West Michigan Trek - Days 51-65 Days of 178 Tour

     Sunday, June 23, was a day of transitions for our intrepid duo: we went from one reunion (Alexx's college) to another (Diedre’s family); and from mosquitoes in Minnesota the size of the state bird (the loon) to mosquitoes in Michigan that were definitely on steroids. In fact at the first evening’s campground while hooking up AB1’s electricity, one earthy mosquito landed on my right leg and another lit on my left leg. I’m not positive, but I could almost swear I heard one of them say, “Make a wish.”
     Diedre and her siblings (older brother “Doug,” older sister “Goldie,” (my nickname for Jeanie) and younger brother “George” … (although he prefers to go by “Remy” … inside family joke) along with their spouses and, up until this year, their beloved mother Barbara “Barty” had orchestrated family reunions every summer for the past 11 years. The charge and location of each reunion rotated among the 4 siblings and could be anywhere in the country. Whoever was in charge a particular year would choose the location and make all planning decisions. Reunion sites were as varied as Sedona, AZ; Breckenridge, CO; Lutsen, MN; and Captiva Island, FL. This reunion was a bit bittersweet since it was to be the first one held since the death of Barty. These reunions had been so important to her that she made us promise to keep having them even after she was gone. It was the plucky 94-year old’s final wish.
     This year’s rendezvous found us gathering at Charlevoix, Michigan, near the banks of the ocean-like Lake Michigan. I say “ocean-like” a bit tongue-in-cheek, since as a 9-year old, Diedre had visited her grandparents in the area, and then returned home to Minnesota where she announced to the neighborhood kids that she had been “to the ocean” in Michigan. It took her quite awhile to live that one down. The first night the assembled group met up with our Aunt Jane (widow of Barty's brother Al), a feisty 89-year old broad (meant in the best way) who always has a smile on her face while telling you exactly what she thinks. We all love her to death. Jane still lives on her own on beautiful Walloon Lake. Walloon Lake holds a special significance for me as the great writer, Ernest Hemingway, spent much of his youth living on that lake. My writing has often been compared to Hemingway’s in the fact that we both use(d) verbs in most of our sentences. 
     On Wednesday, we held our annual reunion golf outing. In the past, it had always been a scramble pitting the 4 siblings against three of the spouses and Barty. Remy’s wife Lisa was the only one with the good sense to avoid the viciousness, the taunts, and the bragging that went with this annual “fun” event. I, of course, had always been above all this foolishness, although I must add that the spouses do lead the series with 7 wins, 2 losses, and 1 tie … I’m just sayin’. Afterwards, we amicably adjourned to a nearby watering hole where I especially enjoyed the sign in the front window: “Guys, no shirt – no service. Gals: no shirt-free drinks”.

The annual golf outing was followed by the annual boat outing; Diedre's family is nothing if not predictable. All too soon it was Friday and time for the family to depart: Doug and Linda back to retirement in Colorado; Remy and Lisa back to their jobs in Menomonie, Wisconsin running a church; and Diedre and me to take on the really tough task of continuing our marathon 178-day vacation. We all gotta sacrifice somehow. (Goldie and Mac will wait to join us when the reunion returns to Florida.)

      Part 2 of our Michigan-west sojourn had us heading to the Holland State Park campground before meeting up in West Olive, again on the banks of Diedre's "ocean," with long time friends John and Mary Harberts. And now, dear bloggers and bloggerettes, it's time for a little fun quiz. Which of the following 4 statements is true:
a) John was the best man at our wedding
b) Alexx used to date Mary (nee Cox) before she met John
c) Diedre once dated John before he married Mary
d) Mary was once the head of all operations for Northwest Airlines
      The palatial Harberts estate rests high upon a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. It's a wonderful site for a party, and surprise, surprise, they were throwing one the Saturday we arrived. John, Mary, and Diedre had worked together for 14 years in the Grand Rapids, MI, school system in the 70's and 80's, so many of the people invited were from the GRSD, with a few even remembering Diedre's reign of terror (she had been a grade school principal part of the time). The party was a wonderful opportunity to raise money for Habitat for Humanity. As usual, I was the life of the party, telling humorous anecdotes, regaling the gathered throng with RV stories, and doing my famous "lampshade on my head" monologue.
I could have gone on all night. 
     Our week catching up with the Harberts included a cookout, a hike, a night of memories as Diedre made “Pat Sandwiches” (a legendary Dagwood-like sandwich Diedre was famous for during her time in Grand Rapids), a visit to Mary's twin sister's home, a viewing of the new "Lone Ranger" movie (I liked it, nobody else seemed to), and highlighted by 4th of July fireworks viewed from the Harberts' beach-side deck.

View from Harberts' window of Lake Michigan

 








    

     We took a day off in the middle of the week to return to Paw Paw, Michigan, and its museum/historical society where we donated a lot of Barty's memorabilia, letters, and photos historical society. Barty had saved similar stuff from not only her mother but her grandmother (Diedre's great-grandmother). There were photos from the 1890's and one significantly historical letter detailing her grandmother's first time voting after the amendment passed allowing women the right to vote. Baby Barty had even accompanied her mother into the voting booth on most historical occasion.

     We followed up that stop with another one at the giant Girl Scouts of America building in Kalamazoo. Back in the 1930's, Barty had been a girl scout, a VERY good girl scout. She had earned one of the coveted "Golden Eagle" pin, an award given out statewide to just a handful of girls over` the years. Barty was the last one to ever receive one. The solid gold pin had been in her jewelry box for decades; it was just during her final year that a Michigan girl scout troop, doing a study of GSA history, was able to locate Barty, the last living Golden Eagle winner, in Tampa, FL. Diedre and Barty even had the joy of Skyping with the young girls. And now, some 75 years later, the pin, along with an actual girl scout whistle of Barty's from the same era, had made their way back to the site of their origins.
The GSA staff was so pleased, they offered me a 10-minute romp in their fabled "Girl Scout Cookie Room." Tears, not of joy, welled up in this diabetic's eyes. It was an emotionally draining day for everyone that Tuesday.
    
