Since I was tiny girl attending mass with my old dad,  crowded into a pew with my many siblings, I have watched the church organist with fascination and the utmost respect.  How do they do what they do?  They're up there at the front of the church, Sunday after Sunday, organized, full of confidence, hands and feet working the keys and pedals and clicking buttons to get just the right sound.  They made it possible for me to sing at the top of my lungs, giving me a chance to make up what I lacked in pitch, with volume.

How, I wondered, could they play like they did and turn their own pages?  And think of the commitment it must take to be there every Sunday morning.  Who decided which songs we would sing?  Were they often required to learn new ones?  What if they had too much coffee to drink before they got to church that morning?  I assumed they were a little bit closer to God than the rest of us.

One day, earlier this fall, when my friend Melanie, who just happens to be an organist, and I were touring Saint Paul, we spotted the socks on the organ player (well, we saw them - they were already spotted) at the James J. Hill House on Summit Avenue in Saint Paul, Minnesota, and I realized that organ players truly are as fascinating as I had imagined.  And maybe then some.  I think they may have secret lives.

God bless the organ players who keep congregations awake and singing on Sunday mornings.  Thank you for making it possible for us to rattle the windows and shake the holy rafters.

It's no secret that my friend, Melanie, and I don't know what we're doing half the time.  The beauty of operating this way is that we are open to spur of the moment adventures.  Yesterday was no different. 

First of all, the weather was unseasonably warm for November, putting us in high spirits.  Our goal for the  day was to get to Mankato to take pictures for a project I'm working on, and on the way we ran into a pesky detour along highway 169 in St. Peter.  While Melanie was navigating the detour, we debated where we wanted to eat lunch.  I was sitting there with my brow furrowed, thinking real hard, when Melanie made one of her quick-stops, and pulled over to the curb.  "How does this look?" she wanted to know. Well, it looked to me like our expectations for the day were about to be exceeded.

I've never been more right in my life.  We entered a promising-looking establishment called Richard's Restaurant and Pub, which is certainly a cut above any place I had expected to see in a community the size of St. Peter.  (Sorry St. Peter) I'm not just being nice.  This is as fine an establishment as I've seen, and I said so to Melanie.  The bathrooms even had little white terrycloth towels to dry our fingers on.

Melanie ordered the french onion soup which looked fabulous.  I was tempted to order the same, however, even though I love onions, I'm sorry to say, they don't love me back. It's a sort of unrequited love.  Not to be outdone, I had a bowl of the best squash soup I've ever tasted.  As a rule, Melanie doesn't like squash soup, saying it reminds her of the texture of pureed baby food.  That's generally true,  but this squash soup was creamy like a bisque, rounded out with the smoky flavor of bacon.

A meal at Richard's Restaurant and Pub is worth a drive out from the Twin Cities.  Richards is located on the first floor of the historic Konsbruck Hotel, circa 1901, offering beautifully renovated accommodations for overnight stays.  Being waited on by elegant young men was the icing on the cake.  They made our fine dining experience complete.  Well done, gentlemen.

Kasey and Jayvyn invited me to visit the MN Harvest Apple Orchard near Jordan in southeastern Minnesota for my birthday a couple of months ago.  Well, heck yeah I went.

I believe in feeding the spirit.  I'm not sophisticated enough to meditate or digest self-help books, but I am able to raise my vibration to a whole new level by just plain being in the presence of nature.  Of course, I haven't always appreciated being in the midst of nature.  Back when I was a kid, nature meant walking miles of fields with the sun beating down while we picked up rocks, or pulled stubborn weeds, or detassled corn.

There were couple of years we also had huge pickle patches. Well, cucumbers actually, the pickle part came later.  For all my complaining about crawling among dew-wet cucumber vines, getting those tiny, invisible thorns worked into my fingertips, and dragging my muddy burlap gunny-sack through the rows, at the end of the day my dad made it all seem like a game. 

Dad would haul us kids, with our cucumber harvests, down to the Gedney pickle-sorting station in Wanda, Minnesota.  One by one our gunny-sacks were emptied into the old sorter and we would watch with baited breath while the old machine put up a  racket shaking and shimmying and finally spitting our cucumbers out the chutes, neatly separated into different sizes. 

