HOPE 4 Youth Donation Drop-Off

YOU CAN HELP HOMELESS ANOKA COUNTY YOUTH THIS HOLIDAY SEASON! We have a 'HOPE 4 Youth' Christmas Tree in the Garden Center filled with items requested by the HOPE 4 Youth coordinators. Please stop by to grab a list of needs! All donations will be accepted through December 22nd, 2013. We are also accepting $25 Target Gift Cards to give as Holiday Gifts to students involved in HOPE 4 Youth.

Drop off all donations at:
Mickman Brothers Garden Center
14630 Hwy 65 NE
Ham Lake, MN 55304 Receive a 15% discount on your entire purchase with your generous donation to HOPE 4 Youth. Smaller items on the 'Needs List' should be combined to receive your 15% discount. Contact Meg McLean with any questions. 763-413-3000 meg.mclean@mickman.com Serving youth experiencing homelessness through Housing, Outreach, Prevention and Education in Anoka County. HOPE 4 Youth offers the following free services: Drop-in Center, Hot Meals, Snacks & Refreshments, Showers, Hygiene Products, Clothing Closet, Food Shelf, Housing Services, Education Resources, Job Search / Computer Access HOPE 4 Youth wants all youth to feel safe, valued, and supported while reaching their full potential. This begins with meeting their basic needs and leads to giving them the tools to thrive. Anoka Hennepin School District 11 identified 721 students experiencing homelessness in the 2012-13 school year, up from 581 during the 2011-12 school year. Approximately 155 of these students were identified as unaccompanied. H4Y is the first Drop-in Center for youth experiencing homelessness in the Twin Cities Northwest Metro area. It is a one stop support and referral center within walking distance of the light rail transit and downtown Anoka. Help create a circle of support around our young people today with your gift!

hope4youthmn.org
Below is the HOPE 4 Youth Donation Request List (click on the picture to make it larger):

Backflow Preventer Draining Procedure - Lawn Sprinkler System

The backflow preventer is the plumbing device attached to the outside wall of the house and is the source of water to the irrigation system. Because this unit and the copper piping attached to it are exposed to air, this unit can freeze and burst in only a few hours of below freezing temperatures. During the Spring and Fall, outside temperatures can often dip below freezing during the night. If you see forecast temperatures below 32 degrees, it is important to follow the draining procedure below to prevent costly damage to your system.

1. Turn off the shut-off valve to the system (A), typically in your basement.
2. Remove or open the drain plug (E) on the piping outside.
3. Turn valves (C) & (D) and test cocks to a 45 degree angle (half open-half closed) position.

This procedure will protect your backflow preventer during freezing temperatures either before we winterize your system on the Fall or after we start up your system in the Spring.

Also, follow this same procedure to prepare for you system Fall winterizing if you choose not to be home at the time of this service. Simply leave access to the System Controller and we can take care of the winterizing without the need to enter you home.

Jeff Sutter 

General Manager

Managing Director, Irrigation Division

http://www.mickman.com/

jeff.sutter@mickman.com

763-434-1487

Rouge Wave! Part III

The Crab Season is finally over and we are now working to get all of our crab pots off the fishing grounds onto shore for winter storage. A huge gale is blowing. At this time,  Mill and I have left the stern of the deck while Dave and Chris finish buttoning up the lazarette hatch while we run to another string of gear to stack on deck.

As I watched in the partial protection of the deck house, I watched as Chris and Dave put the hatch cover back on the lazarette opening and tried to ‘dog’ it securely into place. The wrench they used was specially made for the purpose, but as I watched, Chris was having trouble with the latch. After a couple of hard smacks with the palm of his hand, Chris took the hatch off and turned it upside down on the deck to see what was wrong with the dog mechanism.

Ohh, that’s not good, I thought to myself. Most fishermen, including me, get superstitious about certain things, and putting any hatch cover upside-down is extremely bad luck. You just don’t do it. But there it was, an upside-down hatch cover with Chris beating on the deadbolt dog latch to free it up. There, he finally got it, I thought to myself after Chris finally freed up the latch.

As I was watching Chris and Dave work near the stern, up against a wall of crab pots, the sky and water had a certain look to them; the sea was green and the sky was grey – a little lighter than the green sea. Then, in an instant, from the corner of my eye, everything got green  – very green, very fast. I turned my head to see what was happening and saw a wall of water higher than the boat with a breaking sea on top of it. It was a colossal ground swell which had to be 50 feet tall – or taller. Huge rogue waves like this travel rapidly and this one was about to hit the Marcy J square on our starboard side.

I screamed to the guys as loud as I could: ROGUE WAVE!!! – and then the mighty sea engulfed us and washed over the entire vessel. Because it came onto us from a quarterly direction, I was shielded from the main blow of this monstrous sea. The Marcy J listed way, way over to port, and for a minute, I wasn’t sure if she would be able to right herself.

Chris and Dave were completely exposed to this maelstrom and unable to get away from the thunderous swell that had engulfed us. They disappeared from sight as I was washed with water over my head. I grabbed for the shrimp wenches as the sea pushed me past them and held on for dear life. For what seemed an eternity. Both arms were hugging the huge line cleats on these wenches and I was glad I had something solid to hold on to.

At last the water subsided enough for me to breathe, and I was able to get my feet back onto the deck as the boat lost the dangerous list and the water washed back over the rails and through the scuppers. I immediately started slogging my way back to where I had last seen Chris and Dave, but I didn’t see them; the water was too high. When it finally got down to about 3 feet deep, I saw both their heads; they had been smashed up against the netting of the crab pots and been ‘pasted’ there for the duration of the event.

Wow. Good thing we had those pots on deck or they would have been washed overboard for sure, I thought to myself – at first. Then I saw the look on Chris’s face; he was ashen grey and writhing in pain. Oh no, I thought as I trudged toward them. Chris is hurt.

I rushed to them as fast as I could. Dave seemed OK, but Chris melted down to the deck, and he was trying to hold his lower leg. Before I could get there, Dave stood up and helped Chris to his feet. I watched in horror as the bottom half of Chris’s leg was swinging free around in the swirling water. It was obvious that the bottom part of his leg was broken in half. Blood colored the water as it leaked over his boots and down the inside of his oilskin pants.

“God damn it Dave. What happened to Chris?” I cried as I reached them.

“I think that hatch cover got pasted into his shin bone and broke it off” Dave yelled to me over the din of the wind and water. Chris couldn’t talk. Although tears were streaking down his salt crusted cheeks, no sound emerged. He just kept holding on to what was left of his leg, just below the knee.

“Come on Dave” I shouted. ”Let’s get him into the galley”. As gently as we could, Dave and I carried Chris across the deck, through the entryway, down the passageway and into the galley. Chris was gasping in pain. Mill came to help and we laid Chris on the galley table.

I ran up the latterway to the wheelhouse and yelled to Harold (Chris’s dad), “Harold, Chris has a broken leg. We have to Medivac him off the boat!” What that meant was that a Coast Guard helicopter would fly out and lift the wounded man off the boat, into the helicopter and fly him to a hospital.

“Take the wheel John”, Harold said as he flew down the latterway to the galley to his son. As I stood by the wheel, the guys stripped off Chris’s oilskins and cut his pant leg up past the break. It was bad; the skin and muscle of the back of Chris’s shin bone area was the only thing holding the bottom part of his let together.

