It's complicated

This week, we had "the storm," the snow of irony. Instant winter. Up until only a few days before, I'd been comfortably riding my bike to work. But before I could complete my winter transit transition to bus riding, a bit of car hell loomed.

With a big snow expected, the people that do these sorts of things at my work had, for the first time, marked off with orange traffic cones the long walkway bisecting the parking lot. Ah ha! No one will mistakenly block the walkway by parking their snow-blinded car in its midst. Monday, cones--no snow. Tuesday, cones--no snow. Wednesday, snow--no cones. Parking lot plowed, walkway hidden; cone-less tundra of white obscures all.

Then, whereas I would have contentedly ridden the bus to work, switching to my winter transit mode, Madeline needed a ride home from school Wednesday. So I drove to work. Well, tried.

Wednesday morning, didn't go anywhere, couldn't even get out of the parking spot on the street in front of the house. Spin spin, wiggly wiggly, slide slide. Got the shovel from the front porch, dug out. There really wasn't that much snow. Escaped, barely. Put the shovel in the back seat. (Grain shovel, bought while living on the farm; used to shovel grain with it.) Almost didn't make it through the Fairview windrow at the end of the block. But then did. Barely. Narrowly avoided collision.

Thought was to stop at Nina's on the way to work. Snelling to I-94. Lexington exit. Concordia, across Dale. Right at the four-way stop with Marshall, where the Boy Scouts of America have theirs offices--up the hill. Oops. The suspicion that Dorothea and I'd had last spring about the Hyundai's tires not being "aggressive" enough for snow--confirmed. I eventually slide sideways and backwards down the hill and followed a hill-less route to work, sans Nina's.

Then, at work, texting with Madeline, found out that of course she wouldn't be staying after school. After school activities cancelled--all of them, actually. She'd be taking the school bus home.

I was so pissed that, later, home from work when I told Dorothea that we needed new tires, stat, and got her expected non-commital response ("We'll be seeing Joe this weekend"--he's the brother-in-law car guy), I said then she could move the cars the next morning for the snow emergency. Later she came back, saying she didn't care. Do whatever I wanted about tires.

Called Tires Plus, drove over there, thinking $300, armed with Dorothea provided coupons; $500. Walked home, hung out. Then walked back when they called. Gleefully drove through all the spots that had given me troubles earlier. I bought the set of tires with the most aggressive tread.

Told Madeline how ironic it seemed to me, the whole bit about driving so I could pick her up. She apologized, said she was sorry. But that wasn't it. Just life. Silver lining--got the tires thing taken care. Now will have good tires for drive to Hansmeyer family Christmas gathering at Bug Bee Resort near Paynesville.

And, after dropping a wad of cash on a car, I can go back to comfortably taking the bus.

Then, it got really cold..............

Pheromone packed

Pheromone packed. Drove today. Needed to do some errands that are
bus-prohibitive--notably, stopping at Kowalski's for food for work.
Probably not a great day to pick to drive, what with an impending
snowmaggedon. But such are the wheeling gears of fate. My drive home
is inconsequential in any event. People are commenting about getting
their snowblowers going. I got some shovels out of the shed and put
them in the front porch.

The pheromone bit was inspired by the http://cracked.com piece I am
reading about apparently cute cats behaviors are driven by evil
intent. In some ways I miss having a domestic feline, and
others--allergies, the unpleasant caustic smells--I don't.

Also finding myself interested http://carnalnation.com and
contemplating family-friendliness.

--
David
www.schons.net

Why I go to Nina's

Why do I come to Nina's? For random, brief conversatios with June
about handwriting and change making.

At Nina's. Bought the NY Times. Nostalgia, I guess. Also had a good
little conversation at the counter with proprietess June about making
change and handwriting. She mentioned that she had been a sixth-grade
teacher. Ah-ha. Firm believer in teaching children how to make change
and have good penmanship. (Penship? Penpersonship? Writing utensil
wielding skills? Seems likely to be a pre-postfeminist thing.)

I reached my National Novel Writing Month goal of writing 50,000 words
last night, after copy/pasting from the one-a-day for each of the
preceding days of November Google Docs that were my repository into
one iMac Word doc, and then into the designated textbox at
http://nanowrimo.org . In reality, I submitted 50,000 words, their
word-counting algorithm confirmed it. Blogging, twittering, emailing,
facebooking, texting, instant messaging--it is all there.

Now I have built me a habit. Question: what am I going to do with it?

--
David
www.schons.net

After the Storm

After the storm, so to speak. It is still all calm, still early morning, still dark outside, house still asleep, and I have decided not to go out for coffee. Instead, I am at the iMac, with home-made french pressed coffee. Just realized though that being home shoots a hole in my card for my 100 year-old aunt issue, cause I would have picked up a card at Nina's. Will have to keep an eye on that today. Maybe if Dorothea and I take the dog for a walk, I can stop somewhere and pick up a card.

Queued up is a visit to my mom in Saint Cloud. Thoughts are to begin planning to move her to the Twin Cities. But for now, it is an hour and a half drive.

