The Tools That Taught Me to Write

 

I am a writer. I like to write. I love the written word in all its forms — crossword puzzles, word searches, the satisfying rhythm of a sentence that finally lands just right. Words have always felt like companions to me, steady and familiar, waiting to be arranged into something meaningful.

And I love pens. I’ve gathered a small but meaningful collection over the years: the wood‑grain pens that feel like little sculptures in my hand, the “stars & stripes” pen emblazoned with "God Bless America" on its barre. It came from a dear friend for my 60th birthday; the sleek “bullet” pen, and a handful of others that each carry their own small story. My newest addition came from Winslow, Arizona — a wood‑grain pen stamped with “Standin’ on the Corner Winslow Arizona”, complete with a little guitar leaning against a streetlight on one side and the Route 66 shield on the other. It’s the kind of pen that isn’t just a writing tool but a souvenir of a moment, a place, a lyric brought to life.

Three of my more unique pens, From left: Standin' on the Corner," "God Bless America" stars & stripes, and my bullet pen.

And the neat thing about pens is having to figure them out. Every new pen is a tiny mystery. Will this one twist to reveal its writing tip — and if so, does it twist at the top or the bottom? Or will it click at the top with that satisfying little snap? Or, like my “bullet” pen from Shipshewana, will it have that clever sliding mechanism — the little metal slide you pull down to lock it in place, the tip emerging from the bullet end like a secret being revealed? What will they think of next?

And what ever happened to blue ink? Somewhere along the way, without really noticing it, I evolved from blue to exclusively black ink. Every pen I reach for now writes in black. There’s the occasional red pen, of course — reserved for those special bits of correspondence or documents that need a little “red flag” emphasis. But blue? It quietly slipped out of my life.

That is, until we updated our legal documents recently and were told we had to sign in blue ink — to prove the signatures were originals and not photocopies. Touché. After years of abandoning blue, there it was again, stepping back into the spotlight for one last official duty.

And the irony of all this — pens, ink, handwriting — isn’t lost on me. The handwritten letter has almost vanished these days. Once upon a time, a letter felt like a small treasure, something you held, unfolded, reread. Now the U.S. Postal Service seems in no particular hurry to deliver anything; letters wander the country like lost tourists before finally reaching their destination. Meanwhile, the typewriter — less personal, maybe even a bit cold — allows thoughts to spill out immediately, without waiting for my fingers to catch up with my brain. It’s a tradeoff, really: the personality of handwriting versus the rush of thoughts that demand expression now. One offers warmth; the other offers speed. And somehow, both still matter.

Of course, pens were only part of my education. The real foundation came from typewriters. I’ve written before about my affection for those clunky, glorious machines, but it bears repeating: typewriters are awesome. I earned a living off the skills I learned in Mr. Bjerke’s typing class — those old Royal typewriters with the green, blank keys that forced you to learn touch‑typing or perish.

They sat in perfect rows, those Royals, like soldiers ready for battle — except the battle was with us. They looked like metal monsters, too, the kind of machines that could survive a boulder dropped on them without so much as a dent. Heavy, loud, unforgiving, and absolutely magnificent.

Over the years I’ve owned a few old typewriters myself, including an Underwood like the one Dad used when he was Alexandria’s city auditor. That machine looked like it had survived a century of hard work, and maybe it had. I don’t have room for a typewriter anymore, but the longing never quite goes away. Recently we wandered through an antique mall filled with old, beautiful typewriters — Royals, Underwoods, Smith‑Coronas, each one a little time capsule. If I had the space, I’d own them all. The stories that poured from those machines… I swear you can almost hear them humming under the dust.

It’s hard for me to pass them up. Those wonderful machines unlocked entire worlds for their owners. They were the gateway to letters, novels, newsrooms, love notes, term papers, and the first shaky attempts at poetry. Amazing. Even the IBM Selectrics — the sleek, modern upgrade from the clattering Royals — felt like a revelation. Being able to backspace and correct a typo instead of balling up a sheet of paper and starting over? That was an advancement for the ages.

And then, of course, came the computer. Suddenly we didn’t have to worry about typos at all. Spell‑correct and grammar‑check swooped in like benevolent editors, smoothing out our rough edges. The tools changed, but the thrill of writing — of watching words appear, one after another, forming something meaningful — never did.

