Panama X 3

 

PANAMA: THREE DEPLOYMENTS, THREE DIFFERENT WORLDS

1987 • 1989 • 1993

I never expected Panama to become a recurring chapter in my National Guard story, but life has a way of circling back to certain places. Between 1987 and 1993, I deployed there three times — each with similar missions but with a different version of myself. The country stayed the same in many ways: the heat, the traffic, the Canal, the coffee. But the experiences could not have been more different.

What follows is the full story — all three deployments, each one shaping the next.

FIRST DEPLOYMENT — JANUARY 1987

125th Public Affairs Detachment — St. Paul, Minnesota

My first trip to Panama announced itself the moment the airport doors slid open and that hot, humid curtain of air wrapped around me like a wet blanket. It wasn’t a breeze or a whiff — it was a full‑body introduction. One step out of the terminal and I knew I wasn’t in Minnesota anymore. The air felt thick enough to scoop with a spoon, warm and heavy and carrying a smell I still remember: vegetation, diesel, and something distinctly tropical I never could quite name.

Traffic, Stoplights, and Survival Spanish

Some of the longest stoplights in the world must exist in Panama. At least, that’s how it felt to a Minnesotan used to lights that turned green before you finished adjusting the radio. I swear one of those lights lasted three full minutes. Maybe it didn’t, but that’s how my memory preserved it: me sitting in the back of our team's van, watching heat shimmer off the pavement while the same red light glowed stubbornly in front of us.

And just when I thought I’d seen everything, a local man stepped out into traffic with a spray bottle and a rag, heading straight for our windshield. Before we could react, he was scrubbing away like we’d pulled into a full‑service car wash. No words exchanged — just a quick, practiced cleaning and an expectant look afterward that made it clear this was his livelihood.

Panamanian drivers themselves were a whole different experience. We figured they didn’t really use a brake pedal at all — just an accelerator and the horn. Traffic flowed by some unwritten code of speed, sound, and bravado. If you hesitated, you lost your place. If you signaled, nobody cared. And if you didn’t keep moving, someone behind you would remind you with a honk that could wake the dead.

We also picked up a little Spanish as we went. The most important vocabulary word we learned early on was cerveza — beer. Once that clicked, we were unstoppable. “Dos cervezas, por favor” became our unofficial motto.

The Buses, the Trash, and the Tropical Reality

The city had a visual soundtrack too, and nothing expressed it better than the buses. They weren’t buses so much as rolling murals — old American school buses reborn in every color imaginable. Reds, greens, yellows, blues, saints and singers and slogans painted across the sides, chrome shining, music thumping. You didn’t just ride a bus in Panama; you experienced it.

And then there was the trash. Panama City was vibrant and alive, but it also had this habit of collecting piles of garbage on street corners like it was part of the urban décor. Bags, boxes, loose papers — little mountains of refuse that seemed to regenerate overnight.

Our Team and Our First Night

Between the heat, the traffic, and the sensory overload of Panama City, our team was still figuring out how to function in a climate that didn’t care one bit about Minnesota comfort levels. One of our journalists learned that the hard way. He decided to enjoy the sun a little too enthusiastically and ended up sunburning his feet. Only a Minnesotan could step into the tropics and forget that the sun shines straight down.

We were a 12‑person team from the 125th Public Affairs Detachment — broadcast folks, print folks, photographers — all there to cover National Guard units training in Panama. Instead of barracks or tents, we were assigned to a surprisingly nice apartment building, an Edificio in Panama City. I even had my own room, which in Guard terms felt like winning a small lottery.

That first night, for reasons lost to history, we all went out for pizza. One day, while climbing the stairs to our apartments, I saw the biggest cockroach I had ever encountered — dead, but a sort of unofficial welcome committee. And then there was the coffee: strong, dark, and unforgettable.

Panama introduced itself boldly, and I was hooked from the start.

SECOND DEPLOYMENT — DECEMBER 1989

125th Public Affairs Detachment — St. Paul, Minnesota

Operation Just Cause

My second trip to Panama began like any other annual training with the 125th Public Affairs Detachment. We were there to cover National Guard units, gather stories, shoot photos, and do the usual public affairs work. I’d been in Panama before, back in 1987, and this time felt familiar enough — the same humid air, the same strong coffee, the same sense that we were visitors in a place that had its own rhythm.

The Night Everything Changed

That familiarity lasted right up until the night everything changed.

