We have a day, maybe the last almost-warm sunny one until April. Matt wants to buy a new coat for work. It turns into an exercise in depression, as we find that Carhartts has ceased all of its U.S. manufacturing. Storekeepers shrug and say "What can you do?" We have lunch at T-Bonz and commiserate over Bell's, solving the world's problems and making up storylines for everyone else in the bar, like we used to years ago.
A walk on the lake was on the original agenda. "I want to feel the sand," Matt says, and we amble along Park Point. The lake is almost still and empty of ships. It's cool but not chilly. We hear a train heading up the hill.
At home, we find that the dogs have decided to be a little destructive and have torn up a lot of paper, including Norwegian design catalogs and the Bible I bought for my freshman religion class in college. Later, one of the dog pees on the floor just for the hell of it. Maia is in a mood and a half, providing us a glimpse of what fifteen will be like. John gets ready for his second day of tryouts and brings the wrong helmet. We find out that some of the mines have announced that they will slow down their production: less taconite, fewer trains.
Sometimes, you have a day.