Eddies

Rotary Exposed-Men In Suits

2012-02-06T14:10:00.000-06:00

visited rotary

downtown st. cloud

weekly meeting

not invited

By Referral Only

asked for referral

ignored

went anyway

eleven dollar lunch

men in suits

movers and shakers

guest speakers

inspirational

religious

men in suits

who love

college football

asked for referral-

wanted to be

counter-intuitive

referral request ignored

smart men in suits

Finally! An Interview with KVSC's Wayne Bergerson!

2012-02-01T12:06:00.000-06:00

Wayne Bergerson is the host of Frets, a folk music show on KVSC, the St. Cloud University public radio station. He has a large following and has been a popular local radio personality for almost thirty years. Peter Veljkovich, a relatively new KVSC disc jockey, is curious about Wayne. Wayne graciously answered Peter's questions:

How long have you been hosting Frets?

Since 1984 when Frets became a regular part of KVSC's programing.

How did the show come about?

The short version is because I love folk music.

The long version- while I was a director of KVSC, I spent many mornings on air. Since I was a young man then my head would be pounding from the festivities of the night before, and Rock N' Roll music made it worse, so I started digging into the folk music collection at the station. Soon I received so much positive feedback that I started the Fretz program on Saturday mornings. Little did I know that my love of a musical style, and too many late nights in the bars would create a radio program that has had such a long run, and loyal following.

How long have you been a disc jockey?

In my mind I've been a radio announcer since I was 5 years old. In reality I've been announcing since 1983. That's when I received my broadcast license.

How did that come about?

My first time in front of a radio microphone was when I was about 10 and there was a radio-thon for the Big Brothers program. Since one of the first little brothers in St. Cloud I was invited into the studio to talk. At that point I knew I would some day try my luck at sitting in the chair, plus by the time I was a teen and my voice changed, everyone I knew kept telling me I had a great voice for radio.

I won't go into the details, but in early 1983 I was going through a really tough time in my personal life and decided I needed something to shake me out of that bad place. I had heard KVSC's training promo, wandered into the studio and hit the ground running, and have been running ever since. Being in radio came at the right time, and has helped me keep what little balance I have in my life.

Where are you from?

I will put all speculation to rest. I am from the planet earth! I am not an illegal alien from another planet so you cannot deport me back home. This is home! I was born in St. Cloud, but by the time I was fourteen it was too small for me so I started hitchhiking to see the country and it was a great experience. I have seen all fifty states and with the help of the Navy made it to most of the Asian Pacific nations. Through all that I realized, like in the Wizard of Oz, there's no place like home, and returned to St. Cloud to stay.

How did you get interested in music?

I cannot remember a time I wasn't listening to and enjoying music. Music has always been a way for me to explore the world, and different ideas. It was and still is my favorite way to escape the troubles of the day. At an early age I realized music is something that can be your friend, and a way to express yourself. I guess if I had to blame someone for sparking that interest it would be Bobby V with Red Rubber Ball. I can't really explain it but it really grabbed a hold of me, and still does. (As a side note I still have yet to meet Bobby to thank him.)

Do you play an instrument?

I did in my teens and early twenties, but I was mediocre at worst, average at best, and being on stage was almost physically painful. So I quit, and started in radio. I would like to think I'm a better presenter of good music than a creator of good music.

How did your love of folk music originate?

That's easy to answer, and the listeners of the Fretz program can either thank or curse Hank Williams Sr. for his recording of "Move It On Over." My grandfather had an old stand up radio from the 40's that had a record player tucked inside a special drawer, which of course I found as a kid. On the turntable was a 78 picture disc of a cowboy next to a dog house. I begged my grandfather for a very long time to let me play that record, and I started my journey to today with folk and bluegrass music because of that recording.

Which artists are you most passionate about?

Everyone I play on the Fretz program has something to offer, and catches my attention. If pressed to name my favorites, I'd say Hank Williams Sr., Richard Thomson, Kathy Kallic, Clair Lynch, Tom Russell, Tom Pacheco, and Nancy Griffith. Next hour this could be different. I really don't have all-time favorites. I do have artists that I return to when listening away from the radio station. I don't go on a road trip without music from Richard Thompson, Tom Russell's "Love and Fear", and The Guess Who's "Live at the Paramount."

What about the state of radio today?

It has lost its soul, and has broken my heart. Those that listen to me on Saturday mornings get a little taste of what radio was like. Today it is all about corporate image and about making a few rich. I don't blame the industry for that. Radio has always been about money, but they have forgotten to serve the listener, as they continue to fill their wallets. This will not change until the public starts using their power as listeners and start requesting in large numbers what they want to hear. There was a time when your local radio station played top national acts and, because of listener demand, top regional and local acts. That was why radio was so important and valuable to listeners and performers. Today I see a very bland radio dial that can follow you no matter where you are in this country- with the same artists and songs. There is nothing offered from the area you're in to give you the musical pulse of that region. That was the beauty and strength of radio in the past, and can be again, if owners and program directors start looking at what is around their region and highlighting that. Then the stagnation and blandness of today's radio will slowly go away and radio will be the main listening choice of a whole new generation.

What is your regular job?

I work as a press operator in a small printing operation. I've been a press operator for 21 years and actually enjoy it almost as much as radio.

How does djing fit in with the rest of your life?

It is my life! Producing and hosting a five hour live radio show 51 weeks a year has overrun all other things in my life. Then again I couldn't be happier about that, because music and presenting is what makes me who I am.

How do you feel when you're djing?

Being in the studio is my fountain of youth and my health care plan rolled into one. I may feel wore out and old when I walk into the studio, but the minute I go live on the mike I come to life and feel like a kid again.

Do you get nervous or excited before a show?

