The city of Melbourne was founded by Tasmanian colonists in 1835 on the banks of the Yarra River when John Batman took the little schooner Enterprize from Launceston across the Bass Straits and into Port Phillip Bay.

It was a gamble, but it seemed like the entire colony was founded on a punt (as a bet is called in Australia), so it should be no surprise that one of the first things to be platted out, on the banks of the dainty little Maribyrnong River was Flemington Racecourse - were it was founded on an open plain in 1840.  The pear shaped race course has changed little with time…but the infrastructure certainly has, now boasting facilities that can hold and accommodate over 120,000.

This was not by chance.  Flemington has the honor of hosting the ‘Race that Stops a Nation,’ the famous Melbourne Cup.  Founded in 1861, it was a two mile race with a purse of 710 gold sovereigns (710 pounds) and a hand beaten gold watch.  That first year, run on Thursday, November 7^th, boasted over 4000 people in attendance.  The attendance was bolstered on the one hand by the two free ladies tickets given to every male…but hampered by the fact that the city was in a state of mourning for the famed explorers Burke and Wills whose demise was only announced five days before the running for that first Melbourne Cup.

That first year had to be an exciting affair.  There were 17 horses in the winner take all fray, all three years or older (as is still the rule).  During that first running of ‘The Cup,’ three horses would fall on the track…and two would die from their injuries.  And the New South Wales horse, Archer, brought down on a steamer from Melbourne’s loathed sister-city to the north Sydney was the winner.

In 1865, the city took its first half day to ensure people could see the results of the race, and only ten years later, the race was moved to Tuesday instead of Thursday.  The people of Melbourne, who know how to party and throw a good horse race took the entire day off in 1877…and have never looked back, and most of Victoria and the National Capital have since followed their lead.

The Melbourne Cup was early turned into the Spring Racing Carnival - not just one day of punting and partying will do…the week kicks off with Derby Day (pronounced ‘Darby’ Day) on the Saturday before the big race, followed by the Melbourne Cup on the first Tuesday.  Thursday is Oaks Day, or Ladies Day…and hence the unofficial unofficial title…’Blokes’ Day, and it all winds up with “Stakes Day” on the Saturday following the race.

And people like their racing.

The stands hold over 120,000 people, though the attendance is now limited due to some overcrowding not that long ago, so attendance is still routinely over 100,000 people.  And this is not some recent phenomena, the first cracking of the 100,000 mark happened in 1926.

There is a reason it is called a race that stops a nation.  Unions ask for it as a holiday.  It is broadcast nationally.  The first film recorded in Australia was the 1896 Melbourne Cup.  The ABC first broadcast the race live in 1925.  It is said that the power system in the Snowy Mountain Scheme - the vast system of dams and hydroelectric power grid drops 15% about thirty minutes before post time, as machines are turned off, factories are idled, and people turn on their televisions and radios…it may not stop it, but it certainly slows it down…

The race, now a shortened 3200 meters (just shy of 2 miles) has a total purse of almost $6.2 million, $3.3 million goes to the winner, the balance to the next nine horses.  The winnings will be split 85%/10%/5% to the owner, trainer, and finally the jockey.

It is no simple thing to have a horse run in the Melbourne Cup, almost 400 horse pay the initial $600 entry fee, but only 24 pay the final $45,375 fee, the number limited by the fact that when there were 33 horses ran back in the 1870’s, it was exciting, but not always safe for either horse or jockey.

Those 24 horse compete for the purse, but also a hand pounded golden trophy worth over $125,000.

And this country boy was going to get to see the race, and 3/4 of the spring carnival.  Not bad for a kid from the backwoods of Minnesota.

 After the fine meal, I said good day to Sam and Tom, as Dr. Westgren said his greetings, g’days, and got his picture taken with alumni and students alike.

It isn’t often that I get to hang out with the celebrities.

