One of the last things that I did before leaving Minneapolis and moving to Australia was to visit Our Lady of Grace church, my home parish back in the cities.

It was a bit of a solemn occasion as I had made this church my spiritual home away from my home church back up north.  It is a good church, and a good faith community.

It helped that they had Father Matthew.

Father Matthew is Czech, and a proud Czech at that.  Much to the dismay at times of the German-Polish head pastor who sometimes has to take some good natured ribbing…much to his dismay.  If I were cruel and insensitive, I’d say that the German side of him had no sense of humor…or the Polish side just didn’t understand the joke (Note:  If you are German or Polish or some combination…write to me for some good Czech jokes…you have to laugh at yourself…especially if you are Czech, afterall, you need something to keep you humble…)

Before leaving for Australia, on that last day before leaving back in November, I attended the 6:15am Mass, and followed that with confession with Father Matthew.

Getting the blessing from him, Father Matthew imparted some good advice:

“Australia is a wonderful country, and the Australians are wonderful people, but they sometimes like to party hardy and have a good time.  Have a good time, but remember to be true to yourself and the things that you hold dear.  Remember what you value.  Remember who you are.”

This first Sunday back in the cities, how could I not attend the 7:30am Mass to see Father Matthew.

As always, the 7:30am Mass - my favorite Mass (light on music, heavy on faith) was rather sparsely attended, primarily people with some experience (ie mature…or wise…or more life lived…or simply, older then me…).  But the Mass was still impressive, as always.

The readings for the day were from Acts (speaking about Paul and Barnabas being far from home and arguing with the Jews in Antioch), Revelations (talking about the people from all nations raising their voices having lived through the time of great trial), and perhaps most ironic, the reading from John:

“My sheep hear my voice;
I know them, and they follow me.
I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish.
No one can take them out of my hand.
My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all,
and no one can take them out of the Father’s hand.”

It was a great reminder, regardless where I am, regardless where I go, I am His sheep…and as long as I follow the wise words of Father Matthew’s (”Remember what you value.  Remember who you are.”) I’ll hear the voice of the shepard. 

Greating Father Matthew after Mass with a hearty g’day and handshake, we talked and chatted and with a Bohemian blessing he sent me on my way.

 Let me explain something - I like parties.  Being an introvert, they plumb tucker me out, but there is just something about bringing together people from different cross sections of life and different backgrounds - seeing them talk and laugh and have a good time.  Add some great food and constant laughter and maybe some cute kids running around and you have the makings for a great party.

For the last seven years, a small group of friends have put on a crawfish boil in Minneapolis, a southern tradition that moved north with our friend Mr. Maxwell.  This year - a host of expected babies and busy schedules meant that the crawfish boil was out.  But thanks to the dedication of one of the organizers, there would still be a spring party - and luckily, Geoff and Amber know how to throw a party.

For their wedding, Geoff and Amber got a smoker.  Well, actually, for their wedding, Amber allowed Geoff to buy a smoker.  And Geoff knows how to use it.

It is one of the large cast iron smokers, on wheels, black, and capable of smoking a full pig if necessary.

And some chickens to boot.

But boy, do they know how to put on a feed (an Australian word for a big/good meal).

And the weather didn’t exactly cooperate.  A early morning rain and a constant threat of bad weather made the smoker have to stay under a make shift tarp (put up by the two of them at about six o’clock in the morning…something which I would challenge any other marriage to survivie…much less strive like it seemed to do for the two thme).  Neither rain, nor sleet, nor cold of spring could keep the pork butts from their appointed chemical and heat alteration into tender masses of deliciously cooked morsels that melted in your mouth…

While the food was outstanding, the company was even better.

Friends, neighbors, and relatives made their way to the garage with the smoke pouring out from under the blue tarp, the people pouring out onto the lawn, and the kids running around the house.  People from all walks of life, people from different parts of the country (Minnesota, North Dakota, Iowa AND Missouri!).