Harold returned to the wheelhouse and called the Coast Guard. No matter Harold’s urgent plea’s, the Coast Guard said there was zero possibility they could go out in this gale and lift Chris off in the middle of the Bering Sea. No way. We would have to get to the Port Moller Cannery. They would take him to an Anchorage Hospital from there. Major bummer!

All we had onboard for pain killers was aspirin, and as we fought our way through the monstrous seas, each crash into a new swell would throw the boat off and Chris would flinch. We had tied a tourniquet around Chris’s leg and changed it every 15 minutes or so. This was the longest 20 hour trip of my fishing career; my best buddy Chris was writhing in pain the whole way. None of us could sleep. We nursed Chris as best we could the whole way.

We finally arrived at Port Moller, and lifted him onto the cannery dock with our ‘picking boom’ on a makeshift stretcher Mill and I had fashioned. We gently lowered him in the bed of the old cannery pickup truck and drove a quarter mile or so to where the helicopter was waiting. Harold, Dave, Mill and I said goodbye to Chris with tearful eyes.

The only good part of this story was that Harold’s boat insurance paid a buggered up crewman a full crew’s share while the man couldn’t fish, so Chris and his family wouldn’t struggle financially while he healed. It took about 15 months before Chris was back on deck, but he had recovered to almost 100%. Whew.

So, short one man, Mill, Dave, Harold and I returned to the fishing grounds and finished picking up all our pots in 2 ½ more loads. Another week of work. The mood on deck was subdued. We just wanted to go home and see our families.

We finally made our last trip to Dutch Harbor, unloaded our pots and made the 5 day return trip to Kodiak. I spent a day or so in town visiting my buddies while waiting for a plane to Anchorage.

Then, finally after not seeing my family for months, I arrived back in Minnesota. I was tired, but healthy and had about $50,000 in my pocket. And boy, was it ever nice to see my wife!

*  *  *  *  *

Although I haven’t seen Dave or Mill for years, I still see Chris and Harold and Chris’s brother Tony. The four of us are lifelong friends that have had more adventures together than I can shake a stick at. Whenever we all get together, we tell, and retell, all of our favorite tales into the dead of night…

Rouge Wave: Part II

In this tale of King Crab Fishing during the 1979 Bering Sea Crab Season, we had finally gotten all but one load of crab pots on the fishing grounds.

September 15^th finally arrived, and at exactly the stroke of noon, we started baiting all of our pots. The last load of crab pots was still on deck with the intention of dropping them in strings alongside the best of our pots that were already in the water. This meant that we had to pick and bait nearly 250 pots to even begin to catch any crab.

“Those crabs won’t crawl into our pots without any bait in them” Harold would yell down to us over the deck intercom. “Come on guys, let’s get going!” He didn’t really need to give us much encouragement at this time of the season, as we were well rested and plenty ready to make some money.

We worked for 36 hours straight baiting all the pots in the water before starting to ‘pick’ pots. Most of our strings of crab pots did pretty well, and after we’d picked about half our gear (pots) we found a good enough string to drop the last deckload of 75 pots in the water –  in strings parallel to our best string. Finally, after 48 hours all our gear was in the water, baited and ‘fishing’. Whew!

“Let’s get a few hours sleep you guys and let these pots soak for awhile before we pick the rest of them. What do you think?” We were dead on our feet and too worn out to do any more anyway. “OK”, I shouted up through the deck intercom. “Let’s shut ‘er down for awhile”.

But, you can’t just drift around in a boat at sea without anyone on watch, so each deckhand had to take a turn ‘watching the wheel’ while the others rested. The first and last watches were the best because these guys were able to sleep through without being awakened for their ‘watch’ in the middle of a deep slumber. Of course the last watch was the best because not only did you get to hit your bunk right away, but you also were able to sleep through the other 3 men’s’ watches. As the Captain, the skipper never has to stand watch – one of the many advantages of being the skipper.

The season went pretty well, but it could have been better. Each man on deck earned about $10,000 a trip and the trips were taking about a week each. Some of the other boats were loading up in 2-3 days, but they also had a crew and a half on board and these boats never shut down, ever. They might fish for a week straight without ever stopping. On the Marcy J we never worked more than 48 hours straight without getting at least 4 hours sleep. This was the one thing I didn’t like about crab fishing. We never got enough sleep while on the fishing grounds.

And this was tough work – the toughest of my life. We were constantly fighting the crab pots which weighed 500 pounds each – without any crab in them. When they were full, they could weigh 1,000 pounds or more. And there was always weather. 8 foot seas made a nice day. Most days the wind would whip up to 25 – 35 knots and pick the seas up to 15 feet or more - with a chilling cold, wet wind. It was brutal.

The cold water of the Bering Sea would come over the rail in wind-swept sheets and pummel us constantly. If you can imagine being hit right in the chest with a full, 5 gallon bucket of water, you can get the idea. But it was more than that and constant. And LOUD! The wind through the rigging was shrieking, the seas crashing

into the hull were constant and the screaming hydraulics all combined into a constant, energy draining roar. I don’t know any old time crab fishermen that are not hard of hearing. None of us can hear well anymore, including me.

And the raging sea; it works like this:

The ripples turn into chop. Then the chop turns into waves, 3 or 4 feet high. Then after awhile the waves turn into ‘seas’ that can mount to 10-15 feet. But after a day or two of wind in the same direction, ground swells form that can mount to 25 feet and more. Let me tell you what; when a 15 foot sea climbs to the top of a 25 foot ground swell, and the boat hits it at that precise time, there is more energy involved than you can imagine. It is awesome.

For many, this weather is dreaded. And for me, while on the grounds fishing, it really slows down the operation. But I loved this kind of weather and drew energy from it. There is nothing in the world like being a healthy 28 year old man in perfect physical condition working in sync with good friends in frightful conditions. I loved it! The bonds I have with these guys have lived a lifetime.

We delivered our catch to an old WW II Liberty Ship, the All Alaskan, which had been converted into a cannery. It was anchored up in the bay at Port Moller and had a fleet of about a dozen crab boats delivering to it. Sometimes we had to wait a day or so to unload if our timing was off, but most times Harold timed it so we could unload immediately. Sometimes we delivered some percentage short of a full load so we wouldn’t waste a day waiting to unload our catch.

We all called the All Alaskan the Blue Zoo – for good reason. First of all, every inch of the ship, was painted a very strong blue. And besides the professional crew that managed her, all the ‘cannery workers’ were young kids in their early ‘20’s looking for an adventure. There were about 75 young men and women aboard and they were aboard for the better part of 5 months – never able to leave. After all, where would they go? There was an abandoned Salmon Cannery at Port Moller, but otherwise it was just wilderness, and the Captain didn’t allow anyone to leave for fear of someone getting lost or killed somehow. Port Moller is on the Alaskan Peninsula and one could run into half dozen or more Brown Bears around the creeks and rivers eating spawning salmon.

Although the Marcy J was a ‘dry’ boat, there was plenty of beer on the Blue Zoo, and when the cannery workers were off duty, the parties began – actually the party never really stopped. As for our crew, there was always plenty of work to do while the crab were being unloaded. We needed to take on fuel, do maintenance to the engines, get fresh bait, purchase provisions, mend crab pots, repair broken machinery… There was never enough time to get everything done. We worked steady until we headed out to the fishing grounds. The trips back and forth to the grounds were when we slept.

This Season lasted almost 90 days during which time we never set a foot on solid ground. We were tired and beat up. Although we didn’t have much weight to lose in the first place, we all were down to bone and muscle and sinew by the end of the season. When the final day of fishing was announced, we were jubilant and all ready to go home. None of us had seen our wives for a very long time! All of my children were conceived upon arrival from a fishing season.

