Sorry, the last state didn't work either!

I returned to the old neighborhood because someone asked me to set matters straight with Davy (who I hit with a baseball bat), and realized that then I would also have to own my behavior with respect to another crime there at Husted Steel.

Since Ricky died, and he was the only Native I knew, I would have to settle things with Jimmy (who was like the Capone of our group) to get right about it. It wouldn't do for me to rat them out, even if I only watched the crime take place.

I suffered a few other bad influences during my stay in the neighborhood, but the guy who helped me go straight was hit by a car. We helped him to learn to catch a ball again after that incident, and it made me wonder about what kind of justice there really is in the world.

Somethings disturbed me so badly that I had to think them over, like: was what he was saying really true, or was just trying to find out more about me. My Step-Dad, who was famous for psyching us out, told me stories about warming up the sheets by rubbing his feet on them with his brother Vince on cold nights. So I returned to my mission in earnest and started by calling Husted Steel, who by the time I got around to it was listed as a tenant at the Electronic Machinery Corporation.

A lighthouse upstream from the locks seems strange, but it's fairly close to the falls and serves as fair warning to downstream traffic.

Jimmy was the real deal. I don't think he'd expect us to go 'up the river' or anything, but I do believe he took a hit from his big brother. And the question from my point of view is what do we do about the people wh make us tell, or require us to report. I may have offended my teddy bear for example, but Santa wouldn't know unless I reported it. And telling on those who've been naughty wouldn't always happen unless we were forced to do so by the State. Isn't Santa really making his decisions by following what's happening here, in this theater?

As it happened, I threw out my ID (drivers license, birth certificate, and SS card) over the trestle by the place out of sheer disgust when I was a young man, and my name may have had something to do with the developments there - even after I headed out west, but the receptionist claimed that Husted had only leased a room for a year or so after leaving their old location, so I wasn't able to make my amends directly to them at all.

Fortunately, Metal Matic, just down the block, makes tubing out of steel all day long, and I don't feel so bad about it anymore. It sure serves as a good example of how making the effort can work out.

We left shortly after my friend from across the alley left, but the old County was moving feces from their treatment plant all the way out to the new County to replenish the inch or so of soil that went missing every year on the sod farms we were harvesting, so it was clear to me that we wouldn't escape our fate by moving at all anyway.

I believe building the Mission worked. We did find a safer way to meet our basic needs. Unfortunately, it took a lot longer than it should've because we were sorely distracted from our duty to Davy by the dire need to prove what our neighbor across the alley said was true.

Retreat to the Countryside

So when we headed up north, we weren't really on the run, but we knew that our neighbors may have been. My problem with Davy seemed to have been completely forgotten but was not. It was simply put onto the back burner like many other problems in our lives only to reappear later. But the distractions we encountered in the city were somehow worse in the country. For one thing we were older and much more desperate for love than we were in the city as youngsters. And for another, we had fewer friends and places to go - sometimes with many miles of travel between them - so the gravity of our encounters was urgent.

We moved to an area just south of our old Scout campgrounds in Stacy where the Sunrise River took a tortuous path to the southwest to find Elk River and eventually the Mississippi. So we actually did end up going 'up the river'. Not to a facility like real criminals, but to a place 'out of the way', in an area where I was less likely to do damage. My friend Steve, who had two sisters, lived upstream from the pond by Sand Lake on Hay Lake, and a spring fed Sand lake that ran into the creek by our house and west to the pond, and from the pond northwest to Hay Lake.

The locations where I shot the Gardener Snake, stabbed the Bullhead, and the Indian Burial Grounds

By the time I graduated from High School, my employer was importing sewage treated in Hennepin County to replenish the fields we were harvesting in Washington County. It was obvious after 5 years of harvesting our sod fields that something would need to be done. The soil had been depleted by at least a foot, and we were picking rock before we were able to plant again.

The pictures depict the location where I shot the snake (in the pond), the spot in the middle of the lake by the island where I stabbed the bullhead, and the Indian Burial Grounds next to the swamp by the pond. The photo is linked to a larger photo that includes Hay Lake, where my friend Steve lived. I keep more information about the places I've lived including links to history about this area by others.

Steve's dad started pouring led from his furnace into a crucible about 5 years after we arrived, and I realized that we hadn't really evaded our problems at all. As a matter of fact, they were worse. Admittedly, there was a small milky-white puddle of semen in the crotch of the panties in the basket between the furnace and the laundry machines, but it was the lead that was hot, not Steve or his Dad. Steve's dad was as calm and cool as he ever was, even when tailgating cars in front of us as we traveled to ski slopes in the area.

I realized as I traveled around my old neighborhood upon my return that lots of things aren't forgiven. There seems to be no objection to a business called Asphalt Skis taking up a very nice block Northeast that seems to point to my foolish behavior skiing behind a snowmobile, and there's a coffee shop marketing Nordic Waffles right down the street from Baldwin Motors, seeming to make our cities problem endemic to my own heritage!

Lockup of Another Kind

My first objection to all of this was: "How can you do this to children?" I encountered the reply in a lockup I was recruited to enlighten with my own particular adaptation where one client seemed to have his own theater. I don't remember the meeting in that space well enough to reproduce it here, but the inmates I met later referred to the primary problem at their institution as the Court Yard.

My memory only proceeds as far as the entryway to his meeting place. Fortunately, I was in the company of the advocate who I was replacing because after seeing his fingernails above the table I don't remember a thing. Without her I might not have made it out at all!  They were clearly human hands, but with points so sharp and skin such a deathly grey that I stopped evaluating completely until navigating the exit with her, my predecessor.

Nightmares about the frayed cable depicted by threads of red paracord on a pair of scissors.

Little did I realize how serious this coupe was at the time. Pulling on this thread led to disasters yet to come and consequences that defined the rest of my life. Unfortunately we don't enjoy 2020 hindsight while on this journey through life, so I'm sharing what I learned with you so you'll survive the journey without suffering too much damage. I didn't see it coming because I didn't know what I had done wrong at the time.

I guess I'd call it: The coming of the Lord today. There might be others who'd call it a 'velvet needle', but I'd already had some familiarity with that problem. I justified it by calling out the kiddy surgeon that preceded me. It may even be why I was hired to confront the problem I refer to now!  But the foreboding that something's wrong isn't followed by the full impact of the bad news a bearer brings until he's safely away.