Sunday, August 16, 2015
Minnesota 2015 - Lake Series #2
A sunny Sunday morning. A couple in a small fishing boat quietly row on the lake while a family of ducks. our occasional companions in this green oasis of nature, come ashore searching for food. The hen stands on a lakeside rock keeping a mother's watchful eye on her brood. The sky is a cloudless blue, the wooded shore deep green. I hear the call of loons and the soft murmur of voices from the cabins down the shore. Sound travels here, the air at once thin yet also rich, clean and pure. Wind flutters the leaves of trees. The ducks swim off forming a single line through the patch of waterlilies in the shallow water along the lake's edge. One moves a little way off before rejoining it's parents and siblings, testing it's eventual independence. A hummingbird, it's breast brilliant red visits the feeder on the deck while another loon calls, flapping it's wings as it rears up and skims along the surface of the lake then dives to feed on the bounty of the lakebed.
Sunday, August 9, 2015
Minnesota 2015 - Lake Series #1
It's the sort of quiet you can only find in a remote location, away from the voice of cities and people. There is sound but no noise. A Chicago style window, ironic considering I am in Minnesota, looks out over a deck railing, a lake and the wooded expanse of the lake's opposite shore. Tiny birds hop along the railing picking through the sunflower seeds in the tin plates nailed to it. The ones that the chipmunks had not polished off the night before. Chipmunk leftovers, the birds don't seem to mind.
At a quick glance the sky and the lake are the same shade of soft gray. The scene might be seen to be painted by nature in a limited palate of two colors, gray and green. But as my gaze lingers I see seemingly infinite variations of these two hues. Light pierces the sky making the gray at the treetops paler than that of the expanse above it. The green is a subtle mixture of new growth and old. A shrub filled sandbar juts out, darker growth permeates the far shore. A small bit of morning fog, appearing like a cloud of dust, rises above one section of the shoreline. The woods are a blend of shadow and light, some of it's deepest recesses almost black.
Even the small birds are gray, black and white. I am treated to a quick shot of brown as a chipmunk darts along the deck rail. A loon calls and the tiny birds sing. I sat, a camp blanket over my legs, coffee at my side, looking out the window and experiencing this place where cell phones do not work. We have no bars, we have traded them for this beauty.
At a quick glance the sky and the lake are the same shade of soft gray. The scene might be seen to be painted by nature in a limited palate of two colors, gray and green. But as my gaze lingers I see seemingly infinite variations of these two hues. Light pierces the sky making the gray at the treetops paler than that of the expanse above it. The green is a subtle mixture of new growth and old. A shrub filled sandbar juts out, darker growth permeates the far shore. A small bit of morning fog, appearing like a cloud of dust, rises above one section of the shoreline. The woods are a blend of shadow and light, some of it's deepest recesses almost black.
Even the small birds are gray, black and white. I am treated to a quick shot of brown as a chipmunk darts along the deck rail. A loon calls and the tiny birds sing. I sat, a camp blanket over my legs, coffee at my side, looking out the window and experiencing this place where cell phones do not work. We have no bars, we have traded them for this beauty.
MInnesota 2015 - Headwaters of the Mississippi
The Mississippi River, it's name conjures up images of a broad waterway, lazily making it's easy way down the center of the North American continent before emptying into the Gulf of Mexico at the fabled city of New Orleans. I had seen it's end on a trip to New Orleans a number of years ago. The middle part of it's journey I have viewed from several different vantage points, St. Louis, Eagle point in Dubuque, and, closer to home, Starved Rock State Park. On this trip, far north in Minnesota, I had the opportunity to see it's headwaters. To visit the spot where the legendary liquid behemoth begins.
Water trickles over a line of rocks along the shore of one of Minnesota's ubiquitous lakes. There is one mile of water for every 15 miles of dry land in the state. The water forms a small ankle deep pool before flowing, between banks of tangled grass, towards it's destination a continent away.
