Minnesota Tough

A couple of years ago, Minnesota endured two polar vortexes back-to-back. It was hardly a new phenomenon; just another Minnesota season with a new label and dire warnings of impending doom. Call it the enthusiastic effort of news directors to get as many eyeballs glued to the television screen as possible…media rating wars and all that. Why not be honest and just say it was another cold winter with a polar ice cap nestled snuggly over Minnesota’s crown. Any veteran of the cold wars will tell you there is no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing. It was hardly the first harsh winter and certainly not the last that Minnesotans have endured.

As a friend described the weather when he was growing up, he simply stated with a shrug: “It was either snowing or below-zero. Those seemed to be our only two weather options all winter long.”

Of course, everyone bitched and complained about the brutal weather because that’s what most Minnesotans do during the heart of winter’s assault. But they endured and persevered and survived the cold and white-outs and accumulating snow. And they will do so once again this winter.

I endured Minnesota winters for almost seventy plus years and wouldn’t want anything less for my own children and grandchildren. It’s what makes Minnesotans…Minnesota tough. I love Southern California during the winter months but four seasons beat plain vanilla temps every time.

When I was younger, I’d heard the cliché that where you are born and raised leaves an indelible mark on your consciousness no matter where you end spending the rest of your life. I personally experienced that phenomena first hand when I was in the service.

Back in stone-age of 1964, San Francisco was a pretty spectacular place for a young, untraveled, hungry soldier stationed just outside of civilization. Not far beyond those military gates were more than the Seven Wonders of the World. It was the Haight-Asbury neighborhood, North Beach, Stanford, Sausalito, the North Coast, Half Moon Bay and the Big Sur....just to name a few.

But I was forever struck by the fact that where a person is raised can forever imprint a pull back to home no matter how strong their wanderlust might be. Many a night over pizza and beer my comrades and I would reminisce about our ‘life back home.’ It was nostalgic, exaggerated and ripe with fond memories, real and imagined.

If given a choice, I would have returned to Minnesota in a heartbeat. My buddy Daniel wanted to go back to standing on a street corner in Brooklyn; not doing much of anything except just watching his life passing by. Joe wanted to go back to the Southside of Chicago where he and his buddies would also just ‘hang out.’ Johnson wanted to go back to Mississippi to be with his family. Cruz wanted to go back to East L.A. So, there we all were in this glorious cornucopia of entertainment but like sailors on shore leave every man one of us would rather have been back home.

Certainly, part of it was homesickness, missing our girlfriends, missing out on what our friends were doing. For me, it was a combination of a girlfriend back home and college which I left as a dropout; both now out of reach for at least two more years.

But what was it that was drawing my mind back to that hinterland of snow and ice and cold and long winter nights. Simply stated, I guess it was my place of origin. It was what I knew best and what ultimately had and still does define me.

Growing up in Minnesota wasn’t so much an exercise in toughness as it was simple survival. You did what you had to do to earn, learn and play. And you don’t let the stupid weather get in your way. Earning money meant a paper route starting in seventh grade that included sub-zero winter weather at 4:30 in the morning, wearing galoshes and walking uphill both ways. Learning was shuffling across the college campus during a white out without hat and gloves because it wasn’t cool to wear them. Play was the pure pleasure of hiking in the woods for the serenity there.

Both my kids have grown up in Minnesota. Melanie still runs outdoors year-round and Brian, having moved to Colorado, is usually on some mountain top, skiing or climbing almost every winter weekend…with his family following right behind him.

The grandkids in Colorado are as comfortable on a mountaintop as are the Minnesota grandchildren sledding in sub-zero weather or playing king of the hill when Papa is back in town.

Forget the lame attempts of ‘Fargo’ clichés such as ‘yeah, you betcha’ and other Scandinavian accents to define a Minnesotan. If you were born and raised here and even if you’ve move away, the toughness that helped Minnesotans endure Minnesota winters is ingrained in your very psychic.

Minnesota Tough is not just a learned trait, it’s homegrown.

Dying A Rich Man

Elon Musk says we don’t have to save for retirement because Artificial Intelligence will open up a whole new world of opportunities and only then can we plot our true pathway to riches and success. Elon Musk is full of it.

Don’t get me wrong, I want to die a rich man. Fortunately, it’s not in accumulated wealth or material things. Collecting assets has never been a goal of mine. I respect those folks who have, in a more stealth mode, built up their own little nest egg. My son calls it the “Millionaire Next Door” syndrome. I guess he might be on to something there. But when the time comes to count up one’s credits, accumulated wealth by itself can be a real distraction from the more important things in life.

