Returning to the village

Minneapolis, Minnesota


In the summer of 1954, our family was the second to move into one of the newly-constructed houses on our block on Second Street N.E. in the panhandle of Fridley, Minnesota. The purchase price was $9,900.


I was two years old, my sister, Deb, a few months.


Located in Anoka County, Fridley is a first-tier suburb on the northeast border of Minneapolis. It was incorporated as a village in 1949 and became a city in 1957. In the "Fridley tornados" of May 6, 1965, a quarter of the city's homes were damaged or destroyed.


In short order in 1954 and 1955, other young families took up residence in the remaining abodes, most of them with one or two youngsters in-hand. No one of a certain age required clairvoyance to know what transpired in the bedrooms of young parents throughout the neighborhood. In no time at all, additional younglings arrived to provide playmates for each age cohort.


With no grass at the beginning, nor trees to climb, and no fenced yards, there was no end of open-range play areas. Also, there was "The Field," an expanse of sand and weeds across Main Street that stretched a mile north and south along Main, and a quarter mile west from the street to the massive railroad switching yard.


We learned to ride bicycles on the dirt alleys – which caused fewer injuries than did falls on paved roads, few as those were. (It was a big deal when curbs, gutters, and asphalt eventually replaced tar and crushed rock for street surfaces.)


As grass and a few trees were planted, fences were installed that restricted our range of free movement. Play then came to center on a few front and back yards, including ours. We knew everyone, and everyone knew us.


The Hansens, next door, were Methodists. The Willmans, across the alley, were the token Catholics. Next to them, the Sepples attended First Lutheran Church, which was somehow more conservative than our church, St. Timothy's English Evangelical Lutheran, affiliated with the United Lutheran Church in America. Mainly – owing something to my parents' evangelism – if you were Lutheran in our neighborhood, you joined or attended St. Tim's.


My family were charter members of St. Tim's, organized on Palm Sunday, 1959. My brother, born in April that year, was named after the church. At its peak, 10 years later, the church counted a membership of 1,200, operating on 10 acres of land on the shores of Sullivan Lake.


In those days, most of our mothers did not work outside the home. Also in those days, no 24/7 news cycles convinced our parents that we needed to be kept under lock-and-key or chaperoned. We could roam all day and most of the evening, and got in trouble only if we failed to show up for supper.


Friendships formed, all of them meaningful and some of them lasting.


One of the lasting ties was that between my brother and David William Wicklund. Dave was born in November 1958 and lived across Second street.


Dave died of natural causes on June 2, last week.


Over the years, many of the Second Street parent neighbors have died – Don and Elaine Archer, Harold and Audrey Sepple, Arvid and Fern Hansen, Tom and Tess Thompson, Gene Wicklund – while others have moved away.


Yesterday afternoon, I picked up my mother at her home in Monticello and drove to Dave's visitation and memorial service at St. Tim's. We were way early, so we spent time driving around the old 'hood.


The landscape had an alien feel, what with trees 50+ years old. Our old house has a basketball hoop on the garage. (We never had a garage.) Many of the houses sport bay windows, brickwork, decks, and other affectations.


It was mid-afternoon and no one was extant in yards or on the street.


We arrived at St. Tim's at the stroke of 3pm. Dave had been confirmed in his Christian faith there on May 5, 1974. The photo of his confirmation class is displayed permanently in the lobby, as are those of all of us who passed through from 1959 to the present.


Dave's mother greeted us at the entry and welcomed a long and silent embrace. There are no words that can comfort a grieving mother. Dave was the second son she had lost to natural causes.


It was a blessing to see Harvey and Sylvia at the church, along with their children, Neil, Donna, and Debra. I babysat those children after their parents moved from South Dakota.


Daniel Lloyd held court at the organ and piano keyboards, as he has done since he was a teenager in the 1960s.


Dave's younger sister, Susan, recalled her brother as a man who viewed life as a glass half-full, one who cultivated an encyclopedic and rabid knowledge of the Minnesota Twins baseball team (and, to a lesser extent, of the Minnesota Vikings and the old North Stars).


Friend Randy, who met Dave at Columbia Heights High School in 1975, recalled an intelligent and loyal friend who lived each moment in color.


Randy's sister and Dave's love, Renae, described a man who provided the color to her life and knew how to work an entire room at every high school reunion.


