RadicalModerate
08-29-2011, 08:56 AM
I thought about calling this essay "Close Encounters of The Cool Kind" or "Chance Meeting in a Small World" but opted for the Thread Title instead.
So . . .
My wife and I have managed to check off what I might call The Main Agenda Item on MY Short List of "Stuff To Do" at the other end of the 800-plus mile drive to Minnesota: We have made an actual—off The Interstate—visit to Historic St. Paul, replete with attempting to navigate all of the downtown streets that have been torn up and/or blocked for New Light Rail installation and various other improvements. Our primary destination was Svenska Dalen (a.k.a. "Swede Hollow") the site of a former late-1800's to mid-1900's squatter's-slum/shanty-town for immigrants that was burned down by the City in about 1954 for health reasons. It is now a wilderness park and exercise venue located at the foot of Dayton's Bluff where the old Hamm's Brewery still stands, along with the site of the former Hamm's Mansion and enough Victorian style houses to make even Guthrie blush with envy.
If you choose to make Swede Hollow Park a vacation destination choice, please be advised that it is 120 old concrete steps down to where the asphalt bicycle and jogging trails begin which will lead you even deeper down into the wilderness. It is also 120 old concrete steps back up to street level.
We had planned to have lunch at the famous (and nearby) "Swede Hollow Cafe" but as it has virtually no parking—and people standing in line outside the door—we opt for a different dining venue somewhere else on West 7th Street. At my suggestion, she calls her brother, Terry, to get some input on "fine dining" in St. Paul and to invite him to join us. His suggestion is The Liffey, an Irish Pub attached to the Holiday Inn that is directly across the street from Xcel Center.
We enjoy a wonderful, if very windy—in the literal, Chicagoesque, sense of the term—lunch in the rooftop al fresco dining area adjacent to the pub. From where I'm sitting the spires and dome of the St. Paul Cathedral rise majestically above the trees a few blocks to the north. (The temperature is a balmy 78 degrees.)
Following lunch and farewells, we head for the covered parking garage behind the hotel and pub. I am standing just outside the entrance to the parking while my wife is in the large concrete cubicle that houses the automated Pay to Park Machine taking care of the fee.
A silver-haired gentleman, whose picture should be next to the word "dapper" in the dictionary, emerges from the rear doors of the hotel. He descends the four or five steps to the sidewalk and begins walking toward the entrance to the covered parking garage.
"Howdy," he says with a nod and a smile about halfway to the parking entrance.
"How are ya'," I reply.
"Kinda windy today . . ." he says.
"Yup."
"Almost like Oklahoma . . ." he says as he passes by.
"You got that right," I say over my shoulder. "And I know, 'cause we're from Oklahoma."
He stops in his tracks, just inside the parking garage, turns around, and re-emerges.
"Are you really from Oklahoma?" he asks.
"Yeah. Oklahoma City . . . Well, actually, The Village . . ."
"What are you doing up here?" he asks.
"Vacation . . . mostly visiting relatives. My wife—who's in there paying for the parking—is from this area."
"I still say that the friendliest people around are from Oklahoma," he says.
Then, extending his hand, asks, "What's your name?"
I provide that information and he says, "I'm Wendell Goodman . . . My wife is doing a concert with Adele across the street."
I realize, immediately, that by "across the street" he must be talking about the Xcel Center, on the other side of West 7th, yet for just a moment I am at a loss to recognize the name "Adele." To cover my momentary memory lapse regarding currently popular performers who might be involved in a concert at Xcel Center, I ask, "So . . . Who's your wife?"
"Wanda Jackson," he says. Then, with just a trace of hopefulness, "Ever heard of Wanda Jackson?"
"Have I ever heard of Wanda Jackson?" I reply, "Are you kiddin'? Of course I have! She's a legend!"
About this time, Kathy comes out of the Pay-to-Exit-Parking cubicle and I say, "Hey, Babe, here's someone you might like to meet."
He introduces himself and I provide the information on why another guy from Oklahoma City is up in the Twin Cities. We chat for perhaps five minutes about music—I finally remember who Adele is—about Oklahoma and about fifty-year marriages. At no time does he act like he is in any sort of hurry to leave and get on about his business. Finally, it is time to go and best wishes are exchanged as we go our separate ways.
Earlier, I described this gentleman as dapper. My wife remarked, later, that he reminded her a bit of a Pentecostal preacher. I could certainly see that resemblance as well, although the "gospel" that he was preaching simply went back to something he said at the beginning of our encounter: "The friendliest people are still from Oklahoma."