But of course we still had to bring in all our crab pots – 4 big loads of them. And now it was December and the weather continued to deteriorate. Every day now was some kind of a storm – it was just a matter of degree.

When we store pots, we need to take all the buoys and ‘shots of line’ out of them to store until the next season. Each shot of line is 66 fathoms long – almost 400 feet of heavy 3/4” hard lay poly or nylon. They were heavy. Our system was to lash down the first layer of 6’ pots on deck with a narrow path back to the lazarette, the compartment in the stern that housed the rudder post. We could get a lot of shots of line in there which made for more deck space on which to stack more crab pots.

On our second load, the weather was bad, real bad. There was a 45 knot wind blowing pushing 25’ ground swells. The first string of gear we were picking was running in a direction so that the seas were quartering in from just starboard of our bow. This meant that the spray was constantly washing over the deck and we were fighting every single pot into position on deck before lashing it down. And of course we were tired. Dead tired. But we had to get the gear put away. We didn’t have any other choice.

After this first string of gear, we had 21 pots secured to the deck, leaving a path back to the lazarette. “OK boys”, came the call from Harold over the intercom. “We have about a half hour run to the next string of gear. Let’s get the shots of line down into the lazarette”.

“Got it Harold” I shouted back over the din of the storm. “I’ll let you know when we’re finished and secure”.

Then the 4 of us, Mill, Dave, Chris and I started hauling these heavy shots of line across the pitching deck under the grey stormy sky. The lazarette hatch was a heavy ‘flush hatch’ made from a 1” thick sheet of steel that was oval, about 15 inches by 2 feet. It was heavy and hard to handle. It opened up a hatch just large enough for a small man to go through to whom we would then pass each shot of line. Dave and Chris went down the hatch as Mill and I handed shot after shot to them.

After a few minutes, all the line was safely stowed and Mill and I walked back across the deck to behind the deck house, leaving space for Chris and Dave to emerge from the lazarette through the hatch. The wind was screaming and sheets of water washed over the deck constantly as we quartered into the huge, boiling seas. Mill went into the deck house to make a pot of coffee for us and I waited behind the Deck House, out of the wind and water, and lit a cigarette. What a day, I thought to myself. It seems like the weather is getting even worse…

End of Part II

With the weather continuing to deteriorate, the danger mounts. What is going to happen? Watch for the conclusion of this story in next weeks’ Newsletter.

Rogue Wave! by John Steven Mickman

I worked as a commercial fisherman on draggers and crabbers for 10 years from 1972 – 1982. For the first 5 years, my wife Su and I lived on Kodiak Island, in the small fishing town of Kodiak, Alaska. As one could imagine, these were some of the most exhilarating years of my life.

After the first 5 years though, I found myself at sea for 9 months of each year and I decided that I wanted to spend more time with my young family, meaning I’d have to get out of the fishing business. So, on a trip back to Minneapolis one Christmas, I met with my youngest brother Chris and we decided to start a landscaping business. For the first 5 years the business was not successful enough to support my family so each Fall and Winter I would return to the cold stormy waters of the North Pacific and Bering Sea to fish King Crab and Snow Crab. This tale took place in 1979 during the Bering Sea King Crab Season.

Best buddy Chris Jones picked me up from the airport in the Marcy J’s 1 ton flatbed truck; we were very excited to see each other. It had been since the previous March since we’d last fished together, and the September 15^th start of the Bering Sea Crab Season looked promising. The quota for King Crab was even bigger than the previous year and we each stood to earn between $40,000 - $70,000 during the upcoming season. Who wouldn’t be excited!

After parking the truck at the cannery, we walked down to the boat and I swung my sea bag over the rail onto the deck of the Marcy J. She was a beautiful 100’ steel hulled combination dragger/crabber and I had

fished aboard her for over a half dozen years. Harold was our skipper and owner of the Marcy J and Chris was his oldest son. He and I were built about the same, short and wiry. Perfect for working on the deck of these older boats that really were not built for large men.

Working on deck repairing some crab pots were the other two deckhands for this Crab Season; Millich Morris (Mill) and Dave. Chris and I were both 28 years old and at 35 years each, Mill and Dave were much older. “Geez Chris, do you think these old guys can keep up. I mean, God, they are so old.” But, after working with these two seasoned veterans I found I had nothing to fear. Mill was a great deckhand and knew all there was to know about working on the deck of a Crabber. And Dave was the best Engineer I was ever to meet. The four of us became fast friends.

That was the cool thing about working on the Marcy J; the crew was always great and we got along well. It was fun. There was always a lot of joking and rough kidding, and we all knew how to give as well to receive.

It took about a week to complete the preparations before departing from Kodiak for the Bering Sea. We all knew that there would be no towns or stores to visit during the coming season, which might last up to 90 days. Mill had already claimed the position as cook, but I insisted on accompanying him to the multiple trips we needed to make to Kraft’s Store to buy groceries. I wanted to help him of course, but I had ulterior motives; Mill was from South Carolina and had some distinctly different tastes in food. I needed to make sure we didn’t have to have grits for breakfast every single day – which is what Mill had in mind! Grits & eggs…

We all loved fresh fish, and on the Marcy J we traditionally only purchased enough dinner meat for half of our meals; we had fish every other night. Halibut, crab, codfish, octopus, sole; the ocean was full of fish and we had our choice. My favorite breakfast to this day is warmed up halibut from the previous night’s dinner - with eggs. We also needed candy bars; lots. We burned up a tremendous amount of calories while fishing and candy bars were always a great way to get some extra energy. Heaping bags of them.

After I had assured myself (and Chris) that we had all the candy bars we needed (along with getting the boat ready) and the day finally came that we cast off the lines and the mighty Marcy J headed out to sea. Up the channel we went, and waved to Harold’s wife Marcy who always waved back to us as we left for a fishing trip from the deck of their home at the end of the channel. Around Spruce Cape toward Whale Pass we went and caught a favorable tide which washed us through the Pass at about 15 knots. Our normal speed is 10 knots, so it is always fun to be swished through Whale Pass on a favorable current.

We got to the far side of Kodiak at about dark and headed south down Shelikof Straights. The long trip had begun; 5 days of nothing but running. I always loved this trip along the virgin terrain of the Alaska Peninsula. It was just as it had been a thousand years ago; no towns, no houses, no people. Nothing but rough coastline forested with short, stocky Sitka Spruce trees and Alders.

Harold, who was about my dad’s age, and I were the best of buddies. I spent most days up in the wheelhouse with Harold and me trading stories. He had served as a Helmsman aboard a Liberty Ship in WW ll, and took his new wife Marcy to Juneau, AK after the war to begin his career as a commercial fisherman. He had 30 years of seas stories to tell – and he told them well. I loved telling stories too and we never lacked for something to talk about. Really - for months at a time.

We decided to try and save about 36 hours by taking the nearly un-navigable False Pass shortcut to the Bering Sea. This narrow ditch is the first opening after the Peninsula and the first of the Aleutian Islands, Unimak. Once through the narrow False Pass, the real trick was to thread our way through the shifting sand bars that built up on the Bering Sea side of the broken land mass of the Alaskan Peninsula and Unimak Island. The small Salmon Seiners always marked a way through with buoys if there was one, but they drew less than 4 feet of water; the Marcy J’s depth was 12 feet. A big difference! If we scrapped bottom, we wouldn’t sink because the bottom was all sand and mud, but we might damage our Fathometers Transducer which would require at least a week to repair. It was tricky business, but we made it through – although we did come within a foot or two of the bottom a couple of times. Scary!