“You know this town.  Where is my hotel?”  With a little advice (sending us in opposite directions) we followed my instinct and found it in no time - between jet lag and the fact that he had just given a speech, Dr. Westgren was very wide awake, and ready for a beer or two.  It was a great day, so we made our way to the river and sat outside along the Yarra.

It was great to sip a few beers, rehash old university memories, get a rundown on where people are and what they are doing, and talk about the state of the world.  It was wide ranging, fast paced, and stimulating conversation.

We moved on to the oldest bar in Melbourne, Young and Jacksons and partook of a pint or two, then made our way back to Dr. Westgren’s hotel…in a deluge.  We were soaked.  With a firm handshake, I left him in the lobby and made my own way home through the humid evening, with a promise to see him again the next evening for supper.

This was the scary part - Dr. Westgren is a well known foody.  He and his wife were well known on campus as people that enjoyed a good beer…but also best food and the most exotic of foods and wines.  It was about the taste - the experience.  Which meant it didn’t have to be high end, but just good.

I ruminated all day about where I should take him in the town…until the text came in, “would like some seafood.”

Well, that makes life easier, for no one does seafood better than the Waterfront in Port Melbourne.

I walked back up to his hotel, then we caught a cab out to Port Melbourne.  It was a bit of a cold and blustery night - which meant the views of the waves and city would be obscured by the weather, with its perch out over the water, the Waterside also commands a great view of Port Phillip Bay and the city, but hopefully the food would suffice.

And more than suffice it did.  It lived up to its reputation.  Over a good beer, we decided on the shared dish of the Waterfront Platter - a massive cold platter filled with oysters, prawns, crabs, and the storied Morton Bay Bugs - those sci-fi looking armored bugs that taste so darn good.

And it was very good.  The oysters were fresh.  The prawns (shrimp to you Americans) were great.  The crab was succulent.  The Morton Bay Bug…well, it was good, but not as good as I remembered.  All washed down with a good bottle of wine, a basket of chips (aka ‘french fries’) and rounded out with a good dose of coffee.

But it was the conversation that was the delightful part of the evening.  The banter on politics, government, education was in depth, insightful, and informative.  The stories flowed too - travels, people, and places.

Part of it was also the advice - Dr. Westgren is a wise man, and hearing his sage counsel and wisdom is something that I didn’t realize I had missed quite so much.

And I must admit, we laughed a lot.

We hailed a cab…not an easy thing to do in Port Melbourne on a rainy night, and Dr. Westgren went back to try and see if he could get home (a well-timed Qantas strike left him with no plane ride home).

It was good to see a friend from home - if only for a short…and surprise…visit.

 ”Hey mate, do you know this bloke?” one of my friends emailed me, with information of a visiting professor from the United States coming to give a lecture on agricultural entrepreneurship for Marcus Oldham College, his alma mater.

Without opening the attachment on the email, I chuckled a little bit.  While I attended university at two of the finest land grant universities in the US, the chances of me knowing the professor coming out to visit was probably about 100,000 to 1, so the chances were slim.  It looked even slimmer when I saw that he was coming from the University of Missouri.

I didn’t know anyone from the University of Missouri.

Opening the flier, I about fell out of my chair.  Did I know the professor?  Well, he had bought me many a beer in my graduate school days and implored me to continue on and get my PhD.  One of the most humbling conversations I’ve ever had - rarely do you have someone pleading with you saying that you were good enough to do bigger and better things.

But that is just the type of guy Dr. Westgren is.  And he was coming to Melbourne.

Somewhere, over the course of the last twelve years, we had lost touch with one another.  While he wasn’t on my thesis committee, he was a close advisor - especially over the Friday night ‘Brown Bottle Seminars’ that our group of graduate students participated in.  He also taught one of the best courses I’ve ever had in game theory and behavioural economics I’ve ever had, some of the lessons from university days that stick with me today.

He was presenting a presentation for Marcus Oldham College, the only private Agricultural school in Australia, alumni right off of Collins Street, about six blocks from work.