The day I don't get nervous before a show and feel those butterflies I will step aside and let someone else do it. Those that have seen me in the studio see a calm exterior which is part of the performer in me, but that little kid I mentioned earlier is always worried about getting it right, and wanting to try new things that may not work out. It's the nerves and the butterflies that keep a performer honest and real, and I don't want ever want to lose them.

Do you take requests?

I may not say it enough on air, but I do take requests. I will try to play them if they are appropriate to the show and format. I would play a request for Led Zeppelin's Rock N' Roll on a folk and bluegrass show.

How do you decide what music to play for a specific show?

I wish there was some grand and high minded answer to that question. It really is a growing process. All week long I listen to songs and form ideas in my head about what would sound good on Saturday morning. Then Saturday morning comes around and I start flying by the seat of my pants, grabbing at those ideas, hoping to make it work. As the morning progresses it is constantly changing and evolving. I do review many songs before the show, and may or may not fit them in. When I'm in the studio the song that's playing usually dictates to my mind what should fit best next. I have never been a person who uses preplanned playlists, which is why the show has taken over my life. In trying to keep it fresh and relevant I have to constantly keep thinking about it.

I’ve heard there are certain artists you don’t play. Which ones and why?
I will tell you why, but not who. I am not in the business of trashing artists or grinding personal axes in public. I will say there are a few high profile folk and country artists that are ethical hypocrites that I try not to promote or play. If there is a request for them I will play them, but I personally will not select them to play.

How long have you had your beard and long hair?

I have had long hair since I was fourteen years old, except for four years when I was in the Navy. The current beard has been around for about three years. The beard comes and goes at a whim, while the hair stays whether it's really long or longer than average.

I understand you are a size 29 waist. How does that work out?

I recently have come to the realization that I am obsolete. Whenever something is obsolete you quit making parts for it so people will upgrade. I can no longer buy pants that are 29w 24l. No stores carry that size anymore and the Levi, Wrangler and Lee brands have quit making them. So I guess I'm being told to go naked or go big.

You must have a lot of good stories about music. Any favorites?

You are right and there are many rattling around in my mind, some good and some bad, all interesting. If I had to pick one I guess this one is really one worth sharing. To me it is what folk music and performing is all about.

A few years ago at the Winnipeg Folk Festival they had one of the worst weather days I have ever experienced. It was about 45 degrees with 25 mile per hour winds, and light rain all day. Hypothermia was a possibility for everyone, especially if you didn't have the proper clothes and rain gear. Can you imagine being a performer on stage under those conditions? The audience was actually good sized throughout the day. Most of the artists did very quick shows, left the grounds and didn't do any interviews. I don't fault them at all as conditions were miserable and the media tent offered no protection.

I requested an interview with Eliza Gilkyson but didn't expect her to show up, since she had already done two workshop performances outdoors. Besides, when you’re in front of a microphone rain gear is not a good idea. It makes a lot of noise. Eliza gave two great workshops, then showed up at the media tent. When listeners hear the interview they would never know that both of us had uncontrollable shakes, and, through it all, she was very personable and gracious. Just that simple act of performing and doing the interview under such adverse conditions because there were people who wanted to hear her makes her a great performer and person.

It may not be the most titillating story but it is what music and performing is all about. Music and people together can make the harshest of situations a little bit better and more enjoyable.

The Museum Security Officer

2012-01-19T09:45:00.000-06:00

My wife and I recently visited a Minneapolis Museum where I became curious as to why certain paintings were protected by glass.

I had seen a Georgia O'Keefe painting a few weeks earlier at the Weisman Museum and noticed a reflection emanating from it. Upon scrutinizing the floral masterpiece, I saw a pane of glass in front of it. Subsequently, at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, I stepped close to another masterpiece (the subject/artist escapes me) and again saw a protective pane.

"Freda," I said to my wife, "do you notice something different about this painting?" She did not. "It's got glass in front of it. I wonder why only some of them do?" Just then, a security officer (see below) walked into the gallery. He was a short man, of advanced age, with an unkempt appearance-black glasses, pale complexion, black, stringy hair that he kept pushing off his face, and an officer's uniform-obviously well connected to those galleries judging by his name tag and other identifying buttons which hung on his black jacket.

"Excuse me," I said, "do you know why this painting has glass on it?" According to my wife, this was where I made my mistake. The security officer, Joe, gave a knowingly familiar expression, and, as his face continued to contort into various grimaces, launched into what I can only describe as a fugue of explanations into the history of gallery viewing that danced subtly around the answer I was inquiring into, all the time referring to all sorts of contextual information which I found quite fascinating. My wife would disagree.

Officer Joe was amazing, and somewhat insane. I do recall certain items he passed along. He started his tyraid by indicating his long stature as a security officer, forty years plus, and introduced his dance of a response by saying "Boy do I ever know why there's glass on that painting!" He stated that certain museum attendees actually spit on the paintings. Certain children place their tongues on the murals and lick them, evidently to get a more tactile experience. Joe continued to give his behind-the-scenes passalongs by mentioning that politics was certainly involved; that certain organizations who temporarily donated their pieces to the museums did so only if certain hangings were glass-protected.

I was disappointed that I did not have a recording device during this interview. Joe kept talking, on and on, telling us so much interesting information that I could only stand and listen, fascinated and somewhat dumbfounded. At one point, the influence of standing in a gallery populated with sculptures descended on my mind and Joe suddenly turned into a talking mannequin.

After perhaps ten minutes, my wife received a call on her cell phone and, fortunately for her, stepped away into the adjoining gallery. I continued to listen to Joe. After a few more minutes, he arrived at his conclusion by stating that the painting needed to be protected, which I instinctively suspected all along. And then, much to my wife's extreme chagrin, I actually asked Joe a few more questions, because I thought I might like to interview him again and perhaps record him for the radio station I volunteer for, KVSC, or write this blog entry.