And it was a great cross section of folks - and we relived some memories too.  My brother Jaime and sister-in-law Michelle were their with my nephews (Parker loved tipping over the lawn chairs).  Scott and Michelle with their small clan (running, and running, and running, and running).  Mike and Lindsay (very pregnant at the time…) reliving memories of boils past.  Dan and Jess reliving FFA days (much to Dan’s embarrasment), Jeff and Kris (discussing trips to Illinois), Tim and Louise (talking about the state of American agriculture and the best hidden hiking spots), Scott and Bill lamenting the soyhull market, Erik and Lindsey talking about their upcoming journeys, Pat and Katti and their little Kyle - and my ride home for the evening - reliving countless memories of times past, Todd talking NDSU.

I know that Geoff put a lot of work into the meat and Amber slaved away in the kitchen to make the rest of the fixin’s - and the dedication was tasted in the cooking.  But just as impressive was the motley mass of people that had come out to help celebrate. 

That Geoff and Amber, they sure know how to cook up a good party.

 A disrupted flight around the world, anticipation for getting home, jet lag, over six hundred miles by car, marathon meetings, it all meant that I was one thing - I was tired.

And sick.

Whether it was the pollen from an early spring in Minnesota or spending thirty hours traversing four airports and half way around the world, one thing was certain - I felt like crap.

Either way, that first Friday night at home, I slept well.

And overslept in the process.

I had breakfast scheduled with my Mom’s side of the family - the Mason’s, at their normal South St. Paul breakfast spot, Gallagers…or as my Dad would call it, the White Elephant (that is what it was named when he used to go there…fifty years ago…).

Let me explain something about my Mom’s side of the family - they are not early people.  If something starts at noon, you tell them 10:00am to make sure that they make it by noon.  My brother Jaime inherited this time gene. 

The other side of the equation is my Dad’s side of the family - if something starts at noon, you had better be in the door by 11:00am…just to make sure you are there on time…I inherited my father’s time gene.  Nothing bother’s me so much as walking in late for something.

So I was horrified when I slept through my alarm that Saturday morning.

But I didn’t panic…breakfast normally really got going between 9:30 and 10:00am…I wouldn’t be late, I’d be fashionably on time with the estimated time of arrival as I made my way across town about 9:45.

That was before my phone rang at 9:30…

It was Jaime…”Hey, everyone is waiting for you - where are you?”

Oh shucks.

To make matter’s worse, while I had been to the White Elephant…er, I mean Gallagers…several times, it is never all that easy to find, and normally, it take a little trial and error to get there.

Walking in the door about 9:50am…I was embarrassed…and late…and the last one in the door…over twenty of my relatives…on my mother’s side…had managed to make it before I did…it was embarrassing…

But everyone still seemed relatively happy to see me, over their omelets and pancakes.

We had some good discussions around the table - talking about family, friends, and old times.  As well as the prospects for the Twins, the Vikins, and the Wild.  As well as the latest speculation on the hometown boy from South St. Paul turned governor…

It was a good breakfast…well…brunch.

Afterwards, I made my way over to my Godparent’s house, Uncle Dan and Aunt Lois.  For two summers, they had put a roof over my head while working in the cities, had provided me with help and guidance when needed, and some very, very good home cooked meals.  Aunt Ruthie joined us too - my brother Tom’s Godmother, and one of the cadre of Aunts that, while we never saw them often enough growing up, still hold a special place in each of our hearts.

We visited for a couple of hours, talking about Australia, Uncle Dan and Aunt Lois’s trek to Switzerland, and family news and updates.

The time wasn’t long enough, soon my cell phone rang and I had to make my way back across town.

 Friday dawned another beautiful day in northern Minnesota.  But then, what day isn’t in that part of the world.

But it was back to the sprawling of Minneapolis-St. Paul for a little work and a little play.  OK, a little work and a lot of play.

At six thirty, I followed my Dad out of the drive way, out onto the gravel road, and on into town (OK, so I forgot my cell phone charger, so Dad went for coffee, I did a u-turn, grabbed my charger - then hit the road…but I digress…).