Good friends Tom and Sam were joining me for the lunch, not a cheap one, but with alcohol, good food, desert and coffee thrown in to boot - it also wasn’t our normal lunch fare.  I didn’t have to worry about Dr. Westgren not remembering me, he gave me a hearty wave as I walked in the door and a little whoop.  Walking up, I got a hearty handshake to match.

We got a good seat in the middle of the room, and dinned on fish or chicken.  The meal was good.

Dr. Westgrens presentation was all about agricultural entrepreneurship, a cause near and dear to my heart these days.  As the chair of agricultural entrepreneurship at the University of Missouri, he knows a thing or two about the topic. He regaled the audience with stories of people that stepped out of the normal to start thriving businesses.

The Australians have a sense of entrepreneurship about them anyway - and they could teach a thing or two to the Americans.  They like their gourmet cheeses, wines, and fruits.   They have diversified and crafted livings out of the land that most Americans would envy.  But I think that Dr. Westgren’s presentation was welcome.  Agriculture everywhere, worldwide, is trying to figure out how to get the consumer what they want.

I sat next to a young man, a student at Marcus Oldham, who was studying for his one year certificate in farm management.  Originally from inland Queensland, far in from Rockhampton, he was dedicated to making it back to the land with his older brother, to take over from where his dearly departed father had left off.  Raising cattle, doing a little trading on the side, and trying to make a go of it.

That is the spirit that moves Australia forward.

 I moved to Australia with two suitcases.  They were big ones to be sure, but for the first six months, those two bags were supposed to have everything that I needed.  And it worked, though it was close (things do wear out), I managed to live out of those two suitcases. 

At the six month mark, I went home again and reloaded.  As an American, clothes are cheap - in Australia, things are expensive.  I had a big reserve of clothes sitting back in my house in Minnesota.

And I hate shopping.

It happened again when my stay got extended, my suitcases were reloaded with jeans, shorts, shirts, dress pants, sport coats, socks, underwear, t-shirts, and shoes.  Each time that I made the trek back and forth, I made sure that the suitcase was full on my return.

Why buy cloths when the closet is full?

But clothes wear out over time.  It has been a good two years since I’ve done any serious clothes shopping.  It seems that every week, I’m losing another piece of clothing.  This week, the collar wore out of a dress shirt and a hole finally punched through a pair of socks.  Last week, it was a shirt that got snagged and ripped beyond repair and another pair of socks that failed to stop my heel from going through it.  Three weeks ago, it was a t-shirt that finally gave out around the collar, and yet another pair of socks that left my big toe exposed.  My big toe is starting to peak through the top of my maroon dress shoes….

Long and short - I’m running out of reserves to commit to the daily grind.  My closet in Australia has all but the odds and ends of what I wear…and it is wearing thin.

Have I mentioned that I hate to shop?

While this might sound alarming, in truth, it’s not.  Its actually kind of refreshing to work through the wardrobe, to have the chance at a fresh start.  To work through items that have been parked in my dresser for years.

It has made me rethink my fashion sense, and what is acceptable and not acceptable to wear.

There was the dress shirt that had holes wore through the elbows that were caught by an administrative assistant at work….

“Are those holes in your shirt?”  She asked.

“Well, yeah, I guess.”  I replied.

“You need to throw that shirt away.”  She scolded.

“Well, times are tough and we need to be conservative.”  I replied.

“Yes, but not run around naked.”  She replied haughtily.

While I’ll admit, I was hoping that the holes would go unnoticed, the thought of thread bare shirt elbows being compared to walking around naked was a bit of a stretch…

But the shirt went into the rag bag (perfect for polishing shoes!).

Truth be told, I probably have another eight months before my wardrobe is sitting empty, and I might have to make that fateful decision - to go naked or to shop?

Tough call.

 ”You should really join us Friday night, or on Sunday at ‘The Quiet Man’ out in Flemington, we are going out to see this guy play the tick-a-tar.”  Said my friend Mick on afternoon, strumming his chest.

