A sentimental journey

 This week I traveled four hours up to South Dakota to watch grandkids' baseball games, visit with the family and doing some reminiscing.  Spending time with the kids and grandkids is always fun and the time is always too short.  The memories are priceless.

Since Barbara was working on a church project, I traveled alone this time -- unusual for us to be apart for more than a day.  It became a sentimental journey since I had a couple days alone to prowl the backroads and places I used to live.

My first stop in Parkson (our home from 2021-2024) was to visit Kristina, who has been ill.  The visit was short to drop off some coffee, meet Cammy (Kristina's English Bulldog) and chat a little.  Then it was off to Mitchell to check in and then attend the first baseball game for Westyn at Emery.

Wednesday morning I met my brother, Terry, in Mitchell at The Mercantile for breakfast and to update each other on our lives.  Upon leaving Mitchell, I discovered the "low-pressure" light on the dashboard, and so after visiting the cemetery in Alex I returned to Mitchell to Graham Tire, where the crew there quickly and efficiently replaced a right rear tire that had picked up a screw somewhere.  

Then I headed east to visit Canistota and Montrose -- towns I lived in after selling the newspapers and before I met and married Barbara.  In Canistota I drove down Main Street to find the former Ortman Hotel gone, with a few new businesses.  Several Amish residents were walking the streets -- still a familiar sight was it was 25 years ago when I lived in Canistota.  The Amish come from various states to seek treatment at the famous Ortman Chiropractic Clinic.  

I drove down the street (Pine) where I lived for about 4 years.  The house was still there but looking rather forlorn and neglected.  Right next to it sat the tiny, decrepit building that looked just the same was it was when I lived in Canistota.  After a few minutes in town I drove east and then north to Montrose, where I lived around 2003-2005.

My former home on State Street was a big, beautiful corner lot with a huge, three-stall garage and a backyard that any kid would have loved.  The tree out front had grown huge.  When I drove around the lot I noticed that the white lilac bush I had planted there so many years ago was gone!  No longer there.  There was an old riding lawnmower sitting there with grass growing up around it, appearing to have been no longer used.  I wondered whether that was the same riding mower I bought and used when I lived there all those years ago.  

Looking at the north side of the house reminded me of how I used to pack hay bales against that side before each winter to try to block the north wind's bite.  Keeping the water pipes was freezing in winter was a continual battle while I lived there.

I continued my drive around Montrose and noticed that the General Store was closed.  How many years ago it closed I had no idea.  Probably not something that happened very recently.

I drove west out of town on Hwy. 38, recalling how I used to jog out of town on this highway.  Passing through Salem, I had extra time so I drove through Spencer (much of which was destroyed by a tornado years ago when I lived in Canistota), and then I drove into Farmer past where I went to school in 1968-69, although the school is no longer there.  Only the quonset hut that held the auditorium is still there, along with a school memorial that lists Farmer High School's graduates.

On my way to Mitchell I also drove through Fulton, where I used to stop during my newspaper days to check on ads at Fulton Elevator.  I also drove past my good friend Barry's house.

After watching Gavin's team play Wednesday night, I drove to Sioux Falls on Thursday to look around at Scheel's, and then walk the bike path that I jogged on for many years.  Getting up on the bike path at Elmwood Park surely brought back memories.  For so many years I jog 6 miles every work day on the path -- three miles north and then three miles back.  

The day was hot with a strong south wind, so the walk out was pleasant with the wind at my back.  Crossing the bridge near the Elmwood Golf Course, I continued north, meeting several bicyclists, one woman on a unicycle, and several bikers with those laid-back tricycle-type trikes.  A couple miles out my back was hurting plenty and, recalling I had no water with me, I decided I may have to cut the trip a bit shorter than I'd planned.  So I walked to the bridge on the path's far northwest corner where the path turns east near the airport and National Guard Armory.  I turned around and headed back against the wind.

A blister was forming on my right foot, I was thirsty and my back hurt plenty.  Finally, at 12:30 I returned to the RAV4, some 2:04 after I'd set foot on the bike trail.  

Dusting off a memory

🌾Dusting off a memory

It’s funny how certain smells can bring back the past in an instant — lilacs in May, burning leaves on a cool October evening, or even something as simple as grain dust. Every time we go out of town we drive past a grain elevator, where the smell of grain dust carried by the south wind triggers that memory of growing up in Alexandria.