Pens, typewriters, keyboards… they’re all just instruments. But they’re the instruments that shaped my life. They taught me discipline, patience, creativity, and the quiet joy of turning thoughts into something you can hold in your hands. And for a writer, that’s everything.

 

A Life of Service, Twice Blessed

Every now and then, something small will tug at an old thread in my memory — a sound, a sight, a familiar rhythm — and suddenly I’m back in uniform again. Last week, driving home from the Gulf Coast, Barbara and I passed a long line of military vehicles in Missouri. A field artillery unit, convoying to summer camp. Canvas flapping, antennas bouncing, soldiers leaning out the windows with that unmistakable “annual training” look. And just like that, I felt it: that old June instinct. Two weeks of AT. The rhythm of military life that never quite leaves you.

I’ll admit it — for a moment, I wished I were going with them.

Because what I miss most from my years in the service isn’t the schedule or the formations. It’s the people. The camaraderie. The friendships forged in early‑morning formations, long drives to training sites, and the shared understanding that only fellow soldiers truly grasp. It took me a long time to stop thinking “drill weekend is coming up,” but the truth is, part of me never stopped missing it.

One of those friendships still makes me smile. Greg — seven or eight years younger than me — turned out to be from Alexandria too. Our paths never crossed back then, but the Army has a way of connecting people who were always meant to meet. We became good friends, the kind who made drill weekends something to look forward to. We’d ride together on Saturday mornings, pop in a Roy D. Mercer CD, and laugh all the way to Sioux Falls. Nothing set the tone for drill quite like Mercer threatening to “open up a can of whup‑ass” over some ridiculous misunderstanding. By the time we reached the armory, we were already in good spirits.

Greg and I sitting in our office in Fort Carson CO.

And then there was Shoe — one of those rare friendships that crosses rank without ever crossing respect. I was an officer, he was an NCO, but none of that mattered. We clicked. We rode together across the Nebraska Sandhills on our way to deployment at Fort Carson, Colorado, watching the landscape roll by and turning the windmills into our own private running joke. How many were spinning? How many weren’t? How many looked like they’d given up sometime during the Eisenhower administration? Just a couple of weeks ago, as Barbara and I crossed western Kansas, I texted Shoe to tell him the Kansas windmills weren’t working very hard. A few minutes later he called and we had a good visit. Some jokes never get old — they just get more comfortable.

My good friend "Sho." at Fort Carson CO.

Shoe and I shared more than road miles. One Veterans Day — around 2004 — we climbed Pikes Peak together. Not drove. Climbed. Two soldiers, one mountain, and a memory that still glows. Every Veterans Day since, we text each other in honor of that hike. It’s our own little tradition, a reminder of a day when the air was thin, the climb was long, and the friendship was solid.

And walking into drill really did feel like old home week. I knew everyone — hundreds of Reservists over the years, plus dozens of active‑duty NCOs and officers who rotated through Sioux Falls on their tours. Every drill was a reunion of sorts, a gathering of people who had trained together, deployed together, and grown together. It was a second family, the kind you don’t choose but end up grateful for.

After selling my newspapers, I stepped into a role most Reservists only hear about: a military technician — the unit administrator, the continuity, the person who kept the heartbeat of the unit steady Monday through Friday. It was a unique kind of double life. During the week, I worked for the Army Reserve as a civilian. On drill weekends, I put the uniform back on and served the same soldiers I supported during the week. Drill weekend for me meant working twelve days in a row, but that never bothered me. I was part of something I believed in.

My career took me places I never expected to go. My earliest summer camps were with the Minnesota National Guard at Camp Ripley, where the mosquitoes were legendary and the tin huts echoed like a snare drum when rain hit the roof. We had jeeps back then, and we’d bounce across the vast training areas, covering units in every corner of the post.

After moving to the South Dakota National Guard, summer camp meant Camp Rapid and the Black Hills — beautiful country, though maneuvering military vehicles through tourist traffic was its own kind of training. The brick huts we stayed in had their own rustic charm, except for the long lines of toilets with zero privacy. Check your modesty at the door and hope the guy next to you didn’t want to chat.

My third and final Panama AT was with the 125th Public Affairs Detachment.. By then, the heat felt familiar, the humidity felt like an old friend, and the memories of my earlier deployments came rushing back.

After joining the Army Reserve in Sioux Falls, my ATs took on a different flavor. One year we went to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, where the red dirt clung to everything like a second skin. Another year we went to Pocatello, Idaho, where members of our unit taught classes to other Reservists. Different missions, different scenery, same camaraderie.