I was in our apartment in Panama City, half-watching television reports about rising tensions between the U.S. and Manuel Noriega’s regime. The anchors were still speculating, still using words like “possible” and “developing.” Then the first artillery booms rolled across the city.

It was a strange, disorienting moment — hearing the real thing outside while the TV was still talking about what might happen. That’s when it hit me: we weren’t just covering a training mission anymore. We were inside the story.

Within minutes, the atmosphere shifted. Soldiers were being called back to their units. Vehicles were moving. Radios crackled with urgency. Even from our relatively safe vantage point, you could feel the tension settle in like humidity.

Back Home, People Were Watching

Back home, people were watching the same news reports and seeing “Panama” flash across the screen. When the invasion became official, the phone lines lit up. Friends, family, and even readers of the Alexandria Herald suddenly realized I was down there.

The Mitchell Daily Republic interviewed me after I returned, and reading that article now, I can hear the mix of adrenaline and understatement in my own quotes.

Leaving Panama

When we finally boarded the plane to leave, the mood was different from any other Guard trip I’d taken. There was relief, of course, but also a heaviness. We’d been close enough to feel the tremors of history, and that stays with you.

I remember stepping off the plane in Minnesota. It was 19 degrees below zero -- quite an adjustment from the 80-degree warmth we left in Panama just hours ago. The shock of that cold air was almost symbolic — a jolt back into normal life after two weeks of tension and uncertainty.

THIRD DEPLOYMENT — MARCH 1993

129th Public Affairs Detachment — Rapid City, South Dakota

Commander

By the time I returned to Panama in March of 1993, I was no longer the new guy with wide eyes and a sunburned Minnesotan sense of wonder. This time I was the commander of the 129th Public Affairs Detachment out of Rapid City, South Dakota.

A Calm, Steady Mission

Unlike the 1989 deployment, this trip was calm, predictable, and refreshingly uneventful. No artillery in the distance, no sudden shifts from training to history‑in‑the‑making. Just the steady rhythm of public affairs work: documenting training, interviewing soldiers, gathering stories, and making sure the Guard’s mission was captured accurately.

The Canal Tradition

A ship works its way through the Panama Canal's Miraflores Locks.

One tradition carried across all three deployments: a visit to the Panama Canal. I believe every one of our trips included it, and 1993 was no exception. We found ourselves once again standing at the Miraflores Locks, watching enormous ships rise and fall as the Pacific traded water with Gatun Lake.

Electric cars called "mules" help guide a ship through Miraflores Locks.

Transiting through Miraflores Locks.

No matter how many times you see it, the Canal never loses its sense of engineering magic.

CLOSING REFLECTION — THREE TRIPS, ONE COUNTRY, A LIFETIME OF MEMORIES

I present a memento of the 125th Public Affairs Detachment's deployment to Panama to our host.

Looking back now, the three Panama deployments form a kind of trilogy.

1987 was discovery — the heat, the traffic, the buses, the trash, the cockroach, the coffee, the sunburned feet, and the first “Dos cervezas, por favor.”

1989 was history — the night the artillery started, the tension in the air, the sudden shift from routine to reality.

1993 was leadership — calm, steady, and reflective, a return to a place that had already shaped me twice before.

Same country. Same Canal. Same humidity.

But three completely different experiences — each one marking a different chapter of my life in uniform.

Panama didn’t just give me stories. It gave me perspective.

And I’m grateful for every trip.

Remembering Mom

 

Mother’s Day Reflections: Remembering Mom

My mother, Cynthia Josephine (Jarding) Stoltz, was born into a world that doesn’t exist anymore — one of 13 children raised by Carl and Anna (Arend) Jarding in Emery, South Dakota. When you come from a family that big, you learn early how to work, how to share, and how to get by without expecting much fuss or attention. Mom carried that practicality with her for all 93 years of her life.

I was the youngest of six — four brothers, one sister, and then me, arriving on January 10, 1955. By then Mom was almost 38 and Dad was nearly 44. My siblings were good kids, or at least that’s how I remember it. Maybe an occasionaly scolding but nothing major that I can remember.. We grew up in a home where expectations were clear, the rules were simple, and Mom kept everything running without ever making a big deal out of it.

Mom was a stay‑at‑home mother her entire life. She never worked outside the home, and the only driving I remember her doing was heading downtown for groceries. But she worked — make no mistake about that. Her work was the home. She fed us, clothed us, kept us steady, and made sure the house ran like a quiet, well‑oiled machine.