Fall in the Bering Sea is not for the faint of heart. There is always weather and back then there were no weather satellites. What we saw is what we got. We did watch the barometer carefully to see how bad it might get, but the needle seemed to always be pointing to ‘Rain’; it really never read ‘Fair’ – or good weather in the Fall. The day we arrived at the Bering Sea was no different. The sun was covered up by thick grey swirling clouds and an 8 foot sea was running.

We had a full deckload of 75 King Crab Pots securely lashed down on deck and both our holds were filled with circulating sea water which was needed for two reasons: 1.) We had to keep the crab we were to catch alive until we sold them to the cannery, and 2.) with full load of pots aboard stacked 18 feet high, we might capsize due to being too top heavy with all that weight so far above the waterline. So we plowed through the seas which were coming from the NW – our exact course. We were slowed down to about 8 knots.

After a day or so, we were 150 miles off shore in a spot that Harold though might have some crab. “OK boys” he said. “Let’s drop 3 strings of 25 pots each right about here – about a mile apart. I think this just might be the ‘hot spot’”. We were always searching for the hot spot of whatever we were fishing. Sometimes we hit; sometimes we missed. If we hit, we were in the money. If we missed, we’d have to restack the gear (crab pots) and search for another place to try.

The four of us deckhands turned to and in an orderly fashion dropped all our pots off in 3 long strings of gear, a pot every ¼ mile or so. Each string took about an hour to drop and then we turned around to make the day and a half run down to Dutch Harbor on Unalaska Is. – where the rest of our pots were stored.

Back in those days, Dutch was about the wildest place in America. During Crab Season, the town would fill up with ‘rich’ fishermen, and hundreds of young ‘cannery workers’. Many of the deckhands were 20 year old kids who didn’t know what to do with all their money, so of course there was a plethora of ‘working girls’ happy to help them shed some of their burden.

Do you remember the bar scene in the first ‘Star Wars’ movie? The Elbow Room bar in Dutch Harbor looked like that. If you can picture 100 drunken young men with too much money, accompanied with more testosterone than you can imagine – with women to match, you can get a feel for it. There were fights inside/outside and you could hardly hear over the din of Rock ‘n Roll being played and the shouting conversations happening between everyone. Wild. I’ve never seen anything like it before – or since.”

We had to make 3 trips back and forth to Dutch to get all of our gear in the water, and this took a painstaking amount of time. And of course, time was at a premium; we had to have all our crab pots on the fishing grounds in time for the start of Crab Season – noon of September 15^th! We didn’t have any time to waste and we each did all we could to make sure it all went pretty much according to schedule.

End of Part I

How did our Season go? Find out in the next part of Rouge Wave in next weeks’ Newsletter.

Rice Creek Rancho Part 2

8 Year old John Steven

with baby Burro

(This is the second in a 2 part story of our dad’s Rice Creek Rancho business. He had purchased about 60 wild burros from Mexico, and kept them in a 40 acre, rented field across the street from our suburban home in Fridley, MN.)

Even though my brother Mark and I were still little kids, right from the get-go dad got us up on the burro’s and away we went. He had purchased some really cool leather saddles with brass and chrome studded medallions accented into the inlaid leather work. All the saddles he brought home had ‘horns’ on them, were very shinny and initially that was how we stayed on the burro’s; after we learned to ride, we just held on with our knees, many times without any saddle at all.

However, the big problem was that all these creatures were wild, right out of the Mexican desert, and had never been ridden. Although not nearly as big as a horse, or even a mule, these burros were whirling dervishes in every way. Kids came from miles around, jumped over the fence, snuck up on the burro’s and took them for bare-back rides.  Much of the time the bucking burros would run directly toward the low hanging branches of the numerous Box Elder trees which studded the field. Many a rider was knocked clean off their wily burro as it galloped under a tree branch. All told, I can only remember one kid getting really hurt, but he only broke an arm. Considering the big picture, not too bad…

Of all the burro’s back then, ‘Jock-O’ was the absolute wildest burro in the corral. He was jet black with a pure white star on his shoulders, and a longer black mane than the rest of the burros. We couldn’t even get on Jock-O. Somehow, without looking backward, he could tell when we were in range, and quicker than quick, Jack-o would whip a hind leg out and kick you in the ribs – hard. Nope, none of the kids bothered with Jock-o, for a few years anyway, but that’s another story…

In the meantime, little by little, dad’s herd of burro’s started dwindling, although we had burros for over 20 years (they kept multiplying!). So, dad thought to himself, ‘with sales lagging a little more than the initial business plan had taken into account, how else can I make money with these burros? How about a concession at the Minnesota State Fair! Now there’s a great idea!’

So started our many adventures working the burros at the State Fair. Our concession was on top of the knoll at the west end of where the Sky Ride is now located. For a dozen years we would go to the Fair and dig 2 concentric circles of fence posts, and string rope between the two circle outlines – making a circular, rope ringed track. It was a pretty big track, probably about 200’ in diameter. Dad had an old, rickety, white washed work bench with a drawer that he kept the ‘money box’ in. He painted a sign of sorts that said, "Mexican Burro rides," 25 cents. We were in business. To attract attention to his fabulous State Fair Exposition, in his HUGE, LOUD VOICE, dad would yell out: “2-bits for a ride on a Mexican Burro. Who’s up next?”

Honestly, you could hear my dad from over a block away, even with all the commotion of the fair. (For those that don’t know, 2-bits equals twenty-five cents.)

We had a very busy concession. Like all of these businesses, dad did all the thinking, as well as the working part that we little kids couldn’t handle. But he was a great mentor, and showed us how to do as much work as possible, as soon as possible – and have fun doing it. However, there were many things to think up and dad was a great delegator. For instance, why waste $.50 on buying tickets for Mark and me every day when we could just stay over night in grampa’s miniature travel trailer? And, we could watch the burro’s at night to feed and water them. So, even at the tender ages of 10 and 8, Mark and I would stay at the Fair almost throughout. It was great fun, and the burro’s only escaped one time (boy, was that a circus!)

However during the daytime, our main job at the fair was to keep the stubborn burros moving around the ‘ring’ with all the little kid riders, which was from dawn to dusk. The burros would get tired, and we had some extra’s in the corral to the west to trade off during the day. But even so, many, many times each day one or more of burros would just stop. Well, this was a perfect job, not only for Mark and me, but also for little brother Jimmie and best friends Cris and Brian Archibald (who lived across the street in Fridley). This really was a good job for kids that were from 6 or 7, all the way up to 10 or 12 and beyond. I mean really, can you picture a grown man walking around behind these little burros just to keep them going? I can’t, but then, I was kind of protective of my job back then too…

Anyway, we each had our own favorite stick to slap the behinds of the burros when they wouldn’t cooperate, and 95% of the time, we could get them going again. However, if we simply couldn’t get one or more of the burros started, ‘the big gun’ would be called in: Dad. Our dad had huge, strong, callused hands and when he slapped the butt of a burro you could hear it for a hundred yards. Right when he would make the connection, huge hand to butt, he would yell out, “On delay” (it’s Spanish; we didn’t know what this meant either?). The little burros ears would go back and they would leap into action, not to stop for quite some time.

