Hurricane Isaac's welcome

When I accepted this job as Public Affairs Specialist for the Supervisor of Shipbuilding (Gulf Coast), Naval Sea Systems Command, Pascagoula, MS, one of the first things that came to mind was we will be moving into hurricane country. I didn't expect we'd be tested so early though. Hurricane Isaac chased us out of our home and back to Memphis for a few days while it slowly plodded through the Gulf Coast and on up through Louisiana, dumping feet of rain in some cases along its path. As I mentioned in my earlier post, we'd made our hurricane preparations. We'd become comfortable with staying put in our second-floor apartment in Gautier -- about a mile from the Gulf Coast. Isaac was apparently going to come ashore as a Category 1 hurricane -- possibly a Category 2 -- and local people we talked to didn't get too worked up over a Cat 1. Most that we talked to said that unless it was a Cat 3 they stayed put. Besides, the hurricane -- which at that time was still a tropical storm -- was tracking more westerly toward Louisiana and making it less of a direct hit to the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Well, Isaac was also about 800 miles wide and its effects were felt from Florida to Louisiana as it strolled through the Gulf. Barbara was making banana breads, cupcakes and blueberry muffins as we prepared for the possibility of losing electricity by stocking up on food. This day -- Monday, August 27 -- was my first day working for the Navy, so early that morning I drove into work and began filling out the paperwork and listening to briefings about my new responsibilities. But storm preparations were already underway here, too, and by noon it was clear the approaching tropical storm would shorten my first day. I was sent home with a copy of the local hurricane preparedness policy and told to stay tuned. As we were preparing to wait out the storm, I checked a local news site and discovered the Jackson County Supervisors had issued a mandatory evacuation for everyone living south of Hwy. 90 and in flood-prone areas. We live in an apartment complex about 50 yards south of Hwy. 90, so we were in the evacuation zone. This was confirmed with a call to the apartment complex manager, who also called the Gautier Police Department, which is right across the street from our complex. So Barb finished her baking and we pulled out the suitcase again, threw clothes and a few mementos in the car, and by 5:30 were backing out of the parking space to leave. We didn't know what kind of traffic to expect, having never done this before, and knowing that the evacuation was only mandatory for those close to the water and many locals didn't consider it powerful enough to leave. Pleasantly, our escape route was no busier than a normal day's commute, and so we arrived in Millington (near Memphis) to stay with our friends at about 12:45 a.m. And it was from here we watched the live-streams as Isaac began with strong winds and heavy rain, pummeling the shore and then moving inland. For the next three days it dumped 12 to 15 inches of rain locally, and up to 30 inches in isolated areas. One online photo showed Hwy. 90 underwater in Biloxi with no indication, except for the highway information signs, where the highway actually was. Despite the devastation, which included tornadoes reported on the cities to both sides of us, the casinos in Biloxi were reopening already Thursday night. It might be a stretch to say life was getting back to normal, but people were wanting to put Isaac behind them. I am looking forward to going back to work next week (finally) without having to think about Isaac. Now we've had our intro to the Gulf Coast and we'll fine-tune our plans for the next storm that heads our way.

Preparing for Isaac

As I write this, I should be working on my inprocessing paperwork for my new job with the Supervisor of Shipbuilding (Gulf Coast), Naval Sea Systems Command, which begins on Monday in Pascagoula. Instead, I'm checking weather forecasts and websites for information on approaching Tropical Storm Isaac. We became aware of Isaac's approach early this past week with reports of a 'developing storm to watch' out in the Atlantic; and then on Wednesday Melissa texted this message, "Sounds like u could be seein' a hurricane soon." And the Isaac-watch began. I credit the local television stations which have tracked this storm doggedly and continually. And as we continue to unpack, put things away, and explore this beautiful area, we are also now joining in the hurricane prep. Our new 5-gallon gasoline can is filled, as is the Toyota. There's a grill and charcoal in the trunk. We've bought bottled water and resupplied our stock of batteries. I examined our important documents to decide which ones we need to take if an evacuation occurs. Next we'll begin putting everything together. And, finally, Barb emailed friends in the Memphis area should we need a place to stay in the event we leave. Isaac's track through the Gulf is still a work in progress, but its projected path puts this section of the Mississippi Gulf Coast squarely in the way, so we may not miss its effects. As of early Saturday afternoon, it is southeast of Florida, moving through the Caribbean. Current projections have it changing from a "Cat 1" to a "Cat 2" in the Gulf and then back to a Cat 1 after reaching inland some time on Wednesday next week. During all this I've learned more than I ever knew before about hurricanes. And we arrived here smack in the middle of hurricane season, which runs from June 1st through November 30th. The "Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Scale" lists five levels, with the Category 1 causing the least damage with winds of 74-95 mph, Cat 2 (extensive damage) at speeds of 96-110 mph, Cat 3 (devastating) with speeds of 111-130 mph, Cat 4 (catastrophic) at speeds of 131-155 mph, and Cat 5 (also catastrophic) at speeds topping 155 mph. During our travels through the Pascagoula-Gautier-Ocean Springs-Biloxi area this past week, we've visited with folks who survived Katrina, which became a Category 5 hurricane and the second-strongest hurricane in US history. One gentleman we talked to said he and his family lost 3 businesses and 2 homes during Katrina. The only item recovered from their Biloxi antique store was an Indian sculpture that was located six blocks away. Katrina's death toll was 1,836, with 705 people still reported as missing. Of course, having lived in the Midwest most of my life, I'm familiar with tornadoes and their destructive tendencies. It was always my goal as an amateur photojournalist to photograph a tornado. I haven't achieved that goal, although I've seen the destruction tornadoes cause. I have no such compunction to get up close to a hurricane. If the order comes, we'll be on the road and heading north next week.

Sometimes the greatest risk is not taking one

Barb and I are preparing for a new adventure. In just two weeks we will be moving farther south from the metropolitan Memphis area to the Gulf Coast, where we will make our new home in Gautier, MS. I will start my new job in four weeks as public affairs specialist for the Supervisor of Shipbuilding, Conversion and Repair, Naval Sea Systems Command in Pascagoula, MS. It is at the same time scary and exciting. I'm not a risk-taker but, as Dan Miller said and it's one of my favorite quotes: "Sometimes the greatest risk is not taking one." And so we will pack our things and move to the Magnolia State -- just a couple hours east of the Big Easy and smack-dab into hurricane country -- just a mile or so from the Gulf of Mexico. In some ways it's a bigger leap than moving from South Dakota to Tennessee. When we moved the 875 miles south last November we had never set foot in the Volunteer State. It was like going on a blind date. The federal government offered me a job there for which I was considered qualified. We had little choice but to take it, and so we arrived in Millington, TN on November 11, not knowing a soul. That soon changed as I met the people I would work with and we made many good friends in our church. So much so that now we're feeling the ache of leaving our friends. But on August 15 we'll fire up the U-Haul and drive another 410 miles south, stopping just short of the water. Again we'll arrive knowing almost no one. However, we visited Pascagoula before accepting this job, and so in a couple days' time we grew somewhat familiar with the place and also met some of the nice folks I'll be working with at the Ingalls Shipyard. It seems ironic that a guy who doesn't swim and is scared of the water will be working A) for the Navy; and B) at a shipyard that is C) on the Gulf of Mexico. Add the irony of a 30-year Army man now switching teams and working for the Navy. Same military but different uniforms, different rank structure, different focus. There aren't many big ships being built in South Dakota. And as ignorant as it may be, that little voice in my head will probably always advise me to "Watch your step," because when we visited Pascagoula we saw a local newspaper with a front-page photo of an alligator captured in a local park. No matter how unusual that is, this is an environment unlike South Dakota. Already we've both tossed out winter clothes and boots that shouldn't be needed during the winter where the coldest month's low temperature averages 39 degrees and the average high is 60. As Barb would say, "I can live with that." The snow shovel that came with us to Tennessee has been given to friends here who have horses. So in a couple of weeks the adventure begins. We are looking forward to it. After a 15-year break I will be once again working in my chosen professional field -- journalism. It is the opportunity of a lifetime and Barb has signed along for the ride. There will be so many new experiences for us that I should have blog material for years to come. And to be able to share it with with my best friend makes it all the more exciting and fun. We will love it! We couldn't risk not taking this opportunity.

