tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85227168173398762722024-03-12T18:45:30.452-07:00Uncle Gusford's Food RevueGushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16629664958727845816noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8522716817339876272.post-31369644204311808472013-09-07T05:41:00.000-07:002013-09-07T05:41:20.589-07:00Hustle Inn? Hustle Out!<br id="docs-internal-guid-297a9757-f86f-d659-4ab4-d164e0ae4d9a" /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> On Monday, Labor Day, that is, I and my lady friend, P, decided we ought to take a bicycle ride over to Hustler. It was a good day for it. The wind was brisk and a little bit chilly. It was also coming from out of the west, which was important because if it continued like that, it would be at our backs on the way home.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> It’s a nice ride over there, especially on the Omaha Trail part, which runs from Elroy to Camp Douglas. It’s far from the main highway, so there’s little traffic noise beyond a few cars on the nearby back road. The deep rock cuts between hills are scenic, and filled with blackberries. There’s an old railroad tunnel, and a little rest area inaccessible by car. So it’s a pretty pleasant and secluded ride. We encountered a few other riders along the way. Some smile and say “Hi,” while others stare straight ahead. There are also pedestrians along the way, and it seems that a lot of them carry music with them, and have ear buds in so they don’t hear when you come up behind them, no matter how you shout. Maybe it’s time to invest in a bell, a loud bell.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> Well, we pulled in to Hustler at around 1:00 p.m., and we were hungry! We biked to the downtown, just a half block away. There was a bed and breakfast, but they were closed on Monday, even though it was a holiday. It’s too bad, because their deli menu looked good. I’ll have to go back on a different day.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> So the closest place was the Hustle Inn. We decided, what the heck? Let’s get us a couple of burgers! There was a sign outside, meant to be a joke, we were sure, that said, “Lousy service, warm beer,” and something else, I forget. Cold food? We went in anyway.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> There was an elderly couple sitting at a table, waiting for something, I think. Godot? Perhaps. And maybe the elderly gal at the bar was too. And the old guy at the end of the bar, all waiting for Godot. Or service.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> The phone was ringing as we walked in. It continued ringing as we walked up to the bar and took a seat. It rang and rang while banging and clattering sounds emitted from what seemed to be a kitchen. We sat at the bar and watched as the last half hour of “How the West Was Won” played out in Cinerama ™ on the T.V. George Peppard was getting ready for a shootout with some bad guys on a train steaming across the desert. At the other end of the bar, on the other T.V., some wacky guy was jumping on Sheriff Andy Taylor’s back, and laughing. I’m not sure what that all meant, but I understood gunfights in the old west. And the phone kept on ringing.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> A heavyset and frowzy woman finally emerged from the kitchen. She was carrying a couple of bags of styrofoam carryout boxes. She set them on the bar and answered the phone curtly. I don’t know what was said, but she was unhappy. She was unhappy, dour, sour, and sullen. She finished her phone call and distributed the carryouts between the woman at the bar and the couple at their table. She took their money and asked the old couple if they needed help getting out the door. Gus is guessing that she asked out of politeness, not out of a desire to see them gone. I didn’t exactly infer this from her tone, but I’m hoping it’s so. But the man said they were fine. His breathing wasn’t all that good, and he had a plastic tube up his nose, attached to a machine around his belt. But he was moving along fairly well, and said, “I’ve got the door for ya, Ma!” The woman at the bar payed for her food and followed soon after. The woman tending bar walked up and stood in front of us. We said “Hi,” in a really friendly way. She looked at us as if we were teenagers wanting to carry out illegally. Her gaze was uncaring and impersonal, and tinged a little with suspicion. Her manner said that she would just as soon we were not here, in this bar, in this town, in the county, state, country, planetary sphere, perhaps even this celestial plane.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> “Trail passes?” she demanded.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> “Wha..?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> “You need trail passes?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> “No, we…”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> “Drinks?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> “Food?” I asked hopefully.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> “Whattya wanna drink? Anything?” She asked this as if we were wasting her time, and why the hell don’t we hurry up and get out?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> “Water,” I said.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> “Coke,” said P.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> She stalked away, and returned with two glasses of ice, a pitcher of water, and a can of Coke. She sourly took our orders. I ordered a bacon cheeseburger. P ordered a cheeseburger. We decided to split an order of fries. She seemed disgusted about that decision, but decided to let it go. She stalked back into the kitchen. I heard meat being slapped on the griddle, sizzling. Another couple, dressed for bicycling, came in. She came back out.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“What can I get for you two?” asked the bartender. Huh? Uncle Gus and P did a double take and looked at each other. Where’s the suspicion? Where’s the utter indifference? I looked at the couple, obliquely, trying to discern what cause her to be friendly to them and not to us.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">They did not appear to be locals. They were wearing fancy biking clothes, but not much fancier than Gus and his friend. They ordered light beers.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And here’s where Gus runs into difficulty, trying to classify these folks. I didn’t get a good look at the woman. She was kind of hidden on the other side of the man. And it doesn’t really do to stare at someone’s significant other, eh? Anyway, the man. Hm. He wasn’t any bigger than Gus. He appeared younger though, in his late thirties. He wore a goatee. Not an artsy goatee, but more of one that a welder might wear. It was an aggressive sort of goatee. He was a blue-collar sort, maybe in construction of some sort, the sort that makes enough money to afford a cabin up north in addition to his regular home. He works hard and plays hard. I imagine he owns a Harley and a Jeep in addition to a bicycle. He said later on that they take a vacation every year in the Dells, which says a lot about a person. So he probably had a motorboat of some sort as well, maybe a jet ski. Possessions that he guarded with a firearm or two.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">This is all supposition on Gus’s part. But I’m still trying to understand why this guy got preferential treatment over Gus and P. Is it because he was louder, and more vocal? Was it the goatee? The hair? His attitude in general? I just don’t know.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The bartender brought their beers. The man said, “Boy, I’ve been thinking about pizza all day!” He nodded at a sign that mentioned their “homemade” pizzas. “Ever since we biked through Wonewoc and saw their pizza place. But they weren’t open! I’d sure like some pizza!”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Sorry,” the bartress said. “We don’t have pizza today.” I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have said, “sorry” to us.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Damn!” said the man. “Oh well, just give me a cheeseburger then.” His friend ordered the same thing. They each got fries with that. The bartender went back to the kitchen and went to work. Up on the T.V. George Peppard was hanging on to a pile of logs for dear life while he swung out over a chasm and a bad guy shot at him over and over. And on the other T.V., the wacky guy was sitting in a classroom, in a desk that was way too small for him. The barmaid brought our food to us. It was in little plastic baskets lined with parchment paper. She set a cardboard six-pack container filled with condiments on the bar.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“I’ll just put these fries between you then,” said the barmaid. It was the first civil sentence she’d said to us. She must have forgotten her manners. We thanked her and she went back to the kitchen. She came back with the food for the other couple. Then she stayed and visited with them.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">They all got along fine. The old guy at the other end of the bar joined in. They talked about the F.I.B.s, and the barmaid told the old guy to be careful, you don’t know where they’re from. The goatee guy assured them that he lived in Wisconsin.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“I used to live in Illinois,” he said. “But that was a long time ago. I don’t even root for the Bears!” Nobody was worried about our point of origin. But personally, Gus had his doubts about that guy. He had Chicago Tourist written all over him.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">George Peppard finished his gunfight. He won, of course, but it was touch-and-go for a bit there. Then he and his family loaded up the buckboard and rode out of town for somewhere else, and the camera panned out and through time to show all the progress that had been made since the West was Won. There were scenes of huge dams and huge open pit mines and huge fields of amber waves of grain being irrigated from the huge dams, and a voiceover extolling the virtues and greatness of the people of the U.S. of A. On the other T.V., the wacky guy in Mayberry was carrying his diploma and looking proud.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Gus ain’t gonna complain about the food here. The burgers were just fine. The bacon on the bacon-cheese burger was the kind that’s round, like the burger. I don’t know why that should be outstanding to me, but it is. They make a bacon shaped like a burger bun. And it’s a good lean bacon. I like that.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The burgers came with lettuce, onion, tomato (fresh) and a pickle. The fries were fine, the kind with the skins still on some of them so they look fresh-sliced. So everything was just fine.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We ate our food while the guy with the goatee talked about staying in the Dells, at a little hotel where the owner knew them, and they got a place to stay at a really good rate, where they could walk downtown and drink and not have to worry about driving back.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“We went out with my buddies last night,” he said. “And there sure were a lot of ethnics in the bars! I mean, they were packed in there. And I don’t want to say anything bad, (right) but haven’t they ever heard of deodorant? I’m sorry, (sure you are) but some of them were really ripe!”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The old guy at the bar chimed in.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Well, you know, when they passed that smoking ban, and the first place they did it was Madison, my boy said the first thing he noticed was the smell of people.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yeah, that’s right. But I’m talking about the ethnics, you know? I don’t think deodorant is in their culture.” The others agreed that this might be the case. They went on to discuss vacation homes up north, and going out drinking tonight with buddies. “That beer’s gonna taste good tonight!” he said. Then they went on to talk about the upcoming football season.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">An old black and white French film short came on. It was subtitled, but most of the plot was visual. A woman was setting a cozy table for two. Candlelight and wine. The next shot was a guy blocked in his parking spot. He was carrying flowers. The owner of the car blocking him came out of the barber shop to move out of his way. His face was covered in lather, and when he pulled away, he lost his parking space, and was driving around looking for another spot, while all sorts of other things went on with the original guy, and his wife waiting at home for him getting slowly drunk at their cozy table. It was damn funny and clever, whatever it was. Yes, we sat there enjoying a subtitled black-and-white French film while everyone else talked sports.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We finished our food as well as we could. No candle light or wine here. There were still some fries left. I took money out and set it on the bar. The barmaid dragged herself away from the others and came down. She looked disdainfully at the leftover fries. I felt guilty.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Are you all done here then?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yep. I guess we couldn’t quite eat it all.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“So it’s okay if I take these away?” She asked us this impatiently, as if we were jerking her around.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Oh. Yes, sure. Thanks.” She sighed and cleared the baskets away. She took my $20, and brought my change. I guess you don’t make a lot of money unless you sell drinks. Maybe that’s why we were a disappointment to her. I don’t know. We left a tip for her pains. The other couple ordered more beer. The man asked about the motocross track on the edge of town. The barmaid told him proudly that it was an officially sanctioned motocross event that’s held during Hustlerfest. We both picked up our helmets and gloves and stood up. I don’t know why, but I had the urge to say, “‘Bye!” But the barmaid and the old guy were wrapped up with their new best friends. Nobody noticed us leaving.</span></div>
Gushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16629664958727845816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8522716817339876272.post-61341332496318758262013-08-10T07:24:00.001-07:002013-08-10T08:06:59.119-07:00Rejection<div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-41ad9ceb-689b-851a-da22-498acce0cebc" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Gus was rejected. Again. Can rejection be both a noun and a verb? I was rejected, and they sent me a rejection. Yeah, I guess it can. Only I didn’t even get a rejection. I just checked the list of people who were accepted, and I wasn’t one of them. If you’re not accepted, you’re rejected.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And it wasn’t me directly who ended up rejected. It was the story that I had written. Is that last sentence correct? Or should it be, “The story I had written was rejected.”? That’s more proper, but they both get the idea across.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The story was one that I had worked on for a long time. I had honed it and polished it. I had written and erased and added and cut and rearranged. I worked on it. I felt as if I had breathed life into it.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> And they rejected it. After almost three months of deliberation, and each day bringing me that much closer to believing that they wanted it, I got my rejection.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> My discovery of rejection happened on a cloudy-dark and cold day. The clouds were rain clouds, the first I’ve seen in a month. They were heavy with unspent moisture, and the wind, coming from the southeast, hurled them across the sun and the sky. There were patches of blue seen obliquely between the black and sullen clouds.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">But would clouds really be sullen with the wind tossing them around like that? More likely they’d be shouting, roaring with glee, begging to be thrown further and faster than any cloud had ever been flung before! So perhaps it was my mood that was sullen and heavy, and I was projecting that onto the clouds, my clouds, brother clouds. I wanted them to be sullen and heavy and dark, and follow me wherever I went.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> After a couple of hours of walking in and out of the house, half-heartedly beginning little chores, my friend, P, mentioned that she could see those clouds following me, and that there were waves of darkness rolling off of me. Good, I thought. P mentioned that maybe I should get out, maybe go for a bike ride. I looked at the sky and thought, yes, a bike ride would be perfect. Maybe it will rain. I hope it does rain.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> I packed a few things in my bike. I took the requisite notebook and pen, my old iPod, some fruit and water. I dressed sensibly, in layers. I wore a wicking undershirt covered by a fleece. A fleece in the middle of July. How could it be this cold? I biked down to the trail and headed into the wind. The one thing I’ve learned over the years was that it’s good to begin a trip into the wind. It makes the return trip easier.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> During the first mile I almost turned back. I didn’t know where I was going anyway. But my legs warmed up and I decided to keep going. The trees around me whipped back and forth, and small dry branches broke off here and there, falling onto the trail. Along the bluffs a flock of buzzards seemed to be playing in the wind, letting it take them higher and higher, then plunging hard and fast toward the ground and swooping suddenly to slice along the edge of the bluff and out of sight.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> I pedalled along, head down against the wind. I rolled over bridges and past the former town of Podunk. There really was a town named Podunk? Well, it was more of a whistle stop, but all that remains now is an old stone potato storage shed beside what use to be the railroad tracks. It’s an interesting structure, with walls two-feet thick. It’s been converted into a hunting cabin, or just a weekend hideaway.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> I finally rolled into LaValle. There were some cars gathered down by the River Mill, and I imagined people inside, nursing drinks, huddling out of the wind, maybe talking about sports and laughing together. They might have shots of something warming, maybe some sipping whiskey to take the chill from their bones.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> I stood at the crossroads and stared down the street for a while. Then I biked down to the little local library. They have a wifi hotspot. I stood outside and checked my email on the iPod. There was an email from P. “How ya doing?” “Doing great” I replied. I got back on my bike and leaned back into the wind. My stomach was empty, but I didn’t want any of my stupid fruit.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> I had a destination in mind now. I was going to bike to the Corner Pub in Reedsburg. I was going to order a porter and sit in the corner and write. A porter sounded good on such a cold and windy day. Maybe a burger a little later. I pushed on against the wind. In a few places the river cut in close to the trail. There were ripples on the water, little splashing whitecaps, even down there in the protection of the close-growing trees.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> There were other bikers on the trail. There were single people, couples, and families, scattered along the way. I made sure to smile and say hi. Some of them seemed to be having fun, some were just working at it. I saw a person up ahead, walking away from me. It was a woman. I called out from a distance. I didn’t want to startle her. There was no reaction. I called out as I got closer, then again. Still no reaction. I slowed to pass and saw that she had ear buds in, listening to something that was not her surroundings.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> It must have been close to noon when I got to Reedsburg. I biked to the Corner Pub. I walked the bike around to the front where there was a bike rack. It was full. Full of kids bikes, BMX style bikes. I looked in the big plate glass windows. There was a sea of little league uniforms inside, packed from wall to wall, along with their parents. There was no place to sit, no hope for a quiet corner. Pete stood at the grill in the front window, tending to rows of burgers. He saw me. He nodded and shrugged at the same time. I waved back and got back on my bike. I waited for a break in traffic, then headed across town.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> I had thought I’d go to J’s at the other end of town. Yes, it’s really called, “J’s” I thought, maybe there I could find a corner to hide in. Then I got to wondering about their beer choices, and wondering how welcome or comfortable I might feel there. Halfway there I turned around. I biked back downtown and stopped at the Deli Bean. I ordered a sandwich and water. Marilyn, who owns the Deli Bean with her husband, Mohammed, was working at the counter. She seemed happy to see me, but it didn’t really lift the clouds. Sometimes a guy just doesn’t want those clouds to lift.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> My uncle had a theory that Hell might be that way, in which we would just sit and refuse any comfort, maybe even be unable to accept it if it was offered. That seems like a description of depression to ol’ Gus.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> I like the food at the Deli Bean. It’s mostly sandwiches, and some soups. But they’re all good, and have some imagination to them, and even flavor and spice. They have a turkey-and-chutney sandwich, muffaletta, roasted veggie. They make a very nice french onion soup, and in the summertime you can get freshly made gazpacho. And on quiet days it’s always fun to chat with Marilyn and Mohammed. Politics can get pretty lively in there.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> Today it was was kind of busy. Reedsburg was having its sidewalk sale weekend, so people were coming and going the entire time I was there. I sat over by the window with my pork carnita panini. It was good, and mildly spicy. It warmed my belly. I watched the people, notebook in hand but not writing anything. The people were happily shopping, and almost everyone had a bag or package in their hand. But Gus wasn’t doing any shopping. Gus had raided the small change jar to make this trip.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Gus hasn’t been working much these days, for various reasons. But there was a job coming up in another week, tearing off old siding and putting on new. It looked like about two weeks worth of work with Gus’s friend, S. We used to drink together back in the day. We even worked together years later. I always enjoyed it. And I was looking forward to making a few bucks again. I tried to feel good about it, but the clouds stayed.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> I finished my sandwich and got up to leave. Marilyn was talking to a friend about things she hates. She is able to do this while laughing at the same time. And partway through her list she saw me waiting to get past her to leave. She laughed again and said, “But I really like you, Gus!”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> Well that was a nice thing to hear. I climbed back on my bike, feeling a little better. I headed back west, toward home.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> The wind was at my back now, blowing me down the trail. But the sitting had stiffened me up a little. It took some time to work the kinks out. The air, instead of growing warmer as the day progressed, seemed to get colder. The clouds gathered, and halfway to LaValle the rain came down. It was a cold rain, and felt like icy pebbles beating on my fingers as they gripped the handlebars. I tried to upshift, but my legs didn’t like it. So I kept my head down and pressed on through the rain.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> I finally reached LaValle, and biked down to the library again to have a drink of water under the awning. There was another email from P, wanting to know how I was, and would I need a ride. No, I was fine. Gus got back on his bike, put his head down and slogged down the trail. For exactly two blocks. Screw this. He turned around and biked straight to the River Mill. He sat down and ordered a Moon Man ale. And emailed to P, yes, I’ll take that ride. I’ll buy you a beer.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> When Gus arrived home, there was another email waiting for him. The siding job was off. The owner of the house had decided to be the help. Rejected again.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> Reading over this post, I know it’s a somber one. Well, it’s about rejection. But for some reason, Gus never stays down for very long. Since then I did some other work, got back in the money, and that was good. I sat down the next day with the Writer’s Market to see where else I can send my work. I don’t even care if it pays or not. I just want to be accepted in something beside my own blog. I know I can do it. And this makes Gus feel pretty good, just knowing that he’s doing something besides riding under his own dark clouds.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> And a final note. Since I started typing this up, Mike, the owner of the River Mill died. Mike was a genial and jovial man, who laughed easily. Mike made up the personality of the River Mill, and his staff reflect his nature. It’s hard to imagine the place without him. I’ll admit that I was on the outer fringes of his acquaintances, but he always recognized me, and passed the time of day when things were quiet. Very often a few friendly words with a near-stranger can brighten a person’s day as much as the sun unexpectedly breaking and beaming through stormy clouds.</span></div>
Gushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16629664958727845816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8522716817339876272.post-36120518413422663192013-07-09T14:31:00.000-07:002013-07-09T14:31:02.805-07:00Paddling to the River MillFor years now, I've been wanting to canoe the stretch of the Baraboo river between Wonewoc and LaValle. From the Wonewoc end, it looks interesting, beginning with a long straight stretch that flows quietly away from the highway and suddenly bends around a corner and disappears. You can't see where it goes from there. It's hidden from the road and doesn't appear again until you reach LaValle, eight miles away. Of course, eight miles on the road could be 16 or 20 or more miles by river. It's not a fast way to travel. And, from what Gus has heard, the Baraboo is not an easy river.<br />
<br />
There are tales of people who ventured onto it, expecting a pleasant 3 hour tour, and not arriving until the end of the day. The river, is strewn with fallen trees and surrounded by swamps and shallow muddy ponds. It's a river that meanders and all but disappears, spreading wide and shallow across mud flats the suck and pull the unsuspecting traveler. It's not a river to be taken lightly. A few years ago, two women decided to paddle to LaValle. They left Wonewoc in the afternoon while their husbands planned to meet them in LaValle. At suppertime, they weren't there yet. And then it became dark, and they still hadn't showed up. The men finally contacted the fire department to begin a search. The searchers were using four-wheelers to ride up and down the bike trail, which cuts through the swamp and crosses the river a couple of times. They drove back and forth, not finding anyone. But according to the woman, they could hear the four wheelers, and were calling out, but the machines were too loud and nobody heard them. The women finally found a place to pull out, at around midnight, and made their way into town walking, tired and hungry and covered with bites.<br />
<br />
(Neko Case is singing, "This Tornado Loves You" on the radio. Oh, man, that's a nice tune. Sorry, that has nothing to do with anything.)<br />
<br />
I have talked to other people who have canoed that stretch. They were young and not inexperienced. And they all said that it was a hard stretch of water, and that they wouldn't do it again. I believed them. Gus is one of those guys who isn't afraid to take advice. "So, Gus," you might wonder. "Then what ever possessed you to try it this time, after being told how bad it was?" Well, the thing that convinced me was rain, and lots of it, day after day. I kept an eye on the rive, watching it rise, and rise some more. I watched it finally crest at the top of the banks, and I decided, what the heck, I'm gonna do this river. I'm gonna own this river!<br />
<br />
So on a Sunday morning, I arranged for a ride, packed some food and water and loaded the canoe onto my pickup to drop it off on the edge of town. I could have started right in town, but have been down that stretch a few times already. It meanders far and wide for miles and miles just to double back to the city limits. I didn't feel like running that. I put in at the little rest area east of Wonewoc. There's an artesian well there where town folk fill jugs of drinking water, rather than drink the chlorinated and flouridated stuff in town. And that's fine, I can't blame them. I often wonder what kind of pesticides and herbicides are being dumped on the fields across the road from there, but I guess no matter where you turn you're liable to have something to worry about, if you choose.<br />
<br />
There's a little swale in the park that is usually just grass. But that day it was filled with water from the flooded river. I was able to set the canoe in there without having to worry about slipping down a muddy bank. From there I loaded up and paddled out into the broad and muddy Baraboo river. The current was stronger than it appeared. I had to move quickly to get situated and point the bow downriver. But then for the next mile, things were pretty smooth. The breeze was blowing, the sun was shining, the sky was blue and dappled with white clouds. Birds of every feather and song were flying and calling all around me. A muskrat surfaced suddenly and floated along beside me, almost close enough to whack with my paddle, if I was the sort who might do that. But I'm not.<br />
<br />
The straight stretch ended suddenly in a 180 degree turn. And just that suddenly the river became a tangle of downed trees, of trees and tall grassy banks closing in around me. The first couple of tangles were navigable, but there finally came one that I had to search for an opening through. I backed up, fighting the current, made a couple of false starts, backed up again, and finally found a narrow chute between the river bank and the crown of the downed tree. I shot through, cringing a little as the branches scraped along the underside of the canoe. And that describes most of the rest of the trip. I worked my way around branches, under trees, and over trees. I thought I was trapped at one jam, looking a long portage through the stinking mud. But I doubled back and found where the flooded river had cut a new channel through the woods. It was narrow and shallow, but deep enough to float me. I popped out at the other in, back in the main channel again. After 50 feet or so, I had to climb out and onto a downed tree trunk to lift the canoe up and over.<br />
<br />
I finally came to a place where I had to portage. The only exit was on a muddy river bank. I pulled up alongside it and climbed out, trying to keep a footing on the bank. But I slipped and went down, landing heavily on my hand. My middle three fingers bent backward under me and suddenly <i>popped</i> out of joint, nearly touching my wrist. Just as suddenly, I was on my feet, and felt the fingers popped back into place again. It hurt an amazing amount! And the thing that amazed me the most is that I didn't yell or scream or anything. What would be the point? I was all alone. All I did was groan, and say, "Aw, jeeze!" There was no one to hear my pain. No one to feel sorry for me. And really, I didn't have time to feel sorry for myself. I had to grab the canoe rope and pull it up the bank before it floated away. Of course, the canoe wouldn't have gone far. All it would have done is float down to the fallen tree and get tangled up in the middle of the river. I dragged it up and carried it through the coarse and sharp river grass. The blades slashed at my bare legs and feet. I reached the open water and slid back in.<br />
<br />
The river twisted and turned, sometimes almost doubling back on itself. I would rudder myself around a sharp bend and see the river where I'd been five minutes earlier. One moment, the sun would be in my eyes, and then next it would be at my back. And even though the river was not the most dangerous or challenging that I've ever been on, it was definitely the most work. Ol' Gus's arms worked steadily to keep the canoe where I wanted it to go. I had packed a lunch, but only eaten a half a sandwich so far, because there was just no time to idle and float. I could have pulled ashore at some point, but there were insects along there. So I had to keep going. And it wasn't without its rewards. There were steep cliffs that I didn't know existed back here. There were hidden farms with cattle grazing next to the river. There was one steep cliff that had a chain link fence running along the edge. Cattle stood up there and looked down at me. I passed a low-hanging tree, and realized that there was a dead fawn in one of the branches, hanging limply over the river. It was a sad thing to see, but it got me thinking about how far I was from any well-traveled routes. I have heard of lions doing that, and every year we hear rumors of big cats in this neighborhood. And though I didn't feel in any danger, it seemed like a good idea to not linger under those branches.<br />
<br />
I had to navigate many more snags and jams, but only had one more portage. That was in a section of the river with a tall grassy bank on one side, and a muddy swamp on the other. And when I looked more closely at the tall bank, I realized that it had more nettles than grass, and the nettles were waist high, and I was in shorts and sandals.<br />
<br />
I back-paddled for a some time, looking up at that bank, and looking at the distance I would have to travel. There were three trees down in the river, so it would be a couple of hundred feet of carrying. And there was no telling what the ground would be like, but most likely it would be mud. Mud and sawgrass and nettles, and me with bare legs and toes. I sighed and climbed ashore, taking care to not slip this time. Then I pulled the canoe ashore and set out across the broad isthmus.<br />
<br />
I started to think seriously about a cold beer right about then. My plan was to pull out at the River Mill and wait for my ride there. I was going to have a cold one and relax. The River Mill. It was built back in the early 80's, when the old River Mill burned down, along with the rest of the block. There was also an old hardware store that never rebuilt, and at least one other business that I don't recall. I like the River Mill and I don't. I feel ambiguous.
It's a big log tavern, with high ceilings, a stuffed moose and wolf and
lion on a big shelf above the bar. It's got the feel of a northwoods
tavern, airy and comfortable. But it's got this big-ass television
right behind the bar. It's just big, and loud, unless you ask the
bartender to please turn it down. And they usually do. And, back to
the "like" column, I really like the service there. The owner is a genial and good-humored guy, always ready to visit if he has a minute. The staff is
always friendly, and generally prompt. It's a really nice place to hang
out and have a beer or two. It's a great place to unwind. It's clean and kept up really well. There are lots of windows all around and a really pleasant dining area that looks out at the river. I've seldom had a bad time at the River Mill. I'm
not impressed by the food though. Once again, it's like a lot of food
served in cafes around here. A lot of it is ready-made and not really
inspired. It's not "bad" so much as not much of anything. And really, in a place like this, I feel bad for finding fault with the food. And, of course, it's just my opinion.<br />
<br />
The grass slashed at my bare legs, and the nettles stung me every step of the way. I was able to drag the canoe though. The tall grass and the mud didn't scrape it. If I had had to carry it, I would have sunk in. I nearly tripped over some long-fallen trees hidden in the grass. But I made it around the jam and put the canoe back into the river, sliding the nose down the tall bank, and then carefully following behind. My feet and legs were smarting from the nettles and the sweat that trickled into the thousand tiny cuts. But the amazing thing about nettle bites is that they go away quickly. I dragged my legs in the river for a short distance and the welts were gone.<br />
<br />
The next two hours seemed like, well, two hours, or maybe even three. That's not to say I wasn't still enjoying myself. I was. The scenery was lovely, and that portage was the last bad jam that I encountered. But it was still a steady occupation that demanded attention. I was getting hungrier, of course, and now was passing "No Trespassing" signs (at the edge of a cliff along the river?? Please.) and hearing steady gunfire on a hillside. Every time I thought I'd gotten away from the gunfire, the river doubled back closer. But I finally entered a stretch that I recognized, one that I'd seen from the bike trail. And sure enough, a couple of bikers pedaled past a quarter mile ahead. I knew exactly where I was! I dug in, telling my swollen and purple finger joints and aching shoulders that it wasn't far now. And it wasn't. I pulled into LaValle as the sun was dipping down to the tall trees the hilltops. There was a landing right between two taverns. One of them was the River Mill, my destination.<br />
<br />
And here's the thing. Ol' Gus had just finished this five-and-a-half hour odyssey, and done it alone. I had conquered the river. In my head there was a fanfare, and there was a crowd of people watching from the taverns, wondering, "Who is this man? Who is this intrepid and powerful specimen of a man who braved the long, lonely river alone and is now emerging, weary and hungry and bruised, but undaunted, to claim his well-deserved accolades?" Yeah, that was in my head. I tried to climb from the canoe as if I had just gone out for a spin. I think I did a good job of it. I unloaded the canoe and carried everything up onto the bank, with a spring in my step, to a handy picnic table. Then I turned back to retrieve the canoe. This would be the hard part, picking it up as if it weighed nothing, and then walking up and not stumbling. I also managed that, balancing the 17-foot canoe on my shoulders, tripping lightly up the slope and then gently setting it on the grass. I was impressing myself! From there I walked into the River Mill. I decided to go with a weary but undefeated walk, kind of stretching, maybe dragging my feet a little. It was kind of a letdown to see that nobody was anywhere near a window. And nobody paid any attention when I walked in, aside from a glance to see if they knew me. Then they turned back to their conversations. So much for my self-image. I crept sheepishly up to the bar and ordered a New Glarus Moon Man pale ale and a glass of water, then pulled out my iPod to email for my ride home.<br />
<br />
<br />Gushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16629664958727845816noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8522716817339876272.post-77865295817095500742013-06-12T08:35:00.000-07:002013-06-14T05:35:59.941-07:00What's my Book About?<br />
So anyway, <a href="http://akbikegirl.blogspot.com/">Alaska Bike Girl</a> posted this on her site. Here's part of it:<br />
<br />
"I was tagged in a post by <a href="http://www.kateyschultz.com/2013/03/the-next-big-thing.html" target="_blank">Katey</a>,
one of my friends who is also a writer, and a disciplined one at that.
Katey did a post on "The Next Big Thing," a blog hop where writers from
around the world share what they're working on by responding to ten
questions. Am I supposed to tag someone? If so, I'm going to tag <a href="http://gusfordjohnson.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Uncle Gus</a>,
who is also working on a novel. Alright, ready or not, here is my entry
to "The Next Best Thing." Before I begin, did I mention I'm also
working on revising my novel? I am."<br />
<br />
So there ya go, in case anyone is interested. Yeah, Gus thinks he might be a writer someday. But really, he's a day laborer. And an errand boy. Yes, often an errand boy. I'm the guy folks call if they need a ride, or a pet sitter, or parent sitter, or a cat coaxed down from a tree. And perhaps you, gentle reader (Hahahahaha! I've always wanted to type that!) have surmised this from my writing. And for the most part, I'm fine with my place in society. Well, except when the bills don't get paid on time, or when I can't afford a beer. But, like I said, I'm fine with it. I've seen some of the options. And somebody has to do it.<br />
<br />
But back to the writing thing. Alaska Bike Girl sent a list of questions, and I answered them. I don't have anyone to tag though.<br />
<br />
"But Gus!" you might exclaim. "Where's the Food Revue?" Gosh, I just don't have one today. I don't get out to eat much these days. Did Gus mention that he was as poor as dirt? But I did get locked in the men's room at a local tavern this past weekend. Oh, you're intrigued already, aren't you? And who wouldn't be interested in the White Trash Adventures of Gus? Anyway, my friend, P, was in a mood and wanted to get out for a beer after the third week of darkness and rain. So we emptied the change jar and left. No, I ain't a-gonna mention the name of the tavern. I go there more often than the others. Anyway, we got to the tavern. We ordered beers. IPA. Oh, my, they were good. And there were a few people there who were good company. We ordered refills. I had mine half gone and went to the mens room. So far, so good.<br />
<br />
And the door to the mens room has had a bad latch for a long time. A year? And so the cylinder has been taped shut for at least that long. Duct tape! So really, just the friction of the tape holds the door shut. Well, that tape finally tore through when ol' Gus was in there. I grabbed the knob, the door knob, (yes, I washed my hands!) and turned it, and all it did was spin in my hand. Jeeze.<br />
<br />
I could hear people out there, at the far end of the room at the bar. They were laughing, having a good time. I could hear stools shifting out there, and bottles being set on the bar. It sounded fun out there. And it sounded like too many people for me to start hollering that I was stuck in the bathroom. But there was a beer waiting for me. What should I do?<br />
<br />
I remembered I had car keys in my pocket. I pulled them out and tried sliding them between the door and the jamb. No luck. Then I looked at the hinges. Hm. It might work. I took the key and slit it under the head of the hinge pin. And pushed. And pried. The tooth of the key finally slid under the pin and I pried it up. It came easily after the first quarter inch. Yes! I was so cool! Gus had control of the situation, he was in charge, he didn't need to call for help. Gus had that cocky self-confidence that comes from a pint and a half of good beer. He dug into the next hinge. It came up easily. I set it on the sink with the other.<br />
<br />
The third hinge didn't move. I worked at it for a while, and realized that my hands were covered with grease. And the grease was flecked with shiny bits of metal from the hinges, metal scraped off from years and years of openings and closings. I didn't care. I had a mission. I went at it again, working the key against the pin, trying to get a purchase under the head of it. No luck. The key slipped and scraped a knuckle. I kept working until my fingers were raw. I finally beat on the door a couple of times. Nobody heard. They were too busy laughing and talking and having a good time. I went back to work. I scraped and pried and sweated. My hands were slippery with grease and sweat, and my shirt was growing wet. Didn't anyone have to use the bathroom?? The key slipped again, and a sliver of metal slid into the pad of my index finger. It slid through the grease and the skin and halfway to the first joint, it seemed, leaving a tip too small to grab. I finally gave it up. This was ridiculous. I had a beer waiting, and people to visit with. I finally beat on the door again, during a lull in the noise out there. A moment later I heard footsteps.<br />
<br />
"You okay in there?" called the bartender.<br />
"Yep. Just locked in."<br />
"Shit. I have to get a key." His footsteps retreated. I put the two hinge pins back in and started washing my hands. By the time I was on the second lather, he was back, working the lock. It took a while, but it finally clicked open.<br />
"That damn thing should have been fixed a long time ago," he said.<br />
"Yeah." I left him, and went up to finish my beer. The bar was almost empty. The people we were visiting with had left. P asked what happened. "I got locked in. Stupid door." We watched the bartender grab a fresh roll of duct tape and go back to the bathroom. He was back a few minutes later.<br />
"Well," he said. "I hope you weren't traumatized."<br />
"Only a little," I told him.<br />
"Well, maybe a free beer will help?"<br />
"I'd say that would do very nicely."<br />
<br />
Okay, that was my big adventure. Back to the book. <br />
<br />
<br />
<i>What is the working title of your book?</i><br />
"Before I Go."<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Where did the idea come from for your book? </i><br />
The idea came from my experiences working on the house that I live in, and the realization that I could live to be hundred and still not have all the work it needed finished. And I got to wondering, what if a person did want to leave, just ditch it, but couldn't, in good conscience, until everything was done?<br />
<br />
<i> What genre does your book fall under?</i><br />
Contemporary fiction. Yeah, that sounds right. <br />
<br />
<i>Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?</i><br />
The two main characters would be played by Edward Norton and Jeff Bridges. Well, a younger Jeff Bridges, but still with the Lebowski look.<br />
<br />
<i>What is a one-sentence synopsis of your book?</i><br />
Yow. Let's see...A recently single and directionless man goes to work with an alcoholic carpenter who suddenly seems to have a secret second life.<br />
<br />
<i>Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?</i><br />
It would have to be an agency. I just can't see myself self-promoting.<br />
<br />
<i>How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?</i><br />
About a month, once I got all of my notes together. I don't know how long it took to write the notes out. A couple of years? And I did the typing over a month that I was "between jobs." It kind of kept me from hearing the wolves at the door. Oh, they were still there. I just didn't hear them. Much.<br />
<br />
<i> What other books would you compare this story to within this genre?</i><br />
"Nobody's Fool" meets "The Great Gatsby." How's that for pretentious?<br />
<br />
<i>Who or what inspired you to write this book?</i><br />
I was in a really excellent writing group, and the others, one in particular, were actually doing something with their work, and so sitting down and typing mine up was really an act of desperation to catch up with them. Sadly, for me, the others have moved away. I need to get another group started. I know they're out there. I've done some looking around, so far with no luck. But I have hope.<br />
<br />
<i>What else about your book might pique the reader's interest? </i><br />
I've gone with the themes of loneliness, friendship, loyalty, loss, perseverance, and hope. I like the idea that even people who seem to exist on the ragged fringes of society have a need to search for not only a physical place, but a place in their minds and in their souls that justifies their existence. Friendship can get us through many things. Friendship can give us the strength and the will to persevere and to hope and to grow.Gushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16629664958727845816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8522716817339876272.post-78191037660917553122013-05-28T14:22:00.000-07:002013-05-28T14:22:47.260-07:00A Private Matter'Ol Gus wrote this...when? I don't even remember, at least 5 years ago. I wrote it down a day after. It's all true, as near as I could remember. Someone else might remember it differently, and that's fine with me. So here it is, a day late for Memorial Day. And there's no talk of food.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
My brother got sent to Iraq. I'll admit right now that I don't really know him all that well. Mark is almost ten years younger than I am, from a family of ten children. By the time he was in the fourth grade, I had moved away from home. When he was eighteen he went into the army, and seldom came home for the next decade.<br />
