The Best of Mike’S Meandering Mind

By Mike Holst

In August of 2007, I started writing a weekly column for my hometown newspaper, the Northland Press. This book is a collection of those essays published over the years. They depict everything from life itself to my roots; nature, pet stories, holidays of the year, fishing, hunting, sports, eulogies, and memories of days gone by. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them.

Mike Holst

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532024085

Mike Holst

Mike Holst has been actively writing for the past twenty years. He is a popular columnist, journalist and author of many fiction books, and homespun stories. Mike’s a native Minnesotan whose roots go deep, yet now winters in Arizona close to family and friends.

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Copyright © 2017 Mike Holst.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-2409-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-2408-5 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 05/15/2017

Contents

Foreword

Dedication

Acknowledgements

I.       Seasons of the Year

II.     The Holidays of the Year

III.     Kitty

IV.     Thoughts on Children and Friendship

V.       Fishing & Hunting

VI.     Baseball & Sports

VII.    Public Safety

VIII.   Music

IX.     Dogs and Pets

X.      Humor

XI.     My Dad and My Grandpa

XII.    Special Thoughts

XIII.   Religion

XIV.    Eulogies

XV.     Christmas Letters

Foreword

Over the past ten years that I have written for the Northland Press and other area papers, I have received many requests for copies of my columns. A while back, I entertained the idea of putting some of the better ones in a book called, The Best of Mike’s Meandering Mind. The response from my readers, for this book, seemed to indicate that this was the way to go, so I have, and here it is.

The topics I have written on over the years have run the gamut from homespun stories, to memoirs, to just day-to-day observations of the world around us. Always, my intent was to entertain, and sometimes to provide a little nostalgia for those of us who remember a far different world than the one we live in today.

The book is organized into fifteen different categories to help you find your way around it—or to refer back to it. To be sure, there are columns and articles I have written that are not in this book, as I had to pick and choose because the volume of material was too much for any one book. I fully acknowledge, also, that many of the things I have written, for one reason or another, were not that popular at the time so they have been left in my files for posterity. Maybe someday, in a different place and a different time, they will be relevant or maybe they should stay where they are.

I hope that much of what is in the book will be entertaining for you and bring back a memory or two. I hope, too, to write for many more years. Who knows, maybe somewhere down the road of life there will be another volume published and it will find its way into your home.

None of what I have written over the years, be it novels, essays or weekly columns, would have been possible without the encouragement and cooperation of you, my readers, and I thank you for that; for your thoughts and comments, and for sharing my thoughts with those you forwarded to. My thanks also to my good friends in the newspaper publishing business, and especially to Jo and Paul Boblett of the Northland Press.

Dedication

To my little brother Ken. Life was never easy for you Ken but you made loving you easy for all of us. Gone but never forgotten.

Acknowledgements

To Monica McCormick Graham my heartfelt thanks for your tireless efforts, in being my wordsmith and editor.

To my family and friends. None of these essays would exist without you. You are truly my inspiration.

Mike Holst

I

Seasons of the Year

In the first part of this book I talk about the seasons of the year and I start it off with springtime. I have often felt that all of the seasons have their special wares we are drawn to, but springtime is the alpha, and the beginning. Not of the calendar year but the calendar of seasons. It’s the time of the rebirth of the Earth; it’s the time that sets the stage for summer and in our lives and the lives of the birds, fish and animals. Summer is when they repopulate and come into their own and raise their young. Summer means vacations for many, flowers and fresh vegetables and fields of ripening crops for the farmers. It’s the time of long days and gentle rains. Of warm starlit nights and fun on the lakes. It’s the centerpiece of all the seasons.

As spring takes us into summer, summer eventually retreats and the days grow shorter and the dog days of summer lead us into fall. And then oh yes—winter.

SPRING AGAIN

The poet Alfred Lord Tennyson once said, and I quote, In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. I guess when I was a young man those thoughts of love—or what I perceived was love—bubbled out of me in the dead of winter way back then. Yes raging hormones and runaway glands got all mixed up with thoughts of love. Now that I’m an old codger though and those thoughts and urges have greatly diminished, springtime does seem like an aphrodisiac of sorts that’s really not sexual in nature, but I do realize all too well what Alfred was talking about. You see to me, spring is like a new beginning. It’s as if Mother Nature who just last fall put all of her flora and fauna away for a few months just to tease us a little, is now bringing it all back together, as the trees bud once again, and the grass turns back to green. It’s a time when we replace the smell of the furnace with the smell of Mother Earth.

Each year at this time, spring becomes the great precursor for the summer months ahead. The forerunner for yet another round of the lazy crazy days of the season we all rejoice in. It’s the season when projects come off the drawing board and become a reality. A season of flowers, and fruit, and vegetables, and a season of long carefree days in the warmth. There is baseball, fishing and long days at the lake, soaking up sunrises and sunsets. There are baby animals and birds replenishing the aging stock and ensuring the continuation of the species. But first of all must come springtime, the season that ushers it all in and lifts us up gradually from the winter blahs, quietly transitioning us into the summer of sun and fun.