First impressions of Mississippi

A week ago, Mississippi became the 36th state I've visited, and soon it will become Barb's and my new home. I have to say right out front that Tennessee and Mississippi are two of the last lower 48 states I would have ever expected to live in. I don't like heat and humidity, and so ironically we are heading from the Mid-South to the Deep South. And there are some notable differences between the Magnolia State and my home Mt. Rushmore state (sometimes call "The Sunshine State") of South Dakota. We left for Mississippi after Barb got off work -- about 11 p.m. Wednesday, July 11. Leaving late at night allowed us to get through the Memphis metro area without fighting traffic tie-ups. We drove about two hours that night, stopping in Grenada, MS along Interstate 55 for the night. The only thing that impressed me about this leg of our trip was the continual line of airplanes flying into Memphis International Airport. From our view on the interstate it resembled O'Hare, with plane after plane queued up in a long line for the landing. I assumed this was due to the fact that Memphis is the hub and home base of Federal Express. We left Thursday and drove through intermittent rain -- a pattern that would be followed for our return trip as well. Like Tennessee, Mississippi is covered in trees. When we moved to Tennessee in November we noted the absence of flat land and abundant grain fields. Trees grow up right up to the edge of the road. And in Mississippi, they grow right up to the edge of the interstate, giving one an almost claustrophobic feeling. We arrived in Pascagoula early that afternoon and drove around town to become acquainted with what will be our new home. The city of approximately 25,000 has a gorgeous city park (appropriately named "Beach Park") that overlooks the Gulf Coast. We were amazed at how easily accessible and quiet this area was. The park sits across the street just a few feet away from the beach. The park is equipped with play equipment, fountains, picnic tables and the like. Then there are benches that overlook the beach area, where only 3 or 4 persons were sunning themselves or playing in the waves. We were surprised by the solitude. After sitting on a park bench and gazing out at the Gulf, we walked across the street to a pier that jutted about a quarter-mile out into the Gulf. It's a serene and settling feeling that was marred only by the smell of rotting garbage in the trash cans along the way, and the fish remains from someone's filleting efforts at the end of the pier. Some of the largest, most gorgeous houses I've ever seen are located along this drive with a breathtaking view of the Gulf Coast. Many are now built on supports to keep them above flood waters. Hurricane Katrina had lasting effects on this city, as 92% of the city experienced flooding in its aftermath. Along with the beautiful antebellum homes, we saw old oak trees draped with Spanish moss. Like other cities, Pascagoula has its not-so-pretty neighborhoods, but in general it is a stunningly beautiful area, rated as one of Outdoor Life's top 200 best towns in America. And this from the city's own Web site: "Pascagoula has a deep and rich history as a European settlement that goes back over 300 years. The name is taken from a band of peaceful Native Americans (Pascagoula means “bread eaters”) who inhabited the area in the 1500’s. Pascagoula was part of the French colonial empire for over half a century dating from 1699 when Pierre Lemoyne D’Iberville claimed her for the Sun King, Louis XIV, until the English occupation from 1763 to 1781. Through the centuries, Pascagoula has been a home, hideaway, respite, or inspiration to such interesting folks as the pirate Jean Lafitte; the infamous Copeland Gang; “Old Hickory” Andrew Jackson who camped here prior to the Battle of New Orleans; Jefferson Davis and Ulysses S. Grant were both stationed here in 1848; General (later President) Zachary Taylor who was an early developer of the city and laid out several of her streets still in use today." Sounds like a great adventure for a couple of Midwestern natives, doesn't it? We thought so. More in my next blog.

10 things I love about my dad

Father's Day is Sunday, June 17. We set aside this day each year to pay tribute to our fathers, grandfathers or other male figures who have loved us, provided for us, put a roof over our heads and helped form us into responsible, productive citizens. So much has been said and written about a father's presence in the lives of his children. Sadly, this is the 21st Father's Day that my dad -- Frowin J. Stoltz -- has been absent. He died on December 29, 1991 at age 80. Every day I miss my dad more and I have a greater appreciation for the gifts he gave me. Not the physical gifts, although he was always generous with those as well. But the gifts that helped shape me and the gifts I've come to appreciate more and more as the years have passed. I'd love to spend a few hours with Dad -- to ask him tough, thoughtful questions about being an adult and a husband and father. I often find myself wondering "What would dad do?" I don't think I truly appreciated my dad and everything that he did for me until it was too late to tell him. So this Father's Day, although I don't have Dad here to send a card to, I want to tell him what I truly loved and learned in all those years when he thought I probably wasn't paying any attention. 1. Work ethic. Dad worked long days at New Farmers Grain elevator in Alexandria, SD, leaving the house at 7 a.m. and walking the approximately 8 blocks to work, and then returning home at 6 p.m. that evening. His glasses and overalls would be covered with the grain dust from measuring and moving grain among the elevator's storage bins. And when harvest demanded longer hours, he would leave earlier, get home later, and never complain. He was happy to have a job that provided for his wife, five sons and daughter. I believe it was his example that all six of us followed to be hard-working, productive adults. We had a dad who showed us how it's done. 2. Leadership. Dad was head of our household. There was no doubt. Whenever I wanted to borrow the family car to take my girlfriend on a date, I would ask Mom because she ran the household, and we kids usually went to her first with our problems. But the buck stopped with Dad. At the end of a hard day of work Dad would come home, eat dinner and then relax to read the day's newspaper. We kids knew to leave Dad to his few minutes of relaxation. But when I started straining to use the family car, Mom would say, "Go ask your dad. It's his car." And Dad, God bless him, never said 'no.' I knew that driving Dad's car was a privilege and I had better treat it with all the respect and care that my Dad did. And so I would obey the traffic rules to the letter, and put $2 worth of gas in it before returning the keys. Thanks, Dad, for trusting me. 3. Stature. Dad was tall and lanky. He stood 6'2" with a long stride that I so admired. Although I never met my grandfather, Seth, I can tell from pictures that Dad was a dead ringer for his father. I can't speak for my siblings but I always wanted to be six feet tall, and while one or two of us may have reached that height (I'm not sure if any of us actually did), I stopped growing just short of 5'11". Rather than being tall and thin like Dad, I was shorter and heavier, bearing more the physical traits of the Jarding family. There's nothing wrong with that. It just makes seeing over everyone's head in church a little more difficult. 4. Spirituality. Dad and Mom made sure that we always attended Mass on Sundays, holidays and special events. Friday nights during Lent usually meant Stations of the Cross. Also during Lent the family would kneel in the living room and say the Holy Rosary on week nights. I served Mass for two years during high school as well. And we always went to Holy Week services. People knew where we sat in church because our pew had a small clip that perfectly held Dad's fedora. 5. Humor. Dad had an easy, natural, disarming smile, and a deep bass voice that was a pleasure to hear. I enjoyed listening to that smooth bass as he would draw out the words, singing leisurely along with Mitch Miller or Lawrence Welk. I will always think of Dad when I hear Mitch Miller, whom I learned to appreciate growing up in our household. And Lawrence Welk was a Saturday night staple in our house until Dad's final years. 6. Integrity. There was never a dishonest bone in Dad's body. With two sisters who became nuns and a relative who was a priest, there couldn't be. I never knew Dad to be other than honest in any undertaking. Dad knew that honesty was always the best policy. It was really the only policy. It made life much easier when you didn't have to remember what you told someone. When you stuck to the truth, you always knew where you stood. We kids knew we were always on solid ground as long as we told our parents the truth. 7. Patience. Although Dad was not known for his infinite patience, he was more than patient with me -- and I think the others as well -- when we were learning to drive. I remember Dad pulling our blue Ford Fairlane over to the side of the road and allowing me to get behind the wheel -- and gain some valuable driving experience. I never felt nervous or anxious. Dad would put me at ease and let me appreciate and absorb the experience. 8. Talent or skill. Call it what you will, but Dad had a God-given talent -- woodworking. He built many things over the years -- shelves, bird (purple martin) houses, cabinets, etc. It was not uncommon to hear his power saw whining in the garage at night after dinner. This was a gift that was passed on to Roger, who became well known for his exquisitely ornate clocks. Like Dad, Rog loved to spend hours working in his shed on wood projects. I often wished that great skill had been passed on to me, because I still have trouble nailing two boards together. 9. Character. One of my favorite childhood memories occurred when I was about 10 years old. Dad took me to a Minnesota Twins game in Minneapolis on a Farmers Union bus tour. Along with a bunch of other folks we accompanied a friend of Dad's who was on the local elevator board of directors, and his grandson, who was also one of my best friends. I was a huge Twins fan -- lived and died with my childhood heroes Earl Battey, Tony Oliva, Harmon Killebrew, et al. Although Dad was not a sports fan, he did this hugely memorable trip for me. As I recall, the Twins won their game at the old Metropolitan Stadium in 11 innings. It's still there in my memory, 40-some years later. Larger than life. And now I appreciate more than ever what Dad did. He hit a home run with me. A Grand Slam. 10. Legacy. Like his dad before him, Dad managed a grain elevator all his adult life. He was well-known and respected in Alexandria. Dad served as city auditor for several years, and I remember that huge rolltop desk that came with the job and sat in our front porch. But Dad also lived an exemplary life that he could take pride in. He raised a beautiful daughter and five handsome sons to be productive, thoughtful adults. He loved his family. And we loved him. I can't help but feel I miss Dad more and more every year. I learned so much from him and I would've loved to learn so much more. But we ran out of time. Still, Dad wasn't without his faults. No one is. I can think of a few of those too, but they weren't many. And I try to emulate the good. He wasn't perfect, but no one is. But he was my father, and he will always be my dad.

