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

The First One — USNS Choctaw County (EPF 2)

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

The Rhythm of a Christening Day

• Color guard presents the colors

• Navy band plays patriotic marches

• Speeches from Navy leaders, shipyard executives, and VIPs

• Sponsor delivers the blessing

• Champagne bottle breaks

• Confetti everywhere

• Casket with bottle fragments is presented

• Guests tour the ship

It’s a ceremony steeped in tradition.

USNS Maury — The Sideways Launch

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

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

Under‑the‑Ship Christenings — A Gulf Coast Oddity

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

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

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

USS Omaha (LCS 12) — The Hometown Ship

The sponsor, Susan Buffett, delivered the traditional blessing:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A deeply meaningful ceremony honoring courage and resilience.

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

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

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

The Final Count

Across six years, I attended:

• 16 christenings at Austal

• 7 at Ingalls

• 1 at VT Halter Marine

• Plus LCAC oversight in Louisiana

Barbara attended 23 of the 24 with me.

Closing Reflection

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

 

A Soldier Goes Working for the Navy

From Millington to the Mississippi Gulf Coast

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

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

What SUPSHIP Gulf Coast Does

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

• Ingalls Shipbuilding (Pascagoula, MS)

• Austal USA (Mobile, AL)

• VT Halter Marine (Pascagoula, MS)

• Textron Systems (Slidell, LA)

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

Ingalls Shipbuilding — A Giant on the Pascagoula River

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

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

Shipbuilding 101 — From Keel to Commissioning

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

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

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

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

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

• Sea trials — builder’s trials, acceptance trials

• Delivery — the Navy formally accepts the ship

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

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

Notable Moments and People

USS America (LHA 6) — The Crew Marches Aboard

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

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

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

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

Color Guard and Band — Ceremony and Fanfare

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

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

A Job That Became a Calling

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

 

🌳 Our attachment to Arbor Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not a bad trade for a holiday about trees.

The State B's

 

STATE B WEEKENDS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I've Been Everywhere

 

From Sea to Shining Sea: Been There

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

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

South Dakota — Where The Story Begins

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

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

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

Washington — The Evergreen Cathedral

Tacoma and Fort Lewis introduced me to the Pacific Northwest:

• Pine forests

• Mild temperatures

• Rain that seems to fall more days than not

• Flowers that bloom like they’re showing off

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

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

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

Minnesota — Familiar Ground

Minnesota felt like South Dakota with:

• More lakes

• More trees

• More towns

• And winters that take themselves seriously

• More mosquitoes

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

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

Colorado — The Rockies as Neighbors

Colorado Springs and Fort Carson gave me:

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

• Hailstorms that arrived like uninvited guests.

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

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

Texas — Sun, Sand, and the Borderlands

Fort Bliss gave me a different kind of beauty.

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

What I remember most:

• Sand, sand, and more sand

• Mesquite bushes that look older than time

• Sandstorms that turn the sky brown

• Tarantulas crawling out after heavy rains like desert inspectors

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

Tennessee — The First Taste of the South

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

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

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

Mississippi — The Gulf Coast Years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mississippi was beautiful, unpredictable, and unforgettable.

Missouri — The Ozarks and Branson’s Hills

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

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

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

Nebraska — The Cornhusker Heartland

Nebraska feels like South Dakota’s cousin:

• Crops, especially corn

• Small towns and wide fields

• A rhythm of life tied to agriculture and weather

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

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

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

Nine states -- all unique. All memorable.

 

April 19: Twin Tragedies

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

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

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

Walking the Oklahoma City Memorial

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

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

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

You leave knowing you’ve walked on hallowed ground.

A Second Tragedy, Closer to Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remembering Mr. Bjerke

 

That machine was just my type

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Southern Welcome

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

 

Part 5 — Waiting...

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

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

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

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

 

Part 4 — Learning to Live Differently

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Part 3 — Life Goes On

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

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

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

Life, as it turns out, does go on.

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

And that’s exactly what I began to do.

Part 2 -- tThe Wake-Up Call

 

Part 2 — The Wake‑Up Call

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part I -- A Lifetime in Motion

 

Part 1 — A Lifetime in Motion

I’ve never had what people call a “runner’s body.” I’m built on the husky side, the kind of frame more suited for blocking a linebacker than gliding through a 10K. But from the time I was a kid, movement was simply part of who I was. As the youngest of six kids — and the only one who played all the sports — I lived on the baseball diamond, the basketball court, the football field, and the track. If there was a season, I was in it.

That rhythm carried into my Army years. Twice a year, like clockwork, I had to take a physical fitness test. At first, I treated it like a school exam: cram for three months, take the test, then forget about it until the next one rolled around. Eventually I realized it was easier — and far less painful — to stay in shape year‑round than to keep repeating the three‑month-on, three‑month-off cycle. That’s when I became a dedicated jogger.

And once I started, I didn’t stop.

I got hooked on the "runner’s high" — that strange feeling of contentment when the body stops complaining and the mind lifts off. When I wasn’t mobilized, I ran six miles a day, five days a week. At Fort Carson, Colorado, I pushed it even further: six miles a day during the week and ten miles on Saturdays. Later, when I worked in Sioux Falls for the Army Reserve, I’d slip out over the noon hour and run six miles on the bike trail. If the weather was bad — and in South Dakota, it often was — I’d put in the same miles on a treadmill. Sun, wind, cold, or fluorescent lights, it didn’t matter. I loved the movement, the fresh air, the routine.

I kept that up until 2016, when back surgery ended my jogging days. Two lower vertebrae connected with a rod and two screws — the kind of hardware that doesn’t negotiate with high‑impact exercise. That October surgery was the only one I’d ever had.

