Double Clutch and Hidden Talents

She was a simple farm girl who always seemed to have a new car while her brothers were still riding tractors. She could play at least four musical instruments and once owned a thriving restaurant. Not too shabby considering her sixth-grade education, stringent social and religious norms always trying to hold her back, and distain for anyone trying to be different. It’s quite a legacy I knew little about until a cache of old black and whites peeled away one more mysterious layer of this person; I was never able to call Mom.

I’ve been working on a new play about my parent’s early years; long before I was even a glance across the dance room floor. Part of my research was studying a ten-page handwritten bio my mother wrote not long before she passed. In it, she chronicled sketchy minuet glimpses into her upbringing on a farm outside of St. Cloud, Minnesota.

Over the years, my mother would occasionally let slip some comment about her upbringing. She was much closer to her father than her step-mother. She was the youngest and spoiled by her father whom she adored. She loved to travel and couldn’t wait to escape her life on the farm for the big cities of Minneapolis and Saint Paul.

The handwritten bio, really a jumble of streaming thoughts, was the only tangible, written history my mother left my sister and I before she died. Ten pages, single spaced, documenting a lifetime of hard work, unbroken faith in her God, loss, rejection, betrayal, and heartbreak.

But there were many gaps in that brief bio which I discovered when my sister shared some old photographs Mom had given her just before her passing. We both knew that our mother and father had, early in their marriage, started a restaurant called ‘Frenchy’s Eats’ near downtown Saint Paul. It folded after six months when financial challenges and health issues crippled their abilities to manage it. But there was more.

Only once or twice over her lifetime did our mother ever mention that she used to own a plethora of cars in her youth. She never made mention of her being in a band or her many countrywide travels, usually alone.

My mother grew up a beautiful and ambitious young woman. The Twin Cities of Saint Paul and Minneapolis proved irresistible to Hilde when she cautiously toe-stepped away from home for the first time. She was hungry enough to break free of the life-choking reins of farm work by testing herself in the cities. But with just a sixth-grade education, the only work she could get was housekeeping for wealthy clients, odd jobs as a seamstress and cooking. She became a maid on Summit Avenue. Not quite Downton Abby but close.

Despite the occasional homelessness, abject poverty, and lack of support from relatives, my mother soldered on, and with the help of one brother, actually built her own house in a tony neighborhood in town.

There were clues in those pictures…in the clothes, mannerisms, posture, location and a hundred other enounce that spoke volumes about the woman that gave me life. By reading into them with the inquisitiveness of a writer and a curiosity of past traits passed down to me, there are answers (unconfirmed, of course) in what those pictures were saying.

So, without being clinically antiseptic, I began to study the clues some unknown photographer presented to me. There were stories in those images that said so much and yet revealed so little. I did my surgical inspection without the benefit of that brief written journal pasted down from my mother. I was also cognizant of her reluctance to recognize that part of her past life.

So, who was this woman that was a part of my life and yet someone I never really knew? She was buying and swapping automobiles when they were the newest craze and playing in a band when most women were relegated to stay in the audience. So, I studied the cars, her clothes, her girlfriends, and hints of the life she was leading.

The cars varied but most were new and shiny. She and her girlfriends loved to dress up and go out to town in their new chariot. I have only the vague recollection of her commenting once that her brother took her new car out and ran into a tree when he came home drunk. She never forgave him for that.

We knew our mother loved to dance and frequented the dance halls in both Cities. In fact, that was where she met her future second husband. What we didn’t know is that she had been in a band herself. It was the Noll (her maiden name) Family Band and it had gigs around the area. Pictures revealed that she could play at least three, if not more, musical instruments. Who knew?

My grandfather, Martin Noll, died seven years before I was born. That’s really a shame. It’s obvious from Mom’s comments, both verbal and written, that he was a tremendous influence on her young life. I’m guessing he would have been one hell of an influence on me had he lived long enough.

While I’ve never been a ‘car guy,’ I have always loved music. I’d love to hone my skills as a song writer someday. Thanks, Mom, for that dream; hope I can make you proud someday.