     Mary Harberts has long been Diedre's best friend, almost like sisters. And like sisters, they have many of the same unusual personality quirks. They both often do unintended things resulting in humorous outcomes. That said, it's now Friday, July 5. The 4 of us are attending a minor-league baseball game, Grand Rapids Whitecaps vs Midland Loons. We're having a grand time, even considering the stadium's mammoth "5th-3rd Burger," retailing at the perfectly reasonable ballpark price of $22 (Note nutrition info-the food sheriff was definitely on patrol here).

       But back to Mary. Getting a bit bored with the game she started flipping through the Groupon deals on her phone to see if there was anything of interest added since her last screaming deal. The sun was fading though and she couldn't view her phone screen very well so she flipped her sunglasses to the top of her head. But when Diedre looked over at her she noticed the sunglasses were sans a lens. We're looking everywhere; Mary's even crawling on the filthy ground beneath our seats, but the lens is no where to be found. Frantically trying to find the missing lens she corralled the rest of us to take our attention away from the game to help her look. Diedre suggested that she thought she heard a clunk and perhaps it had landed in the beer of the fellow that was sitting behind Mary. Everybody laughed, much like Diedre and I had done several blogs ago when I suggested my golf ball might be in the hole for an eagle. The man had had a few beers during the game, so he thought that statement was particularly hilarious. But Diedre is persistent, so finally the drunk dips his sweaty mitt into his light brown Budweiser and sure enough, there's Mary's lens. And that's  about par for our Mary.  

     We spent most of a day at the wonderful little seaside town of Saugatuck (Chippewa for "expensive trinkets). There we saw what we believed to be the last hand-cranked, chain driven ferry in the country, dating back about 150 years and still in service today. We were going to board the sturdy craft until Diedre found this sign that lessened our chances of making the crossing :"ALL GAMBLERS AND FANCY WOMEN MUST SIGN UP WITH CAPTAIN BEFORE BOAT LEAVES FOR NEW ORLEANS."

We also made a stop at one of favorite places, Michigan old-fashioned ice cream store chain that has the good sense to stock some very tasty sugar-free salted caramel ice cream. The franchise operation made my afternoon almost every day we were in West Michigan.

Diedre and I were married on Saturday, July 6, 1991, in a Hawaiian ceremony in my parents backyard in Minneapolis (Don't ask). Now 22 years later, we paid homage to that blessed event by donning our wedding duds (light Hawaiian white sun dress for Diedre, a blue and white Hawaiian shirt for me) just as we have done every year since our wedding and joined the Harberts (Mary had been the maid-of-honor at our wedding while John had been my do-everything, go-to guy during wedding week) at the fine Piper Restaurant on the shores of Lake Macatawa. Good luck to us on the next 22.

OK, on Monday, July 8, after a birthday breakfast with Mary and John, it's on to Central and East Michigan where men are men and women make love like wildcats ... or something like that. See you next week.

Oh, and the answer to the earlier quiz is "C."
----------------------------------------------------------------
Hi Everyone!  Diedre here.  Not much to add to this blog except my apologies for the initial posting of this blog with the ill formatting and the delay in getting the posts to you.  We have had intermittent access to the internet and when we did have it my computer was not cooperating.  I knew it was dying before I left on this trip but I thought I could limp along for the duration, but I finally had to move to Alexx's computer to finally get this posting up on the web.  The east coast trip should be ready in a few days and then Ohio.  Soon you'll be all caught up with us!  We continue to have a wonderful time.  We keep amazing ourselves on what we are learning about the mechanics of a motorhome - have actually started to read the manuals - and we are loving the opportunity to see so many friends, family and places around this beautiful country.  Stay tuned!

Minnesota Tour - Days 32-50 of 178 Day Tour

I think it was Thomas Hardy who once famously said, “You can’t go home again.”  Of course, leave it to Diedre to remember that it was Oliver Hardy who more famously said, “Here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into.”  I think both kind of sum up our time in our home state, the Land of 10,000 Lakes, a promised escape to freedom for asylum-seeking Iowegians, and, of course, the home of the legendary and mythical state bird ... the mosquito. 

As we left gorgeous and sometimes boring South Dakota, our cabin mantra became: “Whatever we idiots have done, it's not that bad ... we're still moving."  We limped into camp in Maple Grove, MN, on Wednesday, June 5, where the angels of the north, Rick and Eileen Nygaard, tended to our wounds, washed our feet, and took us out to dinner.  We had first met the Nygaards in January (sort of ... small world story to follow) the first night we spent in AB1 in Tucson at that 3-day trial that tests the limits of human emotion and the strength of couples’ relationships, namely “RV Boot Camp.”  That night in the mammoth RV park, I noticed the RV next to us just happened to have a Minnesota license plate.  I introduced myself to the lady of the motor-home (Eileen) and told her I was originally from St. Louis Park, MN.  When she said her husband was also from SLP, I figured I’d try a long shot.  “Class of ’68?” I offered.  “So is he,” was her response.  And then lo and behold, out of their palatial estate on wheels comes her husband who took one look at me and announced, “Alexx?”  We hadn’t seen each other in 45 years, yet he knew me on sight.  And from there and the wonder of the inter-web, a friendship has been re-established.

     The next day was a crucial one in the now-on-life-support operating system of our home on wheels.   I had done a few, yet very excusable, shall we say ... stupid things that most car-brained guys would have known immediately not to mess with, but I, with my combination artist-softball player brain, was not quite so savvy.  We took our ailing girl, AB1, to that oasis of RV repair, Shorewood RV in Anoka, MN (It’s not for nothing that Anoka is called “The Halloween Capitol of the World.”)  As far as we could tell, AB1 had gone off the deep end when, and this is my diagnosis, there was trouble with the flux capacitor; it had unknowingly sent us into the future ... 3 weeks to be exact.  Because of government regulations, I can’t tell you much about what happened, the whole “time-space continuum” thing and all, you know; suffice it to say, however, that a wise person might take it upon themself to buy all the shares they can of “American Girdle” ... I’m just sayin’.

     Now cast out into the cold, cruel, RV-less world, we depended on the kindness of strangers ... and family ... for our well-being.  Jean Alexander, a woman who claims she’s my mother, and long-lost brother Mark and his keeper Linda, took pity on us lost sailors and treated us to the hot new dining spot in downtown Minneapolis, The Butcher and Boar.  With us nearly comatose, they forced liver pate and Beluga caviar down our gullets. 

