with at least one ornament. A small nod to the testament of impressionable youth.

One year in the early 80s, when we still lived on Jefferson Street, we had picked the perfect tree, although the trunk wasn't more than a few inches in diameter. The tree was so light, so airy, that once the ornaments were hung, the weight of the ornamentation dragged the poor little thing over -- it fell in slow motion, a faint tinkling of glass upon glass, measured sound for about five seconds. I can still hear the soft "poof" sound it made as it struck the floor. A coveted ornament broke into a hundred shards of hand blown ornamental glass. That cluster of grapes would never be replicated, although I have looked for a replacement for over 25 years.

The Spaghetti Film

2007-12-16T12:51:00.001-08:00

Mike and the Fuller Brothers shot this 16mm film in 1979. All the scenes (except eating) in "The Spaghetti Film" were shot in reverse sequence so the actors had to move through time in reverse. One take each scene, in-camera editing only. Created in an afternoon. Digital remastering, titles and music by Wilker.

I think they were high.

Fine China

2007-12-08T17:36:00.000-08:00

Last month I traveled to China on a business trip. While I can say China was never on my list of "must see" places, I would venture back -- the first time is really only a reconnaissance mission. I was in Hong Kong for two days and on the mainland for another three days.

With eyes wide open, I tumbled through a landscape that was Canal Street multiplied by a million -- every public square is teeming with people, culture-shocked tourists, bicycles balancing five-foot high provisions powered by 60 pound old men, more people on foot -- everyone carrying packages, relatives or animals.

Every street is filled with scooters: families commute 3 to a scooter, school girls ride side-saddle behind their boyfriends (and they don't hang on, only balance to keep from falling off) and business men scoot to the office. Add a multitude of double-decker buses, brand new American cars, 20 year old Audis and Toyotas, stores brimming with dried fish of every kind, people walking with no concern or worry about traffic laws and you have controlled chaos. There was movement and noise everywhere.

The madness tends to keep you alert -- I was always waiting for something to happen. Some kind of drama to unfold. But it never really did -- I was an American Giant bobbing in an ocean of tiny, chattering natives.

Luckily, I had a contact in Hong Kong, who not only served as a business partner, but was also my interpreter. Teddy, took us on a 12 hour whirlwind tour of Hong Kong and Hong Kong Island. On the way to Lantau Island, we traveled almost an hour by subway. Then grabbed a cab for the last few miles up the mountain. Our first destination on Lantau Island was the Po Lin Monastery and the Big Buddha.

The Po Lin Monastery was built in 1906 and ranks first as one of the most magnificent structures amongst the four popular Buddhist temples in Hong Kong. We toured the monastery and the Buddha -- similar to touring the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. Because it is a sacred site, photography was limited. Families come to honor the dead -- and in a series of small rooms situated beneath the Buddha, at it's base, people have left flowers, photographs, letters and plaques.

A shrine is a shrine the world over. The only difference expressing grief is the language.

To get from the monastery to a small fishing village nestled in a bay in the South China Sea, we took a bus. And it wasn't a tourist bus -- all of the local farmers and villagers were riding with us. Oh, and we had to travel back down the mountain about four miles -- when you read the small in-fill articles in the New York Times with headlines that read: BUS CRASHES OFF MOUNTAINSIDE, 24 PEOPLE KILLED -- that was the mountain I was on. That was the bus I was riding.

While I was hard-pressed to take photos while I was hurling down the mountainside, here's a few snaps of the village Tai O.

MGG Moving Pictures - Winning Film!

2007-10-22T04:30:00.001-07:00

The Minnesota History Center hosted it's Moving Pictures event yesterday -- seventy three films that explored the lives and legacies of Minnesota’s Greatest Generation were entered in the competition and screened at the festival, attended by more than 500 people.

One of our films "Skating the Pacific to Europe" was in the top five -- selected as the best collaborative effort. We are thrilled at receiving the award -- Jeremy sums it all up at moonpost.

Film Festival at the History Center

2007-10-18T17:09:00.000-07:00

Sunday, October 21, 2007. Minnesota’s Greatest Generation Moving Pictures Event, Minnesota History Center. (www.mnhs.org)

Films begin every hour on the hour in 3 auditoriums. Noon until 5:00 p.m. Jeremy and I submitted 2 films. We hope to see you there!!

My Name is McNamara
Matthew McNamara’s passion for speed skating began with an old pair of skates that carried him from the Minneapolis Arena to Powderhorn Park and on to the 1952 Olympics. Over the next decade, he set numerous records while remaining a happy, humble man who “was never really athletic at all.”

Skating the Pacific to Europe
Lacing up his first pair of skates at age five, Art Seaman began his skating career at Longfellow Park. Progressing to the Powderhorn Skating team, through hard work and chance luck, he literally skated and danced his way from Minnesota to the Pacific to the 1948 Olympics and back again.

Into the Night.

2007-08-04T17:00:00.000-07:00

As the fourth night begins to fall, I continue to pray for the people that have died. For the people who are laying in hospitals, recovering. For their families here and afar. For the tireless workers. For all who are giving their time and support –– I send out my thoughts. My prayers.

Life, as we all know, is so fragile. One moment we are here. The next moment we are not.

Free Falling.

2007-08-03T11:36:00.001-07:00

Sometimes, when I travel, I entertain irrational thoughts. Like, what if the bridge I am traveling on gives way? Or, what if an earthquake hits, and the bridge decking breaks open and I am hurled out into space and time –– free falling into the East Bay, the Chesapeake Bay or the Hudson River? It’s always been in another city over a large expanse of water or on a mile+ span of bridge that these thoughts overtake my mind.

While I have never conjured similiar scenarios as I’ve crossed over the Mississippi River, here’s what I have imagined:

It’s always in winter, usually at twilight or early evening. I am crossing the Mississippi on the 35W bridge, going to the east side of the river to visit Mary Clare or my mother. As I change lanes, I skim over invisible black ice, and lose complete control of my car. The car spins around more than once and violently crashes into the guardrail, breaking through the formed concrete barrier.