That dusty, earthy smell always brings me back home -- the New Farmers Grain elevator where Dad spent his working life. And like his dad before him, he worked grain elevators. For our family, grain dust wasn’t just something that clung to clothes; it was part of the rhythm of who we were.

Dad walked the six blocks to the elevator every morning, no matter the weather. He’d walk home for lunch, then back again, and during harvest season we often didn't see him until long after dark. I didn’t think much of it then — that was just what dads did — but looking back, those long days were the backbone of a small town’s economy. He was 6'1", steady, and dependable, the kind of man who fit naturally behind the scale desk, weighing trucks as they rumbled in loaded with grain.

I loved going down to the elevator. That place had its own ecosystem: grain and feed signs hanging on the walls, stacks of seed and feed bags in the back room, sparrows darting in and out of the bins as if they were part of the crew. And always, always, the smell — grain dust hanging in the air like a memory waiting to be triggered decades later.

Dad would bring home old grain reports that were blank on one side. To him, they were scrap paper. To me, they were the perfect place to write out baseball statistics, lineups, and imaginary box scores. I probably wrote out a whole season’s worth of games on the backs of those reports. What a thoughtful gesture it was for dad to bring me those sheets.

Every year the elevator sponsored “Supersweet Day,” when farmers came in for refreshments, snacks, and a look at new products and order seed. It was part open house, part community gathering, part sales pitch for the next year’s crops. As a kid, I didn’t care about any of that — I was there for the cookies and the chance to wander around the elevator like I belonged there.

And in a way, I did. That elevator was as much a part of my childhood landscape as the school, the church, or the ballfield. It was where Dad spent his days, and where I learned that work wasn’t always glamorous but it mattered.

So when we leave town and the wind carries that familiar grain‑dust smell, it’s more than nostalgia. It’s a reminder of where I came from, of the men who shaped me, and of a small South Dakota town where the elevator wasn’t just a building — it was the heartbeat of the community.

The Darkroom Hours I Can't Get Back

 

The Darkroom Hours I Can’t Get Back

If I’m honest, my biggest regret from my newspaper years has nothing to do with deadlines, budgets, or the chaos of small‑town publishing. It’s the hours—upon hours—I spent in the darkroom. Those Monday nights were the worst of it. While most families were settling in after supper, I was hunched over trays of developer and fixer, coaxing images out of film for the schools and the newspapers.

The darkroom was a world of its own: dank, windowless, and always carrying that sharp chemical smell that clung to my clothes long after I stepped back into the light. And layered on top of the tedium was the uncertainty. I never knew whether the photos would turn out—whether I’d captured all, some, or none of what I needed. Every roll of negatives was like a Christmas gift, waiting to see what treasures—if any—were hiding on that strip of film. I didn’t get my answer until the rolls were developed and hung from the clothesline above me, each frame slowly revealing its secrets as I impatiently waited for the negatives to dry. Then came the ritual at the enlarger: bending over the easel, focusing, cropping, judging. Dodging the dark areas, burning the light ones, trying to coax a sharper, truer image out of whatever the camera had managed to catch. Developing film, printing photos, waiting for each sheet to dry—it was slow, meticulous work. Necessary work, yes, but work that stole time from the five children waiting upstairs.

Photography today is laughably simple by comparison. Instant images. Instant feedback. Instant everything. Back then, every photo cost time—time I didn’t realize I was spending so freely.

I will forever regret the long nights that pulled me away from my family. I can only hope they’ll forgive me for the moments I missed. And maybe, someday, I’ll learn to forgive myself too.

Meeting Pete Rose in Vegas: A Quiet Moment with Baseball's Loudest Legend

 

I once met Pete Rose in the most unlikely of places — a sporting goods store tucked inside Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas. There he was, the all‑time hits leader, sitting alone at a table surrounded by bobbleheads, glossy photos, and stacks of his autobiography. No line. No crowd. Just Pete, waiting patiently for anyone who might wander in.

I bought a book and a bobblehead, and he couldn’t have been kinder — shook my hand, posed for pictures, signed everything with that looping, confident script. It was a quiet, human moment with a man who spent his life in the loudest corners of baseball.

The bobblehead itself was classic Pete Rose: captured mid‑dive, head first, hair flying back, frozen in that signature burst of hustle that defined his career. On the base were the words “Pete Rose” and “Charlie Hustle,” a nickname he earned the hard way. Pete signed the front of the bobblehead with his name, and on the back he wrote, “Dave – Good Luck.” Then, on the base, he added “4256,” the number of hits that still stands as the most in Major League history. It felt like holding a tiny piece of baseball lore in my hands.

