Immortal for a Limited Time

I never met Neil Peart, but I consider him my greatest inspiration.

Peart was the drummer and lyricist for the Canadian rock band Rush. Critics and music fans have universally regarded him as one of the best drummers in the history of rock and roll, as well as one of the genre’s most insightful lyricists.

You can surrender without a prayer,
but you can never really pray without surrender.
 — Neil Peart

Throughout his career, Peart was bestowed with hundreds of honors in the music world, including the ultimate distinction: induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2013.

But he was much more than a world class musician.

When I was a teenager, I read a quote from Peart, which I will paraphrase: the relentless pursuit of knowledge should be the driving force in all we do. As a kid in complete awe of his talent, those were words I needed to hear. That impression has lasted my lifetime.

However, it wasn’t just his relentless pursuit of knowledge and masterful drumming talent that elevated Peart to “hero” status for me. A tragic turn of events in Peart’s life solidified my deep admiration for his character as a human being.

In 1997, Peart’s 19-year-old daughter was killed in a car accident. Ten months later, he lost his wife to breast cancer. Understandably, he went into dark place and his desire to play music was gone. He said he had to “keep moving or die,” so in the fall of 1998, he got on his motorcycle and just … moved.

In the end, he traveled extensively throughout North and Central America — 55,000 miles — riding alone on his motorcycle and keeping a detailed journal of his emotions and experiences on the road.

Peart found the act of traveling alone a soul cleansing experience. The journal he carried became a touching book about his odyssey of healing, called Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road.

Don’t leave spontaneity to chance.
 — Neil Peart

Peart published seven non-fiction books in his lifetime, focused on travel, music and personal stories. All are delightful reads.

After a period of mourning, he rejoined his bandmates and Rush toured the world for 15 more years, releasing some of the best music of their 40 year career.

He found happiness again, too. He remarried and became the proud father of a daughter in 2009.

