a good place to be

Belgian Waffles, drenched with maple syrup. I don’t recall having seen or eaten waffles when I visited Belgium in the 1980s. I do remember, however, the breakfast buffet in the hotel outside of Bruges. The shellfish were apparently tainted, and I experienced intense stomach pains for the next three days, living in shifts between bed and bathroom. The multitude of Belgian beers left positive memories, though, as well as the fact that my son was probably conceived there. My wife (at the time – we’re now divorced) was also stricken with Belgo-intestinal syndrome, proving that wonderful things can still happen under strenuous circumstances.

My son Marcus was born in Landstuhl Army Hospital, Germany, on June 20, 1990. In his early years, his favorite foods were Cheez-its, fresh-baked bread and waffles. He also took a liking to a little heat on the tongue as a baby. One evening, I fed him while his mother was somewhere like Paris, Prague or Cardiff. He didn’t really like the squished squash or beans or whatever crap I was trying to thrust into his mouth. No – He wanted a bite of the pizza I was eating. He was in a high chair, not walking yet, but I thought – Why not? I gave him the point and let him munch. He enjoyed the novelty, but suddenly his face turned red and he shuddered. I had forgotten about the Tabasco sauce I had sprinkled on the slice.

He survived. A few seconds later, he asked for more, and thereafter there were no more aftershocks. To this day, he enjoys the taste of fire. We recently devoured a pile of wings ominously labeled “Sudden Death,” the meatiest and hottest to be found in Mankato, MN, at Big Dog Sports Café. This has nothing to do with proving one’s resistance to pain. It’s just another way of appreciating the full spectrum of what the world has to offer. I also believe capsaicin, the fiery element in hot chili peppers, has medicinal properties. It’s sure to make your blood flow and will clear your sinuses. Eat enough hot peppers, and you’ll never worry about constipation. No more bland food, either. There are many varieties of peppers and the sauces made from them, all adding their unique flavor to the culinary realm. They can be used in any meal, including, come to think of it, waffles.

Waffles. Where did they come from, and how did they get that name? Upon googling, an immense universe of waffles opened up before me. Never had I suspected the depth and history of this seemingly humble breakfast selection. The word is of Germanic origin, and is closely related to “web,” “weave” and the German “Wabe,” which means “honeycomb.” Also, it comes directly from variants of “wafer,” which were the cookies we know of, stamped with various designs beginning in the Middle Ages. Someone eventually discovered they could make a larger, gridded version, which would hold substances like melted butter and syrup in its neat little cells. Maybe it was a monk, who saw a microcosm of his monastery in the form. A Belgian monk, perhaps.

I found a box of Triscuits in one of the kitchen cabinets. They look kind of like waffles, and should go well with California red I just opened. That and some pepper jack will aptly show me the way to the beginning of 2010 six hours from now. The rat terrier is begging for some cheese… maybe I should give her some. But wait – it has jalapeño peppers in it, so she’ll have to wait for the bland doggy treats. I don’t want to see what happens when a dog develops a taste for fire.

Happy New Year to you all!

Today offered promise, sunlight and relaxation. After stumbling around my house and yard in North Mankato for a few hours, I suited up and drove to the gym for a strenuous workout. I couldn’t remember the last time I had lifted weights. Last week? The lifting, the treadmill run, even meditation and progressive muscle relaxation had become tedious chores. I often had to overcome significant anxiety in order to get started. Before I returned to work, it was so routine, effortless. After two weeks working part-time in my position as technical Sisyphus, management provided me with gratuitous feedback. It had the effect of reverse-therapy. I had done many things wrong. I lacked initiative and failed to act aggressively. I had opted out of a great opportunity to kiss up to the visiting area manager at lunch. Things weren’t going well – about like they had gone when I became suicidal and decided to visit my physician. This was another turning point, and I thank my friends, my wife and my crazy pets for their support.

