...and it's been a long time...

The place was a lot nicer than I expected when my mom and I walked into the Sunrise Assisted Living Facility in Southern California to sign in at the front desk. The staff seemed refreshingly nice too…at least to a guy like me that’s become increasingly hardened by over 10 years living amidst the hustle-and-bustle of the east coast.

We were there to see my mom’s 91 year-old first cousin Mildred (my first cousin once removed) who’s been staying in the senior facility since falling in her Alhambra, California home last July. My mother only lives about 40 miles west of there near Santa Barbara, CA, but at 84 and with advancing macular degeneration, it’s increasingly tough for her to navigate her light blue 2004 Grand Marquis battleship on the Southern California roads. In light of that she’d only made one harrowing trip by herself, and my visit from Washington, DC provided the perfect opportunity for her to be chauffeured to her second visit.

At 53, I’m no virgin to these types of senior housing. Over the years I’ve visited a host of relatives staying in homes,  and for very short while I even made a bit of a habit of playing the guitar or piano at a couple of such facilities in Eastern North Dakota and Western Minnesota. Regardless of which one I visited, I usually left feeling like a rock star, but then again, I guess the entertainment bar was pretty low.

 

Compared to some I've seen, this was pretty nice. As we rounded the corner to greet my cousin, I was struck by the pleasant look on several resident’s faces as they sat napping and reading around the fireplace. They were seated on what at least appeared to be fairly comfortable couches arranged in a U-shape around the hearth, and I remember thinking it might have been the first such place where I’d witnessed such a scene. 

Mildred, now confined to a wheelchair after breaking her left leg when falling again 3 weeks ago while trying to move a chair on her patio (she has her own assisted living apartment), gave us an enthusiastic greeting when she spotted us. She looked remarkably well for 91 (to be honest…no worse than me) and she asked us if we wanted to move over to the recreation area to visit a bit. The den-like area, which included the aforementioned fireplace, sat just between the large dining area and the outdoor courtyard. We settled in at a table by the windowed double-door that gave way to the tree-covered patio, and after I grabbed coffee for the group ( it was free) from table adjacent to where we sat, we immediately began to chat about my cousin’s assisted living digs.

 

 

Mildred always had a great disposition, and she talked excitedly about the facility and pulled out a paper that listed all the “activities” going on in the place. I asked her if she participates in any of them, and she noted that she goes to most of the exercise classes and usually does the Thai Chi. I’m not making this up…and she even demonstrated some Thai Chi moves she’d learned to improve hearing and laughed as she slowly tugged down and outward on her earlobes. I asked her if it working, and she leaned forward and said “what?”

It wasn’t long at all before the conversation shifted to a nostalgic waxing of their childhood time growing up on the Red River farm in eastern North Dakota. They laughed as they reminisced about riding shovels down the riverbank in the winter, or building icehouses in the snow that piled along the riverbank. I asked if anyone ever worried that the caves they carved out of the snow would ever collapse…and they simultaneously said “no…nobody ever worried about us.” They talked about riding horses bareback to get the mail from the mailbox which was a half mile to the west down the dirt road, and flagging down the steam engine at the depot in Wolverton, MN. They even talked about sneaking through the woods in hopes of getting a glimpse of neighbor Jimmy Alm skinny dipping in the riverside gravel pit.

What’s the point of all this? Well, if you know you can use the comment section to tell me…but I think it could be this. When I was a kid we’d gather every Christmas Eve at my Aunt Nannie and Selma’s (they were my grandpa’s sisters) at the top of Mount Angelus drive in Highland Park, California.  When we sat down for a traditional Swedish dinner in their modest dining room, the group consisted of my aunts and hosts Nannie and Selma, Mildred and her husband Bob and their daughter (my second cousin) Pam, my cousin Alice and her husband Bill, my aunt Lucile and her boyfriend Tom, my mom and dad and me. It was always a festive time…and at least for me as a young boy…it seemed to me that group would be around forever.

Now…of that core group of 12, the only ones left are Mildred (91), my mother (84) and me (I look like I’m 39). That’s not sad…it’s just the way it works. Unless something changes dramatically, the script won’t likely end the same, but it will eventually end. So…when you look around at your loved ones and friends, don’t take them for granted. Try to avoid the petty crap that leads to fights and bad blood and think about the fact that those people around us won’t always be here. Neither will we…so as my boyhood pastor Don Shelby used to say, “life is a gift…and you better make it count for something.  