In memory

Today is Memorial Day -- a holiday that has evolved into so much more than its original intent, which was to honor those who have given their lives in service to this great country. Memorial Day originated after the American Civil War as Decoration Day to honor the fallen Union soldiers. By this century its purpose has been expanded to honor all those who have died in wartime. Many use that day to honor all those loved ones who have died before us, with the decoration of grave sites in memory of friends and relatives a common and symbolic practice. The American flag is displayed prominently along streets and on homes, and is traditionally flown at half-staff until noon on this day, and then raised to full-staff for the remainder of the day. The grave sites of deceased veterans are decorated with flags as well. Services remembering the fallen are held, lest we forget the holiday's true intent. Memorial Day is observed on the last Monday of May. Ironically, it has become so much more than just a day of remembrance. Memorial Day typically marks the start of the summer vacation season. It is a long weekend for most Americans, meaning a time for cookouts, camping, boating, family, and relaxation as well. And the Indianapolis 500 car race usually coincides with this weekend. We have woven so much into this holiday. But let's not forget its original intent. Wikipedia tallies the total of U.S. war dead at 848,163 combat-related deaths, and the total dead and wounded from all conflicts since 1775 at 2,489,335. Neither the Iraq War or Afghanistan crack the top 10 conflicts in U.S. deaths. Far and away the costliest war in terms of human lives was the Civil War with 625,000 deaths. The Civil War was followed by World War II with 405,399 deaths, World War I with 116,516, Vietnam with 58,209, and Korea with 36,516. To put these numbers into perspective, an average of 599 lives were lost per day during the Civil War from 1861-65, and the daily loss numbers decline to 416 (WWII), 279 (WWI), 26 (Vietnam) and 45 (Korea). By contrast, total US deaths in Iraq have totaled 3,542, and in Afghanistan 1,435. This is not to downplay the human cost of our latest wars, but rather to provide a perspective that wars have taken a significant toll and that, as we hear so often, "Freedom is not free." I was fortunate that during my 30 years in the Army I was never in harm's way. As fate would have it I was on the ground in Panama City in 1989 when Operation Just Cause was initiated to hunt down Panamanian President Manuel Noriega and to free that country from his tyranny. We all heard the shots fired and watched Press Secretary Marlin Fitzwater simultaneously announce the beginning of that operation as we heard the firefight going on a few miles away. But we were never in serious danger. Others I knew or knew of weren't so fortunate. The first was my uncle, George Jarding, a young 19-year-old sailor aboard the USS Oklahoma, sunk by the Japanese at Pearl Harbor on Dec. 7, 1941. That attack lasted one hour, 50 minutes, and took the lives of 2,335 US military personnel. The main target of the Japanese that day was to be the aircraft carriers; however, since all three U.S. aircraft carriers were out to sea, the Japanese focused on the battleships. There were eight battleships at Pearl Harbor that day, seven lined up in "Battleship Row." During the attack, the Nevada left its berth in Battleship Row and tried to make it to the harbor entrance. After being repeatedly attacked on its way, the Nevada beached itself. The Arizona exploded when a bomb breached its ammunition room. Approximately 1,100 U.S. servicemen died on board. After being torpedoed, the Oklahoma listed so badly that it turned upside down. All eight U.S. battleships were either sunk or damaged during the attack. Amazingly, all but two (the Arizona and the Oklahoma) were eventually able to return to active duty. The next was Staff Sgt. Greg Wagner, little brother of my classmate Dan Wagner. Greg died of injuries sustained when a homemade missile struck his Humvee during operations in Baghdad on May 8, 2006. I knew Greg more through close association with his family. His dad, Chuck, was a veteran, extremely active in the local Legion post; his mother, Velma, known as "Blondie," and all of Greg's brothers and sisters -- I knew them all well and considered them close friends. Dan and I played football, basketball, baseball and track together for several years. Although I never met Andrew Olmsted face-to-face, I talked to him often and worked with him on Army projects. MAJ Olmsted worked in the personnel section of my higher headquarters unit in Fort Carson, CO. The Bangor, ME native was killed in Iraq on Jan. 3, 2008 at age 37. There have been others from my home state who have lost their lives in Iraq and Afghanistan, and others seriously wounded. And there have been so many more before them. I don't know them personally, but I know they sacrificed their lives in service to their country and its ideals. I would like to ensure we remember all of them today, and keep their families and loved ones in our prayers.

The World's Only Corn Palace

Having grown up in Alexandria -- just 12 miles from Mitchell -- experiencing the "World's Only Corn Palace" was nothing special. After all, we played basketball games there, went to concerts there, drove past it on Main Street almost constantly. And, of course, "Corn Palace Week" was the annual week-long festival in early September that included a Main Street midway plus a variety of entertainers who performed on the Corn Palace stage. Over the years, some big names played the Palace -- Bob Hope, Jack Benny, Red Skelton, Lawrence Welk -- and some not-so-big names, like Carrot Top. It was always mildly interesting to see each year what theme would be adopted for the murals that adorned the Corn Palace. The murals were crafted from naturally-colored corn and other grains and native grasses. The Corn Palace's Web site claims that 13 colors and shades of corn are used for decoration, including red, brown, black, blue, white, orange, calico, yellow and green. Each ear is then nailed in place to create a scene. The corn murals are stripped at the end of August and the new ones are completed by the first of October. The designs are created by local artists. From 1948 to 1971 the artist Oscar Howe designed the panels. Calvin Schultz designed the murals from 1977 to 2002. Since 2003, the murals have been designed by Cherie Ramsdell. No new mural was created in 2006 due to an extreme drought. Kitschy? Yeah. Oh, the Corn Palace has been the butt of its share of jokes. It has been called "The world's largest bird feeder." And I recall a professional wrestler many years ago announcing on television that he would wrestle his next match at "The Popcorn Palace in Mitchell East Dakota." Ah, but it still had a special place in our hearts. And we loved playing basketball games on the large Corn Palace floor. We usually would have one or two regular-season games there, and then district and regional tournaments as well. It was close to home. It was almost our second home court. The Corn Palace is visited every year by more than 500,000 folks. I recall so often driving down Mitchell's main street and seeing tourists with their cameras in hand, gazing at the murals. I just didn't see what all the fuss was about. It was built back in 1892 when Mitchell was home to 3,000 residents. The Palace was conceived as a gathering place where city residents and their rural neighbors could enjoy a fall festival with extraordinary stage entertainment – a celebration to climax a crop-growing season and harvest. The present Corn Palace was actually built in 1921 as a larger, more permanent, purposeful structure than its two predecessors. According to its Web site, "Today, the Corn Palace is more than the home of the festival or a point of interest of tourists. It is a practical structure adaptable to many purposes. Included among its many uses are industrial exhibits, dances, stage shows, meetings, banquets, proms, graduations arena for Mitchell High School and Dakota Wesleyan University as well as district, regional and state basketball tournaments. USA Today named the Corn Palace one of the top 10 places in America for high school basketball. " On May 7, 2005, Garrison Keillor hosted his "Prairie Home Companion" show from the Corn Palace, opening with a song about Mitchell and including many references to the Corn Palace during the show. It's got its own listing in the book, "1,000 Places to see Before You Die." But the utility of the Corn Palace has been called into question now, and it's the topic of much conversation in Mitchell. How important is it to Mitchell's economy? Should it be remodeled and if so, how much should be spent? The former became a discussion topic when the city was considering building an events center near the Hwy. 37 bypass. That idea was eventually rejected by voters. So how important is the Corn Palace? Well, it's nearly synonymous with the city. After all, the sports teams are named the "Kernels." The local AM radio station used to have the call letters KORN. It would just be weird without the Corn Palace in Mitchell and part of its identity. Kitschy, quirky or not.