Monday was always wash day. I can still see that old wringer washer churning away, the rollers clicking as she fed clothes through. Then she’d head out back to hang everything on the clothesline behind the house. That was just the rhythm of life. Predictable. Steady. A kind of domestic heartbeat that kept our family going.

Mom wasn’t a huggy, demonstrative woman. I don’t remember her hugging anyone, and I never saw my parents show affection in front of us kids. But I never doubted she loved us. Her love was the kind that showed up in full lunchboxes, mended clothes, and a home that always felt safe. If we had a problem, we went to Mom. Dad worked hard, and when he came home he’d sit in his chair after supper and watch TV or read. We all knew to give him space. But Mom — she was the one who listened, the one who steadied us, the one who handled the small storms of childhood.

One of my favorite memories is from my senior year of high school, when I wanted to borrow the family car to go on a date.. I asked Mom if I could use the car. She didn’t say yes or no. She simply said, “You have to ask your dad.” It was his car, after all. It took every ounce of courage I had, but I asked him — and I don’t think he ever told me no. I always put two dollars of gas in it afterward, and I never abused the privilege. That moment taught me responsibility, respect, and maybe a little bravery too. Mom knew exactly what she was doing.

She also had a favorite saying, borrowed from Father Walter Liesch: “Stretch your feet to fit the blanket.” That was her whole philosophy in one sentence. Live within your means. Don’t complain. Make do. Be grateful. She lived that out every single day.

In her later years, after I was grown and divorced, I used to bring my younger kids down on Saturdays to spend time with Mom and my brother Roger. Those were some of the sweetest, simplest times — talking, listening to the Twins game on the radio, and ending the afternoon with a bowl of ice cream. No drama. No big speeches. Just the quiet comfort of being with Mom and Rog.

Looking back now, I realize no one shaped me more than she did. Not through hugs or long talks or outward affection, but through her steadiness, her work ethic, her practicality, and her unwavering presence. She taught me responsibility. She taught me gratitude. She taught me to love the Lord. She taught me how to keep going, even when life wasn’t easy.

Mom passed away on January 15, 2011, at the age of 93. But she’s still with me — in the way I approach problems, in the way I raised my own kids, in the way I try to live with a little humility and a lot of gratitude.

This Mother’s Day, I’m thinking of her. A quiet woman. A strong woman. A woman who stretched her feet to fit the blanket — and taught all of us to do the same.

'May God Bless This Ship and All Who Sail in Her'

The First One — USNS Choctaw County (EPF 2)

My first christening at Austal USA set the tone for everything that followed: the color guard, the band, the sponsor’s blessing, the champagne bottle, and the unmistakable sense that something important was happening. My job was to catch the action, and I did. Every champagne bottle broken over a bow required split-second shutter speed, perfect position, a steady hand... and patience.

The Rhythm of a Christening Day

• Color guard presents the colors

• Navy band plays patriotic marches

• Speeches from Navy leaders, shipyard executives, and VIPs

• Sponsor delivers the blessing

• Champagne bottle breaks

• Confetti everywhere

• Casket with bottle fragments is presented

• Guests tour the ship

It’s a ceremony steeped in tradition.

USNS Maury — The Sideways Launch

USNS Maury slid into the river during christening ceremony at VT Halter Marine on March 27, 2013.

This was the only sideways launch I ever witnessed — a dramatic, unforgettable sight.

Under‑the‑Ship Christenings — A Gulf Coast Oddity

Some christenings at Austal were held under the ship, thanks to the elevated EPF hulls.

Guests to the christening of USNS Burlington gather underneath the ship for the ceremony on Feb. 24, 2018.

It felt like a steel cathedral — shaded, echoing, and unlike any other ceremony.

USS Omaha (LCS 12) — The Hometown Ship

The sponsor, Susan Buffett, delivered the traditional blessing:

“For the United States of America, I christen thee Omaha. May God bless this ship and all who sail in her.”

Susan Buffett christens the USS Omaha (LCS 12) at Austal USA in Mobile AL on Dec. 19, 2015.

With my Nebraska ties, this one hit close to home.

USS John Finn (DDG 113) — The Moment of Impact

Mrs. Laura Elizabeth Stavridis smashes the champagne bottle across the bow of DDG 113 (USS John Finn) during the christening ceremony May 2, 2015.