"Do you have a card?" I asked. "Why?" he responded, suspiciously. I stated my interest in followup. He then told me he was an artist, and that he might agree to an interview, but only if he could talk about his art. At that point, through my periphereal vision I spotted Freda standing in the adjacent gallery, facing me, and displaying "the look." This would be a very pointed expression of extreme annoyance at her husband. "Well, Joe," I said, beginnning my walkaway, "I see my wife just gave me 'the look.' I'd better go." Joe followed me for a gallery's length or so, then suddenly became interested in maintaining contact, despite his initial suspicions, and handed me a wrinkled business card from his fat wallet. I took his card, briefly considered a reply, but thought better of it.

The wearer of 'the look' waits for no man.

Security Officer (multiple positions) | Security
Performs interior patrols of Museum galleries. Provides clear guidance and direction to ensure that visitors adhere to Museum policy to preserve the collection and prevent theft or damage. Ensures that daily security reports are performed properly. Imparts knowledge of Museum exhibitions, events, and the surrounding area to patrons. Responds to any emergency events (e.g. medical emergencies, natural disasters, etc.), contacting supervisor as appropriate. Additional duties may include exterior facility patrols and general Museum opening/closing procedures. Reports to Security supervisors, managers, and director. (from Museum of Modern Art job openings page)

Laundry Room

2012-01-18T12:57:00.000-06:00

five minutes to go

in the dryer

whites and colors

second floor

days inn

newburgh

new york

just enough time

to write a summary

left my old friend

didn't say goodbye

just took up

and left

had enough

of pleasing others

must make my way

without the others

p.s.

big

mistake

It Does Not Serve You Right to Suffer

2011-12-26T09:42:00.000-06:00

Nine years ago I went back to my Catholic elementary school for the first time in 36 years and videotaped the occasion. It was an eery, nostalgic tour that brought back a rush of memories.

This day I went back to a Catholic Church.

It was Christmas, 2011. Since I live just a block away from St. Cantius Catholic Church, in the spirit of community, I decided to attend a service. At 10:15 on Christmas morning, with cabin fever burrowing down on me, my plan was to take a walk, end up at the Church, and decide spontaneously whether to enter.

I did enter, from the side door, after seeing numerous cars in the parking lot, and wondered why no one else was still walking in. I studied a sheet affixed to the glass door, and realized the Christmas services had different times than usual. This service had begun at 10 AM. I was late.

I walked up a small flight of steps, peeked into the sacristy, where there appeared to be an ordained official, perhaps a priest, doing duties inside. I turned towards another door where its window allowed me to peek inside the ceremony. The service had indeed commenced. I opened the door.

The small, ancient room, the size of a small gymnasium, had perhaps a third of its pews filled. I realized I had entered near the front of the service. There was an unfilled bench close to me. I took a seat at the side edge of it. As I got my bearings, I thought how it was my original intention to observe from the rear. But perhaps this closer view of the priest and his altar boys may reveal more about them. It did.

I looked around and noted the beauty of the old church-solid oak pews and doors, stained glass windows, ornamental stations of the cross. In front of me the priest and boys were performing their rituals, in a beautiful coved frontal wing. It inspired me to imagine a 3 piece jazz band playing in it before admiring listeners. Boy, I thought, this sure would make a good club, and "The Church" nightclub in Denver came to mind.

I began to focus once again on the priest/boys when- wait-what was this? The priest was performing the Eucharistic ritual with his back to the crowd! It was like the days of my early youth at St. Michael's in Flushing! Was St. John's Cantius stuck in time?! While I pondered this, another large object above the priest demanded my attention. There was Jesus, on a cross, as usual; however, he wasn't nailed to it! He had some sort of flowing garment on! I think I understood. He had risen! Rather than being a mostly naked figure, affixed horrendously on a wooden cross by large spikes, he appeared happy and majestic, holding his arms out to the parishioners and saying: Hello! How are you? Welcome! I'm feeling much better!

I surmised that a very ancient form of Catholic service was being performed here, but with a new and improved Jesus.

The thoughts and emotions of my youth continued to flow. I wondered why the priest was doing his blessing/eucharist/wine thing with his back to us. Hadn't they changed that? Yes they had-and there was a damn good reason. He's performing where we can't see anything! Doesn't he care about his audience? It's as if we didn't exist! But hold on-maybe it's not all about us. Maybe it's about the guy above, the feeling-much-better Jesus, and paying homage to him. Why should Father give a hoot about us?

But then everybody kneeled.

And I quickly decided not to.

Ten years ago, when I went to Christmas Mass at St. Mary's in Littleton as a favor to my Mother, I did kneel. How could I not with my mother there, herself kneeling? That would certainly be a sacrilegious blashphemy of motherhood. If she could suffer, why couldn't I?

But this was the first time since my Catholicism lapsed, as a young adolescent, that I was at Mass by myself. I get to call my own shots now! Damnit-I won't kneel! I do have advanced age on my side. No one will notice, or care, because I just turned 59 and I blend way in. Interestingly, one of the three aisles that separated me from the altar was a shortened pew with an older couple sitting in it. They weren't kneeling either. A sign affixed to the side of the pew stated "special seating for those with mobility needs." Oh my, I thought, how politically correct. Doesn't everyone have "mobility needs?" Let's take care not to offend the guy who needs new knees!

So I sat while others kneeled. The service continued. Eventually that time-honored tradition of receiving the body of Christ in the form of a small Necco-sized wafer commenced. Now the priest, with his appointed altar boy, faced the audience and waited for them to line up, single file, along the main corridor in the center of the church. Each member wishing to receive the host stepped from his pew and joined the line. The priest and his boy stepped down towards the half-dozen hungry parishioners, whereupon Fadda reached into his chalice, selected a wafer, and slowly deposited it into the open mouth of the kneeling receiver. As the altar boy, who seemed the oldest of the half-dozen participating in the ceremony, placed his host-catcher (a brass plate attached to a black handle) under the chin of the open-mouthed person, he became me. Into my mind came the recollection of how I for two years participated in this same strange ritual. How I, almost fifty years prior, was an altar boy at St. Michael's, insuring against dropped Eucharists under the chins of parishioners at my New York parish. The bored, somewhat annoyed, but surprisingly arrogant expression on the Cantius boy reminded me how I once stared into the exposed gullets of parishioners, with their tongues sticking out at me.