My car is catapulted, shot up and out over the edge of the bridge, engulfed by broken debris, floating in slow motion towards the water. In the ten-second descent, with time standing still, there is nothing I can do but bid my family goodbye –– my car continues south and tears open the surface of the water, hitting face first. The car pops up and I am buoyed for a brief moment as the car tries to right itself, floating for a few seconds, cradled in the warm tomb –– moments later, I am sucked under the icy water, floating down, down, down through the murky, enveloping waters of the Mississippi, into the echoing silence.

But, it was always me losing control of the car. Never the integrity of the bridge being compromised.

Until now.

Minnesota's Greatest Generation

2007-07-28T17:00:00.000-07:00

Meet Art Seaman. He served in the Marine Corp during the war, and was stationed in Hawaii -- he and a high school buddy requested a recreation run up the mountain to Waihaiwa on Saturday nights where they had found the only (outdoor) ice rink in Hawaii. While half of the GIs on the bus swilled at the local bar, the rest of them donned ice skates and skated for a few hours, ending the evening with a few games of pick-up hockey. By the time the games began, the ice was melted and the surface held at least an inch of water. Needless to say, they were soaking wet by the time the games ended -- much to the amusement of the natives -- who would sooner watch than participate.

He came back to the states and at the final National races held during the 1947 St. Paul Winter Carnival, he qualified to compete at the 1948 Olympics in St. Moritz Switzerland. He traveled to Europe as a member of the U.S. speed skating team -- three of his seven teammates were from Minneapolis.

He dances three times a week at the local Moose Lodge and twice on the weekends at the VFW. He skates Tuesdays and Thursdays at the Blaine Ice Arena and on Sundays at Aldrich Arena. He is always on the move -- preferring to dance or to skate above all else. He is shown here at the dedication of the WWII Veteran's Memorial in St. Paul, Minnesota in early June.

Not being the sentimental type, he went to the dedication because it was the right thing to do. Because he's been a member of the VFW since he was 19. Loyal and true.

Semper Fidelis.

Happy Birthday, Mary Clare.

2007-07-27T14:26:00.000-07:00

Now that you're 23, go ahead and wear big-girl lipstick. Smooches.

The Sailor and his Homecoming Queen

2007-07-12T18:58:00.001-07:00

My father-in-law grew up in NE Minneapolis, one of five siblings in a first generation Norwegian Family. He was just a youngster during the depression and left home at 16 to work in the wilds of British Columbia. He spent a winter at Fort Nelson working for the Air Transport Command -- he was a gopher on the flights that ran gasoline and supplies up to Fort Norman, where the U.S. was drilling for oil. In order to let the pilots get some sleep, his job was to remain in the cockpit of a plane all night long, making sure the engine never quit. With temperatures reaching forty below zero, I imagine it would be difficult to stay warm, not to mention the challenge of staying awake. As he tells it, he "saw a lot of things a teenager shouldn't have to see. I grew up real fast". He was away from his family for over a year –- no iPhone or instant messages. Only letters from his mother. And they came few and far between.

He is shown above, enjoying a little rest and relaxation a few years later -- on leave in the Pacific at the end of World War II. He is the happy sailor on the far right. Have him show you his tattoo.

My mother-in-law grew up in North Minneapolis –– she attended North High School and played the French Horn in the Marching Band. She's shown here riding in the Homecoming Parade - yes, that's right, Homecoming Queen. The year: sometime during WWII.

She has mastered the perfect pastry - Swedish Kringle. At every family event at her home or away, she produces a plateful of the revered delicacy. And it is consumed within minutes. I don't know the secret of this puff pastry -- only that it is layered with almond filling and has a lightness to it that rivals any French croissant you'd find along the Seine. How a Norwegian girl acquired the Swedish recipe is beyond me, but we're thrilled she made the discovery.
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They have been a steady force in our lives. Always ready to assist when needed, no questions asked. They would never think of imposing or assuming anything - they wait for the invitation before acting.

I love them for all they have given. For all that they are.

The Ladies Aid Society, circa 2005

2007-06-02T13:29:00.000-07:00

Give them a little liquor and all hell breaks loose.

The Dinghy

2007-06-02T13:11:00.000-07:00

This seems like so long ago -- but it was only two years ago this August. A trip west that was a last hurrah before Lillian began her first real job after graduating. Before she handed her life over to the big bullseye and worked a 40+ hour week. Paid vacation. 401K. Steady income. Experience.

She and I travelled to Seattle and rendezvoused with friends -- my friends, actually. But people who knew her when she was just a wee little one. Complete with squishy diapers, chubby baby flesh and tears of woe. People who had seen her move from a small fish-lipped toddler to a confident, commanding Irish-Norwegian-Minnesotan-full-blown-woman.

We were ready to hang out for a long weekend north of Seattle, safe within the harbor of the Nanaimo, piloted by our faithful and steady Captain Westin. We would hand her over to The Man the Tuesday after Labor Day.

It was a weekend filled with fresh ocean-fueled air, hikes on outer islands through forests filled with fauna we couldn't name and hours of just hanging out. A few cases of Two Buck Chuck. Which actually was Three Buck Chuck. But, who's counting after you've successfully managed Two Before One.

We feasted on hand picked oysters, compliments of Lady Di and cooked to perfection by our steady Noel. We witnessed dolphins riding the waves beside the boat, whales breaching just beyond the shipping channels and anemone lit by some kind of oceanic peptide.

But really, the highlight of the weekend was the dinghy.

We were anchored at a harbor on a small island, somewhere in the northern reaches of Puget Sound. We decided to go to dinner at a restaurant on the other side of the harbor -- a few miles by car. A short distance by dinghy. Even though we'd have to transport in two trips, we chose the water route. Seemed a bit more direct and a bit more dangerous.

We loaded ourselves into the dinghy - cradled one behind another, arms circling bodies, tightly compacted -- compromising all rules of the water. We were riding high on the thrill. We were riding low in the water. Literally.

Mark made two trips - the latter one bringing Noel and Lady Di into the fold. The air was late summer -- the last moments of the season folded gracefully, langourously into the next. We drank, dined and tried to hang on to whatever this feeling was: childhood memories mixed with parental knowledge, fueled by this sensory overload of all that is Puget Sound -- a magical place for a girl from the Midwest -- a feeling that was, looking back, probably restricted to me.