This photo captures the exact instant the ship receives its name.

USS Gabrielle Giffords (LCS 10) — A Ceremony With Heart

Gabrielle Giffords, artist Peter K. Hsu, and Jill Biden (Ed.Dj) at the christening ceremony for USS Gabrielle Giffords (LCS 10) on June 13, 2015.

A deeply meaningful ceremony honoring courage and resilience.

USS Jackson (LCS 6) — Bringing the Ship to Life

The crew run to man their posts aboard the USS Jackson (LCS 6).

The commissioning moment when the crew sprints aboard never fails to electrify the crowd.

The Final Count

Across six years, I attended:

• 16 christenings at Austal

• 7 at Ingalls

• 1 at VT Halter Marine

• Plus LCAC oversight in Louisiana

Barbara attended 23 of the 24 with me.

Closing Reflection

These ceremonies weren’t just events — they were milestones in the life of the Navy, the shipbuilders, and the sailors who would one day serve aboard these ships. I was privileged to witness them up close.

 

A Soldier Goes Working for the Navy

From Millington to the Mississippi Gulf Coast

When I retired from the Army Reserve in 2011 and wrapped up my civilian time with the Army Corps of Engineers, I never imagined my next chapter would involve Navy ships — especially since I couldn’t swim and didn’t know port from starboard. But life has a way of steering you into unexpected waters.

That’s how I found myself in Pascagoula, Mississippi, working as a public affairs specialist for SUPSHIP Gulf Coast (SSGC) — the Navy’s on‑site authority for ship construction across the region.

What SUPSHIP Gulf Coast Does

SUPSHIP Gulf Coast is a 600‑person command made up of active‑duty Navy officers and enlisted sailors, Navy civilians, DoD civilians, engineers, quality assurance specialists, contracting officers, logisticians, and public affairs staff. Together, we oversaw cost, schedule, quality, and contract compliance for ships built at:

• Ingalls Shipbuilding (Pascagoula, MS)

• Austal USA (Mobile, AL)

• VT Halter Marine (Pascagoula, MS)

• Textron Systems (Slidell, LA)

If it floated — or hovered — and came from the Gulf Coast, SUPSHIP had a hand in it.

Ingalls Shipbuilding — A Giant on the Pascagoula River

Ingalls is enormous: 160 acres on the east bank, 611 acres on the west bank, and more than 250 ships built since 1938. Destroyers, amphibs, cutters — steel everywhere, cranes towering overhead, and the constant hum of welding, grinding, and construction.

I learned the Navy world the hard way: climbing ladders, crawling through compartments, and touring ships from bilge to bridge. It was a crash course in naval architecture and shipyard culture.

Shipbuilding 101 — From Keel to Commissioning

Working at SUPSHIP meant seeing the entire life cycle of a ship:

• Keel laying — the sponsor welds her initials into a steel plate

• Christening — champagne bottle, blessing, color guard, band

• Casket presentation — fragments of the broken bottle preserved in a wooden box

• Launch — either flooding the dry dock or sliding down a slipway

• Sea trials — builder’s trials, acceptance trials

• Delivery — the Navy formally accepts the ship

• Commissioning — the crew “brings the ship to life”

It’s a process that takes years, and every milestone has its own traditions.

Notable Moments and People

USS America (LHA 6) — The Crew Marches Aboard

The crew of USS America (LHA 6) march to their ship.

USS America Sail‑Away — A Memory That Stays With You

Sailors line the deck of USS America (LHA 6) as she left Pascagoula.

Seeing America sail away with sailors manning the rails in their dress whites was one of the most powerful moments of my time on the Gulf Coast.

Color Guard and Band — Ceremony and Fanfare

The color guard steps off smartly during the ceremony aboard USS America (LHA 6).

The color guard and Navy band transformed a noisy shipyard into a ceremonial stage.

A Job That Became a Calling

Working for SUPSHIP Gulf Coast wasn’t just a job — it was a front‑row seat to American shipbuilding, naval tradition, and the pride of thousands of shipbuilders and sailors. I attended 24 christenings, toured dozens of ships, and witnessed moments that will stay with me forever.

 

🌳 Our attachment to Arbor Day

Most people have a simple relationship with Arbor Day. They plant a tree, maybe read a quote from J. Sterling Morton, and go about their business. Barbara and I, however, have a more complicated connection to the holiday Nebraska gave the world.