“Some guy play the tick-a-tar?”  I asked, “Is he any good?” 

“Yeah.  He is pretty good, he sings Irish stuff and plays the tick-a-tar.  He is fun to listen too.”  Mick replied, again strumming his chest.

“The tick-a-tar?”  I replied, also strumming my chest.  “Yeah, sounds good.”

It was like some scene from ‘The Music Man,’ but I ended up at the Celtic Club on Queen and LaTrobe anyway, and it was fun.  The guy with the tick-a-tar (guitar to you uninitiated) wasn’t just pretty good, he was very good - an Irishman by birth, Pat McKernan had moved to Australia years ago and supports himself and his family by his music.

He was very good.

For his closing song that first night I saw him, he played a haunting melody that stuck in my head, and I couldn’t shake.

I had to wait a couple of weeks to hear it again, and there it was again.  Managing to find a recording of it, I’ve found myself playing it a little more often as my second anniversary of my move to Australia, and away from Minnesota, comes around.

Caledonia is the Latin name for coined by Ptolemy and Pliny the Elder for the land that the Romans called ‘Pictland’ or what we would call today Scotland.

It is also the name of a haunting song composed by Dougie MacLean.  For a stranger in a strange land like me, there is something that tends to pull on me….

I don’t know if you can see

The changes that have come over me

In these last few days I’ve been afraid

That I might drift away

So I’ve been telling old stories, singing songs

That make me think about where I came from

And that’s the reason why I seem

So far away today

Oh, but let me tell you that I love you

That I think about you all the time

Caledonia you’re calling me

And now I’m going home

If I should become a stranger

You know that it would make me more than sad

Caledonia’s been everything

I’ve ever had

Now I have moved and I’ve kept on moving

Proved the points that I needed proving

Lost the friends that I needed losing

Found others on the way

I have kissed the ladies and left them crying

Stolen dreams, yes there’s no denying

I have traveled hard with coattails flying

Somewhere in the wind

Oh, but let me tell you that I love you

That I think about you all the time

Caledonia you’re calling me

And now I’m going home

If I should become a stranger

You know that it would make me more than sad

Caledonia’s been everything

I’ve ever had

Now I’m sitting here before the fire

The empty room, the forest choir

The flames that could not get any higher

They’ve withered now they’ve gone

But I’m steady thinking my way is clear

And I know what I will do tomorrow

When the hands are shaken and the kisses flow

Then I will disappear

Now, I want you to go back and reread that entire poem/song and replace every reference to ‘Caledonia’ with ‘Minnesota’ - the same number of syllables, and you get what I mean.  The last verse, well, the last verse is just me planning ahead for the future.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not homesick, but I also know where my roots are.  Where my home is.  What is calling to me. 

Now, ‘Galway Girl’ is also a favorite….but there is a whole other story there…

 While I hate to admit it - especially after the stirring portrayals of the quarter final match ups (though I left out the New Zealand and France matches), it would seem that the epoch match up for the rugby world cup would be top of the list.  I mean, while France versus Wales might not be an attention grabber (as one commentator said: “New Zealand has the haku, France…well, they have baguettes”), the real story was the grudge match between New Zealand versus Australia.

New Zealand, the global leader in cows, sheep, and rugby, won the very first rugby world cup in 1987.  It was the first and last time that they won a Rugby World Cup, much to their chagrin.  They had gotten close…but somehow, someway, always managed to screw it up.  And this year, the feeling was, there was no exception.

As someone said, it was New Zealand that pushed for the ‘no choking’ rule.  Though they meant for themselves, not the other team….

The powerhouse of world rugby, New Zealand, had managed to win one world cup championship in 24 years.

And early on, New Zealand seemed to struggle and each game seemed to be a close one (at least to the New Zealand fans), they were plagued with injuries.  Australia meanwhile, struggled as well.  They lost in a big way to a feisty Irish team (faith and begorrah!).