When my son was born in 2009, I named him Neil.

~~~

Neil Peart kept his battle with glioblastoma private. When he died on 7 January 2020, the music world was stunned. He was 67 years old.

I wept when I heard of his passing. I felt a little foolish, shedding tears over a man I had never met, but he truly felt like a friend, a mentor and a teacher.

I guess that’s exactly what he was.

We’re only immortal for a limited time.
 —Neil Peart

Caramel Sauce for My Soul

---

A flicker of crimson grabs my attention. I cannot help smiling to myself.

They’re back.

---

When I was a kid, there were two sources of entertainment at my house: the Lawrence Welk Show and the bird feeder.

Mom was a hardcore bird watcher. Our bird feeder was strategically positioned just outside the back window of our tiny house. Mom would sit with her cup of tea, binoculars nearby, Birds of Minnesota Field Guide within arm’s reach.

She even kept a notepad handy, jotting down the presence of a new or unusual visitor at the feeder, including the date and time. This was serious business.

But the most anticipated prize was catching a glimpse of the elusive cardinal, a brilliantly red beauty Mom had seen only a handful of times on our little central Minnesota farm.

That cardinal was shy and he was remarkably good at making himself scarce.

I marveled at Mom’s knowledge of birds and she gave me quite a feathery education at an early age. As a boy, I would sit next to her while she patiently taught me the nuances of nuthatches (“they are little acrobats”) and chickadees (“they are comedians with a little black cap”).

By the age of seven, I could identify a grosbeak’s song a mile away.

Puberty started playing practical jokes on my body in the 1980s and I became too cool for the bird feeder. Yet when I’d pass the back window with my big hair and cuffed jeans, I’d secretly throw a quick glance at the feeder, just in case that slippery cardinal stopped by.

I left home right after graduating high school, but Mom would still faithfully watch her birds. She would even write me letters telling me about the “Adventures at the Feeder,” including a detailed account of a marvelous cedar waxwing that happened to pass through the bird neighborhood one fall morning.

I looked forward to those letters more than she would ever know.

Less than two years later, my mother died unexpectedly. Her birds were soon gone. The trees became a silent shroud. The feeder was empty. So was my heart.

Years have passed and it seems only natural that a bird feeder occupies my own front yard.

The spirit of my mother is present as I teach my own children — grandchildren she never got to meet — everything I’ve ever learned about crows, blue jays and dark-eyed juncos.

It is caramel sauce for my soul.

Now it is my turn to keep a keen eye on the bird feeder. And every evening, I prepare for my nightly visitors.

A scarlet flash in the woods next to my home interrupts my thoughts.

I pause. I breathe. They’re back.

A male cardinal lands at my bird feeder. He cautiously surveys this way and that. Satisfied all is safe, his lifelong partner, her sand-colored body and bright orange beak, flutters down next to him. They look at each other for a moment before turning to enjoy their evening meal together in peace.

As the setting sun slides below the horizon, I look to the sky and grin, “Do you see them?”

Time has a unique way of healing.

Afterimage

Inside the lobby I am greeted by the nauseous smell of deodorizer and stale coffee. I hate this place. 

I make myself walk the freshly waxed hallway. I see her in the community dining room. She sits in her wheelchair at a table. Alone.

I pull a chair next to her. I visit her every afternoon.

She’s holding a photograph of herself. She stares at it, studies it, turns it around with fingers that are knotted roots. Taken 66 years ago. Gorgeous. Radiant. But she can’t recall who it is.

She notices my presence. She looks up at me with unclouded blue eyes, still shining, content with a life well-lived. But she doesn’t recognize me, her youngest son.

She looks back at her photo. Black and white. Her youthful image smiles back at her like a ghost.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” she asks me, the stranger sitting next to her.

“Yes,” I answer my mother. “She looks a lot like you.”

My Sunshine

Photo by Ava Branstner

She sits at my feet. 

Always faithful, always loyal.

Her trust is complete, her love unconditional. 

Even when the sun is in her eyes.

...

This is a beautiful photo of our Australian red heeler, taken by my daughter, who definitely has a photographer's eye. 

The image inspired me to write a quick four-line stanza, scribbled out in about 45 seconds. Instead of developing the lines, I decided to leave them alone to preserve the moment. 

Sometimes inspiration can come quickly and unexpectedly. 

Always Dig Deeper

In Apple Studios with Billy Preston, January 1969

This changed the everything.