 Have a great weekend.

 BTW…I read last week where the website Grooveshark shut down so if this blog is resurrected fulltime,  I’ll have to find a different way to get you the music. For now, or at least until I figure out the new Grooveshark, it's a Youtube video. Hope you can make it work...it's a good song.

Girl Crush

...and it's already day two of the New Year

Well, the outside decorations came down New Year’s Eve, and we managed to break down the rest of the indoor stuff yesterday. It was a predictable chore… one that I dreaded most of the time I was putting the decorations up over a month ago. Strangely I noticed I was in a much better mood taking the stuff down than I was putting it up, and the only explanation I can think of is that I actually must hate Christmas.

Actually, I know that’s not the case…as the fact-of-the-matter is I truly love the holidays. I typically start writing greeting cards somewhere around October 1^st (started on 9/29 this year…with seasonal music playing on Pandora) and I look forward to December all year long. Somehow those last few months of the calendar are always markedly better, and between changing leaves, cooler temperatures and college contests on the gridiron, I always look forward to it. It’s all capped off in December as we mark the birth of a very special child…and even with my aging years…it never gets old celebrating my birthday.  There is a downside though, and I think for me the hustle and bustle and anticipated stress of the season conspire to rob me of much of the early holiday cheer. When I’m putting up decorations, I’m obsessed with all there still is to do, and deflated by the reality that every hall I’m decking will have to be undecked. The prospect of all that looming work on top of everything else just isn’t very appealing.

Yesterday I noticed I was singing carols and happily sipping decaffeinated coffee as I methodically removed each ornament from the tree. When I was putting them on the tree, I was hastily throwing them up and using foul language each time one would inevitably drop and hit the floor. All I could think about while I was decorating back in late November was that every ornament I hung on that tree would need to come down. But yesterday didn’t seem so bad, and I even took a break or two to run through my holiday medley on the piano. Seems to me I spent more time composing and brushing up on my holiday repertoire this year…and that made the season more enjoyable too.

 We actually took the decorations down a bit later this year…normally I like to have them all put away by New Year’s Eve but we hosted a couple of post-25^th holiday dinners (one on the 27^th and one on the 30^th) so we decided to leave them up to keep it more festive. It was nice to stretch it out though, and  reminded me again that the Christmas season really is supposed to last a bit into the new year. It also gave me some time to reflect on 2014…some of what happened and the friends that were lost. All in all it was a fitting way to wind down the year. It’s not really usually like that at the end of the holiday season, so that got me to thinking about what was different about 2014.

Well, like most things people tend to overthink, it’s not really very complicated. This year, both Christmas Day and New Year’s Day fell on a Thursday. My generous employer also grants the day after a Thursday holiday as a vacation day, so that meant a minimum of two back-to-back four day weekends. We also get Christmas Eve, and I just took New Year’s Eve off so I had two back-to-back five-day weekends. I’m 53, and at least in my 30 plus year work-life, that is the first time that has ever happened. Two back-to-back five day weekends, which means if you’re counting, that I’ve only had to work something like four of 16 days of late (only worked four days from 12/20 to 1/04).

What’s the point of all this? Well, all year long (probably about 45 weeks or so) I put out this poorly written blog each Friday morning. Most of the time, at least 75% or so, I’m making the case for stepping away from the grind and focusing on the things that matter.

Sadly as with most things in my life I am much better at making that argument than I am living it…and these last couple of weeks reminded me yet again the value of leading by example. I’m happier, much happier really, if I actually come off the field for a few plays and take a knee once and awhile.

So…I’m not sure what you’ve resolved to do in 2015, but whatever it is, try to take some time to do the stuff you enjoy with the people you love. It’s so simple really…but if you’re spending every down on the field, you’re not going to be worth much for that series when you’re needed the most. Don't be afraid to take a knee...and when you're rested...take the field with vigor and play like a champion.

Happy New Year...

 

 

...and there's still a few days to sit by fire

In my mind, this holiday season was going to be different. Despite a very bad trend in recent years of letting it all slip by way too quickly, this December I was going to learn from the mistakes of the past and really enjoy a nice, slow, festive, and rejuvenating holidays. Like a lot of blueprints this all looked good on paper, but as too often happens, the challenge of transferring that theory into action was again too much for me.

