A Long Way There

The busyness of the evening had slowed, and most of the guests had left for their homes and families.  The sliding door opened and Paul stepped onto the deck to joined us at the end of the table.  Wine bottles were scattered across the table, indicating another successful wine party, affectionately referred to as the great Wine Adventure. 

At this point, only the mosquitos showed much life, but they were being held at bay by the citronella candles burning at various points along the deck.  Our wives were in the house, putting away food and catching up on each other's fading summer plans.

I was filled with melancholy, perhaps attributed to the wine or maybe I was feeling sad at the prospect of another summer coming to a close.  Fall was around the corner, with its cooler temperatures and longer nights, and I was thinking about how quickly the summer had passed. 

I was asking Doug a question when Paul sat down and emptied the remaining wine from a nearby bottle into his glass. 

"So, Doug, do you know what we were doing forty-two years ago?" I asked.

Doug's face, illuminated by one of the candles on the table, repressed a smile and nodded,  "No amount of wine will ever keep me from remembering that trip.  Four hundred dollar car, Little River Band on the radio, chalk outlines on cement and you learning how to drive a stick."

Paul put his glass down and added, "And getting carded buying some beers on the beach."

I laughed, "How could we ever forget that?  You bring it up every time we're together."

"Just saying."

"What about tossing all that fruit out the window as we entered New Mexico because we were afraid they would bust us at one of their checkpoints?  I don't think they bother anymore, but we were scared shitless that they would find us with oranges or bananas."

"We were so clueless.  I'm still amazed that we were able to find our way."

We were silent for a moment, then I added, "Think about it guys.  We were kids right out of high school driving over 2,000 miles in a car that Doug had bought for a bad song.  I don't know about you two, but I had never been further west than Minnesota.  And that's not saying much."

Doug said, "Before GPS, Google Maps or computers in our cars."

"Before John Lennon was shot."

"And Microsoft Windows, Apple iPhones and Facebook."

"September 11, 2001."

"And Make America Great Again!"

I looked across the table at the gray haired guys who were still my best friends, despite everything life had thrown our way - marriage, the passings of our parents, children, jobs, and Father Time.  Sometimes I think we wouldn't be life-long friends if it wasn't for that trip.  A trip that defined not only our adolescence by ending the banality of high school, but also changing our lives in ways none of us ever imagined.

Yes, it was unforgettable -- the trip of our lives.






I was eighteen when Doug, Paul and I left for California.  We were nerdy kids who wore rolled up jean shorts and foot high athletic socks.  We were all from the Great Plains, who firmly fit the corn-eating, vanilla chit chat, Midwestern Nice profile.  We avoided trouble in high school by spending our Friday and Saturday nights playing euchre at a friend's cabin.  In a throw-back to "American Graffiti," we occasionally enjoyed driving around downtown on a weekend night  looking for chicks and avoiding a guy named Malum who once pointed a gun at us because our stupid antics had pissed him off.  But, typically our summers consisted of a few girls, minimum wage jobs and wasting a few afternoons on the Mississippi River. 

I'm not sure whose idea it was to drive to California, but there was little doubt it would happen once it was mentioned.   California sun?   Disneyland?  Pacific Ocean beaches?  Mexico?  San Francisco?  Check, check, check, check and check!

It was a different time --  when our parents didn't worry about mass shootings, climate change and safe places.  If we had the money and our own transportation, they were ok with it.  None of us can even remember calling our parents while on this trip, which is unthinkable today.  I can imagine my mom telling us to drive safe, eat every day and get lots of sleep.  Oh, and keep your eyes on Paul -- he could be trouble.  I made up that last part, but it's a good joke every now and then.  Everything else was up to us.

It was a time when Fleetwood Mac was on top of the charts with Rumours, which stayed at number 1 for 31 weeks.  Star Wars introduced a generation to a galaxy far, far away, and a peanut farmer became our 39th President.

It was also a time when after four years of unmistakably plain high school, we were heading in different directions.  Paul and I were heading to college, but not the same one, and Doug was heading to WWTC to study auto mechanics.  It was an opportunity for one last adventure -- before summer ended and we went our separate ways.

Our road warrior was a four-hundred dollar, 1972 Chevrolet Vega GT, a straight line four cylinder hatchback, which was famously known in its ads "as the only little car that does everything well."  What a slogan!  Reminds me of those ads today telling you not to settle for someone who is  "pretty good" at something.   Coincidentally, 1977 was the last year of production for the Vega, as reliability, safety, rust and engine durability spelled its doom (good thing our parents didn't know about that).

With the backseats down it bragged about having a whopping 49.3 cubic feet of interior space with the seats down.  It had holes in the passenger quarter panel from a dent puller and a manual shift, meaning I had to learn on the fly.  I thought I did ok, except the one time I was pulling out in front of a speeding semi-truck somewhere near Anaheim.  I had shifted into third gear, which for anyone who has driven a stick knows will either stall the car, or at best, cause the car to chug-chug-chug until you pick up speed. 

Honestly, I had things under control, despite what the other two will tell you.

The Vega rear hatchback also served as a bed for when we would drive through the night and one of us needed to get some sleep.  After a day, the sour smell coming from sweaty socks, uneaten food and three bodies needing a bath was almost overwhelming.  If lack of sleep didn't knock you out eventually the smell did.   And I don't know how we squeezed into the back because it contained all of our clothing, food, camping gear and everything we purchased.  But, we were young, flexible... and thin.  A lot thinner.

We passed time by listening to the AM/FM radio, talking on the CB radio or popping in a cassette tape of Little River Band's first album with "It's a Long Way There," "Curiosity Killed the Cat," and "I'll Always Call Your Name."  Little River Band would go on to have a number of Top 40 hits.  Another band, but one much less known, was Lake with songs no one would ever hear of,  "On the Run," "Time Bomb" and "Jesus Came Down."  We also enjoyed listening to Boston's first album and everything Rush.  We must have listened to those songs until the cassette tapes broke or spooled out of the cassette player like strings of silly string.

By my calculations, it is over 2,000 miles from La Crosse, Wisconsin to San Marcos, California.  To get there we drove through Minnesota, Iowa, Kansas, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California.   Our first night was spent in Liberal, Kansas in a campground after 884 miles and more than 13 hours of driving.  I'm sure it was a long day, but the freedom we felt and the excitement of new states, new landscapes and people was enough to keep our young bodies and minds racing toward the next town.

The following day, we made a quick stop in Dalhart, Texas so I could buy a tooth brush and toothpaste  (I'm not sure if it was my idea or Paul and Doug who had to sit next to me in the car).  From there we made it to Tucumcari, New Mexico where we bought some food and drinks, but decided to pass on the goat heads that were for sale in a convenience store.  I'd heard of head cheese while working at K-Mart Foods, but never the whole head.  I'm pretty sure we got out of there as quickly as Paul did whenever he heard my mom's voice, wondering what new trouble he was getting us into.

Before our experience with the sadistic head hunters of Tucumcari, we encountered another novelty (to us at least) in New Mexico -- agricultural checkpoints when you crossed their border on Interstate 40.  Our naiveté was on full display as we started throwing oranges out the window, only to find out later that they weren't interested in three guys driving a Vega hatchback to California.  Of course, you never knew what other "illegal substances" they might find, so we were always on our best behavior when crossing the borders of New Mexico, Arizona and California.

After a less than exciting night in our small tent the night before, we decided to forgo stopping again  and continued our push through the hot desserts of Arizona by driving all night long.  It was a trip of over 1,100 miles and more than 17 hours --  before satellite radio, iPhones and GPS.  There was no internet or DVDs of Mash, Threes Company or All in the Family to pass time.  And the only FaceTime was the one you had with the person sitting next to you in the car. 

It was during these long, cramped hours that our conversations wandered from girls, sports, girls, music, girls, school and life.  We were too young to have the burden of 8 to 5 office hours, diapers and baby food, or even the responsibility that comes from a steady girlfriend or wife.  Our interests were our own and our obligation to ourselves.  The trip was full of new experiences for all of us -- a strange voice coming from a radio station originating out of Albuquerque, New Mexico at two o'clock in the morning, sunrise in the desert, with the sky becoming a deep neon blue as the sun's  upper limb broke over the horizon, a gas station warning us that this was the last gas for 200 miles, and a night sky filled with millions of tiny stars, forming brilliant constellations we was seeing for the first time in our lives.

With determination and a little luck, we arrived the following morning at our destination, California, the land of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll.  At least that's what the Rolling Stone magazine said before it was lost in the growing pile of stuff in the back of the Vega.  At the time, I couldn't tell you if California had more sex and drugs than any other state, but I could certainly dig their rock 'n' roll  --  San Francisco and Los Angeles alone produced some of the best 70's bands -- the Eagles, Journey, Doobie Brothers, Grateful Dead, the Doors, Jefferson Airplane, Santana and of course the band that was synonymous with southern California, The Beach Boys.

