The Ten Plagues of Minnesota

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Moses told Pharaoh, “Let my people go.” But Pharaoh’s heart was hard and he refused to listen to Moses. So, to get Pharaoh to listen, God sent ten plagues on Egypt to remind Pharaoh he was not in charge.
Minnesotans don’t have “hard hearts” because we know we’re not in charge. There’s a term for this niceness. It’s called, “Minnesota Nice.” Think I’m kidding? Go to Wikepedia.org and look it up. What Wikipedia does not say is how we Minnesotans turned out so nice. Personally, I believe it’s because we’re constantly afflicted with plagues. Thus, we know for certain that God is in charge and we have no control over what happens to us. That in itself is very humbling. So, none of us think we’re big shots. If Moses had asked the Governor of Minnesota to “Let my people go!” the Governor would have said, “Well, you betcha there. Will you be needin’ some hotdish for the trip, then?”
These are the plagues of Minnesota that keep us humble and nice:
1. State Taxes. They have one of the highest tax rates in the U.S. But they also have a stellar education system, great roads, and clean cities. That makes us very happy.
2. Mosquitoes. At sunset, you can honestly hear them buzzing, millions of them. And they all want you and what you contain. It’s nice to be wanted so we all feel loved.
3. Below Zero. The winter after my girls were born was so incredibly frigid that AAA had a week-long waiting list to assist you to start your car. I had to resort to using charcoal briquettes in an upside-down garbage can lid placed under my car to get it started. Minnesota cars have extension cord outlets coming out of them. Batteries have electric blankets and engine blocks have electric heating coils. In Northern Minnesota, people leave their cars running in grocery store parking lots. Below Zero is to a Minnesotan what earthquakes are to a Californian. It happens to everyone.
4. No fresh vegetables. A lack of Vitamin C can leave you listless, lethargic and prone to scurvy. This “dulling” keeps us from saying rude things to each other. On the rare occasion when we did get something fresh, the taste had been left in the field in California.
5. Tornadoes. Nothing says “Wrath of God” like a twister. And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about them. So why worry about something you have no control over? Besides, tornadoes always happen to someone else. Right?
6. Border Patrol. We know they exist although we’ve never seen them. That’s what keeps us in a state that regularly spends weeks colder than 20 degrees below zero. I once told a Californian that I lived in Minnesota for 30 years. “Why would you do that,” the Californian asked. My reply was, “No one told us we could move.” Those of us who do move away live with the constant fear that the Minnesota Border Patrol will someday find us and extradite us to Duluth.
7. Fireworks. Fireworks have been illegal in Minnesota ever since I can remember. The are not illegal because state officials fear burning down the state. They are illegal because Minnesotans are not smart enough to let go of something that sparkles. Shake the hand of a Minnesotan and sense a missing digit or three? Ask them the whereabouts of the aforementioned appendages and nine out of ten trauma room visitors will blame, “Fireworks.” Ask them why they didn’t let go and they will reply, “It looked pretty.” We’re a docile folk, even ion the face of explosions.
8. Politics. When we moved to California Jesse “The Body” Ventura was governor. Minnesota was also the only state to vote for Walter Mondale. We have Al Franken (almost), and we had Paul Wellstone. Politics in Minnesota is odd because it never gets talked about in family circles. It seems the state will always be plagued by oddities in politics. Maybe if we fought more about politics, things would make more sense. But we’re too nice. And the long winters play tricks on your mind. Watch enough All Star Wrestling and you’ll vote for anyone.
9. Snow. The Super Bowl Blizzard of January 9-12, 1975 epitomized life in Minnesota. Sustained winds between 20-30 mph and gusts from 70-90 mph created snow drifts as high as 20 ft. I remember running out of food and riding the 5 miles into town on a sled being towed by a snowmobile because we could not find our car or the road. It took 11 days before we were dug out. At the grocery store, not many people were talking. But we all appreciated what each other were going thru as if it were an epic battle. And it was. Blizzards are more a badge of honor than they are an affliction. If you don’t understand that, you’re obviously not a Minnesotan. I remember it snowing on both Memorial and Labor Day. That leaves us with 3 months of Road Construction, better known as Summer. When you can’t be outside, you can’t get into trouble with your neighbors. And when everything finally melts, we’re so happy to see other people there’s no time to get upset with anyone.
10. Hotdish (all one word). The children of Israel made bricks out of mud and straw. Those same ingredients are used in a classic Minnesota Hotdish. Only we call them hamburger and cream of mushroom soup. Take away the mud or the straw and it’s not a brick. Take away hamburger or cream of mushroom soup, and it ain’t hotdish. Minnesota is plagued with plain canned food. We are born thinking tomatoes are supposed to be a little green. Meat is supposed to be cooked until all the moisture is gone. And, what in the name of Pete is an avocado and how do you crack one open? Salads are always made from Iceberg lettuce (figures) and the dressing is always French (orange corn syrup). Hotdishes are everywhere, just like locusts. John the Baptist dipped his in honey for extra pizzaz. We crumble Old Dutch Potato Chips over our hotdishes if we want to make an impression. I told a bunch of ladies at a church function that Californians don’t eat hotdish. “Well, what else is there?” She’ll have to move to find out.