A nearly hysterical Diedre was brought back to life by the simple imbibing of a “flight of Rye Whiskey.”  NOTE: A group of crows is called a “murder,” and a pack of leopards is called a “leap”; so, too, is then three glasses of rye appropriately called “a flight.”  Go figure.

     Thus would begin the last 8 days that I would ever spend in my boyhood home, a place I hung my cap and soiled socks off and on since June of 1958..  It’s funny how things have changed.  On my daily three-mile, heart-surgery inspired, walk (now at day 530 and panting), I explored my childhood neighborhood that first day around 11 a.m.  It was quiet ... too quiet ... almost spooky.  Then it struck me - it's the milk carton generation.  No kids are allowed out of the house unsupervised.  There was not one child to be seen on this fine summer day.  When I was growing up on this same circle, there were about 35 homes with 76 kids under the age of 15.  We were never at a loss for things to do: girls out skipping rope, boys playing baseball in any family’s yard, trips to the drugstore for comic books and baseball cards, lemonade stands, and theatrical plays.  The sound of children could be heard everywhere.  And now, today ... nothing.  I guess things change.  My mom is the last parent of those neighborhood families still living in the neighborhood in which I grew up, and she’s leaving it in October for an assisted-living apartment.  She’s not sure what to do with the old place.  She’s narrowed it down to three possibilities:  1) sell it;  2) preserve it as a shrine to me; or 3) turn it into a Taco Bell.

     Sunday, June 9, was a big day for the Stuart-Kaye family.  The Broadway Tony awards were on TV that night.  Like so many of you, we hosted our annual Tony’s party, complete with costumes.  Diedre came as “Nora” from Ibsen’s drama “A Doll’s House,” while I went a little more seriously, donning the garb of “A Knight Who Says Ni” from “Monty Python’s Spamalot.”  And for the 16th year in a row, we both tied for best costume as no one else showed up.

     Great friendships were rekindled back in our home state.  We invited ourselves over to Dick “The Ax” Anderson’s house on Medicine Lake for cocktails.  Later in the week we had dinner with Steve “Alps” Alpert and wife Jane.  I’ve known Ax and Alps since age 5 when we were in Miss Somonson’s 1st grade class.  Alps and I actually met in kindergarten when we got into a fight and he bit me..  I was crying and all, so my big brother came over, grabbed Alps, and told me to bite him back ... and being the cool, calm, and collected sensible 4-year old I was, I bit him back.  And we’ve been the best of friends ever since. 

     The next day we met up with an old actor friend, Jack Melberg, for lunch.  When I say “old” friend, it’s only because he is ... 77 at last count.  Jack’s a funny guy; he says that when it's his time to go, he wants to be shot by a jealous husband.  Here he is testing that hypothesis by kissing my wife.  
 Later that week Diedre had lunch with the T.E.A. (Target Equity Acting) group friends while I spent the morning trying to get a knot out of my shoelace.  Turns out just Jack and Jennifer Kirkeby could show.  Or so she told me...wait a minute...didn't she just see him at lunch the previous day?  That old dog...Jack, not Diedre.
 We then had dinner that night with one of my newer friends, Bob Meller and wife Chris.  I’ve only known Bob for 44 years ... wait, are we getting old or what?

     Other outings included a day-trip to the scenic river town and antiques mecca of Stillwater, MN, where we met up with great friend Craig Campbell, a 6’6” glass blower (To clarify, HE’S 6’6”, not the glass). 




Diedre had an errand to run, so when she noticed a store window with a sign that read “Husband Day Care Center,” she dropped us off.  Inside the Madcapper Tavern, another sign read: "If you're drinking to forget, please pay in advance."  I liked that place right away.

     I also lucked out that day meeting a celebrity on the streets of Stillwater.  As Minnesota is the home of famed “Peanuts” cartoonist Charles Schultz, it wasn’t totally unlikely that I’d run into one of his guys.  Here I am with Linus discussing how “Life, indeed, is Like a Bowl of Chocolates”

     Minneapolis is such a wonderful town 10 months of the year (don’t get me started on December-January).  There are 5 lakes virtually in the downtown (well, uptown) area that are great for walking.  On June 13, the two of us replicated the magic of walking around the idyllic Lake of the Isles.  It’s not just the site of my favorite house (which I’ve been taking pictures of for 33 years-I hope the residents don’t think I’m stalking them), but is also where Diedre and I met on our first date January 2, 1988, 11 a.m.  I know, you’re probably thinking, “Hey, what’s a big spender like Alexx doing chintzing on a first date with the lovely Diedre, especially when she had so many better opportunities, such as Oscar Steinmetz, the local butcher).  So anyway, it was 10 degrees that fateful morning, yet the walk made it feel like it was only 14.  We talked, laughed, did each other’s hair.  After 1 hour, I thought it had gone swimmingly (skatingly?)  But then, with no warning aforethought (I just made that word up), she announced that she had to go home to have, uh, uh, ... have her drapes measured.  Yeah, that's the ticket.  Well, I wasn’t going to take an insult like that lying down, so to get even, I married her.  Bet she’ll never try that dumb trick again.

DK is the tiny red spec on the stage.

     The next day we walked another of Minneapolis’s wonderful lakes, Lake Harriet.  There we lucked out and were able to find the legendary Lake Harriet Tree Elf’s abode.  People leave all sorts of notes and little gifts for the elf in his hovel.  They even used to leave coins for him, but then the I.R.S. got involved and it became a whole big thing.  Lake Harriet also has a wonderful band shell for summer concerts.  Never one to leave a stage unacted upon, here’s my wife reciting a monologue from that Broadway flop, “The Rooster Crowed at Midnight.”

     Later that day, we made our way back to Shorewood RV, paid the handsome ransom ( Ooh,”The Handsome Ransom,” a new play name!) , and welcomed our girl, AB1, back into the fold.  Life could now begin anew.