We listened to readings from the Book of Revelation ("the old world has passed away"), Psalm 91 (expressing confidence in God), and the Gospel of John (Jesus taking leave "to prepare a place").


We sang "On Eagle's Wings" and "Amazing Grace."


We adjourned to the church basement for fellowship and a light meal that, in Lutheran fashion, was anything but light.


As she has for more than 50 years, Eva, 88, continued her ministry and constant presence at the food table, assisting in the provision of nourishment to the nuanced ties that bind.


In the fullness of time, all boundaries of time and space pass away and collapse upon themselves. This was expressed best in the handwritten message that accompanied the bouquet placed in the worship chancel by Dave's mother:


"I will love you forever."

What happens to dreams when they die?

Minneapolis, Minnesota


Destiny lives in the choices we make that result in dreams realized, deferred, or denied. Regardless of the intention or merit of one's choices, they often substitute for what we originally wanted, whether for ourselves or others. Ten years ago, on Oct. 24, 1999, my niece Bernadette Lewis realized her destiny in a fatal choice at a railroad crossing in Baltimore.


A barren landscape of anguish, regret, and sorrow confronted her survivors with the loss of possibility and the futility of hope. Yet, while her dreams for herself had ended, 10 years on ours for her and for ourselves have continued, changed forever by the choices she had made.


In the climactic scene of Bright Star, Jane Campion's current film about the 19th century Romantic poet John Keats, Abbie Cornish as Fanny Brawne receives news in England that Keats, her betrothed, has died at 25 in his rooms overlooking the Spanish Steps in Rome. In her grief, Cornish is wracked by the suffocating spasms of angina pectoris and cries out that "I can't breathe." 


Ten years ago, I could not breathe after hearing the news of Bernadette's death, and believed I would suffocate in the middle of the night on a hillside above a lake. The intensity of my emotional turmoil in the months that followed exceeded by many factors that of the multi-year mess that had marked my coming out as a gay man many years earlier. I discerned few choices and no dreams in the wake of Bernadette's demise.


Over coffee with my friend Florence, a retired dance educator, I asked when the pain would end. "It never stops," she answered. "The intensity may diminish and surrender to time, but it will keep coming back. When it does, you need to let it wash over and through you."


Every person experiences these dynamics from a different perspective. The members of my family have made new choices and adjusted their dreams in different ways. Bernadette's mother, my sister Debra S. Lewis, published a book in 2007, Song of Bernadette: A Mother's Memoir of a Daughter.


As I have done on other occasions before and since, I entered into the loss and gradually harnessed the power of its pain, bending it to new choices in pursuit of new and old dreams.


One of the choices led to the life-changing journey of a two-week tour of Kansas in 2000. My brother joined me for a few days from his home in Denver. We met new relatives who were more excited than anyone had been to see either of us for a long time. We found the lost roots of our paternal grandfather, and from there we found a story of family, country, and dreams stretching back nearly 400 years. The outcomes of those choices led to the launch of this blog and inspiration for a future book that ties the story together.


Three years ago, when I visited Baltimore and the place where she died, I told Bernadette all the news that had happened since, and told her that as long as we all lived, so would she. 


Thwarted dreams can resurge and lure us to create new possibilities, testifying to the resilience of things we do not fully comprehend, and providing evidence that while people die, dreams never do.

Bernadette "Berni" C. Lewis passed away Oct. 24, 1999. She was 26 yrs old. Berni was born in Fridley, MN on March 15, 1973. She lived in Mpls until she was 11 and moved to Kenton, Ohio, where she graduated Valedictorian from Kenton High School in 1991. She graduated from Mt. Holyoke College in South Hadley, MA in 1995 with a Biology Major. Following graduation, Berni worked at Henry M. Jackson Foundation in Rockville, MD as an AIDS researcher until 1997 when she accepted a position at the University of Maryland. Berni loved her family, her soul mate, Su-hun, her friends, her dog "Lola" and the outdoors. Her future plans were to attend Medical School and become a rural family Physician. Berni is survived by her parents, Jeffrey & Debra Lewis of Ashland, WI; her grandparents, Kenneth & Millicent Vetsch of Monticello, MN and Dr. L. Clifford & Jacqueline Lewis of Mantoloking, NJ. She also leaves her sisters, Jenine N. Lewis of St. Paul, MN and Emily J. Lewis of Ashland, WI, along with her brother, Peter E. Lewis of Ashland, WI. A Memorial Service will be held in Washburn, Wisc., on Sat., Oct. 30, 11 AM at the Messiah Lutheran Church.

