(Posted January 31, 2011)
Friday night. The weather folks say we’re in for a bit of a snow squall. Instead, as I drive south on I-35 in my wife’s Matrix, my wife in the co-pilot’s seat, my sons Jack and Chris safely belted in the rear seats, our weekend luggage piled high in the cargo space of the little Toyota, we hit freezing drizzle; the sort of slop that, combined with the black night, makes driving treacherous. The little car’s all-wheel-drive acquits itself well and we don’t slip and slide; we avoid jetting off into the snowy ditch like the one car we see near the Black Bear Casino that wound up facing north in the southbound median. But no matter how much heat I force onto the windshield, no matter how fast the wipers thrash, a thin layer of ice keeps reappearing on the glass, distorting my view of the road, making life difficult. My hands clench the steering wheel. My wife’s right had grasps the entry assist loop embedded in the car’s ceiling. Chris has his eyes shut, headphones adjusted, music playing. Jack’s attention is riveted on a video game when he’s not offering criticism.
“I wish Mom would drive.”
“Mom doesn’t want to drive.”
“You’re unlucky. Every time you drive, we get hit by someone.”
Chris pulls his headphones off his ears.
“Every time, Jack? Every time Dad drives, you get in an accident?”
Rene’ pipes up.
“The accidents weren’t your dad’s fault. He got hit by a drunk driver who blew a stop light and a nun who lost her way and was in the wrong lane. How is that your father’s fault?”
“He’s unlucky. I’d rather have you drive.”
And so it goes until we pull out of the rainy slime and onto dry pavement somewhere south of Hinckley.
In the Cities, we drop Chris off at his girlfriend’s apartment and leave Jack with cousins in Lakeville. The weekend is ours; Rene’s and mine. We’re going to stay one night in a nice hotel, The Depot on Washington, and meet a group of old friends from Duluth Denfeld High School for dinner and a play, “A Winter’s Tale”, at the Guthrie. It’s a trip inspired by our friend Roni, who usually comes up with great group activities, including a succession of cruises that various members of this same group, couples that have been doing an annual dinner in Duluth for nearly thirty years, have undertaken in the past. This year, instead of another dinner in Duluth, it’s a weekend getaway to Minneapolis to see some Shakespeare.
“I thought you said the walk from the hotel to the Guthrie was two blocks,” someone chides as our little band treks over freshly shoveled sidewalks to the Guthrie.
“It’s just like one of Munger’s canoe trips,” my buddy Dave quips.”I’ve been in this story before.”
“Ya,” I add. “The portage is only ten rods long.”
We take a prearranged tour of the back stage areas of the new theater. We sit down for a nice dinner at the Level Five Restaurant at the Guthrie. A surprise awaits us.
“Where you all from?” our little blond headed, college aged waitress asks as she waits on our group of twenty-one AARP-eligible folks.
“Duluth” someone says.
“That’s funny. Me too,” she reveals.
“Where did you grow up?” I ask as she brings me a glass of Merlot.
“Piedmont Heights.”
“No way! What street?”
“Plymouth.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Gustafson.”
I smile as I raise my glass to toast her.
“Well, that’s about three blocks from where I grew up. These two tables,” I say, pointing my baby finger as I hold the stem of the wineglass, “are nearly all Denfeld graduates.”
The information doesn’t seem to impress her as much as her revelation impressed me. Still, I can’t shake the conclusion that, despite the number of people now walking around our planet, Earth is indeed a very small place.
I find myself having problems understanding Shakespearean English for the first twenty minutes of the play. But then, as if a light goes off in my dialect-challenged-mind, the meanings of words I haven’t heard since high school English become clear. The group settles in to watch a great performance, taking our leave during intermission to stroll about the lobby of the theater to talk, hit the head, and retell old stories. Even the non-theater types in our group are impressed and enjoy themselves. When the final curtain draws, the walk back to the hotel (where one of the women has a homemade cheesecake waiting for our consumption) is filled with talk of the new theater, the play, and life in general. Over drinks in the hotel bar, we fork thick cream cheese filling and crust into our eager mouths, sip beer, wine or cocktails, and revert back to the easy language of high school friends. Uncharacteristically for folks of advanced age, we close the bar.
Peace.
Mark