And yet, in the semi-finals, it was considered that whoever won between New Zealand and Australia would be the Rugby world cup champion.

And I didn’t watch any of it.

On the list of things that I had going on that weekend, there was just too many other things going on.  Don’t tell the rugby fans that.

And sure enough, both New Zealand and France made it through…which is ironic, because it was a rematch of the famous 1987 World Cup…New Zealand versus France.  Though no one considered it to be much of a match, it was New Zealand’s to loose.

But no one told the French that.

Another American far from home named Joe, away from his wife and family, invited me over for a little supper and to watch the match.

As a bachelor, I cook about as often as I need to, which means - when I’m hungry. And I’m not much a cook at that.  I swear sometimes my boiled water tastes burnt.

Joe, married for twenty years, has some obvious skills in the kitchen.  His idea of a feed is chicken cordon blue (his own recipe), fried potatoes, vegetables, and a cheese tray with port for desert.

It was one of the finest meals I’ve had in Australia.

We ate it while watching the rugby match.  Even the controversial part where the French players approached the New Zealanders as they did their famous haku dance…apparently, some people felt that by approaching the dance, they showed disrespect and tried to intimidate the New Zealand players.

Most people said that when someone is doing an ancient war dance on the field, if you want to walk up and face it, more power to you.

It was a close match.  We watched the battle ebb and sway through the night.  In the end, New Zealand won it by a razor thin margin.  New Zealand celebrated, but it was the French, the underdog from the get go, that walked off the field with their heads held high.

Talking to a Kiwi the next day, he said, “If New Zealand wouldn’t have won - Auckland would have burned.”

My response, “After the 24 year drought, you’d have thought they would be used to it.”

I’m glad he was on the other side of the Tasman Sea….

 There wasn’t much time to get there. It had been a busy Sunday already with the day starting with Mass, rolling into the grocery store, a few phone calls home and a quick trip to the gym.

It was checking messages that I got the invitation to the London Hotel in Richmond, the suburb just up river from downtown, and right next to the mighty MCG.  But I’d have to hurry.  Being cheap…sorry…I mean frugal…I was going to take a tram.  What little bit I’ve learned about mass transit in Melbourne is that it is very good…but you have to plan ahead and know the system.

Luckily, I knew that one of the trams that runs close to my buildings runs right up through the heart of Richmond.  But as with most things, it’s never as easy as it seems.  You see, there are more than one tram.  There are the shinny new trams.  There are the older style trams.  Then, there are the 1950’s style free tourist trams.  They all work and they all get people to where they need to be.  Except when they don’t.  And when they don’t, it causes problems.

My tram was an older style of tram…stuck behind a 1950’s style tram, that just wouldn’t work, and as a result, it backed up the system.  Time was ticking, so I started hoofing it - but its never quite as easy as it seems.  Especially when you try short cuts….and when the roads are crammed with people that just finished a marathon.

About thirty minutes later, I swallowed my pride and got a taxi for the last segment in.  Already running late…which I hated…and it made that first pot of beer taste all the better.

Our plan was to chat a bit and get caught up, grab a quick bit to eat, and get on with the day - as all three of us had things that needed to be done.

But as often happens, things get in the way…first of all, the races at Bathurst were underway, the infamous Bathurst 1000, the 1000 kilometer race (about 620 miles) that is run on Mount Panorama in the New South Wales town of Bathurst.  There was a crash or two, food was good, the beer was cool.  We had to stick around.

But the jobs and tasks of the day were calling.  For one, a girlfriends errands.  For another, training for a triathlon, for me, a little book work.

But what harm would one more pint do?

Especially with one of the best Rugby matches of the year…no…the four year rugby world cup. This afternoon was the grudge match of Australia and South Africa, the Wallabies versus the Springboks.

You can’t just leave as that match was starting!