Our plan, once we reached California, was to spend time with Paul's aunts and uncles living in San Marcos and Costa Mesa.  This was southern California and pools were everywhere --  some of my best memories come from George and Carol Halland's pool in San Marcos and Orv and Darlene Mundinger's pool in Costa Mesa.  However, our enjoyment at Disneyland and Knotts Berry Farm was muted as we watched the CBS evening news on August 16, 1977 to learn Elvis Presley had died in the bathroom of his Graceland mansion in Memphis, Tennessee at the age of 42.

We also went to Tijuana, Mexico for a day, even though none of us had passports.  In today's violent world, I don't think we would have wandered through the streets of San Diego's sister city looking for leather belts and wallets.  Were we in danger?  Who knows, but none of us gave it a second thought.  What did three boys from the midwest know about cardboard shanty towns and drug cartels?

The last few days of our trip were spent traveling north to the much cooler (both figuratively and climatically speaking) San Francisco where we would spend a few days with Paul's Uncle John and his partner Don.  I never gave their relationship a second thought -- beyond wondering what their neighbors thought of three young boys coming for a visit.  But hey, it was California, where everything goes!  Visits to the Golden State Bridge, Fisherman's Wharf, Alcatraz and riding the cable cars were like dreams come true for all three of us.

If it hadn't been for Paul's relatives, I'm sure we would've been part of California's first homeless invasion, living in a Vega down by the Pacific Ocean.

As it was, we enjoyed a week in the luxury of the gods (at least by my standards), sleeping on nice beds, swimming in private pools day and night, body surfing in the Pacific, cruising the beach in a convertible, and being treated to great beach-front Mexican restaurants and bars.

But all good things must end, and like the morning fog in San Francisco, ours ended  much too soon with a non-stop trek through Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, South Dakota and Minnesota.  It meant driving all 2,029 miles without stopping for much more than bathroom breaks, some food and something to drink.  While our trip out to California was an adventure full of excitement, our trip back was one filled with monotony and a desire for our own beds and our mother's homemade food. 

Lack of sleep eventually caught up to us in Minnesota, only a few hours from home.  None of us can remember whose turn it was to drive, but as the sun was rising over the pockmarked landscape of rolling hills and plains of southern Minnesota, we could go no further.  It was Paul, perhaps driven by my mom's final words to him when we left -- "make sure to bring my favorite child home" -- who pushed us through the last one-hundred miles to arrive home, safely.

In the end, it WAS the trip of a lifetime. 

Not because of where we went --  we have since all travelled much further from home and to much more exotic and older destinations than California.  But because of who we were and what we meant to each other.  It prepared us for life by teaching us about life.  And the bond that was developed in Doug's 1972 Vega GT, where we traveled more than 4,000 miles in little more than a week, has remained strong even forty-two years later. 

We all did our own thing after that long trip in a small car -- college, marriage, kids, death of our parents and everything else in between.  But no matter what came our way, good or bad, we have remained great friends.  My memories of that eventful journey always bring me back to them and to our midwestern roots where we could be kids, have fun and explore the great unknown without fear.

Thanks guys!


"Hey everybody yeah, don't you feel that there's something?

Feel it, feel it?

Hey everybody yeah, don't you feel that there's something?

People on their own are getting nowhere,
I am on the road to see,
If anything is anywhere and waiting, just for me.

Every night I walk around the city.
Seems like I'll never know,
That feeling of being together when I go.

And it's a long way there, it's a long, long way
it's a long way to where I'm going," 

- Little River Band

Livin' On The Edge

"There's something wrong with the world today
I don't know what it is
Something's wrong with our eyes

We're seein' things in a different way
And God knows it ain't his
It sure ain't no surprise
Livin' on the edge.
-- Aerosmith



In light of the recent shootings in El Paso, Texas and Dayton, Ohio, I've been thinking about fear, anger and hate, and a look at local and national news leads me to believe that those on the wrong side of that equation may be winning the battle.

When I attended a Lutheran parochial school in La Crosse as a young child, I was reminded of my sins on a weekly basis.  Friday morning was my time to recite -- from memory -- an assigned Bible passage that would remind me not to steal or lie to my parents, or how I could be doing more for those in need of a helping hand.

For a young boy still learning what it meant to be a teenager, it was an excruciating exercise in resisting the temptations of puberty.  I was leaving years of purity, innocence and simplicity of life for one where my self awareness and preservation were more important than others.  Girls, money and recognition were far more interesting than another humbling passage from the New Testament.

Years later, I am beyond grateful for those passages which continue to show me the way whenever I am tempted by girls, money and power (some things never change).  But with the removal of the Ten Commandments, or worse, the removal of anything that upsets people, like civil war monuments or conservative speakers on campus, restaurants and movie theatres.

It's a mental component that seems to be missing in so many people today -- from friends and neighbors that disagree over politics, to people in honorable positions like politicians, law enforcement and pastors.  People no longer know their limits.  Damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead!

The result is a loss of  basic civility, challenges to First and Second Amendment rights and new interpretations to long-held religious beliefs.  It's the unraveling of the America that I grew up in as a kid.  Every decade seems to have lost some of it civility to the point that people today will tear their neighbor's head off if they put a political sign in their yard supporting the "wrong" candidate.

A generation ago, most people knew the difference between right and wrong.  Today, not so much -- politics (with the help of cable news and social media) have assaulted the founding fabric of America, including sex, marriage and family.  The left has successfully removed God from schools, courtrooms and public parks.   Sometimes I think they've even been successful in removing God from church!   The moral compass of our lives used to be church, and now with fewer and fewer people going, it is missing from many of our lives, leading to some of the worse behavior and language I have ever known.

The '60s radicals in education have reaped the benefits of their self-proclaimed "tolerance" and "diversity", resulting in less free speech on campuses once known for protesting the Vietnam War and President Nixon.  The hypocrisy of our education system is unmatched anywhere in our society.  Diversity is no longer something to be used for admissions.  Today's definition of diversity has become political, like everything else.  "Diversity" prevents conservatives from giving their side of an argument, because it's counter to a minority position.  Our country's laws -- written to protect us as American citizens -- are to be followed by the political underclass, but not those running for elections or illegally crossing our borders.

Our future is grim when we can't even agree on the definition of things like justice, equality, racism, illegal alien, or making America great again.




As Yoda, in The Phantom Menace famously said, "Fear is the path to the dark side.  Fear leads to anger.  Anger leads to hate.  Hate leads to suffering."

We would all be wise to listen the Jedi master.  The Texas and Ohio shootings are a reflection of how far down the rabbit hole our media and politicians have descended.  You can't reason with hate.  And -- not to disappoint presidential candidate Marianne Williams -- but you can't convince someone to love you when they are filled with so much hate.

Many democrats, tech giants like Google and Twitter, and Hollywood actors have criticized Trump for his "hateful rhetoric" when he defends his stand on illegal aliens and building the wall.  They are equating love of country -- one of Trump's signature beliefs on the campaign trail -- with white nationalism.  Trump's nationalism is being proud of being an American and wanting the best people to come here and contribute to our future.  Legal immigration IS what has made America what it is.  Diversity can be a strength if you follow the laws and assimilate into this county, rather than tearing it down and making it into the country you left behind.

My friends, what I hear from too many on the left -- democrats, communists and socialists --  is hatred for this country.  How else do you describe their positions on open borders?  Illegal aliens?  Free education?  Free health care?  If they successfully win the presidency, they will attempt to destroy so many of these things that have made America great.  When was the last time you got something free that was great?  Not only are they pandering for votes next year, but should they win, they will quickly kill our health and educational institutions as well.

I am genuinely worried about what comes after hate.  Violence?  The hate harbored by the shooters  in Texas and Ohio spilled over into violence.  And now we are left with suffering.  Instead of dealing with the hatred being spread on social media, we have politicians asking for gun control.  Someone with an open mind can see guns are not the problem.  And having easy access to them isn't the problem either.  Not that many years ago, you could order a gun from a mail order catalog!  Seriously.  No background checks, just send money and in few days you have a gun at your door step.  And guess what?  No mass shootings.  So it's not having guns that has changed.  It's people.  And that's why we have to address the cause of all this hatred if we are ever going to prevent more suffering.

But something tells me the left is not going to stop in their sowing of discontent during a year leading up to 2020's presidential campaign.  Which is tragic when you look at how many people really want it to stop.





The left has become so deranged in their hate of Trump that they label any criticism or disagreement as being racist, or worse yet, being a white nationalist.  Tell those who hate America to leave?  You're a racist!  State facts about Democrat-controlled cities that are failing?  Racist!  Denounce white nationalism?  Then you must be a White Nationalist! 

A recent study of the media showed cable news hosts calling Trump a racist over 1,000 times in just one weekend.  And Trump's accurate portrayal of Baltimore has also been labelled racist because he attacked a black Congressman's district for being "infested" by rats.  Who knew "infested" was a code word used to denigrate blacks?  He has also been credited with hate speech because he used the word "invasion" to describe the illegal aliens crossing our boarder.  What?  The only invasion I'm worried about is the invasion of stupid comments like that one!

