April 19: Twin Tragedies

April always brings a certain restlessness to the Plains — the thaw, the wind, the sense that seasons are shifting. But April 19 carries a weight all its own. Thirty‑three years ago, two tragedies unfolded within hours of each other, hundreds of miles apart, yet forever linked in my memory.

One was an act of domestic terrorism that shook the nation. The other was a plane crash that broke the heart of South Dakotans.

The tragedies are forever linked for me — as a newspaperman, as a South Dakotan, and as a father trying to explain the unexplainable.

Walking the Oklahoma City Memorial

Last December, Barbara and I spent two hours walking the grounds of the Oklahoma City National Memorial. Even after all these years, the place feels alive with quiet voices — survivors, first responders, parents, children who grew up without the people they lost.

The numbers still stagger the mind: 169 lives taken. 684 injured. A third of the Murrah Building destroyed. 324 other buildings damaged or destroyed. 86 vehicles. An estimated $652 million in damage.

But the numbers aren’t what stay with you. It’s the empty chairs — large ones for adults, small ones for children — each one a life interrupted. It’s the stories told in the visitor center, where you hear the voices of people who woke up that morning expecting an ordinary Wednesday.

You leave knowing you’ve walked on hallowed ground.

A Second Tragedy, Closer to Home

But on that same day in 1993, while the nation was trying to understand what happened in Oklahoma City, South Dakota was grappling with its own loss. Governor George S. Mickelson and seven other state leaders were killed when their private plane went down in Iowa near Dubuque.

I was the editor of the Alexandria Herald and Emery Enterprise then. Small‑town newspapers don’t have the luxury of emotional distance — your readers are your neighbors, your friends, the people you see at the post office and the grocery store. When tragedy hits, you write with the weight of knowing exactly who is going to read it.

In my column that week, I tried to capture what Governor Mickelson meant to ordinary South Dakotans. I wrote about the way he treated people — not as voters, but as neighbors. I wrote about the time he made our family feel seen in a way only genuine leaders do. And I wrote about the hole his loss left in the state.

I wrote the following in my newspapers on April 22, 1993:

"(Governor Mickelson) touched everyone's life in South Dakota in many ways. George S. Mickelson certainly touched our family in a personal way. I will always remember our visit with the Governor five years ago in Pierre.

We were wrapping up a vacation weekend, and stopped at the Capitol lake to feed the ducks and tour the Capitol building. Since it was a Sunday, we were alone as we wandered down the halls, looking at the paintings and admiring the artwork.

We ran into Governor Mickelson as he entered his office -- clad in a flannel shirt and faded blue jeans. He explained that he was supposed to be out snowmobiling, but he came in to get a little work out of the way. He asked where we were from and then his eyes lit up as he told our kids about his job as governor. He invited us into his office, where he had each of the kids take turns sitting in the Governor's chair. He then showed us the conference room, and the desk that was first used by Governor Mellette.

The Governor gave each of the kids a memento of their visit -- a gold lapel pin showing a grazing buffalo and reading, "South Dakota 1889-1989."

He took great delight in telling the children about his job, and they were delighted to receive such attention. They explained to the Governor that they had just been outside feeding the ducks and geese in the pond beside the Capitol.

He then told us about a confused goose who had built her nest at the pond late in the fall, and how he and his family watched after her, and fed her as she sat on her nest during an early snowfall. They cared for her and looked out for her.

Likewise, Governor Mickelson cared deeply for and looked out for South Dakota. He was a great statesman, a caring and intelligent man who dreamed of building a stronger South Dakota.

In more ways than one, he made a lasting impression on me.

We, along with all South Dakotans, mourn the deaths of our governor and several of this state's business leaders."

Six weeks later I sent that column along with a personal note to Governor Mickelson's widow, Linda Mickelson. Attached is her gracious and thoughtful reply:

Remembering Mr. Bjerke

 

That machine was just my type

                                The type writing machine, patented September 26, 1899, No. 633,672.

I’ve had a fascination with typewriters ever since I took Mr. Bjerke’s typewriting class as a sophomore at Hanson High School. Little did I know that learning to use a typewriter would become the most valuable skill I would ever acquire. No offense to Mr. Genandt or Mr. Sayles -- my math and physics teachers, respectively, but I just haven't gotten the mileage from algebra or physics that I have from learning to type. I’ve used my keyboarding skills every day of my life — as a journalist, an administrator, and as a public affairs specialist. Not many high‑school classes can claim that kind of longevity.

My introduction to the typewriter, however, was anything but confident. Those massive, metal Royal typewriters -- grey with green keys -- sat on each desk under Mr. Bjerke's watchful eye like iron beasts. Imposing. Impressive. Intimidating. And to make matters worse, the keys had no letters on them. That’s right — blank keys. You had to know what lived under each fingertip. Put your hands on the wrong home row and you produced instant gobbledegook, the kind that earned you a slow head shake and a “tsk, tsk, tsk” from Mr. Bjerke as he hovered over your shoulder.

