"It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood," sings Mr. Rogers.  "Would you be mine?  Could you be mine?  Won't you be my neighbor?"
Last week I did three things in my neighborhood that I've never ever done in all the past 30 years we've been here.  I wonder what got into me.
It was a beautiful day in the neighbor-hood when my niece Krystal called to say hi and whatchadoing?  Krystal, who has since gone back to college, lived with Cousin Jenny this summer in Eden Prairie while interning at Abbot Northwestern Hospital in Minneapolis.  She had called me on her day off, looking for a little action.
"Come on over!" says I.  "We'll find something to do."
Fifteen minutes later the young lady is on my doorstep.  Five minutes later we are taking great strides on the trail through Carver Park, which happens to be in my backyard, if you recall.  So far, so good with the routine regimen.  A little exercise, a little conversation, a little sunshine.
Forty minutes later we're back at the house, hotter than Hell's Angels, which prompts Krsystal to ask, "Can we swim in that lake?"  She was referring to Lake Zumbra which she met for the first time on our strides to the very northern end of Park Drive.  It had, indeed, felt cool and refreshing to the touch and toes.
"Sure!" says I, though I knew the public access at Lake Zumbra was for fishing boats and I had never ever seen swimmers at that shoreline.  "What could it hurt?" I thought to myself.  "It doesn't say 'No Swimming.'  There was nobody around.  Who'll know?  Who'll care?  Besides, it's hotter than Hell's Angels."
We put on swimsuits - I've got extra of everything - grabbed two deflated air mattresses, and drove to town for air.  "Can't we blow them up the old fashioned way?" asked the country girl.  "Not when there's free and easy air in town," replied the city girl.
When we eventually arrived at Zumbra's public landing, we were even hotter than Hell's Angels because it had taken a while to find an air pump in Victoria that worked for us.  We parked the car near a shade tree and stepped into the lake with our puffy pillowed air mattresses.
Eeeek!  The lake was swarming with minnows, millions of minnows.  We splashed up a storm to scare them away, but as soon as we were floating on our air mattresses, they returned to join us.  Eeeek.  Those little slippery devils were everywhere.  We pretended they weren't.
Cattails swayed in the breeze on either side of the small landing.  Though it was not a sandy beach, tons of little pebbles prevented it from being a muddy beach.  We closed our eyes, floated aim-lessly, and talked as we picked up a little suntan, all the while keeping an eye out for minnows between our legs or armpits.  Eeeek.
Off in the distance, Krystal saw a little fishing boat headed in our direction.  "Oh, there are lots of people that live on this lake," says I.  "They're just looking for a fishing hole.  We're okay."
But before we could say, "Holy Mackerel, land sakes alive!"  the little fishing boat pulled up next to us, about ten feet from our four feet.  Eeeek.  Krystal and I jumped up from our air mattresses and ran from the lake for our towels.
Says one of the fishermen, "We were wondering who those two bathing beauties were."
Then I recognized a familiar smile.  "Vic Schneider!" I yell.  "Gosh, can't believe it's you.  What are you doing here?  Fishing?  Aren't you on the wrong lake?  Who's your friend?  Dave?  Is that Dave Speltz?  Gosh, you guys were fishing.  We were just cooling off.  Did you catch any sunnies?  How's life?"
In the middle of my conversation with myself, a Carver Park ranger pulls up, surveys the situation, and asks where the permit is for my car.
  "Permit?" asks I. 
"You can't park here without a permit," says she.  "I don't see one in your window.  It's my job to hand out fines for parking without a permit."
"Oops!" says I.  "You know, I've never done any of this before in my entire life.  I've never gone swimming at a public access for fishermen.  I've never spent so much time with minnows.  I've never driven down to the end of this road before in all the 30 years I've lived here.  I only walk to this lake, but my niece and I had already walked here and got hot and just thought we'd drive down for a little swim.  Gosh.  I only live down the road a piece.  We could have walked again and left my car at home.  It's, like, in our backyard, you know.  Oofda.  I promise it'll never happen again.  Can't imagine it will ever, ever happen again."
Vic and Dave continue to play with bait and fishing pole and boat and rope and tackle box and keep glancing in my direction without saying a word, like they're on another planet.  They had driven to the landing with a pickup and the pickup has a sticker in the window.
I call over to them by name so the park ranger knows that I'm not a foreigner.  "Hey, Vic, how's Sis?  Hey, Dave, how's Marlene?  Are you ready for Touch of Bavaria?"
I want the park ranger to know I'm not from Chaska or Excelsior or Chanhassen or Waconia.  I'm from Victoria, darn it all!  I'm at home and I've never done any of these things before in my life.
Did I have to pay the fine?  I'm not telling.  I've learned that many of you out there in Gazette Land don't feel one bit sorry for me in my various predicaments.  You get a bit perturbed if I get off scot-free, and you give me little if any sympathy if I get the fine.  So I'm not telling.
It was a beautiful day in the neighbor-hood.  I spent time with my lovely niece, picked up a little sun, and discovered another favorite fishing hole of two Victoria fishermen.  Could you be mine?  Would you be mine?  Won't you be my neighbor?    -- Love, Sue