It was only by a random act of kindness that I wound up at a old whore house in the middle of the city. I was living in my truck at this time. In the bed of the old International was a wood frame camper. I had built it a year ago with a saw, screwdriver and a Swiss army knife. It even had skylights of Plexiglas that were now covering up with snow. I was sleeping in the camper and was very ill with Hepatitis and with no heat in the truck, shivering a bit. The renter of record at the apartment had pity on me and let me in the upstairs shotgun apartments to sleep on the couch. After all, I had eaten there a few days before and the chef had Hepatitis.

That kind man who welcomed me in was William Teska (Bill) an Episcopal priest whose Diocese funded the New Riverside Cafe as a neighborhood ministry.

The neighborhood was mostly tie dyed with a few bpm motorcycle club members hanging out at the Triangle bar a block away from our apartment on 605 1/2 / Cedar Avenue. Second floor, above the free store.

It turned out that my recent friend, Charley Jirousek, from the Berkeley adventures lived there and sort of reluctantly, had room for me and my guitar. After all, the two of us shared a love for country blues on our guitars and we both ate a lot of peanut butter to survive. Charley still had his massive black and white Malamute and the dog was always delightful and took up about as much room as I did.

It was not long after I showed up that there opened up a job at the local restaurant/coffee house down the block. The New Riverside Cafe.The job’s wages were: Rent, food and an occasional pitcher of beer at the 400 bar, kiddy corner from the Cafe’.

There was a stage and seating at the Cafe’ and nights brought in an audience from all over the city. The big light of talent attracted as lights usually do to flying life forms. We served organic vegetarian food and it was pretty good stuff, especially the soups. For a while, we had no prices for the food. People would come in for the incredible music and ask how much for the menu items. ” Pay what you can.” I would lean over the counter and comment, “Nice shoes! Where did you get them?” People did pay well as they could afford. A few locals a bit up against it would ask for the soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. We gave them the soup and the grilled cheese was a paying proposition. Free coffee too. Working in the kitchen was a ballet and it was a good dance. I was a swamper (dish washer) and I liked it. After all, the only things I knew how to prepare were PBJ’s and Dinty Moore beef stew.

The music was also excellent and it was a mix of blues, folk and bluegrass mostly by the musicians in the small neighborhood. It was not, however, a usual neighborhood in a big city. It was Hemmed in by several freeways, a river and the downtown tall buildings along with the state university. Approximately 40 acres with small business’ that reflected the times. The West Bank of Minneapolis.

It was obvious that the population of that neighborhood consisted of a majority of eager and talented professional musicians. Singer-songwriters, Guitarists, fiddlers, banjo players, bass players and so forth. It was stunningly thick with them. I remember five world-class fiddle/violin players alone. One of them turned out to be a roommate, Bill Hinkley with his wife Judy Larsen along with a harmonica player and stand up bass player. I was invited to tour with a handful of them to the east coast.

We played college campus’ and coffee houses throughout the Midwest and east coast. This was heady stuff. A bit of a learning curve of the professional circuit sorts of things. A few of the locals were a bit puzzled by my being included in that tour. Most of the local pickers played and sang well, but the overwhelming number of them all wore cowboy hats and had rodeo buckles. Horses and corrals were never seen nearby. Their outfits were the folk music image of that time.

My new friends were the remnants of the beat generation. Tough and a bit rough around the edges, I got to play with Jerry Garcia when the Grateful Dead came to town and I was asked to join them! A good friend who was the hip radio stations night time DJ, Alan Stone, was at that music party. KQRS radio and he began recording me and my fellow veteran, Bruce Berglund of the motorcycle diary series at this web site.

The cowboy folks did not care for us. Nor did the locals who had made it to vinyl records that sold pretty well. Koerner, Ray and Glover. It was the usual musician fear and ego. We all were competitive for the stages in the area and most of the music was pretty swell really. The local guitar shop sold lots of D’Addario stirng sets for sure.

By the way, I declined the invitation to join the Grateful Dead. I knew the band name was very prophetic as all those musicians are gone now, most with heroin OD’s. Living in Berkeley and being involved with a heroin smuggling outfit, I got addicted. It takes all the pain away, physical and mental. I liked it. I remember those times vividly as we sold most of it to Sly and the Family Stone across the bay.

Another story of God’s deliverance when a voice in my private room said: “Live or death, choose now” I obviously chose life, it seemed a pretty serious event. The addiction was gone immediately and there was no withdrawal. A miracle from the Lord. It was one of ‘those events’ that are life saving and we don’t know who to thank.