It's just insane.  From where I sit, dividends from President Obama -- eight years ago -- continue to be enjoyed by the left.  Opponents couldn't criticize anything he did without being accused of racism and today, if anything, it has gotten worse.

Look at this exchange from last week:

President Trump said, "In one voice our nation must condemn racism, bigotry and white supremacy.  These sinister ideologies must be defeated."

The left's response?   This headline from the New York Times sums it up pretty well, "Trump uses a Day of Healing to Deepen the Nation's Division."

Amazing isn't it?  How does one twist unity into division?  With stupidity like this, this country is never going to survive.

In my parent's house, talking politics used to be avoided.  I can't remember my parents ever discussing the racial unrest of the 60's, the Vietnam War, or Ronald Reagan.  My uncles and aunts were more politically astute, but even they knew not to bring up politics when we got together.  Today, everything is contaminated by politics, including our sports, movies, late night comedy and even tragic events like last weekend.

When did anyone think calling half of your fan base "racists" was a good idea?  Football games need fans in the stadium, and movies need butts in the theater, so why are athletes and movie stars attacking their audience?  Not that I represent everyone, but I don't watch football like I used to, I've lost respect for women's soccer and tennis, and I don't know when I watched a movie or television series that featured one of these woke millionaires.

Our country used to agree on more things.  The stool that supported our country's foundation for nearly two hundred years consisted of God, family and country.  How tragic to think that all three have been successfully attacked by the left.  Today, we have removed God from our lives, having a family is now a minority position, and country means "no borders."

The result is as appealing as a root canal.




America is sick, and we didn't need the latest shootings in El Paso and Dayton to convince anyone.

The emptiness that fills our souls cannot be addressed by anything government can do or say.  You can blame Donald Trump if you want, but Americans have been unsatisfied with the country’s direction for most of the last five decades.  If we leave it up to Washington to save us we are in deep trouble.  Our salvation, like those Bible passages I used to memorize in parochial school, can only be found in ourselves. 

"You have heard that it was said, "You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.  But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven."

Words I'm glad I learned many years ago.

My Mornings with Bailey

Today's temperature is almost ten degrees cooler than the last few days.  Upper 50's with a gentle breeze out of the north, which leads me to wonder if I should be wearing shorts and a short-sleeved shirt.  My mom would say no, but my Norwegian heritage proudly says "what's the problem?".

My hand holds a leash that is stretched to its limit, as our nine-year old miniature schnauzer, Bailey, turns her body and forcefully angles her way to the first tree we've encountered.  Bailey only weighs 19 pounds, but the chances of me stopping her from her appointed duty are somewhere between none and the Vikings having better luck in getting to next year's Super Bowl.  So there's no point in moving on until she's ready.

 

To the east, the sky has turned from an uninteresting gray to playful blobs of white, underscored by pink and orange, as the sun awakens from its evening slumber.  The weather forecast is for rain to arrive sometime this afternoon, but for now, there is nothing to worry about. 

A gentle pull of the leash brings my focus back to the ground as Bailey is moving on, her nose inches from the ground.  She snorts as she sweeps the area for fresh scents of squirrels, rabbits and other dogs.  Her present track has her aiming toward a scattering of white powder on the edge of the sidewalk.


"Leave it, Bailey," I tell her, wanting to move beyond the perimeter of our next-door neighbor's property.  I wouldn't put it past the old man to put down some rat poison as a deterrent to dogs peeing in his yard.  Ever since his epileptic verbal attack two winters ago, I've made a point to stay clear of him -- and this morning will be no different.  Is it my imagination or do I see a bent over, shadowy figure looking through his window?  

With a strong tug, I head north toward the end of the block and away from the house.  We have places to go, and trees to pee on.


*          *          *          *          *


Liz and I have been walking in our south side La Crosse neighborhood for more years than I can remember.  It's something that started shortly after we moved into our house and our second son was born.  We would put Sean in a stroller to calm him down and get him to sleep, thinking it was cheaper than driving in a car.  We quickly found ourselves exploring the area that would become our home for the next 25 plus years.

For those of you interested, here's a little history of our neighborhood.

During the war years, and before there were houses  --  between 1930 to 1950 -- the southern edge of our neighborhood was basically a large open field.   This 80 acre field was the site of La Crosse's first airport, called Salzer Field.  It wasn't much of an airport, just a dirt track used for aerobatic shows, military landings and a daily mail route between the Twin Cities and Chicago.  When the city decided to make improvements to the airport (boundary lights and a beacon), they abandoned the site and moved it to its current location on French Island.

The same grounds were also used for periodic performances of the Ringling Brothers Circus and Sells-Gray Circus when they came to town.  Imagine -- twelve acres of tents, three-hundred performers, five-hundred horses and twenty-five elephants, just blocks from our house!

It was later converted into a maintenance site for vehicles from Camp MyCoy (now called Fort McCoy).   During that time, Quonset huts and wooden barracks were constructed on the big open field for the many workers who kept McCoy's vehicles running.  Shortly after, the barracks that housed these workers were no longer needed for the war effort, and were converted into the booming post-war housing effort.

I've always thought it was a great neighborhood -- a typical middle-class neighborhood with medium-sized 1940 and 1950 post-war houses, each with 1 1/2 stories, 3 bedrooms 1 1/2 bathrooms and a detached garage.  Today, it is a neighborhood where you can safely walk or take a bike to school without worry.  In fact, our sons walked to elementary, middle and high school and never needed a car or ride.  It was a rare day -- raining or snowing -- that one of us needed to drop them off at school.  Nearby is the Village Shopping Center, Festival Foods , Erickson Pool and The Cinema within a 15 minute radius making it the center of many family friendly activities.  There's even a small park located in the middle of the block -- Verchota Park -- where we have played football or jumped on a swing to soar so high in the air that the legs of the swing set literally pull out of the ground.

Through the years, our neighborhood has seen families come and go -- when we moved in, we were the new family with young children.  Today life has come full circle.  Liz and I are the empty nesters, surrounded by households with young kids riding bikes and playing in the front yard.

As was the case during most the last half century, you could always find neighbors outside and stop to talk about family, politics and sports.  It was the kind of neighborhood where you could leave a set of keys with the neighbor in case you locked yourself out of the house, or wanted someone to check on things while you were on vacation.

They were good neighbors. I remember our neighbor across the street, Woody, helping Sean and I retrieve a baseball that had fallen through a sewer grate; Dee, our neighbor to the south ran a muffler shop and always came out to talk whenever he saw me working in the yard; and Gladys who was always interested in what we were doing to our flower beds.  If ever there was a neighbor who would lean across the fence wanting to talk, it was Gladys.  They were neighbors who helped us in so many ways.  I can't walk through the neighborhood today without thinking about them at some point.

Unfortunately, our neighbors today aren't as friendly as Woody, Dee or Gladys.  And the children don't play kick the can or ghost in the graveyard when it gets dark.   Society in general seem to be less neighborly for a variety of reasons, including television, social media and safety concerns, and I think our lives are poorer because of it. 

The changing makeup of our neighborhood hasn't stopped me from walking, however.  While my memories of past neighbors are like ghosts that wander through nearby yards, a few neighbors remain that allow those memories to live on.


*          *          *          *          *


I have always loved early morning walks.  You see a gentler side to life as the city wakes up from its deep slumber.  There's a feeling that you can conquer anything.  The day is full of promise as you  think out solutions to problems that have been keeping you up at night.

Today's challenge is coordinating the logistics of getting Liz's nieces, who split time between Ireland and Saudi Arabia, to La Crosse.  From out of the blue, Liz gets a call from her brother, who wants his youngest girls to spend some time in La Crosse.  They've never been to the states before, so we are planning things to do for the two weeks they are here.  On a morning like this, the solution is only a few houses away:  meet them half way in Madison.

As Bailey and I continue our walk I see a few neighbors with their lights turned on -- I imagine people stumbling out of bed to take a shower, make that first cup of coffee and check their phones for updates to Facebook and other favorite websites.  We have a neighbor that works the early morning shift at a radio station, so he is never home by the time I walk past his house. 

(As a child, I remember a neighbor who had served many years in the Navy.  Every morning, I would see him through his kitchen window sitting at the table drinking a cup of (coffee?).  As a young boy I didn't think much of it, but today I wonder if he ever thought of his time at war.  Did he miss his wife who had passed away from cancer?  Was his early morning routine formed during the war, or did his body hurt so much that he could no longer sleep?.  As I grow older, I find the later to be more plausible.)

We are waiting at the curb as a car rumbles past, avoiding potholes that have become as big as Bailey.  Once it is gone, we cross the street and head up a slight incline before Bailey finds interest in a neighbor's fence post.  As I wait, I see a familiar figure -- a high school student -- with his hood pulled over his head, switching to the other sidewalk.  It never fails -- I don't know if he's afraid of Bailey, or me.  I can walk on either side, and he will walk on the other. 