I recently finished watching Peter Jackson’s Beatles documentary, Get Back. “Epic” is a grossly overused word these days; however, that is the best description I can give this film.

Most of you know I am in my element with anything to do with the Beatles, so for the sake of humanity, I am limiting myself to less than 300 words.

First things first: this documentary is not for the casual fan. Peter Jackson defends the documentary's length: "[I kept thinking] people have got to see this. This is great."

For the casual fan, I would recommend watching Episode 3.

There are countless fascinating moments in these hours of footage. The most memorable for me was watching Paul McCartney pull the song "Get Back" out of thin air. As the cameras roll, he sits on a chair, head down, emphatically chugging on his bass--searching for a melody, hunting for a tune--and suddenly it hits him: "Get back... get back... get back to dum-de-dum..."

A #1 hit, and an all-time classic born before our eyes. Absolutely fascinating stuff.

I think that was really the most amazing part of the entire documentary: watching the creative process evolve. After all, this wasn't just an ordinary band. 

When George Harrison brings in a very early version of what would become "Something" (yet another #1 hit!), he asks John Lennon for help with the lyric. Lennon sings, 

"Something in the way she moves ... attracts me like ... a cauliflower..." 

Lennon advises Harrison, "Just keep it going, George. It doesn't matter what the words are, they will come. Just keep the groove going."

Good advice.

Lennon and Harrison, January 1969

Now to the point of this entire post.

I’ve been a student of Beatles history for decades and the overwhelming consensus has accepted this was an absolutely miserable period in the band’s history.

Not so fast.

This fly-on-the-wall documentary has me rethinking everything I’ve ever read. My own takeaways from this eight hour time capsule:

1. John and Paul did not hate each other.
2. Nobody hated Yoko.
3. George was an underappreciated genius.
4. Ringo was the glue. His calming presence and amiable personality held the band together.
5. The Beatles drank a lot of tea.
6. The Beatles were quite fond of toast.
7. The Beatles smoked their collective weight in cigarettes.

What I've learned from this documentary is the accepted truth is just one side of the story. 

Always dig deeper.

Why Make Things Easy When They Can Be Difficult?

"Measuring Up"

*based on a semi-true story....

He was sitting in a clump on the couch, tapping a pencil against his forehead, social studies book spread before him.

This was his thinking position.

“Dad?” asked my 12 year old scholar. I could tell by the inflection in his voice and the wrinkle in his brow that my son had one of those questions. 

“Yes?” I answered, rather hesitantly.

“Why do the English use the metric system and Americans use the English system? That doesn’t even make sense.”

For the sake of clarity, I live in the United States, a country which cantankerously clings with bald eagle talons to the English system of measurement.

“Well,” I began, “Americans are a little complicated.” 

Is that the best I could do?

“But the metric system is so easy,” my son pursued the issue. He wasn't wrong.

“Look at it this way," the gears were grinding in my brain, "Americans have a really hard time imagining ‘25 degrees’ as a nice, comfortable summer day.” 

I was proud of my example. 

“Well, water boils at 100 degrees Celsius and freezes at zero. Seriously, that’s so easy,” the young man was relentless.

And he was correct. Multiples of ten. That’s the metric system. Easy.

However, the United States refuses to adopt this simple and easy-to-use system of measurement. The U.S. stands obstinate with Liberia and Burma as the only three countries in the world to still recognize Imperial Units as the official standard of measurement.

I gave some further thought to his most excellent question. 

“You see, buddy,” I said in my most convincing father-knows-best voice, “Americans have always had a … difficult time adapting to something new. Americans can be a little ... stubborn.”

My son made a snorting sound from his nose. 

“Or a little stupid,” he mumbled as he flipped a page in his textbook.

Yeah, I chuckled to myself, or a little stupid.

Bookstore Jonesing

Emily's Used Books, Brainerd, MN

I am a victim of an infliction called “bookstore jonesing.”

I open the door and the aroma grips me first, sinking its papercut teeth into my nostrils. I willingly give myself to the musty, pulpy fragrance. I inhale like a stoner taking a hit. 

I am hooked.

There is nothing like the scent of my local used bookstore. Once lured inside, my senses become a mushy, short circuited knot. 

I lose myself in canyons of classics and I scale ravines of fiction. I bathe in the Sea of Forewords and plod through the Desert of Afterwords, while every syllable of every story whispers from the walls like stains heard but unseen.

Fluorescent glare guides me and skinny aisles beg me, stay for just a little longer.

