Power Circles

It was 2020 and a strange new virus had shut down most of the world. We were leaving Palm Springs and heading home for much of the same self-imposed isolation back in Minnesota. The year was turning out like no other we had experienced before.

Unlike Sharon who was quite comfortable being sequestered in our house that summer because of COVID-19, I was chomping at the bit to ‘get out of Dodge.’ LA Fitness was off limits as were restaurants, the library and other past social gathering spots. As it turned out the best part of that adjusted summer was reacquainting myself with old friends and solidifying friendships with new ones. I called them my ‘coffee and chat’ sessions.

Two articles in Natural Awakenings magazine brought this to mind.

Both articles talked about the power and purpose of community and social interaction. One commented that: ‘There is a growing movement that encourages us to find our tribe-those that resonate with our own core values, interests and lifestyles. While historically associated with Indigenous groups, a ‘tribe’ is defined as a social division consisting of families or communities linked by social, economic, religious or blood ties, with a common culture and dialect. The point is to surround ourselves with supportive individuals that uplift us and provide a sense of belonging.’

My own personal experience found that one-on-one exchange was the best way to connect with others. Three’s a crowd, four is too large. Personal exchange between two consenting adults makes for great intellectual interaction on a wide variety of topics.

My first conversational exchange began innocently enough. One of my friends and I discovered the solitude of a lakeside pavilion looking over still waters in the crisp early morning air. It was the perfect peaceful setting for great coffee and thoughtful, insightful, challenging conversations. The surroundings were pretty spectacular too.

For my other friends, the outdoor settings varied from parks, patios, porches, shelters, and other drafty spots with plenty of air circulation and room for our camp chairs spread apart. It worked like a charm so much so that most of us agreed it was a pleasant alternative to the traditional nosey, crowded coffee shops of the past.

Sharon whimsically called them my playdates. I prefer to call them as cerebral salons, catch-up sessions, or simply strengthening the bonds of friendship. It all comes down to enjoying several hours of easy discussion, contemplation, soul-sharing thoughts and sharing the warmth of true friendship. Well-earned reminiscing challenging entrenched thinking, clarifying the past, filling in the memory gap.

Over time, natural attrition and life changes have reduced the group by a couple of members. The ones that survived have grown in depth and sharing; for each of us a very nurturing experience. Each spring when I return from Palm Springs, I try to replicate some of what we captured that first summer when the early morning sun warmed our camping spots and added to the serenity of our friendship.

True wealth comes in good health and friendships. I am a very wealthy person.

The Problem with Old People

The problem with old people is….me! It’s really as simple as that. It’s taken me a long time to figure that one out. As I was growing up, without the benefit of a nuclear family or loving grandparents, old people to me were always furrowed eyebrows, ‘don’t touch that’ comments and ‘you wouldn’t understand’ statements. The absence of a concerned teacher, aunt, uncle or relative didn’t help dissuade me from that conclusion.

The ‘older generation made it very clear to us that ‘children should be seen and not heard.’ The good nuns in grade school and Christian Brothers in high school didn’t do much to dispel that notion of youthful inadequacies. It wasn’t until my ‘Lost Years’ (ten years between high school and marriage) that I was able to finally break free of that older generation’s antiquated, moldy take on life.

Reflecting back, I can see now that those closeted champions of the church, my teachers in school, the boss at work, and even my relatives had pigeon-holed me as naturally as they always had anyone my age. Without the support of adults who cared about me, I was exposed to that generational slant on the younger set. As I got older and surer of myself, their snarling comments gradually wore thin and were ignored.

So, when that old warehouse manager on my Saturday morning side hustle would always greet us college men with: ‘God-damn College kids,’ it just brought a warm glow to my heart and a smile on my face. He hated his life and what our youthful exuberance said to him. His loss, not mine.

I’ve often spoken disparagingly about the ‘old men in the coffee shop.’ These are the retirees, the unemployed and the bored who spend their days rehashing their make-believe youth and bitching about everything around them. Farmers are the absolute worst at this sour take on the world. While we’ve always had ‘salons’ for the intellectual elite, these coffee shop clichés are usually for gossip and complaining alone. From my travels in Europe, I know it’s not just an American thing.