 

I've felt increasingly disgusted and resentful over the last few Decembers at the way I've allowed work and everyday life to somehow conspired to rob me of the holiday magic. Whether it’s the seeming 24/7 nature of the job, the inability to ever really unplug from technology (or work in general) or just the increasingly frenzied nature of everyday life, somehow what used to seem like a more relaxed time of year now somehow the craziest. As if that wasn’t enough, this year’s compressed time period between Thanksgiving and Christmas somehow seemed to collude with everything else to make it the shortest holiday season in my lifetime.

Like every year, I had visions of early shopping and being prepared to the point that I could take it all in and just sort of stroll from one holiday party to the other humming carols in the crisp air while truly wallowing in the magic. There was supposed to be chestnuts on open fires, sleigh bells, yuletide carols and frosted window panes. Instead, it’s been cheeseburgers, tense meetings, honking horns and my lawn is still greener than it often is in the summer.

This year there was going to be relaxing nights by the fire, glistening trees,  glasses of red-wine and visiting with friends while Frank and Bing softly serenaded us with holiday favorites. In fairness, there’s been some of that (two…maybe three nights so far), but the truth is I’ve spent more time perusing internet gift sites and stressing about all my undone shopping than hanging mistletoe or sipping egg nog. But just like recent years, and despite the best laid plans, the season’s been mostly a bust. At the end of the day, all that came my way this holiday season was more stress…and for the record, that is the one thing that I already possess in complete abundance.

I guess what is so incredibly sad is that I’m writing this post while working off last year’s draft. As a matter-of-fact, at least a couple of the sentences are simply cut-and-pasted from the post that appeared on 12/20/13. The worst part is I recognize this is a reoccurring  theme and even escalating trend , but for some reason I refuse to make the necessary adjustments that would alter the frustration that comes from letting it all slip away. I’m 53, which means I have at least that many (or is it 54) Christmases in my rearview mirror. I love the holiday season, but despite glaring evidence and repeated opportunities to alter the outcome, I continue to let the hustle and bustle rob me making it all that it should be.

Last night I was driving home from some speaking engagement thing that I moronically allowed to be scheduled one week before Christmas…on the third night of Hanukah. My wife has lit the candles each evening, but I haven’t been around to join in the ritual because I’ve been at work. Yesterday, because of my poor planning, I missed my two favorite holiday parties of the year…and traded them instead for a harried 2-hour commute (each way) and frayed nerves.

What’s the point of all this? Well, if nothing else, it seems to me that it shows that I’m apparently incapable of learning anything. It also might again show that I’m short on fresh material, as I had to rely on a previous post to come up with today’s blog. Whatever is behind it, there is still time to then pop Dean Martin CD (or whatever is the modern-day equivalent…I can’t keep track), kick back by the fire and just chill. It might be good too if you can avoid doing what I’ve done here by not feeling sorry for yourself.

Whatever you’re dealing with, even if it’s the disappointment that comes from yet another season that didn’t meet expectations, there are hoards of people that have it much worse than you. If you think about it, we’re all one diagnosis from making much of what we stress about all seem awfully trivial. So,  try to think for a minute about those with bigger struggles and if you know somebody that’s having a tough time, you might want to give them a hug…or do at least something to let them know you care.

Have a great holiday weekend…

Merry Christmas Baby...

...and I've got to get to another holdiay party

About five or six years ago…a couple of colleagues and I went over to a local cigar bar in DC for a little holiday cheer. The two chaps with me were great friends with each other…and they were literal giants in my field of work. To be honest, I was more-or-less an underling just tagging along as I often did when these two pros would get together…and consistent with their brotherly code…they’d once again graciously let me join them for an evening of camaraderie.

The joint where we were is nice enough for me, but one of the guys complained about the “dive” nature of the place. We were having a blast nonetheless, and as always, it was a treat for me to spend some time with a couple of true leaders that have literally forgotten more about the work I’m supposed to know than I will ever fully grasp.

After sitting there for a couple of hours laughing and telling multiple lies, one fellow mentioned that we should probably go out to dinner. It was about 8:30pm on a school night, and even though I was in my late 40s at the time…I remember feeling so high-browed and important as we ventured out of the bar to have supper at a time when I’m usually passed out at home on the couch. It was a bitterly cold December night…so it took us more than a few minutes to gear up for the elements before going out in the cold.