On most days, the 1 to 1 1/2 mile walk will last thirty minutes, unless we encounter rain or heavy snow from the night before.  Then it's a quick once-around the block and back in the house. 

Today, I think we will walk over to where the church grounds are under construction to see what progress has been made.  I tell Bailey that we have an hour before I have to go to work, so let's enjoy every step.  She looks up at me, as though she understands.


*          *          *          *          *


I wonder how many people have never really explored their neighborhood?  They jump in their cars and drive away.  I realize people are busy with school, sports and other things.  But for too many people, their view of the neighborhood exists out the front window when they're not watching television.  I don't mean to tell people how to live their lives, but they're missing out.

For me, walking slows things down and let's me look at the houses, schools and businesses up close.   You see their flaws (pealing paint and weeds), their beauty (a trellis full of cascading wisteria flowers) and sometimes the people who live or work there (many have lived in the same house all their lives). It also lets you hear the sounds of the neighborhood.  The swish, swish of sprinklers, the welcoming barks of dogs who wish they were joining us, or the whistle of a distant train hauling goods to another city.

In the years we have been walking, many things have changed, but some are as consistent as the rising of the sun over the bluffs to our east.

.  Our encounters with middle school and high school kids walking to school, eyes glued to their cell phones, oblivious to cars backing out of a driveway or the waging tail of a certain miniature schnauzer.

.  The assembly of people arriving for seven o'clock mass at Mary, Mother of the Church Parish (accompanied by the floating, long serenades of ringing bells announcing its start).

.  The lonely sighting of an empty yellow school bus, waiting at Harry Spence School, ready to start its route to pick up children eager for another day of school.  As we approach, the bus driver lowers her "People" magazine long enough to smile and acknowledge our passage.

. The meeting of a familiar rescue dog, Miles, and his foster owner, Curt.  Someday, he is going to tell me that he has decided to keep him.  The longer he keeps him, the stronger the bond.

 

. The sad reality of ash trees slowly dying from the Asian beetle.  Large trees, a part of our neighborhood for fifty years or more, are gone in one day, to be replaced by young trees that provide no shade to those of us walking by.

. The sight of mourning doves fleeing their evening perch, whistling through the air as their flight feathers create an audible, high-pitched sound.

. The precise arrival of engineers in the parking lot near Trane Company.  I hypothesize that each one of them is contemplating a better lunchbox design than the obligatory one they carry with them into their office.

. Seeing our neighbor's aging golden lab, laying in the grass, patiently watching us with the wisdom that nothing is going to interrupt his early morning meditation.  I don't look forward to the day he won't be there to greet us.

Some of these occurrences are good, others not so much.  Either way, I would miss them if I couldn't take my daily walk through the neighborhood.


*          *          *          *           *


We are waiting at another busy intersection where a constant stream of cars is heading to work. 

I estimate that Bailey and I walk over 400 miles every year.  If someone my height averages 2,100 steps every mile, then I'll be walking over 840,000 steps in 2018.  Or 3,360,000 dog steps based on Bailey's short legs.  Whew!  No wonder my feet hurt every day!

Obviously, the biggest benefit to walking is improved health.  A relaxing walk every day could lead to fewer pills to lower your blood pressure.  I read somewhere that walking will reduce your risk of death from cardiovascular causes by 46% (if walking with someone as slow as Bailey).  If you can walk faster, without stops, you can reduce that risk by up to 53%.

But there are other reasons to walk.

Maybe we could understand some of the problems our nation face if we aired our differences during a walk around the neighborhood with a friend or spouse (instead of listening to the morning news).  I'm thinking marriages would also benefit with a little more talk about work and family during a walk -- get to know your spouse again and why you fell in love all those years ago.  

And of course getting to know your neighborhood is good for developing your sense of belonging.  Of having an identity. 

While my neighborhood isn't what it used to be -- I still miss Gladys and Woody -- I will never forget my time here.  The memories of our house and those around us will be with me when we retire and move to someplace else.  I know this because I still remember my parent's neighborhood. 

I had awesome times playing basketball and walking down the street on stilts.  "Kick the Can" was great fun and I can still remember how strange is was lying in the grass of my neighbor's yard swatting mosquitos and hoping that itch wasn't coming from poison ivy.  The view of my parent's house from three houses over was different.  The lights looked brighter and the house was too small for six people.  Almost like it wasn't the same place.

I think walking though my neighborhood with Bailey has given me that familiar childhood feeling.  Unless you get out and view the world -- or neighborhood -- things will always look the same.

Home Away From Home

At 5 feet tall, and weighing less than 110 pounds, she hardly seemed capable of having much of an impact. 

If we were talking football, she wouldn't survive a single hit.  Call the doctor, get an ambulance and prep the operating room. But if we were talking matters of the heart, it was another story.  Like a much loved daughter, her presence could melt away the worries of a busy work day and make you glad she was with you.

Little did we know when we met Ahn Jae-hyun on a cold January evening in 2013 that she would affect us in such a personal way. 

 

She was the first student we hosted as part of La Crosse Friends of International Students (LFIS), an organization that connects students from around the world with a host family and the La Crosse community.  Unlike foreign exchange programs where students live with you, La Crosse Friends of International Students simply provides support to foreign students needing a friendly face, adjusting to college life while away from home.  It's a connection to each student needing a friendly face in new surroundings -- getting back and forth to the airport,  hosting a much-needed home meal, getting out on the river,  traveling during the holidays with family, or making a simple phone call when someone loses a filling in a tooth.

LFIS was something new for us, and served as a way to keep young people in our lives after both of our sons left the house to pursue college, jobs and lives of their own.  Hosting a foreign student -- from another country, with a new language, culture and cuisine -- was simply icing on the cake. 

Liz and I have always enjoyed watching travel videos to exciting places in Europe like Norway, Scotland, Croatia, Slovenia and Spain.  We've been fortunate enough to travel to France, Germany, Austria, the Czech Republic, Ireland, Canada and Mexico.  Hosting these international students has simply been an extension of those journeys and allowed us to enjoy different cultures in person.

Ahn Jae-hyun was born in Busan, South Korea, the younger of two sisters.  Busan is the second largest city in South Korea with more than 3.6 million inhabitants.

I can't imagine what it must be like to travel from such a large city to a foreign country (even one as friendly as the United States), cope with a strange language, adapt to a different culture, time zone and food, earn money without working, and make new friends.  And once you have a handle on all of that, you still have to study and pass college-level courses, often taught in English.  I always assumed our language was taught as a second language to many foreign students, but even when they know enough to greet you, there is still a jump from reading it in a textbook to actually being able to talk and understand someone else speaking it. 

Ahn Jae-hyun, like other students from Asia, was one of those who struggled with her English.  So it was always an adventure with her, although by her fourth year she was much improved.  Every year she would return to UW-L with a better grasp of our language, which made getting out into the community that much easier.  Nothing made me laugh like watching her nod to a question I asked and then realize that she had no idea what I just said.  It's still funny! 

 

Since joining La Crosse Friends of International Students we have welcomed 6 other students from South Korea, China, Denmark and Great Britain.  Despite different countries, languages and cultures, their similarities overcame their differences.

What were they like?

With the exception of one, they all came from large cities  - not Minneapolis or Chicago big with 2 or 3 million people, but really big.  As in 24 million -- or 3,854 people per square kilometer in the city of Shanghai.  Applying the same number of people per mile to La Crosse, that would increase our population three times per square mile.

I often wonder why they chose to visit our little city, located in the middle of America, in a rural state with farmland and rolling hills. La Crosse isn't an urban center with racial diversity, a variety of musical entertainment or ethnic neighborhoods that you can find in the larger cities.   I asked Lydia Xu from Shanghai, China if she was ever able to be alone in China.  She laughed.  With such a large population, there is no getting away.  A nice quiet walk by yourself.  I wonder who would have a harder time adjusting, me walking through Seoul, Korea on a typical rush hour morning or Min Park walking through the marsh area during a quiet Sunday afternoon.

Ah, the simple things we take for granted...

As students, they all shared equally in struggles that came from tests and homework.  Some seemed to study all the time -- and I mean ALL the time -- while others where involved in sports which kept them occupied when they weren't studying or taking tests.

To our knowledge, they all did well in school, and three actually graduated from college during their time with us.  Watching them cross the stage to accept their diploma was as exciting as watching our own children.  We were lucky enough to have Ahn Jae-hyun's mom and sister make the trip to La Crosse in December for her graduation from UW-L.

Some were talented in singing or piano, others in volleyball and soccer. Their extracurricular activities only amplified our enjoyment -- I mean, it's hard to sit in on a chemistry class, but easy to watch a game of soccer or attend a musical performance.