Driving down to the cities for a noon meeting was like driving down memory lane.  Down through the same roads and same towns that I’ve driven through hundreds of times before, starting with that first trip fifteen years ago when I made the drive for my first FFA training over fifteen years before.  It was a bit surreal to be driving it again after being gone for six months…and finally back driving on the right side of the road no less.

I want to point out at this time, I was suffering with a cold, was heavily medicated, and thanks to jet lag and a busy schedule, had less than six hours of sleep for the last week, and had already put six hundred miles on my car…and this was all before I was supposed to be back in the country.

Spent the balance of the day back in the office, then met a very good friend (was my first tutor in grain trader and remains one of my closest advisors) for a beverage, then was home for a fifteen minute nap before I met the guardians of my life back in Minneapolis - Pat and Katti and Geoff and Amber - for supper.

Pat and Katti were treating me like royalty - with curbside pickup and everything.  They were going to call before they came over to pick me up - so my fifteen minute nap shouldn’t be a problem. 

Forty-five minutes later, there was a knock at the door.  Rousted from my slumber, I lurched for the door.

There were Pat and Katti.

“Why didn’t you call?”  I asked accusingly.

“We tried.  Three times.”  They said smiling.

Walking back into my bedroom, grabbing my phone off the bed, where it rested about five inches from my ear, it listed…three missed calls…

Drat.

Dressing quickly, we packed a few things in my car for the pending party the next day, then hit the road for bit to eat with Geoff and Amber.

Though tired and a bit unresponsive, it was a good supper.  I really didn’t have much to say, but it was good to get caught up with my friends and hear six months worth of stories.  It was good to hear the trials and triumphs.  It was good to spend time in the presence of good people with good hearts.  I was content.

 Caution Readers: You are about to get something that I thought I would never write.  A play review.  Prior to his experience, the extent of my musical merriment was taking my younger sister to see the Irish dancing saga, “River Dance.”  An event which, save for the young women dancing on stage, the good Irish music, and the dance numbers was almost unbearable to watch.

It should come as no surprise to those that know me that on a beautiful spring day in Minnesota but drive 250 miles to see my nieces perform in a school musical.

After all, I’ve been known to drive 500 miles for breakfast (which is another story completely).

Thanks to the volcano, I had arrived in the states several days earlier than planned, which fit perfectly if I could make the trip up north to see my nieces perform in their middle school musical.

“I know you’re busy and it’s a long drive, but I think the girls would like it if you could make it.” My brother advised.

“Is Dad going?” I asked.

“I don’t think so.” He said.

“Well, if things work out, I might try to swing up and pick him up.” I said.  “Let’s see how things go the next couple days.”

The next phone call was to my Dad, who immediately informed me, “So you are coming to pick me up on Thursday to see the girls play?”

I was now.

A trip from Minneapolis to Moorhead via Mahnomen (and one traffic ticket later) and we were eating supper with my nieces, now firmly teenagers (they will roll their eyes at that comment…trust me) and getting ready to see their middle school musical.

I must admit, I’m not a musical type of guy.  Sure my mother was big fan and could be counted on to make us watch one of the rare Saturday night movies where they were featured, and silently, I think our whole clan, regardless how much we complained, liked the stories and the music - The Music Man, The King and I, South Pacific, My Fair Lady - all were on our play list.

But a middle school musical just seemed like too much drama, and isn’t there enough drama when dealing with teenagers?

The middle school musical was Godspell.  A musical that I’d heard of, but knew little about.  Based on the Gospel of Matthew, it was stories and parables set to rock (70’s style) music.

The skeptic in me has but one word to describe the performance: Awesome.  If you want a few more, try:  Moving.  Awe Inspiring.  Wonderful.  Humbling.

