If You Live Long Enough

Easter Sunday when good Catholic boys and girls dress up in their finest outfits to impress each other and grandma. Oh, the memories that old French church in downtown Saint Paul bring back. If you live long enough, you can see it still there but everything else…gone.

So many of the landmarks, monuments and buildings that played wallpaper to my youth are gone now. Their history now exists only in old black and white photos. Decades of growth, change and development have effectively erased many of the landmarks that surrounded my life back then.

I was born and raised in Saint Paul. Even though I now find myself in a third-tier suburb out of the city, most of those memories are still back there. I can go back and find connections all over the city, watching the curious and sometimes neglectful changes the city has gone through in mostly subtle but profound ways.

I think where you grew up, to a certain extent, can define who you are and what you’ve become. It can be a reflection of your values, interests and affiliations. Old Saint Paul isn’t a bad place to be from. So, while you can’t ‘go back home again’ figuratively speaking you can revisit those places that impacted your life in so many profound ways.

The first home I vaguely remember was on Smith Avenue. It was a tired old duplex that never survived the creation of the United Hospital complex across the street. Then there was a six-plex apartment building near Irving Park. That structure also succumbed to the realignment of the neighborhood. Little Sisters of the Poor is still there but in a new building and mission.

When I was in first grade, we moved to a new house my mother built by herself in the Highland Park neighborhood. Her total cost of materials, not counting free labor from her brother and the cost of the foundation, was eight thousand dollars. Awhile back it went on the market for more than a quarter of a million dollars. My, how times have changed.

The list of my own landmarks now gone is numerous. My grade school was torn down a couple of years after I left. My high school, once an all-boys military school, has gone co-ed. My college was an all-man’s private college. It’s now a D 1 co-ed university. The original Twin Cities Public Television building where I began my career in television and video production is now the Minnesota State Fair headquarters. A jog over to East Saint Paul brought even more surprises.

I can still remember my Aunt Clara’s house in East Saint Paul and her favorite watering hole, the Viaduct Bar. How, at seven or eight, I somehow picked up that she and her husband frequented that place, is beyond me. But they did and I must have overheard it from my mother.

We didn’t go to see my aunt often but it must have been enough to imprint in my pea-brain. A recent venture back along old East Seventh Street brought confusion and amazement. That whole neighborhood is gone now. No more viaduct bar. No more viaduct bridge and no bridge abutments. Years ago, the resulting road alignment either erased Aunt Clara’s house or put it where I never could find it. Nothing there has remained the same.

Even the venerable village of Dinky town, famed for Bob Dylan’s coffee house start, fraternity panty raids and my own late-night romantic liaisons has morphed into something totally different.

What had once been a rundown artistic bohemian neighborhood has slowly evolved into a sad morass of fast-food chains, a university t-shirt shop, a drug store turned frou-frou restaurant and a poor excuse for a coffee shop (circ. 2013).

Even more development is now threatening to wipe out the last remaining vestiges of edgy urban living. All in the name of progress.

Not far from the debris that Dinkytown has become is an empty lot where a rundown hovel I affectionately called my ‘broken down palace’ once stood. It was my first apartment building after returning from my sojourn abroad.

That whole period in my life was really a preamble for things to come from career choices, traveling, friendships, writing and finally love and family. The building itself, like my apartment inside, would never meet code today. But it did provide me a place to sleep, a place to write and a place to experience life on so many different levels. It’s where my first venture into poetry and song writing began.

My unit on the second floor of that rundown relic had been carved out of a once spacious master bedroom. One hundred years earlier the building had been someone’s elegant home on University Avenue. By the time I moved in, it was a chopped-up, divided, subdivided and probably illegal set of apartments for whoever could afford the cheap rent.

There was a group of Pakistan students’ downstairs. They were all graduate students who were probably as suspicious of me as I was of them. I don’t know who lived on the other side of my living room wall but the nighttime noises indicated it was either Charley Harper or one of his protégés. The front of the building housed a strange assortment of folks who came and went with such regularly they might have been renting by the evening or weekend.