Another thing in common was their desire to travel.  As young adults -- with family or classmates -- they had traveled through parts of Europe and Asia with the ease that Liz and I have in driving from La Crosse to Madison.  Whenever there was a break from school -- Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas --  the students from China and Denmark would travel to Chicago, New York City, Tampa and Los Angeles.  A few returned home to see family, but that was probably because they needed money or a hug from mom.  Home would always be there, but not the Big Apple or Windy City.

Liz and I were always amazed at their willingness to fly cross-country by themselves, and somehow navigate a strange city in a strange country, and be back in class by the following Monday.

Marianne Larsen and Jonas Rasmussen -- who were with us for only 6 months -- seemed to handle our language and culture very well.  In fact of all our students, they seemed the most adept at fitting in at UW-L.  I always had the feeling they were here just to experience America and move on to their next adventure.  In the years since they left, Jonas has continued to search for his "next" adventure by bungy jumping from the Bloukrans -- the world's highest bungy-jumping bridge --  or parachuting from a plane in South Africa.  In the world of extreme sports, La Crosse doesn't have much to offer, unless you want to consider rock climbing Grandads Bluff as an opener.  Otherwise, not much to raise the hair on the back of your neck...

Speaking of celebrations and holidays, we've always tried to find out something about each student's culture, how they spend holidays and birthdays.  What food is served?

As a midwestern boy of simple means, I grew up eating mac and cheese, applesauce and beans, and cheeseburgers  (hold the pickles and onions!).  With each new student, I am reminded of how different we are --  language is the first thing you notice, but a close second has to be food.  It didn't take long to realize Asians don't eat birthday cakes with sweet frosting (with the exception of Joe who always had an appetite).  Liz is always excited about getting students together in our kitchen to prepare a meal that reminds them of home -- rice, noodles and vegetables.  She even found a bar on the North side of La Crosse that serves a bowl of Korean food on Friday nights (I've discovered kimchi, bibimbap and bulgogi has a way of growing on you).

Lydia Xu -- currently attending Viterbo University -- has an interesting appetite (to say the least) that consists of chicken butts (yes!), intestines, tripe, eels and anything that swims.  But she will pick at a plate of cheese, not convinced that goat cheese is up to her standards.

I am certain that one of my biggest challenges, should we visit Lydia or Jae Hyun, would be the food.  The only unknown is how much weight I would lose while visiting.

Our students from Denmark gave us a bottle of Gammel Dansk (bitter dram) complete with a sing-along for the holidays.    The taste reminds me of a combination of licorice and chili.  According to Wikipedia, is is one of the most recognizable strong bitter alcoholic beverages on the Danish market.  The bottle reads "for godt om jorgensen, efter dagens don't, under jagrten, pa fisketuren elder som aperitif (enjoyable in the morning, after a days work, when hunting or fishing, or as an aperitif ).

When hunting or fishing?  Seriously?  Marianne and Jonas, don't take offense, but there is still some left, despite sharing a full shot glass every Christmas.

 

As an old dog who struggles to learn new tricks, I am nonetheless thrilled that we have been able to stay in touch with almost every one of our students, through Facebook, KakaoTalk and WhatsApp.  The thrill of hearing from Jae Hyun or Lydia from their home on a Saturday morning while driving to the gym to work out is more than enough to stop us in our tracks.  Then again it may not take too much (that's a reminder, Jae Hyun, to text your U.S. "mom" every Saturday around 8 a.m.)

But seriously, despite the distance between us and our friends around the globe, it is such a blast talking to them, whether by text or video, as has happened with Emma Morris, who remains in the states, going to graduate school in Ohio.  Emma has a full plate -- in addition to studying for grad school, she is an assistant soccer coach for Heidelberg University in Tiffin Ohio.   That privilege means hours in a car recruiting new soccer players.  As a way to pass time, we have talked via video on Facebook to pass time.  Well, maybe for her.  But for us, we are keeping up-to-date with someone we miss who has left the friendly confines of La Crosse for a much more challenging adventure.

At a time when our own country is at odds over everything -- politics, race and even sports, it's nice to know that these young students offer hope for a bright future.

Bringing these students into our lives reminds us how big our world is -- it's easy to think everyone is like those we see everyday.  They are a reminder that we live in a world full of different people.  People with different faces, different appetites (I'm talking to you Lydia!), different cultures and different expectations. College has always been about learning.  How fun it has been to take that learning experience into our homes and lives as though we were freshmen attending college ourselves!

Thanks to all of you who have enriched our lives with the enthusiasm and perspective of your music, food and customs.  You are all special to us -- until we meet again!

Jae Hyun - Busan, South Korea
Linghao Zhou -- Wuhan, China
Min Park - Seoul, Korea
Marianne Larsen and Jonas Rasmussen -- Denmark
Emma Morris -- Richmond, Great Britain
Lydia Xu -- Shanghai, China

A Michigan State of Mind

We are driving back from dinner at Cafe Gulistan when I spot a deer standing on the edge of the road.

"Deer!" I tell Eric who is sitting in the Toyota's passenger seat.  Liz and the rest of the Ogdens, sitting behind us, look out the window as the car flashes past the deer which quickly jumps into the brush and disappears.  "Actually it was a doe," I say,  focusing on the road again.

From behind me Liz suddenly breaks out into song:

"Doe, a deer, a female deer
Ray, a drop of golden sun
Me, a name I call myself
Far, a long, long way to run
Sew, a needle pulling thread
La, a note to follow so
Tea, a drink with jam and bread
That will bring us back to oh, oh, oh."

 

Before the end of the song, we are all singing the well-known verse, laughing at how silly it is that we are singing the song from The Sound of Music.  Maybe it's the meal's Kurdish spices flowing through our bloodstream or the sheer enjoyment of spending a relaxing week on the beach that has us all feeling like we can imitate Julie Andrews and the Von Trapp children.  Either way, it is a golden moment from a wonderful week spent on the southern shores of breezy Lake Michigan, near Union Pier, a vacation escape for many people from Chicago.

A mere 90 minutes from the windy city, it  is a destination for many weekend warriors who are tired of the daily congestion of the Kennedy Expressway, over-rated piano bars, $30 dollars-per-hour parking fees, and Dante's eighth circle of hell, better known as the loud and crowded confines of Wrigley Field.

But for Liz and I, living in Wisconsin, it's further evidence of our Michigan state of mind.



*           *          *          *


After graduating from college -- between 1984 and 1991 -- Liz and I lived in Michigan,  We lived in Grand Rapids and Coloma, but spent many weekends exploring the western side of Michigan, discovering the beach town communities of Charlevoix, Petosky, Traverse City, Grand Haven, Saugatuck and St. Joseph.  Like the budding affection we felt for each other, we fell in love with the natural beauty of towering sand dunes, fire engine-red lighthouses, pristine white sand beaches and glorious red sunsets.

Having grown up on the shores of the muddy Mississippi River, it was like paradise found.  Instead of brown, stinky muck to sink my toes into, I buried my toes into soft sand that shared valuable real estate with boardwalks crowded with artists, fishermen and tourists.  Abandoned industrial sites and paper mills where replaced by quaint B & B's, sailboat-filled marinas and a Dutch windmill village surrounded by thousands of colorful tulips.  And fields of golden-tasseled corn became acres of pink and white blossoms sprouting from cherry, peach and apple trees.

It made the change to eastern standard time bearable.

Almost.

I had no pre-conceived ideas when I moved to Michigan.  My only interest was in spending as much time with an incredible woman who couldn't find a nursing job in Wisconsin.  After interviewing in Wisconsin and states as far away as Maine and Massachusetts, she landed her first, post-college gig in Grand Rapids, Michigan.  Instead of traveling eight hours to visit her, I thought it would be much easier if I could spend more hours of the day (and night!) if I lived in the same town, much less the same state.  And in the same time zone.

My first images of Michigan came shortly after gassing up in Michigan City, which is in Indiana (go figure), traveling down I 94 as it passed the small towns of Bridgeman, Stevensville and Benton Harbor.  It was a congested stretch of concrete and asphalt that baked in the summer sun or vanished in lake effect snows which were dumped after picking up steam over Lake Michigan.

Michigan's southwestern area is one of the most agriculturally diverse regions of the United States, growing corn, grapes, apples and peaches.  The state ranks first in the nation for production of begonias, blueberries, tart cherries, petunias, and squash.  The region is heavily influenced by winds crossing over Lake Michigan as they have a cooling effect in the summer and a warming effect in the winter.  During our annual pilgrimages back to Michigan, we've noticed the western shores of Michigan are embracing change with a growing emphasis on wineries and micro breweries.

Liz and I bought our first home in Grand Rapids which remains the second largest city in Michigan following Detroit.  The house wasn't much, but it was an improvement over my small efficiency and an apartment that had carpet in the kitchen.  Like every homeowner knows, it was a commitment that said, "we're here to stay," and allowed us to put our first roots down and to feel like we belonged.  To identify ourselves as Michiganders.  To eat patsies and drink Faygo pop.  To anticipate  the "Michigan left", where you drive through an intersection before doing a U-turn and taking a right-hand turn.