I actually went out the next day and bought the original musical recording, which, in my humble opinion, didn’t hold a candle to the performance put on by the cast and crew from St. Joseph’s School

I will admit, there were a couple of scenes where the cast just seemed to be talking to me.  The messages were deep.  The messages were sometimes not just funny, but downright hilarious (I must admit, the ‘good seed’ from the parable for the seeds had her timing just right, her lines were funny and well placed, and she had the Miss America wave down just right…but I am her uncle, so I’m biased (it was like you were looking RIGHT AT ME Sarah)…

And who could argue that the vocals on the songs were like angels singing? (and yes, I’m talking to you Abby - and all of the rest of your musical cohorts)

Let’s just admit the fact that the entire crew did a phenomenal job of the performance.  From Jesus and John the Baptist down to the rich man and the stage crew.  It was impressive.

Was it the directors that poured their hearts out with the student’s day in and day out while preparing for the production?  Was it the teachers that formed and nurtured these students?  Was it the parents that provided the loving support?  Was it the students themselves with all of their talent? 

I believe it was all of the above…but something just a little bit more.  I believe that part of the answer lay painted on the brick wall behind the set of the Holy Spirit.  It wasn’t magical or mystical, it was inspired and concrete - the performance and the students seemed to be, as the school’s motto states, “Led by the Spirit.”

There isn’t a better compliment to be given.

 Wednesday, April 21^st will live on in memory for two reasons, first, it was my first day back in Minneapolis-St. Paul in a very long time.  Second, it was my first Twin’s game at the new Target Field.

I will admit, I was expecting to be disappointed.  I’ve visited some of the best venues in the world.  The famous Melbourne Cricket Grounds and the infamous Yankee Stadium (the new $1 billion dollar one…let me repeat, the $1,000,000,000 stadium).

I was going to go with a good group of people, three good friends - Pat, Geoff and Dan and planned on meeting two good friends down at the game, Mike and Lindsay.

Taking the bus downtown, we got off to a bit of a late start, but even pulling up outside of the stadium and entering Hubert’s, even from that vantage point, there was one word that came to mind - impressive.  It was the people, the atmosphere, the comradery of the place that struck me as we made our way towards the main entrance.  For the first time ever in Minnesota, baseball seemed, well, exciting.

And this was different then New York.  In New York, it seemed like a great number of people went to the game to be seen or to see the new stadium.  Here, in Minnesota, where seats were still reasonable and people still seemed to love their team, come win or loss, it was down home, grass roots, honest-to-goodness, old school baseball.

And the stadium showed it.

There were some throw backs to the old stadiums and the old team, prior to the old Metrodome - things like Minne and Sota (representing Minneapolis and St. Paul) in neon lights in the outfield, seeming to shake hands over each homerun. There were some of the pennants that hung in the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome.  Put there were some new features - things like pine trees planted in the outfield, that struck and Minnesota farm boy like me as being very appropriate for this team, these men, representing the state - not a city like most other teams in baseball (think about it - with the exception of the Texas Rangers and the Florida Marlins, no other state has their own team - most are city teams).  This is what baseball is about.

And the food - the food was outstanding.  Around every corner was some local fare, but friends knew right where to steer me.  My favorite meat market had their own stand, and nothing says “welcome back to Minnesota” then a Kramarczuk’s bratwurst.

I will admit, we only spent a couple of innings in our seats on the first baseline, most of the time we spent watching and wandering through the mighty new Target Field, cheering on the Twins from the concourse and the watering  holes located throughout the stadium.

It was pretty clear that the Twins had a winning stadium on their hands.

And the season isn’t going bad for them either.  On that night, they had so far won every series they had played it.  And by the end of the week, had broken a franchise record for best start.

By the end of the night, with another win safely under their belt, the lights of Target Field shown down on the us last stragglers that made our way out of the stadium into the cool Minnesota air.  Like the Twins, I must confess, it felt good to be home.

 There are some things that are just never quite the same, growing up, society, technology, economics all change the world, all change habits and actions.  Some of those things disappear into memory.

Things like gravy bread.

Mom was a good…no….mom was a fantastic cook.  Give her a heat source and a couple of random ingredients and she could whip up a meal that would leave you begging for more.  While our family never considered ourselves poor, with a farm crisis and five kids, our family had to be, for lack of a better term, frugal.

But with a big garden, fresh milk, and ample pork and beef, we were able to eat like kings.

