I attend the grand opening of the Metro Cafe, where Wasilla's mayor shows up with big scissors and a young girl gathers pennies to aid a classmate stricken by leukemia

As recent visitors to this blog know, I have been beginning all of my coffee breaks lately at the drive-through window of the Metro Cafe, built on Lucille Street where the dog wash used to be. On Saturday, Metro staged its grand opening and I stepped briefly out of cocoon mode to attend the event. As the guests gathered, this kid came scooting by on a skateboard.

Many owners of classic cars came and parked their vehicles in the church parking lot just across the street.

When I was young, I had a red Ford Mustang exactly like this one. I got it at a church bazaar, where I gave a lady a dime. She handed me a fishing pole, I dropped the line behind a screen that was supposed to a lake. I felt a tug, pulled it back up and there, hanging from my fishing line, was a nice little red Mustang.

It was a superb catch. I rolled it all over the house, out on the sidewalk and over hills of dirt, making engine noises as I did. As to this red Mustang, "Isn't it beautiful? Very clean!" this lady, JoAnne Kessler, a member of the Valley Cruisers, stated.

Inside, I spotted this attractive trio and so sat down to ask what brought them out. It is Liane Nagata and her two daughters, Madeline and her older sister, whose name slips me at the moment. As it happened, in high school, Liane was the best friend of Carmen Starheim, who started the business with her husband Scot. Even back then, Liane says, Carmen worked hard at everything that she did.

I did not ask a question to the couple at right, as they looked quite absorbed and I did not wish to disturb them.

It would have been a better photograph, had I moved the camera a quarter inch to my right, but I didn't.

I asked many questions to this family, and had each of them give me their names. But hell. I don't remember the names, and I don't remember the questions or the answers to them. At the time, I was sure I would, just like I would have before I overstressed my brain for too many decades, but I don't.

I had either better start recording these things or writing them down.

They live in Wasilla, though, I remember that. This was their first stop at the Metro Cafe. They had watched it come up after the dog wash disappeared and had been curious. They had a good time and enjoyed the drinks and food.

At least I remembered that much.

They also thought the little Nash Metro car behind them was quite cute. That's one more thing I remembered.

Oh, yeah - they said they would be back.

Wasilla Mayor Verne Rupright roared in on his motorcycle, with a big pair of scissors strapped to the front.

BIG scissors. Perhaps he planned to do some budget cutting.

Madeline was smiling happily when she first showed me the pennies that she was carrying. I thought she had brought the pennies to spend, but I was wrong.

She was collecting them on behalf of a schoolmate at Sand Lake Elementary in Anchorage. Madeline's countenance grew sadder and sadder as she explained how her school mate had leukemia and that the little girl and her family needed money to be able to travel Outside for her treatment.

I hope she gathers lots of pennies and that all tears may be staunched.

The Metro Cafe.

This is Tank, traveling with his human Calvin Culverwell. Tank works in the Golf Shot in Wasilla. So, if you ever want to buy some clubs and balls but don't quite know what to get, go talk to Tank. And if you want a Coke talk to the lady, Loni Mrozik, Coca-Cola's local rep. Me, I prefer Pepsi.

The view from behind the counter.

This poor little girl spilled her drink. A man, who I think was her father, picked up her fallen cup and then disappeared. I hope he got her another one, but I can't say for certain.

The view from inside, looking outside, where a man looks inside.

The staff was busy taking orders from both the counter and the drive-through.

Scot, Mayor Rupright and Carmen use the big scissors to cut the ribbon. Afterwards, Scot and Carmen share a kiss.

I'm pretty sure that kiss had a coffee flavor to it.

Scot loves the old International Metro vans. He explains that he is the kind of person who is always building something and so is forever running back and forth to Home Depot. He found the Metro van to be the perfect vehicle to haul materials and equipment about.

Then, as he and Carmen were building their coffee house, it occurred to them that they could name it "The Metro Cafe," after the van, which would then become a rolling ad for their business.

The yellow, 1957 model had sat for decades near the Deshka Landing, where it had to be sawed away from the birch tree that had grown between the body and the rail before he could bring it here. He plans a full restoration. As for this turquoise 1939 model, he is going to cut the back of the body away and reshape it into a utility truck.

Carmen and her sister, Teresa, who lives in Anchorage, but came to help out just for the grand opening. I think Teresa should stay and help out everyday, but I have no say in the matter.

I'm just happy to have a good coffee shop within an easy bike ride from my house. Some days, perhaps, I might even walk here. Perhaps I will even bring my laptop, go inside, sip, type and eat pastries.

You can do that kind of thing at the Metro Cafe.

Now I must go back into Cocoon Mode.

Cocoon mode* - day 12: Kalib and Caleb pedal off on their bikes to listen to Peggy Sue

So I stepped outside and there was Kalib, sitting on his bike, like he was going somewhere - Texas, maybe.