Before Michigan State achieved some success at football, the Maze and Blue was the college flag of choice for many homes in our neighborhood.  We would talk about our jobs and our future while pushing our first child, Matt, in a stroller past affluent homes flying Michigan (and an occasional Irish) flags on Providence and Westwood avenues.  I didn't have the courage to fly my Wisconsin colors, but back in those days, there wasn't much to be proud of anyway.

Eventually my job would take us away from the Furniture City as it was known before furniture manufacturing moved east from the Midwest to the Carolinas.  But before we did, Liz and I became close friends with Oak and Ellie Sovereign and Jerry and Lorraine Wisniewski, who gave us a greater appreciation of the Wolverine State and its midwestern values.  They took us to places like Frank's Meat Market, Charlie's Crab, the Gerald R. Ford Presidential Museum, Arnie's Restaurant and the Fish Ladder Park -- where salmon fight strong currents to swim upstream.

During our nearly eight years spent in Michigan, we visited ice-covered lighthouses during winter, smelled lilac-covered islands in spring and climbed 450 foot dunes during summer.  Many of the photographs filling books around our house are of our weekend travels up and down the beautiful western shores of Michigan.

Unlike those pictures however, our memories of friends and places have not faded.

Today, nearly twenty-five years later, Liz and I will return to many of our favorite locations to find familiar blueberry farms and road-side farm markets.  While driving down Red Arrow Highway, we will begin a sentence by saying, "Isn't there a old mill somewhere near here?"  And sure enough a few minutes later we will pass Petersen Mill, a historic mill turned into a rental cottage.  When we drive across the Mackinaw Bridge or step off the Badger Ferry in Ludington we feel at home.

How is it that a state we lived in for such a short time continues to seem so familiar?



*          *          *

The orange light of the setting sun flickers across the incoming waves before reflecting onto Liz's face.  Her eyes shift to mine and she reaches for my hand which is still wet from skipping stones in the lake.

"This has been so nice," she says interlacing her fingers with mine.  "I could stand here and watch forever."  As if in agreement, we stand together in silence, our thoughts directed toward one of God's greater creations.

In less than a minute the sun is nothing more than a flare that has dropped below the horizon taking the remnants of the day with it.  Now comes my favorite part, when the golden glow of the sun reaches toward darkening clouds, tracing them in purples, pinks and yellows.  A jet stream trails across the light blue sky like a chalk mark left by some invisible hand.

A wave crashes on shore bringing cool relief to a beach that has endured another full day of eighty degree weather.  A small sailboat has been dragged to the base of a small sand dune, its sails flapping wildly in the wind as if eagerly yearning to return to the water and new adventures.

"I hate to leave," I say, watching our feet slowly sink into the wet sand.  "This week has gone by so fast -- and yet I don't feel like we've done very much.  A few wineries, some shopping in Saugatuck and time on the beach.  I still feel like we just got off the ferry and arrived at our B&B in Grand Rapids."

"It was good to see the downtown area doing so well.  I can't believe how much it has changed."  Liz pauses to take another photo of the changing sky.  "The micro-breweries are everywhere and I love walking along the Grand River -- it brings back so many memories."

"It's been more than twenty-five years.  Can you believe it?"

Liz looks out toward the waves that continue to crash on shore, reaching their destination after countless hours of travel.  "Where have all the years gone?"

"They're in a box, with all the other memories we have."

We turn our backs to the sun -- which is now completely below the horizon -- and look toward the lake house tucked away from the beach, past marine grasses, paper birches and beech trees.  A weathered boardwalk snakes its way through it all before stairs rise into the bluff overlooking the beach.   A glow is coming from one of the house's rooms where Colin and Jacqueline anxiously await the continuation of The Sound of Music.  Our impromptu sing-along has stirred a desire to watch the musical. 

Somehow it seems appropriate for our last night here.  The Rogers and Hammerstein production earned five Academy awards and five Tony awards on its way to becoming one of the all time greatest musicals.

If mother nature gave out awards for most beautiful states, Michigan would certainly win an award.

Lost in Time

The raindrop began forming when water vapor condensed on small particles of dust, then fell as more millimeter-sized droplets attached themselves.  The raindrop soon became too heavy to remain in the cloud and fell to earth, where it somehow found the hair on the back of my head.  Instead of sticking, it moved down my neck, before sliding to the front of my shirt.

"It's about to rain again," I said to Liz, who promptly opened the umbrella.

"Just one picture -- next to the museum plaque," Liz smiled.  She quickly ran across the street and stood under the protective shelter of the umbrella.  "Hurry up, then we can go inside where it's dry."

"Too late for me!"  I snapped the picture then headed toward the side door of the red brick and limestone building, hoping to avoid more of those rapidly forming raindrops.

It had been a wet start to the weekend, with rain on Friday night, some more on Saturday morning, and now as we approached the lunch hour.

We had traveled to Lansing, Iowa -- hoping to take the pontoon boat to the small town located 34 miles south of La Crosse on the Mississippi River.  But as the rain had fallen throughout the week -- and then with a forecast of more rain throughout the weekend -- we opted to take the car instead. 

Our carefully made plans changed from leisurely boating on the river, to driving inland, into the rural heart of northeastern Iowa, where one-hundred and fifty years ago young families of German, Norwegian, Dutch and Czech heritage settled in the new world in small towns like Guttenberg, Lansing, Decorah and our current destination:  Spillville.




Spillville, a predominately Czech village founded in 1854, is a picturesque village with an Old World atmosphere that radiates hospitality from neatly kept yards, gardens, and a city square.  The town of 365 people is the home of the Inwood Ballroom, which hosted popular musicians like Louis Armstrong, Glenn Miller, Guy Lombardo and The Byrds.  The town is surrounded by gently rolling hills and the Turkey River which meanders past the St. Wenceslas Church and cemetery, where many of it citizens lie in peaceful rest.  The great Czech composer, Antonin Dvorak, even spent a summer in Spillville when he wanted a break from the business of New York City.  He claimed the town and surrounding area reminded him of his home in Czechoslovakia.

It is also here that the Bily (pronounced bee-lee) Brothers, Frank and Joseph, became famous as hand carvers of unique wood clocks in the early 20th century.   Visitors called them clocks, but in reality they were some of the most beautiful, unique, intricate timepieces ever designed by untrained hands.

Their story begins on a simple farm, eight miles from Spillville.  As the children of John and Mary Bily, who moved to America from Prague, Czechoslovakia, they worked on the farm like most kids of the time, helping with the endless tasks that needed attention using human or animal power.  In their spare time and during the long winter months, the Bily brothers began carving as a hobby.  Their father thought it was a complete waste of time, but their mother -- who enjoyed art -- did all she could to encourage it.  They reached a compromise where the boys would only carve during the winter when there was less farm work for them to do.

Joe and Frank had an older brother who figures into the story of the famous clocks that the brothers would one day create.  Jonathan was mentally and physically handicapped, and confined to a wheelchair.  A neighbor came over with a clock which he had carved but which was not working properly.  The brothers were well known for their carpentry skills, so the neighbor asked for their help in installing the proper mechanism into the clock.  As the two brothers worked on the clock, they noticed Jonathan was completely captivated as they worked, and seemed happy when the clock made noises.  It was partly because of their older brother, and his reaction that they began carving clocks in the winter of 1913.

For almost forty-five years, the boys carved without nails or screws or training, and with homemade glue.  So remarkable was their talent, that in 1928, Henry Ford offered them one million dollars for a single clock.  The clock, known as the American Pioneer History Clock consists of fifty-seven panels of American history, including the four stages of man, the Constitution, Christopher Columbus, various native Americans and pioneers.  The clock took three years to complete, weighs more than 500 pounds and stands over nine feet tall.

How was it possible for two bachelors -- who never traveled more than 35 miles from home with nothing more than a fifth-grade education -- to create more than forty beautiful pieces of art and two church music boxes that have become museum pieces?

Well, the talent was obviously there to begin with.  They were tremendous readers, who learned of the world not through television or computers, but through books, pictures and records.  Their mother  subscribed to The New York Times, Des Moines Register and Chicago Sun-Times.  Their personal library contained more than 200 books containing information from around the United States, South America, Europe and Asia.  They always carved, even as school boys.  Frank's schoolroom desk, transformed by his knife into a plaque depicting the holy family framed by vines and olives, was presented to their mother on her 50th birthday.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Their first clock -- the Creation Clock -- featured Adam and Eve and was made from mahogany and white holly.  Early clocks used woods from South America, Europe and Asia.  Later, the brothers were able to use woods found nearby like black walnut, ash and butternut.

Their second clock -- called the Hall Clock -- is the only one to play jazz music.  The first three or four clocks were patterned after other clocks, but with personal touches.  From that point on, the clocks became their own creations featuring themes as complex as immigration, industrialization and hope for the American experiment.