Here's my point. It is my opinion that God gives no favors to those who endure pain. This revelation occured after watching this wafer ritual, with hundreds of attendees, many elderly, on their knees in the pews, and the altar boys, some 8 or 9, on their knees supported by excruciatingly hard marble floors; and the priest, with his catchplate-holding assistant, sticking wafer after wafer into those open mouths. What is it all for? To commemorate a sacred story? To show God how we care through our suffering? I maintain that God has other things in mind for us-more useful, more important, and more loving, than continuing a painful ritual.

This sacriligeous conclusion was only reinforced when I observed the priest and altar boy dispensing incense throughout the stuffy church, as claustrophobic feelings stirred in me.

I rebelled. I searched within the church of my heart and concluded-this wasn't right for me. Is it right for those young boys and the parishioners? Must they suffer too? It does not serve them right to suffer.

Is it none of my business? We are all each other's business.

As I exited the church through the rear, after having a chat with a nice lady from "the cities" visiting her sister (the sister was still living in the St. John's Cantius neighborhood after fifty years), and who informed me how the Mass I just attended was one of the rare traditional ceremonies, I spotted on the rear glass exit doors a small poster which attempted to lure anyone interested in "following their call"-i.e., becoming a priest; and on the poster were forty portraits of those who had already followed theirs-all men.

Increasingly Invisible

2011-12-12T09:09:00.000-06:00

As a man gets older, he gradually disappears. This is a societal state in our country. Citizens younger than this man tend to unnotice him. I suppose there is more than one reason for this.

The most obvious is his physical appearance. Since he is probably not as attractive as he once was, others will not immediately see him. He has become part of the background. Our consumer society tries so hard to capture our attention, that the plain-looking older man can't compete.

Another reason may be the sheer volume of others in his age group. The baby-boomer group is so populated in America, that each individual member is just another old guy to the younger groups.

It is interesting how some women, generally under the age of 25, often take advantage of this. In restaurants, especially, waitresses have learned that giving an older man a bit of additional attention can have its benefits. She may be able to increase her tip. And, less cynically, the friendly, eager response of the male patron, induced with very little of her effort, can make the waitress feel a bit better about herself. It's a good return on her investment.

Personally, blending more into the background is a welcome life cycle trend. I am a street photographer. I like to snoop around Main Street with my camera. As a younger man, this sometimes raised a bit of suspicion. What is he doing?, a pedestrian would wonder, judging by the look of his face or body language. As an older man, pedestrians seem to not see me anymore. I don't care what he's doing, they think, he's just an old man with a camera. That's fine with me!

Location, Location, Location

2011-09-19T21:10:00.000-05:00

A lady walked by our house today, and, while my wife was arranging paving stones, asked "what possessed you to buy a house on this block?"

Questions of this sort are just the reason we bought a house on this block.

We live on a very busy corner. The intersection is used by autos to make turns-on their way to downtown St. Cloud or away from it. Rush hour is particularly busy.

There's a bus stop on the side street. Folks stand outside our main floor bedroom window waiting for the Crossroads Mall express. They smoke cigarettes. I recently painted a metal coffee can black with the white letters "BUTTS." Its dual purpose is to attract cigarette butts and to encourage human ones to relax on our short retaining wall.

We live just three homes away from Schmidty's, the popular local convenience store/gas station/neighborhood gathering place. Many drivers, cyclists and pedestrians visit Schmidty's, with the majority purchasing gasoline, cigarettes, "Pepsi" and "Lay's" products.

The point is we enjoy the traffic. It keeps us amused.

We lived for thirty years in the boring suburbs of Denver. It was pretty, safe, but too predictable. Living in this high traffic location is, in a way, a return to our roots. Freda is from Brooklyn and I'm from Queens. We grew up accustomed to high volumes of automobile and pedestrian traffic. It's stimulating.

Pedestrians ask other questions-

Do you need a drywaller?
Did you get a good deal on that house?
Do you know that your house was vacant for over a year?
Do you need help fixing up the house? ("I am looking for cash work")
Does Tim still live here?
How much did you pay for your house?
Do you need a kitchen cabinet person? (We do but we're too cheap to pay one.)
What kind of flowers are those?

We also receive comments-

Thank you for buying that house.
You're doing a great job on the house.
I know the people who used to live in your house.
You must have gotten a good deal on your house. (declarative form of how much did you pay?

But to get back to the original question-what possessed us to buy a house on this block? My wife, a succinct word-user, replied, "it was all we could afford."

Virus

2011-09-06T23:02:00.000-05:00

While a virus works its ill magic through my system, I must say a few words, if only to prove that it is possible to do so during the transition from fever to ibuprofen relief. It has been a couple of weeks since I've written, other than a Habitat for Veljkovich post that needs editing. I have been soaking up my son Mark's weeklong vibes, after releasing him to his United flight from Minneapolis to Denver early this morning. The excitement of being with Mark, Andrea (the 30 year old daughter) and Freda, while enjoying all central Minnesota has to offer has been a factor in contracting this cold. It's just too much for the old man's system to be constantly happy and sad. Time for a infection to relieve me of major actively retired activities for a spell.
The most memorable piece of viral literature I've read was by a young working woman, who reflected in the NY Times magazine how having a cold can be enjoyable, in a delirious way. It has been true for me so far this time. I just had my face under a towel-covered pot of hot water to breathe hot steam. Hadn't done that since moving to St. Cloud. Very nice! Oh well, it's late, and I watched a bunch of PBS documentary programming this evening that will stay in my subconscious tonight. It's time to think good thoughts and retire.