The wife of one of the guys was just getting off work, so she generously offered to pick us up outside the bar and spare us the uncomfortable walk over to the steakhouse. As we exited the bar laughing and yucking in up, my friends wife waited for us double-parked in the street. The parking spaces along the curb were full…so you had to make your way between the parked cars to get to our waiting ride. I barely noticed but there was a homeless guy passed out on the street in the gap immediately in front of us (the shortest route to the waiting car) so I just nonchalantly stepped over him and made my way to the warmth of the idling car.

My more civilized colleagues actually walked around and we were all still laughing as we quickly piled into the cozy Lincoln. Once we were all seated, my friend’s wife asked if that was a man I’d stepped over on the sidewalk by the gutter.

“Yes”…I replied… “I guess so.”

“How could you just walk over that guy like he wasn’t even there?” she protested…  “it’s 10 degrees outside.”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked… “he was blocking my way.”

“Just take us to the restaurant and don’t worry about it” my friend chimed in… “let’s go.”

“No!” she exclaimed… “I’m not moving this vehicle until one of you has the decency to see if he’s OK. He could be dead…it’s frigid.”

We contemplated just jumping out and braving the elements by walking over to the swanky restaurant, but one of the guys jumped out and walked over to the man lying on the pavement. The rest of us watched out the window as my friend helped the man to his feet, appeared to give him something…and then almost astonishingly, began laughing and chatting with him before finally giving him a hug.

It was no inauthentic obligatory partial clasp either…it was a genuine hug. BTW…there are plenty (maybe more) downsides, but if you ever really wonder the benefits of something like red wine…this was one of those moments it should be perfectly clear. My friend is as good a man as anyone I know, but I’m not sure he would have done that had he just spent the last two and a half hours drinking four glasses of whole milk.

As my friend climbed back into the car, the rest of us just kind of sat there in disbelief and momentary silence.

“Is he OK?” asked our almost annoyingly concerned driver.

“Yeah…he was just sleeping…I think he’ll be fine” responded my friend.

“What did you do exactly?” I asked… “how’d you make him laugh and why in the world did you hug him?”

“I just helped him up…asked if he’d be OK…and if he needed anything. He said he could use a drink…so I gave him $20.00 and told him to get two. That’s when he started to laugh. I decided to give him $10.00 more and told him to get something to eat too. He said it was a great gift and wished me a Merry Christmas…so I just hugged him.”

You know…I think I’ll just stop this story right here.

When I was younger and living in Los Angeles, I would stop every Sunday morning at a Winchell’s donut shop on the corner of Pico and Sepulveda (Across from Anwalt Lumber and the Oshman’s Sporting Goods) while on my way to church in Santa Monica. I was working as a union electrical apprentice at the time and always felt flush…so I’d take a few extra bucks to buy a few nice cinnamon rolls that I’d randomly hand out to homeless folks I’d see on the street in Santa Monica.  

So far this season, and for about the next week or so, I'll continue to make the holiday party circuit moving from event to event, all complete with clinking cocktail glasses and platters of hot appetizers. At a couple of these affairs, they'll be ice sculptures worth more than my entire wardrobe.  Somehow such experiences and my life in this city have hardened me to those less fortunate…and since that night described above, I’ve coldly walked by hundreds of homeless people…including quite a few folks just the other night while returning from a wonderful dinner in uptown Manhattan. Now that I’m older and look back over the last few years, I wish I’d helped more people on cold nights in December. But maybe I’ll get another chance over the next few weeks...and who knows...if I have enough wine…I might even give somebody a hug.

Happy Holidays…

 

Busy feet hustle by him...

...are you ready for some gravy?

Maybe it’s a morning game of touch football with family and friends, half-watching a festive Manhattan parade, the aroma of a roasting turkey or the prospect of watching America’s most evil team get annihilated in hell (Texas) while a national audience rejoices,  but there’s just something about Thanksgiving that most Americans seem to genuinely enjoy. People seem to like the simplicity of it. You don’t have to mess with any presents, decorations are usually pretty limited, and for the most part if you don’t have to cook and clean, all you really need to do is show up, eat, drink, eat some more, and then recline on the sofa in digestive agony while you watch some football and doze a bit.

