A Mystery Unraveled

Only now, years after her passing, am I finally getting a closer look at the ambitious, liberated, free-spirited, adventurous woman gave birth to me over eighty years ago. Then forgot about the role she was supposed to play in my life after that.

Up until this point, with the rare exception of a couple of old black and whites, all I had to go on to retrace my mother’s life story was a series of hand-written notes detailing some of the sequences in her life growing up. It was a chronical of her experiences from youth to old age. Unfortunately, the notes were written later on in her life and was rife with errors, misstatements, and voids that she had purposely created to leave out specific parts of her story.

Then one day my sister, Marlene, met a cousin who had a treasure-trove of old pictures, many of which include our mother in her youth growing up on the farm. It suddenly opened up a whole new insight into our mother’s adolescence and young adult period. From the cars to clothes to rural surroundings it was a glimpse into a past long since shut dark by time and old age.

Closer examination of the pictures along with her own scribbled notes provided some clarity in my mother’s early life. There were pictures of her with her mother with whom she was never close. My grandfather whom my mother adored was there. There was her brother, Frank, a man wrapped in mystery, who died relatively young in his thirties.

Farm life around the turn of the century was a hard-scrabble life; twenty-four hours a day. Horse power provided the engine to harvest crops, move machinery and take folks to town. Our grandfather was the first in Sterns County to have a horseless carriage, one of the few in all of Minnesota at the time.

Fortunately, a few of the pictures had hard to-read-scribbles on the back that named names and connections. There were snapshots of mom’s close girlfriend, Delta, with whom she shared many adventures in and around Saint Martin, Minnesota and the twin cities of Minneapolis and Saint Paul. Union depot always took my mother and her siblings back to the farm.

Our mother’s time, spent in the Twin Cities, was chronicled by pictures of girlfriends gathered on Summit Avenue where they all worked as domestics. Then there was an afternoon stroll over the Mendota Bridge with a friend.

There was a gap of time, sans photographs, between our family restaurant; ‘Frenchy’s Eats, our first rental on Smith Avenue, the six-plex we lived in among the DPs (displaced refugees from World War Two) and finally a real home my mother built herself on Randolph Avenue.

Unfortunately, there are only a couple of pictures of the house she built on an empty lot. I know she had the basement excavated by a contractor. Then professional framers came in to construct the walls and roof. After that, she and her brother, somehow managed to build the rest of the house from the frames on up.

There are only a few pictures of my mother and her new friend, Erwin, a recent widower. She met him at one of the many dance halls in the Cities and they eventually got married. My sister thinks there may be more photographs coming from that cousin. That would be a good thing. Any image would help in filling in the gaps of this mysterious, fascinating woman whom I called Mom a long long time ago.

Coming Home Again

Springtime in Apple Valley is the best. Although recently my wife and I have been able to escape the cold and ice of past winters, we haven’t forgotten our early morning commutes after wrapping our kids in layers and shoving them out the door for school. Happy memories; yes and no.

But springtime holds a special place in my heart. It means running and biking outside without multiple layers, head wrap and gloves. It means yard work in the sun and working up a sweat. It means long walks in the woods at Lebanon Hills Regional Park and escapes along the river. It’s early morning coffee on the porch and listening to the birds having breakfast all around me. It’s savoring in all the benefits, charm, and pleasantries of living in such a nice community of friends and neighbors.

However, my Back Pages tell another story. Fantasy images from my youth now come true; at least in my imagination.

Southern California has become my great playground where I can ignore creeping age and continue doing fun things snow-bound seniors can’t do back home. I like the crazy, creative, eccentric, unapologetic far-out types who inhabit a lot of my regular haunts there.

Sharon has found a cadre of fellow artists willing to try new painting techniques and share both their success and failures with her. It is her ‘new thing’ and it suits her to a T in the desert.

For both of us, it’s warm winter nights that nurture creative thoughts and ideas bursting on paper. It’s ocean and mountains and out of the way places that Minnesota can’t offer. It’s a playground for those of us still in total denial of life’s fading curtain.

Yet for all that California has to offer, it still isn’t Minnesota. A lot of folks have a special place in their hearts for where they were born. My affiliation runs deeper than that.

It was born of an early morning below-zero paper route, a high school steeped in military tradition and a lake that mimicked the ocean if only in my imagination. It was hard times and healthy living. It was growing up in a world shaped by basic values and an appreciation for hard work. It was dreamed-about opportunities limited only by the extent of one’s imagination.

Minnesota is where I found stability and a healthy foundation upon which to lay down my roots. It was where we raised our children and now watch some of our grandchildren grow. It has become a hundred million other impressions that nudged and pricked and scratched and broke through my memory bank.