    Saturday, June 15, we hit Lake Minnetonka, the Twin Cities most bucolic location for the cities’ swells and the site, 22 years ago, of the Kaye and Stuart post-wedding day boat outing.  My college roommate, Diamond Jim Schroer, had us out to meet his new lady friend, a most charming Brit ex-pat named Mary, and a wonderful lake-neighbors Mark and Nancy.  Mary is the 5th in a somewhat recent run of English ladies who either through marriage to or dating of American male friends of ours, or else just through being great people, have become friends of ours.  In a previous life, Mary had done eye make-up for none other than Lady Di.  English Mary made a wonderful gourmet dinner for the 6 of us.  She was so charming I had to ask what the hell she was doing with the eccentric Diamond Jim.  Mary said the attraction was really all about Jim’s being a “doofus genius,” really smart but really stupid at the same time---sort of what happens when a Carl marries an Ole (inside college rivalry humor-sorry, Camilla)..  A Harvard business grad, Jim worked for STP Corporation and took up car racing, then worked for R.J. Reynolds and took up smoking.  I just hope he doesn’t take that job with Ex-Lax International.

     Their friends, Mark and Nancy, had perhaps the greatest first date story I ever heard.  Mark somehow fumbled through an invitation to Nancy to join him golfing, a sport which Mark could take or leave.  When they met at the course, there was Nancy, resplendent in her oh-so proper golf attire, all the way down to the fact that her golf shoes matched her golf bag.  Mark, on the other hand, was wearing an “I’m With Stupid” T-shirt, cut-off jeans, and was toting a half-set of clubs (only the odd-numbered irons) and was carrying them in a beer cooler.  What do you think the odds would be that these two would eventually marry?  Well, Nancy teed off first and hit a nice shot that landed on the green.  Mark figured it was all over then, so throwing caution to the wind, he teed up his ball, closed his eyes, and swung with all his might.  And of course (You can see what’s coming) the ball lit out like a laser right at the pin, bounced twice on the green, and banked off the pin and into the hole!  A hole-in-one on the first swing he ever took in front of his future wife.  Top that if you can.

     The next day was Father’s Day, so as a special present to me, Charlie, Casey and Samantha (our three cats) only used the litter box twice each.  (Apparently they slept most the day.)    Ever the huntress, Diedre searched through the forest, setting snares and camouflaging herself in an attempt to catch our dinner.  She succeeded mightily, stealthily hunting our main course down at Kowalski's Gourmet Grocery Store).  In the meanwhile, I foraged for the necessary wood to build a roaring fire ($5 at the campground store).  We felt like cavemen as we ravaged the aforementioned prey: Rock Cornish Game Hens Under Glass with asparagus tips.  We can hardly wait for the invention of the wheel.

Diedre’s younger brother Remy, his wife Lisa, and daughter Becca were joining us at the campsite for a really “roughing it” cookout.

    Miracle of miracles occurred on Monday, June 17.  The book, The Fastest Gun in Hollywood: The Life Story of Peter Brown, was actually published.  It was written by the same chimpanzee who’s penning this idiotic blog.  It’s available at fine book stores and laundromats practically everywhere (or not).  The royalties from this book will finally get me that brain surgery I’ve been saving up for.

     On a more serious note, I’d like to tell you about my brother Mark and my journey over to the state capitol to the Minnesota Historical Society.  We had set up a meeting with one of their curators for us to donate my dad’s letters, clippings, and memorabilia he had saved from his time in Patton’s 3rd Army during World War II.  Besides letters he had written from various places in Europe (the censors often excised any reference to locations over there), we also gave them his Bronze Star.  The orders included along with the medal read as follows:

     “This Bronze Star is awarded to Private First Class Mac Alexander, infantry company, M regiment,       for his heroic achievement in connection with military operations against the enemy.  On January 20, 1945, in Saarlautern-Roden, Germany, an enemy patrol isolated PFC Alexander’s observation post from the main body of his unit.  Alexander spied enemy snipers in a nearby building, their fire menacing a U.S. squad.  Braving heavy artillery and mortar fire, Alexander made his way through a blasted wall and into the building containing the snipers.  With another soldier, he rushed the hostile group and disarmed and captured the four Germans.  His daring intrepid action reflects distinct credit on PFC Alexander and typifies the high traditions of military service.”

     Way to go, Dad!

     That evening, my mom treated us to dinner at the Minikahda Club, the venerable golfing establishment she has belonged to since 1952 and the site of Diedre and my wedding rehearsal dinner in 1991.  Joining us were Mark, his wife Linda, and long-time friends and neighbors Ken Radde and Bonnie Call.  Ken and Bonnie have been dating for 38 years ... I’m sure they just want to get it right when (if) they get married.  Ken’s a real regular guy; he classed up the act that night by ordering a “North Dakota Martini” (a beer with two olives).  He had recently been golfing as a guest at the Golden Valley Country Club.  At the snack bar at the 10th hole, the member with whom Ken was golfing insisted he meet the guy working the counter there.  Ken was greatly surprised to see that it was Darryl ... as in the Newhart TV show.  You know, “Hi! My name’s Larry, and this here’s my brother Darryl ... and this here’s my other brother Darryl.”  I think it was the 2nd Darryl Kenny met. 

     We concluded our first tract of time in the Twin Cities Wednesday night with another cookout, this one with the Nelsons and the Alperts.  There was no biting of any kind that night by Alps or me ... unless you include the hamburgers.  

     On Thursday, June 20, our final stop in Minnesota-Part I (We plan on returning in August) was at Carleton College in Northfield, home of the infamous “Jessie James Less Than Stellar Attempt at a Bank Robbery.”  Carleton has been a big part of the Alexander family: I somehow graduated from there in 1973; my parents first met there after WWII, him a grizzled army veteran and her, a young blonde debutante from Naperville, IL; other graduates include my uncles Judd and John, my aunt Marianne, and the black sheep of the family, my grandmother Veta.  It seems that back in 1917, co-ed Veta, chafing at the 7 p.m. curfew imposed on all young Carleton ladies, snuck out her dorm window and co-opted a horse and buggy for a Flappers version of a joy-ride.  Little did she know (maybe she did) that the purloined mode of transportation belonged to the dean of the college.  Soon after, grandmother was  sent packing to finish her stellar educational career at Northwestern University.