The London Hotel went from a quiet calm place to a jam packed Australian stronghold.  A springbok would have been taken out like a, well, a springbok in a herd of lions.  And the game was a ripper.  He Aussies played very well, as well they should - they could probably hear the ruckus all the way across the Tasman that was coming from the London.

I’ll let you in a secret.  While it was a good match, the Aussies had a big enough lead at the half that the three of us snuck off to our respective responsibilities.

It was a good thing too that the Wallabies won.  We would never have lived that down.

 Luck tends to bring me to rugby.  Actually, you can say the luck of the Irish tends to bring me to rugby.

Since I’ve been in Australia, I’ve been more of an Australian Rules Football kind of guy, the most popular sport in the state of Victoria, South Australia, and Western Australia (and growing in Southern New South Wales) - not rugby, which is played by the Queenslanders and at least half of the New South Wales population.

The Rugby World Cup, being played in New Zealand, has broken down that barrier.

It was only two weeks ago that I was invited to the hallowed Celtic Club to watch Ireland play Australia in rugby, a game that the Australia Wallabies were supposed to handily win.  Ireland won.  The Celtic Club, made up of primarily Irish immigrants went mad.  There was drinking and toasts and a bit of the Blarney.  Something I’m told happens regardless if they win or lose.

Errands sent me around Melbourne this fine Saturday, and I was debating where I should eat a late lunch.  Several of the sweet shops beckoned to me.  Bread Top, a Chinese sweet bread company that makes several good sweet bread topped delicacies looked inviting, the Greek restaurants off Lonsdale looked inviting, but for some reason, I was pulled to the little bar off Little Collins Street, one of the back roads of the Melbourne downtown…the Irish Times Pub, a little place with a great big Irish Flag flying out front.

I’m not sure what drew me into the place.  I’d found it well over a year ago walking home from Holy Saturday service during the Easter Season, I was hoping for a good Easter meal, but with the kitchen closed, I had to settle for a couple of pints of Guiness.

A couple of weeks ago, I’d found it again on a Saturday night.  Walking home from dinner with friends, I’d stumbled upon it, and walking in in the middle of the England Argentina match of the Rugby World Cup, I’d become enthralled.  The young bartender kept me entertained with his antics, enthusiasm, and explanation of the game.

Clearly, he was cheering for Argentina, finally, I asked him if he was a fan of Argentina.

“Bloody hell no!”  came the sharp rebuke, “I’m Scottish!  I cheer for Scotland and who ever plays against England.”

You can’t argue with that logic.

Today, something pulled me back to the Irish Times.  Walking in the door, it seemed busier then it should for the middle of a Saturday afternoon.  And it smelled.  It smelled of sweat, and beer, and a big crowd in heat and humidity.

Walking up to the bar, I ordered a Guiness and asked for a menu.  Hungry, but not that hungry, I ordered up a Mozzarella sandwich - thinking it to be like a grilled cheese and one of the cheapest things on the menu.

As I sipped my beer, the chairs by the bar started to fill, as did the table.

The manager came down to start helping the little Irish lass behind the bar, getting glasses ready and preparing the kegs, turning on the television, the reason hit me - Ireland versus Wales World Cup Rugby in 20 minutes.

This was going to be one of the epicentres of the Irish people in Melbourne in twenty minutes or less.

This thought sank in as my massive sandwich, with lettuce, tomato, and a big helping of cheese showed up on a large hoagie roll, with a good helping of chips (French Fries to you Americans).  It was massive.  And filling.

By the time I finished it, the little pub was packed with Irish fans, waiting to take on their Gaelic rivals, the Welsh.

Sometime during the fifteen minutes before game time, the place filled up.  As they took my plate away and I sipped my beer, the anthems were played, and as they played, “Ireland’s Call” the place sang along with the television set.  They knew the words, and it was clear, they were answering Ireland’s call.

I got caught up in the emotion of the moment.  I had another beer.