But what an accomplishment it was to complete the 60‑second time trial with no (or very few) errors. And here was the tradeoff: go fast and you risked carelessness — an extra letter here, a stray keystroke there — or slow down and produce neat, error‑free lines at the expense of that blessed speed. It was a daily gamble. Still, the thrill of not depending on “hunt and peck” to compose my thoughts was worth every risk. And nothing beat that satisfying ding as my classmates and I reached the end of another line — sometimes inspired prose, sometimes incomprehensible gibberish. Yikes.

My fascination didn’t start in that classroom, though. It began earlier, when my dad — Alexandria’s city auditor — inherited a huge work desk and an ancient Underwood typewriter. That machine looked like it had survived two world wars and a tornado, but to me it was magnificent. Heavy. Mechanical. Important. My fixation only grew from there.

By the time I reached South Dakota State, we budding journalists had graduated to the IBM Selectric. What an improvement. A lighter touch, faster typing, and that magical little typeball that made us feel like we were living in the future. And then, before I graduated, the computer arrived. Typewriting met keyboarding. Goodbye white‑out, eraser shields, and carbon copies. No crumpled up balls for the wastebasket. Hello editing, saving, and printing without smudges.

To this day, I compose my thoughts on a keyboard, and I silently thank the inventor of the typewriter. That clunky Royal in Mr. Bjerke’s classroom set the course for my entire professional life. Not bad for a nervous sophomore staring down a machine with blank keys and a teacher who could spot a misplaced finger from across the room

A Southern Welcome

 Moving to the mid‑South in 2011 was like stepping into a parallel version of America — familiar, but tilted just enough to make me feel like a tourist. As we drove into Millington, Tennessee, just outside of Memphis, a day ahead of the moving van, the landscape shifted from the corn and soybeans of the upper Midwest to endless fields of cotton. White bolls stretched across the horizon like snowdrifts that had somehow survived the August heat. Cotton bales sat in neat rows, wrapped in bright yellow plastic, looking for all the world like giant loaves of bread waiting to be delivered.

The houses fascinated me too — built right on top of the ground, as if the earth were warm enough to trust. No basements. No frost line. Just brick and siding resting on soil. And the roads — narrow, tree‑lined, shaded in a way that made every drive feel like entering a green tunnel.

But what struck me most were the churches and the Waffle Houses. In the Midwest, you'll see a church here and there. In Tennessee, you could find three before you finished a cup of coffee. And Waffle Houses? They multiplied like rabbits. You could practically navigate by them: turn left at the Waffle House, go two blocks past the next Waffle House, and if you reach the third Waffle House, you’ve gone too far.

Big, beautiful churches and sprawling acres of facilities that confirmed the South's claim as "the Bible Belt." And the Waffle Houses are a southern institution. Walk into a Waffle House and step back into the days of the small-town diner, with stools at the counter to sit and kibitz with the waitress, or grab a booth in the cozy confines. Watch the cook make your waffle or eggs behind the counter. You want coffee with that?

And then there was kudzu — the creeping, climbing, smothering vine that looked like it was plotting to take over the county. Trees, telephone poles, abandoned sheds — nothing was safe.

And armadillos — the South’s most confused little mammals. I’d seen them before, back when we lived in Branson, where they loved to wander into our yard at night and forage for grubs. By morning, the lawn looked like it had come down with a case of chickenpox. They never meant any harm; they were just hungry, armored little diggers doing what armadillos do.

In Tennessee, though, it was not unusual to see armadillos lying belly-up by the roadside. It became part of the Southern landscape, right up there with kudzu and Waffle Houses. Their little, armored bodies weren't enough to withstand the faster, deadlier automobiles. They were everywhere, poor things, and they never seemed to win their battles with traffic.

It was charming, bewildering, and endlessly entertaining — my first real introduction to Southern life.

.

 

Part 5 — Waiting...

All of this — the treadmill in the living room, the stair‑stepper under the desk, the standing platform, the constant awareness of how long I’ve been sitting — is leading toward one date on the calendar. In August, six months after the pulmonary embolism, I’ll meet with the cardiologist again for an echocardiogram and a venous ultrasound.

Those two tests will tell the story of what has (or hasn’t) changed since that February afternoon when everything turned upside down. The echocardiogram will show how well my heart has recovered from the strain of the clots. The ultrasound will check whether anything new has developed in the veins.

I’m not anxious about the appointment, but I’m aware of it. It sits quietly in the back of my mind, like a mile marker on a long run. You don’t stare at it the whole time, but you know it’s coming.

Until then, I keep walking. I keep moving. I keep doing the small things that add up to a healthier routine. And I keep reminding myself that recovery isn’t a finish line — it’s a way of living.