<br />
When he did get out, he had a wife, a son, a job and a house. But he stayed in the reserves, and eventually, inevitably, he was called back up, and was sent to serve in Iraq. I didn't think much of it, and still don't. I thought he should refuse. But he and I have different ideas of right and wrong, and for Mark the right thing to do was serve his country.<br />
<br />
And so for the next year the only contact we had with him was through his wife. And now, finally, after over a year, he was coming home. His wife called me and the rest of the family in late October to tell us he was flying in to Volk Field, and that we could meet the plane if we wanted. Most of us siblings have scattered, from Alaska to Florida. But there are still a few of us who are close enough to drive to meet him.<br />
<br />
But the thought of the military's staged welcome home, and the idea of the contrived ceremony of meeting the plane as it touched down made me balk. I didn't want to be a part of it. I mulled it over all of that morning, and finally my balkyness turned into a disgusted resignation. I wanted to see him home. He's my brother. I just didn't want to be a part of the crowd and the ceremony. I thought it should be a private matter.<br />
<br />
No, I didn't want to go, but in the end decided that it was too far for my parents to drive. I quit work at noon and drove over to their house. The three of us rode together in Dad's big Buick. I was behind the wheel, as I had been for the last few years whenever there was any distance involved. Dad took the back seat. He always sits in the back when Mom comes along. He sits in the back and doesn't say a word. I think he has trouble making small talk with me. We don't often see eye-to-eye on many things. I'm his oldest son, and I think I was often the most troublesome.<br />
<br />
Today though, at Mom's urging, he talked a little about when he was a kid growing up on the farm outside of Elroy. He talked about how they'd all go to church on Sundays. And then after church they'd stop at his grandfather's house to visit. "But he lived down by the train yards," Dad said. "And the coal dust was everywhere, on everything. So Ma always made sure we brought our farm clothes to play outside in.<br />
"My grandpa worked at the roundhouse," he said. "He was an oiler. The engines would come in and roll onto the turntable and then into the shop. He's have to go all over every moving part with his oil can. Then they'd roll them back out and put 'em on the track again."<br />
<br />
That was about all Dad said during the half-hour ride to Volk Field. Mom did a pretty good job of filling the silence by telling me stories, mostly of her childhood, most of them stories I'd heard many times before on different trips. She sang a few bars of, "Shine on, shine on harvest moon, up in the sky," and then told me about visiting her older sister who had been in the last stages of dementia before she died in a nursing home, and who shouted out, "Honey moon!" when Mom sang that song to her. Mom was silent for a moment, then said, out of the blue, "She was only a stableman's daughter, but all the horse manure!" I kept my eyes on the road and drove on.<br />
<br />
The temperature had been dropping through the morning, and now it was down below freezing. The wind picked up and whipped dry brown leaves and ribbons of snow across the highway. Heavy gusts rocked the big Buick. The sky was a bright hard blue, but the clouds were dark and heavy and scudded in clumps across the sky and across the sun so that we were driving through a chiaroscuro of sudden darkness and sudden sunlight. Whenever I looked in the rearview mirror, I could see Dad looking out across the brown stubbled remnants of cornfields and to the bare trees beyond. His face was as unreadable as the gray woodlands on the rocky hillsides.<br />
<br />
He had been through WWII, in Africa and Italy. But he never talks about it. He talks only of the traveling there and back. "It was a job," he says. "When it was over, we came home."<br />
<br />
The guard at the gate at Volk Field hunched against the wind when he came out of his shelter. His collar was pulled up over his ears, and he only glanced in the car before he waved us through. We looked like what we were, a family there to meet the plane.<br />
<br />
We followed the signs that said, "Parking." The narrow road wound past old brick and stone barracks and officer's quarters and the mess hall. Dad said they were all built during WW I, before they started making everything out of wood and tin.<br />
<br />
The parking lot was half full, and more cars were coming in as we parked. My sister's van pulled in beside us. I hadn't even seen her following. She had her two kids, Vincent and Rebecca with her. Rebecca came running over to tell us that they'd followed us all the way from the gate. There were six of us now, and we all turned together and leaned into the wind, slowly and steadily moving toward the big gray airplane hangar that squatted at the edge of the runway in the distance.<br />
<br />
The wind was even worse here with no hills to block it as it tore across the flat sandy land. The powder of snow and grit rose up to cloud the buildings, and suddenly fell away again. Dad was moving slowly but gamely on his poor bowlegged knees. In his eighties, he still has a drill sergeant's voice, and a solid grip when he shakes your hand. But arthritis had hit his knees over the last few years. I asked him about it a while back when I saw he was having trouble walking. All he said then was, "They hurt like hell." But he hasn't mentioned it since then. It hurt me to watch him walk. I used to follow him around on the farm, looking for new calves or checking the fence line, and I always had to run to keep up. Today we all slowed, pretending to be strolling so that he wouldn't be left behind.<br />
<br />
We had to go through another gate to get to the hangar. There was a tent set up at the gate, as big as a garage. Big propane heaters roared and blew in hot air, but the young guys working there were still bundled up and shivering. They made everyone hold their arms out while they ran metal detector wands over us. One of the politely and apologetically asked Mom to open her purse for inspection. She checked out okay.<br />
<br />
Mark's wife, Tammy, was waiting for us on the other side of the tent, along with their son, Zach. Tammy is a hugger, married into a family of non-huggers. We have our space, even among each other. Even though she knows this, Tammy ran up and hugged each of us. Now there were eight of us walking slowly across the tarmac, through the cold and the wind and the sand and the snow, the last 50 yards to the hangar.<br />
<br />
Inside the hangar it was warm and brightly lit and filled with people. There were groups of families who stood in clusters and chattered and laughed. There were other people who stood apart, alone and silent while they waited. The voices of the talking, laughing people merged and echoed off the walls and off the ceiling until it became a low roar of anticipation and excitement.<br />
<br />
There was no sign of wealth to be seen anywhere in the crowd. A few of the young wives or girlfriends were dressed in their best, of course. But for the most part the people, especially the parents, were in everyday working clothes, and many of them looked apprehensive and unused to crowds.<br />
<br />
After a while a man stood up at the podium and announced that the plane was nearly there. The big hangar doors were kept closed, so we all filed out, maybe two hundred of us trying to funnel through the two small side doors.<br />
<br />
We could see the landing lights of the plane up against the bright and cold blue sky. It still seemed to be miles away. A few people cheered and waved little American flags on sticks. But their voices were cut thin and blown away by the wind. Dad looked up at the sky as he had done every day when he was farming. Then he looked at the hard bright landing lights. He had his back to the wind and his face was turned up, his jaw muscles clenched. He didn't say anything. Mom was confused. She was standing behind a tall woman, and saying, "Where is it? I don't see it!" Tammy put her arm around her and moved her from behind the tall woman. She pointed, and Mom said, "Oh there it is! I see it now!"<br />
<br />
The plane dropped smoothly onto the end of the long runway. White smoke puffed up under the tires when it touched down. It slowed incredibly soon, it seemed to me, for such a huge machine. Then it turned off the runway a quarter mile away, and stopped. It took a long time for the steps to be wheeled up to the plane and for the door to open.<br />
<br />
We finally saw figures filing out, and down the steps. A man on a platform at the edge of the crowd started cheering, and the rest of the crowd took it up. Then more soldiers walked out and the same voice shouted out, "I don't think they heard you!" The crowd cheered louder while the soldiers gathered in a group beside the plane. I stayed in the back of the crowd, apart from them, and looked over their heads.<br />
<br />
Mom and Dad were shivering from the wind and the cold. I walked with them back to the hangar where they ended up talking to another couple who had also come in from the cold. I left them there and went back outside.<br />
<br />
There was a company of veterans outside now, about ten of them, all carrying big American flags. They were getting set up to fall into some sort of formation. The ranged in age from thirty to sixty or more years old. One of them was a short and grizzled guy with a beard. He was dressed in black leather and wore a Harley-Davidson bandana on his head. One of the many patches on his jacket read, "Viet Nam Vet, and Proud of It!" He had that beaten-down-but-not-beaten look that I've seen so often on men at the V.A. hospital, on men from that era. I've also seen that look a hundred times on television and in movies, every time there's a displaced vet as one of the characters. I've seen so often that it seems more an affectation than a reality. There's a part of me that says I'm wrong to think that, but on the other hand I don't recall seeing it on WWII veterans.<br />
<br />
The soldiers were finally moving to the hangar, hurrying now to get out of the wind. None of them wore coats. I turned to go inside to tell Mom and Dad when my nephew, Vincent, came running up to me. "Uncle Gus," he said. "You're not as much fun as you usually are."<br />
<br />
I didn't know what to tell him. I had never realized that he thought I was fun. I told him I was sorry. I told him I was thinking of other things. And I was. I still didn't want to be a part of this. I was trying to keep the annoyed and bitter feeling alive. But it was getting hard. The anger was still there, but what with the cold, and the wind, and the gray driving snow, what with Mom befuddled and Dad hobbling, I began to feel empty, and I began to feel alone, and I began to feel lonesome in my anger. I followed the crowd inside and found the rest of the family. We waited together.<br />
<br />
The soldiers started filing in the back door, all in their lightweight desert camo uniforms. We watched and waited until, finally, Mark walked in. He's a big man, and stood half a head taller than most of them. He looked about him, smiling in an oddly unsure but happy way that I remembered from when he was a little kid, a look that seems to say, "I'm happy to be here, even if I'm not sure where 'here' is." I moved out to where he could see us, then stepped back with Mom and Dad.<br />
<br />
Tammy and Zach pushed through the crowd to meet him, but the rest of us held back, letting them have a moment together. I glanced over at Mom and Dad. Mom was smiling distractedly while she watched Mark. But Dad's face was twisting, as if he were in pain. His mouth turned down sharply and I thought for a moment that the walking and the cold and the wind had caught up with him. I took a few worried steps toward him, then stopped. I stopped because I knew he wouldn't want me to see him, to see his face sttruggling to keep a confident smile on, struggling to keep the tears back. When I saw that on his face, on his strong-jawed and stoic old-soldier face, and realized it for what it was, it hit me too, with an awful suddenness. It filled my chest so that my breath hitched and I had to look away to make it stop. But I couldn't look away for long. I couldn't keep from watching as Dad forced his tired and aching legs forward to meet Mark, as he held out his hand to shake his son's hand.<br />
<br />
I hadn't seen how the rest of the family had greeted Mark. I had only watched Dad during that time. And now, as he held out his open hand, his mouth kept turning down, twisting from that smile that he kept vainly trying on, and the struggle went on and on until Mark ignored the open hand and hugged him.<br />
<br />
We didn't stay much longer. The soldiers had to meet up, to be debriefed before they would be allowed to go, and that would take hours. We said our good-byes and then I ran ahead to the parking lot to warm up the car and bring it as close as I could to the airstrip gate. From there we followed the winding road back to the gate and turned out onto the highway. Outside the wind was cold, and was still driving the leaves and the dust and the snow across the road, hissing across the hood and roof of the car. But inside the car it was warm. Dad spoke up from the back seat. "Boy, that heat feels good." A few minutes later he spoke up again, the last thing he said all the rest of the way home. "Well," he said. "I'm glad we went."Gushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16629664958727845816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8522716817339876272.post-9476757753728433852013-05-21T16:57:00.000-07:002013-05-24T08:18:55.489-07:00Cookin' for the Arts!Last Thursday night found me on the rain-drenched roads in the hills between Viroqua and Lafarge and points beyond. The lightening forked through the clouds around me, but I couldn't hear the thunder for the roar of the rain on the hood and the roof of my little truck. There was little traffic, which was fortunate because when the puddled rain wasn't trying to pull me to the shoulder, the thousands of worms were being turned to a slick puree under my tires.<br />
<br />
So you might ask, "Gus, what the heck were you doing out in such weather? Was it a family emergency? A disaster of some sort?" No, it was nothing like that. Though, I say with some amount of bragging, it might have been a disaster of sorts if ol' Gus hadn't showed up. Okay, yeah, I know I'm gonna go to hell for Pride. So be it. No, I was on my way back from working at a benefit dinner for a Writer's Workshop. A fellow I had worked with in the construction trade, Jimmy, was hosting it, along with the Workshops director. What was her name? I don't recall, I'll call her, "Sonya." Just because.<br />
<br />
Details. What details do I need? Jimmy called me up to see if I could help out at this dinner, feeding about 50 people. He knew I'd had experience in the food business. Ol' Gus wouldn't call himself a chef by any means. But he knows his way around a kitchen, he knows the basics. I like to think that I shine at prep work, doing the behind the scenes stuff. I've done the line cooking thing, but I'll tell ya, I just don't have the temperament. As soon as I get an order in, I'm a bundle of nerves. What's up with that? I don't know. I can do it, I have many times. I've dealt with lines of hungry people. But at the end of the day, I'm pretty wiped out just keeping the panic tamped down. So there ya go, Gus's admission of weakness.<br />
<br />
But I told Jimmy, sure. I'd be happy to help out. There was going to be a chef there putting stuff together, so all I need to do was help him out. The chef was leaving before dinner got served, so I had to see that everything was ready to be plated up and served. It was all pretty straightforward. And I'd get to meet some literary-minded people, even a bona-fide Author, who was going to be reading from his latest release!<br />
<br />
I got there and was introduced to the chef, Robert, who informed me that he wasn't an actual "chef", but his father was, and Robert had been cooking professionally since he was young. And that was fine with me. I respected him for not putting on airs. I've met a few folks who I think could have been called "chef" who have learned it by the seat of their pants.<br />
<br />
Robert put me to work peeling some ginger to be pureed, then slicing apples and pears for the desert. Jimmy and Sonya were setting the tables and arranging things. They were giddy and a little excited about the event. I got the impression, though, that they didn't have much experience in setting up banquets. They came into the kitchen, laughing and joking around. And that was fine. Sonya asked Robert a question about serving times, and it got discussed for a moment before I realized that they hadn't really been communicating that part very well. They couldn't settle on a time for seating and serving, and it eventually became a heated argument that went on while I quietly sliced pears and apples as thinly as I could. They were three people talking over each other, not getting anywhere.<br />
<br />
At one point, Sonya mentioned that she wanted to express her feelings about how Robert was talking to her. That didn't get very far either. They finally agreed on a time, and then Robert told them both, "Now. If you have any other questions, or anything to do with me, ask it now. From now on my only communication is with Gus. That's it. We need to concentrate on what we're doing." I thought that was a little extreme, considering that most everything was ready. But I mentally shrugged and went back to cutting. Jimmy and Sonya went back to work in the dining room.<br />
<br />
Robert and I worked and talked. We didn't talk about the job at hand so much as everything else. Robert had cooked in cafes and restaurants out on the west coast, big and small, a lot of organic stuff. He did seem to have a good knowledge of what he was up to, but I still couldn't help thinking he was still flying by the seat of his pants. He also had a chip on his shoulder. And then Sonya came in the kitchen to ask how a certain dish was going to be served up. Robert's face grew dark, and he looked down at the bowl of ginger/lemon puree he was mashing up.<br />
<br />
"I...what...Sonya...didn't I tell you..." He sighed heavily and seemed to be working himself into a higher plane of anger. Sonya didn't seem to see it. I wondered briefly if they were a couple, and if so, why were they still together. "I just wanted to know so..."<br />
"You know what I have going on here. You know what I told you." He didn't raise his voice, but spoke through clenched teeth. Jimmy came back in, and then Sonya started talking about her feelings again, and why they should be known.<br />
"I'll give all the information you need to Gus. He'll fill you in. After I leave."<br />
Jimmy looked at me and smiled. "Sounds good," he said. "Come on Sonya. Let's get changed."<br />
<br />
She wanted to stay, to continue the discussion about her feelings. But Robert was already reaching into cupboards and slamming spoons onto the counter and a pot on the stove. She spun around and followed Jimmy. I waited to hear an explanation from Robert, but it didn't come. He started muttering under his breath, talking about polenta and water and ratios. He spent five minutes trying to figure the amounts and ratios in his head. Then he measured out the water, turned on the heat, and we went back to talking as if the argument had never happened.<br />
<br />
In the end, everything went smoothly. Robert left after the polenta was done. Waitstaff volunteers showed up, a couple of dishwashers started scrubbing pans left over from the day. I had help, very good help, plating up the food to serve. Everyone was happy, even the vegetarian who had to have the mushrooms picked out of her dish before we could take it out to her.<br />
<br />
Personally, Gus thought the beef dish was a little too acidic. The tomato needed to be cut a little. And the vegetarian choice could have been something a little more imaginative than just mushroom broth with a few vegetables. But, like I said, everyone seemed to be happy. And after everything was served, I got to take off my apron and put on a clean shirt and open up a bottle of Moon Man pale ale from New Glarus Brewing Co. That hit the spot just fine. I went out and mingled a little while someone else cleaned up behind me. How often does that happen?<br />
<br />
I did see some people I knew, and a few dear friends showed up. But by the time Gus was out there, the reading was about to begin, so there was very little visiting to be done. The reading began with a one-man skit that left the audience wondering if it was over or not, unsure of whether or not to applaud. But the reading went well, and drew a good response at the good humor and warmth of the writer. Afterward there was a question and answer that left me wondering if people actually read the material before they asked the questions. Oh, not everyone. Just some. And the best part of that was that Gus was sitting next to some friends and we were able to snicker quietly together. Yeah, I know, Gus and Friends might have been being a little catty. But come on, people!<br />
<br />
After the presentation, everyone seemed to be ready to leave at once. Gus had wanted to socialize a little more, but it just wasn't in the cards tonight. I gathered up my tools and clothes and headed out to the truck and onto the highway out of town. The air felt heavy and warm. I couldn't see any stars.<br />
<br />
The rain began to fall as soon as I got beyond the pale glow if the streetlights. It grew heavy and rattled in sheets across the hood of the truck. The wind picked up right before I dropped into the valley. I turned on the radio, and the local station, WDRT, was playing some really nice old blues. I turned it up to hear it over the sound of the wind and the rain. A pair of headlights came up from behind, caught up to me, then dropped back suddenly as the rain came down harder. I turned on to Hwy. 82 and the pair of headlights kept on without following me. The truck started the climb up the tree-lined and winding road to the next ridgetop.<br />
<br />
A week or so ago my truck's tailpipe rusted off. The rest of the exhaust is still there; catalytic converter and muffler. So the noise isn't awfully bad. But it exhausts under the truck bed now, so that resonates along the body and frame when I have to give it some gas. I finally reached the top and then dropped down the other side into the next valley. A distorted guitar wailed out of the radio, while someone sang about a love gone wrong. The guitar and the voice were dark and muddy, like the night outside. They were heavy with reverb and distortion. The music belonged to the night. It belonged to me and my truck with the missing tailpipe. It seemed to go on for a long time while the truck sluiced down the road. It became impossible to judge how far I had traveled, and for how long. I came out on top of one ridge thinking I was not far from home, only to realize that I was two ridges too early. There were miles to go. I finally came to a small town that had one bar open in the middle of the block. There were a few cars outside, and I saw some people sitting at the bar as I drove past. But it didn't look like a place I would belong. Often Gus wonders if there is such a place. I left that town behind and was back in the dark countryside. I rocked on through the dark and the rain and the wind and somewhere there was a dark and muddy part of my brain that wondered, as anyone is bound to wonder from time to time, if home was where I really wanted to go tonight.<br />
<br />
<br />Gushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16629664958727845816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8522716817339876272.post-81025564214809046022013-04-10T17:19:00.000-07:002013-06-08T15:27:20.013-07:00Bad Coffee and Mad Women at the 29 Pines.So anyway, Gus went to Eau Claire over the weekend of the mumblety-mumblth. He went with his friend, and ex-employer, Jim. It was for a convention, the topic of which I ain't a-gonna mention here, because when I did mention it to my friend, M, she broke into gales of derisive laughter. So I think it's enough to say that the conference room was peopled entirely with women, except for Jim. And me, of course, but I was only there to move heavy things and to be company. And that's fine. I was not attending the convention.<br />
<br />
