Microblog

Dropped our primary ballots off at the Minneapolis early voting office. The election judges were in a great mood, and one insisted on taking my photo. I thanked them for running a system we can all trust. 

Dwight headed down to the weight room, which gave me an opportunity to cook up a surprise for dinner. For one week only, it’s Sausage Sunday (as opposed to Sausage Saturday). No surprises there: it’s a variation on a sausage and cabbage theme. Here it is, reflecting in a slow oven for about 2½ hours, hopefully undergoing a magical transformation.

Filled out primary ballots for U.S. Senator, U.S. Representative, Governor, and all the way down to school board members. In doing so, we asserted our right to choose a government that “shall seem most likely to effect [our] Safety and Happiness,” as declared in the Declaration of Independence. I’ll hand-carry these ballots to a drop-off point, especially since the Federal Government is threatening to block mail-in ballot delivery in states that don’t accede to their demands.

Cycled around looking at preparations for July 4. Our celebrations are very local, so there’s none of the partisanship of DC. Here, several blocks of downtown are being fenced off for A Taste of Minnesota, essentially a food truck corral with a bit of entertainment. The number of garbage bins impressed me. Meanwhile, down at Stone Arch Bridge, preparations were underway for celebratory events culminating in fireworks.

The loud squeak when I apply my front brake is a feature; I’m loath to fix what is probably just a minor misalignment. Today the trail to the fish shop was blocked due to light rail maintenance, forcing me to choose between a busy road and the sidewalk. I chose the sidewalk. The moment I applied the front brake, people practically leapt out of the way. Cycling on the sidewalk is legal in Minneapolis areas zoned residential, but, um… I was definitely in a commercial zone.

With angry rock pounding and the vague smell of fried chicken, I reacquainted myself with a St. Paul, Midway institution, Ax-Man Surplus. Nothing had changed over the decades from the iron lung to the snarky signs. As I walked out, empty-handed, the gnarly guy at the counter asked me if I’d ever thought of buying something I didn’t want. I said they now had mindshare, which seemed to be a sufficient response.

Our objective was a bridge over the BNSF Northtown Yard, a rail yard that stretches for over three miles. It was another heat advisory day, and the weather caught up with me at the bridge as my pedal power faded. My friend, knowing my aversion to hydration, had brought an extra water bottle that worked wonders. I made it back home, but my blood pressure was abnormally low due to dehydration, prompting a firm vow to always carry water from now on.

Thought of my dad in the 1920s and myself in the ’50s and ’60s, modeling the world with Meccano. A freight train rumbled overhead as I took shelter under the Short Line Bridge, briefly escaping the sun’s direct rays. Motivating me forward was the promise of fish tacos for lunch at Sea Salt in Minnehaha Park, and the knowledge that today’s extreme heat warning would deter the usual long line snaking out the door.

Postponed our usual Sunday morning walk because of lightning and rain. On our now-afternoon walk, a block from home, this native planting meadow was flourishing with help from the morning’s rain. Until a couple years ago, this section of city park land was weedy, cut grass. Now, it delights pollinators and passers-by.

Trapped at a red traffic light on our bicycles, a sign warned us that God hates people like Dwight and me. White “christian” nationalists shouted at us through a bullhorn, promising that Tr*mp would punish us. Arriving at the Pride Festival, we joined a crowd of many thousands, got to see the world’s biggest rubber duck, and sipped a Deschutes Fresh Squeezed in a beer garden on a gloriously sunny day.

At the Franklin Library, my adult learner had forgotten her reading glasses. Usually, the librarians keep a few pairs handy, but they were out of readers. Instead, we had a spoken session on the life of Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson. It went well, and my learner showed good comprehension. Afterward, I ordered a bunch of reading glasses that I’ll drop off at the library next week.

As we often do on a Thursday evening, we compared notes about our day over bar food and beer at Maxwell’s. As usual, Dwight had been tending to the plants at the university greenhouse. My day was somewhat less remarkable since school is out. ​So, here are some of the flowering plants he spotted as he went about his duties in different climates today.

Tonight: Come from Away at the Guthrie, about the airline passengers stranded in Gander, Newfoundland, on 9/11. I was struck by how much of the Guthrie’s online study guide explains the actual events of 9/11, but then I realized that over 40% of Americans were either not yet born or were too young to remember it. I’m expecting good theater focused on the acting, with strong doses of empathy and community, and minimal conflict.

Took the light rail to Fort Snelling Station to meet a friend for a bike ride along the Minnesota River. While waiting, I waved to these good people who had been risking arrest monitoring ICE activity at the Whipple Federal Building (seen on the left). Activity here is way down from last winter, when brown people, including U.S. citizens, were swept off the streets and detained under cruel conditions.

Out walking with friends, the contents of a board game lay scattered across our path. A brief effort to spin a story about the spill sparked a discussion on the proliferation of Little Free Libraries, which are often packed with books no one wants. This led to a nod of appreciation for digital library books.

Cycled up one side of the Mississippi and down the other. Here below the Lowry Avenue Bridge, two people are fishing, with downtown Minneapolis straight ahead at a bend in the river.