Warning: this humble store is a black hole. Once its gravitational force sucks you in, you are an addict for life.

Ain’t it great?

Happy Thanksgiving, 2021

 

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Just a quick, personal post today.

I'm watching Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade this morning, cringing at all the pitifully lip-synched, piped-in music wafting from million dollar parade floats. Considering all the money spent on this annual event, you'd think they'd be able to afford live music. Good grief.

I hope you get to spend the day with family and friends. I am on-call over the Thanksgiving weekend, so I will miss the big Thanksgiving gathering with my wife's family. Today will be just the four of us, my own little family. It makes me happy.

I am thankful for so many things, it seems futile to even begin to list them all; that's a good problem to have. So, I will keep it simple: I'm thankful for all of you reading this, making the first month of my site so successful. 

But more than anything, I'm thankful for another year together with all of you. I see some of you frequently; others I haven't seen in 30+ years, but we still keep in touch, and that speaks volumes. Thank you for making my life a part of yours.

Time goes faster than should be allowed. I think, perhaps, Einstein got something wrong in his calculations. However, here we all are, zipping around the galaxy on a little round planet (yes, it is round), doing what we do: living our best life. 

Cheers to you. Happy Thanksgiving!

November Fades

Green blades stretch through the snow, arms in the air, surrendering, submitting to the inevitable. 

Seasons shift silently, leisurely. November fades to winter’s will, like chilled wisps of smoke twisting in late autumn air; the sun becomes a stranger and the moon bathes in exquisitely long nights. 

We curl in inky shadows, hibernating, assured that eternity will last just a brief time.

Five months of midnight, blindfolded, those blades of green will sleep, buried alive under a compressed canopy of white. 

But the earth turns, the canopy dissolves with the trickle of spring and the blades raise their arms in triumph. 

The circle is complete.

"About Me"

When I was a sophomore at the University of Minnesota, the greatest motivation I ever received was after submitting a crappy essay for a literature class. Although I failed to use footnotes properly and got a B on the paper, my professor scribbled in the corner of the page, “Never stop writing!”

To this day, I am not sure if this was a general philosophy offered to all pseudo-intellectuals like myself, or if it was personal encouragement. I just knew that it made me feel good. It was the best B I ever got in college.

After celebrating my half-century birthday a couple of years ago, I decided to be brave (or stupid) and start sharing my lifelong love for writing with other people. After more than fifty trips around the sun, I felt maybe I had something worthwhile to share, although I wasn’t sure what that might be.

In October I started a website called www.forty-leven.com, devoted to the joy of jotting down life stuff. 

My closest brush with fame came about twenty years ago, when I was selected as a finalist in the Minneapolis Star Tribune’s “Joe Fan” sports columnist contest. All I won was a lousy Star Tribune hoodie, but it encouraged me to keep writing.

I’ve had poetry published in a compilation called A Far Off Place and when I was a senior in high school, a Chinese foreign exchange teacher selected one of my essays to be published in his hometown newspaper (I assume it was translated to Mandarin). All I got was a lousy silk handkerchief.

Still, I felt emboldened to keep writing.

I am passionate about books, music, history, football (American), coffee and craft beer. Most of all, I enjoy observing to the world around me and reporting what I see with a sarcastic, off-color twist. I like writing about life stuff.

My greatest inspiration are my two children--their minds never turn off--and my biggest accomplishment is being married for 25 years (and counting) to a pretty nice gal.

Thank you for taking a moment to get better acquainted with me. Now I will hold my breath, press “Publish,” and hope I don’t embarrass myself.

Thankful for Another Spin

I sat at the kitchen table, my steaming cup of coffee now lukewarm, repeating the phrase to myself. It was so simple, so honest. And beautifully profound.

Never underestimate the wisdom of your children. Even though they lack life experience, that very innocence can be the key to a certain clarity, something that becomes clouded as we collect the scar tissue of adulthood.

I became a dad for the first time almost 16 years ago. My daughter was a dribbly, snotty-nosed miracle who changed my life forever. Three years later, her burbling, bubbling little brother made me the proudest pop in Minnesota.