After one or two of these encounters, the stalled burro in question would crane his head, and roll his eyes all the way back to see if dad was indeed coming after him. When the stubborn creature was sure it was the target of ‘the big gun’, the burro would tuck his tail between his legs and start running around the ring – with a little kid on board – bouncing (and sometimes, crying) all the way around the ring until dad could catch up to the now stampeding herd of jackasses. Are we having fun now, or what!? The show was just beginning.

Most of the time our days were spent taking turns walking burros around the ring, and when it wasn’t our turn, we would go down to the Midway where we had made friends with the kids of the professional ‘carnies’, the guys that ran all the Midway rides. We kids became compatriots because we all ‘worked’ at the Fair and our gang would get free rides in the Midway, and the Midway gang would get free rides on the burros. It was a good deal, and very cool indeed, for young boys!

If you can imagine being a little kid whose job it is to walk behind burros in a circle for 12 hours a day, you can get a taste of working at the fair at the Mexican Burro concession. We liked it, and were able to go down to the Midway and everything, but it was still a lot of boring work. So, we had to make up some games. One of them went like this:

Of course, being creatures that ate, the burros of course had to poop too. Because we all did such a good job keeping the burros moving, they could poop on the fly. Many people, maybe most, haven’t really had the opportunity to study the hind end of a burro for days on end. Well, I’m here to tell you that there is a certain sequence of events that occurs as the burro is working up to this particular project.

Our ‘honey-bucket’ was a wheelbarrow that we kept in the middle of the ‘ring’; we kept the show shovel in the honey-bucket for picking up after the burros. The contest was that the kid that was ‘up’, had to recognize the symptoms of the next bowel movement for one of the 6 or 7 burros working, run to the honey-bucket, get the snow shovel, run back to the burro in question, and catch the poop in mid-air, before it hit the ground. We developed a point system for winning points for perfect catches, and losing points when the one that was ‘up’, got the snow shovel and there was no action; this was a serious loss of points. The winner wouldn’t have to put the burros away that night. I really hate to brag, but I usually won this contest.

When I think back on this whole affair, I’m pretty sure that the parents had just as much fun as the kids did when they visited our dad’s Mexican Burro Concession. There was always plenty of action and interesting things happening.

As for our wages, ‘we weren’t cheap, but we could be had’. Each day we earned $3 each, and all the chili-con-carne and Dinty Moore Beef Stew we could eat. Of course we got free rides in the Midway, and we had an old, miniature travel trailer on the site that we could sleep in; we didn’t have to take baths when we slept over, were able to play around at the Fair, and got to spend all kinds of extra time with the burros. We loved the Minnesota State Fair!

By the time the fair ended, we were all pretty tired, but rich. We all had the money we earned at the fair and for the set-up/tear down, and on really good days, dad would give us more money as a bonus. He would take out all the money he earned and we would help him dump it on the big bed in mom and dad’s bedroom. You’ve never seen so many quarters in your life (at least we hadn’t). Then we helped put all the money into the little paper tubes so dad could bring the money to the bank, in bags. A lot of bags.

To all of us kids, our dad was the richest dad on earth, and as I came to realize when I became a father, he was richer in more ways than one.

John Steven Mickman

MN State Fair Concessionaire 

Rice Creek Rancho, Part 1

Our dad, John V. Mickman, was a perennial entrepreneur whose business pursuits were unique in many ways, but mostly because few people would ever have thought of these business opportunities in the first place. His foray into the Mexican Burro adventure is a good example. Here is how I remember my dad telling me about how Rice Creek Rancho began:

In the mid 1950’s he and our mom, Lucy Mickman, decided to drive down to Mexico for a vacation. Why? I’m sure the original intent was simply for pleasure. However, dad was one of those rare individuals that learns foreign languages easily, and while in Mexico for those two weeks, he learned Spanish.  40 years later in the mid 1990’s, Mickman Brothers hired two Hispanic workers through a temp agency and none of us spoke Spanish.  So, I called my dad and asked if he could remember enough Spanish to ask these workers if they were getting paid properly, how they liked working for us, etc. He said, “Well, I don’t know if I can remember enough Spanish, but I can try.” He met with the two workers and said, “Hola, Buenos tardes.” The two guys looked surprised, replied in Spanish, and off they went on an hour long conversation…….. Amazing!

Anyway after he picked up the language during the vacation, dad was driving mom through the Mexican countryside and stopped to get gasoline. While he was fueling up, dad looked to a mesa not far off and spotted a small herd of burros. Dad asked the attendant what they were, and was told that they were wild burro’s; no one owned them, they just lived there in the semi-arid land. “Well”, my dad said. “I wonder how much they are worth if a guy wanted to buy them.” “Buy them?” the Mexican replied. “Why would anyone want to buy them? You can just go out there and get them if you want them!”, he replied in Spanish.

My dad said, “I don’t know if I want them or not right now. But, if I do want them, how much would it cost to have you or your buddies go get them and put them on a truck? I’m going home from my vacation with my wife and don’t have time to get them right now.” The Mexican began stroking his long black mustache trying to come up with the right number; too much might scare this gringo away, but it would be silly to ask too low a price. “Amigo, I think my brothers and I can get some of those burro’s for $2.50 each. What do you think about that?”

Boy, this seemed like the deal of a lifetime to my dad. $2.50 each plus somehow getting them up to Minnesota.  He was sure he could sell them for over $50 each, maybe more. “Mi amigo, how many of those burros do you think you can catch?” The overwhelming opportunities seen by the Mexican were similar to my dad’s. “Senior”, the Mexican replied, “how many burros do you want; that’s how many we can catch.”

So the negotiations and logistics were worked out standing there at the gas station in northern Mexico. My dad gave the Mexican a small down payment to show that he was serious about this business opportunity, and the Mexican assured dad he would take care of everything. “Don’t worry Amigo, this is going to be a good thing for you…”.

My mom (a very nice, very clean lady) was extremely surprised (and concerned) when dad got back in the car, drove away, and told her of his grand new plan. The problem was that we lived in a subdivision in the new suburban community of Fridley. Mom was sure we couldn’t keep burros in our back yard and we had no other place for any livestock. Dad was an aeronautical engineer at Honeywell and it was important that he stayed focused on his job since she was busy with 5 kids under six years old at home.

As it turned out, there was an undeveloped 40 acre field across the street from our house that had an old dilapidated barbed wire fence around it. When they returned to Fridley, dad met with the old farmer that owned that field and asked if he could rent it for a year or so. “Young man”, the farmer said, what are you going to do with 40 acres? You’ve never farmed in your life.” Here was a critical time in the new enterprise for my dad; he didn’t want to let the cat out of the bag with his new idea in case someone else heard about it and captured the market before he even got started. But, after going back and forth a couple of times, it became apparent that the old farmer wouldn’t lease the land to dad until he knew what he was going to do with it.

Finally my dad told him the plan, but that the plan was to be in strict confidence. “I’m going to keep burros in the field” dad explained. “What burros!” the farmer asked. “What are you talking about? How many burros?” Dad replied, “Well, I was thinking about 50 or 60 burros, from Mexico.” “From Mexico!” the farmer exclaimed. “What in the name of Pete are you going to do with 60 wild Mexican jackasses?” This seemed to be a funny question to my dad, because, from the instant he had the idea, he was certain his plan was a fabulous business opportunity. “I’m going to sell those burros, for $75 each!” dad announced proudly. 

So the deals between the Mexican and the old farmer were struck (much to mom’s dismay).  I’m not sure about the logistics of getting the burros to Minnesota or how the money was exchanged with the Mexican, but somehow dad arranged the whole thing. He repaired the run down barbed wire fence and fashioned a corral from some old lumber not far from our house. My younger brother Mark and I tagged along behind dad much of the time, but we were only 5 or 6 years old so weren’t able to help much. We really didn’t even understand what was happening – until the big day.