 

Part 4 — Learning to Live Differently

The treadmill has been a fixture in our living room for the two years we’ve lived in Aurora. It’s not exactly a piece of décor Barbara dreamed of showcasing, but she’s been incredibly patient with me. She knows what it represents — not just exercise, but stability, discipline, and a way of life I’ve carried with me since high school.

After the pulmonary embolism, I was home for a week or two before I found my way back to my routine. I was out of rhythm, out of sorts, and frankly a little shaken. But eventually I stepped back onto that treadmill and returned to my three‑miles‑a‑day, six‑days‑a‑week habit. And I’ve stayed with it ever since.

Physically, I haven’t noticed any lingering effects from the blood clots. But mentally? That’s a different story.

The experience made me acutely aware of my own action — and inaction. Barbara wondered whether another medication might have contributed to the clots, but I can’t shake the feeling that my long hours sitting at the computer played a major role. I’d sit down “just for a bit,” and spend an hour or two or three there. No movement. No circulation. Just stillness — the exact thing I now know can be dangerous.

So now, every time I sit down — at the computer, in my recliner, anywhere — a thought flashes through my mind: What am I doing? Am I causing another clot to form? Xarelto helps reduce the risk, but it doesn’t silence the worry.

To counter that, I’ve made changes. I now keep a small stair‑stepper under my desk, and I use it constantly while I work. My desk also has a raised platform, so I can stand while typing, and I do that far more than I ever used to. These aren’t dramatic changes, but they’re meaningful ones — small, steady habits that keep my legs active and my mind at ease.

I’m learning that recovery isn’t just about healing from what happened. It’s about changing how I live so it doesn’t happen again.

 

Part 3 — Life Goes On

Once I settled into the routine of Xarelto, the warnings started feeling like more what they really were:--precautions. Important, yes — but not reasons to live in fear.

I hadn’t had a serious automobile accident in more than twenty years. I don’t use power tools. I’m not out climbing ladders or juggling chainsaws. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that while the risks were real, they were manageable. I just needed to be aware, not afraid.

For a few weeks I stuck with the electric shaver, mostly because the discharge papers made it sound like a single nick from a razor could turn into a crime scene. But after a while, once the initial anxiety faded, I went back to my regular safety razor. And you know what? Nothing dramatic happened. No uncontrolled bleeding. No emergency room visits. Just one or two tiny nicks — the kind anyone gets — and even those barely bled. Not even from shaving either.

Life, as it turns out, does go on.

I was learning that recovery isn’t just about the body healing. It’s about the mind recalibrating. It’s about realizing that you can’t bubble‑wrap yourself forever. You take the warnings seriously, you adjust where needed, and then you get back to living your life.

And that’s exactly what I began to do.

Part 2 -- tThe Wake-Up Call

 

Part 2 — The Wake‑Up Call

If the surgery itself was the shock, what came next was the wake‑up call.

My three daughters from South Dakota drove down the moment Barbara texted them that I was headed into emergency surgery. They didn’t hesitate. They just got in the car and came. Seeing them walk into that hospital room — tired, worried, but there — told me more about the seriousness of the situation than any medical chart could have.

I stayed overnight for close monitoring. Early Saturday morning, before they would even consider releasing me, the team performed an ultrasound to make sure no other clots were lurking. Only after that did they send me home with a prescription for Xarelto, the anticoagulant that would become part of my daily routine.

We drove the twenty miles back to Aurora, thinking the worst was behind us. But by Saturday night, I still couldn’t sleep. The dry, hacking cough that had been my constant companion for months was still there, relentless. After midnight, exhausted and frustrated, Barbara and I drove back to the Grand Island emergency room.

The ER doctor listened to my lungs, reviewed my chart, and then said something that changed everything: a persistent, dry cough is a well‑known side effect of lisinopril — the blood‑pressure medication I’d been taking for years. The only major change? My dosage had been increased the previous May. Nothing else had explained the cough. But this did.

And he was right. Once I stopped taking lisinopril, the cough began to ease. Within two to three weeks, it was gone completely.

Meanwhile, I was learning the new rules of life on Xarelto. The protocol was straightforward: 15 mg twice a day for 15 days, then 20 mg once daily. The warnings were less comforting. Slower clotting. Longer bleeding. More bruising. The suggestion to switch to an electric shaver. It all sounded like a simple fender‑bender could turn into a catastrophe.

I bought the electric shaver. I read the warnings. And then, after a few days of letting the fear settle, I reminded myself of something important: I don’t use power tools. I don’t make a habit of cutting myself shaving. I’m not exactly a thrill‑seeker. Life on Xarelto required caution, yes — but not panic.

It was the beginning of a new routine, one built not on miles run but on awareness, patience, and the slow rebuilding of trust in my own body.