Then Caleb came along. "Nephew," he said. "Let's go! The open road awaits!" Little Kalib's legs were too short for him to properly pedal, so he propelled himself by chugging with his feet.

Off they went. Soon they disappeared. I went back into the house to read the newspaper. Later in the afternoon, my cell phone vibrated and shook. It was them. They had called to let me know that they had gotten a little carried away and had pedaled all the way to Texas - Lubbock, to be precise, where they had gone to pay tribute to Buddy Holly.

They had called from Lubbock's famous Buddy Holly Bar and I could hear "Peggy Sue" in the background, mingled with the sounds of random gunfire and brawling.

Trouble was, they were too tired to pedal back home. 

I sighed, climbed into the Escape, drove to Lubbock, picked them up and brought them back home.

It was not at all how I had intended to spend my afternoon, but I could not leave them stranded in Lubbock, Texas, even if the entertainment was good.

*Cocoon mode: Until I finish up a big project that I am working on, I am keeping this blog at bare-minimum simple. I anticipate about one month.

Cocoon mode* - day 11: Old man charges up steep grade on four-wheeler and then charges back down again; fall from the car

As I rode my bicycle along the two-foot wide path on the other side of the guardrail from Seldon, just over the steep drop off that could surely cripple or kill me if I were to lose control and plunge over, I heard the screaming engine of a four-wheeler, churning out more RPM's than it was built to churn. I could not see it, because there were some leaves hanging from some bushes that blocked my view, but I immediately surmised that it had to be a kid, trying to charge up the steep grade you see here.

Just ahead, there was an opening through the leaves, so I pedaled to that spot as fast as I could. When I got there, the four-wheeler was nearing the top. I stopped, dug into my pocket and pulled out the pocket camera.

Auuugh!!!! 

It was still set on last night's settings for very low-light photography: 1600 ISO, 1/10th of a second. If I were to try to take a picture at those settings, under this bright sun, all I would get would be a blinding, white, glare.

I quickly dialed the ISO down to 100 and set the shutter speed at 1/400th of a second, but by then the rider had topped the hill and had turned around to go back down.

I was surprised to see that he was not a kid at all, but an old man, with white hair and a white beard. Just like that, he dropped over the edge and charged back down the grade.

I then hoped that he would turn around and charge back up again so I could get a climbing picture, but he didn't.

He just kept going and drove through the abandoned, dug-out gravel pit that the lying developers never did turn into a pleasant neighborhood lake, the way they had promised they would do way back when they first tore up the wetlands above it. In those horrid days, a lone man sitting on the seat of a gravel extracting machine would work all the way through the summer night and if the air was flowing from him towards our house, I could not sleep over the rattling and crunching of the gravel being ground through that machine.

A few times, I got out of bed and went to talk to the man doing the extraction and his response was... "f.. you." It was summer, it was light and he was going to work through the night, the peace and sleep of the neighborhood be damned.

I would return home, climb back in bed and, unable to sleep, would fantasize about returning with my 30.06 so that I could pop the rude sob right off the seat of his machine.

Irrational, I know and I knew it then and I would not have done it, but so works the human mind when it is tormented and deprived of sleep night after night just because someone is rude.

At least when it was all over, we were to have this nice neighborhood lake, but instead we got an ugly pit.

As for this old man who charged up the hill today and then turned and charged back down, my feelings were mixed. On the one hand, I admired him, for not yielding easy to the calendar, for not giving into his years.

On the other hand, after he exited the gravel pit, he continued on and I saw him disappear into the marsh, the one behind my house. He was headed toward where the property owner across from us keeps putting up signs and baricades to try to keep the four-wheelers out, because they have done so much damage to the vegetation. Yet, the drivers just keep finding ways to get in and they just keep tearing up the property.

With kids, you can kind of understand, but with an old man whose hair is white...

But then, I don't know... perhaps he turned away before he reached that man's property. Perhaps he lives in one of the houses further down from ours that borders the marsh. Perhaps he has a trail that leads into his own backyard.

He might just be a decent fellow who would never trespass and tear up another man's wetlands.

I just don't know. I must give him the benefit of the doubt.

I pedal on, back onto the road where there is no guardrail to push me into traffic.

I took this as I drove past in my car, on my coffee break.

I would have driven slowly across this bridge so that I could have gotten a couple more frames out of the pocket camera, which is a very slow camera to operate, but there was a truck behind me so I had to rush across and was lucky to get even this one.

Technically, I have somewhat exceeded cocoon mode tonight. Oh well. The weekend has begun. I must have a little fun.

*Cocoon mode: Until I finish up a big project that I am working on, I am keeping this blog at bare-minimum simple. I anticipate about one month.

Cocoon mode* - day 10: I see a babe in the Metro Cafe; I feel frustrated; lament for Mary

I am frustrated now. I took a series of photos this morning from my bicycle and another series this evening, of Kalib, and I would like to post both series in their entirety.

But I haven't the time. I am in Cocoon mode. Furthermore, I am exhausted.