Macie Tries on a Bra

I’m back on full-time disability again, regrouping. The new SSRIs (Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors) seem to be acting without the deflationary side-effects of the previous prescription. The sleeping pills, the first I’ve ever taken, made me wonder why I wasn’t given these seven years ago. Seven years of poor sleep, or no sleep, with the exception of a few brilliant days here and there. I finally stopped shaking. It’s a fresh start. Only, it took the better part of a week to remember how to manage thoughts a la CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy) and relaxation techniques. Thank you, big corporations. Thank you for the paychecks and helping me realize who I really am.

Britt Sweats

Of course, these were all things I had to avoid thinking about in order to prevent a panic attack. I arrived at Anytime Fitness, plugged the iPod into my brain, and thought about things like breathing and gravity. It took some time to figure what I wanted to listen to, though. Rock and Electronica were way off. The meditative chants were soothing, but not motivational enough for heavy lifting. Ah – here it is. Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor for organ. Yes, and loud! The music took me through biceps and pull-downs into chest-press. I set it on 120 lbs. and lifted 30 times, slowly. This is the most I’ve ever pressed for 30 reps. Things were definitely looking up.

Instruments of Health at Anytime Fitness

A small woman with brown hair entered the gym and looked my way. Her smile exploded at me. When she got to work on the weights, though, she was serious. I introduced myself and asked her about her workout. She told me her name was Tami, and she was getting ready to run a marathon. I told her I didn’t think my knees would make it through a marathon, even though I had been running off and on all my life. She said she had never been a runner, but wanted to do this with her daughter, and “People our age have to work a little harder to keep up, you know.” We had not shared our ages with each other, but she was right. Somehow I had a feeling I wouldn’t be able to keep up with her.

Tami Rocks

When you’re in a gym, there’s a good chance you’re going to see someone who is in very good physical condition. It’s not unusual to see guys with huge, well-developed muscles and narrow waistlines, with practically no fat anywhere. I’m not one of those guys. I’m not even close. One of them was sitting in the chest-press machine, pumping a few more after getting a real workout on the free weights. I didn’t know his name, but let’s call him Hercules. The guy is a body-builder. He knows exactly what he looks like in the mirror, and likes what he sees. This is what he lives for. If I ever get back into free weights, he’s the type of person I would approach for direction and advice. I’m sure I would get it, too, if I ever go that route.

Dude has Arms

I finished off my workout with scrunches and decided to take a walk. I left my vintage 1998 Cavalier in the parking lot, crossed Riverfront, walked past the police station and coffee shops, and sauntered across Front Street to Once Read Secondhand Bookstore and Exchange.There were a few customers browsing the shelves, and the cats were ballistic. Yes, a used bookstore with cats. One, gray-striped, is named Fred, the other, mostly gray, is Ethel. Ethel was darting from the front to the back of the store, back and forth. The other was content to sit in the window. This would be a bad thing for people who are allergic to cats, but for those of us who like both books and cats, it feels perfectly natural. It’s a small store, but a large world unto itself. A diagram is posted up front, describing how the store is organized. By now, I know where poetry, classics and history are located. The place is a literary treasure trove. You may not find what you’re looking for, but something may find you. A month or so ago, I found a copy of Julius Caesar’s Gallic War commentaries. It was published in 1898, and would have been in perfect condition if it had not have been missing several pages. I paid $3.50 for it.

Fred Likes Books

This time, I struck gold, or platinum, or diamonds, which ever is more valuable. I found Rilke: A Life by Wolfgang Leppman, a very comprehensive 400 page biography of one of the 20th century’s greatest poets. The other gem I dug up is The Complete Rhyming Dictionary and Poet’s Craft Book, edited by Clement Wood, and published in 1936. It’s in perfect condition. It covers all of the basic terms, techniques, patterns, and forms, but the bulk of it is a dictionary of the English language in which words are grouped by like sounds, rather than by first letter. Very few modern poets write in rhyme, but this is fun reading. For instance, under the group heading of EZ´i, are the words breezy, easy, free-and-easy, freezy, greasy, queasy, sleazy, sneezy, speakeasy, uneasy, wheezy and Zambezi. That sounds like an interesting night out, doesn’t it?