There were a few dissenters in the crowd.  When Wale’s scored first, a small, but vocal cheer went up to the consternation of most of the people in the audience.  When Ireland had a good play, it seemed as if the entire building roared, lead first by the big room upstairs where over a hundred gathered to cheer on the Green, and cascading in a wave to the bar below where fifty people were gathered to watch the small screen above the bar.

Meanwhile the small cozy room off the side of the bar which housed tables and chairs and little nooks sat empty…with no view of the television.

The faces were a motley crew, there were the tweed jackets and ragged faces of people that have cheered on the Irish during many a World Cup, there were the young backpackers and fresh immigrants, whose fresh faces were unmarked by the toil of time, and whose faith in their Irish team would fight on through the game…and beyond.

At the half, I gave up my spot to the young blond woman waiting behind me.  The room would partially empty as people parted for the bathroom, for the empty room nextdoor, and for the outside to smoke a quick cigarette before the next half.  I perched myself on the edge of the room, getting out of the middle of the crowd, but still with a view of the action, both in the room and on the screen.

Today, there would be little joy in the Irish Times.  The fresh faced Irishmen and women who came to see their mighty Irish battlers prevail in Wellington would be disappointed.

Actually, there was consolation, there was disappointment, but still, there was joy in the room.  Everyone had just one more pint.

 It was about 2am when I pulled back into the cabin.  Tired.  Exhausted.  Ready for bed.

For the first time on the trip, I slept in.  It felt good.  The cool lake air blew in through the open window of my bedroom, and it felt good as I slept in the next morning.

It was a day of cleaning up, washing clothes, and packing up….and running errands.  It was also my first chance to sort, shop, and get things ready for my trip back down under.

I made a quick trip to Fargo, had lunch with a few friends, did a little shopping, then headed back to the cabin for more preparations.  And more guests.

My little brother Dave…ok, not biological, but through my fraternity, his wife Traci (a good friend and confidant in her own right) and their two kids - Katie and Tommy (one of my Godsons) were coming over to help see me off on my last night in the US.

Tom, Mary, and the girls came over for the last night too, as did good friend Father Joe - himself on home leave from school in Canada.  Supper was a grand affair with much visiting, laughter, and good cheer.

I even got a chance to play with both my nieces and Tommy and Katie in the water - dunking and throwing them in the warm lake water.  I think they all enjoyed it with the squeals of laughter ringing out - in between the nervous looks and hesitancy to be thrown through the air and into the murky deep!  Like most things in life, it was scary to think of, but fun to go through.

Then, it was quiet.

The guests went home for the night, my laundry needed to be done, folded, and packed.  Boxes gone through, unpacked, and repacked, with a few items found for the next four months down under - wool socks, and long underwear for some hiking and camping trips.

Truth be told, I was stuck in that in between time, when my trip was almost done, the sadness of what lay behind me was catching up, but the anticipation for what lie in front of me was also there.  There was much still waiting for me down under, and like the kids in the water - it was scary to think about, but fun to go through.

I slept little that night, and still managed to run out of time the next morning packing and putting things away.  Mary and the girls, ever thinking of their uncle Mark, were kind enough to come over and put the cabin right - doing the cleaning, vacuuming, and making beds once I had left.

The lake did call my name that morning, and I went out for a last swim before the trip back to Australia.  The water felt good.  The swim was refreshing.  There was something refreshing too - after all of these years working, investing, saving, and hoping to have a little place on this lake - that here I was.  There was some irony too in the fact that I would be packing up and heading down to Australia….

I made my way to Fargo for the last meal at the Lonestar Steakhouse with my brother Tom.  Over a good steak, a blooming onion, and a bottomless glass of Diet Pepsi for $22 for both of us (Aussies eat your heart out), we discussed the plans for the next couple of months.  Tom is kind enough to plan and carry out a series of repairs to my cabin - new roof and siding for my garage, as well as winter proofing to ensure there is no freeze up.