The smallest were the most valuable.  One by one, we each got paid for exactly what our sack of cucumbers was worth.  I hope God puts a big ol' star next to Mr. Frerick's name for being such a good sport about counting our payments out, separately, for each of us. It took up a good deal of his time.

With our pockets full of crinkled bills and coins, we'd pile back into the station wagon and dad would take us to Chris' Cafe in our tiny hometown of Wabasso, and we'd deliberate whether a float, or a malt, or a coke and french fries was the best possible purchase for that day. I always fretted that one of my brothers was going to order something just a little better than what I got.

Well!  Enough of that. I think my point is that spending time in nature, whether we're working or playing is good for us.  It's just that I prefer the playing part.  And not even playing so much as just being.  Maybe just being with a cup of coffee laced with heavy whipping cream, and a slice of MN Harvest Apple Orchard pie.  Even better, spending time in nature with someone we love. Now that's what I call feeding the spirit. Happy birthday to me.  Thanks Kasey and Jayvyn.

LHSC Halloween Psychic Fair

Sat., Oct. 31st, 10 AM to 5 PM & Sun., Nov. 1st, 1 PM to 5 PM

     I've attended the Psychic Fair twice, and I look forward to attending again this weekend with my old college friend, Penny.  The Lake Harriet Spiritual Community, located just blocks from Lake Harriet, in the Linden Hills region of Minneapolis, welcomes all faiths.  It is inclusive, rather than exclusive, like so many religions tend to be.

While in the Linden Hills neighborhood, be sure and stop in for a treat at a local restaurant or start your holiday shopping by visiting some of the little shops.

My friend, Sarah, and her mom attended the spring Pyschic Fair, and Sarah told me her experience was unbelievable.  The medium told her incredible details about her loved ones on the other side who had some great advise for her. Now, if she'd only listen.  I got to hear from my maternal grandparents, who passed away decades ago, and that made me happy. 

If you've ever been curious about visiting a psychic, this is a good safe place to do it - and you have a choice of over a dozen intuitives for tarot card readings, healers, mediums and other specialties.  What could be a more perfect way to celebrate Halloween, when the veil is the thinnest between us and the unknown?

When Melanie and I were driving along the river-bottom road near Morton, Minnesota, we came across a couple of men in space suits.  OK, they weren't really space suits, but they looked like spacesuits.  We were curious, so we pulled up next to them and I said, "Hi there.  Whuddya doing?"  Pretty cheeky, right? And kind of corny too, since it seemed pretty obvious they were doing something with beehives, and also, it was none of my business.

Fortunately, these men weren't as scary as they looked, and educated us on the ways of bees.  Since it's autumn, it seems it's time for the bees to move from the north, here in Minnesota, south to Texas to make honey.

Imagine that.  I had no idea that bees worked a circuit.  After Texas, they'll be heading on to California to make California honey.  What in the world?

We also learned that the hybrid crops farmers plant now do not provide the kind of nourishment for bees that the old fashioned crops did.  The bee keeper explained it was probably a type of mite that has been wiping out the bee population, as reported in the news fairly recently.  We also learned that bee keepers are nice, and smart, and get to travel to different states.  Turns out there is a lot more to this business than I had ever imagined.

Chief Ernest Wabasha, of the Mdewakanton Tribe in Morton, Minnesota

Melanie and I traveled to southwestern Minnesota to visit with her good friends, Chief Ernest Wabasha and his beautiful  wife, Vernell, at the Dacotah Ridge golf club, which, I was advised, is one of the finest courses in the state.  It certainly is lovely in its primitive setting.  

Vernell Wabasha

We were also joined by a couple of engaging young women, Teri and Marisa, from their clinic, where Melanie had worked years ago.  Melanie arranged the visit at my request, to help me get a sense of the Native American perspective of history in the Minnesota river valley. 

Teri and Marisa from the Lower Sioux Clinic

I felt a little bit like a groupie allowed backstage.  Chief Wabasha looked stern and dignified, though when he spoke, he turned out to be a bit of a joker.  You can see the kindness written all over his wife's face, and I wondered how they could approach life with such joy after hearing about the hurdles their nation has had to overcome to become the leaders they are today. 