With the interest shown by Henry Ford in the Pioneer clock, visitors  from around the state started arriving at the farm.  So many, in fact, that the Bily brothers complained that they were too busy to carve when the number of visitors to see their clocks reached 896 people in one day.  In an effort to curb the number of visitors and allow the boys to go back to carving clocks,  the family decided to charge 10 cents admission.  It failed to stop the crowds and the interest being generated by these one of a kind creations, and for the next 22 years, the family hosted up to 1,000 visitors per day at their farm.

The clocks were eventually moved to town in 1947 after Frank and Joe bought the old home where the composer Dvorak had spent his summer in 1893.  Despite repeated attempts from the Smithsonian Institute and officials at the World Fair, the brothers continued creating, carving and hosting visitors in their hometown museum.  Joe Bily died in 1964, Frank died one year later.  The brothers willed their entire collection to the City of Spillville with only one stipulation:  the collection would never be sold and never split up. 

To this day, the collection endures.

This unique and complimentary union of music and art eventually led to the Bily Museum which recently underwent an $8 million renovation.  Today, it stands as a testimony of their immense talent and a relentless quest to understand the world and its history.  For the 20,000 visitor each year, it provides an opportunity to get lost in time and see their creations still functioning as when they were made.




Among the 45 clocks crafted by the Bily brothers (and on display) are the Creation Clock, Hall Clock, Chimes of Normandy and Westminster Abbey Clock, Roman Renaissance Clock, Apostles' Clock, Lindbergh Clock, Struggle for Time Clock, Parade of Nations Clock, History of Travel Clock and the Village Blacksmith Clock.

The car wipers do their best to clear the windshield, but as quickly as it is cleared, the glass becomes dotted with more rain.  Fortunately, the rain had stopped long enough for us to run into a bakery to pick up some cherry-filled kolaches --Norwegian rolls -- that would be delicious once they were warmed up in the microwave oven.

Driving back to Lansing, through Decorah and New Albin, it strikes me that these visits to small towns and cities along the Mississippi River are validation of my life growing up in the Midwest.  Despite being referred to as "fly over country" by many on the East and West coasts, I find the history of the people and small towns in Wisconsin, Minnesota and Iowa fascinating.

For too many people, finding the shortest route between two locations involves the interstate highway and their requisite Kwik Trip gas stations and McDonald fast food restaurants.  Our journeys to Europe and Ireland have taught me a great deal about world history, and I am finally, now in my late fifties, starting to appreciate my own country's history by learning about the small towns that are nestled in many parts of the Mississippi River basin.

My friends will always say that I am old school, reluctant to embrace new technologies.  (I must admit that I take great pleasure in not following Twitter or Facebook Live, or not knowing what the Kardashian sisters are doing).  And much to the dismay of my wife and friends, I spend many a day wondering where my cell phone is.

Whether that attitude is good or not, it doesn't diminish my love for a simpler time.  Not necessarily better, but one that seems happier.  The clocks created by the Bily brothers are examples of those times and their lifetime dedication to something they loved.  I am learning through the lives of others and the communities they lived in what it means to be from the Midwest. 

Unplanned weekends spent in northeastern Iowa are testimony to that discovery.

Damaged Goods

My wife and I have been watching Netflix's excellent "Thirteen Reasons Why," a painful look at teen suicide.  I highly recommend it despite its subject matter.

If you're wondering why we would spend thirteen hours watching a television show about teen bullying and suicide you'd  have to at least watch the first episode to find the answer. 

As a synopsis, the series centers on  Clay Jensen and Hannah Baker, two high school junior classmates who are brought together by her suicide two weeks earlier.  Clay discovers the reason through a series of cassette tapes recorded by Hannah which explain in painful detail  the thirteen people responsible for her death.  One of which is Clay.

My biggest fear was thinking I wouldn't want to invest myself in a story that gives away the ending within the first ten minutes.  But knowing the ending doesn't tell you why she committed suicide and why someone like Clay, who was her best friend and one the nicest people she met at school, would be one of the thirteen reasons why.

And wanting to know the reason why kept us coming back until the bitter end.

So obviously there must be another reason why I feel the need to mention this Netflix series.  I'm not considering another career as a movie critic, although it has been a passing fancy of mine from time to time.  But with all the crap that has made its way out of Hollywood lately, I don't think I'd be very good at it.  I'd be like a food critic that every restaurant hates, or theatre critic that dies at the hands of a disgruntled actor (I can hear the mournful refrains of Murder She Wrote somewhere in my head.)

I mention it because of a couple of reasons --

First, suicide seems to touch us all.  There are over 30,000 suicides every year in the United States.  I've known two people in my life who have committed suicide, a business associate who locked himself in his garage with the car running, and just last weekend, a high school classmate who shot himself.  He was fifty-eight years old.  To those on the outside, their suicides are a shock and surprise.  Both people seemed to be successful, not that guarantees happiness.  But it showed me -- and I can only speak for myself -- that there is unfortunately a very dark side to people that they keep hidden to themselves.

It's also very difficult to understand how someone can be so depressed and distraught that they can see no other way through the pain and blackness of depression, and instead chose to end their lives.  Some of it is the result of pain, other times, to hurt those left behind.

Another reason I mention 13 Reasons Why is to comment on high school, and by extension, college culture.  The characters that Hannah credits with her death are fictional, but typical of every high school and college in existence.  Groups of jocks, cheerleaders and smart kids promote unwanted, aggressive behavior among school aged children that involves a real power imbalance.  This imbalance allows students to make threats, spread rumors, attack someone physically or verbally, and exclude someone from a group on purpose.  I'm sure today's bullying is worse than ever, with the prevalence of social media and cell phones.

During a 30 minute epilogue following 13 Reasons Why,  its producer, director and actors talked about how challenging, but necessary it was to tell Hannah's story.  The discussion centered on how to stop bullying and how to recognize someone in trouble.  The real life characters are heard saying that the series had opened their eyes to the many ways students are bullied, and that all of us -- students, teachers and parents -- need to be more sensitive to those who are traumatized by speech and actions they find "hurtful" and "threatening."

This is an area where I see a lot of gray, whereas the producers (and school administrators and lawyers in real life) see black and white.  Yes, bullying is bad and can lead to tragic ends either through suicide or mass shootings.  Every effort should be made to stand up to bullying by supporting those being attacked, and by challenging bullies to stop.  Everyone can agree with that.  But by removing all hurtful and threatening actions you are not only asking for the impossible, but aren't you also contributing to the "snowflake mentality" that is becoming a problem in high school and college.  Despite the desire by many to make school a safe place, it will never be possible.  You can't make an environment populated by different sexes, cultures and ages into another "home"where you can shut your bedroom door and feel safe.

Wouldn't it be better to help students cope with bullying by strengthening their self esteem -- not by removing anything that is hurtful, but by teaching them how to respect other people and their opinions.  I don't want to make suicide political, but how is removing reality from school going to help anyone cope later in life?  Bullying is not going to go away -- despite excellent movies like 13 Reasons Why.  Let's give those in trouble tools that will not only save their lives, but maybe those who later feel guilty about their actions.

My final reason to mention 13 Reasons Why has to do with religion.  Not once during the thirteen hours is anyone shown talking to a priest or pastor about depression or suicide.  Since there is nothing shown of her funeral, we don't know if she was religious or not.  The same for her parents.  I suspect not.  Which is too bad, because faith would certainly have helped.  Either as a deterrent to suicide or as a coping mechanism for those left behind wondering "why did she do it?"

Most thoughts of suicide are associated with depression.  If you look at symptoms of depression, they include feeling empty, hopeless, guilty and worthless.

In contrast, I've always thought my belief in God gave me hope, filled an emptiness inside and made me feel blessed to have his love and protection.  Wouldn't you think that someone who had a strong belief in God would be less likely to feel vulnerable to bullying?  Less likely to commit suicide?  There is a tremendous amount of confidence you get from knowing you have God on your side.

Which brings to light another problem we have today:  why have we removed all mention of God from schools and holidays?  Instead of Christmas, students have winter break.  Schools have removed prayer from sporting events and from graduation for fear of upsetting some atheist or other non-religious group.   It's alright to have a day dedicated to diversity, to understand sexual identity, race and multicultural differences, but heaven forbid that they show any acceptance of a religious belief.  What a shame schools have removed one of the best ways to develop character and confidence, important traits useful in combating suicide.good

It's also a shame the author of 13 Reasons Why and its Netflix producers couldn't find any reason to give hope to many students who may be considering suicide through a relationship with God.

In that regard, despite being a highly recommended study in teenage behavior, I have to give it a failing grade.

The Wisconsin Experience

Sports are one of my escapes during the long and cold winter months.  I need something to justify the high cost of cable television, and during the months between September and April, sports is the ticket.  The hours of enjoyment will never be understood by my wife, who finds her own winter solace in watching cooking shows.  To each their own.

