Five Things I Like about Minneapolis, um, actually, St.Paul

Gay humor and philosophy
I know I need to be very careful here. I have only a few gay friends. I live in a redneck, racist, sexist Midwestern town of old boys and their tractors. There is no way any of us escaped unscathed and unbiased. Me, prejudiced? I think not. Think again. My gay friends are tired, trying to stay afloat on an island surrounded by hostile judgmental waters. They are all old souls that have dodged the small town bullets. The first person that I knew was gay was Lance, brother to a friend of mine back in the 80's. I might have known other gay persons, but as Jane said, they are well hidden. Lance lived in Minneapolis and I always hustled to sit next to him whenever he visited. Once I was lamenting the loss of my ear lobe. A heavy 80's earring had quietly and bloodlessly tore through the skin and now I could only wear clip-ons like all the old ladies. Nonsense, he said, I love it when you take off your earring and massage the lobe, just like the film stars of the 40's. It's so-o-o sexy. He was a hairdresser and stylish and classy. How should I cut my hair, I asked him. We need to see more of your face, he said. Not understanding, I realized later it was a compliment. He was one of the early victims of AIDS, tearing out his IVs at the end.


Byerly's
Especially the cherry chicken pasta salad and cranberry walnut oatmeal cookies. Jane, Jill and I sat around the kitchen table sampling the cookie trying to figure out the recipe. It is sweet like a chocolate chip cookie recipe and possibly has more brown sugar to give it a darker color and a molasses taste. Look at these peppers, a work of art. "Designed by a starving artist," quipped the produce clerk.




Jane's veterinarian who sees only cats
Cats everywhere and even a wide screen TV showing film only a cat would appreciate: wild turkey chicks fluttering about a field. The receptionist Monica and I have a discussion about rabies shots and the fact that her sister had a bat in her attic and announced to the family, "send Monica to get it. She works for a vet and she has had her rabies shots."




The chicken and wild rice soup at Fabulous Fern's
Full of crunchy almonds and carrots. Jane has the beer brat and offers me a taste saying it is delicious. Note to self: next time Jane visits prepare her a Kremer's brat, spicy and sassy and much better than that slushy, tasteless thing some Norwegian came up with. Bruno, our waiter, laments that yes, it truly is his name bestowed on him by Brazilian parents.






Garrison Keillor's book store, Common Goods
"Everything human is pathetic. The secret source of humor itself is not joy but sorrow. There is no humor in heaven." Usually, I find Mark Twain to be filled with laughs and dry sensibility but I am at a loss here. I have read articles by comedians that say they, too, draw their material from tragedy, comedy from tragedy. I do not understand this concept. Feel free to comment.

Of Like Mind

Jane, myself and Fabulous Fern

I met Jane in 1984 when the recession was in full swing and the State of Iowa decided they needed more eligibility workers to determine welfare benefits for the growing number of recipients. We both took jobs with the huge Human Services department and our lives changed forever. We were lugging our huge manuals around trying to find the next meeting and Jane introduced herself and she said I said, "I feel like an embryo being shaped and formed by forces beyond my control." Jane said she went away from that meeting thinking, I need to get to know that woman, such a compliment for me. As the months passed our friendship became safe and secure and we realized that we were women of like mind. A year later she was moving to a larger city and her reasons were two: Dubuque has too many hills (she had a near-accident one wintry morning) and the gays are too hidden. Who will be my friend, I asked her. Jane was the center of my social universe and I really had not cultivated any other relationships at work. She was enough. You will be all right, she said, and I was, but not for awhile.

We have maintained this friendship over twenty-six years, over several moves for Jane, relationship mishaps for the both of us, and job changes. It is a treasured, timeless letter-writing relationship and she is the oldest friend I have.

With my mother's death I hesitated about visiting. Jane's own mother had been a monster and Jane's background is a horror story of every kind of domestic abuse a social work text book could describe. I knew I could not help talking about my mother when I visited Jane and I didn't know if upon hearing those stories it would bring back painful remembrances of her own youth. I always talked sparingly about my parents because her own had been desperate, miserable souls and the contrast was of huge proportion. Jane has given me permission to tell some of her story and in fact, she says I may create things to make her appear more interesting, but that would be impossible to do. These things need to be said and then you can understand what an incredible woman she is.