Reading the Bible

Although I never thought to put this one item on my "bucket list," it should have been there at the very top. For the last four nights, Barbara and I have been reading the Bible. I have found I have a desire to read it, to understand it, to read God's Word and how it applies to our lives. I've read many good books over the years -- hundreds if not thousands -- but none with more relevance to the age in which we live. And, sadly, I have so little knowledge of what lies within the Bible's pages. So this week we began reading in the Book of Proverbs. Barbara tells me that this book was written by Solomon, son of David. I have to depend on her knowledge because I am admittedly woefully ignorant of the Bible's teachings. As we read Proverbs, occasionally we comment on a passage's applicability to our lives, or we may remark when a proverb is repeated sometimes in several different ways. In my years growing up at home, Mom and Dad always made sure we attended weekly Mass, the occasional mission services, Stations of the Cross, and we recited the Rosary nightly during Lent. I thought I was a pretty faithful Christian. But my knowledge was sadly lacking. I had ignored the Bible. My interest has been piqued in our Sunday School class. Barbara and I attend an hour-long class prior to Sunday's worship service. We have been studying the Gospel according to Luke, and I am impressed by the knowledge and foresight of our class members' interpretations of its text. I offer little so as not to display my ignorance. You know the old saying, "It's better to be silent and thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt." I couldn't even tell you in what order the Bible's books are presented. My knowledge was pretty much limited to the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Anyway, I have great admiration for our instructor, Ron, who leads us through the weekly passages, offers thought-provoking questions and guides our discussion. There is so much more to learn when delving into Jesus' life with other interested followers. Before we began this class, the Bible was, for me, mainly a decorative addition to a coffee table or a receptacle for written family histories. I have always wanted to read the Bible, but to pick up a thick book in small print with thousands of footnotes and pages and pages of maps and commit to reading it was a daunting task. And when I opened it I was intimidated. How would I ever be able to understand what I read? This class has stirred my interest and helped me get beyond the "fear factor." Several weeks ago we attended the funeral of the great man who taught our Sunday School class before the ravages of cancer became too great for him to continue. Ernie was our instructor for only a couple times since we joined, but his knowledge of and love of the Bible was evident in the extensive notes and thought-provoking questions he posed to us. We were told that Ernie had read through the Bible seven times. Seven times! Here was a man who so loved God's Word and was committed to helping others understand and appreciate it that he read it over and over and challenged his Sunday School class to probe deeper into the ministry of Christ. When Ernie passed away, Barb and I waited in line for 45 minutes to express our sympathies to his wife and family. Ernie had touched so many lives. His example also made a deep impression on me and made me wonder why I am not more like that. So I am hopeful that we will continue to spend some time every night to read the Bible. Barb can tell me her thoughts, and eventually I'll probably get comfortable enough to share mine. But having read the first 20 chapters of the Book of Proverbs means there's a whole lot more reading to do. I hope and pray that I have the love, conviction and passion to read and absorb it.

Integrity and sports -- strange bedfellows

Integrity is a trait in short supply nowadays. Reading news stories these days, there are a lot of folks showing a shocking lack of integrity. Even more shocking is our willingness to let people "off the hook" as easily. Not only people in supervisory positions but the general public. "What he does in his private life is his business." Hey, as long as coach keeps winning ball games, who cares if he a) cheats on his wife; b) pads his account with illegal money; c)smokes/shoots/snorts drugs; or d) sets up a "bounty system" to make a sporting event a 'life-altering' experience? Is integrity missing from the job description? The latest case involves University of Arkansas head coach Bobby Petrino, who came under scrutiny last week after crashing his motorcycle with 25-year-old Jessica Dorrell on board; she is a university employee that he had hired and was formerly a member of the Razorback volleyball team. Petrino reportedly first lied to athletic director Jeff Long and said he was alone on the motorcycle. But later when it was about to be publicly announced that he had had a passenger, "Petrino released a statement ...(that) he didn’t want to admit the female passenger was with him on the bike because it was an 'inappropriate relationship,'” according to one news report. Petrino is married with four children. "My concern was to protect my family and a previous inappropriate relationship from becoming public,” he had said. Long placed Petrino on administrative leave just as spring football practice were drills were set to begin. What is the greatest mistake here? Is it Petrino's for an embarrassing accident involving a 25-year-old university employee not his wife? For lying to his athletic director and withholding the truth? Or is it ours for giving sports a free pass on the integrity issue? A Fox Sports Poll asked "Should Bobby Petrino be fired at the University of Arkansas?" As I write this, 52 percent of the 59,142 voters say "yes." Thirty-two percent say "no" and 17 percent say it's too early to tell. Pete Fiutak writes: "To be totally honest, after all the horrors of last year, as long as a college football controversy doesn’t involve the alleged sexual assault of children, I’m good. But beyond that, as long as the University of Arkansas and athletic director Jeff Long conduct a thorough investigation and aren’t kowtowing to the element that cares only about a winning football team, this should be a matter between Petrino, his family, Jessica Dorrell and her friends and family." Yes, and if integrity isn't a trait to be valued at the University of Arkansas, they can just sweep this under the rug. "Compared to recent college sports scandals, what Petrino did is a Petrino problem," Fiutak wrote. "While he represents the University of Arkansas, most of the parts of the story don’t and shouldn’t affect the school and are of a more personal nature than on a football coach level." Yes, consider it a "Petrino problem" and go on with the work of building the Hawgs' top-tier Division I football program. Integrity was already left bloodied on the professional field. Some 22 to 27 members of the New Orleans Saints National Football League team were found to have participated in a slush fund that paid bonuses or "bounties" for deliberately injuring opposing players or knocking them out of games. Former defensive coordinator Gregg Williams was suspended indefinitely for his role in "Bountygate," and head coach Sean Peyton received a year-long suspension without pay. NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell also levied an eight-game suspension of General Manager Mickey Loomis and it's six games out for Assistant Head Coach Joe Vitt. Punishment for the players is yet to be announced. Maybe they should take the opportunity to hire themselves a good lawyer. Yes, football is a violent game. Picture the menacing Bears linebacker Dick Butkus or the gap-toothed Packers' Ray Nitschke, uniforms covered in blood, and know that violence is synonymous with the game itself. But deliberately trying to injure others is a crime, and paying to hurt others is a mob tactic. Remember Oakland Raiders cornerback Jack Tatum, known as "The Assassin," whose hit on New England Patriots receiver Darryl Stingley in a 1978 preseason game left Stingley paralyzed from the chest down. And after ending Stingley's NFL career, Tatum went on to write three best-selling books narcisistically titled "They Call me Assassin" (1980); "The Still Call Me Assassin" (1989); and "Final Confessions of NFL Assassin Jack Tatum" (1996). Maybe the 'win-at-all-costs" pressure is just too great to expect coaches and players to be angels. Ohio State University head coach Jim Tressel resigned in 2011 after the NCAA investigated multiple violations. They included several players selling memorabilia to a tattoo parlor, a suspicious connection between football players and Columbus-area car dealers, and Tressel himself admitting he withheld information concerning ineligible players in 2010. Last year, Yahoo! Sports investigated University of Miami booster Nevin Shapiro's claims of dealings with Hurricane players, which reportedly involved cash, prostitutes, entertainment in his multimillion-dollar homes and yacht, paid trips to high-end restaurants and nightclubs, jewelry, bounties for on-field play (including bounties for injuring opposing players), travel and more. Oh, but the list goes on and on. Carl Sandusky at Penn State (and JoPa's passive role). O.J. Simpson. And baseball's Barry Bonds. Mark McGwire. Sammy Sosa. Roger Clemens. Skating's Tonya Harding. The PGA's Tiger Woods. But all is not lost. There are exceptions and I wish they were the rule. Take Tim Tebow, now of the New York Jets, who was featured in a Super Bowl ad a couple years ago emphasizing the importance of human life. On Easter Sunday, a crowd estimated at 15,000-20,000 heard Tebow at the Celebration Church's Easter on the Hill prayer service in Georgetown, TX. He encouraged worshipers to share their Christian faith publicly. “My biggest prayer is to kind of make that cool again, for a high school kid to get on a knee and pray and it’s not something that’s unique or different and that it’s O.K. to be outspoken about your faith,” Tebow said. Wow. A fresh voice. A voice linking integrity and faith to sports that are so lacking and thirsting for it, especially when our younger generation is playing the game, yearning for role models and watching our every move.

At what age happiness?