Nowhere on God’s green earth is this change so dramatic as it is right here in the lakes country we all love so much. Maybe it’s because I’m old and realize that the summers of my life are not infinite that make me look so forward to them. That summers in my life are now just a memory, more than a reality. Maybe it’s because I have learned through the wisdom of life, to love so perfectly and that an old man’s fancy, compared to a young man’s fancy, turns to all of the things he knows makes this world so wonderful, because he has lived them, over and over again.

There will be days in springtime that play with us however. Days that will say, Not so fast my fickle friend, because summers coming, but winters not quite at the end. Charles Dickens described it best as, One of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade. Patience is a virtue however and all good things come to those who wait. Virtue can only be described as our moral goodness and something we have to practice and learn. Not just in springtime, but every day of our lives.

ANOTHER SPRING RITUAL

Each spring, deep in a man’s soul, there is a stirring that cannot be ignored. It’s a feeling so strong that most men can’t ignore it and cannot get it out of their minds. It starts festering in them about the middle of March, and it only gets worse each day. They go to sleep at night thinking about it, and they awaken with it still there in their thoughts. They tell their wives that, When we said, ‘for better or worse,’ this was the better for me and maybe the worse for you. Like soldiers marching off to war to save the fatherland, this is a quest that has to be taken, and not lightly. This is what we, as men, were born to do, and God willing, we will. So, once more we dust off the boats, and gather our partners, and like lemmings marching to the sea, we head for the lake or river of our choice, because it’s the opening day of fishing in Minnesota.

We are so blessed to have Northern Pike and Walleye living right outside our door—waiting for us to entice them into battle. For most Minnesotans, the taste of a delectable walleye fillet is somewhere just north of a porterhouse steak. Catching it oneself just adds to the whole adventure. Lying about catching them—and how big they were—well, that’s almost expected. Your clergy would call it one of those little sins that won’t stain your soul. It’s almost expected of you as a fisherman.

For me it’s been a never-ending journey from the time, as a kid, that I waded into the river with my old steel pole and Pflueger casting reel, with a stringer tied around my waist; or fished from the bank with a long cane pole. Today, with the lake at my doorstep, I only have to walk fifty feet to be in the boat. The playing field has tilted in favor of the fisherman. We can go places now that we only dreamed of going before; we can lower our cameras down into their lair to see if they’re there. We have lures that sing and wiggle and smell like bait fish. You could almost say, It’s too easy, but there is one constant we can’t forget—the fish have to be feeding.

We realize that the supply is not unlimited and so we pay to grow baby fish and restock our lakes and streams. We practice catch and release to send them back to propagate the species—hoping they won’t remember what got them in trouble in the first place. When the anchor is pulled for the last time, and the boat is safely back on its trailer, and when the frying pan is hot and the fillets are toasty brown and you look at your fishing partner’s tired sunburnt face—then you’ll realize it wasn’t about the fish that took you there. It was about the time you spent with him or her, and the fishing trip was only a ways to the means, to enjoy each other’s company. I know this to be true because I don’t always catch fish, but I always have a good time.

IT’S A SIGN OF SUMMER. THE SUNSHINE BOYS ARE BACK

Far beyond the budding daffodils and returning loons, and even after the swallows long left Capistrano, a sure sign of summer is the return of the Sunshine Boys to Reeds’ coffee shop. The winter months find most of them dispersing to some place where the sun is warm and the margaritas are cold. There is one man who leaves his home in the summer and comes here for the winter, and I’m not sure why that is, strange as it seems, but he is a colorful character we do enjoy. But in large, for a few cold months the group disperses with most of the rhetoric they’re so famous for and the stories that are spilled become far and few between—but now they’re back—and in fine form I might add.

There are no rules or guidelines for this group except you just have to be willing to listen to the same tired old jokes that get told again and again and be willing to talk about the good old days. With fading memories amongst these old men, the jokes seem even funnier the second or third time around, the fish grow bigger and the stories are embellished with each narration. The rules of etiquette, although unwritten are simple. No arguing and politics seldom is the subject matter, nor is religion. Nothing that prophetic or surreal ever comes out of their dialogues. They know that in the end they will be known much more for their kindness than their brilliance. Wives are seldom mentioned either, except if the story brings some hilarity to the day in a generic sort of way. Amusement is the prime motivator for the conversations. You are allowed to make fun of each other to a point, so very thin-skinned people need not come. They have learned that the scariest person in the world is the one without a sense of humor.

As seniors we seem to clan together later in life, and the old adage about familiarity breeding contempt seems to go out the window with these men, as they seem to be civil to all and sociable to many, and for them familiarity is not the breeding ground for contempt, but the root of their friendships. At a time in our lives when life has so many ups and downs for all of us, we find that humor is the greatest medicine. A prostate as big as a tennis ball becomes a badge of honor and more of an accomplishment than a hindrance. These men are community stewards and planners. Right now they are laying the groundwork for light rail to come to Crosslake so we can all go to the Twins games. What insight they have.