As for me,  I felt very humbled and guilty by association.  The truth of the Native American story is a hard one to listen to, and I don't believe we white kids have been given the stories straight.  How did this group of people, terrorized by intruders, and attempting to save their families and land become known as savages? I'm just asking.  But, it seems like the lie we hear first is the story we remember, and it is a trick still being used today.  Lie first, retract later.  The damage is done.

Warehouse at the Lower Sioux History Center

It's been years since the holocaust in the Minnesota river valley, which reduced the Native American population by roughly 95%, and it's clear many scars still remain.  How could they not?  But it seems that, even though we could expect to be viewed as a perpetual enemy of the tribes, they have wisely chosen, instead, to practice the art of forgiveness. Which isn't the same as forgetting. 

Melanie asked what has changed the most in the Minnesota river valley since white people have become stewards of the land, and Vernell stated it was the river, itself.  What once flowed clear and deep in a beautiful valley is now shallow and tired.  Ever the optimist, I believe the pendulum will be swinging back.  Bit by bit. 

I left our lunch saddened and enlightened, and thrilled to have just spend a couple of hours with the Wabashas.  Darn.  I should have asked for an autograph.

Earlier this year, while Melanie and I were exploring the eastern shore of the Mississippi river, we drove through a sweet little village called Maiden Rock, Wisconsin, where Melanie made one of her sudden turn arounds and pulled up in front of Basil's, an antique shop operated by Minnesota artist, Laurence Schultz.

I found Schultz's art extremely appealing with it's rich colors and impressionistic style. His red rowboats were my favorite. 

But, what really won me over at Basil's were the cutout images of the artist's mom, a former opera singer.  She was all over the store.

Isn't she fabulous?

I loved the feeling at Basil's with it's warm colors, variety of antiques, and vintage setting on the bluff overlooking the Mississippi river.  I'd say more about it, but I think the pictures speak for themselves.

So much for subtlety, but have you seen this place and felt the history?  Oh my goodness, the deal-making and romances that must have gone on in these rooms.

  My friend Melanie, and I, had the opportunity to tour the University Club on Summit Avenue one hot afternoon, recently.  By the time we got there, my clothes were sticking to me and my bangs were plastered to my forehead, so I was feeling somewhat less than glamorous, but once I started looking around, I almost forgot who I was.

For just a moment, I was a confidante of  F. Scott and Zelda's.  Better yet, I was a fellow writer, a flapper looking for a good time.  I even smoked cigarettes.

I was there, alright.  My coworkers call me an apparition.  I don't actually disappear, but I'm a big daydreamer, so I think I do. 

While touring the University Club I imagined I could see a fine haze of cigar smoke in the air while the impressive James J. Hill talked business in a booming voice with his friends.  They held snifters of amber cognac and their women were in their own corner gossiping and talking babies.  If I am an apparition, it isn't moving silently from room to room, it's a drift from the present to the past.  These little flights of fancy don't alarm my good friend, Melanie.  In fact, I'm fairly certain she travels with me.  Good old Melanie.  She really gets me.

I recently took a tour of the Wood Lake Wildlife Center with 7 year old Jojo who talked the entire time.  He educated me about owls who won't eat dead mice (they like to kill their own), and about vultures (who he says we must respect) who can eat dead mice because they have a very high concentration of stomach acid that prevents them from getting sick from the bacteria in dead animals.  Wow.  I didn't know that.

I once worked with a fabulous woman, named Bea Brown, who said if you can't remember, or don't know, the details of a subject while giving a lecture, just make something up.  She laughed then, so I knew she was kidding.  I think.  At any rate, I believe Jojo may have graduated from the Bea Brown School of Oratory, because he also advised me that frog season was over, but it is still toad season in southern Minnesota.  Really?

One thing we both agreed on was this.  The boardwalk across the lake was plastered with duck poop.  And that's no lie.

Click here to win free books for a year.

Click here to listen to episode 14.

It's autumn at the Woodlake Wildlife Nature Center in Richfield, Minnesota.  Seven year old Jojo and I take a nature hike and he explains big birds to me.

My friend, Melanie, and I visit the Nicolin Mansion Bed & Breakfast in Jordan, MN.

We stop at Dreamy Hill Trails at the Minnesota Harvest Orchard along old Highway 169.