Bobos in Paradise

A while back, I read an interesting book by David Brooks entitled ‘Bobos in Paradise.’ This book and others like it heralded an oftentimes unrecognized group of individuals outside of the normal lifestyle. Brooks defined this new experimental lifestyle or culture as a blending of bourgeois and bohemian values. To my mind, he could have been talking about the Sixties and my own experiences there as much as he was about the end of the decade.

Brooks went on to explain: ‘Because we identify ourselves as creative people, we increasingly demand a lifestyle build around creative experiences. We are impatient with the strict separations that previously demarcated work, home and leisure. Whereas the lifestyle of the previous organizational age emphasized conformity, the new lifestyle favors individuality, self-statement, acceptance of difference and the desire for rich multidimensional experiences.’

About the same time ‘Bobos in Paradise’ hit the book shelves, Richard Florida came out with his own well-researched book entitled: ‘The Rise of the Creative Class.’ The book’s jacket notes explained that: ‘Just as William Whyte’s 1956 classic The Organization Man showed how the organizational ethos of that age permeated every aspect of life, Florida describes a society in which the creative ethos is increasingly dominant.’

‘Millions of us are beginning to work and live much as creative types like artists and scientists always have – with the result that our values and tastes, our personal relationships, our choices of where to live, and even our sense and use of time are changing.’

To bring it into the present, I came across an article in the Mpls-St. Paul Magazine about just this very trend. A vacant building named (The Kickernick) on the edge of downtown Minneapolis was recently purchased with the intent of filling it with artists and other creative types. The goal was to generate interest and excitement for that development and similar ones around it.

With the clarity and conclusions of my own past experiences in public and commercial television, I realized both Brooks and Florida were really talking about a side life hustle that can go by many monikers. Bohemian, beat and hippie were just some of the labels hung on my lifestyle and that of my friends back in the Sixties.

Through my latest reincarnation as a writer, I’ve begun revisiting past people, places and events that, when stitched together, form a quilted tapestry of my life. My own collection of orphaned books and magazines carefully shelved away years ago have opened a new pandora’s box of life experiences and (then) current events that captured my imagination. It confirms two truths of life. One, there have always been those who went down a different pathway in life than that followed by the crowd and, two, nothing lasts forever.

Taking the broader view, we have always had those enclaves of creativity. Paris in the Thirties, San Francisco in the Fifties, Greenwich Village in the Sixties are just a few examples. Closer to home, I missed Dinkytown in the Fifties but caught the wave on the West Bank in the Sixties and now Northeast Minneapolis and the West Side.

Yet even those hotbeds of creativity crumble and dissipate over time and are replaced by some long-forgotten neighborhood that begins to attract the creative types. It is yet another reminder that nothing lasts forever and even the industrial greats among us aren’t always destined for longevity.

Think Sears Roebuck and Montgomery Wards. IBM and Computer land Computers. Woolworths, K Mart and Spartans. The list goes on and on of once top-tier giants in their respective industries who somehow found a way to stumble, lose direction and end up in the dustbin of history.

Imagine if just a few years ago, someone suggested that the venerable Yellow Taxi Cab company would be crushed by individual drivers offering up their own cars for taxi service. Mr. Hilton would have laughed if you thought perhaps in the future individual home owners would offer up their own bedroom or entire homes out for rent to strangers.

Who would have guessed that electronic books might replace some printed ones? Digital would replace analog. Newspapers and magazines would be crowded out by social media posts and web sites. Each of these seismic shifts in our culture were game-changing, often radical concepts that few saw coming.

The common thread through all of these ground-breaking changes was born in the creative minds of groups and individuals. Now AI (artificial intelligence) promises to, once again, radically disrupt the food chain of progress as we’ve come to know and understand it.

Creativity still matters. Even with the assistance and hinderance of AI, the creative mind is the engine that drives it all.

A Tale of Two Summers

Summertime for the grandkids.