The Pete Rose bobblehead from Caesar’s Palace — mid‑dive, hair flying, “Charlie Hustle” on the base, signed on the front, “Dave – Good Luck” on the back, and “4256” stamped like a badge of honor.

And then came the irony — the kind you almost have to laugh at because life sometimes writes better scenes than any novelist could.

Here was Pete Rose, banned from the Hall of Fame for gambling, sitting in the glittering centerpiece of the American gambling industry. The neon‑lit cathedral of chance. The place where odds, wagers, and risk aren’t just accepted — they’re the whole point. Vegas thrives on the very impulse that got Pete exiled from Cooperstown.

Yet there he was, doing the one thing baseball still allowed him to do: meet fans, sign autographs, and stay connected to the game he loved. No spotlight. No frenzy. Just Pete Rose, in the heart of Vegas, quietly being Pete Rose.

When Pete passed away, I felt a real sadness. He violated the sacred rule of gambling on the sport he loved — no question about that. But I always believed he deserved a place in the Hall of Fame. His numbers, his grit, his relentless drive… they were part of the fabric of baseball. And standing there with him that day in Vegas, seeing the humanity behind the headlines, only deepened that belief.

Life has a way of staging scenes you couldn’t script if you tried.

Growing up

There came a time growing up when I thought life ended at age 45.  That was going to be in the year 2000. Imagining life after that never occurred to me.  It was like I'd fall off the earth after that, never to be seen or heard from again.  Fast-forward 24 years and now I'm 69 years old. So many things have happened since that January day in 1955 when Frowin & Cynthia Stoltz welcome their sixth child into the world.  

We remember where we were during those historic events in our lives.  Where were you and what were you doing on November 22, 1963 when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated?   Someone came to the door of our third grade classroom and told our teacher, Mrs. Hershey, who was visibly shaken by the news.  Then in 1986 I was working at the Fairfax (MN) Standard when the space shuttle Challenger exploded.  And on September 11, 2001, I was working in the U.S. Army Reserve Center in Sioux Falls SD when two airplanes flew into the World Trade Center in New York City.  Our lives were forever changed.

My 50-year high school class reunion last year drew about half of our graduating class.  Sadly, several of our classmates had passed away.  Others moved away and lost touch, but enough got together that we were able to sit atop a flat bed, toss a football back and forth and wave to the crowd -- some of whom knew us but many could only guess who we were.  That night, we read the "Class of '73" will and the class prophecy.  Many of those classmates I hadn't seen since the night we graduated.  We sat in the old Legion Hall for one more class photo.   Memories of events, teachers and one another were shared. Lookin' good, guys.  Lookin' good.

We grew up before cell phones, fax machines, laptop computers, artificial intelligence, microwave ovens, DVD players, video games.  Back then there were three television stations -- CBS, NBC and ABC.   And we kids were the "remotes," seated close enough to change the channel.  Oh, and black and white television shows too.  And TVs were not paper-thin as they are now. 

Growing up in the late '60s and early '70s were turbulent times.  The Vietnam War was raging, unrest on college campuses.  There was "flower power" and Woodstock.  And the music was the best.  The Beatles shook Ed Sullivan's show.  American Bandstand was on TV Saturday afternoons. Three Dog Night's music was piped into my taped college lectures during biology lab.  It was a great time to grow up.

Back then, burning leaves in town was common on cool autumn nights.  It's one of my favorite memories of growing up.  Driving up and down Main Street for hours on end was another.  "The loop" extended from the Methodist Church on the north end to the Cenex station on the south.  Three blocks to see and be seen.  There was no stop sign near the bank at that time to slow us down.  There were usually enough cars and people talking back and forth that traffic didn't move too swiftly.  Gotta see and be seen.  And if you paid attention you may just find out where the next party was.

A lot has happened since then.  Marriages, divorces, births, deaths, promotions, job changes.  The years go by faster and faster.  But even after 50 years, our classmates still know us best.  We attended Friday afternoon pep rallies together, stuffed freshmen into the study hall bathroom, sat through typing class with Mr. Bjerke or tried to outguess Mr. DeRoos with his next government test.  