Jane was abandoned by her mother as a newborn and sent to live with an older, alcoholic aunt and uncle in Lamont, Iowa. Her father had told her mother before Jane's birth that if she delivered another girl instead of a son that baby could not stay in the household. When Jane was 11 her mother and father decided to reunite and Jane was taken from her only recognizable home against her will. Two years later her mother left Jane's father for another man and they moved to California and later married. Jane was left with the father and an older abusive brother who attempted to make sexual advances towards her. She made it clear that should he prevail she would kill him. The father was a trucker gone during the week, mercifully, and Jane was alone as the brother had gone off on his own and she did not communicate this to her teachers or other adults. The father was a sadistic, mean loner who took out his anguish over his absent wife on Jane. He is still alive, 97 years old and living in a nursing home and the staff is terrified of him. Jane's mother died in California ten years ago of a lingering cancer and Jane had traveled there at the time to try and reconnect with her mother. She wanted to see if they could finally reestablish a mother-daughter relationship and the mother could answer all Jane's questions about why, why, why . . . I could not help but express anger when Jane told me of her planned trip. "Just because she is your mother, you do not have to love her," I told her. But Jane went and she stayed two weeks and then she had to return to work, and the old hag died the next day. Jane's stepfather is currently imprisoned for sexual abuse of Jane's younger sisters. When the stepfather left for work Jane's mother beat the girls if they had not resisted him and also if they had. Jane had rejoined her mother briefly and when she graduated from high school in her seventeenth year she came home to find that her mother had packed all of her belongings in garbage bags and left them sitting in the snow on the front porch.

Being in social services all these years I have seen the havoc abusive parenting has on the little innocents. Many are destined to be abusers themselves, never learning how to parent with patience and intelligence and love. They are convicted criminals, welfare manipulators, chronically unhappy and scared people. So I am always blown away when one of the innocents survives and on her own arrives at adulthood an incredible person.

And this would be Jane. She is a quiet, inward soul who is constantly striving to bring the shreds of her family back together. She is educated, well read, and loves her cats, her gardens, theatre and opera. She is a member of an adult choir of gay, lesbian, bi-sexual and transgender individuals who perform regularly around the state, including children's groups, in hopes of communicating to closeted young people that it's all right, it's all right to be homosexual. She is an advocate for the liberal left, animals' rights, women's rights, well, any body's rights. She talks to my grandchildren in an interested, uncondescending manner and together they share a love of Junnie B. books. I have never heard her utter an unkind word. In her year at Human Services she would freqently go outside her job description to help a welfare recepient, for example, plan a budget. Her younger sister, another victim, was recently released from prison for check forgery and choosing the wrong man. Jane invited her into her home and with Jane's encouragement Jill is completing a degree in social work next year and has been accepted for graduate study. The cruelty of Jane's heritage escaped her and she retains no trace of those hellish traits. She is in therapy and probably always will be looking for that lost little girl who never felt safe.

I salute you, Jane, for a life well lived. Continue to shine your light.
(Jane doesn't read my blogs, another commendable trait.)

Up North With the Loons and the Geese

Up in Minnie-soda Jane and I check out Prairie Home Companion with bigger than life Garrison Keillor and yes, we were able to buy tickets in line just as we had the year before. We have unbelievably good luck and the ticket sellers seem drawn to us. They want to make us happy and we are. This is actually the annual fall festival outside the theatre after the show and Garrison is directing the loon-calling contest. Later there will be a Charleston contest. The big guy hosts this event every year and the meatloaf dinner with mashed potatoes and gravy and a

delightful milk powder biscuit woos me back every year. A truly fine meatloaf is a work of art.

Jane has an ongoing love affair with the SuperAmerica chains and their discount super soda deals. I ask her how many of the plastic glasses she owns, and she says, oh about 20. I know this to be incorrect as I count 28 on the counter including the two being used to dry the rubber gloves. Like all my friends, Jane is very creative about household tricks and fix-it ideas. I highly admire this trait in any human being. And after I count the glasses in the bag in the car it is over 40. But in her favor, she reuses the glasses and has not had to bring a new one into her home for quite some time. She does occasionally steal extra straws from McDonald's as they are much larger than the average bear, uh, straw. And that is the only character defect that the dear one has.

Escape

I open the cupboard last night and the little plastic do hickey holding up the shelf collapses and a barrage of hard, ceramic bowls come crashing on my head. Oh, hurt, hurt, hurt. I now have a giant goose egg on my forehead to match the ones on all four limbs from my shots. And tomorrow I get another one. I look like someone threw me down a stairwell. Dave worries people may think he beats me. I cry and whoop like - well, a motherless child and I realize this cry has been a long time coming. The next morning I accidentally flush a dish towel down the toilet. Don't ask. I forget that I did that and I use the commode again only to cause a flash flood coursing through my house. I do the only thing a person can do at this point. I jump in the car and head for East Dubuque and check into Mulgrew's for a foot long chili dog, no onions, please. I realize that I am emotionally and physically spent, a train wreck in human's clothing. I miss my mother so much I can't stand it. I am leaving for Minneapolis tomorrow to visit my good friend Jane and I am glad. She is a soft place to land and a source of maternal comfort for this poor old soul. We will see a Garrison Keillor show in St. Paul and taste the marvelous meat loaf and listen to the loon-calling contest during the street dance afterwards. It has become a custom for us. In Garrison's honor, I buy red tennis shoes. What do they say? Only prostitutes and children should wear red shoes. Well, there you go . . .

