Jonie and Annie: July 2009

I love ethnic restaurants, my favorites being Greek or Middle Eastern. Occasionally, I find a German Restaurant that has a menu better than what I can do myself, but that is rare. It's because a hot dog on a plate with Libby's Sauerkraut does not German cuisine make. The same is true about Chinese places.

While in Rochester, we found this Dutch place, so I had to go there. I lived in Oberhausen for about five months in the early 70's. A friend gave me some wooden shoes, which Germans in the area used to work in their muddy gardens. The shoes are great. And much of the food I remember eating there had a bit of a Dutch twist to it, especially the Pfannekuchen, which we often ate in the evenings, and I still make it when I have apples and some great jam. It's a must when grand kids are here.

But the Dutch place in Rochester was interesting. The stuffed cabbage was very good, and it was very much like what we made for ourselves and sometimes ate when invited to some one's house during those times. But the place is just a franchise. My disappointment came when I asked if any of them were from Holland. Most of Minnesota is Scandinavian, so it was not surprising to hear that the two older people at the register were a mixture of Viking blood from Norway, Denmark and Sweden. There was even a bit of German in the mix, but none of them knew anyone in their families, who spoke a foreign language. Their families had been in America since the 1800's: so much for my thinking that some people from Holland opened a restaurant there.

I guess I'll just have to rely on the Dutch Deli in Salt Lake City to get my chocolate sprinkles, cabbage roles, curry ketchup and a few other things, but if you are ever in Rochester, you have to order the dutch pancake just to hear the people bring it to your table.

While Visiting Mayo Clinic in September of '08, Ann and I were able to see Tommy get on the bus and ride to school each day. It was a sad day for Anna, because she no longer had a playmate during the day, and Tommy did not like anyone coming outside while he waited for the bus.

We tried for several days to get pictures, but he told us each time he didn't need us to escort him to the bus. And I should have remembered my years as a first grader, when I rode the "town bus."

And there was no option for younger students, when I was a first grader, and Kindergarten was not a reality at that point, so my experience happened when I was one year older than both boys.

Hazing was a cultural event. I spent my days understanding just how a volleyball felt during a match. An older student would pick us up and throw us at another high school student. As soon as we hit the target, they in turn would throw us at someone else.

My ride was like that every morning, not a great way to begin school. But the experience worked out to be a learning experience for all of us: we learned obscene gestures and foul language that we expressed freely during the entire trip to school, a trip that took about 40 minutes as we sailed through the air those mornings, howling and cursing while older students enjoyed the moment.

At least I remain confident that Tommy didn't have to relive that hell that I experienced, and hopefully, he didn't learn new vocabulary words--both verbally and otherwise--that my friends and I learned so quickly on the one mile ride to school in the very late 1959 and 1960. The fun that high school students had with us just made us mean.

There was Jimmy. He filled a squirt gun with lighter fluid, and he lit it, so that it blew flames like a blow torch. When he wasn't tormenting us, he took out his clarinet and played a horrific high note that made dogs in the neighborhood howl in pain. And there was Buck. He was just mean. Later they say he took a break from dealing drugs and began work as a police informant, which explains why I enjoyed most police shows where detectives "rough up" those kind of people. In the back of my mind, I hope he gets what I believed was "his due" almost 50 years ago.

But Tommy's experience was a good one. We never had a chance to get pictures in September that worked, so we took this on the last day of school. He was glad to have us at his house, and he didn't even mind that we stood on the curb to wave. It was a different story in September.

It was an embarrassment for him to see us fuss over him in front of his friends, and there was no hugging, holding his hand or giving him a little kiss on the cheek before leaving to climb aboard the bus. That was stuff you did only when he was three and four, not at the ripe old age of five or six.

Regardless of the changes, we relished the chance to be there to take this picture, and we saved our hugs for when he arrived home in the afternoon.

Oh, and I forgot to mention that the minister who lived next door also was the one with the gift for the bus driver. They were very nice people, and it was their last day in Rochester. By the time we returned in late July, they had already moved to their new home in Minneapolis.