In fact, Arbor Day once stopped us from getting married.

Back in 2007, after Barbara and I had been dating for 10 months, she accepted my marriage proposal. Summer was coming up, and July looked like a good fit. July 7, in fact. 7-7-7 would be our lucky day minus the slot machine. But life had other plans. When Barbara was diagnosed with a medical condition that might affect her insurance coverage, we needed to move sooner rather than later. Love may be romantic, but sometimes it's also practical.

We wanted a quiet, simple civil ceremony. Nothing fancy. No aisle runners, no string quartets, no unity candles. Just the two of us, a judge, and a marriage license. So we drove to the Lancaster County Courthouse in Lincoln, fully expecting to walk in, sign the papers, say the words, and walk out married.

We stepped up to the courthouse doors — marriage license in hand, hearts full — and found them locked.

A sign informed us that the courthouse, along with all government offices, was closed for Arbor Day.

Arbor Day! Only in Nebraska could a holiday dedicated to trees derail a wedding. I remember standing there thinking, “Well, on to Plan B,” whatever that was.

On Tuesday, June 5, I found a judge who agreed to marry us at 5 p.m. that Thursday. And not just anywhere — he offered to perform the ceremony in the Capitol Rotunda of the Nebraska State Capitol.

Suddenly, our quiet little wedding had turned into something extraordinary.

In the next 48 hours, everything happened at once. Some of Barbara’s friends threw her a silly, joyful bridal shower. We notified family and friends. Two of my daughters drove down from South Dakota. Two of Barbara’s daughters joined us as well. Her third daughter couldn’t make it — she was in the hospital, about to give birth. (She delivered Barbara’s first grandchild the very next day, making June 2007 a month of celebrations stacked on celebrations.)

When Thursday arrived, we gathered in the Rotunda — that soaring, echoing space several stories above Lincoln — surrounded by the people who mattered most. Judge John R. Hoffert delivered one of the most uplifting, compassionate ceremonies I’ve ever heard. It was beautiful, heartfelt, and unforgettable.

Afterward, we celebrated at Grisanti’s in Lincoln, sharing a meal that felt like the perfect capstone to a whirlwind week.

To this day, whenever Barbara and I drive into Lincoln and the Capitol rises above the skyline, I point and say, “Hey, there’s our wedding chapel.” What great memories!

So yes — Arbor Day once shut down our wedding plans. But in doing so, it nudged us toward something far better: a ceremony filled with love, family, laughter, and the grandeur of Nebraska’s most iconic building.

Not a bad trade for a holiday about trees.

The State B's

 

STATE B WEEKENDS

I grew up in Alexandria, a town of about 600 souls and a whole lot of heart. Our school — Hanson Independent No. 40 — pulled together the kids from the Alexandriia Beavers, Farmer Orioles and Fulton Pirates. We were the Hanson Beavers because we were Hanson County, and Alexandria was the county seat. In a small school, you didn’t specialize. You played everything. I suited up for football in the fall, basketball in the winter, and track in the spring. Baseball wasn’t a school sport yet, so summer meant the city team, dusty diamonds, and long evenings with friends.

But if you ask me what really defined high school, it wasn’t prom or graduation. It was the State B Basketball Tournament.

For small schools, the State B’s were the mountaintop — the top eight teams in the whole state, the ones who survived districts and regionals. Back then there were only two classes -- Class A (the BIG schools) and Class B (everyone else, us small schools). Making it to the Sioux Falls Arena was like stepping into the big leagues. If you weren’t there as a player or a cheerleader, the next best thing was going as an upperclassman who had earned the right by seniority. And believe me, we took that privilege seriously.

My first State B as a junior, a bunch of us stayed with a relative just outside Sioux Falls. We packed a case or two of Budweiser — because that’s what seventeen‑year‑olds with more confidence than sense did — and when we hit the Arena on Thursday, the fun began. Every night was a mix of basketball, beer, and figuring out which party we could crash. At some point — junior year or senior year, the memory’s foggy — we decided we were sophisticated enough to smoke pipes. Not those pipes. Just regular old tobacco pipes, because apparently we thought we were professors.

Now, my relatives didn’t condone underage drinking, and we did our best to hide it. We kept the beer tucked away, acted casual, and pretended the pipes made us look distinguished. Looking back, I’m sure they suspected what we were up to. They just let us have our weekend of feeling grown‑up, as long as we didn’t do anything stupid.