The whole Cedar-Riverside scene ended when a developer (Heller and Segal) bought the entire neighborhood and began building high rises. I then quit the Riverside cafe and began a career as a railroad worker but still lived on the west bank. I eventually moved to the country, hours north. A small farm on the GI bill, about the same acreage as the old neighborhood. Rural Nothwest Wisconsin where I and my family still live.

Moving north to a farm was scary. I played fiddle in the barn before walking into the house while the rental van with everything I owned in it sat parked. It was raining on April fools day. The walk into the house was very strange. Alone and I had Never owned a house before. It smelled funny and the first challenge was to find all the light switches and figure out where to sleep. My orange cat didn’t come out of the van for a day. The house was heated with a fuel oil furnace and the previous owner left a note that mentioned the fuel oil tank was over 1/2 full and figured “It was a pretty good deal”. Of course, the new home smelled a new smell to me.

My old friend, Bruce, lived about 3/4 of a mile away, just down the road. That helped a lot. Bruce is the other motorcyclist in ‘Motorcycle diaries’ He introduced me to some of the locals and one young man became a good friend and was my roommate for a while. He taught me how to cut firewood and built a new chimney for the house and then proceeded to hook up and run a wood stove. It was a ‘step stove’ made locally and it worked quite well until it later developed a hole in it’s side. my new friend was a good man known for his kindness and smile. His nickname is Smiley, of course.

I started playing my fiddle on the back of a bunk car, feet up on the brakeman’s wheel when I worked the steel gangs on derailments down in southern Minnesota. The other men never complained. It felt like I was sitting around a campfire playing a harmonica after a long day on the trail. Folksy along with the missed notes and scratchy bowing.

At first when I began section work, I worked with the section gang at Dinkytown, just over the Missisippi from the west bank. More stories of a great foreman, Big Leroy, and all the trauma and injuries when men work around trains.

A visit to an old Cafe friends hardware store in Cedar-Riverside after work brought forth a sturdy chain saw and really swell touring bicycle. Still have both of them although the Jensrud 80 doesn’t start very well and pulling the starter cord almost breaks my wrist. My youngest son won’t even use it. Why bother when his Farm Boss Stihl weighs half as much and also starts pretty good.

I was injured at a section yard just across the St.Croix and I could not do the 12 pound hammer swinging anymore. I first began playing in a local country western band. Bars within driving distance with three other guys. Dandelion Wine was our name. . Mandatory cowboy hats for the band. No horses or rodeo buckles but nice vests and boots. I guess the lesson was to look the part as it made it easier for the audiences. We played the classics; Bob Wills and Johnny Cash sort of things. A touch of fiddle tunes and a hint of bluegrass. One of the local bars we were regulars at is about 30 miles away, Louis’, became a nice church called New Life. Appropriate.

The house business of repairing foreign cars came to life and I ran it for 40 years. It was a good income and the commute was a breeze.

Much later, I met my wife Julie, riding bicycles together (another column, (Bicycle built for Two).They built a real home together. Men build houses, women build homes. I then started playing with a square dance band as an upgrade. No cowboy hats, but Julie made me a really nice vest with ducks on it. The band was called Duck for the Oyster it is the title of a a square dance.

Bill Teska wound up marrying Julie and I about 30 years after I met him. A few of those 40 acre musicians played with me in the wedding. Bill Hinkley, Mary Dushane, Kevin McMullin and myself played a Swedish waltz surrounding Julie in her wedding gown right after the processional . It was pretty swell.

A decade or so later, I became aware of Jesus during a choir presentation up the hill from our home. Good move. It was a Christmas Cantata conducted by Hellmuth Bycoski at Zion Lutheran church. The holy Spirit got through to me during the song ‘Mary Did you Know’ and I have never been the same since. I love the changes even if they are very painful. It takes time to surrender. Julie is patient with me. I got better and continue to do so.

Our family got good at playing and singing worship music It was a big change from seeking admiration and money to the fresh air of a calling that began when I was 10. I now had discovered worship is the best music on and off the planet. Our family built and staffed a small house of prayer about seven miles away in Frederic. We were there about four years until the building was sold.

Now I write these columns about the transformational life and love that comes from Jesus, our Creator.

I still have the instruments and occasionally take them out and I play at home with recordings of some worship leaders I have met. It’s a world of growth in many ways, and the spirit within me and my family keeps growing stronger every day.

It’s pretty good. Jack Gator scribe