There’s just kind of a basicness to it as well. It’s just turkey, stuffing, potatoes, gravy, yams, gravy cranberries, gravy and pumpkin pie. You can add a whole bunch of other crap too, but most people are really going all in on the staples. As a matter-of-fact, if nobody was looking I could gladly get by with just the turkey, the stuffing, the gravy, the mashed potatoes, the gravy and the pie…and the gravy. Throw in a couple of bottles of red wine (or more if it’s more than just you) and some friends and family and you have a pretty good holiday.

Attempts to overcomplicate Thanksgiving don’t work either. I remember sitting around a conference table in the nation’s capital the Monday after Thanksgiving a couple of years ago where we began the meeting by going around the table of about a dozen folks with each participant offering their best holiday recipe. Most of the best ones sounded pretty good to me…but I distinctly remember somebody proudly offering a high-browed “bourbon infused stuffing.” Listen, there’s plenty of people in the red states infusing their livers with whiskey, but you don’t need to put it in your stuffing. All you really need is some Mrs. Cubbinson’s dressing, the recipe on the back of the box, and double the amount of real butter that they recommend. If you make a broth by boiling the neck (of the turkey…not your mother-in-law) and such and mix it into the stuffing it’s even better…but if you find yourself chopping too much celery or fussing with pine nuts…you’re going overboard. Maybe one of the other fun things about Thanksgiving is arguing about recipes too.

The cool thing is that it’s all just kind of straight-forward. Friends, family, food and a time to be thankful before the insanity and hustle and bustle of the rest of the holiday season blaze by at an unforgiving pace. You eat some turkey, blink, and the next thing you know you’re de-decking the halls and getting ready to freeze your butt of for a few months as you look forward to Memorial Day. If you don't think so...think about how many days have passed since Halloween.

So…take some time this weekend and in the days that follow to really enjoy the shortened work week. If you can, try to take a minute or two to think about the things that matter most…and the things you’re most thankful for too. If you’re struggling to find things to be thankful about and you’re sleeping indoors on anything other than a cardboard box…start there. Then on Thursday, huddle with some friends, or family or even just your dog and then kick back in the Lazy Boy and set up two IVs. Fill one bag with Pinot Noir, and the other with gravy. The Cowboys game starts at 4:30pm EST.

Happy Thanksgiving.

 

Not cease from distressing...

...and it's a good week to thank a Veteran

“Hey Slug” my dad would say as he faked a punch to the gut of my Uncle Ted… “How the hell are you?”

My dad always seemed to greet my Uncle Ted the same way when my aunt Helen (my dad’s younger Sister) and my uncle would come over to the house. Then he’d usually follow it up with the same question… “What are you having…the usual?” That was always a double bourbon and water on the rocks in a tall glass…and in all the time I was growing up and they’d come over to our home in West Los Angeles (or host us over at their home in Long Beach), I never recall any of them having more than two drinks. For that matter, I don’t really ever recall my dad having more than one.

My aunt and uncle were always impeccably dressed. They both passed away a couple of years apart about 10 or 15 years or so ago, but in all the time I knew them I never saw them wearing anything that didn’t look like they’d just stepped out of a Bloomingdales catalog. My fiery red-headed aunt always had on a high-end dress and usually some kind of mink (especially in the winter months…where the wind chill in southern California can dip into the 60s with a stiff Pacific breeze) and my uncle Ted always wore pressed slacks and a nice sports coat. He’d usually have on a tie too…but I remember he gave that up on most visits sometime in the mid-seventies…times were a changing for sure.

After my dad would mix the drinks they’d usually move out by the pool on the back patio. Though it’s at least 25 years since I saw them there, I can vividly picture my dad and uncle sitting on the patio, knocking back some bourbon and seeing the glow of their cigarettes as they each took drags on their respective Lucky Strikes. I never knew my father to smoke…but he’d always bum a cigarette or two to share with my uncle Ted…and he always looked like he’d stepped off the silver screen when he did it too…so it was pretty obvious he’d had some practice when I wasn’t around. Frank and Dean probably had something on these guys, but it wasn’t much. They were pretty cool.