But Mom also made sure that nothing went to waste.

While we were clearly a meat and potato family - primarily due to the fact that we had a lot of meat (aka home grown pigs and cattle) and a lot of potato’s (aka the garden), there were, if you can believe it with our family, usually some left overs.

Dutifully, regardless the amount of meat and gravy left over, they were carefully stashed in the refrigerator in empty and cleaned cool whip containers, to be resurrected at a later time.

Looking back, sometimes these things were planned out.  If we had a nice beef roast for Sunday dinner and there wasn’t enough left over to feed the family, suddenly, beef was back on the menu Tuesday night.

But inevitability, those left overs would come out.

Warmed up back on the stove, the gravy - now cold and gelatinous, was slowly stirred and brought back to life over low heat.  The beef, cold and stiff - far from the tender morsels they were the day or two earlier - was cut up into smaller sized pieces and placed in the now warm gravy to bring back the taste and texture that they by rights ought to have.

The result was remarkable.

Combine this with a combination of vegetables (either reheated, fresh, canned, frozen, or a combination of the above depending upon the season) and the meal was complete.

When we sat down to the meal with the steaming bowl of gravy and meat, the vegetables, and a big plate of bread - which was normally missing from the table - Dad would always make the same joke with that wink of mischief in his eye: “We already prayed for this meal!”

With a clap of his hands and a bowed head, he would lead us in saying the blessing.  All of us looking forward to the meal that was on its way.

After the meal, we would each grab a piece of bread, put it in the middle of our plate, and then slather it with gravy with a couple of pieces of meat off to the side.

I’m not sure if that gravy was just that good or the combination of gravy and white bread just naturally tastes that good, but it was fantastic.  It was a staple of our diet too - and it never seemed to get old.  We were guaranteed to have it at least once a week, sometimes more and not once do I think that Mom ever heard a complaint about it.

I’m not sure if it is technology, preponderance towards more easy cook meals, or economics - a shunning of left overs, that has caused our family to move away from gravy bread.  Or maybe, we just haven’t been able to reach Mom’s level of skill with a little meat, a little gravy, and a couple of slices of bread.

 After thirty-six hours of travel and little sleep for the previous five days, I did what anyone would do after being home for the first time in six months: I took a shower.

Then it was back on the road, I had some very important people to meet.  Well, one to meet, one to see if he still recognized me.

Making my way from my house in St. Louis Park the thirty minute ride across town to the St. Paul side brought wave after wave of memory.  I had made that drive many times before.  On one stretch of that road I used to drive every day when I worked in the Grain Exchange building.  On another stretch of that road, I used to traverse as an FFA member going to state meetings.  More recently - within the last four years - that road lead me across town to visit my brother and his family and for my work with both FarmHouse and the FFA Alumni.

Driving up to the townhouse in Mahtomedi, I will admit, I was a bit nervous…would he recognize me?  I walked to the door once, realizing that I forgot the gift, I walked back to my car, grabbed the presents and headed back to the door, where I was met by my sister-in-law Michelle.  She was in the middle of feeding my two nephews - the people that I crossed town to see (well, and my brother Jaime and sister-in-law Michelle).  I am their older son, Parker’s, Godfather, a roll that I take very seriously.  I expect Parker to fold his hands, make the sign of the cross, and take good care of his soul…along with teaching him some of the basics of manhood like “pull my finger” and the infamous “fox whistle.”

It has been six months since I’ve seen Parker - which is almost a third of his lifetime, and I’m wondering if he will even remember who I am.  Walking up the stairs, he spied me from his high chair at the time and immediately was thrown into a fit of bouncing up and down and some incoherent shouting.

Yup, that’s my Godson!

In some ways it was like I had never left, with the exception being that he was now much, much bigger then when I left.  And much more mobile.  Later in the evening, when my brother let him loose out of the confines of the highchair, he moved, and moved fast.

Something else had changed too - Parker was a big brother.  So as much as Parker had changed, I hadn’t even met his younger brother Trevor.