Once more, transfering a child into the world. Nothing monumental, really -- I'd been here before. But, again, monumental, all the same. The delicious and distressing dichotomy of having children.

======================================================

After transporting his companions to and from the evening meal on this late-summer evening, Captain Westin attempts to get the motor running on the dinghy. His friends abandoned him, choosing to navigate the way home by land -- he was left to his own devices, floating in the space between twilight and evening, unaware of the difference.

Trains, Planes and Automobiles

2007-05-05T06:26:00.000-07:00

Hang on for the ride.

Wednesday Night, 9:00 p.m.: Evelyn is prepped and ready -- she has all the paperwork for the Driver's Test at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow. She is very excited. If she passes the test, she'll have the use of Lillian's car for the weekend.

I drive over to Lillian's apartment in Uptown to pick up her car for the test. Lillian is going to New York in the morning and needs her car back at her house by 10:00 a.m. -- her roommate will take her to the airport and leave her car at the apartment for us to pick up later. No worries. We're all set. The plan is in place.

Thursday Morning, 7:25 a.m.: The test site is in Plymouth - out past 494. We need about 20 minutes to get there, leaving a few minutes to do a quick spin around the site. Evelyn and I climb into the Scion - and do a final check of all paperwork: Permit. Check. Driving log. Check. Insurance card for the Scion. Check. Oh, wait, no check.

"The proof of insurance is supposed to be kept in the glove compartment." Evelyn says, "Where is it?"

"Did you ask Lillian for the proof of insurance?"

"No, I thought it would be there."

"You thought it would be where? So, we don't have proof of insurance? And you didn't verify with Lillian that the card was in the car?"

"NO, I thought it would be there."

"Not everyone keeps their insurance card in the glove box."

"But that's what they said in Driver's Ed."

"Shitballs."

"Let's go to Lillian's and get the insurance card."

"We'll never make it to the 8:00 appointment. They won't let you take the test without the card and if we are late they'll give someone else our spot and we'll have to wait HOURS AND HOURS." Mommy says this in a very LOUD and MAD voice.

I run into the house to see if for some reason we have a copy of Lillian's insurance card. No. I call the insurance agent to see if she can email me something. No - not in the office yet. I throw my purse on the table and run back down to the car.

"Evelyn, we don't have time to get there by 8:00 -- we'll have to reschedule. The test site is always backed up at least by an hour." Again, LOUD and MAD.

Tears ensue. Evelyn's nose is running and her eyes are blood red. Mommy feels BAD. Real BAD.

"Shitballs - call Lillian and tell her to stand on the boulevard in front of her apartment with the insurance card. We'll do a drive by."

By now, it's 7:45. We drive the six miles over to Lillian's apartment. She is standing outside like a dutiful daughter, insurance card in hand. We slow down just enough to grab it and deadhead to Plymouth. Traffic is light and we miraculously get to the testing station around 8:20 a.m.

Thursday Morning, 8:30 a.m.: We breeze through the registration with all paperwork in order. The blinkers work. The headlights burn white. The brakes lights are red hot. Evelyn settles into the driver's seat, extremely calm and totally in control, waiting for the instructor, ready to navigate the course and secure her freedom. I gather my purse and the morning paper so I can hang out in the waiting room.

Oh, wait. My purse. Where is it? Shitballs, again. It's back on the dining room table. With my money, credit card and house/car keys. Mmmm - you need $12.00 to get the license. Evelyn doesn't have any cash on her. OK, stop. Let's see if she passes the test, then we will worry about the money.

I settle down to wait. Read the paper. Scan the road for signs of Evelyn and the Little Hitler driving instructor that I am convinced will show her no mercy.

Less than fifteen minutes later, I see the car pull over. She's across the street behind a parked car that obstructs my view. I have a slight view of the top of the car and the back end. The passenger door opens. I don't see Little Hitler. What is he doing? I don't see Evelyn. A few minutes pass. They both emerge from the car, cross the street in my direction. They aren't talking. Evelyn is showing no signs of YES or NO. What the heck.

I dash out of the waiting room and almost run into her at the doorway. "Well??!!!"

"I passed." No WOO HOO. No beaming smile. This kid is cool. Nothing much phases her. If it does, she rarely shows it. The instructor gives her paperwork to fill out and we proceed to the queue.

I call Mike and tell him the news. I also ask for his credit card number so we can get the license. We'll be out of here and back in business by 9:30 - easy.

Oh. Credit cards? No, the State of Minnesota Driver's License Bureau DOES NOT ACCEPT CREDIT CARDS. Who in the hell carries cash around. And who in the hell still writes checks?

OK. Plan B: We will finish filling out the paperwork and go to the Service Center at Ridgedale after work/school/golf match to secure the driver's license. She'll be legal by nightfall. Easy. Decision made.

I drop Evelyn off at school and drive home to get my purse. As soon as I pull into the driveway, I realize there is something VERY WRONG here. Oh yes, I remember. My purse containing my money, credit card and HOUSE/CAR KEYS is on the dining room table. And the house is locked.

"Shitballs."

Thursday Morning, 9:40 a.m.: I run across the street to see if my neighbor still has a house key - NO. OK, I'll try the bedroom window - the screen is already mangled from a long ago break-- in by Lillian and MC. Yeah, well, I keep the window LOCKED because the screen is so compromised. I check all of the other windows that could support my girth, but none are open. And I don't want to break glass.

Thursday Morning, 10:00 a.m.: So, now, I drive over to Uptown, AGAIN, to get a house key from Lillian. And remember I can't leave her car there for her, because: my purse containing my money, credit card and HOUSE/CAR KEYS is on the dining room table. And the house is locked.

Thursday Morning, 10:15 a.m.: I ring Lillian's buzzer. No answer. She is supposed to be getting packed for her flight that leaves in three hours. I ring the buzzer again. Still, no answer. I tackle a young woman who is sauntering down Holmes and beg to use her cell phone. I call Lillian. NO ANSWER. Oh, for the Love of the Lord. I leave her a message, "HELP ME. I AM CAUGHT IN A NIGHTMARE. I am waiting downstairs." I sit back and give up control. A few minutes later the door pops open and she is staring down at me like I am a lunatic.