The overall mantra of the place seemed to be “Say Hi,” don’t ask questions, and ignore what’s going on unless you think the place might burn down. In retrospect, I think I was nuts to live in such a dump but it suited my lifestyle back then and my frame of mind. I thought of my place as bohemian chic. Visitors might have had a different impression. Shortly after I moved out, they tore the building down and replaced it with a new General Mills Research Lab.

My girlfriend at the time was a Mexican American girl named Susan. She was vivacious, outgoing, ambitious and shared a lot of my own dreams and aspirations. One of those ‘ships in the night’ I was lucky to pass along the way to adulthood.

Having found the spot where Susan and I once sat on my creaky back steps and waxed philosophically about life and love and the future, I thought I might venture back and try to find the house of where she used to live. My meandering route through that neighborhood was just part of a much larger circuitous bike ride that particular morning. There were still a lot of good memories lingering back there in the hood even after all these years.

I was about to give up my search when I rode past an old red brick row house and immediately recognized it as the spot where I used to turn left to go to Susan’s house. Even after fifty plus years, the memory of that trail marker still stood out like a homing beacon. Now I knew exactly where Susan’s house was. Only it wasn’t there.

A large apartment building had taken up a good part of her old city block. Not surprisingly, at some point back in time, a developer had come along and put up an apartment building where Susan’s house used to stand.

While I didn’t find Susan’s house, I did find something more profound. Just as Susan’s house had disappeared under the guise of progress and development, so too had most of the other vestiges of my existence back in that neighborhood. Everywhere I rode, the old buildings were gone or had been refurbished into something else.

During its heyday, the Triangle Bar was the flash point for the burgeoning music scene centered on the West Bank. Since they didn’t card, the bar attracted a lot of U of M students. I’m guessing the term ‘jail bait’ was first coined there. Not me, I either went there alone or with Susan.

But beyond the surface of that melting pot of hippies, junkies, college drop-outs, undercover cops and other assorted flotsam from civilization, came a wonderful collection of lost souls and seekers. Every night brought another stimulating conversation with some colorful character who usually gave a false last name, lied about their background but presented fascinating suppositions on life and love and war and college and our future in general. It was a true college education outside of the classroom.

The bar died in the 70’s along with the whole hippie scene. The Triangle Bar building became a phycologist's office. That period in my life which I’ve euphemistically labeled my ‘lost years’ encompassed a lot of lost real estate, friends who have come and gone, several women I truly cared about, and ultimately a lifestyle that has sustained and nurtured me for many years. The loss of those buildings was probably the most visible manifestation of my own change and evolution.

Deep down, I never really expected to find anyone or anything there from my past. The only place still standing is the duplex where Sharon and I first lived when we got married. Still, I’ve got a couple of pictures, fragmented memories and just enough foolishness left in me to think of it as a great period in my life. A time when I was young and dumb and poor. What better ingredients to fertilize the mind of an aging writer. Now that I’m old enough, oh, the stories I could tell.

Nurse with a Purse

As we age there are many myths and legends that follow us into that golden wheat field of lingering promises. What will our legacy be? What have we accomplished with our lives? How will we be remembered?

Then there are the subtle warning signs only meant for those of a certain age. I’d call those the follies of old age; gold digger verses nurse with a purse.

We used to laugh at the scenario of the old comfortable codger (of means) being seduced by some fair vixen who was only after his money. Apparently, it’s a real thing. I know several couples who live in retirement communities and the lure of ‘sugar daddies’ is no laughing matter. Some older men feel they must have their guard up when courting the fairer sex for that very reason, overly aggressive lionesses’ intent on sharing their bounty of success.

Of course, on the other hand, women have their own warning signs to watch out for. Older single women can be concerned about older gentlemen looking for a ‘nurse with a purse.’ These are senior men who want to attach themselves to a woman who has the time and financial resources to care for them as they age. Makes for some interesting conversations when love slips into the equation.

