This is Marble, rat terrier… suburban terrorist


My little friend Marble and I are banned from the Woodbury Farmer’s market. We took a Sunday walk to the open-air market as we have for several years. This time we were stopped at the entrance by man who was on the lookout for canines. “Sorry, it’s a health policy; we can’t allow dogs in the Farmer’s Market.” We turned around and walked back home.

Allow me to describe Marble. He weighs twelve pounds and is fifteen inches tall at the shoulder. Marble is a black and white bundle of pure affection. He loves all people. He has never harmed a soul in his eight years. Little Marble is a magnet for the dog lovers there, small kids, especially. He gets ear rubs and pats, and always a smile

Marble was on his leash (above, taken minutes after our banishment) and kept close to me. I had a “poop bag” in my pocket, just in case.

I can’t understand a rule banning dogs at an open-air market. Well, I suppose a big, bloodstained, growling pit bull, maybe. But rules are rules and exceptions really can’t be made. Once-size-fits-all, zero tolerance is the best a government funtionary can do. I see it this way: if you can’t allow common sense to interpret a rule, then you’re admitting it is unreasonable.

Funny thing, yesterday I had truly scary event with Woodbury animals. A flock of fifty Canada geese were deciding whether to waddle across a 50 MPH road. The man in front of me slammed on the brakes. So did I. And I watched the car in my rear view mirror slam to a screeching stop just a handful of feet from my rear bumper. Woodbury refuses to ban the geese. It won’t remove them.

I’m not going back to the Farmer’s Market. I’ll just buy my fresh produce at the grocery store. The quality is the same. Really, it is. I walked to the market each summer Sunday to enjoy the companionship of my little friend.

Happiness is more important than compliance.



A MUST when RuPaul comes over



Saw these in a store front window. The new boutique was setting these big girls out. There’s a leopard-skin shoe in the back. $350 each.  (




Marquetry, is the art of making hanging art or decorations from wood veneers. I saw this at the R.H. Stafford Library in Woodbury, MN. This map was one of several pieces in a temporary display. 

This large map has 128 species of wood veneers. Gorgeous. Richly beautiful.



Bestelle dein Haus …



Set thine house in order: for thou shalt die, and not live (Isiah 38:1)


Last Memorial Day I visited the original Salem Lutheran Church cemetary. It’s one of the oldest traces of European settlement here in Woodbury, Minnesota. Two waves of German settlers arrived in the area before statehood, sometime during the mid-1800s. One was Methodist and the other Lutheran.



The older tombstones are entirely in German. The marble headstones are crumbling, but the granite ones look new.

I have no family or friends at this cemetary, but I decided to visit after spotting it from the road last year. The original church is long gone and the tiny congregation has moved further into town. The cemetary is still tended by the handful of decendents who remain in the area. Many of the family farms have vanished, falling to the pressure of subruban development.

I’m certain the people in Woodbury have no idea there are gravesites up on the hill when they whiz by on the highway. I’m glad I stopped. There’s some silent stories here. The old stones imply rich lives, short lives, transitions and fading sorrow.



Sisters (?) Mathilda and Clara lived together their entire lives and died the same year. No, I don’t know that, but that’s what I like to assume. Someone still remembers them.


People either lived to very old age or they died in their first few years. I saw many of these little lamb tombstones. Very sad.


Here are an entire row of children, all the same family, all born within a year of each other. None lived more than two years.



Clarence is waiting for Laura.

I have no idea where my grandparents are buried. I’m not sure how to find their graves. I thought of them that day. I think of them a lot. Perhaps there’s someone like me walking over their resting places, casting eyes on their tombstones. If you know where your grandparents are buried, why not visit them — and let them visit with you for a few minutes?