Okay, that's out of the way. The convention was held at the 29 Pines Inn and Conference Center, which is basically a self-contained compound between Eau Claire and Chippewa Falls, just off of what highway? Highway 29, of course! Right smack dab in the middle of the prairie, miles from anything. It consisted of rooms, a swimming pool, a bar, a restaurant, store, gas station, laundromat and some slots. Everyone has the slots! And really, I didn't care. It was good just to get out of my town and into another, just for a change of scenery.<br />
<br />
We got up there in the afternoon. I helped Jim get set up in the convention room. While we were setting up, three women came up to Jim, all excited to see him. They were all my age or older, but all, oddly, with perfectly blonde hair. At that age, I tell you. But Jim introduced them as some friends of his who love to party. Well, that's fine too. But then they disappeared. Jim had some things to do, projects he was working on, so I went to the lounge and had a beer.<br />
<br />
The lounge was pleasant enough, with some good beers in the cooler. I passed the time writing and watching people and basketball. And really, that first evening passed very uneventfully.<br />
<br />
On Saturday Jim was going to be busy all day there. I had come down to the continental breakfast lounge to have a cup of coffee that might have been okay except for the taste of styrofoam. Man, if that doesn't leave a bad taste in your mouth! So I took off and headed to Chippewa Falls to search for a good cup of coffee. I finally found a place, a really funky little brick building with big picture windows. It was the "4:30 Coffee House." I went in and saw artwork that I didn't pay much attention to. There was a group of high-school age, or young college age, kids sitting at the counter. I got my coffee and sat down. I took my first sip. It was lousy. It was just a lousy cup of coffee. It was weak and bitter. And I thought, "I just drove a half an hour for a bad cup of coffee."<br />
<br />
Then I looked around. The artwork was just photos of banal landscapes with some hot air balloons. There was a little lending library filled with Tom Clancey and Dean Koontz novels. And there were little family-type groups scattered around, the type of people who aren't going to complain about the coffee even if they do know it's bad. I was really disappointed, but I sat and watched the people and drank my coffee. I got to the bottom and tossed back the last of it and got a mouthful of grounds. They tasted like twice-brewed grounds. Nice. I left.<br />
<br />
And you know how it is when you're in an unfamiliar town, and you know you should explore and find something cool to do? Well, that was my thought too. But I just didn't have a starting point, to tell the truth. I drove around aimlessly and finally found my van pointed back toward Eau Claire. And I decided to go to Water Street. I could find Water Street easily enough. And I had some recollection of hearing that it was a cool part of town to be in. Of course, I might have mis-remembered. Or things might have changed. Either way, I did end up on Water Street. It looked a lot different than I remembered, but I drove through, saw a coffee shop, and pulled over.<br />
<br />
This one looked neat, in an old brick building with a big picture window facing the sun. It looked warm and welcoming. There were college kids in there, reading and doing college stuff. The girl at the counter was nice and friendly and gave me a coffee mug and pointed me to the carafes. I tipped her and filled my mug and sat down. I took a drink. It was no better than the cup I had in Chippewa Falls! I didn't know what to do. Do I go up and tell the girl that I hate her coffee, when so many others are obviously fine with it? Let's face it, I'm the odd man here. So all I could do was sit quietly and drink the coffee and try to not scowl. I watched a girl walk past the window in the sunshine. She was wearing a red dress with white polka dots on it. The dress was nice, but she was really clumsy on her high heels. I finished my coffee and walked about 8 blocks, up and down the street, then drove back to the 29 Pines.<br />
<br />
When I got there, I looked for Jim at his table. He
wasn't there. Just on a whim, okay, maybe an educated guess, I checked
the bar. And there he was surrounded by the three cutest women at the
convention. They were nice looking, though two of them I think were
older than me. The third was about my age and had really nice friendly
eyes. There was an empty stool between her and the others. She pointed
me to it. It seemed like a safe enough place to sit.<br />
The women were all drinking Bloody Marys. There were a
couple of other women sitting on the other end of the row, around the "L",
furthest from me. The biggest one seemed to be hitting it kind of
hard. She started to get loud, laughing a lot at her own jokes. She
started talking abut the size of her breasts. They were huge. They were enormous. They rested
on the bar on either side of her drink. Then, since I was the only other guy in the room, she turned her attention to me. She stretched
the neck of her shirt way down to show me her print brassiere. "Isn't
this nice?" she shouted across the bar, daring me to contradict her.<br />
"Um...sure."<br />
"Jim say's you're a carpenter!!"<br />
"Um...yeah."<br />
"I got some work that needs doing. I won't pay you any money though. But I'll take care of you, if you know what I mean!!"<br />
I guess I turned red. Everyone started laughing
at me. And even at that distance from her, I'm sure I flinched a
little.<br />
"You don't need to be afraid of me," she shouted. "I won't bite! Unless you want," she added coyly.<br />
The woman beside me, the one with the nice eyes, put her arm around
my shoulder and told the big woman, "Now you be nice to him!"<br />
The bartender was overworked, and finally brought my Bloody Mary.
It was huge, with a skewer of pepper jack cheese and some sort of Slim
Jim sausage, and a few other things to munch on. In the meantime, the big woman had two Old Fashions in
front of her. She drank one down and started on the next. Then she
started shouting at me about all of the work she needed done, and how
she'd take good care of me if I did it. She showed off her bra again,
and the woman beside her started making comments about how scarey her
breasts looked in the morning with nothing to hold them up. Turns out
it was her niece. They were sharing a room. The drunk woman's jokes got cringingly crude. She shouted about if anyone needed milk in their coffee in the mornings, just ask. Yeesh. But maybe Gus is sharing too much. He has to slip into third person to forget the horror. The horror!<br />
<br />
<br />
We all ordered chicken wings. They were really messy and not very exciting. Gus can't remember the last time he had wings, but knows enough to not be disappointed if he doesn't like them. And he was not disappointed. But he had a pleasant conversation with the woman beside him. She was an ambulance driver in Milwaukee. She used to be married to a baseball player who had been a pitcher for the Brewers but never got far. Now they're divorced and she has a boyfriend in Green Bay, and is thinking of moving up there. <br />
<br />
And by this time, they all got up to leave, except the really
drunk woman. The nice one beside me squeezed my arm when she left.
"Don't let her scare you," she said. And just like that, I was alone
with the drunk woman. The nice women were gone. Jim was gone. Even the bartender had disappeared somewhere in the back.<br />
"Come on over. I want to talk to you!"<br />
"Nah, I've got my stuff right here. I'm fine." My ears were hot. A man came in and sat at the far end of the bar, intent on the basketball game on T.V.<br />
"Well, I don't want to yell!"<br />
I didn't want her to yell either, but I also didn't want to be seen
with her. I tried to compromise by moving down to the corner of the
bar. This at least quieted her down. Quite a bit, actually. So that
helped, except that she started interrogating me about where I lived,
why I was there, when I could come to Madison to work for her. I
answered really vaguely, and even lied about where I lived. It seemed
to work. After a long, long time Jim came back in to see how I was doing.<br />
"Fine," I told him. "I'm gonna run to the bathroom. I'll be right back." When I got back, the woman was gone. Jim was still there.<br />
"I told her that her niece needed some help with something. I
guess we're eating in the restaurant here tonight. Unless you found a
different place." But I hadn't. And by dinner time, the really drunk
woman was completely sober and quiet and apologetic. But the nice ones
had made other plans, and we didn't see them again until morning.<br />
<br />
But that's not all! That evening I wandered back to the lounge. There was a group of people there, celebrating someone's birthday. They all seemed to be couples, and they were all pretty drunk already. They were locals, and I got the feeling that this was their regular Saturday night gathering place. One of them was sitting next to me at the bar. He was a fierce-looking guy on the high side of his fifties, I guessed. He had a cloth engineer's hat on his head, and hard and mean glinting blue eyes. He had a great bushy gray mustache that traveled around his mouth, down over his jaw on either side of his chin and down his neck to his shirt collar. He was sucking on Bud Lights and tumblers of Jack Daniels while he talked with his friend, a gaunt and hollow-eyed guy who fidgeted and twitched the whole time.<br />
<br />
They were discussing "that n***er in the White House," and how he was going to destroy this country with his health care system. They talked about that for a while, then the discussion turned to their guns, and how they weren't giving them up. The gaunt man said he didn't have any assault rifles anyway. But Mustache Man reminded him that one of his rifles could be converted into an assault weapon. "Oh yeah, that's right," said Gaunt Man. "Well, either way, they're not gonna take it from me!" He wandered off to talk to the women, who were sitting at a tall table together, drinking and screaming with laughter. The women had been drinking "Mystery Shots" since about 5:00 that afternoon. The Mystery Shots were a row of bottles with brown paper wrapped around them and numbered from 1 through 10. Each one cost a dollar. The bartender had told me earlier that it was really cheap booze that nobody would buy anyway, so this was a good way to get rid of it.<br />
<br />
Another man took the stool beside Mustache Man. He called for a couple of more drinks. His arm was in a sling. He said he had just had surgery on his shoulder.<br />
"Oh, man," said Mustache Man. "That can't be fun! I remember when I messed mine up arm wrestling..." I gave him a closer glance. He didn't appear especially tall, but his neck was thick and corded and sloped outward to his shoulders like the foot of a stone mountain. He seemed like a man who could back up his tough talk any day of the week. We wasn't a man to be trifled with. I started listening more closely, even though he was pretty drunk and starting to repeat himself.<br />
"...well, my arm was getting sore, and I should have stopped right there, you know? I mean, I just beat five guys in a row, and that was enough. But I said, 'Okay, one more!' And this guy came up. He was a sheet rocker! And he was just a kid, but musta weighed 220 pounds if he was an ounce! And I thought, 'Oh no.' And I knew I'd have to take him right off the line or I wouldn't stand a chance. So we locked hands there and the starter said, 'Go!' And I pushed that kid's arm about yea far...and just stopped. It was like I hit a fucking brick wall! And that kid looked at me and smiled just as nice as anything, and says, 'Is that all you got?' Smart-ass little shit. Well, I tried to give it more, but I just didn't have it! And before I knew it, he just pushed my arm all the way back and slammed it down on the table. And I could feel it! Man, I felt it and heard it, everything in my shoulder just going, 'R-r-r-r-r-rip!' Jeezus! And that was all she wrote. I couldn't even pick up a fucking beer. And I finally got up to go that night, and it was windy out there. And the wind caught that door, and do you think I could pull it back? Not to save my life. And that was the last time I arm wrestled. Hell, I used to wrestle with either hand. But I want to save at least one, you know? Anyway, if I tried today it would be just bone-on-bone. I don't think there's any cartilage left..."<br />
<br />
They each had another tumbler of Jack Daniels. Two women came over to join them. Jim showed up then, and ordered a martini. He said he was done for the day. Mustache Man turned to look at us, as if he hadn't even known I was there already. He pulled off his hat and gave what might have passed for a grin, if not for those hard blue eyes.<br />
"Well, look at us!" he said. "Three bald men in a row! I think that's lucky." Jim didn't know any more than I did if that was good luck or not, but we were both agreeable to the idea. Mustache Man aimed his eyes at me. I got the feeling that he'd love to fight just to pass the time. "How old are you?" he demanded.<br />
"Ah...56."<br />
"I've got you beat," he said. "I'm 59!" It sounded like a challenge.<br />
"Yeah, I guess you do have me beat."<br />
He seemed disappointed. Then he said, "How old were you when you started losing your hair?"<br />
"I don't really remember..."<br />
"How old were you?!!"<br />
"27"<br />
He settled back onto his stool. "Yeah, I was about 30." He seemed to be brooding, and his eyes narrowed into little sparkles of pale blue. "I ride out to Sturgis every summer. And I don't wear nothing on my head. So I get out that and my head's all red and so hot you can fry an egg on it..." He stopped again and stared at the rows of bottles along the back bar. Then he said, "You ever get these sores on top of your head?"<br />
"What kind of sores...no, I don't get any sores."<br />
"Well, I started to get 'em. Now the doctor says I have to keep my head covered. Sucks to get old...but it beats the other choice, I guess." Jim and I agreed with him.<br />
<br />
One of the women came over and leaned against Mustache Man. Her hand was on his thigh, rubbing him a little. "You ready to go home, babe?" He seemed to consider this for a long time. He was staring at a half tumbler of Jack Daniels and a can of Bud Light in front of him. He was giving them more attention than he gave to the woman. He finally said, "Yah. I s'pose." But it took a long time to finish those drinks. He kept forgetting them while he talked to his friend, then mumbled to the woman. They finally helped one another out the door and to the parking lot. Jim and I agreed that we were glad we weren't on the road tonight.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Gushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16629664958727845816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8522716817339876272.post-21503614629069685522013-02-19T10:50:00.000-08:002016-01-28T14:05:23.487-08:00Another Year Older at the Branding Iron Roadhouse.Hmm. Ol' Gus has been resisting (is that the word I want? Hm. No, more like "avoiding." Yeah.) or rather, avoiding, writing anything at all. What's up with that? Gus doesn't know if it's a little bit of seasonal down-ness, or what, but it really sucks. Gus has been avoiding liquor. It seems that just one beer will send him into a downward spiral of a funk, and make him Very Grumpy Indeed. I sit down to write in my notebook and just stare at it. I have a letter halfway written, and it just sits there, getting older and more irrelevant every day. Ah-yup. Just like Ol' Gus. Yes! That's it! I had a birthday yesterday. And that was fine.<br />
<br />
I got up and made coffee, fried up some potatoes and eggs and ham, then put on my long johns and work clothes and drove out to the workshop twelve miles outside of town. The roads weren't too bad, except along the shady spots. Last week had gotten kind of nasty, and one day while I was on my way out there I had to turn around because a big UPS truck had gotten stopped by the icy hill along the way and was backing down, almost a 1/8 mile stretch. He wasn't moving any too quickly, so I cut a doughnut on the ice and went back to take another road out there. That was nearly as bad, covered with a sheet of ice that had melted the day before and then frozen overnight. But with a little patience and care, and a light foot on the gas, I made it.<br />
<br />
Anyway, that was last week. Yesterday was warm, up in the lower thirties, and the sun was shining. I got out to the shop and grabbed the splitting maul and some wedges and went to work. It doesn't take long to work up a sweat splitting wood, and after about ten minutes I was down to a long sleeved shirt while I wrestled chunks of wood up onto the splitting stump and drove the wedges in to make some stove-sized pieces. During that time two separate flocks of geese flew overhead, pointing north. It was good to see them, and to hear their calling back and forth over the soughing of the breeze through the stand of pines behind the shop. It seems too early for them to be heralding Spring, but the weather was so mild that it felt right.<br />
<br />
I worked until almost noon, until my arms were quivering. I'll tell ya, if you don't do that sort of thing more often than I do, it takes a lot out of you. When I had gotten everything stacked and put away, I got into the truck and my wrist was so limp that I could barely turn the key in the ignition. Yeesh. <br />
<br />
I had been informed that I was going out with friends on my birthday. Reservations had been made. So Gus did what anyone would do if they were going out; he took a nap. And then he woke refreshed, an hour later, still holding the book he had intended to read. My ride, G, arrived at 6:30. From there we drove to Lavalle, picked up P, who was just getting off of work, and then headed out of town along the dark winding and wintry roads through Ironton and then up the road past the Carr Valley Cheese Factory and finally to the Branding Iron Roadhouse in Lime Ridge.<br />
<br />
I've been to the Branding Iron quite a bit over the past year. Lisa and Steve raise their own beef for the hamburgers, and Lisa makes her own seasoning for the meat, and does a good job of grilling them. If you ask for rare, she gives you rare. That's hard to find around here. But the burgers are the best I've found for about fifty miles around. She tries to buy everything locally, from the Carr Valley cheeses to the hamburger buns baked at the Amish bakery down in the valley. <br />
<br />
J was already there with a tall Old Fashion in front of him. There was a small and bearded man in black leather sitting next to him at the bar, cutting into a steak. He seemed serious about it, and only glanced up at us as we walked in. We were intentionally early for our reservation. It gave us time to sit at the bar and relax with the row of Old Fashions that Steve mixed up for all of us. They were tall and good.<br />
<br />
Tonight, coincidentally, was Guest Chef Night. The theme was "Supper Club Steak Night," with Chef Kimberly Anderson. On the menu was home-grown ribeye steak, sweet potatoes with creme fraiche, and various side dishes. As well as the Old Fashions. Mmm.<br />
<br />
The dining area there is pretty casual. The pool table had been pushed to one side and the area filled with tables. The tables were all filled with a nice mix of folks. Some appeared to be locals, others didn't. It's easy to spot a tourist if you're a local. G struck up a conversation with some gals from New York who had just finished up their meal and were sitting at the bar. They were transplants to the area, but that's all I heard of the conversation, except one of them commenting that "...men don't like assertive woman." Well, Gus thinks that's just plain silly. And that's all I'm saying about that. And while we were sitting there and visiting, a group of people left and they all called out to the bearded man in black leather, "Good night, Father!"<br />
<br />
Lisa showed us to our table after a bit. There was a tray of pickled vegetables in the center. There was pickled curried cauliflower that was really nice, and some spicy pickled carrots, hot pickled green beans and a few others. They were all good, a nice starter. Lisa took our order, which was pretty much, "How do you want your steak?" while we munched on these. Then Lisa brought the salad of leafy greens topped with a vinaigrette and thin chilled slices of marinated grilled steak. Oh, man, it was good. And we were all hungry. After that, the main course, along with more drinks. The steaks were perfectly seared and mostly tender, not feed-lot tender. We were a rare to medium-rare group, and fell to it carnivorously. I was a little disappointed with the sweet potato dish. It just seemed as if something with a little more consistency and flavor would have suited the steak better. But that's a minor thing. We had choices of sides. J chose pickled beets (the pickled foods were all prepared by the chef) on a bed of dilled cottage cheese. G had the sauerkraut soup and I chose the grilled mixed mushrooms, and we all shared with the others. We all had a good time, except that the room was chilly and the big-screen T.V. was on over beside the kitchen. There was a really good music mix going on that the television occasionally interfered with. And I may have mentioned how I feel about television in restaurants before; I'm sure you don't need to read it again.<br />
<br />
Dessert came then. J got the frosty frozen fruit squares, which kind of surprised me because it was, as I mentioned, chilly in there. The rest of us had the petit cocoa cakes with creme de menthe icing. That went really well with the bottle of Kentucky Bourbon Barrel ale that I washed it down with. Oh, man, Gus was feeling mellow by then.<br />
<br />
There were only a few people left by this time. The chef came out and visited with us, and a couple at another table. She was interesting, and enthusiastic. It was fun to visit with her, and hear her plans for other dinners. The guests at the other table kind of know me, and they sang "Happy Birthday" to me, which was kind of embarrassing, but enjoyable anyway. From there we wandered back up to the bar, where J and I decided that some good whiskey would take the chill off. And it did. J said that he had never been a whiskey drinker, but might change his mind. It was smooth and mellow.<br />
<br />
The booze didn't send Gus into a funk the way it has been of late. No, everyone seemed to be having a good time, and that sort of mood can be infectious. And it was. You can feel the mood of a gathering of people, in much the same way that you can feel the mood of one person. It changes the air around you, and runs through you if you let it, and maybe even if you don't. And one might be flippant and say, "That's just the booze talking, Gus!" But that's not the case, not always. It happens all the time, sometimes when you wouldn't think it's there. I've felt it in small crowds or large, as if there is a signal, some electricity that moves from person to person until it's a tangible thing, something that can bring a smile and warmth out before you realize it.<br />
<br />
I have a memory from almost thirty years ago of going to see the Fourth of July fireworks in Lacrosse. I went along with P and her nieces. The fireworks were going to be shot off across the Mississippi River. We had to park far away and walk down to the park. And at one point I was carrying my niece on my shoulders in the middle of the press of people. There were so many people that they filled the streets as far as we could see. And I heard her laughing above me, and realized that I was laughing too, chuckling to myself as we moved down the street looking over the heads of the people and feeling the mood and the warmth of this happy crowd wrapping around us.<br />
<br />
Yesterday I had a birthday. I was able to visit with friends and strangers. Today is cold again, but that doesn't matter because I saw the wild geese returning ahead of the coming Spring.Gushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16629664958727845816noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8522716817339876272.post-77003204846305102052012-10-28T09:55:00.000-07:002013-02-19T10:56:05.311-08:00Gus's Cold<br />
On Sunday afternoon, he felt a tickle and then a scratch in the back
of his throat. By Monday morning it had grown into a cold. He woke up
coughing and sniffling, and couldn't breathe through his nose until the
second cup of coffee. He told himself that he didn't feel all that
bad, that it was only a cold, and he could work this off. His plan was to go to the cabinet shop and split wood today, and
that is what he intended to do.<br />
<br />
He took his time with breakfast, and with getting dressed. He
dressed in layers, putting on his faded and worn work trousers, a cotton
tee shirt, a flannel shirt, a hooded sweatshirt and a frayed green work
coat. His shoe lace snapped in two as he tightened up his work boots.