"Just don't even ask," I say. She hands me a key to the house. I climb back into the Scion and beat ass back to Golden Valley. I let myself in, grab my purse and head back over to Uptown to drop off the car so Lillian can use it to get to the airport. Ben will leave it on the street so I can pick it up later for Evelyn to use for the weekend.

Thursday Morning, 10:45 a.m.: I am finally on my way to work, after assuring everyone I'd be in no later than 9:30. I've missed a few meetings and probably annoyed a few coworkers. Shitballs. I pull into a parking lot and will have to pay at least $12.00 for a six-hour park.

After about an hour and a half of checking emails and doing the usual damage control, I decide to dash over to the bank to get some cash for the driver's license fees. I go to grab just my billfold out of my purse. No billfold. I take everything out of the purse to make sure it's not lodged at the bottom of the bag. No such luck. Still no billfold. That means no cash card. No ID. No NOTHING! Shitballs.

I borrow $20 from a coworker so I can at least pay for parking - and plan to stop at home before I get Evelyn. My billfold must be on my desk - after all, I referenced the insurance agents number off of my insurance card that was in my billfold. Yeah, that's where it is. No worries.

Thursday Afternoon, 4:15 p.m.: I leave the office. Pay $12.00 for a five-hour park and head home to get my billfold. I dash up into the office to grab the billfold. Yes, you guessed right. NO BILLFOLD. I rip the house apart - where in God's name is it? After going mental for at least five minutes I decide to grab a blank check and head out to the golf course to pick up Evelyn. She has a match, should be done by 5:00 and we'll be golden to get the license.

I get to the course -- which is on 77th and Highway 100 and wait for the girls to finish the match. Evelyn text messages me that they are on the 8th hole. And it's now 5:10. Oh, and then I realize all of the paperwork she gave me this morning -- the forms, proof of passing the exam, etc. -- are under the visor in LILLIAN'S CAR. OH, and where is Lillian's car? You guessed it. Back in Uptown.

I hit the gas and get to 31st and Holmes around 5:25. I park my car. Hop into Lillian's car. And remember THE BILLFOLD. LOOK FOR THE BILLFOLD. And lo and behold, there it is. In the little compartment in the front of the console. Black compartment. Black billfold. It was there all along. Since 7:45 this morning. In my haste, I just didn't see it. We could have paid for the license eight hours ago. Shitballs.

Back to the task at hand: How in the hell will I get back out to Edina, pick up Evelyn and drive to Ridgedale by 6:00? It is after all, RUSH HOUR.

Thursday Afternoon, 5:30 p.m.: I am sitting in traffic on the east side of Lake Calhoun. Trying desperately to head west out Excelsior Boulevard. I realize that the deed is done. We must give up the ghost. There is NO WAY I can get Evelyn in Edina and make it out to Ridgedale in 30 minutes. I call Evelyn.

"Evelyn, I'll never be able to pick you up and have enough time to get back out to Ridgedale. Our only hope is for someone to drive you from the course to the Service Center - and I'll meet you there. That's our only chance. Is there someone there that can give you a ride?"

"Yes, Kayla is just coming off the course. I'll ask her. I gotta go."

I leave her to shamelessly beg a rocket ride from her teammate, and continue west on Excelsior Boulevard. Traffic is heavy on Highway 100, and luckily I am able to head West out Highway 7 -- no traffic to speak of. The lights are in my favor. Sweet. No problem here.

Thursday Afternoon, 5:40 p.m.: I call Evelyn and tell her Highway 7 is clear of traffic. They are just getting off of Highway 100. Right behind me.

I head North on Hopkins Crossroad, the fastest way to Ridgedale, but realize there is construction on Hopkins Crossroad at Minnetonka Boulevard. Damn. I proceed a half mile west to Plymouth Road and hope to coast the last mile into the Service Center.

Oh, but wait just one minute, Missy. No such luck. TRAFFIC JAM. DEAD STOP. FOR A GOOD HALF MILE. 4-WAY STOP SIGN.

Thursday Afternoon, 5:45 - 5:56 p.m.: I sit in traffic inching my way through a 4-way stop sign. As soon as it's my turn I jam the accelerator and go to beat hell toward the Service Center. I careen into the parking lot at 5:58 p.m. and almost fall out of the car. I run into the building, take the steps two at a time and skid to a stop in front of the Security Guard who is waiting to push the button on the metal gate -- closing the access for the night. I holler, "WAIT. Please. I need a license."

Three Government workers behind the counter don't even raise their heads –– they just roll their eyes.

"No, really. You don't understand." (WOW, I just sounded like a 16 year old.) "I have had a REAL BAD DAY. I just need a driver's license. I didn't have money this morning when we took the test."

"Alright." Great.

"OK" I say, "She's almost here."

There is an audible snapping of heads.

"You mean it's not for you? And she's not even HERE?"

"Oh, no. It's for my 16-year old. She's ALMOST here. She's right behind me. Really, she is."

"Sorry, Miss. We can't wait. We are closed. She's not even on the premises."

I crumble up the paperwork, slowly. I am walking, very slowly, killing time before I exit the metal gate that is now almost shut. I call Evelyn. Whispering, "Where in the HELL are you?"

"I am just coming up the steps." I hang up.

MOMMY is now YELLING: "She's on the stairs. She's coming up here right now. Oh, please. She's 16. It's her license. She passed the test today against all odds. Have mercy!!"

One lone county worker nods his head and heads to the cash register. But he won't smile. Oh, no.

Evelyn dashes through the side service door that the Security Guard has been holding open for at least 5 minutes. Secretly he's on our side -- he's been observing the drama for the last few minutes with a slight smirk on his face -- it's the biggest event of the day. She drops her golf bag and shoes on the floor and slides up to the counter.

The LONE COUNTY WORKER has Evelyn sign some papers. He guides her to the photo booth -- she smoothes her hair and smiles like nothing has happened, as if she's been patiently waiting her turn for 20 minutes. Like I said, she's cool.