Kim Holds Down the Fort

The price of both books together: $10.50. The woman working the till was named Kim, and she was genuinely friendly. The owner’s name is Mark, and I’ve never met him. I assumed he was kicking back somewhere, reading a good book. I took my purchases under my arm, dodged Ethel and walked out into November. I started to head back to my car, but the coffee shop across the street said, “Hey! You sure would like a good, steaming cup of mud!” Why, yes I would. And not just mud – a double espresso. The door to the Fillin’ Station was wide open. A few patrons sat here and there with their favorite companions - laptops and cell phones. I ordered a double, dumped some sugar in it, and sipped away. Instantly, I was transported to the back streets of Napoli. That’s good stuff. There was original artwork on the walls, newspapers and magazines lying about, and a noticeable shift in the perception of time. Not to say there was more or less of it here, but it just wasn’t important. As it should be.

Fill 'er Up, Joel

I floated out the door, several wavelengths above ground. I’m referring to electrical ground, where all the electrons go when they die. Did I tell you I rarely drink coffee? Heh. Newly energized, in warp drive, traveling somewhere beyond light speed, I decided to visit the Barkhadle Store, located across from the police station. The store had been featured recently in the Mankato Free Press, as an example of the lack of integration immigrants had with the larger community, particularly in regards to relations with the police force. I spoke with the proprietors, Ahmed and Habibo, who were very friendly and justifiably proud of their business. I picked out what I had come for – Indian Pickle – and inquired as to what food the typical Somali household eats. I thereupon received an education. I think they were a little surprised, and delighted, when I purchased the items they showed me. A very popular dish contains crushed white corn and adzuki beans. Ahmed advised me to cook the corn first, and add the beans when it was almost done, along with a little salt. When the contents of the pot are fully cooked, I can add anything I want. That sounded easy enough. Once I cook this meal and eat some of it, I’ll give a full report.

Ahmed Runs His Business

I walked out of there with several bags of food, including fresh injera, the spongy East African flatbread that lends itself so well to scooping up well-seasoned sauces, meats and vegetables. I planned on having that and Orange Pekoe for breakfast the next day. At that point, I also decided to put an end to my exploration of a corner of downtown Mankato, and drove home. That was enough excitement for one day, and I needed to do some work at home. I crossed over the Minnesota River, took the Center Street ramp, and took a right on Belgrade towards Range. As I neared the intersection, I noticed some kind of construction going on, and began to look for ways to negotiate around it. Getting closer, I saw that it wasn’t construction at all, but city workers decking overhead cables with Christmas decorations in a cherry picker. I pulled over, grabbed my camera and began taking photos. I wasn’t sure of how they would turn out, but this wasn’t something you see every day. When I asked the workers to wave for me, they said, Yeah, each raising and lowering a hand quickly, without smiling. They obviously found me obnoxious, but if I ever see them out and about, I would be happy to buy them each a beer for putting some magic into our lives.

Tacos @ Spinners

I managed to make it home without anything unusual happening. Looking back, though, nothing out of the ordinary had happened during my trip across the river and back. People read books, sold food, drank coffee, and did their jobs. It was just another autumn day in a small Midwestern city. The only anomaly to be found was a bald guy walking around with a camera, bothering people with questions and taking their photos. For him, it was a very good day.

Ethyl Shows Off

The wind changes, the air warms, insects begin to fly. They swarm. Now the fish will begin to feed again. Everything changes again. Watching summer turn to fall, in an instant.

The pines are tall here. Tall and thick and green. The ground is wet in the morning. It soaks your sandals. No rain for weeks, yet the ground is wet, the lake is high, and there are no complaints, no thirst.

It has been calm all week, but now the wind is up. When it dies, I will take out the canoe. There is a point across the bay, where a fallen tree points down into the water. A good place for bluegills, possibly northerns.

The wind blows through the pines and birch. If there is no magic here, there is none anywhere.

Big Ole Lake, 9/18/2009
The change in weather – drier, breezier – changed the way the fish bite. It takes longer for the lake to warm up. So they don’t start biting until later in the day. Even then, it’s not like the frenzy we experienced when we arrived last weekend.