He coughed and grumbled while he knotted it together and walked out the
door.<br />
<br />
The starter on the truck had been giving him trouble over the last couple of months. This morning it buzzed for a moment before it finally kicked in and groaned, laboriously turning the engine over. After the engine started, he waited a minute, letting it run in neutral to warm up the transmission so it would shift easier. Then he eased out of the driveway and down the alley and out of town. <br />
<br />
The shop was twelve miles from town, down in a sheltered valley. The wind was blowing hard, and rocked the little truck as he drove down the road, and then turned off onto a meandering side road that led up onto a ridge. There was a woman he knew who lived there, up the road from the workshop. She had told him that she had a bucket full of splitting wedges that he could borrow. He stopped at her house to pick them up. She asked if she could help with splitting wood.<br />
<br />
"If you want to."<br />
"Yeah, I do," she said. "It's a good day to split wood."<br />
<br />
He
agreed, and waited while she slipped her boots on. She was only a few
inches shorter than him, and in her heavy tan work coat appeared more
muscular than him. He followed her out to the shed where he picked up
the bucket of wedges and she took her axe and splitting maul, one in
each hand, and put them in the truck.<br />
<br />
They drove down into the valley where the workshop was. The cut maple was piled in a
jumbled heap behind the workshop. The pieces ranged in size from a foot
across to some broad enough to turn into a dinner table. He rolled a
large one out for a splitting platform. Then he rolled another on top
of it. She began tugging another out and started rolling it up the
slope.<br />
<br />
"I want to work up here," she said. "The sun is shining up here. It feels good."<br />
"It's more steps."<br />
"I don't care. That's where I want to work."<br />
"That's
fine." His voice sounded gruff to him, made harsh by his clogged
sinuses and raw throat. He smiled so that she knew it was okay, that she
didn't need any more reason than that. She didn't seem to notice either
way. She went to work on her stump while the wind roared over their
heads, bending the tops of the trees that were further up the hill. Down here there was scarcely a breeze. If the wind changed, he
knew, it might come sluicing up the valley, harder and harder as the
valley narrowed. He had felt it like that before, pushing the snow into
waves of drifts.<br />
<br />
He started swinging into the wood, driving the maul as hard as he
could so that it would split across the center. After a few swings, he
pushed a steel wedge into the groove he had started. Then he turned his
maul around and began driving the wedge in, swinging steadily. The
wedge drove deeper while the ringing of steel on steel was joined by the
ripping of wood fibers. The wedge dropped suddenly as the slab split
in two. He looked up at the woman. She had taken off her coat, and was busy driving her maul into a slab, slicing off smaller pieces for kindling.
He saw that even with her coat off, her arms looked strong. She
handled the maul easily. He took off his coat as well, and started
breaking the wood into stove-sized chunks.<br />
<br />
He grew warm as he worked. He could feel and smell the sweat on
his body, even through the hooded coat and under the flannel. He took off the
hooded coat and continued working, splitting the stumps into ever smaller
pieces and throwing them onto a pile to be moved when he grew tired of
swinging the maul. He felt good. His breathing was easy now, and his head
was clear. He glanced up and saw that the woman was now in her tee-shirt.
She had disappeared into the woods once while he worked. She was back
five minutes later. Another time he had heard her clearing her nostrils
noisily onto the ground. Both times he had kept working, concentrating
on making sure that each blow of the maul landed where the last one
did. He didn't want to miss one and have the woman see.<br />
<br />
He stripped down to his tee shirt and rolled another log onto the
stump. The maul only dented it, and bounced back. He swung three or
four more times before it sunk in. He put a wedge in, and realized the
woman was standing there, watching.<br />
<br />
"That's a tough one," she said.<br />
"It sure is."<br />
"I can pile this stuff up if you want. I'm tired of swinging the axe."<br />
He was surprised. When he had looked up, she seemed as if she could do it all day.<br />
"Sure, that's fine. I'll just keep on here then." He opened his water jug and drank deeply.<br />
"I didn't bring any water," she said, and reached for his jug.<br />
"I have a cold." She shrugged and took it from him anyway. She drank greedily, and spilled some across her shirt.<br />
"You can't drink it if it's on your shirt," he said.<br />
"Yeah, I should be more careful."<br />
She
loaded some wood into her arms and carried it to the stack alongside
the shop. He went back to swinging the maul again, finishing the log
and pushing it to one side. The woman was already back, pulling one of
the unsplit pieces from the pile. On its end it was more than half as
tall as she was. He guessed it was over a hundred pounds of wood. She
wrestled it over to his chopping block, alternately rolling and dragging
it. He helped her to place it on the center of the block. It hung over the edge at either end.<br />
"Thanks a lot," he said. She smiled and carried away more of the split wood.<br />
<br />
The
wind was still loud overhead, but down in the little valley there was only a breeze,
enough to dry the sweat on his shirt as he worked. He swung the maul
again, enjoying the heft of the head through the handle, the flexing of
muscles in his wrists and biceps, in his shoulders and across his back. He enjoyed
the sound of the wood fibers splitting as the blade clove it through
the middle. He hadn't expected this one to split so easily. He
separated the two halves and split them in half, then halved again. He
was happy to feel his lungs clear, and to feel the air filling his
lungs. He felt good. He felt strong. He finished the log and started
on another while the woman cleared away all that he had split.<br />
<br />
They worked through the morning, until he was quivering and thirsty
and the water had run out. She told him that they could have soup at
her house. They loaded the tools and drove back up the hill. The fire
in her big cook stove was low, but it was still warm, and didn't take long to
build back up. She went to her refrigerator and pulled out ground beef
and vegetables.<br />
"I'll haul in some more wood if you want to chop this stuff up," she said.<br />
He
hadn't expected to help cook, but picked up a knife and went to work
dicing onions, carrots, garlic and parsley. His wrist holding
the knife felt weak after swinging the maul. His eyes began to feel heavy while he worked. He finished chopping the
vegetables, then seasoned the meat and browned it while she added more
wood to the stove.<br />
"Let's cook over the fire and shut the range off," she said.<br />
"Okay, good."<br />
"Are you okay with cooking on a wood range?"<br />
"Sure."<br />
He
set the pot onto the flat black stove top, over the hottest part. The meat started sizzling
again, almost immediately. They added the onions, then the other
vegetables and broth and let it simmer off to the side, on the cooler
part of the stove. Halfway through the cooking, he noticed his lungs
getting full again, and his head swelling. By the time he slid the pot
to one side, he felt drowsy and tired. When he had first started
cooking, the house smelled good. Now he didn't smell anything. His
head started to hurt, and he told the woman.<br />
"I thought you were looking a little peaked. Sit down, I can finish."<br />
She
dished up the soup and they ate it with bread and butter. He had been
hungry earlier, but now was only able to eat one bowlful of soup. His
skin felt papery and dry. He wished he would sweat again just to feel
moisture. When he opened his mouth to eat or speak, it seemed that he
should hear the crinkling and rustling of his skin.<br />
"I think I'm done for the day," he said.<br />
"I figured as much."<br />
"I'm going home, I guess."<br />
"You go right ahead."<br />
"Had a good morning," he said. "That's a good pile of wood."<br />
"Yeah. It was a good morning."<br />
At the door he stopped and said," I'm taking tomorrow off, I think." He had told her that he would run new drain pipes for her kitchen sink. Now it seemed like a Herculean task.<br />
"That's fine," she said. "I bet I won't see you for a couple of days."<br />
"We'll see."<br />
"Yah. Don't push it." She smiled and closed the door after him. Out here the wind was blowing through his coat and whistling through the bare branches of the huge willow that stood along the driveway. He shivered a little and climbed into his truck. Even though the wind was sharp and cold, the sun was bright, and the cab was warm. He turned the key and the truck groaned slowly over, then caught and started. He put it into gear and pulled out of the driveway and down the gravel road, driving slowly until he reached the pavement. His eyes felt puffy and tired, and his face felt as if it were filled with thick glue. He forced himself to stay awake for the fifteen minutes that it took to drive home. Once there, he climbed up the stairs and took a long hot shower, then put on some baggy clothes.<br />
<br />
And he did nothing else but lie on the couch and watch simple movies all the rest of the day and into the night.<br />
<br />
What?? You think Gus is gonna review food when he felt like this? But it's okay, he's better now. He even crawled under his truck and replaced the starter so he doesn't have to park on a hill any more.Gushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16629664958727845816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8522716817339876272.post-44767942817790080542012-10-15T13:50:00.003-07:002012-10-15T13:50:42.096-07:00Birds and Bees and the Trempealeau HotelAnd can this really be the end of September? I guess that's a common enough complaint, or exclamation. We all wonder where the time went, how it got to be so late. Gus often wonders this at closing time when he's just not ready to go home yet. Often, that's just when everyone else wants Gus to go home. But I shall not visit that scene today.<br />
<br />
This past winter, I told of my search for canoe building materials in St. Paul, MN. Well, a month or so ago, Gus finished his canoe! Yes indeed, and he even chose a name for it, but I'm gonna keep that to myself for now. I don't know why. But here's the thing. Ol' Gus put a lot of worry into building this craft. Probably more worry than work went into it, to tell the truth. There were periods of staring at it and wondering if this or that strip was the right one, or wondering why there was a small gap in a joint where there was none the day before. And there were times of famine, where Gus just couldn't scrape up the cash for epoxy or fiberglass. Those were tough times, my friends (he intoned dramatically). They were times of despair and self-doubt. But you know, seriously, I've never wanted much, but my own canoe is one thing I've wanted for a long, long time. Okay, I'll be honest and say that I'd really like my own sailboat as well, but Gus ain't a-gonna hold his breath on that one.<br />
<br />
So, all that said, the canoe is finished, out of the shop to make way for other projects, and safely lodged in the shed out back. It's been in some of the local ponds and a river. And a few weekends ago I put it into the Deep River, the Ol' Man River, the Mississippi.<br />
<br />So on Sunday I woke at 4:30. I had set my alarm for six, but didn't need it. I got up and made coffee and then checked the weather. I figured that if I made coffee first, I wouldn't change my mind. The weather report was good, with breezes and a sunny sky. I sucked down the first cup, then told the lady friend, P, that we were going canoeing.<br />
<br />
One hour and a pot of coffee later we were on the road with the canoe resting securely on the roof of the old Toyota pickup. The sun was up and the skies were clear. There's something about the prow a canoe hanging over the hood of a truck that just feels right to Gus. It just says, "We're going somewhere!" Maybe other folks don't see it that way. I hope they have something else that feels just as right.<br />
<br />
It's about an hour and a half to Trempealeau State Park. We pulled into the lot and parked and had the canoe in the water in less than ten minutes, including a quick run to the outhouses. Another five and we had paddled out onto the rolling expanse of the Mississippi River. There was only one other craft out there, a fishing boat anchored in the lee of the riverbank. We took the canoe straight across the channel to an island, at which point we realized that we were both hungry and overheated already. But we had food, and were overdressed, and were able to take care of both problems before we took off up the river.<br />
<br />
It feels good to be in a canoe. And that's really what this is about. Gus could go on and on about the scenery and stuff. And there was scenery, beautiful scenery. The bluffs are tall and the islands are tree-covered. And there are birds, and birds, and more birds. There is also the sound of the highway a half mile away. But for Gus it's all about the canoe, about pushing the paddle through the water so that the canoe moves forward. It's about knowing how to turn, and how to stop. It's about being one with the canoe, about reading the river, seeing the water ripple over stumps just below the surface, and steering your way around it. It's about keeping it pointed where you want to go, no matter how the wind blows or the current turns. And then there's the feeling in your shoulders and your back as you push through the water. There's the entire physicality of the canoeing experience that, when coupled with just being outdoors with the river and the wildlife, can't be replicated. It feels good to be in a canoe.<br />
<br />
When I finished building the canoe this spring, I had to end with a fiberglass and epoxy coating. I had some trouble with that, ending up with some bubbles and a few wrinkles and other blemishes. So the first time I showed it to someone, I felt like I had to apologize for that. But as I'm in the water more and more, the blemishes seem to disappear. This is especially true when the currents get tricky and I'm able to handle it almost alone. The canoe dances across the water almost joyfully. But perhaps Gus is projecting.<br />
<br />
We did have a good trip on the river. We stopped for lunch on an island beach. We had sardines and crackers and fruit while we watched the river go by. It's pretty cool to watch the water swiftly flowing past. Then we pushed on up the river, past the silver maples filled with black cormorants that dropped almost to the water before gliding across to the other shore. We found a channel that cut through the island and followed that into a shallow channel that opened up as far down the river as we could see. Halfway back to Trempealeau we encountered a flock of pelicans, right before a mad hornet settled on Gus's neck and stung. And stung. I could feel the poison shooting in, like liquid fire. So I killed that hornet, right there on the spot. My goodness but Gus was angry! I did some cussing for a while, but there was nothing for it. P worried that I might have developed a bee allergy over the last couple of years, but that wasn't the case. P often worries needlessly. But the sting was just a painful annoyance, like the Republican party, and we soldiered on.<br />
<br />
I noticed at some point that I was doing all the work. I mean, the canoe became hard to handle, slow to respond. And I watched my paddling companion for a little while and noticed that her paddle was only settling into the water and gliding back of its own accord. We call that "dip stroking." I suggested that I could use a little help. Even though we were heading down river, the headwind was more than making up for the current. P dug in and concentrated on helping, and it made all the difference. I did have to remind her a few more times along the way, but by the time we reached the park channel, we were both pretty tired. Our drinking water was almost gone, as were the snacks.<br />
<br />
Gus could really feel the weariness hit when we pulled in at the dock. We both climbed out and walked around a little. I eyed the canoe, thinking that it was going to take a great effort to pick it up. While we walked around, someone pulled up to launch their fishing boat. The man got out of his truck and walked over, looking at my canoe. "That's a really nice-looking canoe!" he said. I thanked him. He admired it for a bit. The bottom was covered with sand and grit, so it was hard to see the blemishes that I had lost sleep over. I finally told him that I had built it, and he was properly impressed. We talked a little more, then he went back to launching his boat and I found the strength to lift the canoe onto my shoulders and carry it across the lot to my truck. I felt pretty good.<br />
<br />
So of course we were hungry. P likes the Trempealeau Hotel in downtown Trempealeau. It is a very popular spot, and it's the home of the Walnut Burger. But to tell the truth, I've been in there a few times and never really felt comfortable. Oh, it's all nice and clean, with screened-in dining rooms and a nice bar. There's a lovely view of the river, and the bluffs beyond if you're seated in the right place. But there's just something indifferent about the service. And today was no exception, even though it wasn't busy there. We got there at about 3:30 in the afternoon, and there were some people, but plenty of open tables. We were shown ours, ordered water and coffee and then looked at the menus. I ordered the blackened catfish, P ordered the walnut burger. And the waitress was cheerfully indifferent. And then, just before our food arrived, in walked Gus's ex-employer from when he was cooking part time. She came in with her boyfriend and another couple, and sat down right next to us before she saw us. That was quite a nice surprise, but still seemed a little awkward, though I can't quite put my finger on it. We chatted a little bit, but it just seemed stiff. But my leaving that place of employment had been a bit awkward. I think she had hoped I'd stay longer, and I feel kind of bad about that. And that, as they say, is for another day. Still, it was good to visit with them. Our food came, and it was fine. No, Gus can't complain about the food there. It's always good. It's just not great. Perhaps "uninspired" is the word I want. And the service was, again, indifferent. I have had the same experience when I was working in this town for a week or so a year ago. I would come in and sit at the bar and try to look friendly, try to strike up a friendly howdy-do with the bartender, and it inevitably fell flat.<br />
<br />
That same couple of weeks though, Gus spent a few happy hours at the Hungry Point down on Lake Road on the edge of Trempealeau. Every visit there was friendly. The bartenders were amiable, and I had a fun time just chatting it up, mostly listening to the patrons. Yup, Gus will have to go back there some time. But back at the Trempealeau Hotel, it took a long time to get a coffee refill, and to get our bill. When we finally stood up to go, we both felt bone-weary. It was a good tired though. And when we finally got home and unloaded, and Gus got all cleaned up and relaxed into his easy chair, he could still feel the river's current rolling under him.Gushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16629664958727845816noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8522716817339876272.post-9697294371840697822012-07-06T17:45:00.001-07:002012-07-06T17:45:44.588-07:00The "Big Bad Beezer Burger," and Other ChallengesI'll tell ya right now, I wrote most of this while I sat at Beezer's with my lady friend, drinking a few beers at the end of the day. That's Beezer's on the edge of Hillsboro, Wisconsin. I stop in here a couple of times a month, or a couple of times a week, depending on my work location. (Gus do get around, don'cha know?) They have a pretty good selection of beers, and the waitstaff is always top-notch and cheerful. There are a few too many televisions there, but often the sound is turned down so that if you sit quietly you can listen to the locals. After a few beers, you can even join them!<br />
<br />
The food is...well...I don't know what to say. See, I kind of like hanging out there. It's cheerful and friendly, and the beer selection works for me. But the food, well, it's just okay. It's bar/restaurant fare with little imagination or inspiration behind it. My friend protests to me, because she likes the place too, that "their thin crust pizza is decent!" Well, that's fine. And there is also, for those who have nothing left to live for, the two-pound "Big Bad Beezer Burger Challenge," complete with a side of potatoes and coleslaw. If you eat the entire thing, by yourself, with all the fixins, in under 30 minutes, you get a free tee-shirt. There is no mention of whether or not the meal is free as well, but I'll leave that for someone else to find out.<br />
<br />
So, hello, and good day, and I hope everyone is doing great today! Yes, I really do. Ol' Gus, he feels best when <i>everyone</i> is happy. What else is there to live for?<br />
<br />
Today is supposed to be the last day of this heat wave.<br />
Today the temperature is supposed to hit 103 degrees.<br />
Today the heat index is going to be 108 degrees.<br />
<br />
And today I picked up my mother from the assisted living center to drive her to a memory care center, a place that takes care of folks with Alzheimer's.<br />
<br />
This has been a while coming. The director at her home warned me of it a while back, though I knew it was inevitable. Then a week ago came the news, that we needed to have her moved inside of a couple of weeks. We did a little shopping, but settled on the place in Hillsboro. But all of that is just background. Today is when I took her there, from Reedsburg to Hillsboro, a distance of about 24 miles.<br />
<br />
I drove over early, while it was still cool. I got there at about 8:30 and went into the dining room. There weren't a lot a people there. I had expected more at the breakfast tables. The people at Mom's table seemed happy to see me. One old guy tried to take the coffee cake that a gal in the kitchen had given me. But he was just kidding around.<br />
<br />
Mom was in a cheerful mood, and so were her three table mates, so I knew that Mom hadn't been told yet that she was being moved away from them. Or if she had been told, she had already forgotten. I sat with them and listened to their joshing, and was able to join in from time to time. They were laughing at a little couplet that Mom had told them, one that I vaguely remembered.<br />
<br />
"Oh my darling sweet potato<br />
Don't you carrot all for me?"<br />
<br />
And so on, I don't remember it. But one of the kitchen workers promptly sat with us and wrote it down, telling me how much she enjoyed hearing things like that from my mom. I was only halfway enjoying this, not forgetting why I was there. I had been awake since four-thirty this morning, and was jumpy and nervous.<br />
<br />
Linda, the supervisor, came up the hall. She beckoned to Mom and me. As Mom made her slow way out of her chair, Linda quietly said to me, "I've decided that I'll tell her, in her room. That way she won't think you're the bad guy." I squeezed her shoulder, touched almost to tears in my keyed-up state of mind. Any kind words could easily pushed me that little bit further.<br />
<br />
Back in Mom's room, Linda had her sit down in her easy chair, while Linda carried a chair over beside her. Mom was still cheerful and unaware of any problems, thinking that this was going to be a pleasant chat. Linda sat down in front of her, face-to-face, and said, "Rosemary..."<br />
<br />
I honestly don't recall what she said after that. But Mom sat there and cheerfully nodded and agreed, as if she were being told that she was moving down the hall. And even when Linda and I got up to gather a few clothes and things together for the day, she didn't really seem to comprehend what was going on.<br />
<br />
"Are you sure there's nothing I can do to help?" she asked once. Another time she said, "Boy, I'm sure glad you're doing all the work!"<br />
<br />
We loaded up a small cart, and Linda said, "I'll go down the hall and get Ellie. She'll want to know you're leaving."<br />
"Okay," said Mom. "I'll be here."<br />
I let her know that I was taking stuff out to the car. "I'll be right back," I emphasized. Those words have become very important to Mom. "I'll be right back!"<br />
<br />
When I returned, I stopped just outside of her door. Ellie was inside, talking. "Well, you certainly have been such a good friend," I heard her say. "I sure have enjoyed your company." I waited a moment, then walked in.<br />
<br />
Linda looked up at me. She was smiling, but her eyes were sad and teary behind her glasses. "Oh, here's Gus!" she said, and jumped up. "Let's get started down the hall." She helped Mom up and handed her her walking cane. Ellie followed in her walker, with Linda right behind. I walked in front, glancing back from time to time while we moved oh so slowly down the carpeted hall.<br />
<br />
"Well," said Ellie. "You won't be <i>too</i> far away, will you?"<br />
