Norma looked dazed, taken completely by surprise.
“I’m not with him. What have I done to you?”
“Nobody has done anything to us.”
Raymond said to Harold. “Did you know that?”

Elmore Leonard
Forty Lashes Less One

Down the street from me is a Montessori school.  Across from the school is a Catholic Church, a block over a Cuban restaurant.  A yoga studio, dry cleaner and shops of curio are nearby, which leads to the question: Why is a Montessori school in the middle of a south Minneapolis called Lake Country?

When I think of “lake” and “country” I don’t see downward dogs, pressed shirts and fried plantains.  The school is not a one-room building atop a bluff.  Its “country” is a patch of Astroturf.  Its “lake” is a  puddle near the drain spout.  Its name is nowhere near where it claims to be.

A few blocks from the school sits a restaurant.  The chef is a James Beard finalist.  He has a concise menu, small plates, just enough to create a memory.  But there’s the name: Petite León.

If any lion enters a restaurant, it’s going to be a free-for-all.  Even a diminutive one isn’t going to be satisfied with a small plate of meerkats and broccolini.  Petite León, makes me think of a young king of the jungle on holiday, drinking a sad bottle of merlot, waiting for a croque monsieur, thinking, just thinking…  Should he make a move on the antelope at the bar?

Further down the street is a taqueria.  It is located at a busy intersection inside a convenience store.  It’s a place where you can pick up a taco, a lotto, and the name?  Would you believe El Kevin?

Who is Kevin and why is he The Kevin?  Is he even Hispanic or some Irish bloke looking to make his way with Mexican fare?  El Kevin…  You really don’t think of red hair and freckles when you smell fresh tortillas.  You shouldn’t hear a lilting brogue of an Irish tenor when ordering a burrito.  And yet, there he is, The Kevin, with a tiny lion and a country lake all on the same street.

*****

One of my favorite authors is local – Louise Erdrich.  Although half German, she has devoted a literary career to her mother’s side, the Chippewa side, specifically a small band of Native Americans living in the Northeastern part of North Dakota.  And the name of the reservation?  Would you believe Turtle Mountain?

If you have ever been to North Dakota by accident, you will know it’s as flat as a ping pong table.  When the great flood of 1997 sent the Red River over its banks, the water kept going and going for there was nothing to stop it.  How could there be a mountain in a state that can’t even hold back a flood?

At 2,000 feet above sea level, geographically speaking, Turtle Mountain is a plateau.  But, maybe, from the point-of-view of a slow-moving animal that doesn’t do stairs, any rise in the land would seem as insurmountable as the Rockies.

*****

Growing up in South Dakota, I was told that I lived in the Midwest.  I lived in the Heartland, the actual heart of America: The Dakotas, Nebraska, maybe Kansas, but not Oklahoma because it’s too close to Texas.

I held onto this belief until a family vacation brought us to Minneapolis and I was told that Minnesota was also part of the Midwest.  And if that was the case, then you had to include Wisconsin, Missouri and Iowa.  So in one trip, the Heartland added another chamber and the Midwest doubled in size.

I could understand the expansive sprawl.  Most of these states share the same type of geography and a plainspoken manner in its residents.  But I started to become a little suspicious when I was told that the Midwest also extended into Illinois, Indiana, Michigan and, oh, by the way, Ohio, which if you are to look on a map isn’t anywhere near the prefix “mid” or the word “west.”  But then, it’s a matter of perspective.

I believe those who live in Boston, Philadelphia and New York are convinced that the western part of the United States is everything else because everything is west when you live on the East Coast.  So let the majority of America be the Midwest even though the West Coast is still two major rivers, a perilous mountain range and a lost weekend in Las Vegas away.

Look at it some time.  Take a map of the United States and fold it in half.  South Dakota is in the crease.  It’s as close to the East Coast as the West.  And yet, there’s a tilt, this East Coast slant.  Why are any of us in the Midwest – No!  Why are any of us in the central part of the United States even listening to these gas bags? My God, they can’t even properly identify a square.

Washington Square, really?  Looks like a rectangle.  But what do I know?  Maybe the basic rules of geometry don’t apply to public land use.  But what if you are visiting the Big Apple for the first time, coming into Manhattan in a hot air balloon?  Your NYC friends want to meet at Washington Square.  So you drift in with a southeasterly breeze, catching a magnificent view of the Statue of Liberty, then up Wall Street, gawking at the hive of activity in Tribeca and SoHo until you completely overshoot your destination for a rectangle is not a square.  Granted, Washington Rectangle is a mouthful, but Washington “Double” Square isn’t too bad.

*****

People don’t like change.  Even if something becomes mismatched overtime, good luck trying to correct it.  Look at the NCAA and two of its storied conferences.  At one time the names matched the number of the teams.  But how many teams are currently in the Big Ten?  Would you believe fourteen?  And The Big Twelve?  Only ten.  For the love of numbers, these conferences should at least switch names, but it may only bring more confusion to an already confusing situation.  Plus, it’s not like higher education is the only institution flunking rudimentary math.  Take a look at this picture.

Does it look like twenty world leaders are on the stage?  Not even close.  Did some countries invite their friends?  Was Bali in the neighborhood and decided to stop by?  What hope do we have as a society if our leaders can’t even figure out how many countries are in attendance?

*****

Just the other day, while applying deodorant, a slow, meditative incantation overtook me.  Old Spice… Old Spice… Old?  Was I really applying expired spices to my body?  Should I?

Cardamom
Nutmeg
Perhaps!
But cayenne?

Later in the day while slogging through a humid walk I came across a slogan on the back of a van.

If any professional – be a doctor or plumber – does a professional job, I doubt anyone would say, “This work is outrageous!  Thank you!”  Outrage is not something you want seething from your dentist.  Outrage is a heated word, a peak emotion felt in the throes of anger.  That’s why I never understood “friendly fire” which is military speak for being shot at by members of your own team.

I don’t think anyone receiving accidental mortars would describe the experience as friendly.  It’s not like a couple of lobbed hand grenades into a fox hole is one sergeant’s way of saying hello to his men.  Those who go into the rank and file don’t want a hail of fire raining down on them because their artillery unit had the map upside down.  It’s one thing to give your life in defense of your country.  It’s another thing to be killed by a term that sounds like: “Oh, hey, sorry about that.”

Then there’s that pesky “perfect storm.”  Why are these two words even together?  Perfect sunset!  Double rainbow!  That I can see.  But there is nothing picturesque about a hurricane.  It’s not like an Oklahoma farmer is going to appear from his cellar after a passing storm, look at his flattened pole barn and sigh: “Perfect!”

Some words should never be together.  Old Spice can possibly skate by, but definitely not elderberry.

Elderberry, sounds like a fruit you would only find in the discount bin at your local grocery store, shipped right there from the fields to that bin, expired fruit before it even arrives.

Still not convinced?  Look at it this way.  You’re at your local café.  You just finished a Monte Cristo.  The server swings by to see if you want the check. “Or can I interest you in a slice of our famous oldpersonberry pie?”

Elderberry might not sound appetizing, but at least it won’t kill you.  Chokecherry, hackberry, here are two fruits that are telling you up front: “Don’t eat me!”  I wonder if birds know this.  I wonder if any songbirds had to do the Heimlich maneuver on a buddy.

Chokecherry: only edible when cooked with five pounds of sugar.

Hackberry: edible, even tasty, but tiny and mostly seed.

Maybe it’s best to stick with the blues, the blacks, the straws and the rasps. Take a pass on the hacking and choking before falling to the ground because you can no longer breathe…