Then, off to Hector International Airport to wait for my flight back to Australia.

Well, my flight to Minneapolis, then my flight to LA, then to Sydney, then to Melbourne….

But as with most things, it wasn’t that easy.

We were on the plane…getting settled into our seats, when we were called off again.  With nary a cloud in the sky, we were grounded.  The sky was due to be filled with angels.

No, it wasn’t the apocalypse, just the Fargo Airshow - the US Navy’s famous Blue Angels were doing their practice run for the big show the following day, which mean a two hour wait in the terminal.

Not what we had in mind, but let me tell it, it was a fantastic show, and a great way to end my last two hours at home.

View of the Cabin from the Lake

Delta Crew Watching the Show

US Navy Blue Angels In Action

 Tuesday dawned with only four days of my two week stay at home left.  I had better get moving.

While I missed coffee so that I could get the sheets washed on the beds upstairs and get my gear backed and sort through some boxes.  It also let me have a little bit of time to walk around the old farm.  It is more than where I grew up, it is history.  A place where a family and a community hued a place out of the wilderness, fought the elements (and the banks) and forged a life - and hearty people, a people with strong backs, good hearts, and strong faith.

I met Dad at church for 8am Mass.  It was good to be back in the home church.  This is where generations of my family have been baptized, married, and buried - where week after week, great grand parents, grand parents, and parents had quietly and simply refreshed their faith each week, to live it through the week.

We took a drive around the old neighborhood, one of the typical trips that started out as a ride around the block (that two mile by one mile rectangle) and ended up forty miles and two hours later touring the countryside and the crops.

As Dad left for lunch at the senior center, I threw my bags in the car, took one last look at the old farmstead, and headed for the cities - I had another 250 miles drive in front of me.  With a quick stop at the cabin, I headed down the road again, a few errands to run, and an important appointment to keep.

I had to meet my brother, sister-in-law, and two nephews for supper!

It was a quick four hour drive to the cities, and I managed to get into town right in the middle of rush hour.  Perfect!  Nothing encourages me more to stay in Australia and my thirty minute walk to work each day then the manic rush hour traffic of Minneapolis-St. Paul.

After struggling to find a place to eat (recession be damned, people still insist on eating out), we made it to a Buffalo Wild Wings (a place I do miss) and ordered up a good meal - for me, the old standby, 12 boneless wings, 6 medium, 6 spicy garlic.  I also got a lot of hugs from the nephews, and a lot of questions.  Parker, the oldest is in the stage where he loves to talk.  Trevor, the youngest, is at the stage where he loves to each anything in his hand…crayons, paper…I was tempted to order the blazing wings, just to see what impact it would have, but I feared the wrath on my next visit home.

Too soon, the boys had to head home to bed, so I made my next stop to Todd and Pete.  I lived at the house on Orleans Lane in Plymouth a time or two in my travels around the country.  Todd and I went to NDSU together and were members of the same fraternity off College Street.  And though, I moved out years ago, the good cheer, good conversation, and beer on tap in the basement bar keeps me coming back….

Actually, this time was an even better treat, there was homebrew from Todd’s sister (and my friend) Ally and her new husband - very good home brewers.  While always good to catch up.  I was tired and needed sleep…especially for the next day….

Wednesday dawned to an early morning coffee with friends in Anoka…than the dentist…we’ll not discuss that.

A late lunch with my first boss out of University and good friend Jeff at Champs, and an afternoon of meetings for work left me one more important meeting in the cities.  Supper at good friends Geoff and Ambers.  Though they couldn’t make the WeFest festivities (sometime about a wedding…), I had to catch up with them.  Firstly, before Amber is a darn good cook, second, they just had a cute baby that I needed to see, Third, Geoff is so fun to harass…and finally, and most importantly, they are good friends and darn good people.

After a good meal of pizza, salad, and beverages, I hit the road about 9pm, I had a 250 mile drive in front of me, heading back up north to get backed and ready for the trip back down under.