Every wealthy person I’ve known was rich one moment and penniless after their last breath. The slate had been wiped clean and their assets counted for nothing in the greater scheme of things. At my age, death is slowly becoming a more common occurrence among friends, associates, casual acquaintances or names once remembered. It’s called The Circle of Life.

The greatest lesson I’ve learned from perusing the lives of wealthy folks is simply that there has to be more to life than collecting collectables to make the entire journey worthwhile. Despite those U-hauls I’ve seen in some funeral processions; you really can’t take it with you.

Unfortunately, for some folk’s counting up their net worth seems to be the ultimate goal. There’s just one problem with that supposition. The most valuable asset one can accumulate in life has nothing to do with any assets collected. Instead, it’s a common equalizer that shares its influence on all of us.

The ultimate asset in life is knowing that you’ve been able to influence the lives of others in a positive way and made a difference when you could. A worthwhile life is one well lived. It makes for a more fitting epitaph and no amount of money can guarantee that ultimate headstone.

Whether as a brother, a husband, a father, a grandfather or simply as a friend, it’s being there when that made a difference in someone else’s life. Simply stated, it’s trying to live a ‘good’ life.

My own life has been one heck of a ride thus far but to be honest it’s still a work in progress. There are no end-of-life regrets and I doubt there will be when the time comes. In the end, I can truly say that I did what I wanted to do. I loved whom I loved and still harbor many fond memories there. I did my best as a husband and father and friend. I was lucky with my kids. They’ve become solid respectable citizens of the world. I expect nothing less of my grandchildren and they seem to be well on their way to meeting those expectations of them.

I’ve traveled a lot and lived abroad. I’ve had a ton of experiences and saved them in blogs once my memory bank grows foggy. I’ve made up stories and bottled them in print and bytes for my grandkids and anyone else to read. With no foresight other than a desire to do something meaningful with my life, I worked hard, ran my own business, managed properties and made investments. Some panned out. Others didn’t.

The grandkids keep me young as if I need them as an excuse. Collecting friendships when I was growing up was a challenge for me but I’m a younger man now. Old friends, new friends, I’m not picky. Renewing friendships or garnering new ones is a coup. But realistically it’s still a work in progress.

My passion for writing over the last dozen or so years has surpassed my addiction to running for forty plus years. Living in those fictional worlds with my favorite characters has kept me moving into the twilight years. The heck with retirement. I don’t have the time or inclination for that distraction.

I’ve already succeeded in the great game of life. But I still want more winnings with the time I have left…and gold, silver and paper don’t count.

The Poorest I've Ever Been So Rich

I was the poorest I’ve ever been but I didn’t know it at the time. I had no home, no car, no savings, few clothes and fewer friends. What I did have was the promise of a job once I returned back to the states in three months’ time. Meanwhile, I was back wandering through Europe without a care or a clue in the world.

It would be three months of rediscovering Europe and myself at the same time. From the welcoming arms of the Amsterdam whores in the Red-Light District to passing acquaintances in Danmark, there were chance encounters never engaged. Finally meeting up with a pen pal who was as charming as her letters and just as unavailable. Fleeting encounters (drinks and promises) with troubled, itinerant women up in Nordic Country. But for the most part, I was pretty much a lost soul in need of little and wanting more.

A year earlier, my first sojourn to Danmark had only lasted six months before the Nordic winter, summer clothes and a boring job at a laundry sent my fleeting feet south toward the French Riviera. I never made it that far. Paris was supposed to be a temporary respite from the bitterly cold winter winds that swirled around my hitch-hiking thumb. But fatigue, hunger and loneliness drove me to a TWA store front and tickets back home.

This time around would be different. My internship at the Public Television station in town had ended with a job offer, commencing three months hence. I said yes, bought my ticket and headed back to Europe. A chance encounter with an artist at a Dutch coffee shop/pot shop cemented two months of living the life; if only in my mind.

John, an art student and artist, was about my age, finishing up his college degree and anxious to practice his English on any tourist he could engage. I’m sure he spotted me as an eager American, unsure of himself, but open to adventures that leaned to the mild side. We connected immediately.