Chapter Two: The Rabies Chronicles

WARNING: THIS POST RATED "R" FOR STRONG VISUAL CONTENT



Animal Control calls and I am downstairs preparing to lift weights to a 45-minute DVD, my day off. I hear the machine pick up ( I am a true Giegerich and I do not answer the phone) and something tells me I need to take this call. The woman I talk to is named Jenny. She does not sound like a Jenny, more like a Sal or Madge. She is straight forward and on the ball and despite her bad news I think I like her. They did not find the dog, she says, they went to the address and there were no dogs. The owner of the animal, the mousy woman from Sunday evening didn't look smart enough to lie. I don't understand the concept of lying. Why deny the truth? That just complicates things. I am naive, I know that, and I tend to believe in the goodness and reliability of the human race. I made that comment to my bro Davie and he said, "you would think Auschwitz would have changed your mind on that one." I was raised by good and decent people who don't lie. I don't lie. I used to lie, but as I got older it didn't make any sense and now if I try to slide a quick little white one past Big Dave, it does not work. I am opaque and transparent. Oh, Davie Gie, note the little bat on this picture.


Jenny also said that the police did not forward the information to them until this day - three days later. The victim has a 72-hour window after the bite to begins the rabies shots. That left me just a few hours. Dave is not happy and he calls the police to get an explanation. We had a new dispatcher and she did not understand the communications process, was the reason. Still not satisfied he went down to the station and received a different excuse this time, and no, there was not a new dispatcher on duty that night. Every time I start to gain a measure of respect for the Dubuque police department an incident such as this happens that sets me back again. I cannot tolerate these Rambo personalities that do not accept responsibility for a botched job.


I am put in the worst category that I can imagine a human being inhabiting . . . VICTIM. I don't make a very good victim and I like that about myself.



I finish my exercise DVD - might as well get the stress release, shower, put on the good cologne and call my doctor. I am informed that doctor offices no longer do rabies shots. I maneuver through the Dubuque noon time traffic and I'm back at the Emergency Room. And as you can see, this is the SERIOUS exam room. I have an actual mattress with linen sheets. This is a lengthy procedure. I need a doctor's order for the medication and then the pharmacy needs to mix it up on the spot because it's the fresh stuff that works the best. A really perky, annoying clerk talks to me about payment procedures - I should not be paying this bill and she uses terms like "daddy's little girl" and "my honey" as she talks about her personal life and I finally say, whatever it takes to move things along.



I know, I know. This is how an arm looks after a rabies shot. Can you believe I took a picture of this? How far will I go to attract new readers to my blog? Hey, it distracted me, give me a break. I am disturbingly like my brother who takes his blog camera into the shower. And you know who you are. Even I'm getting sick looking at this.



The first two shots I receive - one in each hip - will cause my body to be truly interested in creating antibodies to fight this potential virus. There 's 3 millileters of the thick goopy stuff in each injection so therefore the arm is not a good retainer. The needles stay in awhile as the syrupy liquid takes time to slide downward.

I realize now that this strange little lady probably lied about everything . . . about her dogs being up to date on the shots. If they were truly from an abused home who would care about shots?
Cowboy Dave refuses to give up and he is on Carter Road, the alleged street of the liar, knocking on doors, grilling the neighborhood. It's the cowboy in him and he is reliving his posse days.
I feel the eternal innocent. Sad person, tonight. I really need to see a movie with a happy ending. Suggestions, anyone? I have four more shots scheduled to complete the series. And as if that was not enough, this little eight-year-old bugger beat me in Monopoly in sixty-eight minutes flat.
No mercy.

Chapter One: The Rabies Chronicles

Doing my walk on the flood wall the other night resulted in a most unpleasant incident. I was nearing the end of my exercise. I was winding down and moving slower for the cool-down. I see another pedestrian approaching with two lively dogs on leash. I nod my head and smile. Now I respect dogs. I pay them little attention and usually do not make eye contact. To do that interferes with the owner's ability to control their animal. Although there are times I would like to stop and make conservation with the little furry guys I cannot be sure what the relationship is between owner and pet. These dogs were coming at me in a frenzy, a whirling dervish, so to say, and I could tell the owner was having difficulty with the retractable leashes and instead of reeling them in they were coming at me at high speed. And they were barking. Not just yap,yap, yap but the kind of bark that involves growling and gnashing of teeth. A definite warning message of nastiness to come. They are circling me and all is chaos as I become tangled in the leashes. I am laughing nervously and the owner, a mousy little middle-aged lady does not

know how to rectify the situation. Then the miniature collie jumps at me and I feel teeth bite through my jeans and into my skin, behind the knee. I recoil and look at the owner unbelievably, your dog bit me! I am not understanding that this happened, not quite believing what happened. I am angry. "Your dog bit me! What is wrong with that dog? Your dog bit me! What if he goes after a child? Your dog bit me!" I keep repeating myself. The owner is flustered, "he's only bit one other person!" she says.