Which is OK. There’s a trade-off. The current conditions could be described as perfect in terms of human comfort. What’s good for fish to feed is not always best for our pampered selves. Not that I’m complaining – I wouldn’t change a thing about this week.

We knew we were on the right path when we left the tar north of Grand Rapids, winding and roller-coasting through dense pine and birch forest, broken here and there by clear, deep lakes. The owner’s name was written on an oar nailed to a tree, as he said it would be, plus there was this:

NO TRESSPASSING —- Owner: Itchy Trigger Finger

That was OK – He was expecting us, so we felt safe.

There was a party in progess, which the owner had “warned” us about. He asked me if we were OK with that. I told him – I guess we get to go to a party – He said – That’s what I was hoping you would say. When we arrived, though, I declined the invitation to throw horseshoes (“had to get settled”) and unloaded the contents of our Malibu into the cabin. An hour later, it looked “lived-in.” After we had a little lunch, explored the dock, and figured out how to use the composting toilet, we joined the crowd in the garage. People had come out of the woodwork, and the woods, to play horseshoes and darts, drink a keg or two of cold beer, and eat deliciously fresh fried crappies and sunnies. We would never had expected to be greeted by so many laid-back, accepting folks on a northwoods vacations. The Grand Rapids classic rock station filled the air through night, and we didn’t mind a bit. I heard a few of them carrying on now and then, but we slept well. The kegs were empty the next morning. Almost everyone was gone, except for those (relatives?) in a couple of small cabins, and the Harley in front of our cabin. The rider came back to get it later. Smart guy.

We started fishing the next day. The bluegills were wild and ravenous. Highs were in the 80s, with little wind. The fans in the cabin kept us cool, though, with the windows wide opened to the lake. The magical compost toilet kept us comfortable as well. For those of us who have frequented outhouses, this was a miracle of modern technology. Because no matter how well-built or clean the outdoor privy, it’s still more than enough adventure at 2 A.M. for most of us. All you really want to do is satisfy a simple physical need.

The way a composting toilet works is simple: Waste is deposited in the container, peat moss is added, and the drum is turned using a crank on the front. A small fan suffices to evacuate odors. At some point, someone has to remove the compost and put it to good use. It’s kind of fun in a way, but some may find it it challenging when compared to conventional facilities. I feel it’s worth the effort, and it’s very, very green! Learn more at www.Sun-Mar.com.

Then there is the cleaning of 30 fish. If anyone would like to show me how to clean a bluegill in less than a few minutes, feel free to do so. It takes time, and stinks, but it must be done. The results are incredible when properly prepared in a frying pan. The fish of Big Ole, however, did not go to waste. I’ll return next year to this deep, clean and fertile lake, to catch a few more.

I was going to write about my job and some of the problems I’ve been having lately. I would have done it in a way that was smooth and poetic, so that you wouldn’t know I was spilling my guts. I have a lot to talk about, a lot of things I’d like to get off my chest. It might have been some good reading for you.

The day started off very cool and cloudy for mid-July, even in Minnesota. The indoor thermostat read 64 at eight A.M. After feeling the wind for a few minutes, I closed all the windows in the house. I like cool weather, but goose-pimples are one of the ways our bodies try to tell us something important. Like, it’s cold.

I spent most of the morning cutting the excess carpet off the edges of the basement floor, as I had laid it several years ago. There is a new ceiling, with new lamps, another renovation that throws the rest of the house into total disarray. This, I think, as I clip thick threads from fabric, is life. It is potentially obsessive when done right. Contemplative, redundant, meditative. My knuckles begin to bleed. This is a pain in the ass.

There is something weighing on my mind. On my heart, my stomach, my feet. I’m reminded, once again, that we are to attend a wake this evening. She was nineteen, a niece of my brother-in-law’s wife, part of the extended family. The shock and sadness ripples through us soon after her death. We drive to the funeral home to meet my in-laws at 4:30 P.M.

A genial old man asks newcomers which person they are coming to see, and directs our party downstairs. We sign the book. There is food in an adjacent room, but we decline. We are directed into line, delineated by ribbons help aloft by metal stands. We view photos of the deceased as a baby, an adolescent, and a young adult. Some of the most exotic and beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen are on display, with cards from loved ones attached. We inch closer to the coffin.

