Cousins

Several years ago, Sharon did the whole Ancestry thing. She was able to trace her lineage back to Germany in the mid-eighteenth century. She even found a picture (supposedly) of the clipper ship that her ancestors came over on. My own family tree began and ended abruptly in Canada with no ‘came from’ or ‘went to’ ancestral lines past that spot on the map.

My own mother’s reluctance to talk about her past (well documented in past blogs) left me with little tangible facts or rumors to go on. She had left her past history cold and unforgiving except for those rare moments of clarity or lapses of revelation when something from the past was revealed. So, what I had to go on was the fact that four women, all sisters, were born in Sterns County, Minnesota on a small farm just outside of the small hamlet of St. Martin.

The four sisters were part of a family of eight; four brothers, four sisters. Each with their own hopes, promises and secrets. Never really very close was the common thread between them. Their children, the cousins, followed suit and never established strong inter-family bonds. That lack of kinship is a sad yet realistic result of ‘family dynamics’ so common among many families.

I always had the impression that my mother was a lot closer to her dad than her mother. She spoke more often of her girlfriends growing up than time spent on the farm. All four sisters ended up getting married and settled in different neighborhoods of Saint Paul. Two ended up in Highland Park, one in the Como area and the fourth in East Saint Paul.

From those four sisters came eight children, all cousins with little in common and less time for making acquaintances. There were a few family gatherings but not enough to solidify a sense of community among the group. Family secrets were still there but kept hidden as per their rural German Catholic culture.

All of which leaves many unanswered questions and fewer answers. For a while one of the cousins, Dr. Ron Pizinger, began collecting information on the Noll family and its many mutations since leaving the farm. He held several extended family gatherings and produced some fascinating information about our elders sailing over from Germany and settling eventually in Sterns County. Unfortunately, his early unexpected demise left many unanswered questions that have never been addressed or resolved.

Since then, offspring from the four cousins continue to grow, abet far apart and seldom in communication with one another. Whatever bonds began with the four sisters at the turn of the century has long since dissipated and faded away with the years passed.

I’m guessing this is probably more normal than not. For generations to continue a bond of friendship and familiarity in this era of constant moving, evolving interests and social changes must be a monumental challenge. Old bonds grow weak, splinter, and fail. New interests supersede old ones and new directions are followed by some and ignored by others. Nothing remains as it was. Nothing stays the same.

And as the cliché says: Life goes on.

A Moment in Time

 I have a theory about creativity based on nothing more than casual observation, mild speculation, and curiosity. This whole idea of being able to create masterful works of art (in a myriad of different forms and genres) has always fascinated me since an early age. How did those artists, whom I admire so much, find that window of opportunity to create their art?

For each, there seemed to have been a ‘moment in time’ when they were at their most creative best. Granted, it’s a very personal observation but one that seems to repeat itself over and over again. Bob Dylan in the early 60s, the Beatles about the same time, CCR in the late 60’s and the list goes on and on.

Jazz begets Bo-Bop which led to ‘race music’ or early rock and roll. Do-Wop groups morphed into single pop artists or singing duos. Each seemed to have their small, brief time in the spotlight when their music shined brightly and captured the hearts and minds of millions like myself. But then as social norms and attitudes changed, the music moved on and became something else. Each seemed to have its own brief time in the sunlight (read spotlight) before something else took its place.

A closer examination in the book ‘The Song Machine’ revealed some of the time frames surrounding many top producing artists and/or organizations in my musical lexicon. Phil Spector with his famous wall of sound produced numerous hits until the end of 1966 when the failure of his masterpiece, Ike and Tina Turner’s ‘River Deep-Mountain High’ drove him to early retirement.

Motown, the ultimate hit factory out of Detroit, rolled out a string of hits until greed, envy and unbridled ambition ended its reign at roughly the same time Spector’s factory closed down. Closer to home, Sound Eighty recording studios in South Minneapolis burned brightly in the early eighties until digital technology and a clash of creative minds closed it down after only a dozen years.

So, the question is: do we each have our own time in the spotlight in whatever area of interest we nurture in our heart? On a more personal note, are I in the midst of my own creative period?

I’ve been tap-dancing around the arts since an early age. From rudimentary drawings of Hollywood inducted fantasies to an outline for a TV script for ‘Have Gun, Will Travel,’ I’ve dipped my mind into the other world of ‘what if?’ all of my life. Granted, it was always a side venture, never enough to sustain me financially or creatively until now.