It is not a place conducive to contemplation. The hordes of people present make quiet thought difficult. It is actually, from a scenic point of view, rather underwhelming. It is the idea of what this small, shallow, unassuming stream becomes that it the magic of the place.
Water trickles over a line of rocks along the shore of one of Minnesota's ubiquitous lakes. There is one mile of water for every 15 miles of dry land in the state. The water forms a small ankle deep pool before flowing, between banks of tangled grass, towards it's destination a continent away.
It is not a place conducive to contemplation. The hordes of people present make quiet thought difficult. It is actually, from a scenic point of view, rather underwhelming. It is the idea of what this small, shallow, unassuming stream becomes that it the magic of the place.
Friday, August 7, 2015
Minnesota 2015 - Bemidji and Paul Bunyan
Bemidji, Minnesota is a county seat. It, like several others I saw during this trip, has it's small, or in this case, looming civic treasures. There is what remains of the courthouse. Unfortunately the original historic structure has been marred by modern additions. There are several charming older homes, a modest Carnegie Mellon library and, what, as we were informed by the elderly man in the visitor's center, is the biggest roadside attraction in the state, a massive statue of the folktale hero Paul Bunyan and his blue bull Babe.
It is a photo op, pure and simple. You pose by the giant statues, get your picture taken, perhaps grab a bite to eat and continue on your way. A nicely built man, I could tell he was not a local due to the flatness of his stomach, offered to take me and my travel buddy's photo together. He was from Minneapolis and traveling the state capturing photos of local color for a Minnesota themed cookbook.
Lunch that day was at an establishment that advertised itself as a "pub". As we scanned the menu on the sidewalk someone passing by recommended it as a good place to eat. We stepped inside. An assortment of characters lined the bar. There was a group of redneck looking men, drunk, loud and wearing identical black tee shirts from a rock band tour, a trio of vastly overweight men waiting for their wives to return from shopping at the lakefront art fair taking place that afternoon, a crew cut man, who might have been considered attractive until alcohol grabbed hold of him leaving behind sagging skin and a loose, jiggling spare tire around his midsection. Apparently the woman he was with overlooked these shortcomings as she grabbed his ass upon his return from a restroom visit.
There was a small stage, the place occasionally features live entertainment. A corrugated sheet metal and garage sale cast offs decorating scheme completed the redneck atmosphere. We ate, attempting to act as butch and heterosexual as possible, then hightailed it out the door.
It is a photo op, pure and simple. You pose by the giant statues, get your picture taken, perhaps grab a bite to eat and continue on your way. A nicely built man, I could tell he was not a local due to the flatness of his stomach, offered to take me and my travel buddy's photo together. He was from Minneapolis and traveling the state capturing photos of local color for a Minnesota themed cookbook.
Lunch that day was at an establishment that advertised itself as a "pub". As we scanned the menu on the sidewalk someone passing by recommended it as a good place to eat. We stepped inside. An assortment of characters lined the bar. There was a group of redneck looking men, drunk, loud and wearing identical black tee shirts from a rock band tour, a trio of vastly overweight men waiting for their wives to return from shopping at the lakefront art fair taking place that afternoon, a crew cut man, who might have been considered attractive until alcohol grabbed hold of him leaving behind sagging skin and a loose, jiggling spare tire around his midsection. Apparently the woman he was with overlooked these shortcomings as she grabbed his ass upon his return from a restroom visit.
There was a small stage, the place occasionally features live entertainment. A corrugated sheet metal and garage sale cast offs decorating scheme completed the redneck atmosphere. We ate, attempting to act as butch and heterosexual as possible, then hightailed it out the door.
Thursday, August 6, 2015
Minnesota 2015 - The Judy Garland Museum
When I was making plans for this trip my travel buddy mentioned that the Judy Garland Museum was located a short, by Minnesota standards, distance away. Many of my friends suggested, and I personally felt, that as a gay man it was my obligation to pay it a visit. More than one referred to it as "Gay Mecca".