Dad with burros

So on one fine, early summer morning in 1956, our dad woke Mark and me up and while walking across our dew covered lawn, we watched the biggest truck we had ever seen, back up next to the corral in the 40 acre field. Then, when we reached the back of the truck, our dad yelled out to the truck driver, “Let ‘er go!” and the trailers huge tailgate dropped down to the ground, making a steep ramp. As it dropped, 60 wild, Mexican jackasses began stampeding down the ramp. They had not seen the light of day since they left the old country and were raring to go, literally. They jumped, and bumped and farted their way from the truck and ran away into the field like there was no tomorrow, happy to be free again. They were wild indeed and had never been fenced in. Mark and I crawled through the barbed wire and started running after these wild creatures; what fun!

My dad called this operation, RICE CREEK RANCHO, and he made the newspaper many times over the next few years as word spread about all the Mexican Burros in ‘friendly Fridley’. Even now, whenever I see a burro in Minnesota, there is little doubt in my mind that this is a descendant of one or more of those first 60 burros my dad brought to Minnesota in the ‘50’s. And, the good news is that this business turned out to be a pretty lucrative venture for our dad, and certainly a learning experience for all of us kids.

But to my little brother Mark and me, this wasn’t a business, this was by far the most exciting event in our young lives; we were going to be cowboys! We simply couldn’t believe that all those ‘little horses’ were ours. But, as you can only imagine, the fun was only beginning…

Find out what happens in Rice Creek Rancho, Part 2. Coming soon!

John S. Mickman

Mexican Burro Bronco Rider

The MNLA Garden Center Tour

Each year our renowned trade association, the Minnesota Nursery & Landscape Association (MNLA) hosts a tour of member garden centers from other prominent garden center owners in Minnesota. Late last week we were honored to be chosen as one of 5 garden centers in the North Metro for the tour. It is an all day event as the big old bus travels from store to store.

This year the event was well attended and I saw a number of my old buddies; Dave Linder and his son Dave from Linder’s Garden Center, Mike Clarkson from Baileys and a few managers from Cliff Otten’s store, Otten Brothers in Long Lake - among others. The weather was perfect and a good time was had by all. Meg, our store Manager, offered fresh squeezed lemonade and watermelon to all and they enjoyed chatting during their time at Mickman Brothers on our East Patio.

After visiting each store, these garden center operators complete a ‘profile’ evaluation. Just last Tuesday we received the awaited results from these professionals within Minnesota’s Garden Center Industry. A couple of the specific questions asked included input on our signage, plant health, sales staff, retail traffic flow and display gardens. What would they like? What suggestions would they offer? I was kind of nervous…

I have to report that I am thrilled with the results of input from our colleagues; we received top ratings on every single category. We are so proud of the hard work and focus on the needs of our customers that our staff provides to our community!

Some of the comments included:

· The white picket fencing and clear cut aisles helped customer flow and shopping.

· Eye-catching displays in each department made it fun and interesting to browse and inspired new ideas.

· The East Patio ‘entertainment/seminar plaza’ was unique and well done.

· The many events and ‘how to’ classes we offered are an excellent way to keep our clientele engaged.

· The curb appeal from the road and highway is very inviting.

· The staff personnel were easy to recognize with their colorful vests – and they were very helpful, informed and professional.

· The business diversification of our company obviously strengthens the company brand to the community.

· Etc., etc.

Our colleagues also had some helpful comments, including adding some signage to the ‘big red caboose’ inviting entry to this very unique and interesting feature. We will be taking action on some of the good ideas they offered to us!

Anyway, as I said earlier, a good time was had by all. I am very proud of our entire staff and especially Meg McLean and her Garden Center Team. Please visit us soon – we’d love to see you!

John Steven Mickman
President

The Whole Coffeehouse Part 3

In the previous 2 parts of this 3 part story, I had been working at The Whole Coffeehouse, fallen in love and at this point had picked up an old man that I had found wandering around on the freeway during a deadly cold winter night.

The waitress came up to us and Helen ordered three cups of coffee and three sweet rolls. The waitress was obviously curious about what was going on, but didn't say anything. When she returned, she asked, "Say, what are you two kids doing with this guy. He doesn't look very good." I explained how we had picked him up on the exit ramp, how he didn't know his last name, and how he didn't know where he lived.

"Well, it was nice of you two to pick him up. What are you going to do?", she asked.

"I was thinking about calling the police", I said. "I've found that usually works out pretty good. Do you have their number? Maybe you could call them while Helen, Carl and I warm up with this coffee."

It turned out that Carl was a professional coffee drinker and had drained his cup by that time. The waitress smiled and said she'd be happy to make the call, and she'd bring another cup of coffee for Carl. I smiled at Helen. She smiled back. Her smile always filled me up. "So, this is pretty nice isn't it Carl", I said looking back at Carl. He smiled at me too. I smiled back. He had stopped shaking and was warming up nicely.

I was surprised at how fast the cops arrived with their lights flashing. It couldn't have been five minutes. Two officers walked into the dinner rapidly, looked around and came directly to our booth. "Are you the two kids that found an old man?" they asked.

"Yup. I'm John, this is Helen and this is Carl. We don't know his last name and he can't remember where he lives", I explained. "We found him walking toward I94 on the ramp from Vandalia. He was in pretty bad shape", I told the officer.

"Wow. Carl is a lucky man. It's a good thing you kids stopped. If he had gotten to the freeway, no telling what would have happened", said one of the officers. "His name is Carl Hokinson. He's been missing since he walked out of his daughter's house late this afternoon. He has dementia. There has been a bulletin out on him for almost six hours. The whole town has been looking all over 'hell and high water' for old Carl here", he explained.

"Carl. How are you doing?" the office asked as he squatted down next to our booth.

"Well, I'm doing pretty good. I'd like to go home now. Can you bring me home?" he asked.

"You betcha Carl. Why don't you finish up that cup of coffee and we'll take you right home", the officer said as he stood up.

Both the cops looked over to me, and the one doing the talking said, "You two did a really good thing here tonight. You might have saved his life; who knows. Thank you. Carl's family will be relieved to hear that he's been found." He then helped Carl up and they walked slowly outside to the patrol car. Once out the door, a spontaneous round of applause went up from the patrons and staff of the dinner. I was embarrassed, and didn't know what to say, but both Helen and I thanked them. When I asked the waitress how much we owed for the coffee and sweet rolls, she said they were on the house. Pretty cool. Helen and I left the dinner and I drove her home.

Neither Helen nor I never saw or heard of Carl again. But our argument was over and forgotten. We never argued that adamantly again. I think we both grew up a little that dark, stormy, winter night. Life is too short and there are other things that are more important. After that night we were more considerate of each other, and others...

*  *  *  *  *

Although I didn't make any money working at The Whole, there were many other benefits. One of them was that being Manager of The Whole, automatically made me a Governor on the Union Board of Governors, UBOG. This was a body of nine students that ran many of the student activities that were organized on campus.

In the Spring of 1971, a massive student strike of the University was organized in protest over the war in Vietnam. Over half of the students and professors shut down most of the campus, at least CLA. This was a very big deal. There were many speeches given from the steps of many of the campus buildings, including Coffman Union, every day. Thousands of students milled around campus, many carrying protest signs and there were armed police throughout. A throng of kids blocked every entrance to all the classroom buildings on the East Bank of the campus keeping all but the most dedicated students and professors from getting inside. At times there were heated arguments between the protesters and those that wanted to attend their classes. Many of these arguments drew quite a crowd. Tempers were heated. Tens of thousands of young men had been killed in Vietnam and the protesters were 100% dedicated to doing whatever they could to get the message to the 'silent majority', that the war was a mistake and we needed to get out - and get out now.

