Franklin Ave

There's no telling.
How much coffee can I drink?
When you're drinking coffee, you just want more. Wheee!
Now I'm drinking wine, because of all the coffee. What a life. I'm a substance-abuser.

Went to south Minneapolis today, the Phillips neighborhood, to Maria's for plantain pancake and American fries. And coffee! Maria's, a bastion of the Franklin Ave area that didn't exist when I lived in Phillips. I saw my old house on 10th and 19th (Brady has his lights strung up for the holidays); and Craig asked if Cathie hadn't lived with me as well (so I pointed in the direction of her old place on 10th.) Craig in turn indicated the stretch of Franklin where he used to take a walk, on his breaks from the Social Security office over on Chicago. No doubt all three of our paths crossed, from time to time. Now we all live in Northeast; and we have met, and work together, and we reference (all three of us) our time observing life off Franklin Avenue.

Three white people.
What an odd assortment we would have been in the Franklin Avenue days.
My only interest in the boss would have been, shall we say, acquisitive. And what about Cathie? Craig would have been somewhere in the early stages of a marriage. Then Cathie had her car accident, I got married and became miserable for a time, and Craig got divorced. All transition, no solid lifestyle.

I don't think much about the past in this way. I don't regret, or wonder. I tend to feel strongly that I only have this one life, and this is now, and all there is. But I wish we had all three known each other concurrently anyway, if only because I care so much for them both. It might have been fun.