"No, I'll just be down the road," said Mom, though really she was just agreeing with anything anyone said. And then as they shuffled along down that long hallway, Mom started singing softly:<br />
<br />
"<i>Show me the way to go home, boys.</i><br />
<i>I'm tired and I want to go to bed,"</i><br />
<br />
Then Ellie joined in:<br />
<br />
<i>"I had a little drink about an hour ago</i><br />
<i>And it went right to my head..."</i><br />
<br />
They finished that one together. Then after another shuffling step or two, Mom started again.<br />
<br />
"<i>Oh, we ain't got a barrel of money.</i><br />
<i>Maybe we're ragged and funny!</i><br />
<i>But we'll travel along,</i><br />
<i>Singing a song,</i><br />
<i>Side</i><br />
<i>by</i><br />
<i>side."</i><br />
<br />
They were singing to themselves, to each other, to Linda and me, singing softly and in time to their slow halting steps down the quiet hallway. I wanted to turn to look at them both, but knew that I couldn't. I knew that I was taking my mother away from her little apple-cheeked, cheerful friend, and that this was the last song that they would sing together under this roof.<br />
<br />
Linda and Ellie hugged me before I got into the car. Linda's cheeks were wet. Ellie smiled hopefully at me, but her eyes seemed to somewhere else, on the houses and trees and the hot, hot sky. Mom was intent on fastening her seatbelt, and on looking out of the windshield. She waved absently at them as they called their good-byes.<br />
<br />
Gus wonders about brain disease. What goes on in there? Is there a part that is rational, but kept down while the rest of the brain puts up road blocks, barriers that keep it from being heard? Or is there nothing mysterious about it, just the brain shutting down? I don't know, and I'm sure that others have thought of that too.<br />
<br />
With only Mom and me in the car, Mom seemed to realize at last what was happening. "Why would Linda think she had to do this?" she asked.<br />
"Well, she was worried about you."<br />
"Why?"<br />
"Well, you've been forgetting a lot of things, and walking around at night. She's afraid that something might happen to you when she's not there."<br />
"I haven't been doing that! I don't remember doing that!"<br />
"I know you don't," I told her.<br />
<br />
It's only twenty-four miles to Hillsboro from Reedsburg, but the conversation ran in that circle the entire way, with Mom forgetting that she had just asked the same questions. She vaguely recognized the County Market as the former Piggly Wiggly. And when we pulled up in front of her new residence, she said, "Well, I guess we'll look it over."<br />
<br />
We were greeted at the door. The girl there knew who we were, and took us down the hallway to Mom's room. It was, of course, a slow walk. Along the way, the girl stopped to inform and old guy, Leo, that he was in the wrong room. Then we reached Mom's room, and the girl opened the door.<br />
<br />
The room that Mom had just moved out of was not exactly large. But this one is smaller still. Mom stood there and looked at it uncertainly. The girl offered to show it to her. "I'll get your stuff out of the car," I said. "I'll be right back."<br />
<br />
When I came back, the girl left us alone. Mom sat down on the edge of the bed and started to cry. "What's wrong with me?" she sobbed. "I shouldn't be here. I'm not supposed to be here!" I brought her a box of tissues. I sat down beside her. I held her and told her, "I know, Mom. I know."<br />
<br />
I stayed with her for an hour while her mood swung from dark to not so dark to hungry, and then to a state where she was ready to be shown around a little more. I fetched the supervisor, who began to give Mom the tour.<br />
<br />
The daughter of one of the nurses had just had a baby, and she brought it in about then. Mom was immediately drawn to it. The mother let Mom touch the baby, let the baby wrap its tiny fist around Mom's finger while Mom cooed at it, and made faces. I'm pretty sure I saw the baby smile.<br />
<br />
I was suddenly forgotten, left outside of the tunnel of her attention, like an abstract thought, like Linda and Ellie had been forgotten. The supervisor nodded at me and whispered that this might be a good time to leave, if I thought I needed to. But for a moment I forgot whatever could be so important as what I was seeing here. <i> </i>Gushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16629664958727845816noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8522716817339876272.post-34695808536650570182012-06-25T12:31:00.000-07:002012-06-25T12:31:33.901-07:00Supper Club, Country Club, and Learning to Drive.So, here's the thing. The thing is, it's kind of pointless to visit the Valley Inn supper club just outside of Elroy. I mean, don't even bother. This place used to be the showplace eating establishment of Juneau county, years and years ago. It was built, according to my Pa, by ol' Art Overgaard, who owned the rock quarry a couple of miles outside of town. He wanted a place for fine dining, and he had the money, and he built it, and people came. The food was good, the decor was pleasant, with a dark and quiet bar/lounge area. It was a professional-type joint.<br />
<br />
But now? Well, the outside still looks much the same, except that the old sign that had the longhorn motif is gone. To his credit, the current owner did try to save it. But a windstorm tore it up when some work was being done. But ya know, that's about all the credit I'm gonna give. The inside of that place has been shoddily and tackily remodeled. The lounge is too bright and has too many big and loud televisions. And ya'll know how Gus feels about the teevee. Remember those stories about Elvis shooting out his television screen? He wasn't crazy.<br />
<br />
So anyway, the lounge. I don't know, it just doesn't have the feel of a lounge, of a dimly-lit place to have a quiet drink and to socialize a little. The dining room, well, that's fine, I won't rip on the decor there. It's mostly windows anyway. But the food? All that comes to mind is, "Meh." It's mostly from out of a box, dropped onto the griddle or into the fryer. And speaking of fryers, who ever decided that it was okay to prepare fried potatoes in the deep fryer? I've seen that a few times too many, and the Valley Inn is no exception. And it's a sad thing for Gus to hear people looking at the menu while they sit at the bar and exclaiming, (for instance) "Oh, the shrimp dinner is really good here!" Well, look, it's the same shrimp dinner that a million other bars serve, pre-breaded, pre-cooked, then portioned and frozen so that all you have to do is drop it into the fryer. It's not anything special! They're praising food that has never been touched by human hands! Why have people become so uncaring about what they eat? I just don't get it, but there it is. Folks are happy if you give them a lot, no matter what the quality is. So, once again, I wouldn't bother going there if I were you. And if you do, just go without any great expectations.<br />
<br />
So, I'm gonna leave the Valley Inn and head on up the country, way up on a hillside past Overgaard's quarry to Babe's Country Club. At first glance this might seem like an ironic name for this unassuming little place. But it was started, according to the bartender, with every intention of becoming a country club/resort. The original owner bought up as much land around there as he could and then built a bar. His intention was to also dam up the creek and have a lake just below. But alas, one man would not sell, and so the lake never happened. And so Babe's never got beyond the tavern stage.<br />
<br />
The first time I ever heard of Babe's was when I was just learning to drive. Dad and I went out in his old '63 Mercury Comet one evening. He wanted me to learn to drive a manual transmission. The Comet had the old three-on-the-tree shifter, up on the steering column. The car was rusting and underpowered, with a little 170 engine under the hood. We backed out of the driveway and ended facing uphill. It took me about five tries to get that car moving forward, and then I was gunning it and kicking up dust on that old gravel road. I eased up and shifted clumsily. The car jerked and faltered, but we were on the level and were able to keep some momentum. "We'll have to work on that," said Dad. "Let's just keep on up to the four corners."<br />
<br />
Everyone in high school knew about the four corners. That's where parties happened, mostly underage and after bar time. We didn't live far from there, but I'd never gone to any doings. I was pretty sure that if I did, I'd get beat up. When I look back on it now, I'm pretty sure that was an irrational fear.<br />
<br />
I drove up the the intersection, and Dad said, "Turn right here, and we'll head on down this road. Don't forget to downshift when you turn." I tried to drop it into first, but the old Comet didn't have a synchronized first gear and only made a lot of grinding noise when I tried. "Second is fine," said Dad. And it was, once the car finished stalling out. Here Overgaard road wound through the close forest for a couple of miles. On the left were momentary flashes of open farmland seen briefly through the trees. To the right was only dark woods as far as I could see. The gravel of the road clattered off the tires and against the wheel wells. Dust trickled into the car through the rotted old chassis. If you drove on any of these roads in this car for very long, you would be feeling the grit of the roads between your teeth. On a hot day it would stick to your skin in a fine coating of dust.<br />
<br />
Dad guided me along these roads for some miles, telling me when to turn, and when to slow down. We turned onto the highway and followed that for a while. Then we turned up another narrow gravel road to another intersection, up another hill past a small farm where a herd of about twenty cows were just being let out of the barn. Then we suddenly plunging into another wooded area. After a mile, Dad said, "Now up ahead it opens up. And it's the real purty view." I seldom heard Dad comment on aesthetics, and the word, "pretty" didn't come easily to him.<br />
<br />
Sure enough, the woods ended suddenly, opening up to a broad open vista of rolling hills and farms as far as we could see. The sun, getting low in the west, shone on a small cemetery beside the road overlooking the valley. "Wow," I said. "That <i>is</i> nice."<br />
"Yep. Take a left at this stop sign."<br />
We followed that road along the hillside until we came to an old red barn that sat beside the road. There was a lit "Old Style" sign attached to the barn, and a long driveway the led down the hill. "Turn down here," said Dad.<br />
<br />
We pulled up to a long one-story building that looked more like a house than a tavern. I don't think there was even a beer sign in the window, only a neon "Open" sign. I followed Dad inside. The bar was dim and quiet, and the bartender was the only other person there in the middle of the week. He recognized Dad, and we sat down. I had a Mountain Dew (jeeze, did I really drink that stuff?) and Dad had a Pabst. He and the bartender talked, I don't remember what about. I know he mentioned that he was, "...teaching the boy to drive," but to tell the truth, that's about it. I was busy looking around at the dim dancing area, with the booths lining the far wall, and reading the silly little signs posted behind the bar, things like, "I woke up grumpy this morning. I should have let her sleep." We stayed long enough to finish our drinks and head back home.<br />
<br />
That was almost forty years ago. I still stop at Babe's now and then, and, except for the first names of the customers, it hasn't changed much at all. They don't serve food there, only drinks and snacks. The only television is a small one up in the corner on the wall. The booths are still there, the silly signs behind the bar are still there. Babe's looks the same as it did, I'm guessing, when Babe built it back in the sixties. It's a good place to sit and relax and have a Pabst or an Old Style, maybe a frozen pizza or some chips. On weekends it gets pretty rowdy sometimes. Halloween can be especially eye-opening there. Yes indeed. But for the most part it's pretty mellow. Old farmers still come in to discuss the price of corn or what's wrong with the world today, and more often than not they seem to know what they're talking about. And in the evening, after a quiet couple of beers, you can walk outside to the sound of the night birds in the woods and the distant lowing of cows and look out over the deep valley and imagine that the tops of the trees there are the lake that Babe dreamed of when he built his country club.Gushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16629664958727845816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8522716817339876272.post-11872220735466490312012-03-22T17:42:00.000-07:002012-03-22T17:42:22.564-07:00The Corner Pub Saved My Life<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Does Gus even want to talk about the two-hour ride with his mother to Lacrosse and back?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, no.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’ll do it anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The trip up wasn’t as terrible as I had anticipated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The conversation was circular.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> “Where are we going again?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“To Lacrosse.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why are we going there?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“For a checkup.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Boy, it sure is a long way.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yep, it sure is.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And then repeat every ten minutes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There’s an old oak tree along Interstate 90 between Sparta and Lacrosse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That oak tree always catches my eye any time I drive up there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It sits alone on a small hill, sturdy and gnarled, surviving the storms and the seasons for many years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I imagine it’s been there since long before this road was built, when all of the traffic was on Highway 16, a mile away across the valley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like that old tree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This day, with the light blowing snow, the tree looked ghostly gray and distant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a brief feeling of being out of sync with this time, of not quite being in touch with the world of high-speed interstates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then it was gone.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The testing was a hard and bad time, the worst Gus has seen in two (that long?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yep, I guess so) years of testing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She couldn’t follow simple directions, trying to add strings of numbers instead of just repeating them back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Halfway through she was crying in frustration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The doctor was a kind woman, and patient and gentle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She somehow had Mom laughing again, though still teary-eyed by the time it was done.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When we were leaving it was raining. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had her wait by the door while I ran to get the car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I did run.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is feeling less and less like a safe thing to ask her to wait for any length of time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But she was still there when I pulled up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn’t recognize the car.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We drove over to the food co-op for lunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have a café there, a really nice one, upstairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom likes it because you can look over the balcony at the store below, at the colorful produce aisles and other displays.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ordered for her and I think I did a good job of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She ate it all without complaining.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then we headed back to Reedsburg.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The ride wasn’t too bad at first, except for some brooding about the testing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as the road rolled away behind us, she became more and more restless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ride was taking too long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The weather was bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We should be home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where are we staying tonight?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does Dad know?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why aren’t we going home?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I fielded these questions as well as I could, but by the time we got to her residence she was awfully contentious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told her that we could at least go in and use the bathroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That got her attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Making sure there is a bathroom nearby is getting to be more and more important to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As soon as we got in there, she knew where she was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She even forgot the last couple of miles of wondering where I was taking her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She started talking to a couple of residents and forgot that Gus was there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was both a relief and very, very saddening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said my good-byes, and she answered in a distracted way.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Gus is not ashamed to say that he drove, he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fled</i>, to the Corner Pub.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s kitty-corner from the four-plex theater, on the corner of Main Street and North Webb Avenue in Reedsburg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The owner, Pete, brews his own beer there, and does a good job of it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I parked the car and got out and suddenly felt just how drained I was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My feet were dragging and I was slouching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stopped and stretched a moment, straightening my spine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I practiced smiling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not as easy as it sounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gus has heard that it takes only 17 muscles to smile, and 42 to frown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s a lot of muscles fighting the smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decided to not look at it that way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I smiled and went in and ordered a porter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That porter was dark as ebony, with a thick chocolaty head that one could eat with a spoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had a dark dry malty sweetness and, Oh, that first long swallow went down very nicely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat back and looked around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The booths along the far wall were filled with older folks lingering over their late lunches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was only one other person at the bar, a guy in his mid-sixties, I’d guess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was sitting at the other end of the bar from me, but as soon as I glanced at him he waved and started hollering over at me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span>“I got my voting done early!” he said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I tell ya, that whole ‘voter ID’ bill is a crock if I ever saw one!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said yes it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All he needed was an opening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Boy, that recall is really something, isn’t it?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">I agreed with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His voice carried pretty well, and a few people looked over at us.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, that Scott Walker, he thought he could walk all over people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s got another think coming!”</div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t disagree, but more people were looking at us.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yep, a million signatures is a lot to argue with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why, there’s folks that voted Republican signing to get him outta office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where are you from?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">I told him.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, my boy just bought a house there, right by the library.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">I knew the house, right across the street from me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I realized that I had met this man’s wife a month ago when I signed the petition to recall the governor.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, how about that,” the man shouted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Sure is a small world, isn’t it?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It sure is.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The waitress carried a basket of French fries to a table across the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man watched her and then said, “You know, I used to work at the McDonald’s in Madison, back when they made their own fries.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Is that right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They made their own fries?</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was the manager there, down on Park street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We got in bags of potatoes, and had a peeler there, a mechanical peeler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then we’d run ‘em through the slicer, parboil ‘em for three and a half minutes, then drain em.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they’d be all ready for the fryer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t live in Madison though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I lived in Mount Horeb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I used to rent this camper from a guy who owned a gas station just up the street from the McDonald’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He let me use his bathroom to wash up in, and I’d help out at the gas station if he needed it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was more of a service station, so he’d need someone at the till now and then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yep, it was a pretty good arrangement.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had some papers and clipboard in front of him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He shuffled the papers, clipped them in the board and stood up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well, I guess I’d better get going.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After he was gone, M came over.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“He’s our local Concerned Citizen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope he didn’t bother you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No, not really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just a little loud is all.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>She rolled her eyes.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, that was nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a good thing the other Concerned Citizen wasn’t here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s get you another beer.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That was back in February.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s now the end of March.