"1973 Rules!" was scrawled on the back of the auditorium.  We always knew it did.  We didn't have to be told.

The winter of '68-69

 This is our second full winter in our house in Parkston.  We moved in in March 2021 and so we're coming up on two years here in this town of 1,500.  We moved away from South Dakota in 2011 when my federal employment took us to Millington TN (outside Memphis).  After nine months there, I was promoted to a new position with the U.S. Navy in Pascagoula MS, on the Gulf Coast.  After almost six years there I retired from the federal government, we moved to Ironton MO and managed a 30-room inn for 9 months, before departing for Lincoln NE.

We had our first taste (in several years) of a real Midwest winter in Lincoln in 2018-19 when that city received 55 inches of snow.  But we were renting an apartment so weren't bothered with clearing the snow ourselves.  Six months later we moved to Branson MO, only 10 miles from the Arkansas border, on the urging of Barbara's cousin.  Too many hills for us (the Ozarks).  We lived there about 18 months before deciding the Midwest was where we wanted to retire.

So early in 2021 we began searching for a suitable home in a small southeastern South Dakota town.  We really weren't particular which town.  We just liked the idea of small-town living in a state known for its conservative values.  Besides, I grew up in South Dakota and Barbara grew up in Nebraska.  After finding very little available in small towns, we saw a house listed in Parkston.  We immediately planned to visit, found it and the town to our liking, and bought our retirement home.

There's so much to like about living here.  We live right across the street from one of the city's parks, so it's fun to watch people walking their dogs or kids playing on the playground equipment there.  The city has a lot to offer for a very small town, and being only 21 miles from Mitchell (15,000) and 61 miles from Yankton (14,000), it seemed a good fit.

As in many small South Dakota towns, the people are warm and friendly.  As Barbara was vacuuming the carpet in our new home shortly after we moved in, the daughter of the previous owner stopped in, thinking we were the cleaning crew.  She struck up a conversation with Barbara, and today they are best friends.  And our first night in our new home, our neighbor came to our door with a pizza, and later her daughter brought us cupcakes!  What's not to like about all that!

We've spent thousands of dollars updating our house -- new light fixtures, moving appliances upstairs, improving the lighting, new flooring and carpeting, enclosing the entry... too many improvements to list them all.  Moving so late in the winter, we didn't experience much bitter weather that first month.  And our first full winter here turned out to be quite mild in comparison.

Nothing quite prepared us for the blast we've received in the winter of 2022-23!  We've received approximately 50 inches of snow already this winter, and unlike some places we've lived before, once the snow falls here it doesn't melt (much) until spring!  And as I write this, spring is still 6 weeks away, with most of February ahead, March is usually a snowy month, and snow in April is not uncommon.  

After last year's mild winter, we elected not to get a snow blower.  Our driveway isn't very long and neither is our sidewalk.  But this year's snowfall -- approximately 25 inches in just one January storm -- was too much for most snowblowers.  But nearby "angels" have several times come to dig us out with their tractors.  What a blessing to have such good friends!  

It reminds me of the winter of 1968-69, when as I recall we missed 19 days of school, almost all after the Christmas vacation.  The snow around our house in Alexandria was so high that we could only enter and exit through a side door off the driveway.  The snow was so high we walked from the snowbank on to the roof of the nearby Sunset Motel.  I have a picture of me standing on a snowbank with my mom's clothesline at my feet.  What memories!

The snow is piled so high outside our front window now that we can barely see the park across the street.  A dear friend shoveled 2-3 feet of snow off our roof a couple weeks ago, and we have been so blessed with these acts of kindness.   Good friends add such warmth to a cold, cold winter.  

Spring will come eventually, and it will bring a new set of problems but, as is often the case, the moisture is badly needed for crops, gardens, lawns, recreation, etc.  We take the bad with the good.  At least I can wait a while before sharpening the lawn mower's blades.  :-)

The newspaper business 6-21-2021

 

The newspaper business -- 6-21-2021

 From the time I was a little kid, I enjoyed writing, particularly about sports.  I would often play imaginary baseball, football or basketball games and then write up short summaries about them.  In fact, when I was in high school I wanted to be a sports writer.