So . . .
My wife and I have managed to check off what I might call The Main Agenda Item on MY Short List of "Stuff To Do" at the other end of the 800-plus mile drive to Minnesota: We have made an actual—off The Interstate—visit to Historic St. Paul, replete with attempting to navigate all of the downtown streets that have been torn up and/or blocked for New Light Rail installation and various other improvements. Our primary destination was Svenska Dalen (a.k.a. "Swede Hollow") the site of a former late-1800's to mid-1900's squatter's-slum/shanty-town for immigrants that was burned down by the City in about 1954 for health reasons. It is now a wilderness park and exercise venue located at the foot of Dayton's Bluff where the old Hamm's Brewery still stands, along with the site of the former Hamm's Mansion and enough Victorian style houses to make even Guthrie blush with envy.
If you choose to make Swede Hollow Park a vacation destination choice, please be advised that it is 120 old concrete steps down to where the asphalt bicycle and jogging trails begin which will lead you even deeper down into the wilderness. It is also 120 old concrete steps back up to street level.
We had planned to have lunch at the famous (and nearby) "Swede Hollow Cafe" but as it has virtually no parking—and people standing in line outside the door—we opt for a different dining venue somewhere else on West 7th Street. At my suggestion, she calls her brother, Terry, to get some input on "fine dining" in St. Paul and to invite him to join us. His suggestion is The Liffey, an Irish Pub attached to the Holiday Inn that is directly across the street from Xcel Center.
We enjoy a wonderful, if very windy—in the literal, Chicagoesque, sense of the term—lunch in the rooftop al fresco dining area adjacent to the pub. From where I'm sitting the spires and dome of the St. Paul Cathedral rise majestically above the trees a few blocks to the north. (The temperature is a balmy 78 degrees.)
Following lunch and farewells, we head for the covered parking garage behind the hotel and pub. I am standing just outside the entrance to the parking while my wife is in the large concrete cubicle that houses the automated Pay to Park Machine taking care of the fee.
A silver-haired gentleman, whose picture should be next to the word "dapper" in the dictionary, emerges from the rear doors of the hotel. He descends the four or five steps to the sidewalk and begins walking toward the entrance to the covered parking garage.
"Howdy," he says with a nod and a smile about halfway to the parking entrance.
"How are ya'," I reply.
"Kinda windy today . . ." he says.
"Yup."
"Almost like Oklahoma . . ." he says as he passes by.
"You got that right," I say over my shoulder. "And I know, 'cause we're from Oklahoma."
He stops in his tracks, just inside the parking garage, turns around, and re-emerges.
"Are you really from Oklahoma?" he asks.
"Yeah. Oklahoma City . . . Well, actually, The Village . . ."
"What are you doing up here?" he asks.
"Vacation . . . mostly visiting relatives. My wife—who's in there paying for the parking—is from this area."
"I still say that the friendliest people around are from Oklahoma," he says.
Then, extending his hand, asks, "What's your name?"
I provide that information and he says, "I'm Wendell Goodman . . . My wife is doing a concert with Adele across the street."
I realize, immediately, that by "across the street" he must be talking about the Xcel Center, on the other side of West 7th, yet for just a moment I am at a loss to recognize the name "Adele." To cover my momentary memory lapse regarding currently popular performers who might be involved in a concert at Xcel Center, I ask, "So . . . Who's your wife?"
"Wanda Jackson," he says. Then, with just a trace of hopefulness, "Ever heard of Wanda Jackson?"
"Have I ever heard of Wanda Jackson?" I reply, "Are you kiddin'? Of course I have! She's a legend!"
About this time, Kathy comes out of the Pay-to-Exit-Parking cubicle and I say, "Hey, Babe, here's someone you might like to meet."
He introduces himself and I provide the information on why another guy from Oklahoma City is up in the Twin Cities. We chat for perhaps five minutes about music—I finally remember who Adele is—about Oklahoma and about fifty-year marriages. At no time does he act like he is in any sort of hurry to leave and get on about his business. Finally, it is time to go and best wishes are exchanged as we go our separate ways.
Earlier, I described this gentleman as dapper. My wife remarked, later, that he reminded her a bit of a Pentecostal preacher. I could certainly see that resemblance as well, although the "gospel" that he was preaching simply went back to something he said at the beginning of our encounter: "The friendliest people are still from Oklahoma."