Every day I like to scan the stories on both Yahoo! and MSN.com. There's always some interesting reading there. But what caught my eye today was the story headlined "Study: 33 is the best age." There was a picture of actress Kate Hudson (known to many of us as Goldie Hawn's daughter). The brief article read, "Shake off your 20s—the best is yet to come. According to a new study by British social networking site Friends Reunited, 70 percent of survey-takers over the age of 40 said they were not truly happy until they'd reached 33. Actress Kate Hudson, who turns 33 this month, is in luck!" I had to think back to 33. For me, that was 1988. I was in my first year of operating the Alexandria Herald and Emery Enterprise. Melissa was 7, Kristina was 4, and Andrea was 2. Jessica and Brandon hadn't joined the family yet. Happy? Yes, I was happy -- happy to have a business, doing what I loved to do, with a beautiful family. I'd reached my goal. I'd bought my hometown newspaper and I was running it the way I wanted to run it. And I was doing it all -- writing news, feature and sports stories, editing submitted copy, typesetting, taking photos at sports and news events, selling advertising, proofreading, laying out the newspapers, writing headlines, even taking the newspapers to Madison to be printed. Heck, I was even writing out subscription cards to send to readers. My parallel military career was going smoothly. By then I was a captain in the Minnesota Army National Guard. But my favorite title, and the one I loved answering to, was "Daddy!" When I read that 33 was the "magic number," I thought "According to this my children haven't reached the age of true happiness yet." I hope each and every one of them finds true happiness though in family, friends and their communities. And, as every parent would, I will do anything and everything in my power to help them find happiness, independence and peace in their lives. But, thinking back on that article, I recalled that I always thought 28 was the perfect age. If I could freeze life at any age, it would be 28. Old enough to vote and be treated like an adult, no longer too young to be discounted as too young to know better, nor too old to be "over the hill" and untrustworthy. There is a lot of life ahead of you at 28. There is much cause for optimism. I would have trouble pinning down a certain age as the 'age of happiness.' The "hard times," however, are a little easier to pin down. Those I remember well. Hard times build character. Lessons are learned. But that makes them no less painful or difficult. They are just a part of life. Every decade has brought new challenges and new opportunities. The 20s were exciting, filled with freedom and the start of an adult life. The thirties were about building a family and a career. The forties I remember as a decade of pain, confusion and hurt. But the fifties have brought optimism, happiness and contentment. Oh, they've brought their share of challenges. Those never end. But they've also brought more realization that I'm no longer in the younger crowd. People my age are wrapping up careers, growing into their roles as grandparents; some of my best friends have died. Parents have passed away and Rog too. Life is viewed now through a mix of past experiences and a respect for those who have lived longer and experienced more than me. Where there once was brash opportunism, there is now wisdom. Not that we know it all, because we are keenly aware that we don't. Not by a long, long shot. I'm reminded of a sign that hung over Millie's desk at the Herald office. It read, "Half of being smart is knowing what you're dumb at." There is a lot of truth in that statement. I don't mean to imply that I don't respect the younger crowd. But they too have to live life, learn its lessons and apply them to their daily living. I laud their optimism and resilient spirit. Like every generation, I fear for my children and grandchildren. That's no different than our parents and grandparents did. We want what's best for our children and we want to protect them from a not-so-subtle, cruel world. But then every generation has risen to the challenge. We "baby boomers" followed 'The Greatest Generation,' and now Generation X (and Y and Z) will carry on after us. Life will go on. It always does. It's up to us to make each year the happiest one.

Trippin'

Barb & I returned home Monday night from a whirlwind five-day trip to South Dakota and Nebraska. It was our first visit back home since we moved to Tennessee in November. We drove 2,200 miles, saw most of our families and then dashed home in an 11 1/2-hour marathon drive on Monday. It got me thinking about the trips of my youth. But more on that later. Our planning for this trip began about a week in advance so it was quickly planned and coordinated. We left Millington about 1:15 p.m. Wednesday for our first night's stop in Springfield, MO, and immediately got off on the wrong foot (to mangle a metaphor). I hadn't researched Mapquest or our GPS beforehand, figuring our route would naturally take us northeast out of Millington on the only highway running roughly parallel to the Mississippi River and heading in our trip's general direction. But our GPS (affectionately referred to as "Dic-Dic") kept telling us to turn around. What? Head south out of town instead of north? That just didn't make sense, and so we ignored Dic-Dic and continued northeast through the small towns that lay near the Tennessee border. Finally as we got closer to Dyersburg (where we would have to turn west and cross the Mississippi River and into Missouri), Dic-Dic realized we weren't going to listen and changed to an alternate route that accommodated our new route. We found out that our out-of-the-way route had added about 150 miles to our first-day drive, and we ended up driving southwest diagonally across Missouri when our most-direct destination would have kept us going almost directly north. Ah well... We stayed overnight at the Rail Haven Best Western in Springfield. This motel was decorated in 1960s motif with a couple of 1950s-era autos out front, several nostalgic signs and two very old, square gas pumps in front of the office. Beside the front office and also inside the office were telephone booths -- another fixture from the past. We got going early the next day and made Kearney by 5 p.m., visiting Barb's Aunt Ruth, her parents Dr. and Mrs. Mary Bauer, and her brothers Bill, Char and James before leaving on Friday morning. We arranged to meet Barb's friend Heidi Swanson and her boys in Columbus on our way up to Sioux Falls, and then drove north again where we visited with Barb's daughter Breanne and family. On Saturday we met up with four of my kids at HuHot Mongolian Grill -- a favorite eating spot particularly for the younger generation. We celebrated Kaiden's birthday, and then the next day celebrated Barb's grandson Judah's birthday in Lincoln. The next day we left Omaha shortly after 7 a.m., and pulled into our parking lot in Millington by 6:30 that evening. This trip reminded me of themarathon trips my family made in my youth. Oldest brother Don was living in Connecticut, and later my sister, Pat, moved to Buffalo, NY, so we made several trips east. But I remember one in particular. It will always stand out in my mind. Don and Jane were living in Meriden, CT, and the rest of the family was going to go out to visit. That's seven of us -- in one car -- Jim's Mercury. If you want to talk about fellowship and family time, we had it. That's seven of us in a Mercury elbowing each other and falling asleep on one another's shoulders for about 1,500 miles. Of course Rog and I were pretty young back then so we didn't take up a lot of room. But for the the folks, Jim, Terry and Pat, it couldn't have been all that enjoyable. I remember we drove all night the first night, stopping somewhere in Wisconsin for gas and being "buzzed" there by a low-flying bat. Then we stopped in Milwaukee, WI with the hopes of boarding "The Milwaukee Clipper," a car/passenger ferry that sailed east across Lake Michigan, thus cutting hundreds of miles off the trip south around this Great Lake. The Clipper ran from 1941 to 1970, carrying cars and passengers between Milwaukee and Muskegon. But we were only on 'standby' status and were unable to ride the ferry to Muskegon. While I remember next to nothing about our actual visit, I do remember we were able to board the "Clipper" on our way home and sailed across Lake Michigan on its Muskegon-to-Milwaukee run. I also remember Mom used to remark about our trip in Jim's Mercury, and how we all got along well and knew we had to behave and tolerate each other in close quarters. And we did. It was one of those few truly family memories I have. Oh, we made other trips out east. One was, as I recall, right around the time of the 1972 Rapid City flood that took the lives of more than 200 people. I would've been between my junior and senior years in high school then. Another thing that I marveled at during our trips east were the restaurants that were built right over the turnpike. You could watch the traffic go beneath you as you ate lunch. I don't remember how we passed the time on that long, crowded trip. But I imagine we enjoyed the scenery and the anticipation of visiting Don and Jane in their home a long way from our home. But, as Dad said and as I felt when Barb and I got back to Millington on Monday night, "It always feels good to be back home."

The best of friends

“Truly great friends are hard to find, difficult to leave, and impossible to forget.” Our lives are made exceedingly richer by our friendships. I was thinking of this this past week as one of my good friends -- Greg Schaefers -- celebrates his 50th birthday on February 25. Ironically, Greg and I went to the same school -- Hanson High School in Alexandria -- although he was seven years behind me. We didn't even know each other until we joined the same Army Reserve unit in Sioux Falls. And although I haven't talked with Greg in months, I know I could call him tomorrow and we'd recognize each other's voices instantly, and pick up a conversation like we'd never missed a day. Good friends are like that. “A friend is someone who understands your past, believes in your future, and accepts you just the way you are.” Over the years I've had many good friends and made a lot of great memories. And along the way I've lost some of my best friends. Three died way too young. Two of my closest high school buddies -- Barry Vlasman and Jerry Erpenbach -- have passed away. Barry went on to become a successful lawyer, practicing in Sturgis and later in Brookings. Jerry died in a motorcycle accident just outside of Alexandria when I was 22 and away at Indianapolis going through officer training for the Army. I was unable to attend his funeral, and I always felt something was missing -- that closure -- since I was unable to attend. Jerry and I used to cruise around Alex in his folks' blue pickup. Barry -- whose 57th birthday would have been on February 23 -- died about five years ago. We met in the 8th grade when Barry came to school from Fulton when our schools consolidated. We became friends with similar personalities. But after we left for college -- me to SDSU and Barry to USD -- we lost touch for several years. But after I returned to South Dakota, Barry often opened his Sturgis home to me when I drove out to Rapid City to attend weekend National Guard drills. And when he was around Alex he'd stop in and play with the kids. I remember his last visit -- he stopped in to see me in Montrose one Saturday while on his way home to Fulton. He was such a deep and thoughtful friend. It was just a matter of time later that Barry died. I felt that God obviously had an urgent need to call Barry home so young. And losing my brother Roger was probably hardest of all. Rog was the ideal big brother, mentor and friend. And his death at age 59 touched me deeply. Any problem I had, I could get advice or direction from Rog. And he was so even-tempered -- just my opposite. I cannot recall even once in all those years any instance of Roger ever raising his voice. He just wasn't that type of person. If I had a computer problem or something that required a big brother's advice, I'd call Roger. "Hey Bro," I'd say. And in his pleasant, easy manner, he'd respond, "Hey, Davy." I will never forget his voice. What a steady influence and great friend. When Rog died, a part of me died with him. “A true friend is someone who thinks that you are a good egg even though he knows that you are slightly cracked” There were other good friends growing up. Lee Thomas was a good friend and high school teammate, and we spent a lot of time at each other's houses. I knew his parents well and he knew mine. And we played many games of 'whiffleball' in back yards around Alex. Then at freshman orientation at SDSU, I met another freshman -- Terry Harris -- who was majoring in journalism, and we became good friends and stood up at each other's weddings and became Godfathers to each other's children. And my years of army service account for many good friendships. That's no surprise, considering that camaraderie, trust and loyalty are hallmarks of the military profession. Wearing the same uniform in public identifies us as a brotherhood. Tom Berg was a good friend in the Army Reserve for many years, although I've lost touch with him over the past couple of years. And Lauryn Schumacher -- although he was enlisted and I was an officer -- became good friends after we drove out to Fort Carson together in the winter of 2003. Lauryn and I discovered we had a lot in common, and he was going through a particularly troubling time in his first marriage. We often crossed the Sand Hills of Nebraska, counting the windmills. Later in El Paso, TX, Lauryn and I would go jogging at 6 a.m. to get our fitness kick in before the start of the Army work day. And this past year I was a groomsman at Lauryn's wedding. There were so many other good friends from the Army Reserve. Some, like Bruce Blankley, are still "Facebook Friends" who I keep in touch with. "A real friend is one who walks in when the rest of the world walks out." And now my best friend is Barb. Good marriages become great friendships. We rarely go anywhere without each other, whether it's shopping, church, computer time, even working out in the fitness center. We prefer each other's company. It's just not fun -- one without the other. We bounce ideas off each other. We text endlessly. We share in so many ways. Comedian Bill Cosby has said, "The heart of marriage is memories." It is the cement that strengthens that foundation.