Until Friday the 13th -- February 13, 2026.

It started quietly, with a nagging dry cough that hung around for four months. Nothing dramatic, just persistent. Then came the palpitations — my heart racing for no reason — and the sudden breathlessness. Getting up from a chair and crossing the room felt like climbing a hill with a sandbag on my chest. Those were the signs that finally pushed me to make a doctor’s appointment.

The doctor ordered bloodwork, an EKG, and an X‑ray. She sent us home for lunch, but the phone rang soon after. She wanted us back for a CT scan. When the scan was done, she asked to speak with us privately. That’s when she told us there appeared to be blood clots in my lungs — and they needed to come out immediately.

She coordinated with a cardiologist in Grand Island who agreed to perform the surgery that very day. We drove to the Aurora Hospital emergency room, where I was put on Heparin and prepped for transfer. An ambulance took me to Grand Island Regional Medical Center. When I arrived, a team of four nurses and aides were already waiting in my room. They prepped me, wheeled me to the operating room, and got to work.

My wife, our pastor, our neighbors and a close friend drove separately and waited in my room while the procedure took place. My three daughters from South Dakota arrived soon after. I was awake the entire time. A massive clot was removed from my right lung and a smaller one from my left.

The mass of blood clots removed from my lungs. The nurse showed me this picture while I was still on the gurney. She said, "Do you have a strong stomach? Want to see what we removed?"

That was the beginning of the story — the moment everything changed.

 

Creepy, crawling critters

​A lifetime of critters I never asked to meet

Every place I’ve lived has left its mark on me — not just through people or memories, but through the creatures that decided to share the landscape. Some stayed politely outdoors, others crossed the line entirely, but all of them became part of the story whether I wanted them to or not.

Hartford – A snake in the grass

There's probably nothing I hate more than snakes. Hartford was our introduction to garter snakes, and they made themselves known right away. The west side of town must have been prime real estate for them, because they showed up in the yard, under the deck, and anywhere the sun hit just right. Mowing the lawn became a cautious, zig‑zagging operation. The smart ones scrambled to avoid my sharp mower blades. I never warmed up to them, but I learned to barely tolerate them.

Parkston – More snakes in the grass

When we moved to Parkston years later, I discovered the snakes had already taken up residence there. They turned up around the garden, beside the neighbor’s garage, and sunning themselves at the base of the house like they were posing for a calendar. Once again I tolerated them only because they stayed outside. Had one ever come into the basement, I might have handed over the deed and walked away.

Branson – Scorpions in my boxes?

Branson gave me my first exposure to scorpions. Three of them — all small, all dead — in our storage unit. I never saw a live one, and that’s exactly the number of live scorpions I prefer to encounter. Still, it was enough to make me open every box with the caution of a man defusing a bomb.

Fort Bliss – Tarantulas: Come out, come out, wherever you are

Fort Bliss introduced me to tarantulas, which appeared after desert rainstorms like slow, hairy tumbleweeds. They never bothered us; they were more a curiosity than anything, but seeing one amble across the pavement was enough to make you rethink your life choices. I gave them space, and they returned the favor.

Mississippi Gulf Coast — Respect the ’gators and enjoy the turtle races

Mississippi brought bigger wildlife. Alligators were common enough that you learned to keep a respectful distance. A four-footer was snagged from the pond outside our apartment complex, the same pool where we would throw bread along the shore and watch the box turtles race to get the crumbs.

Rows of genuine alligator heads are for sale at this shop in St. Augustine, Florida. Like any good tourist, I brought one home with me

Unwelcome Guests

Then there were the ones that crossed the line

Outdoor critters are one thing. You see them, you nod politely, you go your separate ways. But every so often, a creature decides to cross the threshold and make itself at home. These are the ones that earned a special category.

🪳 The Fort Bliss Couch Climber

One day in our government‑issued apartment, I spotted a cockroach running up the closet wall. I mentioned it to Barbara, mostly as a “keep an eye out” warning since he was fast and I couldn’t locate him. Later that day, as she sat on the couch, Mr. Cockroach climbed right up the armrest like it wanted to join her. She didn’t scream. She didn’t call for backup. She grabbed a shoe and ended the situation with one clean swing. Problem solved. Marriage strengthened.

🦇 Alexandria Herald – Bats in our belfry

At the newspaper office in Alexandria, we had bats congregating above the false ceiling. Ours was a two‑story concrete block building that clearly needed some patching. We heard their high‑pitched screech upstairs where we lived. Every so often, one would show up in the newsroom like an uninvited intern looking for assignments. We found one hanging in the pantry. I once tried to swat one away with a tennis racket — not my finest hour, but memorable. The kids still talk about the “bat era” of the Herald, which tells you how often those little visitors made themselves known. And then in Branson one showed up, taking up residence above our door. Needless to say, immediately after that we added an entryway to combat the intruder.

🐀 The Mississippi Gray Blur

When we moved into a cheaper apartment in Mississippi — as I was nearing retirement and we looked to “save a few bucks” in our final months there — we lasted about two days. Sitting in the living room, I saw a gray blur streak toward the kitchen. A rat. That was all it took. We grabbed Barbara’s daughter’s poodle (Louie), evacuated to a hotel, and moved out the next morning. Some decisions don’t require discussion.

Closing Rejoinder

So that’s my lifetime roster of critters. Some slithered, some skittered, some flew, and one even tried to join Barbara on the couch. I didn’t invite any of them — but they sure made the journey memorable.

A sentimental journey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dusting off a memory

🌾Dusting off a memory

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Darkroom Hours I Can't Get Back

 

The Darkroom Hours I Can’t Get Back

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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