At some point early on, my uncle Ted would invariably and modestly mention that he’d just got a new car, and without fail, my dad would leap up from the lounge chair and enthusiastically walk down the side driveway to check out the new rig. We’d buy a car about every 8 years in my family…and we always only ever had one. My uncle however, who was a devoted Ford man, would trade them out every year or so…sometimes more often than that…so it was always exciting to see his latest purchase.

He always drove these huge sedans…but then again, seems like everybody did. He was particularly fond of LTDs…and I remember he’d purchased a couple that had this kind of dark avocado paint job with a dark vinyl roof. My father, who only had a high school education, was an absolute a Dale Carnegie master of making my uncle feel like a big shot. He’d walk around the car a couple of times, demand my uncle pop the hood, stand and marvel at the engine a bit before checking out the interior and commenting on how beautiful it was. Just as a side note, my uncle used to wipe down the engine and carburetor top of his vehicle several times of week. When he would pop the hood, the actual engine looked every bit as good as it did on the showroom floor. That was under the hood mind you…I’ll let you imagine how the rest of the car looked.

Both my dad and uncle served in the U.S. Navy, and that’s where they had met when my uncle started courting my dad’s sister. As noted here before, my father served on a couple of big ships including the Battleship Mississippi and the carrier Ticonderoga (the one that was later used to pick up the Apollo astronauts). My uncle was in Pearl Harbor on December 7^th, 1941…and though I’d have to pry them out of them both…they had their share of stories. My uncle could provide a blow-by-blow eyewitness description of  that Sunday morning in Hawaii…and I’d give a lot right now just to hear him recount that day just one more time. Those guys both endured so much…and it never dawned on me for a second at that young age that they wouldn’t be here forever.

What’s the point of all this? Well, if you’d been following this blog for any length of time you know there isn’t one. Just following the number one rule on this site, and writing down the first thing that comes to my mind on a Friday morning at 4am. So happens that this Veterans’ Day week, I was thinking about these two guys and the legions of other men and women that have served sacrificed so that I could worry about my big problems like whether the gardener shows up on Monday to pick up these damn leaves or about getting the hood ornament replaced that was stolen on my luxury sedan.  

Anchors Aweigh.

 

I'm coming home...late tonight...

and today is Halloween...

Just off old 81 about 40 miles south of Fargo, North Dakota sits a quintessential mid-western small town of Fort Abercrombie that my grandparents called home after moving off the family farm in about 1967. I’ve talked about that town of about 300 here before, and while so many other small towns across the Plains have slowly died, this particular little trade center has managed to keep going...and even grow a bit of late.

The town is not exactly thriving…the bank, the hotel, the hardware store, the small Ford dealership, a couple of filing stations, the butcher, and the café have all shut down since I started visiting, but there is still a city-owned grocer, a town hall, one Standard gas station, a truss factory, a fire house, a grain elevator, an elementary school, a Lutheran church and a thriving bar. Even if everyone were to leave…I have a feeling the bar would still do enough trade to stay open. Note: I have seen towns in Minnesota…where every single of the town’s businesses have closed…except the saloon. I know of at least one town where two thriving bars are the only surviving businesses.

For many years (15 in a row) I would drive from Los Angeles back to that North Dakota town to visit my Grandfather and family each summer. I would stay in his old house, which had served as the area hospital back in the late 1800s and early 1900. My mother was born in that house…and my cousin Annie owns the brass bed that was used to deliver my mother on that faithful day (I know…TMI). I always loved visiting my grandfather. As he got into his early 90s,  we would spend hours and hours driving around the country as he told stories about the old days on the prairie.

My grandpa was pretty old when (in his 80s) when I started visiting him each year, and he was a devoutly religious man that attended the Evangelical Free Church in neighboring Wolverton, Minnesota. Any kind of extracurricular activity was usually off-limits, and drinking alcohol was a sin that doomed you to an eternal future that included a shovel and a whole lot of coal. Thankfully I was pretty straight-laced at that point in my life, and he used to love to introduce me to folks by telling them that I didn’t drink…and that I didn’t even like coffee.

In the evenings he would “hike of to bed” pretty early (sometimes around 7 or 7:30, at which point I’d sneak down the stairs and hop into my car and head up old 81 into Fargo. They had just passed a gaming initiative about the time I started to visit each year, and in Fargo you could walk into a bar and play blackjack. Sounds better than it was…as at that point there was a two-dollar limit on the bets. I would sit there for hours…drinking diet pop and playing blackjack. Usually around 11pm, I would leave and head back to my car and make the drive back south on old 81.