The accompanying infirmities of old age are often the elephant in the room when it comes to senior relationships. We know we’re all going to age and with it will probably come health-related challenges. Ignoring or denying it has its own set of consequences. So, what to do when one of you has to face that challenge?

For those with a committed spouse, partner, close friend or relative, it can change the equation of ‘what used to be’ totally around. I experienced that new reality recently when my wife had several medical emergencies this summer. Suddenly, I became her nurse. It was our purse and besides, it was part of the package, no questions asked.

Once back home, a whole new lifestyle began for both of us. She was now the patient and I the care giver. For a control enthusiast like my wife, it was very hard to give up control of most things. In addition, she was experiencing pain from the arthritis in her back and lower limbs and continuing pain from the wounds on her legs (a long lingering issues).

Fortunately, I’ve been healthy all my life and haven’t experienced a lot of pain. The worst I can remember is (mentally dying) sixteen miles into my last marathon and then continuing on walking and shuffling for another ten miles to complete the race. Every muscle and bone in my body was crying out for me to stop but the thought of quitting wouldn’t let me.

This lack of pain experience on my part makes it hard to put myself in her situation. Patience and understanding become paramount here while I help her navigate even some of the simplest tasks.

Two thoughts here. Time changes all things. Health is wealth. I see all of this as part of the package I agreed to some fifty-three years ago. I’ll be around as long as she needs me to be. While her healthy assets are low now, we’ll work together to get her back on track. It’s what you do when you need to step up to the plate. You know; nurse and patience and whatever it takes.

Having a purse doesn’t hurt either; blessed we are.

Reinventing Yourself

There was a lecture on ‘The Great Gatsby’ by two professors at the University of St. Thomas recently. During that discussion, the question came up about the ‘American Dream’ and if F. Scott Fitzgerald was really talking about this iconic (really world-wide) focus on success and prosperity in his novel. Is ‘The Great Gatsby’ really a metaphor for the great American dream? If so, then what is success?

In this Trump-infused world, many have been led to believe that the accumulation of material goods such a money, cars, homes, and material possessions are true signs of success. In the real world that so many of us live in, the true sign of success is doing what you want to do with your life and enjoying it. Of course, that trite quote doesn’t get a lot of ‘hits,’ ‘downloads’ or ‘notices’ in our over-caffeinated latest, greatest, most stupendous (often outrageous) social media statements.

This focus on success wasn’t always so cloudy in this country. There seemed to be a clearly delineated pathway in terms of financial advancements for the average person. After World War Two, there was unprecedented growth with the GDP. For several decades, the middle class grew and prospered. Unfortunately, that growth slowed and gradually lost its luster beginning in the late 60s and early 70s.

The intertwinement and entanglements of business and political interests had been going on for a long time. It was an open secret that lobbyists weld an enormous power in Washington for the vested good of special interests and the moneyed elite. It was the middle class who were getting the short end of the dollar stick in most of these transactions, arrangements and agreements made into law.

Norman Lear’s autobiography ‘This Too I Get to Experience’ touched on the same subject matter……short-sighted vision instead of long-term perspective. Lear talks about a conversation he had with a Harvard professor who lamented ‘the most rapacious societal disease of our time: short-term thinking.’

The professor explained: “There will be a time very shortly when young people-very young people- will be looking into computer screens. They will be looking directly into screens, not to the side, so there will be no peripheral vision; they won’t be looking over the top, so they won’t see what’s ahead; they’ll be staring straight ahead into those screens, blind to everything ahead and around them.”

“Money managers and financial product traders will be selling, buying, and swapping financial products around the world. With that narrow focus, like a horse with blinders, they will have more control and hold more power in those split seconds than we can today imagine. And all of it entirely focused on short-term gains.”

Back in 2008, the near collapse of our world-wide financial system, and Wall Street in particular, should have been a wakeup call for all Americans to pay more attention to their wallets and events happening around them. Unfortunately, not much seems to have changed over the ensuing years. Every day there are new financially-coated products, events, angles, schemes, and ‘can’t lose’ facades presented to the general public.