 

Kenny

Minneapolis, Minnesota


Monticello Times, Monticello MN
Thursday, January 8, 2009


Kenneth J. "Kenny" Vetsch, 84, Monticello

Kenneth J. "Kenny" Vetsch, 84, Monticello, died Tuesday, Dec. 30, 2008, at his residence.


A Mass of Christian Burial was 10:30 a.m., Saturday, Jan. 3, 2009, at The Church of St. Henry in Monticello. Father Timothy C. Rudolphi was the Celebrant. Visitation was Friday, Jan. 2, 4-8 p.m., at The Peterson Chapel St. Michael-Albertville Funeral Home. A Prayer Service was held at 7 p.m.


Kenny was born Nov. 8, 1924, in Buffalo Township, Wright County, the son of William and Antonia Wey Vetsch. He honorably served his country in the U.S. Army.


He married Millicent I. Peterson July 24, 1971, at St. Timothy Lutheran Church in Columbia Heights.


Kenny worked in dairy farming in Monticello Township for many years. He later became a construction laborer and belonged to The Construction & General Laborers Local # 536.


He was a faithful member of The Church of St. Henry in Monticello. He was also a longtime active member of The American Legion, V.F.W., Catholic Order of Foresters and Knights of Columbus.


Kenny loved the outdoors, especially working at Beebe Lake Park for 17 years and having a large garden.


He is survived by his wife; children, Gary Peterson (James Davies), Debra (Jeff) Lewis, Patti (Patrick) McCann, Tim Peterson and Sandy Peterson; 11 grandchildren; two great-grandchildren; brothers and sisters, Orville (Marlene) Vetsch, Willard "Willie" Vetsch, Anna Mae (Gilbert) Valerius, Earl (Joan) Vetsch, Fred (Alice) Vetsch, Nona (Lyle) Lindenfelser, and Dianne (Duane) Kemmetmueller.


He was preceded in death by his parents; four brothers, Ralph, Lloyd, Joseph and Donald Vetsch; a granddaughter, Bernadette Lewis, and by first wife, Kathleen.


Casket Bearers were Kevin McCann, Aaron McCann, Kelly McCann, Ryan McCann, Peter Lewis and Brian Vetsch.

Kenneth Vetsch Eulogy, St. Henry’s Catholic Church, Monticello MN
by Tim Peterson - January 3, 2009

Good morning. Happy new year everyone. This would certainly be Kenny’s wish for each of us on this fine day of remembrance and celebration.


How does one even begin to summarize the essential character of someone as beloved and dear as my step father Kenny?


The author Dr. Stephen Covey wrote that in order to truly become fulfilled, each of us seeks to live, to love, to learn, and to leave a legacy. I would add my own personal fifth item: to laugh often. Kenny’s life had the gift of many years to master fulfillment in each of these areas.


As I stand before you today, I am struck by the greatest of ironies among my many reflections over this past week. When Kenny married my mother back on July 24, 1971, I was but a scared, awkward, pimple faced, 12 year old kid. Beginning way back then, I literally ached to emulate and to always be as much like him as I possibly could. This was apparent in everything from wearing my Jacques seed corn cap, my leather work gloves, my blue jeans, and my red wing brand work boots that we acquired from a big trip down to Minneapolis. I must confess to you all that here I am now today, almost 38 years later, and I still ache as ever to be as much like him as I can!


Although certainly more numerous, there are at least six reasons why:

1. Kenny had a Quiet Kindness to him. He was authentic, non-superficial, the REAL deal. Kenny was not a talker. He let his actions speak more loudly than his words, as was shared so eloquently last night in comments from both my brother, Gary, and my brother-in-law, Patrick McCann.

2. Patience. Kenny showed this in spades throughout his years, but perhaps no more directly than after the April 26, 1973, construction accident when, at roughly the same age of 49 that I am at today, he fell three stories off of an apartment building that he was working on. He landed upon his seat on the hood of the cement truck below and his hard hat also came off from the fall. Moments later, he was struck in the head by the wheel barrow full of concrete which followed him in the fall. Kenny was nearly killed from this mishap and he suffered through great pain during his recovery and was challenged by great disability and hearing loss throughout the remaining years of his life from that point forward. I cannot even imagine how difficult that must have been to endure such an ordeal.