Unfortunately, the end of football and basketball seasons are also two of the toughest times of the year.  It means the end of irrational hope, misplaced optimism, and heart-stopping plays that prolong the season for another game.  Or not.

For the Green Bay Packers and their fans, there was the heroics of Aaron Rogers against the Dallas Cowboys in the NFC playoffs.  For the Badgers and the few basketball junkies still awake after eleven o'clock on a Friday night in March, there was the epic March madness between Florida and Wisconsin.

Associated Press photo

The state of Wisconsin was celebrating wildly after the Packers beat Dallas, not so much after the Badgers lost to the upstart Gators.

For those who have been captivated by the continuous meltdown of CNN -- or who were sleeping in your beds that night --  Zach Showalter tied the game with an improbable, off-balance three pointer at the end of regulation.  In a moment of jubilant celebration, he mimicked the championship belt move made famous by Aaron Rogers who was sitting in the audience.  But the celebration would not last. Four minutes, fifty-six seconds later, Chris Chiozza raced full court and launched a game-winning three as the buzzer sounded, giving the Florida Gators an 84-83 overtime victory over the Wisconsin Badgers in a hard-fought Sweet Sixteen match-up.

Higher than a teenager getting his first kiss from a girl one minute -- lower than Hillary Clinton losing to Trump the next.

There is no greater way to etch a moment like this in time than during "March Madness" -- often called the greatest sporting event of all -- when college basketball awakens from it's three-month, conference slumber to become something bigger than life.  A buzzer-beater, like the one launched by Chris Chiozza, will be played again and again during future basketball promos and painfully -- at least for this Badger fan -- during this year's penultimate One Shining Moment. 

"But time is short
And the road is long
In the blinking of an eye
Ah, that moment's gone
Win or lose
You always did your best
Cuz inside you knew...
(that) one shining moment you reached deep inside
One shining moment, you knew you were alive."

Such is the way of sports in Wisconsin when the dark and cold months of winter call, only to be replaced by the eventual hope and rebirth of spring and melting snow.


*          *          *          *


Speaking of rebirth, much has been written about this year's basketball team -- a roster of 4 seniors -- who have combined for 115 wins over the last four seasons, including 13 NCAA tournament wins, four Sweet 16 appearances and two Final Four appearances.  The group's success was unprecedented -- on par with a few blue-blood programs like Duke, North Carolina and Kentucky.  To put Wisconsin consistently in the same category is foolishness, and yet -- here we are.

In recent years, the Badgers have been able to match up -- and in all cases -- actually defeat the North Carolina's, Kentucky's, Villanova's and Duke's of the college basketball world.  These are programs loaded with All-Americans and future NBA lottery picks.  Everyone of them a match-up of  biblical proportions -- David versus Goliath.  And yet --  it's happened so many times that even this unbeliever is beginning to believe.

It's attributed to the work of this senior class and the players that have come before them.  Sam Dekker, Frank Kaminsky, Michael Finley, Jon Leuer and Alando Tucker.  It's also the result of two of the best coaches Wisconsin basketball has ever had -- Dick Bennett and Bo Ryan -- and I would add Greg Gard, their current coach. 

This renaissance to a Badger program, mired for so long in mediocrity, began in 1995.   College sports, being what they are, provides no guarantee that your team will be any good after graduations and transfers.  And yet Wisconsin remains a basketball program built on a successful foundation started by Dick Bennett who was coach when the Badgers moved into their new basketball arena, the Kohl Center.

Back in 1995, before the floor was put down in the new center, Dick Bennett gathered his team together for a special meeting that has to put his team, and those who have followed, on it's current track.

"Before the flooring went in," says Bennett during a rare interview with ESPN, "I asked if I could put a laminated card in the foundation.  Particularly in the practice area because that's where it would be taught."

The laminated card held five words:  Humility.  Passion.  Unity.  Servanthood.  Thankfulness.

Those five words were put deep down in the sand and dirt.  Before the cement was laid, and before the flooring was put down.  It became the foundation of not just the building, but of the Wisconsin basketball program.

Coach Bennett adds, "I had our players around.  I said this is what this program -- at least while I am around -- will be built on.  I know I've tried to do that.  Bo Ryan did it in his own way and Greg Gard is learning to do it his way.  Not because I said so, but because there is a spirit that I think is present in the teaching and play of Wisconsin Badger's basketball and I'm so happy to be a part of that."

It's hard to believe that five simple words could have such an impact on a program.  They are certainly not words that bring attention to an athlete's ability or skill.  Strength, drive, aggressiveness, focus and emotion, maybe.  But humility?  Servanthood? And thankfulness?  What kind of a sports program focuses on those?

Every year, players come from different parts of the country.  Each one comes from a different background and family structure.  Even our coaches come from different schools, and bring different formulas for winning.  It's a roster of people that's always changing.

And yet, here we are.  Another Sweet 16.

Is Wisconsin basketball really that different?  I'm way too biased to be able to answer that question fairly.  Of course they're different.  I do know this however:  it's not easy getting into Wisconsin.  Grades come first, athletics second.  I've read many recruits say that the education available at Wisconsin played a big part in their decision.

We are also one of a few programs that consistently have juniors and seniors on their team.  So they are loyal to each other.  But it also means that a player will redshirt his first year and then sit on the bench until it's his turn to play.  How many successful players are willing to wait their turn and support the players ahead of them?  Certainly not the ones that go to Duke or North Carolina.  They want to play now.

Occasionally, a Sam Decker comes a long who has a breakout season and heads to the NBA.  Despite an occasional defection to the NBA, one of the reasons Wisconsin does well is because of experience.  It shows in close games and it showed in the upset of Villanova two weekends ago.

We are also one of the few teams to have two or three or more white players starting.  It's not a racist thing, and I'm not trying to say the black athletes aren't smart enough to come to Wisconsin.  I can say however, that the game is played differently by white players.  Look at the European style of basketball.  There is more emphasis on teaching, on sharing and passing of the ball.  The tempo is slower and turnovers are fewer.  Not the drive and penetrate style you find on the streets of America.  There is less ME and more US with Wisconsin players.

In contrast, a team like Duke has a player named Grayson Allen who was suspended for a few games this year for tripping players when he gets frustrated or angry.  And a team like Kentucky -- which fields five new starters every year -- doesn't have the unity that comes from playing for four or five years.  No, every year, Kentucky's starting five will drop the textbooks and head to the NBA.

Humility.  Passion.  Unity.  Servanthood.  Thankfulness

Whatever the reason, Wisconsin basketball is in a class by itself.  Their winning ways -- combined with the football team -- has launched a period of time that is truly unrivaled in college sports.  The Duke's, Kentucky's, Michigan's and Ohio State's are great teams in their own way, but fall short when compared to Wisconsin.   They excel at football or basketball, but rarely both.

As a USA Today's sportswriter recently wrote -- "The Badgers own one of the most impressive active streaks in sports:  Wisconsin has reached a bowl game and the NCAA tournament in each of the past 15 years, absolutely dwarfing the next-longest active stretch in college sports.  This year was no different, as the football team won a New Year's Six Bowl and the basketball squad reached the Sweet 16 before being knocked off by Florida."


*          *            *            *


As this year's presidential election proved in more ways than one, ignoring the middle of the country comes with risk.   I don't think Virginia Tech and Villanova ignored Wisconsin, but I do believe they thought the Badgers were vulnerable after a late season swoon and a new head coach.  Perhaps they Badgers greatest strength comes from being under-estimated.  My own experience has taught me not to take a lesser opponent lightly.  It's a life lesson I take with me everyday at work and at play.

The broadcast people behind "The Road to the Final Four" know this better than anyone.  March Madness wouldn't be nearly as popular if the better seeds won every time.  It's the unexpected upset that gives the underdog hope against a better opponent, in search of the holy grail of basketball, their very own "One Shining Moment."

The Basketball Ides of March

The gym lights gleam like a beacon beam
And a million motors hum
In a good will flight on a Friday night;
For basketball beckons, "Come!"
A sharp-shooting mite is king tonight.
The Madness of March is running.
The winged feet fly, the ball sails high
And field goal hunters are gunning.

The colors clash as silk suits flash
And race on a shimmering floor.
Repressions die, and partisans vie
In a goal acclaiming roar.
On a Championship Trail toward a holy grail,
All fans are birds of a feather.
It's fiesta night and cares lie light
When the air is full of leather.

Since time began, the instincts of man
Prove cave and current men kin.
On tournament night the sage and the wight
Are relatives under the skin.
It's festival time, sans reason or rhyme
But with nation-wide appeal.
In a cyclone of hate, our ship of state
Rides high on an even keel.

With war nerves tense, the final defense
Is the courage, strength and will
In a million lives where freedom thrives
And liberty lingers still.
Now eagles fly and heroes die
Beneath some foreign arch
Let their sons tread where hate is