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The snow is gone, and the ground is dry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since that time, Gus has not earned enough to put fuel in his little pickup truck, let alone food in his belly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only thing that keeps Gus out of the poorhouse for now is feeding his increasingly mad elderly neighbor, and driving her to various appointments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is the way of it sometimes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On Monday Gus dug up a garden and trimmed branches for some beer money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the meantime, the calls from Mom have gotten more frequent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that’s not a big deal, for the most part.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If Gus has a joke book beside the phone it helps a lot.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But then there was Tuesday’s visit, when I asked her if she wanted to go for ice cream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She thought that sounded like a good idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We drove downtown, about a five minute drive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ice cream was very good, and perhaps Gus had a little too much of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it was the Zanzibar Chocolate!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom had the mint chocolate chip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said she liked it. But she was very restless about getting moving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We have a long way to go,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Uh-oh.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On the way back through town she told me that if I saw a rest area, we should maybe stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well, we’ll be at your place in just a few minutes,” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then we’re going home, right?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gus had no idea at all how to answer this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He pointed out some pretty houses and drove faster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said, “Look, I have a harmonica!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I keep a harmonica in my ash tray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I played “Oh, Suzanna!” over the space of a couple of blocks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then I saw her residence on the horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Here we are,” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Where’s this?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s where you live.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“There’s a bathroom you can use here.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, good.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pulled up to the door to let her out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’ll park and be right in,” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There was a small musical group setting up in the public area of the retirement home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It appeared to be a 40-ish woman and three teen-aged girls, ranging from about twelve to fifteen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I walked down to her room, and she was looking around for what she should pack.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh, man.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I said, “Well, there’s some music getting ready to play.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d like to listen.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Okay,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We went back down the hall and took a seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Attendants brought more and more people out until the open area was filled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom introduced me to the same people I meet almost every week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of them remembered me, others didn’t. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The music started up, and I was amazed to hear these kids cranking out “Orange Blossom Special.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The oldest girl stepped up to the mic and just belted out the first verse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her sister followed with a fiddle solo, they sang another verse, then the youngest did a solo on the mandolin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She played with a look of fierce concentration, while her glasses kept sliding down her nose, and Gus found himself smiling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later on, this same kid took out the spoons and played as if she’d been born with them in her hands, slapping out a rhythm that clattered like shining silver droplets of dancing bright sunlight across all of the people and down the halls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Uncle Gus wanted to laugh out loud at the sound.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The group took a break after a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I walked with Mom back to her room and explained to her that I had to leave.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“But where am I going to stay tonight?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, this is where you live now.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But…this isn’t really.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’m not even going to pretend I have an answer.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">There didn’t seem to be anything to say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We walked together back down the hall to where they were getting ready to start again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told Mom that I was going to take off now, and she had suddenly forgotten I was there again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said, distractedly, “Okay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See you,” and then started talking to someone.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Gus fled back to Pete’s Corner Pub.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Things were quiet in there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>M was tending bar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked her how her day had been.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Hot and greasy,” she said.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“That sounds very sexy,” said Gus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes Gus doesn’t think first.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“This is as sexy as it gets these days, honey,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Visiting your mom?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems that’s the only time I get to Reedsburg these days.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yep.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, here, you'd better try this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Freshly tapped.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She filled a glass with Bourbon Scotch Ale without asking what I wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It poured almost nut-brown, with a tan head, and when I took a long pull on it I could taste a mild sweetness and a hint of bourbon fragrance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh, man.” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Nice, huh?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d have one, but I O.D.’d on it already.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And now it’s four o’clock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m done.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She waved at the other waitress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m done!” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She started mixing up a margarita.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I have to meet my husband, and my daughter, and her kids, at Pizza Hut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hate Pizza Hut!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She raised her glass to me, and then downed it in a couple of minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh, mommy needed that!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She started mixing another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh, it’s okay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This one’s only a single.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She took a sip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Mmm-hm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mommy will be there soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let me buy you another before I run.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My glass was still half-full, but it was too late.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She set another beside it and drank her glass dry before she ran out the door.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That was two days ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom called again last night, not remembering why.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I told her about my work day (digging more garden, cutting more branches, setting up a bird house) and the story about M slamming her margaritas before she had dinner with her family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That all worked out fine by the time we hung up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Today I drove the neighbor on some errands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I got home I saw that Mom called.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I haven’t called back yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it looks like rain on the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That seems like a good thing.</div>Gushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16629664958727845816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8522716817339876272.post-46289263634057135592012-01-30T18:18:00.000-08:002012-01-30T18:18:13.185-08:00Nowhere, man.So here it is, the thirtieth of January, and Gus has not been any more than twenty miles from home since he left The Cities. I have gotten a lot of walking in, all of it down in the frozen-over wetlands outside of town. They've been good hikes, and they help me to feel better about being so isolated. I think I mentioned before that Gus needs people. Yes, he does. But as I said, the hikes have been good. The dog and I are able to walk across the frozen beaver ponds and the marshes that we would normally sink into. The beavers have been very busy along the river, and have left behind fields of stumps everywhere. We haven't had much snow this winter. In fact, all told, I think there are about six inches of it out there right now. Nor has it been very cold. The small ponds have been frozen over, but the river is still open.<br />
<br />
We went out one afternoon while the snow was falling heavily. We crossed two ponds and then reached the river where we stopped and looked around. There was no wind, and the falling snow was so thick that it muffled the sound of the distant highway. The snowflakes falling on the dry marsh grass was louder than the faint hiss of cars.<br />
<br />
Another afternoon we were hiking along a well-packed track and I noticed a spindly winged insect walking on top of the snow in the sunshine. Further along was another one, flying, and it was so light and delicate that it was caught up in the wake of my passing by.<br />
<br />
Gus did get away for an hour or so to a town about fifteen miles from here. There were errands to be run, and cat food to be purchased. Oh, and there was a six-pack of a really nice porter to be purchased. I have told myself that I can not open one until this posting is complete. Cruel Gus. And on the way out of town I decided to stop in for a beer.<br />
<br />
And here is where I run into difficulty. The thing is, I go to certain drinking establishments that I would just as soon keep anonymous, unless I'm going to write a review of them. And in this instance I am not. It's a hangout for me. My friend J and I stop in for a few beers and bar food and to unwind. ("But Gus," you say. "What do you have to unwind from? Your life is idyllic!" Well, yes, it seems that way on the outside. But nobody knows Gus's inner turmoils. Oh, the pain! The pain of being Gus.) So yes, we unwind. Sometimes we mock, sometimes we commiserate. Sometimes we fall down if we're there too long. But those times are few and far between.<br />
<br />
The place was quiet, except for one guy lecturing another about how to make cheesy cauliflower. "See, the trick is to not cook the cauliflower all the way through. You cook it until it's still crunchy, but really hot, and then pour the melted Velveeta over it. I usually go through a whole brick of it." "A whole brick?" "Well, yeah, or it won't be cheesy enough!" I sat down the bar a ways before any other recipes got burned into my brain. The guys voice carried though, and his friend seldom had a chance to respond as he jumped from topic to topic, an expert on all of them. They were both drinking Lite beer.<br />
<br />
I had thought the stool beside mine was unoccupied. There was an empty glass on the bar, and nothing else. The barmaid came over and muttered something along the lines of maybe I want to sit at a different stool. Before that had a chance to sink in, the door of the ladies room opened and a slightly drunk woman came out. She was not bad-looking, but very skinny, with, I'm sure, augmented breasts. Not that Gus pays attention to those things, except as details in the picture. Her hair was straight and blonde, and her pants were awfully tight. The two men turned and watched her. She seemed more drunk as she got closer and pulled up the stool next to mine. The barmaid was pulling a mug of beer for me, and gave me grimace of sympathy. She set the beer in front of me and started to walk away, but the girl stopped her.<br />
"Hey, I'll have another one of those...drinks."<br />
"You sure? I thought you were done?"<br />
"Nooo! I'm walking home anyway, okay?"<br />
The barmaid shrugged and mixed a gin and tonic and set it in front of her.<br />
<br />
I get along pretty well with this bartender. We used to compare notes about driving our parents to their appointments. Oddly, our fathers died within a few weeks of each other. I remember walking in there a month after and asking her how things were going. She said, "Well, my father died." I told her mine too, which seemed like an awfully dumb thing to say, but I didn't know what else to say, and we ended up telling funeral stories. We both made an effort to keep the stories light, in spite of how we both felt. It was comforting in an odd sort of way, and I always hoped that it was for her too.<br />
<br />
The drunk girl looked at me in the backbar mirror. "I'm getting a divorce," she slurred. I saw the barmaid cringe.<br />
"Well," I said. "Um...is that a good thing?"<br />
"Yeah, it's about time. All the time he thinks I'm off...effing someone, and I'm not."<br />
"No?" <br />
"No! I'm not like that!" The barmaid smiled to herself at this. She was putting away glasses behind the bar. She looked across the bar at the back door, then over to the front. Something about her looking seemed furtive. The girl sitting beside me did the same thing, though not as smoothly. She had to turn on her stool, focus on one door, then the other. Without meaning to, we were suddenly eye-to-eye. Well, one eye. Her left eye turned in suddenly toward her nose. "Shit," she said. With an effort the eye seemed to pull back. It was disconcerting. We both turned back to face the back bar.<br />
<br />
"Yep, he was always checking on me. Won't let me do anything. Always picking fights with anyone I talk to..." I glanced at the barmaid. She was nodding in the affirmative.<br />
"Well, that's not good," I said.<br />
"Do you do that to your girlfriend?"<br />
"No."<br />
She was suddenly leaning in closer to me, breathing gin in my face. The barmaid looked a little panicked and looked at the doors again. The girl next to me glanced as well, then slowly focused back to me.<br />
"You're expecting him, aren't you?" I said.<br />
It took her a long time of thinking before she finally said, "Well, no, I don't think so." But it didn't matter to me one way or the other. I told her, "You know, I think I'm gonna go down there and get some popcorn. I'm waiting for someone anyway."<br />
I got halfway down the bar when the front door opened. I jumped a little, but took the nearest stool and acted nonchalant. But the person who came in didn't seem to know the girl, and sat down a few stools away from her. He had his beer in front of him, and was looking at the bar menu when the blonde girl leaned across toward him, looked quickly at both doors, then said, "I'm getting a divorce!"Gushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16629664958727845816noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8522716817339876272.post-18543307722348984142012-01-13T06:37:00.000-08:002012-01-13T06:37:55.409-08:00Buster'sUncle Gus finally made it out to an actual night spot last night. It was a tough struggle, an internal struggle. I had promised myself that I'd treat myself if I finished a certain project, a written project. Well, I did, though I'm not completely happy with it. It will need rethinking and editing. But it is finished. Does that count?<br />
<br />
I pondered this while I cooked some dinner (when did I start calling that meal, "dinner"? It was always "supper" when I was growing up, and "dinner" was synonymous with "lunch." Only rich folks called it "dinner.") and then took a shower. Gus hadn't shaved in a couple of days, and was looking homeless, which really I am only a short step away from that condition. (Why do I keep wanting to refer to myself in the third person? Is it because of being cooped up with two dogs? Alone in a city filled with people, and so I've had to become my own companion? Uncle Gus just ain't certain. But rest assured, there will be no volleyball with a face scrawled on it in Gus's future!) So, all the parenthetical comments aside, I got cleaned up, shaved, and found some decent clothes to wear. It's not a healthy thing to live in solitude, not for Gus anyway.<br />
<br />
The dogs were looking at me, knowing full well that something was up. I told them to behave. Of course, they weren't going to behave on their own. I had to put dining room chairs on the couch, close doors to rooms they didn't need to be in, raise the window blinds so that doggy noses didn't wreck the slats, make certain there was no food on the counter, or even a dirty plate, and make certain that dogs could not get to the garbage. Having done these things, Gus ventured out into the steadily colder and very windy evening. And walked almost a half a block before he came back for the keys to the minivan.<br />
<br />
I parked a block away from Buster's so that nobody could see the minivan. Not that it's anything to be ashamed of. Beggars should not be choosers. But still...<br />
<br />
Buster's was busy. I had thought that on a Wednesday evening things would be fairly quiet. But this was not the case. If I had been there to eat, there would have been a wait for a table. As it was, I was allowed to pull up a stool at the bar.<br />
<br />
I should say right now that I've eaten at Buster's before. I've never had a bad experience there. Their fries, their burgers, even trout on cedar slab, they're all amazing. But that's back in the day when Gus wasn't on such a tight budget. Oh, those were the days, of hanging sheet rock all day and then stopping in hungry and thirsty, and being able to just toss a couple of bills out on the bar and say, "Feed me!" <br />
<br />
Anybody who knows me knows that I like to sit at a counter. I like to be able to watch the action behind the bar, or the counter, to watch the people rushing back and forth, and gracefully keeping out of each others way.. It's a magical thing, this dance they do around one another, keeping orders in their heads. There seems to be a sort of Zen to it, a certain state of mind. And that's what was going on tonight. From where I sat, I could see four people cooking. There were two who were working the grill and the fryers behind the bar. And there were two more working in the kitchen. The bartender was right there with a beer list, which was easier to look at than the twenty-odd taps that lined the back bar. I ordered a stout from Bell's. Oh, man, that was a good choice. It had a nice thick brown head on it, one I could have spooned and eaten. This beer had a lightly smokey flavor to it that worked pretty well with the chilly wind outside.<br />
<br />
There was a guy sitting next to me who seemed to be hitting on a girl, and she didn't seem to mind. They went back and forth for a while as he tried to convince her that she could even move in to his building, there was a vacant room. "It even has its own bathroom," he said. It didn't seem to work. But the conversation stayed light, and they seemed to part as friends when it was time for her to go. He wandered out a little later, after she drove away.<br />
<br />
I decided, even though I had eaten, that I should at least have a snack. I ordered some onion rings. And you know how in most places they just grab a bag of frozen onion rings and dump some into the fryer? And then they serve them up, and people eat them and say, "Oh, they have good onion rings here!"? Not at Busters. This guy opened up a container of sliced onions and another container of batter, and dipped those rings in the batter and then into the fryer. When they came out a minute later, they were gorgeous, a perfect golden brown. The coating was crispy, the onions were sweet. They have good onion rings here!<br />
<br />
The grill was busy, with burgers and steaks and sliced beef all sizzling away. The cook stood there, sliding his stainless steel spatulas across the cook top, scraping the fat into the little trough at the front, turning the meat, and dropping toppings onto the burgers. At the same time he kept the fryers full of freshly sliced French fries, sweet potato fries, and more onion rings. His movements were smooth, and unhurried, but he got everything out quickly. It was a pleasure to watch. <br />
<br />
A couple of women took up the stools that the couple beside me had just vacated. The one closest to me was an older, kind of frail-looking gal. Her companion was white-haired, but robust. She sat down and asked me what I was drinking. I didn't realize that she was talking to me at first. But then I woke up. "Ummm..." I said. "I don't remember." She laughed heartily. Her companion seemed a little confused. I got the feeling that she wasn't accustomed to taverns, as if the other person was kind of attending to her, showing her something new. I suddenly remembered that I was having the stout, and I told her. She decided that it sounded good, and went back to helping her friend choose a drink. Her friend ordered root beer.<br />
<br />
And the entire time I was sitting there, watching all of the activity going on around me, I was thinking, "I should ask them if I can hang with them while I have a second beer. We could just talk about stuff, ask each other questions, etc. But I didn't. I should have. I don't see how it could be a bad thing. Do other people have that same...well, impulse? Or is it a yearning, to just say hi, just for the conversation, to find out about a total stranger or to only connect?<br />
<br />
I ended up finishing up my beer and my onion rings and heading back out into the cold. I looked back as I put on my coat and saw that my space had already been cleared, and the two women had picked up their menus to see what looked good.Gushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16629664958727845816noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8522716817339876272.post-39118728479827347152012-01-10T09:07:00.000-08:002012-01-10T09:07:38.205-08:00Random SearchAs you might remember, Gus is house/dog sitting this week, up in the big city of Minneapolis. This is a fine thing, a change of scenery is good. As I may have mentioned, some real work would be cool. But this will do for now. I mentioned that there was a full supply of liquor here. Well, sadly, I've barely touched it. I had expected to down a few bottles of wine by this time, but so far managed to finish only one since Saturday. And I haven't opened a single beer. What is wrong with Gus? Normally he'd be hungover or something right now. But no, it's these dogs always keeping me busy. Or perhaps it's "maturity"? I don't know. I'd rather not think about that one. <br />
<br />
So yesterday I decided that I was going to go to the canoe builder's supply store in St. Paul. Did I mention that I'd been building a canoe? Yes, I've got one all stripped out in a relative's workshop. And that's as far as Uncle Gus got before he ran out of cash. You know what I tell people about that? I tell them, "Yah, when I have the money, I don't have the time. And when I have the time, I don't have the money." And that's just the way it was with this canoe project, this Labor of Love that I had expected to have finished and floating by this past summer. But no, the work dried up before I was able to purchase the fiberglass and epoxy. I worked off and on during the summer, sometimes for a couple of weeks at a stretch. But it was always just enough to catch back up, never enough to get ahead. But seriously, that's just the way it goes sometimes. I've worked in cubicles, I've worked in factories. I miss the regular paycheck, but still feel bad for those who are trapped in that treadmill lifestyle choice.<br />
