A Living Magazine - Day 109 - Not Out of the Woulds Yet

There was still more catching up to do on the blog. I really need to, because I had some specific photo shoots in mind for the next couple of days. I kept saying to myself "I would do more photos if I had more time. I would explore off the road, if I had more time. I would..." You get the idea.

I was starting to wonder if I was just making excuses about not working harder for more interesting posts. I did need to write on this day. However, that didn't mean that I couldn't get nosy and sneak around in the local treelined streams and rivers a bit. I saw a little trail heading into some interesting looking natural areas. If I could get a few good shots, I decided...I would...

Still not much color. But who's complaining?

Soon enough, I knew I'd be missing green leaves.

Common Buckthorn berries. An invasive species.

A swamp. I didn't see the duck (below) until I reviewed these shots.

I call these: "BAB" for "Big-Ass Burdocks".

They are at least twice the size of the burdocks in Maine.  

I stepped into the trees when no cars were around, and found a peaceful and hidden little stream...

Close up of a rotten stump.

Okay numerologists, let me have your best interpretation.

Ah ha! Orange and yellow. I knew I could find it somewhere.

45th Street, looking toward Route 9.

After tromping through the leaves and brush of the patch of forest I'd found, I decided not to take the five mile walk to the library and instead went into Caribou Coffee, Minnesota's version of Starbucks, to get my writing done. 

I wanted to try an experiment with my panoramic setting first. What would it look like to see all the way around me, as a panorama? First, three separate panoramic shots were taken...

1. Nathan Road

2. Nathan and Route 9

3. The Cub Shopping Center Parking Lot  

Then, with a little editing, we get a ~340 degree view...

The far left is the same area as the far right.

Alright! Time to stop messing around and get my blog-writing ass in gear...

I walked in and saw a Starbucks-like environment. Without checking the prices very carefully, I ordered a small (they don't use the term, "tall" for a 12 oz.--thank god) iced mocha. I'd never been very adventurous at Starbucks--always getting either a regular or dark roast coffee, but I figured I could try something different.

My order was taken by an energetic and friendly guy, named Mike. We were just shooting the shit, and I mentioned my project, and that I was from Maine. He thought it sounded kind of interesting, then pointed to the daily trivia question above his head...

"What is the only state in the USA without any poisonous animals?"

No brainer, for a Mainer. I referenced "The Pine Tree State" and got ten cents off my drink. I told Mike that was an easy one. He said I was the first person to answer correctly that day. It was with Maine pride that I faced the register, smiling and looking forward to my drink.

He rang it up before getting to work on it... "With the discount, that'll be $4.22."

I tried not to lose the smile on my face, having expected to pay more like $3.00. All of this specialty coffee culture was so far above my pay grade! But, I should have checked out the menu or asked. So, my fault. I paid without complaint.

It took him a few minutes, working continuously to mix up my President Lincoln's worth of cold mocha. I liked that at least I wasn't paying for just something poured from a spout. He iced, and added, measured and mixed, shook and swirled this mighty dark and rich concoction together, with the flair and grace of an experienced street juggler.

When I was finally summoned to the pickup side of the counter, what awaited me was a cup (larger than 12 oz.), with a layered, light, Jupiter-cloud-like swirling icy mass on top, and a still-warm, very dark chocolate-coffee reservoir resting at the bottom. I thanked him, handed him a business card, and walked carefully out the door to a table where I could write.

The drink was OUT OF THIS WORLD. I'd never had anything quite like it. Being a coffee-culture newbie, I began to see the wisdom of snobby caffeinated standards. Within a few sips, I was typing furiously, wishing I could also climb a mountain, have sex, go scuba diving and do some drag racing all at the same time! I was a shaking pile of jittery-journalism. Whenever I started to feel like I had way too much caffeine in my bloodstream, I'd just take another sip and let the delicious taste distract my better powers of reason and self-control.

One post was done by the time Mike was through with his shift and leaving to head home for the afternoon. On his way by, we talked a bit more. I told him about all the rough camping I'd done, and still had coming to me. Having been in the army, he nodded when I mentioned what it was like to spend so many days in different kinds of environments. He took off, and I began the next of my two posts.

Just then, a guy walked up behind me, and I heard him read the back of my IWALLK shirt, "Man...ifest... Desti... Oh, Manifest Destiny...?" I looked up to see a gentleman with short-cropped gray hair and a rather large crucifix around his neck, worn on the outside of his shirt. I tried not to presume how the conversation would go. "So..." he said, "are you one of those 'Occupy Wall Street' or Green Peace guys?"

"Nah," I replied.

"Good because the progressives are..." he began and then went on and on...

It wasn't his fault that I quit listening to him after the fifth word. I'd just heard all of this a thousand times, from podcasts, to Rush Limbaugh, to right wing YouTube videos... When I'd heard his voice stop. I just looked up and said that my blog was non-political; that I reported on plants, animals, culture, homelessness... etc. I told him that I didn't think being concerned about social issues like homelessness made me some kind of "progressive".

That is when things suddenly changed for the better. He agreed about social issues. And then, he began to reveal what I thought was an atypical side to the tired-old rightist parroting and propaganda of presumptions.

He told me that he worked at a group home for mentally disabled people. He also said he volunteered to help homeless people in the area. We stumbled off of the ragged and disintegrating train of politics and on to things that both ends of the political spectrum agree upon. It turned out that he was a musician too and had written and recorded a country-folk track he'd uploaded to Youtube.

It looked very much as though it were about to rain. I had been picking up my stuff while we spoke. I handed him a business card, and he turned to finish his original mission of going into Caribou Coffee. We shook hands and I asked him to send me the link for his songs and to check out my blog. I asked his name. He told me it was Dan. Maybe he'll show up here with a comment? I'd really like that.

I crossed the street and went down to Wendy's to finish the second post, as the sky began a slight sprinkle. Sitting under the dull florescent glow of another fast food restaurant - perhaps somewhere around my 500th in the last year? - I finished the second and shorter post, catching up finally...

The fast food desert of Wendy's.

Is there a more artificial, lonely, plastic and psychologically cold environment than a forgotten Wendy's restaurant, so far down the side road that no cars ever got there, kept open by a franchise loan and visited only by street folks like myself, who stumble past the more popular places and accidentally discover it? I was thinking: No.

Nevertheless, it served my purposes, without issue, giving me a dry place to finish my work and have one last "pop" (using the word soda here in Minnesota gets muffled laughter--something to consider for New Englanders who might visit). I walked back to Allyson's in a light rain, that, for once, felt refreshing to me. Then again, I had a comfy couch instead of a wet tarp to sleep on that night. I could think of nothing but counting my blessings. And, as I rounded the corner toward her house, I would...