 Now I was back at Carleton for my 40th reunion (40th?!  Wait, that can’t be right ... let me do the math ... OK, I guess it must be right) Anyway, the 4-day, old-farts’ party started off with a golf scramble.  Now, earlier that day, Diamond Jim Schroer’s e-mail had been hacked by Philippine scammers.  They had gotten hold of his address book and had sent 1,500 e-mails to all his “friends” saying he had been kidnapped just outside of Manila and would be freed for a $25,000 ransom.  I put “friends” in quotes, because of all those electronic epistles sent out, only 1 person seemed concerned enough about Jim to respond.  College basketball teammate John Ophaug told the kidnappers he would wire them $1,000 immediately, but they would first have to send him Jim’s right ear.  Now there’s a real pal.

Jim and John Trucano, my other Carleton roommate my senior year, teamed with Diedre and me for the scramble.  John had been on the golf team at Carleton and Jim had been given personal golf lessons by Arnold Palmer, so it was no surprise that, teamed with us, our team finished last.  Here’s Jim (on the roof) and John commiserating our loss at AB1.

     On day two of the reunion, I completed the donation of my dad’s archives by giving them his memorabilia from Carleton (1941-42; 1946-49).  He had been on the varsity basketball team back then and had been captain (and coach) of the golf team.  He was famous for saying years later, when told of the college’s new library: “Where was the old one?”

     The day was topped off by fireworks and then a short concert by fellow St. Louis Parkite and Carleton classmate Paul Stiegler, singing tunes from his first CD titled “Days Gone By.”  It’s really quite good.  Paul was one of two Carleton doctors to surprisingly show up at the Scottsdale hospital prior to my heart surgery in ’12.  A retired E.R. doctor, he’s transferred to the music business, even though there is more blood and screaming in the latter.  

On Saturday, June 22, the day kicked off with the parade of classes.  The ’73ers were all there dressed up in our finest Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band outfits.  Then I was honored to be part of the Carleton alumni book signing; it was the first I had touched a hard copy of my new book, The Fastest Gun in Hollywood: The Life Story of Peter Brown.  We played some Rotblatt softball in the afternoon, thoroughly kicking the asses of those young upstarts from the class of ’78.  “Rotblatt” softball was named for an obscure White Sox pitcher of the 50’s, Marvin Rotblatt.  You could look it up.

     The reunion was topped off by a wonderful dinner staged in the new Creative Arts Center the college recently purchased.  I’m pictured here with single-name phenom “Strauss” and Carleton President Donald John Cowling whose reign of terror lasted from 1909-1945.  Cowling is the lively looking one of the three.

     Leaving the college bright and early Sunday morning to begin the Michigan portion of our trip, we were barely down the farm-strewn highway when a car raced madly by us and pointed at us to pull over.  I was sure I had done something terrible, like leaving a cabinet door open or forgetting that Diedre was still in the ladies room back at the college.  But no, it was just Steve and Camilla Obaid, wanting to say one last good-bye.  Steve is the other Carleton doctor who took it upon himself to check on my heart surgery in that infamous Scottsdale hospital/gulag a year-and-a-half ago.  It was great to see them one last time, and then it was off to another reunion; this one would be Diedre’s family reunion in Charlevoix, Michigan.  More on that next week.

(Note: I’ll try to write shorter and more often as we’ve finally figured out this whole “interweb-in-an-RV thing.)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hi All - Diedre here.  Just want to add a couple notes here.  First - to all of you who have been thinking we've been in South Dakota for the past month - our apologies for the delay in getting our recent travels accounted for in words and pictures.  In the interest of saving a dime we have ended up with pretty crappy internet access at the campgrounds I selected.  Consequently blogging becomes impossible.  We are now finding more libraries along the way and next year my reservations will definitely be at campsites that provide internet.
Secondly...I typically add very little to the writing portion of the blog and save my contributions to photo ops and a few suggestions for chuckles.  But I just wanted to add a special thank you to all of you who have purchased Alexx's book about Peter Brown.  It really meant a lot to us that so many friends show up at the Carleton book signing to purchase the book.  There will be more opportunities for autographs that we will keep you posted about, but if you just can't wait to read it, you can purchase it at Amazon.com.  (Sorry, Kindle version is not yet available.)  I am so proud of the the work Alexx did on this book and he tends to underplay it.  So here's to you Alexx!  Please help us market the book by writing a review on Amazon if you like the book!  Thanks all.  Next blog update will be soon!

Day 22 - 31 of 178 day - South Dakota

      Sunday afternoon, May 26, found us in the burgeoning metropolis of Lusk, Wyoming.  Diedre's brother Doug had told us there was nothing there in Lusk, population 1,500, or half the size of my 3-year high school.  But Doug couldn't have been more wrong ... OK, I suppose he could have been, but still .....   The RV park there was resplendent with lilacs, a mid-west smell we had missed these past 15 years in Arizona.  Linda, then park manager, was a sweetheart, nice but eccentric.  We wouldn't have it any other way.  She walked around the mini-camp with a big umbrella open, although there was not a cloud in sight.  She had great decorations all over the park, and the fact that they were generally anti-man didn't bother me a whit.  Yes, I said "whit."

   

       The crowd roar you probably heard that day came when, at the fine Lusk Municipal Golf Course, I recorded just my 2nd eagle in 57 years.  It happened on the world famous 525 yard 4th hole.  It was a classic example of me hitting my third shot blind to the very elevated green, then not being able to find my ball.  Finally (laughingly), I decided to look in the hole and there it was, my Pinnacle#3 Kilimanjaro Country Club golf ball (That's another story you'll have to ask me about.)  Afterwards, I bought drinks in the clubhouse for everyone: everyone meant Diedre and me, and drinks came courtesy of an antique Coke machine.
     We then had dinner at the luxurious 1-star Lusk Diner (Don't bother Googling a review of it; suffice it to say that when I ordered a "medium-rare' hamburger, the waiter, a look of terror in his eyes, immediately placed his order pad down in front of me and had me sign it, attesting to the fact that I did indeed want my burger medium-rare and that it would be no one's fault but my own if (when) I contracted "Mad Cow" disease).  Fortunately, I managed to make it through the night with just a bit of flatulence, better know as "Annoyed Cow" disease.
     Diedre and I made it to Deadwood, South Dakota, on day 23 of our 178 day Midwest tour.  Deadwood had always held fond memories for me.  When I was in my mid-idiotic 20's, our softball team would often make the 10-hour trek from Minneapolis for the wild, debauchery filled town of Deadwood for the softball tournaments in nearby Spearfish.  There was no gambling back then, but the famous cowboy town did offer many watering holes and, believe it or not, brothels were still legal there, not that I ever engaged in such tomfoolery (Hi, honey).