I hand over the $12.00. We get the receipt. She signs her name. We thank him for the tenth time. Evelyn shakes his hand. We gather up the clubs, shoes, PURSE and license and exit the security door. And we breathe. We breathe effortlessly. For the first time today.

May 9, 2007, Thursday Afternoon, 6:15 p.m.: Evelyn Rose Jensen gets her Driver's License.

Now get in the car.

If your plane falls from the sky ...

2007-05-02T05:35:00.000-07:00

On a recent trip to Seattle, I riled the flight attendant by taking a photograph of this unsettling image. She asked me what I was doing. I said that I was just taking a picture -- the image was disturbing to me. She became extremely defensive -- over explaining why they needed infant live preservers while passionately defending Northwest's safety record. After a bizarre conversation, I just sat down.

I was relieved that I didn't have an infant in tow.

Inside Out.

2007-03-27T17:49:00.000-07:00

Last month the girls traveled to Sonoma and Healdsburg to see a few of the siblings - Joe put us up at the cottage at Toad Hollow and we were grateful for the accomodations: wine on the porch, wine at dinner.

When we travel to California -- we are always amazed . Amazed at the gardens. Amazed at the trees. Amazed at the trellising vines. Anything growing outside is amazing .

I can set my watch to when we begin the ooohs and aaaahs -- we are hardly out of the airport when we begin to practically faint over the verdant lushness - commenting on bamboo that grows like crabgrass and climbing roses that know no boundaries. We promise to pay more attention to our gardens. We endlessly list the trees we will plant, the arbors and shrubs we will prune, the beauty we will cultivate.

Why do we think that Zone 4 will ever deliver? We know disappointment. The zone will never satiate our lust -- just because we have promised anew that we will be diligent and persevere. We haven't learned from 20+ years of experience in the gardening department -- coneflowers: YES, frangipani: NO.

Now, where can I get bamboo that is Zone 4 hardy?

Muir Woods

2007-03-27T17:23:00.000-07:00

It's hard to believe that Muir Woods is less than a half hour drive out of San Francisco. A national monument, devoted to all things natural, will not be a disappointment.

Something about John Muir: He was a Philosopher, Scientist and Author. His family emigrated from Scotland to Wisconsin in 1848. He had a lively interest in nature and after brief studies at the University of Wisconsin - you knew he was a Badger! - he left school for what he would call "the University of the Wilderness." On his lengthy wanderings Muir contemplated man's relationship to nature, concluding that all life forms have inherent significance and the right to exist. Humans, Muir decided, are no greater or lesser than other forms of life. Muir eventually won public acceptance of conservation as an environmental ethic and inspired generations of wilderness advocates. Go hug a tree in his honor.

Morning at the Vineyard

2007-03-25T19:35:00.000-07:00

Birds of Paradise

2007-03-04T14:00:00.000-08:00

One afternoon we ventured south just past Tacoma, specifically to hike through the Nisqually Wildlife Refuge.

We were on the trails early, but by the time we headed out the crowds had shown up –– after all, it was a beautiful sunny day in Washington State. And it wasn't only families and cub scouts –– the delta was teaming with birders.

Consider this: a gaggle of REI outfitted birders were scurrying down boardwalks, clutching tripods at least half their height, top heavy with binoculars, cameras and lenses –– desperately trying to photograph a red tailed hawk, poised to strike a small rodent burrowing through the tangle of brush on the river's edge.

But, while they were still en route to the perfect vantage point, the hawk rises up and out of an ancient cottonwood, swiftly diving, swooping and finally leveling off to skim just above their heads –– breaking through the fray of birders he turned out towards the open water, adrift on a soft murmur of air -- they hardly realized he was horizon bound until he had silently passed over their heads.

No vermin for the hawk. No photograph for the birders. Ah, nature.
==================================================
We also did a quick tour of the Museum of Glass -- brought to us by the incredible Dale Chiluly. What have you produced lately?

Queen Anne Hill

2007-03-03T09:26:00.000-08:00

Roxanne and I ventured west for a long weekend visit with Dianne. We wandered through her neighborhood on and off all weekend - picking up fresh fish for dinner, hanging out in coffee shops and yarn stores, stretching and sweating at a yoga class. And constantly being AMAZED by the prolific zone 8.

But truly, the highlight of the weekend was meeting Lady Di's favorite neighbor, Harold. He's a 91-year old bachelor and a passionate gardener - actually, a passionate human being. He has tended his family property since the depression and both are locked in time - circa 1939 - nothing wasted. Nothing new. Save everything.

When we stopped by, he was camped on an overturned plastic bucket, pruning a venerable lilac tree. It was apparent he was recently perched atop the rickety ladder resting next to him -- sawing down a stubborn branch, barely tethered to earth or tree. Slight in stature, clothed in a threadbare quilted jacket, jeans crusted with dirt and sweat, he was bent over his brush pile, methodically cutting and stacking trimmed out twigs. It was, at the least, a week of work for him.

He held us captive for an hour while he gave us a tour of his estate and demonstrated the care and propogation of mason bees. He cultivates a small orchard of fruit trees - which must be spectacular in bloom - he has hand built a series of stone walls that surround the property. A tenuous greenhouse leans up against the backside of the house -- nurturing seedlings and serving as a storage facility for plastic pots, watering cans and miscellaneous discards.

The inside of his house is stacked with 50 years of nursery catalogs, fruit crates and boxes of cast-offs. His lazy boy rocker sits center stage, surrounded by bookshelves overflowing with encyclopedias and reference materials - an arms length away, critial distance for a voracious reader. (Dianne tells us he just finished a book about the former Soviet Union and is currently studying China during the early days of Mao Tse Tung.)

And yet, another example of a person that has aged well - open to new ideas, friendships and maintaining an acute sense of humor.

Alas, he is camera shy.

Rink Rats

2007-01-19T05:44:00.000-08:00

I've been fully occupied with my new best friends: The Aldrich Long Blade Club. Shown here on a recent Sunday is Art Seaman, seated on the left, who competed in the 1948 Olympics as a speed skater from Powderhorn Park. He also dances three days a week and has a part time job as a Jack-of-all-Trades. Bob Carbone, seated on the right, is a rambunctious Italian from the West side of St. Paul. He has lived in his childhood home since before WWII. He skates three times a week and cares for an ailing older sister. The woman in the center is currently unidentifiable.