*Please note the parsley that appears in the photo above it typical of any dish Minnesotans want to look fancy. Order anything on the menu at any backwoods eatery and parsley will be on the plate. Parsley is one of the few green items that survives the border crossing. If you made a hotdish from moose crap, hamburger and cream of mushroom soup, folks would eat it up if you put parsley on it. "That looks like moose poopie. But it has parsley on it so it must be hotdish."

The Flying Bug

Aviation is a sickness. It was something I caught as a child. I’m not sure how it happened. Perhaps it was because my father seemed to travel a lot. We would dress nicely and see him off at Minneapolis International. Then, a few days later, dress nicely again and pick him up. I couldn’t wait to see those old North Central Airlines Convairs. Or maybe I caught it from my Uncle Karl who took us flying in his plane on occasion. Or maybe it was my Uncle Roger who worked for NASA. Or, it could be that when I was young, I was a boy.

When I was in high school I decided to stop dreaming and actually become a pilot. I signed up for flying lessons. I would take my paychecks from Kjellberg’s Carpet and bring them over to the Maple Lake Airport. You could actually do that back then. My first flight instructor was amazing. His name was Jim Shadduck. He really knew his stuff and he got me to solo with about 7 hours of instruction. I was partway through my total 40 hours of flight instruction when Jim left teaching to become an air traffic controller. I think he had the bug, too.

Part of the requirements for my license was to fly on a three-legged trip with each leg being more than 100 miles away from the next. My first stop was in Rochester, MN. It was also the first towered airport I ever landed at. I had no problems. I found the nice lady at the desk and she signed my logbook proving I was there. I gassed up the plane and started down the taxiway. A Northwest 727 was also taxiing and trying to beat me to the takeoff end of the runway. But I wanted to go first to avoid waiting for his turbulence. “Cessna 150, this is the copilot of the Northwest 727. I request you slow down and let us taxi first so we can keep our schedule.” I was not happy. So, I replied, “Copilot of the Northwest 727, this is the Captain of the Cessna 150. No.” and I kept taxiing. Then the tower came on and said, “Good job Captain.” Jim was very proud of me.

My second instructor had the odd habit of making strange noises after I did certain flying maneuvers. It really bothered me. I started to believe I was a horrible pilot based on the sounds he would make. Jeeze. Pffft. Khhhaa. It was all under his breath but quite audible to me. I was talking with a friend about my new hobby and about my new instructor and his audible musings. “You dummy, he has Tourette’s Syndrome.” I didn’t know what that was. Had I known beforehand, I probably would have been more scared. Eventually I received my license and was able to fly with passengers. Some of you reading this may have been past victims of this obsession.

A guy I used to work with named Russ offered me a motorcycle ride in exchange for a plane ride. I obliged. He made the grave mistake of popping a couple of wheelies on the way to the airport. I did not enjoy that. When he realized that he was scared of small planes, he realized what he had done. But I was nice and I promised not to make any violent maneuvers. I waited until he was thoroughly distracted looking out the side window at his family farm in Hanover. While he was waving at the cows I kicked the door on my side of the plane. Boom!

“WHAT’S THAT?” he yelled with the complete look of abject horror on his face. He instantly turned white and started to recall all the former sins he had ever committed and promised to become a castrated priest if God would grant him continued life. “I’m not sure. It was probably nothing.” I pretended to frantically fiddle with dials and levers pretending to pretend to not be afraid. He took the bait. The rest of the trip was spent in silence as he contemplated his life and prayed that God would grant me the wisdom of flying a horribly crippled Cessna 150 back to Maple Lake Airport and land without incident. But I never confessed my sin. So, Russ, if you’re reading this, it was all a fake. But you deserved it.

More flying stories to come.

Rosca de Reyes

On Three Kings Day our staff celebrated by eating a Rosca de reyes. Look it up here to see what this all about. I would plagiarize the explanation, anyway. Inside the Rosca is 5 little plastic baby Jesuses (is the plural Jesi?). The idea is that if you eat a section with one of the baby Jesi in it, you throw a tamale party for your friends on Groundhog’s Day. This is too strange to make up so just believe me like you do Wikipedia.

Of course, I was the first to bite into Jesus. I also bit into the second Jesus. I now have those two baby Jesi sitting in Fun Tack on top of my computer screen. The one on the left stays in place. But the one on the right is constantly moving. I don’t know why but that baby Jesus just won’t stay put. The other day it fell over so far it was almost upside down. I repositioned the Fun Tack and the next day, both baby Jesi were upside down. This was very upsetting, as you can imagine.

Yesterday I put both baby Jesi back on fresh Fun Tack. Today they were both still standing but the baby Jesus on the right is listing to port about 5 degrees away from the other baby Jesus. Every time I try to reposition the Jesus on the right, he just falls down. I’ve even switched the baby Jesi but the one on the right won’t stay still.

I’m trying to place some deep spiritual meaning on these events but I keep coming back to this. I ate a pastry with two baby Jesi baked into it, bit them both, had to buy tamales from a man who was selling them out of a bucket on Groundhog’s Day, and now they are sitting in Fun Tack on my computer screen. Spiritual? Maybe. Strange? Way.