This motley group came from an era that is seldom understood in today’s fast paced, greedy, winner grabs all society. They came from homes where hard work and honesty prevailed, and chivalry and respect for women was commonplace. Where children were loved and cared for, and occasionally paddled, but only when the situation warranted it. It was a time when old people were looked at as the repositories of the wisdom of life, and not someone to be put on a shelf as a sadly used up commodity. So for that reason, they cling to those old values and they cling to each other in their waning years as the Sunshine boys.

SUMMER THOUGHTS

There is something magical about this lake country in summer time. I have had many occasions to be in theme parks in my life, often at great expense and many miles traveled, but nothing man has ever made rivals the snugness of a cabin, on the shores of a sandy lake in the summer time. It seems that all of your senses come into play in such a place. For it’s not just the beauty of the place, and the wildlife you see, it’s the smell of the pines and flowers wafting in on soft breezes that mimic a mother’s breath on the top of her newborn’s head. It’s the sound of waves lapping softly on the sandy shoreline, always repairing and removing the tracks of intruders; sitting on the dock in your wet trunks, catching sunnies until your butt itches; the mournful cry of the loons coming from across the fresh water during a kaleidoscope sunset, mirrored in the placid waters of some unknown bay, tucked far away from the mainstream of humanity, as snug as your parents’ bed on a cold and scary night.

I grew up in the North Woods of Minnesota, and left to seek my fortune like so many do, but always, something drew me back from the fast-paced world I lived and worked at in the city. Something told me that, as you age, serenity becomes so crucial to your happiness and the woods and lakes are where it’s best found. For as mysterious as nature can be, it is synonymous with the untroubled lifestyle you’re now seeking. Maybe it’s some primeval urge that tugs us back, or was it something in our unexplainable and mysterious roots that brought us back. But, either way, back we come, as surely as the swallows returning home from Capistrano.

This land we love so much is sacred to all that live here. We understand that there are only a few degrees of separation between a blemish and a blossom in nature’s delicate world. That in summer time, this phenomenon of nature is most vulnerable because that is when the old gal shows it all off and hides nothing because, just like us, the flora and fauna too revel in summer time. I truly believe that when the credits are rolled, long after I am gone, most of what you will see of my life will have taken place in summer time. As Celia Thaxter said, and I quote, There shall be eternal summer in the grateful heart. As a side note, in every man’s heart there is a girl he can never forget and a summer when it all began.

We live in an increasingly violent world. The winds of war seem to be constantly blowing all over the world. Social issues seem to spew hatred and disregard for each other here at home and around the world. Politicians and politics bring an acidy taste, like rancid bile, to the back of your throat. Is it any wonder that we try to go hide in nature, like a shy cat under the bed? That we want to find that quiet place, where our hearts can rest and mellow in what’s left of this world that we can call good and unspoiled. That finally we have paid our dues to society and we can now leave the so-called rat race, and rejoin what was once perceived to be the human race. I have found it’s all right to be lazy in summer—in fact, it’s almost respectable. It’s the lakes, the cabin, the forest, birds and animals that give us this respite before we reach our final reward.

SUMMERS LAMENT

Each day, as I take Molly for a walk, I notice the subtle changes in my outside world. It seems like only yesterday there were irises blooming amongst the budding peonies. The apple trees were covered heavy with blossoms that seemed to open their blooms on demand to let the busy bees in to do their job. Deep in the woods, hidden in the shady spots, some vestiges of last winter’s snow tried to hide from the sun’s probing rays but the ambient warming temperatures would have no part of it. I saw my first fawn just across the road and a mother wood duck marching her brood up the driveway towards the safety of the lake. Swallows had taken over my back porch, dive bombing me as I came and went. Yes, spring had finally sprung.

Then slowly as the days rolled by the world emerged from the black and white winter we had grown so used to and in its place emerged a Technicolor picture painted on an emerald green background. Soft summer breezes caressed us between the brief rains that fed the flora and replenished our earth. It was just a budding light when you first got up and a still fading light, eking out of spectacular sunsets, painting the western sky as you retired for the night. In the late evenings the light from the cabins and houses reflected eerily on the lake’s still waters. Then like the swallows to Capistrano, the tourists came back to Crosslake and the lakeshores echoed with voice and laughter once more. Boats criss-crossed the water, looking for fish or pulling skiers or squealing kids in rubber rafts. The town and surrounding area rocked with concerts and festivals, so many of them you had to pick and choose which one to attend. Grills came out and brats and burgers became the food of choice. Beer and wine buoyed the carefree attitudes. Those lazy carefree days of summer were upon us.

Then the ominous days grew shorter once more and the loons would cry out of the fog in the early mornings, looking for their mates The beaches, once crowded, were mostly bare and lily pads bloomed where once there was nothing but empty water. Ripples spread out in the still water as a bass emerged, ate a water bug and then retreated back to the depths. A red and white spoon hung in a low tree branch, close to shore, the victim of an errant cast. To keep dry, my morning walk with Molly came later in the day when the dew was off the grass.