John’s goal was to, one day, get to America and enjoy all the fruits that the movies, television and the rag trades had layered on his eager imagination. I was the key to the truth of what America was really like. In turn, John introduced me to the real Netherlands; its culture, people, political leanings, sub-culture and a world I didn’t know existed. It was our mutual master’s degree in learning about ‘the real world.’

The entry point to this subculture of unemployed, social misfits who didn’t fit in was John’s good friend, the potter. I can’t remember is name but his intellectual prowess ignited a thirst for future salons in me that has never died. He was at once; brilliant, confusing, mad, insightful, and a font of knowledge that even AI today would have a hard time competing against. I became his eager student and he my willing teacher.

The potter lived in government housing on the outskirts of Amsterdam. He was unemployable and living on a government stipend and government housing. Social services were then and are much now more generous in Holland than anywhere else except Scandinavia.

The potter lived with his vivacious, outgoing and brilliant Malaysian wife. They had a daughter who could charm the skin off a cobra. They made a fascinating couple drawn together by their love of the arts, the eccentricity of their native country and adoration of their beautiful daughter.

As is so customary with that unique group of people, I was immediately welcomed into their home and made to feel like an old member of the family. I lived with them for almost two months and became totally ingratiated into their lifestyle. It felt like a home I’d only seen in the movies. An outlaw’s enclave welcoming all the oddballs in the neighborhood.

We slept in late, read (he did) the morning newspaper, listened to jazz, folk and rock and roll music all day long, painted, and made pottery (I watched.) I did try sketching and failed miserably. I tried writing poetry and only scratched the surface of what I was trying to say. It was a salon inside my head; safe, secure and open to the wonderings and wanderings that only a twenty-five-year-old can muster up.

For me, it usually meant long solitary afternoons meandering around the neighborhood, taking pictures, observing daily life and wondering about my future life back in the states. Gradually, there came this strong urge to chuck it all and stay. I didn’t have a visa, a work permit or a sponsor but the thought of living the life, off the grid, was sorely tempting.

A couple of times a week, John would come to take the potter back into town and I would tag along. Dropped off at the main train station, I was given free rein to wander and take pictures with a time to be picked up by one of the canals near the Red-Light District.

I’d learned early on to pretend to be Canadian. Americans were highly suspect because of the Vietnam War and it was just so much easier to play the red cloverleaf card. I even got a Canadian patch for my backpack. Fortunately, we all talked the same rock and roll language. Pot was king and legal in Holland. It worshipped in Amsterdam.

The back rooms of most coffee shops were where the action happened. There were titillating sexual images everywhere, sex toys for sale, magazines and friendly women. I was like a dumb lamb in the slaughter house. Back then, we all pretended we were doing it but few of us were. Fortunately, I was spotted as an American backpacker as soon as I entered that fog-filled abode and ignored for as long as I lingered there. Message received.

Other times, my hosts would take me some local attractions the tourists never saw. Swap meets and the zoo. The local shopping plaza and churches we never attended. It was a simple life and a good one without all the trappings of ‘so-called’ American success. Few of our neighbors had cars, none owned their own home and fewer yet had a clear pathway to retirement. It was living  life on a day-by-day basis and making each one memorable.

Then it all ended. I still had London and the British Isles to explore. The fleeting thought of staying in Amsterdam gradually evaporated with the harsh reality that my life back home would be a thousand times easier and more productive than trying to make a hard-scrabble life there. I opted out for American ambition and imagined images of me as a business owner and entrepreneur; whatever that was going to be. So, I said good-bye and grabbed the tram for the airport.

Gradually, those memories of the wonderful times I had with John and the Potter’s family began to fade away. My new job in public television was exciting and time-consuming. Thoughts of a new girlfriend (the blond receptionist) began to consume my every day. Then there was the ocean between me and my old European-self.

I’m sure John and I promised to write one another. I never did. Like two wanderers on a mountain trek, we passed on some rocky trail, exchanged pleasantries and went on our way. Before the internet, cell phones and Facetime, it was American Express or expensive international correspondence. So, like the self-absorbed kid I was back then, I opted out to make the effort and those friend-ships were lost to time.

Now, some sixty years later, I still regret that I didn’t take the time to hold on to that connection with like-minded people who showed me a whole different way of living and loving and taking in all that life had to offer. Lesson learned and I’m still learning.

Thanks, John. Thanks, Potter’s family, thanks Amsterdam. I love you guys, all of you. With few pictures and fading memories, it’s still fun to go back to a time and place where welcoming smiles took in a naïve wanderer and showed him a slice of life he hasn’t seen since.