I want to say something about John by first telling you
something about two other people, whom John never knew,
and in whose company John belongs.
Bernadine was the proprietor of a bar in Decorah, Iowa,
for fifty-five years. She was the most outspoken, opinionated
woman I ever met, and perhaps the strongest.
Her bar, the Highlife Inn, was anything but that.
If Bernadine thought you had had too much to drink,
either before you came in, or while you were there,
she threw you out. "There's nothing in here for you!"
she would say, and she said it again the next time
you tried to come in through the door.
The little bar was spotless. Families brought their children
with them for lunch at Bernadine's, and let them crawl
on the spotless floor. Bernadine herself was elegant.
When she needed a new dress, the shop owner brought
dresses to her home to choose from. Bernadine could
have bought the shop, had she wanted to.
She did not drink beer, herself, but she refused to have
anything on tap except Drewry's beer. When Drewry's
went out of business, the truck driver was afraid to tell
Bernadine, so he tore the stickers off Schmitt's beer kegs,
and brought them in. Bernadine never knew.
Bernadine was so racist that many times I cringed at what
she said, and more than once vowed never to go there again.
Instead, Mari and I brought our children in for lunch:
our Black daughter from Guyana, and our Asian son
from Thailand, and our son acquired the usual way.
Bernadine's opinions had nothing to do with real people.
When we came alone, she asked how our kids were doing,
by name, from genuine interest. She glared at us
in her owly way, and wondered how our kids were doing.
Lyle was Bernadine's brother, and he owned the machine shop
next door, as well as half of the buildings across the street.
He was as tough as nails, just as outspoken as Bernadine,
and absolutely would not be pushed around. Lyle was
a superb machinist. His shop was half Blacksmith Shop,
and half precision lathe and milling machines.
Lyle particularly despised the arrogant College people
who treated him as if he were a simpler life-form than they.
Once he kept a broken tool brought in by the College
President for five years before he bothered to fix it.
Always, when I needed work, I planned ahead,
and when Lyle asked when I needed it, I said there was
no hurry: two or three weeks would be fine. Then I would
stop in the next morning and ask if it were done yet.
Lyle always glared first, and then laughed.
The work was usually done in a day or two.
Sometimes he said, "Come on back!" and we went
to his office, and he poured two brandies.
Sometimes Lyle drank too much, and his family
sent him off to dry up and drain out his poisons.
They were good, honest people, both of them,
behind their intimidating glares and tough talk.
About seven years ago, we moved to Minneapolis,
and went immediately to the Nokomis Beach Coffee Café.
If we went early enough, we saw John, in a chair
in the corner, baggy-pantsed, glaring at the universe.
At first I just nodded. As time went on, we said Good Morning,
and inside of a year or two, we eased into conversation.
The Coffee Shop is very noisy. The acoustics are awful;
just what you need if you want to seem really busy.
The espresso machine wails like the noon whistle
in a locomotive repair barn. Very often John sat with
Morry. Morry is nearly as deaf as a post,
so their conversations were common property.
I think Morry said he had gone to school with Martin Luther,
and agreed with everything said about Luther in the
17th century. He explained to John that he was Norwegian,
and that Norwegians were God's gift to the universe,
including to the Irish. John bridled his scepticism,
but did not buckle the strap.
Because they were loud, we heard John say equally
outrageous things. One day he opined that Francisco Franco,
who had ruled Spain like a despot, did, at least,
hold down crime. Franco didn't hold down crime: he owned it.
I thought of Bernadine, and Lyle, those other two
hard-working, rough-cut gems I had learned to talk to.
John put a new roof our home when a near-tornado
went through our neighborhood, and later we invited him
to a party. We were pleased to know the gentle John.
The last time we invited John to our home,
Yvonne said they could not come. John had cancer.
Once in Rochester, I asked him what the best thing
he had ever done was, and he was hesitant. He said
he had lent a lot of money to people whom he did not expect
ever to be able to repay him. Sometimes they did.
We talked about death. Like everything else, John did not
go easy into that good night. I think his crankiness about
dying had a soft underside, too. He knew.
Dennis, at the Coffee Shop, should make a small plaque
from copper flashing and put in on the back of John's chair,
over in the corner, by the window. It should just say,
"John Whelan's Cranky Chair". Then when people ask
whether it was the chair, or John, who was cranky,
he should just smile. Dennis knows, too.
