Opinion

This time of year, I sometimes think of the poem Pippa Passes (1841) by Robert Browning.

It’s about that time of year again where I convince myself that I can, indeed, grow a magnificent garden such as my grandma has always done There’s only been a couple of summers in my life where I actually accomplished this. Whether it be because the weather is challenging, or I don’t have a yard, or because I put in all the effort to plant everything and then became too busy to manage the plot of land that was clearly going to always be a challenge with weeds growing over because it was a first year till - there’s always been a struggle.

I once walked down Wabasha Avenue in downtown St. Paul and was stopped by an old wino who asked for something to eat and when I gave him a couple bucks, he said, “You’re Garrison Keillor, you can do better than that.” The man had bad habits but his thinking was clear. I was a nobody from Anoka who got his picture on the cover of Time and my notoriety should mean profits for the needy. But that was many years ago and fame fades fast. I haven’t been recognized by a wino for at least thirty years.

INT. SPORTS BAR - DAY

With the warmer weather, the opportunity to get outdoors more often, and enjoy the spaces that surround us has been more frequent. Likewise, the melting of the snow (what little we did have), has also revealed what we haven’t seen in awhile.

It’s been cold. An engaged audience might ask: How cold was it? A type of punchline: It was so cold the ice was complaining about the temperature! The reality is more mundane. It was so cold they cancelled school. This has happened before. I grew up in Texas, a geography not known for cold temperatures. One winter day was so cold that they cancelled schools. They were concerned the HVAC wasn’t up to the job. No school administrator wants to take in warm bodied children and spit them out blue. It was 29 degrees Fahrenheit.

I recently went on a date with my six-year-old daughter. It was an elegant affair. She wore a gown. I donned a suit. My daughter kept referring to the event as “the ball,” though technically it’s a Father Daughter Dance. Elaborate chandelier, ornate sconces and superfluous fleur-de-lis decorated the country club ballroom. A DJ spun an array of danceable, kid-friendly tunes. Yes, it was mostly Taylor Swift.

I recently read about a new museum opening in Brainerd that celebrates all things pop culture. The museum features a variety of rooms that center on various interests, including rooms that have fully functioning gaming consoles from throughout the years, where visitors can actually sit down and enjoy a round of Pac Man, or a round of Oregon Trail on an old green and black screen PC.

Last weekend, my first born child returned from a deployment overseas, arriving from a warm, sandy place to upstate New York, only to be greeted with a large amount of snow, and very cold temperatures. It’s strange to be grateful for cold weather and snow, but he was.

I seldom invite friends to come to church with me and, after Sunday’s morning service that was so deeply moving, I don’t know why. If you knew a great bakery, you’d tell people. If you read a great book, you wouldn’t keep it a secret. But off I truck to the West Side of Manhattan and in the big door past the greeters, drop my two cents in the offering plate, head altarward, stop at my pew, genuflect and bow, and take my seat.