Echoes from the Loafers’ Club meeting:
“You get along with everyone. How do you do it?”
“It’s easy. I never disagree with anyone.”
“That’s impossible.”
“You’re absolutely right.”

Driving by the Bruces
I have two wonderful neighbors — both named Bruce — who live across the road from each other. Whenever I pass their driveways, thoughts occur to me, such as: the only thing wrong with the younger generation is that we are not all a part of it.

I’ve learned
1. That most golf courses were designed by Stephen King.
2. That I always miss removing a pin in a new dress shirt.
3. That in a pinch, a Nebraska map doesn’t work that well in place of a Minnesota map.

Winter wisdom
Snow covers those unsightly things that I’ve been meaning to do something about. It’s a temporary fix but better than no fix at all. Winter gives me more weather than I can use. This might be one of those “I remember” winters. Weather dominates everything. It gets to the point where a fellow wouldn’t take a million dollars for the winters he’s experienced or pay a dollar for another one.
My driveway had been cleared of snow and Moses, the snowplow driver, had gone by, parting the white sea. Passable roads and a driveway unable to capture a car make a guy feel obligated to go somewhere. I went back into the house. It was difficult but I stayed home. It seemed wise. Midwesterners drink deep from the cup of knowledge. That’s why our noses are always wet.

A eulogy
I ran into a friend who I hadn’t seen for a long time.
“Would you do my eulogy?” he asked.
“Are you OK?” I asked in return. I was concerned.
“I’m fine. When the time comes, I want you to do my eulogy. You’ll know what to say.”
“I’ll cry,” I said.
“I know. I’m counting on that.”

The café chronicles
“I knew we’d get a lot of snow this winter,” said one of the philosophers.
“How did you know?” I had to ask.
“The weeds were tall in my yard. When the weeds are tall, the snow will be deep.”
Next fall, we’ll cut his weeds to heights that are more manageable.

Fishing with father
I find myself staring at family photographs. The same images I’ve been looking at for years. I’m trying to see something—to remember moments. My thoughts go where they have been before as I drift through time. Some are pictures fixed in my memory. Other photos are like glimpses from a window of a passing car. Unexplored and beguiling. Dreamlike and timeless. Ordinary sights with mysterious depths. Random thoughts consolidate into a single moment of richness banked in my memory. A moment when I watched the cork as it bobbed comfortably on the surface of the lake while fish investigated the top of the water. I was fishing with my father in Morristown, Minn., on a spring day meant for bullhead fishing. It was peaceful. I was content. There was nowhere else that I wanted to be. It was a day in no need of improvement. A day I wanted to keep in a box on a shelf and take down to enjoy when needed. I didn’t want to catch fish, but I was fishing. Why fish if not to catch fish? The occasion was so perfect that I feared catching a fish would disrupt the bliss. Besides, I wasn’t enamored with bullheads as food.
As we prepared to leave, I found a pebble and tossed it into the lake. The pebble disappeared quickly but the ripples in the water lingered. Fishing with my father was like that pebble. The ripples are everlasting.

He had naming rights
The dairy farmer milked a large number of cows. I asked him if he named his cattle.
“Yes,” he replied. “I named each of them ‘Clara.’”