That first job

There may be nothing as rewarding as earning your first paycheck. My first paying job -- the first regular paycheck I remember earning -- was working for the city of Alexandria after my freshman year of high school back in 1970. I don't remember the name of the program under which I was hired, but I do remember a little about that first job. There were a few kids my age who worked for the city -- about four, I believe. We did odd jobs -- mowed, picked up garbage or cut weeds at the ball park, painted fence near Greenhill Cemetery, and even helped clean up around abandoned houses. One of our favorite chores was emptying the garbage cans down at Lake Hanson, where we'd linger to watch the girls sunning themselves on the beach. Bud Wenande and Cliff "Putt" Mayhew were Alex's city workers, and I recall sitting around the city office talking with these guys from time to time, or riding in the front seat of the city's old, beat-up dump truck. It's kind of sad not to remember more about this job but that was 42 years ago. Thus began my contribution to the working world. After that city job I worked a summer hauling bales for several farmers, including Leona Egland, Kenny Letcher and Laverne Schoenfelder. I recall we would sit around the edge of the flatbed and ride out into the fields where two would pick up the bales and one on the flatbed would stack them. I hauled bales with several different kids that summer, but I remember in particular hauling bales with Roger and Duane Letcher. Stacking bales was an art form. If they were stacked correctly, a flatbed held many layers of bales interwoven into an almost solid unit. But if done sloppily, the stack would weave like an accordion -- or worse. Sitting on the stacked flatbed was common on the way back to the farm, so the tighter the stack, the better. Sitting on a carelessly stacked flatbed could be downright dangerous. To this day the smell of fresh-mown alfalfa reminds me of those days. And I can still smell the sweat-stained leather gloves we wore. Leather gloves were, of course, a necessity. With lots of practice one could throw bales several layers high to the stacker; but, of course, it also depended on the quality and cutting of the hay. Some bales weighed 50 pounds or more, while others -- depending on the time of year, amount of rain and the field itself -- would weigh less than half that. Then came the fun part -- unloading the bales -- sometimes outside on the ground, sometimes in a hayloft or shed, which could get very, very hot and dusty. I attributed hauling bales with my improvement of adding nine feet to my best shotput throws between my junior and senior years. I spent the summer after my freshman year of college working for Intercounty Electric in Mitchell. This meant riding up to Mitchell every day to meet the Intercounty crew at their shop on Mitchell's north end. I rode to work with Mr. Jon Wessel, who had been my football coach in high school and was now working for some outfit in Mitchell. I assisted one of the several crews who were headquartered out of Mitchell and drove every day in the Davison-Hanson-Miner-Sanborn county areas to set electrical poles, establish electrical connection or do any of dozens of other chores that were required of the electricians. The next couple of summers I worked for Hanson County's road crew, mostly helping to remove, install and fix fence with Berno Haiar and Leonard Tuschen. One summer I remember we worked most of the summer just a few miles east of Mitchell, where the county was widening a road. That meant tearing out the existing fence and then putting in new fencing along the widened roadway. The work day started early -- 7 a.m., and then we worked until 4 or 5 p.m. I remember, too, riding around in the county's old black maintenance truck with Berno usually behind the wheel. One job that wasn't really a job but I enjoyed immensely was riding along with Rog when he worked for Folsom's Store in Alexandria. Rog delivered milk and dairy goods to many area farms, along with Krumm's Tavern in Farmer and Cremer's Store in Spencer. Rog would let me accompany him in the small panel truck as he delivered dairy goods to those places, and I would get an ice cream bar as an added treat. But between my junior and senior years in college I spent six weeks in officer training at Ft. Lewis, WA, sandwiched in between shorter stints still working for Hanson County. Then after my senior year at SDSU I was commissioned and began my active duty tour with the Army. That's another story in itself, and may be the subject of another blog.

My sweet valentine

Barb, Happy Valentine's Day a few days early! What better time to write in words what I should be telling you each and every day? I was looking at valentine cards in Walmart a few days ago and some are very poignant and sweet and say exactly what I want to say. They're very pretty and heartfelt. But I thought, "Why rely on a card when I should tell you in my own words why you are so special to me?" No one else will say it in these exact words. During the past 5 years we've reminisced about what first attracted us to each other. It's been said often but still bears repeating. It started with your first visit to Montrose back in August 2006. The kids and I had just returned the day before from our rafting trip to Colorado. You and I had talked on the phone for about a month. But you drove up from Seward, NE all the way to Montrose -- a distance of 225 miles -- to meet me in person. You trusted me and made the commitment to come that far -- all alone. I was so impressed that such a pretty woman would go that distance just to meet me. I know your thoughtful response is that I had just got home from vacation with the kids and you didn't want me to have to travel again. Your thoughtfulness truly and deeply touched my heart. I remember your call when you got close to Montrose, and I stepped out on the front step to meet you. There was no GPS to follow then. And when you got out of the car, you took my breath away! You smiled and walked up to the house like we'd known each other for years. And remember that first meal? A well-done steak and a baked potato -- and no sour cream? You even remembered what I wore. Ugh! Cutoff shorts with white socks and sandals. How could I impress you with that? Did I REALLY wear that? You told me that you were impressed by my online picture holding my granddaughter Kyla in the kitchen. I doubt Kyla will ever know her role in my meeting my future wife. I was so impressed that you took a chance on me. I "winked" online at you from 225 miles away, not expecting such a pretty woman would give me the time of day or merit even a brief response. But you responded, and somehow we clicked. We talked on the phone. We had lots in common. And when you came up to Montrose that first time we watched "Legally Blonde." Oh yes, I'll always remember that movie. And then a week or two later you came back -- another 450 miles round trip -- to attend my Army Reserve unit's picnic with me. How could I not fall for a woman who so trusted me and enjoyed my company that she was willing to travel when I couldn't? And, of course, visiting you in Seward was great fun, even when you were working. I became familiar with Seward's bike trail, and brought some flowers from Walmart for your kitchen table. Your apartment was so "homey." It was so feminine, and smelled so good of candles and flowers... and you. They say that "The way to man's heart is through his stomach." Well, that was just "icing on the cake," so to speak,and to borrow an apt metaphor. I soon found out you were well known for your soups -- taco, potato and vegetable -- and beautifully decorated cakes, etc. And I've been known to like to eat. And we've had so much fun these past 5 years. We've been to Niagara Falls, El Paso, Branson, Memphis, and our next adventure will be Hawaii. I can't wait. We've laughed so much. I'm sure that's what keeps us young. And that's another trait that endeared you to my heart immediately. You laughed so easily. My favorite saying of yours is "You crack me up." I'm not normally a demonstrative person, but your gentleness, trust and humor helped put me at ease. My dry humor has found an outlet. You've seen a side of me not often or easily seen by others. And your smile is so sweet. Dimples form in your cheeks when your smile is so heartfelt. I look for that. And your green eyes are beautiful. I look into them and still wonder why or how I am so lucky as to be with this beautiful woman. I have loved having you as my best friend. You are passionate and compassionate. You are Christian and moral and have the same values I hold dear. We hold each other up when the other's down. I will always try to be your dragon-slayer -- your knight in shining armor. You took a chance 5 years ago and I want to ensure you never regret it. I love you, my sweetheart... always!