The toast, yesterday, given by Dorothea, was to survival. Given the general Hansmeyer family history, it was apt for any of them. But we'd just been having a discussion that delved into some of the more personal specifics, which is probably what prompted toast. Maybe the toast was an attempt to change the subject. But there also was at the table the adopted, now single mother, who'd spent a good share of her life in group homes; two Vietnam vets, one of whom had been in the squadron portrayed in the movie "Platoon"; and just in general, we've all overcome some pretty horrendous stuff. And here we are.

A couple of Bernice stories come to mind that I feel I can share. Bernice's troubles, her mental illnes, no secret there. 

The first story is about the effort to plant trees on the farm. The second story is about an empty bottle of homemade rhubarb wine, graveside.

"Whatever else, she wasn't dumb," commented one of the brother-in-laws. To which was added the story of how, several years ago, the idea was to contract with one of the paper mills. They'd come in and plant fast-growing popular trees, and then, some years later, harvest them for pulp. For whatever reason, Bernice didn't like this idea. Apparently, she very uncharacteristically worked the phones, calling the mill, the land broker, whomever, telling them how she thought that was a bad idea. The deal never went through.

January, 2008, -20 degress, graveside, at the burial service for Bernice. One of the sisters had a bottle of homemade rhubarb wine, significant of something, and was filling up and passing around little plastic cups of it. We toasted, we were ready to all bolt for our cars. What I didn't know was want happened to the empty bottle. Someone turned to the funeral director as everyone left. What to do with the empty bottle? The funeral director took it, opened the lid of the casket, set the bottle inside, closed the casket. Quite appropriate. 

--
David
www.schons.net

The long day of to and fro

First, the abortive attempt to participate in the Thanksgiving Meals on Wheels program at Cretin. They were booked up with volunteers by the time that Liam and I got there. Liam and I were there relatively early at his encouraging. But not early enough. It could be that our fashionably-late appearances of years past might have served us well, in that we were late enough that there were always loose ends, miscalculations, from earlier, that became our route.

Then, Dorothea, with Madeline and Lou in tow, both reluctant early risers, picked us up at the Bean Factory Coffee Shop, and we drove to the Mall of America. There is always a general charity walk there on Thanksgiving morning. We walked for not quite two hours, and ending up giving some cash to a guy selling t shirts for the event.

Home, for a brief respite, and Dorothea and I took the dog for a walk. Then off to sister-in-law Mary's house for the repast. This was the housewarming for Mary's most recent house. Lots of Hansmeyers in attendance. Notable was Quinetta, adopted at the age of four or so by Gene, one of Dorothea's older brothers, and his spouse Lila. Now she's in her late twenties, and has a five year-old son and a finance. That was when I first met her, when I was initially dating Dorothea, more than twenty years ago, and hadn't seen her for ten years or so. She definitely has had a tough life, but seemed to be doing quite well, which was very good to see, indeed.

Tingly all over

"Where ya been?" "I've been more swamped than Louisiana." (This exchange was a male customer at Nina's (the swamped one) standing in line and the counter staff--greeting a loved but long absent regular). And my thought was--he's gay. What is it about me and my antenna and my interpretations of some guys and that guess they are gay? (Why do I even care?) Yesterday, two guys came over to my cube, one the edirectory guy, the other the Active Directory guy. They both hit just the right tones about things, and off we go. They'll send me a "silly little form," and so begins the process. Like they would fit right in on that show, "Myth Busters(?)." --gotta google that--yup, on The Discovery Channel. Of course I am crap at interpreting people, so I don't know what's up with this. Maybe there is a certain style that some men have which connects with me, and my brain just chooses to interpret that way. The manufacture of meaning. It is the Java meaning factory.

Was going to reach for the molskine, what the heck, but then realized that unless the words that I write are bits and bytes, the words don't count. At least not now, during National Novel Writing Month. I am almost at 50,000 words for http://nanowrimo.org , to website for National Novel Writing Month. This post will be thrown on the heap. (Usually these blog posts are about 300-400 words.)

Finally have the electric guitar, computer, headphone (crucial) thing worked out. Prince, look out man. You've been warned!

That which makes me tinkly, I have realize, is often the most mundane things. Talking to people sometimes will do it. Men, women. Face-to-face, engaged. Is anyone reading this? Ahem.

Postscript: I wrote this in the morning, at Nina's. My custom is to email it off the old Tmobile Wing right away, and the entry immediately appears in the blog. Usually sometime later in the day, after I get home from work, I go to Facebook and update so that the entry appears there. But I have now done even more editing on the damn thing. Misspellings, gaps. Sheesh. It is endless. -- David www.schons.net

At Liam's guitar lsesson

At Liam's guitar lsesson. Sitting on the old futon in the next room in
the attic of the teacher's house. No gutar lsesson-time walk with
Stella to see her cousins, the Como Park wolves. She's has diaherra
that last couple of days. The fear is we don't know if she's totally
recovered. I have missed out on most of the fun on that one.

Today I thought hanging out and listening to what's happening with the
lesson was a good idea. Liam just sight read a version of "These Are a
Few of My Favorite Things," playing along with the Band in a Box.

Also today, this morning, Dorothea and I went to Liam's school
conferences. Must say I am always pleasantly surprised. So far my
fears of him doing as badly as I did have never come true.

--
David
www.schons.net