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Saying Goodbye to Minneapolis with Brunch at Nicollet Island Inn
Elizabeth Weintraub, Adam Weintraub, Margaret Burgard and Laura Burgard at Nicollet Island Inn
When one wakes up late in the morning, still on California time, with only a few hours left to spend in Minneapolis before flying home to Sacramento, she has a few choices to make. One includes lunch. The other is trying to see her brother — the guy who stopped communicating shortly after their mother died in 2002 and, for reasons known only to him has, ever since he stopped drinking in 1974, always kept his distance, but is now dying from 4th-stage lung cancer. Don’t feel sorry for me, this type of family dysfunctional behavior is not entirely uncommon.
Before we landed in Minneapolis two days earlier, I had asked my sister to try to set up a time that we could get together with my brother, but that didn’t happen. Believe it or not, I did not have my brother’s phone number in my cell. I also could not find it online until I searched under his wife’s name and finally called him myself on Sunday. We talked for a half hour. Some childhood recollections came up, between treatment and outlook. About the permanent lead dot in my left arm –where he stabbed me with a pencil because I blurted out he received a prize he didn’t deserve, which I had expected to win, as my self esteem was higher. He worked into the conversation his new dental bridge, which replaced a crown covering the tooth he had broken off in my forehead.
The conversation was like we had just spoken yesterday.
He would not be joining us for brunch. We would not be visiting him. He is hopeful about his chemotherapy. My sister says we all know how Breaking Bad ends.
Icon of Grain Belt Beer on Hennepin Bridge
After that, a woman from Alameda called who is planning to move to the riverfront in Sacramento and wanted to talk about options. I referred her to my team member; we checked out of the hotel and hailed a cab to the Nicollet Island Inn.
Life goes on.
Many people do not know that there is an island in the Mississippi near downtown Minneapolis. Even people like me who are native to the area. They just drive over Hennepin from Northeast heading downtown and cross the river, little stretch of land and cross the river again, oblivious. If you stop, there you will discover the Nicollet Island Inn, a quaint and charming restored restaurant, bar and hotel, originally a door company in the late 1800s.
Reception area at the Nicollet Island Inn, Minneapolis
The brunch at Nicollet Island Inn is fairly reasonable, $20 for 3-course brunch and $29 for 5-course. In my opinion, there is no better brunch in Minneapolis. The food is excellent, the view is unbeatable, nestled on the riverbank with a view of two bridges. It’s near a place by Saint Anthony Falls where my sister, brother and I used to go, a place where kids would throw firecrackers into the water to blow up the fish. We had discovered in the 1960s a tree log lying on the ground at a spot nicknamed Lost Park and the three of us dragged it home to make a cat tree for our Siamese.
My niece, Laura, joined us for brunch. I tried to tell her she would do well in real estate as she seems a bit directionless at the moment, having just finished her 2-year AA. She has this notion, though, that one needs to conform and “sell out” to do well in real estate, and well, let’s just say her aunt is a solid example that the idea of sacrificing your identity is a falsehood. I am a top producer in Sacramento real estate. You don’t have to compromise who you are to succeed in real estate.
Real estate does teach one, though, how to cope with life’s disappointments.
The Undead No-Suicide Brother in Minneapolis
For all of my readers who often skim through paragraphs of my Sacramento real estate blog, let me start by clarifying that my brother is undead and did not die by suicide. He may be dying from stage 4 cancer, which was a bit of a shock to me, but he is still alive. The strange thing is I was thinking about him a few days ago while I was out in our 106-degree heat, riding my bicycle around William Land Park and listening to Gram Parsons / Emmy Lou through my Bluebuds. We were pretty inseparable as kids — a year apart. People used to think we were twins.
But then as things sometimes go in families, we drifted apart. It wasn’t a slow separation, my brother just decided at some point during his marriage that he no longer wanted to associate with his parent’s side of the family. Nobody knows why. We exhausted efforts to turn him around. It’s one of those things that one finally accepts that cannot be changed.
Which goes to show it wasn’t a completely odd reaction from me after a pair of detectives appeared yesterday morning on my sister’s doorstep in Minneapolis. I believe they were from the Hennepin County Sheriff’s department. The police told my sister our brother is dead. Committed suicide. Said he jumped off the Ford Bridge over the Mississippi. Since the river divides Minneapolis from Saint Paul, the body had drifted to the Saint Paul side, which was why Ramsey County health authorities or the Saint Paul Police department were also involved in the investigation.
My sister was sobbing. I was in shock. My brother committed suicide? Nobody in our family died by suicide. Although, everybody’s family is dysfunctional in some way.
Now, the Ford Bridge is by 46th Street, which runs near my brother’s home in south Minneapolis. It was conceivable. The detectives said he left his bike and guitar on the bridge. I could see that. My husband found a website set up for donations to help with my brother’s medical bills, but the funding had been cut off a few weeks ago. That’s how we found out he was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer. A phone number at the bottom belonged to a woman. I called, she answered; I mentioned that she had my maiden name so we were probably related.
The woman appeared a bit annoyed and impatient. I tried to be calm and sensitive. Turns out she is my brother’s son’s wife. I asked if she was sitting down because I didn’t know if she was driving or what. I did not correct her, btw, when she said my brother has 4 sisters, which he does not. I quietly shared the news I had received about his death. She choked. Then hammered me for details. Promised to call me back after she spoke to her mother-in-law. But she never called. She must have found out immediately after my call that my brother was undead, but she didn’t tell me.
Later in the day, my sister called to say she had finally reached my sister-in-law and, surprise, my brother was sitting right there. Undead. He was now the no-suicide brother. The police had mixed him up with some other bridge jumper. How bizarre is that? You can’t trust the police when they show up on your doorstep to deliver the news a relative has died? All that emotional upheaval. Of course, it doesn’t change the fact my brother is still dying, probably very soon.
My sister asked if she could see our brother. It doesn’t look like that will happen.
It seemed appropriate to watch another episode of Fargo, the TV series. Just wait until his family starts searching online for an Affidavit of Death.