Working in television and freelance gigs in cable augmented that interest in the arts with the occasional paying side hustle and other creative ventures. Two of my first westerns were written in our first home in Maryland in the evening hours after work. One year per book. Then nothing came of them until forty years later when they finally attained book form. After that, the flood gates seemed to open. I gave birth to more books then plays and finally movie scripts.

After that period, a comic strip was born alongside a skinny little hippo. Then song lyrics to accompany some of my plays began to drain out of my brain. Each became a new creative avenue to explore in another form of story-telling.

So the question begs to be answered. Is that it then? Is my creative window going to close anytime soon? In a strange turn of events, I seem to be getting more creative as I age. My interest in a myriad of things continues to grow and expand. Each is ripe material for story-telling. Song writing now holds the edge over other creative endeavors. It would seem that time and health are the two biggest factors affecting my hours logged on the computer or scratch pad.

Is this my time of the most creativity or is it just a blip in my life’s story? I really don’t know.

If it’s true that an active mind and body are two key elements to living longer, I would seem to be in good standing among the senior crowd. Or is it just a fleeting moment in time soon to be edged aside by older age, health issues or a visit by the grim reaper?

Hell, if I know. But until then, excuse me, I’ve got a story to tell.

Real Housewives of the Twin Cities

This would probably make any realtor cringe. The idea that, for some, home-buying is a beauty contest draped in stately homes, manicured lawns, a little red school house for precious cherubs and a blissful existence for any and all who enter its realm. This is in line with the preachings of The Journal of Consumer Affairs which ranks (tongue stuck in cheek) the ‘best places to live’ around the country. Their curated list, in turn, ranks in the same category as the home-buying philosophy found in Money Magazine, People Magazine, and YouTube videos.

Anyone and everyone, with their own vested interest, can tell you where the best place to live might be. The reality is that home-buying is often a game in which it’s the best façade that wins in terms of pedigree, history, desirable zip codes and the illusion that says once there, ‘you’ve arrived.’

It seems as if Lakeville wants to be the new Edina. Edina wants to keep its crown while the outlier suburbs want a piece of that action too. Highland Park has kept its panache and St. Louis Park seems to want theirs back by rebranding itself ‘Westapolis.’ Then there are other communities like Burnsville who wonder what happened to their once esteemed status in the greater pecking order of ‘I have arrived’ homes. Minnetonka Beach seems to have grabbed that title from them for now.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I understand the ‘hype.’ I live in California half the year and certainly get it in terms of presenting the best home-buying package possible. Yet, it’s been interesting to watch what’s happening with home-buying in the Twin Cities? It used to be so clear and simple. Where you lived was often determined by proximity to jobs, schools, retail and entertainment. While that equation hasn’t changed its coat of many colors, the real estate lexicon has evolved with the times.

I’ve been out of the real estate game for some time now but my interest hasn’t diminished over the years. With the miles traveled, it’s often interesting, amusing and at times perplexing to me to see what the current market is like. It seems that what’s old is new again and current trends often reflect past events, only with new costumes and ‘hot’ labels instead.

When my family first moved to Apple Valley in the late Seventies, it was Burnsville that held the title as the fastest growing community south of the river. It had great schools, brand new housing developments and a thriving commercial component.

Apple Valley was no slouch itself but was still in its infancy, having just been newly minted Apple Valley from its old moniker of Lebanon Township. My, how times have changed. The city now boasts a large collection of apartments, condominiums and senior housing at its core and leafy large lot homes surrounding downtown.

Back then, South of Apple Valley was only farm land. Rosemount, Lakeville, and Farmington were still tiny hamlets only connected by narrow two-lane blacktop roads.

Out west, Eden Prairie was just starting to grow as an alternative to the western suburbs that nestled around Lake Minnetonka. Wayzata, Orono and others were still relatively untouched by growth and development.

Now Lakeville has claimed its title as the place to be with its higher end homes, two high schools, growing retail outlets and plenty of land to develop.

Unfortunately, the removal of all ‘inclusion posters’ in its schools because a few parents want them gone doesn’t speak well of its inclusionary façade. It would almost seem as if they don’t want ‘those people infecting their tony communities.’ Lake Elmo seems to have suffered from the same malaise. Which is an interesting juxtaposition since the quality of the school district still seems to be the prevailing number one factor on what young families are looking for in their new address.

From my perch as an outsider for six months out of the year, I’m not influenced by the daily weather conditions, traffic jams, political charades, brain-numbing newscasts and other distractions from what’s really happening in my hometown. To be clear, I love Minnesota and wouldn’t want to live anyplace else. But it isn’t all ‘puff and stuff’ despite what the latest housing blitz wants you to believe.