Perhaps my distain for the attitudes of old people is hereditary. My mother used to complain about old folks when she was in her seventies and eighties. Sharon and I never quite got it; thinking instead that once you’ve reached that station in life, you’re supposed to defend your own kind instead of criticizing them. I was wrong. Now I get it.

My mother and my step-father were still dancing and playing cards in their mid-to-late eighties. While other seniors around them were slowing down, they were accelerating their pace of living. Nothing wrong with that. Her distain for others her own age was by no means admirable but it was (in her simple, crude way) understandable.

Reflecting back now on some of my conversations with her, I’m guessing that she simply couldn’t express her feelings that well. She saw no benefit to bitching about one’s aches and pains, or diminishing driving skills or slowness in their gait. She and Erwin (my step-father) were still active and so should other folks their age. I might have been a bit more diplomatic but her point was understood.

I’m at the stage now in life where the passing of my high school classmates is accelerating. But that crucible of old age doesn’t have to pervert our reality with a lot of negativities. I won’t apologize for my mother’s insensitive approach to criticizing her age group nor will I emulate it. Other folks are going to do what they’re going to do. If slowing down and grousing about life is a part of their lives that doesn’t mean it has to be a part of mine.

There’s still much to celebrate with life. Bitching and complaining only gets in the way of that appreciation.

Americana Amore

There seems to be a blossoming musical revival happening in the Twin Cities. It’s a resurgence of new musical styles and forms including Americana music. For me, it’s been sixty years from roughly 1964 to the present, for my music to come back. From a coffee shop in West Saint Paul to old Saint Anthony, there are a growing number of performance venues scattered across the Twin Cities.

Is Amore Coffee Shop in West Saint Paul the new West Bank for Americana music? What about the Finish Bistro in Saint Anthony? Could be. At one point, near the mid-seventies, many artists left the West Bank and migrated to NorthEast Minneapolis. Now there seems to be a shift taking place with that music moving to other spots in the Twin Cities. The variety of new musical styles is astounding and new venues seem to be opening up each year.

On a more personal level, I’ve always had a long-term romance with Americana music. Whether from the hills of Appalachia, the Mississippi Delta, Chicago blues, western swing, cowboy songs, or folk ballads, that style of music has grabbed my soul and interest. It began in college with the Kingston Trio, Peter, Paul and Mary and more authentic purveyors of that folk art like Bob Dylan.

‘Tangled Roots’ is one of my plays reflective of that interest. The play is really a folk concert

wrapped around a storyline under the banner of a play. A retiree, once a struggling folk singer,

wants to return to his song-writing and performing days in an era when folk music is no longer

popular. A mysterious woman might be the answer to help him along his way.

Now at the ripe age of eighty-something, I’ve taken the tentative steps of writing my own songs

for several of my plays. It will be trying to capture the mood of that era while safely ensconced

in my present-day life.

It won’t be a return to the West Bank and my quasi-hippie experiences there. Those were wrapped up in memories, real and imagined, in one of my first novels ‘Love in the AShau.’ Instead it will be exploring the song genre under the umbrella of a new play.

Song writing is hard. Lyric writing is even harder. It’s not just arranging words to fit the mood.

It goes far beyond what the ear can hear and the heart can feel. A good set of lyrics can capture

the imagination like few things in life can.

I was always enthralled by the ability of a song and its lyrics to carry me to another world, to

wrench my heart strings taunt and rip open emotions long left dormant in a sometimes cold and

uncaring world. Three minutes of sound that captured my imagination, fueled my dreams, and left

me breathless sometimes with their self-imposed imagery. I was always left wondering ‘how in

the hell were they (the songwriters) able to do that? Now I want to find out for myself.

I’m discovering a whole new batch of singer/songwriters appearing on the local musical scene.

Some are seemingly plucked right out of the folk tradition. Others bring a more current

sensibility to their performances. Either way, the message is the same as it has been for hundreds

of years. It’s a call from the open road, justice for all and the freedom to love when and where

and how one chooses.