I recently was given a pair of long blades skates and hope to have Kenny Bartholomew sharpen them for me. Hopefully, I'll be able to take a test spin this Sunday and see if I can progress to the Roseville Ice Oval.

Apollo, here I come.

Rest Home.

2006-12-07T07:14:00.000-08:00

We keep hoping that Uncle Buck will come home for the Holidays. Who has a spare couch he can land on?

Mama's boys. And girls.

2006-11-11T09:34:00.000-08:00

Even though she didn't want a party, how could we resist. Looks like the gal had some fun.

John and Denis, the two oldest of the tribe, battled fatigue and ventured to the south side.

As did Johanna. Although I don't think she's lacking sleep -- I think she's still battling sea sickness, myself.

Emmers brought a perfect cheesecake, Johanna brought her mother and Lillian hosted the event. DNA runs deep.

November 3, 1917: 89 Years and Counting

2006-11-01T18:54:00.000-08:00

Yes, I know. It's hard to tell her age with her eyes hiding behind her sunglasses -- procured from a street vendor in Montecatini, Italy last fall.

The highlights of a life well lived: She was married at 26 and birthed her first child at 28. She had nine subsequent pregnancies, mostly two years apart, with her last baby arriving when she was 45 years old. She was married 50+ years to the same man. She's buried one husband and two children. She graduated from The University of Minnesota with a Bachelor of Arts degree when she was 83 years old. She's been to Ireland four times. Italy, three times. London and Paris twice.

She sews, knits and crochets. She paints on paper, fabric and clay surfaces. She makes art pottery and ceramic dishes. She produces woodcut prints. She designs handbags, sweaters and clothes. She enters art competitions. And buys and sell antiques and collectibles. And that's the short list.

Today is her birthday. Call and wish her well. But remember, she sleeps in until at least 9:00 a.m.

Happy Birthday, Mother!!

November 2nd - All Soul's Day

2006-10-29T10:21:00.000-08:00

All Soul's Day is a Catholic day of remembrance for friends and family that have died.

This originated from the ancient Pagan Festival of the Dead -- which celebrated the Pagan belief that the souls of the dead would return for a meal with the family. Candles in the window would guide the souls back home, and another place was set at the table. Children would come through the village, asking for food to be offered symbolically to the dead, then donated to feed the hungry.

Set the table. Light the candles. Feed the hungry.

Honor your people.

October 31 - November 1st - Day of the Dead

2006-10-28T17:59:00.000-07:00

In rural Mexico, people visit the cemetery where their loved ones are buried. They decorate gravesites with marigold flowers and candles. They bring toys for dead children and bottles of tequila to adults. They sit on picnic blankets next to gravesites and eat the favorite food of their loved ones.

Yes, I know we don't live in Mexico. But it doesn't mean we can't honor the dead.

Get yourself to the cemetery.

Lucca, Italy • October, 2005

2006-10-17T18:13:00.000-07:00

New York Post, September 29, 2006

2006-10-05T08:15:00.000-07:00

Andy Warhol made a statement in 1968 that "In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes".

Without much effort at all, Mary Clare had her few minutes of fame –– after Mayor Blumberg banned trans fats in all NYC eateries, she was stopped in the middle of 6th Avenue to taste test McDonald's french fries. She munched a few greasy spuds and gave her opinion. The best thing about the interview, she's now a "publicist". Ask for a raise!

Take the A Train

2006-10-02T18:03:00.000-07:00

NYC never fails to amaze me.

Beyond Harlem, where the A train is no longer an express, and Manhattan Island thins to a sliver, if you get off the subway around 190th Street, and walk about a half mile on cobblestone paths that wind along the Hudson River you will discover The Cloisters.

The monastic communities have it right: rest, contemplation and gardening. If you throw in a few days of complete silence and daily liturgy of the hours I could consider signing up. Of course, only if the Ladies Aid went with me. Oh, and if we could bring laptops. And contraband was permitted.

I see Madge diligently pruning -- controlling nature one bonsai at a time.

Astoria, Queens -- First Hand

2006-10-02T15:14:00.000-07:00

While Mary Clare ran through Astoria Park, I roamed the walking paths and witnessed the local color. Scenario: Two middle-aged men clothed in thread-bare grey undershirts and work jeans, were perched inches apart on a bench, wildly gesticulating while engrossed in a heated discussion -- spoken in an unidentifiable Russian dialect. The boom box was across the sidewalk from them -- precariously balanced on a few rocks -- blaring Radio Free Europe. Multiply this scene with all it's permutations and you've got the complete snapshot.

At the Brooklyn Bagel Shop, the bagels are the size of a small melon. My little monkey had no problem polishing one off.

The Greek Orthodox Cathedral is a half a block from MC's apartment -- Saturday morning we clandestinely slid in and lit a candle for The Dream Weaver's success on the LSAT. Do not be confused. The altar is BEHIND the Icon door. As is the priest. Oh, and if you are a woman, you must wear a skirt and cover your head. And if you don't have a skirt, they have one for you. Vatican II did not include the Orthodox Sects -- I could have sworn we were a half a world away.

Zombie Pub Crawl

2006-09-16T18:54:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday, Evelyn joined Wilker at the 2nd Annual Zombie Pub Crawl. Makeup was applied early in the afternoon at Logan Park, with every lifestyle, nationality and profession well represented. I especiallly liked the Tibetan Monk. When I drove over to Elsie's to pick up Evleyn, my car was mobbed by Zombies -- there is nothing like a few drunken Zombies drooling fake blood and body fluids on the hood of your car. The Pirate Pub Crawl was held on the same day and in the same neighborhood -- with Zombies and Pirates drinking, dancing and fighting in the middle of Monroe Street.

Astoria, Queens

2006-09-13T15:05:00.000-07:00

Looking to the west, while standing in Astoria Park. on the shore of the East River, mid-town Manhattan is easy to distinguish. If you made your way across the water and through the maze of buildings, continuing due West –– you would land smack in the middle of Central Park.