It was the best of times and it stayed that way, with a few bumps here and there. As their ever-observant Papa would comment: “Welcome to the beginning of a lifetime of learning.” It’s summer time and my grandchildren are knee deep in jobs, sports and learning about life in general.

Unfortunately, when I was growing up, there were few if any (that my mother was aware of) summer camps, youth athletic events or school/church summertime youth programs. Even if she was aware of them, I’m sure my mother didn’t have the money to send us there.

So, my sister and I were left home alone while my mother worked. We got very bored. The routine was to get up late, watch Mel Jazz ‘Afternoon at the Movies’ on WTCN, Channel 11. Then waste the rest of the day doing nothing or something stupid. What a waste a youth. Thank heavens, it’s not the same with my grandkids.

As they were growing up, Sharon and I told our two kids that they weren’t allowed to work during the school year but were expected to stay busy during the summer months. After they both got tired of summer camps and were of the age, Brian and Melanie were told to get a job for the summer. It wasn’t for the money as much as the experience entailed in working with and for other people.

Now as adults themselves, both Brian and Melanie have taken their own tailored approach to summer activities for their own kids. Sharon and I are proud of both approaches they’ve taken.

Maya has discovered her dream job, becoming a star sales person for the Nature Conservancy. She believes deeply in their program, philosophy, goals, and agendas. She’s found that she loves talking to people and nature and the environment. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that she’s in Colorado where everyone drives a Subaru Outback with a dog inside.

Spencer works at Starbucks part time and has a side hustle working for a landscaping company. He’s become a seasoned barista, whipping up your standard as well as tailored drinks for customers. He’s discovered one of the great truths of life. Some customers are just plain weird.

Samantha is a camp counselor at Life time Fitness, does dog-walking (yep, that’s a business) and, of course, babysitting. She’s also branched out into doing work as a Nanny and still finds time for cross-country training for school.

Melanie and Scott have taken a different approach to summer activities for their kids.

Brennan is playing soccer for his club and high school team, going to hockey and tennis practices this summer. Between practice and performance, he’s also completing volunteer work for National Honor Society.

Charlotte is also playing soccer and hockey this summer and augmenting those activities with a plethora of side hustles. She is baby-sitting, dog walking and doing yard work for the neighbors. She’s also found time for two weeks roughing it in Isle Royale National Park; a part of the Boundary Waters Wilderness.

While all my grandchildren are very busy, each is taking a different approach to spending the summer months. There will still be time for family vacations, personal endeavors and time spent with friends. The activities are a reflection of both parents who care deeply that their kids make the best use of their time during the summer months. Two different philosophies based on their own value system and best interest for their kids

Our grandchildren benefit either way and we couldn’t be happier.

Chasing My Identity

I recently read about a woman who conducts workshops on how to write your own obituary. The responses to her workshop always seem go one of two ways. The first group wrinkles their nose and responds with a frown “Oh, Lord, I don’t want to talk about my own death.” The more optimistic of that group then adds “and besides, I’m never going to die.” It’s denial at its most optimistic stance.

The second group recognizes that these workshops are an opportunity to make their own farewell statement. These folks realize that they now have an opportunity to say just what they want to say about their own lives instead of it coming from some boiler-plate funeral home ad or a template from the newspaper. They get to share with family, friends, and associates just what was important to them and what they are most proud of for the time they spent here on earth.

I’m in that second group. I want to tell the world what I did with my life…once I figure it out.

At first blush I’d have to say I’ve been very lucky on so many levels. Then having said that I would also add that I’m unapologetic for past failures, mistakes, losses, missed opportunities and a wide assortment of sundry missteps that have also defined my life. At this stage of the game, I’m too old and too busy to worry about ‘what might have been’ or ‘what if’ or ‘if only...’

I guess my own story begins with a French-Canadian guy whose parents came from someplace in Canada. He was a short guy with a pencil-thin mustache and (supposedly) a fondness for the drink. He went from Michigan and ended up in the Twin Cities. He was playing in a band in St. Cloud, Minnesota when he met my mother. She was just a young German Catholic girl recently off the farm.