Judy spent the first 4 years of her life in Grand Rapids, Minnesota. Her parents were part owners and operators of The New Grand Theatre, a vaudeville house in the small city. They lived in a modest home, which has been moved to the museum's site, a shopping mall stands on it's original lot, from 1919 to 1926. The home was originally built by a steamboat captain in 1892.
One of the first of, as we were soon to become aware, many impressive artifacts on display is an original script from the MGM and Judy Garland classic "The Wizard of Oz". Understandably the lions share, pun intended, of the museum is dedicated to this movie. There is case after case of trademark kitsch. Dolls, games, cookie jars and toys, all tied to the film. There were wall pockets, bric a brac and key chains each referencing the iconic movie. It all appears to be on loan from the same person. This got me to thinking, "How much Wizard of Oz crap does this woman own? This is one sick obsession! This woman needs professional help!"
There was one piece that spoke to me in a special way. A plastic showboat with backdrops based on scenes from the movie. We had a similar toy growing up. A theatre stage with changeable sets, backdrops and set pieces made from cardboard allowing us to create our own unique imaginary landscapes. Another unusual piece was a replica of Professor Marvel's wagon reimagined as a rolling magazine rack.
After this almost exhaustive display we got to the good stuff! As I turned a corner I saw, set on a turntable like those used a car shows, the carriage in which Dorothy and her posse ride upon their arrival in the Emerald City. The "Horse of a different color" sequence. I almost wet my pants. My travel buddy looking at the information placard on the wall said to me "Read this!" The carriage was owned by a "prop jobber" who would rent props and set pieces to the studios. Bette Davis also rode in it in "Jezebel". During a renovation in 1990 a small plaque was found affixed to the carriage stating that it started life as a gift from several supporters to Abraham Lincoln. A group of benefactors got together to purchase it and give it to the museum. It is, to me, the definition of a national treasure. The thought of the doomed president riding in it as well as the childhood memory of seeing it each year during the annual telecast of "Wizard of Oz" was deeply moving, almost haunting. One of those completely unexpected surprises that life occasionally hands us.
In this section there is also a test dress for Judy's "Oz" costume and one of the spears, made of wood, carried by the Wicked Witches guards.
The house is accessed through another room in the museum. A T.V. plays a continuous loop of people talking about Judy as well as tape of her performing at different points in her life. A collection of Judy Garland paper dolls and dresses is also shown here. The house would be just, well, a period house were it not for it's connection to the show biz legend, although one can imagine Judy and her sisters rehearsing their act, as they sometimes did, on the staircase landing.
Returning to the museum one is treated to a viewing of an Andy Warhol silkscreen of Garland, her boots from "The Harvey Girls" and leopard print hat and muff belonging to the star. There is the hat she wears while singing the "Peanuts", number from "A Star is Born" contracts and a mike from her television show, a costume sketch from her final film "I Could Go On Singing" and the gold record for "Over the Rainbow" commemorating 1,000,000 copies sold.
Sadly a pair of the Ruby Slippers, one of only 4 known, loaned to the museum each summer, were stolen 10 years ago. There is a $1 million reward for information leading to the arrest of those responsible. A documentary short has been made about the robbery titled, aptly, "Who Stole the Ruby Slippers". The base of the display case sits in the gift shop of the museum patiently waiting their return.
Judy spent the first 4 years of her life in Grand Rapids, Minnesota. Her parents were part owners and operators of The New Grand Theatre, a vaudeville house in the small city. They lived in a modest home, which has been moved to the museum's site, a shopping mall stands on it's original lot, from 1919 to 1926. The home was originally built by a steamboat captain in 1892.