Senior year we stayed with a different relative, and this time we came prepared: a case of quart bottles. We made the first round games — four in one day — but the consolation games the next afternoon didn’t stand a chance against our priorities. Who cared about losers? We went to the night games on Friday and Saturday, including the championship, because that’s where the electricity was.

The details blur now — who won, who we ran into, which parties we found — but the feeling remains sharp. Freedom. Friendship. The sense that for three days in Sioux Falls, we were part of something bigger than ourselves.

Those State B weekends weren’t just about basketball. They were about growing up.

I've Been Everywhere

 

From Sea to Shining Sea: Been There

I’ve lived in nine states — and visited every state west of the Mississippi and most to the east. I’ve missed the Carolinas and a few corners of New England, but I’ve seen enough of America to know this: every place has its own personality. Some whisper, some shout, some surprise you, and some stay with you long after you’ve moved on.

What follows isn’t a travel guide. It’s a memory map — the things that stuck, the things that shaped me, and the things I still see when I close my eyes.

South Dakota — Where The Story Begins

Born and raised there, and later returning for a decade to run the Alexandria Herald and Emery Enterprise, South Dakota is the state that built me.

East River is rolling hills, rich cropland, and horizons that stretch farther than your worries. And home to the World's Only Corn Palace! West River is rangeland, the haunting moonscape of the Badlands, and the Black Hills rising like a promise out of the prairie. It's Mount Rushmore and the Crazy Horse Memorial.

It’s a place of honest seasons, steady people, and land that teaches you patience, resilience, and respect.

Washington — The Evergreen Cathedral

Tacoma and Fort Lewis introduced me to the Pacific Northwest:

• Pine forests

• Mild temperatures

• Rain that seems to fall more days than not

• Flowers that bloom like they’re showing off

And the rain — that deserves its own explanation. In the Pacific Northwest, you can see it raining without actually feeling it. It’s so light it becomes a fine mist, almost like the sky is exhaling.

There's Seattle and the Space Needle, and then there’s Mt. Rainier — invisible most days, but when the clouds finally part, it appears like a revelation. A mountain that doesn’t just sit on the horizon but owns it.

And then there's that other mountain -- Mt. St. Helens. I was pulling Staff Duty Officer on Fort Lewis that day -- May 18, 1980 -- about 80 miles north-northwest of the mountain. As post SDO it was my duty to handle the various situations that arise on post during off-duty hours. And when the mountain blew its top at 8:32 a.m., it set off an "avalanche" of requests for lodging, food, and transportation from stranded troops. What a memorable day. And then a week later after visiting the Pacific Coast, the prevailing winds still dropped gritty ash on my sleek, black Four Courier pickup.

Minnesota — Familiar Ground

Minnesota felt like South Dakota with:

• More lakes

• More trees

• More towns

• And winters that take themselves seriously

• More mosquitoes

For a time, I drilled with my National Guard unit in St. Paul, and that gave me a front‑row seat to one of Minnesota’s great cultural truths: if the Vikings were playing at home, you planned your day around it. You either beat the rush before the game ended or you braced yourself for traffic filled with thousands of fans — some upbeat, some downcast, all of them determined to get home at the same time.

Minnesota was familiar, comfortable, and steady — a northern neighbor with a similar soul.

Colorado — The Rockies as Neighbors

Colorado Springs and Fort Carson gave me:

• Cheyenne Mountain, a massive, steep-sided block of granite that casts long shadows across the post in the late afternoon.

• Hailstorms that arrived like uninvited guests.

• The memory of climbing Pike’s Peak with my friend Lauryn (“Goat”), who lived up to his nickname.

Colorado is a place where the mountains aren’t scenery — they’re part of your daily life.

Texas — Sun, Sand, and the Borderlands

Fort Bliss gave me a different kind of beauty.

El Paso is one of the sunniest cities in America — the kind of place where you expect blue sky every morning and usually get it. It sits right across the border from Juárez, Mexico, close enough to see the lights at night. And yet El Paso itself is remarkably safe, year after year one of the safest large cities in the country.

What I remember most:

• Sand, sand, and more sand

• Mesquite bushes that look older than time

• Sandstorms that turn the sky brown

• Tarantulas crawling out after heavy rains like desert inspectors

A stark, sun‑baked landscape — rugged, honest, unforgettable.