I was adamantly opposed to the war and participated in multiple marches to the government center downtown from campus over the previous couple of years. That said, I had paid my tuition from my own meager and dwindling savings and was not a supporter of the University Strike. Fortunately, all my classes were in the School of Business on the West Bank, and there were not any protesters over there, at least not enough to shut anything down. The Business School was pretty conservative and there really wasn't much of a fuss in or around any of the classroom buildings.  I was able to continue my studies uninterrupted.

A couple of days into the Strike, the Chairman of UBOG, Allan Margolis, called an emergency meeting; he wanted to strike the student union - shut it down. This made absolutely no sense to me because this is where many of the strike organizers conducted their meetings and organized events for the tens of thousands of students that were participating in the strike. This also where many, many students came to eat lunch, get out of the weather, go to the bathroom and rest. To me, Coffman Union was the one building that needed to stay open to the students.

I was pretty good buddies with most of the other Governors, some of whom organized the big concerts at Northrop Hall, brought in famous guest speakers on various subjects, etc. and I knew some, if not all of them, would be in favor of shutting down the Union.

Allan opened up the meeting with a passionate speech about the horrors of the Vietnam War and how we all owed it to the thousands of dead soldiers and those about to be killed to do everything we could to end the slaughter. Very passionate. Most of the other Governors of the Board agreed and said pretty much the same thing in their own words. This wasn't really going how I wanted it to go. Allan called for a motion to vote but I suggested we need to continue the discussion first.

After having had listened patiently to the others, I stated my case.  I told them that I agreed with most of what Allan and the others were saying about the war. However, I was not in favor of the Strike and I certainly wasn't in favor of shutting down the Union.

I outlined all the points I wanted to make, and made logical arguments regarding the relevant points concerning shutting down the Union. I made as good an argument as I could, supporting the continued operations of the Union's activities and spaces. Once I got rolling, it went pretty well, and I could see I was gaining ground from some the others.

After two hours of, at times, pretty heated debate, Allan once again called for a motion. One of the Governors made the motion to shut down most of the Union, but to keep the restaurants open, a compromise position that at which we had arrived. I voted against the motion, but only after being assured it would be passed because the 'Yea' votes were taken first. I felt that this was all I was going to get, but I continued in my belief that the entire Student Union should remain open. However I knew, and I'm pretty sure the rest of them knew, that if any part of the Union was still open, the students would use almost all of its resources - and that is pretty much what happened. However, the concerts at The Whole were banned until the Strike ended.

It was a good compromise.  

Another benefit of being Manager of The Whole Coffeehouse was that once per year, the Manager and our Staff Advisor, Tom Stark, would travel to New York City to see new talent that we may want to book. This trip was made possible because we were a member of the New York Coffeehouse Circuit, which was comprised of numerous university supported coffeehouses. The business model was for some of the coffeehouses  to book the same artist(s), who would then travel for a month or two performing at a dozen or more venues. It was steady work for the performers and supplied very good artists to all of the coffeehouses that would not normally be able to book this high caliper of talent. A good deal for all. There were also seminars during the day which offered ideas on how to make each of our coffeehouses more successful.

These annual trips consisted of an all expense paid trip to and from New York City, including air fare, hotel and meals, plus we had free access to dozens of clubs in Greenwich Village. As Manager for two years, I was able to make this trip twice. A couple of years before, a buddy of mine named Don Hanson had hitchhiked with me to Boston, and then to NYC. By the time we arrived in New York we had less than a hundred dollars between us. The main thing we learned on that part of our trip was not to go to New York City with less than a hundred dollars in your pocket. We were only able to stay one night and that part of our trip was uncomfortable - to say the least. I was happy when we finally picked up a ride out of the city and hitchhiked back home to Fridley, MN.

Visiting NYC on an expense account completely changed my opinion of New York. When you don't need to worry about running out of money, the city was bright, exciting and enlightening. Tom Stark and I were pretty good buddies, albeit he was probably 15 years older than me, and we were busy from 7 AM to past midnight for the three days of our visits. On one evening before we began our tour of the clubs in the Village, we went to the original Broadway Musical, HAIR. At the time the soundtrack from HAIR included a couple of Top 10 songs and Tom and I enjoyed ourselves immensely. I was exposed to an entirely different way of life from what I was living in Minnesota. These two trips were good for me.

Back in Minnesota, running The Whole took the better part of 30 hours a week for 4 years, working as a volunteer. There was a steady stream of new volunteers to recruit and train, with new artists to meet and entertain before and after their shows. The entire time I was honing my management style and experimenting with different techniques of marketing and advertising.

I liked 'running the show' and it was a great training ground for a burgeoning businessman. Even before I began my studies at the U, I knew I wanted to operate my own business, and as a Freshman had registered as a Pre-Business Student; I just didn't know what kind of business I wanted to eventually own. This time at The Whole was a very important part of my life. Although I didn't realize it at the time, I gained more than I gave during these years of volunteering at The Whole Coffeehouse and the lessons learned have served me well while operating our family business, Mickman Brothers, Inc.

During my graduating quarter at the University, Winter Quarter of 1973, Tom Stark resigned his position to take a job out of state somewhere.  To this day I am convinced I was the best candidate for this professionally, paid position. I submitted my resume and was interviewed for the job. All the interviews went extremely well, after all I had been a driving force for much of the success of The Whole, and knew every aspect of the operation. I was extremely hopeful and excited about the possibility of working as a professional in this part of the entertainment industry and felt that at some time I might open my own music club.

At the end of the process however, they chose a different person for the job. The person they hired was a 40 year old, Afro-American woman. She had no experience in any aspect of the coffeehouse business, wasn't at all familiar with the type of music I had learned our audiences wanted to see and had never managed or advised a group of volunteers. I was shocked, to say the least.

Although no one would say it out laud, one of the decision makers, Dan, confided in me afterward that the University had a quota of minority employees that needed to be filled and they were told they had to hire a minority person for that particular position. I was blown away and became completely disillusioned with 'the establishment’. One of the popular tenants of the time was, 'Don't trust anyone over 30'. I guessed they were right.

To hell with them. The day after my last final examination, well before the graduation ceremony, I began my return trip to Kodiak, Alaska where I had gotten a job as a commercial fisherman the previous Spring and Summer. I stayed four years working as a commercial shrimp and King Crab fisherman in the North Pacific and Bering Seas. These were the most exciting years of my life.

I didn't visit The Whole again for 20 years. That chapter of my life was over...

The End

The Whole Coffeehouse Part 2

In Part l, I had begun working as a volunteer at The Whole and was really enjoying meeting many new friends. This volunteer ‘job’ was one that lasted all 4 years of my time at the University of MN.

