Wednesday, 01 September 2010
Tonight, for the first time in over six years, there will be five people sleeping in my home. The last time this happened (in July 2004), we had a family of three visiting us from Deutschland. This time, our visitor is only one person, but since we are up to four people in our immediate family, it doesn’t take much to bring the tally up to five.
Our fifth (temporary) resident is my mom, on loan from the Centennial State. I’m glad she was able to come here and visit so soon after Isla’s birth, especially as I’m not back at work yet. Her arrival means that Isla has now met all of her grandparents – something I didn’t think would happen for many, many months.
I went to pick my mom up at the airport today, a task I handled with my usual aplomb persona. Just kidding. Actually, the craziness of the streets at the airport, coupled with being on my phone, my son talking to me from the back seat, and turning down the radio, all conspired to ensure I missed the sign that said “Speed Limit 15,” a little thing the policewoman was more than happy to point out to me.
Getting pulled over by the cops is on my long list of things I get unduly nervous about. Actually, another item high on that list is airplanes. And another item on that list is getting lost while driving. So…maybe I’m not the best choice to pick people up from the airport.
Really, though, you can’t get lost at the St. Paul/Minneapolis airport, because there are only two routes you can take: one takes you to an upper level where you get rid of people, another route takes you to a lower level where you welcome them back. For some reason, I always panic and mix these two up. Thankfully, the airport has helpfully provided a road that serves no purpose other than to take you out about 1/2 a mile, turn you around, and let you have another go at it. When my German friends came for a visit, I managed to take the correct route but, alas, they weren’t standing there waiting for me. Since there’s no place to park, and since you can’t stop (!), you are forced to circle around again, something I had to do 9 times that day. And even when you do successfully meet up with your visitors, you can’t leave your car. And to the cops, “leaving your car” means not sitting in the driver’s seat, something my mom once discovered when she got out to help my dad load his luggage into the trunk. They’re divorced now.
Yeah, so, anyways, if you have to go to the airport to pick up someone: stay on the lower level, drive super slow, keep circling around until you see them, and then don’t get out of the car to greet or help them.
Thursday, 02 September 2010
This evening, Jennifer and I happened to be in that part of St. Paul where she grew up, so we did the obligatory drive-past-the-memories routine. We drove past her old Kingdom Hall, her old neighborhood, and even her old house. We also stopped by Creamy Cone, a tiny little eating establishment about four blocks from where Jennifer grew up. Even though I spent two years driving past that tiny place back when I was courting my bride-to-be, and even though I lived just a couple of miles away for a few months, I don’t think I’d ever stopped there before.
We parked, walked up to the counter (that’s all there is – a counter – there’s no indoor dining) and each ordered a flurry. Then we sat at one of the benches enjoying our desserts and (in Isla’s case) breast milk.
While sitting there, a van pulled up, two women got out, and they began trying to roll up the driver’s side window. It wasn’t working, so the began physically pulling on the window to make it go up. One of the women looked at me and said: “Can you help us?” I probably should’ve offered my services sooner, but I’m more the type of person who stares, slack-jawed, at other people’s problems rather than offering any tangible help. So I walked over and, using these hefty pipes I call ‘biceps’, managed to get the window up in no time. One of the women asked she owed me any money (I said no), and the other women gave me a high-five and said “Praise the Lord!” I don’t know why she thought my name was Lord but, no matter.
Anyway, if you ever find yourself on Dale Street in the North End of St. Paul, stop at Creamy Cone. It’s a good thing.