Tennessee — The First Taste of the South

Tennessee was my introduction to southern living — Millington, just outside Memphis, where the humidity hits you like a warm, wet blanket the moment you step outside.

Fields of cotton. Kudzu covering everything. That southern drawl. "Bless your heart." Armadillos -- deceased, roadside warriors. Memphis' Beale Street. Flowers blooming in November. Baptist churches or Waffle Houses on every other corner.

In the South, it seems every river's name is at least four syllables -- like "Loosahatchie, " near Memphis, or "Tallahatchie" in Mississippi. But my all-time favorite was located near Biloxi, Mississippi -- the Tchoutacabouffa River -- pronounced “CHOO-tah-kah-buf," from the Biloxi tribe's word for "broken pot."

Mississippi — The Gulf Coast Years

My second‑longest home was the Mississippi Gulf Coast — a world of its own.

Trees everywhere. Spanish moss hanging like nature’s lace. Crepe myrtles blooming in colors that look painted on. Azaleas. Winters so mild you can sit outside in December in shorts. Summers so brutal the air conditioner never stops running, even at night.

And the rain — not gentle, not polite, but sheets of water.

One night I drove to pick up Barbara from class at the community college. The ditches were overflowing. A pickup was already swallowed by water. Our Toyota Sienna pushed through a parking lot with water up to the radiator. Somehow — and only by the grace of God — we made it home.

And hurricanes. The day I reported to the shipyard in Pascagoula to inprocess for my new job, Hurricane Isaac was bearing down on the coast, so I was sent home mid-morning, only to return a week later with luckily little damage. But we learned that time for Mississippians is measured as being "before (Hurricane) Katrina or after Katrina." And when we arrived there in 2012 the effects of the 2005 hurricane could still be seen. Ironically, in our almost six years on the Coast, we never experienced a hurricane.

And on clear days, the drive along Highway 90 from Pascagoula to Biloxi gave you postcard views of the Gulf. The sun shimmering on the peaceful water, gulls and pelicans flying overhead. Trawlers heading out to find the day's catch.

And in nearly six years there, I never saw a single snake. Alligators, yes. Snakes, no. A small miracle.

What we did have were the little green lizards — fast, harmless, and apparently convinced they were part of the family. They’d sun themselves on the patio, cling to the siding, and every so often dart inside like they were checking on us.

Then came the crawfish feeds — a Gulf Coast tradition I never quite embraced. Those tiny orange creatures get dumped on long tables by the pound, steaming hot and seasoned. You pick them apart to get the “delicious” innards, and my boss -- a seasoned Southerner -- once told me, with a straight face, that you have to “suck the head” to get the full taste experience. That alone was enough to make me question my life choices.

And nothing compares to Mardi Gras season on the Gulf Coast. Parades up and down the shoreline, floats rolling by as riders throw beads, candy, cups, doubloons, and trinkets. Some parade organizers spend the entire year planning their routes, costumes, and throws. And the brightly colored king cakes — purple, green, and gold — are a staple of the season. We enjoyed those parades immensely.

Before we even visited Mississippi on that job interview, we watched Ray Stevens' "The Great Mississippi Squirrel Revival." That set the tone for our years in Mississippi.

Mississippi was beautiful, unpredictable, and unforgettable.

Missouri — The Ozarks and Branson’s Hills

Southern Missouri is all hills, curves, and stone. It's the Ozark Mountains.

In Branson, you can’t drive anywhere in a straight line without driving around a hill. The road from Springfield to Branson rises and falls like a roller coaster. Rock formations appear around bends like natural sculptures.

It’s rugged, wooded, and full of character.

Nebraska — The Cornhusker Heartland

Nebraska feels like South Dakota’s cousin:

• Crops, especially corn

• Small towns and wide fields

• A rhythm of life tied to agriculture and weather

And if you live in Nebraska, you are automatically a Cornhusker fan. The big red “N” is everywhere: on flags, lawns, garages, mailboxes, barns, and homes.

We’ve attended four games at Memorial Stadium, each time joining nearly 90,000 Nebraska fans — all of them pumped up, loud, loyal, and dressed in Husker red. The experience is like nothing else I’ve ever been part of. Ninety thousand people cheering in unison, the stadium shaking with energy. What a blast. And the most polite fans I've known, even when I was wearing South Dakota State blue/yellow when we played Big Red.

Nebraska doesn’t brag, but it doesn’t need to. It knows who it is.

Nine states -- all unique. All memorable.