     My favorite memory, on the field, of those days was when we were playing the South Dakota state champions.  Now, being the South Dakota softball state champion was like being the most honest guy at Enron ... I mean, the bar was just not set that high.  So, we're down one run in the bottom of the last inning.  There are two outs when my buddy Alps gets a hit.  I come up to bat and lace a double to right-center, putting the tying and winning runs on 2nd and 3rd-base.  Our eccentric catcher, Lee Biever was now up.  An old guy (probably 35 at the time), Lee didn't play a lot, but had no lack of confidence.  Their catcher was particularly loud, ragging on Biever about how he was going to make an out and lose the game for us.  Biever called time, stepped out of the box, and smiled at the catcher.  From second, I could hear him clearly and calmly announce to the catcher, "This here's a ... GUARANTEED ... F***ING ... HIT!  The crowd oohed and aahed.  The catcher seemed to shut up.  And sure enough, on the first pitch, Biever rocketed a shot up the middle that almost took me out at second base.  I scrambled back to my feet and, running with everything I had, raced home, sliding across home plate just in time to be called safe.  Biever calmly headed to the dugout and lit up his signature Camels-unfiltered. 

     I don't know whatever happened to him.

 OK, it was Memorial Day evening when we got to Deadwood.  We had driven the last 10 miles through the mountainous Black Hills terrain in a total fog.  Of course, people say I'm in a fog most of the time anyway.  Either way, we made it.  We had drinks and dinner at the infamous Number 10 Saloon where the legendary Wild Bill Hickok was shot to death while playing poker..  The saloon still displays Wild Bill's death chair and a framed copy of the cards making up "The Dead Man's Hand (two pair, aces and eights).

Walking the streets of Deadwood that night, Diedre once again strayed.  It wasn't enough that she had kissed that troglodyte coal miner in Silverton (see Colorado blog).  But now, since I failed to compliment her on that morning's breakfast, I caught her cozying up to another pretty boy.  I think this guy goes by the name "Not-So Wild Bill."

     Of our three cats traveling with us, we only have a problem with our middle child.  Casey, a Birman cat, is a real sweetie ... except at 4 a.m. when he has become our alarm clock.  Is there such a thing as "cat insomnia"?  Anyway, Tuesday we were up bright and early.  I spent most of the day finishing the Colorado blog; if I'd known the weather was going to be so bad, I'd have gone out and seen the town.  As it was, I only made it out for my 3-miles walk which ended at a vending machine at a local chocolate store.  Amazingly, it was dispensing truffles ... not sugar-free, much to my chagrin.  It was called ... wait for it ... "Chub-O-Matic."  Nice, huh? 

     That evening, I put troubled cat Casey to the test.  I got out "bird," a toy over which he goes absolutely bonkers.  I had him chasing it till well after midnight, exhausting me as well as him.  I then gave all 3 cats a nice late night snack.  Miracle of miracles, they let us sleep through the night.  I hope we're on to something here, although it just seems too easy.  We'll test it again soon.

     On Wednesday, we had lunch with Peg and Pete , a couple we had never actually met in person.  Peg is Barbara McBain's cousin, an actress who has been directed by Diedre.  They're full-timers, meaning they have no land-line home.  They proceeded to give us some tips about RV'ing full time.  If we were to become full-timers, I'd compare us with being gypsies.  Of course, if we're going to be gypsies, I'd have to brush up on my money-making talents, such as pick-pocketing.  After all, somebody's got to pay for that gas.

   
     Rain started as soon as they left the restaurant and didn't let up for 3 days.  In fact, Rapid City had an all-time record for rain for May 29 with 7 inches.  It's funny, but living in Arizona these past 16 years, I've come to miss the rain on the roof.  In Minnesota in our upstairs bedroom, there was a skylight right over our bed, so any rain storm was accompanied by the soothing sound of rain on the roof.  It always made it easy for me to sleep.  But in Arizona, not only does it never rain, but when it does (I know, I know!) our roof is so solid that you hear nothing.  So it was actually pretty nice that night to hear the rain on the roof of our beloved AB1.  It made it easy to sleep.  Of course, there are limits because ... it never stopped (almost).

  

Thursday the rain continued; the animals were starting to pair up 2x2.  To get out of our funk, we had dinner at "Jake's," Kevin Costner's restaurant at the Midnight Star in beautiful downtown Deadwood; his adjoining sports bar is loaded with his movie memorabilia.  I especially love how often Costner worked on baseball movies.   "Bull Durham" and "Field of Dreams" are two of my favorites.  Diedre tends to side with the golf movies.  Here she is with Costner's golf bag from "Tin Cup."

     We've eaten there twice before over the past 25 years.  We absolutely love their Cajun Seafood Tortellini and order it every time.  It's not on my diet, but it's so good that Food Sheriff Diedre allowed my to use my 1/month cheat to order it.  It was definitely worth it.  Of course to make up for it, I have to eat cardboard and old shoes for the rest of the month.  Diedre says it's a fiber-carbohydrate thing.  I just do as I'm told.

     The rain kept up again through the night and the wind increased to gale-force, good if it's blowing out to left-field, not so good if you're in an RV or a Kansas farmhouse on its way to Oz.  It was so strong, we pulled our slides in.  It was like sleeping in a hallway.  Giant cat Charlie slept on the floor, making it near impossible to get to the rest room in the middle of the night.

     Friday it was still raining; I was then waiting for the next plague, not being able to remember if it's frogs, locusts, or I.R.S. auditors.  We were going to drive to Spearfish to see a movie but weren't sure when low tide was.  Diedre wanted to stay home and play "Full-Contact Mah-Jongg."   The three kids were ever so happy to just stay in bed and attack stray toes.

  


 Saturday we gave praise to the heavens as the rains finally ceased.  We quickly got out to venture up to see the Mount Moriah cemetery which houses Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane's graves.