Belly Button Meditation

2011-08-19T14:38:00.000-05:00

Oh I know I was supposed to write about the soul of St. Cloud. But, like many a meteorologist, I cannot always predict the future. Since no one reads this, I can write about whatever I want. So nanny-nanny-nah-nuh. Perhaps I will get around to the soul question, and, oh yes, the Habitat for Veljkovich, which I promised myself I would share with the uninterested world, concerning the misconceptions of retirement housing, the expectation of where we boomer-schoomers are supposed to live in our fading years. Wait-no-we are supposed to be "actively retired," as my blog used to say. But do you really care? You will do whatever the hell you want to do anyway, as I will continue writing this blog/diary for the simple pleasure it affords me, me, me! "The Gift," a novel by the underage-girl-loving Nabokov that you may not be aware of, written in Russia in the late 1930s in Russian, the last one before he sailed for our promised land, is no doubt influencing my sudden departure from organized writing, towards a more free form style, at least for this post, but Kerouac and Ginsberg may also be coming into play here; play being an important word, because, as a member of my silly Arapahoe Sales Professionals club used to say, "if it's no fun, it's no fun." Fun must be paramount, and this is fun, life being such a quick ride. Back to my belly button, now, please excuse me. . .

The Bells of St. Cloud

2011-08-06T19:11:00.000-05:00

Another great thing about St. Cloud are the sound of bells! They are heard in various places, such as on the St. Cloud State University campus. Those seem to be coming from the top of a dormitory hi-rise, and they ring out a melodious tune.

The bells on the tower of St. John Cantius Catholic Church are ringing again, after being silent for some time. After expressing my interest in hearing the bells at a recent neighborhood meeting, they were enthusiastically turned back on. Now they ring every day at noon and 6 PM. This neighborhood is responsive! The tower is pictured above.

Hearing the exquisite sound of these old church bells reminds me of my time in Germany in 1960, while I visited my grandparents in Regensburg. They give the hearer a warm feeling of community.

Does St. Cloud Have a Soul?

2011-08-02T09:24:00.000-05:00

The title of this post is designed to get you, the reader, to explore beyond this post's title. It is a question that will remain unresolved for now, but one which I will grapple with in a future post. I invite the reader to do the same, even if the reader is just this writer.

The question arose during a conversation with an employee of the radio station where I volunteer (kvsc 88.1 fm). At one point she suggested I speak to her husband, who had recently complained to her that "St. Cloud doesn't have a soul." On my bike ride home, I thought that question to be a intriguing topic for a future post, especially since I was currently writing about my new hometown. As a matter of fact, it may be the perfect question, which would stimulate discussion of characteristics St. Cloud uniquely exhibits.

But for now, I want to tell you "the top ten things I like about St. Cloud." This should make a good warmup for the "soul of St. Cloud" question.

Top Ten Things I Like About St. Cloud

1. There are a nice selection of very cheap homes. There are lots of charming older homes on nice streets with tons of potential. We bought one.

2. Downtown is cool. It's great living within walking distance of downtown. We can walk to a concert at the Paramount Theater, the post office, Perkins, the used book store, and the city and county buildings. We need to check out Herberger's.

3. It's fun living in a small, but not too small, town. It's nice going to "the cities" every now and then, but almost everything you need is right here. There was a recent article about a new trend of retiring boomers moving to small towns. More people want less homogeneous communities. Maintenance-free over 55 community? It's not for everyone!

4. The Mississippi is a great river. It's the central vein of St. Cloud. The beauty of it, even in winter, is awe-inspiring.

5. It's such a blast djing at the local college radio station. Being a dj at such a fun, open-minded radio station is the most fun I've had in years. The folks at kvsc are such a great mix of employees and/or college students. The community volunteers are nice, too. You should try it.

6. People in St. Cloud are very unpretentious, and dress is casual. There is absolutely no pressure here to be anything that you're not. It's a very accepting, live-and-let-live atmosphere. You don't have to dress up your attitude, or your clothes.

7. St. Cloud is a great bicycling city. There are fantastic bike trails throughout the city, and motorists are very considerate. Sometime they are almost too considerate. It's amazing how some motorists drive on the opposite side of the road, against traffic, to give cyclists all the room they need. It's also wonderful having the Lake Wobegon trail so close, plus one can ride on the country roads that lead out of town through pastoral farmlands.

8. It's not that bad in the winter. Winter fears were overstated. The snow is beautiful. It provides a nice sound-proofing cushion if you happen to live near traffic. The pace slows, and it's quieter.

9. St. Cloud has a lot of things figured out. It's comforting living close to the police department. Those police cars are everywhere! The city and county folks are very helpful and professional. The mayor is a very smart guy.

10. It's a recycling town. You can put stuff you don't want out on the street, and it's gone within 30 minutes. It took forever to fill our dumpster because people kept recycling stuff from it. People in this town don't want things to go to waste.

Future post- Does St. Cloud have a soul? Your thoughts?

The St. Cloud Minnesota Scam

2011-07-23T14:53:00.000-05:00

Writing can be a beautiful thing. I drink a cup of coffee, I read, then I write. Why should the author of what I just read have all the fun? All this talk about writer's block, staring at an empty page, fear of expressing oneself, etc., is some kind of scam, perpetuated by writers who don't want competition.

There is something similar going on in Minnesota and the city we moved to, St. Cloud. The city is not so small: about 60,000, according to the sign on Division Street as you come east from Waite Park. There are certain indications that St. Cloud is pulling a scam on other parts of the country. Perhaps it's just a Minnesota thing. Residents don't want more people to move here. Like writers don't want too many other writers.

