Awake at 6AM this morning, I decide to get up, get my compression stockings on my hideously swollen ankles and calves, and hit the road for the Chippewa Family Restaurant, Kennedy Road, out near Seymour Cray's steam and smoke belching monstrosity. As I turn onto Highway 29 E and check my estimated time of arrival on my GPS, I realize I am going to be about 20 minutes early.
Well, that's what I thought. Turns out, I punched in the wrong stored address and got really lost near Lake Wissota, went past Gordy's at least twice, did a U-turn at Willie's Army Surplus, finally climbed out of the drivers seat, rustled around in the back, found my telephone directory, and looked up the address. Kennedy Road. Kennedy Road. Oh yeh, Kennedy Road.
Boy! Those little computers are amazing when you feed 'em the right info -- (most of the time).
I pull into the parking lot just as one of the breakfast clubbers is arriving and we chit chat about the short Spring we just had as we make our way into the restaurant.
Shortly after, the rest of the "regulars" (Dick and Donna, Jay and Sherri) and a few others arrive and I find out that I have forgotten that this coming tuesday is Jay Moore's birthday.
Other than being interrupted by my furosemide pills (yes, that's plural) which send me scurry-hobbling to the bath room, it is a pleasant occasion and today I get to sit next to the man himself.
FYI: Furosemide is a diuretic - coffee is a diuretic - a diuretic is any substance that makes you need to empty your bladder quickly and often!
From the natives, I find out that one of the landmarks I passed during my lost phase, the Chippewa County Home for the Developmentally Disabled, formerly had two very politically incorrect titles. It was originally called the "Home for the Feeble Minded".
Jay announces that the home for the feeble minded is now at 619 Cameron Street.
The more recent title for the home, and the one that I recall from my college days, is "The Northern Colony",which always sounded to me like it housed lepers.
Fortunately, nobody showed up with leprosy this morning. The cake was delicious and I begged a serving for the lovely Ms. Wilson, in absentia.
Somehow on either one of my hikes to the car or to the bath room, the group sang happy birthday and I missed it.
Happy Birthday, Mr. Moore! And many, many more. I love you, I do, in a manly sort of way.
I love it when I am out with a group and we all stop talking at the same time and there is a singular voice at the next table over (also in a large group) that sings out something quite shocking, for all to hear.
This morning it was: "My ass is crooked." That from a red headed lady.
There is only one correct response: HOW CROOKED IS IT?