<br />
I went on the internet and got the location and directions for Northwest Canoe, and wrote it all down. The store is in a big warehouse building in downtown St. Paul, according to the website. Then I took off from here. I took the road that follows the Mississippi to St. Paul. It was a nice quiet drive, much easier, and probably closer, than if I'd taken the interstate. I drove along and then got to downtown St. Paul and reached over for my directions and they weren't there! And in my mind's eye, I could see them, right beside the door where I had set them down while I put my gloves on. Sheesh!<br />
<br />
I picked an exit at random, and drove up through the older part of town, where the warehouses tower huge and blocky over the streets. These old buildings cover a city block. They're made of brick and stone. They cast shadows over the streets. None of them seem to be warehouses any longer. They've all been converted into stores, and fancy loft-type apartments with doormen and security.<br />
<br />
I thought, maybe I can find this place. Maybe if I just take my time and drive around I'll come upon it. Yes, that's pretty naive, I know. Sometimes I'm a naive and trusting soul. So I drove down one-way streets, then up others, winding around and getting lost, then finding my way again. There were streets being worked on, so there were detours that took me way out of the way, and I'd have to drive and drive until I found a place to turn and double back. And I'd have to say that the good part of this was that there was nobody with me saying, "Turn here! Turn there!" I was able to get lost and then found all on my own with no worries about anyone getting exasperated with me. Not all who wander are lost. And I went on like this for about a half an hour, winding my way along the shaded streets and the traffic.<br />
<br />
I finally decided to stop and walk around. I pulled into a short street that ran along a big red brick warehouse that filled a city block. It was quite tall, and quite old. I saw an open parking space and pulled in. Then I put money in the meter and went for a stroll. I walked quite a few blocks from there, past coffee shops and taverns, fancy restaurants, and dive cafes. All without any luck. I finally decided to go back to where I parked and put some more quarters in and go into the coffee shop that was on the first floor of that big red warehouse. I knew they'd have wi-fi, and I could use my iPod to figure out where I was. I went in and was about to order some food so they'd let me stay there. I thought I could order a bowl of soup and chunk of bread and just relax for a bit. But at the last second I told the gal at the counter that I was lost. And she was really nice, and asked me where I wanted to be. And I took a long shot and said, "Well, I heard there was this canoe builder in St. Paul." I mean, why would some chick in a coffee shop know anything about a small canoe building shop?<br />
<br />
But she did! She said, "Oh, that's downstairs, at the other corner of this building." What??? You mean I walked around town for almost an hour and it was right here? And so it was, right around the corner from where I had parked. A few short steps. I was there all along. It just amazes me how that can happen sometimes.<br />
<br />
I walked around the building and down a short alley, and there was a big garage door with the name of the business. I didn't see a regular door, but there was a sign on the garage door that said, "Forget Minnesota Nice. Don't knock. Just raise the garage door and come in!" Okay. So I did. And there was dog standing there, pushing his nose into my crotch and wagging his tail happily. Nice doggy. I heard someone call him, and he trotted off. His work was done. I pulled the door back down behind me.<br />
<br />
There were two guys working there, a guy in his mid-to-late fifties, and a guy about thirty. That was it. There were two canoes being repaired, from the looks of them, and one canoe just being built. The forms were set up and there were a few strips resting on it, ready to be placed. And the older guy dropped everything to help me out and answer all of my questions. I explained how far I had progressed on my canoe, even to the point of telling him that money was the main reason I had stopped. And you know what he said? This guy said the same thing I often say, and just now mentioned at the top of this page; "When you have the time, you don't have the money. And when you have the money, you don't have the time. Yeah, I know how that goes!"<br />
<br />
I told him that, money aside, I was really nervous about the fiberglassing part of this project. He walked me through the fiberglass procedure better than any book I've read about it. He even drew a diagram of how to apply fiberglass cloth to the canoe. Then he explained that I could buy enough this week to do the outside, then order the rest in a couple of weeks if that would make it easier financially. He figured out how much I'd need this week if I did it that way. I tell you what, it's good to meet people like that. <br />
<br />
<br />
So I'm going back there later this week to pick up enough to seal the outside of my canoe. Unless someone magically dumps a couple hundred into my checking. And then I'm going back up to that cafe where I was kindly given directions, and I'll have myself a bowl of hot soup, and some coffee, and watch the cars and the people and I'll plan for the day when I can feel the canoe finally sliding over the open water. I know it will be good.Gushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16629664958727845816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8522716817339876272.post-7905289173748118942012-01-07T19:00:00.000-08:002012-01-07T19:00:42.644-08:00The Angry CatfishUncle Gus is in Minneapolis this week, for a whole week! Why? Because I got this sweet house/dog sitting gig, that's why.<br />
<br />
Okay, I know, that is just so pathetic. Yes, it is a house sitting gig, but to tell the truth I'd rather be working. I like to work. Heck, if you give me a shovel and ask me to dig a ditch, I'm happy. Well, so long as I'm getting paid. But I'll tell ya the truth, things are pretty slow right now, and I had the week free. Well, I actually have the month free. How sad is that? So when I was asked if I could stay for a week in a house stocked with food and liquor, I decided to not turn it down. I also get cash! And I do have a review of Gus's Trip Up the River to here, but this one couldn't wait.<br />
<br />
Today, after I dropped the homeowners off at the train station, I hiked over to the Angry Catfish coffee shop/bicycle shop (4208 28th Ave. S). The coffee was fine, but the people working behind the counter were just useless hipsters.<br />
<br />
"Hi, I'll have a 12 oz coffee for here please," I said to the guy behind the counter. He was a young guy, trying to grow a beard. But so far it just looked like patches of dirt on his face. And really, that ain't a nice thing to say. I might even be exaggerating, I'll admit it. So what? It was a bad experience. Okay, forget I said anything about his beard. My dad used to say, the first time I tried to grow a beard, "Huh. Put some cream on that and I bet the cat could lick those whiskers off." Pretty funny guy, my dad was.<br />
<br />
Where was I? Oh, the barista guy. <br />
<br />
"What kind of coffee?" he asked.<br />
"Whatever's darkest." <br />
"They're all light roasts."<br />
What-ever! What's the point in having a choice if they're all the same roast. I mean, sure one might have come from Kenya, one from Ethiopia, another from your ass! So why don't you have roast choices? I didn't say this, though I really wanted to. Instead I told him to "Give me the Ethiopian."<br />
Then he took my money, I put a buck in the jar, and he wandered off. At least that's how it looked to my untrained and uncivilized and un-hip eye. I stood and waited, and waited while they did some stuff back there around the sink area, and I finally said, "Hey!" to this one chick who was walking around back there. She looked at me. "Hey, I don't want to sound ignorant or anything," I said. And I stuck with Uncle Gusford's Rule of Politeness ("Always be polite.") "But do you have any mugs for my coffee? Where do I get it?"<br />
"Oh, we're brewing it back here, we brew it fresh and then we'll call you."<br />
<br />
And that was fine, but it took her a long time for her to get the words out, as if she was hoping I'd stop her in mid-sentence so she wouldn't have to continue with the painful Sisyphean task of "speaking." Maybe texting her reply would have been easier. A smile would have been nice too.<br />
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But ya know what's funny? Every coffee shop, like every tavern, has its own personality. Some coffee shops are so warm and inviting, and the people are so nice that you want to take them home. And it's genuine. But others are cold. And it's not just one person in the shop, but all of them, cut from the same cloth of cold indifference. Here's your coffee, please leave me alone, I can't believe you didn't tip. And really, that's how I felt about this place.<br />
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But, like I said, the coffee was good, very good, and very strong. I like that in a coffee.<br />
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What else did I see? Well, I was sitting at a counter in the window, and there was a lot of foot traffic in that neighborhood. There's a bar next door to the coffee shop. Buster's. It's a freakin' nice place with really good food and lots of good beer choices. There is also a row of booths that are nice and private, where you can sit and have some beers and not be seen by anyone. I like that too. There is nothing bad in that bar, except for too many teevees. And it's a Saturday, so it's really busy there. I didn't bother going, probably won't tonight. It'll be elbow to elbow. Anyway, there were lots of folks coming and going from there. I saw a working-class guy and what looked like his pre-teen aged son coming out to his truck, an older Chevy half-ton pickup, in which a puppy waited. The guy took forever to get out of his parking space, as if he couldn't judge any distances ahead of behind him. He'd move an inch, turn the wheel, back up an inch, turn the wheel, over and over until he got out. It was awful to watch. I thought guys who wore Carhartt clothing knew how to drive. And then after he left, an expensive-looking car pulled up with two women in it, younger women. And that gal tried and failed miserably to park there. She finally saw a triple-car space open up further down the street and drove as quickly as she could to that. She did manage to park there, but it was still crooked. And the whole thing is, this is the 21st century, isn't it? I mean, the human race has been driving cars for a hundred years! And there are people out there who still don't know how to drive!! What's up with that? What happened to "evolution?" I guess you don't die from not knowing how to parallel park, so they keep reproducing. Darwin is only relevant in the wild.<br />
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I also saw, as I walked along the residential neighborhood streets to the coffee shop, a big tree branch that had been mounted on a steep-banked yard as a landscaping ornament. I had helped to carry it up there over a year ago when I just happened to be walking by and saw two guys trying to get this big awkward four-legged branch off of a trailer. The one guy had seen it broken from a tree and picked it up to surprise his wife because she likes landscaping. Anyway, it was last year that I was walking by and offered to help, and the branch is still there, so his wife must have liked it. It looks like some sort of creature, but it's really cool. I'm glad my work wasn't for nothing. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea that something creative that I helped with is still there. And perhaps that guy thinks from time to time about the stranger who came walking by one drizzling day and helped him and his friend carry a branch, and then moved on. I know, that's hopelessly romantic (just as "hopelessly romantic" is hopelessly cliche) but there ya go.Gushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16629664958727845816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8522716817339876272.post-64876314055996601972011-12-28T10:41:00.000-08:002011-12-28T12:24:22.064-08:00Target BluffLet's face it; when it comes to dining along any interstate highway, there just ain't much for choices if you want a good meal. Between Chicago and Minneapolis, I can only think of two. One is the Norske Nook in Osseo. But that's not exactly on the interstate. The other is the Target Bluff German Hous in Camp Douglas. (german-haus.com). And I'll tell you what, the Target Bluff is, to me, everything a "supper club" should be. The bar is staffed with professional bartenders who know how to mix drinks and carry on a pleasant conversation. The food is prepared the same way it was forty years ago, from scratch with love.<br />
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Camp Douglas isn't a very large town, only about 600. When I have driven through it, it's a pleasant-looking town, though it's looking as run-down as many small towns are these days. But I am thinking now that I will have to check it out some time. There are a few bars there, and of course they will be needing a visit. <br />
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Target Bluff isn't in town though. It's at the foot of a huge bluff just off the interstate, in a strip along Highway 12/I-90/94 that is lined with a couple of gas stations and a hotel. I had gone there long ago, back in the seventies and I recall being struck at how good the food was, even in an age when McDonalds and Hardee's were taking over the scene. But then I moved away to a different life, and for many years the only time I saw Target Bluff was in passing along the interstate.<br />
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Then last fall my friend, J, called up and told me that we had to go there. "We have to go this week. They're having smorgasbord!" And I don't know about you, but the thought of "smorgasbord" always conjures up the taste of instant mashed potatoes and dried-up meat and canned gravy all set out in a hot table for hours on end. I was skeptical. But J insisted that it was good, and some of his relatives were coming along. They were always a good time, so I decided that they would all make the ride worthwhile even if the food was bad.<br />
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We got there early, as was the plan, solely to hang out at the bar for a while. "You can't do the supper club thing without sitting at the bar first," J's niece told me. When we walked in, we were greeted by festive German music. I recognized it right away as the "Pennsylvania Polka". If you've ever seen "Groundhog Day", you'd know the tune. I was feeling better about this already. (Oh, I hope I have the name of that polka right!)<br />
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The bar area was quiet, but the two bartenders looked as if they were expecting and ready for a crowd. There were six of us, and we lined up along the bar and ordered. I decided that I wanted an Old Fashioned. And really, in so many places if you ask for an Old Fashioned, you'll see the bartender pull out a bottle of mix and a bottle of brandy and serve it up. But not here! The bartender--who the women in our group called,"Raoul" for no reason I could think of--asked me what brandy I wanted, and then recommended a good one. Then he mixed the drink right there, with sugar and spices and a cinnamon stick and some garnish. It was a work of art that he had ready in seconds, and it tasted at least as good as it looked.<br />
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The "Pennsylvania Polka" ended, and a waltz came on. We all sat back with our drinks while people started filling up the large open dining room. I could see waitstaff moving quickly and efficiently around in there, and the hot tables were all set up and steaming. One table after another got up to join the line of diners filling their plates. We all sat and finished our drinks, then ordered more. At one end of the bar, two old couples sat down with their shots of brandy and glasses of St. Pauli girl. I realized that they were speaking in German to each other, though they looked like retired local farmers. They are a breed that I was familiar with when I was growing up, the men and women who had worked without electricity or indoor plumbing, who had raised and butchered their own meat, grown their own food. They have a look about them that's unlike anything you see today, a hard but friendly look. I hate to generalize about any group, even if it's a family of brawlers--and there are some of them that I have known--or even people who go into business or advertizing. I'm sure there are good and bad in any of them, and they're not all alike. But there is a generation, one that's disappearing here, of people who grew up and made a living, and even retired, on a hundred acres of land. I've known many of them. And they value hard physical work, and family, and neighbors. They put their names on their mailboxes so people could find them if they had to. They shared labor at harvest time, they helped one another in bad times. My own father was one of those people. I found that out a few years ago when I ran into a neighbor in town who told of my father coming over to help him with chores after his wife had died. I never knew about this, I was too young. But that meant that my father would have had to milk his own cows and take care of them, and then drive over there, morning and night, for as long as he felt necessary. Forty years later, this man remembered what I had never known.<br />
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Where was I? Yes, at the bar. We had a couple of drinks, and visited, then finally told Raul that we were ready for a table. One opened up in a few minutes. We took our drinks in and then went to the food. And I'll say right now that this was no banquet for a vegetarian. Everything here was meat-centric. There were trays of cabbage rolls (cabbage leaves rolled around meat and veggies) and meat rolls (thin-sliced meat wrapped around vegetables). There was saurbraten, bratwurst, pork hocks. There were mashed potatoes, and German potato salad. And the food was prepared there, not out of a box. The potatoes were fresh, as were the meat. This was all basic German food, nothing fancy, but not really simple either, not to be this good. It took time to slice the meats for the meat rolls, time to stuff the cabbage leaves, to mash the potatoes. It was worth the trip (and I was so glad that we had a designated driver!) to be able to get food this good, and service this good, and an atmosphere that was just happy all around. I don't think it was just the time at the bar that made me feel this way.<br />
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I seldom order the buffet. I never eat enough to make it worthwhile. But this time I went back for seconds. The waitress kept our drinks full, kept the water glasses full, and stayed really cheerful. I don't know how they do that, but I admire that ability. We all decided at once that we were full, and retired once more to the bar. Raoul was still smoothly serving up drinks. A group of military kids from Camp Williams/ Volk Field, which is just across the interstate, filled a table. They were mostly drinking light beers, as far as I could see. It seemed like such a waste, with the good German beers that were stocked here. But there ya go. We sat and relaxed with another cocktail while our designated driver looked a little annoyed/amused at the womenfolk who were getting kind of loud now. He was in for a fun ride home. I planned on napping the whole way.Gushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16629664958727845816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8522716817339876272.post-64572959443467744792011-12-21T17:24:00.000-08:002011-12-21T18:05:27.163-08:00Joe's BarI'm going to start out with a reminiscence. What the heck, I have to start somewhere. And the thing is that for me, Joe's Bar was the epitome of a Wisconsin tavern. Or any other state's tavern, for that matter.<br />
The Joe's Bar I'm talking about was in Union Center, Wisconsin, on a quiet back street just across from the railroad tracks. Joe owned it all through the sixties and seventies. He was there every day, as far as I know. I seldom went in there when he wasn't there. He was a skinny dark-haired guy who always had an unlit cigar in his mouth, chewing it all the way down to a stub, spitting the flecks of tobacco into the garbage while he worked behind the bar. He was energetic, and made sure he knew everyone who stopped in more than once. People like me would drive for miles just to stop on that quiet back street for a cold beer and some dinner.<br />
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Joe made his french fries from fresh potatoes. He had a french fry slicer mounted over beside his grill, and whenever he had a free moment he'd run some potatoes through it, and they would fall into a bucket he kept on the floor. When he had enough potatoes in it, he'd cover it with water and put the bucket into the cooler for later. When I think back on it, Joe's wasn't unique for slicing his own fries. Other bars in the area did it too. But I think he stuck with it long after many of them went to the frozen ones. There is nothing to compare today, except in some of the more upscale taverns in the larger cities. It's funny how something that used to be so commonplace is now a delicacy.<br />
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Joe also had his meat cut from a local market. And once again, perhaps everyone did. Joe's is the one I remember. If you went in asking for steak and taters, you got a nice t-bone and a pile of fried potatoes, with or without onions, all of it fresh and good. It was a mighty fine meal at the end of a working day.<br />
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Joe wasn't just a tavern owner. He was a host and an entertainer. He knew jokes and stories, he had a little dancing puppet that bounced on a board whenever the jukebox played "Happy Birthday". <br />
But then the bar changed hands sometime in the eighties. And then the bar owners opened up down by the highway instead, and it changed hands yet again. And as the owners changed, so did the food. Now instead of steaks from the grocery up the road, they get pre-packaged and somewhat tasteless and mealy slabs of some cheap cuts. The fries come frozen in a bag, and the potatoes come in a bag sloshing with some brine that keeps them from browning. It's kind of sad fare compared to Joe's. The bar is dreary, and so is the food, and anyone who believes otherwise is pretending.<br />
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So in starting this blog, I'm going to check out other taverns and restaurants, maybe even a supper club or two, to see how they measure up with what I think is good honest food. I'm sure there are some out there. I hear rumors all the time, from friends and acquaintances, of places to check out and places to avoid. We'll see what happens.<br />
<br />
And me? Well, I'll keep that to myself for now. Today I painted interior trim for most of the day. It was a Fine Day for it. But at the end of the day as I was cleaning up, I heard water hissing from somewhere. I asked the owner about this. She didn't know what to make of it, but asked if I could look at it. I didn't want to, really. I know this house, and most of the plumbing runs through a crawlspace that's only about a foot or so high. But it's my job, it pays the bills. Sometimes. I went into the cellar, and looked into the access hole. And way back there in one corner, through a slurry of mud, was a fitting for some old-style plastic tubing that had been popular back in the eighties, but since outlawed. Or just discontinued. *sigh*. I didn't have much choice at this point, not after seeing this. I climbed up through the hole and pulled myself along on my belly. The cold mud soaked immediately through my couple of layers of clothing. It was nasty and dirty and smelled of small dead animals and insects. I finally reached the fitting and was able, after a while, to tighten it up enough so it only dripped. One can only hand-tighten those old fittings, and that's what I did.<br />
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There was no way to turn around. All I could do was back out, while my shirt slid up, up. By the time I got out, there was mud on my belly and in my pants. It was cold and oozing. I went back up to tell her it was fixed for now. I'm not sure she realized what I had just gone through in those ten minutes. But on the plus side, she wants me to re-plumb that section. Anything for a buck.Gushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16629664958727845816noreply@blogger.com0