Being a parent to youngsters was like traveling back in a time machine. All of life's marvels, long invisible as an adult, became strikingly clear again, especially during winter time. The thrill of learning to ice skate or the giddiness of tumbling ass-over-teakettle in a carpet of white powder brought almost too much happiness to bear. There was nothing like the joy of a winter wonderland.

It was a joy I had long forgotten.

Which brings me to the kitchen table. 

I poured myself a coffee and sat next to my son, who was gulping down a mug of hot chocolate. The afternoon November sky was getting tired as we watched the first snow of the year collect on the backyard lawn: green succumbing to white. 

I had to work early the next morning and I was not looking forward to negotiating slick roads. As I grumbled about the accumulating mess outside, my 12 year old philosopher offered invaluable insight.  

"Well, here we go again," I said with a sigh. Another miserable winter. Skin-numbing cold, wet socks and cars that won't start. 

"I'm kind of glad it's snowing," said my son, wiping off his chocolate moustache.

"Why?" I asked.

He thought for a moment. "Because I haven't seen it in a while."

That simple, poignant phrase froze my thoughts. 

Because I haven't seen it in a while. 

When we become adults, we make a tragic metamorphosis. We become anxiety-ridden worry machines. We worry about money. We worry about bills. We worry about jobs. We worry about things we can't control. We worry about things we can control. Hell, we even worry that we worry too much.

Being an adult is serious business.

The longer I sat at my kitchen table, as the snow continued to flutter down, the more I realized my son had unwittingly exposed a wonderful truth. 

There really is something about the change of seasons that is truly welcoming. Transitioning from one season to the next gives us a sense of renewal; we can't embrace the rebirth of spring without first burying the dead, frozen bones of winter. That forward momentum not only gives us hope, it allows us to leave the past where it belongs. 

This ride we are all on--this orbit around the sun--navigates us through life. It is fluid, rotating, ever-changing, yet remains comfortably familiar. This grand ellipse is all we have. Rather than gripe about another winter, we should be thankful for another spin.

As I had that little chat with my son, I, too, became 12 years old again. I vividly remember, as a boy, waking up one morning to a fresh blanket of snow on the ground. And yes, I also remember being euphoric over nature's beautiful transformation. And now I know why. 

Because I hadn't seen it in a while.

Perpetual Nocturnal Abyss Time

It has happened again, friends. We’ve “fallen back.” 

Daylight Saving Time is in the rearview mirror and the gates of infinite darkness have opened; we’ve started the inescapable plunge into the obsidian hell called winter. 

We’ve now entered “Standard Time,” or more accurately, “Perpetual Nocturnal Abyss Time.” 

Personally speaking, the beginning of November to the end of February is a tipsy season I like to call “Cocktail Time.” One for you, two for me. 

Cheers!

So why are we made to suffer through this change every year? As if the impending doom of another frigid winter isn’t enough, we must face the prospect of living on the dark side of the moon for the next four months. 

It’s really a bit much for even the cheeriest of souls.

Blame Germany

Daylight Saving Time (DST) started in Germany during the First World War ostensibly as a means of conserving coal. This new concept initially seemed to be a smart idea. However, it is now an antiquated notion currently employed by only about 70 countries in the world. 

Even worse, the application of DST is a worldwide hack job. 

Really, it is an international you-know-what-show as each country follows its own set of rules and protocols without regard to neighboring nations: the European Union switches to Standard Time a week earlier than the United States and Canada, while Chile and Paraguay are the only two countries in South America that even bother observing DST. 

Then there is Lord Howe Island in Australia, which adjusts its clocks by 30 minutes, rather than the traditional hour.

Why? Because Australians like a good laugh.

An Act of Congress

The European Union has discussed ending DST altogether, but some voice concern over such a radical move. (Fun fact: Iceland has not used DST since October 29, 1967. And Iceland is doing just fine, thanks). Just to make life interesting, under Brexit, the United Kingdom could end up in two time zones; one employing DST, the other not. 

But the United Kingdom has got nothing on the good ol’ United States. At least 19 states have either enacted or passed legislative bills electing to keep DST permanent. But like everything in the U.S., it’s not that easy. 

In typical convoluted fashion, making DST permanent would literally require an act of United States Congress. While all states are legally allowed to forgo DST (most of Arizona does, and all of Hawaii does; Indiana did, now it doesn’t), Congress must pass a law allowing states to observe DST year round, if they so choose. 

