A Somber Note On The Holidays

 

(This article appears in the winter edition of The Bright Side of 50).

While not a chipper holiday story, it's been a lifelong lesson.

It's the sad life of a wandering, giant displaced farm worker called Walkin' Joe. We paperboys tormented him in our mischievous childhood. Reportedly a rider long ago on an Orphan Train, he became a legend in our rural town. Joe likely never sat for a Thanksgiving feast unless the pool hall gave out pickled sausages, but he garnered a reputation for eating prowess at farms where he worked. A homemaker proud of her kitchen talent would have been pleased by Joe's capacity, but a total lack of manners didn't earn return invitations. The sounds, accompanied by natural bodily reactions, were a warning about Joe - lots of grub, served outside.

Farmers witnessed his power - windmilling bales of hay or lifting machinery - but he lacked social skills and rarely uttered a word. Folks wondered about retardation, except he could speak a little German from the days in his youth working alongside prisoners at the town WWII camp. The camp contracted out prisoners for farm work, so generations of carriers taunted him with calls of "kraut" or "Dutch" or "Heil Hitler." Lost in an era without a homeless category, his refuge was the pool hall. He slept in hallways, haystacks, empty vehicles - anywhere. He often was jailed for loitering or vagrancy.

Late one evening, a woman was startled at the rear of a Laundromat by Joe, in his underwear. Washing his only clothes, he went to jail. Once around Christmas, our pal bought a pair of mittens and handed them to Joe, but had to duck Joe's haymaker. Had he ever received a gift? Several years later he served a year in the pen for a $5 bad check - a meal at the mayor's café.

He dropped off our radar until years later when, as a young reporter, I was handed a blank obituary form for "Joseph (?) Smith." The editor joked this was a guy everyone knew, yet knew nothing about. The funeral home guessed at his birth and hometown and there was no surviving family, no address, organizations, religion or any connection to the town he worked and walked around for decades. It got to me.

At a short memorial with a few of us, cops were pallbearers. Every holiday I recall our intrusions into his lonely, lost life. The opportunity for amends is long past, but memories of our mistreatment have left me with an awareness of those less fortunate. This childhood reflection has impacted both my personal and professional life. During a news career it has led to coverage and editorial support making the public more aware of folks who still slip through the cracks of society.

Walkin' Joe died in the state nuthouse of gangrene of the feet. We buried him on a wintry day in a pauper's grave, Christmas Eve, 1970.

Minnesota's Myth?

By Dennis Waller

Like most over-hyped slogans, punch lines and ditties, "Minnesota Nice" may seem like a shirt worn once too often, but we beg to differ. There is no finer example of niceness than in the days after a hurricane-strength gale hit the Brainerd area in July, slamming trees onto roads, homes and major resorts. Neighbors and strangers were out in force, responding to the super cell storm  - pitching in to open many roads and driveways.

Our transition from Washington State to the lakes area of this fine state has had its challenges, but not because of Minnesotans. We arrived in frozen March and - late in unloading - had trouble finding an open restaurant.

Nearing survival mode, we considered gas station hot pockets until we found an open café. Exhausted mentally and physically, our relief ended when the waitress said the grill shut down a half hour ago. Dejectedly walking to our car and backing out, we had our first nicety. The waitress knocked on our fogged windows. She'd noticed our weariness and the grill was still warm. It was the best Reuben sandwich ever.

She engaged in small talk about our move and like most natives, didn't linger or probe. Edna was simply polite and cordial and we found this typical in outstate (non-urban) Minnesota. Clerks, attendants, service providers and civic personnel go out of their way to greet and help - though of course not getting personal.

Paul, the rural mail carrier, brought a mail overload to our door and welcomed us. The recycling man took time to chat. The clerks at the local hardware seemed genuinely happy to help and didn't act like our questions were ridiculous. The people in the police station (suspected stolen flatware - found) and clerk's office (beach blanket permit - granted) smiled while explaining policies.

Pete, the cabin care provider, is responsive, thorough and honest. Our cordial neighbors left cake at our door. Church folk and members of a fellowship to which we belong are responsive, never probing.

My wife's first wood tick bite showed signs of Lyme's disease, but Doc David at Essentia was gentle and reassuring. When a whitetail deer ran into my car, the auto body and insurance people worked together easily and efficiently. The pontoon salesman was not at all pushy.

Minnesotans welcome newcomers - especially year-around lake residents. At each summer's end our family gathers from across the country and they'll attest to our views of local hospitality. Though it could take only one rude clerk or a raging driver to dispel such a positive stereotype, our minds are made up. Hopefully this stance enables us to pass along the goodwill.

A friend explains: "Minnesotans will tell you everything except their names." That doesn't disqualify them from being Minnesota nice. Is the slogan true?  As we locals say, "youbetcha."

(This article appears in the fall, 2015 issue of The Bright Side of 50.)

Minnesota Crazy?

"Are you crazy?"

It was a frequent question when we announced our move from the mild Pacific Northwest to North Central Minnesota. This was followed by statistics: 20-below zero and four feet of snow. Extreme data is what outsiders remember about our fair state - our home since early March.

Since then it's been great, though a long distance move after two decades is not for the faint-hearted. There is much to learn, people to meet and personal infrastructures to establish. The same gal cut our hair for 20 years and my physician was a friend, as were my dentist, optometrist, attorney and pastor. And then there are the dozens of neighbors and associates left behind.