One of the first of, as we were soon to become aware, many impressive artifacts on display is an original script from the MGM and Judy Garland classic "The Wizard of Oz". Understandably the lions share, pun intended, of the museum is dedicated to this movie. There is case after case of trademark kitsch. Dolls, games, cookie jars and toys, all tied to the film. There were wall pockets, bric a brac and key chains each referencing the iconic movie. It all appears to be on loan from the same person. This got me to thinking, "How much Wizard of Oz crap does this woman own? This is one sick obsession! This woman needs professional help!"
There was one piece that spoke to me in a special way. A plastic showboat with backdrops based on scenes from the movie. We had a similar toy growing up. A theatre stage with changeable sets, backdrops and set pieces made from cardboard allowing us to create our own unique imaginary landscapes. Another unusual piece was a replica of Professor Marvel's wagon reimagined as a rolling magazine rack.
After this almost exhaustive display we got to the good stuff! As I turned a corner I saw, set on a turntable like those used a car shows, the carriage in which Dorothy and her posse ride upon their arrival in the Emerald City. The "Horse of a different color" sequence. I almost wet my pants. My travel buddy looking at the information placard on the wall said to me "Read this!" The carriage was owned by a "prop jobber" who would rent props and set pieces to the studios. Bette Davis also rode in it in "Jezebel". During a renovation in 1990 a small plaque was found affixed to the carriage stating that it started life as a gift from several supporters to Abraham Lincoln. A group of benefactors got together to purchase it and give it to the museum. It is, to me, the definition of a national treasure. The thought of the doomed president riding in it as well as the childhood memory of seeing it each year during the annual telecast of "Wizard of Oz" was deeply moving, almost haunting. One of those completely unexpected surprises that life occasionally hands us.
In this section there is also a test dress for Judy's "Oz" costume and one of the spears, made of wood, carried by the Wicked Witches guards.
The house is accessed through another room in the museum. A T.V. plays a continuous loop of people talking about Judy as well as tape of her performing at different points in her life. A collection of Judy Garland paper dolls and dresses is also shown here. The house would be just, well, a period house were it not for it's connection to the show biz legend, although one can imagine Judy and her sisters rehearsing their act, as they sometimes did, on the staircase landing.
Returning to the museum one is treated to a viewing of an Andy Warhol silkscreen of Garland, her boots from "The Harvey Girls" and leopard print hat and muff belonging to the star. There is the hat she wears while singing the "Peanuts", number from "A Star is Born" contracts and a mike from her television show, a costume sketch from her final film "I Could Go On Singing" and the gold record for "Over the Rainbow" commemorating 1,000,000 copies sold.
Sadly a pair of the Ruby Slippers, one of only 4 known, loaned to the museum each summer, were stolen 10 years ago. There is a $1 million reward for information leading to the arrest of those responsible. A documentary short has been made about the robbery titled, aptly, "Who Stole the Ruby Slippers". The base of the display case sits in the gift shop of the museum patiently waiting their return.
Minnesota 2015 - Hibbing and Points West
Hibbing is the childhood home, from the age of 6 on, of Bob Dylan. He moved to Minneapolis to attend college in 1959. His legacy is memorialized by Bob Dylan Drive, which seemed to run for only 2 blocks. It is also home to one of several regional airports in the upper part of Minnesota. A new building, which, from it's stage of construction I witnessed, looked as if would, when finished, be quite nice, stands next to the present airport, which resembles, and very well could be, a Quonset hut.
As we flew over Minnesota during our descent and I gazed out the plane window taking in the tableau of field and forests beneath me one word came to mind......green. Green, green, green, green. I tried to come up with an alternative but found it extremely difficult to do so.
My travel buddy picked me up and we drove to Hibbing's historic town center. A lovely courthouse graces one block. Nearby the town "main drag" appeared vibrant. Nearly every storefront was occupied, unlike the decay sometimes found in county seats fading from local poverty, disuse and disinterest. We lunched at a sports bar/restaurant then briefly took in the street fair taking place that day. We stopped at a local antique shop then drove off over 2 lane roads lined with verdant wilderness the likes of which I would become increasingly familiar with over the next few days.