 We also ventured up 750' above the rest of the cemetery to pay our respects to Deadwood's greatest hero and supporter, sheriff Seth Bullock.  Although the town doggedly hangs on to the story of Wild Bill, Bullock was actually the man who did more for the city. 

   





After our joyous day of grave-hopping, we again retreated to the Number 10 Saloon where we watched an incredible re-enactment of the shooting of Wild Bill, "incredible" being the operative word here as in "incredib-LEE BAD!"  Oh, here's a suggestion for you kids at home: don't watch a bad re-enactment sitting next to a director (read: Diedre).  Try as she might, she could not stop from telling me how she would have directed it and what the actors were doing wrong, which was pretty much everything.  It was all I could do to wrestle her out of there before she could begin questioning the Wild Bill actor about what his motivation was for what he was (or wasn't) doing.  I mean, I could roll with the punches of a bad re-enactment, even laughing at the parts that weren't supposed to be funny.  Not so with "The Theatre Sheriff."

     Bad went to worse as the "Murder of Wild Bill" theme continued on into the evening.  We went to the ancient Deadwood Mason's Lodge where for the senior-discounted rate of $4, we were privy to that off-off-off- ... (extend "off" 83 times) ... Broadway production of "The Trial of Jack McCall."  Jack was the coward who, after first speaking with his intended victim at the Number 10 Saloon poker table, brazenly shot Wild Bill in the back of the head in front of no less than a dozen on-lookers and then ... wait for it .... WAS ACQUITTED a day later by a miner's jury.  The alleged "play" included some humor (intended or otherwise) along with 3 guitar playing singers and a liberal amount of audience participation (hence the "$4 ticket cost).

Diedre seemed satisfied with the efforts of only one actor, that said thespian being herself, as she did a Tony-Award worthy performance of Ira Goldberg, a supporter of Mr. McCall's.  By the end of the show, Diedre was ready to abandon our 6-month RV safari, sell all our worldly possessions, and take over the running of the Wild Bill Theatre operation with me writing all new scripts that would, unexplainably, include frequent mentions of Phoenix's Sheriff Joe Arpaio and "Spam" (the pseudo-meat, not the computer annoyance).  I dragged her kicking and screaming from the theatre, saving our way of life only by bringing her back to reality with a large oral application of Old Overholt Rye Whiskey and a shmear of Brie under her nose.  She seemed to calm down when I dragged her into a memorabilia store featuring her three favorites: Marilyn Monroe, Betty Boop, and, strangely enough, Shemp of the Three Stooges.

      It's not well known, but the legendary Broadway musical, "Oklahoma," actually stole it's theme song from a little known play called "South Dakota" based on the central part of the state.  The song originally went like this:

          "SOUUUUTHH Dakota where the land lies flatter than most mats!

                There are sheep and cows

                      and lady pigs called sows

                            and the corn is stored in giant vats!"

Or something like that ... anyway ...

     In Colorado, I had found out a few things I didn't know I had in common with my ballplayer buddy, Bruce Stricklett: during a horrible tornado that nearly flattened Omaha, Nebraska, in 1976, I was in town with my United States Army Reserve unit doing summer camp duty.  Bruce was working in town for U.P.S. at the same time.  One gust of tornado could have literally thrown us together.  Then again, in 1987, a tornado of another kind: the Minnesota Twins won game 7 of the World Series for their first World Championship.  Bruce was at the game while I had raced into town with friends to join in on the celebration.  I'm sure we passed, not silently in the night, on Hennepin Avenue amidst all the revelers and baseball fanatics.

   

So, too, did I have a baseball similarity with Arizona softball teammate Jerry Mason of Frankfort, South Dakota: the Milwaukee Braves.  Jerry was a lifelong fan of theirs, with Eddie Mathews being his boyhood hero.  Mine was Hank Aaron; I even learned to read because of Hank; my Mom showed me how to read the newspaper so I could see what Hank had done each day in the box score.  On a hunting trip to South Dakota, Hank had even slept in Jerry's bed as a guest of the family.  I tried to buy the 60-year old bed from Jerry, but he wouldn't have any of it.

     OK, I'm getting ahead of myself.  On Sunday, we now made our way to the teeming metropolis of Doland, South Dakota, home of my Arizona softball buddy Jerry Mason, and his wife Shiela (that is not a misspelling).  Doland is near Redfield, SD, the ring-neck pheasant capital of the world.  Interesting note: the ring-neck pheasant is not native to South Dakota; it was imported here from China in 1931, and its numbers have flourished ever since.  Ah, the things you learn reading this furshlugginer blog.

     Frankfort is a bit confused; the entering-from-the-west town sign states the population as "297" while the sign from the east claims it's "306."  Many a bar fight has started over this fact.  In Doland, you're either a "297er" or a "306er."  Families have been torn asunder by this; why, 297-girls are not even allowed to date 306-boys.

    

The Mason's own a massive farm, some 20,000 acres.  It's not the end of the world, although you can see it from their front porch.  Even our GPS had trouble locating the Mason farmstead, directing us instead to a Howard Johnson's 8 miles away.  Jerry and Shiela raised cattle, pigs, and three children; I'm not sure which ones were the toughest to housebreak.  Jerry also grew soybeans and corn, and I'm not sure, but I think Shiela did a little bauxite mining on the side.  They really have quite the incredible place and have done extremely well for themselves over the years, which go back to their meeting in the 7th grade.  Jerry even gave Diedre and me an "Agriculture-101" course on farming.  By the end of our stay, I was fluent in corn-dryer speak while Diedre got her Combine-driving license (that errant trip through the neighbor's petunia garden not withstanding).  She can even whip up a batch of ethanol (corn based) on the RV stove-top, so now instead of stopping at gas stations, we just sneak into cornfields at night to keep AB1 running. 

    The first evening, Jerry and I decided to walk around the place; it took us 4 days.  As we were out in the middle of his marijua ... I mean, "hemp" field, we both heard a voice, a whisper really, that announced, "If you build it, he will come."  Well, that was all that Jerry needed to hear.  Within a day, he had cleared a massive amount of the marijua ... I mean, hemp field and had built it ... a 50' tall Pai-Gow table.  And then miraculously, through the corn field, emerged his late father ... only in the body of a middle-aged Chinese businessman.  It was very confusing. 