For as much as I love California’s fast pace and changing emotional scenery, it is still Minnesota that brings me back to reality. Both places offer Sharon and I wonderful friendships, a boatload of memories and creative ventures. But Minnesota also offers us something else. History that is all good.

I was born of the tundra. And though I avoid the snow and cold as much as I can, it is still in my blood. I don’t know where I’ll write my final draft whether it be in the surf or in the snow. But it doesn’t matter. There really is no contest.

Minnesota is a good place to be from and a good place to be.

Ode to Apple Valley

As we get older, some of us love to wax philosophically about our high school or college years.

I went to Cretin High School and am darn proud of that. My wife, Sharon, was born and raised on a farm in Wabasha, Minnesota and went to Wabasha High School. She also is proud of her upbringing and high school. But education aside, I’ve found that it’s where we raised our kids that now bring us the most satisfaction over the past forty plus years.

Aside from the normal warts and blemishes, seen and unseen, that any city has accumulated over the years, Apple Valley is still one of the best places to live and raise kids in the Twin Cities, bar none.

When Sharon and I moved back here in 1977, our son, Brian was 8 months old and Melanie hadn’t been born yet. We bought an Orin Thomas rambler, model 60 with one previous owner, for $59,900 and hoped we could make the payments on a one salary income. We did and have been here in the same house ever since.

Like the city itself, our house has evolved and changed and adapted to the times and ever-present aging process. But more importantly, our neighborhood has remained a solid community for new families and established ones alike. Some couples like ourselves have been here for years and have no intention of moving.

The older neighborhoods have remained attractive with their large yards, mature trees and rolling terrain. Newer neighborhoods have fallen into a pattern of conformity but still offer a variety of housing options. None of those adaptations happened without planning and foresight. It was a small group of visionaries back in the 60s and 70s that laid the groundwork and foundation for the kind of community we live in today.

Some of those early administrators like Will Branning and Mike Garrison still reside here. The city has had a long line of focused, dedicated department managers. And the proof, as they say, is in the pudding. In this case, it’s in a host of attractions right in our own backyard.

There are pocket parks scattered throughout the city. An award-winning golf course, an aquatic center, District #196 schools, proximity to the Minnesota Zoo, a variety of housing options for new families and seniors alike and the list can go on and on.

In the early to mid-eighties, I spent five years on the Apple Valley Planning Commission. I also created three cable television series for the city in the late 90s. ‘Police Beat’ covered activities of the Apple Valley Police Department. ‘Hook and Ladder’ covered the AV Fire Department and ‘Apple Valley Today’ was a cable magazine covering events in and around the city.

Writing, producing and editing those cable series brought me into close proximity with the various city department heads and gave me a greater appreciation for the true dedication of those men and women managing our city.

Both Brian and Melanie have done well in District #196, garnering a well-rounded education that has led to better things for both of them.

Sharon has been an active member of the Apple Valley Rotary for over 25 years. Over the last couple of years, she and her fellow Rotarians have been collecting books for disadvantaged kids in the District. Two years ago, they collected over 15,000 books for students who didn’t have easy access to books or books at home. That kind of social engagement is part and parcel for a lot of the social clubs in town.

Whether you were born and raised here, had children who attended school here or are new to the community, Apple Valley is a good place to live. The city fathers ‘got it right’ a long time ago and we are all enjoying the fruit of their foresight today.

Born and Raised in Minnesota

There’s a quote I love that goes something like this: “At some point in the journey, you realize it’s time to head back home. It doesn’t matter where you are in the journey, the Gods begin calling and you must return home.” I think there is something about that mysterious force called ‘home’ that calls to all of us.

In Minnesota, there’s a new advertisement running from a local grocery chain. They’ve sanitized their stores in the new world of Covid-19 and want us to return to shop there. Their ads remind us that they are a local brand; home grown. ‘Born and Raised in Minnesota’ they like to say.

When I first saw that ad, my first response was typical of someone who has been a ‘local’ homegrown boy here all my life. “Like who cares?” I asked myself. Turns out upon some reflection, I do care, because to a degree, this state defines me and the person I’ve become.

I’ve always seen Minnesota as a nice state, a safe state, a pleasant place to live and a great place to raise kids. Three out of the four seasons are pleasant enough. But let’s face it; the winters can tough even for a lifer such as myself.

After Sharon and I were first married, we moved to Maryland for about five years. After our son was born, I couldn’t wait to get back home and raise him in Minnesota. Sharon would have stayed in Maryland forever. Maryland is a very nice state but the summers suck (with their heat and humidity) and it’s too crowded for a density-averse person like myself. So we moved back and have been here ever since.