Why do I say this? The first thing you hear outside of Minnesota when you tell someone you're moving here is one of three things: good luck with the mosquitoes; or, good luck with the winters; or, good luck with the humidity. It's a scam. How could an insect, a season, or a weather component be enough to cause everyone who doesn't live in Minnesota to warn those who want to move here? These non-Minnesotans have been brainwashed. Like writers, and religious zealots, they have been trained to react in a certain way to certain conditions. Want to write? Good luck with that painful endeavor. Depressed? Come to our prayer meeting. Want to move to Minnesota? I assume you've heard about the mosquitoes.

In St. Cloud there is also a conspiracy. It is the traffic flow, designed again to keep strangers from wanting to live here. The major thoroughfares are impossible; arranged, amazingly, in a triangle! I'm speaking of Division Street, Highway 10 and Highway 15. It must have to do with the Mississippi River, which also flows diagonally through the city. For someone like me, who arrived from Denver with its logical xy grid from which all streets run perpindicularly, it takes time to figure St. Cloud out. And then there is Division Street (Hwy. 23), which, when it gets to Hwy. 15, suddenly becomes Road 75!. And Road 75, also called University Drive, becomes Hwy 23! The two roads actually switch identities!

I won't go on about this, other than to mention the noticeable lack of turn lanes, and how difficult it is to sort out the downtown streets. I am, after all, "actively retired," and it takes people my age longer to get used to change.

And yet change is good. That's why we are embracing this new part of the country. I have found in my first year and a half in Minnesota that it's a charming place to live: great bike trails, beautiful lakes, pastoral farmland, unpretentious people, and more. I will make a list in the next posting; but right now, I'm actively tired.

A Change of Heart

2011-07-13T16:32:00.000-05:00

There is a small lake near downtown St. Cloud, just west of the campus of the State University. Every Wednesday evening during the summer an outdoor concert is held in the park that surrounds this lake. I attended one last Wednesday, and it was a wonderful event. A great crowd of people, many on chairs and blankets, listened to the music performed by the rock group on the bandstand. Other people stood under the shade of trees, some with bicycles, eating, listening and watching the faces of enjoyment all around Lake George Park. Behind the bandstand, the lake reflected the light of the setting sun. There were several canoes and paddleboats coasting on the water. On the south side of the park, children were running through the water sprinklers and playing on the new jungle gyms.

As I took in this great outdoor town party, I remembered how, two winters ago, my wife and I were sitting in our minivan on a gorgeously clear Sunday morning. The park was empty, except for a young woman walking her puppy. Soon I would have a revelation.

The day before I had decided to tell her I didn't want to leave Colorado after all. It was because my first negative impression of St. Cloud came while sitting in the pickup of my son-in-law's father. He had picked up Kevin and I to take us to a Mexican restaurant for lunch. We had been working on Kevin and Andrea's house in preparation for their move here. Kevin and I had driven from Colorado to Minnesota, and were staying at his father and stepmother's house in Becker.

As we drove into St. Cloud, on a cloudy, frigid day, Rodney pointed to the downtown library that was recently completed, and said what a waste it was since "no one goes to the library anymore." This was after he told us he wasn't particularly fond of St. Cloud, that "it was not a place he would want to live." Rodney has a beautiful private home on a sizeable piece of land. He was from a small town in North Dakota, and I'm sure St. Cloud seemed like to him a big city with big-city problems.

By the time Kevin and I got back to his future house in Clear Lake, I was depressed. How could I leave Colorado, with it's dry air, abundant sunshine and dramatic Rocky Mountains, for a college party town in central Minnesota? I decided to confront Freda when she arrived with Andrea and Graham in a couple of days. They were driving Kevin's pickup which was filled with their household belongings.

After Freda arrived, I left Rodney's and we checked into the Holiday Inn in St. Cloud. The next morning, we had a quick bite at the hotel breakfast bar and then took a drive around town. We drove through the campus neighborhood of St. Cloud State University, and got to a dead end street that was adjacent to Lake George. I stopped the car in a small parking lot where we faced the lake. It was a crisp, sunny winter morning. The trees surrounding the lake were coated with snow, and the lake was frozen and ready for ice skaters. It was a beautiful, tranquil scene in the small town that I thought I didn't want to move to.

"It's nice here," Freda said. I had not seen her in several days, and it felt comfortable having her next to me. I thought about how I had wanted to tell her that I couldn't move here. And now, the beauty of the scene before us combined with her returned presence caused me to well up. This was perfect. This was where I wanted to start a new life with the person I had already shared the last 32 years with.

"I can't believe this," I said.

"What?"

"That I was going to tell you I couldn't move here."

"You're kidding?" she said.

"No. And now it feels great; like we're starting over again."

It was exciting to think we were completing the raising of our family, and now we could witness the growth of another. Not only that, but we were about to uproot ourselves, and replant the roots of the next part of our lives in this new environment; a place we really knew nothing about.

Next time-what's so good about St. Cloud?

Update to Wiseguy Comment

2011-07-05T14:59:00.000-05:00

In my previous post, when I told people we were moving to Minnesota because of global warming, I really was being a wise guy!

See Al Gore's recent article and map in Rolling Stone. . .

The Ben Holmes Potato Company

2011-07-02T15:28:00.000-05:00

My son-in-law sensed the impact of his decision to join his father's potato brokering business. I could tell by the dramatic way he announced it to us at the football game. He seemed to have rehearsed it, similar to when he asked permission to marry our daughter. As he and I stood watching the football game's half-time festivities, he turned to me and said "we've decided to move to Minnesota."

It was soon after that my wife suggested we follow them there. She was already deeply attached to Graham, our new grandson, who was born in Denver. She was determined not to be "one of those grandparents who only sees their grandchildren on vacations." So we made our plans to move. Who would have thought we would leave "colorful Colorado?" Since moving there from New York City in 1976, we'd intermittently pinch ourselves and excitedly invoke the old Denver Post masthead quote "Tis a privilege to live in Colorado." But that's one of the things we've learned from this journey. It's nice to have a plan, but flexibility can have great benefits.