I still believe some of the best values can be found in my city’s older neighborhoods with their solid Orin Thompson build homes, large lots, easy access to parks and amenities, reliable city services and overall friendly neighbors. We don’t need ten years and mature trees to see those values, they’re already there.

In my community and others like it, there are still solid home-grown values that the new administration in D.C., outstate politicians, and ‘back to the past’ dreamers want you to believe have changed for the worst. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Even with its age-related spots, Minnesota is still full of ‘Yeah, you bet-cha’ friendly folks who will quickly lend a helping hand.  Its core values of goodness haven’t changed despite the rhetoric and antics by some who wish otherwise. If you’re going to live anyplace, Minnesota is as good a place as any.  I’ve lived that reality all my life and so has my family.

And proud of it.

Meeting of the Minds

Of all the places to hold the coveted title of ‘best third places,’ San Francisco has to be at the top of the heap. While London has its pubs, Paris, its sidewalk cafes, and Beijing, its teahouses, I haven’t found a spot that carries such a coveted history.

Down through the decades, the ‘old lady by the bay’ has attracted a wide swarth of the talented, troubled, possessed, dispossessed, and marginally-coherent individuals who gave the city its unique brand of literacy.

The Montgomery block, when constructed in 1852 on the bay shore survived earthquake and fire long enough to become San Francisco’s most illustrious literary landmark. More than two thousand creatives are reputed to have lived in the building over the years. Among the writers, Stoddard and Joaquin Miller had rooms and affairs there. Ambrose Bierce wrote his blistering ‘Prattler’ newspaper column there. Jack London stayed there near his friend George Sterling who had a room for his many secret amours.

Long before North Beach and the infamous Barbary Coast brought San Francisco to America’s attention, the disenfranchised creatives were gathered on the Montgomery block. South of the city, Monterey Bay, also became a literary hot spot.

Much like Carmel before it, the area attracted a wide swath of brilliant, troubled, talented, drugged out writers, artists, actors, anarchists, alchemists, and socialists.

Many years later, my mother lived and worked as a maid in the same fog-draped, wind-swept enclave known as 17-mile drive after the bohemians moved back to San Francisco. The Black Cat Café, located next to the Montgomery Block, was the most famous of bohemian hangouts during the 1930s right up until the Berkeley Renaissance of the late 1940s.

My brief exposure to the sights and sounds and aroma of post-beatnik, pre-hippie culture came from several jaunts to an old working-class neighborhood not far from the base. Haight Ashbury was just beginning to attract a younger crowd of Berkeley intellectuals, folkie drop outs, drug dealers and young people looking for the next big thing. I was just a lonely GI accompanying a seasoned veteran looking for weed and hippie chicks.

As a young enlisted man, the closest I got to those mid-Sixties social and cultural changes was working at the Larkin Theater in the Art District and watching a ton of foreign films. Barracks life exposed me, for the first time, to a wide swath of other life styles captured as we all were by two or more years in Uncle Sam’s Army.

Life in the barracks was but a brief moment in time when we were all young and stupid and far from home. Asinine antics, weed-smoking on the window sills and stupid horsing around were daily occurrences. It was a non-stop party we all knew would end all too soon.

As a motley collection of draftees, we all knew there were eventual transfers for all of us to other army bases far less permissive than the Presidio. So, while we were there, the collective mantra seemed to be ‘let’s be stupid now for who knows what our future holds?’

After the service, it was the Triangle Bar on the West Bank that gave me the same comfortable ambiance to continue my search for direction and a glimpse into my future. It wasn’t the Chelsea Hotel in the Village where my folk idols gathered but it was better than nothing.

Third places take many shapes and forms but all serve as a collective gathering spot for like-minded souls. Mine have come and gone, based on current writing projects, Sharon’s art classes and lucky accidental meetings.

The one coveted ‘third place’ I’ve only visited once was the Henry Miller Library in Big Sur. It played prominently in my last novel ‘Playground for the Devil.’ The kids and I stopped there on our tour of the West Coast a couple of years ago.

The place reeks of moldy paperbacks, old rag sheets, new literature, cook-out and sing-alongs on the back porch and a gathering spot for the eccentrics of the area.

Unfortunately, there are no third places in Palm Springs, at least not for me. A patio chair and coffee will have to suffice. Minnesota does better with my mulch garden hideaway, my ‘Coffee and Chat’ sessions and one coffeeshop in Norde East.

It’s not the same as other third places but it still provides an out-of-the-way place to collect my thoughts, jot down writing ideas and spend the quiet with other like-minded souls.