And land she did. Not exactly in Central Park. But a 15 minute subway ride away.

Astoria, Queens welcomed Mary Clare with misdirected luggage, a cold shower and a dead rat on the doorstep. But the reward was an excellent job offer within 48 hours of residence and a cute little apartment that even Livia Soprano would love.

Calvatia Gigantea

2006-09-09T11:26:00.000-07:00

At first blush, I thought some random urchin had left a deflated soccer ball in the yard. I mentally checked it from the kitchen window every morning -- albeit, last on the list. Odd, though. And even though there is a soccer ball in the garage, I don't think it's seen the light of day since 2001. When Mr. Jensen made the same comments, we realized nature, once again, had jaw-dropping, scream-out-loud, surprised us: A puffball mushroom. Bigger than Trixie's head.

From Wikipedia: The Giant puffball is a puffball mushroom commonly found in meadows, fields, and deciduous forests worldwide usually in late summer and autumn. Most giant puffballs grow to be 10 to 70 cm in diameter, although occasionally some can reach diameters up to 150 cm and weights of 20 kg. The large white mushrooms are edible when young and some claim the meat tastes very similar to tofu when cooked.

Mushroom Omelet, anyone?

After the Boys of Summer have gone.

2006-09-09T07:38:00.000-07:00

The thought of summer waning, elicits melancholy. The proof of those lost days: melons that never had a chance to mature -- the raccoons night time scavenges, skulking in the yard under moonlit shadows. Gnawing at the flesh. Leaving the seeds and pulp strewn through the garden.

The sunflowers, heads bent with the weight of summer. Birds and chipmunks peck at the faces, grabbing for every seed that is loose or ready to succumb to winter.

Pimm's and Croquet

2006-08-06T09:22:00.000-07:00

Early August. Roxanne and Noel host an afternoon of Pimm's, croquet, and roasted beast. The court was weed free and trimmed to regulation. Everyone dressed in white. If you look closely, you'll see Doug Westin challenging his latest shot -- discussing USCA 6 Wicket Rules of "through the wicket" or "ball rolled back".

Embracing her Swiss roots, Roxanne had the garden close to perfect -- perennials trimmed, annuals dead-headed and the walkways raked. We love our Swiss Miss.

And Noel whipped up his version of British trifle. Which of course, was most excellent. I see trifle as a summer staple.

Baby D is in the House

2006-08-04T16:08:00.000-07:00

Diedrich James, born to James and his new bride Tonia, on June 28, 2006. Seven pounds, seven ounces, 20.5" long. With James as his daddy, someone better get this kid some hockey skates!

Trixie and Fuzzy

2006-07-27T19:29:00.000-07:00

Yes. They sound like two cartoon characters. And for all we know, maybe they are. But one night, the two of them connected so deeply -- two souls in perfect syncopation -- one held so tenderly and graciously by the other. They quietly floated down hallways, in and out of living room and kitchen, wandering through the twilight hours as delicately as the cat that followed their every movement.

Trifle becomes you.

2006-07-27T19:24:00.000-07:00

Thanks to the efforts of Golden Valley truck farmer Jack Lake, I parlayed 20 pounds of raspberries into 12 pint jars of jam, filled my freezer with four large ziplock bags of flash frozen berries and have eaten yogurt, raspberries and granola every morning for a month. But in the end, I could deny the ripened fruit her just dessert no longer. Trifle it was. Lemon curd, pound cake, whipping cream and lemon syrup combined to present us this unbelievable sensation. Mmmmm, Summer.

Future site of the compound: Luna Lake

2006-07-24T18:03:00.000-07:00

Well, here it is. 18 acres of woods, wetland, water and meadow.

Well hello, Kitty.

2006-07-16T11:46:00.000-07:00

Our little Kitten is on her way to college -- to the University of Minnesota in Minneapolis. The meandering Cannon River gives way to the wider, wilder Mississippi. The prairie fields bend and morph into University Avenue with The Dairy Inn perched like a doll house miniature on the edge of her memory. The hemp bracelets will be snipped free and Tiffany will be clasped on the delicate wrist of the coed. Oh, the possibilities. Oh, the stories she will tell.

In true style, the Jensen girls celebrate the event. Sisters all. A tribe since birth.

Ciao, Bella.

2006-07-12T14:57:00.000-07:00

Now they're speaking Italian. Does that mean I landed in Italy?

Uncle Buck rendezvoused with Doris and her relatives in Milan to see the Rolling Stones (Geriatric Tour, 2006). The details are sketchy -- as are all things with Matthew -- stay tuned for more sightings.

They speak French. I must be in Paris.

2006-07-04T14:01:00.000-07:00

Uncle Buck is in Paris.

Here's his latest email: "forget being safe ive already been rolled and this boy got the better end of the stick. the key stay off dark streets after 4:00. I leave on thursday morning at 8:00am. gotta run i have a date with a french girl named sonia and she is a ten and 25. Call my doctor....love you adios mattuci"

Let's remember, he can't write long hand -- he can only print. And his typing skills are primitive at best. I think you get the idea.

I can only imagine the wake he leaves behind him as he parades through the streets, oogling women and hollering at the gypsies in his english/spanish/french dialect. Yowsers.

Side Lake, MN

2006-07-02T15:59:00.000-07:00

Where in the hell is Side Lake, Minnesota? That's what we asked.

For two people who have canoed in the BWCA, hiked parts of the Superior Hiking Trail, had near-religious conversions at Lake Mille Lacs, seen the Jeffers Petroglyphs on the Western prairie and followed the states' eastern border down the Mississippi, you'd think we'd seen almost every county -- or at least a representation of every county -- in the state.

Not so.

Yesterday, not only did we discover a new town in St. Louis County -- we bought 18 acres -- on a small lake, a pond really, Luna Lake. It's part of an old homestead -- the family raised and grazed sheep. While we probably won't be tending a herd, Mike will be managing the crappie and bluegill population. I see his future and it involves the DNR.

Don't stop waffling.

2006-06-28T20:30:00.000-07:00

Just when you think your teenager has tuned you out for the rest of her life, she surprises you. This was my dinner tonight. Waiting for me in the refrigerator. The kitchen was clean and my husband was sitting at the kitchen table, diligently working the Sunday crossword. Once again, evidence of the good life in the valley.