The process for moving 19,000 pounds some 1600 miles is taxing at any age. The movers did a fine job, but loading and unloading hundreds of boxes exhausted us physically and mentally. We were careful in our labeling, but we still can't locate needed items. However, I've discovered many "new" clothes, so Goodwill will have an array of business suits, dress shirts and power ties.

Fairly well traveled, my wife is a retired flight attendant and I'm a former newspaper publisher. Seeking the best retirement spot, we looked at Colorado, Montana, Utah, Arizona and California. Each had potential and we felt we could find the Bright Side anywhere, but as we slip quietly into the autumn of life, the priority is be closer to family. Not too close, but a one-day drive to Chicago, Des Moines, Kansas City and the Twin Cities. Frankly, we're sick of commercial flying and we can't afford continual tickets back and forth to refresh family connections and see active grandchildren.

A radius from Minnesota worked, but the foundation for my Golden Age dream is a simple photo taken 40 years ago on a lake beach belonging to my parents. They're gone now and the children in the photo have their own families, but that old image is burned in my mind. It's a moment of pure joy, grade-schoolers with ear-to-ear, open-mouthed laughter as they huddle, anticipating the warm sand and cool clear lake water. Thankfully I paused in beach raking to freeze the moment. 

We can't go back in time, but it's possible to recapture such feelings and God-willing, we'll have a chance in our new lake home - coincidentally a quarter mile down the beach from my parent's old cottage. While the Pacific Northwest might poke fun at our weather stats, they miss out on the fact that Brainerd has nearly a third of a year more sunshine than Olympia, WA.

It's only one of the hidden assets of living where there really is such a thing as "Minnesota Nice," but that's another story.

- Dennis Waller is the author of a childhood memoir, "Walkin' Joe and The Midnight Marauders."

(This article appeared in the Summer, 2015 issue of "The Bright Side of 50")

Inside Those Hollow, Ancient Eyes

I'm careful about my opinions of celebrities and I use caution before placing someone on a pedestal. So many times I've been disappointed after assigning too much value on the talent of a writer, athlete or actor only to have the respect diminished by some revelation in the news - often criminal. However, there are instances of special talent leaving an indelible mark on me. Take John Prine for example.

Certainly not qualified to judge anyone's character, I hold the abilities of songwriter-singer Prine in high esteem because of what he has taught me. His messages in songs written back in the Seventies shaped my thought processes over a lifetime. He's deservedly now in the Grammy Hall of Fame.

Today I can add courage to John Prine's credit, too, because he's on tour, sharing the depth of his vision despite battling lung cancer. His voice has weakened compared to the old days, but his messages will ring true long after we're notified he's no longer with us.

A California cousin turned me onto Prine, with his gravelly song about aging and loneliness, called "Hello In There." To this day, when I see someone who may have hollow ancient eyes, I greet the person - knowing they've been through joys and horrors that will never make it into a best seller. But a simple hello may - for just a moment - help ease the state of loss and loneliness.

"Sam Stone" is another deep-reaching ballad. It touches on the futility of war and the false hope of morphine or any fixit drug that goes into that hole in Daddy's arm. I admit that during younger, wilder years the consequences shared in that song helped me consider my own direction. He addresses the difficulty of an average life and the need for a beam of hope in "Angel From Montgomery" that I heard in his remarkable duet with Bonnie Raitt.

He correctly forecast the preferences of today's society - certainly here in Washington as well as Colorado - with "Illegal Smile." Prine pokes fun at the frailty of humanity in "Your Flag Decal Won't Get You Into Heaven Anymore" and he can get both chuckles and pauses in the bittersweet humor expressed in such songs as "Christmas In Prison," "Dear Abby," and "Dual Custody." There are innumerable others written during his impressive career.

He's an excellent guitarist and though I cannot read music, can't play a single instrument and should never, ever sing next to you, I can tell you that John Prine has a lot to say.

My Kick The Bucket List

I saw a few references from my tight-knit Facebook family of those who could check off goals on their respective Bucket Lists during 2014. Good job.  I wrote a blog in August 2013 about my logic for not wanting such a list, but to each his own.

I do feel good however, about not checking off fatalistic items on my Kick The Bucket List. Not wanting to be too negative, I held it to thirty. Here's what I didn't do and didn't die:

1. Climb K2, Everest of anything in the Death Zone.
2. Tightrope on a cable between Chicago skyscrapers.
3. Jump a motorcycle over the Snake River Canyon.
4. Cross Antarctica on foot.
5. Ski down Mt. Rainier.
6. Skate on thin ice.
7. Swim with the great whites.
8. Be a handler at a reptile garden.
9. Take a flight to Liberia.
10. Have a holiday in Afghanistan.
11. Create a business partnership in China.
12. Trust Iran.
13. Fist fight with Putin.
14. Breath deeply in Beijing.
15. Invest in Detroit.
16. Put my tongue to a steel post in sub-zero weather.
17. Zip up too quickly.
18. Experience a crystal meth high.
19. Mouth off to a cop.
20. Feel the effects of a taser. Or a .38.
21. Get stuck in gridlock - coming soon to Seattle.
22. Follow golf on television.
23. Get to know the Kardashians.
24. Absorb your political postings on Facebook.
25. Watch a movie in a crowded theater in Lewis Co.
26. Face-paint in honor of my favorite pro team.
27. Listen to rap, heavy metal or polka.
28. Sit in an airline seat ahead of a projective vomiter.
29. Attend The Nutcracker.
30. Make it to midnight on New Year's Eve.