To that end, reinvention and financial literacy should be a topic of interest that every American should acquaint themselves with. ‘What is financial literacy all about, you may ask? Essentially, it is the ability to use one’s knowledge and skills to effectively manage financial resources, ideally for a lifetime of financial well-being. Indeed, financial literacy is something we all have to work on each day—it’s part of our ongoing education.

Despite being a relatively new field of study, financial literacy has become increasingly important for governments and citizens – without it there can be broad implications for the economic health and stability of countries.

It simply comes down to that old, worn, yet so true cliché: Let the buyer beware. We all have the responsibility to listen and learn for ourselves instead of letting someone else do it for us. To use common sense instead of group-think and to forge our own path to enlightenment instead of following the crowd. Reinvention is another approach to ponder.

My own story of growing up poor has been chronicled in many blogs over the years. Again, it wasn’t something my friends and I were acutely aware of aside from the lack of a family car, no summer vacations and few material things around the house. Most of us started working at an early age and accepted that as ‘par for the course.’ I chose a different path for myself.

Sharon began doing chores on the farm when she was six years old. If the bulk tank wasn’t cleaned twice a day, her dad couldn’t sell his milk as grade A and there wouldn’t be a milk check at the end of the month. She remembers growing up with no sink in the kitchen but a shiny new bulk tank instead in the barn. She also chose to not follow her peers and remain on the farm. Higher education and the world of academia beckoned her attention.

One of the St. Thomas professors commented that usually it isn’t the ‘most likely to succeed’ senior who becomes the artist, writer, inventor, etc. More often than not, it’s the outcast, the shunned, the under-represented. But it’s not one of ‘those folks.’ The IN crowd need not apply.

Reinvention is one approach to seize the opportunities present and not follow the masses. As nebulous as words like ambition, hunger, and striving might be, the simple fact is that nothing much has changed over the years. The Gilded Age and Nick’s ‘roaring twenties’ both manifested the same trite cliches and banner headlines. Today, one’s knowledge of the truth behind the façade goes a long way in this new world of podcasts, social media posts, and TikTok nonsense.

Yes, prices have gone up, some opportunities have disappeared and sometimes the future can be a dark and bleary horizon for a lot of folks. But the simple fact remains that a lot of the cliches about success we’ve heard over the years still ring true. These are all simple, sometimes simplistic but true statements. Bottom line; it’s all up to you.

Do I know if the American Dream still exists? Frankly, I don’t know but I have to believe it does…and has for generations. It’s still up to each of us to find our own way in this crazy, exciting, sometimes contradictory world. If not us, then who?

White Trash

Most of us, whether we’ll admit it or not, have areas of interest that might surprise a lot of other folks. Where this subject matter comes from is less important than the depth to which this attention to detail can grasp at and hold tight to our reflective consciousness. Some people might call them our ‘hot buttons’ or for others, their ‘touchy subjects.’ No matter the moniker, the subject in question often seems to capture our attention and hold it tight.

I am guilty of those inquisitive infractions. For whatever reason, my attention is often drawn to the subject of class in our society. In my mind, it ties in nicely with ‘The American Dream,’ ‘Class Consciousness,’ and (the old favorite of mine) ‘rising above your raisin'.'

Over the years, I’ve read several books on class. It’s a subject matter that has long since fascinated me on a very personal level. Perhaps the thin fabric of my upbringing had a lot to do with it. Growing up, it certainly wasn’t the glamor of wealth or accumulated material possessions that caught my attention. Instead, I think it was the place that American society had sketched out for me as a child based on my social, economic, and cultural upbringing.

Both my grade school and high school councilors slotted me into educational tracks based on my test scores. My family structure certainly didn’t help advance any educational chances at success. There were sometimes understood and other times openly stated assumptions that I would follow a pre-ordained path and certainly never give any thought to ‘rising above my raisin'.’ My mother and father did just that. My grandparents the same. That simply was the way it was and always had been back then.

I recently read a scholarly study of class in America entitled: ‘White Trash.’ Without apology, I’ve enlisted the help of ChatGPT to give a summary of the book.