We turned onto a narrow, packed dirt road. The convertible top was down giving us a beautiful perspective of the trees that towered over us on each side. We turned onto the packed dirt driveway leading up to my travel buddy's cabin. Prior to leaving Chicago I had joked that, from the photos I had seen, the cabin looked like the setting of a slasher movie where a group of weekending teenagers with raging hormones are picked off one by one by a hockey mask wearing maniac. I need to keep a vigilant eye out for anyone sporting sporting equipment and wielding a chainsaw. In truth it is a comfortable, commodious space of pine paneled walls and cabinets, a stunning lake view and the homey air of a placed owned, lived in and cherished by members of the same family for over 40 years. A small, steep stairway leads off a large deck to a dock where a 12 foot aluminum fishing boat is housed.
The quiet is remarkable, almost unnerving to one like myself accustomed to the unending din of city life. Waterlilies, an unexpected delight, occasionally grace the shallows which abut the shorelines of the thousands of lakes the state is noted for. We relax, drink scotch, whiskey and Drambuie served from bottles last used so long ago we had to wash the dust off of them first and have dinner, listening to the sound of the approaching thunderstorms. I anticipate a peaceful sleep that night accompanied by the soft patter of rain on the roof above me.
As we flew over Minnesota during our descent and I gazed out the plane window taking in the tableau of field and forests beneath me one word came to mind......green. Green, green, green, green. I tried to come up with an alternative but found it extremely difficult to do so.
My travel buddy picked me up and we drove to Hibbing's historic town center. A lovely courthouse graces one block. Nearby the town "main drag" appeared vibrant. Nearly every storefront was occupied, unlike the decay sometimes found in county seats fading from local poverty, disuse and disinterest. We lunched at a sports bar/restaurant then briefly took in the street fair taking place that day. We stopped at a local antique shop then drove off over 2 lane roads lined with verdant wilderness the likes of which I would become increasingly familiar with over the next few days.
We turned onto a narrow, packed dirt road. The convertible top was down giving us a beautiful perspective of the trees that towered over us on each side. We turned onto the packed dirt driveway leading up to my travel buddy's cabin. Prior to leaving Chicago I had joked that, from the photos I had seen, the cabin looked like the setting of a slasher movie where a group of weekending teenagers with raging hormones are picked off one by one by a hockey mask wearing maniac. I need to keep a vigilant eye out for anyone sporting sporting equipment and wielding a chainsaw. In truth it is a comfortable, commodious space of pine paneled walls and cabinets, a stunning lake view and the homey air of a placed owned, lived in and cherished by members of the same family for over 40 years. A small, steep stairway leads off a large deck to a dock where a 12 foot aluminum fishing boat is housed.
The quiet is remarkable, almost unnerving to one like myself accustomed to the unending din of city life. Waterlilies, an unexpected delight, occasionally grace the shallows which abut the shorelines of the thousands of lakes the state is noted for. We relax, drink scotch, whiskey and Drambuie served from bottles last used so long ago we had to wash the dust off of them first and have dinner, listening to the sound of the approaching thunderstorms. I anticipate a peaceful sleep that night accompanied by the soft patter of rain on the roof above me.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
Minnesota 2015 - Checkpoint Shuffle
Arriving at the airport for the short hop to Hibbing, Minnesota I am informed that the plane will be delayed 22 minutes. I, after my previous airline misadventure on this trip , was willing to settle for the plane leaving sometime within the next 24 hours.
The security checkpoint, from a distance, looked daunting. As I was approaching the line a man, wearing the vivid yellow nylon vest of someone that would know about airport stuff, came up to the last few people in the winding line instructing them to follow him. I figure, what the hell, my flight is late, I am early and join the pack. He leads us down an escalator to an airport tram entrance. He informs us that he is taking us to the little known security checkpoint 10. After following him onto the tram and up an escalator I see the man at the head of the pack begin to pump his fist in the air. As we get to the top we discovered that the dozen or so of us have a checkpoint all to ourselves. Shoes off, pockets emptied, body scanned, patted down, shoes back on, now to find concourse B.