During the Winter of 1970, my brother Mark was killed. I immediately moved out of the rooming house I had been renting and returned back home to Fridley. This was a very tough time on me and our whole family. By this time I had sold my ’57 Chevy and had purchased a ’62 MGB and commuted back and forth to campus with it. It had no heater to speak of, and each commute, to and fro, was cold and lonely. This was a very bad time, probably the lowest point in my life. My mom and dad were devastated. My brothers and sister were lost. None of us really took charge of our family. To me, we all seemed to be alone in our sorrow. I wept often. Mark and I had gone through so much together. The only thing that made sense to me was something a family friend said told after the funeral. Mr. Filipczak said, "John, there is no doubt that Mark's death is going to change your life. Right? You owe it to him to make a change for the better. Don't you?". I was so weepy I couldn't reply, but I kept this thought for a long time. Even to today. Yes, I need to do as good a job as I can. Mark would expect no less of me. Even 45 years later, my brother Mark is still only 18 years old and I'm still trying to make changes for the better.

I resolved not to let my friends down and continued my work at The Whole as best I could during this time. Working like that did much to take my mind off my sorrow - much better than my schoolwork did. My grades slid somewhat, but my friends at The Whole did much to drive me to do good work at the coffeehouse. My friend Brian helped me get a job for the summer at the company where his dad worked, the distribution warehouse for 'Our Own Hardware' hardware stores. It was a good job and I did well there. I started dating an attractive young women that worked in the front office, and all the old farts I worked with were green with envy. Cool. My job was to 'float' around the different departments of the warehouse when the full timers went on vacation. Pretty soon everyone in the company knew who I was and I was well liked.

That Fall of 1970, Brian Carron 'retired' as Manager of The Whole, and I was elected by the crew as the next Manager. What a thrill that was. I continued the same management style that Brian had put in place and kept many of the same committee chairpersons. I set up a couple more committees including a Public Relations Committee, chaired by my buddy Rick Rukes. He was a smooth operator and a 'way cool' person who could talk to anyone about any subject that came up. I did change the chair of the Booking Committee to Jim Anderson, who knew more about music than anyone I knew. We both had the same taste in music and Jim booked as many of our favorite artists as he could. We expanded our weekly concerts from Friday & Saturday nights to two more evenings on Wednesday and Thursday. Wednesday's were open stages for local artists that wanted to have an audience. On Thursdays we had pretty good luck booking bigger names that were busy on the weekends. Being a University sponsored venue, we only had to break-even, so we were able to charge only $1 - $5 for most acts that performed.

By that time, I was a Junior in the School of Business, and was able to practice many of the things I was learning in class while managing The Whole. Three or four times over the two years while managing, I earned credits for writing papers on some aspect of management or marketing. Managing a group of volunteers is different and in many ways more challenging than managing a paid staff; if they were not enjoying their work they simply wouldn't show up again. So I made working at The Whole as fun as I could, including organizing some off-campus, overnight retreats. We always got some work accomplished, but my main goal was for everyone to have fun. They did. The staff increased even more.

Due to the size of the audiences we were attracting, we decided to tear down the first office and move our 'headquarters' into the Graffiti Room. We should have done this in the first place. We painted the new office and the girls fixed it up really cool - in the style of the day; hippie like. The largest room was the meeting area and one of the smaller spaces was a lounge area for the artists to keep their gear and get 'fixed up'. The other small space, about 8 feet square was my personal office, although the door was rarely closed. This office was my home away from home for almost two years. I did all of my homework there and my entire social life was right outside my door. Life was good; very good.

During this time I fell in love with a girl named Helen. She and I became extremely close, and since she worked in Coffman Union as a Receptionist, she was never far away. Ours was a passionate, and at times, turbulent relationship. We really were not much alike, me as a Business Student and she as a Theatre Major. We disagreed on most subjects of significance, but in most cases they were considered, considerate discussions.

However, sometimes we would get into extremely heated arguments, seemingly with no way out. During one of these heated arguments, I was driving her home after a late night concert at The Whole, to Highland Park where she lived with her folks. It was a very heated argument, and I just wanted to get her home and out of my car. Being after midnight, it was pitch black with small snowflakes being blasted down sideways by a driving wind. It was extremely cold. Driving was treacherous because my MG wasn't designed for that type of weather and there wasn't much tread on any of my tires. The damn car didn't even really have a heater; I'd flick a toggle switch for a small fan and some lukewarm air would come out of two defrost ports - only if the weather wasn't cold. As I was sliding up the exit ramp onto Vandalia Avenue at about 60 mph, I thought I saw a person walking back toward the freeway, back down the ramp. I stopped talking for a second, then asked Helen if she had seen anybody. Nope; she hadn't see anything.

I stopped the car before I got to Vandalia and, because I couldn't see through my scratched up rear, plastic window, I got out to look. In the dark I could barely see anything, but I did see the shadow of a person walking toward the freeway. Something was wrong. I jumped back into the MG, put 'er into reverse and managed to back up without getting stuck. When we got to the person, Helen and I could see in the headlights that it was a very old man dressed in a thin, short jacket. He didn't look at us - he was looking down, and just kept walking. I asked Helen to crawl behind the seat of the two-seater MG, got out of the car and walked up to the guy.

"Hi buddy. Where are you going?", I asked in a friendly tone.

The guy stopped walking and looked at me stiffly, "I'm just walking along here. I'm walking home. I'm not sure if I'm going the right way. I'm getting cold.", he said, but his mouth was freezing, slurring his speech.

"Well why don't I give you a ride home in my car? It's right here, and I can have you home is just a few minutes. What do you think about that?", I asked him.

He looked around at the MG, and began shuffling toward it without saying anything else. I opened the door on Helen's side and helped him in. He was stiff, freezing stiff. I realized from the light on my dash that he was deathly grey and in real trouble. After getting him situated, I closed his door and ran around to my side, got in and drove up to Vandalia. I had to turn either right or left.

"So where do you live?" I asked.

"St. Paul."

"My name is John and this is my girlfriend Helen. What's your name?"

"Carl."

"Do you know your address Carl?"

"I've been thinking about it but I can't remember."

"What's your last name Carl. Mine's Mickman. John Mickman."

Carl thought for a moment then said, "I can't remember right now, but it will come to me."

"That's OK Carl. Don't worry about it", I said. I was worried about it though. This was going to be a big deal, and I didn't have any good ideas as to what to do.

I thought about it for a second, put the MG in gear and turned left toward University Avenue, which would take us into the heart of St. Paul. "Carl, let's just drive around a little bit. Maybe you'll recognize something near your house", I suggested. He said OK.

I turned toward St. Paul on University. Being after midnight and due to the storm, there was very little traffic, and none of the stores and few of the restaurants were open. I really didn't have any idea how this was going to end up. I looked back at Helen and asked her if she had any ideas. She thought maybe we could take him back to her folk's place. Maybe...

After driving a mile or so I noticed that Carl was starting to shake. A lot. The 'no heater in the MB' situation wasn't helping at all. "Hey Carl. How about a cup of nice hot coffee? There's a dinner up on the next block, and you and I and Helen could go right in there and get a nice, hot cup of coffee. What do you think?" I asked him. "Whatever you think", he said. "What was your name again?" I thought this might be a good sign. "John. John Mickman", I said as I turned into the parking lot of the small dinner. "Here we are. Let's go in and get a nice cup of coffee Carl."

I helped both him and Helen out of the MG. There really wasn't room for a human being behind those seats and she was getting stiff too, both from the cold and form being all cramped up behind the seats. All three of us were cold, and getting colder. We walked into the dinner and sat down at a window booth. It was warm, dry and cozy. A nice dinner; small and welcoming. There were a half dozen other patrons sitting at 3 or 4 other booths and they were looking at us: A young hippie couple with a tattered old man that was obviously in trouble. I smiled at them but didn't say anything.

End of Part ll

Find our what happened to Carl – and Helen and me in next weeks’ eNewsletter