She looks as if she could come back to life. I hope that she could do so. Her parents are standing ahead of us, shaking hands, crying, and greeting the long line of mourners. What do I say? “We’re here for you.” He remembers me, and says, “Keep an eye on your kids,” in great sorrow, but in a very dignified and noble fashion. My wife hugs the mother for several minutes. I shake her hand with both of mine, and say, “Hang in there.” She thanks me. We move on.

I move around the crowd and wait. My wife knows it’s time to leave. She hugs a few more people, and we walk up the stairs and out to the parking lot. We stop and buy a pizza on the way home and start the oven. I open a beer. I call my 19-year-old son, and there is no answer. He calls back a few minutes later. I tell him where I was; he had gone to school with her. He has to go; he’ll drop by later. I call my 13-year-old daughter, and there is no answer. I’m going to call again soon.

Some of my friends would say a title should reflect the mood or content of what is written. In this case, the title is simply what I happen to be having for breakfast, and the approximate time of year. I have to call it something, just as we have to give our children names. If I had named my son “Tea and Toast on a Summer Morning” instead of Marcus, he still would have been the same person, but would have been teased in school, or might have referred to himself as simply “T.” Anyway, that’s something celebrities sometimes do, and I’m no celebrity. Like Michael Jackson was.

Even though I have never been a big fan, I am truly saddened by his death. Michael would have turned 51 in August, just as I did earlier this month. Somewhere in “Japanese Death Poems: Written by Zen Monks and Haiku Poets on the Verge of Death,” compiled and with an introduction by Yoel Hoffman, it is mentioned that formerly in Japan, the traditional lifespan of a person was set at 50. This is not to say people did not live much longer, but that 50 was seen as a milestone, an attainment or a turning point. It’s certainly an age at which many people find themselves rethinking their lives. Heightened anxiety is not uncommon. There is a shift in temporal perspective — The view looking back is longer than the one seen forward. The moment - Now - becomes more elusive, requiring more focus even as it becomes more precious.  You may consider doing things you dreamed of doing when you were young, but put off. Or, like Michael Jackson, you plan on making a comeback.

I can only guess at what turmoil took place in his world prior to his death. Somehow, I don’t think he wrote a death poem, but I hope I’m wrong. It could be that he feared death greatly and did not approach it with respect or candor, neither as an inevitable season or as a mysterious friend. There may have been an overload of pain, denial and delusion. Who knows? What we do know is that he had his day, did his work, and left us. There are millions like him who will die softly in old age, but who will not have reached their maximum potential. I think, in a way, he died fighting, and for him that may have been the only way. 

A Break in the Action

When I started writing this, I felt mentally and physically drained. The fact that I’m still writing it, and that I just went for a good, sweaty jog, proves that I’m not. It would have been very easy not to do much of anything today. For the last three days, Tuesday through Thursday, I put in 41 hours in order to complete the IT portion of retail store projects. At least half of the work is %100 physical, requiring me to work on my knees, to lift and transport computer equipment from place to place, and to do so in an environment that is usually chaotic. It also means getting up and down from kneeling to standing several thousand times, an activity that would be the envy of the strictest Lutheran churches. It means pulling cable through cramped retail fixtures, smooth and friendly on the outside, but sharp and nasty on the inside. This really isn’t so bad for a few hours. After a few long days, though, one starts to wonder why he didn’t finish college. While I was working, someone asked me if I was on salary. I answered, ”If I were, would I be crawling around on the floor?” Well, maybe. As for pay, hourly is preferred for this type of work. I am compensated and treated fairly for my time, my skill, my experience and my loyalty. It’s also true that this particular type of work doesn’t go on forever. Projects, no matter how massive, are eventually completed, and work soon returns to to a relatively ”normal” mode (even though I’m still trying to figure out what that is for IT). Above all, though, I am convinced that the company I am working for bends over backwards for the customer. The burden of service should be totally on the backs of the employees and management, making the customer experience as care-free and satisfying as possible. That’s what I see happening. I see a successful business model; one that will continue to take care of customers and employees for many years. That, and a good paycheck, keep me as focused as possible at the end of a rigorous day.