Down an escalator, down a moving walkway, restroom pit stop, down another moving walkway, down an escalator following signs telling me I was heading towards concourse B. On a tram, up an escalator, at this point I was beginning to wonder if I am still in Minnesota. Perhaps I am the latest victim of some horrible concourse B hoax.
Eventually I do find my gate. The plane that was supposed to be late has been switched for one already at the airport so at the gate we are informed that the flight may take off on time after all, we are just waiting for the crew. I was still processing my arduous trip to the gate. Information overload, I was becoming dizzy. Text message, travel buddy leaving for the airport to pick me up. Text message from husband, "Are you at the airport yet?" Please let me on the plane so I can have an hours peace! First officer arrives, rest of crew MIA. Plane that was supposed to leave late, then on time, will now leave even later than before. At this point I've almost gone mad! Gate agent, bless her heart, is trying to keep us up to date. At this point she should get hazard pay. Plane now delayed a further 10 minutes. Plane late, plane on time, plane late again, plane later. My head is beginning to swim, my vision is beginning to blur. Flight attendant arrives, only one, it is a tiny plane. Now just waiting for the captain, the one who actually flies the plane. Still, we're were seeing progress. Good thing I had a good, substantial breakfast that morning. I found myself becoming spiritual, "The plane will leave when the plane will leave. It is in the hands of God." They ask, half joking, I hoped, if there was a volunteer willing to fly the plane. We were still waiting for the captain. As we are boarding the captain appears. I might get to Hibbing after all.
As I said as I got on a train 4 days earlier "What's life without a little adventure.?"
The security checkpoint, from a distance, looked daunting. As I was approaching the line a man, wearing the vivid yellow nylon vest of someone that would know about airport stuff, came up to the last few people in the winding line instructing them to follow him. I figure, what the hell, my flight is late, I am early and join the pack. He leads us down an escalator to an airport tram entrance. He informs us that he is taking us to the little known security checkpoint 10. After following him onto the tram and up an escalator I see the man at the head of the pack begin to pump his fist in the air. As we get to the top we discovered that the dozen or so of us have a checkpoint all to ourselves. Shoes off, pockets emptied, body scanned, patted down, shoes back on, now to find concourse B.
Down an escalator, down a moving walkway, restroom pit stop, down another moving walkway, down an escalator following signs telling me I was heading towards concourse B. On a tram, up an escalator, at this point I was beginning to wonder if I am still in Minnesota. Perhaps I am the latest victim of some horrible concourse B hoax.
Eventually I do find my gate. The plane that was supposed to be late has been switched for one already at the airport so at the gate we are informed that the flight may take off on time after all, we are just waiting for the crew. I was still processing my arduous trip to the gate. Information overload, I was becoming dizzy. Text message, travel buddy leaving for the airport to pick me up. Text message from husband, "Are you at the airport yet?" Please let me on the plane so I can have an hours peace! First officer arrives, rest of crew MIA. Plane that was supposed to leave late, then on time, will now leave even later than before. At this point I've almost gone mad! Gate agent, bless her heart, is trying to keep us up to date. At this point she should get hazard pay. Plane now delayed a further 10 minutes. Plane late, plane on time, plane late again, plane later. My head is beginning to swim, my vision is beginning to blur. Flight attendant arrives, only one, it is a tiny plane. Now just waiting for the captain, the one who actually flies the plane. Still, we're were seeing progress. Good thing I had a good, substantial breakfast that morning. I found myself becoming spiritual, "The plane will leave when the plane will leave. It is in the hands of God." They ask, half joking, I hoped, if there was a volunteer willing to fly the plane. We were still waiting for the captain. As we are boarding the captain appears. I might get to Hibbing after all.
As I said as I got on a train 4 days earlier "What's life without a little adventure.?"
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