Dad, share your life with me

My purpose in blogging is to pass on to my children some of the family history, and to give them insight into what makes me the person I am. Having written that, I'm embarrassed and I owe an apology to Melissa for the following admission.... Back when Melissa graduated (this is how awful this is. I don't remember if it was her high school or college graduation), I bought a small spiral-bound booklet called "Dad, share your life with me...." For each day of the year, it asks the author to reveal a bit about himself. For example, on the February 14 page it says "Tell about a special valentine you once received." For April 10 it asks the writer to "Relate a favorite spring memory." Most prompts relate to that particular season or time of year, although some are simply unique, such as the June 2 entry, which asks "what was the funniest name or nickname in your town?" Now I thought that completing this book for Melissa would be a special gift that would give her an insight into my childhood and my personality. I am not a demonstrative person and so sharing some of my childhood memories I thought would be a great gift! Sadly and embarrassingly, at least 8 years later I still have not completed that book. Forgive me, Melissa! I will still complete this and hopefully you will find it enlightening. It may be somewhat repetitive as that was the original purpose behind my starting this Web log, and I've written about 30 of these in the past year. Some of these entries were no harder than jotting down facts, like January 1 -- "What was your day and date of birth?" Or January 6 and 7 entries asked for my mother's and father's full names. Piece o' cake. The early pages went on to ask more questions about the Stoltz family and what Mom and Dad did for a living. Who meted out the punishment? That's not hard. Pretty black and white. But the questions got harder, and a bit more painful. Some were poignant and plain thoughtful. Such as the January 23 entry requested, "Tell about the naughtiest thing you ever did. If you got caught, describe the consequences." My response, and one of the greatest regrets of my life, was this: "I took part in teasing a girl in our class who was 'mentally-challenged.' We were mean to her and I've never regretted any action so much in my life. She died at a young age and I regret never having had the chance to apologize and ask for forgiveness." Others were easily answered. January 27: "Did you ever have an imaginary friend?" My answer: "No." Some stirred distant memories. January 30: "Tell about the worst winter storm that you can remember as a child." That was the winter of 1968-69 when we were buried in so much snow that we could not get out our front door. A pathway was shoveled to the side door and we came and went through that. We missed weeks of school at a time because of the heavy snow and drifting, and I still remember each night looking out the front window toward the highway to see if the tree branches were blowing. Because if they were moving, we probably wouldn't have school the next day. Of course, there were questions about those people who touched my life... nicknames... favorite childhood meal... that "first crush"...church activities... favorite songs... bands... that first job. Through the years I've answered many of the questions. But some just defy a written answer. Either I don't have a memorable snippet or I just plain don't remember or it's not applicable. Melissa, you'll find some of the answers interesting and others just plain dull. Personally, I don't ever remember a mouse in the house (October 11) or a bat in the house (October 12). Later in life? Oh yes, the stories we all could tell about the bats who infiltrated the Alexandria Herald building. But growing up? No. No mice. Not bats, although I remember Roger finding an injured bat in the bed of marigolds. And mice? Uh uh. Mom would have none of that. Thankfully I don't have a memorable quip for the October 15 question: "Do you have a good school pants-wetting story?" Later on in that year, the questions turn toward my relationship with your mother and how it started, and then the questions were about you -- your "birth day" and your growing years. The questions for November and December concentrate logically on Thanksgiving and Christmas memories. And so, Melissa, your book has traveled with me from town to town -- from Canistota to Montrose to Sioux Falls to Hartford. And then just before Barb and I left in November for Tennessee, I considered whether to give the book to you (unfinished) or try to answer more of the questions. And I hate to ask this, Melissa, but do you mind if I hold on to it a bit longer? I think there's more good "blog material" in here. Certainly there's memories, and that's what this blog has been about. It's quite "me-centered," but I wanted to pass on to you -- my children -- all the things I've never mentioned or talked about. It will help you better understand who I am -- what made me the person I am today. And -- in the end -- I hope it was worth the wait.

Leave the flag alone

I suppose some would say I've lost any say in this matter since I don't live in South Dakota anymore. But I just moved away in November and only because my job took Barb and I here to Tennessee. I am a native of South Dakota and lived most of my life there. I call South Dakota my home and I always will (no matter where I live). And when my job is done here I plan to return to the Midwest. Heck, we still own our house in Hartford so we may retire there in a few years.

All that being said I have an opinion to share, and here it is.
"Don't mess with South Dakota's flag."
At least 80 South Dakota lawmakers are supporting HB 1235 introduced by Bernie Hunhoff of Yankton to change the state's flag. Artist Dick Termes of Spearfish drew the design, which has a Native American medicine wheel surrounded by yellow rays of sunshine on a sky-blue background.
This is not only a bad idea. It calls into question the need to have a yearly legislative session when lawmakers can find nothing more important to spend their time on than tinkering with a flag. And I'm not alone in sharing this opinion. The Rapid City Journal's online poll showed 86% of respondents preferred the state's old flag. A Sioux Falls Argus Leader online poll showed almost identical results with 87% favoring the state's current flag.
Why don't lawmakers take the hint? But then they've wrestled with such weighty issues in the past as naming the state bird (ring-necked pheasant); state flower (American Pasque); state tree (Black Hills Spruce); state nickname (Mount Rushmore State); state motto: "Under God, the People Rule;" state slogan: "Great Faces. Great Places;" state mineral: rose quartz; state insect: honey bee; state animal: coyote; state fish: walleye; state gemstone: fairburn agate; and state song: "Hail, South Dakota!" Oh, and I seem to remember too that the "state desert" is kuchen. I'm thinking we should lobby the legislature to make the state disease the common cold.
But in all fairness, I do see the value in many of these declarations. There is tourism value and state pride here. But changing the state's flag? If you want to tackle that issue take it to South Dakota's voters. Let them have their say. They're having their say in the online social media and most of them are unhappy with the idea. Many of the comments I've read have been blunt and pointed: don't do it, or if you feel the need to do it, start a dialogue that opens the issue for more designs and for citizens to give their input.
I'm sorry if the legislators don't think the state's seal is worthy of representing us any longer. According to the Rapid City Journal, a 2001 survey of flag experts in the North American Vexillological Association ranked our flag among the worst in North America. It was ranked 5th worst behind Georgia, Nebraska, Montana and Kansas. The best included New Mexico, Texas, Quebec, Maryland and Alaska. Well, I didn't think that state flags were part of any beauty contest. I don't care about their rankings. It has meaning and history to me, and that's what's important.
The Journal gave a brief history (courtesy of the South Dakota State Historical Society) of the state's flag, which began twenty years after our statehood in 1889 when Seth Bullock urged State Historical Society employee Ida Anding to design athe flag, which featured a blazing sun on an azure field. The law enacting the flag, SB 208, sponsored by Sen. Ernest May of Deadwood, said that the reverse of the flag should bear the state seal.
More than half a century later, lawmakers decided to abandon the idea of a two-sided flag for "financial and aesthetic reasons," the Journal says. The compromise is what we have today -- the sun on a field of blue with the state seal inside the sun. And around the seal are the words "South Dakota" and the state's unofficial nickname, the "The Sunshine State." According to the Journal, the flag was revised in 1992 to include the new state nickname, "The Mount Rushmore State."
And it was around the time of the state's centennial -- in 1989 -- that Spearfish artist Dick Termes proposed the new flag design. Now it has reached the floor of the state legislature.
Bottom line, if the legislators' goal was to create a dialogue on this issue, then they've achieved that. But if it was to establish a new flag without public input, I hope they get an earful from its residents.
Lawmakers, at the very least, listen to South Dakota's residents, because if you don't listen now, you'll hear them in November.

Memphis --living in the Mid-South

What's special about Memphis?
Before we moved to Tennessee, I couldn't tell you much of anything about Memphis, other than it's home to Elvis Presley's Graceland, which is visited annually by more than 600,000 people, making it the second most-visited home in the U.S. (behind the White House).
It's home to the NBA's "Memphis Grizzlies," whom Mitchell's Mike Miller played for from 2003 to 2008.
That's not much to go on when we moved just 15 miles north of Memphis. So here's what else I've discovered...
Located on the banks of the Mississippi River, Memphis has a population of 662,897 (2010 census), and is Tennessee's largest city and the 20th largest in the nation. Its metro area has a population of 1.3 million. It is also the nation's 5th most dangerous city.
A resident of Memphis is referred to as a Memphian, and the Memphis region is known, particularly to media outlets, as the "Mid-South."
Memphis is known as the "Home of the Blues" and the "Birthplace of Rock 'n' Roll." It has been the subject of or at least mentioned in many songs. Some are among my favorites, including "Maybe it was Memphis" by Pam Tillis, "Walking in Memphis" by Marc Cohn, and "Memphis" by Johnny Rivers, to name a few. Wikipedia states that "Memphis is thought to be one of the most mentioned cities (if not the most) in recorded music. There are over 1,000 commercial recordings of over 800 distinct songs containing "Memphis" in them." In case you were wondering, the Web site "memphisrocknsoul.org" lists 1,074 songs that mention Memphis in their lyrics. In addition, almost 20% of the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame's earliest inductees hailed from within a 100-mile radius of Memphis.
What else?
* Historic Beale Street was voted the second most popular entertainment district following New Orleans' Bourbon Street.
* Memphis is named for its Egyptian sister city on the Nile.
* Dr. Martin Luther King was assassinated at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis on April 4, 1968.
* The name Memphis means "established" and "beautiful."
* Memphis is home to St. Jude Children's Research Hospital, founded in 1962, by entertainer Danny Thomas. St. Jude is one of the world's premier centers for research and treatment of catastrophic diseases in children and has treated more than 16,000 children from the U.S. and 60 foreign countries.
* Memphis is the largest spot cotton market in the world, with nearly half of the U.S. cotton crop going through Memphis.
Even the lion that roared at the start of MGM's films lived at the Memphis Zoo until his death in 1944.
There's even more colorful history to be found at memphistravel.com. Now we know a little bit more about this southern belle. The rest we'll explore on our own.