So this one of this very cute baby who did not wave back at me will have to do. I am at the drive-through to the Metro Cafe, where I have just ordered two coffees, one for me and one for Margie, who stayed home.

It will still be hot when I deliver it to her.

Carmen tells me that the local classic car club will be coming to her grand opening Saturday, noon till 2:00, Lucille Street, just south of Spruce. So there should be some neat cars there.

Too bad Melanie and Charlie have gone to Portland. Charlie could bring his Oldsmobile Starfire and we could go in that, spill coffee on the upholstery and then dab it up with cinnamon rolls. Then we could eat the cinnamon rolls and reminisce about the good old days, when people drove about in Oldsmobile Starfires, dipping their donuts into their coffee as they listened to Peter, Paul, and Mary sing about little boys and dragons, flowers that go with soldiers to the graveyard, and jet planes that take you away even though you hate to go.

And now Mary is dead.

It just doesn't feel quite right. But then it never does, even though that is how it always goes. 

*Cocoon mode: Until I finish up a big project that I am working on, I am keeping this blog at bare-minimum simple. I anticipate about one month.

Cocoon mode* - day 9: Three more pix from the car: little kid morphs into cop, then insurance salesman; bike jump; Iona Grotto - I get my tail kicked by a lady at the New York Times

Every morning before I go to bed, there are a few blogs that I must check out. At the top of the list is, Lens, the photojournalism blog of the New York Times, and I have mentioned it before. This morning when I opened it up, I damn near died. It featured a photo story titled "Essay, Motor Drive," by Monica Almeida, a talented photographer who relocated to Los Angeles from New York City, but still shoots pictures that wind up in the New York Times.

The essay was comprised of 16 pictures that she took from her car. It was presented as a visionary leap of sorts, the transfer of street shooting skills from the sidewalk to the vehicle.

And of course I have been doing the same thing for years and years and if I could select 16 of my best shot-from-the-car images and put them before a national audience... well, I know this sounds arrogant, but I guarantee you, that audience would see something that would go even beyond what was presented today in Lens.

And now, if I ever get the chance, everyone will think that I am just a copy cat.

Oh well. Monica did it. I didn't, and that's that.

Congratulations, Monica.

Speaking of which, all three of today's pictures are from the car.

This one as I wait in the drive-through to Metro Cafe.

The young man to the left is Dave Eller, who I pretty much got to watch grow up as he was a classmate of Jacob's. Dave grew up to be a cop and I was always worried that one day he would pull me over for speeding or something, but really, I don't speed much and he never did.

In fact, I got my last speeding ticket close to 25 years ago, when Dave was still a kid.

This past year, he left the full-time police and joined the police reserves. I believe that he is an insurance salesman now, or works with insurance companies in some capacity.

This belief is born out by the fact that his camera-shy companion hides his face behind an Insurance brochure from Hartford.

As for the Metro Cafe grand opening Saturday, from noon 'til two, I failed to note the location: Lucille Street, just south of Spruce. 

And here I am, driving by the skateboard park. One commenter on Lens expressed his horror, charging that the practice of drive by shooting is more dangerous then driving and texting.

I suppose it could be, but not the way I do it. It is not anywhere near as much a distraction as talking on a cell phone. When I drive by shoot, I do not take my eyes and concentration off the road ahead for even as long as does every driver who turns his head to look over her shoulder at the traffic behind him. 

When I see something that looks like it might make a good picture, I lift the camera, point like a gunslinger shooting from the hip without ever bringing it to my eye, shoot, and put it back down again.

Usually, when I shoot, I am not even looking at the subject. I have already got a glance of it, just as anybody driving past at that moment would have, and a glance is all I need to know that it is there.

I have a very good sense of where a camera is pointing even without looking through the viewfinder, although it is a fact that sometimes I miss the subject completely.

In this case, the subject was beyond the practical reach of my pocket camera, so this is a significant crop.

Shortly afterward, I passed by Iona Grotto. Remember how, on that day that I pedaled my bike past the bare-breasted young woman and wound up on my knees in front of a grave here, I gave myself an assignment to learn more about the husband and wife buried within? Paul and Iona Mahoney.

Yesterday, an airplane mechanic by the name of Ray Cross called me on behalf of Paulie Mahoney, the daughter of that couple, who asked him to give me her phone number. I called her today. She was very happy, glad that I am interested and promised to help me piece that story together, once I get my big project out of the way.

So, even though I have not done a very good job of it so far, please stay with me. I will yet find the soul of Wasilla, as I promised I would when I began this blog, one year and nine days ago.

And even as I do, I will keep searching for the soul of the larger Alaska. And, in this cocoon mode period, some ideas have come to me on how I might do that.

Speaking of Cocoon mode, I have gone over my time limit by about 15 minutes. Damnit! I so lack discipline!

*Cocoon mode: Until I finish up a big project that I am working on, I am keeping this blog at bare-minimum simple. I anticipate about one month.