3. Dutiful. Kenny was the guy who always showed up with his legendary work ethic. He pulled his weight, or in his own words, he "cut the mustard." He always did his job and he did it well.

4. Adaptable Kenny was often resourceful in overcoming adversity and embracing change. I will be forever amazed by how well both he and my mother made the proactive decision 12 years ago to move off of the farm and into town as they proceeded in age into their early 70s.

5. Kenny could be tremendously Humorous. He liked to pull the occasional prank in order to tease my mother. He would help to lighten her up and keep things easy going. Many of you may not know this, but Kenny spoke German, learned long ago from his early farm family upbringing, and this would happen often when he would get together with his many siblings. We kids would be utterly fascinated by this and would beg them to say something in German. "Spechen se Deutsch, spechen se Deutsch," we would plead.

Kenny would then glance at his conspiring brothers with a twinkle in each of their eyes and state something like the following (hopefully, those of you who are fluent will forgive my attempt to pronounce correctly here): "Ah-Bay-Say, Kat-Schlecken-Sneigh. Sneigh-Dey-Vet, Kat-Schlecken-Det!" Fully believing that we had just heard something very deep and profound we would then plead with Kenny to translate what we had just heard. "Say it in English, say it in English," we would beg. Kenny and his brothers would by then be laughing so very hard as they let us all into their little linguistic joke by stating the following: "A-B-C, the cat sleeps in the snow. The snow then melts, the cat sleeps in the dirt!" I guess you just had to be there in order to most fully appreciate how humorous and priceless of a memory this is!

6. Finally, Kenny was very Spiritual. He would never let on himself outwardly about such a thing, but his very persona once again spoke volumes through his love of husbandry and all agrarian activities. His actions were almost always in sync with the seasons. Kenny seemed to get the "inside stuff" right. I did not realize it then, but looking back, it is very apparent that his ongoing, quiet example of living opened many doors to the unfolding of my own spirituality which has continued over the years since he came into our lives.

To conclude my comments, I wish to share some timeless wisdom from my friend, Joe Henry, who lives as a rancher on the western slope of the Continental Divide along the roaring Fork River Valley in southwest Colorado. My friend Joe is an elder of native American, Cheyenne tribal ancestry. His words provide a significant measure of calm and comfort ... so appropriate as we all remember and honor Kenny this day:

I know that love is seeing ALL the infinite in one.

In the brotherhood of creatures; Who the father? Who the son?

The vision of your goodness will sustain me through the cold.

Take my hand now to remember, when you find yourself alone.

You are NEVER alone!

For the spirit fills the darkness of the heavens.

It fills the endless yearning of the soul.

It lives within a star too far to dream of.

It lives within each part, and is the whole.

It is the Fire and the Wings that fly us home.

Fly us home … fly us home.

Ah-ho, Ishinyuwanta … you are the blessed servant Kenny, filled with joy and peace.

Ah-ho, Ishinyuwanta … we are all the blessed ones this day, filled with joy and peace.

For all the saints

St. Michael, Minnesota


I am the eldest of my mother and stepfather's five children.


As we have gathered over the past several days and shared stories and memories, I have felt envious of my three youngest siblings who had the opportunity, as our oldest sister and I did not, to live day-to-day for many years with our stepfather. I was living across the country when my mother and Kenny met and, beyond an occasional extended visit, I never lived here in Wright County.


On Tuesday, my youngest sister, an aunt, and I joined my mother at her house. On Wednesday, my carpenter sister returned from vacation to join us. My brother arrived from Denver on Thursday. With the arrival of our oldest sister today, all of us are together for the first time since the somewhat-expected-but-unbelievable happened.


Throughout the week, we have had an awareness that the news of Kenny's passing, at home and at night, was rippling out to the extended network of his friends and family of 84 years. This is similar to the way that news of a whirlwind courtship emanated from these environs during the spring of 1971.


In addition to brief phone calls, I relied on letters to keep me posted. First came a letter from my godmother, in March, 1971: "Your mother has met a man." Then, in a letter from mother, he had a name: Kenny. In a subsequent letter, she shared news of one of their first dates, on Apr. 10, the day before Easter, at the Monti Club in Monticello: "He seems to know a lot of people around there." [He hailed from a family of 12 children, each of them networked with hundreds of others in ways that only Facebook could hope to unravel.]