Where are we?

Last week when Barb and I were in Branson, MO to ring in the New Year with our friends Alan and Linda Hall of Sioux Falls, we bought a global positioning system (GPS). This is another one of those devices that makes life so much easier.
My first real experience with a GPS was riding home from El Paso, TX to South Dakota with Paul Patton of Mitchell. We left early one morning before Thanksgiving 2008 on the 20-hour drive, arriving very late that same evening (or very early the next morning). Paul is a commercial trucker, so he had two GPS systems up and running in his minivan. I marveled as much at watching the little arrow lead us down a bird's-eye-view of the road we were on, with a pleasant female voice alerting us when we were due to turn in another direction.
Nowadays, built-in GPS devices are becoming standard equipment on new cars, but they didn't exist back when our 1999 Toyota Camry was built. So when we were in Branson we took advantage of Alan's business savvy and GPS knowledge to buy our own GPS. Upon leaving Branson, we programmed our home address into the system and let it guide us home with no problems. This unit even has a red-light indicator to alert drivers when they're approaching an intersection under red-light camera surveillance.
With this unit you can even "buy" celebrity's voices. James Bond, Mr. T, Bert & Ernie, Homer Simpson,Bugs Bunny.... My GPS web site lists 99 voices (some in foreign languages) you can purchase to guide you to your destination.
But a few weeks earlier, in our travels to Germantown, TN on the outskirts of Memphis, we used the GPS on Barb's smart phone to guide us to the local mall. It's amazing that our location can be mapped and pinpointed from almost anywhere on earth. You wanna hide from someone? Better leave your 'smart phone' behind.
Hmmm... this even seems to put MapQuest -- most recently our trusted traveling companion and map reader -- out of business, although it still comes in handy when you're planning a trip. Who needs AAA?
We still carry an atlas and a few maps in the car. When I was young, mom and dad would check maps and watch signs so we didn't miss our turn. No "fail-safe" method here. Just lots of poring over maps.
What would Dad think of this GPS? I doubt he would put the maps away. There's something almost comforting about unfolding a map and plotting your own way.

Born to run

Remember Forrest Gump? How he ran across the continent -- from one ocean to the other -- and then turned around and ran back?
I don't have many hobbies, but over the years I've developed a love for running, or more accurately as I've gotten older -- jogging. And to look at me you would not believe it because I don't have a runner's physique. Far from it. But I identified with Forrest Gump as he followed his girlfriend's advice to "Run Forrest. Run!"
I competed in running events in high school as a member of our 440- and 880-yard relay teams, and I even held the school's freshman record for the 100-yard dash for a while (11.2 seconds). But long-distance running wasn't my thing. I would never have developed this passion had it not been for the Army ROTC program at SDSU. The two-mile run has been a part of the physical fitness test I've been required to take at least twice a year for my entire Army career. Back at SDSU, our ROTC instructor -- MAJ Henkel -- would lead us hardy cadets down the campus streets, singing "Jodies."
What's a "jody?"
The Web site Army-cadence.com defines a Jody as "cadences sung by marching or running soldiers often dubbed “Jodys” or “Jody calls”. This name “Jody” refers to a recurring civilian character, the soldier’s nemesis, who stays home to a perceived life of luxury. Jody stays home to drive the soldier's car, date the soldier's girl friend, hangs out with the soldier's friends, and eats mom’s great cooking."
Common themes in Jodie calls include: homesickness, gripes about military life, insults of other units, services or the enemy, battles, exploits, or events specific to one’s own unit, or humorous references.
"While obscene, offensive and violent, Jody calls were previously the norm, they are now almost unheard of. Previously “R” rated Jodies have been cleaned up and modified, making them acceptable for a wider audience," the Web site says.
That's how I got started running. During my early Army years we ran in boots. None of this running in Nikes or Adidas that troops these days enjoy. And for years later I would only start running about 3 months before a physical fitness test. In other words, I'd let myself get out of shape twice a year and back into shape twice a year. At some point -- back in the 1980s I believe -- I kept on going with running and began a daily running regimen I still follow today. For many years my routine was 6 miles daily, but early in 2011 I cut back to 4 miles a day -- yielding slightly to my advancing age.
Barb will tell you I'm a creature of habit. My day isn't quite right if I don't get a run in. Since we've come to Tennessee we've used the treadmills in our apartment's fitness room. But my favorite route -- one I ran for 10+ years -- was the bike trail in Sioux Falls, from near Elmwood Park north and west around the airport to Minnesota Avenue. There were other diehards like myself. For several years I met Jason (don't know his last name) on the bike path, and we got to know each other as we passed each other daily or sometimes ran together. I'm sure he's still running there regularly. Wish I was there too.
I estimate I've run approximately 23,000 miles in my lifetime -- give or take 5,000 or so. That number is probably low, but I'll go with it.
The health benefits are many. I can't imagine how much I'd weigh without putting in all of those miles. It has kept me in some decent shape for all of these years. And, best of all, I am addicted to that "runner's high," defined my Merriam-Webster as "a feeling of euphoria that is experienced by some individuals engaged in strenuous running and that is held to be associated with a release of endorphins by the brain." It's that sense of accomplishment too that I love. And running gives you a lot of time to think things through -- chores you must do, problems to solve, etc.
I'm not sure how many years I'll be able to do this yet. My knees (thank God) have never bothered me, and the only time I've taken a break from this routine was when I had a car accident in 1997 and a severe muscle sprain in 2003.
I can't say that I was born to run. But I sure have become devoted to it.

The joy of writing

There's something exhilarating about putting one's thoughts on paper. Expressing oneself clearly is one of life's most important and valuable skills. It can't be overemphasized. I got to thinking more about writing when Barb asked me to look at her most recent blog, which you can find at http://expressions-thebeautyinlife.blogspot.com/2012/01/christmases-past.html. Barb wrote about her sadness on Christmas Day and not being able to spend the holiday with her family now that we're in Tennessee. She wrote about some of her favorite Christmas memories. It was sad and sweet to read because I hadn't realized just how much being away from home bothered Barb. And it was a part of her I hadn't seen before. But part of her childhood opened up to me in her writing. I wrote to her in response, "I hope that writing about it helps you. Writing gives me such a powerful form of expression and catharsis and I guess that's why I like it so much."
Granted, I am not and never will be a public speaker. Everyone who knows me knows I do not like the limelight and I don't like to speak publicly. My teachers' most common remark to my parents over the years was that "David doesn't speak often in class, but when he does, he has something of value to say."
It's safe to say I hate public speaking but I love writing. It is timeless and lasts forever. It's putting one's emotions down on paper. It's expression, prose, opinion, healing and communication all rolled into one. It's a prescription for relief without taking a pill. I've often said that the most valuable course I took in school was typing. Even more so now that my hands hurt from arthritis. But I remember well Mr. Bjerke's sophomore typing class. There were rows and rows of clunky old manual Royal typewriters with sets of green keys. We shuddered when we saw that there were no letters on the keys. We were expected to know them by heart! And as we progressed through the lessons Mr. Bjerke would "time" us, walking down the aisle with a stopwatch in hand as we tried typing as fast as we could with as few errors as possible. "Typos" were subtracted from the total word count and a "typing speed" was determined. But then we graduated to IBM Selectric typewriters, and that was awesome! Then along came the computer and "typing" became "keyboarding." And crumpled-up paper tossed at a garbage can became a thing of the past. And "spell check" and "grammar check" became buzz words.
But in the end it still comes down to putting your thoughts on paper. And that's the process that I love. This is my 26th blog post since I began this process last March. It hasn't been very regular, but when the urge to write hits me I usually give in and let it flow. Noted American author and journalist Ernest Hemingway once said, “In order to write about life first you must live it.” And that's the best part -- writing about life.
Hemingway also said, "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
And so it is.
We bleed emotions, thoughts, concerns, opinions. We "get it off our chests."
And after you've written all that, don't you feel better?