My love for journalism continued, and in the high school years I wrote for "The Beaver Chatter" (our high school newspaper) and then was co-editor of the yearbook my junior and senior years.  Journalism was my obvious career choice, and South Dakota State University was where I wanted to go to learn about it.  The old saying is to "Do something you love and you'll never work a day in your life."  Well, I felt that way.  I loved the journalism curriculum at SDSU, and was guided by some great instructors, including DJ Cline -- my favorite instructor in all my school years.  DJ was my freshman and sophomore advisor, and she took a real interest in her students.  I think that her passion for teaching and her caring helped fuel my interest in journalism as well. In my senior year I even had an article published in the Brookings Daily Register about the exodus of faculty from SDSU.

A four-year Army commitment delayed my entry into the journalism profession.  I attended SDSU on a four-year ROTC scholarship, and so the Army took precedence.  But after those four years I went looking for journalism jobs.  I preferred writing for weeklies, and my first job was as a general assignment writer for The Redfield (SD) Press.  I can only describe Redfield as kind of a desolate place, not close to any big town (between Huron on the south and Aberdeen on the north).  But I got to do mostly general news reporting and photography.

My first boss was Roger Matz.  Roger was a good editor and I learned a lot of journalistic tips from him.  But, as a person, I didn't like him.  I thought he was kind of a jerk.  I only stayed at the Press for about a year and then accepted a job as editor of The Stewart (MN) Tribune.  Stewart is a small town (about 600 population) about 2 hours southwest of the Twin Cities.  The paper was under the ownership of the bank, so my boss was John Lipke.  John didn't know much about the newspaper business but just wanted to keep the newspaper afloat, so I had pretty much free reign to run it as I saw fit.  I had one staff writer (Julie) and a bookkeeper, so I got to cover all sorts of general news, features and sports events.  Lots of photography and dark room work, taking the papers to print (in Hutchinson, where Kristina and Andrea were born), and mailing them.  I loved the work.

But the newspaper was eventually sold about a year later, and I found a job writing for The Fairfax (MN) Standard.  Again, I got to cover news, sports, etc., help lay out the newspaper, take it to print (also in Hutchinson) and then deliver it to the post office.  I worked with Steve Palmer, just a year older than me and also a great journalist.  The Standard won several awards at the annual Minnesota Newspaper Association contest.  I won one award for a column entitled "Building a Better Mouse Trap."  We got to attend a ceremony in the Twin Cities for that one.

Then in 1987 I bought the Alexandria Herald and Emery Enterprise.  This was my life's dream -- to own and operate my own newspapers.  It was truly a labor of love as I got to do it all with only a staff of three.  I wrote the articles (news, features and sports), edited submitted copy, set type, proofread, took photos, developed film and printed pictures, laid out the pages, wrote headlines, boxed up the proofs and took them to print at the Madison Daily Leader, supervised as the newspapers were printed, and then hauled them back to the post offices for delivery.  I also sold ads, occasionally designed an ad and addressed subscription cards.  

Weeks were a continuous cycle that began on Thursday, which was pretty slow and mostly going through mail and some typesetting after the papers had been printed on Wednesday for Thursday distribution.  Fridays picked up with ad calls -- usually in and around Alex and Emery, and Mitchell as well.  I had a few faithful advertisers in Mitchell who saw the value of advertising in small, area newspapers.  Saturdays were usually half-days, with typesetting and working around the office.  Sunday was a day of rest, and then Monday on the road between Emery and Alex, finalizing stories, attending meetings, developing film and printing pictures.  Tuesday was the day it all came together.  The morning was spent finishing typesetting and proofreading, and afternoon was laying out the newspapers.  It got to be quite stressful at times, sometimes lasting from late afternoon to almost midnight.  Poor Millie (Wenande), who helped with the typesetting, proofreading and layout.  She went through many stressful Tuesdays with me, putting everything together.  Wednesday morning it was time to load up the proofs, drive to Madison and then supervise as the newspapers were printed.  That was usually about a three-hour process.  Then back home to take the newspapers to the post office.

Although I owned and operated the newspapers, Millie was truly the face of the Herald.  She had worked for Bob and Ginger Braden long before I purchased them, and people would come in to ask for Millie to handle their news.  Kathy Hoffman did the bookkeeping, and Kariena did the job printing.  The job printing was really the money maker as the newspapers hardly broke even.  If it weren't for the legal advertising received from both cities and Hanson County, we wouldn't have been able to make it.

My marriage fell apart during these years, and so the newspapers were sold in 1987.  It was a huge blessing that I fell right into a job working as a unit administrator for my Army Reserve unit.  That started my new career in the federal government.