We haven't seen the curb around town for months. Today, I saw curb all along the length of Nicollet Avenue. I called Regis and he said I just might be taking the signs of spring campaign a little too far. I don't think so.
Last night we met our good friend, Bob Bergstrom (alter ego of David Bengtson), in Arlington. Arlington is a town not known for it's plethora of restaurants. It's a town of 2000 people. When I called the Arlington Haus to ask if they were open Monday, only to find out they were not, I asked about other possibilities for a place for old friends to meet. The person I talked to was stumped. Well, she said, I never go to the other end of town. We ain't talkin' the main street of Waterloo. So, we drove to Arlington, met up at an intersection, and went to Triple E's Cafe.
It was real home cookin', for real. Regis had a chili burger, I had a Denver sandwich, and Bob had a chicken salad. Chris took care of us in the modern vernacular...in the old days he would have been called a waiter. They didn't serve beer but the coffee was good and I had a lot of it. Chris was attentive.
We told stories, laughed, and I read Bob's poem about his dad and his uncle who have a laugh over not being able to run anymore. At the end of the evening, a whiskery aproned grill cook came out of the kitchen with a guitar and sang happy birthday to a little boy who was celebrating with his family and a screaming baby sister. He grinned like crazy when the guitar playing cook asked if he liked rock and roll. Very sweet. Very small town.
I'm sorry Marilyn Bergstrom had to be busy during out dinner. Maybe next time, she can join us.
I was tired at the end of the day and came home to try and take a nap in the sun. The dang dog must have dropped a ball under the bed because he kept getting down on his tummy and trying to dig around under there. Good grief. I slept for about ten minutes and woke up cussing the dog.
I saw two people riding bikes this afternoon. He was wearing an Elmer Fudd hat buttoned under his chin. Not a pretty sight. Like the confluence of athleticism and dorkism.
I'm reading a book called Once a Runner. It's about some guys who ran in the 70s. Long distance runners. It's on my kindle and one thing I don't like about the kindle is that when you turn it on, there's the page is. No clues, like the cover of the book. It's like waking up on the high diving board.
I'm getting into the spirit of March with black and tan brownies, Guinness stew (with turnips and parsnips that I loved but Regis hated), shamrock lights, and Jameson home decor. St. Patrick's Day is on Wednesday this year which is kind of a buzz kill.
I came home from exercising this morning at 6:15 and the sky was getting light. It's 6:40 in the evening now and the sky is still light. That means, for the math impaired among us, that we have almost 12 hours of daylight. La dee da la dee da happy dance. That is a huge improvement over December when we had about 8 skimpy hours of daylight.
Hurry spring time. We can't wait to move the Howard Fritsch rosemary back to the patio.