It’s a message I’m trying to create with my own song book of my personal songs. Right now, it’s

just a roughhewn collection of song titles, lyrics, thoughts, and emotions coming from my heart

and meant for a receptive audience. If or when it gets completed, is anyone’s guess. It’s

journey I’m on as an artist and one I can’t get off of. Such is the life….

Following Familiar Footsteps

In this age of kids and their video games, vaping, multiple devices, and tons of other distractions from life, it’s nice to know that some parents see a better pathway for their offspring. For many youngsters, the pathway to maturity comes with blood, sweat and sometimes a few tears. It’s a competitive world, both against others and yourself. But it’s a world that teaches endurance, competence, confidence, loss, and unbelievable success (if only in one’s own mind.) The world of sports and exercise, both team and individual, is a great teacher of life skills.

For me personally, it began long before Brian and Melanie were born. I started running around age twenty-one and never stopped until forty-seven years later. Both kids grew up watching me run, ride, stumble, struggle, and plod along in various bike and foot races. Even the Mid-Winter Fest run in Apple Valley at 10 above zero wasn’t enough to hinder my running.

Soon enough, both kids were in road races themselves. In school, they were involved in track, gymnastics, and wrestling. It didn’t stop there.

Brian and I did the TRAM (The Ride Across Minnesota) which is a ride from the western border of Minnesota to the opposite eastern edge. In college, Brian got involved in intermural sports and Melanie began distance running on her own. In turn, they got their own children involved in various athletics very early on.

The first major competitive events were kid’s triathlons both in Minnesota and California. Pretty soon, that evolved into competitive swimming and skiing for the Colorado kids. They were doing black diamonds before the age of five.

Over time, all five of the grandchildren became involved in a plethora of sporting activities which included: Soccer, Gymnastics, Lacrosse, Hockey, Tennis, Skiing, Track, Rock-Climbing, Golf and probably a couple of others I missed.

Then, a couple of years ago, Brian and Melanie completed the Cactus to Clouds Mountain trek.

Also known as the Skyline Trail, Cactus to Clouds has the greatest elevation gain of any trail in the Continental United States. It climbs 8,000 feet in the first 12 miles from the desert floor to Long Valley, then joins with the main trail to gain another 2,600 feet to the summit of San Jacinto Mountain.

It took Brian and Melanie more than ten hours to completed the climb. I was exhausted just looking at their pictures.

Brian and Melanie have also done the Pikes Peak Run a couple of times. The Pikes Peak Ascent and Marathon is a trail running competition that begins at the base of Pikes Peak, in Manitou Springs, Colorado, and climbs over 7,815 feet to the top of the 14,115-foot peak.

Brian and several friends just completed the Kokopelli Relay Race in Utah. It’s described as:

‘The Kokopelli Relay is THE most challenging cycling relay in Utah! Cycling from Moab to St. George. Riding through ~530 miles of majestic beauty. It is a ride that invokes a sense of awe and appreciation for the incredible natural imagery that surrounds us.’ I think his photos of the trip say it all.

Then this September, Melanie and two friends completed a rim-to-rim hike of the Grand Canyon. The official web site tells it all:

“There’s no question about it, the rim-to-rim hike in Grand Canyon National Park is a classic bucket list adventure. But it’s no stroll through the park, that’s for sure. Being unprepared can have catastrophic results. However, when you’ve trained properly, have the right gear, and know what to expect, it can be one of the most memorable experiences of your life.”

• Recommended Route: North Kaibab Trail to Bright Angel Trail
• Length: 24 miles (one-way)
• Level: Strenuous
• Best Time to Go: May – October

So, what began for me so many years ago as a simple run around the block has morphed into three generations of pushing pedal to the metal, straining already aching bodies and feeling the deep, deep satisfaction of a run completed, trail hiked or exercise completed. From what I can see of my grandchildren’s enthusiasm for their chosen endeavors, I think it’s going to be a lifetime occurrence for them.

If you feel what I do in my heart about these endeavors, you get it. If you have to ask why; you wouldn’t understand…and I can’t explain it.