To put another way, it is possible that someday the U.S. could have states that observe DST in its present state, others that employ DST permanently and still others that forgo DST entirely. All at the same time.

In 1969, the band Chicago asked “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?” There can be no doubt they were referring to the Daylight Saving Time fiasco.

The Price We Pay

While DST proponents argue that longer hours of daylight in the summer may help reduce road accidents, conserve energy used for artificial lighting and give farmers an extended workday (in fact, the agricultural industry has lobbied against DST for years), we all know why the time change is still observed: to give people longer summer nights to rest and relax.

Now heaven knows I’m not opposed to rest and relaxation. But for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. What is the price we pay when we “fall back?” 

A season of blackness. 

We drive to our jobs in the dark. We pick up groceries after work in the dark. We walk the dog in the evening in the dark. 

We get into our jammies at 5:45 PM, because the murky gloom of the late afternoon messes with our sensitive circadian rhythms. We fight the feeling of constant exhaustion because our bodies are slowly being drained of precious vitamin D.

We sink deeper and deeper into that dim winter funk. 

We get fat. We get depressed. And yes, we have cocktails.

Are those few months of longer summer nights really worth it? Let me sleep on it and give you an answer in the morning. 

When it is still dark.

My Son Talks Weird

I blew out 52 candles on my birthday cake last month, but that didn’t make me feel old. Yeah, there’s a conspicuous bald spot in center of my scalp and deepening crow’s feet pecking at the corners of my eyes, but those are life’s battle scars. They don’t bother me at all.

Simply put, I don’t feel old. 

I hold fast to the hypothesis that age is just a number, but I must admit I’ve recently encountered subtle signposts in my life that point to the possibility I’m not a spring chicken anymore. This weighty prospect came courtesy of my kid.

My 12 year old son has become something of a "man of the world" in the past year. His knowledge of computers and video games is intimidating, he’s learned to make pancakes, bacon and scrambled eggs with the best of them, and his physical appearance is transforming into that of a handsome, strapping young gentleman. 

But there is a problem: I can’t understand a damn word he says. 

You see, my son talks weird. He speaks a foreign language indecipherable to ears older than 18 years. His swinging gibberish has given me reason to pause and reflect on a frightening prospect: just because I don’t feel old doesn’t mean I’m not. 

It started with lockdown in 2020. Tik-Tok became extremely popular, but my son wasn’t impressed. "It’s nothing but people throwing clout."

"Throwing clout?" I asked.

"Yeah, you know, they’re trying to get popular."

Curious phrases abound when I eavesdrop as he plays Xbox. Wearing a microphone headset and gripping plastic controllers his sweaty hands, periodic grunts of "Bruh!" or "Oh, straight fire!" or "I’m weak!" issue forth from his squeaky, cracking voice as he communicates with his friends online. 

In February 2020 we saw KISS. The show was met with descriptors like "Savage!" and "GOAT!" ...which I guess meant it was pretty good. (photo by author)

One afternoon I was sitting in my La-Z-Boy, revisiting an old Def Leppard album on the hi-fi when my son zipped past me en route to the refrigerator. As the Joe Elliott emphatically exalted rock of ages, my son bobbed his head to the rhythm and professed, "This music slaps."

"Hey, what’s wrong with it?" I asked defensively. In my world, no one disrespects Def Leppard.

"There’s nothing wrong with it, Dad. It’s lit!"

Lit? That’s good, right?

As our music discussion continued, I proudly claimed I could name the members of every ‘80s hair band, recite every album released in chronological order and recall the producer of each one (my close friends will confirm this is, sadly, true).

Rather than being impressed with this heap of useless knowledge, my son shrugged his shoulders matter-of-factly, and mumbled, "Weird flex, but okay."

What?

When I ask him what he’d like for lunch, I’m given a laid back, “Whatevs.”

More than once my son has walked out of the bathroom, "Dad, the toilet’s acting sus again." 

"It’s doing what?"

"It’s acting sus."

What the hell?

During one of his middle school football games, he excitedly told me one of his teammates "threw shade" at an opponent. Thankfully, no flags were thrown.

Speaking of school, his favorite subject is social studies because they discuss current events and it keeps him "woke." The kids are invited to share their insight on the day’s news, but if your "fam" doesn’t agree with your opinion, you might get "ghosted" in the cafeteria during lunch.

Sounds serious.

There are lots of cute girls in his class, but much to my relief he doesn’t have a “bae.” At least not yet.