And today, I have the day off. A day to sit in the sun and drink beer, or a day to write. I decided early on that this was not a day to work on the basement ceiling. Besides, Peg, my project manager and construction foreman, will not be home until 5:00 P.M. This gives my aches and pains time to subside to a tolerable level. It gives me time for this blog, for some reading, a run to the liquor store, and driving my 14-year-old daughter to her friend’s house for an overnight stay. It’s a break in the action, in this war we wage against each other and ourselves. Peace.

It’s been a few weeks since I wrote anything, much less posted it on the web. Ever since I mercifully sedated Northography, I’ve focused on work and household, as I said I would. For those of you not familiar with the Northography project, please tune your browsers to www.Northography.com. Come back here to learn more if you’re interested.

The long Memorial Day weekend has been an active one for me. My wife, Peg, and I are preparing for my step-daughter’s high-school graduation next Saturday. This means removing piles of rubbish that have festered on our property for several years, freeing household relics of dust, archiving them in esthetically pleasing arrays, and taking several deep breaths after each item on the list has been circled as “done.” Now is the time to take out the trash. With no snowstorms or brain-freezing lows to thwart us, we strive to sculpt our very humble Lower-North-Mankato lot into an Upper-Midwestern economy Versailles. After eight years of work, it’s finally starting to look like a place where I could live. That’s good, because I live here, and I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.

As I write, I am aware of nagging pain in my hands, feet, back, buttocks, legs, arms and neck. Fortunately, the rest of me is ok. There is no dizziness, nausea or spasmodic twitching. What discomfort I feel is my own doing. I choose to weed-eat the yard with military precision, move dense piles of twigs, and spread bales of straw in the garden. The weather has been ideal for mild sunburn. I’ve been drinking lots of water and other stuff. This is far better than hanging out at some crowded campground, grilling hot dogs and getting to know people I already know even better. This is home, and I know where the bathroom is. I have refrigerators and freezers full of cool things. The windows open and close, there is a breeze, and the cats are staring through the screens at meaty birds. This could almost be somewhere else, like the Italian Riviera or the Austrian Alps. It’s not, though. It’s really not.

My body aches for another reason - the workout I put myself through at the gym this morning. I try to do this at least three times a week, alternating days with low-impact cardio exercises like long, brisk walks, bicycling and installing Point-Of-Sale computer systems in retail stores. The entire process takes under an hour, from when I walk into the gym until I leave. First, I lift weights on six resistance machines, concentrating mostly on upper-body strength. I find that thirty repetitions of over 90 pounds hurt just enough, with the exception of the abdominal machines, which require a lot more weight for any result. The music I listen to on my iPod helps. After the weights, I jump on a treadmill and push “quick-start” at 3.6 miles per hour. After a minute, I raise the speed to 5.2, and gradually increase it until I’m running at 6 miles per hours after twenty minutes. At some point, I always have to make a decision to finish the task, despite the pain and discomfort involved. It helps to have been diagnosed with asthma as a child, and with diabetes as an adult, and to have a father and uncle who have had strokes. And, as I said, the music on my iPod helps as well.

Today, while running on the treadmill, I listen to a long recording of throat-singing chants by Tibetan monks. I can’t say whether the music is beneficial to my exercise, although the element of breath is strong and seems to somehow support the cause. I enjoy it much more when I end the run, drink some water, wash off my face and walk outside into the stiff breeze. I sit in my 1999 Chevy Cavalier and roll down the windows. The car faces a brick wall, the backside of the Mankato Salvation Army building. Two ornamental fir trees frame the area in between what used to be large windows, bricked solidly for whatever reason. Still listening to the monks, I begin to notice patterns in the wall. The top row of bricks is laid in a short-long-long-short pattern. Below it, all bricks in the row are long. This is also true for the next three rows, until the fifth, which is, once again, the short-long pattern. The entire wall, with the exception of the bricked-in windows, is constructed in this fashion. For some reason, this seems remarkable, and I wonder why I had never noticed it before.