White Trash: The 400-Year Untold History of Class in America (2016) by Nancy Isenberg is a historical study that challenges the idea of the United States as a classless society. Isenberg traces the roots and evolution of class divisions in America, focusing on the persistent stigma and social marginalization of poor white people—often labeled as “white trash,” “rednecks,” “hillbillies,” and other derogatory terms.

Nancy Isenberg argues that from the colonial era to the present, class has always been a defining feature of American life, even though the nation has long promoted the myth of equal opportunity. She explores how elites and political leaders have used class distinctions to shape social hierarchies, justify inequality, and control land and labor.

The book begins with the English colonists who viewed North America as a dumping ground for Britain’s “waste people”—the poor, criminals, and indentured servants. These early settlers were seen as expendable laborers, and this attitude laid the groundwork for centuries of class prejudice.

Isenberg traces how these class labels persisted through American history:

• In the 18th and 19th centuries, poor whites were described as lazy, degenerate, and unfit for citizenship, often excluded from education and property ownership.
• In the Civil War and Reconstruction eras, politicians and writers reinforced stereotypes that pitted poor whites against Black Americans to maintain racial and class hierarchies.
• In the 20th century, cultural figures—from eugenicists to politicians—used “white trash” imagery to discuss morality, genetics, and the supposed decline of the nation.
• In the modern era, the term has resurfaced in politics and pop culture, reflecting ongoing discomfort with poverty and class mobility in a society that insists everyone can “make it” through hard work.

Throughout, Isenberg shows how class prejudice has shaped American politics, settlement patterns, and cultural identity. She concludes that “white trash” is not just an insult but a window into the enduring reality of class inequality that contradicts the American Dream.

While some of Isenberg’s chapters are hard to chew on and digest, their message is very clear. We have always had a class structure in this country and we love to pretend that it isn’t there.

‘Educating Rita’ as a wonderful example of these phenomena. Educating Rita was a 1983 movie starring Michael Caine and Julie Walters. A woman takes night classes at ‘the university’ and finds to her amazement that she has the knowledge and talent to succeed there. But forces in her life all seem to conspire against her. Think of this romance/drama as the American Dream without the violins and background music. Instead, you’ll hear the scrapping of fingernails on a blackboard and the vision of the future that can’t be reached.

Another good example of this idea is the movie ‘Rudy.’ Based on a true story, ‘Rudy’ does a good job of examining the complex and confusing roles that class places on folks seeking to break out on their own mold and for those who don’t want them to leave the fold.

My latest novel entitled: ‘Agnes’ deals with an imagined love affair between a college-educated young man and a middle-age woman. She is a secretary at his work. She cares for her elderly mother in the same home she was raised in. Her life is simple and sad and complete with no window to the future until he steps into her life. Their educational backgrounds, social standings and exposure to the ‘real world’ all conspire along with their age differences to erode the affection they feel for one another. Class does matter even though people love to pretend it doesn’t.

The theme of class differences has permeated a lot of my writings. Whether in a play structure, movie or novel, the idea of class differences fascinates me.

One of my first novels ‘Love in the A Shau’ painted a picture of just this scenario with my main protagonist. I also touched on this concept briefly in several blogs: ‘Damming the Intellectuals’ and ‘Rising above Your Raisin’ as examples of social and economic crossovers.  Another blog entitled: ‘Book of ‘61’ talked about the caste system at my old high school.

That caste system (strictly my words and impression only) at Cretin High School was neither good nor bad, right nor wrong. It was simply recognition by the administration that some students were better prepared for college than other students. Test scores were the primary indicator of this placement but I’m willing to bet that socio and economic factors also played a role in that determination.

Class is a worn-out pathway we are forced to follow until such time that we consciously select a different route to travel. It is a conscious, and perhaps at other times, a subconscious decision to follow our heart and head instead of directional cues from those around us. It might mean leaving behind friends and family who choose to stay in place.

But in the end, it’s being true to oneself and seeking fulfillment where it means the most…to you…consequences be damned.