Me and my rapscallion (photo by the wife)

I’m sure I’m not the only parent who wishes kids came with an owner’s manual (being a man, I probably wouldn’t read it, but still...). Certainly a primary responsibility of parenting is offering guidance to your child through this complicated world. Trying to be a good father, I started rehearsing a heartfelt conversation with my boy ("Son, you can’t keep speaking like a damn fool and expect a civilized human being to understand you. You’ve got to grow up at some point."). 

And then it hit me. 

I was abruptly met with a chilling reality from my own youth: I went through my adolescence navigating the vernacular of Valley Girls.

• "Grody to the max.”
• "Like, whatever."
• "Oh my god, like, gag me with a spoon."

The more I thought about it, the more indiscernible my own generation sounded: 

"Gnarly, dude!"  "Radical!" "Tubular!" "Eat my shorts!" "I’m gonna ralph."  "Take a chill pill." "That’s bogus." "Bite me!"

Yes, I confess I actually spoke that way in the '80s. In fact, some of those phrases still work their way into my daily lingo. After all, I was young once; maybe I never completely grew up? Maybe that teenage angst is still alive and well in my marrow? Maybe a drop of youth deep in my soul still oozes to the surface every time Def Leppard blasts through the living room stereo?

Like, totally. 

On second thought, I’m going to skip that sit down conversation with my boy. He can keep speaking his funky little dialect as long as he wants. I’m going to encourage him to stay young for as long as he can. That’s my fatherly advice.

Age really is just a number. I still feel pretty bodacious, dude.

Spending the Day with Freddie

Today I'm supposed to rake

But I like my coffee break

The leaves can wait 'til I'm ready

I'm spending the day with Freddie 

 

The Halloween Blizzard of 1991: How Wally the Weatherman Changed My Life

 

artwork by Ava Branstner

This week marks the 30th anniversary of the great Halloween Blizzard of 1991. In a nasty hit-and-run, Old Man Winter vomited approximately 1,736 inches of snow (my own rough estimate) on Minnesota. I'm embarrassed to say it took me by surprise.

That Halloween morning was straight out of a 1965 folk song: all the leaves were brown and the sky was gray. I was 22 years old and neck deep in my studies at the University of Minnesota. Also, I was a total putz.

As the concrete sky blanched to the east, I slogged down St. Francis Boulevard in my '77 Ford Granada, radio blasting, making my commute to school. To my irritation, my usual morning show was interrupted by Wally the Weatherman, who blustered on about a "winter storm warning!"

Winter storm warning? Pshhht! I grumbled. I was a native Minnesotan. Snow had never stopped me before and I had classes to attend.

Did I mention I was a putz?

When I walked out of the lecture hall that afternoon, I was greeted by a cold, feathery drizzle leaking from blueberry clouds. Rumbling homeward, Wally the Weatherman was abuzz, spewing phrases from my Granada's radio like "blizzard warning!" and "perfect storm!"

Nothing more than meteorologic hyperbole, I assured myself.

Like I said, I was a putz.

By the time I splashed the Granada into my apartment complex's puddled parking lot, Wally the Weatherman was practically soiling himself with excitement: "Snowmageddon!"

Snowmageddon? That's cute, I chuckled under my breath.

Inside my cozy shoebox abode, I microwaved a cup of ramen noodles and sat the card table in my cramped kitchen.

As I slurped my fake Chinese food, I studied the dying light from my living room window. The afternoon drizzle intensified to pounding rain. Then, like a ninja shapeshifter, the pounding rain quickly morphed into snowflakes.

Heavy flakes. Big flakes. Millions of them.

I breathed a deep sigh, pulled the curtain closed and cracked open my lecture notes. Just a little snow, I yawned to myself.

What a putz.

As night descended, the snow ogres unleashed a frozen tempest over Minnesota.

Next morning, I nuked a mug of Folgers instant crystals and clicked on my stereo. It was time for the Friday Funday show, which I enjoyed listening to before heading to class.

Instead of my program, the hyperventilating Wally the Weatherman (when did he sleep?) poured from my speakers, babbling on about "road closures!" and "record setting snow!" I peered through the curtain, but saw only the inkwell of predawn darkness.

I sucked down my Folgers and went off the seize the day. I couldn't be late for class.

The first sign of trouble was 22 inches of packed snow blocking the lobby door which prevented me from getting out of my apartment building.

The second sign of trouble was illuminated by the outdoor security lights. Through the thickly falling flakes, I could barely make out an ice cream meadow where the parking lot used to be. Interrupting the sparkling smoothness were perfectly rectangular mounds, each representing an innocent automobile buried alive overnight (my precious Granada!).