Our tenure in the state has been pleasant enough. We’ve raised our kids here, now watch two out of five grandchildren every chance we get. My career and extra-curricular activities grew in the state and my version of retirement takes place here six months out of the year.

But gradually my tenure in Minnesota has been challenged by my West Coast other half knocking on the door of residency. Now that I’m part-time Californian, my perspective about my home state has changed. I love California. It appeals to my restless youth, errant and wandering mind, free soul, and sometime corrupt and tranquilizing imagination. But deep down, it still isn’t Minnesota.

Now with Covid-19, the George Floyd tragedy, the burning of Minneapolis, and slow gradual maturing of my part, I can see another kind of hometown. Minnesotans seem to be very compliant when it came to following the rules of stay in place, wearing a mask in public places, and dealing with the pandemic.

The Floyd tragedy took place here but it could have happened in any city in this country. I would like to believe that our response to it was quick, appropriate and fair. This state has all the scars and blemishes as much as any other state in terms of race relations. I hope we can address them quicker than most. Minnesota is not California but it shares many of the same attributes.

I have a long and storied history with California. It’s like Leonard Cohen’s Hydra calling me back once again. Its part delusional, part opportunistic and part magical. But mostly it’s a comfortable relationship that seems to bring out the flip side of me that a lot of folks never see. It is at once my friend, advisor, irritator, and councilor. It forces me outside of my Midwestern comfort zone.

The first time I stepped foot in California, it was off a Great Northern Railroad passenger car from Minnesota. The year was 1946.  I was three and my sister two. Along with my mother, we had ended up in Carmel from the Twin Cities. My Mother, by then separated from my father, had been encouraged to come out west to become a housekeeper for a past client from St Paul’s Summit Avenue neighborhood.

When we finally arrived on the coast, broke and hungry, my mother was informed by the old woman’s son that she had gone senile and would no longer have use of my mother’s services. So much for California dreaming.

My second time in the Golden State was in 1964. Fresh out of basic training, my first assignment was at the Presidio of San Francisco. Life at the Presidio was a Camelot-like existence that ended all too soon eight months later.

The third time to bask in that warm California sun came in 2000. Our family was staying at a friend’s condo in Palm Springs. It was our first introduction to desert living. Thus began a twenty-year intermittent love affair with that diverse community and all of its surrounding amenities.

I live in two different worlds now and I’m comfortable in both. One is progressive, adventurous and sometimes a bit outrageous but always leaning forward. For half a year I wear my Southern California flip-flops as comfortably as any other seeker. But I also live in the Midwest and I’m darn proud of that too.

The Midwest is more staid and conservative than California in a common sense kind of way. For me it’s two different life styles and two points of view. Yet there’s a common thread running between the two with openness for all and acceptance of different points of view. Both offer a realistic view of the world and not a closed-minded myopic wish for what used to be. They don’t dwell on a world that, in fact, never really existed except in television sitcoms and wishful thinking. Instead, they focus on what could be and not what once was.

On the surface, there might not seem a strong connection between the two states. California just legalized marijuana. They passed meaningful gun control legislation that has been impossible to meet at the federal level. They agreed to pay more for schools, ensure medical funds for low-income residents, require more transparency from legislators, brought back bilingual education and, in Los Angeles, agreed to pay higher taxes to address the chronic homeless problem.

The accolades continue. California leads the nation in the rate of economic growth – more than twice the national average. It is home to the nation’s fastest-growing and most innovative industries – entertainment and high-tech. It incubates more startups than anywhere else in the world.

Yet California is far from perfect. A housing shortage has driven up rents and home prices into the stratosphere. While its public schools used to be best in the nation now they are among the worst. Each election cycle brings a plethora of new propositions which often times only confuse and muddy the legislative process. **

Minnesota is no slouch either when it comes to social issues. There had been drug-sentencing reform, moves toward an open primary, various child protection laws enacted and health-related issues addressed in this last session.

As much by lucky accident as foresight, I now find myself immersed in two different life styles, two different geographic locations and a wonderful diversity of friends and associates. Two different worlds and two wonderful life experiences at the same time.

I’m born and bred Minnesotan with a strong streak of California to taint my mind. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Both states have become home in more ways than one. They’re like a cradle upon which my imagination gives birth to creative, frivolous, silly and sometimes enlightened ideas, concepts and story lines. It’s the flip side of that routine called your average lifestyle. If ever there were a balance in my life, it would be called the Minnesota-California connection.

What can I say; it works for me.