Echoes from the Loafers’ Club Meeting

“I thought wisdom came with age.”

“You’re not becoming wiser?”

“No, as I get older, all I become is more tired.”

“Don’t worry, you can’t get much older.”

Driving by the Bruces

I have two wonderful neighbors — both named Bruce — who live across the road from each other. Whenever I pass their driveways, thoughts occur to me, such as: how hard is it to put a shopping cart in a cart corral? 

The heat is on

Many farmers didn’t run a grain dryer this year. Quite a savings in fuel costs. I’m happy for them, but I expect the costs to heat my home will rise because the providers didn’t sell enough fuel during harvest. If the farmers had encountered a year where everything needed drying, my prices would be higher because the farmers used too much.

A float and a flight

It was a pretty day. The landscape had just begun to show signs of fading to a brown. I was on the Pelican Breeze, a lovely boat that tours Albert Lea Lake. I hosted a group of cancer survivors. I brought two cliff swallows that I had retrieved from the Wildlife Rehabilitation Center. Anita Hendrickson of Albert Lea raised lots of money during the Relay For Life and was chosen to release the swallows. Anita opened the cage. The cliff swallows took flight without hesitation. They knew that each moment is precious. So did the people on that boat.

The angry harvest

One year, thanks to things (mechanical breakdowns, bad weather, etc.) conspiring to delay the corn harvest, we were left with a couple of acres covered in knee-deep snow. My father decided that we would harvest it. He plowed paths in the snow surrounding the standing corn, providing a road for a wagon within throwing distance of the field. My job was to pull the ears from the cornstalks, remove the husks, and toss the ears into the wagon. It sounded simple enough. Even I should have been able to do it. The problem was that I had never picked corn by hand, as those of earlier generations had done so well. I’d been to husking bees and was impressed by the men, who seemed ancient, who picked corn by hand with a speed and deftness that matched the athletic talents of any Minnesota Twin. The corn was wet and the ears refused to snap off the plant as I had hoped. They needed twisting and tugging before they reluctantly parted company with the stalk. It was cold. I was standing in snow. I threw some ears over the wagon, requiring me to step in more snow in order to locate the ears that had disappeared into the white stuff. I got the corn picked, but it was an angry harvest.

The theft

He had a nice office in a one-story building. It wasn’t fancy, but it suited him. He’d been there long enough to have things just the way he wanted them. He kept a small folding scissors on his desk. It was one of the best purchases he’d ever made. It’s amazing how often a fellow needs a scissors. He grew to depend upon that scissors, held in a small recess in the base of his desk lamp. It fit as if it belonged there. It was important that it be kept in the same place. He knew where it was and the scissors would be there when he needed it.

He took a deserved vacation — a week in Grand Marais.

When he returned to his office, he struggled to get back into the groove. His scissors was gone. He looked everywhere for the scissors. It was nowhere to be found.

He determined that someone had stolen his scissors. He ran the likely suspects through his mind.

The young man who maintained the coffee machine walked by. He looked guilty. He walked guilty. He was guilty.

“Where are my scissors?” said the man in an unfriendly way.

The guilty young man kept on walking.

The man was so upset, he grabbed the telephone book to call the police. The directory fell open to the part of the yellow pages showing stores selling suitcases. He’d bought a new suitcase before his vacation. It opened to that page because there was a small folding scissors bookmarking it.

The young man walked by the office again.

The man watched him. The young man looked and walked like an innocent man.

I know hymn

At the funeral of Helene Ingeborg Eastvold, Ron Bartness told me, “Times like this remind us how important neighbors are.”

Kent Otterman and Corky Modene sang “I Come to the Garden Alone.”

“I come to the garden alone. While the dew is still on the roses. And the voice I hear falling on my ear. The Son of God discloses.”

I have heard that hymn a hundred times at a hundred funerals, yet it never fails to bring a tear to my eye. I miss Helene. She brought a smile with her.

Meeting adjourned

“Make kindness your daily modus operandi and change your world.” --Annie Lennox