A letter from my youngest sister, age 10 at the time, told of Kenny's first date with just the three kids: "It was May 2nd, to be exact," she wrote. He introduced them to his farm and had them painting fences.


Mother and Kenny married in July.


As we sorted through pictures for the display boards this week, it was clear that, when it came to being the subject of photos, Kenny always took a good picture. He is smiling in nearly every one, just as he is now, lying in repose.


More than anyone else I know, Kenny took seriously the dictates of the Old and New Testaments to practice hospitality. His farm, and later his home in town, was the destination of a regular and unending stream of visitors, young and old, from all walks of life. All were welcome. Always.


All of us do our best to deal with what life throws at us. Like all of us, Kenny did not have – or was not able to give – everything that someone else might need in a given circumstance. Unlike some of us, however, Kenny always gave everything he had when it was needed.


ADDENDUM [01/04/09]: Kenny was buried yesterday at Crystal Lake Cemetery in Minneapolis. His death last Tuesday marked the end of both an era and an extraordinary number of departures from my circle during 2008. Last Monday, I received word that Jennifer, a friend since 1970, had died that morning in Australia. In October, two political friends of longstanding, Allan Spear and Gene Lourey, passed away, as did Sam, a friend and arts patron. Jim Dusso, a longtime arts advocate, departed in September. The mother of an artist friend died in an auto accident in August. My father's cousin took his leave, at 102, in July. The mother of my best high school friend died in April. In February, another political friend, David, and the father of another good friend passed away. Last January, I gathered with others to celebrate the life of a friend and former employer. On the same day that Kenny left us, the final court proceedings took place by which a sister and brother-in-law adopted J and R, my brother-in-law's nephews. Blessings on them all.

Ridgely's Delight: Remembering

Baltimore, Maryland


For some reason, I remember her shoes.


My niece, Bernadette, was wearing "flats" on the sunny spring morning when I drove her and my brother to the Minneapolis airport.


As they got out of the car and walked to the terminal, I saw her shoes and how she carried herself, and thought how "cool" and cosmopolitan she had become at 26.


She was headed back home to Baltimore, and my brother to Denver, following the graduation and party of my mother from college in St. Cloud, Minnesota.


That morning was the last time I saw Bernadette. She made a round trip drive from Baltimore to Minnesota and Wisconsin that summer, but I was somehow too busy to see her, although I did talk to her on the phone from my mother's house while she was en route.


She died in late October that year of 1999, when she fell under the wheels of a train near her townhouse in Baltimore's Ridgely's Delight neighborhood.


She was the first born of my 10 nieces and nephews. A couple years before 1999, she had graduated from Mt. Holyoke College in Massachusetts. At the time of her death, she had applied to medical schools and was working on medical research in Baltimore. You can still Google and find a study for which she was co-author in 1999.


She was the first of what we hoped would be many prides and joys. Being first did not diminish those who followed.


Dealing with her death was, and remains, the worst experience of my life.


In a round-about effort to try and make sense of it all, I set out in the summer of 2000 to tour Kansas for two weeks to find the roots of my grandfather, Harry Peterson. I might have made the trip eventually in my life, but never so soon if Berni had not died.


What I found restored a measure of balance and hope.


I found a wealth of living relatives, and stories of others passed, stretching back to Delaware and the 1600s and, somehow, to Sweden before that.


However, that is all its own separate story.


I knew that if the opportunity ever came my way, I would visit Berni's haunts in Baltimore.


My work at Baltimore's Convention Center ended at 5pm today. I walked back to the Mt. Vernon Hotel to change clothes and set out to walk the 1.2 miles to Berni's last residence at 605 S. Paca Street.


The walk is pleasant enough. Past the University of Maryland Medical Center, past Oriole Park at Camden Yards. In fact, Berni's last home was only three blocks from where baseball is played for 80 games every summer.


You would never know it. South Paca Street is such a quiet oasis, lined with trees, townhouses built to the edge of the sidewalk. A red brick, three-story walkup. Around the corner and a block distant is the dog park where Berni played with her dog. Two blocks away is the gas station. A block further is the pub, Pickles.


Six tenths of a mile further south is the 1300 block of Ridgely Avenue.