So, my heritage is French Canadian and German. But what does that mean in the greater scheme of things? It is a heritage that I have no affinity to nor interest in…because it has no roots. As was befitting the rural German Catholic culture of that time, my mother never spoke of my father either before or after he passed away. It was as if he never existed in the first place.

I can lay out a few of the stats, facts and incidents that defined who I became. I was young and dumb and poor but open and honest. I’d like to believe that, much like my writing, I stumbled a lot but somehow kept moving forward.

I can talk about those men and women who briefly had an impactful influence on my life. I can talk about working from 7^th grade on and usually having two jobs going on simultaneously. I can talk about twenty plus years of working full time, running my business and managing several apartment buildings all at the same time. I can talk about near burn out and finally redemption on long bike rides, torturous trail runs and sojourns into the high desert.

It’s always a challenge to revisit that narrative in my head about my life up to a certain point. The facts are easy to lie out and document. I could put them into a flow chart or a neatly outlined diagram that lists important dates in my life. It’s neat and clean but still smells like an old tattered history book. Something is missing. The data would tell you how I got to where I am but it wouldn’t tell you how I ended up being who I am today.

There is a ‘60’s time warp still safely ensconced in my head. A wonderful period of creativity with its music and Bob Dylan and the Beatles and hippies and personal liberation and milestones. I don’t apologize for that. It is part of who I have become. It doesn’t take away from my life today but instead comforts and feeds me more material for my stories.

I am not interested in ‘what if’s.’ Bob Dylan said ‘Don’t look back.’ I would add as a caveat unless you’re in a good place. Because if you’re in a good place in your life today then you can look back and see the success and the failure, the goals that fell short and those never attempted. You can look at your life as it truly was and not as someone else said it should be.

One friend recently commented to me that it was too bad I hadn’t started my writing career years earlier. I simply replied that I couldn’t have done that years ago because I wasn’t the same person that I am today. My head was in a different place back then. Neither better nor worse but probably not conducive to the focused passion I feel for my writing today.

I guess I’m foolish enough to believe that old cliché that it’s never too late to become the person you’ve always wanted to be. I am today the result of a million different experiences, episodes, loves, failures, losses, challenges, and successes that rippled through my life over the last seventy years.

Awhile back, I read a book called ‘And Then the Vulture Eats You.’ Much like another favorite book of mine, ‘Zen and the Art of Running’ These authors pointed out that a runner changes minutely each day and shouldn’t expect the same results today as he might have gotten last week or last year or ten years ago. Like many others, I am constantly changing and evolving and adapting to the nuances of each day.

I have another friend who has defined life in three simple words: Learning, Earning and Yearning. His position is that we grow up with certain knowledge. We make a living. Then (he claims) we yearn for what we didn’t do or don’t have or lost. I don’t think it has to necessarily be that way.

I can’t do nor do I want to do what I did before. I do not want to wear a younger man’s façade. The years of experience and joy and disappointment run lines across my face but I wear them like a seasoned veteran worn by the games of life.

My new identity is a moniker I wear with pride and is defined by the stories I tell. My blogs are just one step in that direction. They are personal, explicit, revealing, open and honest. But in the end, they are simply meant to be a snapshot of a moment in time in the life of…

Today I am much more interested in telling my stories and living my life vicariously through my characters. I want to share the fear of humping my hog through the boonies, riding old Apache trails and avoiding ambush in some narrow slot canyon. I want to mastermind the intricate workings of a modern-day courtship and look in on two women slowly falling in love. I want my protagonist to fall in love with a siren of my own creation.

I want the new me to splatter my keyboard with stories of past adventures, mishaps, wondrous experiences, and my characters grand plans for the future. I want to live the life of a drifter out west and an adventurer on the Mekong Delta. And I want to do that until my ink dries up and my mind slowly fades away.

I haven’t written my own obituary yet but when I do, it’ll probably start with something like…

“He had a good life…and then it got even better.”