The 50434d USAR School pictured at annual training in Fort Sill OK.

And then life handed me a second chapter I never saw coming.

After retiring from the Army Reserve, I spent nearly six years working for the Department of the Navy. One day I was in an orderly room; the next I was crawling around inside ships, learning the difference between “fore” and “aft,” “bow” and “stern,” and discovering that steel decks have a way of leaving their mark on your knees. As a public affairs specialist, I photographed dozens of ship christenings — moments filled with ceremony, pride, and the unmistakable energy of a ship coming to life. I stood close enough to feel the champagne spray and hear the crowd’s gasp as a new vessel met the water for the first time.

The USNS Maury was christened by sliding into the water on March 27, 2013 at Moss Point MS.

And the people I met along the way — admirals, generals, members of Congress — weren’t just names in the news. They were part of the world I worked in, the world I helped document. I didn’t chase prestige; my work simply placed me in the room. I was the storyteller, the witness, the one who captured the moment so others could see it.

Every so often, even now, I’ll have a dream that I’m still in the Army Reserve. Sometimes I’m in uniform, sometimes I’m back in the Reserve Center as a unit administrator, juggling paperwork and readiness reports like it’s 1998 again. And in those dreams, I often feel like I’m getting ready to put in my retirement paperwork — as if the decision is still ahead of me, not something I made years ago.

It’s funny how the mind works. I retired from the military in 2011, thanks to mandatory retirement. I retired from federal service in 2018. By all logic, those chapters are long closed. But clearly, they affected me more deeply than I realized at the time. They were part of my identity for so long — the rhythm of drill weekends, the camaraderie, the responsibility of being the one who kept the unit running — that some part of me still lives there.

And maybe that’s not surprising. When you spend decades in a world where purpose, structure, and belonging are built into the air you breathe, it doesn’t just fade away. It settles in. It becomes part of the foundation. So if my dreams want to take me back to the armory now and then, I don’t mind. It’s a reminder of a life I was fortunate to live.

Looking back, I realize how extraordinary it all was. I got to do more in my career than many people experience in a lifetime. I served my country in uniform and out of it. I found purpose in two branches of the military. I met remarkable people, traveled to remarkable places, and collected stories that still make me smile.

But through all of it — the Guard years, the technician days, the Navy adventures — one thing remained constant: gratitude. I never took any of it for granted. I knew I was blessed while I was living it.

And now, in the quiet of retirement, I carry those memories like old challenge coins — not something I hold every day, but something I know is always there. A reminder of the people I served with, the places I stood, and the life of service I was fortunate enough to live.

 

A 4,362‑Mile Detour Through Life

Barbara and I just returned from the longest trip — in both miles and days — that we’ve ever taken together. We didn’t set out to break any records. In fact, we thought we were taking a simple road trip to Arizona for a family wedding. But as often happens, life had other plans. What began as a straightforward drive south and west turned into a wide, looping journey across 10 states (not counting Nebraska), covering 4,362 miles over 15 days.

Day 1 — Aurora to Cawker City: Twine and Wide-Open Roads

We pulled out of Aurora on May 19, pointing the RAV4 toward Cawker City, Kansas, home of the world’s largest ball of sisal twine. It’s the kind of Americana oddity that makes you grin and shake your head — a monument to persistence, community pride, and maybe a little boredom. And we did our part by tying a 3-foot length of sisal twine to the monument! After admiring the twine (and taking the obligatory photos), we continued west to Colby, Kansas, where we spent our first night.

Barbara and the world's largest ball of sisal twine in Cawker City KS.

Prairie History and a Chilly Van Gogh

Colby surprised us with the Prairie Museum of Art and History, a rich collection of pioneer artifacts, prairie life exhibits, and stories of the people who carved out a living on the plains. The next morning we drove to Goodland, where a giant reproduction of van Gogh’s Sunflowers sits atop what’s billed as the world’s largest easel. It was very cold — the kind of cold that makes you question why you’re standing outside staring at a painting on a 50-foot easel — but we laughed our way through it. And I was wearing shorts!

This 80-foot easel pictures a 24x32-foot replica of Vincent van Gogh's "Sunflowers."