So let's wait until he bites - oh, say eight or nine people and then we'll talk. I can feel blood moving down my leg. She says the animals were abused in their last home and this is why he bites. Huh? I am thankful that kind folks take in formerly abused animals but this woman should not have done so. This dog needs a firm, consistent method and she is not capable of that kind of behavior. She is a milquetoast, irresponsible, excuse-making dolt who is clearly misguided. "You cannot control your animals and you shouldn't be walking them in public places," I tell her. She keeps coming toward me with the dogs and I back away trying to stay away from those crazy animals and those unreliable leashes. I can tell that this dog liked biting me. He is smiling wickedly and trying to leap at me for even more conflict. She wants to see my leg. She does not believe I was bit. I tell her she needs to stay back or I will kick the dog if he attacks me again. She looks at me alarmingly not understanding why I would hurt her baby. I gather my wits, get her identifying information and limp shakily to my car. She continues to walk her satanic hounds, looking for new victims. How did this happen? Back home I call the police and they will forward the information to Animal Control and pick up the animal for impoundment in the morning. I check myself into the ER - not how I wanted to spend my evening just back from vacation. "You haven't been here before," says the receptionist, "usually people that come to the ER have multiple admissions." I will try and not make this a routine. In the examining room the nurse chatters away. "Did you know that 90% of dog bites do not get infected and that 90% of cat bites do get infected?" Clearly cats are licking things they shouldn't be. Why is it that nobody can remember when they got their last tetanus shot? Back home with a sore arm and a bunch of paper work. Who needs a drink . . .

Three days later Animal Control calls, not good.

To be continued . . .

Feeding Sonny

Feeding Sonny is a trip, literally a trip, and more so on an actual trip. In the past when my parents vacationed with us they would come equipped with a large cooler (yes, even larger than the one Dad takes to work for his lunch!) and it was filled with several kinds of muffins, fresh fruit, cheese, sausage - more stuff than I have in my own fridge.

My mother's life's commitment was the care and feeding of my father. We siblings would sometimes scoff when she wasn't around and sometimes when she was around. What is the purpose of promoting dependence and helplessness in a full-grown person? Where does that get you? But German farmer housewives of the 50's did those things and man, I am so glad we stepped away from that although there are some residual traits still evident in my own housekeeping. Thank you, mother. As all social workers know, the fruit don't fall too far from the tree.

Dad has to eat at certain times of the day, or else he would be - uncomfortable - is the word he used. No one questioned this or asked him to explain. It had to do with his GI tract and he preferred to take care of that procedure in the morning following breakfast and if that did not occur, everyone was uncomfortable. My father also cannot use public

restrooms for that before mentioned procedure and that can make a car trip a daunting experience. We tried to accommodate as best we could. We only had one tricky episode and nobody really wants to hear about that. Want to get to know someone, really know someone? Take a three thousand mile vacation and share a small cabin for a few nights.

Surprisingly, Dad wasn't a stickler about meal schedules this time. Every time I would ask - do you want to eat now or later? - he said he did not care, he wasn't hungry. This was unusual for him. He had bought Raisin Bran and instant coffee and

blackberry jam at the mart in Creede and he dutifully ate his breakfast at 7:00 every morning. Dave was suffering from a hellish cough and I was doing nights on the couch in the cabin. Dave and Dad made countless trips to the commode every night - I dubbed this the Parade of Enlarged Prostates - your turn's coming, I said to Jason. Did I get much sleep? Probably not. Did I sleep in the car? Usually I don't, but I did this trip.

One thing Dad kept talking about was homemade pie, pie, pie, pie. That's all he wanted for supper - that and a cuppa you-know-what. Homemade pies are difficult to come by, I think, in the restaurant industry and even though a menu may boast such a item I question this as the edging on that crust looks all too perfect. We didn't find much pie except for items like apples with caramely butter sauce and Dad does not do sweet. On the way home, I asked him, what kind of pie do you want, Sonny? Raspberry Jello pie, he said, right away. "Your mother's been promising two years to make that pie." I imagine she was waiting for the price of raspberries to go down which never happens and I was surprised he wanted a pie with jell-o, but I can do this. Coincidence that the recipe was first under PIES in Mom's 500-card recipe box? Okay, the raspberries were $3.49 a box and I needed four boxes. Cowboy Dave does not read these posts so I can get away with my naughty purchases. Life is short. Buy the raspberries.