While I’m consumed in chants and mortar, a man walks around the corner of the building, partially obscured by the fir trees. He carries a plastic bag, which he sets down on the grass against the wall. It appears to contain a few bottles. Apparently unaware that I’m watching him, he unzips his pants and begins to pee. He is facing me, but his face is hidden. It’s not a very discreet location for relieving oneself, and I think the guy might be drunk. A car pulls up next to me, and the driver, clothed in stylish workout attire, steps out towards the gym entrance. He doesn’t notice the pisser, but turns around quickly and pushes the button on his keychain to lock his car. It honks to acknowledge security.

The man behind the tree finishes the job and zips up his pants. He manages, slowly, to pick up the plastic bag, and walks out towards the parking lot. As he passes my car window, he stops and says something. I pull the buds out of my ears to say - “What?” He asks me -

“Wuz you honking at me?” I understand his southern accent, as drunk as he is, a long way from home. His hair might be red, cut very short, and he is clean-shaven. What, I think, had brought him to this? “No - the guy next to me just locked his car.” He looks at me seriously, says, “aw-ite,” and staggers off. As I drive away, he stands on a curb, confronting his destiny, a point in space, chanting a mantra known only to him.

Highway 14

My day begins at 6:30, in the Call Center on Highway 14, checking email and job tickets. Everything loooks good. I load up the Jeep according to my mental checklist (god, let’s hope it’s right) and pack up my two laptops, their bags stuffed with printed documents, extra cables, power supplies and a new Blackberry. I throw them and a box of retail barcode scanners in the passenger side, jam my liter of tea in one of the holes between the seats, and go, sometime after seven.

This will be a round trip, arriving back in Mankato by midnight. First stop, Winona. KMSU Shuffle Function, the politely irreverent local morning show, massages me into the day with peppy music and cheeky banter. BBC comes on, the station scatters in the ionosphere, and a forward search evokes National Public Radio, airing  quiet analysis of global pandemics and border incursions.

As I take highway 43 north from Interstate 90 towards Winona, driving downwards in a wooded valley that will eventually open up to the Mississippi flood plain, frequency modulation becomes more selective, and I switch to the station transmitting from Winona State University. Jennifer, the announcer, gives us a weather report at 9:55. It is 55 degrees, with no precipitation, and wind from the north at zero miles an hour.  

Zero miles an hour, from the north. In other words, no wind. But if there were wind, it would come from the north. Perhaps the last time the wind blew, it came from the north. Or maybe meteorologists have proclaimed that the wind will arrive from the north on its next visit. Nevertheless, I am still nagged by the concept of something with no speed having a direction. A thing can be motionless, yet have potential. In physics, there are equations to describe this, but do they apply to everything which has direction, but is not moving? What is the speed of life? It might seem that you are breaking the speed limit, yet going nowhere. So, whether you are going somewhere, purpose means everything. You are writing a book, but not actually producing much in the way of chapters. Yet the intent is there. Wind at zero, out of the north.

Chong’s Noodle House

The retail store at Winona has few problems. We reboot a retail machine a few times until the check scanner on the receipt printer starts working. The bill pay kiosk and broadband demo laptop test out good. Otherwise, the manager is just happy to see me and chat a while. Another manager is there to help him out, and they tell me I could join them for lunch after the interview they are going to do in about an hour. I thank them for the invitation, but have other things on my mind. There is a lot of day ahead of me.

I leave the cell phone store, and park at a used book store, Paperbacks and Pieces. I look through the poetry section, which is, as normal, about 1/20 of the bookshelf-space of the store, and pick out the following:

“The Vintage Book of Contemporary American Poetry, Second Edition” edited by J.D. McClatchy, Vintage Books

“Four Quartets”  T.S. Eliot, Harcourt, Inc.

“33 Minnesota Poets”  Edited by Monica and Emilio DeGrazia– This book was printed by Nodin Press in 2000. I buy it because it includes people I know and love. Mary Kay Rummel. Linda Back McKay. Norita Dittberner-Jax. Kathleen Heideman is in there, too. I’ve met and read a few of the others, but never engaged with them.