Good Lord! I gasped, in a moment of epiphany. Wally the Weatherman was right. It's a freaking snowpocalypse!

My lecture started in half and hour. Mild panic gripped my gut.

I corkscrewed my body around the lobby door, only to find myself planted like a scarecrow in white stuff up to my hips. Snowflakes peppered my eyes and a stiff wind sucked life out of my lungs. Like a putz, all I had on my feet were sneakers and flimsy leather gloves covered my hands.

By the time I lumbered to the unmarked grave of my Granada, I was wheezing like a concertina, blinded by snow cataracts and a creek of snot involuntarily flowed from my nose.

Yes, a shovel would have been handy. No, I didn't have one. What a putz.

I had no choice, so I started digging the heavy, sticky crap by hand, but within minutes my fingers turned blue, my Nike-covered toes were numb and I was sweating like Nixon under my jacket.

After ten minutes of battle, the chunky white parachutes pelting down from the cornflower sky won the day. My sleeves were stuffed ice packs, one of my gloves had disappeared into the albino abyss and the sweat from my forehead competed with the frost on my eyelashes.

Clearly this was a job for Superman, but he was probably snowed in as well.

I was defeated. I would miss my class and I would wear a dunce hat the rest of my days. I was a card carrying putz.

I trudged back to my apartment deflated, broken and frozen.

Little did I know at that exact moment, ghostly radio waves high above carried a familiar voice, bringing good tidings for comfort and joy: All classes at the University of Minnesota were canceled for Friday, November 1st, 1991.

Thank you, Wally the Weatherman. I won't be a putz again.

End of Sixth Grade Football

 This past Tuesday night was the final game of the sixth grade football season. My son was thrilled at the end of the game because his team (I believe they call themselves the "Crimson Kings") beat the only remaining undefeated team of the season, the "Blue Meanies" (okay, that's not their real name; I completely made that up). 

I've concluded that my wife hates going to football games with me (or at least sitting next to me during the game). She says I'm too critical, I'm too competitive, I coach too much from the stands, and I swear way too much.

Of course, she's correct on all charges. 

(editor's note: I'd  like to interject that all of the above criticism, while true, is expressed under my breath in a barely-audible mumble. I'm not one of those obnoxious screaming idiots who embarrass themselves at a silly sixth grade game. Instead, I choose to embarrass myself privately.) 

Anyway, the kids played on the varsity field under the lights on a very crisp, breezy fall evening. I told my son these are going to be great memories for him. Some of my most emotive memories from high school are under those bright Friday night lights with my teammates: the cheering of the crowd, the sting of sweat in the eyes, the smell of the freshly cut field, the flicker of the opponent's jerseys blazing like an enemy's flag... 

But I digress. This is about my boy, not about me. 

According Neil, his team ended with a record of 4-3-1, but the tie game was "sus" (speaking in 12 year-old parlance -- my son talks weird). As the coaching staff told the parents at the beginning of the season, "the coaches don't keep score, but the players do."

19 October 2021. Representing the Crimson Kings

In all, the coaching staff (most are volunteers) did a great job dividing teams into competitive squads, adjusting rosters after two games to make sure one team wasn't a doormat while another team was clearly superior. Parity is very important at this level, and even the Blue Meanies didn't go undefeated.

Playing the undefeated (but not for long) Blue Meanies, 19 October 2021

Neil played an entirely new position on the offensive line this season, learning the basics of center. Oddly enough, this was the position I played in high school as well. 

But his job was much more difficult than mine in my playing days. My high school team ran mostly out of the I-formation with the quarterback directly under center. Neil's team ran exclusively from shotgun formation, which meant he had to snap the football backwards between his legs to the quarterback, lined up roughly four yards behind him... without looking. If you think it is easy, try it!

12 October 2021. Neil at center (red team)

By the end of the season he had adjusted his snapping technique and had gotten pretty darn good at it. (Now to encourage him to keep practicing!)

He also lined up at defensive tackle this year, playing perhaps 50% of those snaps. He said he prefers defense, much to my chagrin. We'll see what the future holds.

Perhaps best of all, he lost at least 10 pounds of baby fat over the last six weeks. He's a svelte dude right now. 

I admit I'm a little envious over his new, slimmed down look. Maybe I should follow his lead and get a little exercise?

I think I will start tomorrow. Or maybe the day after tomorrow. But only if the weather is nice.