Across the Plains to Route 66

From Goodland we headed south across western Kansas, a landscape so flat and open it feels like the sky is doing most of the work. We clipped the Oklahoma panhandle, touched the northwest corner of Texas, and rolled into Tucumcari, New Mexico, a town that still wears its Route 66 heritage proudly. Neon signs, vintage motels, and old storefronts made for great photos and a fun evening walk.

"We got our kicks on Route 66."

Show Low, the Wigwam Motel, and “Take It Easy”

The next day took us to Show Low, Arizona, and then on to two of the most memorable Route 66 stops of the entire trip.

Our first was the Wigwam Motel in Holbrook, one of the few remaining “sleep in a teepee” motels from the heyday of American road travel. Even just stopping for photos felt like stepping back into the 1950s — concrete wigwams, vintage cars, and that unmistakable Route 66 charm.

From there we continued west to Winslow, Arizona, for our long‑anticipated pilgrimage to the famous “Take It Easy” corner. And what a scene it was. A crowd of bikers and fellow Baby Boomers were gathered around the corner made legendary by The Eagles. Everyone was smiling, taking photos, and soaking in the nostalgia.

We joined right in — posing with the wayward traveler statue, the Glenn Frey statue, and the mural featuring “the girl in the flatbed Ford” reflected in the window. Behind it all, the iconic “WINSLOW ARIZONA” lettering stretched across the brick wall. "Route 66" is painted at diagonally on the corner of North Kinsley Avenue and East 2nd Street (old Route 66). It was pure Americana and absolutely one of the highlights of our trip.

"Well we were standing on the corner in Winslow Arizona..."

The famous corner of North Kinsley Avenue and East 2nd Street in Winslow.

Scottsdale and the Wedding in Florence

After Winslow, we drove south and got our first glimpses of saguaro cactus that dotted the desert as we neared Scottsdale. The next morning we wandered through the arts district — galleries, sculptures, and shops that always seem to have something new to discover.

From there it was on to Florence, Arizona, for the outdoor wedding of Barbara’s nephew, Ian Bauer, and Jacqueline Gilbert. It was a beautiful ceremony under the Arizona sky, full of family, laughter, and the kind of joy that makes a long trip worthwhile.

A Sudden Turn East

While we were in Scottsdale, I learned through Facebook that a dear friend of ours in Gautier, Mississippi, had passed away. Our original plan was to head north after the wedding and visit the Grand Canyon. But some decisions make themselves. We turned the car east and began a long cross‑country drive across New Mexico and Texas so we could attend the funeral. The most poignant moment in our long journey came as I was sitting in the Holiday Inn Express lobby in Las Cruces NM on our trip across the state. A young girl about 8 or 10 years old, came up to me as I was sitting with my coffee and gave me a hug. No explanation, no other contact. Just up and hugged me as I sat there, and then went on her way. Not sure if she thought I needed a hug, or if she needed a hug. I think I said, "Thank you, honey." It was a memorable moment.

We saw a lot of Saguaro Cactus crossing Arizona.

                                    This cactus specimen was just outside our Airbnb cottage.

Two Nights in Texas and a Return to the Gulf Coast

Texas always feels wider than the map suggests, and we spent two nights crossing it. Eventually we reached Ocean Springs, Mississippi, two days before the funeral. Being back on the Gulf Coast felt familiar and comforting. We visited several of the local businesses we knew from our years of traveling there between 2012 and 2018 — places that still feel like part of our story. And viewing the peaceful Gulf of America (formerly Gulf of Mexico) never gets old.

Lynn, Barbara and Jean visiting at The Cornerstone in Gautier.

May 30 — Remembering a Friend

The funeral in Gautier brought together many of the friends we made during our Mississippi years. It was a sad occasion, but also a warm one — full of stories, hugs, and reconnections. It reminded us how deeply those friendships run, even after time and distance.

The Long Road Home

We left Mississippi on Sunday, May 31, stopping in Millington, Tennessee, to visit friends for the night. From there we made our final push north, rolling back into Aurora around 1:30 p.m. on Tuesday, June 2 — tired, grateful, and carrying the kind of memories that only a long road can give you.

A selfie with our friends Ron and Teresa in Millington TN.

Looking Back

We didn’t plan a 4,362‑mile journey. We didn’t plan to cross 10 states, attend a wedding, mourn a friend, or reconnect with people who shaped an earlier chapter of our lives. But that’s the beauty of the road. Sometimes it takes you exactly where you meant to go. Other times it takes you where you’re needed. And every now and then, it gives you both.

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.