"Why are you moving to Minnesota?" I was asked countless times. "We're preparing for global warming," was my wise guy response. You have to be ready to answer the people who don't understand, although some people gave me a nod and a smile, after I told them we were following our grandchild.

The plan was almost abandoned. My wife had emailed me a job posting in her office as a joke. It was a position I was qualified for, having previously worked for the federal government. It suddenly seemed desirable after years of commission sales to have a steady job, a good income, and benefits. We were both concerned about the faltering economy, and the possibility of having two consistent incomes was alluring. Perhaps, we imagined, we'd work for five more years, have more money saved up, and a higher retirement income. By the time my seemingly successful interview was completed, I was convinced it was a good plan. Fortunately, I did not get the job. As my wife says, if she had kept working at her stressful job, she might be dead.

Half-time at the Football Game

2011-06-24T15:18:00.000-05:00

Although the decision to move to Minnesota last year was at one time unexpected, we seem to have had a subconscious plan for what we'd be doing in this stage of our lives. I can't believe that our current happiness is just luck.

I realized perhaps five years ago that I needed a creative outlet. Selling real estate actually did provide a means of expression, through the marketing of homes, but after 15 years I had to find something new. So I wrote a memoir-based novel that allowed me to express my enthusiasm for a certain period in my life. After completing it I was no longer interested in keeping my writer's butt glued to a chair, so I returned to photography. This was a hobby that I had once made a half-hearted attempt to turn into a business in the late 1970s, but abandoned when my wife and I moved back to New York from Colorado.

It was the purchase of a SLR digital camera that reawoke my photographic interest. It was exciting to take a bunch of photos and instantly enjoy the results on a computer screen. The ease and cheapness of viewing images from a technically astounding camera caused me to take a high volume of photos. This, in turn, led me to pursue certain subjects I hadn't thought about before, such as alleys. I started to feel more like an artist. Perhaps, I thought, this will be in my future.

As the real estate market in Denver and the rest of the country went on a downslide, my artistic aspirations gained importance. I realized my artistic side was a more natural fit than the business side, as I had always been just an average salesperson. My photographs seemed to please people more than my sales techniques.

My wife continued to work hard for the federal government. She took over as the primary income-producer (confession-she always was), as I plodded along selling a house every now and then. My artistic passions were now in control. I realized that my motivation to create were much stronger than a desire to make money. There's no doubt my wife afforded me the luxury of that realization.

Then, one day we attended our son's football game with our daughter Andrea and Kevin, her fiance. At halftime, Kevin turned to me and made the announcement that precipitated the big change ahead. . .

How to Retire

2011-06-17T12:22:00.001-05:00

Perhaps you have noticed a title that is not at all congruous with the photo above. This is for a reason.

The photo is of a former gas station in Foley, Minnesota. I believe it may now be a florist. I continue to drive to small towns on Sunday mornings, and walk along their old Main Streets. It's great fun and it gives me a sense of Americana; a sense of change that these towns are struggling to adapt to. How will they adapt their old Main Streets to the current economic realities? In this case, some folks have taken a gas station that closed a long time ago, and have filled it with a florist. It's cute-but how long will it survive?

Speaking of change, I come around now to the change in my blog. You may have noticed that the followers of my blog are me, myself and I. Yes-the comments that are posted are all of my own making. I do this mostly for fun, but also to create the illusion that there actually are some followers! It's a lie!

I review my blog and realize it's a photo puff piece. Not much there to dig into. So what to do? How should I create something more compelling, worthwhile and of interest to the planet? Well, I suppose, by continuing to be myself. And, as you can tell from the length of the written word in this particular post, to write more; to share my thoughts and not just my camera's images.

I have discovered, in this "active retirement" phase of my life (a term my wife and I agreed on), that a love of writing is something that has been hidden in me for many years. Recently I reread an email from my college girlfriend (State University College at Brockport, NY, class of '74). In it she reminisced about how I always wrote these long letters, not just to her, but also to a friend of hers-Sandy, her name was (the friend). So this told me that I had a natural urge to write. Isn't what we do without anyone prodding us what we would do for nothing? What we need to do? I think so.

Another reminder of this "need" came about as I read other authors. As I enjoy their books, a little voice tells me "you can do this, too-why not give it a try?" This correlates with the suggestion from many successful writers that in order to be a good one you need to read a lot. I've been reading for many years-usually a novel with my afternoon coffee, and the Sunday New York Times all week with breakfast. All this reading, I believe, has created a hole in me that now, in my active retirement, has made itself forcefully apparent. As I write this, my fingers are flying along. It's such fun to express oneself, isn't it?

I have started diaries in the past but they always were left unattended. This is probably because I have a need to be read, and not just to write. If you go on my photo website, you will notice a gallery entitled "self-portraits" that is heavily filled. This need of mine to show myself is strong and a natural state of mine. So sorry.

I also wrote a novel about ten years ago. It's not very good. I am writing another one now. Maybe it will be better.

Just one more thing for now. The title "How to Retire" that appears on the top of this blog is not a lie. I do intend to write about this fantastic "actively retired" part of my life. It has value to others, I believe. Many boomers know how to retire, obviously; and
that is by staying "active." But there's a bit more to it, at least in my case. Teaser-it may not be all about hobbies and purchasing a ranch-style patio home in a adult-only community. Stay tuned, friends. Or just Peter.

What's Up with St. Cloud Glass?

2011-04-22T09:35:00.001-05:00

It sits on Division Street, uninhabited and unused, yet still filled with vestiges of glass repair. The neon sign and nostalgic look of its storefront make it a treasure.