We end the show with part two of our interview with Brian Szott, Fine Arts Curator for the Minnesota Historical Society.  Brian tells us about the WPA arts project from the Great Depression in the 1930's.

Guest Post by Patrick Moore www.cureriver.org

 

 

CURE Country is getting all excited for the Meander -- the Upper MN River Arts Crawl that is being held along the river from Granite Falls to Ortonville the weekend of Oct. 2, 3 & 4th. 

This is a great weekend to explore the rich culture and beauty of the region.  

We have some new blog posts on the CURE web site.  Check out Duane Ninneman's Energy Matrix post and look for more to come from him as we enter into a new and exciting era for community based renewable energy development in the region.   
 
There is an article summarizing CURE's position beyond Big Stone II in this week's web version of the Granite Falls Advocate Tribune. 

I saw them again. This time in my very own apartment house lobby wearing purple outfits and red hats. They were waiting for a ride to The Civic Theater in Bloomington, Minnesota to go seeThoroughly Modern Millie.  It was the Red Hat Society women. 

Oh, how they frighten me.  Don't get me wrong, they are perfectly adorable.  But, niggling in the back of my mind is the thought that my friend, Melanie, will, in a few years, start nagging me to join them.  I can just see us driving around Minnesota on our little jaunts with our big red hats and our purple jump-suits or peddle-pushers, or whatever, and people will smile at us.  I don't really want to be noticed.

One time I drove out to visit Melanie and Crabby Dave and they wouldn't leave me alone until I put on this vintage hat, glamorous sunglasses, and fur-piece that Melanie had picked up at some odd shop somewhere.  And then!  They took a picture of me and laughed.  What in the world? 

So you can appreciate my reservation when I see this group of happy women enjoying themselves as they wait for some excursion together.  It's terrifying.

I  wish when my friend, Melanie, and I visited the historic Commodore Hotel in Saint Paul, Minnesota recently, that I would have done my homework first.  I thought it was enough for me that the writer F. Scott Fitzgerald lived there with his colorful wife, Zelda who defined the flapper standard during the roaring 20's.

 According to an article by Steve Lange published on the Rochester Magazine website:

The Fitzgeralds attended parties at the swank University Club (420 Summit). They rented a house at White Bear Lake, then got evicted when the water pipes burst after an all-night winter party. 

After the eviction, the Fitzgeralds moved into the Commodore Hotel (79 Western Avenue North), a stylish spot for the coat-and-tie crowd. The Commodore billed itself as “A high class Residential Service that features, among other things, the ‘Homelike spirit’ and a location in the most aristocratic and quiet section of the city.”

“In the fall of the year we got to the Commodore in St. Paul,” Fitzgerald wrote, “and while leaves blew up the street we waited for our child to be born.”

But there is so much more to the Commodore and its status in the 1920's. 

While researching the hotel, I came across an article written by Tim Brady and published in Minnesota Monthly Magazine, April 2007, entitled Crime Capital.  It refers to a part of the city's past that some may not care to talk about, but which I found fascinating.  Saint Paul was a gangster-friendly community. 

 The agreement with the local police was that the cops wouldn't bother the crooks, as long as the crooks didn't bother the residents of Saint Paul.  And one of their favorite watering holes was the art deco lounge at the Commodore.

Unfortunately, the arrangement with the police didn't always work.  My late uncle Gerald, a marvelous story teller with a laugh the size of a small town, was in Saint Paul the day the Ma Barker Gang robbed the payroll at the Post Office and officer Leo Pavlak was killed.  Old uncle Gerald could spin a good yarn.

But wait, there's more!

 I've decided sometimes it's good to pay attention.  Earlier in the week, Melanie and I had visited with Brian Szott, fine arts curator for the Minnesota Historical Society in Saint Paul, and he had mentioned the acquisition of a substantial number of paintings from the WPA  Arts Project painted during the depression.  Imagine our surprise when we found one hanging on the wall of the Commodore!  Unfortunately I don't have the details in terms of who painted it or the exact year, because I didn't pay that much attention.  But if it hadn't been for our visit at the MHS, we would never have been able to appreciate the work like we did.

Bottom line, after we left the Commodore, Melanie and I thought we were really something.  Well, we are.  Just ask us.