Sunday was a Good Day for an Erection

2006-06-26T16:07:00.000-07:00

The pad was poured in early May and acid etched on Mother's Day. Mike had been working diligently for four weeks sanding, sealing, sealing again, and finally applying the last coat to 24+ pieces of rough hewn cedar. 6 x 6's. 8 x 16's and 8 x 20's. For those of you who have no handyman skills at all, try storing and sealing the above mentioned materials. You need a lot of space. A lot of time. And a lot of patience. Which is why Mike did this portion of the task, and I kept the household on track.

Mark was in from Seattle for a few days and guided us in the fine art of raising a structure that was not only plumb, but also solid. Mike worked from the scaffolding, Mark worked from the ladder, and I worked from the ground. 10 hours later, we had a structure. It's not quite done -- we need to add the stringers, and finish the trim. But I see late summer nights filled with too much wine, too many cigars and discussing world problems until at least 10:00 p.m. Let the party begin.

The Light

2006-06-16T07:30:00.000-07:00

The light before a storm approaches,
when sun peeks from beneath it,
a dream about uncommon fish,
all about us, it is lit.

Grand Marais, September 2005

2006-06-09T13:25:00.000-07:00

Last September on a Saturday night at the North House Folk School in Grand Marais, the Jensen girls were seen hanging out on the schoolhouse dock on Lake Superior.

Before Fuzzy goes off to NYC, we plan to spend another long weekend on the North Shore, hiking the Superior Hiking Trail, eating massive amounts of chips and salsa while playing eucher and drinking gin and tonics -- generally hanging out. And we'll probably shed a few tears as we toast her good fortune once she lands in Astoria, Queens .

The Shape of Things to Come.

2006-06-08T05:24:00.000-07:00

One day the bobcat comes wailing into the yard and destroys the 60 year old flagpole. Ripping up sod and old flower beds.

Six days later, we have a concrete base, etched and scored, waiting for the pergola to be raised.

06.06.06 = (2)6 years of Marriage.

2006-06-06T05:10:00.000-07:00

6+ reasons why I love Big Daddy Jensen:

Because he truly loves me.
And he truly, wholly loves his daughters.

Because he knows how to be a father.
And he has cared for his girls from the beginning.

Because his introvert complements my extrovert.
And he is the most non-judgmental person I know.

Because he is a patient man.
And he knows how to temper my agitation.

Because he has a critical eye.
And he has documented and archived 26 years of our life.

Because he has a sense of humor.
And he can sing the Mickey Mouse Club Song in Norwegian.

Because he listens well.
And he lets me go off on a rant without concern.

Because he (almost) always gives me a foot massage when I ask.
And has never been critical of my appearance.

I've been on the ride from the beginning. I guess I'm on it for life.

Love to love you.

Memorial Day, May 29, 2006

2006-05-29T14:05:00.000-07:00

Margaret and Mother tending the graves at Calvary Cemetery in St. Paul, Minnesota.

We make the pilgrimage from Minneapolis to the cemetery in St. Paul every Memorial Day. The Nolan Family Plot. My Father's people. We usually attend the Memorial Mass, but this day was oppressively hot -- we chose to stay close to the relatives and remain still in the shade. Madge cleared the overgrowth from the edges of the stones, keeping the struggling hosta alive for another year. Mother read the names and dates out loud -- some names recalled a veiled moment: Stella and Edmund Nagan. Other names delivered abundant, complex memories: William Joseph and Thomas Edward. Others, still, remained faceless: uncles who died during WWII or as young boys, from disease.

We acknowledge those who have come before us. We commit them all to memory for another year.

Peacefully rest.

Teen Angst Never Changes

2006-05-26T10:51:00.000-07:00

It's difficult to say exactly what is going on in these teenagers' minds. "Should we pretend like we're not posing -- or make it obvious? Should we look cool, or look like we don't really care? Should we seem to be filled with trepidation at this thing called life? Should we text someone to find out? Should we listen to some music first? Should the photo be tied in with music? Do we want to post this on MySpace? Do we care about MySpace? Are we over-thinking this?"

Really, I think it's still as simple as recording the moment and seeing if we like it or not.

Fuzzy's World

2006-05-17T12:35:00.000-07:00

After 21 years in Minneapolis, the last four spent at the University of Minnesota, Mary Clare will soon leave the comfort and predictability of her familial home and venture east. New York City is her final destination: subways replace the MTC, the general public is multiplied by at least 10, there is a deli/coffee shop/grocery every half block and the city is ablaze from midnight to midnight. Every day is an adventure. What will the city hold for an English Major from the Midwest?

My Window on the World

2006-05-13T19:39:00.000-07:00

Last month, on a 10 day trip from Spokane to Seattle, we found the perfect beach cottage.

Down a back road on a 20 mile strand that juts into the Pacific Ocean from the Washington coast, we spent two and a half days watching the sky turn infinite shades of winter blue/grey. Perched on the edge of sand dunes we waited for a glimpse of sun that never fully appeared.

Late one afternoon, we stood on the shore with our backs to a 20-MPH wind -- our jackets whipping around us like coast guard warning flags -- we could barely hold ourselves upright. The wind blew swirls of sand across the beach -- creating moving patterns that reshaped themselves and appeared over and over again -- sand amoebas moving off into the distance. The sound of the wind merged with the power and noise of the surf -- there was no other discernable sound -- just this roar of nature. Even the birds were silent. As far as we could see in both directions, we were the only people on the beach.

We felt like we were standing back in Minnesota, bracing ourselves against a whirling winter white-out. We laughed at the irony of it. But if we squinted just perfectly, it was sand. And it was snow. An exquisite lenticular image.

Bob in his New Glad Rags

2006-03-13T17:18:00.000-08:00

My father-in-law truly shines during the Holidays. He keeps the chaos in check -- after the teenagers have ripped into packages, screaming with delight and the pure joy of group presents -- he is the first to begin the clean up. He is shown here with a Glad Trash Bag as a Holiday Accessory.

Requiem for a Dream

2006-03-04T11:40:00.000-08:00