    Attached see a photo of Jerry and me and his silo; the tall one is the silo.  Note well, Kenny Sheffield, that I am not only wearing your exquisitely designed purple Rockies senior-softball jersey, but have also donned the required "white" softball sleeves (Inside softball reference) favored by softball enthusiasts and clothing designers everywhere.

     Jerry is a great guy and a fine ballplayer.  In one tournament in Peoria, AZ, last winter, he hit key home runs in the last inning in three-consecutive games, all blasts that either won or tied each game, thus giving him the nickname: 7th INNING LIGHTNING!  It seems, however, that I'm the only one who calls him that.

     Wife Shiela is no slouch when it comes to the sporting field.  Back at Doland High in 19??, she set the school record in the shot-put with a throw of 38'10.5".  Jerry said it's the "unofficial" school record, so one afternoon while the four of us were getting drunk on chocolate-vanilla custard and Turtle Sundaes, we declared it the official Culver's Ice Cream school record.  So now she has that going for her.

Alexx is praying to the Glucose-Gods to let him pass the  test for one scoop.

     Jerry is an incredible hunter.  He has a big-game room that is not to be believed.  He has over 25 mounted heads on display, although I did think stuffing the Monarch butterfly he hit with his car was a bit much.  He's made three trips to Africa where he bagged a kudu and an oryx; it seems he only goes after animals with names Kent Hrbek can spell.   .   

    

Since shortly after my heart surgery in January of 2012, I have pledged to walk 3 miles every day, except when I play my idiot softball games or hack my way around a gold course.  Either way, I must do something active every day, or else go sleep with the fishes.  Well, on Monday the 3rd in Doland, I did my my 500th consecutive day of my workout streak; placed end to end, my consecutive walking streak would have gotten me from Doland, South Dakota, to my home in Cave Creek, Arizona.  And of course, doing it that way, my miles per gallon would be much improved.  Jerry joined me on my historic walk as we walked down the highway in front of his farm.  Dozens of people drove by and waved, all of them either relatives or high school classmates of the Masons.

     As part of the celebration of the big day (we're still waiting to see if it becomes a state holiday), Jerry and Shiela took us to the Terry Redlin Museum and Gallery in Watertown, SD, about 50 miles away.  We didn't know who Redlin was, but as soon as we saw his work, we recognized his genius right away.  A painter of outdoors scenes from his childhood, he has the innate ability to bring you into his world immediately.  His works of art take you right away back to a beautiful and simpler time.  With his use of ducks in almost every picture, he was especially relevant to me, as noted by my e-mail address (AlexDUCK@Cox.net).  Redlin was voted America's top artist every year from 1992-97 and it's easy to see why.  The museum, a dead ringer for George Washington's Mount Vernon, is free to the public and is one of the best art museums I've ever seen.  It's highly recommended by all of us..

     Once back in Doland, we stopped at the childhood homes of two of South Dakota's greatest names: Shiela Mason and Hubert Humphrey.  They inspired awe.  One of Shiela's brothers now owns their home and runs it as a hunting lodge.  There's ample space as Shiela grew up there with 7 kids in the family.  I don't know how may kids were in the Humphrey family.

      The nice weather finally returned to us on Tuesday, so it was out to Fisher Grove Country Club, Jerry and Shiela's home course and the only 10-hole course in captivity.  It's 10 holes because for quite a few years, the nearby James River overflowed its banks in the spring and flooded the course's 9th hole.  Fed up after about the 3rd flooding, the club members built a new 9th hole.  And then as fate would have it, the flooding stopped and they now had an extra hole.  So on that Tuesday, the four of us played 10 holes.

     As in softball, Jerry hits the golf ball a long way.  And also as in softball, everything is hit to the left.  Shiela is a riot to golf with.  She plays like she has books due at the library.  

     After golf, we were driving through Jerry's real hometown of Frankfort, SD, when I suddenly hollered out "SQUIRREL!"  That's Diedre's joke about me.  If you saw the wonderful animated movie "Up," you'll remember that the villain's dogs had the ability to speak.  And no matter what dastardly deed they were up to, they would always be distracted if they saw a squirrel.  And that's what they would yell: SQUIRREL!.  Similarly, whenever we're driving, I have a habit of always noticing baseball fields and notifying Diedre of them.  And of course, she began equating it with the dogs yelling "SQUIRREL," so now whenever I (we) see a baseball field, we yell out "SQUIRREL!"  Of course, that startled the Masons.  The field we stopped at was one that Jerry had played at for years and had even started a men's league there that he ran for 16 years.  Shiela would work concessions, Jerry's grandfather would do the score-keeping and announcing, and Jerry's mother even paid for the lights that are still in use at the fields.  It's quite the nice little ballpark.

     Not exhausted enough by our challenging them to a golf scramble, the Masons kept at it that night; Shiela golfed again, this time with her women's league, while Jerry and I drove the requisite 50 miles to play softball in Aberdeen, SD.  To clarify, Jerry played, I kept score.  I will now say that the coldest winter day I ever spent was Tuesday, June 4, in Aberdeen, South Dakota.  It didn't help any that Jerry's doubleheader was scheduled for 8:30 and 9:30 at night.  His league had no age limit, so seniors were competing against high school kids.  And it must have been a while since I've played in a young-man's league, because they now allow STEALING in slow pitch after the pitched ball crosses the plate.  That was fun to watch; even our 62-year old Jerry managed to steal second, although I think I could have timed him with a calendar.  

     It's Wednesday now, and we're headed back to our home turf in the Minneapolis, Minnesota, area.  We'll be there till June 23 when we take off for Michigan.  So next blog, you'll get all the dirt about the goings-on of our plucky band of travelers in the Gopher State.  Until then ... Blog on, Garth!

---------------------------------------------
Hi All!  Diedre here with just a quick addition.  When we were in Estes Park, a complete stranger taught Chris Stricklett and me how to use the Panorama button on our phone cameras.  So I just had to add this panorama pic of Jerry's Frankfort ballpark.  If you look closely you can see Alexx in the outfield.  Once I get the hang of best uses of this camera feature you might be seeing more of it in the blog.  You kinda have to squint to get past the fuzziness of this photo.  And yes, to the answer of many of your questions...we are having a great time!!!  Hope to see you on the road!