Trevor was having some ongoing issues with his throat.  I’m not a doctor (though there are some women I’d like to practice on), but in laymen’s terms, the flap that determines if food goes into the stomach or the lungs wasn’t quite developed to its full point yet, which meant that his food needed to be more solid - which meant rice in his formula, which meant constipation and gas (some day he is going to be reading this and absolutely hate his uncle…though he will probably agree with my doctor comment…).

But he smiled and cooed at me from the safety of his high chair, and snuggled in my arms as he hunkered down for the night.  He even waited to spit up until he was in my brother’s arms, and not mine.  Now that is a sign of a good nephew!

 Getting into the cab and hitting the road, the feel of being at home really started to sink in.  It had been six months since I had driven these roads.  Six months since I’d seen the stores, the traffic, the smell of the trees and grass.

I knew I would be in trouble - I had a host of friends that said they would pick me up from the airport, but somehow, this was an experience that I wanted to experience in solitude.  Something is sacred about going home.

While the house in St. Louis Park may never be ‘home’ - the title reserved for the farmhouse on the prairies of northwestern Minnesota, it was the home that I had lived at longer than any other aside from the family farm.  May 15^th would mark four years in ownership.

Pulling up outside of the house, it looked like nothing had changed.  The light was still there and intact.  The yard still looked a little scruffy.  The grey paint with white trim still looked sharp against the spring sunshine.

I knew that I had left somewhat of a mess in the house when I left - there is never enough time to prepare when moving away for a year - and part of me dreaded what I would find.

Opening the door, I was pleasantly surprised.  Not only was the house significantly cleaner (credit both guests - my brother and sister-in-law, as well as the good friends watching the house).

But perhaps what was most surprising was the sight on the coffee table - a welcome home package.  A six pack of my favorite summer brew, some crunch and munch, a four pack of blue berry muffins, and for good effect, some good Aussie licorice.

I will admit, it almost brought a tear to this country boy’s eye.  Clearly the house sitting skills of Pat, Katti and Kyle were far superior to anything I had been expecting.  Like with any friends, it is those little things that count - the smile, the phone call, the card - or the favorite beer and goodies.  It made me realize, once again, the worth of good friends.

 ”Welcome Home.”

I’m not sure if that is something that they train the immigration officials to say or not, but working my way through the LA airport and being grilled by the immigration officer (what is your middle name?  Spell it?  What town where you born in?) - there was a profound sense of peace and calm that hits you as they hand you back that passport and say with a simple smile, “Welcome Home.”

Sure there were still some smelly bathrooms to contend with and some rude people - but I was back on US soil.  And it felt good.

I still had one more flight to catch, from LA to Minneapolis - St. Paul.

Waiting for the flight at a Mexican restaurant (the first true Mexican food that I’d had for over six months) I waited patiently for the flight.  Well, as patient as possible.  The worst was behind me - now, it was onward to home.

I’m a bit embarrassed to say, I’m not sure how the flight was from LA to Minneapolis-St. Paul.  I don’t remember much about the flight.  A combination of anticipation and anxiousness had kept me awake on the prior flights - something about wanting to get home and see friends and family, part of it just the love of country and all that I hold dear.

On the final leg, when I knew I was going to make it through to Minneapolis, when I knew I was going to be reconnected to family and friends, I slept.  Hard.

I don’t remember the beverage cart.  I don’t remember if I drooled, or snored, or talked in my sleep.  I don’t remember much of anything.

I do remember waking up and for the first time in a very long time not knowing where I was.

It was a bit of a scary experience.  You open your eyes and you start going down the checklist - Where am I?  I’m on a plane.  Where am I coming from?  Australia…right?  Right.  Where am I going?  Home I think.  Which leg am I on?  Melbourne to Sydney?  No.  Sydney to LA?  No.  LA to Minneapolis?  Possibly….wait - yes it is.

Then the excitement hit all over again.

I’m also not sure if my feet really touched the ground once the plane landed.  From the plane to baggage claim - things are a bit of a blur.  I was home.  I was home early.  And I was happy.