I’m hungry. The coffee shop across the street from the store is great, but I want something different. The Asian restaurant a few doors down is ok, but nothing special. I figure I’ll drive back to Rochester and have a late lunch, something light as not to interfere with the evening meal, whatever that was going to be. So I take a scenic drive down fourth street, saying goodbye to Winona until the next time, until I pass Chong’s Noodle Shop, across the street from St. Stanislaus, the oldest Catholic church in Winona. With its onion dome and slavic name, the church proclaims Polish presence in the area.  I’m interested, though, in the little shop across the street.

The sign over the front has the magic words - “Special Pho.”  I park on the side street and walk in what looks to be the entrance. One half of the plain, unassuming establishment is a small Asian grocery store. A young man stands up from the cash counter and says, “Here for lunch?” I am. I’m the only customer for the entire time I’m there, although a couple of people come in for goods from the grocery store during my stay. I take out one of the books I had just purchased, and begin reading an introduction, that is, a scholar’s opinions.

After a few minutes, a young woman walks up to my table with the prerequisite pen and notepad. I order the Jumbo Combination Pho, notated in parentheses on the menu as “Fawm.” She wants to make sure I know that I’m ordering soup. I assure her I know it is, and asked her if the family that owns the restaurant is Vietnamese. She said no. She knew the original recipe for Pho was probably Vietnamese, but, she said, “We are Hmong.” I looked at her, thought about the name, looked at the tapestries on the walls, and realized this was a good place to be.  

While I wait for my soup, I walk about and look at the tapestries hanging from the walls. There are three of them, very exquisite, colorful and detailed.  They tell stories. The human figures, dressed in black, expertly stitched, carry out tasks of life. Farming, buying and selling, playing. One of the tapestries, though,  tells a different story. Some of the people have machines guns. Others cross a river, the Mekong. I know about this story, and to see it sewn so well brings tears. As it should. I sit down and wait for my meal.

She brings out the Jumbo Combo Pho. It looks like the whole pot, a huge bowl of noodles and goods slooshing and steaming from rim to rim. Ah….heaven. Still, I’m the only one here. I take chopsticks in the left hand, spoon in the right, and go to work. The soup is a world unto itself’. Nuggets representing the entire cow swim in a sargasso sea of noodles. Not wanting to appear rude, I finish the monstrosity. Ok, I’m a bit of a glutton. I can’t wait to go back.

My stomach distended, I waddle through the grocery section. I recognize a few things, and some of them interest me. I don’t plan on buying anything, though, until I spot the dried squid for $1.99 a pack. I’ve been looking for this since I was stationed in northern California in 1982. I buy three packs, and promise I’ll be back. I will. And so will you.

The title of this blog may catch your attention, and you’re wondering how it came about. The first title I thought of was “Above Zero.” The grass and trees recently turned green in southern Minnesota, a result of warmer temperatures, gentle rains, and generous sunlight. This is a particularly dramatic event, arriving as it does on the heels of a long, cold winter.  There is unique beauty in deep winter; peace and stillness that nurtures the quiet in us. There is also darkness, painful fingers, and cars that refuse to start. In defiance, I drive north to sleep in a fish-house on Upper Red Lake, as if fried walleye somehow provides a cure for cabin fever. It does - temporarily. Modern life goes on. We have lights and computers and televisions to keep us awake. We survive. When the temperature rises above zero, life in t-shirt and shorts calls from the temporal distance. When the highs finally hover in the low 60s, squirrels harass dogs, night crawlers cover the ground on a rainy night, and we realize life beyond zero.

It hasn’t escaped me that life begins at the age of zero, or that standing still is the speed of zero. The zen concept of nothingness, with no beginning or end, also presents itself. Philosophers and theologians have stated that something cannot come from nothing, but our perception nonetheless tells us otherwise. From no mind, no memories, floating in a state of ignorant bliss, we emerge with heart beating, moving from here to there, growing older and watching the clock tick. We seek warmth. Hot baths, pizza straight from the oven, a lover’s embrace. It’s a movement away from zero that inevitably goes full circle and returns to the starting point. It’s a good thing, life.