Germain Street Alley

2011-04-06T09:51:00.000-05:00

The alleys of St. Cloud have their charm. Early last Sunday morning, I snooped around. The partially cloudy skies helped inspire.

Hearty St. Cloud Cyclist

2011-02-23T18:11:00.000-06:00

St. Cloud is filled with cyclists. They are not the fancy-schmantzy designer-outfit-wearing types that I so often saw in Colorado. They ride for transportation, and they don't wear helmets. I see them stop at Schmidty's, our local grocery store/gas station. Often they will dangle a Marlboro from their lips as they slowly pedal home with a sack of milk.

Unusual Railroad Car

2011-02-11T13:13:00.001-06:00

I am amazed at how easy it is to see trains in St. Cloud close up! I was jogging the other day and this strange railroad car caught my eye. After jogging, I grabbed my camera and headed back to the tracks, hoping the stationary train was still there. It was!

There were two characteristics of this car that I hadn't seen before. First, the oval openings in the wall. What are their purpose? Second, there is only one wall! Why?

I tried googling-nothing. I should have asked the guys who drove over from the train office. They eyed me suspiciously, wondering what I was doing on BNSF's private property. Surely they figured it out when they saw my SLR camera.

Since the car was unloaded, perhaps the purpose of it would be evident when goods were placed on it. But what?!

Better than Toys

2010-12-11T19:31:00.000-06:00

Trains are a constant presence in St. Cloud. There are numerous unimpeded views of them. While standing on the platform of the St. Cloud Amtrak station, on a frigid Sunday afternoon, a long freight barreled past without slowing. Although visually a feast, the tremendous power of the train is what stays with me.

Back to the Mighty Mississippi

2010-12-03T17:09:00.001-06:00

It's back to the river for a curiosity check on how much freezing has taken place so far. To my surprise, despite steady temperatures in the 0-10 degree range, only the edges of the river have become icy. The photo is of an edge in Sauk Rapids, Minnesota, just a few miles from my home in St. Cloud.

How much for the photographer?

2010-06-16T17:27:00.000-05:00

I justify my obsessive self-portraitures by comparing myself with the great Friedlander; besides, it gives me something to do while Freda shops-this time in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Possible New Subject?

2010-02-12T20:23:00.000-06:00

I've been sneaking around the supermarket with my very small Canon to see what I come up with. Perhaps a series entitled "It's All a Blur?"

Miss Me?

2010-01-09T21:52:00.000-06:00

I know I did! I finally got back down to Broadway a few days ago. Still love those windows and doors!

Just Look Down

2009-11-28T17:52:00.000-06:00

. . .and you will find a unique pallet of designs, patterns and colors amongst the unnoticed urban floor. . .

Peter V Has Twins

2009-11-16T19:04:00.001-06:00

I cracked an egg the other day and I was surprised with twin yolks! Been on this planet since 1952 and this was a first!

Looking Downtown

2009-10-09T21:59:00.000-05:00

It's a challenge to arrive in downtown Denver mid-day and try to compose a photo that isn't washed out from all that mile-high sun. This was one attempt in the lobby of the May D&F building.

Nature Calls

2009-10-05T20:55:00.000-05:00

My brother was in town from St. Augustine, Florida, so we drove over to Utah to see some formations. I now agree that walking through places like Park Avenue in Arches National Monument qualifies as a religious experience.

Closer to the Sun

2009-08-21T22:03:00.000-05:00

Leadville, Colorado, is the highest city in America and a tough place to take photos. To combat the harshness of the sun, I waited till just before sundown and used the windows to help diffuse the light.

Searching Within Myself

2009-08-11T16:15:00.000-05:00

I am back on Broadway, in Englewood, Colorado, on an early Sunday morning when traffic is mimimal and I can delve within myself for reflective composites. Here tables in a cafe add the depth and mystery I crave. An exit door makes my camera come alive.

My Dresser

2009-07-23T15:28:00.000-05:00

Freda and I bought this dresser in 1976 from the Salvation Army thrift store in Denver, just after moving from New York. "Painted Black" last year.

German Alley

2009-07-07T17:42:00.000-05:00

My interest in alleys & signs may have begun on this trip to Bad Abbach, Germany, in 2000. The combination of German letters, symbols and street grit is irresistible.

Incidentally and belatedly. . .

2009-07-01T17:45:00.001-05:00

I did go skiing on the last day of the season at Copper Mountain. Here is a portrait of my hand to prove it-yes, that's my 31 year old wedding ring, my eternal tie to Freda.

Disgustingly Beautiful

2009-06-15T21:14:00.000-05:00

Why, oh why, am I so attracted to these horrible alleys (most recently in Walsenburg, Colorado)? Is this where a person of my character belongs?

Back to Nature

2009-05-30T19:39:00.000-05:00

Every once in awhile, it's good to walk into the Rocky Mountains. I stopped at Deer Creek Canyon Park, near south metro Denver, and took a hike. My eye continues to be attracted to man-made objects, in this case a simple gate. A smudge appears in my Canon Rebel again, so back to Englewood Camera for another cleaning. How does this happen? I never even take my lens off the body!

Reflective Self Continues in Taos

2009-05-24T22:43:00.000-05:00

I have become obsessed with reflections, mostly in store windows, and I can cheat by using their fine art to help compose reflections interesting to me. This photo was just taken outside one of Taos, New Mexico's fine art galleries and shows my other obsession: self-portraiture. I used the art piece as well as the courtyard to capture Taos in a new way-a new postcard that I can create as well as keep.

Back on Broadway in Denver, Colorado

2009-05-19T11:46:00.000-05:00

I continue to be fascinated by window reflections. It is fun to get lost in them, and to use them to bring different subjects together in a new way; in this case, a mannequin, reversed store front, some tree branches, and the top of my head. Hopefully, I will get over this obsession with placing myself in my own photos.