Page 31 and nearing the end, only 2 months and five days after we actually did. I got a puppy, ok, a part-Jack Russell, and I got the part with the springs in the legs. You want ‘m? Anyway, he’s one of the 407 reasons I’m so far behind in my blogging. And now, God help us, I’ve reminded myself of that old joke about the butcher who backed into the meat grinder and got a little behind in his work. Ok, that’s it. Back to the tour.
We blitzed our way across the Wisconsin countryside without getting our frail union busted or ever spotting a cheese store (like the Washington apples, they export their trademarked goods) and after some several hours driving we stumble across the border into Minnesota. We find the quaint and surprisingly sweet Cedar Center, an entertainment venue built from a former gymnasium in a neighborhood that was historically working class and is now making itself a new history as a community that is made of an enormous variety of refugees, mostly Somalis. We’re early, so we go for coffee and some dinner next door at a splendid little coffee place, and have the pretty cool experience of seeing people outside looking in the window and pointing us our to their friends. We’re stars, at least for tonight. The show goes smoothly and we are visited by a person from home, Kitty McFarland, who attends and brings friends. She looks happy and at peace, and so richly deserves it. Tired and weary of traveling, though not of the time spent playing, we retire to another Motel 6, where tension between two of the band members have reached the boiling point. There are hard words before they separate, one to a room where calm is eventually restored, the other to sleep in the van. It’s here I finally work out the source of the irritation. Sleep patterns. One has a hard time coming down off the adrenaline of the show, and so stays late channel surfing. The other can’t sleep through the racket and wakes early, cranky and ready to make some noise of his own. They’re neither of them getting any sleep, and now something must be done.
When morning comes I attempt an intervention, which, please God, works. One says he’s sorry, the other is contrite over the words spoken, and neither want to get off this otherwise wonderful train. We agree on that, and it’s 25 down, two to go.