Three sets of rusted railroad tracks make a crossing next to an abandoned warehouse.


Two blocks away is the relatively new M & T Bank Stadium where the Baltimore Ravens play football. In between lie acres of surface parking lots.


It is almost absurdly simple to visualize the scene late on a night in October 1999. A car of young people stops short of the railroad tracks on the right side of Ridgely. Berni and a friend get out and wait for a train to come by that is moving slowly enough to try and jump aboard.


The scene is so innocuous now. So ridiculously ordinary and benign.


I have sometimes encouraged the nieces and nephews to dream big and reach high.


Berni had always held a dream of riding the rails. That night, her dream exceeded her reach.


Standing in the middle of the middle tracks, I could feel the possibility of chasing the dream for no more than 30 feet before falling short. I could see the feet touching the ground, running to make it happen.


I saw the shoes.


Oddly, it was not as emotional at the tracks as I had thought it would be -- as it had been when I set out from my hotel in the Mt. Vernon neighborhood.


I stood by on Ridgely for 45 minutes thinking of this and that.


Although I had the sense that Berni was no longer at this scene, whether or not she had lingered for a time, I told her of the amazing stories I had been prompted to learn after she lost consciousness here. I told her I would rather have learned the stories later and in some other way.


I told her she had been the maid of honor at her sister's wedding, and was now an aunt. I told her another sister was now living in Madrid and she would never recognize the cool dude her brother has become.


I told her that her grandmother had had heart surgery a couple years ago but was now standing for election to the Minnnesota Legislature.


I told her we missed her, and that as long as we all lived, so would she.


I told her that she may never have known how much Irish was in her blood, and related the Irish blessing:

May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
And the rain fall gentle on your fields.
And, until we meet again, may God hold you
In the palm of His hand.

The train that came by as I walked away had the most mournful whistle -- heard for blocks away. I have heard that train's whistle on the plains of Kansas, next to the childhood home and presidential library of Dwight Eisenhower in Abilene, and next to the homestead where my grandfather was born in Jasper.

Birmingham ... Venues, Audiences and Politics

Birmingham, Alabama


Whoever she was, and whatever else she accomplished in her life, Alys Stephens was the woman behind creation of the Alys Stephens Center for the Performing Arts and the Jemison Concert Hall in Birmingham. This means she probably paid for a good chunk of it.


It is among the most beautiful performance complexes in the United States, and the Jemison is one of the most acoustically exacting spaces for choral music. Alys's life-size portrait hangs in the entry. Garrison Keillor, Diavolo Dance Theater, and River North Dance will grace the center's stages in 2006-07.


The scene at Monday night's continuation of the Great Southern Sing-Out Tour by the Twin Cities Gay Men's Chorus was another of high emotion for artists and audiences.


The guys are starting to hit their stride as the rhythm of the tour develops and sinks into their bones.


Yesterday's drive from Nashville to Birmingham was uneventful -- save for the truckstop in Decatur that was overrun by occupants of three motor coaches stopping for lunch.


Birmingham, the Pittsburgh of the South, is an old industrial city shaped by the steel mills fed by underground limestone and iron ore. From his perch atop Red Mountain, the Vulcan (the largest cast metal statue in the world) watches over the city with -- for some inexplicable reason -- his butt hanging out of his tunic. This of course required all three buses to climb the mountain for a 30-minute photo op.


Last night's audience was, to say it mildly, enthused. And moved. The music resonates, particularly when you have never heard any of it before. "Marry Us" received a mid-concert standing-O.


"Not In Our Town," possibly the most powerful piece -- and this contention has strong competition -- related the 1993 incident in Billings MT when the Ku Klux Klan announced its presence. A cinder block was thrown through the bedroom window of a small Jewish boy who had placed a menorah there. Although not 100 Jews lived in Billings, thousands of menorahs appeared in windows of homes and businesses all over the city. (You can Google for the details.)


Two groupies from Nashville drove down for last night's show.


There is a Baptist convention here at the Sheraton Hotel, making for a few interesting moments in the elevators and other public spaces.


We head in an hour for Jackson MS for tonight's concert at the Municipal Auditorium.


As I gaze at the countryside, my thoughts are with my mother in Minnesota who, on Sunday, kicked off her campaign for the Minnesota Legislature. She is the Democratic endorsed candidate for State House District 19A.