One of the things I love about the Plains is the hellacious thunderstorms that come across the prairie in the warm summer months. One particular night…you could just feel it was shaping up to be a good one. I was driving my red 72’ Ford Pinto (whatever cool image you have in your head…I looked even groovier than you’re imagining in my white bell-bottomed pants and polyester shirt) with the window rolled down and you could literally feel the hair on your arms standing in anticipation of the pending electrical storm.

As I drove southward by towns like Oxbow, Hickson and then Christine, you could see bolts of lightning striking the wheat and soybean fields. I stepped on the accelerator hoping to get to my grandpa’s house before any heavy rain fell…or worse…a whole bunch of hail. Thankfully, I could see the lights of town on the horizon and the security of the blinking yellow caution light that swayed in the building wind above of the intersection of County Road 81 and Broadway.

Just on the left side of that intersection is the cemetery that hugs the Lutheran church on the west end of town. I used to see an old woman that lived in town walking her dog along the road there sometimes late at night, but after not seeing her for some time, I was surprised to see her outline illuminated by my headlights…particularly on this stormy summer night…and especially with the nasty weather closing in fast. To make matters worse, she was walking directly through the cemetery just to the west of the Lutheran Church...and right by her home. I remember thinking as I made the left turn into town that it’s true what they said about North Dakotans…they are a hearty group indeed. There is no way I’d walk through a cemetery at night…in pitch dark, in an electric storm with heavy rain about to fall. I surmised that she too must have felt the storm approaching…and decided to take a short cut back to her house to avoid the rain.

The next morning I walked up town to have coffee with the boys (my grandpa never came…couldn’t see “giving” 35 cents for coffee when you could boil it up at home for next to nothing) at the town hall. I’ve referenced this group of mostly older farmers before, and I had become a welcome yearly regular with these guys…many of whom I was related to in some way (if you listen carefully you can hear the banjo music). They reveled in my often exaggerated rough-an-tumble “life in the hood” stories of LA, and they also enjoyed my animated recaps of my nightly gambling excursions into Fargo. Often times, if I’d hit it big, I take my 10 bucks in winnings and cover coffee for everyone at the table…I was a popular guy.

On this morning I was telling them about my previous night’s winnings and one of them asked me if I’d driven back in the heavy storm. I told them yes, and almost as an afterthought, I mentioned that I’d seen crazy old Mrs. Erickson* out walking at midnight again…directly through the cemetery on the west-end of town. Some of them laughed a bit nervously, and I continued to go on about how odd it was that she’d be out in weather like that. I noticed my uncle looking at me kind of strange…but before long we moved on to the usually bad Norwegian  jokes, stories about the latest auction sale, or guys talking about how much they had in their respective rain gauges.

When we walked outside to hop into his dark blue GMC pickup to drive over to the Post Office to get the mail (it was literally across the street),  my uncle, seeming somewhat irritated, asked me why I told the story about seeing Mrs. Erickson. I told him I didn’t really know…it just seemed interesting that she’d be out on a night like that. He responded by asking if I was sure it was her. I told him yes…it was her…I have no doubt…I’ve seen her 100 times.  I inquired as to what the big deal was…at which point he looked at me seriously and told me that she had passed away the winter before last.

I know what you’re thinking…but it’s a true story…and the only thing I was drinking up in Fargo that night was diet pop. I still flat out don't believe in ghosts...or really anything thing like them. It was her…but don’t ask…I don’t know either.

One of the trippy things about moving from Los Angeles to the east is the amount of fervor folks have here connected to Halloween. Sure, kids went trick-or-treating in the west, but it was a one-day deal and there certainly wasn’t the fascination with the holiday that there is here. I’ve had some people here tell me it’s their favorite holiday…and it’s clear that even grownups really get into it.  So, I hope you are planning a fabulous and festive Halloween. It’s going to be a great way to kick of a wonderful Fall weekend…so make the best of the changing season doing the things you enjoy with someone you love.

If it wasn't for Jon Stewart and the first game of the World Series...I wouldn't even be aware of this song. It's not really my genre...but what the heck...it's Halloween...

...all the right junk in all the right places...