We are--all of us--
both what we seem to be,
and what we hide inside.
something about two other people, whom John never knew,
and in whose company John belongs.
Bernadine was the proprietor of a bar in Decorah, Iowa,
for fifty-five years. She was the most outspoken, opinionated
woman I ever met, and perhaps the strongest.
Her bar, the Highlife Inn, was anything but that.
If Bernadine thought you had had too much to drink,
either before you came in, or while you were there,
she threw you out. "There's nothing in here for you!"
she would say, and she said it again the next time
you tried to come in through the door.
The little bar was spotless. Families brought their children
with them for lunch at Bernadine's, and let them crawl
on the spotless floor. Bernadine herself was elegant.
When she needed a new dress, the shop owner brought
dresses to her home to choose from. Bernadine could
have bought the shop, had she wanted to.
She did not drink beer, herself, but she refused to have
anything on tap except Drewry's beer. When Drewry's
went out of business, the truck driver was afraid to tell
Bernadine, so he tore the stickers off Schmitt's beer kegs,
and brought them in. Bernadine never knew.
Bernadine was so racist that many times I cringed at what
she said, and more than once vowed never to go there again.
Instead, Mari and I brought our children in for lunch:
our Black daughter from Guyana, and our Asian son
from Thailand, and our son acquired the usual way.
Bernadine's opinions had nothing to do with real people.
When we came alone, she asked how our kids were doing,
by name, from genuine interest. She glared at us
in her owly way, and wondered how our kids were doing.
Lyle was Bernadine's brother, and he owned the machine shop
next door, as well as half of the buildings across the street.
He was as tough as nails, just as outspoken as Bernadine,
and absolutely would not be pushed around. Lyle was
a superb machinist. His shop was half Blacksmith Shop,
and half precision lathe and milling machines.
Lyle particularly despised the arrogant College people
who treated him as if he were a simpler life-form than they.
Once he kept a broken tool brought in by the College
President for five years before he bothered to fix it.
Always, when I needed work, I planned ahead,
and when Lyle asked when I needed it, I said there was
no hurry: two or three weeks would be fine. Then I would
stop in the next morning and ask if it were done yet.
Lyle always glared first, and then laughed.
The work was usually done in a day or two.
Sometimes he said, "Come on back!" and we went
to his office, and he poured two brandies.
Sometimes Lyle drank too much, and his family
sent him off to dry up and drain out his poisons.
They were good, honest people, both of them,
behind their intimidating glares and tough talk.
About seven years ago, we moved to Minneapolis,
and went immediately to the Nokomis Beach Coffee Café.
If we went early enough, we saw John, in a chair
in the corner, baggy-pantsed, glaring at the universe.
At first I just nodded. As time went on, we said Good Morning,
and inside of a year or two, we eased into conversation.
The Coffee Shop is very noisy. The acoustics are awful;
just what you need if you want to seem really busy.
The espresso machine wails like the noon whistle
in a locomotive repair barn. Very often John sat with
Morry. Morry is nearly as deaf as a post,
so their conversations were common property.
I think Morry said he had gone to school with Martin Luther,
and agreed with everything said about Luther in the
17th century. He explained to John that he was Norwegian,
and that Norwegians were God's gift to the universe,
including to the Irish. John bridled his scepticism,
but did not buckle the strap.
Because they were loud, we heard John say equally
outrageous things. One day he opined that Francisco Franco,
who had ruled Spain like a despot, did, at least,
hold down crime. Franco didn't hold down crime: he owned it.
I thought of Bernadine, and Lyle, those other two
hard-working, rough-cut gems I had learned to talk to.
John put a new roof our home when a near-tornado
went through our neighborhood, and later we invited him
to a party. We were pleased to know the gentle John.
The last time we invited John to our home,
Yvonne said they could not come. John had cancer.
Once in Rochester, I asked him what the best thing
he had ever done was, and he was hesitant. He said
he had lent a lot of money to people whom he did not expect
ever to be able to repay him. Sometimes they did.
We talked about death. Like everything else, John did not
go easy into that good night. I think his crankiness about
dying had a soft underside, too. He knew.
Dennis, at the Coffee Shop, should make a small plaque
from copper flashing and put in on the back of John's chair,
over in the corner, by the window. It should just say,
"John Whelan's Cranky Chair". Then when people ask
whether it was the chair, or John, who was cranky,
he should just smile. Dennis knows, too.
We are--all of us--
both what we seem to be,
and what we hide inside.
Comments
Post a Comment